William Bakewell — An Interview Enters His Life (1928) 🇺🇸

Getting wise to film fame takes time, at the beginning. If an interview enters an actor’s life, he knows he is getting to be rather important. When he has had two or three visits from the press, he becomes partially wise to the game. He learns that an interview has to be shaped out; that it has to have a distinctive angle on him, if possible. To talk good copy and, by such talk, suggest good angles, are the bane of the actors’ hectic existence.

by William H. McKegg

Many of the players to-day are so wise to this interviewing game, and are so very anxious to be good copy — they even know the argot of the press — that they concoct angles for themselves.

One young player was so desirous that I should get good copy on him, that he frankly asked, in an imperious tone “What is the angle you are using? Have you any in mind?” When told the angle would, be either acute or isosceles, he gave a weak laugh, not knowing whether he was being made fun of, or whether I was trying to be funny. All the same, he suggested what he thought was a good angle. Sad to relate, it was not used, as the story in which he was being mentioned did not need any distinctive angle. So the helpful young player went to press angleless.

Coming face to face with these very knowing players is rather a bore. Therefore, it is refreshing to meet one who lets the interviewer work out his problems in his own way.

The refreshing newcomer, in this case, is William Bakewell. You very likely saw him in West Point, as Bill Haines’ [William Haines] hero-worshiping roommate. You will also see him in Harold Teen. He is now playing in D. W. Griffith’s new picture, The Battle of the Sexes.

Phoning the Bakewell abode, I fully expected the young gentleman would readily accept my suggestion of an interview, as something quite comme il faut. Something he had expected would some time happen to him. So new is Bill to this interviewing game that, in spite of his budding fame, he first of all firmly refused to believe he was to be interviewed at all.

“Cut out your kidding, Arth,” came back over the phone. “I know it’s you. It’s Arthur Lake, isn’t it?”

Arthur may possess a cultivated voice, but I tried to persuade Mr. Bakewell that Arthur wasn’t the only one. Once more I tried to get over my reality. Where should we meet? (“Come, come, sir! This is quite genuine! No kidding!”)

“Oh, what about New York, Arthur? Let’s stop off halfway and have the interview at Chicago.”

This went on and on. Finally, by suggesting that he call up some one like Julie Lang of Paramount, or Howard Strickling of M.-G.-M. — promising to produce my passport, and other signs of identification — Bill commenced to think there might be some truth in my assertions.

He dubiously set it for ten o’clock the next morning.

With many laughs and guffaws, the skeptical Mr. Bakewell said, as a parting phrase over the telephone, “I don’t believe it yet, really — say, for the last time, Arthur — come across, now — be honest — no kidding — who is it? I know it’s you, Arth.”

“At ten to-morrow morning. Good-by.” I hung up.

Possibly Mr. Bakewell had found out that I was not Arthur Lake after all, even if I had spoken as Mr. Lake would speak if disguising himself as an interviewer to deceive a pal, for he phoned me later during that same evening.

Gosh! He never thought any one wanted to interview him. Listen. Would I have lunch at the Montmartre? Say, wouldn’t I rather do that than meet him at ten?

No, I wouldn’t. At ten the next morning. Good-by! The appointment was kept, as arranged, in the Bakewell apartment. The meeting was preceded by many lilting ha-has. From him, to show what a jolly, fine old joke the whole mix-up had been. From me, to prove that the interviewer’s feelings were as good-natured as ever.

“Say, I’ve got to apologize for acting the goat,” Bill said. “But I was expecting Arthur Lake to call just when you did. We’re always kidding each other over the phone. Arthur will change his voice and say, ‘I represent United Artists. Will you call at the studio to-morrow morning to consider a contract? Or I’ll call him, and say something equally crazy. And being interviewed was the last thing I thought would ever happen to me.”

The shock he received had evidently bereft Bill of all his alertness, for he had not thought up anything striking to say about himself, as many a more seasoned player would. Bill was himself, and much more pleasant. He admitted that there was little to write about — yet.

He was born in Los Angeles, and went to a military academy there. Three years ago he started in pictures as an extra.

“I always had been crazy about pictures,” Bill remarked, as the only excuse for his present position. “That’s not original with me, I know, but it’s true.”

Unlike his friend, Arthur Lake — that rare humorist — he has no theatrical connections, so he cannot say acting was in his blood. But it obviously is there, nevertheless. His work shows he is an actor, and that he will improve with time.

Bill’s first bits came at the Fox studio, in a series of O. Henry stories. That was over two years ago. Then, with plenty of presumption, according to him, he went to Universal to see Emory Johnson, to try for a juvenile role in “The Last Edition.” A test came into his life, also a fairly conspicuous part.

Later, and more recently, “Mother” and The Devil’s Trademark were made with Belle Bennett. These two pictures followed “The Heart Thief,” in which Bill played the juvenile opposite Lya de Putti. Lya, who knew hardly any English then, insisted on speaking her titles in her funny accent, nearly causing poor Bill to burst out laughing in the most serious scenes with her.

Of course, an occasional disappointment has come our young hero’s way. He and Constance Howard had important roles in “The Waning Sex.” Both were completely cut out of the finished picture. Again, in “The Magic Flame,” Bill and Constance played juveniles. Again they graced the cutting-room shelves.

However, it was his very good work in West Point that attracted the notice of reviewers and fans. He is now getting an increasing fan mail and, to date, an interview.

To-day, Bill is twenty, and has grown several inches since his O. Henry days. Naturally, he looks older, too, though you’d take him for seventeen or eighteen. He is a bright chap, not a bore, not self-conscious, nor over-conscious — not yet. He is vitally alive and — praise Buddha! — not sophisticated. That is, he doesn’t pose. He lives with his mother, and has a good time with his friends. He is not overeager to tell you what he can do — not yet. He did admit that, next to acting, he likes swimming and tennis best, and I have heard he is most proficient in both.

While Bill was answering a phone call, I was able to glance about the room. A photo of William Haines stood in a conspicuous place. “Dear Bill,” ran the autograph of the inimitable Haines, “you may not believe me, but I enjoyed working with you.” A picture of Belle Bennett, with a beautiful autograph, was also obvious. I regarded a silver cup of modest size, with “Presented to William Bakewell, for possessing the best school spirit,” inscribed on it.

A scrap book, the size and thickness of a small trunk, with “William Bakewell” stamped on the cover in letters of gold, is being used for present, and subsequent, press clippings. Only several pages are used — yet. Inside the cover is written, in a boyish hand:

“I am going to be the greatest actor on the screen. This is a promise I make to myself. Signed, William Bakewell.”

He never mentioned anything like that in the interview; he may in the next. Anyway, the chief distinctions in his life at this moment are: That he is the youngest member of the Maskers’ Club; that he is working under D. W. Griffith; that he has already done something sufficiently worthy to make him the subject of an interview. He was, he confessed, completely bowled over.

Let us hope he doesn’t become Hollywoodized; that he keeps on getting bowled over; that he does not, like many of the more seasoned players, come to expect interviews and prepare angles, wise saws, and modern sayings.

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Bill is entirely devoid of self-consciousness, conceit or pose.

Very likely you remember Bakewell as Bill Haines’ hero-worshiping roommate in West Point.

Photo by: Lansing Brown (1900–1962)

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Collection: Picture Play Magazine, November 1928