Screenland (Nov 1945-Oct 1946)

streets to the gawps and yawps of passersby, I was paraded up to Central Park, where they put me on a white horse, with an English saddle (being out of Westerns) and told, 'Now, you come riding along, see, pass these cops and throw knives into trees like in the picture. Get it?' (To this day I'd hate like hell to meet one of those cops I rode past in Central Park and have him recognize me.) "Well, picture being yourself in that set-up! You can't be. It's the kind of stunt that makes any fairly normal fellow seem an awful phony. It takes years to outlive such gags. How do you outlive them? Well, if your picture is a success, you don't. For if you are successful in this business, stay that way, and are a phony, they pull you to pieces and throw you away. Believe me when I say it's harder to be a phony in Hollywood than anywhere else in the world. "But back in 1930 when I made 'The Big Trail,' times were tough, the picture was not a success, so no one cared whether I went around in a leather suit or a ballet costume, and no harm was done. I went along in a succession of routine pictures, none of which even Hollywood could blurb as 'sensational.' "In 1938 I signed a contract with Republic Studios, was, in fact, in the very first picture Republic ever made, 'Westward, Ho.' A modest little hoss opera made for $17,000, it played first-run houses and earned a lot of money. "I liked Westerns; still do. The Western is the best medium— being full of action, lots of riding, quickie meeting with the Girl ('Howdy, m'am,' and away again), full of motion— for telling a motion picture. In my mind, I divide Westerns and other types of pictures into two classes: the Western is an action film; others are reaction films. One takes a lot of fast riding; the other takes a lot of talent. So when, after a lot of Westerns, John Ford told me he wanted me for the lead in 'Stagecoach,' even though it meant the familiar loping stride and the lazy drawl again, I accepted, with the hope that if I made good in this one I'd get a chance to re-act for Ford later on. 'Stagecoach' won the Academy Award, and pretty soon Ford starred me in 'The Long Voyage Home.' Then Cecil DeMille directed me in 'Reap the Wild Wind' and pretty soon I was both acting and reacting pretty steady in such best-sellers as 'A Lady Takes a Chance,' 'The Spoilers,' 'Flame of the Barbary Coast' and so on. "But from that day up in Central Park to this, I have steadfastly refused to go for phony gags. Way I figure it, if your picture is a success, you don't need them ; if it's a flop you're safer in a hideout than on exhibition. "Meantime in 1933, I got married and pretty soon Michael came along; then in short order, Toni, Patrick and Melinda. When you are plugging away at a career and have a house full of youngsters, you haven't much time for any but pretty basic things." This seems to be as good a place as any to say that by the time this piece is being read John will probably be married to Esperanza Bauer, the vivid-looking, quiet-mannered Mexican girl, who is also under contract to Republic. With his Esther Williams makes a lovely feminine Santa Claus, complete with reindeer and bag of toys. aversion to the bad taste of discussing his private affairs for publication, John— except to say that he always has the children on Saturdays, takes them to the studio, to Ocean Park to do the concessions, to lunch and dinner— does not mention, let alone explain, a situation in which he is not the only one involved. Since he does not discuss it, neither can I— except to hazard the opinion that some of the best and most loyal-hearted of men do fall in love more than "once in a lifetime." "So," John was saying, "I kept going, sort of ricochetting between my own lot, Republic, and others. Most recently, I worked in 'They Were Expendable,' for MGM and now, back at Republic again, in 'Dakota,' with Vera Hruba Ralston." I said, "Are you glad you are an actor? Satisfied?" "I am now," the Duke told me, "but it took me a long time to be glad ; a longer time to be proud of the profession I virtually bumped into. A long time before I could hear myself classified as 'an actor,' without squirming. It was not, in fact, until I got to know a lot of great guys in this business, and know them well, that I could even meet an actor-^ having heard all the rumors— without misgivings. That's all changed now, of course. Pat O'Brien, a hell of a guy, is a pal of mine. Bob Montgomery, whom I met for the first time while we were making 'They Were Expendable,' is a wonderful fellow. Walter Brennan, working with us in 'Dakota,' is a man after any man's heart, and Ward Bond is one of my best and closest friends. So close, in fact, that he is 'Uncle Ward' to my four kids and they love him like an uncle. "A short time ago, little Linda came to the studio one day to watch 'Uncle Ward' play a scene. 'Now, Linda,' I cautioned her, 'when you hear the camera whirring, no matter what happens, you must keep quiet.' Nodding that she under stood, Linda sat there, scarcely breathing but, just as the cameras rolled and Ward walked into the scene, one of the characters in the picture cracked him over the head with a vase and, as he hit the floor, a small voice wailed, 'Oh, isn't that TURRIBLE!' "The kids," John said, and looked happy saying it, "are pretty loyal to me, too. If they see a picture of mine, in which I kill somebody, they always say, defensively, 'We know you didn't want to do that, Daddy. It's not your fault!' The kids and I," John added, even more happily, "are very close. "Which reminds me that I also like being an actor, especially in pictures, because of the monetary rewards. Looking forward to the financial security of my children, picture money enables me to buy insurance and, annuities that will make that security secure. "I enjoy being an actor because, while a lot of people like golf, not everybody likes golf ; a lot of people are musical or bookish or politically-minded but not everybody likes music, books or politics, whereas everybody goes to pictures once in awhile. So being in them makes you, so to speak, kin to people of all tastes, ages and kinds. I like that because I like people. "Most actors, for that matter, like people more than other people. Perhaps because, knowing more about them, we understand them better. Going out on the PT boats, for example, while making 'They Were Expendable,* we got a chance to work with the Seabees to find out how they operate, what they think about, whal makes with them. In Westerns, on loca^ tions, you find out how cowboys live— not just when they're dolled up in their fancj pants but the tough side of life on the range, too. "I also find that most actors, when not "given the phony treatment, are more natural than many men in less exhibition istic professions. For every man and woman is an actor, more or less, some of the time. But we, who act for a living, gel acting out of our systems and are ourselves, and glad to be, when work is done. "And I can be proud of my profession because the picture business has grown up since I got into it fifteen years ago, has acquired a dignity that is beyond reproach. Hollywood is, today, a quiet town compared to other places I have been and can, moreover, be pretty proud of itself, having pushed more charities, given more time to selling war bonds and more talent to entertaining servicemen than any other town in any other part of the country. "In this business as it is today, in this town as it is today, I can be myself— play golf, which I like to do, play cards (like bridge, think gin is a dull game, pinochle, I love), go to a party at Mrs. Jones' house if J feel like going, stay home if I don't. I can live as I wish to live— which is in a two-bedroom house on almost an acre and a half of land, minus formal gardens or anything of the sort— a house with lots of corners in it, where I can put my feet on a cobbler's bench and relax. I feel better in plain, folksy surroundings. I belong in them. Perhaps because," John said, with a grin, "there's nothing phony about them." 66 SCREENLAND