Judge — September 10, 1921 — page 17: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THIS PICTURE COST over’s00.000. TEN MONTHS WERE SPENT ON ITS PRODUCTION. 600.000 FEET OF FILM YYERE SHOT TO GET 7450 FEET. 8000 COSTUMES WERE USED 2000 PEOPLE IN THE CAdT. Drawn by Paut ReILLy. PRESS-AGENT’S SIREN SONG. THE Exit. The Golden Egg HEN a boy makes up his mind W to run away from home, he rarely, if ever, cuts his breeches down behind him. This overt act is usually performed by the author of his being with beetling brow, ground teeth and a shingle— the brow and teeth working rhyth- mically and providing the wholly un- necessary driving power for the shingle. From that moment on, the boy usually stands up for home until he is able to be about again. When little John Golden ran away from home, he broke all records by breeching the distance without par- ental aid, either moral or financial, but, in that even then present fore- sightedness of his, he “Turned to the Right” and has at every turn, un- erringly taken the right turn. Since that eventful day, all records have fallen under the magic, Golden touch until we feel that if we were a record we wouldn’t come within a mile of him. Having thus gotten away with the improbable, he tackled the impossi- ble: Breaking into the theater with- out a kit of burglar’s tools or a re- lationship with the Shuberts. John Golden likes to remember that his first job in the theater was on the theater. After the fashion of the goose of golden egg fame (who must have been his god-father) he believed in laying golden eggs. But he also believed in laying bricks—not gold § bricks but good, honest-to-straw red ones—and so it was that he began his theatric career as a bricklayer in the Harrigan Theater, now the Garrick, on Thirty-fifth Street, New York. John Golden’s golden opportunity, however, came to him through the writing of lyrics; the kind of thing that anybody can write with his eyes By Georce Mrrcue.i shut and who usually writes them that way. A lyric is one of those strange ferms of literature that hit or miss —generally they miss. They are worth anywhere from a mill to a mil- lion—generally a mill. You shoot one into the air and it comes back not at all, or it comes back with a fortune hanging from it’s tail feathers. But the man who locks his faith- in-himself on himself and then throws away the key may order his niche in the Hall of Fame. John Golden wrote a million lyrics that were worth a million dollars but for which he received a mill. Then he wrote a lyric that was worth a mill and he won a million dollars. With the first royal royalty from “Good-bye Girls, I’m Through” he Drawn by M. F. Suea. “Hey! Gort A CIGARETTE?” 17 set up shop for himself and went into the producing business that has been so productive to not only himself but to all those of us who follow what is good in the theater. “Poor Butterfly” alone has enjoyed her poverty. It has coined so much money for Golden that he has long since been bored to death counting it and his bank-books comprise a library that need a card index. “Turn to the Right” has burnished his golden cheeks with plutocratic shame. The Golden Goose hangs high and is daily hanging higher. Golden has snapped his fingers at superstition. He has shoved that old adage about “lightning never strik- ing twice in the same place” down its own throat. With his jovial touch he has caused “Lightnin’” to strike over eight times a week for the past four years in New York’s Gaiety Theatre and from the looks of things and in spite of the tear-stained face of Saint Swithen, it will go on strik- ing as long as there is a rind on Bacon. All may not be gold that glitters but all glitters that is Golden. Curiosity “You are asked to act as a judge in a beauty contest of bathing girls. J} Will you serve?” Are we to ori “Well, I don’t know. judge by the face, or er—er— The Literalist Small Amelia, aged two and a half years, knows no fear of the dark. “Amelia, are you never afraid to sleep alone in the dark?” asked a visitor. Came Amelia’s prompt reply. “ft don’t sleep in the dark, I sleep in my little white bed.” comicbooks.com