Radio-TV mirror (July-Dec 1954)

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Print name plainly. Don't delay. Sold by Liggett and Walgreen Drug stores and other leading Druggists. LAKE LABORATORIES, Box 3925, Strathmoor Station, Dept. 9004, Detroit 27, Mich. (Continued from page 49) in my dreams. Now, isn't that an improvement on TV or the movies?" Marion isn't kidding. Most of her dreams are million-dollar, Class-A productions with lush scenery, plenty ofextras (both two and four-legged), and they co-star a very handsome male lead. Marion, of course, is the heroine. Whacky? Well, why not? Why shouldn't a twenty-four-year-old beauty have her dreams? Maybe it doesn't sound like Marion Marlowe — it's not the girl with the demure, mature look, the romantic, sedate evening gowns, the young lady who usually sings in three-quarter time, the Dresden doll with the perfect, gleaming curls. But perhaps some of us have been fooling ourselves somewhat about Marion Marlowe. The truth about Marion is that she's very vivacious, kind of impulsive, and a little bit of a lovely screwball. 1 he Marion Marlowe no one ever hears about is the Marion whose life is a colorful kaleidoscope of pastrami and pigtails, pigeons and bare feet, hot peppers, pet garter snakes — plus a few crazy, crazy dreams in Technicolor. But Marion's dreams, as much fun as they are, don't come anywhere near to being as exciting as things that happen to her in the course of waking hours. Marion gets up at 5 A.M. to allow herself two and a half hours to wake up. She notes, "I've got to wake up my mind and body and desires for the day. It's like bringing a zombie to life." She lives in a hotel apartment, the Delmonico, on Park Avenue. It houses other celebrities. Ezio Pinza once lived in the apartment next to Marion's. Ed Sullivan and his family have lived in the Delmonico for years. It has played host to many stars, but none of them shall endure longer in the memory of the management than Marion Marlowe. When Marion first moved into the Delmonico, about a year ago, she discovered that the only other creatures up at five in the morning were pigeons. So Marion and the pigeons began to have breakfast together on her terrace. Marion's first guest was Whitey, a plump and friendly bird. He brought a few of his intimates along, and Marion made them so welcome that he invited all of his relatives and finally began to show up with his whole chowder club. At the height of these early-morning wingdings, Marion once counted some seventy birds. That's when neighbors began to complain. ''You know the sound pigeons make, kind of a cluck," she says. "One or a few pigeons sound kind of cute. Seventy of them sound like a couple of outboard motors racing down a lake." And that's when the management threatened to give Marion the bird. So Marion cut down her guest list and moved her company indoors. There are a few steps leading down from the terrace into the living room. It is on these steps that she and the birds now have breakfast. After breakfast, Marion has a shower and reads the morning papers and perhaps gets off a letter. She gets to the CBS studios at seven-thirty, a half-hour before rehearsal time, in order to loosen up her vocal chords — but she actually begins to practice from the moment she gets in the cab. "I guess it's kind of rough on the drivers," she says, "but I don't mean anything personal by it." One driver, a frustrated tenor, took an extra long way around to the studio so he could sing some arias for Marion. Another driver, silent and less musical, offered Marion advice as she got out of the cab: "Better get a cup of black coffee, lady, and sober up." In deference to the management, she does not sing or practice in her apartment. "It's terrible for a singer," she says. "If someone turns on a radio too loud, or an ambulance goes by sounding its siren, they blame it on the singer." Once she was listening to a fine musical production and got carried away. She broke into song. Then she heard applause— and the applause wasn't coming from the radio. It originated from the terrace next to hers, and on the balcony was Charles Coburn, a temporary neighbor at the time. Marion restricts herself to humming around the apartment, for she loves music and, without restrictions, would be singing all the time. Singing, for Marion, is pure fun. She has no ambitions to be a great singer. Actually, she wants to be an actress. And she's a good one. She has had experience in radio and in a London revue. Even now, she studies drama, along with voice and languages. Perhaps, even this season, she may emerge on youi video screen one evening in a dramatic role. But her loves, her great enjoyments, are music and animals. "If I were to do a television show by myself," she says, "I'd like to do it with animals. I wish just once Arthur would do a Wednesday-night show with a zoo theme." Her interest in animals goes back to her childhood in St. Louis, where she was raised by her mother and maternal grandparents. Once Marion collected thirtyfive garter snakes. Another time she was on a tadpole kick and got a bunch of them as eggs. (One day her grandmother was bopped in the nose by one. They were frogs. "From eggs to legs," says Marion.) Over the years, she has met up with a variety of beasts. When she was trying to break into movies in Hollywood, she became friendly with a woman who kept and trained pythons and lions and sea turtles. "My motivation was selfish," Marion says. "I just wanted to play with her pets." 1 hen Marion, in her teens at the time, got a job in an English revue. She was in London two years and had a threeyear-old chimpanzee as a pet. She kept him in her flat — and out of sight. "I was real immature then," she says, "and thought it was real important to impress people with my sophistication — which didn't include a chimp." She had a couple of snooty people in to dinner. She served the soup in a silver tureen she had borrowed from a countess. The chimp, supposedly locked in his ample two rooms, came out to say hello — and sat in the tureen. Marion was so upset that she gave the chimp to a zoo. "I was foolish then," she says. "I should have given my guests to the zoo and kept the chimp." In the States, Marion has limited herself to three pets. Two of them are canaries, Sam and Pete. ("Canaries? They're old crows. They look like chickens," she says. "Mother keeps every kind of fancy seed on hand to feed them. They just roost in their cage and belch all day long.") Marion's mother, grandparents, the birds, and her favorite — Figaro, a "curbstone setter" — had lived with Marion in New York until last fall. When the folks moved back to St. Louis, they took the pets with them, since Marion, with her rigorous schedule, would have been forced to neglect them. But Marion has always flown back to see her folks — and Figaro — once a month. And the whole family still spends the entire summer together, when