Talking Screen (Sep-Oct 1930)

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GEORGE T. DELACORTE, Jr., Publisher and Editorial Director ROWELL BATTEN, MAY NINOMIYA, Associate Editors ERNEST V. HEYN, Editor WAYNE G. HAISLEY, Managing Editor The Spokesman of Talking Piclures^ W: HAT this country needs is a National Hero. They're as scarce as plus signs in a market report. And as Hollywood is the Great Provider of chills, thrills, tears, laughter, romance and scandal to the multitude, we were looking to the West for an ideal for the young idea. But since Douglas Fairbanks parleyed with those bandits we've ceased searching. The bandits, you know, who recently invaded Pickfair and whom Doug quieted with $100. What a patriotic boon Doug might have bestowed had he risen to the occasion instead of exchanging courtesies with the robbers and compromising for a small cash settlement! It would have created a new high in hero-worship had the Fourth Musketeer run true to form. He should have shinned up the bell-rope to Mary's plush portieres, swung from the drapes to the chandelier, swept the desperadoes to the parquet floor in his flight, leapt upon their prostrate forms, disarmed them and trussed them up with some red-tape from the studio. Thus providing the thrill sequence — the big physical wow — he might have introduced a comedy element by autographing a photograph for each and delivering the lot to Joe Schenck. It was just about the hour when Joe can usually use three Jacks to fill a full-house. It has been a serious disillusionment to us. We shan't be surprised to learn that Bill Haines has been fired without a single wise-crack at the boss, that Greta doesn't pet or that it's really Gary's double who is Lupe's boy-friend. Incidentally, the Fairbanks stickup isn't on the police blotter. There are those who say the tale is subtle stuff put out to throttle rumors of ructions at Pickfair. DIRTY WORK AT THE CROSSROADS? THIS influx of Hollywood screen stars to the Broadway stage looks like a deep and devious conspiracy. Not content with stealing all the stars from behind the footlights and turning the theatrical district into a deserted village, this latest volley is fired. Colleen Moore, Rod La Rocque, Vilma Banky, Lya De Putti, Alice White, Janet Gaynor, even Mary Pickford, are reported signed or in the act of signing for stage productions. It looks like Hollywood's way of putting the quietus on the theatre once and for all. ESTIMATING A NTD here's the first "multi-million-dollar" talkie — JL\. Hell's Angels. Which, unfortunately, isn't nearly so "stoopenjous" as the thought of the $4,000,000 expended in its production. It is significant only in establishing Howard Hughes as a factor in filmdom. The twenty-six-year-old welldrilling Croesus has rushed in where other "angels" fear to tread. And the itching palm of Hollywood is turned upward in a Texas Guinan welcome. But for all his lavish laying out of lucre, the Millionaire Kid proves himself a conservative who adheres closely to the blazed trail. Even to the extent of wooing a film femme. And the day of multi-milhon-doUar pictures has died a-borning. The boom-camp, goldrush, bet-a-million days of Hollywood are gone. Nevertheless, hail, Howard Hughes. He's been a lively topic, anyway, and will probably continue to be. ELEMENTARY, MY DEAR WATSON THEY say that the movie men, themselves, have laid out miniature golf courses adjacent to the theatres in the hope of catching the overflow for the talkies. The mind of Hollywood works in mysterious ways. The mere .recognizance of such an inane craze as competition is ample evidence that something is wrong with the movies. It is the poverty of their quality. Of almost four hundred productions released this season less than a score have distinguished themselves as smash hits. The remainder vary from mediocrity to the vapidness that drives folks up flag-poles in envious emulation of Shipwreck Kelly. But don't worry, the talkies will be here when the little tiddledy-wink brother of croquet is flat as the figure of a film flapper. Tom Thumb golf is just another warning. Perhaps the alleged brains of Hollywood read the handwriting on the empty theatre walls, and provide the screen with art that is art. 17