Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1920)

46 Photoplay Magazine I think Mary is much more than the ingenue many people think she is. Her hfe has always been mapped out for her; the sunny-haired child has always taken dictation. And she has managed, somehow, to keep within herself a separate shell, which holds her own little individuality, her distinct personality — a personality few know about, a whimsicality few suspect, a depth which would surprise you. Mary Miles Minter is subtle. She is one of the best actresses I know. She has the greatest art — that which conceals art. To the casual observer, she is a pretty child, very much intent on "getting there" but not quite knowing what she is going to do when she does arrive. There, I think they are wrong. When Zukor took her under his managerial wing, she made up her mind she would not only come up to his expectations, she would exceed them. She is working night and day to do this. But between times, Mary comes to. To herself, the real, little, lonely girl. She. of all the acting women I have known — and she is a woman, with a woman's mentality, a woman's sanity, and the physical aspect of young girlhood — has two selves — one, for her work; the other, for herself. She had a white house on upper Fifth Avenue while she was working in New York. She had attendants, personal and domestic, galore. She had a million-dollar contract, which brought her the blue car, and the jewels, and the dresses. Yet, none of these were really hers. Her mother signed her contract, and holds it. Her mother draws her salary. She has no car of her own. And all this is because she wishes it to be so. Of her own volition, she turns over to Mrs. Shelby her earnings; of her own volition, she has nothing of her own beyond a few essentials. She dresses, except on rare occasions, in the simplest possible fashion. Her tastes are luxurious; so she permit < herself only the simplest things. Like Mary Pickford, Mary Miles Minter was a stage child. Even then she was gifted with poise. Her success seemed to come so easily that the professional ^vorld unconsciously cherishes a resentment. She deliberately denies herself; subjects herself to rigorous campaigns of spartanism. Understand, she has the longings and the inclinations of all young girls, for other youth and youths, and a good time. She loves pretty things — she loves them too much, she says. She is a virginal youngster with a woman's understanding. But she does not believe in revealing herself; therefore, she is unpopular. If you would take an inventory, she would find how few people in her profession. — pictures — know her. They have heard about her; she is a subject for speculation. Prejudiced against her beforehand, the young women of that somewhat exclusive "younger set"' of the film world pass her up Mary is super-sensitive. She would never set out to win anyone's regard if she thought they mightn't like her. She does not share the activities and the gayeties of the Hollywood colony; she keeps to herself and earns the reputation, only half-just, of being "particular" and "a little snob." She isn't. But she knows they say that, and the knowledge hurts her. Within her is the spark that means success. She could be happier perhaps in some other profession. It is quite within the realm of possibility that she might marry before she is thirty, and settle down to raise babies. She loves babies. She was intensely interested in making baby-clothes for her namesake, Juliet Whitney, wee daughter of her secretary. Mrs. Charlotte Whitney. Mary is a domestic little soul; she actually loves to sew and does make very nice things — for other girls' babies. She would have made a good school teacher, too. But from her first thinking moment, she has been of the theater. She was a real stage-child. She loves it, and she could never do anything else. She has never dreamed, either, of ever being anything but a star. It is (Continued on page iig) I