Modern Screen (Jan-Nov 1951)

to I'M THE ?S3Q'hUQQ\ I'LL GRIND THOSE DIRT TRACKS INTO THE FIBERS OF HER RUG BEFORE SHE VACUUMS ON SATUROAV.' CURSES! SHE'S GOT A NEW BISSELL CARPET SWEEPER'. NOW I WON'T HAVE TIME TO RUIN THE FIBERS! I GOT smart! I USE A HANDV BISSELL*^ FOR ALL QUICK CLEAN-UPS. THE "BISCO-MATIC"* BRUSH ACTION sweeps CLEM— even under low FURNITURE — WITH NO PRESSURE ON THE HANDLE! PONT LET THE RUG-A-BOO 6ET YOU ! GET A"BISCO-AAATIC"BISSELL Only $6.95 up mm Bissell Carpet Sweeper Company Grand Rapids 2, Michigan •Reg. U. S. Pat. Off. BisscU's full spring controlled brash. who's a freak? (Continued from page 28) "For instance, everyone knows you live in this modest little walk-up, but you've never said why." "That's because nobody ever asked me. You know, I used to read stories about myself living in a walk-up. They said I wanted to be different. Some of them even intimated that I lived in a slum." He waved his arm. "Is this so bad?" It wasn't so bad. In fact, a lot of people would have settled for it — a tastefully furnished flat in one of the most fashionable neighborhoods in New York. "Well," I said lamely, "I guess it isn't up to movie star standards." "I know it," he said, "and for a while, I let that argument get under my skin. Why, I even listened to a lot of foolish advice. I was told that a movie star was supposed to live the way the public thought he should. I ccfuldn't be an individual. I was sacrificing my career." "And then what?" I prompted. "I did what they wanted me to do. A few months ago I moved to a four hundred dollar a month apartment, went to all the smart places, and threw cocktail parties for the right people. And do you know what happened?" I shook my head, "No." "I lost all my friends. They thought I was going 'high hat.' And not only that," he added vehemently, "I almost went broke paying the bills!" "Well anyway, you didn't stay on that 'kick' very long," I said, consolingly. "You bet I didn't," he said. "I'd rather have my friends and a little money in the bank than change my way of living just to conform to some imaginary rule." TTe frowned intensely. "Who makes up the rules, anyway?" he demanded. "Who's to say how a movie star should conduct his life? Who's to say where he should live; whom he should take out; and where he should go?" I shrugged my shoulders for want of a better reply. But is there a better one? Monty Clift lives the way he wants to live. No one is going to tell him when, where, or how to manage his private life. And what's wrong with that? Those very qualities of determination £ind . independence were the driving force behind his success and they are the factors that will keep him on top. When I asked him who his friends were — the ones who thought he was going high hat — he smiled. "You wouldn't know them," he said. "They're just plain, everyday fellows and gals. You see, I don't pal around with show people or go to their hangouts." "Well, what do you do?" I asked him. "Don't you ever go to '21' for lunch, or go dancing at El Morocco or the Stork CIuId? Haven't you ever dropped into Sardi's for a late snack?" "Sardi's," he repeated. "The place where legitimate actors and their ulcers stay up all night waiting for their reviews in the morning papers?" I nodded. "Never go there," he assured me. "And the same thing goes for Giro's and Mocambo in Hollywood. Wait a minute," he corrected himself. "I went to Giro's once. Just once. I took a girl I had known in New York. I thought she'd get a kick olit of seeing it. Well, we got a table and ordered a bottle of wine. The room was crowded, noisy, and hot as the devil. My collar was starting to wilt, and so was my energy. After about twenty minutes, my girl friend leaned over and tapped me on the arm. 'Monty,' she said, 'you were sweet to bring me here, but I just can't stand to see you suffering. So, let's go.' ■ Don't get me wrong," he continued. "I have nothing against Giro's. I know it's one of the finest cafes in the country. But it's just not my kind of fun." And don't get the idea that Monty's a stay-at-home — although he looks good in an easy chair. He likes to go out as well as anyone. He particularly likes shows, bars, restaurants, or even a walk in the park. But, the bars and the restaurants will be neighborhood places, he'll tell you. He knows who's going to be at the Colony in New York and Romanoff's in Beverly Hills. What's more, he knows what they're going to say and it bores him. As he puts it, "I get much more enjoyment in the little out-of-the-way places where the customers want to have a good time and aren't worried about impressing anybody." There's nothing he likes better than "picking up" with people whether it's in a bar, on a street corner, or at the beach. "I love to find out what makes them tick," he told me. "I take long walks in the park, sit down on benches and start conversations with strangers. I find out what they think and how they feel. You never know what it'll bring. Sometimes it's darned exciting." I SAW IT HAPPEN When my small daughter and 1 were returning home hy plane, we met a young girl and her mother. The girl admired my daughter and tried to pick her up . When my daughter refused, the girl was genuinely disappointed. Today my daughter is the disappointed one since "that girl" was our favorite, Jane Powell. Mrs. Rosemary Noli Tucson, Arizona T REMEMBERED a story someone once told me about him. Monty was taking one of his casual walks and happened to pass by the Stork Club. It was a warm night; and he was jacketless and had his sleeves rolled up. He stood in front of the glamorous club, and with a cynical grin watched the fashionable customers walk in and out. A sailor, out sightseeing, came along and paused near Monty. "I bet you'd love to go in there," the sailor said. "I know I sure would." "Not me," Monty answered. "You couldn't drag me in there." The sailor regarded him skeptically. "Why're you saying that? Because you haven't got the money?" "It's not the money," Monty assured him. "Aaah, tell it to the Marines," said the sailor. "On the level," insisted Monty. "And if you don't believe it, come on across the street and I'll buy you a drink." The sailor didn't mind. He and Monty went to a little bar where they sat and talked for hours over their beer. Or rather, the sailor did the talking with Monty drawing him out. As Monty paid the check, the sailor stuck out his hand appreciatively. "Thanks, Mac," he said gratefully. "Say, I been so busy enjoying myself I didn't get your name." "It's Montgomery Clift," Monty told him. "The movie star?" gasped the sailor. "Yes," Monty admitted. "I hope you won't hold it agaiinst me."