Mildred Manning — Side-Tracking the Couturière (1917) 🇺🇸
The delayed arrival of Mildred Manning’s gowns makes interviewing hazardous
by Marjory Lamb
When I hear of a new star in the film firmament I immediately want to go stargazing.
Miss Mildred Manning is the latest recruit to the Vitagraph galaxy, but I happened upon her when she was waiting for her first peep at a wardrobe of new gowns. It was not my first interview with an actress, but there seemed to be a misunderstanding in my first interview with Miss Mildred Manning, I didn’t know whom she was expecting, but soon learnt.
My intended polite of “‘Morning, Miss Manning,” must have sounded something like “‘Morning, ma’am!” Facial storm-clouds were gathering on her mobile countenance and almost “registered” an expression of “wrath.” I was about to retreat before the battery of her wonderful eyes. We both tried to talk at once. I didn’t have a chance to ask how she liked playing in the silent drama, nor to view the gowns which seemed to be the topic just then of mutual interest.
It seems she took me for a representative from “Lucile’s” with long-delayed and much-desired gowns. But I wasn’t from Lucile’s; I hadn’t the gowns. I hadn’t seen them — I very much wanted to, and to go on explaining just why I was there. And finally, when the explanation was made and she understood I had come for an interview, her sweet serenity prompted me to ask if her second initial was A. I didn’t know that she had a middle name, but I wanted to be her fairy godmother and christen her right then Mildred Amiable Manning. If being disappointed for the nth time, at the crucial moment in the matter of the delivery of gowns, was cause for registering “wrath,” Miss M. A. M. was justified. She said the “trying-on” had been such a trying experience, but the delay of their receipt, was even more trying, and she hoped the gowns would arrive before I left, so that I could see them. In the meantime she showed me how her “homey” spirit could convert an apartment suite into making you feel like saying: “Well, this is something like home.” First we talked about the mysteries of make-up — not the kind that Lola Montez used, but of the timely present-century process of powder “preparedness” before “screening” — that complex subject of “making-up,” or, rather, “making-down,” as Miss Manning laughingly expressed how “they” must tint a yellowish hue (under the trying light) to appear beautiful. She said: “It’s quite simple. First you use good cold-cream, then wipe it all off, and then a layer of cream-colored grease-paint, and a little black grease-paint around the eyes to shadow them; then powder of ‘Rachel tint,’ as it says on the box. Then take off any grease-paint or powder that is on the lips. Then put the slightest bit of crimson grease-paint on the lips. The reason I use an entire grease make-up is because I find it the smoothest. A great many people use a grease foundation and then other ingredients to finish with, but it is not so smooth for me and does not blend so well. After this, be sure all the powder is out of the eye-lashes, which can be accomplished by wetting a soft cloth and gently going over them. This is about all that is necessary. But what is best for some people is not good for others; for instance, people of a light complexion need a deeper shade, and those of a more olive need a lighter shade both of grease and powder. Some use a cosmetic which is applied to the eyelashes to bead them and make them longer and which makes the eyes appear larger.” When I asked how she had learnt the make-up for the screen, she replied: “D. W. Griffith taught me. I had been using a different make-up for the stage, a nice pink-and-white one with plenty of rouge, which is quite wrong, as we use no rouge in the pictures. At the time I was under Mr. Griffith’s direction he wanted an even cream shade. Since then I have tried many make-ups, but I always return to the first, the one Mr. Griffith taught me.”
Passing from “make-ups” and “downs,” gowns and other subjects, Miss Manning showed a charming versatility in outdoor as well as indoor sports. It was refreshing to listen to her views. I know she can ride a horse. No, not just because she told me so, but just because of this little comment: “You know what I wish the movie managers would do — I wish they would feature the horse; not as they always do, speeding a-mile-a-minute across the screen, but show us something of their intelligent, affectionate qualities.” She admitted, too, that the thrill of the swift whirl of an ice-boat, as it came about and shot away on a new leg, had its charm for her.
“Miss Manning, do you prefer the movies to the stage?”
“Yes, I do in most ways — in a few ways, no. You see, in the movies you are always doing something different, which is bound to keep up your interest. You never do the same things over and over again for forty weeks or longer. It is not hard to live a character in the movies as you go straight on with your story, but it is hard to live a character on the stage for three-and-a-half hours every day (and sometimes twice a day) in the week, every week in the month, for eight months at a time. If Sarah Smith is a drab part, she must not brighten up a bit; you dare not let the poor girl have one ray of sunshine in eight months. Just think of that — horrible! Or, if Nellie Brown is a gay butterfly, she must not droop her wings for an instant, no matter how she may feel. But on the stage you do know just how long you are to be at work, and one can arrange one’s plans accordingly. In the movies, you never can tell.”
Just then the gowns arrived. The one I liked the most was a beautiful négligée of dove-gray silk chiffon embroidered in silver. When I asked her if she would have some pictures taken in that particular gown, I was promised a copy if I would forget that she had appeared disagreeable about the long-delayed delivery of the gowns. I was glad they had been delayed. It had given me an opportunity of enjoying a visit with the amiable Miss Manning, whose gracious manner left me with the impression of not being disagreeable at all, but most charming.
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It was Helen Holmes’ first deer shot near Chinquapin Falls in the Yosemite and, if remorseful expressions count for anything, it will be the last one she ever levels a gun at
Collection: Motion Picture Magazine, August 1917