Volume 2 — Doug’s Peacock Walk

BY RICHMOND

What are the personal peculiarities of film people? In view of the fact that it is our bounden duty to torment, dilate and comment upon ye people of the screen, it behooves us to stop now and then to observe what they are and how they become that way, aside from being good looking, drawing big money and getting divorced.

Let’s get right down to business. Take Allan Dwan, a well known director. Dwan doesn’t hate himself any more than the law provides for. In fact, there is no reason Dwan should despise himself. He was a good electrical engineer; became interested in pictures and makes various flurries of coin according to the Angels who can be dug up to back his ventures.

Dwan formerly was a good athlete. He is powerfully constructed but noticeably short. About the studios it is well understood that one of the few faults Dwan finds with himself is that he isn’t just up to his own personal idea of tallness. If he has a tender spot, it hinges upon this item of feet up and down. Someone conceived the idea that in order to tab him “Napoleon.” But that line of bull has been overdone and so another gag had to be hatched up. “The Big Little Man,” that is what those in close touch with Dwan call him when they desire to make a favorable impression. “The Big Little Man,” that’s a good title—better than some of the ones that appear on Dwan’s pictures and a lot of other pictures.

Thus we dispose of Mr. Dwan, a cocky, brainy, peppy little fellow whose only regret is that he should be a little longer. Next we will consider Mr. Fairbanks, Mary’s present husband, barring every state in the Union but Nevada—and Nevada isn’t quite certain that Mary is still married to Owen Moore. Doug likes to tread about with his gang of retainers at his heels. Fairbanks cottons to the custom, styles and bequeathments of the English sporting gentlemen who stalked abroad with a company of idol worshippers.

Doug is not always the most distinguished looking of his company. At any event, he frequently is not the most noticeable. It was Fairbanks that discovered the now famous Bull Montana, who doubles for monkeys when one is required in the cast and whose ability to take punishment one time resulted in nine fire hoses being turned on him at once as he was swept down the gutter.

When Doug Fairbanks and Bull Montana walk down the street together the Bull “takes it away from him,” as they say in the pictures when a subservient character grabs the best of the scene from the star. Bull has a face, at once fearsome and fascinating. He is so ugly that crowds follow him around. It is a frequent spectacle in Los Angeles to see Fairbanks, Bull Montana, Spike Robinson, Crooked Nosed Murphy, Benny Zeidmann, the press agent de luxe, and Mark Larkin, Fairbanks’ special representative, beating it down the broad. Of course, Doug always struts in front, while the others in platoon formation tread proudly in the rear. The only place where Doug falls down is that some of his gang look funnier than Doug acts on the screen and the big star stands a chance of being overlooked in the “what the h—is coming here” attitude that rends the atmosphere as the Fairbanks battalion bears down upon the multitude. Yes, Doug likes to lead his gang into the big hotel corridors, where his cohorts then fade gracefully into the oblivion necessary to leave Doug alone in his solitude for the yokels to admire and wonder at. You gotta hand it to Doug for rushing in with his gang and then giving them the fade away sign at the psychological moment.

Lottie Pickford—we have thought out loud a time or two before in these columns about Lottie. Unlike the demure Mary, Lottie likes the jazz stuff, the bright lights and some good looking young dude hanging around her. We never saw Lottie chew tobacco, but she can stow away a lot of the “grape.”

If we had our decision to make as regards Lottie’s chief peculiarity we would say that her idea is to be thoroughly known as Mary’s sister by doing things that Mary doesn’t. Lottie isn’t the first contrary girl, though, who can claim to be of famous family. There was Miss Roosevelt and later Mrs. Longworth. Didn’t the colonel himself call long and loudly for commodious families? And did you ever read that his daughter attained any particular fame aside from smoking cigarettes and not rearing children?

If you are a sort of a junior member of a family and fear that you will be overshadowed by some relative, cast for a famous mold, one way to attract attention is to copy the other one—backwards.

We come to Fatty—Roscoe Arbuckle. Roscoe’s peculiarity just now is to have people try and forget that his name is Fatty. Roscoe is getting dignified. He has half a dozen cars, just because people came to know him as “Fatty Arbuckle” and paid a lot of dough to see him. Just where Fatty expects to promote himself by being Roscoe passeth understanding. Surely he doesn’t think that he could act seriously without being thought funny. Perhaps Fatty is subtle. He may have tired of drawing laughs as a result of acting natural and figures he may get as many more by trying not to appear natural.

Now we are down to Mr. Griffith. Mr. Griffith, to our notion, is a great director. But Mr. Griffith is more or less deftly endeavoring to implant the idea in the public mind that he is a poet. That is Mr. Griffith’s peculiarity. He would not be seen much in public; rather he seeks to attract attention by remaining in seclusion. His well organized staff and his actors and actresses, who like him much, never pass up an opportunity to breathe it about that “Mr. Griffith is a poet.”

We never read any of David’s verses, but if he is a poet, it devoutly is to be desired that there were more poets and fewer directors operating in pictures.

After all, these little peculiarities or hobbies of the picture people are not harmful to any one in particular. We all like to strut and fluff and show our fine feathers. It’s human nature.

* * *

We’ll Say So!

While Al. Jolson, the black-face comedian, was touring the Pacific Coast with his latest starring vehicle, “Sinbad,” he visited the California insane asylum, at Napa. Passing through one of the wards he noticed a rather neat chap and asked the attendant the nature of the fellow’s trouble.

The attendant told the comedian that it was a new case. Had only arrived the previous day.

Jolson approached the patient and inquired “If you had only one wish in the world, and it would be granted, what would you wish for?”

The patient looked at Jolson and said, “I’d wish that Volstead was born with a thirst!”

With a smile Jolson replied, “You might have been crazy when they brought you here yesterday, brother, but you’re talking good sense today!”

* * *

Our Traffic Cop

Thomas Patrick Gallagher, typical Irish traffic copper, was stationed on Madison street in Chicago at the point intersected by the River.

One bustling Saturday afternoon, Gallagher held up his hand to halt traffic for the draw bridge. In front of him was a new handsome limousine motor car.

While waiting for the bridge to close, a runabout flivver crashed into the rear end of the handsome car.

Gallagher was on the job promptly and hustled over to the driver of the flivver.

“Phwat in hal does yez mane by smashing into this handsome car? Haven’t you got any eyes?” he bellowed at the meek and humble driver, “Are you crazy? I’ve a good mind to take you down to the headquarters, you blithering idiot. What’s your name?” continued Gallagher, as he extracted a pencil and notebook from his pocket, “What is the number of your car?”

The answer came back in typical Gaelic, “Me name is Clancy.”

“Clancy,” replied Gallagher. “Clancy, what part of Ireland are you from, what county?”

“I am from County Mayo.”

“County Mayo,” continued the traffic officer, “County Mayo, say Clancy, stay here just a minute till I go ahead to that big car and see why in the devil he backed into you.”

* * *

Ikey’s Recklessness

Ikey, eleven years of age and of unmistakable Hebrew persuasion, was taken out of school and put to work in a nearby store, where he was rewarded with the princely honorarium of a dollar and a half per week. For the first three weeks, Ikey brought home the pay envelope on Saturday night and turned it over to his mother. On the fourth Saturday, however, he was five cents short.

“Ikey,” said his mother, “where is that other nickel?”

“I need that nickel, ma,” replied Ikey.

For the next three weeks this dialogue was repeated when the week’s pay was turned in. The following Saturday Rachel had further cause for suspicion, for there was only $1.40 in the pay envelope.

“Ikey,” she said, “what have you done with that dime?”

“Ma,” said Ikey, “I had to have that dime myself.”

“Now, Ikey, tell your mother the truth; are you going with a woman?”

* * *

Overwhelmingly

A member of Congress recently became a parent. On announcing the news the doctor exclaimed gleefully: “I congratulate you, sir; you are the father of triplets.”

The congressman was astonished.

“No, no, no,” he replied, with more than parliamentary emphasis, “there must be some mistake in the returns. I demand a recount!”

* * *

Cassidy’s Routing

Employed in the Great Northern yards in Minneapolis is a switchman whom we will call Cassidy.

One day Cassidy entered the superintendent’s office without removing his cap or pipe.

“I want a pass to Duluth,” he said.

His evident show of disrespect peeved the superintendent. “Well, Mr. Cassidy, you haven’t approached me in quite the proper manner,” he answered gruffly. “Here you have your cap on your head and your clay pipe stuck in your mouth. Do you believe this is showing proper respect for your superior officer? If you desire a pass to Duluth, you must leave this office at once, walk around for an hour or two, and come back. As you step in my office, you will ask for the superintendent of the Great Northern; I will reply, ‘I am the superintendent of the Great Northern, what can I do for you?’”

Cassidy promptly departed. He had been gone about an hour, when he came back, pipe in his pocket and cap in his hand. He walked briskly into the superintendent’s office and inquired in a rather superior manner, “Are you the superintendent of the Great Northern?”

“I am, what can I do for you?” was the reply.

“You can go to hell, I’ve got a pass over the Northern Pacific.”

* * *

It is always good to be nice, but not always nice to be good.