Universal Weekly (1933-1935)

18 UNIVERSAL WEEKLY May 12, 1934 SILVER SCREEN GIVES The Best Interview Yet! Excerpts From The Three Page Story by Patricia Keats Illustrated With Scenes From 66Little Man , What Now?” THE "Little Man, What Now?" company is at work on stage 6 I am told when I reach Universal. I stumble over Boris Karloff, Gloria Stuart, and an old cab left over from "Back Street," and arrive on the set just in time to see Margaret rescue a stew from the kitchen stove — I mean a meat stew. So that cute kid is Margaret Sullavan. She doesn't look nearly as young ladyish as she did in "Only Yesterday." Well, if you don't mind, I'll just sit over here in the corner and observe a bit. Ah, there's Frank Borzage. Frank Borzage is the most widely loved and admired director in Hollywood — and, if you could just see the flock of gold statuettes he has won at Academy Award dinners, you'd know that he rates pretty high with his confreres. When I first saw the row of gold statuettes in his home I was sure that they had mated and had children. Frank is directing "Little Man, What Now?" and that is all you need to know to be convinced that it will have the charm and tender pathos and naive humor of "Seventh Heaven." You've probably read Hans Fallada's best seller and know what a truly beautiful and sincere story it is. And you can be darned sure that none of its beauty and sincerity will be lost on the screen, with Frank Borzage directing. And that for "Little Man, What Now?" and Frank Borzage. It's my bet, judging from what I observed on my observation day, that Frank will have another little gold statuette ere the birdies nest again, and so will Carl Laemmle. And now for Margaret Sullavan. She can't stand swank and pretense. When the day's work is done Margaret goes loping home in her Ford roadster, none too new, with the top down and the wind blowing her hair in every direction. She lives in Cold Water Canyon, in a rented house, with a devoted colored maid and a little Scottie named Peter. Right now Margaret is devoting her life to weeding her lawn — and Peter is helping assiduously. As soon as the last "take" is okayed, Margaret Slips out of her demure little Lammchen dresses and pulls on an old pair of corduroy pants and a pongee shirt. No frills and ruffles for her. If she gets a day away from the studio she goes driv ing through the country having a swell time, and usually by herself — she never can tell you exactly where she went because details mean nothing to her. She's in love with the adventure of living. If she gets several days off from the studio she usually goes to a dude ranch on a fishing spree, for she is a most enthusiastic angler. Before meeting Margaret Sullavan I was convinced that her desire for simplicity and privacy, her exaggerated inferiority complex, and her abhorrence of publicity and the Best People (even Garbo selects her friends from the Best People) was all just another act. Of course our little village is a place where more acting is done off the screen than on. Better performances are given at the Mayfair and the Cocoanut Grove, not to mention when "ex" meets "ex" in the early morning at the Clover Club, than you'll ever see on the screen, alas. And the word natural hasn't been heard around here in years except at crap games. Every one is so busy being glamorous, or mysterious, or exotic, or utterly charming, or utterly gross that when a perfectly normal, natural girl comes along doing and saying what a perfectly normal and natural girl would do and say, everybody up and whispers, "She's putting on an act." Having been deluged with charm and insincerity for months on end I regret to say I joined in the whispering. But no more. Margaret Sullavan isn't any more putting on an act than my little kitten, chasing grasshoppers out in the patio, is. She really is shy and sensitive, she really believes she is a rotten actress. She is completely unspoiled — and heaven help us, may she remain so. It is refreshing to meet someone in Hollywood who doesn't expect you to start raving about her last picture, who doesn't invite you to look at her last portrait sitting, who doesn't tell you that her studio is ruining her, who doesn't gossip about the other stars — and who very frankly tells you that she doesn't care at all about meeting you. It's delightful. Margaret is so convinced that she is a rotten actress and has a lot to learn that she was simply sick all over when she saw herself in "Only Yesterday." She fled immediately to New York and started looking for another stage play. When Johnny Johnston of the publicity department wrote her that Universal was excited over the picture, and wanted her to reserve space in a local trade