Motion Picture Classic (Jul-Dec 1930)

The Man You Hate To Love One would assume, however, that the suave Casanova of stage and screen would be at least a wee bit evil off the stage and screen. It isn't quite sporting of Mr. Sherman to be a decent sort. It really isn't. One might justifiably be pardoned for supposing his intentions to be just the least bit dishonorable. Not at all. I am afraid; I am very much afraid, that Mr. Sherman Means Well. To smash the Golden Calf of Mr. Sherman still more completely, I must even go further and state that all the probabilities point to the fact that he Does Well. To be evil seems to be the farthest thought from that adroit mind. Perhaps he has been. That sinister straw, at least, we may salvage from the wreck of Mr. Sherman. For he, too, has the flavor of one who has not spent his life in Sunday School. His ingenuous pleasure in ingenuous things may come, now, as a robust reaction from less wholesome fare. Who knows? He is not widely communicative. He prefers to discuss the technicalities of his job and the pleasure of working for Mr. Le Baron, rather than the precise shade of gray, black or white of his own wellmanicured soul. But viewing him as a mummer only, I still contend that we have the right to suppose his interests to lie amon^ the more decadent pleasures, his thrills to be spiced with the condiments of the erotic epicure. But viewed as a man, denuded of grease-paint, gardenia and top hat — not at all. Under that impeccable exterior — and it is just as impeccable'ofF as on, hug that to your barren bosoms — there beats the enthusiastic heart of the easily enchanted child. Which is, if you but knew it, your true sophisticate. For only those, says Mr. Sherman, who are very stupid, or only those who are preposterous poseurs, can ever be bored, cynical or disillusioned. In addition, he maintains that there are only two foods in the world worth eating. One is hamand-eggs. The other is caviar. Therein lies his rich and mellow philosophy of life. The consummate epicure savors both and finds both good — at times. Different times. He believes, does this soigne gentleman, in the femininity and domesticity of woman. Domesticity, he says, is what a man marries for. What else? What, indeed? He believes in the economic independence of woman, providing the woman does not have to be independent. Then, he says, a inan's pride might suffer and things go flooey, dear. But every woman should have, at least, an avocation. An interest. Even if it chanced to be paper-hanging. It would be odd, dear, if your little wi^ should crave to express herself via paper hanging. But if such should be the case, your duty would be to develop this talent, even though, being of commoner clay, you might not be able to follow her up so high a ladder. And such delightful nonsense. . . Surely, Michael Arlen "wrote" Lowell Sherman. . . Mr. Sherman laughs, a robust laugh it is, too, when you ask him if he is a cynic, world-Weary, disillusioned. Not even to {Continued from page 51) please a lady with a hang-dog expression will he admit to any of these faded characteristics. On the contrary, he still believes in Santa Claus, adores presents (especially when they are tied up with paper and string), and would murder anyone who opened a Christmas gift of his before the Yule-tide dawned. He didn't say that he hangs his sock up by the fireplace, but nothing could surprise me. Least of all, that. He is no skeptic. He believes in marriage, nor could he be disillusioned. He admits Freulich O, it's always dry weather, when good fellows get together: Harry Langdon and Slim Summerville as two citizens who are no additions to the pop elation in "See America Thirst" that it is a gamble, but so is everything. Going up in aeroplanes. Poker. Bootleggers. Things. Nothing is certain. There are always earthquakes. And he says, "If you go to Caliente or to Monte Carlo, you gamble and lose or you gamble and win. In either case, you gamble again. Why not apply the same principles when you are playing for higher stakes?" When Mr. Sherman goes abroad, he does all the things the best Cook's Tourists do. He is very sorry if it causes pain or incredulity. It remains a fact. He stands before the Tower of London and wants to know the exact spot where the Two Little Princes were mur-dered. He goes to the Cheshire Cheese and sits in the chair once occupied by Charles Dickens and feels little literary shivers go up and down his sp-ine. He walks in Kensington Gardens and a little white bird keeps him company. When in Paris, he stands with bared head at the tomb of Napoleon and stares at the Eiffel Tower and says "My, my!" with the rest of us. He and Helene love to go to funny little places and eat hot dogs and hamburgers. They have favorite little places where they eat h.ds and hs. Helene likes hamburgers and Lowell likes hot dogs and this is, to date the only fundamental point on which they have differed. He says he has a sense of the grotesque^, but Helene has a sense of humor. ji He is extremely uxorious. He loves ta' talk about the Little Woman. He narrates with pride how she always looks as if she had stepped forth fresh from the well-known band-box; how she can motor for miles, all in spotless white, as spotless when she reaches her destination' as when she set out for it; how she orders the maids about in their hotel suite and "keeps house" no matter where she may be; how they take trips to Santa Barbara together and play practical jokes and are goofy. He wants to build a home, raise flowers and children, read books. He loves to go to Venice (Cal. and other amusement parks and shoot little painted guns at funny targets and win a pound of tea. He adores to ride on merry-gorounds and chute the chutes and have his fortune told and guess weights. He says that no one can make sandwiches for him but himself. Sandwiches, he maintains, are importatit. They are one of the things of life that can be either dire or delicious. He is very serious about sandwiches. He says he is, really, only interested in his own. His own people. He likes to be kind, to Do Good, but only after his Own are taken care of. He thinks unselfishness can be, and often is, more of a vice than a virtue. Mr. Sherman was discouraged with Hollywood and with hmiself in Hollywood a while back. He felt, however, that if They persisted in paying him an incredible salary for wearing last year's dress-suit and cockmg a significant eyebrow, who was he to say them nay? None the less, he felt bored. He felt that he wasn 't getting anywhere. It was all rather silly, dear. Then Bill Le Baron of R.K.O. sent for him and Hollywood turned a different profile. One with contour. Purpose. Meaning. Intelligence. Opportunity. He says, " Ruth Chatterton and I are our oldest friends." He feels sorry for the little, unwise Clara Bows and Alice Whites. He thinks they are far more to be pitied than scorned. He disagrees with an eminent director who once rated the intelligence of the fan public at nine years of age. Mr. Sherman says it is thirty years of age. Mature. Discriminating. He loves clothes. He always wears white suede gloves. The roughish kind. He buys them in London because they are cheaper there, dear, if you must know. He keeps pairs secreted about the house so he'll surprise himself and have a fresh pair when he needs 'em. He dotes upon surprises, even if he has to give them to himself. 80