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* T A Y L O R O L O G Y *
* A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor *
* *
* Issue 89 -- May 2000 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
Gareth Hughes
James Kirkwood
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What is TAYLOROLOGY?
TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond
Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to
death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major
scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life;
(b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor
murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood
silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given
toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it
for accuracy.
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Gareth Hughes
As indicated in TAYLOROLOGY #5, actor Gareth Hughes was reportedly implicated
in the William Desmond Taylor murder by statements attributed to Honore
Connette. The following are some contemporary interviews with Hughes which
were published during 1921 and 1922. Of particular interest, aside from the
glimpse into Hughes' personality, is the mention that Hughes smoked gold-
tipped cigarettes.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
February 1921
Lillian Montanye
MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC
Hamlet, Himself
A friend of mine once strove desperately for adequate terms in which to
describe a friend of his, then appearing on the stage as Benjamin in "Joseph
and his Brethren." "He looks exactly like a picture of Jesus in the doctor's
office!" he enthused.
"You are probably referring," I said witheringly, "to the event of the
boy Jesus sitting with the learned men in the temple. But I know what you
mean."
I had not then met Gareth Hughes, but when I did, my friend's remark
came back to me as vagrant bits of inconsequence have a way of doing, and
seemed oddly apt. The young actor has a rarely spirituelle face--vivid, yet
grave--the face of one who dreams dreams and sees visions. He has a shock of
tumbled brown hair, wide brown eyes, his hands, that keynote to character,
delicately formed with tapering, sensitive fingers. His personality is one
of exquisite charm--yet he does not at all suggest the feminine. He is the
personification of sweet and enthusiastic youth, its hopes, its ideals, its
sensitiveness and beyond, one senses manly sincerity, forceful purpose.
He is a true Welshman, Gareth Hughes, which accounts for many things:
his love of beauty; his musical enunciation; his quite noticeable accent,
especially when carried away by his enthusiasms, which are many. He spoke
nothing but Welsh, he told me, until he was twelve years old. He was then
placed in school in London and later in Paris, where he remained until he
joined the Welsh Players, finally coming to America with them.
After a tour with the Welsh Players came his delightful characterization
of Ariel in "Caliban" in New York City's Shakespeare Tercentenary. Following
this, as a featured player in "Joseph and his Brethren," "Margaret Schiller,"
"Salome," "Moloch, "The Guilty Man," with the Irish Players in "Red Turf," in
Strindberg's "Easter," in the title role of Richard Ordynski's "Everyman," he
won the plaudits of press and people. His last stage appearance was a
starring role in "Dark Rosaleen," a play written for him by Whitford Kane.
Not long after its New York opening, young Hughes left the cast to enter
pictures. Not because he wanted to give up the brilliant stage career, then
beginning, but, being physically at low ebb, he needed the change, the
outdoor life and more regular hours promised him in this new form of his
profession.
During his brief picture career he has scored some notable successes: as
Billy in "Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch," with Marguerite Clark; as leading
man for Florence Reed in "The Woman Under Oath"; with Norma Talmadge in "Isle
of Conquest." He then went to the Coast, where he did "Eyes of Youth," with
Clara Kimball Young; "A Chorus Girl's Romance," with Viola Dana, and "White
Ashes," with Cleo Madison.
"And then," related the young actor, eyes aglow, "things happened fast.
Metro invited me to sign a long-term starring contract, which I did. And
immediately afterward Famous Players decided to produce 'Sentimental Tommy'
here in the East, and asked me to do the title role, which the Metro people
very kindly consented to let me do. And then I had an attack of--what you
call appendicitis. The doctors said the only safe way was to be operated on.
But when I found I could really come East and do Tommy, I became quite fit,
and said the dom [sic] operation could go hang--and here I am! You see, next
to my Shakespeare, whom I know by heart, I love Barrie. Ever since I created
the part of the son on the stage in 'The New Word,' I have longed to do
another Barrie play."
"And 'The Little Minister,' and Peter in 'Peter Pan.'" I soliloquized,
visualizing the ardent, sensitive face, the whimsy race--
"Yes, yes," he asserted eagerly. "I am hoping to do them both some day.
I like the pictures and see a big, big chance. There is great opportunity
for real artistry on the screen. But I could not entirely give up the stage.
It has meant too much--it is a part of my life. So many things I want to
do--but there seems to be not half time enough to do them in. I love to use
my imagination--to dream: to visualize Sir Galahad, a Prince Chap, Sir
Lancelot, Don Quixote--many others."
"And your pet ambition--rainbow's end--your dream come true?"
"Shakespeare--in roles that suit me, of course, Romeo, for instance--and
especially Hamlet. In fact," he said, a bit wistfully, "I did almost play
Romeo--was in rehearsal when the chance came to go to the Coast to do 'Eyes
of Youth' with Miss Young. So, for the sake of my health, also my pocketbook-
-I said 'Goodbye Romeo,' and went.
"But some day, not too far distant, I hope, I shall play Hamlet--there's
no turning aside from that. A BOY Hamlet--and I shall play it surrounded by
all the splendid gorgeousness of royalty, too. Draperies of royal purple,
the glitter of gold and tinsel, the blare of trumpets. I don't care for the
'new' in art--a stage set with a table, a chair, a bit of drapery--I don't
think that pomp, pageantry and grandeur detract from the spoken work. The
actor needs the atmosphere of beauty and artistry.
"Just now, we hear much of the new in art. Art is beauty--and beauty is
always new. Real art, real beauty, is ageless, deathless. It is something
that is handed down from one generation to another and cannot be destroyed--
nor can anything take its place. What about 'old' music--the works of
Chopin, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Liszt and others? What about old paintings--
old literature--old architecture? What about our great artists of the
stage--Booth, Irving, Mantell, Jefferson, Bernhardt? We don't need a new
standard of beauty," he concluded convincingly.
"Perhaps it's my medieval name," he said, "or perhaps it's my Welsh
ancestry--but beauty is to me such a tangible thing--and all my life I've
longed and striven to express it rightly. And now--I must go back to the
studio. I hope you will see and like me as Tommy."
"And Hamlet--"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
August 1921
Hazel Simpson Naylor
MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC
Sentiments of a Woman Hater
Geniuses are queer beings. It seems impossible for them to eat, drink,
marry or die like every-day people. Neither can every-day people write a
story or paint a picture or act a drama that brings the heart of you into
your throat to strangle you with unexplainable emotions.
So widely diverse are the two types that neither can completely
understand the other. That is why I ask your indulgence while I paint this
word portrait of Gareth Hughes.
Mr. Hughes is a genius.
He was so proclaimed on the stage long before the cinema heralded him as
one, because of his acting in "The Chorus Girl's Romance," and "Sentimental
Tommy." As far back as 1914, he was lauded by New York critics for his
beautiful performances in "Moloch," "Everyman," with Elsie Ferguson in
"Margaret Schiller," in "Caliban," in Barrie's "The New Word," in "The Guilty
Man," and "Easter," by Strindberg.
This long list of stage success might give you the impression of a
veteran player. Gareth Hughes is, I believe, precisely twenty-three years
old. On the screen he looks younger, in real life he looks older.
There is a weary air about him, as if all mundane things were SO trying.
He seems absolutely passionless. I cannot imagine him indulging in great
loves or great enthusiasm. He seems to me as a man apart. I should have
said boy--for he lacks the physical vigor and muscular development that come
with manhood.
Like many of the really great actors, Gareth Hughes is most sincere when
he is acting. Whether he was playing with me, trying to assume a pose of
boredom or was simply honestly shy at being interviewed, I could not
ascertain, no matter how hard I tried to penetrate beneath his placid calm.
Even my intuition, which has frequently helped me, was as useless as a spent
shell to penetrate the armor with which he had girded his heart and his soul.
Yet stop and consider Percy Busse Shelly, Byron, Oscar Wilde--it is well
known that their art, their poems were the most beautifully ideal part of
their lives.
And thus I feel about Gareth Hughes, his acting is the most real part of
him; in fact, it is ALL there is to him. He lives the live of a dreamer,
a visionary. I doubt if the realities of life ever touch him.
"I AM 'Sentimental Tommy,'" he told me when I asked him concerning his
characterization of Tommy. And so when you see "Sentimental Tommy" on the
screen you will come nearer to knowing the real Gareth Hughes than at any
other time.
Mr. Hughes has a pet Airedale, which he calls Barrie. "I adore Barrie's
plays," he told me, "but I like 'Peter Pan' best of all. They may let me
play Peter. Wouldn't that be wonderful? I can't imagine any greater joy."
His pride in his work is childlike. His singular faith is childlike;
he seems helpless when it comes to running up against the actualities of
existence. He is strangely unaffected and simple in his tastes. Being alone
in the country is one thing he really loves. The day I talked to him he was
just moving into his new lodge out in lovely Laurel Canyon, and he remarked:
"I love the country, its fresh air and being away from the noise and bustle
of the city. I don't like crowds of people, I like to be alone."
"But won't you get lonesome?" I protested.
"Why, no--I'll have my chauffeur sleeping in the next room," he answered
ingeniously.
"I know," I explained carefully, "but wouldn't you like the
companionship of a wife?"
"No, thank you," he said, with the greatest amount of vehemence I had
been able to draw from him. "I keep away from the girls. They are
dangerous. They do nothing but cause trouble. I have never seen a happy
marriage. I don't believe in marriage. I believe in FREE LOVE."
Had he dropped a bomb at my feet I could not have been more upset. And
then I looked at the slim, boyish figure sitting uncomfortably in front of
me, twisting absent-mindedly at his shell-rimmed glasses. Words cannot
describe what a picture of absolute innocence he presented.
And yet in his very innocence and dreamy unworldliness I imagine he
could be ruthless, in a forgetful sort of way, just as the farmer looking
forward to a crop of golden wheat is ruthless in his uprooting of the weeds
that lie in his fields.
"I cannot know people very well and not fight with them," Mr. Hughes
went on, "and yet I couldn't be interested in them if I couldn't quarrel with
them." And he looked so harmless I failed to imagine him quarreling with
anyone.
"I can't bear mediocrity in the theater," he went on. "I do so long to
do big things on the screen--'Peter Pan,' 'David Copperfield,' 'Hamlet.' Why
not? The producers say the public won't go to see the classics. Yet look at
the success of 'Sentimental Tommy.' I do hope it pays, then it will prove
that the producers don't know what they are talking about."
The 'phone interrupted.
"Yes, I'll be right there," then turning to me helplessly, "it's my
chauffeur. I have to go down town and buy two beds and a dozen sheets and
pillow-cases. Isn't it exasperating? You have to go? You DROVE your car?
Oh, how brave. I couldn't possibly drive. Just think of knowing how to work
all those levers at once. I haven't BRAINS enough to drive a car, I have to
hire a chauffeur."
Yet, I would be willing to bet that he knows the lines of every great
play, forwards and backwards.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
January 1922
Willis Goldbeck
MOTION PICTURE
The Scarlet Thread
One thing there is that the arbiters of starred destinies must learn:
that genius and fried fish are immiscible. Thus, to my dying day I shall
probably associate Gareth Hughes, above all the star fantastic, with the
clamor and smells of a cheap Hollywood restaurant.
We sat there on either side of a greasy table, in a booth of the cafe
that caters to the players of the Metro studio, Gareth hitching spasmodically
at his shell-rimmed spectacles and I tapping the table top, stupidly enough,
with my fork. It was not an auspicious beginning.
But--what it was, the surprisingly palatable chicken sandwich, Gareth's
finesse, my own interest suddenly aroused, I do not know--I found presently
that we were drifting along on a comfortable, unconstrained tide of
conversation. The hot restaurant, the clatter and clash of mouths and things
entering therein, gradually faded from my consciousness, irised out, so to
speak, until my attention was centered wholly on the remarkable youth
opposite me.
One is at once aware of a detachment in Gareth which effectually
prevents the casualist from ever knowing him, ever obtaining a complete
realization of his thoughts. His mind is erratic, here and yon, pausing with
the scintillant flutter of a butterfly upon fifty different subjects within
the minute. His conversation knows no laws, no limits. He is a free booter,
conducting piratical excursions upon whatever orderly convoy of thought you
may be pursuing, interrupting mercilessly, victimizing your words for his own
aggrandizement. Your talk of him, be it praise or pillory, is his loot.
He is a supreme egotist, with egotism's only vindication--artistry.
One must acknowledge, if one would do Gareth justice, that he cannot be
judged by normal standards. To the real artist our thunderously American
quality of "normalcy" is abhorrent, deadly. It is a confession of our own
sterility as an artistic nation. of our subservience to throttling
conventions. It is like those huge bottle-shaped instruments in which the
Comprachios of "Claire De Lune" confined growing human beings until they had
assumed the shape of their horrid prisons. Our reformists are the
Comprachios of our souls.
Gareth said none of these things to me. On the contrary he has
recognized his variance with our standardized manhood and has set about,
perhaps unconsciously, certainly in vain, to reshape himself. His efforts,
finding outlets in moods, express themselves, amusingly, in his clothes.
I knew him first in a bulging thing of Harris tweed. He wore knickers
and golf stockings huge with angora fuzz. He dangled a gold pencil.
He blasphemed under his breath, absently, with the innocence that makes
anathema on a cherub's lips a hymm of purity. He addressed two girls who
were in the company but whom he had not known for more than an hour as
"dear," quite as absently. He hitched nervously at his spectacles. He was
the dilettante who adores to walk in "the beautiful country! I love it!"
He carried a heavy dog leash. He had a dog, Barrie, somewhere, he told us
vaguely--down in his car, he though, with his man. It didn't matter. He had
the leash.
But this last time, at the studio, he was the horseman. He wore heavy
riding boots and carried a quirt with which he smacked them resoundingly and
with frequent relish. He had no intention, so far as I know, of riding that
morning. But he was in the mood. Ergo! He dressed it!
"Until two weeks ago," he said, in his queer clipped little accent,
"I never rode. I have ridden every day since. I am a bit sore perhaps, but
I love it. Oh, I LOVE it!"
His moods seem all alike in that quality of fleeting fervor. One
wonders, perhaps extraneously, upon the lady who might one day be loved like
that.
One ceases much of his wondering when he learns that Gareth has been
upon the stage, here and abroad, since early childhood. There has been no
variation in his life to mark the passing of childhood and the establishment
of maturity. His youth has been his maturity and his maturity his youth, so
far as those circumstances which mold the character are concerned. Perhaps
that is the secret of his astonishing appearance. It is today--when he is
twenty-three--what it must have been when he was fifteen.
Gareth is a supreme egotist, yet he can discuss the vanity of actors
dispassionately. That is because his egotism is intense interest, not
bombast. It has that same quality of detachment that characterizes Gareth
himself. He is concerned, mightily delighted, with the mechanism of his
being. He is bored when you turn the talk toward other things. But it is
always as one might be toward a hobby, a thing apart. He seems to hold
himself in continual perspective, as though he were regarding a cherished
portrait not quite complete. A stroke of the brush here, an erasure there,
to heighten an effect. His self-concern is that.
For vanity that is unthinking, intolerant, he has contempt, mingled with
compassion.
"I was that way myself once," he said, "--until they kicked it out of
me. Now, the only thing I think of is this." He rubbed his fingers
together, as though he were massaging crisp greenbacks. "That's all."
But that is merely a pleasurable conceit. Where his art is concerned,
he is ruthless. The question of Peter Pan came up. I ran over a list of
famous stars, all of them feminine, who had been variously nominated for the
part. He rejected them all, summarily. A woman, he says, should not be
permitted to play it. It is only the Maude Adams tradition that justifies
even the consideration of women. He believes that he should play the part!
I think he is quite impersonal about it. He knows his capacity. He
knows his Barrie. And Peter Pan, say what you will, WAS a boy. Gareth could
implant that touch of eeriness that Barrie intended. The women could implant
only--femininity. One excepts, always, Mary Pickford.
It was Mrs. Fiske who saw in Gareth's performance in "Moloch," a stage
play, the reawakening of genius upon the stage, in the new generation.
In the main, he seems bored. One thinks inevitably of Dorian Gray, and
of the lesser known Lord Reggie in Hichens' "The Green Carnation." Indeed,
he is of the identical age of the latter, with much of that astonishing
beauty of youth, that hint of mad scarlet things, about him. He fails in
brilliance, but that is perhaps because he has no Esmee to echo.
He remarked suddenly--suddenness is his conversation's most effective
riposte--that his religion was Episcopalian.
"Are you sincere in it?" I asked. It seemed the most likely way to
evoke interest from a dry subject.
The question seemed to surprise Gareth. He is content with making
statements, not explaining them. Explanations, I imagine, tire him.
He stared at me a moment before replying.
"Yes," he said, finally, hitching again at his glasses. Then, after a
pause, "--as sincere as I am in anything." He smiled faintly.
"Have you met Peter, the Man of God?" he asked, again suddenly.
I knew of him--a long-haired hermit, perpetually barefoot; clothed to
meet the conventions, but no further. He did odd jobs about the studios.
"I met him yesterday," said Gareth. "He said to me, 'Ah, me bhye, I can
see health in ye, and clane livin'. White lights there be about ye. Make
good, clane pictures, me bhye, and the Lord'll bless ye.' He was standing
with his shovel like a staff--in a wagon of manure." Gareth paused. "The
Man of God, with his feet in a manure pile," he finished, staring at me
absently.
"You speak in parables!" I murmured.
But already his mind was wandering off at another tangent.
One senses, through all the shifting fronts that Gareth presents, the
immutable scarlet thread of artistry. That is the supreme fact of his being.
It is perhaps too soon to call it genius. To me, Gareth is a receptive
rather than a creative artist. He is vitalized by impressions. He seems to
be the more beautiful echo of some far-sounding reality. One might liken him
to a composite, containing infinite portraitures of men, with the power to
bring any one of them to the fore at will. Passive, with no one phase
predominant, he is a riddle.
I should not be surprised one day to see his beautiful face of a boy
drop off, a mask. Beneath one might find--anything.
He is a grotesque mantled with divinity--the divinity of youth.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
October 1922
PICTURES AND PICTUREGOER
Meet Sentimental Tommy
I first gazed on Gareth Hughes over a littered kitchen table, and
although his laughing brown eyes did not at that moment suggest his quixotic
temperament, it was his surroundings that betrayed his fanciful appreciation
of life. He had imbued even domesticity with an unconventional suggestion of
artistry. Blue walls and orange curtains, white enameled stoves and an
eighteenth-century bow-legged table, supporting a twentieth-century rolling-
pin, certainly have a touch of fantasy in a kitchen. That was Gareth's
atonement to the arts for straying into the mundane affairs of cookery.
Cookery is one of his favourite hobbies, but he insists on cooking cabbages
or cakes amidst an atmosphere of futuristic effects.
He wiped his long, tapering fingers free from baking-powder and replaced
a glinting amethyst ring on his right hand as a preliminary to shaking hands.
Baking-powder and barbaric jewelry, this boy with the credulous, eager
expression of youth was a continual contradiction.
"I had that made for 'Sentimental Tommy,'" he explained noticing my
scrutiny of the huge jewel.
He eyed it himself with the proud expression of a boy displaying a
particularly coveted specimen of glass marble.
Then the swift, transient suggestion of irresponsible youth passed.
He became the grave, thoughtful philosopher.
"I often think that there is such a thing as reincarnation, and that I
in some former life was a priest," he said, with a shy smile. "I love jewels
that suggest resplendent altar-cloths and stained-glass windows. One day I
shall fit up one of my rooms as a cloister."
It was easy to realise why Cecil B. De Mille called Gareth Hughes the
"young idealist." Yet there is nothing solid or tangible in this description
of the puzzling Metro "star." For Gareth's mind flits from one mood to
another like a butterfly. He is a swift series of character studies, each
one, despite its transience, being very convincing whilst it pleases him to
adopt each individual pose.
"What would you like me to talk about?" he asked suddenly, as we left
the blue-and-orange kitchen and passed along the corridor that led to his
den, with its tiger-skin rugs and silk-covered divans.
The question struck me as being humorous.
It would have been as sensible to have asked Don Quixote to have
postponed his tilting at windmills until he had assimilated the riding-school
technique of a lancers' sergeant-major, as to endeavour to bind Gareth Hughes
down to any detailed line of thought.
"Your past experiences on the films and your future ambitions,"
I suggested, with the realisation that whatever I said could not stem his
swift, ever-changing flow of conversation and direct it into any special
channels.
He had forgotten his question almost as soon as he had spoken.
Crossing to a gleaming piano of polished mahogany, he commenced to play
softly.
He chattered as he played, for this versatile young man has no need to
concentrate on a musical score. He never learned music, but played naturally
from his earliest boyhood.
"Do you recognise this old Welsh air?" he said. "I learned it when I
was a boy living in the Welsh hills where I was born. That was twenty-three
years ago."
As his fingers strayed over the keys he became reminiscent, and told me
that acting first claimed him when he was fourteen and he appeared on the
stage in Wales. Then, with the Welsh Players, he went to London, and later
to New York. In those days his prominent stage successes were "Little Miss
Llewellyn," "The Joneses," "Dark Rosaelln," and "The Change."
He was serious when he spoke with pride of having created the role of
the young son in J. M. Barrie's "The New Word." A moment later his thoughts
flashed off at a tangent.
"Have you seen J. M. Barrie?" he asked suddenly, his customary shy smile
breaking into a happy grin.
I confessed that I had not met the famous creator of Peter Pan, the
immortal character whose lovable spirit of boyhood is so largely reflected in
Gareth Hughes.
"Then you must meet him now," said my mercurial host, emitting a shrill
whistle.
A shaggy-coated Airedale lumbered into the room and thrust a friendly
damp nose into my hand.
Gareth explained that he called this intelligent canine "Barrie"
because, despite the fact that he played in many film pictures before he
starred in 'Sentimental Tommy,' he always regards the latter picture as his
first big chance on the silver sheet.
When "Barrie" had comfortably curled himself up on Gareth's immaculate
knees, my host told me of his early days before fame came to him in the early
twenties, and a fortune sufficient to build his picturesque house in the
wooded Laurel Canyon of the Californian hills and to house two splendid cars
in the garage adjacent to his home.
Gareth has the power to forcibly convey to his listeners his mood of the
moment, just as he radiates emotions from the screen.
The wistfulness in his searching brown eyes inspired my sympathy as he
related how he had known poverty in his early days in New York.
"I have known what it is to starve in a garret," he confessed.
I looked at his carefully polished pink finger-nails, his modish,
immaculate clothes that revealed the sybarite, and realised that beneath his
effervescent nature there was strength of purpose that had lifted him to
success, despite the despair that privations must have brought to one so
intolerant of poverty.
"At first I played small parts in the film studios, but I was always
confident that fame would one day come my way. My first real screen part was
in 'Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch,' with Marguerite Clark; and 'Eyes of
Youth,' in which I played with that incomparable artiste, Clara Kimball
Young, was another early milestone in my career."
"Your favourite screen artiste?" I queried, his enthusiasm in the
direction of "Clara Kimball Young" inspiring my trend of thought.
"Ben Turpin," said Gareth unhesitatingly.
I gasped and studied his serious face for the flicker of humour that I
felt sure would be there. He was joking, I imagined.
His next sentence swept aside my doubts.
"I think he's great," enthused Gareth, bending forward in his chair,
with disastrous results to the somnolent "Barrie," who fell a disgruntled
heap on to the onyx and silver carpet.
"I went to see 'A Small Town Idol' seven times because he was so funny
in it. Yet I am not in love with pictures generally. 'Sentimental Tommy' is
the only one in which I appear that I have seen from beginning to end."
I settled back on the orange cushions of Gareth's comfortable divan, and
let the probing art of the interviewer look after itself. This irrepressible
host of mine was far more entertaining and surprising when he was left alone
to go his own way.
"Lasky's sent for me to come to New York to star in 'Sentimental
Tommy,'" he told me. "At that time I was Viola Dana's leading man, and I
played in 'A Chorus Girl's Romance,' 'Life's Darn Funny,' and 'The Lure of
Youth.'
"'Garments of Truth' and 'The Hunch' followed after that, and shortly I
am starting work on 'Kick In' with May McAvoy, Betty Compson, and Bert
Lytell.
"May McAvoy and I are great friends. We both had our big chance
together in 'Sentimental Tommy,' and that has inspired a happy comradeship
between us."
"They say," I interrupted, "that you are a woman hater."
Gareth raised his slim hands in laughing protest.
"Never. In fact," he added in a stage whisper, "I am searching for a
wife. I am sufficiently an idealist to know that marriage is a great
influence for success in a man's life if he finds the real happiness that the
right woman can bring."
I appreciated the desire for secrecy that his lowered tones suggested.
Were the world to know that handsome, lovable Gareth Hughes was looking for a
wife, he would be swamped by letters from hopeful applicants for the coveted
position.
"If I have any difference with the opposite sex," admitted Gareth,
offering me a gold-tipped cigarette on the side of which were his initials
fantastically engraved in gold, "it is my belief that the role of Peter Pan
should never be played by a woman. The portrayal of appealing, lovable youth
should essentially be the task of a man. And I am going to run the risk of
appearing to be biased by saying that I am very anxious to play that part
myself either on the stage or screen."
"The stage," I re-echoed. "You think that you are likely to return to
the theatre?"
Gareth lapsed into yet another of his changing moods, and momentarily
the mask of eager boyishness fell from his face and he became the
inscrutable, serious, professional man of the world with blaseness reflected
in his big brown eyes.
"Soon I expect to go back," he admitted. "Arnold Daly has asked me to
play Hamlet, and I am anxious to play David Copperfield, Dorian Gray, and
Pendennis."
That he is a child of intellect is even more accentuated when Gareth
Hughes's finely chiseled features are at rest in his fleeting serious
moments. He has the arresting, reflective eyes of the thinker. His high,
broad forehead, with its perfect curve from his nose to where his thick brown
hair sweeps across his brow, suggests the fertile, creative brain that lies
beneath.
His lithe and graceful figure has that broadness of shoulders and
slender waist that, in addition to suggesting youth, enables him to wear the
most Bohemian dress with distinction. Even in the rags of a tramp in his
clever characterisation in 'The Hunter' he had a certain grace of movement
and gesture.
Yet Gareth confessed that he seldom indulges in athletics to keep
himself fit.
"Keeping fit for me means being able to work unceasingly for sixteen
hours at a stretch. I can't do it if I wear myself out completely at sports.
I find the mental stimulation of great literature more necessary," he
soliloquised.
Before I left Gareth took me around his quaint garden, and showed me the
enclosed porch with its silent pool of floating water-lilies where he sits
and evolves his new screen characterisations.
It is here that he has read William Shakespeare until he has a
surprising knowledge of the works of the famous bard.
To one so highly strung and receptive where the influence of individuals
and surroundings is concerned, it is not surprising that Gareth Hughes admits
that he is very affected by the "atmosphere" of a scene when he is playing
before the cameras.
"The quaint picturesque village of 'Thrums,' which was especially built
for the filming of 'Sentimental Tommy,' was a great inspiration to me,"
Gareth told me. "Somehow, it seemed to have caught the spirit of the story,
and to reflect the simple, unaffected outlook of the human Scottish
characters figuring in Barrie's book. I felt myself living in the part that
I was playing, with the quaint tiled cottages and narrow, twisted streets of
Thrums as a background.
"It may sound like idealism," added Gareth, with sudden seriousness in
his fine eyes; "but I believe that the great improvement of recent years in
the artistic creation of studio sets has helped to uplift the acting of the
artistes. It is possible to throw yourself enthusiastically into a part, and
enact characters that are not part of one's real personality, if you are
acting amidst realistic scenic effects on the production of which any amount
of time and labour has been expended.
"I am a devout admirer of those pioneers of the pictures who
enthusiastically mimed before crude painted canvas on wooden platforms with
only the sun to illuminate the scene. Such conditions must have been very
trying, and they had not the inspiration of lavish scenery and flattering arc-
lamps."
Then Gareth betrayed a secret which may to some extent help to explain
his puzzling temperament.
"Do you think that I am affected?" he asked, with embarrassing
directness, studying my face as he spoke.
I protested politely against any such suggestion.
"I am afraid that I lay myself open to such criticism," went on Gareth,
slowly; "for I admit that I go on acting after I have left the studios.
It is a theory of mine that an actor should continue to perfect his art by
continually pretending to be someone other than his real self.
"For example," he said suddenly, with a characteristic smile playing
round his mobile mouth, "at the present moment I confess that I am really
worried and a little frightened at being interviewed. I am just trying to
act the part of a motion-picture star who is a little bored at having to
grant an interview, but is submitting to it only for the benefit of the
picturegoers who wish to hear something about him.
"Since you arrived, I have kept saying to myself: 'Gareth, you're an
important personage, and people will be hanging on your words.'
"You see," added my youthful host with naive frankness, "I have been
convincing myself that it is true for the time being, so that I can talk to
you and forget my usual shrinking, timid self.
"I play at being an actor all the time. I am sure that has given me a
deeper sympathy with the characters that I have portrayed on the screen.
I feel that way over 'Sentimental Tommy' and 'Lester Crope' in 'Garments of
Truth'--both character-studies of youngsters who, through force of
circumstances, were obliged to act parts outside of themselves."
Gareth Hughes is a remarkably serious young man when he commences to
delve beneath the surface of things. Psychology, I discovered, was his
favourite study, and it provided considerable recreation for him during the
frequent occasions when he went into quiet retirement with his beloved books.
"Books will not teach you a great deal about human nature," Gareth told
me; "you have to study the real thing if you want to reflect on the screen
human nature as it really is.
"I spent days and the best part of several nights down in the 'Bowery'
quarter of New York not long ago studying the underworld and its human
derelicts.
"I was assimilating knowledge for my screen portrayal of the part of the
tramp in my film play, 'The Hunter.' Of course, I was not dressed like
this," he laughed, indicating his immaculately cut morning suit. "An old-
clothes shop provided me with the requisite shabby costume and two weeks'
growth of beard completed my disguise.
"I wore the actual clothes in which I masqueraded in 'The Hunter.' That
was probably the most economical suit that I have ever appeared in before the
cameras."
Gareth Hughes has a peculiar gift for one possessed of an imaginative,
creative mind. He has the power to assimilate detail and store it in his
brain, despite his vivid mentality which flits from widely diverse subjects
with such lack of effort. He suggests the unusual combination of a shrewd
business man and an imaginative dreamer.
He talked of his visit of Mexico, to which country he journeyed for the
filming of 'Stay Home,' and his vivid descriptions of the South American
landscape and wonderful sunsets and clear warm nights were those of an
artist, word-painting on a mental canvas. Yet he retained remarkably
insignificant details in his mind concerning that visit. He told me how he
stole into a Mission Church where Mass was in progress. He described
minutely the picturesque costumes of the women worshippers with handkerchiefs
on their heads, and he dwelt on the bizarre appearance of the altar boy
devoid of vestments, and who was barefooted and attired in a pair of ragged
breeches and a torn shirt.
He had found time to study human-beings, as is his custom wherever he
goes, although in Mexico he was filming hard all day, and studying the script
of a later picture, 'Don't Write Letters,' when away from the studios.
With wistfulness in his brown eyes, Gareth talked of Wales, his native
country, as we sipped tea brought to us by a kindly faced housekeeper who
"mothers" her irrepressible master, although it was confided to me that she
had only been in his service for a few weeks. For Gareth has the refreshing
appeal of youth in his likable personality, and those who have felt the
influence of his whimsical, lovable character, which he so effectively
radiates from the screen, will understand the feelings of that motherly
housekeeper.
Gareth was born in Llanelly, and he has all the typical love of the
Welshman for his own country. He is inordinately proud of the fact that
Lloyd George came from Wales.
Soon he is going to re-visit the land of his fathers, when his long-
delayed vacation becomes a reality.
The practical jokers of the Metro studios revel in circulating rumours
that Gareth is getting married. And because, with the wealth that he has
amassed from the stage and screen, and his extremely attractive looks, there
are always many of the fair sex ready to take an interest in any intriguing
matrimonial rumours that are associated with one of the most eligible
bachelors in the moving-picture colony.
"It was actually reported that I was honeymooning at the Samarkand
Hotel, the hostelry for newly-weds at Santa Barbara, California," Gareth
related to me, with a chuckle.
"I happened to be staying there for a few days, and some humourist took
the opportunity of pulling off a practical joke.
"My director swallowed it, and wired me for confirmation of the report.
I wired back: 'Not honeymooning. Have a fine moon, but no honey.'"
It may be that Gareth has some hidden romance which he has not revealed
to the curious world. When he talks of the happiness of an ideal marriage,
and confesses that often he is very lonely in his bachelor walk of life, one
wonders if somewhere away in the Welsh hills there is a memory which he
carries in his heart.
"I would like to be married in Wales if I ever did contemplate
matrimony," he confessed, and there was a far-away, reflective expression in
his big brown eyes as he spoke.
When Gareth insisted that I should come with him and inspect the stables
adjacent to his picturesque house, where he keeps his mounts, including his
first favourite, "Dynamite," who has appeared with him on the screen, I saw
another phase of the youthful star's character. He is devoted to horses, and
spends much of his spare time in the saddle. But it is the extraordinary
understanding that he has of his animals, and the almost affectionate manner
in which they press their noses against his delicate hands, that leaves a
greater impression than his obvious enthusiasm where horseflesh is concerned.
I left him gazing thoughtfully at the shadowed pool, softly singing the
lilting words of a new Broadway foxtrot. Shakespeare and Jazz, cooking and
cloisters--I reflected as I made my way back down Gareth's wooded drive.
Would anyone ever understand this lovable, human will-o'-the-wisp from the
Welsh hills?
*****************************************************************************
*****************************************************************************
James Kirkwood
James Kirkwood directed nine of Mary Miles Minter's films in 1916-17.
Although she was only 14 or 15 years old at the time, they had a romantic
relationship. According to testimony given by Mary's sister, Kirkwood had
seduced and impregnated Mary, resulting in an abortion. The incident
undoubtedly contributed to Charlotte Shelby's very protective attitude toward
Mary during the subsequent years when Mary was infatuated with Taylor.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
November 1915
Pearl Gaddis
MOTION PICTURE
Chats with the Players:
James Kirkwood, of the Famous Players Company
I approached my interview with James Kirkwood in fear and trembling.
Perhaps he would be stiff and haughty; perhaps he didn't want to be
interviewed at all. And again--most breath-taking "perhaps" of all--perhaps
he wasn't in. I must admit that the last "perhaps" carried with it a tiny
bit of relief.
The telephone girl at the Seminole Hotel is a very much "down-stage"
young person, and when I meekly asked for Mr. Kirkwood, she pushed up her
back-hair, smoothed her belt and shifted her gum, the while she looked me
over haughtily. I felt absolutely certain she could see that one of my coat-
buttons was loose and that I was wearing flowers to hide it. Then she
condescended to call a bell-boy.
"Boy," she said languidly, with the air of one who has tasted the joys
of life and found them stale, "page Mr. Kirkwood."
I escaped to the reception-room, where I regained my breath. A very
tall, very fair-haired man, his lean, strong face sunburned to a hue that
deepened the blue of his eyes, came toward me from the elevator.
"Now, tell me what you want me to say," he laughed, "and I'll say it."
"Where were you born, then?" I asked.
"Grand Rapids, Michigan--and was educated there," he returned promptly.
"How long have you been in Motion Pictures?" came next.
"Six years," he said, a light of reminiscence in his pleasant, blue
eyes. "Biograph first; then with Universal where I directed King Baggot;
then to Famous Players, is my travelog. I directed the first Klaw and
Erlanger-Biograph picture ever put on, 'Classmates.' The first Famous
Players' picture that I directed was 'The Eagle's Mate,' in which I also
played the lead opposite Mary Pickford."
And here I considered it perfectly proper to present a leading question.
"Mr. Kirkwood, do you prefer to direct a person who is experienced and
does things his own way, or would you rather take a person who is
inexperienced, but who has talent and who can be molded to your own ways?"
He stared at me for a moment, rather surprised, I think, before
replying.
"Well, of course, any director prefers a plastic actor. But it makes no
difference to me whether they come to me from the stage with nation-wide
reputations, or whether they come from the ranks of 'extras,' as long as they
do as I want them to do. Take Mary Pickford, for instance. She placed
herself entirely in my hands; and even when she made suggestions that I did
not accept, she went right ahead, doing things as I wanted them done. Same
way with Miss Dawn, who is playing the lead in my present picture, and with
Henry Walthall. There can be but one director in a company."
And since he had mentioned my three favorite actors, I begged for more
about them.
"I consider Henry Walthall one of the finest actors in the business
today," he resumed. "Of course he isn't perhaps so great a--how shall I say
it?--matinee idol as some, but that is because he is not a business man, not
a publicity man. He never refuses to play a part because he thinks it might
detract from his popularity. Any part that makes him think, that makes him
work, delights him, no matter whether it is the part of a deep-dyed villain,
a weak, self-willed sort of a person, or a hero. Any one can go on the
screen, make a good appearance, do a few heroic things and be acclaimed a
hero and an idol. But it takes art to interpret the parts that Henry
Walthall does."
"And do you prefer photoplays that deal with exterior, beautiful scenes,
to the elaborate, inside stuff that is causing such a furor now?"
"Well, yes, I do. Stories that deal with Nature in her wildest yet most
beautiful moods always interest me deeply. There's an inspiration about
doing outside production that is utterly lacking under the glare of the
'Cooper-Hewitts' in an inside studio."
"Which would you rather do, act or direct?" I demanded, impertinently,
perhaps.
"That's a very difficult question to answer," he mused slowly.
"Of course I like to direct, but I also like to act. I'll tell you what I
don't like--both to act and direct. I don't particularly care for that; you
can't devote enough time to either one to be absolutely satisfied."
"You have had unlimited experience in both--please tell me do you think
motion pictures will ever outshine the stage?"
"Never!" with decision. "They each occupy places so entirely different
that they will never clash. Of course, when pictures first came they were
considered something of a 'freak,' and people smiled and wondered how long
they would last. But slowly they have gained a foothold, and recently have
made such rapid strides that your question is quite pertinent. But I think
that acting on the stage is an art, like poetry, sculpture and so on, and
that it will never give way to pictures. Acting for pictures is just as much
an art, but so different that there's never a fear of their clashing, to the
detriment of one or the other. It is said sometimes that moving pictures
have, by their cheapness, won away from the theater the poorer, uneducated
class of people who could not afford the theater. But this is wrong.
Everybody goes to moving pictures, and everybody enjoys them.
"I was on the stage," he reminisced, "for ten years before going into
pictures, and when I deserted it a number of my friends thought that I was
giving up my career. Most of them are members of the Players Club, and are
now interested in the very art that they once despised."
I would have liked to have stayed longer, but time was flying and busy
directors mustn't be kept from their work. But I must say that James
Kirkwood is one of the most interesting men that I have ever had the pleasure
of meeting.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
June 3, 1916
REEL LIFE
Mutual Engages Famous Producer
James Kirkwood, one of the ablest of photoplay directors, has signed a
long-term contract with the American Film Company, Inc. He leaves this week
for the American studios at Santa Barbara, Cal., where he will begin the
direction of a series of feature photoplays, starring Mary Miles Minter. The
contract negotiations were conducted by John R. Freuler, president of the
Mutual Film Corporation.
Mr. Kirkwood's experience includes the production of some of the most
notable features in the history of photoplay manufacturing in America.
He began directing pictures seven years ago, after a long and successful
career on the speaking stage.
Kirkwood went on the stage in his early youth. He appeared in many
notable productions, among them with Henry Miller in "The Great Divide," with
Blanche Bates in "The Girl of the Golden West," and for his last appearance
on Broadway, six years ago, in "The Turning Point," at the Hackett Theatre.
Mr. Kirkwood was kidnapped into the pictures by David Wark Griffith and
Harry Solter, when they were working at the old Biograph studios in
Fourteenth Street, New York City. Mr. Kirkwood recalled the incident the
other day.
"They were making a stupendous one-reel feature," remarked Mr. Kirkwood.
"It was entitled 'The Lonely Villa.' The cast included Mary Pickford, Owen
Moore, David Miles and Arthur Johnson. I happened into the studio to see a
friend working there when Solter spied me and insisted on using me in one
scene. He handed me a crowbar and said:
"'Here! Break into this room and rescue the imperiled heroine.'
"I broke through a flock of doors and carried the limp and languishing
form of Mary Pickford to safety, with all of the due gallantry of the motion
picture hero. That was my introduction to pictures I didn't give much
thought to the incident at the time, but it resulted in my being called as a
director with the Biograph Company. Shortly thereafter I was concerned with
some of the first of the so-called feature pictures done in America."
As a director for the Biograph, Mr. Kirkwood put out the picture
versions of a number of the Klaw and Erlanger productions, principal among
them "Classmates," in which Blanche Sweet, Dorothy Gish, Henry Walthall,
Lionel Barrymore and Gertrude Robinson appeared. Mr. Kirkwood also directed
"Strongheart," in which Blanche Sweet and Henry Walthall were starred.
Mr. Kirkwood directed ten pictures for the Famous Players, featuring
Mary Pickford, and playing important roles in these productions, among them
"The Eagle's Mate," "Behind the Scenes," "The Dawn of Tomorrow," and "Rags."
He also directed "The Gangsters of New York," a highly successful feature
production, made at the Reliance studios and released by the Mutual Film
Corporation. As a director for the Reliance Mr. Kirkwood for one year made
two one-reel pictures a week, which is something of a record in high pressure
direction.
Mr. Kirkwood, as a director, places great emphasis on the importance of
the scenario, and he expresses it as his conviction that while the public is
tired of stunts, it never will tire of the motion picture's interpretation of
real human experience.
He holds the motion picture to be a fundamental form of art expression,
with the future as definitely assured as the future of sculpture, painting,
music and the drama.
"There seems to be a good deal of talk lately," says Mr. Kirkwood,
"concerning the scarcity of motion picture stories and a great deal written
about it in the papers. Now, as far as I know they always have been scarce,
and to the best of my belief they always will be scarce. Trained writers are
now taking up the work of writing photoplays, but even with more of them
doing so, good stories will be scarce. Good stories are scarce in magazines,
in books and in plays, so why shouldn't they be in motion pictures where they
must have all the qualities which make them desirable as stories for type
publication and the especial quality for visualization.
"It is said that the flood of books and play adaptations will soon be
exhausted, and it cannot be exhausted too soon for me, for I think few of
them lend themselves to the screen. When they do they have to stand a lot of
manhandling and twisting about by the scenario editors and directors.
"The camera is just as merciless to the inconsistent story as it is to
the human face, betraying its weaknesses as quickly.
"I believe that the most desirable sort of play today is modern and
American, either a swift moving drama with strong, human characterizations,
or a comedy devoid of extravagance, its incidents growing out of the foibles
of human nature, rather than produced by one of the characters smiting
another with what is commonly called a slapstick.
"You will have observed, of course, that the sophisticated play fills a
large place on the screen nowadays. The audience is supposed to be, and
undoubtedly is, fond of evening dress, ballrooms, conservatories and so on.
I like that sort of thing, but don't confine myself to it. Virginia,
Broadway, Newport or Colorado are good enough for me, if they are supported
by virile American drama, or truly original and humorous American comedy.
Photoplays are made to be human."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
December 1920
Truman B. Handy
MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC
Kirkwood Confesses!
There's an intangible something to James Kirkwood which you simply have
to describe as "personality." Not that it is expressed either in a loud
voice or a jazz shirt, after the fashion of some of our other screen leading
men, but, nevertheless, it's all there.
Kirkwood has come back to the screen after quite a lengthy directorial
absence. The traditional grease-paint and handsome-hero stuff is a relief,
he says, after the strenuous duties of a megaphone manipulator, and hereafter
he's quite satisfied to leave the direction end of the movie game to whatever
gentlemen may be disposed to shoulder its burdens.
The solid comfort enjoyed only by that variety of the human species
known as motion picture stars--the solid comfort relative to having even the
minutest speck of dust brushed from the coat-tail of one's suit by a fourth-
assistant property boy, was being enjoyed by Kirkwood when I cornered him in
a brilliantly lighted cubby-hole of a stage at Ince's, where he is working in
a Glaum picture.
Kirkwood enjoyed himself ostensibly. Oh, so ostensibly! In fact, as
ostensibly as only one who is accustomed to the joys of an actorial existence
can possibly enjoy himself. Languidly he held up one arm while "props" with
a whiskbroom hacked away at a dust smear. A broad smile o'erspread the
Kirkwood countenance.
"Oh," he almost yawned, "I'm so lazy. So darned lazy! Too lazy, even,
to doll myself up. And very happy! This is the penalty one pays for being a
cinema hero. You mess up and get messed up by the villain and return
somewhere off-stage to get renovated. Not that you ever expect 'props' to
get off all the grime. That's out of the question. 'Props' is 'props,' and
he'll un-spot you enough so that the dear fans won't think you are sporting
sartorial novelties."
"This leading-man life has the directorial existence skinned a mile?" I
again ventured.
"You said it! No more directing for me!"
Kirkwood, a few years back, was one of the coterie of popular matinee
favorites--when he played opposite Mary Pickford in "Behind the Scenes."
Just at the zenith of his popularity he gave his admirers a heartache by
leaving them flat to direct. For a long time we heard nothing of him,
further than that he would produce this picture or that, until Allan Dwan
lured him back to the grease-paint in "The Luck of the Irish."
In the picture he played a whole-hearted, manly young Irishman.
Kirkwood, being both manly and whole-hearted, made the characterization a
page from the book of Life. He had a fight or two every twenty-five feet,
and by the time that the picture was half over, you commenced to wonder
whether God and human vitality would pull him through.
Fighting is one of his pastimes de luxe. Back in the old Biograph days
he used to astonish them all by his ability in a screen free-for-all, and now
that he's staged a regular film "come-back," they still continue to cast him
as the chief purveyor of this black-and-blue drama.
"I've had something like four hundred brawls before the camera," he
remarked, "and I've never put anybody permanently out of commission. Screen
fighting's a fine art. You have to hit your opponent so you won't crack
either his make-up or his jaw."
Kirkwood, both in his make-up and off-stage, is not the type of the
matinee man. His hair is naturally curly--not marcelled. His teeth are all
his own, and he has enough muscle to beat up a cop should he want to.
Furthermore, when you're talking to him, he seems to forget that James
Kirkwood is alive. He never mentions himself, and it is only with the utmost
difficulty that he is made to say anything at all about his work.
And, girls, he's just a wee bit bashful! In fact, he blushed--visibly,
even under his make-up--when someone asked him if he'd ever been proposed to.
Of course, he has; what good-looking screen actor hasn't?
But it's nothing to brag about, he adds. Rather, it's an honor to be
proud of, and he wishes it made known that he would like to oblige each of
the fairest fair ones, only--
That "only" is a definite reason, which it is not my province to
disclose. Suffice it to say that James, being a dutiful son, supports his
mother.
Kirkwood insists that he likes to do either dramatic or comedy parts.
To his great credit his versatility enables him to do one as well as the
other.
"What are you best in?" I asked.
"Why ask me?" he rejoins. "Why ask any actor? How does he know what
he's best suited for?"
Once, when he was very young, a stage manager had him don crepe whiskers
and play old men in their seventies. Later, he did foreign character parts.
It used to be his ambition to be a heavy.
There's something about the expression of his eyes that made me think
that, perhaps, he might be a good he-vamp. Whereupon I broach the subject
and--am at once squelched.
"He vamp?" he snorted. "Nothing doing!"
Some day, when he has amassed a neat little bank account from the silent
drama, Kirkwood is going to "settle down" on a comfortable farm. Now,
he says, he gets tired of the sophistication of the stage, exactly as a
banker wearies of the humdrum existence of the clearing house. It's
reversing the English on your own life, as it were; everybody gets bored
doing his own particular line of work--or, rather, tires of his world.
Kirkwood literally got dragged onto the screen. Griffith, working at
the Biograph in New York, saw him one day when he visited some friends at the
studio and prevailed upon him to accept a part. Previously he had been with
Blanche Bates on the stage under Belasco's management in "The Girl of the
Golden West," with Henry Miller and Margaret Anglin in "The Great Divide" and
with other stars of the legitimate, and was playing the male lead in the
stage version of "Behind the Scenes" when he strolled into the studio.
When he made his screen debut, the majority of the now-known "pioneers"
were "extras" at the studio, making five dollars a day. He started in a
picture with Marion Leonard and Mary Pickford--went on before the camera for
the first time in a "retake." After playing every variety of part in one-
and two-reelers, he was at length given Marion Leonard to direct, and
subsequently, after careers with Reliance, Mutual, Universal, Fox and
American, he affiliated with Famous Players, first as a leading man, later as
a director, where he swayed the destinies of such stars as Jack Barrymore in
"The Lost Bridegroom"; Hazel Dawn in a number of plays, and Florence Reed in
a series, among which was "The Struggle Everlasting."
Shortly afterward, when Jack Pickford began to make pictures for First
National, Kirkwood became his director. He wrote "In Wrong" for Mary's
little brother and directed him in it. Later, he held the megaphone for
"Bill Apperson's Boy."
It was then Allen Dwan came along, and Jim joined him, later going to
play opposite Louise Glaum in "The Girl Who Dared"; and now Kirkwood will
permanently remain in his make-up, because, in the final analysis, he likes
to think that there is a bigger field in acting.
"But," I concluded, "I thought I heard you say you're lazy."
"Oh, yes," he responded. "I guess I am. But I couldn't go without
working--not if somebody offered me a cool million to take life easy--exactly
as I like to take it."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
April 1921
Aline Carter
MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC
The Kirkwood "Come-Back"
James Kirkwood has reversed the usual order of things for, after
attaining the megaphone and distinguishing himself as a director of merit,
he has returned to his first love--acting. Probably he is still in an active
stage of development, for he is displaying a remarkable versatility that
makes him an interesting figure in the motion picture world.
Between scenes at the Lasky studio in Hollywood, where Mr. Kirkwood is
creating the principal role in George Melford's big production, "The Money
Master," based on Sir Gilbert Parker's well-known novel, we talked of his
past and present, and speculated on his future career.
He has a charming personality, genuine and sincere, but uncomfortably
modest for, though he talks freely on many subjects, he is most reticent
about James Kirkwood, and it required much maneuvering to fulfill the demands
of an interview.
His voice is particularly well modulated, pitched very low and he speaks
slowly. In fact, he never seems hurried or rushed and, in this day of
frantic haste, this quality sets him apart as rather unusual.
Besides this, Mr. Kirkwood possesses many physical characteristics that
particularly fit him for the handsome hero roles that have been his forte
since returning to the screen as an actor. A tall, well-knit body and
splendid physique show him to be an athlete, and he gives one the feeling of
a tremendous reserve force and an unquenchable vitality. His brown hair has
a natural curl that is the envy of every ingenue about the studios, while the
merry twinkle in his blue eyes wins admirers at every turn.
For his role of the stern French Canadian, Jean Jacques Barbille,
he wears a short velvet coat, corduroy trousers and heavy service shoes, with
a crowning camouflage consisting of a full beard which he annexes with the
aid of a spry young barber who hastens to pat and smooth this work of art
before each scene.
"I only hope this make-up doesn't start an avalanche of bearded roles,"
laughed Mr. Kirkwood. "After I finished 'The Luck of the Irish,' every
director who had an Irish part saw me in it and one producer even wanted me
to do a series of Irish pictures. Nothing doing. I do not want to confine
myself to one character nor establish a screen personality that I would be
forced to live up to. I enjoy portraying various roles too much for that.
It's like knowing many different people, and just as you may like some of
your acquaintances better than others, so do you prefer some of your screen
characters to others.
"I do not care what the part is, so long as it offers a character
delineation that is real," he continued, in his slow, deliberate tones. "You
can play a role that is absolutely despicable yet appreciate and often admire
it, if it is strong and runs true to type. I am always fascinated with each
new role, but you know the old saying about the latest love being the
greatest. Well, that's the way I feel about this role of Jean Jacques. It's
a corker and the most interesting I have had, offering an opportunity for
strong acting. That is what we are always hoping for, a part that will sweep
us off our feet and, incidentally, the audience as well, and in which we
excel all our previous efforts."
"Ready, Mr. Kirkwood!" sang out a voice, and taking a final survey of
the precious whiskers in a small mirror held before him by his faithful
Japanese valet, he began rehearsing a dramatic scene in which he does a
remarkable bit of sustained acting while alone on the set. With
Mr. Melford's quiet command, "Camera," a definite sense of tenseness gripped
us all as we watched the tragedy of Jean's broken heart revealed to the
camera while the plaintive sob of the violins playing, "Land of the Sky-Blue
Water," supplied an appropriate accompaniment.
With the final click everyone relaxed and the vivid Elinor Glyn, swathed
in a gorgeous fur coat, suggestive of the tiger skin she made famous, left us
for the next set where a society tea was being staged for Cecil deMille's all
star picture, "Five Kisses."
Mr. Kirkwood says that directing has developed and broadened his
viewpoint and all the conceit was knocked out of him when he once more began
to act.
"I recall how I used to wonder why on earth an actor couldn't play a
role as he knew it should be played," he confessed. "That's the rub, that's
what we are all trying to learn, but believe me, it isn't as easy as it often
appears to the director. Just as I would prescribe a period of acting for
every director, so would I have actors learn the directing angle as a means
of enlarging their own comprehension of the requirements.
Jimmy Kirkwood was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His dramatic career
presents a remarkable record of constancy, for from the moment he made up his
mind to become an actor he never wavered. This determination came while he
was still a small boy and was the result of seeing Modjeska and Booth in a
series of Shakespearian dramas, the memory of which still thrills him.
From this time on he studied, worked and dreamed to this end and though
he knew no one connected with the theater in any way, he celebrated his
twentieth birthday by setting forth for New York to make his fortune on the
stage.
His father had planned that he should go to West Point, but pushing
aside his desires he loyally stood by his son in his stage dreams, probably
believing they would prove but a passing fancy.
His first experience was in repertoire at eight dollars a week, but
slowly, step by step, he forged his way ahead and the last four years of his
stage life were spent with those two greatest dramatic directors, Henry
Miller and David Belasco, to whose influence, he declares, he owes much.
His screen career began at the old Biograph studio, where he became one
of that now famous group of film stars. When Griffith came to Los Angeles
seven years ago, Mr. Kirkwood came along as his director and his experiences
included directing for Reliance, Universal, Fox and Famous Players. After
the armistice, he swayed the destiny of Jack Pickford through his four
pictures for First National, and it was while at work on these that Allan
Dwan induced him to don the grease paint once again and play the leading role
of the production, "The Luck of the Irish."
"I enjoyed every foot of that picture," and Mr. Kirkwood became quietly
enthusiastic. "Believe me, we staged some hot fights in it and it seems like
old times, for fights were my specialty in those first days when action was
the main thing."
Following this, he played opposite Louise Glaum in "The Girl Who Dared,"
going back to Dwan for "The Scoffers." The made "The Forbidden Thing," "Man,
Woman, Marriage," with Dorothy Phillips, and played the star role in Micky
Neilan's latest production, "Bob Hampton of Placer."
No more directing for him, declares Mr. Kirkwood. He believes the
acting game offers him a greater opportunity, and, too, he loves it. Some
day he wants to return to the stage with a "whopper of a role," but he is
loyal to motion pictures and thinks they are a powerful influence in the
right direction. He believes that film stories should deal with life as it
really is, while lending romance and beauty to the commonplace and bringing
out the lesson that an inexorable law demands payment for all wrong, even to
the last farthing, and the only happiness comes in doing right.
Mr. Kirkwood keeps house and, being a bachelor, has to depend on
Japanese servants to steer the domestic bark. He is busy writing a script
for himself, a morbid sort of thing dealing with heredity and spiritualism,
though he makes the concession of a happy ending for the two lovers. He says
he is having a beautiful time writing and tearing up his manuscript, so there
is really no telling into what it will evolve.
"It's a modest effort," he grinned, cheerfully. "I only play three
roles and, of course, the best ones."
His pleasures consist of attending the theater and seeing all the
pictures as they are released, for he admits he is an ardent "movie" fan.
He is fond of reading, Shakespeare and Dickens being his favorite authors,
and he loves music.
Every summer he leases a cottage at Ocean Park, where he takes his swim
and a run to the beach each morning before going to the studio. Of course,
he rides, dances, plays golf and tennis, and he dreams of some day owning a
cattle ranch with horses, dogs and cats!
The most characteristic remark James Kirkwood made during our entire
chat came in answer to my question as to his future ambitions. Promptly and
without affectation he replied: "I am trying to learn to act. When I do that
I shall feel I have reached my highest goal."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
October 1921
Kenneth Curley
MOTION PICTURE
With Measured Tread
In the sonorous deliberation of James Kirkwood's voice lies the key to
the whole man. Its deep resonance is measured, slow, like the tone of a
great bell. It is mellow and smooth, with not a harsh note. And when one,
once accustomed to it, begins to notice James Kirkwood himself, there is in
his every move, the slow gesture of a hand, the turn of his head, the same
rhythmical purpose. It is not calculation. Of that I am sure. The man
seems quite without pose or pretense. It is merely an innate quality of his.
One likes him immediately.
After playing for some time with Allan Dwan, and later with Marshall
Neilan, he is now with Lasky. It was there, at the Hollywood studio, that I
talked with him, up in his cement dressing-room.
He was dressed immaculately in evening clothes. I was surprised by the
light blue of his eyes, a steady, penetrating blue blue that, but for the
warmth of his smile, might be termed cold. He stood, I imagined, over six
feet. He appeared somewhat younger than on the screen, slenderer.
He had made no attempt to lighten the white gloom of the dressing-room,
into which he had just moved. There were only the two chairs and the
dressing-table. Upon it, amongst the litter of make-up materials, lay three
boxes of cigarettes, all of different brands. He helped himself to them
alternately as the interview progressed, as though with them he was measuring
off its advance.
We talked of the weather, of course. Everyone does in California when
it rains. They say apologetically, "How unusual!" James Kirkwood refused
apology and instead assured me earnestly, challengingly, that it WAS unusual.
I, recalling the three weeks of chilly, unremitting rain, agreed politely--
and doubtfully.
James Kirkwood is to be a star. Only a week or two lay between him and
the hour when he would sign his name on the dotted line, with Mr. Lasky at
his shoulder, nodding approval.
"But I have told them," he said slowly, "that I will not sign unless it
is understood that I am not to be starred in program pictures only. They are
deadly. No one is big enough to carry a season of them. Unless I am to have
an occasional big production I shall not sign."
He flicked his cigarette.
"A good deal depends upon the way my last feature picture, 'A Wise
Fool,' goes with the public. They think here on the lot that it is a great
production, but I'll not be satisfied until the public returns its verdict."
He blew a thoughtful cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
"There are several other things--tempting offers--that I should like to
consider but," he set one leg slowly across the other, "I have seen so many
independent producers go under! I am almost persuaded that a big
organization behind one is the better policy."
He helped himself from the largest of the three boxes of cigarettes.
"I would like," he went on, having got the cigarette going comfortably,
"I would like to do 'Othello' for the screen, playing both characters,
Othello and Iago. There is very little conflict between the two. I don't
want to do it just for the questionable glory of playing two roles. These
two are so different in themselves, both such appealing parts to me in a
character sense, that I merely want to do them for what there is in each of
them."
We talked so, seriously, throughout the hour. There was little of humor
or sparkle apparent in him. I would have gone to my typewriter picturing him
as a pleasant, rather heavy gentleman, had I not encountered Tom Gallery that
evening. He, in his enthusiasm, painted quite a different portrait.
"Kirkwood's fifty-fifty!" is the way he put it. "People think often
that he's very silent and reserved. He is, I suppose on first acquaintance--
and when he first gets up in the morning. He'll come to the studio, sleepy
and quiet, and walk around with his hands in his pockets, speaking to no one.
And then something 'll hit you an awful crack on the back and let loose a
terrific yell in your ears. It's Kirkwood! He's just wakened up! He's one
of the best scouts in the game."
It was Tom, too--he played with him in a Neilan production--who told me
that while he was a director, Kirkwood had given Micky Neilan his first
chance in pictures.
"Sure," said Tom. "Somebody, a friend of Kirkwood's, sent Neilan to him
with a letter which read, 'This kid seems to have promise. Give him a
chance.' Kirkwood put him in a small part and let it go at that. But Neilan
didn't. He kept rushing back after every scene with a 'Say, Mr. Kirkwood,
why don't you make this scene this way?' or 'This would be a great idea to
use in this scene, Mr. Kirkwood.' It ended when Kirkwood, bellowing his
rage, told him to get out. 'If you think you know so much about it,' he
said, 'go home and write a story.' The next day Neilan was back with his
story. Later, Kirkwood put it on. Oh, he's fifty-fifty."
It is interesting that, after James Kirkwood made his unusual step from
directing back to acting, Marshall Neilan, by that time an independent
producer, used him in his picture, "Bob Hampton of Placer." Kirkwood
explained his return to make-up in a few words:
"I always wanted to act," he said. "I was really forced into directing
by circumstances. And things didn't go particularly well. When the chance
came to go with Allan Dwan as leading man, I went. I've been acting ever
since."
We discussed the various productions of the year, the German pictures,
"The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse," and one or two others.
"I don't know," said Kirkwood deliberately, "but I should rank 'The Four
Horsemen' as the greatest picture that has ever been made."
Isn't that a rather big statement?" I suggested.
"Yes, it is. I have read several extremely adverse criticisms.
I recall that Herbert Howe in particular was denunciatory. But in spite of
him and of others, and of my first doubt, I think I'll let the statement
stand. I think the picture was much better than the book."
I didn't carry the argument further. There were several anticipations
that I wanted to discuss.
That he has confidence in the permanency of his work here in California
is evidenced by the fact that he has taken a house for a year down on the
Pacific, on the beach between Venice and Playa Del Rey, one of the rare
stretches where the odor of hot dogs is not in the air and the landscapes are
not cluttered with piers.
In the undeniable strength of the man, his unconsciously studied
movements, his poise and quiet assurance, one realizes a personality that
will probably grace the screen for many seasons. And, if it be possible,
each year will find his skill on the increase, his art more mellowed. He is
the sort of man who constantly strives--and inevitably achieves. He will
progress deliberately, surely--with measured tread.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
October 29, 1922
Louella Parsons
NEW YORK TELEGRAPH
While still under the spell of "The Fool," I met James Kirkwood. I saw
not the movie hero of a hundred film thrillers, but the earnest young
assistant rector who tried to live according to the teachings of Christ and
almost landed himself in the insane asylum. I had heard much about "The
Fool" before it ever reached Broadway. But Helen Pollock's enthusiasm over
her father's finest play seemed mild after seeing with my own eyes the result
of Channing Pollock's thoughtful work. "The Fool" is the sort of play that
is written once in a generation. It lifts you right out of your every-day
humdrum existence and inspires you to try and bring a little more love and
charity into your dealings with your fellow men.
James Kirkwood in his characterization of Gilchrist presents this
message of life and truth, which is better than any sermon I ever heard.
It seemed when first I met Mr. Kirkwood in his dressing room at the theatre
that he belonged in a totally different atmosphere. That is what the play
did to me. It did the same for him, for he admits that he comes more and
more under the spell of Gilchrist at each performance.
Mr. Kirkwood has been identified with motion pictures for so long that
his success in "The Fool" is in a way a motion picture triumph. He as well
as his friends were dubious as to his reception in a serious play. The
attitude of people being "once a movie hero--always a movie hero." But
strangely enough this wasn't held against Mr. Kirkwood. In fact his motion
picture career wasn't as much as mentioned.
Suffering with a heavy cold, Mr. Kirkwood was doing his best to nurse
his voice so he wouldn't fail Channing Pollock.
"Yesterday, before the opening," said Mr. Kirkwood, "I wouldn't have
cared if I had lost my voice. I was so frightened I thought an automobile
that almost bore me down would have done a great favor to Mr. Pollock if it
had struck me. I was hungry, but I couldn't eat. I ordered dinner, but I
didn't touch a mouthful. I was in a sort of a daze, a stupor, all day.
Mr. Pollock had been so fine I didn't want to disappoint him and coming back
to the stage after an absence of ten years takes Herculean courage, but today
I feel better. I shouldn't want an automobile to run me down."
Mr. Kirkwood's return to the stage is the result of serious thought.
First as a director of Mary Pickford and other famous stars he earned an
enormous salary and then later as leading man in many of the big pictures of
the year he increased that weekly envelope until at the time he accepted a
part in "The Fool" he was making enough to be classed with the rich people in
the industry.
"I had several offers from stage producers," said Mr. Kirkwood, "but
nothing that appealed to me. It seemed the essence of foolishness to give up
my remunerative motion picture work for a stage part that did not promise
either reward in money or fame. One producer wanted to sign me up with the
promise that he would find something for me. His idea was to send me out to
all the small towns and bank on my popularity on the screen, not caring what
sort of a play I had. Naturally such an offer did not appeal to me and I had
practically given up all thought of the stage until Mr. Pollock asked me to
read "The Fool." After reading it there wasn't money enough in all the world
to tempt me to give up the chance to play Gilchrist. The stage, of course,
doesn't pay what the screen does, but do you know honestly money never enters
my head. I'm in love with my part and I believe I would have played in 'The
Fool' if I hadn't received one penny. It's the finest role I ever had."
Gilchrist is to James Kirkwood, from his own conversation, what
Hawthorne's "Great Stone Face" was to the boy who unconsciously grew like it,
as he gazed at its image day after day.
"I am not religious," he said, "at least not according to the popular
idea of it. But it's a funny thing, this play gives something to every one.
It inspires even those who never give a thought to the desire to be better or
to improve themselves. It makes one think what a small thing money is and
how great is character, and the opportunity to help other people--and how
simple it all is if we only make the effort.
"I talk about what it does to me," he went on. "I really do not count.
It is the effect it has on the people who see it. A priest came to
Mr. Pollock on the opening night and said: 'That play is too good for the
theatre. It should be played in the church.' Mr. Pollock thanked him and
said it was much better to have it played in the theatre because then it
reached more people who probably needed it. Another priest wired Mr. Pollock
and said: 'God bless you for having written such a play.'"
A curious thing about James Kirkwood. He simply refused to talk about
himself. His whole conversation was Channing Pollock and "The Fool."
"Do you know," he asked me, "that it took Mr. Pollock ten years to write
this play? He never expected it would be a success. He wrote it because he
had it in his heart. One of the critics said he wrote what he feared might
be over the heads of the people, and instead wrote right into their hearts."
While we were talking one of the members of the cast came and whispered
something in Mr. Kirkwood's ear:
"Tell her to wait," he said.
But I noticed he said the word wait very reluctantly. Could you blame
him--when it was Lila Lee? Miss Lee and Seena Owen occupied front seats at
the opening performance. The motion picture people with whom "our Jim" is
very popular feel a personal interest in this marvelous triumph scored by him
and by "The Fool." They cannot help but feel a certain pride in having one
of their clan associated with a play that brings so much mentally, morally
and spiritually to those who see it.
And because the whole company was waiting for rehearsal and Miss Lee was
beginning to show signs of impatience our interview ended. After seeing
Mr. Gilchrist on the stage I was a little afraid to meet him face to face.
But he measures up to the character. His greatest charm is his simplicity
and sincerity and he will spread the gospel of better living quite as
effectively and perhaps more interestingly and more dramatically than any
delivered from the pulpit.
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Full text searches of back issues can be done at http://www.etext.org/Zines/
or at http://www.silent-movies.com/search.html. For more information about
Taylor, see
WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991)
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