Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1936)

with one of the authors of the picture about a certain speech results in his convincing me that it only speech for that particular situation. The next session is with the photographic department, -electing what stills are to be used for a particular release, and then another halfhour is consumed by looking at tests of hats to be used the next day and choosing the one which seems best fitted to the scene and is, at the same time, becoming and in character. Intersperse this with fifteen or twenty phone calls and an almost equal number of casual but important contacts and you will see that it is now well past 6:30; and this was a day that I had looked fonvard to for some weeks, because the shooting schedule indicated that I would not have to be on the set and I had been hopefully planning on my first game of golf in seven weeks. I HAVE talked almost entirely about my' self as husband to a star, simply because that was what I was asked to talk about. In actual point of fact, my only contribution to the partnership has been to persuade Gladys occasionally, for a brief and fleeting moment, that she has talents which might give pleasure to a great number of people; that she can sing; that she is not the homeliest girl in the world; and that it is her duty and privilege, as well as her pleasure, to reach the largest possible audience. She is not suffering from an inferiority complex, but she has an honest and ingrained modesty which prevents her from realizing that she has those many talents and that in the utilization of them she can make this troubled world a little bit happier, even if only momentarily. There was one more question that I was asked to answer. "Haven't there been a lot of moments which were embarrassing for you?" asked your editor. Yes, there have been, but they have only been when Mrs. Chapman insists on telling someone who is interviewing Gladys Swarthout what an extraordinary fellow Frank Chapman is, and the funny part of it is she believes it. I hope I can keep her fooled for another fifty years at least. What Christmas Means to Grace Moore ! rnxTINUED FROM PAGE 27 ] choke stuffed with shad roe, was delicious, and so our dinner was a merry and a happy one. While we sat over our coffee, a chorus of beautiful voices was heard outside, and, on opening the door, we discovered that twentyfive young choral singers from the University of Southern California had come to sing Christmas carols for us. It really was a charming gesture and I was deeply touched. They asked me to sing a song with them and I obliged by joining in a chorus of "Silent Night." The Richard Barthelmesses and Kay Francis and Delmar Daves (who are 'sparking') dropped in at midnight and we exchanged toasts to the happiness of the years to come. The packages were opened. Val and I gave gifts to each one present. Our gifts were admired and we were proud and grateful for the good fortune which has enabled us to remember our friends and be remembered by them. Such expressions of thoughtfufness and friendship make life so much more worth living. We are happy this year, too, because we have been able to help lighten the hearts of the many who are destitute. For a week, we have been preparing baskets of food and toys for needy families. It seems so unjust that anyone should be in need on Christmas Day and I like to feel that perhaps our baskets brought a ray of cheer with them. At three o'clock in the morning, Jeanette Mac Donald, Igor Gorin and Allan Jones headed another group who came to sing Christmas carols. We made home recordings of their songs, exchanged toasts, and, an hour or so later, our party broke up with hearty " Noels." Today, with the hundreds and hundreds of telegrams wishing us happiness and good fortune. I find myself thinking of the great happiness marriage has brought me and wishing, deep in my heart, that by my side always, no matter where I shall be, will be my Val and that we shall share with good will and gratitude all favors, no matter how small or how large. I low true il is, Blanche, thai the greatest joys in life come from the heart. Beauty and good fortune are only beautiful and fortunate when they are shared with someone we love. I wonder if you remember our very grandiloquent VOWS on that Christmas Day, thirteen years ago. Do you remember how I 96 prophesied that I should never be fool enough to marry? How I swore that my goal should always be success? What a strange, depressing, exciting — and wholly amazing — Christmas that was! I remember A ND now, with one swift flick of the wrist, let's turn back the calendar again . . . back . . . and still back . . . while our scene shifts. . . . The store windows along Broadway were gay with the colorful trappings of Yuletide, with holly wreathes and mistletoe, with tinsel and toys and crimson, fluted bells. On the street corners, pacing back and forth in a futile effort to keep warm, white-bearded, red-flanneled Santa Clauses, of all assorted sizes and shapes, solicited alms for Xew York's destitute. It was Christmas morning, 1922 — and it was cold — bitterly, piercingly cold. The pale winter sun had not yet climbed high enough in the leaden sky to send its rays slanting down into the narrow, skyscraper-flanked canyons of the great city, and a cutting wind, driving in off the Atlantic, carried with it a stinging surge of sleet. Grace Moore and Blanche Le Garde, ingenue and danseuse, late of the road show, "Suite Sixteen," braced themselves against the wind and walked up Broadway in silence, too depressed for speech. They had arrived in New York only an hour before. They possessed, between them, exactly twenty-five cents. The trunks containing most of their clothes were impounded, "somewhere in Detroit." And it was the first Christmas either of them had been away from home. Two months before, bubbling with excitement, confident that stardom lay just ahead, they had embarked on their first theatrical jobs. "Suite Sixteen" had been a Broadway hit; it had promised to be a sensation in "the sticks." They had played one night stands in the "tank towns." They had jolted over muddy country roads. They had slept in the chair cars of jerk-water trains. And the show had been a mild success if not a sensation. Grace had brought down the houses with her solo number, "First You Wiggle and Then You Waggle." Blanche had danced to tumultuous applause. And then, in Detroit, which had marked their graduation to "big time," the manager. who had secretly been playing the stock market with company funds, had absconded and the show had closed. There had been no notice; still worse, there had been no salaries for the final week. Creditors had attached the scenery, the props and even the wardrobe trunks containing the private clothes of the cast. Grace Moore and Blanche Le Garde had been left stranded in Detroit. Grace had earned a fair salary, but, in those days, she was playing prima donna with a vengeance. On stage and off stage, she emulated her idols, Irene Castle and Kitty Gordon. It had been great fun, but she had spent every penny she made. Blanche Le Garde had followed suit — and they had found themselves penniless. After two weeks, Actors' Equity had come to their rescue and furnished them with transportation to New York. And there they were, back on Broadway, on Christmas morning, broke! THEIR parents did not know where they were. There were no Christmas presents, no Christmas cards, no Christmas telegrams. They had regarded it as a lark until they walked up Broadway and saw the Christmas decorations — the wreathes and tinsel and Santas. The street of lavish living was shouting a "Merry Christmas" to the world — its stores displayed a fortune in furs; its restaurants vied with one another in the display of fat, stuffed turkeys. And they were cold and very hungry. The jokes with which they had been trying to minimize their plight became flavorless and flat. They passed the Palace Theatre which flaunted a great banner proclaiming a special Christmas Day program, and Grace attempted one more jibe at Fate. "Let's go to the matinee this afternoon." "On what," Blanche answered shortly. "Grace, what are we going to do?" And then and there the ingenue and danseuse of "Suite Sixteen" called a conference, which resulted in the expenditure of one-fifth of their total fortune. They tried to reach by telephone the two girls with whom they had shared a draught} apartment in Greenwich Village. Their friends had moved. No, the caretaker didn't know their present whereabouts. Then Blanche had an inspiration. She knew an artist who lived in the Hotel des Artists on Sixty-Seventh street. Perhaps . . . An hour later, two very tired young ladies were knocking at a door in the Hotel des