Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1926)

50 A Star Turns Reporter dridge, when we met in the publicity office at the studio and you invited me to come to dinner, how quickly I accepted, before you had a chance to change your mind? You see, like a real interviewer, I had hoped to promote a few teas, or perhaps a luncheon, out of this journalistic engagement, but I didn't expect to get into the dinner class!'' Whereupon, we all laugh and help ourselves to hot biscuits. And then, getting down to the serious business of interviewing, with borrowed pad and pencil, I took notes of the following facts : Mr. W. comes from Harrisonville, South Kansas — is the son of Judge J. S. YVooldridge. He was on the Kansas City Star, as a reporter, for five years. His beat was "the Junction of the World," the Union Station, through which passes, at one time or another, most every one who is any one — presidents, actresses, statesmen. He met all comers. What a keen training that class of work must have been ! With our Montmartre, our studios, or our boudoirs, as backgrounds for our interviews, it is hard for us movie actresses to visualize a cold railroad station as the frame for anything like that. Mr. Wooldridge used to rush on board a train before it had actually stopped, "find his victim," and hoodwink, cajole, boss, coax, insist, or beg a storv out of him, applying whatever method he found necessary. The statement that some men threw at him, that they "didn't give interviews," never stopped him from getting his story. He's that way, you see. He then took a trip himself, together with Mrs. W., and came out our way. He was made editor of The Monrovia Messenger and the Arcdf dia Journal, while Mrs. W. edited a woman's page, which, as you probably know, includes club work, bits and pieces about what to do if the baby gets the croup, how to make the jelly jell properly, and so forth. Now he writes, besides all his work for PicturePlay, articles that appear in big-city newspapers, all the way from the New York World to the San Francisco Chronicle. We looked through an old press album. Here was a picture of Mrs. W. as a Southern belle — a beautiful, girlish face with serious eyes ; there was one of her in graduation dress. She had attended a seminary in Nashville, and later made her debut at the exclusive Hermitage Club. Here was one of her taken while she was attending the Chicago Music School, where she was awarded the Ziegfeld Scholarship. And then, I saw pictures of her taken during the time when, having become Mrs. W., she had taken up social life in Kansas, and was putting her dramatic and musical education to effect by directing amateur theatricals. She defines their marriage thus : "He's the brains, and I'm the energy." But I'm inclined to make it, "He's the power, and she's the brakes," for if he should be inclined, in writing a story, to be a bit ruthless of some one's feelings, or to tread on some one's toes, I can just imagine her laying a gentle, restraining hand on him The tiny home of Constance Palmer Littlefield and her husband, where Carmel Myers dropped in for tea. Milwaukee. She came ago, and wrote reams Ledger. first started interviewing and saying, "Now, Baby lamb " The charming hospitality of the Wooldridges, to say nothing of the taste of that delicious chicken, will linger long in my memory. A tiny, toy sort of a house in the hills I found them in, Constance Palmer Littlefield and husband. To fully know Constance, one must also know husband. Mr. Lucien Littlefield, the Public. The Public, Mr. Lucien Littlefield. Of course, you've seen him on the screen — oh, innumerable times ! He's a swell character actor — one of our very best — but, pardon me, this is Constance's interview, and you, Mr. Littlefield, will simply have to sit back for a while and smoke that nice peaceful pipe. I told you it was a toy house, and oh, so cuddly ! My arrival, late in the afternoon, after a tiring day at the studio, was conducive to much appreciation of the steaming cup of tea proffered me. One could almost hear a kettle singing on the hearth. The setting was perfect. Long shadows, quiet voices, rocking chairs, tea in goldand-blue china, and chitchat. I feasted my eyes on row upon row of books that have been read. You know what I mean — pages cut and everything. What a cozy, restful atmosphere. But this wouldn't do. Questions — 1 must ask questions. Constance told me she had not written anything for quite a long time. "Laziness, I guess, or old age setting in." (She looks everv bit of twenty-five.) I scolded. She demurred. "Well, I suppose it's my home and Poppie" — she nodded toward husband — "that's responsible. It's hard to serve two masters. I hope you'll pardon that onion smell — I'm cooking onion soup for Puppie." (I thought at first she meant husband.) "Oh, he looks so nice since he's been shorn." She couldn't have meant him ! "Pardon me. who for?" "Puppie, my Scotch terrier." "Oh, lucky dog !" She told me she had been born in Duluth, Minnesota, and had attended college in to Hollywood some six years of stuff for the Philadelphia I asked her if she had been nervous when she Had she ! Well, James Kirkwood had been her first assignment for Picture-Play, and maybe her knees hadn't shaken and her heart done the Charleston, when she approached him ! She had hoped to make her first question very different — highpowered, in fact, — and she found herself saying, "How did you start :" "But it wasn't a bad story," Mr. Littlefield interposed. "Now, Wuppie," she admonished. "Oh, dear! I do hope that Woppie's onion soup doesn't annoy you." "W-a-i-t a minute. Wait a minute. First your husband is Wuppie and then — your " "Oh, our dog is Woppie, and Poppie is Wuppie. It is a bit confusing." And then Woppie made an appearance. A cunning thing, built underslung, with a nice face. We became friends. They asked him to crow — some sort of trick noise he could make. Thev begged him to crow. They demanded that he crow. If he heard, he made no sign, but continued calmly to lick my gloved hand. Continued on page 105