Picture Play Magazine (Sep 1919 - Feb 1920)

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He might be correctly addressed as Sehor Antonio Garriao Monteagudo Moreno. Antonio at the Bath A turkish towel stimulates an impromptu interview from the serial crusader trom Spain. By Herbert Howe I LEFT Antonio Moreno struggling in the water of "Perils of Thunder Mountain," on the screen of a Broadway theater, and met him getting out of it in his room at the Lambs' Club. It was a damp reception but cordial. One dry hand was extended in salutation while the wet one was employed with a Turkish towel massaging the equatorial zone. Don Antonio had just emerged from his morning shower, or, speaking by the clock, from his noon ablutions. "I beg your pardon for receiving you this way It is terrible — this New York — what it does to man. Out on the coast I am up at seven and at work. I give my word!" There is no denying Tony when he gives his word in italics. His emphasis is registered with voice, eyes, and both hands. This impassioned earnestness, which, I fancy, might strike amorous fi among fair ladies, is about the only trait foreign about him— that and an agreeable Spanish seasoning to nis conversation. He had come to New York for a week's vacation between serials. Having endured and overcome all the perils of Thunder Mountain, he was recuperating for the perils of the next installment-plan drama. But the ordinary life of New York, from which he had been absent for a year, evidently was proving as strenuous as a serial thriller. His room, as he remarked, was a "mess." "Owen Moore came up here for a snooze yesterday, and I guess he must have moved everything around and messed it all up." The excuse was lame and halting, a passing of the buck to one not present to deny. Certainly friend Owen was not responsible for the shoe boxes piled against the wall like sandbags in a front-line trench. "Boots — boots — boots — boots, long strings. Forty thousand million Boots — boots — boots — boots." I could only think of Kipling's mad rhythm of the men crazed by seeing so many boots. I wasn't crazed, but I was dazed. There was enough pedal equipment in that room for a centipede on a transcontinental hike. "For the love of your sole, Tony !" I exclaimed. "What is the idea of the accumulations of brogans ? I knew serials were hard on footwear, but you have enough here to provide a shoe for every foot of film." His shopping had not been confined to this particular accessory, either. From the chiffonier he jerked down a box overflowing with neckwear, and another from a wardrobe trunk similarly filled. And through a closet door was beheld a sort of leaning tower of Pisa. Hat boxes ! But there was not a stitch of clothes in sight. I wondered if he was planning to wear anything between his necktie and shoe laces. Ordinary clothes seem no more appropriate to Antonio than the title of Mister; Mister Moreno, sounds all wrong, doesn't it? It should be Don or Sehor or Prince. The apparel should match — a toreador's cloak, a tiger skin, a silver shield, a link jerkin, the crimson mantle of Mark Antony. No more do serial roles suit his personality. Usually you can deduce something of a man's manner and character by observing him on the screen. Not so Moreno. You would imagine him an But every one calls him "Tony." offspring of Hercules, whereas, in person, he more closely resembles