Tag: Sime Silverman

A Headline for the Ages

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Today marks the 84th anniversary of the appearance of the greatest newspaper headline ever—or, at the very least, the greatest headline ever to appear in a trade publication.

It was on this day in 1935 that the front page of Variety blared the following:

Photo of aforementioned Variety headline

We’d always understood that the point of the headline (and the story it touted) was that, contrary to the common wisdom of the day, rural moviegoers weren’t showing an interest in motion pictures that took place in rural and small-town settings; they wanted depictions of big-city life.

But that’s not the whole story. In fact, now that we’ve read the article at Variety.com, we’re not really sure this headline is a particularly good fit, as the bit about small-town movie patrons enjoying city-themed movies makes up but a tiny percentage of the story.

Still, over the years, that aggregation of words has brought us great joy; it makes us profoundly happy. We’re not certain who penned the headline—some say it was written by Lyn Bonner; others insist it was the work of Abel Green—but we tip our hat to whomever was responsible.

The headline was also featured in the classic 1942 musical Yankee Doodle Dandy, in which George M. Cohan (played by James Cagney) translates it for a couple of teens.

This post first appeared in this space in slightly different form on July 17, 2012.

Couldn’t have said it better ourselves

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Today marks the 77nd anniversary of the appearance of the greatest newspaper headline ever—or, at the very least, the greatest headline ever to appear in a trade publication.

It was on this day in 1935 that the front page of Variety blared the following:

Photo of aforementioned Variety headline

We’d always understood that the point of the headline (and the story it touted) was that, contrary to the common wisdom of the day, rural moviegoers weren’t showing an interest in motion pictures that took place in rural and small-town settings; they wanted depictions of big-city life.

But that’s not the whole story. In fact, now that we’ve read the article at Variety.com, we’re not really sure this headline is a particularly good fit.

Still, over the years, that aggregation of words has brought us great joy; it makes us profoundly happy. We’re not certain who penned the headline—some say it was written by Lyn Bonner; others insist it was the work of Abel Green—but we tip our hat to whoever was responsible.

There are certain achievements that ought to give one a free pass for life, and, in our book, the coining of that immortal headline certainly qualifies. Here’s hoping Ms. Bonner, Mr. Green, or whoever else it might have been never had to pay for a drink as long as they lived.

Times Square Tintypes: Sime Silverman

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In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles Sime Silverman, the founder of Variety, the bible of show business.
 

VARIETY’S THE SPICE OF LIFE

HE’S the sole owner, publisher and editor of the bible of show business: SIME SILVERMAN.
Caricature of Sime SilvermanVariety, the man in type form, is one of the best, most respected and most influential trade journals in the world.
He was fired from the Morning Telegraph because his review of a vaudeville act displeased the managing editor. While on that sheet he signed his reviews: “The Man in the Third Row.”
He is not moody.
He is fifty-three years old. Was born in Cortland, N. Y. Has been married to the same wife for thirty years. The pride and joy of his life is his son, Syd, who wrote on Variety as a child critic at the age of seven, signing his articles with the pen name “Shigie.”
Decided to publish a paper for the profession which would print news items and show reviews as the staff writers wrote them. He discussed the possibilities with Mrs. Silverman. Together they named it Variety. Then, absentmindedly, she sketched on the table cover the funny capital “V.” It’s still the trademark of the paper.
His first office was a tiny room on the fifth floor of the Knickerbocker Theatre building.
His only pet is an Angora cat named Steve.
He summers at Alexandria Bay—when he summers.
In mid-December, the year 1905, the first copy of Variety, appeared on the newsstands. It contained sixteen pages. It sold for a nickel.
The wise guys gave the paper three months to live.
He likes to eat in road houses. His credit is good everywhere. He always pays cash.
In the beginning Variety‘s space was devoted solely to vaudeville. Today vaudeville receives but little attention, motion pictures being the big feature.
He still reviews the small-time vaudeville shows.
Is probably the hardest working editor in America. His day begins at eight-thirty A. M. Can generally be found at his desk at two A. M. still working.
He eats in the hunting room at the Astor. Is the greatest check grabber Broadway has ever known. Has never been known to allow anyone to pick up the “bad news.” Is a very liberal tipper.
He can go to bed at six in the morning and be waiting for breakfast at seven-thirty.
The thing he hates most in this world is a deadbeat.
At one time things were very bad. Most of his staff had disappeared. He walked into the office one day to find only two men there. One was Johnny O’Connor, one of his reporters. The other was a sheriff, placed there by a creditor. They were playing rummy. It looked as if it would be necessary to get the next issue out in mimeograph form.
Variety was originally published on a Saturday. Then it moved back to Friday. Then to Thursday. Now it appears on Wednesday. This is the only respect in which it has gone backward.
He smokes Turkish cigarettes and Havana cigars. Never takes more than a dozen puffs from either. Never smokes a gift cigar. Never refuses one. His desk is always littered with expensive weeds. As his staff arrives they disappear.
His first office was so small that when one asked a question it was necessary to go into the hall to answer it. Later his office was quartered on the site where Loew’s State Theatre now stands. Today he occupies an entire building in Forty-sixth Street, east of Broadway, that formerly housed Frances, the modiste. His desk is on a platform where models used to pose. It’s his throne.
He weighs about 180. Has never been known to walk fast or eat slowly.
He never wears a vest.

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