When last we met our imaginary conclave, a tall, dashing figure had abruptly entered the wood-paneled room where Lionel Atwill, George Zucco, Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce had gathered on a foggy London night. Henry Daniell, separate from the others, gazed forlornly into the flickering hearth, seemingly oblivious to the conversation around him and the dimly lit figure who has just entered.

The interloper with the elegant walking stick purposefully strode to the head of the table. This individual struck the gavel forcefully on the table, calling the meeting to order without a word.

This tall figure then opens the massive dictionary to a page for the letter “C” and using the gavel as a pointer, finds the word he’s looking for. As though the effort of speech required all his flagging will, he manfully reads aloud the following definition in a rich baritone voice that drips with not very well veiled condescension:

“Cad: (kad) n.
A man whose behavior is unprincipled or dishonorable.

Related Term(s):
cad′dish adj.
cad′dish•ly adv.
cad′dish•ness n.”

Daniellis roused by the voice and lifts his head, peering curiously at the oddly familiar speaker. His companions also turn with a start toward the figure.

George Sanders!
Yes, if ever there was a man who knew the meaning of this particular word, it was, undoubtedly, the author of the autobiography “Memoirs of a Professional Cad”. Mr. Sanders rose to his full height, looking at Henry with some malicious merriness, enjoying the surprise he’d given him and said that:

“A cad, as members of this, The Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know Club are keenly aware, is a man who, if anything, is consciously aware of the futility of much of human activity. Coming to this conclusion after many years trodding the boards and worshipping Mammon in the hurly burly of Hollywood, we have each learned the hard way that style is most often more important than substance. Physical violence and active psychosis is not a central part of his life–though he’s not averse to psychological games…his approach to life’s difficulties is usually to look for the easy way out, and to do so with tongue firmly in cheek.”

George Zucco and Lionel Atwill look at one another and smile, looking like the cats who’ve gotten into the cream. Nigel Bruce, shifting restlessly in his seat next to Basil Rathbone, murmurs something fairly unintelligible about asking a question. Impatiently, Sanders glares at Basil, willing his fellow member to interpret for Nigel.

“Well, let me see,” said Rathbone, “I believe that Dr. Wats—er, I mean, Nigel wanted to know was how he got invited here. He’s certainly neither mad, bad or in the least dangerous.”

“Well,” he chuckled, “it really is elementary, Nigel. You’re here on a pass with me”.

“Only you, Nigel, he continued, “have had the unalloyed pleasure with me of sharing the screen with Henry Daniell as THE one—the one who played Moriarty closest to the description given by the ultimate authority of that Napoleon of Crime. Why, of course, Wats-er-Bruce, I mean Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. “

Zucco and Atwill blanched and tensed their right hands into fists, looking down at the green cover on the table and grasping their brandies forcefully with their white knuckled left hand—no mean trick for Atwill with that wooden prosthesis he insisted on wearing from time to time at soirees following his role in Son of Frankenstein (1939).

Both hardworking actors had ventured to play enthusiastic versions of Professor James Moriarty, (Zucco in 1939′s Adventures of Sherlock Holmes & Atwill in Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon in 1942). They hardly expected to have any latent professional rivalry among them brought into the sanctum sanctorum of the Club.

Cracking open a thick book that he had secreted in the folds of his tweed coat, Rathbone asked that the group listen to a passage from Conan Doyle‘s “The Final Problem”, written in 1891:

‘He is a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has a brain of the first order. . . He is extremely tall and thin, his forehead domes out in a white curve, and his two eyes are deeply sunken in his head. He is clean-shaven, pale, and ascetic-looking, retaining something of the professor in his features. His shoulders are rounded from much study, and his face protrudes forward and is forever slowly oscillating from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion. He peered at me with great curiosity in his puckered eyes. . . His soft, precise fashion of speech leaves a conviction of sincerity which a mere bully could not produce…’

Slamming the book shut, Basil fairly shouted, “It’s Henry Daniell to the life, surely!”

“Indeed it is, Brother Rathbone” said the President Sanders. “And since I’m nobody’s fool, least of all yours, and any more reading whole passages will make the minutes fly like hours, I will take the bait and nominate Henry Daniell for membership in our select group. All in favor, vote Aye!”

As if that descriptive reading from the pen of Sherlock Holmes‘ creator were not enough, Rathbone reminded everyone that Daniell had been truly chilling in the three cinematic Holmes outings especially in The Woman in Green (1945) when he’d brought Moriarty to life, but also as the antagonists in Sherlock Holmes and the Voice of Terror (1942) Sherlock Holmes in Washington (1943). In addition to the menace and sense of Nietzchean superiority that Daniell brought to the part, he was one of the few Moriartys who ever came close to doing Sherlock in—once by draining him of blood, drop by drop and once by hypnotizing him into walking along a high precipice, (see accompanying picture for documentary evidence).

“Hear, hear, I concur, Holmes—er, I mean Basil,” burbled Nigel Bruce. President Sanders gruffly told him that he was a mere guest and obviously didn’t vote on such matters.

Sanders looked expectantly at Brothers Atwill and Zucco, waiting for them to make the vote unanimous. Unfortunately, it was to be a long wait. Mumbling and exchanging several of their patented dark looks, Lionel Atwill and George Zucco consulted one another in whispers for some minutes.

Henry Daniell looked pitiably off into space again, apparently stung to the quick that his entrance into the club might be debatable. Or maybe he was just bored…

Or reflecting on the highs and lows of an actor’s lot? Daniell, had, it was true, escaped most of the Grade Z pictures that bad luck and their personality quirks had led Zucco and Atwill to pursue once regular work dried up for them at the big studios. Thanks to the steady work offered him at MGM and Warners, Daniell‘s only real foray into the horror genre that paid the bills for this pair had been the stylish Val Lewton film mentioned last week, The Body Snatcher–and even that had been more of a psychological thriller than an out and out spook show–though there was that last scene with Boris. Still, even when the business changed and economic reality dictated that Daniell take parts in abysmal work such as The Story of Mankind (1957), there had still been occasional forays into more enjoyable roles as a solicitor supporting a game Charles Laughton in the entertaining Witness for the Prosecution (1957) or the world-weary judge trying to mask his indifference to the affairs–legal and otherwise–of those pleading their cause before him in Les Girls (1957). And even when he deigned to appear in such tv dross as Boris Karloff’s Thriller series or even Wagon Train, such mundane work kept his name before the public, and all his many roles always helped to finance his forays back to Broadway and on tour in the stimulating works of Wilde, Ibsen, Behrman and even T.S. Eliot, allowing the actor to always remember what had led him into this daunting field. These memories brought a brief smile that brightened the shadows of Daniell‘s face for barely a moment.

Lionel Atwill took note, and nudged George Zucco, mumbling, “Look, he’s got a smile like the brass fittings on a coffin.” Finally, unable to say affirmatively, whether they wanted to belong to a club that would have Henry Daniell as a member, Zucco and Atwill both gave a mute “thumbs down” and looked away from the far end of the table, seemingly absorbed in their brandies.

Just then a tall, previously unnoticed figure shifted in the darkest part of the room. Suddenly aware of the interloper, all the men turned toward the figure who’d been with them all along, half hidden by the gloom of the room and some drapes. “Gentlemen,” he intoned as he stepped forward, “if I may cast the deciding vote, I believe that Henry’s natural spiritual home would ideally be The Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know Club.” Startled by the interloper, Sanders and Rathbone half rose toward the voice in the gloom, ready to eject any troublemaker. Just then, he caught the flickering light of the fire—and was revealed as charter member of the club, Boris Karloff.

“Well, then”, cried President Sanders, “Unless I’m very much mistaken, the ayes have it. Welcome to the club, Henry.”

Curiously, this moment of apparent triumph startled Daniell rather than exhilarating him. Rather than enjoy his new found fellowship, Henry was moved and clearly discombobulated by the affection being shown for him. Without a word, he rose brusquely, gathering his things, doffing his top hat and went out into the night, completely confounded by the bonhomie and fellowship on display by Rathbone and Karloff.

True misanthrope that he was on screen, Mr. Daniell would not seek the solace of good comradeship with his fellow baddies—but like his erstwhile co-star, Miss Garbo, he may have just wanted to be alone with the mystery of his screen persona. And besides, as with all his greatest characters, Henry Daniell just couldn’t be bothered, for, as with most tasks in this life, he found that the best defense is striking a pose of indifference at all times. It wasn’t that he may have regarded membership as beneath his dignity: He just didn’t want to be seen to care.

In real life, Henry Daniell was, according to several sources, a good companion and longtime friend to many in his profession. Phenomenal workhorse that he was,he appeared in over sixty films from 1929 to 1963. He met his end on the set while working in a small part in his friend George Cukor’s production of My Fair Lady (1964). The date was October 31st, 1963.

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Henry Daniell‘s work in classic films can be seen almost weekly on TCM. This Friday at 2AM ET, A Woman’s Face (1941), one of the more interesting, lesser known melodramas of the forties directed by George Cukor, can be seen on the network. The film features one of Mr. Daniell‘s polished little gems of a part and some of the better work of the period from Joan Crawford and Conrad Veidt.

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Sources:
Chic, Brian M., “Henry Daniell”, Films in Review, January, 1983.
Conan Doyle, Sir Arthur, The Penguin Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, Penguin, Harmondsworth (1981).
McGilligan, Patrick, A Double Life: George Cukor, HarperPerennial, 1991.
Morley, Sheridan, Tales From the Hollywood Raj, Viking, 1983.
Peary, Danny, Cult Movie Stars, Simon & Schuster/Fireside, 1983.
Rathbone, Basil, In and Out of Character, Limelight Editions, 2004.
Twomey, Alfred E. and Arthur F., The Versatiles : a Study of Supporting Character Actors and Actresses in the American Motion Picture 1930-1955 Barnes and Co., 1969.