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The Things Which Are CESAR'S
By LEON SURMELIAN
Jfisuhch.
Once in a blue moon a newcomer really catches on, and then you have a Gable, a Garbo, a Great One. Have the breaks come now to Cesar Romero?
The New Movie Magazine, July, 1935
LADIES bubble up at the sight of this romantic hussar. He towers six feet two, has wild black hair, and ' full, sensuous lips, as if made for implanting hot cinematic kisses. This lanky chap with sunken cheeks and large pensive eyes of tropic warmth is perilously goodlooking. There is an air of exotic tango tunes about him. He was born in New York twenty-seven years ago, the son of Cesar Julio Romero, executive of a firm of sugar tycoons, and Maria Mantilla, beautiful Cuban concert singer. The picture of his mother's god-father adorns the one-cent postage stamp of Cuba. The family is distinguished, and the lad has class. His full name is Cesar Julio Romero, Jr.
A dark horse in the current race for leading-man laurels, the Herr Direktor Von Sternberg has pronounced him the best leading-man Marlene Dietrich has ever had. Potent film moguls have been yammering and dickering for his services. He is hailed as the nearest thing to Valentino. He has been Trocadero-ing it with La Belle Dietrich, squiring Patricia Ellis at smart cocktail parties, escorting Sally Blane everywhere. He is the current best date among the party-trotting debs.
Life is grand, for Cesar. He has been having a marvelous time. He has intrenched himself at the Hollywood Athletic Club. Among his passions are swimming and horseback riding. He can pound the piano with a flourish. He laughs like a good-natured kid, eats anything and everything, has a yen for blondes.
In spite of his three years of professional dancing, his gait lacks the ballroom glide. He walks more like a spurred, jogging cavalryman, in long, swinging steps. He isn't a bit actorish. His modesty is disarming. A regular guy in every way, this Cesar.
His main handicap in the film capital is his thick mop of unruly hair. The other day he was walking down Hollywood Boulevard, and met Sally Blane, but didn't tip his hat. He met Patricia Ellis and didn't tip his hat. He saw Marlene Dietrich coming toward him up Vine Street, turned around and ran in the opposite direction. He couldn't take off his hat, for he had just washed his hair.
He was prancing and rattling his sword in the midst of wigged, be-plumed magnificos on the set of "Richelieu" when I called on him for an interview. He has been teamed up with Maureen O'Sullivan to supply the heart-tugs in this George Arliss picture. It seems studios that borrow him once are eager to have him back again. It was his second picture for Twentieth Century, the same studio having borrowed him previously for the role of the Indian prince, Mir Jaffar, in "Clive of India." But his present role is a meatier assignment.
Our chit-chat began in his dressing-room, and was continued in the studio restaurant. It was the first magazine interview he was enjoying, and he was greatly pleased with the fact that he was to make his initial bow before film addicts in the pages of New Movie.
"When I came to Hollywood ten months ago things didn't start off (Please turn to page 55)
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