Judge — July 17, 1920 — page 24: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“SSE es Eee oes T HVE Drawn by Heawan Patwrn A Simple Matter of Policy By Perriton Maxwei. AYS the sedulous press-agent, at his wits’ end for an idea with which to stir public interest in the production nearest his own pay envelope: “The Messrs. Shubert have placed at insurance policy of $100,000 on the life and skull of El Brendel, the comedian playing in ‘Cinderella’ at the Win- ter Garden in New York. One of the acts in which the funny Brendel appears is a marriage scene which comes toa crashing finish when the orchestra strikes up the wed- ding march and 2,000 old shoes (the press-agent always deals in round figures) are let loose from the flies upon the comedian’s cranium; he is literally buried alive in an avalanche of shoe leather.” “Brendel,” naively nar- rates the p. a., “has no protection for his head except the natural thickness of his skull.” Brendel should take out a policy on his own account against the careless expression of ideas by press-agents. But whether literally a fact or not, the story is no con- cern of mine. The point is that a plan, more far- reaching and of vaster import to the whole world of the theatre, lies concealed in the simple suggestion of insur- ing valuable human material now lying around the stage quite unprotected. It is a poor business manager who has not “covered” his theatre properties against loss by fire; it is a still less astute manager whose insurance policies do not range from tornado to burglary protec- tion. But how many managers have thou ght to insure against monetary loss to themselves the cuief assets in- herent in their stars? By chief assets I mean such things as Irene Bordoni’s French accent and Andrew Mack’s Celtic brogue. Surely John Barrymore (or one of his backers) should insure that languorous hand wave of hisn. A mere touch of rheumatism and you would have a Barrymore minus his magnificent gesture (or should it be “ Jest”’- ure?) Frank Bacon’s drawl certainly ought to be heavily insured, with a little extra something ca the bee story in “Lightnin’”. And Ed Wynn’s hern- rimmed goggles need covering to an amount as greit at least as Ann Pennington’s vivacity. An insurar. °> agent who could not write a policy for Ina Claire’s shray ox sign up Helen MacKellar’s simulation of terror in “The Storm” is a business misfit. Norman Trevor's eye- brows and Henry Miller’s jowls should not be allowed at large without adequate precaution against theft or damage by fire or water. A hundred needful suggestions come to mind in looking over this prolific but utterly neglected field for intrenching the precious things of the theatre behind the bulwarks of paid in advance insurance. The man- agers themselves do not seem alive to this modern means of defense so far as their own personal assets are concerned. Has David Belasco insured his well-known nervous system or William Harris his equally well- known nerve in presenting “Abraham Lincoln” against the advice of all the wiseacres? Is A. H. Woods’ am- bition secured in some ‘sound insurance company against overfeeding? Has Florenz Ziegfeld insured his famous eye for feminine beauty or John Williams his persistent youth? The familiar stunt of insuring Pavlowa’s great toe, Fritz Kreisler’s bow-arm and Ornstein’s fingers is rather played out as a means of arousing public con- cern and discussion, but there is something new under the sun in taking out an insurance policy on the love- light in Mary Pickford’s eyes and hubby Doug’s yard- wide screen smile. If anything really needs insurance it is the pedal extremities of Charlie Chaplin. True, most of his recent work has been tootless, but we are promised, in the chaste English of Movieland, that Charlie is “coming back with a wallop” next Fall. Fatty Arbuckle’s avoirdupois, Wallace Reid’s poise and Bill Hart’s fighting face are “good risks” in the insurance phrase. But whether Geraldine Farrar’s temperament, Norma Talmadge’s grand air or Pearl White’s daring can be registered on the dull books of business as easily as they are registered on the silver sheet is something to be found out from the next insur- ance solicitor that breaks in upon our peaceful office life. Curious how one satura falls into the enumera- tion of movie folk when writing of the show business, put since the screen is to swallow up the stage pretty soon it is no more than an indication of forehandedness. But to return to the “legitimate” there is a final word to be said about insuring Elsie Ferguson’s guttural tones and Mrs. Fiske’s vocal idiosyncrasies, to say nothing of John Drew’s hauteur, Henry Beresford’s Cape Cod nasal twang and Florence Moore’s charming bedside manner.