Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1926)

43 A Three-in-one Beauty Elinor Fair, the latest actress to be singled out by Cecil De Mille as showing particular promise, is said to combine within herself the qualities of three of the screen's most prominent stars. By Myrtle Gebhart SHE has Barbara La Marr's eyes, Gloria Swanson's flair for making clothes articulate, and Constance Talmadge's effervescence. Because of her triple charm, I selected Elinor Fair as the most promising ycung screen actress to play the feminine lead in 'The Volga Boatman,' and then to be groomed for featured roles in my future productions." Thus Cecil B. De Mille had replied to my question as to the why of his newest choice. That was before I had laid eyes upon the latest flower to bloom in his garden. If it had been afterward, explanations would have been superfluous. This story should really be written by a man. A Malcolm Oettinger could make your senses thrill with the black-and-white recording of her. For Elinor's is that type of dusky beauty which has in it a primitive, elemental something that women, perhaps through secret envy, resent — that thing which calls so to men, and evokes their rhapsodies and desires, though she herself may be only faintly aware of her power — that quality which Madame Glyn so elegantly expresses as "sex." You are conscious of that age-old appeal before ever you notice her other attributes. It insinuates itself, creeps upon you. And, feminine though you are and therefore able only dimly to sense how great must be its challenge to men, you pay it the tribute of resentment and of wondering why the kind fates have so abundantly endowed this one. It is always a momentous happening when De Mille picks a new one. Occasionally, a selection of his may flivver, but always she bursts at first from a comparatively inconspicuous corner into the searchlight, though she may stay there only for a while. Because of the possibilities the girl faces, such an occasion is auspicious, and a subtle air of tremendous importance is woven about it. Duly impressed thereby, in this particular case, I was, however, a little at sea. Try mixing Barbara La Marr, Gloria Swanson and Constance Talmadge in your mind and see what you get. And at my first glimpse of Elinor Fair, lounging in a chair just off "The Volga Boatman" set, shrieking the potent appeal of La Marr, of a La Marr of another age, I wondered at the triumvirate of charms with which De Mille's evenly flowing words had endowed her. The Gloria and the Connie personalities, 1 thought, must be off duty that day. Beauty, yes — the beauty of an enchanting Egyptian night. A graciously curved, delicately voluptuous body, sheathed in sparkling crystals. Dark, liquid eyes, in which curls up a sleepy lure, as though they are fully cognizant of their power and wonder whether it is worth while to unleash it. Fire, there, dormant under coals. Pomegranate lips, full and tremulous and a little petulant. That magnetic, strange beauty instantly kindles an imaginative person's fancy. Standing a little away, in absent-minded conversation with others, I pictured her in the far land where she seemed to belong, in a setting of allure. That small, rounded body luxuriously at ease on silken cushions, the crystal tissue wrapped about it ashimmer under a yellow desert moon. Black slaves should be fanning her, faintly stirring the sultry night, and brown-skinned maids serving luscious, juicy fruits to those indolent, crimson lips. All about, the shifting sands of ages. The Sphinx in the distance — back of her eyes somewhere. The scintillant Kohinoor, in a setting of crystal and gold. The beautiful favorite of the seraglio, spilling and rippling color with every languid movement. Fascination in each lift of those graceful, milk-white arms ; even in repose the imperious queen of love Hammers sounded, an orchestra tuned up with preliminary rasp and discord, a conglomerate array of figures hurried by, officers of Red Russia in the new style of uniform, and slouching, bulky, thickset men with tousled hair, tangled beards and evil faces. Blue-white lights sprayed an ugly glare upon the scene of a tribunal — upon high, plain desks and long tables, bare save for stacks of papers. Oddly irritated that my Kohinoor should suddenly be set in brass, I crossed over to her. "The Beautiful Vagabond," quoth the publicity scribe, sententiously. "God made her beautiful," murmured the Lady of the Needle, obsequiously being of very necessary service, "and Mr. De Mille made her a vagabond." My desert beauty rippled into life and with one word, that should have been slurred and velvet-tipped but wasn't, dispelled forever my fancy. Her voice had the sprightliness of the younger Talmadge's, and from its animation invisible sparks seemed to play upon the whole of her, and a pertness manifested itself in her eyes, quarreling with their sleepy indolence. It was as though she unfolded, one by one, the layers of her triumvirate charm. To be sure, there was little left of the crystal gown, for she had been in the hands of Russian revolutionists, but it was easy to believe, from the poise with which she held herself while the many slits and ragged edges were hastily stitched together, that before the gown had been wrecked, she had worn it as gowns are worn by only a few. "Like Gunga Din, I wear 'not very much before and less than 'arf of that behind.' " Her voice rippled with suppressed laughter. "But, my dear, one side of me is almost respectably clothed. If you would please sit over there. Thank you. / dare not move. They will have to carry me onto the set and say prayers that enough of this gown will hold together to pass the Pennsylvania censors. Else the final close-up will be minus its heroine. I've been through a revolution, you see. "And it was such a lovely gown, too" — the full lips pursed regretfully — "before we started pulling the boats down the river. I was a princess before I became a vagabond. They did things so queerlv in Russia." Perhaps it was as well that the highbrow author of "The Volga Boatman" was not present to see the mischief at play in her eyes. "Princesses were captured and sent out in -their party clothes to drag boats along rivers by ropes from the banks." Our conversation dallied with the picture — the contrast between Russia's prerevolutionary elegance and the chaos of its awakening — skirted the edges of movie production in general, had brief stop-overs at the main way stations of her career, and then settled upon frivolities. "There's nothing to say about me," she shrugged. "There ought to be, though, in another year, with all that Mr. De Mille is doing for me. But I've just been put in to bake. [Continued on page 114]