Picture Play Magazine (Jul - Dec 1929)

Tke Stroller 59 People who have nothing else to do are turning into collectors of statistics. One o' the Hollywood newspapers actually had people on the corner of Vine Street and Hollywood Boulevard counting the number of automobiles which passed the intersection, and noting which way they went. The figures passed into the millions during a month. Every car that came to the crossing was counted by one man, and every car which left the crossing was counted by another, making the thing more darn fun. Actors out of jobs, but still retaining their cars, used to spend the day driving around the block, or making U-turns at the crossing to increase the labor of the dockers, figuring that it was possibly one of the most enjoyable ways of spending a between-pictures vacation. If the dockers could only be placed at studio gates to count the number of ideas taken in, they would be equaled only in labor by those clocking the ideas coming out ; while the task of figuring how many ideas remained within would be an easy job for Stepin Fetchit. An indoor sport which receives my heartiest cooperation has broken out at the Coconut Grove. The tourists flock there on Tuesday nights to see the celebrities — people will flock to see anything — and dance near them. Then they write back home, "I kicked John Gilbert in the shins." "I poked Charlie Chaplin with my elbow." "I bumped into William Haines so hard he fell down." "I jabbed Buddy Rogers in the eye with my finger — oh, his flesh was so soft, like a baby's." Although it has driven many of the stars to going other nights of the week, I think this is a great idea. If we only had hardier and huskier tourists. If I could only get some of my pet hates to attend during a convention of lumberjacks from the great outdoors, this would indeed be bliss. As one of the tourists was heard to remark, "A good kick in the shins is worth ten answers to fan letters ; while a poke in the eye is better than an autographed picture." A wee bit of late warm weather is causing trouble to sound stages. Once, during the summer, an experimental press agent at the First National studio put a thermometer on a set during the day, and found the lights ran it up to 135 degrees. If it had been a Greta Garbo kiss scene, that could have been ex ^^ plained satisfac /^^^\ torily. This suggests a new field for practical and experimental psychology. The reactions of the air to the star should be measured to prove once and for all that Mary Brian is really not cold, but runs the temperature way up to 118; Clara Bow to a torrid 146; Baclanovato 184 ; Janet Gaynor to 80; and May McAvoy to 30. A wax figure of Joe Gans dripped away at the Fox studio because of too great proximity to a story conference. "A good kick in the shins is worth ten answers to a fan letter," said a tourist who danced by a star at the Coconut Grove. A newspaper with a statistical mania stationed two men on Hollywood Boulevard to count cars going in each direction. To appreciate the great change in the personnel of Hollywood one has but to meet a few song writers. Heretofore we were never bothered by this species, but like a plague, they have descended upon us. They have not only immigrated, but like an epidemic, they have sprung up among us from our own ranks. New musical shows in New York are strangely lacking in fresh music for the simple reason that the first, second, and third-rate writers are all in Hollywood cleaning up. After all, if you have a motion picture to plug your song you can get more in royalties than from the sale of copies inspired by a limited New York plug. These song writers can be heard over the radio at any time, and they always play a medley of all the songs they have written since they were first able to hit a piano with one finger, many of them not having progressed beyond that. One writer, in a moment of drunken stupor, admitted that he had sold for a big picture three of the songs which he wrote five years ago for a New York musical show which was a dismal flop. And music dealers list two of these numbers as best sellers. The way to tell a song writer from a human being is to look at his eyes and fingers. If his head swings back and forth, his eyes shift rhythmically, he appears to be muttering, needs wears a dirty collar, he is either a song writer, or a two-reel comic. But if his fingers keep drumming the table, and he can talk about nothing but his unusual ability and the strange conditions under which he composed the masterpiece, you will know instantly that you have Continued on 117 shave, and