Herbert Brenon — The Man (1918) 🇺🇸

Herbert Brenon is so essentially different, so fundamentally an individual and not a type, that he must be studied to be understood… He does not move with the crowd, even though it is the easiest way. But Brenon was never built to do easy things.

by Randolph Bartlett

Among moving-picture folk there is no subject so productive of extensive conversation as Herbert Brenon. And there is none so productive of diverse opinions, most of them, however, taking the form of emotional outbursts. For instance, one day I met a man at Forty-third and Broadway, and Brenon’s name being mentioned, he launched into a furious tirade of abuse; going one block down the street I met another friend, and, just as a test, mentioned Brenon again, and he delivered himself of a paean of praise Both men were intelligent, both stand high in the world of pictures, both had known Brenon for several years, and both had been associated with him. So it goes. Among the opinions of Brenon I have heard expressed from time to time, here are a few samples:

• That he is an egotist.
• That he is a genius.
• That he is insane.
• That he is a martinet.
• That he is a dreamer.

In fact, you will hear almost everything, except that you will be unable to find a man or woman who will stake his reputation for good judgment upon a statement that Brenon doesn’t make good pictures.

The explanation of this vast difference of opinion is extremely simple. It is that the majority of people form their opinions by judging a man in terms of other men, and Brenon, without regard to his ability, is so essentially different, so fundamentally an individual and not a type, that he has to be studied to be understood. And few people take the pains to study him. He is, in the best meaning of the word, eccentric — away from the center. He does not twirl with the teetotum. He does not move with the crowd. The crowd doesn’t especially interest him. And that sort of a man is always doing one of two things at the same time: He is going at a terrific speed in the direction half the people think he should go, and thereby winning their plaudits; and he is going, at the same rate of speed, in the opposite direction to that in which the other half think he should go, and thereby winning their condemnation. It would be much easier to stand in the center of the teetotum, and move with the crowd. But Brenon was never built to do easy things. So he is misunderstood equally by his friends and his enemies.

Now, if I may intrude a personal note to establish my right to speak with authority about this unusual personality, I have worked for Brenon and with Brenon, I have fought for him and with him, I have wrangled with him and agreed with him, I have seen him at work and at play, I have seen him enraged and happy, perturbed and serene, so ill he could scarcely walk and so well he seemed able to hurdle the moon. But I have never seen him when he did not have an inner faith in his own destiny. This is egoism. Few people distinguish clearly between egoism and conceit. Egoism says “I can and will”; conceit says “I am and could.” Egoism is active; conceit is static. Egoism is fecund; conceit is sterile. The egoist believes that he is the center of a great world of ideas, which he can employ to his purpose. The conceited man believes he is the great idea at the center of a world, which the world could use to its purpose if it were sufficiently intelligent. Fully eighty per cent of the men and women of the picture world are conceited — they are the mediocrities and the failures. Not more than twenty per cent are egoists — they are the successes.

Herbert Brenon was not a success until he found his calling in the making of pictures. He was getting along, but not a dominant figure. Born in 1880, in Dublin, he passed his early years in London, and was educated at St. Paul’s and King’s College. He came to America when he was sixteen, and found a position as office boy for Joseph Veon, a theatrical producer. To eke out his earnings he obtained employment evenings, as a super. Later he was call boy at Daly’s. By gradual steps he became an actor. He played in vaudeville. He bought a moving picture theatre. He went to Universal, first as an actor, and then, as the force of his ideas became apparent to the management, directed a number of pictures. Every now and then a reminder of these days crops up in a reissue, the wily exhibitor discovering the now famous Brenon in the film, and featuring him in electrics in front of his house, in some weird and curious relic of the past. He then made his first great spectacle — Neptune’s Daughter, with Annette Kellermann [Annette Kellerman] as the star. The observant William Fox soon drafted Brenon into his service, and the result was a series of features that attracted widespread attention. Theda Bara scored her first great successes. Then Fox accepted his plan for a great spectacle, with Annette Kellermann as the star.

At this time there was a friendship between Fox and Brenon which neither fully understood, because there could not possibly be two men of greater contrast. It was a friendship almost emotional in its intensity, for the very reason that it seemed a contradiction to exist at all. But Fox recognized Brenon’s imaginative powers, and Brenon appreciated the opportunities Fox gave him. Each was a supreme egoist in his own field — Brenon as the creator, Fox as the business man. The story of the shattering of this friendship has never been fairly told. It shall be told now.

Brenon went to Jamaica, with an army of players, an expensive star, a shipload of supplies, and a belief that he had carte blanche. He had made a certain general estimate of probable expense, but soon it was apparent that this would be far below the actual cost of the picture. The tropics present unexpected problems. There was trouble in keeping the film in condition. A marsh had to be filled in. And Brenon never was an economical producer. This was the natural result of his egoism. If he believed that a certain thing would be an improvement in the picture, that thing was ordered done. He believed the results would justify the expense. Back in New York, Fox, free from the Brenon magnetism, and not able to see the results, found a torrent of money flowing, where he had had in mind only a good sized stream. This offended his business egoism. And a business egoism has just as much right to existence as a creative egoism. So Fox sent to Jamaica J. Gordon Edwards, with instructions to take charge of the Brenon production, with a view to reducing the cost. If Fox had had the slightest bowing acquaintance with Brenon’s egoism, he never would have done it. It is almost inconceivable that he did not foresee what happened immediately upon Edwards’ arrival in Jamaica.

Brenon simply called a strike. And so complete is the loyalty which Brenon inspires in the men and women who work for him that, with one solitary exception, every individual in the Fox employ on the big production stood by Brenon. For twenty-four hours the Kingston-New York cable was strained to capacity with Brenon-Fox-Edwards messages. But Brenon had the key to the situation. Even if the mechanics and actors had consented to return to work, it was Brenon’s story, and no one but he had any idea of what to do with it. Edwards was called off.

Still, so deeply imbedded were the roots of this friendship, that the slightest touch of mutual understanding would have brought these two egoists together. But while Brenon believed that Fox had been brought over, Fox’s ego was suffering all the tortures of humiliation, and he merely temporized. So when Brenon returned to New York with his completed picture, Fox retaliated in an entirely human but intensely cruel way. He ordered Brenon’s name removed from all advertising material, and instructed that he should not be mentioned in connection with A Daughter of the Gods as author of the story or director of the spectacle. This resulted immediately in a series of law suits which never have been carried to a decision, both sides since having almost forgotten them in matters of vastly greater importance.

After this experience, it was obvious to Herbert Brenon that he could not reap the full harvest of his ideas until he was the supreme power in his own business. So he organized his own company, joined the Lewis J. Selznick alliance, and produced “War Brides.” Although the philosophy of this picture is so easily misunderstood by unthinking people that it has been found necessary to withdraw it from circulation for the duration of the war, it proved at once that Brenon was one of the most powerful figures in the creative branch of the industry. Since then he has repeated with “The Fall of the Romanoffs,” and tossed off two whirlwind melodramas, “The Lone Wolf” and “Empty Pockets.” Meanwhile he has still further established his independence as a producer. When future chroniclers relate the steps in the Brenon career, one of the most important will be discovered in his acquisition of his present business manager, Alexander J. Beyfuss, a young man from California, who combines with financial acumen a high appreciation of the Brenon genius.

I have said that Brenon inspires loyalty in his subordinates. There is no mystery in this, for Brenon offers the same loyalty that he expects. In his studio force there are several heads of departments who have been with him for years, in various corporations — George Fitch, technical director; George Edwardes-Hall, scenario writer and research expert; Roy Hunt [J. Roy Hunt], cameraman; Miss Minola De Pass, private secretary; Thomas Tomaine, chief carpenter. As no man is a hero to his valet, few directors are heroes in the property room. To learn whether these executives were loyal to Brenon through selfish interest, or because they believed in him, I asked two of them to explain the chief elements in Brenon’s success, from their own viewpoints.

“Mr. Brenon’s power lies in his untiring industry, concentration, and capacity for taking infinite pains,” said Hall. “He has an exceptional knowledge of dramatic construction. But perhaps his greatest strength lies in his ability to impress his inherent emotionalism upon players, so that even those who through long stage careers have been unknown, become, under his direction, sterling artists.”

Fitch, on the other hand, attributes Brenon’s success to his talent for leadership. “Even back in the old stock company days,” he says, “he was always the moving spirit in every enterprise. His strength of will in seeing that his orders were carried out, made him a factor to be reckoned with. On one occasion, the man who was supplying the funds for the company was also desirous of being an actor. His work was so poor that Brenon dismissed him — fired his own employer. He was only a young man at the time, but even then he was just a natural ‘boss.’”

You will often hear that Brenon “has a lot of freak ideas.” As a sample, they will mention the fact that he has a musical accompaniment for every scene. As the music does not show on the film, many regard this as “highbrow” and therefore foolish. The fact of the matter is that it is for an intensely practical purpose. Of greater importance than the emotional aid that the music gives the player, is the fact that the rhythm of the music keeps the tempo of the scene even, and it is impossible for the actor to get out of step.

Perhaps it is freakish also that Brenon insists that his studio be respected, be regarded as a studio, and not as a carpenter shop. He does not permit any unnecessary sound when his scenes are being played. He does not like to see men going about in shirt-sleeves, unless the weather demands it. His messenger boy is garbed in a neat page’s uniform. This is not ostentation. It is all tributary to the Brenon belief, that the photodrama is an art, should be respected as an art, and should be created in surroundings as free as possible from the unlovely and unpicturesque.

The one thing that Brenon cannot endure is stupidity. It enrages him just as a red rag does a bull. I have seen him patiently explaining a scene to an actress, and coaching her with the most explicit attention to detail. Then, either in a fit of stage fright, or sheer dullness, she would repeatedly do the thing he told her not to do. After about the third offence he will fly into a terrific rage. He cannot help it. It comes as suddenly as if he were leaping from a chair which harbored an unwarned tack. And it is over as quickly. I have watched him at times, with such an attack inevitable, and wondered what would happen if I said, “Look out Herbert, you’re going to explode in a minute.” The result would probably be that I instead of the actress would get the full effect of the explosion.

The same thing will happen to any highly sensitized nature. It is the reason most parents spank their children. It is not because they want to, nor (oh, eternal fabrication!) because they think it will do the child any good. They just can’t help it. But where stupidity is not the cause of the error, Brenon’s patience is monumental. When a noted player, such as Nazimova, or Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson, confronts the camera for the first time they have a lot to learn. And Brenon will go through the alphabet with them indefinitely. I tremble to think what would happen if they were stupid in learning.

The gentler side of the Brenon character is seen in his relations with his family. It is something deeper than the mere clannishness of the Celt. Perhaps this is because it is a rather remark able family. His mother is his most valued adviser in matters pertaining to art. She herself is a writer of no small talent, with various plays and stories to her credit. In the course of important production work, she is his almost constant companion. A brother, Algernon St. John Brenon, at the time of his death two years ago, was regarded as the most brilliant musical critic in America. One of his daughters, Miss Eileen Brenon, is in her uncle’s publicity department, and counts it one of her golden days when she gets a story printed about “Uncle Bertie.” Her sister has appeared in several of the Brenon productions. And, youngest of this energetic clan, Cyril Brenon, Herbert’s son, is already an actor. As the street gamin in Empty Pockets he displays already a keen sense of humor. This is the man Brenon as I know him. These things are not in any sense an interview, written from carefully prepared notes, or rehashed from a press agent’s adulatory outgivings. They are facts and impressions gathered from actual knowledge of the man and his work. Of his ideas and his ideals, his spiritual side, his hopes and his ambitions, I could write at great length. But why? After all, when we know a man, we know more than his principles — we know his individuality. And whatever the stars hold for Herbert Brenon in the future, he is at least and forever that — an individual.

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Brenon coaching George Le Guerre for a scene in The Passing of the Third Floor Back. The rhythm of the music keeps the tempo of the scene even.

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Sir Johnston Forbes-Robertson came to America to film The Passing of the Third Floor Back, under Brenon’s direction.

Herbert Brenon believes that the photodrama is an art, should be respected as an art, and should be created in surroundings as free as possible from the unlovely. He insists that his studio be respected, be regarded as a studio, and not as a carpenter shop.

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Above: Brenon dictating to his private secretary, Miss Minola De Pass.

Below, with his niece, Miss Eileen Brenon, who is in his publicity department.

Collection: Photoplay Magazine, March 1918