Category: 365 Nights in Hollywood

365 Nights in Hollywood: Just a Girl in Pictures

cladriteLeave a comment
Jimmy Starr began his career in Hollywood in the 1920s, writing the intertitles for silent shorts for producers such as Mack Sennett, the Christie Film Company, and Educational Films Corporation, among others. He also toiled as a gossip and film columnist for the Los Angeles Record in the 1920s and from 1930-1962 for the L.A. Herald-Express.
Starr was also a published author. In the 1940s, he penned a trio of mystery novels, the best known of which, The Corpse Came C.O.D., was made into a movie.
In 1926, Starr authored 365 Nights in Hollywood, a collection of short stories about Hollywood. It was published in a limited edition of 1000, each one signed and numbered by the author, by the David Graham Fischer Corporation, which seems to have been a very small (possibly even a vanity) press.
Here’s “Just a Girl in Pictures” from that 1926 collection.

JUST A GIRL IN PICTURES

 
 
(A Life Story)
 
Yes, that’s what I was—just a girl in pictures. And the accent was on the just. But all of this was three long years ago.
Now I’m a real star and have a press agent all my own n’everything. I know you’ve seen me on the screen and you will try to figure out who I am.
Well, I’ll tell you about myself—as much as I dare. I’ve only been a star about—well, it’s nearly two and one-half years now.
Maybe I’m a brunette and maybe I’m a blonde—I’ve been both. And this is about all I’d better tell—right now. I promise you a lot of intimate stuff in the story which follows, but I must use fictitious names.
It was just three years ago this June that I kissed Mother and Dad goodbye on Pier Number Nine of the Pacific Steamship Company, San Francisco. I had just finished at a girls’ school in San Raphael that year, and having nothing to do—I got the movie craze.
I begged Mother to write her friend Betty in Los Angeles and ask if I could spend a month or so with her. And at the same time try my hand at being an actress. Mother and Dad were both good sports and they decided to let me try it—for a little while, at least.
Betty Thorne, Mother’s friend, was a bit older than myself, but she knew the ropes and could put on make-up to perfection. She even looked younger than I at times. And then too, she was a divorcee, which made it more interesting.
I noticed three very good-looking chaps on the boat together and I decided that I was going to have a very pleasant trip. I wandered down to the ballroom—so did they. I knew I was in for a good time.
An hour passed and I was calling them by their first names. I had the instinct of the modern flapper, you see. They, too, were moving to Hollywood for a try at clicking cameras and the vamps of Movieville.
One of them, Harry was his name, always wanted to share his troubles with everyone. So I nick-named him Big-Hearted. He had a gift of gab that would make a press agent turn green with envy. And funny! That boy was a five-reel comedy all by himself. What a laugh he was! And he always laughed at his own jokes, which I later learned was the habit in Hollywood.
I had these three would-be Romeos all the way down. they say there’s three women to every man. Well, I cheated eight women out of a good old time for a day and a night anyway. I’m terribly selfish,—especially with men. I love ’em all—but not too much.
About ten-thirty the next morning, after dancing and flying around most of the night, we saw San Pedro and Wilmington. And as we docked we saw a crowd on a much smaller boat going to Catalina. Immediately Harry wanted to go.
The gang-plank was shoved on board and then came the fun of everybody trying to get off at once. This, I believe, is one of the rules of sea-going etiquette.
Finally, after being bounced from one side to the other, I found myself standing on one of Harry’s newly polished oxfords. I know he was most delighted to find me there. I could tell by the strange expression on his handsome face.
As I was standing there gazing into his deep brown eyes and giving him my address—as if I didn’t think I should—Betty gushed up and smeared lip-stick all over my face.
Al, one of the three, upon seeing Betty, immediately ceased to hunt for my baggage and dashed over for an introduction. I gave it, very coldly, but he warmed up to Betty and before I knew it he was thanking her for a dinner invitation that night.

Read More »

365 Nights in Hollywood: The K-9 Mystery

cladriteLeave a comment
Jimmy Starr began his career in Hollywood in the 1920s, writing the intertitles for silent shorts for producers such as Mack Sennett, the Christie Film Company, and Educational Films Corporation, among others. He also toiled as a gossip and film columnist for the Los Angeles Record in the 1920s and from 1930-1962 for the L.A. Herald-Express.
Starr was also a published author. In the 1940s, he penned a trio of mystery novels, the best known of which, The Corpse Came C.O.D., was made into a movie.
In 1926, Starr authored 365 Nights in Hollywood, a collection of short stories about Hollywood. It was published in a limited edition of 1000, each one signed and numbered by the author, by the David Graham Fischer Corporation, which seems to have been a very small (possibly even a vanity) press.
Here’s “The K-9 Mystery” from that 1926 collection.
 
*    *    *
 
The K-9 Mystery
 

Fooling the public—what a great thing!
P. T. Barnum started it. Now there are over a million imitators.
Such is life!
What does it all mean?
(You probably say: “Ask Dad, He Knows,” which is a very good answer.)
You have all heard of a famous dog star?
If you have not seen him in pictures, you have at least heard of him.
Wonderful, you say.
Yes, perhaps. But listen!
The other day I visited some canine kennels and saw a number of clever dogs perform.
What I mean by perform is that they did routine work which displayed more than ordinary dog intelligence. I was amazed.
I asked the trainer about his dogs and also about the particular dog star.
He laughed.
“Why, that dog is dead,” he said calmly.
“Impossible!” I cried.
“Why”
I couldn’t say, but it did seem impossible.
“When did he die?” I asked.
“Some time ago.”
“There was no word of it in the papers.”
“There won’t be either,” he said dryly.
“I can’t see the reason why.”
“Well,—” He sat down on a box while the dogs played around him. “I’ll explain. You seem to be kinda dumb on the ways of enterprising people.”
I sat down on that.
“Well, supposin’ they went and announced that the dog had died. There would-a been a lot of silly sad remarks and millions of dollars would-a been wasted. The company back of the dog has spent heaps o’ dough puttin’ the hound over, and there was plenty of other curs which looked enough like him to take his place. Get the idea?”
At last a light dawned.
“So,” he continued, “they just kept his death a secret and got another dog to do his stuff, under the same name. The new hound is better than the first, I don’t mind tellin’ you, and they’ve got a bigger to make a pile o’ jack. You see, I know all this, because I bred the dog.”
That’s the canine mystery.
 
 

365 Nights in Hollywood: The Whistler

cladriteLeave a comment
Jimmy StarrJimmy Starr began his career in Hollywood in the 1920s, writing the intertitles for silent shorts for producers such as Mack Sennett, the Christie Film Company, and Educational Films Corporation, among others. He also toiled as a gossip and film columnist for the Los Angeles Record in the 1920s and from 1930-1962 for the L.A. Herald-Express.
Starr was also a published author. In the 1940s, he penned a trio of mystery novels, the best known of which, The Corpse Came C.O.D., was made into a movie.
In 1926, Starr authored 365 Nights in Hollywood, a collection of short stories about Hollywood. It was published in a limited edition of 1000, each one signed and numbered by the author, by the David Graham Fischer Corporation, which seems to have been a very small (possibly even a vanity) press.
Here’s “The Whistler” from that 1926 collection—and if you can make sense of this story, we hope you’ll explain it to us.
 
*    *    *
 
The Whistler
 
Sweet strains of melody drifted from the low window of the Breaking Inn, which was directly across from the massive Peerless Pictures Studio. Within the Spanish stucco building could be heard the loud clatter of dishes, and the noisy chatter of many voices, both male and female. Wild squeals of delight were intermingled with deep, coarse guffs of laughter.
The Breaking Inn held exclusive customers who were typical of its title. This was the most popular habitat of the minor-part actors in Hollywood. They always found a joyful crowd there, even if work were slack. Strange philosophies on life were always freely given by the “wise” ones. Gag men and would-be gag men exchanged comedy situations for the mild approval of others. In fact, this home-like eating palace of the film colony was the boiling pot of scandal, the home of conceited players, ambitious climbers and the usual hangers-on.
The brown plastered walls inside had vari-colored designs and held numerous autographed photos of noted actors. Dark brown booths adorned both sides, while in the center were tables seating two and four, with large, heavy chairs. The player-piano and photograph were between the doors of entrance and exit to the kitchen. On the right side near the main entrance were a soda and cigar counter. The place was spotlessly clean.
A rather stout, white-haired, pleasant-faced woman of fifty stood behind the cash register, counting the luncheon checks. She was known as Mother Miller to all in Hollywood.
Serry Shaw, comedy actress, fingered the piano deftly, playing a new popular waltz, and Mother Miller hummed the melody.
There were probably two dozen young couples standing near the piano. Others lounged carelessly in chairs, smoking and talking.
Suddenly the screen door slammed, and a tall, handsome young man of about twenty-five entered, whistling. He was clothed in a perfect-fitting tweed suit, expensively tailored. A soft collegian hat was pulled down rakishly on one side. He continued to whistle as he sauntered over to the soda fountain, unabashed by the many eyes which were upon him.
Not a person in the place had ever seen him before, yet he seemed completely at home. He turned toward them after he had ordered and smiled easily, displaying two rows of white, shining teeth. His face was bronzed as an ardent golfer’s, his brown eyes sparkled like one who seldom dissipated and his chin showed determination.
His new admirers returned to their former pastime. Serry began a new tune. This time is was one of rapid tempo—a saxophone player’s idea of music, modernly called jazz.
And the young man at the fountain began to whistle again, between spoonfuls of ice cream soda. He carried the the crashing air harmoniously.
“Do you play?” someone asked him, when he had finished his drink.
“A little,” he answered, in a well-modulated voice.
Serry moved to one side of the piano bench. He saw what was expected of him and sat down. He smiled at Serry, gratefully.
“What would you like to hear?” he asked calmly.
“Anything,” came the answer from many, who were carefully examining his immaculate attire.
His fingers ran lightly over the keys, testing the tone and foot pedals.
He began with a tune unfamiliar to them, and whistled to his own accompaniment.
Fully a minute or two must have passed unnoticed, for when he stopped there was absolutely silence; then the wild storm of genuine applause that is music to the ears of every entertainer.
This blase crowd of studio workers were transfixed with wonderment at what they had just heard. Never before had they been given an opportunity to hear such perfect rhythm.
Again he turned to smile at Serry, and then at those in back of him. They returned his smile spontaneously.
Then came a cyclone of questions.
“Where do you play?”
“I don’t usually—in public,” he answered.
“Aren’t you with some show?”
“No.”
“what do you do, then?”
He avoided this question.
“What is your name?”
He passed this one on too.
“Will you play us another piece?”
He answered by turning again to the piano and playing another number unknown to them.

Read More »

365 Nights in Hollywood: Gyping the Egyptians

cladriteLeave a comment
Jimmy StarrJimmy Starr began his career in Hollywood in the 1920s, writing the intertitles for silent shorts for producers such as Mack Sennett, the Christie Film Company, and Educational Films Corporation, among others. He also toiled as a gossip and film columnist for the Los Angeles Record in the 1920s and from 1930-1962 for the L.A. Herald-Express.
Starr was also a published author. In the 1940s, he penned a trio of mystery novels, the best known of which, The Corpse Came C.O.D., was made into a movie.
In 1926, Starr authored 365 Nights in Hollywood, a collection of short stories about Hollywood. It was published in a limited edition of 1000, each one signed and numbered by the author, by the David Graham Fischer Corporation, which seems to have been a very small (possibly even a vanity) press. (Our copy of the book is numbered 146 and is inscribed to Louise Keaton, Buster‘s younger sister.)
Here’s “Gyping the Egyptian,” the first story in that collection.
 
TO
. . . . the publisher’s office . . . .
 

. . . in a marble lobby . . . up a skinny shaft . . .
a blue-coated arm on the speed lever . . . down a
marble hall . . . through a glass door . . . with gold
letters . . . on a sapphire rug .. desks colored like
brown jugs . . . with green lamps . . . and black
rattling machines . . . oils of canary yellow . . . on
ivory walls . . . a man with papers . . . with
dotted lines . . . “sign here” . . . and so it was a
beautiful day . . . after all . . .

 
PREFACE

. . . . just a mirror of the movies . . . .
wherein some may see themselves . . . .
as others see them . . . . a paper bowl of
melancholy memories . . . . spiced with
gay gags and jazz jestings . . . .

 
GYPING THE EGYPTIANS
 
 
The quietness of the coming night lulls the street noises into a dullness. Autos glide down the ribbon-like boulevard, tires slapping the black pavement like a barber stropping his razor with swift, even movement.
Street lights appear like Christmas tinsel scalloped along the wide, straight boulevard. Show windows gleam at the passers-by.
It is a sultry evening. Something indigo about the heat. A storekeeper sprinkles the sidewalk in front before closing his shop for the night.
More automobiles passing now.
The silence is a light coat. Like the hand that switches off the power of a noisy trip-hammer. The shouts, the bangs, the hoots, the clanks, and the wows of the daytime are gone.
Hollywood has put on its night make-up—a lovable makeup of quietness, a slight touch of gray somberness with a bit of carroty pep.
A tall building of red brick and pearly marble gleams in the darkness. A massive electric sign flashes the words, “Hotel Christie,” from the roof.
Down below, almost hidden is the Egyptian Theatre. Sid Grauman’s offering of art—his own. An edifice dedicated to the cinema drama.
It is something different.
There is a strange atmosphere.
Something has been transplanted.
Everything is different.
. . . on entering the court one is suddenly shut out from the rest of the world . . . dim lights . . . an odor of smoldering perfumed powder . . . dreamy colors . . . weird . . . fantastic . . . we are awed . . . impressed . . . we see beautiful women against vari-colored giant walls . . . it is like a promenade on old faded batik . . . perhaps a bit of feminine coquetry in the architecture . . . imagine you hear the waters of the Nile . . . the dark sky sprinkled with stars like diamonds . . . the perfume of spices lingered . . . the moon is amazingly white . . . palms sway with a soft breeze . . . there is a sigh . . . you are speechless . . . you want to stand and gaze . . . you do stand and gaze . . . suppose a thick fog drifts in . . . there—even in the mist—is beauty . . . think of dark skinned maidens . . . a thousand years or more have slipped by . . . we stand on the shifting desert . . . watching dancing shadows . . . there is a tinkle of music . . . a pantomime . . . now we visualize an Oriental Fantasy . . . shining black slaves . . . more dim lights . . . incense . . . perfume . . . jewels flashing . . . carved walls . . . suggestion of the days of Pericles . . . men like Sophocles . . . Euripides . . . Alcibiades . . . Phidias . . . and Socrates would have been attracted . . . Plato would think a great deal . . . so would Bergson . . . Jules de Gaultier would have been greatly enthused . . . so would Nietzsche . . . bright rugs and shawls . . . great vases brilliantly painted . . . an old well . . . an oil lamp . . . perhaps Aladdin’s . . . the shuffle of bare feet . . . the rustle of the trees near by . . . the fragrance of flowers in the court yard . . . the soft splash of tiny falls . . . and the ripple of the fountain . . . a pleasant vividness in color . . . a peacock wanders vainly into view . . . it blends . . . Flaubert would have been fascinated . . . a nocturne L’oriental . . . a mirage . . . an amethyst in a grey distance . . . it is irridescence . . . it is subtle . . . a bit of lungwort in a luculite bowl . . . jasmine in a silver jar . . . it is like a small street in Cairo . . . tiny shops along the entrance left . . . and flags of the desert flying defiantly.