Screenland (May–Oct 1927)

8 SCREENLAND VALENTINO AS I KNEW HIM fy S. George UHman \i'ith at; i n L rod uc ■ . or. by O. O. Mclntyrt New York '""pHIS human document by the intimate friend of the lovable Valentino is being offered by Screenland, probably for the last time. Eminent critics speak of this book as "almost a divine portrayal of one of the greatest adven' turests of the screen.11 There were many things said and written about Valentino in the last few years of his life, and after his death, that did him great injustice. This book has been written primarily for the purpose of setting at rest those rumors. Offered by Screenland at $2.00 prepaid to any address in the United States and Canada. SCREENLAND Book Department, Desk 5 49 West 45th Street, New York City. For the enclosed $2.00 please send me a copy of "Valentino as I Knew Him". Name Address (f "J^o matter where you do your hunting," says Louise Lorrain, "you come bacl{ to Broadway for applause. By Helen Ludlam round this season \JJ of the year Broadway takes on the look of a general country store around about eight o'clock in the evening when all the boys, young and old, congregate to spin their yarns and smoke their pipes and indulge in a good old gab-fest. For this is the time when all the road shows have returned, summer stock actors have arrived and winter stock actors have not yet left town; vaudeville tours are just in the making and the Broad' way shows, the goal of every actor's heart, are in the thrilling state of accumulation. You cannot take half a step without jog' ging into a little knot of two or three actors and interrupting a conversation something like this. "Why hel-lo darling! Put it there old boy! When did the troup get in?" Then general hand shaking, jovial back slapping and giggles and squeals from the fair sex. These little once-a-year sidewalk conversations are often the only times the children of ' Thespis meet. The year's news is told in a few drawling sentences most of them ending with a half anxious, "What d'you know?" For no actor is entirely comfortable until he has "signed on the dotted line" for the following season. If he is lucky enough to do this early in the summer he can retire to his ideal vacation-land, but if he is not lucky, and alas, there are many such, these sidewalk meetings are, for him, many and oft. They go stringing along all through the hot summer until fall when the carefully creased trousers are perhaps a little frayed, the "He!-lo there," not quite as hearty as it was. These are Broadway's tragedies and many a successful actor shudders at the sight of them, as though pushing back a ghost that followed too closely on his path. No matter how self confident he may be there lurks deep in his heart a secret fear that occasionally springs into terrifying proportions. He is never sure of his luck. For acting is an emotional business and there are few actors who are not superstitious. That is, they were in the old days before motion pictures came to their rescue. Acting before the camera is not quite such an emotional job as acting before the footlights. I suppose because the actors know that if the scene is N. G. they can always have another try. Then too the cameras, lights, ladders and general paraphenalia of the studio make it more mechanical. Behind the footlights they face a multitude of people that have paid their money to be amused. There is no going back. If the scene is going to be played it has to be done then and there, and the strain of a first night is a nightmare to every artist. For some every night is a "first night". When Tomasso Salvini was playing here in Othello a lady went back stage to meet him. She was surprised to find the great actor a few minutes before his entrance pacing up and down in the wings like a caged lion. At the end of the act she asked the artist why he had been so violently agitated, "Madame," he said. "I walk me into him!" On the screen we have had performances that are as great as ever the stage can boast of but the appeal is different, the technique is different and the strain not so great on the player. Then too, the whole life is more normal. Work is done during the day and often in the open air. The studios on the West Coast are light and well ventilated— far different is the theatre whose stage and often whose dressing rooms never see the light of day. The difference between the screen and stage technique struck me several years ago when I watched the taking of a rather emotional scene in "Two Little Wooden Shoes" . The star was Shirley Mason. She was playing a peasant girl who had fallen in love with a young artist. Some malicious gossip informed her that the young man was only playing with her, having a wife already. The heart-broken girl stumbles into her room and falling on her knees buries her face in a scarf the boy had given her. (Continued on page 97)