Victor Varconi — A Man Who Kept His Head (1926) 🇺🇸

March 06, 2023

Mr. Varconi has studied himself to such a degree that he has developed a technique which permits a frictionless performance. He is never abnormal; he is never strenuous in his gestures; he never uses exaggerated facial expressions. His is the art of repression developed to a fine degree. His acting is smooth — always of the mind, never of the body."

by William H. McKegg

Thus spake the great De Mille, a little more than two years ago, after Victor Varconi had quietly appeared at the old Lasky lot on Vine Street, and commenced work in "Triumph." That a leading director should say such things about a newcomer, whom nobody in Hollywood knew anything about, was surprising.

One day, about that time, while Varconi and I were lunching together at a little Hungarian restaurant on the Boulevard, we talked of certain: other foreign stars whose previous approach to the film Mecca had been announced with great fanfares of publicity.

"I want to make a place for myself through my own merits," Varconi slowly stated, in his well-modulated voice. "If I don't do so right now, I shall eventually. Too much publicity before you have shown what you can do makes the public expect more than an actor can sometimes give. It is not always his fault, either, that this is so. The first parts assigned him might not appeal to the majority. I would rather rise up from secondary roles than fall down to them."

Now any film actor will tell you that, next to gaining your first chance in pictures the hardest thing in the entire business is to win the role that will get you over to the fans. Valentino "got over" in The Four Horsemen. John Gilbert "got over" in Mrs. Glyn's pictures. And thus it goes. Although Varconi won notice in that first film with De Mille and in various pictures that followed, he somehow just did not "get over."

Instead of growling at Hollywood for not recognizing an actor when she had one, Varconi bided his time. He always uses his mind, reasoning things out — and by this method, whatever he wants, he usually gets! I always found him a most congenial chap, rather reluctant, though, to speak about himself in a personal manner. I always had to take him unawares, and it never did to show too keen an interest.

Occasionally, various events in his earlier life used to float to me across a lunch table, through a haze of cigarette smoke — vignettes piercing the nebulous veil of the past. If the smoke became too thin, Varconi could see how intently I was listening. Laughing, he would branch from talking about himself and ask me what I intended doing the following day.

What I found out, from time to time, was this:

A few years before the war, a young boy in Budapest, walking home from school, often passed the famous National Theater. This smiling, dark haired, dark-eyed youth, answering to the name of Varkonyi, was soon to leave the gymnasium and start on a career.

He had reached that adolescent age which makes young boys want either to write poetry, run away from home and go to sea, fall in love, or — and this is what he wanted — to act! This desire to act obsessed Varconi's mind so much that he then and there vowed that he would act — at the National Theater, too!

His father heard the sad news. To act? How stupid! No, our Victor would join the large insurance company in Budapest. He would be a very lucky boy to have such a position, as it took influence to get into such a big firm.

Now, as the old story goes, Victor should then have decamped and joined some obscure theatrical troupe. Well, he didn't. His mental reserve alwa)'s served him well. Leaving school, he did enter the insurance company, as his parents wished — but kept his own desires still in mind.

Several months later, some officials of his company gave a banquet. Varconi appeared in a one-act play and proved to be the hit of the evening. He was inundated with that old, tempting, deluding question — "Why don't you go onto the stage?"

Which was the greatest desire of his young life. And if Varconi had not reasoned things out in his mind according to his custom, he might have thrown up his position and started on a vague search for a vaguer chance on the stage. Instead, he realized he knew very little about the theater or about acting. He would learn! His mind won again. So a few nights every week found him studying dramatic art at the Sfinmuveszeti Academi — a place similar to the Sargent School of Dramatic Art in New York.

A student had to go through a three-year course at the academy before he was allowed to play even a small part. Varconi, however, did so well that, after his second year, he was given a contract to play at the First Province Theater at Kolozsvar — a city then in Hungary, now rechristened Klausenburg and belonging to Roumania. Instead of soliciting big commissions for the insurance company, Victor now began to win the notice of the public by his splendid acting.

Finally, he realized his boyhood dream. He was admitted into the First National Theater in Budapest — the desired goal of every Hungarian actor. During the two years following his debut, he ran the gamut of Shaw, Molnar, Ibsen, and others.

Then the war swept over Europe. Varconi spent the next three years in the army.

Following the armistice, he returned to the stage; but he met some one who slightly distracted his mind from his work. This disturbance was personified in the person of beautiful Nusi Avanyossy, a brilliant young singer of musical-comedy fame in the Hungarian capital.

Handsome, dashing young nobles courted her in vain. They would place, so they said, the world at her feet. Varconi, looking on, remained aloof; yet he seemed to be the favored one — whom young Nusi could rely on as a real friend.

The first revolution broke out, dethroning the late Emperor of Austria-Hungary. It was a dangerous time for all. While most of the nobility were seeking escape to save their own skins, our Victor thought only of protecting the girl he loved. In spite of Bela Khan and other revolutionists, he offered Nusi his heart and name. They were happily married and remain so to this day.

The stage was, for a time, disorganized. Picture studios were opening up once more. Varconi had already made a couple of films in his own country. The famous Ufa company in Berlin was preparing to make a version of "Camille" for Pola Negri. Varconi, offered the role of Armand, accepted it. The picture, brought to America because of the tremendous reclame Pola achieved in "Passion," was retitled "The Red Peacock." In spite of its demerits, Varconi gained notice, winning praise from the American critics. He later appeared in the spectacular production, "Sodom and Gomorrah," which was brought here from Vienna. Against its many handicaps, Varconi once more won credit for his acting. And then it was that he was offered a contract by Cecil De Mille to come here and play in Triumph.

Shortly afterward, De Mille severed his connection with Paramount to form his own company. In the meantime, while waiting for the new company to operate, Varconi accepted an offer to make a picture in Italy, "The Last Days of Pompeii," and sailed back to Europe as quietly as he had come. But he had made a deep impression, for many fans started asking what had become of him. They know where he is now, for De Mille's faith in Varconi's ability was rewarded when the latter returned to Hollywood and gave such a splendid performance in The Volga Boatman, as Prince Dimitri. He had found the role that "got him over!"

It was one Sunday, while spending the morning at Varconi's home — a picturesque place halfway up the foothills — that I recalled to him our conversation of two years ago about stars being over-publicized before they had built up a following for themselves. To-day, some of those stars we spoke of are falling out of their orbits. In contrast, Varconi, who came without any publicity, is reaching the heights.

He has been assigned one of the leading roles in The King of Kings, Cecil De Mille's next big production. He is looking forward to it with keen delight. Recently, he appeared in "Silken Shackles," with Irene Rich, and now he has been playing in a comedy, "For Wives Only." I commented on how extremely different this latter film was in type from The Volga Boatman, Silken Shackles, and the coming De Mille opus.

"Comedy appeals to me as much as drama does," he asserted. "In this comedy, I play the part of Marie Prevost's husband. I want to get different roles in every picture. I like variety in acting."

Variety is certainly easy for Victor Varconi. I do not deem myself a judge of handwriting, but in any one of Victor's letters to me, five lines of writing will reveal five different capital H's or K's — which is variety and nothing else but. His heavy downstrokes denote, I should say, determination — mental determination. And as mental reasoning has won for Victor Varconi whatever he has set out to win, so it has "got him over" to the American public, and will keep winning for him increasing popularity with the fans.