This Week’s Offerings From Ince and Griffith Studios
Reviewed by Neil G. Caward
Over at the Studebaker theater this week Manager Knill is offering his patrons a program of Triangle films that, as a whole, surpasses any week’s bill up to date. It includes “Aloha Oe” from the Ince studios, “The Lily and the Rose” from the Griffith forces and two Keystone side splitters entitled “A Janitor’s Wife’s Temptation” and “The Village Scandal.” The laughs begin at about the second sub-title of “A Janitor’s Wife’s Temptation” and come thick and fast from then on. Fred Mace as the janitor of an apartment house has a role that’s just to his liking, and the things he does and the way he does them beggar description. Marta Golden as the janitor’s wife has troubles of her own, and Harry Gribbon, as the artist who lives on the floor above, proves himself a clever dodger of both his landlord and his bills. The final scenes in the restaurant, when Mace is bouncing about like a rubber ball in the fountain, are guaranteed to cure the worst grouch that ever attacked a man. Del Henderson is responsible for the production.
The Lily and The Rose – Reviewed by Neil G. Caward
Lillian Gish and Rozsika Dolly are the featured personages in “The Lily and the Rose” and rightfully so, for it is about them that the story centers. Paul Powell is given credit for the direction of the piece and the story is most carefully developed from the opening scene up to the tragic climax which brings it to an end. Mary Randolph is a most innocent, and, as the boy who loves her says, “adorable” Lily, as interpreted by Lillian Gish, and one can scarcely blame Jack Van Norman, played in a dignified fashion by Wilfred Lucas, for falling in love with her.
That the Lily ever became so sophisticated as she finally grows to be seems wonderful when you behold Miss Letty Carrington and Miss Molly Carrington, her maiden aunts, who were responsible for her bringing up. Loyola O’Connor and Cora Drew each have a chance for some wonderful character “bits” in these two roles and Elmer Clifton is equally convincing as Allison Edwards, a bookworm who lives next door to the Lily. To Rozsika Dolly, recruited from the musical comedy stage, falls the interpretation of the Rose, and she plays it masterfully.
In the wonderfully tinted scenes at the seashore, where she dances on the beach for Jack, Miss Dolly was particularly good, and, while proving her ability to dance, in the theater scenes, she demonstrated also that she can get over an emotional scene by the way she acted upon discovering Jack’s suicide. Mary Randolph, raised from childhood by two maiden aunts, and loved by Allison Edwards, who lives next door, one day meets and is wooed by Jack Van Norman from the city. She later becomes his wife, only to learn that, in secret, he is paying attention to the Rose, a dancer in musical comedy. Leaving him, Mary returns to the home of her childhood, where a child is soon afterwards born to her. Jack goes to Rose, but later, in his absence from the city, the dancer entertains other men and is discovered. Jack ends his misery in suicide, and Mary, months later, finds happiness at last with Allison Edwards, who is still faithful. (Neil G. Caward – 1915)
Directed by Paul Powell
Writing Credits (in alphabetical order) D.W. Griffith…(story) (as Granville Warwick)
Cast (in credits order)
Lillian Gish Mary Randolph Wilfred Lucas Jack Van Norman Rosie Dolly Rose (as Rozsika Dolly) Loyola O’Connor Letty Carrington Cora Drew Molly Carrington Elmer Clifton Allison Edwards Mary Alden Mrs. Fairfax William Hinckley Ted Lamb Rest of cast listed alphabetically: Alberta Lee Undetermined role (uncredited) Frank Mills Undetermined role (uncredited) Starring: (Dorothy and Lillian Gish by Lillian Gish) – Lillian Gish – Mary Alden – Wilfred Lucas – Rozsika Dolly
WHETHER A GREAT PICTURE AT THE BOX OFFICE TO BE DETERMINED TRAGIC END MAY ALSO HAVE ITS EFFECT.
The White Sister
The White Sister
The White Sister
The White Sister
The White Sister
The White Sister
The White Sister
What a magnificent performance Lillian Gish gives! Sincerity and repression dominate. Ronald Colman, a new leading man, will be in demand after this. Long cast of excellent players includes J. Barney Sherry and Gail Kane.
Type of Story
Tragic, inasmuch as all important characters, excepting heroine, die at finish. Beautiful romance of young girl taking the veil when she believes her fiancee dead, only to find him alive when she cannot marry him because of her vows to the church. In the end he dies during an eruption of Vesuvius, while warning the people of their danger.
Box Office Angle
Gorgeously mounted; magnificent in construction; a tremendous lot of money spent—one sees it—ranking this as one of the greatest pictures ever made, with Miss Gish giving an outstandingly notable performance, still you had better see this before you book it. The chief reason that you must see it is that it contains material which may provoke much discussion relative to the Catholic church; the taking of the vow and the resultant problem faced by the lovers. There are several titles and sequences, which, if not removed, will certainly provoke much discussion on this point. Exploitation Vast material is at your hand to put this one over. First, you have the name of the star who has not appeared since “Orphans of the Storm,” and who has a big fan clientele. Tell them she does the finest work of her long and meritorious career. Then you have the name of Henry King, and remind them he made “Tol’able David” and other successes. Get a trailer showing the eruption of Vesuvius; the death of the older sister by being dashed from a carriage when the horses bolt; the fox hunt—they are all fine sequences and should easily bring them back.
The White Sister
The White Sister
The White Sister
Henry King; has done a magnificent piece of work. Places him among the very leaders.
Author F. Marion Crawford
Scenario by… George V. Hobart and others
Cameraman Roy Overbaugh
Photography …. Some interior shots cloudy. Otherwise good.
Locale Italian exteriors and interiors. Both magnificent — and real.
Length About 13,000 feet; will be cut for general distribution.
Lillian Gish in The White Sister (Angela Chiaromonte)
It is difficult to realize the size of the catastrophe resulting from the sudden production of talking pictures, even of pictures with “sound effects,” as many of them were, at first. Some of them really talked—better, or worse, than others. No matter; every picture theatre in New York, and most of them on the road, were presently being “wired for sound.” All the millions (possibly billions) of dollars’ worth of silent pictures, shrunk in value at a ghastly rate. The Eastern Hemisphere, the only market for them presently, was comparatively unimportant. Hundreds of pictures were useless; picture players found themselves “out of a job.” Stars began to pale and disappear. On the other hand, ill as was the wind, it dispensed benefits. Stage players out of employment found market for their trained speech. Their feet warmed the way to Hollywood. A good many were already there. As the months passed, the screen showed more of the old familiar faces. Broadway to the rescue. Even the great succumbed. George Arliss, master of diction, joined the procession, Ruth Chatterton—eventually, Lillian.
Not willingly. She still believed in the silent film. She had objected even to the lip movement, the simulated speech insisted upon by the directors. To her, the perfect picture must be pure pantomime—with music—appropriate music, as in “Broken Blossoms.” It would never be that, now. Beautiful Evelyn Hope was dead. There is no help for such things. Tears, idle tears. Since the beginning of time, grief has never repaired a single loss. One might as profitably wail over the sunken Atlantis. She still had her contract with the United Artists, and by its terms must make at least one picture before she could cancel it. She had hoped to get out of it altogether; but while it did not mention talking pictures, she was advised to abide by the terms.
“It would involve me in a suit with the United Artists, and I had had suits enough. As it was, I barely avoided another: The company had agreed to let me do Eugene O’Neill’s ‘Strange Interlude,’ if I could get it for a reasonable sum—I could have it to take the place of the Reinhardt picture. I came East in April (1929), to see Mr. Madden, O’Neill’s agent. I could have it for $75,000. This suited Mr. Joe Schenck. It suited Mr. O’Neill. We had the papers drawn up. I was to sign them that morning, and it was only because I was protected by an angel that I didn’t do it. On that very day, a woman brought suit against O’Neill, for plagiarism. Had I signed that contract, I should have been involved in the suit. She was beaten, and had to pay costs, but the damage to O’Neill was more than that, in fees.
“Meantime, Dorothy had gone to Germany and brought Mother to London. Mother was tired of sanatoriums and hotels. She wanted a home, and I decided to have one. I joined them, and Dorothy and I went to Paris, to collect furniture for an apartment. I had most of it made, copies of old French pieces.
“I came home in August, and all through that month looked for a place to live. It was a terrible search in the heat. When I saw this apartment, with its outlook on the river, its quiet air and sunshine, I knew that it was what we wanted.
“My friend, Mr. Paul Chalfin, kindly looked after the decoration, and I started at once for California, to do the picture we had selected, ‘The Swan.’ This was during the latter part of September, 1929. The apartment would not be ready before November.”
Max Reinhardt mit Lillian Gish im Hotel Esplanade in Berlin 1928
Max Reinhardt mit Lillian Gish – Leopoldskron Salzburg 1928
Max Reinhardt mit Lillian Gish im Hotel Esplanade in Berlin 1928
Max Reinhardt mit Lillian Gish – Leopoldskron, Salzburg
In California, Lillian lived with Madame de Grésac, at Beverly Hills. There was just then a good deal of talk about kidnapping, and she was advised against living alone. Josephine, her Austrian maid, had remained in Los Angeles, but met her at the station, with flowers and tears. Careful preparation for “The Swan” began. Lillian was admirably suited to the rôle, that of the fair Princess Alexandra, her voice quality and diction needed only slight adjustment. Melville Baker had written the script for “The Swan,” adapting it from his translation of the original play by Ferenc Molnar. She thought very well of it, and hoped for the best. She wrote Reinhardt of her decision, and received a gracious reply. Both artistically and from the business point of view, it (“The Swan”) ought to be a success, he said, and added:
In spite of all those rather disagreeable experiences I had to go through in Hollywood, I have kept the time I spent there in most agreeable remembrance. To have been together with you, your undeviable artistic spirit, blossoming there like a rare lonely flower, and the pureness of your conviction, made me happy and will remain for me an unlosable experience for all time to come….
Making a picture now was a different matter from those very recent old days. Then, a set where action was in progress, was about the noisiest place on the lot. Stagehands and various bosses shouting to one another, the director shouting at the players—noise, noise, no end to it. Now, all was silence. Every sound, even the feeblest rustling, was recorded by the microphone. Except for the actors, their laughter, their breathing, the accessory beat of rain, or hail, the stillness was perfect. The sound stage was a padded cell.
“With the preparation and all,” Lillian said, “I worked about three months on ‘One Romantic Night,’ as they called the picture later. Mary Pickford has a bungalow on the lot, and lent it to me. I used it as a dressing-room, sometimes I slept there, when I had to be on the lot very early. I had Georgie, my dog, and Josephine. It would have been well enough, but they were building soundstages all about, which made a great deal of noise, all night long. It was a complete little house. Josephine cooked for me when we stayed there.
“I arrived in New York Christmas morning, with a wild turkey, which I got in Arizona. It had been brought to the train by some friends of a little girl who had done my hair out there. They had often sent turkeys to me, to California. It was all dressed, and all the way across the continent, cooks on the diners kept it in their refrigerators. They were very much interested.
“We had dinner in our new apartment, our first real home. Mother was delighted with it, and has seemed better and more contented ever since. Her pleasure in it makes us all so happy.”
“One Romantic Night” was a photographically beautiful picture, with a distinguished cast. Lillian, as Princess Alexandra; Rod La Roque, as the Prince (sent, against his will, to woo her); Marie Dressler, as her designing mother; Conrad Nagel, as a tutor, in love with Alexandra; O. P. Heggie—altogether a fine company. Yet it has been called a poor picture, and Lillian today is not proud of her part in it. It was by no means a failure. Never had she looked more lovely. No longer a victim of tyranny, brutality and betrayal, but a Princess, as rare as any out of a fairy tale, with a palace and a rose garden and suitors, with a lilting, perfectly-timed voice, Lillian appeared to have come into her own.
Her acting and beauty furnished no surprise, but her voice and laugh did; she had been silent, and sad, so many years. The audience followed her through a presentation, in itself seldom more than mildly exciting, and not always that. The tutor’s astronomy at times wearied, not only the Prince, but, unhappily, the audience. Marie Dressler’s broad comedy was highly amusing, but there were moments when one got the impression that the play was not only very light comedy, as apparently it was meant to be, but a good farce gone wrong.
Only, that fairy princess in the rose garden—on a terrace under the stars, or leaning from a balcony to her Prince, was not quite farce material. And the ending helped: the Prince and Princess, in a properly ordered elopement, in quite a royal car, swinging under the castle walls, out of the picture, into the night, to the notes of a marvelously musical klaxon, added a touch that brought the story back to the realm of pure romance, leaving a lovely impression.
Albert Bigelow Paine – Life and Lillian Gish 1932
1930 black and white rotogravure of Rod La Rocque and Lillian Gish in The Swan.
Five-Part Triangle-Fine Arts Offering – Features Lillian Gish.
Reviewed by George W. Graves
“A House Built Upon the Sand”
Using the metaphor in title above, it would seem to us that; the producers of this picture had decidedly built a house “upon the sand” when they constructed this photodrama on the flimsy story material they had in hand. The story of this picture doesn’t convince one of very much, in fact, it doesn’t give him any sensation one way or the other. The story is practically lacking in unity of plot and action. The best thing it does is keep Lillian Gish before the camera a large part of the time — which thing is very fortunate, for Miss Gish is always good and offer a few bits of comedy.
Evelyn Dare, a spoiled society girl, recently married, is forced by her husband to live in a cheap house and wear plain clothes. David, the husband, is interested in sociology, and has made his home among the factory people, although he is really a man of means. It takes Evelyn some time to get over her peevishness, but when she is about to forgive him her mind is poisoned against her husband by a man who wishes to avenge himself, so husband and wife are again at odds. But David rescues his enemy from a burning building and so causes the enemy to change into a friend. The latter then goes to Evelyn, tells her what a deceiver he has been, and a reconciliation of man and wife follows.
The picture is very well acted, both Roy Stuart and William H. Brown, the two most prominent in Miss Gish’s support, being as convincing as they are splendid types. One “stunt” fell to the director, Edward Morrisey, that of staging the rescue from the burning house. There was a medium-sized thrill to this. Although “A House Built Upon the Sand” may please some of the less particular people because of its good characterizations and some bits of humor, the picture certainly does not rank with the kind of films we are used to seeing under the Fine Arts banner.
The House Built Upon Sand (1916)
1917 – according to Dorothy and Lillian Gish
Director: Edward Morrissey
Writer: Mary H. O’Connor (story)
Stars: Lillian Gish, Roy Stewart, William H. Brown
Lillian Gish has adopted a course of training as strenuous as a professional pugilist in order to get into the best possible condition for her “rough house” work in the Triangle-Fine Arts production. “Diane of the Follies.”
Miss Gish has several free-for-all fights in the picture, including one at her husband’s house and another on the stage of the opera house in which several chorus girls mix in.
In the theater scene one of the chorus girls emerged with a black eye as the result of coming in too close contact with demure Miss Gish. Miss Gish’s portrayal of the temperamental actress in “Diane of the Follies’ is expected to make other celebrated temperamental ladies of the screen look to their laurels to preserve their reputations as “Champion Temperamentalists of the World.”
Reports from “The White Sister” showed that it was going to make record runs—that returns from it would be very large. Catholics and Protestants alike approved it. Father Duffy, of the Fighting Irish 69th Regiment, of New York, wrote:
I wish to nominate “The White Sister” for a high place on the White List of dramatic performances…. It is religion struggling with human passions, as in real life, and gaining its victory after storm and stress. Chicago society deserted the opera on the opening night of “The White Sister,” and similar reports came from elsewhere. Lillian’s personal tribute—her “fan” mail—assumed mountainous proportions: offers of engagements, protection, marriage, requests for loans… what not?
Meantime, one must get on with the next picture. King was already in Italy, making a pirate ship scene. Lillian finished cutting down “The White Sister,” for road use, an arduous, delicate work, and with Mrs. Kratsch, sailed in November. Dorothy was to be in “Romola,” and with her mother had sailed a little earlier. To Genoa, then Florence, where they put up at the Grand Hotel on the Arno, with an outlook on the Ponte Vecchio, all that the heart could desire, if the weather had only been a little more encouraging. It began to rain, and it continued to rain—“about nineteen days out of twenty,” Dorothy said. Dorothy thought the rain not very wet rain—not at all like English and American rain—not so solid—light, like ether. But one evening, the rain stopped, and when they woke in the night, there was a strange silence. In the morning, there was another sound—also strange—strangely familiar. Dorothy looked over at Lillian.
“If we were in America, I should say they were shoveling snow.” They hopped out of bed, and to the window. It was shoveling, and it was snow. “Very unusual,” they were assured later. But then, winters in Southern Europe quite often are unusual. Even sunshiny ones. The picture of “Romola” follows the main incidents of George Eliot’s novel. Lillian, of course, had the part of Romola, Dorothy that of Tessa, Ronald Colman that of Carlo Bucelline. To William H. Powell was assigned the part of Tito; Herbert Grimwood was given the part of Savonarola, and looked so much like him that when he walked along the streets of Florence, children would point him out. Altogether, the cast was a fine one. They had expected to use a number of real scenes in Florence—the Duomo, the Piazza Signoria, etc., but found that modern innovations—telegraph wires and poles, street car tracks, and the like—made this impracticable. On their big lot in the outskirts of the city, they built an ancient Florence, a very beautiful Florence, of the days of Savonarola. They did use the Ponte Vecchio, the ancient bridge, though a second story had been added a generation later than the period of their picture.
And they used the Arno in several scenes. Rain or no rain, their lot became a busy place. They brought the “White Sister” equipment from Rome, and a small army of artisans and laborers began to work wonders. In a brief time, a quaint old street sprang up—along it shops of every sort, just as they might have been four hundred years before … real shops, in which were made every variety of paraphernalia required for the picture: costumes, harness, basketry, hats, footwear, furniture—everything needed to restore the semblance of a dead generation. They even set up a little restaurant, and ate their luncheons there. Animals—dogs and cats—walked about, or slept in the sun. Flocks of pigeons were in the air, or on the house-tops. During the brief visit of the year before, they had asked that these be raised on the lot. It was all realistic, and lovely. Wood-carvers were at work on the rich interiors, some of them more beautiful, even, than those of “The White Sister”: a great church interior, and a banquet hall, for Romola’s wedding. At one side of the lot were small buildings, where the distinguished artist, Robert Haas, with his staff, worked at the drawings. For the great wedding feast, they could not get period glasses in Florence, so sent a man to Venice, and had them specially blown. Lillian remembers the banquet hall as very rich, exquisite in detail—the scene as a whole, one of peculiar distinction.
“We had for it a lot of titled people of Florence, who were eager to be in the picture. We had very little trouble to get anything we needed in the way of extras. In some of the scenes, we had hundreds of them. “One thing we did not get so easily: For the wedding, we needed 15th Century priest robes. We heard of some up in the hills, but we could get them only on condition that we engage four detectives to guard them, two by day, two by night. “We had to guard ourselves, for that matter. Florence has many Americans, and they have not much to do. If we had let in all who called, we should have had a perpetual sequence of social events, with very little work. We had many invitations, but could not accept them. I think we went out just once, for dinner. When we had a little time in the afternoon, we liked to go to Doni’s, for tea, or to shop a little, for linens and laces. Whatever of such things we have now, Mother bought that winter In Florence.
“Every night we literally prayed that the next day would dawn clear and bright, so that we might make up our lost time. But no! Maybe, as Dorothy said, the Italian ‘dispenser of weather,’ didn’t understand English.
“One cannot too highly praise the Italian workmen. Over and over, ours would work on a set that it might be the exact replica of a 15th Century design. Italian workmen are willing to be told, and possess an astonishing ambition to do a thing exactly as it should be done.”
They began “shooting” the scenes. They had no regular scenario. They worked, as it were, inspirationally. They did not know very exactly what they were going to do when they began a scene, and they were not quite sure what they had done when they finished it. The element of accident sometimes produces happy results, but it is unsafe to count on it. “Romola” developed into a kind of panorama—a succession of lovely pictures, without very definite climaxes. They worked hard. For one thing, they were experimenting with a new film, the panchromatic, which had never been used for an entire picture, and they did their own developing. One of the chief beauties of “Romola” is the richness of its photography. What with the weather and all, the making of “Romola” was hardly what the French call “gai.” There were lighter moments: In the scene where Dorothy is supposed to drown in the Arno, she tried for an hour to sink in that greasy, unclean river. She couldn’t swim, so it had to be done in shallow water. She didn’t like to pop her head under, either, but they told her if she would fill her lungs with air and hold her breath, there would be no danger. She was plump, and her bones were small. Being filled with air made her still more buoyant. Also, she had on a little silk skirt that got air under it and ballooned on top of the water. Dorothy simply couldn’t drown. When she popped her head under, the little skirt stuck up in a point like the tail of a diving duck. Such an effect would never do for a picture like “Romola.” From their window in the Grand Hotel, Mrs. Gish and Lillian, watching through a glass, laughed hysterically at Dorothy’s efforts to drown. Dorothy finally struck: she could stand no more of the Arno water. The scene was finished one chilly day in America—in Long Island Sound. Dorothy had a cold at the time, and they thought she would contract pneumonia. But that was a poor guess. When she came out of the water, the cold was gone. Clean, salt water, Dorothy said. In the picture, Dorothy, as Tessa, has a baby.
They borrowed the cook’s baby, the youngest of nine, a fat, robust bambino, strapped to a board, Italian fashion; easy enough to carry, properly held, but not handy for cuddling. Juliana was her name, and as lovely as one of Raphael’s cherubs—lovely, even among Italian children, all of whom have little madonna faces, because for generations expectant mothers have knelt ardently before altars and wayside shrines. Lillian and Dorothy became fond of Juliana, took walks with her, carrying her, board and all—a burden which increased daily as Juliana got fatter and fatter. They wished Juliana would not grow quite so fast; there were scenes where they had to run with her. Italian babies are seldom warm, in winter. One day, Juliana broke out with a rash, which at first they thought was measles, but was only the result of the studio heat, heat from the great Klieg lights. Lillian had a maid named Anna, a large, lovely soul, but a menace. If one got an ache or a pain, Anna came running with an enormous Italian pill, the size of those on the Medici coat-of-arms. After a day at the studio, in the strained “Romola” poses, Lillian once mentioned having a back ache.
1924: Lillian Gish (1893 – 1993) plays the title role in the film ‘Romola’, adapted from a novel by George Eliot and directed by Henry King for MGM.
Lillian Gish – Romola (detail)
Lillian Gish – Romola (mid)
Anna commanded her to undress and lie down. A very little later she came bringing a bath towel, and a flat-iron, the latter quite definitely warm. Then, turning the world’s darling face down, she spread the towel on her back and proceeded to iron her. It was drastic, but beneficial. The ironings became a part of the daily program. Anna decided that her mistress needed blood, and cooked for her apples in red wine. They were delicious. “Romola” was finished near the end of May. The last scene was the burning of Savonarola, terribly realistic. Lillian got so near the fire that she was scorched. A few days later they saw the rushes and she was ready to go. The great Italian episode was over. It was unique, and remains so. Big companies do not go on foreign locations any more. They build Italy or any part of the universe on their lots in Hollywood. Lillian in America found that she had been chosen by Sir James Barrie for the picture version of “Peter Pan.” No one could have been better suited to the part, and it greatly appealed to her. But there were complications. Regretfully she put it aside. Pleasant things happened: Dimitri Dirujinski and Boris Lorski modeled busts of her; Nicolai Fechin did her portrait, as Romola. The last was given a special exhibition in the Grand Central Art Galleries, with a reception to Lillian and the artist under the patronage of Cecelia Beaux and New York’s social leaders. It was bought by the Chicago Art Institute and today hangs in the Goodman Theatre of that city.
“Romola,” released through the Metro-Goldwyn Company, had two great premières: at the George M. Cohan Theatre, New York, on Monday, December 1st, 1924, and at the Sid Grauman Theatre, Hollywood, on the following Saturday. Lillian and Dorothy, with their mother, managed to attend both. The Los Angeles opening was so much more a part of the “picture” world that we shall skip to it, forthwith.
It was unique. Manager Grauman had stirred up all Los Angeles and Hollywood over the return of the Gish girls with a new picture. They had anticipated no reception at the train. King was already in Los Angeles; he might be there … a few friends, maybe, not more. But when the train drew in, they noticed a great assembly of expectant people, most of them wearing badges—a rally of some sort, a convention. Lillian and Dorothy stepped to the train platform, and were greeted with a shower of rose-buds, thrown by gay little girls who had baskets of them; a vigorous and competent band struck up; a siren began to blow; everybody shouted and pushed forward; all those badges had on them the word GISH; all the battery of cameras that began to grind was turned on them; the rally was their rally—a welcome—welcome home to Los Angeles. Producers and directors were there. Irving Thalberg, handsome, youthful-looking, pressed forward. Mrs. Gish, thinking him from the hotel, handed him her checks, and a moment later was apologizing. But he said it was all right—he was always being taken for his own office boy. John Gilbert was there, and Norma Shearer, and Eleanor Boardman, and ever so many more. A crowd of students from the Military Academy rallied around; also, a swarm of “bathing beauties” from the Ambassador, and a fire engine came clanging up, for the Fire and Police Departments had been called out. A news notice says:
A squad of motorcycle policemen and fast cars of the Fire Department, made an escort for the automobile provided for Lillian Gish, Dorothy and their mother, through the downtown district. Sirens and bells added to the noise of welcome. Not much like the old days, when with Uncle High Herrick, they had landed with “Her First False Step” at a one-night stand. They drove to the Ambassador Hotel. Mary Pickford had not been at the train, but they found her standing in the middle of their “flower embowered drawing-room”—never more beautiful in all her life, Lillian thought. By and by, Mary, Lillian and Dorothy, motored out to the old Fine Arts Studio, where “The Birth of a Nation” and so many of Griffith’s other pictures, had been made. They found the old place hidden behind a brick building. “Intolerance” had been made there, and “Broken Blossoms.”
Douglas Fairbanks and many others had begun, there, their film careers. They recalled these things as they looked about a little sadly, at what had once been their film home.
Manager Sid Grauman had gone to all the expense and trouble he could think of to make this a record occasion. “Romola” was following Douglas Fairbanks’ “Thief of Bagdad.” It must not fall short.
“A première without a parallel. A night of all nights. The most gala festivity Hollywood has ever known. An opening beside which other far-famed Egyptian premières will pale into insignificance.” These are a few bits of Manager Grauman’s rhetoric, and he added: “Every star, director and producer, will be there to pay homage to Lillian and Dorothy Gish.” They were there. The broad entrance to the Egyptian was a blaze of light and gala dress parade. The crowds massed on both sides to see the greatest of filmland pass. Doug and Mary (who had already run “Romola” in their home theatre), Charlie, Jackie … never mind the list, they were all there. High above, the name of LILLIAN GISH blazed out in tall letters. When she arrived, and Dorothy, and their mother, their cars were fairly mobbed. Cameras were going, everybody had to pause a moment at the entrance for something special in that line.
Manager Grauman was photographed between the two stars of the evening, properly set off and by no means obliterated, small man though he was, by the resplendent gowns. After which, came the performance. Manager Grauman had fairly laid himself out on an introductory feature. There were ten numbers of it, each more astonishing than the preceding:
“Italian Tarantella,” “Harlequin and Columbine,” “The Eighteen Dance Wonders,” but why go on? It was a gorgeous show all in itself. After which, the beautiful processional effects of Romola’s story. There was no lack of enthusiasm in the audience. When the picture ended and the lights went on, and Lillian and Dorothy appeared before the curtain, the applause swelled to very great heights indeed. And when a speech was demanded, Lillian, in her quiet, casual way, said:
“Dear ladies and gentlemen, both Dorothy and I do so hope you have liked ‘Romola.’ If you have, then, dear, kind friends, you have made us very happy, very happy indeed … and you have made Mr. King, who directed ‘Romola,’ very happy, too.”
From the applause that followed, it was clear that there was no question as to the importance of the occasion—all the more so, had they known that, for Hollywood, at least, it was the last public appearance of these two together. The critics did not know what to make of “Romola”—did not quite dare to say what they thought they felt. To William Powell, as Tito, nearly all gave praise; some regretted that Ronald Colman did not have a better part. Dorothy, as Tessa, had given a good account of herself, they said, and Charles Lane, as Baldassare. Of Lillian’s spirituality and acting there was no question, but there were those who thought the part of Romola unequal to her gifts. As to the picture, one ventured to call it “top-heavy,” whatever he meant by that. One had courage enough to think it “a bit dull.” Another declared that it contained all the atmosphere and beauty of the Florence of Lorenzo de Medici. “Romola” was, in fact, exquisite tapestry, and the dramatic interest of tapestry is a mild one.
Frederick James Smith in Motion Picture Classic, Vol. 7, No. 2 (October 1918), page 77
P. S.–We’ve just caught David Griffith’s latest, The Great Love. Griffith credits a British army captain as the author, just as he named M. Gaston de Tolignac as the creator of Hearts of the World. But, in both cases, we suspect Griffith’s own hand in the writing. Jim Young, an American, goes to England in 1914 and enlists on the side of democracy at the start of the great war. Jim meets and comes to love a young Australian girl living near the big training camp. But a youthful tiff and a sudden shift of Jim’s regiment to the front, cause the sweetheart to waver and finally marry a titled Englishman, who is not only a rake, with a cast-off favorite and the inevitable baby waiting on his doorstep, but a traitor as well.
But she never really becomes his wife and, when hubby commits suicide on facing exposure, she tumbles into Jim’s khaki arms. No, it isn’t much of a story. It is ahead of the average feature in handling but it isn’t anything to add to the Griffith laurels. The director is at his best in the idyllic early love scenes between Jim and Sue, at his worst in trying to achieve a height of suspense in the Zeppelin invasion of England. Here Jim upsets the Hun signals and causes the aircraft to blow up an empty field instead of Britain’s biggest munition storehouse. This is entirely too long drawn out.
The Great Love is merely a modern story of the war told in the terms of the old Biograph melodrama. Lillian Gish overdoes the kittenish tricks of Sue but she has several really poignant moments. Robert Harron is — Robert Harron, while Henry Walthall makes the very villainous villain at least subtle. But Walthall isn’t at his best here.
–Frederick James Smith in Motion Picture Classic, Vol. 7, No. 2 (October 1918), page 77.
The Great Love 1918 – Original Film Poster
The Great Love (Artcraft, 1918) Lillian Gish Robert Harron – Artcraft Poster
Hollywood in the 1920s was seething with inventive directors both American and foreign. Griffith had cast a spell of self-willing individuality: everyone wanted to do something special. But an actress pays for superb direction with her liberty, and this Pickford could not do. Even with Lubitsch, whom she admired (and disliked) and who was to become, as she foresaw, one of Hollywood’s unique talents, Pickford at one point had to take her director aside and point out that she owned the picture from script to rushes, that he was working not only with her but for her, and that in controversy she would cast the telling vote.
Pickford’s fellow Biograph player and lifelong friend Lillian Gish never had that problem. She stayed with Griffith to make some of the greatest films ever made in America, left him when their association had reached its natural end, worked with the brilliant Henry King on two foreign ventures, and became one of the biggest stars at the biggest studio, working with King Vidor and Victor Seastrom.
And while Pickford made her last film in 1933 and never acted again, Gish is still active, having played a key role in Robert Altman’s A Wedding in 1978 and made a presentation on the 1981 Academy Awards show. It is, without rival, the longest star career in history. It began like Pickford’s, with mother, fatherless sibling (Dorothy), and the regional stage. The Gishes met the Smiths on one of their tours and one day at the movies spotted Gladys in a Biograph, Lena and the Geese (1912). Eager to see their old friend, Lillian and Dorothy sought her out at Biograph, where Griffith beheld Lillian and saw in her all the conflicting romances of the Victorian gentleman—for mate, mother, and angel—made manifest. Blanche Sweet, another Biograph principal, observed that Griffith was so affected by Gish’s beauty that he had to struggle to keep his composure. What Gish felt for Griffith, besides an epic loyalty and admiration, has never been made clear. It was a unique collaboration, astonishingly concentrated. A generation later, Josef von Sternberg and Marlene Dietrich would duplicate this interdependent eloquence, but their films are almost entirely about Dietrich’s image, whereas in his Gish films Griffith creates an entire world. Actually, he believed he was describing the world as it is, and to many he was: a world in which beastly men and gallant men vie with each other for the chance to debauch or protect women. Gish, with her rosebud mouth, tumbling locks, fragile body, and wide, seeing eyes, was the absolute Griffith heroine; but more: the ultimate Griffith star, for no other better suited his way of working.
An Unseen Enemy – Lillian Gish Dorothy Gish
An Unseen Enemy – Lillian Gish Dorothy Gish
An Unseen Enemy – Lillian Gish
An Unseen Enemy – Lillian Gish Dorothy Gish
An Unseen Enemy – Lillian Gish
The Gish sisters folded nimbly into the Biograph stock company, so that we find them in 1912 playing the leads in their first film, An Unseen Enemy, as two girls terrorized by burglars; and as extras later that year in The New York Hat, strolling merrily through a village scene. The New York Hat marked Mary Pickford’s farewell to Griffith, as a girl pilloried by gossips because the town minister (Lionel Barrymore) has made her the present of an expensive hat. At length it is revealed that the gift is a bequest of the girl’s mother, who died exhausted by a skinflint husband and wanted her daughter to enjoy a luxury. Griffith tacks on a marriage at the end for Pickford and Barrymore, but what he’s really after is a sense of smalltown life, with its misers and snoops as well as its goodness. Pickford had had enough of getting locked into these increasingly well-detailed friezes of American life—plus she wanted more money. But Gish found herself in her element helping Griffith open his camera upon the world, and money was not an issue with her. She enjoyed his lengthy rehearsals, preparing a film as if it were a play, perfecting the whole thing before taking a shot, and didn’t miss not having name billing. Indeed, Griffith couldn’t tell Lillian from Dorothy at first, and directed An Unseen Enemy by the color of their hair ribbons: “Red, you hear a strange noise. Run to your sister. Blue, you’re scared, too. Look toward me, where the camera is.”
Lillian Gish as Elsie Stoneman (Birth of A Nation)
Lillian Gish – Birth of a Nation
This appears to contradict Blanche Sweet’s report on Griffith’s obvious attraction to Lillian from minute one, but it is sure that at some point early in there Griffith and Lillian Gish locked eyes, and she figured heavily in his mythopoeia from then on. In a lead role in The Birth of a Nation (1915) Gish is already well on the way to defining the Griffith heroine* and already a surprising actress. At first you think, What’s all this stuff she’s doing? What’s this mannerism? Then, looking more closely, you recognize the “mannerism” as the gestures of life, and it’s all so natural that an actor who would get by quite nicely in some other film would look like something out of a home movie next to Gish. Certain of her bits in The Birth of a Nation are famous—her goodbye to her brothers as they leave to fight the Civil War on the northern side, when she worries and flirts and jokes all in a matter of a few seconds; the way she fidgets when, ending her wounded southern beau in a hospital, his mother comes in; her habit of drawing back from men she likes, as if their sexual power is something she can feel and fear; or her imperious palm that breaks up hostilities between her beau and an unctuous carpetbagger.
Yet, again, Griffith is not featuring any one person but pulling the parts of a world together into a story. His actors must be this naturalistic, all of them, and this expressive, or he can’t pull it off. If we are to believe in his nobility, his villainy, his world where beauty dies in a day because the rats never stop coming, that world must seem to be the true world, at least while the film is running. You can rehearse for a year, but in the end you can’t act it: you must dwell in it. That was the Griffith training. That’s why, when films were shorts and only a few people attended them, his films were the best films, and that’s why, when he began to make full-length films, everyone in the country became a moviegoer. That’s also why Little Mary had enough of Griffith fast. She didn’t want to be a part of someone else’s world, nor did she regard film as morally as Griffith did. Typically, it was Gish who talked Pickford out of destroying her films. Pickford thought of them as timely art that would lose its effectiveness when fashions changed; Gish thought of them as an ageless force for community, a ritual like that of the old Greek stage. Griffith’s good guys will always be on the right side if you’re as good as they are, and his bad is always bad, no matter what current opinion maker is selling what particular brand of snake oil. Good is fairness. Bad is rape, stealing, murder, making business monopolies, fomenting civil disorder, and passing laws to invade other people’s lives. No wonder some people find Griffith so awesome. Can so moral a code survive a jazz age?
Pickford, Griffith, Chaplin, Fairbanks – United Artists
United Artists Corporation – Charles Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, David Wark Griffith
Even as early as 1919, when Griffith joined Pickford, Fairbanks, and Chaplin in United Artists, many thought he was played out. But in Broken Blossoms (1919) he and Gish proved that their way was still vital—so much so that the entire film consists of a thread of story involving a helpless waif (Gish), her brutal father (Donald Crisp), and the Chinese man (Richard Barthelmess) who chastely adores her. We don’t need a whole world this time. This is Griffith’s cameo tragedy, his little gem. Everybody dies. Crisp beats Gish to death, and Barthelmess avenges her and kills himself.
Lillian Gish and Richard Barthelmess – Broken Blossoms
Lillian Gish and Donald Crisp in Broken Blossoms
Lillian Gish and Donald Crisp in Broken Blossoms
Lillian Gish and Donald Crisp in Broken Blossoms
Lillian Gish and Donald Crisp in “Broken Blossoms”
Lillian Gish and Donald Crisp in Broken Blossoms – He can’t stand bad manners at the table …
Broken Blossoms – Lillian Gish
Griffith had made Broken Blossoms for Adolph Zukor, but when Zukor screened it he thought it insultingly depressing; and Griffith, in perhaps the only sound business deal of his life, bought the negative back from Zukor for $250,000 and took it to United Artists for their first release, as a top-price road show. It grossed millions. Clearly, Griffith and Gish were not yet outmoded. In fact, their vision of protective man and defenseless woman reached its apex in Way Down East (1920), “a simple story of plain people.” Its source, an old melodrama, had been a staple of second-rate regional stock but a joke in the city centers, yet Griffith paid an unheard-of $175,000 fo the rights.
Way Down East – shooting at Mamaroneck NY 1920
Shooting a scene from Way Down East, Griffith seated below the camera
Way Down East – filming the “Ice Floe Scene” (Lillian Gish)
Actress Lillian Gish, Richard Barthelmess, Kate Bruce, D.W. Griffith, Mrs. David Landau, Burr McIntosh, Lowell Sherman in a scene from the movie Way Down East
“Way Down East” – Lillian Gish and D.W. Griffith on set (Vermont)
DW Griffith filming team – Mamaroneck NY – Way Down East
D.W. Griffith – Ice floe Scenes (Vermont) Way Down East
Now he must be mad. The story is familiar: a country girl seduced by a city slicker finds shelter with good country people and love with their son; she is unmasked and thrown out into a blizzard. The son saves her from death in the icy river. With city wags and town characters, mansions and barns, Griffith would again produce his microcosmic allegory, and with Barthelmess again paired with Gish, young American love would find its ideal representation in his sturdy grasp of events and her touching inability to cope with them. True, 1920 saw American art nearing the age that liked women who could cope and which had lost interest in rustic chivalry.
“Way Down East” – Lillian Gish (rescued) and all cast except Lowell Sherman (Lennox Sanderson)
Lillian Gish and Richard Barthelmess (Way Down East)
Lillian Gish on the ice floe – Way Down East
Still, Griffith held an ace in the river rescue—no one filmed a suspense chase finale as well as he—and he managed to renew the old tale with that typical Griffithian commitment to what it says. For Griffith and Gish did not care about time. They cared about what they believed, about what is true, not what is successful. In a world ruled by gruff country squires, vile seducers, and comic constables and filled out with wise, forgiving mothers and self-righteous spinster reformers, Gish as Anna Moore delivers her most fulfilled portrayal. In his opening titles, Griffith tells us that man’s “greatest happiness lies in his purity and constancy.” But man is fickle, and Griffith shows “the suffering caused by selfishness.” His heroine is basic: “We call her ‘Anna’—we might have called her Woman.” No surprise then that Gish is so finely textured here: she’s carrying the weight of her entire sex.
Broken Blossoms has the most famous Gish touches—the pathetic smile she makes by forking her fingers into her upper lip, for instance, or the hysterical fit she suffers in a closet, whirling around out of control as her father breaks in to kill her. Way Down East doesn’t dazzle that way; the world doesn’t dazzle. Even Gish’s most famous scene, the baptism of her dying infant, is not the aria we expect from hearing it described, but another mere fast bad moment in Anna Moore’s life. Not till, exposed in her “shame,” she exposes her betrayer at a populous dinner does she at last release the frustration and outragepent up in her. It’s a terrific sequence: mingled fury and tears in a back-lit close up,* then Barthelmess smashing a plate and going for the blackguard who made Gish miserable . . . then the realization that in the melee Gish has fled the house. The ice chase follows. One thing that sets silent days apart is silent actors’ willingness to take bald risks if the action called for it. They didn’t do all their own stunts, not even Douglas Fairbanks. But Swanson’s bout with the lion and the serial queens’ acrobatics are typical, and so is the participation of Gish and Barthelmess in Way Down East’s finale on the ice floes, which still gets cheers today. Griffith intercut a few shots of Niagara Falls, but most of the footage was shot in a blizzard at White River Junction, Vermont. It was so cold the ice on the water had to be dynamited each day to produce the plates that Gish lies on and Barthelmess leaps to and from to rescue her; the camera froze; some of the crew came down with pneumonia. And, of course, Gish thought of the last touch of realism, letting her hand trail in the water as the floes glide along. (The hand still bothers her occasionally today.)
Richard Barthelmess and Lillian Gish – ice floe scenes (Way Down East)
“Way Down East” – Lillian Gish and Richard Barthelmess
Why did these people go through all this? Certainly not for the money. Griffith paid the lowest salaries going. Foolish as it sounds, they simply believed in what he was doing. So did the public, who made Way Down East a vast success and boosted Griffith back up to the eminence he held at the time of Birth of a Nation five years earlier. One wonders what Mary Pickford, Griffith’s fellow United Artist and Gish’s close friend, thought of Broken Blossoms and Way Down East, of the Griffith-Gish collaboration in general. After all, she might have been the “Griffith Girl” if her temperament hadn’t led her down her own road. Even apart from Griffith and Gish, however, Little Mary belongs to them and they to her. The three of them together encapsulate the value system of silent audiences, from city proles in the nickelodeons to fashionable New Yorkers who paid ten dollars a head to attend Way Down East’s first night. Griffith fixed and enforced the moral code, laying down role models for manly heroism; Little Mary and Gish complementarily shaped the ideal of womanhood, independent and sexually adult (Little Mary) and weak and unknowing (Gish).
Little Mary’s would seem the more adaptable prototype, especially in the 1920s, but Pickford found herself hemmed in by the expectations of an audience which suddenly had the Colleen Moore flapper to admire for grit. From Little Mary they wanted sentiment.
Gish’s problem was that critics (and presumably the public; producers made that assumption) began to tire of her persona, though she brought it off flawlessly every time. Another problem was that Gish and Griffith had gone as far as they could together. Even before Way Down East the director had begun breaking in the next Griffith Girl, Carol Dempster. Gish made one last film with her mentor, Orphans of the Storm (1921), with her sister Dorothy as foster sisters caught up in the French Revolution, and then moved on—sadly, it appears, but then Griffith habitually fledged youngsters and then launched them forthfrom the nest onto the money and the fame. Gish needed neither. But, as she must have realized, she also didn’t need Griffith.
Lillian Gish CPA Film Stars 133 – The White Sister
The White Sister
The White Sister
The White Sister
Gish had always had a knack for picking stories ripe for film treatment; and, pulling together everything she had learned with Griffith, she starred in The White Sister (1923) and Romola (1924), for Inspiration Pictures, both directed by Henry King with advice from Gish. The heroine of The White Sister is an epitome of the Griffith heroine: a nun who dismisses lover Ronald Colman (whom Gish more or less discovered” for the two films) to honor her vows, though she only took them in the first place because she mistakenly believed Colman dead.
Lillian Gish – Romola
Romola – Dorothy Gish and Lillian Gish
William Powell and Dorothy Gish Romola
Romola, from George Eliot’s novel set in Renaissance Florence, has more than a touch of Griffith about it, in the score by Louis F. Gottschalk (a Griffith regular) and the Intolerance-like detail work in the sets. Moreover, here were two propositions that Hollywood simply could not see—one heroine is a nun! and the other runs around Renaissance Florence in these gigantic snoods!—just as Hollywood couldn’t see Griffith’s ambitious ideas (till they made fortunes). But The White Sister attracted such notice when Gish premiered it in New York that Metro picked it and Romola up, signed Gish to a contract, and, reformed as MGM, set the wheels in motion to make her their biggest woman star. But Gish was no Theda Bara, no Mae Murray, no Nazimova. You couldn’t fool or coddle or flatter her. And look what she says: “The only time I had a personal press agent was when I . . . hired Richard Mitchell to keep my name out of the papers without hurting anyone’s feelings.” Out of the papers! Nor was Gish eager to adapt to studio methods when her own would make the art longer.
LA BOHEME, John Gilbert, Lillian Gish, 1926 the dispute over the play
John Gilbert and Lillian Gish (Rodolphe and Mimi) The last scene of La Boheme
La Boheme – Lillian Gish, Gino Corrado and John Gilbert
Still, the MGM stint started well. For her debut Gish suggested Henri Murger’s Scenes de la Vie de Boheme, the novel about starving artists in Paris that became Puccini’s opera La Boheme. Gish wanted the director and stars of The Big Parade, a war film she had screened in rough cut. She asked for Hendrik Sartov, from the Griffith days, as cameraman, and she urged the studio to use the new panchromatic film that she had tried on The White Sister and Romola—much easier to light for and photograph on than the standard Hollywood stock. To all this, her producer, Irving Thalberg, assented.
So Gish was in effect her own Little Mary, her own Griffith, her own person: and queen of the lot. She convinced La Boheme’s director, King Vidor, to let her show the cast how to rehearse the entire film before shooting, in the Griffith manner, talked the front office into letting her play a virginal Mimi who loved but was never seen to kiss her Rodolphe, John Gilbert, and played such a convincing death scene that Vidor thought she had got carried away and really died. In the end, Gilbert (who was being built up as The Great Lover) had to kiss his Mimi, and Gish obligingly suffered the clammy retakes, but otherwise La Boheme (1926) shows the profit of letting Gish have her way. How many others could march into a rising, already sinfully powerful studio and have their way almost to the nth? When Griffith yelled, “Feel it!” at you every day for years, you learned to feel; this more than anything marks Gish’s MGM features, because she’s feeling down into the bald truth of character and most of the others are big gullible puppets.
Hester Prynne worried for her ill daughter – Lillian Gish – Scarlet Letter
The Scarlet Letter – Lillian Gish and Lars Hanson
Similarly in control on The Scarlet Letter (1926) and The Wind (1928), Gish was the last actress to make a series of truly great films in Hollywood at her pleasure, without reference to what was currently popular. Thalberg thought The Wind dreary. Its tale of a gentle Virginian maiden whose marriage tragically disintegrates in the unstable Texas climate built up to a rape attack, detailed her murder of the rapist and her ensuing madness as the wind blows away the sand with which she covered his body and seems to jerk him back to life to terrorize her all over again. Thalberg plunked a happy ending onto it—the man who comes into the house at the end is not the dead rapist but Gish’s roughhewn husband (Lars Hanson)—proving that independence is finite. Furthermore, a pair of MGM features that Gish neglected to plan herself did not come off well. Still, while MGM believed her hot enough to take her advice in order to release her pictures, she managed, quite smoothly, to make totally satisfying films, something Mary Pickford did at this time with some difficulty. No public clamored for a Little Lillian, no Lubitsch marred Gish’s sense of self, no lingering identity as a big spender will threaten her in the hard times just around the corner, as it will Gloria Swanson.
The Wind – Lillian Gish (Letty Mason) and Lars Hanson (Lige Hightower)
Miss Lillian Gish – still frame (The Wind)
What makes a star? More exactly, what gives a star power? Little Mary’s favorite director, Marshall Neilan, ticked off “The Six Great Essentials” for women stars in a Photoplay article: beauty, personality, charm, temperament, style, and the ability to wear clothes. Neilan did not require these as a whole. Rather, the ideal star emphasized one above the others. For examples, he cited Pickford for personality, Swanson for the clothes, and so on. Lists like these are shallow and misleading, but so were many perceptions about stardom in 1922, when Neilan unveiled his recipe, and virtually all stars of the day covered all six points nicely. (True, Pickford’s roles put her into rags and pinafores more often than not, and Gish counted the dress parade as the least absorbing essential of acting. Still, they both filled gowns nicely when asked to.) If one must choose one thing that set Pickford and Gish apart from others it was Pickford’s lovability and Gish’s concentration, but the closest thing on Neilan’s list to either element — thinking grandly, now—is temperament, and for that Neilan cited Norma Talmadge. Who?
Norma Talmadge – La Colombe (postcard)
The most remote of the biggest silent names, unknown to today’s young movie buffs, who have at least caught a clip of vamping Bara in some retrospective or checked out Nazimova’s Salome curio, Norma Talmadge is virtually never seen, and when mentioned she is usually dismissed as a soap opera conceit who couldn’t act. Yet she spans the silent years, from the freewheeling Patents Trust days right into the front end of studio power and the talkie, and in many ways is the most representative of all stars. Like Pickford, Gish, and countless others she entered film young as the breadwinner for a fatherless family. Like Pickford she had a stage mother; like Gish she had a sister also in films. Like most stars she worked with great directors (like Herbert Brenon and Allan Dwan), okay directors (Frank Borzage and Clarence Brown), and hacks (Sam Taylor). Without stage experience, Talmadge wandered into the onereeler at the age of thirteen, grew up playing everything, worked for D. W. Griffith, and married mogul Joseph M. Schenck, who made her the star of the kind of films which historians and critics neglect and which fans and buffs savor: stunning costumes, romance, suffering, and the heroine’s sad, sad yearning gaze off into somewhere. Her coworkers liked her, the public adored her, she made a fortune, her films rotted away in vaults, and who now knows what she was? Who knew then? For here was the apogee of the banal. Talmadge had beauty and the ability to wear clothes, but she had the personality of melting sherbet and the style of a pizza waitress. Temperament? Farrar had temperament. Nazimova had temperament. Negri had temperament. Talmadge had hairdos. Yet she is central. Her popularity tells us so. She stands at the crossroads of parts that were to prove key for decades: her New Moon (1919) was remade by Grace Moore, her Smilin’ Through (1922) by Norma Shearer and Jeanette MacDonald, her Secrets (1924) and Kiki (1926) by Pickford, her Camille (1927) followed Nazimova’s and preceded Garbo’s, her Dubarry, Woman of Passion (1930) succeeded versions by Bara and Negri. There may well be only one Great Essential for stardom: to be in the right place at the right time.
Maybe no one can avoid being typed, if only because anyone who is worth noticing has character, and character is what “type” is, from role to role. But to survive for more than an era, a star must avoid being what one might call typed by time: limited to one role useful to the culture in one age and not useful thereafter. Swanson’s clotheshorse and Colleen Moore’s flapper, for instance, were trapped by their eras, which is why they couldn’t work much beyond 1929, when the era turned over. Sound didn’t hurt them; history did, transformation, from jazz into Depression.
We left Little Mary and Lillian Gish at the plateau of 1929—Wall Street or the sound track, depending on how you read it—and it will be interesting to see how these two key characters weather the changed times. Pickford has less to worry about, as she owns her work. Gish, at MGM, is vulnerable. How long can a PR-resistant woman stay famous in this increasingly PR-devoted era? How long will Mayer and Thalberg permit their prima donna to tell them what she wants? What’s this business about rehearsing films as if they were plays? Throw her out! Mess her up so the competition won’t grab her. Use sound—maybe she’ll talk funny. Give her the worst director in Hollywood. Make her sing, make her Charleston. Throw them all out, that bunch who thought they owned Hollywood! Swanson, Chaplin, Pickford, Fairbanks, Talmadge, the united schmartists. This is the age of the studio, producer power. Fit in or get out.
Possibly Gish noticed the change in the air when Thalberg offered to invent a romantic scandal for her, to focus public sympathy on her. She may simply have longed to try the stage again. She may have heard about Mayer’s plans to sabotage John Gilbert’s career to make an example of him (if we’re willing to mash our own biggest star, at a cost of millions of dollars, then there’s no one we can’t mash, and they’ll all know it) and left Hollywood in horror at the kind of people she was dealing with. She had grown close to the viciously witty theatre critic George Jean Nathan, who hated the movies; perhaps he talked her into heading for Broadway. Whatever her reasons, Gish left on her own initiative.
George Jean Nathan, Lillian Gish and Rudolph Kommer at Leopoldskron
George Jean Nathan and Lillian Gish at Chateau Du Plessis – France 1922
But, though she didn’t know it, she was in the process of being edged out at MGM, and out of Hollywood altogether. Her time had come; that simple. It had taken a very heavy decade to do it, but the very world that Griffith had used to create the American film—film as the American collection of heroic and romantic sagas and film as industry—was gone by 1929. Gish and Little Mary had to go with it. So, tragically, did Griffith, who made two clumsy talkies and was definitively pastured while his successors set to rewriting the sagas. Griffith’s—and Gish’s and Pickford’s—models for fine men and courageous or holy women were renovated for a post-jazz age America; and no one, not filmmakers and not filmgoers, wanted to give the old hands a chance to take part. How different talkies will be from silents!—and not only, not even mainly, because of the dialogue. It’s the characters that mark the major changes, changes that were under way throughout the 1920s, when Little Mary was still the biggest thing in cinema and when Gish, through the presentation of her commitment, could play nun and harlot, then Renaissance dame and industrial-age slavey, and make us accept them all as variants on one all-basic vision of womanly wisdom and beauty and balance. Virtually behind their backs, movies turned around, as the culture did. And suddenly Griffith was out and Pickford was out and Gish was out; and the men were a little dirty or cowardly or selfish, and the women were a little stupid or cowardly or trivial. Okay, our mythology could use a little naturalism, and naturalism dissipates heroism and wisdom. But it’s sad for the heroes. One can understand how easily studio power toppled Griffith and Gish.
Intolerance – set
Intolerance Babylonian Set
The director had hopelessly overextended himself in his business dealings, never to come out from under the debts he assumed in making Intolerance in 1915. And Gish, as a Hollywood dissenter, would go quietly. But how could Little Mary have gone down, with her millions of fans and her share of United Artists? Share? Those who were there recall the UA board meetings as being largely a tug of war between businessmen who had no grasp of film and Pickford, who had forgot more about film and business than anyone will learn. Chaplin was as ignorant of business strategy as Griffith, and Fairbanks was a jerk. It was Pickford who made the studio make sense. They’d all talk, and she’d listen, then she’d cut in with “No, gentlemen, I don’t agree,” and proceed to demolish all that had been said with the logic of experience and vision. Which suggests that Little Mary should have been the one woman to weather the timechange. But she didn’t. Having, she thought, prepared the way for a Big Mary in Dorothy Vernon and My Best Girl, she played the heroine of a southern middle-class tragedy in Coquette (1929), winning the first talkie Oscar as Best Actress.
Great. But the public had been clamoring for a Doug and Mary picture, remember? She pulled off a walk-on dream lady in Fairbanks’ The Gaucho (1927), not unlike Elizabeth Taylor’s Helen of Troy in Richard Burton’s Doctor Faustus, but in 1929 the Fairbankses went all the way in The Taming of the Shrew, directed by Sam Taylor. If they had to do a film together, this was a good choice. Petruchio would provide Fairbanks with his brash rogue shtick, and Katherine would test Little Mary with a new part. He could only be Fairbanks and she liked a test, so it should have worked. Instead, it killed her. Taylor, one of Hollywood’s worst drudges, was Fairbanks’ man, and he colluded with the increasingly unsure actor at Pickford’s expense. The set was run along Fairbanks lines, with late starts each day, no retakes, plenty of time out for exercise sessions or snowing visiting VIPs or just loafing, and Pickford had no help from either man. The film looks good, but it’s a disaster and Pickford knew it. Fairbanks sounds like a potato chip talking, Taylor’s edition of Shakespeare is illiterate, and Pickford flounders. One longs for Lubitsch.
Little Mary’s fans didn’t want Shakespeare in the first place, and they must have been thinking, Who needs this? Where’s our righter of wrongs? Where’s our comic? This is what went wrong with Little Mary’s four sound films: the contemporary Mary is not what her following wanted, and the few moments of the old fighting, comic Mary are wrong for the 1930s. And the oddest thing of all is: she knew this. But, like her characters, she thought of a solution and applied it. She would film a story that exploits the Little Mary heroine yet is timeless, working with her most sympathetic director, Marshall Neilan. A sound plan. But alcohol had dulled Neilan’s brain; and the subject, Norma Talmadge’s Secrets, the story of a pioneer couple, didn’t seem timeless so much as historical. At some point late in the production, Pickford took stock, realized it couldn’t work, and closed the production down.
She was so angry she burned the negative. Nothing else she tried worked, either. Nothing flopped, precisely, but she needed a smash. Kiki (1931), a Parisian backstager directed by the relentless Sam Taylor, was more Big Mary, and her second try at Secrets (1933), this time with a fine director, Frank Borzage, and Leslie Howard as her husband, opened just after Franklin Roosevelt’s bank holiday, when nobody was in a movie mood. And that was the end of Little Mary.
Gish went back to the stage, but Pickford stayed put at Pickfair. Her marriage to Fairbanks was ailing; from The Taming of the Shrew on, their ability to tolerate each other’s incompatible qualities was blunted, and at length Fairbanks’ affair with Lady Sylvia Ashley, much touted in the press, made reconciliation impossible. Pickford divorced Fairbanks and married Buddy Rogers, her co-star in My Best Girl and, all things considered, a better consort for America’s Sweetheart than Fairbanks. Rogers was America’s Boyfriend, Fairbanks America’s Big Man on Campus, his ego constantly chafing against the wide reaches of his girl’s celebrity. Mary and Buddy remained active in Hollywood doings, and in the mid- 1930s she proposed to try a radio show, Parties at Pickfair, in a variety format like that of Louella Parsons’ Hollywood Hotel. But Parsons discouraged great stars from appearing, and such was her power that this in effect canceled Pickford’s show. That was the new Hollywood: jackals owned it. No wonder Little Mary ended up a bedridden recluse sipping gin. Griffith, too, drank his wretched life away. But Gish, the most formidable of actresses, stayed so busy and vital that eventually Hollywood needed her all over again.