Arlette Marchal — Mademoiselle — Not Grisette (1926) 🇺🇸
We have Pola the magnetic and dominant queen, the gorgeously frank pagan polished by superficialities into a cosmopolite. We have Vilma of Budapest, whose clear skin is untouched by cosmetics, Vilma whom we picture as the fraulein of a home, surveying with pride her stock of linens and her thick, rose-garlanded china. We have Renee the imp, in whom bubbles playfully a refreshing joyousness.
And now we have Arlette, a little bit of all three, to add one more interesting personality to the fast-growing foreign colony of Hollywood.
In Arlette Marchal I find something of Pola's tutored mind and love of literature, a trifle of Renee's infectious gayety, but, I think, she is most like Vilma. In this respect: that she is untouched by the glamours of the theater, for she came directly to the screen from a home.
Work and ambition and family ties leave little time in her life for the love affairs which publicize these European beauties. The press agents tried to hook onto her the title of the toast of Paris, but they can't kid me. If any gay boulevardier got fresh with Arlette and begged to drink champagne from her slipper, she would send him trotting.
Romance is not aligned with Pola — it's part of her. Upon it she thrives and grows and from it she draws her art. It is, in a sense, a well-spring. Romance, when it comes to Arlette, will be the development, I fancy, of a slow, sweet, and proper friendship.
She is not a lady of the lights who bursts upon us of a sudden, the surface Parisienne seen by the tourists and gayly painted on the movie cabaret canvases; she represents the accumulation of centuries of old France, slowly and solidly building.
From the little glimmerings that our difficult conversational contact made possible, I pictured her home: quiet, restful, charming, artistic, a conservative and tradition-bound French home ruled by a stern yet tender pere, by a maman at once material and idealistic, a home in which filial obedience prevailed.
I imagine her, after her motion-picture work had taken her a bit into the world, attired in a short, chic Royant sports outfit rather than gowned in a sparkling Lanvin creation; attending lectures at the Sorbonne, or steeping herself in the melodies of the Conservatoire concerts, instead of reveling in the frivolities of the Folies Bergere. Or strolling thoughtfully through the quiet lanes of chestnuts in the Tuileries instead of motoring, correctly accoutered, through the Bois de Boulogne.
Her afternoons were spent at work or sewing at home, not dawdling over gowns displayed by the mannequins in the shops along the Rue de la Paix, her evenings in family discourse, or entertaining suitors under the vigilant chaperonage of maman, not in flitting from one to another of the gay cafes.
She is daytime France, not butterfly evenings — the restful, at once practical and artistic charm of France. She is the Frenchwoman who proved the backbone of her nation during the war, not the champagne-sipping, lightsome coquette. Mademoiselle, you understand, not grisette.
At least, this is the impression garnered from a few hours with her — hours made conversationally a little difficult by our inability to express to each other nuances of thought and meaning fluently. Though she has been eight months in America and has studied, her English to her is treacherous and undependable, and I have forgotten much of the French on which I was reared.
Lest you be unacquainted with La Marchal, for she has slipped into our midst quietly with little of the publicity accorded other imported actresses, an introduction might be in order. You saw her as Napoleon's sister in "Madame Sans-Gene." She was discovered for America by Gloria Swanson and brought here under a Paramount contract.
Her arrival was not made ostentatious by advance blaring of the publicity trumpets, nor have circumstances shoved her into a sensational hit.
I became interested in her when the publicity lads rooted for her genuineness.
It developed that she had been lent to the Marshall Neilan studio, and it was arranged that I should meet her there, quite a number of kilometers from Hollywood, for luncheon.
Breathlessly apologetic, she dashed into the Neilan studio. We were to go to her home for luncheon. Her car had "somesing wrong" all of a sudden. Would she honor my humble equipage? But of course, why not? She bore up bravely under her first glimpse of it, and we set sail for Hollywood.
Arlette, I decided, was a good sport. Pretty, yes, but not to the degree that another's beauty makes one feel uncomfortable. Charming, friendly rather than gracious — oh, altogether all right.
As chatelaine of an adorable little maisonette perched on a hilltop, she impressed me still more as the correctly reared mademoiselle, endeavoring to extend the hospitality of her home in maman's absence, solicitous for her guest's every want. A quick clatter of French to the maid, in a voice accustomed to giving orders — you can read training in the inflections and gradations of a voice. A delicious luncheon, with all the little appointments just right.
Still thrilled by the experience, she told me of having won the beauty contest which "start everysing." It happened at Aix-les-Bains. Knowing nothing of the contest, she accompanied a friend to the pavillion. While she danced, the judges watched and considered her among the flotilla of beauty. Not until she was summoned and presented with the prize, a jeweled bracelet, did she realize the honor thrust upon her.
"I am so excite'," she exclaimed. "Not all my life have I a jewel of much value. I am thirteen when the war start and France has so much need that one does not spend money for foolish trinkets. I whisper you somesing — it is still my only jewel except w'at I wear, only for a leetle while, in the movie. Attendez! I show you."
Dashing upstairs, she returned with the precious links of diamonds and sapphires.
Then we curled up on the comfy lounge and talked of pictures, of the American stars who are favorites abroad — Swanson, whom the Parisians love, and "Chariot," whom they idolize, and Pola, most of whose American work they regret — and of her own brief history.
"I am invite' to a party at the home of Monsieur Leonce Perret. He is a very fine director and he offer me the movies. We have no support since the war. We have lose our brother. Some one must work. So maman consent, and I play in many films for t'ree years. The best, I t'ink, is 'The Moon of Israel.' I say thees, please know, not to be vain, but I become success. Monsieur Perret ask me then to be in 'Madame Sans-Gene.'
"Miss Swanson is so lovely to me." Interspersing her halting English with much French, she launched into a tribute to Gloria. "When she see me on the screen, she say to Perret, 'Give thees girl close-up, scene all by herself.' Later I hear from others, when Paramount consider to offer me contract, that she say, 'If they do not do thees, I do somesing for thees girl myself.'"
Since coming to Hollywood, Arlette has played in "The Cat's Pajamas" and "Born to the West," and now was lent to Neilan for the cast of "Diplomacy," headed by Blanche Sweet. This Sardou play is one of love and intrigue against a Continental background, with ultra-smart Deauville as its main setting. Her role, that of Zicka, was played on the stage by Blanche Bates in the last revival of the play.
"I am thrill' to come here, yet I am afraid. My friends in Paris caution me, 'Somesing go wrong, you are alone in a strange con-tree.' They shake their heads, so" — she illustrated, with sad mien and downcast mouth. "They hear that Pola do not so well here.
"I come. I am lonesome. I make no great success like Banky, they do not fete me like Pola. After a while, I meet again Paulette Duval, whom I know in Paris, and Renee Adoree, and that make it fun. One time in a cafe, I see Vilma, with whom I work in Vienna, and she call, 'Hello!' It is nice to have her smile a welcome."
So far, she has had no opportunities to distinguish herself. Paramount's policy seems to be to acquaint the American public with her gradually, rather than, as the mistake was made with Pola, to tout her to the point where her every gesture would be a subject for criticism.
"So much of America as I meet have been very kind to me. I am not reprove' by critics, because yet I am not a star. Perhaps it is better so. I try to be patient. I hope some day to be favorite. If I make success and Paramount keep me, I bring my mother and sister here. Eh bien!"
That makes her the more likable, that she is humble, that she is willing to learn and to adapt to American methods her training in the European studios. She is building on a solid foundation. Though only recently has she become known personally to Hollywood, she is well liked, for her lack of arrogance, for her simplicity of manner. There is felt against her none of the resentment which swells, and justly, when a foreigner is brought in to occupy a position for which hundreds of equally talented American girls are striving.
Quite girlishly, she delights in dancing, tennis, and fencing, for she is in the early twenties. Perhaps it is the hardship taught her by the war and the necessity of becoming the family's breadwinner that give her this reality instead of the artificiality which one expects, from previous experiences, a foreign woman to have; but more significant, I think, is the fact that she came not from the stage but from a home.
Her languor, too, is surprising, for only occasionally does the French snap and sparkle bubble her into a mood of lightness. She has the black hair of the Latins, and cool, tranquil blue eyes.
Though she said that she often came to the set tearful and was kidded into cheer by Neilan's tomfoolery, I do not imagine she is swayed much by tempestuous moods. It is more loneliness and homesickness. Her manner is for the most part calm and collected. Quite seriously, she hopes to make a success, to be loved.
Arlette, vou shouldn't have been named that. You should be Marie or Anne or Suzanne. Your name is a creamy pastry nomenclature, with fluffy, pink icing and pink candies. And you are a spring salad dashed with French dressing.
Photo by: Eugene Robert Richee (1896–1972)
Collection: Picture Play Magazine, September 1926