Elliott Dexter — Women I Have Loved (1918) 🇺🇸

I am now making myself out “the worst man of all” for I have kissed and I’m going to tell about it.

by Elliott Dexter

Why not? My wife, Marie Doro, knows the worst already. That is, I think she knows the worst; but she says that if I’m speaking of my pictures, she doesn’t know the worst. She thinks that they’re all bad enough. And I am speaking of my pictures. It is of the reel kisses I am going to tell: the real ones must remain forever shrouded in secrecy.

How real are reel kisses? I wonder if there is a leading man on earth who hasn’t had that question fired at him some time or other? Probably not.

The usual answer is that they are not real at all. Of course, they are not. But I decided at the beginning of this story, autobiography, or whatever you wish to call it, that I would tell the truth, the near-truth and nothing much that was not the truth, so I feel in duty bound to confess that while my love-making in the pictures is not real, I can do it very much better when the star’s husband — if she has a husband — and my wife, are not on the set.

From the beginning of my picture work, I wanted to play with my wife. When Marie Doro started making her first picture, I did all that I could to get into the cast. No one knew of our marriage at that time but we were separated anyway. I was put into the cast of “Helene of the North” and made love to Marguerite Clark. I remember very little about the picture and, I’m afraid, even less about Miss Clark. I know in a vague way that she was very charming and that I made quite ardent love, but I was on my honeymoon and my mind was so full of Mrs. Dexter that I doubt whether I ever saw Miss Clark at all. Why, the other day when I was asked about the color of Marguerite Clark’s eyes, I couldn’t even remember whether she was a blonde or a brunette. Such is love!

When I was playing opposite Mae Murray, after I went to California, I was able to observe the same phenomenon at first hand. Miss Murray was on her honeymoon. After long and careful consideration, I have concluded that during the making of the picture she really did see me once or twice — when the director called her attention to me. For the most part, though, she didn’t know I was there.

After Marguerite Clark, I made love to Hazel Dawn. She was the first of a long series of blondes. The picture was “The Masqueraders” and I have forgotten what it was my wife didn’t like about my work in it. However, I am certain that there was something. She wanted me to quit pictures.

From the first, Mrs. Dexter had insisted that I didn’t belong in pictures and ought not to stay in them. I was feeling it too, and so lovely Lillian Gish, my third sweetheart, will always be associated with some of the most miserable hours I have ever spent. But Miss Gish is charming.

My wife went with me to see the picture. It was “Daphne and the Pirate.” We sat there together in that darkened theater and as I watched myself work I felt decidedly sick. Marie was suffering also. Now and then, shed murmur, “O-o-o-o” or “M-m-m-m — awful! Elliott, you must quit pictures!”

After the show, I told Mrs. Dexter to go home while I took a walk. That was in New York. I walked for four hours and I don’t know when I have gone through as much mental suffering. I even had visions of how nice and cool the East river would be. So, you see that my third love affair almost drove me to a wet, wet end.

No “poetically” speaking, the life of a leading man is not all sunshine and roses. He has his dark moments and his thorns just like everyone else.

Frequently, one who sees an actor make love to some particularly beautiful feminine star, is likely to murmur to his companion, “I wish I had that fellow’s job” or “Gee, does he get paid for that?” when all the chances are that “that fellow” has little individual troubles all his own. And while I am on the subject of individual troubles and disagreeable moments, let me suggest that any married man pause a minute and imagine what it would be like to sit beside his wife while she watches him making love to another woman.

My fourth picture was “Diplomacy.” I had played opposite Marie in the play and so when the picture was put on I was given my first film chance to make professional love to my wife. The picture was made at Palm Beach and because no one knew that we were “newly weds” we had a perfect honeymoon.

Followed, “The Heart of Norah Flinn,” which was the first picture we made in California, “Won and Lost.” “The Lash,” and “Castles for Two,” all with Marie Doro the star, and myself her leading man. It was thrilling. Of all my sweethearts, I think that the most baffling is Blanche Sweet. It’s difficult to get really acquainted with her. She talks very little during scenes and not at all between them. When she isn’t working she is usually sitting over in some quiet corner reading a book. Irene Castle is just the opposite. She would much rather sing and dance than worry about her scenes. On the quiet, after hearing her sing a few notes I concluded that she certainly was a great dancer.

Seriously, another hour or two of uncomfortable moments I have spent, was caused by my having to dance with her in a scene. I felt indescribably awkward because I was so conscious of her being such a wonderful dancer.

Another thing about Mrs. Castle is that she is generous and kind always. There is nothing she wouldn’t do to help one she found in need. In that way, she is like Alice Brady.

I loved Alice Brady, too — (On the screen, of course) — Of her, I can say that a list of those she supports would read like the report of a charity organization. She has one of the finest, biggest hearts in the world.

So, too, has “America’s Sweetheart” who was my sweetheart for one picture: “The Romance of the Redwoods.”

Mary Pickford absolutely captivated me as she does everyone who goes near her. Her genius, her brilliancy, her charm, her beauty — oh, what’s the use? All of that has only been said two or three thousand times more or less and all of it is true.

When I went back to New York, I took all the photographs I could find of Miss Pickford along with me and decorated the mantelpiece in the bedroom with them. Later, I came in and found my wife looking at them. Not only that, but she was trying to count them. I needed no further hint that moderation was in order. All but a reasonable number came down immediately.

Another screen sweetheart of mine is Margaret Illington. She was very nervous and very unhappy. Like almost everyone who comes from the stage to the screen, she found everything different and strange and took everything too seriously. It must have been the most trying experience of her career.

I know that there is a widespread impression that the stage star, just starting in picture work, looks down on the films and despises them. I have found the contrary to be true. Instead of looking down on the camera, the stage star is usually afraid of it. Unless you have gone through the experience, you can hardly imagine how terrible it is to see yourself on the screen for the first time when you have been accustomed to hearing your own voice and to picturing the effect you are making on an audience. Then to sit and watch yourself and find that gestures which would have looked all right on the stage appear clumsy and false; and that you not only don’t look the way you thought you were going to look, or even as you really are, but that all your little faults and mannerisms have been brought out and exaggerated by the camera until you lose track of any good points your work may have and see only the bad ones.

When she saw herself, Margaret Illington, like many another star, cried all the time.

Elsie Ferguson, on the contrary, enjoys picture work though she too takes it very seriously. I played the part of her artist-lover in “The Rise of Jennie Cushing.” Mrs. Dexter liked the picture. She wired me that she thought Elsie was fine.

An interesting thing about The Rise of Jennie Cushing is that at first we ended it with Jennie’s refusal to go back to her lover, which was the logical ending and had the additional merit of being the end of the book. But I knew and said at the time that art or no art, the public would never stand for it. But the “Sad” ending was insisted on and later I was given a good opportunity to say “I told you so” with my fingers in my armholes and everything. For after I had made another picture and while I was on my way to New York, they caught me on the train and brought me back to finish the picture with a love scene, it simply had to be done.

Elsie Ferguson is wholly charming and our love scenes were never made difficult by her husband, Mr. Thomas Clark, who is a New York banker. He came to the studio just once. Then he stood there and talked to us only until a scene was called when he promptly said “Excuse me” walked over to a corner and stood with his face to the wall.

“What’s the idea?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said, “I promised Elsie that I wouldn’t watch a single scene being taken and I’m going to keep my word.”

He did.

I certainly appreciated the Clark viewpoint when I started making “The Eternal Temptress” with Mme. Cavalieri [Lina Cavalieri]. Her husband, M. Muratore [Lucien Muratore], insisted on being present during all of her scenes and objected often and long.

Unlike Mrs. Castle, Mme. Cavalieri never thought of singing between the scenes. Instead, she talked Italian to me all the time in spite of the fact that she knew I couldn’t understand a word.

Not all of my screen love affairs have ended with an engagement ring; I have been married a number of times. In Helene of the North, I married Marguerite Clark at the point of a gun and afterwards got shot for it, and I married Lillian Gish in the picture that almost drove me to the East river, but one of the strangest experiences I have ever had was when I married Kathlyn Williams in The Whispering Chorus.

The wedding took place in Christ Episcopal Church, Los Angeles, and the Rev. Baker P. Lee the rector of that church, directed. It was all so realistic that I almost said officiated. Because he wanted it to be realistic, Mr. De Mille [Cecil B. deMille or William C. de Mille] sent invitations to the affair and the church was crowded. A list of those present was published in the society columns of the Los Angeles papers. There were famous players from all the studios and any number of distinguished people from Los Angeles and Pasadena. Before the thing was over I felt like a bigamist. Charlie Eyton [Charles F. Eyton], Miss William’s husband, was there, to see that the ceremony was not too realistic. In fact Mr. Eyton was best man, and I had to use his wife’s real wedding ring for the scene. He kicked a little at this but finally gave in. We even had the little choir boys — nothing was missing to make it look like a real wedding.

Dr. Lee proved himself to be a good director. I don’t mind admitting that the solemnity of the scene and surroundings rather got on my nerves. I felt very uncomfortable and, to hide it, began joking with Miss Williams and cutting up generally. As soon as Dr. Lee noticed it, he didn’t hesitate a moment in calling me down.

“Try and remember,” he said severely, “that you are forty-two years old, a Governor of this state, and that you are taking a very serious step: you should act accordingly.”

The wedding in The Whispering Chorus seemed very much more serious to me than my real wedding, which was a very quiet one.

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With Marguerite Clark in “Helene of the North”

“Irene Castle would much rather sing and dance than worry about her scenes.”

Photo by: Fred Hartsook (1876–1930)

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“Of all my sweethearts, I think that the most baffling is Blanche Sweet.”

“In ‘Diplomacy’ I had my first film chance to make love to my wife.”

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“Mary Pickford — ‘America’s sweetheart’ — was my sweetheart in A Romance of the Redwoods. She captivated me as she does everyone.”

“I loved Alice Brady, too — on the screen, of course.”

“Mme. Cavalieri talked me all Italian to the time.”

Photo by: Herman Mishkin (1870–1948)

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“The Wedding in The Whispering Chorus with Kathlyn Williams seemed more serious to me than my own wedding.”

“I played Elsie Ferguson’s artist-lover in “The Rise of Jennie Cushing.”

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Collection: Photoplay Magazine, May 1918

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The pictures which Elliott Dexter makes from now on should please him. For by his new contract he is permitted the entire responsibility of choosing his story, his director and his cast, and anything else which is necessary to his productions. His first picture under this Utopian arrangement is “The Way Men Love.” And Mildred Harris is the leading lady of his choosing

Photo by: Walter Fredrick Seely (1886–1959), L. A.

Collection: Motion Picture Magazine, February 1924