What are the personal peculiarities of film people? In view of the fact
that it is our bounden duty to torment, dilate and comment upon ye people
of the screen, it behooves us to stop now and then to observe what they
are and how they become that way, aside from being good looking, drawing
big money and getting divorced.
Let’s get right down to business. Take Allan Dwan, a well known director.
Dwan doesn’t hate himself any more than the law provides for. In fact,
there is no reason Dwan should despise himself. He was a good electrical
engineer; became interested in pictures and makes various flurries of
coin according to the Angels who can be dug up to back his ventures.
Dwan formerly was a good athlete. He is powerfully constructed but
noticeably short. About the studios it is well understood that one of the
few faults Dwan finds with himself is that he isn’t just up to his own
personal idea of tallness. If he has a tender spot, it hinges upon this
item of feet up and down. Someone conceived the idea that in order to tab
him “Napoleon.” But that line of bull has been overdone and so another
gag had to be hatched up. “The Big Little Man,” that is what those in
close touch with Dwan call him when they desire to make a favorable
impression. “The Big Little Man,” that’s a good title—better than some of
the ones that appear on Dwan’s pictures and a lot of other pictures.
Thus we dispose of Mr. Dwan, a cocky, brainy, peppy little fellow whose
only regret is that he should be a little longer. Next we will consider
Mr. Fairbanks, Mary’s present husband, barring every state in the Union
but Nevada—and Nevada isn’t quite certain that Mary is still married to
Owen Moore. Doug likes to tread about with his gang of retainers at his
heels. Fairbanks cottons to the custom, styles and bequeathments of the
English sporting gentlemen who stalked abroad with a company of idol
worshippers.
Doug is not always the most distinguished looking of his company. At any
event, he frequently is not the most noticeable. It was Fairbanks that
discovered the now famous Bull Montana, who doubles for monkeys when one
is required in the cast and whose ability to take punishment one time
resulted in nine fire hoses being turned on him at once as he was swept
down the gutter.
When Doug Fairbanks and Bull Montana walk down the street together
the Bull “takes it away from him,” as they say in the pictures when a
subservient character grabs the best of the scene from the star. Bull
has a face, at once fearsome and fascinating. He is so ugly that crowds
follow him around. It is a frequent spectacle in Los Angeles to see
Fairbanks, Bull Montana, Spike Robinson, Crooked Nosed Murphy, Benny
Zeidmann, the press agent de luxe, and Mark Larkin, Fairbanks’ special
representative, beating it down the broad. Of course, Doug always struts
in front, while the others in platoon formation tread proudly in the
rear. The only place where Doug falls down is that some of his gang look
funnier than Doug acts on the screen and the big star stands a chance of
being overlooked in the “what the h—is coming here” attitude that rends
the atmosphere as the Fairbanks battalion bears down upon the multitude.
Yes, Doug likes to lead his gang into the big hotel corridors, where his
cohorts then fade gracefully into the oblivion necessary to leave Doug
alone in his solitude for the yokels to admire and wonder at. You gotta
hand it to Doug for rushing in with his gang and then giving them the
fade away sign at the psychological moment.
Lottie Pickford—we have thought out loud a time or two before in these
columns about Lottie. Unlike the demure Mary, Lottie likes the jazz
stuff, the bright lights and some good looking young dude hanging around
her. We never saw Lottie chew tobacco, but she can stow away a lot of the
“grape.”
If we had our decision to make as regards Lottie’s chief peculiarity we
would say that her idea is to be thoroughly known as Mary’s sister by
doing things that Mary doesn’t. Lottie isn’t the first contrary girl,
though, who can claim to be of famous family. There was Miss Roosevelt
and later Mrs. Longworth. Didn’t the colonel himself call long and loudly
for commodious families? And did you ever read that his daughter attained
any particular fame aside from smoking cigarettes and not rearing
children?
If you are a sort of a junior member of a family and fear that you will
be overshadowed by some relative, cast for a famous mold, one way to
attract attention is to copy the other one—backwards.
We come to Fatty—Roscoe Arbuckle. Roscoe’s peculiarity just now is to
have people try and forget that his name is Fatty. Roscoe is getting
dignified. He has half a dozen cars, just because people came to know him
as “Fatty Arbuckle” and paid a lot of dough to see him. Just where Fatty
expects to promote himself by being Roscoe passeth understanding. Surely
he doesn’t think that he could act seriously without being thought funny.
Perhaps Fatty is subtle. He may have tired of drawing laughs as a result
of acting natural and figures he may get as many more by trying not to
appear natural.
Now we are down to Mr. Griffith. Mr. Griffith, to our notion, is a
great director. But Mr. Griffith is more or less deftly endeavoring
to implant the idea in the public mind that he is a poet. That is Mr.
Griffith’s peculiarity. He would not be seen much in public; rather he
seeks to attract attention by remaining in seclusion. His well organized
staff and his actors and actresses, who like him much, never pass up an
opportunity to breathe it about that “Mr. Griffith is a poet.”
We never read any of David’s verses, but if he is a poet, it devoutly is
to be desired that there were more poets and fewer directors operating in
pictures.
After all, these little peculiarities or hobbies of the picture people
are not harmful to any one in particular. We all like to strut and fluff
and show our fine feathers. It’s human nature.
* * * * *
We’ll Say So!
While Al. Jolson, the black-face comedian, was touring the Pacific Coast
with his latest starring vehicle, “Sinbad,” he visited the California
insane asylum, at Napa. Passing through one of the wards he noticed a
rather neat chap and asked the attendant the nature of the fellow’s
trouble.
The attendant told the comedian that it was a new case. Had only arrived
the previous day.
Jolson approached the patient and inquired “If you had only one wish in
the world, and it would be granted, what would you wish for?”
The patient looked at Jolson and said, “I’d wish that Volstead was born
with a thirst!”
With a smile Jolson replied, “You might have been crazy when they brought
you here yesterday, brother, but you’re talking good sense today!”
* * * * *