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Q^lah
Must
YOU in the misty beyond of the world! You, simple folk with your cows, your chickens, your — how do you say? — pigs! You — happy ones in vour happy cottage homes, 'way out there on the great prairies and -pustzas! Do you know what agony of soul it costs to be grand artiste of the screen ?
The world — was it Shakespeare or George White who put it so poetically? — the world is a masquerade partyBut how much more, my friends, is this true of the world of the motion picture? Oh, look in pity on us as, day after day, our minds racked with the troubles of real life, it is necessary for us to be acting from nine until five, just as though our hearts were light. Necessary because we, like you happy ones, must eat, must drink. Necessary because our Art tells us that we cannot play the coward by keeping the gifts Heaven gave us from the world. In spite of everything, we are but men, like you. / Pagliacci! Meistersinger! Gotterddmmerung! We need your pity and sympathy, we the men and women behind the masks of the screen. We need everything you've got. Even your humble dollars can do their part to heal the bleeding actor's heart of us.
Let me ring up the curtain and show you. What would you say if I told you that Alice White's terrier had had fleas? Yet it is the truth. I tell you also that you cannot begin to know what it cost that girl to go out to the studio and pretend to be Dixie Dugan, the happy-^o-lucky chorine of "Show Girl," while all the time this frightful thing was gnawing at her very vitals, not to mention those of the hapless canine.
I can show you darker, more poignant dramas
Although her pup had the pip, Alice White — above — carried on bravely. So, too, Pola Negri — at the top of the opposite page — when the Chaplin posies were overdue. And John Gilbert —at the right— though haunted by Tully's taunts, managed nevertheless to coo into the Garborean ear
28
Soul-Scarred by Life
a Year, the Movie Stars
Acting, Acting,
By CEDRIC BELFRAGE
that have fought. themselves out in the hearts of the film players, as they hid behind the masks of their art.
Harold Is Harassed
TINY hands, shrill little cries, dawn of a new soul. In short, a baby. Harold Lloyd has one. Ah, do we not all know the emotions of parenthood? You, out on the pustzas, have had your babies, and we — we are but men, like you. But for you there is only Lloyd, the clown; and Lloyd, the man, has no being for you. There was a period when the soul of Lloyd, the jnan, was tortured with the knowledge that the tot who called him poppa had broken off one half of a front tooth. And Lloyd, the clown, must don hornrimmed glasses to make the world laugh. Hour after hour, day after day, it went on, the ghastly fact whirling madly around in his head that if a news photographer should come seeking a happy family group, the grim spectre in his home would be paraded before the world. Talk about Laugh, Clown, Laugh! Never a flicker of emotion showed on the face of Lloyd, the clown, the Punchinello.
Yet this is nothing compared with the actual arrival of life's tenderest moment while an artiste de film must go on acting, acting. Not even the most hard-hearted among you can fail to appreciate somethmg of what went on in the heart of Louise Fazenda, when, during her engagement