Screenland (May–Oct 1927)

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Mrs. Conway, left, and her sister Lenore are the daugh' ters of Francis X. Bushman. They Say — ■ Continued from page 74 Lost — somewhere between Hollywood and San Francisco — one handsome, happy youth called "Rich", whose doting mother named him Richard Dix. Along with Rich is Pvich's English "Scotty", pal, valet and secretary all in one. They finished Rich's "Shanghai Bound", and then, vacationing, they vanished without a single word to all the pining female sex of Hollywood. So you folks on the road — if you should come across two handsome youths with hearts as free as free can be, don't tell a soul you know their whereabouts, but let them stay away until they feel again the old, inevitable call of Hollywood. Somehow we always do come back to her! Sylvanus Stokes, Junior, a wealthy boy from Newport's gay society, has come to Hollywood to try his luck in motion picture work. And the funniest part of it is that Sylvanus has come to take it seriously, and he's sure that big things wait for him out here. He has been here a few weeks now, and already he has had a lot of extra work to do. He wants to do extra work until he learns his movie a b c's, and by the first of 1928 he feels he'll be ready for Merton's "bigger and better" things. At least if he does nothing more, he'll prove to folks "back home" that he is just as serious with Hollywood as Hollywood is serious with everyone who comes and makes an honest try. :|< :|: £ I really hate to tell this to you folks, but Lawson Butt and Rags refuse to pass my house again. Maybe I should correct that last and say that Rags has vowed he'll never pass my house again. Rags is a beauty of an airdale pup, and I can't remember any time when Lawson Butt went down the street without the silly Rags. But yesterday— ch, yesterday, an awful, awful thing occurred! My Peter Pan, (who's shyly changed her name to "Peterina" Pan), has reared a handsome family of little maltese Pans, who play around the porch. Poor Rags — he passed too close, and 'ere he knew the chance he took, a mama puss was on his back scratching deep and pulling out his hair. And now, you see, I cannot pass the time of the day with Lawson Butt, my friend of many moons, because the wise eld Rags won't take another chance on Tcterina's wrath. The biggest question of the month has been whether or not Charlie Farrell and Greta Nissen have listened to the call of youth and made themselves a bride and groom. At one time it was absolutely rumored around that they were really married, and then a little later everybody said it wasn't true. Now, though both Charlie and Greta deny that they are married, no one knows exactly what to think. If they did take a trip to Riverside (that seems to be the popular wedding town), they ought to let us know so that we can send in usual wedding gifts. Big babies and small babies; fat babies and thin babies; pretty babies and (shh-hh) homely babies — but BABIES. That's what have been on the Paramount lot these last two weeks, working with Emil Jannings in his new picture. You never saw such a crowd of little imps, with every mother thinking hers the prize of all the bunch. It's the strangest thing the way each mama tries to have you pay attention to her darling baby girl or boy. And then on the set! Emil Jannings was supposed to take four of them in his arms at once. First one began, and in about two seconds more the air was simply laden down with baby cries. Then, mama would come, take back the infant prodigy, and from the way those cries turned off you'd think some sort of button had been pushed. Once all sixteen were going furiously, and work had to cease until things quieted down. But as far as I'm concerned, I had an awful lot of fun! The happiest thing of the year has come to Hollywood this month. We welcomed home, we welcomed to the studio, our "Grand Old Man of the Screen." It's the first time in many a long, long day that Theodore Roberts has been at the studio, and it's a much longer, harder time since he came without his wheel-chair. To be sure, he used a cane or two, but that didn't matter much. He was back, on his own good feet, and we didn't feel ashamed at the misty tears that somehow wouldn't stay back. Welcome home, Grand Young Man of Our Hearts, welcome home! We'll be happiest when you get the grease-paint on and take your old accustomed place among your friends.