Picture-Play Magazine (Sep 1928 - Feb 1929)

43 The Interviewers' Waterloo In spite of having had every educational and cultural advantage, and successful years in a colorful profession, Richard Barthelmess' remarks are guarded, trivial and hyphenated by periods of profound silence* By Madeline Glass CLASSIFIED according to their behavior in the presence of interviewers, there are five types of actors : natural, unnatural, exotic, pseudo-exotic, and Richard Barthelmess. Barthelmess is the most reticent of all the stars. He is the writers' Waterloo. Easily one of the most individual members of his profession, he stands alone in his own particular niche. In retrospect, one can follow his progress down through the years of a brilliant career, firm, aloof, determined, satis pair et sans reproche, lauded by the critics and respected by the fans. Of the myriad stories about him, none has yet revealed the true soul and character of this unusual man. Superficial pen pictures, unimportant quotations, routine life stories, yes. But the real, comprehensive analysis is yet to be written. Perhaps it never will be. Certainly not if the writer depends on the actor to reveal it in the form of an interview. He is, I regret to say, an annoyingly poor conversationalist. Moreover, he is not particularly fond of press interrogations. "The trouble with interviewers," he told me, impatiently, "is that they so often write fiction, when the facts are far more interesting." Tut, tut, Dick. Them's harsh words ! I have interviewed this gentleman three times, and three times the laboriously written articles have gone into the wastebasket. Not one was worth the paper it was typed on. It is odd indeed that this brilliant actor should be so difficult to draw out, so impossible to plumb. In spite of having had every educational and cultural advantage, extensive travel, and many years of success in a fantastically colorful profession, he is distinctly dull copy. His remarks are guarded, trivial, and hyphenated by embarrassing periods of profound silence. One does not know whether to attribute his attitude to modesty, fear of misquotation, or what. One very rainy day, many months ago, I called on Mr. Barthelmess at the First National studio. The chauffeur remarked that it was good weather for ducks ; unfortunately, it was not good weather for actors. In those days I was a rabid Barthelmess fan. For years my admiration for him had steadily increased, until it had become an acute form of hero worship. I devoutly and foolishly idolized him, as many another girl has done. Richard Barthelmess is home-loving, exclusive and devotedly parental, but his extreme sensitiveness often makes him intolerant. The star was telephoning when I entered the office, and after finishing his conversation, he greeted me cordially enough, then entrenched himself behind a desk in an attitude at once expectant, but uncompromising. A bit self-conscious in the presence of my own private deity, I couldn't think of any bright questions to ask. The fact that the conversation — if I may call it that — was languishing, didn't seem to bother him any. When he grew weary of toying with the desk fixtures, he unhurriedly took up the telephone and made a couple of calls. The next time I go to talk with him I shall take along a pack of cards, and indulge in a little solitaire during lulls in the interview. It was shortly after that, that I saw, for the first and only time, the Barthelmess mask of suave repression torn aside and trampled under foot. At that time his artistic affairs were in a precarious state. Good stories seemed unobtainable, and the star was obviously uninspired. Critics, who had previously offered only praise, were changing their tune. Perfectly conscious that he was slipping behind in the procession, I wrote an article about him, chastening him and his producers gently for what seemed to be sheer carelessness. I might add that I did it "for his own good." Barthelmess eventually read the story, and there followed several days of ominous silence. Then his press agent called me on the phone and invited me to lunch with the star at his palatial Beverly Hills home. I went, vaguely apprehensive, but thrilled at the prospect of seeing my favorite again. Now I can look back upon the episode with a smile — a wry smile, to be sure, but a smile nevertheless. At the time it occurred, the incident assumed the proportions of a tragedy. Barthelmess strode into the room where I was waiting,courteous, informal, offering a friendly hand. It was like the preliminary amenities of boxers before the initial bell. Then, taking up the offending article, he tapped it across his palm. Alas for sweet, lavender-scented illusions ! The attitude of my beloved idol suddenly changed, and he looked at me as if he would have enjoyed throwing me off Lick pier. His fine, brown eyes flashed angrily. Too pained and astonished to think coherently, I sat silent while he snowed me under with reproaches and Continued on page 119