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Job Hunting in Hollywood
BY LOUISE GALLAGHER
UNDER the make-up mask, the bizarre and foolish trappings of a motion picture extra player, there often lurks a highbrow soul who scorns the part he must play and looks only to that day when he can enlighten the world to the possibilities of high art in the silent drama.
I have met several of these artists whose creative talent is being wasted on the work they are doing. They usually know all the really great people away from here, even well enough to call most of them by their first names and you can’t help but feel that after the tremendously intellectual advantages that have been theirs, it is a little hard to have to be snubbed by camera men, ordered out of the way by electricians and completely ignored by directors. You find most of these highly tuned souls cynical and bitter and ready to point out the impossibility of ever getting a worthwhile foothold in pictures. Some of their criticism is just but more often it hits wide of the mark and is colored by an exaggerated opinion of their own ability.
There is one man whom I have worked around with on a great many sets-a sort of near-bear garden variety of John Barrymore so far as looks go. When I was new to the game he upstaged me dreadfully and I fell for all his wonderful friends and was properly impressed when he explained that he just gave his knowledge to directors as a gift rather than have production go on the market that violated all the rules of art. The first picture that I was in with him was a serial. He got in front of me so adroitly on every close-up and medium shot that when the picture was run I only got a glimpse of one arm and the top of my head. Twice in one scene the director came over and made him step back but he was so camera wise that he shifted again just at the right moment.
Two weeks later we met again “In The Shadow of the East.” There were so many on the set and I felt so strange and inexperienced that I was really glad to see him and during the three days we worked he did let me get in the hem of my skirt and one foot on two medium shots.
I noticed that he showed a decided preference to stay in my vicinity and managed to be my escort through the bazaars and hotel lobby but attached no importance to it until one of the girls expressed sympathy that I had gotten with that “camera hog.” She explained that this is the rather inelegant term bestowed upon players who push themselves to the front when the camera begins to grind and that my friend was so devoted to art and so determined to give the world the best in front of the silver sheet whenever possible. In plain words he was one of the prize “camera hogs.”
Since then I have met many of them. Men and women, but no longer let them side-track me. I have never seen a foreign player do this-it seems to be strictly an American custom.
Flapper A La 1950.
I have been working for a week on a comedy-drama set at Fox Studio. It is for foreign release only and the present title is, “The Last Man On Earth,” the last man in this case being Earl Fox. There is no leading lady and several of us have nice little feature parts. I am the 1950 Flapper and have had two pictures in the newspapers here predicting that my long bob will be in vogue 50 years from now. One of the best known beauty parlors sent a cameraman out to see if they could have a poster of me for their window. They would pay $20 and it would be splendid advertising. The director thought I was very foolish to decline but he doesn’t know that my curls are due to a permanent and that an expert would know it and maybe tell it too.
In this picture we have one scene that is a prize fight and the boxers are getting $20 a day. I missed out on it by about three inches and 20 pounds but they put me on as a second, which was next best. Our method of getting our boxers back in condition after a knockout is to sprinkle them with perfume and powder their noses. Jack Dempsey honored us with a visit on the day of our big fight and was very liberal in his applause. He thought our fancy steps in the ring were a decided innovation that he might take advantage of in his next big bout, and that if he could only find men who could use a turkish towel the way we did a powder puff, he would sign them up on a longtime contract.
No Retake Necessary
We were shooting some outdoor scenes today down at Santa Monica and when they told me I would not go on for an hour, I walked down on the beach by myself. I had on make-up and a Spanish frock so there was no mistaking me for other than I was. A rather good looking young Babbitt drove his car up to the edge of the sand and got out and came over where I was standing. Was I in pictures? I nodded, wondering what he thought I would be doing dressed as I was otherwise. What company? Fox. My short replies in no way affected his friendliness. Pretty cute the way my tambourine was strung and he put out his hand to adjust the ribbon on my shoulder that was holding it. It was my cue and when he got that close I tripped him nicely. Honestly it wouldn’t have needed a retake it was done so well. He just lost his balance enough to show up wabbly. I walked away with a sudden sinking feeling that was not regret for a nice bit of acting that had no celluloid registering but from a realization that six months ago I would never have done such a thing. Teddy, the assistant director, who had seen the incident from a distance, came down to meet me.
“Did the cheeky sheik try to carry you away in his little blue car, kid? Better stick around close when there are so many tourists about. They always think it is up to them to say something smart to girls in pictures.”
“Teddy,” I said desperately, “tell me what is wrong with me? That was an unpardonable thing for me to do. Six months ago I would have just ignored him and walked away but when he touched me, and I looked down and saw his funny white and brown shoes, it was just as thought I heard you call, “All right, Birmingham, step on it,” and “I must trip him in 10 feet of film. ”
Teddy’s hornrims studied me seriously for a moment. “I am afraid you are developing a comedy complex. You have all of the symptoms.”
“Don’t tell me it is that? Yesterday I went into a store to buy some slippers. The clerk was unusully obliging and took down nearly every shoe in stock trying to please me. Do you know when he was fitting me it was all I could do to keep from giving him a push with my toe just to see how far he would tumble. I got out as soon as I could and there was a man cranking his Ford. I kept wishing it would backfire or something and send him whirling down the street.”
“That’s it. Comedy complex,” Teddy said. “I bet when you see a painter on a ladder you do some quick thinking? ”
“I just want to give it a shake and watch him do a flip flop or dangle in mid air.”
“Well, don’t worry. It is not really dangerous unless you reach the stage where you want to grease the steps when you are going to have guests or slip a cocktail shaker into the minister’s hands when he calls.” “But I might do that anytime. You remember I did that in the last comedy.”
Teddy went on to say that being in comedies is apt to color your whole life-jazz all of the romance clean off the horizon. These Yale men go in so for metaphysics that they can explain everything ’till you wish you had a sling shooter just to make them jump and rattle their English a trifle.
I hope to get out of comedies soon, even though I am best suited for them. Could you imagine anything worse than putting out your toe so his knees would skid from under him when Howard was proposing to you? I wouldn’t feel that I was married unless someone poured a bucket of water over me or the groom lost the ring and ducked under all the seats looking for it. That is what comedies do for you. Think about it long and seriously girls before you take them up as a profession.
