Hollywood Draws the Line (1929) 🇺🇸

Hollywood, like every other small city in the United States, is a community divided against itself. It, too, takes cognizance of the caste system.

by Bob Moak

But where the railroad tracks form the great social divide in Oshkosh and Kankakee and Davenport, three reels of celluloid tape serve as the film capital’s arbiter.

Over in Plainfield, for example. Mrs. Jones, who lives north of the steel rails and ties, wouldn’t for a moment consider inviting Mrs. Smith, who lives on the south side, to her tea in honor of Minnie Brown, the banker’s daughter, who is about to glide to the altar.

Neither does Gloria Swanson, star of eight-reel pictures, bid Dorothy Devore, luminary of the two-reelers, to her reception for the new Mrs. John Gilbert.

Nor does Charlie Chaplin include Lupino Lane among his guests at functions at the Chaplin manor. Both are natives of England. Both are comedians. Both hold stellar contracts.

Yes, Hollywood, too, has its other side. Here, however, the question is not the size of one’s bank account, but rather the length of one’s films.

Stan Laurel, the comedy star, went to see Mary Pickford’s “Coquette” during its Los Angeles run, and shed copious tears. The “first lady” of Hollywood is Stan’s favorite actress.

Not long ago Mary visited a theater showing one of the recent Laurel-Hardy comedies, simply because the two-reeler was on the program. There she tossed dignity to the wind, and bent over in laughter at the antics of the slapstick star. Mary believes Stan is one of the funniest actors on the screen.

Now, Stan’s income is sufficient to permit him to employ a staff of servants to maintain his attractive home in Beverly Hills, of which place Mary also is a resident and a voter. Yet the real-life path of Stan Laurel has never crossed that of Mary Pickford. Should the two meet on Hollywood Boulevard, it is doubtful if one would recognize the other.

Between these two players, who have genuine admiration for the histrionic ability of one another, lies that imaginary three thousand feet of film.

Some of the most famous of the silver sheet’s satellites received their camera schooling in the two-reelers, then stepped to world prominence in feature-length pictures. There are others, however, who have rejected all offers for higher salaries in the five-reelers to travel their merry way in the twos. Lupino Lane stands out as a sort of king of this colony of stars of the brevities, who live and play on the other side of celluloidia. His salary of $2,000 a week, augmented by a percentage of the profits of his pictures, makes him the best paid of the workers in these diminutive laugh-provokers.

But after three years of sitting on top, Lane’s position is being threatened by Stan Laurel, who receives $2,000 a week under a contract that provides for a $500 increase each six months, until he attains $3,000 for every six days’ work.

Charlie Chase [Charley Chase] probably ranks third in the field, insofar as income is concerned, with a weekly pay check of $1,500.

Bobby Vernon, who holds the record for continuous service with the same producer, draws $1,000. Bobby has been under contract to Christie [Al Christie] for thirteen years.

Others of the comedians in the two-reelers, who make $1,000 a week or more, include Harry Gribbon, Oliver Hardy, Neil Burns, Billy Dooley, Jack Duffy, Jerry Drew, Raymond Griffith, Raymond Hatton, Lloyd Hamilton, Edward Everett Horton, Charlie Grapewin [Charley Grapewin], and the Gleasons — James and Lucille [James Gleason | Lucile Gleason].

Among the young women who draw from $750 a week or more in the shorts are Dorothy Devore, Estelle Bradley, Betty Boyd, Frances Lee, Anita Garvin, Edna Marion, and Thelma Todd.

No, the wolf isn’t concealing himself in the shrubbery that decorates the lawns on the other side of Hollywood.

I asked Dorothy Devore why class distinction should crop up among those who make their living by amusing the world. Her reply was most sensible, I thought.

“Those of us who work in the shorts lead a different sort of a life than those in the longer pictures. We put in more hours in the studios, and our work is more strenuous while we are before the camera. When we finish at night, we’re just too tired to dress and go out to the Montmartre, the Coconut Grove, or to the Mayfair dances.

“The result is that we never really get to know those who work for the major companies.”

While I was talking with Dorothy, my thoughts wandered to Bobby Vernon.

A few months back, the Christie comedian was forced to undergo a dangerous operation on his spine, due, the doctors said, to years of taking falls in order to make theatergoers laugh.

“Short comedies,” Bobby once told me, “are nerve-wrecking, in addition to the chances we constantly take of receiving dangerous injuries. In the shorts there are no long shots, and the result is that we do not employ doubles. We must work fast, for our action is speeded in order to tell the story in two reels.

Comedy that drags along is not real comedy.

“The shooting schedules on our pictures never run more than a week. It is nothing to work from eight o’clock in the morning until midnight. When I get through, comfortable slippers, a dressing gown and a newspaper look better to me than all the restaurants and theaters in the world.”

And I found that Bobby voiced the sentiment of the other fun makers.

Not long ago I was a dinner guest at the home of Lupino Lane, who began his theatrical career on the London variety stage, was imported to New York for the “Follies,” and who, after making one five-reeler in the East, came to Hollywood to devote his talents to the two-reelers.

To me he is one of the outstanding comics of the screen, but offstage one might mistake him for a quiet, dignified banker of any American village. He leaves his wisecracks and acrobatics behind when he walks out of the studio gate.

His home, a large place near Hollywood’s eastern boundary, is not unlike that of the leading citizen of the average small town. It is substantial. Its furnishings are costly, yet subdued.

Lupino’s closest friends are those he made in his stage days. Time off from studio labors finds him puttering about his grounds, reading to Lauri, his eight-year-old son, or in his library, writing the story and constructing the comedy for his next picture.

Lupino startled me with the news that he had been in the Montmartre, the gathering place of the feature-length players, just twice in the three years he has been in Hollywood. He has yet to pay his first visit to the Coconut Grove.

Charlie Chase leads the life of a successful business man. with but a single exception. Charlie — and this is supposed to be a secret — plays ping-pong. In fact, he is so enthusiastic about the game he has lost all taste for golf and aviation.

Charlie is hailed as one of filmland’s most popular hosts, and he insists that his friends come and see him. He prefers to entertain in his own home to all the other places. On Sundays he maintains open house.

Recently Charlie built a spacious residence in Santa Monica, which is presided over by Mrs. Chase, who divides her time between supervising the servants and mothering their two small daughters.

Stan Laurel, too, is a father. His infant girl is his greatest pride.

Stan seldom goes out in the evening and he seldom entertains. When he does the latter, it is in the form of a small party in his own dining room, and the guests include his coworkers, or those who became his friends in his vaudeville days.

Both Charlie and Stan have been approached with contracts that would take them out of the “curtain-raiser” films and star them in full-lengths, but neither would listen.

Charlie Chaplin, Gloria Swanson, the Talmadges [Norma Talmadge | Constance Talmadge | Natalie Talmadge], Marie Prevost, Lupe Vélez, and many others, used the short comedies as a training ground. It wouldn’t be possible to get them to make one to-day.

On the other hand, Raymond Griffith, Raymond Hatton, the Gleasons, and Edward Everett Horton have deserted the big time for the two-reelers.

Thelma Todd, erstwhile Boston school-teacher, who began her career with Paramount and served out a long period with First National, has joined forces with Hal Roach for the next five years.

“I didn’t know what a good time I was missing,” said Thelma, anent her new work.

Estelle Bradley, to my notion is one of the most beautiful blondes in the movies, yet she never has played in a full-sized picture.

Estelle was “Miss Atlanta” in 1924, and won a try-out with Warners, but before she could play her initial role for them, she was grabbed up by Educational. She has just completed four years with that company.

A few weeks ago her contract expired and she was offered more money by Fox.

“Your school days are ended,” I said to her.

“Not on your life,” she replied. “I am going to make two-reelers for my new boss.”

I asked Estelle how those who stayed behind in the shorts felt toward those who deserted them for the long attractions.

“There is no feeling of jealousy,” she said. “We who go on in the two-reelers are happy to see the others step out for what they consider the field of greater opportunity. As they leave, it moves up the ladder those of us who stay behind.

“Perhaps some day, I too, shall go into features, but it will have to be at a much higher salary. To me, and to many others, the shorts are far more fascinating.

“We make our friends in our own studios. They speak our language. Naturally, they are the people we most enjoy being with. I’d be willing to wager that a party at Lupino Lane’s, or Charlie Chase’s, or Bobby Vernon’s, or Harry Gribbon’s, is heaps more fun than one of those formal affairs at Gloria Swanson’s, or Mary Pickford’s.”

Hollywood, it seems, will continue as a two-clique town, so when you’re asked the pass word, just answer the question, “What length films?”

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Lupino Lane, “king” of the shorts, is never entertained by his fellow-countryman, Charlie Chaplin. — Photo by: W. F. Seely

Lloyd Hamilton’s face is unknown at the Montmartre.

Estelle Bradley is seen only at gatherings of two-reel stars. — Photo by: Richter

Charlie Chase has declined chances to join the other colony.

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Betty Boyd ranks high in curtain-raiser film circles.

Thelma Todd recently abandoned drama for slapstick, and is glad of it. — Photo by: Brown

Stan Laurel has an attractive home in Beverly Hills, but is unknown to the film elite.

Bobby Vernon speaks for the funsters on the caste question.

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Collection: Picture Play Magazine, September 1929