Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1922)

G L O R I A'S SUCCESSOR Leatrice Joy came within a hair's breadth of failing as Cecil deMille's leading woman. But she saved herself and "C. B.'s" judgment by sheer nerve. By zJfrCary IVinship I DON'T remember exactly when Leatrice Joy's name began to drift about the lot — in whispers — as the latest actress being groomed for stardom by "C. B." Somewhere about half way through the shooting of "Saturday Night." She had been cast for the big role in that production after Mr. de Mille had sifted the entire picture colony. Chosen from bevies of beauties and oceans of talent. Then the wise ones sat back to watch developments. For, you see, it is a tradition in Hollywood that the leading woman in a Cecil de Mille production is either a terrible failure and departs into utter darkness, either before or after the picture is finished, or she becomes a star — a real star. It is probably the most coveted position in the industry. Leatrice was following in the footsteps of Gloria Swanson, Bebe Daniels, Agnes Ayres, Florence Vidor, Wanda Hawley, even in the deeper tracks of Wallace Reid and Thomas Meighan. First, the barometer went very, very low. The wise folks smiled. Mr. de Mille's disposition was upset. The great starmaker was losing a lot of time. He was festooning the scenery with some of his choicest bon mots, adjectives and suggestions. It was taking him all day to get a scene. Leatrice was a flop. BUT Leatrice comes from New Orleans and the blue blood of a number of battling ancestors flows in her veins. When the little, icy waves of rumor began to curl about her toes, she suddenly overcame the temperamental panic and fear that had beset her— as it usually besets a novice on the de Mille set. One morning she came to work with her fighting clothes on. All right, if she was a flop, she couldn't be any worse. At least she'd quit acting like a high school girl delivering hei first speech. She'd be herself for once. And before the director called "Lunch," Leatrice Joy had registered herself as the first real successor to Gloria Swanson— the girl for whom Cecil de Mille had been searching. At least, so runs the tale. I went over the other day to watch her work in " Manslaughter," the novel by Alice Duer Miller which de Mille is making. Already she had acquired the de Mille grooming and look. On her back, as the expression goes, she wore trappings that cost more than the salary of the president of the United States. A chinchilla coat that actually cost $32,000. The biggest and best emerald ring in Mr. de Mille's private collection. A number of platinum and diamond bracelets, a dinner ring of diamonds, a string of real pearls, from Mr. de Mille's private safe. A gown of delicate ermine and cloth of silver, with strings of pearls, clasped her slender figure like a glove. And yet — and yet — thank goodness, there is something about Leatrice Joy that prevents her from becoming a mere "clothes horse." She has humanness and her exquisite fittings become a background for her rather than decorations hung upon a model. There is nothing worldly nor blase about Leatrice. The South — the old South — ripples through her words, her gestures, her emotions. No shop girl could have been more thrilled over the chinchilla coat her hands caressed lovingly. LEATRICE JOY is much more charming in the flesh than in celluloid. She is full of appealing little tricks, of delicious personalities. How deep she is, I cannot tell. But she has the mosl winning ways — sweet and warm and lovable. Inexpressibly winning. Little, natural gestures of her pretty hands. Swiftly lifted and suddenly drooped eyelids. A southern trick of rippling and unexpected laughter. A way of crinkling up the corners of her bright, interested, dark eyes. Impulsive, hot-headed (Concluded on page 111) 31