Actress Ethel Barrymore

 

Ethel Barrymore was the “First Lady of the American Theatre,” the grand dame of the legendary Barrymore dynasty, and the woman who could silence a room with a single arched eyebrow. But beneath all that regal charm was a woman who lived by the rules of old-school Broadway: work hard, drink harder, and never let ‘em see you sweat.

Let’s get one thing straight—Ethel Barrymore could act. She wasn’t just a pretty face with a famous last name. She had presence, that rare ability to hold an audience captive without breaking a sweat. When she took the stage in Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines in 1901, critics practically tripped over themselves to sing her praises.

One raved, “Miss Barrymore’s performance is one of such grace and intelligence, it seems as though she was born to inhabit the theater.” Another simply wrote, “Divine.” That word would follow her for the rest of her career.

She went on to dominate Broadway in plays like Alice-Sit-by-the-Fire and The Corn Is Green, and when Hollywood came calling, she didn’t just play aging matriarchs—she devoured those roles. She won an Oscar for None but the Lonely Heart (1944), proving she wasn’t just a relic of the stage.

Like her brothers, John and Lionel, Ethel was an absolute terror when things didn’t go her way. A director once dared to give her notes during rehearsal, and she shot back, “Young man, I was acting before you were born. Don’t waste my time.”

Even her admirers admitted she was a handful. A fellow actress once remarked, “Ethel doesn’t argue—she declares. And God help you if you disagree.” She had no patience for fools, bad scripts, or second-rate performances.

She loathed the new wave of Hollywood starlets who got famous for their looks rather than their talent. When asked about Marilyn Monroe, she sniffed, “I’m sure she’s very nice, but she is not an actress.”

Barrymore’s personal life was a mess of bad decisions and broken hearts. She had more than her fair share of suitors—including, allegedly, Winston Churchill. The rumor mill churned out stories of a torrid affair between the two in their youth, but Ethel never confirmed it. When asked, she coyly replied, “Mr. Churchill was a charming companion. But what a man does in his youth is his own affair.”

She married once to Russell Griswold Colt, a man with an old-money name and a mean right hook. The marriage was a disaster. He drank, he gambled, and he hit her. She left him in 1923, taking their three kids with her. “A mistake,” she later called the marriage. “But one I learned from.”

After that, she swore off marriage, throwing herself into work instead. Rumor had it she was secretly in love with her brother John, or at least the idea of him—the golden boy of the family, the reckless genius who flamed out too soon. When he died, she wept, but not for long. “He wasted it,” she told a friend. “All that talent. All that beauty. Wasted.”

Ethel Barrymore lived to see herself become a legend, but she didn’t much care for nostalgia. When an eager young actress asked for her advice, she said, “Work harder than anyone else. And don’t be a fool.”

She died in 1959, leaving behind a legacy that still looms large over Broadway and Hollywood alike. But if she were here today? She’d probably roll her eyes at the whole thing.

As one director put it, “Ethel Barrymore didn’t want to be worshiped. She just wanted to be the best. And she was.”

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