Books: Merton of the Movies

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The Governor again debated before he spoke. He still doubted. "Say,
whose show is this, the lead's or the sailor's that had the wronged
sister? You'd have to show the sailor and his sister, and show her
being wronged by the heavy--that'd take a big cabaret set, at least-
-and you'd have to let the sailor begin his stuff on the yacht, and
then by the time he'd kept it up a bit after the wreck had pulled
off the fight, where would your lead be? Can you see Parmalee
playing second to this sailor? Why, the sailor'd run away with the
piece. And that cabaret set would cost money when we don't need it--
just keep those things in mind a little."

"Well," Henshaw submitted gracefully, "anyway, I think my suggestion
of Island Love is better than Island Passion--kind of sounds more
attractive, don't you think?"

The Governor lighted a cigarette. "Say, Howard, it's a wonderful
business, isn't it? We start with poor old Robinson Crusoe and his
goats and parrot and man Friday, and after dropping Friday's sister
who would really be the Countess of Kleig, we wind up with a steam-
yacht and a comic butler and call it Island Love. Who said the art
of the motion picture is in its infancy? In this case it'll be plumb
senile. Well, go ahead with the boys and dope out your hogwash.
Gosh! Sometimes I think I wouldn't stay in the business if it wasn't
for the money. And remember, don't you let a single solitary sailor
on that yacht have a wronged sister that can blame it on the heavy,
or you'll never have Parmalee playing the lead."

Again Merton Gill debated bringing himself to the notice of these
gentlemen. If Parmalee wouldn't play the part for any reason like a
sailor's wronged sister, he would. It would help him to be known in
Parmalee parts. Still, he couldn't tell how soon they might need
him, nor how soon Baird would release him. He regretfully saw the
two men leave, however. He might have missed a chance even better
than Baird would give him.

He suddenly remembered that he had still a professional duty to
perform. He must that afternoon, and also that evening, watch a
Harold Parmalee picture. He left the cafeteria, swaggered by the
watchman at the gate-he had now the professional standing to silence
that fellow-and made his way to the theatre Baird had mentioned.

In front he studied the billing of the Parmalee picture. It was
"Object, Matrimony-a Smashing Comedy of Love and Laughter." Harold
Parmalee, with a gesture of mock dismay, seemed to repulse a bevy of
beautiful maidens who wooed him. Merton took his seat with a dismay
that was not mock, for it now occurred to him that he had no
experience in love scenes, and that an actor playing Parmalee parts
would need a great deal of such experience. In Simsbury there had
been no opportunity for an intending actor to learn certain little
niceties expected at sentimental moments. Even his private life had
been almost barren of adventures that might now profit him.

He had sometimes played kissing games at parties, and there had been
the more serious affair with Edwina May Pulver-nights when he had
escorted her from church or sociables to the Pulver gate and
lingered in a sort of nervously worded ecstasy until he could summon
courage to kiss the girl. Twice this had actually happened, but the
affair had come to nothing, because the Pulvers had moved away from
Simsbury and he had practically forgotten Edwina May; forgotten even
the scared haste of those embraces. He seemed to remember that he
had grabbed her and kissed her, but was it on her cheek or nose?

Anyway, he was now quite certain that the mechanics of this dead
amour were not those approved of in the best screen circles. Never
had he gathered a beauteous girl in his arms and very slowly, very
accurately, very tenderly, done what Parmalee and other screen
actors did in their final fade-outs. Even when Beulah Baxter had
been his screen ideal he had never seen himself as doing more than
save her from some dreadful fate. Of course, later, if he had found
out that she was unwed--

He resolved now to devote special study to Parmalee's methods of
wooing the fair creature who would be found in his arms at the close
of the present film. Probably Baird would want some of that stuff
from him.

From the very beginning of "Object, Matrimony" it was apparent that
the picture drama would afford him excellent opportunities for
studying the Parmalee technique in what an early subtitle called
"The Eternal Battle of the Sexes." For Parmalee in the play was
Hubert Throckmorton, popular screen idol and surfeited with the
attentions of adoring women. Cunningly the dramatist made use of
Parmalee's own personality, of his screen triumphs, and of the
adulation lavished upon him by discriminating fair ones. His
breakfast tray was shown piled with missives amply attesting the
truth of what the interviewer had said of his charm. All women
seemed to adore Hubert Throckmorton in the drama, even as all women
adored Harold Parmalee in private life.

The screen revealed Throckmorton quite savagely ripping open the
letters, glancing at their contents and flinging them from him with
humorous shudders. He seemed to be asking why these foolish
creatures couldn't let an artist alone. Yet he was kindly, in this
half-humorous, half-savage mood. There was a blending of chagrin and
amused tolerance on his face as the screen had him murmur, casting
the letter aside, "Poor, Silly Little Girls!"

From this early scene Merton learned Parmalee's method of
withdrawing the gold cigarette case, of fastidiously selecting a
cigarette, of closing the case and of absently--thinking of other
matters--tamping the gold-tipped thing against the cover. This was
an item that he had overlooked. He should have done that in the
cabaret scene. He also mastered the Parmalee trick of withdrawing
the handkerchief from the cuff of the perfectly fitting morning
coat. That was something else he should have done in The Blight of
Broadway. Little things like that, done right, gave the actor his
distinction.

The drama progressed. Millionaire Jasper Gordon, "A Power in Wall
Street," was seen telephoning to Throckmorton. He was entreating the
young actor to spend the week-end at his palatial Long Island
country home to meet a few of his friends. The grim old Wall Street
magnate was perturbed by Throckmorton's refusal, and renewed his
appeal. He was one of those who always had his way in Wall Street,
and he at length prevailed upon Throckmorton to accept his
invitation. He than manifested the wildest delight, and he was
excitedly kissed by his beautiful daughter who had been standing by
his side in the sumptuous library while he telephoned. It could be
seen that the daughter, even more than her grim old father, wished
Mr. Throckmorton to be at the Long Island country home.

Later Throckmorton was seen driving his high-powered roadster,
accompanied only by his valet, to the Gordon country home on Long
Island, a splendid mansion surrounded by its landscaped grounds
where fountains played and roses bloomed against the feathery
background of graceful eucalyptus trees. Merton Gill here saw that
he must learn to drive a high-powered roadster. Probably Baird would
want some of that stuff, too.

A round of country-house gaieties ensued, permitting Throckmorton to
appear in a series of perfectly fitting sports costumes. He was seen
on his favourite hunter, on the tennis courts, on the first tee of
the golf course, on a polo pony, and in the mazes of the dance. Very
early it was learned that the Gordon daughter had tired of mere
social triumphs and wished to take up screen acting in a serious
way. She audaciously requested Throckmorton to give her a chance as
leading lady in his next great picture.

He softened his refusal by explaining to her that acting was a
difficult profession and that suffering and sacrifice were necessary
to round out the artist. The beautiful girl replied that within ten
days he would be compelled to admit her rare ability as an actress,
and laughingly they wagered a kiss upon it. Merton felt that this
was the sort of thing he must know more about.

Throckmorton was courteously gallant in the scene. Even when he
said, "Shall we put up the stakes now, Miss Gordon?" it could be
seen that he was jesting. He carried this light manner through minor
scenes with the beautiful young girl friends of Miss Gordon who
wooed him, lay in wait for him, ogled and sighed. Always he was the
laughingly tolerant conqueror who had but a lazy scorn for his
triumphs.

He did not strike the graver note until it became suspected that
there were crooks in the house bent upon stealing the famous Gordon
jewels. That it was Throckmorton who averted this catastrophe by
sheer nerve and by use of his rare histrionic powers--as when he
disguised himself in the coat and hat of the arch crook whom he had
felled with a single blow and left bound and gagged, in order to
receive the casket of jewels from the thief who opened the safe in
the library, and that he laughed away the thanks of the grateful
millionaire, astonished no one in the audience, though it caused
Merton Gill to wonder if he could fell a crook with one blow. He
must practice up some blows.

Throckmorton left the palatial country home wearied by the
continuous adulation. The last to speed him was the Gordon daughter,
who reminded him of their wager; within ten days he would
acknowledge her to be an actress fit to play as his leading woman.

Throckmorton drove rapidly to a simple farm where he was not known
and would be no longer surfeited with attentions. He dressed plainly
in shirts that opened wide at the neck and assisted in the farm
labours, such as pitching hay and leading horses into the barn. It
was the simple existence that he had been craving--away from it all!
No one suspected him to be Hubert Throckmorton, least of all the
simple country maiden, daughter of the farmer, in her neat print
dress and heavy braid of golden hair that hung from beneath her
sunbonnet. She knew him to be only a man among men, a simple farm
labourer, and Hubert Throckmorton, wearied by the adulation of his
feminine public, was instantly charmed by her coy acceptance of his
attentions.

That this charm should ripen to love was to be expected. Here was a
child, simple, innocent, of a wild-rose beauty in her print dress
and sunbonnet, who would love him for himself alone. Beside a
blossoming orange tree on the simple Long Island farm he declared
his love, warning the child that he had nothing to offer her but two
strong arms and a heart full of devotion.

The little girl shyly betrayed that she returned his love but told
him that he must first obtain the permission of her grandmother
without which she would never consent to wed him. She hastened into
the old farmhouse to prepare Grandmother for the interview.

Throckmorton presently faced the old lady who sat huddled in an
armchair, her hands crooked over a cane, a ruffled cap above her
silvery hair. He manfully voiced his request for the child's hand in
marriage. The old lady seemed to mumble an assent. The happy lover
looked about for his fiance when, to his stupefaction, the old lady
arose briskly from her chair, threw off cap, silvery wig, gown of
black, and stood revealed as the child herself, smiling roguishly up
at him from beneath the sunbonnet. With a glad cry he would have
seized her, when she stayed him with lifted hand. Once more she
astounded him. Swiftly she threw off sunbonnet, blonde wig, print
dress, and stood before him revealed as none other than the Gordon
daughter.

Hubert Throckmorton had lost his wager. Slowly, as the light of
recognition dawned in his widening eyes, he gathered the beautiful
girl into his arms. "Now may I be your leading lady?" she asked.

"My leading lady, not only in my next picture, but for life," he
replied.

There was a pretty little scene in which the wager was paid. Merton
studied it. Twice again, that evening, he studied it. He was
doubtful. It would seem queer to take a girl around the waist that
way and kiss her so slowly. Maybe he could learn. And he knew he
could already do that widening of the eyes. He could probably do it
as well as Parmalee did.

* * * * * * *

Back in the Buckeye office, when the Montague girl had returned from
her parting with Merton, Baird had said:

"Kid, you've brightened my whole day."

"Didn't I tell you?"

"He's a lot better than you said."

"But can you use him?"

"You can't tell. You can't tell till you try him out. He might be
good, and he might blow up right at the start."

"I bet he'll be good. I tell you. Jeff, that boy is just full of
acting. All you got to do--keep his stuff straight, serious. He
can't help but be funny that way."

"We'll see. To-morrow we'll kind of feel him out. He'll see this
Parmalee film to-day--I caught it last night--and there's some stuff
in it I want to play horse with, see? So I'll start him to-morrow in
a quiet scene, and find out does he handle. If he does, we'll go
right into some hokum drama stuff. The more serious he plays it the
better. It ought to be good, but you can't ever tell in our trade.
You know that as well as I do."

The girl was confident. "I can tell about this lad," she insisted.

CHAPTER XIII

GENIUS COMES INTO ITS OWN

Merton Gill, enacting the part of a popular screen idol, as in the
play of yesterday, sat at breakfast in his apartments on Stage
Number Five. Outwardly he was cool, wary, unperturbed, as he peeled
the shell from a hard-boiled egg and sprinkled salt upon it. For the
breakfast consisted of hard-boiled eggs and potato salad brought on
in a wooden dish.

He had been slightly disturbed by the items of this meal; it was not
so elegant a breakfast as Hubert Throckmorton's, but he had been
told by Baird that they must be a little different.

He had been slightly disturbed, too, at discovering the faithful
valet who brought on the simple repast was the cross--eyed man.
Still, the fellow had behaved respectfully, as a valet should. He
had been quietly obsequious of manner, revealing only a profound
admiration for his master and a constant solicitude for his comfort.
Probably he, like Baird, was trying to do something distinctive and
worth while.

Having finished the last egg--glad they had given him no more than
three--the popular screen idol at the prompting of Baird, back by
the cameras, arose, withdrew a metal cigarette case, purchased that
very morning with this scene in view, and selected a cigarette. He
stood negligently, as Parmalee had stood, tapped the end of the
cigarette on the side of the case, as Parmalee had done, lighted a
match on the sole of his boot, and idly smoked in the Parmalee
manner.

Three times the day before he had studied Parmalee in this bit of
business. Now he idly crossed to the centre-table upon which reposed
a large photograph album. He turned the pages of this, pausing to
admire the pictures there revealed. Baird had not only given him
general instructions for this scene, but now prompted him in low,
encouraging tones.

"Turn over slowly; you like 'em all. Now lift the album up and hold
it for a better light on that one. It's one of the best, it pleases
you a lot. Look even more pleased--smile! That's good. Put down the
album; turn again, slowly; turn twice more, that's it; pick it up
again. This one is fine--"

Baird took him through the album in this manner, had him close it
when all the leaves were turned, and stand a moment with one hand
resting on it. The album had been empty. It had been deemed best not
to inform the actor that later close-ups of the pages would show him
to have been refreshed by studying photographs of himself--copies,
in fact, of the stills of Clifford Armytage at that moment resting
on Baird's desk.

As he stood now, a hand affectionately upon the album, a trace of
the fatuously admiring smile still lingering on his expressive face,
a knock sounded upon the door. "Come in," he called.

The valet entered with the morning mail. This consisted entirely of
letters. There were hundreds of them, and the valet had heaped them
in a large clothes-basket which he now held respectfully in front of
him.

The actor motioned him, with an authentic Parmalee gesture, to place
them by the table. The valet obeyed, though spilling many letters
from the top of the overflowing basket. These, while his master
seated himself, he briskly swept up with a broom.

The chagrined amusement of Harold Parmalee, the half-savage, half-
humorous tolerance for this perhaps excusable weakness of woman, was
here accurately manifested. The actor yawned slightly, lighted
another cigarette with flawless Parmalee technique, withdrew a
handkerchief from his sleeve-cuff, lightly touched his forehead with
it, and began to open the letters. He glanced at each one in a
quick, bored manner, and cast it aside.

When a dozen or so had been thus treated he was aroused by another
knock at the door. It opened to reveal the valet with another basket
overflowing with letters. Upon this the actor arose, spread his arms
wide in a gesture of humorous helplessness. He held this briefly,
then drooped in humorous despair.

He lighted another cigarette, eyed the letters with that whimsical
lift of the brows so characteristic of Parmalee, and lazily blew
smoke toward them. Then, regarding the smoke, he idly waved a hand
through it. "Poor, silly little girls!" But there was a charming
tolerance in his manner. One felt his generous recognition that they
were not wholly without provocation.

This appeared to close the simple episode. The scenes, to be sure,
had not been shot without delays and rehearsals, and a good two
hours of the morning had elapsed before the actor was released from
the glare of light and the need to remember that he was Harold
Parmalee. His peeling of an egg, for example, had not at first been
dainty enough to please the director, and the scene with the album
had required many rehearsals to secure the needed variety of
expressions, but Baird had been helpful in his promptings, and
always kind.

"Now, this one you've turned over--it's someone you love better than
anybody. It might be your dear old mother that you haven't seen for
years. It makes you kind of solemn as you show how fond you were of
her. You're affected deeply by her face. That's it, fine! Now the
next one, you like it just as much, but it pleases you more. It's
someone else you're fond of, but you're not so solemn.

"Now turn over another, but very slow--slow--but don't let go of it.
Stop a minute and turn back as if you had to have another peek at
the last one, see what I mean? Take plenty of time. This is a great
treat for you. It makes you feel kind of religious. Now you're
getting it--that's the boy! All right--"

The scene where he showed humorous dismay at the quantity of his
mail had needed but one rehearsal. He had here been Harold Parmalee
without effort. Also he had not been asked to do again the Parmalee
trick of lighting a cigarette nor of withdrawing the handkerchief
from its cuff to twice touch his forehead in moments of amused
perplexity. Baird had merely uttered a low "Fine!" at beholding
these bits.

He drew a long breath of relief when released from the set.
Seemingly he had met the test. Baird had said that morning, "Now
we'll just run a little kind of test to find out a few things about
you," and had followed with a general description of the scenes. It
was to be of no great importance--a minor detail of the picture.
Perhaps this had been why the wealthy actor breakfasted in rather a
plainly furnished room on hard-boiled eggs and potato salad. Perhaps
this had been why the costume given him had been not too well
fitting, not too nice in detail. Perhaps this was why they had
allowed the cross-eyed man to appear as his valet. He was quite sure
this man would not do as a valet in a high-class picture. Anyway,
however unimportant the scene, he felt that he had acquitted himself
with credit.

The Montague girl, who had made him up that morning, with close
attention to his eyebrows, watched him from back of the cameras, and
she seized both his hands when he left the set. "You're going to
land," she warmly assured him. "I can tell a trouper when I see
one."

She was in costume. She was apparently doing the part of a society
girl, though slightly overdressed, he thought.

"We're working on another set for this same picture," she explained,
"but I simply had to catch you acting. You'll probably be over with
us to-morrow. But you're through for the day, so beat it and have a
good time."

"Couldn't I come over and watch you?"

"No, Baird doesn't like to have his actors watching things they
ain't in; he told me specially that you weren't to be around except
when you're working. You see, he's using you in kind of a special
part in this multiple-reeler, and he's afraid you might get confused
if you watched the other parts. I guess he'll start you to-morrow.
You're to be in a good, wholesome heart play. You'll have a great
chance in it."

"Well, I'll go see if I can find another Parmalee picture for this
afternoon. Say, you don't think I was too much like him in that
scene, do you? You know it's one thing if I look like him--I can't
help that--but I shouldn't try to imitate him too closely, should I?
I got to think about my own individuality, haven't I?"

"Sure, sure you have! But you were fine--your imitation wasn't a bit
too close. You can think about your own individuality this afternoon
when you're watching him."

Late that day in the projection room Baird and the Montague girl
watched the "rush" of that morning's episode.

"The squirrel's done it," whispered the girl after the opening
scene. It seemed to her that Merton Gill on the screen might
overhear her comment.

Even Baird was low-toned. "Looks so," he agreed.

"If that ain't Parmalee then I'll eat all the hard-boiled eggs on
the lot."

Baird rubbed his hands. "It's Parmalee plus," he corrected.

"Oh, Mother, Mother!" murmured the girl while the screen revealed
the actor studying his photographs.

"He handled all right in that spot," observed Baird.

"He'll handle right--don't worry. Ain't I told you he's a natural
born trouper?"

The mail was abandoned in humorous despair. The cigarette lighted in
a flawless Parmalee manner, the smoke idly brushed aside. "Poor,
silly little girls," the actor was seen to say. The girl gripped
Baird's arm until he winced. "There, old Pippin! There's your
million, picked right up on the lot!"

"Maybe," assented the cooler Baird, as they left the projection
room.

"And say," asked the girl, "did you notice all morning how he didn't
even bat an eye when you spoke to him, if the camera was still
turning? Not like a beginner that'll nearly always look up and get
out of the picture."

"What I bet," observed Baird, "I bet he'd 'a' done that album stuff
even better than he did if I'd actually put his own pictures in, the
way I'm going to for the close-ups. I was afraid he'd see it was
kidding if I did, or if I told him what pictures they were going to
be. But I'm darned now if I don't think he'd have stood for it. I
don't believe you'll ever be able to peeve that boy by telling him
he's good."

The girl glanced up defensively as they walked.

"Now don't get the idea he's conceited, because he ain't. Not one
bit."

"How do you know he ain't?"

She considered this, then explained brightly, "Because I wouldn't
like him if he was. No, no--now you listen here" as Baird had
grinned. "This lad believes in himself, that's all. That's different
from conceit. You can believe a whole lot in yourself, and still be
as modest as a new--hatched chicken. That's what he reminds me of,
too."

The following morning Baird halted him outside the set on which he
would work that day. Again he had been made up by the Montague girl,
with especial attention to the eyebrows so that they might show the
Parmalee lift.

"I just want to give you the general dope of the piece before you go
on," said Baird, in the shelter of high canvas backing. "You're the
only son of a widowed mother and both you and she are toiling to pay
off the mortgage on the little home. You're the cashier of this
business establishment, and in love with the proprietor's daughter,
only she's a society girl and kind of looks down on you at first.
Then, there's her brother, the proprietor's only son. He's the clerk
in this place. He doesn't want to work, but his father has made him
learn the business, see? He's kind of a no-good; dissipated; wears
flashy clothes and plays the races and shoots craps and drinks. You
try to reform him because he's idolized by his sister that you're in
love with.

"But you can't do a thing with him. He keeps on and gets in with a
rough crowd, and finally he steals a lot of money out of the safe,
and just when they are about to discover that he's the thief you see
it would break his sister's heart so you take the crime on your own
shoulders. After that, just before you're going to be arrested, you
make a getaway--because, after all, you're not guilty--and you go
out West to start all over again--"

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