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Star-dust in Hollywood
ment of what the local architect imagines to be a Mexican palace, might equally be an electric-light station or a furniturestore. But the Paramount owns a huge half of a full-sized ocean-going liner, and from it, towering over the roofs of the surrounding bungalows, you may suspect that here is, at last, a genuine movie studio. Then you may note the regiments of cars mustered on the fifteen-cent parking-stations which are occupying the unbuilt-on plots of ground wedged in between the bare-brick roots of the tall blocks of flats or the bougainvillea-covered bungalows ; or you may note the untidy eating-shacks of wood and chicken-wire that scrape a meagre living by soothing with coffee, coco-cola, hot dog, or sandwich the spirits of expectant or rejected applicants for work. But America is not truly a democratic country. Across the road are other parking-stations, no better than the fifteen-cent ones, yet twice as dear, where the glittering Rolls-Royces or the Cadillacs of the stars or magnates can await the return of their masters, uncontaminated by contact with the dusty flivvers of the casual extras.
And yet, except for the regiments of cars, little led us to imagine that here was one of the biggest corporations that ruled America's fourth greatest industry. There was no traffic on the street, no bustle ; an almost Sunday-like quiet reigned ; a public library might well have seemed busier.
Our friend led us through the Spanish portal into an anteroom. Here too the same sense of quietude was remarkable. The dim hall was panelled in dark oak, and felt unwelcoming. On either side were red plush settles, and just opposite the main entrance was a bow-windowed office flanked on either side by doors. In this office sat a young clerk. His hair was polished, his collar and tie as near star-like perfection as could be achieved with cheap means ; his shoulders were carefully moulded ; a sleek and tailored Cerberus whose habitual expression had already grown into an unspoken
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