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triumphs being a thirty-fivethousand-clollar week in Los Angeles daring Holy Week, the doldrums of the theatrical season.
"Dancing for films," said Gilda, "I sure miss the audience out front. It makes things so different when only a camera watches. What I do is to close my eyes as I dance, and imagine the people are out there in front. That helps. And for one of my dances in this picture I had an orchestra. The other, a native affair, I did to my own humming."
When I visited the grassy hut housing the "Aloma" troupe, Maurice Tourneur was busily directing Gilda in one of her less peripatetic moments. The danseuse, economically gowned in a colorful bandanna and dipped in brown to look tropical, was holding Percy Marmont's head, registering sympathy, as I interpreted the tableau, and cooing sweet nothings into his ear. It was all very moving. Mr. Tourneur, who may be described as the director with a curl on his forehead (because of his very good and very bad pictures), patiently instructed Gilda in the ways of the drama, rehearsed the episode minutely and painstakingly, then unleashed the argus-eyed cameras.
I had hoped to happen in upon one of Aloma' s terpsichorean moments, thus making my task something of a sinecure. But my disappointment was allayed in no small measure by the presence of Gilda's all-star supporting cast — Julanne Johnston, none other. And while we reconsidered Paris in its gayer aspects and the aridity of native night life, some thoughtful soul ushered over a beautiful coed ' matriculating in the drama college prexied by Professor Zukor and Doctor Lasky. She loved her work, she admitted. She looked like Coles Phillips' best girl and called herself Iris Gray. No relation to Gilda, we learned, just a beautiful Gray, it seemed, trying to get along. She probably will.
Gilda, normally blonde, was sporting a deceptive wig of raven-black tresses that clustered about her shoulders in the usual S'outh Sea fashion. Continued on page 109