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To you they're mere details in gigantic "effect" scenes — a flashing smile, or a glint of silk stocking, gone in a second.
Don't forget the GIRLS
They dance like clockwork, but they have hearts and heads, besides legs. Here they are. Meet them. • By LEON SURMELIAN
THE gay, glittering whirlpool of Hollywood Boulevard is studded with the most gorgeous show girls in the world. This most enchanting and intriguing of the world's famous streets has dimmed the glory of Broadway as the goal of those radiantly shapely creatures who send the bald-headed rows into such rhapsodies of delight.
"May Allah always favor you ! " I said, as I received an order from our editor to do some soul-digging among the gold diggers of the screen.
With millions of my own sex I had to be satisfied by merely gazing at their likenesses on the screen, as they went through their paces amid avalanches of ostrich fans, or in beauteous flurries of amazing rhythmic patterns.
But now, armed with such an assignment, I could see for myself what goes on behind the scenes of the leg shows those demigods of Hollywood, the film dance directors, concoct with such devastating results on the pocketbook of the nation, helping the producers rake in the shekels you and I have such a heck of a time earning.
I stopped banging away on my portable, took up my cane, and in the best manner of a boulevardier set forth to explore the beauty corners of movietown.
I sauntered down to the Paramount Studio, and was led
to stage No. 9, where I exchanged the necessary courtesies with LeRoy Prinz, rehearsing a sizzling number for "Rumba."
The old phonograph blared forth the passionate music of Spain from a corner of the huge sound-proof stage, and a dusky couple from Havana, with red bandannas tied around their necks, danced the rumba in shameless abandon. George Raft, Carole Lombard, and a bevy of chorus girls in shorts or slacks, studied their steps and contortions, not, I must say, without some embarrassment, for this authentic exhibition of the rumba was a torrid dance indeed. The dusky couple, their teeth flashing and their enormous eyes, black pools of tropic longings, flirted in wanton pirouettes, and told each other the secrets of their hearts by beating their clattering heels onto the floor in volleys of frenzied rhythm.
"I'll give my own interpretation to this dance," Mr. Prinz said, the merry twinkle in his eye catching mine. "But I want the kids to see what the rumba is really like."
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But they aren't machines. They're girls like the girl next door. Here are three: At top, Alma Ross, and below, Emily La Rue (Jack's sister) and Ula Love.