Motion Picture Classic (Jan-Jun 1929)

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Be Popular Socially Earn Extra Money plriyinc a swoet-toncd liueacher. lllevenini.-s-.ine hour each-will astonii-li .'ind i.|i:.so yuu. It'srisv Oitli a Buochcr. Tell us n hat instrumerit you are interested io. We'll do ..he rest. (460) Buescher Band InslrumentCo. ■>w, Kueoclicr liiock, p:ikliart. Ind. He'll Be A Big Star In A Year [Continued from page 4j) vaudeville circuit and finally made the grade right into the Main Stem, \^'iseacre Square. Broadway, itself, very much in the flesh and not a moom pitcher. Now, of course, Robert Armstrong might just as well have held out for "A Campus Romance" bookings that would have taken him to Flagstaff, Arizona, or to FalstafT, Florida. But Robert, whatever else you girls may say about him, Robert is no umpchay. After Des Moines, he knew his vegetables. Broadway has its little ways, its innocent attractions, after all. Besides, one of the Three \\'ise i\Ien of Gotham was Paul Armstrong. Paul was an ace playwright and producer, and Bob's uncle. And this was before the celebrated bowl episode. You know what I mean. "Three wise men of Gotham went to sea in a bowl." Trouper and Trooper SO Bob stepped right up to Paul and said "Uncle." And Paul heaved a sigh and wondered why he hadn 't been born an only child, free from nephews. Then he gave Bob a job managing road shows of "Alias Jimmy Valentine," and the like of that. Bob doubled on the stage, too. Even if he had to fire an actor to get a part. The boy was a trouper at heart. He is still. If he isn't working at his racket, he isn't fit to live with. Ask Mrs. Armstrong. She that used to be PLthel Jones, of New York. Well, a Serb bumped off an Austrian. And it was befor? the bootleg business gave the dailies a choice of murders for the front page, and they played this shooting up in banner lines and big type. Show-folk like parades. So when the big parade came ofT, Bob Armstrong marched right along to the music of the bands and the politicians' chins. After a lot of millions were killed, everyone decided to call it a day. So after Bob got de-loused and everything, he went touring the tanks. Six and seven, seven and six: the total is always thirteen, and hard luck. That's playing in stock. But when the picture is at its worst the title writer always slips in a "Came the Dawn" caption. This time the title was written in the shape of Jimmy Cileason. Zat Was So NOW Jimmy doesn't look noticeably like a dawn, either coming or going. The best he rates in appearance is an evening star from behind, and something less'n half of that before, to paraphrase Kipling. But he was the beginning of a perfect day to Bob. For Jimmy, clever son of old New York, trouper par excellence, had a play of his own, which he knew like a man knows his wife, and for similar reasons. And which he knew to be above suspicion. It was a wow. Perhaps the big boys in the producing world wouldn 't think so. But Jimmy knew that even they, the supercilious nabobs of the stage, are not infallible. So under the title of "Thursday Night," or "Saturday Night," or some commonplace night of the commonplace week these two put on their show. Bob was a boneheaded battler who kissed the canvas at the wrong time, and Gleason was his manager, not too far ahead in grey matter. Well, miracles happened. The thing opened at the Davidson theater in Milwaukee. One of Jake-an '-Lee's scouts saw it. The Shuberts put it on right. And the play is running yet. And will for years. Of course, the troupe Bob and Jimmy led only played for three or four years. But for a couple of young fellers, that isn't so bad. Eventually "Is Zat So?" for so the foxy Shuberts re-christened the show, reached Los Angeles. The great De Mille had a fight picture on at his studio, "The Main Event," and quick as you can say "contract, " Armstrong was signed to one. That's how it happened. Since then, the boy friend, Jimmy Gleason, has come out, too. And now — well, ain't we got fun? Bob's Love-Life I HAVE always felt that my literary life was being starved, that it would never be quite complete, perfectly rounded, until I, too, could contribute a story about the Love Life of a Star. Envy has consumed me in perusing the "Love Life of Clara Bow," of Alice White, Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford. In my naive way I approached Bull Montana for a tale regarding his romantic moments. But, unfortunately, it was just after The Bool had stopped a fast one from the little woman with his chin. .And something told me that the moment was inauspicious. But God is good, perseverance has its reward, and if at first you don ' succeed, try, try again. And by dint of dauntless delving, I 've dug up the sweetest little romance ever lived by a screen star. Here it is. Presented to you for the first, last and only time, and against the combined wills of both hero and heroine. It's the "Love Life of Bob Armstrong. " Is zat so? Yeah, zat's so! Bob was busy hanging out the S.R.O. sign at the theater where the customers were blocking Broadway to see his characterization of the un-Tunney-like leather-pusher in Jimmy Gleason 's show. On a certain matinee day, a few blocks nearer .Albany, a dear little girl had those all-alone blues. All against her wishes, the girl friend rushed her down to the theater, for a good shot of cheer-up as dispensed by old doctor Armstrong. Before the final curtain, loathed melancholy was definitely in the discard. And youthful femininity was exuberantly planning deviltry. Now neither girl had ever written a mash note. In fact, persons who did that sort of thing were rather beyond the pale. Probably in all the wide circle of their friends, there wasn 't one who had ever spent a stamp to send scented sentiments to a matinee idol. But wouldn't it be fun, they argued, to have a bit of a game with this Armstrong lad? Judging by the rdle he played, he was probably a nifty dresser on and off. And that would include two-tone shows — both tones yellow — whoopee shirts, tight jackets and perhaps even pearl buttons or a brown derby. Wouldn't it be a scream, my dear, to meet him! Ethel and Bob SO Miss Jones, Miss Ethel Jones, more daring than her pal, wrote Mr. Armstrong telling him what his performance had meant in their lives. And in a sudden breath-taking inspiration penned a postscript saying that both girls went swimming real frequently, and that if Mr. Armstrong cared to come one day he might do so. The letter mailed, it was promptly relegated to forgetfulness. But odd things do happen in life just as they do in the movies. And sure enough Ethel's maid interrupted dinner an evening not long afterward to say that Mr. Armstrong was on the 'phone. Well, my dear, you could have knocked her over with a feather! And before she said {Continued on page 87) 74