Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1925)

Mary Pickford promised her pet pup, "Zorro," a part in "Little Annie Rooney." But William Beaud her director, dismissed him with these cruel words, "You're only a society dog !" So Zorro rushed to his typewriter to tell his story PDITOR'S NOTE: What is wrong ■'-' with the movies? All the experts from Harlem to Hollywood have had their say in columns and columns of type. To get the real "tow down" of the conditions existing in the studios, u<e have gone to no less a person than Mary Pickford's dog, "Zorro." Does "pull" help you get into the movies? Read Zorro' s fearless answer in his statement to Photoplay's readers. Zorro Has His Bark At Art To THE PUBLIC: It is not alone wounded pride but a sense of duty that makes me break through my natural reserve and use the public prints to acquaint the world with a deplorable condition that prevails in the movies. There is a great hue and cry nowadays about the dearth of talent and the need of new faces on the screen — all the blatant braying of press-agents, I am now convinced. But for a time even I — the least credulous of dogs — was misled, and being rather bored with emptiness of social life decided that I, too, would enter pictures. I knew that Lady Diana Manners, Prince Lazereif and others of the haute monde — pardon my French — had taken the step without losing prestige, so I said to myself, "Why not I?" Furthermore, I knew that I had talent — and to no ordinary degree. Perhaps I was better suited to the speaking stage as my bark is musical and of a wide range, but in an amateur way I had often proved my ability as a pantomimic actor. While I am physically small — at the same time shapely — I have sometimes assumed so fierce a mien that I have frightened much larger dogs, and my friends have told me that my very appearance seemed to change. Just by staring fiercely at a St. Bernard I have known him to run away while I was secretly laughing in my whiskers. Though I have more than my share of good looks I scorned to become a mere matinee idol but desired to play character parts — in a word, to become the Lon Chancy of the canine world. Since my arrival in this country I have made my home with the Pickford-Fairbanks, and am, I may sav, intimately acquainted with the family. I therefore anticipated no difliculty in arranging for my debut and forthwith made known my intentions to Miss Pickford. She was, of course, delighted that she was to have the first opportunity of securing my services and immediately offered me the role of "Prinny Rooney" in her forthcoming film, "Little Annie Rooney." There was, however, a condition attached. The part required the actor to have a shaggy and unkempt coat — and mine was, of course, smooth and trim. I have always made it a point to keep well-plucked and am acknowledged the best-groomed dog in Hollywood. But Miss Pickford begged me to let my hair grow for the part, predicting a great future, urging that it was in the cause of art, etc., etc., and I rather reluctantly consented. That was two months ago — and in the weeks that followed I suffered torments, not alone of body, but of mind. It was bad enough to feel hot and uncomfortable and to have to work constantly to keep fleas at bay, but to have to endure the lifted eyebrows and covert sneers of my friends — dogs who had never passed me without a friendly wag of the tail — was almost more than I could bear. But I kept saj'ing to myself, " It is for art — now is your chance to elevate the movies — courage, Zorro!" At last the time for active production arrived, a director was engaged and, as a matter of form, I was brought in to meet him. My idea of a director had always been of a lordly sort of person with a megaphone and with fat calves encased in puttees; and when I saw the lean, lanky creature they had engaged I almost burst out laughing. Honestly, this [ coNTiNtiED on page 1 1 2 ] 47