Little Me Page 7

  The winter of 1919 was one of the coldest in memory of man, but I found even more numbing the blank stares of stage doormen, the curt dismissals of casting directors, the unfeeling “Mr. Harris is out” or “Nothing today” from managers’ receptionists.

  By summer I was nearly insane with worry and frustration. My poor savings were going rapidly and I had not been able to establish myself in the living theatre of Manhattan. And then it happened! Nervous and depressed, I decided to “treat” myself to dinner at a “posh” restaurant and hang the cost! I chose Reisenweber’s and, dressed in my finest, presented myself to the maître d’hôtel, demanding a table for one. He looked me up and down, as though I were the lowest filth on earth, and said, with a sneer, that “un-escorted ladies” were “not admitted” when suddenly I heard a familiar voice cry “Belle!” It was none other than D. Winifred (“Winnie”) Erskine.

  Making the “rounds” — 1919

  “Come on and join the party, kiddo!” she called. Drawing myself to my full height, I said to the rude servitor, “Excuse me, I must join my roommate from boarding school.” But you can imagine my feelings when I saw who “Winnie’s” gentleman friend was. It was George Jerome Musgrove!

  Quivering with shock and indignation, I was about to withdraw when Mr. Musgrove said that “a lot of water had gone under the dam” and to let bygones be bygones. Seeing the dinner he had ordered, I acquiesced and, lulled by wine, even agreed to spend the weekend with him at Atlantic City talking over old times. It was while strolling the Boardwalk together that he informed me of a new theatrical connection. He had become involved with a producer who was putting on a musical extravaganza called Swamp Lillies, and, knowing of my many gifts as a mannequin, he secured for me the position of a “show girl.” We rehearsed all through the heat of that torrid 1919 July. And, tired as I was at the end of each day, I was forced to accompany Mr. Musgrove to his rooming house every night for further work on my part. We were scheduled to open on August 7, 1919. At last I would be receiving not only recognition as an artiste, but a salary as well (in those days one practiced without pay). I was atingle with excitement when I arrived at the theatre that night only to find it dark and deserted. There was to be no opening. The actors in New York had “walked out” in a mass “strike.” Twenty-three Broadway theatres were closed—including ours. Nor would we have opened anyhow. Mr. Musgrove, it was discovered, had “blown town” with the box office receipts and “Winnie.” I was broken-hearted.

  Burst like bubbles were my dreams of being a star, of taking a little apartment of my own, away from the immorality and vulgarity of those with whom I was forced to share living quarters. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I walked all the way back to West Eighty-ninth Street (I had no car-fare) and the distasteful place known as “home.”

  But when things looked the darkest, a faint glimmer of hope appeared. The roommate who worked at a motion picture studio in Astoria then told me of a “super spectacle” which was in the process of being filmed and said that attractive girls were needed. My only previous encounter with the cinema, at the unscrupulous hands of Mr. Musgrove, having been so tragically disillusioning, I was dubious of appearing again on celluloid, but I needed money in the worst way and I could honestly say that I had had motion picture experience. Thus I commenced—in a very minuscule fashion—my real career: that of a film star. Each morning I would awake at dawning and take the subway to picturesque Astoria, Long Island, where we of the cast would get into costumes and makeup and prepare for a strenuous day of “shooting.”

  The work was hard, the hours long, the discomfiture intense. Swathed in furs and velvets I would swelter through “take” after “take” under the hot lights of a studio in “Injun Summer” when, for example, we were filming Minx in Mink. Or, blue with cold, I would frolic on the icy beaches on “location” at Montauk Point in March, pretending that it was the plage of Biarritz in August. The pace was killing and the pay low, but I was learning things about my camera “angles” and technique that couldn’t have been bought for a million dollars. And what a thrill to see myself as others saw me, projected onto the silver screen to millions of people in thousands of theatres all over the world!

  My detractors have often accused me of being “unselective” in my friends. If this is at all true, it is because I am genuinely democratic and feel that I and the lowliest stagehand or “grip” are all God’s children created free and equal under His Master Plan. Other “extras” may have criticized me severely behind my back for “playing up to” the electricians and cameramen on the “lot,” but this was because I was so intensely interested in learning the myriad mysteries of movie making. I wanted to know how best I could be lighted, how better to bring out my good features in “close-ups” if ever I should be called upon to appear in one. And, sensing my spirit of true cooperation, it was not long before Floyd, the cameraman, was using me almost exclusively whenever he wanted an extra for a human interest “shot.” Naturally this caused envy and consternation in the ranks of the “extras” and “bit” players. Never once considering that talent and willingness to learn had anything to do with my good fortune, they berated me harshly for what they called “messing around” with Floyd, our genius of the camera. Let them think what they will—has-beens and nobodies that they are today—at least I did not “toady” to the stars and directors as they did.

  During the long months I worked at Astoria I appeared in more than two dozen pictures as an “extra.” Some of them are unforgettable masterpieces, even today, and I rank films such as Sodom, Thou Shalt Not . . . , Weird Wives and The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire as celluloid classics in which I am proud to have taken part—even as an unknown, poorly paid and without acclaim. But the handwriting was on the subway wall, so to speak. I could see, with half an eye, that the film products being ground out in Astoria were sadly lacking in the scope and splendor of the rival Hollywood productions.

  Early Silents

  Astoria

  “Weird Wives”

  “The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire”

  “Thou Shalt Not . . .”

  “Sodom”

  “Arabia”

  Hollywood

  “Gomorrah”

  “Saudi-Arabia”

  “Forgive Us Our Trespasses”

  “Gay Husbands”

  “Plutarch’s Wives”

  During the severe shortages of the war, Fort Lee, New Jersey, had changed from the metropolis of the motion picture art to a veritable “ghost town.” The Biograph Studios on Fourteenth Street in Manhattan, the Edison Studios in the Bronx, Vitagraph in Brooklyn—all of them had deserted for the “Sunshine State.” The Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce was shouting “Every epoch-making picture has been produced in Southern California,” and who could gainsay it? Hollywood was the coming place and I did not want to be left behind.

  California had everything in its favor—space, climate, all sort of natural settings for “location” work, the biggest stars, directors, writers, producers and budgets. I was at a low ebb in March 1921. I had caught a severe chill while chained to a rock in Long Island Sound for the filming of Thou Shalt Not . . . I was beginning to find the cramped living conditions, the unladylike conduct of my roommates, the grossness of their men friends and the bad weather of New York unbearable. I was almost ready to give it all up and return to my stellar niche in burlesque when Floyd, the cameraman who had taught me so much, announced that he had just signed a contract with the mighty Metronome studios in Hollywood. He had purchased a new Moon coupé and he invited me to drive across the country with him. It would be a chance, he said, to see the country, “crash” Hollywood and have some fun along the way. I leapt at the opportunity. Pleading a sick headache, I remained in the little apartment one evening after my roommates had gone off on some low round of revelry with their vulgar “sheiks.” Then, borrowing all the suitcases in the flat, I packed up everything I thought I might need on the “coast” and took a t
axi to Floyd’s little bachelor “digs” in the Bronx, so that we could get an early start the next morning. “California, here I come!” I said, as I settled back in the Yellow Cab, and, prophetically, the ticking of the meter and the clicking of the skid chains on the slushy New York pavement seemed to repeat after me in unison, “California, here I come!”

  Never having been west of the Mississippi River, I was thrilled at the sights of golden California. The palm trees, the orange groves, the mountains, the beach at Malibu, the quaint Spanish-type mansions of the stars—all of them seemed to say “Belle, this is for you.” I was agog with wonder as I glimpsed the palatial homes of such luminaries as Gloria Swanson, Pola Negri, Mabel Normand, Mary Miles Minter, the Gish Girls, the Talmadge Sisters, Corinne Griffith, “Doug” and Mary. “Someday,” I kept repeating to myself, “someday, Belle, all of this will be yours.”

  But I was soon to discover that the glitter and glamour of gilded Hollywood is only for the few. Although I was to know it well in later years, when the world was at my feet, Hollywood in 1921 meant little more than hardship, struggle, deprivation and heartache to lonely little Belle Poitrine.

  Through Floyd’s connections at Metronome, I was called on occasionally to do extra work, but the film colony of California was not the “big, happy family” that it had been in Astoria. Girls, girls, girls poured into the Los Angeles station with every train—each of them with but one desire, to “get into pictures.” And among them came young women of the lowest sort, devoid of talent and morals, but possessed of pretty faces and easy virtue. Not fired by a burning ambition, as was I, to make histrionic history, many of these unfortunate girls came to the “coast” only because they “smelled” big money and visualized Hollywood as an ideal place to ply their iniquitous trade (the “oldest profession”). Can you imagine my feelings as a sensitive dramatic actress to be classified with such loathsome types?

  However, Floyd did what he could to protect me from the stigma usually attached to “extra girls.” So that I would not have to associate with the low-type young actresses who thronged the theatrical “boarding houses” (many of which were little better than bordellos), Floyd took a little “bungalow” off Sunset Boulevard and installed me in it, explaining to the understanding landlord that I was his “housekeeper.” The arrangement worked nicely for a time.

  Through Floyd’s modest influence on the Metronome “lot,” I secured employment as an “extra” at that great studio and appeared in several films with such stellar performers as Pauline Frederick, Barbara La Marr, Tom Mix, Wallace Reid and even the late, great Rudolph (“Rudy”) Valentino. But, although I hoped and prayed for recognition, I was only “one of the mob” and never a star, or even a “bit” player. Alas, Floyd—although a superb photographer—did not carry the weight in Hollywood that he had in dear, friendly little Astoria. In fact, owing to studio “politics,” he was soon reduced from doing “B” pictures to filming low “slapstick” comedies and two-reel “shorts.”

  Suddenly our little home—parlor, bedroom, kitchen and bath—changed from nest to cage. There we were, two great creative artistes thwarted by the cruel indifference of “filmdom” to our talents. Tortured by our own frustrations, what had started out as a beautiful friendship, firmly founded on affection and understanding, became enmity. Floyd turned surly and sullen by turns. Although prohibition had been in force for more than a year, Floyd sought solace in the “bottle.” And what bottles! These were not the delicate vintage wines that I had learned to sip, in moderation, whenever I dined or supped, as any true gourmet. Floyd bought the cheapest, vilest, strongest “red-eye” or “rotgut” he could find. The effect on him was that of the terrible draught that transformed kindly Dr. Jekyll to cruel Mr. Hyde. He would become maudlin and then abusive, often striking out at me for no reason at all. I could not bear to see so fine a person sink so low, and Floyd’s unspeakable conduct was also having a deleterious effect on my own career. Happily, I have more inner resources than the average person. If Floyd could no longer help me up the ladder to success, I would find someone who could. For the first (and last) time in my life, I sought the professional assistance of an agent (or “ten per center”).

  Although I have long been known as an astute judge of human character, I would be the first to admit that I am not infallible. I have made mistakes, and one of them was in my selection of an agent, whom I shall call “Bernie.” He was small, lithe and dark with button-black eyes that seemed to penetrate right through me. I recall now that his gaze often made me uncomfortable. However, I was desperate to advance in motion pictures and I was also gullibly impressed by the “setup” of “Bernie’s” attractive little office: Chinese with thick Oriental rugs, low divans and soundproof walls and ceilings, by his precisely clipped “Jack” Gilbert mustache and the big diamond ring which he wore. (I beg the reader to bear in mind that I was little more than a child during the latter months of 1921.) “Bernie” took a great personal interest in me, which was flattering. Through his efforts, I appeared as an “extra” in Marvin McQueen’s Gay Husbands, playing a depraved society girl, and in Cecil B. DeMille’s great spectacle Plutarch’s Wives in which I appeared as a concubine. But I was still a long way from stardom and whenever I complained of this, “Bernie” would take me out to dinner and then for a long drive in the mountains to “cool off.”

  Either unable or unwilling to recognize that my evening engagements with “Bernie” were purely business, Floyd became almost insane with jealousy every time my agent’s name was so much as mentioned. Returning quite late one night, after “Bernie’s” Marmon roadster had developed motor trouble, I discovered that the locks had been changed. I felt then that it was high time to move on.

  “Winnie”–1925

  Just why I chose to return to cold, cruel New York which had rejected little me and which I, in turn, had rejected only a few months before is something I can never explain. Perhaps it was because Dame Chance has regarded me as one of her favored “children” and, in ways that may seem inexplicable in moments of despair, has always delivered me to the right place at the right time no matter how dark my prospects may have seemed. I suppose there is just something of the Eastern fatalist about me.

  At any rate I arrived in New York with only a few dollars. I had no friends, no place to go and, to make matters worse, it was raining. With two of my precious pennies, I purchased a newspaper to put over my head and there, right on the front page, was a photograph of my dear old “chum” from boarding school, “Winnie” Erskine. “Party Girl Released From Hoosegow” the headline screamed, and there, big as life, was a photograph of dear old “Winnie,” modishly garbed by the House of Tappé, stepping into a smart electric brougham as she waved to cheering crowds. In my absence “Winnie” had become a legendary New York hostess whose fame was to be rivalled only by Texas Guinan and Belle Livingston! The accompanying article stated that darling “Winnie” was now proprietess of a fashionable boîte de nuit called the Club Audubon (or “Bird House” as it was affectionately known). I knew then and there that my troubles were over. Instead of setting off on foot to find cheap, cramped lodgings, I went to the station ladies’ room, removed—as best I could—the grimy traces of my four-day trip in a dirty railway coach, freshened my georgette dress with the peach-colored maribou trim and took a taxi directly to the Club Audubon.

  “Winnie,” after the initial surprise had worn off, was of course delighted to see me again although, in her typical brusque fashion, she did her best to disguise her pleasure. Over delicious and colorful Pink Ladies I told “Winnie” as much of my recent history as seemed pertinent and, “laying my cards on the table,” begged her for a position at the Club Audubon. In typical “Winnie” fashion (she has always fought a losing battle to repress her generous instincts) she was dubious at first, but when I reminded her of the “madcap” pranks I could recall, such as her setting fire to our boarding school, the accusation of shoplifting, the “French leave” she had taken with Mr. Musgr
ove, she relented and offered me a place amongst the “show girls” of the Audubon. In addition, she also took me into her luxurious apartment on Riverside Drive which she and her fiancé, Alfredo (“The Violinist”) Pizzicato, shared in a purely platonic “design for living.” Al was actually the owner of the Club Audubon but, because of his shyness and the true patrician’s dislike of publicity, he preferred to “take a back seat” and pretend that it was actually “Winnie’s” property.

  And so, once again back on dear old Manhattan Island, I resumed my career as supper club diseuse. Club Audubon was always thronged with its loyal members (let me state here and now that it was not a common public restaurant, but an exclusive social organization where the members were scrutinized through a little window in the front door and where membership cards, evening dress and total decorum were de rigueur) and, because of Mr. Pizzicato’s many eligible gentleman friends, I was never to want for a cluster of attentive beaux. However, the one who appealed to me most was a Mr. Barouch. He was dark, vital, ever so good-looking and one of history’s unsung mathematical geniuses. If I have one weakness, it is “mind over matter.” I have always bypassed handsome men for intellectual men because I find their conversation so very stimulating. Mr. Barouch was doubly blessed and our association was to prove both profitable and pleasurable. Hardly a day went by when, through some mysterious mathematical formula sprung full-blown from his intricate mind, Mr. Barouch would not telephone to advise me to bet a large sum of money on such and such a horse in some particular race. The steeds of his selection never failed to win. He also advised me on certain business transactions, not publicly known, but privy to a chosen few—Canadian rye “futures” was one of his favorite investments, and I turned many a bright profit through his sage counsel. Even when it came to the prize ring—although I know and care nothing about fisticuffs—through some arithmetical alchemy known only to himself, Mr. Barouch would often advise me to wager money on a particular fighter, at the most favorable “odds,” and could even tell me in which round the pugilist of my choice would be proclaimed the victor.