Hollywood (4 page)

“I’ll send you my check,” I said, deflated and miserable. “Just don’t try to cash it.”

I had lost Round One.

I conferred with Cliff Reid and John Twist, who were on my side. I talked to Barrymore’s agent who seemed eager yet hesitant. I tried to gain support from the production department but got nowhere.

Another shot at Pandro Berman. He listened to my marshaled arguments courteously, then said, “Listen. The last time we let that bastard on the lot—we didn’t want him then but this big director from New York had come out, Worthington Miner, and he had the same bee in his bonnet you’ve got. Naturally, being from the theatre he would have. Barrymore in the theatre. Nobody ever greater. I know that. But we’d had bad experiences with Barrymore around here.”

“Good ones, too,” I said. “He was great in
A Bill of Divorcement
—and what about
Topaz
? And
Long Lost Father
? All terrific and all right here at RKO.”

“Let me finish about Worthington Miner,” said Berman, impatiently. “What was the name of the picture? Oh, yeah.
Hat, Coat, and Glove
. That was the name of it, I remember. I wish I could forget it. So Miner insisted on Barrymore, just like you, and when I tried to warn him, he kept giving me the same kind of malarkey you’re giving me. ‘Leave him to me,’ he kept saying. ‘I can handle him.’ So one thing and another we got talked into it. And they started shooting. And he was handling him just fine—just fine until one afternoon Barrymore took a whole gang of the crew over to Lucey’s for lunch. He always gets very pally with the crew and they call him Jack and he calls them whatever, and they all have a lot of highjinks and nothing but fun and the picture goes in the crapper. So he took the crew to lunch and the crew came back. What the hell. They
had
to. They’ve got a union. But
he
didn’t come back. Not that day or the next or the next. In fact, never. We had to stop it. The insurance covered some of it, sure, but not all and that’s another thing. We can’t get any insurance on the guy. So forget it.”

I had one final trump to play and this seemed the moment to play it.

I rose and said solemnly, “All right, Pan. If that’s your decision, I accept it, but I must say, I’m surprised. You’ve got a great reputation in this business as a picturemaker but more important, everyone who knows you, who’s dealt with you, says that you’re a man of your word. A man of honor and I’m really surprised to see you betray that idea.”

A look into his widening eyes told me I had struck home.

“
What
idea?” he blurted out.

“Well, after the rough time you people gave me about that second assignment, you promised you were going to make it up to me. You said I could do anything on the lot—”

“If you could set it up, I said!” he shouted.

I shouted back. “What the hell kind of promise is that? Anything I set up you can knock over you—you—”

“You
what
?” he challenged, demanding me to finish my thought.

“—you big—little
tycoon
!”

All at once, I could no longer see him. I saw only his finger, pointing directly between my eyes.

“All right, you dumb jerk,” he said. “I’m going to give you enough rope and let’s see what happens.”

The Great Man Votes
was under way. All I had to do now was to persuade John Barrymore to do it. He could be extremely erratic, I was told.

“Leave it to me,” I said.

I got Barrymore’s home telephone number from his agent, remembering Mr. Goldwyn’s advice to deal with principals whenever possible. I phoned John Barrymore, identified myself, and began telling him about the script.

“No, no,” I heard the great voice say. My heart sank. “No, no,” he continued. “Let’s not do this on the phone—a diabolical instrument, in any case. Come on over. Bring the manuscript. Although, to be perfectly candid, I prefer to have you
tell
me the story and describe the role. A movie script is so boring to read. It’s like a plumber’s manual, isn’t it? Furthermore, I have no idea who you are but when you’ve told me the story, I’ll have some idea as to your competence to convey it to an audience.”

“When?” I asked.

“When what?”

“When can I come over?”

“Why not right now?”

I was on my way in a matter of minutes.

I had difficulty finding his hideaway house and it was precisely noon when I drove up to the front door.

I rang the bell. I heard it sound loudly inside and waited for a minute, for two, for three. I rang again. Five minutes later, I rang for a third and what I had decided would be a final time. The front door was flung open and there stood John Barrymore, the greatest actor in America, stark naked.

He squinted at me and asked, “What’s this? Who are you?”

“RKO,” I heard myself say.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Of course. Come in, RKO. Come in.” He slapped me on the back as I entered and added, “Mind if I call you R?”

He laughed at his joke until I joined him.

“Were you out there long?” he asked. “I’m sorry. My apologies. We don’t have any servants here. They keep leaving.” He did his famous eyebrow trick, one up, the other down, and said, “More of them leave than we ever hire. I’ve never been able to figure that out. Can it be that they leave before they get here?” He looked around. “My wife should be here but she isn’t. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, I would.”

“All right, then. Why don’t you go out into the kitchen and make it? It’s out there somewhere. The kitchen. And there should be some coffee in it.” He looked down at his nakedness and suddenly became a coy ingénue. “Would you excuse me while I slip into something more comfortable?” He minced off and up the stairs.

I found the kitchen. It was a mess, but I managed to prepare coffee. I put everything onto a tray and carried it out to the sitting room.

Barrymore sat there, beautifully dressed in slacks, slippers, a smoking jacket, and an ascot, smoking and reading the morning newspaper. He seemed surprised to see me, but said, “Oh, coffee. Fine. Put it right down there.”

I felt as though I were about to be tipped.

I poured coffee for both of us and began. “This is a great honor, Mr. Barrymore.”

“I should think it would be. Are you the director of this thing we’re supposed to talk about?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Oh, I thought you might be his grandson working for him as his messenger boy.”

“No,” I said. “I’d like to direct this picture. That is, if you’ll star in it. If you’ll play the lead.”

“The
lead
?” he asked, sharply. I could almost see his ears prick up. “May I ask how many
other
leads there are in this opera?”

“None,” I said.

“None?” he echoed, except that in his pronunciation, the word had three syllables.

“No, Mr. Barrymore. This picture is about Gregory Vance—that’s your part—it’s the starring role and there are no other starring roles.”

He looked at me long and hard and did not speak again until he had finished his cup of coffee. The he lit a fresh cigarette, regarded me once more, and ordered, “Tell me the story.”

I did so.

I was, by that time, beginning to be fairly experienced in the business of telling (selling) stories to various players. Sometimes I told them well; more often, poorly. On this afternoon with Barrymore, I surpassed myself and realized about one third of the way through that what it takes to sell a story well is a sympathetic listener. There has never been a listener to equal John Barrymore. He took it all in moment by moment and somehow I felt him helping me.

I reached the penultimate point. Gregory Vance leaving the polling place, being greeted by the crowd, and making his speech on the meaning of democracy, ending with the lines by John Greenleaf Whittier:

—Today, of all the weary year,

A king of men am I.

Today alike are great and small,

The nameless and the known,

My palace is the people’s hall,

The ballot-box, my throne!

Following this, I delivered the electrifying surprise finish. Barrymore roared with laughter and approval.

“When do we start?” he said.

The next few days were spent in the excitement of confident preparation. Everything seemed to be falling into place. I thought it time to invite Barrymore to dinner. I phoned him. Would he and Mrs. Barrymore have dinner with me on Friday at Chasen’s at eight?

“I’ll be there,” he said. “Let’s leave her out of it, unless you’d like to buy her from me.”

I pretended I had not heard this last.

“By the way,” I said, “we think we have a final script now. Shall I send a copy along?”

“Only if you’re sure it is final,” he said.

“Well, in that case, maybe we’d better wait a few days.”

That Friday night, as I walked into Chasen’s, at ten minutes to eight, I was simultaneously delighted and dismayed.

Sitting at the bar waiting for me was John Barrymore, not only punctual but more than punctual. What did they mean, unreliable? Irresponsible. There he was, beautifully gotten up and waving to me affably.

At the same moment, I saw Pandro S. Berman sitting with a party of friends in one of the booths. I would have preferred my first public meeting with Barrymore to have gone unscrutinized, but there it was.

I joined Barrymore at the bar. We shook hands.

“Good evening, Mr. Barrymore. I hope I’m not late.”

“No, no,” he said. “I’m early. I’m always early. I find it affords an opportunity for an extra ration of giggle water.”

I shuddered. I hoped he did not notice.

He finished his martini, put it down on the bar, and tapped the rim of the glass with a long, graceful finger. The bartender made him a second martini. I ordered Scotch. By the time I had finished my drink, Barrymore had had another. That made three, I calculated. Three that I knew of. I prayed that Pan Berman would soon leave. I looked over to his table. He was just starting his soup.

“Well,” I said, “shall we order, Mr. Barrymore?”

“In a minute,” he said.

I signaled the headwaiter, who recognized my desperation and brought menus at once.

“What is this?” asked Barrymore. “A quick-lunch counter? I thought it was a restaurant.” He waved the menus away and tapped the rim of his glass again. “You order for me. Anything out of season.”

I ordered swiftly and unimaginatively. Shrimp cocktail. Sirloin steak, baked potato, string beans. Salad. Ice cream. The headwaiter left.

Barrymore drank slowly and steadily but it seemed to have no effect on him. He began to discuss the picture, not so much in terms of the story but in terms of his own role. He was brilliant—deep, thorough, and entirely original. The headwaiter came over to inform us that our first course was on the table. I slid off the barstool and started off.

“No, no,” said Barrymore. “Not yet. Let’s have a drink.” He looked at the headwaiter and added, “Want to join us?”

The headwaiter went off again.

Pandro Berman was looking at us. I hoped he could not hear.

“Let’s eat,” I said. “I’m starving.”

“Not yet,” he said and tapped that damned glass again.

I appealed to him. “Please, Mr. Barrymore?”

“I’m sorry,” he said to me with the greatest dignity, “but I simply cannot eat on an
empty stomach
!”

I sat by while he consumed yet another set of martinis.

At dinner he ate, discussed the food, talked of other dinners in different places and times.

Then for a time, he was silent and conveyed somehow that he preferred no conversation.

I looked at that great, expressive face with its actor’s skin, bearing the patina of thousands of applications of makeup. I thought about the life and work of this larger-than-life personality. His father, the brilliant British player, Maurice Blythe, who upon emigrating “out to the States” decided to give himself a name more likely to impress the natives and chose Maurice Barrymore. In time, he married the daughter of a great American acting family, Georgiana Drew, whose mother was the celebrated Mrs. Drew of the Arch Street Theatre, Philadelphia. Their children were Lionel, Ethel, and John, in that order. The outstanding American leading man of his day, John Drew was, of course, their uncle.

Could this weary man, slowly chomping on his steak, be the same one who, as a dashing young blade, played
Are You a Mason?, An American Citizen, The Man from
Mexico,
and
The Dictator
?

He had made hit after hit in farce after farce. Then, through the encouragement of Edward Sheldon and later Arthur Hopkins, he began to take himself more seriously. He played in John Galsworthy’s
Justice
, and, with his brother Lionel, in
Peter Ibbetson
and the memorable production of
The Jest
. He made history with his
Hamlet
, playing it for a hundred and one performances on Broadway.

John Barrymore looked up from his food and winked at me. The same wink he had used in the hilarious
Here Comes the Bride.
I began to think of his early silent films.
Raffles, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Beau Brummell, The Sea Beast
(a version of
Moby Dick
),
Don Juan
. His first talkie was
Show of Shows
, a revue in which he appeared in a scene from Shakespeare’s
Richard III
. Then, in dazzling succession,
The Man from Blankley’s
(the funniest picture I had ever seen),
Moby Dick, Svengali, A
Bill of Divorcement, Arsene Lupin, Grand Hotel, Rasputin and the Empress
(with Ethel and Lionel),
Dinner at Eight, Reunion in Vienna
, and so on and so on. Four marriages and perhaps four thousand affairs. No wonder he looked weary. In his fifty-seven years he had lived several lives.

He ordered brandy. My worries burgeoned but now, well fed and happily oiled, he began to talk about our project again and captivated me completely.

As we parted, he said, “Thanks. It was a splendid repast. I’ve enjoyed it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barrymore,” I said.

“Mr. Barrymore!” he snorted, giving that well-known single syllable laugh of his, and was driven off by his chauffeur.