"Poor Old Walter"—They Say

Auckland Star, Volume LXXII, Issue 69, 22 March 1941, Page 5 (Supplement)

"Poor Old Walter"—They Say

A DARK, dank fog hang s over the San Francisco waterfront. The sailing vessel from New York is in; our heroine is being rowed ashore in the black mist. The boatman is a cackling, voluble old coot whose Adam's apple runs on ball bearings. He chews tobacco with gusto and expectorates with even greater gusto. Nice old fellow; regular character. Half-way in. lie ships his oars. Jle wants another dollar. No more money, no more ride. 13u£ he had agreed—objects (lie girl fearfully. jMayhc so—lmt no more money, no more i*ide. A dollar—no, two dollars more. And what if ho doesn't get it? What then ? What (lien? Hell, hell, hell! Alany's the throat lie has slit in his day for less than that. Toughest, killingest,' light ing<'*t man on the JSarbary Cnact, that's what he is. Manx's the body the silent waters of tile bay ... We Know You, Brennan! Oh, i-liut up! We know you, Walter Itremian, behind them false l>oasts. Only tiling you ever killed was a lot. of time, waiting for this part in llarbary Coast, the first reaJ break you've had in pictures. \our name may be Old Atrocity, you may be stealing this picture right from beneath the noses of its star*, but

you're just sitting there play-acting. Lncle Walter, the demon pirate. JJa! • V * « 1 am sitting in the observation cur of a streamliner on my way from Hollywood to Tucson to watch the first shootings of '"The Westerner."' J am reading, and have placed part of my paper on the chair beside me. "Your pa[)er?" asks a pleasant voice. I look up. There standi* a tall, dis-tinguished-looking man, about -4(1. His (lark Jiair is neatly comlied. He is wearing a trim, dark-grey business suit. "Pardon me,'' 1 say; ami remove my paper. He sits down. \\ hen we both liave finished reading we get to talking, and talk all the way to Tucson. We get off the train together, lind we both are going to tin? same hotel, so we share a cab. I am still a bit sleepy next morning as I 6tan<l in the little movie-made town in the desert, the sun just rising-, and watch preparations for the iirst shot of the day. Near me stands an ohl man, a patriarch of the 'south-west. HLs knees are bent beneath the load of the years; his shoulders droop; his unkempt hair hang* about his ears. He looks at me and grins. "How are you this morning?" he says. "Fine, thank"you." I reply, with the slight reserve that one uses in answering a question from a total stranger. ° Gary Cooper comes along and slaps him resoundingly on the back. "All set, Walter?" he asks. The other noils; they move toward the camera, Mr. Cooper striding along, the old codger shuffling beside him. bent and weary, running a few steps now and then in a pitiful effort to keep up. And now, finally, a rare flash of intelligence tells me that this is the pleasant-spoken man 1 met on the train last night, and that liis name is Walter Brennan. For a man who got in by making a jackass of himself, Walter Brennan has •lone a right smart job of it in Hollywood. Twice winner of the Academy Award for supporting parts, considered the most valuable character actor— Debut in Hollywood But first let me tell you how the Brennan family landed in Hollywood back in the 'twenties. They came in an old touring car; the top was up and the side curtains on because it was raining, and raining hard. Buttons were missing from the side curtains and the top was loose, and the whole shebang was flapping loudly in the wind. An extra strong gust swept the ear. and the top, just above the front seat, ripped wide open. The rain came in— plenty of it. In the twinkling of an eye Mr. Brennan came up with the smartest idea in the hietory of the cinema. He stopped and bought a cheap umbrella. This he thrust up through the hole in the top, opened it, and the Brennans drove into Hollywood with Mrs. Brennan holding the umbrella with all her might and main. But that wasn't the jackass part of the debut. That came later, after Mr. Brennan had tramped the streets, from studio to studio, for many months. One afternoon, having just been turned down once more by a studio —they wouldn't

"The man's growing more decrepit with each picture." That's what fans are saying about the man who has twice won the Academy Award for character roles—Walter Brennan. Here's how Brennan stays feeble—at forty.

By Donald Hough

believe he could do old-man parts, wliieh were liis specialty even (lien —lie was idling along toward Ilie familiar exit, wondering what, next, when he came upon an outdoor set, with a company at work. They were having troiilile. Kidman stopped. lie found that, one of the actors, a, donkey, had been emitting mi - scheduled Inays all afternoon, to the anger of the sound technicians; and now that it. was supposed to bray. it. would unleash nary a sound. Jirennan went up to the harried director. "I can bray," he said. The truth was that he never had 'brayed in his life; this was simply an inspiration. "Let's hear," the director said. Brennan brayed. J><>t I) the director and the donkey were delighted. The director told Jirennan to go ahead. Brennan bewail to sniff hamburgers in the oiling. "How much?" he asked the director. "Ten bucks."

But our hero, sensing that tie had the upper liaud, held out for more. The director explained that the rules allowed only ten. "Then I don't bray," Brennan said firmly. The director had an idea. "Tell you what," he said; "you bray for the tenspot. and to-morrow come around and I'll give yon a bit part. You can collect 25 for that." It was a deal. Bremiiin was in picture*. and not the first man to bray his way in. For some time after that he played small character roles, until finally the part of Old Atrocity in "Barbarv Coast" made Walter Brennan the most soughtafter character actor in Hollywood. Parts came thick and fast after that, and so did Brennan. He made another hit as one of the principals in "The Three Godfathers"; then in "Come and Oet It." in 1930, he won the Academy Award for the best supporting performance of the year. Then came "Banjo on My Knee." "Buccaneer," "The Texanp." and, just two years after he had won the first supporting award, he won another for outstanding work as Uncle Peter (Joodwin in ".Kentucky." When Brennan was walking the streets, back in his braying days, he got acquainted with a chap who was just coming into fame. A fellow from Montana. Cary Cooper. They became friends—have been ever since; and it is more than accidental that they have played in a number of pictures together. Virnt there was "The Wedding Night," later "The Cowboy and the Lady," and last year Brennan finished what T, at least, consider his greatest part, as Judge Roy Bean in "The Westerner."

In fact. it's hard to tell whether he is supporting Cooper or Cooper is supporting liim. I do know tluit if it develops (liat Brennau steal* tlie picture, it . will lie all riiill l with Cooi>er. Following his work in "The Westerner ' —which was finished some months ago—Breunau played a minor role for — all it was worth in "Northwest Passage, then carried the lilin "Maryland" on his own tient old shoulders. Recently lie has heen woiTiTng with Cooper again in "Meet John Doe."' h There has lieen an undoubted switch s of public interest to character parts, t, People are tending more and more to e go to pictures in which their favourite t character actors are hilled. Of course the patrons want to see Mr. l-'lvnn and n .Mr. (Jable am! Mr. Powell and .Mr. e Cooper just being themselves, but in- - creasing!v tliey want to see people like 0 lirennan. They never know just what d he is going to be like, but they know t. he'll be good. lSrcnnau prefers character acting to '- straight parts because, he frankly points out. it's easier, you get in more picture* d and you last, longer. He is still, of n course, a specialist at old man characterisations. though, as T mentioned before, he is only about forty. <1 " I'lie idea that >1111 can take the part r of an old man bv putting 011 a grey n wig and making up your face is 11011J. sense."' he says. "An old man has slowed up mentally, and is going to pieces physically. When he gets up from a

chair, he helps himself with his arms. He shuffles when he walks. The leg muscles are tired, and the knees sag. hen I am on the set my body is consciously and carefully transformed, as well as 1 can do it, into that of an old man, and I cannot come out of it between scenes. Sometimes I have to be an old man for days." Then there is the mental side. A man's brain, Tie points out, begins to slow up in later years. Hence the necessity for the hesitating reply, the pause, which, however slight, must be there if the role is to carry conviction. Xot long ago a friend of mine, discussing the movies and expressing his admiration for Walter Breiman, shook his head. "J rouble is," he said, "you just get interested in an actor, and t'lie first thiii" you know he-s not around anv more. Poor old Brennan. He's getting pretty feeble." Well, maybe so. But you can lav down a small bet that Uncle Walter will manage, somehow, to stagger alon°' into his next picture. °