Hollywood (6 page)

“Tell it yourself,” said Neilan. “Why do you hambos think everybody likes to act? Personally, I hate it.”

“That has not prevented you,” said Barrymore, “from giving some perfectly spectacular performances.”

“All right,” said Neilan to me. “I’ll tell you about this crazy coot. We had a movie company together, he and I. Can you imagine the poor suckers who put their money up on a couple of stew bums? But we were smart enough not to tell them, and there we were, doing this thing down in Florida. And this nut thought it was very funny to call me up all the time. He knows I need sleep. I’m hopeless without it.”

“You’re hopeless
with
it,” Barrymore interrupted.

“I need sleep. Some people don't.” He indicated Barrymore. “He doesn’t. I do. So we’d be doing the town and when I knew I’d had enough, I’d go back to the hotel and go to bed. And he’d wait just long enough to figure that maybe I was asleep, and then he’d call up. And it would always be somebody like Diamond Jim Brady calling. Or sometimes, he’d even go falsetto and say he was Lillian Russell. A few times it was the Secretary of State.”

“Once I was Dr. Crippen.”

“I think you
are
Dr. Crippen,” said Neilan. “You got away and changed your goddamn name and beat the rap.”

“Major Bowes!” cried Barrymore. “
That
was his name. I’ve been trying to think of it, ever since you came in. Major Bowes. That same pudgy, pompous, stale old birthday cake. He was our business manager.”

“That’s right,” said Neilan. “And from us he graduated to the
Amateur Hour
.”

“What the hell was the name of that picture, Mickey? Do you remember?”

“
The Lotus Eater
. Of course I remember. How could I not? A
beautiful
title.”

“And what the hell were we doing in Miami Beach?” asked Barrymore. “Weren’t we supposed to be shooting in Palm Beach, among the crust?”

“We
started
in Palm Beach,” said Neilan. “Then they found out you were Jewish, and threw us out.”

“Whatever gave them
that
idea?” asked Barrymore.

“Your real name,” said Neilan. “They found out your whole real name. Somebody spilled the beans. Probably an unpaid hooker.”

“My real name?” intoned Barrymore.

“Yes,” said Neilan. “John Sidney Blythe. It was the ‘Sidney’ that gave you away.”

“Go on, you half-wit. Tell him about that phone call.”

“Speaking of hookers,” said Neilan, “sometimes he’d come on the phone like one, and proposition me. God, what language! Once he—I mean she—kept me on the phone dickering for half an hour, and finally, after we’d made the deal, he never turned up. She.” He turned to Barrymore. “Why didn’t you? Where were you?”

“I got a better offer,” said Barrymore, in his expert falsetto. Then, “Will you please tell him about that phone call?”

“Jesus God,” said Neilan. “I’d have been through it and halfway home if you weren’t around here hectoring me.”

“I am as silent as the night,” said Barrymore.

Neilan went on. “The phone rang about six in the morning, and I heard this rotund voice saying, ‘Mr. Marshall Neilan please.’ And I said, ‘You goddamn cretin. Do you know what time it is? I’ve just gotten to sleep. Get the hell off the phone and stay off.’ But the voice went on, and said, ‘I beg your pardon. I wish to speak to Mr. Marshall Neilan. My name is William Jennings Bryan.’ And I said, ‘All right, Mr. William Jennings Bryan. Go fuck yourself.’ And hung up. A couple of weeks later, we got invited to a party at the Flagler estate, and the host was introducing us all round, and there was one nice-looking woman there, and when he said, ‘May I present Mr. Marshall Neilan?’ she turned and walked away. So a little later, I said to the host, ‘What the hell was that?’ And he said, ‘She says you insulted her father on the telephone.’ And I said, ‘I’ve never insulted anybody’s father on any telephone. What the hell is she talking about? Who’s her father?’ ‘William Jennings Bryan,’ he said. ‘That’s Ruth Bryan.’ Well, I swear I thought
he
was pulling a fast one, but then he told me that William Jennings Bryan had written a story and was trying to sell the movie rights, so that’s why he was calling me up.”

“
The Lotus Eater
,” said Barrymore, chuckling. “Did we ever make any money on that bloody thing?”

“
You
probably did,” said Neilan. “You and that other deadbeat partner of ours. Godsel. All I know is I worked my canetta off and never got a sausage.”

“You had the opportunity of associating artistically with your betters,” said Barrymore. “That should have been reward enough.”

They looked at each other with love.

I had heard that Barrymore had been in San Francisco on the morning of the great earthquake. I asked him about it.

“Yes, I was,” he said. “I was waiting there for a few days for a boat to take me to Australia, where I was going to play a nice little piece called
The Dictator
and that was when it happened. Now I’m going to tell you the truth. I’ve been telling the truth about it lately. I didn’t at the time, but the truth is I don’t remember one damned thing about it. I’d been out on the town, raising all sorts of hell, because I loathed the idea of going to Australia. It seemed like going to Siberia. So I had a few, and yes, I remember something about buildings caving in and fires raging, but it was no different from most of my nights in those days. I just kept looking for a place to sleep, and finally I found one, and by the time I woke, it was all over, and I’ll tell you what I did. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could. First by boat to Oakland and then by wagon to the nearest railway station. And off to New York instead of giving myself to the Aussies. And that,
I’m afraid, is all I remember as a witness to one of the most spectacular holocausts in the history of mankind.”

Late one afternoon, running behind schedule, and looking at the glowering faces of men from the production department, I was doing everything possible to hurry things along.

I approached Russ Metty, and asked, “How about it, Russ?”

“Real soon,” he replied, preoccupied. “Real soon.”

Two or three minutes later, I was back. “Now?” I asked.

Irritated, he said, “Will you please give me a little
time
?”

“Russ,” I replied, “I’d give you the shirt off my back, but I
can’t
give you any more
time
!”

We stood looking at each other. There was a tense, awkward silence which was suddenly broken by a burst of laughter from John Barrymore.

Work went on, and so did Barrymore’s laugh. I went over and sat down beside him.

“What’s so funny?” I asked. “If I fall too far behind schedule, they’ll probably fire me.”

“You’ll survive,” said Barrymore.

“But what made you laugh?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said. “Your little colloquy over there, or was it a set-to?—well, whatever it was—reminded me of a time when I was living at the Algonquin—kindness of Frank Case. Do you know him?”

“I know of him,” I said, “but I don’t know him.”

“I suppose,” said Barrymore, “that he’s eased more impecunious players over the rough spots than anyone in Gotham. Certainly
I
am one of his beneficiaries.” He laughed. “Anyhow I was living at the Algonquin and—”

“Ready!” called Russ Metty.

I jumped up and started for the camera.

“A moment!” shouted Barrymore. I turned back to him. He did his eyebrow business, and asked, “Did you walk out on me?”

“I’ve got to make this shot. So do you.”

“Do you mean to tell me that the shot is more important than listening to my vintage memoirs?”

“Yes, Mr. Barrymore. Right now, it is.”

He rose with effort and declaimed, “How have the mighty fallen!”

We made the shot in a single take. I walked Barrymore back to his dressing room. On the way, he continued his story.

“So one day I was making the rounds, and I ran into Bill Mizner and we stood on the corner of Forty-fourth Street and Broadway chatting. He asked me where I was living and I told him.”

“ ‘The Algonquin, eh?’ he said. ‘Aren’t their rates a bit steep for the likes of us?’

“ ‘Their rates,’ I said to him, ‘are exemplary. I live there as a guest of the owner, Frank Case.’

“ ‘Yes,’ said Bill. ‘I’ve heard that he’s a touch of the softer type. Just
how
soft, would you say?’

“And I said, ‘Well, this is a man—who—who—’ I couldn’t think of a description good enough, and so fell back on a cliché and said, ‘Why, he’s the kind of man who’d give
you the—give you the—’ and then I looked down and had to say, ‘Jesus Christ, this
is
his shirt!’

“That’s what made me laugh a while ago,” said Barrymore. “Remembering that. Sorry. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Barrymore.”

There was only one difficult day throughout the course of the shooting. The two players with whom Barrymore had most to do were the children. Virginia Weidler, aged ten, and Peter Holden, aged six.

Barrymore terrified the boy with his presence, practically immobilizing him. But Virginia Weidler was so skillful, experienced, and accomplished that Barrymore constantly referred to her as “Mrs. Thomas Whiffen,” the celebrated American actress who had continued to act well into her eighties.

In one scene, Barrymore had a long and, we hoped, moving speech in which he tells the children about their dead mother. The little boy sat on the arm of the chair, Virginia in Barrymore’s lap.

Take one. Barrymore began. All of us watching knew he was reaching deep down into himself. He was playing beautifully. Virginia, on his lap, was listening carefully and I found myself admiring the marvelously childish thing she was doing—twisting Barrymore’s necktie around her finger, letting it go, twisting it around again.

I watched, enthralled. My reverie was broken abruptly, brutally, by a scream from Barrymore.

“God damn it! What the hell do you think you’re doing, you hammy little bitch!” He stood up abruptly. Little Virginia would have fallen to the floor had he not picked her up and thrown her across the set. Fortunately, three stagehands caught the trembling child, but Barrymore was not finished. He bore down on her. “Who the hell do you think you’re acting with, you silly little brute. Silly, hell!—crafty, God damn you,
crafty
! I ought to kick you right in the—”

“Mr. Barrymore,
please
!” I said. “I’m sure Virginia didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t tell
me
!” he shouted. “Virginia. I’ve messed it up with bitches like her before. They don’t fool me.”

“Okay,” I said. “Wrap it up.” It was only four in the afternoon but I knew that nothing more of value would be accomplished that day.

The weeping Virginia was led off. Peter Holden giggled with hysterical delight until his mother slapped him.

I walked around the lot with Barrymore until he had calmed down.

Later, alone, I reflected on the whole upsetting adventure. What troubled me most was my own error. Barrymore was right. His important speech was being damaged by a cute piece of business. The fact was that even I, watching the scene, had put my attention on Virginia, playing with his necktie. The audience doing so would certainly miss the impact and import of what he was saying.

We did the scene again the following morning, and it is a credit to the profession of acting that neither Virginia nor Barrymore seemed to have any recollection of the fireworks. A single take was all that was required to capture a lovely moment, and Virginia played the scene without moving a muscle.

Some stars insist upon seeing the rushes of the work they have done on the previous day, and in fact, wish to be consulted as to the choice of takes. Others eschew the practice, feeling that it tends to make them self-conscious.

I asked Barrymore about his feelings in the matter.

“Oh, I
love
to see the stuff!” he said. “If I can do it at the end of the day. First thing in the morning it always looks like a bad dream.”

It was arranged for him. Having viewed the rushes at eight o’clock in the morning, I saw them again with him at six. His deportment in the projection room was a revelation. I had never seen anyone react as he did. He was able to see himself on the screen with complete objectivity. It was as though he were watching someone else, not another actor but the actual character.

I had watched rushes with many players. Their comments were, sometimes, self-critical: “Oh, my God, that’s hammy!” Or: “Speak up, ya jerk. I can’t hear.” Or: “Why am I making such a horrible face?” Or: “Holy God, please don’t use
that
.” And so on. Then I frequently shared warm baths of narcissism with others: “Oh, that’s
beautiful
! See how I catch the key light in my eyes!”… “Oh, please not that one. There’s a little shadow on the side of my nose.”… “Oh, that’s good. Look at those
lips
.”

John Barrymore reacted not to the problems of the actor but to the problems of the character: “God, he’s funny. Look at him. Is he going to turn that bastard down? Do you think so? I think so. There! What did I tell you? He turned him down…Oh, God, isn’t that awful? He loves her. I can feel it but he just hasn’t the courage to tell her. Go on! Tell her. No. It’s no use. He won’t do it…Oh, hell! He’s going to recite. Why doesn’t he just talk? Well, that’s not so bad. Actually very moving. Very moving. He did that very well, you know.”

To understand the art of acting, it is necessary to understand a special sort of schizophrenia. On the stage or screen, we deal with the phenomenon of the split personality. The actor and the character sharing one body, one brain. Ideally, the actor—hidden—lives inside the body of the character, controlling thoughts, feelings, actions.

Barrymore’s behavior in the projection room signaled a complete separation of these personalities in a singular way.

His acting technique was flawless.

When, toward the end of the picture, his part called for him to recite the lines by John Greenleaf Whittier he did them perfectly on the first take, with the aid of a mediumsized blackboard.

“That’s it,” I said. “Print it.” He beckoned to me. I went over to him at once. “Yes, Mr. Barrymore?”