The Joan Crawford that I’ve heard about in ‘Mommie Dearest’ is not the Joan Crawford I knew back when.
What has always been at the heart of film making was the value of a script. It was really the writer who could make or break a film. But as we all know, the writer has always been at the bottom of the creative heap.
I never kissed my father until he was on his death bed.
I was only saying to the Queen the other day how I hate name dropping.
In my day, the only people who achieved real independence were my father, Mary Pickford and Charles Chaplin, who, with D. W. Griffith, formed United Artists. Other than that, everybody belonged to the big studios. They had no say in their own careers.
I will never forget the pleasure and instruction I derived from working with a true master of his art, such as Edward G. Robinson was – and is. Surely his record for versatility, studied characterization – ranging from modern colloquial to the classics – and artistic integrity is unsurpassed.
I had no particular desire to be a personality like my father, nor was I equipped to be one. I was determined to be my own man, although having the Fairbanks name did make it easier to get into an office to see someone.
I am not a socialite, though I seem to have got the reputation for being one. I have some very good friends who happen to be in so-called Society; but Society as such is a bore and holds no fascination for me.
I was a shy, awkward sort of a boy and my fathers frequent absences from home, along with my hero worship for him, made me even shyer.