Modern Screen (Dec 1948 - Oct 1949)

6,000 miles to get away from Hollywood and the first guy I see is Ed Gardner — and, as usual, in a bar! Why aren't you back in Duffy's Tavern where you belong?" So they had a drink with Ed and talked about — guess what — Hollywood! Then the phone rang and it was Bob Hutton with Cleatus Caldwell breaking in on the receiver. Seasoned Parisians of at least six weeks, they were in Paris making The Man on the Eiffel Tower. Then, next morning, they popped into the American Express for their mail, and who was getting his too, but Cary Grant. "Honey," wailed Pat, with mock gravity, "let's get out of here! If we don't watch out, we'll all be getting together and making a picture or something!" She didn't mean it, of course — there's no face more welcome than a face from home, in Paris or anywhere else. But their week was up, and they had plans — plans for two. They remembered the advice of pianist Artur Rubenstein, who'd been at their table on the boat over. "Hire a car and driver and ramble south through France, Switzerland and Italy. You'll never know Europe until you do. You'll never forget what you see." That's how they happened to find themselves next day in the back seat of an ancient Packard with Albin, the Swiss chauffeur, grinning from ear to ear up front and constantly looking back to grin, "C'est jolie — n'est ce pas?" ("It's pretty— isn't it?") Oui! It was. At least to Pat and Cornel's second-honeymoon eyes it was — all of it, every inch of the way. followed their noses . . . First there was the trip south toward Switzerland. They started out with everything carefully mapped by the American Express — but set programs never have worked for Cornel. Their trail wound up looking like a mosquito's flight, because wherever and whenever they saw something they liked, and that was almost every minute, they pointed Albin that way and investigated. They slept in narrow little cubbyholes, up under eaves of the provincial taverns, strolled before breakfasts of croissants and black coffee through the angled streets and trim gardens — forgot who they were or where they were from or what a shooting schedule meant. . . . They saw all they could of Switzerland. Interlaken sticks in their memories, particularly, with the towering Jungfrau mountain seemingly just outside their window. And Vevey and Montreux, where Cornel reaped another deep-seated thrill going through the castle of Chillon, the poet, Lord Byron's fantastic dream-spot beside its blue-green lake. Cory has long been absolutely fascinated by the life of Byron. He wrote Byron's story for the screen, longs above all to play the tragic young poet himself. Every niche and corner of Chillon was alive to him. Pat had to pry him away at last or he'd have tried to buy the place. They left Switzerland, the sight-drunk Wildes, by the Gothard pass into Italy. That's the one where shaggy St. Bernard dogs used to tote brandy flasks, to help snowbound travelers keep alive. Pat and Cory didn't run into any portable bowser bars in the Gothard, but they wondered a few times if really they'd ever see the Italian slopes, alive. It wasn't the snow — it was Albin and his Packard. He careened them around curves built for a snake, and just when they'd be skirting, on one wailing tire, a wriggly ridge with nothing on cither side except ozone, this Albin joker would bend his moustaches their way and beam "Magnifique?" "Y-yes, wuh-oui, tres magnifique!" Pat would squeak, holding on to Cornel for dear life. But they made it — just like Bonaparte and Hannibal and all those other Alps crossers. Albin left them to fend for themselves in Lugano and Pat and Cornel hopped a train to Como for a look at the azure lake, then took another to Venice. They got the wrong one and instead of arriving in Venice that afternoon they dragged in with the milk past midnight. The moon was silvering the waters of the lagoon lapping right under the balcony of their suite at the Royal Danieli. Late as it was, gondoliers still sang on the grand canal, accordions still played, and the paddles splashed. As far as they could see, until the moonlight faded, marble-like buildings, old and beautiful, stretched beside the gleaming water. "We can't go to bed now," sighed Cornel. "This is what we set out to find. Magic." HOW TIME FLIES! Captain Blood introduces that handsome new star Errol Flynn, in the role of a buccaneer. He resists the temptation to overact, justifying the producer's faith in him with this first important role. He appeals to men, and the feminine fans will rave about him. March 1936, Modern Screen This engaged pair, Jackie Coogan and Betty Grable, are touring the country together in vaudeville. March 1936, Modern Screen And Barbara Stanwyck recently stepped out on her first unchaperoned date since the split-up with Frank Fay. We saw her at the Trocadero with that handsome young man about town, Bob Taylor. May 1936, Modern Screen "Magic," repeated Pat, and they drank it in until the silver turned to gold and the mother-of-pearl city woke up. Only then did the Wildes go to bed. But there didn't seem to be any need for sleep in Venice; some tonic in the air kept them awake and doing things — and there were so many things to do. They cruised endlessly up and down the Grand Canal, the side canals, under the famous Bridge of Sighs. They visited the Venitian glass factories, sailed across to the Lido's famous strand for a day of bathing in the blue Adriatic and lazing on the white sands. They'd planned five days in Venice — they were there three weeks. They never again quite matched the magic mood that stayed with them in Venice. Cornel celebrated his birthday there. For his present, Pat found some wonderful knights on horseback, swashbuckling little ceramic figurines in action poses. They had dinner for two that night in a restaurant overlooking St. Mark's Square, in a room alive with mosaics and frescoes, as the big gong in the clock tower outside signalled time which didn't exist, not even on birthdays. ... . Throughout Italy, Cornel and Pat lived in a world of never-ending beauty and romance. Next to the beauty of Venice, the artistic wonders of Florence thrilled them most. The hotel there perched right over the Arno river, violet in the moonlight below their balcony, with the hills of Florence rolling rich and lovely before their eyes every time they stepped out. And then they drove to Siena — and that's where the spell broke. Cornel and Pat rented a car for the trip to Siena. They rolled at dusk into the medieval market square, centuries old, and from the square trooped a familiar sight — a movie company breaking up — lights being trundled off, trucks coughing, extras streaming away. They knew they'd see that in Siena; that, of course, was why they'd made the trip up. Prince of Foxes was being made there, and even when you're lost in a dream trip — well, there's nobody like somebody from home. friendly faces . . . Ty Power was in Leo Shamroy's room when Cornel knocked on the door. "Who is it?" asked Ty. "Signor Corneli Weeldo." "Who?" He got it again. Ty, frowning, flung open the door. Then — "Well, I'll be hanged!" he yelled when he saw Cornel. "I never heard anything so hokey in aD my life as that Italian accent. You're fired!" So they grabbed each other — and soon Linda Christian was there and they had themselves an evening. Next day there was lunch and dinner in Tyrone's home located down near Rome. But in between, Cornel and Pat drove to the little town of San Gimignano, and lost themselves again in centuries gone by, for that tiny city of towers is exactly as it was in the Middle Ages. Then they headed for Rome — and Rome might just as well have been Romanoff's, with all the Hollywood pictures shooting and about to be shot in the Eternal City, Ty and Linda and the Foxes crew came down from Siena at once and Henry King, Binnie Barnes, Mike Frankovich, Alan Curtis, Mikail Rasumny and, a dozen more hometown faces met them wherever they went. Still, there really is no place like Rome — and they had five weeks there. Weeks spent exploring the Catacombs, the Baths of Caracola, the Coliseum, visiting St. Paul's and the Vatican. Days dolling Pat up at last with the dresses she'd thriftily by-passed in Paris. For while she could resist Paris' Dior and Mainbocher, when it came to Rome's Fontana, Pat surrendered. Then came wonderful news — a bulletin from Darryl Zanuck, that told Cornel he could stay on a few more weeks. Wonderful! So after they'd had their fill of Rome, they checked out of the Excelsior, rented another car and headed south for Naples, Pompeii, Amalfi. They flew on over to Sicily to visit Palermo, Taormina and Capri, riding the local trains and sharing their Swiss chocolates with the passengers. As far as Cornel's mood was concerned, he could have dallied forever in Amalfi, surfing in the cobalt coves. That type of never-never existence is strictly his dish once he pulls himself off the hook of his ambition. Only, about the time Pat and Cory got to talking about sending for Wendy and the poodles and beachcombing in luxurious poverty the rest of their lives — well, thev got a sample of what it would be like. They ran out of money. And that, Cory discovered, isn't so good — not even in Italy. It took a full week's sleuthing to locate