Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1939)

. • ,*?*^ 9e, /°bj:*6o w*"*e * TYRONE POWER WHAT'S SHE GOT WE HAVEN'T GOT? BY SALLY REID AND so t/iey were married and we all lived unhappily ever afterward. For i it took one little French girl to walk off with our prize catch of Hollywood, Tyrone (how could you?) Power. When Tyrone led Annabella to the altar (mademoiselle wore blue) the united torchbearers of America raised their feminine voices in one long prolonged wail (I yelled the loudest) of "What has she got that we haven't got?" Well, for one thing, we grudgingly admit, she has Tyrone. But why has she? That's the catch. That's the little colored boy in the woodpile. And that's exactly the riddle I set out to solve by finding out a few facts, a few choice bits to pass on to American girls for future references. There's still Jimmy Stewart left, you know. To say nothing of Dick Greene. To begin with, bless our souls, Annabella cuts her own hair. And never wears a hat. She has the best-looking coiffure in town and looks better minus a hat than nine-tenths of us do in our latest hysterics in straw. She stands before the mirror. Now, down the center of her head she draws a part, carefully brushing the hair on both sides back from her face. Then she picks up the manicure scissors (no others will do) and snip, snip, snip the curls fall like snow in "Way Down East" and Annabella is left with an inch and a half of the cutest ringlets all around her face. "That's the best-looking hair-do in town," I heard a man say to her at a party the other night. She wasn't sure of the word "hair-do" (where do we get these weird expressions?), but she knew it was a compliment by the gleam in his eyes (she knows about gleams). I HE only time she has worn a hat in a coon's age was at her own wedding. A sort of concession to formality, as it were. "The hat makers don't like me," she laughed (throatily, but boyishly), "but I feel so much better without one. With a hat on my head I feel stuffy — as if I weren't free. Besides, in the shop it looks nice on me — the veil hangs just so and the ribbon falls just right, but as soon as I move about everything is wrong — the veil hangs badly and the ribbons get in the way. No, I like to be free." That, I may say, is the character keynote to the girl who married Ty. A girl who likes to be free from unnecessary trimmings, emotional trimmings that hamper the freedom of character and thought and deed. Ah, yes, I found out many things, my hearties. Many things. Like a child, Annabella has an enormous capacity for living — each moment at a time. Filling that minute with all the life she can crowd into it. Or taking from that minute all the life it has to offer. Enjoying the now. Living in the present. Reveling in little things. Getting a kick out of them. Like the porch furniture up in their bedroom. You see, Annabella and Ty wanted to move into their new house (the one they bought from Grace Moore) as soon as they were married, and they didn't let the fact that they had no furniture, except a bed, stop them. Lilliputian conventions that manacle so many young married moderns 'will never trap these two, you can bet. Annabella carts up the green porch furniture, a piece at a time, and fills the bedroom with green wicker and flowers from the garden, and if it were Louis the Sixteenth at its satiny grandest, she couldn't be happier. But then, look who sleeps there. (Continued on page 74) 24