Picture-Play Magazine (Sep 1928 - Feb 1929)

The Stroller 23 Although I have no information on the subject, I suspect that he is rather broke and chronically out of a job, for I see him lurking about casting offices. There does not seem to be much point to this item, except that I wish some director — who was probably an upstart when he was a star — would give him a job. He undoubtedly needs one, and he is probably as good an actor as many another man of his age, who is working constantly in character roles. I suppose if I were a good Samaritan I would do something personally, for he gave me dozens of hairraising evenings. The finest picture in the world will never entertain me as thoroughly as those cheap serials did. Los Angeles, the capital of the movies, is taking to the legitimate stage in a manner which should be alarming to the cinema barons. Formerly regarded as a poor town for legitimate attractions, Los Angeles is now supporting the spoken drama as it has never done before, and consequently is getting more good plays, and better productions, than ever before. Personally, I think it is a revolt against the objectionable orchestra leaders and masters of ceremonies, whom the movie-theater managers seem to regard as indispensable. The town seems to have gone mad over these comic orchestra kings, and no leading theater is without one. Their names are often advertised more flamboyantly than the pictures themselves, and their acts take up a great deal of time that audiences might be spending more profitably elsewhere. I have gone to some length to interview various persons on their attitude toward this strange clan, and have yet to find a vote in their favor. One friend of mine, indeed, declares that if he ever becomes more mentally unbalanced than he is now, he intends to oil up his Winchester and take it to one of the leading theaters with the express purpose of doing away with the performing band-leaders. He is convinced it will start a general uprising, and the hysterical mob will save him from the police. The "titular bishops" is Hollywood's latest organization. It is a group of the nine leading title-writers of the industry, banded together, supposedly, for reasons both social and professional. The titular bishops is now a closed organization, the agreement being that nine is enough, and no others will ever be taken into the circle. Title writing has become quite a profession in Hollywood within the last four or five years. Formerly the subtitles were written by the office boy or the producer's cousin, which accounted for much of the eccentric spelling and stop-and-go method of punctuation. Then producers discovered that good titles often saved a bad picture and that, conversely, bad titles often made a good one mediocre. Writing sub-titles used to be a job for the office boy or the producer's cousin, but now it's a profession. Some day there will be a series of murders in Hollywood, due to the previews inflicted on unsuspecting audiences. Ralph Spence, I believe, was the original star title-writer of the industry, and others soon began to attract attention. Now the woods are full of them, intent on making easy money at what is act u al l<y dif f icult and painstaking work. The membership of the titular bishops includes Ralph Spence, Malcolm Stuart Boylan, George Marion, Jr., Julian Johnson, Herman Mankiewicz — dictated, but not read — Joseph Farnham, Garrett Graham — he's my brother, but I really write all his good titles for him— Walter Anthony, Randolph Bartlett. Without exception, all have been newspaper men at one time, which statement, I trust, will not prompt all the journalists of the land to come to Hollywood. Most of them have also contributed to magazines, two or three have written plays, one was a former music critic, and another a dramatic reviewer. Farnham was once a director, I believe, but has since lived it down. Some one suggested recently it would be something of a quip to get all nine together some time for a private screening of "The Last Laugh." The mania for changing the names of well-known stories, when they are made into movies, seems to continue unabated. I observe that "The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come," which has been read by millions, as a novel, has become "Kentucky Courage" on the screen. And while Universal has not actually changed the title of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," they have come as near to it as possible. All their advertisements bear "Southern Love" in bold, black letters, and, beneath it, words to the effect that it is to be seen in large quantities in "Uncle Tom's Cabin." The most startling change in some months, however, was "Annie Laurie." Suddenly, one day, I was confronted with screaming billboards everywhere announcing Lillian Gish, in "Ladies From Hell," which is about as incongruous a title as one could imagine for a Gish picture. Critics, inclined to be Pecksniffian, might also point out that "Ladies From Hell" was a slang expression growing out of the World War, many years after the period in which the film story was supposed to have occurred. However, I didn't see it, so it's all right with me. Hollywood has broken out into a rash of new Fords, after months of breathless expectancy. Billie Dove, Colleen Moore, Continued on page 115