Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1949)

p KEEP YOUR FURS lovelier... longer ReVitalife is more than just ordinary fur cleaning. It cleans your furs right down to the pelt (including lining). It includes Repello weatherproofing to help prevent evaporation of natural fur oils, to preserve the pelt and lessen matting. ReVitalife brings back “like new" lustre, sheen and glamour. Give your furs added years of wear and beauty. Have your furs ReVitalife cleaned now . . . priced from $7.50. At leading department stores, furriers, women’s specialty shops. Write for your free booklet "Do's and Dort'fs for Your Furs " a service of KLEINZWAY, Inc., 4836 S. Oakley Ave., Chicago 9, III. OLD LEG TROUBLE . m Easy to use Viscose Home Method. Heals many old Am leg sores caused by leg congestion, varicose veins, sw°Hen le£s and injuries or no cost for trial if it l m fails to show results in 10 days. Describe your It y trouble and get a FREE BOOK. Ik \ R. G. VISCOSE COMPANY r Vna 140 North Dearborn Street Chicago, Illinois “ SMORGASBORD ” 9051 SUNSET BLVD. Hollywood, Californio • Bradshaw 22800 FEMININE HYGIENE YOUR SUMMER PROBLEM OF CLEANLINESS AND DAINTINESS Don’t let doubts haunt you this vacation! Get Boro-PhenoKorms, just like thousands of women who KNOW this secret of poise and charm! These convenient suppositories are ready-tousc, EACH COMPLETE in itself; dainty, soothing, deodorizing, medicated. Ask any druggist for fact-and-picture booklet or write “Ask A ny Drunnis I A nywhere" DR. PIERRES BORO Duckirl FORM “How much have we got?” asked Monty. It turned out that Kevin was the banker, at least he kept doling out dollars to Monty throughout the evening. “The guy has no sense of money,” Kevin offered. “I borrow money from him or he borrows from me, but I’m the one that keeps the books.” “The McCarthys have to watch their dough because they have baby-sitters to pay and all that,” Monty explained. “Now with me it’s a lot more simple. I just reach in my pocket and come up with nothing.” He grinned and I knew he could have afforded almost any kind of an evening he wanted. But, also, knowing a little bit about the workings of his mind, I knew it wouldn’t occur to him to flaunt his wealth or be insistent upon something others were unable to afford. “Trish, do you like Italian food?” he asked. (Sure, I loved Italian food. I only live in Greenwich Village and eat it seven nights a week, but sure.) THE restaurant, II Progressive, where the great singer Caruso used to hang out, was in a shabby building, in the section of town occupied by warehouses and garages. If the patrons seated around the room recognized Monty as the Mr. Clift, they didn’t bat an eyelash. And, although the head -waiter seemed happy enough to see us, most head-waiters seem happy to see you if you’re a cash customer. Anyway, he was happy and Kevin was hungry, Monty was thirsty and I was crestfallen! There wasn’t a flash-bulb in the place. Dinner consisted of a lot more talking than eating. Monty, an avid reader, was complaining about the lack of time he had to pursue his favorite pastime. “You saw all the books lying around, didn’t you?” he sighed. “Well, that’s about all they do Lie around. I used to be able to carry on a fairly intelligent conversation on what was happening in literature, especially in the contemporary field, but now!” If he considered his literary knowledge lacking, I would have hated sitting in on what he considered a “well-informed” discussion. He and Kevin spent the next hour arguing over William Faulkner and Thomas Wolfe. Being a “Forever Amber” gal myself, I withdrew into my antipasto. Dinner dispensed with, we piled into the car and drove over to NBC to pick up Augusta. “I suppose you’ve all eaten?” she asked. “Yup,” said Monty. “D’you want to go up to the Thalia and catch that French film? It’s supposed to be pretty good.” “I haven’t eaten,” she answered, “so we’ll just have to stop and get me a sandwich. I can eat it in the show.” We got Augusta a hot pastrami sandwich in a little delicatessen on upper Broadway. Of course, nothing would do but that we all have one. So it was, fortified with immense Dagwood sandwiches, that we finally settled in our theater seats, prepared to be entertained. There were captions in English but I kept suspecting that the best lines were going unexplained. Monty, slouched in his seat, was finding something very funny. The man seated behind me had a fine time kicking the back of my chair. I muttered something to him about stopping it, “or my date might punch you in the nose.” At which, Monty looked around at the twohundred-and-fifty pounder and smiled sweetly. “Who, me?” He quickly turned back to the screen and I decided I’d better do the same. After a couple of hours of this, we started back to the Village. But not before Monty discovered his scarf was missing. Back into the dark theater he went, and the vision of him crawling around on his hands and knees under the seats was too funny to bear in silence. I doubled up in laughter and Kevin and Augusta looked at one another and shook their heads. He got his scarf at last, and off to the Village we chugged. “You live down here, Trish, so you ought I to know the spots,” Monty said. “But no tourist-traps. It’s gotta be a low-down dive with either good beer or good music.” “Remember the bankroll,” pleaded Kevin. “Can we afford ten cent beers?” I asked. “Can you get ’em any cheaper than that?” Monty grinned. “Nope!” “Then we can afford them!” The cafe, a hangout for all the young ; writers, artists, and actors in the Village, was jammed to the doors. Somehow, we edged in and made our way to the back i room which, until our arrival, had been empty. We hadn’t gotten our coats off when the battle cry sounded. “It’s Montgomery Clift!” “You mean that guy who just passed? You're nuts!” “No kidding. It’s Clift all right.” I went into the ladies’ room to comb my hair. “Y’a know who’s out there?” one blue-jeaned femme asked of another. “Montgomery Clift, sitting there at a table just as big as life.” “Well, isn’t that nice,” smirked the other one and, drying her hands, went out the door. It hadn’t swung shut before she was back. “You weren’t fooling. Gimme your compact quick. Montgomery Clift!” WHEN I got back to the table, I needed a press-pass to regain my seat. Monty was signing autographs, answering questions and gulping beer. Someone spilled a beer down my front but my ready, tolerant smile was ignored. I was happy. “Mr. Clift, I’ve got a play here. . . .” “Mr. Clift, I could do that part better than Olivia. ...” i “Monty, would you just sign this and say something personal. . . .” When things began to get a little too rough, Monty said, “Let’s try and get out of here.” There was one thing I continually noticed about him all evening. Although he has excellent manners, Monty doesn’t make a production out of every little courtesy he shows you. There’s nothing worse, to my way of thinking, than the date who opens a door for you with such exaggerated gestures, you wish you’d gotten to it first. Or, the character who practically trips you and breaks his own neck, as he maneuvers himself into an outside position, as you walk along the street. Monty is one of the few males I know who is a gentleman without trying to be one. He is so relaxed and at ease that you never notice when he is holding your coat or helping you out of a car. But he is always there when needed. When he said, “Let’s try and get out of here,” he knew the rest of us were a bit weary of the attention and, feeling responsible, he took it upon himself to make the first move. A few minutes later, we were sitting on the floor in my apartment, drinking my last four cans of beer. When it came time for him to leave, Monty said, “Listen, I’m afraid tonight was no good for you as far as a story goes, so if you want to ask me anything, call me up.” I told him I had enough, if he wouldn’t mind my writing about our date.. “Mind? Boy, if you can get a story out of this gaudy evening, you’re a wonder!” No story, eh? Well maybe not, but one thing I know! I’ll never get to the Stork Club with Monty Clift. The End 96