During his two weeks of personal appearances with "The Night Cry" in New York last spring, the theater where he was appearing was packed at every performance, with people waiting in line for seats and then rushing for the front ones so as to get a close view of the dog himself, and later clamoring, on their way out, for photographs of him.
I was one of the crowd that was making the walls of Warners
Theater creak at an evening showing of "The Night Cry."
We had all grown tense with excitement as we had watched the first
half of this very good picture unreeled, and were all marveling
at Rin-Tin-Tin's positively human portrayal of feeling and thought.
Suddenly, at a critical point in the film, it faded out and the lights came on. Impatient as we were for the next development in the story, a murmur of interest rather than of disappointment ran over the audience, for it was realized that Rin-Tin-Tin himself must be about to appear. A man walked on who introduced himself as Lee Duncan, owner and director of the dog star. After a few introductory remarks, he turned and called, "Rinty, are you there?" and the dog himself strolled on to the stage, gave a wide yawn, and stretched. This, of course, gave him an immediate laugh, and he had the audience with him from the start. Mr. Duncan, gently reproached him for his bad manners, explained that Rinty hadn't quite learned yet the etiquette of personal appearances.
There then followed one of the most interesting exhibitions that I have ever witnessed. There was between that dog and his master as perfect an understanding as could possibly exist between two living beings. Mr. Duncan talked to Rin-Tin-Tin exactly as through he were human, and it was plain to see that the dog understood every word he said. He demonstrated just how he directed him in the studios, and it was not much different from the way any other movie actor is directed.
"Now, I want you to look so and so," Mr. Duncan
would say, and Rin-Tin-Tin would look "so and so." If
the position of his body or the expression on his face wasn't
just exactly right, his master would tell him how to change it,
and the dog would do accordingly. 'Put your left foot a little
more forward," or "Lower your head," he would say,
and Rinty would advance his left foot not the right one,
but the left one and lower his head. Mr. Duncan didn't take
hold of his foot or his head and put it where he wanted
he scarcely touched him during the entire proceedings he
stood about eight feet away and simply gave directions. And it
fairly took your breath away to watch that dog respond, his ears
up unless told to put them down and his eyes intently
glued on his master. There was something almost uncanny about
it.