Pictures and the Picturegoer (Jan-Dec 1924)

FEBRUARY 1924 Rict\jre s and Picture $uer 39 A ttudio portrait >>i Henry Edit again. From his sudden cheerfulness, 1 knew that the right side had won, and my spirits rose. Over a second cream bun and a particularly fragrant cup of tea — Henry drinks his tea Russian fashion, with lemon instead of milk and sugar — I pulled out a notebook and fixed a stern eye on him. He started. He heaved a sigh of resignation. He pulled himself together. " I was born in Somerset. I made my screen debut in the film version of ' The Man who Stayed at Home.' I was acting in that play at the Royalty Theatre, when Mr. Hepworth suggested that I should recreate my work for the screen." Henry reeled all this off in a dull, monotonous voice. Before I could interfere he was off again in full cry. " Since then I have been producerstar of a large number of films; some of the best known of them are Broken Threads, Merely Mrs. Stubbs, Towards The Light, The City of Beautiful Nonsense, Possession, The Kinsman, The Amazing Quest of Mr. Ernest Bliss, Alwyn, John Forrest Finds Himself, The Bargain and Simple Siman. He paused and took a deep breath. I laid down my notebook. " Stop," T said, quietly but firmly, " this is an interview — not a recitation." " But I always tell everybody this," he said in a surprised voice, puckering his forehead in his characteristic way. " Mr. Edwards," I replied sternly, the readers of PICTUREGOER probably know more about your life and career than you do yourself. They know that you have played opposite Ethel Barrymore in New York. They are aware that you have had appendicitis. They probably know, although I don't, the size of your boots and your hats, the exact number of pounds you weigh and your chest measurement, and likewise the colour of your eyes. You can tell them nothing about your tour in the Far East that they don't already know, nor would it surprise them in the least to learn from your lips that you have been A Lunatic At Large. Therefore, Mr. Edwards, as they say in the newspapers, this correspondence must now cease." Henry looked wildly at the door, but it was shut. No help there. He was cornered, and he knew it. So he yielded gracefully. (Perhaps it was lucky that his side had won the match !) " The public," he said — and now his voice was serious, for he was talking on a subject that interested him vitally — " the public is conservative in its tastes. It wants simple love stories, simply told, with plenty of humour and a few tears. It is not very kind to novelties and innovations. It didn't take to my Lily of the Alley, which I made, you know, without any titles, the whole story being told pictorially, without a name over a shop door, or a letter insert or any kind of writing to break the sequence. Lily is rather a pet of mine. She represents a lot of thought and ambition, and is something of an ideal in my mind. But the public didn't care for her. They shouted for me to come back into comedy. They seemed to be afraid I was becoming a highbrow . . . Perhaps they are right," he added pensively. " I'm sorry," I murmured. There seemed to be nothing else to say. But Henry took no notice of my rather trite remark. He seemed lost in his own thoughts. " I know," I interpolated, " I've seen your Ernest Bliss.' " Oh, that," said Henry with a deprecatory wave of the teaspoon. " Still, it wasn't so bad, was it? I liked it well enough to be glad when it was re-issued as a feature ... it was a serial in its original form you know. . . What, must you really go? Sure you won't have another cream bun? Well, I'll see you safely off the premises." (Now, just what did he mean by that I wonder ?) " Good-bye," I said at the gate, " And I hope you will tell me some more about your views another day." " Never," said Henry firmly, " but I'll talk to you about football whenever you care to come. I know something about that. . ." O! Henry!