Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Jul 1929)

96 Continued from page 25 "I save money on the bath mat," was Lnpe's calm comment. "I buy the Chinese rug." And she did. A day or two later, Lupe told me she had bought another car, an open one. She already had a closed car. "What will Beulah say?" I asked her. "Won't she feel very badly about that new car ?" "Beulah weel geev me hell," averred Lupe with deep satisfaction. "She adore me — that Beulah. She weel feel very bad, but I feel bad if I don't buy the damn car ! "I am young," she went on. "I have lots of money now. When I am old — maybe I be poor — and hungry. I don't care. I weel have my fun now w'ile I can." That is Lupe. Hundred-dollar pairs of satin slippers, with jeweled heels, for little feet that dance "while I am young." The money has come so easily and so fast. The world, apparently, is waiting and anxious to pay tribute to a little Mexican girl who can sing and dance "so naughty," and who will one day be a great emotional actress "like Bernhardt." With such a beginning — such a meteoric swoop to fame and fortune — no wonder that Lupe is intoxicated with herself. She feels that she is just beginning. She is tremendously ambitious. She will pay any money to any one who can teach her a new dance step. She studies her singing The Flame of Holl^vtood assiduously. She works hard at learning English. She does not see Hollywood's shrugs — yet. When she does, it will hurt. She is pathetically anxious to be liked. She wants approval and affection — the demonstrative, Latin, hug-and-kiss sort of affection. She may fly into a rage and call you most dreadful names if you displease her, but she will be all sobbing contrition in five minutes, and she would be appalled if you took her anger seriously. She is something of a problem to directors. Capricious, constantly late on the set, but so disarming in her sorrow for her derelictions, and her promises to be better. "Lupe be a good girl, now." She will mimic a director wickedly behind his back, and when he turns to see why every one is laughing, Lupe is wearing the most guileless expression of innocence in the world. I heard her telling of an encounter,, with a director who scolded her for neglecting to glance out of a window, an important piece of business in a scene. "I turn on heem like thees," Lupe said, her eyes flashing with reminiscent rage. "I say, 'What you mean — ■ you spik to me like that ? You want me to look out of window — you tell me before I start. How can I know what you want? I am no readminder !' " Exactly like a naughty child who thinks the teacher has treated her unjustly. There is something pitiful about Lupe's avid grasping at life and experience, about her eagerness to have her fun, to run the gamut of emotions while she is young. She works, plays, lives too hard. One feels that she will burn herself out before it is time. Lupe will suffer. People — the world — men — will laugh at her, applaud her, pet her a little — and forget her. She doesn't, somehow matter. She wants to matter. She wants it tremendously. Perhaps suffering will help her to matter on the screen. One feels, now, that she has not too much to offer. A fleeting beauty, an impression of exultant joy. She is all body, emotion, instinct, impulse. Perhaps life will teach her and give her depth. She says, "When the public no longer love to see me — I weel die. I weel keel myself !" Perhaps that is the secret of her eagerness, her desire to taste of everything now. She is the Latin type which matures so young. Does Lupe look at that mother — resigned, with folded hands, in her forties — and realize that her time, too, is short? Is it fear that rouses Lupe to a veritable frenzy of living? Poor little Lupe ! Continued from page 43 virtually unknown on Santa Monica turnpike. There is Aileen Pringle, whose charm does not screen successfully, and then whom have we ? Very few ! It is the Hopper gift to be able to take the curse off shoddy productions. Her ease and grace are invaluable to any picture. If I were fortunate enough to have Mrs. Hopper under contract, I would try to arrange things so that she might play the Emily Stevens role in "Fata Morgana," Shaw's Candida, and the elusive, amazing heroine of Capek's "Makropolous Secret," so badly done by Helen Menken in New York. She is tall and slim. Her grayblue eyes have a touch of Mona Lisa, her hair a suggestion of titian. She is the personification of poise. I can imagine nothing disturbing her equilibrium. "While I'm East I'm doing a stage play and a talking picture, and a silent one, so between rehearsals, studio appointments, fittings, and sittings, I'm having what one might conservatively call a gorgeous time. Con asionall^ You Find a ] tracts to sign, and offers to turn down —fun! "New York has so much to keep you on the go. It's so distinct a contrast to Hollywood, the village of sunshine and childlike naivete, where a preview is an event, and a retake a catastrophe. But I like the West. And when I'm through with my work here, I'll go back." v In the course of our conversation, Hedda Hopper impressed me as a woman of infinite taste. She confessed to liking Japanese prints, French lingerie, negro revues, Swedish pastry, Veuve Cliquot '11, football games, English country homes, the Lido by moonlight, and ice skating. She is a delightful talker, salting her observations with wit and piquant asides. If so many geraniums of the screen hadn't already been termed orchids, this would be the point to describe Hedda as orchidaceous, which she is. She is a luxurious creature, who carries it off graciously. It was difficult, practically impossible, to wheedle forth anything on the subject of acting. ad$ "It simply means counterfeiting naturalness," said Hedda, "and if I remember, Aristotle, or one of the other boys, said the same thing, so probably there is something in it." On the screen Hedda Hopper is always interesting. Unaffectedly, credibly, she strolls through miles of celluloid, oblivious to the banalities she is decorating, snickering softly to herself at the imbecilities of the supervisor. She is equally convincing as seductive divorcee, family friend, carefree chaperon, or youthful mother. Recently she has mothered Richard Barthelmess and — of all people — Antonio Moreno. Probably the world owes her a debt for introducing the youthful mother to the screen. Scorning white wigs that lead over the hill to the poorhouse, she endows her maternal roles with whimsical humor and elusive charm. Here is, let me repeat, the first lady of the perpendicular platforms, an artist for whom it is a genuine privilege to give three or more cheers. What this particular planet needs is more Hedda Hoppers.