Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

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MARLON BRANDO Continued from page 59 past Anna’s two-door, ’58, salmon-colored Chevy, to get to the side entrance of the house; that’s why we were in the kitchen), but somehow it didn’t. Maybe it was because the baby’s bottle was warming in a saucepan on the oversized range; or maybe it was the way Marlon was jiggling the child on his shoulder; or perhaps it was just that he was relaxed and at home. Anyhow, the scene seemed exactly right. Marlon carefully shifted Christian from his right shoulder to his left, cradling the back of the child’s head as he did so to give the maximum support. He murmured something to the baby and the infant gurgled. Marlon laughed. He motioned to the maid to take Christian into the living room. Then he turned to me. I stuck out my hand and introduced myself. He took my hand and grasped it firmly. I explained that I had an appointment to interview his wife, and added that I’d like very much to interview him, too. For a moment he didn’t say a word. He walked over to the stove and turned the gas off under the baby’s bottle. Then he looked at me and said, “I’m sorry. I never give personal interviews.” I tried to make him change his mind, but he just smiled, shook his bead no, and showed me into the living room. At the doorway we stopped and Marlon gestured towards some soft Japanese sandals on the floor. I took off my shoes and slipped into the sandals. As I stood up again, a very pretty, dark -haired girl, Anna Kashfi Brando, came across the room toward me, sort of balancing Christian on one hip. She was wearing white shorts, a green and white striped blouse, open at the neck, and was barefoot (although her toenails were painted with silver polish). We introduced ourselves and she invited me to sit down. Meanwhile, Marlon had gone into the kitchen and returned with the baby’s bottle. Anna had seated herself on a huge teakwood chair which had brilliant red brocaded upholstery. There was another like it a few feet away from Anna’s, at one of the corners of a large, square teakwood coffee table, and I sat down. Christian began to kick his legs and wave his arms. Marlon quickly gave Anna the bottle and she eased it gently into the baby’s mouth. They both watched the infant until it was feeding contentedly. Then Marlon excused himself and left the room. Anna said something to me but I couldn’t hear what she said. I suddenly realized the hi-fi set was going full blast. Through the noise I gathered she was saying, “Marlon forgets to turn it off” — and I went over and flicked off the switch. On the way back, I noticed how soft and white the throw rugs on the floor were, and how highly polished the black-painted plank flooring seemed. In one corner I saw a tall pile of square pillows with Japanese symbols on them, and next to these two small, wooden headrests for guests to lean on when they sat on the pillows. But most of all, I noticed Anna and the baby, the way she gazed down tenderly at the child, the way the infant fixed his eyes on her face. Now that the hi-fi set was no longer blaring, the soft tinkle of Japanese temple bells could be heard from the Oriental garden outside. From the living room, the rocks in the garden, with their Japanese inscriptions, looked like waves. Once in a while the babble of the little stream that ran under the bridges in the garden fused with the tinkle of the temple bells. All was peaceful, outside and inside, all was calm. “Isn’t he a wonderful baby?” Anna asked, breaking the silence. I nodded and said that she and the baby were something out of a painting, a Madonna and Child in a Japanese setting. “They say motherhood becomes a woman,” she replied, smiling shyly. “How much does he weigh now?” I asked. “About fourteen pounds, I think. And he’s not four months old yet. He was just seven pounds, five ounces when he was born.” And then she added, proudly, with a quick smile. “But he has an awfully big appetite.” For a while she chatted on about formulas, and sleeping habits, and breastfeeding versus bottle-feeding. “I breast fed him for about a month,” she said. “It’s supposed to be better for them. But then I got upset by something. And after that I developed a kidney infection and I had to stop. I felt so close to him while I was feeding him by breast. I hated to stop.” When she said “got upset by something,” the expression on her face changed completely, as if a cloud were momentarily passing over the sun. I started to question her about it, but changed my mind and asked instead, “And how about Marlon? Have you initiated him into the mysteries of fatherhood?” Anna laughed. “I certainly have. He’s even learned how to change diapers. He’s a wonderful daddy. You should see him with the baby. He cuddles Christian, he plays with him, he talks to him. Honestly, there are times when he ignores me completely and only pays attention to the baby.” Again her smile faded for a second, and then she went on. “Marlon had brought home all kinds of stuffed animals for him — elephants, dogs, cats, Teddy bears. And one enormous lion that’s several times bigger than the baby.” The bottle slipped from Christian’s mouth. She eased it up again for him. He began to drink once more. “Marlon gets home from the studio about seven and goes straight to the baby’s room,” she continued. “He lifts him up in the air, he tickles him, he sings and coos to him — I can’t get him out of there until the baby falls asleep. Then he first says hello to me and we have supper.” Christian had finished his bottle. Anna raised him to her shoulder and began steadily patting his back. He made a sound that I barely heard but his mother laughed. “That does it,” she said, and perched him on her knee. “Are you ready for nap time now,” she asked. “Are you full, little baby? Did you have enough to eat?” Christian waved his arms excitedly, trying to catch Anna’s face in his hands. As I tagged along with Anna and the baby to the nursery, I got a quick, unofficial tour of the house. The dining room was small, with a very low table in the center where guests kneel down to eat. The Brandos’ bedroom was all done in mauve tones. The one striking piece of furniture in it was the large, Emperorsize, double bed, low to the floor, with a delicately carved, ivory panel fitted in the headboard. The nursery itself was a converted den where Christian was separated from his parents’ bedroom by screens. In fact, the entire house was filled with these beautiful hand-painted Japanese screens. They were lovely. Back in the living room, after the baby had been put to bed, we talked about Marlon. “He loves children,” Anna said, “he loves them very much.” For a moment she stopped and looked out at the garden. We could both hear the temple bells ring ing in the Japanese dwarf tree. Then she continued, but the tone of her voice had changed. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but I don’t think so. Now it was a little pensive; yes, and a little desperate. “We hope to have more children. Boys and girls. Lots of them.” And then her voice trailed off almost to a whisper. She changed the subject abruptly. “Marlon lets me do anything L want,” she asserted. From the way she said it, I couldn’t tell whether she was pleased about this, or complaining. Then she went on to talk about a variety of things: the role she was playing in a new M-G-M picture, “Night of the Quarter Moon”; the way newspapers handle stories about Hollywood marriages; the stupidity of racial prejudice; and much more. But all the time she was talking, skipping from one topic to another, I had the strange feeling that she was talking at me and not to me, that somehow she just wasn’t there. Once she jumped as she heard the sputtering sound of a car starting outside. “It can get so lonesome up here,” she said. “I can never get used to it.” The maid interrupted us by bringing in some Japanese green tea. It was very good. When we’d finished, Anna returned to her “loneliness” theme. During the summer, while Marlon had been busy making “One-Eyed Jacks,” a picture in which he stars, and which he has largely written, directed and produced himself. Anna had taken a course in Philosophy at U.C.L.A. She rode to classes with Phylfis Hudson; , and Phyllis was a frequent caller at the Brando home, offering Anna companionship when Marlon was away. “The philosophy course was fun ” Anna said, “and I hope to take more. If I’m not tied up on a picture— and of course, if I’m not tied down too much with the baby at home — I’d like to take other classes.” But this was getting far awav from Anna and Marlon, so I asked, “Do you and Marlon have a chance to get out much now?” “We can get out occasionally,” she said. “Did I tell you about our visits to the new ‘beat generation’ hangouts?” It seemed she and Marlon had recently visited two of these sawdust strewn clubs, one, called “Cosmo Alley,” in a Hollywood back alley, the other, “The Unicorn,” : on the Sunset Strip. “I saw all those girls with their long, dirty hair, and with tons and tons of black eye shadow. And we saw one skeleton -like old man reading poetry to a jazz background. He looked like he was dead.” “You don’t dig this ‘Beat Generation’ then?” I asked. “Not at all. I think it’s a lot of hooey. As far as I’m concerned, what those ‘beats’ seem to need most of all is a good bath.” Anna sort of shuddered as she said this, as if the memory of the “characters” in the “beat dives” was something very distasteful to her. “What about Marlon?” I asked. “Does he dig that kind of people?” For a moment she hesitated and then answered, “I don’t think so. No, I’m sure. He doesn’t like them.” The way she said it, it sounded like she was trying hard to convince herself. It had grown dark outside. In the kitchen I could hear the maid preparing dinner. There were no sounds from any other part of the house. Just the bustling in the kitchen and the soft tinkle of the temple bells outside. Anna walked with me to my car. The ground outside the house was still hot, but it didn’t seem to bother her, although her feet were still bare. Continued on page 66