Richard Barthelmess

March 1932 Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.
Richard Barthelmess
March 1932 Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.

Richard Barthelmess

DOUGLAS FAIRBANKS, JR.

When you have met Richard Barthelmess once, you will either call him "Mr. Barthelmess" for the rest of your life, or you will eternally address him as "Dick".

There is about him an air of diffidence that is hard to penetrate. In fact he sees to it that unless he pleases, one doesn't. He gives one the impression of being either brimming to the edge with conceit, or possessing an impenetrable shyness.

Curiously enough he is tainted with neither. He is, on the contrary, thoroughly selfconscious. He suspects that the curiosity directed toward him is born of a critical and destructive scavengery. This feeling in no way resembles self-pity. As a matter of fact, he possesses a pardonable pride in relation to his accomplishments, and to the length of time he has prolonged his career. Because of this attitude, so easily misinterpreted by strangers and casual acquaintances, he is not generally liked. He has been thought by many to be inexcusably rude or smug, but that is wholly the workings of his self-conscious philosophy. He feels that if he doesn't strike first, somebody else will. Another thing one must take into consideration, if one were to analyze him, is the fact that for well over a decade he has held on to an enormous popularity—a popularity that, in this business, is symbolized by a sly coquette, a fleeting and unreliable shadow of the artist himself.

Being in this position subjects him continuously to public scrutiny. Myriad eyes are focused microscopically on his every move, and occasionally he rebels. He has a passionate desire to be known by his work alone and not by his private life. This desire often leads him into embarrassing difficulties—for his press agent.

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A great deal of this complex may be psychologically attributed to his physical defects. He has a face of a Greek god, that is set on a short, strong neck, with slightly stooped shoulders, and a body that is well proportioned but surprisingly short in stature. It is the age old legend of "the little man against the world".

He is a material idealist. His personal fortune is big enough to guarantee him whatever luxuries he may require for the rest of his life. He no longer has what one might call a great professional ambition, but keeps on working just for its own sake. If he enjoys what he is doing, he will work at it hard and long. He is generous to a fault and enjoys giving the proverbial helping hand.

His reticence would lead one to suppose that he despises being reminded of his good points, but underneath he possesses almost a maudlin sentimentality. He is the most faithful friend. His little daughter affords him the supreme pride and joy of his life.

He is a splendid companion most of the time. He can, with little effort, adjust himself to any surroundings. He loves the sea, but he is not the best of sailors.

He is extremely level-headed.

He is proud of his Bavarian descent. His name is pronounced with the "th" hard.

He knows his business backwards and from every angle; therefore he is intolerant of stupidity in others.

He dreads the thought of growing old, even though he is still in his thirties. He has no theories or philosophies as to his work, except honesty. One cannot conscientiously accuse him of being a highbrow, but he is extremely intelligent and extraordinarily shrewd. He rarely dissipates to any great extent, but indulges just enough to ward off any boredom that may exist. He collects old maps. He is slightly bow-legged. He has a rare talent of being able to appreciate a joke on himself. He likes to concoct practical jokes.

Tennis is his favorite sport—he concentrates more on that than on golf, only because he doesn't have to walk so far and because it is nearer home.

He has an ardent appreciation for music and mathematics. He must surround himself at all times with interesting end colorful people. Strange as it no doubt may seem in this day and age, his best pal is Mrs. Barthelmess, and his severest critic is an old bewhiskered Scotch sailor. He loves to sing, but can't.

Because of his wit, his sophistication, his charm and his many faults, his close friends call him "perfect". However, if one visits the studio and consults the electricians, carpenters, etc., they will answer in a unanimous and enthusiastic chorus "he's reg'lar".