Motion Picture Classic (Jan-Dec 1920)

CLASSIC "Some Boy, That Frenchman! (Continued from page 22) Georges kept on fighting and winning until he became champion at every weight, from paper to heavy. As soon as he began to earn real money, he started to invest a large part of it in educating himself. When you talk to him you'll find out what an intelligent chap he is — Carpentier gone out for the day? — Gee, but that's luck for you ! Come over to the studio tonight. They're going to stage a fight. No women allowed, but, then, you dont count." "Thanks," I replied, as I took my departure. If you want to get all the men together in one place, advertise a fight. Uncle Sam tried it and Robertson-Cole followed suit. When I arrived at Fort Lee that night, I found the huge Solax studio packed to the doors. Men suspended themselves from the roof, draped themselves over neighboring church steeples and supported themselves upon telegraph poles and telephone wires. Carpentier, the European champion, was to fight, and the dream fighters for miles around assembled for the event. Of course, it was only a moving picture bout in which Director Adolfi took pains to explain that the villain would be victorious for a few rounds and then Virtue, in the form of the hero, would triumph, and, whoof, we would see how champions really do it. After a few moments' waiting, Carpentier entered the ring, and the great audience, from roof to telephone wires, stood on its feet and cheered. He was not my preconceived picture of a fighter as he stood there bowing his thanks. He was not the stage and screen idea of a Frenchman, either. Had he applied for an engagement in that role, many directors I know would have shaken their heads and exclaimed: "Not the type, not the type! Nothing like it." He is blond, decidedly so, with hair that seems to find no inducement to stray from the straight and narrow, with blue eyes, a very blue blue — so the publicity department informed me. I could not distinguish spots of color from my particular beam. When he removed his bathrobe and stood there in his fighting togs, an exclamation of envy and admiration went up from that assembly of men. Translated, it meant, "Some boy, that Frenchman !" In another instant, Director Adolfi blew the whistle and Georges started to fight. As the former had predicted, his opponent, Herbert Barratt, knocked him out in the first few rounds. "Ah, this fight's fixed," a newcomer to my beam murmured in disgust. Thru it all the champion was like a young race-horse straining to keep himself within bounds, longing for the signal to start in earnest. The wild feints he thrust at the air came thick and fast, and when it was Virtue's turn to triumph he made short work of the villain. "Hang around," the publicity department advised, noting the adeptness with (Seventi/scven) which I had clung to my beam. "Maybe you can catch him before he leaves." So I hung, this time around the champion's dressing-room door. I saw stars of the ring pass over the threshold, and still I continued to hang. A few £eons later a blond boy in a grey business suit appeared. I made a wild dash in his direction. "Come, Georgette,'' the blond boy called, as I clutched the air. I turned just in time to see an answering smile in the eyes of pretty Georgette Carpentier, who had come to this country, a bride, just a few weeks before, and, lo, the Carpentier family had disappeared somewhere in Fort Lee. "Gus Wilson, his trainer, says you may talk to him at nine o'clock tomorrow morning at the Biltmore," the publicity department whispered in my ear. We were there on the dot, the department and I. "Tell me about Carpentier and the war," I suggested, while we were waiting for suite 120 to answer. "He was in it for four years," the department answered. "He was fulfilling some fight contracts in England when it broke out. He hurried back to France and entered the air service. Of course, he started doing stunts immediately. He didn't win his medals, tho, as quickly as some chaps. The commander wanted to be sure there would be no room for an accusation of partiality to the young aviator, the favorite of France. One day he, the commander, was watching a fight away up in the sky between a French plane and two German planes. " 'When that fighter comes down — whoever he is,' he said, indicating the distant dot, 'we'll decorate him.' "When the French plane landed he found that the dot was none other than Georges Carpentier. "For about a year Georges was on sickleave and acted as physical instructor to the men in back of the lines. "Word from suite 120. Mr. Carpentier will be sleeping until ten o'clock, then he must go out immediately. Otherwise, he would gladly see you. If you will return at six this evening " At six I was again at the Biltmore, armed with a letter from Robertson-Cole to prove that I had no designs upon the young fighter's life or upon the Biltmore's silverware. This time I succeeded in invading suite 120. From my position in the tiny outer reception-room I heard sport topics passed back and forth by male voices in the adjoining apartment. Presently Trainer Wilson and Manager DesCamps indicated that they were at my service. In the other room I could discern, "as thru a glass, darkly," young Georges reading the fight news. I threw a question into the air. It landed somewhere in the suite. Mr. Wilson caught it and translated it to Mr. DesCamps. He listened and then smiled. I waited. I tried again — the same result. {Continued on page 79) r The r^^ 20^ Century W way to HEALTH AND BEAUTY You should know the value of this modern, scientific and effective mode of aiding nature to restore health. 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