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knocked off work, while those who were "working" tried to apply their Coue to convince themselves that sleeveless evening gowns or bathing suits were just the thing for a brisk winter evening.
Over on stage one, where Shirley Mason was earning her daily limousine by overtime work in Pawn Ticket 210 the company was marking time while Scott Darling, Shirley's director, exhorted the diminutive star to f'r gawd-sake cry. "Show a little emotion," he urged persuasively in a tragic, haunted voice. "You're cold, you're hungry, your mother is dying and your income tax comes due tomorrow. . . . Come on, that's the girl, cry. Cry some more . . . harder ho-ld it. . . . Awright, cut ! That's great ! Fine ! Thought for a while I'd have to use an onion,. though."
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Crayon portraits of William Fox, strangely reminiscent of the portraits of Uncle Abner and Aunt Azrael that we used to park on easels in the parlor next to the waxed funeral wreath
in the glass case. On almost every
the great
arcs poured their blinding light upon laboring companies. The fortunate players temporarily nut of the camera's eye, huddled themselves in steamer-rugs and extra wraps, for the night air is chilly in Sunny California, after the well-advertised sun has
N the edge of the circle of lights, Viola Dana, accompanied by a strapping, athletic-looking chap, watched her sister emote and snuggled deep into the soft shelter of her squirrel wrap.
Over on stage two, where the Kliegs merely intensify the gloom, Jack Gilbert is making a film version of the old George Barr McCutcheon favorite, Truxton King. And a fine, husky Yankee adventurer he makes. Just around the corner the two Farnums are working — on different pictures, of course— Dustin in a picture with the intriguing title of The Three Who Paid, and William the Mighty in Brass Commandments. William says night stuff helps him to reduce. "In which case," remarks his director, Emmett Flyn'n, "don't make any engagements for any evening for the next year or so."
If you examine the bird's-eye view of the Fox lot above, you will see eight little bungalows, like doll-houses, standing neatly in rows. They are dressing-rooms for the stars. The second from the end in the first row belongs to "Buck" (pardon, Charles) Jones, the handsomest buckaroo in the fillums. "Buck" isn't working tonight, but during the daytime he is making another of the rip-roaring, hell-forleather westerns, this one being titled The Footlight Ranger.
The more palatial bungalow tucked away in the corner of Western and Sunset boulevard belongs to Tom Mix. No, the big, barnlike affair just this side of it isn't a special garage for Tom's big Duesenberg, though you might well be excused for thinking so. They make Tom keep his car outside, where there's plenty of room. The building you mention is Tom's private gymnasium [Continued on page 24)