Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1943)

WON'T RUB OFF B6 test. I was weak, but jumped at it. "The studio turned me down because I looked sickly. But the producer who ran the test had some encouraging news for me. He said he was so intrigued with my Adam's apple that he had to run the film again." After that Byron Barr slipped back into the old grind. He haunted Hollywood for little theaters that needed extra players and for shows that had parts he could play. Finally he got a break in one of them — playing Abie in Abie's Irish Rose" for $20 a week. A talent scout from Warner Brothers caught him in that show and arranged a test. A few days later he called to tell Byron he had a contract and that he was to leave the next day for location. It was only a bit part in a short and he had to go all the way to El Paso, Texas, to make it. But he was in the movies. There followed a succession of bit parts in practically every Warner A picture — little one -line masterpieces that were lost in the shuffle until the one line he did as the reporter with Bette Davis in "The Man Who Came To Dinner." This did the trick, for on the heels of it came his chance in "The Gay Sisters," followed by his ingratiating role in Warners' super-duper "Air Force." While he was still in Florida making this picture, Bette Davis went to the front office and asked to have him in "Old Acquaintance." A Davis request generally gets yes for an answer, as you will agree when you see Gig in the role of the dashing young Naval officer. He has been happy, both in his work and in his home. Two years ago he married Sheila Stapler, who played his wife in the show "Little Frogs." She is as practical and down to earth as he is. When Gig feels like cooking, Sheila gets in the car and goes visiting or to a movie. He insists on scrambling his own eggs, as he likes them with lots of cream and "loose." "Loose" eggs make Sheila shiver. Gig has a terrific sense of humor; looks back on his struggles as a rather interesting experience that doesn't do a fellow any harm. In fact, he says he thinks he really enjoyed them. He is athletic, having played football, basketball and run on the track team. Tennis, swimming and riding are his favorite sports. He shoots a good game of golf and loves to fish and hunt. The Young ear is not attuned to jazz but rather to popular music with a nice rhythm, such as waltzes and sweet music. He definitely does not like the jarring notes of brass instruments. It's been a long, hard pull for Byron Barr, who was barely Bryant Fleming, but who immortalized Gig Young. Now that it has ended, Gig is having to take a rain check on the rewards he has so justly earned. Until this horror called war is over, Gig will be playing his starring role for Uncle Sam. Just before he finished "Old Acquaintance," he enlisted in the United States Coast Guard. The day he finished the picture, he was given his notice to report. It wasn't easy saying good-by to Sheila and moving her into a tiny Hollywood apartment for the duration; to Bette Davis who had been such wonderful help to his career; to his many friends and wellwishers; to the little luxuries and attentions he had barely begun to know. Philosophically, Gig took it in his stride. "I'm trying to think of it as a location trip," he said. Just before he left, the studio notified him they had renewed his contract. As the bus carried him and many others toward the Alameda boot camp, Gig looked back over his shoulder at Hollywood. Something strange was happening in his throat. That darn Adam's apple again! The End He's Hep! (Continued from page 58) seriously considering becoming an aviation engineer when Universal came down with an attack of hep-cat shortage. Five feet, eight inches tall and weighing a worried 135 pounds, he is definitely on the slim side, but has a great desire to be bulky. His greatest sorrow is that he's unable to put on weight and when he eats in the Universal commissary, he commandeers an entire platoon of waitresses to bring him provender. A light noontime snack for him consists of an appetizer, soup, a plate of liver, bacon and onions, a Salisbury steak, three vegetables, a fruit salad, a pint of milk, a mound of ice cream that reaches to the tip of his nose and a wedge of four-inch-high lemon meringue pie. In an effort to expand his appearance of bulk, he habitually buys his clothes a size or two too large. Beyond plenty of size and some special padding here and there, Donald has no special musts in attire, although he wears many checks and horizontal stripes on the theory that they make him look heftier. At seventeen he has never smoked a cigaret, gnawed a segment of Granger Twist or tasted alcohol in any form. There was never any proscription in his family against tobacco or spirits; he simply never has been interested. He succeeds in working off his excess energy in dancing or annoying the piano and occasionally turns to composing. One of his prized possessions is a piece he and a pal composed between personal-appearance turns in the basement of a theater. It never has been published and is without an acceptable name, but the pal was Judy Garland and that, to him, explains everything. An insight into the unselfish nature of his personality is furnished by his almost psychopathic admiration of Mickey Rooney. Any suggestion, within his hearing, that he is a better entertainer than Rooney causes him to turn slightly pale and stammer alarmed objections, but he makes no effort to imitate his hero. The comedy of the two is totally divergent. Rooney 's is bombastic and ebullient; Donald's is bewildered, groping, hopeful. As a dancer. Rooney obviously isn't in his class, but Donald won't admit it. When someone gets around to the matter of hoofing, he changes the subject by launching into a panegyric on Rooney 's tremendous gifts as a mimic. r\ONALD has been busy trouping since '-' he was two and has never had the opportunity to become a proficient baseball player, a lacuna in his life which causes him great distress. He also has harbored a burning desire to excel at football and basketball, but again has been denied the opportunity and now says, regretfully, that it's too late to make it up. He is greatly puzzled by people who ask him if he is in love. He hasn't the faintest idea what he'll do about marriage, beyond the assurance, to himself, that he'll remain single for at least ten more years. He is shy around girls and a great respecter of the proprietary rights of others of his sex. When an interviewer asked him