Mary Pickford — Sans Grease Paint and Wig (1914) 🇺🇸
An informal visit with Mary Pickford one afternoon last week, furnishes me with a timely topic and you, if you read far enough, with the information first hand or second, if, you wish — for Mary told me and I’m telling you — that Mary is not particularly overjoyed with the sudden exceptional burst of publicity which has come her way with the reissuing of old time “Mary” films. I’ll tell it to you just as Mary told it to me.
by Mabel Condon
It was the day in the Famous Players studio that Jim Kirkwood [James Kirkwood] hesitated over the history of his life and then sat for that picture that didn’t justify his raw-boned manliness a bit. And it was while he was hesitating that Mary Pickford emerged from an “extra” dressing-room, in a pink silk négligée and pink rose-budded boudoir cap. And her arms were about a round little white-robed body which nestled into the silky softness of the negligee, and looked out at us from round, blue eyes that bespoke the satisfied contentment of the four-months old owner.
But it was the shade of the four-months old’s head that caught and held the attention of Mr. Kirkwood. At one time in Mr. Kirkwood’s life, the covering of his own head had been just so, and of the same color, so of course Mr. Kirkwood was interested and broke forth in rosy predictions of what the future held for one so proud as was the four-months old.
But it was the shade of the four-months old’s head that caught and held the attention of Mr. Kirkwood. At one time in Mr. Kirkwood’s life, the covering of his own head had been just so, and of the same color, so of course Mr. Kirkwood was interested and broke forth in rosy predictions of what the future held for one so proud as was the four-months old.
“To think,” regretted Mary, “that that sweet little face will some-time grow a horrid beard.”
“And to think,” enlightened Mr. Kirkwood, “that those sweet little legs will, on Saturday nights presumably, bring their owner home this way.” Let your imagination draw a zig-zag across this page and you will have the demonstration supplied by Mr. Kirkwood.
“Jimmie!” expostulated Mary, turning her armful of man-baby away from the maker of such a suggestion, “just look at his round little feet — he’s all round — and so good! His mother says I may mind him for a while, so, when Jimmie’s through talking, come over to my dressing-room— will you?”
So when I thought “Jimmie” was through, I went.
But Jimmie was by no means through, as, with his Grease Paint chat over, he became much more talkative and bobbed in and out of Mary’s dressing-room every few minutes.
“He’s an awful tease,” said Mary as, after discovering by an investigation of the infant’s bib that he shared the initial “J” with him, Mr. Kirkwood set out to find the mother to learn if the baby’s name wasn’t Jim.
“But everybody likes him,” added Mary, “and it’s really fun and not like work at all, making pictures with him. The cast of The Eagle’s Mate was so congenial that we had the nicest time imaginable making the exterior scenes. I went to the Strand to see the film on its second night there.” She paused and patted the round little body of the four-months old. The caress must have been a soothing one, for the round one’s round eyes promptly closed and Mary smiled down at him and whispered “asleep,” whereupon the round one’s round eyes opened and surveyed Mary and her blue-grey ones. And Mary smiled back and continued: —
“I really ought not to go to see any of my own pictures.” Her upper lip expressed her sorrow at something and I asked why.
“Because it’s such an ordeal for me,” she answered, “I sit tight on the edge of the seat and keep thinking ‘Will they like it?’ and I criticize every move I make and, really, I don’t have a bit of a good time! If others were as critical as I, I’m afraid people wouldn’t like my work at all.”
“But they do like you,” I insisted and suggested, “I wonder if you have any idea of just how much you are liked?” Mary looked thoughtful and said hesitatingly, “I can’t realize they like me that well, but look,” she smiled eagerly and with her right hand swept aside a newspaper on the table beside her. The act disclosed countless letters as yet unopened and there was a package loosely done up in tissue-paper.
“I got this one this morning from a girl in a hospital in Baltimore,” she passed me the tissue-paper package. It contained a sewing apron of daintiest lawn and was embroidered in artistic blue and white butterflies. A note attached explained that the donor had made it while lying ill for weeks and assured Mary that it betokened much love and admiration. Could the ill little girl have witnessed Mary’s joy over its possession, I’m sure she would be repaid for her work of love.
It was then that the subject of the re-issuing of the Mary films was reached and Mary declared indignantly that she did not like it very well. “For many of those early films were made when I was not as happy as I am now — and condition always affects one’s work,” rocking the round one, now really asleep, gently in the low rocker Mary occupied out of regard for the infant’s comfort.
“But of course,” Mary began philosophically — but I never knew what is was that she had intended to say, for Mr. Kirkwood entered with the disgusted information that the little chap’s name was “Joe” instead of “Jim.”
Joseph Porter Riley,” practically announced Joe’s little mother, appearing from behind Mr. Kirkwood’s shoulder. “I named him for “Director Porter [Edwin S. Porter],” she finished still more proudly.
“Really,” explained Mary delightedly, giving Joe an extra joy pat. Then, as she passed the little round one to its mother, she whispered softly, “I’d rather own him than — than fifty thousand dollars!” And little Joe’s mother smiled contentedly as she bore the little man away for a waiting scene and Mary, when he had gone, took off her boudoir cap and arranged her curls in preparation for going before the camera in the production of “Behind the Scenes” which Mr. Kirkwood was to direct.
As I said at the beginning it was just an informal visit so I’ve told it to you just as it occurred.
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Current Educational Releases
In French Guiana. — Pathé. The valley of the Santa River rich in tropical foliage and scenic grandeur is one of the real beauty spots of French Guiana, South America. From the coach windows of the little single track railroad, which winds in curious curves up the valley, one sees the ruins of the old village of Tabouna, full of historic interest but sad in its significance. Further on the falls of the Santa, with its cascades resplendent in rainbow beauty, dash headlong into a thickly wooded valley below and flow peacefully over moss covered rocks.
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The Crayfish. — Pathé. The crayfish or fresh water lobster is usually found underneath the protecting rocks of shallow river pools. Like the most of his cousins in the great family of crustaceans, he is a night feeder and rarely ventures out from under the great rocks or submerged stumps during the day.
The crayfish is particularly fond of the common garden or angle worm and small chub fish or minnows. His claws, strong and powerfully built for the seizure of his prey, are so firmly attached to his body that one will easily bear his entire weight. The head and thorax of the crayfish are so closely attached as to be practically one part with the rest of his body. For this reason he is unable to move his head, but nature, ever thoughtful and ingenious, has provided him with eyes which can be projected from or drawn within his shell-like covering at will. Though not particularly disturbed when taken from his natural element, water, the crayfish eagerly returns to it when the opportunity affords. Like the lobster he is a substantial article of food and always a tasty addition to the menu.
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A Badger Hunt. — Pathé. With a long white snout and small piggish eyes the rapacious little badger, a member of the great bear family, is one of the most destructive animals with which the farmer has to contend. A night prowler, he is omnivorous, and does great damage to the crops as well as among the fowl of the farmyard.
A typical rural pest, the badger slinks away at the first streaks of dawn, and the daylight disclosing the various scenes of his various depredations, finds him safe in his underground home. The mischief committed by the badger during his nocturnal visits provokes the wrath of the farmer, who, with keen scented dogs, trails the animal to its hiding place. There one dog is selected to attack the badger in its tunnel retreat.
With his ear close to the ground the farmer follows the underground battle, and when he thinks the dog has driven the badger to a point sufficiently near the surface, he digs down into the badger’s hole. Quite the equal of the dog, the little badger, almost exhausted. moves backward under the new opening. Carefully dropping a long handled pair of steel pincers the farmer catches the badger around the neck and lifts him struggling to the surface. There the frightened animal, blinking but still fighting, is deposited alive and unhurt in a heavy bag. The darkness inside the bag quiets the badger and he is quite safely taken home by the farmer.
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Life in Japan. — Pathé. Kioto, once the capital of Japan, is annually the scene of a peculiar religious ceremony which draws thousands of witnesses from all parts of the empire.
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Coffee Cultivation. — Pathé. What is sweeter incense to the nostrils of the hungry man than the aroma of that most delightful beverage — coffee. And yet how little is known to the lay mind concerning the cultivation and handling of this, one of the most important of South America’s prolific products.
When the berries are ready for picking (they grow on bushy shrubs averaging 8 to 12 feet), the host of workers throng to the fields and quickly garner the ripened crop. When the beans are sifted and winnowed, these processes removing the leaves, twigs, etc., the coffee is measured, put in sacks and transferred to the mills, where it is washed and sorted. After many handlings, which are essential to the thorough drying and preparing of the beans for market, the coffee is graded and sacked and then brought to the warehouses from whence it is shipped to all parts of the civilized world.
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The Hosts of the Sea. — Pathé. To the naturalist, ever on the look out for strange and interesting creatures. Dame Nature is a seemingly neverendless provider. On the interesting film under this title appear some of the sea’s most grotesque and freakish products. Strange little crustaceans such as the callians, squills, dwarf crabs only an inch long, tiny swordfish, etc., are all shown in their native haunts by the aid of really fine photography.
Thoroughly dried, the hemp filaments are done into bundles which are taken to a separate factory where the center stem of each filament is removed. This process of taking out the woody part of the hemp reed is called “scutching.” When it is completed the hemp is a finished product ready for compression into bales and transportation. Conveyed by boat and rail to the great mills it is converted into rope, mats and many other useful articles.
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Hemp Growing (New Zealand). — Pathé. One of the most important industries of New Zealand is the growing of hemp. Reedlike in appearance, it attains a height of from ten to twelve feet, and is harvested by the natives with a sharp hook-shaped knife. Bundlers follow the cutters and the hemp is stacked on big carts and carried to the factory, where it is washed, cleaned and dried.
The next step consists of feeding the separate reeds into a special machine which splits them into long slender filaments. These filaments, washed by a mechanical conveyor, are then allowed to drain a full day, after which they are carried to the bleaching field and exposed to the sun for about a week.
Collection: Motography Magazine, August 1914
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see also Mary Pickford — Sans Grease Paint and Wig (August 1913)