The New Movie Magazine (Dec 1929-May 1930)

The Hollywood Boulevardier (Continued from page 131) Herb Howe intimates that Bull Montana wears specially constructed collars and here is Herb's idea of their source. tional Italians cheered and applauded, and the next day the newspapers carried the name of Marie Dressier in headlines. That's what I call starring. The roaring success of the roistering Winnie Lightner only proves how famished we are for the good old slapstick. Seeing a picture of Louise Fazenda in the Sennet togs she used to wear when the geese chased her, I had the same sentimental convulsion as when looking at our family album. Sound from the screen is all very well but we in the audience like to produce a little ourselves, as we do when Laurel and Hardy appear or Mack Sennet's celery starts jabbering in on a family feud. My extremely musical ear now yearns for the soft, sibilant squish of custard against kisser. I'm worrying about the popular Brown Derby restaurant. I'm afraid it may go Hollywood. Boys in sweaters have been refused admittance, I hear, and that's a mistake because a sweater has always been as good as a snob jacket out here and, besides, supplies California atmosphere. The other noon I was asked to wait in line all the vacant places being reserved. I used to wait in line for chow in the army, but I don't carry a mess kit any more. If I'd had a movie cutie with me all would have been sesame. Even at that I'm not the one to forge ahead of other hungry peasants. Wilson Mizner, the proprietor, is a democratic cuss if there ever was one and the brown derby the 132 very symbol of democracy with Al Smith wearing it, so here's praying that Hoover prosperity won't change Brown Derby to High Hat. BILLY BUTTS, 11 years old, knocked George Bancroft cold. Billy forgot to pull his punch in a scene and struck the Mighty's proboscis, which proved as vulnerable as Achilles' heel. And so another god crashes. "They don't call me Billy any more, they call me Bill," says Mr. Butts (Note I say "Mr."). He doesn't say what Georgie calls him. 7l/?\ Tunney, telephone! Billy Butts calling. PICTURES are just recovering from the paralysis of sound. The first bellow the screen let out seemed to scare them numb, and for a time the movies were stillies. With the success of "The Broadway Melody" all the producers rushed cameras into orchestra pits to photograph stage productions, fake scenery, stilted choruses and all. Most of the musical comedies have been no better than the old prologue numbers. In fact, instead of eliminating prologues, the producers eliminated the movies and gave us snapshots of the prologues. But the screen can't get by doing a mail order business for the stage, and those producers who think they are beguiling the folks in the pastures by sending them animated postcards of Broadway shows — "love and kisses, wish you were here" — had better listen to their audiences instead of their screens. While viewing a catalogued version of Ziegfeld's "Glorifying the American Girl" in the little town of Ventura I heard a femme-fan remark, "Well, if that's what Ziegfeld gives NewYork he had better stay there; he wouldn't get by in the sticks." I'm glad to hear the ring of horses' hoofs in the distance. Westerns are coming back. Personally I prefer galloping horses to galloping chorus boys; they get you somewhere. Just the same, when a brave vaquero leaps aboard his pinto to rescue a maid in the nick of being undone I don't care to have him suddenly turn and sing a fragment aria to a rose while I sit facing the horse's tail. I was kicked early in life and that horse-shoe never brought good luck. Since Lindbergh flew into the heart of womanhood there seems a tendency for ladies to prefer blonds too. Not since Valentino has the Nordic had a chance against the murky Latin. This year, however, sees the elevation of such golden idols as the stalwart blue-eyed Maurice Chevalier, the grey-orbed Montanan Gary Cooper, the croony Yank Vallee, the robustious Calif omian Lawrence Tibbett, the Texan Boles and the freckle-studded Jack Oakie, who are giving chase with airplane, lariat, saxophone and baritone to the sleek, sideburned and stilettoed juans. Technicolor gives the blond a further break: in the black-and-white he was just a faded brune. Yeah, it looks like ladies were preferring blonds this season. Quick, Watson, the peroxide. JES' a minute there, boss," I hear the languorous voice of Mistah Stepin Fetchit. "What's this yere blond talkin'?" Considering "Hallelujah" and "Hearts and Dixie" I must say interest has been moving south. I wouldn't be surprised if the next big star discovery were made in the heart of Africa by Mr. and Mrs. Martin Johnson. Them equator boys am hot! After hearing Mrs. Martin Johnson imitate wild animals in the news reel I'm going to be on the listen for voicedoubling in their next animal picture. There's a rumor that the Metro-Goldwyn lion had to be doubled because he lisped and the roar is Louis B. Mayer's replying to an actor who asked for a raise. There's irony in Buddy Rogers' conversion to a tea party caddy after he scored in the champagne bubbles scene of "Wings." That scene is stored among the best vintages of my memory. Immune of vulgarity, it was the intoxication of joy more than wine, and Buddy warmed the heart. But to trade upon this charm teetotally is to offer Buddy as a martyr to purity. The undriven stuff is all right, but it leaves you cold after a while and unless a slug of strong story is administered the result is byebye. Perhaps it is felt that Buddy can weather any storm of bad stories through sheer personal charm, as Wally Reid did, but why take the risk? My advice is to give him a case of champagne, a couple of Fifis and let him go wrong with a good story.