The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

(Above) In Charlie's ingenious characterizations many a dignified citizen of South Bend, Indiana, sees himself as Charlie saw him. I NITWIT Incomparable Charles Butterworth's favorite game is Cow — served as a nice, juicy steak. He never stands if he can sit, and as for walking, "Why walk/7 he asks, "when you can rent a velocipede so cheaply?" By LEON SURMELIAN THERE is hardly a more subtle specialist of laughter in Hollywood, a more titillating humorist, than the incomparable nitwit of the screen, Charles Butterworth, Esq. He is the superb sap who invariably steals the show with his individual brand of delicious foolery, no matter what top notchers in sex appeal emblazon his cast. He is one of our few comedians who doesn't have to say a word to tickle you in the ribs. He belongs to the dead-pan school of clowns. His rigid, solemn countenance has been his fortune. But when blinking vacuously in that inimitable manner of his, he does sputter a delayed line, he shakes the rafters with gales of laughter. There is no one like him, no one who can be so excruciatingly funny. He is in a class by himself, is our Charlie. Yet, so far, the fan magazine writers have completely overlooked this capital comedian. "I am afraid you will find me very poor copy for an interview," he said, as I met him on the M-G-M lot in behalf of New Movie. "Don't be so modest," I said. "Well, don't expect me to be funny. I can't think up gags on the spur of the moment, you know. I am not a man of spontaneous humor; I have to study it out beforehand." The film edition of this rare cut-up looks like a dyspeptic George Arliss — a pale, anemic man of grave dignity who surfers from myopia and the frailties, mental and physical, of advanced age. But in reality Charles Butterworth is a deeply tanned, healthy cuss, one whom everybody in the studio hails as "Charlie." He has, in his gayer moments, the dash of a young man about town, and a mock Napoleonic air about him. He doesn't look a day over thirty-five, and will remind you of Leslie Howard. He has the habit of entering conference rooms with his hat tipped over his head, as befits a former newspaperman. He sits in the most comfortable armchair available, and stretches out his legs, exposing his sunburned ankles. He speaks in the bored, drawling voice of the worldly wise, of men who don't care. Although basking in the sunshine of Southern California, amid the palmy splendor of Beverly Hills, and leading, to all appearances, a life of continuous holiday, Charlie has had his struggles. "At one time," he said, without cracking a smile, "I was in charge of the shipping department of a machine company. Everybody envied me for my position. The owner himself became so jealous of me that he took over the position himself." "You mean you were fired." "Yes. I was the worst shipping clerk in the world. Clark Gable tells me he was a very bad one, too." CHARLIE was born at South Bend, the town made famous by the ball packers of Notre Dame. His father was a surgeon of note. Both his parents are dead. Intent on becoming a great statesman, with a possible occupancy of the White House, he studied law at Notre Dame and meanwhile delved into the treasures of history and literature. Graduating with honors, he passed the state bar examinations and became a member of the Indiana Bar Association. We can imagine with what visions of success he hung out his shingle as a practising attorney. "It was, I suppose, at this momentous period in my life," he said, "while I waited for clients who didn't come, that I developed my sense of humor." Time hung heavy on his hands, so Charlie tossed his lawyer's shingle into the ashcan, sought and obtained a cub reporter's job on the South Bend Times-News. Chicago offered a wider field of opportunity to our lawyer-journalist than his peaceful home town. He worked for a while on the Chicago American, and then moved on to New York, to lend his talents to the big metropolitan dailies. The reception he received at the hands of their city editors was chilling at first, so he explored upstate until he landed a reportorial position on the Mount Vernon Argus. He later returned to New York and found a berth first on the staff of the New York Journal and then of the New York Times as a general assignment reporter. It was a hard grind, earning his living as a news hawk, but he had a swell time. His forte was the writing of obituaries. None of his fellow-scribes could expect to compete with him when it came to covering important deaths and funerals, for none could duplicate his countenance of a doleful deacon. Assuredly, he could have made a fortune as an In the art study at the undertaker. left, Mr. Butterworth seems It was quite inevitable that a chap of his mimetic to be ^ impersonating the talents should eventually go on the stage. Here his Pied Piper of Hamelin. reportorial training helped. His eyes missed nothing, Gracious, did he come and he remembered what he observed — so necessary in from South Bend, too? good acting. {Please turn to page 50) 32 The Neiv Movie Magazine, March, 1935