Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1949)

(Continued from page 50) newcomer who exuded such relaxed, male-animal-wellbeing. He had “Born Yesterday” behind him on Broadway when he came to the screen in “A Letter to Three Wives,” but a Broadway hit may not mean much to some movie audiences. Apparently, they didn’t know him from Adam, but after one excited look, they responded in a big, wild way to the solid sock of that quality which instantly told them he certainly wasn’t Eve. In a perfectly nice way, and a very worldly way, he does as he pleases. For instance, the studio would much prefer he didn’t tell his age. His studio biography merely says, “Born April 11,” but Paul isn’t shy about the number of years that have flown over his head. (Incidentally, he doesn’t look anywhere near forty. But there’s a reason for that which will come later.) His studio biography also says, with considerable coyness, “Is not married,” which is true as far as it goes, which is nowhere. PAUL will blandly tell you, with that ironic twinkle in his dark blue eyes, that he has been married — unhappily — four times. The most recent Mrs. D. was beauteous Virginia Field. They have a small daughter, Maggie Douglas, aged five, of whom Paul is very proud. “A wise apple, that kid,” he says. “A very wise apple.” Maggie lives with her mother in New York and the thought of visiting her is one of the things that Paul likes best about his projected trip to Berlin to make “Quartered City.” “Maggie inherited her mother’s face, praise be,” Paul says, “but she’s got my shoulders already and she might get my height. Regardless, she’ll have to be an actress. The ham in her, inherited from the two of us, sticks out all over her already.” The studio gets nowhere trying to get Paul’s name into columns, as “out with this charmer or that,” where the spotlights blaze. He is out with this charmer or that, very definitely, but you’ll have to hunt to find him. His tidy, two-room house, merer ly a big living room, a bedroom, a kitchenette and bath, is on such a quiet residential street, you’d never expect a star to live there. He doesn’t give parties and he rarely attends them. Between takes, he seldom sits around the set and talks. He has a trailer on the set and he goes in there and studies his lines for the next day. “That way, I have my evenings free for better things,” he says, giving you a look that would bother the Johnson office. He doesn’t expect to get married again. “I was an only child,” he says, “and I’ve been an orphan for years. In fact, I have no living relative. A background like that gives you the habit of acting for yourself and thinking for yourself. The lone wolf stuff, you know. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to go long in double harness.” That could be, but I personally think it’s probably more that the real love of his life is his work. He’s not kidding when he says it has taken him thirty years to become an actor. That’s actually true. The weird and wonderful part of it is he has been in just three shows, and now, four pictures, in all that time. At justpast-twelve he was Shylock, no less, in his Philadelphia grammar school’s production of “The Merchant of Venice.” That’s when the theatrical bug really gnawed him. From that day on, he kept trying to get on the stage, but he actually didn’t make it for seventeen years, and then only for a couple of weeks. The play was “Double Dummy” and it actually did play on Broadway. It was That New Man! a doublejointed turkey of the most flopping variety, and his part was so unimportant, that one day, when he didn’t manage to get to the theater for a performance, nobody in the cast or the audience even missed him. Amusingly enough, he was portraying a radio announcer, which was exactly what he was in real life, and the reason he didn’t make the show that particular afternoon was that he got held up making a real broadcast of a football game. However, even if “Double Dummy” did fold so quickly, and he went by so completely unnoticed, he felt he was now set as an actor. He knew everybody who was anybody on Broadway, and at 21, Toots Shor’s, Lindy’s and all the spots where the Broadway mob held out, he was one of them, and why not? After all, he had been one of the best-known sports announcers on the air since 1930. He did the first “man in the street” radio interviews. He also announced such shows as Easy Aces and Fred Waring’s. “Yes, I knew all the right people and I went to all the right spots and I dressed in a manner supposed to attract the right attention,” Paul says, “and that was exactly the trouble. It was the old routine of being unable to believe your neighbor is a genius. I never thought I was any genius, but I always knew I could act. Yet, the only two people I could persuade into that belief were Tallulah Bankhead and Eddie Goulding, the director.” Tallulah tried desperately to get him roles, and seven years ago, Goulding went so far as to make a test of Paul for Warner Brothers. Jack Warner, personally one of Paul’s best friends, took one look and his silence was terrific. So there he was, with all the entree in the world, completely locked out from the thing he most wanted until, in 1946, Garson Kanin, the Hollywood directorturned-Broadway-writer, became so desperate looking for “a type like Paul Douglas” to play in “Bom Yesterday,” that he finally took Paul Douglas, himself. The sound of the click that Paul registered reverberated around the theatrical world. Hollywood talent scouts came a-running. This time our hero took his time. He insisted upon seeing the scripts. He demanded a clause written into any contract headed his way that would say he could come back to Broadway, once a year if he desired, to do a play. As you read this, he will have been in Hollywood thirteen months, and have completed five pictures. Two pictures a year are considered tops for big stars these days, but Paul wouldn’t care if he played in twenty a year, provided the scr were good. As for that clause about going back to Broadway, they can 1 that out for all he cares now, because has become a confirmed Californian. On Broadway, he only knew the d; as something that came at the end of night. He loved rich food and expen wines, but now he gets up with the : diets conscientiously, is improving his 111 game and would sort of like to buy a t it The latter is probably the Bogart j. fluence on him. Bogie and Betty Bacall q his closest friends in the film colony, i<j he meant to sail with Bogie in the He >■ lulu yacht race this past spring, but j working schedule prevented it. Howe rather than disappoint his pal too nr he flew over for a weekend so that 1 could actually meet on the Waikiki be He has the greatest respect for the tu nical skill of Hollywood, straight from j production office down to the lowliest j man. He had finished “A Letter to Tlj Wives,” “It Happens Every Spring,” “Everybody Does It,” in which, incici tally, he sings, long before he ever mel studio boss, Darryl Zanuck, and the ! was very casually in the commissary. 1 thinks that compared to Broadway or e] where else, Hollywood is the most friei and least snobbish place on earth. Oh, and about that business of his lei ing so young. “I think it’s boredom that ages you,' says. “When you live in a creative cj munity, you are so stimulated that j don’t think about ages, yours or the o guy’s. Then, if you are involved i creative business you are so on the hitl that you haven’t got time to worry yir self into ulcers.” He grinned again, ] that warm, mocking humor that ha!( quickly established him. “Of course1! depends quite a bit what you’re husij after,” he said. He’s a wise apple, as he says of his 1 : daughter. A very wise apple, indeed, i much more sensitive than he likes to e tend. He proves this latter by clamra up so about his private life. He da like to talk about his boyhood, or a i his marriages, or actually about the th f that are closest to him. You can be certain his success is going to go to his head. “How could 1 he sisks. “I’ve been an actor all my f even if it’s only the last couple of y I’ve made money at it. I’ve known mo i the characters out here for years, too 1 a great life. I couldn’t be happier.” The movie audiences thank him. Th< ’rj much happier since he came along. The End BUT you should send your vote in early if you want to give your favorite a chance to appear in the color pages of Photoplay. So register now with our PORTRAIT POLL EDITOR c/o PHOTOPLAY 205 E. 42 St., New York 1 7, N. Y. Your favorite star 100