The disposition of the movie actors on Broadway is to pile the guilt of every movie scandal that has occurred since the beginning of time upon Fatty’s robust shoulders and let him sink.
I was amused, however, when “Pathe” Lehrmann rushed into the New York papers after the killing and raved for a couple of columns upon the deplorable condition of Fatty’s morals in relation to women. It seems that “Pathe” was engaged to the deceased young lady. He is now Owen Moore’s director at a studio in this city.
Among the several things, that “Pathe” says about Fatty Arbuckle is that Fatty used to clean spittoons in Arizona. “This,” remarks “Pathe” witheringly, “Is what happens when we take people out of the gutter and make them millionaires.”
Well, maybe so; maybe so. But I have a distinct recollection of “Pathe” Lehrmann before he got into the Rolls-Royce class.
In an east side lodging house, Lehrmann is not so very convincing as the one to stare coldly at Fatty across the cold chasm of class inferiority.
As far as Fatty Arbuckle goes—Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him well! He is neither the frightful monster painted by the agitated Herr Lehrmann, nor yet the “clear white inside” person described by the emotional ex-husband of Miss Harris.
Fatty is an ignorant fat boy with a natural impulse to be funny. As a clown, he is there a million. As a millionaire, he is about as convincing as a louse on the shoulders of a decollette heiress. He just doesn’t belong there.
As to the spittoons of the Arizona saloon, well, somebody had to clean ’em. I hope he cleaned them well.
It was Fatty’s misfortune that he was not able to hush up his scandal as the scandal of Zelda Crosby was hushed up recently in New York.