Photoplay (Jan-Sep 1937)

mer day in dragging their tall drinks out on the veranda and watching two grown men run themselves into a ragged sweat after a small white ball. Their heads wag from side to side rhythmically like a mass formation of cobras under the influence of a powerful Oriental narcotic. But, no matter how much the heads sway, there is no diminution in chatter. Swaying or not, that gallery is really something to see. It makes the average premiere turnout look slim and unimpressive, especially if you prefer your female figure in shorts and such instead of sables and ermine. CRANK SHIELDS and I were playing off a match in the men's singles one day. We met at the net for the usual handshake and kidding. Frank glanced over the gallery and back. We looked at each other and grinned, both with the same thought — that it would be far more fitting if we took a couple of chairs out on the court and watched the gallery, rather than the other way round. And a great deal more entertaining it would have been, too. Strewn around the boxes and veranda was what I would conservatively estimate to be better than fifty million dollars worth of actresses, leading men and so-called brains. Michael Bartlett could be seen leaping gracefully from box to box. Kay Francis was doing something languid to a cigarette. Connie Bennett was looking for Gilbert Roland and Gary Cooper was chewing a piece of grass from the lawn while Rocky talked about the women's doubles to Paulette Goddard and Dolores Del Rio. Nigel "Willy" Bruce was snorting around trying to find someone to whom he could tell a story about the guardsman and the charwoman. Cesar "Butch" Romero was looking menacingly around the veranda wondering about a gin rickey while Myrna Loy was asking Arthur Hornblow to help her focus a Leica camera so she could take a picture of Hymie Fink taking a picture of Bill Ulman taking a picture of Humphrey Bogart who was taking a picture of an airplane and doing a bad job of it, judging from the way his eye was squinted. Gloria Stuart and Maggie Sullavan were talking to each other about babies while Liz Pierson sat by knitting a sweater. That sweater, incidentally, is commonly believed to be a prop. She's been at it for two years. Somewhere further down the line, was a green Tyrolean hat with Douglas Fairbanks sitting under it talking to Lady Ashley about Wimbledon. Sally Eilers and Glenda Farrell were trying to find some shady seats, while Harry Joe Brown and Freddie March were chatting with Keith Gledhill. Somewhere down front was a New York society editor, looking frustrated as she sat in the middle of a ring of From Tctrzan to "A Day at the Races" with the mad Marxesto "The Emperor's Candlesticks" has been the lot of Maureen O'Sullivan in the last year. She's abandoned hope of visiting Erin but will have her tamily over here instead Errol banters a bit with Michael Brooke (Earl of Warwick) and Paulette Goddard broken pencils. I laughed then. She was so obviously going mad trying to get all the names and dresses and couples straight and down on paper. DUT I'm not laughing now. I know how that industrious young lady felt. When I agreed to do a series of articles on this cockeyed town for PHOTOPLAY, I thought it would be, if not easy, at least not a very ] difficult job of reporting. But stand alongside a merry-go-round with the steam calliope sounding off in your ear and try reporting what it's all about sometime and you'll see what I mean The only things that are worth reporting anywhere are the unusual things and, in this town, the unusual is an everyday occurrence The unusual thing at the West Side is that the membership is almost one hundred per cent picture people, so there's a tacit understanding that it is the one place where you can come in unarmed and let down your back hair without landing in a gossip column the next morning. You can even speak to a girl you haven't got under long-term contract. The girls seem to like it because they don't have to be dressed and coiffed like a Schiaparelli fashion show. Kay Francis drops in with her hair knotted in a bandana and wearing an old coat that she's gotten used to and likes because it's comfortable. The men who have reputations for being "snappy dressers, on and off," come around for the serious business of tennis dressed comfortably and not like a page out of Esquire. The reason for that may be that if you actually dressed on the court in such a flamboyant style, your opponent would probably be blinded which is not considered sporting. On top of that, we are developing a brand of tennis out here that bids fair to being the best on the West Coast. Frank Shields and I had the pleasure of playing, and being beaten by. the ranking aces of Japan— the Davis Cup winners — a few weeks ago. My own opponent, Mr Nakano, played a game of tennis that for sheer steadiness and powerful, flat forehand drives was a wonderful thing to watch. After beating me 6-3, 6-3, he met me at the net and I had another taste of Oriental "face-saving." He grinned, stuck out his hand, complimented me on my game and added, "The loss wasn't entirely your fault, Mr. Flynn. You may blame it on Their Majesties' Coronation Ball last night." Matter of fact, I'd been thinking much the same thing. The endurance was ebbing a bit that day, due to the fervor with which a bunch of us had gotten together to celebrate the big show in London David Niven who is keeping bachelor quarters with me, broke a record of some years' standing that afternoon by refusing to meet a dazzling blonde visiting town from Dallas Instead, he sat mournfully watching the tennis in a ringside box, cheering the Japanese, me and the King with fine impartiality 1 was really touched by it all until he met me at the showers and muttered something about, "A splendid game, old man, splendid! Best I please turn to page 102] 26