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Runyon is the community champ at gin rummy. He never drinks, loves to eat, spends every available hour holding levees at Mike Lyman's restaurant on Vine Street. He is inordinately proud 1) of the fact that nobody has ever paid a check while he was at the table, 2) of his ties (people on the lot swear he wore a new one, each louder than the last, every day for five months), 3) of a wire from his good friend Lord Beaverbrook: "Thanks for the ties. They ought to get me more attention in my present work. Max."
Runyon's prime beefs about living in Hollywood are that he has to pay his own telegraph tolls on his syndicated column, and that he has to get up early. He has a mole's dislike of daylight and fresh air. His office windows and shades are in perpetual blackout, and on the set this summer he wore, even on the hottest days, an ankle-length suede overcoat, griped mildly but continuously at every intrusive breeze.
Unlike many producers, Runyon leaves the technical jobs to those who understand them. He develops no stomach ulcers by throwing around his employers' money. He keeps well within his budget. He does most of his real work—endless attention to details of wardrobe, characterization, dialogue—alone, at night. He is calm. He stays out of Director Irving Reis's hair. When Runyon kidnapped smart young Director Reis from RKO's low-budget Falcon series, he took Reis to Manhattan, walked him through four solid hours of old friends (Mike Jacobs, bookies, shirtmakers, etc.), then said: "Good night. I think you can direct the picture now."
Reis attributes Runyon's success as a producer to the fact that he is an incurable, archetypical film addict: "He sees every scene through the lay eyes of the average audience, unburdened by any technical knowledge."
If Reis is right, The Big Street should be a howling success. Runyon has seen it at least 100 times. No matter how familiar he is with the tear-jerker scenes, he can still be relied on to cough loudly into his handkerchief or to grope on the floor for an imaginary object, in order to be alone with thoughts too deep for public tears. One day he saw it with the "Deathwatch," a group of sound, camera and musical technicians who are so-called because they have no interest in, or comment to make on, any film as entertainment. "Gee, Irving," he said to Reis, "It didn't play so good today, did it?"