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with Carole Lombard. "White fences and green fields were all that was left when she died. He spent years there, walking new furrows, petting friendly dogs and whispering into the ears of horses who couldn't answer back or laugh with him. "Gable is back and Garson's got him" was a big yak. Gable was back all right, and melancholy had him. And when he was married, the writers had a field day. She's not very pretty, they said. She's probably forty. They didn't know she was an answer to a long-said prayer. A woman who could walk into a room and make his heart swell with delight that she belonged to him.
Deep in the heart of every movie star there is a core of warmth. It must be there or they would not be good actors. But by the time they have achieved stardom, circumstances have coated the core with a hide of iron. To get to the center of their warmth it is necessary to break down a lot of barriers. They are not like ordinary people. A friendship to an actor of star prominence is a thing to be scanned very carefully. It is to be expected, then, that few proffered friendships stand up under the screening.
sweetheart of summertime jane powell
on the
august cover of
modern screen
on sale july 7.
Frank Sinatra, for instance, is without doubt one of the kindest, most considerate men alive. His generosity is unbelievable. But he has made more enemies, and lost more friends, than any other star in the i business. It is not altogether his temper, or his willingness to settle matters with his fists that is the cause. It is his anger against the position which makes it necessary for hrm to distrust people. That's the truth about Sinatra.
And loneliness is the truth about the others — the six — Shelley Winters. John Agar, Lizabeth Scott, Robert Walker, Rita Hayworth, Ronald Reagan. We've seen them at their loneliest. Seen John Agar on his solitary nocturnal drives to the ocean front. . . . Seen Ronald Reagan climb the stairs of a small hotel to his bachelor room, a more despondent sight than a figure alone on a bridge at night. . . . We've seen Shelley Winters look around the room at a cocktail party, almost as if to say, "Has he arrived yet? Have you found his face in the crowd?" . . . We've seen Robert Walker battling it out alone, ashamed. . . . Seen Rita Hayworth fleeing, unmindful of the taunts. . . .
And when the lights are on in Hollywood at night, and the gay couples are j dancing in the clubs, you can almost feel the searching eyes of Lizabeth Scott, scanning the city from her window on the hill, asking, without words, "Why is he taking so long. . . .?" The End
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