In the Theaters, April 2, 1911

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Posted in Stage | 1 Comment

Second Takes — Billy Wilder

1939_0309_midnight_usa

At left, our 1939 review of "Midnight," with Don Ameche and Claudette Colbert, which carried Billy Wilder's first writing credit in The Times.

We can quickly cover his earlier work in Hollywood:

Oct. 12, 1934: "One Exciting  Adventure" is the second half of a double bill at the Pantages with "Love Time." The Times' critic finds "Adventure" hard to follow.

Dec. 23, 1934: "Music in the Air" gets a two-paragraph rave in a roundup of current films.

Apparently we didn't even review "Under Pressure" or "The Lottery Lover."

Feb. 5, 1937: Edwin Schallert's review of "Champagne Waltz" finds "a thin, formula plot," but praises several scenes. Performances at the Paramount Theater featured Rube Wolf! 

March 23, 1938: Schallert calls "Bluebeard's Eighth Wife," written by Wilder and Charles Brackett, "a pretty, pink romantic cream puff."

Sept. 29, 1938: Schallert says, "Fourth picture in a row of the top-notch variety stars Deanna Durbin and in Hollywood that might almost be nominated a cinema miracle.  'That Certain Age,'  different from any of its predecessors, defeats attempts at comparison and simultaneously registers as yet another triumph for the little singing lady."

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Kathy Fiscus Revisited — April 9, 1949

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The Times, April 9, 1949, a little San Marino girl is trapped in an old well.

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L.A.Times photo

Bill Yancey is lifted to the surface, carrying the body of Kathy Fiscus.

I attended William Deverell's lecture Monday night on the Kathy Fiscus tragedy. Several people in the audience at the Huntington remembered watching live TV coverage or listening to it on the radio. One woman said she was 11 years old at the time and was at the rescue scene for an hour or so.

Here's a lofi recording for those who missed the lecture. 

Posted in broadcasting, Front Pages, Television | 1 Comment

Mickey Cohen at Center of Underworld Probe; Comedy of Errors at Wrigley Field, April 2, 1949

1949_0402_ads

1949_0402
The San Bernardino County Grand Jury finds widespread corruption in the Sheriff's Department.
What do we find in the 1949 paper but Mickey Cohen in the middle of the Alfred Pearson scandal. To vastly simply the story, Pearson picked up a $4,000 house for $26.50 at a marshal's sale after he brought a lien against the owner — a widow — for an $8 bill at his radio repair shop. Cohen talks about this incident at length in his autobiography, claiming that Mayor Fletcher Bowron wanted him to "take care of" Pearson because Pearson was unfairly exploiting the law. Also notice the late Sam Rummel, attorney who was shot to death outside his home in December 1950. The Times called him "underworld mouthpiece" Sam Rummel. 

1949_0402_runover

Alfred Pearson offers a deal to return the widow's home.

1949_0402_jury

San Bernardino County Sheriff James Stocker denies corruption charges.

1949_0402_theater

Susan Hayward has as good as signed a deal for "My Foolish Heart," based on a J.D. Salinger story.

1949_0402_comics

Just a guess but I think "Nancy" is referring to a Ponzi scheme … and we have a seriously unfunny "Ferd'nand."

1949_0402_sports
I'm no baseball purist. Low-scoring games bore me as do contests
filled with well-executed plays by highly compensated stars. Maybe it
has something to do with all the years I spent watching Little League
games but I find baseball is best when it's unpredictable.

My two sons went with me to spring training in Arizona recently and
we saw two games in one day, a crisp Angels game in Tempe followed by a
wild and sloppy Giants game in Scottsdale that included a nine-run
inning and several horrible plays. I'll take the Giants game any day.

The old Los Angeles Angels won such a contest at Wrigley Field,
defeating the Seattle Rainiers 12-10. But as The Times' Al Wolf wrote,
"They really didn't win at all."

Carmen Mauro's pinch-hit, three-run home run was the difference with
two outs in the ninth inning. If things were only that simple.

With one out, Dick Wilson struck out and reached first base when the
ball got away from the catcher. The runner at first advanced to second.
Wilson should have been out automatically–a hitter can't advance on a
strikeout if there's a runner already at first. That should have been
the second out.

Eddie Malone popped out and that should have been the ballgame. Instead that was the second out. Mauro then homered.

The Rainiers should have protested and they did–in the first inning over a completely different matter.

"[Seattle] Manager Jo-Jo White … fell asleep–along with the
umpires and all the Seattle players–when he had a real kick coming in
the ninth and fateful inning," Wolf wrote.

They missed some ending.

–Keith Thursby

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Found on EBay — Earl Carroll’s Nightclub

Earl_carroll_ashtray_ebay

This unusual ashtray from Earl Carroll's nightclub has been listed on EBay. Bidding starts at $6.99.
Posted in Nightclubs | Comments Off on Found on EBay — Earl Carroll’s Nightclub

Matt Weinstock — April 1, 1959

End of the Trail

Matt_weinstockdIt
may take a generation or two — and in the broad scheme of things what
are a few years — but writer Bob Schiller is confident of the
inevitable demise of the TV western. The thought came to him when he
took his children to a dentist. The doctors, technicians and
receptionists were all dressed in cowboy outfits. The kids sat on
saddles.

The masquerade, of course, is designed to distract them
and dispel any silly notion that what the dentist is about to do to
them will hurt.

Maybe it does. On the other hand, maybe it
doesn't. And if it doesn't, let's look ahead. Can you imagine kids
wanting any truck with cowpokes who come at them with pincers and
drills?

::


A LADY WHO

received an electric toaster for Easter has no use for it so she took
it back to the store to exchange it for an electric frying pan, which
she has wanted for a long time.

As she stood at the exchange
counter she got the feeling the man there was not having one of his
good days. And when he asked, "May I have your plate, please?" she had
an impulse. As she fished in her purse for her charge plate she asked,
"Upper or lower?"

Broke the ice.

::

EASTER MOURNING

That nine dollar tag
On the hat had a catch —
The gloves, shoes and bag
That the dress had to match.

— CLIFF MACKAY

::

AS SHE awakened her second-grader at 6:30 a.m. for school, Mrs. Charles Perrill of Whittier announced "Time to get up! All the birds are up already!"

Little
girl blue wondered why they got up so early. Her mother said, "Well you
know, the early bird gets the worm!" Came the query, "What time do the
worms get up?"

Which should make non-parents understand why parents sometimes wear a defeated look.

::


ST. PATRICK'S DAY
is long gone but a gal named Helen still cherishes it. She drove her old black Chevrolet into a place advertising a free carwash for green cars that day. Noticing the new cars all around as she waited, she remarked, "My car is green with envy."

The attendant looked at it and said, "It sure is. One free carwash!"

::


QUOTE & UNQUOTE —
John
J. Anthony, the TV problem solver, heard a woman waiting to be
interviewed remark to her companion, "You don't have to have a brain to
be stupid!" He's still reeling … Sudden realization: Some of the new
cars recall the classic line in the old song "Mr. Five By Five" that
goes, "There's no way of knowin' if it's comin' or goin.' "

::


LITERARY NOTES —
Just finished reading Tennessee Williams' new play, "Sweet Bird of Youth." Again, for assorted deep South viciousness, ol'
Tenn leaves nothing to the imagination … The Saturday Evening Post's
circulation is now more than 6,000,000, up from 4,702,000 in 1955. Its
editorial comment: "More and more thoughtful people are turning to
reading for the answers they want" … Press release from Mad magazine
states it is "from the padded cells of."

::


AT RANDOM —
So you think some people go overboard naming dogs? Steve Bilheimer
of the Glendale Kennel Club, which will hold its spring all-breed show
Sunday, recalls that when Charles Dickens, on a tour of the United
States, was presented with a white terrier named Timber Doodle he
changed it to Snittle Timbery
… Figuring the average motorist drives 12,000 miles a year and gets
15 miles to the gallon, the Auto Club estimates the amount of fuel it
takes to fill a DC-8 jet would last a car owner 29.1 years. Fifteen
miles to the gallon? What dreamers! … On the freeways 5 p.m. is the
rush hour. Stan Wood suggests bars which lower the price of drinks at
that time should call it the lush hour.

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Paul Coates — Confidential File, April 1, 1959

Confidential File

My Mom Loves Me, in a Sinister Fashion

Paul_coatesI'm
a member, in good standing, of the grossly sentimental school which
maintains, despite statistical evidence to the contrary, that a boy's
best friend is his mother.

When all others fail you, she'll come
smiling through. She loves you because of your faults, not in spite of
them. "M" is for the million things she gave you.

Stuff like that.

And no matter how many miles may separate you from her, it's always a comfort to know that you can call and keep in touch.

So,
the other day, beset by the cares of a troubled world and a wife who
understands me too well, I dialed the long-distance operator and called
home.

"Mom," I cried when she answered. "Guess who."

"How do you feel, sonny?" she said, cutting through the frivolity.

"Feel fine," I told her.

"Umm," she murmured in a tone tinged with doubt.

"Just fine," I said again.

"You sound tired," she suggested.

"Not a bit."

"Are you keeping something from me?" she asked hopefully.

I assured her that I wasn't keeping anything from her. She fell silent and I continued:

 "Of course, there was a thing a few weeks ago."

"What thing?" she demanded.

"Well, the doctor said my cholesterol was too high."

"Hah!" she cried triumphantly. "I knew it. I knew it."

"It's nothing, though," I went on hastily.

"Nothing?" she snorted. "It's a very serious thing. People are dropping like flies."

"But I had it tested just a few days ago, mother dear. And the doctor said it was down to normal."

"Doctors!" she said bitterly. "Who can believe doctors?"

"But …"

"They only tell you what you want to hear."

"But the tests showed…"

"Tests!" she snapped. "Tests don't mean a thing.

Living Is So Fatal

"We
have a neighbor," she went on. "Never a sick day in his life. Tip-top
condition. Woke up one morning feeling like a million. And that night
…"

"Dead?" I asked.

"Umm hmm," she replied.

"Cholesterol?" I asked.

"It wasn't from a head cold," she told me.

"So," she concluded, "tests or not tests, you can never tell."

"Goodbye, mom," I said with a feeling of finality.

" 'Bye, son," she replied. "And don't worry. Worry's the worst thing for a person in your condition."

Note:
I always get nervous when Coates writes about his health, knowing, as
he couldn't have known, that he would die he was 47–lrh.

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In the Theaters — April 1, 1909

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Posted in Film, Hollywood, Stage | 1 Comment

Second Takes — Billy Wilder

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Photograph by Ken Hively / Los Angeles Times

Billy Wilder, Dec. 17, 1999, at Louis Stern Fine Arts in West Hollywood.

Note: I had so much fun posting a month's worth of Times stories about Raymond Chandler that I thought I'd continue the feature. Here's the first feature in a month-long look at Billy Wilder–lrh.

BILLY WILDER'S 50-YEAR ITCH IN HOLLYWOOD

March 2, 1986

By PAUL ROSENFIELD,

Billy Wilder was having trouble
finding a teaspoon–in his own kitchen yet–so finally, sheepishly, he
curled a finger and led a visitor to the Wilder dining room. There,
Hollywood's most mischievous immigrant borrowed a spoon from the
impeccably set table. That night, Audrey and Billy Wilder were
entertaining for 10. ("A nice group of right-wing Democrats," joshed
the host.) As Wilder swiped the spoon, he did a double take, making
very sure his wife wasn't around. It's no accident that the Wilders'
dinner parties are the closest thing Hollywood has to an '80s salon.
(Truman Capote's chapter on Hollywood in his unfinished "Answered
Prayers" was called "And Audrey Wilder Got Up To Sing." There's a
reason. The former Tommy Dorsey band singer, still skinny as a hairpin
sideways, still gets up to sing, but she also doubles as the town's
most entertaining hostess.)

"But today," Billy Wilder
complained, "I wish I was on Sam Spiegel's yacht. In Sardinia. If I
wanted all this media attention, I'd have called myself Billy Windex."
With that, the writer-director-producer made instant coffee, answered
another call and took a seat. There was no more stalling:On Thursday,
Billy Wilder is getting the American Film Institute's Life Achievement
Award, and that's what the shouting's about.

The irony is that
for all Wilder's bravura, and credits–"Sunset Boulevard," "Stalag 17,"
"Sabrina," "Seven Year Itch," "Spirit of St. Louis," "Some Like It Hot"
(and those are just the ones starting with S )–Wilder is still very
much the loner. For years now, he and collaborator I.A.L. ("Iz")
Diamond have spent five of every seven mornings (sans secretaries) at
the Writers and Artists Building in Beverly Hills, working on
screenplays. (Lately, though, Wilder can be found down the street at
United Artists' new headquarters, where he's just signed on as a
special consultant. "I'm in the kitchen cabinet, and busy," as he puts
it.) So when the home phone rings, as now it must, for autographs and
interview requests–Wilder wears a mock look of being put-upon.

The
thing is, he doesn't mean it. Mr. Hyde and Mr. Hyde, as the late wit
Harry Kurnitz called him, would never admit it, but he likes the
attention. To be 50 years at the top is no accident. In 1944, Alfred
Hitchcock said it best:"The two most important words in the motion
picture business are Billy Wilder. " Hitchcock was talking about
variety . To co-write "Ninotchka" for Garbo, then last long enough to
be in Jerry Weintraub's kitchen cabinet at UA, is to go the distance.
But unlike director-peers Hitchcock and John Huston, Wilder got the
attention on his own terms, in his own private, chameleonic way. No
cameo roles for him, onscreen or off.

The Wilder wit–the
sweet-and-sour cocktails he delivers on command, the lines like
"slipping out of wet clothes into a dry martini"–are always
forthcoming. But Wilder, the man with the mind full of razor blades, is
behind the scenes, never in front. Until now. (NBC will air a one-hour
version of the AFI evening April 26.) One resists the temptation to ask
Wilder if, like his quintessential Hollywood character Norma Desmond,
he's ready for his close-up.

More to the point: What would the
close-up reveal? How much of Billy Wilder is in Billy Wilder's movies?
The silver-haired septuagenarian rolled up the sleeves on his gray
cashmere sweater and agreed to give the question a whirl. In the '20s,
after leaving Vienna to become a journalist in Berlin, in one morning
he interviewed Sigmund Freud, Alfred Adler, Arthur Schnitzler and
Richard Strauss. So the question-answer process is not unfamiliar.

"Isn't
it pieces of yourself, of your life, that you inevitably use?" he asked
rhetorically. "You suck art out of your finger in a way." In one way or
another. Wilder was a gigolo in Mexico a thousand years ago, and a
Mexican gigolo (played by Charles Boyer) turned up, rather impishly, in
"Hold Back the Dawn."

"Or let's take 'Sunset Boulevard,' "
suggested Wilder. "Maybe you believe it when William Holden's car is
repossessed. Because yes, it happened to me, it happened here in
Hollywood, and it happened to work in that movie." On a more personal
level, isn't Kirk Douglas' cynical reporter in "Ace in the Hole" more
than a little bit of Wilder? Maybe and maybe not. "Anyone who knows
me," he said slowly, "knows the cynicism hides my sentimentality." It's
why Wilder's refugee-freshness about America slipped into Garbo's
Russian in Paris in "Ninotchka"–or James Cagney's outsider in Berlin
in "One, Two, Three." Before he was 30, Wilder had lived in Vienna,
Berlin, Paris, Mexico and Hollywood, and what he saw he used.

Clearly
one could play 20 questions about Wilder's characters–Sefton in
"Stalag 17," Don Birnam in "Lost Weekend," Walter Neff in "Double
Indemnity," Linus Larrabee in "Sabrina"–but clearly he'd rather talk
about the casting. Wilder is canny enough to know the public is more
interested in Gary Cooper and Humphrey Bogart than in the types they
played, and so he deftly moves a conversation from characters to stars.

"Three
times in my life I almost got to work with Cary Grant," remembered
Wilder with both enthusiasm and disappointment. To realize that Wilder
never directed Grant or Katharine Hepburn or Spencer Tracy is to be
surprised, but not after listening to Wilder's explanation. "Every
movie begins with the dream casting of Cary Grant and Katharine
Hepburn. Then every movie faces the reality of casting Lyle Keller and
Sadie Glutz. Cary (Grant) almost did 'Ninotchka,' in the Melvyn Douglas
role;imagine him opposite Garbo! The second time was 'Sabrina,' and
then at the last minute it was Bogart." (Bogart as the tycoon was, in
fact, such a last-minute replacement that editorial adviser Doane
Harrison remembers Wilder asking him to stall a day's shooting while
new Bogart dialogue was written;almost no Wilder film begins with a
finished script.)

"The third one Cary almost did was 'Love in
the Afternoon.' Gary Cooper played it. Not that the replacements were
so bad. . . ." Wilder paused long enough that the dream pairing of
Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant in "Love in the Afternoon" could be seen
in the mind's eye. "Afternoon" was the first writing partnership of
Wilder and Diamond, and it goes without saying that it must have been
written with Grant in mind.

"Cary is a good friend of mine, but
maybe he was scared of me, I dunno," Wilder mused. "Cooper, I think,
had not as much going for him in that role. Say the name Gary Cooper,
and people think of a 'High Noon' sheriff kind of guy, not a Ritz Hotel
lover with Gypsy music in the background who gets into one-night
stands. . . ."

The Hollywood one-night stand of all time, of
course, is the one William Holden tripped into in "Sunset Boulevard."
It's the film Wilder tends most often to talk about;mention it to him,
and certain buttons are pressed. The quintessential movie about
Hollywood, it was the last of his collaborations with writer-producer
Charles Brackett–but again Wilder wants you to know the accidental
nature of its having gotten made.

"Mr. Montgomery Clift changed
his mind," Wilder said, shaking his head at the very idiocy of such a
move. "A week, maybe 10 days before filming, Mr. Clift's New York agent
sends word that maybe his client, the young actor Clift, should be
gotten out of it. The feeling was that the younger man/older woman
thing could actually ruin his career. (Co-star) Gloria Swanson was 50,"
Wilder said, making it sound like 15. "Fifty is younger than Audrey
Hepburn is now. Is 50 old? I think Mr. Clift was tortured–can you
imagine? Suddenly this change of heart I found very peculiar. . . ."

But
"Sunset Boulevard" was an inevitability. Budd Schulberg and Nathanael
West and F. Scott Fitzgerald had already fictionalized Hollywood, but
nobody had made the movie. Wilder and Brackett were already in place as
the happiest professional couple in Hollywood, and ready to take more
risks in exposing their adopted hometown. "Kaufman and Hart could write
a terrible play and close it in New Haven before Broadway," said Wilder
logically, "but in Hollywood we don't bury our dead. We finish the
movies we start, then we find them turning up on TV in the middle of
the night. That could be one explanation for an actor's fear."

If
Montgomery Clift had cold feet, co-stars Swanson, Erich von Stroheim
and Cecil B. DeMille did not–and Wilder is the kind of realist who
understands the Hollywood high wire. In other words, the show goes on,
understudies emerge. "William Holden was a Paramount man, and he got a
script at 3 p.m. on a Monday and said yes by 5. No test, no reading,
and he was, you know, perfect." (In her memoir "Swanson on Swanson,"
the actress made the point that Holden was 31, while the character Joe
Gillis was 26, and it was maybe he not she who should be "re-aged" with
makeup, but the chemistry worked nevertheless.)

One Wilder
trademark has been to get once-in-a-career performances from
actors–Gloria Swanson, Fred MacMurray, Ray Milland–but again the
director emphasizes serendipity. "It's because I know just how much was
accidental. Swanson was not the first choice for Norma Desmond. As it
turned out, it worked with her, and it would have collapsed without
her. But Pola Negri is the one we thought of first, then we thought she
hadn't really been in sound pictures. And then there was–can I tell
you a story?" Wilder, with the kind of timing only actors and athletes
know, then told it.

"I pitched 'Sunset Boulevard' to Mary
Pickford," he said, letting the scene emerge. "I went to Pickfair, to
see Mary, with a script under my arm. Imagine me walking into that
house with that churchy atmosphere. And then beginning to read 'Sunset
Boulevard' aloud to Mary Pickford. It hit me midway through that Mary
Pickford was not going to play Norma Desmond. But what do I do? How do
I get out of this one?" If you're Billy Wilder you think on your feet.
"I suddenly stopped reading, and just said, 'You know, Mary, you can
play anything. You really can. You can act rings around any actress.
But this is not on your level. It's not up to your caliber.' . . . So
you grasp what I mean about accidents."

And casting. Anyone
who's seen Wilder's "Double Indemnity" can only imagine Fred MacMurray
as insurance salesman Walter Neff. Yet MacMurray, too, was an accident
and probably never again as good as he was under Wilder, in "Indemnity"
and again in "The Apartment" 15 years later.

"Nobody wanted the
part of Neff, nobody. The leading actors said, 'It will be the end of
me!' Only Dick Powell said yes, but nobody else. (Co-star Barbara)
Stanwyck knew from instinct how sharp the story was, and she knew not
only her lines, but everybody else's lines. She's the quickest study
I've ever met in my life, by the way. But I remember asking MacMurray
to do it, and him saying, 'Billy, you know what I am? I'm not the actor
for this. I'm a sax player.' " Was MacMurray maybe worried about the
film's possible violence? Wilder practically put up his dukes at the
mention. "I'd like you to compare 'Indemnity' to the other James M.
Cain book, 'Postman Always Rings Twice'! No comparison. I hope I am not
known as the early Austrian Sam Peckinpah! Not only do I hate filming
violence, I also hate watching it in other peoples' movies! In my
movies, there have only been two or three deaths, unless you count the
St. Valentines Day Massacre in 'Some Like It Hot.' "

Point made,
Wilder was back on the subject of MacMurray. "It's 1959 and we were all
set to go with Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine on 'The Apartment.'
With Paul Douglas as the boss who's been having an affair with the
elevator girl. Again, last-minute casting changes, and Paul Douglas was
out. Again I'm on the phone, what is this, 15 years later, to Fred
MacMurray. Again he says, 'No, Billy.' He had, at that time, a
two-or-three year deal with Disney, because he was doing the
'Absent-Minded Professor' things. So he says, 'Billy, how can I play a
family man from Long Island who has an affair with an elevator
operator? Disney would get mad! I mean, Billy, are you crazy?"

Like
a fox. "The Apartment" left Wilder with the triple crown of Oscars (for
writing and directing and producing) in one night. (He has 20
nominations and 6 Oscars.) The other afternoon, he rankled at the label
"dirty fairy tale" attached to "The Apartment." The notion being that
C. C. Baxter (Jack Lemmon) gets corporately ahead by offering his
bachelor pad to executives for after-hours affairs. "I don't understand
that 'dirty fairy tale' thing," scowled Wilder. "The character tries to
have a nice little career for himself, and he doesn't go after the
arrangement–he gets asked for the use of the apartment. So he gets a
little promotion? So?

"My father told me once, nobody's an
alchemist," added Wilder with a wink. "But if I was, I'd make a
thriller. There was never one kind of picture I made. I went from
'Witness for the Prosecution' to 'One, Two, Three.' Mr. Hitchcock, he
made only thrillers, and magnificently. But you know what a thriller is
to me? It's the movie where the boss chases the secretary around the
desk. . . . That's a thriller–and that's alchemy!"

Posted in Film, Hollywood, Second Takes | 1 Comment

Happy Birthday, Chuck Hillinger!

1976_0401_hillinger

The Daily Mirror apologizes for the murky reproduction of stories on the "new, improved" Typepad platform. We're trying to fix it. If you click on it to make it full size you will be able to read it.
Posted in Charles Hillinger, Columnists | 1 Comment

Baseball Turns 100, April 1, 1969

1969_0401_sports

1969_0401_sports_runover  Baseball's 100th anniversary was celebrated–again.

Ross Newhan's story explained the confusing reasons for the event, "the second time in 30 years that we have paused to observe baseball's 100th anniversary." The Cincinnati Red Stockings in 1869 signed their players to season-long contracts, making it the first all-professional team.

What I found most interesting was Newhan's assessment of the game in 1969 and how things have changed since then.

"Baseball's bats appear broken. Only six major league hitters finished with averages above .300 last year. In one fifth of all games there was a shutout. Over the last six seasons, home runs have dropped from 3,000 to 1,944. Mickey Mantle has retired and the years weigh on Willie Mays. Expansion has diluted the talent and the emphasis is on pitching and defense."

That brand of baseball seems like 100 years ago.

::

1969_0401_alston The Times asked the Angels and Dodgers mangers to write their own season previews.

Bill Rigney was optimistic and excited about the Angels, who then got off to a slow start that cost him his job. Walter Alston liked the kids coming up in the Dodgers' system and said the older players knew their potential replacements were "only a telephone call away."

He was especially excited about Ted Sizemore. "This is the boy who was converted from catching to the outfield with Spokane last year and from the outfield to second base during the winter," Alston wrote. "So I got into the act, too, and converted him from a second baseman to shortstop in our fifth spring game.

"We are still wondering where some of our Dodgers can play but I'm still looking for a spot this kid CAN'T play."

Sizemore was the National League's rookie of the year in 1969, then was traded to the Cardinals after the 1970 season in a deal that sent Dick Allen to the Dodgers.

–Keith Thursby

Posted in Dodgers | 1 Comment

Bullet Hits Child at Desert Nudist Camp, April 1, 1939

1939_0401_boy_photo

The Times wrote very little about the Land of Moo nudist colony in Lancaster. All we know is that rancher Jack R. Majonnier was given a suspended sentence of $25 or 50 days in jail.

1939_0401_stab
1939_0401_shoot

 
1939_0401_shaw
Joe Shaw gets out of jail long enough for some dental work.

Councilman Howard Davis is cleared of criminal charges. Davis was accused of taking bribes to help win approval of spot zoning changes that would have allowed oil drilling in Wilmington. 

1939_0401_radium

The five radium victims were Katherine Schaub, Edna Hussman, Quinta McDonald, Albina Larice (also spelled Laris and Karice) and Grace Fryer. Albina Larice died in 1946 at the age of 52, according to the New York Times. 

1916_1216_kronschnabel
 
The Times, Dec. 16, 1916, a driver shoots motorcycle Officer Thomas J. Kronschnabel to death at 24th Street near Main.  
1939_0401_old_murder

1939_0401_comics

No shortage of ethnic caricatures in the comics.
1939_0401_sports

Baseball gets ready to celebrate its 100th birthday.
Posted in Uncategorized | Comments Off on Bullet Hits Child at Desert Nudist Camp, April 1, 1939

Found on EBay — Duesenberg

Duesenberg_emblem_ebay

What appears to be an authentic Deusenberg 8 radiator emblem has been listed on EBay. Bidding starts at $49.99.
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In the Theaters — March 31, 1986

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Posted in Film, Hollywood | Comments Off on In the Theaters — March 31, 1986

Trouble Was His Business — Raymond Chandler

A historic passion

* Author Judith Freeman researched Raymond Chandler's marriage.

November 7, 2007

By Graham Fuller, Special to The Times

Twenty years ago, Judith Freeman became "obsessed," as she puts it, with Raymond Chandler, whose novels featuring the private detective Philip Marlowe still make up the most iconic literary portrait of Los Angeles. When, in 2003, Freeman began writing "The Long Embrace: Raymond Chandler and the Woman He Loved," she found herself on a quest leading in many different directions.

The author of a short-story collection and four novels, Freeman was raised in Utah. She had moved to Los Angeles in the late '70s and was living in one of Chandler's old neighborhoods when she began reading his letters. She became captivated by Chandler's wife Cissy. A fey, ethereally beautiful sophisticate with a past as a nude model in New York, Cissy was living with her second husband on South Vendome when she and Chandler met around 1913. Their affair began after he'd returned from the Great War, and they married in 1924. At the time, Chandler was 35 and thought his bride was 43. Only gradually did he learn she was 18 years his senior.

It was the absence of information in Chandler's letters and Frank McShane's 1976 biography that made Cissy an enigma in Freeman's eyes and prompted her decision to "possibly bring her to life." As she tried to fathom the nature of the Chandlers' 30-year marriage — which incorporated elements of courtly love and withstood his alcoholism, philandering, and her long decline into invalidism — she was confronted with the couple's itinerant lifestyle.

They changed addresses over 30 times in Los Angeles and Southern California. They lived downtown and in Hollywood, in Santa Monica, Pacific Palisades, San Bernardino, Monrovia, Idyllwild and Cathedral City, in the mountains and the desert, sometimes changing residences twice a year. They were as restless as an alley cat on a velvet cushion.

Why they couldn't stay put is a mystery that might have baffled Marlowe, at least temporarily. Without donning a trench coat, Freeman had a crack at solving it.

"I think Ray was constantly searching," she said, "but they also liked this idea of mobility, the fact that you could get a new car and go to Big Bear for the summers, to the desert for the winters, and if, you didn't like it, to Santa Monica or Arcadia, Brentwood or Silver Lake. This possibility was introduced not just by the automobile, but by their sense of general detachment from any kind of past family."

Asked if she feels there was a neurotic element in the Chandlers' nomadism, Freeman said "there is something deeply unsettled about it. In A.A. meetings they use the term 'going geographic' of an alcoholic personality to describe that idea of constantly moving, running, probably trying to escape and find at the same time."

"I don't know if Chandler was running from something," said David Thomson, who wrote a monograph on Howard Hawks' film of Chandler's "The Big Sleep." "Maybe he was a kind of hotel writer — a little like Nabokov — in that he never had much need to be 'at home.' He had a hero who seems to live in a very plain room and waits to be invited out by fate. I think of him as someone who found his dream and so inhabited it as much as he could."

The Chandlers nearly parted in 1932 when Ray's persistent drunkenness and workplace affairs cost him his executive job at Dabney Oil.

"This was the major disruption in his life," said Alain Silver, the co-author of "Raymond Chandler's Los Angeles." "His peripatetic lifestyle became more urgent. The simplest reason he was constantly moving was that the rent would go up. By the time he could support himself and Cissy with his writing, the moving had become a habit. It maintained the displacement he'd known as a youth." He and his mother had been abandoned by his father when he was 7.

The marriage was threatened again when Chandler was lured to Hollywood in 1943 to write "Double Indemnity" with Billy Wilder. But over the long course, Freeman said, husband and wife sustained each other. Freeman says Chandler was "very conscious" of his knightly code. "I think it was forcibly instilled in him at Dulwich College in England. Then Cissy gave him the wonderfully strange nickname of Gallibeoth" — redolent of Galahad– "when they were still having an affair. This was a persona he adopted and that she completely embraced and reaffirmed, 12 years before he wrote his first short story. She became the enabler of his vision of the private eye who functions as a rescuer of humanity."

Freeman asserts that Cissy provided Chandler with a haven from the corruption, vice and brutality he considered endemic to Los Angeles — and which fueled his finest writing. "They created this little island of civility within this wacky crackpot capital of the world, as Chandler called it. I think he must have been seduced by the city at first, but by the time he got through the studio system he was sick of it.

"There was a kind of banal quality to life that he detested, a lowbrow feeling, and he wanted to get out, and they did. But then, of course, he began to hate the place he found himself in, La Jolla, because of its Cadillac-and-chauffeur atmosphere. Like every other place he had run to, it wasn't going to be the answer to anything, and he began to regret that he ever left L.A."

Freeman visited all of the Chandlers' homes that were still standing. Particularly moving are her descriptions of Ray's study and Cissy's bedroom in their ocean-side house in La Jolla, where they lived from 1946 to 1954, when Cissy died.

It was there he wrote "The Long Goodbye," in which Marlowe's isolation, echoing Chandler's, becomes palpable. He rejects the humdrum existence of his hometown, Santa Rosa, and the decadence of the gated community in "Idle Valley." "I'll take the big sordid dirty crooked city," he says. "A city no worse than others, a city rich and vigorous and full of pride, a city lost and beaten and full of emptiness."

Freeman's passion for her material can be off-putting for some. Ben Tarnoff in the San Francisco Chronicle writes that she "spends too much time reflecting on her own encounter with the material to offer a vivid portrait of the Chandlers' life together." But Richard Rayner, writing in The Times, sees her quest as more poignant, making the book "ache with emotion and loneliness — her loneliness and Chandler's, the loneliness of following a trail, of a marriage, of writing itself."

Chandler died of pneumonia, brought on by his drinking, in La Jolla in 1959. A wanderer to the end, he spent his last years seemingly looking for another Cissy to protect — and to protect him.

"Their marriage gave him meaning and kept him together," Freeman said. "He romanticized it as almost perfect. But I do think they were happy."

Note: To mark the 50th anniversary of Raymond Chandler's death, the Daily Mirror is revisiting some of The Times' stories about his life and influence. We invite the Daily Mirror's readers to share their thoughts.

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Christine Jorgensen Tries to Marry, March 31, 1959

 
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Christine Jorgensen and Howard J. Knox attempted to get married, but could not obtain a license. 

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The Times headline writers had fun with this: Ex-GI becomes GI-RL. Har har har.

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And the same day, an ad for the upcoming release of "Some Like It Hot."

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The Los Angeles City Council approves the Bunker Hill project. I wonder how lawmakers would react if they knew how many people today view their actions as a terrible mistake.
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Of course, at the time, Bunker Hill was seen as a ramshackle collection of decaying mansions and old buildings that were falling into the street.
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"Nancy" gets topical with rock 'n' roll.
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A new agreement on the Rose Bowl game. Officials were especially eager to include Stanford.
Posted in #gays and lesbians, Architecture, Downtown, Front Pages, Sports | 1 Comment

Nuestro Pueblo, March 31, 1939

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Found on EBay — L.A. Streetcars

Streetcar_books_ebay This lot of books about streetcars has been listed on EBay and includes several on the Pacific Electric Railway and one on pre-Huntington cars. The books are listed as best offer or Buy It Now for $150.
Posted in books, Transportation | 1 Comment

Matt Weinstock — March 30, 1959

Back on Canopus …

Matt_weinstockdAnother election is only a week away and the air is heavy with confusion, obscurantism and apathy — mostly apathy. The confusion belongs to the voters. Many of them are recent arrivals who don't understand our dual government — city and county.

For that matter, many people who have lived here all their lives don't understand it either but in another way. They don't understand why they should pay for duplicating functions. New and old alike wonder why we go to the expense and bother of such an election as this one. Couldn't it be included in some other one, they ask.

The obscurantism — political double-talk — belongs both to the incumbents and aspirants bent on knocking the incumbents out of the box. As an example, one councilmanic candidate states in his literature that if elected he plans to become a veritable tiger in solving the smog, tax and transportation problems. It so happens that the council, although it absorbs much of the blame, has nothing to do with any of these three. The smog and tax matters are county problems. The MTA or bus mess is a weird creation of the state Legislature.

1959_0330_alvinAnd so it goes. Bert Leson Taylor, the Chicago Tribune columnist of another day, said it best:

When quacks with pills political would dope us,
When politics absorbs the livelong day,
I like to think about the star Canopus,
So far, so far away.

::


A HOLLYWOOD
bartender named Joe, born in South San Francisco of Portuguese descent, tells it on himself.

During WWII he was in naval intelligence, assigned to counterspy duty in Portugal. For six months he went out on the boats with fishermen, never speaking English, always Portuguese, gathering information on the Germans, who were in cahoots with Franco of Spain.

He thought he was doing fine and had escaped detection until one night in a Lisbon bar he got to talking with two men he knew to be German agents. One said casually, "How's everything in South San Francisco, Joe?"

::


1959_0330_comicsWHILE IN New York recently, Marc Lawrence, noted for his sinister movie gangster roles, was invited to come up and see how the bulls and bears were doing in the Stock Exchange on Wall Street. He was standing on the floor of the famous place in the midst of the orderly confusion, watching the buying and selling by the passing of slips of paper, when someone handed him a piece of paper. On it was written, "Drop the gun, Louie."

::


ONLY IN L.A. —
A stranger, about 45, came into Izzy Moidel's law office and said he'd like to know how much a divorce would cost. He told how much money he made and detailed his property holdings, which were considerable. In turn, the workings of the divorce court were explained to him and he was given an estimate of what a judge normally would award his wife. He got up, put a $100 bill on the desk and started out.

"What about the divorce?" Moidel asked.

"Oh, I guess I'll marry the girl and take a chance," he said. Turned out he was a cautious bachelor contemplating matrimony and wanted to know the worst first.

::


1959_0330_abby ONLY IN MALIBU —
A man who for several years has been driving cars with automatic shifts recently acquired a foreign job with a gear-shift lever and he's entranced with it. "It gives me something to do while I'm driving," is the way he puts it.

::


MISCELLANY —
Milt Forrest calls them radioactive divorces. After all, they're the result of fallout … After deep desperate deliberation, Jack Perkins has figured out a simple solution to the awful freeway traffic. Just make them toll roads … Roberta Morgan has put her hex on the TV villains who give a long commercial spiel, then add, "And now a word from next week's sponsor" … Day after Easter note: Well, what'll it be for dinner — creamed eggs, deviled eggs or egg salad? 

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Paul Coates — Confidential File, March 30, 1959




Confidential File

Operas Recalled … the Sudsy Kind

Paul_coatesYou really want to know what’s bothering me? Or are you just asking to be nice?

What’s bothering me is this gnawing feeling that I’m not in the swim any more.

I’ve lost touch with the little folksy things in life.

That’s
what comes, I suppose, of trying to be an egghead and subscribing to
the Saturday Review of Literature instead of the Saturday Evening Post.

For instance, it occurred to me that I haven’t even listened to a radio soap opera since Ma Perkins was a girl.

It occurred to me, as a matter of fact, while I was accidentally listening to a soap opera on my car radio the other day.

1959_0330_blue_streak
I’m
aware, now, that it takes a certain amount of orientation before you
are fully able to comprehend the subtleties in this type of melodrama.
Apparently it’s far more intricate than a Greek tragedy.

Once, I
had the necessary orientation. There was a time, shortly after the era
of the crystal set, when I dug each and every little nuance of Just Plain Bill’ s dialogue.

Just Plain Bill would murmur to his daughter Nancy things like:

"Nancy, honey, don’t you be upset because that promising young country prosecutor, Mark Shoreham,
with whom you are in love, is planning to indict me for the murder of
the elderly widow Blake, whom I befriended, and therefore she left a
mite of property in my name. There’s nothing for you to worry about,
Nancy, honey. I’m not worried."

Plain Bill Easy to Dig

But in those days I could tell by the way he said it that Plain Bill was damn well worried. He was just covering up for Nancy.

1959_0330_popenoe
I could also determine, by the merest inflection in her voice, that Myrt was really mad at Marge for carrying on with that saxophone player and was just not saying anything about it.

But my talent as a listener has diminished to the vanishing point. I realized that when I tuned in on soap opera the other day.

Of
course, it should be said in my behalf that I tuned in late. And even
if you come in at the beginning it’s difficult to unravel the story of
the tangled lives involved.

At any rate, the male lead had a deep, syrupy voice that had to be Don Ameche.
He was talking, but mostly listening, to the feminine lead, whose name,
I think, was Melinda. Things, he was telling her, would improve.

Things, she was telling him, better improve.

Is He Really Hiding Melinda?

"I’m
sick of this ‘backstreet’ life," was the way she put it. "Sick of it.
Are you ashamed of me? Do you have to hide me from people?"

"Darling,"
he whispered in that persuasive voice he once used to tell Mr. Watson
to come here, "you know I’m not ashamed of you. You know I don’t LIKE
to hide you from people. I’d LIKE to shout it from the rooftops."

"Don’t do me any favors," she said, in effect. "Don’t shout it from rooftops. Just tell Cara about us."

Well,
it doesn’t take a bomb to fall on me. I figured that neat, little
mathematical design out in a hurry. Wife, husband and girlfriend.

Melinda Struts Stuff in Kitchen

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After the commercial, the plot thickened to the consistency of glue. Melinda went to Don Ameche’s
house while Cara was away for the evening. She wanted to prove to him
that she could whip him up a dinner just like any housewife. And she
had to clean up the dishes and get out before Cara came home. I mean,
how would it look?

As if that situation weren’t bad enough, I got the impression through further snatches of dialogue that Don Ameche wasn’t really married to Cara. Of course, it was just an impression. I don’t know it for a fact.

However,
rather than get involved in that parlay, I switched the dial to Al
Jarvis. I don’t understand him either. But, at least, he keeps his nose
clean. 

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