Film Flashes The Wi^ and Humor oP a Nafeion in Piefcupea \<^y im XI Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924075696165 ORNEI.L UNrVEPSJTV LIBRARy 3 1924 075 696 165 ilm r lasKe s Copyright, 1916, by LESLIE-JUDGE COMPANY © LINDA A. GRIFFITH. Early Struggles of Motion Picture Stare When David W. Griffith, the Brilliant Director, Was Just Beginning to Shine By LI^DA A. QRIFFITH |iiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii[iiiiiiiiiiiiii B This series of reminiscences, Avritten by Linda A. Griffitli, the wife of David Wark Griffith, who pro- 1 ■ duced "The Birth of A Nati<5n," is replete with the intimate secrets of the first days of many a star who now | E scintillates haughtily and brilliantly. Linda A. Griffith has seen the beginning of some of these screen stars. 1 g Some of them now boasting of princely salaries might prefer to forget that they began at $3 a day. Mrs. | g Griflith writes frankly in this series of the days when $25 a week was a consideration not to be ignored in | H the Griffith family. She will tell the readers of Film Fun in the coming numbers of the magazine many in- | m teresting incidents in the days of the "Old Biograph" as it is affectionately called by the screen people who | B began their climb in its studies. | (^ %^. M r f\n A BRIGHT May morning in 1909 ^'^ came a timid ring at the old Bio- graph studio door. It didn't require any diplomatic efforts then to get past the "T^-^ outer office, as it does to-day. One didn't ^^^/VS,^^^ even think of sending in a card to the ^BF/ml nral studio. On the heavy old double doors P\ #jp| l B H that opened into the studio proper there was an electric push button, and all one had to do to get in was to press it. The door would be opened by anyone who happened to be standing near. Once in, if the entrant happened to be of a timid nature, he remained in the background. If possessing the quality known as "nerve," he would press forward to the camera and stand there, in the hope that the director would see him and like his type or looks or clothes well enough to engage him for a day's work. This one ring of the studio bell I began to tell about admitted a little girl — she looked to be about fourteen. She wore a plain blue serge suit, a blue and white striped lawn shirtwaist and a straw hat with a dark blue ribbon. About her fresh, pretty, gentle face bobbed a dozen or more short golden curls — such per- fect little curls I think I had never before seen. The little girl's name was Mary Pickford. Mr. Griffith just at this time was considering a produc- tion in moving pictures of Browning's poem, "Pippa Passes." For some while he had felt that there must be a departure from old methods and subjects. The methods of picture taking he was revolutionizing day by day, by the introduction of the close-up, switchback, light effects BIOGRAPH proper make-ups, a better dressing of parts and a qual- ity of screen acting tliat could be recognized as the manner in which human beings might be expected to deport them- selves in the various com- plexities, struggles and sor- rows of life. All of this has been written of before and is being told about now, so I shall not enter into details. As to the subjects for stories, that was where we had to carefully watch the public and not depart too rapidly from the then accepted melo- drama and the all too obvi- ous comedy. So resulted long discussions with theBiograph heads as to the advisability'of Browning in moving pict- ures, and after much persua- sion to be allowed this one experiment, a production of agreed upon. There was no question in our minds as to whether it would be an artistic success. Had Browning himself written for the "movies," he couldn't have turned out a better screen subject; but the trouble was, "Will it make money? Will it be a financial success?" Neither the Biograph nor any other company could afford to turn out pictures that no one would care to see, and we were somewhat afraid that Browning would scare the moving picture public out of the theater. With "Pippa Passes" very much in mind these days, and there- fore hunting about for the best possible cast for this new departure in the ' ' movies, ' ' along came the day that Mary Pickford's footsteps led her to the Bio- graph, looking for work. She had just finished a season with David Belasco in "The Warrens of Virginia," and not caring to face the long summer months with no money coming in, she came, as all others had up to this time, to see if she couldn't earn a little money while awaiting another engagement on the stage. When Mr. Griffith saw Mary stand- ing there in the studio quietly looking on (a set was up and we were busy tak- ing scenes), he came over to me and said, "Don't you think she would be good for Pippa?" I said I thought she would be ideal, and so came about Mary Pickford's first engagement in a moving picture. Right then and there Mr. Griffith had her make up, he gave her a violin and had her walk across the scene, thus making a test picture to see Mary Pickford and Mack Sennett, in the days when her salary was twenty-five dollars a week. "Pippa Passes" was finally David W. Griffith and Billy Bitzer filming "Enoch Arden." just how she would photo- graph and act. Though she was engaged with Pippa in mind, the strange part of it all was that when "Pippa Passes" was finally produced, Mary did not play the part, as she no longer filled Mr. Griffith's mental image of the required type. Winsome Gertrude Robinson, with black instead of golden curls and dark eyes, was chosen for the role of the spiritual Pippa. It was altogether a notable cast, comprising such well- known players and directors of to-day as James Kirk- wood, Henry Walthal, Owen Moore, Marion Leonard, Ger- trude Robinson, Arthur John- son and the writer. Artistically it was the opening wedge, and a column article of highest praise in the New York Times satisfied our hungry hearts and was sweet assurance of a big step upward. It was the first time a New York daily paper had condescended to criticise a moving picture. That was in October, 1909. Mr. Griffith had, however, produced stories and poems of literary worth before this, but they were sweet, homely themes, not the works of the intellectual Browning. To my mind comes "After Many Years" (which was the name given the first moving picture ver- sion of "Enoch Arden"), in one reel, with Florence Law- rence as Annie Lee. Some few years later "Enoch Arden" was again produced, this time in two reels (the first picture ever produced in two reels), and of which cast I was the Annie Lee. "Enoch Arden," like the brook, seems to run on forever, as a big, four-reel production, with Lillian Gish, has recently been shown as a Fine Arts picture on the Triangle program. Charles Dickens's "The Cricket on the Hearth" was produced as far back as May, 1909. The cast of this picture contains names all well known to-day, and I also recall it as one of the pictures in which there was a general rehearsing of all the actors before the cast was selected. Florence Lawrence, Violet Mesereau and myself were rehearsed for Dot, and on this occasion the honors were mine, and I was chosen for Dot. Herbert Pryor, now of Edison fame, was John Peerybingle; Owen Moore, who has just recently signed with the Famous Play- ers, was Edward Plummer; and Violet Mesereau, whose name now shines in COPYRIGHT, 1019, ev i.EfiLIE-JUDOe CO.. f.iF\ PINCHED? VITAGBAPH COMPANV ELEANOR WOODRUFF With Her Latest Pet. "Little Simniie," Whom She Loves. Although He Tore Up Her New Plum Velvet Toque. LINDA A. GRIFFITH, ARTHUR JOHNSON AND MACK SENNETT "A beautiful sleet had covered the trees in Central Park, and we hurried out to photograph it, making up the scenario on the way." electric lights as a Universal star, was May Fielding. It was her first part in a moving picture. One of Mary Pickford's very first parts, if not the first, was in "The Lonely Villa" — as its name suggests, a melo- drama of rather tense quality. Mary played a child of about twelve or thirteen. There were two younger sisters, and Marion Leonard was the mother. Mary wasn't play- ing a ragged child, however, but a very prettily dressed, aristocratic-looking youngster she was. Mary's salary was then twenty-five dollars a week, which represented a guar- antee for three days' work. Naturally she wasn't expected to furnish real dresses for that sum, and the Biograph wardrobe being rather meager, I persuaded Mr. Griffith to let me buy Mary some real clothes. The money was fur- nished, and I hastened to Best's, where I bought a smart, pale blue linen, child's frock, blue silk stockings to match and a pair of patent leather pumps. When Mary was rigged out in these dainties, with her fiuff'y curls bobbing about her face, Owen Moore, a regular member of the company then, never took his eyes away from her, and we all knew that a romance had that day begun, culminating so happily a few years later in their marriage. "Is Mary Pickford a good businesswoman?" is often asked, both in and out of the theatrical profession. For almost a child, I thought she was, for in that regard she gave me quite a shock one day. Mary was playing in a picture in which she had had various experiences while trying to elope. One of the experiences was falling into the Passaic River from an overturned canoe. Dripping wet, as we rushed her back to the little hotel where we had made up to change her clothes, and with the automobile full of people, she naively looked up into Mr. Griffith's face and said, "Now, Mr. Griffith, do I get that raise?" And she got it ! At this time there were three leading women on a regu- lar salary — Marion Leonard, getting thirty-five dollars a week; Florence Lawrence, the same; and Mary Pickford, twenty-five. I wasn't on a regular stlary, as I didn't want to feel that I could be called on to work every day; but just the same I usually did, so averaged up pretty well. As we worked nights a great deal and received three dol- lars extra after seven p. m., often the people on checks made more at the end of the week than those on regular salaries, and injured feelings were sometimes the result. Talking of working late at night brings to mind the first picture in which I remember Flora Finch. She, also, was a "five-dollar-a-day Biographer," and never dreamed then that she was to win international fame as a Vitagraph star with the late John Bunny. The scene in which we were working so late, or rather so early in tke morning — it was three a. m. — took place in a "set-up" representing the interior of a moving picture theater. All the company Linda Griffith, Arthur Johnson and Marion Leonard, in "The Convert.' was "audience" in the theater, and Miss Finch was also "audience," only she had an "entrance" after we all were seated and watching the performance on an imaginary screen. She wore an enormous hat — and this is the plot of the story — so enormous that when she was seated, no one in back or to the side of her could see a thing. The man who ran this theater was ingenious, to say the least, for out of the unseen ceiling was dropped an enormous pair of supposed iron claws, that closed tightly on the hat and head of the shrieking Miss Finch, lifted her bodily out of her seat and held her suspended aloft in the studio heaven. How many times that scene was rehearsed and taken, I do not remember. It was so late, and we were all so sleepy, we stopped counting. Believe me, it was no easy task to lift out of her seat, by clutching claws about her head, even the so very slightly fashioned Flora Finch ! Many people believe that the moving picture serial is a rather recent innovation, and possibly recall as the first one Edison's "What Happened to Mary," featuring Mary Fuller. To Frank Woods, now manager of the Fine Arts studio, must credit be given for the first one, for a series of "Jones" pictures, relating the experiences of a Mr. and Mrs. Jones, were written by Frank Woods and produced by Mr. Griffith as far back as 1908. Each story was com- plete in itself, and the parts were played by Florence Law- rence ana the late John Compson. In the supporting casts of these pictures were Mack Sennett, George Gebhardt, Miss Jeanne MacPherson (now scenario writer for Lasky and whom Mr. Griffith always liked to use, as she had been abroad and had some very good-looking clothes), Owen Moore, Charles Inslee, Tony O'Sullivan, Arthur Johnson and Harry Salter. "Mr. Jones at the Ball," "Mixed Babies," "His Day of Rest," "His Wife's Biscuits," "The Peachbasket Hat," "Her First Biscuits," and others will readily be recalled as the once famous "Jones" pictures, written by the man who collaborated with Mr. Griffith on the scenario of "The Birth of a Nation." As "Spectator" on the New York Dramatic Mirror, Mr. Woods also gave the public the first intelligent reviews of moving pictures and fought hard to have the Dramatic Mirror introduce a Moving Picture De- partment between its covers. In fact, great credit is due Mr. Woods for having blazed the trail to press recognition of motion pictures. While many of the stars of to-day came humbly seek- ing work at the studio, when the type he was looking for didn't happen along, Mr. Griffith would ask help of the different dramatic agencies. In one of these agencies, Paul Scott's, one day when seeking new talent, he noticed a good-looking, manly chap just leaving the office. Mr. Griffith turned to Mr. Scott and said, "That's the man I want," and Frank Powell, one of the foremost directors of to-day, made his entry into moving pictures. His entrance also recorded a new departure. He was the first actor to be engaged for ten dollars a day. FAMOUS PLAVER8 Mary Pickford, as "Hulda of Holland," had an entire Dutch village built for her benefit, in a Island. But she is a clever little actress and did not once "get in Dutch.' small town on Long Nemesis By ARTHUR C. BROOKS THE House was dark and cool, The Picture was interesting. And the Crowd was small. I had just speared a Favorite Seat, Right on the end of a Row. I prefer this Seat In Summer, when the Fans Are zipping, because I'm out of the Draft. Experienca docet. (Or is that correct?) Anyway, the Thing Came in just as I was Thinking I was In Right. He went to the End Of the Aisle (Plenty of seats on Both sides, remember). And stood watching the Lady Pianist perspire. Then he turned And ambled back To the Row ahead of me; But he didn't go in it. Oh, no! He changed his mind Again, like the Dear Old Lady he was, And moved back to me. And stood there, Significantly. I said, "Do you want to Come in?" Cordial-like; And he said, "M-m," And started to climb Over my knees. Before I could rise, He had successfully Muddied the Toes of My Shoes and mussed My Hair with the edge Of his Hat. He smelled strongly of Fresh-roasted Peanuts. Phew! At last he got in And sat down. Just as he got Comfortably jackknifed. Who should come in but a Lady ! (The same row, mind you !) Well, he leaped to his Feet, and his Heels slid Out from under him, Sliding beneath the seat Ahead. For a Moment he lay Supine, With his neck resting on The top of the Chair, All scraped. You know how it is. The Lady laughed, And I laughed. Gosh-a-mighty ! But he didn't. Not at all. "'*'"^" DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS, IN "THE HALF BREED." "That was the best picture I ever saw," said a Southern girl, when she saw this photo of Douglas Fairbanks. "It was in the 'Half Breed,' and in this scene Fairbanks is chunkin' rocks at the sheriff to keep him from finding out where the girl is hidden. He is " "Just a minute," said a listener. "What does 'chunkin' rocks' mean?" "Chunkin' rocks?" repeated the Southern girl. "Why — I do' know. I've heard that expression all my life. What would you say — 'throwing stones'?" "Chunkin' rocks" is the word, then, for what Douglas Fairbanks was doing when he dodged back into the hollow tree. He looks as though he had thoroughly enjoyed his efforts in that line. The girl is safe in another hollow tree, and the sheriff was "chunked" off her trail. He Refuses to Exit iCXATHAT have you to offer to contribute to the general gayety of nations?" asked the Two-minute Man of Charlie Murray. "Nothing," returned the lean comedian gloomily; "not right now, anyway. I've just finished a one-reel act with Mack Sennett* trying to convince him that I will not do the 'Little E?a' act. I refuse to die, even on the screen. That's one good thing about the comedy villain; he gener- ally gets away alive, so they can use him in another play." "Seems to me I've seen you killed several times," mused the Two-minute Man, putting up his pencil. "Haven't I seen you mangled under trains and mashed by falls from windows or choked to death by the hero?" "Almost, " replied Murray sadly; "almost — but never quite. I don't yearn for the death stuff. Now, in this 'Pills of Peril' picture, it was originally intended — by Mack Sennett — to let me gently die by my own pills. But when I learned that much of the script, I struck for life. I says to 'em, I says, I'll feed 'em even to the heroine and save her from the results of her own appetite, or I'll kill sharks with 'em, or I'll throw 'em one by one into the mouth of a bean jar, a la one of the baseball stories in the Saturday Evening Post. But die by 'em I will not. If you want me to stick around for that play, cut that act, I says. So Mack Sennett, he says " "You don't mind talking me to death about it, do you?" protested the Two-minute Man wearily. "What do I care what anybody said about it? If you don't like the thought of dying, stick around and endure life. It ought to be a merry one for as good a comedian as you ought to be?" "Good-night, old top!" grinned Murray. "Come back some time when you've extracted that corn from your dis- position, won't you?" VITAGRAPH JOSEPHINE EARLE Our "Off Guard" Number would not be complete without this Vitagraph Vampire, peacefully removing wicked bugs from her thriving cabbage patch. She is not afraid of the famous "cabbage snake," and pestiferous insects get out of her garden when they see her coming. Josephine Earle is a regular siren on the screen, but on her off days she pursues these peaceful paths of domestic felicity. A Blue "Drop" A satin bow, cerulean-hued, Is treasured in my vest. Miladi dropped it, when I wooed With proper "picture" zest. I loved her then, I made a "hit" — 'Twas in the studio; But, later, got the "movie mitt' — Miladi dropped a "beau" ! Dorotht/ Harpur ONeill. With a Full Cargo The scene showed an actress selling her hair to obtain money to buy her husband a boat in which to fish for a liv- ing. After receiving the coin, the husband walked away, and later returned very much intoxicated. "Faith," said an Irishman to his wife, "thot man in- visted thot money in a bunch of schooners." © s Making Light of It A death scene had just been reeled off. Little Tommy, turning to his mother, said, "Mamma, why do people always die with their eyes shut in the movies?" "Why," replied the startled mother, "I suppose be- cause the light won't hurt their eyes." Figuratively Speaking The "rough-house" comedy on the screen seemed to bring sad memories to the mind of a rather dilapidated negro in the audience, who was the possessor of a black eye, a swollen lip and various other injuries. "Lem," he remarked to his ebony companion, "I sho had some trouble with mah girl to-night." "Whassamattah?" asked Lem. "Did she hand yo' th' mitten?" "Th' mitten!" exclaimed the dilapidated one. "Man,. she done ..and muh both fists an' a flatiron!" His Initial Bow Bonn — What makes Kross so good-natured this morning? Tonn — He had a son and heir make its first appearance on the screen of life last night. Easily Figured Out Teacher — If you had five cents, and I gave you two cents, what would you have? Tommy — An afternoon at the movies and two lolly pops. 1^ © Not Original Tip — I had an idea I could sell a scenario. Tap — You are not the only one who had the same idea. ALICE HOLLISTER. She didn't look to me like a woman who had murdered 9,897,659 people in her day, not to speak of having been choked and stabbed and shot a few times herself. A Vampire Off Guard Alice Hollister Has a Secret and Consuming Qrievance Concerning Her Husband's Camera By ELIZABETH SEAHS "VTOT BUT what she respects and ad- mires this camera, famous on sev- eral continents; but she regards it as a serious rival. Anyway, that is what she says. There are so many vampires clogging the market nowadays, with ti^^ic faces and passionate cigarettes, that it is diffi- cult to think of a time when there was only one vampire — one timid, shrinking, but ambitious little vampire, vamping all alone by herself. Alice Hollister created the vampire parts. "Funny thing," said this pleasant little vampire, pull- ing a comfy chair up by a broad window, where a pleasant 'breeze played peek-a-boo with a filmy curtain, and handing lier visitor a fan and a cushion. "Lots of people seem to think that when we act vampire parts so much, we must look and live like vampires. Do you see anything vam- pirish about me?" I took a critical glance. She didn't look like a lady 'Who had murdered 9,897.659 people in her six years on the screen, not to speak of having been choked, stabbed and otherwise put to death a few dozen times on her own account. It is recorded of her that once in the early days of her vampiring, an aspiring young actress, then just essaying vampire parts and eager to put considerable more "thicker- and-thinner" passion into them than Miss Hollister thinks wise, walked up to the latter, who was sitting peacefully on the veranda of a Jacksonville hotel, and demanded, "You're Miss Hollister, aren't you? "Would you mind just getting up and walking down to the end of the porch, so I can see how you do it?" Miss Hollister is the soul of gentleness and courtesy, and although her pretty face betrayed a bit of astonish- ment, she did as requested. "Thanks," said the actress shortly. "I guess I can get it all right!" ******* pUTTERING domestically about her own house. Miss Hollister looks more like a hospitable soul who knows how to make her guests thoroughly comfortable than a. George Hollister and his famous camera, with seventeen inventions of his own that malie it the most valuable camera in existence. roaming vampire lady. Between you and me, I think her husband, George Hollister, is a mighty lucky man. Not because he is con- sidered one of the best camera men in the business, but because he is the husband of Alice Hollister. "Smiling comes naturally to me at home, but not in picture work," she explained, pulling the ears of her favorite little kitten. "I suppose that is because I began with the serious work. Really, I do not care much for comedy, and yet I seem to be always mixed up in it off the stage." Miss Lindroth, of the Famous Players, began to laugh softly. Miss Lindroth had come to spend the day with her old friend, in a breathing space at the studio, before she went into rehearsals on Valentine Grant's new Scotch play. "Do you remember what I think was the funniest thing I ever saw?" she reminded Miss Hollister. "It was when we were re- hearsing for a play on the St. John's River, in Florida, when you were doing a water stunt. You see, Alice does not care much for the water stunts. She would prefer to do her vampiring on dry land. But the script called for a drowning and floating act, and Alice had to float gracefully, with her hands folded on her breast. She is not strong on float- ing, so it was arranged that an expert diver should remain submerged under water and hold her under the waist. Summoning all her fortitude — for she is afraid of' the water — she essayed the scene, begging them, with what few breaths she could afford as a drowning heroine, to make it short. When it was all over, she was pulled ashore with a thankful heart. "It was a most successful scene, save that when it was developed, it was discovered that the expert diver had lost control of one foot, which floated, bare and a trifle large, right alongside Alice's small tootsie. It gave her a queer effect of having three perfectly good feet, one several sizes larger than the other two. And the floating stunt had all to be done over again !" "I was just as scared as Alice," confided her husband. "I knew how afraid she was of the water. ' ' "Just the same, you think more of your cam- era than you do of me," she said, grinning sau- cily up at her husband from her couch, where she sat playing with her fluffy kitten. "Show her the camera, " pleaded Miss Lind- roth suddenly. "Show it to her, George. It is unlike any camera in the world. It has about forty inventions of his, all made out of sewing machines and bicycle pumps and shaving boxes and hairpins and " "Only seventeen inventions," interposed Mr. "I'll forgive you, George," said Alice Hollister; "at the same time, I still believe you like your camera better than you do me." Hollister, who is a very serious man. He removed himself carefully from the window ledge and opened the box that held the camera. Hollister never waits for anybody to invent things for him. If he is forty miles from a shop, he takes a piece of his wife's sewing machine and converts it into a valuable patent. Sometimes he uses part of a bicycle spring, and once, after experimenting for a long time, he went down to a ten-cent store and picked up an aluminum saucepan that was just the thing. That camera is famous all over the world. And next to his family, George Hol- lister guards it with jealous care. "Alice always throws that up to me," he said, as he opened it and explained the different inventions that make it the most valuable camera in the world. "All because once, on a jaunting car in Ireland, she thought I looked after the camera first. ' ' "So you did," she said plaintively. "There I was, strained in every muscle from that long, horrible, jolty ride, and waiting for George to come and help me out, and there was George, running to hand out his camera as if it had been an infant in arms, and leaving me to tumble out the best way I could I" "I leave it to you," began Mr. Hollister, with some excitement. "You look like a reasonable person. Here was a camera and box full of valuable films that it had cost the company thousands upon thousands of dollars to get, and the least tumble or shake might have spoiled them. My wife had two good feet to help herself to the ground with, and, much as I love her, I could not risk those films. I ask you — did I do right?" "Mr. Hollister, sir," I replied solemnly, "in my opin- ion, sir, you did the only thing to be done." We [^shook hands soberly, and Alice Hollister gazed meditatively at those "two good little feet," shod in very smart shoes, and then flashed a divinely forgiving smile at her husband. "I'll forgive you, George," she said, encouraging a dimple that has an apartment in her left cheek to come out and peek at the company. "But I was in a good humor for a vampire part that afternoon, all right, wasn't I?" "What is your interpretation of a vampire part?" I asked hurriedly. Having fervently agreed with her hus- band, I feared lest I might be in her bad graces. But she forgave me with the same charming, dimpling smile. "I like to make my vampires psychological studies rather than physical types," she said. "I cannot see where one gains by sacrificing any intrinsic value of deli- cacy for a false value that amounts to coarseness. Suggest the lure rather than boldly employ cigarettes and divans and voluptuous draperies. The vampire of the soul rather than of the body. Some- times, don't you see, it may be an inher- ent obsession that drives, drives, drives a tormented woman to do the things that her heart and instinct cry out against. One must study all the time to determine the exact shade of tragedy in each different character. There is a chance for versatility. This is what makes the vampire part so fascinating." Nevertheless, Miss Hollister can laugh. Suddenly, as she had dressed to go out upon the street, her canary by the window burst out into a trill of unexpected song. "The darling!" she murmured, going to the cage to smile up at him. "It is the first time he has sung for me since we brought him from Jacksonville. We were afraid he was homesick and might never sing again. Just listen to him." The players are, left to right, Victor Rottman, Myrta Sterling and Ethel Teare. The picture is "A Watery Woo- ing. " In the story Victor overcomes the mother's objec- tions to him by a fake rescue of Ethel from a watery grave. Then, when mother gets in too deep herself, Victor proves a four-flushing hero, for he can't even swim. A Considerate Patient A famous specialist of Los Angeles tells this story: In making examinations he uses dark crayon to mark the body, while his assistant records the result of his ex- amination. A motion picture extra who had been exam- ined called several weeks afterward and said, "Doctor, would it be all right to wash off those marks now?" stars and Bars "Don't you think it would be a good idea to have actors wear a band around their sleeve, as policemen do, for every five years of service?" said H. A. Barrows to Betty Schade, who plays opposite William Farnum in the Fox master production, "The Man from Bitter Roots." "I think it would be a whole lot better," Miss Schade replied sweetly, "if many of them had to wear stripes."' PARAMOUNT-BRAY PARAMOUNT- Farmer Alfalfa and his Tentless Circus are having a lively rehearsal, with odds in favor of the pig. Farmer Alfalfa brought his scientific experiments to such a fine point that his hens hatched out animated cheeses. Don't Stay in the Shade, Then " pRETTY soft for you, huh, out there on the Pacific coast, where there are no sharks and the weather is endur- able," wrote an actor friend to Frank Borsage, who was directing a five-part feature, "Land o' Lizard," for the American-Mutual, at the time. "You bet it is!" said Mr. Borsage, when he read the letter. "It reminds me of the time we went down into the Santa Ynez country, in southern Cali- fornia, to get the desert scenes. It was hotter than Billy-be-dummed — temperature 125 half the time. One day one of the men kicked vigorously at having to play in the hot weather. " 'Look here, Borsage !' he protested. 'It's 118 in the shade, man! You cannot ask us to work with the ther- mometer 118 in the shade.' " 'Well,' I said soothingly, 'you don't have to work in the shade. Get out in the sun. ' ' ' PARAMOUNT-BRAY Farmer Alfalfa fires repeated shots at the invader of his melon patch, but the latter goes right on eating. Something To Say The young actor had just failed in a scene from "The Grip of Evil," the great picture that Balboa is engaged in filming for Pathe, and the director had gently but firmly admonished him. He was earnest and painstaking, but his acting was wooden. "You look the part, all right," said the director. "Why can't you act it?" "Give me something to say, ' ' almost tearfully appealed the actor, "and I'll put it over for you. " "All right. Say what you vo-iX co. Go over there and write your speech, and we'll try again in fifteen minutes." And fifteen minutes later the boy put the same scene over with a smash. He had lines to speak, and the lines helped his acting immeasurably. When it was all over, the director said, ' ' I have believed for a long time that speaking helps acting before the cam- era, and it may be that we shall see speaking parts written into the working scenarios in the not distant future. The screen game changes every day." Well Turned Friend — Do you turn many screen actors out here? Director — Turn them out? Why, we can't get rid of them fast enough ! Photoplay Fans By JAMES 6. GABLE AT NIGHT when I come home, you know, 'Tis then we have our fun; We hie us to the picture show. When supper things are done. We see dumb brutes in combats rare. Just as they did of old. With other sights to raise our hair And make the blood run cold. The widow's little baby dies. To music sad and slow. We cannot stop the gusty sighs — The world is filled with woe. The villain turns the old folks out — You ought to hear us hiss ! R"t when he's foiled beyond a doubt. We can't contain our bliss. We see the dam blown up at night. And almost scream aloud. The villain then gives us a fright; We sit with sorrow bowed. The maiden fair is chased from home; With rage we grip our seats. With falt'ring steps she starts to roam; The rain comes down in sheets. But lovers meet where bright stars shine. And as they softly kiss. Wee wifie slips her hand in mine — It is my hour of bliss. So every night, when work is done. Whatever winds may blow, We hurry up to see the fun. At our great picture show. 'Will you kindly step as'de," politely asked the director. "Otherwise you will be in the picture. "I have every intention of being in this picture," replied.Father, firmly. Father Breaks in the Pictures Filming De Luxe By F. GBEGORY HAnTSIVICX We had motored all day and were distinctly tired. The rambling building of Briarcliff Lodge promised rest and refreshment, and James, our irreproach- able chauffeur, gave the car an extra bit of gas. We whirled up the winding ascent to the lodge and were greeted en- thusiastically by the doorman. As the numerous bags were being removed and James was asking the way to the garage, I noticed that mother was looking at the shady piazza with a gaze of frozen horror. I followed her glance and stared in my turn. For surely such a sight comes but once in the lives of weak mortals. In a rocker sat a lady — but such a lady ! Her gown was the last thing in extremes, her face was a chalky white with powder, her eyes were darkly outlined with liberal — too liberal — applications of the pencil, her eyebrows were arched like cathedral domes, her lips were absurdly bowed in the brightest carmine — she was a sight for gods and men to wonder at! I said — But never mind. Suffice it that my remarks were uncom- plimentary. Even father thought "she'd overdone it a bit." But dinner beckoned, and cooling drinks; so we sent James on with the car and betook ourselves to our rooms. I had a pressing engagement with Colonel Bogey the following morning, so I arose bright and early. As I strolled out to the course — the Briarcliff links are just a pleasant walk away from the hotel, and although cars are to be had for the asking, a walk in the fresh morning air is infinitely preferable — I noticed a white car, of uncertain vintage, but unmistakable racing lines, with a most im- maculate chauffeur and a man in a Palm Beach suit busy at the number pendant. I paused to observe, and saw, to my horror, that they were taking off the safe and sane New York license and putting on another — a mystic combina- tion of letters and figures that meant nothing to me. I passed on, darkly meditating. What villainy were they contemplating? Were they pirates of the road, who were changing their numbers the better to escape justice? Or were they murderers and kidnappers, who were attempting to throw the bloodhounds of the law off the track by this device? I pictured myself as the star witness in the crowded courtroom, describing how I had seen the number being changed; I saw the faces of the two villains pale as my damning evidence, given in a clear, loud tone, sent them to their doom — The first tee loomed before me, and I forgot my dream of fame. I was wandering back to the hotel, with my mind full of that peace which cometh only to those who have played over a new course, and, playing, have won the regard and favorable comment of the caddie, when my brother ap- peared around the corner of the hotel, his eyes full of news and his mouth full of words. And I heard behind me a warning whir and saw a limousine flash past, with the same immaculate chauffeur driving — and by his side a beautiful girl, wrapped in a shawl, her face white, her eyes closed, in a dead faint on his shoulder! Valentine Grant, a Famous Players star, made a friend of one of Bill Snyder's pets at the Zoo recently. Pet is an elephant and it turned out its entire bag of tricKS cheerfully for Miss Grant's entertainment, while its mate trumpeted jealously in its apartment behind the happy group. I dropped my clubs with a clatter and ran. I dashed under the porte-cochere and saw a crowd congregated at the farther end of the piazza. The limousine had stopped, and people were running out to it. I heard cries of dis- tress. I saw the much-painted lady whom I had observed the evening before leap from the steps and fling the door of the car wide and slam it with such vigor that the pane of glass in it fell in tinkling fragments on the road. And I heard a disgusted voice say, "Hang it all! Now you've ruined that piece ! Go back and do it over — and don't be so much in a hurry to slam the door this time!" The limousine swung around the loop of the drive, back to its starting place. The beautiful girl was rearranging herself in a new posture indicating unconsciousness. The painted lady retreated to the piazza, where she waited, somewhat in the attitude of a sprinter on his mark, for the car to come up. And I saw. Mine eyes had been holden, but now I saw. It did not take the glittering three-legged instrument with the perspiring man at the crank or the be-megaphoned god from the machine to show me. I was at the very fountain-head of a moving picture I Once more the limousine sped from the shelter of the porte-cochere. Once more the painted lady sprang to the door and opened it — this time without breaking anything. Once more the fainting miss was carried tenderly up the steps, where she stood up and breathed a sigh of relief. And the director seemed satisfied. "All right. Now for the ne.xt one — the farewells," he said. I iiad not noticed father during the excitement. But now ] looked around for him. He was standing immedi- ately in front of the camera, the light of conquest in his eyes. To him cautiously approached the director. "Will you please move a little to one side?" said that worthy. "Why, I'm quite comfortable here," was the reply. "But you'll be in the picture !" "I have every intention of being in the picture," re- plied father, in the tone that he uses when he is address- ing a jury. The director looked puzzled. This was evidently a new occurrence in his life. Then his brow cleared. "I'll give you a chance later on," he said, with a grin. (He had a charming grin.) "You get in that group up there and wave good-by. We'll need a lot of guests for that." So father entered the group of the chosen and waved vigorously,, with his eyes, I fear, more on the camera than on the departing vision of the beautiful girl and the im- maculate chauffeur in the ancient but racy white car. At luncheon that day we learned more about the screen folk. It was the Vitagraph Company, intent on filming a new production — "The Scarlet Runner" was the title, I remember — and they were at Briarcliff Lodge for a week. Knowing Briarcliff Lodge's rates per day, I was constrained to hope that the picture would be a success. The company must have had a heavy deficit, otherwise. They had taken a number of pictures elsewhere, among these the accident of which the snatches we had seen were the forerunners and followers. The picture was to be a serial, and we had seen a part of the formulation of one chapter. Also, father had been immortalized. We were well content. So now I haunt the Vitagraph Theater, in the hope of seeing "The Scarlet Runner," witn the painted lady and the beautiful girl — and father. MORO&CO In the Garden A m ^ . " mmfim Cul • '''^^' \ ' " r '^-'Nfl ^; '* J ' i^- 1 ' X * ^ llb«^>«^l •^ *?^^^^ Vivian Martin DAY with Vivian Martin is a fairly r,/ strenuous day. Little Vivian Martin is built on springs of wireless energy, and she be- lieves in making every hour in the day ''^^/)j count for something. Once in a while she gets a day off from the studio, and she has a lot of fun with that day. It is apt to be more weary than she is by the time it is ready to retire for the night and let the stars have a show. Miss Martin does not see why eight perfectly good hours should be allowed to run around loose without being used wisely. "I declare, I really don't know just how I do spend my days off," she mused, holding up her haughty little dog and trying to blow a strand of roving hair off her cheek with the corner of her mouth. The little lock of hair blew right straight back, and who could blame it? The small dog looked on distantly and gave way to a bark now and then, when he felt that the visitors were not noticing him. "I romp around a good deal with the pup," said Miss Martin, with a nice, friendly smile. The dog barked. He had been thinking all the while he was a regular dog. "It makes him mad to call him a pup," explained Miss Mar- tin. "I only do it to tease him. His real name is Dulcimer." "But isn't Dulcimer a feminine name?" suggested the visitor delicately. "Or was I mistaken in thinking I heard you refer to it as 'him'?" "Sure, " agreed Miss Martin promptly. So there you are. She refuses to explain why she calls the dog "Dul- cimer, " except that she likes the dog and she likes the name. Which is about as good a reason as any, when you dig down to basic principles. "First I romp with Dulcimer," she went on — "after I have had my breakfast, you know. I am not so keen on this early morning stuff. Breakfast is my next objective point after I am dressed. Then I sit around in the sum- mer arbor — that is, I call it an arbor; but for publication purposes don't you think it would sound more exclusive if we called it a pergola or something like that?" That's what it is, then — a pergola, all bunched up with flowers and vines and comfortable chairs. Here Miss Mar- tin takes her sewing and uses up an hour or two at em- broidering and even putting a dainty " 't" little darn or two in a tablecloth and napkin or a pair of hosiery. She isn't a bit too upstage to take a healthy interest in keeping her clothes mended and anchoring a hook and eye or a button occasionally. She has a spe- cialty, too, in sewing. She makes the cleverest little un- derthings you ever saw. She held one up to view. It was of pink wash satin, with strips of lace all worked in leaves and flowers in blue, and little — whadycallems — French knots? — all over it. "I knowwhat that is," triumphantly announced amale visitor, who had accidentally sauntered into the scene. "My sister makes 'em all over the place. That's a cas- serole." "It is not a casserole," blushed Miss Martin. "A cas- serole is a dish that you bake things in. Anyhow, you have no business around here when we are talking about our embroidery." "It is, too, a casserole," muttered the male visitor stubbornly. "I guess I've heard my sister" "It's a camisole, you idiot!" whispered his sister. "You wear them under a thin shirtwaist. Lots of girls make them. See how you've gummed up the parade here. Get out, do, and stay out. ' ' "They tell me you are some cook, too," blundered the visitor, trying to iron out the situation. Miss Martin put away her sewing and rose to the situa- tion nobly. "Cook?" she said. "That is my middle name. Every morning I go to market and take my little Dulcimer dog for an airing and buy what I want for dinner. Kitchen utensils have no terrors for me. I can subjugate them with one hand. They fall right in line before me when I enter a kitchen and obey my slightest bidding. If you have never seen me stir up a blueberry cake or an old- fashioned gingerbread or a mess of young rusks, you have missed something." "There's one good thing about Vivian's cooking, too," observed a young friend. ' ' Her efforts are largely eatable. ' ' "I've a recipe for canteloupe salad," observed Miss Martin dreamily, "that seems to be right popular." "I'll say this for Vivian," interposed another friend. "I'll come up to dinner with her any time and glad of the chance, especially if she has cooked it herself. Could I say more?" "'And then, along toward sunset," mused Miss Martin, absentmindedly reaching for the tea tray, upon which re- posed a plate of cinnamon toast, crisp and tender and spicy with cinnamon, "I like to wander out in the flowers and select my bouquets for the next day. I love every flower that is in sea- son." "I should say she does," said one of her friends. "Vivian buttons on a little dimity gown and wan- ders around bareheaded in the garden and out in the daisy fields and comes in loaded with blossoms and covered with red ants and chiggers. ' ' Miss Martin frowned portentously. "Don't mind her," she said gent- ly. "She loves to joke. Don't you want to come out and see my garden? ' ' Daisies bloomed there waist-high — Miss Martin's waist. She bent ten- derly over the flowers and talked to them and called them pet names. "Flowers know what you are say- ing," she said, with a wise little twinkle in her eye. "They love to Heartrending He was telling his friends of a wonderful moving pic- ure he had seen the night before. "It was stupendous, magnificent!" he said. "There must have been a thousand people in the scene. The great Coliseum was thronged. The vast assembly rose in tiers" "Ah," broke in the chronic idiot, "it must have been an awfully sad scene, wasn't it?" Inside Information It was a scientific picture of the educational type, showing X-ray views of the various organs in the human body. "Glory, Sam," exclaimed a negro in the audience, "ain't dat wondeh- ful!" ' ' Niggah, ' ' replied his companion, in a vastly superior tone, "dat's jist what dey call one ob dese here in- terior scenes. " The White Hopeless They were showing one of the have you pet them. See those pink She can stir up gingerbread and blueberry "^ual pink-tea "fight" scenes, and begonias over there? I visit with cake and canteloupe salad. two small messenger boys in the au- them every morning, and they bloom their darling little heads off for me. And that row of tea roses over there know when I am coming out for a chat with them. They hold up their blossoms so proudly and fairly blush with pleasure when I praise them. 'Deed and 'deed, flowers can talk — I know it. " So we left little Vivian Martin in her garden, looking after the camera man as we rode away. Her day was almost over, and she had used up every minute in it. And when it was gone, she would go to her room and kick off her shoes and go to the window to say good-night to the stars and yawn and shake out her hair and say, "It's a good old world, and thank goodness there's another glorious day right ahead of me, to have twelve good hours of fun with." SB ^ Exposed The picture on the screen, a society drama, showed two women in evening gowns seated with their backs to the audience, the gowns covering very little of the aforesaid hacks. "Pat, an' whot do yez think uv thot?" asked an Irish- man in the audience. "Shure," remarked his friend, "Oi'd call ut a case uv double exposure. ' ' MOROSCO Goodbye dience became deeply disgusted. "Golly, Jimmie, " broke out one urchin suddenly, "dat big guy wit' th' wild-man hair-cut fights like a cheese!" "Yeah," agreed Jimmie, "he's rotten. Why, he'd make a ten-round bout out of lickin' a postage stamp!" Legs Were Necessary May (out of breath) — I've run my legs off in order to get here to see the manager about appearing in the chorus scene. Fay — If that is the case, you'll not have a leg to stand on. A Bust Scene A poor, shaky old sculptor sat idly down; As they say in the movies, he regis- tered a frown. "In all this big city no barkeep will trust. So it's quite impossible to finish my 'bust.' " Heard in a Studio "One can read her face like a book," said Miss Pry. "Of that there's no doubt," answered Miss Guy. "It's easy to see, since her beauty has flown. That the cover designs are all her own." INTERNATIONAL LM bERvlCE Up at six, a cold shower — ug-g-h ! — a simple breakfast of fruit, cereal, bacon, eggs, toast and coffee, and time for a breezy canter to the studio. Some stars prefer autos, but Howard Estabrook, International star, says nothing beats a good horse, a straight road and a fine morning. Howard Estabrook Off Quard Screen Drama is Hard Work and Screen People Must Religiously Keep in the Pink of Condition i^npHIS screen stuff is no dilettante life," said Howard Estabrook, emerging from his dressing-room, fresh and cool in white flannels. "Every screen star must keep in the pink of condition, and keeping in good condition means a lot of work." "But all the screen stars do net have cars and horses and valets and trainers," it was suggested. "You don't need 'em," said Mr. Esta- brook. "If you have two good legs to walk with and a convenient doorway for exer- cise, you can keep yourself in fine condi- tion. Look here" Back into his dressing-room he went and emerged once more with his athletic trunks on. "You see this doorway?" he said. "It must be a poor screen actor who hasn't a doorway to call his own. The average INTERNATIONAL FILM SERVICE "This is my Samson stuff- only need a doorway." wainscoting will stand a lot of strain, and this series of what I call 'Samson move- ments' is just as good in its way as the medicine ball, the tennis courts or the horseback rides. Naturally all of us are quick enough to use these luxuries when we can get them, but a cold shower and a door- way will keep anyone in condition for the picture stunts." The screen star rapidly went through a set of exercises in the doorway. He braced himself against one side and tried to push the side of the wainscoting out of commis- sion. Then he stood straight, threw his hands into the air and gracefully bent down and fondly patted the rubber mat beneath his feet. His secretary is a terror with the medicine ball, but Estabrook sent it smash- ing at him until the secretary was glad to admit that he had had enough. INTERNATIONAL FILM COBPORATiON "Can't beat this exercise for suppleness. Watch me bend." "Success in pictures means a series of eliminations, " explained Mr. Estabrook, once more in white flannels. "If you are going to be on the job in the morning, there must be no late hours. I don't even find time to console myself with a smoke ar a drink. Mark you, I have no objection for al- cohol or tobacco; but I just do not have time to use them. When I am not looking after my muscles and physical condition, I am at work in the studio. When I can get an hour off, I plunge into cool Lake Cayuga and have a com- bination swimming and boating party." "Has Estabrook started on his exercise hobby?" grinned an actor friend. "Honest, I don't see how he does it. He's up at six and working all day long, and yet he says he has no set rules for phys- ical exercises." "That is because 1 don't make work of them," Returned Mr. Estabrook. "There is INTERNATIONAL FILM CORPORATION He hurls a medicine ball like a Teutonic howitzer. only one reason for exercise, ATlONAL FILM CORPORATION Sometimes a hard day is ended by a thrilling spin on a quiet road, with Mr. Estabrook at the wheel. and that is to start a smashing circulation to begin the day with. I notice you chaps are al- ways hanging around and wistfully asking what I do to keep in good con- dition, all the same." Mr. Estabrook prefers to spend the evening with a quiet party of friends, at home or at a motion picture play. He misses none of the good ones. Once in a while he takes an evening off for his club, but ten o'clock finds him heading in for home. "Motion pictures is a daylight game," he said, "and the successful as- pirant must get it firmly ensconced in his mind that sitting up with a gay bunch until three in the morning does not partic- ularly assist in the mak- ing of good pictures nor in mooring a good job." TRIANGL_-KEVSTONF Roscoe Arbuckle and Al St. John in "The Waiters' Ball." How could Fatty know that the lady dishwasher who owned the gown would appear at the ball? TRIANGLE-KEYSTONE Fatty is determined to go to the Waiters' Ball, and a waiter stole his dress suit. But the fat lady dishwasher had an evening gown, and the pretty cashier cheerfully helped with the finishing touches. Fatty in His Favorite Role — The Cook. ■pOSCOE ARBUCKLE has a scream in his play, "The Waiters' Ball." With his usual generosity, he gives his company a chance for a little glory, and the comedy as eluci- dated by Al St. John, a coming young comedian, Corinne Par- quet, Arbuckle's new leading lady, and our own old favorite, Kate Price, gets many a laugh over the screen. The cast in full is a good one. There is Roscoe Arbuckle as the cook, Al St. John as the waiter, Corinne Parquet as the cashier, Joe Bordeaux as her bad brother, Robert Maximillian as the proprietor, Kate Price as the dishwasher, and Alice Lake as the fair customer. A pretty cashier in a small, cheap restaurant has two ardent suitors in the cook and the waiter. This love affair causes con- siderable friction between the wheels of the dining-room and the kitchen, and the innocent bystanders, in the shape of the proprietor and the customers, get the heavy end of the deal. All the employees are anxiously anticipating the Waiters' Ball, a strictly full-dress affair. The waiter yearns to escort the pretty cashier to the ball, but does not possess the necessary dress suit. Fatty, the cook, has a dress suit, which he com- placently sends to the cleaners to be ready for the ball. The waiter makes the most of an elegant chance to annex the dress suit, and he and the cashier attend the ball. The suit is a trifle over, but not enough to make the happy waiter unhappy. Fatty is resourceful. He attends the ball in disguise, as a beautiful lady, attired in the stolen evening gown of the lady dishwasher. He discovers his own suit draped on the happy person of the waiter, and trouble begins right there. The dish- washer helps it along by discovering her lost evening gown on what seems to be the belle of the ball. KEVbTONE Fatty is the cook in a short-order restaurant, and his own ambition is to grow thin and to win the pretty cashier. His only drawback is his tendency to feed. iEYSTONE COMPANY MABEL NORMAND, A LEADING COMEDY STAR T T' ? T A ? T H F AT r TCTURE ENDS TRIANGLE- KEYSTONE TRIANGLE-KEYSTO^E "So you will try to steal my girl, eh?" roars the new waiter, when he gets the hapless Fatty cornered. The lady dishwasher intervenes for Fatty and the pretty cashier promises that she will not be stolen by any cook. Fatty meets the new waiter, and peace reigned but briefly. For he had on Fatty's suit, and what is Fatty's is Fatty's, and right there he took his own. TRIANGLE-KEYSTONE Fatty was admitted to be the belle of the ball— until the lady dishwasher arrived. Things began to hum when he was discovered. Sixty Dollars, Please ■DOSCOE ARBUCKLE had difficulties of his own while he was filming this picture. Minta Durfree, his diminutive wife, had returned to California to arrange their home there in preparation for the return of the Arbuckle company to the West coast. With her went the famous Arbuckle cat, which has suc- ceeded in firmly intrenching itself in the affections of the adi- pose comedian. He plans to train it into a studio cat. Mrs. Arbuckle, in a bit of letter small talk, chanced to mention that the cat was a trifle shaky after the trip, and Roscoe became alarmed. He hastened to the telephone and used up something like sixty dollars trying to understand what his wife was saying at the other end of the wire in California. Mrs. Arbuckle was delighted when she was informed that her husband was trying to get her on the wire from New York. "Aha!" she cried. "A little of this Lou-Tellegen and Farrar stuff, eh? He won't need any telephone girl to tell me that he says he loves me, either, as Tellegen did. I can under- stand him, all right." And she went to the telephone with happy anticipations of hearing her husband tell her how he missed her. "Give the cat some catnip!" roared Roscoe over the wire. "Huh — wh-ehat?" stammered his astonished wife. "You mean to tell me you called me up all the way from New York to tell me to feed that pesky cat catnip? Don't you suppose I had sense enough to do that?" "Steady, dearie!" cooed Arbuckle over the wire. "I'm all right, and you're all right; but the cat might die if you didn't feed it catnip. I'm writing to-night, darling; but don't forget to give the cat some catnip!" TRIANGLE- KEYSTONE OUT! The Keystone Qirl Likes Baseball <V(I Xy ) jj^ doing this is well shown in this picture — a scene from a one-reel comedy written by Homer Croy, whose humorous writings are well known to the readers of Leslie's and Judge. Here the director has fourteen people on the stage; each one of these is of interest to the audience, but the director wants to fasten the people's at- tention on a small, black, inanimate object — a pair of pants. The director goes about this by having the minister hold them in the foreground, with every one on the stage looking at them. Every face is turned toward the trousers, so that the eye of the audience is moved unconsciously down to the object of interest. The object itself and the background are black, so the director adds a touch of high light by making the suspend- ers white. It is almost impossible to look at this picture with- out your eye swinging to the trousers. The man in the background, with the heavy hanging mus- tache, is second in importance, so attention is brought to him in the scene by having him dodge up and down behind the screen, where he is hiding without any covering for his lower extremities. The first object that moves is certain to get the attention of the audience, so the rest of the cast are made to hold the pose, while the man behind the screen dodges up and down. The title of this comedy produced by the Universal is "The Tale of His Pants," and the story is as follows: Ben Bunce is attending a taffy pulling given by the church choir, when some- thing happens to him. He sits down in a large, warm liunk of molasses. He slips into the preacher's study, takes off his pants, and is looking around for something to scrape the molas- ses off with, when a tramp comes along and walks off with his trousers. Ben puts on a pair belonging to the preacher and rushes back to choir practice, when the minister comes in wildly excited, with the news that somebody has run off with the trou- sers containing his last month's salary. Ben Bunce feels in his pocket and finds the money. He gets behind a screen and slips off the preacher's trousers, and then finds that he is around a church choir without anything in the way of wearing material below the waist. How he gets out of it makes a comedy that takes your mind off the thermometer. ^ « Another Raid on the "Legitimate" Billie Burke signed the contract with the New York Motion Picture Corporation, which she has had under consideration for some time and which was the cause of her withdrawal from the Charles Frohman Company. Miss Burke received $40,000 for five weeks' work, and, in addition, her expenses to the studios in California are to be paid. The company also gave her a check for $50,000 as an option on her services for the next three years at $150,000 a year. We Leave It to You. Is There a Prettiest One ? CARPENTFR PHOTO 1 RIANGLE-KEVSTONE HARTtOOK PHOTO Claire Anderson is a star, because of her plucky work in "The Lion and the Girl." TRIANGLE WHITE PHOTO Mabel Normand greets you as the lead- ing lady of the Normand Company. Ruth Stonehouse has joined the Essanay bunch. She wants to do comedy-drama. June Caprice is glad she's alive these days. Well, she ought to be. She's a lucky girl. Gladys Brockwell is a pretty girl, isn't she? And she knows how to wear good clothes, FAMOUS PLAVtHS Once in a great while we find Mar- guerite Clark in a pensive mood. Juanita Hanson knows all about "The Secret of the Submarine," but she won't tell it. Here's another beauty, Vivian Martin. Isn't Bessie a perfect bundle of Love? INTERNATIONAL FILM SERVICE Well, look who's here ! If it isn't Betty Howe ! SIGNAL-MUTUAL Helen Holmes takes a day off from railroading. FAMOUS PLAYERS ©IRA C. HllL Louise Huff watching a rehearsal. HARTSOOK PHOTO Mae Busch in a pensive mood. LONE STAR-MUTUAL Here's a star for you, Edna Purviance Fanny Ward and her Wobble dog. Jane Bernoudy, The New Joker Comedienne, Rode Into Comedy TANE BERNOUDY did not in- •^ tend to be a comedienne when she began to work in pictures. Jane was a rider and did all kinds of stunts in what they used to call "Western stuff," meaning roping, riding and shooting Indians. Then the "Western stuff" be- gan to wan in vogue. Jane seemed likely to be out of a job. She had no ambitions to shine as a star in screen stunts, and about all she knew how to do was to ride and to look funny. "Capitalize your funny face," advised a director, one day, when he broke the sad tidings to Jane that there would be no more West- ern pictures. "They are getting ready for some comedy stuff over in another set, and I'll back you against the funniest of them, if you are willing to queer yourself by a fantastic get-up." Like Barkis, Jane "was will- in'." She did not care about sac- rificing her looks. She realized that one could not look funny and look pretty at the same time and admitted that it was easier for her to look funny than it was to look pretty. "I remembered an awkward maid we used to have," she said, "and I determined to make some use of her funny tricks and a most unique method she had of doing her hair. She used to be a scream as I remember her, and we kept her because she furnished us so much unconscious amusement. So I capitalized my looks and her ways, and I see no reason to re- gret my decision — as yet." Miss Bernoudy's fortune is in the manner in which she can push her features around carelessly and still keep them moored to her face. She practically rode into comedy, for it was her riding, that first brought her to the notice of the Joker comedies. "The funniest thing in motion pictures to me is a remembrance of an interview I read in a New York paper four or five years ago, ' ' she said. "The statement was made by Elizabeth Marbury. She said, quite solemnly, that the main reason why motion pictures would not endure was because peo- ple did not want to be confused by /anrBernoudy, the Joker comedienne, lets the dusting go Pictures that moved. What they while she peruses ' ' The Maiden's Guide to Matrimony. ' ' wanted was slides and a lecturer ! ' ' Jane Bernoudy, as the maid in "When a Wife Worries, " is deeply interested in the attempts of the parents of the BABY to ascertain the exact date of the first tooth. At the same time, she has no sympathy with the methods of its male parent to amuse it. While the infant resents its morning bath, Jane hastily summons its mother to note the discovery of the famous first tooth. A frantic telephone message to the doting father is sent at once, and the family proceed to a consultation as to the proper mode of procedure in such cases. , — .. 1 H| P^H ^^^H ■ ^■k^ ki^, 'jH^Hj^l ^^H^HI^^^^H 1^1 ^r^ ^n^hBIB ^B^^HH H ||f'^<^^^ j!^ vflLJI ■Kj^^HIH H HE -^-"A-v-^aajfe i^/^^IH ^ 1^^^^ K , ,^^1 H «■■ ^^i^P R^^PI^^HHj M^HHi '< n ^^^K^S^'^ jB ^^^^^^1 ^^^^Cl' • 1 ^HH IBKhSI^H ^^H^^^Hk. art Father is immensely excited over the advent of the tooth and announces his intention of reading up on teeth and of visiting a physician to get the best expert medical advice on the subject. JOKER He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me! DE GASTON PHOTO — N. Y. M. P. imous Sisters In Motion Pictures ALENT in motion pictures seems to run in families, are are many gifted sisters in een work. Perhaps you did not )W that Nona Thomas is a sister OUie Kirby; but you can see family resemblance all right en you see them together. The Fairbanks Twins are too 11 known to need any descrip- a. They began as wee tots; : before long somebody will be ting grown-up pictures for m, and then after a while they 1 go back to the little-girl pic- es and yearn for the plays in ich they can put on short isses again — or maybe boy "ts, which seems to be some- Nona Thomas is a sister of Ollie Kirby. H0U8ER-MUTUAL ATIONAL PHOTO Marion and Madeline Fairbanks. thing in vogue just at present. You know the little Lee sisters pretty well, too. There are a lot of the wee ones in pictures, but not many pairs of sisters at their age. They have been so popular that every mother who possesses a couple of little girls of their age wants to get them into the pic- tures and into the papers. 8& SB Nothing Doing The scene showed a girl in a maid's uniform, in an easy chair, reading a book. The following was overheard : "I wonder what that girl rep- resents?" ' ' That is easy ; she is a maid of all work." Jane and Katherine Lee. COPYRIGHT, 191b BY IE8L(E-J0D0E CO., NEW vOnt WHAT HAPPENED TO FATHER? THAN HOUSE R-MUTUAL LOUISE EMERALD BATES. She is called "the girl with the million-dollar smile" and appears in Mutual comedies produced by the Thanhouser company and released as "Falstaff" pictures. MOTION PICTURE ARTISTS IN BUGVILLE. A Natural Inference A Loss Worth Mourning For Two Irishmen were watching a comedy on military life. The scene showed a poet trying to sell some work to an One tall soldier wore a uniform about four sizes too small editor. He was dressed in an old black suit that had seen for him. better days. "Is thot mon supposed to be a soldier?" asked one. "I wonder why he wears that black suit?" asked a gir) "Phaix, no; thot is wan of thim boy scouts," was the of her escort. xeply. "Perhaps his credit is dead," was the reply. A Triumphant Mother IV^AUDE GEORGE, who plays adventuresses for the critical people, was waiting ,/ for a call in her dressing-room and partaking ' ">- of her favorite refreshment — stuffed dates — as she listened t® various exciting stories of ad- venture from her callers — screen girls from fjl another set. "The funniest thing that ever happened to me I didn't know about at all until my mother reached home that night," she explained, passing the stuffed dates. "Mother dropped into a picture house one evening, and one of my plays was on the screen. Just behind her sat the usual type of chap who carefully explains to his companions that he is well acquainted with all the screen folk. He glibly pointed me out to his friend and said, " 'I know that girl — know her well. Used to have din- ner with her. She used to hang around San Francisco when I was there. ' "Mother could not hold in a minute longer. She turned around to the talkative chap and fixed him with a baleful glare. I'm the only little rag doll mother's got, and she wasn't going to have any stranger panning me. She put on her most dignified manner, and when mother dolls up in that manner, everybody might just as well step lively. " 'That young lady you are viciously maligning is my daughter, sir,' she informed him, in her iciest tone. 'My daughter has never been in San Francisco or to dinner with you in her life. More than that, she never "hangs out" wher- ever she is.' "The talkative chap fumbled hastily for his hat and left without further remark. And poor mother was so insulted be- cause I laughed when she related it!" )5 * Fun for Heaven F. H. Elms, of Boston, has a small daughter who is a mo- tion picture fan and who invariably includes her picture favor- ites in her prayers at night. She v is enjoying a confidential chat with her mother recently and making inquiries on topics that had somewhat puzzled her small self. "Mother," she said, "do the picture peo- ple go to heaven when they die?" "Certainly," replied her mother. "Did John Bunny go to heaven?" "Yes." "And will Mabel Normand and Fatty go to heaven when they die?" "Of course they will," replied her mother. Miriam Batlista is a coy little lady who is pleased but not haughty over the fact that she is a Fox star. "And Charlie Chaplin?" "Yes," responded her patient mother. "Goodness!" giggled the little girl, as she kicked her sandal off. "Won't God laugh when he sees him walk in !" What Would We Do Without the Villain ? "Consider the movie villain," said John Reinhard, of Gau- mont-Mutual. "He is the hardest worked and least appreciated man in the cast of any play. It is no great trick for any actor to be a hero, as his work is all cut out for him by the authors who wrote the play. He always happens along at the proper moment to save the girl or upset the villain's carefully laid plans. "Of course, the villain always gets a good salary; but he never gets very popular, and no one loves him. No romantic girl ever looks at his picture and exclaims, 'Oh, I could just love him to death!' No one asks for his picture. No one writes to the studio or the pho- toplay editor and wants to know how old he is, if he is married, if his hair is naturally curly or does he use something. Not a soul is concerned about the color of his eyes. "Movie villain work is the hardest of all acting. The reg- ular stage bad man has words to help register his cussedness. There is the low and insinuat- ing tones he uses as he urges the honest young man to falsify the books and play the races. There are the hard and cruel words to say when he turns the aged couple out of house and home, the sneering~threat when he waves the incriminating 'papers' in the face of the wayward wife and demands black- mail as the price of his silence. "The movie villain has none of these helps. He must reg- ister his villainy by the movements of his facial muscles and his eyes. But if it were not for the villain, the hero would show up very small. There would be nothing for him to do. He would just marry the girl in the first reel, and all would be over." © )5( The Last Straw The jokesmith entered the office and made his way to the editor's side. "I have here," he remarked, "ninety -nine motion picture jokes." The editor, in a weary manner, took the batch, and after a hasty glance, said, "I have seen all these before. You should have made it 'The Old Hundred.' " LEH LUNKHEAD, PRtsclLLA VAN PRUNE, POOR BUT TERKl Bly PERFECTL-r 6 OOD HONEST LUMBER- j^ DAU(.HTER OF RICH MILL OWNER HOW DARE YOU INSULT A LADY!"-;^'- =J^3^ ^<4i LOVE AND '-^ST * HATE >*•/*■'«• -<>_,„ fT,7\) ■^ M-V*U^ r, «,v/l!-.' S<\~"' , f'/,l ill*.''/'/'' 1'*:'' 3EANED FROM BEHIND ' THE MINED ROAD. "SAVED BY inches! TMATSALL "^t, " ThE BUZZ SAW %\ SHALL NOT BUZ2 TO-NltHTl " '*-"'-~-^ :i_'? ^.^ t^i^c^^^ 1 COULD BEG ■"'/i-yTrT'i^^,,.^ ^ — ~ - ,,^^,. TO-DAY" . '^//^■^^'-^'^^■,i,/-^,^^MiUin">-^"^^ CURSES.' to OUT AND BEG MORE .' I MUST HAVE WINE" .t^^ PRISON, K \ 20 YEARS AFJER 1^ OLD VAN PRUNE ji PRUNE MIlLl^ ,1,1/';//;,.'' I HITCHED! ■^f^ " /H '=^ THE LEAP. ^ •' X.,0 "^""^ life/ THAT MAN STOLE' /i YOUR MILLION bucks! (,, _i||l SEARCH him!" yl' "a , ^ THE FRAMEUP „ LEM PARDONED /" NICK TAKES AM OVERPOSE OE MORPHINE / ^ WEPDIN<3 .BELLS 'I'll END IT ALL ANb l OFF IN THIS snowbank!' ' ' /"^/''4 °i//-&S 'i/, I ALWAYS LOVED YOU LEM" .^.■'' y TWE DEATH BED p .CONFESSION '/^ CWf^Hce^ THE PATH OF TRUE LOVE (AS IT IS MOVIED)— Judge Florence Lawrence and Harry Salter in a scene from "Ingomar, " one of the first Griffith directions. Early Struggles of Motion Picture Stars When David W. Griffith, the Brilliant Director, Was Just Beginning to Shine ■■ By LINDA ARVIDSON GRIFFITH llllllilllil ■111 This series of reminiscences, written by Linda Arvidsou Griffith, the wife of David Wark Griffith, who pro- duced "The Birth of A Nation", is replete with the intimate secrets of the first days of many a star who now scintil- lates haughtily and brilliantly. Linda Arvidson Griffith has seen the beginning of some of these screen stars. Some of them now boasting of princely salaries might prefer to forget that they began at $3 a day. Mrs. Griffith writes frankly in this series of the days when $25 a week was a consideration not to be ignored in the Griffith family. She will tell the readers of Film Fun in the coming numbers of the magazine many interesting incidents in the days of the "Old Biograph" as it is affectionately called by the screen people who began their climb in its studies. ■Jlllirjl T OOKING back to the summer of 1908 and the next year or two following, I feel con- strained to use the trite old saying, "Those were the good old days!" And I think the little band of pioneer actors and actresses who began working together so earnestly and so sincerely and withal so humbly, at the old Biograph studio eight years ago, will all agree with me in that they were. Great changes and marvelous ad- vancements have been recorded on the pages of the motion pic- ture industry since then. The "movie" babe ("movie" was a proper term at that time) became overnight a kindergarten child and took its first lessons with the then unknown David Griffith, who more than any other individual has since caused to be acknowledged as the Fifth Estate a profession that most of us entered through dire necessity and with some slight em- barrassment. We weren't overly proud of our new association. but we consoled ourselves with the thoughts that "Oh, well, this will tide me over until I can get another engagement on the stage. I am right here in New York, where I am in touch |||[ii|||iri| with agents and managers, and I am not spending the little money I saved last season on the road or in stock." We didn't have the present good days of weekly salaries running into the thousands, motor cars, California bungalows, suites at the Claridge or Riverside Drive apartments; but they were, nevertheless, the vital days — the days that were to shape the careers of the biggest stars and foremost directors of the present day. Never in the furthest back wrinkle in the brain of the most optimistic moving picture actor was then ever so dimly foreseen his name in electric lights over an honest-to-God moving picture theater such as the Strand or Rialto of New York City. They were the good old days in a better and a higher sense— the days when we worked for work's sake, with little remuneration and no publicity whatever. We soon began to sense that these "moving pictures" were going to amount to something some day and we need not continue to be ashamed to tell our friends how we were earning our living. We were pioneers in every sense of the word, and our growing faith in the crude, flickering shadows first thrown on the screen gave us the courage to endure the indifferent public, for the motion BIOGBAPH "Enoch Arden" was the first two-reel picture ever produced. They showed the first reel Monday night, and on Thurs- day night you returned for the second reel. In this scene you see Linda Griffith, Frank Granden and Rufus Liscer. picture public of to-day didn't go to a "movie" show eight years ago. One could hardly criticise them for not going, for it took courage to sit through a show in the dirty, dark little stores that hung up a sheet at one end and turned on the pro- jecting machine from the other. With a few exceptions, such as Keith and Proctor's theaters on Fourteenth and Twenty-third streets and the old Fourteenth Street Theater, New York City, such was the general make-up of the moving picture theater at that time. So, through conflicting emotions and varying decisions and an ever-absorbing interest and faith in our new work, we stuck. I can remember to the word when Mary Pickford, who had been a member of the Biograph Company for a year or so, came to me one day very much troubled and said, "Mrs. Griffith, do you think it will hurt me on the stage if I stay in pictures any longer?" "Well, Mary," I answered, "I'm sure I cannot ad- vise you one way or the other. We will all have to take our chances. I, for one, feel sure pictures will last." It didn't prove to be much of a hazard for "Little Mary" ! Though stock companies in the summer of 1908 were un- known, a little band of players soon began to report every day for work and 'most every day were engaged. The half dozen or so I recall who worked regularly in the first pictures were Marion Leonard, Harry Salter, Arthur Johnson, Charles Inslee, Edward (then "Eddie") Dillon, who has just directed De Wolf Hopper in the recent Fine Arts production of "Don Quixote"; Wilfred Lucas, who first came into notice in a picture called ♦'The Red Gauntlet," playing opposite Marion Leonard; little Johnny Tansy, who starred in Mr. Griffith's second Biograph picture called "The Redman and the Child"; Florence Auer, remembered in "Rejuvenating Auntie," and last season in "Paganini," with George Arliss; George Gebhardt, Gene Gaun- tier, Tony O'SuUivan and Mack Sennett, whose name now spells "Keystone. " Marion Leonard was cast for the women of the world, ad- venturesses, Spanish ladies, etc. She did some mighty fine work in the early days and soon had a devoted following. I played mostly sympathetic parts, the trusting girl, the devoted wife and the fond young mother. Once I played a French girl — a nasty, catty part — but mostly I died. I played every dying part, whether it was a white woman or an Indian. It made my sisters very unhappy to see me always dying on the screen, and they wrote me from San Francisco, where they lived, that they wished I wouldn't die so much. Miss Leonard and I alternated in leading parts for some time, and then Mr. Griffith, as always on the lookout for new talent and feeling the need of a new type, cast about to get it. One evening, at a little theater on Broadway and 160th Street, we saw a Vitagraph picture called "The Dispatch Bearer." It was a very good picture, too, for those days, produced by the late William Rainous — a good di- rector he was — and Florence Lawrence was the "Dispatch Bearer." Mr. Griffith had found his type. "That's the girl I want," he said, and proceeded forthwith to get her. 1 believe it Was Harry Salter who helped locate her. He afterward mar- ried her. At all events they found her, and one night called on her BIOGRAPH "Enoch Arden' proved so popular that it is to be re-issued August 29th. and her mother. Miss Lawrence had quite a reputation as a whistler, and I think it was a trombone — or was it a cornet she played? Whatever it was, from its resting place under the bed she drew it forth and entertained her guests by playing for them. It was arranged that she should leave the Vitagraph, where she was getting fifteen dollars a week, and come to the Biograph for twenty-five. My, that was some salary — twenty- five dollars a week 1 But Florence Lawrence earned it. If ever there was a conscientious worker, devoted to moving pictures and pictures alone, it was she. She used to work daytime and nighttime, and in between scenes she would hurriedly wipe off her make-up and skip out to a "movie" show. She was equally at home in comedy or tragedy or a funny character part — it didn't matter much what. We had to be something more than mere "types" in those days and do a little more than look pretty. We worked hard. You couldn't drive people out of the studio even if they weren't working. We'd sit around the camera stand 01 on old scenery or chairs when there hap- pened to be any. Mr. Griffith would work out his story, using his actors like chessmen. But he knew what he wanted, and the camera man never began to grind until every little detail satisfied him. He would sometimes rehearse three or four of us in a part, then make his selection. Some incentive for doing one's best! But if we lost, we weren't heartbroken, for his judgment seldom erred, and in turn we all were play- ing leads one day and decorating the back drop the next. We did both with equal good nature. We not only were satisfied to ornament the scenery, but we would help to fix up costumes or wardrobes, in order to save time. We produced Tolstoi in those days and many other works of the masters of liter- ature, and we made moving pictures of nearly all the Broadway plays. Someone would see a show one night, and the next day we would make it into a scenario. We never bothered about securing a copyright on the little one-reel tabloid versions of five-act plays and eight-hundred-page novels, for no one bothered us — authors and publishers didn't take us seriously enough then to care to find out what we were doing. Next door to 11 East Fourteenth Street was a little tailor shop, and the good-natured tailor would let us come in and sew things. Once when we were producing "Resurrection," it seems the costumer had sent us some wrapper-like dresses miles too large; but we were in a hurry, the scene was set, and we were fully rehearsed, so while the property man added the final touches of placing the salt and flour snow on the set — it was July — another girl and myself rushed into the little tail- or's, and he graciously let us sew on his machines, and we madly took up gathers and hems in the poor Russian exiles' robes. It was fun and helped to finish with the extra people, so they would not have to come back and be exiles another day and get three more dollars. Biograph reminiscing wouldn't be complete with- out a mention of the lunch hour. The hour would be any time from one to three, according to work. All those who were made-up had to have lunch We ate in the basement, where the original dingy rooms were. We would tuck ourselves away in inside, dressing some little corner, on top of boxes or piles of stage clothes, fix ourselves a makeshift table, and Bobby Harron (now a Triangle star, but assistant property boy then) would bring us our lunches. Bobby always had a winning smile, and he served us our lunches as graciously and sweet-naturedly as he delights us on the screen now. Lunch always came from a lit- tle Polish restaurant on Fourteenth Street. It consisted of BIOGRAPH Griffith spent much time perfectine the details of this nirtnr-a days when few d Arthur Johnson and Linda Griffith, in "The Mills of the Gods- sandwiches, coffee, tea or milk and pie. Later our lunches came from Childs' restaurant on Fourteenth Street, and further on in luxurious lunch history we had Childs' menu card sent over and were allowed to order from that. Bobbie would bring the cards around and take our orders, but for a long time it re- mained "sandwiches, coffee and pie." When we worked nights, at about eight or nine o'clock we would have our second round of the same, and when we worked until three in the morning, we would have "meat !" We always looked forward to the pictures that required ex- terior settings, especially in the sum- mer. In the winter we had to hud- dle between scenes around a campfire that some one of the men would build, in order to keep thawed out; but in summer it was fine. We could get away from the hot studio and enjoy a breath of fresh country air. Our parting questions at night were always, "Do we work inside or out- side tomorrow?" For "The Adven- tures of Dolly" we went to Sound Beach, Conn. I remember the wild daisies or black-eyed Susans, or what- ever it is you call them in the East, were all in bloom — huge fields of them. Just having left my native San Franciscan heath and opening new eyes on Eastern country, it seem- ed very wonderful to find everything so green in midsummer, and the "marguerites," as we Californians call them, simply covering acres and acres ! We had no automobiles in those days. We went by train or boat and took a street car from the station to our respective homes. Fort Lee early began to be the original stamping ground when working outdoors. We trotted our costumes under our arms, dashed into the subway, left it at 125th Street, dashed to the ferry build- ing and caught the eight-forty- five boat. Arriving at Edgewater, on the Jersey side, we would make-up at any of the little inns along the Hudson, and "Old Man Brown" and his son would soon appear, each driving a two-seated buggy. We would then pile in and drive off to the location. It seems Old Man Brown, a garrulous, good-natured Irishman, had enjoyed quite an eventful life driving folks from the ferry to their New Jersey homes and places along the Hudson. Gene Gauntier, who some years ago delighted us with her portrayal on "Mary," the mother of Christ, in Sidney Olcott's beautiful production of "From the Manger to the Cross," was the location woman as well as scenario writer. She first uncovered New Jersey landscapes to the camera's eye and was largely in- strumental in starting the trek of moving picture people to the present well-known town of Fort Lee. All this was when the moving picture world was bounded by one block on East Fourteenth Street and the city of Los Angeles had never seen a moving picture camera. Soon to wend her Vvfay Fourteenth Streetward and timidly ask for a day's work came little Mary Pickford — to-day the foremost woman in the moving picture world and commanding the largest salary ever paid a woman, either in professional or any other work. Linda Griffith and Jeanne McPherson in "Enoch Arden. ' Dance of the sprites. PALLAS Marie James pauses to tie a sailor's knot. She is an ex- pert in the water. FAMOUS PLAYERS Ann Pennington ready for her plunge into motion pictures. UNIVERSAL Ida Schnall was a professional diver when she splashed into the screen. TRIANGLE Fay Tincher was one of the first Stars and Stripes. Lucile Taft and Gertrude Robinson love to splash at the waves. VITAGRAPH Dorothy Kellv wonders if thp A charming bit in trie Kellermann picture. VITAGRAPH Anita Stewart likes MOROSCO-PARAMOUNT Hello, there, Julia Dean ! Norma Talmadge is fond of a stroll. Eva Strawn morosco Edna Cioodricl The spirits from the vasty deep. Mac Andrew '^iL^^mSBEBSSBmSBm Jolly mermaids from Bermuda. FAMOUS PLAYERS Winsome little Marguerite Clark, in "Silks and Satins," amuses the maid, but horrifies the hostess with her artless chatter. FAMOUS PLAYERS Marguerite Clark has no real intentions of enlisting, of course; but if she did, she'd end the war, all right. Every man would willingly desert the trenches. And Perhaps — By LOIS ZELLNER SHE. WATCHED Movie Queens As they reigned on the screens. Then said to herself, "Look at me! I've just as much grace, And my figure and face Are better than most that you see." And so she opined. While 'twas fresh in her mind, She'd give some director a jar; She'd call at his place. Let him look at her face — And perhaps take a job as a STAR ! To make sure she'd be soon. She left home before noon. But almost collapsed with chagrin, When a boy at the door Interrupted a snore To inform her she couldn't get in. "I'll not be turned down," She averred with a frown, "If I have to come back EVERY DAY!" Her reward came at last. And she really got past The kid who was guarding the way. Did the poor girl win fame In the great Picture Game? Did she really become a Great Star? Did her beautiful face, Her figure and grace Bring people to see from afar? Did she reign on the screen As a great Movie Queen, For whom all the managers bid? Did she quickly make good. As she thought that she would? If you really must know it — SHE DID! Dr. Mary Walker when she met Frank Daniels. Alice Washburn practicing a characteristic facial gesture. In for Life IT^RAXK DANIELS, whose happy grin adorns a full page of ■*• this book of Film Flashes, will never go back to the stage. He says so himself. He admits that motion picture work is strenuous, but he is strong for it. "Work?" he said, when he had taken ten minutes off from the job to pose for Film Fun. "Well, yes, it's some work. Outside of putting in ten hours of work a day, I have nothing to do but sit around. Every day my director has me out doing stunts that would never do in comic opera. I have to drink a gallon of water every day to keep my shape. You see, I aim to keep myself a perfect thirty-six." "Don't you miss those first nights, Frank?" said his di- rector, with a grin. "First nights were always tiresome to me, and, thank good- ness! there will be no more first nights for little Frankie Daniels. It's of the pictures, for the pictures and by the pic- tures the rest of my life. And listen to me — if I have made any success, I must go fifty-fifty with the director. He's as much to blame as I am." ' ' Have a cigar, Frank, ' ' said the director. "Thanks, old dear," said Daniels. "Now, if you have a match handy— much obliged. It pays to throw bouquets. " Dr. Mary Walker went out to the Vitagraph studios with the visitors from the General Federation of Women's Clubs and was immensely interested when Mr. Daniels told her all the tricks of the trade. "I've found out a lot since I've been here," he pointed out. "For instance, real money is not used in the bank scenes, because hardly anyone would know the difference. "Rembrandt had a lot to learn about color. I have seen effects done in grease paint that he would have to study a long time to imitate— if he cared to. "If you make the property man laugh, you will 'get over' anywhere. And — "The one drawback to the art is that you play the same houis as the baseball gam?" Alice Washburn Spins a Yarn TV/IISS WASHBURN, in addition to the possession of a real sense of humor, has a fund of anecdote and repartee, and she is not backward when it comes her turn to spin a yarn. "One thing I like about me," says Miss Washburn, "is that I'm not averse to making myself ridiculous for the benefit of the film. I don't mind telling you that I never took any prizes at a beauty show, and that I'm no spring chicken; but so long as I seem to possess that intangible something that makes 'em laugh, why shouldn't I cash in on it? "My film comedy is not nearly as funny as some of the things that happen accidentally during the making of a picture, only they oftentimes go "over our heads.' Usually, though," continues Miss Washburn, "I try to be on hand to reach for all the funny ones, and here is one I happened to get. "During the filming of a Mexican picture, I had the part of a duenna. There was a lot of horseback riding to be done, and one of the principal actors had never been astride a horse in his life. He was too proud to admit to the director that he could not ride when he was cast for the part. Moreover, he happened to be shy two fingers of one hand and was very sensitive about it. The extra people had been falling off the horses and run- ning over each other, until the director was nearly crazy. When it came time for the big scene and the finger-shy actor climbed upon his horse, it was plain to everybody that he was all wrong and liable to fall off at any minute. " 'All ready,' said the director. 'Take hold of the reins there and put your feet through the stirrups. What the dickens is the matter with him?' this latter to the assistant director. "Sensing that there was something wrong, the director walked over and attempted to place the actor's gloved hands on the reins. He happened to take hold of the bad hand. Squeez- ing the stuffed fingers, he yelled, " 'Holy cats, man! Here you are dead already, and they haven't begun to shoot at you yet !' " It broke up the whole scene into such small pieces that we wer*" dismissed for the day. TRIANGLE-INCE Lillian Read, emotional actress, receiving her check on Saturday night. I iiiiiiinn iiinn i ii i iiiiiiiiiiniiliiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiniiini ii n iiinii iiiiiiniiniiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiii iiiiiiniimiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiniiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiniiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiii^ LITTLE LILLIAN READ, the quaint, blue-eyed baby appearing in Thomas H. | Ince's production of "Civilization" and who has created a veritable sensation by her re- I markable acting, is the daughter of John Parker Read, Jr., Mr. Thomas H. Ince's personal | representative. The most successful emotion that Baby Read registers, according to Beulah I Livingstone, "Civilization's" press agent, io the joy at the size of her check on Saturday night. I The many offers that have come to Mr. Read for his daughter's exclusive services from | different film producers since her great success in "Civilization," w^ould make the most sea- | soned motion picture star a bit envious. At the rate the magazines are devoting space to | this baby, one may expect almost any nice bright day to see a syndicated series of "How I | Became the World's Youngest Emotional Actress," by Lillian Read, aged two and a half years. | |i|||IMIillllllllilliaillBIIIMlllIlillllllllllBlllKl«SllllDlt"«™™U™'l""l't3'l'™ iiiiiiiinriiiTiiiiniiiiTiiimiiiTiiiwiii FAM0U6 PLOVERS THE HIGHEST PAID SEAMSTRESS IN THE WORLD. Sadly bedraggled and ragged, Mary Pickford wearily opened the heavy door, paused before the time clock, punched it. leaned heavily against the wall, wiped a tear from her half-closed eye, sighed and stumbled listlessly through the second door, through which long lines of sewing machines could be seen. "All right! Lights out!" shouted Director John O'Brien, and his assistant recorded the taking of another scene for the Famous Players-Paramount production, "The Eternal Grind." It is the factory drama in which Miss Pickford plays the sympa- thetic and touching role of the overworked, hard-driven little slave of the machine, as only the highest paid actress in the world could interpret it. At the By Picture Play JAMES G. GABLE TO SEE a motion picture show To me is perfect bliss, But nearly every time I go, I hear something like this: "Yes, Mary Fuller's clothes are swell." "Oh, gee! that's sure some fall!" "Dear me ! there goes the dinner bell !' "Just hear that mean kid bawl !" "If I'd a man to act like that, I'd dump him in the creek!" "I think her face is far too flat; Her dress 'most makes me sick!" "I didn't need it, I'll admit; It went for ninety cents." "That freak's about to throw a fit." "Yes, Chaplin's just immense." tfnirjiiriiijiiiiiiiiiiiii Steering Straight The scene showed two men helping a tipsy friend from the club. Two Irishmen were watching it. Said one, "The mon seems to walk straight enough." "Yis, " was the reply; "but he would fall down if the ing should give way." "Oh, shucks! I've seen this play before!" "Ah, say! ain't she a peach?" "Great guns! just hear him slam the door!' "I'll bet she wants to screech." "I never saw an English lord That ever did like that." "She's not his daughter; she's his ward." "Oh, gee! but ain't he fat!" "If some folks had manners at all. They'd sure take off their hats." "Dear me! just see that old hen bawl!" "They spit like spiteful cats." And so it goes each time I sit Within a picture show. The audience is half the play. Although it doesn't know. Up in Smoke home Some roughhouse comedy was being screened. One of the actors did nothing but allow the others to kick him around and throw him out of the window. Lanigan, turning to his wife, said, shor- "Thot man remoinds me of a cigar. He is always being made a butt of and thrown from the window." IRA L. HILL LINDA ARVIDSON GRIFFITH Early Struggles of Motion Picture Stars When David W. Griifith, the Brilliant Director, Was Just Beginning to Shine By Linda Arvidson Griffith WITH the daily papers reporting as "news" the various offers of thousands per week being made Mary Piclcford for the coming season, it is rather hard to turn one's thought back to the pioneer days of motion pictures when Mary Pick- ford was eager to get a little job, . and try to realize the tre- mendous changes that have been wrought during eight short years and less in the lives of so many of the brightly twinkl- ing motion picture stars of to-day. In the fall of 1907 Mr. Griffith had a play produced by James K. Hackett, called "A Fool and a Girl." Incidentally the star of this production and her leading man are now two of Jesse Lasky's Famous Players — Fannie Ward and Jack Deane — and it was in this play they first met. Mr. Hackett, very gen- erous to an unknown playwright, had given Mr. Griffith, as ad- vance royalty on accepting the play, a check for seven hundred dollars. By the time the play was produced, that then enor- mous sum of money had dwindled to little more than seven hundred cents, so it was with anxious forebodings we watched the premiere of that first little play. The writing on the wall spelled "failure," and the seven hundred cents were nearer to seventy cents some months later, when the rent was coming due and we had not the wherewithal to pay it. We happened to hear of a place called the American Biograph, at 11 East Four- teenth Street, where they bought little stories for moving pic- tures for fifteen dollars and where one could act in these pic- tures for three and five dollars a day. Timidly we called there. The elder Mr. McCutcheon was putting on a picture. What a funny little place the studio was! Stuffy and hot, with greenish-blue banks of lights, scene paint- ers, carpenters, camera man, actors and director all in the one room, the ballroom in what form- erly was the residence of one of New York City's aristocratic fam- ilies. We were engaged for a pict ure — a version of ' ' When Knighthood Was in Flower," di- rected by young Mr. Wallace McCutcheon. No Monday night in stock or opening night en tour ever gave me cold shivers and heart pal- pitation like my first day working in a moving picture. The horribly ugly lights making us look like dead people, the calm and indiffer- ent way in which we didn't re- hearse, the chalk lines on the floor marking off the acting space, and that camera trained on us like a gatling gun ready to send us to eternity when it began to operate ! I think the intense nervousness was mostly caused, however, by the realization that I knew I had to make good, for, oh, how we needed the money ! This would enable us to stay in New York, and Mr. Griffith could devote his spare time to writing plays — his one and only ambition. The movies were now to provide the means thereto — the bridge that was to carry us over to the enchanted land of the successful playwright. We aslo did Mutuscopes in those days. They were sent out West, and Mr. H. N. Marvin, the then president of the Bio- graph, on occasion came in and directed them. In fact, in one short week I had worked for Mr. McCutcheon, Mr. Marvin and Mr. Stanner E. V. Taylor. We seemed to have a new director almost every day. Mr. Taylor asked me one day if I could play a lead in a melodrama. Melodrama wasn't exactly in my line, but I said "yes." I felt in my heart that I could have played anything, from Lady Macbeth to "Little Eva." We produced the picture. During the course of it, according to the play, my husband beat me, I fainted dead away at the climax of the courtroom scene, deserted my two babies on the steps of a con- vent, and finally ended my sorrowful life by jumping off the Palisades. The picture was never released, but it gave me the honor of playing the leading part in the first picture Mr. Griffith was afterwards to direct for the Biograph, the now historic "Adven- tures of Dolly." I was Dolly, and the late Arthur Johnson was Dolly's young husband. How much money I made ! Twenty- eight dollars in two weeks, enough for a whole spring outfit — suit, blouse, hat, shoes and gloves. Then Mr. Griffith wrote several scenarios — one of the first was a version of the old poem, "Over the Hills to the Poorhouse" — and one day they gave him a picture and asked him to produce it. It was no easy story to produce for a first picture, for it had a number of scenes in which a barrel sup- posed to contain a baby had to float down- stream over waterfalls, etc. It was rumored about the studio that they had handed Griffith a "lemon." Well, he accepted the "lemon" ! Who was to play in this picture? There B.OGHAPH One of the first pictures in which Linda Arvidson Griffith appeared, "When Knighthood Was in Flower." From left to right is Mrs. Griffith, David Griffith, Ann Lorley and Harry Salter. was no stock company of actors to draw from, and no pictures were ever shown in New York that Bio- graph had ever produced, so how was he to cast " The Adventures of Dolly"? In order to get some sort of a line on things, in the little projection room upstairs Mr. Mar- vin had the boy run off a few pic- tures, and one of these was the melodrama done by Mr. Taylor and in which I had played the lead. That night Mr. Griffith said to me: "You'll play the lead in my first picture. Not because you're my wife, but because you're a good actress. But where shall I get a man who looks like a regular husband and like he owned more than a cigarette?" He walked Broadway, looking for his type, and he found him in Arthur Johnson, whom he ap- proached on the street and asked if he would care to work in a mov- ing picture. Mr. Johnson replied: "I am sure I don't know what they are, but I'm willing to take a chance." It proved to be not much of a chance, but to my mind no personality ever flickered on the screen that had the sweetness, good humor andl ikeableness of dear, departed Arthur Johnson. How "Dolly" went out into the world and won — how she broke the deadlock against Biograph pictures being shown in New York — is now a matter of moving picture history, as is also the fact that when the so-called "lemon" that had been handed to Mr. Griffith was shown the Biograph heads, they dismissed all preceding directors and gave the floor to Mr. Griffith. © >S He Passed Him In Jimmy was resourceful, and although he possessed but a nickel, he resolved to see the ten-cent picture show and put down his money with a determined air at the ticket booth. "Admission ten cents," reminded the ticket seller. "Say," said Jimmy, with an explanatory air, "that's all right for most folks; but I only got one eye, and you can't ex- pect me to pay for seeing the whole show." They passed him in. IB ® It Loomed Up "Was the past of that motion picture actress in the dark?" "Yes, until her friends turned the searchlight on it." A False Impression He was a novice in the movies. His first stunt was to walk into a scene, kiss a girl, and then exit. After he had done so, he told a fellow extra that the girl he k-ssed had painted lips. "How do you know?" he was asked. "Because I printed a kiss on them, and mine showed the proof." calmly reading a new book, with his marriage ceremony only or twenty minutes away and the bridal party waiting him. He forgets the ring and the tickets and money for his wedding trip. At the hotel he goes out to mail some important letters and forgets the location and name of his hotel, until a policeman in- forms him that he is standing directly in front of it. Mr. Drew has become so interested in the future of the motion picture and its endless possibilities that he has allied himself per- manently with its newer interests and will remain in the picture field. Barring the Bars. Kansas has found another way to get into the limelight. The moving-picture censors, evidently selected from the ladies' aid societies of the small towns in the State, have arrived at their COPYRIGHT, VITAGRAPH COMPANY OF AMERICA SIDXl-.Y DREW. Sidnew Drew as Actor-Director-Producer. CIDNEY DREW became interested in motion pictures some years ago when he was with the \'itagraph Stock Company-. He not only plays the leading characters in all his pictures, but is the directing producer and turns out an aver- age of a picture a week — an exceptional record even in these times of rapid production. One of the best comedies is "The Professor's Painless Cure," in which he plays the pro- fessor, with Mrs. Sidney Drew as the professor's wife. The professor is an absentminded book- worm, who is found sitting in his library, with his hat on and a raised umbrella over his head. riF AMERICA COPYRIGHT, VIT'GRAPH COMPA THE PROFESSOR FORGETS HIS WEDDING DAY, IN THE JOYS OF READING. COPYRIGHT, VITAGRAPH COMPANY OF AMERICA SIDNEY DREW IN ONE OF HIS BEST SCENES. second wind and are proceeding to put a wallop into the motion-picture business. They barred ' ' When We Were Twenty- one, " and liked their job so well that they unbarred all of the drinking and saloon scenes in every film that essayed to show in the State. Barring the bars they put up themselves, they won't allow a bar in the State. They have gone further than that and cut out all scenes that have a tendency to put the "idle rich" to the fore. There are plenty of rich people out in Kansas; but none of them are idle, by gum ! and they don't propose to have any picture shows come in and set them a bad example. The censors are not disturbed by the storm they have raised about their ears, and are still on the job. No one would mistake Georgie Stone in this picture as a "mother's itty-bitty-cherub-boy.' dropped down for a noonday nap. He has just The Fate of the Amateur By J. W. GARDEN TTE WROTE a grand drama from Homer, laid the scenes on ■*•■■• the banks of the Nile. "It's a classic, and that's no mis- nomer," he remarked to himself, with a smile. All the gods in mythology's pages he pictured with Venus and Mars, and he "caste" all the hoary-haired sages who were gifted for reading the stars. He pored over tomes spiritualistic, till ghost-faces haunted each dream, just to give it a touch that was mystic and to help "local color" his theme. "This," he said, "fame and fortune will bring me." He hunted up two or three banks in which to deposit, but ding me if they didn't return it "with thanks" ! But he still dreamed of fortune and glory and refused to go down in defeat. He would picture a more modern story, as the classics now seemed obsolete. "A nautical yarn, I've a notion, will appeal to the thrill-loving heart — one that smells of the deep, briny ocean, with each character true to his part." So he drew for his "lead" a rough sailor, who should head a pirat- ical bunch, as they butchered the crew of some whaler, in a scene full of bloodshed and "punch." 'Twas a style that in plot swiftly thickens, and he named it "The Corsair in Black." Well, he mailed it, and then what the dickens do you think? Why, they sent it right back ! Then bo prayed for the talent or magic to write something film makers would buy. "There is nothing dramatic or tragic they will take, " he would mournfully sigh. "Ah, a comedy! Gosh, that's the caper ! Why, I ought to have done it before !" Then he purchased more manuscript paper and stamps some three hundred or more. 'Twas returned, with a few lines ex- plaining his "script" was the rottenest dope. "You might, sir," he read, "with some training, learn to advertise some brand of soap." This an editor wrote without pity to that photo-play-right. Now he drives a jitney-Ford and earns four dollars a day. What Did the Screen's Favorites Do Before They Took Up Their Career In the Pictures ? How did they get the opportunity to start those careers? The Vitagraph-Lubin Selig-Essanay, Inc., known as "The Big Four," has published a book called "Who's Who in V. L. S. E. Plays," in which much out-of-the-ordinary information about favorite stars is set forth. For instance, in it you will find that Anita Stewart, before her screen debut, appeared on the covers of the popular maga- zines, having been a model for prominent artists. Lillian Walker was a telephone operator and an end in the "Follies," and her lines — now silent ones — have been busy ever since. Richard Buhler used to "sling" soda in a Washington drug- store. Baby Jean Frazer is called "Steve" by her father, because when she came he was expecting a boy. Henry B. Walthall, "The Mansfield of the Movies," studied law, went to war and began in the pictures as a ditch digger. Earle Williams was a phonograph salesman, when he had to talk for a living. Edna Mayo is an expert sculptor, painter, swimmer and rifle shot. Kathlyn Williams would much rather play with a wild tiger than with a cat or a dog. William Gillette took special courses in the University of New York, Massachusetts Institute of Technology and Boston University, before setting out to conquer the drama. George Cooper went into the movies when he lost his beau- tiful tenor voice while with Fiske O'Hara. Naomi Childers wants to appear in comedies, but her "boss" won't allow it, because she is too good in drama. Marguerite Clayton was brought up in a convent. Charles Richman likes the pictures so well, he doesn't care if he never returns to the spoken drama. Hart Wanted a Regular Boy, So He Picked Qeorgie Stone William S. Hart picking out his "reg'lar boy-kid. A CRISP, business-looking person strolled into the Triangle studio at Los Angeles and looked over the long stretches of open- air stage. "I want to borrow a baby, ma'am — a sort of yearlin' baby, so to speak," he remarked plaintively to the very energetic lady on guard at the gate (and who sports a full-sized, honest-to-goodness police badge, and whose business it is to protect everything feminine from cradle age on up to full-star size). "William S. Hart," retorted that person severely, "you just get along with you and run back onto your own lot! The idea of your coming over here to borrow one of our babies!" Hart grinned — a soft, amiable, easy, go-as-you-please grin that has played its winning part wherever movie audiences have gathered to witness Western dramas on the screen. "Say, " he went on persuasively, "can't you lend me a baby? I'm up against it, honest. Just naturally got to have one. I've come all the way over from Culver City, and if I don't get no baby, it will sure be a mighty big disappointment. Don't you think, seeing as we-all in this here Triangle Film outfit sort o' regular kith 'n' kin, so to speak, that you could lend a feller a baby?" Chester and Sidney Franklin, brothers and directors of the group of Triangle children that have been organized at the Fine Arts, joined the little group that had gathered. Mr. Hart winked impressively. "Say," he went on, "do you know, it does me good to get out! This is the first stage that I have seen in Los Angeles moving pictures here except that of our own outfit I'm a regular stay-at-home. But we've got a kid play that I've been working on — kid, dog, doting daddy. Old Glory and— Well, I won't give any more away just now. But I've been up against it for a kid— just a regular boy baby kid. There's plenty of nice Little Lord Fauntleroys in the market and angel cherubs and honeybubs, etcetery, etcetery; but what I've got to have is a hard-fisted, tough- knuckled little chap about six years old— a regular little fellow that can worm his way into the heart- strings of as tough an old sourdough as ever came down the pike. So you can see that no mother's itty-bitty-cheep-cheep cherub is going to fill the bill." It happened to be the school hour — four o'clock and all the Triangle children attend the special school in the studio from four to six — and the studio automobiles came in from the picture taking back in the hills, with their companies of forty-niners, Indians, trappers and high-heeled genuine cow-punch- ers, and with their children in the childish fashions and rags of seventy years and more ago. Hart play- ed with them, patted them, joked with them, like an expert in kind-^rgarten or Montessori systems, and all the time was sifting them shrewdly. "There's your boy!" said the Franklin brothers together, as a little fellow with tangled hair tumbled out of an automobile that pulled into the yard. His overcoat was on hindside before, and he proudly re- garded this feat of his own imagination as he trotted over the open-air stage in pathetic, worn-out moccasins. Beneath it showed the tattered jeans and shredded shirt of the child of the frontier, the part he had been playing during the day. This was Georgie Stone. Hart shook hands gravely and shrewdly looked him over. "Like to play a nice part with a dog, Georgie?" he asked. Georgie nodded solemnly. "And with shoes instead of moccasins, Georgie?" added Hart. Georgie looked down speculatively at his worn-out footgear of the plains as he reached up and patted Hart on the knee. "They's my shootin' shoes, " he explained slowly. "They's my shootin' shoes, because my toes is a-shootin' through 'em. He says so !" And he pointed solemnly to Chester Franklin. Then Georgie went on into school, all unconscious of the fact that in the next ten minutes he had been formally bor- rowed, to be with William S. Hart in a photoplay that, as Hart himself described it, "Play! Why, there isn't any star in it except the kid. It's all kid and dog, and the rest of us just come in to sort of act as props and such ! "And, say," he added cheerfully, as he climbed into his automobile to go back to the Culver City studio, "there is only one infant kid that could play the part, and that's this Georgie. I've seen him act VJv\''„V before I ever came over here to borrow a baby — f/jK and he was the one I was after!" ^^-J '^^^^ "And," said Chester Franklin plaintively, as he turned to brother Franklin, "we thought /' we were helping him pic' - '"' TRJANGLE-FiNE ARTS PHOTO BV CARPENTER Lucile Brown, Official Mother To Five Hundred Screen Qirls nPHAT is something of a considerable job, when you realize that being an unofficial parent to only two or three girls has brought gray hairs to many a motherly brow. Not that Miss Brown has a gray hair in her head. On the contrary, she has a lot of very blond hair, smartly dressed, and she looks more like an official sister than the title with which she has been dubbed in the Triangle studios. Miss Brown is on the job every minute. She wears an im- posing badge, with her title, "OFFICIAL MOTHER," engraved on it. She: has to be chaperon when called upon, and the rest of her duties consist in advising, hiring, disciplining and ad- justing difficulties of all kinds and at all times. Few of us would care to undertake mothering five hundred girls in a mo- tion picture studio; but Miss Brown keeps that pleasant smile working all day and has complete control of the situation. She was willing enough to talk of her job, but how could one talk when interruptions flew thick and fast. "Why, it's easy enough," began Miss Brown. "Yes, all right, I'm coming. The costumes are all ready for that ball- room set. Here they are. You see, I — What do you want? Twenty orphanage girls to leave for location at eight in the morning? All right; I'll have them ready. Let's see; where were we? Oh, I was telling you how I happened to — Girl mashed her finger? All right; send her up here. I guess I can dress it. Now, perhaps we can go on without — ■ No, those draperies are not right. They don't hang right. Wait a min- ute. I'll have to go out to that set and arrange them." Anyway, Miss Brown went into the studio as an extra girl. Some days she had work, and more days she had not. She did plenty of watching and keeping silence on the days when she stood around. One day something was wrong with the arrange- ment of a room. The director knew it was wrong, but for the life of him he couldn't tell just where it was. He stormed vig- orously, and while he stormed, a quiet girl stole on the scene, re-arranged it and ironed out all the difficulties of the back- ground. To tell the plain truth, there isn't a man living, great as he may be, who can look after details of gowns and draperies and furniture arrangement as a woman can. Miss Brown seldom wasted time telling them what was wrong. She merely slipped in and did it over. And the directors heaved a sigh of relief at knowing that whatever it was that was wrong was now right. No matter what the books say, no director relishes an extra girl coming in and telling him what to do. But they did welcome a girl who had a talent for getting a set right without making any stir over it. All of a sudden, Mr. Griffith noticed that she seemed to be quietly smoothing out a lot of wrinkles around the place and was claiming no credit for it. "Now, here," he said; "I can get plenty of good actresses, but not once in a blue moon can I find a woman who knows just what to do and when to do it. I notice you get along with all these girls, too. Suppose you just take hold here and give a woman's eye to all proceedings — chaperon the girls and look after their costumes and organize dancing schools and spur up the slackers and get up some clubs and manage the mob scenes. It looked like a pretty large order, but Miss Brown tackled it. She is a human dynamo among those girls. Sis Hopkins, in "Setting the Fashion," is left in charge of the hairdressing parlor, with delightful results. Sis only knows one way of doing up hair, and the result is a pigtail effect at the fashionable dance. Mary Miles Minter on Superstition "You know," said Mary Miles Minter, when she saw the Two-minute Interviewer approaching in a businesslike way, "the best thing about you is that you do not take up an entire afternoon's time, and then rave about cars, beauty or gowns." " It is my business to write facts," said the Two-minute Interviewer tersely. "Hurry, now. Let's see what you can tell us in two minutes. What's this number over your dress- ing-room door? Evidently you are not superstitious." Miss Minter gazed thoughtfully at the door. "The studio manager of- fered to take that down when I came," she said; "but I rather like it — it's different. And, besides, what use would it be to take down that 13 number from my door when there are exactly 13 members in my company and 13 char- acters in my new play and the number of the company is 13? What do you think of that?" she added triumphantly. "Not much," said the Two-minute Interviewer. "That isn't all, " she went on. "I arrived here on the 12:13 express, and my bag- gage number was 13. I had stateroom number 13 part of the way out, and there were 13 people at the table at din- ner the first night I came. Sis tries an electric vibrator and finds it a ticklish task. All that poor Sis could understand of the lecture was "salt" and "gunpowder. " She tried out the experiment, but "Her Great Invention" resulted somewhat as shown here. Me afraid of that little num- ber ! I should say not ! "Why, it's my lucky number!" "That's good," said the Two-minute Interviewer. "It's all yours, that number." Get Busy, Writers "Tell everybody who can write that now is the time to get busy on feature scena- rios." James Kirkwood, late of the Famous Players, made this speech as he was boarding the train for Santa Barbara, Cal., where he is to direct special productions for the .'American Film Company. Every scenario writer in the crowd stood at attention and fumbled for notebooks. This was promising. "There is a dearth of first-class material," went on Mr. Kirkwood. "Thedayof the tommy-rot, slushy story is passing, just as rapidly as the carelessly made and cheap feature productions. The ef- fort that goes into making the photoplay a real art produc- tion is promised fuller recog- nition — and greater remuner- ation. No really good scen- ario has to hunt long for a market. I would like to see a few myself. I happen to know that frequently expen- sive stars and producers have been idle for long periods, simply because proper scen- arios could not be found." PARAMOUNT ANIMATED CARTOONS As motive power, the goat beats gasoline. have no terrors for him. PARAMOUNT ANIMATED CAETOON'. Speed cops Old Man Al Falfa might not stack up in the city rid- ing bunch; but at home he shows class. Well Chilled The scene showed a sick man holding a bottle of medicine in his hand. A close-up of the bottle was flashed. The label on the vial read: "Shake well before using." "What does that mean?" asked Casey of his wife. "That means that he must not take that stuff unless he has had a chill." He Named It The picture on the screen was one dealing with a fete day in Italy. The scene on the screen showed a number of children dancing. Said one little boy to another, "I know now; it is called ' feet' day because everybody is dancing. ' ' PARAMOUNT ANIMATED CARTOONS Bobby was told to practice the scales while his father read the paper, but Bobby didn't like to practice. PARAMOUNT ANIMATED CARTOONS He's the goat, as you can see, and who but a goat would keep a lighted cigar so close to a soup can? Before Filmville's Policeman Goes On Duty, He Raises His kignt Hand and Takes Oath to Uphold the Law of Averages. Then They Give Him a Badge and Send Him Out to Keep the Plot From Skidding Too Far in Either Direction r F Events are moving like the Sunny Slope of a Roller Coaster, the Policeman kill- joys the situation by arresting a few Leading Citizens on Suspicion. But if the affair is developing into a Gloomfest, the Cop is as- signed to the Sunshine Squad and collides with his Own Feet on the Station Steps, un- tangling himself from the Result, only to dive into the Cowcatcher of a Portly Pedes- trian with an armful of Explosive Bundles. Filmville's Cop leads a Triple Life, thus If) \\\\ getting a Fifty Per Cent. Edge on the Day j/kr^ W y\\ Foreman of the Bank, who turns to Crime £^B^ ^ at Sunset. He defends the Majesty of the ^ w Law, goes Even Splits with the Villain, or qualifies as a Slapstick Expert with Equal Ease. At the first sign of Boredom, Filmville tells its Troubles to the Police- man, and unless he relieves the Monotony, they bring him up on Charges. Like all General Utility Men, the Cop suffers from Neglect in the Grand-stand. Filmville takes him for granted to such an extent that the Income Tax rarely drives him to Mental Arith- metic. Unlike other Filmvillers of Humble Origin, however, he is never asked to fill a Temporary Vacancy as Hero, so that his Minor Faults may be checked up to Anarchy and allied forms of Vexation. When engaged in Routine Duty, the Policeman is so serious that a Joke would make him Whistle for the Reserves. He is the only Resident of the town who draws Pay for Padlocking his Feelings, his Facial Expression being Twin to a Cemetery WalL In this Mood he is called on to Arrest the Hero, which he does without waving an Eyelash till the Heroine objects. His Answer depends wholly on the Clock. Early in the Day's Work he is likely to regard her as a Petty Nuisance and leaves her to tag him to Headquarters to argue it out with the Man Higher Up. Later in the Reel, however, he often takes her Word for it that the Hero should be allowed to send Regrets. On these occasions he takes Chances on the Roundsman. But all Regulations are Officially Suspended when the Comedy Alarm sounds and the Policeman starts out to Quell the solem- nity. Here his Uniform is his Best Friend. Without it, he would probably be a Flivver as a Comedian; but a Heavy Tap planted in the Digestion of a Large Blue Uniform is Filmville's idea of Regular Fun, especially when it knocks the Cop into a Barrel of Paint or the Rear Feelers of a six-cylinder Mule. When on this Detail the Policeman is invariably in pursuit of a Nimble Rascal, whose Batting Average depends on the number of Mishaps into which he can Lure the Bluecoat. The Cop is no Shrimp as a BM .^n Speed Artist and could outleg the Criminal '^Lr\ without a Wheeze, if he did not do his Run- / /\\ ning and his Thinking in Opposite Direc- ^- tions. But at each Calamity he loses a Lap. His disasters range all the way from plunging into a Clothes Line full of Family Washing, with a Ghost Dance before he can ^ unwind himself, to Double Quicking into an Extra Juicy Mudhole. Spectators along the Route contribute Banana Peels at Strategic Points and insert their Self Defense in Delicate Points of his Anatomy. Where Building Op- erations are in progress, he invariably pur- sues the Fugitive to the Third Floor and emerges in a Coating of Mortar which renders his Future Plans useless. . Filmville does not need to provide a Gymnasium in which the Cop may keep his Girth wichin reaching distance of his Belt. It gives him a Comedy Assignment instead. The Policeman's Dream of Reward for Service in the Ranks is to become Lieutenant at Headquarters. This enables him to sit behind the Desk and summon a Platoon of Square Toes by pressing a Buzzer. Most of his Waking Moments are spent nodding into the Telephone as the Heroine gives notice that Father, alias the Leading Citizen, has been Time Locked in the Vault. The Lieutenant's Calmness at this Distressing News shows that Previous Experience has been Good for his Nerves. . ^_> The Lieutenant has charge of the Prelim- y^p/- inary Hearing in all cases where Members of High Society require the Services of a Jury. (Most of the duties that are elsewhere lodged in the Coroner, Trial Justice, District Attor- ney and Grand Jury are concentrated in the Lieutenant. This makes his Job one of Pe- culiar Dignity. If the Heroine is accused of feeding Overdoses of Arsenic to her Guardian, but calls the Ceiling to Witness that he still had Two New Dance Steps to teach her, the Lieutenant orders her Instant Release. When the Hero is brought in on the charge of Dynamiting the Bank Examiner without a Hunter's License, he is lucky if he is merely Sentenced for Life by the Same Author- ity. Filmville's Supreme Court has Little to do but Review the Proceedings of the Lieutenant. These Duties, however, are performed only when the Plot has Escaped from the Residence District. Where Justice has to be delivered at the Customer's Home, the Lieutenant gives way to the Chief. If the Village Capitalist is Already in his Slippers for the Evening when he decides to enforce Family Discipline with the aid of the Statute Bock, the Chief responds. When the Son has tampered with Next Month's Allowance in Advance, the Chief regretfully sends him up. If the Daugh- ter is suspected of Conspiracy to elope with a Non-support Case, the Chief questions the Servants sharply, and then sneers at the Capitalist for letting Suspicion boob him. Filmville's Patrolman never aspires to this Dignity, because the Chief's Facility with his Features shows that he did not Rise from the Ranks. But the Cop lives in y^ the Hope that if he conducts himself solemnly enough wherever a Cross marks the Spot and is sufficiently lively when serving with the Knock-about Squad, he may become a Lieu- tenant before the Pension Fund clutches^ him. —Walter S. Ball. TRIANGLE While the Triangle kiddies were waiting for a call to re- hearse, Douglas Fairbanks amused them by teaching them a new string puzzle. IQg 1 HI ■Mttai 1 1 ^^K* ^!3m^ *^i H| rMn^l jm 1 [By ^'^^^-^ «>^^^^^H * .»/^B ^^H^r ** ' fl ^^ ■Jll>i y <«ig^^^^^^^ TRIANGLE George Stone, as the little waif in "Going Straight," no friend but a hungry little slum kitten that he devotedly loves. has Fairbanks and His Triangle Kiddies nPHE Triangle kiddies have a new playfellow. Douglas Fair- banks and his lasso divide their spare time about evenly between a bunch of old-time cowpunchers with a taste for box- ing and wrestling and the children. They adore him. Not long ago he was showing them some rope tricks, when Violet Radcliffe, aged seven, who has a Castle-cut and often plays boy's parts, took the rope and in a flash had it spinning in the air. She was the heroine of the hour. Thereupon began a junior class in rope tricks, with Fairbanks as teacher. Then Francis Carpenter and Fairbanks had a boxing bout. Francis is four, going on five. It was a lively bout. Francis closed in and landed a body blow. His antagonist sank limply to the stage, and Francis stood over him and counted him out. When Fairbanks was up, Francis came back and held out his hand. "Mr. Fairbanks," he said, "I'm willing to call it square, if you are." TRIANGLE In this scene from "Going Straight," mother comes upon the kiddies just in time to find the Chinese cook gorging them with a feast of cream puffs. VITAGRAPH Gasoline waiting for her cue in a rehearsal. No move- ment or sound of the director escapes her sharp green eyes, and she is ready at the first call. Her first gasoline bath was an accident. She fell into a can of it and emerged so clean and odorous that it has become a regular habit of cleanliness. She Pussy=footed Into the Screien BEINQ THE TALE OF A CAT ffil _ npHERE has been a new and satisfactory pol- icy in regard to character bits allotted to cats. A new and versatile cat is taking all the fat feline parts. Formerly no one cat seemed to have a fre- quent place in any of the productions. Inex- perienced and transient cats were used. They suff:-red from nervousness and lack of judg- ment and insufl[icient talent. And good extra cats were not always to be had. Then "Gasoline" arrived. She is a stately cat of the great- est self-possession and histrionic ability. As a type, Gasoline is striking. As a member of the stock, she is indispensable. She has arrived. She is a Personality, Gas is. She did not romp into the game on a pathway spread with roses and catnip. Hers was the bitter struggle of those who essay to enter a profession already overcrowded. She practi- cally had to pussy-foot her way into the studio where she now enjoys a regal immunity. Before the rise of Gasoline's stock, cats had been casual em- ployees, like mob members and elderly extras and babies by the day. But they were never around when you wanted them, and the directors were often in distressful need of a good, re- sourceful, obedient cat that was not camera-shy. Neighborhood cats were apt to be crude, wild eyed, untrained creatures that had to be dragged into the sets and tied with strips of soft cloth to maintain them in indolent domesticity. Then Gasoline cut in. She haunted the outskirts of the studio at first, wandering in occasionally with an absent-minded air that sought to frustrate suspicion. Large and impatient feet hoisted her out again. She kept oozing back into the premises right along, arching herself along with a deprecatory manner that gradually won her friends at court. She had sev- eral good points. She kept punctual hours, being right on hand with the rest of the employees ; and she had very ladylike habits. At last came her great opportunity. Her inspiration led her to be found asleep on the surface of a lemon meringue pie. The scene was taken before she was observed, and there ensued wild clamor for her life. It meant a retake. ' ' Not on your life ! " whooped the director, who knew a good thing when he saw it. "It's the making of this scene!" Her stage presence, her grace and her aplomb have never deserted Gasoline from that moment. She has been called upon to play difficult cat parts in many plays and invariably receives with serenity the avowed admiration of everybody. Gasoline is passionately fond of her art. She has resolved to devote all her lives to it. She is so enthubiastic, in fact, that she needs to be watched, lest she walk into scenes that were better catless. Once the camera begins grinding and the blue lights flicker. Gasoline is right on the job, purring anx- iously and waiting her cue with gleaming eyes and twitching tail tip. That's all aboul Gasoline, except how she got her name. She received it with her art and advent into stardom. For sometimes she gets a trifle dusty and shopworn, and it has been the practice to dry-clean her. For this reason she generally enters a scene with a faint odor of gasoline about her per- fectly clean, but a trifle insistent. And hence the name. Ivy Close, as the little newsboy detective in ' ' Darkest London. ' ' In the same play Miss Close was the scrubwoman Sallie's double. Ivy Close, Noted English Beauty, Finds it Difficult to Get a Cup of Tea in America TVY CLOSE, who has been called the most photographed woman in the world, arrived rece.itly in America for her first visit to this side. She is going to put on some high-class comedies for the Kalem Company. Her bewilderment at the strange American customs was amusing. The first stunt she pulled off was to pay three dollars to learn just how to count American money. She changed a fi' p'und note, and they handed her a lot of dollar bills and half dollars. She regarded them curiously when she opened her purse to pay for her first breakfast. The waiter regarded her meditatively. He was convinced that she was new to dollar bills and decided to frame his action accordingly. "How many pennies — no; cents, you call them — in a dol- lar?" asked Miss Close, with fingers poised over her purse. "Twenty-five," said the waiter confidently. So Miss Close paid three dollars for a seventy-five-cent breakfast and only discovered her mistake later, when asking her maid the value of American money. "That wasn't all," explained Miss Close. "I made a hor- rible mistake the very first night I arrived. I roamed around in my hotel room, searching for the bell to summon the cham_ bermaid, to tell her just when I wanted my morning cup of tea. We cannot wake up at home without our cup of tea, you know. How you American women get along without it, I cannot see. So when I saw a little white button in the wall, I punched it, thinking it was the bell. "Immediately the lights went out! "Having seen another small white button in the adjacent territory, I quickly punched that. Immediately a fan arrange- ment in tne ceiling began to whirl. I was in despair, so I ven- tured out in the corridor. I had seen numbers of small lads in buttons running about, but no chambermaids, as we have at home. At last I spied a girl sitting at a table at the end of the hall. I brightened up. I approached her cautiously. " 'Could you please bring me a cup of tea at eight o'clock in the morning?' I said, as courteously as I could. "The girl glared at me. " 'I don't bring tea,' she said coldly. 'If you wish break- fast, telephone to the cafe, and a waiter will bring it up.' " 'Not breakfast,' I pointed out politely. 'Just my waking- up cup of tea. I couldn't think of having a waiter bring it to me. Have you no chambermaids?' " 'The chambermaids do not serve meals,' she responded. 'You must telephone for it to the cafe.' "I discovered later that I had committed a gross lese majeste in asking a floor clerk to bring me a cup of tea ! But how was I to know?" So Miss Close went without her cup of tea until her maid arrived and saw to it that she had her "waking-up" cup of tea. And although she had dreaded arriving in New York, no sooner had she come and discovered its beauties than she dreaded leav- ing at once for Jacksonville, where the rehearsals will take place. "I never saw such a place," she said. "Why, you are won- derful ! You work all day and laugh all night. In England we are sad now; but I never saw people laugh and enjoy comedy as they do here. It quite cheers me up, and I hope to give them some comedy to laugh at as well. "And the dancing! We have nothing like it in England. I enjoy going out to dinner with my friends and seeing the people dance between courses. No wonder you are so energetic and pro- gressive over here. You enjoy your amuse- ments so greatly. Everybody dances — young, middle-aged and old. I think it is the most wonderful thing I ever saw — the dancing and the laughter. It has given me an insight into what you want in comedy." The Snow Cure — The Bear — and the Rabbit 'pHE BEAR and the rab- bit occupy a consid- erable portion of the story and of the screen in this latest Keystone comedy. Ford Sterling says that act- ing with a zoo has its dis- advantages. He says this possibly because he had a bout with the rabbit he uses in the play. They didn't have much trouble with the bear, who was amenable to discipline and was right on the job every moment. But the rabbit was something else again. His bit was to run 100 yards. They selected a well- recommended rabbit and turned him loose, with confidence in his ability. But the trouble was that Bunny refused to stop at the 100 yards. Like the runner in the faked race, TRIANGLE-KEYSTONE Dr. Quack (James Donnelly) carefully tests the lungs of a patient (Ford Sterling) and promises him a sure cure. who was afraid to come back and face his accusers, the rabbit kept right on running, regardless of the fact that they needed him again. They had two more rabbit scenes. They found him again, however. He got tangled up w ith a trap arrange- ment a farm boy had put out, and he was returned for a reward and behaved himself pretty well after that. You'll like "The Snow Cure." It's funny. There are one or two scenes that might as well have been eliminated. Some time we will have a comedy di- rector who will get his di- rection trained on the point that a picture can be funny without being vulgar or coarse. Not many of them believe it yet, but they TRIANGLE-KEYSTONE The fat, lean and medium patients have been assured of a cure for their ailments by Dr. Quack, who sends them out for a v/alk in the snow and sends a jolly brown bear to chase them into a brisk circulation. will in time. The box office will recognize it first. Ford Sterling is a gay bachelor, who endeavors to build up a flirtation with the pretty wife of his neighbor in the apartment across the hall. The hus- band has other ideas on the subject, however, and in- flicts them rather suddenly and violently on the flirta- tious Ford. Husband then takes his wife and goes to their summer home, a cabin in the mountains. Ford has been "consid- erable shuk up, like," like the man in "The Hoosier Schoolmaster," and goes to take a course of treat- ment from Dr. Quack, who has a sanitarium in the same mountains, although Ford is not aware of this. Dr. Quack also has a jolly brown bear. He assures his patients that all they need is exercise to start TRIANGLE-KEYSTONE The flirtatious Ford, who is under the care of Dr. Quack, is chased by Bruin into the cabin of a jealous friend, who has a very pretty wife. Dr. Quack arrives in time to save his life. the circulation, and to be sure they get it, he sends the brown bear out after them when they go out for a walk. The bear is a sociable animal but he finds difficulty in catch- ing up with the bunch. Ford is chased by the bear to a cabin, and when he dashes inside, he dis- covers to his horror that his late neighbor and wife are also inside. The jeal- ous husband seizes a shot- gun to slay the flirtatious friend and is only re- strained by Dr. Quack, who has followed his pa- tient into the cabin and explains the situation. This is the outline of the story that Ford Ster- ling has heavily chinked with plenty of comedy ac- tion. There is stir in the picture from beginning to end, especially the action by the bear and the rabbit. TRIANGLE-KEYSTONE The patients of "The Snow Cure" return to the hotel grreatly out of breath, only to discover the bear who had chased them over the mountain, taking it easy in the office. FAMOUS PLAYERS After vainly attempting to wal-:en her younger brother, Norah assumes his duties and watches at dav/n for the coming of the elder brother with the day's supply of fish which are to be promptly taken to marl^et. "The I n n o HERE is a picture with comedy, with delicate flashes of subtle humor, with moments of thrill so tense that you forget to breathe, with beautiful photography and plenty of healthy, virile action. We should have more such plays as Lois Zell- ner has written for Valentine Grant in "The Innocent Lie." Norah is a typical Irish girl, who mothers her younger and lazy brother, who yearns to go to "Ameriky. " Heat- tempts to steal the savings of the family, but Norah forbids and gives him her share of the tiny family fortune — only a few pounds, but enough to pay his way to America. Then the elder and steady brother, fired by martial ambition, enlists and leaves Norah free to seek her brother and her fortune in America. There is another Norah who was booked for America, but who remains in Ireland to marry her sol- dier sweetheart at the last minute. This gives the motif for the play, for the other Norah bids the little peasant llorah to cent Lie" take her excuses to the wealthy aunt in America to whom she was going. There are thrilling scenes of thugs who desire to entice the little Irish girl when she arrives in America. But she is a canny little divvel and foils them with her Irish wit, only to be robbed of her money and thrown into the street, where she is picked up by the police. And now we have the story. You've guessed it, of course. For she has kept the address of the other Norah's wealthy aunt safely in her ragged gown and is taken there at once. Her incoherent ex- planations are taken for the natural rav- ings after such a severe fall, and she is soothed and quieted and accepted as the missing niece. So the poverty-stricken Irish girl is transformed into the daintily gowned, well-cared-for member of a wealthy New York household, until she meets her ne'er- do-well brother, who is a chauffeur. Her innate honesty and her love for her brother l^ad her to reveal her Innocent lie. FAMOUS FLA "THE INNOCENT LIE." Norah, after waking her lazy brother and setting him to work, hitches up the donkey and is off to market. FAMOUS PLAYERS The steady elder brother has brought in a good catch of fish for Nora to take to the market. FAMOUS PLAYERS 'Sure, your honor," she points out to a customer, "'tis an ele- gant fish and well worth a shilling. Not a penny less." FAMOUS PLAYERS Nora says good-by to the ne'er-do-well brother, who is going to America. "God bless you. then," she says, "and prosper you in the new land." FAMOUS PLAYERS Norah, left alone in her Irish cabin, goes to America in search of her brother and is led by fate to masquerade as another Irish Norah. FAMOUS PLAYERS Sidney Olcott explaining the details of a cabin scene in "Tlie Innocent Lie" to Valentine Grant, whio stars as Norah O'Brien, while the camera man waits patiently for the order to "Shoot!" FAMOUS PLAYERS Norah's honest Irish heart revolts at the innocent deception she has practiced, and leaving a note for the kind friends who believe her to be their niece, she goes to her brother. His dissolute pal chucks her under the chin, and Norah's Irish blood is roused. As you can see, there has been a peach of a fight. FAMOUS PLAYERS Not many girls would be so delighted at these simple garments, but Hazel Dawn, playing in "The Feud Girl," is genu- inely pleased at the opportunity to wear a hat and shoes once more. Hence her contented smile as she surveys herself in the handglass, while she is arraying herself for her screen wedding. Hazel, in her character as the little mountain girl, had been running about in her bare feet for several weeks, while rehearsing, and felt extremely dressed up when she had a chance to put on shoes once more. sun nmniiii IB nu 1 iniffl ■« ■■• imfc THE ONCE-OVER DorotK>l Harpur O'KTeill In tke Land of Make - Belie-Oe Fair Clarissa coylj) poses; Lurking cnallenge in ner gaze, Dimplea cnin caressing roses. All the Tp^orld's a screen to ner, For tke stage "legit" sKe "snook;" Once applause '(\'as wont to stir, Nov? sKe gi-Oes us all a look. Stuart Holmes. He Shoos the Shoes OTUART HOLMES will not buy a pair of shoes for himself. He always sends someone else to do the buying. Every time he ever bought a pair himself, he lost the job he had when the purchase was made. "It started when I was playing in a stock company in Milwaukee," he said. "I bought a pair of shoes and wore them that night. When I started across the stage in a very ticklish scene, people thought the theater was on the rocks. At first I thought it was because of my acting, but I soon found out it was the shoes. "The music made by those shoes drowned out the orchestra. The stage manager yelled at me. I took a step for- ward, hesitated with one foot in the air and stopped still. The added weight on the other foot caused the shoe to cry like a child. "By this time the audience and the company decided I was insane. The manager fined me and fired me. "Shoes were the greatest fear of my life. I got another part, and my shoes gave out. I bought a pair guaranteed not to squeak and that same night I lost my job. Once again I bought new shoes and .^^ was fired. Now I always get some friend to go in, buy shoes for me and have them delivered at my hotel. "I'll buy no shoes un- less the dealer will give bond that nothing happens to me." Some Kids When the two Lee children — Jane and Katherine — returned from Jamaica, their mother brought them to the home offices of the compahy. "Now, the offices are not like a studio," Mrs. Lee explained to the two youngsters. "These people are a.l very busy, and you must not make a noise." The kiddies behaved perfectly, and as they were leaving, Mrs. Lee told them she was very proud of them. "You don't know it," said little Jane, "but, mother, you've got some kids!" m & An Indeterminate Sentence ^ANYTHING in my line?" asked the -^ Two-minute Man of Carlyle Black- well, who had dropped into a comfortable chair at the Screen Club to look over the proofs of some photographs just in from his private photographers. "Would it be interesting to your read- ers to know that this sending of photo- graphs is going to break me up in busi- ness?" inquired Mr. Blackwell anxiously. "You know, we actors have to pay for all these photographs out of our own money. "That's your problem," returned the Two-minute Man coldly. "Haven't you something funny to tell me? Remember, I'm on a funny book." "Yes, sir," said Carlyle promptly, "I have something funny. You're all the time printing stories about what happened to film folks down South, and I've ac- quired the funniest story of all of them. I met an old colored driver down in a Southern city recently, who used to drive me around a lot. His philosophy was un- usually clever, and I generally lured him into conversation just to hear his quaint comments. One day we fell to talking about the excise laws, and I asked him about prohibition in that State. " 'Well, suh,' he said, flicking the old whip at the old horse, 'we do git a drap ov liquor into de State now and den, but the penalty suttinly am heavy.' " 'What do you know about the pen- alty, Uncle Mose?' I asked. " 'Whut I know about dat penalty?' he said. 'Well, suh, once I fetched a kaig ov beer across de line and got five months. Dat's huccome I know 'bout hit.' " 'Five months for a keg of beer!' I exclaimed incredulously. " 'Yassir, dat's whut I got. I reckon the penalty wouldn't 'a' ben so long, on'y de jailer he had a cow, and de jedge he knowed I could milk!' " it the prison Her Uebut Two sons of the old sod were watching a play dealing with prison life. A letter was screened, informing three sisters that an- other sist.r was to be released on a certain day. At the appointed time the three sisters were gate. "Oi wonder phot they are doing there, " said one. "Phaix, Oi suppose they are going to give her wan of thim 'coming out' parties." ^( S( A Perennial A close-up view of a pretty actress was shown. "Hasn't she a lovely complexion?" said a woman to her husband. "It is just like a flower." ' ' Yes, ' ' he answered ; ' ' but I am willing to bet that it is a blooming lie." The Silkworm Director — I hear the leading lady re- ceived a dozen pair of silk stockings for her birthday. Leading man — Yes; and I am the worm that furnished them. Actor — I wonder who prompted Smith to ask me for a loan? Miss Film — Perhaps it was the director. Carlyle Blackwell. KUL6E COMPANY Margaret Gale Waiting for Rehearsal in " How Mollie Made Good " MARGARET GALE, in a very charming screen, loves to feed her pet rabbit in the intervals lietween re- hearsals. Her rabbit accompanies her to the studio each day. Miss Gale had a very happy medium in one of her recent pic- tures, "How Molly Made Good," in which a little Irish girl scoops her competitors and overcomes many obstacles in get- ting interviews with twelve celebrities of the drama. It was a new idea, cleverly executed. The six-reel play gives faithful details of the home life of the twelve actors and actresses, and Miss Gale, as the little Irish girl, "plays the game" with an adroitness that wins her the sympathy of her audiences from the beginning. "Little Bunny's my mascot," says Miss Gale. "You read that story of Henry, the white rat, that Charley Van Loan wrote for some magazine? Corking story, wasn't it? Well, I feel the same way about my Bunny rabbit that Ham did about his white Henry rat. If I were to lose it— why, I'd quite playing in films, that's all. It isn't that I'm supersti- tious, you know— not exactly— but I certainly would hate to have anything happen to that rabbit." Now Mrs. Gale wants a play written for the rabbit. COPVBIGHT, 1616, ESLIE-JUDGE CO., NEW YORK DO I HEAR A LAUGH? An Easy Capture The picture on the screen showed a number of girls engaged in drill- ing. "Do you think that women would make good soldiers?" asked a girl of her escort. "Of course they would," was the reply; "and if they looked well at the front, they could easily capture plenty of sweethearts." m m A Stirred=up Hurri= cane "The funniest thing I've seen lately," said Kathryn Williams, "was seeing Director Heffron suffering from the cyclone he had or- dered himself. We were filming 'Into the Primitive,' and we needed a terrific hurricane. We couldn't seem to get just the effect with the usual equipment, so Mr. Heffron decided to make a cyclone to order. "Well, he did it, all right. He rigged up the big propellers of an aeroplane and set them at work, and the breeze they raised was a little bit of all right. They started a cyclone right then and there that nearly blew us off the set. Harry Lonsdale was blown completely from a chair, and Guy Oliver was hurled J "ff'^---mk> '.^^\ 5 m Mink Jones, in his role of expressman, who has mixed up a cargo of beer for the druggist and hymn books for the parson, is roughly handl- ed at the temperance meeting. almost through a plate- glass mirror. "While they were assorting themselves out and reassembling their general piL-ns and speci- fications, Mr. Heffron found himself busy in being blown immediately after his gloves, hat, script and glasses that flew lightly out the door. As for me — well, say, did you ever see a light- some ball of thistle- down dancing gayly over a meadow and tossed hither and yon by gentle breezes? That was the fashion in which little Kathryn made her exit from the studio and the propellers. And no more homemade cyclones for me, if you please !" © S Late for the Matinee The star, newly engaged for a picture, arrived at the studio two hours late. The director was icily regarding her when she entered with a breezy greeting. "Oh, good-morning!" she said brightly. " Lovely morning, isn't it?" "Yes," said the director briefly. "It was!" Mink Jones, as the general junkmaster of Jonesville, has a breakdown on the road. Helen Gonne says she hardly knows whether she would rather be in and looking out or out and looking in. Miss Gonne pos- sesses a marked ability to make funny faces, as you can see. Nothing But Dry Cleaning 'T'HE Two-minute Man approached Gertrude Robinson some- what slowly. She looks very serious at times. "I doubt if she knows anything funny," he said. "Yes, I do," chirped up Miss Robinson. "I know some- thing that sounded mighty funny when I heard it." "It might still sound funny," suggested the Two-minute Man. "Let's hear it. I've got about a stick and a half of space I could give to it." "Then I'll cut out the beginning and the ending and just tell you about it," said Miss Robinson. "I was down South one spring and went one night to a Baptist revival held among the colored folks. The preacher was ureing the congregation to repentance. " 'Come all yo' and git babtised!' he shouted. "'I done ben babtised by de Presbyterians,' explained a weeping old mammy. 'I'se got religion, and I'se done ben babtised.' "'Laws, sistah,' shouted the preacher, 'yo' ain't ben bab- tised — yo' jes' ben dry cleaned!' " Motion Pictures Are Becoming Popular with Wealthy Patrons A photoplay league is the newest thing. Such a league has been recently formed, for the encouragement of the higher forms of motion picture art. Its purpose is to create a demand and an appreciation for wholesome, attractive and instructive plays. It is a voluntary organization, made up from repre- sentative people. It is planned to organize an annual conven- tion of the members of the league, for the discussion of matters of general interest relating to the motion picture play in all parts of the country. This league has no connection with any producing or exhibiting organization. It is merely to represent the interests of the audience, to create an enlightened opinion and to ex- press the ideals of the great army of patrons of the silent drama. It has the cordial interest and active co-operation of men and women who believe it a duty to encourage the possi- bilities of the new art. Among the purposes of the league is that of the preserva- tion of films of permanent value in the public libraries, the provision of instructive motion pictures in our educational in- stitutions and special exhibitions of films on subjectsof national interest. The advisory committee of the league consists of Mrs. Charles Dana Gibson, Mrs. Charles H. Whitman, Adolph Lewi- sohn, Robert Erskine Ely, Helen Varick Boswell, Frederick A. Stokes, Henry Fairfield Osborn, Mrs. Willard D. Straight, George F. Kunz, Charles Dana Gibson, Mrs. Schuyler N. War- ren, Mrs. Claudia Q. Murphy, Betty Shannon, Frederick C. Howe, Mrs. Frederick Lee Ackerman, E. H. Sothern, Julia Mar- lowe, Mrs. Marcus M. Marks, Mrs. James Speyer, Lilian D. Wald, Reginald Pelham Bolton, Mrs. J. Borden Harriman and Cornelius Vanderbilt. Reel Advice It's a long reel that has no turning. Reel actors should never screen their faults. One good reel deserves another. m m Under Cover Ripp — I understand that the movie actor is up to his neck in debt. Rapp — Yes; I notice that he keeps under cover. m m The Valuation Movie hero — I think that I have overtaxed my mind. Miss Film — Well, you certainly wouldn't undervalue it. GAUMONT-MUTUAL Gertrude Robinson seems to be waiting at the window. Now, what would you say she was watching for — the postman, per^ haps?' No? Scenes From One=reel Comedies Rube Miller, as "The Man with the Hod," enlivens the noon hour by a little conversation with his sweetheart. Eva Nelson, in "Bill's Narrow Escape, " tells her husband just Tom Mix, as a schoolma am, wms over his girl's obdurate what she thinks of him. father. riiH I HT TEAR the latest film story?" said the Film Fan to the ■*■■*■ Grouch. "No? Of course not ! How could you, with that face? Well, Thomas A. Edison, the inventor of the mo- tion picture projector, gets a lot of letters containing sugges- tions as to suitable themes or plots for photoplays. It is only human nature for each person to think that the events that hap- pen to him or that come under his observation are the most im- portant happenings that transpire, I suppose, and it saams to be the opinion of the majority of people who have these "interest- ing little incidents' to relate that Mr. Edison is the proper man before whom to place the papers in the case. Once in a long while a letter is written by some unconscious humorist. One of these, which has a tendency to remind one of the humorous sketches of W. W. Jacobs, turned up at the Edison studios. " 'Excuse me for taking the liberty to write you but it is just like this,' commences the letter, 'i know of a very funny incident that happened over here in Brooklyn, so if you will pardon me i will relate the yarn to you and it actually happened in a certain cheap saloon. Over here in Brooklyn there is a lot of down and out men congregate every day. they sell five cent whiskey in this store and they give each customer a plate of soup with his whiskey they sell in this particular saloon. The kind of whiskey they sell is the kind that when you are drink- ing it they have a quartet singing nearer my god to thee. Well hers gos for the story, now over this saloon there is furnished rooms for gents, well there was a sailor rooming up stairs who used to make trips down to South America and on one of his trips he brought back a monkey and of course he brought the monkey up to his room when he come ashore and kept it tied ■up in his room, one day he went out and he happened to meet some old shipmates and right there and then he went off on a spree that lasted over a week and when he got himself together and returned to his room not leaving any food or water around for the poor old monkey while he was away from his room the poor old monkey died of starvation, well he was at a loss to know how he could dispose of the monkey's dead body, he knew he could not throw it in the street because it was a kind of business neighborhood and there was a police station right across the street and he did not know what to do. so at last an idea struck him. down stairs in the saloon the bar tender opened up the saloon very early about half past four and- he used to start to make soup just as soon as he opened up the saloon, well this morning that i tell you of he had his soup tank on the gass stove filled up with water and soup meat getting it ready for the early morning customers, well, while the bar tender was in the rear of the store the sailor come down with the dead monkey under his arm. looking around the store he did not see the bartender around, but he did see the soup tank Boiling away on the gass stove so he sliped over easy and droped the dead monkey in the soup pot and then stole up stairs and went back to bed. " 'Well, pretty soon after that the bums started to come in for their morning five cent shock and their plate of soup, well, everything went along allright untill it got low tide in the soup tank and then the bum who was dishing out the soup happened to look down in the soup pot and see the dead monkey's eyes looking up at him. he gave one jump for the door and the last we heard of him he was going a mile a minute, and all the other bums who were in the store that morning when they looked in the soup pot and saw the monkey took the D. T's. now my object in writing this letter to you was to find out if you could get this story on the screen, all you would need would be a sailor, 5 bums, a bartender, a monkey and a saloon, i would give $1.00 to see this story on the screen so if you think you can get a picture up frome what i have wrote here i would like to see it. if it is acted the way i told it it will be a screem so give it a try out any how. you can call it who put the monkey in the soup." "Now there's a scream for you." "Look here," said the Grouch; "let me tell you something. That's a good yarn. I'm going to write a scenario on that myself." "Are you?" grinned the Fan. "So'm I. And so are 3,463,297 other people. It's a good yarn." © m No White Lights for Riley Riley Chamberlin, who has returned from a five-month so- journ in Jacksonville, contracted the early-to-bed habit. The Two-minute Man found him just as the curfew was beginning to strike or ring or whatever it does over in New Rochelle. "Yes, sir," said Riley, beginning to yawn as the clock struck, "I'm back." "But tell us something funny," patiently insisted the Two- minute Man. "Funniest thing I can think of is the way you folks up here stay up all night, ' ' said Riley, yawning again. ' ' Here it is nine o'clock, and everybody still up and around on the street." "What do you want to go to bed in the middle of the after- noon for?" demanded the Two-minute Man. "Say," begged Mr. Chamberlin, "you see, we chaps have to be on hand early at the Thanhouser-Mutual studio, you know, and down South everybody went to bed at a reasonable hour — somewhere along about nine o'clock, you know. So, you see, when it strikes nine, my eyes just naturally won't keep open. Funny, isn't it?" "It's funny, allright," said the Two-minute Man, folding up his copy paper. "Run along, Riley. No use trying to talk funny talk to a man who is half asleep." "Thanks, old chap," murmured Chamberlin wearily. "Guess I'll run along home to bed, then — it's getting late. Didn't I hear that clock just strike nine?" They Loved Every Bone in His Head The "hero" of the studio was speaking to one of the acresses. "Everybody around here says that I have a big head, ' ' the re- c^ marked. "What do you think about it?" ~^''\t^ "To tell you the truth," she replied, "I really don't think there is anything in it my- •i^^.t self." EXTRA! ALL ABOUT LENORE ULRICH! MOROSCO Such a Gorgeous Gown! LJERE we have Lenore Ulrich, the popular Pallas Pictures star, leaving her dressmaker's at ten a. m. for the studios. Lenore arises each morning at an hour which would stagger the average star of the stage and attends to a lot of important shopping before embarking in her gasoline boat for the film studio. The smiles noticeable on the faces in this picture register satisfaction. Lenore is satisfied be- cause she has just had a wonderful fitting, and the modiste in the doorway is satisfied because a nice, big check is daintily held in one of her hands. A "close-up" of the check would easily show cause for the smile on the part of the recipient. For Pallas- Paramount she appeared on Broadway recently in the film, "The Heart of Paula," while two blocks away she appeared on the stage for Belasco in "The Heart of Wetona." A long term contract for her exclusive motion picture services reposes in Oliver Morosco's safe. It was through courtesy of Mr. Morosco that Miss Ulrich was enabled to appear in "The Heart of Paula" for Pallas Pictures. * m Seal It? Two Irish maids were enjoying their afternoon out looking at a picture play. During one of the scenes a woman wrote a note and handed it to the servant, instructing her to deliver it. "Oi wonder if she will read what thot woman put in the note?" asked one of the other. "Sure, no," she replied. "Didn't yez see the impolite thing seal it?" Lenore Ulrich Gets Up Early. 'Shops While Most People Sleep TDELOW is another pose of Miss Ulrich. She does not fume and rage ■^"^ when her breakfast does not come on schedule time. She merely sinks back in her favorite chair and picks up the book that is always lying about handy. At this hour in the morning the majority of screen favorites are sound asleep or yawning and inquiring the time of day. Miss Ulrich hops right out at seven o'clock and is ready for breakfast at eight, so she can get in an hour of shopping before she punches the time clock. The fair Lenore — notice that nifty little handbag in the other pic- ture? She designed that herself — is a busy girl these days. She tries to answer all the letters that come to her and devotes a good share of her evenings to letter writing and dictating. She is just as serene and placid as she looks in this picture and will eat her breakfast calmly, refuse to lose her temper because seventy-six people persist in calling her on the telephone before she leaves and will have time to give a pleasant "Good-morning!" to everybody she meets on her way to her car. My, it must be grand to be a popular motion picture actress ! * m A Poor Patch The scene showed two men engaged in a rough-and-tumble fight. They were both pretty well bruised up. A doctor was called. After putting a quantity of court-plaster on their faces, he made them shake hands. "Faith," said an Irishman, "that is what I call a patched-up friendship." Push the Button Kiiick — Does he ever stop to think? Knack — No; he is too busy trying to write scenarios. FAMOUS PLAYERS Molly loves to "make-believe," and in her role as Queen of the Fairies ^s helping Brother Bobby to feed a motherless piggy that objects most unmusically to being "raised by hand." FAMOUS PLAYERS Mike, the friendly bull pup, is trained to carry a letter — an ac- complishment that becomes handy later, when Molly has run away to make her fortune in the city. The Spirit of Eternal Youth MARGUERI TE CLARK has caught it in this finu picture, "Little Molly Make-Be- lieve." She has captured the spirit of eternal youth and crystallized it in this charming bit of child- hood, in which the com- edy of her artless manner is but a thin veil over the pathos of helpless chil- dren in "the city of lonely hearts and itching palms." Everybody knows the story of "Molly Make- Believe." It was win- some enough as a story with a strong appeal. Marguerite Clark, who has the ability of an accomplished actress added to her charm of di- minutive appearance, has twisted the heart right out of the story and visualized it on the screen. Without any doubt it was the best picture of the month, begin- ning with the quaint farm cottage, where the grandmother shares honor with the little star, being the realest, for-surest grandmother that has been on the screen in a long time, down to the time when Molly faces the scornful fiancee of her client, Carl Stanton, and begs her to believe that her visit is only in the guise of "Little Molly Make-Believe." They run away, the little brother and sister, because they discover that grand- mother cannot afford to support them. Some of the clever bits of the picture are in the midnight elopement, when Bobby yearns to take his fishing rod and is sternly forbidden by his equally impractical sister. They steal a ride and are discovered and brought into the caboose of the freight train by the interested crew, only to be thrust into the midst of rescuers of a train wreck, where they meet a famous artist and the wealthy Carl Stanton. Bobby becomes a messenger boy, always "dead tired." Molly starts the Serial Letter Company, guaranteed to furnish letters from a squirrel or from a sea pirate, va- ried by love letters, mild, medium or very intense. They are to be real letters from an imaginary person. She has three clients — the little invalid, who demands squirrel letters; the cowboy, who wants very intense love letters; and Carl Stanton, who has broken his leg and wants cheering letters. It is a staid enough outline as one writes it. Miss Clark injects every bit of her elf-like self into the playing of it. When you see her curled up in the dumbwaiter. The runaway children start the fortune-making by turning taking a peek to see if her pot of Bobby into a messenger boy, and he ends his first da^' by azaleas reached her patient a fervent vote for bed. FAMOUS PLAYERS The play in the barn winds up in a fight. A boy insults the Queen by toppling her off her throne, and Brother Bobby beats the tar out'n him and packs them all home. fAMOUS PLAYERS all skin of the festive little squirrel, who leaps into the room of the little invalid to amuse her, you forget you are grown up and you enjoy the make-believe just as much as you did when you were a wee tot and "made-believe" all sorts of strange and inter- esting play-stories at home. A fat policeman who watched the first run of the picture from the back of the house had the right idea. He expressed it crudely, per- haps; but the meaning is there. He wiped away a bit of moisture from his eyelid as he sooke. "Aw, it gets yer where yer live," he muttered, ex- cusing himself for the splashed eyelid. The fat policeman was right. It does "get yer where yer live." Pro Bono Publico It takes a bunch of school girls to hand out frank criti- cism, and accustomed as the screen artists are to it, a group of them over at the Vitagraph lunchroom were routed recently by the artless remarks of a crowd of girls, who evidently regarded them as puppets without hearing. They stood in front of the lunchroom, closely regarding each unfortunate as they stepped out. Not one escaped. Their comment was absolutely spontane- ous and unabashed. "Say, Sue," said one, as a well-knov.m favorite exited, "that one's sorter fair looking, ain't he?" A jaunty leading man saunter- ed forth, trying to be unconcern- ed. He caught the next one. "Aw, he uses oil on his hair — lookee, kid !" "That's a wig, girlie," cor- rected another. "I thought that chap had black eyes, but he hasn't, has he?" They were not awestruck. They did not gush. Their re- marks were made without mali- cious intent. It was the real pro bono publico. The actors appre- ciated it, as well as the fact that all remarks were made in a per- fectly audible voice, without the FAMOUS PLAVERS Little Molly Make-Believe poses for her artist friend as Coming of Spring." FAMOUS PLAVEflS Molly dresses up to pay a last visit to her patient, Carl Stanton, to tell him that the Serial Letter Company has dissolved. Cornelia, his fiancee, and her haughty mother choose this inauspicious moment to visit him. Molly piteously begs them to realize that "I am only Little Molly Make-Believe." least intention of attracting attention. The school-girls had become so accustomed to discussing their favorites on the screen that they were con- vinced that even in the flesh they could not hear. Not Eating-Eggs England has protested against a wanton waste of eggs in a Lubin picture. "Pop" Lubin himself says so. This isn't a press-agent story — it's a regular tale. There is a letter to prove it. It seems Billy Reeves made a picture called "Ham- let Made Over," in which an audience fires eggs at the actor. Imitation audience, understand. There was a mob scene, with fully one hundred and fifty-one extras all mobbing. Each and every extra was furnished with one or more eggs. It made a grand omelet party. A woman in Leeds, Eng- land, has protested against this waste. She wrote a long letter to "Pop" Lubin about it. She says over in England eggs are $1.50 a dozen, and when she saw this picture, in common with everybody else in the audience, she registered a mental protest against throw- ing several hundred eggs carelessly about, when people in her circumstances did not dream of even pricing them, let alone eating them. "It seems cruel," she writes, "to see food wasted in an effort to secure laughs from people like myself, who would prefer to get a chance to eat the eggs." "How about this, Billy?" said "Pop" Lubin to Billy Reeves, when he displayed the letter. "Shucks!" said Billy. "As I recall it, those weren't eating eggs; they were just throwing- eggs. ' The Other Side During a society play a woman was shown standing in front of a mirror. A girl remarked to her escort "that the woman seemed to be glued to the spot." "Yes, she is probably stuck on herself." 'The BESSIE LOVE TRIAHGLE-FINE ARTS 'f I /"HEN Bessie Love was first rehearsed in "The Flying Tor- pedo, " the powers that be billed her as a necessary ser- vant girl. But little Bess didn't do a thing but run away with the part. When she appeared for the first scene, with her braids and her five-cent straw sailor, the old jacket that she had bought right off the back of a Swedish dish washer, she literally made the part. She didn't want to be an ordinary servant maid. Bessie Love couldn't be an ordinary comedy character if she wanted tc. She invariably instills into it her famous wink, her sly little smile, and her demure manner of blundering sincerity that is the funniest thing she does. Bessie doesn't strive much for effect; but watch her work in "The Flying Torpedo," espe- cially this scene, in which she plays for time to keep the apothe- cary busy and give the author Emerson, who writes the thrill- ing love tales in which her soul delights, plenty of time to investigate the crook's den behind the apothecary shop. Note her ingratiating smile and winning dumbness, and remember our prophecy to the effect that Bessie Love is going to make her mark on the screens as the best comedienne of her day. JA81ES iiidisr<£diuii;>Y''%^ Copyright^ Judge. New York, I'jir. REEL LOVERS .;>%^ ' .J mt I SEEN A OWEN, FAMOUS PLAYERS Valentine Grant, as Nora O'Brien, in her success "The Innocent Lie," says good-by to the goat and the chickens be- fore she leaves her little Irish cabin to find her relatives in far-away America. This is a sparkling play, full of thrills, and written by Lois Zellner. Sidney Olcott directed it. That Hungry Little Ragamuffin ■fTALENTINE GRANT rehearsed for several weeks on Lois Zellner's play, "The Innocent Lie," which was one of the best offerings. The Famous Players' Studio is near a large hotel on Fifty-sixth Street, where most of the players go for their luncheon. The hotel habitues are accustomed to the queer costumes, for the screen people do not stop to change, but run in for luncheon with their rehearsal costumes on. Valentine Grant has a quaint Irish gown — regular goods, by the way, for the shawl came from an Irish cabin, and so did the funny little bodice. The ragged skirt she picked up at great trouble from a clean little Swiss washerwoman, and it has been worn in the scrubbing of many a sturdy Swiss floor. Miss Grant ran over to the hotel for a hasty luncheon one day and was deep in conversation with one of the prosperous- looking officials of the company. He listened with attention while she was telling of some of her experiences on a recent trip to Bermuda. Her appearance attracted the attention of a stranger who was lunching at a near-by table. "Now, that's what I call a kind thing to do," commented the stranger to his host. "Look at that kind-hearted man over there. He has picked up a hungry little ragamuffin off the street and brought her right in here for a good feed. Look at that steak he ordered for the child — I'll bet it's the first good meal she's had in a month !" His host recognized Miss Grant in the little plaid shoulder shawl, with her dark hair waving loosely about her piquant, eager little face as she talked. "Say," he snickered, "that girl tucks away a good, big steak every day. That's Valentine Grant, and she has a mighty healthy appetite. Don't you know a motion picture make-up when you see it?" And Miss Grant enjoyed the joke on herself more than any- one else. Everybody Goes Mr. Jones is a baseball fan. Mrs. Jones isn't. She prefers a symphony concert. Miss Mary Jones says symphonies make her sleepy and that a dancing party is the real thing. Grandpa Jones says dancers should do it in an asylum and that there hasn't been a good show since Harrigan and Hart died. Grandma Jones wishes there was something like a Moody and Sankey meeting nowadays. Willie Jones pushes his plate away, steps on the cat and re- marks that they are all loony, and that, as for him, he is going around to the moving pictures. Chorus: "Wait a minute, and we'll all go with you." The whole family goes to the pictures. ALL FOR THE SAME PRICE. What promises to end the "cut-back" in film productions is the experiment by Maurice Tournour with a scene in "The Hand of Peril," in which nine rooms of a house are shown, with action occurring in each room simultaneously. The house is constructed with three rooms and a hallway on each floor, each room connecting and leading by doors from the main entrance on the lower floor to the last room on the upper fioor, and the action of the piece shows the flight of characters from room to room anl the action occurring in one room that would have to be "flashed back" were the nine rooms not shown. The experiment is quite novel and attractive and fits in admirably in the story, but if it will prove of general worth cannot be told as yet. Tourneur, who created "Trilby," "Alias Jimmy Valentine, " and "The Pawn of Fate," is also responsible for many innovations in camera work and lighting effects. He Couldn't Forget It " Then take a good look at the front of the book — Who would be sorry for THAT MAN ? PA. r, TED BY FLOHRl Old Hiram Applecore, on what the doctors claim is his death- bed, smells beans baking in the kitchen and demands some. The Spilling of the Beans OPARTAN fortitude is what you must have if you aspire to be a photoplay star. For example, put yourself in the place of Davy Don, the man in the Lubin comedies who has made millions laugh. Davy Don's pet aversion is beans. Boston's favorite fruit looks about as appetizing to Mr. Don as a dish of nice cholera germs. That may be the reason why Edward McKim, of the Lubin studios, wrote for the Davy Don comedy series a thrilling sce- nario, entitled "The Fatal Bean," in which the bean hater has the role of old Hiram Applecore. Given up by his doctors and with sorrowing family at his bedside, Hiram catches a faint odor of baking beans ascending from the kitchen. As the last request of a dying man, he begs for a spoonful, and old Doc Beaser, saying that his patient is on the skids any- way, gives consent. After the first spoonful Hiram feels bet- ter, and each successive dose brings manifest improvement, until the fifteenth spoonful finds Hiram dressing for his mission of spreading among humanity the glad tidings that the long- sought panacea for all ills is beans. In that one scene Davy Don had to eat a pint of baked beans. After it was taken. Director McKim ordered the cus- tomary retake. That made another pint. Keep in mind that all photoplay food is real food and is actually eaten, and you will realize that in a screen comedian's life there are moments when he wishes he wasn't. A Blind Board The scene on the screen showed the interior of a studio. The artist was painting a picture, using a model that could have stood a few more clothes. "That woman hasn't much on," said a woman to her husband. "I should say not," was the answer. "If it wasn't for the eyes of the artist, it would never have passed the board of censors." "I'm Worth Seeing" There isn't a day that passes in the week thd the producing companies of the motion picture industry are not visited by people calling at their offices who believe that they are better than Mary Pickford, Marguerite Clark, Pauline Frederick, Marie Doro, Hazel Dawn. They don't only believe it in their own minds, but they insist upon telling all about it. Letters come by the thousands. Despite the fact that the Paramount Pictures Corporation are not producers, but the distributing organization for Famous Players, Lasky, Morosco and Pallas Pictures, they receive nam- berless calls and thousands of letters from people who want to go into motion pictures, most of them, however, still calling the industry by its antiquated and much despised term, "the movies. " An excellent example of the letters received is the follow- ing, self-explanatory: Lakewood, N. J., 29 Fifth Street, February 28th, 1916. Dear Sir — I want to go into the movies, not as most women want to, but as a scrubwoman, factory girl or any ugly old "hag" part that comes along. The parts that no one wants — that's the kind of work I want to do. I am young, (21) twenty-one years of age, medium height, and, as my people quite frankly say, "pretty much of a fool to even want to go into movie work." I'm any- thing but handsome, and I can make myself extremely re- pulsive; generally, however, I'll pass with a push. I've had quite a little experience in character work on the stage, and I know I can do the work. When do you want to see me? I'm worth seeing. DOROTHY WEBER. That was all, but it was the frankest of its kind ever recei ved. On and Off The picture showed the interior of the dressing-room of a theater. One scene a woman was making up; another scene showed a man putting on a gray wig. "That is a queer picture," remarked a man to his wife. "The woman is taking off years, and the man is putting them on." Having recovered from what was thought to be a fatal illness, Hiram insists that beans are better than medicine any time. Madge Kirby A FAIRY godmother appeared to a fluffy-haired, adorable little bit of a girl one day about nine years ago and offered her two wishes. "Choose a career on the stage or stay at home and ride around in your motor car," said the fairy godmother (who wasn't a fairy godmother at all, but a wise theatrical manager). So little Madge Kirby chose playing on the stage to staying at home with parents who preferred to shower luxuries on her. Since her debut the little actress has carried with her the good fortune bestowed upon her by the fairy godmother. She played with Richard Carle, Lew Fields and Fred Walton before she dreamed of entering pictures, and when she did, it was through the golden gate of Biograph, which has led so many aspiring young artists to fame and name. Not very long ago, when the Vogue Company was organizing to pro- duce a brand-new type of funny pictures for the Mutual, Madge Kirby was one of the first girls to be chosen. She is most charming of all ita torn frocks, tousled hair and in her bare feet or torn slippers, and so it is for just that sort of role that she is chosen most of all. These are pictures of the adorable little leading lady in some of her most recent pictures. Rube Miller, the well-known actor-director, is seen playing with her. VOGUE COMEDY MADGE KIRBY AND RUBE MILLER. There once was an innocent still, built up on the side of a hill; By movies discovered, the place was uncovered, And they are still making stills of the still. KEYSTONE-TRIANGLE When the day's work is over at the Keystone studios, Harry Gribbon and Chester Conklin wander out to the latter's bungalow and dispose themselves comfortably on cushions on the doorstep. It is all right for Chester, who is built on the low, rakish plan; but Gribbon was originally intended as a support for hop vines, and he finds it difficult to fold up his legs to fit the steps. However, a smiling Japanese valet is going to appear in the door in just a moment, bear- ing a tray on which repose two tall glasses of lemonade with a cherry and all the straws needed. Don't you rather envy Harry Giibbon and Chester Conklin? She Got the Punch By LOIS ZELLNER In ev'ry publication giving motion picture news She read with great avidity the many interviews, Then heaved a sigh. The editors all claimed to want scenarios with "punch." "If other folks can write them," said she, "then I've a hunch That so can I ! " So she got a ream of paper and a spick and span machine And a book on "How To Get the Punch in Pictures for the Screen, " Then settled down. From early morn till late at night she worked without a rest; She kept it up for weeks and weeks — just did her level best To gain renown. She tried her hand at drama and at tragic plots as well, Then turned her thoughts to comedies and wrote them for a spell. Alas! Alack! On stamps she spent a fortune, and for envelopes'and such. Including pen and ink supplies, she spent almost as much; But scripts came back! At last the poor thing lost her grip. She's in a padded cell. With nothing but a punching bag, and doing fairly well. She's happy, too. For now she mutters all day long, while living in the past. She stands and hits the swinging bag — ' ' I've got the punch at last!" This story's true. FOR THE SCREEN-STRUCK GIRLS VIRGINIA PEARSON. iCXhTHEWl" whistled Virginia Pearson. She dropped a bunch of letters and wiped a few dainty beads from her forehead. "I've been reading about four hundred letters from girls who want to break into the motion picture game. Tell me something: Are there any girls, middle-aged women or babies left in the universe who do not want to go into motion pictures?" Nobody answered. Nobody knew. From reliable statistics, as made and compiled by experts, it would seem that there were none left. "I have read the letters," went on Miss Pearson, who has made such a hit as a Fox star that she must pay the price of informing every screen-struck girl in the country how to get into motion pictures, "and I have looked at the photographs they have sent. They tell me about their weight, their height, their complexion, their religious belief, their financial diffi- culties, and even their love affairs." "Well, they cannot all get in," consoled an auditor. "But who is to do the selecting?" "Very few can get in," assented Miss Pearson ruefully. "It is impossible for the managers to answer all these letters. Hun- dreds of them cannot be answered at all. No big producer could stand such a strain on his courtesy. And the worst of it is that all of ^" them go into detailed accounts and seem to expect that we can return an equally long letter. Lots of them want sympathy more than a job, anyway. "Can you really judge anything from the photographs?" asked her auditor. "Well, no," said Miss Pearson. "Sending a picture is not a proper way of getting into the pictures. A photograph of a girl, even though it be beautiful, and even though she lives up to her picture, carries no promise of success on the screen. Many really beautiful girls do not screen well. You see, the motion picture photograph is not retouched as the ordinary photo is. Your photographer can fix up your picture and smooth out all the weak points, until he has given you an ar- tistic success — as a photograph. But in motion pictures, if you do not screen well, you might as well stay out. If you screen badly, there is no hope for you. "For instance, I know a lovely little stage star who was greatly desired by a big producer for a picture. She was eager to go into screen work. Her directors worked for days making test pictures of her — but the verdict was hopeless. She simply would not screen. On the stage she is lovely and winsome. But the picture camera plays strange tricks sometimes. It ac- cents in some cases, and it under-emphasizes in others. No amount of make-up can overcome these difficulties, for the rea- son that make-up shows to a pronounced degree on the screen. Dreadful, isn't it?" and Miss Pearson shuffled the bunch of letters in her hands with a nervous tension that indicated the strain she was under from reading' them. "Then there was a society woman who wanted to go into pictures. She had beauty, grace, money and refinement. But her eyes would not screen properly, and she had to abandon her ambition." "Where would you advise girls to apply — at the Eastern or the Western studios?" she was asked. "Of course, the largest companies are in California," said Miss Pearson slowly, "but there are just as good in New York and in Chicago. I would advise them to apply to the picture concerns nearest to their homes. No girl can hope to step into a leading role in her first picture. She must earn her success by hard work, I for no matter how well her director may think of her, the final approval is made by the public. If they won't pay to see her, then she may as well retire from the screen. "I wish you would save me the job of writing these endless letters and tell them how to get into the pictures." "That's what we want," agreed her auditor. "Learn where the nearest producer's studio is and arrange to see the man who hires the minor players. Try to get him to give you a chance to walk on in a picture in some of the small scenes. The manner in which you screen this will deter- mine your future success. And here's another thing: If girls must write to men they do not know, I would advise them to be a bit more discreet in their confidences. Here are half a dozen letters, written to men in this concern, giving names and addresses and much more confidential information than any girl should tell a man she has never seen. Ambitious girls cannot afford to exoose themselves to danger of having their confidence imposed uoon. There is no danger of that in this firm, naturally, nor in any of the larger and reputable picture- producing firms ; but in spite of the efforts of decent producers to make of this industry a clean and honest one, there are -^ J 1 wh bound to be some pitfalls, and ignorant girls from the smaller towns should know that it is never safe to write to strange men and conride all their heart throbs to them. "Better read this last paragraph two or three times, ambitious ones. There is plenty of sound common sense in it and lots of home truths you ought to get by heart. Not that I would hinder any ambitious girl from going 'into screen work. I had to break in once my- self. On the contrary, I would increase this ambition wher- ever it seems to have basis and justification. But what I am trying to do is to lessen some of the perils and disappointments that are to be found in this wonderfully big business that has grown up around the making of motion pictures. It isn't easy work, for instance. Don't you believe it. I have been on the stage, and I assure you that the work of picture making is much harder than stage work. It means steady, hard work, day in and day out, and no time for frivolities. We must be on the job early in the morning, and that means that we must be in bed early each night. "And here's another thing. I wish I could make this so plain that no girl would forget it. Be careful about dealing with agents of v/hom you know nothing. Above all, never pay an agent a penny in advance for services he promises to render you. As a matter of fact, you do not need an employment agent or picture-booking office to get you a chance in pictures. All of the better class of picture houses have their own "en- gagement man, ' who hires the players for the small parts or the mobs for the big scenes. You can see these men without diffi- culty. If they have places open and need your type, they will give you an engagement. If they do not happen to need you, then you must wait until you find a director who does need your type. "Usually the extras go from office to office each morning, waiting in the hope of being chosen. The path of the picture aspirant is not usually strewn with roses; but success is worth it, if you are worth it." "Yes, ma'am," said her auditor meekly. "Of course, I have no present intention of seeking an engagement with the pictures, ma'am, but I appreciate your advice just the same, ma'am, and I'll pass it on." "I believe you're kidding me," said Miss Pearson dubi- ously, "and all the time I was giving good advice to the girls who read your old paper. ' ' "'Deed and truly you were, lady," replied the auditor gra- ciously, "and I'm going to tell them exactly as you told it to me." A Family Turnout Two Irishmen were watching a picture dealing with the East Side. A poor family was being dispossessed. "And phot would yez call that?" remarked one. "Faith " was the reply, "Oi'd call that a family turnout." Some Dog! It was in the usual drama of life in high society. The heroine appeared on the screen, followed by one of the extremely diminutive docs that seem to be so popular now. "Well," remarked a man in the audience, "there's the flea. Now, where's the dog?" DORIS GREY. The Prettiest Girl /^NCE upon a ^^ time Doris Grey was a little Boston girl, just out of school and having a gay time at parties and re- ceptions and dances and thea- ters. Pretty Miss Grey danced holes in her silk stockings at the annual ball of the Boston Ex- hibitors. Edwin Thanhouser watch- ed her dance and decided that she was the prettiest girl at the ball. H e immediately offered her a motion picture career, and she has appeared in many comedies since. Doris likes the comedy work. She tried one drama and elected to return to comedy. The Vanishing Drunk "I always laugh," says a director, "when I think of a scene we were doing for the Edison Company in the days before the public was at all used to seeing motion picture scenes being acted on the street. This was also before the days of censor- ship, and we were doing a kidnapping picture on the streets of New York. "While we were rehearsing our kidnapping scene, using a cab for the purpose, a policeman around the corner was arrest- ing a drunk. He had rung for the patrol wagon and was calmly waiting for its appearance. A minute before the patrol wagon arrived, we began to take our scene, and the policeman, notic- ing some excitement, peered around the corner just in time to see a villainous-looking Italian seize a beautiful girl and drag her into the cab. Here was his chance to pull some big stuff; it was the opportunity of a lifetime for him to catch a black- hander redhanded. "He let go of the drunk, jerked out his gun and ran to the scene of the crime. He seized the villainous Italian by the throat and pushed the pistol under his nose. The actor expos- tulated vehemently, and it took much explanation to convince the policeman that it was only a motion picture scene. The policeman was still trying to figure it out when he heard the clanging bell of the patrol wagon. He remembered the drunk and hastened back to the corner. The patrol wagon arrived, but the drunk had vanished, and there was nobody to arrest, and the whole thing ended in a wrangle between the officer and the men on the patrol wagon. I don't know what it cost the poor cop, but he certainly looked foolish for a while." m © Director — That actor's work is often like a dentist's. Friend — In what respects? Director — It isn't always crowned with success. AMERICAN BEAUTY-MUTUAL The Festive One-Reeler «TVrOBODY wants the one-reel comedy!" snorts the producer of the five-reel thrillers. "They eat up the one-reel stuff!" an- nounces the man who offers the one-reel. But there's this to be said of the one- reeler. They must sell, or they wouldn't be made. Observe the woman holding her ears while the fond lover sings. You know what she is thinking. Look at the surprise on the face of the man who opens the trunk and finds it full of man. Need a story there? If you have ever joined a frat, you know what the picture below means. And who but noble firemen slide down a pole? BILLY VAN DUESEN'S FIANCEE. THE TWIN-TRUNK MYSTERY. CUB COMEDY NESTOR-MUTUAL A LEAP-YEAR TANGLE. IMP COMEDY SOME HEROES. falstaff comedy FOOLISH, FAT FLORA. A Few Concrete Examples /CONTINUING in the same strain, you ^^ can read the whole story in the pic- tures on this page. The man above is half fainting at the sight of so much real money, just as most of us would do. The pretty girl in the upper right-hand corner is having trouble of her own with NE8TOR-MUTUAL RAY GALLAGHER, IN "THE WRONG BIRD. the famous old cookbook that has kept the domestic life of many a bride and groom from too deadly a monotone; and as for poor old Hungry Happy down in the corner, we ought to sympathize with any tramp who gets kicked out because he asks for a snack, but as a matter of fact we laugh heartily at him, because we know it is all a joke. Then there is the honest young snow shoveler in the lower corner, who wins his bride in spite of his wicked and wealthy rival. Who with a heart in his breast could fail to wipe away a laugh? HUNGRY HAPPY'S DOWNFALL. THE SNOW SHOVELER'S SWEETHEART. WOHLO-EQUITABLE ROBERT WARWICK. Who gave a lecture on "Athletics" before a Young Men's Club, the members of which took him for James J. Corbett. One on Warwick TJ^RANCES NELSON is considered one of the niftiest little raconteuses in the motion picture business, and when she settles down to tell a few reminiscences, everybody pulls up a chair and prepares to enjoy a happy half hour. This is the story exactly as she tells it on Robert Warwick, World Film star, with whom she co-starred in "Human Driftwood." "It's entirely too good a joke to keep," she said, "and the funny part of it is that Bob gave a rattling good speech. "He was down in North Carolina recently, filming a picture. I won't tell you the name of the place, but the first name of the town begins with Elizabeth. You've seen Mr. Warwick — off the screen, I mean — haven't you? Doesn't put on a bit of side, you know. "The bunch who always wait around the station to see the train come in didn't lose a gesture when he arrived in the town. He noticed they seemed to whisper and point at him a lot, but he thought it was because a film actor generally excites some interest and comment, and let it go at that. "Bob is an unsuspecting duck, you know. "Next day a delegation of townsmen called on him. He re- ceived them courteously, as he always does. They hemmed and hawed a bit, and finally the spokesman came to the point. " 'You see, Mr. — er — er — Warwick,' began the speaker, "of course we realize that you are here sort of — er — er — incognito and all that sort of thing — er — er; but we thought perhaps you would break a rule and speak before our Young Men's Club at the next meeting. We would look upon it as a great honor, and every effort would be made to preserve your privacy and — er — er — all that sort of thing.' "Poor old Bob was sort of bewildered at all this. But, you WOHLO-EQUrTABLE FRANCES NELSON, Co-star with Warwick, who was the first to catch onto the joke, and who considered it far too good to keep to herself. know, he is a regular fellow and used to hold the middleweight amateur boxing championship of the big Olympic Sporting Club in San Francisco, so he saw nothing unusual in being asked to talk before an athletic club. He promised to be on hand and went to a lot of trouble to ^et up a good talk for them. He is a rattling good speaker when he puts his mind to it, you know. "His affability delighted the delegation, and they at once arranged for the meeting. Sent a committee to escort him to the place and everything. They gave him a rousing reception, and every man in the audience remained to shake hands with him and tell him how glad they were to meet him. " 'Appreciative lot down here,' he murmured to the director, when they were driving back to the hotel after the speech. 'Wonderful how the motion picture craze is taking hold of the public, isn't it? I never knew people would be so glad to see a motion picture actor off the screen. By George, that reception afterward really touched me!' " 'Motion picture!' screamed the director, who could keep in no longer. ' Say, old top, do you know who they think you are? They spotted you for James J. Corbett, and they think you are down here under an assumed name. They don't care ■> whoop for Robert Warwick, but they were tickled to death to get a chance to shake hands with the redoubtable Jim I' "Picture to yourself, then, a tableau of Robert Warwick turning slowly but surely through the intermediate stages that lie between the colors of red, bright purple, green and a pasty yellow. And that's why good old Bob gets so peevish nowa- days when anybody happens to mention athletics, lectures or champions. "Now you'll never tell that, will you? Honestly, Bob would kill me dead if he thought I would tell it on him ! But isn't it altogether too good to keep?" Indeed it is. F^ Um^^K, m ■j^ Mt*^ T£.. I ^Bj^d 9''}- • , SfM ^fe':. ■/ 1 "*^f^' ' f 1 I^^^ 4...... "^**%iv ?*' L„ iMSiiiiiiiiiii iilS^^^Hfr'"' ^^^^B^Hftit^' 'Now don't you bite me, Leo, good lion, Leo, good lion!" Diary of Hopper, De Wolf TX THE new De Wolf Hnpper comedy, "Sunshine Dad, "which was filmed at the Triangle-Fine Arts studios, Hopper and Fay Tincher are chased through most of one reel by a lion. Not a fake lion, but a real, roaring, ravenous monarch of the desert, with teeth and claws and a lashing tail and every- thing. Producer Dillon insisted that it had to be a real chase, and it is. Of interest in connection with the Hopper-lion-Tincher pro- ceedings is a diary kept by the comedian from the time the seri- ousness of the situation dawned on him. He thought some record of his last days in this world of toil and tribulation might be interesting to Hopper, Jr., in case the jungle pet for- got his lines and bit father's head off. By permission of Mr. Hopper, who happily survives, ex- tracts are herewith given from the diary: Feb. 10 — Director Dillon says he will have a little surprise for me to-morrow. Must remind Mrs. Hopper to buy some arnica. RENEWS ACCIDENT INSURANCE Feb. 11 — Asked Dillon what the surprise is. He asked me to wait till he can tell Miss Tincher and me together. He wants to hear us both laugh at once. Renewed my accident insurance to-day. Feb. 12 — Dillon wanted to know if I had made my will. Too busy to tell me what the surprise is. Feb. 13 — Made my will. Feb. 14 — Dillon away. Miss Tincher says she hears they are going to run us through a rock crusher. My contract does not call for this, and I shall protest. Feb. 15 — Dillon broke the news. Fay and I have got to run all over a set, with a lion after us. I don't believe it can be a real lion. Dillon is a kidder. Feb. 16 — It is a real lion. I saw it. Feb. 17 — Saw it again. Some fatal fas- cination draws me to its cage. Feb. 18 — Took Fay to see the lion. It yawned at us. If it yawns at me in the pic- ture, I shall spoil 500 feet of film. Feb. 19 — The lion roared. Am not going to visit it any more. Feb. 20 — Had many memories of my old pals on Broadway and the happy days I have spent at the Lambs Club. Feb. 21 — Had a day off and spent it with my wife and child. One never knows. Feb. 22 — First lion scene set for to- morrow. I wish I were not so plump. Still, Fay says I've got something on her. My clothes are thicker. LION IS RATHER CROSS Feb. 23 — Lion scene postponed. Lion too cross. I wish his trainers would be nicer to him. Feb. 26 — Lion been cross for four days. Feb. 29 — Dillon says lion feeling bet- ter, going to make scene, can't waste any more time. Rather waste a comedian, I suppose. March 1 — Dillon turned the iion loose after Fay and me, told us to keep ahead of him, and register fright. We did. I didn't have to think about registering fright, either, only about keeping ahead of the lion. Dillon does all he can to make things easy. March 3 — More lion scenes. Dillon says the ones yester- day didn't have enough pep. I don't know whether it was Fay that didn't move fast enough, or the lion. March 5 — I had to stand at one end of a bathtub and lift Fay out of it, while the lion stood at the other end of the tub and looked at me. I hope Fay never finds out how near she came to being dropped on a concrete floor. She probably would blame me. Anyway, we're through, I have lost six pounds, and Dillon is happy. He says my acting was wonderful. He doesn't know the difference between acting and plain action. Average Attendance of Picture Fans "The greatest inspiration which comes to writers for motion pictures is in the knowledge of the size of their great audience. In the year 1915 there were roughly 2,900,000,000 paid admis- sions to the moving picture theaters of the United States," said Mr. De Mille, of the Jesse L. Lasky Company. "This means an average attendance of 29 times per year for every man, woman and child in the country — or once a week for half the population of the country. Figures like these imply a great responsibility on the part of those who supply this tremendous demand, and men are now entering the field who are by train- ing and artistry qualified to accept the responsibility." Some Shape Miss Catt — Wouldn't the motion picture director give Miss Wry a chance? Miss Nipp —No ; he said she was too thin to cast even a de- cent shadow. "Beg pardon?" said Mabel Normand. "Yes, I've left Keystone." They Will Not Remain in Comedy \ HAPPY little creature, with the cunningest poke bonnet you ever saw framing her piquant face, opened her big dark eyes to their widest extent and made the announce- ment that she had left the Keystone comedies. The poke bonnet was decorated with a bit of blue ribbon and a rose set here and there about the crown and was a pretty creation. But not any prettier than the face it sur- rounded. And not half as startling as her announcement. You've seen the picture on the other side of the page, so you know right well that we are talking about Mabel Normand. Yes, sir, Mabel has deserted the ranks of the come- diennes. Walked right out on us. It isn't that she likes comedy less, but that she liked drama more. It does seem a shame that as soon as we have discovered a gay little come- dienne that can turn out fun on the film just exactly to suit us, she should get the drama bee in her pretty poke bonnet and begin to study the meth- ods of Duse and Bernhardt. Still, Miss Normand insists that she has not deserted the coipedy field. She points out that she has always wanted to do more serious work — in comedy-drama, for instance. She wants to be a trifle more serious and dignified than they have allowed her to be in the Keystone comedies. She says comedy does not altogether con- sist of falling downstairs and throw- ing custard pies, and she believes that she can be just as funny in more dignified situations. The point is that Miss Normand is tired of slapstick. She feels that she is capable of better things. Her directors think so, too, for she has a special director now, who is selecting plays for her. Her ability in drama was spotted a long time ago, but she was so popular as a Keystone come- dienne that they were anxious to keep her there as long as they could. But Miss Normand got as far as New York and milled around some with the bunch, and then kicked right over the traces. She landed right in the spotlight as a star in her own right, and if her director is to be be- lieved, this piquant little comedienne is going to be a scream. Little Mary Sunshine has to undergo a series of baths before the grime of her home is washed off; but she doesn't care. She likes baths. "Little Mary Sunshine" UT ITTLE MARY SUNSHINE" is one of those "once-upon-a-time" butterflies through whose gauzy wings we see life in rare and delightful tints. Five reels isn't a bit too long for "Little Mary," who, thank heaven ! doesn't realize the charm of her plump little self. Her utter unconsciousness of her- self is a revelation in art, particularly in one so young, and points encouragingly to a brilliant stage career. Director Henry King, who plays a lead in the picture, deserves notice for his clever handling of the child and his delicate, .mowing touch on a play that was woven of Fancy's woof. Marguerite Nichols, who plays Sylvia Sanford, Bob's sweetheart, is an ingenue of convincing appeal. She possesses that elusive quality known as charm, and fits splendidly in a picture as wholesome as this. Andrew Arbuckle does the "leave-it-to-dad" stuff happily, and Mollie McConnell, as Sylvia's mother, shows the ease and refinement that have character- ized her work from the beginning. And we mustn't forget the bear— a really, truly bruin, who seemed to think the whole thing a great lark and acted accord- ingly. We suspect him of knowing a great deal more than he's willing to admit, for there were times — we could vouch for it — he winked his eye as who would say, "Oh, the cleverness of me!" The play starts in a cheerless, hope-forsaken room in a tenement in the slums. Little Mary seems to have been deprived of that joy of life most kids are heir to, and is rather a sorry spectacle. Her mother has a weak heart and her father a strong temper. Father comes home drunk, frightens mother, whose heart stops for all time, and then runs off, leaving little Mary all alone. Some neigh- bor tells Mary that "Mother's in Heaven," and the kid starts out to hunt her up. She gets tired after walking a long way, creeps into a standing automo- bile and pulls the rug over her. There she is found by Bob Daley, who, having celebrated with "the boys" and been turned down by his fiancee therefore, is returning home more sober each minute. Bob's parents take and care for the tyke, who, after a couple of baths, something to eat and a romp in the gar- den, displays such an inclination to agree with life that she is promptly named "Little Mary Sunshine." She has the wonderfulest dream about a bear and works with Bob's dad to bring about a reconciliation between Bob and his best beloved. More Comfort in Tears? "I know my sex, and it always finds more comfort in tears than in laughter." The Two-minute Man looked at Enid Markey in amazement. "You don't mean " he began. "Exactly," returned Miss Markey. "If your role does not fairly possess you, the audience cannot be moved. That is why I am eager for dramatic parts, and that is why I refuse to essay comedy. I like tears — and pathos — and sadness. All women do." "How aboui i.ne men?" asked the Two-minute Man. "They are keen on comedy." "Oh — the men!" said Miss Markey, with a shrug of her shapely shoulders. Which ended the stoi y. Writer — I have just found a germ for a plot to use in a scenario. Wife — I bet you will never inoculate any of the editors with it. PATHE "Peek-a-boo!' calls Mary Sunshine to Bob Daley, and has as much fun in rehearsals as if it wasn't work. This is a really, truly bear that Marie Osborne, leading lady in "Little Mary Sunshine," romps about with. And she wasn't a bit afraid of it. The famous Douglas Fairbanks smile. Grand Indoor Sport "T^OUGLAS FAIRBANKS, who dared the dangers of the plains in a trip to Ca'.i'tDrnia last winter, lias repudiated the thought of living at hotels while he is re- hearsing pictures in that balmy climate. "Not little Doug," he said, wiping the sweat of honest toil from his brow, as he unwrapped parcels in his apartment in a New York hotel just before he left for the West. "See here! Whadjer think of this lot?" There was a rake and a hoe and a lawn mower and a bushel of garden and flower seeds, a trowel, a pair of gorgeous gar- dening gloves, a wide straw hat, a — well, everything that goes with gardening- — even the overalls. "I'm going to have a bungolaoh and be a bungaloafer, " he grinned. "I'm going to raise my own radishes and cucumbers — me, myself, not a gardener. I'm going to dig with that spade and mow with that lawn mower and rake with that rake and be the man with the hoe." It's the truth. Mr. Fairbanks became so enthusiastic over the joys of gardening in California that he pored over seed catalogues for days, picking out the pictures with the largest sizes and the brightest colors and fondly trusting that everything he planted Douglas Fairbanksdoinglightgardening. To get his picture in the papers, he tries an accident. After faithfully rehearsing it, he manages to fall out of I?, :' auto gracefully, giving an imitation of a severely injured man. Smashing up a perfectly good auto is nothing to hinj, if he can only get his picture in the papers. But the papers refuse to print the story. would turn out just as it was pic- tured in the catalogue. "Look at that radish seed," he said. "See that radish in the pic- ture that it is going to be like. Think of going out in the garden before breakfast and picking rad- ishes like that !" "It's a dream that some of us have had," said his interviewer sadly. "It's a dream that dry weather and bugs and lack of gar- dening knowledge have shattered. Don't you know that nobody ever really goes out into the garden be- fore breakfast and gathers any- thing with the dew on it?" "Huh?" said Mr. Fairbanks, a trifle bewildered. "Why, I'vehad the time of my life up here fooling around with these things, getting ready to go and garden in Cali- fornia. Whadjer want to take the joy out of life Lke that for?" And he rattled the mower and stood up the rake and the hoe in the comer and filled the pail with It isn't a bit of us2. They won't take the picture. packets of seed and requested his small son to leave the gloves alone. "The point is," began the in- terviewer, "why did you bother to buy all these things in New York and pay freightage on them to California? They have them out there, you know." Somebody in the next room gave an approving sniff of scorn. It was quite evident that this sub- ject had already been thoroughly discussed in the Fairbanks family. Mr. Fairbanks shuffled the garden- ing tools together uneasily and asked if his visitor had seen his latest picture. "Not so loud!" he begged. "You see, that's what the missus said, and I " "It's time to go, really," said the visitor. "Gardening, even in California, you know, does not al- ways run true to form." "Good-by, gloom!" said Mr. Fairbanks, gayly waving a fare- well with the hoe. TBiANGLE "HIS PICTURE IN THE PAPERS." Douglas Fairbanks, in "His Picture in the Papers," has his dream of publicity realized at last. By writing a testimonial to a patent medicine, he finds himself a marked man, with his picture and the story of his life in the papers at last. ~ Ann Murdock and Richard Travers, in "Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines. Spare the Actors OIDNEY OLCOTT, of the Famous Players, felt uneasily in ^^ his vest pocket for the cigar he knew wasn't there. Mr. Olcott seldom has time for conversation. He is rated as the best director, bar none, in New York, and this means work morning, noon and night. "I quit smoking a few months ago," he admitted sheep- ishly, "but I cannot seem to get over the habit of reaching for a cigar after luncheon. I catch myself at it every once in a while. But who wouldn't be absent-minded with such scena- rios as this handed to one? Want to read it? No? Well, I'll tell you about it while you drink your coffee." It isn't often one can find Director Olcott in a conversational mood. "I never can quite make out whether writers think the directors are simpletons or whether they try to make their scenarios fool proof," he said. "Look at this one, now. The writer gives us a thrilling ac- count of a battle between the Indians and the set- tlers back in the pioneer days in the West. He de- scribes vividly all the killings and the deaths and winds up with a fierce rifle practice at close range. "At the end of the script he puts in capi- tals: "'NOTE TO THE DIRECTOR: USE BLANK CARTRIDGES IN THIS SCENE!'" "CAPTAIN JINKS OF THE HORSE MARINES." A cigar ought not to cause either a laugh or a tremor, but it does. Christmas Joys "I understand you and De Wolf Hopper spent an afternoon playing with the Christmas toys you got for the children," said the Two-minute Man. Douglas Fairbanks grinned. "Not so loud!" he implored. "You see, it was like this. I had bought a shopful of toys for my kiddy, and one day Hopper came over to see me, and I took him up to show him the things. His kid isn't anywhere near as old as mine, and he sure did look envious when he saw a train of cars that ran on real tracks with real switches and real semaphores and all the other things that real trains have. He wouldn't believe it could run, until I set it out on the floor and showed him, and the next thing we knew it was almost seven o'clock, and we had been quarreling over who would run that train next for three hours." His Viewpoint A workman fell from a scaffold, and after many gyrations, fell on a plot of grass and was not much hurt. Jones rushed up, with his friend Smith, who wrote scenarios. ' ' Lucky escape for him, wasn't it?" said Jones to Smith. Smith replied, with a faraway look in his eyes, "Gee! wouldn't that make a fine one- reel comedy?" E8SANAY Ann Murdock, with her airy gayety, whimsical moods, and gowns of the early '70s, makes a hit in "Captain Jinks." Just Natural ii^XTKO WOULD I rather be than the one I am now? ' ' smiled Ann Murdock to the Two-minute Man. "Nobody. I prefer to develop my own individuality. No imitations in mine. I like to watch other actresses, but not with a view to adopting any of their tricks. I'd rather use my own. By imitating other people, first thing you know you are a med- ley of tricks and manners and have nothing of your •own. I try to make Ann Murdock do the very best that Ann Murdock can do." "Haven't you any fads?" suggested the Two-minute Man. "Not a fad," said Miss Murdock. "I am the fadless wonder of the screen. I just go about my work every day, try- ing to accomplish the Clyde Fitch's fantastic comedy on the screens affords many an opportunity for wholesome laughter. most I can and tackling every bit of work as if it was my last and greatest bit. No, sir, I am not a slave to fads. I eat what I like, I wear the clothes that appeal to me, I dress my hair in what I consider a becoming fashion, I enjoy my work, and I haven't any pretty little parlor tricks at all. Absolutely unin. teresting, am I not?" "You are not, ' ' promptly replied the Two-minute Man. "You are the most refreshing young woman I have met in many moons. Why don't more of the screen girls go in for being nat- ural — and just attract- ive?" "Mercy!" blushed Miss Murdock. "Any- way, your two minutes are up. ' ' Little girl (describing Helen Holmes) — Why, she's just a trained wreck ! Sis Hopkins Takes a Shot at tlie Films «TT'S AN even break for a girl in leap year," said imitable Sis, "and I mind hearing Pa say that eve the in- mg fa. say that every girl has a chance to get a good husband then. If she loses out, it's her own fault. Bein's it's leap year, I'd orter get me a grand husband." "A Leap Year's Wooing" could be a trifle more rich in comedy; but Sis Hopkins, not being a scenario writer, has done the best she could with the material at hand. She is the same old Sis, with the same old shoes and the same old endeavor to remember that she is a big girl now and to keep her dress pulled down at the knees. She crystallizes all the comedy in the picture. As the maid-of-all-work in the Lee household. Sis evolves the happy thought of advertising for a husband. In order that there may be no mistake, she gives the street address and the house number. It brings forth some queer characters. They insist on mak- ing love to the pretty daughter, until Sudden Sam smilingly arrives. Sam doesn't care particularly who the object of his affections is, and when he is kicked out of the parlor by the daughter's beau, he obligingly rolls into the kitchen and falls at the feet of Sis Hopkins, who regards him as a gift of the gods and coyly bestows her attentions upon him. Comes now, and without any excuse for his entrance, an ad- venturer. He himself admits that he is a millionaire, and this obtains for him the rights of the parlor and of the piano bench and the privilege of courting the pretty Lee daughter, who for- gets her betrothed and devotes herself to the entertainment of the adventurer. He makes rapid headway, and the parlor courtships vie with the kitchen courtships. Sis, after explaining to her scandalized mistress that it was indeed she who had advertised for a hus- band, appreciates the love making of Sudden Sam, and when she finds a note requesting the honor of her presence at an elope- ment in an auto that evening, she appropriates it and makes ready for the elopement. Wound around with veils and a heavy coat, she climbs delightedly into the auto for her wed- ding trip. She is characteristically horrified when she discovers that her adored Sam is not her companion and orders the adventurer to drive her back, which he hurriedly does. And she does not m E m^ ^^^^B ^^v ' ■v ^B^^^ ^' H^^^'' i— ^i^HHIi— ' iHB w ' ^H^^v 1 f iT % Hi Ml ^hK£^ '■■* N »'i*>^^ ^^^^^B ^ Wi 1 1 ■ Sudden Sam appears in response to the advertisement in the paper and makes love to Sis Hopkins. hesitate to denounce him when the detective arrives to arrest him for sundry crimes, for which she receives an ecstatic embrace from the true lover of the pretty Lee daughter, while Sam bestows a fervent caress upon the girl who had but lately ordered him thrown out. So everybody is happy but the audience. Sis Hopkins is worthy of a better scenario. 'Pa sez, 'If you can't git what you want, advertise fer it.' So I advertised for a sweetheart, and he come, and that's him right there with the flower on his coat. Ain't it grand?" COPVHIGHT, 1916, BY LESLIE-JUDGE CO., NEW vqRk Have a Smile With Me! CHARLIE CHAPLIN LIGHTING UP. MRS. HARRIGAN VISITS THE "EMOTION PITCHURES lE.^^ E^' ....... - np\ ^0['^ 1 UNIVERSAL Gale Henry claims she is never in a good humor at breakfast «AV COORSE, I think the world av ■^ Mrs. O'Flaherty, " began Mrs. Grogan. "Sure!" commented Mrs. Harrigan. "I'm sore at her, too." "I ain't knockin' !" Mrs. Grogan de- clared indignantly. "I think the world av Mrs. O'Flaherty, but that doesn't blind me to the fact that she's wan av the worst gadabouts in this parish. She's niver at home ! This marnin' I wint over to borry a few little things, an' she wasn't there." "Mebbe she knew ye was comin'," said Mrs. Harrigan dryly. "I'll bet she was at the emotion pitchers, improvin' her mind, instead of bein' at home wastin' her substance lendin' to her naybors. I saw 'The Model Wife' advertised by the Bit- agraft paple, an' wonderin' what they cud have to say about meself, I wint in to see it. But there wasn't a thing in it about me! I was disappointed. What do ye think av these seareels?" "I don't like thim," Mrs. Grogan re- plied promptly. "'Tis like atin' corn husks an' excelsior- Oatmale for me." "I don't mane what ye mane," Mrs. Harrigan explained. "I'm deludin' to continued plays like 'The Hazards of Hail- ing, ' 'The Explosions av Ellen,' 'The Dry Mud from the Sty,' an' Killem's 'As Emp- ty as Mankind, ' which must be very bad indade, for Moike, the black curse av By JAMES GABLE Cromwell on him ! is always empty, though forever gettin' full. Well, 'tis me own fault. I married him on the third day av the wake, an' I was always unlucky av a Choosda'." ' ' Did ye see Henryauto Cloesman as the widdy in 'The Supreme Toast,' got out by the Universalists?" Mrs. Grogan asked. "I'll bet she cud manage a husband !" "Yis, " Mrs. Harrigan responded. "I saw it. I misdoubt not her first husband gave a sigh av relief whin he heard he was goin' to die. I didn't think much av her second, ayther. He was wan av thim rah-rah boys wid a college walk an' a kindergarten edification ! 'Twould have done me sowl good to heave a cabbage at him!" "Did ye see Mrs. Letslie Starter in 'The Hart av Marryland,' she that was made famous by Bosco who eats 'em alive? 'Tis got out by the Tuffany Film Coopera- tion." "No," Mrs. Harrigan admitted. "I did not. But I saw Jellybean Furrow in 'Carmine.' " "I ain't seen that," Mrs. Grogan de- clared. "Well, she's a musician, focal an' in- cidental, ' ' Mrs. Harrigan explained. ' ' Her playin' on the bones an' the catarrh is won- derful, an' she has a very sympathetic touch on the grafofone. She used to sing wid Tomato an' Crusoe an' Chancy Oil- cloth an' the rest av the grate vices, till they found out where the trouble was. She cud sing 'The Mizzoury, ' by Wordy, an' 'The Tail av the Lonesome Swine,' till ye'd weep for joy. An' whin she played Badoven's 'Moonlit Snorter,' the naybors called in the polace an' the au- jance wint home in a hearse. Jellybean took the part av Carmine. "Tell me about it, " urged Mrs. Grogan. "Well, Carmine is a coffin-nail maker an' smokes up nearly all her output. She belaves in gettin' all the crame out av life an' doesn't care whose milk she skims. A cat has no conscience, an' that's the rayson she lives so high. 'Tis the same way wid Carmine. "She falls in love wid Don Hose. Havin' nothin' else to do wid it, he re- turns her love, an' they live in a fool's paradise for a while — though aven at that a fool's paradise is betther than purgatory. "Havin' killed a man, Don Hose takes '•ayfuge wid the band av gypsies that Car- mine do be travelin' wid, till she tires av him, an' takes up wid a torrid-door, which is Spinach for bull fighter an' manes a cowpuncher in our language — a felly named Excameo. " "Huh!" Mrs. Grogan grunted. "Sounds like a cheese." "Don Hose hasn't sense enough to see that 'tis betther to have loved and lost than to become an authority on nursin' bottles, patent foods an' paregoric, so he thries to get her to live wid him again. She ray fuses, an', havin' become an adept at the butcher's business, he kills her. She carries on somethin' awful, for she's dyin' for the first time an' ain'tused toit. " "What others have ye seen?" Mrs. Grogan asked. ' ' Well, there was ' The Dotters av Min, ' got out by the Lovin paple. The hero was a fine, big, strappin' fellow that looked as though he was chatin' a blacksmith out av a good, steady hand. ' ' There was another char tkther in the play by the name av Reggie, who was 'the gloss av fashion an' the mold av form.' He'd like to set the world on fire, but is afraid. Did ye iver see annywan be that name that wasn't worthless? "This Reggie marries an acthress who has made a great hit wid mimbers av the Blind Institoot. To salivate the nutshells he gives an inception, on a Sunda', too, mind ye, whin we are tould that we must toil not, nayther must we sin. "The acthress, bein' a graduate av the Controversy av Music, plays the pianny an' sings, afther which the guests enjoy thimselves. The big fayture av the avenin' is a pool av shampane, where Reggie takes his annual bath by prexy. " "What do ye mane — prexy?" Mrs. Grogan demanded. ' ' That's right, ' ' Mrs, Harrigan replied, in a gratified tone. "Whiniver ye don't know annythin', ask me, an' I'll tell ye. A bath by prexy manes that he hired some- wan else to do it for him. An' the hired bather does it in a big pool av shampane. Wan av the guests, seein' all the wealthy watther goin' to waste, jumps in, deter- mined to die happy, aven if it does in- volve takin' a bath." "My!" exclaimed Mrs. Grogan, in shocked tones. "Shure that was scandal- ous! No woman wud have done that!" "She don't have to," Mrs. Harrigan responded. "All a woman has to do is to dab on another layer av powder, but a man has to wash his neck." Ditmars School of Dramatic Arts for Inhuman Beings **\/fONKEYS, " said Raymond L. Ditmars, looking up from a tree toad he was teaching to call the insect and animal actors to their scenes, "can register every mood that a human can — anger, despair and joy." So they can. Take a look at the gibbon on this page and note his expression of marital anxiety. He is calling to his mate to come away from the camera. His mate is taking part in a picture rehearsal, and Gib doesn't care much for it. Like some husbands, he believes that a wife's place is IN THE HOME. Professor Raymond Ditmars is curator of the zoo at Bronx Park and for months had the ambition to train animals to act for the screen. He believed that it could be done, and he backed his convictions to the extent of spending days in patiently teaching the animals screen tricks, and then coaxing them to exhibit them before the camera and be filmed. "The star of our dramatic school is a sober old porcupine," went on Professor Ditmars. "That old chap can portray every known emo- tion and is a bom actor. The trouble with the animals is co persuade ■ ^ ■ ■ .IS. »• ■'tm^ . •■'^^J»-j PARAMOUNT "The frog he would a-wooin' go." the spectators among them to remain spectators. When the animal actors begin their stunts, the rest want to climb over the railings and join in. I re- member one monkey race that was completely spoiled because the monkey audience became so interested that they madly dashed in and all made the race to- gether. ' ' These animal-actor pictures are in great favor with the children. What Mr. Ditmars is really en- deavoring to accomplish is to do with the actual sub- jects something of what Kipling did with the jungle tales. He has a warm ally in Charlie Snyder, the head keeper at the zoo. Keeper Snyder watches the training and filming with the deep- est interest and spends much of his off time in continuing the work done by Professor Ditmars and putting on private acting stunts to keep the animals in training for each day's work. "Watch this little chap," said I Mr. Ditmars, coaxing the tree toad PARAMOUNT White-faced gibbon anxiously calling his mate from the camera. to sing. "He's our callboy. Watch him swell his throat when he calls. Did you know that if a man had this volume of voice in proportion to his size, he could go into the Woolworth Building in New Yoric City, and by merely puffing out his cheeks and say- ing 'Woof!' he could smash the place into smither- eens?" Therefore, regard the tree toad with respect, fair ones, and shudder to think of the consequences were man to have, in proportion, a volume of voice equal to that of the tree toad whose voice, on a calm night, can be heard a mile. It should make him a most valuable callboy for the theater of the school of dramatic arts fo' in- human beings. Needed Change Ticket seller — You'd better give me a week off. My beautyis fading. Manager — What makes you think so? Ticket seller — The men are beginning to ask for their change. PARAMOUNT The jungle theater. Pick out your matinee idol. Picturization of Wilkie Collins's famous novel, "Armadale," which is to be released by the Mutual as a three-part feature, would be incomplete without the thrilling scene in which the false Allan Armadale locks the rightful bearer of that name in a stateroom of a sinking steamer and leaves him to his fate. Under the able direction of Richard Gar- rick, of the Gaumont-Mutual studios, these water scenes have been carried out with exceptional realism, despite the fact none of them were taken within a mile of a ship of any kind. All that Garrick did was to place the scenery nec- essary for the photographing cf the scenes in the river near the shore and wait for the rising tide to come in and fur- nish the necessary realism. Of course the players and the director, as well as the camera man, had to work in water up to their shoulders; but any damage to their clothes was quickly repaired by the tailor and the bil's settled by the Gaumont-Mutual studios. Seven New Gowns for One Play ti'T^HIS problem of clothes reminds me of a girl who came into the studio one day and wanted a job," said Ollie Kirby. "The aspirant for fame had been watching some of the actors, and burst out suddenly, " 'My, I wish I could be a leading lady! I'd work without a fuss, if they only gave m.e fifteen a week — fifteen dollars, I mean.' "I smiled cheerfully at her. " 'How would you dress on that money?' I said. " 'Dress?' she repeated vaguely. 'Why, I've got four dandy dresses already. ' '"I had to buy seven brand-new gowns for my new play,' said I, 'and they'll last about as long as a drop of dew in the sunshine. My clothes take about all my salary, my dear girl.' "The aspirant gave one astonished look at me and my gown and walked slowly away, trying to adjust her mind to the fact that there might be something else in motion pictures besides posing in front of a camera." m © Hope Deferred Priend — Did you say that the leading man called on you last night? Miss Film— Yes; and I expected him to leave at ten o'clock, but it was a case of hope deferred — until twelve. Poor Child ! MARY PICKFORD in "RAGS" For two weeks — 10 cents So read the sign on each of the four sides of the poster box before the motion picture theater. An old lady paused as the sign caught her eye, and for a few moments she walked around it as if searching for something. Finally she approached a near-by bluecoat and timidly touched his arm. "If you just show me the slot in that box," she said pity- ingly, wiping her eyes, "I'm willin' to donate a dime to help the poor child get some new clothes." Not Concerned "Does your mother allow you to have two pieces of pie, Willie?" asked the hostess in a motion picture. "No, ma'am." "Well, do you think she would like you to have two pieces here?" "Oh, she wouldn't care," said the screen child confidently. "This isn't her pie." PARAMOUNT Happifat, like all boys, was made of frogs and snails and puppy dog tails. But Happifat is a hero. ' I ■'HE Happifat dolls have laughed their way into the hearts of children wherever motion pictures are shown. The Happifat Dolls and Their Adventures Baby Happifat is the hero of a serial filled with "perils." It is the "Hazards of Happifat," appearing in different re- leases of Paramount Pictographs, the "Animated Magazine on the Screen." Happifat, like all boys, was made of frogs and snails and puppy dog tails. His playmate, "Flossie Fisher," is of course made of sugar and spice and everything nice. But charming as she is, Flossie has enemies. She has a way of getting into trouble. Happifat always comes to her rescue. Poor Flossie Fisher ! Alexander Leggett, the creator of Happifat, is a wire-puller. He believes that wire is mightier than muscle, and he moves Happifat and Flossie Fisher and the cow, the big brown bear, bugs and all the other animals that pass be- fore the camera, with wires — a hundred tiny wires sticking through the floor of the stage, entirely unseen. Happifat, like all good heroes, is in love with the beautiful Flossie. Very often he suffers tremendous hardships for her. In one of the pictures he milked the cow. His wanderings, as they ap- pear in the releases of the Pictographs, PARAMOUNT Flossie Fisher, who has a penchant for getting into trouble, from which Happi- fat always rescues her. have taken him through experiences with a jitney, and most recently with a number of strange and wild animals. Happifat experiences many difficulties in his farming operations, especially when wild animals break into his garden. when he was off on a trip to the moun- tains. He has gone farming, he has a ter- rible time with a magic milk pail, in- deed, with a lamb and a puppy dog, and with a hen and her chicks. Happifat, being an animated doll, has the gestures of our best after-dinner speakers. Flos- sie Fisher is always exceptionally well costumed in every release of the "Haz- ards of Happifat. " Her dresses are the very latest thing in doll's clothing, her creator, Alexander Leggett, having ex- clusive right for motion pictures of all the doll wardrobe handled by a promi- sent New York toy house. We have seen Baby Happifat in the most terrifying situations, and we were not surprised to see Flossie Fisher hanging from the branch of a tree, the branch overhanging a chasm. The villain will be sawing away the limb — of the tree — and Happifat will be seen approaching on a run over the crest of a hill. They get away with this and other "perils" series, so why can't Happifat? The little folks enjoy these Happifat series so much that it has encouraged their creator to get busy on more. PARAMOUN r Flossie Fisher goes out to rake hay. To a Safe Return Friend — Why do you inclose stamps when you send away your poetry? Motion picture poet — Don't you suppose that I want to get it back. ? Something on Her The scene showed an opera box oc- cupied by a beautiful woman, dressed in an opera gown. One man in the audience kept staring at her during the whole scene. " That man, " remarked a woman to her husband, "couldn't seem to keep his eyes off that actress in the box." "Well," was the reply, "I suppose he thought she ought to have something on her." The Filling Mrs. Jones, the patient wife of the motion picture poet, entered the "den'" of the budding genius. "What are you doing?" she asked. "I am molding some of my thoughts into shape," was the reply. "Well," was the rejoinder, "if you want a crust for your supper, you'd bet- ter get out and hustle for some dough." Capital Punishment Dill — I saw a woman hung yesterday. Tom — Where? Bill — Around her lover's neck. PARAMOUNT But Flossie and Happifat and their woolly dog are attacked by vicious insects and have a sad time at their farming. NORMA TALMADGE. NORMA TALMADGE Gives an Idea For Children's Films By ELIZABETH SEARS fiJ WONDER if she will be changed." ■^ A slender, pretty girl in a smart blue gown, who was waiting in the gray and pink room for Norma Talmadge, turned to the girl with her as she spoke. They had not seen their friend for several years, and they had dropped in from a visit to the Allied Bazaar to meet her again. ' ' Changed ! ' ' The girl in gray smiled cheerfully. ' ' Let me tell you something, dearie. Norma will be just exactly the same sweet old thing she used to be when she was only getting twenty-five a week. Watch her." She was right. Norma Talmadge has a sensible, level head, thanks to the careful training of her mother, who is her dearest chum. She was just as glad to see her old friends as in the old days when they were all glad to find a good-looking street hat marked down to $3.97. Miss Talmadge had just come in from a hard day's work — a good, hard day's work, too — and she was glad to find a comfortable chair and a cup of tea from the quaint old Chinese teapot awaiting her. Just between you and me and the gatepost, the only fad she has is her love for Chinese e:Tibroideries. She has them every- where about her room, and gor^^vous affairs they ai e, loo. There is one wonderful strip of embroidery on the wall that — but this is a story of Norma Talmadge, the charming Triangle star, who was sent all the way to New \'ork to head a new company of her own, and not of Chinese embroidery. Otherwise I would tell you of the marvelous mandarin's coat that she sometimes slips on when she has a moment to herself, long enough to take three minutes' rest in a chaise longue. She smiled wearily when she saw a visitor with a pencil. The poor thing has been interviewed so often that it scares her to death. Not but what she is perfectly charming about it; but she says she never can remember what to say or what they want her to say. "Cheer up," I said. "I'm not going to ask you a single question. This is a new kind of interview — no questions asked. " "Hurray!" beamed Miss Talmadge, trying to smile between telephone rings. Everybody in New York was calling her up, judging from the constant jingling of the 'phone bell. Mrs. Talmadge answered it until she was exhausted, and then Ethel Cozzens poured her charmingly vibrant voice into the mouth- piece in answer to questions. There was one voice that was heartily welcomed. It was none other than Toby. Everybody knows who Toby is. Toby was the first gentleman to call up Miss Talmadge when she arrived in New York. He assured her that everything in New York was hers, and that when she gave the word, he would head a phalanx of newspaper and magazine people marching down to her hotel. "They gotta know you're here, Miss Talmadge," he in- formed her earnestly. "I've been around to every newspaper ofBce in the place and hustled out reporters to see you." And so he had. For within half an hour of her arrival, a languid young man from a city daily appeared and said that Toby had haunted his corner of the city room until he had seen him depart for an interview with Miss Talmadge. "Bless your soul, Toby!" said Miss Talmadge, into the 'phone. "I certainly am glad to hear your voice again." Then the story of the dog came out. It seems Miss Tal- madge has a fluffy white dog, silky and beautiful. They car- ried him carefully to the baggage car, where stern rules decreed that he must travel. He was laundered beautifully, and the brakeman respectfully informed Miss Talmadge that he would take the best of care of Fluffy Ruffles. "Do you know," said Miss Talmadge, "I never knew there were so many brakemen in the whole wide world ! Seems to me every hour or so the porter would step softly to my side and whisper confidentially, "' Mis' Talmadge, that brakeman, he says he sure would like to speak a word wid you.' "And away mother and I would hie to the baggage car. I changed a twenty-dollar bill into fifty-cent pieces, and by the time we ar- rived in New York, there wasn't a fifty cents left of that twenty. Those brakemen were so ingratiating and so anxious to take good care of little doggy. But, oh, what a dog they handed out to me at the New York station ! I had stowed away a happy, plump, snowy little creature, and I received a dirty, ragged, baricing canine that I would never have recognized in the world. He was disreputably cocksure of himself and tried to swagger up and down the platform like a sure-enough brakeman. He barked at me defiantly and seem- ed so fond of the car that he really didn't want to come out. They had a lot of fun with my poor little Fluffy Ruffles, but it took six baths to get him clean again, poor dear." Miss Talmadge, like all her family, possesses a sense of humor that is a regu. lar floating buoy to her. She and her mother are like a pair of happy girls together, and in spite of her boost to stardom, with its con- sequent salary. Miss Talmadge does not waste her money in feverish purchases. She gets full value for every dollar she spends. Maybe she won't like it if I tell this story, but it is too good to keep. The mother told it on her. Some of the screen stars are good pickings to the shops, especially when the modish gowns and smart hats are displayed for their benefit. Miss Talmadge wandered through the shop- ping district just before she came East, and an insistent young woman wanted her to buy out the shop, having recognized her immediately. "Here is a smart little model for you. Miss Talmadge," she said. "Just the thing for you. See what wonderful lines it has!" Miss Talmadge looked at the simply made house frock with interest. Her maid could have duplicated it for fifty dollars easily, but she would have been willing to pay sixty for it. "Very pretty," she said. "What is the price?" The clerk glanced quickly at the price tag and held it in her hand. "Only one hundred and ninety-six dollars," she said easily. "And so charming on you!" Miss Talmadge stole a glance at her mother, who returned the glance with interest. "What do you think of it, mother?" she said, refusing to allow her knowledge of the real figures on the price tag to slip out. "Do you think I ought to take it?" "Just as you please, dear," murmured Mrs. Talmadge, with an aside, "If you take that thing at that price, I'll murder you!" "Of course it is very pretty," said Miss Talmadge to the clerk, and "Don't worry, old dear. I'm not utterly mad yet," to her mother. 5^ 'But I have so little time to-day. I'll drop in some other time, and thank you so much for showing them to us." And in the elevator she [fell up against her sympathetic mother with a gasp. "One hundred and ninety-six dollars for that gown I It would have been dear at sixty. I wonder why they try it on that way. I saw that price tag, and she added one hundred dollars to the first price." So, you see, the sharks will never get Miss Talmadge. She learned what values were early in life, and her success as a screen star has not at all turned her pretty head. "I see the recent federation of club women called for better films for children," she said, sipping her welcome cup of tea. "I'm for that. I enjoyed those kiddies out at the Triangle studio so much, and I was with them so constantly that I gained a new idea of what children want on the screen. They don't want the inane stuff that some of the older ones seem to think they need. Children like just what we like. They want action on the screen and virility and comedy. They catch the comedy bits long before the adults do, and they scream with laughter at them. Children think a lot more than we realize, and they have been pretty well fed up with this fairy-tale stuff. You know, I sometimes think we waste a lot of good sympathy over their likes and dislikes. They understand a good comedy as much as any adult, and if the people who are getting up chil- dren's programs would hold this thought in mind, they would be mighty popular with the children. They get so much en- forced education at school that they are rather afraid of a film if it is labeled 'educational' ; but they'll take anything in the way of instruction on the screen if it is rightly presented. A visualized scene is printed on their mind immediately, whereas it takes a lot of time and effort to memorize it as a dry lesson. I'm strong for good films for the children. And while we are about it, I'm just as strong for good films for the adults. I be- lieve the ones who need the special attention are the youth of the country. We don't seem to pay much attention to them. Why not have a campaign on good films for the young people from twelve to eighteen — just in the formative period?" Well, why not? The telephone jangled considerably out Oj. tune, and Mrs. Talmadge hurried back and forth with messages and requests for interviews and offers of theater tickets and boxes of flowers and bonbons. Miss Talmadge drank her tea and smiled her relief at not having to answer questions and be interviewed — always a wearisome job for her, however willing she may be. She smiled at her mother when the third offer of dinner and theater came in. "Dearie," she said, "I'll tell you what ..^^ we'll do. You and I will have a bite of din- ner together, and then we'll slip out and see a good picture show. How about this new Rialto? I hear it is well worth seeing. Sup- pose we just run over there all by ourselves." This is her idea of recreation. After work- ing hard all day in a new studio, she slips out with her best chum to a picture show. "It's a long ride out to Fort Lee," she said, when the visit- ors rose in a body to bid adieu. "In California, you know, the studio was only a few blocks, so this long trip twice a day is new to me. But isn't it grand to get back to this nice weather?" Mrs. Talmadge groaned. "Imagine!" she said. "When everybody else is oozing moisture from every tiny cell in the skin, and drooping around trying to keep their hair in curl and to keep from fighting with their best friends, Norma is blooming with health and energy. She likes this kind of weather — nice and warm and damp and sticky. What do you think of such a girl?" Same as everybody else thinks, Mrs. Talmadge— that she is a darling and that you ought to be mighty proud of being the mother of two such charming screen stars. Not but what they /, have a lot to be proud of in having you for a mother, too. And there is Natalie Tal- madge, the "middle" sister. We haven't had a chance to get around to her yet. There are three of them, you know — Norma and Natalie and Constance — a trio of talent- ed sisters. Alice in Wonderland t ';. ''^': M * ^'"-N. ■•■^'.■>->.--v:^-,'',T^ , ' -MBt '^-'^^ wsL ■.■■■•^^:.:.' i V .^ V>'>i„'-"^tfB . 'lilHB- ^B^ '. ■'■^^^^^^M"'' ~ '^ia^^K' - /^ -^^R^^^^^^^^^^^^^H ^HH^^.<^I^''.--' ■1 ^t:'^^?fl i||$93HHH^|^^^^^^^H^HH^^^^^| UE9^!2^^^Bl^j^^l^^^^SI^^K!^^^^^HBHii^^^^^^^H^^^^^H&B^MdtttStt^^^l^^l^^^^^^^l^^H^^HHBHH^HH^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^H^^^^^^^^^^^^^^I^^^^^^^I ESKAY HARRIS FEATURE FILM Alice started to her feet, for she had never before seen a rabbit with a waistcoat pocket or a watch to take out of it. The rabbit popped down under the hedge, and Alice went after it. ESKAY HARRIS FEATURE FIL "You've been listening," said Humpty Dumpty, "listening behind trees and at keyholes, or how would you have known about the King and his twenty thousand men coming to put me together again?" FAMOUS PLAYERS-PARAMOUNT HAZEL DAWN, AS THE GIRL DETECTIVE, IN "MY LADY INCOG." We Liked You Better When You Played the Violin ^ / — Vw^ IJAZEL DAWN is still receiving presents ^^^mf'Sl^' in pink from her devoted admirers who ^BP^^^ loved her in "The Pink Lady." And Miss ,A-y c-^-^J Dawn, like many another stage star, is dis- j\ ^-'a covering that screen work does not always ^r M ■"■'■'J-' carry with it the success gained on the stage. ^ S-— ^ "My Lady Incog," her screen medium, gives one the impression of having been writ- ten under pressure, and even a charming girl and a fascinating smile need something of a thread of a story to get a picture play over. On the stage Miss Dawn had the advantage of her pleasing voice, her contagious laugh and the melody that she coaxed from her violin to help out the weak places. The director, Sidney Olcott, has largely saved it from utter annihilation; but one cannot be a director and a scenario writer and an actress all at the same time. Even the able direction and the artistic finish that is discernible in every scene have not saved the picture from the criticism of being unable to bear its own weight all the way through. In rehearsals Miss Dawn, vivid, glowing with life and color, came through with credit. Her magnetism drew fasci- nated watchers from other plays in the studio, and even Jack Barrymore admitted as he watched her that it would never do for real girl detectives to sleuth, for almost any criminal would be more than willing to be arrested, if all detectives were as charming as Miss Dawn. But the shadow on the screen lacked her verve and vitality — it was but a shadow. As Nell Carroll, the girl detective, she ferrets out the thief who has been burglarizing the wealthy homes in her town. She sails under the imposing title of the Baroness De Veaux, and when she meets a man who claims to be the Baron Du Veaux, the intrepid little girl detective plays out the game with the cards in her hand and manages to make all the comedy there is in the picture stand out where one can readily laugh at it. A Word to the Wise It was a fight to the finish. They had fought on every inch of floor space upstairs and were now on the stairs, each with a death grip on the other. Suddenly they broke through the ban- ister and fell to the floor below. Each quickly jumped to his feet, and the bric-a-brac began to fly — statuary, vases, candle- sticks, etc. — until one of the combatant's supply of ammunition was exhausted. A pedestal supporting a large lamp stood in the center of the room. This, for some unknown reason, had been overlooked. Uncle Hiram was becoming more excited every minute, and upon seeing that the outlook for the man on the screen was rather gloomy, he shouted wildly, " Throw the lamp at 'em, y'u poor fish!" The film hero immediately seized the lamp and hurled it at his opponent's head. Uncle Hiram still claims credit for the victory. _ _ -Fred Lee S. First. « m Their Armament Little George went to see"Cabiria" with his father, and when the Roman soldiers appeared on the screen, George asked eagerly : "Who are they, daddy?" "Roman soldiers," replied his father. "Then why don't they shoot Roman candles?" inquired George innocently. Just One Thher (at the movies) — Do you want a single seat? Casey — Yis. Oi'm not so big thot Oi need a double wan. SILHOUETTE FANTASIES QRAY-GlLeeBT STUDIOS-PARAMOI. M The geni of the wishing ring appears in answer to Inbad's command. 8BAY-GILBERT STUDIOS-PARAMOUNT Inbad pours the tabasco down the dragon's throat and gets the pearl. Here Lies a New Field in Films C ALLAN GILBERT and J. R. Bray have given us some- • thing absolutely new in screen humor and fantasy in the silhouette pictures that they worked upon some six or seven months and which have been released only within the year. Here is whimsical humor for you, combined with an artistic vision that has opened a wide field. Mr. Gilbert, who is a well-known artist, vwites his own sce- narios. He is not the first of the famous ones of the artistic and literary cult to see something worth sincere effort in the motion pictures. In the pictures above, he has gone to the old Arabian Nights for his scenes and has taken us back to the days when we pored, fascinated, over the mystery and romance of those quaint old tales. Inbad, the Sailor, is wrecked on a desert isle. Aside from his baggage, which consists of one ardent bottle of tabasco sauce, his only companion is a shivering monkey. Just in time to properly climax one's wakening imagination, the chest con- taining the ring of the geni is discovered. And then you for- get that you are grown up, and you settle back delightedly to enjoy these quaint little black figures that are something more than shadows, and yet not too vibrant with the tense realities BHAV-GPLBfcRT «>■: UDI08-PARAM0UNT Inbad changes the monkey into a man and goes in search of the pearl. BBAV-GILBERT STUDlOS-PARAMOUNl Sol Levy tells Inbad that the pearl is not worth thirty cents. of life that sometimes wear upon you in the feature plays. Inbad immediately utilizes one of his four wishes by chang- ing the monkey into a servant, to carry the baggage bottle. A second wish places them both on a magic carpet and whirls them away to the Oriental gates of Bagdad, the city where most wondrous adventures continually happen. The Sultan of Bagdad wants a famous and priceless pearl that is in the possession of a roaring dragon, intrenched in the fastnesses of a mountain. He offers Inbad the hand of his daughter, the Princess, in return for the pearl. To be the son- in-law of a Sultan seems to be full of excellent logic to the Sailor, and accompanied by his servant and the faithful bottle of tabasco, they conquer the dragon by the simple expedient of tossing the tabasco down his yawning throat. He coughs up the pearl in dismay, and Inbad hurries back to the Sultan. The Princess turns out to be an ancient and ugly female, whose very appearance sends Inbad into a fit of tremors. He turns his servant back into his original shape, telephones for his magic carpet to the garage, and floats out for New York, to sell his priceless pearl and live in luxury on the proceeds. He takes the pearl to a pawnshop and is horrified to learn that it is indeed priceless — not worth thirty cents — and thus a poor sailor is left without wishes, baggage, companion or money. FAMOUS PLAYERS Some kings may keep their actress sweethearts, but The Prince, in "Nearly a King," must choose between a kingdom and a sweetheart. How it Happened ^Y^U SEE," says Jack Barrymore, setting a row of liniment bottles in handy array on his dressing table, "it was this way: I open the picture sedately by sliding on my trunk into the stateroom of a perfect stranger in a storm at sea. They promised to pad the floor with mattresses to break my fall; but the trunk had once belonged to a trav- eling salesman, and from force of habit it did a bag- gage-car leap for life, and I obeyed the laws of gravity — without the mattresses. "These liniment bottles, therefore, were for first aid to the injured. We screen folk have our trenches, too. ' ' He Could Not Under- stand It A short time ago two young fellows went to the motion picture theater in a Canadian town. The pic- ture was an English love story. The hero, an Eng- lish army officer, was about to leave for the front. In ^^^^^^ W^^ ^K^' M ■ ^& J H ^K -HmA s 1 1 u i^w fll^'S H h3o '^^m P i^^MHp ^HL ; - { --^^1 ^^H ^o^'j W^^ 'Pi BlxM^' ^iS 1 Mf 1 ' ^1 FAMOUS PLAYERS Jack Barrymore in one of his best scenes in "Nearly a King." He had trouble with his uniform as well as his mono- cle. A screen footman accidentally dropped a highball over it, and Barrymore was forced to retire to his dressing-room and stop the rehearsal while the studio tailor cleaned and pressed the uniform. The next morning Barrymore made a point of ordering an understudy uniform. bidding his sweetheart good- by, he took her face between his hands. Of course every- body thought that he was going to kiss her. Instead, he let her face slip from be- tween his hands. At this climax, of course, the music stopped; thus the theater was very quiet. "Oh, the dam fool!" exclaimed one of the young men. Building a Nest Little Jimmy was taken to the picture show for the first time and evinced great interest in every detail of the screen. When he saw a pasture scene in which a calm old cow walked on and laid down in the midst of tall grass, the child was in- tensely interested. "What's it doing, moth- er? " he called out. ' ' Build- ing its nest?" © S Scenario writer — Will the editor see me before I go out? Ojfice boy — No; he saw you before you came in. nm IM ««T ET ME ask you something," said a motion-picture fan. "I'll take your word for it, you know. What's the eti- quette to observe when somebody behind you persists in re- garding the show as an afternoon reception, requiring chatty conversation? "I was at the Strand the other day. I dropped in there be- cause I was tired. I wanted to listen to the music and to watch the pictures. A girl of twelve, accompanied by an older woman, took the seat directly behind me and talked into my ear. The girl was a charming child, with the high, clear, piercing voice of childhood. She read each caption aloud, with painstaking distinctness. She mispronounced each long word. She hailed each announcement with excitement and gave her unbiased opinion of it clearly. Her cheerful little voice did not pause once during the show. "She explained each act according to her own constructions, and her misunderstanding of the picture — it was 'The Marriage of Kitty' — would have been amusing if I had not been tired and grouchy. She pointed out to her companion that the house- keeper was Kitty's mother, who disapproved of the marriage, and the actress was Lord 'Belizee's' finance. "On the other side sat a cooing couple, heavily engrossed in each other. She was relating plaintively all the trouble her husband had caused her in getting her divorce and the delays she was having in getting her alimony. His heavy answers rumbled directly into my right ear. Now, what is the proper thing to do in such a case? When we pay a quarter to see a picture show, does it include the hearing of the private affairs and opinions of the people behind us? And what do such peo- ple go to a picture show for, anyway? Is there any redress from the management?" "Move your seat — move your seat," said the Film Fan. "Sit in the back row. When the motion-picture people get through this censor row, perhaps they'll turn their attention to the gabbing nuisance in their own theaters." m m "The small, five-cent theater doesn't pay," insists a theater owner. "Look here — I'll tell you why. I've owned a five-cent show in a good neighborhood for a year. I gave just as good pictures as any ten-cent place in the city, but I couldn't draw 'em in with a hook to see my show. They thought it wasn't expensive enough. People who couldn't afford to pay more than five cents went two blocks out of their way to see a ten- cent show, for fear their neighbors would consider them cheap if they went to a five-cent show. It shows you that people's opinions are based entirely on what they think other people think they ought to think. "I've had my lesson. I've leased the building next door, and I'm going to make a bigger theater, show exactly the same pictures, and charge fifteen cents a throw. I'll get 'em — I'll get the whole neighborhood. Make 'em think they are paying an extra price, and they'll crowd to your show. Til make 'em pay me evrey cent they made me lose on my five-cent show." "I see," said the Film Fan, "that a chap named 'T. L. ' has written to the New York Sun and suggested that the motion- picture people resolve themselves into an uplift association. He complains that he has actually seen a screen actor vulgarly Mck the flap of an envelope to seal it. 'It sets a bad example for the audiences,' says 'T. L.,' 'as it is something that no one should do.' "I have often noticed this tendency myself. I have seen a motion-picture actor lean over a table and eat with his knife, and I have seen one raise his hand to a woman, and I have ob- served with deep grief an actress disobey her dear parents and insist on leaving the farm for the white lights. All of these things are acts that no one should do, and I am surprised that screen people should deliberately set such a bad example to their trusting audiences. Licking the flap of an envelope, like eating with your knife, is apt to cut your lips, unless you are expert at it." "Whisper," said the Film Fan. "Did you hear the real story about the opening of the new Knickerbocker Theater? They decided to open it on Friday first, but some one in the bunch backed out — hadn't the nerve to buck against supersti- tion in that way; so they pushed the date forward to Saturday. "Then some one told them that it was an old and authen- ticatedsuperstition that if you moved into a house on Saturday, you'd move out in a hurry in less than a year, and they were stumped again. They'd taken the lease for a year, and they didn't want to be hurried out. So they ordered a private view for Thursday, to take off the edge of the superstition and thereby fool the special jinx that looks after the theatrical superstitions." ® m AS WE cackle joyously at home at the pranks of our chil- dren, recalling similar pranks of our own childhood, we laugh at the film comedies. Not so much because they are funny in themselves, as because they take us out of ourselves, ease us from the restrictions that care would put upon us, and take us 'again to the days of our childhood, when all the world was carefree and happy. The pranks of the film comedians amuse us because they touch our memories of days forgotten. We laugh as much be- cause of the days when we essayed similar pranks, as for the actual comedy portrayed on the screen. It is our privilege to laugh at the fat ones, the skinny ones, the comic ones, and the tricks they employ to produce our laughter. They thrive upon our appreciation in increased pres- tige and salary, and we thrive on our laughter in increased digestion and a more wholesome outlook upon life in general. T^HE COMEDY of the motion picture is in process of evolu- tion. The slapstick and the roughhouse have had their day and played their brief part in the history of the films. The coming comedy will be of better variety and higher standards — something like the comedies of W. W. Jacobs, whose humor, both in story and screen form, abounds in com- edy situations rather than in custard-pie throws, and in subtle humor of direction instead of the kick in the stomach that has hitherto been considered the keenest form of comedy by many scenario writers. Managers of motion-picture companies are glad to greet the better class of comedy. They realize that their audiences are entitled to clean comedy instead of the slanstirt farr<>= (-inot- have been offered in the par" CLIFFORD CALLIS AS "KIDDO." The Kidds are blessed with Kiddo, a precocious youngster, who relieves the monotony of the Kidd home by carelessly throwing about father's loaded revolver, yanking the plumes from mother's im- ported hat, breaking bric-a-brac, and other fascinating indoor activities. Did You Ever See a "Dearie" Gown? Miss Valentine Grant, who starred in Olcott's Irish pic- tures as the little Irish lassie, saw a pretty gown in a little shop window not long ago and went in to look at it. Miss Grant is a nifty little dresser and cannot resist the lure of pretty frocks. She liked the gown, but not the salesgirl, who persisted in calling her "dearie." "Looks elegant on you, dearie," urged the salesgirl for the fortieth time. "That isn't necessary, you know, ' ' said Miss Grant, who can do some good work at freezing exuberance when needed. ' ' Oh, ' ' went on the breezy shopgirl, "don't you like to have me call you 'dearie'?" "Well, we are not dear friends, you know," began Miss Grant in her most severe tone. "Oh, that don't make no difference," smilingly assured the shop- girl. "Most of my customers, they like to have me call them 'dearie.' " Miss Grant helplessly bought the gown, as an excuse to get away. So if you see her in a fetching little velvet gown on a plum shade, you will know at once that it is her "dearie" gown. ^ & Jimmie Thinks Moviegoers Heartless Mrs. Hansen and her five-year old son, Jimmie, attended the movies Sunday night to see "The Lily of Poverty Flat, ' ' the final pic- ture of which reveals a dying man. This picture impressed Jimmie considerably, and it must have set him to thinking seriously. They had attended the last per- formance, and everyone was leaving the movie house at the same time, and Jimmie had walked a few blocks with his mother, when he stopped abruptly and with a sad face looked up at his mother and asked, "Didn't nobody stay to that man's funeral?" Snug Headquarters A battle picture was being reeled off. Two Irishmen ap- plauded a picture of the general. "Phot would yez do if yez were a gineral?" asked one. "Phaix, " was the answer, "Oi think Oi'd make me pillow me headquarters." Kiddus, a bachelor, goes out in search of a shave, while Kidd, the proud father, seeks a haircut. Mean- while Kiddo disappears, and Kitty Kidd sallies forth in search of him. Kiddo, fired with the zeal of adventure, comes across Kiddus's auto and climbs in under the robe in the back seat. Kiddus emerges from the barber shop as Kitty Kidd comes wailing down the street, hunting for her Kiddo. Sympathetic Kiddus tries to comfort her, and thereby incurs the hostility of Kidd, who rushes from the tonsorial parlor in a state of semi-shampoo and ferociously attacks Kiddus with his storm stick. The diplomatic Kiddus pacifies the pair, and fired with am- bition to aid the charming Kitty Kidd, he starts on a hunt for Kiddo. Papa Must Pay for His Blessings Now Billy was very fond of going to the movies, but his papa refused to give him the money to go as often as Billy desired. On this night Billy had teased his father so persistently that he was sent to bed after sup- per. His mother took him to bed and stayed with him while he said his prayers. She was inwardly amused when her little son finished his prayer in this manner: "God bless mamma, and God bless papa — when he gives me a nickel for the pitcher show. Amen." AMERICAN "HANDS UP!" Kiddo returns home after his brief runaway adventure and amuses himself by cutting up books and smashing lamps. He finds his father's revolver and holds up his frightened parents. A Jitney Proposal They were at the pictures. The youth, drawing a sigh from a great depth of feeling, remarked to his sweetheart, "Dearie, you are the 'star' of my life. Won't you allow me to play opposite to you until the "reel' of life runs out?" "Yes, my hero," she replied, "provided you promise me never to come home 'reeling,' to avoid all domestic 'scenes,' to 'screen' me from all trouble, to allow 'visions' of your former girls to 'fade' away, and to keep grinding away for me, and me only." They clasped hands as "Good-night" was flashed. Excellent Foundation A very thin girl was shown on the screen. One girl remarked to her friend, "That actress has the foundation for a very good figure." "Yes, indeed," was the answer. "The 'framework' is ex- cellent." MITTENTHAL LENA VIOLA BROWN. Miss Brown Likes Feathers T ENA VIOLA BROWN, with the Mittenthal Studio at Yon- kers, is an athletic girl and would rather spend her time skating, hunting or riding than in the shops. So she delegates this job to anyone she can hire, coax or bribe to do it. "I wish we could wear feathers, " she snapped disconsolately one day, after several hours spent in trying to decide which of three gowns to choose. "Now, if we could only have been pro- vided with a nice coat of feathers, you know — black or blue or white, as we might choose — how grand it would be ! Just brush down our feathers and be able to go anywhere in any kind of weather. Wouldn't that be grand?" "It would," agreed her father, who is a great chum of Miss Brown's and who likes to be with her every spare moment. "Sure it would. But what on earth would you do, Lena, in the molting season? Wouldn't it sound rather odd if all the screen people were to call up the director on busy mornings and say, 'Sorry, but I won't be able to be down this morning; I'm molting'?" ' ' Dad, ' ' said Miss Brown, " as a father you are a great suc- cess, but as a sympathizer you are not worth tuppence. And just for that, I'll take all three of the dresses." The Funniest Part of It Was that He Paid the Bill TTELENE ROSSON, of the American Company, keeps a com- edy scrapbook of the funny things that happen around the studio. "What's the funniest thing that has happened to you this week, Bill?" she asked a friend the other day. The friend paused meditatively. "Funniest thing I heard of this week was about the collector who tried to collect a bill from me yesterday," he said. "What was funny about that?" she inquired. "Why, he collected it," said her friend, in surprise. OLLIE KIRBY. "The top of the morning to you," says Helena Rosson, of the American. "Oof! Look Out for 'Ootsie!' " TF YOU drop in to pay a friendly call on Miss Ollie Kirby, leading lady for Kalem, look out for her pet. He's all over the place, and the conversation will run something like this: "Why, hello, there! Come in. Oh, don't sit down in that chair! You'll sit on Ootsie. There, now, you scared him out! Haven't seen you for a long — Look out there! Gracious! You nearly stepped on Ootsie! Have you seen me in 'Stinge- ree' yet? I think it's the best thing I've — Oh, please don't lean against that cushion! You'll mash Ootsie." You feel sure you are seeing things. You rub your eyes and blink stupidly and wonder if you have vertigo. "Has it a regular name besides what you call it?" you ask timidly, eying it and wondering if there really is such an animal. "It's a horned toad, silly," says Miss Kirby. "It's my mascot, and it never leaves my dressing-room." And Ootsie blinks solemnly at you. He knows you are afraid of him. American Type of Comedy Ham and Bud were christened Lloyd Hamilton and Albert Duncan. Their line is the purely American type of humor. Their teamwork began on a baseball ground years ago, when Bud, who was a Brooklyn boy, accepted an invitation to umpire a ball game. The invitation was ex- tended because he looked easy to lick. Ham was the Big Doings on the team that rightfully called themselves "The Terrors," but he rescued Bud from the controversy that followed an adverse decision and stood off his fellow "Terrors" with a baseball bat. Their fun never grows stale, and they possess the faculty of always keeping their audiences amused with a constant source of new tricks. This natural, unrestrained quality in their work makes it stand out as both refreshing and distinctive. "The finest thing about the mov- ies is that you can watch your own work," said Hamilton, in an inter- view for Film Fun. "We almost laugh over our own antics sometimes. Bud and I went COPYRIGHT KALEM CO, THE TRAINED ANIMALS QUARREL OVER LOVE AFFAIRS. COPYRIGHT KALEM CO MADAM DUFFY AND HER TRAINED ANIMALS to a show the other night and saw one of our own pictures, ' Rushmg the Lunch Counter, ' and as I thought that there were probably a million people all over the country watching the same film, I nudged Bud and I said, "'Want to go back to vaudeville, Bud?' ' ' Bud, he looked at a gray- haired, tired-faced woman trying to wipe the tears of mirth out of her eyes and not miss any of the reel, and said, " 'Not so you could notice it ! We could make a house- ful laugh in the old days, but we can make 'em laugh by the millions this way.' " "A laugh is worth more than medicine any day, you know. If we can make two laughs sprout where only one grew before, we think we have done our share." A Fancier in Pets T I T T L E Jane Lee, the clever child actress with the Fox Corpora- tion, has consider- able artistic tem- perament. You can see that the corners of her mouth are turned down in her pic- ture and that she is delivering an ultimatum with arms akimbo.' And she means what she says, too. Jane is a fancier of pets. When she went to Jamaica to help make the big $1,000,000 Annette Keller- m a n n picture, Jane was interest- ed in dolls; but as soon as she saw the flora and fauna of that semi-tropical island, she neg- lected her dolls for other pets. Miss Keller- mann took pity on little Jane when her mother had indignantly repudiated a baby elephant, a St. Bernard dog and a pet alligator, and presented her with a small baby swan, with an elongated, curving neck that would go twice around Jane's small waist and then have room to spare. The world looked bright to small Jane once more, until she discovered that her mother had most peculiar grown-up ideas on the subject of baby swans sleeping in downy white beds with little girls. Hence the stamp and the determined expression to the mouth in the picture. The Gnome Village The Fox director who directed the child cast for the Keller- mann production has a few gray hairs that were not there when he began. There were one thousand children in some of the scenes, and the job of managing this bunch of frisky young- sters kept several of the company awake nights, wondering how to keep them all busy and out of mischief. They were all Jamaican children, ranging from one to nine years old, and they were a part of the famous gnome village, a cleverly unique fantasy. The kiddies are all dressed in little brown coats and wear long white beards, after the most ap- proved gnome fashion. The task of making them up for the rehearsals drove several to the point of nervous distraction, un- til they counted heads and gave ten children to each dresser for making up. In groups of ten, they managed them wisely. EOX Film "I won't smile!" snapped little Jane Lee, child actress with the William Fox Company. "They won't let my baby swan sit at the table with me." The children who took part in the scene were drilled faith- fully. They were first instructed in the mysteries of gnome- hood, and then divided into groups, with a supervisor for each group. Some were assigned to be fishermen, millers, boatmen or shepherds. The Jamaica mothers at first were a bit chary about con- senting to the use of their children; but after a few days they became interested, and the paths to the studio were beaten flat with the padding of barefooted children coming to get a job as gnomes. The kiddies themselves are having the time of their lives, getting good pay for the most gorgeous spell of genuine play they ever hope to have. Making It Realistic It was in Florida, where some of the film companies operate all winter, and in the cheap restaurant a fellow was telling an- other how some folks just stumble into good luck. "You see," he went on, "there's my friend Sam Smithers, for example. With the town full of floaters and fellows glad to get anything to do, he is constantly hitting a day's work where another chap can't catch on at all. The other night he got two dollars' for subbing for a night watchman at a garage, and when he went to breakfast, in the morning paper he saw an advertise- ment of men and women wanted to make up a church scene for a film company. So Sam hikes for a car and gets there early and picks up a date. But he had been up all night and was sleepy, and during 'the movie sermon he went to sleep and snored comfortably till it was all over. When the director gave him his two dollars, he said, " 'Young man, that was a brilliant idea of yours to make believe go to sleep in church. Makes it realistic. Come around to-morrow, and I will give you steady work. ' ' ' The Real Thing in Crowds There is no more natural picture crowd than the real crowd itself. But the difficulty was to take them. Once the camera was set up and the picture begun, the crowd would gather about, the small boys dart in and out and spoil foot after foot of good film, and perfectly good directorial tempers were irretrievably lost. Added to that, the street crowd, under the impression that a motion picture company has money to burn, demanded a pretty good fee, just for being a crowd. M. E. Hoffman has solved the problem. It's so simple that it is a wonder no one thought of it before. Mr. Hoffman bought a big moving van and a team of ordinary horses, accus- tomed to pulling a load without a murmur. The camera man was installed inside the van, and portholes made in the canvas sides of the van, through which a good picture could be taken without letting the crowd in on the joke. Then the van was pulled up beside the curbstone, and street scenesfilmed without the knowledge of anyone on the outside. It was a great idea and so good that Mr. Hoffman could not bear to keep it all to himself. So if you are thinking of staging a motion pic- ture, all you have to do to make a start is to purchase a moving van and a pair of steeds. CCPYRiChT MOFFETT JUNE KEITH G I M M E A NICKEL FOR T H E M O V I E S ! niH ^c. '^AATELL, I see Charlie Chaplin, after doing some clever ground and lofty tumbling about among the motion picture companies, has volplaned himself into a pleasant little job with the Mutual. Heard what he was getting? A fat little sum of $520,000 per each and every year," said the Film Fan. "Stage money — stage money!" growled the Grouch. "I'm crazy to see him in 'Carmen,'" said the pretty Secretary. "What's he play — the bull?" snapped the Grouch. "Let me tell you something about this fellow Chaplin " "Cheer up!" grinned the Fan. "You always talk this way when you eat sausages for breakfast. Did you see that story of the priest in England, Father Watt, who, so the London papers say, declares that Chaplin is more to some people than Almighty God? He says they'll go to see Chaplin when they refuse to go to church." "Ya-ah," said the Grouch. "I see the New York police called in those pesky little disks that were passed around as Charlie Chaplin medals, too. They got to be more to some people than nickels, they looked so much like 'em. Stage money, kid, stage money!" "Wait a minute," went on the Fan. "Did you know that the Chaplin pictures appear in over 31,000 theaters daily and that an average of 12,000 people daily laugh at the Chaplin antics?" "They didn't laugh at him much at the Hippodrome that night he appeared there to conduct the orchestra," said the Grouch. "I never saw Chaplin in my life until that night — never saw a Chaplin picture — but I would not have said he was anything to rave about. He was awkward, shy, ill at ease — he admits it. He looked like a boy trying to recite his first piece at the Friday afternoon exercises at school." "That was because he did not have his Chaplin make-up on. As Chaplin, the man, he probably would never interest any- body," insisted the Fan; "but let him get on his Chaplin trou- sers and big shoes and his quaint kick, and he becomes Chaplin, the entertainer — the mime." "Yah," sneered the Grouch. "I was coming along the street the other day when they were towing him into the oflSce to sign that contract they talked about. There was a crowd gathered, and he refused to pass through it — refused to go in and sign the contract unless they'd shoo the bunch away." "Shyness," suggested the Fan. "Shyness, your grandmother!" growled the Grouch. "He didn't propose to let people see him for nothing, when he could make them pay for the privilege. Every- body that has worked with him says he is the most difficult man to work with they have ever experi- enced. Maybe it's shyness, and maybe it's temperament, and then, again, maybe it's something else." "You are prejudiced," said the Fan. "Now, listen. Chap- lin is a serious-minded young chap, and just because he does not believe in squandering his money and making a bally ass out of himself in the cafes and along the white lights, you fel- lows jump on him. Be his vogue long or be it short, it will stand as the greatest vogue any actor has ever known. Did you read that story about him in Blackwood's Magazine? Listen while I read an extract: " 'But what,' inquired that earnest seeker after knowl- edge, Mr. Waddell, 'is the general attitude of the country at large upon this grave question?' "Captain Wagstaffe chuckled. " 'The dear old country at large,' he replied, 'is its dear old self, as usual. The one topic of conversation at present is — Charlie Chaplin.' " 'Who is Charlie Chaplin?' inquired several voices. "Wagstaffe shook his head. " 'I haven't the faintest idea,' he said. 'All I know is that you can't go anywhere in London without running up against him. He is It. The mention of his name in a revue is greeted with thunders of applause.' " 'But who is he ? ' " 'That I can't tell you. I made several attempts to find out; but whenever I asked the question, peo- ple simply stared at me in amazement. I felt quite ashamed; it was plain that I ought to have known. I have a vague idea that he is some tremendous new boss whom the gov- ernment has appointed to make shells or something. Anyhow, the great British na- tion is far too much engrossed with Charles to worry about a little thing like conscrip- tion. Still, I should like to know. I feel I have been rather unpatriotic about it all.' "'I can tell you,' said Bobby Little. 'My servant is a great admirer of his. He is the latest cinema star. Falls off roofs and gets run over by motors' — " 'And keeps the police at bay with a fire hose,' added Wagstaffe. 'That's him! I know the type. Thank you, Bobby!' "Major Kemp put down his glass with a gentle sigh and rose to go. " 'We are a great nation,' he remarked contentedly. 'I was a bit anxious about things at home, but I see now there was nothing to worry about. We shall win, all right. Well, I am off to the mess. See you later, everybody !' " "That's no proof," grunted the Grouch. And, anyway, Roscoe Arbuckle was right when he said the worst thing that can happen to any actor is to arrive." "You go into any theater, and when the announcement is made of a Chaplin picture," said the Film Fan, "everybody will sigh as happily as the small boy who has just found out that there is to be ice cream for dessert." "And you can go into the next theater and watch them get up and leave," grinned the Grouch triumphantly. "Fellow told me last night everybody groaned when they read it, and half of them got up and left." "It's the box-office receipts that talk," said the Film Fan. "Stage money, kid !" muttered the Grouch. "Stage money!" -^ "U YSTONE Mabel gets into difficulty with lier new gown and coaxes Fatty to fasten it. FATTY OFF GUARD By ELIZABETH SEAL'S ET'S GO round to the office," said Roscoe Arbuckle. "We are not re- hearsing to-day, so there is nothing doing here." He had been standing in the huge studio, with its roof of glass, watching workmen make a set and rapidly paper two walls with a vivid pink hanging. At the entrance there was bunched an eager group of men and women, hop- ing against hope that they would have an opportunity to speak to him and get in the cast. When you see his jolly grin facing you from a picture or the covers of a magazine, you are minded to say, "Hey, there's Fatty!" Somehow you have no inclination to call him " Fatty' ' when you come face to face with him in the flesh. True, if he were not fat, he might not be so funny; but there are brains there as well as bulk. And Arbuckle has not been 'idle all these years that he has been in motion pictures. He has been thinking out his plans and dreaming his dreams, and now he has an opportunity to put them on the screen and see how they pan out. He has passed the acrobatic stage and the business of flapping his hands against his sides, as the sym- bols of fun. KEYSTOhe "Turn about is fair play," says Roscoe Arbuckle, in his new role as the jealous doctor. "I hooked your gown — you tie my necktie." "You are breaking away from the slapstick stuff," com- mented some one from the far gloom of the room. "How 'II Mack Sennett like that, huh? Sennett's main idea of humor seems to be one grand slam of kaleidoscopic action that tires the eye and leaves no one strong point in the memory." Mr. Arbuckle continued to watch himself on the screen div- ing under the bed for a collar button. "Well," he said calmly, "Mr. Sennett trusted me to come to New York and put on these plays. He knows what my ideas are along the newer lines of screen comedy." It may be that Sennett has noted the trend and begun to moderate his inordinate frenzy of acrobatic falls and tumbles and vio- lent and unnecessary smashes through break- fast rooms, with the unvarying accompaniment of broken china and ceilings. "What's the worst thing that can happen to an actor?" I asked, apropos of the remark- able [tumble down the stairs of the doctor in search of the burglar. Mr. Arbuckle handed <^,?i;^A=i -.^ai. me the answer slap off the shoulder. ^^=^ "To arrive," he said promptly. "I thought that was what they all desired more than any- thing else," I said, in surprise. "They do," he replied; "but the trouble is, once they ar- rive, there isn't much to do but to leave again. When they are climbing up, the public applauds and says, 'That chap is com- ing right along — doing better every day.' But once the- actor is heralded as an absolute arrival, the public begins to criticise and pick flaws and expect him to better his own standard, and it is a tremendous strain. He simply is forced to keep ahead of the public's opinion and to spring something newer and bet- ter every season. The man or woman who can survive an ' ar- rival' is a star of the greatest magnitude." There's a bit of thought for you. We mulled it over and watched the picture silently, until Mr. Arbuckle began to chuckle over a scene. "We had an awful scrap over that," he said. "You see, sometimes some of us disagree on an essential point of the pro- duction, and we stop the picture and thrash it out right there. Miss Normand is a very charming little lady, but she' has a mind of her own, all the same, and we had some argument over that. My idea was to mystify the audience right there — not let 'em have an inkling of why Mabel gets her visitor into her room there, until they see the burglar hauled out from under the bed. ' ' I noticed that it was his part of the idea that got over, though. "That's a good bit," commented some one in the group, when the screen flashed the picture of the armchair before the fire- place. Mr. Arbuckle smiled happily. "That's what I meant when I said that we need not rob the picture of scenic beauty to get humor into it. Clean comedy, with an artistic background, not merely hyster- ical laughter and situations. ' ' "Think the public wants that kind of comedy?" queried one of the visitors. "I don't believe the public wants to get its laughs mixed up with its thoughts, do you?" "I'm banking on it," said Arbuckle confidently, "although older and more experienced men than I am have failed to grasp the way of the public and what it will do at a given period. I believe in the comedy that makes you think, and I believe that the time has come to put it on — and that is what I am going to do." We stood a moment in the doorway, when the picture and the interview were over, and watched the little file of actors and actresss in the yard, who had been informed that there would be no use in waiting. "I'd like to go out to the car with you, " said Mr. Arbuckle, nervously glancing out of the window at the group; "but if I go out there and they see me, they'll all ask me for a job — and I haven't a thing to offer them." His blue eyes looked concerned with a boyish sentiment as he bent them on us. "I — I sort of hate to turn them down," he said depre- catingly. You see, responsibility takes the laugh out of you some- times. And although Roscoe Arbuckle loves to see his public laugh, it takes the smile off his own face when he must in any way distress even a small proportion of it. "Miss Normand has a longing to play drama on the stage," he said, as he bade us good-by; "but I don't believe there is any finer mission on earth than just to make people laugh, do you?" Two-minute Interviews With the Stars "There's one thing about the motion picture stuff," mused George Beban, when the Two-minute Interviewer arrived. "It's never dull. Only I don't care for the zoo parts. I didn't mind the old turkey gobbler in a farm scene, who took exceptions to a red handkerchief I waved and did the turkey trot after me in two-four time. If there's anything that looks as harmless and funny as a turkey gobbler and can do such good work in the ring, I haven't run across it. "Then there was the dog that played one scene with me. We played about 150 feet of thrilling film With this creature swinging from my left knee. The dog held on by his teeth. I held on by main strength. It made a good film, but a rotten knee. "And there was the lamb. Have you heard the story of the lamb? This was Georgie's lamb. It cuddled up in my arm and winked at papa lamb, who had remained quiescently in the offing until he caught the wink. Papa lamb's butting average broke the record during the next five minutes. He was a fond father and a persistent sheep, and I ^gave him the game without the aid of the umpire. ~ "Then there was the" "Time's up," announced the Two-minute Interviewer. "Wait a minute," urged Beban. "I want to tell you about the" "Next time," firmly remarked the Two-minute Interviewer. "Time's up." The English film fans have nicknamed Helen Gibson the "nervy flapper." Helen felt offended at the news, until it was explained to her that "flapper" is English for the American "chicken," or, in plain, ordinary words, a more than likeable young woman.