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

down? Do you think so? I think so. There! What did I tell you? He turned him down…Oh, God, isn’t that awful? He loves her. I can feel it but he just hasn’t the courage to tell her. Go on! Tell her. No. It’s no use. He won’t do it…Oh, hell! He’s going to recite. Why doesn’t he just talk? Well, that’s not so bad. Actually very moving. Very moving. He did that very well, you know.”
    To understand the art of acting, it is necessary to understand a special sort of schizophrenia. On the stage or screen, we deal with the phenomenon of the split personality. The actor and the character sharing one body, one brain. Ideally, the actor—hidden—lives inside the body of the character, controlling thoughts, feelings, actions.
    Barrymore’s behavior in the projection room signaled a complete separation of these personalities in a singular way.
    His acting technique was flawless.
    When, toward the end of the picture, his part called for him to recite the lines by John Greenleaf Whittier he did them perfectly on the first take, with the aid of a mediumsized blackboard.
    “That’s it,” I said. “Print it.” He beckoned to me. I went over to him at once. “Yes, Mr. Barrymore?”
    “Would you like one with a little juice?” he asked.
    “Juice?” I repeated, confused.
    “Juice,” he said. “A little eye juice?”
    “Oh,” I said, “I wouldn’t have thought so. I always think that when the actor cries the audience probably doesn’t. It’s when the actor seems to be holding back tears that the audience is more likely to supply them. They like to cry for him, in a way.”
    “Oh,” he said. “Very well.”
    I could see he was disappointed. I went on. “Still, no harm in trying. Let’s do one.”
    “Good,” he said, brightly. “Then you can decide.”
    We rolled again. He recited once more. To take best advantage of the effect, I had arranged for the camera to dolly in toward him very slowly. As the camera approached him, the tears began to flow, splashing off his cheekbones.
    “Cut!” he shouted, waving his palm at the lens.
    I thought for a moment that the camera mechanics had disturbed him. Not at all. He looked at me. “Too much juice,” he said. “I’m sorry. I apologize for my excess. May we do one more, please?”
    “Of course,” I said.
    Another take. This time there were tears but they were discreet tears, one small one falling out of the right eye and when that was halfway down his face, a large one from the other eye. I watch him, agape, and forgot to say “Cut.” The scene ended somehow. Applause.
    “What did you think?” he asked.
    “It looked fine,” I said. “Surprisingly fine.”
    He frowned. “Did you like that little one first and then the big one or would it be better with that big one first and then the little one?”
    I was content with two satisfactory takes in the can but I confess that by then I was riveted by this display.
    “Yes,” I said. “That would be much better. First the big one and then the little one.”
    “All right,” he said. “But for that, you better move in a little quicker.”
    The camera operator nodded and said, “Okay.”
    The next take. We all watched, no longer interested in the scene or in the shot, not even concerned about the face. We were concentrating on the trick of the tears.
    “Roll ’em.”
    He did not disappoint us. First the big one, then almost at the end, when we had given up hope, the little one melted out of his other eye.
    Later, I discussed it with him.
    “Oh, Christ!” he said. “It’s nothing. Don’t confuse it with acting. It’s a trick, like being able to blush.” He blushed. “Or wiggling your ears. You can wiggle your ears, can’t you?”
    “No, I can’t,” I said.
    “Funny,” he said, “they look to me like the kind that wiggle.” He wiggled on his own. “The crying thing is nothing. All women can do it. Can do it? Hell, they do do it! And kids. Kids bring on tears to get what they want.