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Ife Screen Mirror
yhe iM GLyrciy /s/e from *ffo£(ywo o cL> Robert Joyce TasKer Frank Whitbeck
Editor Editorial Director
Eddy Eckels
Managing Editor
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• WAVES . . . WAVES of beautiful girls . . . surging . . . retiring . . . surging again . . .
sweeping forward . . . falling back . . . waves . . . waves.
Down by the bluffs of Redondo . . . watch the sea . . . beating each wave against the gleam' ing shale . . . beating with ever-renewed assun ance. The sea has great courage. Waves pile up blackly, hunch their shoulders, curl proudly with a crest of foam . . . with a hiss, roar, plunge, crash, they fling against the bluffs of Redondo.
• THERE IS a walled city. There is a gate in the wall — a wrought'iron gate . . . studio
gate.
Behind the gate stands a man with his hat defiantly askew. His stubble of beard is red. His mouth is a slanting slash, clamped hard shut. His eyes are blue ... icy cold.
Against him beat the waves . . . surging . . . retiring . . . surging again . . . sweeping forward . . . falling back . . . waves . . . waves.
• FEMININE FACES, young and gentle, float on waves of human hopes. Feminine
faces, lively, hopeful, sweep on proudly toward the gates. Feminine faces . . . they are like so many gaily painted chips floating on the proud crest of the waves.
They beat against the walls and gates. Each wave breaks with ever'renewed assurance.
• WHENCE the courage?
Waves of little, gay 'faced girls . . . waves with gaily'painted chips . . . waves that never cease, beating against the walls and gates of Hollywood, where a man whose jaw juts like the bluffs of Redondo turns the tide — sends it hopelessly back out to sea.
• PICK OUT a gaily'painted chip — and see what you have.
You have a tinted face . . . pale china'like coloring ... a head of tight, curly, golden hair . . . a spring lamb with a golden fleece . . . fright . . . hope . . . aspiration . . . terror . . . awe ... all painted on panting, curving lips.
Pluck this exotic bit of color from the crest of the wave . . . and you have . . .
• THE ORIENT portrayed by the Occident . . . black, mysterious eyes, hid under black,
heavy lashes ... a smile that could be pleasure or pain creeping with slow, subtle meaning across the hint of the Orient ... to reveal strong, even, white, exquisite teeth.
A splash of color . . .
And you have the robust virility of the corn fields . . . colored like a fall apple . . . round and fragrant . . . strong and happy . . . bounding with life . . . snub nose ... a freckle or two . . . burly little chin . . . and eyes limpid as a crater lake.
• BUT, THERE are too many . . . too many thousands of these painted chips that bound
in gaily toward the walls and gates on the crests of waves. You cannot keep track of them . . . any more than can the man who guards gates . . . looks as though he’d been boiled alive . . . and has a mouth like a slanting slash that’s clamped hard shut.
• YOU SEE only waves . . . waves . . . waves . . . rushing forward . . . piling up with pretty
weight . . . making a dark wall of soft shoulders . . . arching proudly like a crest of foam at sea . . . and with a cry ... a shout . . . laughter . . . hope . . . beating — beating at the gates of Hollywood.