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THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS OF HOLLYWOOD
As I dropped in the lift back to earth I came to the conclusion that America — which practically invented youth — has decided along with Bernard Shaw that youth is far too precious to waste on the young.
If Mr. Robinson is right we can eliminate youth from the qualities essential to male sex-appeal. If we examine the personality of James Stewart we discover that positiveness, fluency and aggressiveness are also non-essentials.
James Stewart crossed his legs for the twenty-fifth time, absently fondled the snout of a stuffed hippopotamus, and said apologetically, "I guess I am a millionaire."
For 120 seconds he outstared a glass-eyed crocodile as defiantly as if it were representing the Inland Revenue Department.
For his peace of mind, I can assure him it wasn't.
The scene of Mr. Stewart's confession was a taxidermist's show-room. If this should seem a somewhat bizarre setting, you must blame Mr. Alfred Hitchcock, who has a taste for somewhat bizarre settings. He had picked this one for a scene in his film The Man Who Knew Too Much.
Mr. Stewart, who is only slightly more loquacious than the zoological specimens on display around us, had now collected his thoughts sufficiently to amplify his first statement.
"I'm in oil," he said, "and I own from 15 to 30 per cent of each picture I make."
The advertisements, which assure you that nothing stands between you and success except your diffidence, awkwardness and lack of purpose ("all of which can be cured by hypnotism"), are wasted on Mr. Stewart. He has stammered and fidgeted his way to the top — and into a fortune. Among the crowded galaxy of exhibitionistic stars, he is conspicuous in his selfeffacement.
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