George Gershwin's sister dances the Charleston

A rare home movie of Frances Gershwin dancing the Charleston. She looked almost uncannily like her brother, which must have been a mixed blessing. 

Vintage style: just walking down the street

Everyday chic in the '20s and '30s.

Mid and Maybelline

Blogger's note. Harold Lloyd's wife Mildred Davis was more accomplished than anyone gave her credit for. Harold's personality completely overwhelmed her, pushing her out of the spotlight of recognition she had achieved through years of hard work. Her somewhat reclusive life ended sadly in poor health, struggles with alcohol, and watching her son Harold Jr. commit suicide through drinking and shame over his sexual orientation. In these ads she is considered the epitome of loveliness as her huge expressive eyes encourage young women to try cosmetics that Mildred obviously didn't need.

"After Maybelline's initial advertisement ran in the classifieds of popular magazines in the late 1910's with Mabel Williams’ illustrated image, Tom Lyle began looking for a film star to represent Maybelline. In the early 1920's he contracted beautiful Photoplay stars because of the wide audience they brought into theatres all over the country. One of the most popular actresses of the day was beautiful silent film star Mildred Davis or Mid as Tom Lyle liked to call her. She was a tiny 5 foot, perky-ingenue with monster-big flashing eyes that captivated the audience and drew them in.

Mildred Davis married Harold Lloyd in 1922. Harold Lloyd was a comedian in the ranks of Charlie Chaplin and he'd been looking for a leading lady to replace Bebe Daniels. He cast Davis in his comedy short From Hand to Mouth in 1919. It would be the first of fifteen films they would star in together.

Soon after "From Hand To Mouth," was released Tom Lyle contacted Mildred to discuss her being the next face of Maybelline. Mildred Davis appealed to sweet young ladies who were just beginning to look in the mirror and compare themselves with the beautiful faces on screen. Mildred Davis with her huge made-up larger than life eyes on screen an off silently encouraged young ladies to pick up a Photoplay movie magazine and order their first little red box of Maybelline. Once they tried Maybelline with its tiny black brush and cake of mascara they were hooked and word of mouth spread from one sweet young lady to the next." (From The Story of Maybelline website)

Looks very jolly, doesn't it?

Harold and Ginger and boudoir dolls

During my long Harold trek, which I don't think is over yet, I found some pretty sweet photos. The candid shots generally came with no explanation. But this one doesn't need one: it's Harold Lloyd hugging his dear friend Ginger Rogers, in the kind of gorgeous mink coat you never see any more (because someone will throw paint on you if you do). At first it isn't obvious, but you can plainly see his injured right hand with its missing thumb and forefinger. I've found a number of photos like this, where the hand is obvious in public, and it flies in the face of the "information" I found that said he always hid the hand in his pocket.

But he didn't. He was cool about it, so probably few people even noticed. He was relaxed about it with his friends. I think his attitude was: hide in plain sight. I like that, I like it a lot, and it took some courage in an age when "deformities" were kept carefully out of sight.

But this one is even more interesting. It's surprising what you miss when you don't look too closely. I never even noticed, until I posted this on my Harold Lloyd Facebook page (yes! I have a Harold Lloyd Facebook page, though hardly anyone knows about it: https://www.facebook.com/theglasscharacter/). 

I knew about the craze for boudoir dolls, a Russian-inspired fad that raged through the '20s and '30s. I even collected some photos of them several years ago, yet still I missed this one! I wonder now if this was a gift from Harold to Ginger. With Harold's great generosity, it might have been.

http://www.jazzageclub.com/fads/the-boudoir-doll-craze/

This link will take you to an extremely detailed and informative post about boudoir dolls and their cultural significance.

And here is a slideshow I made just for you, dear readers, so you'll know what they looked like. Obviously, there was no one style, but at the same time, they have a certain sophistication in common. Their bodies and limbs were very long and skinny, as if they were mere frames for the clothes. Doll mannequins. I wonder how costly they were? If movie stars were carrying them around, they must have been, though no doubt there were knockoffs then, as there is now.

As I was working on this slide show, I realized I was seeing something with a startling resemblence to the eerily beautiful Enchanted Dolls of Marina Bychkova. I've been obsessed with those dolls for years, and have posted about them many times (and my hope of even seeing one of them in person is very slim - they command tens of thousands of dollars, and only appear at the most prestigious doll exhibits in the world). 

At one point I had the two sets of doll pictures mixed together, and - oh shit! - was it hard to separate them, because of all the similarities. Bychkova's dolls tend towards the waiflike, though some of them are downright fierce. They echo ancient story and reflect the true darkness of the fairy tale. Boudoir dolls have a flapperish quality (some are depicted smoking, or reclining in a seductive way with their legs apart). But the sexuality, the gorgeous costumes, the weirdness and slight creepiness that all dolls exhibit - I see them in both types.

Another slideshow I made of Enchanted Dolls. I think you can see the similarities, as well as the differences. And now I wonder if Bychkova, born in Russia, was influenced at all by these exotic European-made dolls. How could she not be?


BLOGSERVATION. I just noticed another thing. Ginger's doll has a certain resemblance to Marie Antoinette: the elaborate gown, the very high hairdo. 

And behold, this - 

I don't want to start researching the life of Ginger Rogers and trying to find out if she collected boudoir dolls, if this was in fact from Harold, or if they were carrying on together (as he did with so many women). Let it rest for now. But it's a fascinating subject. Though I return to dolls again and again as a topic, I'm not much of a collector.

But I do have a few.

Working girl: the life of Tillie the Toiler

I will admit that the name Tillie the Toiler caught my attention. As usual, I was looking for something else: vintage comic book paper dolls, the kind with so much detail that cutting out the dresses with those fiendish little tabs would be well-nigh impossible.

And in looking for paper dolls, I found. . . 

Tillie the Toiler
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Tillie the Toiler is a newspaper comic strip created by cartoonist Russ Westover who initially worked on his concept of a flapper character in a strip he titled Rose of the Office. With a title change, it sold to King Features Syndicate which carried the strip from 1921 to 1959.
Characters and story[edit]

Stylish working girl Tillie was employed as a stenographer, secretary and part-time model. An attractive brunette, she had no problem finding men to escort her around town. Comics historian Don Markstein described the story situations:Tillie (last name Jones) toiled for a fashionable women's wear company run by clothing mogul J. Simpkins. Or usually did, anyway—she'd occasionally quit or be fired, as the plotline, which ran at breakneck pace and didn't always make perfect sense, required. 

During World War II, in fact, she even joined the U.S. Army. But she always came back to Simpkins.  Whatever she did and wherever she went, however, she was impeccably dressed in the very latest styles. This helped her in the pursuit of charming and often wealthy young men, who came and went at an alarming rate, providing grist for the story mill.

The comic strip inspired two films of the same name: Tillie the Toiler (1927), a silent film with Marion Davies in the title role, and Tillie the Toiler (1941), starring Kay Harris

Who knew? I didn't, and found her by accident. Perhaps, like the immortal Hilda, Tillie the Toiler will soon make a well-deserved comeback. She seems surprisingly contemporary. Most "girls" of the era would envy Tillie her wardrobe, if not her exciting love life. She seems to me like the quintessential flapper, financially independent (if poorly paid), with a ton of male attention. 

A typical Sunday "funny papers" page, extra-special 'cuz it's in colour. I remember those days.  This entry seems to be about the characters' grief over the passing of the jitterbug dance craze. But it's soon to be surpassed by "super-goofy dancing", which involves throwing women up in the air or over your shoulder.

This is what you'd get during the week. I notice a certain difference between Tillie (and the other girls in the office) and the rest of the characters, particularly in the men, who are somewhat primitive in appearance. A bit of Dagwood going on here. Tillie, however, is always immaculate in her dress and coiffure. The Jitterbug is still on people's minds, as in the song, "Put on your flash bang togs/You're gonna slap your dogs/At the Jitterbug Jamboree". 

Though Tillie is a "working girl" in the old-fashioned sense, being a model on the side inclined her working life towards the exotic, if not the suggestive. This was the '20s, after all, and the Hays code (which may or may not have included the funny papers) had not yet kicked in. Betty Boop still wore skirts that barely covered the essentials, whereas in wartime, they were somewhat below the knee. As for that wardrobe. . . do you remember Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and the City? How on earth could she afford all those Manolo Blahniks from writing one skimpy column a week about the sexual goings-on in a large American city?

Honestly, some of these are plain gorgeous! My only question now is: did Tillie, like Boop, ever become an animated character? I can't find any evidence of it, nor can I find any clips from her two eponymous (I've been waiting all my life to use that word) movies. Turner Classics may some day dredge one of them up - their selections can be pretty dreadful, stretching the definition of the word "classics". 

So is Tillie the Toiler a thinner version of Hilda? I don't think so. Hilda was carefree and unsophisticated, and while she was always on the phone, reading letters and running around in skimpy clothing, implying there were definitely boy friends in her life, you got the idea she wasn't being chased around the desk like Tillie. And her wardrobe (bikinis made of autumn leaves, daisies or flour sacks) was too simple for tabs.

Rock, Liz, and other oddments

Use-ta be, you had a junk drawer, or a bunch of old photos rattling around in a shoe box. They could be from any era, but usually all mixed up. Now we have files, but they are no less mysterious.

For obvious reasons, or reasons which should-all be obvious to you-all by now (just look up, stupid!), many of my junk-drawer/catchall photos are of Harold Lloyd. These have a magic that is surreal and dreamlike, in and of another era. What was it like to be there "in the flesh"?

A few aren't Harold. This must have been scanned out of a book. It's Bob Dylan and his first great love, Suze Rotolo, about whom he wrote "Girl from the North Country", "Boots of Spanish Leather" and "Ballad in Plain D". They seem to be made of pure mist. Hard to believe the dessicated old leather saddle that is Dylan ever looked like this.

A few blank greeting cards popped up. Since they were too pretty to send, I kept them.

To think you could once get a FREE (While They Last) Harold Lloyd doll at the Piggly Wiggly! 

These two, later to marry forever, remind me of salt 'n pepper. They just belong together. Both have a surreal, doll-like quality about them.

And speaking of misty surrealism. . . 

Where did I GET these things?

A splendid Wesley Dennis painting of Misty of Chincoteague (who was a real pony!)

Harold meets the Woman at the Well.

This charming French poster for an early Lloyd film (called, I think, I Do) is notable for the bracketed word after his name: "Lui", his nickname in Europe, loosely translated as "him" (you know who I mean, THAT guy!). Imagine such ready identification, closer than Chaplin.

Compare and contrast! I just found this a minute ago and had to include it. What's that strange thing behind Harold, an oven or something? Couldn't be a TV. Note how they left it out of the poster, but included his right hand which was out of sight in the photo (due to his prosthetic glove, which always looked sort of weird).

D'yall need to have this one explained to you?

Didn't think so.

http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.ca/2013/04/the-glass-character-synopsis.html

http://members.shaw.ca/margaret_gunning/betterthanlife.htm

The Glass Character: An Excerpt (Dance of the Comedian)

(This is an excerpt from my third novel, The Glass Character, a fictionalized account of the life and times of silent movie comedian Harold Lloyd. Sixteen-year-old Muriel Ashford has come to Hollywood in 1921 in hopes of meeting her screen idol. Thrilled by landing extra work in one of Harold Lloyd's comedies, Muriel finds her joy is somewhat dimmed by the realization that Harold is far from the godlike figure she imagined. Forced to work as a waitress at a speakeasy to make ends meet, Muriel encounters Harold out on the town with his former co-star, Bebe Daniels.)

After Bea’s horrified letter, I was beginning to wish this interminable shoot would end. We were only called in on certain days, often for very short periods of time, so there was no loitering about, no time for gossip. I was convinced my immortal seven seconds of screen time would end up on the cutting room floor.

I was always seeing things I shouldn’t, and this time it was Harold and Mildred necking behind a wobbly flat. His hand was on her breast, but she didn’t seem to mind. The wall was crumbling. No ring on her finger yet, so he would likely stop short.

Our brief sexual spark had fizzled. Just as well, for my cousin was right on all counts: I should never have let him touch me. Then during yet another back-aching, dreary, smoke-choked night serving illicit drinks at Frankie’s (password: chinchilla), my heart dropped into my shoes. There he was in the doorway in that spotlight stars seem to carry around inside them, elegantly dressed in a gleaming, expensive suit.

Panic-stricken, I ducked into the kitchen.

“Muriel,” Susan whispered in my ear, her eyes huge with excitement.

“Yes, I know.”

“He is an absolute doll! Even cuter than in his pictures. Who’s that he’s with?”

I wasn’t sure: a petite brunette who somewhat resembled Clara Bow, with bobbed hair, a silvery dress fringed all over, and long strands of artificial pearls. A real flapper. We all knew about the reputation of flappers, which ensured that Harold would have a good old time tonight.

I prayed he wouldn’t notice me, but my shift didn’t end until midnight, so I had to go on working. The studio paid me a pittance, and Frankie not much better, so I badly needed the tips to survive. This required a lot of smiling and leaning over.

I tried to avoid his table, but it was awkward. Then he and his girl got up to dance. I had never seen this particular step before, but it was complex and lively, and the music was simply wild. Some years later I saw a dancer named Kelly, and Harold had that same effortless, athletic grace. At one point he literally threw his girl up in the air and caught her, airplaning her around as the glitter-ball cast firefly rainbows all over the room. The other dancers slowly moved back to watch.

They finished with their version of the infamous tango from Valentino’s Four Horseman: both tribute and parody, sexy and funny at the same time. Their great comic gifts were evident, as was their physical oneness. The applause went on and on, and Harold casually reached up and caught the cup as it flew through the air.

Then I knew. It was Bebe Daniels. Officially they had broken it off, and she had moved on. (I didn’t know whether to believe the darker story doing the rounds.) Apparently they still had feelings for each other, for I was to learn that she’d had the diamonds from their engagement ring set into cufflinks which he constantly wore.

So they were still friends, or at least dance partners. Since this place wasn’t supposed to exist, they would be relatively anonymous here. (People were more inclined to keep their mouths shut in those days.) I studied her: she was dark, sleepy-eyed, and looked a bit dangerous. Not really pretty. I never could get a fix on Harold’s type.

Having effortlessly blown the audience down, they sat down again. Harold wasn’t even breathing hard. Bebe trotted across the room, waving gaily at a table of elegant-looking people.

Harold’s gaze swept the room.

His eyes lit.

If only he hadn’t smiled, ignited that way. I saw him mouth my name. I waved him off, he insisted, then I reluctantly came over to his table.

“Muriel! You look swell.”

“This awful thing? It’s full of smoke. And too short.”

He flicked his eyes up and down.

“Dance with me, Muriel,” he said in that wheedling, little-boy tone he had used with me in the rainstorm.

“I can’t. I’m on shift.”

“When do you get off?”

“At midnight.” I never should have said it. It sounded like a ludicrous fairy tale. “Anyway, I can’t dance like this. I look like a barmaid. And what about - ” I couldn’t say her name.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Beebs has friends to talk to. We come to the clubs sometimes, just to dance. We’re not dating any more.”

“You’re awfully good. Where did you learn?”

“Didn’t, actually. Just sort of - ”

“I couldn’t keep up with you anyway.”

“I could teach you.” He could be so earnest, so Midwestern. Like he was teaching me the box step at a tea dance.

“C’mon, Muriel.” I thought: a gleaming movie star, one of the most famous people in Hollywood, is just at the tips of my fingers. Here I am, entering the mouth of the wolf again.

“Susan always brings her club clothes for when she’s off shift. Maybe I can change with her.”

“Good! Good!” Harold looked intoxicated with excitement, though I knew he was a good boy and didn’t smoke or drink or dabble in the white powder.

And at the stroke of twelve, I was led to the slaughter. Susan screamed with excitement and insisted she dress me. First I had to put on a strange undergarment that bound my breasts (not that I needed it). The dress was made of a heavy, shiny deep-blue material covered with hand-sewn glass beads, so I glittered when I walked. The neckline was shockingly low, the waistline dropped almost to my hips. The black patent-leather shoes had straps around the ankles, and higher heels than I had ever worn before. This wasn’t an outfit, but a costume.

Susan rouged my mouth, pinched my cheeks, and pulled a few strands of my hair out of the old-fashioned combs I still wore, making soft little tendrils.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and my pupils dilated. I looked nothing like myself. I could have been anyone. An actress. A flapper. A vamp. I’d have Harold in the palm of my hand.

I turned on my high heel, switched on my brightest smile, and flounced over to greet my swain.

He did a very admiring “whew!’, which was pleasantly enthusiastic without implying I looked a mess the rest of the time. Then snaked his arm around my waist.

“Don’t be afraid, it’s only the fox trot.”

“This fox doesn’t know how to trot.”

“Oh Muriel, you’re so funny!” He suddenly dipped me, in fact almost dropped me, then caught me at the last second while my head reeled. Yes, I realized, I am dancing with a comedian.

“Push against my hand a little. That’s it. There needs to be a bit of tension between us. Then with my arm, I’ll. . .”

My awkwardness lessened as he steered me around. The music was lavish: mellow saxophones, high keening clarinets, and a single violin soaring above it all in a melody so tender, it made my eyes sting. And my skin prickled with dizzy joy that I was in the arms of the most beautiful man in the world. 

He was very gradually easing me closer so that our bodies were almost touching, but I knew it was only another tease, proof of his power over me. This close, I could not help but feel his heat. I wondered if Bebe could see us, if it would even matter.

The fox trot escalated into the “toddle”, a sort of hop-step that was much harder to execute. The music grew wild, with razzing trumpets and primitive, thudding percussion. Harold had an almost shocking instinct for the music’s hot, sexy rhythms, and was practically lifting me off the floor so I could keep up.

Then came an announcement that made everybody cheer: “The Black Bottom!” Panicked, I shook my head vigorously: I knew I wasn’t up to this one. Maybe Harold and I could go sit down and talk. But to my shock, he grabbed another girl’s hand, a girl he didn’t even know, and set to, leaping around like an adorable little puppet. He radiated joy and exuberance like no one I had ever seen before. But he was dancing with someone else, as if women to him were practically interchangeable.

I left the dance floor, devastated, collected my things, changed back into my drab street clothes and headed for the door.

“Muriel . . .” I felt like I was being dragged back. 

“I have to go,” I said, trying very hard to keep the tremble out of my voice.

“Oh Muriel, I didn’t mean to abandon you. How about one more dance?”

“Harold, no! Why do you think you can yank me around like this? Go away, come back! Dance with me, but don’t touch me!”

“I thought we were having fun.”

“You know how I feel. And you told me not to. ‘We can’t do this, Muriel.’ Does that mean I can just turn my feelings off?”

“Be quiet, Muriel, you’re making a scene.” It occurred to me that a spat in a speakeasy wouldn’t be good for his career. 

“Go have fun, then.” I turned on my heel again, the dramatic effect ruined by a stumble because I was still wearing Susan’s ridiculous tottering shoes.

“It’s not fun.” He said it very quietly.

I had to turn back.

“It’s not fun to live like this. I feel like I’m not really close to anyone.”

“But what does it matter, so long as there’s a different girl for every night of the week.”

For an unguarded instant, he looked devastated.

“Oh, Harold, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you did.”

“Why can’t you just tell me if you like me or not?”

“It’s not a question of liking. You’re so very young, Muriel, not even out of your teens. Sometimes I wonder if you really know what goes on between men and women in this town.” 

“You don’t have to protect me. I can take care of myself.”

“I don’t think so, Muriel. You don’t know how pretty you are, and in five years you’ll be a full-blown beauty with real character, which means your looks will last. And you have talent, I’ve seen it. If you really want to be an actress, you can be. But you’ve got to be very careful.”

He seemed to be offering me stardom on a platter. I knew enough to suspect it. Still, I watched his face for the most minute chance that he would break his own rule and touch me.

“I might be able to help you,” he said.

“So what would I have to do, Harold?”

“What does that mean?” 

“I’ve heard the stories. Don’t you like them young?” My tone was provocative, acid, awful. 

“That’s not fair.”

“What about Bebe? Wasn’t she just a little underage?” 

His face darkened so quickly I had to catch my breath. 

“Leave Bebe out of this. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know what other people are saying.”

“Why do you pay attention to such trash?”

“Oh, there’s more. Like the story of how you got your start.”

“Stop it right now. Don’t say another word.” 

“Oh, it’s just hearsay, but . . . who was that man who got you into the theatre? Connor, was it? Maybe it’s just a rumour, but I heard he was a bit of a nancy-boy.”

“What are you implying?”

“Can’t you guess?” 

The anger escalated into fury. “I don’t strike women,” he said in a frighteningly low voice. 

“That’s too bad, Harold, because then I could strike you.”

The air in the room was crackling and ready to explode. And he didn’t move. Stood vibrating with a fury that would soon turn to rage.

“I’ve given you every advantage. I only want the best for you.”

“You know what you want.”

“Show me a man who doesn’t.” The gloves were off, and I saw the hard, calculating man who had come from nothing and was tough enough to survive in a pitiless world.

I realized with a shock that I had no idea how to deal with him. He seemed to be getting bigger as I gradually diminished. I slowly backed up, and he advanced.

I ducked inside the unlit storage room. I grabbed his hand, and he followed. With Susan’s ridiculous wobbly shoe, I kicked the door shut.

For your copy of The Glass Character, click on the link below!

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