Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1928)

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GOLDMAN'S Hmir Color Rmttoror swarthv e.xtraman who hunched over the bench.' Before him stood Portia, his Portia; not a dull eyed trollop in a X'assar gown. The world could stone him only to the sanctuar> of his role. There he left the world. Not a penniless old man, capering for bread, not the echo of a splendid name, but Shyloch; Slivlock, cantor of the dirge written by Destiny for a mighty race. The greatest Shylock of the greatest stage. GO on — go on — say something." The director's booming voice was like the buzzing of a gad fly. "If you don't know the lines, fake anything." Mandate laughed to the sidelines. Then came the proper moment in the course of the drama when he might speak, and he turned on Christendom. Malignant as IMacklin. hysterically fiendish as Cooke, cringing as Henderson, profound as the elder Keen, he whined for Christian flesh. The lights went out. "Tha's swell," Grandee grinned. "You sure know your onions. Lissen, we gotta shoot a night sequence down to Venice. We leave at fi\-c, so be here; the prop boy will give you a box-lunch to eat on the way." The old man trembled from the passion of his role. He had done a great thing. He had given the best of his heart. A fragment of the characterization had been his finest drama. He knew that the characters were not as he would have had them and that the setting seemed crude, yet, he thought, the strange young mechanical art would in some Avay correct the errors and he was content. Who could tell, he mused, bfit that this strange path might lead him back again to the heights? He would give the screen the heart's blood of his own beloved role. He saw Mattie bustling across the lot and called "Heigh ho!" with a ringing, cheery note in his voice. When she had joined him he bent to kiss her hand and said: "I've won new spurs today!" "Land sakes," she answered with an embarrassed little titter, "I've been looking all over the lot and now you've got me all fussed. I've got a tradelast for you. I heard all about it from Grandee. You tell me first and then I'll tell you what he said!" iSIandare looked down into a radiant face. Mattie Carpenter was bearing the kind of tale she relished. Her choice bit of gossip would make the person concerned happier for hearing it. She could scarcely wait. She didn't. "They say you were a perfect scream," she began happil\', "wobbling on your legs and pulling your face down and making everybody laugh. Cirandee himself said the scene would be a 'Super-belly wow' and that is the way a director explains something so funn}' the walls of the theater will go in and out like an accordion." It came to Mandare slowly. The little old woman's words of praise beat on his brain like hammers. She was smiling, proudl)-; and the hammers beat new tissue. They beat incessantly. Comedy! Great God! . . . not whimsy, not a droll twist to a sincere thought . . . but low comedy . . . slap-stick comedy . . . like the German knockabouts in the cheap halls of impersonal, distant, hearsay. The viol in his breast that had been a heart snapped its major string. He laughed and strode away. A property boy found him pacing. back and forth in the twilight, chuckling to himself. He shoved him into a many-seated bus and thrust a cardboard box into his hands. The bus started. DOWN Cahuei though to pit Cahuenga Pass; swer\ing curves — as lunge into the swimming sea of lights in Hollywood below. Mandare saw, for the first time, that he clutched a box of food and hurled it I o the road. Beside him sat swarthy men in garish costumes; ill-smelling vestments of a thousand plaj-s. He laughed until the tears drilled furiDws in the paint on his face. ^Mandate, the clown, he thought; and the thought set up new laughter that he could not quench with tears. Hollywood left off and Beverly Hills began. ISIandare stared, detached, at the dim outhne of terraced villas set in silhouette to fringe the hills. It was merciful ignorance that allowed his eyes to sweep the gates without recognizing the synthetic heraWry emblazoned on the crests. There was Pickfair, sheltering fellow artists of whom Mandare had not heard. Then a towering mansion built by the whimsy of an Oklahoma cowpuncher. And a third. Mandare had heard of him. His contact had been a faint echo of the music haUs. The bus stopped. The company was assembled on a bridge that spans a canal in the strange little beach town that callsilsdf Venice. Here's a piece of make-up that should make Lon Chaney tear his crepe hair. The mild-looking man at the right is able to transform himself into the fierce-looking gorilla, glaring at you on the left. He is Fred Humes and you will see his remarkable animal impersonation in the Dane-Arthur comedy, "Monkey Business" ll»cnnnl In PnaTOPL.\T M.\0.\ZIN"E