Modern Screen (Dec 1941 - Nov 1942)

BOTH FEET IN HEAVEN (Continued from page 61) Having kept away from rehearsals like a wise mother, Mrs. Grable didn't know just what went on, but past performances gave her a fair idea. "Does Buddy De Sylva know you can dance?" "Yes — I guess so." "Did you ever tell him?" "He never asked." "Why don't you talk to him, Betty?" "I can't." Knowing that was that, Mrs. Grable betook herself to the theatre, with no campaign planned beyond the idea that something ought to be done. Louis Shurr, the agent, happened to sit down beside her. "What's wrong with Betty? Seems kind of listless." "She thinks she's not doing enough." "What does she want to do?" "More dancing." Shurr spoke to De Sylva, De Sylva spoke to Bob Alton, the dancing director. They tried Betty out on a couple of more elaborate routines, with electrifying results. Her part was extended, new scenes worked out, new costumes ordered, new dances arranged. They got Chuck Walters, who'd danced with Zorina, as her partner. They rehearsed while they road-showed, and lazy Betty worked herself into such a dazed bundle of aches and sore spots and nerves that she didn't even hear the applause on opening night as she whirled in hoopskirts over chairs and brought the house down. shop talk . . . That was the big moment of her dancing career. Paradoxically, it was also the moment that gave birth to her doubts. As a dancer in the line she'd always been sure of herself— so sure that she once walked out on Buzz Berkeley when he snapped at her for some minor breach of discipline. Now if somebody says boo, Betty says, yes sir. It's easier, she explains, to be sure of yourself in the line than in the limelight. Her most embarrassing moment came at a vaudeville audition when her halter strap broke. She didn't miss a step — just grabbed, held and went on kicking — but a look of hurt astonishment crossed her face, as if the mouth she'd fed had bitten her. Of all the tributes paid her professional skill, she got the biggest lift from Fred Astaire's. Hermes Pan told her that Fred would like to do a film with her. For the screen she enjoys doing dances new to her, like the hula in "Song of the Islands," which she'd never tried before. She doesn't like to tap dance, thinks all the tap dancing in the world should be left to wonder-workers like Astaire, Eleanor Powell and Ann Miller whom she could watch forever. For the dance floor, her preferences are the rumba, the tango and any American ballroom dance, and she thinks the rumba's prettier danced close together, American style, than when partners stand apart and wriggle. Jitterbugging's okay by her, but except professionally, she hates the conga, considers it too exhibitionistic for the ballroom. For the stage, she says, you don't mind dancing it up, but in a cafe, it would make her feel foolish. When she and George, two-stepping smootheroos, began going out together, aeople were inclined to stop their own dancing and watch. Which made them uncomfortable, since they're both selfconscious and wince at any suggestion of showing off. Now they won't get up unless the floor is well-filled. Mrs. Grable, looking forward to seeing them dance together, was a disappointed woman the first time they took her to a night club. The crowd was so small that they stuck in their chairs all evening. For smooth perfection, give Betty Artie Shaw, Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey to dance to, Davy Rose and Kostelanetz with their sweet violins to listen to. And in a class by himself for the rumba, Xavier Cugat. She gets all the popular records, and her favorite is "Clair de Lune." Since they discovered each other, she's danced with no one but George. A foursome of experts on the feminine figure — Paul Hesse, photographer; Dr. Mary Halton, gynecologist; Billy Rose, producer; and Irene, fashion designer — picked Betty's as the most beautiful figure in Hollywood. Measurements: height, 5' 4"; weight, 112; bust, 34%; waist, 24; hips, 36; thighs, 20; ankle 7%; head, 22V2; neck, 13y2; wrist, 6; glove, 6; shoe, 4C. Compare them with your own, girls. confidentially speaking . . . She's heard it rumored that dancing overdevelops the leg muscles, but since hers didn't overdevelop, she never bothered her head about how to prevent it. She recalls hearing one of her teachers -say that the only sure preventive was proper teaching. Anyway, she thinks all this talk about her legs is pretty silly, and he who avoids the subject is her friend. What she likes best about them herself is that they look stockinged even when they're not. She hates to wear stockings. She hates to wear hats. And she'd had gloves on just twice in her life. She keeps her figure by eating what she pleases and takes care of her skin mostly with soap and water, scrubbing it morning and evening and using cream to remove studio make-up. Her street and evening make-up are identical — powder, light lipstick and, because her brows and lashes are fair, mascara and eyebrow pencil. The only variation is a slightly deeper shade of lipstick at night, if her dress is vivid — which it rarely is. For formals she sticks mostly to black or white — for daytime wear, tailored suits in gray and beige. Beige is her favorite color for suits, yellow for summer dresses. She loathes green and loves red, but not to wear. Her bedroom is red and white, and she writes with red ink. All her clothes are built for simplicity of line, and she'll run a mile from ruffles. By the same token, she was crazy about her uniform in "A Yank in the RAF." At the beauty parlor she's practically her own hairdresser, feeling she can control the natural wave in her hair better than strangers who overwave it and give it kinks. She does the whole front herself, pulling it back tight and sticking it down, and never goes near the drier but takes her wet head home and combs it out herself later. She hates trick hair-do's, and the studio has never yet forced one on her. Off the screen she wears it in a low pompadour, parted in the center, sides hanging loose. She'd go crazy, she says, if she couldn't run a comb through it every hour or so without having to stick a lot of pins back in. Owning the real stuff, she doesn't go in for costume jewelry, nor does she care for shining like a Christmas tree. She likes rings and bracelets, prefers heavy gold to platinum, and her favorite ring is the star sapphire George gave her. She can't stand heavy stuff around her neck, uses only a small string of pearls or a tiny cross or heart on a thin gold chain. Her pet daytime ornament is a good-looking initialled clip, and she avoids lapel gadgets. "I like to see them on other people," she explains, "but I feel so busy when I wear them myself." Her sales resistance is almost 100 per cent, and she's irked by salesgirls who swoon with ecstasy. She knows exactly what she wants, can't be talked into something just as good, and when she spots what she wants, buys it without shilly-shallying. Once, having set her heart on a blond cocker spaniel, she drove up and down Ventura Boulevard for three days till she found one, steeling herself against the charms of blacks and browns — and it wasn't easy — because she knew she'd still be hankering after a blond and she couldn't have two. When, once in a blue moon, she buys against her better judgment, she wears the thing once and discards it. Without dramatic training, her screen work thus far has presented no problems. For these reasons, she thinks she's been directed by men who were kind and patient. She pays little attention to reviews, good, bad or indifferent. She tries to be natural. A quick learner, she doesn't memorize her lines till the day of shooting. That way she keeps them from going stale on her, and the girl in the picture sounds like herself. On working days the alarm is set for 5: 15. Mrs. Grable gets up at the same time to fix her tray. Betty protested at first, till her mother said: "Look at it my way, honey. I wouldn't feel right about staying in bed while you go to work. If you can get up that early, the least I can do is give you your breakfast and see you off." After which, Betty felt free to admit that she liked it, too. Herself, she's not the domestic type. She doesn't fuss around the house. Put to it, she might go so far as to brew herself a cup of coffee, though she'd be more likely to snatch it at the nearest drive-in. fan fare . . . She's not one for girlish intimacies, and her only close friend is Paula Stone. Most of her fan mail comes from boys in the army, navy and air corps. She's never received a romantic proposal from a romantic stranger. "That only happens in the movies," she comments dryly. "In real life, they never write: 'Fly with me.' They write: 'If you'll send me $5,000 I'll be glad to marry you.' " Her most constant and sensible fan is Matt Heilrich, a young Philadelphia newspaper man. He's followed her career from the days when she danced in the line, studies her performances, tells her what he likes and doesn't about them, sees her when she goes East and approves of George. "A couple of times," says Betty, "he didn't approve of the men I went out with." There haven't been many men in Betty's life. Dates were never all-important to her. "I'd rather not go out at all," she'd tell her mother, "than with just anybody." There was a drummer in Ted Fiorito's band when she was 16. She went with him till she met Jackie Coogan. After her divorce, there was a man in New York, but that was never serious. Then there was George. Period. He took her to the six-day bike races when she was 15. Mrs. Grable gave her consent on condition that her sister Marjorie, seven years older, went along. That was fine with George. A friend of his made it a foursome. As per instruc 92 MODERN SCREEN