The Wandering Years (1922-39)

by Cecil Beaton

  On another stage, William Powell was being extremely serious in a typical detective drama. Immaculately dressed, he sat at a desk and frowned. His cool white hands were crossed. He spoke in a rich, unctuous voice, due perhaps to the relish with which he enjoys his great success.

  While various technical gadgets were adjusted before a new take, Powell talked shop to bystanders. ‘Why is it that Barrymore is so lousy nowadays? I haven’t seen General Crack, but I hear he surpasses himself in over-acting. I suppose he’s up to his old tricks.’ An imitation of the old tricks convulses electricians and propmen with sycophantic laughter.

  Encouraged, Powell went on to discuss the interpretations of another famous actor. ‘He’s acting in an eighteenth-century play, isn’t he? I suppose that means he does the snuff business.’ There followed an imitation of snuff-taking.

  An electrician, lying in the gantry above, roared with laughter and shouted, ‘The pansy!’

  ‘Okay,’ the director bellowed. And they proceeded with the next scene.

  Anita took me to United Artists about photographing Lilian Gish.[51] But the film had been finished, and the publicity man doubted if Gish would ever make another ‘talkie’. So by witnessing peradventure, that defiant little spinster, wrapped in a squashed strawberry-coloured shawl and walking with such martial tread back to her dressing-room, I had been present at Gish’s exit from the screen world!

  What an exquisite artist! What a genius to have made her way so delicately and forcibly among such crashing vulgarity all these years. The memory of her in Orphans of the Storm is still for me a strangely intimate one. We were shown the ‘stills’ of the new Swan film and they look terrible! They have modernized the story, the fools, and I gather the picture will be a big flop.

  Later I had occasion to hear Gish’s criticism of Hollywood’s trend. ‘With the talkies stars are treated with less artistic authority. During the making of the Swan I was considered a novice, and my years in the business counted for nothing. I had thought it such an inspiring idea to call the studio United Artists. But they weren’t united or artists. I don’t want to make another talkie. I shall become a little old maid, looking after my invalid mother, going through the linen and counting the glass.’

  Someone told me about Mary Pickford’s sister, Lottie. Lottie recently married for the who-knows-what time. Her latest acquisition promptly fired the maid for revealing that he is not an undertaker, as was given out. It seems that Lottie’s new mate, behind the respectable façade of tombstones and flowers, is — a bootlegger’s delivery man! He took up the hearse to hide the bottle, on the theory that the police would have respect for the dead and not open a coffin full of five-star scotch or bathtub gin!

  Lottie’s husband isn’t the only one with ideas. Not so long ago, two nuns were arrested while driving in a car. It was useless to count their beads, as they proved to be bootlegger men in disguise, with bottles hidden beneath their habits!

  Christmas Eve in a film studio must be seen to be believed. On Wellman’s new film, we were given a demonstration of the director-genius at work. He did weird gymnastic exercises; he mouthed, gesticulated, swayed and switched coloured lights on and off. Finally he screamed, ‘All right! Stop! God, this scene is a bastard!’ The ‘bastard’ entailed much moving of cameras and sound apparatus while a pretty German spy was busy doping the hero home on leave, so that her accomplice could get hold of the secret papers.

  It was very nearly the end of the day’s work. Yuletide exaltation became exaggerated. Wild-eyed stenographers were whisked under doorways to be kissed beneath sprigs of mistletoe. One young man, a total stranger to me, rushed up and asked, ‘How are you going to spend your Christmas?’ When I said I didn’t really know, he almost shed a tear for the poor limey bum. A stenographer rushed into the room, picked up the telephone and barked, ‘Hello, you silly sucker. Merry Christmas to you!’ Then she hung up.

  The whistle blew. The studio became a scene of pandemonium as its inhabitants, laden beneath mountains of fancily wrapped packages, rushed forth like school children let out for their holidays.

  We went to a Christmas party given by a newly married couple of stars who live on the top of a hill. The bride is considered to be a woman of temperament. The bridegroom has a reputation for drinking to excess and becoming violent. There have been rumours that the marriage is already somewhat turbulent.

  Tonight, we found her handing out a plethora of smiles, displaying too many white teeth. He, too obviously on his best behaviour, wasn’t touching a drop himself, yet poured drinks for everyone else. He talked brightly and politely; he showed us the twinkling lights of Los Angeles from the balcony. He offered a brief tour of the loggia, the sun parlour, the swimming pool and the expensive indoor tennis court. Such extreme civility from a man generally known to be farouche was ominous.

  Somehow, the party missed being a success. The stars present behaved like self-conscious stars as they received and opened hundreds of presents. One movie queen lay on the floor and played with a toy tank, letting it crawl over her stomach. Lilyan Tashman continued to act the vamp off-screen, displaying an exquisite figure by taunting a fox terrier with her black lace handkerchief. She raised the handkerchief quickly out of the animal’s reach each time it leapt into the air. This pantomime continued for several minutes. The dog jumped higher and higher, barked louder and louder with a wild glint in its eyes.

  Screams ensued. ‘Well, there goes thirty dollars worth of lace!’ The exhibition had been worth it.

  Next morning we heard that the newly married couple had ended the night in a first-rate brawl. The husband rolled downhill while his wife clung fast, scratching and biting him in their communal descent.

  AIMÉE SEMPLE MACPHERSON

  Anita and I decided to join the flock and hear Sister Aimée Semple MacPherson preach in her Angelus Temple. We arrived punctually, but the enormous, vaulted building was already crowded with some three thousand people. More were fighting for admission.

  The temple would have done Santa Claus proud. Mass decorations of tinsel fringes, silver cardboard stars, frosted paper leaves and poinsettias were displayed against crimson flannel curtains. The holy tone of the proceedings was set by a representation of the domed buildings of Bethlehem framing the proscenium arch of the stage. Round the auditorium were imitation stained glass windows depicting tableaux of brothel angels.

  A hush. The curtains drew apart to reveal a cinema screen on which were projected the typewritten words of hymns. The congregation sang solemnly. Mrs MacPherson stood unobtrusively to one side of the stage, screaming at the top of her voice, jumping up and down, wildly wielding her arms or beating time on a tambourine.

  Aimée Semple even looked like a force of nature. Her horse face sported snorting nostrils and flashing teeth. To compensate for a sallow skin, she wore a bright gold wig of hair in elaborate coils and curls. She was dressed as an angel in floating white tea gown with butterfly sleeves and flowing cape. A huge silver cross was stamped upon her bosom, while on her shoulder sat a corsage of mauve orchids and lilies-of-the-valley.

  The audience appeared to be a conglomeration of all the odd faithfuls that gravitate to Los Angeles. There were doubtful old men, ambiguous widows in pince-nez, anaemic, spotty youths, sad morons, grey-haired ladies with vapid, benevolent faces, and an alarming number of sinister crackpots.

  Faces broke into life as soon as Mrs MacPherson began her performance. Warmly she shouted, ‘Who’s here for the first time tonight? Put your hands up!’ The novitiates smilingly raised their hands. ‘And who’s been here more than twice before?’ Enthusiastic hands shot up.

  First-comers had promptly to be made to feel important. ‘I want all of you here for the first time to come up on this stage. I want to hear your name. I want to hear it loud so I can shout it to the rest of the audience.’ Wild applause at that. Commands to shake hands with your neighbour and say, ‘God bless you’ filled empty lives for a brief moment.

  Aimée create
d a dynamic effect, with never a let up. Attention was being paid to the downtrodden. A feeling of pride swept through the assembled mass as every cipher realised he or she could become the centre of the stage while Aimée shook hands. Their moment had come. Old men perhaps got some sort of sexy kick out of it.

  Aimée now tapped her toes and clapped hands to the rhythm of religious jazz played through a Wurlitzer. Her voice, somewhat corn-crakey, had a great whine and a husky crack in it. She eulogised her wonderful audience through the megaphone. She directed traffic to the stage as sheep crowded through the gates of salvation. She shouted out the name of the state from which each person had come, while the rest applauded.

  Anita and I joined the procession to get a good look at Sister Aimée. By the time Aimée shook hands with us she was exhausted and mechanical. A contorted smile froze on her face. First the left hand went out to a passer-by with ‘God bless you.’ Then the right hand pumped away, ‘God bless you.’ She hurried through the queue like someone with a train to catch. When she bared her fangs at Anita she took another look, sensing an alien spirit. I tried to muster a pasteboard smile in return for the corpse-like grimace.

  Introductions over, Sister Aimée now seemed to be distracted by the radio machine in front of her: the evening’s performance was being broadcast. She paid more attention to her unseen audience than the disciples on tap.

  ‘Now, all those who have found Jesus with me — put up your hands!’ A few fingers were tentatively raised. Whereupon she yelled wholeheartedly, ‘That’s splendid! Oh, that’s fine! Why, it makes me so glad to see you all holding up your hands in this beautiful building with its dome one thousand feet high.’

  She shouted invitations for us to buy her publications. The Evangelist Times had an inspiring picture of her at the piano, composing words and music for the wonderful Christmas oratorio that had been performed for the first time and had taken two hours to be sung. Buy also Aimée’s magazines, The Bridal Call, and buy her Life Story for three dollars, and let’s have a Christmas collection now, and let’s make it a paper collection — no silver, only dollars!

  The collection renewed her vigour. Aimée preached a Christmas sermon about the nicest present she had received. It was a huge box done up with ribbons. When she untied the strings, she found her mother inside. ‘What could be nicer than having your mother sent back to you for a Christmas present?’ (Anita whispered explanation to me: Aimée and her mother had been deadly enemies of late, and the mother sued Aimée for misuse of funds collected at the Temple.)

  Aimée babbled on in an endless tirade. Each time she said ‘Jee-sus,’ it sounded like a swear word. She told about her children, and how she liked to be their equal — more of a sister than a mother. When they swam, she tried to outswim them. When they dived, she tried to dive higher. When they rode, she rode faster and farther. Now she was about to impart a secret! Her children didn’t call her ‘mother’, they called her ‘baby’. If a lot of important people came to luncheon, Aimée’s daughter leaned right across the table and said, ‘Baby darling, will you pass the salt?’

  This intimate anecdote had a purpose: ‘Baby’ introduced her son, who would now preach the second sermon of the evening. He was about sixteen years old, and terribly shy. Sister Aimée stood in the background, trying to hide her tears. She laughed with maternal pride at his jokes; she fluttered like a proud old hen. The boy confessed that he had only found ‘Jee-sus’ three weeks ago tomorrow, and therefore he couldn’t preach well because he hadn’t prayed enough. But he was going to pray hard for the Lord to make him a good preacher. The audience responded with chuckles, rounds of applause, and tumultuous cheers at the end of the sermon. Aimée rushed to kiss her son in a spontaneous outburst of affection. For the rest of the entertainment he sat with bowed head, meekly holding his Bible.

  Now for the clou of the evening: baptismal rites. ‘What a wonderful thing,’ said Sister Aimée, ‘to be baptised!’ Just sprinkling with water didn’t mean a thing! No, one had to be buried with Jee-sus, submerged, and then one would rise from the water a new person, sins all washed away!

  Crimson curtains parted to reveal a canvas representing a blazing flower garden. A tiled tank of water, with steps leading down into it from each side, had been placed in the centre of the stage. Coloured arcs went on to floodlight the proceedings. Sister Aimée screamed, ‘Get ready to watch the baptisms!’

  Aimée, having donned a long-sleeved shift, walked down into the tank. The water came up to her waist. One of her male disciples, wearing collar, bow tie and similar shift, joined her in the bath. Together in their shifts, they received each convert to the amazing ritual. A fat and plain young girl walked into the tank. Aimée and her assistant took the poor sinner by the arms. ‘This is Natica Cramp. She found Jee-sus three days ago. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.’ Down went the fat girl under the water. Aimée held aloft the girl’s right arm, though her head was still submerged. At last the redeemed one struggled to the surface. Spluttering and trembling, she staggered out of the tank.

  ‘Next, please!’ The procession was so outrageous that Anita and I had to hold our breath and pinch one another to keep from laughing. A grey-haired old hag tottered into the holy pool and was given the most appalling ducking. Brothers and sisters were dunked together. One white-haired grandmother croaked into the microphone, ‘I’m now going to be buried with Jee-sus.’ Aimée shouted, ‘Isn’t that beautiful?’ The grandmother very nearly got her wish. Old men followed. They, too, were submerged longer than a pearl diver.

  Then came the spell-binding finale. A cripple was brought into the glowing arc lights on an invalid chair. Aimée squalled, ‘Isn’t she brave? Give the courageous little girl a big hand!’ Everyone cheered and chair and girl got dunked. The cripple’s hair, a moment ago so fluffy and curled, was now lank. Aimée apologised that tonight there were only forty baptisms. Next Thursday, which would be New Year’s Day, she expected a hundred and fifty people to hold their breath. This was just what Anita and I had been doing during most of the evening’s performance.

  A HOLLYWOOD WEDDING

  We had to be on time for Bessie Love’s wedding. I felt spruce in my evening tails, with a gardenia in the buttonhole. It was the first time I’d worn the thing since we arrived in Hollywood.

  A large and excited crowd waited outside the church. Inside, the aisle had been decorated with gilded baskets of pink gladioli tied by yards of pink tulle. A woman in surplice and cap sang semi-religious love songs while the congregation assembled. ‘Kiss me again,’ she pleaded. The organ throbbed and made fluty noises. The congregation consisted almost entirely of cinema folk, including a number of cutters, photographers and electricians.

  The stars, as befitting them, arrived late. Lilyan Tashman, with an escort of eight or nine vaguely louche young men, looked ever so ladylike in a chinchilla cape. Her scrambled-egg curls were done in a Greek fashion. Anita obligingly whispered the names of those I might not know or recognise. Mae Murray, with painted pout and daffodil-yellow hair, was a miracle of agelessness in spite of being a grandmother. She looked a fat, dimpled cherub in a Kate Greenaway dress of silver lace. She chirped away to her sweating, long-haired husband, Prince Mdivani. Other celebrities came in waves. ‘Hedda Hopper,’ Anita hissed in my ear. ‘Cecil B. DeMille and family. Jetta Goudal.’

  Not to be outdone, I whispered back, ‘William Powell, one hundred percent peach-fed. And a very self-conscious Ronald Colman.’

  ‘There’s Louella Parsons,’ Anita countered. ‘She’s the most important columnist in Hollywood. That’s Laura La Plante. This is Pauline Stark.’

  Excited screams could be heard from the crowd outside, heralding the arrival of the bride. The organist was having the time of his life, pulling out all stops. The air vibrated with thunderous fanfare.

  One by one, at intervals of six yards, the bridesmaids moved up the aisle with jerky, funereal pace. And what bridesmaids! Divorcees and mothers alternated with famous s
tars, all wearing large hats and flower-trimmed crinolines. Rather naively, I still believed that most bridesmaids were virgins. But perhaps they realised they couldn’t find enough; so the retinue had been culled from the bride’s friends, both married women and divorcees. Norma Shearer crept towards the altar, looking chiselled from alabaster. Her unseeing eyes stared out of a flawlessly complexioned face. Bébé Daniels, once a Mack Sennett bathing beauty and now a big star, walked behind Blanche Sweet, the maid of honour.

  Here comes the rock-pippet bride! Bessie Love entered on the arm of her very proud and over-dressed father. She wore a shroud of white tulle and looked like a terrified bird. Bessie radiated love.

  The ceremony was short and sweet, performed by an affected minister. The bridal couple walked down the aisle towards an hysterical crowd outside.

  Scuffles ensued. By the time most of the guests had reached the church door, complete chaos had broken loose. The police were outnumbered, the pavement littered with the shattered glass of photographic bulbs. Two old painted twins, dressed identically and looking like demon schoolmistresses gone wrong, assaulted Ronald Colman. ‘Oh, please sign this, Mr Colman!’ Mr Colman obliged. ‘Oh, Mr Colman, we want to tell you what a great personal success you are in Hong Kong. We loved Bulldog Drummond, and our hearty congratulations on your performance in Condemned.’

  The wedding reception was held at the Ambassador Hotel. Anita tugged me in Mae Murray’s direction. She had read in a newspaper that ‘while in Hollywood Mae Murray was going to make a film and lecture on Universal Peace.’ ‘Auntie Mae,’ Anita asked, ‘what do you have to say about Universal Peace?’