It is a violent scene then in that great bowl of an auditorium, with the little ballet dancers standing around, kimono on shoulder, the electricians, the orchestra players, the costumers all watching, listening to a stubby man down in front blazing with orders and enthusiasm, getting plaintive. Roxy sits, like a Supreme Court Justice, or a stuffed pigeon, his staff circled beside him. After the performance a convention is held on the stage for the purpose of a general bawling-out. He is not pathetic then. At four o'clock be is once more ready to view the show, this time, however, from a loge.
Nothing goes wrong.
Otherwise the sobs of Roxy would be too unbearable. It has never happened. Every young reporter interviews Roxy at some time, for with his pail of tears he has edged himself into the meager band of really distinguished public entertainers. He is the leader of presentations, the originator of the atmospheric prologue which is merely a prologue setting the emotional pace of the movie following it. In the olden days the films were bolstered with Japanese Tumblers and The Refined Swiss Bell Ringers, but since Roxy waterwinged to the crest of the wave Mischa Levitska has played at this theater, Frank Harling has arranged a score, and Fritz Kreisler has been asked to play for Roxy's audiences, fattening movies whose dullness has a shellacked veneer of smartness.