Photoplay (Jan - Jun 1925)

Photoplay Magazine — Advertising Section Lew promptly forgot the picture in the sweet turmoil of trying to revive her drooping spirits. He went off to dinner with Hallett, his director, filled with new enthusiasm. Poor kid. Of course she was upset. He was upset himself. Even Irene's moist and tearful kisses did not render him indifferent to the possible loss of three-quarters of a million dollars. With Hallett he sat until a late hour, planning ways and means to finish the picture in little more than half the time they had intended to give to it. Some of the scenes would have to be cut — omitted, the director advised. Certain elaborate settings simplified. Mr. Sam Glotzmann, the well-known scenarist and photoplaywright, had seen in the production an opportunity to make himself everlastingly famous. The De Milles, Griffith, Fairbanks, should have nothing on him. Ten thousand extra people, at least, in the great tournament scene. A thousand knights on horseback, for the grand parade. The battle at the finish, between King Arthur and his hosts, on one hand, and Sir Launcelot and the chivalry of Brittany, on the other, was to be the biggest thing of its kind ever witnessed on the screen. Mr. Glotzmann worked on the theory that size meant quality, that the bigger a thing was, the better. Hallett had been fighting with him ever since work on the production started, toying to bring the scenes down to something within reason. "You tell that fellow Glotzmann to keep off the lot," he informed Lew, "and maybe I'll be able to finish the picture on time. He's a pest. I can't have him around putting up a squawk every time I cut out a couple horses, or a meaningless scene. Trouble with his continuity is it's too damned continuous — it never stops. If I'd listen to that guy's notions, the picture wouldn't be finished by Christmas." "That's all right. I'll handle Glotzmann," Lew said grimly. "You cut out anything you please. But I want that fillum, all ready to show, by the middle of October, see?" " Middle of October. Impossible." " That's one word, Mr. Hallett, I don't allow should be used in my shop. The middle of October — or before. Paste that in your hat, and hop to it. I'll pay the bills." This disposed of, he went over to Fortysixth Street and had a talk with Morris Shuler, who owned more theatrical real estate than any twelve men in New York. When the two parted some half an hour later, Lew was smiling for the first time since his interview with Miss Cavanaugh. "I guess that will hold 'em for awhile," he muttered, as he climbed into his car. CHAPTER XXXIV "DEN HARDY, very new and green indeed -'-'when it came to such matters as renting theaters, spent a most discouraging week. There were not many places for him to go; the list furnished by Tony had been, as the latter told him, a short one. Practically all of the legitimate houses were out of the question. The big picture houses, owned or controlled by producing companies having extensive programmes of their own, were of course not available. Mr. Hardy was surprised to find, in the case of many of the possible places, that his investigations led straight to the office of Mr. Morris Shuler. He finally saw this gentleman, after a number of calls and a wait of two hours; the interview lasted two and a half minutes and Mr. Shuler gave an excellent imitation of a man singing "yes, we have no bananas," except that in his case it was theaters. Hardy went away with the impression of having come into brief contact with a frozen fish, and the fixed opinion that to rent a theater in New York during the busy season is very much like trying to buy a reserved seat in heaven. After several visits to the Parkway, his final hope short of hiring a ballroom or a hall, he at last obtained an interview with the house manager, Abe Lengel, a hawknosed individual who regarded him with a sour look and wanted to know his purpose in renting the house. At Your Service The courteous girl at the switchboard speaks the first word in more than two million conversations an hour. Presiding day and night at the busy intersections of speech, she is always at the call of the nation's homes, farms and offices. Out of sight, and most of the time out of hearing of the subscribers, little is known of the switchboard girl — of her training and supervision under careful teachers, and of her swift and skilful work. Likewise, little is known of the engineering problems necessary to bring the terminals of fifteen million telephones within the reach of a girl's arm, or of the ceaseless work of maintenance which in fair weather and storm keeps the mechanism fit and the wires open. 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