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

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Lake Street, Chicago part about it is that she is healthy and cute and smart and unspoiled. The last is Mary's doing. "We've been talking about adopting a boy," he went on. "I dunno. Sometimes, we go in and look at her having her supper in the nursery and we think, 'aw, the poor kid. She must be lonesome sometimes.' I've often thought I'd like a son to be a pal, friend and all that, you know, when he got to be fifteen or sixteen. But then I think, migod, by that time, I'll be hobbling around on crutches, and the doctor will long ago have said no more coffee and cigars, Jack, just weak tea with lemon and two cigarettes a day. So we still don't know. "Our main problem now is how to tell Joan she is adopted. It would be wrong not to, we think. We've been paving the way in small things: letting her choose a puppy, and making much of the fact that she chose that one pup out of a kennelful of dogs. It isn't an easy task, but we feel that if we do it gradually, she will accept it naturally with no danger of emotional complications." I guess I don't need to say much about Mary after all this, do I? Mary is inseparably bound around with each detail of Jack's professional and domestic life, and has been ever since 1927. Jack is the worrier, the less stable, the more unpredictable member of the family. Mary is the one who smooths him down or comes forth with the flip crack at exactly the right time. She has her own spot in the sun, lesser in size and glory than her husband's, but if she stays off the radio program for two weeks, the complaint letters have to be delivered in trucks. SHE handles the marriage-career-andchild triangle with great cleverness, which is sumpin' when you consider that divorce bombs are continually bursting in the Hollywood air because other wives aren't as smart as she is. She puts her foot down occasionally when pleasure is continually pushed aside for business. While I was talking with him, a press agent popped in and asked could Mary give half an hour for an interview. "Don't ask me!" said Jack, throwing up his hands. "She says she's on vacation. I tell you — you call her yourself. You can do more with her than I can." Which is probably an accurate picture of the situation when Mrs. B. puts her foot down. Nice folks, the Bennys. A mighty nice guy, Jack. DICK'S LUCKY ORDEAL (Continued from page 33) NU-NAILS Artificial Fingernails interesting patina of life at nineteen." That was Dick's age— nineteen — when he alighted in Hollywood. Because he was under age, his studio didn't mention it any more than possible. Dick was booked for more mature parts than his personality rated. That was two strikes on him at the start. He wasn't exactly a pampered punk, of course. Because of his perfect looks, his confident air and his known lineage of three generations of actors before him, Dick is often considered a theatrical glamor boy, cut out of plush, and tailored for luxury. As a matter of fact, he's had all the tough going he needs. His father died when he was a kid. He was brought up backstage and on road tours, educated in the stern rigor of a Jesuit college and plunked out into the very cruel world of the British theatre to earn his own keep when he was barely more than seventeen. Dick has gone hungry and cold his share of times and watched his coat tails wear ragged. He's pounded the good London pavements and been dusted out of producer's offices with the best of them. NOT too* long before the Fairy Godmother spirited him off as London's prize Cinderella boy, Dick was getting by on three pounds, or fifteen dollars, a week — when he worked. If you've ever shelled out for living expenses in London you'll appreciate that. At the time Zanuck's talent scout signed him on the dotted line he had upped it to around thirty-five. Hollywood paid off like an honest slot machine compared to that. But it wasn't sudden money alone that bothered Dick Greene in Hollywood. It was sudden everything. Sudden friends, sudden customs, sudden work, sudden play. New laws, new standards, new values. Every shrewd sage since Hollywood began has observed that the place does something dangerous to new arrivals. Dick was a brand new arrival, by special delivery from another world. He had his handsome neck stuck out wide. "It's a small miracle that I wasn't completely swamped by it all," Dick reflected with a wondering wag of his noggin. "I think the only thing that saved me was the fact that I was too ignorant to realize what I faced!" Something, instinct probably, made Dick try to anchor himself to reality. He bought a 1935 Chevrolet and every spare day he chugged out by himself into the mountains and desert, to try to figure things out. Once he ended up, mudbound in Mexico and, being an alien, had a devil of a time getting back past the border. Once he got lost in the wild Kaibab forest in Arizona, and his studio broadcast frantic appeals to the rangers, thinking Dick had been clawed by a bear or something equally awful. But the only thing clawing Dick was himself. One day, too, those Hollywood Rover Boys, Ty Power and Don Ameche, gagged up a lunch date for Dick with a new actress, a red-headed ex-manicurist, a Cinderella girl to out-Cinderella Dick Greene. In the studio cafe, Don and Ty sat back, prodding each other gleefully to watch the fun. To their chagrin the new girl and the new boy weren't a bit put out. In fact, they looked into each other's eyes and were very happy about the whole thing. When lunch was over both knew they'd have lunch together the next day, although neither of them needed to mention it. That started Richard Greene's romance with Arleen Whelan. Hollywood promptly tagged it a publicity romance, because it was much too good to be true. But it wasn't that. Dick Greene's romance with Arleen Whelan was very much on the level — it was another instinctive attempt on Dick's part to anchor to something real in a land of mirages. But he needed more than a pleasant romance with a pretty girl, more than lonely trips over the desert and into the hills to snap him out of it and give him what Dick calls "a look at myself." What he needed arrived in the form of double 86