Hollywood (1942)

BLONDER? j~>'' i End of &l Kolliiig Stone 'ttfo pw/r /far //? ^SUNLIGHT" Is your hair light in some places and dark in others? Is it streaked and faded — straw-like in color? . . . Then put it back on the "gold standard" with Marchand's Golden Hair Wash! For years, lovely women everywhere have been using Marchand's to give their hair that lighter look! Blondes praise M. luhand's for the lustrous sunglints it brings out in their hair. Brunettes use it to give their hair contrasting highlights. Marchand's Golden Hair Wash is quick and easy to apply. It gives perfect re>ults. Use Marchand's. also, to lighten hair on arms and legs. At all drug counters. Mardhancfe And...here's a new idea — "Make-Up" for your hair! Marchand's Coprriaht. 1942. by Chan. Marchnn(i Cn Atop a Hollywood hill, John Carroll is building the sort of castle every man dreams of. Every moment he can spare from his work at the M-G-M studios is spent there, painting, overseeing, or relaxing with his young daughter, Juliana. Bottom photo, a tense moment from Rio Rita, his new film, with Kathryn Grayson By KATE HOLL1DAY ■ To get to John Carroll's "dream house," you drive almost perpendicularly up the curving steepness of Lookout Mountain. You park your car against the curb, and pray that it won't go off on a jaunt of its own. You walk past four men who are laying a brick walk, climb a breathless forty feet, and — finally — ring a bell. John opens the door himself, his black hair tousled and his white teeth showing in a gypsy smile of welcome. His six feet two-and-a-half rather precludes a view of anything behind him, but you catch a glimpse of a blue-walled bedroom before he motions you up the stairs to your right. They are graceful stairs, matching in mood the tall Colonial pillars which front the house. They lead to a wide living room which is irresistibly comfortable. You sink down on a long couch and try to get back your breath. This takes time, for the climb has been a strenuous one. And, during the process, John wanders about the room, pointing out his treasures to you. You notice a deep fireplace, heavily-curtained windows with hangings of beige, and bookshelves with curios in them. You resolve to come back to these in the next half hour. When you are breathing normally again, John shows you the house. "I've had the place for seven years," he says, "but I've never been able to live in it before. That's why it's still in the formative stage. I was driving up here one day a long time ago and saw that old oak tree out there — they say it's fifteen hundred years old! — -so I built a house around it." He leads you out through the bar, the kitchen which sports red curtains and a pair of smiling colored servants, and the service pantry, to a patio. "This is where I eat," he says. "I hate to eat indoors, unless I can't help it." "This," is one of the most delightful spots you can imagine. It is a broad, wood-floored patio which juts out from the side of the hill and overlooks the canyon. Sheltering it from the wind and sun is the giant tree which caused John to create the house, a truly ancient tree, gnarled and twisted, seemingly as old as time. There is a ping pong table here, and a small stove for outdoor cooking, and — I imagine — a sense of utter peace on summer evenings. "There are my chicken houses," John goes on, pointing up the hill toward a group of small white buildings, "and there is my workshop. Do you want to see that?" You climb again, your heels digging into the still-unfinished pathways, until you come to the welter of machinery which is an integral part of John Carroll's idea of perfect living. There are lathes here, an electric saw, all sorts of tools and workbenches. "You see," John explains, "I can't stand doing nothing. So, when I finish a picture, I come here. I make things. It's my hobby." 42