Little Orphan Julie, cont'd

"You see, they believed so," he said in the voice of one who hates to give pain or disillusionment.
He smiled as he told the story. His smile held a sadness for the human race. Fans have noticed it, commenting in their letters. The Germans have a word for it called 'weltschmerz,' meaning 'world hurt.' His wife calls it, "Julie's orphan look."
This probably dates back to the time he went to school and all the other boys wore white shirts, but Julie Garfield's father made him wear a blue one, gave him trousers much too big, and shaved off most of his hair. So his schoolmates, with the insatiable cruelty of youth, dubbed him, "Julie, the orphan boy."
A Dr. Freud might tell you that such an incident partly accounts for his sense of pathos.
Not that this is the story of John Garfield's life.

Right from the beginning, when he made that hit in "Four Daughters," he was interviewed continually. Each time he faced his press agent and plaintively said,
"Must I tell the story of my life again?"
"Indeed you must," was the answer. And indeed he did.
So this, instead, shows how the rebel Garfield, after nearly a year spent in Hollywood, is reacting
to the big money, to an established position, to his wife of several years and his daughter of several months.
This is a picture of the way he lives and what he does and what he thinks about, a picture of John Garfield...now, or rather of Julie. For no matter how often the Warner Brothers see fit to christen him, he is Julie, not only to his friends, old and new, but to every co-worker on the lot. In spite of rigid orders shouted from the top...the name is...and always will be...Jules, familiarly shortened to Julie.
John Garfield's smile holds a sadness for the human race. His wife calls it "Julie's orphan look," and it dates back to his childhood and accounts for his sense of pathos.
He can't help that. There is something about him which makes for naturalness, for nicknames. Understand, his is not an offensive palsy-walsyness, the kind so frequently encountered in Hollywood. No, he is made up of friendly spontaneous habits, of resting an arm across your shoulders, of calling you by your first name, of trusting implicitly.
No matter how busy he is, he reads. "Reading is important," he announces in all seriousness.
According to his wife, he is inclined to be moody. If he is dissatisfied with the day's work at the studio, he comes home cross, like any other man. Now his worry is that he seems to be losing perspective.
"He claims he can't judge the rushes any more," says his wife. "But," she adds, "this never affects his appetite."
He loves to eat more than anything else, more than the tennis he plays, or the riding he has learned since living in California.
To prove this, in the middle of my studio lunch with him, he leaped from the table and followed the waitress who escorted him to a sideboard where he could pick the biggest and fattest dessert. He chose a lemon meringue pie, which he brought back himself, bearing it triumphantly in mid-air.
"This will probably kill me," he said, "I've been working in the sun all day." But he ate it anyway, on top of an enormous plate of shrimp and lobster Creole.                                    continue>>