Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1924)

Looking on with an Extra Girl 91 Continued from page 25 This trait made me doubt his sense of humor, but I am always reassured when I see him in action. His wit is delicious, if a trifle boisterous. Miss Pickford has arrived and is closeted with her maid. Allan Forrest and Lottie Pickford Forrest come in, with Mrs. Pickford and Lottie's little daughter, Mary the second. She is a beautiful child, with big dark eyes, a lovely high color, and a perpetually solemn expression. Mr. Forrest is very handsome, especially in his dashing costume, and Mrs. Forrest is dark and attractive, and has an unfailingly pleasant disposition and manner. Every one in the studio is very fond of her. Claire Eames, the famous New York actress who caused such a sensation on the legitimate stage as Mary Stuart, and who has been engaged for months ahead to do the Virgin Queen in "Dorothy," is sitting quietly with her husband. She is a great actress, in the truest sense of the word — powerful, understanding, emotional and with a flawless technique. She is slightly nervous, as this is her first picture and everything is new and rather terrifying. She has unusually lovely hands, very delicate and expressive, with nearly always a cigarette in her slender fingers. Now, the door to the little dressing room opens and out steps Mary, a vision of beauty in her billowing costume of black velvet with a tiny black hat and long filmy veil on her shining hair. At her entrance, even Mickey, the play boy, has to turn to work, for this fragile, alluring little figure is the true queen here, and a real ruler. Work begins ! One of the scenes to be shot is a tensely dramatic one — Dorothy's betrayal of her lover and Mary Stuart to Queen Elisabeth. I shall not spoil the story for you by describing it, but there was real fire and emotion in the acting of two great, and entirely different artistes, Miss Pickford and Claire Eames. Miss Eames throws herself bodily into the spirit of her scenes, her voice is hoarse with anger, her hands shaking and every gesture eloquent of intense but royal rage. Miss Pickford is, by contrast, so delicate and appealing and wonderfully compelling in her haunting expressions. At the end, where she bursts into tears, real tears, some of her spectators cry too. There is a long pause before the next shot, while Mary sits limply in a corner with sobs still shaking her poor little shoulders, and looking for all the world like some little child angel that is lost and bewildered. Every one wanders tactfully away and Mickey sits down at a piano and plays melting, soothing little melodies— some his own, some not. He plays like a young Pan, putting all his Irish heart into the keys, and sometimes sings softly in a fine, mellow voice. And then, at some unknown signal, he is up with a shout, chasing a howling prop boy up the gorgeous silver "Thief of Bagdad" stairs that stand near our set. There is a terrible commotion and shouting, and suddenly Mickey comes down an unexpected ladder, barking and whooping like a sea lion — and the place goes crazy. Douglas Fairbanks and Charlie Chaplin coming in then, join the fight at once with all their well-known zest, and the result looks more like a schoolboy's free-for-all than a motion-picture company during working hours. You see, when these people work, they work like the well-known Trojans, and naturally I suppose they just must play with the same energy. Then, too, many of them, like Charles Chaplin, had no opportunity in childhood to indulge their natural instinct for play and are trying to make up for lost time now. It is, indeed, an inspiring sight — a director, a star producer, and a star director producer, three of the most powerful men in the business, playing tag up and down ladders and shrieking like wild things. But work must go on some time, so all at once Mickey decides to continue the picture. Mary and Douglas go off the stage, their arms around each other, with Charlie and Abdul the Turk — real name unknown — Mr. Fairbanks' trainer, bringing up in the rear. The next scene is a close-up of Claire Eames and one of the men — a rather foppish, affected Englishman whom Mickey raps unmercifully. He gives him his directions in a horribly exaggerated English accent, and pulls ridiculous faces in imitation of him. But Mickey, bless him, can get away with most anything and his poor victim only laughs — a rather sickly laugh — with the rest of the company. But undoubtedly one of the funniest, most intriguing features of the picture is to see Mickey directing Claire Eames. Miss Eames is tall, slender and almost regally aristocratic, with the greatest culture and refinement in every tone of her voice, every gesture and pose, and her general demeanor, although she is really charmingly gracious and friendly, is one of hauteur. Oh ! the pricelessness of seeing her taking, in the meekest, most self-effacing manner, never arguing and always following each suggestion, directions from that fresh young Irishman with his hat on one ear, given in terse commands— "Now you're feeling, pretty good — it's not such a bad party, then you see him giving those chickens the glad eye — snap right into it, you're mad, now plenty of cold turkey, you know." And Miss Eames recognizes beneath the surface differences, the kindred understanding spirit of the artist. She does the scenes perfectly, and Mickey turns from the camera laughing at the comedy the bit carries, but under his breath saying, "God, what an actress ; what a woman !" Miss Pickford returns to the set, accompanied by a large, striking woman with an unpleasant expression, an affected manner, and a violent purple cape, who turns out to be Elinor Glyn. The girls are lined up for some sort of an inspection, with the rest of the company in solemn conclave a short distance off. It is most embarrassing, and more so when the orchestra starts an old popular song and Mickey dances brightly along the line of girls, hat in hand, and chucking each on the chin while facing the audience with the coy smile of the musical comedy juvenile. Blanche Sweet has come for lunch with her husband and is chatting with Mrs. Pickford and Lottie. Mrs. Neilan looks youthful and lovely in a simple brown suit and hat and is much brighter and gayer in manner than one would expect. Mr. Neilan, at the sound of a whistle in the studio, speaks to Tommy Held, his faithful young assistant, Tommy calls "Lunch — back at one thirty," and in two minutes there is not an extra in the studio. Some of the unfortunates go across the street to the various cafes and drug stores. Two other girls and I dive, costumes and all. or rather •squeeze, for one of our skirts is enough to make a dirigible, into Barbara Kimble's new car — and go up along Sunset Boulevard to the quaint little Mary-Helen Tea Room. Agnes Ayres is sitting at the next table to ours — much prettier in real life than on the screen, in fact beautiful at some angles, but with a very languid manner. At another table is Ramon Novarro, looking devastatingly handsome. Julia Faye comes in and sits near us. She is not pretty but has snapping dark eyes and very good style when her clothes are not exaggerated. Gertrude Olmstead and Virginia Fox are chattering and giggling at a corner table like a couple of schoolgirls. On discovering that it is already one thirty, we hurry out and drive back to the studio, meeting on the Continued on page 108