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By T>e light Evans
iLLloyd Hamiltion may or may not be the logical successor to the melancholy Joseph Schildkraut and Ivor Novello of the famous profile — but he is a new kind of Griffith star.
€1, Next to Lillian Cish, Hamilton is the zvistfullest thing on the screen. Our illustrious sob-sisters could learn a lot from him. You yearn to put your arm about his shoulder and tell him, huskily, that you understand.
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[Ddies, if ever mama or papa or even your fairy godmother should say to you, "What motion picture studio would you like to visit today?" why, you just pipe up in your little treble, "Mr. Griffith's." Because, kiddies, you ' will love it there, and you will be just as safe as if you were in your own little room.
Mr. Griffith's isn't like other studios. It's most awfully refined. There is none of that nasty air of commercialism hanging about the place. Pictures, not money is made there — you feel that.
One doesn't exactly walk softly and talk in whispers, but one feels that one should. |
His people refer feelingly to Mr. Griffith as "God's own gentleman," and after you have been there a while you catch yourself murmuring it, too. Anyone who has the good taste to buy a lovely old estate in Mamaroneck, surrounded by Sound and air to make pictures in, is God's own gentleman, and don't you forget it.
In the Presence of Art
is in the presence of art. Well, no matter what you may have thought of Way Down East and The White Rose, the memories of such great things as Broken Blossoms and The Birth of a Nation hover.
Griffith's studio is romantic and picturesque and impractical. Little ladies and gentlemen, every employee. You feel that the stage hands work there only because they love it, and the view is so nice. Every outsider is charmed and impressed. The dwellers in adjacent estates bring their little ones to watch the companies at work. Even if no pictures were made there, it should be preserved as an example of What a Well Bred Studio Should Be, and Too Often, Alas, is Not.
It"is always exciting to see the latest addition to the happy family in Mamaroneck. There was Carol Dempster. She looked as if she had been bound for the exclusive school for girls nearby and had wandered in to the film factory by mistake. Charming voice and manners. She played brilliant Chopin between scenes. And Joseph Schildkraut, who talked in melancholy tones of how he wanted to do Dorian Gray — I remember he made me want to go right out and see about the scenario. Ivor Novello — ah, Ivor. With the profile that, if it were turned to the camera continually, would make the home fires of our little fans go out. Every one of them belonged.
A Stranger Came Adown the Lane
assed time. Come, adown the lane, a Stranger.
He loomed a little large after Ivor. His shoes were old, stubby and of an amazing size. He wore a very small checked cap. His suit seemed to shrink even as I gazed.
Next to Lillian Gish, Lloyd Hamilton is probably the wistfullest thing on the screen. Perhaps this is why Griffith chose him for the leading role in Black and White,
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