Motion Picture Magazine (Aug 1928-Jan 1929)

Is ICosa/k KJreyf By GLADYS HALL limp pack of cigarettes, a rubber powder compact and the sundry odds and ends precious to the hearts of little nobodies. She was dressed, in fact, precisely as she would NOT have been dressed in person. We christened her Rosalie Grey, after considerable discussion. That seemed a probable and sufficiently chorusy name. We created a background for her. She hied from Poughkeepsie, New York. She had danced in the choruses of "Kid Boots" and "Sunny." She had done one or two days' extra work on the Paramount lot in Long Island. That was all. We decided that she must, as it were, talk through her nose. She must say little and say that little goofily, to put it kindly. Just another ga-ga girl, that was all. Prior to calling for Rosalie — as I shall call her until I make the great disclosure — I had 'phoned the various studios: Metro, First National, F. B. O., United Artists, and others. I had asked the publicity departments and the casting directors to do me the favor of passing an opinion on Miss Rosalie Grey, an acquaintance of mine from the East. And, I thought, a potential good bet. They kindly acquiesced. We went, first of all, to the casting director on Rosalie's own lot. ROSALIE WAITS AND WAITS WE were kept waiting some twenty-odd minutes. It isn't too strong a hint to say that had they known who it was "they were keeping in the anteroom they would have turned on the gas then and there. While we waited — Rosalie demure, I with a stone face — a steady stream of applicants besieged the tragic transom. A steady flow of "No casting today; no casting today," issued from the lips of the crisp lady who earns her living, perforce, by dashing wan hopes and bidding empty stomachs go emptier. A once well-known Broadway actress, an aged man, divers tid-bits of femininity, were turned sadly away, with deflated hopes and purses. Rosalie Grey's eyes filmed a little. She was learning something she had never known before. For the celebrated lady masquerading as Rosalie Grey has never been an extra. It remained for her to learn through a monstrous joke what others learn by starvation or suicide. And she whispered to me that never again could she feel the same about the crowd lower down. This was an experiment working in more ways than one. A story with many angles. Eventually, and not until then, did the casting director admit us to the presence. We fluttered in, trembling. Rosalie kept her eyes demurely downcast. She deferred to me in a charmingly naive manner. I shook like an aspen. Would he know? And if he didn't know, would he perceive that here was a great, if camouflaged talent? Would he recognize that for which all Hollywood professes to seek — personality? Genius? Art? Personality obscured by nothing more than a tawdry wig, a film of light powder, a wisp of cotton, a cheap attire? Surely he would rise up and call me blessed for having brought to his attention a new and sensational find. He did nothing of the kind. He was grave and meticulous. But he held out no hope. He explained that the studio was doing very little casting. Things were quiet on the lot. He inferred that blondes are a drug on the market. He would register her and he would be glad to have some pictures to put on file. He asked her name, address, weight, height, previous experience and age. At that Rosalie piped up, sweetly, "Twenty five!" (Continued on page 92) In a cheap print dress and choosing a name to match it, this one of the screen's greatest stars could not get even a small part in pictures Bachtach