Modern Screen (Dec 1938 - Nov 1939 (assorted issues))

MODERN SCREEN HOLLYWOOD'S LATEST RELEASE HIT OF THE MONTH WORN BY JOAN BLONDELL STAR OF WARNER BROS PICTURE OFF THE RECORD" I*y av the softly tailored treatment. In i j White, Chartreuse, Rose, Bird ; Blue, and Fuschia, with con ' hnndicrihisf 1 it STUDIO BLOUSES, INC.. 525 SEVENTH AVE., NEW YORK CI1 IS STARDOM WORTH IT? (Continued from page 47) I would like to add that no star can rationalize a badly prepared story. I know ; I've tried ! The public holds a bad picture against a star longer than a good picture is remembered." Invitations from total strangers is another thing Miss Francis can find nothing to cheer about. "Hollywood stars are asked to parties in New York by people they've never met —publicity minded society folk, as a rule. The celebrity hunters are willing to hunt small game, shall we say modestly, or practise on us to keep in forra They ask you to teas and dinners in which you are totally disinterested." Back home in Beverly Hills, it's almost as bad, Kay added. She is invited to press buttons opening expositions, act as hostess at the premiere of a new meat market, award the prizes at a dance class commencement, serve in a dozen _ and one capacities in no way associated with acting. "Of course, I don't accept these wild invitations," she amplified, "but one_ is bound to give them decent consideration. You owe that courtesy to everyone. You must be tactful and diplomatic in turning down an invitation because to the person issuing them they're not as silly as they may seem to you." Miss Francis added that she sees every letter addressed to her, although her secretary sorts the mail and classifies it according to its importance. "My fan mail delights me," said Kay. "It comes from such unexpected placesTasmania, Delhi, Russia! It thrills me to have people bother to write just to say they enjoyed a picture that I was in." Another black mark against stardom, according to Miss Francis, is the ungodly hours demanded of a star. Extra scenes on Sunday, retakes until two in the morning, trailers on holidays — all for art's sake. Between pictures it is difficult to plan a vacation for fear loose ends of the last one have to be gathered up, or a new endingtacked on. A star's time is subject at all times to the call of the studio. Kay saved her pet grievance against stardom for her final shot. "I abhor being a goldfish in a bowl, open to public inspection all hours of the day," she flashed. "I resent being asked whom I'm going to the theatre with, where I was for the week-end, and what my intentions are toward matrimony. All these things are nobody's business. Being a star shouldn't make one fair game for snooper's sniping. "Wearing smoked glasses doesn't hide you. You can't get away from it all when your face has appeared on so many screens everywhere so many times. A star is marked as long as she is a star. Of course they let you alone when you're through." She laughed a bit ruefully. "When I fade I suppose I'll miss the pushing around. We can't be satisfied. But I would say definitely that the one thing about being a .star that's hardest to take is the total lack of privacy !" Thus Kay Francis upholds and attacks the joys and terrors of stardom, laying bare its rewards as well as deploring its sorrows. Is it worth while? Miss Francis seems to feel, womanlike, that the answer is yes and no. What do you think? (Continued from page 91) "We rehearse broadcasts together by making recordings of them at home and listening to the playbacks. We have a sixteen mm. sound projector and make home movies and run them for our friends. Tony has his friends at the house or I have mine. Most of them are our mutual friends, like Ben Oakland, the song writer, and his wife. Ben and I recently collaborated on a song. It's titled T Promise You.' "Often Tony and I get in the car after dinner and drive off to the beach or somewhere, usually to get clams. We're clam crazy. We drive along at thirty-five miles an hour — I won't go faster — and sing our heads off, to the radio. We come in late and go into the kitchen and I whip up a dish of scrambled eggs and bacon or make waffles and coffee and we sit at the kitchen table and eat and sing some more. It's cosy, like it used to be back in the kitchen on Tenth Avenue. "Sundays I like to lounge around the house in a pair of slacks and a sweater, rearranging the furniture, fooling in the garden. Tony usually plays golf Sunday mornings. My mother comes over for the day, maybe with some of her friends. Or we have a few people in for supper and play records and backgammon. I do what I feel like doing. "People tell me that I'm not temperamental," smiled Alice. "Well, if I'm not, that's 't'anks to Tenth Avenoo,' too. I gather that being temperamental means, in Hollywood, being late on sets, staging scenes that are not in the picture, making a general nuisance of yourself. But the folks I grew up with didn't dare to be temperamental, didn't dare to be late for work, took what they got and liked it, whether they cared for it or not. There was a pay-check due at the end of the week and the check meant bread and meat and beer. There was no foolin' with it. "I do pretty much as my studio advises me to do. A sort of Father-Knows-Best complex. This trait, too, comes from my childhood, I suppose. When I was a very small child my dad was a member of the New York Police Force, and a child knows that a cop is The Law and that you obey The Law, or else. The man at the, head of the studio is, to me, what Mr. Freud would call the 'father-image.' To me he wears brass buttons and is The Law." So it's "no foolin' " with Alice. Love. Marriage. Work — all are earnest and real to Alice. She can't strike blows she doesn't mean without just about knocking herself out in the attempt. She doesn't give the wrong answers to questions. She won't answer questions about her marriage. She will neither deny nor confirm the various rumors which have been printed about her marriage. "I won't give phony answers before I know what the answers are," says Alice. She doesn't, she says, know what tomorrow will bring — and guesswork isn't in her line. But I venture to say that whatever tomorrow brings to Alice alone or to Alice and Tony together will be "t'anks to Tenth Avenoo." They will never do anything lightly, casually, uncaringly. If it is to be "and they lived happily ever after" it will be a warm, secure "ever after." If they are to go separate ways it will be because the very foundations of their marriage gave way, not because of a whim or a silly lovers' quarrel. On the sidewalks of New York, where Alice grew up, marriage was, for the most part, "until death do us part." Life was like that, too, all of it. And so it is part of Alice's pattern now, purl three, knit four, "T'anks to Tenth Avenoo." 92