Picture-Play Magazine (1933)

I-' It Isn't So Neither chivalrous, sleek, nor sentimental, Lee Tracy insists that he's not a ladies' man. Fifty million paying admirers answer, "You'll do." Isobel Jewell also denies that Tracy is nobody's hero, permanent best girl. You'll see her soon in "Forever Fa She's his ithful." EVER since Lee Tracy first portrayed a breezy, hard-drinking, wisecracking reporter on the screen, classes in journalism at our schools for young ladies have had capacity attendance. If there is any chance of meeting a man like that, the current sub-debs will gladly shelve a purely social career for the prospect of one in a newspaper office. "But why are you so crazy about him?" I've asked the youngsters who are my neighbors every week-end as they pored over theater announcements looking for a Lee Tracy picture. "I thought Clark Gable and Ramon Novarro and Robert Montgomery were your type." "Mamma likes them," one girl spoke up as the others nodded in agreement. "1 do sometimes, but they're sticky." another added. "Too intense," another chimed in. "They talk like crooners; we like jazz." "They act as if they knew they were being watched." "Mother thinks maybe they come from good families and went to college." In udicr words, in order to keep up the tradition of defiance in the younger generation, they adore Lee Tracy because their parents don't approve. But there are many other reasons, too. They speculate on what it would be like to know him. Exciting. Unexpected. Casual. Never nice to you just for the sake of good manners. I le would be hard to please and never impressionable enough to swoon at sight of a pretty face. I gathered from them that while James Cagney charms by throwing a grapefruit in the eve, Lee Tracy is more subtle in his appeal in that he throws vitriol into any assumption of swank. By Helen Klumph So I had to meet him, to be able to report to my young friends that he was all that the) hoped — or a washout. Go right on being balmy about Lee Tracy, my little darlings. You will never find that he fits into a neat little pigeonhole. Just when you think you know a little about him, he will surprise you by turning about-face and being quite different. And I am sure he will never get cocky and strut around brooding over his public for the simple reason that no one can convince him that women like him. "Oh, here you are !" he remarked to me by way of introduction as he wandered into the New York office of M.-G.-M. three quarters of an hour after the time set for our appointment. "I thought maybe you wouldn't wait." There was ill-disguised hope in his tone. "I don't suppose that you'll believe I'm sorry I kept you waiting. You've probably heard I'm always late. I really tried to get here but I was over at the Lambs' Club. You know how that is. Some old actor comes up and starts talking about the way the theater is tottering and asks about Hollywood, and you can't walk out on him. Then another one comes up and reminds you of the time when you played a bit in the company where he was star. They're good guys and they are having a rotten time with so many theaters closed." He has an ingratiating smile that fills in all the gaps between his staccato remarks. He is acutely uncomfortable when talking about himself and drifts into a detached air from which he comes back with a smile that is more confiding and eloquent than any appeal to you to please talk about something else. "Years ago I was juvenile in a Mt. Vernon stock company," he told me. "The last night the fans used to come to the stage door to say good-by to their favorites. I was the last one out, of course. I'm awfully slow about packing or anything like that. Apparently some had waited especially to see me. I was impressed. And then I saw that the youngest was about fortyfive years old. Right then I said, 'Tracy, you'll never be a matinee idol. You'd better stick to character parts and comedy!' And I have. They haven't the appeal the romantic guys have, but that's all I can do. And it's what 1 like to do. "Of course, it didn't take those women at the stage door to convince me I was nobody's hero. I'd looked into a mirror once or twice. These light eyes, these limp features, these scars all over my face!" A lingering attack of bronchitis chose to half strangle me at that moment, so I gasped, "Ask yourself some leading questions and save me the trouble." "Oh, no," he gloated, with obvious relish that for once the person interviewing him was uncomfortable. Continued on paije 56