Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1944)

f M M Perfume 6.50 — 3.50 — debutante size , 1.10. Dusting powder, 1.00. Other Frolic fascinators— Toilet water, 1.75. Talcum powder, 50t (plus tax ) :^>a ...by CHERAJfY , perfumer /‘f yseo/oc/s y>e/us?e^, a /res A, sy>aMAnf /raf/rwoe' ■ ■ ■ tv/fZ) rAe fe/a//Yy </ yoysccs mccs/c, //> eic&ry Ahyer/7?y c/roy) tyov'// nr&e?f cY~ /or yay&Zy . . ./?r Aer/&y?/s7 ess ■ . ./or tAe //? / Ae/hf SoccyAf c/fer, tyA&rer&r you po/ raid the icebox before retiring but had to curb the habit on account of his weight. His hair and eyes are brown. He is not impulsive, never uses a cigarette holder and flunked in geography because he was eternally getting the states mixed up. He doesn’t like ale. He sleeps half the night on his stomach and the other half on his right side. He is such a quick study that he never looks at his dialogue before going on the set. He is an able manager of his own business. His wife gave up acting when she married him on November 17, 1939. He learned to cook as a necessity in helping take care of the family when he was a boy and he is proud of the biscuits, pies and roasts he used to make. He considers his most satisfying acting job his role in “Swamp Water.” He never attends a preview of his own pictures. He is a fair chess player, which was taught him by Anthony Quinn. He hasn’t sat at a soda fountain for five years; he longs for “malted milks as they make ’em in Texas.” He always suffers stage fright. HE doesn’t like lobster, has a daughter by his present wife and would like to have another son and daughter, making four in all. He remembers the license plate of his car — 55-Z-984, but only because he’s had it for three years. He is sorry he ever appeared in “Berlin Correspondent.” His favorite holiday celebration is New Year’s Eve on which occasion his closest friends gather and help him celebrate his birthday. He likes basketball, abalone and motoring in California’s San Gabriel Canyon. Dana Andrews worked in a gasoline filling station in Van Nuys, California, for three years where he was discovered by a total stranger who became interested in his possibilities, invested in his career to the extent of paying Dana a living salary while he studied voice and drama at the Playhouse. Dana now lives in a lovely modern house of his own designing situated about three miles from the same filling station. He is a fair tennis player. He enjoys personal appearances and speaks no other language although he can handle foreign dialogue entirely devoid of accent. He has four brothers who axe schoolteachers. He cherishes his mental picture of the ivy-covered main building of Sam Huston College because “it has the greatest meaning” for him. He is not given to the Hollywood practice of inviting all and sundry to his parties, preferring a small group of ten to sixteen of his closest friends. He frequently takes long walks into the Santa Monica mountains which are almost in his back yard. HIS home is smart without ostentation, designed in primary colors and he believes that following a planned pattern for one’s life, always being ready to make compromises, is the only feasible way to make the journey. “It would be tragic if everything came out as we planned it.” He is perpetually carrying on a chess game with James Gleason by mail. He likes to match his ties with his socks. He is very fond of a California red wine called carignan, is a devotee of John Charles Thomas, Lawrence Tibbett, Paul Robeson and Marian Anderson and has an amazing memory for names, once, while on a Bond-selling tour, naming eighty-five strangers by name soon after . meeting them. He is such a passionate shopper that he 90