Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1960)

DIANE BAKER Continued, from page 35 or any other leg that was handy— and carefully spread the carrots around the plate with my fork, so they wouldn’t lie there in a heap looking as though I’d left them all. I never ate them. Food wasn’t the only thing I was stubborn about. I wouldn’t practice the piano either. Mom even tried tying me to the stool, but nothing worked. I’m kind of sorry now. There’s nothing as romantic as playing a piano by candlelight, especially when you’re with the boy you like. I guess what I’m trying to say is that, looking back, I realize now how right my mom was about a lot of things and I wish I’d listened to her, but I guess everybody has to learn for themselves. I think I’m an adult now. Sometimes it seemed like it was going to take forever to be twenty-one and then suddenly I was. I’ve thought a lot about what I want from life and I guess — well, I’ve found what I think I want, but there are still times when I get confused and scared — terribly scared. Like the time I was sitting on a train — we were on a publicity tour — and although things seemed to be working out well around me, and everything was going smoothly, I found myself saying, “Be careful, Diane, this is it.” And I began to get filled with all kinds of fears — like maybe I have no talent. I got to thinking, on that train, that although some of us kids are getting by okay now, where will we be ten years from now? Will people say, “She looked promising but she didn’t move an inch?” The palms of my hands got clammy and I started working very hard after that. r 70 I don’t know if I’m making myself clear. It’s like something inside that warns you. It’s like a conscience. At these times, I suddenly think I’m not really getting any place and that I have to start being some place. I realize that I’m worrying about material things when instead I need to get away from people — get back to my ballet classes — get some polish. I get that old feeling that I have a lot to learn. It’s just like Mom always told me. My trouble is that maybe I’m not really a worker. I tend to be lazy. I tend to let myself down and then feel terrible about it. That’s when I get those pangs and feel a need to start all over. You can’t waste time just thinking about what you want to do — you have to do it. People, today, spend too much time analyzing. You learn through trying. So, whether I’m doing a television show or making a movie, I try to throw myself right into it. I want to be a good actress. I don’t know if I have it in me to be great, although I’m never satisfied and I can look at my work objectively and see an awful lot of mistakes — and then improve them. I love making pictures. I love my life in Hollywood. When I’m free, I enjoy leaping into a pounding surf and feeling like I’m a part of the sea. I love beach parties where you play a ukulele and sing. I love the feel of warm sand, the tang of a good hot dog, the look of a healthy tan and a sun-burned nose. I love getting into my car at night, especially if I’m troubled, and driving down to Santa Monica or Malibu. I get some classical music on the radio, roll all the windows down for a good strong breeze, put my foot on the accelerator of my Hillman-Minx and I go! It’s my life, that car. It gives me such a wonderful sense of freedom. With it, I suddenly have wings. My mind races as the telephone poles fly by, like so many wooden soldiers in the moonlight. I have a favorite spot off Sunset Boulevard— a rock that juts out into the ocean. I often park there, leave the headlights on, and sit on my rock all alone. There, with the moonlight on the water, the breeze blowing in from the sea, the pounding of the surf, solutions to any problem I might have come to me. Maybe it’s a funny trait — liking to be alone. I’m not what you’d call a mixer or a party-goer. I can get along with people on a big scale, but I prefer to have just a few close friends. I don’t know if I can explain what I mean. Like on the lot at Twentieth, you greet everyone, hug them, ask them about their day, but then no one is possessive. No one holds on. You can go to your room any time you like and be alone. I like that. I’m so lucky that Denny understands. Dennis Powers is my dearest, closest friend. He’s a third-year student of political science at the University of Southern California. He’s also a very talented artist. Many of his paintings are hanging in my apartment. I adore them. He seems to present a spiritual story in everything he does. We met each other in high school; that was five years ago and long before I started acting. ^OOUNT THE YOU GET THE MOST IN PHOTOPIAY on sale Feb. 3 I’ll nevex forget how we met. It was a warm September day, the kind that makes you push damp strands of hair back from your forehead impatiently, and I was sitting at a table in the school cafeteria discussing a test that was coming up next period. I hadn’t studied for it and I was feeling rather dejected. I was wearing my yellow sweater and I kept toying with the strand of pearls around my neck. Suddenly, I was conscious of someone staring at me from across the room. I looked up from my chicken-salad sandwich and there was Denny — tall, goodlooking, with strawberry colored hair. It was cut in a crew-cut and looked more like a Brillo pad than hair, but he was adorable. He had an honest look about him. For a week, all we did was sort of flirt across the room. The minute I’d enter the cafeteria, my eyes darted everywhere until they’d find him. I’d drop my books onto a chair and dash for the line at the steam table. Once, I was standing right behind him but we didn’t speak. He ordered clam chowder — which I can’t stand and I heard myself saying, “Clam chowder, please.” I forgot the butter for my rolls and he noticed! He put down his tray, right away, and got me a pat of butter, dropped it on the plate with my rolls, paid his check and joined his friends at their usual table. He was real casual, like this was the sort of thing he always did for dopey little girls who don’t know which side their bread is buttered. But I found out later that, that afternoon, he’d asked a mutual friend who I was. There was a school dance coming up, so I asked this same boy to ask Dennis if he’d like to go with me. His reply was, “I’d love to." That night, after dinner, he phoned and we talked for hours. We had so much fun at the dance. All the other girls were so envious because Denny danced only with me. They all kind of fell for him ’cause he was so handsome. And when each dance ended, we’d go over to the table, at the far end of the dance floor, and drink punch. We had so much fun that night. We discovered that we both adored sports and that Denny was great at football and track. Besides going to all the school activities, he introduced me to skiing— even helped me choose my outfit piece by piece. I went to his skiing club and got in with a whole new crowd. I guess, at the time, I was a fairly normal teenager. I did my share of sitting around the drugstore sipping Cokes, flipping through movie magazines, discussing boys and clothes. But, I confess, I had moods when I felt that something bigger and more exciting was going to happen to me and all this was kind of silly and unimportant. Sometimes, I’d close myself in my room at home, fling myself across the bed, turn the radio on, close my eyes and dream about New York — we lived way out in Laguna Beach, California. I’d see myself dancing in a big ballroom in a beautiful gown. I was always smiling, charming and poised — something I don’t feel I’ve really attained to this day. I longed to go to big Broadway theaters and see all the shows, hear an opera at the Met, visit the United Nations. Actually, I didn’t know too much about New York. It was just a dream place, but I was confident that I would go there one day and that my dream would be fulfilled. Denny was sweet and understanding when I’d tell him about my dream. But he always brought me down to earth, speaking to me gently. I guess if my mother had told me, I wouldn’t have listened, but when he said it, it seemed to make sense. We still enjoy the simplest things together. We go to coffee shops and sit and talk. We go to a neighborhood movie. We don’t dance much, but we like to drive in the car and listen to records. We both love classical music but we enjoy the Broadway show albums too, like “My Fair Lady” and “Sound of Music” and “Gypsy.” Recently, I took up sculpturing. I’ve been working on a head and Dennis often comes up to my apartment and helps me. Sometimes, he brings his college homework and studies while I sculpt — to music, of course. Giuseppe Di Stefano, the Met tenor, is my favorite singer. I don’t mean to sound stuffy or long hair. I enjoy the young pop singers, too, but I don’t get obsessed by them. Denny and I both like to read, too. Right now, I enjoy books on acting, and I adore letters— like Thomas Wolfe’s. You learn so much about people. You feel that you really know them. Sometimes, people ask me why I don’t go to many of the big parties. I guess it’s because my favorite kinds of parties are small, intimate ones, where everyone talks quietly together. And I like a mixed group that is interested in many different things. I’ve disliked a lot of big parties because I’ve found you can’t speak to everyone or even talk to any one person for very long. I love to cook. I really do. I have a new recipe for a tuna casserole that I’m dying to try. I adore making big salads with thousands of things. I cut up carrots, celery, onions and tomatoes like crazy. I’m mad for seasonings. I enjoy most foods, but hate caviar. Next to eating, I like