The New Movie Magazine (Jan-Sep 1935)

ANN DVORAK in Warner Bros. "G Men" BRUNETTE... To lend enchantment to the warm color tones of brunette beauty . . . Ann Dvorak chooses Max Factor s Olive Po wder Ca rm ine Rouge and Carmine Lipstick. ree Warner Bros. Stars Reveal Wollywoods New Make-Up Love Laughs at the Little Clown JEAN MUIR in Warner Bros. "A Midsummer Night's Dream" BLONDE... To accent the appealing charm of delicate colorings, JeanMuir chooses Max Factor's Rachelle Powder, Blondeen Rouge and P ermilion Lipstick. MARY ASTOR in Warner Bros. "Dinky" REDHEAD... To harmonize naturally with the distinctive colorings of the auburn type, Mary Astor chooses Max Factor's Olive Powder, Blondeen Rouge and Carmine Lipstick. Discover How to Enhance Your Beauty as Famous Screen Stars Do The magic of color ... beauty's secret of attraction. . .has been captured by Max Factor, Hollywood's make-up genius, in a new kind of make-up. It is color harmony make-up . . . original, new color tones in face powder, rouge and lipstick, having a matchless lifelike quality that actually seems to work a miracle in creating lovely beauty. Wouldn't you like to share this secret with Hollywood's stars? You can! . . . for whether you are blonde, brunette, brownette or redhead, there is a particular color harmony for you that will do wonders in emphasizing the colorful beauty, the fascinating charm of your own type. The very first time you make up you will see an amazing difference. You will marvel at the satin-smooth loveliness the face powder imparts to your skin ... at the entrancing lifelike color the rouge brings to your cheeks ... at the alluring color accent the lipstick gives to your lips. Your complete make-up will be a perfect harmony of color . . . and you will find that it will remain perfect for hours and hours. New beauty can be yours today . . . for the luxury of Color Harmony Make-Up, created originally for the screen stars, is now available at nominal prices. Max Factor's Face Powder, one dollar; Max Factor's Rouge, fifty cents; Max Factor's SuperIndelible Lipstick, one dollar. Featured by leading stores. yflax factor * TTolli/wood SOCIETY MAKE-UP Face Powder, Rouge, Lipstick in Color Harmony POWDER, KOPCE AIVB LIPSTICK MAX FACTOR, Max Faclar'i M,AcVp Studio. HoUyaovd. SEND Purx See Box of Ponder and Rouge Sampler ,n my color hurmuny ick Col >nj Makelp Churl and 4H iled Itulruclion book, 'The Nt ictj Moke Up ... FREE. COMPLEXIONS EYES UAIR V,., Ugh. a Fail D C.t.my D Medium D Ruddy D &tii<» a F«cki«d D Oli.< D Blur D Gtty Q Gnu D H.«I__Q BLONDE L.gh,„a Dtrfc.JD BROWN ETTE L.ghi..D Dtrfc__D BRUNETTE Ughi._Q Dtrl-.D L.gh...D Dtrk..O LASHEStOU, Ugh. O , Df 1 -O SKIN Dry D OilyO NormjIO "What are you looking at, Charlie?" The star replied, "Eight hundred thousand dollars of mine, waltzing." He had settled that amount upon Lita when they separated. There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice. But it was far more powerful than that occasioned by the loss of money. Chaplin still has plenty of money and could make millions more; the bitter note in his voice earmarked an irreplaceable loss, a deep regret caused by the awakening from a dream. I wondered what that dream could have been. Had this lonely little man, then, loved Lita that much? Was his world upside-down and emptied, his future barren and uninviting, purposeless, because Lita Grey was no longer his? Had all the fullness been taken from his life by one woman, and that woman Lita? It was difficult to believe that; but the evidence of his voice proclaimed nothing if not a glorious dream now shattered. A few months later the answer came from his own lips. A LARGE party was given at the ** Ambassador. With the conclusion of the music at one o'clock a group of us, including Chaplin, drifted upstairs to the studio of Leon Gordon, who was in Hollywood painting the portraits of Colleen Moore, Gloria Swanson and other stars. The talk veered to the aim and purpose of all artists. It was suggested an artist's duty was to interpret life and to do this he must know his subject, be it a flowering landscape or the hearts of men and women. I thought of Chaplin's great work in "The Kid" and asked where he had gathered the knowledge which made the classic picture possible. He smiled, sadly. "It may be," he said, "the things that happened to Jackie Coogan and me actually happened to me and — my mother. I know poverty. I know a child's life in a London garret. I know his fears and hopes and pleasures and thoughts. I was a poor boy, hungry, cold, uncomfortable, afraid." It was late. It had been a hectic, tiring evening. But as Charlie talked of his childhood in London's East End all fatigue fled and was replaced by wide-eyed interest. Men and women, stars, painters, cartoonists, writers, acclaimed over the world for their abilities and accomplishments, sat silently engrossed in the word picture being unfolded to them. A small boy, his brother, a loving mother eternally tired but never faltering. Huddled out of the fog and drizzle and cold of a London Winter in a bare floored, single attic room that was cut and bisected by the gaunt wooden rafters that supported the roof. No running water. A public pump in the street below and a tiny boy struggling up unending stairs with heavy buckets of water that pulled and tore at the muscles of his young arms until they fairly screamed. Long days without food. Long nights without warmth or sleep. Finally the boy snatched from his mother and placed in an orphan asylum. Sitting across from me in this portrait painter's luxurious studio was this same boy, grown now to manhood. Perfectly groomed, shining patent leather dress shoes, silk lapels glistening on his immaculate dinner jacket, at home amid wealth, his hands folded quietly in his lap, he was again climbing those flights {Continued from page 8) of stairs to his garret home, again lugging pails of water and biting gratefully into bits of crusted, stale bread. It was always stale bread because stale bread could be gotten from the baker's cheaper than fresh bread. And it sustained the body as well. Somehow the undernourished child grew. He saw life around him as a sad, dreary experience. Within him rose a budding desire to make life brighter, happier. His mission on earth came to be: Bring laughter into the world. Blessed with a great imitative faculty he began by amusing his playmates on the streets of London's East End. The joy in their hearts as they laughed at him was his pay, his reward. Then the weather-beaten cabbies sitting behind their horses, the pedestrians passing on the sidewalks, the forlorn on the Thames River embankments, laughed and forgot their lots as his pantomimes gained force. At nineteen, he went into the music halls, vaudeville. Charlie Chaplin, slender, small, trying so hard to make his fellow men laugh and be happy if only for a moment, was about to experience an emotion which would influence his entire future. He met — her. The only girl. He was at the bottom rung in his chosen career. His act, in vaudeville parlance, "opened the show." But he was eager to learn, always watched the other acts after finishing his. One August evening in a small theater just outside London he stood in the wings as a troupe of dancing girls were on the stage. Their ease of movement, their grace, held him spellbound. Their ornate costumes, so colorful and sparkling, gratified the beauty-starved soul of the lad from the dull London streets. It was like — the beginning of a wonderful dream. One girl in particular he noticed. She was small with delicate hands and feet. Her soft brunette hair was truly a crowning glory. Her large brown eyes twinkled and a tiny smile bowed her lips as she danced. She was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. The number ended. The dancers ran off the stage. The boy trembled as the girl hastily pulled off the flowing wrap utilized in the number he had just seen. Trembled because she threw it to him to hold as she dashed back before the footlights. He stood there, frozen to immobility. Then slowly he looked from her flashing figure to the cloak in his hand. A faint, clean aroma of lavender came to him. He has loved the perfume of lavender ever since; it means always — her. As she came off the stage the next time she smiled. To him the darkened wings lit instantly with a beacon light that called and stirred him to the very bottom of his being. Love at first sight? He did not think of that. He knew only the presence of this gorgeous dream person. All else, all the world, was blotted out. "Thank you." she said, taking her wrap. "See you tomorrow night." And she was gone, rushing with the other girls to another theater for a second performance. Charlie Chaplin, telling his story in Artist Gordon's studio, hesitated. For a moment there was silence, and I felt sure he was again holding communion with that evening of long before. He smiled apologetically, and continued. The next night he was again in the wings as the girls danced. He knew now her name was Hetty, Hetty Kelly. She had an older sister, Alice, also dancing in the troupe. And a young brother, Arthur. Too busy during the day, what with performances and rehearsals, to see each other, Charlie and Hetty met fleetingly in the wings every night. His daylight hours were spent looking forward to those moments, his nights looking back on them. Then he made a date with her. A banner day! No shows on a Sunday enabled them to arrange a meeting for four o'clock in the afternoon at Kensington Gardens, Lancaster Gate. Chaplin scrambled to the clothier's. A new suit, black and white check, belted back, natty, styled to the minute. A new derby hat, gloves, yellow shoes; and the bamboo cane he was later to make famous. Fifteen minutes before the appointed hour he was waiting on a bench at Lancaster Gate. How those minutes dragged! Would she really come? What would she think of him? What did she look like without her stage make-up? He had never seen her without it. A girl approached and his heart leaped. She . . . could this be ... so different . . . not . . . the girl passed him, went her way and he sighed, relieved. It was not Hetty. At one minute past four a slender, smiling vision in a blue serge suit walked up to him and held out her hand. "Hello, Charlie." TTETTY was more beautiful off the -* -*■ stage than on it, lack of make-up revealing a clean freshness Charlie felt was soul deep. Her eyes held him. He could never see enough of them, never see far enough into them They twinkled and sparkled, they were soft and sympathetic, they were understanding and promising. After seeing her home that night he wanted all mankind to share his joy. He walked along the banks of the Thames, under the gray, overhanging bridges, gathering to him homeless unfortunates who were hungry. He spent every farthing he possessed for food for them; it was all he could do toward making them happy, as he was. Skipping over Scotland and England, wherever their acts were billed together, Charlie and Hetty met for enchanting hours in a small sea shore town, for a romantic moonlit evening strolling down a tree lined country lane, for a memorable afternoon in a secluded tea shop, for stolen moments under flickering London gas lamps which cast shadows far less real than the future he dreamed. A future with Hetty. Hetty's older sister openly frowned upon this fanciful affair which threatened to bring into the Kelly family an unknown, second-rate music hall comedian. Alice had far greater plans for herself, for Hetty. She wanted no such mesalliance which could quite easily spoil those plans. Charlie Chaplin was certainly not good enough — although it was nothing against him, mind you, she insisted — for Hetty Kelly. Charlie readily admitted that. But then — no one could be good enough for Hetty. She outshone the world. Young Arthur was Charlie's ally and well wisher. Charlie made him laugh. Charlie could lower the corners of his mouth, assume a facial expression and imitate a monkey in the zoo to perfection. A monkey hunting fleas. Often the tears rolled from Arthur's eyes at Charlie's antics. And Hetty liked him, 62 The New Movie Magazine, August, 1935