Talking Screen (Jan-Aug 1930)

HE HAD a gift for detaching and contracting ambitious nobodies, at the same time keeping a sharp ear to the ground for forthcoming social events. Thus, when a certain obscure actress arrived here from the Antipodes, he dubbed her a Duchess, and with the title used as a battering ram, he crashed a most closely guarded social stronghold. The Duchess Bella de Schianti was a striking figure. A peeress among actresses and an actress without peer. She was tall. She was lithe. She had flaming tresses. Her pure English was flavored with a soupcon of the most delectable Irish brogue. In short, Her Grace clicked. It was not long before she played a Spanish cjueen in the "biggest male star's biggest production of the year." Subsequently she was featured in a continental comedy, produced by THE leading local art theatre. And freshly crowned with the laurels of that production, she was about to be launched into a commercial venture, sponsored by a fabulously wealthy patroness of the arts, when the Authorities had her brought to trial, charged with an infringement of the immigration laws. At court, when she took the stand, she was said to have outshone the Divine Sarah in her famous Madame X court room scene. But all her histrionics were in vain. Bedelia Delahanty, the erstwhile Duchess de Schianti, was transported. SUBSEQUENTLY, Sir Sandy pulled another social coup. He introduced and sponsored to society his godson, the Duke of Hangover. The Duke went over big. Within two weeks of his initial bow to local celebs and elite, he lunched widi a famous French actress, noted for her eccentricities and outr^e gowns; figured almost nightly as guest of honor at glittering dinner parties; made a striking figure as the French actress' escort at the gala premiere of her first starring picture; was "among those present" in an exclusive little coterie of guests of a popular hostess at the annual Wampas ball ; had proposed to sundry young women of varying social strata; was reported organizing a picture company, for the purpose of studying American picture methods, and eventually was arrested on a charge of deserting a wife and two minor children in the East, where prior to his coming to Hollywood, he had been a clerk. That much for the Duke of Hangover. IN THE meantime, Sir Sandy had left no stone unturned to discover bigger and better finds. Among the rank and file of free lance taxi drivers, he discovered a future John Gilbert, and among cafeteria bus boys, he unearthed a voice greater than Caruso's. They helped him crash weekly salons and informal Sunday night buffet suppers. Fortified by these, a "captain" of aviation, a British knight and his lady (of his own dubbing), and a Russian Grand-Duke, the Hangover debacle merely rolled off Sir Sandy's knife. And all would have gone smoothly for the erstwhile Kammersaenger, had not the police arrested him on a mysterious charge, the true nature of which no one ever bothered to discover. Thus ended another illustrious gentleman's trail. SCARCELY a week passes without another aristocrat being stripped of his or her tinsel and trappings. Times without number. Her Ladyship — she of the bottomless trunk and the famous hyphenated British name — is challenged for the authenticity of her name and title. Incidentally, her Ladyship's trunk is said to contain a king's ransom in unpublished manuscripts and musical compositions of her own creation, which up to the present have not been exposed to the profanation of the public eye and ear. It is further said to contain priceless gems and family heirlooms, with which she is loath to part, despite the faa that her letter of credit has been five years overdue. At times, when her Ladyship must needs look for work in pictures, she is forced to borrow busfare from her acquaintances. Her countrywoman, the Lady BatRbrush, has a mania for getting herself into scrapes over checks. Every time she comes up for arraignment, her identity is questioned. She has finally compromised about her name and is known hereabouts as Mrs. Brush. Last month, TALKING SCREEN presented to you the genuine descendants of royalty who inhabit Hollywood. This month TALKING SCREEN presents to you the genuine fakers who inhabit the film city under assumed aristocratic titles. In most cases the names employed in this article are, necessarily, fictitious. But this fascinating account of these characters and their exploits is absolutely and undeniably authentic. —THE EDITORS. THE funny part of it all is that the local film colony can boast of real nobility. But none of the real aristocrats care to brag about it. There is Ivan Lebedeff, Youcca Troubetzkoy, the lovely Natacha Golitzin — all Russian aristocrats of the first water, but known professionally and socially only as Mister and Miss. Pierre de Ramey, really the Compte de Ronseray, who, because casting directors happen to be that way, has in the past been cast to play French butlers and valets, is coming into his own in the talkies. Captain Alberti Conti, the descendant of one of the oldest and most noble lineages of Austria, never exploited his lineage in his phenomenal rise on the screen. And there are countless others who have carefully tucked their titles away, prior to coming to Hollywood. Some of them have made good without the use of the family name as a short cut to success; others are still trying. Very few of them have given up. In all cases, blood will always tell. 71