Modern Screen (Dec 1935 - Nov 1936)

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Start today with Blondex. Bring back the golden beauty of childhood. Be a true, alluring golden blonde. Get Blondex at any drug or department store. BLONDEX THE BLONDE HAIR SHAMPOO-RINSE shook hands. "I sometimes don't know how she sticks it. It must be love— that's all. Will vou have a sherry, cocktail, highball?" I took a sherry and so did Madeleine. "Tell them I like wine, but, of course, not to excess. I don't want anyone to get the idea my back hair falls loose, my eyes grow fishy, and I beat my husband in my cups— although, I really should," she added, looking fondly at him. "You see there's reason in my madness. I'm not new to Hollywood. My last visit didn't turn out as well as I'd hoped. In 1934, while I was swimming in the cream over in England, I was sent over here of an exchange by Fox with GB." "Whom were you exchanged for?" Her eyes grew mischievous as she said with mock self-admiration, "Oh, for Dietrich, Garbo, Crawford, and a few Gables and Powells thrown in." SHE went on. "The truth is that Hollywood brought me in on a tidal wave of publicity. The press screamed. The heavens shook — and I — I flopped. "It wasn't anybody's fault. It was just a case of too much publicity and too little story. They tried to make a second ''Cavalcade'' and there couldn't be two. The "World Moves On," with Franchot Tone, was the picture. This time I'm taking no chances. I'll settle for no publicity and a lot of story." "I believe she has what she wants," put in the good Captain. "I saw her first picture, "The Case Against Mrs. Ames,' and, to put it frankly, I thought Madeleine was marvelous in it and 'Chinese Gold' will be another success." "Now it's my turn to protect you from him," put in Madeleine. "He's prejudiced, so how can one tell ?" The Captain grew a little warm. "Don't believe her. I rarely go to the cinemas. I'm terribly hard to please. Walter Wanger, who imported her, has given her a contract for ten pictures more — thereby fixing it so that I will never see my dear wife again in all probability." "Astley's affairs are calling him back to London — he's a real estate broker," explained Madeleine. "Never mind, darling, there's always the cable, the long distance telephone. And soon there will be the California-London clipper, and you can come out for week-ends." The Captain looked glum. "A kiss by cable isn't quite the real thing, is it?" Madeleine curled her shapely legs beneath her. "I shall begin at the beginning. I was born very dully on a dull day in a dull suburb of Birmingham, England. "My father was the eldest of a family of ten Irish kids. He hated the farm where he lived and so worked his way up to the Professorship of Philology at Birmingham University. "When he was twenty-six someone told him it was time to get married. So the dear old thing dashed over to Germany to get a fraulein who would help him with his German. The thought of love never reared its beautiful head. Being unsuccessful in Germany, my father next tried France, where he met a priest who knew a Miss de Rosiere — she lived in a chateau without any furniture. Fresh from a convent, my poor mother knew little of the facts of life, beyond the hard fact that her family was too poor to provide her with the necessary dot or dowry. I always wonder what her thoughts were the day she peeped through the keyhole at my father while the marriage arrangements were being made. Much as I love him, I must confess he is no Clark Gable. "Strangely enough, the marriage turned out very well and out of this non-dream world uniting of the French and the Irish sprang the English rose !" AND Madeleine sat back demurely, suppressing the fun that was behind her twinkly eyes by looking modestly down at the carpet. "The rose," went on Madeleine, "at this period was a short, humorless, pipestem leg and arm creature lost in her books. Her father entertained sanguine hopes that she would in due time become a professor like himself. A.nd so she entered Birmingham University, wearing tortoise shell glasses, and ready to take so many degrees as to end up a living thermometer." Suddenly she turned to Captain Astley. "Astley, darling, have I told you about Christopher Mann? "No? Then prepare yourself. Christopher Mann was my calf love. We went to school together. One day they were casting a play at the University and Christopher advised me to try out for it. He said I ought to be an actress. "So, carrying a flower, I walked into a bleak room filled with critical faces. It was also a bleak day, and the fantastic poetry I had to recite sounded even bleaker to my nervous ears. To this day I don't know why I was chosen for the lead. "We played a week at the local Birmingham Repertory Theatre— English college plays are cast from professionals and college amateurs both — and afterward the head of the Repertory offered me a contract. I was willing, but father wasn't. So out I went into the world and became — a school marm. "I tutored the six children of a secondhand clothing dealer in Birmingham, then when it got me I went down the Sussex coast and taught real school. When I had saved twenty pounds I went to London. "Meanwhile, Christopher Mann had given up college and entered the London theatre business, solely to devote his life to me. "I think Christopher must have run up and down Fleet Street (that's London's newspaper row) screaming the name of Madeleine Carroll until everyone thought him a madman. To this day I still meet press men who remember it. Today, Christopher is my personal manager abroad, very successful, and our calf-love has gone the way of all such things. "In spite of Christopher's efforts, London was not waiting for me with open arms. So I went through the usual hardships— living on thruppence worth of fish and chips a day — that sort of thing that is lots of fun to remember. I finally got a start as a maid in a touring company in a play called 'The Lash.' I had three lines to speak and got fifteen dollars a week for speaking them. And so I lived in all the cheap boarding houses of England for a period, meanwhile modelling hats and wearing out shoe leather when the run ended. I couldn't write home for money, as my name wasn't mentioned at home. "One day I dropped into a film studio, quite by inspiration, and asked for crowd work. You may well imagine my amazement when I got a screen test, and the leading part in 'The Guns of Loos.' The producer explained that I was the ideal English type. (As you know, I'm only 88