Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1954)

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Main, Dept 14-W, Princeton, Illinois Relief in ALL these COLD miseries ^Tabcin BRAND SNEEZES • WATERY EYES *mfR THAN EVER • FEVERISH FEELING* HEADACHE * RUNNING NOSE • GENERAL ACHES • THROAT IRRITATIONS • COUGHING • MILES LABORATORIES. INC , Elkhar more important engagement — a senior prom. Your prom date is Danny Buckley, a friend of your brother and a boy voted the best-looking boy in Beverly High. You wheedle the studio out of the blue chiffon formal you wore to a prom in “Cynthia” and for the first time in your life you’re ready for an appointment on time. This is a big occasion. Remember the prom, Liz? “I’d hoped for an orchid — and my date brought me one. I was really living. For the first time I went to a beauty salon alone. I wanted to be ultra-glamorous. I came home with fuchsia-colored nail polish on. Mother of pearl. I was so proud of it, but mother held out for a quiet pink shade. Finally, she said, ‘The time has come, Elizabeth. . . .’ and the quiet pink shade it was. She insisted I wash my face three times to give me the clean, scrubbed look. I remember saying, ‘Three times! You just want me to glisten.’ I was sure my dress needed something besides the silver ruffle around the neck. I held out for silver stardust in my hair. I felt it needed something, too, but that didn’t work out either. The orchid really helped. The kids at the prom treated me like Howard Taylor’s sister — just one of them. They talked to me about everything in school. And about all the other kids. Just like I knew all of them, and I pretended I did.” Yes, this is big night for you. But you have no regrets for your studio school days, have you, Elizabeth? “No, you grow up faster, growing up around adults. But I’m not sure this is a disadvantage. I was a little disappointed at first when I knew my brother Howard was going to high school and I realized 1 couldn’t go. You know, the proms, the football games and everything. But I don’t feel sorry for my youth. I enjoyed every minute of it — all except doing a big love scene with Bob Taylor one minute, then being taken back to school the next. I thought, ‘Well, really.’ ” You’re fifteen years old now, and this is your life . . . your exciting life. Chintz replaces the saddles in your boudoir. Your animal kingdom is invaded and shared by chattering girls in pedal pushers. Swaggering high-school huskies in Tshirts and jeans. And by a noisy new beige Ford convertible with dual exhaust-pipes and the largest ET initials in all greater Los Angeles — you sleep with the car keys around your thumb. You can’t drive the car yet, but you ease it forward and back on the studio lot and sound its splendor. You are crushed when a city edict outlaws your beloved $39 pipes. In these teen years you still play a sharp game of catch with Claude Jarman at the studio. You still ride King Charles, thundering along on the sands at Malibu. And yours is still a dream world into which other pedal pushers can’t push. But now you get dreamy over Dick Haymes’ recording of “Mamselle,” too. You love to go dancing at the Cocoanut Grove and riding the roller coaster at Ocean Park. You go for peasant blouses and bangle bracelets and thickest shoulder pads. You seem cemented to the telephone. And last week’s big crush belongs to the forgotten past. You put the lyrics to a tune. They begin, “Oh the joy and bliss of my first sweet kiss. . . .” And you’re starry-eyed, when your studio loans you to Warner Brothers for “Life with Father,” to be playing a sophisticated seventeen-year-old. February 27, 1948, is your sixteenth birthday and they give you a surprise party on the set of “Julia Misbehaves.” At sixteen you play your first grown-up romantic role — Robert Taylor’s wife in “The Conspirator.” And you cry when your little chipmunk Nibbles dies from an over indulgence of chocolate. You bury him in a box lined with white satin under a rosebush. This is the year, too, you meet football idol Glenn Davis and you’re as thrilled as any teenager when he gives you his gold football. You go off to London to film “The Conspirators” and Glenn is overseas. You are convinced that this is an important love. As your mother said, “That September in London, Elizabeth wrote Glenn every night and never went out on a date the five months we were there.” Absence and duty and youth dimmed this first crush — and perhaps the charm of a handsome Englishman had something unconsciously to do with it, too. For that year, too, on an adjoining sound stage in London, you meet the charming British star, Michael Wilding, and you’re as swoony as any sixteen-year-old fan. You cannot know now just how important he will be in your life. Nor that in bewildering hours when your young world seems to collapse around you, Michael Wilding will teach you to laugh again. You had no way of knowing, Elizabeth, but your mother perhaps knew even when she wrote, “I knew that except for Glenn, the man in Elizabeth’s life would be Michael Wilding.” At seventeen your star is still rising on the screen. At Paramount you’re co-starred with Montgomery Clift in “A Place in the Sun.” The director, one of Hollywood’s greatest, George Stevens, predicts your place will be the highest in the Hollywood sky. “There’s no rung on the screen above Elizabeth and what she can do. She has tremendous depth and a human quality — important with beauty like Elizabeth’s. The audience is with her all the way. I just can’t say too much about Elizabeth. She has the unusual quality of a Garbo— the romantic kind of beauty and drama of Garbo and of all the great ladies of the screen. . . .” Now you’re successively in love. You’re seventeen years old and trying the wings of youth outside the walls of a motion picture studio. You’re the age when other girls are beginning to collect fraternity pins. But you’re a fabulous beauty. You’ve been engaged to wealthy young William Pawley for a short three months, but break it when he asks you to give up your career and live in Florida. As a famous motion-picture star your every heart beat is a headline. Some of the challenges and cruelties of the outside world close in too swiftly for your young years. On Sunday, May 6, 1950, in a beautiful ceremony in the Beverly Hills Church of the Good Shepherd, you and Nicky Hilton exhange vows and you radiantly announce, “There is no doubt in my mind that he is the one I want to spend my life with. Since we met, we have never had one quarrel, one moment of misunderstanding.” But rather than sublime happiness, the following months are filled with heartache and suffering . . . the most difficult months that you, Elizabeth, have had to face in your young full life. And if ever you needed faith and a belief in what is right, you need it now. Your marriage collapses and six months after your story-book wedding, you file suit for divorce from Nicky Hilton, acknowledging more than your share of blame. “Nick and I had a fairy-tale courtship. Then after the marriage, we weren’t on our good behavior any more and we found out that we didn’t even like each other very well . . . two weeks after the wedding, I knew I had made a mistake. . . . I thought I was mature enough to cope with marriage and I wasn’t. I had always hau my own way. Instead of pointing out my faults, people always told me how good I was. I never learned responsibility.”