Photoplay (Jan-Sep 1937)

PHOTOPLAY FOR SEPTEMBER, 1937 121 "What is the reason for this?" The coldly logical questioning of Boyer must find its answer then and there. Boyer's love for his wife, need I say, is very beautiful. Indeed the Boyer menage is a happy one in every respect. That marvel of a French cook, the envy of all Hollywood, was hired by Boyer even before his marriage. The small house across the driveway his mother occupies. But nearly every waking hour is spent in the home of her son. A husband, a wife, a mother-in-law. And a happier threesome you can't find. " I-speak-noEnglish," Madame Boyer greets each visitor and sits silently by, knitting the dog a sweater. "Naturally I had never met Charles' mother," Pat said, "until we made our first trip to France together. She loved me and I loved her," she adds simply. K IOW for the Boyers' blending of work and ' marriage. Although both are under contract to Walter Wanger, they plan never to work together. "Not good policy," Pat explains. "His work," Pat says, "was something he had before he had me. Therefore, it belongs to him. His happiness in his marriage, his well-being — these concern me; therefore, they are important to me. "Charles doesn't like me to see him work before a camera. But I like to see the first rough cut of his pictures." And that moment Boyer entered, a man of average height, his dark black eyes twinkling. With pride he showed me the library his wife had redecorated as a Christmas gift to him. With pride he brought out his books, one a bound edition of Bernstein, which binding he had purchased with the first week's salary he ever made. He spoke of his dogs, sadly. Four had died of various illnesses in six weeks' time. "I am afraid to have another one," he said. "We get to love them so much." Time after lime the Boyers had dogs sent from various pet shops only to have Boyer reluctantly return them a few days later "I'm afraid," he'd say frankly. He's known among men as Charlie. The Boy-yer, instead of Boy-yay, is his own idea. "More American," he explains. "He can and has been pretty stubborn," an assistant director told me. "It's when a piece of slipshod writing or directing creeps in, that Boyer's jaw sets and locks. " 'No,' he'll say, 'let's do it right.' And Boyer will wait, a one man sit-down striker, until the shoddy, second-rate business is done away with and first-class material takes its place." Pompous people have begun to steer clear of Charlie. He deflated their egos with a sharp wit, or worse still, right there before them he'd go into an imitation that took the wind right out of them. Charlie's imitations are the talk of the town. Thriftily French in most things (there is no butler, no chauffeur in the plainly furnished home of Boyer), he's a good spender and a good loser. In poker, especially. He's crazy about champagne and will bet any one any amount that the best pate de foie gras in the world comes from his own little town of Figeac. None of this Hollywood nonsense of stealing the little guy's ideas and calmly annexing them as one's own is found around Charlie Boyer. Once on a picture an assistant director whom we shall call Bill was seized with the idea of a truly swell bit of business that finished a scene off beautifully. Immediately a pompous writer, brushing aside little Bill, adopted the idea as his own But not to Charlie he didn't. "Good idea, Bill," Boyer kept saying. And all through the shooting, "Good work, Bill." And then to Walter Wanger, the producer, "Bill, here, had a good idea." He was never hissed but once. It happened during the run of a play in Paris. Boyer and his leading lady began breaking up during a scene. They didn't put forth too much effort to stem their laughter. Suddenly, from the pit of the theater came a long French hiss, more deadly, even, than the English variety From that moment on, he gave every ounce of himself to his work. He approaches it seriously, reverently, and has respect only for actors who do likewise "TONIGHT'S Our Night" is his next picture. 1 He plays with Claudette Colbert who will star in that picture. The path ahead in Hollywood, at least, seems bright and happy for Charles Boyer. He will, however, insist on wearing black and white sport shoes in midwinter. Even when it rains. Such, then, is the man who will hold to his French bosom none other than Garbo in "Marie Walewska." " How did he react when you told him he had won a part in the Garbo picture?" I asked a member of the Wanger production staff. "You know, it's a funny thing," the man answered. "Charlie was standing at the living room window looking down on Hollywood. "Suddenly he laughed. And without even turning around he said, 'Well, what do you know about that?' " The Big Wig Mystery— with Irene Dunne CONTINUED FROM PAGE 10 very becoming to the wearer, and that night the scene was not nearly so effective when played in the makeshift made necessary by the loss. To top everything Colonel Savage turned up, and was not pleased with the performance. When I reached the hotel after the show, to my surprise there were two bags, both identical, parked in my room. One contained the missing wig, and as I raced down to the hall to return the bag, I had many visions of temperamental leading ladies, but instead of a disagreeable scene, my apologies and explanations were accepted, and as the "Vine" trailed its way slowly toward Boston during the weeks that followed where Vivienne Segal was to take over the star's responsibilities, we grew to be quite good friends. The show was a bit highbrow for these audiences, and business wasn't so good. "Some day they'll wish they had come out to see me," the understudy used to say. 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