365 Nights in Hollywood: Reckless Reels

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 “Reckless Reels” from that 1926 collection.


(A resume)
. . . a jazz band . . . colored spotlights . . . evening gowns . . . and stiff shirts . . . laughter . . . silver flasks . . . smacked lips . . . bluish-grey clouds of lingering smoke . . . The Biltmore ballroom on Saturday night . . . the new playground of the movie folk . . . Art Hickman . . .
Alma Rubens strolls along with Ricardo Cortez . . . softly on the heavily napped carpet . . . her gown of silver cloth and royal blue sparkles . . . Rick with his polished black hair . . . immaculate shirt and carefully fitted Tux . . . sparkles . . . murmurs of the “outsiders” sitting along the sides in deep chairs . . . Alma and Rick smile and speak to one or two couples passing. . . .
A very young chap and “deb” are about to enter . . . he notices a small sign—very small—“Couvert $1.50” . . . feels for his checkbook . . . a forced smile . . . she rambles on with a meaningless chatter . . . he rambles back . . . the gay “hello’s and how-are-you’s.” . . .
. . . the dance again . . . Priscilla Dean and her husband, Wheeler Oakman, are the first on the shiny floor . . . Hobart Henley, director, wanders over to Virginia Valli . . . he and Virginia dance . . . Hobart is amused at the throbbing, hot crowd . . .
Constance Talmadge enters . . . there are smiles . . . whispers . . . gasps . . . she is clinging to Norman Terry’s arm . . . he looks satisfied . . . the flappers’ hearts flutter . . . they join Mr. and Mrs. Earl Williams . . . Constance nods to a few around her . . . her press agent is there with a well known society girl, Dot Hubbard . . . Constance calls to him. . . .
A young man with streaks of grey at his temples sits alone in the far corner . . . he seems to be gazing at the interior decorations . . . they are beautiful and sparkling . . . he shifts to watch the constant stream of humans passing the entrance archway . . . there are actors, writers, business men, members of “The Nothing-to-Do-Club,” stately dowagers bedecked with diamonds, tottering old men still sowing their wild oats; gag men with serious faces; heroes with disgusted countenances, villains with heroine-winning smiles; comedians with Blue Law expressions; extra men and girls with eyes for those who “wonder who they are?” questions. . . .
Colleen Moore and her husband, John McCormick, saunter in . . . Ben Lyon is with Dorothy Dore . . . his latest wise-crack is “Since James Kirkwood made a picture entitled, ‘Discontented Husbands,’ what is Lila Lee doing?” . . . his friend Jack Santoro doesn’t laugh . . . Ben, however, is prepared and does his own laughing . . . he sucks grenadine punch through a straw in a tall, delicately wrought glass . . . Ben tells another one: “Now that the Culver City studio is making ‘The Purple Bathtub,’ can Harry Gribbon play the part of the color-blind plumber?” . . . Jack almost smiles . . . Ben laughs and decides to dance with Helen Ferguson again . . . Jack does ditto with Dorothy. . . .
Georges Jaimaie, expert on Paris lingo, does his stuff in French at the next table . . . Baroness d’Estreilles, American representative for Boue Soeurs in Paris, is displaying a new Parisian creation at Priscilla Dean’s table now. . . .
. . . the hurrying waiters add to the zest of the excitement . . . there is always excitement . . . roving eyes . . . searching for things to talk about . . . catty remarks . . . compliments . . . impromptu speeches on the film slump . . . unanswered questions . . . bits of scandal . . . criticisms on The Modern Girl . . . views on Life . . . invitations for next week’s dinners and parties . . . flirtations . . . lovers’ quarrels . . . slang . . .

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Times Square Tintypes: William A. Brady

In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles William A. Brady, prominent actor, theatrical producer, and sports promoter and father to Hollywood actress Alice Brady.


William A. Brady. Everybody calls him “Pop.”
He owns five watches but never carries one. Always guesses the time, and is fairly accurate.
Was born in San Francisco, June 19, 1863. Until he was five years old he had a Chinese lady for a nursemaid.
Lost a million dollars many times. He owned Within the Law and sold his rights to Arch Selwyn for $10,000. The play netted over a million. Jeanne Eagels brought him the script of Rain to produce. He said: “I no like.” Had Broadway in rehearsal and shelved it on the advice of George M. Cohan. That was another million. He was to be one of the promoters of the Carpentier-Dempsey fight. Had words with Jack Kearns and withdrew. The gate for that battle was a million and a half.
Last year while in a hospital nursing a broken leg, his doctors allowed him to read plays instead of taking sleeping tablets. He the much rejected Street Scene. He is now on his way to another million.
That A in his name is for Augustus.
Always has been interested in sports. He managed James J. Corbett, Jim Jeffries and Youssouf, “the terrible Turk.”
He wears a large brown felt hat. Always has a cigar in his mouth. Even when sleeping. Once was discovered in bed in a mass of flames which a friend put out with a fire extinguisher.
His idea of a good time is to buy champagne for the house. His favorite drink is a tall glass of rye. During the Corbett-Sullivan fight he consumed two quarts of whiskey.
Never carries a cane. Except when looking for a fight.
Alice Brady is his daughter by his first wife, Rose Marie Rene. William Brady, Jr., is his son by his present wife, Grace George.
Hasn’t an automobile, although he did own one for twenty years. His doctor ordered him to give it up because he never took a walk. He seldom crosses the street alone. Always waits for the red light.
He once cut cards with Arnold Rothstein. One cut for $45,000 and won.
Is sad because he isn’t allowed to attend prize fights. He takes and gives every blow himself. The last fight he saw was the Dempsey-Sharkey encounter. After it was over he was so exhausted that he had to be carried three blocks to a taxi.
Loves music. His favorites are “Faust,” “Killarney,” “Massa’s In The Cold, Cold Ground” and “Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms.”
He likes to act and resents being called a ham. His most recent performance was in A Free Soul. Jumped into the leading role on only an hour’s notice. Placed the script on a table in the scene. Whenever he forgot a line he walked to the table.
When a young man he was a natty dresser. Today clothes don’t interest him. Used to wear many diamonds. Recently gave them all to Grace George for a necklace.
Reads all newspapers, trashy magazines and the highbrow ones. His favorite reading matter is the Congressional Record. Reads every line of it during sessions of Congress. Senator Heflin is his favorite comic.
Cleveland, Harrison, McKinley, Roosevelt, Taft, Wilson, Harding, Coolidge and Hoover are the Presidents he knew and knows personally.
His choice of food depends upon what he is drinking. Has a cast-iron stomach. Is especially fond of Mexican tamales.
He claims the toughest job he ever had was managing Louis Mann for five years.
With Sir August Hannis he sneaked into Windsor Castle and disguised as a chorus man appeared before the King and Queen of England in a command performance of The Bohemian Girl.
Once desired to be the youngest man to climb Pike’s Peak. Halfway up he changed his mind and took the train back.
Can recite offhand any speech that Shakespeare ever wrote. Loves to see Shakespearean plays, but not to produce them.
Was arrested and put in prison once. That, when he broke up a street meeting of Dowie, the Evangelist, who was lecturing in front of the old Madison Square Garden.
He started wearing glasses at forty. He was told to do so when he was twenty.
Lives in a penthouse atop a fifteen-story building owns in Fifty-Fifth street. Spends his evenings there listening to the radio and looking out over Broadway. Wants the last thing he looks at before he dies to be a flash of the White Lights.
His credo is, “The Lord is always good to honest gamblers.”

Times Square Tintypes: David Belasco

In this chapter from Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles David Belasco, an eccentric producer who towered over Broadway in the early part of the twentieth century.


David Belasco is America’s oldest producer. He was born July 25, 1853, in Howard Street, San Francisco. Eight hours after his mother had arrived from London.
His parents were of Portuguese-Jewish descent. Centuries ago the name was “Valasco.”
Claims he feels as spry today as he did at the age of twenty-one. If you doubt it, he’ll race up and down the corridor to prove it to you. His one great wish is to die in harness.
He is five foot three. His shoulders droop inward. His eyesight is good, but he rambles a bit when talking. In conversation each succeeding word grows fainter and the last half of his sentences is inddistinguishable. Yet the listener understands every word by watching his hands and eyes.
It is his custom to open all his plays on a Tuesday night.
When he is greatly pleased with someone, he quickly digs into his pocket and rewards the party with a nickel or a dime.
Has been at different times in his career a messenger boy, a chore boy in a cigar factory, a clerk in a bookstore, a free-lance reporter, a bareback rider in a circus, a declaimer and a necktie saleman. Somewhere among these various occupations he managed to write his first play. He was only twelve at the time and the opus was called Jim Black or The Regulator’s Revenge.
The now famous clerical collar can be traced back to his youth, when his idol was Father McGuire. It was hero worship that first led him to imitate the Father in the manner of dress. Later he probably realized that a saint in the theatrical profession would be a novelty.
His collars and ties are made especially for him. Generally wears blue shirts. His shoes are long, pointed, black and buttoned. His hat, a square derby, is also made to order.
He once played Uncle Tom in Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
Never smokes and seldom drinks. Three sips are enough to make him feel gay.
Actors will work for him cheaper than for any other producer, because they believe he will bring out their hidden talent. He so impressed his feminine office help that they work for him for twenty-five dollars a week in preference to working elsewhere for fifty dollars weekly. At the office they call him “The Governor.” He refers to himself as “D. B.” His mother’s pet name for him was “Wandering Feet.”
One of his most famous statements is: “Introduce me to a girl and I’m positively bashful. Bring me an actress and I’m her master.”
Blanche Bates laid the cornerstone for the present Belasco Theatre, December 15, 1906. It was first called the Stuyvesant Theatre. He renamed it because he wanted a monument.
He enters his office from the stage door. Ascends to it by means of a private elevator. The office is a studio room on the third floor of the Belasco Theatre. There is another entrance on the third floor—an unnoticed door protected by a burglar alarm. Entering this door, you walk through a room filled entirely with glassware. Then comes the Napoleonic Room. Then the Gothic Room. Then a library. Then an indoor garden with a spraying fountain. And then the office proper. His desk is merely a table given to him thirty-three years ago by his mother. It is held together by strings. He also has a sunken Roman bath in the building and spends a great deal of time in it every day.
He is a firm believer in the supernatural. The idea for The Return of Peter Grimm, so he states, was given to him in a dream by his mother after her death.
Lives in a hotel in the East Fifties. His home is similar to his office and contains many curios. In one of the clothes closets he has built a miniature cathedral. Many antique clocks decorate the living room. No two of them telling the same time.
He has produced more plays than any other person in the world. Not counting his amateur productions, the figure is three hundred seventy-two. Has never had a penny of outside money in any of his shows. The investment is his own, as are the profits and losses.
Is much interested in electrical effects. In one play, The Darling of the Gods, a lighting effect alone occupied the stage for seven minutes. One of his most important contributions to the theater is the hidden footlights.
His favorite color is baby blue. He hates shiny objects. He never has his shoes shined.

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A motion picture potpourri

There are dozens—perhaps hundreds—of places one can view streaming movies on the web—some legal, others not so much. But none that we’re aware offer the opportunity to view the sort of cinematic offerings found at Europe Film Treasures.

With the longstanding dominance in the world market of Hollywood pictures, it’s easy sometimes to forget that other corners of the world have long had their own motion pictures industries, thriving and otherwise.

Europa Film Treasures, is the result of, as the website states, “a partnership with the most prestigious archive resources and film archives in Europe.” Experienced and fledgling film buffs can use the site to fill the gaps in their knowledge.

The site boasts more than 120 streaming movies, dating as far back as 1896 and as recent as 1999. The vast majority of the titles, though, predate 1960.

Most of the films, produced in dozens of different countries, including Germany, Ireland, Macedonia, England, France, Sotland, Croatia, Sweden—we could go on and on (there are even a few odd American titles thrown in for good measure)—are shorts, though one does come across the odd feature-length film—El Sexto Sentido (The Sixth Sense), for example, a late-1920s silent drama from Spain that was considered too modern for its time and was never released.

Now, where else are you going to find a rarity like that—or a French cartoon from 1947? Or a 1939 Finnish documentary short about traditional methods of net fishing? Or a 1909 one-reel Belgian drama about a jealous husband out to seek revenge on his wife and the interloper who loves her?

You get the idea. Europa Film Treasures is aptly named—the site really is a treasure, one we highly recommend you begin perusing at your earliest convenience.