Fay Tincher — “Is Polite Comedy Polite?” (1919) 🇺🇸
It was early in spring on a rather chilly day in California, that Fay Tincher was seen dashing out of a Hollywood costumer’s with a small package in her hand. She stopped her blithesome tripping down the boulevard long enough to say “I’m tickled to death! I’m going back into comedy — society comedies, too, if you please. Vou know Christie Comedies, don’t you? They’re nice, refined little human dramas. They don’t throw pies, they don’t get you all mussed up, you know, real high-class stuff. These are going to be special two-reel comedies. Look, I’ve got my costume in my hand,” and she waved the little package, which was about the size of a half pound of coffee. “I’m going to play a chorus girl.”
In her first Christie Special, “Sally’s Blighted Career,” Fay played “Sally.” The first thing they did to blight her career was to kick her off the runway. A runway in musical comedies is an article designed for the light tripping of dainty footed chorus girls over the heads of the audience. Fay tripped, all right, but neither lightly nor daintily. In her capacity as the prize boob chorus girl, it was so ordained by the scenario person who thinks up foolish things for actresses to do, she fell with a dull thud upon the unfortunate head of Scott Sidney, one of the directors who had been impressed into service as atmosphere because of the possession of a bald head. Miss Tincher finished the scene with three bruises. Mr. Sidney had some also, but that has nothing to do with the story.
At the witching hour of nine o’clock the next morning Miss Tincher having annointed herself with much “pain killer” arrived at the studio to do the second episode of the picture. It was a burglar scene. Harry Edwards, the burglar, was inside a trunk. Sally sat upon the trunk, endeavoring to keep the burglar from burgling. Harry’s muscular shoulders bounced the lid of the trunk up and down several times while Fay hung on for dear life. Director Al Christie shouted, “Do your duty, Harry!” Fay did not know that when Al Christie says “do your duty” he means the execution of the scene with the greatest possible vim and vigor. Harry did his duty right lustily with the result that the unfortunate star landed violently on the back of her neck beyond the protecting, softness of a mattress which was intended to break her fall, but which failed to do its duly at the crucial moment.
“Sally’s Blighted Career” came to a close with Miss Tincher swathed in bandages. In “Rowdy Ann” which introduced Miss Tincher as a rough and western cowgirl almost too skittish for the open range, there were also numerous calls for the first aid kit. The first time it was for stepping off a train at Burbank, where the limited merely hesitates and does not stop. How was the conductor of the limited train to know that Miss Tincher was not getting on the train, but endeavoring to get off, so as she stepped lightly from moving train he detained her with an iron hand. “Let me go,” she shouted as she wriggled loose — and fell. As the train gathered speed. Fay picked herself up from where she had fallen — a few inches from the moving wheels. She walked up to Al Christie and said. “Well, don’t I get a little sympathy?” Mr. Christie replied, “Oh yes, yes, of course. I was just thinking if you had fallen under there, how I could have put in a title and finished the picture!”
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Miss Tincher, the star in stripes, says if this be polite comedy, give her slap-stick. This sort of thing is all in the day’s work for Fay — just before she landed on her head.
Screen players don’t dare blush. Red photographs as black and blushing would give the flustered player the appearance of choking to death. Other curious facts may be found in “The Squirrel Cage” on page 83.
Collection: Photoplay Magazine, August 1919