Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

there’s a conspiracy among English families to make English girls as unattractive as possible. They are supposed to have the largest feet in the world. Why shouldn’t they look that way? They’re crammed into walking brogues as soon as they can walk. They never wear makeup. At seventeen they are allowed a pale pink lipstick; they are still in school uniform, wearing colorless nail polish. At the age when they’re just becoming pretty and might have an urge to find out how they look out of uniform, there are only two talents that will bring them plaudits from parents: robust health and being very good at hockey. “Now the Frenchman is another cup of tea,” she said. “He courts in a grand manner. He treats a woman as a feminine object. Actually, there is no equality; the law gives everything a woman owns to her husband. She is not considered an individual. She dresses well, but more for show, in a slightly extreme fashion. And after the marriage? The object of his affection is expected just to be displayed and to bring up children. When she has over five she is given a ribbon and an allowance by the government.” Dana thought a while, and then continued her musings. “Italian men are more naturally romantic than the French. The Italian is passionately involved with every love affair. He courts with music, flowers, little gestures, infinite care. The Italian’s love song is for everybody, the poor, the wealthy, all to share. Even after marriage, the husband will burst through with romance occasionally, but he is much more involved with his business, the bambinos and the lusty living of the Italian male. “But the American man!” Now Dana was started on her favorite subject. “American men like women, they like to have them around and they spoil them wonderfully. They care about their clothes, they treat them as equals, and still as women. They try to relieve them of all the tedious things of married life, with wonderful gadgets in kitchens and homes. They want an attractive companion, rather than just a woman to feed them. It’s a good thing Greg feels that way, for my cooking specialty is brandied ; peaches. On the cook’s day off I made brandied peaches until he finally admitted he’d had enough to last him a lifetime and suggested we find a reliable cook to replace the cook on her day off.” Dana smiled fondly. “When I was new in Hollywood, I really didn’t know very many American men — as dates, that is. I lived j quietly near my studio, 20th Century-Fox, in a small apartment. My only real friends were Bill and Edie Goetz and Sam and 1 Frances Goldwyn. When I wasn’t working I dined with them in their homes. “On one of my few social gaddings, I was I at Cobina Wright’s cocktail party. Greg i and I were introduced. Immediately he asked me for a dinner date. I’d heard all about this glamorous Mr. B. and the glamorous movie stars who fell madly in love with him. I felt the whole situation was far too fast and sophisticated for me. I’d always been wary of handsome men anyway, especially men that women fell for. I was sure he’d be insufferably conceited. Well, sure of himself he was — he’s a man who makes up his mind fast. He told me much, much later that he decided to marry me the moment he saw me. I remember I refused his invitation rather curtly, first informing him that I had a date, and second, that when working I never went out nights. That, I thought, was that. “The next day Greg Bautzer was on my unlisted telephone asking for a date. I I changed my unlisted number six times. : Six times he found it. Each time I refused. , Then I went to New York to do some publicity for ‘The View from Pompey’s Head.’ He called me at the hotel. He too was in New York. I informed him coldly that I was dining with Lord Rothermere. I didn’t know Greg was playing gin rummy with Ben Hecht and Charles Lederer. They heard his end of the conversation, and Charlie, who is now our best friend, turned to Ben and said, ‘I don’t know her, but I don’t think I’m going to like this girl.’ ” The conversation had gone something like this: “Where will you be tomorrow?” Greg asked. “I’m going to Philadelphia.” “I’ll meet you in Philadelphia,” Greg said. “No.” “Then you go to Denver? I’ll meet you in Denver.” “No.” “Boston? San Francisco? I’ll meet you there,” said Greg. “No,” she said definitely, and hung up. Dana smiled ironically at the recollection. “While I was in Denver my phone rang, and Greg’s very abrupt voice said, ‘Your plane gets into Los Angeles at eleven o’clock. I’ll meet it.’ He hung up. Well, I thought, I can always say I have a headache. But when he met me at eleven my head didn’t ache, so we went to The Traders. Sitting at a corner table, he turned his attention and full charm on me. I was smitten. After that I was showered with thoughtful gifts: a basket of flowers, with my first Yorkshire terrier in the middle; a Toastmaster I had discussed, with an orchid sitting on it; ten-pound boxes of chocolates delivered on the set — the crew and I gorged. Flowers, little gifts — and always one red rose for me. Greg has excellent taste. When he was traveling he’d pick me up a beautiful Italian sweater or one of the mad hats I adore. “The more I saw of him the more I realized that Greg had all the qualities I’d been looking for. I was wooed and won in the best American tradition. We decided to be married months before we were. During that time, I was mentally trying to adapt to living in this town. I had fallen in love with America; still, I’d been trying to duck the social life here in Hollywood. Greg is popular; he enjoys people; even his law practice often involves meeting clients socially. I knew it would be difficult for me to change and keep up with him, but I was sure it would be worth the effort. “And gossip became a real problem, too. While we were both trying to get away to Africa for my parents’ permission, the nasty little folk were placing bets on whether or not we would marry.” Dana made a grimace of distaste. “I finally went to South Rhodesia alone. I had to change planes nine times in six days to spend two days with my parents. Greg called every day. When I finally landed back in New York with parental blessings, I was met at the hotel by a little orchestra playing ‘I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Face.’ ” “Aha!” I said. “You noticed?” Dana glanced at the hi-fi. “I suppose it wasn’t very much of a coincidence — I play that song so often. When I heard the tune then, it was like a love letter and a welcome-home, both at once. So Greg and I were married, in June of 1956. Now my first American love affair and my last seem like part of the same emotion. 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