Silver Screen (Jun-Oct 1940)

78 Silver S c r e e .n for October 1940 English dialects and sent for me to play the Cockney sharpster in 'Sylvia Scarlett.' That changed my whole career. I got out of bondage. I got out of straight leading-man roles, started playing characters." It's difficult for most people to remember that Cary is English. He usually plays Americans. He talks like an American, behaves like one. "I've been over here nineteen years. I ought to be like one, by this time. I came over when I was lo. You know, the age when you start absorbing everything and think you know it all. When you get to be my age, you finally realize you know nothing." One thing he knows, however, and that is: he has never had more satisfaction out of playing any role, either British or American, than he had out of playing Matt Howard. "There's a great idea behind the picture," he says, earnestly, " — an idea that's worth preserving on this earth. And the picture is full of great scenes. Scenes such as I've never had before. "I'll give you an idea of what I mean. I'll tell you about one that got under my skin. "It's the scene in which they have their first child. The birth takes place in a little hovel of a cottage, the home of neighbors. They haven't been able to get home in time. Just before this, they have had their first quarrel. Now they both are in torment — she with the pain of childbirth, unattended by any doctor, and he with his pity for her. He can do nothing to help. He is a man of the soil, unaccustomed to women. The child is born, and lives, and his wife still lives. And this man, so happy, so big, takes this little bundle of baby in his arms. Then he sees what no one else yet knows. The baby has a club foot — like his wife's brother, whom he hates. "That scene got me. And one near the end did, too. All through the picture there is this conflict between man and wife. He is a man of the soil; she is an aristocrat. Near the end, he realizes that he is proud of the boy with the club foot. He says to his wife, about the boy, 'He doesn't seem to know how to hate. What you were, and what I was, were brought together in him. We were both right, but we could never get to understand each other. Now, in him, we're united.' It hits you with a terrific punch that he's saying democracy — the union of all classes — is the hope of the world." Cary leaves no doubt about the intensity of emotion he put into the part. Yet here he is now. playing a part that calls for him to be amusing, not intense. "A man needs variety," says Cary, stubbornly. After the size of his role in "The Howards of Virginia," there is a further surprise about his being in "The Philadelphia Story." He has a good role, a very good role, but it isn't as large as you expect a Grant role to be. How, then, does he happen to be playing it? It wasn't on his schedule. As soon as he finished "Howards," he was supposed to start, "Passport to Life." That was delayed a few weeks. George Cukor offered him this role with Hepburn. Cary wasn't going to take it. He needed a rest. He A foursome of sweethearts! Richard Greene, Virginia Field, Olivia de Havilland and Jimmy Stewart. Which couple do you think will be first to wed? had been working hard. Then he had an idea. If he could turn his entire salary over to the Red Cross, it would be worth playing the role. That took some arranging. He had to go to Washington, talk with the Treasury Department. They finally gave him permission the day before the picture was supposed to start. And — here he is. His salary for the picture is $125,000. A tidy bit for the Red Cross. The Englishmen in Hollywood are in a peculiar position. People see them, seemingly virile men, and wonder why they aren't Over There, fighting. It isn't because they haven't offered to go. Their Embassy has given them strict orders to remain here, until called. But if they can't help physically, they certainly can help financially. They all feel that way. Cary is no exception. At least; that seems to be his attitude. He refuses to discuss his contribution to the cause. "There must be something else to talk about," he says. Moodily he rubs his hands — hands, by the way, that acquired callouses in "The Howards of Virginia." "I had to plow," he reveals, " — with an old-fashioned plow that didn't have a guiding-wheel, or whatever you call the thing. Don't think that wasn't tough. And I had to swing an old-fashioned scythe. It took some doing to find an old farmer who remembered how. I had to use a two-man saw. I had to lift some colossal, unwieldly things — because I was supposed to be a man of colossal strength. And I nearly killed myself, trying to chop down a tree, for the first time in my life. The axe-head came off and plopped one inch from my foot." He doesn't think he's as fit as he used to be. "I used to box a lot, but I've sort of given that up. I used to swim more than I do now. I can't tear myself out of bed in the mornings any more. I gave up golf as a bad job. I was too nervous for the game. I was making work of it." He recently bought a house at the beach, a few doors from the place he rented for years. Cary's sudden entry into the ranks of home-owners has caused all kinds of speculation. Every time he has a date, columnists wonder if he isn't looking for a wife. He positively writhes when anybody asks him if he has plans to settle down and marry, or hasn't plans. "I refuse to answer," he says, "on the grounds that anything I say may be held against me. Besides, I don't know." Because he has just played the most serious role of his life doesn't necessarily mean that he's settling down. "Why," he demands, with a plaintive screech, "why do people insist on confusing my private life with my screen roles?" Something else that appals him is the public impression that he and comedy discovered each other only recently. "What I did on the stage was comedy," he says. However, he is one actor without any urge to go back to the stage. "I don't have any of those fantastic ideas, and I don't go for that 'art for art's sake' guff. We all know why So-and-So went back to the stage. She didn't like the way she photographed. And we know why Suchand-Such went back. She needed experience. You go to New York and run into writers who lambast the movies, because it's the intelligentsia thing to do. When you know they've got one bag packed, just waiting for an invitation to come out." Hollywood hasn't changed him — much. He used to obey his impulses more, until he found out that all he usually got out of obeying them was "a poke in the chin." He's still absent-minded. When he steps out of the shower in the morning, he's as likely as not to leave the water on, and all the hot water in the house runs away. He forgets to tell his cook to expect company. Sometimes he even forgets to tell his cook to expect him. When that happens, he'll take whatever is in the icebox. He isn't fussy about his food. He is fussy about his clothes. And he's a demon furniture-straightener. He's a great sleeper. He has the philosophy, "Sleep is one thing that's free in this world, and I'm going to have my share of it." Contrary to the impression that the columnists give, he is home three or four evenings a week, usually by himself. He's a good mixer, but he doesn't find it difficult to be alone. He can relax, alone. Some philosopher once said, "Any human being who can be alone is really a great human being." And maybe he had something. Certainly Cary Grant is going great guns, and is a completely human being, even if he does play the Hollywood game his own way, all by himself. It makes sense, when you think it over.