Hollywood by Garson Kanin Read Free Book Online Page B

Barrymore shit?” he said. “Who’s Mr. Barrymore, for Christ’s sweet sake? You must think I’m Lionel .”
    A laugh, but my loyal cast and crew persisted.
    Russ Metty said, “Okay, Mr. Barrymore, no shit.”
    Throughout the twenty-four days of shooting, no one called him or referred to him as anything but “Mr. Barrymore.” In a matter of days, I believe he began to think of himself as Mr. Barrymore.
    Never before had I worked with a more thorough professional. He was never late, never objected to overtime, gave everything on every take, and was totally prepared, although he insisted upon using his notorious blackboards.
    This was the one thing about his work I could not understand. I am sure he knew his part perfectly, yet he insisted upon having his man somewhere in the line of sight, holding up that blackboard.
    There were, in fact, many blackboards, in varying sizes and shapes. Large ones for the long speeches; small ones for the shorter speeches; oblong ones to fit between the lights if necessary; tiny ones for single lines.
    In these days of Teleprompters and cue cards, the blackboards would not seem unusual, but I had never seen them used.
    Barrymore’s technique for using the blackboard was ingenious. He would position himself for reading the board. Often, this occasioned spectacular turns and twists and bends; a favorite trick was to turn his head sharply as though to scratch the back of his head, thus turning his eyes to the blackboard.
    I discussed the matter with him.
    “It seems to me, Mr. Barrymore, that what you do to get the words off those boards is a hell of a lot harder than learning them.”
    He looked at me balefully and said, “I’ve learned enough words in my time. Let somebody else do it now.”
    “Shall I tell you what I think, Mr. Barrymore?” I pressed on. “I think you really know your lines perfectly, and that this is just a habit you’ve fallen into.”
    He fixed me with his hard look again, and said, “Of course I know my lines. I always do.”
    “Then why the—?”
    “Because,” he interrupted. “Have you ever been to a circus? Seen the blokes on the high wire? Even doing back flips? On the tight rope. Have you ever seen one of them fall?”
    “Of course not.”
    “Then why do you suppose they always have a net underneath them? Those blackboards are my net, that’s all.”
    One morning, as we were about to begin, my cutter came onto the set and asked if, for his convenience, I would make one small additional shot. It was simply an entrance to tie in two scenes. The whole shot would consist of a medium angle on an empty door.
    A woman comes in and knocks. The door is opened by Barrymore. She asks, “Are you Gregory Vance?” He replies, “Yes.” Whereupon she enters. That would be all.
    We set up the scene and I went off to get a cup of coffee. All at once I heard a furious row from the vicinity of the camera. As a rule, these flare-ups died out as swiftly as they began but this one continued. I went over to see what the trouble was.
    Henry, Barrymore’s blackboard man, was engaged in a violent shoving match with the principal gaffer. The assistant director was attempting to intercede, but was being threatened by the gaffer’s assistant. A free-for-all was imminent. It was only a question of who was going to throw the first punch. I heard myself yelling.
    “All right! That’s enough! Hold it! Shut up everybody ! Now cut it out !”
    I succeeded in bringing about a temporary abatement.
    “What is all this?” I asked.
    The gaffer spoke. “Listen. I’ve put up with this goddamn pest every day since we started, but enough is enough. He doesn’t have to be in here with that goddamn sliver. I need this spot for my key light and I want him the hell out of here.”
    Henry, a dignified old gentleman, said, “I know my job and I'm going to do it and no one’s going to prevent me from doing it. My job.”
    I was confused. “What job? What do you mean