Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1930-04-15

At first I disliked Rudy intensely. He
was fresh and too much underfoot, al
ways leaping to give me chair. TO pick
UP my pencil, hand me my script book;
I thought him plain nuisance. got
tired Of his childish pranks and the
jokes, yet couldn't avoid him, for, as
art director, must always be on hand
to make sure the scene was properly set
and all details correct.
1t wasn't until saw he could act that
took any interest in him. He was the
easiest person in the world to direct.
The director didn't have to shout before
the camera.
Now, Rudy, let's have some grief,
please" or give up little joy smile:
no, not like Cheshire cat; look
human!" etc, etc.
He merely described what was hap
pening in the scene and Rudy inter-
,preted it.
/ I remember particularly one scene in
Camille" the high point of the picture.
1t is where Armand, grief-stricken by
Candles death, rushes to her apart
ment, where an auction is being held OF
all her private things. Here he sees and
bids on book he had given her years
ago and which she kept until the last.
Before doing this scene Rudy asked II
he might go away by himself for a mo-
ment; then he returned and the camera
started clicking. It wasn't interrupted
once. When the scene was finished tears
were streaming down the face of every
for Rudy, later, found him in a chair
behind the set, head buried in his arms,
weeping like child. This wasn't make
believe grief, but real emotion.
Became Gardeners Apprentice.
I often found him weeping like this
for his mother, of whom he was pas
sionately fond: or in respondent moods
on days when everything had gone
his path was none too easy. Everything
about him that was different was held
up to ridicule. from his foreign accent
to his lack of sense of humor. People
didn't understand his ways and made
no effort to.
He was pathetically eager to be like
American men-but 1t wasn't in him
to be so. His ideal was Norman Kerry,
who had proved himself a wonderful
friend. 1t was through Norman he had
got into pictures, after years Of futile
attempts to earn a living in America
any way he could, from pulling weeds in
Central Park to dancing in cabarets.
Rudy had landed in New York
Christmas day, 1918, lad of 10, who
knew not one word of English, his head
full of romantic dreams, his pocket
bullying with $4,000, the gift of his be-
loved mother. He squandered his nest
egg Immediately on fine clothes and
lavish living-then whistled for food
and shelter from chilly bench in the
park.
He had been trained to be scientific
farmer at the Royal Academy of Agri-
culture in Milan and his first job was
to help lay out an Italian garden on
the Long Island estate of Cornelius
Bliss, jr., but he was given his walk
ing papers when he borrowed the motor
cycle of a fellow workman and broke 1t.
Kerry Rudy's Friend.
After lean days had sobered his
in Central Park, only to be told, when
he applied for the civil service exami-
nation, that he was not an American
citiZen-would not be one for five years!
Back to the streets and starvation!
But Rudy always landed on his feet.
On the gala occasion of one elegant
dinner at Maxim'S, in borrowed dress
suit, the head waiter recognized him
as the handsome young foreigner who,
months before, in the palmy days of
the $4,000. had danced so well with the
AauACS' LILO ACO W u yoo % eAAApI1oA
dancer in fashionable New York restau-
rants, with Bonnie Glass as his part
ner; then a vaudeville tour with Joan
Sawyer, in which they danced across
the continent. In San Francisco Rudy
gave up dancing to sell bonds. OF
course, he couldn't do it and was res
cued once more from starvation by
Norman Kerry, who helped him get to
Hollywood.
Couldn't Be Good Fellow.
Now Norman. as every one knows, Is
the most likeable fellow in the world,
with marvellous sense of humor and
an endless fund Of good stories. Every