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18
B
ringing
Photo by Hartsook
Joseph Schildkraut some day will be a great actor, says his doting, though cautious, father.
A QUEER scene greeted a troupe of Greek actors and the Hungarian man-_ ager of a hotel when they stamped up' the stairs to the attic one night, seeking a little boy who should have been in bed but . wasn't.
On an improvised stage, under the flickering light of a lamp, stood the little boy, his hand raised in dramatic gesture, his small body trembling with the ecstasy of play-acting. He was wrapped in a sheet, was the little boy of six, and his face was whitened and shadows, boldly smeared with lumps of coal, darkened, his eyes into hollows. He didn't want to grow up to manage an inn as his father did. He had just glimpsed a magic world. But the Greek actors were only amused when he pleaded to be taken along. He was slapped by hands none too tender, and put .to bed.
Fifty-four years later, a square, stocky little man, his face lined by experience, turned from a banquet where his son of the drama had repudiated him. Bowing apologetically, the tears in his pained old eyes held back by fierce pride, he turned and walked slowly from the room.
The first, a scene in the real life of Rudolph Schildkraut, hailed by many critics as the greatest character actoY of the generation, was the
No praise, but much sympathetic discipline — Rudolph Schildkraut to achieve a rare and son, who, to this day, remains but a little boy
in the eyes
By Myrtle
birth in him, as a six-year-old boy, of the desire to act.
The second episode was a scene from "His People," that Jewish drama of subtly mingled pathos and humor.
Bridging the gap were years of labor and struggle, of a slow and methodical building of talent into a structure of dramatic technique.
I intended this to be solely a story of Rudolph and Joseph Schildkraut, playing father and son in De Mille's "Young April" — the first time the actual relationship has been portrayed on the screen by real-life father and son — and of the strong bond that ties them in a love not often seen nowadays.
But first I want to tell you of this grand old man of sixty, Rudolph Schildkraut. His life, in its stark experiences, needs no embroidering. It explains why his acting is not acting at all, but the translation to stage and screen of those genuine emotions which cannot be simulated until they have been felt.
Schildkraut was born in Constantinople, of a Turkish mother and a Hungarian father. His
Here the Schildkrauts are seen in "Young April," in which, for the first time on the screen, they play father and son.