Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1931)

The Unknown Hollywood HOLLYWOOD, ten or twelve years ago, was a lusty place. There wasn't a chinchilla coat or a top hat in the town. And — maybe it's only because I'm old enough to reminisce— it seems to me that people had a lot more fun then. I wish I could rebuild the place for you. A low, white city, open to the sun. Little, clubby. A friendly town. There wasn't much Beverly Hills and you didn't need an Oxford telephone number or an Oxford accent to be admitted into the Kingdom of God. There were a few limousines, but a Rolls-Royce parked against the curb drew a crowd. Nobody was grand. Nobody used a broad "A." Hollywood was a child, charming and naive. Now it's a woman of the world, sparkling, bizarre, hard and bitter, with a painted face and narrow eyes. It is natural that the village should become adult, but don't blame me for regretting the passing of the Hollywood I knew. Last month I told you that D. W. Griffith went to New York leaving me broken-heartedly clutching separate letters of introduction to Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks (who were not married to each other at the time). Doug worked at the Fairbanks Studio, now Tec-Art, and Mary rented space across the street at Brunton, which has become Paramount's enormous studio. Melrose Avenue— now a flourishing business street — was then lined with eucalyptus trees, and there were only a few small bungalows between the end of the Western Avenue car line and the studios — seven long blocks away. If my memory serves me correctly, I was admitted to Mary Pickford's dressing-room on the Brunton lot at once. She was By Katherine Albert "Register fright," said the director. And Katherine Albert turned on the works thus in "The Saphead" 12 years ago Ramon Novarro, young and eager, in his first film, "The Lover's Oath," with Kathleen Key. This was before Ingram had discovered Ramon 68 standing erect, with some sort of blue negligee caught about her, and her hair — the famous Pickford curls — caught on top of her head with a couple of pins. I'm not tall, but I towered above her and she gave me the smallest hand I've ever felt, in a brief, firm clasp. Her voice was brisk and crisp and, although she was pleasant, she smiled not at all. I've seen her dozens of times since, of course, and only on the rarest of occasions have I known her to smile. I can't remember ever hearing her laugh heartily. I discovered that I couldn't talk to her — too calm, too impersonal, too distantly polite. Nothing at all passed between us. She was sweet. She was businesslike. She promised me — quickly and conclusively — a bit in "Pollyanna" on which she was working. Later I learned that this standomshnessis defense mechanism. ONLY a few months ago she came to a tea which I attended. She arrived late. She was unsmiling. The hostess met her at the door. Mary clung to her, looking at the guests — there were a hundred or more — who filled the lobby of the Chateau Elysee. "Walk in with me," she said. "I'm always terrified of going into a room where there are so many people." And yet her arrival had caused a hush to fall. In spite of her timidity — which is often mistaken for something else — she remains the reigning queen of Hollywood. Leaving Pickford, I went across the street to discover that Fairbanks was not in but that director Victor Fleming, who was later to become engaged to Clara Bow, would see me. He is a tall, loose-jointed man and I remember him as he sat, hunched down in his chair, legs sprawled out in front of him, looking at me through half-closed eyes. I could talk to him. I did, telling him my ridiculous hopes, my vain ambitions. Once or twice he laughed. But he was sensitive, understanding, and I'm sure a person as naive and quaint as I was an anomaly to him. Finally he stopped me and called in a Mr. Smith who looked me over, in a kindly fashion, and said I might have a part in a picture he was to do if I'd "come back in two weeks." I didn't know then that that was — and still is — Hollywood's favorite alibi. But, immensely elated with prospects of two jobs, I walked to the Western Avenue car line. IN a very few days Pickford's casting man called me, but the "bit" in "Pollyanna" turned out to be one day's extra work with a bunch of kids much younger than I, which gave me no chance to "emote." However, I still had the promised "part" from Mr. Smith. Two weeks to the day after I'd seen him I again presented myself at Fairbanks Studios and asked for Mr. Smith. The office boy gave me a withering glance. "He ain't been here for ten days," he said, and then, seeing the quick tears that sprang to my eyes, he added, "I think he went to Metro." Metro is a good two and a half miles from Fairbanks. There was no crosstown transportation. It had begun to rain — just to make things more devastating for me — and I walked