Modern Screen (Dec 1934 - Nov 1935)

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Saves Time — Money — Labor — Materials A MARVELOUS new invention needed by every housewife who makes jellies, jams, etc. Seals any glass or jar in >4 the usual time, at \i the usual cost! No wax to melt— no tin tops to sterilize — no mess — no waste. A perfect seal every time. Amazingly easy to use. Try JiffySeals — the new transparent film invention. If not yet at your dealer's, send lOcforfull-size package to CLOP AY CORPORATION, 1433 York St., Cincinnati, O. At All Woolworth, Kresge& Other 5c & 10c Stores or Your Neighborhood Store old-school father that motion pictures might spell opportunity. But when they had guaranteed her protection, he had consented. It was not until she had made five pictures that Ann agreed to her buying even a second-hand Ford and driving without her to the studio. "There is no more need for a girl to do what is wrong in Hollywood than in any other place," Ann told the father and the girl. And added, to the girl : "It isn't that you would do wrong. But you cannot do two things at once. You cannot fall in love and have a career, too. Not in the beginning. You must make a definite place for yourself in pictures before you can think of husband or home. You are young. You are lovely. It is natural you should want romance. If you haven't the courage to turn it from you now — " Ann shook her head. "Look at the really successful actresses and check up on when they married. Before their first successes or after?" Helene said she understood. It was easy for her to say that while her eyes looked into Ann's and saw visions of big cars, smart chauffeurs, tiled swimming pools and gleaming evening gowns. It was a simple thing to promise — then. He was just an extra; socially like herself. He chanced to stand next to her on the set. Ann walked on. Helene turned to him. "Isn't she wonderful? Isn't she lovely? I never knew such a wonderful woman." An innocent enough habit of this child — talking to anyone who happened to be near when she saw the one who had taken her from a garage on a chicken farm to the modern fairyland, called Hollywood. She always did it. But he did not look at Ann, as Helene had expected. He looked at her ; their eyes met. It was spring. Youth and spring. A combination Mother Nature intended for love. HELENE did not go out with him. That is, not in the evening. But they did talk. They did have ice cream sodas. They did answer that springtime challenge. Finally, with hundreds of people around them, he told her, "I love you. You love me — I know it. We must marry. We are only young once. We were made for each other. I am doing well. I shall have a bit in the next picture. You don't need to stop working for Ann ; not altogether and not right away." Then Helene told Ann the whole story. "I love him, Ann. We just couldn't help it. It just happened. W'hat can we do about it?" I wish we had a record of the talk between these two women — Ann, herself, so few years more than twenty ! "I cannot decide this for you, Helene," she said. "It is your life. This crossroad comes to all modern women. Especially does it come to each girl trying to have a success in pictures. You can't do both. Not yet. No one wants you to promise never to marry, women should marry. But will this boy be the man you want, five years from now? If you go on to success, would you pick him? If you fail — " Ann sighed. "No one can promise you success, today. No one knows. You may fail and regret all your life you did not marry when love first whispered — " Perhaps it is just as well we have no record of that night, when Helene had finished talking with Ann. Back and forth across that scarred linoleum on the garage-house floor. Ambition battling love. New to her, but as old as the stage itself, to those who have played upon it. Should Joan Crawford have married Michael Cudahy? She was little more than a Helene McAdoo when she was forced to the decision. Clara Bow and Gilbert Roland. Lupe Velez and Gary Cooper. Ah, we could go on forever. And those who had repudiated love and then failed in ambition ? We have no records. They are not important enough to have records because failures are never important. And the next day, Helene told him : "I do not want you to speak to me again, nor look at me, nor even think about me. I am going to take the chance which luck and Ann Dvorak gave me. I am not going to have even a date for five years. I cannot talk about it. I — I" And she ran to Ann, who understood so well that she did not speak, and she did not try to bring comfort when she knew there could be none immediately. I TALKED with Helene today, in the little house which was once a garage. She did not know that she is to be put into stock and given lessons. I knew it, but I did not tell her. "In a year maybe," she told me. "I don't suppose anyone knows how much there is to learn about being an actress. Why, it took Ann years and years. Dancing lessons — everything. You just can't think of anything else. I don't know whether I'll ever get there!" I don't know, either. Even Ann Dvorak doesn't know. She makes no promises. But Joan Crawford didn't know either when she gave Ann Dvorak a position as her stand-in — or Katharine Hepburn when she started Maxine Doyle in the same position. Helene is Hollywood material in the raw. Her beauty is still as uncompleted as Joan Crawford's was when I first saw her. I can't tell you how stunned I was by the hour I spent with this youngster. Writing about Hollywood for so many years and still I had never realized the truth about our Cinderellas until this experience. Helene is a Cinderella. But she cannot become a princess overnight as even I, an old hand, had been accustomed to believe. Perhaps I can explain best by saying, I went from Ann Dvorak's home to Helene's. Ann was in tennis shorts, eating breakfast. But even in shorts there was a glint, a polish, a smoothness about her that made you wonder if your own collar was quite straight and your shoes looked shined. And there was a poise, a control of muscles, expression, even attitude which made you sit a little straighter while you drank your cup of coffee. Of course, I didn't realize all this then. The poise, the smoothness, the lacquer was so natural that your reaction to it was equally normal. But it was only when I sat before Helene and watched the nervous little gestures of her hands, the self-conscious pitching of her voice, the obvious effort at ease that I understood about Hollywood Cinderellas. Every star I knew (who had not come from the stage) had been like that once. One after another they flitted across my memory. Ann, herself, when I first interviewed her. And she had finished "Scarface," too, and was the graduate of a boarding school ; Jean Harlow, when I first saw her and she was divorcing a millionaire ; Joan Crawford, with Broadway success to her credit ; Norma Shearer, before stardom caught up with her. And suddenly I knew that polish is not natural but acquired. That stardom is not accidental but accomplished. That fame is not a come-hither proposition but the result of learning to wear well a golden slipper. And I knew that Helene McAdoo had told me a true story of Hollywood. If she can follow Ann's advice to the letter, and does not weaken in five years, she will have become a true Hollywood Cinderella. Today she is only one, a very lovely one, in the making. 82