Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1929)

Ghostly Studios of Yesterday elephants in their native Indian haunts were matched onto the film, and everj-body in the industry wonderedhowin thunder Colonel Selig had done it. Even in those days sets were built in perspective, giving the effect of distance. The town was agog two years ago when Murnau built in perspective. The idea came into use long before the time of the German director. RajTnond Cannon, now a Fox director, played twenty different parts in "The Adventures of Kath'lyn." Frank Grandon, who directed, died ver>' recently. yV THILE shooting was still in progress on W the later episodes of "Kathlyn," Colonel Selig began production on "The Spoilers," a feature which was to make a great fortune. The high point of "The Spoilers," of course, was the famous fight between Thomas Santschi and William Farnum. Before, screen fights had been faked, but there was no fake about this one. Before the battle was over Santschi and Farnum were both so fighting mad that they forgot the camera. Bessie Eyton, then gloriously beautiful, with her vivid red hair, was the heroine. Ri\-alry developed between Bessie Eyton and KatWyn \\illiams. They strove for the best assignments. Strange it was, for Bessie was then the wife of Charles Eyton. Xow Kathlyn A\illiams is his wife. Kathlyn Wiliaras made a brief comeback in "Our Dancing Daughters." When Garson took over the studio he was trying heroically to keep Clara Kimball Young on the ladder of fame. She was putting on weight at an alarming pace, and Garson used to watch her diet with an.xious eyes. This same studio brought financial disaster to Marshall Neilan. He purchased it for $300,000. Blanche Sweet, his wife, invested $50,000. Today it couldn't be sold for a third of that. He made three pictures there, none too successful. "Diplomacy" was the last picture Blanche Sweet ever made in .\merica. The old Metro studio stands on its narrow, quiet street — the graveyard of dreams. One day a beehive of activity — the next deserted, never to be used again. There are some people who say that it is haunted. Certainly a trail of disaster followed those who worked there, and most certainly it looks as if it might well be haunted. Windows boarded up, doors barred, cracked paint, and hovering o\'er it all the damp, all-pervading smell of must. Vet, once, Metro was most imposing and romantic. There was a day when the colonial pillars were glistening white. Through the studio gates, barred by a rusted iron rope, rode the most glamorous stars ever seen. TT was here that Rex Ingram made "The -•■I'our Horsemen," and in it appeared the greatest lover the screen has ever known or ever will know, Rudolph Valentino, a happy boy with sparkling, darkeyes. JuneMathis.one of the greatest of scenarists, had her offices in a front wing. A crumbling ruin of "The Four Horsemen" set still stands. In the same studio was made "The Prisoner of Zenda." Two new people were seen in that, too. Barbara La JMarr and Ramon Xovarro. Ramon kept a piano in his dressing room and would practice his singing and dancing between scenes. Now Barbara is dead. Ramon, of all those Metro stars, is the only one to retain his place in after years. Big, blond Harold Lockwood and his lovely co-star, May Allison, worked here. Influenza brought a quick last curtain to his career. May .\llison married, retired from the screen and became a successful author. Her brilliant articles appear quite regularly in Co-nnopoUtan. Naziinova worked behind her walled-in sets, [ CONTI.\UEJ FROM I'XUE 44 ) at the height of her career, exotic and haughty. Alice Lake was a vivid star in those days. She is in Hollywood now to stage a comeback. And Bert Lytell, the most popular male star on the Metro program. Bert occasionally makes a picture now. He is an unqualified success in a current Broadway drama. Alice Terry, the then fragile heroine of "The Four Horsemen" and "The Prisoner of Zenda," lives abroad with her husband. Rex Ingram. Just inside the studio walls was a tiny Japanese garden, with a brook and diminuti%e arched bridge. Viola Dana used to stand on this bridge and wave a gay greeting to Omar Locklear, her fiance, as he soared above in his aeroplane. He went up in his plane one day and something went wrong. \'iola never waved to him again. Lionel Barrymore deserted the grease paint to become a director. Dut Director Robert Z. Leonard picked up the discarded make-up bo.\ and went back to acting. Only temporarily, of course. Leonard plays a doughboy bit in "Marianne," Marion Davies' new starring picture for M-G-M which he also directed .\\\ part of brilliant old IMetro. No wonder people say that it is haunted. Over it hangs shadows, the shadows of "The Four Horsemen." Near the much grander Metro was the friendly little place where Buster Keaton made many of his most successful comedies. It was informal and rowdy, overrun by gag men and numerous \isiting friends. Inceville! In those days it was romantic, a kaleidoscope of color and action. The Pacific and the mountains were its boundaries. One structure still stands today of the many that used to clamber up the hillside. It is a little weather-beaten church, buUt for the wedding in "Peggy." Remember? The star was Billie Burke, and it was a great event when the red-headed actress, the toast of Broadway, came way out to Inceville! Robert Brunton was the designer of the church, long before he built the Brunton studios. Now he is dead, and the church is his monument. TT was in this isolated location that Thomas -'■Ince built his career, before he erected the beautiful studio in Culver City, a close replica of Washington's home at JIt. Vernon. Ince had always dreamed of having a studio just like it. He built it — and died. Vou haven't forgotten Inceville if you knew the California of ten and fifteen years ago. A road leading from Santa Monica, choked with dust in summer, and impassable with mud in winter. On rainy days everyone used to ride horseback from the Japanese fishing \illage, where thecarhneended. John Gilbert wasone of the riders. Ince believed that John was a good actor, but did not think him cast of heroic material. Dorothy Dalton became famous in "The Flame of the Yukon," made here, and Louise Glaum waved her peacock fans and lured men on to destruction (for the cinema only). A bashful boy named Charles Ray came to attention in a Frank Keenan picture, "The CowT.rd." ^\ illiam S. Hart, the two-gun man, strode through the Western streets. Bessie Barriscale was the big star. Now all that is left of Inceville is the "Peggy" church and the old film vault. The old ranch is now a smart real estate development, with fine Mediterranean houses replacing thesets. Most of the stars of that studio have disappeared. Only John Gilbert, the most dubious possibility at that time, is a reigning star. Before Louis B. Mayer joined MetroGoldwyn he produced in his own studios on the east side of Los Angeles, and adjoining the Selig zoo. This small but impressive NormanFreich building is deserted now. Things were enlivened at the Mayer Studio when the animals broke loose at the zoo. Anita Stewart, highly paid, was the greatest star of the lot. Norma Shearer had her first real acting opportunities on this lot, and, occasionally, Barbara La Marr worked as an extra. THE Paramount studio today is a greatly improved version of the Brunton studios of yesterday, then considered very swank. Brunton was a rent studio. Mary Pickford was making "PoUyanna" at the time Douglas Fairbanks was producing across the street at Clune's, now Tec-Art. Busy Melrose Avenue was then a dusty, country road, lined with great eucal>'ptus trees. It was there that Benjamin Hampton, who later married the beautiful Claire Adams, made his pictures. The street car line ended blocks down the street, on Western Avenue. Extras had to trudge that long distance, rain or shine. The only cafe in the neighborhood was a hot dog stand. There was a bar down on Western Avenue if stronger fortification was necessary. Clune was a great name in those days. He had produced the first "Ramona. " He also owned the two most important downtown theaters. It was at his .Xuditorium, now the Philharmonic, that "The Birth of a Nation" had its world's premiere. Much later, Fred Niblo produced " Strangers 99