Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1947)

reported for make-up one morning at 7:30 milking time, got her false eyelashes and they shot her scenes. When the picture was almost ready for preview, we planned a reception at Ciro’s. To keep the gag rolling, Edward Stevenson, fashion designer on the RKO lot, made Elsie a low-cut glamour girl dress for the occasion, John Frederics created a hat for her. Everyone wanted to get in the act. Other concerns made silk hose and shoes for her extremities. Borden’s assured us that she was nightclub broken, so at the cocktail hour, I took Elsie into Ciro’s, stood her in a pink spotlight in the middle of the dance floor. An English butler was engaged to announce the 350 invited guests and two milk maids dressed in tin buckets and little else stood by Elsie to make the introductions. On the stage behind her, a string ensemble serenaded with “How Ya Gonna Keep ’Em Down on the Farm” and the whole soiree was a moo-ing success. The next morning, the whole of Hollywood awoke to a scandal. Elsie was going to have a baby! And I didn’t even know she was married! The studio wanted her for retakes, some of the scenes needed a change or two, but she had gained weight. That presented a problem, but not for long. They rewrote the picture, and changed the ending to climax in Elsie’s Blessed Event. And that’s how Beulah was born. Elsie wept milk-punches when she left Hollywood, but the rest of us took the straw from our ears and celebrated. It was a year later that I read of her tragedy. Elsie was headed for another cocktail party and the report said that she fell off a truck and broke her neck. But for anyone who can read between the lines, the truth is evident. She saw the picture, “Little Men,” and took the short way out. JOHN GUNTHER has been “Inside Europe” and “Inside Asia” but I claim the distinction of having beer; “Inside the Ladies’ Room at Romanoff’s.” Barbara Barondess, an interior decorator of note in our town, met me for lunch at Romanoff’s to give me the lowdown for my column on how she had decorated the homes of the stars. She mentioned a number of the more popular names whose mansions had felt her tasteful touch and wound up with, “I also decorated the Ladies’ Room here at Romanoff’s. Would you like to see it?” I swallowed an imaginary bone from the chicken a la king on my plate and mumbled something about “some other time.” “Oh, it’ll be all right,” she fluttered. “I’ll see if the coast is clear.” With which she swayed off in the direction of the inner sanctum, and a moment later popped her head out the swinging door and crooked a finger at me. I never walked stark naked through a crowded church, but I couldn’t have been more embarrassed than I was on that fifteen-foot stroll toward that doorway. Once inside, she bubbled on about “See this,” and “See that,” and “Isn’t it the most beautiful Ladies’ Lounge you ever saw?” It seemed futile to point out that I was not a frequenter of Ladies’ Lounges, decorated or not. All I wanted to do was get hence. La Barondess was leaning protectively against the outside door, playing Horatio to stem the tide of intruders who might interrupt our tour of inspection. I took a quick look around, took mental note of some French can-can dancers painted on the walls and rushed out in an atomic exit just in time! Hedy Lamarr stood just outside the door, rummaging through her purse in search of a nickel. The End 89