(1938)
Automatically, European centers were no longer negotiable territory for the artists of former international activities. I harkened to the voice of the movies, silent in those days of 1915. The year before, in Berlin, I had been asked to consider an appearance in the films. As an example, I had witnessed a few hundred feet devoted to the ample figure of Destinn, in a lion's cage (presumably a double exposure), which had caused an uproar in the august circles that sustained our musical prestige. This circus stunt was awful. Of course, I refused to consider such a peculiar avenue of activity. But in New York, Belasco's son-in-law, Morris Gest, had no such painful idea of flamboyant ballyhoo when he approached me. With Jesse Lasky, a theatre man of taste who had attended the opera to hear me, he was intent upon legitimate work on the screen, if I could be interested.
I was enthusiastic. The opportunity for acting, the charm of summer in California, the vocal repose- all seemed to point to a happy adventure of interest and novelty. I never regretted the experience. That first season we picturized Maria Rosa, Carmen, and a special story, the type that has since served anybody who can lay claim to a vocal chirp- how the little home-town girl makes good in grand opera, upon merit and virtue; it was called Temptation. In those days that title was thought to have considerable sex-appeal. Wallace Reid, that charming screen-hero- too early dead- was the young lover who rescued me from the plots of the arch-villain, Theodore Roberts, very obvious in crepe whiskers. I made pleasant friends in the studio and enjoyed every bit of the time. Of that early group, only Cecil B. DeMille remains triumphant in the later field of mechanical marvels, and the sound track of today. Of the movie career, we shall speak in a separate chapter.
Meanwhile, on a near-by stage, in our small Lasky studio, there was a certain fascinating young actor also at work. A tragic interest was to be catapulted into my life, in the casual meeting there, with Lou Tellegen.
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In 1915, the shining fights of the silver screen were Mary Pickford of the fabulous golden mane; Marguerite Clark, a winsome stage recruit; exotic Theda Bara, whose romantic Egyptian background was played up in the press (I believe her birthplace is Cincinnati); sinuous Louise Glaum; the dark-eyed Clara Kimball Young; Dorothy Dalton of the pretty dimples; the Gish sisters; and a delightful sprite of a comedienne, Mabel Normand. Francis X. Bushman and William Farnum were the pet heroes that stirred the feminine hearts, Lon Chaney of the "thousand masks" enjoyed a special public who loved his sinister characterizations, while an ingratiating little clown was working his way up to extraordinary stardom, Charles Spencer Chaplin.
As previously noted, Morris Gest had engineered my affiliation with the Lasky Company, of which Jesse Lasky was President, Samuel Goldwyn (then Goldfish) Vice-President and Treasurer, with Cecil B. DeMille as Director and partner.
I had come to the Coast in my private car with my family and several friends, and was met at the Los Angeles station by a fanfare and crowd, then an innovation there, perhaps only possible for the arrival of an opera star- now become the settled part of a studio's publicity program for outstanding names and persons. A lovely house and a competent staff were placed at my disposal for as long as I was to be at the studio. There, I found a special little house had been erected, with dressing rooms and accommodation for my grand piano, and the indispensable Victrola. It was also the beginning of the "star" bungalow, but not yet portable, which is now, I understand, in vogue for the luxurious stellar beauties. Though every possible comfort and convenience had been provided, I still had to use my legs in a short promenade to and from the various sets.
The real object of my engagement in Hollywood was to film "Carmen," this having been my triumph of a previous opera season. Whether or not I would prove screen material was an undertaking of small risk, for the Metropolitan prestige and my personal reclame would guarantee one feature picture, while curiosity would do the rest to cover the expense involved.
Fortunately for us all, Mr. DeMille was not minded to launch me at once with "Carmen," which was to be our star offering, of course. Earlier in the season, Lou Tellegen had enjoyed a spectacular Broadway success in a melodramatic little Spanish play called "Maria Rosa." In fact, it was because of his part in it, that Lasky engaged him for the movies, though not in this vehicle which had been acquired for me as a screen play. Though he had been a fascinating villain in the dramatic production, the major role was really designed for the woman. In my screen play, Pedro de Cordoba played Tellegen's role, and young Wallace Reid was a handsome hero, shortly to invite stardom under the Lasky banner. Much of our outdoor work was in the beautiful, natural setting of the neighboring countryside, not far from the company's modest studio on Vine Street.
When I view the staff that now follows the stellar luminary about in her studio preparations, I am amazed at the small effort required of the leading ladies. Apparently nothing is demanded of them but easy acquiescence to the hovering helpers. In my early experience, the cosmetics applied were more or less of a white grease paint, with an overlay of Rachel powder, a little eye-shadow, all applied by my own hand. I used no lip rouge. I wore my dark abundant hair which I dressed myself, parted and coiled at the nape of the neck. I needed no seamstress, make-up specialist, consultant or other specialist in my preparations to meet the camera.
I will grant that latter day improvements in the mechanics give stable lighting effects such as we did not know, but it is with so much insistence upon the laboratory marvels that I feel, as in the case of the record-making, that much of an individual's expression has a hard time to make itself felt. Our earlier Klieg lights, burning brightly with intense heat and no glass protection, claimed their victims often when eyes swelled and watered, requiring several days' retirement to dark rooms, bandages, and idleness till the inflammation cleared up.
Maria Rosa's simple peasant dresses were easily donned, scarcely needing my maid's assistance. We had to select those colors best suited to the lens, for the usual white threw off a harsh luminosity; troublesome also was the dazzle of silver or gilt ornaments that had to be smeared with a cream to kill light-reflections. This was particularly desirable for all the armor worn in Joan the Woman, production of another season. Thus in costumes, the pastel shades were chosen to absorb the light.
As work progressed, Mr. DeMille evolved many effects to heighten the expression of our drama. It was the day of the close-up innovation, but there was a certain peril in this exaggerated facial display for my features. In the "shot" thus enlarged, my grey eyes, under the glaring Kliegs, faded out so completely that I had the sightless orbs of a Greek statue. When I saw the first studio "rushes" I nearly fainted from the shock! But Mr. DeMille repeated these "close-ups" the following day, with an assistant holding a large square of black velvet just behind the camera on which the pupils of my eyes were focused intently, the retina expanded and darkened in its usual normal expression. The camera and lights were not always in accord when smiles were in order. Many a scene we repeated for the sake of Kliegs that cast villainous shadows and left some of us quite toothless in what was supposed to be a seductive smile!
Mr. DeMille's long and varied experiences in the legitimate theatre gave him an uncanny reading into his actors' psychology. Thus, with me, he outlined briefly the scenes, their intended length, the climax- and with the minimum expenditure of precious energy in preliminaries, set his cameras at all angles to catch the first enthusiasm of a scene, which spontaneous impulse was always my best interpretation. We were not cautioned to beware of undue emotion, disarranged locks, torn clothing etc. We were allowed free action as we felt it; so we acted our parts as if we were engaged in a theatre performance, and I believe, for this reason, we had real expression and feeling, which I find so often lacking in the beautiful but monotonous faces of so many of the screen stars today. Publicized legs and profiles must be a complement to something more stirring than their constant and tiresome illumination, disposed at strange angles. At any rate, Mr. DeMille understood my enthusiasm and left me free to express natural impulses wherever my feeling prompted them. The experience was wholly enjoyable, and the gay studio crowds, the departures to the woods and parks for "location" scenes, took on the delight of a picnic outing. After the responsibility of a long singing season and anxiety over a troublesome and delicate larynx, this was a carefree heaven indeed for me.
This first picture was concluded in a short time, to everyone's satisfaction. Meanwhile, the playwright and brother of C. B. DeMille, William DeMille, had completed our special scenario for Carmen, which enjoyed the same cast as Maria Rosa. I was most eager to get to work on it. It was then that I asked Mr. DeMille if we might have music during our scenes, as I was so accustomed to orchestral accompaniment for certain tempi and phrasings, I felt I could better pantomime the rhythm of the effects. A little piano was hastily wheeled on the set and the talented Melville Ellis, who knew every kind of music, Broadway jazz as well as the classics, by heart, inspired all my scenes with his impromptu playing. I believe this started the habit for music "off stage" for all later aspirants to emotional appeal. At any rate, from that time on I always had a musician at my elbow whose soulful throb did more to start my tears than all the glycerine drops or onions more frequently employed by other less responsive orbs.
This Carmen has been a popular subject for many mediums. Prior to the Lasky production, I saw a very good one headed by Marguerite Snow- quite operatic in outline with the blonde Micaela as a foil. Our scenario, however, was based more on the Merimee novel, and my biggest fighting moment was not the traditional third opera act where the two women claim the bewildered Don Jose, but a vigorous quarrel in the tobacco factory where the amiable Jeannie Macpherson, Mr. DeMille's right hand scenarist and an actress of no mean ability, loaned herself to my assault in a battle that made screen history.
Here I garnered material for the first act of the Metropolitan's scene, that is usually indicated by a phlegmatic chorus line-up, waiting for a Carmen who seldom looks as if she had done anything more vigorous than drink a glass of orange juice in the wings. As in the movies, therefore, and with her willing connivance, in the opera version I fell upon a chorus girl in the provocative first act, seized and kicked her, and bowled her over in an exciting tussle that entertained even her blase colleagues, looking on. Much was made of this violent innovation by the music critics, and even Gatti was a little timorous in his objections, while Caruso is said to have given me a sharp reprimand about such tiger-like tactics in my scenes with him, with special emphasis on the unfortunate importation of movie technique! He may have done so- I can't recall in the excitement of the uproar, but I do know he never sang better in his life- nor did I- and we shall let it go at that. For he, too, knew good box-office, and we certainly "had a pip" as one of my devoted stagehands gleefully expressed it. The public continued to flock, hoping for gore and, I think, even murder!
It was at the close of that opera winter that Caruso was approached by Zukor for two pictures, one of which was released under the title of My Cousin Caruso. What a shame the talkies were not then invented, when we would have had an imperishable expression of his personality.
Incidentally, I remember Mr. Gatti asking me pointedly, before Caruso signed his contract, if I thought the movies would react unfavorably on his opera prestige? Would his vocal reclame suffer? I assured him solemnly that I had experienced no lack of enthusiasm in my opera and concert audiences, and that an artist should consider every legitimate domain that would encourage his popularity and emolument. This apparently satisfied him.
Also, I want to add that Paolina, the agreeable victim of my rude attacks at the Metropolitan, is still there, and no doubt regrets that subsequent Carmens do not make the kindly gesture of a fat check as recompense for her hearty cooperation in the stormy quarrel, now a feature of the usual performance.
The third picture of this movie season was one in modem dress- Temptation- employing the same cast, fairly successful, but no such dashing attraction as the previous two Spanish subjects. The summer was a most pleasant one, and I signed up for another season in Hollywood to begin once my opera duties were over.
Now, though everybody concerned knew when I left Hollywood in October, for my concert tournees, I would be back the following May, all during the winter there was never an effort made to provide me with a story or consult me about a script. I believe this same lack of anticipation still prevails, resulting in needless waste of time, energy, and, above all, incurring overhead and unnecessary expenses- this idle waiting while people in authority try to make up their several minds.
At any rate, it was almost as I boarded the train for the West that the decision to make Joan the Woman, a special feature, was agreed upon. I was delighted, for this peerless girl was one of my favorite heroines of history. The influence of the War times suggested a modern prologue and epilogue to introduce an historical and costume play that the producers felt might otherwise lack incentive for popular appeal. They were very well conceived and- at will- could be divorced from the story of the Maid if desired, without undue discrepancy in sequences.
Together with The Birth of a Nation, Joan the Woman made movie history. The panoply of marching crowds, prancing horses, massed effects of courtiers and soldiers, the glorious cathedral scenes, with the burning at the stake, made a dramatic and splendid impression new to the movie world. The novel lighting effects and superimposed double exposures brought forward in eerie fashion the beauty of Joan's visions and saints. Nobody could have had more enthusiastic support than that offered me by the retinue of young men and women who changed from courtier to peasant, court lady or soldier, in the twinkling of an eye under a watchful wardrobe mistress.
An ordeal for me was to come. From peasant girl, I was to emerge a warrior maid. Now, I am notoriously afraid of horses. Any equestrian activity leaves me shaking with apprehension. As Joan the Soldier, the time came all too soon to don heavy armor, sword, gauntlets, with crucifying helmet, and mount a noble white animal that had ten thousand devils in his wicked heart and heels! Hobart Bosworth and Charles Beldert, fine horsemen and good comrades, kept a careful eye on me when a great show of martial valor was demanded, as we dashed before the grinding cameras. To them I owe protection for so closely following, and pressing their own steeds to the flank of my animal whereby he could not buck or throw me, evidently his dearest daily wish. He was no gentleman.
I was practically helpless in my high saddle, being lifted on and off by two men especially designated for this service. Encumbered not only by my armor and huge sword, I carried aloft a heavy banner that floated out for a good three yards on a stiff breeze. This maneuver demands a sturdy right arm! Yet when the bugles shrilled for our charge and maneuvers, I couldn't help thrill, and forgot my fears, my inexpert horsemanship- everything, in fact save that I was actually the Maid bent on her holy errand.
In fact, so high was my reckless courage one day, that my horse kept on dashing far up the meadowlands; I soon realized he was running away, and saw myself a miserable broken thing dangling from his sides, not a pleasant vision- especially in a vice-like iron suit! Like a messenger by the grace of God, a figure came galloping to the rescue- in the person of a charming gentleman and a fine actor whom you all have seen in so many excellent films, Jack Holt. Under his guiding hand, my steed meekly came to order, and I was led back to my armies where Mr. DeMille was frantically holding up a battle till its leader returned! This episode determined him upon a second Joan in a wonderful horse-woman, Pansy Perry, who took over all the hard and fast riding in the long shots, while I was reserved for less dangerous "close-ups." Mr. DeMille laughingly said he had to conclude our picture on schedule time for my concert tour and he was taking no chances of an accident and consequent delay. My face, not my horsemanship, was his only concern.
The filming of Joan the Woman took all summer, and was a thrilling experience. Some of my cowboys were afterwards sent overseas, and their chosen section lay in Joan's country. Later I learned that one of my ablest riders was found dead among five German soldiers, having taken a machine-gun nest alone. An heroic but sad finale. Others returned, and told me of their special interest in that corner of France they learned to revere because of our inspiring story on the screen.
Ray Hatton as the King was like a Maxfield Parrish colorplate- Theodore Roberts a powerful avenging Bishop, and Tully Marshal the fanatic Monk responsible for Joan's torture. Wallace Reid was the English Soldier, a veiled interest of sentiment permitting him a sympathetic contribution and that touching, closing scene of history, at the stake, whereby Joan received at his hands the little cross of twigs to help her brave the flames.
The entire company was obedient and enthusiastic to Mr. DeMille's inspired direction. In the gory fight of the Siege of Orleans moat, and subsequent capture of the towers, we were all immersed in cold water up to our shoulders for hours. The water itself was pleasantly cool, but we nonetheless risked pneumonia, with the August sun blazing down upon us like a furnace. Mr. DeMille was over-solicitous for the welfare of my throat, in consequence, and endeavored to pare me every possible danger of temperature, axe blows, flying arrows, as well as impious hands of opponents on my azure mantle. My task was to rise from the moat, scale the ladder with that accursedly heavy banner held high, and enter a breach in the wall, just opened before my surprised eyes, in a shower of rock! This battle raged for about a week, with retakes and "close-ups." We were granted a few days respite, during which I felt still fresh as a daisy, while Mr. DeMille was speechless with the laryngitis I should rightfully have suffered! A very gallant attitude on his part, even if involuntary by reason of circumstance.
When it came to the coronation scene, it was imposing beyond description. Everybody thrilled to the service and the spell of the great organ. For the climax at the stake, my clothing, skin and hair were treated with a fluid to make scorching impossible. I had cotton, saturated with ammonia, placed in my nostrils and mouth.... The flames were truly terrifying, and the experience was not without some danger. For the final immolation, in the long shots a figure of wood was used, cleverly arranged with shrouded, drooping shoulders, and the face well forward, covered with disarranged locks. For the "close-ups," I was placed in the middle of tanks filled with oil; their ignition and spectacular flames together with the clouds of rolling smoke, gave a perfect illusion in the "cut-backs." It was a supremely lovely film- and I never played any screen part that inspired my love and enthusiasm as did this beautiful story.
Joan the Woman was shown as a special feature in New York that autumn- and was subsequently cut to various lengths for the usual chain theatre programs. Shortly after, Sarah Bernhardt's film of a story of the trenches in which she had actually visited the battlefields under fire- intrepid woman!- incorporated many of our more uplifting visions of the Maid, which the Lasky Company graciously permitted the French producers to use. I felt honored in their kind courtesy, and in the association with this great personality.
The gorgeous settings and costumes employed for the story of Aztec love and adventure made The Woman God Forgot a justifiable choice for my third season with the Lasky Company. With Wallace Reid as a soldier lover among the followers of Cortez, who was superbly played by Hobart Bosworth, this scenario treating of the conquest of Mexico by that ruthless hero made a picturesque and dramatic offering.
No idea can be obtained, however, from the mere black and white photography, of the lavish splendor provided by Mr. deMille's taste and imagination. It was the era preceding his golden beds, Swanson fantasia in dress and coiffures, and riotous effects of voluptuous and dazzling surroundings. For more and more opportunity was to be invited by the complicated sex urge in the screen dramas, as the basic of box office appeal. The Western heroes and historical heroines were to make way for the picturization of sinister and questionable events of our national life, as reflected in racketeering, prohibition, war stories, motor, plane, and submarine adventures. Douglas Fairbanks came into the limelight, a dashing figure in fast-moving comedies that caught the public's fancy- and, likewise, Mary Pickford's heart. Theirs was the most publicized romance of the day.
It would be hard to tell here which of our Aztec scenes was the most beautiful. The feathered attire of the men and women was a great novelty, while even the soft rugs, underfoot, were riotous in exquisite colors blocked and handwoven in lustrous patterns, copied painstakingly from authentic designs of this picturesque people. In one of my scenes beside a pool, my girl attendants rose from the water like nymphs, while hundreds of gay birds fluttered about us, in sweet song. The whole studio was enclosed in fine wire netting, with lush tropical greens screening the protective walls. In another sequence, my boudoir was hung with ropes of huge fresh magnolias, renewed twice daily. This floral magnificence was in itself an incentive to passionate action. Theodore Kosloff of the Russian Ballet was an exotic figure at the head of the Aztec soldiery. After many stirring scenes, the concluding drama was played actually in Yellowstone Park, where the lofty grandeur of these mighty cliffs gave us fresh impetus.
Meanwhile, Jeannie MacPherson had completed another scenario for my use before the usual departure for fall concerts. This time we utilized the splendid coastline and rocks for The Devil Stone- almost like a holiday on the beaches, while filming the entire production.
The picture, though modern had an interesting flash-back to a former incarnation of the heroine, as a Norse Queen of cruelty and vigor. The equipment was the prescribed Valkyrie pattern, and I must say, seated in my high chair with two vicious wolf hounds at my feet, I had somewhat the vicarious thrill of playing Brunnhilde, even if it was a voiceless one with no battle-cry!
A frequent visitor in my studio house was Fannie Ward, whom we all called the "Wonder Girl." I have never found any professional who knows Fannie's correct age. She herself was so baffling an ingenue that we wondered if she hadn't just drifted down from some pink and white cloud, in no particular century. Dainty and petite, with a laughing face framed in auburn curls, she carried the inevitable parasol to shade her baby-like complexion, which she candidly confessed "took hours to fix up"; Fannie would favor me frequently with a visit from her neighboring set, armed with a tempting ice cream cone, or cooling drink for my thirsty palate. Mr. DeMille regretted we had no use in our scenario for a cherub, since all Fannie needed was a pair of gauze wings to fit the part perfectly!
Mrs. DeMille related an amusing story, too, that those who know Fannie will not find difficult to credit. At one of her tea gatherings, when the social and screen world met in the lovely DeMille gardens, Fannie arrived in a mist of white organdie, for all the world like a sweet girl graduate; but unlike these fledglings, several ropes of her famous pearls hung about her neck. Her pretty manners enchanted everyone, and after bowing herself out, a conservative lady was heard to remark to the hostess: "Such a sweet young thing- but why does she wear all those pearls, at her tender age?"
Tellegen had been having a none too successful career in his screen activities, and Jesse Lasky had suggested that he take over a post as director. To this arrangement he was agreeable, and started auspiciously enough on a scenario. I was busy with my own duties and knew little of what transpired at the studio. At any rate, the picture he directed was not satisfactory to the officials- which is no crime or reflection on either party. However, Tellegen chose to get very upset about the whole matter. Naturally, my interest and support were his, and, whether right or wrong, I did not renew a further engagement with Lasky on his account, though my personal relations were then, and still continue to be, without rancor. In this instance, wifely loyalty prevailed over professional discretion.
Meanwhile, Samuel Goldwyn also became restless and decided to branch out completely on his own, so it was a convenient and immediate stepping-stone for my continued movie activities to sign up with him. He was optimistic enough to contract also for Mary Garden and Maxine Elliott, certainly so outstanding in their theatre popularity as to warrant his venture. From this standpoint, it should have been crowned with unqualified success. If you want to know why it was the reverse, as well as other enlightening details about some great names, read his own narrative in "Behind the Screen."
Lovely Pauline Frederick had been a successful and highly paid star with Paramount, and he was desirous to add her to his list of artists, as she had been sure-fire box office attraction. Just married to the brilliant playwright and actor, Willard Mack, the couple were newly installed in the house where I also had an apartment. Doubtless for harmony's sake on the distaff side, Goldwyn acted for the best in adding Mack to his company as scenarist and supervisor, as he did in a later proposal to include Tellegen as my leading man.
Our studio was at Fort Lee, not happily equipped for grandiose drama, such as was to be had for the asking in California's favorable climate. The summer months were stifling, the ferry journey, to and from New Jersey, a smelly pilgrimage that wore everyone's nerves to a frazzle, while the choice for extras and second part roles was not at all so wide as in Hollywood where the movies were becoming a recognized industry.
Mary Garden's screen Thais and a second picture were not designed to make the singer happy nor encourage the venturesome Goldwyn. It was an error in judgment only for screen values, not in actual theatre standards. Garden got her big salary, while Sam took it on the chin- soon after breathing a little more freely when Mabel Normand and Madge Kennedy added their note of gaiety and monetary return to the studio releases.
Turn of the Wheel was a tale of Monte Carlo that allowed me to walk through many scenes in priceless jewels, furs and bird of Paradise hats. They contributed only a sartorial value, but Goldwyn thought the movie public should know me as I was in modem dress- or undress. Herbert Rawlinson was my handsome lead- and was probably as bored as the rest of the company with a tepid narrative. Reginald Barker was our director in this and subsequent pictures that summer. A charming fellow who became a good friend in the process.
A second feature, Shadows, involved me as a singer in an Alaskan music hall, subsequent marriage to a wealthy clubman, fearing always that he would discover her dreadful past, after the birth of an heir and favorite child. (My first role picturing mother-love, which Goldwyn thought would invite interest for its new screen angle; he should have realized that a previous tale of royal affiliation along these maternal lines was already an old rumor to the American public.) Tom Santschi was the "villain who pursued" from the past, and Milton Sills was the all-forgiving hero husband.
Meanwhile, Mack had a brainstorm when he delivered his new story, ready for my immediate use; it was called "The Hell-Cat."
The workings of such a fecund imagination really bears telling here. One hot summer morning, Mack and Goldwyn met in my library to talk over the preliminaries for this new play, which was to carry us out of Manhattan to a locale to be determined as the story developed. Mack walked briskly to and fro, his brilliant blue eyes snapping, his rich voice reading off each part in a stage exhibition it was a shame to perform solely for so critical and prejudiced a listener as Sam. But he was the producer, and his guess at the probable reactions of the public colored his box-office hopes when judging a script. His objections were well taken, I thought, and saved me voicing any protest for this lunatic fancy to which we listened. Pancha O'Brien, as Mack's Irish-Mexican lassie was to be called, was to invite a Perils of Pauline rescue by a squad of United States Cavalry (cooperating of course with Rio Grande officials), death to the villain in a bloodthirsty scene of revenge, knives and guns, ending in a wild ride to the North, with the handsome cavalry rescuer as prospective fiance. One little episode that Mack assured us was a "surefire" effect would be Pancha's clever theft of our flag, and, during her flight for help, she would snip it in pieces along the mesa wastes for a series of rescue signals to the oncoming cavalry swift to avenge pure women and national insult!
Sam kept a cool head- despite the torrid story and sizzling city air- I trembled with fear that he might approve this melodrama. Mack's dramatic fervor, however, had worn off by this time, and he was amenable to suggestions so sweeping as to change all but the title. Eventually, I became the heroine of a Western feud between cattlemen and sheep owners. Without realizing the true import of this age-old disagreement in the Western ranges, the company entrained on the hottest day of the summer for Cody, Wyoming, to film in discomfort and irritation a story that could quite as well have been photographed in Northern New York for all we saw of Western scenery. Milton Sills and Tom Santschi were again my leads.
If you love Western life, horseback existence, camp trails, bathing in icy brooks and hit-or-miss canned cooking (the kind I am told is greatly appreciated by lumber-jacks after toilsome labor) you would doubtless have had your fun in this novel change. Add the questionable excitement of greasepaint and costumes on a rainy cold morning, idling around a fire, or on a corral rail waiting for an obstinate sun; make undesirable acquaintance with the insect world above and below the ground- the pet surprise being the snakes- and when the signal for departure comes for "location" some distance away, stagger to a horse- usually one with an iron jaw- for your locomotion; The Hell-Cat was no misnomer. But all things come to an end, even this odd existence, and I was jubilant when I struck home to resume my accustomed effete manner of living.
A fourth picture- The Stronger Vow- brought me back into a more congenial Spanish atmosphere, and had the usual cast in pleasant association.
Greatly to everyone's pleasure, Goldwyn had now moved his plant to the beautiful Culver City studios where I worked in the summer of 1919. I was very happy to find myself again in California with the prospect of an interesting screen season; everything was couleur de rose. Goldwyn had engaged Tellegen as my leading man, and while I was greatly pleased, I had not been the one to urge it as a gesture for my personal happiness. Mack, too, was in his important and lucrative position as actor, scenarist, and supervisor. My director was to be a distinguished gentleman who is still making fine and beautiful pictures today, Frank Lloyd.
We started off well with a story of such tragic momentary interest, the Russian Revolution; The World and Its Women. I never did understand what the title had to do with the tale, but it was not without vigor and interest. In its release, my billing was, of course, the star's big print. Tellegen was furious. Puzzled, I began to reflect upon his continued petulance and dissatisfaction with the officials, cameramen, his costumes and the progress of things at the studio in general. My sense of loyalty prompted some sharp talk to Goldwyn- in which attitude, I own, I was completely wrong. He was paying me a huge salary for a name that warranted it, and I was mistakenly trying to force him to rate Tellegen's value to that par. The unwise effort toward domestic and professional alliance always results in trouble for the wrong person. I happened to invite myself to be that one, and realized it all much later. Pauline, too, was having the same unpleasant experience with the aggressive Mack. No wonder Goldwyn was uneasy with his stars. One never knows what fools women will make of themselves when they place heart loyalty above pride and monetary interests. Yet, I began a second picture The Flame of the Desert with Tellegen still as my lead, hoping that good humor would prevail for all. But only in those scenes where he was prominent did he evince any interest in the proceedings. It was not a proper attitude toward anybody- but everyone suffered his bad temper for my sake, as I found out afterwards.
Despite him, it was a jolly time- for the company went to the desert at Oxnard for much of the exterior, and the troupe was friendly and co-operative. The story was laid in modern Egypt- which permitted picturesque streets, buildings, crowds and animals. One particular camel was such an olfactory offense I showered him copiously with a daily Houbigant bath- at what an expense! We used to laugh heartily also to see the artificial palms being disposed in solo, duo, and trio effect, against a sunset sky, or placed to create an oasis in the burning sands, a few paces beyond our tent habitations, with their hot-dog stands and lemonade buckets. The one least agreeable feature of the story was the inclusion of another horseback episode, where once more I mounted a beautiful but ill-mannered beast at the peril of my soul's tranquility, if not of life and limb.
For all these screen stories, Bendel had created a luxurious wardrobe which intrigued the movie fans as much as it did my concert audiences. I was proud in the possession of a rarely beautiful sable coat, and longed for the occasion to wear it on the screen. When that happy moment came, it was in the middle of August under blazing lights that almost singed my eyebrows; I discarded it at the earliest opportunity wondering why I hadn't been fortunate enough to select a winter scenario at Lake Tahoe! We seem never to be satisfied.
Back to Hollywood and a little respite, while waiting for the next feature to be decided. I went one evening to a supper party at Pauline Frederick's. Among the interesting guests was a handsome young gentleman who took a seat beside me, introduced by Julian Eltinge. Very modest, he said he was trying his luck in the movies- but so far nothing very certain had come up, so he was thinking of accepting Eltinge's proposal for an Australian tour, in a dancing act. We conversed in Italian, that being his native tongue. Another young hopeful, recently released from Army service, was the means of their joint wild-fire success, one as hero, the second as director. Rudolf Valentino and Rex Ingram rode to unquestionable fame in The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the immediate sensation of the hour. The young Italian continued in a spectacular career until his early death, which engendered hysterical mourning on the part of his fans, all ages and sizes, naturally of the feminine gender.
About this time, Pola Negri was imported in her excellent European version of "Carmen" called Gypsy Love, and that lovable, unforgettable, irreplaceable Will Rogers loped into our own Culver City arena to make the day brighter with his pithy observations- which spared nobody, of high or low degree in the movie hierarchy.
I was finally called to work in my third and last picture of the season, and it was to be my final one with the Goldwyn forces- though none of us knew it then.
The French classic was the source of my screen version for The Woman and the Puppet. It was cautiously arranged to suit the censors and the idea of the movie public's morals, the spicy Gallic insinuations and wicked perversity of this fascinating Spanish wanton being ruthlessly expurgated. The model, of course, was Carmen, whose fascination every Spanish heroine hopes to duplicate or incorporate. It was, even so, lively, pretty, and pictorial- inoffensive, too.
I left Hollywood with the happy anticipation of returning the following summer to this agreeable vacation interim and the emoluments. As I pulled out of Los Angeles, I could still hear the cheers of farewells and good wishes for a happy opera winter and my return to true and tried comrades of the silver sheet. In fact, Mr. Goldwyn had been eager to make some arrangements that would permit a longer term for work, under less pressure in the scenario department, for my stories, and thus engage me in a longer stay on the Coast. Concert and opera plans were the handicap for such an outline, of course.
It was in mid-winter that I was giving a large and formal luncheon party for Mr. and Mrs. Fritz Kreisler, in my home. Just before dessert, the butler announced that Mr. Goldwyn was calling on a very urgent matter, and wished to see me immediately.
I excused myself from the table and went up to the music room, wondering what was up. There sat my visitor, eager to deliver his message that, in the nature of it, I could well appreciate was an embarrassing communication he wanted to have over. I, too, like plain speaking, and therefore appreciated his direct approach. It was to say that my pictures were not making the returns desired; my contract had still two years to run, twelve weeks of annual screen activity, with the guarantee of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The situation was critical for his company.
Goldwyn himself has often broadcast my simple solution of this difficulty, which was to tear up the contract without further ado. I still do not understand why such a perfectly natural impulse should awaken any wonder, or particular admiration; but it seems to be a feature in his resume of screen stars and their characteristics, and I appreciate the sincerity of his compliments about the incident.
The following letter from my banker friend and trustee puts its own interpretation on the gesture:
The news that you have concluded your Goldwyn contract arouses conflicting emotions. Nature intended you for a singing actress and the role of movie star has always seemed incompatible with the high place you hold in the operatic world. The redeeming feature in the film business, of course, has been the enormous earnings you were able to command, a not unimportant consideration for one with your positive genius for spending money; but it is not everything, after all, and if you will make your budget conform to your still princely income from music, I am glad you are out of pictures. The applications for your services in concert indicate large amounts from this source. The Victor is also doing splendidly for you. Meanwhile, it may not be too late to congratulate you on your huge success in "Zaza," a creation which even your enemies (if you have any) must praise. It is as well a credit to "The Temple of Art" which I hope that management appreciates.
Thus wrote my conservative Boston friend.
It was only a few years ago, at the premiere of "Bittersweet" in the Hub, that a cheerful voice greeted me in the orchestra aisles. It was Mr. Goldwyn, apparently not a day older than when I last saw him. This amazing man looked critically at my silver hair, and surprised me indeed by a suggestion. "Why not now make a talkie Carmen? Thinking perhaps I had misunderstood, he affirmed that it would be a "great show." Undoubtedly- if I were so ridiculous as to believe it- but not in the complimentary sense. I shook my head and disclaimed any movie-talkie intentions after a lapse of twenty years.
In 1920, however, I was again tempted to a movie offer that had every promise of interesting activity, with Pathe- well worth my effort from the financial angle, as well. Two features were to be made that summer. The Riddle-Woman was spoiled by poor writing, poor camera-work, and impossible direction. The excellent actors did their best against studio odds, but I refused to go on with any such further irritations. The contract was amiably dissolved, and thus ended my movie experiences for good. I had greatly enjoyed them, and only regret my own era was too early for the combination of the present acting and talking features.
Geraldine Farrar, The Autobiography of Geraldine Farrar: Such Sweet Compulsion, (New York: The Greystone Press), 1938, pages 143, 144, 165-188.
© 1997, David Pierce, on editing and revisions (if any)
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