Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1938)

It's Easy to Act (Continued from page 23) role was that it gave me no "clinches" with her. Not even one embrace did I ,et_and me fairly bursting with Casanova-ness. If I were going to make a lifetime profession of acting, I would insist on being the "great lover" type— and hang the overtime! 8nE phase of my labor in "Garden of the Moon" was very fatiguing. On the stage adjoining ours, a filmusical was oeing dished up — a typical extravaganza which ran into plenty of figures, all gorgeous. The costumes on that set were a revelation. Being an enthusiastic employee, I felt that if, by any chance, the director of that filmusical wanted to ask my opinion about anything, I should be on hand to deliver. It was effort wasted, but no one can accuse me of shirking my duty. I made so many trips to this set, between scenes on my own, that by :the end of the day, I was worn to a frazzle. Overworked! The studio executives, I must admit, !do everything in their power to save their stars from fatigue. One morning, I remember, it sprinkled a few drops of rain. Just as I was congratulating myself on a chance to be a Garbo, someone knocked at my dressing-room door. It was a studio chauffeur, come to drive me, in a studio limousine, to the stage door, which was all of fifty feet away. Back in my pre-Barrymore days, when I was a mere radio commentator, :I used to be impressed by the complaints of stars who cited as one of their principal tribulations the long waits between scenes. I really appreciated those beefs when I reported for work on my first, day. The call was for nine o'clock and I was Johnny on the spot. The assistant director came to my dressing room and told me that he would notify me when I was wanted on the set. At noon, he ; came again and, after waking me, said it was time for lunch. "Be back on the set at one, we'll use you then," he added. I nervously bolted a light lunch— lamb chops smothered in sauted mushrooms and served with bright chatter by Miss Lindsay — and dashed pell-mell back to the job. The set was deserted. To soothe my jumping nerves, I tried to read. Two o'clock . . . three . . . four . . . and, finally, five. The assistant knocked at my door just as I finished my book. "That's all for today," said he. "We'll start shooting at nine tomorrow!" I was dreadfully annoyed — until I reflected that I had actually been paid better than a hundred dollars an hour for absorbing a book that I had been trying to find time to read for more than a year. No wonder so many actors are well-read — or are they? H AVE you ever combed your own hair? If so, you know what a tiresome, enervating task it is, and how easily you can be overworked by doing it. Give proper credit, then, to the understanding of our studio czars, for they supply a man to comb their actors' hair. And to pat his tired cheeks with a powder puff. And to hold a mirror while he matches his left profile with his right. They also supply a stand-in. I had one. He got something like forty dollars every week. And not once did I hear him complain of being overworked. But then, of course, he is just a stand-in and lacks the real artistic temperament, the fierce emotional tension which characterizes such thespians as Gable, Garbo, Crawford and Fidler. He didn't have to "give." All he had to do in his humble capacity was to stand for hours under the hot lights and pose and sweat, while the camera crew set up for another shot and I lolled on the side lines laughing at Pat O'Brien's wit. (Remind me to tell you that one about the Irishman, the Swede and the American — it's a honey.) I don't think I would care to be a stand-in. I would rather be a real actor — and be overworked! Odd, too, that the electricians, the property men and the "grips" never complain. They start their jobs about an hour before the cast arrives and their only time out is taken for lunch. They wrestle with heavy equipment, stand on their feet all day, worry about technical problems and fill in their odd moments by mentally trying to match their wages with their expenses. The fact that they are such a cheerful, industrious lot merely proves, I suppose, that they lack the finer sensibilities which distinguish us mimes. There is still another man on the set to whom I would doff my hat were it not for the fact that I have become so inert through overwork. I mean the director. In particular, I mean Busby Berkeley, who directed "Garden of the Moon." Mr. Berkeley did the gardening— the rest of us just mooned around. He co-ordinated everything; dictated the lighting, the camera angles, the "business" of each actor. He rehearsed our dialogue, and he determined our action. And before each scene he demonstrated exactly what he wanted. He was Edgar Bergen; we were Charlie McCarthys. Once, when I was a youngster in Tennessee, I went swimming with the big boys and succeeded in falling into a deep hole. I would be there yet if a man on the bank had not whipped off his belt and used it to pull me out. My estimable friend, Mr. Berkeley, is like that belt whipper-offer. Whenever I felt myself sinking, he was always on hand to pull me out. Personally, I'm in favor of paying actors bigger money — and then giving half of their pay checks to the directors. I HAVE an idea that there are stars in Hollywood who will not approve of the general tenor of this article. Perhaps some of them will even make nasty remarks about me and to me. But I have my defense all prepared. I will simply say that it is unfair to hold me accountable. I will cite the long, long hours that I spent on the set, listening to Pat O'Brien's jokes and moping because I had no clinches with Margaret Lindsay. And I will excuse my follies with just one word — the one word that always excuses the follies of any actor. The word is— OVERWORKED! (Jane csLvons is still going places and doing things — and what things! The witty and wise little heroine of "Sincerely Yours," the most hysterical autobiography since "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes," discovers that the woman always pays — but boy, does she get a lot for her money! Another chapter in Jane's autobiography in October PHOTOPLAY AAKE THIS "ARMHOLE \ ODOR" TEST TONIGHT OU may spend hours grooming yourself for a particularly exciting date. But if you have once allowed the least bit of perspiration to collect on the dress you are wearing, the evening may drag before it's half over. Just when you want to make your best impression, your dress may shout "armhole odor." Disillusioned, your escort will think it is you! You may think you couldn't offend that way. But here's a test that will prove your guilt or innocence beyond the shadow of a doubt. MAKE THIS TEST! When you take off the dress you are wearing tonight, smell the fabric under the armhole. Maybe you will be painfully surprised at its stale "armhole odor." But you will understand, at last, why your dates have been so few and far between. More important still, you will realize the importance of keeping your underarm not only sweet but DRY! ODORONO IS SURE ! With Odorono neither you nor your dress can offend, because your underarm is kept completely dry. ODORONO IS SAFE! Checking perspiration in that small underarm area is entirely safe. CUTS DOWN CLOTHING DAMAGE! When used according to directions, Odorono is harmless to fabrics, saves them the destruction caused by perspiration acids. A LITTLE TROUBLE, BUT WORTH IT! The few minutes it takes for Odorono to dry insure you against embarrassment for 1 to 3 days. A small enough price to pay for absolute peace of mind! GREASELESS AND ODORLESS! Odorono is delightful to use— greaseless and entirely odorless. It comes in two strengths. Regular Odorono requires only two applications a week. Instant Odorono is for more frequent use. Use Liquid Odorono according to the directions on the label of the bottle. Give romance the chance it has been waiting for! Resolve never to be guilty of revolting " armhole odor." Get a bottle of Liquid Odorono today and be sure! On sale at all toilet-goods counters. SEPTEMBER, 1938 87