Modern Screen (Dec 1949 - Nov 1950)

HE'S NOT MY BABY ANYMORE (Continued from page 49) You couldn't buy any. The whole little town was closed up. So Farley drove out and found himself an orchard and picked sprays of blossoms off the trees— whether with or without the owner's permission, I never asked. Back at the hospital, the nurses were busy, so he fixed them himself. And when she woke up next morning, Joan's room was bright with them. . . . Farley's first love is his work. I can still see him, 17 years old, standing outside Mr. Goldwyn's office, the contracts just signed and none of us quite believing what had happened. Bob Mclntyre, Mr. Goldwyn's casting director, put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Well, Farley — d'you want to be a big movie star?" "No sir, I just want to be a good actor." That hasn't changed. But next to his work, he loves music, painting and books. One of his treasures is a painting of a little Indian boy by Diego Rivera, that he brought back from Mexico. One of my treasures is a picture Farley drew as a youngster, while lying on the floor in front of the fireplace. I had it framed not so long ago, and hung over the mantel. Farley had a fit. Nevertheless, it still hangs over the mantel. "Some people," I tell him, "go for Diego Rivera. I have a taste for early Farley Granger." Books he devours. "I've got so much to learn!" — that's his constant cry. If Farley's been away — though it's only for a few days — first two places he heads for are the bookstore and the Gramophone Shop. Straight like a thirsty horse for water. I've seen mothers look at their dearly beloved children just the way Farley looks at a book. About music, it's funny. My father was a fine violinist, and I used to hope Farley'd be able to sing. He can't sing a note. Or rather, he'll cheerfully sing anything you ask. But you don't ask, because he's always half a key off. But this doesn't affect Farley's passion for music. That he was born with. The way Farley got into films was this: Back in 1942, Farley— who'd been active in high-school play productions — landed a part in a little-theater production of The Wookey. Lucille Reimer — she was working as a talent scout at the time — saw Farley in this little play and called us up. She wanted to take him to Samuel Goldwyn's for an interview, and since he was still under-age, she wanted Dad and me to go along. Naturally, we all went. "It's nothing," we kept telling each other over and over. "Things like this happen every day, and nothing comes of them." But I was shaking, and Farley's eyes were like coals. Nothing definite happened that day. Farley was one of a hundred boys being interviewed for the part of Damian in The North Star. Bob Mclntyre took him to Miss Hellman and Mr. Milestone. They took him to Mr. Goldwyn. All Mr. Goldwyn said was, "I like his physique." He was called back once to read, then we didn't hear and we didn't hear for a month. Then one Thursday the call came. I was out on the front porch a dozen times before he got home. "Farley, you're going in for a test tomorrow." P. S. — He got the job. And a Goldwyn contract. He made North Star, he made Purple Heart and he joined the Navy. He was 96 in the Navy two years, one month and one day. When he returned, we had 65 people in our little house to meet him and greet him. I invited all his old flames — Janie Withers, June Haver, Ann Blyth. "Have spaghetti and meatballs, Mom," he'd said on the phone. We had spaghetti and meatballs. And a champagne punch. They sat on the floor and played games till four in the morning. Me, I cried. After that came what Farley calls the long drought. Eighteen months, and no picture. He wasn't the only one. It happened to lots of boys, whose careers were sidetracked by the war. In Farley's case, they said he was the wrong age. Too old for kid parts, too young for juvenile leads. "We're paying you to grow up," Mr. Goldwyn told him. But Farley could stand not working just so long. I'm not sure I know just how to express this, and I don't want to express it wrong. He knew what a marvelous opportunity he'd been given back there in '43. He knew how experienced people beat at the doors of Hollywood for years, and how the doors had opened for him — a greenie — almost by magic. But he also knew that the cellar door can open as quick as the front door. Quicker. First and foremost, he still wants to be a good actor. He's much more concerned with working than with any glory that might come from a certain picture. "You can't learn to be a good actor," he'd say, "without acting." With every month that passed, he grew more tense and impatient. He went out and hunted for parts. And when he sold himself to Nick Ray for They Live by Night, no one was better pleased than Mr. Goldwyn. Since then, it's been good sledding. They Live by Night to Rope to Enchantment to Roseanna McCoy to Side Street for MGM. Next comes With All My Love for Mr. Goldwyn, with Joan Evans and Ann Blyth. He's old enough now for juvenile leads. Even without the moustache he wore in Enchantment. So much for Farley, the actor. Farley, the individual, lives by himself. Which is how it should be. For a year or so after he got back, he stayed with us. Kind of revelled in home cooking and being waited on. Then one day he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "Mother, would you mind if I got a little place of my own?" "I was wondering," says I, "when you'd get around to it." And that was the truth. Dad had brought up the subject with MODERN SCREEN "You're crying, see? Rodney brought you home with him but his mother won't let him keep you so you're crying, see?" me more than once. "The boy's grown up," he'd say. "He's found a career, he's financially independent, he'll be wanting to fly the coop. It's only right and natural You can't develop as an independenl human under somebody else's wing." So now Farley has his place, and we have ours. I think it's a perfect arrangement for us all. I keep his room as he left it and he's free to come and go as he pleases Sometimes he'll drop by at 10, after s show. Raids the icebox. Rifles the preserve closet in the hall outside his old room Ogles a cake I've baked. "I could be talked into taking half of that home." He still brings his friends to dinner whenever he feels like it. I'll be sitting here knitting, and the phone'll ring. "What're you having tonight, spareribs and sauerkraut9 I'll be over at 6:30 with Arthur Laurents.' If I don't have spareribs and sauerkraut — well, the market's close by. After dinner, if the boys don't have dates, they'll stick around and gab. Farley lies on the floor and plays with Boots, same as in the old days. She's his dog and knows it. Minute she hears his car outside, she starts going crazy. He still brings me his socks to darn and his pants to shorten. "Here's a job for you, dear." Apart from records and books he splurges on gifts and clothes. To Farley^ every day is Mother's Day. My garden's full of flowers, but Farley's always bringing flowers. Or perfume. Or a print he picked up. "Happy Thursday, dear, ' he'll say and dump it in my lap. Farley's car is a black convertible Chewy, and he's got a red cap that he uses just in the car. Likes the color combination. His house is just about seven minutes away. His maid comes in twice a week to keep it clean, and fix an occasional meal if he wants her to. Breakfast he fixes himself. That con-; sists of throwing a teabag into hot water. In the morning Farley looks upon food with distaste. (But, I must add, it's the: only time of day he does!) Right now, he tells us, marriage isn't in the cards, and I can only take his word" for it. Tomorrow's another day. Naturally I'm interested in whatever information he) volunteers on the subject. But I strongly believe that people, including mothers,] have no right to pry. He goes out quite a bit with Shelley Win-ii ters and Vera-Ellen. They don't do much! night-clubbing. Only time Farley carel about night clubs is when there's some topi performer he doesn't want to miss— like! Mitzi Green. As for dancing, he can take] it or leave it. He's no Fred Astaire, now even the poor man's. They don't throw! him off the floor, but they don't hand him ' any Arthur Murray cups either. What he likes is dinner for two and} a good movie. Or dropping in after din; ner at the Gene Kellys' or the Saul Chaplins'. The Chaplins keep open house. Saul's a brilliant pianist and very generous about playing for his friends. They'll have music or games or gabfests or a combination of all three. That's Farley's idea of a swell evening. I imagine the girls like it too, or they wouldn't go with him. Have I left anything out? Oh yes, his faults. Of course he has faults. Onlv trouble is, I can't seem to think at the moment what they are. Which leaves me wide open to other people saying, "That's Farley?" I'm only his mother, folks. That's Farley to me. The End