Tag: Jimmy Starr

365 Nights in Hollywood: Subtle Suicide Stuff

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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 “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!
 

365 Nights in Hollywood: Enterprising Ernie

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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 “Enterprising Ernie” from that 1926 collection.

ENTERPRISING ERNIE

 
 
It was eight o’clock. The studio workers literally poured through the tiny entrance way—“For Employees Only.”
A few weeks before Ernie had slipped through and made his way around the mass of sets and stages to the offices of International Pictures.
It was a lucky morning for Ernie. The manager of the company was storming about his office boy being late again.
Ernie walked in calmly during the storm and proceeded to tell the manager that he was the one and only boy for the position and that he would be on time—always.
Ernie made a hit.
He got the job.
Ernie was about sixteen years old, had just graduated from grammar school and was a very handsome chap for his age. He had a mass of curly hair—dark brown, and nice even features.
Then there was his determined chin.
That meant a lot. He wasn’t afraid of anything—not even storming managers.
When the office boy arrived about forty-five minutes late, Ernie politely informed him that he was too late this morning, and that he would not find the exit gate crowded in going out.
That was over!
As the days went by, the office forced marveled at the manner in which Ernie went about his new duties. He had an uncanny knack of falling into everything with unusual ability.
Months passed.
Ernie was the wonder of the studio. He was now second assistant to the great manager, who had placed his “find” upon a pedestal of honor and proudly displayed him to rival producers.
Ernie was walking down the studio street one noon on his way to the lunch room, when he was accosted by a very dignified gentleman.
“Young man, could you tell me the name of the manager of the International Pictures company?” asked the man.
Ernie told him.
“I am one of his assistants, is there anything I can do for you?” Ernie asked.
The man waited a few seconds.
“Yes, you might help me. I am endeavoring to secure permission to secure the fan mail, which is directed here—at the studio.”
“I’m afraid that is impossible,” Ernie stated, “as the mail is destroyed immediately after the secretaries have copied the addresses.”
The man seemed disappointed.
“I would be willing to pay—for the letters,” said the man.
Ernie became interested at once. Now the man was talking business.
“I think I may be able to arrange the matter for you,” he said rather sternly.
The man lost his disappointed expression.
“I would be glad to reimburse you.”
“Just how are you going to use the letters?”
The man hesitated.
“I am the publisher of a blue book of the screen, and it is only natural that I should endeavor to secure the names and addresses of the motion picture fans.”
Ernie seemed pleased.
“How much would you be willing to pay for the letters?”
“How many are there a week?”
“Perhaps five thousand and sometimes more.”
“I would be glad to pay ten dollars a week.”
“You get the letters,” said Ernie.
The man seemed puzzled. Ernie came to the rescue.
“I am in charge of the fan mail for this studio and I will bring you the letters personally every week.”
The deal was closed, they shook hands and the man departed.
Ernie had no idea just how he was going to secure the letters, but he thought he could. Anyway, he could back out of the proposition if he failed.
But Ernie didn’t fail.
He went to the secretaries of the various stars and asked if he could collect their discarded mail.
His personality alone won him the privilege. They did not even ask him a question. He talked of other things immediately after their consent.
So Ernie had sold what anyone could have had by digging in the trash cans.
Every week he would secure a large canvas sack and cart his load of fan letters to the man with the ten dollars.
Enterprising Ernie.
 

365 Nights in Hollywood: A Fiend in Follywood

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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 “A Fiend in Follywood” from that 1926 collection.

A FIEND IN FOLLYWOOD

 

“But why on earth should I tell you of my troubles; past, present or future?”
Renee Southerland, casting director of the Royal-Arts Studio in Hollywood, laid down her gold fountain pen and glared contemptuously. Under a steady gaze from eyes that appeared alive with red hot coals, I began sending apprehensive glances toward the doorway. I had a great desire to dash through it into the open air to relieve the stinging bite of a prickly heat which began at the soles of my feet and rushed upward. I knew that I presented a countenance now as vivid red as the ruffled garter Renee wore on a well-rounded calf when she crossed her legs after the prevailing fashion among young women.
“Well, I—er—you see, Mrs. Southerland,” I managed to stammer, “I understand that Hollywood recognizes no conventions, and my experience knows it doesn’t. But the movie people of the inner circles—that’s what I’m driving at. I want to learn about the conventions within those circles.”
I certainly must have presented an extremely ludicrous appearance, standing there in the office of Royal-Art among a troop of promising young movie aspirants—whose sole hopes were in nothing but promises. I was embarrassment personified.
“Oh, I see,” Renee cooled down a bit, and my morale correspondingly ascended. “You want a ‘true confession,’ don’t you? You’re always prying into other people’s pasts—if not their business!” She smiled tauntingly and revealed something amazingly like a dimple in either cheek—a dimple which gave promising hint of a petulant loveliness that at one time must have been exhibited for male approval. For Renee Southerland was well past her youth—and married!
“But Mrs. Southerland,” I said, “I must have a good story, and if you know of a good one, please tell it to me. Mr. Ray over at Pennant Pictures suggested that I pick out a woman casting director.”
Her eyes softened. I regained my composure. One of the movie aspirants snickered, as though he had just fathomed out my predicament. Renee’s eyes again feigned that demoralizing stare.
“There’s no work for you extras today!” she said, haughtily. “Get out of here—come back tomorrow.”
She herded the disappointed and crest-fallen crowd through the door and with an emphatic thrust she slammed it tight.
“I think we can have a little privacy now,” she said, seating herself spryly in a swivel chair. “And I’ll tell you the story of the most crushing incident in my life, and which also crushed someone else just a little bit more than it did me.”

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365 Nights in Hollywood: Lem Bardi, Unlimited

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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 “Lem Bardi, Unlimited” from that 1926 collection.

LEM BARDI,UNLIMITED

 
 
Lem Smith had changed his name!
But it didn’t matter. Hollywood had not formally met the actor yet, anyhow.
Lem had seen Leo Carrillo in Lombardi, Ltd., once, and the title had always stuck with him.
In his own egotistic mind he was the one and only juvenile for the screen. Thus his sudden departure from Texas for Cinemaland.
He had written Harold Lloyd and Tommy Meighan that he was coming. But he supposed they were busy working and couldn’t get away from the studio, as they had not greeted him upon the arrival of the train.
Neither had Sam Goldwyn or Carl Laemmle.
As Lem walked up from the station he passed a sign which read: “Cards Printed. 50c Per Hundred.”
Twenty minutes later Lem was carefully holding a smalls stack of cards bearing the inscription:
“Lem Bardi, Unlimited.”
Lem was a wise guy. He inquired the way to Hollywood. A newsboy directed him west, but Lem was a wise guy to city fellows, so he went east.
He got on the wrong car.
Lem was a wise guy!
Two hours later Lem had his first view of the film village. But there were no celluloid friends in sight. At least none of the stars were out. Lem knew them all.
Lem strolled down the boulevard nonchalantly.
He stopped to gaze into a window.
Jackie Saunders spoke to him. She told him to get off her foot!

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365 Nights in Hollywood: Montmartre Memorabilia

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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 “Montmartre Memorabilia” from that 1926 collection.

MONTMARTRE MEMORABILIA

 
 
After climbing the stairs a pretty Titian-haired girl with blue eyes gives you a green check for your hat and coat.
Many of the chaps in Hollywood never wear a hat. It is economical, at least.
In the lobby the heavy carpet is checkered with black and white. After ascending two steps at the entrance to the cafe, one is greeted by a tall, black-haired man in a tuxedo.
Paul knows—knows whether one would accept a back table or demand a ring-side seat. That is Paul’s business. He is paid for knowing and reading the size of your pocketbook.
And Paul knows! He’s never missed yet.
The ceiling is very high. Beautiful cut glass chandeliers hang low, exhaling brilliant sparkles from their hidden incandescent bulbs. The walls are cream colored with a velvety finish and of the mid-Victorian period.
The south end faces upon the busy boulevard and is a solid row of high French windows, from which extend small balconies. At the other end the entrance and exit to the kitchen are cleverly hidden by a small backing. In front of this is placed the nine-piece orchestra, under the leadership of the famous composer, Vincent Rose.
The dance floor is a cedar square in the exact centre. There are four corner posts, to which are fastened a gauzy network called “The Shiek’s Tent.” This is drawn together, enclosing the floor after the dancing has begun.
Subdued clatter of dishes. Buzz of conversation. High-pitched laughter and coarse guffaws. Vincent is lightly fingering the piano. Shining teeth gleam between lips of dark red. Gowns of all hues. Shirt studs. Spotlights. Shining hair against the bronzed heads of men.
Fascinating.
The tables are terraced on wide stairs circling the dance floor. Around the walls is a continuous seat with tiny tables for two,—close together.
We are seated.
We exchange stares. It is the habit.
Everyone is trying to guess the identity of everyone else.
That is Hollywood.
A well-known film favorite enters and there is a loud buzz of talk. Praises, knocks, scandal. Everything is very Bohemian, yet there is a certain commercial undercurrent, which, to the true Bohemian, is obnoxious.
The music begins. There is a shoving back of chairs, hastily dropped cigarettes into china ashtrays. The girls effect graceful poses as they saunter to the dance floor. The men wear satisfied smiles. All are splendid dancers.
There is nothing so vain as a man—unless it is a woman!

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