Modern Screen (Aug-Dec 1943)

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Cover Girl tells _ «n # II J C± now I really do otop Underarm Perspiration and Odor (and save up to 50%) "My charm is my fortune" says alluring GRACE HORTON "There's much more to my job than a 'pretty face,' " says Cover Girl Grace Horton. "To get on the covers of the big magazines I had to learn every make-up trick, every hair style. And I had to find a deodorant I could really count on to keep my underarms dry. Even under 10,000-watt lights! "Odorono Cream does, lit contains a really effective perspiration stopper. It keeps the tiny sweat glands under the arm closed— up to 3 days! "My wonderful Odorono Cream isnonirritating— contains emollients that are soothing to the skin— is safe even after shaving! I call it my 'clothes-insurance,' and use it daily for 'poise insurance,' too. It doesn't irritate my skin and doesn't rot fabrics. I just follow directions. "Think what you can put in War Stamps. For 39{ Odorono Cream gives you up to 21 more applications— 50% more for your money than other leading deodorant creams! "It's my Cover Girl answer to the underarm daintiness problem — I'd like every girl to try it!" Jubilant as a colt untied in a daisy field, Ingrid worked with a coach all summer, preparing three scenes totally different in mood. One was a peasant girl, hearty and jolly and plump — you had to make them feel that she was plump. One was Rostand's "L'Aiglon." One was a spectral woman from Strindberg, wandering by the sea. On September 1st she stood waiting with a hundred others in the wings of the students' stage, and she felt as if the top of her head wasn't there. Teachers, directors, the president of the school, actors and newspaper men made up the audience. Names were called, figures went out and came back. "Ingrid Bergman," she heard. Her feet carried her forward. She started the peasant girl scene, and suddenly she felt as if she had wings. This was wonderful. This was what she'd been waiting for all her life. For two minutes heaven opened. Then somebody coughed, and somebody laughed and somebody turned to talk to somebody else. They weren't listening. She was so bad that they hadn't been able to stand her for more than two minutes. On that wave of horror, her lines washed away. She stumbled, faltered, reached frantically for whatever word she could catch, then stopped in rigid despair. "That's enough. You can go." curtain call . . . Blindly she walked the streets of Stockholm and thought, "I haven't the courage to do it myself, but if a car would come and knock me down, the easiest thing would be to die." The hardest thing to face was her empty future, the second hardest, her family In the end she went home, told them and locked herself in her room. Her cousins had seemed a little sorry, her uncle quite pleased. She was called to the phone by a friend who had tested with her. You were supposed to go back to the school that evening to get your results. A large brown envelope, stuffed with your papers, meant that you'd failed. A small white envelope meant that you returned for a supplementary test. "I'm not going," said Ingrid. "But after all, you can't be sure." "When they won't even listen, you can be very sure." "Well, anyway, I'll look in your box." It was perhaps an hour later when the phone rang again. For Ingrid. "Crazy woman, come right down. Your envelope is white." Her cousins will never forget the way she screamed, just stood there and screamed. She's got to take their word for it, her own memory being a blank. Much later she sought an explanation of that day from an actor who'd been in the audience. "How could you all be so cruel?" "It wasn't cruelty. We'd heard so many who were mediocre. Then you came on, so natural, so funny that we couldn't help laughing. But what was the sense of wasting time? We cut you short, because you were clearly all right, and there were so many others left to bear." They held the second test in a real theater. Ingrid was called last. She did "L'Aiglon." This time the house was very quiet. The phone message came that night. She'd been accepted. Ingrid was very quiet this time, too, a little numb now that it was all over, a little afraid to touch her happiness. Among her treasures is a pacifier, never used by any baby. She keeps it in memory of her first evening at dramatic school. All the new students were blindfolded, seated in cars, driven to some mysterious spot, stripped of shoes and stockings, led into shallow water. Water was sprinkled over their heads and a ritual murmured, dedicating them to the service of Thalia. To dissipate any delusions of grandeur, pacifiers were then stuck into their mouths. "So you won't forget how stupid you are." From then on, life changed. The lonely heartsick child was a thing of the past. Warmth flooded in — the warmth of friends, of approval and understanding — above all, the warmth of work which filled her being and touched every day to glory. From then on, the only thing that worried Ingrid was her great good fortune. "This can't go on," she'd tell herself. "It isn't right for one person to be so lucky. Some day I'll get a terrific slap in the face." tactical surrender . . . You committed yourself to three years of schooling. For the first two years, you studied and played supers. In the last year, if you hadn't been sifted out, you might get a part. Ingrid entered in September. Two months later the school was disrupted by a psychological tornado. One of the directors wanted Bergman for a part. This, according to certain classmates, smacked of rank favoritism. They howled to high heaven and the president, who told the director to find somebody else. That was fine with Bergman. She got the glow of having been wanted and the relief of postponing her acid test. Ingrid felt pretty lofty about the movies. Play in them if you must, but if you do, don't call yourself an actress. So she played in them the following summer. It happened this way. At vacation time the students were encouraged to strike out for themselves. Mostly they worked with provincial stock companies. Ingrid preferred Stockholm, and in Stockholm only the movies were open to her. Well, for a little three months they couldn't hurt. Besides, she could then despise them with more authority. One studio needed several girls and offered her a contract. They'd work as a group, and nobody would stand out. Before committing herself, she managed to get an appointment with the woman casting director of a larger company, who gave her the once-over and a scene to read and said, "I'll let you know." "Hm," thought Ingrid the Shy on her way home, "that's what they all say. But if they know somebody else wants you, they might sing another tune." The casting director's phone rang. "I just wanted to tell you," said a girlish voice, "not to bother about letting me know. It was so kind of you to see me, but I have another offer which is definite, and I don't dare hang around on a chance." "We've decided we want you." The wire fairly snapped. "Come out at once." She should have seen Miss Bergman shaking hands with herself. They gave her a six-weeks contract at $250 a week, v/hich impressed uncle. They gave her one of those ingenue parts which doesn't require much acting, but at least you can be seen. The nose she'd stuck up at the movies came down fast. She roamed round the lot, sticking that same nose into all the fascinating mysteries of film-making and came out a convert. The regard was mutual. When the picture was finished, they asked her to stay. Oh, she couldn't do that. She had to go back to school. They fished out a script and shoved it under her nose. "This will be your next august, 1943