A picture no artist could paint was presented by Sammy Goldwyn, nee Goldfish, as he stood wreathed in smiles at the entrance to the Astor theatre, New York, waiting for congratulations after the premier showing of “Earthbound.” Someone in the Goldwyn publicity department must have tipped Sam off that he had a good picture, so, baldhead and all, there he was waiting for the critics to line up and pat him on the back. You know, all our very best film magnates are like that, shunning the limelight and detesting publicity.
In a corner of the Astor Hotel, where as many million dollar companies are started (on paper) each day, as upon the rug of the Alexandria Hotel, Los Angeles, each night, several gentlemen were discussing D. W. Griffith the other day.
One was telling a story to the effect that the Great D. W. had gotten himself unpopular in a great many circles.
Says he, “Griffith, y’know has forgotten his ‘ham fat’ days, and with his resonant voice and omnipotent air, gotten himself generally ‘in wrong,’ Well, an advertising solicitor breezed around to his offices the other day, and Grey, his man Friday, like a faithful Great Dane, blatantly berated the man for daring to insinuate Griffith should advertise. ‘Do you know you speak of the Great Griffith,’ says Grey.
Great H——,’ sulphurously replied the ad solicitor. ‘When he comes through with an advertising contract I’ll stand for that bull.’ ”
We doubt if there is a shrewder woman in the theatrical game than Justine Johnston, Realart’s new star. Justine, otherwise Mrs. Waenger (yep, he is with Realart, too) has our deep respect. Prior to marriage she got along very well, from Ziegfeld Follies days, through her period as hostess in Broadway “gyp” joints, down to the time she guided the destinies of “The Little Club.” Ask any New Yorker of the latter place. We thought Justine’s hand was out of the Club, then after paying two and a half dollars for a snifter of something or other, we wondered. However, that is natural. Every time we think of Justine, we somehow think of the word “expense.”
Boy, page Morris Gest!