Talking Screen (Sep-Oct 1930)

What Love Means To Me attributes and glamor have been removed. What is left is a fine love, a real love. One without fallaqr or added color. Its worth and weight are catalogued now in their true values. Never again will love lead me on with promises and highly-colored visions. I have learned to know the whole truth about this thing called love. 10VE, to me, means a combination of ^ things. A straining desire to be helpful. A deep passion for one man. Honesty and a complete understanding. Lack of jealousy and conceit. Real friendship. Those things aren't dreamed for — they are discovered. As I have said, marriage taught me a great deal. Among other things, it has shown me that I was wrong in many of my conceptions of the accepted way in which a husband should be looked upon. I had always thought that the thing to do was to find out his faults and cater to them until you had succeeded in curing them. That is wrong. Rather the very opposite. Cater to his virtues until he has no time for faults. That is my reason for leaving jealousy out of my category of love. It has no place there. I want a handsome husband just as all other women do. But most women want to marr)' the handsomest man in the world and then have every other woman promptly forget him. Don-t do thit. Instead of praying that no other women fall in love with him — or even like him — hope for the exact opposite. I shall want other women to like my next husband — like him a great deal. Why shouldn't \! Wouldn't I be confessing a te'rible lack of holding powers if I should [^Continued from page .50} give up the moment 1 had married him.' In other words: he has paid me the greatest compliment it is within his power to bestow . . . by asking me to be his wife. He' is saying "I can marry, almost any woman (if he is handsome and fine) and I have chosen you. You are the most wonderful woman in the world to me. Yes, that is what a man says to a woman when he asks her to marry him. It is a great compliment — one that she shouldn't, easily forget. So, if other women fall in love with him, isn't it just a little more of the same kind of a compliment.-' You have the man whom other women want. He is yours. Why shouldn't you want others to love him? And don't forget, that if another woman X2L does fall in love with him and he with her — that it is your fault. It is the woman's fault if she can't hold her husband. Of course, I mean everything else being equal. He has chosen you from the rest of the world as the most complete woman he has found. You have more beauty, culture, appeal and character in his eyes than any other woman. It is your task, then, to remain that way. To keep that fine part of yourself ever forward. To continue as the same woman he married. The reason I want a man who will be attractive to all women is because my husband will be constantly on parade. 'We shall travel. Live in different countries every year or so. Meet the finest people both here and abroad. So it will be much more imponant that my man be loved immediately than it would be for the girl who is going to marry and settle down in a "Main Street Town." We shall go to new cities in new countries and on a moment's notice we must be sought after and liked. This is true because we shall only stay in these locales for a limited time. Thus it is much more of an asset for me to have a handsome and likable husband than it would be for many others. IO'VE, to me, naturally means marriage. J And marriage to me just as naturally implies MONEY. The man I marry must be terribly successful — I mean in every way. You see, I have the handicap of having been married to a tremendously wealthy man and, just as big an obstacle, I have been quite successful myself. Marriage would mean giving up my career, so financial , status would come in for its share of scrutiny. I want love to give me rest and peace the next time I encounter it. And the only way 1 can succeed in this desire is to make absolutely sure that both the man and myself have a sense of humor. Not different kinds of humor, the same kind. And that he wants to travel and live. That he desires a home in Paris, one in Rome, one in London and two or three in the United States. I want deep friendship and understanding. Want it more tlian passion and flowers. I once left the screen for love — and J K ould do it jgjin. I would be happy to do it because I believe that love and the marital relation is the taiton d'etre of our existence. But love no longer means tears", condoling and heartaches. It now means something real and livable to me. I^ means friendship, understanding and a sense of humor. Laugh, and love laughs with you — weep, and the judge says, "Granted." Hollywood's Helping Hand PAULINE GARON immediately bought one of Mary Pickford s evening dresses for five dollars, planning to wear it that night. The public, avid for souvenirs, swarmed in the next day and depleted the stock of fans, earrings and necklaces, and made a wholesale attack on the books, pillaged from personal libraries, that bore Doug Fairbanks' signature and that of "William S. Hart. IN 1929, the latter pan of that year, the Motion Picture Relief Fund had well on to $50,000 toward a building that will be well tenanted as soon as it is built. Maiy, herself, has offered to build one wing when sufficient funds are reached. What they want is about two dozen acres near Hollywood, accessible to doctors and visitors. Six years ago, December 31, 1924, to be exact, this powerful and charitable organization came into existence. It grew out of the Actors' Fund of America, founded during the war by Daniel Frohman, for those soldier-actors' families who needed aid. Until it received its charter it was known as the Motion Picture Branch of the Actors' Fund. In its earlier state it soon became aware that the film industry had sufficient [Continued from page 53] problems to warrant the forming of a separate relief organization. Joseph M. Schenck was the first president. Mary Pickford, Frank E. . Woods, William S. Hart and Harold Lloyd were first, second, third and fourth vice-presidents, respectively. Its first official action was to join the Community Chest, a community welfare system which apportioned funds to a number of Los Angeles charities. They remained with ii until October 31, 1929, electing new officers each year and increasing the scope of their good work. Twenty-seven cases were haindled the first January of their existence. In 1926, January brought them sixty-two cases. The following year, same month, ninety-six. Then one hundred and thirtyeight. They were reduced to caring for only one hundred and two cases in January, 1929 because of a reduction in appropriation by the Chest. There were, as always, cases that cried for attention. Burials, starvation, illness among the troupers. Mary Pickford made a $5,000 loan. The Bank of Italy made a loan. Only the most needy cases were handled. They continued to carry on their work of salvation. At the end of 1929 there were three hundred and twenty-eiglit life memberships rep-'esenting stars, directors, writers, producers. The list, much long-r, today bears the names of the foremost people in the business. Chaney, Chaplin, Colman, Christie, Daniels, Davies, De Mille, Dove, Fairbanks, and down the alphabet to Zukor. THE requirement is three years' screen wt)rk before application for help may be made, but exceptions are often the rule in cases of necessity. A legless man, for instance, made application to A. W. Stockman, who with his staff of five, performs the duties of Secretary and general factotum. The man was an itinerant newspaperman who had, in a remote day, worked in pictures. A new suit was secured for him and several days later he reported that he had a twenty-two dollar a week job scrubbing vegetables and washing dishes in a cafe. He is held as an example to many unfortunate players who would rather perish than leave their beloved profession and seek work in other fields. This number of unfortunates is increasing, as can readily be understood by the Central Casting Bureau's record of twenty thousand extras and their daily placement of less than eight hundred. 88