Variety (Jan 1942)

January 7, 1942 ThiHy-$ixth f'SSRlJ^fr Anniversary PICTURES 69 THE 'INSIDE' ON A PAST GENERATION (Continued from page IS) plays Tlpperary*.. .Mary Plckford, curls over her shoulders, seated b^de me, admires my high school class pin., .1 blush James Kirkwood's broad smile as he slides into a chair beside Pauline Frederick, lnt«ntly discussing her latest pic- ture with the founder and president of Famous Players Film Co., an infant organization just now seeing daylight,.after three years of nights without sleep, days of ceaseless struggle for recognition, for small loans, for confidence in a dream... but Famous Players is out in front nowl- Think of iti It occupies an entire floor on the top story of a loft building down on West 26th street! Tonight, my father has his greatest stars and me dining over Broad>yay, after which he is taking us to the Packy MacFarland-Mike Gibbons flght for the lightweight championship of the world, at Coney Island. I 4-AIanii Fire on 26th St. We squeeze into the red touring car and drive off. Sud- denly down through the canyons of Broadway and Fifth Avenue lurch the shrieking legions of the New York Fire Department. A cop's hand waves us to one side.. Recogniz- ing the stars, he saunters, over...'Four-alarm fire...some- thing big going up In flames around 26th street.' My father, who has been strangely quiet, even for his undemonstrative nature, ^eaks: 'Driver,-when you reach 26th street, slow down.' Twenty-sixth-street.. .we look westward. ..we see a mass of flame...street filled with pedestrians running toward the light...Instinctively we join the throng...as long as I live I shall never forget Mary's face, tears splashed her cheeks... we reach the scene.. .my father leads the way through the lines. ..the heat is oppressive... walls have collapsed.. .one still remains.. .through the smoke a red hot safe can be seen tenaciously clinging to that finger of brickwork.. .Frank Meyer did that.. .he put the priceless negatives in that vault ...my father's only concern was for the man and not the contents of that box...though the loss would have meant complete disaster for him...Frank appeared unscathed..." directly behind him was a kindly old gentleman...Edwin S. Porter, producer, director, cameraman...a tragic figure.., my father's partner. Not a word was said as'the group clasped hands and huddled together on the curb...hours passed and the spray froze. ..my father sent the girls home .. .Porter, my father and I went tis Castle Cave for coffee. lowed long years with Zlegfeld, tours with his own shows as a vaudeville headliner, and so on... all show business history, too well known to detail here, ■ There were sidelights, though, that have-never been pub- lished. I didnt learn one of them imtil I worked with Eddie Cantor in '40 Little Mothers.' Mr. Cantor recalled that long ago he had met my father backstage. 'He greeted me warmly; said that he had seen my act, and predicted -that some day Td be a big star.' Mr. Cantor added: 'Now I'ni going to predict something for Bunny Granville's daughter. You're going to be a big star, too, and soon.' I don't know about the 'big,' although, of course, Pm hop- ing. But this much of Mr. Cantor's prediction has come true. I'm to be co-starred with Adolphe Menjou and Jackie Cooper in William Dieterle's picture, 'Syncopation,' which thrills me a lot. . . : Incidentally, few people know that dad was a photographer during World War I. He entered service as a private and became a captain doing aerial photography. Earl Carroll was his pilot B. P. Scholberg a Poshoyer For Joe E. Lewis, Cards, Figlits Bnyi Oat Ed Porter Ed Porter was grlef-strlcken...all their efforts...money ...even his courage- were being consumed across the street... 'Ed, you have worked hard. How much do you figure you've lost?' _. 'How much?" Porter hesitated, then spoke. 'A sum In thousands.' 'I am buying your share, Ed.. .Give me your hand.. .Now I am sole owner of Famous Players.. .1 will not permit you to lose what you have worked so hard to create'...A hand- clasp closed the deal. Later...riding, home.. .my father and I...I opened my mouth to speak...a firm arm drew me close...'Onli/ things turn to ashes; ideas live forever., .Money! flies away.. .Build- ings burn,.,A great Idea can never die..,if you don't lose faith in it.,.But always remember one thing...you have to flght for your idea...never say quitSv.never let yesterday's failure worry you today... think only of tomorrow,., a day when you must begin fighting all over again for your idea,.,' Before the safe cooled off.. .quarters for Famous Players were established in the swank Columbia Bank Building on Fifth Avenue...Durland's Riding Academy was converted into a new studio... the idea flourished.. .into a world in- stitution.. .almost an empire..~.called Paramount.. .Then came another great fire.. .world chaos.. .financial collapse... friendships turned to hatred.. .panic. I watched again the same quiet little gentleman, at work amidst bankruptcy and ruin...I had no fear of the outcome where Paramount was concerned,. .together we tdced the flames again.. .watched thinos perish in ashes.. .ideas.. .red hot...not in a vault above the embers this time.. .but in the heart and soul.of my father.. .the heart and soul of Paramount Playwright Owen Davis Pols 'North'^ in Jr.'s Lap By OWEN DAVIS, SR. Last Oct, 6 lovely Anita Louise and I started a road tour as co-stars in Pop's 'Mr. and Mrs. North' at Ford's, Balti- more. Lincoln didn't die there, but we sure did. It was 110 degrees on the stage that night, and the gross wasn't much more. I had whipped a troupe together picked from the 38 summer productions, and we were practically Introduced •that night Pop caught the show and, all smiles, bought us supper. I was hot, tired, and knew we had given a poor show. I caught his eye and said: 'This Is a hell of a way to spend my birthday,' He flnished his beer and answered: 'I don't know any better way. You've got a show, and a troupe. Put me on the sleeper.' By Wednesday night we had a swell show. " I got what he meant And I'll keep It One night Dick Lockridge, critic ot the New York Sun and co-author with his wife, Frances, of 'The North Stories,' phoned to see how we all were. We had a new maid who, for a few days, was very much impressed working for a literary gent She refused to disturb father and told Lock- ridge he was just starting a new play. Lockridge replied: 'Okay, I'll hold the wire.' Bonny Granville Brought Bonita On When She Was 3 By BONITA GRANVILLE One of my earlier memories of my dad was when he fiisl led me out on the stage. The applause frightened me but I took courage from him. He didn't seem to be a bit scared. I was three, so he worked me into his 'Baby Doll' number In 'Castles in the Air' at the Selwyn theatre, New York, Of course, Bernard ("Bunny") Granville's success began long before that I suppose you would say he actually reached the top at the Winter Garden in 1913. There .fol- By BODD SCHULBEBO A few hundred words on B. P. Schulberg—my pop—Is a little like a Reader's Digest version of 'War and Peace.' The , problem is not what to say, but what not to say. I've been on more or less intimate terms with blm for almost. 28 years. If I knew him less well the job might be easier. To do justice to an article on him, you would also have to do justice to the story of Holljrwood. For almost no other man that I can think of is so completely identified with that town and'its product from the time when Hollywood and ' Vine looked something like Four Corners, Vermont. Ther6 have been plenty of ups and downs since then—the man "wouldn't be P;':and the town wouldn't be Hollywood If- there hadn't The place has always been a soft touch for phonies who will get away with a fat title or an Academy Award if you aren't looking. But the boys with the long wind and the stout hearts man- age to outlast them in the end. You don't keep your name on ' the screen for over 20 years, because they like the color of. your hali^—or. In B. P.'s case, the brand of his cigars. When I think of B. P. I think of those cigars, and the body laugh when he is listening to something he enjoys (like Joe E. Lewis singing 'Sam, You Made .the Pants Too Long'); and his way of telling writers. Tills just isn't right—why don't you try It again' (how many times Fve heard that one!); and those, front row seats at the fights where he is always root- ing for the wrong man; and how he loves to argue and play cards and read every line of Time as if he were back on the copy-desk; and make pictures. Most of all, make pictures. He not only lived plcttires, he slept pictures. Every dream he told me about for years was about pictures. They even came to him in the form of movies fiashed on the screen of his subconscious mind. And Tm not trying to be meta- phorical. Once in a while they would even get out of 'frame.' B. P. broke into the business writing catch-lines for Adolph Zukor. Every time Zukor used one, he bought B. P. an ex- pensive ^e. Soon B. P. had so many ties Zukor found it cheaper to put him on salary. That was the beginning. And since two . or three hundred words on B. P. is the limit and the motion picture history he's made and seen would fill a book, I'm afraid this is where I will have to stop, Effiott Nogent Gives Some Lowdown on J.C.'s Driving, Etc. By ELLIOTT NUGENT On the. fiy-leat of a copy of his book, 'It's a Great Life,' which my father, J. C. Nugent presented to me last year .when the book was published, he has written: "To My Son, ElUott, Who Has Always Been a Father to Me.' I cherish, not only the book, but the inscription, for two reasons: first because I have a sneaking fondness for my father; and, second, because he has never been a father to me. I'm afraid that's a secret that he has not passed on. I find myself being a father to my girls—getting a little stuffy—and I know no one of my own generation who has had children and who has successfully avoided being a father. J. C. had an instinct for it. When I came home from school at the age of six and admitted with some shame that I had been hauled, to the superintendent'^ office and reprimanded for throwing a drinking cup of water over one of my play- mates who had kicked me in the shins, J. C. agreed very gravely that the superintendent was right He advised me never to throw a small cup of water over a playmate who kicks you in the shin, but to get a bucket Soon afterward, he departed on one of his usual tours of the Orpheum circuit and avoided his fatherly duties success- fully for some months, except to send me an occasional $5 bill. My mother used to feel slightly indignant because she had to be the. disciplinarian, but J. C. always had a good excuse. He was away from home too much, he said, to be a 'heavy' during his short visits with us. Of course, he did come home for the summers. One sum- mer when I was about 14 and had. learned to drive our first car, I gave him lessons in driving. He'was a very bad pupil, and on his second try ran the car into a ditch, with the two left wheels on the road and the right ones neatly bedded down. Hastily pushing him into the back seat, I got the car out and gave him a good dressing-down. He was quite humble about it and didn't drive the car with me any more, but took lessons from my younger sister, Ruth. A week later we discovered that my cousin Norma (not my wife, whose name is Norma, too) had developed an interesting streak of gray through her lovely hair, • She finally admitted that she had consented to go riding with J. C, taking along her flve-year-old daughter. Although he had no sense of directiin and frequently gets lost coming out of the subway in Times Square, it seems that J. C, had succeeded in finding a remote and precipitous hill which I had once shown him, located on a winding dirt road above the river. Perhaps I should explain to the world that at this time in our family history we lived in Dover, Ohio, This hill was so steep, so rocky and deep-rutted that only tjie hardiest of the young drivers in that new-fangled contraption, the automobile, ever tried to ascend, or, even worse, to descend it. But J. C, driving as usual in low gear (he usually forgot to change gears, nticipating by about 25 years the latest developments in automotive design), had gone racketing down like a bat out of aitch, scaring my older cousin but delighting her daughter, who had fortunately alighted in the car after having been bounced high above it Mother and I remonstrated with J. C. about going over this dangerous road, but he explained it was all a mistake. He had found himself at the top and saw no other way out He had been, he explained, on his way to Uhrichsville, which lies 12 miles in the opposite dhrection. We decided that he led a charmed lite and let it go at that. He drove the car for several years afterward, but no one in the family except my sister ever rode with him. Ruth is the reckless type, and also felt that she had to be loyal to him as her pupil. However, when I say that father never corrected me in the usual fatherly way, I am' only half stating the case. He jvas really pleased when I did something wrong, which I wish to say immediately was most unusual I was an upright... oh, well, .never mind the rest of it There was one occasion when I was in a great hurry to pick up a young lady to take her to a dance at the country club.. Finding myself a little late, 1 went dashing up the newly-paved street on which we lived at a break-neck pace, probably 30 miles an hour. At an intersection, I encountered an acquaintance who owned a butcher shop in the town, who was also driving at a break-netk pace at right angles to me. A couple of fenders were irreparably damaged in the colli- sion, and I felt pretty sheepish when I had to admit to J. C, who was home for his summer vacation, that my driving record had suffered a blot His fac e lighted up with in terest . "That's fine,' he said, 'Now maybe your mother will let me drive the car again. She has been pretty firm about it since I took that last door off the. garage,' This kindly attitude on his part softened my own severity toward him, and now we have become almost pals. During the past 15 years, we have \<rritten a lot of plays together; he has directed me, and vice versa, (After he had taught me how to act and write, I began teaching him.) However, he has gotten the upper hand of me lately I guess I must be getting older, I can't do anything to please him. He says I don't keep up with the limes. Son Recalls John W. Considine' Pioneering and Vande Reforms BY JOHN W. CONSIDINE, JB. Living in Beverly Hills, hale and hearty at the ripe age of 80, IS the most colorful figure in America's vaudeville- the man who organized the first 'ten-twent-thirt' circuit who inaugurated reforms in show business that affected every circuit whose theatre's 'graduated' countless famous stars and whose career is more eventful and amazing than any Imagining of a present-day screen scenarist could rival He . "i?*^ Gonsidine, founder and president of the Sullivan & Consldine Circuit which in Its day was preeminent in the vaudeville field. . i- "i. M»«''"fl''^io"n,' PF'"=t'cal,eircus and showman, conceived the Idea, In 1901, of a smaU-Ome vaudeville circuit He had done a smaU favor for 'Big Tim' Sullivan. New York's famo^ Tammany leader, one of .the most beloved- figures in American, political dfcles.: To SulUvan he want wito 1^ idea. Considine had $18,000 In bis pocket Sullivan nut $250,000 into the venture. Consldine fSrmed the siuvan & Considine CorporaUon, and sent SulUvan 61% of the stock. Sullivan sent back two shares. It's your Idea,' he wrote* 'And I want you to control it' - w uw, SubsequenUy the venture made Sullivan millions of doUars. but he never knew or cared where the theatres were, and nevw: asked that any actor be played in them. All that he decided, was up to Considine. ' iJP^X ""i "ten-twent-thirf vaudeviUe theatre, built from ^^«Sa"^."^ '"^^ was built by Considine in Tacoma. Wash., and named the Empress. The circuit snread Zla/ hnTK^' West Coast. This, and CaWornia lA'^par- Ucular, had been anathema to actors, because of uncertain .Jumps, Shan) dealings and other practices of the time ter^'^n"^«;^fHfi'°"l *° 'i';''"' the situation. He headqu^- «W J«r»S^?u*', Alexander Pantages and John Cort ^l^„l^»^?^lr*'i"' °Pf","°"'- the first vaudeville circuit to Introduce the 'pay or play' contract-to the frantic disapproval of other circuits which eventually had to come An Act Was Never CIoBed on 8-C Never was an act closed on the Sullivan & Considine Cir- cuit once It was booked. Never was Considine sued by an actor or actress during his entire career. His was the first circuit to introduce comfortable and decent dressing-rooms ' showers, and bathrooms for artists. 'The S. & F. circuit grew into the largest 'small time' organ- ization in the United States. It owned and operated 52 theatres from coast to coast, and in Canada and on the Pacific slope.. It built 37 theatres 'from the ground up', including the first $1,000,000 vaudeville theatre in the West which was the Orpheum in Seattle. Sullivan & Consldine also booked an additional 50 theatres throughout the nation. Though small time', it was the best circuit on which artists could work—short jumps and week-stands; performers knew exactly when, and where they were to play, and what they v^ere to receive, in contrast with the hit-or-miss bookings of other circuits. Famous names flocked to this circuit. Among them were Junie McCree, Johnny and Emma Hay, Charles Murray. Charlie Chaplin, Jqmes J. Morton, Herbert Brenon, Joe Jackson, Marie and Alice Lloyd, the Great Albini, and many others. Many boxing champions played the Ume; James J, Corbett, Bob Fitzsimmons, Willie Ritchie, Ad Wolgast James J. Jeffries—almost the whole roster of Fistlania of the day Countless small sUrs graduated to Big Time, Broadway and fame on this circuit Considine inaugurated Christmas parties for all the artists playing his theatres; he inaugurated the plan of Christmas shows in penitentiaries throughout the country; he was the originator of the Fraternal Order of Eagles, first formed as a theatrical organization, and was idolized by every actor in show ljusiness. He was a lifelong friend and admirer of the late SIme Silverman, founder of 'Variety'. _ In 1914, shorUy after the stert of the first World War, Consldine sold his interesU to Loew's, Inc., and moved to California, where his son, John W. Considine, Jr.—the writer of this closeup' on a Great Guy—then in school, later became a motion picture producer for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. My Pop's life, rich in memories of famous people, exciting days in the Northwest including the Klondike gold rusl^ would flu an entrancing novel. His life, even though vaude- ville has declined today, has done much to influence show business, even In these modern times. Probably no man ever did more for vaudeviUe and the American actor thar this able, aggressive, kindly, and far-seeing pioneer. (