Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1936)

Fred and sister Adele had a happy childhood. At Asbury Park. N. J., with Helen Losche (center), now Mrs. Carl Tannert In order to impress the boys with the fact that he was a regular feller, he kept practicing baseball till he was a better player than any kid on the block. "I remember he was always running around, swinging a bat," Edward Spengeman, the postman on the Weehawken beat told me. "He was the champion marble shooter and bottle-cap thrower of the gang. In those days, the boys threw bottle caps against the wall; whoever hit nearest a given spot got a cardboard head of a ball player as a prize." " Never once did he discuss his dancing with any of us boys," one of his childhood chums told me. "That was a thing apart, and he wanted us to forget all about it when we played. "He was one of the best natured kids on the block. I remember when we were both about eleven his dad sent him a lovely bag of marbles from out West. They were Real Agates, and made swell shooters. When I admired them, and asked him to let me shoot with them, he gave me half a dozen, including the best shooter of the whole set — a pure blood red one. Those aggies were one of my greatest childhood possessions." The thing Fred hated most, as a child, was being asked to sing or dance for company, or his friends. His little face would flush, he'd run his grimy fingers through the curly mass of brown hair — yes, in those days he had lovely curls — and try to beg off. When he couldn't, he'd sing in a sweet, trembling voice, "Asleep in the Deep," which plaintive melody his mother had taught him. When he was sixteen, Fred rebelled for the first time against what he considered sissified. Till then, he and Adele did toe dancing as the main part of their act. But when they graduated to dancing at Feltmann's Restaurant, in Coney Island, Fred refused to do any more toe dancing, and insisted that their entire routine consist of smart comedy dancing. To a childhood friend, who inquired about .the change in their act, he explained, "Aw, I'm grown up. And it's too sissy for a feller to toe dance." I spoke to Bernard Sobel, Ziegfeld's ex-press agent, who knew Astaire for many years, while Fred appeared in Broadway hits. He told me that Fred never once went temperamental, or demanded the moon, as so many of his colleagues did. And that whenever he could, Astaire ducked from publicity. Years ago, I was present at a conference to further a charitable enterprise, with which Astaire had agreed to cooperate. All went well until the secretary announced, "Now that everything's settled, why can't we call in the press? The boys are waiting outside with their photographers. A story is all we need When Adele was to get Started." This dance used to Fred Astaire objected. " We're not giving our services to get our names into the papers," he said quietly. " We're doing it to help." The reporters were not allowed in. Yet any story printed, showing how charitable he was, would have done him a lot of good. So those of you who are peeved with him because he avoids reporters and photographers today, who feel he's doing a Garbo on you, will perhaps change your minds. He's not trying to high-hat the press, he doesn't feel he's too big a shot to need them. It's just that he's naturally reserved and would rather be let alone. You'd think that a man who's been a public character for thirty years, who's danced before the mighty and the lowly, would know his way around, would be a sophisticate, a man about town, a bit of a blade with the ladies. Yet people who knew him for years assured me that the first woman he ever was really interested in, is today Mrs. Fred Astaire. That the girls he squired about town are few and far between. Before he went to Hollywood, he took Marilyn Miller and Ginger Rogers out occasionally. "The day he married Phyllis Potter," one of the doormen in his old apartment house told me, "he came in very much elated, hit me on the chest with his fist, and said, 'Aw, gee, I'm the happiest man in the world. She's married me.' ' Which was quite a contrast to his usual demeanor. "He'd come out of the house with his head downcast, with his coat collar up, as if he was trying to hide. His hands were always in his pockets, and he chewed gum incessantly. If anyone spoke to him, he'd look up in a timid sort of way, mumble a greeting, and hurry into his car. There was nothing high and mighty about him." "One day," Bernard Sobel told me, "I introduced Astaire to a few chorus girls, in decollete. As is the custom in the theater, I put my arm around one, thinking nothing of it. Astaire actually blushed! Even then, when he was sitting on top of the world, with a series of Broadway hits to his credit, he still remained at heart a shy, retiring smalltown boy." He was the most democratic tenant the swanky, high class apartment house at 875 Park Avenue ever had. He'd be riding along Lexington Avenue, in his 822,000 Rolls Royce, when he'd see a number of the apartment house attendants standing on a street corner. It didn't matter if he was with a Yanderbilt or a college professor, out would come his hand from the front car winten and Fred eight. dow. waving a greeting, and he'd grin "slay" the audience fromeartoear. [please turntopageI 14| 22