The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

just a nice big friendly crowd of people that he wants to give a good time to." "And how did you happen to say 'Yes' to the question of To be or not to be a child actor?' So many people think it forces them and is a bad mistake for future work." "But why?" she flashed back at me. "It hasn't proved that in the other arts. The great dancers started as children. Our great musicians, too. Honestly, I wish I had started at ten instead of eighteen. Growing up with the theater is, it seems to me, the very surest way. Provided you have the talent, of course. But Frankie really decided the whole matter of talent by his first performance at four. He spoke "When a little boy goes to his grandpa's house" at a Sunday school party in Union Village, and I could hear the handkerchiefs flourishing then as now. After that there wasn't any question in my mind about where Frankie belonged." Nor in mine. And ten years, perhaps, from now, not only Frankie Thomas but other gifted children — Nova Pillbeam and Freddie Bartholomew, and Jane Withers — children who have their eyes as clearly fixed on the shining goal as he has, will develop into actors whose art will be as manysided as a piece of sculpture. Not one-dimensional, like so much of the acting that we see today. Back-stage at the Biltmore Theatre the actors in "The First Legion" crowded around Frankie to say goodbye. "Make a good picture and come back to us," said Bert Lytell, putting a cherishing arm around Frankie's shoulders. "Thanks, Bert, I'll try. And say, do you know I sort of hate to leave the old wheel chair behind. Boy, can I do some fancy stuff with it!" "Good luck, kid," said the wardrobe woman, clasping him to her capacious bosom. "My darling!" he said with a mock catch in his voice, but I knew that the squeeze of her hand was warm and sincere. "Good-bye, kid. I hope it's a good part," said the thin old man who had played the Father Curate, and his manner was a little wistful. And that, it seemed to me, was the most important wish of all. And as I left the theater I made a little prayer to the guardian angel who watches over parts for young actors, and I besought her to give him parts to test his talents; for too often in recent years when the parts for child actors have been passed out, I am afraid that she has had her lovely head tucked under her shining wing. Frankie and Freddie (Freddie Bartholomew) {Continued from page 27) rather confusing, I should say." There was time out for another laugh over his pat comment. Then it was necessary to get back to work on the ways and means he had taken to gain a studio hearing. "Cissie — my Aunt Millicent, who brought me over — wrote to Mr. Selznick. I supposed he was ready to see anyone who might be English." Catching my smile at this naive view of a movie producer, Freddie grinned appreciatively, then soberly remarked: "So all I had to do was recite something." "You weren't afraid?" "Oh, no! I'd been used to it so long, ever since reciting nursery rhymes told me by my aunt. Cissie encouraged me in it from the time she adopted me and took me from London, where I was born, to live with her in Warminster, Wiltshire. I owe everything to her. We got along so well in our work that in quite a short time I was giving recitations in London at the Lyceum Theater and the Albert Hall — some Shakespearian, others just light ones. I never could have done it without Auntie, who also gave me my schooling until I was nine." "Nine! How old are you now?" "Ten." He doesn't look a day over seven, this surprising boy; fine, sensitive, poised and with the same effortless, flawless speech which so enhanced the charm of his "David." Best of all, he is not precocious, betraying no sign of that insufferable abomination, the child wonder. "I wanted to be an actor," he now was saying, "but I never got the chance. I'd done 'bits' in three or four English pictures, but they didn't mean anything. So when I heard that 'Copperfield' was to be done in Hollywood, I asked if I couldn't be put in for it. Auntie, not having the same faith, didn't think there'd be much use trying, but anyway she thought the trip would be a holiday. And eventually I got the part — it was lovely. I was terribly pleased, jumping all around the place." Freddie swung a leg over the arm of his chair and kicked up a foot. It halted in mid-air when I asked whether he had felt sure he could play the part, then slowly lowered with: "I was hoping I wouldn't let them down." "And when you were actually playing 'David,' what was it like?" "Fun," was his enthusiastic reply, "not a bit like work. I enjoyed it immensely. I found no difficulty whatever in the easy scenes, but I liked the harder ones better because they gave me more to think about. There was only one trouble — at first I couldn't quite cry. Mr. Cukor, the director, did everything he could think of to start the tears, telling me of the saddest things, but it wasn't any good. Then he spoke of how terrible it would be if Cissie were to die, how awfully I'd feel and how much I'd miss her. That did it, and I got crying so hard, just roaring, that he couldn't stop me. I think I helped with my imagination. Then I got the knack of it." Was this kid kidding? "But what made it all so splendid," he earnestly resumed, "was the cast — all fitted in so well. I liked everyone, particularly Mr. Fields, who was such a funny Mr. Micawber. He was always doing funny things, surprising things that he made up as he went along. I had such a good time with him!" "What character were you fondest of, which one was closest to your heart?" "Peggotty," he promptly replied, glowing with affection for that good and fat servant, "even more so than my mother. Maybe it was because I did some of my first scenes with her. Indeed, most of my crying scenes were (Please turn to page 52) Sally is a little gossip . . . and I'm glad she is! "I'm glad you came over to visit me while you wash your dolly's clothes, Sally. Let me lend you some soap." "No, thanks — I brought my own kind along — 'cause I don't want Arabella's clothes to do any tattling on me." "Why, clothes can't tattle, Sally." " 'Deed they can! My mommy says the little bride across the street works real hard — but her clothes are full of tattle-tale gray — 'cause she uses a soap that doesn't unstick all the dirt." "But my mommy's clothes are white as Few weeks later: "Goody! Goody! — straw anything — 'cause she's smart. She uses this Fels-Naptha Soap! Smell? That's naptha, mommy says — heaps of it." "So that's why Fels-Naptha gets all the dirt. You've given me an idea, Sally — " berry ice cream!" "That's a treat for you, Sally .You're a little gossip— but I've got to thank you for making me change to Fels-Naptha. My washes look lots whiter — and I'm delighted!" ,99 Banish "Tattle -Tale Gray with FELS-NAPTHA SOAP Iittle gossips are cute — but you wouldn't j wan-t any grown-up gossips to see "tattle-tale gray" in your clothes. So change to Fels-Naptha Soap — it gets clothes gorgeously white — you can count on it! For Fels-Naptha is richer soap — unusually good golden soap! And there's lots of naptha in it, too! When these two cleaners get busy, dirt has to let go — ALL OF IT! Fels-Naptha is easier on clothes — so gentle, so safe — you can trust your daintiest silk undies and stockings to it! It's kind to hands — there's soothing glycerine in every golden bar. Try Fels-Naptha in tub, basin or machine. Get a supply at your grocer's to 1$25> day! . . . Fels & Co., Philadelphia, Pa. f^ 1935, FEUS 4 CO. The New Movie Magazine, May, 1935 51