Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1925)

By Herbert Howe ClosE'Ups --d LonG'Shots Satire, Humor and Some Sense ASSAULTED by letters from my admirers the world over wanting to know what went wrong with the radio program I attempted on Happy Homes of Hollywood, I have decided to issue a statement. Don't blame the radio. What you heard was not static — it was the Happy Homes. For instance, Dagmar GodowskyMayo, a star of the program, sent word at the last minute that she was giving Frank Mayo a surprise party that evening to announce her marriage to another fellow. The Chaplins were not at home, and a voice on the telephone speaking the language of Hashimura Togo suggested we tune in on the fights at the American Legion stadium. Mrs. Ronald Colman was at home but Ronald was not, though subpoenaed. The Vidors said there was nothing to say except that both their homes were very happy. Bob Leonard when located had nothing to say, as he had assigned all radio rights to his wife, Mae Murray, who was broadcasting from the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Mae said Bob had deserted her, he having remained in Hollywood while she went to Paris. The Conrad Nagels said they were tappy but thought it bad publicity on account of the child; said they didn't want her pointed out by playmates as the child of those happy Nagels. Little Farina, known in private life as Hot Dog Hoskins, sent an indignant note in hot Ethiopian declaring she was a respectable single man though colored. After plugging in on one more happy home and getting nothing but the gong's of ambulance and patrol wagon I gave up in despair. Hereafter I shall leave the subject of Happy Homes of Hollywood to Announcer Will Hays. My ne.xt big radio program will be on the subject of Kindness to Animals and will be delivered from the buUfight arena at Tia Juana. TT is with Hollywood as the poet ■•■said, "Love comes unseen; we only see it go." Or, rather, with Hollywood it's a case where the hand of the divorce law is quicker than the eye. HOLLYWOOD leads the world as the realm of spectacular individuals. It holds courts as colorful as any of the middle ages. Europe has overthrown its monarchies, but we have Hollywood to supply the world need for pomp and circumstance. What queen, dead or alive, ever incited 36 TOM MIX has remained on the pedestal for some time. Perhaps he reveals a reason for his stability when he says : "It looked to me some years ago like the folks everywhere, especially the boys, had put me — as I am in pictures — on a sort of pedestal. That's the main thing. And I have tried to stay there. I'd hate to disappoint a single one of them and I won't take a chance, that's all." Spoken like a man, Thomas. What the pictures need are more men ... as any casting director will tell you. such an ovation as given Gloria upon her return from France? Her triumphant entry of Hollywood was marked by flagwaving and tlower-tossing. The peasantry howled outside the theater as she appeared in person, and stars of smaller spud jostled madly in an effort to obtain her glance. Had she arrived in a coach, the lords and ladies would have unhitched the horses and dragged her through the streets. As it was, they could only throw themselves under the wheels of the RollsRoyce in the hope of making her pathway softer. The only one, I venture to say, who viewed the spactacle for what it was worth was little Gloria herself That's why she's queen. HOLLYWOOD and Paris are the most interesting cities in the world. Both are international. Hollywood is no more American than Paris is French. My friends — meaning those who shake a Samaritan cocktail — include Italian, Pole, German, Spaniard, Mexican and Yankee. The last is the least American of all, having been steeped in Hollywood for fifteen years. Out of sheer protective feeling I all but shied a wheat cake at Betty Blythe when once she asked an interviewer if he didn't think the motion picture people would eventually become a race apart — like the Polynesian. The interviewer guffawed at Betty, but I'll bet right now that Betty has the last laugh. WRITERS who die and go to heaven never come back except as spooks. No more do the writers who go to Holl\-wood and die. If they do return they are usually gibbering ghosts of their former selves. _ Thus my prayers go out for the sophisticated young Michael Arlen as he ventures courageously into the lair of PoUyanna. TF you want to get box-office results, -•■said Shakespeare to Carl Laemmle, you must hold the mirror up to nature. As one producer to another, doesn't that sound logical? The trouble is that most directors and scenario writers, instead of holding the mirror up to nature, tilt it lazily at other screen productions. Thus pictures become a series of reflections, each further off from nature than the predecessor. I recently read a script with such directions as, "a typical Lillian Gish close-up," "an Adolphe Menjou smile," "a De Mille flash-back" and "a Griffith finish." Holy goulash! "Yl/HAT does the screen need?" 'y I asked Jesse L. Lasky. "Just one thing," he replied, "young people of evident breeding and refinement." To promote thediscovery of such young people Mr. Lasky and Mr. Zukor have founded the Paramount Pictures School. I once suggested that the picture corporations send their scouts for talent to the college campuses, as the Standard Oil Corporation does. While beauty and brains are not confined to fraternities and sororities, it is equally true that they are not the exclusive property of choruses and cabarets, to which producers have confined their explorations heretofore. TO encourage other producers who may shy at Mr. Lasky's idea as being a bit dreamy, if not downright radical, I present two exhibits of breeding and refinement, each paying as well as any female Gunga-Din from the Winter Garden or any greased hoofer from a dreamland dance haU. The gentleman in question I heralded several years ago after viewing an obscure Triangle picture. With his distinction of breeding he shone forth from the screen as a Kohinoor in a Woolworth jewel case. Fresh from the campus of Trinity, he bore a name that was difficult to the untutored tongue, but he clung to it, declaring that if he had any personal distinction the public would learn to pronounce it. The name, now glibly uttered, is that of Mr. Richard Barthelmess. [ CONTINUED ON PAGE I32 ]