Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Jul 1929)

50 Photo by Hench'ickson Mr. Brook is friendly in a natural manner, yet is reserved. A Plea for Privacy Clive Brook finds that movie actors are made to feel freakish when pointed out in a crowd, and believes that it is because they are not respected. Alma Tailed OF course I may as well admit at the. start that these English actors always go over big with me. Don't tell the Ku Klux Klan, but every time I interview an English star I suddenly, after these many years, get all impressionable. So perhaps you won't pay any attention to me when I tell you that Clive Brook is charming. He twinkles, with a gay, rather subtle sense of humor. He has that beautiful English accent — our language as it should be spoken. He has a delightfully deep voice — you've probably heard him already in a talkie ; if you haven't, you soon will. He's good looking, without that "pretty boy" perfection of feature. He has just enough flaws in his appearance to make him interesting. Pale-blond eyelashes, for example, which, on a girl, would undoubtedly be drenched with mascara. He wears just the suggestion of side burns, not very noticeable when you see him in person, but which on the screen — if Mr. Brook will pardon my saying so — give him rather an English butler look. Clive Brook has the rare faculty of being both dignified and immediately friendly. He's reticent about himself, but at the same time easy to talk to. In other words, you can make friends with him instantly, without his becoming "actor" and telling you earnestly of his aspirations and his art. Most actors are friendly toward interviewers, but with a studied friendliness. You suspect, in their manner, just a dash of, "You're going to write something about me, so I must be careful what I say." They talk glibly about themselves, always keeping in mind just what they wish the public to know. So it's a joy to meet one like Clive Brook, who does none of that. His inherent reticence makes him prefer to keep his real personality private. It embarrasses him dreadfully when he is recognized and fussed over. Like any man of taste, he dislikes being conspicuous. But don't think for a moment that he's high-hat, or ritzy ; it's only that attention makes him uncomfortable — makes him feel like a circus freak. "I was talking about this," he said in his deep voice, "to Adolphe Menjou before I came to New York. Of course he's recognized much more readily than I am, being much better known, and more distinctive looking. In Hollywood no one pays any attention to us ; they're used to seeing film people. But in other parts of the country it's rather a problem. "Menjou suggested that I wear dark glasses as a sort of disguise. So I wore them to 'The Scandals.' And down in the smoking room six people came up for autographs, so I threw the glasses away. "It must be," he said, "that movie actors lack dignity." "Only that you're in the public eye," I protested. "No, that's not altogether it. So are stage people. But no one treats them like circus freaks, making them feel foolish and conspicuous. Men in other professions are allowed to have some private life, without being constantly intruded upon by strangers. I sincerely believe that, by becoming a movie actor, one somehow forfeits the respect of others." Don't get the idea from this that Mr. Brook is standoffish ; he isn't. On the contrary, he's very straightforward, quite without pose. And he appreciates the fact that the fans are responsible for his position on the screen. But here's an actor's side of the story. He is very flattered the first time every one turns to look at him when he enters a restaurant. And the second time, and the third. But along about the one-hundredth time, he begins to wish he might order pig's knuckles and sauer