Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Aug 1927)

53 I Knew Him as An Extra Charles Farrell and the author of this story were extras together not much more than a year ago. This is the first of a series of stories in which Miss Reid, PICTURE PLAY'S well-known "Extra Girl," looks back on the days when she worked side by side with boys and girls who have since become famous on the screen. By Margaret Reid WE all — with the exception of Charlie himself— always knew that Charles Farrell would make the grade. And we extras are traditionally skeptical of each other's possibilities. But when extras do pick some one out, they almost always pick a winner, and as far as his fellow extras were concerned, Charlie was cinched from the beginning. We ladies of the "atmosphere" were always just a little happier if the call list had Charlie's name on it. For several reasons. He was, for one thing, so good looking that I hate to talk about it. There are usually among extra men many really handsome specimens. But most of them are a trifle jaded. Too much extra work brings about a visible softening of fiber. But Charlie, who had been an extra for two years, was still a fresh, happy young rowdy, with exuberant enthusiasm and a puppy-dog sense of fun. He was too independent to be terribly successful as an extra, but it is this very independence, no doubt, that has propelled him so rapidly to the top in the past year. Whenever we extras were kept more than ten minutes overtime at the studio, or on the lot, Charlie was always the one to lead in the loud harmonizing that extras resort to on such occasions in indignant imitation of a factory whistle. Whenever we thought we were being imposed on by whatever company we happened at the moment to be He was entirely too insurrectionary for an extra, and found himself fired more than once, but it was this very independence that won him his spurs. Photo by Riohee His fellow extras always did suspect that Charlie would some day make the grade, but Charlie himself was decidedly skeptical, until James Cruze came along and gave him the lead in "Old Ironsides." working for, Charlie acted as our committee of protest. His naive lack of awe for official splendor was a constant source of admiration to us. Assistant directors, for instance, are the ogres of extradom, but assistant directors were meat to Charlie. He took a healthy pleasure in arguing them into corners, where they actually stood at bay. He lost, it is true, a good many jobs in this way, but he always won his arguments. It was not much more than a year ago that Charlie was still an extra, and quite convinced that he would always remain one. He had been in the game for two years now, and had had no particular encouragement. He was twenty-two, and was beginning to feel that he was getting on in years. He railed darkly against his unhappy fate, but felt powerless to do anything about it. A couple of leads with an obscure company on Poverty Row raised his hopes momentarily, but petered out in the abrupt deflation of the company's funds. Then he played a bit here and a bit there, almost all ending, with unerring precision, on the cutting-room floor. It was at about this time that I lost sight of Charlie. I didn't see him again until recently, when I ran into him in Henry's. After the conventional gestures of astonishment, pleasure, and greeting, we sat down and consumed together a great deal too much cinnamon toast. During the course of which I wanted to know where on earth he had been hiding himself away — no one ever saw him anymore in the usual playtime haunts of the colony. "Oh, I've been just bumming around," said he. "Being