Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1944)

QtV a w* till'* plane, too, and lots of swell clothes. Boy, that’s for me.” “Not for me,” Joel said firmly. “I want a ranch.” The other boy’s eyebrows and relaxed jawline questioned Joe’s sanity. “Sagebrush and rattlesnakes!” he jeered. “And blue sky and sunshine and rain. Of course,” Joel added, staring determinedly into space to disguise his embarrassment, “I want a family, too. If a guy has some land, some cows, some horses and a family — well, that’s all there is.” Several years later, when Joel was first trying to crash pictures, he lived at the Hollywood Athletic Club with George O’Brien and Charles Farrell. Late at night, hungry sometimes — if none of them had worked for a while — they used to gather in someone’s room and talk of the future. One of the group was going to buy — once fame and money were achieved — a cabin cruiser big enough to cross oceans. One was going to have a fifteen -room house with a hot and cold running swimming pool. Another, having scored a series of complete telephone zeros in attempting to make a hit with the lady he loved, ruminated on the pleasant prospect of being a playboy from coast to coast with a different dream boat every night. Joel always broke up the meeting with his tagline. “I’m going to buy a ranch where I’ll own my own sky and sunshine and grass.” “The guy,” they said, feinting at Joel’s jaw but never taking any serious chances with his celebrated right, “is a hayseed at heart. He just ain’t got no imagination.” George O’Brien got the first break and, for a time, fed the rest of them. “When you strike it rich, Joel,” he said, “I expect to get paid back in T-bones.” “I’ll be running Herefords,” grinned Joel. “And you’ll really get your share.” (Any resemblance of this conversation to any red points, living or dead, is purely coincidental and has nothing to do with the present situation.) Somewhat later Charles Farrell made “Seventh Heaven” and was in the chips, so he signed the checks. “In return for an eventual week end on your celebrated ranch, Mac,” he laughed. ( Continued on page 80) Africa \our TALL, rugged man approached an apartment building in a southern city, checked its street address with the note in his hand and climbed the stairs. He proceeded to an apartment and rang the bell. A small, pretty girl answered. Her initial expression was inquiry — the polite look reserved for Fuller Brush men and the census taker. Then she did the world’s biggest double-take as she recognized her famous caller. “May I come in?” the tall man asked in his beautifully inflected voice. Could he come in! Could you use a million dollars! “I’ve seen your husband and talked with him,” the tall man began. “He is at Natal, Brazil, doing a splendid job for his country. . . .” He talked on confidingly, earnestly. He described the hardships, the responsibilities, the loneliness, and the homesickness intrinsic in such work. He explained that the man to whom he had talked was brokenhearted because his wife had written to say she was considering the termination of their wartime marriage. He made out a splendid case for the absent husband and when he left, he had the wife’s promise of a reconciliation. This twentieth century cupid had just returned from a series of special missions for the War Department. It had been when his plane had come down at Natal that he had been pressed into peace negotiation service for one lonely, miserable boy in khaki. The emissary's name was Joel McCrea. The story is typical of him. In his quiet way the man McCrea accomplishes pretty nearly anything he sets out to do, largely because when his mind is made up even Gibraltar could scarcely withstand his gentle but relentless determination. It all began years ago when Joel, a touselheaded, grimy-pawed, freckle-faced kid, sold newspapers on a Hollywood street comer where the opposition sheet was peddled by another kid. The boys vied for customers among the then-great Hollywood stars who lived on the cream of the land. “When I grow up,” Joel’s competitor always said, “I’m going to have a big house and about ten big cars that can go a million miles an hour. I’m going to have an air