The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

THE TALKIES ARE WALKIES THIS isn't exactly anything you'd want to lose your sleep "worrying over, but — if you've got a moment to spare — have you ever noticed the way your favorite palsy-walsy among the stars uses his legs? Of course legs are also useful to hang trousers and skirts on, but that's not what we mean. (They are also useful for kicking.) We mean, the way a star walks. Phrenologists can tell about your personality from the bumps on your head, graphologists can tell what kind of person you are from the way you dot your i's — if you don't dot them at all, for instance, they can tell that you weren't a very bright boy at school — and palmists can read the secrets of your character in the lines of your palm. But the science of walkology has been sadly neglected. And it makes us very sad, and we mean to do something drastic about it right away. For instance — "Clean up the Mae West picture!" was the censor's cry. They laundered the dialogue. They sapolioed the plot. They hove buckets of whitewash on the heroine's character. Then Mae West walked across the screen. She walked, magnificent shoulders proudly poised, opulent bosom thrust well forward, luxuriant hips syncopating to the rhythmic jiggle of each highheeled step. She walked, and her walk said everything she was forbidden to say. West's younger counterpart was the next item. The new Jean Harlow must announce, with innocence, "Believe it or not, beneath this exuberantly billowing white satin beats a heart of gold." Then Harlow walked, and her straight-shouldered, hip-flouncing, free-and-easy stroll gave the lie to her virtuous words. The distinctive walks of West and Harlow have trademarked these ladies. But these two aren't the only players who have walked to stardom. What's your clearest picture of Wallace Beery? Likely it's one of his formidable rapscallions ambling disreputably along, hiking up sloppy trousers. We remember Marie Dressier most tenderly as Min, trundling along the wharves in shapeless sweater and sagging skirt — like a clumsy old ship, battered by the weather, but sailing stubbornly on. In Joan Crawford's gallant, chesty stride we read a story of ambition. Her walk is a feminine version of John Gilbert's bouncing, dashing step — as he walked in the halcyon days of the silent "Merry Widow." The extravagance of John Barrymore's acting is carried out in the conscious drama of his motions — the commanding walk, the profile poses. Fredric March, who caricatured Jawn in "The Royal Family," surges impulsively about Hollywood sets, still under the influence. And even Greta Garbo, in "Queen Christina," strode along the palace corridors and struck noble attitudes with a Barrymoreish gusto. But not all important actors betray their profession so completely. Gary Cooper's lean figure moves awkwardly, long arms swinging lank from his shoulders. Yet in that very awkwardness there is a certain natural grace, a romantic reminiscence of coon-skin caps, rail-splitters, covered wagons, the lone prairie. Katharine Hepburn alternates her youthful, shyly tentative tread with a tomboyish lope. Ann Harding departs from the (Please turn to page 63) Legs lack lies, toes tell tales, gaits give glamour, there are sermons in shoes. Watch how the movie stars walk! By JANET GRAVES A contrast in carriage — the walks of Victor McLaglen, Jean Harlow, Wallace Beery and Marlene Dietrich. The New Movie Magazine, May, 1935