Picture-Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1926)

48; Joan Does the Charleston By Dorothy Manners .Sometimes green night TO catch the attention of the noisy cash customers, the drummer of the orchestra — Montmartre's preferably — seizes his cymbals and ends the final chord with an abrupt, ear-rumbling C-R-R-R-ASH! .Master of ceremonies, loud and funny: ''Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of this evening's dancing contest is Miss Joan Crawford, of the Metro-Goldwyn studios, dancing with Mr. " In misplaced enthusiasm, a collegiate lets out a war whoop, and unfortunately Mr. 's name is lost. It always is. Master of ceremonies : "Folks! Maybe are nice, Miss Crawford will give us an hibition — may&<?. What do you say ?" The entire hoarse-throated room : " Yah-h-h-h-h-a !" Master of ceremonies : "Atta crowd! Introducing Miss Crawford, who is going to do a little Charleston — a little aggravatin' Charleston for us. Let's go!" ; The crowd jammed ^ '' — around the floor divides now, and there comes Joan. There she goes, "all dressed up in her party clothes." Sometimes she wears white, with heavy gardenias on her shoulder. -pale pink — gray. Tort is black, studded with brilliants, her long-bobbed hair wavy and uncovered. With greedy eyes, the crowd perch themselves, like figures on a crazy frieze, around the smoke-befogged room, hungry lest they miss a step of it, of that tortuous, in-and-out dance of the negroes, the Charleston-Charleston. "Let's go !" / wonder docs my baby do the Charleston-Charleston ? Somebody yells, "There she goes !" and no foolin', there she goes! Now her sleeves jiggle in the spotlight until the brilliants seem like winking eyes suddenly gone craz}\ Now her feet shuffle. Now her hands slide from knee to knee. The dance goes on. / wonder who is teaching her the Charleston-Charleston? Somebody yells, "Look at that lady !" And if you look — you'd be crazy not to — you'll see a mock bit of rheumatism under way. Joan's white hands on a crippled hip. Now she shakes her hair into a tangle. Now her knees knock insanely. "Oh — my! Look at that lady !" While I sit and sigh, the time goes draggin' by, I'd like to kill the guy who wrote the Charleston-Charleston. An odd girl, Joan. And an awfully pretty one. Not unlike that little chorus-girl dreamer that she played in "Sally, Irene and Mary." If you saw Irene, you know a little bit about Joan — the real Joan.. She came from that atmosphere — stage doors, broken mirrors, broken everything — where whistling in a dressing room is on a par with murder as an offense. One of the Metro-Goldwyn officials spotted her in a spotlight and drew up a Kleig-light contract with her. She packed her belongings, her mother, and kid brother, and came out to the Coast. Her name then was Lucille le Sueur. Too hard to pronounce. The Goldwyn people got up a contest that also got a lot of publicity, and changed her name to Joan Crawford. Easier to pronounce. And before she made "Sally, Irene and Mary," she worked in a couple of pictures playing bits, or what did they have? We parted 'cause I couldn't do the Charleston-Charleston. Every night I see her in some | cafe or another. ' She brought \ " that New York suppertime rest lessness to Hollywood. Always she is the prettiest girl in the room. Between • v r dances she sits at a % ringside table and sips straw-colored jfe^ ginger ale out of Y \ a tall, chilled l^ga glass. And smiles politely at her escort. These gentlemen usually change with the evening, though lately she has been seen more than twice in the company of Michael Cudahy. So, of course, their engagement has been rumored. She used to dance a lot with a boy named Jerry Chrysler. You never saw such dancing as they did. Even in the jitteriest jazz, it was beautiful. They had a liquid way of flowing from pose to pose. Jerry and Joan have had ovations in Montmartre that would warm the hearts of the brightest Broadway favorites. The reason I mention it is because Jerry is awfully sick now, and trying hard to get well out in the sunshine. She'd still be here if I could do the Charleston-Charleston. People make inquiries about the dreamy-eyed girl with the jazz feet. Sometimes older couples speak to her, complimenting her on her dancing. She smiles at them graciously, thanking them for their compliments, her manner modest and unsmarty. They go back to their tables calling her a sweet girl. It is when she gets up to dance that she becomes differfrom the hundreds of other girls in the room. Like a priestess officiating at a rite. Saxophones — violins — the wailing voice of a coon singer caroling jazz philosophies. I'm taking lessons now So much for that. On the screen she has a nice quality of sweetness and depth. Continued on page 105 \ ent