Pictures and the Picturegoer (Jan-Dec 1925)

24 Pictures an d Picture poer FEBRUARY 1925 M akir& the y&vs e\ orns i '11 meet you at the Algonquin." That phrase has probably been spoken by more famous mortals than any other sentence in the lexicon of language. Douglas Fairbanks has said it to Mary Pickford as they separated for different engagements on most of the many busy days that famous pair spend in New York. Richard Barthelmess has made countless such appointments with his wife, Mary Hay. Every motion picture and dramatic critic and noted writer and journalist in the city or on a visit to the city has remarked it now and again to an equally distinguished friend. "The Algonquin Hotel, West FortyFourth Street, New York City, is the unofficial home and meeting place of most of those who bear the names the world knows. Moving picture stars, stage players, writers — all know the place, have made it a deep-rooted habit. There arc. innumerable more pretentious, richer, and more " fashionable '' hotels in the city. But the Algonquin faith remains unshaken. The reason is clear. It is Frank Case. Twenty-two years ago Mr. Case came to the Algonquin in a minor capacity. To-day he owns the lease on the building, is proprietor and host. When Hollywood stars come to New York on business or pleasure, they invariably stay at the Algonquin. Frank Case, seen above between Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford makes it his business to make them comfortable, and he knows his job. He is a man of many friends. Those friends are the great and interesting ones who come to his hotel. Interesting people are Mr. Case's hobby. He smilingly admits it. " I am a lion hunter," he says. His hotel is his trap and — though he perhaps would not admit to this — he himself is the bait. At luncheon on a single day one might see scattered about one of the small and receptive dining rooms such celebrities as Richard Barthelmess. Rudolph Valentino, John Drew, Claire Windsor, Heywood Broun, noted columnist and dramatic critic of the Ncic York World, and a dozen others of nearly equal prominence. Nor would it be a legal holiday or old home week or a convention. Any day at all would do. It is the fashdon among those who arc above fashion, the established custom of those who are too wise tor most established customs. Frank Case was loath to talk when we called upon him. He received us, was cordial, but was reserved. He seemed on the defensive. " You know," it came at last, " I'm afraid to have things written about the Algonquin. People are so apt to associate it with the tawdryness and cheapness which goes with the term 'theatric hotel.' It isn't that." Our eyes wandered over the empty lobby — it was mid-afternoon — rested on the panelled walls, the delicately comfortable blue arm chairs and couches, the soft, inconspicuously-toned rugs. We relaxed in the peaceful welcome the room bespoke. " Rather not !" " It is hard for people to understand," he said. " These people come here. They have come here for many years. But — but they are my intimates. They aren't simply interesting people on parade. I know them. Why, I've known Fairbanks for fifteen years or more. Known him intimately. And William Farnum . . . people like that. John Barrymore. And all these writing chaps." " UVicndships. of course . . . but the association the Algonquin has? Its name as a gathering-place of interesting people? Wasn't that deliberate?" we asked. " Certainly." " How did you go about it?" " Why. I really don't know exactly. For instance : Joseph Hergeshoimer, who wrote ' Cytherea,' ' The Bright Shawl,' and the rest — they've been movies as well as books — came here once in a crowded season. There wasn't a room in the house. It put him in rather a hole, for before he'd