Lillian Gish at 90, still making movies
By FREDERICK M. WINSHIP, UPI Senior Editor
DEC. 14, 1986
NEW YORK — Lillian Gish has just made her 105th motion picture and she is looking forward to her 106th.
‘I’ve been working for 84 years. I don’t intend to stop now,’ says Gish, ethereal and almost prim in a pearl-buttoned rose Ultrasuede dress as she serves tea in the Manhattan apartment where she has lived alone for decades. She admits to 90 years, although two early theater reference books give her birthdate as 1893.
She is the only living actress whose career in film and television has almost spanned the history of both 20th century mediums.
‘I created heroines that were the essence of virginity, purity and goodness, with nobility of mind, heart, soul and body,’ says Gish, capturing her career in a single sentence.
She still exudes a sweet femininity. She wears Mary Jane strapped shoes. Her hair, ash blond turned mostly white, is pulled into a loose crown, a style seen in photographs of her in the ’20s.
‘I never go to the beauty shop or the hairdresser,’ she says proudly, touching her hand to a face that displays a fine white complexion. ‘And I never use much makeup when I’m not acting.’
She has sidestepped the horror-movie trap of the ’60s and ’70s that exploited other aging film heroines, including current co-star Bette Davis.
Gish’s new picture, due for release late next year, is a wry comedy with the working title ‘The Whales of August.’ It was filmed this fall on a small island in Casco Bay, Maine. Gish and Davis co-star as widowed sisters who have lived together for 30 years and are facing an emotional crisis.
‘We had only met briefly in the past and we had never worked together,’ said Gish. ‘In spite of this, I think we got along very nicely.’ Gish, of course, is very much Davis’s senior in the film world and can afford to be generous. —
Gish got her start on stage, in a 1902 road melodrama in the Midwest, but it was in 1912 that she made her first short film for David Wark (D.W.) Griffith, to whom she was introduced by girlhood friend Gladys Smith, soon to become Mary Pickford.
Griffith, head of Biograph Films, paid her $50 a week and became the lodestar of her actress life.
There is a lingering legend that the relationship with Griffith, who died in obscurity in 1948, was far more than that of master filmmaker to star. Gish steadfastly maintains it did not go beyond close friend and mentor, and she has spent the decades since his death in a successful effort to restore his reputation as ‘Father of Film.’
She even titled her 1969 autobiography ‘The Movies, Mr. Griffith, and Me.’
From a book-laden coffee table, she produces a copy of the autobiography translated into Burmese, one of the dozen languages in which it was published. There is also a watercolor sketch sent by a fan that incorporates the U.S. postage stamp portraying Griffith. The stamp represents five years of campaigning by Gish.
‘Griffith was a man of warmth and good spirits,’ she said. ‘But there was an air about him that forebade intimacy. In all the years I worked with him, I never called him anything but Mr. Griffith, and he called me Miss Lillian or Miss Gish, until about 1939 when we went on a first-name basis.’
Miss Lillian’s eyes are still large in a small, plump, pensive face that could express supplication in a way that became a trademark. Griffith recorded his impression of Gish on their first meeting as that of ‘exquisite, ethereal beauty.’
Work in silent and later talking pictures consumed Gish’s energies for nearly 20 years of her early career, and when she returned to film in 1943 from a long stage interlude, she never again abandoned the screen.
Her 104th film was ‘Sweet Liberty,’ an Alan Alda comedy about the making of a movie that takes liberties with the American Revolution. It was less than a box-office smash.
Gish played Alda’s cantankerous but lovably dotty old mother.
‘I thought they had mistaken me for my sister, Dorothy, who could be a very funny, whereas they always said I was about as funny as a baby’s open grave,’ she says, pouring tea into pink-and-white English china.
‘So I said ‘no’ four or five times, and then they sent Alan Alda to see me. Well, that did it.’ she says, lifting both hands in enthusiasm. The legendary, sweet Gish smile lights a face that is still girlish and without wrinkles.
She is delighted to have added Alda to her list of leading men — a list that started with Walter Huston, father of John and grandfather of Anjelica.
Gish made her acting debut, as Baby Lillian, with Huston in ‘The Convict’s Stripes’ in a barn-turned-theater in Rising Sun, Ohio. She was 5 at the time and the daughter of a struggling actress.
Then came Lionel Barrymore, Richard Barthelmess, Ronald Colman, John Gilbert, Conrad Nagel, Roland Young, Gregory Peck, Joseph Cotton, Charles Boyer, Robert Mitchum, Burt Lancaster, Fred MacMurray, Richard Burton, John Gielgud, Sir Alec Guinness, Robert Preston and George C. Scott.
Proximity to such male glamor was not lost on her.
She says brightly, ‘Did you know that it was because of me that they changed the laws of New York so that a woman cannot be sued for breach of promise?’
Charges were brought against her by onetime manager and financial adviser Charles Duell, who wanted to marry her when she left Griffith in 1923 to star in ‘The White Sister’ for Inspiration-Metro Pictures.
Griffith could no longer afford the $1,000 a week that Gish could command, and Inspiration could. It was the first time she had ever earned a lot of money making films.
‘When Duell found out how much money I could make, he decided to marry me,’ she said, her voice echoing old indignation. ‘He wanted my share of the profits from ‘The White Sister.’ I had to get legal help, and he tried to ruin me in the press.
‘I was smuggled on board a train going to California to avoid papers he tried to serve on me. It was terrible, out of an old melodrama.’
She still likes to recall that she received a ‘most discreet proposal of marriage’ from John Gilbert, Hollywood’s ‘Great Lover,’ when he played Roldolphe to her Mimi in the silent version of ‘La Boheme.’
‘I fell in love for the first time at 9,’ she says ‘I was always in and out of love. More men wanted to marry me. But marriage is a 24 hour-a-day job and I have always been much too busy to be a good wife. My films are my children.’
She was also reluctant to part with her sister Dorothy and their mother. Theater critic George Jean Nathan, a longtime escort, proposed to her numerous times in the 1920s before marrying another actress, Julie Haydon. Gish still believes Nathan resented her family closeness.
‘I never met anyone I liked better than mother or sister,’ she said. ‘I was really never happy away from them. I certainly wasn’t going to marry anyone who would take me away from my mother if I could help it.’ —
Mother, born Mary Robinson McConnell, was estranged from Gish’s father, James Leigh Gish, when Lillian and Dorothy were small. He was an Ohio confectioner, ever on the move to find ‘fresher horizons,’ as Gish puts it. Finally, Mary Gish moved herself and her children to New York where she found work as an ingenue in Proctor’s Stock Company for $15 a week.
‘I grew up with love, not money,’ said Gish. ‘Mother gave us security. Father insecurity. As I grew older, I wondered which was more valuable to my growth. Insecurity was a great gift. I think it taught me to work as if everything depended on me and to pray as if everything depended on God.
Gish became an actress when a friend of her mother’s got a job in a touring company that needed a little girl. Her salary was $10 a week. Not long after, Dorothy, two years younger, was taken on the road by another friend to play Little Willie in ‘East Lynne.’
‘Life on the road was incredibly hard for a child,’ Gish recalls. ‘There were oatmeal meals, hard benches and floors to sleep on, uncomfortable trains, and being stranded far from New York and friends. It was difficult to maintain friends. I never learned how to play with other children.
‘I never had an acting lesson. I was simply told, ‘Go out there and speak loud and clear or we’ll get another little girl.’ It was also drilled into us that when an audience pays to see a performance, it is entitled to the best performance you can give. Nothing in your personal life must interfere, neither fatigue, illness, nor anxiety.
‘There were no labor laws then to protect children in the theater from long hours and bad conditions and lack of schooling, and we were always on the run from the Gerry Society that did seek to protect children. I once outwitted a judge at 10 years old by wearing high heels, a long dress and hair done in a knot so I would appear the legal age of 16.’ —
It is the films made with Griffith that gave Gish lasting fame, recognized by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences with a Special Oscar Award in 1971, and by the American Film Institute with a Life Achievement Award in 1984.
Griffith had made 400 short films before Gish and Dorothy went to work for him, but it was his first full-length film, ‘The Birth of a Nation,’ that won him and Lillian Gish national attention. In his greatest achievement, ‘Intolerance,’ she played a mother rocking a cradle that linked the four disparate sections of the film into historical perspective.
She is best remembered in such unblushing Griffith melodramas as ‘Broken Blossoms,’ ‘Way Down East,’ and ‘Orphans of the Storm,’ all achieved, she claims, ‘without ever seeing a script because Griffith only had an outline and it was up to you to find the character in repeated rehearsals.’
‘Look at my right hand,’ she said, raising it to show several misshapen fingers. ‘Those fingers are crooked because I froze my hand while being photographed on an ice floe on a river in Vermont about 20 times a day for three weeks in ‘Way Down East.’ We lost several members of our crew from pneumonia as a result of exposure.’
Later, she said, Hollywood gave up rehearsing scenes and expected actors who may not have met until that morning to be playing together with passion in the afternoon.
‘It’s a wonder films are as good as they are today using that technique. I always tried to find what the character is like and be that character, so rehearsals helped. When you get into a character, you do things you’d never do on your own.’
Gish may be best known to the present generation for TV appearances that began in 1949, in the Philco Playhouse production of ‘The Late Christopher Bean,’ and continued through ‘The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,’ a PBS miniseries aired in February and March of this year in which she played Mrs. Loftus.
Her most famous TV role was that of Carrie Watts in Horton Foote’s ‘The Trip to Bountiful,’ an original television drama produced by the Philco Playhouse in 1953. This is the same role that won Geraldine Page a Best Actress Oscar for the film version in March. Gish also played the role on Broadway when ‘Bountiful’ was transformed into a stage play.
‘It was the first television drama the Museum of Modern Art requested for its archives,’ she said. ‘Of course, Horton Foote deserves a lot of credit, and Geraldine gave it to him, but I want to put a word in for Fred Coe, the Philco Playhouse producer, who was really ‘The Father of Television,’ just as Griffith was ‘The Father of Film.”
Gish says she almost never goes to see films today, but does watch some television, especially the news.
‘Movies hurt my pride,’ she says. ‘They used to have love, sentiment, and tenderness, but in today’s lovemaking, they just swallow each other’s tonsils. Television had good drama in the early days. But now everything is too busy, too nervous, too unsure of itself.’
Gish prefers reading, especially history, literature, drama, art and religion (she is a devout Episcopalian).
‘Lillian would be equally at home with the Beatles and with the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ commented Peter Glenville, who directed her in ‘The Comedians,’ a 1967 film about the Duvalier dictatorship in Haiti. ‘And they would equally appreciate her.’
Because she was on the road for most of her childhood, she did not attend regular schools, except for a term spent at an Ursuline academy in Missouri while her actress mother made a brief try at running a candy store in East St. Louis.
‘I used to feel inferior around my cousins, most of whom had gone to college, and I thought they knew a great deal more than I did,’ she says. ‘Now I realize that although I never went to school or received a diploma, I have kept right on learning. I never wanted to own anything but books and I have always been curious and had the energy to pursue my interests.’
She never really had a home either, spending most of her adult life in hotels until she and her mother took apartments in 1929 just off Sutton Place on New York’s smart East Side, a neighborhood in which she still lives.
Sitting on a graceful French canape couch and pointing to the feminine Louis XV-style chairs and tables and the Venetian mirrors in her green-and-gold drawing room, she said, ‘These are all mother’s things. You see, I never really wanted a home.’ —
Gish stands 5-feet-6, erect, and is so healthy she has never had a regular doctor and hasn’t had a headache in 50 years. In fact, she is wary of doctors, observing that ‘My mother’s operation was a great success and she was dead two weeks later. I think if I ever had to go to the hospital, I’d die in the ambulance.’
Gish maintains her girlhood weight of 112 pounds and gives credit for her trimness to her ‘upside down board,’ a contraption given to her by a older male admirer years ago.
‘Older men have always helped me,’ she said. ‘They have given me valuable advice on my health. I find the human race is so dear that when you give them pleasure they want to help you.’
Gish keeps her tilt board by the fireplace just under two Grandma Moses paintings, one given her by Grandma herself when Gish portrayed her on television and the other a gift of Helen Hayes, Gish’s best friend. Gish is godmother to Hayes’ actor son, James MacArthur.
‘I use the board for 30 minutes every morning,’ she said. ‘It puts your feet above your head. Very good for the whole system. Some years ago I took it down the street to Hammacher Schlemmer’s store, which carries all sorts of health machines and they copied it and still stock it.
‘The human body is a miracle. I wish we taught children growing up how to treat it as one. The body is the only house you get to live in and you have to take care of it. —
‘I have never had a special diet, having always eaten what I want to eat. Anyway, it would have made it difficult for other people if I had been on a diet. I love oysters and fish. I don’t eat beef anymore, however. It makes me think of how cows are slaughtered.’
Gish makes her own breakfast and skips lunch. Her friend-secretary-factotum of 18 years, Jim Frasher, a gifted cook, makes her dinner before he leaves for the day. Frasher, a former stage manager, helps her with correspondence, which averages 40 letters a day.
Her unoccupied maid’s room has been turned into a little gallery of mementoes, ranging from caricatures of Gish by theatrical cartoonist Al Hirschfeld to a Blackglama ad showing Gish, ‘a legend,’ swathed in mink.
Oil portraits, some quite large, are scattered throughout the apartment. There is one of Gish’s mother in the entrance hall and one of Zachary Taylor, 12th president of the United States and a cousin of her mother’s, in the dining room. A costume portrait of Dorothy, who died in 1968, dominates the living room.
In her book, Gish said Dorothy, whose nickname was ‘Baby,’ never really grew up, had difficulty making decisions, was untidy and disorganized. Gish, a neat, organized person, could not bear to share an apartment with her. Dorothy married James Rennie, one of her leading men in films. They were divorced and Dorothy never remarried.
The precocious moppets of melodrama had parallel careers, starting together with Griffith on location in the Delaware Water Gap, then moving to California in 1913 because he preferred its warm climate and the longer hours of sunlight for shooting.
By 1914 Lillian was pronounced ‘The Most Popular Actress Before the American Public,’ a pinnacle Dorothy would never achieve, although she was a big star in her own right and had a creditable stage career in the 1930s and 1940s. But as drama critic Brooks Atkinson was to point out, they were always ‘the Gish sisters’ in the public mind, ‘as much of American folklore as Jack Dempsey, Jimmy Durante or Harry S Truman.’
The Gishes made the transition from silent to talking pictures without difficulty, probably due to their stage experience when they were young. Lillian’s voice is still strong and vibrant.
‘It helped to have been in the theater, and I also had lessons with Victor Maurel, the great French opera singer who lived in Hollywood. He taught me to speak from the diaphram to the mouth without using the throat. Very useful if you have a cold!’
Lillian and Dorothy last appeared together in a summer theater tour of Enid Bagnold’s play, ‘The Chalk Garden,’ in 1956.
‘We were much closer than most sisters,’ said Gish. ‘We were always concerned with each other’s welfare. Even when our work separated us, there was a kind of extra-sensory perception that bound us together. I like to think of the first words Hal Holbrook uttered in ‘I Never Sang for My Father,’ the Broadway play I was in just before Dorothy died – ‘Death ends a life, but not a relationship.” —
Gish has never had time to be lonely.
She has been in demand as an actress and an adornment for grand occasions marking anniversaries in the film and theater and honoring other stars. One of the most thrilling was the Metropolitan Opera’s centennial gala in 1983 when she appeared as the dreaming girl in ‘The Specter of the Rose’ with Paris Opera Ballet star Patrick Dupond.
‘The following year, they did a ballet in Paris based on my career and Dorothy’s,’ Gish said. ‘Can you imagine?’
‘Right now I’m waiting for the ‘Lillian Gish’ rose to have its first flowering, so they can officially call it that,’ she said. ‘It’s a hybrid, developed in the Midwest, and I’m very excited about it.’
This year she was guest of honor at the opening of a Smithsonian Institution exhibit titled ‘Hollywood: Legend and Reality,’ in Washington, D.C.
Last summer, the Museum of the City of New York’s Theater Collection conferred its annual Star Award on Gish, and she went to Vancouver, Canada, for a screening at Expo ’86 of a documentary that French film star Jeanne Moreau made of her life. Moreau filmed Gish at home, on the streets of New York and at the upstate horse farm of restaurateur Jerry Brody, nuzzling the racehorse named for her.
”Lillian Gish’ has won two races at Aqueduct,’ Gish said proudly.
If Gish had her life to live over, she would like to have done more Shakespeare — certainly Juliet, which eluded her when she was young – because she has ‘always been a snob about my playwrights.
‘I played Ophelia to John Gielgud’s Hamlet on Broadway in 1936, a most remarkable experience. He didn’t play Hamlet. He WAS Hamlet. It was the only play I was ever in when stage hands stood in the wings to watch.’
When she did appear in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ in a 1965 American Shakespeare Festival production in Stratford, Conn., she played Juliet’s elderly nurse.
‘Most people do not connect me with Tennessee Williams, but he actually wrote the prototype of the Blanche DuBois role for me in a one-acter called ‘Portrait of a Madonna,’ which evolved in 1947 into the full-length ‘A Streetcar Named Desire,” Gish said.
Another aspect of Gish’s career that is rarely remembered is the major role she took in various aspects of Griffith’s productions, including film editing.
‘He seemed to have faith in my judgment,’ she said. ‘I’d go to the darkroom to pick up the rushes, then I’d fight to have more of me cut out of the film. I always thought an audience should be left wanting more, rather than being surfeited with my image.
‘In those days we worked closely with one another. Now the men who work on developing film are far away from the studios. Everything is different. What was once warm and personal is now mechanical. Film acting became largely a matter of doing what you are told and collecting your salary.
‘When I worked for Griffith, we worked 12 hours a day, seven days a week because we liked it. There was no place as interesting as the studio.’
If Gish could wish for anything in the world and have it come true, what would it be?
Without hesitation she responds: ‘To follow spring around the world.’
Photoplay, April 1929
Out in the heart of the Hollywoods, beset by the dollar-snorting dragons of filmland, a blonde girl is fighting alone for her artistic honor. She is one of the most gallant spirits in the history of pictures.
She had more influence for good upon the dancing daguerreotypes than any dozen shinier stars.
And she is probably the most misunderstood and misrepresented public doll in the entire photoplay world.
Her name is Lillian Gish.
She has been for years the victim of as false a tradition as ever scuttled a stellar ship. Yet she is probably, at this moment, on the threshold of her greatest achievement in the film world. I whack the typewriter to paint the lights and shadows of the real Lillian Gish – not the Ice-Water Princess, The Mauled Anemone. The Slim White Virgin that the movie-going public thinks it knows.
As this is written she is on the gold coast, stubbornly and bravely fighting for the integrity of her next picture, on which she has focused her heart. At the expiration of her late Metro-Goldwyn contract Lillian cast about for the next move to keep her fame and fortune bright under the public sun.
Half-gods never satisfied La Gish, the girl who grew up under the wand of Ole Massa Griffith. Whole deities or none.
How about the most noted stage director in the world?
On her own Lillian went to Germany, and bearded Dr. Max Reinhardt, producer of “The Miracle”, in his own castle. On her own, she persuaded him to come to America and make “The Miracle Woman” with and for her. On her own, after months of preparation abroad, she and Reinhardt arrived in Hollywood – only to have the great man almost ignored, the prized and prepared story ditched and another handed them. But Lillian carries on – fights the good fight alone.
That’s the sort of mettle the frail and wistful Lillian is made of.
There are two Lillian Gishes.
The first is the one the public think it knows.
That Lillian – the false – is a frigid, bloodless creature, aloof, and about as spry and lively as a frozen cod-fish.
This is the old Gish curse – the Lillian tradition.
Because she has never marched her emotional life before the eyes of the world, or had it paraded by yellow newspapers, she has been denounced as inhumanly chill.
Because she has steamed up the interest of brilliant figures in the literary world, she is thought to be merely a glinting Mind, topped by yellow hair and held up by a couple of clothes poles.
Because she has never burned up Paris, bathed in a hotel fountain, bought a ten-carat diamond and divorced seven idiotic brokers she has been passed up for pretty numbskulls not fit to wind her wrist watch.
The whole tragic-comic story of the cruel, untrue Gish tradition was summed up by a Princeton boy a few years ago.
Referring to a non-petting, non-skid, four wheel braked damsel of his acquaintance, he said “She’s safe as a Gish!”
A smart crack, and it passed into common use.
That’s what the common world and it’s sweetie thought of Lillian Gish!
Well, what’s the real Lillian Gish?
Why, one of the most human, most charming and loveliest girls it is possible to meet in this most improbable of all worlds!
Is she just a great white Mind?
SHE has a dashing, vivid, ever-active sense of humor.
With people she likes she flames with warmth and charm.
Is she the Snow Girl of the Cinema?
She charms and captivates great writers and critics and has been known to smile a seven foot traffic cop out of passing a ticket when she has skipped past a red light on the Avenue.
Does she make a pose of keeping out of the spotlight?
Why, Lovely Lil has been an actress since she has been able to stand alone on a stage and pipe a line. For 25 years she has been in, of and for the theater and the screen, Her life has been about as private as that of a popular head waiter.
Now she loves her friends and her home with a consuming fire. If she likes to take her case among them, preferring talk and tea to a ring-side table in a night-club lunatic asylum, is she being snootily aloof?
Look at her service record, studded with honors.
Belasco called her the most beautiful blonde in the world.
For years she was the chosen vessel by which Griffith, the star-maker, poured his genius across the screens of the world.
Hundreds of thousands of words have been written about her by ink-slingers great and small.
Film fans have been for her and against her.
But some have been heedlessly neutral.
Everything has been said about her, it seems to me, save that she is a beautiful, lovable human being with a fighting heart almost without parallel in the entertainment world.
Ford Star Jubilee (TV Series)
- Jim Bishop … (book)
- Jean Holloway … (writer)
- Denis Sanders … (writer)
- Terry Sanders … (writer)
Lillian Gish is the unalloyed joy of interviewers because in real life she lives up to the promise held out in her screen characterisations.
Until I met Lillian Gish I used to clean interviewing as “the process of shattering illusions”. Not that I was always disappointed in the people I interviewed – I was just surprised. There was an exotic screen siren, for instance, who when bereft of the beads of her calling proved to be a dumpy little woman interested in child welfare. There was a hero of wild Westerns who used perfume. There was a childish ingénue in whose apartment there were as many mysterious door slamming’s an in any French farce. And drifting from the field of movies, there was an admiral of a foreign fleet who could have doubled for Ben Turpin.
But Lillian is always flower-like, fragile, and as haunting as the melody of “Salut d’amour”. In life she has that same gripping tenderness that she has on the screen. The bridge of sympathy that is established with her audience the instant she comes on the screen holds you likewise in real life. Her screen portrayals are all sharply etched highly individual characterizations, but there is the same spirituality the same illusion about all of them. And that steadfast illusion, that overtone, is Lillian’s own personality.
She is the most flattering person I know. After being abroad for seven months she returns and easily continues an argument broken off at your last meeting. She remembers quite inconsequential things – what you like for luncheon, the sort of books you read, the people you like. At first I used to marvel at her almost childlike faith in people, but now I begin to understand it. People instinctively are on their best behavior when they are with her.
When I told Dorothy that I was writing my impressions of Lillian she said: “Remember to tell about her faults. What you and I really know about her is too good to be true.”
In response to Dorothy’s challenge I really ought to tell you some sinister secret that Lillian has succeeded so far in concealing from the public. But there isn’t any. She is just an amazingly sweet and gracious young person who has worked hard and been pursued by hard luck until recently.
After she made “Way Down East” she could have signed contracts with any of several companies at a large salary. But the prospect of being made to suffer through vehicles as alike though they had been made from rubber stamps did not appeal to her.
She waited until she was offered a company over whose activities she would have control. She knows a great deal about making motion pictures – you may recall she directed Dorothy in a comedy a few years ago – and about cutting them. Curiously enough, this extraordinary technical knowledge has not made her critical of other people’s efforts. She is the perfect audience. Knowing how much hard work goes into the making of even a poor picture, she is sympathetic.
Except for the people who have played in her pictures, very few players know Lillian Gish. Mary Pickford is her one intimate friend. With every one else she is interested but a trifle aloof.
She is often called the Bernhardt of the screen.
In an industry that manufactures slogans and catch phrases and advertises quite commonplace performers as “The Girl You Can’t Forget” or “The Empress of Fiery Emotions” that title wouldn’t mean much if it weren’t for the fact that it was not bestowed by an advertising man but by the very people who would be the last to admit any artistry in the work of a motion picture actress.
That is the unique phase of Lillian’s career. She has won the highest praise from people who were supercilious toward motion pictures and at the same time endeared herself to motion picture fans. Of the two publics I am sure that she really loves the fans most, for they are the ones who supported her during the struggling years when she was just having the foundations of her career. It was they whose letters, childish ones sometimes, cheered her on to one more effort in the days when she had to get up soon after dawn and go by street car, ferry and train to the location in New Jersey, when she was working.
Whenever I hear her called the Bernhardt of the screen, I think of her account in the time when she played in Madame Bernhardt’s company. It was during a New York engagement and Lillian was borrowed from another company to appear in just one play of the Bernhardt repertoire. She says that she was quite overawed by the grandeur of such a company – she was unused to have a maid and playing in such a clean and well-equipped theater. The luxurious surroundings in fact, made such impression on her that she hardly noticed the divine Sarah. That august personage was to her only a foreign lady who was standing in the wings.
Miss Gish Recalls –
St. Louis and Sodas at the Busy Bee
By Mike Schau, Special to the Globe-Democrat
New York, I walked into Lillian Gish’s dressing room at the Longacre Theater where she is starring in Robert Anderson’s drama “I Never Sang for My Father.” It is a little corner of cheerfulness in an otherwise dark and gloomy backstage area.
The bulb-encircled make-up mirror, the array of cosmetic jars and the drawing of Snoopy hanging on the wall helped to brighten the small room, but I suspect the real glow came from the charm that Miss Gish radiates – the same charm that has endeared her to film and playgoers since the turn of the century.
At 72 Lillian Gish is still a beautiful woman. If the Gish Girl-loveliness that John Barrymore described as “superlatively exquisite and poignantly enchanting” is somewhat physically faded, the beauty of character and spirit is overwhelmingly present.
She talked of the play, but when I mentioned I was from St. Louis, her thoughts turned back to the days when she toured and later went to school and lived there.
“My sister Dorothy and I loved to play in St. Louis because of the ice cream sodas. We hit St. Louis many times where we were children touring in Belasco’s productions. There was a place near the theater – I can’t remember the name of the play much less the theater – were we got the best ice cream sodas in the world. Chocolate. Not the sweet chocolate. Bitter chocolate. It was called the Busy Bee Ice Cream Parlor. Mary Pickford toured with us in a few shows (she was known as Gladys Smith then) and the three of us came to know St. Louis for its ice cream.”
But there were less happy days in the city. “Things got rough and my father left us. We had an aunt in St. Louis and my mother, my sister and I moved in with her. We opened a confectionery in the city and Dorothy and I went to school and worked in the store. (The Misses Gish attended Ursuline Academy for a year. [1909-1910]) Somehow though we got back on our feet and back on the stage.”
There was a quiet knock at the dressing room door. Miss Gish opened it and was as surprised as I was to see Dame Edith Evans there. Miss Gish let out a little gasp of surprise and then more than 125 years of show business experience embraced. Dame Edith looked chipper and a little winded from the two-flight climb.
“I’m on my way home to London and I had to stop in to see you,” she explained. She seemed none the worse for having won the Academy Award presentations (she was nominated for her starring role in “The Whisperers”).
By their manner, it was obvious they were old friends. There was great praise for Miss Gish and the play, all of which was accepted with modesty. There was a pause in their delight at seeing one another to remember a mutual friend, Edna Ferber who had recently died. Dame Edith brought news of the passing of Fay Bainter which surprised everyone. There was another thoughtful silence and Miss Gish said something about the bright lights going out one by one. Then, a dinner date having been made, there were more embraces and the grand Dame Edith took her leave.
Miss Gish sat down and gave a sigh of relief. “If I had known she was in the audience tonight I would have been like this.” (She made a gesture describing extreme nervousness.) “I can usually tell who’s there during the show. That is the greatest actress in the theater today.”
She spoke more like an adoring fan than an old friend. “You know, when I was in London at the age of 16 I saw Edith in a bit part. She was unknown and I singled her out even then as a great actress.”
Cast of “I Never Sang for My Father” included Hal Holbrook, Teresa Wright, and Laurinda Barrett. Lois Wilson was Miss Gish’s understudy. In the 1970 film starring Gene Hackman had Holbrook’s role, actress Dorothy Stickney (1896-1998) had the role of Margaret Garrison, the role Lillian played in the Broadway production. Melvyn Douglas had the lead senior role in the film. It was Melvyn Douglas who presented Lillian with her honorary Academy Award in 1971.
A play by J.M. Barrie
Carl Benton Reid
In August 1948, Lillian acted in J.M.Barrie’s The Legend of Leonora. The play drew its inspiration from another Barrie play, What Every Woman Knows. “The complexity of a woman’s nature is beyond man’s simple powers of comprehension.”
The story-line was simple: a bachelor, terrified of facing women, finds himself with seven different women. Each has her own personality; an unspeakable darling, a politician, a comedian, a coquette, a murderess, a mother and a clinging woman. When bachelor is asked to select the woman most suitable to his personality, he learns that all seven are actually the same woman, and she is a marriageable widow. (Stuart Oderman – Lillian Gish: A Life on Stage and Screen)