James Kirkwood — Sans Grease Paint and Wig (1914) 🇺🇸
James Kirkwood has red hair that is not “fiery” and a disposition that strictly forbids his worrying about anything.
by Mabel Condon
However, his hair used to be of that peculiar brightness referred to above, but that was when he was a small boy and it was a great help to him because it provided him with constant cause for battle with the other small boys who scrambled to manhood in “the wilds of Michigan.” That’s Mr. Kirkwood’s description of his birthplace, though goodness knows, Grand Rapids itself, where the bright-hued James first saw light, is anything but wild. With its mahogany and quarter-sawed oak and Circassian walnut reputation, not to mention its unions and picture houses, it is a most peaceable and civilized city.
Well, that was where James Kirkwood, now Famous Players’ director and actor, played around when he was a kid and developed the ambition and health and strength that sent him to New York when he was twenty. He had a purpose in coming; he wanted to go on the stage and decided there was no place like New York to help him attain this object, so he just said good-bye to the folks and went. And there was no band out to meet him, when he stepped off the train and rescued his bag from an obtrusive porter. Nobody seemed to know that he had arrived and the tall boy from Michigan set out to remedy this omission on the part of the fraternity he intended to join.
The fact that he didn’t know anybody in the theatrical profession, or in any other profession in New York, didn’t bother him any. He just began asking for a job on the stage and something about him, his red hair probably, got it for him — at last.
“I was the first one to join the company — it was a repertoire company — and I was the last one to leave it.” recounted he of the flame-colored kinky locks and the disposition that is happy. “The only reason I left was because it stranded.”
“And then what did you do?” I prompted. One has to prompt Mr. Kirkwood for as soon as he says something he stops. It didn’t seem to occur to him that I would want to know the “and then” of everything. Or maybe he did know it and because he doesn’t like newspaper and magazine people — he considers them “terrible creatures” — would stop purposely at interesting moments. “I came back to New York.” And with a retrospective shake of his head, added “Terrible times I’ve had in New York — terrible!”
“Yes?” I prepared to hear at least one or two of the terrible times.
“Yes, I’ve entertained the boys, whole evenings with stories of some of the hard times I’ve had in New York. Terrible.”
“Well!”
I compromised with my curiosity and decided that I would be satisfied with the hearing of so much as one terrible time.
“But I never let any of them make me blue and I was never sorry I came to New York. Despair must be an awful thing — awful; don’t you think so?”
Since he asked me, I did; though I had made up my mind not to agree with him on anything, as long as he was so secretive. Then a shirt-sleeved man appeared from around the corner of a set and asked Mr. Kirkwood how he wanted something placed and with a relieved look Mr. Kirkwood rose quickly from his wooden-backed chair, and —
Would I excuse him?
I would.
And while he was gone I tried to sit back in the wooden-backed chair that was mine — but it was one of those chairs from which the back slopes away so far that were one so unfortunate as to finally reach it, one would wish she hadn’t.
In less than a minute he of the hair and disposition returned and crossed the studio in about half the steps that a person who was not from the “wilds of Michigan” would have taken. And anyone who has been there — to the studio — knows how wide the Famous Players studio is.
“As long as you didn’t know anything about the stage, what made you decide to adopt it?” I wanted to know, and added. “And you being from Michigan, too!”
“Oh, we had amateur plays, where I came from in Michigan, and besides I read Shakespeare. I didn’t know what I was reading about at the time but I liked the sound of it.”
“And how about motion pictures?” There may have been triumph in the question but the man from Michigan answered calmly:
“It was after two years with Henry Miller in The Great Divide.” He reconsidered: “No, it was later than that; it was after two years with David Belasco’s Girl of the Golden West, with Blanche Bates, that I visited a friend I had not seen for a long time. He was at the Biograph studio and while I was there they were making some retakes and invited me in. I was interested, when I saw the pictures, and they offered me work there and as my season on the stage was up, I took it. I stayed six months. That was five years ago and I’ve quit and gone back on the stage three times. But the last time was the last time. The monotony of it would never satisfy me, after pictures,” he decided picking up my umbrella from the deal table beside us.
“And what about going back, after that first six months?” I asked, hoping the blue cord on the handle of the umbrella was strong, for I knew the long fingers playing with it were.
“I went to the Reliance company; and I went as a director. Mr. Bauman — Charles Bauman — said he thought I could direct. I didn’t think so but tried and — Well, I like it.” He held the umbrella at attention and smoothed its cover.
“I forget how long I stayed there, but I only played in two pictures; and when I went back to the Biograph I directed entirely. ‘Class-Mates’, and ‘Strongheart’ were under my direction. But if you’re going to mention any titles, I have one request to make.”
He embarrassedly made it while digging imaginary holes in the studio floor with the umbrella. This time I hoped the frame was substantial. I regretted it had not been made for mountain climbing or —
“Just this,” requested Mr. Kirkwood, “that you say I directed ‘The House of Discord’. It was only two reels but I liked it.” And relieved, he replaced the umbrella on the table; and I felt relieved.
“And after the Biograph — the Reliance, again?” I guessed aright.
“Yes, and then the coast.”
“But of course you’re glad you’re back in New York.”
“Of course; not that California isn’t great, but New York is greater. They all think that out there. There are splendid opportunities, but — if it were only New York! Just before I left about eighteen of the boys gave me a dinner. They all wished me God-speed, yet they almost cursed me for the good fortune of coming back. It was pathetic.”
“And you came and your first Famous Players’ film was The Eagle’s Mate, again I was the prompter, and with results, for the tall one who could lean against the back of his chair and be comfortable, replied:
“Yes; but I don’t intend to appear in any more films.”
I thought it a most unfortunate decision for him to have reached and I told him it was; especially when the public had taken so strong a liking to him in the role of “the Eagle.” That was because he is the rough-and-ready type of man and “the Eagle” would not have looked natural had he not been played by one of that type.
“Well,” he conceded, “the role called for raw-boned type and that’s why I took it. But I don’t believe in a director acting in and directing his own pictures, for there are little things bound to creep into the picture that he would correct, were he in a position to notice them. I’m playing in the picture we’re putting on now. ‘Behind the Scenes;’ but that’s because I created the role on the stage. But that will be my last appearance in my own pictures, and, as directing is so much more interesting than acting, I intend to direct.”
And he means what he says. I guess, unless another role comes along that calls for raw bones when, perhaps, James Kirkwood will volunteer the use of himself.
“It’s too bad,” I commiserated as I claimed my umbrella and deserted the hard chair with the back that might as well not have been there. Then Mary Pickford emerged from a dressing room carrying a round little baby that was to be used in a scene, after a while. Mr. Kirkwood pronounced the baby good looking and sure to have brains.
“Bound to — he has red hair,” he said and then requested, “please don’t let people imagine I’m conceited!”
“How,” I remembered to ask almost at the door, “am I to tell anybody anything about you without a picture of you’“ So he dampened a brush which laid flat his bushy hair and sat for his picture. And you see the result.
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Makes Friends with Elephant
Adele Lane of the Selig Polyscope, who has just appeared in her first animal picture is an excellent rider and she vacillates between her affection for her mount and for her automobile. She says that she was not at all nervous whilst acting with the animals and does not mind what she does but she has a partiality for dramatic work and prefers it even to comedy at which class of acting she is delightful. The big Selig elephant took quite a fancy to Miss Lane and this is unusual, for he dislikes new faces as a rule and Miss Lane’s face is new to him, for she has never played before in dramas in which he took part.
Adele Lane on her favorite white horse.
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O’Moore to Rest
Barry O’Moore has completed his contract with the Edison Company and intends to take a rest at his estate at Shandakin, Nester county, New York. Mr. O’Moore is probably best known in his characterization of Octavius in the detective comedy series of that name, and whose releases are greatly in demand. Versatility is one of his greatest assets, for while a big success in comedy his work in drama is much above the ordinary. One of the proofs of this is his portrayal of Nelson Wales in “The Man Who Disappeared” series. As there are still three more of the “Octavius” pictures to be made, Mr. O’Moore does not expect to get away before August 1. His plans for the future are not yet announced, but it is expected that September 1 will see Barry O’Moore back in the limelight with renewed vitality to put into the work that has made him a universal favorite.
Collection: Motography Magazine, July 1914