Motion Picture Magazine (Aug 1928-Jan 1929)

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CAMERA FREE BOOK tells how faGIVEN mousexperts teach yon money-making secrets of photography, In your Bpare time at home, or in our Kreal New York studios— how we help you get a fine position or start your own business—how wefdveyou a professional camera. Write today for Book and Job Chart. N.Y. INSTITUTE OF PHOTOGRAPHY 10 West 33rd St., New York, Dept. 18 Be a Movie Operator We furnish projector an 1 teach you at home. Get a good pay jo'i with Movi > orVaudevill Theatre. Wrilefor folder Who Is Rosalie Grey? {Continued from page 20) I looked as deprecatory as paralyzed facial muscles permit. "You shouldn't say that, Rosalie," I chided. " Never say more than nineteen or twenty." "But someone has to be twenty-five," chirped Rosalie. I stared blankly at the indulgent C. D. "You can see," I wailed, faintly. "She's green. Pretty green." We were shown the door. For Rosalie Grey there was "No casting today." We drove to the Metro Studio, doubled with hysterics. Here, doubtless, we should encounter Nemesis. For here, several years ago, the real Rosalie Grey applied for her first dramatic job — and got it. She was well known to the personnel. She is well known to the cosmos when it comes to that. We were met by one of the heads of the publicity department. One of the most likable, most popular and most debunking youths on any lot, anywhere. I introduced, somewhat wryly, the sugary Rosalie Grey. I had, by this time, arrived at a point where I felt that she was Rosalie Grey and that I was being rather put upon. The young gentleman piloted us courteously and rather sorrowfully to the offices of the casting director. En route I made bold to ask him if he didn't think Miss Grey resembled So-and-So. Said the youth, sotto voce, "Someone has told her that So-and-So is reticent and dignified and the poor mutt is trying to live up to it." I persisted. "But honestly, don't you think she has a chance?" "Not one," firmly said this perspicacious lad. I gasped and gulped and did things with my epiglottis and stalked on, Rosalie teetering along in my wake. We sat in the outer office. When, before, had the real Rosalie cooled her heels in an outer office? Never, J'll tell you so much. And while we waited, a tattooed, bearded, shirtless and perspiring extra breezed through. He hulked over and offered a wad of hospitable gum to Rosalie Grey. This was great stuff. She nervously refused it. After he had gone, she turned ga-ga eyes on the youth and said, "Was that Wallace Beery?" We explained to her, gently, that Wallace was not thus adorned. I said " Wally is not tattooed like that?" and I added, softly, "Is he?" Our escort, feeling sorry for such abysmal stupidity, assured her that she would soon become accustomed to the famous film faces. She seemed reassured. Again eventually we were admitted into the holy of holies. Rosalie faced the head of the casting directors in the full glare of the noonday light. He inventoried her carefully, from head to foot. He asked her to remove her hat. I hastily intervened, pleading for her that she had just stepped off the train, hadn't had time for a shampoo, had hoped this wouldn't be asked of her. It was all too evident that the pleasantly polite gentleman cared not one whit whether she kept her hat off or on and that his chief objective had he voiced it, was our immediate eviction from the premises. While Rosalie was again being registered, our escort whispered to me, compassionately, "Doesn't she ever say anything?" I hissed back "Oh, you must be lenient. She just got off the train today. She's embarrassed." "Embarrassed, hell!" said the forthright young man. "She's dumb!" The affable casting director was explaining that, perhaps, in two weeks things might start up again, they were rather idle right now, there really wasn't much hope, it was only fair to say how hard it is for a newcomer to get a start, he couldn't extend much encouragement. Things like that. It was only too evident that he saw here no second Anita Page. No find to add luminosity to his discernment. No possibility of Louis Mayer falling on his neck if he should present him with Miss Rosalie Grey, of Poughkeepsie. He said these things and others like them as decently as possible. He would keep her name and address on file. He would let her know if anything turned up. We knew that nothing would. For the second time within the hour the greatest of the stars had been turned down. The heaven-sent of Hollywood had run two gamuts and was listed as one of the unwanteds. No one rose electrically and shouted, "We have made a new discovery." No one saw beneath the flimsy mask the authentic genius that sat so humbly before them. Ah, Hollywood, how many flames of genius are dampened at your doors? Howmuch of broken beauty turned from your purblind portals? How many angels do you entertain unawares? The greatest of these was in your very midst and you cried, "Thumbs down!" We traveled, still rigid with mirth, to the United Artists lot. Rosalie made the way merrier by telling me that I should qualify as a female Buster Keaton, so devoid of all expression was my constricted visage. We were met, on the United Artists lot, by a young lady named Kempers. From the publicity department. She met Rosalie Grey casually enough — at first. Then she stared. She stared again. She turned a wary eye on me, looking, I trust, more innocent than I have, actually, ever been. She said, "Is this a stunt?" I echoed weakly, "A stunt?" "Well," said Miss Kempers, "if Miss Grey isn't a dead ringer for So-and-So — then I'll swim the channel!" "You'd better get your bathing suit on," I said. "I only wish to God she were. My task would be less thankless." I added, "No one else has thought so." Miss Kempers continued to doubt — and said so. Rosalie stared wonderingly at me and signified that she didn't understand. I explained to her that Miss Kempers thought she resembled So-and-So. "Yes," sighed Rosalie, "I've been told that before." "I should think it would make pleasant hearing," I said, grimly. Being a lady, Miss Kempers didn't quite care to call me a liar. But she had her suspicions. Later on, she told me that she had been close to tears all afternoon, so upset was she by her suspicions. On our way to the casting director's office Rosalie and I conferred in undertones. We discussed the perceptions of our own sex versus the exploited perceptions of men. Men, who claim that they can size up any woman. Women, who are accredited with the ability to see through other women. The women get it. It had taken a woman to see through Rosalie Grey. In the casting offices the executive in charge again inventoried Rosalie Grey. Again she gave her name and address, age, weight, height and previous experience. While he was writing down the data, Rosalie whispered timidly, "Is it always like this?" I was cheerful. "Oh, yes, Rosalie, you've got to expect a long row to hoe." The C. D. was majestical. He was thoroughgoing with his information. He explained at kindly length the enormous cost of United Artists productions. Such being the case, he said, staring with bland patron 92