Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1920)

I I 2 Pll()l01'LA^ M \(.A/.INE — ADVF.I<riSlN(. SiCCTION BEAUTY is good fortune bequeathed by kindly fate and is woman's most precious possession. Protect it. Use only re e mans FACE POWDER Pure, wholesome, delightful. All tinis at all tmlcc iimnicrs 50c (Joufclc the quantity of old 2Sc si;<.) plus 2c mar tax. Mil iatuTC box muiUd f"^ 4c phis Ic war tax. El-Rado Sanitary Liquid^^ Hair Remover . !h< To Wear Chiffon Sleeves Underarms Must Be Hair Free A ■ t I ■. !i uple way to remove hair is to wash it off with tlKado sanitary liquid. This liquid is easily applied with a piece of absorbent cotton. In a few moments the hair can be removed. After shakins on a little talcuin the skin appears soft, smooth and dainty. Even those accustomed to other methods of hair removing find an occasional use of El-Rado liquid is good for the skin. El-Rado is guaranteed harmless no matter where applied— face, arms or limbs. It is sold at drugstores and toilet counters intwosizes,60c and $1.00 per bottle, with a money-back guarantee. OrtliTS fined direct on receii't of .«f«/i./<a if doilirainnut suri'iu yon PILGRIM MFG. CO., Oepl. P. I12t. 19th St. New York Caudian Address. THE ARTHUR SALES CO.. D«pt. P 61 Adtbide Siren East, Toronlo hOWDGRso AOORABiy FR£Ne The Hope that Springs (Concluded jrom page jg) 'AOORABLy FR£MeWaQUI§IT€Ly f RASRANf AT bfOOK. oeALER,A LAME BOX-SO SHf. A60UR>(OI§&OCL ALSO fm<m'ss^ Rou@£ I^^Ka (ft UNIQUE NiATURALNtSS I^^Hjl brave, too cheerful, too full of some spirit of helpfulness won from their precarious existence. In nothing else was this spirit so clearly revealed as in the way they all crowded about me with words of encouragement. "Xow just take it easy and don't get nervous. " Sally of the almond-shaped eyes kept saying to me. "I just know you're the kind that's going to film fine." By the time we all had got into our evening clothes evcr>'body was excitedly admiring everybody else. "Honest, Sally, you look like a thousand dollars,'' someone cried out across the room. "Where did you get that swell dress?" "Rich cousin," retorted Sally laconically. "She and her sister give me lots of things. If they didn't I could never be an extra. Where would I get the money to buy new evening dresses and wraps? Isn't it lucky, though, that I can wear anything from a thirty-four to a forty-four? I always say I got a regular poor relative's figure." It was now twelve o'clock. Most of us had risen sLx hours earlier. Those six hours were only a prelude, however, to the real days' work. Not until half-past two were we finally summoned to the studio where the carpenters had been busy constructing the lobby of a big New York hotel. In the meanwhile a lunch of sandwiches, coffee and pie had been served us. I learned that this was almost as unforeseen as manna. For, although some of the studios possess lunch-rooms and others dispense refreshments such as we had today, the timeliness and the presence of food is so uncertain in the movie world that the average extra expects as little sustenance as a camel in the midst of the desert'. "There are two things you have to learn to do without, once you get to be an e.xtra," remarked Sally, swinging her golden-slippered feet from the big table upon which she was sitting. "One is food and the other is the back of a chair.'' As she dispensed this sunny philosophy my own back was aching. I remembered that I had been sitting here on this same bench for more than two hours and a half. Heavens I And I had conceived the extra's work to be merely sitting at a cabaret table or walking across the drawing-room floor I Even so, however, I had as yet no idea of the discipline involved. I was to get a further revelation when we all descended the two flights of stairs to the hall outside the studio. Here we were met by the director. He had decided that, after all, he would make this a day-time scene and would we all kindly change to our street clothes. Imagine any other class of women receiving the news that hours of primping have been in vain ! Yet my fellow martyrs accepted this announcement quite as a matter of course. "Well," said the fat sirl who feared balconies as, pulling her brocade evening wrap about her, she began her ascent of the stairs to the dressing-room, "I might have known it. They're always changing their minds at the last moment. Take all your clothes to a studio, that's what I say — all your clothes and a mackintosh." It was three o'clock when the man at the camera really started. In my trusting way I had imacined that you performed once and then all was over. Not so. The "grinder," as I heard the girls, call the camera, was as painstaking as a miniature painter. Seven times I rei>eated my own "action" — the involved one of walking across the lobby to the hotel desk and back to a big leather settee. For three hours we waited and acted and acted and waited. .\11 of thb might have been somewhat trying even in the temfjerate zone. But this studio was so hot that an electric cabinet would have seemed quite clement in comparison — and I was swathed in the long squirrel coat I had worn on my trip. AT last, at sLx o'clock, we were dismissed. I heard my companions congratulating themselves on the earliness of the hour. It might so easily have been eight or nine, they said. But. as for me, I was unsoftened. I was hungry. I had never been so tired. I was prostrated as an Eskimo in the tropics. And as I dropped into my little room on Madison .\venue that night I reviled each person who had ever come forward with the ghoulish suggestion, "WTiy don't you go into the mo\ies?" Never, never would I tr> being an extra again. Yet I did try it. Whenever I got a day s work I took it. Some of these days. I may add, were much easier than the one I have just described. Others, on the contrary, were infinitely harder. Often I put in fifteen or sixteen hours. Often I went without food. -And it frequently happened that I spent more than a dollar on the phones and car-fares preliminary to getting me a five-dollar job. But I persisted and after some months I got my reward. Perhaps it was my looks, which proved to be the kind that did film well. Perhaps it was my wardrobe. .At all events. I was given a small part in a big picture and the director is most encouraging about my future. This luck of mine is not. however, the common fortune. As a rule, indeed, the movie moth does not become the movie star. She — or he — can look forward to nothing much save days such as I have described. For this reason the person who wants to be a movie extra must regard it merely as an income e.xtra. And it is not strange, therefore, that the ranks of supernumeraries are toade up of four leading types. One of these is the chorus girl or man who wants to make a little money on the side. The second is the actor or actress of the legitimate stage waiting for an engagement. Next comes the woman who is bored with life. .\nd last is the wife or daughter of the small-salaried man, who uses the screen as the magic to bring her the goldmesh bag. the ostrich plume, or any of the little frivolities that Home Sweet Home will not provide. However, much as all of these may realize the steps between them and stardom, they are all unconsciously sustained by hope. Some day some director may notice a particular bit of promise in face or gesture. Some day a small part may be given them in which they have a chance to show their real fitness. For hope is more active in the movie world than any place else. It never stops moving across the screen of one's consciousness. So. even now, I myself am looking forward to the day when I c.^relessly open my pay-envelope upon a three thousand dollar check. Ercry adn-rtisciucnt In PHOT<>PL.\Y MAGAZINE (• gt.«riiitcc<t.