William Powell ~ 23 Films

William Powell ~ 23 Films William Horatio Powell was born 29 July 1892 in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In 1907, he moved with his family to Kansas City, Missouri, where he graduated from Central High School in 1910. The Powells lived just a few blocks away from the Carpenters, whose daughter Harlean also found success in Hollywood as Blonde Bombshell Jean Harlow, although she and Powell did not meet until both were established actors. After school, Powell attended New York City's American Academy Of Dramatic Arts. Work in vaudeville, stock companies and on Broadway followed until, in 1922, aged 30, playing an evil henchman of Professor Moriarty in a production of Sherlock Holmes, his Hollywood career began. More small parts followed and he did sufficiently well that, in 1924, he was signed by Paramount Pictures, where he stayed for the next seven years. Though stardom was elusive, he did eventually attract attention as arrogant film director Lev Andreyev in The Last Command (1928) before finally landing his breakthrough role, that of detective Philo Vance in The Canary Murder Case (1929). Unlike many silent actors, the advent of sound boosted Powell's career. His fine, urbane voice, stage training and comic timing greatly aided his successful transition to the talkies. However, not happy with the type of roles he was getting at Paramount, in 1931 he switched to Warner Bros. His last film for them, The Kennel Murder Case (1933), was also his fourth and last Philo Vance outing. In 1934 he moved again, to MGM, where he was paired with Myrna Loy in Manhattan Melodrama (1934). It was the making of him - arguably, of them both. For while Vance had made Powell a star, it was another detective, Nick Charles, that made him famous. The Thin Man (1934) not only earned the actor a first Academy Award nomination but was also the first of a highly popular six film series starring Powell as Nick and Loy as his dedicated wife and helpmeet Nora. Powell starred in 1936's epic Best Picture winner The Great Ziegfeld, confirming that he could play any role with authority, whether comedy, thriller or drama. He received a second Academy Award nomination for My Man Godfrey, also in 1936, and looked set for great things. But his highly successful career took a double blow in 1937 - see below - which set it and him back. Although through the 1940s his output slowed, in 1947 he received his third Academy Award nomination for his role as cantankerous Clarence Day Senior in Life With Father. His last film was 1955's Mister Roberts with Henry Fonda, Jimmy Cagney and Jack Lemmon. Despite numerous entreaties to return to the screen, Powell refused all offers, happy in his retirement. In 1915, Powell married Eileen Wilson (1894-1942) with whom he had his only child. The couple were amicably divorced in 1930. Powell's son, also William, became a television writer and producer before a period of ill health led to his suicide in 1968. In June 1931, Powell's second marriage was to actress Carole Lombard. This also ended in divorce in 1933, though they too remained on good terms, even starring together three years later in screwball hit My Man Godfrey. Powell was devastated when he learned of her death, aged 33, in a January 1942 plane wreck. In 1935, Powell made Reckless with Jean Harlow, and the two became very close. The following year they were reunited on screen, with Myrna Loy and Spencer Tracy in Libeled Lady. In June 1937, whilst filming Saratoga with Clark Gable, Harlow fell ill, was admitted to hospital and quickly died as a result of kidney failure. Powell, in the middle of filming Double Wedding with Myrna Loy, was greatly upset and had to take six weeks off to deal with his grief. When that film was done, he did not make another for a year. This may have been in part because, also in 1937, he was diagnosed with rectal cancer, which responded successfully to experimental radium treatment. On 6 January 1940, three weeks after they first met, Powell married actress Diana "Mousie" Lewis. They remained together for forty-four years, residing primarily in Palm Springs, California, until Powell's death, aged 91, in 1984. William Powell: [speaking in 1929] I have always been forced to stand on my acting ability. I haven't a personality such as Jack Gilbert's, for instance, that attracts women and makes them like me for myself. When I am on the screen I must make them forget me entirely and think only of my acting. My friends have stood by me marvellously in the ups and downs of my career. I don't believe there is anything more worthwhile in life than friendship. Friendship is a far better thing than love, as it is commonly accepted. I do not hold that, because the author did a bad job of writing, the player need trump it with the same kind of acting. When I go into a picture I have only one character to look after. If the author didn't do him justice, I try to add whatever the creator of the part over- looked. Treat any and all drugs with respect, for most of the time they are stronger than you are. I have never gone into a picture without first studying my character- isation from all angles. I make a study of the fellow's life and try to learn everything about him, including the conditions under which he came into this world, his parentage, his environment, his social status, and the things in which he is interested. Then I attempt to get his mental attitude as much as possible. There is more money in being liked by an audience than in being disliked by it. The biggest thing about movie audiences is the sym- pathy they give characters on the screen. But the art of acting and the talent of selecting what one will act are divorced qualities. Have you noticed that the people who actually make the laws, the people in power, never make laws for themselves? A word of advice: If you get the choice between the upper and lower bunks in a cell, choose the lower. Prisons do not turn off their lights at night, and I spent a sleepless night, without a mattress, with a five-hundred-watt bulb shining directly into my eyes. If a man is to be a man, a free spirit unto himself, he must arm himself not only with weapons but with ideals and concepts he is willing to die for. INTERFERENCE (1928) Interference - Paramount's first all talking feature film as well as Powell's sound debut - is a minor movie milestone. Based on a stage play by Harold Dearden and Roland Pertwee adapted by Hope Loring, it was, like most of the early talkies, a huge hit - and, given its compelling tale of bigamy, dual identity, blackmail and murder presented via impressive turns from Clive Brook, Evelyn Brent (above) and Powell in particular, it's not hard to see why. Theatrical and necessarily rudimentary, perhaps, but entertaining too. 83 minutes. IMDb: Interference showed what would happen to cinema in the next couple of years - the fluidity of the silent camera was bought to a static grinding halt as movies were filmed in one or two rooms, with characters being grouped around tables and vases of flowers where microphones could be hidden ... What appealed to contemporary critics most was the cultured way the actors spoke. This was the first talkie done in "the drawing room manner" - no "dese, dem and dose" vernacular. Boy, how sick everyone would soon be of "teacup dramas" / Not a great film or even a very good one, but, for a large chunk of filmgoers, the birth of a new art form, so historically important ... Powell is very watchable until he does his drunk scene. Unfortunately, I've seen all the Thin Man films, in which he takes tipsy to new heights. Evelyn Brent is even better, giving a real star performance. Clive Brook is fine, adequately uppity, but the thing falls apart with Doris Kenyon's scenes / Easily Powell's worst film. He himself is reasonably effective, though due only in part to his histrionic ability. Luckily for him, his character is supposed to move slowly and speak deliberately. Considering she doesn't have the same good fortune, Evelyn Brent (chillingly effective here in a totally unsympathetic role) comes out of the movie best - if "best" is an adjective that can be applied to a movie that looks for all the world like a very mediocre stage play, that moves with the speed of a snail, that is so dialogue-bound as to stretch the patience of even a most indulgent audience, that exhibits little or nothing in the way of directorial flair and, worst of all, has the impoverished look of a movie made on a tight "B" budget / Doesn’t wear well. Of interest to film buffs, but you won't need to take a sleeping pill before going beddy-bye if you sit through all of this. Through the painstaking work of Roy J. Pomeroy, the film magician who "parted the Red Sea" in Cecil B. DeMille's The Ten Commandments, the audible screen adaptation of the play Interference is in many respects so remarkable that it may change the opinion of countless sceptics concerning talking photoplays. The vocal reproductions are extraordinarily fine and the incidental sounds have been registered with consummate intelligence. As a play it would naturally be considered far from perfect, but as a specimen in the strides made by the talking picture it is something to create no little wonderment.

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