Modern Screen (Dec 1954 - Dec 1955)

Every week end, come rain or come shine, Patti is aboard the yacht known as . . . PATTI PAGE'S RAGE Jack Rael, who is Patti' s manager and partner, captains, the thirty-five foot yacht, Patti has dubbed herself first mate, takes duties seriously. She's also chef, specializing in elaborate beef stew and an astounding variety of very fancy egg dishes. The Rage has been Patti's for three years now. It is docked in Port Washington, Long Island, a short ride from New York City where Patti works. Usually Patti brings aboard showbusiness guests, who sun, swim, fish — but never .forget to talk shop I In a pinch — or even in a storm — Patti could handle The Rage alone. Her only complaint is that (so far) she can't do her recordings from the boat. 68 else, nothing pleased him better than the thought of Colorado. He felt no sense of disappointment when he stepped out of the plane at Montrose, Col., with a population of 1200 spread generously over ranches in the entire county. He was a mile above sea level, and exhilarated by the surrounding mountains, snow-capped and sparkling in the warm sun. My kingdom for a horse, he thought, and flexed his muscles. He was assigned to a motel with the flavorsome name of The Lazy I G and the wide west address of "Highway 99, near Montrose." The company had dinner at one of the quaint local cafes, and Bob went to bed early and dreamed of the Northwest Passage, Daniel Boone and Conestoga wagons. "In another week," he said, "I was dreaming of Chasen's restaurant, girls, perfume and girls." The quaintness of the cafes wore off quickly when the same menu confronted him three times a day, and he was not sure he would have given a plugged nickel to ride a horse. The point was that he rode a horse every day, for eight hours, and had a lot of it ahead of him. He liked it, of course; he had spent many hours on horseback throughout his life, but this time he was doing it the hard way. Girls, now, that was something else again. Irene Pappas was the only girl in the picture, and she was married. Montrose contained an assortment of females either married or too young or too old. "And that was that." One more week, and boredom set in. Each morning meant out of bed at 5:30 to be ready at 6:30 for the long drive to the set, a spot in the mountain wilderness where a complete ranch had been built for the movie. This entailed forty miles on the main highway, then a dirt road for six tumbling, jerking miles which took twenty minutes to maneuver. Fun at first, but tiring when it happened twice a day. The town* offered little. The one theatre lifted the hopes of the company, but Bob came off on the short end. To compliment him, the manager had booked all Bob's movies, a nice gesture which Bob appreciated, but, as he said, "I wasn't going to sit through them all again." The malt shop was a favorite stop. Crazy about ice cream, Bob astounded the rest of the company by downing two and three concoctions (with improbable names like The Purple Cow) in one visit. Every Wednesday night there were the jalopy races held by the town's younger set, and on Sundays they could drive the thirty miles to Ouray and swim in the fabulous pool on a mountain top, or drive through the torturous roads of Gunnison Canyon. But for the most part, Bob was in bed by 9:30 each night. No Place to Go "It was beautiful country — wait until you see it in the picture. They don't talk about acres up there — they measure the land by the valleys they own. The woman who leased her property for the movie owns several valleys, has 8000 head of sheep and they say she's worth twenty million dollars. She's about sixty, I guess, and yet she takes care of the place herself—herding and everything. The people there are wonderful. But there still wasn't much for us to do." So they depended on each other for amusement. Bob stuck mostly with character actor Chubby Johnson and publicist Jim Merrick, an Englishman. And when the town kids asked for autographs Bob would point to Merrick standing on the sidelines. "Why don't you get his autograph?" he'd say. "Who's he?" the kids wanted to know. "Why," said Bob, "he's Noel Coward." And Merrick obligingly signed Coward's name in sundry autograph books.