Herbert Brenon — Cinderella’s Godfather (1926) 🇺🇸

Herbert Brenon who directed “A Kiss for Cinderella” gave his heart to feel Sir J. M. Barrie’s story and his very soul to its interpretation.

by Clara Janouche

The play is over. The story is told. The blare of the orchestra dies to a murmur of sound as the final fade-out gratifies our secret wish, and with a sigh of relief we see the lovers in each other’s arms.

Reluctantly we shake off the spell of the drama that has held us for an hour; furtively we tuck away the handkerchief that knows the measure of our sympathy for hero and heroine. “A good picture,” we say, as we stroll to the nearest soda fountain. Overhead in the marquee the name of the star twinkles in brilliant electric bulbs. “She’s always good,” we say— and then with startling directness comes the thought, “What brought this delightful picture into being? What did the star do beside lend her beauty, her gracious presence, her acknowledged talents?”

And in seeking the answer a kindly fate led us to the dean of American directors, Herbert Brenon. So am I privileged to take you behind the scenes — back of the screen — to explore the mazes of the studio and to solve the mystery of picture making.

A strange place, the eastern studio of Famous Players-Lasky in Astoria. A little world by itself. But not a world — an empire. An empire ruled by a superman, his authority absolute, his sign and sceptre a megaphone. An army waits in attendance upon him. They carry weapons of saw, hammer, lights, cables. Here the field artillery is represented by a battery of cameras manned by skilled lieutenants. Women are there too. One of them with a sheaf of manuscript in hand leads us to Herbert Brenon, the emperor of this little kingdom whom we were to interview. At last we met the director, the man who sways the destinies of our beloved stars, the master of the pastimes of millions like ourselves. He was directing his latest super-picture, A Kiss for Cinderella, written as a stage play by Sir James Matthew Barrie.

Here, we decide, as we take the proffered chair, is a great personality. We sense it, we feel it, as timidly we glance up at the erect figure, instantly to be placed at our ease by reassuring smile. A king, yes, but a kindly one.

Upon entering the studio I received this warning: “When you hear the order ‘Lights! Camera!!’ be sure you don’t talk. Absolute quiet during the shooting of a picture is the rule.” Suddenly a thick silence fell over this busy, hammering, shifting, shuffling chattering world, which told me that the director was raising his megaphone. Soft music began to play. The clicking of the cameras seemed to emphasize the tenseness, when Mr. Brenons voice rang out with clear, firm directions, but in so warm and inspiring a tone that we thought, No wonder Betty Bronson can smile through her tears, for we almost felt that we could too — under Herbert Brenon’s spell.

Amazed at the multiplicity of detail we wondered at the man’s patience. “Why do you like being a director?” I asked. “What is the fun in it?”

“I’ve got the most wonderful job in the movies,” he answered enthusiastically. And then he went on to tell us what everyone else in the studio contributed toward making Peter Pan and A Kiss for Cinderella successes. He spoke not only of his own work but the work of the actors and actresses, of the cameramen, of the scenarists, the carpenters, the electricians.

This director, great and powerful as he is, after finishing his greatest success, still is humbly grateful for the assistance which he received from others. The greatness of others he appreciates, and this appreciation has tinged his own greatness with a touch of humility.

Betty Bronson looked so pale and wan, and yet so wistfully appealing, that we wondered if that was the reason she was selected. To my question Mr. Brenon replied, “Oh, no, it wasn’t quite so simple as that. To begin at the beginning, I first read a whole library looking for a story for my next production. After discussing several with the studio manager we agreed upon A Kiss for Cinderella. Mr. Lasky and Mr. Zukor approved our choice, and final arrangements for the motion picture rights were made with the author, Sir James Matthew Barrie. I then sailed for Europe to consult with him, and to discuss the most effective way of transferring his delightful stage play to the screen without losing any of its charm. Also I wanted to learn the author’s choice for the role of Cinders. He viewed a trunkful of screen tests for the part, just as he had done for Peter Pan, and reaffirmed his belief that Betty Bronson would make an ideal heroine.

“To be able to select such wonderful material; to meet great authors on such a footing; to create actors and actresses, and to make them stars — oh, this is the greatest job in the world!” Mr. Brenon’s face glowed.

“There are so many thrills — thrills of gratification incident to a director’s life. Possibly one of the greatest thrills comes from the acting, or the directing of the actors. A fine actor in a perfect setting will make a character seem fairly to step out of the book; out of the land of make-believe. Frequently this is a matter of inspiration, so that we achieve unlooked-for subtleties, surprising avenues of feeling, shades of meaning that stamp greatness upon actor and story alike. Such moments I have experienced during the directing of, for instance, Norma Talmadge in The Passion Flower and The Sign on the Door; Ernest Torrence in The Side Show of Life; Percy Marmont in The Street of Forgotten Men; Betty Bronson in Peter Pan and A Kiss for Cinderella.”

What Mr. Brenon was saying to me was that the glory of achievement was all that counted, and that great stories and great actors made his pictures great. But what he convinced me of was that to make others great you must first be great yourself, but he doesn’t know it.

Having remembered the work of the children in Peter Pan we were tingling with anticipation to see how Mr. Brenon handles them. In the cast of A Kiss for Cinderella there are four little girls: Edna Hagen, two years old; Mary Christian, three; Patty Coakley, four, and Marilyn McLain, four and “a half.” On the appointed day these four miniature actresses reported for work. Not alone. Oh, no. There were the mothers, a grandmother and a father with them. All work stopped for Mr. Brenon when the children appeared. At least actual direction did. For two whole hours the dean of directors, down on the floor, played with the children and the attractive toys strewn about. And when they tired of blowing the horns, and when the dollies had been put to bed, Mr. Brenon, with the littlest girl on his lap, read to them the story of Cinderella. It is his idea, he said, not only to get them acquainted with their studio surroundings, but to like them as well. He had won their confidences, made them feel at home; now and only now could he get them to act as he wanted them to act.

It seems so naturally easy for him to win their confidence. Is it any wonder he is called the children’s delight? Sometimes during their play he gave a quiet order for lights and camera, and caught them in their most natural attitudes. From play they blend into their screen “work” without knowing it. Occasionally, as it happened in Cinderella, a child did not wish to do as she was told, in fact these tiny young actresses frequently became temperamental. Mr. Brenon observed that temperament in women can be perceived at the age of two, and becomes quite definitely developed at four years old. In one scene the little war orphans, dressed for work in their purple nighties which photograph gray, are lifted by “Cinders,” the girlish little foster mother, into tiny bunks fastened to the walls of the room. When little Edna Hagen was to be lifted into hers, evidently she had noticed that the yarn made to look like barbed wire entrenchments singled her out as a German war baby. She rebelled in no uncertain terms; and when finally, she had acquiesced through Mr. Brenon’s gentle and clever persuasion, she looked so woe-begone that that watchful director could not wait to give the customary orders. “Quick! Quick!” he cried, “That expression is wonderful.” He is a perfect father to his large family — full of sympathy and friendliness and understanding. He is so human that one might almost forget at times that he is one of the greatest of all directors. But it is this quality in Mr. Brenon which he himself emphasizes and it is the quality we suspect that has done most to make him.

In crediting his success to the great staff about him, Mr. Brenon displays his gift in choosing men. He will have nothing but the best. And as soon as he has chosen them, he gives them his confidence, and as confidently awaits results. On his return from London he called in his technical staff and read them the story. “Build me a gorgeous coach,” he said. “I want it to grow from a pumpkin. The horses must become horses from white mice. The coach must drive off the street into the clouds. It must sweep into a wonderful ball room ahead, boys! Turn out the sets!” Then he forgot all about it, turned his mind to other details. Not until five weeks had elapsed did he see the results. Who other than a really great director would turn over so great a task with such utter confidence in his men. Not even a question until they were ready. But Herbert Brenon picks men who know their jobs. His assistants are as enthusiastic about their jobs as he is about his — they believe in them, and in him.

One night Adolph Zukor, Jesse L. Lasky, and other Famous Players executives, gathered in the theatre studio for the first preview of the Herbert Brenon production for Paramount — the finished picture — A Kiss for Cinderella. Cinderella’s dream had become their dream. Would it come true? “Cinders” came out of her squalid lodging, placed the pumpkin and mouse cage in the gutter and slumped onto her doorstep to wait — for what?

Would it be just another fade-in? It was a tense moment.

The fairy godmother appeared. “Cinders” became a glorious “Cinderella.” She looked at the pumpkin and mice. They blurred. The mice, with tails in air, seemed galloping. The cage vanished. The pumpkin changed form. And how they grew. Large and larger. Wheels developed. Mice — white prancing mice — as large as police dogs. Forms changed. Four white prancing steeds appeared. Lo! and behold! there was a shimmering coach, with a bowing footman bidding Cinderella to enter.

Every person present was familiar with every trick of picture making. But nothing to equal this. How they applauded! Real fairy magic had taken place before their eyes. Cinderella and her coach and four had become a reality.

Mr. Brenon showed boyish enthusiasm in telling us about J. Roy Hunt’s wonderful camera work in this marvelous scene. “It was a work of five weeks of the infinite patience of genius; and I am satisfied, that the original fairy godmother was a patient mechanical genius. Anyway, she hasn’t anything on my head cameraman, J. Roy Hunt.”

Always in telling of his achievements, Mr. Brenon insists upon giving full credit to his associates. From the time of his first conference with Sir James Barrie to the preview with the special musical orchestration of A Kiss for Cinderella, he has shared the glory of achievement with all his staff and cast, from call boy to star.

He is one man who rules others because he can rule himself.

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Brenon and one of his actors studying the finer points of the age-old fairy tale.

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• Marion Davies as the Crown Prince in Beverly of Graustark.
• Aileen Pringle and Edmund Lowe in Elinor Glyn’s Soul Mates.

Collection: Screenland Magazine, February 1926