The Pittsburgh Press (March 20, 1942)
Rambling Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
HOLLYWOOD, Calif. – One day Fred Othman got an indignant letter from some female newspaper reader in the East, giving him the dickens for something he had written about the movies.
She closed by saying scornfully, “Anyone can tell from your writing that you are fat, red-headed, and completely without sex appeal.” Othman laughs about the woman’s anger, and then says gravely, “But isn’t it strange how she hit the nail on the head?”
So that’s Fred Othman – fat, red-headed and without sex appeal – and one of the happiest men I’ve run onto in years. He is Hollywood correspondent for the United Press. He writes a daily feature story – not a gossip column – about the movies.
His column appears occasionally in some 1300 papers, and regularly in about 150. He has been doing it for five years. And it is no secret that around the studios he is the most respected writer in Hollywood. His integrity is supreme.
In return, he has a very high regard for motion picture people. Carole Lombard was the best friend he had, and he can hardly bear to speak of her now. He has no sneers for Hollywood. Directors are his special heroes. Fred tells a story to explain why.
For a long time he went around, like other people, thinking directors were over-touted, and kept their jobs mainly by wearing polo shirts and yelling wise-cracks.
Then one day, as material for his daily story, it was arranged that Fred should direct a picture himself for one afternoon.
He read the script until he knew it by heart. On the first scene he called the actors to their places, gave a few instructions, got everything all ready to fire, and then a cameraman had to come over and speak as follows: “Mr. Othman, where do you want me to put the camera?”
That’s a civil question. It’s plain and to the point. It’s one of the simplest of the fundamentals. And yet Mr. Othman thought and thought, and realized that actually he hadn’t the remotest idea where to put the camera. From that day to this, you better not belittle directors in his presence.
Regular reporter’s path
Fred Othman came out of St. Louis, and followed the regular reporter’s path upward through the newspaper and press association business. I knew him years ago in Washington.
Five years ago, the United Press sent him to Hollywood, because they needed a regular man out here and Fred had displayed a pretty gay touch on his typewriter in Washington. In these five years a rather remarkable companionship has grown up between Fred Othman and Hollywood. Each has taken the other over.
Othman has fallen so hard for California that he practically buttonholes people on the street to tell them about it. He is shameless in his enthusiasm. He can’t tolerate the thought of ever leaving California. He is a happy man.
Othman’s house is the wonder of all visiting firemen, and he displays it with almost childish delight. I’ve heard about it for years, now finally I’ve seen it.
The thing sits on a hilltop, just a little way from Hollywood Boulevard. Nine families live up there, including the mayor of Los Angeles. And the only way they can get up to the hilltop is by elevator!
Yessir, the hillsides are sheer. The elevator is in a concrete shaft, like a square silo, which sticks up in the air alongside the cliff that forms one side of the hill.
Those nine families up there own and operate the elevator. They pay $3 a month each. They call it “The Hightower Elevator Co.,” and each year at income tax time they have to hire a lawyer to go down and explain to Uncle Sam that they don’t manufacture elevators for profit.
Famous designer
Othman’s house was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, the noted architect. I don’t know what happened, but it became unoccupied, and ran down terribly. Tramps were sleeping on the lower floor. That’s how the Othmans picked it up for a song.
It’s a beauty now. Fred, who considers himself quite a painter (house, not canvas), did most of the redecorating. Mrs. Othman, who is Hilda, did the rest.
The place is practically all windows. And the sun is so bright it takes the dye right out of their furnishings. So they have to have white curtains and rugs. Deep, woolly white rugs. Maybe you think that doesn’t look luxurious.
Furthermore, they have gold-plated doorknobs. Fred is so proud of those he can hardly contain himself. The silly part of it was that they cost almost nothing – a little discovery I am glad to hear about. Maybe I can get gold tires when the rubber runs out.
Fred says all his life he has wanted a fountain. So he made one. You turn a valve, and a funny little stream, about the size of a pencil lead, comes squirting out and falls into the goldfish pond. Fred sits and listens to it tinkle all Sunday afternoon.
Yes, the Othmans live in an almost magazine-like Hollywood luxury and because of Hilda’s uncanny nose for business opportunities, it costs them no more than living in an ordinary suburb. They live a banquet life on the price of a hamburger.
The house, however, does have one grave fault. It’s so damn nice Fred can’t write in it! So every afternoon, after doing the studios, he has to drive clear to downtown Los Angeles, among the ticker machines and the frenzy of the UP office, and there he writes his daily dissertation about the movies.