Lily Damita — Parlez-vous Français? (1930) 🇺🇸 🇫🇷
New Movie’s humorist interviews Lily Damita in French — with astonishing results
by Russel Crouse
Remember Russel Crouse’s hilarious interview with Winnie Lightner in a recent issue of New Movie? The popular humorist of The New York Evening Post has tried his hand at another chat, this time with Lily Damita [Lili Damita]. The result is a tremendous triumph for Mr. Crouse. In one interview he meets — and overcomes — the French language.)
“‘Allo,” I said in perfect French. And Lily Damita knew at once that she was dealing with someone who was familiar with her native tongue.
As a matter of fact I was selected to interview Miss Damita because of my mastery of Française, as the French language is called in the French language. It came about this way:
Several of us, including “Brass Knuckles” McGinnis, “Second Story” Baker and “Kid Slasher,” were lined up, and a number of ladies and gentlemen brought in to look at us. Suddenly one of the ladies pointed at me and started yelling:
“That’s the man! That’s the man! He’s the one who grabbed my purse and ran. I’ll never forget his ugly face as long as I live. Take him away! Take him —”
No, that wasn’t the time. That was something else. But, anyway, I was selected to interview Miss Damita, and all those who don’t like it can go take a running jump into the lake. We haven’t any place for trouble-makers among the readers of this magazine.
Interviewing Miss Damita wasn’t so easy as it sounds. As practically everybody knows, Miss Damita is nearly always being pursued by royalty. If a king isn’t making violent love to her a prince is. She has appealed to the League of Nations several times with regard to this situation but with scant relief. The League did rule on August 27, 1926, that dukes, counts and barons were not even to be permitted to speak to Miss Damita, but that wasn’t much of a help.
As a matter of fact it was only by means of a ruse that I was able to get to see Miss Damita at all. After trying in vain for several weeks I finally got myself a horse and rode past her apartment house on Park Avenue. Just as I was opposite her number I contrived to fall off.
“It must be the Prince of Wales,” said the traffic policeman on the corner. “Send him up to Miss Damita’s apartment.”
Miss Damita saw through the trick at once and only my quick wit saved me.
“You’re no prince, you big bum,” she said.
“I’m a prince of good fellows!” I said, quick as a flash.
This, of course, appealed to the mother-instinct in her. I followed up at once with “‘Allo” and, seeing that I spoke her mother tongue fluently, she softened.
“Conducteur, quelle est cette station,” I said, as politely as I could. I guess that for the benefit of those who do not speak the French language I had better translate as I go along. It means: “I have risked my life to interview you for The New Movie Magazine, you little vixen, and if you’ve got any kings or princes around here, tell them to go play in the park for a while.”
I could see she was perplexed. It developed that, having been a movie star for only six or seven years, she didn’t know what an interview was.
“N’oubliez pas,” I told her, “de me prévenir quand nous serons arrivés de Nice.” (“It means that we’ll just tell each other our right names and sit around and talk for a while.”
“Well,” she said, “my right name is Liliane Carré.”
I was a bit put out, I don’t mind saying. I thought I’d got the wrong girl. A fellow doesn’t go around falling off horses to interview girls named Carré. Still I thought I might as well go on. I hadn’t anything else to do that afternoon.
“Où est le compartiment des voyageurs avec chiens ?” I asked. (“Are you related to Carrie Nation?”)
“No,” she said, in a word.
“Voilà longtemps que je vous ai commandé un biftek,” I came back, a little irritably. (“Well, this is a bust. I think I’ll get out of here.”)
She rose.
You would walk out on Damita!” she said, indignantly.
“Je n’ai pas de couteau!” I came back. (“Oh, so you are Damita. I thought you said your name was Carré.”)
“It is,” she cooed. I was getting pretty tired of that sort of thing and told her so, in no uncertain French.
“Well, it’s this way,” she said. “My right name is Carré. But I am also Damita. I got that name from the King of Spain. A fellow named Alfonso. It means “little lady” in Spanish. It was this way: I had been studying dancing in Paris and was very tired. I went for a rest to a seaside resort in southern France. The King of Spain was there.
“I had a red bathing suit that was very fancy.”
“Comment allez vous,” I interrupted to remark. (“I hope you didn’t wear it to any bull fights.”)
“No, but I wore it bathing. The King used to watch me every day. And then one day I stayed home. And the King asked one of his friends: ‘Where is the little lady in red?’ ‘Little lady’ is Damita. The friend told me. I thought nothing of it. I went back to Paris. There I had an offer to become a member of the ballet at the opera. I didn’t like my own name for stage purposes, so I chose ‘Damita’ and added the Lily — a contraction of Liliane, my own first name.”
“Y a-t-il des lettres pour moi ?” I asked, trying to get somewhere. (“How did you happen to go into the movies?”)
“Well,” she said, “I danced in the opera ballets. But I saw that the road to stardom in opera was a long one. And I was impatient. I decided to try revue. I joined Mistinguett’s company at the Casino de Paris. And I was doing very well. But again my impatience got the better of me. I decided I wanted a company of my own. So I formed it and took it to Vienna. We were very successful.
A motion picture magnate saw me there and wanted me to take a film test. I did not want to do it. I was having a good time and did not believe that the motion picture was my field. But he persuaded me.
“After that I made a number of other pictures — in Austria, in France, in Germany and in England. And then I came to America. My first picture here was The Rescue with Ronald Colman. The rest, of course, you know. There was The Bridge of San Luis Rey and then The Cock-Eyed World.”
There was a knock on the door. Miss Damita started. I was determined not to be interrupted. I knew it was probably some count, or even, perhaps, a low-grade baron.
“Donnez-moi deux œufs,” I said authoritatively. (“Let me take care of this.”)
I strode to the door.
“Miss Damita is busy,” I yelled through the keyhole.
“Who are you?” came the query back through the keyhole. It was one of those new keyholes — wired for sound.
“I, sir,” I replied, “am His Royal Highness, Edward Albert Christian George Andrew Patrick David, K. G., K. T., K. P., P. C, G.C.S.I.,’ Prince of Wales, Earl of Chester, Duke of Saxony, Prince of Coburg and Gotha, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Garrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles and Great Steward of Scotland, High Steward of Windsor —”
“Let me know when the convention is over,” said the valet, whoever he was, and left.
“Je voudrais faire réparer ces chaussures,” I said, laughing up my sleeve at my strategy. (“All right, kid, tell me more about yourself.”)
“Well, I guess you know that I went into the musical comedy, ‘Sons o’ Guns,’ with Jack Donahue. It was great experience for me. You see, the actress needs audience reaction. I mean it is highly important for a person on the stage to know what things interest her audience. In motion pictures this is difficult to get because you are not present when your audience sees the picture.
“On the stage, however, you learn what things people will laugh at and what things will bring tears from them. It was important that I learn these American reactions, and my experience in Sons o’ Guns gave me the chance. It was very valuable. That is, for a time. Afterward it became monotonous. That is the danger with the stage — monotony. In pictures you are always doing a new show, and that keeps you fresh.”
I kept wishing Miss Damita would get fresh with me, but I didn’t say anything.
“However, the stage and the films are two different media. The motion picture actor must have something within him. I believe it is something he learned in silent pictures — a way of expressing things without speaking. It is important. That is why so many of the early talking pictures have been bad. They have been played by actors from the stage who have had no screen experience.”
“Un, deux, quatre, cinq, six, sept,” I said, leading her on. (“And what are you going to do now?”)
“I’m going back to Hollywood to make Sons o’ Guns as a picture with Al Jolson. I’ll be glad to get back to Hollywood. New York is the place if you want to play. But Hollywood is the place if you want to work.
“Huit, neuf, dix?” I asked. (“But what about all these princes and whatnot? Aren’t you going to get married?”)
“I am not in love,” she answered, turning her head. I could see that she had fallen for me but did not want to admit it. “I have never really been in love. When Damita falls in love you may be sure of one thing. She will no longer appear on the stage or on the screen. [Transcriber's note: Lili Damita married Errol Flynn in 1935 and retired from acting shortly thereafter]
"Marriage is a career in itself. It requires full time. I have been in the theater long enough to know that. I have seen many stage marriages go on the rocks because they were not given a chance. I have not yet let myself fall in love because I have been bent on a career.
“When I do fall in love the career must go. When that will be I cannot tell. But I know I cannot avoid it. It will come some time. I am sure of that, for my ambition is not to become the greatest actress in the world but to “
“Janvier, Février, Mars,” I said. (“Go on, kid, this suspense is terrible.”)
“— to have the handsomest son in the world.”
I could see that it was high time that I left. She was thinking of adopting me.
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After her hit in The Cock-Eyed World, Lily Damita left the screen to appear in the musical comedy, Sons o’ Guns. Now she is back in Hollywood.
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Cecil De Mille [Cecil B. DeMille] directing The Squaw Man at the now-famous barn where Jesse Lasky [Jesse L. Lasky] and Mr. De Mille started making motion pictures, back in the pioneer days of Hollywood. Mr. De Mille can be observed seated on a soap box. Those were the simple days!
Collection: The New Movie Magazine, July 1930