Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

Mark Pr'ttchard, Station W-GTO, CypressGardens, Ha. The Nation's Top Disk Jockeys pose a series of questions to see if you know your record stars. 1. Both boys in this singing duo are known by their first names. Their family name is Farina. One plays the steel guitar, and the other the rhythm guitar. Their latest record is Lazy Day. 2. He started singing in show business at the age of eleven. Now 19, he can be heard on label. His Les Keiter, Station WINS, New York, N. Y. Of the Columb past hit was Don't Destroy Me and his current release is titled One Last Kiss. 3. She is a movie star and is seen on TV in Hawaiian Eye. She sings, but not under her real name which is Concetta Ann Ingolia. Her latest record is Sixteen Reasons an Warner label. 4. A one-time member Billy Ward and the Dominoes, this boy is currently heard in a big-voiced pop recording of Night. He's 23, hails from Detroit and numbers songwriting among his many accomplishments. His SL ^ latest album is titled Lonely v j\ Teardrops. WtL^Jmjk 5. On the Victor label, his j^HKjaJafl| big disk is Stairway To Heaven. Born in Brooklyn, N.Y., in 1939, he studied music at Juilliard. Past hits were Oh Carol and The Diary. 6. He hails from Memphis, Tenn., and heads one of the hottest combos in the business. He used to play guitar behind Elvis Presley. His big record now is White Silver Sands. 7. Two sisters and a brother sing under a group name. They hail from Pine Bluff, Ark. Their names are Jim, Maxine and Bonnie. They record for RCA Victor and their big platter now is The station 'kSbc, Old Lamp Lighter. Hollywood, Cal. wa ma -9 V!jDpjS ;pN .g qooppojj iisv.ij .j, Kuui/of OtUD$ ■•J Lee G. Rothman, Station WRIT, Milwaukee, Wis. Gene Kaye, Station WAEB, Allentown, Pa. But obviously MGM needed Liz more than she needed them. The script was rewritten— and presumably cleaned up. And Liz agreed to start work. As a bonus — or, as some cynically called it, a bribe — they offered Eddie the role of her piano-playing friend. "You know," he told her, "there are going to be charges of nepotism. It might be better if I turned it down." "What does it matter?" Liz answered. "We've been charged with almost everything else. And Eddie, with you in the picture, at least it might be bearable. Please say yes." He said yes, but it was still unbearable. Just before the picture was to start, Liz became violently ill with bronchitis and fever. The starting date was postponed. She secretly wondered if the illness wasn't a psychosomatic reaction to the thought of going to work. But when she recovered, she could put it off no longer. "I don't know how good it'll be," she said, "but I guess like it or not, I'm a professional. I'll do my best." But her best didn't include "selling the picture." She closed the set to the press. She would talk to no one. When she finally broke down and agreed to see Herald Tribune reporter, Joe Hyams, an old friend, the studio was jubilant. They shouldn't have been. That "unprintable" interview Hyams started the conversation by saying that he had read the original novel but hadn't seen the script. Liz countered with: "Save yourself the time." Then she made Hyams "promise to print everything" she said, although most of what she said wasn't printable — in MGM's eyes. "Doing this picture gripes the hell out of me." Eddie tried to smooth things over. "Elizabeth is superb in everything she does — and it will be commercial." "That's the trouble," Liz interrupted. "It's too commercial. It's in bad taste. Everyone in it is crazy, mixed-up, sick — except the part Eddie plays. This is the last picture in my contract — and I'm doing it, but I don't want to and I don't like it — and remember you promised to print everything I said!" After that there were no more interviews. A week later the actors went on strike and no one knew if — or when Butterfield would ever be completed. "You know, Eddie," she said when the studio went dark, "if it wasn't for the crew and the stagehands and the actors who really need the money, I wouldn't care if the strike lasted twenty years. Then I'd be a doddering old grey-haired grandmother— and they'd have to get someone else." The following day she and Eddie left for a vacation in Jamaica. They swam and danced and frolicked in the sun — and never discussed the movie. Except, whenever Eddie wanted to tease Liz he'd sing out in a high falsetto voice "B-U-T-T-E-R-F-I-E-L-D-8," and Liz would throw something at him — like sand or sea-shells — or a baby crab. When she and Eddie left Jamaica to return to Hollywood for Oscar night, it looked as if the strike was about over. Boarding the plane west, she tripped and broke her ankle. It was almost as though she subconsciously willed herself into, being incapacitated. While the doctor was applying the heavy tape, she teased: "Hmmm, maybe I won't be able to walk for a year, then they'll have to replace me if the strike ends soon." "What — are you trying to ruin my career or something?" Eddie teased her. "And my scenes haven't even started yet. Some loving wife." "You should talk, you have the healthy part." "Better get well soon, sweetheart. There isn't a chance of replacing you. You'll just get to play the rest of your scenes in bed." "Come to think of it," Liz laughed bitterly. "That's where I think the rest of them take place anyway." She was kidding — but her words were almost prophetic. When she returned to work, strange things began happening. Things that weren't written into the script. Through direction, through lighting, through camera angles, the suggestive became bolder. Words weren't necessary. The action spoke for itself. And that's when Liz began to feel dirty and ashamed of herself for being part of it. And when she could take no more, she walked out! Eddie didn't try to change her mind. They hadn't done his scenes. He knew he could be replaced. Liz' well-being and happiness was all he was concerned with. But her lawyers felt differently. They pointed out that she could be barred from the screen forever if she didn't return to work. They pointed out the millions that had already gone into the preparations for Cleopatra. "You have an obligation to those people," they insisted. Liz said, "I also have an obligation to the thousands of teen-agers that come to see me in a movie. Some of these films can only give them ideas. Dangerous ideas. There is enough juvenile delinquency and pregnancy and sex crimes without inciting emotions through motion pictures. My children are too young to see me in this kind of movie now. But when it's released to television they will. They'll be teenagers then. . . ." All night long there were arguments. And deadlocks. And finally a compromise was reached. Liz would return. But she would do no more objectionable scenes. She had guts to put up a fight and win. And she's to be admired and respected for it. Although she has been held up to scorn and great criticism in her personal life, what she does in this area can hurt only herself. What she does professionally can, as she has protested, hurt many others. Deep concern Last month. Modern Screen was deeply concerned with the increasing amount of filth that has been allowed to seep onto the nation's screen. We pointed out that the realistic images of love, marriage and premarital sex have been deeply distorted. What has been respected has been defiled, where certain behavior that should be condemned, has been glorified. We have cited opinions of experts on how to keep pornography from the screen, opinions that ranged from censorship to the classification of "For Adults Only." We asked you for your suggestions, and you sent many good ones. Yet the best suggestion has come through Liz' actions: Stars, like all adults, should exercise good judgment and self -censorship in choosing roles to play. Liz has raised her voice in protest against the lewd and immoral material brought to the screen in the guise of en ! tertainment. Others can learn a lesson from her. END Liz and Eddie star in MGM's Butterfield 8; Liz, later, in 20th-Fox's Cleopatra.