Showman (1937)

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SHOWMAN made to me. And that was how Paramount got its start. Yes, the new era was beginning to crop out on all sides. A little later, when Zukor and I were taking over dead theaters in odd places and running pictures in them as a small-time speculation, we got hold of a dreary old house in Williamsburg, just across the East River in New York, called the Amphion. It should have been called the White Elephant. After we'd lost a good deal keeping the place open out of nervous habit, Zukor announced one day that he'd found a little fellow who was running store-shows— movies in empty stores—in East New York and wanted to step up in the world by renting a real theater. In other words, he actually wanted to take the Amphion off our hands. "Where is he?" I shouted. "Don't let him get away." "He'll keep, he'll keep," said Zukor. "Come round to the Amphion tomorrow evening." I was there with all my fingers crossed. So was this crazy man from East New York— an undersized and slightly pathetic figure in an overcoat that was none too new and with a walk that reminded me of some of David Warfield's stage-characters. "Mr. Brady," said Zukor, "meet my friend Marcus Loew." When you met Marcus Loew, you met the new show-business in person. The only member of the party missing was Guglielmo Marconi. I passed up my chance to go in with Zukor in 269