Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Jul 1929)

16 Photo by Louise Carmel Myers displays, in "Dream of Love," this amusing example of excessive zeal on the part of the costume designer. F OR no particular reason other than a passion for argument, I feel impelled to Do the Stars In spite of Hollywood's vaunted leader the absurdity of such a claim and adduces among the stars, and that good taste By M challenge the statements that Hollywood is fast becoming the fashion capital of the world. These statements increase in frequency, and are good for prolonged disputes among ladies of the screen during those intimate waits between shampoos, marcels, fittings, and the first and second cups of tea. Although my heated interest indicates no personal issue, it being my custom to shop at bargain sales, and thank God for the invention of the $4.95 sweater, clothes as an abstraction will render any fcmmc garrulous. Hence it gives me keen delight to say, to whomever will listen, that of all the wealthy communities in America, I think Hollywood is the worst dressed. This refers to Hollywood in its unprofessional moments — on the Boulevard, at Montmartre, the Biltmore, the theater, on the tennis court and links. With a few exceptions, the clothes used before the camera are not subject to conventional jurisdiction. Drama may be legitimately expressed in the exaggerated line of a gown, a mood made more definite by an expressive frock. The beauty of a tableau created by a period gown is well worth the sacrifice of smartness. This thesis concerns, in the Norma Shearer's correct main, the off-screen clothes of feminine sports outfit is rare enough Hollywood. to be sensational. photo by Apeda ar That the Boulevard manifesto carries little weight with its Eastern rival, New York, was impressed upon me at the opening of a revue there. New York was turning out in its gala raiment. In the row behind me two women discussed, in audible tones, the appearance of each new arrival. Their comments were generally approving, until one of them drew the other's attention to the unusual shade of blue worn by a girl just entering. "Oh, I don't like that one," the other replied. "See all the furbelows. She. looks like a movie actress." Simplicity is a lost art in Hollywood. The principal reason is that the majority of our actresses at all times dress as for the camera. Gowns that look bewitching in the soft-focused reaches of the extravagant set, look more than silly in the crowded confines of Montmartre at high noon. Gowns that are strictly for pictures are no more adaptable to the private routine of stars than to the use of stenographers, who try to copy them for $17.50. Right here is the time for rebel cries of "Why should women be slaves to the mode of the moment, and follow it like sheep? Why should a woman lose her individuality, instead of dressing to suit her type, no matter what the mode ?" My reply is, "Where would be the fun?" You'd find a style to suit your type and go on repeating it, in dull monotony, to your blacktaffeta and lace-cap days. Go ahead, kill me, but I believe in meek submission to the dictates of Chanel, Lanvin, and their compatriots. You can't tell me that the feminine pulse, the world over, doesn't quicken a bit at the advance showings of what next season's styles will be. Most of us would far rather be spoken of as smartly dressed than prettily. For the rest, it is my contention that in every passing vogue may be found something becoming to every type. Few. very few, of us are strong-minded enough to declare open war, and resolutely dress according to type. Even fewer of those few are beautiful enough to get away with it.