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Luci is a self-glammered gal. Color made her, but literally, she will tell you. She had been loping along at an old gray mare pace, she says, when Technicolor dawned. Instantly her shrewd blue Yankee eye saw possibilities for Ball. To the hair she put the torch, to the eye the plumed lash, over the freckles the cream of peaches. She looked like Sheba the day Solomon fell. Into Technicolor she burst to mad cries of “Ball of fire!” from caption writers. Only once since then, in a spell of neurotic dissatisfaction, has she reverted to natural. “Scared myself,” she comments.
Miss Ball is a show woman who has worked at everything from props and mops to kicking high in “Hi Diddle Diddle.” Unlike most cinema favorites whose art is mainly projecting the personality and kisser, she is what is known in stage parlance as a trouper. She can do things.
“I’ve had to,” she says. “I’ve always been the ugly duckling. When I was with the Goldwyn Girls I was the one they yelled for to climb a rope and scream.”
Today Miss Ball is a proficient screamer, can climb a rope like a Hindu, give imitations of everyone present including herself, dance, do falls and even force a laugh when necessary. She also can act. She can act so cinematically as to make many an actor look like still life. Her skill in purloining pictures can be compared only to that of old time actresses and gypsy horse thieves. Her kleptomania reached a pitch in “Easy to Wed.” Little Miss Ball was waggling away with the picture in her pocket until stopped, searched and scenes taken from her, to no avail. Her fan mail shot up 200 per cent, and the only solution seems to be to star her and let her clip. As recognition of her pilfering she was tossed into “Personal Column” in an arena with such male histrionic hi-jackers as Charles Coburn, George Sanders, Sir Cedric Hardwicke.
WHETHER Miss Ball is a beauty or the ugly duck she alleges is a question of little interest. “Let’s face it. Beauty is a bit of a bore,” says Somerset Maugham. It is becoming obvious in pictures. Now it’s the gal who cari do things on screen or in kitchen who holds you fascinated. Of beauteous Hedy Lamarr, some one asked, “What’s her problem, if any?”
“Brains,” said Luci promptly.
“None?”
“No,” said Luci. “She has too many. An actress isn’t supposed to have brains. Hedy has ideas, good ones!”
“Luci should know,” chortled an M-G-M executive. “She’s so opinionated she is in hot water all the time.”
Luci exercises the right of free speech with a vim, looking you straight in the eye, shooting from the shoulder, Yankee as Bunker Hill. Way back her ancestors were French and Irish, as revolutionary a combination as ever fought for the rights of the individual. Miss Ball works like a slave but Hollywood cannot enslave her.
“I want you to meet my friend Harriet McCain,” she said, introducing her negro maid.
Miss Ball picked Miss McCain off the radio eight years ago when she heard her on Hal Styles’s “Help Thy Neighbor” program and they’ve been together since.
“Greatest thing that ever happened to me is that most women like me,” says Luci. “Greatest of all, Carole Lombard liked me. She is my guardian angel.” “She was?”
“She is,” said Luci. “Has been from the day she saw the gawping at her on a set. I was doing bits and getting nowhere. I had no confidence. She yelled at me, ‘Hey, you, come here. Who are you, what they doing for you? Well, tell the so-and-sos to give you a break, you’ve got something. Tell ’em I said they’re missing the boat again.”
JUNE VINCENT
talks about
JUNE VINCENT, LOVELY STAR OF UNIVERSAL-INTERNATIONAL PICTURES
At her Westwood home,
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