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Out on the set, Hector found a longhaired writer who talked his language. "You're not givin' me any news, kid," he told Hector. "Dig out all the old films this dame has been in and kinda meld them together. That way you'll write something they liked once, anyway"
ontact
By
Charles Francis Coe
THE Associate Producer dropped thoughtfully into the judge's chair which tilted invitingly behind an expansive walnut desk decorated with expensive inkwells, gold pens, crystal ash trays and nondescript but important appearing papers. The harassed executive looked over this monumental array of equipment into the somewhat doleful eyes of a long-haired individual whose features were draped in the habiliments of continuous and unending disappointment.
"You see how it is, Hector," the executive pointed out. "I don't say your story is a bad one. I simply say that it does not fit into our production schedule. In the first place, we haven't
U
a star for it. The picture business is changing all the time. Developing and expanding. It is an art now."
He leaned forward so that the chair creaked. He reached across the great desk and opened a silver cigarette box. He helped himself and glanced inquiringly at the stricken author, who declined with a doleful shake of the head.
"Yes," the Associate Producer continued through a smokecloud which wreathed his face, "pictures have now reached the status of art. Each of us producers is an expert in our line. We are turning out picture plays on schedule. In order to do this, we must be practical as well as artistic. Certain actors