Modern Screen (Jan-Nov 1951)

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"If you don't mind," she'll say, icily, "I think Lew Ayres has had enough free publicity already. Let's talk about something else." TlJoLLYWooD first became aware of the 1-1 Wyman-Ayres twosome shortly after they'd finished making Johnny Belinda. Jane, always elusive about her private affairs, neither confirmed nor denied reports. Lew was going to art school at the time, and managed to arouse Jane's interest in paints and palettes to such an extent that she had her playroom converted into a studio where they could daub the canvas together. By this time Jane was admitting that they were "friends," but before the night club photogs could fully record their friendshiptfor posterity, Jane had switched loyalties. Lew Ayres presumably hied himself back to his secluded hilltop home. The reason for the split was never discovered. Ayres has never had a reputation for conversation. And to Jane, the subject is tahoo. You'll only get a dark scowl from Howard Duff if you ask him the reason he was dropped from his Sam Spade air show . . . even today Barbara Stanwyck can't hear the name of Frank Fay without looking lethal, and don't mention Ava Gardner, either . . . you'll receive a polite but firm, "I never allow it!" if you ask to photograph Burt Lancaster's home and/or family . . . you'll get the enigmatic Mona Lisa smile if you quiz Celeste Holm about her tmpublicized teen-age son . . . Linda Darnell acts the clam whenever the conversation turns to her mother and the reason for their estrangement . . . yes, it's true, but it's taboo to call attention to John Derek's good looks in his presence. His chiseled features, which help to lure the bobby soxers to the box-office, make him see red . . . any mention of Hollywood fame having "changed" Kirk Douglas is verhoten if you want to live a little . . . it's taboo to get Dennis Morgan to pose with his rapidly growing children . . . until very recently Lizabeth Scott froze whenever anyone mentioned her family. She said they belonged only in her private life . . . Fred MacMiurray will not discuss his wife (who has been ill for two years) with anyone but intimates . . . the stories of Franchot Tone's "weeilth" make him furious; he says they're highly exaggerated. Then there is the star, who must remain anonymous, who brought her own delicate porcelain cup and saucer to the studio commissary because the thick coffee mugs used in that restaiurant were "too crude" for her to handle. It's true that imtil she was 16 she helped her mother sling hash in a cheap lunch wagon, but believe us, that subject must be handled with care! The End small town girl (Continued from page 54) River with its inland bayous thick with 2,000-year-old oaks, shrouded with Spanish moss, and redolent with cape jasmine bushes, forming hedges of what most of us call gardenias, Covington could be the backgroimd for a Frances Parkinson Keyes novel as well as the year-round pleasure and health resort it is. In that kind of town, built as it is around a courthouse square, a girl doesn't have to go through the torture of introducing the exciting boy she's met at school to her parents and waiting to see if they approve. They already know him by sight and reputation at least. Just as folks knew Peggy as the older daughter of the prosperous owner of a chain of grocery stores, one of which was located right across the street from the courthouse. Her mother belonged to local clubs. When some entertaiimient seemed in order, like as not someone would say, "Let's get Mrs. Vamadow's Uttle Jo' to recite for us." "IVf OTHER was the disciplinarian, making ■L'-l my yoxmger sister Arm and me study piano and recitations and doing the spanking when she felt it was in order. Dad, on the other hand, felt we could do no wrong and should just have fun. He'd say, 'Don't be so harsh with them. They're oiily children.' But mother went right ahead. She was always looking for new, amusing pieces for me to learn. How I hated reciting! I didn't realize then that one of the advantages of living in a small town is the greater opportunity to use some small talent so it will have a chance to grow. "Then came the time I had to recite 'The Night Before Christmas' for our school's Christmas program. I felt it was such a baby piece for a seventh grader who'd be going to high school the next year. I stood up there on the stage, done up in my best dress, and started off in a monotone. "The first-graders were in the front rows, seconds back of them and so on to the parents and relatives who filled the back rows, where I directed my attention. Then I happened to look down at the little ones. Badly as I was reciting, they were sitting there wide-eyed at this tale of Santa Claus. Suddenly I realized what it meant to them. Believe me, I gave it my all thtn. I'm sure Santa himself couldn't hsve shouted better than I did, 'Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!' " Peggy went through the pKjem again there in her living room with gestures and all. It was quite a feat for her to turn her beautiful face and slim figure into, "the broad face and a little round belly that shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly." But she conveyed the illusion all right. "It was wonderful," Peggy said concluding the tale, "to see the enthusiasm creep into the second-graders, then the third-graders and so on, row by row through the audience. I've never forgotten the thrill of discovering that I could do that to an audience. "I wasn't any more thrilled, really, when I did my first big screaming scene as the other woman in Wom^n In Hiding, my first picture. When producers and other executives started dropping down on the set that day to watch me, I thought again of the interest growing row by row." In between the seventh grade and that first picture for Universal-International, Peggy lived the happy, secure, leisurely life of a daughter of respected citizens in a small town. There was the boy across the street, Charlie Smith, whose groaning over the little girl tagging him and having to be looked after turned into whistles at the gate. Peggy would hurry into her bathing