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,„/10TlON PICTURF
The Play's the Thing!
(Continued from page 68)
most unexpectedly sometimes. One of the best 'rube' plays I ever did .was from an idea that came to me right in New York. The other night we were at the theater and I found an idea. Not from the play on the stage, but from people in the audience."
"Ideas are everywhere. I shouldn't be surprised if Miss Loos had found one right in this dining-room while we have been talking," ventured Mr. Emerson.
"Didn't you regret leaving Mr. Fairbanks?" I wanted to know.
"Certainly," said Miss Loos. "One always dislikes giving up associations that are pleasant. But Mr. Fairbanks decided to get away from satirical comedies and try a new type of play. We do our best work in satirical comedies. That's our specialty, so naturally we ventured forth to pastures new."
"Now, look here, Anita," said John Emerson, "of course we liked Mr. Fairbanks and regretted leaving him, but the real reason, speaking for myself, wasr that 1 wanted to' get away from California. I never felt well there. I was never myself. 'Perpetual sunshine' sounds ' very poetical, but it isn't — it's too hot to be poetical. It gets on your nerves and gets your eyes 'on the blink,' and you long for just a few hours of gloom. It fades your clothes, your good disposition, your
energy and ambition — even your morals."
"And it's so dusty you have to change your clothes three times a day, and then you're never clean," put in Miss Loos, eager to do her bit.
"There really are beautiful roads, and you get in your car and think now surely this lovely road must go somewhere — but it doesn't," interrupted John _ the Emancipated. "It's like Raymond Hitchcock's song, All dressed up and nowhere to go.'"
I was listening in breathless amazement.
"Well," I managed to articulate, "you people must be different — or else those press-agents "
"Forget the press-agents," said John Emerson, "and let me tell you !
"If ever you get to the place where you care no more about 'pep' or ambition, and \vant a place to live cheaply, a little bungalow, a little Ford, some kind of a society to belong to, a new kind of religion — in short, a place to die in — California's a good place to go. But, — never again!"
And now we're wondering!
If those two amazing people could accomplish so much in a land where there's no "pep," and where the very atmosphere is deadly to ambition, what will they do when they really begin doing things in li'l ole New York?
Letters to the Editor
We may not all agree with our fiery friend, Thomas Finnerty, 73 South Second Street, Brooklyn, N. Y., but at least he presents his case in an entertaining manner. There will always be a market for serials — they are the film grandchildren of the sacred dime-novel :
Films may come and films may go, but serials go on forever. Which is a sort of an introductory statement to the fact that I have finished seeing the last episode of Pearl White's latest offense. Now, Miss White is a talented young lady, and Fred Jackson, who admits he wrote the story, is the author of some very entertaining fiction. But Mr. Jackson has fallen into a very common error. The people who are responsible for these serial thrillers appear to believe that film fans want acrobatics and roughand-tumble mix-ups instead of acting. And the stories concocted by our enterprising scenario writers would make Nick Carter, Old King Brady and the rest of the bloody crew, whose adventures we devoured in our youth, turn green with envy. Such items as cellars which are automatically inundated with our sportshirted hero therein are as common in serials as black flowing ties at an I.W.W. convention. And when the sneering villain imprisons the handsome hero, we are not at all surprised to observe that the . walls of the room are closing in on him. Such happenings occur with too great a
frequency in movie serials to be viewed with concern. That they do not succeed in their dastardly attempt to flatten our hero is due no doubt to the fact that he hasn't been standing long enough to get flat.
Then there is another method of assassination in which movie murderers are particularly au fait. This consists of imprisoning the victim and shooting knives at him thru chinks in the wall, after which pleasant little attentions they go thru the sacred rites of drinking his heart's blood. Our hero, however, is something of a hard-boiled egg, and refuses to be stuck for the drinks, and it then devolves upon the author to extricate him from his predicament. There are many other amiable little aids to a sudden demise which the villain has up his sleeve for our hero, with which, however, I will not take up your space. To the reader who is desirous of becoming a first-class murderer and at the same time avoiding the crude and hackneyed method of slipping rough-on-rats in the victim's Oolong, I would suggest a thoro and comprehensive study of the yellowback weeklies which dispense large gobs of murder, arson, blackmail, counterfeiting, grave-robbing and every other crime on the menu at five cents per dispense.
People who would be shocked by the mere thought of reading such bloodcurdling literature as "Old Sleuth" or "Cap Collier" will go to the movies week after week and see the same old bag of tricks picturized. What's the answer?
Miss White's last serial, which is
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