The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

Portrait of a WORKING GIRL And that's just what this is, a pen-portrait of hard-working Madge Evans, by her friend MARTHA FORD ONCE upon a time, a little girl sat on a cake of soap and gazed reflectively out at an adult world from the advertising pages of every magazine in the country. She was a very little girl, but she had her feet planted firmly on the road to an enviable success as a child actress. Madge Evans became famous. She reigned supreme for a good few years. And then, when the awkward age arrived, with its agony of suddenly sprouting arms and legs, Madge disappeared for a while. When she thought the period of transition safely over, a fully grown but slightly callow maiden made a brief appearance in "Classmates." Pinnedup hair and prematurely lengthened skirts hadn't wrought the hoped-for miracle . . . She had grown up, but her acting ability seemed to have died with her childhood. With the courage of a little warrior, she set to work on herself. She concentrated all her efforts toward rebuilding herself along smoother and surer lines . . . rubbing down rough edges, lowering and softening her youthfully strident voice. She wanted to amount to a great deal again ... to outstrip any success she'd had before; and she came through with colors flying. During the years between then and now, she lived as all aspiring young artists live — on often scanty food, miles of discouraging trudging, infrequent work, beautiful visions of future greatness and many, many promises. We compared notes the other day — I was an aspiring young artist myself, but I fell by the wayside — and our experiences tally almost perfectly. Madge, with her eyes a little sorry for the girls we both had been, began the train of reminiscence: "Remember how elegant soup used to taste at the Automat? And they gave you crackers, too. And didn't you feel a sort of — well, a sort of glamour about everything you did? Even to sitting hours in a manager's office, just to get 'no' for an answer! Remember the smells and noises and feelings of a New York Summer — when you know all you can possibly get is a stock job or a summer tryout, but you keep hoping? Remember the bus rides up Riverside Drive on Sunday — and how you'd hunt to find the one that took you farthest for your dime? Remember how you scrimped and saved to buy a ticket for a Theatre Guild play? Remember the unholy thrill of rehearsals even if you only played a maid? And did you ever go" — on and on, with giggles and sighs and an occasional nostalgia gripping at our throats. Madge hates to see the old order change, in spite of being a fullfledged progressive. She hugs the glamour of yesterday to her heart with true appreciation of other times and other artists. She loves the old gods of the theater — as she loves the smell of grease-paint and the tingling challenge of a first The author of this story, snapped with Madge while Madge was working on her recent "Death on the Diamond." night curtain. It hurts her to see an actress, still beautiful and as artistically sure as ever, go down in defeat before someone younger and more blatantly popular. She has learned much by her ability to listen beautifully, particularly to those members of her own profession who have won their spurs in a hard field. Madge has a chin. And behind that chin is a supply of determination that could move mountains if mountains needed moving. She can work like a dock-walloper, clay and night if necessary. And she can take disappointments with true philosophy. She knows exactly where she's going and approximately how long it's going to tak? her to get there. She realizes that, not being a genius, her talent must be fortified by unflagging concentration. She inspires an almost fanatical devotion in the hearts of everyone with whom she works, from grips to stars. And devotion from a grip is devotion indeed. They bow to no studio dictatorship, these fearless and highhanded souls. But she likes them, they know she likes them, and to' a man, they would do murder for her. When she doesn't like, she doesn't like, with a vehemence that leaves you gasping. She can lose her temper with all the dash and fury of a summer storm and it's as quickly over. For days afterward, she's apologizing abjectly for the dark clouds her storm has left behind, and does her darndest to smile them away. She has a somewhat fantastic sense of humor. When she's being particularly dignified and well-behaved, you know that she's shaking herself to pieces inside over her own very private little jokes. There's an imp in Madge's eye that won't be downed. He always manages to appear at the wrong moment, to upset any illusion of good behavior. The effectiveness of Madge's work lies in its absolute sincerity. She has an almost inspired sense of timing and coordination— an unerring Tightness of attack. Her performances are a blend of talent, insight, understanding and good hard work. She couldn't shirk if she wanted to. Cnce to my knowledge and doubtless a hundred and one times of which I know nothing, she spent from three in the afternoon until eight-thirty at night, making hair and makeup tests. Finally, with apologies for being a "big sissy," she admitted she'd have to rest a moment, because she'd been up since six-thirty that morning and had worked straight through, without stopping to take time off even for lunch. Madge is impulsively generous, in spite of being a wise and thrifty little business woman. She knows the value of her money, where, when and how to spend it. But a tug at her heart-strings is almost inevitably a tug at her purse-strings — and she gives as freely of herself. I doubt whether anyone who asked for an hour — or two — or three, of her time, wouldn't be told at once, to "come over — do!" Blessed with an extraordinary sense of loyalty — a complete freedom from bridge table gossip, and a deeply ingrained feeling for fair play, she's the adored leading-lady of this divorce-ridden business. The wives and sweethearts of male Hollywood are at peace when Madge works with their men. While almost every man she meets is a potential swain, Madge feels no urge to poach on any other woman's private property. She plays the game and there is never any doubt about her following all the rules. In the field of competitive sports, Madge cuts a "mighty fine figger." She rides, swims, plays tennis and golf with inspiring dash and fervor. But she's a darn good lounger, too, when she feels an attack of the "sits" coming on — and sleep is her dear delight. She's a voracious reader, with an insatiable curiosity about people and places and things, but she might enjoy the telephone book if nothing more stimulating happened to be at hand at some particular moment. She has definite and progressive ideas about life and living, but she never bores you with them — she prefers to do her practising without any preaching. She's an intense modern, but her modernity does not extend to the parts she yearns to play. She has a heavy leaning toward the colorful and romantic, and once played opposite the fiery John of the Brothers Barrymore — at the tender age of thirteen, mind you — in a special performance of "Peter Ibbetson." That must have been a sight to see ... "her so young and him so haughty." She's pre-view mad — she'll drive miles to see an unnamed picture. But she'd rather stand in line to buy her ticket than know beforehand what the picture is going to be. She loves the unexpected. "I guess I must have a grab-bag mind," says Madge rather ruefully. "I'm always hoping I'll stick in my thumb and pull out a plum — and once in a while, you know, I actually do." TTIE day we had this picture -* taken, (ed. note, the one shown at the left) Madge was playing a game of watchful waiting on the "Death on the Diamond" set. She has the patience of a baker's dozen of Griseldas, that girl. She sat, practically motionless, for more than an hour, without a flicker of annoyance. She says she can't read or sew or write letters or enjoy any of the usual time-killing devices when she knows she may be called into a scene any moment. "My mind's single-track as well as grab-bag," she sighed, "I've got to concentrate on one thing at a time. But we can talk — come on, let's talk!" And we talked again for a time — of clothes a little and people a lot. Of time and tide and the affairs of man. Of pictures and personalities and the freakish circumstances of popularity. Madge is no idle chatterer. Her conversation has point and verve and a goodly dash of humor. But you can enjoy, with her, those restful silences on which true friendship is based. She is able, with a smile, to make you feel soothed and at peace with the world — or to stimulate your imagination to amusing heights of fancy. Her tastes are universal; her interests are varied and her gifts for companionship are unlimited. I love knowing her. 48 The New Movie Magazine, January, 1935