Picture-Play Magazine (1933)

What the Fans Think 11 Shearer would have been rightfully ignored at the time of the honor distributions. To achieve triumph and glory in portraying a character especially penned around her personality and injected into a hokum story of the brand that never fails to bring in the shekels, did not signify that Dressier had reached the heights i of greatness. Likewise to run the gamut of emotions in exactly similar fashion as she had done on innumerable occasions previously did not entitle Mrs. Thalberg to that insignificant award that heaps so much valuable publicity on the head of the chosen one. Skeptical. Worse Than Poor Pictures! AT last I've found something I'd like to get off my chest. It's about Ramon Novarro, my past, present, and future screen favorite, but also my greatest disappointment. Imagine a fan writing him three nice letters, sending them by registered mail, then have two returned marked "Return To Sender" and the third returned marked "Refused." Well ! That's what happened to me. I just put the three returned letters in another envelope with a fourth letter and mailed them to him by special delivery, intentionally forgetting to write a return address on the envelope. That was in November. To date I haven't received a reply. Think of it ! And now, quoting "Desconocida" in January Picture Play, "Ramon Novarro is one grand person." Piffle — perhaps personally but not generally. There's Rudy Vallee, Buddy Rogers, Joel McCrea, Richard Dix, Hugh Trevor, and dozens of other players who, if they cannot attend to fan mail personally, employ a secretary to do so. Oh, well ! You can tell the world for me that I not only hope to meet Mr. Novarro some day, but I intend to, and let's hope we're both in a very gay and forgiving mood. A Novarro Fan. Pen Argyl, Pennsylvania. Pola, the Last Enchantress. PERSONAL appearances of stars are not always the wonderful things press agents say. The most enthusiastic fans are the ones who find this out soonest, I think, for they are the ones who will move heaven rather than miss seeing their favorites, and their expectations are almost invariably so high that they are disappointed. As one of these enthusiasts I know what I'm talking about only too well, and I think it is an excellent example of the difference between the appeal of stage and screen. Each great star has some quality of his own to which he owes greatness ; for some this quality is seen to almost equal advantage on either stage or screen, while others are only effective in one of the mediums. This last fact was brought home to me vividly when I saw Norma Talmadge in person recently. Miss Talmadge is much lovelier in person than on the screen and her voice is really better than the microphone leads one to believe. It was wonderful just to see and hear her. Nevertheless, one longed for the thrill which "Secrets" and "The Lady" aroused. And which her real self did not. The next week I saw Pola Negri, badly gowned, looking older, tired, almost unkempt at times, hold an audience rapt as she sang a passe song and acted in a socalled dramatic sketch. Madame Negri was given no opportunities either, but that did not prevent her from running away with the show and rousing enthusiasm in an audience which had come to see her more out of curiosity than loyalty. It all lay in the fact that she "gets over" better as a person than as a shadow, and that the reverse is true of Miss Talmadge. After the performance I went backstage with Richard E. Passmore, known to these columns in quite a different capacity than that of Negri fan, to catch a glimpse of the star as she left the theater. For an hour we waited in a narrow corridor. When Pola finally appeared in a black coat, high Russian boots, a knitted hat, with her arms full of roses, and looking more beautiful than anything I have ever seen — it may have been hysteria that made both Mr. Passmore and myself forget our inhibitions and clap and shout "Brava" as she came toward us. It may have been hysteria, but I think it was the way she smiled and thanked us, and gave us each a rose and her hand to kiss. No one else could have done it as she did. It's no wonder she has charmed so many interviewers into writing only incoherent raptures about her. And it's no wonder that she has never been as effective on the screen as she is in person. That short hour was a reminder of an atmosphere that used to exist in Hollywood and has passed with the passing of Pola. Its passing has left the screen capital, somehow, less a town inhabited by artists and more a factory than it was in the silent days. But it is not completely gone. Madame Negri, for all who can see her, will remain the embodiment of that lost atmosphere. Richard E. Griffith. Haverford, Pennsylvania. "Blubberin' Through!" DESPITE the excellent cast of "Smilin Through," it was certainly B-grade entertainment. Now why was it called "Smiling Through"? Go on, you tell me. Shearer wept so much that it would have been better titled "Blubberin' Through" — there were so many close-ups of loving embraces I also thought of "Muggin' Through." There was hardly a smile in the whole show. Miss Shearer was better in "Private Lives." She has lost some quality that was once her greatest asset, and I am sorry, because I am one of her admirers, although I have never admired her extreme gowns or over-the-eye coiffure. She has never been better than she was in "The Divorcee," and I liked her least in "Strangers May Kiss" and "A Free Soul." Come on, Norma, get husband Thalberg to find you another "Private Lives" and study the word "egoism" and you will find the meaning of it is not so hot. K. R. A. Lewisham, Sydney, Australia. Where Fans Are Fans. THIS is an open letter to all real fans. Don't let any one spoil any illusions you may have about the perfection of your favorite stars. Believe me, they are each and every one all you would want them to be. Just read that article "Last Laugh" in January Picture Play and believe every word of it. I have seen hundreds of stars in person and have not been disappointed in one. I have heard identifications of stars so garbled that it made me want to jump up and down. For instance, at the average premiere there are about twelve big stars, I mean names the whole world knows, yet no. matter if a star is in Europe or Hades, dozens of so-called fans have the power to see that star at a premiere here in California. I've heard a dozen different blonde* given the names <>f our it popular blond stars; the same goes for brunettes and redh< ads. And even when in an nounced at premieres peop i to twisted that it makes you f< ■ 1 t ■ use. 1 can imagine why a genuine I of the stars and pictures would sh oul in the cold, and sometimes rain, to see a premiere, but why people who hear Irene Rich announced followed by Emma Dunne, and then call the lady coining in ten mil later Irene Dunne is something I shall be glad to have explained. If any one ever saw Constance Bennett when she looked homely or dowdy, it wasn't Miss Bennett. I've seen her any number of times and she is every bit as exquisite, as beautiful, and as faultlessly dressed as Bennett fans think she is. BEE PlEKCE. 2669 Moss Avenue, Los Angeles, California. Quibble, Quibble Little Fan. I'M a peaceful soul by nature, but my originally sweet disposition is being gradually but surely undermined. I never thought to take an active part in this free for all, but too much is too much, and there finally comes a time ! Picture ' Play has for years been the only film magazine I buy sight unseen — that is, without going through it first to see if it contains any articles or pictures worth having. But there is one section 1 have long thought might be devoted to better uses. Namely, "What the Fans Think" — if anything. The idea behind it is splendid, but the columns are sadly misused. Instead of being filled with constructive criticism which will give the stars an idea as to how their performances are being received, and suggestions for future ones, they are instead usurped by meaningless arguments as to whether or not such and such a player should be allowed to live. If the players read these outbursts, they must find most of them extremely disheartening. According to the majority of the letters, either a player is all good or all bad — no exceptions. It matters to me not a whit whether a player is an Eskimo or a Kanaka, a Hindu or a Hottentot, has been married, nineteen times, or has made a hobby of kicking tottering old ladies, so long as he can act. Some of those whose histrionic gifts I most admire are those I would care least to know. Having been a fan ever since I can remember, naturally I have my pet aversions, and some of them are violent. But those personages for whose cinematic eminence I can find no smallest reason have undoubtedly been raised to that position because some one somewhere considered them the epitome of all that is beautiful and desirable. But because another's idea of perfection fails to coincide with mine is no reason why I should carp, so long as my own tastes are not railed at. I'd best cease these useless laments and get down on my knees fervently to thank a beneficent Providence for "The Guardsman," the most perfect picture ever made, and for such gems as "Broken Lullaby," "Waterloo Bridge," "Bird of Paradise." and "Payment Deferred," asking that unlimited blessings be showered upon the already blessing-laden shoulders of the matchless Lunts, and special blessings each for Charles Laughton, Aline MacMahon, Alison Skipworth, and Louise Closser Hale. Yes, and J'ohn Barrymore, too, since "A Bill of Divorcement," the finest performance of his screen career. William Thomas. R. R. No. 2, Box; 94, Marion, Indiana.