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Confusing Mr. Widmark has been called everything from Dick The Fiend to Richard The Hermit. He's variously known as bashful, bloodthirsty, terrible and terrified. But his wife has another name for Dick — and another story to tell!
BY JACK WADE
"Nut$^Fagan"at home
■ Every so often a select set of sophisticated Manhattan writers and critics strike it rich for a day. This windfall occurs when their old palx Richard Widmark of Hollywood, blows into town, gives them a jingle and suggests a noontime get-together. These ink-stained scribblers desert the modest coffee houses where they customarily huddle and march hungrily uptown toward swank and expensive 21 Club to meet Santa Claus.
After an orgy of fine food and drink they push the astronomical tabs cavalierly toward Dick's plate. Then they set to work ruthlessly whittling down the big movie star they knew when.
On one such occasion, John McCarten, the caustic movie critic of the New Yorker, loosed a wicked barb. He noted their dimlit, inconspicuous table by the kitchen door and serving tables where dishes clattered and soup sprayed in passing.
"Dick," he remarked anxiously, "I'm worried about you. Obviously you don't rate with important people like the captains at 2 1 . I can only conclude from this scornful treatment that as a Hollywood celebrity, Widmark, you're through!"
Dick grinned. He'd far rather be roasted by those witty ones than be kissed by a lovely fan. He's a modest and retiring man, but common sense tells him he's about as "through" in Hollywood as a newborn babe. Since he walked confidently away last year from a cozy Twentieth Century-Fox contract paying him $3000 a week, Dick Widmark's career has shot ahead. At that luncheon, he was hustling back to Hollywood from starring in Prize Of Gold abroad to make The Cobweb at MGM. After that he was set to scoot over to Africa for Safari. Awaiting his return will be a queue of Hollywood producers as long and hopeful as Errol Flynn's string of billcollectors.
As for his celebrity — Dick Widmark had just collected ample evidence that nobody's forgetting him since he checked off Darryl Zanuck's payroll — although the tributes to his fame remain a little back-handed. Only a few nights before, in London's swank Les Ambassadeurs cafe, a tipsy American had weaved up to him, grabbed his paws enthusiastically and held them in a vise-like grip. When Dick, who doesn't like to be touched, tugged away, the drunk flared, "Whassamatta — doncha wanna be friendly? Big Hollywood star — hey? Won't shake my hand!"
"I can't," Dick pointed out. "You're holding mine."
"Yeah — but if I let go, you'll sock me!" cried the fuddled fan.
Incidents like that no longer surprise or dismay Dick Widmark. After all, when an actor starts his screen career gleefully pushing a crippled old lady downstairs as Dick did in Kiss Of Death, and as (.Continued on -page 68)