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on $1,000,000 Must Keep on Acting!
as comedienne in "The Terror," her cat produced kittens. It seemed as though one moment the Persian was unusually childless and the next it was doing sensational business in the cafeteria line. The suspense of that day was writ large upon Louise's face between scenes as she dashed feverishly to and from the nearest telephone. But did so much as a flicker of agony mar the perfection of her screaming by-play before the cameras.^ Please don't make yourself ridiculous by asking such a question. I shan't speak of this again.
While we're on the subject of tiny hands, let us not forget that epic occasion when, had it not been for the Spartan bravery of the Hollywood Pagliacci, a set of tiny teeth might have put a spoke in the wheel of Mother Art. The tiny teeth put in an appearance in the tiny mouth of Doris Kenyon's tiny tot, while that respected lady was puckering up her mouth for a fade-out kiss from her real life husband, Milton Sills. Distractedness is not the word for Doris' mental condition on this terrible day, but with a bursting heart she won the day for Art.
But even these are as nothing.
Amsterdamned to Oblivion?
TRY, if you can, to picture the horror that struck Jetta Goudal all of a heap when one day a newspaper writer with a heart of stone revealed that she was
born in Amsterdam. It seemed like the end of everything for Jetta, as if a light had gone out in her life that could never again be turned on. For had she not reached her dizzy eminence, both in public life on the screen and in private life enshrined in her Ambassador Hotel suite, through the veil of mystery that she had worn.'' Had she not made it a rule, ever since she sat on her mother's knee, never to give the same birthplace to two people in succession.^ Had she not now become a figure of wide fame through the peculiarity of having been born in Paris, Vienna, Budapest, Nizhni Novgorod and all other important cities throughout the world and elsewhere? Yet on that fateful day when the whole world might know that she had only been born in one place — and that (oh, the irony!) Amsterdam — it is reliably stated that her rendition before the cameras of a mystery woman had even more allure and nuance than ever before. '
And what of Pola Negri? If any of the screen Pagliacci have ever known the deeps of human pain, it is La Negri who has known them and, knowing, has vestied as pretty a giubba as you could hope to find in a day's march. There was a time when Charlie Chaplin pursued La Negri with his attentions, and certain gestures from him became part of her daily life. Every morning, a bunch of flowers and a phone call from the noted comique had to arrive before Pola would start the day's work. But there were mornings— black, black mornings! — when the devil forgetfulness entered into the head of the comique, and the flowers and the phone call were late. It is true that the pain of it was so intense that sometimes for just an hour or two La Negri would occupy herself in tearing up her dressingroom carpet with her teeth; but as soon as this little chore was finished, she would be on the set, wearing a brave, brave smile and signifying that she was ready to don the actor's mask.
That Terrible Necktie
WHAT of Menjou.'' Of Adolphe, the sartorial immaculate.''
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