Bill Powell — As He Is (1929) 🇺🇸
Stars may come and stars may go, but a good actor goes on forever. Look at William Powell. If you can think of a better example for the point at issue, name ten. All right then, look at William Powell.
by Margaret Reid
In the beginning, it was decided that there would have to be some compensation for the histrionic deficiencies of the majority of stars. So that was when William Powell made his cinema debut. Since which time he has blithely, and quite without malice, stolen more pictures from the players he has supported than any other actor. Many a star long on eyelash, but short on brain wave, has been baffled by Mr. Powell's suave theft of scenes, and has pouted in corners as a result — and has discovered dismally that there was nothing to be done about it.
It is a little unreasonable that Powell is such a fine actor. Or, if he must do good work, the least one can expect of him is adherence to the Hollywood precept of one contract being better than another, not because of the additional thousand dollars it entails, but because of the additional opportunities for dramatic expression. It has made more than one boulevardier shudder fastidiously when Bill Powell has bluntly confessed that he is in pictures solely to make money. Such vulgar frankness is not quite cricket around the cinema capital.
But that is his story and he sticks to it. The making of money is his primary interest. If, in so doing, he has a picture now and then in which he can take an intelligent pride — well and good. But if not, his heart doesn't bleed with artistic frustration. He is sorry, but not as sorry as he would be if there were a cessation of pay checks.
At one time, the tremendous glory of being a Thespian was all that Bill Powell asked of life. During his college years, when his trusting family still thought their boy was going to be a lawyer, he was lending most of his energy to college dramatics. Pedagogy left him cold and when, during vacations, he worked in a telephone office, and then in a haberdashery, the glimpse afforded him of business routine was distressing in the extreme. Deciding that he would be the last person in the world to drown artistic genius in a business career, he left college and took the flower of Kansas City dramatic talent to New York.
In the American Academy of the Dramatic Arts, young William Powell learned many disconcerting facts about what was wrong with his interpretations. Undaunted, he threw himself into study with great fervor. New York was enchanted ground, and he was to be its chosen.
On leaving the academy, he proved to be no Merton, but rather a good advertisement for his teachers. He had no difficulty in obtaining roles. For several years thereafter he worked steadily, principally in New York, now and then on the road, gaining constantly in repute. He was doing, altogether, extremely well.
And then, gradually but surely, the pleasure of hearing himself talk before an audience began to dwindle in importance. The first thrilling luster of the footlights wore off, and he realized that there was a lot in life besides acting, that there were countless places he wanted to go, things to see and to do. And he wasn't becoming rich enough to do them. Straightway he decided that what he must do was to find a better business, since only a select few stage players ever become really wealthy.
Having heard much about the inviting salaries of the movies, Powell made several attempts to get one of them, but without result. Then one day, when he was enjoying the questionable glory of five successive artistic successes — that is, commercial flops — he ran into Albert Parker in the Lambs' Club. Parker was about to begin direction of John Barrymore, in Sherlock Holmes, and asked Powell why he didn't come along and play one of Moriarity's henchmen. Unable to think of any reason why he shouldn't, Powell went eagerly. Followed engagements in When Knighthood Was in Flower, "Outcast," "Under the Red Robe," then to Italy for "Romola," and Cuba for "The Bright Shawl."
By this time firmly established with the public, Powell was signed by Paramount, with which company he has been ever since.
One of the few screen players to whom the talkies have not come as the millenium, he has been considerably advanced by the advent of the microphone. His performance in Interference, the first talkie to show intelligence, added greatly to the distinction of that picture.
Distinction is, indeed, essentially a component of the Powell personality, both on and off the screen. The élan which characterizes Menjou [Adolphe Menjou] in pictures and is missing in real life, is evident in the off-screen Powell. Worldly, intelligent, charming, he is what picture heroes are made of. But because some trick of physiognomy renders his appearance sinister, he is catalogued as a villain.
Which is all right with him, as long as it isn't the fairy-tale menace in a Zane Grey thriller. Realizing his facial limitations, he has no thwarted yearn for heroic roles, but, nevertheless, he does not enjoy doing heavies whose sole function is to accentuate the incredible virtues of the hero and heroine. He finds satisfaction in any role which deals with a man who gives the impression of having been born of man and woman, rather than concocted by a scenario writer and a tailor. He dislikes formula, hokum, and melodramatics, but doesn't allow his personal prejudice to deny the fact that they are good box-office ingredients.
He has deep appreciation of the good things of life. The best in paintings, in drama, in caviar, in music, in automobiles. It is to be able to indulge these tastes, that he is acquiring money as rapidly as possible. He has a deep horror of poverty.
Although he has never been destitute, he is aware that the only free spirits are those with money to unlock the doors of the world.
His particular desire is to be footloose; to be able, if he feels so inclined, to pack a bag and catch the next train, or boat, or airplane. Perpetual travel is his idea of utter peace. Even a week's vacation between pictures is sufficient excuse to rush to the Grand Canyon, or Seattle, or Mexico. He admits to a sentimental love for Italy in particular, and would like to have a home there, making it the converging point of his travels.
Ronald Colman and Richard Barthelmess are his two closest friends. His excursions to Hollywood restaurants and such are comparatively infrequent. He took up tennis a year ago, and has since been an ardent devotee, but not an expert.
He enjoys his profession and would not want to follow any other, but is subject to moments of depression when making up, thinking to himself, "What a damn-fool thing for a man to be doing for a living — making himself pretty." He is deeply thankful that, with new processes, it is not necessary for actors to use make-up. He was once branded by an interviewer as "the wittiest man in Hollywood." It was an unkind compliment, life ever since having been miserable for him. "Come on," his friends challenge, "do something funny, say something cute." He is, despite that, the possessor of a fluent and charming wit.
He lives with his mother and father in Hollywood. He prefers caviar to chicken livers, Florence to any other city in the world, Scotch to Bourbon, and champagne to either, the stage to the screen for entertainment, detests fittings for clothes, and likes good taste and dignity in all things. And, although it is none of your business, he has been married, but is separated from his wife.
Many a star long on eyelash, but short on brain waves, has been baffled by William Powell's suave theft of scenes, but nothing can be done to stop him.
Photo by: Eugene Robert Richee (1896–1972)
Though William Powell might well prate of his art and his philosophy, he eliminates both by saying that he is in the movies for money with which to enjoy himself later, this being but one of Margaret Reid's discoveries in the story opposite.
Photo by: George Peter Hommel (1901–1953)
Collection: Picture Play Magazine, November 1929