Welcome back to The Deep Dive. Today, we're cutting
into a life that was really defined by extremes.
It really was. On one side, you have this colossal,
just undeniable artistic genius. And on the other,
you have this chaotic, public, self -inflicted
ruin. A total collapse. We are diving deep into
the dizzying, tragic, and I have to say, utterly
captivating story of John Barrymore -born John
Sidney Blythe. He was a man whose existence was,
well, less a career and more a theatrical comet.
That's a great way to put it. A comet that burned
impossibly bright before just spectacularly collapsing.
It's really the ultimate cautionary tale, but
it's disguised as high art, isn't it? It is.
When you talk about American theatrical royalty,
Barrymore is right at the top. He's the most
brilliant jewel in the whole Drew and Barrymore
dynasty crown. Right. But like you said, his
genius was just inextricably linked to his decline.
The central conflict of his life, and this is
what's so fascinating, is his ability to physically
and psychologically master the most profound
classical drama ever written, only to end up
as a figure of ridicule in the tabloid press.
That contradiction is what makes his story so
essential. It is. It's essential to understanding
20th century celebrity culture, really. Okay,
so let's unpack this mission for today. We're
going to trace John Barrymore's pretty improbable
journey. He started as this reluctant artist,
someone who actively tried to avoid the stage
entirely. He really did not want to act. And
he goes from that to becoming, by almost universal
consensus, the greatest living American tragedian.
We'll detail his triumphs across three different
media, the stage, silent film, and then sound
film. And then the fall. And then we'll track
that dramatic decade -long slide into self -parody
that really characterized his final heartbreaking
years. And this really highlights the unique
nature of his career trajectory because it wasn't
a single path. His professional life was like...
Four distinct acts of triumph before that fifth
messy fall. Four acts. He starts in light comedy
and farce, mastering timing and wit. Then he
makes this massive, almost impossible pivot to
classical tragedy, which culminates in Shakespeare.
An incredible leap. A huge leap. Then he conquers
silent film, earning that unforgettable nickname,
The Great Profile. And finally, his stage -trained
voice was such a powerful resonant asset that
he becomes one of the few stars who genuinely
thrived in early sound films when so many of
his contemporaries just failed. So many fail
by the wayside. Yeah. This makes him a truly
singular figure in American acting history. A
four -act professional miracle followed by a
final public breakdown. Let's start where all
good tragedies begin. With that theatrical royalty
that was, well, more like a curse than a blessing.
Absolutely. You have to understand the sheer
weight of his family name. I mean, his ancestry
was just stacked. Hard to even comprehend. His
mother, Georgie Drew Barrymore, she hailed from
the highly prominent Drew family. Her mother,
Louise Elaine Drusso, John's maternal grandmother,
was a legend in her own right. Right, the manager.
An accomplished actress who managed the famous
Arch Street Theater in Philadelphia for over
three decades. So on his mother's side, you've
got management, tradition, real theatrical power.
And his father. Maurice Barrymore, born Herbert
Blythe, a British actor of Indian descent, a
genuine matinee idol of his time, famous for
his wit, his charm, and his devastating good
looks. So he had it from both sides, the looks
and the talent. And he was the youngest of three
iconic siblings, Lionel and Ethel. So this wasn't
just a family of actors. They were culturally
the rock stars of the American stage in the late
19th and early 20th centuries. The expectation
on John was just immense. But despite all that,
that grand lineage and public glamour, his youth
sounds anything but stable. It sounds like a
deeply unsettled, grounded -less upbringing.
Oh, far from it. His parents were constantly
touring, which was common for actors then, but
it meant John or Jack, as they called him, experienced
a tremendous amount of instability. He was often
just shuffled around. And that instability, it
reaches a tragic head pretty early on, doesn't
it? It does. By 1893, he was just 11 years old
and his mother died from tuberculosis. And because
of their careers, he wasn't even that close to
her. No, not really. Because of the constant
touring and all the time he spent away at boarding
schools, he barely knew her. This void was partially
filled by his maternal grandmother, Louisa Drew,
who primarily raised him. And she was the disciplinarian.
she was a stern highly disciplined woman completely
devoted to the theater and she tried with very
limited success to impose some kind of order
on the naturally chaotic and undisciplined young
john and the attempts to instill discipline they
clearly failed The source material details him
being sent away to elementary schools in four
different states because of his troublesome behavior.
They were desperately trying to contain him.
It seems like it. They were. He was first sent
to the boys' annex of the convent of Notre Dame
in Philadelphia. And here's a beautiful irony.
The school tried to punish him for his mischief
by forcing him to read this dense, difficult
book, Dante's Inferno. A pretty heavy punishment
for a kid. Right. But when he looked at the illustrations
by Gustave Doré, the darkness and the drama of
the imagery just ignited something in him. He
realized he wanted to be an artist, an illustrator.
That initial artistic ambition, not acting, was
what drove him first. But the bad behavior just
kept escalating. He was expelled from Seton Hall
and then Georgetown Preparatory School. And the
circumstances around the Georgetown expulsion
in 1897, they're pretty grim. They speak volumes
about his self -destructive streak already forming.
Yeah. Biographers are quite specific about that
expulsion. It's often cited as a critical low
point because his chronic problem with alcohol,
which started around age 14, was already getting
out of control. Wow. Yeah. One theory is simple
inebriation. The other, which was offered by
a close contemporary, is far more. sensational.
That he was expelled after being caught waiting
in a brothel. It illustrates an early appetite
for just reckless behavior. So he's demonstrating
this intense emotional chaos. And in that same
year, 1897, he loses the last stable female figure
in his life, his grandmother, Louisa Drew. It's
a convergence of tragedies. He lost his disciplinarian
and his only stable home, which left him essentially
rudderless. But all this chaos, this came before
the truly profound and terrifying trauma that
would haunt him for the rest of his life. The
decline of his father. The mental decline of
his father. That's the impossible weight he carried.
In March 1901, his father Maurice suffered a
severe mental breakdown. It was due to tertiary
syphilis. And John, at just 19... had to be the
one to deal with it. He had the agonizing duty
of petitioning the court and personally taking
his father to Bellevue Hospital. Maurice was
later transferred to a private institution in
Amityville, where he suffered this rapid descent
into madness until his death in 1905. That experience
must have been just absolutely dramatic, witnessing
the complete loss of identity and sanity in your
own father. A close friend later reported that
the bleak overtone of this event, this breaking
of his parents' reason, it never quite died away
in Barrymore's mind. He was perpetually haunted
by fears he would suffer the same fate. That
generational dread. It's the bedrock of the Barrymore
tragedy. It provides the context for his later
self -destruction, almost as if he was rushing
toward the end he feared the most. And despite
carrying that dread, he still actively tried
to pursue art, still trying to avoid what he
called the curse of the stage. He was fiercely
set on being an artist. He studied literature
and art in London at the Slade School of Fine
Art, absorbing the culture he felt was higher
than the theater. He came back to New York and
found work as an illustrator for the New York
Evening Journal. earning a respectable $50 a
week. Which was a decent salary at the turn of
the century? Very decent. But the self -destructive
tendencies derailed even this steady gig. Ah,
so? Swiftly. This attempt ended in May 1902 when
he was fired for producing an illustration that
was just so poor -smudged, lacking definition,
it was immediately clear he was severely hungover.
And that was it. That was it. It was after this
humiliating failure that the reality set in.
The art career was over. And that's the precise
moment we get that brilliant, cynical quote summing
up his reluctant entry into the family business.
Exactly. He was discussing his non -existent
future with his brother Lionel, and he famously
said, and I'm quoting here, it looks as though
I'll have to succumb to the family curse, acting.
He later admitted the real reason, though. He
did. He later admitted the lack of romance and
high art in the decision. i needed the money
so it was necessity not passion or artistic drive
that pushed him onto the boards and necessity
led to disaster his first professional stage
appearances were predictably chaotic yeah tell
us about that confirmed anecdote of his earliest
appearance with ethel In 1901. Oh, it's classic.
It was in his sister Ethel's big show, Captain
Jinx of the Horse Marines. John had barely prepared.
He was learning his lines frantically on the
train ride to the performance city. Not a great
start. Not at all. In the first act, he just
completely stopped mid -dialogue. Couldn't recall
a single word. He stood there, looking out at
the confused audience and his horrified castmates,
and managed to stammer out, I've blown up. Where
do we go from here? He said that to the audience.
To the audience. The cast had to improvise the
rest of the scene. It's just an immediate signal
of his complete lack of professionalism and discipline
at the time. And before he even fully committed
to this career he didn't want, he was already
starring in a real -life melodrama that put him
adjacent to one of the biggest scandals of the
early century. The Evelyn Nesbitt affair. Tell
us about that. This is fantastic early tabloid
fodder. Evelyn Nesbitt was the beautiful artist's
model, the original it girl, a Floridora girl.
And Barrymore, with his own rakish charm, was
captivated. They had a romantic affair in 1902,
and Barrymore, you know, impulsively proposed
marriage. And Nesbitt's mother vetoed it, right?
seeing Barrymore as irresponsible and without
means. Correct. Her mother deemed him a poor
match, a struggling, irresponsible, drunken artist.
Nesbitt was physically sent away to break off
the relationship. And just a few years later,
in 1906, Nesbitt becomes the central figure in
the trial of the century. The very same. When
her mentally unstable husband, Harry K. Thaw,
shot and killed her former lover, the prominent
architect Stanford White, on the rooftop of Madison
Square Garden. So Barrymore was dating the woman.
whose earlier affair was the direct cause of
this sensational murder trial. And there was
speculation he might be called to testify. He
was just a magnet for drama, even when he was
trying to avoid the stage. It highlights a crucial
point. The tabloid character wasn't a mask he
adopted later in life. He was always inclined
towards scandal, chaos, and placing himself in
the most theatrical positions possible. The public
spectacle was always his natural environment.
That inclination toward chaos eventually gave
way to this remarkable, though temporary, period
of discipline. It's almost as if the sheer weight
of the family name and his own untapped talent
just forced him into line. For a while, yeah.
Let's trace his ascent. He started his professional
stage career in 1903, but he was known initially
as a comic, right? He started at the bottom,
doing light comedy and farces. These roles required
a very specific skill set. Deft movement, charm,
impeccable comic timing. His mentor during the
run of The Dictator was the actor William Collier,
who is a master of comedy. And Collier coached
him. He did. He worked hard to coach him. But
Barrymore's increasing drinking and unreliability
were a constant source of frustration. One biographer
noted that Collier at times regretted his sponsorship
because Barrymore was missing cues and sometimes
entire performances. Grub. But he was moving
up the financial ladder. He started at $50 a
week, then $175 and eventually $600 a week for
lead roles. But he still hadn't found his own
voice. He was essentially a very charming imitation
of his famous uncle. Exactly. A critic for the
Washington Times observed in 1912 that Barrymore
inimitably imitates his uncle John Drew. He was
just relying on inherited mannerisms and looks.
And that lasted for a while. This period of being
a charming mimic lasted until the mid -1910s.
and the shift was largely motivated by an outsider,
the playwright Edward Sheldon. Sheldon saw a
genuine depth in Barrymore and was instrumental
in nudging him away from those lighthearted,
self -mocking comedy roles toward roles of genuine
dramatic substance. And the true artistic breakthrough
came in 1916, when he took the lead in John Galsworthy's
powerful prison drama, Justice. This was not
a charming farce. This was grim, realistic theater.
That role changed everything. It was the moment
he proved he had the weight for serious drama.
The New York Times review was transformative.
It stated that Barrymore stepped forward into
a new position on the American stage with an
extraordinary performance in every detail. He
was no longer just a handsome rake or an imitation.
No, he was finally recognized as a serious, compelling,
dramatic actor. This success paved the path to
the greatest test in the English language, Shakespeare.
We know he faced criticism about his vocal limitations
and lack of stage presence earlier in his career.
So how did he overcome that to tackle roles like
Richard III and Hamlet? This is where we see
that intense discipline that contrasts so sharply
with his public chaos. To prepare for these serious
roles, he undertook an astonishing level of professional
rigor. He worked with Margaret Carrington, a
renowned voice and diction trainer. So he was
aware of the criticism. Very aware. Conscious
of the criticism of his projection and vocal
range, he worked with her daily, up to six hours
a day for six weeks straight. Six hours a day.
Six hours. This was not just practice. This was
a complete vocal reconstruction aimed at projecting
power and clarity. It was an effort utterly contrary
to his persona as the lazy, drunken inheritor.
That level of commitment really shows us that
the genius was real and it was hard won. And
the payoff was immediate. when he performed Richard
III in 1920. The critics were just effusive,
stunned by the transformation. The Washington
Herald praised the audience being held by the
sheer power of Barrymore's performance, and they
noted the unexpected vocal richness he had developed.
And the Times. Alexander Wolcott in the New York
Times thought the performance marked a measurable
advance in the gradual process of bringing Barrymore's
technical fluency abreast with his winged imagination
and his real genius for the theater. He was channeling
his own darkness and energy into the role of
this monstrous, compelling villain. But this
incredible triumph, it came at a terrifying cost
that foreshadowed his later breakdown. It absolutely
did. The production was a huge critical success,
yet it closed after only 31 performances. Why?
Why so short a run? Because Barrymore had been
working ceaselessly. While appearing on state
as Richard III every single evening, he was simultaneously
filming the definitive screen version of Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde during the day. That's an
insane schedule. The physical and emotional strain
was just too much. He collapsed from a severe
nervous breakdown and had to spend six weeks
recuperating in a sanitarium. The price of that
genius was nearly immediate self -destruction.
Yet he recovered and pushed even further. That
intense effort, that commitment to high art,
reached its absolute pinnacle with Hamlet two
years later. Hamlet in 1922 was the undisputed
peak of his theatrical career. He and the director,
Arthur Hopkins, spent six months preparing the
text. And this wasn't a traditional reverent
interpretation. No. They approached the text
with a modern, psychological eye. They made the
revolutionary decision to deliberately cut over
1 ,250 lines from the text. That's a massive
risk. Cutting that much Shakespeare is unheard
of. Why was that so crucial to his interpretation?
It was crucial because Barrymore wanted to strick
away the melancholy tradition that dominated
the role. The idea of Hamlet as this weak, overly
intellectual, depressed figure. So he saw him
differently. Completely. Barrymore described
his Hamlet as a normal, healthy, lusty young
fellow who simply got into a mess that was too
thick for him. He was a great fencer, an athlete,
a man who led an active, healthy life. By cutting
the text, he focused the play purely on the psychological
descent of a dynamic, dangerous man confronting
impossible circumstances. And he broke a record
that had stood for decades, set by one of the
greatest American actors in history. He broke
the record sent by Edwin Booth for continuous
performances of Hamlet, closing after 101 shows.
The accolades were monumental. The critics had
run out of superlatives. Broken Life flatly stated
that Barrymore had doubtless won the right to
be called the greatest living American tragedian.
And that designation wasn't just hyperbolic praise
at the time. His specific interpretation had
a profound and enduring impact on how the role
was viewed by subsequent generations of actors.
His legacy is defined by this moment. His psychological
interpretation and the way he delivered the text,
that shift to colloquial verse speaking, it fundamentally
changed the direction of subsequent revivals.
Orson Welles, who later became a great director
and actor himself, affirmed that Barrymore was
the best Hamlet he had ever seen. What did Welles
say about it? He described the character as a
man of genius who happened to be a prince and
he was tender and virile and witty and dangerous.
Barrymore just injected a raw, modern vitality
into the role. And while he was achieving this
artistic summit, his personal life remained turbulent.
We should briefly note his complicated romantic
life, which included a divorce and a second marriage
to a prominent literary figure. That's right.
He divorced his first wife, Katherine Corey Harris,
in late 1917. Then, in 1920, he married Blanche
Ulrichs. She was a suffragist, a socialite, and
a well -respected poet who published under the
pseudonym Michael Strange. And their relationship
was highly publicized. Very. It began while she
was still married. They had a daughter, Diana
Barrymore, in 1921. But even in this period of
peak professional success, the marriage was strained
by his continued drinking and Ulrich's own affairs
during their travels abroad. The instability,
it never truly vanished. So by the mid -1920s,
John Barrymore had achieved the absolute summit
of American theater. He was performing Hamlet
in London to effusive praise, setting a new standard
for classical acting. He was at the top of the
world. Yet, having literally broken the record
for Hamlet, he chose to walk away from the stage
almost entirely for 14 years. That seems like
an unbelievable professional pivot. It was a
very deliberate and fascinating choice. He left
the stage after that 1925 London Hamlet run.
He claimed his motivation was the lack of repetition
in film. He said that the continual playing of
a part, which is so ruinous to an actor, is entirely
eliminated in cinema. So he just hated the repetition.
He hated it. And of course, the immense burgeoning
salaries in Hollywood also provided a pretty
powerful motivation. Let's track his transition
to film. His earliest confirmed feature debut
was the romantic comedy An American Citizen in
1914. He was prolific. but not immediately successful
in every venture. No, he was a working actor.
He later dismissed The Red Widow as the worst
film I ever made in his autobiography. But his
silent film success rapidly accelerated, culminating,
as we mentioned, in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in
1920. That dual role was a sensation. It was.
Critics deemed it a masterpiece of transformation
and performance, and this film had a completely
unexpected afterlife. It did. It showcased his
ability to physically embody psychological terror
and transformation. The film was so universally
successful and his makeup so striking that the
U .S. Navy actually used stills of him as the
terrifying, monstrous hide in their recruiting
posters. You're kidding. It's hard to imagine
the U .S. Navy using stills of a drug addled
doctor and his demonic alter ego to recruit sailors.
What were they trying to communicate with those
posters? It really just speaks to the ubiquity
and power of his image. They were using him as
a shorthand for intensity and physical drama.
But more importantly, this is the era where he
develops one of the most famous monikers in Hollywood
history. The great profile. The great profile.
The name came about because he was always photographed
and filmed favoring his left side, which was
supposedly his more classically handsome angle.
And he had a line about that, didn't he? He did.
Ever the wit, he had this famous self -deprecating
explanation for the nickname. He said, the right
side of my face looks like a fried egg. The left
side has features that are to be found in almost
any normal anthropological specimen. And those
are the apples I try to keep on top of the barrel.
It's a great example of him simultaneously embracing
and mocking his own celebrity. It is. And he
was commanding massive salaries from the studios
based on that silent film reputation. He was
Hollywood royalty. How much are we talking? Warner
Bros. signed him to a lucrative contract for
three films at a phenomenal salary of $76 ,250
per picture. Wow. In the 1920s. To put that in
perspective, that was well over a million dollars
per picture in today's value. He was living the
high life, provided with a luxurious suite at
the Ambassador Hotel and a personal chauffeur
limousine. The works. His first film. Under that
contract, the Seabees from 1926, a loose adaptation
of Moby Dick, was a major moneymaker for Warner
Bros., but it was also significant for his private
life, leading to his third marriage. High drama
on and off screen. He was set to play Captain
Ahab Sealy. While he initially wanted Mary Astor
for the female lead, the studio cast Dolores
Costello, a young actress known for her incredible
beauty. And he fell for her immediately. Instantly.
Barrymore later admitted the intensity of his
reaction. I fell in love with her instantly.
This time I knew I was right. They began an affair
on set, which led to a public separation between
Costello's parents and eventually his marriage
to her in 1928. They had two children, Dolores
and John Drew Barrymore. So the late 1920s bring
the sound revolution, which spelled doom for
so many silent stars. They had great faces, but
often unsuitable voices. But for a highly trained
Shakespearean actor like Barrymore, this was
a massive, unexpected advantage. This is a crucial
technical point. Barrymore's stage training,
particularly that intense vocal coaching he received
from Margaret Carrington for his Shakespeare
roles, it paid dividends in the talkie era. Explain
why. Why was the stage trained voice such a game
changer when sound first arrived? Well, many
silent film actors struggled for a few reasons.
First, their voices were often thin, nasal, or
poorly projected because they were never trained
to fill a large theater. They relied on expression.
Second, they struggled with diction when you
put a microphone right in front of them. But
Barrymore was different. Completely. He had trained
for Richard III and Hamlet. He had immense projection,
clear, precise diction, and he understood pacing
how to speak dramatic verse without rushing or
mumbling. This meant his voice was not only audible,
but commanding, resonant, and inherently dramatic.
So it was an effortless transition for him. His
first speaking role was in the segment of The
Show of Shows in 1929. Then his critically acclaimed
performance in Svengali in 31 solidified his
place. That role playing the manipulative voice
coach was just perfect for him. The critic for
the Brooklyn Daily Eagle called his performance
brilliant, one of the best of his movie career.
He was soaring professionally again. But despite
this critical success, the box office returns
on his five film deal with Warner Bros., which
is disappointing, which led him to transition
to MGM, even taking a salary cut. It was a successful
recalibration. At MGM, he co -starred with his
brother Lionel in Arsene Lupin and then was cast
in the lavish, star -studded Best Picture winner
Grand Hotel in 1932. A huge film. Co -starring
Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford, and Lionel again,
he delivered a highly regarded romantic performance.
It's a film that remains a cornerstone of Hollywood
history. It was later inducted into the National
Film Registry. And that same year, 1932, saw
a legendary, if critically - disastrous project
that forced all three Barrymore siblings, John,
Ethel, and Lionel, to share the screen for the
first and only time. Rasputin and the Empress.
It was one of the biggest casting events of the
decade, but a fascinating artistic failure. The
critical reception was poor and MGM lost significant
money. But what's really poignant about this
film for John Barrymore is that biographers note
this is where the physical toll of his chronic
drinking was starting to become impossible to
hide. Yes. The famous great profile was beginning
to crumble. He had gained weight. His face looked
dissipated, showing the effects of years of intemperance.
The studio had to pull out all the stops, relying
heavily on lights, filters and makeup to try
and reconstruct his famous spiritual beauty.
So it was a visible sign that the decline had
begun. A clear visible sign. The New Yorker,
which was never kind, thought all three Barrymores
produced their worst work in that film, and it
noted the obvious visual strain on John. Here's
where it gets really interesting, and also profoundly
sad. Around 1932, John Barrymore, still a major
film star, enters this period of sharp physical
and professional deterioration. The chaotic personal
life that always simmered under the surface now
began to actively corrode his career, starting
with his core talent. And the primary professional
symptom of this deterioration was memory loss.
His chronic alcoholism was just destroying his
ability to concentrate and retain lines. It became
a serious regular issue. The RKO anecdote is
maybe the most devastating early example of his
reliability vanishing. It's awful. He was cast
in the film Hat, Coat and Glove when over two
consecutive days of filming, he failed repeatedly
to remember the script. He just couldn't do it.
And RKO had to replace him entirely with Ricardo
Cortez. That's a studio replacement mid -production.
I mean, that's a professional death knell that
costs massive money and time. It's hard to imagine
anyone recovering from that level of professional
humiliation. And yet, even as he was falling
apart, he delivered some of his most memorable
and arguably most self -reflective work. The
irony is rich, isn't it? The roles themselves
started mirroring his decline, feeding the public
perception. They really did. In 1933, he was
in dinner at eight with lionel playing larry
renault the character is a washed up alcoholic
once great silent film actor this was not a heroic
role he was playing his own ghost One biographer
suggested that playing this character fixed in
the public's and MGM's mind that John Barrymore
was a drunken has -been. But his genius for high
comedy hadn't abandoned him. His 1934 role in
20th Century is lauded as one of the greatest
screwball comedies ever made, directly contradicting
the persona of the fading tragedian. It's a remarkable
contradiction. In Howard Hawk's 20th century,
he played the madcap Broadway impresario Oscar
Jaffet. The role demanded over -the -top melodrama,
theatrical flamboyance, and this manic energy
qualities his failing personal life now fed directly
into his performance. So he could still turn
it on. He demonstrated a rare genius as a comedian.
This performance is considered by many to be
his finest contribution to film, and the film
itself was later added to the National Film Registry.
It proved that the talent, though unreliable
and buried under the chaos, was still explosively
present when the character allowed for maximum
theatricality. And he also starred in Katharine
Hepburn's screen debut, A Bill of Divorcement
in 1932, where he played an escaped lunatic who
had lost his sanity during the war. So the roles
were either high comedy or characters teetering
on the edge of sanity. The line between the character
and the reality was getting razor thin. Meanwhile,
his private life was collapsing under the intense
scrutiny of the press, fulfilling the promise
of the tabloid character. His marriage to Dolores
Costello ended. He divorced Dolores Costello
in 1935 and the court proceedings were brutal.
She cited mental cruelty and habitual intemperance.
He was hospitalized shortly thereafter for a
severe mental and physical breakdown, which essentially
confirmed Costello's claim that he was a hopeless
alcoholic. And then came the scandal that truly
solidified his status as a tabloid character.
Yeah. His marriage to a fan young enough to be
his daughter. His relationship and subsequent
marriage in 1936 to Elaine Barry, a 19 -year
-old fan, was just sensationalized by the press.
The tabloids gleefully labeled the couple Caliban
and Ariel. A pretty cruel nickname. A stark,
cruel contrast between the aging, physically
deteriorated star, Caliban, and the young, beautiful
fan, Ariel. Their relationship was volatile,
public, and constant front -page news. And the
public chaos reached its peak with that famous
plea for his return. It's the kind of stunt a
screenwriter would dismiss as too outlandish.
After a massive argument, Barrymore left for
Los Angeles. Elaine Barry, desperate to get him
back, actually chartered a plane and, using the
plane's radio, broadcast a sobbing, dramatic
plea for him to return. So their argument became
national news. Their pursuit and argument became
national news headlines. This wasn't just a marriage,
it was a traveling circus. And while he was achieving
that level of public spectacle, the financial
ruin compounded his humiliation. He was burning
through money faster than he could earn it. Despite
his high salaries, his lifestyle was catastrophically
unsustainable. He maintained mansions, expensive
homes, and most notably his beloved 120 -foot
yacht, the Infanta. And that cost a fortune to
run. Over $35 ,000 a year just on maintenance
and crew. This recklessness meant the money was
gone almost as soon as he earned it. He filed
for bankruptcy protection in 1937, facing staggering
debts of $160 ,000, a figure equivalent to millions
today. Which forced him to sell the yacht. He
had to sell the Infanta. He was working purely
to honor his debts. often against his will. This
financial humiliation just amplified the public
spectacle of his decline. So when he was occasionally
hired for serious roles during this period, the
studios had to take what amounted to extraordinary
humiliating precautions just to ensure he showed
up and stayed sober long enough to perform. Did
it work? Not really. He continued to drink covertly
and was reportedly disruptive on set. His co
-star, Basil Rathbone, sadly recounted that it
was sad to see him in such a state, seeing the
ghost of the great tragedian. And even his one
-time admirer, John Gilgud, who had praised his
Hamlet, was brutal about his performance in that
film. Gilgud, who was a theatrical purist, saw
the film and was horrified. He wrote to a colleague
that Barrymore looked like A monstrous old male
impersonator jumping through a hoop. Who should
really have been shot? That's harsh. It shows
the genius was clearly fading under the weight
of the personal deterioration, even if the showmanship
remained. And to compensate for his severe memory
problems, which were becoming chronic, he had
to rely on a tool rarely used by serious actors
on screen. Cue cards. It was a necessity by this
point. By the time he filmed his last serious
role, The Great Man Votes, in 1939, he relied
heavily on massive, omnipresent cue cards. Yet
even in this diminished state, there was still
some professional respect. Enormous professional
respect. The director, Garson Kanan, made sure
the cast and crew addressed him consistently
as Mr. Barrymore, acknowledging the residual
power and genius he commanded, even if his memory
was shot. But the true final act was this stage
farce. My Dear Children in 1939. This wasn't
a serious play. This was an authorized professional
public breakdown designed for profit. It was
pure, unadulterated, and wildly successful self
-parody. The play was a weak stage farce where
he played Alan Manville, an aging hammy Shakespearean
has been. And he just went off script. Completely.
Because his memory was shot anyway, he gave up
even trying to stick to the script. He ad -libbed
constantly, sometimes greeting friends he spotted
in the audience, using profanities that shocked
and delighted patrons, or simply making jokes
about his own life and drinking. He had turned
the theater into a personalized circus. Absolutely.
Life magazine observed the phenomenon perfectly.
They noted that people flocked to see him not
for polished performance, but because he converts
the theater into a rowdy, histrionic madhouse.
Sometimes he arrives late. Sometimes he is tight.
Usually he forgets his lines. But he always puts
on a great show. He realized his most profitable
performance was John Barrymore, the drunk theatrical
relic. Exactly. And this led directly to his
final film roles, where the studios deliberately
capitalized on the spectacle of his decline.
The great profile in 1940 had him playing Evans
Garrick, a famous aging actor closely modeled
on himself. And his final film. His final film,
Playmates in 1941, went the whole distance. He
literally played an alcoholic Shakespearean ham
named, quite simply, John Barrymore. It amply
illustrated the depths to which he had fallen
professionally, turning his personal tragedy
into an extended, profitable joke. So how did
the curtain finally fall on this incredible,
self -destructive career? In a way that was,
again, pure theater. In his final working years,
he was appearing regularly on radio on Rudy Vallee's
Siltus show, continuing this vein of self -parody,
joking about his drinking, his finances, his
marital issues. On May 19, 1942, while recording
a line from Romeo and Juliet for the show, a
final nod to the tragedy he had abandoned, John
Barrymore collapsed. He collapsed on air. During
the recording, he died 10 days later on May 29
at the age of 60 from cirrhosis of the liver
and kidney failure, complicated by pneumonia.
He had briefly returned to his childhood Catholic
faith shortly before his death. So, as we look
at the whole arc of his life, from the haunted
child to the greatest tragedian to the tabloid
clown, the critical assessment is startlingly
unanimous. The obituaries universally confirm
his genius, but lament his dissipation and the
monumental waste of talent. They absolutely do.
The New York Times obituary stated that during
his period of triumphs, Justice, Richard III
Hamlet, he was accepted by most critics as the
foremost English -speaking actor of his time,
equipped both by nature and by art. But almost
immediately, they pivoted to the tragedy of his
waste. What did the others say? The Manchester
Guardian believed he might, with some self -discipline,
have added his name to the list of truly great
actors. Yet he dissipated his energies. That
concept of dissipated energy is key. What about
the assessment that crystallized his ultimate
fate in the eyes of the public? That's the famous
line from The Washington Post, which noted that
with the passing of the years and as his private
life became more public, he became, despite his
genius in the theater, a tabloid character. He
intentionally played the clown and burlesqued
himself, what The New York Times called a mood
of careless abdication. So the public fascination
with his personal life. his four marriages, his
drinking, his finances, ultimately eclipsed his
artistic achievements. It did. But it's important,
however, not to let that tabloid decline overshadow
the artistic heights. His influence on classical
acting remains profoundly important. How so?
His stage portrayals of Richard III and Hamlet
were radical and modernizing forces. His unique
psychological interpretation of characters and
his revolutionary colloquial verse speaking making
Shakespeare sound like natural contemporary speech
rather than formal recitation completely reversed
the stiff, older stage conventions of the time.
So he redefined how those classical roles were
approached. He literally redefined them for the
entire 20th century, setting the model for actors
like Laurence Olivier and Orson Welles. Beyond
his artistic influence, he did receive recognition,
though not necessarily through the traditional
serious awards channels. No, he was honored on
relatively few occasions by the formal industry.
His one and only screen award came not from a
major body, but from Rudolph Valentino in 1925
for Bo Brummel. Valentino created an award in
his own name to recognize his fellow actor's
screen work. But his enduring fame led to a very
unique fitting honor at Grauman's Chinese Theater
in 1940. Right. Alongside the standard hand and
footprints, John Barrymore left something unique
in the cement. What was it? He left an imprint
of his famous facial profile in the cement. It
was a perfect, self -aware commemoration for
the great profile, forever cementing his physical
legacy in Hollywood history. He and his famous
siblings were also later inducted into the American
Theater Hall of Fame. And the dynasty, that family
curse he initially tried to avoid? continued
through the generations, ensuring the Barrymore
name endures. It did. The acting continued through
his children, Diana and John Drew Barrymore,
both of whom had complex, often troubled lives,
echoing their father's patterns. And famously,
the dynasty continues today through his granddaughter,
Drew Barrymore, ensuring the theatrical bloodline
remains active and highly visible. His life also
inspired dramatic portrayals, the family dynamic
and theatrical chaos. Just right for fictionalization.
Oh, absolutely. The famous play The Royal Family,
later adapted for film, features a character
based directly on John Barrymore, the charismatic,
chaotic, and handsome actor who returns home
only to cause trouble. That character was later
played by Frederick March and Laurence Olivier.
This shows how immediately his life transcended
biography and became pure mythology. Finally,
we have to address the most bizarre, enduring,
and somewhat macabre story attached to his death.
The corpse story. The tale of his corpse being
borrowed for a... The famous anecdote involving
his friend, the swashbuckling actor Errol Flynn,
and film director Raoul Walsh. Flynn claimed
in his memoirs that Walsh borrowed Barrymore's
body before the burial, leaving his corpse propped
in a chair in Flynn's living room for a drunken
Flynn to discover when he returned home. It's
the kind of dark legend that perfectly caps off
a life of chaos and self -parody. It is, but
it was disputed for decades. Gene Fowler, a close
friend of Barrymore, claimed he stayed with the
body all night and denied the story vehemently.
But there's a recent update to that story, isn't
there? There is. In a 2020 interview, his granddaughter,
Drew Barrymore, claimed that the Flynn account
of the body being borrowed was accurate. Whether
it's true or simply the ultimate piece of apocryphal
Barrymore mythology, it remains the final theatrical
prank played upon the world, a posthumous moment
of farce that cemented his legend. So what does
this all mean? We've traced John Barrymore's
path from this reluctant child of theatrical
royalty, haunted by the terrifying possibility
of his father's tragic illness, to the absolute
master of Shakespearean performance, the greatest
American tragedian. We saw him conquer silent
and sound film, commanding massive fame and massive
salaries. But we also saw the profound and, well,
inevitable cost of the chaos that was always
present. His life is a stark public example of
personal demons, especially that chronic alcoholism
that started in his teens, colliding disastrously
with extreme public scrutiny. He burned his ships,
his fortune, and his health. He did. He ultimately
turned himself into the tabloid character who
filed for bankruptcy and had to rely on cue cards
just to finish his scenes. Yet, even in his ruin,
he maintained an artistic edge by leaning into
the performance of his own failure. He took his
tragedy, the memory loss, the alcoholism, the
marital failures, and deliberately engineered
it into profitable public farce with shows like
My Dear Children. He was essentially satirizing
his entire life story for his final curtain call.
It's a remarkable cultural insight into self
-destruction and public spectacle. You, the listener,
are left to consider the complexity of a man
whose artistic discipline could produce genuine,
canonical genius, that intense six -week training
for Richard III, but whose personal life was
defined by the complete opposite, reckless intemperance
and eventual memory loss. So here's where it
leaves you. Barrymore's greatest stage triumph,
Hamlet, broke a performance record, but it closed
early because he collapsed from exhaustion. Right.
Conversely, his final successful roles involved
him deliberately mocking his own struggles as
a drunken has been. Given this duality, the high
cost of his brilliance versus the low profitable
cost of his decline, does his legacy ultimately
show that genius requires self -preservation
or that true, relentless, artistic honesty sometimes
requires the reckless destruction of the self?
A difficult question for a complex life. We'll
leave that with you. Until the next deep dive.