My Autobiography (60 page)

‘With the power of the skies in Nazi hands all opposition to the Nazi order will be blasted out of existence. Human progress will be lost. There will be no minority rights, no workers’ rights, no citizens’ rights. All that will be blasted too. Once we listen to the appeasers and make peace with a victorious Hitler his brutal order will control the earth.

WE CAN TAKE A CHANCE

‘Watch out for the appeasers who always crop up after a disaster. ‘If we are on the watch and if we keep up our morale we have nothing
to fear. Remember, morale saved England. And if we keep our morale, victory is assured.

‘Hitler has taken many chances. His biggest one is the Russian campaign. God help him if he’s not able to break through the Caucasus this summer. God help him if he has to go through another winter around Moscow. His chance is a precarious one, but he’s taken it. If Hitler can take chances, can’t we? Give us action. Give us more bombs over Berlin. Give us those Glenn Martin seaplanes to help our transport problem. Above all, give us a second front now.

VICTORY IN THE SPRING

‘Let us aim for victory in the spring. You in the factories, you in the fields, you in uniforms, you citizens of the world, let us work and fight towards that end. You, official Washington, and you, official London, let us make this our aim – victory in the spring.

If we hold this thought, work with this thought, live with this thought, it will generate a spirit that will increase our energy and quicken our drive.

‘Let us strive for the impossible. Remember the great achievements throughout history have been the conquest of what seemed the impossible.’

*

For the time being my days were halcyon. But it was the calm before the storm. The circumstances that led up to this weird story started innocently enough. It was Sunday and after a game of tennis Tim Durant told me that he had a date with a young woman named Joan Barry, a friend of Paul Getty; she had just returned from Mexico City with a letter of introduction from a friend, A. C. Blumenthal. Tim said he was dining with her and another girl, and asked if I would like to come along as Miss Barry had expressed a desire to meet me. We met at Perino’s restaurant. The lady in question was pleasant and cheerful enough and the four of us spent an innocuous evening together and I never thought of seeing her again.

But the following Sunday, which was open house for tennis, Tim brought her along. On Sunday evenings I always let the personnel go off and dined out, so I invited Tim and Miss Barry to dine at Romanoff’s and after dinner I drove them home. The following morning, however, she called up and wanted to know if I would take her to lunch. I told her I was attending
an auction in Santa Barbara, ninety miles away, and that if she had nothing else to do she could come along and we would lunch there and go to the auction later. After buying one or two things I drove her back to Los Angeles.

Miss Barry was a big handsome woman of twenty-two, well built, with upper regional domes immensely expansive and made alluring by an extremely low décolleté summer dress, which, on the drive home, evoked my libidinous curiosity. It was then she told me that she had quarrelled with Paul Getty and that she was returning to New York the following night, but that if I wanted her to stay she would do so and give up everything. I reared away in suspicion, for there was something too sudden, too odd, about the proposal. I told her quite frankly not to remain on my account, and with that I dropped her off outside her apartment and bade her good-bye.

To my surprise she phoned up a day or so later to say she was staying over in any case, and would I see her that evening. Persistence is the road to accomplishment. Thus she achieved her object and I began to see her often. The days that followed were not unpleasant, but there was something queer and not quite normal about them. Without telephoning she would suddenly show up late at night at my house. This was somewhat disturbing. Then for a week I would not hear from her. Although I would not admit it, I was beginning to feel uneasy. However, when she did show up she was disarmingly pleasant, so my doubts and apprehensions were allayed.

One day I lunched with Sir Cedric Hardwicke and Sinclair Lewis, who, during conversation, commented on the play
Shadow and Substance
, which Cedric had starred in. Lewis called the character of Bridget a modern Joan of Arc, and thought the play would make an excellent film. I became interested and told Cedric I would like to read it. He sent me a copy.

A night or so later Joan Barry came to dinner, and I talked about the play. She said she had seen it and would like to play the girl. I did not take her seriously, but that evening she read the part to me, and to my astonishment gave an excellent reading, even to the Irish accent. I was so enthused that I took a silent test of her to see if she were photogenic, and it turned out satisfactorily.

Now all my qualms about her oddities vanished. In fact, I thought I had made a discovery. I sent her to Max Reinhardt’s school of acting as she needed technical training, and since she was busy there, I seldom saw her. I had not yet bought the rights of the play, so I got in touch with Cedric, and through his kind help the film rights were purchased for $25,000. I then put Barry under contract at a salary of $250 a week.

There are mystics who believe that our existence is a half-dream and that it is difficult to know where the dream ends and reality begins. Thus it was with me. For months I was absorbed in writing the script. Then strange and eerie things began to happen. Barry began driving up in her Cadillac at all hours of the night, very drunk, and I would have to awaken my chauffeur to drive her home. One time she smashed up her car in the driveway and had to leave it there. As her name was now associated with the Chaplin Studios, I became worried that if she were picked up by the police for drunken driving, it would create a scandal. Finally she got so obstreperous that when she called in the small hours I would neither answer the phone nor open the door to her. Then she began smashing in the windows. Overnight, my existence became a nightmare.

Then I discovered that she had been absent from the Reinhardt school for several weeks. When I confronted her about it, she suddenly announced that she did not want to be an actress, and that if I would pay her and her mother’s fare back to New York and give her $5,000, she would tear up the contract. At this juncture I happily agreed to her demands, paid their fare and the $5,000, and was glad to be rid of her.

Although the Barry enterprise had caved in, I was not sorry that I had bought
Shadow and Substance
, for I had almost completed the script and thought it a very good one.

Since the San Francisco meeting months had elapsed and the Russians were still calling for a second front. Now another request came from New York, asking me to speak at Carnegie Hall. I debated with myself whether I should go or not, and concluded that I had started the ball rolling and that was enough. But a day later when Jack Warner was playing on my tennis court, I spoke about it and he shook his head cryptically. ‘Don’t go,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ I asked.

He would not say, but added: ‘Let me tip you off, don’t go.’

This had the opposite effect. It was a challenge. At that moment it needed very little eloquence to ignite the sympathy of all America for a second front, for Russia had just won the battle of Stalingrad. So I went, taking Tim Durant with me.

At the Carnegie Hall meeting, Pearl Buck, Rockwell Kent, Orson Welles and many other illustrious people were present. Orson Welles was to speak on that occasion, but as the opposition storm grew, he charted his craft very close to shore, I thought. He spoke before me, stating that he saw no reason why he should not speak, since it was for Russian war relief and the Russians were our allies. His speech was a meal without salt. This made me all the more determined to speak my mind. In my opening words I referred to a columnist who had accused me of wanting to run the war, and I said: ‘From the raging fits he is having I should say he is jealous, and wants to run the war himself. The trouble is we disagree on strategy – he doesn’t believe in a second front at this moment, but I do!’

‘The meeting was a love feast between Charlie and the audience,’ wrote the
Daily Worker
. But my emotions were mixed; although gratified, I was apprehensive.

After leaving Carnegie Hall, Tim and I had supper with Constance Collier, who had been present at the meeting. She was very moved by it – and Constance was anything but a leftist. When we reached the Waldorf-Astoria there were several telephone messages from Joan Barry. My flesh began to creep. I tore them up immediately, but the telephone rang again. I wanted to instruct the operator not to put any more calls through, but Tim said: ‘You’d better not, you’d better answer or she’ll be up here and create a scene.’

The next time the phone rang I answered. She seemed quite normal and pleasant and said she just wanted to come up and say hello. So I acquiesced and told Tim not to leave me alone with her. That evening she told me that since her arrival in New York she had been living at the Pierre Hotel, owned by Paul Getty. I lied and told her that we were staying for one or two days and that I would try and fit in a lunch somewhere. She stayed half an hour and asked if I would see her home to
the Pierre Hotel. When she insisted that I see her to the elevator, I became suspicious. However, I left her at the entrance and that was the first and last time I saw her in New York.

As a result of my second front speeches my social life in New York gradually receded. No more was I invited to spend weekends in opulent country houses. After the Carnegie Hall meeting Clifton Fadiman, writer and essayist, who was working for Columbia Broadcasting System, called at the hotel to ask me if I would care to broadcast internationally. They would give me seven minutes to say what I liked. I was tempted to accept until he mentioned that it would be on the Kate Smith programme. Then I refused on the grounds that my convictions about the war effort would end in an advertisement for Jello. I meant no offence to Fadiman. He is a gentle soul, gifted and cultured, and at the mention of Jello he actually blushed. I was immediately sorry and could have swallowed my words.

After that, a considerable number of letters came with offers of all kinds. One from the prominent ‘America Firster’, Gerald K. Smith, who wanted to debate with me on that subject. Other offers were to lecture, other to speak on behalf of the second front.

Now I felt I was caught up in a political avalanche. I began to question my motives: how much was I stimulated by the actor in me and the reaction of a live audience? Would I have entered this quixotic adventure if I had not made an anti-Nazi film? Was it a sublimation of all my irritations and reactions against the talking pictures? I suppose all these elements were involved, but the strongest one was my hate and contempt for the Nazi system.

B
ACK
in Beverly Hills, while I was working on
Shadow and Substance
again, Orson Welles came to the house with a proposition, explaining that he thought of doing a series of documentaries, stories of real life, one to be on the celebrated French murderer, Bluebeard Landru, which he thought would be a wonderful dramatic part for me.

I was interested, as it would be a change from comedy, and a change from writing, acting and directing myself as I had done for years. So I asked to see the script.

‘Oh, it isn’t written yet,’ he said, ‘but all that’s necessary is to take the records of the Landru trial and you’ll have it.’ He added: ‘I thought you might like to help with the writing of it.’

I was disappointed. ‘If I have to help in writing the script, I’m not interested,’ I said, and the matter ended there.

But a day or so later it struck me that the idea of Landru would make a wonderful comedy. So I telephoned Welles. ‘Look, your proposed documentary about Landru has given me an idea for a comedy. It has nothing to do with Landru, but to clear everything I am willing to pay you five thousand dollars, only because your proposition made me think of it.’

He hemmed and hawed.

‘Listen, Landru is not an original story with you or anyone else,’ I said; ‘it is in the public domain.’

He thought a moment, then told me to get in touch with his manager. Thus a deal was negotiated: Welles to get $5,000 and I to be clear of all obligations. Welles accepted but asked for one provision: that after seeing the picture he could have the privilege of screen credit, to read: ‘Idea suggested by Orson Welles.’ I thought little of the request because of my enthusiasm. Had I
foreseen the kudos he eventually tried to make out of it, I would have insisted on no screen credit at all.

Now I put aside
Shadow and Substance
and began writing
Monsieur Verdoux
. I had been working three months on it when Joan Barry blew into Beverly Hills, my butler informing me that she had telephoned. I said that under no circumstances would I see her.

The events that followed were not only sordid but sinister. Because I would not see her, she broke into the house, smashed windows, threatened my life and demanded money. Eventually I was compelled to call the police, something I should have done long before, in spite of it being a gala opportunity for the Press. But the police were most cooperative. They said they would withhold the charges of vagrancy against her if I were willing to pay her fare back to New York. So again I paid her fare, and the police warned her that if she were seen in the vicinity of Beverly Hills again she would be charged with vagrancy.

*

It seems a pity that after this sordid episode the happiest event of my life should follow contiguously, one might say. But shadows disappear into night and out of the dawn the sun rises.

One day, a few months later, Miss Mina Wallace, a Hollywood film agent, telephoned to say that she had a client just out from New York who, she thought, might fit the part of Bridget, the principal lead in
Shadow and Substance
. Having had trouble with
Monsieur Verdoux
because it was a difficult story to motivate, I took Miss Wallace’s message as a lucky omen for reconsidering the filming of
Shadow and Substance
, and for temporarily putting aside
Monsieur Verdoux
. So I telephoned to find out more particulars. Miss Wallace said that her client was Oona O’Neill, daughter of the famous playwright Eugene O’Neill. I had never met Eugene O’Neill, but from the solemnity of his plays I had rather a sepia impression of what the daughter would be like. So I asked Miss Wallace laconically: ‘Can she act?’