Picture-Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1926)

16 Big movie openings are particularly propitious occasions for getting a close view of the celebrities in all their finery. CONTRARY to the general impression, all persons w ho come to Hollywood do not arrive intending to bless the screen with their presence. And not all persons already here are stars or directors or even scenario writers. The life of Hollywood does revolve, to a large extent, around the movies as around the. shimmering nucleus of a Fourth-of-July Catherine wheel. The motion-picture industry has brought to the town a goodly portion of the nation's wealth, it has raised to the very mountaintops a city of beauty and riches, it has attracted a whirlpool of titanic business — enterprises that span the globe. But it is just the nucleus. The life that revolves around it is no different from the substantial routine of any other prosperous town. But that radiant, whirling disk in the center has hypnotized the eyes of the world, and is the constant wonder, pride, and diversion of the natives, the envy of Eastern friends, and the goal of tourists. A citizen of Hollywood, when informed in a breathless letter that Uncle Henry and Aunt Carrie and the children are coming out for a California winter, makes a careful chart of all the streets in the movie town and in Beverly Hills that boast of starry residences. Uncle and Aunt and their offspring are then led exclaiming past Norma Talmadge's great white-stuccoand-red-tile mansion on Hollywood Boulevard, past Betty Compson's home in the next block, out to the luxurious section graced by the homes of Ernest Torrence, Lois Wilson, Irene Rich, Jack Holt, and Florence Vidor, and on out past the now unpainted and infinitely pitiful Spanish house that Wally built. Here one is likely to see small, freckled Bill playing with Betty in the backyard, which faces the highway. Next door is W illiam S. Hart's New England abode. Then, out by the wide, lawn-swept home of Pauline Frederick, with its corral in back, one comes to the exclusive mansion of Madame la Marquise. Throughout last summer, one could be reasonably certain of seeing Gloria, with her Henry and her children, wandering in the magnificent gardens — the handsome Henry in loose tweeds and petite Gloria in plain — but, oh ! how smart — sport things. If Aunt Carrie has a "yen" for Conrad Nagel, she is escorted to the big Christian Science Church on the Boulevard, where Conrad is an' usher. If it is John Barrymore who takes her fancy, she is given luncheon at the Hollywood Athletic Club, where she waxes properly thrilled over the gentleman — whose socks are probably hanging informally over his shoes in the negligence he loves. If Ben Lyon is her passion, she is parked on the Boulevard at Highland Avenue, and soon Ben will go by, a model of the most recent and ultra in haberdashery. How to See the Though it is hard to gain admission to the studios, vis see the stars at close range if they know where to look. By Margaret Uncle Henry is appropriately amazed at the Continental-looking Hedda Hopper driving her Ford coupe ; at Zasu Pitts shooting by in a high-powered, specially built Packard ; at Norma Talmadge walking unrecognized down the street to a neighborhood movie ; at the blonde, delightful Louise Fazenda looking like the more fortunate sister of her screen self, and at Rod La Rocque's much-padded shoulders and tricky canes. In fact, Uncle Henry and Aunt Carrie would be perfectly willing to spend every free moment on the Boulevard if their hosts did not assure them that the best is only just approaching. Montmartre. Almost directly from the train, newcomers to town are conducted to Brandstatter's Montmartre, the Boulevard cafe which has held its own against all the new hotels and night clubs and rival cafes. Up the broad stairs to the long, amber-lit room, high above the noise of the street, passes a nightly procession of professional elite. Montmartre at least twice a week, is an unwritten law, a respected rite. To no other place of pleasure have the generous, fickle fancies of the film colony been so faithful. If Montmartre were to close, one could imagine companies disrupted, stars in tears, directors brooding. "Prof" Moore, the young man whose orchestra lures to the floor the most expensive of stellar toes, is not only host and master of ceremonies, but practically Montmartre itself, a Hollywood institution. Montmartre without its Prof, confidant of stars, diplomat, bon vivant and impresario extraordinary, would be — well, a very moist dish. When Prof was promoted, bv popular demand, from saxophonist to leader, Hollywood all but declared a legal holiday to welcome his new orchestra. The patrons overflowed out the door and down the stairs, rival star crowding rival star in temporary camaradic. Jack Gilbert, who was rumored to be about to effect a reconciliation with Leatrice Joy, brought, by way of contrast, one of our cutest blondes, Marion Davies. They made a vivid couple, whirling round the floor in Jack's volatile fashion. Alice Terry was accompanied by the same