Motion Picture Classic (Jul-Dec 1930)

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THURSTON, L-16, 20 W. Jack*on Bird., Chicaio. One drop per Pain stops. Corns come off /^NE drop of this amazing liquid and soon \^ any corn or callus shrivels up and loosens. Peel it off with your fingers like dead skin. Don't risk dangerous paring. Removes the whole com. Acts instantly, like a local anaesthetic, to stop pain while it works. Doctors approve it. Satisfaction gftiaranteed. Works alike on any corn or callus — old or new, hard or soft. "GETS-IT" 90 World'a Fmsteat Way He Dares To Be Himself (Continued from page 63) to Elinor Faire — and to this day doesn't know the name of his next-door neighbor. He has rented the house (to Winnie Lightner) and he lives alone in a cabin at Malibu Beach or near there. Taking Care of Himself HE built and painted and windowsashed and electrified the place himself. He does his own cooking, cleaning, darning and mending and gets, he says, a great satisfaction out of knowing where things are. No one to mess about. He showed me his pantry shelves and I had to confess that he's a better man than I am, Gunga Din. Such orderly rows of tinned goods, such shining f>ots and pans and kettles as no graduate of a Domestic Science Course ever dreamed of! The very soups were arranged in alphabetical order. He spends his mornings in the surf, his days in a bathing suit and a pair of duck pants, and his evenings reading before his open fire. And he doesn't thank folks for dropping in on him. "This is my home," he told me, "and not a roadhouse." His real friends never come, of course, unless invited, and those who come without invitations are not his friends and, by the same token, not welcome. He tells them so. Bill speaks his mind, no matter what is on his mind and no matter to whom. He recently did that very thing. A jovial group dropped in on him one sunny Sunday morning. They were primed for action and rarin' to go— and where better than down to ole Bill's beach place? Bill told them, in a few short words, that there was the whole long beach to make whooptee on — and when he wanted to see them he'd let them know. That's Bill. He says it gave him a tough moment, but was better than "suflFering all day." He's been married three times and says he guesses he doesn't get on with women. Bill, The Breadwinner BILL Boyd never dreamed of being an actor. He never dreamed of being anything in particular. He just meant to work for a living, as men do. He was one of seven children in a hardworking American family in a small mid-Western town and he did plenty of that folksy thing known as "going without." He has worked and earned his own living ever since he was six years old. Back in those days, he drove a grocery wagon and probably threw stones at the neighbors' windows and chased the cats and was a reg'lar feller. Since that time he has been lumberjack, chauffeur in a private family, one of a gang of orange pickers (eating more than he picked), and about everything else on the rolling green earth. The one thing he never has done and never would do is wait table, that last resort of so many young down-and-outers. And no matter what his occuf>ation, no matter where he has been or with whom or why, Bill Boyd has been the same, has remained the same, himself. Not so very long ago, he happened to meet the woman for whom he chaufTeured some years ago. She went far out of her way to attract the attention of the blond young movie hero. They talked and Bill was just the same as he had been when she said, "Home, William" to him. She invited him to sf)end the week-end at their home. He has never gone, but if he did go, he says he would feel just the same, act just the same, and be just the same as he was then. Bill Boyd likes the out-of-doors. He doesn't just talk about it, he lives it. He likes the sea and the sun and the se' winds and a roaring fire and a book to n He's a home man more than he is a fa: man. He has his own way of doing thi; and likes that way best. He may bachelor by birth. He doesn't crave Big Money. He li the feeling of having enough and the abiHf|: to forget that he has it. He probably has He doesn't go in for hobbies. We were talking about Harold Lloyd and other Movie Midases. Bill threw his brawny arms up over his massive graying head and shouted lustily, "God, I'm glad I'm poor!'' He'd like to have some five hundr thousand dollars and then retire to a ran Really retire, and to a real ranch. Gro things. Make it pay. Work with the sw of his brow and the strength of his powerf limbs. Mans work. He says the first day he ever wore gn paint he could think of only one thing — t boys in the lumber camp he had recent left, and what they would have done to hi if they could have seen him then. Millions Not Enough BILL BOYD knows what it is to live i the house with millions. His first m" riage was to a woman who had plenty that commodity. He loathed it. He fe like a lap-dog. He says he uas a lap-dog. H didn't have to do anything. And he likes t have to do things. He used to come in fro the orchards afternoons and ''dress up and drink tea and pass little cakes to visitin ladies. He did it about twice and after tha he had his "tea" with the farm-hands. H only married millions, he says, to find o' what people with so much money do. H found out — nothing. He couldn't stand i He walked out. Bill got into the movies by accident an not design. The profession interests hi so long as he can be himself. It doesn' suffice him. He knows he could never g" along with actors. He isn't actor-minded .^nd so he doesn't hob-nob. He has rmained himself, telling p>eople what h thinks of them whether they like it or not. He has never played politics, pet game o pictures, in the studio. He has never asked for a raise. He has never discussed money at all. When the time comes for that sort of maneuvering to be necessary, the time will have also come, he says, for him to hike. He'd like to be married, to have children. Family life appeals to him. But he doesn't believe it is for him — not while he is on the screen, at any rate. A woman in the profession knows too much about it. A woman out of the profession suspects too much about it. Thus Bill. And in both cases, when you come home from the studio, the partner of your joys and sorrows is sure to say " .^nd how is Miss to-day?" Saving Trouble THERE probably isn't any Miss in the actor's life or thoughts. But there is, Bill says, "a lot of shenanigans" going on in every studio, and every Hollywood wife knows it — and sooner or later it is bound to cause trouble. And why look for trouble? Men like Bill. He's the sort of guy known as "two-fisted." Women love him — for a while. Or so he explains it. He says he has been accused of being too nice to women. He waits on 'em. He can't help it. He's that way. He picks up things for em and does errands and buys 'em presents and all that. He's affectionate and eager to those he cares about, and wears his big heart right out on his big forearm. And women (Continued on page lOj)