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Female detectives should be good lookers.
Naughty New York!
It looks like a pretty dreadful affair all the way ’round to me; here’s Mrs. Lydig Hoyt says that skirts gotta come down because the girls are wearing them to the ankles in Paris; but here’s little Betty Compson, the movie princess, says they are not to come down—not even to the ankles.
“It’s the movie girls and not Parisian professional models nor New York society women who make the fashions for America,” says Betty. Which, when you come to think about it, is a terrible slam for Mrs. Hoyt—an intimation that she is not considered a regular movie queen, in spite of the fact that she shook the pink teas of the Four Hundred for a part in Norma Talmadge’s company, and is now about to burst into the world of art with a company of her own.
The truth is, New York society women have apparently gone dippy over getting into the movies.
The other day I was out at the Griffith studio at Marmaroneck watching a starving mob in rags crying for bread in the streets of ancient Paris. Among the actors there was one who stood out. She was a shriveled old woman with thin hands and haggard eyes. Her clothes were torn half off, showing her shrunken breasts and bony shoulders. When “D. W.” gave the signal for the action to begin, she fairly made you feel the agony of her hunger.
When there came, at last, an interval in the work, she beckoned to a maid who stood near the set. “Go out to the yacht and get me my cigarette case,” she said.