Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1926)

18 The Gang's All Here There are a few good reasons, however, for some of the other clubs. Ben Lyon likes the Chinese food and George Olsen's music, for instance, at the Club Chantee. And Ben, a little bit timid and chastened by having to grow a luxuriant beard for his star role in "The Savage," was hesitant, for a while, about showing up anywhere where he was not known. Even among his old friends at the Club Chantee, unpleasantness was likely to develop at the appearance of a svelte young man who looked like the leader of the House of David, "Bring out Uncle Joe's mustache cup," a rude neighbor is reported to have said one evening. And as other jeering remarks became a little more than Ben could bear, he complained to the manager and had the offending party removed. Unfortunately, though, in his nervous embarrassment, he pointed out the wrong party. Hereby he offers humble apology and the further information that the right ones were later detected and also sent out into the cold world. Picture stars, who live in New York most of the time are rarely seen at the night clubs. Doris Kenyon goes occasionally to the Lido — supposedly a public place, but try to get in if you don't look like a page out of the blue book or a graduate of one of Broadway's finishing schools. The Club Lido specializes in good music, fresh air, and refined and brief entertainment. And there is no likelihood of a noisv buyer's coming over from a ringside table to greet Bebe Daniels with the remark, "You know, you're a dead ringer for Bebe Daniels, only prettier." Such an occurrence has come at least once into the life of every well-known picture star wheir she ventured out among the lights and noises of Broadway. On the -opening nights of big pictures or important plays on. Broadway, one is apt to find Mav Allison at the Mirador or the Montmartre or one of the other more discreet, and smart, and resplendent dance palaces. May is always exquisitely dressed, and the springlike freshness of her eager blue eyes, golden hair, and creamy skin make you believe that it really isn't necessary for all the inhabitants to loot gray and jaded and slightly sour by two a. m. May spends all her week-ends in the country, so is never seen in the noisy throngs on Saturday night. . Dorothy Mackaill reverses that procedure by living in a far-away suburb all week and descending to town for a whirl in the cabarets only on Saturday night. "Doesn't she like to have fun?" May McAvoy inquired in some dismay, when first she saw Dorothy leave a theater at ten thirty in order to make the train home. "Isn't one night a week enough?" I asked, a little surprised that May herself associated late hours with fun. That was only a week or so after May had come to New York, and she was still imbued with the idea of cramming all New York's gayety and sparkle and late hours into a few weeks before going back to Hollywood and the early curfew. About ten days later, however, she had arrived at the conclusion that there was no interesting place to go after dinner. She could always dine happily at the Colony, where the quiet, small surroundings are shared by the season's debutantes, and where cooking is far from a lost art. The grand tour of New York's night side shows— which every young picture player and director feels it his duty to visit in the interests of studying life in the rough, you know, and improving his art through a better understanding of human nature — begins wav down in Greenwich Village. Tucked away in the streets around Washington Square are oddly decorated .cafes that beseech trade until a late hour. But a mild, tearoom air hangs about them. They might just as well be called "Ye Olde Foode Shoppe," and replace their wild, Russian decorations with Aunt Prudence's doilies, for all the ribaldry they inspire. To the night lifers, downtown means Barney Gallant's. Other places, may spring up now and then and have a day of popularity, but Barney's goes on and on. Even Paul Whiteman and other entertainers from other cafes go there after their own evening's work is done. At Barney's, the lights are shaded and dim, so you never can be quite sure who is there with whom, and perhaps it is just as well. But if you have a taste for scandal, that is provided with the show. If the name of some man of prominence has been linked with that of one of their entertainers, they don't try to hide it at Barney's. They come right out and announce her act thus: "Mr. Whoosiz presents " and so forth. From Barney's in Greenwich Village, the trail of the night clubs jumps up to the Forties, and after winding up and down the streets for the next twenty blocks, jumps to Harlem, many miles away, and two dollars and forty cents by taxi. At least once — and probably many more times — in every actress' life, she feels that she must see Marjorie Moss and Georges Fontana dance, so she and her party all go to the Club Mirador. This is one of the really nice places, where your fellow customers are inoffensive, and where no jokes are told in the show. And the decorations are luxurious enough to make any picture star feel at home. As for Marjorie Moss' dancing, that is indescribable. She is a slender, quiet girl who simply floats without effort through the air with the candid expression of one who is doing only what might be expected of her in the best circles. She and her partner, Georges Fontana, are likely to be corralled to dance in some motion picture before summer and the Riviera call them. And I feel perfectly sure that girls all over the country, after one look at Marjorie Moss, will want to shed their gauche, Charleston manners and go in for refinement. S'he has affected a lot of picture stars that way. The help at a place like "the Mirador get pretty blase about celebrities, but. I did, one night, see chef, waiters, check-room girls, and maids crowded in a doorway trying to catch a glimpse of Mae Murray Mae always looks like a delicate study in pastels, like those little dolls of tulle and tinsel that one sees in French confectioners' shops. It is always a joy to watch Mae Murray dance — she loves it so. One person who is never seen in the New York night clubs, since she gave up running one, is Gilda Gray. She works too hard in the studio and on personal-appearance tours, so is only too glad of a chance to do her entertaining at home. When people do see her dance, they pay well for it. On the other hand, a conspicuous figure at night clubs is Dagmar Godowsky. Gloria Swanson rarely appears, but when she does, the head waiter advertises the fact for weeks afterward. She selects the places that have the best music, the little ones that boast Russian choruses, or the Plantation, where Florence Mills and other negro singers provide real melody. The other dance clubs in the Forties and Fifties are mostly holes in the wall, or dark cellars where loud jazz bands play and raucous voices proclaim, "He had left her. behind before," or "Show me the way to go home." One evening in one of these convinces the most determined sightseeing picture star that, in future, she would rather go to a nice, quiet motion-picture theater and watch Bessie Love do the Charleston. For Johnny Hines to visit a night club is equivalent to electing himself to do an extra night's work. Johnny is notably good matured, and hostesses think nothing of Continued on page 94