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urnau or
ever
An Intrepid Interviewer Trails the
Red'Headed German Director to
His Lair
By Herbert Cruikshank
" A ND don't forget the motto of the corps," concluded Z\ Larry Reid, leader of our brave little band. "Now go — and get your man!" The colors of dear old Czecho-Slovakia were unfurled. A band of boy scouts, led by one who resembled Conrad Nagel, played that stirring anthem. "When the Red. Red Robins Come Bobbin' Out of Sid Grauman's Hair," with a patter chorus, "I Wanta Be There — I Wanta Be There," by Roxy's ushers, dressed as brigands from Fifth Avenue "Childs'." It was all very inspiring.
I kissed the little women good-bye (all except the blonde, who will eat Italian forget-me-nots) and, guided by the trusty "Rum-Tum-Tum," took the trail toward Hollywood.
My quarry, as we say in the R. N. W. M. P., was F. W. Murnau, German genius of the cinema, director of the immortal "Sunrise," and the toughest egg on the Fox lot when it comes to interviews.
On the, evening of the fourth day, just as the Movie Mecca was settling down to serious nocturnal drinking, I arrived at the iron portals.
A Hard-to-Get Gateman
LWAVs the most supercilious snob on the set is the gateman. The guardian of this den of Fox's was no exception. My inquiries for Herr Murnau brought that semi-lucid expression indicating, "Ah, yes, of course, the name sounds familiar." And who or whom, as the case may be. might I be, a presumptuous stranger at the gates?
Did Mr. Crankshaft have an appointment? No ? The nioni e n t a r y smile vanished. Perhaps Mr.
Cockshine would visit the office, or would Mr. Crinkshaw call another time. Really, Mr. Crushang. Murnau was not available. Here was a dilemma. Wot-to-do ! Wot-to-do !
But as I, pondered, came the sound of horses' hooves. And a moment later Lois Moran threw herself from a foam-flecked Ford with a breathless "Whoa, Emma," and passed through the barrier. Naturally a quick thinker, I followed swiftly behind her while the Cerberus of the studio was bent double in obeisance. {To be. Continued)
PART TWO
Synopsis: Alleged scribe has been told to write impressions of Murnau and hasn't yet done so. Now read on.
Stuitibling through a night dark as Dolores del Rio's eyes, the Hollywood heat suddenly departed and I found myself ankle-deep in snow. But this was neither one kind of "snow" nor the other. A single sniff convinced me it was really salt. Imagine my embarrassment ! Rubbing my eyes to penetrate the half light, I saw Paris on a winter's night. To be exact, I was standing before {Continued on page 80)
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