Barrymore Page #3

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hit on Broadway.

He sees me perform in some

vapid little piece of fluff.

Jack Barrymore, when are

you going to stop wasting

your talent?

Talent? What talent?

I'm in the family

business, that's all.

Like dry goods

or hardware.

No, no, no, no, no

- but you don't

realize what

you're capable of.

You could be doing

the classics!

The classics? Please!

Tights?

Prancing around

the stage in some

pantywaist get-up?

No, thank you.

Jack you're a coward.

What are you afraid of?

You've got the looks, the

heart, the ego, and the talent.

Oh, I admit, it's

a little raw.

You'll have to

work your ass off.

But if you do, you could

be what the theater's

searching for.

You could be the

next Edwin Booth.

Ah come on, you

flap-eared sonuvabitch!

I'm going to get that

Plantagenet nose of yours

against some

worthwhile grindstone.

Are you game?

Sure, I'm game.

Ned is as good

as his word.

He plots my career

like a Roman general.

He even writes

plays for me.

He got me started

on Shakespeare.

We were at the Bronx

Zoo, mesmerized by a red

tarantula with a gray bald

spot on the back of its head.

Oh, Jesus, what a

sinisterlooking Sonovabitch.

"Crawling power,

Neddie," I said.

"That reminds me of

Richard the Third. "

"Which you are going

to play," he said.

God bless you, Ned.

You made me reach for it.

You even bought

me a pet tarantula.

I called it Mercedes.

Mr. Barrymore...

Hold your horses, Frank.

Hold your horses.

One summer holiday, Ned

and I rendez-vous'd in Venice.

We wandered late at night

across ancient bridges.

We traveled the

Grand Canal.

We talked about

everything under the sun.

He talked, I listened.

Then on to Florence.

To that golden city...

Ned and I, we waited

for the sunrise.

As the dawn came, there it

was in all its glory -

the River Arno, the Uffizi

Gallery, the Santa Croce

where Michelangelo

and Galileo are buried.

And there we were at

four in the morning -

singing to all of Florence...

When that midnight

choo choo leaves for Alabam'

I'll be right there,

I've got my fare.

When I see that

rusty-haired conductor-man,

I'll grab

him by the collar

And I'll holler

Alabam'! Alabam'! Alabam!

C'mon, Neddie, dance,

you old bastard!

I'm going to sit this one out.

I think he knew more about

art and history than even

old Ruskin himself.

Ah, Ned- Give me that man

that is not passion's slave,

and I will hear him in

my heart's core, ay,

in my heart of heart,

as I do thee.

That was a helluva summer.

Mr. Barrymore? Mr. Barrymore?

Mr. Barrymore!

YES!

Last summer they put

me in a sanitarium.

I forget where

the hell it was.

Somewhere out

in the desert.

Full of rich old boozers,

who were there for the

express purpose

of drying out.

A formidable creature named

Frau Himmler was in charge.

Ah, Frau Himmler, how

enchanting you look.

And how is Herr Himmler?

Dead! Kaput! Gone to Valhalla!

In that case, my Teutonic

tease, are you free to

join me in a nightcap?

Mr. Berryman,

Zis ist a clinic!

Ve haf House Rules.

Zere vill be no Schmoking,

no Profanity und no

Schumuggling in ze

Schnapps by your Hollywood

riffraff Crowd!

Then, perhaps, my Germanic

Geranium, a little romp

between the sheets?

Schweinehund!

Hanky-panky ist verboten!

Zere vill be no discussion

of S.E.X.

What vas, vas.

Down boy!

Have done thy charm,

thou hateful wither'hag!

Up your Wienerschnitzel,

you old Sauerkraut!

Ned gave me this.

Sixteenth century.

It's the real thing.

I love old things...

old friends, old times,

old manners, old books,

old trees, the old sun,

the old moon,

old wine in dim flagons,

old actors, old wagons.

Where was I?

In the sanitarium.

Oh yeah.

One night, when the Wagnerian

Vixen was looking the

other way, I escaped and

joined a lady of the

evening, a blushing flower

who shall be nameless.

Trixie Schumacher.

Trixie's pushing forty

from the wrong side,

but she sparkles like

a dental filling.

After a lively little

game of jumble-giblets

performed in the back seat

of a taxi, we were quietly

wassailing in the cozy

intimacy of the Beberly

Wilshire Hotel dining

room, when who should storm

in but my old journalist

friend, Gene Fowler.

Gene immediately proceeded

to berate, insult and

badmouth my poor,

soiled little dove.

I had no choice but to rise

in defense of Trixie's honor.

"Now stop right

there, Gene", I said.

"I will not permit you to

use such language in the

presence of a whore!"

"Yer damn right!"

said Trixie and hauled

off and slapped him.

She immediately

regretted it.

He was chewing tobacco.

I gotta tell you this.

Mr. Barrymore! Mr. Barrymore!

Shut up Frank! I gotta

tell you this.

Gene has a - Gene

has a - Gene has a

mother-in-law - from Hell!

I can't understand grown

men gettin' drunk and

actin' like fools in

front of decent people.

Don't you bring that

broken-down

John Barrymore here anymore!

The fact is, he did bring

me home early one morning

before sunrise.

Shh!

Don't wake Mumsie.

As if I wanted to.

While he was tiptoeing

into the kitchen to get

drinks, I got acquainted

with Chester, Mumsie's

beloved parrot.

Say something, Chester.

Don't just there, you

stupid Technicolor chicken.

Turned out, the bird

spoke nothing but French.

Bonjour, madame, bwak!

Bonjour madame, Bwak!

Bonjour madame, Bwak!

In no time, I had coached

Chester in the King's

English, downed my

drink and departed.

I was told that later on

when Mumsie passed his

perched and sang out,

"Bonejour, Chester",

the bird replied, "Bonjour,

madame, f*** you, bwak!

Bonjour, madame,

f*** you, bwak!"

Little drops of water,

Little blades of grass,

Once a noble actor,

Now a horse's ass.

Hello from Hollywood.

This is Louella Parsons

with a scoop on that bad boy,

John Barrymore.

His latest indiscretion

took place last night at

fashionable Chasen's

restaurant, where he relieved...

himself in a

potted palm next to a

table of delegates from

the Daughters of the

American Revolution.

I don't remember

the incident.

I don't remember

a lot of things.

Merciful amnesia.

Fat-assed old gossip!

Jack Barrymore, will you kindly

remember that I am a lady?

Your secret is safe

with me, madam.

I never liked Louella,

and I always will.

I, - that am not shap'd

for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an

amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamp'd...

You've already

done that, sir.

I know I have,

but I like it!

I, that am rudely

stamp'd... line!

And want love's majesty...

And want love's majesty

to strut before a

wanton ambling nymph;

I' am that... line?

Curtail'd...

...Curtail'd of this

fair proportion,

Cheated one feature... line?

By dissembling nature...

By dissembling nature...

Deform'd.

Deform'd...

Unfinish'd...

Don't tell me! Tell me!

Sent before my time Into

this breathing world scarce

half made up...

Maybe I shouldn't wear

these tights anymore.

Oh Jesus.

They originally

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