Franchot Tone Thaws (1935) 🇺🇸
Mr. Tone takes the trouble to explode the legend which says that he is grim, aloof and sardonic by proving to be amiable and mildly humorous. But you have to know him more than casually before his lurking friendliness comes to the surface.
by Madeline Glass
Contrary to popular belief, a studio set is not usually dramatic or glamorous. Strange and fantastic, yes; like a masquerade party gone askew. My original contention in the matter was recently sustained by a visit to an MGM set where Reckless was in the throes of production.
My presence was for the purpose of talking with Franchot Tone, conspicuous member of the cast. The prospect of meeting Mr. Tone, after hearing on all sides of his general haughtiness, even downright disagreeableness, had so affected my nervous system that I had been unable to eat lunch.
Mid-afternoon found me waiting glumly on the set in a great warehouse type of building where distant corners were lost in gloomy shadows, and where an acre of cold concrete flooring was largely buried under scenery, cables, scaffolding, temporary dressing rooms, horse stalls, with their logical occupants, and all the paraphernalia necessary to the making of pictures.
Many small men, in gay jockey garb, sat about, for Reckless contains a race-track sequence. Jack Mulhall, former star, was doing extra work. Likewise Barbara Worth, whom you may remember. Jean Harlow flitted about, her ivory-colored hair contrasting strongly with her saffron-coated skin. Through the open door of a dressing room William Powell could be seen lying on a couch.
At a distance the much-discussed Franchot was rehearsing a scene over and over. Due to such obstructions as a few hundred extras and studio employees, to say nothing of towering wood and steel constructions, I was unable to see more of him than his feet.
Of the many stories which I have heard and read concerning this actor, none has been of a particularly endearing nature. Prefaced by such adjectives as grim, aloof, and sardonic, they have described his uncooperative attitude toward interviewers, his defiance of directors, and his general contempt of nearly everything Hollywood. Remembering, also, his socially prominent background, his Cornell education, his Theater Guild dramatic training, and his European travels, it seemed quite possible that a youth so favored by the gods should be unable to understand or make allowance for provincialities out where the Pacific begins.
Well, there was nothing for it but to make the best of a disagreeable interview, which I had decided to call “The Man Who Plays God.” At last the scene was shot to the satisfaction of Victor Fleming, and Franchot was led up and introduced.
“It seems impossible that a picture can ever evolve out of all this noise and confusion,” I remarked.
“It isn’t confusion to us,” said Franchot, amiably. “We understand the reasons for everything. That makes a great difference.”
A slight, thin-lipped smile hovers on the Tone façade. He appears much the same as on the screen — slender, urbane, and rather surprisingly juvenile. An assortment of smallish features surround a pair of nice hazel eyes.
“Do you expect to remain in pictures indefinitely?” I asked.
“No, I’ll return to the theater. I like picture work, but I can do better acting on the stage. There’s more opportunity to create characterizations in a medium where one studies and rehearses a role for weeks. Pictures are made too rapidly for one to get a genuine understanding of the part one plays. Too much is left to chance. On the stage a role is developed gradually. In the end one has a complete characterization. “Then, as you know, an actor isn’t typed on the stage as he is in pictures. I’ve played too many man-about-town roles since coming to Hollywood. Perhaps I look the part of a playboy, but I want to do characters similar to those played by Spencer Tracy. He’s a fine actor.”
All this affability and responsiveness didn’t correspond to my preconceived portrait of him. Remembering items I had heard regarding his behavior during the making of Lives of a Bengal Lancer, I decided to hurl a javelin that would shake his well-bred composure and expose his true colors. During the making of that picture, Franchot is said to have unleashed a volley of temperament that stood the production staff on their respective ears.
“Is it true, Mr. Tone,” I asked, “that directors age perceptibly while directing you?”
His ready smile deepened and he showed no sign of resentment.
“Perhaps it would be better to ask them,” he suggested. Then: “I suppose you’re thinking of my latest picture. That was the only time I’ve asserted myself since coming to Hollywood, and my work in the production has proved to be the best I’ve done in pictures.
“Some of my dialogue was poor, so I changed it. I also insisted on doing some of my scenes the way that I felt would be most effective. I wouldn’t work on Sunday as my contract stipulated that I need not.”
Although not much impressed by directors in general, Franchot feels that Josef von Sternberg is an artist. He also casually complimented his rival, Clark Gable. Hoping to get at some less abstract information, I inquired if he had ever experienced any hardships.
“No,” said he, quickly. “I’ve never been in want of material things. Sometimes I wish that life hadn’t been so easy for me. A few hard knocks would have been beneficial, I think. At times I wonder how I would react if disaster did overtake me. I might crack up because of no previous experience in dealing with severe trials.”
Either he has reformed in his attitude toward interviewers or, as I suspect, innate shyness has caused him to take refuge from argus-eyed reporters behind a barrier of aloofness. He strikes me as being a person whom one must know more than casually before his lurking friendliness can adequately manifest itself.
As he regretfully admits, there have been no dramatic sacrifices or tribulations in his well-ordered life. His birth at Niagara Falls, in the month of February, his high scholastic attainments at Cornell, and his success on the stage and in the movies seem to constitute the milestones in his twenty-eight years of pleasant existence.
His Korean houseboy came to tell him that he was wanted on the set.
“I’ll be back,” called Franchot, as he promptly obeyed the summons. “Will you wait?”
I did wait, but you know what rehearsals are. Eventually I approached the set and told him good-by, then hurried home to raid the refrigerator. I never was much of a hand to suffer for my art.
Incidentally, I realized that “The Man Who Plays God” would not be an appropriate title for a story about Franchot Tone.
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Paired with Jean Harlow, in Reckless, Franchot Tone thinks that he has played too many man-about-town roles since coming to Hollywood. He’d like to do characters like Spencer Tracy’s.
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Joan Blondell, whose motherhood means more to her than stardom, doesn’t believe that babies should be swathed in swansdown and breathe filtered air. That’s why she’s taking Norman Scott Barnes on a camping trip.
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Franchot Tone, more frank than usual, and more friendly, in the story on the opposite page, says that he has never been in want of material things. He wishes that life had not been so easy, and wonders how he would react if disaster did overtake him.
You should read this interview to know him better.
Photo by: George Hurrell (1904–1992)
Collection: Picture Play Magazine, April 1935