Picture Play Magazine (Sep 1920 - Feb 1921)

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The House of Twenty Stars If you're a girl and went to Los Angeles to get into the movies, this is where you'd live, if you were lucky. By Emma-Lindsay Squier Photos taken especially for Picture-Play Magazine, by C. Heighton Monroe. I'LL admit it freely, I didn't want to interview the Hollywood Studio Club. Getting the collective life histories of twenty budding stars of the feminine gender wasn't my idea of a pleasant evening a-tall ! In my last incarnation I must have been either a male misanthrope with an ingrowing grouch against the fair sex, or a temperamental cat in a female seminary — anyhow, I was scared to death when I entered the cool and dusky hall of the spacious building, and felt the impersonal gaze of twenty young film queens leveled upon me, as if I had been Exhibit A in the coroner's train of evidence. The chaperon, who is i hardly more than a girl herself, i was trying politely to make me feel at ease, and I was wondering why my feet suddenly felt so large, and why I hadn't worn a suit with pockets so that I could hide my hands, when all of a sudden a bobbed head poked over the balcony railing up above me, and a warning voice shrilled startlingly: "Look out — you almost stepped on Douglas Fairbanks !" My coordination was hitting on all six, or I should ihave squashed one of the lives out of a big yellow cat with an enlarged shaving-brush tail, that had come up behind me to rub himself hospitably against my wabbling legs. THE HOUSE OF TWENTY STARS, as the Studio Club of Los Angeles is called, occupies a colonial mansion on a terrace above Hollywood Boulevard. The club itself is a sort of sorority of the studio campus, its members being the freshmen of the industry — young actresses, scenario writers, designers, secretaries, and dancers. Mary Pickford is a patroness, so is Mrs. Cecil B. De Mille. Many celebrities resided at the clubhouse when they were breaking into the movie realm, and portraits of such now-famous ones as Marjorie Daw, Louise Huff, and others adorn the walls. Douglas Fairbanks helped to restore my poise. Cats and I speak the same language, and if any one wants to get personal about that — anyhow, with D. F. in my arms, the house didn't seem so big, or the girls so impersonal. I began to distinguish faces. Then some one else said, "Here, sit on Mr. Raymond Hatton !" And I did — because it was only a sofa pillow — donated to the club by the actor whose name it bears. Mrs. Hatton was shoved under my feet — that was the pillow donated by Raymond's wife, and by the time dinner was announced, I knew the first names of most of the girls and had seen kodak pictures of their individual admirers; which last is the test of entente corciiale between members of the sex which is more deadly than the male. Dinner was served a la cafe that is, with the girls grouped around tables which seated four. ZaSu Pitts and Nell Newman had invited me to their table. ZaSu looked like Belgium mourning for its lost dead with a bandage around her head which completely hid one eye — no, she denied vehemently to bantering questions flung at her, she hadn't run into the keyhole or hnd an argument with her husband — it was just a sty, gosh durn it — thus ZaSu with many appropriate gestures. Nell Newman you will remember as playing with