Under our windows for eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, young newsboys were shouting. One in particular was distinguished, a fellow with a loud and penetrating voice. Never in the world can anyone with such a voice go astray. It undoubtedly belonged to a coming millionaire. Once we even put our heads out the window to take a look at this young marvel. The young marvel was hatless. He wore a Hollywood leather jacket and "everlasting" canvas trousers. Selling the papers, the marvel bellowed so that one preferred to die rather than listen to these terrible sounds. We wished he would earn his million as soon as possible and calm down. But two days later this respected boy and all of his companions, newsvendors, roared louder than ever. Some famous cinema actress was found dead in her automobile, and her mysterious death was a sensation for four or five days. The Hearst Examiner devoted itself solely to that.
However, more frightful than the desperate vendors of newspapers proved to be a timid woman who stood opposite our windows. She wore the uniform of the Salvation Army, a black hood with wide ribbons tied under her chin, and a black satin, loose overall. Early in the morning she placed at the corner a wooden tripod stand from which on an iron chain hung a bucket covered with a grate, and she began to ring a bell. She was collecting for a Christmas tree for the poor. The contributions had to be dropped into this home-made bucket. But the heartless Holly-woodites, preoccupied with their potboiling, paid no attention to thill woman in the hood and did not donate any money. She did not annoy the passers-by, did not ask them to contribute their widows' mites, did not sing religious songs. She acted with more persuasive means—she rang her little bell, slowly, calmly, uninterruptedly, endlessly. She had I short intermission only in order to go off and eat. At times we wanted to run out of the hotel and give this person all our savings if it would only terminate the ringing of the bell, which was driving us crazy. But we were deterred only by the thought that the woman, overjoyed with the success of collecting donations, would then come to our corner earlier than ever and depart later than before.
Of all the advertising methods we had seen, of all the ways of pressing things upon people, of reminding them, and of persuading them, this little bell seemed to us the most convincing and the surest of all. And really: why beg, argue, or persuade ? None of it is necessary. All that it is necessary to do is to ring the bell—ring for a day, for a week, for a year— ring until the burgess, debilitated, tormented by the ringing, reduced to hallucinations, yields his last remaining ten cents.
A few days later we felt easier. We began to examine the motion-picture studios. What we call cinema factory bears in America the name of studio. We would leave the hotel early and return late. We almost did not hear the ringing of the bell. But in its place a new problem appeared. Each time we returned and took the key at the counter, the clerk of the hotel would hand to us our mail for the day as well as messages of those who had telephoned us. And each time among the familiar names of friends and acquaintances appeared the following notation: "Captain Ivanov telephoned Mr. Ilf and Mr. Petrov." This continued for several days. Captain Ivanov kept telephoning right along. Later his messages became more detailed. "Captain Ivanov telephoned and left the message that he would like to see you." " Captain Ivanov telephoned again and asked that you set the day and hour when you can meet him." In a word, the captain displayed considerable activity. We were completely at a loss to guess who this Captain Ivanov might be and what he wanted of us. We ourselves became interested in him, asked the motion-picture people about him, but no one could explain anything sensible to us. The last note announced that the tireless captain had telephoned again, that he was very sorry that he could not find us in and that he hoped that we would telephone him when we had the time. From the attached address, it was evident that Ivanov lived in the same hotel with us. Then we sensed at once that we could not avoid meeting the energetic captain.
For several days we toured the studios. Of course, we did not attempt to penetrate the technical aspect of the matter, but the technique here is self-evident: it compels you to look upon it. Just as in all American enterprises that we had seen (except the Ford conveyors, where fever reigns), in the Hollywood studios people work, not in too great a hurry, but with assurance and skill. There is no agitation, no hair standing on end, no torments of creation, no perspiring inspiration, no screams and hysterics. All American work is reminiscent a little of a circus show— sure motions, everything calculated, a curt exclamation or order, and the act is done.
The average Hollywood picture is "shot" in three weeks. If it takes longer than three weeks to make it, then it represents a financial failure. There are exceptions, but the exceptions also bear an American character. The famous dramatist, Marc Connelly, was at the moment filming a picture after his famous play, Green Pastures. This is a charming production, on the theme of how a poor Negro imagines God's Paradise. Mr. Connelly worked under exceptional conditions: he was the author of the play, he wrote the scenario according to it, and he was producing it himself. In this exceptional case he was given the special privilege of filming his picture in a month and a half. His picture belongs to the Class A category. Pictures which are "shot" in three weeks belong to Class B.
Before the filming begins, everything is gathered to the last piece of string. The scenario is in order, the actors have been rehearsed, the stage sets have been prepared. So the "shooting" of the picture proceeds purposefully and uninterruptedly.
Marc Connelly was producing his Green Pastures in the Warner Bros, studios. We do not recall exactly at the moment how many pictures a year Warner Bros, make, whether it is eighty, a hundred, or a hundred and twenty. At any rate, they make a multitude of pictures. Theirs is a large, excellently organized factory of potboilers. Green Pastures is not a frequent recurrence for the enterprising "brothers." They seldom produce a picture according to a good literary scenario. We were told that recently a picture was slapped together in eight days, and it was no worse than other pictures in Class B—a neat, clean, and nauseating picture.
On the territory of the studio an entire city is built.
It is the strangest city in the world. From a typical street in a small American town with a garage and a five-and-ten-cent store, we walked out on a Venetian square. Right behind the Palace of the Doges could be seen a Russian inn, on the signboard of which were painted a samovar and a Caucasian astrakhan hat. All the decorations are made to look like the original. Several steps away you cannot believe that these monu-, mental entrances into cathedrals, these coal mines, ocean ports, bankers' offices, Paraguayan villages, railway stations with half a passenger car, are made out of beaverboard, coloured paper, and plaster of Paris.
The strange phantom city through which we walked changed at every step: centuries, people, cultures—all of it was here mixed with an extraordinary and intriguing ease of manner.
We entered a large half-dark pavilion (stage set). At the moment no one was working there, but not so long ago a great feast of art had transpired here. One could judge of it by the tremendous frigate with many guns which occupied the entire pavilion. All over the place lay piles of weapons—cutlasses, grapnels, officers' swords, axes, and other piratical properties. Here people had not been fighting just for fun. The frigate was made so conscientiously that if it had been a whole ship and not only a half of one, we have no doubt that one could have gone out into the ocean in it without further ado and captured commercial ships —to the glory of those great corsairs, the Warner brothers.