Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1927)

Record Details:

Something wrong or inaccurate about this page? Let us Know!

Thanks for helping us continually improve the quality of the Lantern search engine for all of our users! We have millions of scanned pages, so user reports are incredibly helpful for us to identify places where we can improve and update the metadata.

Please describe the issue below, and click "Submit" to send your comments to our team! If you'd prefer, you can also send us an email to mhdl@commarts.wisc.edu with your comments.




We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.

Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.

94 Film Struck Continued from page 92 At any event, the Super-Apex organization gave him free rein and profited hugely by it, although at times the officials at the helm were close to apoplexy and wandered about the studio with haggard countenances and frayed nerves. DuVal's eccentricities were known and discussed from one end of Hollywood to the other. Ego was never soft-focused with him. No was yes, the impossible possible. His staff was ever in a turmoil, and they were the finest crew of "yes-sirs" that ever danced attendance upon a czar. Precedents, rules, hallowed custom, all that went to make up the constitution of filmdom, DuVal ignored, overrode, or otherwise cast to the California zephyrs. He vented his wrath upon the highest-paid star and in the next breath invited a spear carrier out to lunch. He sought advice from a .stage carpenter and turned a deaf ear upon the learned counsel of an expert. He was bitter and jovial, sarcastic and sympathetic — a combination of vitriol and milk, sunshine and storm. But a DuVal release added to the SuperApex bank account, and towered head and shoulders above the army of ordinary films that marched eastward from Hollywood. His name in the billing was printed in letters as big as those of the featured players. DuVal had little faith in the shining lights of actordom, and grumbled whenever a prominent star was thrust upon him. He handled stars mercilessly, granted them no favors. And if wails of anguish resounded in the Super-Apex front office, their echoes had no effect upon the director. Moreover, the office did not attempt to intervene ; the high lords of decision knew better. DuVal once told them he could pick a cast from any street corner and produce a super film. Direction, he insisted, was everything. But Mr. Oscar Whiffle, late of the Rosebud, La Belle, Iowa, and now known as Mr. Watt, was neither impressed by nor interested in his director's activities, so long as DuVal confined them to personages other than Mr. Watt himself. After the noon recess, several short scenes were rehearsed and shot in which Oscar had no part, and he hoped his trials were over for the day. However, DuVal and circumstances willed it otherwise, for when the few short scenes were finished, the director proceeded to outline a scene in which Oscar and one other were destined to participate. "I want to get a flash of a street brawl," DuVal proclaimed. "The punchers are making their exit from the saloon, a bit unsteady from drink, perhaps a trifle ugly. The crowd on the walk gives way to them, except one man." The director's searching eyes rested upon the desired type. "You will do," he announced. "Step here, please. Your name?" "Kirk," the man responded, and as he spoke, recognition suddenly dawned upon Oscar. It was the tall, slinky-eyed individual with whom he had had words that morning— the man occupying the cot adjoining his own. "And you, Mr. Watt!" DuVal's voice startled Oscar, whose thoughts at that moment were far removed from the scene. "Pay attention, please !" the director resumed. "Mr. Watt leaves the saloon with his friends, trailing them. Except for Mr. Kirk, the crowd outside surrenders the sidewalk. You two men collide. You stand a moment eying one another insolently. Then Mr. Kirk reaches for his gun and at the same time you, Mr. Watt, knock it from his hand. Mr. Kirk lands a blow ; you retaliate. There follows a brief give-and-take until, finally, Mr. Kirk is worsted, and you, Mr. Watt, grinning, walk off to join your companions, leaving your victim in the dust of the street. "You understand? Very good. We'll run through it quickly. You time your entrance, Mr. Kirk, as the saloon doors open. Ready ! Don't land any blows until we shoot the scene." Oscar trailed his puncher companions out from the saloon. He felt more at ease now in his costume and make-up, had more self-assurance. The battery of qritical eyes no longer disturbed him, and he found himself paying strict attention to DuVal's rapid-fire instructions. Kirk confronted him, insolently enough, and reached for his gun, which Oscar knocked aside. Then Kirk's fist landed none too gently on Oscar's chin, and Oscar, considerably jarred, launched a blow that made Kirk double up like a jackknife. "Take it easy!" DuVal warned. "Fake your blows until we're readv to shoot. That's better. Biff, biff, bang ! Over the walk into the street, Mr. Kirk. Spill yourself. You exit grinning, Mr. Watt. That's good. Nothing else to it. All right, we'll shoot this time. Both of you in the picture now. Keep talking. Ready ! Action ! Camera !" Once more Oscar filed out of the saloon, and once more Kirk barred his way with a scowl of contempt. "Move aside or I'll bust you wide open," Kirk growled, his lips twisting, his purpose unmistakable. "I'll put you out of the picture for good." "Try it!" Oscar retorted. The hostility that registered on his face was not assumed. He recalled, bitterly enough, the affair of the morning, and Kirk's jeering comments relative to the missing wallet. An oath escaped Kirk as he whipped a revolver from his holster. Oscar's hand sent it spinning into the dirt of the street. "You're a dirty thief!" he charged. "You took my money. You know you did." Kirk leered. "You big, corn-fed hick," he snarled. "I'll teach you to call me a thief !" His doubled fist caught Oscar on the point of the chin. "How'd you like that?" Oscar reeled, dazed and surprised by the vicious blow, but instantly he recovered, shook his head, and grimly waded in. Kirk knew a thing or two about sparring, and presented an able defense, but what Oscar lacked in the way of science was compensated by the steam behind his long, muscular arms. For a moment the going was brisk and interesting. "Keep it up!" cried DuVal. "Make it realistic ! Hammer and tongs! Plenty of action!" The director had no occasion, however, for those promptings. Oscar, incensed, blazing mad, had Kirk dancing. Presently they clinched, and when they broke, Kirk's coat was ripped. As it flapped open, Oscar's storm-filled eyes discerned, protruding from an inner pocket, the end of a wallet that looked suspiciously like his own. A bellow of rage broke from him ; white-hot anger pounded through his veins. "I see it !" he cried. "You got my wallet !" His fist caught Kirk below the ear. The man staggered. "You're a liar!" he panted, and landed a blow that threatened to separate Oscar's ribs. But Oscar was case-hardened, inured to punishment. Only one thing mattered now. He hurled himself at Kirk. "You stole my money ! You got it on you !" A terrific uppercut that broke through Kirk's defense sent the man reeling. "Good work!" shouted DuVal. "Once more, now !" Oscar heard but dimly. He had forgotten the grinding cameras, the crowd, all the business of the scene. He rushed upon Kirk again, pinContinued on page 96