Tag: classic films

There’s Something About Mary (Pickford)

cladriteLeave a comment

Seven years ago, a decrepit barn in Nelson, New Hampshire, was to be torn down. Before it was razed, however, a walk-through was conducted to ensure it was empty.

It was, mostly.

But as it happened, an old film projector and seven reels of century-old nitrate film were stashed away in there, and when they were discovered, a call was placed to the film department at Keene State College, a dozen miles away. It was learned that four of the seven films were considered lost, and the most important of the all was “Their First Misunderstanding” (1911), the short in which Mary Pickford‘s full name was first used.

Pickford, 18 at the time, had been making pictures for the Biograph Company, and that studio kept their actors’ names secret. The men that ran Biograph feared—and they were right, of course—that if the public knew the actors’ names, the actors would attain popularity— and the power that accompanies it.

So Pickford had previously been known to the public only as Little Mary, and it was only when she signed with a rival studio, Independent Moving Pictures, that her full name was shared with her adoring fans. And the picture that first revealed her identity was considered lost until that fateful day in 2006 when it was discovered in a barn in Nelson, N.H. Pickford’s costar in the short was the Irish-born actor Owen Moore, whom she had married just months before.

That nitrate film was placed under the care of the film preservation department at the Library of Congress, which has been working for some years on restoring it. That work is almost complete, and on October 11, 2013, the film will be screened at the aforementioned institution of higher learning, Keene State College, and if you’re wondering if it pains us that we can’t be there for this very exciting event, the answer is yes. Yes, it pains us greatly.

Here’s a brief clip from the short that will have to tide all of us over until it’s screened elsewhere or perhaps released on DVD. Enjoy.

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 »

Hollywood Shorts: Screwy

cladriteLeave a comment
Charles Ray was a popular juvenile star in the 1910s and ’20s, but by the ’30s, his career was on the rocks, and he turned to writing. Here’s “Screwy,” the final tale from his book, Hollywood Shorts, a collection of short stories set in Tinseltown.
 
*    *    *
 
Screwy
 
“My, your cigar makes a red glow in the darkness.”
“So does your cigarette, Helen.”
“Let’s quit the stalling, Bert. Why did you get me up here?”
“You ought to know.”
“I don’t.”
“You have a pretty good idea.”
“Now don’t try to frighten me!”
“Don’t tell me that you could be frightened.”
“What should I say?”
“Say what you feel.”
“I feel like a drink.”
“Help yourself, if you can find it in the dark.”
“You’re not a very nice host.”
“Here, I’ll pour it for you.”
“You avoided my question.”
“Did I?”
“Listen, Bert, I heard a gun shot in the hall.”
“That was a motor exhaust in the street.”
“You’re lying. Now I am getting frightened.”
“Why?”
“Don’t be silly. Turn on the lights.”
“I won’t!”
“Then I will!”
“If you move from this divan, you’ll regret it!”
“Listen to me, it’s time I know why you got me here.”
“You’ll find out when the time comes.”
“That time is now!”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Bert!”
“Yes.”
“This has gone far enough!”
“Un-uh.”
“And don’t talk in grunts.”
“I’ll talk plenty when the mug gets here!”
“Bert, have you gone mad? I’m being held for—“
“You are.”
“This is an outrage. I have a gun in my bag!”
“But you won’t use it.”
“What makes you think I won’t?”
“Because your father is the mug I’m waiting for.”
“I always knew you were a cad!”
“Those are silly words.”
“These aren’t. Get a load of this!”
“Well, you ought to be careful about empty guns.”

Read More »

Hollywood Shorts: Murder at the Studio

cladriteLeave a comment
Charles Ray was a popular juvenile star in the 1910s and ’20s, but by the ’30s, his career was on the rocks, and he turned to writing. Here’s another in a series of offerings from his book, Hollywood Shorts, a collection of short stories set in Tinseltown.
 
*    *    *
 
Murder at the Studio
 
Violent lightning flashes through the drawing-room windows reveal the snarled face of the maniac outside in the rain.
A figure is seen at a secret panel behind the fireplace, listening.
“Well, Chief, an actor has just pulled a fast one on us. Yes, this is Moriarity talkin’. Yes, I’m in the house now. Dugan is with me. Somethin’ has happened. So I thought I’d better give you a buz quick.”
“Okay, let’s have it.”
“Well, we came here as planned. Entered through the kitchen. There’s a housekeeper carin’ for the place. Nobody else on the premises. We tell her to keep shut. Then we ease into the drawin’ room and—“
“What’s the long detail for?”
“But I’m tellin’ yuh. Purty soon we hears a latch key at the front door and take positions on the back swing of it. When he closes the door, we surprise him plenty.”
“Let’s have it faster.”
“Yeah. So he says: ‘Guess the jig’s up,” or somethin’ like that. I agree, with my gat on him. He says that he’s been expectin’ it, but that it hasn’t turned out just like he imagined it was goin’ta. So I say, ‘Come on, let’s get goin’,’ and he says, ‘Wait till I get a coat.’ Then he starts upstairs. Dugan is quick to foller him.”
A man dressed like a chief passes a gun to the fiture at the secret panel by the fireplace and disappears. The shadowed figure with the gun closes the panel, then moves mysteriously into the drawing room behind the screen.
“But, Chief, I am explainin’ it fast. Half-way up the stairs the actor turns and says: ‘Listen, I surrender. Don’t like boy scouts. You both have your gats out. All I want is an overcoat. It’s rainin’ like hell, you know. Have a drink. You’ll find a decanter in the library.’ Well, we relax, Chief, but we don’t take no liquor. All at once we hear a shot comin’ from upstairs. Then we hear a body fall with a thud to the floor—“
The Chief laughs derisively.
“Yeah, I know we ought to be ashamed. If you could only see me now, you’d see how ashamed I look. So I thought if I came clean with the story, you wouldn’t laugh Dugan and me off the pay roll. It’s suicide, I tell yuh! We just heard a shot a second ago. Then I grab the ‘phone an’ waste no time in reportin’. No. No. Yes, I know we shoulda. I never thought to look upstairs. I’ll do it now an’ report again.”
*          *          *          *
Laying aside his manuscript notes, the author lit a cigarette and watched the smoke wind sinuously toward the ceiling on the even fog of the room. Then he drew his typewriter toward him and began to feel out the succeeding episode int he scenario continuity. Rapidly he wrote his inspirational twist:

 

Read More »