The international photographer (Jan-Dec 1936)

Thirty-two T h INTERNATIONAL PHOTOGRAPHER February, 1936 CI EMACABO (With sauce for those who like it.) By Robert Tobey HOLLYWOOD HONEYMOON (A novel novel of a thousand and one nights in a daze) by R. THRITIS Synopsis of preceding chapters, I guess: Lili Liverblossom, Periwether Murgle, Willy Nilly, Nelly Nilly, Bill, and a ghost whose name we don't yet seem to knoiv, have become pretty well involved in a lot of toil and trouble. Now you can fuss with the back issues of the magazine if you want to, but our job is to keep things moving, and here we go. CHAPTER XVI— A Ledged Romance "You mean to say you're cold, y' poor kid?" inquired the ghost, still ripping along about seventy. "You said it," replied Lili. "This wind goes right through me." "Your mistake," said the ghost. "It goes right through me. You're no ghost." "What is this, a debate?" snapped Lili. "I said I'm cold, and I mean it. How about turning around and whisking me back home so I can get my fur coat." "I'll have a fur coat for you in no time," said the ghost. "Just wait right here." "Giblets!" exclaimed Lili. "Don't leave me here! I'll drop." But the ghost had vanished into thin air. Screaming with terror, Lili began to drop toward the gleaming city a mile below her. Before she had dropped a hundred feet there was a rush of dank air and the ghost was back, clasping Lili in one arm and with a mink coat draped over the other. "I told you I could get anywhere and back in practically no time," said the ghost, grinning at her. "Here, put this coat on." "Cripes, but you scared me," said Lili as she struggled into the coat, no small feat for one a mile in the air and going seventy miles an hour. She began to examine the coat. "This isn't my coat!" she exclaimed. "It's a now one It still has the price tags on it." "I know," smirked the ghost, 'winking at Lili. "I didn't bother going all the way back to your apartment. I just dropped into one of the stores down below and picked up the nearest thing that came to hand." Lili meanwhile had looked the coat over pretty thoroughly, and discovered that it was much better than hers, which was no mean mink itself. "You have pretty swell taste, kid," said Lili. "I could learn to be very fond of you." And she put her arms, those lily-white arms that had brought many a movie-goer's heart right up into his mouth, around the ghost's neck. But her arms 'went right through him. She'd have remembered they would if her dome hadn't been gold plated. Lili found she was only hugging herself, which was no particular fun. "Anyway, I like you," grumbled Lili, chagrined, "even if I can't do anything about it. What's your name, by the way?" "There you have me," answered the ghost. "You see Bill made me up in such a hurry he used -whatever ghost material he had handy, and I really don't know myself yet. I was sort of thrown together like a pot pie." "Then I'll just call you Potty," said Lili, with her customary ingenuity. "That's a chummy sort of name." "Is it?" said the ghost. "I wouldn't know." They were by now miles from the bustle of the city; and passing up an inviting looking ledge high up on a precipice, the ghost set Lili down to rest, fearing she would become cramped from the awkward position in 'which she was being carried. Awkward to explain to her mother, anyway. "This is red sandstone," I believe," said the ghost just to start the conversation, as he prodded at the face of the cliff with an old eyebrow pencil he found lying on the ledge. But the conversation got no farther than that, for just then they heard a rush of air, and turning quickly in time to see two great flapping buzzard 'wings silhouetted against the huge silvery moon. The buzzard was there too. "Looks as if we were in for it," said the ghost. "Go away," screamed Lili, as the buzzard hovered within a few feet of them. "Oh no!" said the big bird. "You can't fool a buzzard. Something's dead around here." "It 'was just a couple of jokes I was telling," confessed Lili, trying to stave off disaster. With an audible snort of disbelief, the buzzard backed off and prepared to attack. "What'll we do," cried Lili. "Calm yourself," said Potty. "I have an idea." (What is Potty's idea, and will he be able to save Lili from the cruel talons (not an advt.) of the voracious, ferocious, rapacious, but not very perspicacious buzzard? In other words, will his idea prove efficacious? Hoping yon are the same, I can hardly wait for next month.) And these nifties got together on a studio schedule listing future productions: YOU MAY BE NEXT IF YOU COULD ONLY COOK MOONLIGHT ON THE RIVER PANIC ON THE AIR MAID OF HONOR— UNASSIGNED KNEECAP REVIEWS (I have my thumb in my mouth) "SYLVIA SCARLETT," starring the elusive Katharine Hepburn. First part of this opus is just one of those things for which you hope everyone is properly sorry. However, if you can sit through it, you'll come to the last part, which is just one of those things. Cary Grant wears his robes best of all the cast, and although overacting a bit, is quite convincing and satisfactory as the Cockney who lives by his nimble wits and has the mind of a pig because he firmly believes it's a pig's world. Regret: I suspect the director of giving Cary long speeches merely to prove that Cary could handle a Cockney accent. Edmund Gwenn as the -weakminded father of Sylvia, is too brown around the edges. Dennie Moore as a servant with delusions of grandeur came through nobly, although she would have appeared to better advantage if properly foiled. The 'whole story got off on the wrong foot by acting like burlesque, 'with nothing to burlesque. Brian Aherne and Natalie Paley, who appeared on the scene after some of the inertia had been overcome, contributed interesting performances. But to get to the meat of the situation. Hepburn, -who was amazing in "Morning Glory" and gave a performance in "Alice Adams" that was as real as rain on a roof, turns out a Sylvia Scarlett that is surely the work of no cinema artisan. A great deal is due to the aimless wanderings of the plot; yet one moment Hepburn is scaling the heights of perfection, the next she is floundering in the mire of ineptitude. It is becoming apparent that K. H. is depending on a limited number of acting tricks, chief among them a breathless method of speech delivery that is beginning to pall. She nevertheless possesses the spark of genius, and it is to be hoped that the man 'who directs her next picture ■will forget she is the Terror of R.K.O. and will adapt her to the story instead of adapting the story to her. "WHIPS AW ," starring Myrna Loy and Spencer Tracy. No ballyhoo, just a program picture, yet I think it compares favorably (though comparisons are odious) with "The Thin Man." Plausible and fast-moving, it keeps you constantly outguessed ; and you'll fall for the sympathetic renditions by $2.50 Only, for a Year's Subscription to the International Photographer • Canada and Foreign only $3.00 It's Worth It. Myrna and Spencer of the lovely "square crook" and the quick-witted, human detective. Every time I see Tracy I am more and more convinced of what a splendid actor he ■ is, and there isn't an atom of doubt about that smooth Loy. Stay away only if you positively detest all kinds of gangster stories. Maybe you'd better go even then — you might be converted. Much credit must go to smooth-flowing direction by Sam Wood. Especial thanks to the production for showing us Robert Warwick once more. Warwick was notable in the small part he had. We should see this grand actor more often. DIPPY DITTY I like sce-na ri-os. * * * Sce-nar-ri-os are full of plots. Plots are full of dirt. I love dirt; It makes such nice mud pies for sling-ing. I LIKE sce-na-ri-os! By R. THRITIS. HOLLYWOODCUTS, by the Shovel Boys (They dish the dirt). * * * Lila Lee and Patsy Ruth Miller have opened a gown shop on Sunset Blvd. A beautiful place it is too. * * * Walt Disney added another distinction to his long list when the French Consul, on behalf of the Republic of France, awarded Mickey Mouse's papa the cross of the Legion of Honor. » * » Young George Breakston received an award, too — this time an award from the Italian Government for his work in the Frank Borzage production, "No Greater Glory." Just as the Italian Consul was about to be photographed handing George an autographed picture of Mussolini, all the lights on the stage went out, and it was an hour before they came on again. No doubt about an Ethiopian in the woodpile this time. * * * Mary Pickford is now a producer, under the United Artists banner. She turned over the cameras on the first scene of the picture, herself, personally, by black magic. She simply waved her tiny hand in front of a beam of light, a "photo-electric eye" saw her do it, a switch automatically clicked on, and away went the cameras grinding out a close-up of Francis Lederer. * * * The second season at Santa Anita Park is well under way. 'The track has been beautified in a hundred ways and many additions have been made to the buildings. With these increased facilities and a lower "take," the resort is packing in the pony-watchers. * * * Douglas Fairbanks the Elder (you-all remember ol' Elder Fairbanks!) lost no time after his return to America in appearing at the Santa Anita playground. Doug is more tanned than ever and can stilt turn the old grin on and off like a faucet. He drew the newsfeet cameras like a magnet. * * * Madge Evans was elated over a bet split with Tom Gallery across the board on "Great Lover" — -because he won, silly. * * * Eadie Adams started off not doing so well, but recouped on Azucar. * h Bing Crosby didn't want to be photographed because his plaid sport coat was too loud. It might outshout you, Bing, but it can't outcroon you. Walter Connolly was ducking newsreels on account of he's zvorked up a new superstition. At the Pacific South-vest Tennis Matches he was plwtographed with Kay Stammer. After that he didn't win another bet on the matches. So now he wont be photographed if he's doing any betting: The hosses have been playing up to the spirit of things. Several long shots have come in. There have been two dead heats so far this season, whereas all last year brought out only one. In the San Felipe Handicap a riderless horse, Ima Count, came in first, although of course it was disqualified. _ * Al Jolson got off a merry-go-round of losing just in time to dash to the radio station and sing "The Music Goes 'Round and 'Round." * * * In the crush of cars leaving the track an irate motorist was honking impatiently at the cars in front of him. Herbert Mundin leaned out of a nearby car and yelled, "You must have lost, Mister!" A SLIP OF THE PEN An inquiring fan wrote to ask: "What is Mae West's middle name?" And the answer that went back was: M "Mae West's middle is not for publication. HOW SAD DEPT. Here lie the blonde ashes of Susan McPart; She told the screen idol that Love wasn't Art. All right: all right; all right! Please mention The International Photographer when corresponding with advertisers.