Each picture has given me an inferiority complex. I've become face conscious. Projection rooms are torture chambers to me, at this point. When I saw the first day's rushes on
To Each His Own (1946), I went home and started packing. I had thought I was smiling tenderly at
Olivia de Havilland, but, on screen, I looked as though I were ready to bite her ear off, and I didn't have any eyes at all. After that, I refused to look at myself, but I began enjoying the work.