Modern Screen (Dec 1954 - Dec 1955)

Squeeze a Lemmon and you find he's FULL OF THE OLD KNICK ■ When Jack Lemmon, now in Mister Roberts, finished Harvard, he arrived in New York with high hopes of success as an actor and composer of popular music. "Neither Broadway producers nor music publishers were impressed with my experience in the Hasty Pudding shows at Harvard," he recalls ruefully, "but The Old Knick, a nightclub on 54th and Second Avenue, wasn't so choosey." The Old Knick (long since a memory) wasn't exactly swanky, but it was a godsend. They took Jack on as master of ceremonies, a job that included playing the piano, dancing, singing, doing comedy skits, composing songs and waiting on table. On several occasions he was also pressed into service as bouncer. "I did six shows a night, got a free meal and plenty of training of the kind actors used to get in vaudeville. I never had any money but as far as I was concerned, I was living it up!" One of Jack's stunts was to sing "By The Sea, By The Beautiful Sea" faster than anyone in the audience. He could do it in twelve seconds. The words were flashed on the screen and the club had a standing offer that if anyone could sing the verses faster than Jack he would be awarded a bottle of champagne. Nobody ever won a prize. "Of course not," says Jack. "I wanted to keep that job." whistle bait (Continued from page 31) you. I'll come over now and explain." That was Wolf Number One and I never heard his explanation because I told him he was further away from me than he thought, and not to bother cutting down the distance. When I met Wolf Number Two I was again at the Beverly Hills' pool — and so was he. Wolf Number Two was different only in that he didn't claim to be a part of the film business himself. No, sir. He was a valuable man for me to meet, he let it be gathered (by a hint here and there), because he "knew people." He would wag a finger before my eyes impressively and keep repeating, "I know the real people in town." "Oh, good," I told him. "I wouldn't want to meet any fakes. Who do you know?" (Later on, when I got diction lessons at the studio, I realized I should have said, "Whom do you know?" But it didn't make any difference. This boy didn't know anyone.) "Who do I know?" he exclaimed. Listen, I'll tell you who I know. Let's go somewhere. We'll go to the beach, see? Then we'll have dinner. And then well get into the whole story." "But that'll make it a kind of date," I protested. "And I don't like to mix business and my social life." "You're absolutely right," he said. (The bright boy.) "We'll forget about the studios and just have a good time." Well, I told him I didn't want to forget about the studios, and he said he didn't understand, and I said I did, which ended that. Thus Wolves Number One and Two; and that, as I say, was when I first came to Hollywood, about two years ago. The other night I got a call from Wolf Number Eighty-three or Eighty-four or Eightyfive — it's hard for any girl in Hollywood to keep an exact account unless you are interested in this kind of zoology. And I just want to report that while the wolves generally sound the same, they have progressed with the times — they talk about television now, too. (I suppose this is something I'll be able to warn my daughter about.) Yet, as Mother and Grandma pointed out, men who talk big in Hollywood are really very, very small, whether they talk tv or movies. Actually, if a girl is really ambitious, she'll let no chance acquaintance guide her. It's not only what they can't do for you, it's what they can do — and they can waste your time like nobody else, and give you as wrong a picture of show business as you could possibly get. I suppose I sound awfully suspicious, but I had more than just Mother and Grandma to make me wary. As a matter of fact I had bad luck with boys all through my younger years. They either stood me up, were too loud, too rough, or, worse than all the rest put together, they didn't give me a tumble at all! And what killed me is that whenever this happened it seemed to arouse the hunting instinct in me — I felt like doing the chasing and a couple of times I did! When I was an eleven-year-old blonde ("smoky blonde" was the way I described myself to my friends) I was sent to a children's camp near Chicago and promptly fell in love with a twelve-year-old killer who had all the girls after him. I remember that I got to sit near him several times at meal times. I saw him go hiking once and ran myself silly taking a shortcut so that I could be leaning against a tree, all by myself, when he came by. I telephoned home to my mother to send me a special bathing suit (though I didn't tell her why) and when camp was over I found out where he lived in the city and made it my business to take slow walks through his neighborhood (back and forth in front of his door, to be exact) . Yet, never did I get out of him as much as a look that I could be sure was intended for me! Believe me, all I have to do is to touch my heart to still feel the scar of the wound made by this young killer! It was at least a year before I could even think of another boy. Yes, come to think about it, just about a year, and I was modeling at a department store teen club, The Fair, when I ran into Bill. He not only looked at me, he talked to me and he danced with me; and then he asked me for a date. Bill is the boy specifically responsible for my habit of being late for appointments. (I always am.) Need I tell you that he never showed up? I waited, literally, for hours, and I made more excuses for him than he could ever think up for himself. But he never came. Even now I get angry when I remember it and I ask myself again, "How could he? How? How?" I guess you get the connection between Bill and this constant lateness of mine. This isn't a calculated habit on my part, something I do to give myself an air of exclusiveness or unattainability; I just have a deep dread of being stood up again. Because as if these two horrible experiences weren't enough, I had to have others. At fourteen I was elected Snow Queen of Chicago and when I appeared at a show at the Great Lakes Naval Training Station in Fort Sheridan, Illinois, a young sailor asked me for a date. Since he must have been at least eighteen to be in the Navy, and he was downright handsome, I was flattered pink. We set a time for the following week end, when he had a leave coming, and he promised to call for me at my home. For this date I decided I would wear make-up, which I had never used in public before, and that I needed high heels, which I had never worn before. My sister Arlene, who is three years older, agreed to let me wear her patent leather pumps with Cuban heels. My mother grimly watched me put them on, watched me take a few steps, and then ordered me to take them off again. "You're not used to high heels," she said. "You'll fall over and hit your head!" Then she vetoed the lipstick and ruled out an older-type dress which I had borrowed to take the place of my own (to me) too youthful dresses! I howled. For hours. And then my sailor never showed up! My theory is that he did come to the house and was about to ring our bell when he heard my howling. What else could he do but run? I, who was fourteen and wanted to look like eighteen, was screaming like sixty! It was then that my confidence in men was shaken, and it took time to regain it. And when Hollywood wolves start their fast talk I lose it again. With good reason. I remefliWyi a photographer who kept telling me that it would take only one word from him to lift me to the dizziest heights of stardom. It was his idea that he would get to "know" me, he wanted to study and understand my personality; this would enable him to make photographs of me that would startle every studio head in town, plus loads of TV producers, into bidding for my signature on a starring contract. But I learned later from a friend of mine who knew him very well that this great artist and star maker couldn't take pictures of anybody for a while — he had pawned the lens of his camera! There was a good chance that if I, had posed for him, it would have been for a camera not only without a lens, but empty