Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

The Truth About Our Make-Believe Romance (Continued from page 26) the public, the press, and to some extent themselves, into making believe they are in love and headed for a lifetime together. But all of the castles they've been building are not in the air; some are firmly rooted in the dry California soil. Some months ago Harry Karl sold a home he had built to last him a lifetime as a happy bachelor. It had two bedrooms and it sold for half a million dollars. In parting with the gem, Karl stood sadly in the street with the new occupant for a last look. "I hate to give it up," he said. "Then why are you selling it?" the buyer asked. "I have to have a bigger place for Debbie and the kids," Karl said. Harry's suite and Debbie's home And from his large suite at The Beverly Hills Hotel, Harry Karl began leisurely house hunting. He pored over elegant brochures from the toniest realty offices in Hollywood and its environs, beautifully illustrated with photos of Taj Mahal-type cottages and roomy mansions and with text bordering on literature describing the superb features of the properties offered. And there were stacks of blue prints, expensive suggestions as to what money can accomplish in piling brick on stone to come up with a home. In another part of the town Debbie Reynolds walked the long length of her living room to a window that overlooked the yard in which her children, Carrie and Todd Fisher, were playing. She listened to the sounds of their play and watched the physical activity they put into it, and she couldn't help but think: "This is the home they have always known. These are the trees and that is the grass and those are the flowers they have in their minds when they ask to go out to play. Can I take them away from these things?" She let the curtain fall back into place, hiding all but the voices of the children from her, and paced off the carpet to the other end of the living room. She noticed the spots on the carpet where candy had been dropped or milk spilled or where a particularly dirty pair ol infant shoes had left a permanent mark. And there was the chip in the edge of the coffee table, beyond repair, and the scratches made by adventurous hands questioning the relative hardness of a metal toy car and mahogany — and the thin, long streaks in the couch cushions resulting from a child's curiosity about how long a jutting piece of thread would turn out to be if it were pulled from the material with determination. "Can I," she said to herself, "take these familiar things away from them? Will they feel displaced, no matter what manner of mansion I replace these things with?" Debbie threw herself deep into the feathery comfort of a large chair and speculated, not on brochures or blueprints, but on the manner of home she could provide if she married Harry Karl. Luxury would be there in abundance, she well knew, luxury in real things beyond the hopes of even the most famous of movie stars. Space would be there, more than enough to sleep and feed the five children that might sometimes live there together — and allow them room to romp — and the in-laws and Harry Karl's grown daughter, son-in-law and grandson if they should all pile in at once. 70 And there would be servants in every doorway and cars and all the money needed to satisfy the wildest whim of any of them. And trips and resort homes, subsidiaries of the big house, and furs and jewels and fine schools for the children as they grew older. And most important of all, there would be a man about the house, a man to point authoritatively to the stairway at bedtime, take care of Todd when he fell out of a tree, fix the broken head of Carrie's doll and put them both on the carpet when they were naughty. "Could I," Debbie wondered, "exchange these precious things my children have lived with for all of that?" She knew she'd have to find the answer soon. . . And at the Beverly Hills Hotel, scanning the pamphlets and plans, Harry Karl, caring not for the cost of anything, halted for a moment, leaned back and pondered on a well-lived life and a future he was mmmmm Everybody in America ivill be reading NEXT MONTH'S MODERN SCREEN. You'll see tvhy ivhen it hits the neivsstands. On Sale October U sure he would like. His start in life had been a foundling home. He was taken from it as a sickly baby by a childless Russian immigrant couple who doted on him. Although he grew up to head a million-dollar enterprise, he could never forget that he started, at eight years old, by polishing shoes in what was then a cramped repair shop. Although his life was one of ease and luxury now, he didn't have the one thing he wanted most: recognition and the spotlight. This he could have, married to a famous movie star. . . . Eddie's Worry At an elegant New York restaurant, Eddie Fisher and his wife, Elizabeth Taylor, sat at Table Number One, set exquisitely for two, and dined silently. Liz had thoughts about tomorrow's scenes and the lines she must learn before she went to sleep. Eddie was engrossed in a more pertinent thought: Did Debbie really love Harry Karl? Would she be happy with him? It was important to him, because the future serenity of his children might depend on it. If she didn't love him, would she be happy anyhow with what he could give her? "How is your steak?" Liz asked. "Time will tell," said Eddie. Then he laughed. "I'm sorry," he said, "I was thinking of something else. . . ." The romance — if it is a romance — of Debbie Reynolds and Harry Karl is, indeed, a matter of vital concern for a number of people. For the children in j volved, the couple themselves, the exhusband of Debbie, the former wives of 1 Harry Karl and his year-old grandson. All will be affected by it, substantially. Will they marry? A few weeks ago a press agent called a Hollywood columnist and indirectly 1 mentioned the "coming marriage of Debbie Reynolds and Harry Karl." The colurnnist hit the ceiling. "I am sick and tired," he snarled, "listening to the phony story about those two. Why don't you try something new?" Nevertheless, all the newspaper and magazine reporters who cover the Hollywood beat are keeping a close watch on the developments. Consequently, many hours are spent in the grog and coffee shops these press people frequent on speculation as to where, when, how, etc. 1 And if. A recent conversation between the legmen of two of the top columnists went something like this: "Where do you think they'll do it?" "If it's up to her some quiet place, a hideout. If it's up to him, maybe Las Vegas." "How do you figure that?" "You know her. Reserved, wants complete privacy in her personal life. And he loves a parade — and publicity." "Do you think they'll be happy?" "Why not? They'll both be getting what they want. She wants security and a permanent home. He wants a magenta spot on him every time he goes outdoors. He can use hers." "Do you think this marriage will be made in heaven?" "No. . . ." What Hollywood thinks of the "romance" The gist of what Hollywood thinks of the union of Debbie Reynolds and Harry Karl is contained in that conversation. Take a look at the past of Debbie, for instance. Torn from obscurity by a local beauty contest, she was plunged into a world of make-believe she never really wanted. But it was work, better than she could have found in Burbank. And, while the glare of publicity that went along with the job wasn't much to the liking of a girl who craved a lot of solitude, she was, early in the game, willing to make the sacrifices. Then, as the years passed and Debbie rose from a starlet being pushed to the top of the heap by every means her studio could muster, and her fan mail proved what was happening, and her salary increased to that of a top star — Debbie was forced to face certain facts. The price of fame is high. She had, by becoming an idol of countless millions of young people, accepted certain responsibilities she could not shirk. If she had inclinations to be ; wayward they had to be curbed. If she j wanted to go to some place she saw pictured in a travel magazine, she had to re i member she was not the little girl who lived in a little house in Burbank but Debbie Reynolds, who maybe shouldn't be seen in such a place, or she had to face the true fact that she wasn't able to go places like an average vacationer, be '\ cause she was Debbie Reynolds, the movie star. And she had to forego the heady days of juvenile romance, getting a crush on the best-looking basketball player in school, steady-dating the kid down the block or falling in love with the delivery boy from the corner drug store. She was ) a famous celebrity — and it wouldn't have been fit. The price of fame was high — but the rewards were not in proportion. Fame, for instance, is, in the main, a . prying eye. It is a chain of bondage after a while. And then the money. The I first figure on the paycheck was big, 1