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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 63 -- March 1998 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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Louella Parsons Interviews with Actresses:
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Beverly Bayne, Betty Blythe, Clara Bow, Marguerite Clark,
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Elsie Ferguson, Dorothy Gish, Juanita Hansen, Osa Johnson,
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Alice Joyce, Mae Marsh, Violet Mersereau, Alma Rubens,
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Gloria Swanson, Blanche Sweet, Alice Terry
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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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Louella Parsons Interviews with Actresses
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TAYLOROLOGY 53 contained a selection of Louella Parsons' interviews with
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silent film actors. Now it's the ladies' turn. The following interviews
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with actresses were conducted by Louella Parsons between 1918 and 1923.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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Beverly Bayne
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February 23, 1919
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Louella Parsons
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NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
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It was seven years ago, a beautiful Autumn day, with the leaves turning
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a russet brown and a rosy red. A little girl with a tan-colored suit and a
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hat gay with pink roses shading a pair of very dark eyes walked up to the
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front door of the Essanay studios and in a shy, half-frightened voice asked
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for a job. The girl at the switchboard, used to coldly turning away dozens
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of just such girls every day, paused in the gentle art of telling our heroine
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it was no use, and then took a second look at the big brown eyes, the soft
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dark hair which fell so softly over the forehead of this child, and said,
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"Wait a moment."
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This scant word of encouragement brought forth a smile and the little
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girl with the rose-garlanded hat sat down to wait. The wait brought Harry
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McRae Webster to the front office.
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"Well," he said, looking at the girl, "what do you want?"
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"I thought--that is, I hoped--you might use me in pictures."
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"Ever had any experience?"
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"Oh, yes; I have acted lots in school plays," was the naive and entirely
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unexpected answer.
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"Come around tomorrow at 9 o'clock," said Harry Webster, who was at that
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time director general of the Essanay productions.
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The girl--and she was none other, as they say in the thrilling
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melodramas--was Beverly Bayne, a truant from school, screen struck and dying
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to get into pictures. Harry Webster came into my office and told me of the
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little girl who looked about 16 and gave promise of being a raving beauty.
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Suddenly, as if struck by an inspiration, he said to me:
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"You know, I have half a notion to give her a chance in 'The Loan
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Shark.' You know the story."
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I did, for at that time I was scenario editor and a part of my work
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consisted in buying scripts for the directors to produce; there were only
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four other directors besides Harry Webster.
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"But she hasn't any experience," I said, "and won't Miss B. (the leading
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woman in Essanay stock) expect to have this story?"
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"Yes, yes, I know--but Miss B. is too old; this girl is young and fresh
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and the type I need."
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And so it came about that Beverly Bayne's first appearance in pictures
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was not as an extra girl, but as the featured player. All the directors at
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once wanted Beverly Bayne in their productions--pardon, pictures, for one-
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reel dramas and one-reel comedies were the best Essanay or any of the other
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companies gave at that time, and were not productions. There was a real
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Beverly Bayne craze on at the studios with all of the directors clamoring for
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the new leading lady.
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Francis X. Bushman was the leading man. Every one liked Frank in those
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days, he was such a boy, alternately teasing the girls and wrestling with the
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men. We were all much like one family--there was only one studio, and
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actors, directors and writers would congregate in my office to discuss the
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plays.
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Finally Beverly was cast in a Bushman picture. There was great rivalry
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among the women players to play with Francis Bushman. Beverly took it all as
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a matter of course, and confided in me she didn't much like Mr. Bushman; he
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was too big a tease. But Mr. Bushman liked her, and found he could work with
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her better than with any other actress. He asked for her, until she
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gradually became associated in the mind of the public as Francis X. Bushman's
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leading lady.
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A better understanding sprang up, but still Beverly was neither
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infatuated nor especially interested in her leading man. This went on for
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several years, with the Bushman and Bayne combination growing stronger and
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more popular, but with no thought of love on either side.
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It was after they joined the Metro Company that Beverly suddenly woke to
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a realization the hero of her screen romance was her real hero. And then, as
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every one knows, came the marriage of the two who had worked side by side,
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studying, reading and doing their best to find the art in motion pictures.
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This sounds like a history or a biography but it is meant for an
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interview. But, borrowing Miss Baird Leonard's phrase, it was a mental cross
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section dancing through the brain waves of my mind as Beverly and I sat and
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chatted over our tea. She and Francis came in last Sunday to see me and have
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a cup of tea with me, in my apartment; strange as it seems we are now almost
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next door neighbors.
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The promise Beverly's exquisite girlhood held for beautiful womanhood
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has been kept. She is one of the best groomed, most attractive, charming
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young women I know. The influence of her home, for Beverly was gently reared
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and one of the girls who might have stayed home and had the tender care of a
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devoted mother if she had not wanted to set out for herself, is always
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present in her every movement. She is a gentlewoman, well poised and
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exceptionally entertaining.
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Naturally we three reminisced, and chatted over the days when pictures
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were crude, unfinished affairs.
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"Sometimes," said Mr. Bushman, "I smile to myself when I see on the
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screen little things I did a long time ago. If I should now take one of the
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copyrighted acts, I should be branded an imitator--when frequently they are
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the very things we tried out at Essanay."
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The two Bushmans are very congenial. They both like riding; they are
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each passionately fond of dogs, horses and other pets, and they are each
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students. Francis Bushman is one of the best read men I know. He hasn't the
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superficial knowledge, which, veneered, suffices to pass as mentality, but he
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has the real knowledge acquired from much delving into books and constant
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studying. Beverly is also a brilliant woman, having with the years added to
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her retentive mind the things worth knowing.
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"When I get back to the city from Bushmanor," said Beverly, "I feel
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stifled. You see, we live outdoors there, ride in the open country and lead
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a simple, next-to-nature life."
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"You like that way of living now?" I asked her.
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"I have never cared for the bright lights nor for the night life in a
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big city. The cafes, the cabarets and the parties in these places never hold
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an attraction for me, perhaps because I know so little about them. We lead
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such a quiet life. I want only a few good friends, my books, my horses and
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dogs. This is my idea of contentment: I love my home, and am what Frank
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calls an old-fashioned girl."
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"What about your painting?" I asked her, for in the old days Beverly had
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considerable talent, and her mother always cherished a secret hope that some
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day the name Beverly Bayne would become associated with the world of art
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instead of with the plebian motion picture.
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"I still love to sketch, and to dabble in water colors, but I have never
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done more than visit the art galleries, and wish I could create some of the
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paintings I see there. Art will always be an idealistic longing with me, and
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one of the things I shall always regret I was unable to accomplish."
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The Bushmans were both greatly interested in the Westminster dog show,
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where Mr. Bushman had entered twelve beautiful Danes, and carried off a motor
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truck full of ribbons and cups and badges.
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"You should see Frank," said Beverly. "He fusses over those dogs,
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doctors them, bathes them, and sees to it that they have just the right
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amount of food. Such a barking when he appears; they all know him, and one
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is jealous of the other in trying to claim his attention."
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Francis Bushman loves the country as well as his wife does. It is no
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affectation, either, for I can remember when he used to tell me the height of
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his ambition was to make enough money to buy a country estate. Many of the
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things he hoped for have come to pass--but they have made no change in
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"Bush," as his friends call him.
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The years have improved him, and the Francis Bushman of today, older,
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graver, but with the same almost foolish desire to have every one like him,
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is a great improvement over the boy I knew so well at Essanay. He has
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learned to be less impulsive and less apt to judge other people. I could not
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help thinking how much his association with gentle Beverly has helped him.
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One thing he has retained, and that is his generous spirit. No friend in
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need ever went to Francis Bushman in vain. He recently took an old director
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of his, broken in health, to Bushmanor, gave him a home and a chance to earn
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some money raising chickens. He does not tell these things, and it was only
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with the greatest reluctance I coaxed the story from Beverly--and then only
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when this man whom we all knew was mentioned.
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Our tea chat reached way into the evening--to the time when they had to
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hurry home to greet some dinner guests--but we did have such a pleasant
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afternoon, and I hope they will run in again and have tea with me.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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Betty Blythe
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May 1, 1921
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Louella Parsons
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NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
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After seeing Betty Blythe on the screen with a few draperies and a
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couple of beads it was somewhat of a shock to see a young woman step into the
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lobby of the Gotham Hotel dressed in a modishly tailored suit, with nothing
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to suggest the gorgeous raiment of the queen. Whatever was missing in the
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queenly robes was very much present in the beauty of the young woman. She is
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as handsome as she looked when Solomon was vamped by her on the screen at the
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Lyric Theatre. I had no reason to believe she would appear in ancient garb,
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but some way the name of Betty Blythe ever since she made such an impression
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as the Queen of Sheba has been synonymous with this enchantress of long ago.
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The hour was half after twelve o'clock and since Miss Blythe had eaten
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no breakfast she ushered me into the dining room. Even queens must eat.
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Her royal highness managed eggs and bacon, toast, marmalade, prunes and tea,
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proving as well as being beautiful she has a hearty and healthy appetite.
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Any one who could drive the chariot with the skill and strength of Miss
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Blythe would need to keep herself in proper physical form.
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"How did you manage all those prancing horses," I asked her.
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"I suppose I should say it was easy, but I am going to be truthful and
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tell you it was the most difficult thing I have ever been called upon to do
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in pictures. I knew if we rehearsed the scene once more I should never have
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been able to endure the strain. Nell Craig, who drove the other chariot, was
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so overcome that she fell and broke three ribs just as we were finishing the
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last scene. There was terrific excitement, with the extras yelling and all
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of us frightened and trembling with fear that Miss Craig was seriously
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injured.
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"My arms, you see," she said, holding out a pair of shapely hands, "are
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long, and I am strong. Miss Craig is weaker and she simply could not hold
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those wild animals a moment longer. Fortunately it was the very last scene.
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I am sure neither Miss Craig nor myself would be willing to go around those
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sharp curves again."
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Miss Blythe is here to consult with William Fox about going to Europe
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with J. Gordon Edwards. He is to make "Mary, Queen of Scots," and since "The
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Queen of Sheba" was such a howling success Mr. Edwards does not wish to
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change queens. There is no denying Miss Blythe does look like the mythical
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queens of our childhood days. She is tall, stately, dignified and beautiful.
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An ideal combination of what queens should be and seldom are. Contracts are
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stubborn things and up to now Mr. Fox and Miss Blythe have not come to any
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definite agreement. She wants to go abroad, but there are many things to be
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considered.
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Until she came to New York Mrs. Sheba had not seen herself on the
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screen. The print of "The Queen of Sheba" was rushed to New York before any
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of the players had a chance to see the picture. Naturally the first thing
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Miss Blythe did was to rush to the Lyric and take a look at herself.
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"I haven't been East for two years, so I have spent much of my time in
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the shops and at the theatres. If I should return to the Coast without going
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to Europe," she said, "I want to see enough good plays to last me for a
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time."
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The stories that Miss Blythe left New York after nearly starving to
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death, she says, are very poetic but absolutely without foundation.
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"I worked with World and Vitagraph and had a very good salary before I
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went West to make a Goldwyn picture. I had been on the stage in a Morris
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Gest production, but I never did the starving in the garret act. I wonder
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why," she said, "every one always thinks any girl who achieves any degree of
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fame must have had a miserable hungry time. The chorus is always used to
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illustrate how far she has advanced."
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If Miss Blythe does not go to Europe with the J. Gordon Edwards company
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she will return to Los Angeles in another week. She says there is only one
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thing she wishes to have every one know and that is, she is not
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temperamental.
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"I shouldn't like to have any one accuse me of being a creature of
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moods. I am not a great actress and no one unless she be as famous as
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Bernhardt or Duse should indulge in temperament. It is unbecoming and
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foolish."
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Miss Blythe admits she is ambitious. She has aspirations and she wants
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to do something worth while.
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"I am grateful," she said, "to the Fox company and Mr. Edwards for the
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chance to play in 'The Queen of Sheba.' It has inspired me to do other
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pictures of a similar nature."
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The queen, you see, is a mortal, even as you and I. So she finished her
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breakfast and departed for the dressmaker's for a fitting, for styles do
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change and one cannot wear beads and draperies outside of a studio.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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Clara Bow
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July 22, 1922
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Louella Parsons
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NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
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I wish Booth Tarkington could meet Clara Bow. If he has never heard
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Clara tell of her romances, her ideas on life and the way she manages her
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"dad," he has missed getting material for a great juvenile story. Clara is a
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combination of the Tarkington type of small town girl, and the flapper who
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now flaps in up-to-date juvenile society. She is the unconscious flapper.
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She doesn't hail form Podunk or Cedarville, Iowa, the towns where girls
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wear the fraternity pins of their best beaus, and consider a high school
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picnic the essence of hilarity. Clara was born and brought up in Brooklyn,
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but someway neither our neighboring city nor the big town of New York has
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ever touched her. She has remained Clara Bow, high school girl, whose beauty
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somehow brought her into the fillums, but never made her a part of them.
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Clara, who is eighteen this month, and who as naively says she was so
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"smart" she graduated when she was fifteen, has kept all her old school
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friends. Her class mates are her beaus, although her father, she says, is
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very strict and makes her send her company home long before midnight. Her
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mother died at Christmas time last year, leaving her alone with her father
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who has tried to mother her as best he could--perhaps spoiling her a little.
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Everyone does.
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Morrie Ryskind insisted that I meet the new Preferred star and take a
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look at her just to see if I had ever met anything like Miss Bow in motion
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pictures. I never have.
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"What paper do you write on," asked Clara, slipping her hand into mine.
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"Shsh"--whispered Morrie, "she is the lady who wrote the nice things
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about you."
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"Oh, I know you are on the Telegram."
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"Just having a little joke," groaned Morrie. But Clara hadn't been
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rehearsed, she said.
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"Honest, Mr. Ryskind, I didn't hear her name--"
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"Where shall we have luncheon," sighed Morrie, thinking the sooner the
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affair was over the better for his peace of mind. "Shall we go to the Astor,
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the Biltmore or the Chatham?"
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"Let's go to a chop suey place," said Clara. "I know a wonderful
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restaurant here on Broadway where they dance at noon--don't you love to
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dance?"
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So Morrie, hoping the din of the Chinese orchestra would drown any
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additional faux pas lead us to Clara's choice, and in the middle of the day
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when most of us eat salad or a poached egg, this youngster ate soup, chow
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mein, salad, ice cream and rice--and with a relish.
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So far motion pictures haven't affected her one iota. She is as
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refreshingly unaffected as if she had never faced a means to pretend. She
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hasn't any secrets from the world--she trusts everyone, and doesn't believe
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that any one would be unkind enough to print any of the romances that she
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loves to tell about. Almost any mascaro firm would pay her a big salary for
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the use of her name.
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She came into pictures after winning a beauty contest. She screens in
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the vernacular of the studio like a million dollars, and when Elmer Clifton
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had a look at her big brown eyes, and her round little face, almost like the
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girl in a picture book, he gave her one of the leading roles in "Down to the
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Sea in Ships."
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"This chance, Clara" said Mr. Clifton (every one calls her Clara), "will
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either make or break you--it depends upon the success of the picture. Every
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one knows of the phenomenal success of Mr. Clifton's great whaling picture.
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It made him, and it made Clara, and led to her getting an offer from J. G.
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Bachmann to play one of the leading roles in "May Time" for Preferred
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Pictures.
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She has just finished "Grit," with Glenn Hunter. She says she just
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loves Glenn.
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"I went down to see 'Merton of the Movies' the other night and I sat in
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the front row. Glenn said something about Clara Bow, the motion picture
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actress, and I was so embarrassed. Mr. and Mrs. Harold Lloyd were in the
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audience, too, but Glenn didn't see them in time to put them in the play.
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"Glenn thinks I could act on the stage. He said maybe sometime he will
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give me a part in one of his plays."
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She thinks Mr. Hunter is a fine actor and dares any one to deny it.
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In fact, she rather hopes someone will, so she can prove her loyalty to young
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Merton by having a battle.
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Our conversation was mostly about whom Clara adores and whom she does
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not adore, and what she is going to do in California and the ideal man she
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expects to marry.
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"You know," she said, confidentially, leaning over a dish of chow mein
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almost as big as she is, "I have had six proposals of marriage; but I didn't
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love one of them. My daddy says I am too young to marry, anyhow."
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"What about the fraternity pin, does that belong to one of the loves?"
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she was asked.
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"No," she explained, "I traded a piece of jewelry I had with a boy
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because I thought it was pretty. A girl gave it to him--some boy had given
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it to her--and now it's mine!"
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Shades of Harvard, Yale, Princeton and Cornell and any other college
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where the Greek letter fraternities are in vogue!
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"I think you better go back to the office," said Morris, interrupting
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Clara's rhapsody. "Mr. Beatty wants to see you."
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"No, he doesn't, I have to have my picture taken," answered the
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incorrigible Clara.
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But the pictures were as good an excuse as any, and Mr. Ryskind piloted
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her from the chop suey palace where she pranced across the floor, keeping
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time to the music like a delighted child.
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I thought afterward if the little girl who lives at my house had not
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been so frightfully grown up she and Clara might have had a good time. We
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hope some one will tell Mr. Tarkington about Clara so that he will put her in
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a story. She is almost too good to be true. And to think she is going to
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Hollywood to play in the "fillums." We only wish some reformer who believes
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the screen contaminates all who associate with it could meet this child.
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Still on second thought it might not be safe: Clara uses a dangerous pair of
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eyes. And as for eyelashes, almost any mascaro would pay her a big salary
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for the use of her name.
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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Marguerite Clark
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April 10, 1921
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Louella Parsons
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NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
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After she makes two or three more pictures, Marguerite Clark expects to
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retire to her plantation in the South and raise--flowers. It wouldn't give
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her much of a pang to exit now, only she feels she would like to make one
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more big picture and then kiss her fingers good-by to her public. As far as
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the stage is concerned, Miss Clark has already sung her swan song--but deep
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in her heart there is such a warm place for the screen she doesn't want to
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retire until she has departed in the manner she has planned.
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Marguerite's whole life has been arranged in this picturesque fashion,
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with each event being patterned and fashioned to suit her fastidious little
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self.
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"Do you know," she said, "if I had the forming of my life I would have
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chosen to marry Harry, and retire from the screen after I had found the man I
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|
love, and the home that I enjoy so thoroughly. I love my home, my flowers,
|
|
my little chickens, and the freedom the country gives me. I am never lonely.
|
|
Sometimes we go to town for a dinner party or the theatre; often we come to
|
|
New York for a good time; but when it is over we love going back to our
|
|
house. It is two miles from New Orleans, and such a great big rambling old
|
|
place, Harry and I ramble around like two little peanuts."
|
|
Harry is H. Palmerston Williams, the attractive husband of Marguerite.
|
|
They are desperately in love with each other. So much so, Harry wasn't above
|
|
taking Marguerite's little hand and holding it at Delmonico's when he thought
|
|
the rest of the luncheon party was too engrossed in talking shop to see him.
|
|
Marguerite, on the other hand, had to stop talking every few moments to lean
|
|
over and whisper something in her husband's ear. The correct waiter coughed
|
|
discreetly whenever he approached, and tried not to show his interest.
|
|
He was more polite than some of the guests, who stared with frank interest at
|
|
Mr. and Mrs. H. Palmerston Williams.
|
|
In the luncheon party were Mrs. J. Gordon Edwards, wife of the Fox
|
|
director; their young son Jack, home from Cornell for his Spring vacation;
|
|
Miss Cora Clark and Miss Wilson. Mr. Edwards acted as stage director for
|
|
Marguerite at one time and the two families have kept up their close
|
|
friendship.
|
|
"The first time I saw that young man," said Marguerite, nodding at the
|
|
good-looking young Jack, "was after he had received a terrific bump on his
|
|
head in the elevator. I was so incensed at the unsympathetic manner in which
|
|
the elevator man ejected him from the lift I said I would leave the hotel.
|
|
Mr. Edwards spoke up and said: 'Oh, I wouldn't distress myself; it was
|
|
probably my son. He is a terror, and he undoubtedly deserved everything he
|
|
got.'"
|
|
"You didn't know how nice I was going to grow up, did you?" said young
|
|
Edwards, who graduated from Cornell this Summer, and who hasn't decided
|
|
whether to be an assistant to his father or a business man. He says he is
|
|
afraid his dad will make a general utility man out of him, and he wouldn't be
|
|
doing right by Cornell to accept such a menial job.
|
|
"You know the day Marguerite speaks about," said Miss Cora, "was her
|
|
first performance of 'Peter Pan.' Mr. Edwards was her stage director, and I
|
|
always remember how upset she was over Jack's argument with the elevator boy.
|
|
We didn't want her to get excited."
|
|
"She loves children," said her husband, whereupon young Jack made a
|
|
grimace. "Children love her, too," said Mr. Williams. "My niece and nephew
|
|
gave a party, and a youngster said, 'See that pretty little girl there, I am
|
|
going to have a dance with her.'
|
|
"'That,' said another boy, 'is no little girl, it is Marguerite Clark.'
|
|
"'I don't care, she looks like a little girl,' he said."
|
|
"Speaking of 'Peter Pan,' who do you think should play Peter in the
|
|
Famous Players-Lasky screen version?" asked Mrs. Edwards.
|
|
"I refuse to answer," said Mr. Williams, "on advice of counsel. I am
|
|
too prejudiced."
|
|
"I read with interest the Morning Telegraph series on the choice for
|
|
Peter Pan," said Miss Cora.
|
|
"That reminds me," said young Jack, "we have dozens of letters
|
|
recommending Marguerite."
|
|
"That is because I played the part on the stage," said Miss Clark.
|
|
"Would you like to play it?"
|
|
"I would love to," she said. "I have always wanted to make 'Peter Pan'
|
|
in pictures, and I must admit nothing would make me happier."
|
|
We asked Marguerite if she didn't sometimes have a hankering for New
|
|
York and the theatres.
|
|
"I never expected to be as contented in my life as I am now," she said.
|
|
"Do you know what I bought here?"
|
|
"Clothes," said young Jack.
|
|
"Oh, that goes without saying, but I mean we have bought seeds of all
|
|
sorts, garden trowels, and everything to make my Southern garden beautiful.
|
|
Harry raises chickens," she said. "He has his part of the garden and I have
|
|
my part, and if his chickens run into my flowers there will be an instant
|
|
annihilation of one part of the farm's product, and it will not be my
|
|
posies."
|
|
This threat amused Miss Clark's husband so much he had to give her hand
|
|
one more surreptitious squeeze. He seems to think everything she says is
|
|
amusing; in fact, he appreciates all her merry little witticisms.
|
|
I wondered if he didn't get jealous of the attention she attracts.
|
|
Apparently not, for he seems to enjoy having her admired, and beamed when
|
|
people pointed to her admiringly. Happiness has certainly been a great
|
|
tonic, for she looks younger and prettier than ever.
|
|
Her husband wishes she would not consider it necessary to make other
|
|
pictures, but he says if she feels she wants to make one or two before she
|
|
retires, he will not interfere.
|
|
"What about the stage?"
|
|
"That is different," promptly answered Marguerite. "I wouldn't be
|
|
willing to stay away from my beau that long."
|
|
As we were leaving, Marguerite spied Wesley Barry and tried to attract
|
|
his attention.
|
|
"He only cares for me," she said, "when he is trying to raise money.
|
|
When he came South he invited me to give to the Near-East fund, and seemed to
|
|
like me when I helped him."
|
|
Mr. and Mrs. Williams return home today after having spent a brief week
|
|
in New York. She is one of the best arguments I know against the old-
|
|
fashioned theory that no actress is content away from the stage. Marguerite
|
|
Clark says she is happier than she has ever been in her life, and she
|
|
certainly looks it.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
Elsie Ferguson
|
|
February 16, 1919
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
The interview about to be transcribed on this crumpled piece of copy
|
|
paper should have been written a week ago, for it was then I talked with
|
|
Elsie Ferguson, and came back to my typewriter, my office and my Roget's
|
|
Thesaurus with a feeling of exaltation. Elsie Ferguson has that effect, she
|
|
is stimulating, constantly buoying one up by her mentality, and by her human
|
|
outlook on life's tangled problems.
|
|
Now there comes to me a vision of her beauty, and a remembrance of the
|
|
pleasant hour I spent with her in her apartment on Park avenue, but with no
|
|
definite recollection of all we said--and we said much after the fashion of
|
|
two women who are left alone to talk for a solid hour.
|
|
The interview took place on a Friday morning very early, at the time the
|
|
world likes to picture actresses and women who lead leisure lives just
|
|
opening their eyes, having their breakfasts served on a silver salver, by a
|
|
neat maid, in a shell pink boudoir, with its curtains, its rugs and its
|
|
furnishings all harmonizing in color.
|
|
Yes, dear readers, that is the way this story should be written, I know
|
|
according to the Hoyle of fiction. But that isn't the way it happened.
|
|
I arrived at Miss Ferguson's apartment bright and early and was met at the
|
|
door by the young woman herself in a street frock of dark green velvet,
|
|
looking as if she had been up for several hours at least. From this most
|
|
matter of fact beginning you can readily see Miss Ferguson is not idle, and
|
|
neither has she acquired the habits of the leisure class who, before the war
|
|
made people realize there was work to be done, never gazed upon the morning
|
|
sun. It didn't take me long after Miss Ferguson started to talk to decide
|
|
she refutes the old axiom that beauty and brains seldom go hand in hand. She
|
|
has a liberal share of both, a thing which has elevated her to an enviable
|
|
place of esteem in the hearts of the picture world. We spoke about the
|
|
screen as a medium of describing emotion, and what improvements might be
|
|
expected to come within the next few years in the art of the motion picture.
|
|
"If we are to advance," said Miss Ferguson, "I believe it will be a
|
|
technical advancement. Some one will invent a camera powerful enough to take
|
|
distances and close-ups at one time. I always feel after a scene has been
|
|
taken, and I have to pose again for a close-up, how sorry I am that my face
|
|
cannot be photographed when I am actually engaged in a big dramatic scene.
|
|
It is difficult to get back to the place where the camera caught me a few
|
|
moments previous. Usually my feet must be kept on a spot marked for them,
|
|
and I am conscious of being cramped and forced to stay in a small place."
|
|
By this Miss Ferguson does not mean she dislikes motion pictures. She
|
|
merely, like all folk who study the needs of the screen, is constantly
|
|
groping about for a better way of doing things. Elsie Ferguson is not bound
|
|
to pictures commercially, though she does make $1,000 every day she works,
|
|
and has a maid, car and other accessories furnished her by the Famous Players-
|
|
Lasky Company, whose treasury she enriches.
|
|
"I cannot truthfully say I do not miss the stage," was the answer given
|
|
by Miss Ferguson to a tactless question as to whether or not sometimes there
|
|
did not come a longing to get back before the footlights. "Quoting from
|
|
'Dear Brutus,' where the man says the woman is so fluid, I would say the
|
|
stage is so fluid. That is what I miss--not so much the audience, though it
|
|
is pleasing to get recognition for one's art, but the something the stage
|
|
possesses that is not possible to get on the screen."
|
|
Elsie Ferguson is responsible for a vogue in pictures for which many of
|
|
us are grateful. Up to the time she brought her youth, her good looks and
|
|
her stage experience to the screen, we were overwhelmed with curls, and short-
|
|
frocked little girls, whose only claim to picture fame was a mop or tangled
|
|
hair and babyish star. Elsie Ferguson, by her graciousness, by her well-bred
|
|
manner of doing things, and her knowledge of what to wear and what not to
|
|
wear, gave [those] ambitious to be motion picture stars a new ideal to copy.
|
|
This conservative, gentle breeding is not a camouflage adapted as a
|
|
screen disguise; it is as much a part of the real Elsie Ferguson as her hand
|
|
or her foot. Her whole bearing, from the top of her golden head to the toe
|
|
of her tiny shoe (it is small--I noticed it) is that of a gentlewoman. One
|
|
wouldn't have to be in Miss Ferguson's presence or her home many minutes to
|
|
get this as a first impression.
|
|
Her home, who was it that said, "Show me the home and I will tell you
|
|
the character of the people who live there"? Elsie Ferguson's home is the
|
|
sort of livable place you would associate with that. There is nothing
|
|
ornate, garish or over-decorative. The lamps, the grand piano, the table
|
|
with its magazines and books, the vases here and there, all bespeak
|
|
refinement, good taste and breeding.
|
|
Miss Ferguson, besides having a place in the picture and theatrical
|
|
world, has a very definite social position given her by her marriage with
|
|
Major T. B. Clarke. I might have said, primarily given her, for she has kept
|
|
this place, and has by her charm, her beauty and her intelligence, made many
|
|
friends in the social world.
|
|
In speaking of Elsie Ferguson and the high regard in which she is held,
|
|
a woman well known in literary circles spoke of seeing Miss Ferguson at the
|
|
opera. At the conclusion of the last act Miss Ferguson rose, and walked out.
|
|
"It was," said this woman, "as if a princess were leaving. The audience
|
|
unconsciously stood still and looked at the slender, graceful figure wrapped
|
|
in a chinchilla coat, and then as if unconsciously walked out after her."
|
|
Ask her about suffrage, and about the uplift of the shop girl, said some
|
|
one.
|
|
It seemed absurd to ask Elsie Ferguson about suffrage.
|
|
A woman with her mentality, her poise and her conception of life could
|
|
not help believing in suffrage.
|
|
"I have believed in woman's equality for many years," she said. "The
|
|
old belief that a woman's place is in her home is all very well. We all like
|
|
our homes, and need them; but why spend the time in the manual labor of a
|
|
home, when we can get people who can do it much better than we can."
|
|
"Shall I say you would love to have a rose-covered cottage, with plenty
|
|
of house-work?" I asked.
|
|
"The cottage sounds all right, but I am not so sure I would add the
|
|
plenty of hard work," she said, smiling.
|
|
Elsie Ferguson in a cottage in the kitchen takes a strength and a depth
|
|
of imagination which I do not possess. I could better picture her on a
|
|
throne giving orders and receiving messages from an assembled multitude.
|
|
As for the shop girl. This question was born of the knowledge that
|
|
Elsie Ferguson does many little kindnesses quietly, and without ostentation
|
|
for some of the girls less fortunate than her gorgeous self.
|
|
"The average shop girl of today seems well able to cope with the world,"
|
|
said Miss Ferguson. "She is taught this necessity in moving pictures, and in
|
|
books. The girl of today is taught to face the world, and the salaries these
|
|
girls get are usually sufficient to keep them until they can get something
|
|
better. The woman who starts out to make a living will keep advancing if she
|
|
has the right stuff in her. If she doesn't it is her own fault. I am not
|
|
putting this down as a hard and fast rule. There are exceptions, and these
|
|
cases should, of course, be helped."
|
|
Right now Miss Ferguson is in Palm Beach--no, not vacationing, but
|
|
working on a new production. She hasn't, she said, had a vacation in so long
|
|
she feels her nerves are on edge and her mind weary for the need of some
|
|
recreation.
|
|
Will Elsie Ferguson return to the stage?
|
|
It is possible, though such a move would not necessarily interfere with
|
|
her screen work. She could do both. It is a well-known fact Miss Ferguson
|
|
has had several plays submitted to her by theatrical managers within the past
|
|
few months, but up to last week she had made no decision. She has a contract
|
|
with the Famous Players-Lasky Company, and she has expressed herself on
|
|
several occasions as being satisfied with the treatment she has received and
|
|
of being eager to make other pictures, and better ones.
|
|
"We need better stories," she said, "and we need them badly."
|
|
There were many more things we discussed, but as I said above, Elsie
|
|
Ferguson and I, like Alice and the Walrus, found the time had come to talk of
|
|
many things, and, being women, we talked them, and no one could ever record
|
|
everything a woman said.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
Dorothy Gish
|
|
November 9, 1919
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
The younger daughter of the Gish family arrived in New York three weeks
|
|
later than her mother and sister. Lillian and her mother brought three
|
|
birds, a canary and a parrot and eight hat boxes. Dorothy worried along
|
|
without any birds but she made up for this oversight by getting in Chicago
|
|
with five suitcases. She lost one there somewhere between the New York
|
|
Central station and the Blackstone, and landed in New York with only four.
|
|
"It was either the fault of the hotel clerk or the taxi driver," she
|
|
said. "Hotel clerks and taxi drivers are my pet aversion, and I hate them
|
|
more than anything in the world."
|
|
Dorothy, standing about five feet, very young, very slender and looking
|
|
not a day over seventeen, had given her denunciation of the race of hotel
|
|
clerks and taxi drivers in such a fierce tone we all laughed.
|
|
"You needn't laugh," said Dorothy. "That clerk at the Blackstone Hotel
|
|
in Chicago acted as if I were a stray dog. I asked him if I could get a room
|
|
and bath.
|
|
"He said, 'Certainly not; there isn't an empty room in the house.'
|
|
"'Will you please tell me where I can go,' I pleaded
|
|
"'No where,' he said. 'There is a convention in town and the hotels are
|
|
full.'
|
|
"Then he called a boy and I fully expected to be kicked down the steps.
|
|
Instead he had the boy take me to a wash room to wait, saying he would see
|
|
what he could do. I waited three hours and I never heard from him until
|
|
train time. I always have been afraid of hotel clerks, and now I am in
|
|
abject terror of them. If one says boo to me here at the Commodore I shall
|
|
make for cover."
|
|
The young lady who is afraid of hotel clerks just a moment before had
|
|
spoken nonchalantly of her own company. Another incongruous remark which
|
|
made me smile.
|
|
"Why do you smile?" she asked.
|
|
"When you speak of your own company," I told her, "it sounds so
|
|
important. And then in the next breath you say you fear the very people you
|
|
might be expected to wither with a look."
|
|
"That's the way I am," she said. "Do you know New York stifles me? It
|
|
makes me so unhappy. There are so many things I want, and so many things I
|
|
cannot afford to have. I don't see how people ever have money enough to live
|
|
here."
|
|
"Dorothy is right about being unhappy," said her mother. "She hasn't
|
|
smiled since she came here. We went to a fortune-teller in Los Angeles, and
|
|
he told me I would be surrounded with great hustle and bustle. And there
|
|
would appear constantly in this great commotion an figure with a scornful
|
|
expression."
|
|
"I am it," explained Dorothy, "but I am no longer scornful; merely
|
|
bewildered at the high cost of living."
|
|
"Do what Marie Doro suggests in New York," advised the gentle Lillian--
|
|
"wear your old clothes and be dowdy with good grace."
|
|
"What a blow all this high price of living sorrow would give the
|
|
public," I thought. "All the world believes motion picture stars wear sables
|
|
on Monday, mink on Tuesday, ermine on Wednesday, and other furs the rest of
|
|
the week. The dear public believes to be a motion picture star means to have
|
|
every whim granted at the drop of a hat."
|
|
"I thought motion picture stars--" I began.
|
|
"You thought like all the world," interrupted Dorothy, "that we were in
|
|
the millionaire class. We do not get paid the exorbitant salaries folk
|
|
believe, but because of our wealthy reputation we are made to suffer by
|
|
dentists, doctors, lawyers, milliners, modistes and all down the line. I had
|
|
two tiny cavities filled, and what do you think my dentist charged me--$350
|
|
for less than an hour's work!"
|
|
"You didn't pay him?"
|
|
"No, I left town, but I cannot always leave town when a bill is sent to
|
|
me three or four times in excess of what I ought to pay. I shall have mother
|
|
send him $100, which is enough for the work he has done--and then if he
|
|
insists I shall tell my troubles to a judge and let him decide the issue."
|
|
This interview was really to be with Dorothy, and I went over to the
|
|
Commodore Hotel to have luncheon with her. Lillian and Mrs. Gish, whom I
|
|
know better than the younger Gish, were also invited to Dorothy's party. The
|
|
two sisters are entirely unlike--Lillian, fair and stately; Dorothy, brown-
|
|
haired, less stately and with a sense of humor that is infectious.
|
|
I expected to see the black bobbed wig, and looked in surprise at the light
|
|
brown hair coiled so neatly on her head.
|
|
"Everyone looks for my wig," said Dorothy. "I am glad to stop playing
|
|
for a few weeks to get rid of wearing it. My hair is a surprise and a
|
|
disappointment to everyone."
|
|
"Not a disappointment," I corrected: "I like it better."
|
|
In the interval while we waited for Lillian to get her mother, Dorothy
|
|
told me she thought "Broken Blossoms" the best picture she had ever seen.
|
|
"When I see Lillian in that picture, I make up my mind never to make another
|
|
picture," she said. Which was a fine tribute from one sister to another.
|
|
I understood this remark later, when Dorothy, almost in tears over her
|
|
picture at the Rialto this past week said: "Comedy is the most
|
|
unsatisfactory thing in the world. You never know how it's going to turn
|
|
out. I started to make a drama a few weeks ago and it turned out a comedy.
|
|
And we all work so hard. That's all I do--work work work.
|
|
"Everyone who makes a success has to work," her mother said. "Look at
|
|
Mr. Griffith, how hard he works."
|
|
"And what does it get him," was Dorothy's reply.
|
|
"Why, Dorothy," interrupted Lillian, "that is a strange remark."
|
|
"O you know what I mean," Dorothy hastened to explain. "I mean what
|
|
good does it do anyone to kill themselves working, because the worms will get
|
|
you in the end."
|
|
After which philosophy Mrs. Gish, youthful and pretty enough to be a
|
|
sister to the girls, gently reproved her younger daughter for this outburst.
|
|
The Gish girls would surprise many of these reformers who think monopoly
|
|
of the world's iniquity is embodied in motion picture stars. They are sort
|
|
of girls you would like to have your own daughters associate with--wholesome,
|
|
clean, gently bred, and testifying to American womanhood at its best.
|
|
Dorothy is the comedienne of the family, and when she ceases to smile
|
|
there is a general cause for alarm. Her mother fussed over her, worried
|
|
about her unhappiness and tried her best to make her youngest born forget the
|
|
disadvantages of living in a big city. Mothers are pretty much alike the
|
|
world over, whether they belong to famous stars or just ordinary folk.
|
|
And Mrs. Gish is very much a real mother. Her girls will tell you that.
|
|
They give her credit for most of their accomplishments.
|
|
After luncheon in their apartment, where they insisted I go to make the
|
|
acquaintance of John, the parrot, who creaks out in a funny little voice,
|
|
"Mother, Lillian and Dot," they spoke of the farm they hope to buy, a nine-
|
|
acre place in the country near the studio, where New York and its wicked
|
|
allurement of frocks and frills will not be so distressingly near. Where
|
|
Dorothy can keep a red cow that gives a quart of milk at twenty cents per
|
|
each day, and where nice white chickens lay dollar a dozen eggs. It's the
|
|
life for Dorothy, according to her own confession.
|
|
One the way to my office Mrs. Gish walked back from the hotel with me.
|
|
She said Dorothy had seven more pictures to make for Paramount, and Lillian's
|
|
picture making with the other stars and Griffith players for United Artists
|
|
would not affect Dorothy, who remains with Adolph Zukor at least during the
|
|
term of her contract.
|
|
And in conversation with this wise little mother I learned the real
|
|
reason why Dorothy does not buy out the Fifth Avenue shops. Her mother
|
|
insists that the girls each save a part of their salaries.
|
|
"For," she said in explanation, "when they grown older their earning
|
|
capacity may grown less, and you know girls seldom think this can happen.
|
|
They believe their salary is a fixed income for life."
|
|
And I went back to my desk, thinking of all the good fortune fate had
|
|
put in the path of the Gishes, the best of all was the mother they had chosen
|
|
for themselves.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
Juanita Hansen
|
|
May 2, 1920
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Juanita Hansen says she supposes she should have given her parents their
|
|
wish and been a brunette. She was named Juanita before she was born after
|
|
the song which had played a part in her parents' courting days. Juanita,
|
|
suggesting Spanish, Oriental and dark-eyed, was a misnomer so far as the
|
|
flaxen-haired Hansen baby was concerned. But then how could parents of
|
|
Swedish ancestry expect a child with Spanish characteristics.
|
|
"The name Hansen never seemed to belong to the Juanita," said the young
|
|
lady herself, "but I refused to change it for Imogene Winthrop or Gladys
|
|
Dewdrop, because I wanted to keep my own identity and I had a peculiar
|
|
feeling the loss of my name meant a metamorphis of my personality--and that's
|
|
one thing I prefer to keep always.
|
|
"And there," went on this young lady, "my name has brought me many
|
|
adventures. The other night a party of us went to see a burlesque show--"
|
|
"Sh-sh," put in Don Meaney, supervising director, manager and adviser of
|
|
Miss Hansen. "I don't believe I would mention going in a burlesque show."
|
|
"Why not?" demanded Miss Hansen, "I went, didn't I?"
|
|
Resuming the interrupted thread and quite undaunted by the thought
|
|
passed on to her that she should mention symphony concerts, the opera and
|
|
Shakespearean plays, but leave the word burlesque out of the conversation,
|
|
she proceeded.
|
|
"In the dressing room at the burlesque theatre was a woman of rather
|
|
superior bearing. I smiled unconsciously at her and she smiled back.
|
|
'Professional?' she asked me. I replied in the affirmative and then she
|
|
said, 'What is your name?' 'Juanita Hansen,' I answered.
|
|
"'Juanita,' she repeated. 'Juanita. I was an actress twenty years ago
|
|
and I made my greatest hit singing "Juanita."'
|
|
"She sang for me, and I have never heard a clearer, sweeter voice.
|
|
I was touched at her present plight and it made a deeper impression on me
|
|
than any sermon I ever heard. Here she was, old and unknown, and at one time
|
|
she had been the toast of the town. It made me do some thinking.
|
|
"And so after all the name may be a talisman," Miss Hansen said.
|
|
Miss Hansen, whose pet diversion, according to Don Meaney, is taming
|
|
lions, modified the lion statement somewhat. I expected it would be
|
|
modified. You see, I knew Don Meaney when he was inventing tales for Essanay
|
|
as director of publicity and advertising and, if I do say it, there were few
|
|
better on original ideas. In most cases he had the cooperation of his
|
|
subject but in the case of Juanita Hansen this reversal to its press agent
|
|
days was nipped promptly in the bud.
|
|
Apropos of lions and household pets, Don had a good one up his sleeve.
|
|
He told of Miss Hansen doing a regular Daniel in the lions' den scene, with
|
|
snarling, growling, ferocious beasts. An aeroplane passed the cage and
|
|
Juanita, the lion tamer, looked up and naively remarked.
|
|
"Isn't he brave. I don't see how he dares to do those stunts in
|
|
midair."
|
|
But, alas, the lady should have been rehearsed. Before Don finished she
|
|
said: "Why, I don't remember that."
|
|
Somehow one unconsciously associates Juanita Hansen with the Mack
|
|
Sennett girls. Mr. Sennett, like Flo Ziegfeld, always picks the good looking
|
|
ones and to say, "Oh she is a Sennett girl" is a recommendation such as being
|
|
listed in Bradstreet and Dun gives one in the financial world. It was during
|
|
these pie-throwing hectic days that the name Juanita Hansen first became
|
|
known in motion pictures. She had played in other pictures, but until she
|
|
was lined up with the Sennett bevy of loveliness she did not register with
|
|
such a bang.
|
|
And yet, despite all this remembrance of her Keystone days, it is
|
|
interesting to know she only made actually three pictures for the Sennett
|
|
company.
|
|
"I never could understand," she said, "why people continually refer to
|
|
me as a Keystone girl. I served a very brief period throwing pies. I did
|
|
not like comedy, and slap-stick comedy I loathed. I hated it so much I left
|
|
the Keystone company with only $200 to my name and no job in sight.
|
|
Mr. Sennett had always been so kind to me I made my getaway while he was out
|
|
of the city. I was afraid I would be overpersuaded by him, and I knew that
|
|
pie-throwing was not my forte."
|
|
Miss Hansen's desire for serious roles were answered in serials. She
|
|
played a few features, but her intrepid spirit, her absolute fearlessness in
|
|
riding, climbing and swimming made her the ideal serial type. Her greatest
|
|
success has been won in these continued next week films. She is now making a
|
|
serial for Pathe, which both Mr. Meaney and Pathe do not hesitate to say has
|
|
every thrill yet invented in the mind of men.
|
|
Curious enough, she is something of the type of Pearl White, whose
|
|
serial episodes and escapades have been household words. Like Pearl White,
|
|
she photographs exceptionally well. Not only do her moving pictures give
|
|
credit to her good looks, but her still pictures are exceptionally
|
|
attractive. She is one of the women who look as well in pictures as she does
|
|
off the screen.
|
|
"I have a chance to make five-reel features when my present contract
|
|
expires," said Miss Hansen, "but I love serials. You are sure of having your
|
|
pictures shown for eighteen weeks consecutively in the theatre where it is
|
|
booked, and if you have any claim for fame or for the affection of the public
|
|
I think you are more apt to win their affection by keeping in constant touch
|
|
with them."
|
|
But one thing Miss Hansen regrets about her present contract is the
|
|
necessity for her leaving the Coast.
|
|
"You see, I was born and brought up in California," she said. "All my
|
|
life I had a horse to ride, a garden and plenty of room to breathe. I feel
|
|
like a lost soul in this city where every one lives so close together and
|
|
there is no opportunity for real fresh air."
|
|
"New York cramps her style," put in Don Meaney, feeling he had been
|
|
neglected long enough.
|
|
"It's a wonderful city," she said. "I adore the shops; I love Fifth
|
|
avenue, and as for the theater I never had a chance to see so many plays at
|
|
one time."
|
|
"You do not come here often?"
|
|
"It's my first visit here," she admitted. "You see, I have always lived
|
|
in the West, and there was never any occasion for my coming East."
|
|
And then Don Meaney, who had been chafing at his bit for the last
|
|
fifteen minutes, proceeded to tell the things Miss Hansen mapped out to see
|
|
in the big city.
|
|
After her very simple admission of never having seen New York before one
|
|
feels decided admiration for her truth and simplicity. She makes no pretense
|
|
of being traveled, learned or wise. She is as she is. If you like her, she
|
|
is glad; if you don't, well that is your privilege. As for the chance to
|
|
make a big salary, it's like a fairy tale in her life. To have all she wants
|
|
to spend is as if she had stepped into some other girl's shoes.
|
|
It is said one finds this simplicity more in the West. If true, Juanita
|
|
Hansen is the very spirit of the West in her mannerisms, her hail fellow well
|
|
met attitude and her absence from affectation. She is not blase. She has
|
|
not burned the candle at both ends. Life holds much for her, and it isn't
|
|
going to be her fault if she doesn't get all that is coming to her.
|
|
She said frankly she came to New York alone.
|
|
"Why shouldn't I?" she asked. "I had Mr. and Mrs. Meaney, and I am not
|
|
afraid. I have taken care of myself alone ever since I was fourteen. I have
|
|
taken care of my mother, too. She has depended upon me, and if I had been a
|
|
coward what would have become of us? We would have been swallowed up, and I
|
|
would probably be clerking in a store or working in a factory."
|
|
So 'tis plain to be seen Miss Hansen has more in that small head of hers
|
|
than her light, fluffy hair, and she will manage to take care of herself.
|
|
Yes, we think she will without the slightest difficulty.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
[The following woman is not really an "actress", but she did appear in her
|
|
husband's documentary films, and the interview is interesting enough that it
|
|
is included here.]
|
|
|
|
Osa Johnson
|
|
March 23, 1919
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Tomorrow Mr. and Mrs. Martin Johnson put behind them for three long
|
|
years every comfort of civilization. They start on the first lap of a
|
|
journey which will take them into the depths of tropical forests, and into
|
|
the wilds of the South Sea Islands, where natives roam about in their
|
|
birthday clothes and choose as their special desert a compote made of man's
|
|
flesh.
|
|
A woman who has lived in a palm-thatched hut, away from the electric
|
|
lights, the pavements and the luxury of hot and cold showers, has had
|
|
adventures the rest of us in our civilized life have been denied. Mrs.
|
|
Johnson, therefore, appealed to me as a woman whom I should like to meet.
|
|
I had pictured her as reflecting some of the color of her South Sea Island
|
|
existence, and was surprised to see standing before me a fair-haired, slender
|
|
young woman who looked as if she has never been away from Broadway and its
|
|
alluring atmosphere.
|
|
The Johnson apartment was filled with trunks, bags and suitcases
|
|
containing, Mrs. Johnson told me, the most precious belongings of these two
|
|
wanderers, who were storing all of their best-loved treasures. There was no
|
|
suggestion of the South Sea Islands in this New Yorky apartment fitted out
|
|
with all the up-to-date necessities, with the exception of a chatter of
|
|
speaking birds, which floated from the dining-room into the living room, and
|
|
gave out the shrill sound of the far-away tropics.
|
|
There are three of the birds left out of the nine Mrs. Johnson brought
|
|
with her from the islands. One of them, a rare specimen of parrot, brilliant
|
|
in plumage and gorgeous in color. Two of them are white birds, pink-tinted
|
|
and noisier than the parrot. Such a commotion and chattering. They answered
|
|
in squeaky tones the voice of their mistress, showing almost uncanny
|
|
intelligence in recognizing her.
|
|
"Weren't you afraid," I asked Mrs. Johnson, "to live among those wild
|
|
bushmen on the islands?"
|
|
"I was frightened," she said, "of course, though I loved the free
|
|
outdoor life. I spent my time swimming, hunting and fishing; I lived in my
|
|
bathing suit or in silk pajamas; it is so hot you simply cannot dress. The
|
|
British Government begged Mr. Johnson not to risk his life, but ever since he
|
|
took a trip on the schooner Snark with Jack London he has longed to continue
|
|
his exploration and to get pictures of this 'great unfilmed' country."
|
|
The Johnsons have been married nine years, although Mrs. Johnson might
|
|
easily pass for a girl of eighteen. She and her husband have never been
|
|
separated for a day, and when he announced to her it was the ambition of his
|
|
life to film these savages of the South Sea Islands and put into motion
|
|
pictures the bushmen of the back country of the Malista, she insisted upon
|
|
facing all of the dangers with him.
|
|
"We were saved," Mrs. Johnson said, "by the timely arrival of a British
|
|
man-of-war, lying in a nearby harbor. The natives are terrified by the
|
|
machine guns. One time some of the sailors landed and were immediately
|
|
killed by the savages. The machine gun on the ship was turned on them and
|
|
they were mowed down like so many stalks of grain. Ever since that time they
|
|
have had a wholesome fear of the man-of-war, and we owe our deliverance and
|
|
our safety to its power."
|
|
An adventurous part of the Johnson journey will be a visit to old Chief
|
|
Nagapate, the cruel chieftain of the South Island, who finds the flesh of
|
|
human beings the most tempting dish obtainable for his dinner. The chief was
|
|
the hero in a film taken by Mr. Johnson, and upon his return he hopes to pay
|
|
his respects to this unwilling star by projecting this picture on a screen.
|
|
"This," said Mrs. Johnson, "will be the first picture ever shown on the
|
|
island, and if the picture does not frighten the life out of Nagapate, it
|
|
will at least make him treat us with more respect than he did on our last
|
|
visit."
|
|
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson will go alone on their expedition. They are
|
|
accustomed to the life on the islands and Mr. Johnson feels they can get
|
|
better results with the natives by approaching them alone. Aside from the
|
|
photographic equipment, containing special lenses for microscopic work,
|
|
special metals made to resist the heat of the tropics, long-distance lenses,
|
|
five different kinds of cameras and a complete developing and printing
|
|
apparatus, there will be gifts for the natives.
|
|
"We are taking gay beads, jumping jacks, tobacco, knives, hatchets,
|
|
bolts of calico, old hats, fancy dress costumes, and things which will appeal
|
|
to the simple souls of these untamed children of nature.
|
|
"Speaking of calico," said Mrs. Johnson, "they love it. They will
|
|
disappear and wrap themselves in yards of it, showing they have instinctive
|
|
modesty as well as a love of color. People have laughed at me when I say the
|
|
South Sea Islanders have more morals than the average white man. In all the
|
|
three years we spent with these people I never saw them do one thing out of
|
|
the way--they are cruel, but so far as their morals are concerned I might say
|
|
they are unblemished."
|
|
Mrs. Jack London visited the Johnsons in the Fall, and it is the
|
|
intention of Mrs. Johnson to return the visit when they get to San Francisco.
|
|
"You know Jack London was my husband's dearest friend," she said. "It
|
|
seems hard that the Londons had to be separated, they were so well mated and
|
|
so happy. Charmain and he were so congenial. She would rough it and live
|
|
close to nature the way he liked, forgetting the luxuries at home. The first
|
|
Mrs. London adored society and liked to have Mr. London appear every evening
|
|
in dinner clothes and live in the correct manner in which she was accustomed.
|
|
He hated all that sham, and they didn't get along well together."
|
|
Mr. Johnson, his wife explained, was a member of the original crew that
|
|
sailed from the Golden Gate harbor on the schooner Snark for the South Sea
|
|
Islands.
|
|
It is Mr. Johnson's intention to send his completed film to the traders
|
|
at Sydney, Australia, to deliver it to Robertson-Cole here in New York, so
|
|
all the time this intrepid pair are facing the fascinating experience of
|
|
perhaps being cooked for dinner, the world will be seeing their pictures.
|
|
One of their expeditions will take them among a class of people who
|
|
place a stone[...] substitute will have to do. They live on canned foods.
|
|
Don't you think, girls, all the things so dear to the feminine heart and
|
|
regarded as so altogether necessary, is a lot to give up for art and one's
|
|
husband?
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
Alice Joyce
|
|
January 5, 1919
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Alice Joyce is shy. She is self-conscious, frightened to the point of
|
|
tears at crowds, dislikes to meet new people, and constantly bemoans the fact
|
|
that she lacks the necessary poise and savoir faire for attractive, well
|
|
balanced womanhood.
|
|
The above description is exactly what Miss Joyce thinks of herself, and
|
|
a very accurate analysis of the mental picture she carries of her own
|
|
importance. It is not the way the world measures her, nor the impression I
|
|
gained after a delightful two hours spent over the luncheon table with her.
|
|
In fact, the mental picture I carried away was the direct opposite from her
|
|
own frank declaration of her short-comings.
|
|
My meeting Alice Joyce was the climax of a long desired opportunity to
|
|
speak and to have a chance to converse with a young woman whose name I have
|
|
probably written some five hundred times in my life. Since those days in
|
|
1910 and 1911, when Kalem, as one of the foremost film producing companies,
|
|
and Alice Joyce as the star of one-reel dramas, were in the picture
|
|
ascendant, Miss Joyce has had a tremendous hold on the public. Even during
|
|
the days when she returned to give her undivided attention to her little
|
|
daughter, there were always requests for Alice Joyce stories and questions as
|
|
to when she would come back to the waiting public. Therefore when her
|
|
secretary called me on the phone, I felt Miss Joyce must have realized how
|
|
much I wanted to know her.
|
|
Our appointment was at the Claridge, and we were both on time. She was
|
|
nice enough to say this desire to have a chat was mutual. If Miss Joyce had
|
|
told me of her extreme shyness before we walked into the dining room I might
|
|
have believed her, but after seeing her queenly quiet unconsciousness of all
|
|
the stares and nods in her direction, I knew she was nothing she thought and
|
|
everything she didn't think; which, after all, is rather nice, especially
|
|
when one hasn't even a bowing acquaintance with the word conceit.
|
|
Miss Joyce acknowledges she owes a very great debt of gratitude to the
|
|
Kalem Company for taking her when she was a novice and for steering her
|
|
safely by all the camera pitfalls.
|
|
"In those days," she said, "I didn't even know I must not look into the
|
|
camera. I didn't know the first thing about picture acting, and I don't mind
|
|
telling you it took patience and perseverance to teach me what to do and what
|
|
not to do."
|
|
One does not have to have a key to the book on human-nature to get a
|
|
keen insight into the character of Alice Joyce. She breathes a veritable
|
|
atmosphere of real womanhood. One man said, in speaking of Miss Joyce, a
|
|
woman with eyes like hers could never be anything but sweet and kind. If the
|
|
eyes are the windows of the soul, Alice Joyce must have a Madonna-like
|
|
quality in her nature, for she has the most perfect Madonna eyes I have ever
|
|
seen. They are a replica of the painting of the Madonnas of every country.
|
|
One couldn't name any special picture, for her eyes are like them all, and
|
|
she instinctively gives one a feeling she is everything her eyes claim for
|
|
her.
|
|
It was while Miss Joyce was playing in Kalem pictures that she was wooed
|
|
and won by Tom Moore, one of the stalwart Moore boys. This romance, which
|
|
started out so auspiciously, was blasted by mutual consent. Ordinarily one
|
|
stays religiously away from the subject when there is a domestic breach, but
|
|
Miss Joyce herself introduced Mr. Moore into the conversation so easily and
|
|
so gracefully we felt no restraint in speaking of him.
|
|
"Mr. Moore deserves the great success he has made with the Goldwyn
|
|
Company, for he has brains and ability, and is one of the best juvenile
|
|
actors in the country today. I was so pleased to have one of the Goldwyn
|
|
executives tell me how well his pictures are going throughout the country,"
|
|
is the way she commented upon Tom Moore.
|
|
This was said with a ring of sincerity, too, for although Miss Joyce and
|
|
Mr. Moore are separated they are still good friends and have never reached
|
|
the point of stabbing each other with unprintable words for weapons.
|
|
I couldn't help thinking what Owen Moore had said to me at the Sixty
|
|
Club. Alice Joyce was there dancing and looking particularly lovely in a
|
|
pale yellow satin frock.
|
|
"Alice Joyce, in my opinion," said her one-time brother-in-law, "is the
|
|
most beautiful woman here tonight."
|
|
This was after the separation, and was said after Owen Moore had
|
|
commented several times on how much he liked Alice Joyce.
|
|
The brown tones in the smart street suit Miss Joyce wore harmonized most
|
|
amazingly with the dark brown of her eyes. I accused her of planning her
|
|
costume to match her eyes. She disclaimed all such intention, by declaring
|
|
colors were the bane of her existence.
|
|
"I never know what colors are becoming to me," she said. "I seem to
|
|
have no faculty for getting the right shades to wear. The one thing I have
|
|
admired, especially about Blanche Sweet is her judgment in knowing what
|
|
colors suit her, and planning all her frocks and hats with those certain
|
|
tones in mind."
|
|
We spoke of art and music and gossiped a little as two women who have
|
|
the screen at heart are bound to do. Alice Joyce makes no pretension of
|
|
being a high brow, but she has an innate liking for things fine and real.
|
|
To associate her with anything common and ordinary would be to depreciate the
|
|
value of a fine bit of statuary or to lower the worth of a choice engraving.
|
|
She is a woman who has a set standard for herself, and whatever obstacles lie
|
|
in her path she seems bent on following out her own idealism.
|
|
Usually women who give out this impression create the idea of painful
|
|
prudery and forced goodness. One cannot accuse Alice Joyce of trying to set
|
|
herself up on a pedestal. She does not criticize other people nor does she
|
|
loudly cry out her own virtues. She merely lives as she believes is right,
|
|
permitting the rest of the world to follow its own sweet will.
|
|
Only Alice Joyce is not shy, she is not self-conscious, and she does not
|
|
lack poise. These are the bugbears that worry her, but they are needless
|
|
causes for fear, for only to herself does Miss Joyce give out the impression
|
|
of being anything but extremely well poised and entirely able to meet folk
|
|
and cope with them in conversation, and match with them her own wit and
|
|
repartee.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
Mae Marsh
|
|
April 15, 1923
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Mae Marsh, who returns to the Griffith fold in "The White Rose" after an
|
|
absence of six years, comes back in an unexpected fashion. The little sister
|
|
of "the Birth of a Nation," the pathetic little wife of "Intolerance," and
|
|
the sweet and heroine of numberless Griffith dramas, plays an up-to-date
|
|
"flapper."
|
|
"Instead of having the hero court me," said Mae, "I run after him,
|
|
decking myself in the garb of the up-to-date flapper and pursuing him
|
|
relentlessly. I had to study the psychology of the flapper, because she is a
|
|
rare avis to me. In the past I have played the ingenue variety--the girl who
|
|
wears a white dress and blue sash and who peers shyly upon the world through
|
|
a mass of tangled curls. In "The White Rose" my hair is bobbed and I forgo
|
|
all my former earmarks of girlish sweetness. I become a brazen overdressed
|
|
girl whose world is clothes."
|
|
Be this as it may, the "flapper" must have her moments of pathos,
|
|
because every one in the Griffith office who saw "The White Rose" shed
|
|
buckets of tears. "Jack" Lloyd, who says he has a stony heart that never
|
|
melts, cried all over his new monogrammed handkerchief.
|
|
"How did it seem to be working again for Mr. Griffith?" Mae was asked.
|
|
"Very strange," she replied. "I have had so many poor directors during
|
|
the six years' interval since I left him--it took me several weeks to get
|
|
used to his way of directing me.
|
|
"Do you know," she said earnestly, "I never realized how wonderful Mr.
|
|
Griffith is. Up to the time I left the Griffith company to go with Goldwyn I
|
|
had never worked for anyone else. I came to the old Biograph studios as a
|
|
child and I thought all directors were like Mr. Griffith, but I hadn't been
|
|
away from him very long before I knew why his pictures were better. There is
|
|
as much difference between Mr. Griffith and the average director as there is
|
|
between a genuine Corot painting and a badly executed imitation.
|
|
"In Florida," said Miss Marsh, "the people could not believe Mr.
|
|
Griffith was a real director. They had seen directors wearing knee breeches
|
|
and puttees, dressed in the height of fashion, going in swimming every day
|
|
and creating a great deal of attention, and here was a man whose first
|
|
thought was his picture. We worked like slaves and so did he. He didn't
|
|
have time for any nonsense. As for dressing the part--he always wears the
|
|
oldest clothes he owns when he is making a picture. His recreation was
|
|
dining with the McLeans on the Pioneer, the houseboat where President and
|
|
Mrs. Harding were guests and he had dinner with William Jennings Bryan
|
|
several times."
|
|
Miss Marsh herself dined with Mr. Bryan and visited the McLeans.
|
|
Now that she has finished her picture with Mr. Griffith she is
|
|
formulating new plans for making pictures. She says these plans are too
|
|
vague to be made public yet, but she knows what she wants to do and if she is
|
|
able to get the right story she will be ready in a month to tell her secrets.
|
|
Before she does anything she is going to her home in California with her
|
|
husband and daughter and take a rest.
|
|
One of Miss Marsh's most recent pictures is "Paddy the Next Best Thing."
|
|
This is based on a play that ran in London for three years with Peggy O'Neil
|
|
in the leading role.
|
|
Lee Arms, who is Miss Marsh's husband, says he doesn't wish to be
|
|
prejudiced, but he thinks it is about the best English-made film he has ever
|
|
seen and he says his wife does some work that reminds him of the old-time
|
|
Griffith pictures.
|
|
Meanwhile, every one is waiting to see "The White Rose." In addition to
|
|
Miss Marsh, Carol Dempster, Ivor Novello and Neil Hamilton, the Griffith
|
|
find, are in the cast. It is said every Griffith picture brings some
|
|
heretofore unknown player into notice and at the Griffith office they are
|
|
saying that Neil Hamilton is this discovery.
|
|
With Mae the day I had luncheon with her was her mother, Mrs. Marsh, who
|
|
has kept her figure and who has masses of red gold hair that made her look as
|
|
if she might be a sister, but never old enough to be the mother of Mae and
|
|
the grandmother of little Mary Marsh Arms. Mrs. Marsh, with two actresses in
|
|
the family and a son, who is considered one of the best cameramen in the
|
|
field, knows all about motion pictures, and she was particularly eager to
|
|
have Mae make a picture with Mr. Griffith. Marguerite Marsh is in vaudeville
|
|
doing, her mother says, very well and so happy she hasn't thought of
|
|
returning to the screen.
|
|
I asked Mae if Mr. Griffith found her any different from the girl he
|
|
trained in the ways of the screen.
|
|
"Some older," she said, "but just as eager to please him and get my
|
|
scenes the way he thought they should be played.
|
|
"The sad part," said Mae, "is after playing with him I am going to be
|
|
very hard to please in the matter of a director. He always knows exactly
|
|
what he wants--and some of the directors I have worked for have made it
|
|
necessary for me to go ahead and do most of picture myself."
|
|
"The interest Mr. Griffith keeps in his former players," Mae says, "is
|
|
one of the finest things about him.
|
|
"He talked of Mary Pickford, Lillian and Dorothy Gish and expressed
|
|
interest in their work and recalled the old days when they all worked in the
|
|
old Biograph studios.
|
|
"Days that were history-making because they were the beginning of better
|
|
motion pictures. Days when one-reelers were the fashion and big salaries
|
|
were unheard of.
|
|
"Most of us," said Mae, "leave when we get big salaries, but most of us
|
|
are willing to return for less money because we know the picture will be good
|
|
and that is something no one can promise with other directors. Mr. Griffith
|
|
has only made one poor picture."
|
|
And because I refuse to admit that picture was poor I am not going to
|
|
tell which one Mae considers beneath his art. Anyway, we all have a right to
|
|
our opinions.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
Violet Mersereau
|
|
December 18, 1921
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Christmas in Rome is one thing to read about, but another thing to
|
|
experience. Violet Mersereau took all this into consideration when the
|
|
chance was given her to either stay in sunny Italy and Christmas with
|
|
strangers or hurry to the steamer homeward bound and reach New York in time
|
|
to hang up her stocking on U. S. soil. Being 100 per cent American, her
|
|
choice was easy. She arrived home last week full of adventures abroad, but
|
|
content with the land of her birth.
|
|
These adventures were mostly staged in a motion picture studio where
|
|
Miss Mersereau was playing the part of the fair-haired Christian girl in the
|
|
great spectacular film drama "Nero" J. Gordon Edwards is making for the Fox
|
|
Film Company. Accompanied by her mother and her sister Claire, Miss Violet
|
|
sailed for Italy last July and has been there ever since with the exception
|
|
of the few weeks she spent in Germany and Switzerland.
|
|
Over the luncheon table Miss Mersereau told of her experiences abroad,
|
|
many of them amusing, and all of them interesting.
|
|
"Making pictures in Rome," she said, "has some advantages and many
|
|
disadvantages. The climate is perfect, and the studios are fair, but none of
|
|
them have the perfect equipment that make our American studios such a joy.
|
|
"I might give as one of the greatest disadvantages my scenes with the
|
|
players who spoke only Italian or French. I was the only American in the
|
|
cast, and I found it somewhat disconcerting at times to have the director
|
|
tell me to look tenderly at the leading man while I listened to his earnest
|
|
protestations of love--disconcerting, I mean, when he would pour a perfect
|
|
volley of Italian at me. I could not understand a word he was trying to say,
|
|
and when I answered his passionate declarations in English he looked just as
|
|
mystified. I felt sorry for him. He seemed to think I was discussing
|
|
everything but my film affection.
|
|
"I think I was a little disappointed in the Italian men," confessed Miss
|
|
Violet. "I had thought all Romans must be tall and handsome and like greek
|
|
Gods. I found the Italian men small, very timid and not at all like I had
|
|
pictured them. Their spaghetti eating amazed me, and after seeing yards of
|
|
this food crammed down their mouths I decided I never wanted to see or eat it
|
|
again."
|
|
"Tell about the lions," prompted Sister Claire, who had joined us at the
|
|
luncheon.
|
|
"The Italian climate is so balmy it affects even the beasts," went on
|
|
Miss Violet. "The lions engaged to devour the Christians were so weary and
|
|
so bored Mr. Edwards said it would be easier to pet them than to fear them.
|
|
When my mother saw how harmless these gorgeous beasts of the jungle appeared
|
|
she heaved a great sigh of relief, for she had expected to see me eaten alive
|
|
before her very eyes. Just when we were all feeling the cruelty of the beast
|
|
of the jungle had been greatly exaggerated Mr. Edwards said we will go to
|
|
Germany and get some real lions."
|
|
"Oh, those terrible, terrible beasts," interrupted Claire.
|
|
Yes, they were terrible, shivered Violet. "The leading man took one
|
|
look at the jowls of the lion which was supposed to feed on him and he said,
|
|
'you must get a substitute.'
|
|
"Mr. Edwards," went on Miss Mersereau, "was very much upset. He had
|
|
brought all this company to Cologne just to get the lions, and here was the
|
|
leading man ready to leave us.
|
|
"You won't desert me, will you, Violet?"
|
|
"I told him no and laid me down to die. The leading man seeing me about
|
|
to be put into the jaws of the lions thought he could do no more than die
|
|
with me. We laid down and the lion saw us and made one dash. For the
|
|
rehearsal we were separated from his majesty by a thin piece of glass. He
|
|
broke the glass and made a dive for his victims. I was so terrified I took
|
|
to my heels and ran out of the picture. There was a trainer near by with a
|
|
gun, but the sight of that great beast licking his chops was enough to
|
|
frighten any one. But we returned to the scene and let the camera catch us
|
|
with the lions about to devour us. I was so glad when it was over I wanted
|
|
to cry for joy."
|
|
Miss Mersereau had one regret. She longed to go to Paris and shop on
|
|
the Rue de Paix.
|
|
"I needed clothes so badly," she said.
|
|
"That frock is charming," I told her.
|
|
"Oh, this is a Parisian product," she said, pointing to her gray velvet
|
|
frock, with its had and boots to match. "A purchase made in Italy but
|
|
imported to Rome.
|
|
"We enjoyed Switzerland and Germany, but we felt we missed a great deal
|
|
by not getting to Paris and London. I have not been in France since I was a
|
|
little girl, and there is so much I want to see--not only the shops, but the
|
|
galleries and the places of historical interest."
|
|
"But you enjoyed Italy?" I asked her.
|
|
"I enjoyed most of all working for Mr. Edwards. It was one of my
|
|
happiest engagements. He doesn't rehearse you until you are ready to faint
|
|
from fatigue. He gives you credit for a little intelligence, and after
|
|
explaining the scene and the mechanics gives you an opportunity to play the
|
|
situation in your own way. I firmly believe," went on Miss Violet, "first
|
|
emotions are best, and by that token I can act a scene better when I do it as
|
|
it comes to me first."
|
|
"He let you do it your way," Miss Violet was told "because he knows you
|
|
have had experience on the stage and screen and could interpret the scenes
|
|
without a primer of instruction."
|
|
"I suppose there is something to that," replied Miss Mersereau.
|
|
"I have been on the stage since I was eight and in pictures since I was
|
|
twelve. One would have to be very stupid not to learn something of the
|
|
technique of the drama in that length of time."
|
|
"Do you think you will return to Italy?"
|
|
"Violet had several offers to make pictures for Italian companies,"
|
|
answered her sister, "but she wanted to get home."
|
|
"Yes, and this ought to be our very happiest Christmas," said Violet.
|
|
"Mr. Edwards said he could use me in other foreign pictures and I suppose I
|
|
might have waited until he was ready for me, but I longed to hang my stocking
|
|
up in New York, all I could think of was getting home by December 25."
|
|
Miss Mersereau can go to Italy any time she chooses if one is to believe
|
|
what one hears. The swarthy Latin race admired her golden hair, violet eyes
|
|
and fair complexion. To them she was the personification of all that is
|
|
young and beautiful, and the artistic Italians love beauty and worship it
|
|
above everything else. But we are glad she decided to come home for
|
|
Christmas because we agree with her the best place to greet the mistletoe and
|
|
holly season is right in the U. S. A.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
Alma Rubens
|
|
December 14, 1919
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Locating a face you have only seen on the screen is not as simple as it
|
|
sounds. Alma Rubens in her street clothes is not like Alma Rubens in peasant
|
|
costume or Alma Rubens in a white frock and sash. Unconsciously the girl I
|
|
had mentally mirrored in my mind fitted in with this latter classification,
|
|
hence we passed each other by without a sign of recognition.
|
|
We were both fifteen minutes late, a feminine failing this time of the
|
|
year, with Christmas shopping to be finished in odd moments. She looked
|
|
frantically in every nook and cranny in the Commodore mezzanine and I did the
|
|
same. After we had passed each other about twenty times I decided the only
|
|
solution was to have her paged. The same idea must have come to her at
|
|
exactly the same moment for our two names were shouted through the hotel
|
|
corridors simultaneously.
|
|
And we met, introduced by a page boy.
|
|
After Miss Rubens removed her heavy fur coat with its huge collar
|
|
shading her face I wondered I had not instantly recognized her. Off the
|
|
screen there is, of course, that same Oriental type of beauty, dusky eyes and
|
|
dark straight hair. Her coloring the screen fails to get.
|
|
Alma Rubens is one of the girls whom David Griffith chose for a picture,
|
|
and by his selection gave her an entree into motion pictures. Mr. Griffith's
|
|
choice of film material is always distinctive and every girl whom he casts in
|
|
a picture is given opportunities to make good. Some of these young women
|
|
have justified the Griffith confidence in their beauty and talent, others
|
|
have not lived up to his diagnosis.
|
|
Alma Rubens in herself has justified the Griffith selection, but her
|
|
vehicles have not always been so fortunate. The shortcomings of the Rubens
|
|
pictures have in the past been not in any fault of acting but frequently in
|
|
the story, its structure and its theme.
|
|
Those days of anguish now Miss Rubens believes are in the past. She is
|
|
to have congenial stories and no plays which are distasteful. Her first,
|
|
"Humoresque," is a Fanny Hurst story picturing a girl whom Miss Rubens says
|
|
she knows and understands. International, for whom she is to make the
|
|
Cosmopolitan brand of pictures, believes in an actress's own intuition where
|
|
film plays are concerned, and Miss Rubens is banking on this privilege of
|
|
exerting her intuition to the utmost.
|
|
"It's pleasant to be allowed to have a word in the selection of the
|
|
plays I am to interpret. But I have been so frightened at the
|
|
'temperamental' reputation I have in the industry I let this suggestion come
|
|
from International. I have been called the most difficult actress in
|
|
pictures, when all I ask or have ever asked is to have stories suited to me.
|
|
That isn't much to demand, now is it?"
|
|
Temperament is the most used and misused word in the dictionary.
|
|
It covers a multitude of other sins and frequently is used where it does not
|
|
belong. Therefore, when Miss Rubens first said she had been accused of being
|
|
temperamental I felt her own interpretation was needed. Some actresses feel
|
|
it is a personal slight if you fail to agree with the world and do not call
|
|
them temperamental, while to others it is the nastiest word in the lexicon of
|
|
characteristics.
|
|
To the latter class belongs Alma Rubens, and her genuine anxiety at
|
|
clearing herself of this stigma would have been amusing had she been less in
|
|
earnest.
|
|
She has had a year of changes. Since leaving Triangle, the company with
|
|
whom she has spent the most of her motion picture career, she has had several
|
|
contracts, but they were of brief duration, caused, she said, by a multitude
|
|
of reasons.
|
|
Miss Rubens is a convent-bred girl, having graduated from the Mesdames
|
|
of the Sacred Heart in San Francisco, and she admits her fondness for
|
|
children and for lending a helping hand was instilled in her by the gentle
|
|
sisters who taught her to not only preach but practice charity.
|
|
"Those lessons cling to me," she said, "despite the disillusionments of
|
|
the world outside a convent wall. For instance, I spend $100 a week sending
|
|
photographs to the fans. I don't mind the money and I am glad to send my
|
|
picture to any one who is sincere in wanting it--but I wish some one could
|
|
have that money who needs it. I wonder if I couldn't sell my pictures
|
|
through some orphanage and let this institution have the revenue?
|
|
"Will you help me find such a place?" she asked.
|
|
Miss Rubens's idea may be a brilliant gem. If all the stars sold their
|
|
pictures in this way what a harvest these homes would make. And most of the
|
|
people who write could afford 25 cents. They spend many times that in
|
|
postage and stationary telling the world how much they love Mary Pickford or
|
|
why Charlie Chaplin's feet are the funniest in captivity.
|
|
The rest of our conversation was a discussion of this and those who
|
|
compose the letter-writing world. We decided these folk who send letters to
|
|
actresses are in a class by themselves and have a hobby just the same as any
|
|
postage stamp collector.
|
|
Being discovered by David Griffith and remaining on the screen in spite
|
|
of an army of discouragements isn't sufficient for Miss Rubens. She has the
|
|
stage hankering in an exaggerated form and it is our experience when a young
|
|
woman of Alma Rubens's comeliness wants a thing bad enough she gets it. She
|
|
admitted she had been given a play by a stage producer to read and if she
|
|
liked it and he liked her in the part she might spread her wings stageward.
|
|
"But I want to do a serious part. As much as I wish to go on the stage
|
|
I will not accept a play or a part until I know I can do the sort of thing I
|
|
am best fitted to play. I couldn't play light comedy. I would be a dismal
|
|
failure, and as for bedroom farces I would get my notice at the end of the
|
|
first week."
|
|
We shall see what we shall see when Miss Alma does take that stage
|
|
plunge, meanwhile she is enthusiastic over an opportunity to put Fanny Hurst
|
|
on the screen or perhaps we should say over Fanny Hurst's opportunity to put
|
|
her in pictures. It seems a mutual delight, and when two women of brains set
|
|
their mind to the accomplishment of a deed no more need be said, especially
|
|
when they have International back of them.
|
|
And next time we meet Miss Rubens promises to know me and I am sure
|
|
unless she wears a mask I shall know her. No one could miss her eyes. They
|
|
are a combination of what Tennyson could have beautifully described and of
|
|
what the twentieth century scribe would call a "come hither look."
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
Gloria Swanson
|
|
April 16, 1922
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
If any one pictures Gloria Swanson as a blase young woman, bored with
|
|
everything life has to offer, he has only to hear her on the subject of going
|
|
to Europe. She is as pleased as a youngster at his first circus, and as
|
|
thrilled as any girl in the world would be at an opportunity of getting her
|
|
first glimpse of Paris.
|
|
I had not expected to see Gloria this trip. She was only in town from
|
|
Wednesday until Saturday, but an unexpected meeting at the Famous Players-
|
|
Lasky offices presented a chance to talk to her, and hear something of her
|
|
plans for Europe.
|
|
"The one sad thing," Gloria confessed, "is leaving the baby for two
|
|
months. Mr. Somborn has her with her nurse at his hotel. I thought it was a
|
|
fair thing to do, but when I think how she will grow and how she will forget
|
|
me in that time, I have a feeling I may be homesick.
|
|
"We better not talk about that," she said. "I suppose all mothers feel
|
|
that way. She is such a gorgeous baby, so pretty and so responsive."
|
|
"Where are you going and what are your plans?" an interruption that
|
|
brought the proud mother of the most beautiful baby in the world back to the
|
|
subject at hand.
|
|
"Seven days in Paris, four in London, two in Monte Carlo, two in Naples,
|
|
one day in Florence and Venice, and four days in Berlin," answered Miss
|
|
Swanson. "You see," she laughed, "I have our itinerary all down to a system.
|
|
It's my very first visit to Europe and I do not want to miss a single thing.
|
|
I am so thrilled I can hardly sleep at night.
|
|
"I shall probably travel around with a Baedecker in one hand and a
|
|
sandwich in the other because I want to see Versailles, Malmaison,
|
|
Westminster Abbey, the Louvre, the London Tower and all those historical
|
|
places of interest I have read so much about, and I shall try to get in the
|
|
races at London and the Grand Prix at Paris, and of course the Casino at
|
|
Monte Carlo."
|
|
Shopping will be part of the program. Miss Swanson sailed yesterday
|
|
morning on the Homeric with Mrs. Frank Urson, wife of Marshall Neilan's
|
|
assistant director, and the two girls were planning where to shop in Paris,
|
|
and how many Paris frocks they would bring home.
|
|
"One person tells me to shop one place and another says, 'Oh, I wouldn't
|
|
go there, you will not find any exclusive styles,' so I have decided," said
|
|
Gloria, "to select my own shop, and do a little reconnoitering on my own
|
|
hook."
|
|
"You would," I said, and we both laughed. Gloria, the ambitious
|
|
youngster who used to park her belongings outside my office door at the
|
|
Essanay Film offices, when she was trying her wings in motion pictures for
|
|
the first time, is not very different from the star of today. The young
|
|
woman with everything at her feet. She is a little sadder, a little older,
|
|
and has, of course, acquired more dignity and poise. But there is the same
|
|
eagerness to learn and the same ambition to get to the tip top, and to leave
|
|
no stone unturned to make her dreams come true.
|
|
"I like New York," she said, looking out of the window down the crowded
|
|
Fifth Avenue street. "I like all the busy people, and all the signs of
|
|
energy and life. I get tired of California. There isn't much out there but
|
|
work and home, no theatres and no scenes of activity like that. Of course I
|
|
suppose if I lived here I should feel I have the two big things, my work and
|
|
my child--that is all any one can ask for. We all have our disappointments,
|
|
and mine are no more bitter than other peoples, only things do not always
|
|
turn out as one expects."
|
|
"But you have been very lucky?"
|
|
"In some ways," she answered.
|
|
Miss Swanson said all the girls who met her asked about Rudolph
|
|
Valentino.
|
|
"He played opposite me in my last picture, 'The Gilded Cage' [Beyond the
|
|
Rocks], and if these questions concerning him are any criterion or indication
|
|
of his popularity, they will all rush to see him when the picture is
|
|
released. They asked me how he makes love and a few more equally interesting
|
|
questions. I suppose 'The Sheik' had something to do with this interest."
|
|
Gloria looked very well in a mink coat, a grey frock with hat and shoes
|
|
to match, and some curious amber earrings and necklace. She always has the
|
|
air of being perfectly groomed, and only in the Cecil De Mille pictures does
|
|
she affect bizarre costumes and unusual hair dressing. She is and always was
|
|
one of the best dressed women off the screen, which is saying something.
|
|
Many a star might qualify for that distinction on the screen but not many in
|
|
their regular street garb.
|
|
As Gloria rushed to join her friends I could not help thinking Paris
|
|
would not have anything on the Rue de la Paix any better gowned or smarter
|
|
than Gloria.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
Blanche Sweet
|
|
December 29, 1918
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Just now Blanche Sweet is facing a very interesting moment in her career
|
|
as a motion picture star. After having deliberately stepped out of the
|
|
public eye, where she was reigning as one of the most popular stars in motion
|
|
pictures, into private life, Miss Sweet is about to return to her former
|
|
pedestal and take back her place in the affection of the public.
|
|
How will she be received? Will the historical fickleness of the
|
|
American audiences manifest itself, or will the love they have had for
|
|
Blanche Sweet through all the years of her reign still predominate? Ah! here
|
|
is a psychological question worth studying for future use? This was the
|
|
thought I had in my mind when I went to the Knickerbocker Hotel to have
|
|
luncheon with Miss Sweet. I had talked with her over the phone, but I had
|
|
not had a glimpse of her for some months.
|
|
After she greeted me and we walked into the dining room and were seated,
|
|
I wondered how I could have ever given the fickleness of the public a
|
|
thought. A dozen heads were turned in our direction, and full the same
|
|
number of voices whispered in accents of interest: "Blanche Sweet."
|
|
Blanche Sweet, to be sure, is as pretty a blonde and as well poised and
|
|
charming as ever. Looking better than she looked in the days when the
|
|
exhibitors fell all over each other to book her pictures, when she and Cecil
|
|
De Mille were a combination of acknowledged strength.
|
|
Another argument that Blanche Sweet still retains her hold on the
|
|
affections of the motion picture audiences is the number of letters she has
|
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received since she made her last picture two years ago. We who snoop into
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the private affairs of these film stars have also been deluged with questions
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|
as to when and where Blanche Sweet would play a return engagements.
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|
She had made her two pictures, "The Hushed Hour" and "The Unpardonable
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|
Sin," and will be seen in both of these in Los Angeles in January. Just when
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|
they will be released outside of the motion picture city depends, we suppose,
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|
upon how they are distributed and by whom.
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|
To return to our luncheon. Miss Sweet was leaving that very night for
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|
the Coast. She was going to speed across the country to get back West in
|
|
time to eat Christmas turkey. We talked of the shortage of good material,
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|
and the great difficulty that every star experiences in getting the right
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|
sort of scenarios.
|
|
"The novelists and playwrights have boosted the price of every popular
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|
book and play so high, one has to hesitate before one can even consider
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|
buying them. I am too good a business woman," said Miss Sweet, "to pay
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|
$40,000 for a play without having given what the cost of production will be
|
|
some consideration. Forty thousand dollars without anything but the scenario
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|
is a lot of money."
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|
We agree that $40,000 was so much we never expected to see that amount
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|
either in cash or on a check. We hoped we would never be tempted with that
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|
amount, for the scales which old dame Justice spends her life trying to
|
|
balance would have a terrific jolt.
|
|
"I am confident," went on Miss Sweet, "that the story is the thing, but
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|
it is going to be a problem to get it. For instance, I thought Miss
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|
Pickford's purchase of 'Daddy Long-Legs' and 'Pollyanna' was a wise stroke of
|
|
showmanship. She had the good sense to see that no star is big enough to
|
|
carry a picture alone."
|
|
We chatted about the Coast and the stars, all of whom are working there.
|
|
We gossiped a bit, though Blanche Sweet never seems to really gossip, for she
|
|
never has anything but cheerful, pleasant things to day of her fellow
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|
workers. This trait in Miss Sweet is one of the things which attracted me
|
|
toward her when I first met her a few years ago. She seems to have the happy
|
|
faculty of always seeing things through rose colored glasses, of finding some
|
|
gold among the dross.
|
|
She spoke of the artistry of Charlie Chaplin, and how remarkable she
|
|
thought it was that he had never yet recorded a failure in any of his
|
|
productions. We spoke, of course, of Charlie's marriage, and Miss Sweet said
|
|
when Mr. Chaplin did announce it they all refused to believe him.
|
|
"We thought it was one of Charlie's pranks," she said.
|
|
While we were having luncheon the discussion of proper publicity came up
|
|
and Miss Sweet expressed her strong disapproval of the way the average
|
|
picture is put on the market.
|
|
"It annoys me," she said, "to have them advertise in big letters that my
|
|
picture is the greatest one ever made. Besides being in bad taste it strikes
|
|
me as a mistake for any company to make such a statement. I was speechless
|
|
when I read that I was supposed to say all of those complimentary things
|
|
about 'The Unpardonable Sin.' Why, I have had the most wonderful cooperation
|
|
from the entire company, including the cast, the director, the cameraman,
|
|
every one who had a part in making my picture, and they haven't even been
|
|
mentioned."
|
|
"But you do think 'The Unpardonable Sin' is a good picture, don't you?"
|
|
"I think it is wonderful. It is Marshall Neilan at his best, and I feel
|
|
I have never done better work--but see here," she said, looking at me
|
|
suspiciously, "you aren't going to publish that?--I am telling you because we
|
|
are friends."
|
|
I am going back on Miss Sweet, however, and I am publishing it, because
|
|
I believe it is a good thing for her admirers to know she really believes in
|
|
the picture and feels she has a worthy vehicle to come back to her friends.
|
|
As for advertising the fact she likes the picture, even that doesn't
|
|
seem as flagrant a breach of good taste as she says, for if the world didn't
|
|
have a chance to read of the merits of the picture, the exhibitors, the
|
|
audiences and even the other manufacturers might never know all of these
|
|
things about the production.
|
|
Blanche Sweet is blessed with the rare combination of having an artistic
|
|
mind and an excellent business judgment. I remember her telling me one time
|
|
she had never yet made an error in her bank account. She said she knew to a
|
|
penny just how much she had in her account and how much she spent.
|
|
"In fact," she said, laughing, "I should have been a bookkeeper.
|
|
Sometimes I think my brain was meant for bookkeeping and my soul for
|
|
pictures."
|
|
All of this greatly impressed me, for my mathematics is so wabbly, when
|
|
the little girl who lives at our house comes to me for help, I immediately
|
|
seek some way to escape. I have to trust my bank implicitly, for if they
|
|
told me I didn't have a penny left I should probably take their word for it,
|
|
and you can readily see what a dishonest bank could do to such an
|
|
unmathematical person.
|
|
P. S.--I hope my banker doesn't read this.
|
|
I left Miss Sweet hurrying to keep a business engagement before she set
|
|
sail on the Golden Limited. The last glimpse I had of her she was waving her
|
|
hand smilingly, and again I said to myself:
|
|
"Yes, Blanche Sweet will come back, and the dear public will forget for
|
|
once to be disagreeable and fickle, for she has a charm about her, an elusive
|
|
something that two years' absence will not make you or me forget."
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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|
|
|
Alice Terry
|
|
February 18, 1923
|
|
Louella Parsons
|
|
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
|
|
Wherever Alice Terry dined, wherever she lunched or spent the evening
|
|
she was received with the open-eyed admiration of our Manhattan, who, like
|
|
Paris, can forgive a woman anything but ugliness. But Manhattan, in addition
|
|
to loathing plainness in women, strikes such a high average of feminine
|
|
beauty a woman has to be a combination of Helen of Troy and Cleopatra to get
|
|
more than the flicker of an eyelash.
|
|
So when every man in the Knickerbocker grill gazed with admiring eyes on
|
|
Alice Terry I realized, if I needed anything further to convince me, that the
|
|
wife of Rex Ingram is a very beautiful woman. But it was not this beauty
|
|
that gave her a chance to play the leading feminine role in "The Four
|
|
Horsemen of the Apocalypse." It was Rex Ingram's confidence in her ability.
|
|
He had known her for some years when he brought her the offer to play
|
|
Margaret in Ibanez's story.
|
|
"I cannot do it," she told him.
|
|
"Don't you like the part?" he asked.
|
|
"I love it, but I haven't had sufficient experience to play in a picture
|
|
of the importance of 'The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse'."
|
|
And after Mr. Ingram had persuaded her to let him cast her, she worried
|
|
for fear she might spoil the picture for him.
|
|
The slim, blonde girl, who, with Rodolph Valentino, came in for world-
|
|
wide praise, was made in that picture. Rex Ingram was right: the role was
|
|
meant for her. Because Ibanez described Margaret as a blonde, Mr. Ingram,
|
|
eager to follow the book as far as possible, insisted that Miss Terry cover
|
|
her auburn locks and become a blonde. The effect was marvelous, so marvelous
|
|
that she has never made a picture without the wig.
|
|
People meeting her for the first time take one look at her auburn hair
|
|
and look surprised.
|
|
"Miss Terry!" they repeat, and, if they are impulsive and given to
|
|
talking too much, they will say: "But your hair!"
|
|
The complications, she says, of being a blonde on the screen and a
|
|
brunette on the street are many, but now that her public is used to seeing
|
|
her look like Margaret she has no intention of disappointing them.
|
|
Just before Miss Terry went to the Coast she was called upon to make a
|
|
momentous decision--whether to sign a contract with Metro and remain a Rex
|
|
Ingram star or to go with another company where she would have to paddle her
|
|
own canoe.
|
|
"Mr. Loew is such a good boss," she said, "and I love working with my
|
|
husband, but sometimes I feel it would be better for us both. Rex feels he
|
|
must not play me up too much in any of his pictures, because people will say
|
|
that he pushed his wife forward, and I would like to see what I can do
|
|
without help.
|
|
"Of course," said Miss Terry earnestly, "if Rex had any objection to my
|
|
leaving Metro I wouldn't consider the other offer. But he is perfectly
|
|
willing to have me do what I want in the matter. I haven't reached any
|
|
decision yet, but the company that made me the offer is one of the largest
|
|
ones in the business. Naturally Rex would not permit me to talk business
|
|
with any other kind."
|
|
If Miss Terry does sign the other contract she will make "Scaramouche"
|
|
for Metro first. She says she loves the story and she is eager to play the
|
|
woman's part. While she was in New York she had an offer to play
|
|
"Scaramouche" on the stage with Sidney Blackmar.
|
|
"Why didn't you accept the offer?" she was asked.
|
|
"I should have died of fright. I know I could never go on the stage,"
|
|
she said. "I was cast for a part in a tableau on the stage in California,
|
|
and if I had had anything to say I would have passed away then and there."
|
|
The Ingrams returned to the Coast a week ago. Mrs. Ingram was not very
|
|
eager to get back to sunny California. In New York she managed to get in the
|
|
theatres, some parties and a good time.
|
|
"In California," she said, "we never go anywhere. Rex studies all the
|
|
time. He no more than finishes one picture than he starts planning sets and
|
|
reading books for his next. I do not care to go without him, so we stay home
|
|
on an average of seven nights a week. I like to stay at home, of course, but
|
|
I do enjoy going out once in a while." So you see being the wife of a great
|
|
director has its drawbacks.
|
|
A sentiment that is honest and natural you will admit when it comes from
|
|
a young woman not yet 23, who has been given more than her share of good
|
|
looks and charm.
|
|
But life for Alice Terry is not all dancing, attending the theatre and
|
|
buying gowns. She is genuinely interested in her husband's work and watches
|
|
with eager eyes every picture he creates. "However, Rex and I do not always
|
|
agree on his picture," she said, laughing. "His favorite is 'Trifling Women'
|
|
and mine is 'The Conquering Power.'"
|
|
We are usually neutral in all matters that concern a husband and wife,
|
|
but in this case we agree with Miss Terry. We like "Trifling Women" the
|
|
least of anything Rex Ingram has ever made, and so we told her as we parted
|
|
on the corner of Forty-Second Street and Broadway.
|
|
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
Back issues of Taylorology are available on the Web at any of the following:
|
|
http://www.angelfire.com/az/Taylorology/
|
|
http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Taylorology/
|
|
http://www.uno.edu/~drif/arbuckle/Taylorology/
|
|
Full text searches of back issues can be done at http://www.etext.org/Zines/
|
|
For more information about Taylor, see
|
|
WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991)
|
|
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