"He Does As He Pleases", pg 2
from Modern Screen magazine, 1937

In a Hollywood movie column the next day appeared the first American headline that Errol Flynn ever received: "Errol Flynn Wrenches Star's Wrist." And for a paragraph or two the columnist lauded the unknown whose fierce acting had caused a delay in production. From that day on, Errol Flynn became a personality to be reckoned with. And yet, if it hadn't been for Errol's particular state of mind that day, when he was thrown into "The Case of the Curious Bride," all this might never have happened. Today he might not be the star-idol that he is.

He was, to put it briefly and not very originally, a man straining at a leash. Six months before, in London, he had signed up with this studio, not because he particularly wanted to be a motion picture star, but for quite another reason. He always had wanted to come to America, and he was broke, so this looked like the only means of getting here. In a few brief hours he signed the contract and sailed. But he never dreamed that for six months he'd be a Hollywood nobody, on salary, but never on the call sheet. It was an ordeal that he never had expected. Had he anticipated it, it's a sure thing he never would have come. To a man who had prospected for gold in New Guinea, dived for pearls in Tahiti, and wrestled with savages in Arica, it was a situation so tame that it nearly drove him crazy.

If you ask the Warner stars about Errol Flynn of those days, they don't even remember him. He was that inconspicuous. But ask the cop at the gate, or the cook in the commissary, or any of the still men, or the prop men, and they remember all right. They remember because they were the only ones Errol knew in those days. They were the only ones with whom he felt free to stop and talk, and they talked to him, "because he was always sort of a lonely-looking guy," as one of them said. "You couldn't help feeling kind of sorry for him. Why, he used to roam around this lot with a book under his arm and a pipe between his teeth, looking like a man lost if there ever was one."

Ask Homer Van Pelt about him. He's one of the still men. He was swell to Errol, used to take him home to dinner with him every now and then, "just so the poor guy would have something to do. Another thing, you know Errol would never eat in the Green Room; that's where the stars eat. He said it was too quiet, too hushed and respectable. He always ate with us in the commissary. He said he liked the noise in there.
It's an amazing early picture of the man who is one of Hollywood's most sought-after young men of today. Yet, it wasn't a lack of social companionship that upset Errol so much then. It wasn't the social lion in him that was pacing restively up and down. It was the real jungle lion that lurked inside. Errol felt trapped and he resented it.