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William S. Hart believed that he was giving audiences a true representation of the Old West in his films -- a West that he knew intimately from his youth. Hart’s West was gritty and realistic -- a place where the good guys drank, fought, cursed, and chewed tobacco. Sometimes they even took out bloody vengeance on a wrong-doer. A viewer could almost believe that movie cameras existed in the 1870s and had captured the action. The images had the same documentary quality as the old wet plate photographs of Matthew Brady and Timothy O’Sullivan. (Today, stills from his films still fool some experts.)
At the same time, however, Hart’s westerns were sentimental. Although he showed the rough side of the Old West, Hart never forgot the mysterious, fascinating quality of the frontier. His West was adventurous, heroic, and strangely beautiful.
William Surrey Hart was born on December 6, 1865 in Newburgh, New York. His father was a miller who traveled throughout Wisconsin and the Dakotas looking for work. There was plenty Wild West left at the time. Billy the Kid, Jessie James, Wild Bill Hickcock, and Wyatt Earp were still alive and kicking. Cattle still grazed on open ranges and all the Indians had not yet been sent to reservations. Young Bill grew up with Sioux Indian boys and homesteader’s kids as playmates. The men still rode horses and toted six guns. And that strange, unwritten code of the West was still in full force -- the principle that killing a man was not as great a crime as stealing his horse or jumping his claim.
Hart developed a deep appreciation for western lore. As he got older, and as the West that he knew gradually faded into history, Hart’s affection for the West increased until it bordered on obsession. He would have stayed in the West, but young Bill wanted to be an actor and the East was where the action was. In New York City, in 1889, Hart began a long apprenticeship as a actor. Ten years later, he played his greatest role -- that of Messala in the stage version of General Lew Wallace’s “Ben Hur”.
For more than a decade, Hart worked mainly in classic plays and became well-known as a Shakespearian actor. He was working steadily and making good money. But he was also starting to get bored with the characters he was playing on stage.
When Hart saw his first western in a nickelodeon, he was disappointed. The costumes were wrong. The mannerisms were wrong. The settings were wrong. Although Hart considered the portrayal of the west on the screen was an insult, he entertained only fleeting thoughts about making his own western films. The old prejudice about legitimate actors lowering themselves to appear in flickers was strong in the first years of the twentieth century.
The stage, however, offered Hart’s first opportunity for western roles. When the chance to be cast in “The Squaw Man” came along, he took it. Audiences loved him in the part and he began to accept other western roles in plays like “The Virginian” and “Trail of the Lonesome Pine” (which actually took place in Southwest Virginia). In the meantime, Hart thought about the movies again.
Hart finally decided to take the plunge. He visited the nearest movie studio, The New York Motion Picture Company, and found to his delight that one of their top producers was an old friend, Thomas Ince. Both of them had been on the stage together as struggling actors in the early days.
Hart was now 48 years old, no longer a young leading man. But at six feet-two inches and 180 pounds, he was trim and well-muscled. He could handle action and was a superb rider. And he was still handsome, in a craggy sort of way. Hart told Ince that he would like to make western films. Ince recognized a good thing when he saw it. He put Hart under a personal contract at $125 a week, and sent him out to California where the producer had his own studio and standing sets. Even more important, after he got his feet wet with one or two films, Ince let Hart have his head and make westerns his own way. The gamble paid off.
Hart’s westerns were light on action and heavy on plot -- his characters had complex personalities and even tough cowboys were allowed to cry. Hart’s own character was consistent from picture to picture -- only the name of the character changed. He was a good/bad man whose low down ways were changed at the fadeout by his own splendid deeds or by redemption brought on by a good woman.
“I ain’t done much to be proud of ma’am,” said one of his dialog titles, “and when I look at you I know I've been ridin’ the wrong trail.”
The Hart westerns were popular and made money. But friendship aside, Ince was ever the businessman. When Hart approached him about a raise, the producer explained that there was a glut of westerns on the market and he could not offer more than the salary he was already paying him. Besides, the studio was in trouble. The New York Motion Picture Company had been sold to Triangle and now Triangle was feeling the pinch.
When Triangle finally went under, both Ince and Hart moved to Artcraft/Paramount. Now Hart was making $150,000 a picture, but war was raging in Europe and America had other priorities. Hart’s westerns began losing their appeal. After the armistice was signed, America looked for more escapist entertainment. A new kind of cowboy was gaining favor. The unrealistic and light-hearted westerns of Tom Mix and Hoot Gibson were box office. Hart held out for as long as he could, refusing to change his style. In 1925 he finally threw in the towel, but not before making one last film -- the classic that he is remembered for today, “Tumbleweeds”.
Hart, now almost 60 years old but still as tough as nails, retired to his beloved ranch in Newhall, California. He only made two other screen appearances. In 1928, he appeared in a cameo in a film called “Show People.” In in 1939, he filmed a ten minute prologue when the silent “Tumbleweeds” was reissued with music and sound effects. His stage training and the quality of his voice prompted producers of offer him roles in sound films, but Hart refused every offer. Unlike many holdovers from the silent screen, Hart knew enough to quit while he was ahead.
William Surrey Hart died peacefully in Saugus, California, on June 23, 1946. He was 80 years old.
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