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)