Read Online Hollywood by Garson Kanin - Free Book Online

because I loathed the idea of going to Australia. It seemed like going to Siberia. So I had a few, and yes, I remember something about buildings caving in and fires raging, but it was no different from most of my nights in those days. I just kept looking for a place to sleep, and finally I found one, and by the time I woke, it was all over, and I’ll tell you what I did. I got the hell out of there as fast as I could. First by boat to Oakland and then by wagon to the nearest railway station. And off to New York instead of giving myself to the Aussies. And that,I’m afraid, is all I remember as a witness to one of the most spectacular holocausts in the history of mankind.”
    Late one afternoon, running behind schedule, and looking at the glowering faces of men from the production department, I was doing everything possible to hurry things along.
    I approached Russ Metty, and asked, “How about it, Russ?”
    “Real soon,” he replied, preoccupied. “Real soon.”
    Two or three minutes later, I was back. “Now?” I asked.
    Irritated, he said, “Will you please give me a little time ?”
    “Russ,” I replied, “I’d give you the shirt off my back, but I can’t give you any more time !”
    We stood looking at each other. There was a tense, awkward silence which was suddenly broken by a burst of laughter from John Barrymore.
    Work went on, and so did Barrymore’s laugh. I went over and sat down beside him.
    “What’s so funny?” I asked. “If I fall too far behind schedule, they’ll probably fire me.”
    “You’ll survive,” said Barrymore.
    “But what made you laugh?”
    “Well, I’ll tell you,” he said. “Your little colloquy over there, or was it a set-to?—well, whatever it was—reminded me of a time when I was living at the Algonquin—kindness of Frank Case. Do you know him?”
    “I know of him,” I said, “but I don’t know him.”
    “I suppose,” said Barrymore, “that he’s eased more impecunious players over the rough spots than anyone in Gotham. Certainly I am one of his beneficiaries.” He laughed. “Anyhow I was living at the Algonquin and—”
    “Ready!” called Russ Metty.
    I jumped up and started for the camera.
    “A moment!” shouted Barrymore. I turned back to him. He did his eyebrow business, and asked, “Did you walk out on me?”
    “I’ve got to make this shot. So do you.”
    “Do you mean to tell me that the shot is more important than listening to my vintage memoirs?”
    “Yes, Mr. Barrymore. Right now, it is.”
    He rose with effort and declaimed, “How have the mighty fallen!”
    We made the shot in a single take. I walked Barrymore back to his dressing room. On the way, he continued his story.
    “So one day I was making the rounds, and I ran into Bill Mizner and we stood on the corner of Forty-fourth Street and Broadway chatting. He asked me where I was living and I told him.”
    “ ‘The Algonquin, eh?’ he said. ‘Aren’t their rates a bit steep for the likes of us?’
    “ ‘Their rates,’ I said to him, ‘are exemplary. I live there as a guest of the owner, Frank Case.’
    “ ‘Yes,’ said Bill. ‘I’ve heard that he’s a touch of the softer type. Just how soft, would you say?’
    “And I said, ‘Well, this is a man—who—who—’ I couldn’t think of a description good enough, and so fell back on a cliché and said, ‘Why, he’s the kind of man who’d giveyou the—give you the—’ and then I looked down and had to say, ‘Jesus Christ, this is his shirt!’
    “That’s what made me laugh a while ago,” said Barrymore. “Remembering that. Sorry. Goodnight.”
    “Goodnight, Mr. Barrymore.”
    There was only one difficult day throughout the course of the shooting. The two players with whom Barrymore had most to do were the children. Virginia Weidler, aged ten, and Peter Holden, aged six.
    Barrymore terrified the boy with his presence, practically immobilizing him. But Virginia Weidler was so skillful, experienced, and