Silver Screen (Nov 1936-Apr 1937)

clinched it, really began when she played Leslie Howard's voluptuous and possessive wife in "The Animal Kingdom." Gary Grant would still be an obscure figure if it weren't lor his engaging rascal in "Sylvia Scarlett" and his performance as the treacherous husband of Harlow's "Suzy." Even Hollywood's younger generation can bear witness to the box-office value of villainy. Jane Withers is a star because she was such a convincing meanie. Bonita Granville was just another child^actress until the brat in "These Three" inspired all beholders with a wild desire to wring her neck. And yet the foolish superstition persists. We still see players, who have won the respect of all moviegoers with their honest interpretations of character, donning a pair of angel-wings and turning their backs forever on parts that made them famous. Jean Harlow, after hitting the top with "Redheaded Woman," stealing "Red Dust" from Gable and "Dinner at Eight" and "China Seas" from a \vhole cast of stars, has suddenly decided that only virtue pays. Of course, no sensible person would suggest that these stars should limit themselves exclusively to villainy. There is nothing to be said in favor of monotony of any sort; a succession of roles too closely tailored to the original pattern will harm any career; and unsympathetic parts, being generally more decisive than the heroic, would become more obviously monotonous. Jean Harlow, player of many parts, will next be seen with Robert Taylor in "The Man in Possession." But the star who refuses to play a strong part simply because the character happens to be unlovable is cheating himself. Don't think I'm trying to persuade you that movie villainy goes unpunished. At the end, even the most cunning of villains gets his just desserts. Edward G. Robinson made his mark in "Little Caesar" with his merciless and highly amusing sketch of a conceited hoodlum. About the same time, Humphrey Bogart was doing a competent, thankless, and inconspicuous job as the innocent juvenile of "Up the River." In "Bullets or Ballots" the tables were turned, and, in spite of Robinson's robust portrayal of the upholder of the law, the audience came away remembering Bogart's nervous killer, his voice which is a strangely expressive monotone, his dark, harried countenance with a curl to the upper lip that proves so useful for sneering purposes. Again and again the little drama of retribution plays itself out. In "Dr. Socrates" the erstwhile "Scarface," now a mere hero, was condemned to watch desperado Barton MacLane swagger off with his picture. In "Counterfeit," Chester Alorris, who has given some of the screen's most powerful heavy performances, had to make saccharine love to our heroine, while Lloyd Nolan's blandly conscienceless menace took care of the real drama of the story. And these new villains will in their turn be treated to a nice dose of the same bitter medicine they have been dishing out to other actors. All three, Bogart, Nolan, and MacLane, are edging back toward conventional heroics, and it won't be long before they, too, may be forced to stand helplessly by while some other engaging ruffian robs them of the glory. Lady Luck Smiles [Contmued from page 30] when he's amused, and he smiled again, "Haven't we met before— some place? A party— Christmas Eve? Remember?" And all of a sudden I did remember. It had only been a month previous. How could I have forgotten? It ^vas a gala party in the Hollywood Hills. I ^vas only present an hour or so but I had met a good looking genial boy who had been so charming to everyone, yet had a shy quality about him that one couldn't easily define or forget. Yet / had forgotten even his name. It was because I never imagined on that Christmas Eve that I was meeting another in my same profession. There ■were none of those things about this attractive Irishman that would stamp him as an actor. No seeming arrogance. No braggadocio. No false sense of values. And so I had forgotten the sweet boy who had impressed me with his quiet sincerity. Then, this night in the theatre four years ago, as I saw him go into his part conscientiously, wholeheartedly, I wondered and questioned the people who had said to me, "Be\vare of working with Michael \Vhalen. His temper will ruin not only your part but everyone else's." Well, after that second introduction and during the first play we did together Mike and I became good friends, as good friends as I could really be with this boy whose basic magnetism was his thoughtful silence, which some persons ^vere wont to term, "dumbness," and \vhich I can readily disprove. Michael's silence was due to something that happened quite a few years ago when he first came to Hollywood from New "^'ork. Then he was a "bon vivant," full of life and conviviality. As he told me the other day, "I was a voracious reader of every good book of modern non-fiction and fiction, as well as the classics, and I wanted everyone to know I lo\cd those thingsgood books, good plays, good music (he plays the i)iano well, himself, and sings, too), l)ut I found people really didn't care. The more I talked the less they listened. And I knew that they were laughing at my earnestness and na'ivete so I shut up like the proverbial clam and thus I determined to remain. And I foimd out, Gertrude, that it is true, the less you talk the more people actually listen when you do speak." So much for Mike's "suggested stupidity." During the shows I did ^\■\th him at the "little theatre" previously mentioned, I had occasion to see INIike's outbursts of temperament and the reason for them. I had occasion to see what other actors had termed his "indifference" to his co-workers on the stage, and I had occasion to see what I think is anyone's greatest virtue, his ability to know how to work hard! To begin with, Michael had his mental difficulties as well as financial. He had had "breaks" at major studios which had turned into dire failures. Since his father passed away, when Mike was seventeen, he had dropped his college dreams of Penn State and had gone to work and had worked for other people, not himself, as I so well know. He had met professed good friends in New York City, befriended them when they came to Hollywood, and was snubbed by them ^vhen they "arrived" in pictures. He had been lonely, desperately lonely! He had given all and gotten nothing, nothing but unjust criticism. And what is more unfortunate he had had, through the years, no definite sustaining stability other than his own kno\vledge that he ivould win. No ^vonder there were times when he was bitter and temperamental. For example: The night he had come storming back to his dressing room, shouting and gesticulating wildly, a bunch of kids in the front row had talked all through a love scene in the show, one of Mike's outstanding scenes. It upset him. He was mad! He was out of control! I couldn't sec the reason for his mood at the time. I thought it selfish, so 1 said, "Michael, you ought to be ashamed." He flared back at mc, "Mind your own business! I ha\'c my own career to further. \Vhat do you know about it anyway?" "Nothing at all, Mike, only that you're being terribly selfish." And with that he threw his cane across the dressing room. I was furious! I could see no reason for that, and later I told him so again, only a little more kindly. Naturally he was contrite. And the same night, during the next act, he came to me like a bad little boy. and he said, "Look— I got a patch in the seat of my pants and it's the only dark suit I have. Do you think it'll sho^v ^\'hen I bend over?" With that he bent over and we both went into gales of laughter. "If the audience minds it," I said, "then we'll make an announcement that, after the show, we will take up a collection for a new suit for our leading man." "These aren't my collars, either," he said, "s'pose we better tell them that, too?" "And this isn't my dress," I added, "I borrowed it from the director's aunt." AVith that we were roaring again. And that's been Mike's and my friendshiplaughter and tears, only infinitely more laughter. In the audience that night had been a talent scout from M-G-M, principally to note Michael's work, and it meant, perhaps, a job for him and a job meant he could possibly send for his sister, who was ill and needed rest and quiet. A job meant, also, that he, himself, could eat regularly and buy some collars for his shirt, as well as quit his job as houseboy in Beverly Hills, where he worked for his board and room and gardened for his voice lessons, and most of all it meant that he would get PAID for doing the work he loved, acting! No -wonder he was upset because his scene was ruined. During the following years those emotional upsets became less and less, until the last sho\v I did with him (the show from which came his 20th Centuv)-Fox contract) the outbursts had almost stopped. They did slop altogether when he got a contract for steady work. One reason lor this was that in the last year or so Mike had found a peace of mind, a mental harmony that is 64