Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

DEBBIE REYNOLDS Continued from page 41 a drawer under the desk and drew out a long white sheet of paper. As he looked down the list I had an awful feeling that maybe Debbie had forgotten. “Yes, Miss Reynolds is expecting you. Here’s your pass. Go right through that door. Miss Reynolds is on Sound Stage 3. Just follow the signs. You can’t miss it.” I turned and walked back towards the door. “Just a minute, Miss,” he called. “Is that a camera you have in your hand?” “Yes. I thought I could get a snapshot of Debbie.” “I’m sorry, you aren’t allowed to take cameras on the lot. You’ll have to leave it with me and pick it up on your way out.” I reluctantly put my camera on the desk and left by way of a door which leads onto the lot. The studio stretched before me for miles. I didn’t know which way to go. Then a boy rode by on a bicycle. “Can I help you?” “I’m on my way to Sound Stage 3 to see Debbie Reynolds. She expects me.” “Well, follow the sign,” he said, pointing. “What sign?” I asked. I was so nervous I couldn’t see anything. I’m sure it must have been right under my nose but I couldn’t see it. I guess they’re used to handling excited tourists because the boy grinned and said, “Follow me.” He hopped on his bike and peddled slowly right up to a door marked Sound Stage 3. “Have fun,” he called as he rode away. The door was partly open. I could hear voices. One was Debbie’s, I’d recognize it anywhere. I walked inside. I saw a man with his back to the door talking to a girl. All I could see was the top of her head. I stopped and stood very still. Was that Debbie’s head! The man turned around. It was Dean Jones and it was Debbie! Then Debbie saw me and came over. “Hi. I’m Debbie Reynolds. (As if I had to be told!) You must be Pam. Come on across the set with me while I do this next scene.” She led me to a chair. “Sit here, Pam. You’ll have a good view of us working from this spot. And I’ll be right back.” I sat down and watched. I didn’t know where to look first. There were so many people running around. Some were fixing lights and moving furniture. Then a lady came over and ran a comb through Debbie’s hair. It took a long time before the director called “Action.” Every few minutes Debbie looked over at me and nodded reassuringly. When the scene was over she said, “Come on, let’s find a corner that’s a little more private. I can’t leave the set because I’m in the next scene. But at least we can get away from some of the noise.” She led me across the huge stage until she found two chairs in a corner where there was nobody else around. And when I sat down opposite her, I realized for the first time how very beautiful Debbie is, so much more than on the screen. I adored her dress. It was pink with a scoop neck. Around her waist was a pink cummerbund embroidered with daisies and she also had on pink very high heeled shoes. Her eyes were green — just like they said in the magazines. I thought they looked a little sad, though, although she was smiling and I knew that I was looking at a very brave person because no matter what she felt inside she obviously wasn’t the type to go around with a long face so that everyone would be sympathetic. I pulled out my list of questions from my purse. But they didn’t include the questions I so much wanted to ask. I wanted to know how she really felt. If her big house seemed terribly lonely. If she had seen Eddie at all during the past few weeks. I wanted to ask but I’d promised. So I looked down at my question No. 1 which said “Biographical Details.” She began telling me about her childhood and explained that those sort of facts were all on a printed biographical sheet which was put out by the studio publicity department and perhaps I’d like to have one. I said yes. Then she added, “But I’m going to give you a scoop. Tell you something that’s not on that sheet. It says that my height is five feet one and one-half inches. That’s wrong. I’m only five feet and one-half inch tall.” I wrote that down as the very first fact that was all my own. I was on my way. But as I looked at her I couldn’t stop myself thinking of her all alone with her children in that enormous house with the large rooms and the pillars . . . and the servants. I wanted to say, are you lonely? But instead I asked politely, “What are your hobbies and sports?” She said that her children came before anything else, but that she enjoyed tennis, Her Stolen Moment of Sin , . . p E radio program "My True Story" gilds no lilies. It deals frankly with the emotions of real people — their loves and passions, their hates and fears. Listening to these stories you may recognize some of the problems that are holding happiness back from you. So be sure to listen. Every story is taken right from the files of True Story Magazine. TUNE IN EVERY MORNING TO My True Story NATIONAL BROADCASTING COMPANY She made a teenager's worst mistake. Read "We Never Meant To . . in April TRUE STORY Magazine, now at your newsstand. swimming and bowling. She also said she loved colors and her favorites were red and blue. “I have a mad passion for Mexican food, any style, any time and can eat it three times a day,” she confided. I laughed. I thought I’d try one serious question. “Debbie,” I said, “if you could have the choice of living any place in the world, what place would you choose?” “That’s easy. There’s no place in the world I’d rather live than in Southern California.” So I tried another. “Did you always want to be an actress, even when you were little?” “Heavens, no,” Debbie answered. “My biggest aim in life was to be a gym teacher. It looked like a lot of fun and seemed to be the thing I was most suited to. Even when I did take drama lessons I was considered strictly no-talent Reynolds in those days. And when I did get to Hollywood I was so nervous every time I had to meet someone important that often I would sit and fiddle with my shoe just as you’re doing now.” I hadn’t realized she’d noticed. I grinned sheepishly. Debbie continued. “One day I remember accepting an invitation to a home for dinner from a woman in the studio who set a formal table, and had the meal served by a maid. I was shook up for weeks after this experience. I was completely confused by all the silver in front of me and I didn’t know which side the maid would serve from next or what to do with what she had when she presented it. I juggled, fumbled and blushed.” We both laughed at this story, but as we laughed I couldn’t help wondering how she could be so gay. I know I’m only fourteen and not very worldly and I don’t want to sound as though I can fully understand people inside out. But I do know that as I watched Debbie I saw a courageous woman. She wasn’t going to let me know if she felt sad or tired and I admired her so much for this. But it wouldn’t be right to say I was finding out more from Debbie from the things she didn’t say than from what I put down in my notebook. But it seems to me that talking isn’t the only way to speak to someone else. You can speak with your eyes, your facial expressions and your actions, too. Then she said, “Tell me a little about yourself, Pam.” And I explained that as my father used to be a major in the Air Force we’d lived in many many different parts of the country and abroad too, but since August of 1958 we had lived in California. My father is now a civil engineer working on the ballistic missile program. I told her also that I was a very keen drama student at school. I was ready for another question when the assistant director came over and said, “Okay, Brigitte, back to work.” “That’s my latest nickname — Brigitteafter guess who,” Debbie joked. “At least I’m making some progress. On my last picture they kept calling me George.” Once again I sat and watched Debbie work. If ever I’d had any ambitions to be an actress I would have lost them right then and there. I never realized how hard it was to make a movie. Everything takes so much time. There are so many tiny details that the average moviegoer never is even conscious of. It took fifteen minutes until they were ready to start filming. The .scene was a hard one. It must have been, because they kept doing it over and over and over. It was almost six o’clock. Debbie had told me that she’d been up since five that morning, and arrived at the studio a little before seven a.m. Now, almost twelve hours later, she was still going strong. 86