Scotch Mist

Six months ago a ham show opened in Chicago. Last week it was still running there. It had become a civic institution. It had played to 150,000 people and grossed over $250,000. The theatre was sold out three weeks in advance, and it was a good bet that, before it was through, the show would break all records for Chicago business.

The answer was not that Chicago had lost its mind, but that the play's leading man was acting up. Moreover, he was not just any leading man, but the great John Barrymore--sometimes ill, sometimes tight, but always a trouper. Many a night he has rolled to the theatre, not sure of his legs, not sure of his lines, but certain that he could put on a good show of some sort. "Yep," says the doorman, "he arrives every night, dead or alive."

Proving as great an improviser as he was once an actor, he has turned the theatre into ad-Liberty Hall. He says anything that comes into his head. When he is well wound up, My Dear Children may bumble on till after midnight. Once a fire engine sounded in the street. Sang out Barrymore: "I hope they get to the fire in time." Once he saw Ned Sparks in the audience. Walking to the footlights and pointing, Barrymore shouted: "There's that old bastard Ned Sparks." Once he couldn't hear the prompter in the wings, yelled: "Give those cues louder!" Once he said to the heroine: "I'll take you to ," couldn't remember "Lake Como."

Just then somebody in the audience sneezed. "That's it!" Barrymore called to the man down front--"Thank you!"

Sometimes, when he can't remember his lines, he delivers an address on how embarrassing it is to lose your memory. Once, unable to stand up, he played all through the show sitting down. Another time, when he couldn't even issue from dressing room to stage, he said: "Get me a wheel chair, I'll play Lionel."

Audiences eat it up. They complain to the box office only on those rare occasions when Barrymore plays his part straight.

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