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* T A Y L O R O L O G Y *
* A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor *
* *
* Issue 93 -- September 2000 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
Interviews with Actors and Actresses Directed by Taylor:
Ethel Clayton, Dustin Farnum, Elsie Ferguson, May McAvoy, Jack Pickford,
Theodore Roberts and Myrtle Stedman
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What is TAYLOROLOGY?
TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond
Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to
death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major
scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life;
(b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor
murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood
silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given
toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it
for accuracy.
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Actors and Actresses Directed by Taylor
William Desmond Taylor directed movies between 1914-1922. The following are
interviews with a few of the many prominent actors and actresses directed by
Taylor.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ethel Clayton
[Taylor directed Clayton in "Wealth" and "Beyond."]
November 1921
Alice Hall
PICTUREGOER
Summer leaves California with reluctant feet, giving to that sunshiny
land more than a hint of her presence, even in mid-winter.
But the faint, unaccustomed chill of autumn mists was blowing across the
coast from the Pacific as I set out to visit Ethel Clayton. I shivered as I
drew my furs around me, and through my mind flashed the hope that every
Britisher in America harbours, "Oh, I do hope she'll have a real fire!"
For radiators, although they may be efficient, cleanly, convenient, and
everything else the ad-writers would have us believe, cannot be considered,
by any stretch of the imagination, as "cozy." They are not conductive to
inspiration; and to sit chatting with the fair Ethel around a radiator did
not by any means appeal to my sense of solid comfort.
But I need not have feared. Ethel Clayton is a famous actress; but even
more is she a born home-maker. Somehow her very doorway had a hospitable
look. (There is a lot of character in doors and doorways--some seem to shout
at you, "Keep out." while others, in mellifluous tones, murmur, "Oh, DO come
in!") Ethel Clayton's doorway distinctly belonged to the latter class, and I
was not surprised when she herself answered my ring, holding out friendly
hands in spontaneous greeting.
"This weather!" she said. "You know, we Californians feel very
aggrieved if we get anything but brilliant sunshine, and when the sea fog
pays us an occasional visit, we are like butterflies caught in a storm!
But come into the living-room, and let us settle down by the fire!"
Ethel Clayton's house is not so much a Los Angeles palace as a restful,
artistic environment for one of the most charming of filmland's beautiful
women. (For although the mistress of this Hollywood home is still only in
her twenties, one thinks of her as something more mature than a girl--maybe
because she has taken Life, with its joys and its sorrows, more seriously
than have many woman far older than herself.) Her great living-room is low
and long, its walls lined with well-filled bookshelves, a grand piano in the
place of honour.
On the polished floor are richly shaded rugs from the Orient; there are
pictures on the neutral-tinted walls--few, but perfect in their choice; while
pieces of colourful pottery and old pewter vie with each other in capturing
the high lights of the room.
"Many of my treasures," said Ethel Clayton, "were picked up by mother,
my brother and myself when we visited China and Japan last year. Then when
we motored through France and Italy we could not resist buying more lovely
things, especially as I was then realizing for the first time in my life the
joy of buying what I had always longed for to decorate my permanent home out
here.
"I have been spending most of the year in New York, working at the Lasky
Long Island studio, but now, I'm glad to say, they have transferred me to my
old quarters once again."
In big, comfortable chairs, on either side of the roaring log fire,
we established ourselves, Ethel Clayton's small Pekingese canine moving
reluctantly to the hearth-rug when his mistress demanded that he give up his
nest among the cushions in my favour. Tea arrived, and I watched my hostess
in silent admiration as she devoted herself to the all-important matter of
making the beverage as successfully as "you English people do. I never
tasted such delicious tea as in London--but, then, we beat you in coffee,
don't we?"
I was obliged to confess the truth of this statement. But I decided
that if there were any deficiency in the tea, it would be more than made up
by the charm of Ethel Clayton herself. That afternoon she was wearing a
frock of dull blue, touched at collar and cuffs with white, her pearl
necklet, platinum and diamond wrist-watch, with circlet ring to match--
treasured gifts, I knew, of her dead, but dearly loved and always remembered,
husband. The firelight glowed on her wavy, red-gold hair, bringing out its
lights in just the same way as the camera does. A haunting sadness lingered
in her wide, heavily lashed grey eyes, and as she looked up, and with that
elusive smile which is one of her great attractions, I felt that, however gay
and merry she might appear to the world, her intimate friends were right when
the spoke of her as "dear, serious little Ethel."
Perhaps it is her natural delight in beautiful, refined surroundings
that has given Ethel Clayton a certain "air" which is difficult for even the
loveliest of screen actresses to copy. The picture-producers, wise enough to
know the value of this subtle charm, are making the most of her gracious and
alluring personality--rather to Ethel's dismay.
"I liked my old type of picture best," she said. "It was mostly
domestic drama, you remember. In those days I had real homes in my films--
and I was always a real person. Now I have such elaborate settings and
wonderful gowns, that I find it a little difficult to portray the true woman
underneath it all. I know there can be as much human joy and sorrow in a
palace as in a cottage, but I think I would rather play the young wife
struggling to find happiness amongst the dear, common, everyday things of
Life than I would the feted and petted Society queen."
Doubtless many of my readers will remember Ethel Clayton in her older
pictures, some of which were "The Blessed Miracle," "A Woman's Wit,"
"The Hidden Scar," "The Bondage of Fear," "The Web of Desire," "His Brother's
Wife," "Man's Woman," "The Woman Beneath," "The Lion and the Mouse," "The
Fortune Hunter," "The Wolf," "The Great Divide," "The Sporting Duchess," and
"Dollars and the Woman." (The two latter, by the way, have lately been given
second versions by Alice Joyce.)
"I always think that "Dollars and the Woman" was my best picture," said
Ethel, tinkling a tiny Japanese bell as a signal to her coloured maid to
remove the tea service. "My husband was my leading-man in that film--he
acted opposite me in many of my old Lubin photoplays, and directed me in
others."
It was when Ethel Clayton was with World Films that she met Joseph
Kaufman, whom she afterwards married. They had both signed a contract with
Famous-Lasky when the influenza epidemic destroyed a partnership which was as
popular amongst their personal friends as it was amongst their thousands of
screen-admirers.
The Californian dusk, rapid as in the tropics, was overtaking us as we
talked beside the fire. Ethel Clayton rose to light the tall Japanese-shaded
lamp.
"Won't you play something first?" I begged. And in the firelit gloom,
scented with flowers, the slender, red-haired girl played to me--snatches of
Chopin and Schumann, here and there a curious Oriental chant, or a plaintive
folk-song reminiscent of the captured peasant folk of Central Europe.
"I learnt to play in Chicago," she told me, as she came back to the
warmth and glow of the crackling logs. "And when I returned to the stage,
after my first few pictures, to appear in Mr. Brady's production of 'The
Brute,' I found I had to perform quite a difficult pianoforte selection
during one of the acts. So, of course, I had to study and practise again for
a while, and then, following the advice of some of the musical critics who
had seen the play, I gave several concerts in New York and Washington and
Boston."
Ethel Clayton speaks casually and unaffectedly indeed regarding her
talents. Her books are her chief delight, and she is a great reader.
"I hope it doesn't sound too terribly unsociable," she said, with her
faintly wistful, flickering smile illuminating her charming face, "but I love
solitude. My mother lives with me, you know, and my brother Donald spends
much of his time here; but we are a very quiet family. Things are a good
deal livelier in the vacations, for my small niece and my husband's ten-year-
old son, who are both away at school, come home to us then. I am very, very
fond of them, and am looking forward to the time when the girl, especially,
will be grown-up, and a real companion to me.
Ethel Clayton is the despair of Hollywood's gay set. She is lovely and
fascinating enough to be a welcome visitor at all social functions, but,
instead, most of her spare time is spent amongst her books, or in her
beautiful garden.
We spoke of the latter. "I love the outdoors," she said, "and I do lots
of my own garden work. Everyone admires the result, too, which is
comforting! You must come to tea with me again when the sun is out, and we
will picnic under the big elm-tree."
"Tell me about your start in pictures," I suggested, as the charm of the
firelight and the star combined threatened to steal over me, diverting my
attention from the serious work in hand.
"To begin with, I was on the stage. That in itself was sheer accident.
E. H. Sothern was in Chicago, and needing some supers for his Shakespearean
crowd scenes, he applied to the head of my school for permission to engage
the English literature class. It was a wonderful adventure for us, as you
can imagine! I enjoyed it so much that nothing would satisfy me but a
dramatic career, and although my beginning was humble (a place in the chorus
of Chicago's old La Salle Theatre), my ambition was boundless. Then I
ventured to New York, but was not there long, for they quickly signed me as a
member of a stock company in Minneapolis. About seven years ago I was with
Lew Cody's stock organisation in Vermont, when the Lubin Film Company offered
me a hundred-and-seventy-five dollars a week if I would try picture work with
them.
"'I can't do anything so good for you,' said Lew, when I told him of the
offer. 'Take it, and I'll find someone else to fill your place.' But not
all of my friends were so encouraging. You see, I had achieved a good deal
of success on the stage, having been in the original New York production of
'The Lion and the Mouse' and 'The Country Boy.' It seemed like giving up a
certainty for a risk, but I took the chance, and have never regretted it.
"My first years at film work were spent in 'thrillers' in Philadelphia,
where Lubin produced their famous two- and three-reelers. Amongst other of
my adventures there, I was introduced to the cowboy. Then I went to the
World, in those days under the leadership of William A. Brady. Mr. Brady
induced me to go back to the stage for a while, but I missed the fascination
of camera work, and I soon returned to the studio. Then came my contract
with Famous-Lasky, and I have made a number of pictures for them, both here
and in New York."
Some of these later films that Ethel Clayton has starred in have been
enormously popular. Every picturegoer will remember "Woman's Weapons," "The
Mystery Girl," "The Girl Who Came Back," " Maggie Pepper," "Pettigrew's
Girl," "A Sporting Chance," "More Deadly Than The Male," "Men, Woman and
Money," "The Thirteenth Commandment," "The Ladder of Lies," "A Lady in Love,"
"The Witch Woman," and "Young Mrs. Winthrop." New films that Ethel Clayton
has recently completed are "Crooked Streets," "The Price of Possession," "The
Sins of Rozanne," "A City Sparrow," "Sham," "Wealth," and "Her Own Money";
her current picture is called "The Cradle."
The leading-men of this busy young actress have, naturally, been many
and varied. "I used to say they always tried out the new directors and
leading-men on me," she laughed. "I have been 'my first star' to ever so
many masculine twinklers in the celluloid sky. Harry Myers turned director
for my benefit. I was Tom Forman's first star when he switched from acting
to directing, and I was leading-lady to John Bowers in "Justification," one
of the first two-reelers. Lew Cody and I became co-workers again in "Men,
Women and Money," and Carlyle Blackwell played opposite me in some of my old
World pictures. When Jack Holt became a hero instead of a villain, they
first tried his heroic talents in my films. Now he is to be a star himself."
"You made 'Crooked Streets' soon after your return from the Orient,
didn't you?" I asked.
"Yes, and it felt very curious to be transplanted back again to the
East. Perhaps you remember that 'Crooked Streets' was made here in Los
Angeles, but the sets were wonderful. We had the native quarter of Shanghai
erected on the banks of the great studio tank, while another splendid scene
was a busy street in the European section of the city. Many scenes actually
taken in China are inserted here and there, and, of course, numbers of the
extras engaged for the picture were Chinese emigrants we found in California.
"The story of 'Crooked Streets' is very exciting, and is written around
the adventures of a girl detective abroad. In her ramblings through China
she is almost kidnapped by the minions of a powerful mandarin. Needless to
say, she is eventually rescued by the hero. I experienced lots of thrills
myself in making the picture, and although I had ridden in rickshaws in
China, it was something of a novelty to be using this extremely foreign
method of conveyance in Los Angeles."
It was growing dark, and I reluctantly rose to leave. "Come and see the
sun parlour before you go," and I followed my hostess to the pretty, wicker-
furnished chintzy room that, in the daytime, caught every ray of the
brilliant sunshine through its wide windows.
"Here," said Ethel Clayton, "is my favourite haunt when I wish to be
quite alone to think out a new role. I am not content to leave everything to
the director in the way many folks imagine we screen players do. I usually
help to choose my stories, and if a book or a play be selected, I like to
bring it hear and read and study it until I know it backwards. Then I
compare the scenario with my own brain-picture of the film-play as it
suggests itself to me, and we (my director and I) usually talk it over
together. I like to know in what order the scenes will be taken, too, for
whilst a film is being made, I forget I am Ethel Clayton, and become for the
time the character I am portraying. Then, after the last scene has been
'shot,' I indulge in a short rest, or, perhaps, a motoring or riding trip.
I love all outdoor sports, and when Don, my brother, is here, he and I are
friendly opponents at golf."
I had, somehow, hardly imagined the very domesticated Ethel as an
outdoor enthusiast; but she assured me that one of her greatest regrets was
that her work in New York made it difficult for her to keep up her average in
golf.
"I swim, too, you know," she continued; "and ride. I learned to ride in
my Lubin day, and never gave up this most delightful pastime." We had
returned to the living-room once again.
:It is a pretty home," I said, turning to Ethel Clayton. "You must be
very happy here."
"I am contented, at least. And interested in the world and in my work.
Maybe we ought not to ask more of Life than that."
At the doorway of 6928 Hawthorne Avenue, I turned for a last glimpse of
the firelit room, so eloquent of the personality of its mistress. And with
that background I shall always picture Ethel Clayton--sweet and sincere, the
beloved of picturegoers past and present, whether she be gowned in the
gorgeous creations of the film-costumier's art, or in the simple gingham
overalls in which she first made willing captives of the millions of hearts
that hunger for romance.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dustin Farnum
[Taylor directed Farnum in "Ben Blair," "Davy Crockett," "The Parson of
Panamint," and "North of Fifty-Three."]
March 7, 1914
George Blaisdell
MOVING PICTURE WORLD
Here's a bit of good news: Dustin Farnum has come over to our side of
the house. "For keeps?" replied the actor, in answer to a question; "well,
you never can be absolutely certain, but so far as I can see now I am all
through with the stage and am going to give my whole energy to the motion
picture."
It was a Saturday morning in the office of the Lasky Company.
Mr. Farnum was just about to start back to the coast, from which he had
arrived in New York but a half-dozen days before. He had blown in with the
blizzard, bearing with him the first print of "The Squaw Man," in the success
of which he was more than ordinarily concerned. The actor had a sort of mind
bet on the issue: If the screen production was a "go" he would stick to
pictures; if, in the opinions of those competent to judge, there should
appear to be a doubt that the subject was a real picture, he was ready to
return to the stage. "Just as soon as I can go and get a mighty fine saddle
I own I will be on my way for our coast studio," said the actor.
The importance of this decision of Mr. Farnum--to turn his back on a
branch of his profession in which he has been prominent as well as successful
and to start another career in the fast expanding New Art--will not be lost
on his fellow-players of the stage. While it need not be interpreted as
anything even remotely resembling "the handwriting on the wall," it is bound
to provide matter for serious thought. Theaters devoted to screen portrayals
are multiplying rapidly--old-line houses are being converted and many
handsome structures sans stage and all its historic associated accessories
are being built. Theaters devoted to the spoken drama distinctly are not
multiplying, rapidly or otherwise. There's nothing theoretical about the
situation. It's a condition which even such a distinguished producer as
David Belasco has recognized by closing "The Good Little Devil" just as its
screened counterpart goes upon its tentacled way: "The Governor's Lady" and
"Years of Discretion." Mr. Belasco is quoted as expressing the belief that
the descending blight is but a passing phase. Mr. Belasco may follow Daniel
Frohman and be producing pictures yet. We may be sure if that happy time
come his reputation will suffer no deterioration.
Mr. Farnum is wise in his day and generation. He comes to the screen in
a period no longer formative. In building up and perfecting public-reaching
distributing agencies, keen brains have spent millions of dollars. The
public has been educated to the point where it demands as it has been
demonstrated it will support the best histrionic skill. Mr. Farnum brings to
the screen more than this prescribed qualification. He brings a personality,
of commanding height, of generous mold, with a complexion that fills the
requirements of the inexorable camera--black hair and dark eyes--yet more
than these there is magnetism: the qualities that make straight appeal to man
and woman--frankness, democracy, entire absence of affectation. This may be
a good place to recall the fact that Mr. Farnum is best known through his
work in "The Virginian," which will be the next subject produced by the Lasky
Company. One of the actor's present associates said he had appeared in that
play 2,800 times--which statement speaks volumes for the popularity of the
man and of the subject. After this remarkable success there were several
years in the "The Squaw Man," and then last year he was with his brother
William a co-star in "The Littlest Rebel."
Efforts to draw out Mr. Farnum in regard to stage matters as contrasted
with those of the screen met with indifferent success. The player was
enthusiastic over his new work, his associates, and the life in general.
"Do I like picture work?" he asked. "Indeed I do. I have been an outdoor
man all my life. I was born and brought up in the country and love horses.
Pictures appeal to me more than does the stage, where it is study all the
time. Now there is hardly a moment but what I am taking in new ideas.
The work is stimulating and exhilarating. I don't think in picture work
there is involved the mental strain we encounter in playing in the theater
because there so many little things continually go wrong.
"In the making of 'The Squaw Man' I found so much to interest me--not
the least of my entertainment was watching the Indians. Like a boy, when not
otherwise engaged I just sit around and 'rubbered.' You know the line of
plays in which I have worked has been of the outdoor typical American sort.
I have met some fine types of westerners in the last few weeks--the real
cowboys, not the fourflushers. The real thing are the most charming sort of
men in the world. I have yet to hear one of them use in the presence of a
lady a word that anyone on earth could take the least exception to. Their
gentleness, their simplicity, is remarkable, especially where women are
concerned. Then again, on the other hand, when they are by themselves there
is a flow of language plentifully sprinkled with Spanish and Indian epithets
that would have made Mark Twain gasp. Just take a look at the fine bunch of
boys in this picture."
Mr. Farnum escorted his visitor over to a five-foot panoramic view of
the coast studio with the players lined up in front. "Look at this Texan
here," he said; "six feet five inches in height, and every inch a man--the
real thing. Here's a champion roper and here's a champion rider," and so on
down the line. There was a good word for each. If these men so appeal to
the player it follows the player appeals to them--that there is established
between them a bond that makes for the success of any production in which
they may be engaged...
"Yes, I'll say again, I like the life," continued the player, as we
resumed our chairs. "Why, I get up at 6 or 6:30 o'clock in the morning, and
by the time it is 8 or 9 o'clock at night I am perfectly ready to go to bed.
Sleep? Like a log. As to the chances a man takes in pictures. Yes, he
does. So does a man crossing Broadway, where often the taxicabs are as
dangerous as anything in pictures.
"One might have thought a new organization going to the coast would have
been regarded by the established companies as an intruder. Not only was
there nothing of the sort, but everyone was only too willing to do for us
everything a man could do. It was a case of 'Come on out and use our studios
or any part of our plant you desire.' It was great. Do you know the
Photoplayers have got a fine home in Los Angeles? I met a lot of mighty good
fellows there. Am I going to join them? Why, I am up for membership now.
"The success of 'The Squaw Man' is due to the manner in which it was
made--the cleverness of direction and the way the whole thing was handled by
everyone concerned. In nine weeks we have located grounds, engaged actors
and built a studio, carpenter shop and scene dock. Just bear in mind we had
twenty-one days of rain. I never saw such a conglomeration of weather in my
life."
The conversation swung around to the particular phase of the play just
completed, from which the name was taken--the intermarriage of the white and
the Indian. Reference was made to the portrayal of Nat-u-Rich by Redwing,
the daughter of a Ute chief. "You know," said Mr. Farnum, "the minute a man
marries a squaw he is taboo. I think, though, there are extenuating
circumstances--that the scenario of this play creates such a situation that
no man with a heart in him can fail to forgive. Yes, Redwing was splendid in
her portrayal. Let me tell you a couple of incidents that interested me.
One of them goes to prove that no matter how much civilization an Indian has
had there will be an adherence to tradition. Little Redwing came to me one
day when we were getting near the end of the picture and told me she had a
beautiful pair of horns from a long-horned Texas steer which one of her
relatives had mounted and of which she would like to make me a present.
Naturally surprised and perhaps pleased, I tried to tell her how much I would
appreciate the gift and how extremely generous she was, when I noticed her
looking at me very fixedly. 'Just say yes or no,' she said shortly. In
spite of education she got right down to cases.
"When we were rehearsing the scene where the baby is taken from
Nat-u-Rich to be sent back to England, this pure-blooded Indian girl broke
down and went into hysterics. It was pitiful. It was twenty-five minutes
before we could proceed with the picture. In all my years on the stage I
never saw anything like it. It was absolutely the reverse of everything we
have been taught about Indians."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Elsie Ferguson
[Taylor directed Ferguson in "Sacred and Profane Love."]
September 1922
PICTURES AND PICTUREGOER
Had Pygmalion lived in the twentieth century, an astute Editor in all
probability would have commissioned him to interview Elsie Ferguson. For
there is something suggestive of bringing a marble "Galatea" to life when one
seeks to discover the deeper emotions of this statuesque star. She hides so
much that is human behind a deceptively cold and dignified exterior. Yet, if
you are patient and talk to her of the work that she loves, of the artistic
future of the film, and of her picturesque home in the Californian Hills,
then, like the goddess of legend, she sheds her statue-like pose and radiates
her love of life.
I watched her clear grey-green eyes change from coldness to warmth and
enthusiasm as I chatted to her in a dressing-room of wonderful mauves and
purples at the ornate white studios at Long Island.
I had been piloted through a vast glass-roofed chamber strung with
glaring lights that gazed down on resplendent sets like giant watching eyes,
then up three flights of winding stairs to the sanctuary where Elsie Ferguson
awaited. It was all rather like a presentation at Court, for many uniformed
keepers of doors had to be passed before I was ushered into the august
presence of one whom I was interviewing on behalf of her subjects, the
picture "fans." Certainly she heightened this illusion of regal
impressiveness. She was very stately as she crossed from her dressing-table
and held out a jeweled hand with much of the dignity that I would imagine
Queen Elizabeth affected when she extended her greetings to Sir Francis Drake
before the curious eyes of courtiers. Yet her manner did not suggest
affectation. She was rather like a beautiful oil painting that commanded
respect through the artistry that had created it.
Nature has fashioned Elsie Ferguson on aristocratic lines, from
burnished Titian hair to her slender, shapely feet, and she has been given am
imperious tilt of the head, and a stately, swaying walk. Such physical
attractions do not reveal the entire Elsie Ferguson. Beneath this attractive
combination of charm there is the thoughtful, emotional woman who places her
love of artistry before empty pride, and prefers her books and simple home
interests to the limelight of public life with which an appreciative world
would envelop her.
"Sit down and have some tea" was her very human greeting, and my visions
of Queens and Courts faded, and I saw in their stead an attractive hostess
presiding with simple charm over dainty blue-enameled tea cups.
"I love to have colour around me," she confessed, noticing my admiring
glance at the delicate shades of her dressing-room decorations. "When I am
working before the camera, amidst settings that are bright with colour, I am
always happy; but it is very sad, I think, when lovely shades of rose, orange
or blue are turned into greys or whites on the screen."
She spoke slowly and thoughtfully, as is her custom; and although she
was discussing little that was really serious, there was a wistful sadness in
her eyes. Elsie Ferguson's face is made for tragedy. It may be a trick of
the shadowed light that lurks beneath her eyes, or the droop of the corners
of her mouth of coral-red that creates this suggestion of pathos. Yet it is
an expression that the screen has so often caught during her emotional
characterisations.
"When you came to the screen from the stage, no doubt you missed the
atmosphere of colour-music, and the inspiration of large audiences that you
knew behind the footlights?" I suggested, carrying on her train of thought.
She nodded her regal head with a reminiscent light in her eyes.
"It was difficult at first," she told me. "Do you know that after
playing before huge audiences in the theatres, I found in the film studios
that I could not give my best work if there was even one stranger on the set
whose presence was only prompted by curiosity. One pair of watching eyes
which I felt were not sympathetic were more trying to me before the cameras
than a thousand people gazing at me from beyond the footlights."
"Temperament," I suggested.
"I know that I have a reputation for what people call 'fireworks,'" she
replied with a smile. "But I do not really stamp and storm if things go
wrong in the studios. That would be fatal for an artiste who is at all
highly strung. If one lets their nerves get out of hand, the cameras are
going to punish you. For, in emotional work such as mine, the greatest self-
control is needed. That is a curious phase of dramatic acting. The more
frenzied you may appear on the screen, the greater the self-repression needed
to reflect the varying depths of emotion, in accordance with the length of
the scene determined by the producer."
As she sipped her tea, I noticed the character in her hands, the power
in her long, slim fingers and the narrow, shapely palms, to suggest sympathy
or tragedy. My mind went back to those hands as I had seen them gliding over
the tangled hair of the dissolute Diaz in "Sacred and Profane Love." There
Elsie Ferguson indicated how she has the true artistic sense of expressing
emotion with subtle mannerisms that with the clever actress do much to take
the place of the spoken word on the screen.
"You found the part of 'Carlotta' in 'Sacred and Profane Love' an
exhausting one?" I asked her.
"Had I not had a sympathetic director," she assured me, "it would have
been very difficult at times. I do not think many people realise the
importance of an understanding producer when a temperamental artiste is
playing before the cameras. If anyone shouts at me, my creative powers seems
to shrink into nothing. A really human producer can bring the best work out
of one, rather like a musician reflecting the clearest notes from a delicate
instrument."
Elsie Ferguson loves her work. You can see how her heart is in the
studios, where the arc-lamps glare and the cameras whirl the thousands of
feet of celluloid through the velvet-lined slots from early morning till
dusk. As she talked of films in general, and her own in particular, her
former self-repression gave way to an enthusiasm that brought animation to a
face that was still more beautiful now that something of the mask of
sensitive shyness had gone.
She told me how she admired Fitzmaurice, and that he invariably inspired
her work. "Talking on my temperament," she said, with a quiet smile; "it was
Fitzmaurice who, a little time ago, made me repeat a scene beneath drenching
water pipes. I had to climb into a brougham dressed in a Victorian gown of
purple velvet, and decorated with delicate lace ruffles. The 'studio' rain
came down and soaked me, and whilst I stood cold and bedraggled at the side
of the set, I heard the ominous warning that a re-take would be necessary.
There had been a mistake with the cameras, and only half the scene had been
taken!
"I had to spend the best part of a day renovating my costume. Perhaps I
should have been angry if the sympathetic Fitzmaurice had not looked so
worried and apologetic; so, instead, I laughed over it all. It is the human
touch in the studio that does so much to make things work smoothly. If there
were more sympathetic directors, there would be less heard about
temperamental film artistes."
Whilst we were on the subject of the male sex. I endeavoured to
discover if she had any favourite man--on the screen, of course, for Elsie
Ferguson is very happily married to Thomas Clarke, a New York banker. This
alliance has provided still further evidence for those who advocate the
marriage of contrasting natures. For the husband of the Lasky star is a
shrewd business man, well known for his practical, commercial acumen. He is
very dissimilar in temperament to the highly strung Elsie, yet their marriage
is one of the real romances of filmdom.
"Playing, as I do, such varied emotional roles," she told me, "the quest
for an ideal leading man is a difficult one. If I found him, I should have
him to play with me in every picture. It is a question of adaptability to
the part that has to be presented.
"Whilst I am actually appearing with one of my screen-lovers, I always
imagine that they are ideal, but that does not mean that they would appeal to
me in a different characterisation. Conrad Nagel was a sympathetic lover in
'Sacred and Profane Love,' who helped my portrayal of the temperamental
'Carlotta' to a very large extent. But Pedro de Cordoba, in 'Barbary Sheep,'
was just as much an ideal to me whilst we were playing together. It is not
fickleness, but just an appreciation of character-presentation, as it fits
into the scheme of the picture at the moment. In 'The Rise of Jenny
Cushing,' I was happy to run away with Elliott Dexter, but some time after I
was just as ready to give my happiness in life into the keeping of Wyndam
Standing in 'Eyes of the Soul,' for the purposes of the picture."
To hear Elsie Ferguson talk of her film characters is to realise that
they are very real to her. She has the soul of the artiste behind her work,
and she carries in her memory mental portraits of the parts she has played,
and those that her fellow-artists have presented with her, very much as one
treasures an album of photographs of very dear friends.
She told me laughingly that she had committed so many murders on the
film, and been associated with death in various violent forms, that she often
wondered what the great world of picturegoers thought of her real life
character.
"It was rather a relief to me," she added, "when I advertised for the
loan of a child in my picture, 'The Lie,' to be met with an overwhelming
number of offers from trusting mothers. It proved that they had not lost
faith in my integrity."
In reality, Elsie Ferguson, in choosing sad and poignant phases of life
as the vehicle for her screen presentations, has discovered what is
undoubtedly her flair. She has a touch of fatalism in her eyes which she can
accentuate with extraordinary impressiveness; and many will remember the
realistic desolation and despair in her face when she gazed on the still form
of 'Ispenlove' after he had shot himself for love of her in 'Sacred and
Profane Love.' It was more than acting. It was an expression of the natural
sadness that so often exists in those of an introspective nature.
There is something suggestive of her nature in the quietude of her
dressing-room, which is situated away from the noise and turmoil of the great
studios below. It is rather like a study, for books line one side of the
room, and tables covered with photograph albums are scattered about the
spacious apartment.
She confessed to me that she was always a little afraid that the
mechanical side of picture production might affect her creative acting.
"Although I naturally admire the science that lies behind the work of a
modern studio," she said, "I think that a sensitive artiste should endeavour
to disassociate herself from it as much as possible. When I am playing,
I always visualise a vast invisible audience, and do not think of the
inscrutable camera lens or the hissing arc-lamps."
"That must have been difficult when you first came to the studios?"
I asked.
She smiled reminiscently.
"I always remember in my first picture, 'Barbary Sheep,' how the
director told me that I had to walk on to a balcony and express my pleasure
at the delight of a wonderful moonlight night. The sky on that occasion was
a huge backdrop of painted canvas, and the night breeze emanated from a
creaking electric fan a few yards from my elbow. Of course, since then I
have acted amidst beautiful natural surroundings in the country, and in
picturesque houses. Yet that has always made me admire the pioneers in
pictures who knew little of the wonderful settings amidst which modern
artistes appear. Registering emotions before canvas backgrounds and similar
crudities of the early days of the films must have been very trying."
Like Gloria Swanson, Elsie Ferguson has the fear that the beautiful
clothes that invariably accompany her screen characterisations may suggest to
the picture public that to a large extent she relies on dress to secure
effect.
"I welcomed the part of the down-trodden slum girl in 'The Rise of
Jennie Cushing,' for, on that occasion, I was able to dispense with elaborate
costume."
It is in keeping with her love of the open air that she studies most of
her film parts lying in a hammock in the garden of her Hollywood home.
The shrill voice of the studio boy announcing that Miss Ferguson was
wanted in the studios brought my pygmalion quest to a close. The Galatea of
the films again became a statuesque figure as she rose, her slim form
suggesting stately height with the light of the window throwing it into sharp
relief against the mauves and purple of the decorations.
The dreamy veil had again fallen over her expressive eyes, but as I
shook her shapely hand, I knew that I had secured a glimpse of the real Elsie
Ferguson that has never yet been conveyed from the screen.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
May McAvoy
[Taylor directed McAvoy in "Morals" and "The Top of New York."]
June 1922
Harriette Underhill
PICTURE-PLAY
May McAvoy doesn't seem to be one bit spoiled, but I am quite sure that
she is, because she couldn't very well help being so.
In the first place she is only nineteen years old and despite all the
talk about falling stars and falling salaries her salary is soaring somewhere
between that of the vice president and the president. Perhaps it is not
quite so big as Mr. Harding's, but, I infer, it must stack up very well
beside the one received by Mr. Coolidge for being assistant president of the
United States. At the time I write all of the ad lib, directors are fighting
over her trying to get her to promise to go in their next picture if she can
get a leave of absence, and her press agent is going about with a memorandum
in his hand which reads, "See Miss X--- at eleven at the Hotel Grandum for
interview; see Mr. B. at twelve-thirty at the Atlas for story; meet Miss H.
at one for luncheon and interview; be at Bazaar of Little Mothers at four-
thirty to sell chances; be at home five-thirty to receive six interviewers;
be at Hotel Clarissa to address Woman's Club on 'Better Pictures' at eight
o'clock," and so on. Poor May McAvoy!
Recently we have been deeply interested in a story of motion-picture
life which ran serially in a weekly magazine. The stars are treated by the
author with beautiful levity, and one of the things he writes about is
"Merton's" mixed feelings when he pores over the fan magazines. Merton
marvels that all of the celebrities, whose very names set his heart to
pounding madly, should be so unspoiled and simple and home loving. It seems
that each interviewer goes into the sacred presence in fear and trepidation,
and comes out feeling that he or she never has met such a truthful, generous,
unaffected soul. The men are all so noble and true. The women are all so
beautiful, intelligent, cultured, simple, natural, and devoted. And as we
read that part of the story we wondered if our interviews sounded like that
to people who read them.
The fact that one or two of them have made the people we wrote about
angry is, of course, an encouraging sign. People don't usually get mad at
you because you have said that they are noble--and true and beautiful and
faithful.
At any rate it made us think--a thing every one should do once in a
while--and we wondered if we wrote those banal and pleasant things which ring
about as true as a lead nickel. So we resolved to put on our glasses as a
precaution against any mental astigmatism and see our future interviewees AS
THEY REALLY ARE, or at the very least, as they really appear to us.
May McAvoy is beautiful in a quaint, unobtrusive way; her coloring and
her features are perfect and yet we waited for her in the lobby of one of the
big hotels for luncheon and did not recognize her. When we met her, we said,
"I didn't even see you. You don't make the most of yourself."
"I don't want to," she replied. "I hate being recognized."
All around were smart-looking flappers with short skirts and woolen
stockings and bobbed hair flying, and Miss McAvoy wore a plain little brown
coat suit and a mushroom hat just the blue of her eyes, and let me say right
here that May McAvoy has the most beautiful eyes we ever saw. They are a
regular marine blue and about twice as big as other people's; and the lashes
are jet black and stick out all around like fringe. She is a regular Irish
beauty--marvelous pink-and-white skin and black, wavy hair. She is not five
feet tall and weighs only about ninety pounds and still she is plump. So you
can see what a tiny thing she is, this girl who gave such a wistfully sweet
performance in "Sentimental Tommy."
It is less than four years since Miss McAvoy started her career in
motion pictures and then she was cast for a little girl who went to the
corner grocery to buy some sugar for her ma to use in baking pies. The film
was an advertisement of a certain kind of sugar and that was all; but little
May, who was only fifteen years old, put her heart and soul in that role.
Just previous to that she had had a letter of introduction to the casting
director of one of the biggest film companies and, while he admired her
beauty he feared her inexperience. But after the sugar picture it was
different. He went to look at that, saw that little May photographed, as he
expressed it, "like a million dollars," and engaged her. He realized as soon
as he saw her on the screen that the camera had a way of getting at her soul,
and that is what any director is eager for. If the camera doesn't find that
quality, it's because there is no soul or possibly because it's so hidden
beneath other things.
But Miss McAvoy is so close to nature that you can almost hear the birds
sing as you talk to her, and while we were quite frank to say that that isn't
our idea of life at all, Miss McAvoy seems to be perfectly happy. She was
stopping at one of the biggest hotels here in New York and yet she arose at
six o'clock, about the time a lot of us New York folks are getting ready to
call it a night. She is out of the hotel at eight. She had three weeks'
vacation to spend in New York and she spent one of those weeks in New
Hampshire!
"I really don't care for New York at all any more," she said, "although
I was born here. I want to go back to California as fast as ever I can get
there and never leave it again."
"But you haven't any theaters out there," we ventured, "I mean any new
plays."
"I don't care for the theater and one new play a year satisfies me,"
replied Miss McAvoy, while our own idea of the promised land is one long
Rialto bounded on the north and south by a shopping district. Here, too,
Miss McAvoy disagreed with us.
"Oh, I think shopping is the greatest bore on earth!"
Now fancy any one having several hundreds of dollars a week to spend for
clothes and not spending it.
"That is why I always am glad when I have a character part to play.
I do not care for clothes, and I do not think I wear them well."
"What do you care most for in the world?" we asked.
"Dogs," replied Miss McAvoy, without an instant's hesitation. And right
here Larry Trimble joined the party to beg Miss McAvoy to star in his next
picture which he is going to make with "Strongheart," that wonderful German
police dog. But Miss McAvoy seemed dubious.
"I think dogs are so much more interesting than people that I don't
believe any one has a chance doing a picture with a cleaver dog like
Strongheart. It would be lots of fun but bad business, I'm afraid."
Miss McAvoy is a Paramount star, but she is going to have a vacation or
a leave of absence or something of the sort, and she had contemplated making
a picture during the vacation. that is why all of the directors were around
interrupting the interview, and we didn't blame them. If we were a producer
we should certainly pick out May McAvoy or Lillian Gish unless the part
demanded an Elsie Ferguson or a Pola Negri. Because we so unreservedly
approve of Miss McAvoy and her screen methods it seemed strange her ideas of
how to spend one's days and nights should be so different from our own. She
believes in the early-to-bed-and-early-to-rise maxim, and she loves to live
in the country. She doesn't like New York, while the only reason we ever
leave it is so we may have the pleasure of coming back to it.
Miss McAvoy said that when she first went in pictures she did nothing
but sister parts. She was sister to Madge Kennedy in "The Perfect Lady," and
she bore the same relationship to Marguerite Clark in "Mrs. Wiggs" and to
Florence Reed in "The Woman Under Oath." Then began a cycle of wives. She
was the "other wife" in J. Stuart Blackton's "My Husband's Other Wife;" the
"woman" with Herbert Rawlinson in "Man and His Woman," and just a wife in
"The Truth About Husbands."
Her first really big part came in "Sentimental Tommy." And immediately
after this she was elevated to stardom. Every one looked forward, eagerly,
to her first picture, and when it came, oh, what a flop! It was called
"A Private Scandal."
"I made that picture in nineteen days," said Miss McAvoy, and she
forestalled the retort discourteous, by saying, "I know it looked it."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Jack Pickford
[Taylor directed Jack Pickford in "The Varmint," "Jack and Jill," "Tom
Sawyer," "Huck and Tom," "The Spirit of '17," "His Majesty Bunker Bean," and
"Mile-A-Minute Kendall."]
October 8, 1921
Billie Blenton
MOVIE WEEKLY
Jack Pickford frantically rushed with Al Green, co-director of "Lord
Fauntleroy," through part of the cutting of their latest directorial efforts
and then raced madly to the Los Angeles station in time to catch the express
to New York.
Arrived in New York, the pair continued their racing and were so
successful that they managed to arrive with Doug and Mary at the opening of
"The Three Musketeers" in New York.
Jack stayed on in New York. Co-director Green entrained the next day
for the Coast and only ten days later returned to New York with the print of
"Lord Fauntleroy" that was shown at the Apollo Theatre, New York, Thursday,
September 15th.
Jack, in the meantime, was perfecting plans for his own picture, which
is called "The Tailor Made Man," being the screen version of the comedy drama
in which Grant Mitchell starred on Broadway and on the road for several
years. Jack coveted this picture. So he went about the tedious job of
getting it. Which he did.
We chanced to drop into the United Artists offices, the other day, and
caught a glimpse of Doug and Jack earnestly conversing in the front office.
We'd already had a few words with Doug, but not with Jack.
"Want to see Jack?" asked Charlie Moyer, in charge of publicity for the
concern.
We nodded agreement. No sooner said than done. We found a quiet place
in the projection room.
"We saw you at the opening of 'The Three Musketeers,'" somewhat
deliberately. "You looked fatigued."
"I was," his rather sallow, sober face lighted. And then we observed
that Jack has a most expressive pair of brown eyes. This characteristic must
run in the Pickford family.
"In fact, I only had a short time to freshen up before going to the
theatre."
"And how do you like directing?" we interrogated.
"Oh, it's all right."
"Fauntleroy is your first--no, you've directed other pictures haven't
you?" fumbling with memory.
"Yes. I co-directed sister in 'Through the Back Door.'"
"Has directing superseded your first love--acting?"
"No. It certainly hasn't." He warmed with the interest inspired by a
subject so near his heart. "I've skipped from directing to acting now and am
working on my first Jack Pickford Production, which United Artists will
release--'The Tailor Made Man.' Al--Director Green," he elucidated, "and
myself have already shot many of the exteriors here in New York. There are
scenes in Wall Street, taken during the rush hours of the day and night.
There are subway scenes, which we took around three or four in the morning.
These scenes represent the rush hour in the underground. Of course, we had
to secure permission to take them and then had to assemble a group of extras
and the necessary mechanical paraphernalia. We took scenes of a beautiful
Fifth Avenue mansion and numerous shots on Broadway."
"Now you're all set to forge ahead?"
He acquiesced. "While Sister and Doug are on the other side I use
Mary's studio. Doug wants Mr. Green and myself to come over when we finish
my picture and direct him in a big special. But that won't be for many
months yet."
We remembered that Doug had told us he would probably make a picture on
the other side provided he and Mary decided to go. Just what type picture it
will be is a matter to conjure with, but it is sure to sustain the high
standard set by 'The Three Musketeers' and, who can tell, maybe it will be
the picturization of a classic indigenous to the country in which he is
residing at the time, for a year and a half on the other side is a long time,
and you can never tell what may happen.
"But I prefer acting to directing just now," averred Jack. "After all,
there is as much worry and responsibility connected with this phase as with
the other."
We recalled some of his last pictures for Goldwyn and wondered, half-
hesitatingly, whether they had caused him any worry. Accordingly we gingerly
crept around the subject to ask:
"Did you enjoy making your Goldwyn pictures?"
He gazed at us with a bit of compunction. "I can't say I did enjoy
making the last few anyway. I didn't like the stories. Which was largely
the reason Goldwyn and I parted. I turned down one story after another, not
through perversity, but because they were unsuitable. And you know, when a
star does that he accused of temperament and all that goes with it.
"There is one picture I made for Goldwyn that I hope to buy back some
day and make again. That is John Fox, Jr.'s 'Little Shepherd of Kingdom
Come.'" He sighed, rather abjectly. "I was bitterly disappointed with that
picture. I, myself, suggested the story to Mr. Goldwyn and enthused him with
the idea of making it. Then what happened? It was turned over to a scenario
writer who treated it frightfully. The directorial end was put in the hands
of a man who somehow or other failed to grasp the bigness and beauty of the
story.
"Why," his eyes glistened, "one scene which, aside from its actual
beauty and pathos, would have been novel on the screen, was CUT." He flung
his hands out in helpless anger. "That was the scene where Chad, the boy,
comes home from the 'Settlement' to find his beloved dog being tried for
sheep murder. Never has a dog trial been conducted on the screen. But,"
a shrug, "that was cut."
"We never saw the picture," diffidently, "largely because 'The Little
Shepherd of Kingdom Come' is one of our ideal stories and we were afraid to
see the screen version.
"Well, I'm glad you didn't see it," asserted Jack. "I wouldn't go
myself."
At this inauspicious moment, who should come in but Doug, himself.
He smiled a greeting and turned to Jack to inquire: "When are they going to
show 'Fauntleroy?'"
"As soon as Mary comes."
"Well, she's here now," said Doug.
Which meant our reluctant exit, for to be so near and yet so far from
seeing the highly spoken of and eagerly awaited special production was a form
of subtle cruelty that didn't chime in with finely keyed feelings. However,
we pacified ourself, tomorrow night is the big opening and we'll be there
with Mary and Doug and Jack and Al Green and all of the celebrities and near-
celebrities that can push, shove and be pushed and shoved into the confines
of the Apollo Theatre.
Jack rose to bid us good-bye, his slim, neat figure, about five feet
six, slightly stooped in the semi-hunch that is so characteristic.
Before we departed, however, we learned about Jack's beloved White
Eagle, the Arab horse that had once belonged to Doug, but which he had given
to Jack on his twenty-fifth birthday. Jack uses an English jockey saddle--it
looked to us like an onion skin affair--because he can take fences better
unhindered than he would be able to on a broad Western saddle with a horn
that would press into him when leaning forward for the jump.
It was good to meet Jack. He's a nice boy.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Theodore Roberts
[Taylor directed Roberts in "The Varmint," "Judy of Rogue's Harbor," and "The
Furnace."]
February 1920
Emma Lindsay-Squier
MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC
I had intended to talk to Theodore Roberts about pictures exclusively.
They told me at the Lasky studio that he had more roles to his credit than
any other actor on the screen, besides a multitude of Thespian
interpretations given in his forty years on the legitimate and vaudeville
stages. So, as I walked up the hill that leads to his Hollywood castle,
I planned a perfectly splendid conversational outline, commencing with how
did he like motion pictures and ending with what did he think of the future
of the cinema.
But--you know about the best laid plans of mice and interviewers.
As I waited in the cool dimness of a Jacobean period library, I heard his
wife calling to him in the back yard. Then I heard her say something about
putting on a collar, and there was a murmur of conversation I couldn't catch.
And when he came in to greet me, he didn't have a collar on, and I could have
hugged him. He didn't even apologize for it, just said that he was busy
working in the yard, and wouldn't I like to come out and see his animals and
his trees.
I mentally tore up the outline and went out with him into the back yard.
How CAN one talk art to a man who won't wear a collar and who looks like a
sea-captain on shore leave?
"I'm just getting the yard fixed up," he told me, pointing out the
Japanese sunken garden, with trick bridges and weeping willows and things.
"I'm going to have some kennels for my Airedales--I raise them, you know, as
a hobby--and over here will be an aviary for my prize pigeons and tame
seagulls--birds are a hobby with me, too-and over there will be a concrete
swimming pool where Mrs. Roberts and I can take a daily plunge."
"Is that a hobby, too?" I broke in, facetiously, but he answered in all
seriousness, "Indeed, it is. I need rigorous exercise to keep me in trim for
my work at the studio."
Since he HAD mentioned studio, I felt that it wouldn't be inapropos to
say something about pictures, so I told him that he was reported to hold the
championship in the movie world for versatility and for having more roles to
his credit than any other actor on the screen. He nodded, rather absent-
mindedly, keeping an eye on the man who was hauling dirt from the swimming
pool excavation.
"Yes, I've played a great many roles, both in the legitimate and the
movies," he acknowledged. "My stage career commenced in 1880, and I played
everything from Shylock to Simon Legree, and ran the gamut of dramatic
characterizations from Svengali and King Lear to lighter roles such as the
County Chairman in the play of that name and Falstaff in 'The Merry Wives of
Windsor.' Then I toured the country in my own vaudeville sketch and, five
years ago, went into pictures. Since then I've averaged one role a month,
sometimes more, so you can figure out how many parts that is--and that will
be enough shop talk, won't it?" He broke off abruptly, turning his keen,
humorous grey eyes on me.
I said it would, because I did want to see his Airedale dogs, which were
woofing at the top of their lungs to attract his attention, and his tame sea-
gulls, which were with the pigeons in the flying pen, screaming to the high
heavens that they wanted food immediately, if not sooner. So we inspected
the kennels, and I was sniffed at by "Boy Scout" and "Friar Tuck," and had my
face licked affectionately by "Lady." Then we went over to the flying pens,
where his prize pigeons, enormous Runts, were strutting and cooing, and the
tame sea-gulls, "Pete" and "Repeat," flew on his shoulders and hands.
"I'm particularly fond of sea-gulls," Mr. Roberts told me, as "Pete"
snapped at his meerschaum cigar-holder. "You know, it is practically
impossible to tame them, but I got these fellows when they were just
fledglings. It was on the Santa Cruz Islands, where the Cecil De Mille
company was making the shipwreck scenes for 'Male and Female.' I took the
part of Lord Loam, and one of the carpenters brought me these birds, just
hatched. We all took a hand at raising them, and when we left the islands,
I brought them back with me. When the aviary is finished they'll have a
miniature lake to swim around in--it's a hobby of mine to provide natural
surroundings as nearly as possible for all my pets."
"How did you enjoy the strenuous scenes in 'Male and Female'?" I asked,
when we sat down--on a sawhorse--to watch the pigeons.
"They were--well, interesting," affirmed the veteran character actor.
"The days on the island were strenuous ones. I was dressed in pajamas and in
never occurred to me that I would suffer from sunburn, but my ankles were
exposed, and they were fairly baked in two days. I had to hobble around on
improvised crutches except when I was working in the picture.
"The role I like best?" he echoed, in response to my question.
"Oh, that's hard to say. I rather enjoyed Wealth in 'Everywoman,' but for
real artistic value, I liked the part of the old rounder in 'Old Wives for
New'--you remember, the old fellow who is shot by the girl he snubbed. And
on the legitimate stage," he went on, reminiscently, "I enjoyed doing Shylock
better than any other character. You see so few convincing portrayals of
that character. He is depicted mostly as a scurrilous Jew with an enormous
lust for gold and a vicious spirit that is satisfied only with blood, while
as a matter of fact, Shakespeare has given him no speeches that are not full
of dignity and forcefulness, while is whole personality is that of a leader,
not of a mongrel money-lending foreigner. I tried to make him the
representative of a race--and a human being."
I found myself thinking that it WAS possible to talk art without a
collar, but Mr. Roberts was through for the time being.
"Come see my trees," he invited. "Trees are a hobby of mine and I have
a few rare ones in the yard."
The one he pointed out looked like a live oak, but it was a cork tree,
he told me. My idea of corks has always been vague; I rather thought they
grew in bottles, but it seems not. Mr. Roberts cut a slice of the bark for
me, and it was cork, just the same as you'd see in a bottle of--er--catsup,
and he told me that he could have made a fortune off his tree in pre-
prohibition days, but that he had bought it too late. Then there was a
"butterfly" tree, with flowers of flaming orange and leaves that looked like
butterfly wings and that fold together at night. They, too, are very rare,
and will not grow where there is frost; and Mr. Roberts told me,
impressively, his house was just two blocks beyond the frost belt in
Hollywood--otherwise he couldn't have a butterfly-tree.
When he had shown me his shrubbery, I asked point-blank how many other
hobbies he had, and he laughed, showing white teeth and crinkly wrinkles
around his eyes.
"Quite a few, he confessed. "In the first place, there's art--you see,
I come from a family of artists. My father painted very well indeed, and so
does my sister. I was told, when young, by a famous artist that I ought to
follow that career, but I inclined towards the stage. However, I paint, draw
and 'sculp,' collect paintings and furniture and--oh, yes," he interrupted
himself again in his abrupt fashion, "I mustn't forget my hobby of correct
make-up--that is a very important one." He led the way to the Japanese
gardens and we sat beside the tiny lily pond while he talked about this most
"important" hobby of his.
"I have always given the most careful study to making up for character,"
he said. "You might say that I stop at nothing to get the result I want.
I'm wearing a mustache just now, but I will shave it off for my next
character bit with Mary Miles Minter in 'Judy of Rogue's Harbor.' I've let
my hair get long and unkempt, I've allowed my beard to grow--I even shaved my
eyebrows once. Not only that, but I give close attention to grease-paint and
putty. I have some materials on my dressing-table at the studio that you
will not find elsewhere, because I have them made up especially for me. When
I am assigned a part, I immediately begin to study it. What would this man
look like? Is he a grouch? Very well, then, hard lines about the mouth and
nostrils. Is he a miser? Close, furtive eyes, then, and thin lips; an open-
hearted, careless old fellow, he must have ruddy cheeks and well-groomed
features.
"The other day I was made up as an old miner, with long white beard and
weather-beaten countenance. I was coming back from lunch and saw a group of
my friends outside the studio. I hailed them, not thinking of my make-up,
and they stared at me blankly for an instant. Then they burst into laughter
as they told me how one of them had just remarked, as I approached, 'Look at
that old fellow--he's a wonderful type--he ought to register for a job!'"
All of which is interesting comment upon the vividness of Roberts' make-
up.
A voice from he house told "Theodore" that lunch was ready, and I rose
to go, though hospitably urged to remain. But I was obdurate.
"Your hobbies are wonderful!" I told him, as he accompanied me to the
steps.
"Yes, I collect almost everything," he laughed.
"Except collars," I reminded him, wickedly.
"Yes, except collars!" he admitted, without a trace of shame.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Myrtle Stedman
[Taylor directed Stedman in "The American Beauty," "Pasquale," "The Happiness
of Three Women," and "The World Apart."]
November 1920
Elizabeth Peltret
MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC
Of course, she had to get Chicago out of her system or the city would
have been calling her all the time. So she went back to the place she was
born and studied for the stage, which, according to the laws of Romance, was
the proper thing for a girl brought up in the mountains of Colorado to do.
At any rate, Myrtle Stedman not only studied for the stage, but she went on
the stage, becoming a prima donna in a very short time.
But the most impressionable period of her life had been spend in a
mining camp about forty miles from Denver. There she had learnt horseback
riding and, being at an altitude of 10,000 feet, she had naturally become
proficient in the most difficult of mountain sports. She was a child of the
snows, blonde and hardy as a Dane.
It was while she was appearing in comic opera in Chicago that she met
Colonel Selig and he, needing a leading lady and hearing that she could ride
horseback, immediately approached her with an offer.
"But," she protested, "I don't know anything about moving pictures."
"You can learn," he answered. "Why don't you come and visit us?"
"So," she said, in telling me about it, "I went to visit the studio.
I saw the making of several scenes, but wasn't greatly tempted--I was afraid
that I wouldn't be able to do the work. Then Colonel Selig showed me a
beautiful thoroughbred horse. 'This horse,' he said, 'will be yours if you
join us. You can ride him all the time.'
"So it was that that decided me to leave comic opera for moving
pictures."
You might call it persuaded by a horse.
"My first picture was called 'The Range-Riders'," she went on, "and I
was not the only member of the company making my debut. A young man who had
come the same morning was as strange to the screen as myself. I was
introduced to Tom Mix and after that we made a number of pictures together."
Miss Stedman started her screen career at about the same time that Mary
Pickford, Blanche Sweet, Bobbie Harron, Kathlyn Williams and other famous
"pioneers" started theirs. Her work in the popular "westerns" was unrivaled.
We were lunching together in a pretty little flat she recently rented in
Hollywood. It is on top of a gently sloping hill and commands a lovely view
of the surrounding country. For lunch, there was chicken, jellied, with
mayonnaise, whole tomatoes icy cold, Saratoga chips, hot rolls, iced tea and
sliced peaches, the whole especially designed to tempt appetites made
indifferent by the heat outside.
We (Miss Stedman had thoughtfully called at my office to get me) had
arrived to find the doorbell in the process of being repaired, not by the to-
be-expected workmen, but by two portly, well-dressed ladies, the owners of
the house.
"They own several houses," Miss Stedman whispered, "and whenever
anything goes wrong, they insist on making the repairs themselves."
During luncheon, we could see them through the slightly parted portieres
that divided the dining from the sitting-room. One of the ladies stood on a
stepladder, placed just inside the front door, and hammered from time to
time, while the other held a kit of tools handy and tried the doorbell
occasionally to see if it would work. At last it rang, and after making a
few little repairs in the kitchen--it seemed that the ice-box drain needed
attention--they left, shown out by Lucille, Miss Stedman's irrepressibly
goodnatured little negro maid, who rang the bell herself for good measure and
then ran through the room giggling.
"Funny little thing!" said Miss Stedman, laughing in sympathy.
And then, just as we left the table and started for the living-room, the
doorbell began to ring.
"What on earth!" she exclaimed--there was no one in sight. Still the
bell rang, loudly, continuously, as though making up for lost time. After a
protracted search it was discovered that the amateur electricians had in some
way connected the thing with a clothes closet door. When the door was left
open the bell wouldn't ring at all, but with the door closed it rang all the
time. The door was propped open, to keep out the noise, and we returned to
the living-room and seated ourselves comfortably on a big davenport. We had
been laughing so heartily that, for a minute, conversation was impossible.
"Let's see; where were we?" said Miss Stedman, and then answering
herself, "Oh, yes; at the Westerns. Of course, we worked under difficulties
that producers don't have now. There was, for instance, the matter of the
trademark. It was, you remember, a big diamond 'S' and it had to appear in
every scene. Sometimes we would get miles out on location and find that it
had been forgotten. When this happened, production was held up until the
property man could get it from the studio; we never dared make anything
without it."
There was, of course, the ever present possibility that someone would
try and steal some of their stuff.
It was about five years ago that Myrtle Stedman left Chicago and
Westerns for drama and California. She appeared as Saxon in Jack London's
"Valley of the Moon," and was also in the first production of "Burning
Daylight." It will be remembered that she was at Lasky's for a time playing
with Hayakawa, Wallie Reid and many others.
"I suppose you've had a trying week," I remarked, referring to some re-
takes for "Sowing the Wind," in which she had been working at the Mayer
studio.
"Yes, I've been weeping steadily all the way through this picture. It's
an old 'Romance' play, you know--of course, they've brought it up-to-date.
"I did hope that I was going to do a Western next, but it seems that the
picture won't be a Western after all. It's a mill story. However, it will
be with Bill Hart and I'm delighted about that anyway!"
Myrtle Stedman has a frank, straight-forward way of looking at you from
clear blue eyes, a frank straight-forward handshake.
She has never lost her capacity for enthusiasms. She loves the theater
and she can still watch a play or a picture uncritically, laughing at the
right moments and crying at the right moments, too. With all this, her work
shows her to be a remarkably finished artist.
It is not to be wondered at, that Rex Beach, seeing her in New York,
engaged her for the part of Cherry Melotte in "The Silver Horde." She was an
ideal choice for the part.
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