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Straight Eights And Other Things BY LOUISE GALLAGHER
THE motion picture actor that you know on the screen is largely a finished product that much money and artistic taste has combined into a mould the will be well received by the public. A few of them drop this studio-imposed role when beyond the sound of the megaphone but others live up at all times to the personality accredited to them. There is one sure way of recognizing the heroes of the silent drama when you meet them far from the Kleig lights under the romantic California moon or in the glare of the noon day sun that shows Hollywood Boulevard in a pitiless light.
If the actor is worthwhile at all-really belongs among those who count cinematically-he will be driving a Straight Eight. It is the only thing he fits into after his weekly studio check runs to four figures. Hair slicked straight back from good looking faces, expressive eyes carelessly taking in the admiring glances, these democratic young Americans of simple habits and taste, ramble along the bumpy streets of Hollywood, in a way to merit the approval of the most fastidious.
I must confess that Norman Kerry’s Straight Eight makes a smashing hit with me every time it noses my; little red Buick out of its way. On a close-up both the roadster and Norman knock you to a fade-out and are worth a trip across the continent just to be able to dodge out of the way of at a street crossing, if you happen to be young and romantic. Of course, if you have a weakness for blondes, you may not think he is the whole show and prefer risking your life dodging the Straight Eight of Conrad Nagel or Ralph Graves, Dew Cody’s wicked Eight is likely to catch you unawares while you are admiring the bright red devil of Antonio Moreno. Not Such Good Pickin’s.
When it comes to picking out the motion picture actress you are not going to fare so well. It is a most difficult thing to tell Who Is Who among the women. There is no distinguishing mark that sets aside the radiant young stars of the screen from their less fortunate sisters.
An oil man’s daughter from Phoenix, Ariz., oozes along the boulevard just as shimmery as the boat vamp the motion picture industry boasts of. A stenographer from Atlanta spending her vacation in the West, puts up just as good an impression of an ash blonde as does Blanch Sweet or Alice Terry. The cold storage stare the haughty brunette gives you might be forgivable in Pauline Frederick or Pola but when you find next day that the unapproaching looking one is the manicurist at your hotel, you don’t feel she deserves a tip.
Women do that sort of thing very well. The only ones they don’t put a thing over on are those in their own profession. You are definitely labeled in the motion picture museum by what you have done. The extra girl can run a bluff as to the number of big sets she has worked on and enlarge upon the telephone calls she receives from various studios but after she has advanced from the stage, she is no longer privileged to draw upon her imagination. If she does so, she is likely to get tripped up pretty quick.
On a set recently a girl was telling us about a good little part she had done in a Harold Lloyd picture. She talked well and seeing that we were interested she made a very humorous thing of it right up to the last when My. Lloyd told her the whole thing had been cut, but that he would make it up to her by giving her a part in the very first picture he put on that called for a snappy flapper.
“You told that well, Cleo,” a red-headed girl who had been partly hidden by an artificial palm came into our group, “Anyone could look at you and know you are young and ambitious but as a biographer you don’t seem to care to deal with ???? I happen to be the girl who played that part and Mr. Lloyd was sorry when it had to be cut and did say he wouldn’t forget me for something in the future. He is a peach to work for all right. Cleo just got names mixed, girls, that’s all.” Cleo looked after her as she walked away. “Ain’t she a cat?”
Gotham Manners.
I have never known a girl from New York that had any manners.” If you want to get by with the females of the movies, you had better be yourself. Not only have they a way of catching up with your bluff if you attempt to pull cone but of completely overlooking you if they feel that you have violated any of the ethics of the game. The other day out at Goldwyn’s another girl and I were told that for that day we would have to vacate the dressing room assigned to us and go in with the “high class atmosphere” girls in the big studio dressing room. I was busy with my makeup when I heard a timid voice say from across the room. “I have forgotten my can of whitening I Whatever shall I do?”
Usually such a remark brings forth all sorts of offers of help for the girls are generous about sharing their make-up. Not one of the girls near this unfortunate one said a word and I looked up to see the reason for the sudden stillness. Miss Forgetful was watching a maid search wildly through a big makeup case.
I had not noticed the maid before and looked about to see if by any chance a star had been compelled to use on ftlr~ftdy crowded dressing room. I failed to locate any shining one and asked the girl next me if there was a maid in attendance. “Don’t be silly. That’s the personal maid of that atmosphere girl. Haven’t you seen her before? She comes out to the studio in a big limousine with her chauffeur and maid and gets $7.50 a day. I wouldn’t loan her whitening if she goes on looking like a South Sea Islander.”
I called the maid and offered my whitening and later on the set the girl came over where I was and asked me if I would have luncheon with her at the studio café. Thinking she was asking me on account of the loan of the whitening, I refused. Then she said quite simply, “I do wish you would. I can’t tell you how lonely I get sometimes, I just wish I could shuck it all and go back home. The girls don’t like me. If I get up courage enough to go over and join them when they are having a good time between scenes, they shut right up and I feel so uncomfortable and out of place.”
I went with her to lunch and she told me about the chauffeur and maid. She was from a small town in Michigan. Father had made a fortune during the war but they had no social standing in their hometown. Mother had bit upon the novel plan of daughter going into the movies to help boost them among neighbors. A careful plan had been mapped out by which daughter was to dazzle Hollywood producers with her gorgeous wardrobe and Rolls-Royce, But to put the dimmers on though ftlT~ady established In the film capitol is not easy and despite much money freely spent, so far Hilda had gotten nothing but extra work. Instead of being taken for the whole show she was not even recognized by the . high atmosphere girls. She was just a lonely little girl, sick of it all and longing to get back among friends. I tried to tell her that it wall probably her taking ft maid on the sets with her that had antagonized the girls. That is a luxury never indulged in by anyone but a star. “It is all mother’s idea. I never had a maid before in my life and don’t want one. What am I going to do? I can’t stand it much longer if someone doesn’t talk to me. I sit around all day without a soul speaking to me. You saw how they acted about the whitening? I would be nice to the girls if they would only let me. I have plenty of money to spend.” As we were leaving that night, I saw the poor little rich girl offer a ride to one of the glrl8 waiting for the street car. The girl refused.
Tomorrow I am beginning work with the Harold Lloyd company and am looking; forward to it with interest, though my small part may only last a few days. From all accounts, the Lloyd company is a pleasant one to be with and I am sure I will find it so.
I have always known that I liked flattery but I got an extra thrill when an exclusive hat shop called me at the studio and asked that I come by their place at the first opportunity. I had been in the shop about a week ago and tried on a dream of a hat but the price asked for it had made it prohibitive for me so I had tried to forget it. When I went by, the woman who owns the shop, asked me to accept as a present that hat I had admired so much. She was a Frenchwoman but I wanted to believe her when she told me her conscience just wouldn’t let her sell that hat because it looked so like me. She added tht she was charging it up to advertising and all she wanted was for me to tell where I bought my blue and silver dream. If only some store would get the same idea, life would be much simpler!
