Jimmy Starr began his career in Hollywood in the 1920s, writing the intertitles for silent shorts for producers such as Mack Sennett, the Christie Film Company, and Educational Films Corporation, among others. He also toiled as a gossip and film columnist for the Los Angeles Record in the 1920s and from 1930-1962 for the L.A. Herald-Express.

Starr was also a published author. In the 1940s, he penned a trio of mystery novels, the best known of which, The Corpse Came C.O.D., was made into a movie.

In 1926, Starr authored 365 Nights in Hollywood, a collection of short stories about Hollywood. It was published in a limited edition of 1000, each one signed and numbered by the author, by the David Graham Fischer Corporation, which seems to have been a very small (possibly even a vanity) press.

Here’s “Memories,” the final story from that 1926 collection.

 

  .  .  .  memories  .  .  .  ah, what recherche things they are  .  .  .  our soul’s only recess  .  .  .  often they repaint our drab canvas of the present  .  .  .  these pages you have just read have all been memories  .  .  .  nocturnal escapades which have made the dreary side of day life seem bright in contrast  .  .  .  A box on the table  .  .  .  what a container of memories  .  .  .  dance programs  .  .  .  kodak pictures of pretty girls  .  .  .  scraps of paper with nameless addresses and phone numbers  .  .  .  what stories they tell  .  .  .  a scribbled name  .  .  .  business cards  .  .  .  a toy balloon from some forgotten cafe  .  .  .  a memory of a gay night  .  .  .  a cork from a wine bottle  .  .  .  a monogramed cigarette  .  .  .  a lace handkerchief  .  .  .  with a faint odor of perfume  .  .  .  a spoon from another cafe  .  .  .  a napkin from another, a New Year’s Eve rattle  .  .  .  a gaudy paper cap  .  .  .  letters on pink and lavender paper  .  .  .  theatre programs  .  .  .  a piece of motion picture film  .  .  .  cigar coupons  .  .  .  an announcement for the opening of the style show  .  .  .  invitations to dinners and weddings  .  .  .  a date book  .  .  .  a dancing contest number  .  .  .  theatre ticket stubs  .  .  .  a small bar of soap from some hotel  .  .  .  baggage checks  .  .  .  unfinished letters to forgotten girls  .  .  .  an autographed photo  .  .  .  cancelled checks  .  .  .  a useless bank book  .  .  .  a torn piece of a dollar bill  .  .  .  a small silver vanity case  .  .  .  a memory unreturned  .  .  .  a glove  .  .  .  a box of rubber tacks  .  .  .  a rosette from some evening gown  .  .  .  ah, memories so fondd  .  .  .  they drive us onward  .  .  .  onward to other pleasures  .  .  .  on with this nondescript nonsense  .  .  .  let us live  .  .  .  we only have to do it once  .  .  .  ah, memories  .  .  . 

 

 

 

 

Jimmy Starr began his career in Hollywood in the 1920s, writing the intertitles for silent shorts for producers such as Mack Sennett, the Christie Film Company, and Educational Films Corporation, among others. He also toiled as a gossip and film columnist for the Los Angeles Record in the 1920s and from 1930-1962 for the L.A. Herald-Express.

Starr was also a published author. In the 1940s, he penned a trio of mystery novels, the best known of which, The Corpse Came C.O.D., was made into a movie.

In 1926, Starr authored 365 Nights in Hollywood, a collection of short stories about Hollywood. It was published in a limited edition of 1000, each one signed and numbered by the author, by the David Graham Fischer Corporation, which seems to have been a very small (possibly even a vanity) press.

Here’s Part 2 of “The Twenty-Foot Kiss,” a not-so-short story from that 1926 collection. (Here’s Part 1, if you missed it.)

 

 

Paul, who was quite white with emotion, then told Kahn how he and Thomas Smythe had been going to dinner together each night and how he had always called for him after work. Then he related having seen the hurried departure of Jewel Joseham, and of coming immediately afterward to Smythe’s dressing room to find him already dead.

At the end of this recital Adolph Kahn nodded his head, thoughtfully. He, too, was considering the situation that had existed between the two well-known actors. Then they closed the door and went back to Kahn’s office.

There Kahn chewed savagely on a fat cigar, while he telephoned to the police and made arrangements for dealing quietly for the present with this extraordinary circumstance.

While they waited for the police ambulance, they remained silent—thinking. Adolph Kahn nervously paced the heavily carpeted floor. Neither of them spoke. They strain was almost tangible.

At last the detectives and a deputy coroner arrived. They made their official notes as to the position of the body, while Paul watched them closely; it seemed but a matter of duty with them, and they worked swiftly, efficiently, thoroughly over the red tape they considered necessary.

Finally the deputy coroner released the body and it was placed in the police ambulance to be taken to whatever morgue the coroner saw fit to assign.

The three officers questioned Kahn and Paul. Both gave what information they could. Paul did most of the talking. Adolph Kahn was so excited by now that his words were an unintelligible jumble.

The detectives stated on departing that the body would be examined at once and that Kahn and Paul had better call at the police station in the morning before going to work. To this, both agreed.

Paul rushed at once over to Vergie’s home and trusted her with the news.

“Oh, Paul, how terrible!” Vergie explained on hearing the details. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

Paul shook his head.

“I wonder if Jewel would really dare such a thing?”

“I don’t know, but it does look like it, in a way,” Paul answered, earnestly.

“What do you mean?” excitedly from the girl.

“Well, I couldn’t find any marks of violence on him. He wasn’t shot, or stabbed, I’m sure. There was no blood and nothing seemed to be disturbed, as if there had been a struggle. As I said before, it looks a lot like heart failure.”

“Yes, but you said—“

“Yeh, I know. I’ve never heard him complain of a sick day. He was an excellent swimmer, didn’t smoke much, and spent a lot of time in the open. No, I don’t think it was heart failure.”

Vergie shuddered.

“All right, we won’t talk about it any more. I’ll run up and get something to eat and then I’m going to try to figure this thing out, unless you want to go to a show or up to the Little Club.”

“I don’t know, Paul. Let’s walk up to the Boulevard. Where does Jewel eat?”

“Usually at the Blue Plate, but I don’t think you’ll find her up there tonight.”

“Let’s go see, anyway,” she urged. “It’s a nice warm evening and the walk will do us good.”

“Sure, anything you say.”

Jimmy Starr began his career in Hollywood in the 1920s, writing the intertitles for silent shorts for producers such as Mack Sennett, the Christie Film Company, and Educational Films Corporation, among others. He also toiled as a gossip and film columnist for the Los Angeles Record in the 1920s and from 1930-1962 for the L.A. Herald-Express.

Starr was also a published author. In the 1940s, he penned a trio of mystery novels, the best known of which, The Corpse Came C.O.D., was made into a movie.

In 1926, Starr authored 365 Nights in Hollywood, a collection of short stories about Hollywood. It was published in a limited edition of 1000, each one signed and numbered by the author, by the David Graham Fischer Corporation, which seems to have been a very small (possibly even a vanity) press.

Here’s Part 1 of “The Twenty-Foot Kiss,” a not-so-short story from that 1926 collection.

 

 

“Seems sorta funny to see them playing together again, doesn’t it?” asked a slim girl, in the extras’ dressing room of the Peerless Pictures Studio.

“First time in five years,” said her companion, smearing on the pink make-up.

Then the conversation about Jewel Joseham, famous star, and Thomas Smythe, her former husband and leading man, ceased. The girls had other things more important to occupy their minds. It was eight-thirty and they had to be on the set, made up, at nine.

The grey room had three tiers of long benches and make-up tables, fastened to which were mirrors lined with blazing electric lights. That peculiar smell of grease paint and rice powder was pungently evident. There was the usual chatter of their past efforts and famous roles before clicking cameras.

In this room probably a dozen girls were skillfully applying the necessary cosmetics before they could present themselves to a grouchy, callous director and a battery of motion picture cameras.

In the room above, an exact copy of this one, the scuffle of feet could be heard. It wsa the men’s dressing room.

At nine o’clock a loud bell sounded. Then came the sudden scurrying of patent-leather and satin shod feet. Thirty couples of extras, to be used as atmosphere in a society scene were rushing to the entrance of the large enclosed stage.

They were greeted by the blue-green of the Cooper-Hewitt lamps, placed closely together about a large ballroom of a well appointed mansion. On the floor was the imitation hard-wood linoleum. This had been well oiled and gave back the reflection of the shining lights.

Prop men were busy placing expensive-looking chairs along the walls of the set. Electricians were swinging large overhead lights into place above. Camera boys were arranging the tripods for a long shot of the entire dance floor. A colored jazz orchestra was tuning up in a flower bedecked alcove. The extras grouped themselves among the heavy black cables which connected the Sun-Arcs with a portable switchboard. The drumming hum of the electric motors near the end of the stage only added to the already busy atmosphere.

The stage door slammed and a round little man in golf knickers and soft white shirt entered. His ruddy face held deep wrinkles, his small quick eyes peered through heavy shell-rim glasses, his hair was curly and black, but there was very little of it—nothing but a small patch on the back of his round head. As he walked toward his canvas chair near the camera tripod, the large stage became almost silent, and everyone stood as if awaiting his command—they were. He was George de Masson, the great director.

He glanced over his staff with the air of a man gazing at so many cattle. Then snorted contemptuously:

“Well, come on,” he growled. “Let’s get busy. What are we waiting for? Where’s Jewel and Smythe. Why the hell aren’t the lights in place? Have that floor polished in the center. Whoever heard of a dirty ballroom floor? Why wasn’t this attended to?”

George de Masson stopped when he was out of breath. He had asked a great many questions, but he expected no answers, and his staff knew better than to attempt to answer. A new member had been instantly discharged upon offering to answer the great director only the day before.

Again the stage was a scene of activity, while George de Masson consulted the script. Today’s work would finish the last scenes of a new Peerless feature. They had been six weeks on the story and the director was rushing things along. The company had five thousand dollars overhead expenses on scenes like this. It must not run over one day; there must be no retakes; and they must work fast. The president had impressed these facts on George de Masson’s mind the week before.

“Will someone be kind enough to find Jewel and Smythe for me?” The Great Director sighed wearily.