Screenland (May-Oct 1939)

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During the next half hour I picked up many items that illuminate Jean, both as the woman and the actress. Shy as she is with people, the minute she goes before the cameras she is self-possessed and can hold her own in any situation. While respecting her directors, she never hesitates to argue over something she believes is right. And love scenes! She gaily admits she can go right into the most fervid ones with actors she's meeting for the first time and feel no embarrassment. Yet, should she see them ten feet outside the studio, she'd be tonguetied. She doesn't care about clothes or jewels, but loves beautiful furniture and rare books, and she has flowers in every corner of her home. She doesn't plan ahead or worry about the future. She believes her part is to live each day fully as it comes. Anyway, life is too thrilling to waste it in idle day-dreaming. Frank Ross, who persistently keeps in the background of his wife's fame, finally contributed a few sage bits. He is confident that belonging to the same profession, though in different fields, promotes their happiness because each has a complete understanding of all the problems the other must meet. Yet their interests never overlap, or clash. He admires Jean's business head and her independent spirit which guide her decisions. Then, with a grin, he admitted he is very proud of her success — he feels she won against such terrific odds. BarrymoreManorMyth? Continued from page 34 regal than that of any tycoon. He went Hollywood in a manner that put Hollywood to shame. "Only the other day my agents were offered seventy-five thousand dollars for my Chinese tenement," he confesses. "Furnished!" he hisses. "Before letting it go for approximately a tenth of its value I shall turn the blooming pile into a home for indigent juveniles, toupees and all!" You remember how the Barrymore celluloid product began to slip, after all these extravagant gestures. How he was joshed in the prints as a profile who had played Hamlet, an artist who had frittered away his talents. Treated thus disdainfully by the critics, he was acknowledgedly "through." It was too bad, but the myth had exploded : the great Barrymore was but a shell, temperamental as hell, proud as Lucifer, mad as a March hare. It was during this phase that he went berserk in quest of laughs, setting up another round for the house with a lavish but unsteady hand, becoming a fixture of New York's lobster belt with circles under his eyes and blondes under his arm. At this juncture Elaine Jacobs, a New York girl, met him and fell completely in love with him, pursuing him publicly from coast to coast. Now more a myth than ever, Caliban leapt from crag to cranny, thumbing his aquiline nose at press and pursuer, emitting roars of laughter, striking attitudes worthy of Mr. Durante, and keeping on page one as consistently as the weather. The public eyed all this with amusement, followed by a jaundiced sort of ennui. It was too bad that a great actor should so demean himself, winding up in a tabloid strait-jacket. He was a good guy when he was right. The mourners turned away with a sigh. Following his marriage to the hero-worshipping Elaine Barrie (re-christened so that her name might more nearly approximate that of her idol) Barrymore disappeared from the front pages, shunned the midnight sun, faded into seclusion of a sort. Regeneration was going on apace. Turkish baths followed matrimony ; training took the place of tippling. In another six months a new, rejuvenated John emerged from his tent in Beverly Hills to look upon the world with a clear eye, firm, confident, reborn. This all sounds like a bad novel, but it is the truth incarnate, shorn of morbid details, edited for home consumption. The new Barrymore started back in supporting roles for Paramount, counterfeiting himself more ludicrously than ever Menjou tried, playing old men, panhandlers, and professors, all with that sure, deft touch that once was the Barrymore hallmark. He was back in stride. As a vacation from Hollywood he is currently in New York to do "My Dear Children," a stage charade in which he is supported by Elaine Barrie. Upon the occasion of our meeting he was in rare form, amiable, sardonic, profane, incisive in his wit, fertile of anecdote. He looked well, save for a tendency toward paunchiness. His profile is intact, his brow saturnine, his arrogance superb. Miss Barrie sat at his side, silent for the most part, but obviously adoring. She is young, possessed of a tidy figure. The famous blackboard that is held out of camera range with Barrymore's lines chalked on it is simply a lazy man's device, he suavely claims. His memory is as good as it ever was, his mind as clear, he says, but why learn lines if you can avoid this drudgery by having a flunky hold a board for you to con instead of burning midnight oil? "My mind is filled with more important things," smiling maliciously. This habit of seasoning his remarks with smirks and grimaces make it all more complex and arresting — it's good theatre, and Barrymore is dedicated to giving a good performance in shower bath or cafe, club or barbershop. He does things on the spur of the moment, to indulge a whim, satisfy an urge or startle an onlooker. He is a thoroughgoing exhibitionist at heart. He does not hold with the currently popular school of repressed acting, although he did admire Raymond Massey's reticent performance of Lincoln. "There, of course, the character is so epic that to 'act* it would be suicide," he said. "Projecting Lincoln is enough for any sane _ man to attempt ; acting him would be horrible. 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