suggestion about hitching your wagon to a star is fraught with certain
dangers. I had harnessed the Goldwyn Company to that steed, and my ride
had been anything but a smooth one. Is it any wonder, indeed, that
after the various disappointments attending my exploitation of “big
names,” I began to distrust the wisdom of my course? Gradually there
grow up within me a belief that the public was tiring of the star and
a corresponding conviction that the emphasis of production should be
placed upon the story rather than upon the player. In the poverty of
screen drama lay, so I felt, the weakness of our industry, and the one
correction of this weakness which suggested itself to me was a closer
co-operation between author and picture-producer.
In 1919 this idea eventuated in an organization for which I must claim
the virtue of absolute novelty. This organisation, under the name of
“The Eminent Authors,” included such popular American writers as Rex
Beach, who assisted me in the development of my literary fusion; Mrs.
Gertrude Atherton, Mary Roberts Rinehart, Rupert Hughes, Basil King,
Gouverneur Morris, and Leroy Scott. Under the terms of my contract
with each individual of the group the author was to come to Hollywood
to write in direct co-operation with the Goldwyn studios.
So great was the publicity attending this movement for the production
of more inspired screen dramas that the Famous Players-Lasky Company
followed our lead by organising a similar literary service. Whereas,
however, we had been content with local talent, our competitors
imported their authors from Europe. Elinor Glyn, Sir Gilbert Parker,
Edward Knoblock, Arnold Bennett--these were the high spots in the rival
camp. When you consider that Gene Stratton-Porter and Zane Grey had
both been signed up by other California producers and that ultimately
Kathleen Norris, Rita Weiman, and Somerset Maugham joined the cohorts
of the pen, you will see why Hollywood was temporarily transformed from
a picture colony to a picture-book colony.
Among all the literary names which have impressed Hollywood tradition
that of Elinor Glyn is undoubtedly the most spectacular. One evening
before dining at the Fairbanks home Douglas took me out for a walk
through his beautiful grounds. As we came to the famous swimming-pool
I caught sight of a woman seated on one of the stone benches and
gazing pensively into the water. The evening sun caught in reddish
hair--whether these tresses are a gift or an acquirement is often a
theme of speculation--and in girlish folds of sea-green chiffon. And as
the woman lifted her eyes I saw that these, too, were sea-green.
“That’s Elinor Glyn,” whispered Fairbanks; “she’s dining with us
to-night.”
In a spirit of great curiosity I began my conversation with the
Circe-looking woman to whom sun and pool and sea-green chiffon lent an
atmosphere of which she herself was perhaps not altogether unconscious.
She was exceedingly gracious and cordial, but as she talked I could not
help making a few inward observations on her manner of speaking. She
has the trick, so I found, of convincing you that her voice is some
far-away, mysterious visitant of which she herself supplies only a
humble and temporary instrument of escape.
For example, when she remarked, “Isn’t this pool beautiful?” it sounded
like some lonely Buddha’s prayer echoing down through the ages from the
far heights of Tibet.
After the dinner was over our host and hostess offered their customary
method of release from “the cares that infest the day.” Pictures
were turned on, and in this case the selection happened to be Mrs.
Glyn’s story, “Her Husband’s Trademark,” in which Gloria Swanson took
the leading rôle. I can truthfully say that never in my life have I
enjoyed any film so heartily. This was due, not to the character of the
performance, but to the remarks which garnished its entire unfoldment.
“See that frock,” whispered the author eagerly as, sitting beside me,
she pointed to one of Gloria’s creations; “I designed that gown.”
Another second and she was calling attention to the finish of a certain
setting. “Do you see that? An exact copy of my rooms in London. Do you
suppose they would have known how to arrange a gentlewoman’s rooms if
it hadn’t been for me?”
But there were other times when this robust major of
self-congratulation shifted to a minor chord. “Ah, how terrible,
how shocking!” I heard her moan several times. “All wrong, all
wrong--they’ve ruined that scene. I might have known it. I was away
that day, you see.”
Verily that evening the “silent drama” renounced its salient
characteristic!
Apropos of this incident, it may be interesting to learn that Mrs. Glyn
took the greatest personal interest in Miss Swanson. True, her first
comment upon this screen celebrity, a comment quoted uproariously by
many of the picture colony, indicated that she found Gloria lacking in
that subtlety which she considered essential for the portrayal of her
heroines. If that comment was made and not merely attributed to the
author, her later attitude to Miss Swanson would seem to reflect the
joy of any creator in the challenge offered by apparent intractability
of material. Be that as it may, I am informed that Mrs. Glyn started in
with a right good-will upon the task of guiding the young actress in
her literary taste, her clothes, her deportment, and her speech.
During that Summer when I first met Mrs. Glyn I had a house on the
beach in California. Here I did a great deal of entertaining, and among
these entertainments a dinner which I gave for Nina Wilcox Putnam
represents the enthusiasm with which Hollywood took up the game of
authors. For Elinor was only one of the many writers who mingled that
evening with the luminaries of screen and stage. That she was not
the most retiring of her craft is a statement bound to be accepted
immediately by those familiar with her talent for being a dinner-guest.
As a matter of fact, Mrs. Glyn is one of the greatest social assets
I ever knew. Not only may she be relied upon always to wear the most
exquisite of gowns, but her narratives and her comments usually keep a
whole roomful of people in an uproar of mirth.
That evening I discovered that she is an ardent believer in the
transmigration of souls, and her theories regarding the former bodily
tenements of some of the individuals present caused constant flurries
of laughter. I think her psychic inquests began with Mrs. Kathleen
Norris. For a long time she fixed upon this celebrated author a gaze
which informed the rest of us how completely she had retired into
realms where we could never follow her. Then abruptly, with the
familiar effect of a voice which had journeyed far, far before it chose
Elinor Glyn for its channel, she said:
“Now I know--centuries ago you were a man--strong, valiant, resolute.
I see you leading your armies--bravely you led a forlorn hope. Perhaps
at the last they turned against you--they stabbed you, who had brought
them to the heights of victory.”
We had hardly convalesced from this revelation of Mrs. Norris’s
masculine and unfortunate past when the psychic Boy Scout began to turn
up old trails in Charlie Chaplin’s consciousness.
“An old, old soul,” she pronounced, emerging from the same sort of
trance which had redeemed Mrs. Norris’s former earthly abode from the
mists of obscurity. “You--you were a princess. Thousands of years
ago you reigned over many in some far Eastern land. You loved the music
played by your slaves on their stringed instruments, the soft scent of
flowers brought to you by the winds, the moonlight as it fell on the
oars of your galleys----”
[Illustration: SAMUEL GOLDWYN AND SEVEN FAMOUS AUTHORS HE WON TO THE
SCREEN
Left to right standing: Leroy Scott, Gouverneur
Morris, Samuel Goldwyn, Rupert Hughes.
Sitting: Gertrude Atherton, Katharine
Newlin Burt, Mary Roberts Rinehart, and
Rita Weiman.
]
[Illustration: GOUVERNEUR MORRIS
One of the noted authors won to the screen by Mr. Goldwyn.]
Charlie may have had a number of similar tastes back in that remote
incarnation of his, but I don’t think they were brought to light. For
the roars of merriment which greeted this presentment stilled the
voice of the seer. To this laughter Charlie himself contributed most
heartily. In fact, I don’t believe any one ever laughed at Chaplin
quite so hard as Chaplin laughed that evening at Elinor Glyn.
Regarding the introduction of these two an amusing story is current
in California. It is reported that on this occasion Mrs. Glyn said to
the comedian, “Dear, dear, so this is Charlie Chaplin! Do you know you
don’t look nearly so funny as I thought you would?” To this reassuring
message Chaplin is said to have responded promptly, “Neither do you.”
To go back to my dinner. After Mrs. Glyn had concluded her report
upon previous abodes of the ego, our conversation drifted toward the
profession engrossing our present incarnations. Pictures! The topic
was started, I believe, by Miss Elsie Ferguson, who at that time was
working with the Famous Players-Lasky Company. To her announcement
that she did not like her leading man of the moment, Mrs. Glyn turned a
swiftly sympathetic ear.
“My dear,” said she, “what do they know about soul, about art, about
poetry? Blind, absolutely blind! The other day I took the loveliest
young man to see them--he had the most beautiful eyes--but they didn’t
see it--they didn’t appreciate it.”
This verdict regarding my competitors’ callousness to the finer issues
of life is not to be taken too seriously. For Mrs. Glyn was then in the
midst of that period of disillusionment which seems almost inevitable
in the career of the author who tries to adapt his manuscripts to the
screen. Out of the depths of my own experience I can speak of the
friction which arises among author, producer, star, and director.
I thought that I had encountered some eminent difficulties before I
organised the Eminent Authors; but when the Goldwyn Company introduced
this literary faction in the fold, I was to look back on other days
as being comparatively placid. This fact does not reflect upon the
personalities of those writers whom we engaged. Socially, each one
of them is a delightful being; but when the tradition of the pen ran
athwart the tradition of the screen I am bound to say that I suffered
considerably from the impact.
The great trouble with the usual author is that he approaches the
camera with some fixed literary ideal and he can not compromise with
the motion-picture view-point. He does not realise that a page of Henry
James prose, leading through the finest shades of human consciousness,
is absolutely lost on the screen, a medium which demands first of all
tangible drama, the elementary interaction between person and person
or person and circumstance. This attitude brought many of the writers
whom I had assembled into almost immediate conflict with our scenario
department, and I was constantly being called upon to hear the tale
of woe regarding some title that had been changed or some awfully
important situation which had either been left out entirely or else
altered in such a way as to ruin the literary conception.
Nor did this end the difficulty. For often the author and the star
became hopelessly entangled in similar controversies. This latter
situation is deftly suggested by Will Rogers when he says, “I was on
the lot the last year of the reign of the Eminent Authors and, while
I helped spoil none of their stories, I made various ones for the
near-Eminents and lost the friendship of every living one of whose
stories I made. So now,” adds Will, “I have made Washington Irving’s
_Ichabod Crane_. I am off all living authors’ works--me for the dead
ones!”
Undoubtedly the warfare which so frequently wages between star and
author is to be attributed many times to the inflexibility and
prejudice of the former. Thus I remember hearing Miss Rita Weiman tell
of an interchange of thought between Nazimova and herself regarding the
production of a certain story in which the one figured as author, the
other as actress.
“I hope the time is coming,” concluded Nazimova haughtily, “when the
great actress may find great stories.”
“Ah, yes,” rejoined Miss Weiman, “I hope, too, the time is coming when
the star may write her own stories.”
In contrast to this attitude of the Russian actress is the humility
which Norma Talmadge displayed in her interpretations of Benavente’s
“The Passion Flower.” I have been told that everybody, including her
husband and her director, advised against the screen preservation of
the drama’s tragic end. They urged upon her the fact that the picture
audience demands a happy ending and that she would lose thousands of
dollars by adhering to the story. By all such practical arguments she
was absolutely unaffected.
“No,” said she firmly, “this is the story of the greatest living
playwright. He knew what he wanted to say and who am I to spoil a great
man’s story?”
Among the writers whom the Goldwyn Company brought to Hollywood Rupert
Hughes was notably successful. His story of “The Old Nest,” grossed
our organization nearly a million dollars, and since the production
of this tale he has been actively engaged on our lot as both author
and director. For both Mr. Hughes and his wife I feel a warmth of
friendship quite independent of the profitableness of our business
association, and some of the happiest hours of my life have been spent
in their home. They, together with Mr. and Mrs. Rex Beach, represent
two of my most valued associations.
Mr. Hughes’s success in photoplays is to be ascribed to his prompt
recognition of the gulf between those two channels of expression,
literature and screen, and to his determination to master both
the technicalities and spirit of the latter. In addition to this
receptiveness of mind he has a capacity for work which I have never
seen excelled. Many times I have known him to arrive in the studio
early in the morning, direct all day, go home that evening to work on
a scenario, and then, after perhaps a dinner or a dance, write several
chapters of his new novel.
Mrs. Glyn showed much the same zeal in her co-operation with the
Famous Players-Lasky Company. Unlike numerous authors who have invaded
Hollywood, she was not easily diverted from the set. So excessively did
she superintend every detail of production that “Grips” and “Props”
longed, so they say, for a more casual type of literary lady.
“She ain’t a bit like them other authoreens we’ve had around here,”
one of the manual assistants is reported to have grieved. “They’ll go
off and leave you alone. But she--sure an’ it’s twelve times this day
she’s had me move that one bloody bureau in the set and still she ain’t
satisfied.”
I have quoted Mrs. Glyn’s remark anent the “beautiful young man” in
whose behalf she had made such unavailing efforts with the Famous
Players-Lasky Company. From all I have heard this story represented
with her a habitual type of altruism. I am told that every now and
then while she was working in the studio she would approach some
good-looking chap whom perhaps she had never seen before.
“My dear boy,” she was likely to address him, “you’re really very
charming, you know. Now I want you to take the leading part in my new
story.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Glyn,” the other would falter, “but you see So-and-So
is already cast for that part.”
“Oh, what a shame!” would rejoin the author. “But surely you’ll take
the second part--in _my_ play?”
Torn between pleasure at this avidity of interest and the pang
inflicted upon any handsome actor by the supposition that he could
possibly appear in a secondary rôle, the Adonis of the hour would then
probably retreat to some lonely grotto where he could meditate upon the
embarrassment of great beauty.
In one of the most amazing encounters of beauty and the author, the
late Wallace Reid was cast for the leading part. Friends of Reid report
that one day while he was coming off the set he was hailed by Mrs. Glyn.
“My dear boy”--thus she is said to have greeted him--“you’re really
very wonderful to look at. And, besides, you know you have--It.”
“It?” Reid murmured confusedly, wondering perhaps what his press-agents
and admirers could possible have overlooked. “What do you mean, Mrs.
Glyn?”
“Oh, that is my word. It!” she repeated in that contralto voice which
soughs through Mrs. Glyn like the lonely wind through the pine-trees.
“Don’t you see, that one syllable expresses everything--all the
difference there is between people. You either have It or you haven’t.”
Reid was still considering himself in this new light of special
privilege when he noticed that the writer’s brows were puckered.
“Yes,” he heard her reflect after a moment of such pained scrutiny,
“you have It--but, ah, my dear boy--your boots and your hair! If I
could only send you to my London bootmaker and have some one wise cut
your hair!”
Although I do not vouch for the authenticity of this tale, I do say
Mrs. Glyn’s part in it is thoroughly consistent with several other
incidents of which I have first-hand knowledge. Does she really mean
such things or does she say them for effect? I myself believe that she
plans her personality quite as carefully as she does her stories. When,
for instance, arrayed in the most superb evening attire and accompanied
by the handsomest man she has been able to find in the assemblage, Mrs.
Glyn sweeps slowly through a ball-room; when she murmurs soulfully,
“Orange, orange, how I love it! Often I sit in a room by myself and
think orange. I fill my whole soul with its beautiful, warm rays--I
drink them down into my heart--ah, orange!”--then she is showing her
supreme ability, not only as the writer who can tell a popular tale,
but as the writer who knows how to get herself constantly before the
popular mind. I once said of her that she was a great showman, and
when she heard my comment she was exceedingly gratified.
But underneath all this pageantry of manner is a heart overflowing with
the warmest interest in her fellow beings. One of the waitresses at
the Hollywood Hotel, where Mrs. Glyn lived for some time, once said to
me, “Of all the people I ever waited on Mrs. Glyn was the nicest and
kindest and most considerate. I never knew her to be cross--not even at
breakfast.”
And, after all, the only trustworthy epitaph is composed by the person
who serves us our breakfast.
* * * * *
It was after this flock of authors had alighted in Hollywood that M.
Maurice Maeterlinck came to America. He brought with him the pretty
little wife who had supplanted in his affections Mlle. Georgette le
Blanc. Also, a lecture. Neither of these impedimenta prepossessed this
country in his favour. Most Americans were ranged solidly with Mlle.
le Blanc, abandoned at the peak of fame to which she had faithfully
encouraged the Belgian author. As to his lecture, the delivery of this
in English, a language of which M. Maeterlinck knew scarcely a word,
still lives in the memory of many New Yorkers who went to pray and
stayed to laugh.
In spite of the criticism attached to Maeterlinck’s visit to the
United States, there was so much publicity inherent in this criticism
that I felt the Goldwyn Company might benefit through a professional
association with the distinguished foreigner. So, arranging an
interview through M. Maeterlinck’s American manager, I had my first
talk with the visiting author in the Goldwyn’s Company’s New York
offices.
As he entered I was struck by the placidity of that rather large
face. It was round and calm as a lake on a still August day. All our
conversation was conducted through an interpreter, and in this manner I
gathered that M. Maeterlinck viewed the cinema with enthusiasm and was
confident that he would be able to convert his art to its uses.
“Very well, M. Maeterlinck,” responded I, “I am anxious that we should
procure exclusive rights to your works, and I am willing to make the
same contract with you that I have previously made with Mary Roberts
Rinehart.”
The Belgian lifted his eyebrows in childlike bewilderment. It was quite
evident that the name of our American novelist aroused no slumbering
chord of memory.
“The same then as Gertrude Atherton’s,” I ventured.
This effort at impressiveness failed as ignobly as my first. Indeed,
mention of all the writers we had assembled called from him only that
vacant smile, that politely groping gaze of a man being addressed in
Choctaw or Sanskrit.
It is sad but it is true that the eminence of our Eminent Authors had
never been detected by M. Maeterlinck. He had not heard of a single
name on our list.
“Very well, then,” I surrendered at last: “I mean I’ll give you ----
thousand dollars.”
And then at last M. Maeterlinck’s face beamed with intelligence. The
dollar was one contemporary American author with the works of which
he seemed thoroughly familiar. Indeed, I am compelled to record that
invariably in all our subsequent intercourse the utterance of this word
dollar acted very much as a pebble thrown upon that lake-like expanse
of countenance. It created widening circles of comprehension and cheer.
Apart from the work which we hoped M. Maeterlinck might do for us, we
featured him in a brilliant publicity scheme. We procured a special car
for him and on this we sent him and his pretty little wife speeding
to California. The verb used here is rather misleading. As a matter
of fact, the lingering element in his journey was the essence of our
calculation. For at every city and important town the special train
stopped and the populace was afforded a glimpse of the celebrated
author. Needless to say, the advertising which we obtained through the
news columns of papers in visited localities was quite overwhelming.
When M. Maeterlinck finally arrived at his destination his train of
thought proved even more halting than the one which had brought him.
From this latter, indeed, he never landed at all--not on the screen.
His first attempt at camera material revolved about a small boy with
blue feathers and, as I remember, a feather bed. While admitting the
importance of “trifles light as air,” the scenario department rejected
this absolutely.
“Write us a love-story, Monsieur,” suggested my associate, Mr. Lehr,
“You see for some reason or other the fairy-story has never been
popular on the screen.”
Mr. Lehr’s information, I may interpolate, is rooted in professional
fact. The screen adaptation of M. Maeterlinck’s most popular fairy-tale
was, for example, not a success. As for financial returns it was
certainly not the “blue bird for happiness.”
The foreign author thereupon set himself to a less fanciful theme. This
time he submitted a love-story, but alas! the type was anything but
censor-proof. When we called his attention to this flaw he looked at us
with a pained, bewildered, almost shocked expression.
“You ask me to write a love-story,” he remonstrated, “and then you
object because my hero or my heroine is married. Yet how can you write
about love when you have no triangle?”
And I don’t think we were ever quite successful in shaking him from
this Continental orthodoxy. I dare say he will always think of two
parallel lines as exceedingly provincial.
While he was in Hollywood M. Maeterlinck had a home with a tennis-court
in the rear. To this court clings one of the most cherished memories
of Hollywood, for on it frequently appeared Mme. Maeterlinck, and on
Mme. Maeterlinck always appeared, not a skirt, but bloomers. She is a
charming little dark thing, years younger than her husband, this Mme.
Maeterlinck. The pair seemed always very happy together, but one day
I heard something which opened up an inevitable vista before me. On
that day the American manager of the foreign author came to Mr. Lehr
and asked him if there was not some employment in the studio for Mme.
Maeterlinck.
“Why, no,” responded Mr. Lehr; “I can’t think of a thing she would do.”
“Not some little job?--it really doesn’t matter how small,” urged the
other.
“But, my dear fellow, why should the wife of M. Maeterlinck be wanting
any kind of a job?” questioned my associate, still untouched by this
new plea for Belgian relief. “Her husband is far from poor, you know.
Hasn’t he an estate and investments abroad--those and all the royalties
he is getting? Besides, of course, he have given him an advance on his
contract with us.”
The manager shrugged and then he smiled--a sapient smile. “To be sure.
But madame--well, there are times perhaps when she longs for a little
money of her own so she can snap her fingers at Monsieur.”