Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Jul 1929)

A FisK Out of Water 19 He has made innumerable references to me of the vast differences between these two modes of living — the one he left behind, and the one he is now trying to understand. He has drawn a great array of distinctions between them, by saying over and over the things he would say good-by to when he returns to Sweden, and also what he would leave behind if he returned to America. I will try to give them to you as he gave them to me. When he leaves America on his three-month trip home, he will say good-by to speed and commotion ; to the maddening pulse of the modern generation; good-by to the "friends" whose last names he has never heard ; to crowds of money-mad college graduates ; to Prohibition. Good-by to the town where every one invites you up to his place ; to the town where he has never heard any one speak of having a home. Good-by to loneliness for real friends ; for true, sincere handshakes ; good-by to slang. Farewell to many fine actors ; to talkies and the microphone ; good-by to sham. He will go to the land of the midnight sun, the land of natural blond girls, and tall, blue-eyed boys. To the home of peace and contentment ; the country where schools are made for study and theaters for art. Where the poignant memories of his struggle on the stage are brought before him again in a carnival of realism. It's good-by to boulevards not a hundred feet wide ; to popcorn stands and orangejuice counters. Au revoir to newness; to abruptness and wisecracks he couldn't quite understand ; to billboards, to publicity, to spotlights. Good-by to back-slappers and yes-men ; to extras in dress suits eating at quick-lunch counters ; and to speed and uncontrolled enthusiasm. Back to the land of moss-covered stones ; the home of quiet ; the unuttered praise given to success. He is on his way to long winters and short summers ; to northern lights and stillness, and fishermen in the never-tobe-forgotten twilight of the morning. It's good-by to the town where stars are made overnight ; to hennaed hair and peroxide ; to thin ankles, silken clad ; to lips with too much rouge ; to exposed knees and bare backs. Good-by to sex appeal. His ship will be headed for the land of modesty, of shy glances and slow laughter. To a place where the permanency of the marriage relation is revered ; where men walk to work in overalls ; and where women are more home-loving and simple. These are some of the things Nils has spoken of to me during our short friendship. Almost always over a cup of steaming coffee from the ever-present coffeepot. Coffee and cakes — that's Swedish enough for you, isn't it ? I've purposely left out some of his observations. They were entirely too poetic to withstand the titter of laughter they would evoke. And don't get the impression that those few I have set down were uttered by a male who isn't all man. He talks like an artist, looks like a poet, and boxes like a champion. That is the only way in which he resembles Valentino. Both played romantic lovers on the screen, and each preferred the manly art of a good knock-downand-drag-out for their exercise. As I said before, don't judge him too hastily. Nils Asther's books on philosophy and psychology are a miniature collection in themselves. He keeps himself as hard as steel. f He is typically Old World — slim, graceful, and as hard as steel. He wants no quarter and gives none. He is the only person I know, belonging even remotely to the picture business, who doesn't seek publicity. Not that he isn't quick to admit that it is a necessary part of a star's life — but he just doesn't like it. He is the only actor I ever knew who wouldn't stay in Hollywood as long as he could get a contract, and the only one I ever heard say anything to the effect that he wouldn't want to be starred, unless he deserved it by long, hard work and good acting. Nils Asther lives so modestly that I think his fan mail would shrink from a description of his home life. The nooks and shelves of his living room and den are filled with books. Not expensively bound, as one generally sees in Hollywood, not unopened and uncut volumes, but cardboard-covered books printed on cheap paper. And they have been read and reread. His books on philosophy and psychology are a miniature collection in themselves, in several modern languages. Getting along with one servant has never caused him any sleepless nights. Of course, it must be admitted that there are few of Hollywood's higher-ups who Continued on page 94