Last week a nervous little man grinned
his twisted grin in the grounds of White Pine Camp. He offered a
proposition to President Coolidge—to set aside 20 vaults of the
proposed $2,000,000 Archives Building in order to preserve for
posterity historical films. Spokesman Coolidge expressed himself as
favorably impressed with the idea, pointed out how educational it would
be if this generation could observe President Lincoln delivering his
Gettysburg address. The little man, no stranger to Presidents, was
Movie Monarch Will H. Hays and as he walked the grounds of White Pine
Camp, he seemed strangely pleased. In 1896, among other events William
McKinley was nominated Republican presidential color-bearer. Clippings
described the convention. One batch of these clippings was presented to
a gawky stripling with the inscription: “To Master Willie Hays,
with the hope that some day he may take a citizen's interest in
politics.” Possibly Schoolboy Hays wrote a thesis on the
“Negro Problem”. . . . He graduated from Wabash College
in 1900, secured an M. A. in 1904. His thesis was “The
Negro Problem.” Long a member of the law firm of Hays and Hays, he
began to interest himself in politics, became the Republican National
Committee Chairman in 1918. People wondered at this “human
flivver,” this sophisticated “booster,” this shrewd
politician who quoted the Golden Rule, who said, “There is no
twilight zone in politics; right is right and wrong is wrong . . .
rights shall be held equally sacred and sacredly equal. . . .” He even held rights “equally sacred” while Postmaster
General under President Harding, when critics were legion. “He's
little,” said one, “but he's loud.” He was also
efficient, astounded and vexed old-school politicos by making
appointments on a merit basis. Many prophesied that Mr. Hays would,
within two years, reinvigorate the postal service so shabby under
war-administration. Others foretold that soon the mails would be wrecked.
People augured, argued, raged. Mr. Hays went into the movies, became
the $150,000 a year president of Motion Picture Producers and
Distributors of America, Inc. “I did not undertake the task
lightly,” said he, “but it seemed to afford an opportunity
for service. . . . We want everyone who has any ideas for bettering
the motion picture to come in through the Open Door and tell us his
ideas about it. . . .” Will Hays sat as tsar of moviedom like
Judge Landis in baseball, yet saw people, listened. “I
believe,” said he, “in the personal relationship of man, the
expression of personality, and above all, keeping the human
element—the heart touch—in everything you say and do.” The only occasion upon which Mr. Hays' “heart touch” seemed forced is
when photographed with filmdom's buffoons—Ben Turpin, Buster Keaton.
The dictator of the fourth largest industry possibly meditates upon a
smug lawn and a White House in Washington—then sighs, returns to
work. After all, he is a president. And, withdrawn from politics, he
has become an unselfish deus ex machina to the movies, a veritable
polychromatic Pollyanna.
