Picture-Play Magazine (Mar-Jul 1929)

34 Physical fitness is important to George O'Brien, and its routine is his chief pastime. T T E is a six-foot Hercules, with the muscular equipW~M meat first publicized by Hellenic sculptoring gentlemen — a javelin thrower, inadequately disguised by the best Boulevard tailors. Were heaven as prone to standardizing as the movies, George O'Brien would have been a son of ancient Greece during that era when the body was a cult whose aim was its physical perfection. Maybe he was, if you incline toward the comforting theory of reincarnation. Certainly, to all appearances, he is anything but the sleek actor-type developed by the movies. Acting and its exigencies are just about the least of George O'Brien's worries. He enjoys the profession, finds a tremendous source of interest in varying roles, but remains undisturbed by the irritations and disappointments that comprise a studio day. His career is the means by which he makes, a lot of money in a pleasant way. He will tell you that he is a lazy man, that one of the profession's principal charms is that it doesn't interfere too much with his life. Besides the money, his chief satisfaction is in the appreciation of the fans. He admits getting a kick out of being famous. But to him its most important manifestation is the mail from all corners of the world. His secretary weeds out the too fulsome letters and he goes over the remainder. This he frankly enjoys — particularly letters from youngsters, who ask his advice on physical training. He sustains a tremendous correspondence. Many of the boys to whose letters he replies have been writing for five years. In a matter-of-fact way, quite removed from sentimentality, he finds it gratifying to have brought a pleasant and healthy influence into so many young lives. He also enjoys letters that show appreciation for the riding feat, care used in technical details. Letters from army officers George -As He Is Scrutiny of Mr. O'Brien's qualities, personal and professional, reveals the exact ratio you would expect if you knew him only by his appearance on the screen. B$ Margaret Reid who have noted the accuracy of his uniform, his walk, his manner in some picture ; letters from sailors, from Europeans when he has made a Continental picture, and so on. He doesn't spout about his art, but he is openly pleased to be considered a good artist. Acting, as a profession, happened to him more by accident than by intent. After the war, in which he participated aboard the submarine chaser 297 , he found his former ideas and desires no longer feasible. He was restless, unable to fix his attention on the things that had mattered a great deal lie fore. To please his father, he picked up his interrupted studies at Santa Clara College. He was studying medicine, but majoring in football. The usual college plays, to which he contributed more enthusiasm than skill, did not arouse any particular interest in the drama. After two months back in the college routine, he had had enough. With his father's amiable consent, he struck out for Hollywood. But not to become an actor. All he wanted was a job. He had met Tom Mix at a rodeo in the northern part of the State. More interested in Mix's proficiency in the saddle than before the camera, George got into conversation with him. The star told the boy if ever he came to Hollywood he would get him work. When George did come to Hollywood, Mix kept his word. George spent his days happily lugging cameras around the Fox lot. Now and then some riding and roping were required, and they learned to let George do it. He decided it would be a good racket to be an actor so, with a flourish, he abandoned his fifteen-dollar-aweek job. and courted the capricious gods who look after — in a fashion — the movie extras. Some days he worked, some days he didn't. When the idle intervals became alarming in length, he made no bones about getting a job as lumber hauler, prop boy or sixth-assistant electrician. Officially an actor, at the same time he had a rather big appetite which could become disturbing if unappeased. But he had little difficulty in getting odd jobs around the studio. To hire him was economy, a production manager's joy to see him run cheerfully about with props, tucked lightly under his arm, that required the efforts of two other men. His apprenticeship was thorough. He was one of the furtive figures in that Limehouse street, one of the whoopee makers in that Long Island orgy, the guy in the leopard skin carrying one lady on his shoulder, and dragging another by the hair, in that flashback in "Manslaughter," the Apache with the black beard in "Shadows of Paris." On awfully lucky occasions his $7.50 was raised to $15 for risking his neck in some incredible Continued on page 112