NEW YORK CITY PREMIERE

Travel back with us to Depression-era Broadway where our on the spot correspondent filed this report for the May 11, 1935 issue of the Eastern edition of Boxoffice®

G-Men" Premiere Stuns Reporter Who Tells All

THIS is the story of a Broadway opening that really was an opening. This youthful and impressionistic writer, because of his short service in his chosen line of endeavor, is willing to concede, if necessary, that for excitement, crowds, ballyhoo, Kleig lights, invited notables, cameras and all the other powerful attention-compelling mediums created by still more powerful publicity departments and press agents, the opening of "G-Men" at the Strand last Wednesday may have been equalled so many times that this account will seem like so much poppycock.

A Premier Premiere

But, having spent almost a year on the local scene, it becomes his duty to report that in his opinion such a premiere as ushered in James Cagney's latest effort hasn't for sheer unbridled public enthusiasm, been viewed the length and breath of this here Manhattan Island. Entirely disregarding any advance efforts on the part of the home office and theatre publicity and exploitation departments, it will be a mere recital of events that transpired at the theatre.

At 12:40 precisely (he remembers the time, because at that very second the watch he was looking at was richoheted into the air by four guests rushing to get in the line that was now a half-block long) the writer made the mistake of asking a neighborly-looking cop what all the excitement was about. He was immediately accused of being a "wise guy" and in less time than it takes to say "G-Men" found himself in the midst of something that closely resembled and felt like a small-scale hunger riot.

What with the power of the press theoretically behind him, and a press card to prove it, he gathered his few stray bits of clothing about him and made a mad dash for something that looked like a clear space inside the lobby. Somebody dropped a ticket in the palm of his hand and said, "Take this man to the manager's office. He wants to exchange his seat for a loge." This errand attended to, the writer came back to make menial and penciled notes of the goings on.

The lobby was taped off in the middle. One side was clear. Fire laws demand an unobstructed exit. The other side was packed solid. Waiting to go in. A record of "A Quarter to Nine" was wailing itself blandly over the P. A. system. When the same record was repeated a salvo of boos that could be heard across the street went up. The crowd was becoming restless and had 15 more minutes to wail for the first "break."

A fire department chief ordered the selling of tickets stopped for the third time. A swarthy-looking gent who looked like a gasmeter inspector, offered to give the writer his flashlight if he could gain immediate admission. He had to get back to work soon. A group of about 20 patrons requested loge tickets in exchange for orchestra seats. The difference in cost was 85 cents. They were referred to the manager, who now was weighted down to his knees with pockets full of silver. Somebody sent out a call for a cop to protect the manager in event of a holdup.

Generous Patron

A middle-aged woman showed the writer two tickets she had bought and wanted to know if this fact would influence the management in permitting her to enter at once, since she was only going to occupy one seat and had bought the other ticket in the form of a grandiloquent gesture. After the boos that accompanied another rendition of "A Quarter to Nine" had died down, an irate patron offered to punch the nose of his closest colleague for stepping on his toes. This precipitated a loud squabble and the police threatened to throw them out for disturbing the "peace."

A spokesman for a small contingent of disgruntled May Day paraders offered to buy up a small block of tickets if the management would permit the group to leave banners and placards in the lobby while the members viewed the film. The offer was turned down. A box-office checkup revealed that at 1:05 p.m., 4,123 tickets had been sold.

The lobby delay seemed to be getting out of hand, and the next moment the crowd surged through the tapes and formed a blockade against all doors. The writer was carried bodily against one of these doors, and along with theatre officials tried vainly to re-assure the crowds. A few women and some men who had been severely jostled, appealed for refunds, which were granted. The crowd became reconciled to the delay, but not without many threats of bodily harm to anyone who looked like an official.

No Gratuities Accepted

During the lull, the writer had recovered sufficiently to find two large black cigars thrust in his face. They were attached to the arm of a man who couldn't even see. A voice cried, "They're the best. But if you don't smoke cigars, I'll gat you tsigarettes. Please, lat me in; I've got a two-thoity appointment."

Offers of baseball tickets, a promise of a pair of free ducats to a fight and an opportunity to view a radio broadcast FREE were also tendered if the writer would only look the other way while the donors slipped through the door.

Incessant questioning concerning the time required to wait fell on deafened ears. No one wanted to commit himself. At this juncture a tremendous jolt from inside the theatre managed to force partly open the door being zealously guarded by the representative of the press, thrusting him headlong into the crowd, a distance of fully two inches. He found himself being swept into the theatre, and in a do-or-die attempt to save himself from the ravages of the mob, who alternately screamed and pushed, grabbed hold of the open door. Just as he glanced about to view, with a mixed feeling of dismay and relief, his topcoat being carried along into the theatre, there came a sound of splintering wood. And what, please, could that mean? Nothing more than the door being ripped from its hinges, custodian of which he now was.

At What a Price!

Later, when the last of the patrons had passed through the portals, through those portals that house "G-Men,"the remnants of what was only an hour before a cheerful, Spring-in-his-bosom, song-in-his-heart reporter, might have been heard, as he dragged himself toward his office, softly murmuring something like, "Gee, Men! Did I Deserve this?"

All the foregoing is a factual record of your reporter's experience at the New York opening of "G-Men."

And, a Warner home office report states that the first day's business broke every existing house record. The theatre will continue indefinitely on a 21-hour daily grind, opening at 8 a. m., and running continuously until 5 o'clock the following morning.

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