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

38 Photo-Play Journal DON ADONIS A Peep Into Tony Moreno's Album By CONSTANCE LITTLE IN your rambles through mythology you no doubt have met Proteus, the sea god, who would assume different forms in order to escape prophesying. I met him recently on the Vitagraph lot. The purpose of my visit was to chat with Antonio Moreno about — well, everything — his serial thrills, his romances on screen and off, and the possibility of his doing a picture in Spain with King Alfonso himself playing atmosphere. Tony is nice to meet. He has an ardent Spanish way of concentrating upon you that makes you feel you have "the lure" and makes you recall it is leap year. He was looking unusually healthy — a bronze god witb just enough flush in his cheeks to signify he is of flesh rather than metal. "Will you wait in my office while I put on my make-up? I will be only a moment — I promise you." He houdinied from view into his dressing compartment while I settled down in a large chair before a window of his office. The room is a compromise of artistry and efficiency. There are rose and blue draperies fluttering at the open casements, some paintings on the walls, a few signed portraits of beautiful women, several pen sketches of Tony. There, too, was a roll-top desk, a cabinet overflowing with letters, stacks of photomailers and pictures, and a secretary busily enclosing photographs which the star had signed that morning for his admirers in Newport, Samoa, Buenos Aires, Shanghai, Paris and ravished Armenia. I don't know how long I was lost in a dreamy contemplation of the view from the Moreno office windows — a tropic scene of California hills — jade green set in poppy gold — arising behind the Japanese temple, Spanish missions and Turkish kiosks. My reverie was cut by the entrance of an old gentleman. He had white hair, sleek white goatee and moustache, slightly stooped shoulders. I had never seen him before — yes, I had — for those burning black eyes with Mephistophelan glints belong to only one. It was Moreno. "You — why? Character work?" I expostulated. "Yes," he replied, affecting a tremolo. "I am getting along, you know — can't always stay young." Then he laughed, and the boyish laugh and bright teeth were antidotes to the illusion of gray hair and wrinkles. "I am playing different characters in the new serial," he explained. "That is, I disguise myself. I did the same thing in my last, 'The Invisible Hand.' I like it. People say . there are no chances in serials for real acting. I have determined to make chances. I love to play characters — really transfer myself to someone else — play all the ages of man, you know. The handsome hero — he's disgusting — worse than the simpering ingenue. Thank the Lord, producers are learning the public wants something besides plucked eyebrows and No. 3 rouge lips." This sudden condemnation of the romantic ideal was almost revolutionary, coming from the — well, one of the — handsomest and most romantic of all our screen gods. "So you would emulate Proteus rather than Adonis?" I queried, still a bit restrained in the presence of so much senile dignity. He reminded me, in fact, of Grumpy — Cyril Maude's Grumpy. I said so, and he was pleased. His eyes said he was delighted. "That's what I want to do," he exclaimed. And he hastily drew from the cabinet a number of pictures — a Protean kaleidoscope of characters he has assumed recently. "What I can't actually play characters I pose them in portraits and 'stills'," he laughed. "See this Spanish fellow? I am going to play him sometime. I like him. So few stars play characters. But they are going to. It's all rubbish that the public doesn't like a favorite in a character role. Character roles make favorites. Look at Chaplin and his character— Dick Barthelmess, the yellow man — Lionel Barrymore, the Copperhead — and the public loves them! Only real actors can play such parts effectively, and you only prove you are a real actor when you play something besides yourself. Naturally, I — all serious actors — want to prove a talent. Take the stars of the stage. They are remembered for what they are not. Joe Jefferson's Rip, Ethel Barrymore's Mrs. Jones in The Silver Box, David Warfield's Auctioneer — those you remember. And you'll remember John Barrymore, not by 'The Fortune Hunter,' but by 'The Jest' or 'Richard HIV He gathered up his characters and placed them back in the cabinet file. "It's a hobby," he said apologetically, "this collection — a sort of album of family characters." His sparkling enthusiasm was that of a boy at the age when he plays Indian. Tony is an artist — a subtle, studious actor — thus he enjoys assuming any character, be it that of a dashing Don Juan or a decrepit Grumpy. I think Tony will only realize age by playing it. He will never experience it — not if the adage holds that a man is only as old as he feels. For Tony is Youth — eternal youth. He glowes and effervesces like a rich wine of his own sunny Spain. And the older that wine grows, the richer, more vigorous and brilliant it is. Age enriches its bouquet. The esprit of Antonio has the virtues — and not a little of the intoxication — possessed by the wines of Andalusia. I resented the perversity of this Byronic youth, who might have inspired the poet's Don Juan — his perversity is assimilating Age when he is Youth. "Oh, but I am neither," he assured me. "I change. In this picture I am first a college boy — playing water polo, driving racing cars — an all-around sportsman, you know. Then, incidentally, as I move through the story I assume various disguises, just as I did in the role of Detective Sharp in 'The Invisible Hand'." "It's a complex life," I mur