Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1920)

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»1 m 5J {Jetting ready for a big night scene. "Don't Do It, Marjorie" The third and last installment of a girl's experiences in breaking into the movies. IT was a grimy little office that I found at the address of the theatrical agent to whom I went with my letter ; it was in the Forties, between Sixth Avenue and Broadway. I went up the narrow, dark flight of stairs that led from the street, and into a room that was literally jammed with people. There were men, women and children —even babies — and they all, except the babies, looked dreadfully stagey. Both men and women had make-up on ; some of the women were so painted that it embarrassed me to look at them. And they were all so intent on themselves, so anxious to impress each other. The snubby office boy — everybody called him Sammy — took my letter into an inner office, and pretty soon came out and told me to come in ; his employer was with some casting directors whom he was helping select several types, but he had sent word that I could come inside and wait in his office. "They're casting a big picture — he's awful busy," Sammy told me, as I followed him out of the big office, with all the waiting people looking at me with almost malignant interest. The agent shook hands with me cordially, and said I'd have to wait a while, if I didn't mind. Then he gave me a seat beside his desk. Two men were seated at it, and one had a long list, fastened to a small, polished A typical studio anteroom board ; when he'd engaged some one he'd write the name and the price he was going to pay opposite the name of the role. Some of the people came in very briskly, and as if they were important ; others were awfully dignified. One woman trailed in languidly, and then when the director told her he wanted somebody lively and gay, she threw back the long veil on her hat and sat down on the arm of a chair and tried to show him how flippant and bright she could be. I wanted to cry. But it encouraged me lots; I felt so sure that I could do much better than most of the girls he selected. Usually the reason for not engaging people was that they weren't "the type." Once a man the director wanted wouldn't take the part because it was just one day's work, and would pay only ten dollars— he said that for only a day's engagement he'd have to have fifteen. But usually the people were awfully glad to get a chance at anything. After about an hour the directors left, and the agent sat down and talked with me. As he talked he leafed over the pages of a big scrapbook — it was filled with photographs of leading men, and there were two other books on the table beside him; one marked "Heavies" and the other filled with women's pictures. He said he was dreadfully tired; that he'd been uf>