Dear Ida,
Today I left work a little early. I had completed all my typing for the day and the office seemed particularly unpleasant and stuffy, so I packed up my typewriter and told my supervisor Mrs Gibson that I was going to go on home. She hardly even looked up from clacking away at her own typewriter.
Any hopes I had for the sort of genial workplace atmosphere I enjoyed back in New York have been thoroughly dashed. When I arrived on my very first day, Mrs Gibson took one look at my best dress (the navy one with the sailor collar, do you remember it?) and muttered something to the effect of “not all modern advances are to be welcomed.” She has hardly spoken to me since. She herself dresses in a pre-War style and I am almost certain she still wears a corset. I don’t imagine I am missing out very much on her friendship, but as we are the only two of the fair sex in the office (the young lawyers and clerks are hardly likely to speak to me, after all) it does make for rather dull workdays.
I suppose you too have been following the furore in the news recently about flappers in the workplace? I gather it all started with an incident at a bank in New Jersey, when a mother complained of her son doing business only with an “illegally attractive” female employee. (The woman wore a low-waisted dress in the latest style, and painted her face). Well, the bank responded by announcing that from now all girls must wear drab dresses in black, blue or brown; none are to be shortened above the elbow, or skirts to be any higher than twelve inches from the ground. Bobs are permitted (“They could hardly expect girls to glue their hair back on!” Lillian pointed out), but absolutely no lipstick or face powder.
The latest news is that female employees have been reacting with indignation, but thus far the bank refuses to capitulate.
It really is ridiculous that in 1922, we women are still subjected to such nonsense. The female employee in question contended that she could not be held responsible for the “wandering brain of some weak-witted mommy’s boy” — and well, I quite agree. I suspect that Mrs Gibson doesn’t approve of me for similar reasons, and I find it quite flattering to be considered such a flapper!
Anyway, as it was so early, I decided to to take a stroll. I am due to meet Hildy after work for supper, then we are going to catch a showing of Gloria Swanson in Her Gilded Cage. I’ve heard the story isn’t up to much, but we’ve seen everything else currently playing, and Hildy says she just loves to see what Miss Swanson wears.
Hildy is the most fashion-conscious of all my friends, and has even bobbed her hair. She says that she hasn’t had even one Shingle Headache, and that it is wonderfully convenient as a working girl to simply comb her hair like a man and dash out the door, rather than fiddle with pins and irons every morning. I am desperate to follow suit but I fear Mrs Gibson would faint dead away at the sight of me if I did. As I have no other funds but my salary, I had better keep on her good side.
As the saying goes, All Roads Lead to Culver City, and soon enough, I passed by the studios where the Goldwyn Company currently have their headquarters. Hildy told me that when Henry Culver incorporated his little city, the powers-that-be of Los Angeles were so incensed at him setting up on his own that they refused to allow gas or running water to be installed. Given the dust and cracks of Washington Boulevard, it wouldn’t surprise me if they succeeded still. The entire region seems comprised of dirt and heat and sweat.
There was a line of hopeful performers outside the studio, reaching the entire length of the block and beyond. You see, actors who aren’t engaged by a particular studio must line up each morning at dawn in the hopes of being selected for a production. All day long, production managers and assistant directors venture out to select background artists, or, very occasionally, a new leading performer if a role has been improvised on set.
My roommate Ruth (who is an actress, if you remember) described how these officious little men walk slowly along the line, inspecting everyone as though they are prize cattle. She says that some girls cough or even faint at the assistant director’s feet, just so he will notice them — and also that occasionally, independent producers will come along in cars and ride off with a few lucky girls. Hildy was with us when Ruth explained all of this, and she made Ruth promise to never, under any circumstances, get into one of those cars.
Ruth complained that those producers offer extremely favorable rates, but Hildy insisted she promise anyway. She wouldn’t give up, and eventually Ruth agreed.
Anyway, this afternoon I paused for a moment to admire their spectacular dress. You see, it is well known that extras who come prepared in full costume and makeup have the best chance of being picked out the line and ushered through the hallowed gates. However, those not employed by studios have little chance of knowing just what pictures will be shot that week, so consequently everyone has to dress in their best guess.
Last week, a rumor flew around the hostels and eateries of West Hollywood one evening, that Universal would be casting an Alaskan gold mining picture the following day. Several men consequently showed up to wait outside the studio — in the baking hot San Fernando valley — dressed for the frozen tundra, in fur coats and hats. Around noon, when the sun was at its hottest, one collapsed and Ruth was shocked because she hadn’t known until then that men could faint. Someone apparently mentioned there was a water pump a block or so away, but no one wanted to leave their place in the line. Eventually, the fallen man was carried away by a couple of cowboys who'd wandered by in hopes of picking up a day's stunt riding in one of Universal’s Westerns.
Down here in Culver City, almost everyone I could see was resplendent in sparkling evening dress. Given the fashion for sex comedies set in high class saloons in London and Paris at the moment, it was a fair guess — but such heavy formal gowns must be nearly as uncomfortable as furs. Just as I was thinking the slightly cooler evening breeze must be welcome, a man appeared beyond the gates, inside the studio grounds. Even from across the street I could feel the flutter of excitement that zipped through the exhausted actors as they roused themselves to pose for him.
“Say gals, you know we won’t be taking on any more performers today? Every picture is full up.”
He wasn’t a production manager or assistant director, I could see that now. He wore evening dress himself, white tie and a three-piece suit with long tails. He carried a stiff top hat under his arm, and would probably be quite handsome were it not for the thick brown greasepaint and heavy black kohl around his eyes. I was just wondering what on earth an actor was doing approaching the gates when he spoke again:
“Go home and try again in the morning!”
I shook my head, an unpleasant feeling forming in my stomach. They would hardly still be standing in the scorching sun at this late hour in hopes of work if they had any option. Surely he would know that.
“Get here early — Mr Griffith likes to have all the cameras rolling by seven o’clock so as to get the best of the day’s light.”
No one moved. Ruth often leaves our shared room at four o’clock, so I can’t imagine these people hadn’t been there since long before seven. The actor shifted uncomfortably under their collective gaze, apparently realising he’d bitten off more than he could chew. “
Tell you what,” he announced with sudden inspiration. “I just got called up for the new Mr de Mille picture, I can afford to be generous —”
He rummaged in his trousers pocket and extracted a handful of mints, which he tossed through the fence.
“Say now, each person gets one, that’s only fair —”
The actors, mostly women, scrabbled frantically for mints scattered along the filthy street, pushing and shoving and pulling hair to swipe a second candy from a competitor's grasp. For a moment, I couldn’t understand what was happening, then it dawned on me. They were hungry.
I didn’t watch any more. I turned away and walked a few blocks back towards the city. I found a café not far from Hildy’s office, and I’ve sat here ever since, drinking coffee and writing to you. Suddenly, I’m not sure I feel like going to see a picture this evening after all.
With love to you and all back at home,