Picture-Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1926)

The Sketchbook 59 We shall leave Sergeant Quirt, for the time being-, and concentrate on Eddie Lowe himself, as pleasant a subject as I have tackled in many a day. Eddie, as you well know, is married to Lilyan Tashman, and they live charmingly in Beverly Hills. Lilyan and Eddie are fond of dogs and considerate of servants, and they speak to all children, even those with dirty faces, but, in spite of these humanitarian impulses, they are not to be confused with that nice young couple living around the corner from you. They are domestic but not domesticated, neighborly but not suburban, ten miles from the city but not commuters. In case you want to know, they constitute two of the strongest links in our social chain. When he is not making a picture, Eddie is up at the Athletic Club, taking life with a game of squash and a grain of salt. He is difficult to "get" in print, because he keeps forgetting about himself and remembering funny ones to tell you. He would rather talk about stock days with Mar j one Rambeau than about his or any one else's art. He considers Madame Glyn an extraordinarily charming and clever. woman and doesn't care who knows it. He thinks that this generation has more humor than the last, and that humor is good for our souls, and that exercise is good for both body and soul. Speaking of exercise, that reminds him of one. You know Raoul Walsh, the director ? Well, Walsh was awfully sick one day, and Eddie dropped over to call. Eddie was convinced that his friend was only pampering himself, and that what he needed was a good rousing game of squash at the club. "You think so?" from the sick Mr. Walsh, feebly. "Certainly!" said Eddie, with pep. So Eddie drove him over to the club and put him through a game of squash that would have finished a well man, and certainly a sick one. After that, Eddie advocated a rubdown. Mr. Walsh groaned — but took it — and continued to groan. "Pull yourself together," scoffed Doctor Lowe. "This is great for what ails you. If it wasn't helping, it wouldn't hurt." "Think so?" groaned Mr. Walsh, tainly." The next morning, Eddie called phone. "He isn't here," he was told. Mr. Lowe glowed with that inner warmth that comes only from having performed a Scout deed for the day. If it hadn't been for him — little Eddie Lowe and his diagnosis — Walsh might still have been under the weather. "When he comes in," he said cheerfully, "have him call Mr. Lowe." "Sorry, sir," immediately replied the house man, "he won't be in for some time. We just took him to the hospital." "And the neat part about that," grinned Eddie," is that he is my next director." All of which is Mr. Lowe being, not Sergeant Quirt, King Lear, nor any of the other heavy boys, but very much Eddie, himself. Than which there is no more than. A Word from the Wise. When I was doing newspaper work, a motion-picture editor for whom I worked gave me a bit of advice which bears repeating, because it is quite true. He said: "You'll find there are three people in pictures whom you can't pan nor even criticize too severely. One of them is Norma Talmadge. The other two are — Mary Pickford. ■ "Mary and Norma aren't just actresses. They are illusions and ideals to millions of people. No one is ever thanked for destroying an ideal. The world may appreciate the information, but it will unconsciously resent the informant." That ought to be a tip to gossips and reporters who are always telling people things about friends, "for their own good." Photo by Hesser Carmelita Geraghty is being looked upon with awe and admiration because of the poems Joseph Hergesheimer wrote in her honor. Eddie said, "Cerhis friend on the A Couple of Words for Mr. Cain. Though I have not seen six photoplays in the last couple of months, I consider Mr. Robert Cain's performance of a gentleman "mad as a March hare," in "The Dancer of Paris," as one of the six best performances of the last couple of months. Mr. Cain played a difficult "straight" role with poise and distinction, and managed to be aristocratically sinister without once, curling his lip nor dilating his nostrils. It was a perfect study of an actor really earning his salary. Which reminds me of the six best performances I have ever seen. Three or four of them have slipped my mind, but one was Charles Ray's in "The Girl I Loved." Another was John Gilbert's in "The Snob," or in anything else. Anita Entertains. Anita Stewart, who looks more beautiful every time I see her, entertained at luncheon at the Montmartre recently, and Lilyan Tashman invited me along. Lilyan was right in the midst of a picture for Lubitsch, and was having to take things on the fly. Good parts are falling to her like rewards to the just — or should it be the unjust? Almost every director in Hollywood seems to need her particular talent for his current opus. Belle Bennett sat right across from us and, in contrast to the staccato chatter of Lilyan and Madame Continued on page 108