The Photo-Play Journal (Jul 1919-Feb 1921)

26 Photo-Play Journal It was on reading a newspaper article by one Henri Montrait, in which the distinguished French journalist characterized Alma Rubens as the American Eleanor Duse, that I decided I must see the American who was being handed the mantle of the world's greatest actress. And I found her a young, slim, dark girl, oval-faced, with an olive pallor, large brown eyes under thin, arched brows, and masses of jet hair that she wears low on her neck. She has the look of the thoroughbred, perhaps more Continental in her finish and poise than the average American Alma Rubens and Gaston Glass in tivo scenes from Frank Borzage's truly wonderful film version of "Humoresque" ALMA RUBENS By MARGARET LEE THE possession of beauty and intelligence, while admittedly rare, is yet not so rare as to arouse more than a passing curiosity, a pleased surprise— perhaps a mild envy. And with the possible exception of the few remaining professional connoisseurs of femininity who still feel hurt at the discovery of the occasional brain behind the simper, the advantage to all, no matter how remotely concerned, of having something inside the skull as well as yellow curls atop it, has been pretty generally conceded. Nowadays, instead of hiding her mental light under a Paris hat, the proud actress hires a reflector, a press agent, to acquaint the palpitating public with the facts that, not only does she love her mother, and her immediate relatives, but also, she knows a thing or two, beside. She can sew, perhaps — even does. She wishes she had time to cook her own meals. She dotes on narrative poetry and has been asked to address Columbia University on the philosophy of Herbert Kaufman. So says the press agent! But to find a young woman who has the triple charm of beauty, intelligence, and intellect — there's the seeming impossibility. Only seeming, however, for Alma Rubens has. we are willing* to say, that elusive fragrance — intellect. It is too bad, really, thus to risk Miss Rubens' popularity with such a description ; but perhaps she will forgive us when we say that that, after all, is what makes her distinctive. Since to be heard of in this busy world one must be different, and since she is also eligible to the "youth, beauty, personality" slogans just now so prevalent, she may be forgiven — and forgive. girl of her age; and her conversation is a refreshing mixture of naivete and book sophistication. We met on the elevator in her apartment. I was late, but Miss Rubens, it seemed, was later, and as we were taken up she explained the reason for her lateness — and the immense package she was carrying. She was leaving New York the next day for a bit of a vacation on completing her latest picture. "The World and His Wife," and had been rummaging all afternoon in book shops for some novels to take along with her — emerging at the last, triumphant, with a copy of a Tolstoy novel, a volume of De Maupassant short stories, and a stunning-looking thriller, "The Chinese Label." Miss Rubens is nothing if not catholic in her literary tastes. Her little doll's house of an apartment is filled with books, most of which have been censored either by the general public or the improper authorities. But think not that this strange taste precludes the possession of more normal ones. Miss Rubens is the proud owner of two adorable Pekinese, who greet her approach with loud and tumbling appreciation, and whine disconso'ately on banishment. She certainly preserves the Golden Mean. "Tell me. Miss Rubens," I beean. fearing I had found