Tag: 365 Nights in Hollywood

365 Nights in Hollywood: Synthetic Scenarios

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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 “Synthetic Scenarios” from that 1926 collection.

SYNTHETIC SCENARIOS

 
 
It was just seven-forty-five.
The tiny Inn, partly covered by a large pepper tree, seemed to lean against the studio wall. The coupe came to a sudden stop in front.
Betty, the taller, hopped out, a cold November wind greeting her. The expensive monkey-fur on her heavy black and graceful dress tickled her neck. She looked unusually fresh this morning. Her gray humorous eyes blinked in the cold, and her white shiny teeth almost chattered. Her rouged lips seemed to lose of their brilliancy as she stood waiting on Ann.
Ann, with dark brown eyes and long lashes, was having trouble dislodging a silken cord of her dress which had caught on the emergency brake handle.
The stools at the counter were filled with electricians, grip-hands, assistant cameramen, second assistants and office boys. They found places at the small table in the corner by the door.
“Gosh, it’s chilly,” Ann shivered.
“Yeh, something like South America.” Betty expected a laugh, but only got a glare from Ann.
Ann was reading Barney Google in the paper.
“Johnny,” called Betty to the office boy, “will you please light the stove in our office when you go in?”
He muttered something which sounded like yes with a mouthful of doughnut.
The studio displayed some signs of life by the time Ann and Betty had taken off their hats and stood rubbing their hands over a small gas stove, which should have been in a telephone booth.
By a quarter to nine both girls were seated at their desks with letter openers, stripping the edges of many bulky envelopes, which had been dumped on the center table by the mail boy.
Their day’s work had begun.
It was like this every day for six days a week.
They were scenario readers de luxe, as one producer had called them.
After reading a scenario—as far as possible—they typed brief outlines of the story on small cards which were indexed and filed away in the steel cases which lined the walls.
Their daily mail was never less than fifty stories. Sometimes it reached the amount of two hundred. And they came from all parts of the world.
“That was the interesting part of it,” Betty had once said, while reading one from India.
“Yes, that may be, but why do people who live in foreign countries always write about this country?”
Ann waited for Betty’s response.
“You’re better at riddles than I am.” And with that Betty started another story entitled, “Sadie, the Sinner.”
She finished the first paragraph with an effort. The little card was already inserted in her typewriter. She then wrote a little brief outline of the entire story from the first paragraph.
Ann had been watching her.
“What was this one like?” she asked.
“Just one of the synthetic ones,” Betty giggled.
“What do’ye mean—synthetic?”
“Same as synthetic gin. Darn rotten imitation of the real stuff. Something like near beer is to the honest-to-goodness lager. Leaves a bum taste in your mouth after reading—in this case.”
“Oh,” murmured Ann.
Silence.
Ann was thinking. Betty was reading another would-be scenario. This time it was from a housewife in Iowa, who had given her efforts the thrilling title of, “Her Mother’s Only Daughter.”
“That’s a good idea of yours,” Ann said finally.
“What?”
“The synthetic stuff.”
“It sure is the fake labels, kid.”
“Never mind the thing you’re reading now, tell me more about that idea of yours.” Ann had put down the scenario she was holding, and waited for Betty to begin.
Betty gladly dropped her manuscript on the desk and turned to face Ann.

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365 Nights in Hollywood: Stealing Cupid’s Stuff, Pt. 2

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 Part 2 of “Stealing Cupid’s Stuff,” a not-so-short story from that 1926 collection. (Here’s Part 1, in case you missed it last week).

STEALING CUPID’S STUFF

 
 
Pop was silent for a moment.
“Did Rodney send over the mailing list I ‘phoned for?”
“Yes; a kid brought it while you were watering the back yard right after lunch.”
“Sit down,” said Pop, pushing some of the magazines aside.
“Can you get some photos of Sonya?” Tommy repeated.
“Maybe,” slowly.
“When?”
“I’ll find out tomorrow.”
“Well, if you can do that, we’ll have some copies made and we’ll send them out to our entire mailing list.” Tommy was bubbling over with enthusiasm.
It was a week later. Pop burst in suddenly on Tommy, who sat smoking a cigarette while he read over some of the latest press clippings.
“Say,” shouted Pop, “Sonya will be here in about a week! Just got a wire from New York. She’s just arrived and is coming directly out here.”
Pop landed beside Tommy, a bit out of breath and with a yellow telegram waving. Tommy read:
 
“Pop Ewing,
“4642 Franklin Avenue,
Hollywood, Calif.:
  “Just arrived on Morcca. Will be in
Hollywood in about a week. Date
follows.          Sonya Merenaut.”
 
“That means I’ll have to get busy on the local press stuff. I’ll get all the dramatic editors interested and have some photographers down at the station to meet her.”
“That’s the stuff!” cried Pop, stuffing the telegram back in his pocket.
“Here, look at these,” said Tommy, shoving a handful of newspaper clippings into Pop’s hands. “They just came in. That picture you found of her was great. I’ve been checking up and nearly every editor used it.”
“Say, these are good,” Pop commented, approvingly.
“I’ve counted them. We have, to date, just one thousand two hundred printed articles on Sonya Merenaut, and they are still using them. And just think, we’ve only been sending this stuff out for a week and a day. That’s certainly doing our stuff.”
“Honest, Tommy, you’ve got any press agent in Hollywood beat,” Pop was saying, as he glanced over the clippings.
“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment,” said Tommy, modestly.
“I know, I know, but it’s the truth just the same. I’m going to see if I can’t get you on with Sonya just as soon as she arrives. I imagine she will want someone like you to do her publicity—if she’s going to have a press agent.”
“I would certainly like to work for her. If she is anything like her photo, she is a beautiful person.” He picked up one of his publicity photos. “Look, Pop, at those soulful eyes; soft and—and like one who would understand. Her face is round. Probably has a temper, but she’s got a lot of ambition. Her mouth is nice—and determined. In fact, she’s a darn nice girl.”
“Of course she’s a nice girl. And she’s a great author, too.” Pop stated this with pride and a swelled chest.
“She looks awfully young to be such a great success,” Tommy mused.
“Why, say, she wrote the great drama entitled ‘Poisoned Souls,’ and then the comedy-drama, ‘A Duke’s Mixture,’ and—well, there were a lot of others.”
Tommy had been writing the titles down as Pop spoke. “Do you know any of the others?”
“Wait a minute, maybe I can think of them. Is it important?”
“I would like to give it to the local press when she arrives,” answered the young press agent.
“I’ll have the complete list for you by then. Can you get something over about her locally?”
“I’m going to spend the afternoon down at the newspaper offices. I’ll tell you tonight just want my success really is.”
“Fine.”
Pop left the room and proceeded to express his thoughts by playing some very catchy melodies on the grand piano in the front room.
Tommy gathered some freshly typed sheets together and a number of pictures, and left the house, stating that he would return in time for dinner.
As he walked down to the boulevard to board the street car for Los Angeles he was suddenly stopped by a pulling on his coat sleeve. It was Mrs. Stevens, his former landlady.
“Oh, Mister Sutton!” she exclaimed, quite out of breath, “I’ve been searching Hollywood for you.”
“Yes?” he said quietly.
“Yes, I’ve got a letter for you,” she continued, as she dug into a large flat combination handbag and purse. “It came the day you left.”
Tommy looked startled. He held his hand anxiously for the letter. Finally she handed it to him. He thanked her absently, tipped his hat and walked on, leaving her slightly confused. Then he tore open the sealed flap and read:

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365 Nights in Hollywood: Stealing Cupid’s Stuff, Pt. 1

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 Part 1 of “Stealing Cupid’s Stuff,” a not-so-short story from that 1926 collection.

STEALING CUPID’S STUFF

 
 
Pop Ewing, sixty but full of pep, sat alone on the mourner’s bench in the casting office of Peerless Pictures, Inc. It was early—too early for struggling actors to arise and start their daily walks from studio to studio. It had not been like this three years ago; there was much work then.
Pop gazed at the heavily rouged young person behind the little barred window. There was the person who played the important role of Fate in the actor’s drama of life. She could say: “yeh, there’s a week’s work for you.” Or, “Nope—nothing doin’ this week.”
Pop sighed as he shifted his gaze ceilingward.
“What’s new, Pop?” she asked, poking her fluffy bobbed head through the window.
Pop straightened up a bit.
“Oh, the press agent’s wise crack, I guess.”
She laughed, displaying two rows of perfect, pearlyl-white teeth.
Pop was sore at Broadway. It had turned him down after he had made it laugh and forget its sorrows for twenty years. He had made a great name for himself in the old days; then came the flop, as he called it, and he was out for good. When managers ceased to greet him with a smile, and dinners at the club were no longer in his honor, he knew that Broadway’s curtain was down for him and his show was over; his act through—forever!
Pop declared he would not leave the old Street flat—like it had left him. And so he lingered along, hoping for something to turn up. But nothing did. He had been what is called a “Wise one” in his day, and his bank account was large. And then, too, he had made some splendid investments. Why should he care? But he did care; he was an actor, and “once an actor . . . “
“Anything gonna be comin’ up today, Flo?” he asked anxiously, walking up and down the long room.
“Not a thing so far, old dear.”
Flo was admiring the old actor. He had not been such a handsome young man, but he was very good looking for an old fellow, she thought. He was of medium height, slightly stout, had a pleasant, ruddy face, kind eyes that twinkled when he smiled (and he nearly always smiled). He wore his clothes—good clothes—to advantage.
“Were you ever married, Pop?”
“Nope; Cupid did a lot of shooting, but his aim was poor.”
Flo laughed again in a clear, refreshing voice.
“Say, how come a pretty girl like you to be doing this office work? Why aren’t you out on the stage grabbin’ a flock of close-ups in a mellerdrama?”
“Well, you have to be an actress or have a pull with the big boss. I’m not an actress, and this is as far as my pull would go.” Flo sighed sadly after this.
Pop sat down again.
“What a life!” he said.

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365 Nights in Hollywood: Adolescent Adeline

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 “Adolescent Adeline” from that 1926 collection.

ADOLESCENT ADELINE

 
 
Adeline was seventeen. She felt like twenty, acted like twenty-five and looked like a million dollars! She talked and painted like a chorus girl. She drank and swore and raised hell generally.
Outside of that Adeline was a nice girl—to stay away from.
She was a swell kid.
Adeline hit Hollywood about three years ago—and she hit it hard.
Hollywood had two things to talk about. They were real estate and Adeline. She was the low-down baby.
Adeline came to Hollywood with the same idea thousands of other girls have—to break into the movies and have all sorts of cars and maids.
But Adeline had a tough break. There were about three thousand other females ahead of her. She decided then and there that the movies weren’t what they were cranked up to be.
One morning early, a heavy fog hung low like a milky curtain over the great cinema land. There was something about it that Adeline loved. She looked towards the now invisible hills. An idea. . . .
When the sun had finally convinced the fog which was the stronger, the fog lifted, as silently as it had come, and disappeared.
Adeline peered over the hill, her near neighbor that she had learned to love.
There was something about that hill that particularly attracted her. She asked its name of a girl friend and learned that it was called Whitley Heights.
Her knowledge thus far led to further inquiries. It was a newly-opened real estate tract. Two men were the owners.
Adeline had the germ of an idea, but it took a bottle of gin and a party that night to bring the germ to shape and form under her microscopic imagination.
The next morning Adeline painted herself with unusual care, took a healthy drink of Scotch and danced out upon the busy boulevard, in the best of spirits. That was Adeline.
She went straight to the real estate office of the Whitley Heights tract. There she met one of the partners, who immediately forgot his marriage vows and took Adeline for a joy-ride.
This was going to be easy, thought Adeline.
(It was easy.)
Her bird of prey fell hard. After a series of well planned parties at her bungalow, Adeline had a deed to the choicest lot on Whitley Heights.
She merely compromised him. Now she held the razored hand. If she didn’t get what she wanted, his wife would get alimony, and plenty of it.
(The women simply have to stick together.)
He continued to come around. Adeline considered trimming her bird again, but that was too much.
There was still another way.
Adeline took inventory.
Ye gods! Just slightly over a hundred bucks in the bank!
Her first draw was shoved into the discard. His partner was then taken on, fervently. He rejoiced in Adeline merest smile.
(Such a sap!)
The weeks went by. Adeline borrowed money from him, and he continued to hang around. Finally she did her little act.
Her second bird of prey signed a note and also a check for a beautiful home upon her lot in Whitley Heights.
Adeline was so happy she kicked him and some empty gin bottles out of the back door. Her neighbors laughed and went back to bed. It was only six o’clock—A. M.
One afternoon months later, Adeline lay upon her downy bed in her new home—a home which was the envy of all beholders. It was one of the show places in Hollywood. She had even received a nice check from a postcard company who paid her to be the photographic press agent of her home.
Its stucco shape resembled an old Spanish castle, with wrought iron rust marks showing plainly upon the window mouldings.
The ground surrounding the majestic abode was thickly adorned with shrubs and miniature trees. A white marble fountain played in the patio—at the rear.
The patio Adeline called her “Thinking Spot.” She lay there often upon a chaise lounge, covered with batik pillows. This was where she recuperated and enjoyed what she termed a mental recess.
Later that afternoon as she reclined in the patio, her Chinese maid brought on a silver tray the monthly bills.
“Send them to Jeff,” directed Adeline suavely.
Now, Jeff was a movie director, who was paying handsomely to park his suit case at Adeline’s.
The maid returned shortly to announce visitors. They were the partners—the first and second birds of prey.
Adeline greeted them pleasantly.
They bowed and kneeled beside her.
“Are you satisfied now?” one asked.
Adeline nodded, smiling.
“Just who are you anyway?” the other questioned.
She thought a moment before answering.
“Why, I’m just Adolescent Adeline.”
“Adolescent hell! You’re a veteran!” exploded the first gentleman.
“But that isn’t pretty,” protested she.
“If you’re adolescent, then we must still be in our safety pins, or our second childhood,” agreed gentleman number two.
“You’re not mad?” Adeline questioned, coyly.
“No! We’ve both come back for more!” A chorus this time.
Adeline’s musical voice sounded upon the hill in a tinkling laugh.
 

365 Nights in Hollywood: Subtle Suicide Stuff

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 “Enterprising Ernie” from that 1926 collection.

SUBTLE SUICIDE STUFF

 
 
The gang was standing in front of the Christie Hotel. It was nine o’clock and hot. Women passed in organdie dresses and men were coatless.
A tall chap with black curly hair said something about Lon Masson, who had quitted this life via the gas route.
Jay, a smart fellow, remarked that he’d be willing to lend another quarter for the gas meter to several fellows he knew for the sake of the community.
Masson had been a gay, handsome fellow and—well, everyone liked him. That was enough in Hollywood. You could eat regularly and perhaps dress cleverly. Everyone admired Lon. He was a “swell guy.”
One morning after a word bout with a certain movie actress, Lon wrote a note saying he was tired—tired of life with all its discouragements and all the rest of the junk. Then he turned on the gas. Slowly he passed into unconsciousness.
Two of his pals found him. They rushed him to a hospital, but it was too late. They read the note. He left everything to the girl.
The newspaper reporters got excited about the latest Hollywood suicide. Funny that people are just as likely to kill themselves here as in Oshkosh. (But of course Oshkosh hasn’t several thousand press agents.)
Everyone was talking about Lon—poor Lon.
He had said in the note not to lose your sense of humor.
No one seemed to think of his sense of humor. Maybe a few did, but if they did they kept it to themselves.
Lon was subtle.
The note said he left everything to the girl.
His mother was in Havre, France. Many grotesque tales have been written similar to that which Lon had enacted in real life.
Lon had written the last line of a de Maupassant story.
Lon’s mother was coming to Hollywood—to the land which took her son—her only child—from her. What would be her impressions?
Hollywood waited—waited with deep-felt condolence. And welcomed her, with her aching heart and her eyes filled with tears.
Poor Lon!
The note said he left everything to the girl.
Poor Lon!
He had nothing to leave.
A few smile sadly at Lon’s subtle manner.
Poor Lon!