Talking Screen (Jan-Aug 1930)

FAKIIMG THE ISSLE T ONE time, and not so long ago either, no Hollywood • fireside seemed complete without at least one pedigreed lion rumbling beside it. And since the chatelaines of Hollywood's recently sprung-up Tudor palazzos and Renaissance manors baited them with their overstocked larders and cellars, a veritable invasion of titles descended upon the film capital. "Ooh, my deah! An impoverished count or duchess sure lends class to one's drawring room!" some of those former Midwest beauty contest winners with brand new contraas crackling in their vanity bags would drawl ecstatically. The Almanac de Gotha, at its palmiest, could not compete with Hollywood's array of titles. And even now, Hollywood is still swamped and well nigh overrun with nobility. It's a great racket! And those who were not already in the swim "muscled" their way into it, by tacking a "count" or a "baronesse" in front of their own modest John Henry Amazing revelations about the brazen fakers who invented their own titles and, posing as royalty, crashed the portals of Hollywood By MARCELLA S. GARDNER former East Side sweat shop assistant. But gradually Hollywood is getting to be nobility-wise — let us hope. (Eount John Henr; or Jane Doe or any other plain name you can think of. REMOVED of their false names and stripped of their picturesque stripes, these rampant lions and roaring tigresses all too often revealed themselves to be nothing more than a variety of domestic felines. As, for example, the young lady, who represented herself as a member of an ancient Spanish aristocratic family. After keeping Hollywood on its ear, so to speak, for several weeks, she turned out to be a San Francisco hello gal. And regrettably too often, when their adventurous aura wanes, they turn out to be the domestic felines' prowling poor relations. Prowling for a handout and getting away, if luck is on their side, with a banquet. Like that so-called scion of the late ruling house of Russia, who had cut a wide swath and was eventually arrested in the Midwest last summer, because he had been addiaed to writing bad checks. Closer scrutiny of the gentleman's pedigree revealed him to be a T LEAST four times out of five, the game was worth the bluff. A title was the open sesame to the most jealously guarded sanctums. Even the King of Kliegs, whose well earned reputation it is that he is as hard to see as the Empress of China, yielded for once when the name of a Countess was sent up to him. The name accompanying the title could have belonged to a Spaniard, a Russian or even a Norwegian. It was that kind of a name. And she was lovely to look at. Oddly enough, when the same girl, under her own commonplace American name, used to work as an extra on his super-super-specials, he had never noticed her. And now, the King himself, as well as his huge entourage of "Yes-sites," received her with all the traditional ostentation accorded to opera bouffe royalty. The most royal of all the cinematic dazzlers out-dazzled his wildest production dreams in the lovely Countess' behalf. He even gave her a job. But honest, dyed-in-the-wool American that she was at heart, the girl soon realized that she could not bluff the public all the time. And instead of going on with a none too certain career, she got married. i^UT there was that canny old party, who waited till Hollywood went Bohemia a few seasons ago, before he displayed his own little royal flush — of his own making. Along with several glittering bracelets and a lavender silk hankie he had hitherto kept tucked up his sleeve. One fine day, out of nowhere, he tripped onto the horizon, . a self-styled Katnmersaenger to some obscure court on the Nonhmost peak of Europe. But in the days prior to the talkies Hollywood knew precious little of what a Kammersaenger was. It sounded suspiciously like Katzenjammer and it did not get him anywheres. It therefore became necessary that he create a title for himself. Only a modest one. So he tacked a "Sir" in front of a real Scottish name, as a token of royal recognition to his artistry. And Sir Sandy Mcintosh Burns, Kammersaenger to His Majesty, the King of Scandihoovia, was taken up by society with a rush. But when it came to exercising his vocal cords, he could emit nary a croak. Soon the patronesses of the arts grew tired of feeding him and his name began gradually to disappear from the guest lists. It was tough on the poor old dear. He had loved the rich food ! And more than that, he had loved to shine. But since he could no longer shine himself, he decided to act as a satellite for other luminaries. And why not? If Hollywood had fallen so well for his line, why shouldn't it fall again and yet again. 70