Picture Play Magazine (Sep 1925 - Feb 1926)

62 Looking On with an Extra Girl She thrills to the experience of working with the magnetic Valentino in "Cobra," and gets an informal, surprising impression of Marion Davies in "Lights of Old New York." By Margaret Reid THERE have been conflicting rumors wandering about, but the predominant theme — especially as witness the irate letters to the editor of Novarro and Cortez fans — seems to be that Valentino is more or less forgotten. The surviving loyal voices are drowned in the hysteria of a new coronation — or maybe it is just the hysteria of the burial given the dear departed. It is rather a pity that the general public can only present laurels in Indian fashion. A Julio, a Gallardo — and dewy wreaths are hung on the revered brow. A pause, a wait, a new meteor — and instead of a fresh order to the florist, the garlands are snatched from the old to drape the new. It seems inevitable that the rise of a new star be the signal for disparaging criticisms of the discarded idol. Gritzsko, the Arab, the Spaniard — unique and fascinating— but admit it witlwut ignoring the primal Gallardo, the gay and dreaming Julio. Shame — that your memories are so feeble that the fire of those portrayals is forgotten ! You'd never place Mr. Addison Sims of Seattle. And silly, silly — to suppose that a personality of the Valentino quality cannot come back after an absence, just as forcibly as Barrymore does every few years, with long lapses between appearances. Two years is a long time in the baby industry and sleek-haired idols are plentiful in Hollywood — yet for the local flappers the luster on their memory of Valentino was as bright when he returned as when he left in a maze of legal disputes and troubles. And don't forget that he came back married, at that ! For even if you "didn't like that type" you couldn't possibly forget the smoldering, sullen-eyed young man whose rare smile flashed like white-hot lightning. One side said he wasn't a very pleasant young man, hinted at moods, arrogance, reticence — in Hollywood where a reticent actor is immediately suspected of the worst, whatever that interesting degree may indicate. But even this side admitted his unescapable magnetism and the occasional outcroppings of boyishness that were so appealing. And the other side — sank cooing beyond coherence. I remember the first time I saw him, shortly after I came to Hollywood — the Fallen City meaning to me, at that time, just so much Valentino, Frederick, Pickford, and Valentino. He was driving down the boulevard in his incredibly battered old Fiat — two splendid police dogs gracing the rear seat. He looked very selfcontained, dignified, and not too happy. A man of the world, I palpitated, of slightly disconcerting gravity. The last time I saw him before he went away was on a black, starry, scented California night. Walking down a particularly dark block of the boulevard, a whiteflanneled, dark-coated figure approached at a swinging gait. He was singing softly, in a rich voice, some happy little foreign melody. The flash of a street light between palm branches showed Rudolph's famous face. "He's such a boy," said my mother, feelingly. Two years — to quote some great mind — passed, and I was crossing the street in front of Lasky's, hurrying to be "on the set at eight thirty." A special-built, cherrycolored coupe hummed round the corner and honked caution at me. As is my way in traffic — of which I stand in mortal fear — I turned with a horrible glare. Oh, my ! the tricks the fates do play on us — I can only hope that the almost saccharine expression I hastily summoned was discernible as I yielded the right of way. For behind the beard at the wheel was Mr. Valentino. If you remember, the idea for the picture which was to feature the beard was finally discarded — after quite some time and many arguments pro and con. Then at last "Cobra" was decided upon — and the extra ladies took up the pursuit of Rudolph in real earnestness. Don't mistake me — the intentions were almost spiritually respectful, the one desire being an opportunity to gaze undisturbed at the volubly discussed, criticized, lauded features. It became known that there would be a cafe scene in the production, and with the people who rushed to the studio applying for a job they could have filmed another "Greatest Spectacle Ever Shown." There was grief and wailing in Hollywood that night, after the required fifty were weeded out. But not, as may be perceived, among the fifty. And — probably because as a child I told the truth and washed behind my ears — Providence saw to it that I wasn't weeping. There was an unaccustomed air of expectancy the morning we started work. The cherry coupe and the gleaming Hispano-Suiza outside the dressing-room bungalow were subtly exciting. Like any one else we like our heroes with trimmings — Rudy having been nearly the only one with sufficient class to bowl over the hometown gals while still in his prespecial-built days. And now that he was so lavishly decorated we frankly expected great things of him. Even the set was glamorful — a sweeping cafe in tones of silver and black — by Menzies, the young man who erected Bagdad for Doug. Through vaulting arches were vistas of onyxlike floors, broad silver steps and strange, secret arabesques on black walls. It might have been an eastern palace — just after the overture — when the stage is cleared for the entrance of the prince. It couldn't have been better ; there were endless possibilities— yet, before we realized it Mr. Valentino was standing by the camera, conferring with Joseph Henabery, the director. That lovely chance to appear suddenly at the head of the silver staircase, light a cigarette, and descend slowly was ignored. Rudy confines his acting to the screen. How did he look? But, my dears, that's so easy. Unlike most performers the camera gives him nothing and takes nothing away. The same faultless evening clothes, black hair, olive face, sloe eyes, and the familiar quick smile. The last is perhaps less wicked, viewed actually — more spontaneous and boyish. He laughs often now — and he seems younger for having lost that somber, introspective look. We had heard, of course, the indignant reports of his attitude during "Beaucaire" — tales of cloistered privacies and regal hauteur. We were shown none of that. Admittedly, Rudy doesn't make tame pets of all the prop boys, but neither does he try to steal any of De Mille's stuff. With his seeming dislike of the sensational I can't imagine him reaching either extreme. The reserve that is like a shell about him gives a false impression of aloofness. It is dignity — but not offensively withdrawn. It is, instead, most attractive for its naturalness, and makes his moods of friendly, youthful animation the more potent. As a job, it was much like other jobs in cafe scenes.