“Wait until the honeymoon scene,” I teased.
“Oh, my!”
Just then, a rector threw open the church door. Very dramatically, I thought, nodding with approval. His timing was perfect.
“Get the hell off my church, you, you movies!” He raised his fist, and the stuffed matron beside me nearly fainted.
“Oh, what will these awful people do next,” the woman moaned.
“I don’t think he’s part of the scene.” Now I saw the cameraman hastily begin to fold up his tripod; he wasn’t cranking anymore. Looking back at the rector, I realized that he wasn’t wearing any makeup, as his face was an entirely different, more natural color than the highly contrasted faces—pale, yellowish skin and dark eyes and mouths—of the actors.
“Get! Goddamn it, get off the steps of the House of the Lord!” The man continued to shake his fist to the skies. Really, I marveled, he ought to reconsider his vocation. He was a natural in front of the camera.
The company quickly, but without panic, grabbed their various boxes and crates and mirrors and costumes and jumped into waiting jalopies—the “bride” wrapped her long train around her waist and tied it neatly—and the show was over. To the obvious disappointment of everyone on the sidewalk, as we were all now glaring at the panting, triumphant rector.
“Don’t they have to get permission?” I wondered out loud.
“Nah, they film wherever they want,” a man behind me spoke up. I turned, hungry to hear more; I’d yet to talk to anyone who had any inside knowledge of these movies.
“Most of these outfits are so small they don’t have any kind of studio or factory,” he explained. “The concerned citizens of Los Angeles want to pass some kind of ordinance prohibiting them from working here, but personally, I think that’s bunk.”
“Constipated citizens sounds more like it.”
“That’s the spirit!” The man grinned at me. “These movie people are good for local business, is my view. Why, I built myself a little lunch counter across the street from that Inceville place on Sunset, and I’m raking in the dough! Actors have to eat, just like everyone else. I even got to be in a crowd scene one day.”
“Good for you!”
He raised his hat and walked away; I stared after him, my mind starting to click feverishly. Oh, if only I, too, could find a way into these movies!
As the months passed, the movies seemed to be taking over more of the city—in many ways, they became the city. No longer did I have to go out of my way to find them. In the quiet little parks and squares I liked to haunt during my lunch hour, I was no longer surprised to see a man in a long wig, dressed in white robes like Jesus, sharing a box lunch with two dancehall girls from the Klondike, while on a nearby bench a caveman and Marie Antoinette held hands. And every day another orange grove disappeared beneath the pavement of a new movie studio. Very few companies still had to sneak around and film on the streets, ready to pack up and leave at the drop of a hat. And when they did need a location in which to film, smart homeowners were more than happy to lend their homes or gardens for a tidy sum.
More and more movie theaters—bigger than the old nickelodeons, with permanent seats and a real screen instead of a big sheet—were sprouting up to show the finished product. And new magazines, like Photoplay, appeared, devoting their pages to profiling these mysterious new movie “stars.” Although some boardinghouses still proudly boasted that they did not allow “actors, Jews, or dogs.”
Well, I wasn’t an actor, a Jew, or a dog, but I felt an instant kinship with these ragtag movie folk. On the verge of divorce number two—Robert decided he’d had enough of me, which I did not take personally, and went back to San Francisco—at the age of twenty-five, I knew a little about feeling like an outsider. And I was an artist, too, I reminded myself daily. Even if I was merely sketching bottles of catsup and jars of face cream.
Of course after Robert left, Mother pleaded with me to return home; surely I could find some position as a ladies’ companion, something that would shield me from the whispers.
But I looked around me; in Los Angeles, no one whispered or held your past against you; everyone seemed to reinvent themselves daily. I couldn’t go back; I simply couldn’t face my family and the few friends I’d had. No, if I ever went back to San Francisco, it would be after I’d done something good and necessary, something I could be proud of. Something, unlike my marriages, I could call my own.
Sick of commercial art, I found a job at the Morosco Theater Company, a legitimate acting troupe run by the impresario Oliver Morosco. There, I painted and sketched portraits of the actors for billboards and programs. It was more interesting than advertising, and I got a kick out of being around theater people; they didn’t judge, they didn’t ask questions, and they didn’t care how many times a girl had been married.
Still, I couldn’t help but notice that within the company there was great disdain for these new flickers—some called them “moving pictures” or even “movies” now—and the actors who performed in them. “You’ll never catch me degrading my art in a flicker!” Laurette Taylor proclaimed, and everyone else agreed. Yet the company often went around the corner to see a show after rehearsal, and I always tagged along like the kid sister who wouldn’t stay home. I was fascinated by the maturing art of these movies.
They’d grown from silly little one-reelers that had no story, simply images flailing about, to longer two-reelers that did at least try to convey a plot, however absurd. There were far too many stories about damsels in distress for my taste. And most of the actors were awful, gesticulating stiffly, clutching their bosoms or slapping their hands to their foreheads to indicate distress, backs turned to the camera, shoulders heaving, when they were supposed to be crying.
But a few actors stood out, none more than the former Biograph Girl—Little Goldilocks, we took to calling her because of her long, golden curls. Of course, we didn’t know her name; we didn’t know any of these movie actors’ identities, because the title cards mentioned only the studio. But this ingenue’s pictures were always a higher quality than the others; she acted more naturally, none of that wild theatrical gesturing. And one day, the title card flashed her name—
Famous Players: Presenting Mary Pickford.
“Well, they’re finally letting us know who they are!” someone in the theater called out to general derisive laughter.
“If that is her real name. I’d sure as hell change mine, if I was in any of these flickers!”
“I’d still never be caught dead in one of them even if they said my name was Teddy Roosevelt,” Miss Taylor proclaimed in her husky voice.
I would, I realized, my heart beating wildly even as I turned around to give Miss Taylor my very best withering glare. There’s something interesting going on—no, it isn’t only interesting; it’s exciting, delirious; something that comes along only once every century or so. It’s the birth of a new art form. How exciting it is to witness it!
But maybe I wasn’t content, anymore, merely to be a witness.
When I returned to my grubby little boardinghouse that night, I snatched up one of the notebooks I always kept handy next to my bed and made a list of my talents, to see if any of them would be useful in the movies.
Well, I could draw, of course. Glancing at myself in the mirror, I thought I was pretty enough, but really, I had no desire to be an actress like the enchanting Mary Pickford. There was more than one reason why I never went anywhere without a sketchpad in my hand; it was something to hide behind. I couldn’t even imagine painting up my face and exposing myself to the whirring, unblinking eye of a camera. As superstitious as it sounded, there was something to the old Indian belief that the camera stole your soul. I didn’t want to be held hostage to it; after two husbands, the only eyes I wanted scrutinizing my every thought and movement were my own.
I’d written a few feature articles back in San Francisco, for the Hearst newspapers. They were little society stories; once I’d been sent to interv
iew the theater actress Marie Dressler, who’d laughed at my youth but then spent hours telling me everything about her troubles with men; they all seemed to steal her money and leave her. She couldn’t understand why—I stared at her face, really quite ugly, with coarse features, bulging eyes, and lips like a toad, but as she kept talking about her heartaches, those popping eyes shone wistfully, girlishly, until her face became almost beautiful with the generosity and tenderness of her soul. I wrote about that instead—I thought I brought her completely to life on the page—but the article never ran. That was the extent of my journalism career. Nevertheless I printed, in big bold letters, WRITING on my list, as well.
And that was it. I could draw, and I could write. A little. How on earth would these skills find me a job in the movies? I tossed the notebook aside, continued to ply my “art” at the theater, went to the movies every evening, and brooded.
A party—there was always a party, one of the joys of working for a theatrical company. I’d been around long enough now to know that the only excuse necessary was an extra bottle of gin—or a surprisingly good review, or even a new costume that hadn’t been worn a thousand times before—and there was a party in someone’s room, everybody bring a nickel to pay for the sandwiches, a bottle if you have extra.
This party was different; I’d invited a new friend, Adela Rogers. Adela was a native San Franciscan, too, and we’d met once or twice in the Hearst offices. Her father was a famous attorney in San Francisco, but she’d recently moved to Los Angeles, still writing for Hearst, assigned to cover this strange new movie business for the Los Angeles Herald. To my surprise and delight, she’d looked me up. Understandably, through her work, Adela had gotten to know some of these movies.
“Hey, Fran, do you mind if I bring along some movie folks to this shindig? Mabel is a hoot. Mabel Normand—she works for Mack Sennett. She’s always taking her clothes off.” Adela cracked her gum and smoothed her stockings; even though she was a couple years younger than me, she seemed so much more sophisticated, already slightly weary of life.
At this party—held in Bert Lytell’s two-room apartment over a garage, so the whole place smelled like gasoline, but after enough gin, who cared?—movie actors mixed freely with their theatrical counterparts. And I couldn’t see one speck of difference between them. As usual, some of the women immediately kicked off their shoes to dance, with or without willing partners; most of the men preened about, trying to score. Couples huddled in corners, urgently whispering; some of these couples were men, queers. I wasn’t quite the blushing bride I’d been when I’d first moved to Los Angeles; I knew men who liked men and women who liked women, and while I couldn’t really understand the latter—I did miss Robert in bed, oh, yes, I did—I wasn’t bothered by any of them. To each his—or her—own.
And Mabel Normand found a reason to remove her clothes. If Mother could see me now, I grinned as I sipped a gin blossom from a teacup and watched Mabel shake her pert little derriere to the accompaniment of a ukulele pounding out “When the Midnight Choo-Choo Leaves for Alabam’.”
“This here is our little Rembrandt,” a deep voice boomed. I looked up; Charlotte Greenwood, the tall, gangly character actress of the Morosco Company, loomed over me, accompanied by a much shorter man. “Fran’s a genius at capturing a person with her pencils. She doesn’t talk much, though.”
“I do, when I have something interesting to say.” I smiled; I liked Charlotte. She was one of the few members of the Morosco company who was eager to “slum it” in movies.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss—?”
Stunned, I realized this was Owen Moore himself, Mary Pickford’s husband, according to the latest issue of Photoplay (which I may have read on the trolley coming over), who was now bending over my hand. He actually kissed it, and I had to stifle a laugh.
“Miss—” Oh, bunk! Which name should I give? While I’d been born Marion Benson Owens, I’d since married Wesley de Lappe when I wasn’t even eighteen, divorced him, married Robert Pike, was separated from him—really, I could hardly go around calling myself Marion Benson Owens de Lappe Pike.
“Miss Marion,” I answered. Only yesterday, I’d decided to rechristen myself; I was now going by the name Frances Marion. Much simpler. Frances was an old family name; it meant “free one.” I looked at it as sort of a present to myself, now that I was almost single again.
“Delighted.” Owen Moore leered, leaning close. Too close; close enough that I could smell the gin on his breath.
“I’m a married woman.” I quickly hid my left hand—ringless—behind my back. “Frances Marion is my professional name.”
“What is your profession, then?”
“I’m an artist, like Charlotte said. I do publicity sketches of actors. I’m very good.” I was astonished to hear myself say this; I never tooted my own horn. But something about this man’s slimy demeanor made me want to announce myself as someone of substance and worth.
“Hmm. You don’t say. Mary might like it if you sketched her—I’m married, too, you know.”
“Yes, I’ve read. I’d very much like to meet your wife.” I tried to sound casual even as my heart began to race; was this a way in? A way to meet the actress who already embodied, to me, everything captivating about the movies? “I quite admire her.”
“Well, I think I can make that happen.” Owen smiled in a way he must have thought beguiling, showing all his blindingly white teeth. This odious man apparently was used to women simply falling at his feet.
“While naturally I’m flattered by your attention, Mr. Moore, I think you’ll find other ladies here more—amenable?”
“You bet your sweet ass I will.” Owen’s face tightened, his eyes narrowed, and he balled his hands into fists. I held my ground; I would not flinch from this man who now seemed on the edge of violence—and quite capable of hitting a woman. Then I shivered, thinking of that poor young woman with the blond curls who had the misfortune to be this idiot’s wife.
“Shall I show up at the—what is it called? Studio? On Monday?”
“Famous Players Studio. Yeah, show up, bring your damn sketches, I’ll introduce you.” Owen sighed into the flask he produced from his vest pocket, then lurched off, no doubt in search of a more “amenable” lady.
And now I stood outside a closed door, waiting for Mary Pickford. The girl with the curls. How ridiculous that I, so much older, a twice-divorced woman of twenty-five, should be shaking like a leaf, nervous and wishing, for the thousandth time, that I hadn’t had to leave my sketches behind. What excuse now did I have for intruding upon the famous Miss Pickford’s precious time?
Yet this was my chance; in my heart, I knew it. My chance to join the movies; I was no longer content with being a spectator in a crowd. I never again wanted to be labeled an “outsider.”
The whirring sound stopped, and the door opened. “Come in,” a soft but surprisingly mature voice beckoned.
For an instant I was confused; I’d never heard Goldilocks’s voice before. How strange—the girl sounded like a woman!
But I managed to step into the darkened room. An overhead lightbulb was snapped on, blinding me.
“Hello, I’m Mary.” My hand was grasped warmly.
Grasped warmly—by a child, not the romantic young woman I’d seen on-screen. Off-screen, Mary Pickford appeared even smaller; shorter than I was, barely five feet. Slight, every bone and muscle finely etched. But all I was aware of in those first moments were those eyes. Perfectly shaped, hazel in color but the whites dazzlingly pure, unblemished. Those eyes that had looked out of the screen so expressively, shining with tears or blazing with merriment or simply thoughtful, grave, capable of betraying an entire kaleidoscope of emotion.
The golden curls, however, were hidden from view; Miss Pickford’s hair was wrapped up in a threadbare pink turban atop a head that seemed too large for her narrow shoulders and delicate frame.
“I’m Frances. Frances Marion.” Gently I shook the warm little
hand, terrified of crushing it.
Miss Pickford gazed at me for a long while, as if sizing me up. As those now penetrating eyes turned fully upon me, taking me in, deciding, parsing, my cheeks began to burn.
“It’s not my real name, actually. And I couldn’t bring my drawings,” I heard myself adding in a breathless rush, while this imposing yet tiny woman-child continued to gaze at me steadily. “The winds—the Santa Anas—were too fierce. But I came anyway—I hope you don’t mind. I’m awfully good, actually, and your husband—Mr. Moore—said you might like to be sketched…”
“Yes, Owen told me.” Another probing look; I realized that Miss Pickford must have thought I was one of Owen’s more “amenable ladies.”
“Oh, no—I mean, he was a perfect gentleman,” I lied. “We only spoke briefly, but I was thrilled when he said I might meet you.”
Miss Pickford’s expression cleared, relief in her eyes. “Thank you. And Mary Pickford’s not my real name, either.”
I grinned at her and, to my delight, she grinned back.
“So tell me, Frances Marion—not your real name—do you like to draw? Is that what you want to be? An artist?”
“Well, I’m good at it, but I’m not sure it’s what I want to do forever. It’s not as easy as it might look, not very fulfilling and I’m—I think—it’s not enough…” I faltered.
“Enough?” Mary Pickford again shot me a piercing look, then softened it with a smile. “Oh, I know what you mean. When you work hard—and look at me!” She gestured to her head. Beneath the pink turban, her hair was wound on cloth strips. “I’m here at dawn, working with the scenarist and the director to plan the day’s shooting, then I’m performing under the hot sun or lights, then when I’m finished with that I have to wash my hair and set it, every other day or else it looks flat on camera. And while it’s drying, I’m editing—cutting. That’s what I was doing when you knocked.” She pointed at an unwieldy-looking machine; dangling from it were brown strips of film. “This is how we cut from scene to scene—we literally cut it, then splice different strips of film together.”
The Girls in the Picture Page 3