Too Continental — Or What? (1930) 🇺🇸
Hollywood is Hollywood and Europe is Europe, and never the twain shall meet, with apologies, of course, to Mr. Kipling.
by Willard Chamberlin
At least that is the way it seems after watching some dozen or more Continental celebrities being feted and exploited on their arrival in this country, only to return to the gay capitals of Europe before their movie stars bad shone their brightest.
There are a remarkably small number of European favorites who have been successful in American films. They have gone back, nearly every one. Why? Oh, for various reasons, according to the press, but probably the underlying motive for all their departures is the fact that Hollywood isn't Paris, or Vienna, or Budapest, or Berlin. They long for that something that we associate with the sparkle of champagne and the gay camaraderie of the boulevards, and for want of a better name, call the Continental spirit.
Each year France, Germany. Austria. Hungary, Spain, and Russia, or perhaps we should say Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Budapest, Monte Carlo, and Moscow, send their quota of lovely ladies to our shores, bound for Hollywood. The toasts of the Paris cabarets, the favorites of Viennese society, the darlings of the baccarat tables, are sent as envoys of beauty and talent to the shrine of the American cinema.
They come, bringing with them adjectives such as fiery, vivid, capricious, effervescent, exotic, voluptuous, and all the other superlatives. With them come press reports, personality stories, pictures of them waving to the Statue of Liberty, comical accounts of their adventures with the English language. They come prepared to paint Hollywood red. But Hollywood is not so keen as it once was to be painted any color. The cinema city has been pretty well fed up on sensation. The newcomers are sometimes feted once or twice, but more often they are ignored quite completely.
It is then that these gay creatures from overseas learn what Hollywood really is like. They find that there is none of the unrestrained gayety of the Paris cabarets, none of the night-time sparkle of Montmartre. They find that Hollywood works more than it plays. And they find, to their dismay, that Hollywood is not interested in them, but in its work.
Then, too, they discover that their tense, impetuous temperaments are not suited to American films. They find that they lack the reserve and dignity of our film ladies. They put too much of themselves into their work, and are severely criticized for overacting. They cannot adapt their personalities to the sugar-coated coterie of the cinema city. So they are disillusioned. For them California is not so sunny. They hear always the call of the bright lights and joyous laughter of the Continent. And inevitably they go hack where there is music and sparkle and color.
Pola Negri stood it for a long time. The glamorous, wonderful Negri! She is Polish. She has been wedded to a count and to a prince. She has tasted of Europe's life abundantly. Negri has known great joys and great tragedies; she has met triumph and defeat. Strange and brooding, her personality combines the loves and hates of a smoldering race. She was for a long time the greatest actress in Europe — gave glowing, vivid performances, vital and passionate. She was queen of emotion.
Then Hollywood's siren call reached Pola's ears; the spider web of fame in America caught her turbulent fancy, and she journeyed to Hollywood. Paramount starred her in one picture after another, but the old glamour was gone. It is doubtful if Pola's heart was ever in Hollywood. Yet she stayed and finished her contract. Now she is back in Europe, at her chateau near Paris, her prince cast aside. In Europe new triumphs may be awaiting her. Perhaps she will make another "Passion." Not one of her American-made films approaches that.
Pola Negri was always misunderstood by the American public. It was difficult to penetrate the shell of mystery which encased her. She was berated as temperamental, moody, cold. Her dark eyes gleamed unreally from the pallor of her sullen face. Artists are never understood. They are too high-strung, too finely tempered, too uncanny, to be understood by the throng. Pola Negri is an artist.
The blond Greta Nissen lent her capricious charm to American films for only too short a time. She was given roles which didn't suit her. Heavy, vamp parts that brought out a false eroticism which, though attractive and alluring, did not satisfy the Norwegian snow maiden of the films. They cast her in Fazil, which was her most intriguing role, but pictures never gave Miss Nissen a fair chance. She, too, was disillusioned, and deserted Hollywood for the stage of the hinterland. In Greta's case it was a longing for dramatic roles which drove her from the Hollywood trifles which were allotted her.
Lya de Putti not long ago made it known that she is through with pictures in America forever. She has sought the capitals of the Continent where, as she says, "there is music and opera and friends." Miss de Putti, although she has always been considered a vamp, very bitterly berates the inconsistencies of Hollywood. She dislikes their method of film making, she disapproves of their mode of life, she is shocked at their divorces. Marriage to her, she says, is something sacred and lasting. Hers, too, is a personality fitted to Europe, one which could never hope to adapt itself to American manners. She is distinctly foreign, and her American venture has been most unfortunate.
Her artistic career began and ended with "Variety." She made "God Gave Me Twenty Cents," The Sorrows of Satan, "The Heart Thief," “Buck Privates," and "Midnight Rose." The roles were most disappointing. She made one last effort in The Scarlet Lady. That too was unsuccessful. So now she has left Hollywood bitterly behind. Back in Europe she may make another "Variety." She is an artist — strictly in the European sense of the word.
María Corda has fared a little better, although for a time it looked as though she, too, had deserted American films. As it is, her activities are only partially devoted to Hollywood. Before her American arrival, she was seen in "Moon of Israel" and "Madame Wants No Children," both of which were of a style entirely Continental. Her first American-made movie, The Private Life of Helen of Troy, was an artistic success, but it was peppered with that same Continental sophistication, and fans did not respond as they might have. In other words, her American debut was not a triumph, and Madame Corda returned to Europe. There she made "A Woman of the Night" for a British company. Lately, however, she has been seen in this country again, opposite Milton Sills, in "Love and the Devil." This had a background of Venetian opera life, and was of a European style especially fitted to the personality of Madame Corda.
Dagmar Godowsky was of a type too foreign and strange to be wholly appreciated or liked by American audiences. She played vamp roles of a type not unlike Theda Bara. Her type passed from public favor, and so Dagmar left the screen. Now she is in Europe. Dagmar is the daughter of Leopold Godowsky, the famous concert pianist. She is Russian, of a type distinctly peculiar to the American code of ethics. Europeans would class her interesting. We would term her unnatural.
Nita Naldi was an enigma. She is really American-born, although her dark Italian features belie the fact she is of native parentage. Her voluptuous beauty, her regal, serpentine figure, her sleek, shiny hair, belong in the European drawing-room, the casino, the gown shops on Rue de la Paix. The American public saw Nita Naldi slink sinuously through countless vamp roles of the cushion-lined apartment type. Naldi wore bizarre gowns and barbaric jewelry. Her narrow, oblique eyes, almost Egyptian in their slant, spelled the eternal lure. Vamps of that kind ceased to navigate, and Nita sought the crystal lights of Parisian salons. She knew Valentino. She mingled with foreigners. She was sophisticated, witty, brilliant. Only once has she visited American shores since leaving. She decided she didn't like it here at all, and hopped on the next boat back to Europe. She makes pictures in Paris. One of them, "The Model of Montmartre," was released in this country. It should never have been shown here. Its frank sophistication, so typical of Paris, was labeled vulgar by many.
The great Russian tragediénne, Nazimova, has long since deserted the American cinema for the stage. Her personality is somehow dwarfed on the screen; she cannot give expression to her talents. Nazimova made "A Doll's House," "Camille," and "Salome." They were artistic, fantastic, bizarre. So much so that nobody but Nazimova knew what they were about. She left films disgusted. She made a return, however, and contributed three performances in "Madonna of the Streets," "The Redeeming Sin," and "My Son." And that was the end. She left more determined than ever that she was through with films. During past seasons she has been successful on the stage. Rumor at present says she will make a talking version of "The Bed of Innocence" in three languages, English, French, and Russian. If this is true, she will be giving the screen one more trial in her colorful career.
Eva von Berne, Lena Malena, Dita Parlo, Arlette Marchal, Natli Barr, and Vera Voronina all came and went. Miss von Berne played in one film, "Masks of the Devil," found America strange, and went home. Lena Malena, who created quite a minor stir in "Diamond Handcuffs," proved to be a rather mediocre and uninteresting actress, with no claims to beauty or acting ability. Arlette Marchal, after making a name for herself in America, was lured back to Paris; Natli Barr, a Russian beauty, played opposite Milton Sills in one picture, and her part was cut out. Vera Voronina, glamorous Russian blonde, last seen in "The Patriot," has, like others, disappeared into the night.
Even little Anna May Wong, although from a different land, found Hollywood wasn't all a feast of lanterns, and had to go to England and Germany to be recognized. She has a prominent part in Gilda Gray's "Piccadilly," made in England, and in Ufa's "Show Life" she stars.
Only three Continental stars have made lasting impressions on the American theatergoer — Greta Garbo, Vilma Banky, and Jetta Goudal. And of these, only Miss Banky seems to have successfully adapted herself to American life. Married to Rod La Rocque, starred in United Artists films, her career in Hollywood has been smooth and tranquil. She is the one shining example of the successful Continental star.
Greta Garbo, although she has risen to enviable heights, seems not entirely satisfied, and wanders from America to Europe and back again, as though undecided where to remain. If she had married John Gilbert — but alas, that is not to be. Greta remains a singularly strange figure, aloof, listless, lonely — foreign. It is difficult to say how long she will find America tolerable.
Jetta Goudal claims Versailles as her birthplace. And it is an oddly suitable setting for the poised and perfect Jetta. Her stately grace, her modulated mannerisms, a something piquant and French about her, belong to another era, one of powdered wigs and sedan chairs. She first won fame as La Clavel, the Spanish spy, in "The Bright Shawl." She has since become one of the screen's most distinctive personalities. But too often her temperament has run rampant, and she has lost some of the foothold she won, or in other words, her contract. But she was subtly humorous as Simone, in The Cardboard Lover, and as Countess Diane, in Lady of the Pavements, she flaunted the crisp brocades and ivory fans of the courtly period she so typifies. La Goudal is a charming actress and one we want to keep in films.
And so we find them, these Continental creatures, restless, impetuous, too artistic to meet the practical requirements of Hollywood, placed in a world in which they do not fit, morose, unhappy, imbued with that Continental complex which, like the moth and flame, reaches out for brilliance and gayety.
And of the newer importations, Baclanova, Camilla Horn, Lily Damita, our current envoys from Moscow, Berlin, and Paris, how will they fare? Camilla Horn has already returned to Germany. Right now the other two are finding Hollywood a new sensation; their horizon seems rosy. But a year from now will the boulevards be calling them back, too?
Baclanova seems to have found favor with fans, and Lily Damita was striking as the tempestuous La Perichole, in The Bridge of San Luis Rey, and startling in "The Cockeyed World." But they too are imbued with that dash and sparkle which does not spell adaptation — or adoration. It is not likely that they will become permanent fixtures on the American screen.
Unsuitable roles disillusioned Greta Nissen with Hollywood.
Though Arlette Marchal achieved success, she returned to Paris.
Photo by: Eugene Robert Richee (1896–1972)
Natli Barr's importation was most disastrous of all.
María Corda just didn't fit in.
Pola Negri's "case" is history.
Many attempts to captivate finally sent Lya de Putti home disheartened.
Photo by: Roman Freulich (1898–1974)
Some years ago Dagmar Godowsky tried vainly to become a favorite.
Photo by: Hill
Nita Naldi frankly prefers Europe to Hollywood.
Photo by: Edward Thayer Monroe (1890–1974)
Nazimova’s screen career ended ingloriously.
Photo by: Melbourne Spurr (1888–1964)
Collection: Picture Play Magazine, February 1930