Found this article on the ever-wonderful Media History Picture Library, and wanted to highlight it here as it is very intriguing. It is from Motion Picture Magazine, June 1926. All credit to the MHPL. The direct link is: https://archive.org/stream/motionpicturemag31brew#page/n523/mode/2up
Tonight was a special treat, as I finally got hold of the 1929 version of Hound of the Baskervilles, made as a silent film in Germany. This was a very late silent, and while it was popular in mainland Europe at the time, it never reached the UK or America as cinemas had converted to sound by that point. It is directed by Richard Oswald, the same director as the 1914 version of the story. The 1929 film was found about a decade ago (after eighty years) and has now been restored and is released on blu ray and DVD (in one pack) by Flicker Alley.
The film is very good indeed. Sadly, a few bits early on are missing and replaced by stills, but not much. It is strange watching a film such as this as one can see how a film like The Cat and the Canary (1927) had been influenced by German expressionism, and then how THIS film was influenced by Cat and Canary. So we have German films influencing American films influencing German films! Carlyle Blackwell plays a surprisingly chipper Sherlock Holmes, which is rather at odds with much of the film that is dark in tone and looks like it came straight out of a silent horror movie. Cue lots of secret passages, hands emerging from wall, and even a Fu Manchu-like device to try to kill off our hero.
Richard Oswald, who directed the film, is a fascinating figure. He wasn’t a top-tier director in Germany, but a surprisingly important one considering few today have heard of him. He was what might be called a jobbing director. He didn’t secure for himself a particular style, but he was the first director ever to make a film that challenged anti-gay laws in Different from the Others, a film that celebrates its 100th birthday this year. Bear in mind, it took the UK to 1961 to make Victim, a similar themed film!
Oswald also helped to pioneer the portmanteau fantasy/horror film genre – where short stories are joined together to make one movie. In 1916 he did this with his version of Tales of Hoffmann, and in 1919 did the same thing with Eerie Tales, which includes stories by Robert Louis Stevenson and Edgar Allan Poe. If you’ve seen Corman’s Tales of Terror from 1963, this was in many ways the prototype of it. He also made other early horror films that no doubt influenced the expressionist horrors that followed. 1917 saw him direct the Picture of Dorian Gray and A Night of Horror.
Oswald was also the director who brought Conrad Veidt to the fore, giving him leading roles in both Different from the Others (as the doomed gay violinist who gets blackmailed) and Eerie Tales, and casting him as Phineas Fogg in his version of Around the World in 80 Days. Werner Kraus and Emil Jannings also got career boosts at the start of their careers thanks to Oswald. Sadly, despite all of this he is a virtually unknown figure, overshadowed by Wiene, Leni, Murnau and Lang – and, unlike some of those, when he sought exile in America, his career didn’t take off there.
The Flicker Alley release of Der Hund von Baskervilles is quite a treat. It not only includes the 1929 version, but also the 1914 version which was also directed by Oswald – but which I have yet to see. The blu ray/DVD combo edition is region free and will play worldwide. The downside is the price, especially if you are outside of America and get stuck with customs. I paid £25 for a used copy on ebay simply because it was being posted within the UK so no customs to pay, but you’re looking at nearly £40 if you buy it new and factor in customs – which is a lot of money for two films of the same story.
But there is no getting away from the fact that this is an important release, and is the second major “lost” Holmes silent movie to be discovered and released in less than a decade (the other being the 1916 film “Sherlock Holmes”). So never give up hope!
I have great respect for Charles Epting – one of the most knowledgeable, enthusiastic, and certainly energetic young silent film enthusiasts around. He is at the helm of The Silent Film Quarterly magazine, and has today made a post on the publication’s blog claiming that the 90% or so of silent films that no longer survive are, basically, no big loss (I admit I paraphrase). My respect for Mr. Epting notwithstanding, on this occasion he has missed the mark by a long way. Before reading my response, take yourself over to the original article (and check out some of the other great blog posts while you’re there):
The problem with Epting’s view is clear from the start, where he writes: “If all we have is 10% of the silent films ever made, what brilliant, ground-breaking, revolutionary pieces of art are we missing out on?” This would suggest that the only important films are the ones that were brilliant, ground-breaking, revolutionary, or even works of art. But is this really true? Are the films that have shaped our cultural history really all brilliant movies? Of course they’re not.
He goes on to try to tell us that everything is actually OK because most of the works of Chaplin, Keaton, Lloyd, Griffith, von Stroheim, and DeMille still survive, as do most of the movies nominated at the first Oscar ceremony. And they do mostly exist, that is true. But let’s take a step away from thinking that film is all about big name stars and directors and Oscar-nominations, and look at it from another point of view. To do this, I shall take you into a niche area of silent movies.
My PhD and subsequent book (still available if you don’t mind remortgaging your house to buy it thanks to the wonders of academic publishing) was about “male-male intimacy” in early film. In other words, it looked at gay characters, homosocial environments, homoeroticism, sissies, fops, romantic friendships, and the like. The films give us an insight into how homosexuality and homoeroticism were viewed in the first three decades of the 20th Century. These primary sources help us to piece together an important part of our cultural history. Now, you might be thinking that you haven’t seen many such characters or narratives in silent film – and that’s because they rarely occurred in the films made by the major directors and stars listed by Epting, and in many cases we only know about these movies at all because comments on them exist in old copies of Variety, Film Daily, Motion Picture World, and other such publications, which we are able to access thanks to the wonders of the Media History Digital Library.
Let me take you back to the early 1910s, when there was a whole flurry of films made in Hollywood containing the stock character of the “sissy” – and yet probably the only film anyone will have seen from the period with this stock character is Algie the Miner from 1912. Why? Because most of the others have been lost. But can we actually presume that Algie is representative of all of the films containing the sissy character from the pre-war period? Of course not. For that we would need to see the likes of A Cave Man Wooing (presumed lost), Just a Boy (presumed lost), Hilda Wakes (presumed lost), Sissybelle (presumed lost), The Pay-as-You-Enter Man (presumed lost), and He Became a Regular Fellow (presumed lost). What the trade publications tell us through their reviews is that the character of the sissy changed drastically from Algie in 1912 through to Keep Moving in 1915. In 1912, he is treated as a sympathetic character, by 1913 he is, according to Moving Picture World, an “abomination,” and by 1916, Musty Suffer is so disgusted at the sissy that he puts a lighted firecracker in a package and then gives it to him.
Charles Epting, in his piece this morning, would argue that these films are not important, and that their loss is no big deal. They would not have been great films, and they would not have had great direction or acting, and so why spill tears over them? But the reality is far from that, as these four years of short, probably not very good, comedies would demonstrate to us just how Hollywood and the public at large changed its view of gay/effeminate/queer (we don’t know which, as we can’t see them) men during the years directly prior and during the First World War, and we can only presume that the advent of WWI caused a shift in how masculinity (or lack of) was treated in film.
Let’s also think about the issue of genre, as well. It is well-documented that “horror” was not used as a genre description before 1931 (there is evidence to counter that now, but by-and-large this is true). So, how were what we now call the horror films of the 1910s and 1920s described or viewed by audiences? How did their content change in the run up to Dracula in 1931? Sure, we can view Lon Chaney films, The Cat and the Canary and Caligari and presume that we can judge from those movies if we want, but we would be foolish to do so.
Today the majority of horror films we watch are not big productions and, instead, medium-budget films with lesser (often unknown) actors. In fact, the majority of horror films made today are straight-to-DVD/streaming affairs. According to the scenario laid out by Epting’s piece, as long as It and The Conjuring survive in a hundred year’s time, everything will be fine because the horror genre in the 2010s can be judged from those big productions. But that clearly isn’t true. There are hundreds of horror films that aren’t big productions, but they are as much part of the genre as It and The Conjuring, and tell us just as much about film-viewing in 2018 (not to mention how they might comment on the political situation).
The idea that only films that received positive reviews and praise at the time of release are worth worrying about when it comes to lost films is flawed, and always has been flawed. What if we applied this idea to classical music? We would assume that a great deal of music written by Wagner, Brahms, and Beethoven was bloody awful. “I believe that I could write tomorrow something similar inspired by my cat walking down the keyboard of the piano” wrote a critic – of Tannhauser! What if THAT was a lost work?According to Epting’s premise, it would be no great loss. In the world of film, we can learn just as much about cinematic and/or cultural history from Ben Model’s release of Whispering Shadows on DVD as we can from Phantom of the Opera.
Every lost film and TV programme is a gap in our cultural history. It doesn’t matter whether the item in question was great art or a trashy horror movie – unless we can see what we are missing, we are not in a position to judge its cultural worth.
This is a rather poignant interview with Robert Harron from 1918, and first published in Photoplay in April of that year. This vintage article is included in Silent Voices: Vintage Interviews with Silent Film Personalities, available in paperback and Kindle formats on Amazon.
Griffith’s Boy – Bobby
Harron, the Screen’s Premier Juvenile. “The Boy” in The Birth of a Nation and Intolerance
Author: Elizabeth Peltret
(Photoplay: April, 1918)
One of the most effective scenes in The Birth of a Nation is a quiet one; a scene without a trace of “dramatic punch,” but it remains vividly in your memory after many a more spectacular scene is forgotten. It is the meeting of the two boy chums in a sleepy little Southern town before the war. They poke each other in the ribs, chase into the house, dodge around the furniture in the big hallway, and run upstairs, their arms around each other’s shoulders. “Everyone” says of this scene that it doesn’t look a bit like acting. Then, too, the light-heartedness of it, and the peacefulness of the little town, are in poignant contrast to the battle scene where the two boys meet again only to die in each other’s arms. The Southern boy (Bobby Harron) crawls over to his Northern chum, and puts his arm about him. It looks as if they are tired from too much play and are just going to sleep for a while.
Since the making of the Griffith masterpiece, Bobby Harron has seen a great deal of battle and sudden death. Last year he was in Europe with D. W. Griffith, and Lillian and Dorothy Gish, making war scenes for the great director’s next picture. One can only surmise the number of times he must have been called upon to die, or nearly die – the story may have a happy ending – but it is possible that he is killed or wounded in this war, counting rehearsals, innumerable times. Also, he has seen real danger, and real history in the making – among other things the arrival of General Pershing and his staff in Europe, for the Griffith party went over on the same ship – and yet with all this, he seems just the same fun-loving boy he looks to be in The Birth of a Nation. But underneath is a keen knowledge of human nature and an equally keen sympathy. He seems more interested in people than in events. In discussing the war, he said more about the effect it would have on individuals than about anything else concerning it. For example, soldiers themselves:
“It’s going to be just as hard for a lot of the fellows to come home from the war as it was for them to go,” he said. “They’ve changed a lot, of course, the fellows who used to work in stores, and offices, and factories. They’ve made new friends; they’re heroes – members of the military caste, you know.” He mentioned Service’s poem, The Revelation:
The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut,
Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut;
Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train:
Oh, how will I manage to stick it all, if I ever get back again?
Don’t you guess that the things we’re seeing now will haunt us through all the years;
Heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and blood and tears;
Life’s pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove with a grey,
To remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic day?
“But that won’t apply so much to the moving picture actor. We’re funny people! We have plenty of time evenings and between scenes, and yet we hardly ever learn anything outside our work. Most of the fellows who go from the film will have to begin all over again, when they come back, even if they aren’t maimed or crippled. There are quite a few moving picture actors and it’s not a bit hard to forget them.”
Probably very few persons have thought of this phase of the subject. If there were only a few of the “thin red ’eroes” it would not make so much of a difference. But in this war the individual is lost in the great throng of men who, while their praises are sung today, will have to come back later when the tumult and the shouting has died and people are speaking in prose again. Nearly every young man who goes to war sacrifices something in a business or professional way, but there is before him the chance to win, in a brief time, a degree of fame that otherwise it would take him years to gain, and, whether he wins distinctive military honors or not, his war record will give him preferment and a sort of distinction. But the motion picture actor who has won any marked degree of success is known the world over. If war takes him away for a year or two, he must look forward to the probability that when he comes back his name will have been virtually forgotten, not only by the public but by managers as well.
Although he did not mention the fact himself, the war will possibly cost Bobby Harron much in those things everybody wants – success, income, material security and a foothold on the ladder that leads to fame. For he has been drafted, too, and is only on leave of absence. Although so serious a matter to him, he turned it off with a characteristic story.
“I heard of a fellow who went to a dentist and had all his teeth pulled before going up for examination. The examining officer looked him over and said, ‘You’re exempt; you have flat feet.’
“I tell you what,” Harron said with quiet sincerity, “I’d rather leave my family, my friends, my work and my club forever – I’d rather die right now – than to be told I wasn’t wanted because my health was not good enough. To know – absolutely know – that you are not physically fit would be worse than to go through a hundred wars.”
Although he is very slight, his clear eyes and skin and the impression he gives of buoyant vitality would seem to indicate perfect health.
“It’s a case of sooner or later with me,” he said. “I am going when we finish this picture. The other day, Mr. Griffith said, ‘Well, Bobby, I guess you’ll be glad when we finish these scenes,’ ‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘get them right, if it takes ten years.’”
Bobby laughed heartily at the recollection. It seems that the unexpected answer so surprised Mr. Griffith that he looked almost petrified, but presently a light dawned. “I gotcha,” said the great director, “the longer we take on these scenes, the longer you live.”
“That wasn’t what you might call an especially encouraging remark to make, now was it?” remarked Bobby.
Bobby Harron has been in the pictures since 1907, when he was fourteen years old. He started in with the old Biograph company in New York.
“I was going to a parochial school,” he said, “and one day, I asked the Brother to let me know the next time he heard of a place for a boy. A little later the Brother sent me around to the Biograph studio. The man in charge was named McCutcheon; his son, Wallie, is now a major in the English army. He asked the usual questions, and the upshot of it was that I went to work in the cutting room at a salary of five dollars a week. After I had been working in the cutting room about two months, he took me out and gave me a small part in a picture. It was a comedy named Dr Skinnum (sic). Anthony O’Sullivan was in it, I remember, the same Tony O’Sullivan who is now in charge of the “lot” over at Mack Sennett’s. I remember thinking at the time that there was no future in that kind of work for a young fellow, and that as soon as I could I’d go and get another job. But I never did. I kept on when Mr. Griffith took charge; came with him to California, and have been with him ever since.”
His first leading part was in a picture called Bobby’s Kodak.
“This picture gave me my first big joy in life, because it gave me the chance to be the kind of kid I had wanted to be in my dreams, but had never had the chance to be in real life. My oldest brother and I had always had it in us to be little devils, but we lacked the teamwork of the Katzenjammers. We always took it out in fighting to see which one was going to play the lead. For instance, I’d come to him and propose that I play hookey and fix up a nice little story for him to tell the Brother, but he’d say, ‘Well, I don’t see why I can’t play hookey and you tell the story to the Brother,’ and so it would end by neither of us playing hookey. It was that way with every bit of mischief we tried to do – we were great chums” there was no pause but a hurrying on of speech – “he’s dead, now – killed two years ago in an automobile accident.”
Bobby comes from a family of ten children and is the oldest of seven living; five sisters and one brother, all in school but one sister. One brother, aged 14, has appeared in a picture with Louise Huff.
“Oh, he’s a comer, all right!” said Bobby.
Speaking of his trip to Europe, one of the first things he mentioned, referring to it with an air of tremendous pride, was that they went over with General Pershing and his staff, “taking the same high place in French history that is given to Lafayette in American history.”
“Of course the fact that the general and his staff were to accompany us was supposed to be a deep and dark secret of state. It was quite some secret. The first I knew of it was two days before we sailed. I was walking down a New York street, when a fellow I knew stopped me, took me aside, and looking around to be sure there was no one who could overhear him, whispered, ‘I’ll tell you something if you’ll promise me not to tell anyone.’ Of course, I promised, and he said in a slightly lower whisper, ‘You’re going over with General Pershing and his staff.’
A little later I met a man who had booked with us for passage. ‘Heard the news?’ he asked. ‘No,’ I said. ‘What is it?’ ‘General Pershing is to sail with us, but for goodness sake, don’t tell anybody.’
“After that, knowing it would make Mother feel easier to know that every care would be taken of General Pershing, I decided to tell her that he would be with us. I knew she wouldn’t say anything about it, but nevertheless my conscience troubled me a little until just as we were going aboard, with a lot of dock hands within easy hearing distance, someone yelled at the top of his voice to a friend at the foot of the gang-plank, ‘Hey, who do you think’s on board – General Pershing!’
“Yes, it was quite some secret.”
For Bobby seasickness was not one of the horrors of war. “I didn’t get really seasick at all,” he said, “because every time I felt there was any danger of it, I went to bed and stayed there until I felt right again. I didn’t get up at all for the first three days out – not because I was really sick, but because the roll of the ship bothered me a little and I wasn’t taking chances.”
Speaking of taking chances, he had only been back in Los Angeles about a week when he went with a party on a little two-hour trip to Catalina Island; a trip that is nearly always disagreeable and choppy. Everyone on board was sick – everyone, that is, with the exception of three passengers, and he was not one of those three. He admitted that he was so sick he wanted to die and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he has been kidded to death about it ever since.
“A lot depends on what you happen to be in,” he said in explanation. “We went over to Catalina in a launch. And when it’s choppy on the li’l old Pacific and you’re in a launch, you know it. There may be more roll on the Atlantic, but then the ship we went on was as big as this –” his gesture embraced the whole Los Angeles Athletic Club where he lives.
“Not to change the subject at all,” he went on, “we landed at Liverpool and I, for one, went through a regular third degree. And I knew that one wrong answer would result in my being shipped right back again. Most of the questions were posers. For instance, I was asked if I had been invited to come or had come of my own accord. I took a chance and answered that Mr. Griffith had send for me. It turned out to be the right answer. If I’d said that I had come of my own accord, they would have ended the interrogation right there. Then I was asked why Mr. Griffith had sent for me and not for someone else? Was I, then, absolutely indispensable to Mr. Griffith, and, if so, why? Couldn’t someone already in England do the same work I was brought over to do? Why not – it was awful.
“Of course, I knew that women were doing everything in England. But one thing that gave me a shock, was that, just as we stepped off the train in London, a young woman ran up to me and, touching the little visored cap she wore, said, ‘Carry your grip, Sir?’
“Coming back, the ship we were on was camouflaged – painted in green and grey blotches to make it indistinct – and exactly the same secrecy was observed as we had going over. For instance, whenever we mentioned the name of the ship, even to each other, it was always in a whisper. We didn’t even know exactly when we were to sail until almost the last minute. When I went to see about my passport, the room was full of people, so when the official asked me the name of the ship I was going to sail on, I leaned across his desk and whispered, ‘Adriatic.’ ‘ADRIATIC’ he bawled in a voice loud enough to carry a block. ‘When does she sail?’”
He made a valiant attempt to curl the ends of a very diminutive moustache. He was able to get hold of it, and that was about all.
“How do you like my moustache?” he asked. “I’ll tell you what I was going to do: I was going to get a lot of English clothes, with a cane and a monocle and all that stuff, and walk into the club here just as I’ve seen other fellows do after a trip ‘Abroad,’” he put on a very supercilious expression to illustrate – “and I was going to keep it up, accent and all, for about three days until I had everybody saying ‘Well, will you look at that?’ and ‘What do you think he thinks he is?” but I couldn’t do it. The first person I met was Jack Pickford and we’ve been chums for so long that it was too much for me. Perhaps I’ll do it next time only a little differently. I’ll miss this club when I go to war, but it would be fun to walk in here with a waxed up military moustache and a long beard. That’s exactly what I’m going to do to!” With a flash of inspiration, “Just after peace is declared – no, better still – I’ll have the ruling powers inform me of that even in advance so I’ll have plenty of time; I’m going to grow a beard. Then I’ll strut in here with a good long one, to say nothing of the moustache, a member of the ‘military caste,’ don’t you know?”
He wore his own moustache in Intolerance.
“It’s the only way to do,” he said. There was just a suggestion of pride that he was able to grow one at that time. “Not even actors – fellows who ought to have known better – thought it was my own. There’s a man up here who can make such good ones. But any kind of a false moustache is hard to get on, and if you don’t take it off at lunch time, you’re always eating hair.”
The little moustache evidently brought out a resemblance to his father none of the family had noticed before.
“I had always thought that I looked a little like both my parents. It was a big surprise to me when my father told me that a woman had stopped him on the street – that was in New York – and said ‘I beg your pardon, but aren’t you Mr. Harron?’ He admitted that he was, and she explained, ‘I recognize you by your son on the screen.’
“Do people often come up and speak to you on the street?” he was asked.
“Oh, no, not often,” he answered. “Those who do are mostly middle-aged women. It’s different with Chaplin, though. Everybody recognises him. We used to run around quite a bit together and wherever we’d go someone would be sure to say ‘Oh, look, there’s Charlie Chaplin,’ and kids would run up to him and say ‘Hello, Charlie.’
“I’d like to be a comedian – wouldn’t you?”
 The Birth of a Nation (D. W. Griffith, 1915)
 Hearts of the World (D. W. Griffith, 1918)
 The Revelation by Robert William Service (1874-1958)
 Wallace McCutcheon Sr (1858-1918) and Wallace McCutcheon Jr (1884-1928)
 Dr Skinum (Wallace McCutcheon, 1907)
 Bobby’s Kodak (Wallace McCutcheon, 1908)
 Intolerance (D. W. Griffith, 1916)
The following article by Grace Halton first appeared in Motion Picture Magazine in October 1924. Along with twenty-seven other interviews with silent film stars, it is reprinted in Silent Voices: Vintage Interviews with Silent Film Personalities, available in paperback and kindle formats from Amazon online stores. The pictures do not originate from the original article.
THE QUESTION OF JACK PICKFORD
An appreciation of this young star who, if he stood alone, and were measured in the public eyes only by the merit of his work –as an artist should be measured – would accomplish very great things indeed
Author: Grace Halton
(Motion Picture Magazine: October 1924)
He sat there behind a desk in the small studio office-room, and from time to time he lit a cigarette, rather nervously. When he smiled, it was quickly but with no reflection of an inner amusement in his eyes. He talked rapidly, but without ease. I felt that in his mind he was wondering what I would ask him next and wishing quite fervently that I would leave.
Outside the summer sun beat down on the Pickford-Fairbanks lot. The walls of Mary’s old Rosita sets seemed to curl and quiver in the downpour of tropical sunshine. The minarets of Bagdad rose, an eye-piercing blaze of silver against the hard blue of the sky. Only in the shelter of the mammoth walls of Doug’s mediaeval castle, erected for Robin Hood and later serving Mary well in Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall, was there shadow and cool.
And, quite wisely, a Pickford-Fairbanks chauffeur had parked one of the family’s Rolls-Royce cars in this grateful shade.
So Jack Pickford and I sat in the little office – Jack most immaculate in white trousers and well-cut gray coat – and when the riveters, working on a giant gas-tank nearby, did not drown out our conversation with their staccato clatter, we talked of various things.
But I knew, even as I asked him questions and he answered them obediently, like a little boy who hopes he’ll grade at least eighty per cent in examinations, but rather doubts it, that it was no sort of interview.
One gets no glimpse of the real Jack Pickford this way. I know, for I’ve met him a dozen times in the last half-dozen years, at parties, formal and informal, at the various dancing places, on transcontinental trains. Times when he was his natural, youthful self.
He was not himself the other day. His manner was guarded. He was earnestly striving to uphold the dignity of the Pickford family.
He endeavoured not to arouse interest in himself and in his reactions, veering ever from the personal with talk of Marilynn (sic), or Mary and Doug.
“It’s lonesome around here without them,” says Jack. “Sure.”
He has a way of saying “Sure,” as tho to emphasize his remarks.
News had come that day of a decoration upon Doug in Paris by the Ministry Beaux Arts. Two gold palms, crossed, and suspended by a purple ribbon. A great honor for Doug. No actor has ever before received this decoration, which was originated by Napoleon and has heretofore been awarded only to educators.
Doug and Mary “have a new stunt” – thus the conversation continued. They like to go down to the Orpheum sometimes, when they’re here at home. It’s hard on Mary never having a chance to go out anywhere without being mobbed, and at last she and Doug have solved the difficult problem and how to enjoy a peaceful evening at a vaudeville show. They buy seats in the last row on the aisle, dress more inconspicuously and put on dark glasses. Then they slip into the theater after the show has started and out again just before the last act is over. The stunt works fine.
Then – Marilynn. Marilynn Miller, before whom jaded first-night Broadway has bent the knee in homage, more than once. Mailynn of the soft golden curls, the babyish face, the twinkling toes. The adored “youngest star on Broadway.” Jack’s wife.
Of these he will talk.
He and Marilynn are going abroad later in the summer, he says. Marilynn is to meet Barrie. She’s bringing Peter Pan to the stage in the fall and, well, it seems a good idea to meet Barrie beforehand. It’s an awful responsibility, you know, following Maude Adams in Peter Pan. Sure. Jack likes London. He has lots of friends in London. He lit another cigarette. No – he doesn’t like Paris.
It is later, perhaps, one remembers that Jack’s first wife, the beautiful Olive Thomas, met her tragic death in Paris, and one senses that Jack has been remembering all the time.
One brings him back from London – and Paris to the sunshine and heat of the Pickford-Fairbanks lot, the rat-tat-tat of the riveters working on the gas-tank, the light laughter of Marilynn and some other girls playing badminton on the studio court.
Jack’s next picture, he says, will be made in New York. Marilynn will be working there, he explains, as sufficient reason why he should desert Hollywood. Young Mr. Dudley is the title of the story and, the plot being conveniently laid in New York anyway, they’re going to shoot everything from the Battery to the Bronx.
His ideas of what he would like to do in future seem rather vague. The majority of actors, when one has talked to them for one consecutive minute, will tell one confidentially of their burning desire to bring to the screen some certain story or play, to create some certain character known to history or literature. But not Jack Pickford. In the main, his life has been mapped out for him by The Family. One feels that decisions as to what Jack will and will not do, rest with them usually, rather than with himself. Initiative is not developed under such circumstances. One feels also, that if he did cherish a secret longing to create some daring, difficult role, to depart in some manner from the comfortable, even routine mapped out for him, he wouldn’t be apt to say anything about it until he had The Family’s O.K.
In some obscure way, this irritates me, belonging as I do among those wilful persons who consider him an actor with tremendous possibilities. His work before the camera is stamped with authenticity. He possesses the rare ability to submerge himself in the character he is portraying. He never struts and poses in the well-known Hollywood male star manner. If his wild, primitive mountaineer boy in The Hill Billy isn’t as genuine a portrayal as the screen has seen this year, I’ll eat my fall chapeau.
But he won’t talk about himself. Facing the interviewer, he becomes inarticulate. He’s not thinking of his work. He’s wondering just what sort of impression he is making on me. He is self-conscious, lacking the egotism on which a less sensitive soul might rely.
That soul of his has been scarred. He has seen his name in ugly headlines blazed across the world. That slight, nervous body has bent before the storm, and the years have passed. Jack hasn’t forgotten.
As I say, it was no sort of interview.
I left him presently, and the white-hot glare of the Pickford-Fairbanks lot, with the haughty Rolls-Royce still standing in the thickening shadows of grey stone castle walls, and the silver minarets of Bagdad writing fairy tales unnumbered across the sky.
But the feeling of irritation persisted. I found myself wishing that Jack wasn’t a Pickford. That he hadn’t the fortunes of Hollywood’s royal family behind him. That the rare, delicate artistry of his work might draw strength from some hardier atmosphere. In short, that Jack wasn’t quite so smothered in The Family ermine.
After watching the sensitive play of expression across his face for an hour, it intrigues one to muse on what Jack might accomplish if, freed from all prejudice, he stood alone, measured in the public eye by the merit of his work, as an artist should be measured.
It is good work, that the boy of Seventeen, The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come, and innumerable other photoplays of the native American type, has given us. To one who watches with somewhat bored amusement the tug-of-war now going on between our middle-aged film heroes and the Latin lads, a Jack Pickford performance with its blending of humor and pathos, provides a welcome distraction.
We find it within us to hope that some day he may contribute to the screen a truly great performance.
 Rosita (Ernst Lubitsch, 1923)
 Robin Hood (Allan Dwan, 1922); Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall (Marshall Neilan, 1924)
 Marilyn Miller: Jack Pickford’s second wife.
 The Hill Billy (George W. Hill, 1924)
 Seventeen (Robert G. Vignola, 1916)
I’m very pleased to announce the publication of a book I have been putting together for some time!
Around a hundred years ago, film fan magazines were emerging from their infancy to become some of the most-read periodicals of their day. These were places where cinema-goers could read with anticipation about new releases, as well catch up on Hollywood gossip, see glamourous pictures of their favourite actors and actresses, and read interviews with (and articles by) some of the great stars and directors of the day.
“Silent Voices” collects together twenty-eight of these interviews and articles (many out of print since their original publication in the 1910s and 1920s), covering a dozen different screen personalities of the period: Renée Adorée, Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, Theda Bara, Clara Bow, Carol Dempster, Greta Garbo, John Gilbert, Robert “Bobby” Harron, Johnny Hines, F. W. Murnau, George O’Brien, and Jack Pickford.
The book is available in both paperback and kindle editions from Amazon.
A rather fun article from the Los Angeles Herald, November 9, 1914 in which George Arliss is a little sniffy at actors who choose to act in the movies!
Courtesy of California Digital Newspaper Collection, Center for Bibliographic Studies and Research, University of California, Riverside, <http://cdnc.ucr.edu>