Distress in Hollywood is endemic and always acute. Scarcely an executive but is being gnawed at by some insoluble problem and in a democratic way he will let you in on it, with no charge. The problem, be it one of health or of production, is faced courageously and with groans at from one to five thousand a week. That’s how pictures are made.

‘But this one has got me down,’ said Mr Banizon, ‘— because how did the artillery shell get in the trunk of Claudette Colbert or Betty Field or whoever we decide to use? We got to explain it so the audience will believe it.’

He was in the office of Louie the studio bookie and his present audience also included Pat Hobby, venerable script-stooge of forty-nine. Mr Banizon did not expect a suggestion from either of them but he had been talking aloud to himself about the problem for a week now and was unable to stop.

‘Who’s your writer on it?’ asked Louie.

‘R. Parke Woll,’ said Banizon indignantly. ‘First I buy this opening from another writer, see. A grand notion but only a notion. Then I call in R. Parke Woll, the playwright, and we meet a couple of times and develop it. Then when we get the end in sight, his agent horns in and says he won’t let Woll talk any more unless I give him a contract — eight weeks at $3,000! And all I need him for is one more day!’

The sum brought a glitter into Pat’s old eyes. Ten years ago he had camped beatifically in range of such a salary — now he was lucky to get a few weeks at $250. His inflamed and burnt over talent had failed to produce a second growth.

‘The worse part of it is that Woll told me the ending,’ continued the producer.

‘Then what are you waiting for?’ demanded Pat. ‘You don’t need to pay him a cent.’

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