Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1922)

A HOLLYWOOD GIRL Who would like to look like Gloria Swanson By Herbert Ho^e THE Boosters' Club of Hollywood was holding uncheon in the Garden Court tea rooms. Old ladies with spectacles and fussy bags and old gentlemen with spectacles and fussy whiskers were responding to the urge of their leader, a bald but frisky fellow. "Now all together," he exhorted brightly, "three cheers for dear old Hollywood!" Timorously came the "Rah! Rah! Rah!" followed by nervous apologetic giggles. As I descended the stairs to the street they broke into a quavering refrain: "Hollywood, Our Hollywood, How We Love Our Holly-wood." So this was the modern Sodom and Gomorrah. Drawn up at the curb outside the entrance to the tea rooms was a town car with chauffeur. The door opened timidly, an invitation to the august interviewer. Inside were two great brown eyes peering from out the surrounding brown of hat and coat. Coming closer, I saw two very small brown feet placed primly together. And closer — a petal mouth which seemed to be saying "Ooh!" — and sometimes did. So this was a Jazzobel movie star. "Wh-where would you like to go?" came breathlessly from the Brown Eyes. I consulted the Brown Eyes for a moment and then said, recklessly, "Anywhere!" "Ooh!" said the petal mouth — or seemed to say it. "Let's see Hollywood," I suggested. Relieved, the brown slenderness shrank back into a corner, and we were off. Miss Colleen Moore. You would instinctively call her "Miss." Even when you knew her you might feel like calling her "Miss Colleen," just as the noble heroes in old Southern romances used to address their heroines. "Miss" Colleen goes with crinolines, and small feet placed primly together, and the perfume of lavender, and ribbons in the hair, and small hands fluttering out of delicate old lace. Colleen has a shrinking manner. I thought of the shrinking violet, but that nowadays is a hot-house affectation. Indeed, at first you might suspect our heroine of affecting a little of the demure and dainty manner that becomes a period ingenue. She seems Colleen gives an impression of nity on a bicycle, and Pat O'M alley wonders what's it all about wants to look like Gloria Swanson, but she conesses it's no use — she's just a simple Hollywood Girl quite out of her century. Somehow all sorts of oldfashioned phrases and gallantry begin to stir within you. And the modern male, so long a serf to the equal-rights-lady-on-the-pedestal, finds himself distending his bosom and talking throatily, with a feeling, I fancy, akin to that of the rooster just before he crows. WHILE I indulged in this posture, she regarded me silently, then ventured the information that she was having her car re-upholstered. What color did I like? "Gray." Yes — submissively — gray was a very nice color. A pause. Did I like brown? "No." "Oo-ooh!" The Brown Eyes were glancing over the brown dress on down to the brown stockings and brown pumps. "Ooh-ah," I jibbered. "That is — not brown for cars — brown for dresses and eyes and — things." "Ah?" doubtfully. A little confidence began to stir from the timorousness. I felt very conscious of being an interviewer, a large and important fellow. I condescended to point out some of the show places of the town. Miss Colleen wanted particularly to see Wally Reid's house and the famous swimming pool. She said it was funny how people thought that all the stars knew one another. Fans often wrote her letters in which they requested her to give their love to Mary Pickford. She said she wished some one would introduce her to Mary so she could. -47