In complete silence Barrymore walked to his dressing room. Then such a storm of applause broke out that the whole stage shook with it. More faces than one were streaked with tears. We knew we had seen an indestructible human spirit fighting its way clear of the dross of a reckless and ill-spent life.
Nineteen
We used to go riding in the moonlight, raising the dust down roads shadowed by palm trees, walking the horses through citrus groves and fields of barley, up into the trackless red hills, where we’d turn to catch a glimpse of the Pacific gleaming like pewter under the night sky. Now cowboys have to learn how to climb into a saddle before they can gallop away into the sunset for another TV horse opera. There are none of the genuine, Bill Hart variety left.
When I first saw Hollywood, Sam Goldwyn was still Goldfish, and a grain store stood on Sunset Boulevard at the corner of Cahuenga. Cecil B. De Mille, looking for some place to produce The Squaw Man, had rented a livery stable at Selma and Vine, founding the motion-picture capital, the wonderland that clothed dreams in flesh for millions of the world’s inhabitants. Bill Farnum reigned in splendor in a suite at the Hollywood Hotel; I made my movie debut with him, played his leading lady for $100 a week, which was a fortune to me then.
Life was simple, exciting, and, most of all, fun. We worked hard and loved it. People were neighborly, kind, and didn’t know the meaning of class distinction—that came later when the big money rolled in and changed everything. We used to borrow sugar, bake cakes for the folks next door, stop by each other’s houses to gossip about the wonders of this bouncing new baby, the movie business, and the climate, and the everlasting sunshine. Where is it now? Hidden by fog and smog.
Now the dirty-post-card boys have moved in, churning out pictures reeking of violence, prostitution, perversion, and decay. Anybody can produce a movie—it takes no great talent. Everybody can try to make a quick killing in hard times and the devil with the consequences. Of course, we always knew there were such things as sewers, but never before have audiences had their noses pushed over so many gratings.
A different odor used to hang over our town—the smell of fresh money. It poured from the four corners of the earth like the tide coming in. That’s the scent that drew the founders of our industry, a bunch of shrewd dishwashers, nickelodeon proprietors, glove salesmen, dress manufacturers, junk dealers. They knew a good thing when they saw it, and who should worry about tomorrow?
They were freebooters at heart, most of them, set on carving out empires and ruling them like despots. They started by despoiling the land when they lopped down the trees to make room for the shabby warehouses and barns we call studios. My office desk is placed nowadays so that I can turn my back on Hollywood. If I faced the window, the sun would be in my eyes, and I like the sun on my back.
They despoiled the actors and actresses, too, whose names became better known than those of presidents and kings. Money ruined many of the stars, washed over them in a deluge, then left them high and dry when their few working years were over. Lionel Barrymore, for instance, earned a gigantic reputation as director and star, with enough talent left over to make him more than competent in other arts—a water color and two etchings hang in my den, and he was a fine composer, too. But he left very little property behind, and that was seized by federal agents a few hours after his funeral, to be auctioned to pay his income tax.