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LAUGH AND LIVE
A "CLOSE-UP" OF DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS
by George Creel
Reprinted from Everybody's Magazine by Permission of
The Ridgway Company
New York.
CHAPTER XX
A "CLOSE-UP" OF DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS
Young Mr. Douglas Fairbanks, star alike in
both the "speakies" and the "movies," is well
worth a story. He is what every American
might be, ought to be, and frequently is not.
More than any other that comes to mind, he is
possessed of the indomitable optimism that gives
purpose, "punch," and color to any life, no mat-
ter what the odds.
He holds the world's record for the standing
broad grin. There isn't a minute of the day that
fails to find him glad that he's alive. Nobody
ever saw him with a "grouch," or suffering from
an attack of the "blues." Nobody ever heard
him mention "hard luck" in connection with
one of his failures. The worse the breaks
of the game, the gloomier the outlook, the wider
his grin. He has made cheerfulness a habit, and
it has paid him in courage, in bubbling energy, [164]
and buoyant resolve.
We are a young nation and a great nation.
Judging from the promise of the morning, there
is nothing that may not be asked of America's
noon. A land of abundance, with not an evil
that may not be banished, and yet there is more
whining in it than in any other country on the
face of the globe. If we are to die, "Nibbled to
Death by Ducks" may well be put on the tomb-
stone. Little things are permitted to bring about
paroxysms of peevishness. Even our pleasures
have come to be taken sadly. We are irritable at
picnics, snarly at clambakes, and bored to death
at dinners.
The Government ought to hire Douglas Fair-
banks, and send him over the country as an agent
of the Bureau of Grins. Have him start work
in Boston, and then rush him. by special train to
Philadelphia. If the wealth of the United
States increased $41,000,000,000 during the last
three peevish, whining years, think what would
happen if we learned the art of joyousness and
gained the strength that comes from good humor [165]
and optimism!
"Doug" Fairbanks—now that he is in the
"movies" we don't have to be formal—is the liv-
ing, breathing proof of the value of a grin. His
rise from obscurity to fame, from poverty to
wealth, has no larger foundation than his ever-
ready willingness to let the whole world see
every tooth in his head.
Good looks? Artistry? Bosh! The Fair-
banks features were evidently picked out by
a utilitarian mother who preferred use to orna-
ment; and as for his acting, critics of the drama,
imbued with the traditions of Booth and Barrett,
have been known to sob like children after wit-
nessing a Fairbanks performance.
It is the joyousness of the man that gets him
over. It's the 100 per cent. interest that he takes
in everything he goes at that lies at the back of
his success. He does nothing by halves, is never
indifferent, never lackadaisical.
At various stages in his brief career he has
been a Shakespearean actor, Wall Street clerk,
hay steward on a cattle-boat, vagabond, and [166]
business man, knowing poverty, hunger, and dis-
comfort at times, but never, never losing the
grin. Things began to move for him when he
left a Denver high school back in 1900 for the
purpose of entering college. As he says, "A man
can't be too careful about college."
He started for Princeton, but met a youth on
the train who was going to Harvard. He took
a special course at Cambridge—just what it was
he can't remember—but at the end of the year
it was hinted to him that circus life was more
suited to his talents, particularly one with three
rings.
A friend, however, suggested the theatre, and
gave him a card to Frederick Warde, the trage-
dian. Mr. Warde fell for the Fairbanks grin,
and as a first part assigned him the role of
Francois, the lackey, in "Richelieu." What he
lacked in experience he made up for in activity
and unflagging merriment. It got to be so that
Warde was almost afraid to touch the bell, for
he never knew whether the amazing Francois
would enter through the door or come down from [167]
the ceiling.
After the company had done its worst to
"Richelieu," it changed to Shakespearean reper-
toire, and for one year young Fairbanks engaged
in what Mr. Warde was pleased to term a
"catch-as-catch-can bout with the immortal
Bard." When friends of Shakespeare finally
protested in the name of humanity, the strenuous
Douglas accepted an engagement with Herbert
Kelcey and Effie Shannon in "Her Lord and
Master."
Five months went by before the two stars
broke under the strain, and by that time news
had come to Mr. Fairbanks that Wall Street
was Easy Money's other name. Armed with his
grin, he marched into the office of De Coppet &
Doremus, and when the manager came out of his
trance Shakespeare's worst enemy was holding
down the job of order man.
"The name Coppet appealed to me," he ex-
plains.
He is still remembered in that office, fondly
but fearfully. He did his work well enough; [168]
in fact, there are those who insist that he invented
scientific management.
"How about that?" I asked him, for it puzzled
me.
"Well, you see, it was this way: For five days
in a week I would say, 'Quite so' to my assistant,
no matter what he suggested. On Saturday I
would dash into the manager's office, wag my
head, knit my brow, and exclaim, 'What we
need around here is efficiency.' And once I
urged the purchase of a time-clock."
The way he filled his spare time was what
bothered. What with his tumbling tricks, box-
ing, wrestling, leap-frog over chairs, and other
small gaieties, he mussed up routine to a certain
extent. But he was not discharged. At a point
where the firm was just one jump ahead of nerv-
ous prostration, along came "Jack" Beardsley
and "Little" Owen, two husky football players
with a desire to see life without the safety clutch.
The three approached the officials of a cattle-
steamship, and by persistent claims to the effect
that they "had a way" with dumb animals, got [169]
jobs as hay stewards.
"We found the cows very nice," comments Mr.
Fairbanks. "No one can get me to say a word
against them. But those stokers! And those
other stable-maids! Pow! We had to fight 'em
from one end of the voyage to the other, and it
got so that I bit myself in my sleep. The three
of us got eight shillings apiece when we landed
at Liverpool, and tickets back, but there were
several little things about Europe that bothered
us, and we thought we'd see what the trouble
was."
They "hoboed" it through England, France,
and Belgium, working at any old job until they
gathered money enough to move along, whether
it was carrying water to English navies or un-
loading paving-blocks from a Seine boat. After
three joyous months, they felt the call of the cat-
tle, and came home on another steamer.
Back on his native heath, young Fairbanks
took a shot from the hip at law, but missed.
Then he got a job in a machine-manufacturing
plant, but one day he found that his carelessness [170]
had permitted fifty dollars to accumulate, and
he breezed down to Cuba and Yucatan to see
what openings there were for capital. Back
from that tramping trip, he figured that since he
had not annoyed the stage for some time it cer-
tainly owed him something.
His return to the drama took place in "The
Rose of Plymouth Town," a play in which Miss
Minnie Dupree was the star. Meeting Miss
Dupree, I asked her what sort of an actor Fair-
banks was in those days.
"Well," she said judiciously, "I think that he
was about the nicest case of St. Vitus' dance that
ever came under my notice."
William A. Brady got him next. Mr. Brady
is quite a dynamo himself, and there was also a
time in his life when he managed James J. Cor-
bett. The two fell into each other's arms with a
cry of joy, and for seven years they touched off
dramatic explosions that strewed fat actors all
over the landscape and tore miles of scenery into
ribbons.
"Some boy!" was Mr. Brady's tribute. "Put [171]
him in a death scene, and he'd find a way to break
the furniture."
There was never a part that "Doug" Fair-
banks lay down on. To every role he brought
joy and interest and enthusiasm, and the night
came inevitably that saw his name in electric
letters.
It is not claimed that his work as a star "ele-
vated" the drama, but it may safely be claimed
that he never appeared in any play that was not
wholesome, stimulating, and helpful.
Nothing was more natural than that the mov-
ies should seek such an actor, and they set the
trap with attractive bait.
"Come over to us," they said, "and we'll let
you do anything you want. Outside of poison
gas and actual murder, the sky's the limit."
Without even waiting to kick off his shoes,
"Doug" Fairbanks made a dive.
The movie magnates got what they wanted,
and Fairbanks got what he wanted. For the
first time in his life he was able to "let go" with
all the force of his dynamic individuality, and he [172]
took full advantage of the opportunity.
In "The Lamb," his first adventure before the
camera, he let a rattlesnake crawl over him,
tackled a mountain lion, jiu-jitsued a bunch of
Yaqui Indians until they bellowed, and operated
a machine-gun.
In "His Picture in the Papers," he was called
upon to run an automobile over a cliff, engage in
a grueling six-round go with a professional pu-
gilist, jump off an Atlantic liner and swim to
the distant shore, mix it up in a furious battle
royal with a half dozen husky gunmen, leap twice
from swiftly moving trains, and also to resist,
arrest by a squad of Jess Willards dressed up
in police uniforms.
"The Half-Breed" carried him out to Cali-
fornia, and, among other things, threw him into
the heart of a forest fire that had been carefully
kindled in the redwood groves of Calaveras
County. Amid a rain of burning pine tufts, and
with great branches falling to the ground all
around him, "Douggie" was required to dash in
and save the gallant sheriff from turning into a [173]
cinder. Hair and eyelashes grew out again,
however, his blisters healed, and in a few days he
was as good as new.
"The Habit of Happiness" was rich in stunts
that would have made even Battling Nelson turn
to tatting with a sigh of relief. Five gangsters,
sicked on to their work by the villain, waylaid
our hero on the stairs, and in the rough-and-tum-
ble that followed, it was his duty to beat each and
every one of them into a state of coma. He per-
formed his task so conscientiously that his hands
were swollen for a week, not to mention his eyes
and nose. As for the five extra men who posed
as the gangsters, all came to the conclusion that
dock-walloping was far less strenuous than art,
and went back to their former jobs.
"The Good Bad Man" was a Western picture
that contained a thrill to every foot of film. Our
hero galloped over mountains, jumping from
crag to crag, held up an express train single-
handed in order to capture the conductor's
ticket-punch, grappled with gigantic despera-
does every few minutes, shot up a saloon, and [174]
was dragged around for quite a while at the end
of a lynching party's rope.
"Reggie Mixes In" was one joyous round of
assault and battery from beginning to end.
Happening to fall in love with a dancer in a
Bowery cabaret, Reggie puts family and fortune
behind him and takes a job as "bouncer" so as
to be near his lady-love. Aside from his regular
duties, he is required to work overtime on account
of the hatred of a gang-leader who also loves the
girl. Five scoundrels jump Reggie, and, after
manhandling four, he drops from a second-story
window to the neck of the fifth, and chokes him
with hands and legs. After which he carries the
senseless wretch down the street, and gaily flicks
him, as it were, through a window at the villain's
feet. As a tasty little finish, Reggie and his
rival lock themselves in an empty room, and en-
gage in a contest governed by packing-house
rules.
Three days after the combat, by the way, the
company heads were pleased to announce that
both men were out of danger unless blood-poi- [175]
soning set in.
"The Mystery of the Leaping Fish" was what
is known as a "water picture," and "Doug," as a
comedy detective, was compelled to make a hu-
man submarine of himself, not to mention several
duels in the dark with Japanese thugs and opium
smugglers.
"Another day of it," he grinned, "and I'd have
grown fins."
"Manhattan Madness" was really nothing
more than St. Vitus's dance set to ragtime. Our
hero climbed up eaves-pipes, plunged through
trap-doors down into dungeons, jumped from
the roof of a house into a tree, kicked his way in
and out of secret closets, and engaged in hair-
raising combats with desperate villains every few
minutes.
It is not only the case that "Doug" Fairbanks
made good with the movie fans. What is more
to the point, he made good with the "bunch" it-
self. In nine cases out of ten, the "legitimate"
star, going over into pictures, evades and avoids
the "rough stuff." To some humble, hardy [176]
"double" is assigned the actual work of falling
off the cliff, riding at full speed across granite
hedges, taking a good hard punch in the nose,
or plunging from the top of the burning
building.
Many an honest cowpuncher, taking his girl
to the show with him to let her see what a dare-
devil he is, has died the death upon discovering
that he was merely "doubling" for some cow-
eyed hero who lacked the nerve to do the stunt
himself.
"Doug" Fairbanks is one of the few movie
heroes who have never had a "double." He asks
no man to do that which he is afraid to do him-
self. No fall is too hard for him, no fight too
furious, no ride too dangerous. There is not a
single one of his pictures in which he hasn't taken
a chance of breaking his neck or his bones; but,
as one bronco-buster observed, "He jes' licks his
lips an' asks for more."
To be sure, few actors have brought such
super-physical equipment to the strenuous work
of the movies. Fairbanks, in addition to being [177]
blessed with a strong, lithe body, has developed
it by expert devotion to every form of athletic
sport. He swims well, is a crack boxer, a good
polo player, a splendid wrestler, a skilful acro-
bat, a fast runner, and an absolutely fearless
rider.
There is never a picture during the progress of
which he does not interpolate some sudden bit of
business as the result of his quick wit and dy-
namic enthusiasm. In one play, for instance, he
was supposed to enter a house at sight of his
sweetheart beckoning to him from an upper win-
dow. As he passed up the steps, however, his
roving eye caught sight of the porch railing, a
window-ledge, and a balcony, and in a flash he
was scaling the facade of the house like any cat.
In another play he was trapped on the roof of
a country home. Suddenly Fairbanks, disre-
garding the plan of retreat indicated by the
author, gave a wild leap into a near-by maple,
managed to catch a bough, and proceeded to the
ground in a series of convulsive falls that gave [178]
the director heart-failure.
During "The Half-Breed" picture, some of
the action took place about a fallen redwood
that had its great roots fully twenty feet into
the air.
"Climb up on top of those roots, Doug,"
yelled the director.
Instead of that, "Douggie" went up to a
young sapling that grew at the base of the fallen
tree. Bending it down to the ground, as an
archer bends his bow, he gave a sudden spring,
and let the tough birch catapult him to the high-
est root.
"What do yon want me to do now?" he
grinned.
"Come back the same way," grinned the di-
rector.
Most "legitimate" actors—the valuation is
their own—find the movies rather dull. Time
hangs very heavily upon their hands. As one
remarked to me in tones that were thick with a
divine despair: "There's absolutely nothing for
a chap to do. In lots of the God-forsaken holes [179]
they drag you to, there isn't even a hotel. No
companionship, no diversion of any kind, and
oftentimes no bathtubs."
Douglas Fairbanks enters no such complaint.
He draws upon the energy and interest that
ought to be in every human being, and when en-
tertainment is not in sight, he goes after it.
When they were making "The Half-Breed" pic-
tures in the Carquinez woods of Northern Cali-
fornia, he was never seen around the camp ex-
cept when actually needed by the camera man.
Upon his return from these absences, it was no-
ticed that his hands were usually bleeding, and
his clothing stained and torn.
"What in the name of mischief have you been
doing now?" the director demanded on a day
when Fairbanks's wardrobe was almost a total
loss.
"Trappin'," chirped the star.
Beating about the woods, Bret Harte in hand,
he had managed to discover an old woodsman
who still held to the ancient industries of his
youth. The trapper's specialty was "bob cats," [180]
and the bleeding hands and torn clothes came
from "Doug's" earnest efforts to handle the
"varmints" just as his venerable preceptor
handled them. Out of the experience, at least,
he brought an intimate knowledge of field, for-
est, and stream, for over the fire and in their
walks he had pumped the old man dry.
In the same way he made "The Good Bad
Man" hand him over everything of value that
frontier life contained. The picture was taken
out in the Mohave desert; for the making of it
the director had scoured the West for riders and
ropers and cowboys of the old school. "He men"
—every one of them, and for a time they looked
with dislike and suspicion upon the "star," but
when they saw that Fairbanks did not ask for
any "double," and took the hardest tumble with
a grin, they received him into their fellowship
with a heartfelt yell.
Dull in the Mohave desert? Why, he had to
sit up nights to keep even with his engagements.
From one man he learned bronco-busting, from
another fancy roping, and from others all that [181]
there is to know about horses, cattle, mountain,
and plain. And around the camp-fires he got
stories of the winning of the West such as never
found their way into histories.
When one picture called for jiu-jitsu work, he
didn't rest satisfied with learning just enough
to "get by." Every spare moment found him in
a clinch with the Japanese expert, mastering
every secret, perfecting himself in every hold.
Same way with boxing. When no pugilists came
handy, he put on the gloves with anyone willing
to take chances on a black eye, keeping at it until
today they have to hire professionals when he
figures in a movie fight.
When they made a "water" picture he never
stopped until he could duplicate every trick
known to the "professor" who drilled the extra
men. He took advantage of a biplane flight to
make friends with the aeronaut, and by the time
the picture was done, he was as good a driver as
the expert.
No matter where he is, or what the job, he
finds something of interest because he goes upon [182]
the theory that every minute is meant to be lived.
Maroon him at a cross-roads, with five hours un-
til train time, and he'd have the operator's first
name in ten minutes and be learning the Morse
alphabet, after which he would rush up to his new
friend's house to see the babies or to pass judg-
ment on a Holstein calf or a Black Minorca
brood.
It is the tremendously human quality, more
than anything else, that gets him across. People
like him because he likes them. He attracts in-
terest because he takes interest. Talk with any
of the big men in the motion-picture industry,
that is, those with brains and education, and they
will tell you that personality counts more in pic-
tures than it does on the stage.
H. E. Aitken, president of the Triangle Film
Corporation, said to me: "The screen is intimate.
The camera brings the actor right into your lap.
In the speaking drama, make-up and footlights
change and hide, but not the least flicker of ex-
pression is lost in the picture. It's a test of real-
ness, and it takes a real man or a real woman to [183]
stand it. Art isn't the thing at all, nor do looks
count for half as much as people suppose. It's
what's back of the art and the looks that makes
the hit, and if they haven't got something, the
artist and the beauty don't last long. We picked
Douglas Fairbanks as a likely film star, not on
account of his stunts, as the majority think, but
because of the splendid humanness that fairly
oozed out of him."
When he isn't before the camera, or fooling
with an airship or a motor, or playing with chil-
dren, or "gettin' acquainted" with a tramp or a
trapper, or practising stunts with a rope or a
horse, young Mr. Fairbanks fills in his spare time
writing scenarios. As everyone knows, the mo-
tion-picture drama has been a tawdry thing for
the most part—either a rehash of old stage plays,
novels, and short stories, or else mediocre "origi-
nalities" that epitomized banality. Young Mr.
Fairbanks dissented from the established custom
from the very start.
"It's all wrong," he declared. "We've got to
stand on our own feet. Develop your own [184]
dramatists!"
Practically every play in which he has ap-
peared sprang from his personal suggestion, and
in many of them he has collaborated with the
scenario writer. The three things that he de-
mands are Action, Wholesomeness, and Senti-
ment that rings true.
Never make the mistake of thinking that
Douglas Fairbanks starts and finishes with mere
good humor and physical exuberance. There is
more to him than his grin, for his mind is as
strong and vigorous as his body. He reads and
thinks, and behind his smile is a quick and eager
sympathy that takes account of the sadnesses of
life as well as its promises.
"The Habit of Happiness" was very much his
own idea, and in it he took occasion to show a
midnight bread-line, the misery of the slums, and
various forms of social injustice. It isn't that
he thinks himself called to uplift and reform, but,
as he expresses it, "Every little bit helps."
In the last talk that I had with him, he was
enthusiastic over the future of the movies as a [185]
world force. He speaks in ideas rather than
words, for when he feels that he has indicated the
thought he never troubles to finish the particular
sentence.
"Pictures are like music," he declared. "They
speak a universal language. Great industry—
just in its infancy—before long films will pass
from one country to another—internationalism.
Why not? Love, hate, grief, ambition, laughter
—they belong to one race as much as another—
all peoples understand them. It's hard to hate
people after you know them. Pictures will let
us know each other. They'll break down the
hard national lines that now make for war and
suspicion."
Other things followed, for we discussed every-
thing from cabbages to kings, and then I
plumped the question at him that I had been
waiting to ask from the first.
"How do you like the movies as compared to
the speaking drama? Come now, cross your
heart and hope to die. When the night comes
down and the lights go up, isn't there a blue [186]
minute now and then?"
"Surest thing you know," he grinned. "It
isn't because there's such a radical difference
between the 'talkies' and the movies, however."
(He refers to musical comedy as the "scream-
ies.") "The play in the theatre is largely a mat-
ter of pantomime, you know. Dialogue is em-
ployed to advance the actual plot only when it
is impossible or impracticable to do it with dumb
show. And when I think of some of the lines
I've been called upon to spout, I can't say that I
regret the movies' lack of dialogue.
"What does hurt, though," he admitted, "is
the absence of response. I don't mean applause,
but the something that comes up over the foot-
lights to you from the audience, the big some-
thing that tells you instantly whether you have
hit it or missed, whether you are ringing true or
false. You don't get that in the pictures. Your
audience is the director, and you know that it will
be weeks or months before your work is going
to get its test.
"But in everything else, the movie has the [187]
talkie skinned a mile. Instead of mouthing
somebody else's words, you are doing the thing
yourself. There's action, and life—one day you
are in the forest, the next in the desert, the next
on the sea."
"Nonsense!" I exclaimed. "I understand that
it's all done in a studio."
"I had the idea myself," he laughed. "But no
more. When I was in the 'talkies,' I used to hear
a lot about realism. Father must wash in a real
basin with real water and real soap. There had
to be two hens at least in every barnyard scene,
and when Lottie came home from the cruel city,
she had to have a real baby in her arms. Lordy,
I never knew what realism was until I struck
the movies. They've gone crazy over it.
"'The Half-Breed,' you know, was adapted
from one of Bret Harte's stories, and nothing
would do the director but a trip up to the Car-
quinez woods in northern California. A forest
fire figured in one of the scenes, but I never
thought much about it until I saw them bringing
up some chemical engines, hose reels, and five [188]
or six fire-brigades.
"'What's the idea?' I asked.
"'To keep the flames from spreading,' they
told me.
"And let me tell you, it was some fire. After
I got out of it I felt like a shave from a Mexican
barber."
"What effect is the movie going to have on the
speaking drama?" was my next question.
"Look at the effect it's had already," he said.
"Shaw is the only playwright clever enough to
write dialogue that will hold any number of peo-
ple in the theatre. The motion picture has made
the public demand action. It has changed the
plot and progress of the drama completely."
"Do you think that a good thing? Doesn't it
mean the substitution of feeling for thinking?"
"Well," he answered slowly, "the world goes
forward through the heart rather than through
the head. Happiness, to my mind, is emotional,
not mental. And the movie has brought happi-
ness to millions whose lives were formerly drab [189]
and sordid. I love to go into these little halls in
out-of-the-way places, and see the men, women,
and children packed there of an evening.
Theatrical companies never reached the villages,
and the men had no place but the saloon, the
women no place but the kitchen or the front
porch. The camera has brought the world to
their doors, and life is richer, happier, and better
for it."
Take him as he stands, and Douglas Fair-
banks comes close to being the "real thing."
Men like him as well as women, and, best proof
of all, the "kids" adore him. On a recent visit
to Denver, his old home town, youngsters fol-
lowed him in droves, clamoring for a chance to
"feel his muscle." The mayor, no less, had him
address a public meeting, the feature of which,
by the way, was this piped inquiry from the
gallery:
"Say, Doug, can youse whip William Far-
num?"
And let no one quarrel with this popularity. [190]
It is a good sign, a healthful sign, a token that
the blood of America still runs warm and red,
and that chalk has not yet softened our bones.
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