Life — August 9, 1928 — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

Dear Pat Wittarp: I've just work- ed myself up into another lather listen- ing to a group of flops complain about the flipcracking dra- matic critics that we have in this great big naughty town of ours. You know the argument, Willard. It hasn't been altered since you were last here stifling yawns. What the country needs most, argue these tablecloth mathe- maticians, is not a blue serge suit that peddles for twenty-five bucks but a polly- anna dramatic reviewer who doesn’t get gay in his reports, and who is construc- tive! Will Rogers hasn't been that comical | in years. You were in your short bloomers when one of the greatest of all the critics used to-sit on the aisle down front in a Denver theater and audibly hurl dispar- aging remarks at the hams. That was Eugene Field, as constructive a drama de- | fender as ever there was, but he was also readable, Willard. Give me the critic who. Knows What He Likes and, when he doesn’t like it, can make me titter read- | ing his stuff. At that, the Brouns, Bench- leys, Nathans and Hammonds, with all of their vitriol, didn’t stop “Abie’s Irish Rose.” It took the good old moom pitcher THE Boss SAYS WE HAVE GoT TO PRODUCE A ONE-DAY CRYSTAL- ONE. THAT WONT LAST A BUDDY OF MINE (N THE ACCOUNTING DEPARTMENT SANG WE LOSE ON WATCHES BUT CLEAN UP ON CRYSTALS lin Lire (IN A WRIST WATCH FACTORY ~ BENDING EVERY ENERGY TO MAKE WRIST WATCH CRYSTALS MORE FRAGILE Benno THE Scenes or a Great INDUSTRY industry to get that turkey’s number After a brief session on the New York screen, it was as dead as the Charleston, What I started out to say, old pal, was that whether the boys are wisecrackers o not, the Dear People can’t be enticed to 3 sour show. The records prove that out of every two hundred attractions produced in Manhattan each season, no less than one hundred and fifty automatically fold up, like so many accordions. Simply be. cause they are poor plays, of course, The good ones survive even when the critics fumble in their judgment; and when one | of the oracles makes a bum guess his mail is crowded with teehees forwarded by Types Who Would! I still care in a Bi Way for the comeback registered by wie liam Winter, who was cornered by an actor. “I don’t give a damn what critics say about me,” the actor lied; “all I ask is this. Before you tell me how to do it, show me how it should be done!” “My good fellow,” retorted the reviewer, “Tam not a hen and I cannot lay an egg —but I certainly know a bad one when I open it!” Among other things I've been panting to tell you is that Mayor Jimmy Walker (before he held office) was in a restaurant where he saw a man twice his size strike a woman. Walker went to her rescue and got knocked cold for his trouble..... Which reminds me of Dorothy Parker's swell two-line poem in her book, “Sunset Gun.” It goes: “Men never make passes At girls who wear glasses"—or maybe you read that when it was first published The next time you hit the sheet music counters ask for “Think of Me Thinking of You,” which is plenty nice, and Brunswick record 3938 of “l Can't Give You Anything but Love" sill is my favorite... . The time-worn phras, “That's my story and I'll stick to it!” has been ditched by the Broadwayminded for: “That's my story—and I'm stuck with it!” and the newest toast heard at aa apartment party was this one hiccoughed by a phlip phrail: “Here’s to Hell! May the stay there be as nice as the way there.” Walter Winchell. NO CONTEST “Dip you hear about the police stop ping the championship fight last night?” “No. What for?” 3 “One of the boxers hit the other one. comicbooks.com VW on he