Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Jul 1929)

12 What tke Fans Tkink The Glory of the Movies. With Apologies to Rudyard Kipling. The movies are an empire, where the strangest things befall, Where camera and spotlight reign, and rule between them all The men and women players ; the directors ; even I, Who, once fallen to their lure, must remain so — till they die ! And where the orange blossoms grow, along the West Coast wall, You'll find the town of Hollywood that is the heart of all. The studios, the boulevards ; the beaches, and the camps ; The Kleigs, the clerks, the cowboys ; the heavies and the vamps. You'll find DeMille — and bathtubs— and yes-men, and prop boys, Told oft to do as they are bid, and do it without noise. But except when shares are dropping, and then P. A.s flock in herds, The glory of the movies lies in more than idle words. For some can do a Charleston, and bathing girls can pose. These last are good to look at, even in their clothes ! They may not be aesthetic, but they're just why men leave home ; Yea, the glories of Mack Sennett are the reasons husbands roam! And many more you'll find there; but real stars are not made By merely being beautiful and very highly paid. The Gilberts and the Negris, and Charlie, too, who strives With merry jests to brighten up the dullness of our lives. With these a hundred others, your favorites you may pick ; There's not an eye so tired, nor yet a heart so sick But it can find some magic in any reel that's run, For the movies have a glory that bewitches every one. So praise the stars, and thankful be to those who make the shows ; And do not judge them harshly; we all want friends, not foes. And when you're cross with Lillian, and cry, "She always weeps !" Just think how we should miss it, like Douglas and his leaps. Oh, Lizzie is a film fan, and her Jake he is the same ; The only time they quarrel is over Meigh an's name. And when your work is finished, and for dollar seats you pay, Thank Allah for this" kingdom, that it may not pass away. Bettie Edwards. 7 Belmont House, Candover Street, London, W. 1. No Talking, Please! Oh, those horrid talking pictures ! They get on my -nerves. All the men's voices sound exactly alike, and the women all sound like something is choking them. They are so slow. I went to see "Lights of New York." I could not sit through the picture, and all the men were so ugly in it, and not a pretty face. Helene Costello looked all right, but her voice was terrible. I, for one, will save a lot of money, for I am never going to see another talking picture. Conrad Nagel's is the only voice I have heard that did not get on my nerves. He is wonderful and so good looking. I like the silent drama, with soft music, and no talking ! May Jordon. Box 2501, Birmingham, Alabama. In Refutation. Has your correspondent, Lorraine Chandler, ever thought of how the "selfish," "mercenary" foreigners came, in the first place, to Hollywood? Surely, half of them were "discovered" in Europe by American producers who saw possibilities in them, and then took them to Hollywood, where they earn "big" money for themselves, as well as for him and his company. And don't they spend it in America? I read on the same page of your magazine that Americans on the London stage remain American, without losing popularity or being pestered to change their nationality. Knowing this, I fail to see why a foreigner should change his nationality as soon as he attains fame in America. As for Ronald Colman, isn't it just faintly possible that he may be content to remain English, and that it is not just publicity and the hue and cry that is stopping him? What would it profit any one if Mr. Colman became an American? He is so obviously English. M. M. Tunbridge Wells, Kent, England. Just Suppose ! Just suppose that some one would come up to you one day and say, "Come on, we're going to Hollywood. I've decided that since you've always wanted to, we might as well go. You can meet all the people you've always wanted to meet, and see all the things you've always wanted to see." Of course, things like that don't happen. But just supposing they did — what would you do? Well, this is what I'd do. I'd sit on that train and dream, and be thrilled and scared to death every clicking mile of the way. I'd stay at the Studio Club for Girls. My lips would be dumb, but my eyes would be taking in all the details of the Club, and of the girls who live there. I'd like to take a peek into the room that Mary Pickford furnished. Then, after I had unpacked and taken a bath, and tried to calm my excited emotions— and not succeeding at all — I'd call up some one whose very name brings forth all my best adjectives — Myrtle Gebhart. Myrtle and I have been friends for five years, but we have never seen each other. I'd go to the phone and say, when I had had the precious thrill of actually hearing Myrtle's voice, "I'll give you three guesses to tell who this is." Then I'd give her three marks of identification. Myrtle, being a bright girl, would cry out, "Of course." Myrtle would say, "Where are you?" and "What do you mean by coming out here? Didn't I tell you not to?" "Do you think," I would snappily retort, for Myrtle and I are awfully good friends, "that I would pay any attention to you?" After that she would see it was hopeless, so she would invite me to the Montmartre the next day, which would be Wednesday, star day at the Montmartre and, of course, the best day for gawking tourists such as myself. Myrtle would say, in parting, that she was sorry. She would love to have had me out at her house that night, but she was going to a party. After that, quite worn out with the day's thrills, I would go to bed, and be a little homesick. For Hollywood is a long way from home. But the next day the sun — the wellknown California sun — would he shining into my eyes so brightly that I would awaken with a feeling of joy. I would leap out of bed and dress, and take a leisurely walk through the sunny streets of Hollywood, noting everything. Then home again to dress for luncheon, and then Myrtle would be there, sweet, tiny and amusing. We would get in her car and ride to the Montmartre. Oh, the millions of things to talk about. Then there would be other glamorous days and nights. There would be dinner at Myrtle's, an afternoon at one of Patsy Ruth Miller's famous Sunday parties. That would be about the last thing in thrills. There I would meet Lois Wilson, May McAvoy, Virginia Valli, Justine Johnstone. I'd get to swim and play tennis. I'd visit the different studios, drinking in every detail of studio life, First National, Fox, M.-G.-M., Paramount, Universal—everywhere. I'd like to go to Poverty Row and see those small studios which have the good sense to see that in the craze for new faces, the old ones have not necessarily become worthless. I'd meet all the writers on Picture Play's staff. Helen Klumph — who has already been nice enough to write to me and send me her picture — Madeline Glass, William H. McKegg, Edwin and Elza Schallert, Margaret Reid — I know I'd like her a lot — Ann Sylvester and Helen Louise Walker. Myrtle would take me to the Fox studio so that I could meet Charles Farrell and Janet Gaynor — two particular loves of mine. Maybe I would rate a ride in Charles Farrell's famous Ford. Perhaps Janet Gaynor would ask me down to her cottage at Malibu Beach. A day at Malibu Beach. My first glimpse of the ocean, hot sands, movie folk at leisure. I'd love to have a cottage at Malibu Beach. It wouldn't be swanky, but comfortable. I would insist that Myrtle introduce me to Louise Fazenda. I have liked her for a long time. She is one of those people you'd like to know well. She might ask me to a clambake at her cottage at Malibu. Bebe Daniels is another girl I'd like to know. She seems so casually friendly. I'd love to meet Corinne Griffith, Anna Gj. Nilsson, and Florence Vidor. Never forgetting, of course, Marion Davies. I'd ache until I had rated one of her parties — her "gorgeous mobs." I wouldn't object to a practical joke or two, either. In fact, I'd like it. I'd want to go to the Coconut Grove, to one of the Mayfair Club dances, and, especially, to one of those "girl" parties Myrtle has told me about, where "they sit around on the floor and play fool games." I think meeting Gary Cooper and Charles Rogers would be nothing short of glamorous. Perhaps, by some beautiful miracle, there would be a golden hour, when I could meet Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks. I'd like to meet Aileen Pringle — I'd adore her sharp wit — and I'd like to have an afternoon of coltish fun with Ramon Novarro. What a privilege it would be to hear him sing Mexican melodies and, perhaps, through some very special good fairy, I'd be fortunate enough to be , a guest at his Thedtro Iriiimo. What is that you are saying? These