(See Cover) When he advances, greasy with makeup, to his daily toil, a motion-picture actor is engulfedprofile, esthetic sensibilities and nervous stomachin an atmosphere depressingly reminiscent of a submarine dockyard. The sound stage in which he works is as cavernous and gloomy as a wharfside warehouse. The day's set, thrown up in a distant corner as if to dramatize the phoniness and gullibility of man, is bathed in a glare of blue-white light as blinding as that from an arc welder's torch. Half a hundred hairy union men tinker stolidly with furniture,...
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