Hollywood (1938)

over. Sergeant O'Hara has been bitten. Inevitably, he comes down with Yellow Fever. Nurse Virginia Bruce and Doctor Lewis Stone, radiant over proving a great point, suddenly turn to the grim task of trying to save a hero's life. . . . Robert Montgomery, who for years was the screen's ideal playboy, is horribly convincing in this dramatic moment. Just as he scored so triumphantly in the weird film, Night Must Fall, again he turns serious in Yellow Jack, the Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer film version of the famous stage play. And that is the astonishing contradiction of the man. He is superb in both types of roles, and off the screen he can be equally versatile as a human being. ■ I talked with him soon after he finished this critical moment of Yellow Jack. Was he serious — in a mood inspired by such a performance? Well, let us see . . . "I've been a bit of a scientist myself since the start of this picture," Bob Montgomery said, in all seriousness. And I suddenly had visions of him working alongside scientists in a clean white laboratory, searching for new discoveries to help human beings. "Yes sir, I've had quite a project under my scrutiny. In fact, I designed a microscope of my own — a very unusual one — that I might study a type of alleged infection peculiar to our modern times." Whatever it was that the unpredictable Montgomery was going to say after that, was suddenly cut off when they called him back for another scene. It was out of sequence — that is, in the finished film this latest "take" will appear before the one I have just described for you. ■ The scene was supposed to be anything but funny. Bill Henry, playing the role of one of the martyrs to science down in that Cuban hell hole, has just collapsed, a victim of ^Yellow Jack. Natives and soldiers alike are alarmed. Perhaps they, too, will get Yellow Jack by contagion! In this scene Montgomery goes over to the prostrate figure of Bill Henry, picks him up without hesitation, and strides across the camp grounds with the latest victim of the disease. It is a moment of momentary heroism, revealing innate courage and strength, his ability to meet hidden danger. Psychological stuff, building toward that climactic moment when he, himself, falls victim of the disease. The cameras are all ready. Lights flare up. A make-up man walks over to Montgomery with a fly spray, squirts mineral oil on his face. On the film, it will look like sweat from the intolerable heat. Montgomery stands there while a last minute adjustment is made on the camera. Then the sound man calls, "Speed." That means film and sound are both going. Bob steps before the camera, stoops over to pick up Henry. He tugs. He tugs again, surprised, he lifts hard, and finally gets Henry's body over his shoulder. Funny a man of 165 pounds seems so heavy! Honest perspiration breaks out on Bob's face. But he hides the surprise and staggers off with his burden. AUGUST, 1938 Suddenly Bob's face portrays realization. It is not called for in the script. Bob staggers on another step or two, and then suddenly makes up his mind. Quite unexpectedly he gives a little lurch, and Bill Henry crashes to the floor with an awful thump. Anything softer than oak planking would have been splintered. And Bill Henry was wishing for something softer. As he hit the floor, the grin on his face disappeared magically — and out of his blouse tumbled hunks of heavy lead. One, two, three, they rolled out — and more. They must have weighed seventy pounds. Ruefully, Bill Henry found his little joke backfiring, with Bob Montgomery and everyone else roaring cheerfully as Bill got up, rubbing a couple of places gingerly. ■ And that's the way it continued to go on the set — always some ribbing to mitigate the grim drama of the film. As Bob came back to the subject of his research, I ought to have known what was coming! "This has been a desperate research I've been doing," Bob said without a smile. "If this microbe exists, it is a very deadly bug, indeed. "For the purpose of my discussion, I shall label this frightful disease Hollywooditis. It is an allegedly deadly result, revealed among allegedly great stars, produced by an allegedly murderous microbe. We will assume, for the moment, that the bug has not yet been isolated. I, of course, have held firmly to the assumption that it has never bitten me. In fact, I have never seriously believed in its existence. "The presence of a disease does not prove a microbe is there, too. A man may have the big head, but you cannot assume as a consequence that he is a bit buggy, too. "In this case one might say that a person comes to Hollywood, he becomes famous, and certain frightful things result. Why? Well, the man in the laboratory tries to find a theory and then prove it. So I formulated one, too. I assumed that all actors are bitten first by an often-discussed microbe — the bug for acting. In itself it seemed to be a deadly creature. But does this bug also give you Hollywooditis? "In my own sacred laboratory of thought, I built a new type of ultra-microscope. I began a desperate search. I examined every alleged case of Holly wooditis I could find, but in no case could I isolate the microbe. ■ "After great research I concluded that Hollywooditis, if the disease really did exist, was a psychological reflection peculiar to the unusual condition of being famous. "Let's take the sad case of Mr. X, assuming he is a great star. Perhaps people say he has 'Gone Hollywood.' Chief symptoms are head swellings, brain reduction. He doesn't speak when spoken to, with a lot of et ceteras, celery and bologna. "We take our star back to his home town for a moment. We tell him to act like he did in Hollywood. And what happens? He wants a new car and gets it. The town sees nothing wrong in that. He wears good clothes— and why not? He sparks with the girls. They love it. "But bring him back to Hollywood— and look out! He does everything wrong, my friend — even if he is acting just like he did back at home. He is under the scrutiny of a harsh, discerning world. He is heartily criticized along with the home town drunkard, the Einstein theory of relativity, and the Reorganization Bill. "In Hollywood, a great many things indicate the dread disease. Let a star buy and fly a plane — he's gone Hollywood, developed Hollywooditis. If he demands a pay raise or forgets to autograph some fan's book, his head has started to swell. If a star stays quietly at home in Hollywood, he's a darned recluse. If he goes out, he's trying to get publicity. If he dresses well, his money has warped his sense. If he doesn't, he's a tight-wad. If you aren't married, you ought to be to stifle rumors. If you are, they all say it won't last. "So, after all this careful study under my special microscope, I cannot help but conclude that these symptoms, developed elsewhere, are innocent enough. But here in Hollywood, they suddenly point to the lamented, dread disease of Hollywooditis. And all the time there isn't even an Irish microbe around." ■ Having thus concluded that it is all a state of mind, our eminent scientist, Mr. Montgomery, still has a cure for this imaginary ailment which does not exist. I shall allow him to continue, unmolested: "Critics without portfolio make good doctors if a star will only listen. Some movie fans are kind enough to pan an actor. I seem to have many considerate followers. "Some of the letters I get seem downright insulting, but boy, what a cure they are for this alleged Hollywood plague! A man couldn't ail for long with Hollywooditis if he read the comments that Uncle Sam brings in every day. And I'm glad to get the adverse remarks, because no man ever gets better through flattery. "I take those letters home at night, read them carefully, study the intelligent ones to discover my weaknesses which they are frank enough to point out. Some of those letters have had a profound effect. They are, perhaps, clinical diagnoses, aimed to save me from the microbe I claim does not exist. They have, I must admit, helped me in my career. ■ "Whenever I think I am getting somewhere— getting a little bit good, I get out those panning letters. A couple of them will deflate the worst ego. Usually I don't sleep that night, but at least I go to work the next morning with greater determination." So there you are. Bob Montgomery couldn't find the dread microbe of Hollywooditis. And he searched hard enough, at that. But perhaps his diagnosis is just as good — it's a state of mind. Behind Bob's humorous analysis, in any event, is something worth thinking about — something of value both to the stars in Hollywood, and the carping critics of the world. Right? 29