Talking Screen (Jan-Aug 1930)

FROM MEJICO This little lady tells brokane Ingelees — all about her very young self and how she came to be a celebrity THE girls giggled at a pleasant memory, and Armida wriggled a reminiscent foot. "I am born May 21, 1911," said Armida, now swinging one slender leg slowly to and fro, "in Sonora, Mejico." The slipped softly forth like h, as it is in Spanish. "In La Colorado, a little mining town," amended Dolores. "An' when I am ver-ry little — six, maybe — we go to Dawgless," caressing the word. "Dawgless" is in Arizona, should you not know. "Then we go to Phoenix, in Arizona, and after that we come to Los Angeles. But I started to dance ver-ry young. My fa-ther had a theatre . . ." "The Royal," interrupted Dolores, proudly. ". . . and in it he show vaudeville and motion pictures, no?" continued Armida. "Well, I like to go and see them, and then come 'ome and do the dances myself. But before that I danced, too." Simple stuff on the surface. Dancing-girl-makesgood sort of thing. But on these frail shoulders rests the responsibility of a family of seven — no, nine, counting Madre and Padre Vendrell. On the slim shoulders of Armida Celestina (blessed name!) Vendrell, whose fragrant, flowerlike face now gleams from the motion picture screen, are the worries of a family. Now the burden is slightly lessened by the marriage of two sisters, and the independence of Dolores, out to carve her own career after an unsuccessful marriage. These three all married within two months. Lydia brings in money, yes, by occasionally working for Gus in his Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer revues, but Lydia is a child and must go to .school and learn to espeak the English. IYDIA, thus discussed, bent pink ears over book and re> mained contentedly silent. Not like Lupe, the Mexican wildcat, who fought her way into public acclaim, is Armida. Shy, quiet, retiring — until the magic of music and song and dance touches her, she is a child. For one who has danced anywhere and everywhere, who has had coins tossed to her from grimy peon's ihand in small Mexican theatres, and golden words from New York's greatest critics, .she is strangely immature and sweet. Confiding and trusting, she does the bidding of Meester Edwards, who considers her one of the most promising of the two or three hundred proteges of his long theatrical career. And that includes Eddie Cantor. Slightly puzzled by the glamor and the tinsel of this world into •"'•'-ch she has been thrust, she, nevertheless, has herself : iir:nt well in hand. She is not temperamental, behas not been told what temperament is. Her Armida is slightly puzzled by the glamor and tinsel of the show world into which she has been thrust. Luckily, her fame and success have not affected the generosity with which she lavishly outpours her talent. God-given gift of pantomime, song and dance, flows like an eternal spring to quench the thirsty. She is generous with her talents, humming gay little snatches of songs in a high, colorful voice, tripping into the sprightly steps of Mexican folk dances, singing The China Princess. She is slightly dazzled by the social affairs to which she is whirled, escorted by Gus and his wife Lily. She is a little bewildered when a great star of the stage leans across the table to her at the Biltmore and comments on the weather. Looking up from the plate on which are bits of meat that Gus has cut for her, she murmurs, "Always when I eat I get sleepy," and subsides into bright-eyed silence. Different from the usual volcanic importation from below the Rio Grande, she prefers not to be known as a "hot tamale," because, frankly, she doesn't like tamales. Nor does she care particularly for females of any nationality who are labelled in this highly descriptive and informal manner. {^Continued on page 87} 65