Screenland (Sept 1922–Feb 1923)

30 swiy^ooA SCREENLAND c*u&™^ being not only bright and clever, but unusually attractive in appearance, receiving unlimited attention wherever she goes, as she is really quite out of the ordinary." A disengaged actress writes: "If you should take a film in England, it would be a great kindness to employ some of the hundreds of actresses out of work now and with no prospects of getting any. A walk-on would be a very welcome change to many of us to say nothing of a part." A Bridgewater resident owning a new six-cylinder car writes: "A friend of mine has a very old time spot right here in Somerset, with the peacocks wandering across the well-kept grounds and three lovely trout ponds, where last night I brought home five very fine rainbow trout each weighing about one and a half pounds. You will be tired of the crowds. Slip away down to me and I will give you ten days or more of the best time you can get. There will be no side or style and your oldest clothes will be the thing." "My husband and I should consider it an honor if during your visit to South London you would call and take a homely cup of tea with us. I read in the paper of your intention to stay at an oldfashioned inn, and should like to recommend the White Horse Inn at Sheen, which, I believe, is the oldest in Surrey. It certainly corresponds with your ideal. Welcome to your home town. — Jean D. Deschamps." ^'\X/TIEN you are really tired of the rush of London there is a » » very nice little place called Seaford, not very far from London, just a small place where you can have a real rest. No dressing up, etc., and then fishing, golf and tennis if you care for the same. You could put up at an hotel or here. There will be no one to worry you. Don't forget to drop us a line. Yours sincerely, E. M. W." A London clubman, in offering hospitality, says: "I do not know you. You do not know me and probably don't want to. But just think it over and come and have a bit of lunch with me one day. This between ourselves — no publicity." "Saint Pancras Municipal Officers' Swimming Club would be greatly honored by your presiding at our annual swimming gala to be held at the St. Pancras public baths." Dorothy Cochrane, Upper North street, Poplar, asks: "Dear Mr. Chaplin, if you have a pair of your old boots at home will you throw them at me for luck?" An aspirant for the position of secretary writes: "I am a musical comedy artist by profession, but I am at present out of work. I am six feet two inches in height and 27 years of age. If there is any capacity in which you can use my services I shall be very thankful. Hoping you will have an enjoyable stay in your home country." A Barnes man writes: "If you have time we should be very proud if you could spare an afternoon to come to tea. We should love to give you a real old-fashioned Scotch tea, if you would care to come. We know how you will be feted and everyone will want you, but if you feel tired and want a wee rest come out quietly to us. If it wasn't for your dear funny ways on the screen during the war we would all have gone under." "Dear Charles," writes an 11-year-old, "I'd like to meet you very, very much. I'd like to meet you just to say thank you for all the times you've cheered me up when I've felt down and miserable. I've never met you and I don't suppose I ever will, but you will always be my friend and helper. I'd love your photograph signed by you! Are you likely to come to Harrowgate? I wish you would. Perhaps you could come and see me. Couldn't you try?" ¥ WISH I could read them all, for in every one there is human feeling, and I wish it were possible that I could accept some of the invitations, especially those inviting me to quietness and solitude. But there are thousands too many. Most of them will have to be answered by my secretaries, but all of them will be answered, and we are taking trunkfuls of the letters back to California in order that as many of the requests as possible shall receive attention. During the afternoon there came Donald Crisp, Tom Geraghty and the bunch, and before long my apartment in the London Ritz might just as well be home in Los Angeles. I realize that I am getting nowhere, meeting nobody and still playing in Hollywood. I have traveled 6,000 miles and find I have not shaken the dust of Hollywood from my shoes. I resent this. I tell Knobloch I must meet other people besides Geraghty and the Hollywood bunch. I have seen as much as I want to see of it. Now I want to meet people. Knobloch smiles, but he is too kind to remind me of my retreat before the nameplate of Bernard Shaw. He and I go shopping and I am measured for some clothes; then to lunch with E. V. Lucas. Lucas is the editor of Punch, England's foremost humorous publication. A very charming man, sympathetic and sincere. He has written a number of very good novels. It is arranged to give me a party that night at the Garrick club. After luncheon we visit Stoll's theatre, where Shoulder Arms and Mary Pickford's picture, Suds, are being shown. This is my first experience in an English cinema. The opera house is one that was built by Steinhouse and then turned into a movie theatre. It is strange and odd to see the English audience drinking tea and eating pastry while watching the performance. I find very little difference in their appreciation of the picture. All the points get over just the same as in America. I get out without being recognized and am very thankful for that. Back to the hotel and rest for the evening before my dinner at the Garrick club. T^HE thought of dining at the Garrick club brought up before me -*• the mental picture that I have always carried of that famous old meeting place in London, where art is most dignified. And the club itself realized my picture to the fullest. Tradition and custom are so deep rooted there that I believe its routine would go on through sheer mechanics of spirit, even if its various employees should forget to show up some day. The corners seem almost peopled with the ghosts of Henry Irving and his comrades. There in one end of the gloomy old room is a chair in which David Garrick himself sat. All those at the dinner were well known in art circles — E. V. Lucas, Walter Hackett, George Frampton, J. M. Barrie, Herbert Hammil| Edward Knobloch, Harry Graham, N. Nicholas, Nicholas D. Davies Squire Bancroft and a number of others whese names I do not remember. What an interesting character is Squire Bancroft. I am told that he is England's oldest living actor, and he is now retired. He does not look as though he should retire. I am late and that adds to an embarrassment which started as soon as I knew I was to meet Barrie and so many other famous people. There is Barrie. He is pointed out to me just about the time I recognized him myself. This is my primary reason for coming. To meet Barrie. He is a small man, with a dark mustache and a deeplymarked, sad face, with heavily shadowed eyes. But I detect lines of humor lurking round his mouth. Cynical? Not exactly. I catch his eye and make motions for us to sit together, and then find that the party had been planned that way anyhow. There is the inevitable hush for introductions. How I hate it. Names are the bane of my existence. Personalities, that's the thing. But every one seems jovial except Barrie. His eyes look sad and tired. But he brightens as though all along there had been that hidden smile behind the mask. I wonder if they are all friendly toward me, or if I am just the curiosity of the moment. T'HERE is an embarrassing pause after we have filed into the. •* dining-room, which E. V. Lucas breaks. "Gentlemen, be seated." I felt almost like a minstrel man and the guests took their seats as simultaneously as though rehearsed for it. I feel very uncomfortable mentally. I cough. What shall I say to Barrie? Why hadn't I given it some thought? I am aware that Squire Bancroft is seated at my other side. I feel as though I am in a vise with its jaws closing as the clock ticks. Why did I come? The atmosphere is so heavy, yet I am sure they all "feel most hospitable toward me. I steal a look at Squire Bancroft. The old tragedian looks every bit the eminent old-school actor. The dignity and tradition of the English stage is written into every line in his face. I remember Nicholson having said that the squire would not go to a "movie," that he regarded his stand as a principle. Then why is he here? He is going to be difficult, I fear. He breaks the ice with the announcement that he had been to a movie that day! Coming from him it was almost a shock. "Mr. Chaplin, the reading of the letter in Shoulder Arms was the high spot of the picture." This serious consideration from the man who would not go to the movies. I wanted to kiss him. Then I learn that he had told every one not to say anything about his not having been to a movie for fear that it would offend me. He leans over and whispers his age and tells me he is the oldest member of the club. He doesn't look within ten years of his age. I find myself muttering inanities in answering him. r I ""HEN Barrie tells me that he is looking for some one to play Peter Pan and says he wants me to play it. He bowls me over completely. To think that I was avoiding and afraid to meet such a man ! But I am afraid to discuss it with him seriously, am on my guard because he may decide that I know nothing about it and change his mind. Just imagine, Barrie has asked me to play Peter Pan. It is too big and grand to risk spoiling it by some chance witless observation, so I change the subject and let this golden opportunity pass. I have failed completely in my first skirmish with Barrie. One ruddy gentleman whose occupation is a most serious one, I am told, that of building a giant memorial in White Hall to the dead of the late war, is reacting to the situation most flippantly. His conversation, which has risen to a pitch of almost hysterical volume, is most ridiculously comic. He is a delightful buffoon. Everyone is laughing at his chatter, but nothing seems to be penetrating my stupidity, though am carrying with me a wide mechanical grin, which I broaden and narrow with the nuances of the table laughter. I feel utterly out of the picture, that I don't belong, that there must be something significant in the bandinage that is bandied about the board. Barrie is speaking again about moving pictures. I must understand. I summon all of my scattered faculties to bear upon what he is saying. What a peculiarly shaped head he has. He is speaking of the Kid, and I feel that he is trying to flatter me. But how he does it! He is criticizing the picture.