Laugh and Live Part 9

William A. Brady got him next. Mr. Brady is quite a dynamo himself, and there was also a time in his life when he managed James J. Corbett. The two fell into each other's arms with a cry of joy, and for seven years they touched off dramatic explosions that strewed fat actors all over the landscape and tore miles of scenery into ribbons.

"Some boy!" was Mr. Brady's tribute. "Put him in a death scene, and he'd find a way to break the furniture."

There was never a part that "Doug" Fairbanks lay down on. To every role he brought joy and interest and enthusiasm, and the night came inevitably that saw his name in electric letters.

It is not claimed that his work as a star "elevated" the drama, but it may safely be claimed that he never appeared in any play that was not wholesome, stimulating, and helpful.

Nothing was more natural than that the movies should seek such an actor, and they set the trap with attractive bait.

"Come over to us," they said, "and we'll let you do anything you want.

Outside of poison gas and actual murder, the sky's the limit."

Without even waiting to kick off his shoes, "Doug" Fairbanks made a dive.

The movie magnates got what they wanted, and Fairbanks got what he wanted. For the first time in his life he was able to "let go" with all the force of his dynamic individuality, and he took full advantage of the opportunity.

In "The Lamb," his first adventure before the camera, he let a rattlesnake crawl over him, tackled a mountain lion, jiu-jitsued a bunch of Yaqui Indians until they bellowed, and operated a machine-gun.

In "His Picture in the Papers," he was called upon to run an automobile over a cliff, engage in a grueling six-round go with a professional pugilist, jump off an Atlantic liner and swim to the distant sh.o.r.e, mix it up in a furious battle royal with a half dozen husky gunmen, leap twice from swiftly moving trains, and also to resist arrest by a squad of Jess Willards dressed up in police uniforms.

"The Half-Breed" carried him out to California, and, among other things, threw him into the heart of a forest fire that had been carefully kindled in the redwood groves of Calaveras County. Amid a rain of burning pine tufts, and with great branches falling to the ground all around him, "Douggie" was required to dash in and save the gallant sheriff from turning into a cinder. Hair and eyelashes grew out again, however, his blisters healed, and in a few days he was as good as new.

"The Habit of Happiness" was rich in stunts that would have made even Battling Nelson turn to tatting with a sigh of relief. Five gangsters, sicked on to their work by the villain, waylaid our hero on the stairs, and in the rough-and-tumble that followed, it was his duty to beat each and every one of them into a state of coma. He performed his task so conscientiously that his hands were swollen for a week, not to mention his eyes and nose. As for the five extra men who posed as the gangsters, all came to the conclusion that dock-walloping was far less strenuous than art, and went back to their former jobs.

"The Good Bad Man" was a Western picture that contained a thrill to every foot of film. Our hero galloped over mountains, jumping from crag to crag, held up an express train single-handed in order to capture the conductor's ticket-punch, grappled with gigantic desperadoes every few minutes, shot up a saloon, and was dragged around for quite a while at the end of a lynching party's rope.

"Reggie Mixes In" was one joyous round of a.s.sault and battery from beginning to end. Happening to fall in love with a dancer in a Bowery cabaret, _Reggie_ puts family and fortune behind him and takes a job as "bouncer" so as to be near his lady-love. Aside from his regular duties, he is required to work overtime on account of the hatred of a gang-leader who also loves the girl. Five scoundrels jump _Reggie_, and, after manhandling four, he drops from a second-story window to the neck of the fifth, and chokes him with hands and legs. After which he carries the senseless wretch down the street, and gaily flicks him, as it were, through a window at the villain's feet. As a tasty little finish, _Reggie_ and his rival lock themselves in an empty room, and engage in a contest governed by packing-house rules.

Three days after the combat, by the way, the company heads were pleased to announce that both men were out of danger unless blood-poisoning set in.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Here's Hoping!_ (_White Studio_)]

"The Mystery of the Leaping Fish" was what is known as a "water picture," and "Doug," as a comedy detective, was compelled to make a human submarine of himself, not to mention several duels in the dark with j.a.panese thugs and opium smugglers.

"Another day of it," he grinned, "and I'd have grown fins."

"Manhattan Madness" was really nothing more than St. Vitus's dance set to ragtime. Our hero climbed up eaves-pipes, plunged through trap-doors down into dungeons, jumped from the roof of a house into a tree, kicked his way in and out of secret closets, and engaged in hair-raising combats with desperate villains every few minutes.

It is not only the case that "Doug" Fairbanks made good with the movie fans. What is more to the point, he made good with the "bunch" itself.

In nine cases out of ten, the "legitimate" star, going over into pictures, evades and avoids the "rough stuff." To some humble, hardy "double" is a.s.signed the actual work of falling off the cliff, riding at full speed across granite hedges, taking a good hard punch in the nose, or plunging from the top of the burning building.

Many an honest cowpuncher, taking his girl to the show with him to let her see what a daredevil he is, has died the death upon discovering that he was merely "doubling" for some cow-eyed hero who lacked the nerve to do the stunt himself.

"Doug" Fairbanks is one of the few movie heroes who have never had a "double." He asks no man to do that which he is afraid to do himself. No fall is too hard for him, no fight too furious, no ride too dangerous.

There is not a single one of his pictures in which he hasn't taken a chance of breaking his neck or his bones; but, as one bronco-buster observed, "He jes' licks his lips an' asks for more."

To be sure, few actors have brought such super-physical equipment to the strenuous work of the movies. Fairbanks, in addition to being blessed with a strong, lithe body, has developed it by expert devotion to every form of athletic sport. He swims well, is a crack boxer, a good polo player, a splendid wrestler, a skilful acrobat, a fast runner, and an absolutely fearless rider.

There is never a picture during the progress of which he does not interpolate some sudden bit of business as the result of his quick wit and dynamic enthusiasm. In one play, for instance, he was supposed to enter a house at sight of his sweetheart beckoning to him from an upper window. As he pa.s.sed up the steps, however, his roving eye caught sight of the porch railing, a window-ledge, and a balcony, and in a flash he was scaling the facade of the house like any cat.

In another play he was trapped on the roof of a country home. Suddenly Fairbanks, disregarding the plan of retreat indicated by the author, gave a wild leap into a near-by maple, managed to catch a bough, and proceeded to the ground in a series of convulsive falls that gave the director heart-failure.

During "The Half-Breed" picture, some of the action took place about a fallen redwood that had its great roots fully twenty feet into the air.

"Climb up on top of those roots, Doug," yelled the director.

Instead of that, "Douggie" went up to a young sapling that grew at the base of the fallen tree. Bending it down to the ground, as an archer bends his bow, he gave a sudden spring, and let the tough birch catapult him to the highest root.

"What do you want me to do now?" he grinned.

"Come back the same way," grinned the director.

Most "legitimate" actors--the valuation is their own--find the movies rather dull. Time hangs very heavily upon their hands. As one remarked to me in tones that were thick with a divine despair: "There's absolutely nothing for a chap to do. In lots of the G.o.d-forsaken holes they drag you to, there isn't even a hotel. No companionship, no diversion of any kind, and oftentimes no bathtubs."

Douglas Fairbanks enters no such complaint. He draws upon the energy and interest that ought to be in every human being, and when entertainment is not in sight, he goes after it. When they were making "The Half-Breed" pictures in the Carquinez woods of Northern California, he was never seen around the camp except when actually needed by the camera man. Upon his return from these absences, it was noticed that his hands were usually bleeding, and his clothing stained and torn.

"What in the name of mischief have you been doing now?" the director demanded on a day when Fairbanks's wardrobe was almost a total loss.

"Trappin'," chirped the star.

Beating about the woods, Bret Harte in hand, he had managed to discover an old woodsman who still held to the ancient industries of his youth.

The trapper's specialty was "bob cats," and the bleeding hands and torn clothes came from "Doug's" earnest efforts to handle the "varmints" just as his venerable preceptor handled them. Out of the experience, at least, he brought an intimate knowledge of field, forest, and stream, for over the fire and in their walks he had pumped the old man dry.

In the same way he made "The Good Bad Man" hand him over everything of value that frontier life contained. The picture was taken out in the Mohave desert; for the making of it the director had scoured the West for riders and ropers and cowboys of the old school. "He men"--every one of them, and for a time they looked with dislike and suspicion upon the "star," but when they saw that Fairbanks did not ask for any "double,"

and took the hardest tumble with a grin, they received him into their fellowship with a heartfelt yell.

Dull in the Mohave desert? Why, he had to sit up nights to keep even with his engagements. From one man he learned bronco-busting, from another fancy roping, and from others all that there is to know about horses, cattle, mountain, and plain. And around the camp-fires he got stories of the winning of the West such as never found their way into histories.

When one picture called for jiu-jitsu work, he didn't rest satisfied with learning just enough to "get by." Every spare moment found him in a clinch with the j.a.panese expert, mastering every secret, perfecting himself in every hold. Same way with boxing. When no pugilists came handy, he put on the gloves with anyone willing to take chances on a black eye, keeping at it until today they have to hire professionals when he figures in a movie fight.

When they made a "water" picture he never stopped until he could duplicate every trick known to the "professor" who drilled the extra men. He took advantage of a biplane flight to make friends with the aeronaut, and by the time the picture was done, he was as good a driver as the expert.

No matter where he is, or what the job, he finds something of interest because he goes upon the theory that every minute is meant to be lived.

Maroon him at a cross-roads, with five hours until train time, and he'd have the operator's first name in ten minutes and be learning the Morse alphabet, after which he would rush up to his new friend's house to see the babies or to pa.s.s judgment on a Holstein calf or a Black Minorca brood.

It is the tremendously human quality, more than anything else, that gets him across. People like him because he likes them. He attracts interest because he takes interest. Talk with any of the big men in the motion-picture industry, that is, those with brains and education, and they will tell you that personality counts more in pictures than it does on the stage.

H.B. Aitken, president of the Triangle Film Corporation, said to me: "The screen is intimate. The camera brings the actor right into your lap. In the speaking drama, make-up and footlights change and hide, but not the least flicker of expression is lost in the picture. It's a test of real-ness, and it takes a real man or a real woman to stand it. Art isn't the thing at all, nor do looks count for half as much as people suppose. It's what's back of the art and the looks that makes the hit, and if they haven't got _something_, the artist and the beauty don't last long. We picked Douglas Fairbanks as a likely film star, not on account of his stunts, as the majority think, but because of the splendid humanness that fairly oozed out of him."

[Ill.u.s.tration: A Close-Up (Lumiere)]

When he isn't before the camera, or fooling with an airship or a motor, or playing with children, or "gettin' acquainted" with a tramp or a trapper, or practising stunts with a rope or a horse, young Mr.

Fairbanks fills in his spare time writing scenarios. As everyone knows, the motion-picture drama has been a tawdry thing for the most part--either a rehash of old stage plays, novels, and short stories, or else mediocre "originalities" that epitomized ba.n.a.lity. Young Mr.

Fairbanks dissented from the established custom from the very start.

"It's all wrong," he declared. "We've got to stand on our own feet.

Develop your own dramatists!"