In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles theatrical producer John Golden.

 

JOHN GOLDEN. He’s the only man who produces clean sex plays. Yet he always manages to give the public what it wants. A shrewd showman, he realizes the value of publicity. Started the “clean” gag because of its healthy box office appeal. It has “it.”

Was once a bricklayer and the vice president of a chemical company. From the experience gained at the latter he is proficient in making gin.

He wrote the song “Poor Butterfly,” with Raymond Hubbell and Charles B. Dillingham. In fact, his managerial career started on a song. His royalty check for “Goodbye, Girls, I’m Through,” was $40,000. Gave it to Mrs. Golden for a present. She loaned it back to him to produce Turn to the Right.

His favorite actor is Muni Weisenfrend. He never says this without adding: “And Otto Kahn agrees with me.”

Is very much interested in what makes an audience go to a play. Once distributed a circular during the run of Pigs inquiring, “What made you attend this show?” Seventy per cent of the answers were variations of “Because a friend told me about it.”

As a bricklayer he helped build the Garrick Theatre.

For the last thirty years the annual Lambs’ Washing has been held on his estate at Bayside.

He was a partner of Cohan and Harris in the production of Hawthorne of the U. S. A. His task was to pal about with Douglas Fairbanks, seeing that the young acrobat didn’t hurdle over taxicabs and climb up buildings.

He is superstitious. Likes to have a numeral in the title of his plays. Remember: The 1st Year, 2 Girls Wanted, 3 Wise Fools, 4 Walls and 7th Heaven. Considers 27 his lucky number. In roulette and other numerical games of chance he will bet huge amount on it.

He organized the Producing Managers Association. This led to the famous actors’ strike.

The man he quotes most is Ring Lardner.

Is not fussy about clothing. Never goes to a store to purchase wearing apparel. If he needs another tie, shirt or suit, he merely telephones for it.

Thinks Atlantic City and Miami are the only vacation spots worth knowing.

He is one of the few producers who treat the theater as if it were a business. Is in his office by nine every morning and leaves at five. Is in bed every night at ten. He never attends the theater in the evenings. Goes only to matinées. Misses every opening night. Even his own.

Owns the original Old Kentucky Home, having bought the Stephen Foster homestead in Federal Hill to save it from being torn down.

He realizes the value of flattery. Gets the most out of people he is associated with by using it.

His favorite tryout town is Elmira, N. Y. Believes it to be lucky and opens all his shows there.

Was the first to cover the front of a theatre with an electric sign. Did it with 3 Wise Fools at the Criterion. Then the movies took up the idea . . . And how!

He hates the word “clean.” Refrains from using it in his conversations. When it slips out accidentally, he looks embarrassed.

He has collaborated on songs with Irving Berlin, Douglas Fairbanks, Oscar Hammerstein, Victor Herbert and Woodrow Wilson.

Always puts on his glasses when he talks on the telephone.

His hobby is collecting “the key to the city.” He has framed in his office keys to twenty-seven of the most important cities in the United States.

He hates dogs and cringes when he sees one.

Has a barber shop in his office, fully equipped. Every day at twelve a barber appears and shaves him. Every other week he takes a haircut.

His home in Bayside has eight bedrooms. He sleeps in a different room each night, according to his mood.

 

HE has a name that will live forever and he bought it for a song. IRIVING BERLIN.

Came to this country at the age of four, the youngest of eight children. In Russia his father was a cantor. Here a kosher butcher.

He has yet to find a hat to fit him.

He eats a lot for one of his size.

Plays the piano by ear. And only in F sharp. Has a specially constructed piano with a sliding keyboard. When the music calls for another key he merely moves the lever.

He is not a one finger player. Uses all his fingers badly.

Has a scar on his forehead. It was received on a Washington’s Birthday in Cherry Street, trying to start a bonfire.

Thinks he is a good stud poker player. His friends say he’s lucky.

His pet aversions are riveters and second verses.

Ran away from home at the age of fourteen. His first stop was Callahan’s saloon. Here he sang “The Mansion of Aching Hearts” until enough coins were tossed at him to pay for a night’s lodging. Later became a singing waiter at Nigger Mike’s place, 12 Pell Street. The barker on the trip to Chinatown bus now points out the place.

He wrote “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” credited with starting the jazz vogue, at the age of twenty-three.

Crowds frighten him. So do certain individuals.

His idea of a great achievement is writing a song that reaches the million copy mark.

Maintains a home in West Forty-sixth Street. But lives elsewhere. The first of every month generally finds him moving.

His square moniker is Israel Baline. For a time, he went under the name of Cooney. Became Berlin because that was the way the Bowery pronounced Baline.

As a singing waiter he kicked a hoofer named George White out of the place for being a pest, and he served Al Smith.

Is always chewing gum. This can be observed by merely watching the funny way his hat moves on his head.

His favorite biographer is Alexander Woollcott.

He composes in this fashion: First playing the song on the piano. Then singing it to Arthur Johnson, his right and left hand man, who records upon paper what he hears. Then Johnson plays the written manuscript. This is the first draft. From this Berlin works on to the final version. Often after a song has been published he changes it.

His bill for flowers for the Mrs. is $1,000 a month.

His patent leather dinner shoes have more cracks than his hair has waves.

Of all the songs he has written, a figure exceeding four hundred, his favorite is “The Song Is Ended But the Melody Lingers On.”

Is very restless. Can’t sit or stand still. Always paces the floor. He walks miles in any room he is in. It is the only exercise he gets.

As far as playwrights go, his taste begins and ends with George S. Kaufman. As for music, he’ll whistle anything by Jerome Kern. For lyrics he hands first prize to B. G. De Sylva. And if asked to name the swellest guy in the theatrical game, he’d shout Sam Harris.

He has had to change his entire working schedule since he became a father.

He has never worn a diamond. The only jewelry he wears is, occasionally, a pearl tie pin.

Never eats the crust of bread or rolls. Always plucks the filling. This can be seen circled about his plate.

After finishing a song he sings it to the first person he meets. A bell boy at Palm Beach was the first person to hear “Lazy.” A Broadway taxi driver was the first to hear “All Alone.” A bewildered stranger, occupation unknown, was the first to hear “Say It With Music.”

He never writes anything in longhand but his signature on a check. Everything else he prints.

The one thing in life he is looking forward to is walking into a restaurant with his daughter, Mary Ellen.

Of all the songs ever written the one he’d love to be the author of is “The Rosary.”

On the fly leaf of a book containing every song he wrote there is this ditty which he believes sums up everything:

He has a form-fitting couch which was especially designed for him.

 

The American Gorki. He found that hoboing was the road to success. JIM TULLY

The first thing one notices about him is his flaming red hair. He is five feet three and weighs 163 pounds. His skin is sun drunk. His hands are small and pudgy. He has the thighs of a burlesque queen. Standing, his body like a question mark, he appears ready to leap.

He works and talks at a breakneck pace.

He bites his finger nails.

His mother died when he was four. His father was a ditch digger. His uncle a horse thief. He was in an orphanage until eleven years old. Here, for his ability to memorize the preacher’s sermon and say catechism he won a rosary. But a more pious kid stole it.

Wears only five-dollar neckties and has his suits made to order by an anarchist tailor in Hollywood.

Is very proud that Mencken and Nathan are his pals and drink beer with him. Is prouder of this than their esteem for his books.

Started his literary career by writing fake stories for a “True Confession” magazine. One of his prize yarns was The Memoirs of a Japanese Geisha Girl.

His philosophy of life is: “What the hell—the grave ends everything.”

As a youth he looked forward to becoming the world’s greatest bank robber. Gave up the idea when told by a railroad detective he would be caught easily. Because no other person on earth could possibly look like him.

His first book, Beggars of Life, he submitted to four publishers simultaneously. The four accepted.

Likes to write in the first person. Believes a direct lie is always more convincing.

Was once a prize fighter. His pugilistic career ended in a California ring when he was knocked out in the first round and remained unconscious for twenty-four hours.

Combs his hair once a day whether it needs it or not.

The only thing he fears is a smart-aleck interviewer.

He has slept on a park bench, in H. L. Mencken’s bed, under a freight train, at the Algonquin, and on cold, barren ground, his closed eyes staring at the stars. No matter where he sleeps, he snores.

His name when a hobo was Cincy Red.

Always finds out where people were born, their ages, likes and dislikes, and secret sorrows by the second meeting.

He would like to conduct a society column for a newspaper.

Never wore a dress suit in his life. Thinks he would look like a chorus boy if he did.

His father, 78 years old, is still alive. He sends his dad press clippings, good and bad, periodically. His father is a bit disappointed because Jim didn’t become a champion prize fighter.

James Branch Cabell is his favorite American author.

He is very moody. Has intense fits of melancholy and terrible laughter.

Doesn’t think he should be judged by what he says about former friends in interviews but by the way he writes.

When interviewing he never takes notes. A week later he writes the interview from impressions.

He easily recognizes his own ability and is annoyed by those who don’t.

He wears high-laced tan shoes. They are made to order for him and imported from London.

From force of habit he greets an old friend with: “Did you eat yet?”

He lives and works in Hollywood. Writes in a big, oblong room on the second floor of his house. The room is lined with books from floor to ceiling. Has a flat, square desk with a swivel chair. A beer barrel is within swinging distance. He calls his house “One More Illusion.”

In writing a book he does not strive for literary style. Claims he writes naturally. Just as if he were writing a letter to a harlot.

He doesn’t smoke.

Jarnegan is his favorite character in all history. Claims that whenever he feels lonely and depressed he sits down and talks things over with him.

Makes women think his novels belie him because of his soft speech with them. When with men, however, he is just like his novels—turbulent and violent and cussing.

The two greatest guys in the world as far as he is concerned, are George Jean Nathan and Oklahoma Red.

He has a yen for beautiful and beautifully dressed women.

He dreads the thought that some day he won’t be alive.

In this chapter from his 1932 book, Times Square Tintypes, Broadway columnist Sidney Skolsky profiles Earl Carroll, theatrical producer, director, songwriter and composer.

 

 

Earl CARROLL. He has a throne, a palace and a title. His throne is an antique Chinese chair. His palace is the theater bearing his name. His title is “The Earl of Seventh Avenue.”

He is extremely polite to everyone. Expects people to be that way to him. Nobody can really get close to him.

He suffers from insomnia.

Was born in Pittsburgh, September 16, 1892. Has two brothers, Norman and James, and one sister, Alice. The brothers don’t look like him or each other. The sister could pass for his twin. When a small boy he was dressed in a white sailor suit.

If he sees a pretty girl on the street he will stop her and ask her if she wants to go on the stage.

At the age of sixteen he stood in the center of Nanking Road, China, with only forty-five cents in his pocket.

His office is backstage of his theater. A rug, the color of pigeon blood, covers the floor. His desk is enclosed in a wall. The pressing of a button shoots it forward. He uses a sword for a paperweight. Has a statue of Buddha here. And a refrigerator with Chinese letters written on it. The letters spell—happiness. In the rear of the office there is a secret panel through which he can make a hasty exit.

He can’t wear a shirt with a collar attached. And all of his vests must be double-breasted.

Once wrote a song with Enrico Caruso. It was “Dreams of Long Ago.” Immediately after joining the army he wrote a song called: “When I’m Through with the Arms of the Army I’ll Come Back to the Arms of You.”

Always throws a party for himself on his birthday.

His favorite type of beauty for the stage is a tall blonde. His own personal taste, however, runs to slender brunettes.

During the war he was a lieutenant in the United States Air Service. He was the first man to land an airplane in Central Park.

While rehearsing a new show he wears a sand-colored smock. His shirt is minus collar and tie. He stands in the orchestra. Has a telephone operator’s apparatus on his head. Through this he gives instructions backstage, under the stage and in the electrician’s booth plastered on the back wall of the balcony. To his left is a small table. His secretary, Miss Ruth, sits here and takes memos. During all this he is continually drinking Poland mineral water and chewing gum.

Likes to use perfume. His two favorites are Caron’s Acaciosa and Gabilla’s Jasmin. He sprays his throat with perfume daily.

On April 10, he and his two brothers and sister always journey to Pittsburgh to visit their mother’s grave. On Mother’s Day he sends flowers.

Was the first man in New York to own a “Starlight Bungalow,” now known as a penthouse. His was located on the roof of 729 Seventh Avenue. He called it “Top o’ the World.” He likes to live high and now resides on the top floor of a tall apartment hotel.

 

 

William A. Brady. Everybody calls him “Pop.”

He owns five watches but never carries one. Always guesses the time, and is fairly accurate.

Was born in San Francisco, June 19, 1863. Until he was five years old he had a Chinese lady for a nursemaid.

Lost a million dollars many times. He owned Within the Law and sold his rights to Arch Selwyn for $10,000. The play netted over a million. Jeanne Eagels brought him the script of Rain to produce. He said: “I no like.” Had Broadway in rehearsal and shelved it on the advice of George M. Cohan. That was another million. He was to be one of the promoters of the Carpentier-Dempsey fight. Had words with Jack Kearns and withdrew. The gate for that battle was a million and a half.

Last year while in a hospital nursing a broken leg, his doctors allowed him to read plays instead of taking sleeping tablets. He the much rejected Street Scene. He is now on his way to another million.

That A in his name is for Augustus.

Always has been interested in sports. He managed James J. Corbett, Jim Jeffries and Youssouf, “the terrible Turk.”

He wears a large brown felt hat. Always has a cigar in his mouth. Even when sleeping. Once was discovered in bed in a mass of flames which a friend put out with a fire extinguisher.

His idea of a good time is to buy champagne for the house. His favorite drink is a tall glass of rye. During the Corbett-Sullivan fight he consumed two quarts of whiskey.

Never carries a cane. Except when looking for a fight.

Alice Brady is his daughter by his first wife, Rose Marie Rene. William Brady, Jr., is his son by his present wife, Grace George.

Hasn’t an automobile, although he did own one for twenty years. His doctor ordered him to give it up because he never took a walk. He seldom crosses the street alone. Always waits for the red light.

He once cut cards with Arnold Rothstein. One cut for $45,000 and won.

Is sad because he isn’t allowed to attend prize fights. He takes and gives every blow himself. The last fight he saw was the Dempsey-Sharkey encounter. After it was over he was so exhausted that he had to be carried three blocks to a taxi.

Loves music. His favorites are “Faust,” “Killarney,” “Massa’s In The Cold, Cold Ground” and “Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms.”

He likes to act and resents being called a ham. His most recent performance was in A Free Soul. Jumped into the leading role on only an hour’s notice. Placed the script on a table in the scene. Whenever he forgot a line he walked to the table.

When a young man he was a natty dresser. Today clothes don’t interest him. Used to wear many diamonds. Recently gave them all to Grace George for a necklace.

Reads all newspapers, trashy magazines and the highbrow ones. His favorite reading matter is the Congressional Record. Reads every line of it during sessions of Congress. Senator Heflin is his favorite comic.

Cleveland, Harrison, McKinley, Roosevelt, Taft, Wilson, Harding, Coolidge and Hoover are the Presidents he knew and knows personally.

His choice of food depends upon what he is drinking. Has a cast-iron stomach. Is especially fond of Mexican tamales.

He claims the toughest job he ever had was managing Louis Mann for five years.

With Sir August Hannis he sneaked into Windsor Castle and disguised as a chorus man appeared before the King and Queen of England in a command performance of The Bohemian Girl.

Once desired to be the youngest man to climb Pike’s Peak. Halfway up he changed his mind and took the train back.

Can recite offhand any speech that Shakespeare ever wrote. Loves to see Shakespearean plays, but not to produce them.

Was arrested and put in prison once. That, when he broke up a street meeting of Dowie, the Evangelist, who was lecturing in front of the old Madison Square Garden.

He started wearing glasses at forty. He was told to do so when he was twenty.

Lives in a penthouse atop a fifteen-story building owns in Fifty-Fifth street. Spends his evenings there listening to the radio and looking out over Broadway. Wants the last thing he looks at before he dies to be a flash of the White Lights.

His credo is, “The Lord is always good to honest gamblers.”