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THE OTHER night in Hollywood Rosalind Russell had a dinner date with a visiting gentleman friend of her family's. He was an Eastern man, he was dignified and proper— and he was very late.
She awaited him with the best intentions, decorously clad in a black evening gown with the most conservative jewelry and accessories.
But as the minutes ticked off, instead of Rosalind drumming her fingernails daintily on the chair, her big, round eyes began to twinkle. She picked some glass grapes off the table and stuck them on her shoulder. She found some more artificial fruit that looked swell on her hat. She lost control. She rummaged recklessly around snatching bits of this and that from the room's decor and draping it in odd places over her respectably gowned figure.
When the tardy escort arrived, immaculate in white tie and tails, Rosalind looked something like a surrealist
Christmas tree designed by Dali. As she jingled out the door with her ornaments, noting her escort's rifted eyebrows, Russell thought an explanation might help. "You know," she confessed, "it's dangerous to leave me with time on my hands. Heaven only knows what I'll do!"
Maybe only Heaven really knows, but by now Hollywood has a pretty good idea. After six years' exposure to Mrs. Russell's acting daughter, Rosalind, they know it'll be something funny.
No comedienne has ever had such a real laugh out of a star's daily life, public and private, as Rosalind Russell. From the start, her cinema saga has been one long run of gorgeous gags, sly slapstick and merry monkey business, and there's no letup in sight. All of which makes "No Time For Comedy," the title of the picture sl-e has just finished at Warner Brothers, a gross bit of cinema libel. Time for comedy, I maintain, is what Rosalind has nothing
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