been! But she did something much worse: she talked about me. She tried to push me into the limelight, stress my talent, make me sound fascinating. And that was an unpardonable sin.
Because, if there is one written law in this strange, unrealistic and questionable shadow world of motion pictures, then it is this: you can talk badly about all of mankind, but never may you glorify yourself or any member of your family. That is out. Others must extol your talents, not you, not yours. On the outside, yes, that's a different matter—^your manager and agent take care of you there and nobody in the business takes a word they say seriously. But inside, with your colleagues, you may talk only of your work, never of your successes. Among ourselves, every last one of us is a poor thing, naked, overworked and tired. In such surroundings, anyone who makes a show of himself, who tries to make the point that he or his are exceptional, is out of place. It is to be avoided at all cost. An exhibitionist is not going to tell another exhibitionist that he's better at exposing himself.
But just this was what Margaret started to do. She
Spoke badly of our colleagues, and that was all right. But then she went on to extol me, and that was anything but all right. I begged her to stop. She promised she would, but she couldn't keep her promise. Her tongue kept running away with her. "If only they'd let Jimmy. . . ." That was how it always began.
K only they'd let Jimmy . . . Warners would soon be in the black again. If only they'd let Jimmy . . . Bette Davis' last picture wouldn't have been a flop. If only they'd let Jimmy . . . Gordon McKeith wouldn't have written a role for Robert Montgomery that was so bad that poor Robert—who anyway didn't know what was good for him —^wouldn't have to be begging around for a new contract. Jimmy would have done this better, would have prevented that; Jimmy had said years ago that this and that would happen; Jimmy had a manuscript on file for three years and now Fox wanted to steal the idea. Jimmy was a hundred times better than any other writer, those present included. And it was only the stupidity of his superiors that prevented him from getting the Oscar for best original script every year. Yes, if only they'd let Jimmy . • .
Again, I must try to be fair and say that Margaret never did any of this in her own personal interest. She had been told and had had to listen bitterly to the fact that she didn't have a spark of acting ability. It wasn't surprising that she chose to transfer her own ambitions to her husband, that she wanted to see him successful, famous and sought after. Could anything have been more touching? Was any greater proof possible of her love? And my God, could there have been anything more disastrous?
Finally I had got her to the point where she refrained from "the glorification of Jimmy," at least when I was around. But soon everyone was telling me that in my absence she blew her "If only they'd let Jimmy" trumpet louder than ever. By now some of my friends were seriously annoyed. Others winked at me ironically, as much as to say: great idea of yours to make your wife your
publicity agent while you stand back protesting innocence. They congratulated me with rancor. Sometimes, somehow or other, a producer fell for her hymns of praise and they had the desired effect. That my colleagues didn't like it ... why should that bother me?
Our first quarrels were over this situation; Margaret's first tears flowed because of it. She was only doing it for my good, and I didn't understand, she sobbed. I felt ashamed and apologized. She promised not to do it again but I knew she would. I was right. The final catastrophe came as the result of her breaking that promise.
It was in the spring of 1941. Margaret was pregnant when we watched the preview of The Death of a Lady, The picture was based on an idea I had had in 1938. I was under contract to Warner Brothers at the time. They liked the idea
Because, if there is one written law in this strange, unrealistic and questionable shadow world of motion pictures, then it is this: you can talk badly about all of mankind, but never may you glorify yourself or any member of your family. That is out. Others must extol your talents, not you, not yours. On the outside, yes, that's a different matter—^your manager and agent take care of you there and nobody in the business takes a word they say seriously. But inside, with your colleagues, you may talk only of your work, never of your successes. Among ourselves, every last one of us is a poor thing, naked, overworked and tired. In such surroundings, anyone who makes a show of himself, who tries to make the point that he or his are exceptional, is out of place. It is to be avoided at all cost. An exhibitionist is not going to tell another exhibitionist that he's better at exposing himself.
But just this was what Margaret started to do. She
Spoke badly of our colleagues, and that was all right. But then she went on to extol me, and that was anything but all right. I begged her to stop. She promised she would, but she couldn't keep her promise. Her tongue kept running away with her. "If only they'd let Jimmy. . . ." That was how it always began.
K only they'd let Jimmy . . . Warners would soon be in the black again. If only they'd let Jimmy . . . Bette Davis' last picture wouldn't have been a flop. If only they'd let Jimmy . . . Gordon McKeith wouldn't have written a role for Robert Montgomery that was so bad that poor Robert—who anyway didn't know what was good for him —^wouldn't have to be begging around for a new contract. Jimmy would have done this better, would have prevented that; Jimmy had said years ago that this and that would happen; Jimmy had a manuscript on file for three years and now Fox wanted to steal the idea. Jimmy was a hundred times better than any other writer, those present included. And it was only the stupidity of his superiors that prevented him from getting the Oscar for best original script every year. Yes, if only they'd let Jimmy . • .
Again, I must try to be fair and say that Margaret never did any of this in her own personal interest. She had been told and had had to listen bitterly to the fact that she didn't have a spark of acting ability. It wasn't surprising that she chose to transfer her own ambitions to her husband, that she wanted to see him successful, famous and sought after. Could anything have been more touching? Was any greater proof possible of her love? And my God, could there have been anything more disastrous?
Finally I had got her to the point where she refrained from "the glorification of Jimmy," at least when I was around. But soon everyone was telling me that in my absence she blew her "If only they'd let Jimmy" trumpet louder than ever. By now some of my friends were seriously annoyed. Others winked at me ironically, as much as to say: great idea of yours to make your wife your
publicity agent while you stand back protesting innocence. They congratulated me with rancor. Sometimes, somehow or other, a producer fell for her hymns of praise and they had the desired effect. That my colleagues didn't like it ... why should that bother me?
Our first quarrels were over this situation; Margaret's first tears flowed because of it. She was only doing it for my good, and I didn't understand, she sobbed. I felt ashamed and apologized. She promised not to do it again but I knew she would. I was right. The final catastrophe came as the result of her breaking that promise.
It was in the spring of 1941. Margaret was pregnant when we watched the preview of The Death of a Lady, The picture was based on an idea I had had in 1938. I was under contract to Warner Brothers at the time. They liked the idea
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