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Taylorology Issue 30
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* T A Y L O R O L O G Y *
* A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor *
* *
* Issue 30 -- June 1995 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
"The Sins of Hollywood: An Expose of Movie Vice"
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What is TAYLOROLOGY?
TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond
Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to
death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major
scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life;
(b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor
murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood
silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given
toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it
for accuracy.
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In the aftermath of the Taylor case there were many published revelations of
scandal in Hollywood. The most prominent such collection during that time
was the book THE SINS OF HOLLYWOOD: AN EXPOSE OF MOVIE VICE, published in May
1922. Although real names were not used, most subjects are easily
identified. Our conclusions regarding the identities of those subjects can
be found in the endnotes (of course, the fact that the subjects can be
identified does not mean that the incidents are true). The booklet was
published anonymously, the author listed as simply "A Hollywood Newspaper
Man." But in the film industry's backlash against this book, the author was
revealed as Ed Roberts, the former editor of PHOTOPLAY JOURNAL, and Roberts
admitted authorship of the book. The complete book is reprinted below. [1]
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
THE SINS OF HOLLYWOOD: AN EXPOSE OF MOVIE VICE
A Group of Stories of Actual Happenings
Reported and Written
by
A Hollywood Newspaper Man [Ed Roberts]
May 1922
Hollywood Publishing Co.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Reasons for the "Sins of Hollywood"
TO THE PUBLIC:
The sins of Hollywood are facts--NOT FICTION!
The stories in this volume are true stories--the people are real
people--
Most of those involved in the events reported herein are today occupying
high places in motion pictures--popular idols--applauded, lauded and showered
with gold by millions of men, women and children--ESPECIALLY THE WOMEN AND
CHILDREN!
To the boys and girls of the land these mock heroes and heroines have
been pictured and painted, for box office purposes, as the living symbols of
all the virtues--
An avalanche of propaganda by screen and press has imbued them with
every ennobling trait.
Privately they have lived, and are still living, lives of wild
debauchery.
In more than one case licentiousness and incest have been the only rungs
in the ladders on which they have climbed to fame and fortune!
Unfaithful and cruelly indifferent to the worship of the youth of the
land, they have led or are leading such lives as may, any day, precipitate
yet another nation-wide scandal and again shatter the ideals, the dreams, the
castles, the faith of our boys and girls.
It is for these reasons that the SINS OF HOLLYWOOD are given to the
public--
That a great medium of national expression may be purified--taken from
the hands of those who have misused it--that the childish faith of our boys
and girls may again be made sacred!
Fully eighty per cent of those engaged in motion pictures are high-grade
citizens--self-respecting and respected.
In foolish fear of injuring the industry, Hollywood has permitted less
than one percent of its population to stain its name.
The facts reported in these stories have long been an open book to the
organized producers--No need to tell them--they knew!
They knew of the horde of creatures of easy morals who hovered about the
industry and set the standard of price--decided what good, clean women would
have to pay--have to give--in order to succeed--
They knew of the macqueraux--of the scum that constituted the camp
followers of their great stars. They knew of the wantonness of their leading
women--
They knew about the yachting parties--the wild orgies at road houses and
private homes--
They knew about Vernon and its wild life--Tiajuana and its mad, drunken
revels--
They knew about the prominent people among them who were living in
illicit relationships.
There was a time at one studio when every star, male and female, was
carrying on an open liason--The producer could not help knowing it.
Eight months before the crash that culminated in the Arbuckle cataclysm
they knew the kind of parties Roscoe was giving--and some of them were glad
to participate in them--
They knew conditions--knew about the "hop" and the "dope"--but they took
the stand that it was "none of our business"--
Their business was piling up advance deposits from theater owners and
manipulating the motion picture stock market.
They frowned upon all attempts to speak the truth--
Any publication that attempted to reveal the real conditions--to cleanse
the festering sores--was quickly pounced upon as an "enemy of the industry"--
A subsidized trade press helped in this work!
Any attempt to bring about reform was called "hurting the industry."
It was the lapses and laxities of the producer that precipitated the
censorship agitation--that led a nauseated nation, determined to cleanse the
Augean stables of the screen, into the dangerous notion of censorship--almost
fatally imperiling two sacred principles of democracy--freedom of speech and
freedom of the press!
They have made "box office" capital of everything--Nothing has been too
vile to exploit--
They created the male vamp--
Nothing was sacred--nothing was personal--if it had publicity
possibilities--
In the Daniels case they exploited the courts and made them a laughing
stock-- [2]
At this moment Taylor's tragic death is being exploited in connection
with his last production--
If the screen is to be "cleaned-up" the sores must be cut open--the puss
and corruption removed--This always hurts! But it is the only known way!
THE AUTHOR
Hollywood, April 1, 1922
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dope!
During the throbbing, feverish years of the World War all roads let to
France or--Hollywood.
The conglomerate, nondescript mass of beings of every hue and type that
swept over the battlefields was no more complex in its composition, no more a
mixture of oil and water, than were the high and the low, the vile, the vain
and the vicious that made up the mob which swarmed into Hollywood to dip its
fingers into the pot of gold that was being poured from the movie crucible.
No mining camp ever equaled it. No mad, lurid, wild and woolly border
town every attracted so many men of women of so high a station in life or so
vilely sunk as did Hollywood.
None of the country's historic bonanza towns every beheld one half the
real money that Moviedom bathed in.
The Hollywood of those days will go down in history as the Rainbow Age
of the mountebank and the mummer.
The circus, the Uncle Tom show, the medicine show, the carnivals, the
physical culture fakes, the pony shows, the wild west outfits, the concert
halls, the dives, the honk-a-tonks--and in many cases--the bawdy houses--all
contributed their quota to the studios of Hollywood.
With them came men and women who had achieved world wide fame--actors,
authors, dramatists, composers, dancers, whose names are indelibly written in
the list of the world's great artists.
When the shower of gold fell this latter group held its wits--in the
main. Here and there one dropped into the mire of licentiousness and incest.
But this was rare.
The great actor of the spoken drama rarely got very far in the movies.
He refused to fit into the scheme as laid out by those who held the purse
strings.
It was the upstarts, the poor uncouth, ill-bred "roughnecks," many of
whom are today famous stars, and who never knew there was so much money in
the world, who made the Sins of Hollywood the glaring, red sins they are
today.
After the first few weeks of plenty, of full feeding, the days of penury
and vagabondage faded into the dim vistas of the past. Then came indulgence
in the common, ordinary vices of the average being. And still the money
lasted and even increased. Then the appetites became jaded and each tried to
out-dissipate the other.
Strip poker parties of both sexes, wild drinking debauches and lewdness,
motor cars in designs and colors that screamed and shrieked--dogs and cats as
aids to stimulate the imagination. The odors of the Tenderloin and the
lobster palaces. Poor, futile mimicry!
Then one day a certain well-known and muchly adored heart-breaking star
of the so-called "manly" type taught them something new. And this is how it
came about:
This star--who shall be called Walter [3]--had tried out something. In
his mad endeavor to provide for himself a thrill not written down in the
Movie Vicealogue, Walter sought out several habitues of the underworld of Los
Angeles and visited with them, consorted with them for the purpose, he
explained, of obtaining "local color."
Once they induced him to try "a shot of hop." It was great, he told
some of his friends and "Yes men." They agreed that if he said it was great,
it was indeed great.
Yes, Walter smoked an opium pipe and went back for more. He then tried
"snuffing" a bit of cocaine. That too gave him the desired kick. He "took a
few shots in the arm." Ah, that was still better. He was getting on.
But why have his pleasures all alone? Walter was a good sort. He
wanted his friends to taste of the sweets of life as he found them. Here's
what he would do--he would give a "dope party."
Obviously he could not hold this party at his own home. His wife--she,
too, a star [4]--would object. She didn't even know that Walter had been
trying out various kinds of dope.
But that was easy. Walter merely leased a cabin in Laurel Canyon and
invited a few select friends to come and enjoy something new. Many attended:
Margaret and Mae, Vincent and Jay, Frank and Louise, Mary and Jack and
Juanita--all good fellows and friends of Walter.
Oh, yes, there was a Chinaman there with his layout--pipes and little
pellets of opium.
But first they must try "a shot in the arm." My! How they enjoyed that
"shot in the arm." It thrilled the blase actor folk as they had not been
thrilled since Clara Kimball Young auctioned off her teddy bears, removing
them right before all the crowd. [5]
"Sniffing cocaine" through a little tube, one end of which hung inside a
vial of "snow," was another pastime which all hugely enjoyed. It exalted and
made other beings of them. It was thoroughly a worth-while party, his guests
told Walter, and he was pleased--very pleased, indeed, if he had succeeded in
bringing a few thrills into their uneventful lives--lives, too, made up of
many thrills, but little else.
But the crowning event was when the Chinaman entered and gave each of
them a pipe and a pellet of opium.
Walter had fitted up cozy lounges for them to lie in. Soft, clinging
curtains hung about them, pink-shaded lamps shed a soft glow, and the
Chinaman worked fast and soft-footedly.
Luckily the night was long--it was Saturday. None of them had to appear
for work on Sunday. So all the rest of the night and far into the next day
did they loll there upon the soft cushions and dream--and--well, there are
things that cannot be printed even for truth's sake.
One by one they staggered homeward, vowing to return--any time--and
partake of handsome Walter's hospitality.
And they did. For that was but the beginning. Today the Chinaman has
increased his output of pipes and pellets. He has two assistants and he
holds himself in readiness to answer a summons at a moment's notice to appear
at somebody's home and help to make the night short and the dreams long.
Today the dope peddler is a common sight around the streets of
Hollywood. And once, not so long ago, the Federal officers called upon
Handsome Walter and talked things over with him. They wanted to know if he
was the go-between--the man who acted as middleman for the actors and the
peddlers of drugs. Somehow he got out of it. At least, he is still in
pictures and out of jail.
But the dope users are increasing; dope peddlers prevail.
There is a handsome home, closed temporarily, on a certain fashionable
street in Los Angeles, where if you could enter you would find the finest
equipped dope outfit in America.
Here come the players--mostly stars and near stars--to revel in
Popplyand; here are held high revels--or such was the case only a few months
ago--and here are the wildest of wild parties stages.
Not so long ago Dottie Pitchfork [6] fought a duel with a former Follies
girl [7] with fists and vases; though it is claimed that hair pulling
constituted and really ended the argument.
But they are interesting parties for all that. They must be
interesting, for there have been as many as a hundred guests at these
"affairs," not all of them dope fiends, but many of them are.
Most of them are easy to pick out. Their nervousness betrays them. The
twitching of their mouths, the "snuffles," the listless air of many of them.
A rather new and somewhat unusual dope lately employed is that of
bromidia, a drug which taken in teaspoonsful drives the user to continuous
sleepiness, swelling of the limbs and a lassitude that brings great surcease.
There are but a few of these, however, more of them preferring cocaine,
a "shot in the arm," and an occasional drag at the pipe.
Take for instance a certain young actor [8], son of one of the country's
foremost exponents of the spoken drama. [9] His face is yellow as saffron.
He is a pipe smoker. Twice his father has had him committed to sanitariums.
When his father's company comes to Los Angeles now the son secretes himself
and after his father's departure writes and tells him how sorry he was to be
away on location during his stay in the city.
Then there is the case of the blonde with the Scandinavian name. [10]
Last year it cost her a thousand dollars a month for her dope supply. She
uses cocaine and heroin, goes to sleep on the set, slips over to her dressing
room, takes a few "sniffs" and returns full of ginger, only to fade away in a
short time again.
A once noted song writer, now a movie scribbler, spends the greater part
of his income for drugs. [11]
An actor who has had a long and successful career with two of the big
companies is one of the list.
A well known director is another. [12]
A young woman star, whose name has been very much in the public print of
late, is still another. [13]
The list is interminable--almost inexhaustible.
These indulgences are not always confined to the privacy of the home,
either. In certain more or less public resorts one may upon occasion find
well known movie people partaking of ether cocktails or other concoctions--
perfume dipped on sugar, for instance. Anything and everything in the nature
of what the jazz mad world knows as a "kick."
Walter, they say, still persists in giving an occasional party, though
his wife has long since learned of his condition. But Walter has stamina.
He is still the handsome young devil he always was. He gets away with it.
And even whiskey still has a thrill for him. He dearly loves to go out-
-to some other town, of course--and fight a couple of policemen, tear out
sections of the hotel lobby and throw dishes at the head waiter.
But there are two young girls who regret that they ever attended one of
Walter's parties. They were new at the game, but they wanted to be "good
fellows." They "hit the pipe," they "took a shot in the arm," they snuffed
cocaine, just as the others did.
One has returned to her home in Illinois--back to her parents--where
they say that the drugs have so eaten into her system that she is dying of
tuberculosis.
The other, driven to desperation because of the insistent demand of her
nerves calling for the drugs, is now an ordinary street walker. Her place of
"business" is a shabby rooming house in the underworld district of Los
Angeles; her "beat" is Main and Los Angeles streets. Occasionally when she
can lure a sailor or a stranger to her room she gets from him whatever money
she can and then, as soon as she can rid herself of her companion, she rushes
frantically down to "John" and buys another "shot." It is all she lives for,
that "shot." And she prays nightly that she will not live very long.
There are other cases, of course. For it is the young and inexperienced
who suffer most. It is they who are driven to despair, and there are many in
Hollywood today.
The Federal officers are trying to stamp out the plague, but somehow the
dope users manage to obtain enough to keep them happy. It has made wrecks of
several good men. One of them, in his efforts to break off the habit, has
gone into the wilderness. He is trying to make a little farm pay him a
livelihood, and his estimable wife is helping him. She has had a hard fight,
but they say she is winning over the drug.
But Walter, handsome, debonair, smiling Walter, goes serenely on, having
a handsome salary, feeling, no doubt, that he is a benefactor to his friends.
Didn't he give them a new thrill?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Duck Blinds!
There are no houses of prostitution in Hollywood. No foot-weary
Magdalenes patrol the night. [14]
Hollywood looks with contempt upon the hunger-driven sisterhood that
haunts the streets and bawdy houses. Here the merchandising of sex has been
made a fine art--its devotees are artists. The unskilled worker is a
pariah--unwelcome.
The old Barbary Coast--the old Tenderloin--Armour Avenue, at their
height, are not Hollywood. There is no restricted district--no "other side
of the railroad track."
There is nothing crude or tawdry about Hollywood. Hollywood loves
refinement.
Wherefore, the "joy parlors" and the "love nests" of Hollywood are not
all in Hollywood. The "artists" pay a little more for what they get than
anyone else--go where they will and are welcomed.
Foul fingers reach far out from the city into the green hills and
valleys. The reek of city vice mingles with the scented air of the open
places--Hollywood overlooks no bets.
A thousand roads lead to canyon cabin, sequestered cottage or mountain
shack. There are easy routes to a score of hidden bays and inlets where wait
lavishly furnished yachts and house-boats. From San Diego to Del Monte, from
the beach to the desert Hollywood drips its ooze.
The private dens--or retreats, as it,--where the idols of our boys and
girls disport and indulge their vices span a hundred miles in any direction.
It is in these snug bowers that the "domesticity" the fan magazines so
lovingly and so lyingly prattle of is revealed of in its true form. Here the
veneer assumed for box office purposes vanishes--
The language of the gutter resumes its place as the mother tongue--
a space is a spade or even a harder name--passion is mad passion and nothing
less.
No frowning "Madam" calls a halt to maintain a show of order. Hollywood
has eliminated the "madam" and the grafting policeman. They belong to the
crude days.
Hollywood knows no curb but sanitation and exhaustion.
Half a dozen miles north of the Ridge Route on what is known as the
inland highway between Los Angeles and San Francisco lies a small lake that
nestles between the foothills and the highway. On its shores are scattered
clumps of brush and a few blinds for duck hunters.
In the stories we read of Sodom and Pompeii there is nothing about duck
blinds. Hollywood is creative--requires no precedent.
Hollywood has found a new use for duck blinds--
On the far side of the lake about two hundred yards from the water's
edge stands a frame house. It is painted a dark shade of green.
The house and the acres that lie back of it are the property of two
nationally famous film producers and a Los Angeles business man who runs with
the film crowd.
Silence holds the green house most of the time. The nearest neighbor is
some distance away. Many shade trees hide his view of the green house.
A few turkeys roam the hills.
To the passing motorist the green house is but a speck on the landscape.
The general aspect is one of serenity and peace. The scene is truly
pastoral. The spot exudes an air of rural innocence.
Hollywood knows the value of "atmosphere." That is part of Hollywood's
business. In studio parlance "atmosphere" and camouflage go hand in hand.
During the summer months the hills are hot and few visitors come to the
green house. But as the days grow cooler and October draws near, signs of
life appear. The duck season is approaching. Automobiles wind over the road
back of the lake and unload their cargoes. Everything is made ready for
hunter and huntress. By the first of October all is in shape for the
season's sport.
The green house duck hunter travels like the Mexican army. His women go
with him. The laws of California are the same for men or women who hunt
ducks. You must carry a hunting license.
The law says nothing about a marriage license. So the little green
house complies with the law. Also the law says nothing about chaperones for
house parties of married people--who do not happen to be married to each
other. Again the green house complies with the law.
More than one noted screen beauty has spent the week end in the green
house. More than one famed portrayer of sweet innocence has "hunted" on
these shores. It is not every passing motorist that carries field glasses--
and the naked eye does not carry across the lake far enough to recognize
faces--
Form Friday to Sunday night through October, November and December, the
greenhouse walks with kings and queens of shadowland. It sees them at play--
in what the naturalist would call their native habit, untrammeled as it were
by the artificial conventions of society or the demands of business.
It sees them shorn of their gloss and their glamour.
Not long since a certain beauty [15] who was once the wife of a widely
advertised male vamp [16], a hunting went on the far shore of this lake. This
lady has achieved much fame. She first won her way into the heart of a noted
producer [17] by "hanging crepe" on the "lamp" of a rival who was at that time
basking in the sunshine of his favor and the public smile. Carmen stuff
comes natural to her. Although she and the producer in question are not the
pals they once were, their names are more or less interwoven, and they are
still very good friends.
Yes, very dear friends. He has a wife and family and must be more or
less careful.
Just as day was breaking the beauty was escorted to one of the blinds.
It was not quite light as yet and her escort, a noted screen celebrity, had
to help her. The blind is constructed in front of a row boat moored to the
shore.
It was cold. He had a bottle of which both partook freely. He emptied
it and produced another. It was real cold. So they partook freely--and
cuddled close against the wind.
There were few ducks that morning. In fact, the waters of the lake had
been particularly low and the birds hardly alighted before they flocked off
again on their way southward. There were chances for but few shots.
It grew a bit lighter but the cold wind grew colder. The sport began to
lag. Pretty soon she dropped her gun and snuggled closer to him and took a
few more drinks. He continued peering into the distance in search of passing
birds.
Up over the edge of a hill some distance back from the house a man with
field glasses gazed intently. As the woman cuddled closer he fixed his gaze
more intently. For weeks he had been watching the place unknown to its
owners.
Of course, he had no idea of the prominence of those he spied upon or he
might have hesitated. There is not much spice in the life of ranch hands.
When tales of strange carryings on came floating over the hills early in the
season, the man with the field glasses bethought himself of a good use for
them. More than once his vigil had been rewarded. But this time he was
puzzled. He could not tell what was coming. He did not know a new thrill
when he saw one. He was not an "artist."
His eyes remained riveted on the scene before him. Soon the woman's
male companion dropped his gun, rested his arm on the side of the boat, slid
down into the bottom with his legs sprawled over one of the seats and
appeared to have fallen asleep.
The beauty yawned, took another drink and sat down on the same seat.
For a long time the watcher on the hill could detect no sign of life. Clouds
came up and hid the sun. There was no stir in the green house. The other
occupants, if there were any, were evidently fast asleep.
A flock of birds made a sweep over the edge of the lake and settled.
Another bunch came and joined the first. Sun and sky remained obscured. The
pair in the boat will still inert. The watcher on the hill grew more puzzled
than ever. What had happened?
He stepped down and started to circle to the lower reaches of the ridge
over toward a pass in a canyon that led to the house. Cautiously he drew
nearer until he was on the rim of a high bluff directly overlooking the
blind.
On this bluff a hole had been dug into the ground and crawling toward it
he slid out of sight until he was entirely covered. From this vantage point
he could, with the aid of the glasses, see all that transpired.
More ducks came. No shots were fired. The mystery deepened. A slight
ripple danced away from the side of the boat as it slowly rocked. The
ripples grew larger and came more often. The boat rocked more violently.
The watcher lifted his glasses and gazed again. This time he did not remove
them from his eyes. The glasses remained fixed or rather transfixed. The
watcher was oblivious to all else but what was going on in the row boat on
the water's edge.
Suddenly the boat rocked more violently than ever. It seemed to be
having a spasm. The watcher jumped to the edge of the hole. He could stand
it no longer.
He waved his hands aloft.
"The dirty dogs," he cried out aloud as he walked into the open. There
was a flurry of wings as the startled ducks took to the air. The boat gave a
final lurch like a ship in a gale.
The watcher on the hill had recognized the beauty--he knew the face.
Had seen her in pictures a thousand times!
But he had never read of Sodom or Pompeii!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Strip Poker and Paddle Parties
"There surely must be some way of getting into the movies without
stooping below one's own level."
So thought Jane Evans, who had been in Hollywood some weeks without
making any impression on casting directors other than to invoke insinuating
invitations.
Surely the high-class stars were not so coarse. These men who talked so
openly were just the riff-raff. It could not possibly be otherwise. The
newspapers said such nice things about the great actors and actresses--
Soon opportunity came to Jane to mingle in the social whirl of the much
talked of celebrities. She had left her telephone number at all the studios.
One day she was telephoned to by some mysterious person. She was told it was
a business call. She went to the studio designated and found a young man
pawing over some photographs in a wire basket. She noticed that a picture of
herself, that she had left hopefully, lay segregated from the others. She
entered without being seen and was almost taken off her feed when she heard
the young man say: "I am rustling up some new ones for the Boss' party
tonight."
The young man picked up Jane's photograph and was going to say something
else when he noticed her presence.
"Ah, this is Miss -------?"
"I am," said Jane, "you telephoned for me."
"Do you ride and do you swim," he asked with a peculiar glance towards
another man that sat playing with another photograph and who was just then
ruining it utterly by poking a hole in it with a paper knife.
"I do a little of each."
"All right," said the young man. "Wait."
The youth went into an inner office and threw the picture on a desk by
which sat a very handsome man, well known as a screen favorite. He was
playing with a dog and drinking a cocktail.
"Not bad," he said, and sized up the picture. "I'll take a look."
He went towards the door and peeked out carefully. He came back and
said in a very cool and deliberate way:
"She is a new one on me. She'll do."
The young man came back and was all attention and politeness.
"Mr. -------, well, the boss, says that he will be pleased to have you
meet some of the members of the company at his house tonight," he said, "and
he wants you to be there promptly at midnight."
He wrote an address and a telephone number and gave it to Jane and
showed her the way out.
"Midnight?" asked Jane of herself. "How odd."
But then it occurred to her that perhaps the great men worked late and
she thought nothing more about it. She made up her mind to take the
opportunity and to let no chance to meet the great and near-great go by.
She spent the evening at her apartment and, after having written an
optimistic letter to her mother, she dressed in her best and soon looked very
charming.
Promptly at midnight she arrived at the address given. It was one of
the largest houses in the city and stood buried among magnificent trees in
the middle of a park-like garden. She approached the entrance. But the
house was dark, but for a small light in the hall. She thought at first that
she was at the wrong house, but rang the bell. At length the door was opened
by the young man she had met at the office and he asked her in.
"You are on time," he laughed. "That's enough. I know now that you
haven't been long in the movies. Nobody gives a whoop for appointments or
time. I guess they'll show up, though. They do at times."
The young man asked her to take a seat. Whether she removed her wraps
or not did not seem to bother him. He sat down and lighted a cigarette,
threw the match on the floor and smoked. He remarked suddenly that his name
was Mack. He made a move now and then as if he would sit down close by Jane,
but he looked towards the door and refrained from doing so.
Jane saw a light-button and deliberately turned on the lights.
"Go as far as you like," said the young man with a raucous laugh. "Most
o' them don't want no lights."
Jane pretended not to hear him.
"Is that you, Mack?" suddenly came a drawling voice from upstairs.
"Yes, sir" replied Mack, all attention. "I didn't know you was in."
"Is the little one there?" asked the voice.
"She has just came. She's kicking about more light."
"Give her a drink or two till I get down," said the voice. I'm having a
row with Clara."
"Who is Clara?" asked Jane, and rose to her feet.
"Nobody," replied Mack. "I think she is his wife. That's nothing."
Jane, frightened, got ready to leave when she heard a volley of laughter
outside and four boisterous persons came rushing in.
Jane now could see that they were under the influence of drink. They
made a rush for the decanters and the sideboard.
They all seemed to know where everything was in the house and helped
themselves liberally. Then one of the men noticed Jane and said to Mack.
"Mack, who have we here?"
"Gee, you didn't give me a chance to introduce her," said Mack. "She is
a new friend of the boss--and--"
"Great God," snapped one of the women, "Is he through with Clara
already?"
"Of course," laughed the other woman, "Clara has lasted longer than any
of them. Gee, what do you expect?"
"Where is his Nibs?" asked one of the men.
"Upstairs, scrapping," said Mack. "But he's told me to tell you--"
"That's enough," cried one of the women. "Get the cards and the
lubricants and we don't care if he never comes down."
Jane found herself swept on to a chair at the card table and soon a
poker game was in full progress. She was given an allotment of chips and had
no idea whether they represented money or not, or if so, how much. She did
not know what to do or say and nobody seemed to care.
"Ante-up," said Mack. "Gee, it's hell to be popular."
The game progressed. Jane knew enough of poker to keep up her play.
Soon one of the women lost all her chips. Jane thought she would now learn
what the stakes represented. She had heard of games where thousands of
dollars changed hands in a few minutes.
The losing woman stood up. Jane then witnessed a remarkable
performance. The woman calmly unhooked her shirtwaist and stripped it off
her and threw it on the floor. She picked up her cards and continued to
play, after lighting a cigarette.
"Are you warm?" asked Jane in bewilderment.
"Yes," laughed the woman. "Wait till you get your turn. Quit your
kidding."
The other woman was the next one to lose out and she calmly removed her
skirt and flung it away.
Jane had never heard of the popular game of "strip poker," and
consequently concluded that her companions were losing their minds as well as
their chips and clothes.
She felt a sinking feeling as she suddenly saw her last chips gone. She
noticed that they all stared at her, the men especially.
"Pay your loss," laughed one of them. "Strip off something."
She said she did not understand. They explained to her that the game
consisted of a system of undressing and that the losers had to strip off some
garment each time he or she lost their last chips.
Jane kicked off one of her slippers and smiled. The men looked
disgusted and the women turned up their noses and the game went on.
While Jane was so busy trying to devise some plan by which she could get
out of the house, she found her last chips again swept away in a large
jackpot.
"Nothing can be stripped off that some other player has removed before,"
laughed one of the men. "Now be a good sport and pay your bets. No waists
or skirts or shoes."
She became fearfully indignant. She arose and said she thought it was
time to leave.
"She is crawfishing," cried one of the women. "Make her pay, Al."
The man who answered the name of "Al" put his cigar more firmly into the
corner of his big flabby mouth and arose. He took hold of her and unhooked
the back of her dress.
The others roared and the other man wanted to know if "he wanted any
help?"
Jane began to cry. She tried to tear away from the man. He sunk his
dirty fingernails into her white full arm.
Just then the "boss" was heard coming down. He reached the scene at the
poker table with incredible haste.
He looked at Jane who was wiping a tear and tried to look calm.
Mack tried to intervene and explain. The big, handsome host took him by
the neck and flung him into a corner. He picked Jane up bodily and carried
her to a nearby sofa.
"There'll be no rough stuff while I am here. This is one of my homes,"
he said with apparent chivalry. "Nix on that."
"Who dragged this nice, young girl into a strip poker game?" he
demanded. For God's sake, don't you know a lady when you see one?"
The two men stood like whipped dogs and Mack sneaked out of the room.
But Jane did not see how her supposed champions winked to the men and
how they exchanged glances.
The big man walked over and sat down by Jane.
"Look here, he said, consolingly, "nobody is going to get neither me nor
any of my homes in bad. I am going to be your friend."
At last, thought Jane, she had met one of screenland's noblemen,
although he was rather rough in manner. But he seemed to have a heart as big
as his body.
It was past two o'clock and Jane said something about departing.
"Don't spoil the party," pleaded the host. "There ain't nobody here
yet. I expect a raft of ladies and gentlemen. The bunch seldom gets here
before two."
Little did Jane know that the foregoing was merely an overture to one of
the great bacchanalian parties, to one of the nauseating orgies which are the
order of the day in Movieland. Or, perhaps, it would be more correct to
style them the order of the night, or nights.
It was not long before the parlors of the house began to fill up. The
most remarkable etiquette seemed to prevail. Whether a man preceded a woman
through an open door, or if he conversed glibly with his cigar or cigarette
in his mouth, mattered not at all. Everybody called each other by their
first name and all of them smiled in a peculiar way when they met Jane. The
men smiled pleasantly and the women critically.
Jane recognized some of the leaders of the profession and was glad to
have a chance to view them and hear them at close range.
In a semi-circle, around a fire-place, sat a young handsome man with a
name like one of the country's most famous playwrights. [18]
He was jabbing a hypodermic needle into the pretty white arm of a young
girl, and then others were watching him intently, and still others sat in a
stupor and leered.
The girl evidently had not the courage to inject the narcotic drug into
her own arm. She was a novice. Then the needle was passed around just like
the pipe of peace was passed by the noble American Indians on the same spot
in days of yore.
A famous girl, in the meantime, was drinking perfume and another was
pouring perfume from the bottles on the dressing table on lumps of sugar, and
eating it.
The supply of liquor seemed inexhaustible. As fast as the bottles were
emptied fresh ones took their places. Bottles that had cost as much money as
would maintain an ordinary family for a week were emptied almost in one
swallow. Concoctions were mixed that even old time drinkers had never before
heard of.
The women were the first to show the effects. Their high kicking left
nothing to the imagination. The men encouraged them. One pair shimmied
three-quarters nude. There was nothing concealed in the climax to their
dance. The onlookers shook their shoulders and bodies in unison with the
dancers.
Suddenly the host, from the far end of the big room, called for silence.
In his arms he carried what looked like ordinary flat sticks of wood.
Painted on each one was a number.
At the same time Mack, his assistant, passed about among the women
pinning a paper tag with a number on it to each of their backs. Not knowing
what was coming, Jane permitted him to give her one. She thought it was a
new game. It was--to her. Possibly something like the old time donkey
parties they used to have at home? Not a bit!
Then Mack went around among the men and collected twenty dollars from
each of them. This money he placed in a heap on the table in front of the
host. The girls were told to gather in a corner and turn their backs to the
men leaving their numbers exposed to view.
"The new one is 18," said Mack in a low tone as he approached the table.
The host slipped that number into the table drawer.
"Awrit lesgo," cried the host. Mack spun the wheel that lay on the
table.
"Number 6," yelled the host. A dozen men grabbed for it. The victor
turned about and made a rush for the girl marked "6." Maudlin shouts and
suggestive grimaces greeted them. Mack handed the girl twenty dollars as the
pair walked to another part of the house. They were seen no more.
"Some paddle party," said Mack, as without hitch of any kind, one man
after another drew his girl. The girl took her money and each pair in turn
vanished.
During the sale of the "paddles," as Jane learned the wooden disks were
called, she had overheard enough to let her know what it meant. One of the
women even told her of a "paddle" party she had attended and what a "fine"
time everybody had--and money besides.
Jane found it easy to slip upstairs and find her coat. It was four
o'clock. She passed out of the house unnoticed, walked and ran until she was
a dozen blocks away. It was broad daylight when she reached home.
Her absence was not remarked until the room was almost emptied. Then
Mack noticed she was gone. He hunted everywhere. He went back and told the
host.
"Why in hell didn't you watch her," he growled at Mack, as he slipped
Jane's number out of the drawer and on to the table and replaced it with
another.
In this way the host drew a girl. Mack drew the blank that represented
Jane.
The big room was empty now but from every part of the house came
suppressed laughter. The lights went out.
Thus ended the function. It was regarded as a great success.
The morning sun shone through the windows, but the house was stale with
tobacco and liquor reeks and the sickening odor of "dope." Here and there
lay torn women's garments and in the halls were bits of lingerie.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
How the Great Letty Played Her Cards
Letty had aspirations to be somebody. [19] Early in life she learned
that if a girl cannot be good she must be fairly careful. This grew to be
her motto.
Born in a Western state where men see fit to provide for more than one
wife--brought up among these strange surroundings the girl had talent in more
ways than one. She learned to play the piano at first, then she took up the
violin. When fifteen years of age she sought and obtained a position playing
for dances with an orchestra.
Thus she was able to purchase the baubles and dresses which appealed to
her as the greatest possessions a girl could acquire.
But Letty was young then--only fifteen. She is older now--and wiser--
much wiser. The Past has a baleful look to her--a saddened chastened look.
A forbidding Memory haunts her, taunts her. And this is the story:
Growing into a fairly pretty girl who knew how to wear clothes, a
winsome expression, an innocent face, with a simulated poise that was always
on tap, Letty heard of the movies. She had played in a theater where
pictures were shown. The lure of the silent drama called to her in such
determined tones that she forsook her violin in the land of many wives and
hastened to Hollywood.
Letty found that the job of "extra girl" brings little remuneration--
unless--well, Letty didn't know the ropes--then. It was an assistant
director who first taught her the things she wanted to know. Assistant
directors are sometimes wonderful artists at teaching young girls many things-
-many tricks of the movie profession.
By the time the assistant director had shown Letty how she could be
successful as an actress, she was granted an opportunity to give her
education a test. The assistant had found a blonde who looked particularly
good to him, anyway. He was finished with Letty.
As a bathing girl, Letty got her first part. The director of comedies
merely wanted to see if she could screen in a bathing costume, he said. He
"looked her over" in the privacy of his office. The bathing suit was
particularly daring--even for the movies. The director approved of her
form--and in comedies he was one of the big directors. [20] That was Letty's
cue. She is a bright girl, is Letty.
Some girls would have started right in to vamp the great director--who,
incidentally, is part owner of the studio where he directs. Not so, Letty.
Letty had been schooled--by an assistant director. She had learned all about
the fine art of "yessing." Vamping is old.
True she displayed her physical charms as best she could--as much as she
dared. Not too much--just enough. She had been an apt pupil.
So Letty did bits and atmosphere--as a bathing girl. But this did not
last long. Letty came to life when she thought the time was ripe. She
showed a decided interest in the great comedy director. She patted him on
the cheek--she leaned against him when she conversed with him; she tantalized
him--and walked away. Letty had learned a great deal more than some of the
other girls--they had not all been schooled by an assistant director.
Soon the great director was seen out with Letty at a few of the
roadhouses at Venice, Playa del Rey, Beverly Glen. Letty and the great
director often exchanged knowing glances on the lot.
And with the passing of each day Letty kept getting wiser. She was wise
enough not to tax the great director too much. She needed clothes and other
things. There was a certain shoe merchant in Los Angeles. He liked movie
girls. Letty saw to it that she was the particular movie girl he liked.
Letty was nice to her director and nice to the shoe merchant--but each
had his place in her scheme for the future. The former was to be her
stepping stone. The latter supplied the wherewithal to keep her dressed for
the part until--well, one day his wife went to a department store and got the
wrong bill--it amounted to over Five hundred. Letty had to be more careful
after that--but not less ambitious.
There was heralded throughout Hollywood one day the news that a
wonderful director was coming to town--a master builder. [21]
Letty read the news with avidity. She began to plan. She had sense
enough to know that as a comedienne she never would arrive. No girl ever
amounted to anything in comedies. They were good enough to rub off the rough
spots, but that was all. She must have a chance a drama. She had tried
innumerable times--when the great comedy director did not know it--to get
even a bit in the big pictures, but always she had been turned away.
So she decided to use her wit--and her physical charm.
Patiently she waited till one evening the opportunity came when she
could meet the Great One--the wonderful director of master pictures. The
introduction was simple and brief. To Letty it was an event upon which she
was determined to capitalize.
The Great One gave her but passing notice. But Letty was patient as
ever. She bided her good time. There was but another step. The Great One
needed a girl to play the role of a woman member of a gang of thieves. With
the aid of a booking agent, she succeeded in selling herself--her services--
to the Great One for his big masterpiece--a picture that has been called the
equal of anything Griffith every produced. [22]
Letty's work made an impression. She knew how to be hard--to play the
embittered woman. She was wise but--it had cost something and the hardness
in the picture was not all acting.
By degrees she began to appear at places the Great One frequented--just
as if by accident. By the same slow process she practiced the wiles she had
learned from her two teachers--the assistant director and the great director-
-and soon she began to see progress. Slowly, but none the less surely, she
broke down the Great One's reserve and then--
Step by step she builded the foundation for her success. She intrigued
the Great One--without shame she permitted him to come to her in the great
silences of the whispering night; and in the pink tinted hours of the dawn
she bade him begone lest someone learn of their illicit love.
Then she twisted her mouth and to herself she smiled a smile of cynicism
and scorn. She had won over the Great One in spite of himself--
Later she told him many things and--he believe her. She had not
realized all her ambitions yet. She needed him.
At a cafe in New York he agreed to provide the funds for her own company-
-her triumph was complete. She had her publicity man call in all her bathing
girl pictures of the earlier days. The publisher of a motion picture trade
paper agreed to get a release for her pictures--It cost her only a smile to
secure this service without pay. The publisher and the Great One were
friends of long standing. The publisher had helped make the Great One great
and--it had paid well.
Mystery surrounded the formation of the company--Letty paid all the
bills at the studio--her name appeared on the pay checks. Hollywood
suspected but did not know. The Great One was involved in law suits over his
big picture and his name must not appear. The Great One chose an air of
mystery--well and good. Hollywood was used to mysteries--none of which were
really mysteries to Hollywood at all.
But Letty had started something--she had succeeded in making a slave of
the Great One. She had won him from his relatives, his friends and his
backers. She had made of him a servant who answered her every whim--he lived
only for her.
It was strange, too. For here was a brilliant man--a man with a
reputation for big things--a scholar, a gentleman, a connoisseur--yet he was
a veritable groveling slave to Letty, an uneducated, unrefined, mongrel type
of middle western girl.
But it was all too true--and sad.
Now there was a handsome young chap--and actor of a class--who
frequented the lot [23]--the young son of a famous theatrical father. [24] He
looked good to Letty, did Waldo. He was clean-cut, husky, clever and a good
dresser. Better looking by far than her Great One--and younger. Why, he had
no gray hairs at all.
So Letty fell really in love--or at least she thought it was love.
Anyway, Waldo appealed to her in a different way than did the Great One. She
began to cultivate Waldo, the young one. And Waldo appeared to like Letty.
Perhaps he was flattered, for Letty was now a star; the newspaper clippings
said so. For the Great One maintained a fine staff of press agents for the
express purpose of exploiting Letty.
Soon Waldo and Letty began to go about the roadhouses together; to
appear at public places in each other's company. He was always by her side
at the studio. Indeed, it soon became noised about that the young couple
were engaged, and neither one of them took the trouble to deny it. Even the
press agents failed to capitalize upon the choice bit of material.
The Great One called Letty into his office.
"What is this I hear about you--and young Waldo?" he wondered, as if
afraid to learn the truth.
"Search me," replied Letty, flippantly. "I haven't the slightest idea
what you have heard."
"It isn't true, is it, Letty? You are not going to marry him--and leave
me are you, Letty, dear?"
"Aw, what's the matter with you again?" burst out the girl. "You always
manage to think up something to razz me about. What's eating you, anyhow?
Haven't I got a right to do as I damn please? Who the hell do you think you
are, anyway--King of Ireland, or something?"
And she walked away from him.
Had she looked back she might have seen the Great One drop his head in
his hands as he settled back in his chair. The Great One was very, very
tired.
Letty's picture was finished and released. It was regarded as a good
one. The Great One was given little time to rest.
In order to hold the girl, he supervised another picture--and his
assistant completed it. This picture, of course, starred Letty. It was not
such a wonderful picture--mediocre, in fact. But the publicity brought about
by the success of the masterpiece made of Letty a well known actress. It
made her famous. And her name carried the second photoplay past the booking
offices and into the projection rooms of the theaters throughout the land.
By this time Letty was flaunting the Great One openly. She turned from
him, head uplifted, eyes straight ahead. But she had succeeded only too well
in her efforts to drive the Great One from her. Indeed, she had broken his
heart.
He took to his bed and for many weeks lay there, paying no attention to
anyone. Apparently he did not want to get well.
Before his death the company which he had formed for the purpose of
starring Letty went into the discard. But Letty was "made." The death of
her benefactor brought about the solution of her problem--a problem she had
been trying to solve for several months. That problem was How to Become a
Star for One of the Biggest Companies in the Business.
For immediately one of the Biggest Directors sent for her. Letty knows
men. She had clothes now, and a name. She wore her clothes well. They
displayed just enough of her physical charms to attract the Big Director.
And she knows just how much to say--and how much to hint. Letty is a very
intelligent girl--along certain lines.
Today Letty is listed among the Stars. Every day she climbs higher.
Her position appears to be secure. Her escapades seem to be confined to
playing a quiet game with those who can do her the most good.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The "Gold Digger" and the Wife
He is famous now, this comedian--famous and rich. [25] Children of all
ages laugh in joyful glee at his screen antics. His salary extends into the
thousands per year. For he is one of the greatest in his line.
But it was not always thus. Time was when he was a plugger--a worker in
another line of endeavor--a newspaper man.
Happily married was this comedian whom we shall call Parry. He stayed
at home those days and employed the society of his loving wife and happy
little child--his daughter.
Through the years of struggling for a livelihood, fighting off the
spectre of debt which followed in the wake of the birth of their baby, the
wife was ever at his side cheering him, praising him, helping him to make a
success in life. That was her job--she was a helpmate.
Then--he became a motion picture actor.
At first he was only ordinary and commonplace. But his trained
newspaper sense showed him that many comedians who were funny were
overlooking some important features--ideas which make for fun on the screen.
"Gags," the comedians call them.
So Parry began to try out new stunts--"gags." From the first he was
successful in his new idea. His employers saw that he "had something" and
they permitted him to spend all the money he required to properly "put over"
his stunts.
And soon he became known as a real comedian--not because of his acting,
for he is not an actor--but for the reason that his "gags" were novel and
new.
Soon his head became slightly enlarged--he was becoming famous. His
letters to his wife, who still remained in New York, became more and more
infrequent.
He was so busy.
There came to the "lot" one day a dark-haired, fair-skinned girl of,
say, twenty years. [26] Her smile--to Parry, was infectious. She had "a way"
about her. And, indeed, she had. The "way" had become a habit with her.
She had employed it for many years for just the purpose of decoying men to do
her bidding. She was clever, none can gainsay that.
It was no trick at all for her to ingratiate herself in the good graces
of the comedian. And at once she became his leading woman. She was a
comedienne. She admitted it to Parry and he believed it.
In time he bought her a handsome light blue car--a limousine. Parry was
her slave. He visited her apartments. Virtually he lived there--day and
night. A paid chauffeur drove her to the studio. Parry drove a nondescript
car. Of course, they did not arrive at the studio together. That would be
too crude.
Back in New York a little woman began to eat her heart out. The cry of
mate for mate went out across the continent, but Parry heard it not. His
tiny daughter, now a beautiful young girl, sent tearful messages to her
daddy, but Parry ignored those appeals.
Came the time for action. The wife had been receiving a fairly liberal
allowance, but no endearing words from her now famous husband. She wondered
why. Later she wondered why her allowance was being gradually cut down. The
little daughter, too, now old enough to see that her mother was terribly
worried and sad, wondered. She tried vainly to cheer her saddened mother--to
tell her that "Daddy" would come home some day--or perhaps send for them--and
they would all be happy together once more.
But the long days dragged themselves out and no word came from the
comedian. True a small check occasionally drifted along, but nothing
accompanied them--no words of love for the wife and little one.
The wife could stand it no longer. She decided that once and for all
she must find out what the trouble was--what influence was turning her own
lawful husband against her--and their baby.
So she packed up and with her daughter they came to Hollywood. Vainly
did she try to get on the "lot" where her comedian husband was employed. The
gate keeper had his instructions--for she had wired that she was coming.
Yes, she had telegraphed Parry--but he did not meet her at the train. The
little daughter mingled her tears with those of her mother that night in the
gloomy hotel room.
Telephone calls received no response--Parry was not at home. Than it
began to dawn upon the wife of the comedian that he was deliberately turning
her down--flaunting her love.
The wife learned of a noted attorney--a lawyer who knew all the movie
folks, for they were his clients--many of them. To this attorney she went.
The gruff, old lawyer's heart was touched at the pathos of it all. He
knew the kind of a man Parry was--of his philandering, of his infatuation for
his leading woman.
So he sent for Parry. Parry came at the lawyer's bidding. Many of the
film workers do. They know what he knows. They are afraid not to answer
when he beckons.
Parry came--and met his loving wife and his tearful daughter at the
gruff, but kind hearted lawyer's office.
Joyfully did the little girl bounce to the side of her "Daddy."
"Daddy! Oh, my Daddy!" she cried, throwing her arms about the
comedian's neck.
Roughly the comedian loosed the tiny arms that encircled his neck. Then
he turned to his wife--the wife he had promised to love and cherish--the wife
who had helped him when he needed help most. The woman stood aghast at his
actions. It was incredible!
"Still nagging, I see," he said, sneeringly. "Still hounding me! Well,
what do you want?"
The wife fell upon her knees before the comedian, begged him for the
sake of the baby to make a home for them--to love them--to live with them.
But her turned away from her--whistling.
"Let's get it over with," he said to the lawyer. "What does this woman
want?"
"She wants--and we intend to get--all that is coming to her--in money,"
answered the attorney. "She wants your love and your kindness--she wants a
father for her daughter--she wants a home. But this she sees now she cannot
have. She wants happiness--and you are denying her that. So she must have
money--to properly bring up your daughter--and hers."
"Well, how much?" asked the comedian. "I'm not a millionaire, you know.
It costs me a lot of money to live here--"
"We know your salary--never fear. We'll get what she wants--in our own
way--unless you see fit to be fair right now."
The comedian did not see fit to be fair. But before he left the
attorney's office he had paid--paid in hard coin--and he is still paying.
And he will continue to pay--for the contract is iron bound and certain.
That is the kind of contracts the lawyer draws--because he knows some of the
movie folks for what they are.
Tear-stained faces now peer from the windows of their apartments in New
York--two saddened hearts beat dully, yet occasionally with a faster beating
of hope--for some day, maybe, "Daddy" will see the error of his ways and come
home--some day--maybe.
For Lucy--as she shall be called--now has the upper hand. She is what
is termed in Hollywood "a gold digger." She has extracted every dime she can
from the comedian--her rent, her car, her jewels, her clothes, her pleasures.
But even to the man who has brought her all these she oftentimes is not
at home.
And why?
Because oftentimes other men are there--men she has lured; men who are
fond of her charms; men who do not leave her apartments until daybreak--and
later.
Every know and then she makes a trip to New York--fatigued from being
too closely wedded to her art--she needs a change.
And Parry pays the bills as she flits in and out of the Tenderloin's
mazes. Her face is familiar in every hotel lobby on Broadway. She has many
telephone calls--many midnight suppers.
Parry pays for these jaunts to the same city where a little fatherless
girl sits and waits with her face pressed against the pane--waits alone for
her "Daddy" who never comes.
Every day Parry talks to Lucy from Los Angeles--if he fails to reach her
he comes home sick. She disappeared for two days on her last trip and they
had to get a doctor for Parry. His assistant and his "Yes Men" were sorry
for him so they tried to frame lying excuses, but they knew where she was and
under their breaths they cursed her.
Finally she wrote and said she was not coming back--the going was too
good in New York. So after a couple of weeks of illness, during which he was
under the doctor's care; the doctor knew what he needed and didn't dare tell
him--Parry went to work with a new leading woman.
His friends and faithful assistant were happy--Parry was cured. He was
through with Lucy, through with his parasite. But they did not know Lucy.
When she tired of New York she came back, smiled and Parry and the next
morning the new leading woman was fired. Lucy resumed her place as sole
occupant of the harem--
That evening she recounted to a group of laughing and screaming studio
pals the wonderful time she had in New York. She told of all the men she had
met,
and set the bunch roaring with glee again and again as she re-told her
adventures.
Lucy enjoyed playing the wanton, and her friends enjoyed hearing about
it.
Yes, she is wanton--wanton and cruel and selfish. Think not that the
"entertains" other men because she is so fond of their society--because she
is a "man's woman." No, she is just a "gold digger." Parry's money is
good--but it is not enough. She wants more--always more. And then Parry may
be a great comedy star but he is not much for looks. She wants more and more
and more. And that is her way of getting it. Soon Lucy will be rich--for in
proportion as their men grew poorer. the "gold digger" grows richer.
And back in New York with her little face pressed against the pane a
little girl waits and watches--alone she waits for her "Daddy" who never
comes.
And a lone woman dreams of the days when she was the helpmate--the happy
wife of a poor newspaper artist--and in her heart curses the hour motion
pictures came into being.
But some time--some day--there may come a familiar step--and with a
great joy, that will fill their tender hearts to overflowing, they will dash
down the stairs and fall into the arms of their "Daddy"--if he sees the light
in time--in time.
But, of course, that will only be when Lucy gets ready.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A Battle Royal That Led to Stardom
Love brings strange contrasts--it upsets traditions and turns precedent
all topsy-turvy. But what is love?
Long years ago when motion pictures were struggling along in baby
clothes there was a man whose total histrionic experience had been confined
to carrying a spear on the speaking stage. He was a "super."
It was D. W. Griffith who gave him his first chance in the pictures--and
he still carried the spear well. That, in fact, was about all he ever could
do successfully.
But it did not keep him from becoming a maker of pictures--of many
popular pictures.
But right at first it was a struggle. Somehow he managed to break away
from a job--induced half a dozen others to put in their wages along with his
and take a chance on making a comedy.
Finally, they sold their finished production and realized a profit.
With this money they made another picture and by degrees the spear-carrier
became the sole owner of the company--the others worked for him.
Such is the law of humans. The man with the executive ability wins
always in business. This man was an executive. To make it easier to
comprehend his title we shall call him Jack--which is not his name. [27]
Now there was a girl--a comedienne--who started out with Jack. She was
his leading woman through all the vicissitudes which accompanied the first
experiments in pictures. It was Molly [28] who cheered Jack up when things
went wrong, who kept all the players in good spirits.
And so it came about that Jack learned in his crude way to care for her.
So did many another. But from the beginning it seemed that Molly's affection
leaned more toward Jack than any other of her pals in the "good old days"
when custard pies and stuffed bricks were coined into golden ducats.
Time went on and gradually the other suitors pulled away--Jack was
winning out. True now he had much money and fame was beginning to look in on
him when he was at home. The world looked particularly good to Jack.
With some of his now easily earned money he fitted up a handsome
apartment. To this love nest Molly came often. No, they were not married.
It seemed fair enough to Molly, she who had been reared to look lightly
upon moral conditions. She could see the point. As a married woman she
would not be so popular in pictures.
And so they drifted along for a year--two years--and then--
One day there came on the "lot" an attractive brunette. Straightway the
girl [29]--shall we call her Mae?--and Molly became friends, then pals. It
was Mae who proposed that they be good friends. At first Molly demurred,
then she agreed. It was a diplomatic move. There was a good deal of talk
going on around the "lot." She wanted to stop that talk. So she frolicked
with Mae.
Jack was true to her--this the girl knew. Of course, there were a large
number of new faces around the studios these days--they were necessary in the
sort of pictures Jack was making. But Molly worried none about them. Her
Jack was hers--always.
And so blissfully working her way along toward stardom. Molly drove to
the "lot" with a song in her heart each morning, and with a happy smile on
her face in the evening. Wasn't she "kept" by the great maker of pictures,
himself? Was not she soon to become a star? Was she not earning a
wonderfully big salary?
But Jack began to get young ideas. True, in his way he loved Molly; he
does yet. But Temptation tossed her curls and beckoned him to come and play
along the Highways of Immorality. Temptation, guised as a shapely maid with
alluring lips and firm, rounded bosom called to him and he began to take
heed.
Temptation's other name was Mae--
There were little parties arranged--quiet parties in secluded places.
Molly, all blissfully ignorant of these meeting places, still went about her
work with a song in her heart.
Once she was called out of town for a couple of days. She returned one
day ahead of her planned schedule. A friend whispered a word to her. She
was dumbfounded. Certainly it could not be true. Her Jack would not do such
a thing.
The friend offered proof. All she needed to do, she was told, was to
quietly go to a certain apartment that evening--late--and she would learn
something.
Molly dashed to the apartment, the friend following. They took Mae by
storm. She opened the door. Mae was naked to her skin.
Molly's worst fears were confirmed. For there, occupying the bed,
was--Jack.
Like a tigress Molly tore at the head of the sleeping Mae. But she
reckoned without her adversary. Mae was the stronger, the more cat-like of
the two. With a bound she was up and fighting her former chum. Grasping her
head, Mae thrust Molly's head against the wall. Time and again she battered
it against the wooden casing of the window, lacerating the scalp, tearing
long gashes in her cheek.
Jack hurriedly dressed and like a slinking coward, sneaked out and down
the elevator and fled.
Molly fell unconscious, her head bleeding, her breath coming in gasps.
Mae, waiting only to see the havoc she had wrought, too hurriedly dressed and
went to a hotel for the night.
Molly, with beating head and too weak from loss of blood to go
downstairs, called in her physician.
The next morning, Jack quaking with fear, called up the apartment. She
was deathly ill, he was told. No he could not see her. The doctor said she
was too ill. Well, then, was there anything he could do.
He was told to go to Hell!
That scared him all the more, just as Molly and her friend expected it
would. So he called up the doctor. Yes, Molly was in bad shape--the end in
grave doubt--only hope for the best.
Jack started sending flowers and gifts of every description and wanted
to hire all the nurses and doctors in town. But it was no use, they would
not let him see her. Every day he was told she was getting worse.
Then about a week after the eventful night, one of the Los Angeles
papers came out with a seven column scream headline "MOLLY DYING."
Jack was petrified with fear. He called in his man Friday--at that time
a cadaverous young man with a reputation as a clever fixer.
Friday got busy. The first thing to do was to quiet the papers. By the
pulling of a few advertising strings the newspaper stuff began to abate. The
journal that ran the seven column head in its first edition on the first page
buried the story in the center of the second edition under the smallest head
it could find type for.
Of course, the editor had been convinced that he was in error, that the
lady was really getting better already--was mending rapidly.
Jack had a very busy fortnight following the battle. Between keeping
the papers under control and trying to find out just how ill Molly was, he
didn't have much time to make comedies. Every request that he see Molly was
denied. She was too ill, far too ill to see him or anyone else.
Yet, somehow or other the papers had allowed the story to drop--
It was two weeks later that Jack received a curt summons to call at the
apartments of Molly. Her head was still swathed in bandages. She was pale
and thin. The doctor said she might not get well.
Jack was offered an ultimatum. The ultimatum was this: He must
immediately build a new studio away from his "lot." He must employ one of
the finest directors obtainable. He must buy a first-class story--a comedy-
drama, something to which Molly aspired. Then he must star her, advertise
her, spend money in making her name know, offer her hundreds of luxuries to
which she had never before been accustomed. And he must pay in an enormous
salary--away into the hundreds of dollars per week.
There was another alternative: The doctor said she might die. Mae
would be held for murder, Jack would be an accessory. The whole sordid
affair would be aired. Jack would be ruined.
The producer faced either ruin--or the necessity of spending a fortune
on the woman he said he loved--if she lived.
Now, as a matter of cold, sordid fact, Molly was not ill--she was not
suffering from her injuries--she had been cured. But doctors are odd
persons, and this one was her friend.
Nearly two years were spent on the production in which Molly was
starred. Of course, the new studio was built; many a first-class director
went down to defeat before the picture was completed. But she received
everything she demanded--and what she demanded was a plenty.
The picture was not released for still another year. But it was a good
one. It made the star famous--and rich. Jack made a lot of money in the
meantime, and he needed it. Molly took heavy toll.
Finally, when her big picture was cut, titled and released, she found
that she must go to New York. There she remained until her name was spread
about the land as a great star.
Daily there came to her frantic telegrams begging, pleading with her to
come back--to her Jack. He needed her now more than ever, he said. And he
wanted so to be forgiven--and they would start all over again.
There was a long silence; finally Jack received a telegram. It said:
"Just signed a long term contract with____________ [30] I am to be
starred in comedy-dramas at a salary, the basis of which you started. You
and I are all through. Goodbye. P.S.--You made me what I am today, I hope
you're satisfied.
Molly."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A Wonderful Lover!
"What a lover! Doesn't he just make you tingle all over!" cried the
foolish wife of a prominent citizen.
"Oh, what wouldn't I give to go through that last scene with him. Where
he hugs her as only he can hug. When I think of that kiss my head gets
light," chirruped the idle spouse of the local usurer.
"Well, girls, those kisses and wondrous embraces are easy enough to
get--if you have the price," remarked the big woman who sat between them.
She had been doing comedy characters at the studios ever since pictures were
pictures. She travelled in the train of the prosperous pair because she told
raw stories rawly, was witty and clever, was their connecting link with the
movies--they had nothing else to think of; no washing to do; and besides--her
cosily furnished bungalow on the edge of the foothills came in very handy at
times--very, very handy.
"I'd be willing to pay. He can have me any time he wants me. You only
live once," said Mrs. Usurer.
"What my husband don't know won't hurt him," said Mrs. Prominent Cit.
"And besides I've got enough on him to make him look sick. If ever Adolfo
[31] comes my way watch me grab."
"You're both wrong again girls," laughed the big woman. "I don't mean
what you mean. That's easy--any woman can give that. When I said 'price,' my
good wimmien, I meant cash, spondulix, mazuma, golden ducats."
"What DO you mean," cried both in a breath.
"I mean, children, that Adolfo has put a cash value on what he's got.
He accommodates the ladies at so much per accommodate or--well, you can have
his services by the week, month, or hour. It's all according to how you
feel."
"Right now?" cried Mrs. Prominent Citizen and Mrs. Usurer, in chorus.
"Now girls, don't get excited, don't be foolish. 'Right now'," mimicked
the big woman. "Right now, he's a great star. The mammas and the daughters
all over this dry nation fight like cave women to get good seats whenever and
wherever his love making appears on the screen. He does not have to live the
old way any more. He's just like the successful bucket shop operator--in the
high finance class--probably contributes to the fund to clean-up the bucket
shops--or the lounge lizards--take your pick.
"All right. Tell us the whole story, teacher," said Mrs. Prominent
Citizen.
"Yes, please, teacher," implored Mrs. Usurer.
"Time was," began the big woman, "when our hero was not as prosperous as
he is today. He wasn't very prominent (nodding toward Mrs. Prominent Cit.).
And he did not have any money to loan out at high rates of interest.
(Nodding toward Mrs. Usurer) So he had to do the best he could. Now, it
happened that the boy had brains in his feet as well as his head. Also he
had no scruples. No scruples a-tall. Adolfo was what they call a dancing
fool. The 'dancing' part was okay, but they were wrong on the 'fool.' Very,
very wrong.
"With his little old dress suit--that was his wardrobe, he came to
Pasadena. There was in Pasadena in those days just as there is now a group
of hotels that were as swell as--as--Hell. The papas and mammas of the War
Babies--the sugar guys--the oil guys--the munition guys--all that bunch, came
there to play. And more often than not mamma had to come alone because papa
had to stay home and nurse little War Baby. And this made mamma a very
lonesome and a very miserable woman.
"So that every night at the ultra ultra Hotel Miseryland and the also
ultra ultra Hotel Wantington there were sundry women, not too good looking,
not too fair of form, nor too young, who sat by the side lines and enviously
eyed the young girls who had no difficulty in securing partners. What good
were their diamonds and their gold embroidered dresses and their limousines
'n everything when they couldn't get them a dancing partner. So there was
gloom, deep impenetrable gloom and disappointment among the mammas of the War
Babies.
"Then along came little Dolfy. His appraising eye surveyed the field.
He saw what he saw. The diamonds did not blind him. In the dazzling light
he only opened his eyes all the wider. He looked over the young ones and he
looked over the old ones. For the time being--at least until after the
campaign was over--he determined to turn his back on the flappers. They
would have to wait.
"He pulled no 'boners.' He was a bright young man. He danced the old
girls dizzy. He started out by dancing with the young ones and flirting with
the old ones over his partners' shoulders. No, he was not bold. This was
work that called for a certain kind of finesse. No matter how much he needed
them, he must hold tight until they came after him.
"You see, Adolfo had once read the story of Potipher's wife and how she
chased little Joseph, a nice Jewish boy with black eyes and pretty hair, all
over her husband's preserves just because Joseph handled the proposition
right. He made her come after him. 'Them Jews have always been good
business men,' he said to himself. Wherefore, he planned his campaign along
Josephian lines. He made them come after him.
"Well, he danced and he danced and it wasn't long before he had the
rivals for his attentions glaring at one another and saying little spiteful
things about--and often right to--each other. The young girls laughed and
sneered and the old girls cried--in the privacy of their rooms whenever they
didn't get their full share of dances with him. And, believe me, the boy
could dance. He made very dowager think she had it on Mrs. Vernon Castle.
My, but he was the popular boy.
"There is no use in prolonging this story too much, children. Adolfo
was going great. Funds were getting very, very low, when the contest came to
a climax. The rivalry for his favors narrowed down to just two contestants.
One was the wife of a very rich Easterner. She had come to Pasadena a month
or two before with her young daughter. They occupied a lavishly appointed
apartment near the Miseryland. The other was the more or less well known
wife of a gay blade whose people had amassed millions in the packing game.
Wherever people eat her husband's family draws revenue.
"For some time, he played with them both. On one occasion he rode home
with the pair in a big limousine. They met the next day. Said the one from
the East: "Dolfy was wonderful last night. He squeezed my hand all the way
home." "That was when he wasn't squeezing mine," snapped the other.
"Finally the lady from the East forged to the front and took possession
of Adolfo. He lived well, had plenty of money and prospered. The apartment
was cosy and comfortable and there was always room for him. This lasted
until the woman who ran the apartment house decided things were getting a
little bold. The lady was asked to move. Which she did and Adolfo went
along. But the time came for going home and her husband's insistence could
be overcome no longer. She departed sorrowingly.
"After that it was one after another. He was making a good living. He
finally began to drift over to Los Angeles. He enlarged his territory. He
became a four o'clock tea hound at the principal downtown hotel. He walked
about the lobby with his hat off. Was thoroughly at home. The four o'clock
teas were patronized by a group of women who didn't care. He found many
patrons here and basked in the sunshine of success and plenty.
"On one occasion a florist who had received a bad check from Adolfo went
over to the hotel, where he had been informed he spent his afternoons. He
found him and demanded payment in no uncertain terms. Dolfy asked him to
wait. But the florist followed him into the tea room and there our hero
whispered a word or two to a sportive looking matron and came back smiling
with the money to make good the check.
"The Dolfy met a movie girl. [32] She was just on the edge of stardom,
just going over the top. She helped him. Then she married him. That was
his entry into pictures. He had done a few bits but was comparatively
unknown.
"With the opportunities and the personal contact his marriage gave him,
Adolfo moved fast. He met the right people. He had talent. Brains in both
head and feet. His opportunity came and he took advantage of it. He could
act. Had been acting all his life. That's how he lived. His lessons in
love-making stood him in good stead. All he had to do was be natural.
"When he finally hit the high mark he didn't need the movie girl any
more. She was a liability now, not an asset. So he canned her. Her career
is about ended. His is just beginning.
"He draws a fat salary. His love-making is an art. He learned it in a
great school and was paid while learning. He's a big star. Nice girls and
nasty ones are all in the same boat. They all love Dolfy's way of loving."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Whiskey Fumes and Orange Blossoms
They met on the broad walk at Venice--three motion picture "extra girls"
and three natty students of aeronautics.
For a week the three uniformed men had been drunk; gloriously pickled.
They were on a three weeks' leave and this was to be their last day in Los
Angeles.
"Well, if there ain't a flock o' chickens!" spoke up one of the
staggering representatives of Uncle Sam. "Where'n hell you goin'?" he asked
the trio.
The girls giggled. It was a very humorous situation indeed.
"Watchin' the sad sea waves," said pretty little Babette, tossing her
curls. "Who wants t' know?"
"Le's all go together--six lil' pals," suggested O'Mara, one of the
airmen, and a prominent figure in the life of Hollywood's wild set. "Le's
all go together an' shee th' shad waves wavin'."
"Where d'ya get that pal stuff?" wondered one of the girls. "Who said
so?"
"You--all get funny wi' me an' my pals an' I'll sp-sp-spank you where it
hurts," said one of the students.
The girls giggled again. The party was getting good.
"Well, if you guys'll buy us a drink, maybe we might consider your
proposition," said one of the "extras."
"You're on," said O'Mara.
And so then, arm in arm, they went down the broad walk and into a cafe
noted for catering to the motion picture profession.
It was mid-afternoon when they emerged, each a bit worse for the visit,
but all contentedly munching peanuts.
Babette, though, was a bit overjoyous. She lifted her skirts a little
too high for street decorum and she shimmied down the broad walk, but Venice
is used to that.
Suddenly O'Mara stopped dead in his tracks, for the moment half sobered.
"My Gawd!" he said in a stage whisper. "I just thought of somethin'
damn important."
"Aw, hell, there ain't nothin' as important as goin' somewhere and
gettin' anozzer drink," said one of the "extras."
"'Simportant t' me, jus' same," insisted O'Mara.
"What's so damned important?" Babette wanted to know.
"This 's my weddin' day," said O'Mara. Then singing lustily: "Call me
early, mother, darling, I'm goin'--goin'--t' be queen o' th' May."
"You're just a plain damn drunk an' you ain't gonna be queen o' May or
Mabel or anybody," asserted Babette.
"Hell I ain't," insisted O'Mara. "I'll bet an'body six-bitx I'm goin'
t' be married today. Thass all."
"Who's the dame?" wondered Babette.
"Damfino," said O'Mara. "But it's sure as hell somebody."
"Say, whassa idea, anyhow?" queried one of the girls. "What th' hell
you wanta go an' spoil perfe'tly good party with a damn weddin' for?"
"Ain't spoilin' no party. Maker it fine party," said O'Mara. "Damn it,
le's all get married."
"See if I care," giggled Babette.
"I wouldn't mind it so much, but it always makes m' wife sore whenever I
go out and get married," said one of the other students.
"Me, too," spoke the third.
"I gotta get me a wifie t'day, somehow," insisted O'Mara. "Where in
hell 'm I goin' t' get me a wife?"
"Gawd, if it's s' damn important as that, I'll marry you, you damn drunk
fool," said Babette.
"'S go," said O'Mara. "Le's go."
So they went.
So to the city hall they went, arm in arm, where they procured a
marriage license, and from there to a Justice of the Peace who performed the
ceremony. After which they had a fine wedding supper, consisting to a large
extent of spirituous liquors. Then at nightfall the three girls accompanied
the students to the Southern Pacific station where the boys entrained for a
point in Texas where their training school was located.
The bride and her two friends returned to their homes, none of them
remembering the details of the party. But they all insisted that it
certainly was a very enjoyable affair--it gave them a new thrill.
Sobered, O'Mara explained to his friends the necessity for his marriage
to a girl he had never seen before.
He had applied for and had received so many leaves of absence that his
commander grew tired of permitting him to go off on his periodical drunks.
This time O'Mara had to have a good excuse. Marriage was the only alibi he
could think of. Indeed, it was the only excuse his commander would tolerate.
So he said he was going to be married. He was given three weeks' leave. He
had to bring the license back with him. He brought it.
When the armistice was signed, O'Mara was one of the first to return to
Hollywood. He had a reason--he wanted to see what his new wife really looked
like; he wanted also to be certain whether or not he was married. He found
out that he was--securely.
Then came the inevitable. It was but a few short months till Babette
was in court applying for a divorce. Her new husband beat her, cursed her,
hated her, she said. To his friends and hers she made vile charges against
him. She obtained a divorce and alimony.
O'Mara is one of the most brilliant young men in the motion picture
industry. He has held several splendid positions at the biggest studios in
Hollywood. He is popular at parties and very much in demand among a certain
set.
Babette is receiving regular money now, the first she ever received.
Being an "extra" doesn't pay well, or regularly. Alimony is much easier.
The court collects that.
And this is only one of a dozen similar cases.
Take Jim Brown, for instance. Jim met a charming young married woman at
a movie party one night. Her husband, a young and coming director, was
dancing quite frequently with his leading woman, and the young wife, piqued,
flirted with Jim Brown.
The liquor flowed freely, as it usually flows at movie parties. Jim
Brown and the director's wife went out for a walk. The director found them
there spooning in the tonneau of Brown's car. Brown whipped the young
director. The young wife said she was afraid to go home. Brown said she
should go with him. She did.
But the young wife, possibly repenting, decided the following day to
return to her home and beg her husband's forgiveness.
Quietly she stole into the house, for it was night. Noiselessly she
switched on the lights--and occupying her place in her bed was her husband's
leading woman
The young wife returned to Jim Brown. They are still living together--
and her husband is living with his leading woman!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A Movie Queen and A Broken Home
Hollywood drafts its workers from the Trenches of Life--
Argosies from all the seven seas--caravans from every clime--bring their
contributions of ambitious toilers to the movie mill.
A vivid, living mirage of everything the human heart desires lures alike
the innocent blue-eyed girl, the sophisticated damsel, the flower and the
froth of mankind, into the yawning mouth of the abyss--the tragic realm of
Moviedom--
Showers of gold, luxury realized beyond the wildest dreams, a life
resplendent with jewels, gowns that bewilder the eye, ravishing silks and
satins, sables and ermine, fortune, fame--and shame!
Pugilists become actors, song writers become directors, physicians
become character men, bartenders and button-hole makers become producers,
artists models and modistes' manikins become stars--in some cases almost over
night--and police court lawyers become arbiters of the public taste!
There are numerous stories of how men--popular idols--have abandoned
their wives--their children, to carry on illicit relations with the women of
the studios; of how wives have left their husbands to associate with a stage
carpenter or an assistant camera man. These cases are of common knowledge.
The winning of another man's wife or another woman's husband was a sort
of friendly contest. A game in which many played a hand. The incident of
the leading woman who took away the husband--of a prominent actor and
director--of the wife who discovered her and selected her for the position,
is but one example of this kind.
At a dance another leading woman openly boasted that she was going to
win a certain assistant director, then present, away from his wife and child.
She did. The pair are now in Australia. The wife is working in a Los
Angeles office, supporting herself and the girl. They never hear from the
husband and father.
Only a few months before, this, then happy family, had enjoyed a
wonderful Christmas--a fine big tree, gifts for the girl, games and good
food, friends dropping in all day. Whenever the wife passes that house--the
place of her last happy memories, the tears start. But--the leading woman
wanted that man. She got him. Movie conditions--close, unrestrained
contact--helped her.
But a recent case, a very recent case, involving a certain woman star
and a married man, once admired by all who knew him as a model husband--
father of two children--is receiving more than passing notice. It has
shocked even shockless Moviedom.
The facts:
There came to Hollywood a few years ago a man who had once been a famous
football player. In the East he had been known as a great varsity athlete.
He is a fine specimen of physical manhood. He is good to look at. His
father is a prominent financier, rich and liberal.
He came to Los Angeles with his wife and child. He made friends fast.
Everybody liked Hefty [33]--which we will call him hereafter but which is not
his name.
He started to serve his time in pictures. He had been a gridiron star.
He was naturally affable and a regular fellow. Why not reach stardom on the
screen? He worked conscientiously. He was determined to make his way
without any fatherly aid.
Hefty and his wife took a modest apartment. At night Hefty came home
and helped--helped with the baby--with the dishes. With the exception of
going to an occasional prize fight, his only pleasure was running out to see
the few intimate friends they had made.
He struggled on. He was good looking--a type. He had strength and
physical appeal. Before long he was much in demand--had work almost all the
time. He was living clean. No scandal attached itself to his name.
V------- [34], the woman in the case--had reached Hollywood long before.
She had already won her way to stardom when Hefty arrived. Aided and abetted
by her girlish appearance, her good looks, her insinuating manner, her easy
morals--and a capable mother who handled her affairs--she was living in easy
opulence on a salary that ran into four figures.
She was known to have been married at least once, although the concern
that owned her pictures made much capital of her "innocent" youth. According
to the press notices she was still in her teens. She had been married to a
director. [35] The flu carried him off.
Sometime before Hefty appeared on the scene she had been "playing"--as
they say in Hollywood--a famous aviator, a man who received enormous fees for
his dare-devil exploits. More than once he had risked his neck after hours
spent in V-----'s society. For a while the aviator forgot his wife in Texas
to be with V-----. They had a merry, merry time while it lasted. Then the
aviator was killed. [36]
At the time Hefty arrived on the scene V----- had not yet selected a
successor to the aviator. There were what might be called a few casuals who
filled in the lapse--a wild party or two--but nothing in the way of a
prolonged liason.
Where or how they met is of little consequence. Somehow or other they
manage to meet in the movies. Their first meetings were but friendly visits.
Then V----- saw to it that Hefty should see more of her. Hefty was willing.
Before long he wanted to be with her often--oftener than he would care to
have his wife know.
It required cunning with a wife and baby but somehow they managed it.
It is more simple--in pictures. There is night work--long trips on location.
Numerous excuses and opportunities that exist in no other walk of life.
In time Hefty's friends--and he had made a lot of them--began to notice
things--to open their eyes. Hefty and V----- were growing careless--were
taking no pains to avoid a scandal. The studios began to talk.
Hefty's friends were worried. They felt bad about the thing for they
all liked his wife. She was as good a fellow as her big husband. She was a
good wife, a good mother and a good friend. They were willing to overlook
ordinary lapses, but this affair was growing dangerous--and besides Hefty's
wife was soon again to become a mother. Happy, she had told her intimates of
her condition.
But Hefty and V----- didn't seem to be particularly concerned about what
their friends had to say or what they thought. Hefty remained away from home
more often now--made few if any excuses and saw his wife and home only when
he could not be with V-----.
Events were fast drawing to a head. The affair was now a matter of
common gossip. At last the wife heard the whole story--learned all the
details. Most of them Hefty himself told her. The telling was cold and
brutal.
Two or three days before the anticipated arrival of their second child,
he came home and informed his wife he was going to leave. He did leave.
Entreaty proved unavailing. She pleaded and implored--but Hefty went. The
unborn babe had no influence!
Then friends abandoned Hefty and came to the wife's aid. They promised
to help her. This gave her courage. She was told to threaten. They showed
her the only way to reach the victims of movie viceitis. She followed their
advice. She would expose them--ruin their careers, their money making
powers. This appeal succeeds in Hollywood when the calls of humanity and
decency fall flat.
So they settled in cash and its equivalents. Hefty made provision for
his family. The wife agreed to keep quiet--but her friends say that she will
never be able to quiet the aching heart that will not heal.
V----- is still a star. The alleged movie "clean-up" has passed her by.
And Hefty's friends do not think so much of Hefty--not even in callous
Hollywood.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Making Sodom Look Sick
Measured by the pace set at some movie star parties there must have been
a lot of weak and sterile minds in ancient Sodom and Babylon--Rome and
Pompeii.
Either that or the historians have been holding out on us--have not told
us all there is to tell.
Possibly there was a limit beyond which even a Pagan emperor dared not
go. It may be that the truth was not so easily suppressed in those days.
There was no phalanx of press agents in the armies of the ancients. There
were no million dollar advertising appropriations to help still the
journalistic conscience. No sixteen page displays such as ran recently for
ten consecutive days in a certain Western daily.
In the light of revealed history it is certain--whatever may have been
the cause--that ancient degenerates had to exercise a certain amount of
prudence.
There were no modern safeguards such as surround the kings and queens of
Moviedom. No ramification of interests to suppress the truth at every step.
Moviedom's imagination had free play--unfettered, unrestrained it made the
scarlet sins of Sodom and Babylon, of Rome and Pompeii fade into a pale, pale
yellow!
Not so long ago a certain popular young actress returned from a trip.
She had been away for ten days. Her friends felt that there ought to be a
special welcome awaiting her. Rostrand [37], a famous comedian, decided to
stage another of his unusual affairs. He rented ten rooms on the top floor
of a large exclusive hotel and only guests who had the proper invitations
were admitted.
After all of the guests--male and female--were seated, a female dog was
led out into the middle of the largest room. Then a male dog was brought in.
A dignified man in clerical garb stepped forward and with all due solemnity
performed a marriage ceremony for the dogs.
It was a decided hit. The guests laughed and applauded heartily and the
comedian was called a genius. Which fact pleased him immensely. But the
"best" was yet to come.
The dogs were unleashed. There before the assembled and unblushing
young girls and their male escorts was enacted an unspeakable scene. Even
truth cannot justify the publication of such details.
Another recent party that was given by Count ______, a "prince" of a
fellow, at his palatial mansion. Nearly two hundred guests were present. A
jazz orchestra furnished sensuous music. The guests, women and men,
disrobed. Then a nude dance was staged which lasted until morning.
Some of the guests were outraged. They departed. Others remained and
took part in the orgy which did not stop with mere dancing for some of them.
But these nude parties were common. There is another comedian of no
mean ability, whose home for several months had been the meeting place of
these nude dancers. Recently a raid on the home of this comedian was
scheduled, but he was "tipped off" in time to be acting perfectly decorous
when the officers arrived. The neighbors, however, knew better.
A type of "citizen" well known in certain quarters--handsome, young,
well proportioned men who work as "extras" in the pictures--is the paid
escort or "kept man."
Deplorable as it may seem these beings have found patrons as far north
as the exclusive precincts of Del Monte. Montecito, Pasadena, San Diego are
familiar to them. Women of a certain sort used to have the telephone number
of the establishment where these men held forth and many calls came to them
every day and night. Pay for their "company" ran high. Only the few could
afford it.
Recent events suggested that it might be best to close this
establishment but the former "club members" still hover about plying their
profession.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Girl Who Wanted Work
The girl came from Atlanta. So we will car her by that name just to
mark her for identification, as the lawyers would say.
Tired, yet brave, she entered the great sanctum of the great producer.
There was an outer and an inner office. In the outer office nobody paid the
slightest attention to her, so she walked into the inner room. Half of the
walls were unpainted. On a large near-leather sofa lay a man, snoring
lustily with a newspaper over his face. His funny derby hat was threatening
to fall off.
At the desk sat a frizzy stenographer. She was sucking an orange with
much smacking and now and then took a bite, peel and all. With the other
free hand she typed a little spasmodically. She had her limbs crossed with
great abandon and wore rolled-up stockings with wild lace curtain effects.
At last Atlanta was in the presence of a great film magnate. Everything
seemed eccentric, to say the least. The great man on the sofa was snoring
with a struggling noise as if he expected to die every minute. The
stenographer said, without looking at the girl,
"Leave your photos on the desk--is your name and phone number on the
back?"
"I beg pardon," said Atlanta. "I have a letter of introduction to
Mr. Junius." [38]
The blonde frizzy-haired head turned and the stenographer gazed at the
girl as if she had dropped down from another planet. She wiped her rouged
lips on the back of her hand and said while inhaling a mouthful of orange
juice:
"Wasn't you going to register for a job?"
Atlanta stated that she had a letter. She also asked when she might be
able to interview Mr. Junius.
"For the love of Mike," said the girl. "How should I know. There he is
on the sofa. He's dead or something. He gets awful sore if I wakes him up."
"I have been here all day," said Atlanta.
"Gee, in this game you're lucky if you see somebody the first week,"
laughed the girl, and took another bite of the orange. "I don't want to wake
him."
He was small, dark haired, with a bullet head and a low, receding brow.
He looked very boyish. His trousers were much too long for him. He was bow-
legged and wore a silk shirt with huge monograms on both sleeves. He had a
large nose and small ratty eyes and dangling from his ear hung a pair of
goggle-like eyeglasses.
Suddenly the telephone rang. The man sat up and rubbed his eyes,
mumbled something of an anathema in a language that Atlanta did not
understand and he walked to the desk and answered the telephone. He did not
seem to see her.
He snatched the telephone receiver off and thundered:
"Vat the hell?"
He listened for a moment and then replied to somebody with a flow of
excited and lurid language. The substance of the conversation seemed to be
the practicability of using an African elephant in an Indian scene.
"Golly, go to it," he snapped. "Who knows the difference between an
African elephant and a American elephant. I don't Nobody does. Vat the
hell?"
He slammed up the receiver and then saw his stenographer through the
door.
"For why don't you answer the telephone," he snapped. "Vat I pay you
for, here?"
He turned and was going to lie down when he saw Atlanta.
She wore some very pretty stockings that day and very trim slippers.
"Vell," he said, looking at her ankles. "Vat do you want?" Then he put
on his hat.
"Are you Mr. Junius?" began the girl.
"No, I'm Kristopher Columbus," he smiled. "Who do you think I am?"
"I have a letter of introduction to you from Mr. Riddle, the theatre-man
of Denver," she said, presenting the letter. He evidently could not read it.
"Are you vun of his checkens and he wants to get rid of you, eh?" he
smirked.
Atlanta was so suddenly taken "off her feet" that she did not get time
to get fully indignant. The little man's eyes gleamed with merriment over
his own cheap witticism and his ears stood out like the wings on a biplane.
He shook his bullet head and the little "derby" hat, of the "fried egg"
type, fairly danced on his head. Then he saw how the girl's lower lip
quivered, and he decided to try another tack.
"Sit down, dear," he said, "you are a friend of a friend of mine."
Then he shouted out to the stenographer:
"It's time for your lunch, eh?"
Although it was in the middle of the afternoon, the girl said "yes,
sir," with a wink and left closing the door behind her. Atlanta heard a snap
lock go shut.
"Vell," he smiled, and pushed his chair close up to where the girl sat.
"Speak your piece."
Determined to succeed and to tolerate his idiosyncrasies, Atlanta began:
"I want to get into the motion pictures and will work very, very hard."
"You have a nice figure," said Junius, and looked her over.
"I have had some dramatic experience," she stuttered.
"Vy don't you act that way, then," he smiled. "You are camouflaging,
and vhy?"
"In high school plays and in--"
"You have swell ankles and pretty knees, I think--" he continued. "Vat
do you veigh--live weight?"
"I weigh one hundred and twenty-two," said the girl. "As I was going to
say--I--want to be given a chance--"
"It's up to you," replied Junius. "You are a high kicker, yes?" He
held his hat high above his head, invitingly.
"Can you do anything for me?" she asked, ignoring his personal remarks
and attempting to overlook his leering glances.
"I told you it vas up to you personally," said the man, insistently.
"Do you live with your mother or have you an apartment. If you live with
your mother--well, there's nothing doing--"
Atlanta could stand it no longer. She arose, trembling and disgusted.
"You shouldn't be so particular," he laughed. "Anybody that's been
Riddle's chicken. I know Sol and his wife and family. Are you the girl he
bought them squirrel furs for, eh? He vas telling me."
"I--I don't accept presents from men and I don't know Mr. Riddle,"
snapped Atlanta. "My mother does."
"Ah," smirked Junius, "the old lady is gayer than the daughter, eh?"
This remark about her mother proved the last straw. With super-human
effort she kept outwardly cool as she walked towards the door.
Either ignoring her state of mind or two calloused to understand that he
had hurt every sensibility in the girl, Junius asked, with an attempt to
tighten her coat around her:
"How you look in a bathing suit, yes?"
Atlanta snatched her hatpin from her hat and held in menacingly towards
him. He turned pale and opened the door. The boy was outside.
"Show this one out, Teddy," said Junius. "She is a flivver! Look out,
she has a hatpin."
Scarcely knowing what she was doing Atlanta found herself on the
sidewalk and as she passed the window of Junius' office he looked out and
shook his finger at her.
"I'll qveer you all over town," he said, "you--you are a lemon!"
Of course, the girl did not know till later that he was a member of a
producers association, and that the blacklist was one of his weapons for
stubborn girls with "false" standards of virtue.
(The End)
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NOTES:
[1] There were two other well-discussed scandal publications in 1922:
HOLLYWOOD CONFIDENTIAL (not to be confused with later publications bearing
the same name) and an issue of FREE LANCE. We have not been able to locate
copies of either; if photocopies are made available we will reprint them in
future issues of TAYLOROLOGY.
[2] This is a reference to Bebe Daniels' arrest and incarceration for
speeding.
[3] Wallace Reid.
[4] Dorothy Davenport Reid.
[5] See TAYLOROLOGY #20.
[6] Lottie Pickford.
[7] Flo Hart.
[8] Henry Miller, Jr.
[9] Henry Miller, Sr. (the actor and dramatist, not the later writer).
[10] Juanita Hansen.
[11] Harry Williams. See TAYLOROLOGY #22.
[12] Probably Marshall Neilan. See TAYLOROLOGY #8.
[13] Mabel Normand.
[14] Alas for the good old days!
[15] Dorothy Dalton.
[16] Lew Cody.
[17] Thomas Ince.
[18] Jay Belasco.
[19] Betty Compson.
[20] Al Christie.
[21] George Loane Tucker.
[22] "The Miracle Man."
[23] Walter Morosco.
[24] Oliver Morosco.
[25] Larry Semon.
[26] Lucile Carlisle.
[27] Mack Sennett.
[28] Mabel Normand.
[29] Mae Busch.
[30] Goldwyn. In reality, she signed her contract with Goldwyn long before
the film "Mickey" was released.
[31] Rudolph Valentino.
[32] Jean Acker.
[33] Lefty Flynn.
[34] Viola Dana.
[35] John Collins.
[36] Ormer Locklear.
[37] Roscoe Arbuckle.
[38] Julius Stern.
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For more information about Taylor, see
WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991)
Back issues of Taylorology are available via Gopher or FTP at
etext.archive.umich.edu
in the directory pub/Zines/Taylorology
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