Read Online Hollywood by Garson Kanin - Free Book Online Page A

accomplished that Barrymore constantly referred to her as “Mrs. Thomas Whiffen,” the celebrated American actress who had continued to act well into her eighties.
    In one scene, Barrymore had a long and, we hoped, moving speech in which he tells the children about their dead mother. The little boy sat on the arm of the chair, Virginia in Barrymore’s lap.
    Take one. Barrymore began. All of us watching knew he was reaching deep down into himself. He was playing beautifully. Virginia, on his lap, was listening carefully and I found myself admiring the marvelously childish thing she was doing—twisting Barrymore’s necktie around her finger, letting it go, twisting it around again.
    I watched, enthralled. My reverie was broken abruptly, brutally, by a scream from Barrymore.
    “God damn it! What the hell do you think you’re doing, you hammy little bitch!” He stood up abruptly. Little Virginia would have fallen to the floor had he not picked her up and thrown her across the set. Fortunately, three stagehands caught the trembling child, but Barrymore was not finished. He bore down on her. “Who the hell do you think you’re acting with, you silly little brute. Silly, hell!—crafty, God damn you, crafty ! I ought to kick you right in the—”
    “Mr. Barrymore, please !” I said. “I’m sure Virginia didn’t mean to—”
    “Don’t tell me !” he shouted. “Virginia. I’ve messed it up with bitches like her before. They don’t fool me.”
    “Okay,” I said. “Wrap it up.” It was only four in the afternoon but I knew that nothing more of value would be accomplished that day.
    The weeping Virginia was led off. Peter Holden giggled with hysterical delight until his mother slapped him.
    I walked around the lot with Barrymore until he had calmed down.
    Later, alone, I reflected on the whole upsetting adventure. What troubled me most was my own error. Barrymore was right. His important speech was being damaged by a cute piece of business. The fact was that even I, watching the scene, had put my attention on Virginia, playing with his necktie. The audience doing so would certainly miss the impact and import of what he was saying.
    We did the scene again the following morning, and it is a credit to the profession of acting that neither Virginia nor Barrymore seemed to have any recollection of the fireworks. A single take was all that was required to capture a lovely moment, and Virginia played the scene without moving a muscle.
    Some stars insist upon seeing the rushes of the work they have done on the previous day, and in fact, wish to be consulted as to the choice of takes. Others eschew the practice, feeling that it tends to make them self-conscious.
    I asked Barrymore about his feelings in the matter.
    “Oh, I love to see the stuff!” he said. “If I can do it at the end of the day. First thing in the morning it always looks like a bad dream.”
    It was arranged for him. Having viewed the rushes at eight o’clock in the morning, I saw them again with him at six. His deportment in the projection room was a revelation. I had never seen anyone react as he did. He was able to see himself on the screen with complete objectivity. It was as though he were watching someone else, not another actor but the actual character.
    I had watched rushes with many players. Their comments were, sometimes, self-critical: “Oh, my God, that’s hammy!” Or: “Speak up, ya jerk. I can’t hear.” Or: “Why am I making such a horrible face?” Or: “Holy God, please don’t use that .” And so on. Then I frequently shared warm baths of narcissism with others: “Oh, that’s beautiful ! See how I catch the key light in my eyes!”… “Oh, please not that one. There’s a little shadow on the side of my nose.”… “Oh, that’s good. Look at those lips .”
    John Barrymore reacted not to the problems of the actor but to the problems of the character: “God, he’s funny. Look at him. Is he going to turn that bastard