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58
Aie°^e?enneth Lillian Gish stole into New York under an assumed name.
IT is noon at the Famous Players studio on Long Island. As if by magic the lights have snapped out on the sets, the megaphones are lying supinely on camp stools, and one and all — stars, mechanicians, directors and their helpers — have trooped down the flights of stone steps to the white-slabbed tables in the basement lunch room. Here, in groups of three and four, the studio staff consumes that homely fare commonly known as studio food. Extras, high-salaried directors, and higher-salaried stars share alike the services of the agile waitresses who thread their way through the throng bearing numerous portions of "ham and "
Here in one corner you find Betty Bronson, in the silks and fripperies of an evening dress, gingerly munching bread sticks with as little injury as possible to her make-up, while she listens to the admonitions of Blake McVeigh from the publicity department. At a table near by is Florence Vidor, who only occasionally leaves her dressing room to join the general throng. Across the room is Estelle Taylor, elegantly trigged out in openwork stockings and flashing sparklers, talking things over with Luther Reed — once a newspaper man, now a full-fledged director.
Manhattan
Glimpses into New York's little film those stars who come on hurried news and gossip of those who
By Aileen St.
At another table is Ray Lissner, the diminutive assistant director — smallest in captivity — and Marie Halevy, competent secretary and script girl, chatting earnestly with Roy Hunt, expert photographer, and Emma Hill, expert cutter of films, who advocates dawn as the appropriate hour to punch the clock. Across the way is a group of electricians consuming huge slices of pie, while Lynn Shores cogitates near by on the urge of becoming a director. Farther on is Julian Johnson, most excellent of screen editors, solemnly partaking of tongue, while Townsend Martin, writer of scripts, cudgels his brain for bigger and better screen stories and less exacting stars to write them for. Richard Dix comes breezing in,
waves his hand to a table of electricians and looks around for a place to sit — perhaps with Mai St. Clair, the bean-pole director, or with Thomas Meighan, entertaining Mr. and Mrs. John McCormack on their annual visit to the studio.
Bayard Veiller, now writing for the screen, can be seen hobnobbing with William Le Baron, lord of all the works and boss of the hired help, who interviews more potential talent by the minute than visits the Bronx Zoo on a holiday afternoon— admission free.
Lois Wilson is over in a corner and Mary Brian, talking quietly with her mother, is sitting by the window. Ricardo Cortez, near the telephone, ruminates on the futility of human wishes. Herbert Brenon, with his gray hat on the back of his head, rushes in for just a few moments. Lva de
Ndtli Barr, Russian importation from the French screen, was given an English-Russian grammar and told to learn the language.
Photo by Ball