Egotism and lack of ability usually go hand in hand. Yet, we cannot say the rule applies in Maxwell Karger’s particular case. Karger has the respect of practically all the stars on the Metro roster, and apparently has more than his share of ability. But, ye Gods, what a swelled dome! We understand there is a clause in this Director General’s contract with Metro, whereby his name must appear in every story sent out by the publicity department. We judge every copy reader in the country who gets the junk cuts the name out, just because they are sick and disgusted at even such long distance evidence of “great I amness.” Darned if we can figure ourselves, exactly why Karger thinks his name looks so pretty in type.

Oi, Oi. Vass is? That business disturber Lewis Selznick, just when he is considered down and out, gets himself new backing, and out comes an announcement that his two kids, Myron and David, who masquerade under impressive titles, and who should be back in high school, go abroad to “study the foreign situation.” That, to us, is the biggest laugh of the past month. About all the study of the foreign situation they will do will be to study the shapely legs of the midinettes who parade the Boulevard des Italiens and the Place de la Opera in Paris. Yes, indeed, Algernon, papa’s new bankroll, said to have been advanced by Stanley Mastbaum of Philadelphia, will take wings just as did all his other bankrolls under the able hands of these two, whom we have heard referred to by Harry Reichenbach, as the “biggest jokes of the business.”

A little bird whispers that Bill Russell, Fox star, is about to take the matrimonial plunge. The woman? Why, his leading lady in recent pictures, Helen Ferguson.

A picture no artist could paint was presented by Sammy Goldwyn, nee Goldfish, as he stood wreathed in smiles at the entrance to the Astor theatre, New York, waiting for congratulations after the premier showing of “Earthbound.” Someone in the Goldwyn publicity department must have tipped Sam off that he had a good picture, so, baldhead and all, there he was waiting for the critics to line up and pat him on the back. You know, all our very best film magnates are like that, shunning the limelight and detesting publicity.

In a corner of the Astor Hotel, where as many million dollar companies are started (on paper) each day, as upon the rug of the Alexandria Hotel, Los Angeles, each night, several gentlemen were discussing D. W. Griffith the other day.

One was telling a story to the effect that the Great D. W. had gotten himself unpopular in a great many circles.

Says he, “Griffith, y’know has forgotten his ‘ham fat’ days, and with his resonant voice and omnipotent air, gotten himself generally ‘in wrong,’ Well, an advertising solicitor breezed around to his offices the other day, and Grey, his man Friday, like a faithful Great Dane, blatantly berated the man for daring to insinuate Griffith should advertise. ‘Do you know you speak of the Great Griffith,’ says Grey.

Great H——,’ sulphurously replied the ad solicitor. ‘When he comes through with an advertising contract I’ll stand for that bull.’”

We doubt if there is a shrewder woman in the theatrical game than Justine Johnston, Realart’s new star. Justine, otherwise Mrs. Waenger (yep, he is with Realart, too) has our deep respect. Prior to marriage she got along very well, from Ziegfeld Follies days, through her period as hostess in Broadway “gyp” joints, down to the time she guided the destinies of “The Little Club.” Ask any New Yorker of the latter place. We thought Justine’s hand was out of the Club, then after paying two and a half dollars for a snifter of something or other, we wondered. However, that is natural. Every time we think of Justine, we somehow think of the word “expense.”

Boy, page Morris Gest!

Just before Ollie Thomas went abroad with hubby Jack Pickford, coast wanderers came back with an amusing yarn. Seems, according to the tale bearers, Ollie was partying a bit, and announced to all and sundry that Jack thought he was getting away with a lot, but in reality was not. Well, Ollie always did have good eyesight. Disclosing a little secret of our own, we have a lot of sympathy for Ollie. Because she is married to Jack? Well—maybe, we wouldn’t say. Some day, by the way, we are going to devote quite a little bit of precious space to extolling that member of the Pickford family. Always providing he doesn’t drop out of motion picture sight beforehand.

Coast gossipers are including Lillian Hall and director Emmett Flynn in their conversations these days. Seems the two have apparently been seen often together. Well, as Chaplin so aptly said, “it’s a great life in the West.” Wonder if Shirley Mason doesn’t find herself lonely without Lillian around? And what is the trouble with friend husband, which forces Lillian to depend on friends for entertainment?

A person in a position to know, has sent us another, and what is claimed a truer angle of the splitting of the Doris May-Douglas MacLean team, about which we had an article in the August issue. This party states that MacLean had such an exalted case of swelled cranium, following the success of several pictures, that he refused to renew his contract unless he was starred alone. Tom Ince, not feeling justified in asking the delightful Miss May to support him under those conditions, had no alternative other than to sign her to a separate contract.

Perhaps we are prejudiced in favor of the feminine sex, yet, if the above is true, we earnestly look for a “flop” on the part of MacLean.

There must have been loud wails of anguish lately, if the rumor percolating from the famous Players-Lasky studios to the effect that Elliott Dexter had to stop work when a picture was but half completed, is true. Production, ’tis said, had to be retaken with another leading man. Picture row said Dexter was in a sanitarium—and was not charitable in ascribing reasons. We always found Dexter a pleasant fellow, and extend best wishes for an early recovery.

There was a warm competition between the theatrical promoters, William A. Brady and Al Woods early in August, to see who could get his play on the boards first. Both were on the same theme, and according to critics, very similar. Brady won with “Opportunity.” Woods was one night late with “Crooked Gamblers.” So we judge to the victor will go the spoils, and Brady will dispose of the picture rights of his play for twenty-five or fifty thousand dollars. Yep, even though it is soon carted to the storehouse.

Wow! Aren’t some people hard to satisfy? Look at this here, now. Tina Mendoti, who is suing the Premier Film Corporation for $8,000, claims she was engaged to star in a picture for $2,000 a week, and was paid but half. Who, by the way, is Tina? And, how come she really got half of the salary in real money?

Louise Fazenda and Chester Conklin are going to shake the dust of the Sennett lot to join Special Pictures, a comparatively new corporation which will give them an opportunity to be individually starred. Tightwad Mack will have a hard time holding ’em this season.

A clash between Director Douglas Gerrard and Doraldina, the new Metro star, resulted in Joseph Engel calling off production work on “Passion Fruit.” Differences of opinion arose at Santa Barbara, where the company was on location. Both star and director shot in telegrams and the company was recalled. The company it is said sides with Gerrard. Evidently trying to nip in the bud another tyrannical domineering Nazimova.

When “The Mollycoddle” was first announced as a Fairbanks production, it was naturally understood, and was so advertised, that Harold McGrath the novelist, would whip the story into screen form. And now, say the wise ones, Mr. McGrath’s story should really be credited to Tom Geraghty and Doug Fairbanks himself. True, we understand the original story was McGrath’s work—but the picture version, that is another thing. Anyhow one scene was McGrath’s—and he drew down cigarette money amounting to $25,000. Well, well!