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* T A Y L O R O L O G Y *
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* A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor *
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* *
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* Issue 55 -- July 1977 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
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* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
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Interviews with Mary Pickford
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Taylor Case Errors in "Forbidden Lovers"
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What is TAYLOROLOGY?
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TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond
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Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to
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death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major
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scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life;
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(b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor
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murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood
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silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given
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toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it
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for accuracy.
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Some TAYLOROLOGY graphic image files are available for viewing in Acrobat
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format (.pdf) at http://www.public.asu.edu/~bruce . The files presently
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include photos of Taylor acting and directing, a map of Alvarado court,
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Taylor's birth and death certificates, a sketch of the murder scene, photos
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of Taylor and Minter autographed to each other, letters written from Minter
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to Taylor, etc.
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Interviews with Mary Pickford
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Mary Pickford ("America's Sweetheart") was the biggest star directed by
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William Desmond Taylor. The three films in which he directed her--"Johanna
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Enlists," "Captain Kidd, Jr.," "How Could You, Jean"--were the last three she
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made for Famous Players-Lasky before beginning independent production. Below
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are 11 interviews with Mary Pickford, from 1913-1922. Also included is her
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1923 testimony which revealed that Adolph Zukor had once offered her $250,000
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if she would retire from the screen. As a star and as a producer, Mary
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Pickford was the most important woman of the silent film era, and the
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interviews below give glimpses of her personality, intelligence, and sense of
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values. Hopefully someday someone will make a serious effort to find
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the hundreds of interviews given by Mary Pickford during the silent film era,
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and make them freely available on the Internet.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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January 19, 1913
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SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE
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Mary Pickford, Recent Recruit to the Footlights,
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Was Known to Millions in the "Movies"
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When a pretty young woman first sees herself on the screen, after she
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has been "filmed," she seeks a secluded spot and weeps. "Do I really look as
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bad as that?" she sobs. The sight of herself is almost too much.
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"I suspect," said Miss Pickford, when discussing her experience
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recently, "that a man will gravitate toward strong drink. I remember well
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the first time Lionel Barrymore saw himself as others see him.
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"'I've got a grouch on with myself for being so fat,' he observed.
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'Anyhow, I wonder what right I've got to be going around and posing as a
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leading man. Back to the stage for mine!'"
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Very seldom, though, is it "back to the stage." Much more often it is
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from the stage to the "movies." That is why it has been such a source of
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comment that a woman like Miss Pickford should give up one line of work, in
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which she has a reputation that is second to none, for another that is, in
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many respects, more strenuous and exacting.
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Not since she was a very little girl with a company playing "The Warrens
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of Virginia" has Miss Pickford essayed a speaking part, until recently she
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blossomed out as a real Juliet in "The Good Little Devil," the play with
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which Mme. Rostand and her son proved that the author of "Cyrano" and
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"Chantecler" was not the only one of the family who could turn out dramatic
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novelties.
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And for the very reason that Miss Pickford has been away so short a time
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from the clicking cameras and shouting stage managers of the "movies," her
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views on the styles of acting which go best in, the photoplays and the real
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thing are of particular interest, because her own work has forced her to
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bring the contrasts into vivid relief.
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"As a matter of fact," she declared, "one does not have to resort to
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more pantomime before the camera than behind the footlights. Some actors
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have spoiled themselves for returning to the stage by doing so; but it really
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isn't necessary.
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"Would you believe it? One has to be very much more real for a film
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play than for an audience. You can't fool the camera. It catches every
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little thing--many things that, ordinarily, the eyes never see.
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"I soon discovered, when studying myself on the screen, that I couldn't
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pretend to cry in front of the lens. If a scene demanded sobs, I had to
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weep, or turn my head away from the camera.
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"Now, on the stage it is perfectly easy to counterfeit sobs. There the
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voice helps in the deception. The same holds true in many ways--all emotions
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may be simulated by the voice; but when one is deprived of its aid, one must
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make up for it by keener attention to facial expression.
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"Often, when acting for the 'movies,' I have been greatly disconcerted
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when the man playing opposite to me would speak a line that should have been
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impassioned in an ordinary tone of voice. Imagine some one declaring, 'I
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love you,' as if he were asking you to 'Please pass the butter.' Sometimes I
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feared that I might lose control of myself altogether, and I knew that after
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such a thing happened, I could never finish my part as well as I had begun
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it."
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There is, indeed, a special technique required for the photoplays--a
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technique that has been evolved in a few years. It has been but a matter of
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half a decade, or thereabouts, that Miss Pickford became a Juliet of the
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gelatine films. She had finished her engagement with "The Warrens of
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Virginia," and realized that it was time for her to be thinking of giving up
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juvenile parts.
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An opportunity to act before the camera presented itself, and she took
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advantage of it. Since then she has played all sorts of parts--has seen
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herself on the screen as wild western heroines, as women from the classics,
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as poor little innocent girls and as very well-dressed rich ones--in fact,
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has gone pretty well through the dramatic scale.
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"When I went into moving-picture plays," said Miss Pickford, "they were
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paying $5 a day at the highest. I believe I was the first woman to get $10.
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Now they are paying hundreds a week.
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"Naturally, it was strange work at first, and I found that I had to
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acquire a special facility for it. In the first place, do you realize that
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all the indoor scenes occupy a space not larger than a good-sized rug? That
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will be crowded up with furniture of various kinds. To get around naturally,
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without bumping against tables or knocking down chairs, is no easy matter.
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It takes months to learn to dart about without betraying the fact that one is
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steering a serpentine course around sideboards and things. The slightest
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awkward move, you know, will show on the screen, to the exclusion of
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everything else.
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"One the other hand, when I went back to the stage, I felt that I could
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never get across it. The distances were vast--terrible to me. At times I
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felt as if I were crossing a desert.
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"Still another thing that one must get accustomed to on the picture
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stage is the shouts of the stage managers. There is always a terrible hubbub
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when a play is being produced. When one or more are put on in a week there
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is no time for such careful rehearsal as theatrical companies receive.
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"Consequently, the stage managers are always on the alert. 'A little
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more life there! Don't make a funeral out of this scene,' a man will yell at
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you, and if you have not properly schooled yourself, you will took toward the
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person who is yelling. Be sure that glance will show on the screen and will
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spoil a scene."
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In a sense, it was this "slap-dash" rehearsing that cause Miss Pickford
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to desert the "movies," which have given her the most familiarly known face
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in the nation. She wanted to get back to David Belasco--he is her idol--
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because she felt that his coaching is a liberal education in stagecraft. "He
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rehearses so wonderfully," she said. "He always knows just the effects he
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wants, and how to get them; is never at a loss, and never out of patience.
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I can't imagine how some people can go through a rehearsal under him in a
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matter-of-fact humor. I drink in everything he says, remember it and study
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it out."
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"And now that you no longer have the screen to study, do you practice
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before the mirror?" she was asked.
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She laughed merrily.
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"Booth did it; Mansfield did it; most of the great actors have done it,"
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she replied; "but somehow I can't imagine myself doing it. I should feel so
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foolish if I tried it. Besides, I should be so constrained and self-
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conscious that I wouldn't know how to control my face.
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"When I'm playing Juliet, the blind girl, I know just what muscles to
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'wiggle'"--and she laughed again--"because I've studied my expressions so
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long on the screens that I can call on any one I want."
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Literally, she has acquired a complete repertory of her own expressions
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by seeing herself in so many photoplays. Whether she wants to portray joy or
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grief, anger or amusement--in fact, almost any emotion one can name--she can
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mold her facial muscles to it with as much certainty as one would pull the
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strings of a marionette.
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"I can't imagine anything that is of as much benefit to an actress," she
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said, "as studying herself on the screen. It's so different from practicing
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before a mirror. When one is acting, one should feel the emotions that are
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being imitated. That is not possible--at least, would not be for me--if one
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is in front of a mirror. But after one has acted in a photoplay, the results
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can be seen in cold blood long after the impressions of the moment have
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vanished.
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"It is possible then to judge the effect of every expression as it is
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flashed on the screen. The part the eyebrows play, whether one has frowned
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too much or not enough, how one appears when sobbing--all these and many
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other things can be seen, just as if one were criticizing another person.
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"In time it is but natural that one should be able to call upon an
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expression with practical certainty. I feel the advantage of this,
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particularly when I am playing the blind girl. My eyes are open, but I am
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not supposed to see. Were I to appear at all conscious of the manner in
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which I am expressing various emotions, the illusion would be lost. The
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audience would not feel that I was blind, but would be keenly alive to the
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fact that I was merely playing blind."
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It may be noted that, for the reasons Miss Pickford stated, there are
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few persons who can take "blind" roles. Generally there is nothing sightless
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but the "lines" of the part.
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Similarly, the schooling of the photoplays, in being seemingly
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unconscious of all sights and sounds except those which should influence the
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acting, has stood Miss Pickford in good stead. A blind girl is never
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expected to see anything that goes on about her--and Miss Pickford never
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does, so far as the eye can judge.
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"On the whole," she said, "I feel that my experience before the camera
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has been of great benefit; but I can easily see how it might have done great
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harm. I always had in mind the fact that I might want to become a real
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actress, and so never allowed myself to indulge in more gestures than if I
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had a speaking part. I don't believe it is necessary, and a great many
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actors ruin themselves for stagework by assuming exaggerated manners and
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expressions.
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"If one were acting in a French or Italian company, it would be
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different. Those people are more given to gestures than we are. Why, the
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French companies laugh at our 'movies.' They say they can see no acting in
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them. Just the same, we often laugh back at theirs, because they go through
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so many antics. In either case, the actors are right. An American who
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worked his face and thrashed the air like a Frenchman would appear just as
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ridiculous as a Frenchman who talked only with his mouth."
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From all this it can be realized that Miss Pickford has been no dilatory
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student of her art. People who have admired her, week after week, for a
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matter of five years or so, may be sure that they have liked her acting
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because she has studied every little detail of her work until she is able to
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gauge the effect of every movement she makes.
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And, as her appearance is universally known not only in America, but in
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Europe as well, the natural question is:
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"What is she like off the stage?" That's asked of every actress.
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A New York girl wanted to know one time, and followed Miss Pickford and
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her mother for a number of blocks when they were walking home from a moving-
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picture studio. Finally, the younger woman began to suspect they were being
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shadowed, and turned to see who was behind them.
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"Did you want to see me?" she asked the hesitating girl.
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"Oh, Miss Pickford!" the latter exclaimed, "I'm so glad you have a
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pretty voice, because if you hadn't I wouldn't enjoy you so much in the
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moving pictures next week, and I hoped you had because I see you every week,
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and I made up my mind that I just had to know what you are like."
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Aside from a pretty voice, Miss Pickford has golden hair, the eyes that
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best go with it, and a pleasant manner, altogether free from constraint of
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affectation. What she has so far done has never gone to her head. It is
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what she wants to do in the future that she is bothering most about.
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As to size, she is slightly below medium; and as to age, she is still in
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her early twenties. From Canada she has come, and she retains her love for
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the open and the genial sympathy with mankind that goes with it. Perhaps as
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good an index to her character as any is to be found in a remark she made of
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her acting:
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"I always like to think of 'the poor little man in the gallery,' and
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make my voice carry to him. He has paid over his good money, just as well as
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those in the expensive front seats, and he is just as much entitled to the
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worth of it as they are."
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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August 1913
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Estelle Kegler
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PHOTOPLAY
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The Charm of Wistfulness
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A captious critic once offered a reward of a thousand dollars for any
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one of his ilk who had written about the art of Mary Pickford without using
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the word "wistful."
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Up to now no one has come to claim the reward. The critic knew he was
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safe.
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The morning New York awoke to place the laurel wreath of a new fame on
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the childish brow of its "good little devil," you might have read of Mary's
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wistful eyes, her wistful smile, her wistful voice. That solemn group of
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folks who sit in aisle seats and sharpen their pencils over the trembling
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forms of terrified authors, behaved quite as if they had discovered Mary.
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As a matter of fact, Mary had been "discovered" long before these
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reviewers of plays, who never speak of the "movies" without a shudder, ever
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suspected anything artistic could come from pictures. Out in Manhattan,
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Kansas, or Moose Jaw, they knew all about little Mary long before Mr.
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Belasco, dealer in highbrow drama, ever considered offering her a prominent
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place in a Broadway production. And she burst upon the "Big Way" with the
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acclaim of more than a million picture fans trailing her right up to the
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stage door. The acclaim has now turned to clamor--clamor for the return of
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Mary to the world of photoplays.
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"When I think of that great big generous world out there really wanting
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me to come out on the screen and play with its fancy, it makes me so homesick
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I could weep," is the confession of Miss Pickford.
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It was in Shanleys, after one of the best performances the lady, late of
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the silent drama, had ever given in "The Good Little Devil." Around in front
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of the Republic theatre playgoers lingering for their carriages, were still
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discussing the appeal of the blind "Juliet." The newest star in
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Mr. Belasco's constellation looked as weary as the bouquet of violets
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drooping in her nervous fingers.
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"Of course I love the spoken drama, too," she hastened to add,
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brightening at the contemplation of her established success. "When I left
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the motion picture field it was not necessarily a final farewell. I believe
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people in my profession should know how to do a great many things and do them
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well.
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"When the pictures are peopled with actors and actresses who have the
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solid foundation of experience beneath them they will be infinitely better
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than they have been under the regime of amateurs whose only claim to being
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cast is that they photograph well. There must be something more than mere
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photography. There must be technique, ease, versatility, and seriousness of
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intent."
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It seemed so incongruous to have this child creature sit there and
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deliver judgments on subject so serious as the future of a national
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amusement. One must constantly revert to the kingdom of careers where it is
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written that Mary began wielding the grease paint and hare's foot when she
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was a mere baby, and that she has been building up fame and a bank account
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ever since.
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"It is a long way from the glamour of face to face applause to the heaps
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of admiration and approval that come to the picture favorite through the
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mails," said Mary. "For the one there are invitations to sip tea, to dine,
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to sup, to go here and there and everywhere, to meet this celebrity and that
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man and the other woman.
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"For the other there is the peace, the security, the privacy of the
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woman whose circle of admirers is limited to her family and her friends. The
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actress finds it difficult to draw a definite line between her professional
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and her home lives. The picture actress slips off her screen identity with
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her screen wardrobe, and the minute she leaves the studio she is just like
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any other private citizeness. It is all a matter of preference. Oh yes, and
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of dollars."
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Mary didn't tell me, but I happen to know she is a bit of a home-body
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herself. In a cozy little, rosy little apartment not very far from the
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Hudson river, she is the daintiest chatelaine that ever presided over the
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destiny of a happy home and an adoring, awfully good looking husband.
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Yes, Lovey Mary has fallen victim to the wiles of Danny, the boy with
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the bow and arrow. If you should call at the apartment and inquire for Mrs.
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Owen Moore, who do you think, would be the answer? Why none other than the
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girl with the sunny curls, the blue violet eyes, the pouting lips of the
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"good little devil."
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Perhaps curls would be twisted up into a grown-up knot as becomes one
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who deals with the servant problem and other items of house-wifely lore, but
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the wistful smile would be there to greet you.
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Will little Mary return to delight the hearts of her nickel-a-half-a-
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dime public? Perhaps so. You know she promised "maybe."
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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August 23, 1913
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Mabel Condon
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MOTOGRAPHY
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Mary Pickford's dark eyebrows and hazel eyes were quite as I had
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imagined them, but the blonde curls that bobbed from under her straw hat were
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a distinct shock, as I had always believed Mary to be a brunette. Not that
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anybody had ever told me she was; I just imagined it from my acquaintance
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with her one the screen and the screen, you know, has the faculty of
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converting blondes into brunettes with neither excuse nor warning to the
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blonde so converted nor the picture patrons so deceived. So Mary is a
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blonde.
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"Have a chair," invited Mr. Schulberg, he of the publicity department
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and the scenario editorship of the Famous Players' Company; also the
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Mr. Schulberg of the honeymoon flat over in Jersey, and who is so new a groom
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that he still brings unexpected company home to dinner. "When Mary is
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through with this scene she'll take you to her dressing room," continued
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Mr. Schulberg, and with that promise I accepted the chair and sat back to
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watch Mary's debut at boarding school and to forgive picture screens in
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general their deception as to Mary's curls.
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The scene being rehearsed was one from the story, "Caprice." Six times
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did Mary bob and smile her little "love-me" smile in introduction to the
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stylish young ladies who were to be her schoolmates and who had lots of fun
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at the expense of Mary's pathetic jacket, her rustic hat that tied under her
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chin and the beruffled skirts that dipped five or more inches at the back;
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six times did Mary lovingly brush her father's carpet bag with the front gore
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of her skirt and six times did he throw her arms about his neck and caress
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the sleeve of his coat in a brave farewell.
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Then, but not until then, did the brow of Director J. Searle Dawley rid
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itself of four or more superfluous lines and he bellowed the signal, "Go!"
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Three clangs of a bell brought carpenters and everybody else in the studio,
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but not in the scene, to a full stop. Mr. Dawley poised himself on the
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outside edge of the stage setting in readiness to hurl forth instructions and
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the camera man loomed up as "the man of the hour."
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It was all over in one and one-third minutes and eighty feet of film,
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and Mary walked from under the blue-green lights to where a plump, dark-
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haired lady was sitting. As we approached, I heard Mary say, "Hello, Mother
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dear." The dark-haired lady answered, "Hello, Mary darling," and then I
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experienced the full wonder of a Mary smile as Mr. Schulberg introduced us.
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"If you don't mind, we can talk while I dress for the next scene,"
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suggested Mary. I didn't mind, and in a few minutes Mary was seated in front
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of her dressing table brushing her thick curls over her left forefinger and
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telling me that she had been working hard--just as I had seen her--since nine
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o'clock that morning, but that she didn't get tired--not very tired, anyway--
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because she likes picture work so well.
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"While I was playing in his 'Good Little Devil,' Mr. Belasco used to
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read interviews in which I'd say I liked pictures better than the stage,"
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laughed Mary. "But I do like them better--though I'm going back with
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Mr. Belasco's company in the fall; meanwhile, I'm doing the work I like
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best."
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"And what do you do when you're not working?" I asked from the depths of
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the most comfortable chair I've ever seen in a dressing room.
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"Live in a bathing suit," replied Mary, putting down her white-backed
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brush and beginning to pin up her curls. "We have a house at Beechhurst,
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Long Island, and I stay in my bathing suit all day; that is, the one day of
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the week that I'm there," she amended, as she applied a second amber pin by
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way of a reprimand to the little curl over her left ear. The little curl
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promptly slid back into its original position, and Mary continued:
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|
"It's glorious out there in the evening, too--only for the mosquitoes!
|
|
I don't believe they eat a bite until I arrive and then they all pick on
|
|
me--"
|
|
"Why, Mary, what's that?" came the alarmed voice of Mary's mother, as
|
|
she appeared in the doorway.
|
|
"Mosquitoes," answered Mary demurely, and Mary's mother breathed a
|
|
relieved "Oh" as she took possession of the rocker under the electric fan.
|
|
"And it's so dreadfully quiet there nights that it's spookey. Last
|
|
night--" Mary paused to insert a final pin where she thought it would do the
|
|
most good, then turned around and continued--"I was sure somebody had broken
|
|
into the house--"
|
|
"For what?" Mary's mother wanted to know in a calm voice.
|
|
"Oh, for--I don't know what for," Mary went on, "but, anyway I was sure
|
|
somebody had broken in; I could even hear him walking around downstairs and I
|
|
wanted a drink so badly, but I was afraid to get up and get it, so I just
|
|
waited until it was daylight and then I got two."
|
|
"And the man who 'broke in?' I suggested expectantly.
|
|
"Well, he wasn't there this morning," Mary's muffled voice informed from
|
|
the wardrobe bag into which her head was poked in the effort to choose a
|
|
costume for the next scene.
|
|
"No, not last night either," said Mary's mother, and that settled it.
|
|
Mary emerged from the bag with a pearl-gray suit and a sheer white waist
|
|
with a quantity of ruffles on the collar and down the front.
|
|
"Hope this won't make me look fat," she remarked, as she studied the
|
|
effect of the ruffles in the glass and arranged the waist line of the gray
|
|
skirt with its white silk drop. "I wouldn't be 'little Mary' any more if I
|
|
got fat," she smiled. "I try not to look any littler than I can help--though
|
|
I like that title the people gave me, 'little Mary,' because I feel they call
|
|
me it through liking, and I love to please the people. There--" donning her
|
|
coat and turning around for her mother's inspection, "am I all right,
|
|
mother?"
|
|
"Yes, you look very nice," her mother answered. "What hat are you going
|
|
to wear?"
|
|
"Mercy! I didn't bring a hat with me," wailed Mary.
|
|
"Try mine," Mary's mother advised, removing her small white hat. Mary
|
|
sat it jauntily upon her curls. It looked as though it belonged there, and
|
|
Mary said: "Now, I'm ready. Will you come out and watch this scene and come
|
|
back with me again?"
|
|
"Delighted," I answered, and Mary hurried away to the blue-green lights
|
|
of the stage setting and Mary's mother and I found chairs where we could see
|
|
everything, and I asked Mary's mother how and when Mary started her stage
|
|
work.
|
|
"In the Valentine Stock Company when she was five years old," said
|
|
Mary's mother, who really looks every much like Mary, or Mary looks like her,
|
|
rather. Mary's mouth is distinctively her own, however; it's the only one of
|
|
its kind in the world, I'm sure.
|
|
"The man who owned the company saw Mary and asked to have her for a part
|
|
he had in mind. He said, 'I think you could do it, Mary,' and Mary said,
|
|
'I'm sure I could.' So she did and has played every stock child part since
|
|
then."
|
|
"Do you want to tell me how old Mary is?" I asked, and she replied:
|
|
"Yes; Mary doesn't mind. She is nineteen and was born in Toronto, Canada."
|
|
A roomful of girls burst into the set and rehearsals were one. It was
|
|
the closing of the school year and everybody was saying good-bye to everybody
|
|
else, and parents and guardians were calling for their girls. And Mary
|
|
offered a big contrast to the Mary of the preceding scene. Only two
|
|
rehearsals were necessary this time and when the camera man had taken two
|
|
"stills" and some of the girls were wondering if that would be all for the
|
|
day, Mr. Dawley announced in a voice that could be heard on Broadway
|
|
(almost): "Get ready for the dormitory scene. Get your nightgowns on--and
|
|
remember, girls, no street clothes underneath!"
|
|
There was a dismayed "Oh-h-h-h-h!" from a group of "extras," but Mr.
|
|
Dawley paid no attention to it, and Mary, her mother and I returned to Mary's
|
|
dressing room, where Mary had to take her hair down and make ready to carry a
|
|
girl through the hall and down the stairs of the dormitory, which was to be
|
|
set on fire.
|
|
"I hope you don't get your hair burned, Mary," worried her mother.
|
|
"If I were you, I'd pin it up."
|
|
"No, that wouldn't look like really and truly night time," said Mary,
|
|
and then: "Gracious! I've lost my stockings--my white ones! I simply must
|
|
have stockings--" as she hurriedly went through a suit case and traveling bag
|
|
and her mother investigated the hooks on the north wall. "And I have only a
|
|
few minutes--"
|
|
There was a violent rap at the door and a man's voice called: "Mary,
|
|
I want to borrow your nightgown."
|
|
"All right," answered Mary, and handed it out through a crack in the
|
|
door. "That's the property man. I have to have another exactly like it for
|
|
the next scene and he bought that one yesterday, so he knows where to get the
|
|
other. But if I don't find my stockings--"
|
|
"Here they are," and Mary's mother advanced triumphantly from the
|
|
vicinity of the north wall hooks.
|
|
"Oh, thank you, mother. Yes, I remember now that I hung them just
|
|
there."
|
|
During the wait for the property man to return her gown Mary asked if I
|
|
thought she resembled Mary Fuller. She had been told repeatedly that she
|
|
did. There is a resemblance, but it is more striking in the pictures of the
|
|
two Marys, as then their hair looks to be the same color.
|
|
"I admire Mary Fuller very much. I've never met her, though I tried to
|
|
on Edison night at the Exposition, but she had gone home. Sometimes--"
|
|
The knuckles of the property man sounded on the door and when the gown
|
|
had been admitted and donned, Mary resumed her position on the sofa, and
|
|
continued: "Sometimes I stop and think of all the motion picture people who
|
|
are working at that very minute, and I wonder just what Alice Joyce is doing
|
|
and what parts are being played by the people of the Western companies.
|
|
I think it's wonderful, the bigness of it all." I admitted it was wonderful
|
|
and was sorry Marry happened to glance at the clock just then, as it reminded
|
|
her that it was about time for the next scene.
|
|
"Maybe I'll see you in Chicago this winter," she said, slipping a long
|
|
coat over her dishabille. "I'm going to play there for a month, you know."
|
|
"Everybody ready?" called Mr. Dawley. I wasn't going to stay for the
|
|
dormitory scene, so said good-bye to Mary outside her dressing room door.
|
|
With a handshake and a smile, Mary joined the groups of white-robed figures
|
|
that came from the various dressing rooms and I returned to my hotel feeling
|
|
much the richer by virtue of having met "little Mary," received two of her
|
|
very latest photographs and known the fascination of Mary's "love-me" smile
|
|
which makes everybody do just that.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
August 29, 1914
|
|
Mabel Condon
|
|
MOTOGRAPHY
|
|
An informal visit with Mary Pickford one afternoon last week, furnishes
|
|
me with a timely topic and you, if you read far enough, with the information
|
|
first hand--or second, if you wish--for Mary told me and I'm telling you--
|
|
that Mary is not particularly overjoyed with the sudden burst of publicity
|
|
which has come her way with the reissuing of old time "Mary" films. I'll
|
|
tell it to you just as Mary told it to me.
|
|
It was the day in the Famous Players studio that Jim Kirkwood hesitated
|
|
over the history of his life and then sat for that picture that didn't
|
|
justify his raw-boned manliness a bit. And it was while he was hesitating
|
|
that Mary Pickford emerged from an "extra" dressing-room, in a pink silk
|
|
negligee and pink rose-budded boudoir cap. And her arms were about a round
|
|
little white-robed body, which nestled into the silky softness of the
|
|
negligee, and looked out at us from round, blue eyes that bespoke the
|
|
satisfied contentment of the four-months old owner.
|
|
But it was the shade of the four-months old's head that caught and held
|
|
the attention of Mr. Kirkwood. At one time in Mr. Kirkwood's life, the
|
|
covering of his own head had been just so, and of the same color, so of
|
|
course Mr. Kirkwood was interested and broke forth in rosy predictions of
|
|
what the future held for one so proud as was the four-months old.
|
|
"To think," regretted Mary, "that that sweet little face will some-time
|
|
grow a horrid beard."
|
|
"And to think," enlightened Mr. Kirkwood, "that those sweet little legs
|
|
will, on Saturday nights presumably, bring their owner home this way." Let
|
|
your imagination draw a zig-zag across this page and you will have the
|
|
demonstration supplied by Mr. Kirkwood.
|
|
"Jimmie!" expostulated Mary, turning her armful of man-baby away from
|
|
the maker of such a suggestion, "just look at his round little feet--he's all
|
|
round--and so good! His mother says I may mind him for a while, so, when
|
|
Jimmie's through talking, come over to my dressing-room--will you?"
|
|
So when I thought "Jimmie" was through, I went.
|
|
But Jimmie was by no means through, as, with his "Grease Paint" chat
|
|
over, he became much more talkative and bobbed in and out of Mary's dressing-
|
|
room every few minutes.
|
|
"He's an awful tease," said Mary as, after discovering by an
|
|
investigation of the infant's bib that he shared the initial "J" with him,
|
|
Mr. Kirkwood set out to find the mother to learn if the baby's name wasn't
|
|
Jim.
|
|
"But everybody likes him," added Mary, "and it's really fun and not like
|
|
work at all, making pictures with him. The cast of 'The Eagle's Mate' was so
|
|
congenial that we had the nicest time imaginable making the exterior scenes.
|
|
I went to the Strand to see the film on its second night there." She paused
|
|
and patted the round little body of the four-months old. The caress must
|
|
have been a soothing one, for the round one's round eyes promptly closed and
|
|
Mary smiled down at him and whispered "asleep," whereupon the round one's
|
|
round eyes opened and surveyed Mary and her blue-grey ones.
|
|
And Mary smiled back and continued:--
|
|
"I really ought not to go to see any of my own pictures." Her upper lip
|
|
expressed her sorrow at something and I asked why.
|
|
"Because it's such an ordeal for me," she answered, "I sit tight on the
|
|
edge of the seat and keep thinking 'Will they like it?' and I criticize every
|
|
move I make and, really, I don't have a bit of a good time! If others were
|
|
as critical as I, I'm afraid people wouldn't like my work at all."
|
|
"But they do like you," I insisted and suggested, "I wonder if you have
|
|
any idea of just how much you are liked?" Mary looked thoughtful and said
|
|
hesitatingly, "I can't realize they like me that well, but look," she smiled
|
|
eagerly and with her right hand swept aside a newspaper on the table beside
|
|
her. The act disclosed countless letters as yet unopened and there was a
|
|
package loosely done up in tissue-paper.
|
|
"I got this one this morning from a girl in a hospital in Baltimore,"
|
|
she passed me the tissue-paper package. It contained a sewing apron of
|
|
daintiest lawn and was embroidered in artistic blue and white butterflies.
|
|
A note attached explained that the donor had made it while lying ill for
|
|
weeks and assured Mary that it betokened much love and admiration. Could the
|
|
ill little girl have witnessed Mary's joy over its possession, I'm sure she
|
|
would be repaid for her work of love.
|
|
It was then that the subject of the re-issuing of the Mary films was
|
|
reached and Mary declared indignantly that she did not like it very well.
|
|
"For many of those early films were made when I was not as happy as I am
|
|
now--and condition always affects one's work," rocking the round one, now
|
|
really asleep, gently in the low rocker Mary occupied out of regard for the
|
|
infant's comfort.
|
|
"But of course," Mary began philosophically--but I never knew what it
|
|
was that she had intended to say, for Mr. Kirkwood entered with the disgusted
|
|
information that the little chap's name was "Joe" instead of "Jim."
|
|
"Joseph Porter Riley," practically announced Joe's little mother,
|
|
appearing from behind Mr. Kirkwood's shoulder. "I named him for Director
|
|
Porter," she finished, still more proudly.
|
|
"Really," explained Mary delightedly, giving Joe an extra joy pat.
|
|
Then, as she passed the little round one to its mother, she whispered softly,
|
|
"I'd rather own him than--than fifty thousand dollars!" And little Joe's
|
|
mother smiled contentedly as she bore the little man away for a waiting scene
|
|
and Mary, when he had gone, took off her boudoir cap and arranged her curls
|
|
in preparation for going before the camera in the production of "Behind the
|
|
Scenes" which Mr. Kirkwood was to direct.
|
|
As I said at the beginning it was just an informal visit so I've told it
|
|
to you just as it occurred.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
September 1914
|
|
Katherine Synon
|
|
PHOTOPLAY
|
|
The Unspoiled Mary Pickford
|
|
|
|
A flash of sunlight across a dark room, a white moth glimmering in the
|
|
dusk, a lily swaying at the edge of a pool--these were the first phrases that
|
|
flashed across one's mind as Mary Pickford crossed the big stock room of the
|
|
Famous Players' studio in West Twenty-sixth street, New York.
|
|
The day was one of those period of gray fog that the ocean flings upon
|
|
New York in the summer. Outer Twenty-sixth street sagged under the burden of
|
|
its gloom. The studio, denied of activity by the darkness of the skies, sank
|
|
into apathy. Around the stock room actors and actresses, in groups of twos
|
|
and threes and fours, talked listlessly, mostly of the intruding weather that
|
|
forced upon them the undesired idleness. Then the door opened to reveal a
|
|
girl standing on the threshold, a girl whose rioting golden curls seemed to
|
|
have caught all the sunlight that should have been gladdening Manhattan, and
|
|
whose eyes held the deep blues of the hidden skies. An ultra-fashionable
|
|
little straw hat topped the curls, and a costume that matched the smartness
|
|
of the headgear emphasized the slender beauty of one of the best known and
|
|
best loved of all the motion picture actresses. For the girl of the golden
|
|
curls was Mary Pickford, and there is only one Mary Pickford in the universe.
|
|
Reams have already been written about Mary Pickford, whose sensational
|
|
success in motion pictures has made her more conspicuous on Broadway than any
|
|
of the newer actresses of the legitimate drama. Cornell University graduates
|
|
voted her the most popular actress of the year. She is getting a salary of
|
|
$26,000 a year, and Daniel Frohman, who has the authority, says that her new
|
|
contract will give her $50,000 next year. She has been called repeatedly the
|
|
most beautiful woman in the world. When she appears at a public place,
|
|
crowds throng for a glimpse of her. Her pictures on the films draw the same
|
|
enthusiastic crowds that used to go to Maude Adams' performances of "The
|
|
Little Minister" and "Peter Pan." And--Mary Pickford is only twenty years
|
|
old. Think of it!
|
|
"What is she really like?" was the question that followed my first
|
|
impressions. Adulation such as she has received at her age must have its
|
|
effect upon her manner and her character. It would seem impossible that any
|
|
girl of twenty could go through the triumphs, social, financial and artistic,
|
|
that this girl of the golden curls had won without acquiring all sorts of
|
|
affectations or that haughtiness that excludes the rest of the world.
|
|
The test of an artist's innate greatness is his attitude toward his
|
|
fellow workers. The greatness of Sir Henry Irving is remembered today quite
|
|
as much for his kindness toward the subordinate players in his companies as
|
|
for his presentation of Shylock. Mary Pickford stood the test. For, as she
|
|
entered the room, listless men and women looked up to give her the greeting
|
|
of a smile or a wave or a word that she returned without any self-conscious
|
|
"star" superiority, but with the gracious gracefulness of a charming girl.
|
|
Her naturalness, unforced good humor, and her youth lighted the studio as
|
|
effectively as if the lost sun had come out over the roofs of New York.
|
|
Trailed by a studio satellite, one of those "boarding-school crushes"
|
|
which are the inevitable result of such popularity, Mary Pickford went here
|
|
and there among the groups. As she came nearer, one might see that her eyes
|
|
held deep shadows strangely at variance with the brightness of her smile.
|
|
When she spoke, her voice seconded her eyes. A voice to go with such golden
|
|
hair as hers should be liltingly joyous. Mary Pickford's voice fell into
|
|
cadences that suggested, fleetingly, the minor notes of a violin.
|
|
What she said, however, was so far from sad that it was almost
|
|
impossible, after having talked with her, to go back to that first impression
|
|
of sadness. She talked about New York, about books, about plays, about
|
|
clothes, about styles, about everything that a girl of twenty usually talks
|
|
about. After a while, a much longer while than it usually takes to drop from
|
|
general social conversation into a personal interview, she was led into talk
|
|
about herself and her work. The talk about herself she made brief. From
|
|
others one has to learn that Mary Pickford has been on the stage since she
|
|
was five years old, that she made an instantaneous success when she went into
|
|
film posing five years ago, and that she is about to receive a salary equal
|
|
to that which our United States of America gives to its President. From her
|
|
one may gather--but only by implication--that she is a thoughtful, ambitious
|
|
studious artist, who does her best in every task and who is never satisfied
|
|
with that best.
|
|
"Have you seen 'Tess of the Storm Country?'" she asked with the artist's
|
|
instinctive desire to make her work speak for her. In the miniature theater
|
|
of the studio the operator ran off the films at her request, showing her in
|
|
the role of Tess, which her most enthusiastic admirers declare is her
|
|
greatest triumph and which she herself likes best of all her work. "The more
|
|
ragged and dirty I look, the better I can play," she declared. Ragged and
|
|
dirty she certainly looked in the pictures, but in all of them glowed that
|
|
special and peculiar loveliness that makes her beauty so wonderful. Hers is
|
|
a beauty of pathos, and plays like "Tess of the Storm Country" reveal it in
|
|
its most appealing phases. The wistfulness of the pictures found a mirror in
|
|
her eyes that grew shadowy again as she watched the flashing scenes until
|
|
there came the one where the woman in the village doused Tess's golden-topped
|
|
head in a tub of water to give it a thorough washing. With the scene Mary
|
|
Pickford was all girl again. "I was awfully glad that was in the story," she
|
|
said. "Now everybody who sees that knows that my hair is my own."
|
|
"Was that why you went through it?"
|
|
"Oh, no," she denied. "The story called for that, but I was tired of
|
|
getting letters asking me if I wore a wig, or if part of my hair was mine, or
|
|
if it was naturally curly, or if I had to curl it on an iron."
|
|
"Well, it looks too wonderful to be true, Mary," chimed in the
|
|
satellite, after the manner of satellites.
|
|
"If you had to do it every morning, you'd know it's too true," Mary
|
|
Pickford assured her in that patience with satellites that only the youthful
|
|
stars have. Just then there shone on the screen the scene in which Tess
|
|
fondles the dead rabbit. Mary Pickford covered her eyes with her hands.
|
|
"Ugh!" she shuddered. "That was the hardest thing I ever had to do," she
|
|
confessed. "Once I had to run a car at fifty-four miles an hour. I'd rather
|
|
try one at a hundred than touch a dead rabbit again."
|
|
"Would you like to do 'Tess' on the regular stage?" some one asked her
|
|
when the reel was ended. (She had experience on the stage with "A Good
|
|
Little Devil.") She considered the idea thoughtfully. "No," she decided.
|
|
"Acting on the regular stage is too often a question of voice, rather than of
|
|
the combination of elements that make motion picture work." She pushed back
|
|
her curls from her ears as if to get them out of the way while she talked
|
|
about the problem of the difference of the two kinds of acting.
|
|
"On the regular stage," she said, "an actress has to have, for emotional
|
|
scenes, a certain quality of voice. A good stage director knows just exactly
|
|
the tone that will produce the effect he wishes. Sometimes he will, if he
|
|
thinks it necessary, make an actress hysterical just to achieve that tone of
|
|
voice. Once she gets it, she can hold it for a certain number of
|
|
performances. Now, in the movies, an actress has practically no use for her
|
|
voice--although I speak the lines all through the part--but instead of
|
|
putting the work into acquiring a tone, she uses her brain to express the
|
|
emotions in pantomime."
|
|
"Which is the harder work?"
|
|
"I think," she said, "that the movie work is harder because it requires
|
|
so much more consideration. In the regular drama an actress who makes a
|
|
success in her part stays in that sometimes season after season. After she
|
|
has once grasped her role, it may become mechanical with her. She seldom
|
|
feels the necessity of thinking out variations for it. It is a piece of
|
|
sculpture that she presents night after night, seldom varying from her
|
|
original performance. But in the movies, the success of a role never keeps
|
|
the actress at it. Once done, it is done for all time and she goes on to
|
|
something else. For instance," she elucidated, "'In the Bishop's Carriage'
|
|
and 'Tess of the Storm Country' and all the other plays I've had, are
|
|
scattered all over, some of them are almost forgotten, while Mr. Kirkwood is
|
|
rehearsing me in my new play, 'Behind the Scenes.'"
|
|
"Behind the Scenes" is Margaret Mayo's comedy that the Famous Players
|
|
Company brought James Kirkwood on from California to produce. James Kirkwood
|
|
is a young director who has done wonderful work in film productions. By one
|
|
of the strange coincidences that seem to happen oftener in theatrical
|
|
business than outside of it, he is a childhood friend of Mary Pickford,
|
|
having come from Toronto, Canada, where she also was born.
|
|
"I've known Jimmie since I can remember anybody," she said. "It's
|
|
queer," she went on, "that all of us who used to play together away off in
|
|
Ontario are here together in the studio now. There's my brother Jack.
|
|
Haven't you seen him?" Her sensitive face glowed with sisterly pride.
|
|
"Jack's just come to the work," she said. "They say that he looks just like
|
|
me, and I think that it would be awfully good fun if we could play in some
|
|
film as twins. Do you know any story about twins?" She made inquiry for
|
|
Jack, but the younger Pickford had been assigned to outdoor work somewhere on
|
|
the Jersey side. "Oh, I'm so sorry you won't see him," said his famous
|
|
sister, "but you'll look for his pictures on the films, won't you? Jack's
|
|
really wonderful.
|
|
"Jack's the third of the family to come into the studio," she continued.
|
|
"My sister Lottie is here, too, but she's on a vacation this week. She's
|
|
doing lovely work." Mary Pickford declared with enthusiasm that had never
|
|
once revealed itself about her own finished work. "But nothing like yours,"
|
|
amended the satellite. Mary Pickford flashed her blue-gray eyes upon her
|
|
with something like anger. "Well, she hasn't been at it nearly as long," she
|
|
said with the conviction that if Lottie had her sister's experience, she
|
|
would far outshine her sister.
|
|
"I suppose," she explained, "that there's no work where experience
|
|
counts more than in the movies. I imagine from what I know of it that it's
|
|
very much like newspaper writing in the speed and certainty with which the
|
|
work has to be done. It's all set down 'on the jump.' If you make a
|
|
mistake, it's there. You haven't time to amend it. And so you have to get
|
|
in mind the entire character, thinking it all out before you register it, but
|
|
working with a speed that more than matches the writing of a story that has
|
|
to make a certain edition. Is that right?"
|
|
It was so closely right that it revealed a remarkable discernment in the
|
|
girl of twenty. There aren't very many trained workers either on newspapers
|
|
or in motion pictures who have so clear a psychological grasp of the needs of
|
|
their work than has this wistful-eyed girl. The Frohmans say that she has a
|
|
genius for expressing great emotion through the medium of pictures. There is
|
|
a general impression that this genius is facile rather than deeply
|
|
considered. But to see Mary Pickford work in Margaret Mayo's play is to come
|
|
to realize sharply that she plans her effects with the same mental precision
|
|
that Mrs. Fiske gives to her dramatic effects. She has a different medium of
|
|
expression, a more restricted and restrictive method, etching rather than
|
|
color painting, but the idea is the same, the ideal similar.
|
|
Through two hours she worked in scenes that required only the gray light
|
|
that the dark day afforded. She went over and over certain parts with a
|
|
patience no novice ever shows. She never lost her good temper. To the
|
|
crossfire of directions and counter-directions she was apparently
|
|
indifferent, coming to visible emotion only in her work. Before long her
|
|
quiet good nature was as oil on the troubled waters of studio work. Every
|
|
one in her vicinity was influenced by it.
|
|
When the work for the morning was over Mary Pickford donned again the
|
|
tip-tilted little straw hat and went out from the studio into Twenty-sixth
|
|
street. At the entrance were grouped a half-dozen children, ragged, dirty as
|
|
no heroine of the movies ever could have been. One of them leaned forward to
|
|
touch Mary Pickford's dress. Instantly the girl was down on her knees on the
|
|
pavement, talking with the youngsters with that camaraderie that only the
|
|
young of heart can show to childhood. Instantly they were her friends.
|
|
Wonder-eyed, they clustered around her till she looked like a good fairy
|
|
descended among the children of the streets of New York. One might have
|
|
expected her to fly off in a glittering chariot drawn by winged horses.
|
|
Instead she arose with the children clinging to the skirt of the costume that
|
|
was so patently "Fifth avenue." "I know a place," she said--and the
|
|
beginning sounded Shakespearean, but the rest came with the force of an
|
|
O. Henry tale, "around on Seventh avenue where they have the best ice cream
|
|
soda in New York. Who wants to come with me?"
|
|
Who didn't?
|
|
And she took them, ragged, dirty, and radiant, around the corner with
|
|
her. And with them she took the glinting sunshine that had shone for a
|
|
little while on the high-buildinged, gloomy street.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
January 8, 1915
|
|
CHICAGO DAILY NEWS
|
|
Mary Pickford Tells of Work in "Movies"
|
|
|
|
About six years ago a mite of a girl in short dresses approached Gilbert
|
|
M. Anderson ("Broncho Billy") in this city shortly after he had made his
|
|
profitable alliance with George K. Spoor in the formation of the Essanay Film
|
|
Company and applied for work as an "extra" in pictures. This child was
|
|
filling an unimportant part in "The Warrens of Virginia," which then was
|
|
playing in Chicago, and saw an opportunity to earn some extra money without
|
|
interfering with her regular engagement. But her application was rejected
|
|
and Essanay lost an opportunity to develop a brilliant star.
|
|
Such was the early experience of Mary Pickford with the "movies."
|
|
Shortly after this episode, or during the summer of the same year, following
|
|
the disbanding of the theatrical company, this screen favorite, who stands
|
|
foremost in popular favor with the film "fans" today, applied at the Biograph
|
|
company for a position and immediately was engaged by D. W. Griffith, then
|
|
producing director at that studio.
|
|
That was the beginning of the meteoric career of the diminutive star.
|
|
Under the careful tutelage and guidance of her director Miss Pickford showed
|
|
remarkable comprehension of pantomime art and her artistry manifested itself
|
|
quickly on the screen. Other producers soon competed for her services,
|
|
offering her what then appeared substantial increases in her salary, and she
|
|
was induced to leave the Biograph company. She returned to it shortly
|
|
afterward, when she realized her mistake.
|
|
"Necessity practically forced me into motion pictures," said Miss
|
|
Pickford to a reporter for The Daily News Wednesday, during her short stop in
|
|
this city. "Otherwise I might have been some obscure stage actress--possibly
|
|
a star. Who knows? And to necessity I attribute whatever success I may have
|
|
achieved on the screen. My mother is my sole inspiration and concern and has
|
|
been since childhood. To chase the wolf from our door prompted me to enter
|
|
the 'movies,' and to keep it away and give her comfort and every convenience
|
|
possible encourages me to work more diligently daily.
|
|
"We're inseparable--my mother and I--traveling everywhere together. You
|
|
cannot imagine how I miss her on this trip. But rest assured that her
|
|
inability to accompany me was due to exceptional circumstances."
|
|
Miss Pickford was en route for the Los Angeles studio of the Famous
|
|
Players Film company, where she will be engaged in producing several plays
|
|
under her new contract. Adolph Zukor, president of the concern employing
|
|
her, was one of her party.
|
|
The first production which will be "filmed" on the Pacific coast with
|
|
"Little Mary" in the leading role will be entitled "Rags."
|
|
"Strange," commented Miss Pickford, "I am usually cast in productions
|
|
where I interpret such a role as is suggested by the title of the play. The
|
|
producer insists that character is best suited to my talent. And, to be
|
|
perfectly candid with you, I feel more at ease in rags when engaged in
|
|
enacting a scene than in fashionable and attractive apparel."
|
|
"And to be equally candid," broke in the reporter, "you appear more
|
|
delightful and captivating as a poor little waif than when you are dressed up
|
|
as a fine lady."
|
|
Miss Pickford smiled. "That is the trouble with specializing in
|
|
anything, particularly for the stage or screen performer," she said. "The
|
|
public grows accustomed to see the artist in a certain kind of role, and when
|
|
he or she steps out of the familiar part to assume another it does not appear
|
|
to impress the public, however perfect the interpretation may be. I suppose
|
|
when I grow too old for hoyden parts I will be relegated to the discard.
|
|
"I love motion pictures. When I am not working in them I am attending
|
|
performances of photo plays. Frequently I hear comments of every description
|
|
on my performance from the spectators surrounding me, who are unconscious of
|
|
my presence. I welcome my criticisms as I do the praiseworthy comments and
|
|
profit by many of the critical remarks I chance to overhear. Occasionally I
|
|
am recognized.
|
|
"The love of the thousands of mothers and children, expressed to me in
|
|
person and through the numerous letters I receive, makes me the happiest girl
|
|
in the world and encourages me to do all I can to please them."
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
September 1917
|
|
Frederick James Smith
|
|
MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC
|
|
Mary Had A Little Tear
|
|
|
|
"Little Mary's" blue eyes looked tired. "You want a really truly
|
|
serious interview," she said. "You shall have it." And she sighed.
|
|
"To begin with, I'm wondering just where the photoplay is drifting.
|
|
Surely it isn't moving forward. It lacks leaders fearless, progressive,
|
|
courageous enough to blaze the way. I'm wondering."
|
|
And "Little Mary" sighed again.
|
|
"Perhaps I am pessimistic. But the screen has given me more than money
|
|
and a name. It has been my world. I have watched the photoplay from the
|
|
first days. Its sweep upward was tremendous, unlike anything in history.
|
|
But today I feel that it isn't so popular as it was a year ago."
|
|
"This is going to be a serious interview," I said with conviction--to
|
|
myself. "Little Mary" is the one screen star I know who has seriously
|
|
studied the screen. Miss Pickford can and really does think. Popularity has
|
|
not turned her head. Three years ago I interviewed her when she was just
|
|
dashing into national popularity. She hasn't changed in personality in the
|
|
interim. No cynical note mars her gentle charm. But three years ago she was
|
|
a little, be-curled Mary, quite dazzled by the crowds that gathered about her
|
|
automobile. Today she has developed into an alert thinker.
|
|
"The whole thing has become a mad race--in a circle," continued Miss
|
|
Pickford. "Starring is a struggle indeed in these days. Perhaps, if things
|
|
do not change, I shall slip out of the race in a year and a half, when my
|
|
contracts expire. I can always go on the stage. Of course, the salaries
|
|
would be different. But I haven't been extravagant. I have saved a good
|
|
part of what I have earned for just such a possibility. I have developed no
|
|
expensive tastes."
|
|
"But you surely can't seriously consider such a thing?" I remonstrated.
|
|
"Imagine the wave of horror that will stir the army of film fans?"
|
|
Miss Pickford smiled a tired little smile. "Still, it is a possibility.
|
|
I feel that the photoplay is at a standstill. It can advance no further
|
|
without leadership. I know it is trite to say that the scenario is the weak
|
|
spot of the movie. The whole screen drama is in a complete rut of
|
|
conventionality.
|
|
"This is due to three things: men of brains aren't writing the
|
|
scenarios, producers fear originality and twist scripts into the hackneyed,
|
|
and most stories are made to fit a standard measure, five reels, or padded to
|
|
be special features. There are three standards plots in movieland and they
|
|
revolve around the vampire, the foundling and the slavey. Bedecked, twisted,
|
|
gilded, all the plots move around this trio.
|
|
"The producer lacks aggressiveness. He will not venture. Just one man
|
|
in the motion picture world will take a chance--David Griffith. He is the
|
|
one man who dares to risk everything to prove an idea. We owe the photoplay
|
|
of today to Griffith.
|
|
"Producers have been lax, extravagant and impractical. They have been
|
|
spending $50,000 for a production where half would suffice. They have been
|
|
spending thousands to build mimic cities, to reproduce a battlefield and burn
|
|
a steam yacht. They have wasted thousands in the studio, in advertising and
|
|
in the distribution of the photoplay. But they are standing still
|
|
artistically.
|
|
"This dramatic rut keeps me eternally playing the curly-headed girl.
|
|
And I hate curls, I loathe them--loathe them!" The Pickford eyes snapped
|
|
fire. "Imagine a producer giving me the role of a married woman with
|
|
children! True, I once was permitted a baby in 'Madam Butterfly.' But they
|
|
tell me that it was never very popular, judging from the financial returns.
|
|
"Now, I don't want to stand still. I would much rather fit the part
|
|
than have the part fit me. Of course, I can understand the problem of the
|
|
manufacturer. The quest of the good scenario is discouraging and
|
|
disheartening. It is practically impossible to get it. I can never
|
|
understand why authors do not seriously adopt scenario writing. Not because
|
|
of poor remuneration. That no longer holds good. An available script brings
|
|
a good price these days. But original ideas are so far apart that the
|
|
producer must adapt the novel or the play."
|
|
"Do you believe this to be advisable?" I interrupted.
|
|
"At the present time, yes. There is no other way to get a carefully
|
|
developed and consistently thought out plot. The fiction writer puts time
|
|
and care into his work. Hence the bit of fiction adapted to the screen has,
|
|
on the average, consistency and care, lacking in the script hastily turned
|
|
out for the films."
|
|
Miss Pickford discussed what she termed the ideal scenario. "It should
|
|
have a plot strong enough to take an observer's mind away from the star," she
|
|
said. "It should have, no matter how serious the theme, the element of
|
|
laughter. I am sure that people go to the theater to be entertained. They
|
|
have enough in every-day life to depress and weigh them down. The story must
|
|
be told sincerely. The little, human things must be injected.
|
|
"I believe that overplaying, too much facial pantomime, too much screen
|
|
ranting, ruin most of our present day productions. One little gesture can
|
|
tell a story in itself."
|
|
"Do you feel that the star system is losing in popular favor?"
|
|
I ventured.
|
|
"I am positive that audiences do not go to see the picture as a picture.
|
|
I base that opinion on my visits to the motion picture houses. And I do not
|
|
alone go to the big theaters. Film fans have been fooled too many times to
|
|
go without a reason.
|
|
"Four years ago the film fan said, 'Let's go to the movies?' Today he
|
|
says, 'What's playing tonight? Who's the star?' That is the reason the star
|
|
will continue in favor and high salaries. Possibly things may change when
|
|
the screen has developed its great writers and its screen technique. But as
|
|
things stand, the exhibitor will continue to demand the star and the star's
|
|
salary will continue to climb.
|
|
"I want to see more stars. I say that with sincerity, for I feel that
|
|
the more stars reach popularity, the more popular will grow the screen. The
|
|
more Charlie Chaplins, Douglas Fairbanks, Marguerite Clarks, Mae Marshs and
|
|
Anita Stewarts, the better it will be for all of us."
|
|
We talked of Mae Marsh. Only a week before Miss Marsh had told me that
|
|
"Little Mary" was her best beloved star.
|
|
Some of the tiredness disappeared from Miss Pickford's eyes. "That was
|
|
sweet. I think the world of Miss Marsh's ability. I saw 'Intolerance,' but
|
|
I do not vividly remember the trappings of Belshazzar's court or the
|
|
magnificent sweep of it all. I just remember Mae Marsh in that scene of the
|
|
modern story where she sits in the courtroom and forces a pitiful, trembly
|
|
smile to the boy." Miss Pickford gave a realistic little imitation of the
|
|
scene. "It made me weep," she confessed. "I wish I could do anything as
|
|
good."
|
|
I reminded Miss Pickford of a remark by Manager S. L. Rothapfel, of the
|
|
New York Rialto. Mr. Rothapfel told me that he believed Miss Pickford to be
|
|
our greatest actress--on or off the screen. "Her possibilities are as yet
|
|
untouched," was his comment.
|
|
"I have come to think I am not an emotional actress, although"--and
|
|
"Little Mary" laughed--"I am emotional enough in real life. But I have a
|
|
real dread of making faces."
|
|
Miss Pickford was serious again. "I'd give my string of pearls for a
|
|
good story--for another 'Tess of the Storm Country' or 'Hearts Adrift.'
|
|
I mean that, too. One story like that would be well worth a strong of
|
|
pearls. In these days one good vehicle means that a star can rest upon her
|
|
laurels for a little while. That one good vehicle will win back all one's
|
|
wavering followers.
|
|
"Sometimes I think that I may be at fault. Do I spoil directors?
|
|
I have had some of the very best. But I either make them self-conscious or
|
|
afraid to displease film fans, or something. They simply won't let me break
|
|
the way to new things.
|
|
"Of course, I never wanted to play a role that would ever offend the
|
|
little girls who love me. Mothers bring their little children to see me, and
|
|
that means a lot. But, even if I wanted to, I couldn't play a vampire. In
|
|
the first place, the vampire is just a creature of the films, utterly foreign
|
|
to real life; just a mushy, maudlin appeal to the worst impulses."
|
|
"Little Mary" was departing for California the following day. Her
|
|
trunks were the conspicuous scenery in the room.
|
|
"Do you know, I hate to go away from New York. I love winter and the
|
|
snow. And California is far from the real heart of the movies. I shall be
|
|
returning as soon as I can, you may be sure.
|
|
"One thing will make my trip pleasant: I am going to visit the little
|
|
orphan girls of a Catholic convent near Los Angeles. They all know me;
|
|
indeed, one night I took my production, 'Cinderella,' to the convent and
|
|
showed it to the kiddies. It did touch my heart to hear their glee at seeing
|
|
the fairy story.
|
|
"Only a little while ago mother was very ill. The good sisters out
|
|
there heard of it and told the children to remember mother in their prayers.
|
|
The next morning during services a little childish treble spoke up: 'Don't
|
|
forget Mary Pickey's muvver!' Wasn't that dear?"
|
|
I am sure that film fans will never forget "Mary Pickey" as easy as she
|
|
seems to think. "Little Mary" is too deeply endeared to the hearts of
|
|
Americans--she is too much a part of ourselves.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
July 1918
|
|
Martha McKelvie
|
|
MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC
|
|
..."Isn't it a wonderful thing to be called 'America's Sweetheart'?"
|
|
I asked.
|
|
"It has always been difficult for me to realize my success," Mary
|
|
answered, modestly. "Sometimes, when it is brought to my attention by the
|
|
many kind things done for me, it quite overwhelms me.
|
|
"I do realize that my life, although short, has been mighty full.
|
|
I often think, 'If I should die today, my cup is quite full.' Surely, there
|
|
is little more kindness and love that could come my way. I've had a big
|
|
share, and I am so very grateful. Of course, I see so much that I can do in
|
|
my work. I live for it; but I mean, I have been so blessed and my life has
|
|
been so full."
|
|
Miss Pickford seems to be amazed that her public has let her stay so
|
|
long. As every one knows, many of the stars who shone brightly on the movie
|
|
horizon at the beginning have vanished. Some of them are remembered, some of
|
|
them are not; but Mary has LASTED. It seems to me, as I told Miss Pickford,
|
|
that her popularity cannot wane. Surely, a public that has loved so
|
|
sincerely cannot discard so easily. The stars who have died in popular favor
|
|
were bound to go. It's a clear case of the "survival of the fit."
|
|
Bernhardt has always been and always will be "The Divine Sarah." Mary
|
|
is and shall always be "America's Sweetheart."
|
|
"And now for a complete confession about this 'Stella Maris' make-up," I
|
|
ventured.
|
|
"All right," laughed Mary, "I'll fess. When I read the script of
|
|
'Stella Maris,' my heart went out to that little character, Unity Blake.
|
|
To me she seemed just a little mutt dog--one of the kind, you know, that
|
|
cringes and wags its tail at the same time, the kind that is just starved for
|
|
affection. I'm interested in an orphanage, and it has been evident to me
|
|
that where there are about fifteen women in charge and maybe two hundred or
|
|
more children, it is quite impossible to give them more than mere physical
|
|
needs.
|
|
"If the institution children are fed, clothed and, in a way, educated,
|
|
the women in charge have plenty to do. It's easy to see that they would have
|
|
little time to curl the kiddie's hair and fix them up in attractive way.
|
|
So, when I studied the character of Unity Blake, I braided my hair in two
|
|
pigtails, just as institution children must do."
|
|
"It wasn't so much what you did to your hair," I cut in; "it's what you
|
|
did to your face."
|
|
"Oh, that," smiled Mary. "Well, to get the mutt expression, I had to do
|
|
a lot of work. First, I pasted my hair down tight with a lot of grease.
|
|
This also made it look darker. Then, starting with the eyes, I rubbed in
|
|
white paint all around them, even on the lashes, This to make them look
|
|
smaller. Then I used rouge on my cheeks, to make hollows; black paint in my
|
|
nostrils; black on each side of my nose, to narrow the bridge; and darkened
|
|
my teeth.
|
|
"Next I combed my eyebrows down in a scraggly way, and, by a little
|
|
practice, learned to draw my mouth into crooked, hard line.
|
|
"You've noticed, perhaps, the little children in the poorest sections of
|
|
a city. They are seldom straight. The older girls of many working mothers
|
|
are forced to carry their little brothers or sisters around and care for them
|
|
while mother works, and you'll often see them with one side sort of drooping
|
|
from carrying children too heavy for them. So I gave Unity Blake a drooped
|
|
shoulder, and I tried to give her the loveless look of a little mutt dog."
|
|
Do you see, you folks out front, how carefully Mary thinks out the
|
|
characters she gives you!
|
|
"Oh, Martha McKelvie," she said, sadly, "you don't know how my heart
|
|
goes out to the ugly little ones in an orphanage! We all instinctively love
|
|
the beautiful. And if there's a stray bit of attention going around, it's
|
|
pretty apt to light on the sweet, attractive kiddies. The ugly ducklings are
|
|
apt to have a loveless lot."
|
|
Our Mary's face looked wistful as her thoughts went out into the slums,
|
|
orphanages and homes in loving sympathy.
|
|
"Do you like playing kiddie parts?" I asked.
|
|
"Oh, yes!" she replied. "Especially the ones like Unity Blake. It's
|
|
rather easy to play the nice, pretty ones. I feel that I've really
|
|
accomplished something if I can get the sympathy and love of my public for an
|
|
ugly one. I always study a part very carefully and try to get into the
|
|
spirit of the child I am to portray. The costume, dressing the character,
|
|
means a lot. You know, when I'm dressed as a child, I never walk. Always
|
|
skip or run. Funny how one feels a character when they are made up and
|
|
dressed for the part. You just naturally lose your own identity."
|
|
Just here Marshall Neilan called Mary's attention to the fact that the
|
|
pet hen they had been using in a scene for "M'liss" was to be taken out and
|
|
its tail-feathers plucked for her hat. You who see this play and watch the
|
|
proud M'liss after the feathers are jauntily perched on her head, because, as
|
|
she explained to weeping Theodore Roberts, who owns and loves the hen,
|
|
"Fashions is fashions," must not think that Mary did the dirty work.
|
|
A common, hard-hearted man did it and the picture lays it all to Mary.
|
|
She had to be assured and reassured that it wouldn't hurt before she
|
|
consented to let the play go on...
|
|
No star of today could be more modest, more lovable than Mary Pickford.
|
|
She's nice to every one. She likes criticism, if it is constructive
|
|
criticism; but it breaks her heart to give weeks of thought to a character
|
|
and then have a critic break down all that she has done by a sweep of the pen
|
|
and a few carelessly spoken words. She mentioned a criticism given her
|
|
"Little Princess."
|
|
"The critic said, 'Miss Pickford's Little Princess was too healthily
|
|
sophisticated'!" said Mary. "That really DID hurt me, for I gave ten weeks
|
|
to making that character, and I read and reread the story to make sure that I
|
|
fully understood. Surely no one can think that we make such characters over
|
|
to fit ourselves. I always try to make myself fit the character. I DID make
|
|
the Little Princess sophisticated, for the simple reason that the author of
|
|
the play made her that. I do so wish people wouldn't criticize carelessly."
|
|
"Which of your plays do you like best?"
|
|
"Well, I loved Tess, in 'Tess of the Storm Country.' I think my friends
|
|
liked that. But it is too bad to think that I did my best work in "Tess.'
|
|
I think I have done better pictures since. I am so sure of this and so sure
|
|
that we can give the public an even better 'Tess' that I am going to do it
|
|
over. In the five years since 'Tess' was produced pictures have taken great
|
|
strides. Photography, direction, everything is so much better.
|
|
"It will be interesting to revive 'Tess' and prove to the public the
|
|
great improvement in the art.
|
|
"Now, 'Hulda from Holland' I didn't like at all. I just begged the
|
|
company to suppress it. I went to see it twice to make sure and I liked it
|
|
less the second time than I did the first.
|
|
"I hope folks will like 'Stella Maris.' I do think that's one of the
|
|
best things I've done."
|
|
To you, who think that a star's life is all play and little work, let me
|
|
say that "Little Mary" had been sitting around almost all day, wearily
|
|
waiting for Marshall Neilan to put her scenes on.
|
|
A studio is rather a bleak affair, especially on a rainy day, and Mary
|
|
confided to me that brother Jack had visited her dressing-room while she had
|
|
gone to answer the phone and eaten all her luncheon.
|
|
"Not only that," wailed Mary; "he scolded me when I cam back for not
|
|
having MORE for him to eat!"
|
|
As Jack approached at this moment, I mentioned the fact that few men on
|
|
the globe today would have so much nerve.
|
|
Jack grinned, and Mary said, "Oh, well, brothers walk in where angels
|
|
fear to tread."
|
|
To smooth things over and keep the Queen of Movieland from becoming too
|
|
impatient at the long delay, Marshall Neilan offered a bribe of "one stick of
|
|
gum," and it was gratefully accepted, although unused, by Mary.
|
|
Miss Pickford calls the cameramen who do the stills, "snooper-snappers."
|
|
"Because," she explained, "they're always snooping round, snapping me."
|
|
Miss Pickford has plans completed for several pictures. After "M'liss"
|
|
comes "How Could You, Jean?" and then the revival of "Tess of the Storm
|
|
Country."
|
|
In the Pickford Company at present we find such artists as Theodore
|
|
Roberts, Tully Marshall and Tom Meighan. Mary is a great believer in a well-
|
|
balanced company, and sees no reason why any star should be surrounded by a
|
|
poor cast in order that they, themselves, may shine more brightly.
|
|
During my visit Miss Pickford received a mammoth cake from the "Green
|
|
Room Magazine" of Australia. Although the "Green Room" sends a cake to some
|
|
great star each month, this is the first time it has been sent out of
|
|
Australia.
|
|
As I left she was unpacking it and registering all the enthusiasm of a
|
|
child with a Christmas-box. But she took the time to waive me a cheery "Good-
|
|
by."
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
December 8, 1918
|
|
Grace Kingsley
|
|
LOS ANGELES TIMES
|
|
Mary Pickford, Producer
|
|
|
|
"Here I am--all alone in the world, without an alibi!"
|
|
That's what Mary Pickford, now a producer for the First National
|
|
Exhibitors' Circuit, said, the other day, with her humorous little smile.
|
|
She meant there's nobody to lay the blame on if her pictures go wrong.
|
|
"I used to be able to say, when I was with Artcraft, and anything went
|
|
wrong, 'Well, now, if Mr. Zukor had let me do so and so--.' And now I
|
|
haven't a single person to blame if 'Daddy Long-Legs' and 'Pollyanna' don't
|
|
turn out to be the successes I of course hope they will be."
|
|
Mary looked very tiny, as she stood out in front of all those people who
|
|
were applying for jobs in "Daddy Long-Legs," at the Griffith studio. For,
|
|
you see, Mary is doing all the casting her very own self, and neither
|
|
Wellington Wales, her manager, nor Marshall Neilan, her director, can do
|
|
anything about it when Mary sets her tiny foot down.
|
|
But she's wonderfully sweet and kind with all those applicants. Even
|
|
after a weary session of four hours, she still told those she couldn't use
|
|
why she couldn't. In the kindest way imaginable, at the same time taking
|
|
down their names and addresses, and assuring them that if ever she could use
|
|
them in a picture she would do so.
|
|
She had such a wonderful little way, too, of putting those actors at
|
|
their ease. Which made it easier for her, too, as having lost their
|
|
nervousness, she could better judge their suitability and qualifications for
|
|
the various roles.
|
|
When I remarked that, she said: "Well, I remember when I used to go into
|
|
managers' offices to apply for jobs. I always was afraid I'd be either too
|
|
short or too tall for the role I was applying for. So I used to scrooch down
|
|
as little as I could, so that if they said I was too small I could suddenly
|
|
grow up right there before their eyes."
|
|
Oh, yes, and she helped Agnes Johnston write the screen version of
|
|
"Daddy Long-Legs," and she's going to make the little heroine commence at 12
|
|
years old, which will be delightful, I think, don't you?
|
|
There is going to be a little dramatic stuff, too.
|
|
Talking about dramatic stuff made Mary smile reminiscently.
|
|
"You know, in 'Stella Maris' they said in New York it wasn't I playing
|
|
the poor little miserable heroine at all! They said Artcraft had engaged a
|
|
real actress to play that part, and that she had skinned me to death."
|
|
That Miss Pickford is working at the old Griffith studio, along with the
|
|
Gish sisters, naturally leads one to reminiscences of other days, the old
|
|
Biograph days, when the three worked together as youngsters, and even further
|
|
back to their childhood days, when they all lived together.
|
|
"Mother used to say to me," said Mary, "that Lillian Gish was just too
|
|
good to live. She was the sweetest child and never made any trouble as
|
|
Dorothy and I did. And do you know, after I heard mother say that two or
|
|
three times, I never would stay alone in the room with Lillian any more--
|
|
I was afraid she was so good that she'd die right there."
|
|
Just then happened on the scene David Wark Griffith, who, you remember
|
|
used to direct Mary.
|
|
"What do you think of our young lady now?" said Mr. Griffith, glancing
|
|
at Mary with his whimsical smile, which carried a lot of pride and affection
|
|
in it, too, for he thinks Mary is a wonderful little artist. "Such a rich
|
|
girl! Do you know, I remember the awful time I had keeping Mary, in the old
|
|
Biograph days, because she wanted $30 a week! 'Thirty dollars!' exclaimed the
|
|
business head of that concern. 'Mary wants thirty dollars a week! Why, I
|
|
never heard of such a thing! There ain't no picture actor in the world worth
|
|
thirty dollars a week!'"
|
|
After all, the producing game isn't so new to Mary Pickford as it might
|
|
seem to be.
|
|
"Mr. Zukor used always to let me help with the writing, the casting and
|
|
directing," said Mary. "But at the same time, it's an awful responsibility,
|
|
and, as I said before, here I am all alone in the world without an alibi.
|
|
"You see, I always try to play up to the hardest part of my audiences--
|
|
the practical business men, to do such good work that when their wives say to
|
|
them, 'Oh, let's go down and see Mary Pickford,' they won't answer: 'Mary
|
|
Pickford! Oh, she always wears curls and acts foolish. I'd rather stay at
|
|
home and read my paper'"
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
September 18, 1921
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
New York is killing Mary Pickford with kindness. Everywhere she goes
|
|
crowds surround her and try to show their love of her by clasping her hands
|
|
or speaking her name. Now, Mary has a heart that success and fame have never
|
|
touched. She is as sweet and unaffected as she was in the long ago when she
|
|
was on the stage and earning a pitiful little weekly salary--barely enough to
|
|
keep the Smith family in food. Because she is Mary, and because she never
|
|
wants to seem unappreciative, she lets this mob come close to her, and she
|
|
tries to make that Mary smile carry itself into the hearts of all her
|
|
adorers.
|
|
Wednesday night I went over to the Ritz to see her. Douglas Fairbanks
|
|
was standing guard at the door.
|
|
"She is so worn out--I have to make her rest," he said.
|
|
Can you imagine the energetic Douglas, with a following of his own that
|
|
resembles the adulation given the President of the United States, acting as a
|
|
guard? Well, that was exactly what he was doing. Watching her door to see
|
|
she had a nap.
|
|
"You may go in," he said.
|
|
He opened the door, and this was what I saw--our Mary in one bed, and
|
|
Lillian Gish in the other. Lillian had worked every hour since Mary came to
|
|
town and this was the first moment she had had to see her childhood chum and
|
|
girlhood friend. The two girls had chattered and chattered like veritable
|
|
magpies.
|
|
"Come on in," called Mary. "We have talked and talked and talked."
|
|
They were just like any other two girls, these two world-famous stars.
|
|
They were discussing clothes, plays and Mary's trip abroad. The subject came
|
|
to mothers, as it always does with these two girls, who are the two most
|
|
devoted daughters I know.
|
|
"Did you see 'Over the Hill'?" Mary asked. "That is the finest mother
|
|
propaganda I ever saw. It should be compulsory for every girl to see that
|
|
picture. There is a lesson that no one should miss. The psychology of the
|
|
poorhouse is so real. Back in the mind of every human being is the fear that
|
|
some day when old age comes he will be forced into dire poverty."
|
|
Lillian Gish added her tribute by saying she thought every screen player
|
|
should see the performance of Mary Carr, which stands out as one of the most
|
|
finished portrayals of mother love ever shown on stage or screen.
|
|
"You know," said Mary, "it makes me sick when I hear some young girls
|
|
talk to their mothers. High school girls who speak as if their mothers
|
|
should get off the earth. I have heard them say:
|
|
"'What do you know about it?'
|
|
"That is the reason I think 'Over the Hill' will do good. It will open
|
|
the eyes of some of our young people."
|
|
Any one who knows anything about Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish will
|
|
realize this is not said for effect. They are daughters--both of them any
|
|
mother might rejoice to have--tender, thoughtful, and devoted. Douglas, who
|
|
had contented himself with remaining on guard, now came in and joined in the
|
|
conversation. It was the night before "Little Lord Fauntleroy" opened, and
|
|
he was giving the preparation for Mary's picture the same loving care she
|
|
gave "The Three Musketeers."
|
|
Any one who could peep behind the curtain and see Mary and Lillian and
|
|
Doug would feel the simple kindness of the three has never half been told.
|
|
As Mary is to the outside world, that way she is in the bosom of her family.
|
|
I say this after knowing her for seven years. She is one of the few real
|
|
people in the world--our Mary.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
February 7, 1922
|
|
LOS ANGELES EXAMINER
|
|
Mary Pickford Pays Tribute to Slain Picture Director
|
|
|
|
A gracious tribute to the memory of William D. Taylor, murdered
|
|
director, was paid yesterday, in an interview by Mary Pickford and Douglas
|
|
Fairbanks.
|
|
"The most patient man I ever knew," Mrs. Fairbanks said, and her husband
|
|
added. "We all knew him as a gentleman of whom the film industry might well
|
|
be proud."
|
|
"We were horribly shocked," Mrs. Fairbanks said, "to learn of his death
|
|
and we simply refuse to believe the innuendos against his character.
|
|
Neither of us were intimate friends of his, but he had directed me and we
|
|
naturally were well acquainted.
|
|
"Both as a gentleman and as an artist I respected him.
|
|
"He was ever courteous, considerate, and above all, patient. It's
|
|
pretty hard directing all sorts of people in big pictures, members of the
|
|
casts often being temperamental and even stubborn. He never had a harsh word
|
|
to say to anyone and would spend all sorts of time and energy to get just the
|
|
artistic results he wanted.
|
|
"To me and to everyone who ever mentioned him to me, he was always the
|
|
quiet, reserved, artistic gentleman. The films could not have lost a more
|
|
valuable or more beloved member and I cannot deplore too much the fact of the
|
|
tragedy or the attendant notoriety.
|
|
"We are hardly ever out and have our own small circle of friends, and so
|
|
about his private life we know nothing. But it seems a shame that these
|
|
girls should have to be linked up with such a ghastly crime. Although I know
|
|
none of them well, I have always heard of them as nice, well thought of
|
|
citizens."
|
|
To this statement Douglas Fairbanks added only that he had met Taylor a
|
|
few times and though not an intimate of his, knew of him as a man of the
|
|
highest caliber and a man who was ever trying to make of the films something
|
|
finer and better.
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
November 11, 1923
|
|
LOS ANGELES EXAMINER
|
|
Mary, Doug on Stand in Federal Hearing
|
|
|
|
Los Angeles hearing of the Federal Trade Commission investigation into
|
|
the alleged motion picture trust came to a close yesterday afternoon with the
|
|
testimony of Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks...
|
|
Mary Pickford was the first witness called by W. H. Fuller and H. A.
|
|
Cox, attorneys for the Commission...
|
|
Under questioning by Attorney Fuller, Miss Pickford related her motion
|
|
picture career and recounted the signing of a starring contract with Famous
|
|
Players-Lasky Corporation in 1914. This concern is named as principal
|
|
respondent in the Government's complaint against the alleged film combine.
|
|
"When I went with them," she stated, "it was with the guarantee that my
|
|
pictures would be sold solely upon their merits and not marketed to
|
|
exhibitors with a lot of other films they didn't want."
|
|
"For two years I constantly received complaints that exhibitors could
|
|
not purchase my films alone. I complained to Mr. Zukor and he promised to
|
|
remedy the matter but nothing was done," she continued. "I again went to him
|
|
and told him that I would walk out unless he lived up to the stipulation in
|
|
my contract.
|
|
"We compromised and I was given my own company with the Artcraft
|
|
Pictures. But the same thing happened all over again. I wanted to make less
|
|
pictures and spend more money on them to produce bigger and better films that
|
|
would have to be sold on their own merits.
|
|
"Finally conditions grew worse instead of better and I was compelled to
|
|
resign from the company. I simply could not get them to sell my pictures as
|
|
we had agreed.
|
|
"When Mr. Zukor found out that I was actually leaving him," Miss
|
|
Pickford declared, "he said to me 'Why don't you retire? I will give you
|
|
$250,000 if you will quit the screen!'"
|
|
"Did he give you any reason why he made the offer?" asked Attorney
|
|
Fuller.
|
|
"He did not," Mary answered. "He gave me no reason."...
|
|
When Mary left the stand, all the members of the hearing arose and bowed
|
|
as she passed from the room and returned to a nearby set where a corps of
|
|
actors awaited her appearance...
|
|
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
Taylor Case Errors in "FORBIDDEN LOVERS"
|
|
|
|
Despite the fact that a few fairly accurate recaps of the Taylor case
|
|
have been published (e.g., Time-Life's UNSOLVED CRIMES), most new recaps
|
|
continue to perpetuate old errors and myths, or create new ones.
|
|
FORBIDDEN LOVERS by Axel Madsen is a recent "non-fiction" book which
|
|
devotes a few error-and-myth-filled pages to the Taylor case:
|
|
1. "When the Arbuckle scandal broke...[Taylor] was elected president
|
|
of the new Motion Picture Directors Association." NEW?? The Motion Picture
|
|
Director's Association was founded in 1915, six years prior to the Arbuckle
|
|
scandal. Taylor was then serving his third term as president of the
|
|
organization.
|
|
2. It is stated that Taylor was often photographed in his British Army
|
|
major's uniform. Taylor was a captain, not a major, and it is a captain's
|
|
uniform he is wearing in those photographs.
|
|
3. It is stated that Mabel Normand's adult film career owed much to
|
|
Taylor. Not really. Aside from recommending her cameraman, Homer Scott, it
|
|
does not appear that Taylor made any real contribution to Mabel's film
|
|
career. He never directed her and they never even worked at the same studio.
|
|
4. It is stated that at the time of the Taylor murder, Mabel Normand
|
|
was working for Sam Goldwyn. No, she had left Goldwyn a year earlier, and
|
|
since that time was again under contract to Mack Sennett. She was working
|
|
for Sennett at the time of the Taylor murder.
|
|
5. It is stated that at the time of the Taylor murder "Neilan was the
|
|
lover of newly divorced Paramount star Gloria Swanson." Actually it was
|
|
Neilan who was newly divorced from Gertrude Bambrick; Swanson was still
|
|
married to Herbert Somborn at that time.
|
|
6. The book mentions Mary Miles Minter as one of a group who would
|
|
"sail to Catalina Island on Sundays or go for spins to Lake Arrowhead or Palm
|
|
Springs in their fabulous roadsters"--in reality Mary's mother would never
|
|
have allowed her to make such trips alone or on a date. Mary's life was very
|
|
guarded and restricted until she finally moved out in late 1922.
|
|
7. It is stated "Mary sued her mother in 1926 for $1,345,000, but
|
|
curiously settled out of court for $25,000." The lawsuit was filed in 1925,
|
|
and the out-of-court settlement gave Mary $150,000 in bonds plus ownership of
|
|
Casa Margarita, which had considerable value.
|
|
8. "After a year at the Hollywood Health Club, the tony residence for
|
|
moneyed bachelors, Bill Taylor had moved to an apartment court at Alvarado
|
|
Street." Hollywood Health Club? Not hardly. Before entering the British
|
|
Army in 1918, Taylor had lived for several years at the Baltic Apartments,
|
|
1127 Orange St. (now Wilshire Blvd.); after he returned in 1919 he promptly
|
|
moved into the Alvarado apartment court.
|
|
9. It is stated that Edna Purivance occupied the other half of the
|
|
building that Taylor lived in. No, this is a common error--she lived in
|
|
the building immediately to the west of Taylor; she did not live in the same
|
|
building as Taylor.
|
|
10. It is stated that on the morning of the murder, Paramount
|
|
executives were burning papers in Taylor's fireplace. No, Taylor's apartment
|
|
had no fireplace.
|
|
11. Madsen evidently likes the rumors about ladies' underwear found in
|
|
Taylor's apartment, but he reports contradictory rumors as fact: that Taylor
|
|
wore some of it to "unmentionable drag parties," and; that it had been
|
|
"planted by the studio to cover Taylor's deep dark secret--his
|
|
homosexuality." Rumor, rumor, unconfirmed rumor. And the presence of any
|
|
underwear belonging to Minter was never confirmed, and strongly denied by
|
|
her. The same can be said of the rumored initialed nightgown--a nightgown
|
|
did exist, but seems not to have had initials. There were, however, some
|
|
handkerchiefs of Minter's which were found among Taylor's effects, and those
|
|
handkerchiefs were initialed.
|
|
12. It is reported as fact that Mary Miles Minter and Charlotte Shelby
|
|
had visited Taylor the night of the murder. But this is only dubious rumor,
|
|
and certainly not established as fact.
|
|
13. It is said that newspapers insinuated Taylor had been the cause of
|
|
the suicide of Zelda Crosby. Contemporary newspapers made no such
|
|
insinuation; Crosby killed herself in New York and Taylor worked in Los
|
|
Angeles.
|
|
14. It is stated that Charlotte Shelby killed Taylor and "paid off
|
|
successive Los Angeles district attorneys." Shelby may have killed Taylor,
|
|
though the case against her is far from proven and is rather doubtful. But
|
|
if Shelby "paid off" Asa Keyes, then why did she flee the country for three
|
|
years, and not return until Keyes was out of office and safely behind bars?
|
|
15. Taylor's life history, as presented in FORBIDDEN LOVERS, is very
|
|
scrambled. It is stated that Taylor "after the Great War, had gone to New
|
|
York, tried stage directing, married, fathered a child, and skipped out on
|
|
mother and daughter to try gold prospecting in the Yukon and Alaska." But
|
|
Taylor's marriage, desertion of family, and trips to the Yukon happened
|
|
BEFORE the Great War, not after. And Taylor had earlier been a stage actor,
|
|
but had never been a stage director prior to deserting his family.
|
|
16. It is stated that Allan Dwan gave Taylor his first break as a movie
|
|
actor. How? Taylor first acted for Ince, then for Vitagraph, and finally
|
|
for Balboa--thereafter he devoted all his time to directing. Dwan never
|
|
worked for Ince, Vitagraph or Balboa, so how could he have given Taylor his
|
|
first movie acting break?
|
|
17. It is stated that Edward Sands was actually Taylor's brother. No,
|
|
Sands was not Taylor's brother--there was a drastic difference in age, their
|
|
physical appearance was not similar, their handwriting and fingerprints were
|
|
different. Sands was actually Edward F. Snyder and was not Denis Deane
|
|
Tanner.
|
|
18. It is stated that at Taylor's funeral, Mary Miles Minter approached
|
|
the open casket and kissed Taylor on the lips. Mary Miles Minter did visit
|
|
Taylor's body in the mortuary, but she did not attend Taylor's funeral;
|
|
at the time the funeral was in progress she was making an official statement
|
|
to William Doran, in the office of the district attorney.
|
|
19. It is stated that "the presence of a black teenage boy at Taylor's
|
|
Alvarado Street home was never mentioned [in the press]." Huh? What is
|
|
Madsen talking about? Is this supposed to be a reference to his servant
|
|
Henry Peavey? Peavey was very much mentioned and interviewed in press
|
|
accounts of the murder, but he was certainly not a teenager--contemporary
|
|
press accounts state he was 40 years old at the time of the Taylor murder.
|
|
If the "black teenage boy" is supposed to be someone else, the statement
|
|
should be clarified, as this is something we have seen nowhere else.
|
|
|
|
Hopefully, someday newly-written recaps of the Taylor case will contain
|
|
mostly facts, and rumors will be identified as rumors. But as long as
|
|
new writers continue to rely on HOLLYWOOD BABYLON and A CAST OF KILLERS,
|
|
that day may never come.
|
|
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
Back issues of Taylorology are available from the gopher server at
|
|
gopher.etext.org
|
|
in the directory Zines/Taylorology;
|
|
or on the Web at
|
|
http://www.angelfire.com/az/Taylorology
|
|
Full text searches of back issues of Taylorology can be done at
|
|
http://www.etext.org/Zines/
|
|
Some supplementary graphic images files are available at
|
|
http://www.public.asu.edu/~bruce
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
|