Picture-Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1926)

loo Milton Sills— Steel Worker Continued from page 25 He was silent for a minute, then suddenly turned to me. with half a smile on his face, and an amused expression in his eyes. "But do you know what I think ?" he said. "A good deal of life is just hunk, anyway, and our so-called hokum movies are really very representative of it. We spend our lives pretending and exaggerating. We work ourselves up to false enthusiasms, we allow ourselves to be carried away by false emotions. We may think it is all spontaneous and real, but a large part of it is just forced. When we think we ought to be having a good time, we set to work and make ourselves have a good time. "I was so impressed with that at a football game last fall. Thousands of people gathered together cheering themselves into frenzies. Over what ? Nothing. All being stirred up to wild and artificial enthusiasm by blaring bands, shouting students, and four or five violently gymnastic cheer leaders. "And it's the same thing with a lot of other things. Our theaters are full of bunk, our concerts, our radio programs, our social life, our politics. We are eternally kidding ourselves along. "You know people, for instance, who come home from the opera and go into ecstasies over it, just because they think it's the thing to do." He clasped his hands together and modulated his deep voice into as feminine a tone as possible. " 'Oh, wasn't it 7»arvelous ! Wasn't it exquisite !' you hear them gush. They may really have been quite bored, but they wouldn't dream of admitting it. "We are all governed so much by what we think we ought to feel under various circumstances that we don't dare confess, even to ourselves, that we feel any other way. If an occasion calls for sorrow, we show it, even though we have to feign it; if it calls for joy, we smile though it hurts us. "I believe that one reason, perhaps, for our false enthusiasms is the high pressure under which we live. We drive ourselves so during working hours that when we go out in the evening, we feel that we simply must enjoy ourselves, and so we go on driving ourselves even in our pleasures." About that time, the tray bearing our lunch, which had been ordered from a neighboring rotisserie, appeared in the distance, and we moved toward a small table near by. Mr. Sills proceeded carefully to set the table himself, murmuring that he could never tell what might be in store for him, and that as he had already played almost every kind of role, he might at any time be called upon to enact a waiter. Certainly, no one could have been a more attentive host. We somehow got on to the subject of Von Stroheim. "Now, there's a man who is supposed to be a realist," he said, "but to my mind, he is no more of a realist than are the most fantastic romancers. He goes to the opposite extreme, and overloads his films with unpleasantness, drags it in quite unnecessarily. It's an affectation with him, quite as much an affectation as too much sweetness or loveliness would be in some one else. "There is really far more of brightness in life, anyway, than there is of tragedy. It must be so, or else everything would simply cease to be. Isn't that true? If tragedy predominated in this world, it would inevitably wipe things out, now wouldn't it?" "Yes," said I, "I suppose so." "For that reason, I can't agree with these long-haired extremists who think that a play or a story simply can't be artistic unless it has an unhappy ending. Usually, the happy ending is much more fitting and true. "And people remember the pleasant moments of life far longer than they do the sad ones. It's surprising how quickly we can recover from unhappiness and forget about it. This nation in particular is endowed with optimism. We don't like for our plays and our movies to be tragic. We're not like the Scandinavians with their Ibsen, nor like the Russians with their bloodshed and oppression. Life looks very bright to most Americans." Strains of a jazz orchestra had been floating over from the adjoining set where Michael Arlen's "The Dancer of Paris" was being made, with Dorothy Mackaill and Conway Tearle in the leading roles. We sauntered over to see what was going on. The set represented a Paris cafe. The orchestra, in Russian costumes, were playing behind a filmy curtain at the far end. Extras in eveningclothes were sitting at tables, or dancing. Conway Tearle was strolling about off set. He was disturbed about his new dress suit. First the sleeves had been too long — now they were too short. He fussed with them. "First new dress suit I've had in seven years," he remarked, rattling his words off in truly British fashion. "Get awfully attached to clothes, y'know. Can't part with them." Mr. Sills smiled his broad smile, and his twinkling eyes disappeared behind two slits. "Conway had a blue suit," he said slowly, "and he wore that suit for every picture, for every part, for every occasion. It was famous. It couldn't be dragged away from him." " 'S fact," said Conway, turning to me with raised brows. "I loved that suit. And every time it was cleaned, it got shinier and shinier. Could see your face in it. Then, about two years ago, I was to play the part of a French diplomat in a film. Director came to me and said, 'Conway, about that ' 'Stop!' I said" — he held up his hand — " T know what you're going to say. It's that suit. Well, what's wrong with it?' 'There's nothing wrong with it,' he said, 'it's a very nice suit, but it's English, and this — this is a Frenchman.' 'I've worn that suit,' I said" — he drew himself up — " 'I've worn that suit for every nationality !' Five minutes later, caught it on a nail and ripped it so badly it couldn't be repaired — might still be wearing it. "But it's no good getting a new suit in the movies nowadays. Ruined the first time you wear it. Don't know what these girls use, but your sleeve's in a mess after one embrace. I don't believe in long love scenes, anyway. Make yourself look ridiculous. You've got to have a sense of humor to do a love scene. Cut it off short." Some one standing by caught a young press agent by his collar, flung him into the crook of his arm, made as though to kiss him, and then flung him back again. "That's how Conway made love to Dorothy Mackaill yesterday," he said, "all without one change of expression, then brushed his hands together, and said, 'That's that !' " Conway raised his eyebrows a little more. "No fun kissing a girl with makeup on, anyway," he said. "Doesn't taste the same." Mr. Sills and I wandered back to the "Men of Steel" set. "Have you heard," I asked him, before I left, "that Paramount is going to make a film called 'The Greatest Show on Earth,' based on the life of Barnum?" He looked at me, and a smile hovered. "That ought to please us," he. remarked, "for there was the original exponent of bunk. What was it he said, 'A sucker born every min "Yes," said I. His face spread into a broad grin, and the twinkling gray eyes again disappeared behind two slits. "What a great movie that ought to make," he said with a chuckle.