Hollywood (Jan - Mar 1943)

V ■liberty »rfl« ^ Uncle Sam's super-salesgirl, Dorothy Lamour, has a record of War Bond sales that can't be topped. Above : her Bond tours are mobbed by eager buyers. She's in They Got Me Covered ■ To most of the country she's simply "Dottie." , But to Hollywood she's "Lamour, the town's First Lady." Prestige is a curious thing in movie town. It is measured by the size of your pay check, your drawing-power at the box-office, or the executive status of the man you marry. In the years before Pearl Harbor many a personality has been enthroned and dethroned as First Lady of Hollywood. Usually there have been two or three contenders for the crown, with no one in uncontested possession of it. Today, Dorothy Lamour wears it. It is the measure of Hollywood's intense respect and admiration for a girl who is brilliantly and unflaggingly serving her country. Dottie is not only the nation's Victory Girl, she is also its super-saleswoman. With the adroitness of an auctioneer she has parlayed her bond sales into astronomical figures. Exactly how many bonds Dottie has sold taxes a mathematician. Countless thousands, in answer to her appeals, have pledged their ten per cent for the duration. It is impossible to estimate the final total in millions raised as a result of her personal efforts. More than ever, there is an element of awe when Hollywood speaks of Dottie. She is a hard-hitting, straight-from-the-shoulder gal, with no guile or pretense in her make-up. That's something new for a star of her magnitude. Particularly now, since she has become pretty much of a national figure. Other stars may cover their backgrounds and speak vaguely of private schools and travels abroad. But Dottie has never depended on manufactured tales to give her a phony culture. She says: "I used to run an elevator, and now I am a movie star. I figure I'm mighty lucky, and I'm not planning to forget it." It is this quality of directness which has so endeared her to the thousands upon thousands of people she has met on station platforms, at Chamber-of-Commerce dinners, in auditoriums, factories and schoolhouses. B> LEE BENNETT As tales about Dottie's tour seep into conversation, her status as unchallenged queen of Hollywood increases. Even now, she has become almost a legend. For instance, there is the legend about how the idea of Bond tours originated. It was during the first California blackout, and Dottie was waiting for her mother and father to pick her up. It was her birthday, and she was having dinner with them. The blackout made driving impossible and restricted the use of the telephone. She spent that evening alone, in the darkness, and the loneliness and blackness completely engulfed her. But by morning, the Bond tour as a method of patriotic service was crystallized in her mind. Y. Frank Freeman, Paramount's boss, contacted Washington, presented Dottie's plan, and very soon she was on the road as Uncle Sam's first saleswoman out of Hollywood. She made no set speeches, worked up no stage routines to drag money out of the pockets of her fellow-citizens. She was in there punching, as the girl behind the man behind the gun. And she was telling the thousands who faced her that it was up to them to see that it was the best gun in the world, supported by the best planes and tanks and equipment. Their money would buy all these. America bought bonds with a whoop. Thousands heard her appeal and thousands whipped out their dollars. Sailors, marines and soldiers would hear that Dottie was hitting town, and would save their dollars so that they could buy bonds personally from her. Children would hoard their pennies and, tongue-tied with embarrassment, would pour them into her cupped hands for stamps. There was a girl in a Boston hospital who had been bed-ridden for months. She sent her money to Dottie's hotel, and asked that a bond be sent her. "I'd like to deliver that bond myself," Dottie said. "But how can I do it quietly, without getting into the papers?" Newspapermen, assigned to cover her bond tour, were told the situation. They promised to remain silent about her errand. And a sick girl had an unannounced caller, who delivered her bond and thanked her for her patriotism. On her September bond tour, Dorothy Lamour went into eighty-five communities and made one hundred and five talks and appearances. It was gruelling, closely-timed work, with each minute preciously apportioned. When her allocated territory was covered, a call came to her from Hollywood. It was the Victory Committee calling. A star scheduled for the Chicago and Indianapolis territories had collapsed. "Are you too tired to do it?" she was asked. "Sure, I am tired," [Continued on page 66]