Two men of Hollywood

DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS

■ RAMON NOVARRO has about him an aura of infinite youth that consistently escapes definition. He has too much sophisticated humour, over which he has little control, and genuine deviltry for the wholehearted release of an esoteric nebulous of tragedy that seems to fill him. He might, with equal facility, have had a glorious career either as a priest or a roué. But not being certain which of these ancient professions was best fitted to his versatile talents, he compromised and became an actor.

He combines all the fundamental emotions so catholic to those of his race. One of the first things one notes about him is his omnivorous clannish instinct. He maintains a large house for himself and his family which, incidentally, comprises a formidable battalion of brothers and sisters. Notwithstanding this impressive gesture, however, he keeps himself strangely apart, having built on a wing for his own personal use. Joining his house he caused to be erected an annex which serves as a little theatre in which he gives recitals for his more intimate friends.

He will, when not actually working, go to one party after another, displaying the energy of a dynamo wherein he sets the pace of gayety for the evening and then, when he finds himself somewhat worn and not a little bored, he will hie himself to an airplane and fly to San Francisco, see a few friends, then disappear. During these periods of absence he is usually to be found in retreat in a monastery, living the life of an actual monk.

Ambition comes to him during periods conspicuous by their inconsistency. His professional life started as an usher in one of our more formidable cinema cathedrals. He became interested in dancing and studied it conscientiously for several years. His physique is ample proof of his diligence.

His real name was Samaniego. The reason why he had it changed is at once obvious when one tries to pronounce it "trippingly on the tongue." He studied carefully a map of Spain and sought the name of some city on which, blindfolded, he would first place his finger. The finger alighted on the little hamlet of Navarro. Having a vestige of native superstition, he had the name deciphered by a numerological method. The result of this experiment was that the spelling was now changed to the extent that it became Novarro.

Although his Mexican nationality is vouched for there arc those who suspect a potent streak of the Scotch surging through his more reddish veins. Although he has received a handsome compensation for bis work during the last several years, up until this last year he has never bought himself an automobile. He has seen to it that the studio would send for him in one of the company's cars and return him via the same route.

He is a good tennis player and an excellent swimmer. He has a vitriolic temper that arises and fades with the preemptory enthusiasm of an attack of indigestion. He was the first to start Hollywood's now self-conscious gesture of wearing dark glasses while mingling with the public. He enjoys eating in funny little out-of-the-way restaurants that are sometimes hidden behind masses of cobwebs and out-houses. He will smoke a cigar if no one is looking. He has the sensible ingenuity of having the cuffs of his shirts made without buttons so as to expedite his dressing.

■ RONALD COLMAN has been unfortunate in his domestic career but he passionately insists that the principle of that often-debated estate is admirable. He relaxes more and enjoys himself with greater thoroughness when in the company of men. Poker is his favourite card game but he is the tragic victim of his more consistently subtle adversaries. He is athletic to an acceptable extent despite the handicap of an ankle once broken.

It is difficult to inquire about his past life because of his, if I may say it, exuberant reserve. One feels that his life is none of one's business; and moreover, to be frank, it isn't! By virtue of this fact it becomes all the more enchanting. There is a look about him, especially in his eyes, that reminds one of a vast tapestry depicting life's procession. Quite unconsciously you begin to become acquainted. In a most matter of fact manner you learn that, during the late war, he was a prominent member of the London-Scottish regiment and one of the handful to return.

On this auspicious but publicly unnoticed occasion he found himself in that common predicament of being without a job. He made the usual rounds one makes without any conspicuous success; then, owing to the tediousness and general dullness of conditions at large, he turned, with true British stoicism and fortitude, to acting. With a fair amount of success he came to America and was immediately sent back to Europe—with a contract for the films. The White Sister marked his début.

He is one of the notoriously few who have not succumbed to the embarrassing flattery of the so-called limelight. He has an uncannily clear perspective as to his relative worth and talents. It is known that he has his Thespianic limitations and, therefore, he guards them with shrewd earnestness. He is an absurdly good business man and has himself amply protected for whatever turn of heart may be evinced by the powers-that-be.

His hilltop mansion is entirely surrounded by people he does not know and who have nothing in common with him. Few of them are even aware of the prominence of their neighbour. It fits his mood perfectly. There permeates about the house an atmosphere of the not-too-pure respectability of an English country gentleman living in the suburbs of a city. His most intimate friends, beyond the boundaries of his modest lawn, are Richard Barthelmess and William Powell.

Extensive fishing trips are one of his favourite luxuries. He has also taken a great interest in perusing the secrets of the old West, having gone into the interior of Arizona with the reverent interest and delicacy of the connoisseur. While on these trips he permits his beard to grow to an almost Biblical length.

On his return to pseudo-civilization he passes through a miraculous reincarnation. He is, with the certain assumed carelessness practiced so thoroughly by Englishmen, the last word in Bond Street preachments. I speak with authority when I state that, sartorially, he represents a figure inspiring the most incomparable envy. He is extremely meticulous in every detail of his mode of living, even extending into the domain of laxness. Without any deliberate intention and certainly with no effort he is a perfect Don Juan.

He is well proportioned but has sloping shoulders. He conscientiously avoids the use of any make-up whatsoever during the making of a film. One seldom finds him studying his lines or rehearsing very assiduously, yet when called upon to perform he seems to have every line and gesture down to the most minute detail. Betw'een scenes one may find him sitting quietly in his chair with a book, which he may or may not be reading.