Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1926)

58 The Princess ot Pep indigestion and nervousness that eventually overtake others. She is the only girl in Hollywood who has been able to burn the candle at both ends for several years and yet still look as fresh as at her debut in the spotlight. Nobody has ever been able to get her to admit she was tired. Her daily schedule is a succession of work, exercise, French lessons, sports, and the duties that go with movie stardom. After dinner, when bed seems the logical place to go, she invariably insists on a strenuous evening. "Let's get a crowd together and dash down to the beach," she suggests. "We'll have a swim — oh, it won't be cold, silly — play some handball, then get a good station on the radio and dance. Or how about a party at the Ambassador ? "Certainly I have to work to-morrow. But that's a long time from now." ! She doesn't agree with Edison that four hours' sleep suffice, but manages to do nicely with six. A fresh-air bend, she doesn't stop at mere ventilation, but lets the cold, clear ozone pour in. When she gets shivery, she snuggles under the additional blankets instead of pulling the windows down: There simply aren't enough hours in the day — and night— for Connie and her pep. Between pictures, she ''loafs" through a series of activities that leave a trail of worn-to-a-frazzle friends, gasping for air and wonder ing where else the cyclone hit. I lcr family, having been acquainted with her for some time, merely smile and wave a greeting as she dashes in and out. Her pep takes care of her health. It keeps her active, and makes exercise pleasant. Diet? That's a laugh ! "Eat what you like, but not too much — unless you're hungry," is her motto. A sample menu shows her gastronomic versatility. Breakfast: orange juice, eggs Benedict, toast Melba and coffee. Luncheon : Lamb chops, green peas, carrots, rolls and rice pudding. Dinner : clear soup, squab', baked trout, tomato salad, squash, mashed potatoes, Camembert cheese, crackers, ice cream, cake, and coffee. "Every American has pep, though some misplace it and let themselves get rusty," she avers. "When sailors come ashore and rent a rowboat to paddle about the park lagoons, that's pep. "This is the age of pep. If you lose it, you're going to be left behind in the procession. "The peppy person gets the most out of life and, whether working or playing, generally wins the race. There is no age limit. "Pep just means being enthusiastic about everything." And so, a yellow jonquil, always breezily gay in the bright sunlight, she permits no care to shadow her life, for she has for nutriment that magic, life-giving force, pep. The Return of Sheriff Nell Polly Moran, famous slapstick comedienne some years ago, is back again in pictures. By Barbara Little SHOUTS of laughter drew me to stage No. 6 on the Metro-Goldwyn lot. Something, thought I, must be doing. Something was. "Polly Moran's whooping it up again!" the cry rang out and quickened my steps. Polly Moran ! What a wealth of fun that name conjured up in memory. Wild, boisterous Sheriff Nell, of the old, exciting Western comedies, was on the job again ! Lured by the riot of laughter, I hurried on. I found a music-hall scene in progress. There were the usual rough tables, surrounded by the nondescript human driftwood of movie down-and-outers, and there was a bar over which were draped the customary slouching figures. In the center, perched on a table, was a — what shall I call her? — a caricature from the ugly backstream of life wherein Dickens found his human curios. A collection of rags hung dispiritedly from her gangling little frame ; an ancient hat, decked with a tawdry, drooping flower, eclipsed one eye; the other eye peered lugubriously from a dirt-spattered face. Every one's attention was concentrated upon that ridiculous figure. Teetering on tiny French heels, Renee Adoree rocked back and forth in a paroxysm of mirth. Tod Browning's direction of the scene had been stopped by a convulsion. The crowd of extras and the studio employees, hanging on the ropes at the side of the set, were apoplectic. Even the grim visage of Lon Chaney relaxed. What was Polly saying? Oh, don't ask me. I can't remember. It isn't zvhat she says — sharp comments on everything — it's the way she says it that doubles you up. She drawls out her words as though in an agony — and you scream. Suddenly that voice becomes sharply staccato, as the gangling collection of bones come to life and go into action. Gesticulating, clowning, draping herself into semophorean poses, she struts, in a parade of burlesquerie, the thoughts that pop into her head. The scene was for "The Black Bird," first called "The Mocking Bird," in which she was playing the remnant of a back-alley lady — a piece of haggard flotsam, broken and wallowing in dirt, that plaintively tried still to please — a flower girl of the music halls, her bloom as withered as that of the posies she sold for a ha'penny. Again, in a country store, buying shoes too small for her square-plodding, old-maid feet, in a scene for "The Auction Block," she had everybody in spasms of mirth. How they ever get any work done when she is around, I can't see. On the street, with make-up removed, she is a personable woman of those interesting years between youth and middle age, but she would pass unnoticed in a crowd. Polly needs her props to "strut her stuff," and with them, she slips easily into the mood they suggest, and is in her glory. "Sure I'm back again, earning my three squares," she chirruped, when she and I meandered into Tod's office for a chat. Her arm linked in mine, her face wreathed in smiles; Sheriff Nell lived again as she had when she used to delight my childhood with her screen caperings, but she was a different Nell from what I had pictured — as funny, yes, but with a touch of pathos. "I've been here in Hollywood for a long time. Would have turned gray and been embalmed if it hadn't been for Tod. His wife ran into me on the street one day