The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

KQOL MILDLY MENTHOLATED O' CCORK TIPPEI TICKLES THE SMOL. ...mcf-nof kii tkio<rf~ Tuck a carton of KGDLS (200 cigarettes) into any smoker's stocking and listen to the grateful "O-ohs!" and "A-ahs!" you get. The mild menthol cools the smoke and soothes the holiday-harried throat, but the fine blend of Turkish-Domestic tobaccos is fully preserved. Cork tips save lips. Coupon in each package (like a touch of Xmas all year long!) good for nationally advertised merchandise. Send for latest illustrated premium booklet. (Offer good in U. S. A. only) SAVE COUPONS for MERCHANDISE Brown & Williamson Tobacco Corp., Louisville, Ky. 56 The Sweetest Love Story girls have known and enjoyed . . . rather, pain and sorrow have touched her frequently and she always has had to analyze and control her emotions. She is probably the most idealistic person within the film colony. Naive, yet sophisticated far beyond her years, her life has been a series of nightmares and joys. Stark tragedy has mingled with blissful moments, until Jean today echoes the fruits of her varied experiences in extraordinary dramatic ability. You've seen her in such films as the already-mentioned "Little Women," in which her portrayal of the lovable Beth will ever remain a vivid memory (indeed, she reflected her real self in that role), "Operator 13," "Lady for a Day," "Lazy River," "Rasputin," "Caravan," and "Have a Heart." The day I lunched with her, Metro, to which she is under contract, had made her a star. "I'm so excited I nearly wrecked my car coming over to the studio," she proclaimed, actions not one whit belying her words. "Today is supposed to be a holiday for me, and I was told not to show up . . . but I could no more stay away than I can help being doubly happy." The studio's starring Jean is a high tribute to her capacity and talents as an actress. She stands now, after two years in the studio, at a point most players work years to attain . . . and far from success going to her head her rising popularity has delighted but totally unchanged her. She is as unaffected after tasting of fame as the day she entered the studio, fresh from having been selected by Metro officials for her beauty and appeal as she rode on a flowered float in a Pasadena parade. Born in Deer Lodge, Mont., her family, when she was eight months (Continued from page 26) old, moved to Oregon, thence to Los Angeles. While still in her more tender years, her parents separated, then divorced, and Jean went to live with her mother. Some time after that, the mother married again. In her step-father Jean struck up a bond of close companionship, but the death of this new-found friend was the most bitter moment the little girl had ever experienced. Following a period of economic stress, in which her mother struggled valiantly to keep her little brood of three children together (Jean, a sister and a half-brother), Jean eased the situation by going to live with a family in Pasadena, by the name of Spickard. Mrs. Spickard, a kind, motherly soul, made the little girl feel at home and started her at the John Muir High School nearby. At first, Jean could scarcely realize her position. Here she was, free and light-hearted for the first time in her life. It seemed too good to be true. It was. Ere many months had passed, the Spickards felt the effect of the depression and Mrs. Spickard secured a job. So that she might remain, Jean made arrangements to care for the children, look after the house and cook the meals for the family. This meant considerably less time to devote to her own interests, her studies, dancing, painting, but it did provide food and lodging. Hardship and deprivation had overtaken her again. Her future, however . . . her dreams, her plans . . . kept her from utter despair. It is her philosophy, worked out in her mind, that if one believes in a thing earnestly and works consistently enough, that will eventually come to pass. Hand in hand, belief stalked with her through her troubles, until that day she won poster contests, was chosen to ride on a Pasadena float publicizing the Olympic Games and M-G-M signed her to a long-term contract. Jean, as she sat toying with a green salad, too thrilled with the prospect of finally starring in a picture to more than nibble at her food, her slight, girlish figure encased in light blue pyjamas, the sun making her lustrous brown hair dark copper in color, presented a picture not easily forgettable. To gaze at her, one would never imagine that she ever had known despair and darkness, could be anything but a little school girl looking forward with happy anticipation to a party. Deep in her eyes, though, one reads of visions unknown to the average woman many years her senior. Two interests consume her with a flaming force. One, her work, her acting and her study in those other fields which hold a particular fascination . . . dancing, sketching and painting, French, piano, writing. The other is her love for Pancho. Vaguely remote, a person living largely within herself, Jean Parker has not the same outlook upon life that the majority of people enjoy. She is more serious, more inclined to grasp fundamentals, more elusive, and innately she understands the problems of life to be met and overcome. As she stands on the threshold of a new life, a life which promises much of interest, fame and things worth while, she looks forward with an easy confidence gained only through what has happened in the past. One of the tenets of her creed, that she has fashioned for herself, dictates that she must live by her ideals . . . out of unhappiness and hardship was this born, and in these ideals she is at last finding happiness and her rightful place in the world. Sinclair Lewis Picks Hepburn glow of the spot-light. They read, as they are written, in the open, and under the sky. No man, least of all an author worth his typewriter, can belie his genesis. And the genesis of Mr. Lewis was Sauk Center, Minn. — a healthy environment that drips throughout his whole work. There, and at Yale, and at Upton Sinclair's Helicon Hall, that early social school the California liberal founded across from Manhattan in New Jersey — indeed, throughout his salad days in Greenwich Village, he never forgot his earthiness. Ask him today where he prefers to live. He will answer you Vermont, where he lives, on a craggy New England farm, for more than half of each year. He is the champion of the home. The home that Hepburn always seems longing for. Isn't this the wistfulness in her art that she so movingly presents in "Morning Glory"? in "Spitfire"? and much so in "Little Women"? It really is. (Continued from page 29) With this same key you unlock the secret of Mr. Lewis's art. It makes tender and tragic "Main Street," "Babbitt," "Dodsworth" and "Arrowsmith." Like Charles Lamb, Mr. Lewis hates to stray from his fireside and tipple, his hayfields and his meadows. f~\ NE of the most moving inci^-^ dents I have ever experienced occurred some years ago when Mr. Lewis returned from Norway after having won the Nobel prize for literature. As a working newspaperman it was my assignment to board his ship at Quarantine and return with an interview story. Through no fault of my own I missed the Revenue Cutter one must take to go down to Quarantine, (the assignment came too late), and I had to journey to Westport where Mr. Lewis and his wife, Dorothy Thompson, had taken a cottage to await springtime in Katharine Hepburn's Connecticut. It was a raw, bleak day in March with a leaden, menacing ceiling that gave no hint of April's girlish laughter. We chatted in the living-room by the fire. A nervous, gangling, explosively energetic man, he can't sit out a talk, invariably rising to pace back and forth as though the due emphasis of his remarks could only be quitted through the bones of his legs. Presently it began to snow. We went out on the porch, gazing miles over the meadow and watching it whiten. We must have stood there fully ten minutes, silent in -a soundless setting. Finally he spoke: "How easily nature writes." Now, as I write this, how easily I can fancy Hepburn, coming across the fields, her toqued head swaying, rhythmic to her lean thighs, eager to call us forth to tramp along with her. She is one with the scene; as Mr. Lewis was one with the setting. What utter nonsense to call her Park Avenue's paper flower. She's a Sauk Center Susie. The New Movie Magazine, January, 1935