Testing the Tinsel (1917) 🇺🇸

It was one distinctly unpleasant morning, when a drizzling rain was slowly washing away the last snow of winter, that I decided to drop in at the Essanay studio in search of a story.

by Hazel Simpson Naylor

As I trudged slushily along Argyle Street, I gazed enviously at the luxurious machines ranged in front of the long, red-brick Essanay building. Some of them I knew by sight, for their generous owners had given me many a lift. There was the big, black limousine that belonged to E. H. Calvert, or Captain Calvert as every one calls him, and his charming wife, Lillian Drew. There were Edna Mayo’s Cadillac, Nell Craig’s Marmon, Edward Arnold’s Hudson, and a round half-dozen I didn’t recognize.

Oh, dear, I thought, it must be wonderful to be a movie actress.

With which reflection I pushed open the heavy doors and wandered up to the publicity department. Mr. Eubank and Mr. Chandler both grinned, “Goo’ morning; you here again?”

“Yes; I want a story — a different story,” I said morosely.

“Well, I’m afraid you’ve struck an off day,” said Mr. Chandler; but “here,” he called a little stenographer, “take Miss Naylor down-stairs and see if you can find any excitement for her.”

The stenographer smiled a greeting, and we went slowly down to the studio proper.

“I hope I didn’t take you away from some important work,” I apologized.

“Oh, I am glad to rest for a moment,” she said. “I’ve been here every day for three years, with no vacation.”

A small seed of doubt sprouted in my mind; perhaps, after all, a Moving Picture plant was not all fun, high salaries and glory.

We passed by an exquisite dining-room set, where silver glistened on a Circassian walnut table and buffet. Ernest Maupain strode up and down nervously, waiting while some lights were being adjusted. Florence Oberle, gowned in a sky-blue négligée, sat on a hard bench and shivered.

“Come, come; are you ready, Mr. Maupain? Have you your coat?” snapped the director.

“Yes, sir; yes, sir,” boomed Mr. Maupain, as he slipped into a brocaded morning robe, tucked a yellow napkin in his collar, and seated himself at the beautifully appointed dining-room table.

“Why is the napkin yellow?” I whispered.

“Yellow photographs pure white; white would turn out gray,” answered the stenographer.

Florence Oberle shook out her lacey gown, patted her marceled hair, ceased shivering, magically assumed a most regally bored air, and entered the scene. Immediately Mr. Maupain began berating her most terribly.

“No, no, no! More forceful — more forceful, Mr. Maupain,” came from Fred Wright, director; and they started all over again.

“Come on,” I urged uneasily; “let’s find something more pleasant or romantic.”

Further on we came upon a scene which immediately gripped my fancy. It depicted the interior of the large living-room of a summer home. There were an enormous fireplace, birch-bark furniture, Navajo rugs, and a dream of a curving staircase.

“Ah,” I said, “this looks promising.”

No one was around, but my guide said they would start work soon, so we sat down upon an abandoned couch.

“Do the actors receive as large salaries as we hear about?” I questioned.

“Very nearly,” she answered; “but, really, they need them. Now, I remember one time, when Beverly Bayne was here, a certain play called for five brand-new suits, and they had to be expensive ones, too. Miss Bayne protested, saying it would eat up all her salary, so the management offered to pay one-third the cost, but it is very seldom that they will do that, and, as the actress must have rich-looking costumes, it takes a good big salary to pay for them.

“Do you remember the beautiful court-gown Miss Bayne wore in Graustark? Well, she had just one afternoon in which to prepare that, so she and her mother bought yards and yards of heavy white satin and made an Empire dress, with long court-train, all by themselves, and she did look lovely in it.

“Then there was Francis Bushman. He was a nice man; no hanging around the corner saloon or cabarets for him; he always went directly home after work hours. But it did pity the girls in his company. It just seemed as if he couldn’t tolerate their doing anything he didn’t like. Why, I’ve seen several little extra girls put out of his company just because they displeased Mr. Bushman.”

At this juncture, Arthur Berthelet, the most pleasant director in the business, and Emily Fitzroy, matron de luxe, sauntered up.

“Oh dear,” sighed Miss Fitzroy, “I do wish I hadn’t worn these long, white gloves in the beginning; I’ve had to clean them every day since, so they would photograph the same.”

Berthelet smiled and started to assemble several young actors, supposed to be at a house party.

Then little Peggy Sweeny, her hat and coat still on, bustled up. Her big, brown eyes gazed at the set with a look of adoration. “Oh,” she groaned, “I’d give anything in the world to work in a picture like that!”

“Hasn’t been cast for a week, and she can’t bear not to be acting, so she spends every day here watching the others,” whispered the little stenographer.

Meanwhile, handsome Eugene O’Brien had quietly entered the scene.

“Now, Mr. O’Brien,” said Director Berthelet, softly, “you enter now; sink into that chair pensively. There, that’s it —”

A low laugh reached my ears. I turned. There stood Richard Travers. Eugene O’Brien must have heard it also, for he grew disconcerted, stammered “Er — a — but, what am I pensive about, don’t you know?”

Very gently, Arthur Berthelet reexplained the whole situation. “There now, Mr. O’Brien. Ah, that’s fine! Camera!”

Eugene O’Brien, making his exit safely, sauntered towards us.

“Ah, Emily, how are you?” he greeted Miss Fitzroy.

“I’m leaving you today, ‘Gene.”

“I say, I’m sorry. Why not stick around? Something might turn up for you.”

“Guess not, just now,” Miss Fitzroy shook her head. “I must seek pastures new.”

“Well, as for me,” offered Eugene, “this is my last picture, for a while at least. Next month I go back to the stage. These old-timers make one feel like such a bally ass in front of the camera, don’t you know,” and his blue eyes glanced towards Richard Travers.

“Come,” said I to my guide, “let’s go.”

As I was about to pass out into the drizzly rain, Nell Craig, beautifully tailored, came along. “How do you do?” she said. “It’s too nasty to walk; let me give you a lift.”

“After all,” I thought, “I guess it’s grand to be a movie star.”

We were whizzing to the “L,” dry and comfortable, when Miss Craig ejaculated, “You are from the East, are you not?”

“Yes,” I nodded, wondering.

“You lucky, lucky girl!” she exclaimed; “how I love the East! Ever since I’ve been in Chicago I’ve been so homesick” — her beautifully moulded under-lip quivered slightly — “you are lucky, lucky to live in the East: Here you are at your station. Good-by! I am going over here to telegraph my sister and see if she won’t come out here and cheer me up a bit. So long!”

“Good-by!” I called, and trudged up the slippery steps. My heart felt strangely satisfied. Perhaps, after all, it wasn’t so bad to be merely a writer and get a touch of the tinsel now and then.

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• Taking a scene on the floor of the Essanay Studio
• Harry Zeck
• Marvin Spoor, camera-man
• Director Arthur Berthelet

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When the cats away the mice will play — even with a billy-goat. The director turned his back just long enough for Louise Huff and Jack Pickford, on location, to steal a ride in a friendly child’s goat-cart

Collection: Motion Picture Magazine, May 1917