The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

RICH design, substantial silverplate, satin finish! It looks expensive. It has all the features of expensive silverware, including the smart new Viande* Knives and Forks. Yet the price is so low! Never has there been such luxurious quality in an inexpensive service ! — Only $21.50 for a service for six. Burgundy, Guild, Paris or Mayfair are equally moderate in cost. You will save money no matter which you choose. Cream Soup Spoons, Salad Forks, Butter Spreaders and many other necessary pieces are available in all ¥m. Rogers & Son patterns. And now, at these prices, every woman can afford a " guest" set of silver — for those occasions when she uses only her best linen and china! *REQ. U. 3. PAT. OFF. LOOK FOR THIS MARK LikJUr^ A GUARANTEE OF QUALITY WM. ROGERS & SON ORIGINAL ROGERS SILVERPLATE INTERNATIONAL SILVER CO., MERIDEN, CONN. The Cs Have It {Continued from page 19) the most acute cases of "openspaceitis" extant. During seven months in the East I've remained in the city only ten evenings and seen but three shows. It isn't New York. It's just that "I reckon my city days kinda git me down and I'm durned glad to git back to the farm fur my nights." I did not, however, expect to find the young and dashing Colbert with any mental hayseeds in her keen mind. She's got 'em, by gosh! And I found out why, but wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. The cart before the horse or the party before the broadcast. Neither is practical as you will see. It was arranged that I would send in for Claudette. I asked if there was anyone she would like to bring out with her. "Not here," she said, which led me to believe that there might be someone somewhere. "Shall I call out my reserves?" "Not for me!" she said. "I'd much rather just have a good visit with you." I was flattered to the eyebrows. She had never met my young husband and probably thought he had been left in Hollywood, not knowing that my views on married life are as narrow as her own slim hips. As long as one is in the game, I say no "time out" to pick up another set of signals. I told her I was going to risk all and give my Benedict the joy of an hour's drive with her. "That will be fine!" said Cleopatra Colbert. "I hope so!" said hold-your-man Janis. Claudette gave those two huskily staccato sounds which constitute the ever ready Colbert chuckle. "Flatterer! I don't work that fast," she said. Came Saturday — My young man up betimes and to shaving, combing, brushing, to say nothing of anticipating. He left the Manor at eleven A.M. At eleven-ten A.M. Miss Colbert on the phone! Miss Colbert with a "code id de dose" and a temperature of 101. " 'No broadcast tomorrow, if you get out of bed today,' the Doctor said. I'm furious!" Claudette sniffed, "but I don't dare take a chance." I agreed that it would be pretty sad to do nearly a week's work and not be in on the payoff. "Your poor husband! He will hate me the rest of his life, taking that long ride all the way in to town and all the way back for nothing. Is there any way you can stop him?" Claudette said. "Don't worry about him. Just get well for tomorrow and I'll call you after the broadcast." Well, I was worried enough about the young man's fruitless quest to call my friends, the cops at Yonkers, which is half way to New York. Result, one blond and handsome young man in a blue De Soto coupe pinched at Yonkers. At least he thought he was until a motorcycling arm of the law said, "Elsie says come back home!" pLAUDETTE'S broadcast showed the ^ results of all that rehearsing. She was splendid in a condensed version of the comedy, "Holiday." At least she was herself, which is "sumpthin." Many stars of stage and screen on their first introduction to the great unseen audience are script-conscious, and no wonder. They spend their lives learning to say lines without one and then find that they are not permitted to say lines without one. The broadcast over, Claudette started vacationing with real Colbertian vigor, which in spite of her rather frail appearance is tremendous. Theaters, night clubs, parties given in honor of the visiting "award-grabber-offer." It was, consequently, a fairly tired gal who arrived at the Manor house the following Sunday. No, my young man did not drive her out. Having made my gesture of wifely generosity, I reverted to type. Claudette came out with another handsome and blond young man. We were six at lunch and had no sooner started nibbling than another young man who had evidently given up reading the papers for Lent said brightly to Claudette, "How is Nick?" Nick being the name by which most of his pre-marriage men friends address Norman Foster — the charming young man who up to time of going to press is still the husband of Claudette Colbert. It had been my intention to give her a pleasant surprise by proving that there was one stop on her vacation itinerary where she would not be asked anything about her husband. Unfortunately I had not rehearsed my guests. "How is Nick?" The airy query bounced across the table and landed right between the Colbert super-orbs. "Nick?" She smiled quizzically. "Oh, you mean Norman. Funny, I never could understand that Nick business. I never called him Nick. I — " She smiled again, charmingly, as she added, "but I believe he is fine. You know I haven't seen him for five months." Obviously the young man did not know. Neither did I, but believe me Norman Foster as a subject of light conversation dropped into the clam broth just in time to be removed. Claudette sat opposite me facing the early afternoon sunlight which floods the little dining-room of the aged Manor House. I had a great opportunity to study her as she talked. Two men on either side of her kept her fairly busy. At my end of the table I listened, which was a great change for me, and I should think a delightful change for my young man. She looked extremely young. Not that she isn't, but she looked like a child at times. A simple brown tricot dress with what would have been a Buster Brown collar a few years ago, but it probably has some swell new name now. I wouldn't know. Claudette is consistently interesting, but I was astounded at her occasional flashes of naivete. Not the assumed kind either, because she really muffed a couple of triple meanings that I slipped in from my quiet (?) end of the table. The next minute she would sound like old lady Aristotle herself. Her modesty about the award is not so much modesty as it is sense of humor. She cracks little jokes about it, which is the modern manner of receiving any honor, but you feel that she is mighty glad she won it. All four men were obviously much intrigued by the simplicity and naturalness of the lady who happens to be their favorite screen actress. One gent in particular, who had confided to me beforehand that he thought she really must be Cleopatra. I have not seen him to collect his reactions, but if he expected Claudette to have any of Cleo's barge manners he must have been disappointed. Claudette's seductiveness lies in her complete unawareness that it exists. Naturalness is her keynote and so far as I've seen or heard she is generally right on pitch. I've heard lots of tales out in Hollywood about her temperament, her arrogance, and her stubbornness. I've also heard about Garbo's big feet, which I (Please turn to page 42) 40 The New Movie Magazine, July, 1935