Modern Screen (Dec 1936 - Nov 1937 (assorted issues))

Here is Luise as O-lan opposite Paul Muni's Wang in'The Good Earth." FRANKLY, Luise Rainer regrets the whole business. She regrets being separated from the man she loves. She regrets the ruthless methods of our reporters, the coldness of our celebrity-chasers, the terrific power of the cutting-room and, the down-to-earth logic of American men She regrets her five-year movie contract. She regets the impulsiveness that drives her, willy-nilly, into such jams. She regrets having to stay away from the legitimate stage, practically a prisoner, albeit a high-priced one, bound by California's studios. But most of all — she regrets living in Hollywood. "Hollywood is dead," she told me. "Everything about it is dead, even the beautiful hills." She pointed to where they rose, green and sandy and hazy purple, pointed straight from the living-room of her Brentwood house that seems to be set down right in the middle of them. She said, "I look at those hills. I know they are beautiful, and I ask myself what is it I don't like, and the answer is . . . they are dead. The air surrounding them is heavy, not like mountain air. There is no exhilaration, no sparkle. The people here are like that, too, all impersonal, all cold, with no feeling. "I often go for walks in the hills. This not easy because Hollywood people never walk. Walking is such a personal matter, so Hollywood rides . . . like corpses they ride. By riding they can keep away from life. Walking is too human, too close to the earth, too near other people, the little everyday people . . . the real ones. "Do you know that when my friend, Clifford Odets, the playwright, went for a walk here he actually was arrested! It was late at night. A policeman asked him This impulsive Viennese star deeply regrets her separation from the man she loves, Clifford Odets, dramatist. what he was doing and when he said walking, the policeman said, 'But where is your car?' And when Odets said he had no car, he was arrested ! That's Hollywood ! In no other place in the world could such a thing happen, of this I am sure!" She sighed. And she sat down on the edge of the wide yellow sofa. Her tailored white linen sportscoat was open at the neck, her plaid skirt girlishly short, her uneven black hair awry, with none of that artificial, plastereddown, wave-in-place, polished-ballroom-floor effect. Her vibrant tones filled the room. "Rented emptiness," she said. "Hollywood is like a hotel — houses, apartments, furnished, ready to walk into or walk out of . . . impersonal, too." THE VOICE shook a little. It is a fiery voice, a fitting mouthpiece to her personality, for it takes complete possession, of the listener. It absorbs, leaving you breathless, and for a long while afterwards it re-echoes in your ears, making you wonder why it is impossible to pin down the accent, doing it justice on paper. It is an hysterical voice, sometimes reaching a squeal. It is the voice of a temperamental girl, all nerves and warmth and energy and impulse and honest earnestness, a girl whose entire body emphasizes her speech; the black eyes constantly roving, observing everything; the shoulders swaying or being shrugged according to her moods ; the hands alive, a rhythmic, dramatic accompaniment. Like most women who are in love, the object of Luise Rainer's affections appears obvious because his name is never far from her lips. Now, her body tense, she clenched the fingers of one small hand, "I could tell you so much," she said, and this time it seemed as if she were squeezing the words from her throat. "I have many regrets . . . like everyone, so many. "I regret I have to stand for people asking me questions about what is none of their business ! There are a lot of subjects I could discuss, subjects that are worth while: instead, they come and they ask (Continued on pagel06) 47