Picture Play Magazine (1932)

66 Continued from page 35 About a year ago, however, George grew tired of his hot and vigorous career which required him to keep as light as a jockey. He came to gladsome Hollywood to see if there was any more gold in them thar hills. After inhaling large volumes of our West Coast zephyrs and taking on a little weight, he concluded that movie gold and fame were not for him. He made reservations to return to his New York tepee. Then, naturally, he was offered a job. Rowland Brown was looking for a smooth young man to play in "Quick Millions." George was tagged and pronounced it. "I don't know anything about movie acting or talking for the microphone," he told Brown, "and I may not suit you at all. But, if you like, I'll work until Friday — the day I am intending to go East — and if I am not satisfactory in the part you needn't pay me. That will give you time to judge and if I suit you I'll cancel my ticket." Such a sense of fair play may come naturally to people born in Hot Feet September, or it may come from loving one's country. And since honesty is sometimes rewarded, even in Hollywood, George's generous offer has been followed by success. In my opinion — and if I don't know, who the mischief does? — George Raft is one of the most stimulating personalities that talking pictures have produced. After his success in "Scarface," Paramount offered him a small but colorful role in "Dancers in the Dark." George not only took the part, but the whole picture as well, to the consternation of his popular coworkers, Miriam Hopkins, Jack Oakie, and Buster Collier. Paramount probably felt like a hen who has hatched a duck instead of a chicken, but George was taken right into the family just the same. George isn't the best-looking man I have ever seen, nor the most brilliant. But his acting is so skillful and arresting, so endowed with that strange illusion of subtle, deadly menace coupled with forbidden romance, that the screen is touched to new life at his every appearance. In his work one sees no tricks, no studied effects, but rather the unconscious perfection of a born actor. Though some pagan streak in him makes him sit for hours listening to "hot" music, he strikes me as being conventional in his reactions and deportment. My talk with him was the first he had had for publication, and I was pleased when he casually said, "This interview has been just a pleasant conversation." Some of the stars make a fan writer feel that she is lucky to be standing respectfully in the Presence. George's rise to screen success was so sudden that local advertisers, unfamiliar with his name, misspelled it when, seeing his hit in "Scarface," it was decided to give him billing along with Paul Muni. The error pained George considerably, so at parting he patted my shoulder and paraphrased George M. Cohan's famous epigram, "Write what you like about me, good or bad, but please spell my name correctly." O. K., ba-bee! Kindly observe that I have done so. Continued from page 23 of how he started out to be a college professor or a minister. He doesn't get all this romantic stuff they are pulling about him, and he suspects he is being kidded. He isn't ; susceptible feminine interviewers just naturally go into a flutter over his hypnotic eyes and his mysterious, half-sad smile. He came East to play at the Paramount and bounded in all ready to work hard to put the act over, just as he did in the days when he won a Charleston contest and later when he did a whirlwind dance at the Guinan club. He just couldn't get the idea that he was expected to look mysterious and alluring, but from the accounts of volunteer reporters from the ranks of schoolgirls, he did, anyway. Sentiment Versus Reality. — Edna May Oliver got all full of sentiment for Broadway when Ziegfeld wired her that he just couldn't think of reviving "Show Boat" on the stage without her. Her enthusiasm lasted through rehearsals, opening night when she drew roars of applause, and about a week afterward. Then she began to get restless. Hotel rooms seemed deadly, the noise and dust of the city got on her nerves, and she discovered that she just hated staying up late nights. She thought of her nice little house in Hollywood and the lovely, restful days between pictures and suddenly she realized They Say in New York— that all this late in life she had got over being stage struck. She was elated when the RKO studio demanded that she come back. The Young Visitor. — The biggest thrill that Jackie Cooper has got out of his personal appearance tour is that mother and auntie and the rest can't put him in his place any more and act superior about having been on the stage. "I've done that," is one of Jackie's favorite remarks. He is not boastful, you understand — that sensible grandmother of his would talk him out of it in a hurry if he was — he is just matter of fact. He does miss Wallace Beery and Marie Dressier and a lot of the studio gang, though, and something suspiciously like a tear, which would never do for the hard-boiled Jackie, clouds his eyes when he picks up a movie magazine and sees pictures of Hollywood. Gloria's Screen Find. — The public has muttered its dissatisfaction from time to time because Gloria Swanson refused to have her children photographed. There were some things she would not share with the public. They may be delighted to know that she doesn't feel that way about husbands. Michael Farmer is to play opposite her in the picture she is making in England. Old friends recall that she tried to get the Marquis de la Falaise de la Coudraye to act in pictures with her and that he refused. Perhaps, after all, that was one of the underlying causes of their split. If Mr. Farmer films as naturally as she says he does, he should be a charming foil for her, for he is young, handsome, and magnetic. Menace to Hollywood. — Hollywood has something new to worry about. While motion-picture producers are threatening to import Broadway players to supplant any film players who aren't obedient and respectful, a menace has arisen in the East who might take the dissatisfied Hollywood players and put them on Broadway. For years Hollywood has had the whip hand because Broadway was short of money. Now a producer has appeared who is not only young and ambitious, but plentifully supplied with money. The stage producer is Peggy Fears, once a Ziegfeld cavorter, always a poised and shrewd young person, and now the wife of the wealthy A. C. Blumenthal. Her first stage production launched Dorothy Hall. The next will feature Lenore Ulric. Ina Claire, who has just persuaded Samuel Goldwyn that he might as well tear up her contract, is slated to do an operetta under Miss Fears's management. And even the Holly