Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1935)

rish Nights and Other Adventures CONTINUED FROM PAGE 67 that bar. Not drinking . . . unless you want to! . . . but listening to his stories about all the folks whose pictures hang there. Now I don't imbibe, as you know, Joan, but there's no rule against carving your Mitzi Hancock in the O'Brien bar with the goo'd old ice-pick, is there? So, I etched it on. You may, if your old eyes are still bright, see Walter Catlett peering through his cheaters over Pat's brawny shoulder. Incidentally, Pat's elbowis right smack in Jimmie Cagney's face. A good thing for O'Brien they're life-long pals, huh? Me, I'm too weak-minded, but the gentle Evelyn Venable just eats vegetables which must, doubtlessly, keep her from ever raising a temper. Nothing ever makes her angry . . . and the day I was there for lunch, first, John Lodge was late, then Tessie the dog suddenly did a fade-out, all the while workmen kept coming in and going out, banging away at an addition they were building on the house. But Evelyn kept serene as a lily pond. Eventually Tessie returned; Mr. -Lodge put in his tardy, though welcome appearance and at the stroke of one the workmen threw down their tools . . . klunk! . . . and silence reigned. Then to the vittles. COOD is one of my prime interests, but I will ' rest my jaws long enough to say that I've never seen such lovely eyes as Evelyn Venable's . . . nor such a charming man as her husband, the ace cameraman, Hal Mohr. The lunch was very tasty, but I couldn't concentrate on it much because Bride and Groom were arguing over horse-back riding. Groom begged Bride to give it up because he was afraid she might have an accident. The little woman laughed and said she was too good a rider. Said she, "Give up your flying and I give up my riding." Latest reports are that neither have given up either . . . but Evelyn now rides with a groom, and her husband takes her along when he flies! I've always loved Evelyn's dark, naturally curly, simply-dressed hair. I guess her man shared my sentiments for when she said eagerly, "Darling, how would you like my hair with henna on it?" He replied briefly, " Darling, how would you like a poke in the nose?" And that, kitten, was that! I just remembered that I promised, last epistle, that I was going to tell you all about the ranch party at Harry Carey's. Half a mo' while I leap on Dobbin! Tally-ho and a bottle of liniment! Jam-shed Dinshaw Petit, the Bombay laddie who has more rupees than you or I ever will, my sweet, was the honored. The boy, as I told you, is taking a little jaunt around both hemispheres, and whilst stopping in our fair Hollywood, his pals showed him life as she is lived here. A bit of the latter included a sample of the Wild West, or Mister Carey's rancho. Among the guests you would know was my old friend, Henry Hathaway, who directed "Lives of a Bengal Lancer." Hank once was a prop boy for Harry Carey, and also for Edwin Willis who designs so many of the peachy sets at Metro. Ann Sheridan, who is as pretty as she is talented, drove up with me, and Monte Blue, the attractive Tom Keene, Joyce Hearst and Julie Haydon, a pippin who got into pictures via the fairy-tale 104 route. She sent her photo to Ida Koverman of M-G-M (who found Jean Parker) and Mrs. K. was so impressed by her beauty that she had the girl come to the studio! Put away that tin-type, Joanie, it only happens once in a lifetime! Will Rogers couldn't come so he sent Mrs. Carey, whose name is Olive, this wire: "Golly Ollie so sorry but I've got to go to Wyoming. Will." The moment we arrived we found the genial Harry had the gee-gees all saddled. The gang immediately set forth over mesquite brush and sage (I reckon that's the lingo, pardner!) for a couple of hours, then we limped back for lunch. After that there was a first-class demonstration by experts in cow branding and Fred Astaire isn't turning farmer, he's just having a grand time puttering around before "Top Hat" punching with wild and woolly whoop-ees supplied by us tenderfeet, sitting pigeon-toed atop the corral fence. We became so exhausted from the strain of watching so strenuous a sport that for the next hour or two we just sat around inhaling the very fresh air. Dinner w-as a sizzling Mexican meal which we gobbled out on the porch while a dazzling silver moon rose over deep blue hills to a black velvet sky. Whee-ee-ee! But hang on! A coupla low moans had no sooner escaped me than suddenly through the night drifted the poignant music of soft melodious voices and Mexican guitars! The lads rendered every thing from "La Paloma" to "Home on the Range." There is no use to continue ... the moon, the music, the smell of wide, open spaces . . . ! I'm going to buy me a pair of chaps, settle down and wrangle mustangs! K I EVER ignore health for pleasure . . . com' ^binethem! That's this lass's creed since the cowboy outing I just wrote you. I let the Trocadero rest a couple of nights while I concentrated on What Is Good for the Growing Girl. Under this heading came Ida Koverman's party at her Santa Monica beach home to which I went with Jack LaRue. Sea air is fine, so I left the champagne strictly alone and just concentrated on demolishing a bunch of the teeney, piping hot meat canapes. My old friend Nils Asther shared a few of them with me. It was my first real opportunity to thank him for the cable he sent me from Stockholm and which I flaunted plenty in the face of the current boy-friend. (All the way from Sweden! Imagine!) I asked Nils to repeat the performance whenever out of town. He agreed, which is ducky, but personally I'd just as soon have him stick around ... if he'd stick with DUT to continue! There were lots of beauties u around . . . Jean Parker, Madge Evans, Mady Christians, Joan Marsh, Ann Sheridan, Una Merkel, Betty Furness and ... but with each name my head drops lower so I cease. Most of my solace came from admiring Leo Carrillo's Mexican get-up. He lives near by and came in his colorful costume . . . beaded tie, sombrero and buckskin panties with gay embroidery. A hearty caballero, Leo, who loves to tell stories, in dialect, that are worth two bucks of your dough at any theater. Incidentally, his family once owned practically all of what is now Santa Monica. They had a huge rancho there which they gradually sold as the fortunes of the family lessened. Leo's big place is heavenly, and so picturesque, with Mexican fangle dangles all around — a big barbeque pit, bright flowers and a clever young Mexican lad who strolls about with a guitar and sings amusing folk songs with Leo. I slept like a babe after so much fresh air so the startled anatomy had to do something about that, quick. It did. Next P. M. found me, once again, in the Trocadero. I've been reading in the fashion magazines how we're going to get the Hindu influence in our clothes pretty soon. Personally, I'm all for it since seeing the Princess Mehu Colah of Bombay in her East Indian regalia. I stared like a ninny, but so would you at the vision of a dark lady with a drape slung over her head. It came from the shoulder of her sari, a very handsome thing of black chiffon embroidered with glittering silver sequins with which she wore matching sandals, and earrings, right to the shoulders, solid with diamonds. She danced very prettily and apparently enjoyed Hollywood gay life. The lad that glides is Cesar Romero. All the girls in town are daffy to waltz when held in his arms. This particular evening it was pretty Mrs. Billy Wilkerson, whose husband owns the Troc and also the Vendome j who drew the winning ticket most of the time They made a charming couple. Not quite his style was Young Tom Brown who, I'd say