Talking Screen (Jan-Aug 1930)

When the talkies came, John Boles (right) was earning $600 a week. Immediately his worth jumped and his employers loaned him out at four times that sum. Clara Bow earned plenty of money at Paramount, but she didn't get it all. She had to give some to B. P. Schulberg because her personal contract with him forced her to. By HERBERT CRUIKSHANK Buddy Rogers, the sole surviving member of the Paramount School, was receiving only $400 a week on the day his fan mail broke Valentino's record. AUce White (left) has been a fullfledged star for some time, yet, when she first became one her sa-° lary was only $500 a week. She was worth far more. Supporting the legend of immense salaries paid Hollywood film players is sometimes necessary — in Hollywood. But here is the truth about it The ACK in the good old days when life was tougher than a gunman's gal, many a boy with a strong back and no brains proved that there was gold in them that Hollywood hills. They faced the wilderness with a pick and poverty as companions. They returned to what was laughingly called civilization in the guise of muscle-bound millionaires. The Hollywood hegira hasn't ceased since '49. But now, in place of gold from the hills, the modern argonauts seek silver from the silver screen. The gold was 14 K., but the silver is frequently without the "sterling" hall-mark. Examination discloses the word "plated" in very small type. If you doubt it, ask those intrepid miners Jack Oakie, Clara Bow, John Boles, Alice White, Jimmy Hall, Helen Twelvetrees, Sue Carol, "Buddy " Rogers, — oh, shut your eyes and select any screen name. They all can tell you. For, like Dad, they know. Their troubles, however, are not usually written for runners to read. There are two sorts of people in the world — those who deny being winners in a poker game, and movie actors. The actors always pretend far more prosperity than even Charlie Schwab imagines. So financial difficulties are carefully hidden from all but creditors. But sometimes secrets, like murders, will out. ^BOUT two years ago Jack Oakie hit Hollywood with a smile and a spade with which to shovel movie money into his own private vault. But somewhere there was a hitch, and soon Jack's spade looked more like a deuce than an ace. Then along came director Wesley Ruggles, a bright boy with 40 an eye for the main chance. Wes gave Jack a job in a Universal picture, and Jack gave Wes a first-rate performance. Ruggles, however, was the only one who appreciated the fact that he'd stumbled over a rough diamond — very rough. He backed his judgment by signing Oakie to a contract, the terms of which called for Jack to draw $100 every Saturday — whether he worked or no. Wesley was to have for his end all over the $100 that he could get for his player's services. From time to time Jack was to get a raise in pay. Through Ruggles' skillful management, his connections, and because Oakie had the goods to deliver, it wasn't long before Wesley sublet the actor to Paramount for $250 a week — $100 for Jack, $150 for his manager. Because of a combination of things in which good fortune played no little part, Oakie appeared in a series of roles especially suited to his type and talents. Then the trouble began. It still endures. RIGHTFULLY enough, Oakie, now one of Paramount's most popular featured players, believes he is worth more than what he is receiving. He has endeavored to make an arrangement with the Company. But up bobs Ruggles with his contract. After a series of conferences all around, the director arranged with Paramount for that organization to pay him $1,750 weekly, $1500 of which he agreed to hand Jack. But the player snorts a stentorian "no" to this. So no one's getting anything and Paramount is saving the difference between what it is willing to pay Jack when things are straightened out, and what it is paying now under the terms of its old contract with Ruggles. 36