Moving Picture Exhibitors' Association.

Photoplay (Volume 36 – 37 (Jul. - Dec. 1929)) online

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enough and ruthless enough and fortunate enough to break the
thing then and there instead of allowing it to drag a miserable
trail into middle-age.

The second time he tried marriage
with Leatrice Joy.

That marriage ran the dangerous
course of young success, of two
careers, of strong natures at the top
of their physical and creative powers,
without the wisdom of experience
and the divine leaven of tolerance.

After years of struggle and hard-
ship, life opened its doors to young
Jack Gilbert and he wanted it. He
wanted the things poverty and lack
of opportunity had denied him. He,
then, needed a woman who could
devote all her time to being his wife
and who could weather the storms
of his clashes with the world — for
Jack had many clashes.

Leatrice, who is an altogether
lovely person, wasn't that woman.

She had her own career, her own
clashes, her own struggles. There
was nothing to teach them the mutual
give-and-take that any marriage, and
particularly the marriage of two
striving and successful artists, must
have. So much forgiveness, so much
tenderness, is needed to bring such a
marriage through the temptations of
the world. One or the other must
yield, since they are not wise enough
to find the middle path of harmony.
No amount of love or passion or
admiration is enough.

Jack was a failure as a husband


By Adela
Rogers St. Johns

"I simply met the
nicest person I'd
ever known in all
my life," says Jack
of Ina Claire

because he was giving too much of
himself to the world without.

Leatrice was a failure as a wife be-
cause her career and her family and
herself came first, and not marriage.
Since they were both jealous, violent,
high-strung and high-tempered, and
very young, they parted in bitterness
and misunderstanding.

Certainly, Leatrice had a right to
leave Jack if she no longer found it
possible to live with him. Whether

or not she had a right to leave him as she did, is a question.
The memory of what he believed to be her injustice stung Jack
to a bitterness that clung for years and bred cynicism and a
wildness which spurred him on in what he believed was a hope-
less quest — for happiness.

And at last his seeking led him to the glamorous Garbo.

The first Question
that all Hollywood
asked when the amaz-
ing news of Jack Gil-
bert's marriage to Ina
Claire flashed across
the wires was. ''What
about Garbo?"

THERE can be
no question that
Jack was quite mad
about Greta Garbo.
But it was a ro-
mance which brought
him absolutely no

Perhaps no greater
misfortune can hap-
pen to a mortal than
to have a passion for
someone who doesn't

For two, hectic, un-
happy years, Jack
Gilbert and Greta
Garbo loved and
fought together. No
two people ever lived
who were further
apart in thought, tem-
perament, taste.

This is the house that Jack built, overlooking the hills and sea.

Here he lived in bachelor freedom until he asked Ina Claire to

share it with him. "And so," says Jack, "I never can be alone —

so futilely alone — again"

Jack Gilbert loves laughter better than anything else in life.
He loves people, talk, gaiety. He is gay and vivid and interested
in everybody, what they do, what they say, what they think.
His mind is as open and as honest as the day. Temperamental,
yes, if by that you mean easily swayed, easily played upon by
circumstances and surroundings. But without any hidden,

tortuous complexes.
He is either violently
unhappy or wildly
happy. The most lov-
able thing about him
is his sincerity and a
child-like simplicity
of feeling. He needs
— he must have —
warmth and light and
laughter. The typical

Garbo is a strange,
lonely, deep creature,
who does not like
people, cannot stand
human contact. A
solitary soul, little
given to laughter. No
one knows her, no one
quiteunderstands her.
Still, sad, cold — a

Any love affair
which is thoroughly
unhappy must die in

Myself, I do not
believe there was ever
any question of a

PAGE 120 ]


p. & A.

Ina Claire is a tj^pe more familiar to New York than to
Hollywood. She is no young flapper looking for fame and
romance, but a witty and sophisticated woman, with an
understanding of men and life. And, incidentally, very
much a star in her own right

Lest We Forget: Rudolph Valentino


Born in Castellaneta, Italy, on May 6, 1895
Died in New York, on August 23, 1926

■ rrif'^


n im

Illustrated hy

Ken Chamberlain

in Hollywood

Broadway's hordes have swept over
the hills of filmland!

By Leonard Hall

C'Ctwt,^ ^/t^

Artist's drawing of tlie
Hollywood Front, siiowing
tlie Second Shock Battal-
ion of Mammy Song
Writers, with other troops,
detraining for their attack

ACROSS the sun-baked hills of Hollywood is sweeping
the greatest revolution in the history of public enter-
It is a quiet war, as wars go. There are no barri-
cades in the streets, no clatter of machine guns, no bombs
bursting in air. Slowly, but as surely as death and taxes, the
well-entrenched hosts of the silent drama are giving way before
the army that bears the banners of a new kind of fun — the
talking pictures.

The braver and wiser souls of the old movie horde are going
out to meet the talkies, open-minded and ambitious to succeed
in the new medium. The die-hards, sticking their heads into
ostrich holes, are going down to artistic and business death, to
be heard no more.

The war has swept quietly across these sunny hills where the
movies of the world are made. So quickly, so softly has come
the great offensive that Hollywood itself, whose people live so
close to the business of entertaining us, doesn't realize quite
what has happened. But to a war corre-
spondent from outside there is a realiza-
tion of a new world.

For twenty years our friends of the films
had lived and worked in this sunny land
above the Pacific shore. They fought
and played and loved and labored, grind-
ing out their millions of feet of tears and
giggles for our daily pleasure.

Hollywood was a close corporation,
and picture making was a delicate and
certain art, known only to those who had
practiced it for years. Amused, the
movie makers saw stage stars sweep into
the flickers and flop before the demands
of the sUent drama.

Gradually the photoplay became aGreat
Art in their minds — a Great Mystery
known only to them, and handed down

to their children. Salaries ran into the thousands, and egos ran
with them. The makers of films, secure in their hills, looked
down upon the world and found it pretty good, though not
quite up to their own tight little lives.

Then crashed the shot heard round the world !

SOME boys named Warner turned loose a picture caUed "The
Jazz Singer," wherein the colossal Al Jolson actually sang
songs and talked to his old gray mammy.
Hollywood tottered.

For months there was panic. Producers ran in circles, chas-
ing their tails. Actors stormed at the talkies, wept, oiled
revolvers, took vocal lessons, ran the scales.

And all the time, from the East, writers, actors and directors
from the speaking stage began filtering through the trenches of
the photoplay, eager to attack the problems of the talking

The revolution was on!

The armies of the silent pictures rallied to repel the
invading host.

The hills of southern California saw the encampments of
two armies — the brigades of Broadway
and the embattled HoUywoodians. The
newcomers from the East were shy and a
little bit brash and cocky — the picture
people were frightened, and covered their
fear with brag and bluster.

"What do these stage people know
about picture technique?" screamed the
Hollvv/oodians. "They can't make

But stage actors, with spotlight dust
still on their dinner coats, stepped before
the camera and the microphone and gave
movie performances to the manner born.
Directors from the theater put picture





Our film girls check
spouses with

A picture of Lowell Sherman and Pauline
Garon taken in the joyous days when the
love-birds still twittered. Both were
players — there might have been happi-
ness. But soon Polly packed up and

THE play, "Excess Baggage," ended happily.
It doesn't work out so nicely in real life.
And this poignant little drama, set down
by the thousands who saw it as fiction mere-
ly, is, with the exception of the final fadeout, gospel
truth. Its three acts are played out almost daily
behind the motion picture cameras in Hollywood.

Every time you cross a studio lot you find your-
self knee deep in e.xcess baggage. You see the non-
professional husbands of the younger players.
Their eyes are bewildered as they, baffled at the
state they have found themselves in, realize the
fame and glory of their wives.

On these pages you see four smiling brides and
four grinning grooms. Renee Adoree and Bill Gill,
Helene Costello and Jack Regan, Pauline Garon
and Lowell Sherman, Dorothy Mackaill and
Lothar Mendes — all happy enough until the grins
turned to glowers and the husbands became ecxess
baggage — checked at the station.

John Regan, Allan Keefer, Harry Rosebloom,
Julian Ancker, Logan Metcalf — unfamiliar names,
aren't they? Yet they are the excess baggage of
Hollywood. They were, at one time, the husbands
of Helene Costello, Sue Carol, Jeanette Loff, Jean
Arthur and Madge Bellamy, respectively.

You remember the stage and film story of "Ex-
cess Baggage"? It concerned a tight rope walker
whose wife — and also his inspiration — was singled
out for a film career. She had been excess baggage
to him, her sole raison d'etre being to hand him
parasols. But when Hollywood bore down upon
them, he found himself the second rate member of
the family.

These non-professional husbands who do not
speak the easy, unconventional language of the
screen or, as in the case of Marian Nixon and Joe


Katherine Albert

Benjamin, speak it too fluently, hamper the professional
growth of their wives. There is a strange barrier between
them. It concerns money. The men can't hope to compete
with their wives' salaries, yet can they, without losing pres-
tige, dig ditches? And even if the husbands have money of
their own the fame and attractiveness of their wives give
them a second-hand position.

JEANETTE LOFF'S case is fairly typical. Three years or
so ago she married Harry Rosebloom in Portland. He was
a salesman, she was an organist at one of the theaters. They
were young and contented. They were ordinary. Their lives
took on the color of every other young married couple in
America. His men friends. Her girl friends. Bridge par-
ties. Sunday night suppers. Laughter. Hopes. Ambition.
The savings account at the bank going nicely enough, thank
you, for Jeanette to have a fur coat next year. Or maybe
the first payment on the house.

Actress Renee Adoree and Businessman William Gill
caught in the act of worshipping each other at the time
of their marriage. But soon the royal road to the studio
and the dusty path of trade diverged, and Mr. Gill was
marked excess baggage in the world of screen art



their non-professional
the Judge

A spoiled dessert. A shopping tour with one of the girls.
Christmas presents much too expensive and therefore much
more precious. Little sacrifices. Little hopes. Little ambitions.

An ordinary life, if you will. But there is something so secure
about being ordinary. There is something that touches glory
in being ycung and contented.

And then the little hopes and the little ambitions grew into
large ones. All day long as Jeanette played the organ at the
theater she watched girls no prettier than she (hadn't Harry
told her how beautiful she was?-") go through their screen tricks.
So she came to Hollywood to go into the movies.

Being young and contented had meant something in Port-
land. But in Hollywood it was being young and unattached
that counted. Suddenly her life was changed. She found her-
self achieving fame and a fair amount of fortune. A fame and
fortune with which HarPi', her husband, had nothing to do.

A handsome pair if ever one stood up —
Helene Costello and young John Regan. But
Jack was a non-professional, and didn't
understand things, and a divorce separated
two kid sweethearts forever

It was not being a wife, but being an actress that counted.
Harry had no place in her new life.

He came on from Portland, of course. He found it hard to
get any sort of job in the new city, but much more difficult to
find a position that was worthy of the name he bore, the name
of Jeanette Loff's husband.

Jeanette Loff's husband. And, like the heroine in "Excess

Baggage," she told no one that she was married. It was not

that she was ashamed of him. Gracious, no! But there is

something psychological about being unattached. It concerns

not so much the fans, as you might imagine, but

the directors and producers. Not that any of them

wanted to marry her, but they, subconsciously,

wanted the knowledge that they could if they

chose. A subtle intangible thing that assumed

important proportions. Important to a film career.

H.\RRY went to a couple of parties with
Jeanette and they both realized that it was all
quite impossible. It was a mixed marriage and by
that I mean a marriage between a professional and
a non-professional, and it simply wouldn't work.

They talked it over quite calmly. They were
both unreasonable, of course. They were both
right. Jeanette, by this time, knew the demands of
a tilm career. Harry couldn't (or wouldn't) under-
stand. He was immensely proud of her, but not
willing to accede to the dictates of this strange
business. Not willing to be tolerant when her job
(he couldn't realize how a mere job could be so all
enveloping) made it necessary for her to be nice to
and smile upon people who bored her. He couldn't
understand why it was good business to be seen at
various parties, to give her time to people who
meant nothing to her.

And Jeanette knew that this was part of her job,
as vital a part as putting on grease paint in the
morning. It was nobody's fault. It was the situa-
tion itself.

So they separated, [ please turn to page 108 ]

Dorothy Mackaill smiles happily as the
judge hands her the fateful paper that makes
her one with Lothar Mendes, the director. It
wasn't long, however, until she grinned when
another one handed her a note that made
them two again


(fT)UTTING things down in black and white is a good costume
J^ rule for a red-haired girl. Nancy Carroll wears a white silk
jersey bathing suit trimmed with black satin squares. The
cape is of black velvet lined with white satin


Mary Duncan has been criticized for obvious vamping. Her exuberance has bedeviled directors into
letting her do her stuff. But she is too clever to continue long in error

ollywood's New Slayer

Snapshot of Mary Duncan at age of six: Axe
in one hand, gentleman's scalp in other . . .

By Herbert Howe

JUST about the time you despondently decide Hollywood
has beeno'ertaken by the lock-step of civilization, to become
as standardized and zipless as near beer, a new siren arrives
to shoot the pulse up.
So it is with cries of Hallelujah that I introduce Miss Mary
Duncan, with an exclusive snapshot of her at the age of six: axe
in one hand, gentleman's scalp in the other. A highly promising

The unnecessary axe has been thrown aside but the scalps
multiply. Mary's debut in Hollywood society brought fright-
ened clucks from the matrons. Lcs dames regarded her as a
stalker of men, not because of the maniacal nymph she played
in "The Shanghai Gesture," but because in Hollywood drawing
rooms lcs Itommes gravitate helplessly to whichever corner Mary

Mary is accused of making eyes. Mary doesn't make them,
she just naturally has them. But it isn't the eye so much as the
sirenic laugh that draws the mariner into the Charybdic whirl-

Like all the great charmers, she has a spontaneous wit
and, what is even more enchanting, a hilarious appreciation
of it. Nothing is more alluring to the male than an appre-
ciation of his bon mots. And did not Scheherazade hold

the sultan captive for a thousand and one nights by her wit
and delicious lies?

I can personally testify to Mary's human wreckage with
exhibit I. What was left of my social position collapsed when
I met Mary. Invited to a dinner by one of our society leaders
(Hollywood has become very Long Island), I dropped in for a
cocktail with a friend. Mary also dropped in.

At fifteen minutes to dinner I called mv prospective hostess
to ask if I might bring bclla Duncan. In a voice of sherbet, my-
never-again-to-be hostess informed me that she expected me to
take another lady in to dinner. Mary, it seems, had uncon-
sciously "lured" hostess' husband at a party. Of course, I
never did get to the dinner. But, as Eva Tanguay once
shouted, who cares?

IN view of the kiddie snapshot of Mary with the scalp and axe,
you'd never suspect she comes of aline, old Southern family.
Even fine, old Southern families suffer atavism, with cave-ladies
recurring. And, despite the snapshot, Mary reminds me not so
much of a cave ladv as of a character from an old English
novel: the one described as a veritable little devil, tossing her
saucy curls and driving her horse full canter. Spirited, as
they say. [please turn to page 105 ]



p. & A

A mere glance will tell you that this is
the daughter of John Gilbert. Little
Leatrice Joy Gilbert is only four years
old, but she takes life seriously, as be-
fits the child of two famous stars

The three shooting Bosworths, George, the
Missus and Hobart. When the Bosworths
practice archery on the front lawn, their
neighborhood in Beverly Hills is as danger-
ous as Sherwood Forest was to the Sheriff
of Nottingham in the days of Robin Hood

Picture of a bad
man being good —
George Bancroft,
with Mrs. Bancroft
and their daughter,
Georgette. Before
her marriage, Mrs.
Bancroft was
Octavia Broske, a
well-known prima
donna in operettas.
Bancroft was
a comedian and, if
you'll believe it, a

Some youngsters who
may follow in the foot-
steps of their famous

p. &A

Two little boys who are happy in spite of the fact that
they were the storm center of a divorce case. Charles
and Sydney Chaplin, sons of the world's most
famous comedian, are cared for by their grand-
mother, while their mother is on a vaudeville tour

Irving Cummings, Jr., has a
swimming pool in his own back-
yard. The Cummings live in
Lankershim, a suburb of Holly-
wood, where boys may be boys.
Not so many years ago, Irving,
Sr., was a popular actor and
thrilled 'em in serials. But the
canny Mr. Cummings gave up
acting and became a producer.
And so, instead of being an out-
moded matinee idol, he is now a
prosperous and successful director

Three colleens who would win any
freckled-face con test — Eileen, Mary
and Sheila O'Malley. Their dad is
Pat O'Malley, bom in Dublin and
proud of it, and their mother was
formerly Lillian Wilks. And while
some of your other actors may com-
plain of the du Uness of domesticity,
Mr. O'Malley can boast of the liveli-
est home life in Hollywood




Old Fashioned


^teps Out

By Grace Mack

The film style in heroines

changed and Lorna Lane had

to take a desperate course

LORNA LANE knew that she looked extremely smart as she
entered the gilded reception othce of the Supreme Studio. A last
look in the mirror had assured her that the black satin frock
clung to her figure in a way which only Paris could achieve, and
the tight-fitting turban of shiny black feathers which hid her soft hair
and most of one eye, added a final note of sophistication. But even
this knowledge did not prevent a feeling of nervousness as she stepped
up to the desk and asked for Bernard Thornburg.

Not so long ago the inner door would have opened automatically
when Lorna Lane entered the reception room. But now the boy at the
desk said:

" Mr. Thornburg's in conference. Did you have an appointment?"

Lorna nodded. It was little things like this which made a star know
she was slipping.

"Will you wait a few minutes?" he asked. "I'll tell his secretary
you're here."

Lorna sank down in the high-backed chair in the corner and care-
fully drew the fur scarf more closely about her face. There were other
people waiting and she had never quite gotten used to being stared at.

It is doubtful, however, if any of those waiting recognized her.
Certainly there was little resemblance between this sleek young woman
of the world and the wide-eyed, curly-haired ingenue in the old-
fashioned crinoline frock, whose picture still hung on the wall of the
reception office.

Almost unconsciously Lorna's eyes wandered toward that picture.
Once it had given her a thrill to see it hanging there. Now she had a
mad desire to jerk it off the wall.

"The Girl in the Crinoline" had been her first big role. It had made
her, everybody said. But now, looking back on it, Lorna wondered
if it hadn't really ruined her.

After her first success in that picture Thornburg had tied her up with
a contract. Not very much money at first but it had seemed like a lot
in comparison with the seven-fifty and ten dollars a day which she had
been earning as an extra girl. Besides, as the company lawyer had
pointed out, the contract contained an option clause. If at the end of
two years the option were exercised, it would put her in that charmed
two thousand a week class.

"The Girl in the Crinoline" grossed more than half a
million. Lorna Lane was declared to be a "find" and
the company continued to cast her in the type of role
which had brought her fame. They built up a legend
about her. "Lorna Lane, Supreme's Old-Fashioned
Girl." They dressed her in pinks and baby blues.
They photographed her in laces and furbelows. And
Lorna, a little dazed by it all, tried to hve up to the
legend, off screen as well as on. That, she realized now,
was where she had made her biggest mistake.

Then, almost overnight it seemed, the public taste
changed. Elinor Glyn coined the word IT and cute

Illustration by

Everett Shinn

When the mask was pulled aside the pale face of Supreme's Old-Fashioned Girl was revealed.

"Do I get the part, Bernie?" she asked weakly.

"Hell, no," Thornburg exploded. "I ought to bar you oflE the lot for pulling a stunt like that.

little flappers who always got their man suddenly became the
vogue. You had it or you didn't. Directors said Lorna Lane
didn't. Of course she was sweet and lovely and all that, but she
had no sex appeal. She was unfortunate enough to be identi-
fied with three pictures which were box office flops. Her fan
mail began to drop off. She begged Thornburg to let her try a
different type of role entirely. But it is almost as easy for a leop-

ard to change its spots as for a picture actress to change her
type, once she is established as such. Thornburg patted her
hand and assured her that the idea was ridiculous.

"We've sold vou to our exhibitors as Supreme's Old-Fashioned
Girl. It would' be foUv to attempt to play you otherwise. You
take care of the acting, Lorna, and leave the business end

(O us." [ PLEASE TURN TO PAGE 125 ]


Gossip of AW


Not a trick photo of one girl, but
an unusual camera study of two
of the prettiest actresses at the
Fox Studios. At the left is June
Collyer, at the right Mary Astor.
Both girls are live feet, five inches,
and the same weight, 115 pounds.
Mary is one year older than June


My mamma is a camera,

My papa's name is mike-
No ■wonder no one ever knows

Just quite what Pll be like!

WHY did Ina Claire marry Jack. Gilbert?
Adela Rogers St. Johns is at great pains to tell, elsewhere in this
issue, vihy John married the lady. And, as she is the leading comedienne
of the American stage, admired and even adored by thousands, old Cal
was interested to knovi' why Miss Claire yessed the demon lover.

I found out over a luncheon table in the Claire dressing room on the

Ina Claire married John Gilbert because she liked his laughter!

AT any rate, it was the boyish spirit in him that made her give him a
second look, Their second meeting was at a Hollywood party, and
the uproarious good time Gilbert had over some silly little parlor game

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