Tag: David Graham Fischer Corporation

365 Nights in Hollywood: Great Directors

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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 “Great Directors” from that 1926 collection.

GREAT DIRECTORS

 
 
He was a small fellow, with dark hair and olive complexion. He didn’t look it, but he was a director.
It seemed funny—even to him, but he was really a director. (He carried his press notices around in his pocket.)
Hollywood laughed gayly and thought it a good joke. But Ray didn’t care. He was more than a director . . . .
If only Hollywood had known . . . .
Yes, if Hollywood only knew that he—alone—had found the man to finance the picture, got the story and cast together and his staff—and then directed it!
More than that. He also sold it to the releasing concern.
But Hollywood hadn’t heard all this. Perhaps if it had, it would have taken it for a mere boast and laughed anyway. (Hollywood is like that.)
Ray felt mighty big and he thought he was satisfied.
Then one day, a week after the comedy was completed and titled, Ray was at the film laboratory supervising the printing and developing of his picture.
It just happened that the same laboratory was developing one of Fred Niblo‘s greatest films.
(A contrast!)
Mr. Niblo came into the plant. Ray spoke to him. The great director nodded cheerfully. That was his way. He was nice to everyone.
Ray started to tell the great director about his little comedy. Mr. Niblo was interested and congratulated him on his work.
“I’d like to run it for you,” suggested Ray.
“I’m sorry, but right now I’m busy,” was the great one’s reply, and he departed imediately.
Ray stood there reflecting for a few moments, then with a deep sigh, he promised himself:
“All right, you just ask me to see one of your pictures some day, and I’ll be too busy.”
 

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365 Nights in Hollywood: Humor Risque, Pt. 3

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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 Part 3—the finale—of “Humor Risque,” a not-so-short story from that 1926 collection. (If you missed them, you can read the first two installments here: Part 1 | Part 2)

HUMOR RISQUE

 
 
Monty sat on a lamp box at the side of the set, calmly watching. He was glad when Jackson shouted at the top of his lungs: “Lights—Action—Camera!” He loved the hum of the clicking camera and the sudden quietness that followed. There was a certain tenseness felt by every actor at this moment when the first scene of a new screen masterpiece was shot.
At the end of it Jackson heaved a sigh. The first had been perfect, he thought, but he took it twice again to be sure.
Then came the staccatic “Pull ’em!” from the head electrician, and a man seated at the large portable switchboard snapped down the big three-way switch, and the white lights died down, leaving only the deathly blue of the Cooper-Hewitts.
The assistant director, a small man, who imagined he should be the director and was fond of making that impression, handed Jackson the script. After studying it for a few moments, he called Norma from her dressing room. Monty was then sent for.
Jackson explained:
“Edwards, you make your entrance into the dive. Saunter over to a table and flop down in the chair by the piano. This’ll give us a chance to work in a laugh with the ivory tickler. Now, one of the dames comes over and tries to make you. You tell her to beat it. Then the wop who runs this dive sees you do this. He gets sore and forces Norma to go over and make the grade with you. She is supposed to be his latest protege. She’s innocent and tries the hard stuff with you, but it isn’t convincing. You laugh at her. Then you see she’s hurt. You figure out the gag the wop is pulling with her. You get confidential. She tells you the old story of how she ran away. You fall for this and give her one of your cards, stating that you’ll see her get a real try-out—if she’ll come up tomorrow. She is very grateful and promises to do so. Then you fade out of the dive.”
Jackson had gone through the action of this scene while explaining it to Norman and Monty. The cameraman was busy setting his camera and directing the electricians in placing the lights. The extras sat around languidly on boxes, chairs and, in fact, anything there was to sit upon. They told each other of the great parts they had played in their last pictures!
“And don’t forget the scene with the melody-maker,” sweetly lisped Norma, admiring herself in the small hand mirror which she carried for that purpose.
Jackson nodded.
“Now, you’ve got the idea, Edwards?” he asked.
Monty answered in the affirmative.
The action was too slow the first time, and Jackson called for the N. G. sign after the camera had turned forty feet. They tried again and it was better, much better, claimed the director. Even the assistant director thought so.
The siren sounded for lunch and as soon as the scene was finished, Jackson ordered them off, setting the return call on the set within an hour. The lights were switched off and the entire company drifted out into the street and to their different eating habitats. The afternoon passed quickly and at four o’clock Jackson came over to Monty and told him that he could leave, but to be made up and ready at nine in the morning. “The scene is back-stage. Same make-up,” Jackson said, as he hurried back to the camera.
Monty returned to his dressing room and removed his make-up. Again in his street clothes, he stopped into the office to see Gus.
“Monty, you gotta come down to The Devil Blue Inn tonight.”

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365 Nights in Hollywood: Humor Risque, 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 “Humor Risque,” a not-so-short story from that 1926 collection. (Here’s Part 1, if you missed it.)

HUMOR RISQUE

 
 
“Well, finally Harry gulped out the story. I couldn’t believe him for some minutes. The very thought stunned me. I couldn’t find any reason for it, although I racked my brain. Just one day before I arrived Flo had taken Carol and sailed for England. Her boat must have passed us on my last night out. I had been hopefully coming to her, when she was deliberately speeding away from me. And I’ve never seen them, nor heard from them since.”
Monty looked up at Gus. Good old Gus, he thought. He looked up at him again, and thought he saw tears in his eyes.
“You don’t know where they are?” asked Gus thoughtfully. “Didn’t you ever write?”
“Oh, I keep track of them through the theatrical papers. Flo had a very good engagement from in London right after she left New York.” He was speaking with assumed gayety now. “And I hear she’s done very well all over Europe. Carol is in the act now. No, I’ve never tried to write. I might some day—soon, perhaps.”
Gus sighed deeply and straightened up in his chair.
“But, Monty,” he said suddenly, “you haven’t told me when your hair turned grey. I can understand why, but—“
“Oh,—that!” exclaimed Monty, recovering from a short reverie. “The night after I left Harry, I sat up—and thought—of them. In the morning my hair was just as it is now. My friends didn’t know me. Most of them imagined the war did it, so I’ve always let them think so. You’re the only one beside Harry who really knows, Gus.

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365 Nights in Hollywood: Humor Risque, 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 “Humor Risque,” a not-so-short story from that 1926 collection.

HUMOR RISQUE

 
 
“C’mon in the office,” muttered the blase office boy, vigorously chewing a large piece of gum.
Monty Edwards rose from the mourner’s bench in the casting office of the Superba Pictures Corporation.
As he walked down the long hall, passing many busy offices, to the massive one of the casting director, he wondered if he would be saved the not easy task of further hunting for a job.
They had sent for him. There must be something good in it—if he pulled the right strings, and he intended to do that. Anyway, he had made very good considering the short time he had termed himself a Hollywood citizen. Why should he have any trouble now, when he had always found plenty of work? No reason at all, he thought, dismissing the subject.
Monty straightened up as he neared the office. He was in his early forties, but his face was like that of a younger man, of about thirty-two or three. Only his hair betrayed his age. It was an even steel grey, and now beginning to streak with white.
Because of this, he was known to the film colony as The Grey Haired Youngster. He was of medium height with a splendid physique. And he had fine sensibilities in the matter of his dress. He had, moreover, an air, a self-confident poise, which is supposed to come only with comfortable security. Beside this he had a cheery manner of good comradeship that made for an ever-increasing popularity.
“Hello, Monty,” cried the casting director, shoving a number of photographs to one side. “How’s the old boy this morning, eh?”
“Just fine, Benny, just fine.” Monty stepped inside the door.
Benny was the eminent casting director for Superba Pictures, and he fairly gloated in the honor. He was a large, thick-necked, red-faced, somehow good looking man of thirty-five, clean shaven, carefully dress, and he wore a flower in his buttonhole.
“Sit down, Monty, I want to talk to you. Bring that chair over by the desk.”
Monty stepped lightly over to the corner of the room and returned with a heavy over-stuffed chair.
The office interior was a credit to the decorator who had planned it. The walls were tinted in dark brown and gold. Many handsome frames holding autographed portraits were cleverly arranged about the room. The thick carpet, which covered the floor, was a dead black. Benny’s desk had been an old oak thing, but an eccentric artist of the studio had enameled it a number of times in black and then added thin gold lines. The stenographer’s desk repeated the pattern. A wrought-iron lamp with a shade in sunset tones added a final note of ease and luxury. The great files of photographs, so necessary to a casting director, were kept in a small room adjoining this.
Monty settled himself in the chair.
“Have a cigarette?” asked Benny, shoving a bright silver case before his visitor.
“Yes, I will, thanks.”
They struck matches and puffed bluish smoke ceilingward.
“Well, here’s the gag,” Benny stated, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve got to dye your hair, and you’ve got to do it today. Tomorrow you work.”

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365 Nights in Hollywood: “Cupid’s Corner”

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 “Cupid’s Corner” from that 1926 collection.

CUPID’S CORNER

 
 
It might be called the Avenue of Affections, the Street of Secrets, the Boulevard of Beauty, the Road of Romance, the Lane of Lovers, the Path of Passion, the Walk of Wonders, or the Trail of the Tantalizing.
It might be called all of those, but it isn’t—ah, a better title: “Cupid’s Corner.”
There the little lad of love stands directing his traffic without a jam. The gears of human mesh perfectly under his skillful guidance. His clutch seldom slips. It’s different in this land of Love. Those who pass in the night feel the sting of his sharp arrow.
You wonder where this strange place is?
Only true lovers find it.
But this one, this weird avenue, street, or whatever it is, happens to be in Hollywood.
The extras talk of it, the prop men wonder about it, the stars (some of them) know all about it. Ingenues crave it. So do the flappers. And the debutantes—if any.
Those who talk a la bordelaise says it’s all a fake. Popin’ jays never believe in that sort of thing. Stenographers with shell-rimmed glasses turn deaf ears to talk of it.
Men over sixty have other thoughts.
Women up to ninety dream about it.
Shop girls are thrilled at the thought of it.
Clerks and salesmen in off moments have visions of—it.
What is this mysterious thing?
Stories of its existence are true. Those who have visited “Cupid’s Corner” vouch for the assertion.
One little leading lady of the films, who recently married a famous cinema comedian, said:
“It’s a little side street—and dark, except for a yellow moon peeping through the drooping pepper trees. A beautiful silhouette. Awfully romantic. There is a tiny brook when runs under the dusty road. Its trickles are in rhythm with a violin softly playing—playing most anything. Love Tales, maybe.
“There is a cute little white bungalow something like a miniature of George Washington’s Mount Vernon home. A single light over the wrought iron gate. The moon through the long windows in front expose two heads above the comfy divan. One is black and shiny. The other is blonde and bobbed, with curly ringlets.”
Another lady spoke. This time a star. She just returned from Europe, where she made a famous story produced by an American company.
She is of the vampire or siren type. Her lips, which fairly drip with redness, illuminate danger for those who touch.
She, too, had heard the snap of Cupid’s Bow.
“The stucco abode across the road is perfectly darling! It is painted green. A rose vine with pink buds climbs at the corner. Moss between the house and stucco fence instead of grass. A wee patio with bubbling fountain. Honeysuckle along the side. French windows with hand painted drapes. A lighted floor lamp. A young man stretched out full length on the floor reading aloud. A pretty girl listening on the chaise lounge. A baby coos in its crib by her side. My idea—“

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