Picture Play Magazine (Mar-Jul 1929)

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92 Continued from page 27 " 'Yes,' he said, 'I expected to,' and hung up." The third party to our conversation, an executive of the company with which Barthelmess holds a contract, interposed here a comment that the star has never gone in for any manner of sensational publicity. This is decidedly true, and readers of newspapers and magazines, whether they do or not, should appreciate the fact that at least one star has never attempted to force himself down the public's throat by posing for garter advertisements and making pseudosensational statements for the wire services. "Other people get away with it," Barthelmess went on, "but Ronald Colman runs when he sees an interviewer coming. He's as modest and retiring a man as ever lived, but they don't tear him to pieces about it. "When I was coming East, I was awakened at an unearthly hour in the morning when the train stopped at a little town. Somebody was beating on my door. I got up, sleepy and unshaved, pulled on a robe and stuck my head out. "A woman was out there, and the first thing she said was, 'What do you think of the Movietone, Mr. Barthelmess ?' "I said, 'I don't work for the Movietone ; I work for the Vitaphone. Besides all that, who are you?' "She was from some paper in the town, and she asked me a lot of questions I was too sleepy to answer very well. I think she was pretty indignant when she went away." In Defense of Dick Barthelmess puzzled over this for a moment. "Now I ask you," he concluded, "how civil could you he under those circumstances? And I've probably made an enemy for life." Well, ladies and gentlemen, that's the attitude of Mr. Barthelmess concerning the stories you read about him. It is my opinion that he does not go out of his way to make either a good or a bad impression. He is naturally modest and reticent about talking of himself. He is not publicity mad, as are so many of his fellow stars, and consequently, does not go out of his way to get it. If all that makes him disinterested, uncommunicative, upstage and even rude, then I fear I'd better never become a star, for even in my obscure and insignificant sphere I possess a truly magnificent reputation for being a raffish, unpleasant fellow. Barthelmess launches into other subjects with great enthusiasm. He was eager to tell me what a splendid person and fine director is Frank Lloyd, a conviction in which I concurred heartily. Lloyd had just directed him in "Weary River," the first talkie for both director and star. There was some synchronized sound in "Scarlet Seas," but you can overlook it, because it's really not very loud. He was eager, too, to tell just how glad he was to get back to New York. Until about two years ago Barthelmess made all his pictures in the East. This was his first visit back of any great length, and he is as happy about it as a boy .with a new bean shooter. "Hollywood is just a cross-roads," he explained to the third person, who had never been there. I waited confidently for the bolt of lightning from the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce to strike him, but he continued, unafraid. "Nothing ever happens. The Boulevard is deserted by ten o'clock at night. "Here you can sit alone in your hotel room and feel the city pulsing and pushing beneath you. The sensation of movement and action impresses you, even if you are not taking part in it." I offered argument to this. Hollywood'' is one of my favorite topics — I mean the amount of action on tap there. "Hollywood is any sort of place you want to make it," I objected. "People there don't roam around the streets as they do here, but you can find any sort of shindig you want." "Oh, sure, you can find parties and brawls and all that, if you want 'em — go to Mr. Blank's house and find a fight or a frolic. That's not what I mean. "I want to go to the shows"— here he pointed an accusing finger at his companion — "and you want to drag me to a radio station when I've got tickets to 'The Front Page.' " Barthelmess walked over and gazed long and earnestly out the window at Park Avenue. "I wonder," he mused, "if I could talk First National into letting me make a picture here." n . ., , n WKom Continued from page 25 too. is not about to get caught by Hollywood. For instance, anent a gesture or two. In days quite recently gone by, when telephoning was necessary, Charlie himself would do it. The other week an unidentified call came to me. A strange voice asked if I was there. I said I was. "Just a minute," the voice requested. Whose secretary can it be, I wondered. Is Pola Negri back from Europe ? Imagine my disillusionment when it was only Charlie Farrell. Now, Charlie is all right. Don't mistake me, nor look with suspicion at Jiim. Secretaries are good for pacifying creditors, tradespeople, and solicitors, but having a secretary call up people one knows quite well is the first symptom that a player is in a critical condition of susceptibility. If I can receive telephone calls from such bona fide celebrities as Jetta Goudal, Madge Bellamy, Janet Fortune Would Destroy Gaynor, Victor Varconi, and Gilbert Roland, without the mediumship of secretaries, aids-de-camp, or majordomos, I think Mr. Farrell should not feel too — well, whatever he is beginning to feel about himself. Moreover, Charlie was not working then, and what he had to say to me should have been said three days earlier. The news has been duly circulated that the Farrell drives to the studio in a mere Ford. He does — but the legend fails to add that he also possesses and rides mostly in a flashy roadster, which makes the Ford detail just another touch of Holly wooditis. Charlie is building a home at Tuluca Lake, to which I hope to receive an invitation, but probably won't when he reads this. Barry Norton is far too clever to let Hollywood make a fool of him. He knows too much. He never lets people use him. It's just the opposite. He possesses one of those dan gerous personalities that draws people to him. Barry likes admiration — one of the earliest symptoms. He is also aware of his prestige, because recently he had a wrist watch made for himself. Instead of the usual twelve figures to mark the hours, the watch has the letters B-A-R-R-Y — space for second hand— N-O-R-T-O-N on the face ! Right now he is affecting a "yearning." He is determined to impress his Argentine background on all who know him. Have I not heard repeated quotations from Santos Vega, the famous poet of the pampas? So that I, too, know some of his heart-throbbing phrases by heart. Barry will look down from his hotel window, twelve stories above Hollywood Boulevard, murmuring, half singing, "AM va mi cancidn y mi alma que nunca canto sin ella!" Continued on page 118