Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Jul 1929)

21 By Their Furs Ye Shall Knov? Them Is the extravagant display o£ pelts by the movie queens symbolic of their comparatively short reigns? By Elsi Qui Illustration by Lui Trugo THE luncheon guests at the Montmartre, many of them stars of first magnitude, stared at her with varying degrees of interest. For the most part, the women looked her over with the cool, impersonal glance they would have bestowed upon her wax counterpart in a shop window. The men were more specific, noting her "points" with the deliberate, calculating appraisal, which earlier in the century would have been regarded as highly offensive, and was now obviously invited. She had a small, vacuous, painted face, and a figure that would have sent Cleopatra on a premature asp hunt out of sheer envy. The gown she was displaying, or which was displaying her, was in the classic words of Ella Cinders, "two whoops ahead of fashion's latest whisper." Around the hem of her sheer, satin wrap was a wide band of costly fur. It didn't even serve to keep her knees warm. It served no purpose save to gratify the vanity of the wearer, and to stir envious emotions in the hearts of ladies whose various contracts, business and personal, were fizzling toward a gloomy eclipse. Unquestionably there was something daringly piquant in the contrast between that luxurious peltry and the slender, ivory-smooth legs that twinkled beneath it ; it spoke subtly of many things which would be discussed openly around the tables, following the little hush that had ushered in the girl's appearance. She was a protegee of So-and-so ; he had promised to star her ; she ought to register ; given the right stories, she might register ; do the Billie Dove sort of thing, perhaps, but Thus the comment was batted back and forth like bright-colored glass globes, until another exotic personality caught for a second or two the blase attention of the crowd. A famous star, wife of a wealthy producer, slipped her enormously expensive sable coat from her slim shoulders, and with slightly raised eyebrows, drawled some remark that set her table laughing. She perfectly symbolizes success in the movies. She has had the good judgment to rely implicitly on her husband's business acumen to exploit her talents, never having resorted to the type of publicity which has made headline material of the names of some of her contemporaries, only to react as a boomerang. Hollywood pays her the supreme compliment of admitting that she is witty and wise; among her huge fan following she is beloved for more endearing qualities. Yet there are strange quirks in her character, which are difficult to reconcile with her highly developed intelligence. Furs, for instance. She has a passion for furs. Be sides the sable wrap, she has forty or more fur garments in her wardrobe. The care of them alone represents the outlay of a small fortune. If she lived within the Arctic Circle she would not need so many. But of course it is not for warmth alone that women wear furs. And what of it, you say, if a beautiful and successful woman chooses to indulge in this expensive hobby? Does not her femininity bestow the right to adorn her exquisite body in the manner which gives her the most satisfaction ? And are we not all instinctively collectors to some extent ? Yes. But this girl contributes regularly to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. I do not know that she actually attends the meetings as some well-meaning women do — often with fox pelts dangling nonchalantly from their shoulders — to listen with pained indignation to stories of cruelties endured by cats and canary birds ; but her dogs are pampered as no self-respecting dog should be pampered, and she would suffer in the presence of a broken-down old horse being flogged up a hill. Sable, chinchilla, ermine, silver fox. Each one of the thousands of peltries that go to make up the luncheonhour display at the Montmartre represents an animal tragedy — and not the quick, merciful tragedy of nature's everlasting life-and-death struggle. Traps. Death in a form which the proprietors of fox farms are careful not to publicize, though one wonders if, after all, it would make much difference if women knew what lengths are resorted to, in order to insure fox pelts against disfigurement. Fur is luxurious ; it feels delightful against a smooth skin ; it represents much money ; and women will have it, no matter what it costs in blood and agony. Gentle Mary Pickf ord ; the lovely Norma Talmadge ; audacious Connie, who hides her sensitive, almost melancholy, and introspective nature behind a brazen shield ; piquant, tender-hearted Colleen Moore ; Pola, the foster mother of orphans ; Marion Davies, gracious, warmhearted ; all these, and any number of lesser luminaries crowding toward the front, wear furs with a heedless disregard of the cruelty thereby entailed, which would be almost laughable in its incongruity, had it no deeper significance. But therein lies, perhaps, the secret why, with few exceptions, women do not "last" as long on the stage or screen, as men. Screen stars, particularly, whose histories have been made, for the most part, within the last decade, are completely representative of what we are pleased to call the emancipated woman. They have Continued on page 110 :q:to; z$'£6-bti i §yz : isaoqcnq aid! sihuxiO