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I
UlJhafs <!Lt±appened to the L&hoopee Qisters?
Clara and Alice and Joan Have Dropped from the Front Page to the Household Hints
s
job off.
OMETHING ought to be done about it before
it is too late. The first thing we know Hollywood will be so respectable Will Hays will be out of a defending our good name. And the tourists will drop And everything.
I tried to ignore it at first. I tried to pretend that parties were as zippy as ever, and night clubs as hilarious. I tried to kid myself that there was just as much temperament on studio sets as there was when Mae Murray made "The Merry Widow" with von Stroheim. But I don't know. I'm getting discouraged. No two ways about it, Hollywood's whoopee girls aren't whooping it up any more. Things aren't what they used to be. Gone are the good old days.
Try to find Joan Crawford in a dancing contest now. And give yourself plenty of time. Heads I win — tails you lose. And there was a time when Joan and her hey-hey feet were to Hollywood what Texas Guinan is to New York. Mrs. Crawford's -little girl was the reigning cutie of the hour. The idol of the cash customers. Eddie Brandstatter's main attraction at the Montmartre in an unofficial sort of way.
Black Bottom'. Black Bottom! —
They re all do-ing
The Black Bottom!
But nobody did it like Joan. Not by a couple of heyheys. Somehow Joan could stamp her French heels a little harder and toss her bob a little shaggier. How her spangled dresses glistened. How white her teeth flashed.
Clap hands! There was Joan. Hit it up, baby. Hey-foot. Straw-foot. Get hot. Mammy!
That girl could go. Even the spotlight quivered. Never
By DOROTHY MANNERS
a dancing contest that she failed to win. Never a Wednesday noon that she failed to make the Montmartre luncheon in a new and elaborate costume, even though she had to drive like a bat out of Culver City to make it there and back to work in an hour.
NOT JAZZ SHE ONCE WAS
EVERYBODY called her by her first name. And she called people various things according to her mood. She'd fold her soft, crimson lips over whisperable stories and laugh loudly. A little too loudly. Sure, she owed a lot of money — but, whoopee, let 'em try and get it. Not until she was darn good and ready to pay it. Throw a party instead. Call up all the kids, all the little flappery kids, and tell 'em Joan was giving a party next Saturday.
But that was then. And this is now. Things are different. Somehow or other you don't run into Joan much any more. In the last six months she has become almost as secluded as Greta Garbo. Hollywood hears that Joan's whoopee days are behind her. There are whisperings of a radical change in the jazz lady. They say it is love. Certainly she and young Doug Fairbanks, Jr., have found an ideal and happy companionship in one another. They are seen arm-in-arm strolling across the studio lots, or shoulder to shoulder at a play or a picture show. It's wonderful. It's grand. But, alas, for the good old times when Joan was a splash of jade green in Hollywood's colors.
And take Alice White. You used to be able to take Alice
almost anywhere at any time. She was never too busy or
too tired for a little round of the cafes or to meet a new
boy-friend or what have you? Alice's telephone number
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