Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1922)

Photoplay Magazine — Advertising Section R.g U S Pat Off Cleans Closet Bowls Without Scouring Sani-Flush does the work that you formerly had to do by hand, or by other uncertain methods. Simply sprinkle a little of it into the bowl, follow the directions on the can — and flush. Sani-Flush makes the closet bowl and the hidden trap spotlessly clean — and consequently odorless. And it cleans without injuring either the bowl or connections. Keep it handy in your bathroom. Sani-Flush is sold at grocery, drug, hardware, plumbing and housefurnishing stores. If you cannot buy it locally at once, send 25c in coin or stamps for a full sized can, postpaid. (Canadian price, 35c; foreign price, 50c.) THE HYGIENIC PRODUCTS CO. Canton, Ohio Canadian Agenis Harold F. Ritchie & Co., Ltd., Toronto Read This! YourWeiffht Tells the Story Authorities say "watch your weight!" The best barometer of your health Is your weight. Nothingpromotesbeauty, progress and personal wellare like perfect health. Make daily weighing without Clothes a habit by means ot the HEALTH-O-METER "The Pilot of Health" It Is your definite guide to physical perfection. Simply step on and read your weight. Thousands of Health-OMeters are in successful daily use. See, try and examine the Health-O-Metcr at our expense. Get our special money back offer— you need It now. Full details gladly Bent. Address Continental Scale Works DeptY— 2129 W. 21st Place, Chicago She Doesn't Guess -She Knows WriteFor IODAYFREETRIALL Accordingly, in the suite upstairs, Hattie found herself clasping the hand of another famous director. Mr. Mortimer had none of de Brissac's pleasantly crisp oS-handedness. He was tall, well-made, rather severe, with rimless nose glasses and a deep groove just above the spring, between his eyebrows, that gave him the effect of frowning permanently. He was all business. Hattie found her wits fluttering when he turned sharply on her to explain that the day of the star system was over. Inexperienced girls could no longer hope to draw down hundreds and thousands of dollars a week. That had been absurd from the start. It was, when you came right down to it, what was the matter with the pictures. Empty-headed little girls, absurd young "heroes," directors with a passion for publicity — yes. the directors too! — petted and spoiled and outrageously over-paid, the lot of them, had gone o2 their heads, acted like a lot of wild Indians, and brought the entire business into disrepute. There was no gainsaying this. The day of the pampered little star was done. All the big men in the business had put their heads together and settled that. Further, Mr. Mortimer, keenly studying their faces, read their anxiety; and when Mr. Wurtzel suggested five hundred a week as a proper salary for Hattie he laughed aloud — laughed sharply, without smiling. And they had finally to accept a hundred and fifty. It would have seemed a fortune, once upon a time, but not now. Only too well Hattie knew that the family would swiftly absorb it. To Mr. Mortimer's suggestion of a long-term contract the lawyer, rather surprisingly, offered vigorous objection. He refused to let Hattie sign for more than the one picture. This frightened her. The three-year contract had seeemed, in its exacting way, to protect the future. Thoughts arose of a not far distant day when this new salary would stop short. And Hollywood swarmed, these dull days, with idle actors and actresses, idle directors, idle writers. But Mr. Wurtzel was firm. He said it would be unwise for her to tie herself up at such a salary. Later, downstairs, after the quietly satisfied Mr. Mortimer had gone, he smiled cryptically and said — "Leave all that to me, Miss Johnson. I'm sure we can do better for you. Just be patient for a little while." And when she was tucked in beside Henry, speeding out Wiltshire Boulevard past the ghostly palm trees and the huge lighted-up hotel, he said — "Didn't I tell you Wurtzel could fix it up. Just look at us — this morning we didn't know where we stood, now we're all set for a new deal — a step forward! And he's got still more up his sleeve. You just watch him! He knows what he's up to every minute. No careless talk there — his words mean what they say. . . . He's with de Brissac's lawyer, J. B. Fanner. You'll like it on the Plantagenet lot. Nice lot of people.' It's always been quiet — not one of the madhouses. Very efficient too. They don't waste the money Earthwide spills. Got it down fine. ... In a way, I'm glad we were able to work so fast — you know, clinch the thing. I — well, Hattie, I had a little disappointment today. Oh, it's nothing that'll hold me back — not in the long game, and you bet your life I'm in on the long game! — but — Oh, it's just that this L. A. crowd I've been talking with seems to have gone cold on me. It's all right. Don't worry. I'm going up to Frisco Saturday, and I tell you I'm going to make things hum up there. They're no pikers like these L. A. brokers. They've got the coin too." ON Monday morning Hattie took an automobile to the new studio. It was at some distance from the Earthwide lot on one of the highways to the beach, and was, despite the impressive name of Plantagenet Town, smaller and more crowded, with a long row of wooden buildings, painted white, along the street and two huge enclosed stages within. Here she had no miniature bungalow for her own, but only a dressing room on the second floor of a flimsy wooden structure. On the Earthwide lot, too, there had been, (she was forlornly aware of this now), a considerable morale, a sense of common purpose, a degree of quiet good humor. But Plantagenet Town was a factory indeed. Orders were given there, curtly. The manager, the directors, the foremen, the boy at the door scowled much as their chief scowled. She thought of that deep furrow above the spring of his glasses; it seemed a symbol of the Plantagenet spirit. Before noon of this first day she saw one of the foremen and a tall gentleman in puttees who someone said was the new art director, fighting savagely. The art director knocked the foreman down. And their language frightened her. CHE felt wistfully sorry that Mr. Wurtzel ^ thought it unwise for her to make a last call at the old lot. He wished her to wait until the legal difficulties were adjusted. There were a good many there she would have liked to say goodby to, people who had shown her kindness. But, at that, she couldn't have faced de Brissac. And that dark girl might be back; she couldn't face her. In her thoughts she clung to Henry. It seemed wonderful that he would and could protect her. What it came to, plainly enough, was that she couldn't think at all; she could only give herself to the moment as it passed, with that bewildering sense of being carried on rushing currents. She could only have faith of a sort. At least she had made a decision. That was something. It seemed wholesome; and even though the shadow of de Brissac fell here, too, bringing the thought that perhaps she hadn't been fair with him, that perhaps his need of her had been, after all, real, her unstable heart ached for all that might be wholesome and clean. Mr. Mortimer was directing "Little Nell" in person. He was another strong man. But she found with dismay that he had none of de Brissac's sensitiveness and subtle leadership. He was clear, sharp, inclined to be harsh; all business. It seemed to Hattie that all his staff were afraid of him. The head continuity writer, a Miss Gurfee, blonde and faded but with alert eyes, hung on his words, watched him as a dog watches, appeared to be studying his moods. The violinist, a moody Russian, spoke to no one; carried a folding stool and his instrument and a book, and sat about in corners. The camera men worked with hardly a word. It soon became evident that Mr. Mortimer assumed skill in all who worked for him. What would he say to her when he discovered that she didn't know her job? For she didn't. She didn't know much of anything. De Brissac had coaxed and cajoled, had stung and then patiently guided. But this man merely told her what emotion she had to express, expecting her promptly to express it. She didn't know how; hardly, indeed, heard him. She had never been trained to attentiveness. He would give her lines, offhand, to be uttered before the camera; but she couldn't keep them in her head. At noon he led her aside and bluntly asked what her experience had been. This by an old English stairway. She wondered how the carpenters could make it look like elaborately carved wood. It wasn't anything of the sort. She knew they knocked these sets together in no time at all — a day, or two, or three. He said — "Sit down here. Now tell me, what did you do before this de Brissac picture?" "I worked in a printing shop, wrapping magazines." "You weren't in pictures?" "No, sir." Every advertisement in THOTOrLAY MAGAZINE is guaranteed.