Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1952)

astounds Marty with her practicality. When tney went to Burbank to get their marriage license, the clerk was out to lunch; so Doris asked Marty to drive her back home so she could get a bite, too. “Imagine anybody being hungry at a time like that!” Marty exclaims. But he did as requested. That’s how matter-of-fact the girl has remained. The Melchers have a house with a swimming pool and barbecue pit, and they avoid the bright lights as much as possible. “I married a girl, not a movie star,” says Marty. She, being somewhat vague, leans heavily on him for advice. When I see her off the sound stages, it’s still hard for me to believe she’s a star. She got used to wearing skirts and blouses in her lean days, still prefers them to fancier garb. Doris and Gordon MacRae came up together, often playing in the same pictures on the Warners lot. Success hasn’t changed Gordon either — except that when you try to locate him he’s usually on the golf course. He has a happy disposition. For a while his agent’s office was next to mine; and Gordon was forever popping his head in to say “Hello.” Usually he was singing, and dressed in some outlandish getup. One day he came in yelling that his wife had a new baby. You’d have thought it was the only child ever born. Gordon’s a devoted family man. Except on the golf links, he’s rarely seen without Sheila. Their best friends are the Jeff Chandlers, whom they met when all four were trying to get a foothold in show business. When Jeff and Marjorie separated, it was the MacRaes who got them back together. They’d invite the two to dinner without letting one know the other was coming. There are a few others who remain untouched. John Wayne, Number One boxoffice star, doesn’t make many new friends, but he’s utterly loyal to the old ones. Director John Ford gave Wayne his first screen break; and the actor vowed he’d do a picture for Ford any time he was asked. He’s kept that promise. Years ago I found a young actor in a radio studio playing opposite Bette Davis. I wrote a nice piece about him in my column. Today he needs publicity like he needs a hole in the head, but he never forgets to thank me when I say something nice about him. His name is Alan Ladd. Hollywood was the making of John Payne. In the old days I couldn’t stand him, because he seemed soured on the world. Not long ago he explained that he was having domestic trouble and was being overworked. “I couldn’t figure out where I was headed or why,” he said. Today, with three children and a successful career, John is as pleasing as they come. Perhaps the man Hollywood has changed most is Errol Flynn. He came here a dashing, charming adventurer, with not a care in the world. He made lurid headlines, but even during a trial for supposedly being overly affectionate with a teen-age girl, women stood at the courthouse door, asking for his autograph. At the height of his fame, I sat talking with him in his beautiful hilltop home. Below, the million lights of Hollywood blinked. I said, “Errol, it looks as though you’ve got everything a man could desire — looks, wealth, fame, women at your beck and call. What has the set-up cost you?” He replied, “Plenty. It’s taken from me my zest for living.” Before he left for England last summer, he called on me. The old charm was there; but the devil-may-care attitude was gone. “Hollywood was made for fun,” he said, “but you can’t have fun here any more. Even the tourists complain about the place being dull.” p Victor Mature, on the other hand, has been mellowed by Hollywood. Before the war, he was the town’s greatest prankster gg and doted on publicity. The stunts he pulled for the press caused some of his bosses to scowl. “You know, and I know I can’t act,” Mature explained. “Until I do, I’ll have to keep my name in the limelight in my own way.” But he did learn to act. After his discharge from the Coast Guard, however, he was never the old Vic again. “I feel that I’m four years behind in life,” he explained to me. “When I started the night-club circuit again, I found the spots were inhabited by a whole new crowd. So I decided to stay at home.” The dashing Vic then got married and acquired a stepson. Until a couple of months ago he still lived in the same small house he occupied in his bachelor days; and he’s only slightly interested in seeing his name in print. He works steadily in pictures, investing his money in television and electrical appliance shops, and spends most of his spare time on the golf course. He’s even developed a sense of humor toward a profession that once meant his whole life. When the Los Angeles Country Club refused him admission because he was an actor, he said, “I’ll show the members all my pictures and critical notices, which should offer ample proof that I’m not.” Elizabeth Taylor’s mother, ambitious for her daughter to have a screen career, brought her to my house for advice when she was very small. Liz was far more interested in a chipmunk she’d brought with her than she was in either me or becoming a star. She’s always been crazy about animals; so she was a natural for “National Velvet.” I had regarded her as a child until I was dining in the Metro commissary one day. Liz entered and suddenly I noticed every male eye in the place following her. With a shock, I realized that Liz was growing into womanhood. However, I wasn’t prepared for the romances that followed, culminating in the fairy-tale marriage to Nicky Hilton. After their split-up, I went to see Liz; and if I ever saw a perfect picture of what Hollywood could do to a girl, it was then. There she sat, barefooted and wearing a beautiful lace negligee, with a look of stunned bewilderment on her face. “All my life,” she said, “I’ve been riding on a pink cloud. Because I was a movie star everybody told me I was great when I wasn’t. I was the little princess for whom everything was done; now I don’t know how to assume responsibility.” I advised her to take things easy. “I can’t,” she said. “I’ve got to keep working. I need the money. You have no idea how much I’ve spent on hospitals, doctors, and nurses.” I reminded her of a block of stock Nicky had given her when love was in bloom. She appeared surprised and said, “I don’t know whether I’ve got that stock. I’ll have to ask somebody.” That’s an item that the average person wouldn’t forget; but Liz had been going her carefree way, thinking the pink-cloud ride would last forever. At that time her constant male escort was Stanley Donen. I believe that, in her confusion and desperation, she would eventually have married him, if Metro hadn’t sent her to England to make “Ivanhoe.” There she grew to know sophisticated Michael Wilding; and it was inevitable that she would fall for his worldly charm. After their marriage, the change in Liz was again surprising. Like a rubber ball she bounced out of her gloom, recaptured her gaiety and talked with the amused maturity of a contented woman who knew the ways of the world. If this marriage should hit the rocks, Liz won’t be alone, because she’s expecting a baby. But I still wonder if she’s learned to handle all the responsibility heaped upon her. Kirk Douglas brought to Hollywood that all too rare quality among actors — humility. He was married, had two children, and lived modestly. His first film role was “The Strange Love of Martha Ivers,” and I think he did his best acting job in it. Kirk later told me that the picture nearly killed him off professionally by establishing him as “a weak-willed, sexless character.” When his name was brought up for strong roles, he explained, producers would say, “Not that guy. We want somebody with sex and punch.” He might have remained a character actor or faded completely if, against the advice of friends, he hadn’t taken a chance on doing “Champion.” Overnight he became a star with fabulous contracts being offered him all over town. He got enormous publicity; and I never saw a man change so fast. The erstwhile modest Kirk now radiated self-confidence that bordered on cockiness. Though he declared to me that his sudden rise to fame had nothing to do with it, he and his wife divorced. She took the kids east. Kirk began living the life of a successful bachelor to the hilt, making the rounds with all the glamour girls. When I brought up the subject of these changes, he laughed and said, “I don’t think I’ve changed a bit. It’s the other people who have. When I first came here, I attended an Atwater Kent party. During the whole evening, I couldn’t get anyone to talk to me, though I tried hard. That’s the loneliest time I spent in this town. People talk to me at parties now.” On almost every picture, Shelley Winters is accused of going temperamental, and perhaps she does. But she’s always been that way. “I came up fighting,” she says, “and never learned to do things the easy way — that is, diplomatically.” She wanted a screen career; so she went after it tooth and nail. She wanted Vittorio Gassman, and got him. She’s highly criticized for not dressing and acting like a star; but that’s part of her nature. It always has been. But one never knows when the heady fumes of fame and wealth will get the upper hand with a star. Just before Rock Hudson left for England to make “Toilers of the Sea,” he told me he was perfectly contented with his contract and salary. “Want to bet that your attitude will change within a year?” I asked “I’ll take that bet,” he said. So I put five dollars on the barrelhead that says Rock will change. It’s sad sometimes, watching nice youngsters go the way of all flesh. Some of them grow through their mistakes. Others will never learn. The End