Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1939)

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Dissolve Sasolite in one-half pint witch hazel and pat briskly on the skin several times a day. Sold at all Cosmetic Counters out there I could have the lead in 'The Man Who Came Back.' And, hell, I didn't even think of flying. When I arrived in all my grandeur, Charlie Farrell was already in my role." Her voice was low and even, frankly curious. "Then what did you do?" "I knocked around town trying to get a job, of course. And all the time Warners' New York office hunting for me to make a test with Bette Davis! The studios didn't want me, so I tore back to New York too late for the Warners' test and too late for a decent spot in a play. It went on like that, for years." "But you did get in pictures for a while?" "Oh, sure," he grinned at her. "I was a stooge for Rin Tin Tin in a lot of Westerns and I made a Charlie Chan or two and 'Foolish Wives.' " George was silent for a moment. "After that the worst thing happened," he said simply. "I went blind." "God," murmured the girl. "I went East for an operation on my eyes and my sister put me up during the months it took to get well. For a while I didn't know ... a thing like that does something to you. Not being able to tell whether you'll ever see again, for weeks and months, and the future making faces at you out of the darkness . . . When it turned out all right I didn't care much about anything else. I was broke, though — and you know the spot Broadway was in. So I barged on out here to Hollywood again." She had used the match to light a cigarette and now traced her circles in black. She seemed very intent. "That was about the time Warners called for the 'Rich Are Always With Us' test, hmmmm?" George sat back in his chair, smiling. "Yes. And the next night Ruth Chatterton saw it, and approved — " "She approved, all right." The girl was smiling, too. "Do you know what she said? She said, 'Where has he been all my life?' And I'll bet she really wanted to know." He was leaning forward, suddenly, and his hand had captured hers. A little to their left on the stand one of Arnheim's entertainers, a young fellow named Bing Crosby, stepped up to the mike and began to sing, but the two at the table did not notice. "Now you know," George said softly. "And now you want your answer." Her eyes came up to meet his at last. "Silly," she chuckled. "I think I made up my mind to marry you the moment I saw that test." He said nothing for a moment. Then, in a voice that crowed above Bing's ineffable crooning, he said to the waiter, "More champagne! Miss Chatterton's glass is empty!" OHE turned out to have a flair for living, possessing limitless physical vitality, motivated by a clear mind attuned to the present and to humor; she was interested in things, as he was: in flying, in work, in people, in travel. And when crises came she stood beside him, as ready and as cool and as capable as he. There was the time they went off to a cabin in the hills behind Arrowhead, intent on an idyllic week end, and the call to return for retakes came simultaneously with a sudden blizzard. George eyed her. as the snow swirled outside. "Snowbound?" he asked. Her eyes were fixed on two old pairs of snowshoes, hung decoratively against the wall. "Not on your life!" she said: and an hour later they were flopping along through the shrill white storm, side by side. Furthermore, they were at the studio on time. They managed to get in a magnificent trip to Europe before the inevitable happened. They might have known . . . Their individual personalities were each too dominant, too forceful; both were fighting people hurtling through life after some far, invisible goal and, if their paths were parallel for a time, that was simply fabulous luck for them both. It was just unfortunate for George that his separation and divorce from the woman he still loved — essentially — had to come at a time when he was in disagreement with his studio. "The Rich Are Always With Us" had made him a bright new Hollywood star. He had made other pictures, just as good, just as successful. His fan mail was mushrooming. Even so, he probably would have buried his viewpoint about his contract in reserve had not his personal world dissolved around him. It was too much. It made him sore; and when the explosion was over, George's fists were bruised, as was his career, from beating against the invincible, too-mighty studio walls. He shut his mouth into a grim line, bought a bachelor's house at Toluca Lake (he 'was in a mood for irony, and Charlie Farrell's place was for sale) , got himself a plane and went barrelling up into the clouds where there was room for his wrath. It was in that plane, with the wind whipping at his face and cold still emptiness about him — there, free from influences — that he faced the person he knew as George Brent, calling back the memory of a boy, restless and strangely excited, at his grandfather's knee, of a youth running through an Irish fog while machine guns sputtered behind him. of a man in love and incapable of adjusting to love. The boy, the youth, the man spoke as one: "Go away. Pack your clothes and catch a freighter bound for China, or Chile, or Bagdad — let come what will, as you once did, meet it as it comes, feel again the shockthrill of danger. . . ." But he was no longer, he realized suddenly, intrinsic in any of these three people he had been; a new urge, unwanted, repulsed, but inexorably stronger than any he had known, insisted on courage. Acceptance of circumstance, a struggle to death with circumstance, with hard work as his weapon — and eventual triumph: "You must do this." And that voice did not persuade, did not bargain. When at last he turned the ship back and set it down at the airport he knew what he would do. And he did it without melodrama. Wherefore, today, his is a brighter victory. It has been a hectic fight. these last years. Typical of him as the man he is, the battle has been spectacular, with sporadic high lights. There was the Garbo engagement, which he won; he fell in love with her but he survived her, which was a special triumph because she might have hurt him very deeply. There was the Constance Worth episode, which he lost. There was something reminiscent about an earlier romantic encounter in that, and some held-over dynamite must have exploded in him. They married, they changed their minds, she sued him, they arranged a settlement. And the thing was over. There is the Bette Davis encounter — it may be called that, merely, unless Hollywood is wrong and George is sincere and once again he takes a chance with marriage. They are a decorative couple, speaking in relative terms of intelligence and appearance and tastes; but they cannot be sure, since if they were they would announce their love. They are both honest people. DUT what went before, somehow, was not really important. His career was the first factor in his adjustment and steadily in the next years he built it, through the Garbo pictures and through minor comedies and program fillers, to the fine pinnacle of "Jezebel" and "Dark Victory" and "The Rains Came." In the process he made of himself an American gentleman in every sense of the word, so that at thirty-five he is a mar: of the world, clean-cut, evolved. His reserve, which is inherent, gives him mystery; the way he lives, apart and without ostentation, adds to it; but there is only one essentially mysterious thing about George Brent. It is that he is still alive, after the things he has done. Perhaps, after all, there is something in this banshee business. As an example— that last plane of his crashed the day after he sold it. killing the new owner. But he is inured now to living; he has found the measure of his own strength. And Old John Mclnnis would have banged his shillalah against the nearest fence, in pride and pleasure. LAST-MINUTE REVIEWS • ONLY ANGELS HAVE WINGS— Columbia CVEN if you think you don't like aviation pictures, you'll get a thrill out of this. There's an added thrill, too, in witnessing the magnificent performance of Richard Barthelmess as an embittered pilot who gets one last chance to prove his manhood flying old crates (one loaded with nitroglycerine — which gives you some idea!) for a banana republic airport managed by hard-boiled Cary Grant. It's Dick's picture, both in plot and acting, though Grant and Jean Arthur are as ingratiating as ever, carrying on a cockeyed romance. With exciting photography, a suspenseful story, dialogue packed with humor, and great work from every player — notably Thomas Mitchell, Sig Rumann and lovely Rita Hayworth, the latter splendidly sincere as Dick's wife — what more could one ask? Best Performance: Richard Barthelmess. HOTEL IMPERIAL— Paramount CONDOLENCES to Isa Miranda, making her American bow in this weak war melodrama. When the Russians arrive as paying guests at Hotel Imperial in disputed territory, Miss Miranda, jemme jatale, and Ray Milland, Austrian offi cer, must carry on as hotel chambermaid and waiter. There's an attempt at suspense, but somehow you know handsome Mr. Milland will win over his enemies, J. Carrol Naish and Reginald Owen. Better luck next time, Isa. PHOTOPLAY