Modern Screen (Dec 1948 - Oct 1949)

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Colored Thongs @ 2.95 SIZE WIDTH COLOR NAME . STREET CITY -ZONE STATE 1 00 L. -L L9J;c^,k_ SL^jySi^ %l — LLP _P_P_ _J fessional. In person, Hedy remained what she is — a beautiful and simple girl. The earthy things are Hedy's dish — not the silks and satins and emeralds, in spite of the Lamarr legend. She's a born mama and housewife and the great tragedy in her life is that she hasn't made a happy marriage. When she was expecting her last baby, she used to come to see me wheeling her first born in a heavy carriage five long blocks and then lifting the buggy up my steps alone before I could help her. "You'll hurt yourself that way," I scolded her more than once. "It's good for me," she'd reply. "I am — what you say? — the pioneer woman type." Joan Crawford has lived her Hollywood legend to the hilt. The legend, that is, of the Perfect Movie Star in Person. Crawford makes headlines day in and out, whether it's a romance, a robbery or just a dog fight — as when her pooch tangled with Lady Mendl's in the lobby of the St. Regis Hotel in New York. culture vulture . . . Joan adores her fans and all the adulation that goes with her Hollywood fame. Years ago Joan set out to be the Hollywood spotlight star and she's succeeded. By now her star act is natural and she's written Hollywood history, both on the screen and off. But there are a few Crawford acts that don't ring as true — except to Joan herself I think when she's in their grip, though, she can even hypnotize herself enough to believe 'em. There was Joan's Culture period— the Poetry one where she dallied with the Muse. And I'm sure Joan herself was certain, when she was in her Musical fable's throes, that she was headed right for La Scala or the Met. She studied voice for years and warbled at the drop of a suggestion. Joan went through the Little Theater madness, too She built one right in her garden when she was married to Franchot Tone, and was going to turn Broadway upside down one of these days. One of them. She never did— but you can't blame a gal for trying anything — singing, acting, writing, painting or praying — except when she makes such a production of it. Joan Crawford's trouble is that she overdoes what she does; for instance, her celebrity collecting which she works at overtime. The last time Noel Coward came to Hollywood Joan took over Le Papillon and sent wires to almost everyone inside the city limits. "Please come to a party to meet my great friend Noel Coward," she invited. Bea Lillie happened to be here at the time, a lady who really is a great friend of Noel's. She replied, "Thanks so veddy much, but I've already met Noel." Another Joan — Joan Fontaine — had another sort of trouble. Hers was a "little sister" bugaboo, the stubborn conviction that Olivia de Havilland's screen success had relegated her dismally to a position in the shade. She was quite hipped on it when she first broke into pictures herself — to the extent of changing her name, writing a contract forbidding publicity linking her with Olivia, feuding with her good-natured sis and even going after her beaus. (Joan's first husband Brian Aherne squired Livvy around before Joan took him away and married him ) That competitive chimera was very real to Joan. It damaged her health and disposition, but who knows — maybe it was also the spur which made her the fine actress she is today. At least, it was cured for keeps the day Joan captured her Oscar for S«spicio?i and at last stood on equal footing with Big Sister Olivia. There's not a more poised, happy, gay and charming lady in Hollywood now than Joan. I've been mighty pleased to see Frank Sinatra drop his chip-on-shoulder act and stop challenging everybody who criticizes him. Frankie, who fancies his fistic talents and even sponsors prizefighters now and then, socked one newspaper columnist and had to pay off — not only in money but bad publicity. He chose another who double-dared him right back in print — and maybe that cured him. Anyway, Frankie's not mad at anyone now, is packing no pistols and I hope he has shaken that "Go on, hit me," chip he lugged around so long. (He did get on the front pages again recently by socking someone at a party, but that was a minor skirmish, quickly forgotten.) Now there are, of course, many fine examples of stars who've never succumbed to the temptation of taking their legends seriously. Shirley Temple certainly grew out of her Girl Goddess legend gracefully, keeping her curly top screwed on sensibly. . . . Clark Gable's been called "King" for years by all his friends, but he's never draped any purple robes around his psyche or imagined a cardboard crown on his head — and in my book, Clark is Garbo's mate as the male all-time Hollywood great. . . . Robert Taylor licked that "Beautiful Bob" fable which added him up as a panty-waist by doing everything manly in his private life to disprove it—flying, fighting, racing, ranching, and taking on adult responsibilities. . . . I've been pretty proud of Marlene Dietrich, too, ever since she chucked over that cold, aloof, beauty badge of hers when all the time she was a warm-hearted girl dying to meet the people. When she finally did, she became a true heroine, the greatest one-star morale builder to come out of wartime Hollywood, rivalled only by Hopalong Hope. And it's the shame of Hollywood that there aren't more of the right kind of jobs for a woman like that Another 18-karat character, Ann Sheridan, lived through that sexy "Oomph" ballyhoo without turning a hair on her level red head. . . . Right now, the sexiest girl in Hollywood — if you believe her sizzling stills — is Jane Russell. Well, Jane has laughed at her sexy fable since it began. Her favorite book is not a love romance but the Good Book. She is quietly and happily married and spends a large part of her time and money doing good deeds. let's be sensible . . . And look at the steady stars — Gary Cooper, Claudette Colbert, Bette Davis, Ronald Colman, Barbara Stanwyck, Irene ! Dunne, Ginger Rogers — who go on year in and year out playing a passel of assorted parts, but leaving their false faces on the set and their publicity in the papers, where they both belong. Success, security and serenity in Hollywood demand an iron-clad sense of humor and a healthy helping, too, of common sense — besides a law of living that old Will Shakespeare penned in a play of his 300 years ago. That particular play was good enough this year to top the best Hollywood could offer — and a lot of our fabulous stars in our fabulous town could do worse than soak up his words of wisdom in Hamlet: "This above all — to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou can'st not then be false to any man." I could say it myself — a lot shorter but not nearly as pretty. Just, "Be yourself, kids!" The End