Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1938)

ON THE NEW DOLLAR-SAVING ££CANTAN THE ONLY 393/4 HOUR STREAMLINED TRAIN between Chicago-Los Angeles • This new, gay little wind splitter is as swift as the finest luxury streamliners — but you can't ride on it if you want to spend a lot of money .... Because this twice-a-week silver flash is dedicated entirely to economy travel, and for the exclusive use of chair-car passengers ! Your fare to California is only $5 more than the lowest cost coach fare — yet you save days and dollars! And the delicious meals, served in the cheery lunch -tavern car, are priced surprisingly low. You'll like, too, the trim beauty and latest comforts of this unique train — including deeplycushioned reclining chairs, all numbered and reserved; carpeted aisles; broad windows; fine lighting and attractive dressing rooms. One car is reserved for women and children — with a courier-nurse to help mothers with babies and children, and to assist all others who may require her free and friendly service. So whiz to California on El Capitan, and see for yourself how far Santa Fe has really gone in lifting economy travel to a new plane of zest and pleasure. El Capitan departs from Chicago every Tuesday and Saturday, 5 :45 pm; from Los Angeles, Tuesdays and Fridays, 1 :30 pm. 13 SUPERB STREAMLINERS • El Capitan is only one of 13 magnificent new trains, streamlined in stainless steel, that Santa Fe presents for more enjoyable California and Southwestern journeys during 1938. There are two superb Super Chiefs, extra-fare and only solid-Pullman 393/j hour streamliners between Chicago and Los Angeles; six new streamlined Chiefs that further emphasize the distinction of this fastest and only first-class, extra -fare, Chicago -Los Angeles daily train ; and new streamliners between San Diego and Los Angeles, and Kansas City and Chicago. For full details just mail the coupon. T. B. Gallaher, P.T.M., Santa Fe Sys. Lines 1165 Railway Exchange, Chicago, 111. Send information about new trains and fares from to.. Name Address _ 1938 IS A SANTA FE YEAR ing just for me — to powder my face. What a world," and he'll lean out and bow stiffly but pleasantly to men, women and children on the march. It was while he was acting his role in George Bernard Shaw's "The Apple Cart" that movies grabbed him. He began by playing George Washington with a teddibly British twang and Valley Forge viewpoint. He was slightly terrific. After twenty-nine pictures (the current one being Hal Roach's "Merrily We Live") , he's agreed, for the first time, to sign a contract. And only, as he warned Hal Roach, did he sign it because he learned do-nuts and coffee were served free on the Roach sets every day. The do-nuts and coffee got him. He reads widely and currently with a purpose other than enjoyment. One day he hopes to become a producer, either of pictures or stage plays, and so must know stories. He's a playwright of some success. "Dinner is Served," his own play, was produced on Broadway. He has just completed another called "In the Spirit" which he hopes to have produced. Englishmen whose accents grow more and more British the longer they remain in America bore him terrifically. Always prefers amiability to confusion. Figures life is too short for fussing. Solidly educated, he's well informed. And his one luxury is cigarettes costing eight cents apiece. "Have one?" he'll insist with a light of satisfaction in his eye, while his very own powder puff man lingering near makes it a bit of an all right world for Mr. Mowbray. He's happy about the whole thing. Eric Blore: "He rambled, yes he rambled — he rambled all around — in and out of the town." Remember the old college tune with freshmen in tiny caps hollering like mad? Eric Blore says that song was written about him. Eric says back in the beginning he wasn't so much an actor as a rambler — not the rose variety. All over every stick and stone in every way station and hamlet in England, his native country, he rambled. You should know what he did to Australia, Eric says. Why, they even played to the Bushmen; and once (of course, Eric says this, remember, not me) they even played to a bunch of overcurious kangaroos. The play was "The Merry Makers." The kangaroos died off like fleas, Eric says. A brilliant mind, a funny face with a funnier mouth that does a Susy Q. all of its own, Eric is another comic gone the way of all butlers. His first great Hollywood success, however, was as a waiter in "The Gay Divorcee." His mind is quick and alert. His perceptions keen. His head slightly bald on top. And positively anemic around the edges. His remarks, witty, intelligent, are usually satirical. His father, Harry Blore, was an honor student at Trinity College, Dublin. Eric wasn't. His father is today a member of the Board of Education in London. Eric isn't. Eric never will be. But he is one of the finest comedians in all Hollywood. "America has never appreciated the capabilities or artistry of Blore," English critics cry. But Eric doesn't cry. He thinks he is doing all right. Thinks Hollywood a divine place to live. Calls it "a man's town." Claims he's Anglo-American by absorption. Eric absorbs like a sponge. "Such a cozy unlonely feeling — having all my old friends around me here," he says. "Just think, I can telephone Bart Marshall any time I want to. He's right here. In the town with me. Before this I'd maybe see Bart fifteen minutes every four years between jumps at Chicago. "Hollywood is like an excursion boat and all my friends are on it." Blow the whistle, Captain. Here comes Blore around the bend. There's something about treacle pudding that gets him. And something about Black Velvet, a combination of stout and champagne, that also gets him. Oh, definitely gets him. English foods are still his favorite but he's learned to enjoy hot dogs and has discovered a secret concerning the overheated canines. They must be eaten at the beach to be enjoyed. Away from the salt air they lose their "ummph." No sea air — no ummph in hot dogs. He wears a cute bow tie and highwaisted pants that almost meet the bow tie head on. He's completely frustrated over the fact no one ever gives him a birthday present because his birthday comes on December 23. His friends wait till Christmas. It's done something to Blore's soul — this putting off like that. During his early struggles he decided to become a singer. His first appearance was in a tough English music hall. He followed directly after Harry Lauder. The audience encored Lauder all through Eric's song and finally grew to feel this interloper was somehow hindering Lauder's return to the stage. Still Eric sang on, until one husky leaned over the balcony and cried, "Are you going to get out of there or shall I have to come down and throw you out?" Eric took the hint. About that time Herbert Marshall came along in a review and gathered up Eric. He's been hitting on high ever since. Has been married twice. Is the amazed papa of an eight-year-old boy, Eric Blore, Jr. He golfs. Reads Robert Benchley and Charles Dickens. His favorite of all actors is the late G. P. Huntley. His latest picture is "The Joy of Living." Edward Everett Norton: Squire of Belly-acres, gentleman farmer extraordinary, scene stealer de luxe, bachelor and how, are just a few of the titles bestowed by Hollywood upon the perspiring brow of one Edward Everett Horton. Perspiring because Eddie is generally in a first-class dither over one of his several projects. Either Eddie's cow is having a calf just at dinner time, or one of his innumerable outhouses is burning its way to the ground, or, worse yet, one of his ranch buildings is reaching a state of completion. Each proving a major catastrophe all its own. Especially the one about the completed building. You see, Horton has a theory about that ranch of his. A theory that pretty well characterizes the man himself. He began with an acre and a house that has expanded (and how, is beyond him) into sixteen acres with sixteen buildings. A building for every acre. And now he feels if he stops building some dire thing will descend upon him.. He figures the constant building gives employment to the twenty men whom he can't bear to throw into sudden unemployment. Heaven wouldn't forgive him, Eddie feels. Besides, the financial outlay (with no help from the government) is so terrific it keeps him working fifty-two weeks of the year, which is a good thing all the way round. Ke; him on the screen and working » mad, at any rate. When the barn received the last . ishing touches, he was panicky for a J an hour. And then he had an idea. I merely turned the barn, hayloft and into a little theater and began a !? barn all over again. You can't beat him. Except at tenb Just six months ago he took up game. He was wearing a suit of flannels at the time, as sort of a red ing means. Everything, Horton cla. shrunk but him. The underwear, tennis court, his partners — all, all minished. Eddie put on weight. He has all the crotchety, set-in-] . way characteristics of the bachelor, j j has a fixed idea in his mind e\jj writer in town at some time has wd ten a cooking story about him. "I didn't like that cooking story I wrote about me," he greets each sci accusingly. "I really can't boil an y you know." (Business of dirty look.t confused writers who never in their tire existence wrote a cooking storjj Horton.) He'll leave a writer stranded in e middle of a sentence to take his p before a camera without so much ; 1 "pardon me." "Now quote me acl rately," he'll scold. "Quote me acl rately." He's been four times to Europe rrl ing pictures in England, and each 11 returns with crates of furniture I require four new buildings as stor.l He moves furniture around on off d| Somewhere he picked up the idea I erybody else's hats look better on 1 than any he can buy. It has him constantly eying o'l men's hats. And brooding secretly. 1 Once in the swing of a gay, bante. f conversation, he's tops, revealing a 1 sense of the ridiculous. Secretly, he's always yearned to tl Beau Brummell. A knock-out 1 wheels. But he never quite make: 6 Either his coat does nip-ups in the tl or his vest button pops during a 11 scene. Snobs are his favorite people. The e so pathetic, he states. He'll grab up a pair of hair brushe; n the set between scenes and really gj town. Brushing his plentiful heacif hair with strong sweeping backwd motions. Florida water lets loose the ragarm it in him. Horton refreshing himself vl Florida water on the set is a sight >t to be missed. A graduate of Columbia Univer:', he began play-acting in school theacals. And came on to California wle he became the reigning matinee ido'f the day. He's never played on Broadway. Seral times he's almost done it and to backed out. He'd rather be tops in I: lywood than flops in New York. He wears reading glasses, and w;s about the set talking his lines to him i — which is confusing, in a way, to ••« itors, who think Horton has sudde/ gone bats. He's up on modern things. Well rd, well informed, well versed. He's a tl ter listener than a story teller only,e adds, with that notorious twist of s head, he gets off a good one now ■* then. He likes best of all his role vi George Burns and Gracie Allen in tl r new film, "College Swing," because1 this one, he really gets the girl. He gets the itch, too. But the girl's worth the torture feels. It seems they gave all the comedis in town to "Bluebeard's Eighth Wife' Horton's in it, too! 80