World Film and Television Progress (1938)

But this producer has ideals. Aw, the hell with it. No audience'd swallow a story about a movie producer with ideals. The hell with it. I guess it stinks. Think I'll call up Eddie Hollis and see what's new. "Operator, get me Hollywood 1251. No — one two five one. That's right. Warners'? Scenario. Scenario, operator. No— scenario. Where the people sit at typewriters and write. Yes, the place where they write the stories that appear on the screen. Who do I want? Mr. Hollis, Edward Hollis. Hollis. Like in — in Hollis. Hello. Hello. What number do I want? Look, operator — I had my number once. Hollywood 1251. Thank you. Hello, good morning, this is Warner Brothers — I mean I want to speak to Ed Hollis in scenario. Say, do we have to go all through that again? The name is Hollis. Do you remember that picture at Sid Grauman's last week, Isn't Love Lovely? Yes, well this fellow I'm talking about wrote it. Edward R. Hollis Thanks. Yes, I'll hold the line. De, de, de, do, do. Bei mir bist du schun, please let me exp— Uh. Hello. Hollis? Ed Hollis? Yes, I'm holding the line. Oh, hello, hello. What? Oh, he's not in? Thanks." Hell, it isn't eleven o'clock yet. An hour till lunch. Maybe I'll go over and inhale a slug of Java. No — been drinking too much coffee lately. The lining of my stomach feels as though I'd swallowed a live canary. Maybe I can use that line. Better jot it down. Suppose I ought to write a couple of pages of dialogue. Anybody thinks holding down a job in Hollywood is a cinch just doesn't realise what us guys go through. Producers : Give us a story like The Front Page. Or Ben Hur. Or Hamlet. Or One Night of Love. Directors : I can't film that damn scene : it's not visual. Cameramen : This is a camera, not an X-ray machine; people can't guess what's going on inside a character's head. Stars : It just won't play. I'm telling you. Edwin Booth himself couldn't read those lines. Phooey. One of the best lines show business ever produced : "Don't tell me how to play juveniles! I've been playing juveniles for thirty years." Then the critics, who never fail to help make a box office flop of an artistic success by hollering the fact out as loud as they can shout ; this may be a flop at the box office, but it's certainly going to be an artistic success. A guy sits here and writes his heart out, and what happens? Every seat in the theatre is jammed : Giant Screeno Tonite $200 Jackpot. Phooey. Well, how about this, then, when a comedy treatment comes along? Some wag hangs a sign on the wall of a convent : Boy Wanted. No so bad, but the Hays office would knock that into a cocked hat. Offensive to religious orders. Didn't religious orders have a sense of humour? It was all in fun. They probably had, but people weren't supposed to know it. There you had the subtle distinction — a distinction for which the Hays office was constantly taking the rap. What I really ought to do is to get out of Hollywood. I've got things to say, if I ever get the chance, to say them. The Great American Novel never will be written so long as I'm stuck in this hell-hole. Build myself a comfortable little shack somewhere up in the hills and — Telephone. Probably an insurance agent. "Hello. Yes, this is he." (Boy, am I grammatical!) "Hello. Yes. I said this is he." Then the line goes dead. Nuts. "Hello?" Better hold on. Maybe the producer. "Hello! Yes, I'm holding the line." Bei mir bist du — "Yeah, it's me, I told you." Waste of time handing these screwball operators any ritzy grammar. "Oh, hello. Hello. Who? Oh— Ed Hollis. Say, that's a funny one. I was just trying to get you. I called the studio. You've been there all morning? Well, you're either unapproachable, or nobody knows you work there. Me? I'm fine. How's yourself, Ed? That's good. Huh? Oh, nothing much lately. Same old grind. They keep me pretty busy over here. What's new? Nothing much with me either. No, I've been catching up on my sleep. No. Nope. Nn, nn. Seen Jack? Oh, he has? Well, why don't you run up some night? Yeah. Sure. I'd like to, Ed. Been keeping my nose pretty much to the grindstone. No. Okay, Ed. Sure, I'll give you a ring. Okay, Ed. So long. Okay, Okay, Ed. So long." Eleven-thirty. Guess I'll call up Phil. "Extension two-nine-three, please. That's right. Hello. Phil? Yeah. Me. Let's go outside for lunch to-day. I'm fed up on that studio restaurant. Yeah, it stinks. How about the Wilshire Brown Derby? Well, suppose we do kill a couple of hours. So what? I'm sick of working my can off every day around here. Meet you at the gate at 12. Okay, Phil. Okay. So long." Maybe I could get in a couple of pages of dialogue before lunch time. Let's see. All the events depicted herein are entirely fictitious; the characters of real persons are never knowingly used, and how! An "orig inal" is a story you can't remember where the hell you read. After an idea had been used by three or more studios it became the property of the public domain. How about writing the biography of a story idea? One of the big magazine serial boys comes across it in Montaigne, who got it, probably, from Boccaccio. It is put in up-to-date togs and garnished with parsley and served up to the ladies' home companions. The book hits the best-seller lists, and Kaufman dramatises it for Broadway. Metro buys it. Columbia sneaks it into a picture they're shooting, R.K.O. gives it a new twist, and Warners disguise it in a costume picture. Metro decides to make a musical out of it and calls in Ben Hecht. Universal works it into their latest sea story. Finally Monogram makes the awful half of a double-feature bill out of it. Oh, well. It's all in fun. Maybe it wasn't an artistic success, but it was certainly B.O. Then the producer calls you up and says we want something new and dynamic, like that picture The Blue Angel, with Emil Jannings and Marlene Dietrich, pronounced Marlayna Daytrish. Damn, but the time passes slowly. Might as well go down and play the slot machines and see if I can hit the jackpot while I'm waiting for Phil. No use letting them work your can off. I'll whack out a couple of pages of dialogue this afternoon. This may be a flop at the box office, but it's certainly going to be an artistic success. People just don't know what a script writer is up against. I'll get sore some day and pull stakes the hell out of here and write the Great American Novel — in a pig's eye! Mustn't forget to bum that twenty from Jerry. Better stick a couple of pages of typescript on top of the desk; make 'em think you've been sweating over the job. Trouble is, once you're pegged at three-fifty, just try and get a raise. Oh, well. It's buttons, but it's better than going hungry. Holy cripes! I've forgotten to read the Hollywood Reporter! Dammit, you just don't get a minute to yourself around this joint. Some day I'll just get up and walk out on this racket. The trouble with pictures is, they stink. Oh, well. Our thanks to America's '•Esquire'' for permission to reprint this article by Louis Paul, from its June number. The article is copyright 1938 //\ I •'(piire'Coronet Inc. 105