Picture-Play Magazine (1932)

62 Continued from page 19 Ann went about her dancing as she does everything else. Sixteen and eighteen hours a day she worked, until her body seemed stretched out of place and she could scarcely climb into bed, she was so tired. She told me she had a Charley horse in every muscle. We didn't see much of each other for the next two years. Once I ran into her over at Karen Morley's house. She had been made dance instructor at M.-G.-M. studio and was teaching Joan Crawford, Bessie Love, and countless other stars the intricacies of the dance. When next I saw her, she had appeared in her first close-up. Furthermore, Joan Crawford had told her director about Ann, and the latter had offered to make a test of her. Ann was sure that at last the big break had come. But the test turned out to be worse than awful. She decided that the gods had meant her for a dancer. Finally Ann, Karen Morley — who is one of our best friends — and I voted unanimously that something should be done about the situation. Karen was going ahead in leaps and bounds. She had won the lead in "Scarface." She was exuberant. Ann asked her if there were any other feminine roles in the story. "Only one," Karen told her. "And they have to have a real actress for that. You wouldn't stand a chance." Nevertheless, Ann made Karen tell her all about the role, and a few days later Karen introduced her to Howard Hawks at a party. Hawks, she thought, was ignoring her. She prepared to go home, alone and disheartened. As she was going out the door, the director called her. "Come on over to the studio to Wide-awake Ann morrow," he invited. "I'd. like to make a test of you." Ann Dvorak won the role for which they "had to have a real actress." Since "Scarface," Ann has made seven pictures, including "The Strange Love of Molly Louvain," in which she played a star part. Howard Hughes, to whom she is under contract, has farmed her out to First National on a six months' contract, probably the first of its kind. She is in constant demand. But with all her rapid strides, even after her first taste of success as an actress, Ann is not contented. She is the victim of a consuming ambition that will not let her rest. She still wants to write. She is actually coaxing me to work with her on a series of stories about her friends and her experiences in the movies. She composes songs. One of them was used in "The Strange Love of Molly Louvain" and afterward cut out. She plays the piano in a masterly fashion — by ear. She cannot read a note of music. She wants to travel. She has always believed that some day a great love would come to her, a love for which she would be willing to give up her freedom, be married and have children. The last, of course, is still in the far-distant future. A few weeks ago Ann telephoned me excitedly. "Have you read the papers?" I had not. "Go get to-day's paper and look through it carefully," she commanded. I did. On the front page was a story of her marriage to Leslie Fenton, the boy she had introduced to me two months previously on a double date. That night she had said to me, "Isn't he the dearest boy? I'm simply cu-razy about him." And in a few weeks — seven, to be exact — she proved she was by eloping with Les. Ann believes her marriage will be a success. She is confident that she and Les will always love each other as much as they do now — and that's a lot. They should. They have a great deal in common. Like Ann, Les believes in doing what he pleases, when he pleases. He wants to take Ann to all those fascinating queer corners of the world he has seen in his travels. He wants to show her interesting old streets in Paris, the Alhambra in Spain, fashionable hotels in London. Ann, who has always been haunted by a desire to see the world, is bubbling with enthusiasm over his plans. They hope to take their first European trip together within a year. And I'm confident they will. Ann's attitude can be summed up in this one remark she made to me : "To be a success, one must first be a real person — an individual. Afterward he can develop into an artist." It is thus Ann has risen to the top. She is a real person. She hasn't a deceitful drop of blood in her veins. She says what she thinks, and she never does anything without first mulling it over in her mind and considering every move. She takes herself seriously, but not too much so. Her sense of humor won't let her. And she believes in work. "Nobody can hope to get anywhere," she says, "without sincere effort and a lot of hard work." If Ann's career is a result of her creed, I think it's a darn good one. Don't you ? Continued from page 43 backward glance at the horse and the horse started following him. He had a pocketful of sugar and thought the horse was displaying superintelligence because it followed him. What I'm trying to get across is, he wouldn't show off himself, but he'd show off his horse. So great is his enthusiasm for polo that he has taken a room at the Riviera Polo Club and lives there in order to practice mornings before he goes to the studio. I asked his wife if she didn't mind his living down there and seeing so little of him. "No," she replied promptly. "He comes home to dinner every night and I'm glad he's got something that interests him at last. Ever since we've been married I've been trying to find a hobby for him, but he always gets tired of things. And he's the kind of man Tough to You who should have something to distract him and take his mind off himself. "The first year we were married, we had pretty tough sledding and Spencer got into the habit of worrying. He's never been able to throw it off. He's got the most volatile disposition I've ever seen — up in the clouds one minute and down in the depths the next. And when he's low, he's very, very low. All this exercise absorbs a certain amount of that nervous energy and he isn't so apt to become depressed." When she said he's like a small boy, she spoke the truth. Once we were going to a picture show. Just before we entered the theater, Spens ducked into a neighboring candy store and came out with a bag of caramels. Another time I was at their house when he came home late. Dinner was over and since he had phoned earlier that he wouldn't be home for the meal, they hadn't put anything away for him. The butler prepared him some salad, eggs, and bacon. Later he brought in cheese and some crackers. "C'n he have some cheese to-night, Mrs. Tracy?" the butler asked, ignoring Spencer. Spencer's face was a study as he looked anxiously at his wife to hear what she had to say, like a kid who's been threatened with a spanking and is hanging on his mother's words while some one pleads for a pardon. Mrs. Tracy finally decided he could have the cheese because his dinner had been light. "It's so fattening," she explained, "I let him have it only once or twice a week." But she might as well save herself the trouble of trying to regulate his