Judge — August 1, 1931 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

JUDGE lie GEORGE J AIRE: O yew months ago, a representa- tive of one of the news reel companies came around with an invitation to appear on the screen, in my ty as profe: sor-critic, and to tell the movie aud ence what I thought of the news reels. As any such thing as a financial re- ward for the performance went un- mentioned—any such low idea, in- deed, secmed grievously to offend the fine wsthetic sensibilities of the caller —and as I could get no written guar- antee that soft-focus photography would be employed to persuade the audience that I was a handsome fel- low, I declined the invitation—impo- litely, I fear, without thanks. How- ever, as you don't have to look at me while reading—the picture used at the top of this page is not one of me, as you have long supposed, but one of Bismarck as a young man, thus fool- ing you into an impression of this de- partment’s austere strength — how- ever, as I say, as you don't have to distress yourself looking at me while you read, I'll give you my little lec- ture on the news reels in this place. With all the new the world to choose from, the news reels, year in and year out, are about as fresh and newsy as Hostetter’s Bitters Almanac for 1890. Nothing more routine and monotonous has been unloaded on the entertainment-seeking populace since De Wolf Hopper stopped his nightly recitations of “Casey At the Bat,” that is, if he has stopped them. You can go to a news reel today and con- fidently predict exactly what will be in it ten times out of ten. By way of proving the truth of this, I have taken myself to two dozen different exhibi- tions in the last couple of months, have written down on a slip of paper what I knew I was surely going to see, and have slipped up only once. That was at the Embassy Theatre during a reel showing the usual fash- ion models displaying the summer styles when one of the models pro- nounced mousseline de soie correctly. The rest of the time the guesses were 100 per cent right. ctual count, I have seen the and Duchess of York dedicating two times. I have seen the surf-riders at Waikiki seventy times; I have seen 186. ski-ing con- tests; and the diving horse has con- fronted these old eyes on no less than fifty-two occasions. That thre old California brat who is quite a swimmer for his age and whose father pats his little rear affectionately when he comes out of the tank seems to be in every third news reel, and in every second one you can bet your bottom dollar you'll sce a horse race, photo- graphed in part with a telephoto lens that makes it impossible for you to tell which horse is which, and during which an idiotic-looking girl in the stands is shown jumping up and down excitedly and yelling, “Come on, you Bluebell!" When I think of the flower fétes I've looked I get an attack of my old trigeminal neuralgia. The fancy divers, too, to y nothing of the father of fifteen children, all of whom closely resemble morons, do nothing to console me. And as for the reels showing Presi- dent Hoover moving timorously up to the camera as if it were a bad smell, only the views of the Northampton girls playing basketball that used to be on nightly ten years ago can come anywhere near equalling the record. The baby show, with one colored kid inserted among the white babies to add a touch of humor, is another big favor- ite of the news reel executives. And let's not forget the aeroplane stuff, the wonderful invention of the sound film making us now all privy to the surprising news that acroplanes make a terrible racket. What is more, the next time I go to a news reel and see Lindbergh, Clarence Chamberlin, Bernt Balchen or Amelia Earhart, I'll not be responsible for my conduct. I think I can also get through life without any more views of King Al- year- number of , with floats, NACHIHIAN fonso at Deauville. And the news reel folks needn't think I'll get mad at them if they don’t show me any more ceremonies at the grave of the Un- known Soldier at Arlington. The little five-year-old girl prodigy from Brooklyn who ws the names of the last six Presidents of the United States and who can spell Missis- sippi is free to give up the screen any time she wants to, so far as I am con- cerned; and I promise not to get homesick for any more views of the Easter celebration in Seville, Sloppy Joe's bar in Havana, or the King and Queen leaving Buckingham Palace in that hack. Glancing through my sta- tistics, I] observe that I have seen 189 news reels of Ramsay MacDonald, ninety-two of King Albert of Bel- gium, and 357 of Jimmy Walker. On sixty-four different evenings I have scen von Hindenburg reviewing Ger- man troops; on seventy-one I have seen a baby golfer, with its proud father making compliments on his off- spring's virtuosity; on 482 I have seen the Prince of Wales arriving at some place or departing from some other place, always with his head hung and looking sheepish; and on seventy-six I have seen demonstrations of bullet- proof vests. Cross-country motor-cycling secms to occupy the attention of the ne men for at least 300 da y The cherry-blossom trees in Washington, D. C., and Mussolini's he-man scowl may be expected every third weck or so. And Steel Helmet Day celebration in Berlin comes along annually as regularly as Christmas. Once a year, as sure as clock-work, you are bound to see the tapping of the first barrel of bock beer in Mu- nich, the preliminary season limber- ing up of the New York Giants in their Southern training camp, the tapping of maple syrup in the Cana- dian woods, and the flower carnival at Cannes. What's more, the pictures are always exactly the same, including (Continued on page 32) comicbooks.com