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19
She Wasn't Allowed to Be Herself
Hollywood wouldn't let her. Just because she had red hair, they decided she must be jazzy, so for five years Margaret Livingston has been struggling to live up to that reputation, though down in her heart she has been aching to be her own natural self.
By Myrtle Gebhart
DYNAMITE!" is one of the most polite epithets hurled by Hollywood at Margaret Livingston. But down inside her she recoils from the crude, superficial display which Hollywood has driven her to assume, in defense of that fineness within her which was met with scornful ridicule. Rather than be called a hypocrite, which she isn't, she has let herself be marked down as wild, which she also decidedly isn't.
It will surprise Hollywood to learn that Margaret Livingston is a contradiction. For the film colony likes to ticket people as they seem to be.
The Margaret that Hollywood has known since she flashed, a splash of radiant color, into the bright lights is the I-don't-care girl, jazzy, out for a good time. A spitfire. Hardboiled, yes! Flirting — dancing — a cigarette between those red lips curved in habitual mockery. A girl without softness. Her clothes a little too daring, her dancing too wild, her manner too free and breezy, her red hair flying. A pert recklessness her eyes. No waiting for excitement — she rolled her own. For Margaret discovered that life was brittle, not soft, malleable taffy.
Hollywood would laugh, unbelieving, were it told that Margaret's money has turned illness into health for many, has tided others over periods of bad luck, that she looks for opportunities to do little, kind things, that she has five adopted youngsters, aged from five to sixteen, whom she is educating.
Her hair is partly to blame for the impression people have of her. Hair neither blond nor brunet is usually titian or auburn. Margaret's is just plain red— a
luxuriant mass, thick and soft and rebellious, framing a rather thin, oval, impertinent face.
Her outward personality is the sort that goes with red hair. She is like the man who galloped off madly in all directions. She goes forty ways at once. The
Photo by Buttemere
Margaret at the age of four.
This shows the innocent-looking Margaret who arrived in Hollywood five years ago, still untouched by the bold sophistication that was later pinned upon her by the film colony.
atmosphere about her is one of hectic, high-keyed excitement. She is electric.
Only occasionally has the inner Margaret emerged from this flaming whirlwind, a little fearfully. Only to a few understanding hearts has she unfolded this incoherent inner self that mothers orphans, stray cats, or any one in distress.
But now she is changing, so imperceptibly as yet that those not in on her secret — a deliberate effort toward evolution — have not noticed. The flashiness of her clothes has been toned down, her manner is more subdued, there is a hesitant wistfulness in her eyes. Her crudities are being gently smoothed. She is adventurous, yes, and quick of temper, and clever at sharp repartee, and I hope she won't try to melt all the steel in her. The Margaret of Hollywood is trying to be again the Marguerite of the home town. She can't be, completely. You can't recapture past years nor former illusions. But she will be finer than either of her former selves, the better for having been both.
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