Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1954)

we named Fran, Debbie. She was a natural for pictures, and Solly and I were both sure that she was a future star. I had producer Bill Jacobs write a part for her into ‘The Daughter of Rosie O’Grady.’ There were two sisters already, but I had him write in a third so we could get Debbie into the picture. Then, when the shooting script came through, the part had been written out. A third sister wasn’t necessary, but I got them to write her back in again. She had about ten lines — eight of which she got laughs on.” However, after a year and a half at the studio, in January 1950, Warners releases you. Solly and Bill call you into the office and gravely break the bad news. Production is slow, there are no parts for you, there will be more opportunities somewhere else, your career is not over, etc. You have one question, “How did it last this long?” On January 26, 1950, through special permission of the Board of Education, you graduate with your school friends at John Burroughs High. This is a nostalgic event. You’ve all been together through all the years, except for your month studying on the studio lot. But your lucky star is still with you. And you’re signed for the part of Helen Kane, Boop-Boop-A-Doop singer in M-G-M’s “Three Little Words.” You’re eighteen years old, you have a Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer contract, but you’re still convinced this is not your life. You’re crazy for chocolate malts made with strawberry ice cream. You bowl a neat 133. You’re awed at being on the same lot with Red Skelton, and you swoon when Clark Gable calls you by name. You choke up every time you hear Judy Garland’s recording of “Friendly Star,” and you’re still playing your French horn every Saturday night with the Burbank Youth Symphony. June Allyson is your father’s favorite actress, and finally you get up courage to ask her for her autograph. Then you’re rumored for the role of Janie Powell’s 14-year-old kid sister in “Two Weeks with Love.” Director Roy Rowland, who’s guided so many young people to stardom, asks you to drop by his office for an interview. This is your first meeting, and one he well remembers. “It was a very hot day, and when Debbie came into my office, she immediately plopped down in a chair. ‘I’m pooped,’ she said. But even in her ‘pooped’ state she had a million times more energy than I. She was so cute. So unaffected and refreshing and frisky as a kitten. She said exactly what she thought, and as we talked I could see she was the kid in the story. Wise, knowing, but not fresh. A little girl who could instinctively see through the phony affectations of other people. Nobody could fool her. Debbie was this way, too. Later, when we’d worked together, I found her to have a sense of values unusual in such a young girl. A little perfectionist, she could do anything well, and she always wanted to do it better. Debbie, I’m sure, will be a fine dramatic star. She has great depth and a deep sensitivity she covers with laughter. She also has an indefinable amount of an indefinable thing called personality.” First directors are like first loves— and Roy Rowland, who will be directing you again this time, a star in “Hit the Deck,” will always hold a special place in your heart. At ^the preview of “Two Weeks with Love,” you begin to believe this is your life. Your saucy sparkle completely captivates the audience, and you stop the show, clowning in the “Aba Daba Honeyp moon number with Carleton Carpenter. For the first time since fate tapped you and that faded bathing suit of yours on shoulder, for the first time since this whole magic adventure began, you sense it may last. You’re overwhelmed by the thought that through motion pictures you can touch millions of lives and make them a little happier. . . . Now you’re putting the same winning effort you put into meriting Girl Scout badges and mastering the French horn into studying for stardom. You work morning and night, drama lessons, singing lessons and six hours of dancing lessons and you get the coveted part with Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor in “Singin’ in the Rain.” In 1951, many are already getting your happy message. Aboard a troopship, a GI named Paul Lillard sees “Two Weeks with Love” and writes his first fan letter. You start corresponding, and unaware, one day you re the star of a dramatic scene on the Korean battlefront. And an old Burbank buddy of yours. Corporal Danny Sites, is there. . . “Frannie and I’d been friends since we were the noisy idiots in the geometry class. She’d written me about a sergeant named Lillard. She’d noted we were both with the 27th Wolf Hound Regiment and she wanted me to look him up. But we were with different companies and we were a little busy fighting at the time. Then one day as radio operator I was up on a hill, watching the battle taking place below, when somebody radioed that the officer in charge of the battalion had been killed. The soldier who was sending the message said he was now taking the lead platoon in for the attack. He identified himself as M/Sgt. Paul Lillard. I felt terrible. This was real irony. Here was the boy Frannie had written me so much about . . and we were finally making contact. But her guardian angel must have been looking on. They secured the hill and soon we met. He kept a small clipping of Fran in his wallet. He never bragged it up to the other guys, but her letters meant a lot to him. He wanted to know all about her. We’d go to the movies, sit on our helmets on the side of the hill, drink beer and talk about Frannie and home. . . .” For you, Debbie Reynolds, it’s a busy war, too. Thousands of GI’s share your adopted brother Paul’s sentiment. You typify the girl they’re all coming home to. One unit names a hill after you. Your merry face is pinned up in foxholes and barracks throughout the world. In your Burbank home, you and your mother burn the midnight oil writing to them. In 1951, too, you make personal contact at the Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, D. C., with another GI, Corporal Eddie Fisher, who admires the way you sing to the GI's, really reaching them, and who will some day not too distant be meeting you again. You re the good-will girl of Hollywood now, and you’re reaching thousands of GI’s in South America, in Alaska, Jamaica and Japan; on Christmas Eve 1952 you and your Mickey-Mouse boots step out of a plane in Korea and into the hearts of the whole Far East command. . . . In 1953, you’re twenty-one years old and you ve come of age as an actress, too. You’re signed for the lovable little juvenile ★★★★★★★★★★★★★★*• ★*★★★★******* INVEST IN U. S. SAVINGS BONDS NOW EVEN BETTER ★★★★★★★★★★★★★•A-************** delinquent m RKO’s “Susan Slept Here I co-starring with Dick Powell— and yoi I dream of being a comedienne comes trui a Only one scene in the picture reall worries you. The crying scene. Emotior still embarrass you and you’re the ki who never breaks in front of others. Yo go out to a bike rack or a gym field t cry Dick Powell and director Fran Tashlin keep working with you in th scene, and when the camera rolls, yo remember another teen-ager who was tor: by something with which she couldn cope. . . . In June, 1954, you’re acclaimed Holly wood s brightest new comedienne. Die Powell, praising your performance a Susan, says your star will be shining brigh and long. “She has talent and looks and intelli gence and personality. Debbie’s just get ting started in this town. . . .” Producer Harriet Parsons praises you! too: “She is one of the best young come diennes I have encountered in twenfi years of picture-making. Also, she ha sensitivity, fire and emotional warmth, an< I believe she will develop into a fine dramatic actress. Frank Tashlin tells mi working with Debbie is like playing ; delicate musical instrument. She is s< responsive, so quick to understand wha! is wanted of her and to project it for th^ camera.” This is a year really set to music fo you. One mellow evening, Eddie Fisher call: you from New York. You’ve both corn* a long way in the three years since yoi first met. Now he’s the rave on records radio and his own NBC television show But this isn’t what’s on his mind now “Eddie called to ask me for a date foi the seventeenth of June. I said fine— anc I wrote it down on my calendar. I didn’1 know there was anything special about it Then I read in ‘Variety’ one morning about his big opening planned at the Cocoanut Grove on the seventeenth. I almost fel over. I hadn’t realized I was his date foi the opening. Right away I started worrying about something super-colossal tc wear, and Mother started warming up the sewing machine.” Yes, June is for romance in Hollywood too. This is a gay summer for you. You1 and Eddie go sailing together. You gc water-skiing at Lake Arrowhead. Sitting out front with your parents and Eddie’s father, you share his triumph at the Hollywood Bowl, and you both share the same belief that marriage is for a long, long time. Eddie has a few lyrics to add: “Debbie has everything, and she hasn’t changed. She’s kept her two feet right on the ground. She has so much talent. She’s so intelligent. She’s honest. She’s sincere. She’s fun. She’s just a wonderful — wonderful girl. The serious, for-keeps ring: of those words finds its answer in your1 own heart. And soon Eddie has a new re-1 frain, at first murmured to himself, then to you: “Mary Frances . . . Mary Frances Fisher.” You fly across the continent just to see him. A spontaneous kiss lets the world1 know that you’re no longer the teen-ager afraid to reveal her true emotions. This is Your Life today, a life bright: with the full flowering of both fame and: love. You were meant for this, long be-j fore you realized it. Now you have every reason in the world for the light-heartedness that took you buoyantly through more troubled years. And you, the Texas youngster born of poverty on April Fool’s Day, are enriching the lives of millions with your laughter. For you, these are the green years. And they have just begun. . . . The End