1942: Heart of a He-Man!

Heart of a He-Man!

By Romayne

Screenland magazine, October 1942

 

The picture began again after weeks of many misgivings and many hopes, and the director called the crew together. “Boys, Gable will be back this afternoon—he’s coming in to get the feel again—just sit around—and let’s not say anything—I mean—oh, hell—you know what I mean!” His eyes were misty as he talked quietly and stumbled around for more words, because he didn’t want the boys to misunderstand. Neither did he want Mr. Gable to feel strange. We all gulped. We caught on quick.

Mr. Gable came back. Everybody was so glad to see him it made your throat tighten and you wanted to cry. Lots of the boys did. You had all you could do not to pat him on the back. In their attempt to be inconspicuously nonchalant, several people fell over each other. I wished fervently it would make Mr. Gable feel good that he was back in the swing of things. From that moment nothing interfered with his being on the set before shooting and working through the long, solid, sometimes weary days that followed. I took off my hat to Mr. Gable!

In the months that have passed, everywhere I’ve gone people have talked to me. Big people, little people. Important people all because they were identified with an issue that meant a good deal to them. “What’s Clark Gable like? How does he act? How does he feel? What’s he going to do?” they’d ask. At first, I was annoyed. Curiosity, I judged it.  But I realized it is the province of the soul to be interested in your fellow man. Not curiosity. Interest. It is part of the vast hope and admiration for the courage of one who could easily have gone down had there been less of this interest and his hope to keep him up.

He is a gentleman for whom all who know him and work with him have an appreciation that is akin to worship. I have only once before been witness to similar appreciation…I sat on the set day after day. I have seen Mr. Gable. Watched him do his scenes with infinite finesse when he looked as if his heart would break and as if his eyes could not look ahead to see. But a wise man knows he must always finish what he starts.

He is “Pop” to the crew. As usual as if they are talking about their very own, you’ll hear the head cameraman, or the boy who is oiling the sound machine, or the watchman, say: “Wonder how Pop’s feeling today?” or, with a swelling pride, “Gosh, Pop sure looks great today,” or, “Pop? Oh, he’s OKAY!”

I think Mr. Gable is the quietest man with whom I have ever worked. Yet you know he is there. Because he has that quality of gentle strength that makes itself felt by its very human kindness. His friends, directors, executives, actors and crew people visit him often. It is never necessary to wonder if Mr. Gable will be in the right mood. He is absolutely direct and entirely free from pretense, and if you’d like to get clunked on the head, just try to suggest to ANYBODY around that Mr. Gable could get temperamental.

One busy day some of the boys asked me if I’d like some coffee. “Sure,” I said. “Where is it?”

“Back in Pop’s room.”

“Oh, never mind,” said I, for the first time in my life reusing something to eat. “I don’t want to disturb him.”

“Listen,” they gave me to understand, “stop being a sissy! He bought it—but it’s our coffee. Now get!” When I reached the room, Mr. Gable was sitting there. Outside. Reading his script. There were people in the room. Talking, playing cards and having a happy time.

Somebody landed a thermos jug and a cup in my hand and said, “Come on in.” I couldn’t believe it. “You mean—it’s like this—you sit in his room and he sits outside????”

“Oh, not always—sometimes we let him in. But if you think this is anything, you should have been around on ‘Gone with the Wind.’ Pop had to get himself a room next to us on account of we moved in this one!” And Pop, outside, smiled.

This room is pine-walled and comfortable like a den. It had big red leather chairs and books and looks like a man sits in it. Sometimes when ‘the place belongs to Gable’ the whole cast congregates to rehearse their lines. You’ll see three or four sitting on the floor. The door is rarely closed.

During a fight scene between Gable and Bob Sterling for “Somewhere I’ll Find You,” a double for Bob was used. A very husky double! A double who enjoyed fighting! “I’m not going to watch Gable get beaten up!” I said, and made for the door. That got a rapid haw-haw and they told me to stick around and see how a he-man acts. So I sat down and watched the double hit and then stop two or three times to look at Mr. Gable. They did the scene over and over while the double hit again and again. And the boys who said I was a sissy were holding their hands to their jaws. Mr. Gable came out fine.

“Hell, that ain’t nothin,’” one of the labor men who had stopped in to visit, said. “What happened on another picture could have made history—it would have, if it had happened to other actors we know. Pop had a scene with a fighter and the fighter’s hand slipped—understand—he didn’t mean nothin’—but Pop was out. And the first thing he did when he got up was to shake hands with the guy and tell him not to worry. He said it was his fault. Can you imagine! He said he took the hit the wrong way. So then of course the guy wasn’t barred from working. I tell you, that Pop—he can sure take it!”

A secretary on the lot who is immune to actors and who insists they all give her a pain, called me. “I think you ought to know,” she began, “that I now give you credit for picking a winner. Your Mister Gable00the one you’re always raving about,” she went on, “had a luncheon date with my boss. [Her boss is a top executive.] He came in as if he were no more important than the boy who delivers the mail, and I told him to go right in.

“’Don’t you think you ought to announce me?’ he asked.

“’No, he’s expecting you.’

“Sure you think it’s all right?’

“’Yes, honestly—he knows you’re coming.’ He gave me a little smile, looked back and said: ‘—if you say so—’”

She asked simply, “How can a man like that be so humble?” How? Only the big are humble.

The day I saw half of the picture on the screen in the projection room I knew it was fine. I told Clark. He said, “That’s good news, thanks, honey. Good news is always welcome.” Good news! I hope from now on all news that comes his way will be good. He has had enough of the other for an entire lifetime.

In the moments that are not taken up with rehearsing, lining up and conferences for the picture, Mr. Gable, Ruggles and the other boys will be discussing the days’ news. The tire topic is always the one they come back to, for the people on our set seem to come from the four corners of the outskirts. My boss lives at Malibu, and he’d been talking about buying a motorcycle. I was horrified, with visions of him talking to himself on some story point and ending up in some strange place. I asked Clark to dissuade him. He grinned and said he’d do his best.

“Well, Wes,” he began, “I understand you’re going to buy a motorcycle—” he extended his hand—“So long—glad to have known you, I really don’t think it’s a good idea, Wes,” he continued, “After all, what relaxation could you get on a motorcycle?” He talked with such solemnity that I began to think the idea had been his own.

“I have a horse and buggy I’d give you,” he said, “and then you can get up in the middle of the night and get to the studio by 9 in the morning!” He gave me a wink and said, “How did I do?”

I haven’t had to write a check for a motorcycle. But the other day I was riding on the highway and saw a man on a motorcycle who had a striking resemblance to our Mr. Gable. I could have sworn it was Mr. Gable. And holy smokes! It was Mister Gable! So I hope he won’t let me down and tell my boss he made a great mistake.

To show you what a regular guy he is—just hear how he’ll be riding down the street on this motorcycle and some other guy on one will hail him. They won’t give a darn whether he’s Clark Gable or not—he’s just that guy on the wonderful shining motorcycle. And does Mister Gable wonder if the guy who hailed him is a celebrity? Talk sense I remind me! And the other guy will examine the machine and they’ll compare notes—and I’d like to bet he’ll pass on the word that if any of the other guys riding motorcycles happen to see that big guy—to just hail him and he’ll come over and let him have a ride.

I am hoping that Mr. Gable will not ride up to the set on his new motorcycle as he does in his car. Because if my boss should be looking out of the stage door, it will probably only be a matter of minutes until I’ll be writing that check for that motorcycle Mr. Gable told Mr. Ruggles not to buy.

The time has been very long, and if Mr. Gable who is first starting to smile now, should happen to laugh out loud over some funny thing one of the boys has said, there is a general lifting up of spirit and everybody is more satisfied.

When the picture finished everybody was glad that Mr. Gable would now be able to get some rest. Mr. Gable made no comment. And when, a few days later, they found they needed Mr. Gable’s voice for some shots, they called him apologetically. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

Yesterday, during the hurry of re-takes, I had a visitor in my office, Fifi, the Ruggles’ big black French poodle. Fifi and her wonders have long been heralded by me. So when she pranced along with me to the set it wasn’t any surprise that the crew stopped working for a few seconds. Mr. Gable came up to Fifi who was seated regally in his chair. And then Fifi did a startling thing. She shattered the forever fact that girls are subtle creatures—for she threw her head in the air and paid no attention at all to Mr. Gable who was telling her she was a very smart girl! I was that ashamed. But Mr. Gable went on scratching Fifi’s ears. And of course, the inevitable happened. Fifi was shaking hands with Mr. Gable for the next fifteen minutes. She was also looking idolizingly up into his face. It was appropriate that this should have taken place on the set. Because Fifi had plenty of company in her admiration of her new-found friend.

Do you still want to know what he is like? And how he acts?

“It’s a pity,” somebody said, “that you did not have a chance to see Pop as he really is. You know—full of gags and fun.”

Oh, but I have seen him. As he really is. For what bigger proof can one have than to become more fully acquainted each succeeding day with the solemn devotion and the will to do when it would have been pardonable to have claimed resistance to this devotion and this will to do.

When Mr. Gable and my boss were having luncheon quietly in our office a little while ago, the talk was both interesting and serious. For it was about the war and people and times to come. It was the first time I noticed a restlessness about Mr. Gable. The same restlessness that goes with men in uniform in Our Country—the urge to get in and help get this war over with.

“Do you think Clark will go into service?” I asked my boss later.

“That’s what he wants to do,” he answered.

So today when I saw in the papers that Mr. Gable was heading for the Air Corps I wasn’t a bit surprised. Out here they’re proud of their buddy. And once more people are asking, “What do you think about Mr. Gable, now?” If you’ve read this far you know what I think of Mr. Gable. I’d expect him to be where he is needed.

The young Americans with whom our Mr. Gable will come into contact will know they have found a friend. He’ll give them a boost. Why not? They know he can take it. He’ll give them inspiration. Why not? He’s one hundred percent American! And the people who clamor to see him on the screen—his fans? We can wait. Our Mr. Gable has a job to do. We don’t need to worry about him. He’ll take the right step forward. Because he has strength back of him. The strength of millions who love him—and many more who will grow to know him. They’ll all come away saying what all the ones who know him best say, “That Pop—he’s right in there pitching!”

Editor’s Note: As we go to press, Clark Gable has been sworn into the Army as a private and assigned to the Army Air Force officer candidates’ school in Miami. “What I want,” Gable said, “is to be a machine-gunner on an airplane, to be sent where the going is tough.”