Movie Classic (Sep-Dec 1931)

The Screen's Most Baffling Blonde — Who Is She? She loves dogs and will stop to pat a dog anywhere. But has never been known even to see the owner, let alone pat him. She remains calm and unruffled in the midst of turmoil and only gives way during a peaceful calm. In her studio bungalow, in the midst of the mad ringing of the telephone, the blaring of the radio, dress-fittings, rehearsals, pressagents and interviewers, she maintains a calm that is magnificent to behold. Then, suddenly in the middle of a peaceful lull, she'll let go with a bang. "And woe to the rider and woe to the steed Who falls in front of her mad stampede" She means business when she's banging. She's a Studio Diplomat SHE and her director, Paul Stein, who has been with her on most of her pictures for Pathe, understand each other perfectly and will graciously give way to each other when they are firmly convinced the other is right. They are seldom convinced. She has the finesse of a diplomat. For instance, during the making of one of her recent pictures, things had been going badly on the set for several days. And then it happened. Horror of horrors, the champagne bottles were delivered to the set wrapped in silver tin-foil instead of gold. That was enough. The sensitive soul of director Stein was outraged. Beautifully outraged. "That ends it," he announced. He would leave for Germany at once. Right that minute he would go. At once, understand, not a moment later. Goodbye, one and all, he was going. The face of the bungling prop-boy was an ashen gray. The electricians were stricken dumb, and the actors, many of whom needed that work, were petrified. It was then that she stepped forward. Linking her arm with the director's, she walked him rapidly up and down the big sound-stage, talking rapidly. The others watched, moon-eyed. Gradually, his frantic gesturing grew milder. The frown gave way. He smiled. The tension relaxed and the prop-boy swallowed three relieved swallows, with sound effects. As a body, the entire cast grasped her hand in a mental hand-clasp. Proving She's Human THEN there was the time she was making a picture for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. A workman was walking clumsily backwards, carrying a huge ladder. Suddenly there was a resounding smack. The ladder had struck her a staggering blow on the head. "Oh!" she cried, and turned indignantly to the offending workman. She opened her lips to speak and then caught sight of his face, his dismayed expression. "Well," she quickly smiled, holding her throbbing head, "you can't get a holiday by knocking me out, you know. The company would go right on working anyhow." There isn't a carpenter on that lot that wouldn't lay down his life for her. She is impulsive by nature, but she controls that impulse. She would. She does so many things exactly right because she thinks first and acts afterwards. She chooses her few real friends with care, will not tolerate stupidity, and is inaccessible to strangers, would-be acquaintances and hangers-on. Therefore, she is Hollywood's prize snob. Chief High-Hat. She sends stock salesmen reeling out in a perspiring daze. She knows more about dividends and operating expenses tha 1 most investment brokers. (Continued from page 75) She has a keen mind and uses it. She expects everyone else to do the same. She is fastidious about her clothes, but not fantastical. Her tastes are simple and quiet, but she attains a degree of smartness the like of which has never been seen in these parts. For some reason, even her dark, tailored suits fairly shriek Paris. She never wears an afternoon costume to the prize fights. Or red shoes anywhere. What She Did for Hollywood SHE is unconcerned about this bestdressed-woman feud of Hollywood. She introduced simplicity to an ostrich-trimmed Hollywood and helped us discover that bangling sequins were not the last word, no Here she is with nothing over her eyes — and she still is the screen's most baffling blonde. But you'll know Constance Bennett like an old friend after reading this story matter how loudly they bangled. We still miss the sequins. She has been known to change her entire costume at the last moment because one single accessory did not blend. She speaks French fluently. And English correctly. Hers is one of the few pianos in town that is not wholly ornamental. She plays hers. According to statistics, she is one of the very, very few women who ever talked a hard-boiled Orange County traffic cop out of a summons. She was burning up the California highways on her way to San Diego. Suddenly this officer appeared in that quaint way that officers have. He raged. "I am going to meet my mother in San Diego," she explained very calmly and quietly. And can, or can you not, see those blue eyes as she talked? "The studio detained me longer than I expected. I am afraid she may be worried. I'm sorry," she finished. She met her mother on time. And the cop is still wondering how the heck that happened. I would still have been in jail. She wouldn't go on the legitimate stage for anything. Afraid she'd be self-conscious. Self-Conscious, If You Know Her SHE sees her studio previews with a cold and critical eye, but is embarrassed when viewing herself with friends. Several times she has sneaked out the side exits of theaters and waited for them outside. Constance Bennett (had you guessed her?) has never known contentment. And doesn't want to. "I shall know that when I am actually contented, all the zest has gone out of life for me," she says. "I have learned that to be actually happy I must work and have something to strive for." The unhappiest years of her life were the years spent in idle pleasure-seeking. That, perhaps, explains her feverish appetite for hard work. "Why, why, why," she demands of her friends, "does no one ever realize that I met Henri de la Falaise long after he and Gloria separated? I never saw him until after they had definitely parted." Her affairs of the heart are her own. Her press-agent, her secretary, her friends, are silent on the subject, because they simply do not know. She never discusses her attachments, if any, with anyone. She has a clever way of meeting those visiting nuisances who, after all, must be met. Only just before she's needed on the set does her agent present the important visitor to her. Almost instantly she's called to the set. "You'll excuse me, I'm sure," she says, and off she goes. And the callers go home satisfied to have said "goodbye," at least. With most stars they never get to the "hello." She loathes New York and tolerates Hollywood only because her work is here. She is Constance Bennett of Paris — a possessor of ultra-smart friends abroad, and bored but tolerant, of anyone West of the Eiffel Tower. Playing Mother YET she is capable of kindly deeds to those who have no claim on her social calendar. For instance, a six-months-old baby was used in the picture, "Born to Love." More than half the time, Constance Bennett held the baby in her own arms to relieve the mother. Her bungalow was turned over to the mother and baby. The infant napped on Connie's couch. Its milk was heated on her stove. The shooting was arranged to suit the baby. And oh, yes. She has a habit that worries her. She frowns, unconsciously, and it makes a line between the eyes. Everyone, from her secretary to Dora, goes about saying, "You're frowning." Connie will burst out with a pleasant smile, only to relapse almost immediately into the frown again. What to do about it, she doesn't know. Every morning, warm or cool, sunny or cloudy, she takes a dip in the ocean before breakfast. And every night she has a massage before she can close her eyes in sleep. Taken separately, her features are bad. Her jaws are square, her forehead low and her nose short. But put them all together and she has one of the most fascinating, bewitching faces ever seen in pictures. She has been places — wonderful, glamourous places. She has done things — gay, exciting things. She knows people — famous, charming people. She's youthful and utterly sophisticated. Like someone in a book. And her little son adores her. He calls her "mama." But to you, it's "Miss Mama," remember. 64