Picture-Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1926)

90 Code of a Westerner Continued from page 19 must anything I please, and yet some of my happiest hours have been spent just doin' practically nothing. "Take the other day: I was out at my house and had a couple of hours on hand. First, 1 thought I'd go over to the Ambassador, and get my hair cut and get shaved and set up and everything. So I started for over there, but somehow or other, I found myself down here, instead. In my room, just puttering around. It was late, so there wasn't any one else here. Well, I took a shower, and Lord knows what I didn't do. I sat around in my robe reading a movie book — I got out a pencil and paper and jutted down some phonograph records I wanted to get for Mrs. Mix — I read over some insurance pamphlets, clean all the way through. I went over my 'graveyard' — I'll tell you about that in a minute — in fact, I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much, except some of the minutes I've spent with Tommy. She is the greatest happiness that ever came into my life. Sometimes I think it is my reward for having done the things that kids like — that I should have a kid of my own." ' As he paused, his cane suspended contemplatively in the air, I asked, "What was that 'graveyard' you spoke of ?" Tom smiled a slow smile that took time to get started but lingered after it came. "Know what that is?" he said. 1 shook my head. "It's a book I've got that contains a short biography of every one ever connected with the movie business. When I have a spare minute or two, I get it out and go over it. There aren't more than four names that started in that book that are in the movies to-day. And there's a reason for the failure of every one ofthem : "This fellow drank himself out. "This one was crooked. "This one tried to hog it all. "And another one was too easygoing. "I try to apply their mistakes to myself." Then summing up his remarks in a nutshell, in characteristic fashion, he finished off with, "Any one who won't profit by the other fellow's mistakes is foolish. In a way, that just gets us back to where we started — that being forced to stay up where the kids put me perhaps saved my life. I mean my life in the movies. Otherwise, I might have been just another name in that 'graveyard.' " From the outer office, I could hear discreet movements. I remembered that Mr. Mix had only a part of his noon hour to give me. So I rose to go. 1 told him that I was sorry we couldn't talk longer, that I had enjoyed meeting him immensely. "Yes, ma'am," Tom corroborated. "Come over some time when we're doin' some stunts. Glad to see you." And then he was gone. Without another word. Into the other room. When we were alone again, the lady press agent asked me how I had liked him. And I told her what I am going to tell you. I have never enjoyed a talk more in my life. I have never been more impressed with any one's sincerity. I have never been more enthused over the prospect of writing a story. Tom Mix is excellent "copy," and next to Mary Pickford, the most consistent talker I have encountered. He has the egotism which marks a definite personality and makes reporting a pleasure. He has an unelaborated charm, and personal magnetism. You might say that I enjoyed myself and be perfectly within bounds. On the way home, having nothing better to do, I discarded those lemon phrases. You won't find them in the story. Cinderella Kicks Off the Glass Slipper Continued from page 61 George K. Arthur, Ethel Clayton, and others of proven ability. "In a way, my sudden grand debut was a mistake, but for other reasons, it wasn't," Cinderetla, in a frilly pink negligee, explained. "I have learned a great deal — what to avoid, for instance. I am not a beautiful manikin. Snaky trains and pearl headdresses just don't look right on me. "Now I have a chance at what I've always wanted to do — comedy dramas about impish little girls who dance their way through all sorts of predicaments. I can be me; not a beautiful princess of an imaginative world. "And I am feeling my own age again. That point is worth considering." Her serious eyes emphasized her words. "Because it has so much _ influence on one's work and one's personal life and moods. When Mr. De Mille started 'Feet of Clay,' he said, 'Vera, you've been just a kid, on screen and off, but now you are a grand young lady, and you must begin thinking and feeling thirty years old. You must acquire poise and dignity.' "I tried, but"— ruefully— "I really couldn't get the manner. Instead of being at ease in those beautiful screen drawing-rooms, I felt stilted." And now, the slightly round but utterly adorable little Vera is being permitted to "think young" again. De Mille adheres to the principle of atmospheric influence. A psychologist, he believes that plastic material can be molded by the proper environment and by the injection of a new trend of thought. When the particular girl who is to undergo a metamorphosis under his guidance is not overburdened with individuality, or if she fortunately possesses a personality akin to that of his visualized heroine, the process is a neat one, and the result is evenly achieved, without any jagged edges. She slips easily into the mold and gradually is decorated with colors. In Vera, he has, for the first time, encountered a very definite personality, incapable of adaptation to a pattern entirely foreign to it. She is a little girl who, despite years or circumstances, will never grow up — an impish child who gets gloriously excited over every cookie that life offers her, who thrills to the fun all about her and must participate in it. When "Feet of Clay" was being filmed, I interviewed Vera for Picture-Play. Knowing how she had clowned her funny little way through comedies and what an entertainingperson she really was, I resented the things De Mille was doing to her. And, with my customary good manners, I recall speaking my mind right out to her. Because I so seldom do hit the nail on the head, I now demand all the honor due an oracle, if any. De Mille almost quashed Vera in his very effort to promote her to the head of the class. She didn't belong with the correctly polished young ladies reciting from the platform; she belonged out of doors, throwing rocks at the window of the schoolroom. And De Mille has promised her a good time, hereafter. Light stories, with inconspicuous plots but with many cute bits of business and humorous situations, written about the central figure of an entertaining little girl who gets herself into scrapes, will be her metier. For the first time since her "discovery," she is wholeheartedly enjoying her work. For Cinderella has found happiness at last — in the pickle factory.