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MIND OVER
That's what Warner Baxter believes in and — judging by his success— it's a pretty grand working philosophy
By HERBERT CRUIKSHANK
Warner Baxter, rollicking bandit extraordinary of the screen. Mr. Baxter commenced his career of acting at the age of ten and he's been acting for twenty-six years. Now you know his age.
Mr. Baxter! Surprise ! Surprise ! You never thought I'd be writing a story about you!
Now, now, never mind all that, you know you didn't. Did you, now.^
There, that's better. Always speak the truth, Warner. Well, nearly always.
Well, anyway, here it is. And I suggested it all by my-, self. I hope it'll be good. And I hope you'll like it too, Warner. Come on, be big and say you will!
First let's tell the fans about our private feud, shall we.-* Really, Warner, it was your own feud — not mine. But I'm willing to share anything with you. Even a vendetta to the death. But let's cut the gang in on the story, eh?
Well, muggs, it was this way. Y'ars and y'ars ago, when the Warner brothers were swopping stock for coffee and cakes, and a feller named Bill Fox was in the fillum business, there was a book about a bootlegger. It was called The Great Gatsby, and some waffle-head thought it would make a picture. Well, it did. A pretty poor one. And none other than Mr. Baxter, the Cisco Kid himself, was miscast as the hero.
In the course of business on The Aioining Telegraph, I reviewed The Great Gatsby. And (honest, Warner) although I don't remember just what venom I loosed upon the picture and its star, it is safe to say that the comment was uncomplimentary. That was that. Now for the second act. And please remember that the curtain is lowered for an instant to indicate a lapse of several years.
SCENE rwo is in Hollywood, and Frank Joyce, Warner's agent, asks me just what I have against Mr. Baxter. And despite all protestations on my part, Frank, whom I like almost as much as his sister, Alice, walked sadly away, shaking his head in the conviction that hot hatred against old boy Baxter seared my heart.
Now lower the curtain again, and shift the scenes back to that New York set. Warner's being interviewed by Regina Crewe for the New York American, and somehow my name is mentioned. Instinctively, Warner, now accustomed to badman roles, reaches for his gat. For a minute it looks .like all the lights in Sardi's will be shot out. But Mario, the headwaiter, pacifies the hot-headed Hollywood hellion with a dish of pasta fagiole, or something. And that's how come I'm still alive to heap coals of type on Warner's marcelled head. Saved by a tactful headwaiter, as it were.
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