Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1948)

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Latin looks and English blood, home and heart, American. Cary, man of exciting contradictions BY RUTH WATERBURY In the Grant tradition — Betty Hensel is a tall, willowy blonde THE final shot of “Night and Day” had just been taken. The all-star cast gave a general sigh of pleasure and relief, turned to one another with happy smiles. All of them, that is, except Cary Grant, the topmost star of them all. Mr. Grant was definitely not happy. His handsome, swarthy face was blacker than a dozen thunderclouds. He stalked over to Michael Curtiz, the director. “Mike, now that the last foot of this film is shot, I want you to know that if I’m chump enough ever to be caught working for you again, you’ll know I’m either broke or I’ve lost my mind,” he said, biting his words out so that his diction was even more flawless than usual. “You may shanghai crews and cameramen to work with you, but no.t me, not again.” All Mike Curtiz said in response to the Grant outburst was, “Yes, Cary. Yes, Cary.” With that, Cary walked off the set and drove angrily toward his white brick and black trim Normandy house in Bel-Air. The doorbell at this house rang cheerfully early the next morning. Since he happened to be downstairs at that moment, Cary personally opened the door. There stood Mike Curtiz, beaming. In the thick accent, which after thirty-odd years in this country still remains primarily Hungarian, Mike cried out, “Cary, last night I read the most perfect script for us to do together. No story could be as good for you as this one. You have picture commitments that will tie you up through this year. I know that