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Continued from page 17 running the risk of influenza, or whooping cough, once darkness descends. He has gone to meditate and to roost.
If retinue he has, Charlie Chaplin is subtle about it. His whimsicalities in all matters are prevailing, anyway. His closest associate in recent years is Harry Crocker, who has played in his pictures and is his assistant director, and who frequently accompanies him on pilgrimages to such out-ofthe-way places as Chinese theaters, performances of Japanese troupes, and the like. Chaplin is a bit of a gadabout nowadays. He frequently goes with a fair damosel, and again with his masculine associates and their ladies. There is absolutely no rule or system that applies. Indeed, many consider him filmdom's high example of the "free soul."
Yet Chaplin has his troupe of the faithful, in a professional and also a personal way. Alfred Reeves, his studio manager, has been with him for years. In fact, he was in "A Night in an English Music Hall," the vaudeville act that brought Charlie to this country. In recent years he has abandoned any Thespian yearnings he may have possessed, and given himself wholly to business. Carl Robinson, Chaplin's publicity man, is also of the long-retained group. Robinson was away from Charlie for a time, engaged in real estate business in Florida, but he eventually returned, which indicates the persistence of the bond between them.
A personal representative Chaplin employed some years ago — his name escapes me — rose to fortune through his association with the comedian. He is now. part owner of a furniture factory, I have heard, in an Eastern city. He met the head of the firm in which he is interested while in Chaplin's employ.
Most loyal of all the Chaplin retainers, perhaps, is the Japanese, Kono, really the major-domo of the comedian's dwelling. His is the difficult task of politely shooing away undesirable visitors and bores, and simultaneously sifting out the desirable acquaintances and friends who may call on the phone. He began as chauffeur to Chaplin, but he has gained the aplomb of a diplomat as well.
The feudal fantasy now leads on to other places. One does not, however, find it so definitely exemplified in the colony as a whole. The large domain naturally implies highly complicated household machinery. Independence of the star in the making of his productions requires ample technical dependencies, well supplied with personnel. With Harold Lloyd,
The Regal Courts of Filmdom
for example, one finds a studio staff that soars nearly to half a hundred. Lloyd maintains a large office not only at the studio, but in New York as well.
When his new home is completed, he will have a goodly domestic retinue. As I learn it, the most striking portion of this will be six gardeners, who will be required to keep up his remarkable landscaping. On the whole, though, Lloyd is modest in his tastes.
Marion Davies maintains one of the largest staffs. She requires them because her beach establishment is a veritable hotel, and she has a town house, given over to entertaining her many friends ; a very large studio bungalow, and a New York apartment besides. Formality and democracy intermingle in Miss Davies' households. She is always looking out for some old-time family friend, and one of the watchmen at her beach home is reputed to have known her since she was just a little girl.
Children of stars are sometimes reared like princes and princesses. Tom Mix's little daughter's education is almost as complete as that of a royal heir. At the Mix home in Beverly Hills she had a swimming instructor, a riding instructor, a tutor and, I believe, a French teacher. Jackie Coogan in his younger days also had several tutors.
Strangely enough, there is one type of servitor that is almost totally unknown in Hollywood — the footman. A few years ago a film family boasted one, but lately none has been visible on the Boulevard. Even chauffeurs are employed for state occasions only. Most stars like to drive their own.
A chauffeur is merely a name in Hollywood. Several of them might well be called prime ministers instead. Lew Cody has one that is a perfect Protean actor, and should really emerge some time on the stage in an act. This is his colored man, James.
Lew leaves everything to James. When the day's work is over James finds out what time "we," meaning Lew and himself, will be required on the morrow. He sees that the alarm clock is properly set, and that the call is at the exact minute required — not too early, not too late. If he is needed to take Cody to the theater he appears clad in a chauffeur's uniform, with shining boots. If dinner, or light refreshment, is the order of the evening, he appears in spotless, white coat. The costume varies with the function and the duty. Indeed, if you did not know James, you would say that he was a different person each time. That is where his ability shows. Lew always has an
other person or so engaged, mainly out of genial goodheartedness, but James is the only one who permanently remains. That his versatility explains this goes without saying.
Stars are sometimes children in the hands of their retinues. They are more bossed than bossing. This is logical. Film actors are in the habit of taking direction when they are on the set.
Occasionally an actor who has stumbled into a contretemps, say with a disgruntled spouse, or some member of her family, or just an old feudal enemy, has to be provided with a bodyguard. The studio will occasionally do the providing. It is the duty of this particular retainer to see that the player does not get into strife calculated to ruffle his disposition and spoil his rest, or worse still, some broil that would temporarily disfigure him, and hold up production on a picture. Stars, on appearing in public, sometimes have to have bodyguards in order to protect them from too inquisitive, admiring crowds.
Amusing is this incident relating to a star who was inclined to be morose. He was doing unusually well at the box office with his pictures, but he lived in the delusion that he was slipping. After sundry conferences as to what should be done to inspire his life with more zest, the company with which he was under contract decided that he needed a little more humor. So they procured for him a vaudeville comedian, whose one duty was to keep the actor's spirits buoyed up.
Of course, such cases are rare. The majority of people working today in pictures are a normal, businesslike set of human beings. They do not go in for extremes of flubdub. They keep to the straight course of film-making, and employ only aids and assistants they actually need. John Gilbert, Colleen Moore, Richard Barthelmess, Adolphe Menjou, Greta Garbo, Norma Shearer, Madge Bellamy, Lon Chaney, and others who have come to the fore in recent years, belong to this class.Nearly all, naturally, have some righthand man, or minister plenipotentiary in their service, or as regards the women, dutiful ladies-in-waiting, but their retinues, both domestic and professional, are simple.
This is no disparagement of the players I have mentioned by name. Their estate is vastly different. In most cases they preserve the fine aristocracy of the films. They have ac** cumulated a great load of obligations, both social and professional. They Continued on page 106