Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1931)

But nothing turned up — nothing. And at the end of six weeks — well, tramping from office to office can make even the smartest new clothes and the most trick little shoeslook shabby! The seventh week found Molly haunting employment agencies, standing like a shadow among a couple of hundred other shadows in front of forbidding closed doors. They were always closed . . . The eighth week — and eight weeks, as any mathematician figures it, equal almost two months — brought her to actual hunger! Hunger — with her last pair of silk stockings in a regrettable state, and her last week's board bill unpaid, and the freshest of her frocks sold to a second-hand dealer. And then on the last day of the second month had come a magic summons. Central Casting had given her a sudden call. She was to report at a studio. If she suited it might mean anything. Even — a job. "If I could only get one day's work," she told herself fiercely, as she waited in front of the director's office, "it would help. I could pay some rent, on account, and perhaps have a hamburger sandwich, too, on the way home." The thought of a hamburger sandwich, sizzling, smelling not too faintly of onions, made her feel acutely giddy. THERE was a bustle about the place on this day. But perhaps, for all Molly knew, there was always this sense of nervousness in a studio. It spread through the crowd as bustle and nervousness always do. Molly wasn't the only one on edge — for the girl standing next to her gave a sudden sharp little sigh. "You and me," she said in an aside, over her shoulder, "haven't got much chance, kid, I'm afraid. There are too many near-society girls coming in here, trailing new chiffon dresses. You and me — well, I'm down on my luck. I haven't had a day's work since St. Peter was a little baby. And you don't look so prosperous either." "No, I'm not so prosperous," answered Molly wearily. "Been here long?" asked the other girl — not that she cared much, just for something to say. "Oh, for two months," said Molly, still wearily. "Say," the other girl was suddenly confidential, "I've been here two years, and it gets harder all the time; I mean more competition and everything. You're new at it still — you can break away. Why don't you beat it back to the place you came from?" It was Molly who sighed now. "It's a long walk to New York," she said. The other girl persisted. "Haven't you some friend who'll stake you to a train ride?" she asked Molly. But at the question Molly's head snapped up sharply and her chin became all at once firm again. Nearly firm! She was remembering what Preston had said about "when you come back." "No," said Molly, "I haven't." And that was that. THE crowd in front of the director's office was growing. It was in the air that there had been a large order for extras, but nobody seemed to know just what kind of a picture was in process. The crowd contained all sorts of people, too. There were the aforementioned near-society girls, trailing their chiffons . . . There was a stout, matronly woman whose round cheeks looked placid, and whose eyes looked scared. There was a tall, shiny black man, with a little pickaninny clutching at either hand. There was a fussy, be-ribboned mother, with a fussy, be-ribboned child in tow . . . There were old men, bearded and bent and hopeless. There were young men, arrogant and bold-eyed and a little worn at the elbows. And then suddenly a door opened somewhere and a girl came out with a slip of paper in her hand. On the paper were names, neatly typed. Molly, with her eyes, followed the progress of the girl — evidently a secretary — who consulted the list and made checks against the names. And, as she watched, all about her, through the line of extras, a whisper grew and swelled and traveled. "They're casting for that New York picture," ran the whisper. "They want fifty extras today. My God — fifty! It's New York stuff. It's — [please turn to page 116] He Ages Ihirty-rive Years in Ihree Hou r s It takes this man just three hours to add thirty-five years to his life! But it takes three hours every day. The natty young fellow in gray hat is named Phillips Lord, but you know him over the radio as Seth Parser. He and his troupe are making "Way Back Home" for Radio Pictures, and the greatest make-up job since "Cimarron" is done on Lord by Ern Westmore, who was responsible for aging Richard Dix and Irene Dunne in that picture of Oklahoma frontier days, and Mae Marsh in "Over the Hill." Westmore works on the human face in much the same way an artist paints a canvas. They make 'em young or old in Hollywood KK