***************************************************************************** * T A Y L O R O L O G Y * * A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor * * * * Issue 89 -- May 2000 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu * * TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed * ***************************************************************************** CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE: Gareth Hughes James Kirkwood ***************************************************************************** What is TAYLOROLOGY? TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life; (b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it for accuracy. ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** Gareth Hughes As indicated in TAYLOROLOGY #5, actor Gareth Hughes was reportedly implicated in the William Desmond Taylor murder by statements attributed to Honore Connette. The following are some contemporary interviews with Hughes which were published during 1921 and 1922. Of particular interest, aside from the glimpse into Hughes' personality, is the mention that Hughes smoked gold- tipped cigarettes. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * February 1921 Lillian Montanye MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC Hamlet, Himself A friend of mine once strove desperately for adequate terms in which to describe a friend of his, then appearing on the stage as Benjamin in "Joseph and his Brethren." "He looks exactly like a picture of Jesus in the doctor's office!" he enthused. "You are probably referring," I said witheringly, "to the event of the boy Jesus sitting with the learned men in the temple. But I know what you mean." I had not then met Gareth Hughes, but when I did, my friend's remark came back to me as vagrant bits of inconsequence have a way of doing, and seemed oddly apt. The young actor has a rarely spirituelle face--vivid, yet grave--the face of one who dreams dreams and sees visions. He has a shock of tumbled brown hair, wide brown eyes, his hands, that keynote to character, delicately formed with tapering, sensitive fingers. His personality is one of exquisite charm--yet he does not at all suggest the feminine. He is the personification of sweet and enthusiastic youth, its hopes, its ideals, its sensitiveness and beyond, one senses manly sincerity, forceful purpose. He is a true Welshman, Gareth Hughes, which accounts for many things: his love of beauty; his musical enunciation; his quite noticeable accent, especially when carried away by his enthusiasms, which are many. He spoke nothing but Welsh, he told me, until he was twelve years old. He was then placed in school in London and later in Paris, where he remained until he joined the Welsh Players, finally coming to America with them. After a tour with the Welsh Players came his delightful characterization of Ariel in "Caliban" in New York City's Shakespeare Tercentenary. Following this, as a featured player in "Joseph and his Brethren," "Margaret Schiller," "Salome," "Moloch, "The Guilty Man," with the Irish Players in "Red Turf," in Strindberg's "Easter," in the title role of Richard Ordynski's "Everyman," he won the plaudits of press and people. His last stage appearance was a starring role in "Dark Rosaleen," a play written for him by Whitford Kane. Not long after its New York opening, young Hughes left the cast to enter pictures. Not because he wanted to give up the brilliant stage career, then beginning, but, being physically at low ebb, he needed the change, the outdoor life and more regular hours promised him in this new form of his profession. During his brief picture career he has scored some notable successes: as Billy in "Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch," with Marguerite Clark; as leading man for Florence Reed in "The Woman Under Oath"; with Norma Talmadge in "Isle of Conquest." He then went to the Coast, where he did "Eyes of Youth," with Clara Kimball Young; "A Chorus Girl's Romance," with Viola Dana, and "White Ashes," with Cleo Madison. "And then," related the young actor, eyes aglow, "things happened fast. Metro invited me to sign a long-term starring contract, which I did. And immediately afterward Famous Players decided to produce 'Sentimental Tommy' here in the East, and asked me to do the title role, which the Metro people very kindly consented to let me do. And then I had an attack of--what you call appendicitis. The doctors said the only safe way was to be operated on. But when I found I could really come East and do Tommy, I became quite fit, and said the dom [sic] operation could go hang--and here I am! You see, next to my Shakespeare, whom I know by heart, I love Barrie. Ever since I created the part of the son on the stage in 'The New Word,' I have longed to do another Barrie play." "And 'The Little Minister,' and Peter in 'Peter Pan.'" I soliloquized, visualizing the ardent, sensitive face, the whimsy race-- "Yes, yes," he asserted eagerly. "I am hoping to do them both some day. I like the pictures and see a big, big chance. There is great opportunity for real artistry on the screen. But I could not entirely give up the stage. It has meant too much--it is a part of my life. So many things I want to do--but there seems to be not half time enough to do them in. I love to use my imagination--to dream: to visualize Sir Galahad, a Prince Chap, Sir Lancelot, Don Quixote--many others." "And your pet ambition--rainbow's end--your dream come true?" "Shakespeare--in roles that suit me, of course, Romeo, for instance--and especially Hamlet. In fact," he said, a bit wistfully, "I did almost play Romeo--was in rehearsal when the chance came to go to the Coast to do 'Eyes of Youth' with Miss Young. So, for the sake of my health, also my pocketbook- -I said 'Goodbye Romeo,' and went. "But some day, not too far distant, I hope, I shall play Hamlet--there's no turning aside from that. A BOY Hamlet--and I shall play it surrounded by all the splendid gorgeousness of royalty, too. Draperies of royal purple, the glitter of gold and tinsel, the blare of trumpets. I don't care for the 'new' in art--a stage set with a table, a chair, a bit of drapery--I don't think that pomp, pageantry and grandeur detract from the spoken work. The actor needs the atmosphere of beauty and artistry. "Just now, we hear much of the new in art. Art is beauty--and beauty is always new. Real art, real beauty, is ageless, deathless. It is something that is handed down from one generation to another and cannot be destroyed-- nor can anything take its place. What about 'old' music--the works of Chopin, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Liszt and others? What about old paintings-- old literature--old architecture? What about our great artists of the stage--Booth, Irving, Mantell, Jefferson, Bernhardt? We don't need a new standard of beauty," he concluded convincingly. "Perhaps it's my medieval name," he said, "or perhaps it's my Welsh ancestry--but beauty is to me such a tangible thing--and all my life I've longed and striven to express it rightly. And now--I must go back to the studio. I hope you will see and like me as Tommy." "And Hamlet--" * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * August 1921 Hazel Simpson Naylor MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC Sentiments of a Woman Hater Geniuses are queer beings. It seems impossible for them to eat, drink, marry or die like every-day people. Neither can every-day people write a story or paint a picture or act a drama that brings the heart of you into your throat to strangle you with unexplainable emotions. So widely diverse are the two types that neither can completely understand the other. That is why I ask your indulgence while I paint this word portrait of Gareth Hughes. Mr. Hughes is a genius. He was so proclaimed on the stage long before the cinema heralded him as one, because of his acting in "The Chorus Girl's Romance," and "Sentimental Tommy." As far back as 1914, he was lauded by New York critics for his beautiful performances in "Moloch," "Everyman," with Elsie Ferguson in "Margaret Schiller," in "Caliban," in Barrie's "The New Word," in "The Guilty Man," and "Easter," by Strindberg. This long list of stage success might give you the impression of a veteran player. Gareth Hughes is, I believe, precisely twenty-three years old. On the screen he looks younger, in real life he looks older. There is a weary air about him, as if all mundane things were SO trying. He seems absolutely passionless. I cannot imagine him indulging in great loves or great enthusiasm. He seems to me as a man apart. I should have said boy--for he lacks the physical vigor and muscular development that come with manhood. Like many of the really great actors, Gareth Hughes is most sincere when he is acting. Whether he was playing with me, trying to assume a pose of boredom or was simply honestly shy at being interviewed, I could not ascertain, no matter how hard I tried to penetrate beneath his placid calm. Even my intuition, which has frequently helped me, was as useless as a spent shell to penetrate the armor with which he had girded his heart and his soul. Yet stop and consider Percy Busse Shelly, Byron, Oscar Wilde--it is well known that their art, their poems were the most beautifully ideal part of their lives. And thus I feel about Gareth Hughes, his acting is the most real part of him; in fact, it is ALL there is to him. He lives the live of a dreamer, a visionary. I doubt if the realities of life ever touch him. "I AM 'Sentimental Tommy,'" he told me when I asked him concerning his characterization of Tommy. And so when you see "Sentimental Tommy" on the screen you will come nearer to knowing the real Gareth Hughes than at any other time. Mr. Hughes has a pet Airedale, which he calls Barrie. "I adore Barrie's plays," he told me, "but I like 'Peter Pan' best of all. They may let me play Peter. Wouldn't that be wonderful? I can't imagine any greater joy." His pride in his work is childlike. His singular faith is childlike; he seems helpless when it comes to running up against the actualities of existence. He is strangely unaffected and simple in his tastes. Being alone in the country is one thing he really loves. The day I talked to him he was just moving into his new lodge out in lovely Laurel Canyon, and he remarked: "I love the country, its fresh air and being away from the noise and bustle of the city. I don't like crowds of people, I like to be alone." "But won't you get lonesome?" I protested. "Why, no--I'll have my chauffeur sleeping in the next room," he answered ingeniously. "I know," I explained carefully, "but wouldn't you like the companionship of a wife?" "No, thank you," he said, with the greatest amount of vehemence I had been able to draw from him. "I keep away from the girls. They are dangerous. They do nothing but cause trouble. I have never seen a happy marriage. I don't believe in marriage. I believe in FREE LOVE." Had he dropped a bomb at my feet I could not have been more upset. And then I looked at the slim, boyish figure sitting uncomfortably in front of me, twisting absent-mindedly at his shell-rimmed glasses. Words cannot describe what a picture of absolute innocence he presented. And yet in his very innocence and dreamy unworldliness I imagine he could be ruthless, in a forgetful sort of way, just as the farmer looking forward to a crop of golden wheat is ruthless in his uprooting of the weeds that lie in his fields. "I cannot know people very well and not fight with them," Mr. Hughes went on, "and yet I couldn't be interested in them if I couldn't quarrel with them." And he looked so harmless I failed to imagine him quarreling with anyone. "I can't bear mediocrity in the theater," he went on. "I do so long to do big things on the screen--'Peter Pan,' 'David Copperfield,' 'Hamlet.' Why not? The producers say the public won't go to see the classics. Yet look at the success of 'Sentimental Tommy.' I do hope it pays, then it will prove that the producers don't know what they are talking about." The 'phone interrupted. "Yes, I'll be right there," then turning to me helplessly, "it's my chauffeur. I have to go down town and buy two beds and a dozen sheets and pillow-cases. Isn't it exasperating? You have to go? You DROVE your car? Oh, how brave. I couldn't possibly drive. Just think of knowing how to work all those levers at once. I haven't BRAINS enough to drive a car, I have to hire a chauffeur." Yet, I would be willing to bet that he knows the lines of every great play, forwards and backwards. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * January 1922 Willis Goldbeck MOTION PICTURE The Scarlet Thread One thing there is that the arbiters of starred destinies must learn: that genius and fried fish are immiscible. Thus, to my dying day I shall probably associate Gareth Hughes, above all the star fantastic, with the clamor and smells of a cheap Hollywood restaurant. We sat there on either side of a greasy table, in a booth of the cafe that caters to the players of the Metro studio, Gareth hitching spasmodically at his shell-rimmed spectacles and I tapping the table top, stupidly enough, with my fork. It was not an auspicious beginning. But--what it was, the surprisingly palatable chicken sandwich, Gareth's finesse, my own interest suddenly aroused, I do not know--I found presently that we were drifting along on a comfortable, unconstrained tide of conversation. The hot restaurant, the clatter and clash of mouths and things entering therein, gradually faded from my consciousness, irised out, so to speak, until my attention was centered wholly on the remarkable youth opposite me. One is at once aware of a detachment in Gareth which effectually prevents the casualist from ever knowing him, ever obtaining a complete realization of his thoughts. His mind is erratic, here and yon, pausing with the scintillant flutter of a butterfly upon fifty different subjects within the minute. His conversation knows no laws, no limits. He is a free booter, conducting piratical excursions upon whatever orderly convoy of thought you may be pursuing, interrupting mercilessly, victimizing your words for his own aggrandizement. Your talk of him, be it praise or pillory, is his loot. He is a supreme egotist, with egotism's only vindication--artistry. One must acknowledge, if one would do Gareth justice, that he cannot be judged by normal standards. To the real artist our thunderously American quality of "normalcy" is abhorrent, deadly. It is a confession of our own sterility as an artistic nation. of our subservience to throttling conventions. It is like those huge bottle-shaped instruments in which the Comprachios of "Claire De Lune" confined growing human beings until they had assumed the shape of their horrid prisons. Our reformists are the Comprachios of our souls. Gareth said none of these things to me. On the contrary he has recognized his variance with our standardized manhood and has set about, perhaps unconsciously, certainly in vain, to reshape himself. His efforts, finding outlets in moods, express themselves, amusingly, in his clothes. I knew him first in a bulging thing of Harris tweed. He wore knickers and golf stockings huge with angora fuzz. He dangled a gold pencil. He blasphemed under his breath, absently, with the innocence that makes anathema on a cherub's lips a hymm of purity. He addressed two girls who were in the company but whom he had not known for more than an hour as "dear," quite as absently. He hitched nervously at his spectacles. He was the dilettante who adores to walk in "the beautiful country! I love it!" He carried a heavy dog leash. He had a dog, Barrie, somewhere, he told us vaguely--down in his car, he though, with his man. It didn't matter. He had the leash. But this last time, at the studio, he was the horseman. He wore heavy riding boots and carried a quirt with which he smacked them resoundingly and with frequent relish. He had no intention, so far as I know, of riding that morning. But he was in the mood. Ergo! He dressed it! "Until two weeks ago," he said, in his queer clipped little accent, "I never rode. I have ridden every day since. I am a bit sore perhaps, but I love it. Oh, I LOVE it!" His moods seem all alike in that quality of fleeting fervor. One wonders, perhaps extraneously, upon the lady who might one day be loved like that. One ceases much of his wondering when he learns that Gareth has been upon the stage, here and abroad, since early childhood. There has been no variation in his life to mark the passing of childhood and the establishment of maturity. His youth has been his maturity and his maturity his youth, so far as those circumstances which mold the character are concerned. Perhaps that is the secret of his astonishing appearance. It is today--when he is twenty-three--what it must have been when he was fifteen. Gareth is a supreme egotist, yet he can discuss the vanity of actors dispassionately. That is because his egotism is intense interest, not bombast. It has that same quality of detachment that characterizes Gareth himself. He is concerned, mightily delighted, with the mechanism of his being. He is bored when you turn the talk toward other things. But it is always as one might be toward a hobby, a thing apart. He seems to hold himself in continual perspective, as though he were regarding a cherished portrait not quite complete. A stroke of the brush here, an erasure there, to heighten an effect. His self-concern is that. For vanity that is unthinking, intolerant, he has contempt, mingled with compassion. "I was that way myself once," he said, "--until they kicked it out of me. Now, the only thing I think of is this." He rubbed his fingers together, as though he were massaging crisp greenbacks. "That's all." But that is merely a pleasurable conceit. Where his art is concerned, he is ruthless. The question of Peter Pan came up. I ran over a list of famous stars, all of them feminine, who had been variously nominated for the part. He rejected them all, summarily. A woman, he says, should not be permitted to play it. It is only the Maude Adams tradition that justifies even the consideration of women. He believes that he should play the part! I think he is quite impersonal about it. He knows his capacity. He knows his Barrie. And Peter Pan, say what you will, WAS a boy. Gareth could implant that touch of eeriness that Barrie intended. The women could implant only--femininity. One excepts, always, Mary Pickford. It was Mrs. Fiske who saw in Gareth's performance in "Moloch," a stage play, the reawakening of genius upon the stage, in the new generation. In the main, he seems bored. One thinks inevitably of Dorian Gray, and of the lesser known Lord Reggie in Hichens' "The Green Carnation." Indeed, he is of the identical age of the latter, with much of that astonishing beauty of youth, that hint of mad scarlet things, about him. He fails in brilliance, but that is perhaps because he has no Esmee to echo. He remarked suddenly--suddenness is his conversation's most effective riposte--that his religion was Episcopalian. "Are you sincere in it?" I asked. It seemed the most likely way to evoke interest from a dry subject. The question seemed to surprise Gareth. He is content with making statements, not explaining them. Explanations, I imagine, tire him. He stared at me a moment before replying. "Yes," he said, finally, hitching again at his glasses. Then, after a pause, "--as sincere as I am in anything." He smiled faintly. "Have you met Peter, the Man of God?" he asked, again suddenly. I knew of him--a long-haired hermit, perpetually barefoot; clothed to meet the conventions, but no further. He did odd jobs about the studios. "I met him yesterday," said Gareth. "He said to me, 'Ah, me bhye, I can see health in ye, and clane livin'. White lights there be about ye. Make good, clane pictures, me bhye, and the Lord'll bless ye.' He was standing with his shovel like a staff--in a wagon of manure." Gareth paused. "The Man of God, with his feet in a manure pile," he finished, staring at me absently. "You speak in parables!" I murmured. But already his mind was wandering off at another tangent. One senses, through all the shifting fronts that Gareth presents, the immutable scarlet thread of artistry. That is the supreme fact of his being. It is perhaps too soon to call it genius. To me, Gareth is a receptive rather than a creative artist. He is vitalized by impressions. He seems to be the more beautiful echo of some far-sounding reality. One might liken him to a composite, containing infinite portraitures of men, with the power to bring any one of them to the fore at will. Passive, with no one phase predominant, he is a riddle. I should not be surprised one day to see his beautiful face of a boy drop off, a mask. Beneath one might find--anything. He is a grotesque mantled with divinity--the divinity of youth. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * October 1922 PICTURES AND PICTUREGOER Meet Sentimental Tommy I first gazed on Gareth Hughes over a littered kitchen table, and although his laughing brown eyes did not at that moment suggest his quixotic temperament, it was his surroundings that betrayed his fanciful appreciation of life. He had imbued even domesticity with an unconventional suggestion of artistry. Blue walls and orange curtains, white enameled stoves and an eighteenth-century bow-legged table, supporting a twentieth-century rolling- pin, certainly have a touch of fantasy in a kitchen. That was Gareth's atonement to the arts for straying into the mundane affairs of cookery. Cookery is one of his favourite hobbies, but he insists on cooking cabbages or cakes amidst an atmosphere of futuristic effects. He wiped his long, tapering fingers free from baking-powder and replaced a glinting amethyst ring on his right hand as a preliminary to shaking hands. Baking-powder and barbaric jewelry, this boy with the credulous, eager expression of youth was a continual contradiction. "I had that made for 'Sentimental Tommy,'" he explained noticing my scrutiny of the huge jewel. He eyed it himself with the proud expression of a boy displaying a particularly coveted specimen of glass marble. Then the swift, transient suggestion of irresponsible youth passed. He became the grave, thoughtful philosopher. "I often think that there is such a thing as reincarnation, and that I in some former life was a priest," he said, with a shy smile. "I love jewels that suggest resplendent altar-cloths and stained-glass windows. One day I shall fit up one of my rooms as a cloister." It was easy to realise why Cecil B. De Mille called Gareth Hughes the "young idealist." Yet there is nothing solid or tangible in this description of the puzzling Metro "star." For Gareth's mind flits from one mood to another like a butterfly. He is a swift series of character studies, each one, despite its transience, being very convincing whilst it pleases him to adopt each individual pose. "What would you like me to talk about?" he asked suddenly, as we left the blue-and-orange kitchen and passed along the corridor that led to his den, with its tiger-skin rugs and silk-covered divans. The question struck me as being humorous. It would have been as sensible to have asked Don Quixote to have postponed his tilting at windmills until he had assimilated the riding-school technique of a lancers' sergeant-major, as to endeavour to bind Gareth Hughes down to any detailed line of thought. "Your past experiences on the films and your future ambitions," I suggested, with the realisation that whatever I said could not stem his swift, ever-changing flow of conversation and direct it into any special channels. He had forgotten his question almost as soon as he had spoken. Crossing to a gleaming piano of polished mahogany, he commenced to play softly. He chattered as he played, for this versatile young man has no need to concentrate on a musical score. He never learned music, but played naturally from his earliest boyhood. "Do you recognise this old Welsh air?" he said. "I learned it when I was a boy living in the Welsh hills where I was born. That was twenty-three years ago." As his fingers strayed over the keys he became reminiscent, and told me that acting first claimed him when he was fourteen and he appeared on the stage in Wales. Then, with the Welsh Players, he went to London, and later to New York. In those days his prominent stage successes were "Little Miss Llewellyn," "The Joneses," "Dark Rosaelln," and "The Change." He was serious when he spoke with pride of having created the role of the young son in J. M. Barrie's "The New Word." A moment later his thoughts flashed off at a tangent. "Have you seen J. M. Barrie?" he asked suddenly, his customary shy smile breaking into a happy grin. I confessed that I had not met the famous creator of Peter Pan, the immortal character whose lovable spirit of boyhood is so largely reflected in Gareth Hughes. "Then you must meet him now," said my mercurial host, emitting a shrill whistle. A shaggy-coated Airedale lumbered into the room and thrust a friendly damp nose into my hand. Gareth explained that he called this intelligent canine "Barrie" because, despite the fact that he played in many film pictures before he starred in 'Sentimental Tommy,' he always regards the latter picture as his first big chance on the silver sheet. When "Barrie" had comfortably curled himself up on Gareth's immaculate knees, my host told me of his early days before fame came to him in the early twenties, and a fortune sufficient to build his picturesque house in the wooded Laurel Canyon of the Californian hills and to house two splendid cars in the garage adjacent to his home. Gareth has the power to forcibly convey to his listeners his mood of the moment, just as he radiates emotions from the screen. The wistfulness in his searching brown eyes inspired my sympathy as he related how he had known poverty in his early days in New York. "I have known what it is to starve in a garret," he confessed. I looked at his carefully polished pink finger-nails, his modish, immaculate clothes that revealed the sybarite, and realised that beneath his effervescent nature there was strength of purpose that had lifted him to success, despite the despair that privations must have brought to one so intolerant of poverty. "At first I played small parts in the film studios, but I was always confident that fame would one day come my way. My first real screen part was in 'Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch,' with Marguerite Clark; and 'Eyes of Youth,' in which I played with that incomparable artiste, Clara Kimball Young, was another early milestone in my career." "Your favourite screen artiste?" I queried, his enthusiasm in the direction of "Clara Kimball Young" inspiring my trend of thought. "Ben Turpin," said Gareth unhesitatingly. I gasped and studied his serious face for the flicker of humour that I felt sure would be there. He was joking, I imagined. His next sentence swept aside my doubts. "I think he's great," enthused Gareth, bending forward in his chair, with disastrous results to the somnolent "Barrie," who fell a disgruntled heap on to the onyx and silver carpet. "I went to see 'A Small Town Idol' seven times because he was so funny in it. Yet I am not in love with pictures generally. 'Sentimental Tommy' is the only one in which I appear that I have seen from beginning to end." I settled back on the orange cushions of Gareth's comfortable divan, and let the probing art of the interviewer look after itself. This irrepressible host of mine was far more entertaining and surprising when he was left alone to go his own way. "Lasky's sent for me to come to New York to star in 'Sentimental Tommy,'" he told me. "At that time I was Viola Dana's leading man, and I played in 'A Chorus Girl's Romance,' 'Life's Darn Funny,' and 'The Lure of Youth.' "'Garments of Truth' and 'The Hunch' followed after that, and shortly I am starting work on 'Kick In' with May McAvoy, Betty Compson, and Bert Lytell. "May McAvoy and I are great friends. We both had our big chance together in 'Sentimental Tommy,' and that has inspired a happy comradeship between us." "They say," I interrupted, "that you are a woman hater." Gareth raised his slim hands in laughing protest. "Never. In fact," he added in a stage whisper, "I am searching for a wife. I am sufficiently an idealist to know that marriage is a great influence for success in a man's life if he finds the real happiness that the right woman can bring." I appreciated the desire for secrecy that his lowered tones suggested. Were the world to know that handsome, lovable Gareth Hughes was looking for a wife, he would be swamped by letters from hopeful applicants for the coveted position. "If I have any difference with the opposite sex," admitted Gareth, offering me a gold-tipped cigarette on the side of which were his initials fantastically engraved in gold, "it is my belief that the role of Peter Pan should never be played by a woman. The portrayal of appealing, lovable youth should essentially be the task of a man. And I am going to run the risk of appearing to be biased by saying that I am very anxious to play that part myself either on the stage or screen." "The stage," I re-echoed. "You think that you are likely to return to the theatre?" Gareth lapsed into yet another of his changing moods, and momentarily the mask of eager boyishness fell from his face and he became the inscrutable, serious, professional man of the world with blaseness reflected in his big brown eyes. "Soon I expect to go back," he admitted. "Arnold Daly has asked me to play Hamlet, and I am anxious to play David Copperfield, Dorian Gray, and Pendennis." That he is a child of intellect is even more accentuated when Gareth Hughes's finely chiseled features are at rest in his fleeting serious moments. He has the arresting, reflective eyes of the thinker. His high, broad forehead, with its perfect curve from his nose to where his thick brown hair sweeps across his brow, suggests the fertile, creative brain that lies beneath. His lithe and graceful figure has that broadness of shoulders and slender waist that, in addition to suggesting youth, enables him to wear the most Bohemian dress with distinction. Even in the rags of a tramp in his clever characterisation in 'The Hunter' he had a certain grace of movement and gesture. Yet Gareth confessed that he seldom indulges in athletics to keep himself fit. "Keeping fit for me means being able to work unceasingly for sixteen hours at a stretch. I can't do it if I wear myself out completely at sports. I find the mental stimulation of great literature more necessary," he soliloquised. Before I left Gareth took me around his quaint garden, and showed me the enclosed porch with its silent pool of floating water-lilies where he sits and evolves his new screen characterisations. It is here that he has read William Shakespeare until he has a surprising knowledge of the works of the famous bard. To one so highly strung and receptive where the influence of individuals and surroundings is concerned, it is not surprising that Gareth Hughes admits that he is very affected by the "atmosphere" of a scene when he is playing before the cameras. "The quaint picturesque village of 'Thrums,' which was especially built for the filming of 'Sentimental Tommy,' was a great inspiration to me," Gareth told me. "Somehow, it seemed to have caught the spirit of the story, and to reflect the simple, unaffected outlook of the human Scottish characters figuring in Barrie's book. I felt myself living in the part that I was playing, with the quaint tiled cottages and narrow, twisted streets of Thrums as a background. "It may sound like idealism," added Gareth, with sudden seriousness in his fine eyes; "but I believe that the great improvement of recent years in the artistic creation of studio sets has helped to uplift the acting of the artistes. It is possible to throw yourself enthusiastically into a part, and enact characters that are not part of one's real personality, if you are acting amidst realistic scenic effects on the production of which any amount of time and labour has been expended. "I am a devout admirer of those pioneers of the pictures who enthusiastically mimed before crude painted canvas on wooden platforms with only the sun to illuminate the scene. Such conditions must have been very trying, and they had not the inspiration of lavish scenery and flattering arc- lamps." Then Gareth betrayed a secret which may to some extent help to explain his puzzling temperament. "Do you think that I am affected?" he asked, with embarrassing directness, studying my face as he spoke. I protested politely against any such suggestion. "I am afraid that I lay myself open to such criticism," went on Gareth, slowly; "for I admit that I go on acting after I have left the studios. It is a theory of mine that an actor should continue to perfect his art by continually pretending to be someone other than his real self. "For example," he said suddenly, with a characteristic smile playing round his mobile mouth, "at the present moment I confess that I am really worried and a little frightened at being interviewed. I am just trying to act the part of a motion-picture star who is a little bored at having to grant an interview, but is submitting to it only for the benefit of the picturegoers who wish to hear something about him. "Since you arrived, I have kept saying to myself: 'Gareth, you're an important personage, and people will be hanging on your words.' "You see," added my youthful host with naive frankness, "I have been convincing myself that it is true for the time being, so that I can talk to you and forget my usual shrinking, timid self. "I play at being an actor all the time. I am sure that has given me a deeper sympathy with the characters that I have portrayed on the screen. I feel that way over 'Sentimental Tommy' and 'Lester Crope' in 'Garments of Truth'--both character-studies of youngsters who, through force of circumstances, were obliged to act parts outside of themselves." Gareth Hughes is a remarkably serious young man when he commences to delve beneath the surface of things. Psychology, I discovered, was his favourite study, and it provided considerable recreation for him during the frequent occasions when he went into quiet retirement with his beloved books. "Books will not teach you a great deal about human nature," Gareth told me; "you have to study the real thing if you want to reflect on the screen human nature as it really is. "I spent days and the best part of several nights down in the 'Bowery' quarter of New York not long ago studying the underworld and its human derelicts. "I was assimilating knowledge for my screen portrayal of the part of the tramp in my film play, 'The Hunter.' Of course, I was not dressed like this," he laughed, indicating his immaculately cut morning suit. "An old- clothes shop provided me with the requisite shabby costume and two weeks' growth of beard completed my disguise. "I wore the actual clothes in which I masqueraded in 'The Hunter.' That was probably the most economical suit that I have ever appeared in before the cameras." Gareth Hughes has a peculiar gift for one possessed of an imaginative, creative mind. He has the power to assimilate detail and store it in his brain, despite his vivid mentality which flits from widely diverse subjects with such lack of effort. He suggests the unusual combination of a shrewd business man and an imaginative dreamer. He talked of his visit of Mexico, to which country he journeyed for the filming of 'Stay Home,' and his vivid descriptions of the South American landscape and wonderful sunsets and clear warm nights were those of an artist, word-painting on a mental canvas. Yet he retained remarkably insignificant details in his mind concerning that visit. He told me how he stole into a Mission Church where Mass was in progress. He described minutely the picturesque costumes of the women worshippers with handkerchiefs on their heads, and he dwelt on the bizarre appearance of the altar boy devoid of vestments, and who was barefooted and attired in a pair of ragged breeches and a torn shirt. He had found time to study human-beings, as is his custom wherever he goes, although in Mexico he was filming hard all day, and studying the script of a later picture, 'Don't Write Letters,' when away from the studios. With wistfulness in his brown eyes, Gareth talked of Wales, his native country, as we sipped tea brought to us by a kindly faced housekeeper who "mothers" her irrepressible master, although it was confided to me that she had only been in his service for a few weeks. For Gareth has the refreshing appeal of youth in his likable personality, and those who have felt the influence of his whimsical, lovable character, which he so effectively radiates from the screen, will understand the feelings of that motherly housekeeper. Gareth was born in Llanelly, and he has all the typical love of the Welshman for his own country. He is inordinately proud of the fact that Lloyd George came from Wales. Soon he is going to re-visit the land of his fathers, when his long- delayed vacation becomes a reality. The practical jokers of the Metro studios revel in circulating rumours that Gareth is getting married. And because, with the wealth that he has amassed from the stage and screen, and his extremely attractive looks, there are always many of the fair sex ready to take an interest in any intriguing matrimonial rumours that are associated with one of the most eligible bachelors in the moving-picture colony. "It was actually reported that I was honeymooning at the Samarkand Hotel, the hostelry for newly-weds at Santa Barbara, California," Gareth related to me, with a chuckle. "I happened to be staying there for a few days, and some humourist took the opportunity of pulling off a practical joke. "My director swallowed it, and wired me for confirmation of the report. I wired back: 'Not honeymooning. Have a fine moon, but no honey.'" It may be that Gareth has some hidden romance which he has not revealed to the curious world. When he talks of the happiness of an ideal marriage, and confesses that often he is very lonely in his bachelor walk of life, one wonders if somewhere away in the Welsh hills there is a memory which he carries in his heart. "I would like to be married in Wales if I ever did contemplate matrimony," he confessed, and there was a far-away, reflective expression in his big brown eyes as he spoke. When Gareth insisted that I should come with him and inspect the stables adjacent to his picturesque house, where he keeps his mounts, including his first favourite, "Dynamite," who has appeared with him on the screen, I saw another phase of the youthful star's character. He is devoted to horses, and spends much of his spare time in the saddle. But it is the extraordinary understanding that he has of his animals, and the almost affectionate manner in which they press their noses against his delicate hands, that leaves a greater impression than his obvious enthusiasm where horseflesh is concerned. I left him gazing thoughtfully at the shadowed pool, softly singing the lilting words of a new Broadway foxtrot. Shakespeare and Jazz, cooking and cloisters--I reflected as I made my way back down Gareth's wooded drive. Would anyone ever understand this lovable, human will-o'-the-wisp from the Welsh hills? ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** James Kirkwood James Kirkwood directed nine of Mary Miles Minter's films in 1916-17. Although she was only 14 or 15 years old at the time, they had a romantic relationship. According to testimony given by Mary's sister, Kirkwood had seduced and impregnated Mary, resulting in an abortion. The incident undoubtedly contributed to Charlotte Shelby's very protective attitude toward Mary during the subsequent years when Mary was infatuated with Taylor. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * November 1915 Pearl Gaddis MOTION PICTURE Chats with the Players: James Kirkwood, of the Famous Players Company I approached my interview with James Kirkwood in fear and trembling. Perhaps he would be stiff and haughty; perhaps he didn't want to be interviewed at all. And again--most breath-taking "perhaps" of all--perhaps he wasn't in. I must admit that the last "perhaps" carried with it a tiny bit of relief. The telephone girl at the Seminole Hotel is a very much "down-stage" young person, and when I meekly asked for Mr. Kirkwood, she pushed up her back-hair, smoothed her belt and shifted her gum, the while she looked me over haughtily. I felt absolutely certain she could see that one of my coat- buttons was loose and that I was wearing flowers to hide it. Then she condescended to call a bell-boy. "Boy," she said languidly, with the air of one who has tasted the joys of life and found them stale, "page Mr. Kirkwood." I escaped to the reception-room, where I regained my breath. A very tall, very fair-haired man, his lean, strong face sunburned to a hue that deepened the blue of his eyes, came toward me from the elevator. "Now, tell me what you want me to say," he laughed, "and I'll say it." "Where were you born, then?" I asked. "Grand Rapids, Michigan--and was educated there," he returned promptly. "How long have you been in Motion Pictures?" came next. "Six years," he said, a light of reminiscence in his pleasant, blue eyes. "Biograph first; then with Universal where I directed King Baggot; then to Famous Players, is my travelog. I directed the first Klaw and Erlanger-Biograph picture ever put on, 'Classmates.' The first Famous Players' picture that I directed was 'The Eagle's Mate,' in which I also played the lead opposite Mary Pickford." And here I considered it perfectly proper to present a leading question. "Mr. Kirkwood, do you prefer to direct a person who is experienced and does things his own way, or would you rather take a person who is inexperienced, but who has talent and who can be molded to your own ways?" He stared at me for a moment, rather surprised, I think, before replying. "Well, of course, any director prefers a plastic actor. But it makes no difference to me whether they come to me from the stage with nation-wide reputations, or whether they come from the ranks of 'extras,' as long as they do as I want them to do. Take Mary Pickford, for instance. She placed herself entirely in my hands; and even when she made suggestions that I did not accept, she went right ahead, doing things as I wanted them done. Same way with Miss Dawn, who is playing the lead in my present picture, and with Henry Walthall. There can be but one director in a company." And since he had mentioned my three favorite actors, I begged for more about them. "I consider Henry Walthall one of the finest actors in the business today," he resumed. "Of course he isn't perhaps so great a--how shall I say it?--matinee idol as some, but that is because he is not a business man, not a publicity man. He never refuses to play a part because he thinks it might detract from his popularity. Any part that makes him think, that makes him work, delights him, no matter whether it is the part of a deep-dyed villain, a weak, self-willed sort of a person, or a hero. Any one can go on the screen, make a good appearance, do a few heroic things and be acclaimed a hero and an idol. But it takes art to interpret the parts that Henry Walthall does." "And do you prefer photoplays that deal with exterior, beautiful scenes, to the elaborate, inside stuff that is causing such a furor now?" "Well, yes, I do. Stories that deal with Nature in her wildest yet most beautiful moods always interest me deeply. There's an inspiration about doing outside production that is utterly lacking under the glare of the 'Cooper-Hewitts' in an inside studio." "Which would you rather do, act or direct?" I demanded, impertinently, perhaps. "That's a very difficult question to answer," he mused slowly. "Of course I like to direct, but I also like to act. I'll tell you what I don't like--both to act and direct. I don't particularly care for that; you can't devote enough time to either one to be absolutely satisfied." "You have had unlimited experience in both--please tell me do you think motion pictures will ever outshine the stage?" "Never!" with decision. "They each occupy places so entirely different that they will never clash. Of course, when pictures first came they were considered something of a 'freak,' and people smiled and wondered how long they would last. But slowly they have gained a foothold, and recently have made such rapid strides that your question is quite pertinent. But I think that acting on the stage is an art, like poetry, sculpture and so on, and that it will never give way to pictures. Acting for pictures is just as much an art, but so different that there's never a fear of their clashing, to the detriment of one or the other. It is said sometimes that moving pictures have, by their cheapness, won away from the theater the poorer, uneducated class of people who could not afford the theater. But this is wrong. Everybody goes to moving pictures, and everybody enjoys them. "I was on the stage," he reminisced, "for ten years before going into pictures, and when I deserted it a number of my friends thought that I was giving up my career. Most of them are members of the Players Club, and are now interested in the very art that they once despised." I would have liked to have stayed longer, but time was flying and busy directors mustn't be kept from their work. But I must say that James Kirkwood is one of the most interesting men that I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * June 3, 1916 REEL LIFE Mutual Engages Famous Producer James Kirkwood, one of the ablest of photoplay directors, has signed a long-term contract with the American Film Company, Inc. He leaves this week for the American studios at Santa Barbara, Cal., where he will begin the direction of a series of feature photoplays, starring Mary Miles Minter. The contract negotiations were conducted by John R. Freuler, president of the Mutual Film Corporation. Mr. Kirkwood's experience includes the production of some of the most notable features in the history of photoplay manufacturing in America. He began directing pictures seven years ago, after a long and successful career on the speaking stage. Kirkwood went on the stage in his early youth. He appeared in many notable productions, among them with Henry Miller in "The Great Divide," with Blanche Bates in "The Girl of the Golden West," and for his last appearance on Broadway, six years ago, in "The Turning Point," at the Hackett Theatre. Mr. Kirkwood was kidnapped into the pictures by David Wark Griffith and Harry Solter, when they were working at the old Biograph studios in Fourteenth Street, New York City. Mr. Kirkwood recalled the incident the other day. "They were making a stupendous one-reel feature," remarked Mr. Kirkwood. "It was entitled 'The Lonely Villa.' The cast included Mary Pickford, Owen Moore, David Miles and Arthur Johnson. I happened into the studio to see a friend working there when Solter spied me and insisted on using me in one scene. He handed me a crowbar and said: "'Here! Break into this room and rescue the imperiled heroine.' "I broke through a flock of doors and carried the limp and languishing form of Mary Pickford to safety, with all of the due gallantry of the motion picture hero. That was my introduction to pictures I didn't give much thought to the incident at the time, but it resulted in my being called as a director with the Biograph Company. Shortly thereafter I was concerned with some of the first of the so-called feature pictures done in America." As a director for the Biograph, Mr. Kirkwood put out the picture versions of a number of the Klaw and Erlanger productions, principal among them "Classmates," in which Blanche Sweet, Dorothy Gish, Henry Walthall, Lionel Barrymore and Gertrude Robinson appeared. Mr. Kirkwood also directed "Strongheart," in which Blanche Sweet and Henry Walthall were starred. Mr. Kirkwood directed ten pictures for the Famous Players, featuring Mary Pickford, and playing important roles in these productions, among them "The Eagle's Mate," "Behind the Scenes," "The Dawn of Tomorrow," and "Rags." He also directed "The Gangsters of New York," a highly successful feature production, made at the Reliance studios and released by the Mutual Film Corporation. As a director for the Reliance Mr. Kirkwood for one year made two one-reel pictures a week, which is something of a record in high pressure direction. Mr. Kirkwood, as a director, places great emphasis on the importance of the scenario, and he expresses it as his conviction that while the public is tired of stunts, it never will tire of the motion picture's interpretation of real human experience. He holds the motion picture to be a fundamental form of art expression, with the future as definitely assured as the future of sculpture, painting, music and the drama. "There seems to be a good deal of talk lately," says Mr. Kirkwood, "concerning the scarcity of motion picture stories and a great deal written about it in the papers. Now, as far as I know they always have been scarce, and to the best of my belief they always will be scarce. Trained writers are now taking up the work of writing photoplays, but even with more of them doing so, good stories will be scarce. Good stories are scarce in magazines, in books and in plays, so why shouldn't they be in motion pictures where they must have all the qualities which make them desirable as stories for type publication and the especial quality for visualization. "It is said that the flood of books and play adaptations will soon be exhausted, and it cannot be exhausted too soon for me, for I think few of them lend themselves to the screen. When they do they have to stand a lot of manhandling and twisting about by the scenario editors and directors. "The camera is just as merciless to the inconsistent story as it is to the human face, betraying its weaknesses as quickly. "I believe that the most desirable sort of play today is modern and American, either a swift moving drama with strong, human characterizations, or a comedy devoid of extravagance, its incidents growing out of the foibles of human nature, rather than produced by one of the characters smiting another with what is commonly called a slapstick. "You will have observed, of course, that the sophisticated play fills a large place on the screen nowadays. The audience is supposed to be, and undoubtedly is, fond of evening dress, ballrooms, conservatories and so on. I like that sort of thing, but don't confine myself to it. Virginia, Broadway, Newport or Colorado are good enough for me, if they are supported by virile American drama, or truly original and humorous American comedy. Photoplays are made to be human." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * December 1920 Truman B. Handy MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC Kirkwood Confesses! There's an intangible something to James Kirkwood which you simply have to describe as "personality." Not that it is expressed either in a loud voice or a jazz shirt, after the fashion of some of our other screen leading men, but, nevertheless, it's all there. Kirkwood has come back to the screen after quite a lengthy directorial absence. The traditional grease-paint and handsome-hero stuff is a relief, he says, after the strenuous duties of a megaphone manipulator, and hereafter he's quite satisfied to leave the direction end of the movie game to whatever gentlemen may be disposed to shoulder its burdens. The solid comfort enjoyed only by that variety of the human species known as motion picture stars--the solid comfort relative to having even the minutest speck of dust brushed from the coat-tail of one's suit by a fourth- assistant property boy, was being enjoyed by Kirkwood when I cornered him in a brilliantly lighted cubby-hole of a stage at Ince's, where he is working in a Glaum picture. Kirkwood enjoyed himself ostensibly. Oh, so ostensibly! In fact, as ostensibly as only one who is accustomed to the joys of an actorial existence can possibly enjoy himself. Languidly he held up one arm while "props" with a whiskbroom hacked away at a dust smear. A broad smile o'erspread the Kirkwood countenance. "Oh," he almost yawned, "I'm so lazy. So darned lazy! Too lazy, even, to doll myself up. And very happy! This is the penalty one pays for being a cinema hero. You mess up and get messed up by the villain and return somewhere off-stage to get renovated. Not that you ever expect 'props' to get off all the grime. That's out of the question. 'Props' is 'props,' and he'll un-spot you enough so that the dear fans won't think you are sporting sartorial novelties." "This leading-man life has the directorial existence skinned a mile?" I again ventured. "You said it! No more directing for me!" Kirkwood, a few years back, was one of the coterie of popular matinee favorites--when he played opposite Mary Pickford in "Behind the Scenes." Just at the zenith of his popularity he gave his admirers a heartache by leaving them flat to direct. For a long time we heard nothing of him, further than that he would produce this picture or that, until Allan Dwan lured him back to the grease-paint in "The Luck of the Irish." In the picture he played a whole-hearted, manly young Irishman. Kirkwood, being both manly and whole-hearted, made the characterization a page from the book of Life. He had a fight or two every twenty-five feet, and by the time that the picture was half over, you commenced to wonder whether God and human vitality would pull him through. Fighting is one of his pastimes de luxe. Back in the old Biograph days he used to astonish them all by his ability in a screen free-for-all, and now that he's staged a regular film "come-back," they still continue to cast him as the chief purveyor of this black-and-blue drama. "I've had something like four hundred brawls before the camera," he remarked, "and I've never put anybody permanently out of commission. Screen fighting's a fine art. You have to hit your opponent so you won't crack either his make-up or his jaw." Kirkwood, both in his make-up and off-stage, is not the type of the matinee man. His hair is naturally curly--not marcelled. His teeth are all his own, and he has enough muscle to beat up a cop should he want to. Furthermore, when you're talking to him, he seems to forget that James Kirkwood is alive. He never mentions himself, and it is only with the utmost difficulty that he is made to say anything at all about his work. And, girls, he's just a wee bit bashful! In fact, he blushed--visibly, even under his make-up--when someone asked him if he'd ever been proposed to. Of course, he has; what good-looking screen actor hasn't? But it's nothing to brag about, he adds. Rather, it's an honor to be proud of, and he wishes it made known that he would like to oblige each of the fairest fair ones, only-- That "only" is a definite reason, which it is not my province to disclose. Suffice it to say that James, being a dutiful son, supports his mother. Kirkwood insists that he likes to do either dramatic or comedy parts. To his great credit his versatility enables him to do one as well as the other. "What are you best in?" I asked. "Why ask me?" he rejoins. "Why ask any actor? How does he know what he's best suited for?" Once, when he was very young, a stage manager had him don crepe whiskers and play old men in their seventies. Later, he did foreign character parts. It used to be his ambition to be a heavy. There's something about the expression of his eyes that made me think that, perhaps, he might be a good he-vamp. Whereupon I broach the subject and--am at once squelched. "He vamp?" he snorted. "Nothing doing!" Some day, when he has amassed a neat little bank account from the silent drama, Kirkwood is going to "settle down" on a comfortable farm. Now, he says, he gets tired of the sophistication of the stage, exactly as a banker wearies of the humdrum existence of the clearing house. It's reversing the English on your own life, as it were; everybody gets bored doing his own particular line of work--or, rather, tires of his world. Kirkwood literally got dragged onto the screen. Griffith, working at the Biograph in New York, saw him one day when he visited some friends at the studio and prevailed upon him to accept a part. Previously he had been with Blanche Bates on the stage under Belasco's management in "The Girl of the Golden West," with Henry Miller and Margaret Anglin in "The Great Divide" and with other stars of the legitimate, and was playing the male lead in the stage version of "Behind the Scenes" when he strolled into the studio. When he made his screen debut, the majority of the now-known "pioneers" were "extras" at the studio, making five dollars a day. He started in a picture with Marion Leonard and Mary Pickford--went on before the camera for the first time in a "retake." After playing every variety of part in one- and two-reelers, he was at length given Marion Leonard to direct, and subsequently, after careers with Reliance, Mutual, Universal, Fox and American, he affiliated with Famous Players, first as a leading man, later as a director, where he swayed the destinies of such stars as Jack Barrymore in "The Lost Bridegroom"; Hazel Dawn in a number of plays, and Florence Reed in a series, among which was "The Struggle Everlasting." Shortly afterward, when Jack Pickford began to make pictures for First National, Kirkwood became his director. He wrote "In Wrong" for Mary's little brother and directed him in it. Later, he held the megaphone for "Bill Apperson's Boy." It was then Allen Dwan came along, and Jim joined him, later going to play opposite Louise Glaum in "The Girl Who Dared"; and now Kirkwood will permanently remain in his make-up, because, in the final analysis, he likes to think that there is a bigger field in acting. "But," I concluded, "I thought I heard you say you're lazy." "Oh, yes," he responded. "I guess I am. But I couldn't go without working--not if somebody offered me a cool million to take life easy--exactly as I like to take it." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * April 1921 Aline Carter MOTION PICTURE CLASSIC The Kirkwood "Come-Back" James Kirkwood has reversed the usual order of things for, after attaining the megaphone and distinguishing himself as a director of merit, he has returned to his first love--acting. Probably he is still in an active stage of development, for he is displaying a remarkable versatility that makes him an interesting figure in the motion picture world. Between scenes at the Lasky studio in Hollywood, where Mr. Kirkwood is creating the principal role in George Melford's big production, "The Money Master," based on Sir Gilbert Parker's well-known novel, we talked of his past and present, and speculated on his future career. He has a charming personality, genuine and sincere, but uncomfortably modest for, though he talks freely on many subjects, he is most reticent about James Kirkwood, and it required much maneuvering to fulfill the demands of an interview. His voice is particularly well modulated, pitched very low and he speaks slowly. In fact, he never seems hurried or rushed and, in this day of frantic haste, this quality sets him apart as rather unusual. Besides this, Mr. Kirkwood possesses many physical characteristics that particularly fit him for the handsome hero roles that have been his forte since returning to the screen as an actor. A tall, well-knit body and splendid physique show him to be an athlete, and he gives one the feeling of a tremendous reserve force and an unquenchable vitality. His brown hair has a natural curl that is the envy of every ingenue about the studios, while the merry twinkle in his blue eyes wins admirers at every turn. For his role of the stern French Canadian, Jean Jacques Barbille, he wears a short velvet coat, corduroy trousers and heavy service shoes, with a crowning camouflage consisting of a full beard which he annexes with the aid of a spry young barber who hastens to pat and smooth this work of art before each scene. "I only hope this make-up doesn't start an avalanche of bearded roles," laughed Mr. Kirkwood. "After I finished 'The Luck of the Irish,' every director who had an Irish part saw me in it and one producer even wanted me to do a series of Irish pictures. Nothing doing. I do not want to confine myself to one character nor establish a screen personality that I would be forced to live up to. I enjoy portraying various roles too much for that. It's like knowing many different people, and just as you may like some of your acquaintances better than others, so do you prefer some of your screen characters to others. "I do not care what the part is, so long as it offers a character delineation that is real," he continued, in his slow, deliberate tones. "You can play a role that is absolutely despicable yet appreciate and often admire it, if it is strong and runs true to type. I am always fascinated with each new role, but you know the old saying about the latest love being the greatest. Well, that's the way I feel about this role of Jean Jacques. It's a corker and the most interesting I have had, offering an opportunity for strong acting. That is what we are always hoping for, a part that will sweep us off our feet and, incidentally, the audience as well, and in which we excel all our previous efforts." "Ready, Mr. Kirkwood!" sang out a voice, and taking a final survey of the precious whiskers in a small mirror held before him by his faithful Japanese valet, he began rehearsing a dramatic scene in which he does a remarkable bit of sustained acting while alone on the set. With Mr. Melford's quiet command, "Camera," a definite sense of tenseness gripped us all as we watched the tragedy of Jean's broken heart revealed to the camera while the plaintive sob of the violins playing, "Land of the Sky-Blue Water," supplied an appropriate accompaniment. With the final click everyone relaxed and the vivid Elinor Glyn, swathed in a gorgeous fur coat, suggestive of the tiger skin she made famous, left us for the next set where a society tea was being staged for Cecil deMille's all star picture, "Five Kisses." Mr. Kirkwood says that directing has developed and broadened his viewpoint and all the conceit was knocked out of him when he once more began to act. "I recall how I used to wonder why on earth an actor couldn't play a role as he knew it should be played," he confessed. "That's the rub, that's what we are all trying to learn, but believe me, it isn't as easy as it often appears to the director. Just as I would prescribe a period of acting for every director, so would I have actors learn the directing angle as a means of enlarging their own comprehension of the requirements. Jimmy Kirkwood was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His dramatic career presents a remarkable record of constancy, for from the moment he made up his mind to become an actor he never wavered. This determination came while he was still a small boy and was the result of seeing Modjeska and Booth in a series of Shakespearian dramas, the memory of which still thrills him. From this time on he studied, worked and dreamed to this end and though he knew no one connected with the theater in any way, he celebrated his twentieth birthday by setting forth for New York to make his fortune on the stage. His father had planned that he should go to West Point, but pushing aside his desires he loyally stood by his son in his stage dreams, probably believing they would prove but a passing fancy. His first experience was in repertoire at eight dollars a week, but slowly, step by step, he forged his way ahead and the last four years of his stage life were spent with those two greatest dramatic directors, Henry Miller and David Belasco, to whose influence, he declares, he owes much. His screen career began at the old Biograph studio, where he became one of that now famous group of film stars. When Griffith came to Los Angeles seven years ago, Mr. Kirkwood came along as his director and his experiences included directing for Reliance, Universal, Fox and Famous Players. After the armistice, he swayed the destiny of Jack Pickford through his four pictures for First National, and it was while at work on these that Allan Dwan induced him to don the grease paint once again and play the leading role of the production, "The Luck of the Irish." "I enjoyed every foot of that picture," and Mr. Kirkwood became quietly enthusiastic. "Believe me, we staged some hot fights in it and it seems like old times, for fights were my specialty in those first days when action was the main thing." Following this, he played opposite Louise Glaum in "The Girl Who Dared," going back to Dwan for "The Scoffers." The made "The Forbidden Thing," "Man, Woman, Marriage," with Dorothy Phillips, and played the star role in Micky Neilan's latest production, "Bob Hampton of Placer." No more directing for him, declares Mr. Kirkwood. He believes the acting game offers him a greater opportunity, and, too, he loves it. Some day he wants to return to the stage with a "whopper of a role," but he is loyal to motion pictures and thinks they are a powerful influence in the right direction. He believes that film stories should deal with life as it really is, while lending romance and beauty to the commonplace and bringing out the lesson that an inexorable law demands payment for all wrong, even to the last farthing, and the only happiness comes in doing right. Mr. Kirkwood keeps house and, being a bachelor, has to depend on Japanese servants to steer the domestic bark. He is busy writing a script for himself, a morbid sort of thing dealing with heredity and spiritualism, though he makes the concession of a happy ending for the two lovers. He says he is having a beautiful time writing and tearing up his manuscript, so there is really no telling into what it will evolve. "It's a modest effort," he grinned, cheerfully. "I only play three roles and, of course, the best ones." His pleasures consist of attending the theater and seeing all the pictures as they are released, for he admits he is an ardent "movie" fan. He is fond of reading, Shakespeare and Dickens being his favorite authors, and he loves music. Every summer he leases a cottage at Ocean Park, where he takes his swim and a run to the beach each morning before going to the studio. Of course, he rides, dances, plays golf and tennis, and he dreams of some day owning a cattle ranch with horses, dogs and cats! The most characteristic remark James Kirkwood made during our entire chat came in answer to my question as to his future ambitions. Promptly and without affectation he replied: "I am trying to learn to act. When I do that I shall feel I have reached my highest goal." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * October 1921 Kenneth Curley MOTION PICTURE With Measured Tread In the sonorous deliberation of James Kirkwood's voice lies the key to the whole man. Its deep resonance is measured, slow, like the tone of a great bell. It is mellow and smooth, with not a harsh note. And when one, once accustomed to it, begins to notice James Kirkwood himself, there is in his every move, the slow gesture of a hand, the turn of his head, the same rhythmical purpose. It is not calculation. Of that I am sure. The man seems quite without pose or pretense. It is merely an innate quality of his. One likes him immediately. After playing for some time with Allan Dwan, and later with Marshall Neilan, he is now with Lasky. It was there, at the Hollywood studio, that I talked with him, up in his cement dressing-room. He was dressed immaculately in evening clothes. I was surprised by the light blue of his eyes, a steady, penetrating blue blue that, but for the warmth of his smile, might be termed cold. He stood, I imagined, over six feet. He appeared somewhat younger than on the screen, slenderer. He had made no attempt to lighten the white gloom of the dressing-room, into which he had just moved. There were only the two chairs and the dressing-table. Upon it, amongst the litter of make-up materials, lay three boxes of cigarettes, all of different brands. He helped himself to them alternately as the interview progressed, as though with them he was measuring off its advance. We talked of the weather, of course. Everyone does in California when it rains. They say apologetically, "How unusual!" James Kirkwood refused apology and instead assured me earnestly, challengingly, that it WAS unusual. I, recalling the three weeks of chilly, unremitting rain, agreed politely-- and doubtfully. James Kirkwood is to be a star. Only a week or two lay between him and the hour when he would sign his name on the dotted line, with Mr. Lasky at his shoulder, nodding approval. "But I have told them," he said slowly, "that I will not sign unless it is understood that I am not to be starred in program pictures only. They are deadly. No one is big enough to carry a season of them. Unless I am to have an occasional big production I shall not sign." He flicked his cigarette. "A good deal depends upon the way my last feature picture, 'A Wise Fool,' goes with the public. They think here on the lot that it is a great production, but I'll not be satisfied until the public returns its verdict." He blew a thoughtful cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "There are several other things--tempting offers--that I should like to consider but," he set one leg slowly across the other, "I have seen so many independent producers go under! I am almost persuaded that a big organization behind one is the better policy." He helped himself from the largest of the three boxes of cigarettes. "I would like," he went on, having got the cigarette going comfortably, "I would like to do 'Othello' for the screen, playing both characters, Othello and Iago. There is very little conflict between the two. I don't want to do it just for the questionable glory of playing two roles. These two are so different in themselves, both such appealing parts to me in a character sense, that I merely want to do them for what there is in each of them." We talked so, seriously, throughout the hour. There was little of humor or sparkle apparent in him. I would have gone to my typewriter picturing him as a pleasant, rather heavy gentleman, had I not encountered Tom Gallery that evening. He, in his enthusiasm, painted quite a different portrait. "Kirkwood's fifty-fifty!" is the way he put it. "People think often that he's very silent and reserved. He is, I suppose on first acquaintance-- and when he first gets up in the morning. He'll come to the studio, sleepy and quiet, and walk around with his hands in his pockets, speaking to no one. And then something 'll hit you an awful crack on the back and let loose a terrific yell in your ears. It's Kirkwood! He's just wakened up! He's one of the best scouts in the game." It was Tom, too--he played with him in a Neilan production--who told me that while he was a director, Kirkwood had given Micky Neilan his first chance in pictures. "Sure," said Tom. "Somebody, a friend of Kirkwood's, sent Neilan to him with a letter which read, 'This kid seems to have promise. Give him a chance.' Kirkwood put him in a small part and let it go at that. But Neilan didn't. He kept rushing back after every scene with a 'Say, Mr. Kirkwood, why don't you make this scene this way?' or 'This would be a great idea to use in this scene, Mr. Kirkwood.' It ended when Kirkwood, bellowing his rage, told him to get out. 'If you think you know so much about it,' he said, 'go home and write a story.' The next day Neilan was back with his story. Later, Kirkwood put it on. Oh, he's fifty-fifty." It is interesting that, after James Kirkwood made his unusual step from directing back to acting, Marshall Neilan, by that time an independent producer, used him in his picture, "Bob Hampton of Placer." Kirkwood explained his return to make-up in a few words: "I always wanted to act," he said. "I was really forced into directing by circumstances. And things didn't go particularly well. When the chance came to go with Allan Dwan as leading man, I went. I've been acting ever since." We discussed the various productions of the year, the German pictures, "The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse," and one or two others. "I don't know," said Kirkwood deliberately, "but I should rank 'The Four Horsemen' as the greatest picture that has ever been made." Isn't that a rather big statement?" I suggested. "Yes, it is. I have read several extremely adverse criticisms. I recall that Herbert Howe in particular was denunciatory. But in spite of him and of others, and of my first doubt, I think I'll let the statement stand. I think the picture was much better than the book." I didn't carry the argument further. There were several anticipations that I wanted to discuss. That he has confidence in the permanency of his work here in California is evidenced by the fact that he has taken a house for a year down on the Pacific, on the beach between Venice and Playa Del Rey, one of the rare stretches where the odor of hot dogs is not in the air and the landscapes are not cluttered with piers. In the undeniable strength of the man, his unconsciously studied movements, his poise and quiet assurance, one realizes a personality that will probably grace the screen for many seasons. And, if it be possible, each year will find his skill on the increase, his art more mellowed. He is the sort of man who constantly strives--and inevitably achieves. He will progress deliberately, surely--with measured tread. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * October 29, 1922 Louella Parsons NEW YORK TELEGRAPH While still under the spell of "The Fool," I met James Kirkwood. I saw not the movie hero of a hundred film thrillers, but the earnest young assistant rector who tried to live according to the teachings of Christ and almost landed himself in the insane asylum. I had heard much about "The Fool" before it ever reached Broadway. But Helen Pollock's enthusiasm over her father's finest play seemed mild after seeing with my own eyes the result of Channing Pollock's thoughtful work. "The Fool" is the sort of play that is written once in a generation. It lifts you right out of your every-day humdrum existence and inspires you to try and bring a little more love and charity into your dealings with your fellow men. James Kirkwood in his characterization of Gilchrist presents this message of life and truth, which is better than any sermon I ever heard. It seemed when first I met Mr. Kirkwood in his dressing room at the theatre that he belonged in a totally different atmosphere. That is what the play did to me. It did the same for him, for he admits that he comes more and more under the spell of Gilchrist at each performance. Mr. Kirkwood has been identified with motion pictures for so long that his success in "The Fool" is in a way a motion picture triumph. He as well as his friends were dubious as to his reception in a serious play. The attitude of people being "once a movie hero--always a movie hero." But strangely enough this wasn't held against Mr. Kirkwood. In fact his motion picture career wasn't as much as mentioned. Suffering with a heavy cold, Mr. Kirkwood was doing his best to nurse his voice so he wouldn't fail Channing Pollock. "Yesterday, before the opening," said Mr. Kirkwood, "I wouldn't have cared if I had lost my voice. I was so frightened I thought an automobile that almost bore me down would have done a great favor to Mr. Pollock if it had struck me. I was hungry, but I couldn't eat. I ordered dinner, but I didn't touch a mouthful. I was in a sort of a daze, a stupor, all day. Mr. Pollock had been so fine I didn't want to disappoint him and coming back to the stage after an absence of ten years takes Herculean courage, but today I feel better. I shouldn't want an automobile to run me down." Mr. Kirkwood's return to the stage is the result of serious thought. First as a director of Mary Pickford and other famous stars he earned an enormous salary and then later as leading man in many of the big pictures of the year he increased that weekly envelope until at the time he accepted a part in "The Fool" he was making enough to be classed with the rich people in the industry. "I had several offers from stage producers," said Mr. Kirkwood, "but nothing that appealed to me. It seemed the essence of foolishness to give up my remunerative motion picture work for a stage part that did not promise either reward in money or fame. One producer wanted to sign me up with the promise that he would find something for me. His idea was to send me out to all the small towns and bank on my popularity on the screen, not caring what sort of a play I had. Naturally such an offer did not appeal to me and I had practically given up all thought of the stage until Mr. Pollock asked me to read "The Fool." After reading it there wasn't money enough in all the world to tempt me to give up the chance to play Gilchrist. The stage, of course, doesn't pay what the screen does, but do you know honestly money never enters my head. I'm in love with my part and I believe I would have played in 'The Fool' if I hadn't received one penny. It's the finest role I ever had." Gilchrist is to James Kirkwood, from his own conversation, what Hawthorne's "Great Stone Face" was to the boy who unconsciously grew like it, as he gazed at its image day after day. "I am not religious," he said, "at least not according to the popular idea of it. But it's a funny thing, this play gives something to every one. It inspires even those who never give a thought to the desire to be better or to improve themselves. It makes one think what a small thing money is and how great is character, and the opportunity to help other people--and how simple it all is if we only make the effort. "I talk about what it does to me," he went on. "I really do not count. It is the effect it has on the people who see it. A priest came to Mr. Pollock on the opening night and said: 'That play is too good for the theatre. It should be played in the church.' Mr. Pollock thanked him and said it was much better to have it played in the theatre because then it reached more people who probably needed it. Another priest wired Mr. Pollock and said: 'God bless you for having written such a play.'" A curious thing about James Kirkwood. He simply refused to talk about himself. His whole conversation was Channing Pollock and "The Fool." "Do you know," he asked me, "that it took Mr. Pollock ten years to write this play? He never expected it would be a success. He wrote it because he had it in his heart. One of the critics said he wrote what he feared might be over the heads of the people, and instead wrote right into their hearts." While we were talking one of the members of the cast came and whispered something in Mr. Kirkwood's ear: "Tell her to wait," he said. But I noticed he said the word wait very reluctantly. Could you blame him--when it was Lila Lee? Miss Lee and Seena Owen occupied front seats at the opening performance. The motion picture people with whom "our Jim" is very popular feel a personal interest in this marvelous triumph scored by him and by "The Fool." They cannot help but feel a certain pride in having one of their clan associated with a play that brings so much mentally, morally and spiritually to those who see it. And because the whole company was waiting for rehearsal and Miss Lee was beginning to show signs of impatience our interview ended. After seeing Mr. Gilchrist on the stage I was a little afraid to meet him face to face. But he measures up to the character. His greatest charm is his simplicity and sincerity and he will spread the gospel of better living quite as effectively and perhaps more interestingly and more dramatically than any delivered from the pulpit. ***************************************************************************** ***************************************************************************** Back issues of Taylorology are available on the Web at any of the following: http://www.angelfire.com/az/Taylorology/ http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Taylorology/ http://www.silent-movies.com/Taylorology/ Full text searches of back issues can be done at http://www.etext.org/Zines/ or at http://www.silent-movies.com/search.html. For more information about Taylor, see WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991) *****************************************************************************