EUGENE O’BRIEN was born with the advantage of a regular fellow’s name, and the handicap of perfectly chiseled features. The “handicap” has served to bring him rating with the two-thousand-a-week stars in spite of the “advantage”—if you get what we mean.

O’Brien is really too “pretty.” To most men he is almost—but not quite—as sickeningly sweet as Francis X. Bushman used to be. Perhaps this condition is aggravated by such titles—and such pictures—as “The Perfect Lover.” Mayhap, also, it is but the innate jealousy of the male beast.

Film Truth’s mail from all sections of the country is frank and outspoken—and a pretty safe index to public thought on films and film folk. Reading this barometer we find that Eugene O’Brien is regarded as not quite all “a man’s man.” He’s “too nice,” according to the most recent letter—this from an eighteen-year-old miss.

Inside the film fold and stage circles the same opinion prevails rather generally. O’Brien deserves to be kicked twice around the block and once up the alley for the “Lunnon” accent he acquired at the Lambs Club. Or, perhaps we should call it outspokenly a “Lambs Club accent.” The difference may be explained by the statement that if there is any violet-tinted drawl that grates on a regular he-American’s ears more than a London accent it is a Lamb’s bleat.

This affectation—plus mannerisms in the same atmosphere—has been against O’Brien. We will confess that for many years we also held to the general view that Eugene was too lavender-hued for mixed company.

But later years, and closer opportunity to hold the microscope over the subject of this sketch, have brought a change of mind. We are ready to state—now that we have been asked the question, “What sort of a fellow is he really like?”—that Eugene O’Brien is a regular, honest-to-goodness human equation, and a “he” of the species.

O’Brien, to those who know him, a likeable chap, a liberal host, and a true blue pal. He has, deep down within him, a sense of personal perspective. We even believe he realizes what some others think of him, and, give him credit, a lurid, cussing contempt is his only reaction.

If only the blankety fool would exchange that blarsted thin-stringed London twinge for the healthy twang of his Denver birthplace.

The nearest we have ever known him to come to it was on a recent occasion when Selznick attempted to put into force certain petty restrictions on the use of automobiles in journeying to locations distant from the Los Angeles studio.

Harry Rapf, the studio manager, was made the mouthpiece for the ukase. It went over well enough with the rough and ready bull wielders who wield a wicked tongue—when the boss isn’t around. As for O’Brien—nobody thought that “nice boy” ever raised his voice above a whisper. Rapf decided to play it safe from the first bell and he opened the attack on O’Brien in rough and ready fashion.

Then the explosion! Dynamite, T. N. T., and essence of Whiteheads! O’Brien illumined the air for miles around with a volubly expressed desire to mingle in catch-as-can combat with Rapf, a willingness to oblige with a two-fisted massage, a craving for anything short of murder and arson.

No high-and-mighty temperamental star’s dignity, mind you! No sulking in the dressing room, or writing of “letters to the boss.” Just man-to-man talk, rip-snorting, raz-a-matag square-shooting shouting.

Rapf crawled down from his eminence quicker than an incline railway with a busted cable. The lines traveling the hills coming down to Cincinnati or descending Mount Tamalpais couldn’t make greater speed if they were hell bent for election.

And O’Brien established himself with the members of his company and the studio hash-slingers who were present that day. They swear by ‘Gene, and with him.

In closing, let us remark that Eugene O’Brien is just as much a bear with the women off the screen as he is on. Gene is there as a picker—and what’s more the class picks on him. Which tells the whole story.

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