Spencer Tracy_ A Biography - James C. Curtis [135]
Man’s Castle and The Mad Game were previewed within days of each other, the latter having had its release moved up so as to avoid the spectacle of two Tracy pictures competing head-on. Fox management needn’t have worried, as the two films were designed to appeal to vastly different audiences. Mad Game was a gangster picture, perfumed, at the behest of the Hays office, with a lot of indignant dialogue about the kidnapping racket and how it was “the lowest of the low.” Tracy was noted largely for his use of makeup, a plot device requiring his character to submit to plastic surgery in order to infiltrate his former gang. He laid it on thick, turning into a cheap Italian hood with curly, permed hair and a putty nose that Cummings emphasized by shooting him mostly in profile.
Man’s Castle was another matter entirely, a film made with exquisite care and sensitivity and aimed at a more sophisticated crowd, principally adult females and the men whose moviegoing choices they influenced. The press preview at Los Angeles’ Romanesque Forum Theatre took place on a Tuesday night. Most observers thought the picture dragged in places and that judicious tightening was in order, but all were agreed on the splendid work done by both Tracy and Loretta Young, on Borzage’s command of the material, and on the film’s cumulative effect on an audience.
“Tracy’s matter-of-fact sincerity and defensive bluster as Bill kept the character at the right pitch every moment,” Billy Wilkerson said in the Reporter. “Avoiding any of the ordinary theatrical tricks, he made the character so real that one forgot he was acting. No study of a man at war with himself inside, asking no help from anyone, could carry more conviction than Spencer Tracy gives it here.”
When Trouble Shooter finished in mid-November, someone—maybe Loretta—got the idea they should go up to San Francisco for a couple of weeks. They were both between pictures; Loretta’s mother would meet them there, and her friend Josephine Wayne would accompany them. (Josie’s husband, actor John Wayne, was working and said he would come up on weekends.) Tracy suggested driving to Santa Barbara the first night and got a limousine big enough for the three of them, a driver, and Spence’s stand-in at the time, a man named Clarence, whose height and general build approximated Tracy’s own and whose job it was to stand patiently on the stage while the camera was positioned and the lighting was set.
Young’s attitude toward the relationship, no matter how much she thought she was in love, was that it was a completely impossible thing, dangerous and forbidden, and although she indulged herself as might a frisky teenager, she stopped short of consummation, convinced as she was that any form of birth control was tantamount to murder. She could remember one time when they were to meet the Swerlings in Santa Barbara, and their hosts had conspired to afford them some private time. Spence was perfectly happy with the accommodation, and she managed to stay just barely out of reach until Jo and his wife Flo got in the next day. “Flo,” said Fay Wray, “was enchanted with the romance—and happy to be a confidante.”
Now Loretta was at it again, planning a two-week vacation in California’s most romantic city, chaperoned as if it were a convent field trip. Spence started drinking in Santa Barbara, passing on dinner, and Loretta, who hadn’t seen this before, didn’t catch on until he was completely and utterly looped. She called Clarence, who was upstairs in his room, and had their bags transferred to the coastal Southern Pacific. She and Josie were gone before Tracy knew what had happened. In San Francisco they checked in at the Mark Hopkins, expecting Spence to show up eventually but not knowing quite when or where. Three days into their stay they were attending an elegant dinner party in the main dining room of the hotel when Tracy slipped into the room, stepping gingerly as he scrutinized every woman at every table, quietly excusing himself