Screenland (Oct 1924–Apr 1925)

SCREENLAND 79 Life Among the Beauties — continued from page 29 tame Rex, the King of Wild Horses, in the next Roach horse opera to be directed by Fred Jackman. Lotus Thompson is a curvy young thing from Australia, the island continent which will some day gain fame because it is the home of Ena Gregory, another one of Roach's perishing blondes who has more than a way with her. Martha Sleeper is a slip of a girl of fourteen, according to the vital statistics, but at least eighteen when her effect on the blood pressure is considered. Katherine Grant is a lass with hair the color of cornflowers, eyes like periwinkles and dimples which inspire one to chuck her under the chin and say "kitchykitchy!" And Blanche Mehaffey! DemureBlanche Mehaffey! Her curves put a parabola to shame. She was in the Follies, the Ziegfeld Follies, for more than two reasons. Blanche is very reserved and possesses more than a modicum of that thing the old-fashioned dramatic critics used to refer to as histrionic talent. But why speak of that? Lots of girls can act. Beth Darlington is just a slip of a girl and since she is now in Honolulu one longs to be a beach-comber. She's been doing snappy one-reelers with Charlie Chase, nee Parrott, under the direction of Leo McCarey, which seem fated to knock photoplay fandom off its seat. After being exposed to such a bunch of charmers, watching a bunch of hired hands at work sort of palled. It's a tough life making comedies. Ask Leo McCarey, the young barrister referred to above. Between shots he and Chase and the other yokels in the cast indulge in giving birth to a lot of blue notes in barber shop harmony. "When we run out of gags, we sing," McCarey explained when some alleged harmony was interrupted. "We're singing most of the time," he added. Which is, of course, just so much airy persiflage because Hal Roach isn't exactly a philanthropist nor is he conducting an old soldier's home, and McCarey's thousand foots are as fast in action as the meter on a taxicab. These one-reelers have not been released yet but they are on the way. The Spat Family, as portrayed by Laura Roessing, Sidney D'Albrook and Frank Butler, Our Gang, Rex, the Morgan stallion; the Dippy -Doo-Dads, the Arthur Stone two-reelers and Glenn Tryon are other Roach activities. The Wet Blanket Club broadcasts the report that Hal is finding Glenn "tryin' " as a comedian but film unwound in the studio projection room indicates that the Tryon young man may be another Harold Lloyd from a bank-account viewpoint. "The White Sheep" and "The Fighting Orioles" are two six-reelers which uphold Roach's reputation as a picker of more than sorts. H. M. "Beanie" Walker, title editor of his and many other lots, is one of Roach's wise selections. Hal took him from the sport department of the Los Angeles Examiner and made a regular weekly depositor out of Beanie. Walker is responsible for the laughy titles gracing the Roach products, but you'd never guess it to see him. He looks like a prosperous shoe-store proprietor. I expected to meet a walking lexicon of quips. But outwardly his drollery is portrayed only by the size of the hod he smokes and the fact that when last seen he was taking cover in his office with a well-fed tabby cat caught up under his arm after a brief introduction during which he regarded me blankly. And so to the Buster Keaton laugh corral over on Lillian Way after bidding all the Roach beauties adieu. There I found Buster of the congealed countenance in the midst of his gag men, Jean Havez, Lou Anger and Clyde Bruckman, figuring out laughs for "Seven Chances." A sign, "We Want Laughs," on the door of the conference room challenged attention, but didn't mean anything because the titter-tailors were busily engaged in figuring out their own. The parley was about as full of humor as watching Dad affix his John Hancock to a first mortgage on the old family homestead for more than he could ever pay. I had the feeling that if any one laughed he would be banished at once so I sneaked out into the kitchen and talked to Buster's saddle-colored chef. I am convinced now that Keaton never laughs. It is evident that he runs his company from soup to nuts; that he speaks, and they all hop. He was giving directions for the next day's work. He was all words, and his colleagues all ears. So I fled. Over at the picturesque Mack Sennett studio on Glendale boulevard I found the comedy mills grinding fast and furiously. King Mack, himself, was directing the inimitable Ben Turpin in a scene with Louise Carver. They were all working hard. Ben was putting over some of his burlesque in a way that got a snicker out of me but not even a flicker from Sennett. They rehearsed the scene seventeen times without shooting it once, and I staggered on to the next stage where the Harry Langdon company was at work in a bar-room set. The atmosphere was about as peppy as the prop liquor which Harry, as the bar-keep, was peddling over the mahogany. Harry is a wistful chap, a hard worker, and zealous in his efforts to please. He gave me the impression that he was always expecting some one to sneak up behind him and give him a kick in the bar-room. On the next stage Eddie Cline was putting Ralph Graves and Natalie Kingston through the hoops of humor. Natalie is a much larger girl than one would suppose and I saw her turn forty front flips in the honky-tonk cabaret scene then being pursued without even heaving a sigh. One might say that Natalie's daily turn-over is large. Ralph Graves did not awaken in my sad, young heart any wild desire to applaud him for any reason. He impressed me as being a young man very much satisfied with himself. He certainly looked it. The only recommendation he seemed to have was that the bathing beauties have been assigned to his group. The Sennett "all-star" group, under the direction of Del Lord, was slap-sticking right next door to the Cline company. Sid Smith, Billy Bevan, Vernon Dent, J. J. Richardson, Andy Clyde and Tiny Ward were turning out a picture in which "black-eyes" seemed to be the motif. Each one had a shiner. The acquisition of each mournful optic made up the plot. I tried to find out the titles to the material then being run through the Sennett mirth mangles without avail. I was told that they make them first and name them later. Then Madeline Hurlock slithered onto the set, thereby turning the visit that I was then regarding as a total loss into a regular Roman holiday. Though it bums her up to be so complimented, Mile. Madeline is of the stuff of which "vampires" are made. She is the type which makes battleships as much of a necessity today as they were in the days of Helen of the other Troy, not the place where the collars are made. She has an eye which surveys life coolly and a manner of ultra-collection plainly showing that she has herself in hand and the world by the tail. Her reserve is terrific. If one should yell, "Fire! Run for your life!" on the set where she is ung she would probably crawl mellifluously : "What a bore!" There '.z cne thing about her I cannct understand, however. She has a low blood-pressure.