Nell Craig — The Golden Girl (1917) 🇺🇸

May 14, 2026

A morning spent with Nell*Craig

by Hazel Simpson Naylor

Do you remember the fairy story of the young prince who wished to have the most beautiful princess in the world for his bride? No?

Well, he consulted a famous sorceress, who gave him three*magic oranges. When he cut the first and an enchanted maiden stepped forth, she so bedazzled him that he forgot to say the proper magic words; whereupon she vanished. The same thing happened with the second; but when he cut the third orange, and the most beautiful princess in the world appeared, he grasped her, tremblingly, and succeeded in mumbling the words that were to keep her on earth to be his bride.

That is exactly the trouble I had in capturing Nell Craig for an interview. The first time I just missed her at the studio; the second time she had just left her artistic apartment; but the third time I succeeded in capturing the most beautiful princess in the world.

For Nell Craig is beautiful — much more so in reality than in pictures. As she came forward to greet me, I noticed that warm, golden glints shone in her soft, brown eyes. There were golden shimmerings in her dark, dark hair, and she was clad in a taffeta sport-skirt of broad yellow-and-white stripes, a golden-yellow, silk sweater and a broad sport-hat with a yellow band. I wish I could describe to you the vitality of her rounded, young face, the creaminess of her complexion, the perfect curve of her lips, but I must hasten on and report the words of wisdom which fell from the mouth of this wise, young Diana.

Firstly, she said she was so sorry that she had missed me twice before.

Then she continued, “It’s so frightfully hot in here, we might just as well go out in my machine and get a breath of air. Here, boy, call up and see if my car is ready, and tell them to bring it in front of the office.”

Turning to me again, “Yes, I think it would be better to go out; you know, I’ve been dieting, and I don’t feel any too well. Yes, I am getting pretty stout, and let me tell you” — her youthful face became serious — “altho fat is scarcely a pleasant topic of conversation, it’s a wise picture actress who keeps thin. Why, some of the very greatest have been ruined by fat, that’s all.”

Here an energetic young man burst in with, “Miss*Craig, your car is at the door.”

Whereupon Nell Craig beamed upon me and said, “You don’t mind, do you?”

I assured her I was delighted, so we passed out together by benches filled with envious-eyed aspirants for movie honors.

As we climbed into the car, an enormous, olive-green, Harmon touring-car, Nell Craig heaved a sigh of relief. “There; now I’m sure you feel better, don’t you?”

Again I nodded and begged, “Won’t you tell me something of yourself, Miss*Craig?”

“Well,” she said, “my home is in Philadelphia, and I started in stock there. Then I spent a year with Lubin [Siegmund Lubin]; from there I did second business with Pathé, and now I am doing feature leads for Essanay.”

“And what roles do you prefer?” I questioned perseveringly, in spite of the fact that I had about as much chance to use my pen, at the pace we were going, as a rabbit.

Enthusiasm lit up Nell Craig’s lovable countenance. “I prefer emotional parts, not simpering ingénue parts. I wasn’t made for them, and, do you know, seriously, Miss*Naylor, I think that being cast properly is the secret of many successes. Every time you find a great success you will discover that that man and woman are always under the same director, who thoroly understands their capabilities and weaknesses and always casts them in suitable parts. Oh, I tell you, careless casting is the greatest mistake in the movie world. I think a director should have his regular leading man and woman — that would do away with jealousy; and then, naturally, trying first one director and then another is bound to affect one’s work.”

“All this is very interesting, Miss*Craig,” I said, “but tell me more about yourself.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she smiled. “I’m just plain Nell Craig, and, no matter how successful I become, my hat will still fit on.”

“Just plain Nell Craig!” An almost uncontrollable impulse urged me to tell her she was the loveliest, most beautifully radiant creature it had ever been my luck to meet, but I refrained and asked prosaically:

“And what is your favorite picture?”

“In the Palace of the King,” she said; “and I must tell you a joke on myself. I went to the movies to see myself, the other evening, and a woman came in and sat down in back of me. When my name was flashed, she fairly groaned, ‘There, now; my evening’s spoilt; I just hate Nell Craig!’ Needless to tell you, I went home pretty discouraged, but next day I received a batch of letters, and they were all so sweet I felt quite encouraged again. I tell you, we need encouragement, and we appreciate all the kind things the public say about us. There, now; come on; let’s go in and get a soda.”

The big, green car came to a quick halt by a confectionery store, and Nell Craig and I, business forgotten, indulged in two*double chocolates, like two*carefree girls who didn’t have the welfare of “pictures” on their souls.

And when I left her, and she invited me to come and see her at her home next time, I felt not only that I had met a girl whose radiant beauty cloaked a capably brilliant mind, but that I had made a friend.

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