Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1948)

about Taoism? To me, it’s a worthwhile creed. You just go along with the rhythm of life. It appeals to me because I believe that people and all things should be less active — infinitely more passive.” He actually believes that he believes this — and then comes on sets and fusses, fusses, fusses. Right now he is engaged in rewriting the end of “The Bachelor and the Bobbysoxer” which he is making at RKO with Shirley Temple. His current producer, Dore Schary, goes into long huddles with him and lets him rewrite lines one day that he will probably do all anew the next day. Dore is a kindly and wise guy, not at all like Mike Curtiz, and yet his is the same “Yes, Cary. Fine, Cary” technique all over again — which Cary will stay blissfully unaware of until this picture, too, is finished. Actually, he is very keen about “The Bachelor and the Bobby-soxer” and he collapses with mirth — as do the rest of the cast — when he has to take lessons in jitterbugging from Shirley for some scenes. His is not temperament in the usual explosive sense. It is rather an infinite — and immediate— capacity for taking pains to make every line, every situation, every “takum” as nearly perfect as possible. If Mike Curtiz was hell on wheels on “Night and Day” — and he was — so was Mr. Grant himself. But it wasn’t because of the fairly common stellar attitude that he wasn’t getting enough footage or sufficient close-ups. Cary has what almost amounts to an obsession about how his lines can be polished — and thus seem more natural. He is an extremely intense person. There is too much sloppy use of the phrase “a mixed-up guy.” So let us say that Cary isn’t a “mixed-up guy,” but there are two very contrasting sides to his character — and to a great extent they war against each other. Yet perhaps they are what produces the artist in him. It’s rather like his having run away from home and joined a theatrical troupe because he loved the sea. He wasn’t at all stage struck. He simply wanted to travel anywhere. So he ends up tied to what, for all its glamour, is essentially a country village and because of his fame, unable to move about with any freedom. It’s also characteristic of him that he’s never even considered buying a yacht but before the war, whenever he got the chance, he went to sea on freighters — because that way he got closer to the real lure of vast, watery spaces and further away from people who, on big liners, would have tended to affect his privacy. EQUALLY, when he travels on land, he LJ is more apt than not to drive himself somewhere in his own moderately priced car and to go visiting small towns rather than the large cities. It completely outrages him that because of the autograph mobs he can’t walk freely about the streets of New York and characteristically, instead of trying to appease these kids, he gives out hot and deeply felt blasts against their rude conduct. Yet in small towns, he’ll stop and chat for hours with garage attendants or lunch-room hamburger slingers. He argues this is because smalltown people, even when they recognize him, are always polite and never prying, and are less aggressive than city people. He thinks he prefers old people. He says, “Whenever I talk to my elders, they teach me something. When they tell of their experiences, no matter how exciting they may have been, they report them in a per fectly passive way — as though they were telling about what happened to someone else. If we could only have adopted this attitude toward our experiences when we were young, think what a lot of grief and confusion we’d have saved ourselves.” He says that — and yet the three people he most admires are terrific human ckynamos — Rosalind Russell, Alfred Hitchcock and Ingrid Bergman. Roz is definitely his favorite woman friend, and he talks to her constantly by telephone. Hitchcock is the one man who can get him into any picture by merely requesting his presence. With any other producer, director or co-star he demands full details, a reading of the script, a knowledge of the cast, the budget and so on. But he went into “Notorious” merely on Hitch’s say-so. He is absolutely lyric about Bergman, the actress. He is eager to go on the record as saying she is, to him, the greatest artist before the public today. This sweeps all the actors, including himself, off the board — but this doesn’t bother Cary. He is, in fact, one of the few men who regards women as superior in every way. “Innately, in a crisis, a woman is wiser than any man,” he says. “I’ve been very fortunate in knowing many wise women.” That’s what the man says — but obviously he picks his ladies first of all for beauty. Yes, he’s a contradiction, this Cary Grant — as contradictory as are his Latin looks to his completely English blood — and his passionate love of America. But there are no two ways about his being an artist, a thinker and a gentleman. He’s all that — plus that rare, rare soul who, with continually mounting success, gets steadily more kind and more genuine. Merry Christmas! ( Continued from page 25) may have been confused by his transition from poverty to riches and obscurity to fame. With the announcement of Frank’s break with Nancy his name was linked with the names of several glamour girls. At the Sonja Henie party the day before the story came over the air Lana Turner had been seen dancing with him several times. But Lana, who confesses her heart belongs elsewhere, says she and Frank have been good friends for years. It has been to her that he has talked of his professional troubles, often profiting by her advice. Their friendship, however, has been open. She has been a guest at his home and they have lunched at their mutual studio. Marilyn Maxwell also came in for her share of rumors, in spite of the fact that Frank claimed neither he nor Marilyn are romantically interested, that there was no particular person in his heart, that it is just that he loved show business and wanted to be with people who share the limelight. Frank and Nancy were youngsters when they were married. Always it was Nancy who encouraged Frank to go on with his singing, who stayed with him and by him through his lean, discouraging years. A few years ago when Frank decided to move his family to California he bought the old Mary Astor house on Toluca Lake. Long before Nancy moved into this house, however, while she lived with Frank and their then baby daughter in a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel waiting for their furniture to arrive from New Jersey, her adjustment to Hollywood and the demands of her new life began. In her quiet way she proceeded to be "Happy New Year, Nancy" come one of the best-liked women in town. There is a genuine quality about her, a lack of false sophistication that endears her to everyone and in his heart this pleases Frank. To make certain she kept apace she had her clothes designed by Jean Louis of Columbia Studios. After the Gary Cooper party, she telephoned the designer to thank him for her beautiful frock. “Everyone liked it,” she told him. JOAN CRAWFORD has always been her idea of beauty and taste and one day after lunch at The Club she hurried home to tell Frank that Joan had leaned over and whispered, “Cute hat!” Nancy’s good taste is manifested in their home too. The master bedroom is done simply in blue, with a blue rug and a blue quilted headboard and spread on the big oversized bed. The two adjoining dressing rooms contrast attractively. Frank’s is done in a mannish plaid. Nancy’s features feminine frills and ruffles. Little Nancy’s room too is frilly and feminine. And a large crayon drawing of her father that was drawn by a fan hangs over her bed. Little Frank’s room is red gingham with animals and clowns hopping about on the wallpaper and the curtains. The upstairs balcony is divided half into a playroom for the children and half as a guest room with twin beds for any stayer-oners. The living room has a chintzy semi-formality. The dining room is well suited either to family dinners or elaborate parties. It is, however, in the playroom, the only room in which they finally used the furniture shipped from their old home, that they spend most of their time. The two barrel shaped tables with their homey red check cloths are used for dinner tables. Although Mamie lives there as a cook it is Nancy who does all the preparing of food. Italian chicken with its rich sauce or green artichokes with a garlic clove in their folds lend a fragrance to the homey kitchen. And no matter how tempting the food there is always that side dish of cold spaghetti, left over from the day before, at Frank’s place. It is the first thing he tastes at dinner. The first thing he looks for. Louis B. Mayer, head of the MetroGoldwyn-Mayer Studios, is one of the many who have felt the warmth and genuine friendliness of this home. When Nancy herself cooked a dinner not long ago for forty guests, including Mr. Mayer, he telephoned the next day to say how much he had liked being there and that he had never enjoyed better food. Both Frank and Nancy glowed under the praise. It is not a home a man would leave unless his confusion was great. Frank s actions proved this. For only a few days after he moved away he telephoned Nancy to ask if he might visit the children. “Yes, come if you wish.” Nancy told him. “I won’t be there but the children will.” Little Nancy saw him as his car drove up. In an instant she was in his arms there in the garden. Frank Jr., who will be three this month, is still too young for companionship. But between Frank and his sixyear-old daughter is a deep abiding love and understanding. There was the night, for instance, when Frank badly fluffed a line on the air. He sat alone in the living room when he got ★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★■A DON’T MISS The People’s Choice of Winning Stars and Pictures front the Gallup Audience Research, Inc. Poll Next Month!