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Job Hunting in Hollywood
“Atmosphere” Beats Rollin’ Your Own – BY LOUISE GALLAGHER
ASK any of the major poets or serious young writers who congregate of an evening around the clubs of Hollywood what is the only thing that counts and they will tell you with one voice that it is love . Ask the same question of a motion picture director and he will throw himself into a dramatic pose and assure you it is brains, backed by a keen sense of nigh art, which wonderful combination is found only among the men of his profession.
The handsome young real estate salesman is quite serious in saying that the most desired of all things is a good collection of expressive adjectives. A producer automatically mumbles “Bigger and bigger picture,” which wall-motto has been definitely photographed upon his brain to the exclusion of all lighter and frivolous things.
The actor-motion picture or legitimate-gives you what he believes to be a Nazimova stare from under the , depths of his eyelids and Hamlet’s, “To be able to wear your clothes swanky and kiss correctly with your shoulders. ”
But ask The Woman Who Pays and she will tell you simply and truthfully that the only thing that counts in this fantastic world is to be able to go without hose-to cast forever into the discard the jazzed up banana, nude and flesh chiffons that have occupied such an important part of the destinies of poor but proud movie girls. A great peace and contentment has come to the female inhabitants of the hamlet of Hollywood since they have elected to walk in “atmosphere” only.
It may be unfair to rob the hose manufacturers of their means of earning an honest livelihood, but, my gracious, one has to consider their own interests first sometimes. You deposit your nice studio check on Monday morning and skip on home feeling happy and carefree and the thing that greets you in your parlor bedroom and kitchenette combined is a dangling army of private chiffon’s stretched on a barbed wire across the room. A rigid inspection of the morale of your little army leaves nothing to be done but replace them by others who will in turn prove just as faithless. By Wednesday your bank account is in such a sickly condition it is liable to pass out at any moment. The only alternative is strong drink, which solace is out of your reach in this fair garden spot, for no bootlegger who makes a serious study of modern methods of better business to increase his trade and double his profits, will extend credit to a cinemite, or you can go into second speed and mummify on the edge of movie lots.
Atmosphere-That’s All.
The girls swore by their French heels and favorite lipsticks that something must be done, and a Joan of Arc arose among us with the dazzling idea of not only rolling our own but manufacturing them as well. It is all very simple. You buy two 50 cent size cans of liquid whitening: one heavy white, the other pale flesh. A thick coating of white and a lighter one of the flesh, and behold, the new “atmosphere hose” the latest vogue in well-dressed movie circles.
Best of all you can have a fresh clean pair every day and your dollar investment will last you for two or three weeks. If you wish to be ultra-smart or go in for novelties, you can paint cunning little clocks up and down the ankles or a dashing butterfly fluttering across the instep. A mother and two cans of whitenting is all now that any ambitious girl needs to break into the movies.
The men how have been having much the best of things up to date seem at last to lie coming into their share of expense for personal adornment. Cecil B. DeMille as per usual is to blame. The modern movie hero in society is to wear specs with a handle. He must wield a wicked lorgnon if he is to be classed as one of the F.F.’s of filmland. (A lorgnon, old thing, is a pair of eye-glasses with a handle on them.) I saw Theodore Kosloff squinting through one up on the Lasky lot the other day where they were filming “Feet of Clay.” It wasn’t so awful on the picturesque Russian but think what is in store for us if taxicab drivers and policemen adopt the style.
Another thing that is sure to bring on the weeps is the rumor rapidly spreading through all the studios that the cinema sheikh is dead. Patent-leather hair, soulful eyes, worn half closed, dark skin and tight collars, that have ensnared our hearts for so long are passing, and nice plain looking fellows, who might pass for your next door neighbor, are taking their place. It is a little hard on us new beginners who have never really had a fair chance at the Latin lovers.
Wicked But Interesting.
I have been working for over it week on a Harry Langdon comedy. Just an innocent immigrant girl who finds life in a big city wicked but interesting. You can’t imagine how comfortable it is being a peasant. You never have to change your dress; the little bundle of clothes that they all carry must contain sawdust and is their artful way of fooling the world into thinking they possess at least a change of underwear.
When you are a peasant you can just drop down anywhere between scenes and let the electricians and cameramen walk all over you, secure in the thought that it will only add to your characterization to have a few more dirty spots. All you have to do when the director calls you back on the set is to rearrange your bandanna and there you are. It doesn’t make a particle of difference about the rest of your get-up, so that the handkerchief is at the right angle to express immigrant emotion as understood by moving picture directors.
I like working with Harry Langdon. He is not the type of comedian who thinks he has to be funny off the screen, but a rather dignified fellow who stays much to himself when the camera is not clicking. In this picture we are doing a carnival street scene that has already taken three days, but which will probably be cut to two flashes before release.
Some of the girls have had to wear court dresses with huge headdresses that have been unusually depressing on account of the hot weather. By the middle of the afternoon it would be hard to find a more weary band of joy makers. I was afraid in the beginning that I was scheduled to be one of those unlucky foreigners who ends up in the last reel in the Ritz ballroom in an imported gown but, thank goodness, such is not to be my fate. I travel my rose-strewn way in comfortable, cool calico, right up to the final fade out.
Ben Turpin came over on our set this morning to tell me good-bye. He is going on a three weeks’ vacation up somewhere in the Rookies where he can be far away from the countless women who are always trying to attract his fancy. He told me this seriously and then dared me to look him straight in the eyes and see if he were telling the truth. Ben has been ever so nice to me when I have been playing with his company, and I told him I hoped to be on in his next picture. “If you want to get noticed, kid, you’ll fight clear of handsome fellows like me and get on with homely chaps like Norman Kerry and Ramon Navarro. A beginner hasn’t a fair chance reeling along with a dashing hero like myself.
