The street leading to the Holden motion-picture studio, considered by
itself, lacks beauty. Flanking it for most of the way from the boulevard
to the studio gate are vacant lots labelled with their prices and
appeals to the passer to buy them. Still their prices are high enough
to mark the thoroughfare as one out of the common, and it is further
distinguished by two rows of lofty eucalyptus trees. These have a real
feathery beauty, and are perhaps a factor in the seemingly exorbitant
prices demanded for the choice bungalow and home sites they shade. Save
for a casual pioneer bungalow or two, there are no buildings to attract
the notice until one reaches a high fence that marks the beginning of
the Holden lot. Back of this fence is secreted a microcosmos, a world in
little, where one may encounter strange races of people in their native
dress and behold, by walking a block, cities actually apart by league
upon league of the earth’s surface and separated by centuries of time.
To penetrate this city of many cities, and this actual present of the
remote past, one must be of a certain inner elect. Hardly may one enter
by assuming the disguise of a native, as daring explorers have sometimes
overcome the difficulty of entering other strange cities. Its gate,
reached after passing along an impressive expanse of the reticent fence,
is watched by a guardian. He is a stoatish man of middle age, not neatly
dressed, and of forbidding aspect. His face is ruthless, with a very
knowing cynicism. He is there, it would seem, chiefly to keep people out
of the delightful city, though from time to time he will bow an assent
or wave it with the hand clutching his evening newspaper to one of the
favoured lawful inmates, who will then carelessly saunter or drive an
expensive motor car through the difficult portal.
Standing across the street, one may peer through this portal into
an avenue of the forbidden city. There is an exciting glimpse of
greensward, flowering shrubbery, roses, vines, and a vista of the ends
of enormous structures painted yellow. And this avenue is sprightly with
the passing of enviable persons who are rightly there, some in alien
garb, some in the duller uniform of the humble artisan, some in the
pressed and garnished trappings of rich overlords.
It is really best to stand across the street for this clandestine view
of heart-shaking delights. If you stand close to the gate to peer past
the bulky shape of the warder he is likely to turn and give you a cold
look. Further, he is averse to light conversation, being always morosely
absorbed--yet with an eye ever alert for intrusive outlanders--in his
evening paper. He never reads a morning paper, but has some means of
obtaining at an early hour each morning a pink or green evening paper
that shrieks with crimson headlines. Such has been his reading
through all time, and this may have been an element in shaping his now
inveterate hostility toward those who would engage him in meaningless
talk. Even in accepting the gift of an excellent cigar he betrays only
a bored condescension. There is no relenting of countenance, no genial
relaxing of an ingrained suspicion toward all who approach him, no
cordiality, in short, such as would lead you to believe that he might
be glad to look over a bunch of stills taken by the most artistic
photographer in all Simsbury, Illinois. So you let him severely alone
after a bit, and go to stand across the street, your neatly wrapped art
studies under your arm, and leaning against the trunk of a eucalyptus
tree, you stare brazenly past him into the city of wonders.
It is thus we first observe that rising young screen actor, Clifford
Armytage, beginning the tenth day of his determined effort to become
much more closely identified with screen activities than hitherto. Ten
days of waiting outside the guarded gate had been his, but no other ten
days of his life had seemed so eventful or passed so swiftly. For at
last he stood before his goal, had actually fastened his eyes upon so
much of it as might be seen through its gate. Never had he achieved so
much downright actuality.
Back in Simsbury on a Sunday morning he had often strolled over to
the depot at early train time for a sight of the two metal containers
housing the films shown at the Bijou Palace the day before. They would
be on the platform, pasted over with express labels. He would stand by
them, even touch them, examine the padlocks, turn them over, heft them;
actually hold within his grasp the film wraith of Beulah Baxter in a
terrific installment of The Hazards of Hortense. Those metal containers
imprisoned so much of beauty, of daring, of young love striving against
adverse currents--held the triumphant fruiting of Miss Baxter’s toil and
struggle and sacrifice to give the public something better and finer.
Often he had caressed the crude metal with a reverent hand, as if his
wonder woman herself stood there to receive his homage.
That was actuality, in a way. But here it was in full measure, without
mental subterfuge or vain imaginings. Had he not beheld from this
post--he was pretty sure he had--Miss Baxter herself, swathed in costly
furs, drive a robin’s-egg-blue roadster through the gate without even
a nod to the warder? Indeed, that one glimpse of reality had been worth
his ten days of waiting--worth all his watching of the gate and its
keeper until he knew every dent in the keeper’s derby hat, every bristle
in his unkempt mustache, every wrinkle of his inferior raiment, and
every pocket from which throughout the day he would vainly draw matches
to relight an apparently fireproof cigar. Surely waiting thus rewarded
could not be called barren. When he grew tired of standing he could
cross the street and rest on a low bench that encircled one of the
eucalyptus trees. Here were other waiters without the pale, usually men
of strongly marked features, with a tendency to extremes in stature or
hair or beards or noses, and not conspicuously neat in attire. These,
he discovered, were extras awaiting employment, many of them Mexicans or
strange-appearing mongrels, with a sprinkling of Negroes. Often he could
have recruited there a band of outlaws for desperate deeds over the
border. He did not fraternize with these waifs, feeling that his was
another plane.
He had spent three days thus about the studio gate when he learned of
the existence of another entrance. This was a door almost opposite the
bench. He ventured through it and discovered a bare room with a wooden
seat running about its sides. In a partition opposite the entrance was
a small window and over it the words “Casting Director.” One of the two
other doors led to the interior, and through this he observed pass many
of the chosen. Another door led to the office of the casting director,
glimpses of which could be obtained through the little window.
The waiting room itself was not only bare as to floor and walls, but
was bleak and inhospitable in its general effect. The wooden seat was
uncomfortable, and those who sat upon it along the dull-toned walls
appeared depressed and unhopeful, especially after they had braved a
talk through the little window with someone who seemed always to
be saying, “No, nothing to-day. Yes, perhaps next week. I have your
address.” When the aspirants were women, as they mostly were, the
someone back of the window would add “dear” to the speech: “No, nothing
to-day, dear.”
There seemed never to be anything to-day, and Clifford Armytage spent
very little of his waiting time in this room. It made him uncomfortable
to be stared at by other applicants, whether they stared casually,
incuriously, or whether they seemed to appraise him disparagingly, as if
telling him frankly that for him there would never be anything to-day.
Then he saw that he, too, must undergo that encounter at the little
window. Too apparently he was not getting anywhere by loitering about
outside. It was exciting, but the producers would hardly look there for
new talent.
He chose a moment for this encounter when the waiting room was vacant,
not caring to be stared at when he took this first step in forming a
connection that was to be notable in screen annals. He approached the
window, bent his head, and encountered the gaze of a small, comely woman
with warm brown eyes, neat reddish hair, and a quick manner. The gaze
was shrewd; it seemed to read all that was needed to be known of this
new candidate.
“Yes?” said the woman.
She looked tired and very businesslike, but her manner was not unkind.
The novice was at once reassured. He was presently explaining to her
that he wished to act in the pictures at this particular studio. No,
he had not had much experience; that is, you could hardly call it
experience in actual acting, but he had finished a course of study and
had a diploma from the General Film Production Company of Stebbinsville,
Arkansas, certifying him to be a competent screen actor. And of course
he would not at first expect a big part. He would be glad to take
a small part to begin with--almost any small part until he could
familiarize himself with studio conditions. And here was a bunch of
stills that would give any one an idea of the range of parts he was
prepared to play, society parts in a full-dress suit, or soldier parts
in a trench coat and lieutenant’s cap, or juveniles in the natty suit
with the belted coat, and in the storm-king model belted overcoat.
And of course Western stuff--these would give an idea of what he could
do--cowboy outfit and all that sort of thing, chaps and spurs and
guns and so forth. And he was prepared to work hard and struggle and
sacrifice in order to give the public something better and finer, and
would it be possible to secure some small part at once? Was a good
all-round actor by any chance at that moment needed in the company of
Miss Beulah Baxter, because he would especially like such a part, and he
would be ready to start to work at any time--to-morrow, or even to-day.
The tired little woman beyond the opening listened patiently to this,
interrupting several times to say over an insistent telephone, “No,
nothing to-day, dear.” She looked at the stills with evident interest
and curiously studied the face of the speaker as she listened. She
smiled wearily when he was through and spoke briskly.
“Now, I’ll tell you, son; all that is very nice, but you haven’t had a
lick of real experience yet, have you?--and things are pretty quiet on
the lot just now. To-day there are only two companies shooting. So you
couldn’t get anything to-day or to-morrow or probably for a good many
days after that, and it won’t be much when you get it. You may get on as
an extra after a while when some of the other companies start shooting,
but I can’t promise anything, you understand. What you do now--leave me
your name and address and telephone number.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the applicant, and supplied these data.
“Clifford Armytage!” exclaimed the woman. “I’ll say that’s some warm
name!”
“Well, you see”--he paused, but resolved to confide freely in this
friendly seeming person--“you see, I picked that out for a good name
to act under. It sounds good, doesn’t it? And my own right name is
only Merton Gill, so I thought I’d better have something that sounded a
little more--well, you know.”
“Sure!” said the woman. “All right, have any name you want; but I think
I’ll call you Merton when you come again. You needn’t act with me, you
know. Now, let’s see--name, age, height, good general wardrobe, house
address, telephone number--oh, yes, tell me where I can find you during
the day.”
“Right out here,” he replied firmly. “I’m going to stick to this studio
and not go near any of the others. If I’m not in this room I’ll be just
outside there, on that bench around the tree, or just across the street
where you can see through the gate and watch the people go through.”
“Say!” Again the woman searched his face and broke into her friendly
smile. “Say, you’re a real nut, aren’t you? How’d you ever get this
way?”
And again he was talking, telling now of his past and his struggles to
educate himself as a screen actor--one of the best. He spoke of Simsbury
and Gashwiler and of Lowell Hardy who took his stills, and of Tessie
Kearns, whose sympathy and advice had done so much to encourage him. The
woman was joyously attentive. Now she did more than smile. She laughed
at intervals throughout the narrative, though her laughter seemed
entirely sympathetic and in no way daunted the speaker.
“Well, Merton, you’re a funny one--I’ll say that. You’re so kind of
ignorant and appealing. And you say this Bughalter or Gigwater or
whatever his name is will take you back into the store any time? Well,
that’s a good thing to remember, because the picture game is a hard
game. I wouldn’t discourage a nice clean boy like you for the world,
but there are a lot of people in pictures right now that would prefer a
steady job like that one you left.”
“It’s Gashwiler--that name.”
“Oh, all right, just so you don’t forget it and forget the address.”
The new applicant warmly reassured her.
“I wouldn’t be likely to forget that, after living there all those
years.”
When he left the window the woman was again saying into the telephone,
“No, dear, nothing to-day. I’m sorry.”
It was that night he wrote to Tessie Kearns:
Dear Friend Tessie:
Well, Tessie, here I am safe and sound in Hollywood after a long ride
on the cars that went through many strange and interesting cities and
different parts of the country, and I guess by this time you must have
thought I was forgetting my old friends back in Simsbury; but not so, I
can assure you, for I will never forget our long talks together and how
you cheered me up often when the sacrifice and struggle seemed more than
any man could bear. But now I feel repaid for all that sacrifice and
struggle, for I am here where the pictures are made, and soon I will be
acting different parts in them, though things are quiet on the lot now
with only two companies shooting to-day; but more companies will be
shooting in a few days more and then will come the great opportunity for
me as soon as I get known, and my different capabilities, and what I can
do and everything.
I had a long talk to-day with the lady out in front that hires the
actors, and she was very friendly, but said it might be quite some time,
because only two companies on the lot were shooting to-day, and she said
if Gashwiler had promised to keep my old job for me to be sure and not
forget his address, and it was laughable that she should say such a
thing, because I would not be liable to forget his address when I lived
there so long. She must have thought I was very forgetful, to forget
that address.
There is some great scenery around this place, including many of the
Rocky Mtns. etc. that make it look beautiful, and the city of Los
Angeles is bigger than Peoria. I am quite some distance out of the
centre of town, and I have a nice furnished room about a mile from the
Holden studios, where I will be hired after a few more companies get to
shooting on the lot. There is an electric iron in the kitchen where one
can press their clothes. And my furnished room is in the house of a Los
Angeles society woman and her husband who came here from Iowa. Their
little house with flowers in front of it is called a bungalow. The
husband, Mr. Patterson, had a farm in Iowa, six miles out from Cedar
Falls, and he cares little for society; but the wife goes into society
all the time, as there is hardly a day just now that some society does
not have its picnic, and one day it will be the Kansas Society picnic
and the next day it will be the Michigan Society having a picnic, or
some other state, and of course the Iowa Society that has the biggest
picnic of all, and Mr. Patterson says his wife can go to all these
society functions if she wants, but he does not care much for society,
and he is thinking of buying a half interest in a good soft-drink place
just to pass the time away, as he says after the busy life he has led he
needs something to keep him busy, but his wife thinks only of society.
I take my meals out at different places, especially at drug stores. I
guess you would be surprised to see these drug stores where you can go
in and sit at the soda counter and order your coffee and sandwiches and
custard pie and eat them right there in the drug store, but there are
other places, too, like cafeterias, where you put your dishes on a tray
and carry it to your own table. It is all quite different from Simsbury,
and I have seen oranges growing on the trees, and there are palm trees,
and it does not snow here; but the grass is green and the flowers bloom
right through the winter, which makes it very attractive with the Rocky
Mtns. standing up in the distance, etc.
Well, Tessie, you must excuse this long letter from your old friend, and
write me if any company has accepted Passion’s Perils and I might have
a chance to act in that some day, and I will let you know when my first
picture is released and the title of it so you can watch out for it when
it comes to the Bijou Palace. I often think of the old town, and would
like to have a chat with you and my other old friends, but I am not
homesick, only sometimes I would like to be back there, as there are not
many people to chat with here and one would almost be lonesome sometimes
if they could not be at the studio. But I must remember that work and
struggle and sacrifice are necessary to give the public something better
and finer and become a good screen actor. So no more at present, from
your old friend, and address Clifford Armytage at above number, as I am
going by my stage name, though the lady at the Holden lot said she liked
my old name better and called me that, and it sounded pretty good, as I
have not got used to the stage name yet.
He felt better after this chat with his old friend, and the following
morning he pressed a suit in the Patterson kitchen and resumed his vigil
outside the gate. But now from time to time, at least twice a day, he
could break the monotony of this by a call at the little window.
Sometimes the woman beyond it would be engrossed with the telephone and
would merely look at him to shake her head. At others, the telephone
being still, she would engage him in friendly talk. She seemed to like
him as an occasional caller, but she remained smilingly skeptical about
his immediate success in the pictures. Again and again she urged him not
to forget the address of Giggenholder or Gooshswamp or whoever it might
be that was holding a good job for him. He never failed to remind her
that the name was Gashwiler, and that he could not possibly forget the
address because he had lived at Simsbury a long time. This always seemed
to brighten the woman’s day. It puzzled him to note that for some reason
his earnest assurance pleased her.
As the days of waiting passed he began to distinguish individuals among
the people who went through the little outer room or sat patiently
around its walls on the hard bench, waiting like himself for more
companies to start shooting. Among the important-looking men that
passed through would be actors that were now reaping the reward of their
struggle and sacrifice; actors whom he thrilled to recognize as old
screen friends. These would saunter in with an air of fine leisure,
and their manner of careless but elegant dress would be keenly noted by
Merton. Then there were directors. These were often less scrupulously
attired and seemed always to be solving knotty problems. They passed
hurriedly on, brows drawn in perplexity. They were very busy persons.
Those on the bench regarded them with deep respect and stiffened to
attention as they passed, but they were never observed by these great
ones.
The waiting ones were of all ages; mostly women, with but a sprinkling
of men. Many of the women were young or youngish, and of rare beauty,
so Merton Gill thought. Others were elderly or old, and a few would be
accompanied by children, often so young that they must be held on laps.
They, too, waited with round eyes and in perfect decorum for a chance
to act. Sometimes the little window would be pushed open and a woman
beckoned from the bench. Some of them greeted the casting director as an
old friend and were still gay when told that there was nothing to-day.
Others seemed to dread being told this, and would wait on without daring
an inquiry. Sometimes there would be a little flurry of actual business.
Four society women would be needed for a bridge table at 8:30 the next
morning on Stage Number Five. The casting director seemed to know the
wardrobe of each of the waiters, and would select the four quickly.
The gowns must be smart--it was at the country house of a rich New
Yorker--and jewels and furs were not to be forgotten. There might be two
days’ work. The four fortunate ladies would depart with cheerful smiles.
The remaining waiters settled on the bench, hoping against hope for
another call.
Among the waiting-room hopefuls Merton had come to know by sight the
Montague family. This consisted of a handsome elderly gentleman of
most impressive manner, his wife, a portly woman of middle age, also
possessing an impressive manner, and a daughter. Mr. Montague always
removed his hat in the waiting room, uncovering an abundant cluster
of iron-gray curls above a noble brow. About him there seemed ever to
linger a faint spicy aroma of strong drink, and he would talk freely to
those sharing the bench with him. His voice was full and rich in tone,
and his speech, deliberate and precise, more than hinted that he
had once been an ornament of the speaking stage. His wife, also, was
friendly of manner, and spoke in a deep contralto somewhat roughened by
wear but still notable.
The daughter Merton did not like. She was not unattractive in
appearance, though her features were far off the screen-heroine model,
her nose being too short, her mouth too large, her cheekbones too
prominent, and her chin too square. Indeed, she resembled too closely
her father, who, as a man, could carry such things more becomingly.
She was a slangy chit, much too free and easy in her ways, Merton
considered, and revealing a self-confidence that amounted almost to
impudence. Further, her cheeks were brown, her brief nose freckled,
and she did not take the pains with her face that most of the beautiful
young women who waited there had so obviously taken. She was a
harum-scarum baggage with no proper respect for any one, he decided,
especially after the day she had so rudely accosted one of the passing
directors. He was a more than usually absorbed director, and with drawn
brows would have gone unseeing through the waiting room when the girl
hailed him.
“Oh, Mr. Henshaw, one moment please!”
He glanced up in some annoyance, pausing with his hand to the door that
led on to his proper realm.
“Oh, it’s you, Miss Montague! Well, what is it? I’m very, very busy.”
“Well, it’s something I wanted to ask you.” She quickly crossed the room
to stand by him, tenderly flecking a bit of dust from his coat sleeve as
she began, “Say, listen, Mr. Henshaw: Do you think beauty is a curse to
a poor girl?”
Mr. Henshaw scowled down into the eyes so confidingly lifted to his.
“That’s something you won’t ever have to worry about,” he snapped, and
was gone, his brows again drawn in perplexity over his work.
“You’re not angry with poor little me, are you, Mr. Henshaw?”
The girl called this after him and listened, but no reply came from back
of the partition.
Mrs. Montague, from the bench, rebuked her daughter.
“Say, what do you think that kidding stuff will get you? Don’t you want
to work for him any more?”
The girl turned pleading eyes upon her mother.
“I think he might have answered a simple question,” said she.
This was all distasteful to Merton Gill. The girl might, indeed, have
deserved an answer to her simple question, but why need she ask it of so
busy a man? He felt that Mr. Henshaw’s rebuke was well merited, for her
own beauty was surely not excessive.
Her father, from the bench, likewise admonished her.
“You are sadly prone to a spirit of banter,” he declared, “though I
admit that the so-called art of the motion picture is not to be regarded
too seriously. It was not like that in my day. Then an actor had to be
an artist; there was no position for the little he-doll whippersnapper
who draws the big money to-day and is ignorant of even the rudiments of
the actor’s profession.”
He allowed his glance to rest perceptibly upon Merton Gill, who felt
uncomfortable.
“We were with Looey James five years,” confided Mrs. Montague to her
neighbours. “A hall show, of course--hadn’t heard of movies then--doing
Virginius and Julius Caesar and such classics, and then starting out
with The Two Orphans for a short season. We were a knock-out, I’ll
say that. I’ll never forget the night we opened the new opera house at
Akron. They had to put the orchestra under the stage.”
“And the so-called art of the moving picture robs us of our little meed
of applause,” broke in her husband. “I shall never forget a remark of
the late Lawrence Barrett to me after a performance of Richelieu in
which he had fairly outdone himself. ‘Montague, my lad,’ said he ‘we may
work for the money, but we play for the applause.’ But now our finest
bits must go in silence, or perhaps be interrupted by a so-called
director who arrogates to himself the right to instill into us the
rudiments of a profession in which we had grounded ourselves ere yet
he was out of leading strings. Too often, naturally, the results are
discouraging.”
The unabashed girl was meantime having sprightly talk with the casting
director, whom she had hailed through the window as Countess. Merton,
somewhat startled, wondered if the little woman could indeed be of the
nobility.
“Hello, Countess! Say, listen, can you give the camera a little peek at
me to-day, or at pa or ma? ‘No, nothing to-day, dear.’” She had imitated
the little woman’s voice in her accustomed reply. “Well, I didn’t think
there would be. I just thought I’d ask. You ain’t mad, are you? I could
have gone on in a harem tank scene over at the Bigart place, but they
wanted me to dress the same as a fish, and a young girl’s got to draw
the line somewhere. Besides, I don’t like that Hugo over there so much.
He hates to part with anything like money, and he’ll gyp you if he can.
Say, I’ll bet he couldn’t play an honest game of solitaire. How’d you
like my hair this way? Like it, eh? That’s good. And me having the
only freckles left in all Hollywood. Ain’t I the little prairie flower,
growing wilder every hour?
“Say, on the level, pa needs work. These days when he’s idle he mostly
sticks home and tries out new ways to make prime old Kentucky sour mash
in eight hours. If he don’t quit he is going to find himself seeing some
moving pictures that no one else can. And he’s all worried up about
his hair going off on top, and trying new hair restorers. You know his
latest? Well, he goes over to the Selig place one day and watches horse
meat fed to the lions and says to himself that horses have plenty of
hair, and it must be the fat under the skin that makes it grow, so he
begs for a hunk of horse from just under the mane and he’s rubbing
that on. You can’t tell what he’ll bring home next. The old boy still
believes you can raise hair from the dead. Do you want some new stills
of me? I got a new one yesterday that shows my other expression. Well,
so long, Countess.”
The creature turned to her parents.
“Let’s be on our way, old dears. This place is dead, but the Countess
says they’ll soon be shooting some tenement-house stuff up at the
Consolidated. Maybe there’ll be something in it for someone. We might as
well have a look-in.”
Merton felt relieved when the Montague family went out, the girl in
the lead. He approved of the fine old father, but the daughter lacked
dignity in speech and manner. You couldn’t tell what she might say next.
The Montagues were often there, sometimes in full, sometimes represented
by but one of their number. Once Mrs. Montague was told to be on Stage
Six the next morning at 8:30 to attend a swell reception.
“Wear the gray georgette, dearie,” said the casting director, “and your
big pearls and the lorgnon.”
“Not forgetting the gold cigarette case and the chinchilla neck piece,”
said Mrs. Montague. “The spare parts will all be there, Countess, and
thanks for the word.”
The elder Montague on the occasion of his calls often found time to
regale those present with anecdotes of Lawrence Barrett.
“A fine artist in his day, sir; none finer ever appeared in a hall
show.”
And always about his once superb frock coat clung the scent of forbidden
beverages. On one such day he appeared with an untidy sprouting of
beard, accompanied by the talkative daughter.
“Pa’s landed a part,” she explained through the little window. “It’s
one of those we-uns mountaineer plays with revenooers and feuds; one of
those plays where the city chap don’t treat our Nell right--you know.
And they won’t stand for the crepe hair, so pop has got to raise a brush
and he’s mad. But it ought to give him a month or so, and after that
he may be able to peddle the brush again; you can never tell in this
business, can you, Countess?”
“It’s most annoying,” the old gentleman explained to the bench
occupants. “In the true art of the speaking stage an artificial beard
was considered above reproach. Nowadays one must descend to mere
physical means if one is to be thought worthy.”