Madge Bellamy — Beautiful, But — Herself (1928) 🇺🇸

Can a star ever be herself in Hollywood? I know at least one who can — and is. The majority mold themselves to all the stupid inanities of the film Mecca. Many, who are thought to be clever, are merely superficial. They possess no individuality.

by William H. McKegg

The majority think they must be seen at premières. They attend parties and gatherings— usually instigated by zealous press agents — not because they always wish to, but because they are drawn, magnetized by the fact that kind-hearted scribes will mention them.

The many ridiculous. things stars do, because they believe it is for their progress, could fill a magazine — have, indeed, come near to doing that before now. Seldom does one come across stars sufficiently individual in their remarks to merit recording in print.

All this is a rather roundabout way of getting to the statement, that one of the few stars who is herself is Madge Bellamy. She is the most captivating individual in filmland’s heterogeneous fusion of all the world’s children. She is a surprise to those fortunate enough to know her. I mean fortunate, because she does not extend to every person the benefit of her conversation and her elusive personality.

Many stars are blandly polite when wishing you elsewhere. Madge, even at the risk of being reported “catty,” is never a hypocrite. If she does not like you, she stands by her opinion. She seldom goes to premières. The cafés hardly ever see her, either.

I have an idea that she likes to do two things at once. The strange thing is that she is able, in most cases, to do so. She can carry on a brilliant conversation, and improve her make-up at the same time. She can give out lucid comments, which you enjoy hearing, and play with her terrier pup Wormy — so named because of his agility in constantly wriggling. Madge wants you to observe one thing, and before you have had an opportunity, she calls your attention to another.

She has a sense of humor that is difficult to describe. It is not rough and sprinkled with wisecracks, but it has a delicate quality, as exquisitely elusive as herself.

She seems to make her movements glitter — if you know what I mean. Every gesture sparkles. She gets up from a chair with a swift spring, as if she were suddenly confronted by a thousand menacing enemies. Her head is always up — regal. She is alert in her movements, but never like those frightful, kittenish things.

The average girl star, like jazz, rasps my nerves. In comparison Madge is like Puccini melodies — brisk and surprising, possessed of subtle, unexpected changes. Where the average player’s talk is stupid, stereotyped, or boring, the Bellamy loquacity yields never a senseless phrase. Everything she utters means something.

From the moment you meet her, you realize that she is never conscious of herself — that is, of her youth, her beauty, and her depth of mind. She does not try to impress you, as do those who memorize their press agent’s remarks, or maxims from books. Intelligent comment flows from her lips as easily as water from a mountain spring.

Pose in any form is non est in Madge Bellamy.

Not long ago I watched her going through a very dramatic sequence in “Mother Knows Best.” She had to start laughing wildly and gradually work herself into a hysterical outburst against her mother, which became more and more delirious, until she fainted.

Every one on the set was affected. Among hard-boiled stage hands such a thing seldom occurs. After the director’s O. K., Madge sprang up from the floor and, slightly panting, tears still in her eyes, returned to where I was sitting.

“Mother knows best. Judging from my outburst, it is evident that I don’t think so,” she remarked in a humorous tone, and went on with our conversation, which the scene had interrupted.

How many stars can I mention who would have made a “show” out of the scene Madge had just enacted with such reality? How many like to pose and dramatize themselves, becoming, as they pathetically declare, “exhausted by their emotions”?

Madge Bellamy is a dozen times more brilliant and versatile than any of the “living-the-part” players. She does not play on her emotions; she uses her mind. In fact, she lives in her mind a great deal, I think. This makes her appear abstracted. A stranger might thus be forgiven for thinking her indifferent; but she is not. An uncongenial stranger could never understand her. But if one is simpatica, though a stranger, something of her unusualness makes itself apparent. Even so, there is ever an enigmatic quality in her, which gives one constant surprises.

I alluded to the light comedies she had recently made. Pictures which are not “big” are usually scoffed at by the star, so that you won’t blame her for them, but blame the producers instead.

“Those comedies pleased me,” Madge declared. “The stories were rather inconsequential, I admit — we made them up as we went along. But in that way I was able to get nearer the production end of the work. It is nice to have some one say, ‘Here is an idea. See what you can make of it.’

“Usually directors dislike a suggestion from a player. They feel insulted when one is offered. In making those comedies I could, and did, help in many ways. I had the satisfaction of seeing the result of my ideas — good or bad.”

Yes, good or bad, those flimsy comedies, such as “Soft Living,” “Silk Legs,” and “Very Confidential,” increased attendance at the box office and popularity for their star.

All the same, Madge Bellamy is worthy of greater things. She can easily do them, for she has the ability; and also the background. At eight she made her first appearance before the public. She was studying dancing at the time an opera company visited her home-town in Texas. She and another child were converted into little negro slaves, and had to dance with cymbals in the second act of Aida. Her childhood was spent on the stage. Her father was a professor of English. His library was for her use. Shakespeare became an open world to Madge. At twelve she was delving into literature that most people only glance at in their twenties.

Absorbing Balzac was one of her pastimes. Les Illusions Perdues, and La Recherche de l’Absolu, began to echo through the halls of her memory, when other girls were sighing over Elsie Dinsmore and Little Women.

Her first appearance on Broadway was at fifteen, in a musical comedy, The Love Mill. Her rôle was not big and, in spite of the cause of the mill’s working, the show was a failure. However, Madge did gain a couple of lines in Heywood Broun’s review. She was then known by her real name — Margaret Philpott.

When, a year later, William Gillette appeared in Dear Brutus, a young girl called Madge Bellamy achieved no little attention for her work in the play. It was Daniel Frohman who had given her her new name.

In 1920 Geraldine Farrar, after leaving the old Goldwyn company, made a picture in New York. Madge played in it and, for the first time, saw herself on the screen. So did many others. It led to her being brought out to California by the late Thomas Ince [Thomas H. Ince]. After three years she became a Fox player.

Madge was, at first, given anything by this company. They knew she could make any rôle into something. Mostly her rôles made her a gentle, unsophisticated child. Usually she had to wear her curls down her back and look sweet and guileless.

People who did not know her believed she must be like some of her screen portrayals. Many writers attacked her unmercifully for being “beautiful, but dumb.” They said that of Madge, who knew far more than many of the wise scribes who so airily disposed of her work and personality.

When “Sandy” came along, the Bellamy flashed over the country like a livid flame. Reviewers who did not know her, realized the young actress knew something about her work. To show what she really could do if she chose, Madge had cut off her long, auburn curls, bleached her bobbed tresses and portrayed Sandy for what she was worth.

Another, a far better character story, has just been finished. Madge, as Sally Quail, the heroine of Edna Ferber’s short story, Mother Knows Best, is sure to attract even more attention than in Sandy. The story is said to be based on the life of a certain stage celebrity — but far be it from me to suggest her name.

“Mr. Sheehan bought the story,” Madge told me, “though Mr. Fox did not see it as a good screen vehicle. Mr. Sheehan said it rested entirely with me to help him prove he was right.

“In this story there are many lifelike representations of theatrical life, such as having my feet warmed over a lamp in a freezing dressing room, as often happened during my childhood on the stage.

“The picture should be of interest to many girls who have had their lives ruined by selfish mothers. A parent’s abused right of guidance is a much-discussed topic right now.”

Madge was sitting in one corner of the settee, twisting Wormy’s ears into all positions and shapes, while the animal was attempting to chew up one of the cushions.

“I think life is lived in a wrong way by most people,” Madge added. “Tradition makes us do things, because we believe we have to do them. Many let their lives be ruined by custom and circumstances. It is difficult to break away from them.

“Two years ago I was in Paris. One of the things that impressed me greatly was a splendid performance of Rostrand’s Cyrano de Bergerac I cried over parts of it, especially in the fourth act, where Cyrano reminds his fellow soldiers of their native Gascony, while an old soldier plays a flute. Every one is greatly upset and longing for home. Yet, when a drum starts to roll, they immediately forget. The flute brought dreams — the drum reality. The soldiers were led by each.

“When things go wrong, as they often do in picture work, I say with Cyrano, poor chap —

‘Adieu rêves, regrets, vielle province, amour.

Ce qui du fifre vient, s’en va par le tambour.’“

As Sally Quail, the famous impersonator, Madge gives several imitations. Anna Held, Al Jolson, Fanny Brice, Sir Harry Lauder, and Will Rogers are a few of the celebrities, she mimics. The Movietone is to be used for these interpolations.

Here again Madge Bellamy is in the foreground. Recent voice reproductions by players at the Fox studio, were not all good.

William Fox himself wired to Hollywood, “Madge Bellamy is the only one who registers.”

In speaking of her own ability Madge generally makes a humorous remark.

“Oh, I can usually make up a flowery speech offhand,” she tells you. “I think fright makes me say it passably well and to the point. If I had to wait and study it out, it would fall flat.”

A startling thing about Madge is that, besides knowing so much, she has the faith of a child in the things she likes. This means that she is often disillusioned when masks fall off.

Behind her alert brightness, there is something poignantly pathetic about her. I may be wrong, but I believe she suffers in common with those who place their faith in a reality, mistaking it for an idealistic dream.

One thing above all, Madge Bellamy can be herself always, because she understands much, and possesses brains and uses them.

In relating these facts I realize how feeble they sound. They are not within half the distance to the right impressions I would like, but am unable, to express about her. It makes me a little self-conscious to think that Madge will see this eulogy. And, as she is the first star ever to make me feel that way, you may depend on it that she is no ordinary individual.

She finds in Mother Knows Best her best opportunity, not because she is the star with many scenes and close-ups, but because Sally is a character that appeals to her intelligence and sympathy.

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Madge’s servitude in blah rôles was unusually long.

Photo by: Hoover

This rare photograph of Madge Bellamy expresses the tragic mood she finds little use for as a comedienne.

Photo by: Henry Waxman

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As Sandy she swept the country like a livid flame.

A step toward sophistication and furtherance of her career is found in this picture of Miss Bellamy.

Photo by: Henry Waxman

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Among the many facts about Madge Bellamy which William H. McKegg brings out opposite, is that she is never conscious of her beauty and success, but makes the interviewer aware of her versatile and brilliant mind, and her courageous frankness.

Photo by: Russell Ball (1891–1942)

Collection: Picture Play Magazine, December 1928