Photoplay (Jan - Jun 1939)

nevera year to see the WEST Glamour Girl Number 17,268 Golden Gate Fair 4*4 mmantt. ipdurd my '■'■vi, tmrJrnt, »m I reaimre htanj in Macim Bay Grand Canyon • k* SantsFr II (V -.^i Sattomat Indian detours piorationi, 'round quaint Old Santa Fe. ' ageold puehlot and 110lated mountain nlUget II M .iiM'< Carlsbad Caverns . . . the Underground Grand Canyon" of flMtfaV eaitfn .\V» \frxno. »ith~ out j pee* in n;e, >jnrty, and delicate coloring Yosemite Park . . . majestic mountains, Mf0M waterfalls, and forett gtantt high up in the California jifji Famous Streamliners . . . for WeMern travel, Santa Fe often the votld'i largeit fleet of ttreamtined flyers m Not only can you weave all these grand travel experiences into your California trip conveniently via Santa Fc, but you can do it all lo economically during this great Exposition Year! For swift, comfortable travel to and from California, Santa Fe offers El Capitan, low-cost all-chair-car streamliner that whisks between Chicago and Los Angeles in just Mm; the Seoul, daily economy coachsleeper train; Super Chief and Chief, superb all-Pullman streamliners; California Limited and Grand Canyon Limited. Then, in California, there is also gay new Santa Fe streamlined service between San Diego, Los Angeles, and Sin Francisco. For romfltle ..'. " g a California trip, tfni <um<ntt tii />•(■ Sjnla Fe, at the tovrit pombteeott, /mi/ ma*t theeouponbtlow. .iijhfr. PT M., Santa (-■ Si mm Unei, 1258 Railway [iichange. Chicago, III not * Send picture book.eti on western travel, and far* from -to ................ Same ■ AJdreu l>ut New York has much to learn from Hollywood. F. us at a dollar ■ pair arc standard equipment on the Hollywood glamour model. But the high point of my introduction to the Cinema City make-up was learning that you couldn't put on your mouth merely by using a lipstick; you had to brush, and you had to carry it around with you at all times like an itinerant house painter. By the time I arrived at the studio commissary for lunch the next day, I was well on my way to being a Glamour Girl. People turned to look at me. I was impressed with myself. 1 visited around some more and was delighted to find that everyone was extremely cordial and that everything seemed to operate with a smoothness that left one relaxed and aglow. The whole setup reminded me of that of a nice country club. But not for long. The next morning signaled the end of my relaxation. I began my daily visits to the gym. One exercise was to crawl about, mewing like a cat, then to arch the back and bark like a dog. I think that was supposed to develop the body and the vocal cords at one fell swoop. Anyway it was fun, and it did me good. The instructor asked me for a date. I HE only trouble with having dates was that I was so exhausted by the exercises, the California climate and the change of four hours in time — including an hour for daylight saving — that I was lucky if I could stay awake until dinner time. I did, however, have one date that I had to keep, with the still -photograph department of the publicity office. They were going to take glamour pictures of me. It seems that glamour pictures have to be taken with very little clothing on the figure beneath the slinky gown or negligee. That's to give plenty of "umph" to the finished product. If there's too much "umph," they can always resort to retouching the negatives. Many a devout fan would be shocked to see how much is sometimes lopped off his or her cinema ideal before the "stills" are released. Most stars will not allow still pictures to be released until they have personally marked them for such retouching. My main trouble was in trying to keep the negligee closed while striking the intricate poses demanded by the photographer. What I really needed was two pairs of hands— one pair to pose with, the other pair for clutching purposes. I felt like an unwilling strip-tease artiste. The photographer told me, without asking for a date, that the thing he liked about me was my naturalness. He claimed there wasn't enough of that sort of thing in Hollywood. "Still," he said, eveing me critically, "your clothes and hats are very cute, but they don't make you look like an actress. As long as you're an actress, you'd better look like one." So he lent me his assistant, a young woman of excellent taste, who knew just what an actress was supposed to look like with her clothes on. We went shopping and I went into hock. I supposed the only thing to do with the clothes I had brought with me to Hollywood was to give them to the Salvation Army, but I decided against it; if ever I found myself contractless, they might come in very handy. They were good clothes, mostly new. Their only fault was that they weren't glam f Continued from page 25) orous. The hats didn't have yards of veils attached to them and the suits weren't broad enough across the shoulders. The shoes weren't tricky enough and the dresses didn't have the sort of bodices that accentuated the buzzooms (pronounced b'ZOOMS) of their erstwhile wearer. I HE new clothes corrected all those faults, and what with the ministrations of the Brothers Westmore on this particular Glamour Girl's face, and the bodily improvement of hours of gym work, the ugly duckling was at last becoming a swan. Bill, the chief photographer, approved; so did others on the lot. It was all a little confusing. If they had liked me before, because I was myself, what on earth was there to like about me now? For I was an entirely different person; I didn't even feel like myself. But the crowning mortification came as the result of prolonged, bitter discussions: it was deemed necessary that I wear breast pads. I was willing to meet glamour halfway, or even further, but such an artificiality as this seemed fraudulent. It took much talk, the reciting of names of much more glamorous ladies than I who wore them, to win me over. I suppose it is all very glamorous and necessary, but I am startled still every time I look down into my soup plate. Bill said; "Very good. You look like a Glamour Girl. Now all you have to do is act like one." "Do you think I ought to be the languid type?" I asked him. "Or should I be the snooty type and practice looking down my nose at the office boys?" "Whatever you do," Bill warned, "don't try to high-hat the office boys. Today's office boy may be tomorrow's producer!" I had learned one of Hollywood's cardinal maxims. Bill told me I should have a fulllength mirror, in front of which I could practice being graceful and alluring. He showed me how to cross my legs when I sat down so that they'd deliver the maximum of "umph." He also taught me how to stand arrestingly, always holding — but lightly — onto something. I couldn't help thinking of my childhood training. Mother had always taught me that it was unladylike to hang onto the woodwork when I was supposed to be standing erect. Doubtless she was right, but now we were more interested in glamour than in character. "You've got good eyes," said Bill. "They are, in fact, your best feature — but you don't know how to use 'em." Of course I had been seeing and reading through them for quite some time, but it seems that wasn't enough. "When you look at people," Bill instructed, "don't just look at 'em; peek up provocatively through your lashes — whether they're your own lashes or Westmores'. And you've got to look interested, especially if the person you're looking at happens to be a guy. You've got to practice all this sexy stuff in your everyday life; then when you get in front of a camera, it'll just naturally project itself onto the film. Besides, when a guy buys you a meal, the least you can do is make him think you think he's wonderful." I tried to follow that piece of advice. I looked at dinner dates with sex appeal, whether or not I felt any. I batted my eyes over enchiladas down on Olvera Street, over lobster thermidor at the Brown Derby, over almond duck at Tommy Wong's in Chinatown, and over long strands of spaghetti at Travaglini's. If you've ever tried to look sexy over a plate of spaghetti you'll understand how wearing it all was. I FOUND (because I was told) that my voice was much more effective if I kept it low. So I went around feeling like a coloratura soprano who has to sing baritone because there didn't happen to be any calls for coloraturas that day. And my mouth wasn't so good, either, it developed. I'd always been rather fond of my mouth; after all, it was ?ny mouth, and I liked it. But now they told me that the teeth didn't set right in the oral cavity; that I'd better see a dentist, or a couple of dentists. So I went and had my mouth stuffed with plaster on two separate occasions. And I didn't get any Federal funds to carry on the work, either; I had to pay for it all myself. Gals who work in pictures get pretty good pay, to be sure, but by the time they pay for clothes and glamour and dentists and gym lessons, there isn't very much left. Incidentally, while I'm on the subject of money, I might mention the fact that most of these six-months-option contracts carry a six-weeks layoff clause. In other words, the studio guarantees you only twenty weeks' work out of twenty-six. The six weeks layoff without salary is a good idea if your figure needs a little trimming, I guess, but I don't have that sort of figure trouble, and I'm crazy about steaks and baked potatoes smothered in butter. And I have neither the inclination nor the ability to gold dig forty-two consecutive dinners. A ND now back to the studio school for lessons in acting. The director of the school was impressed by my increased state of glamour. "But," he asked, "what's become of the girl you used to be?" I told him she had been sold down the river to the money pots of Hollywood, which I considered quite a bon mot. He said: "Oh, have they given you a raise?" Which was a good answer. Day after day, in the school, I practiced all the things that go toward getting one into shape to act in front of a camera, without tripping over cables and sitting in the director's lap, though some cynics still claim that the latter procedure helps a girl's career. We did little scenes from plays and motion pictures and learned a lot. But I wondered when on earth I was going to be a motion-picture actress. I wondered so hard that it must have taken on the substance of a prayer, for at last somebody answered. I was given a small part in a big picture. We went on location, which was fun. I was treated pleasantly, but with little deference. It seemed to me that they'd never get around to shooting the scene in which I was to make my debut as a motion-picture actress. I was like a child waiting for the interminable hours of Christmas Eve to pass so that I could get at my toys. I read over my little piece of script four million times. It called for me to run down a flight of steps, pause, for a moment, to speak to several older men. Then I was to espy my lover, whom I had not seen for two long years. I was to light up every feature of my subtle (I hoped) face and hurl myself happily into his arms, there (Continued on page 72) 70 PHOTOPLAY