Confession (Warner Bros.) (1937)

Publicity—“Confession”’—Page 6 Back in October, 1929, Leonard Hall, least illusioned of American cinema critics, wrote, “She appeared in a blaze of glory as the first great vamp of the audible pictures, using a type of male-killing technique that is perfection itself for the new form of entertainment. He was referring to Kay Francis, and her first movie role in ‘Gentlemen of the Press.” Since then she has excited such varied references as “Best-dressed Woman in Hollywood,” “The Screen’s Glamor Girl,” “The Film’s Most Beautiful Siren” and other extravagances. Kay doesn’t like any of them. Very sensibly, she says, “Anything that places an actress too definitely, puts her at a disadvantage. If there’s anything I hate, it is the idea of trying to live up to a slogan. I just won’t do it. “T’ve seen too many young actresses lose their opportunities for advancement by thinking too much of their clothes. Being well-dressed means simply the good taste to wear the right thing at the right time.” Kay hates jewelry in general and diamonds in particular. She abhors show. She detests sycophants. She avoids gossips as she would a plague. She rabidly defends the right of artists to the same privacy anyone else expects when he leaves his business behind. She is violent in her likes and dislikes, loyal and generous to friends, absolutely indifferent to everybody else. Here well-bred air comes of a proper upbringing, the right schools and a natural fastidiousness. She left her native Oklahoma City at the age of one year when her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Sprague Gibbs, moved to Santa Barbara, Los Angeles and Denver. When Kay was four, her mother forsook domesticity to return to the stage on which—as Katherine Clinton—she was well known. Kay spent several years in convents and later attended Miss Fuller’s School on the Mat No. 204—10¢ First Lady of the Screen—Calm, poised, gracious —this is Kay Francis, star of “Confession,” in one of her most charming moods. Hudson and the Cathedral School in Garden City, Long Island. Her college athletic record includes two inter-school tennis tournaments and a 12second mark for the 100-yard dash. Her most significant accomplishment was writing a play, in which she essayed the leading role—which was that of a man! The success of this gave her courage, later, to try her luck with the drama. Inspired by the success-stories of women in business, she took a post-graduate course in commerce, typewriting and shorthand. This equipped her for a social secretaryship that took her through Holland, France and England with the New York social leader, Mrs. William G. Vanderbilt. She liked the traveling but not the work. On her return to America, she immediately sought a job on the stage. Audiences first saw Kay Francis as the Player Queen in the modern version of “Hamlet,” which had a long run. Her next try was with the Stuart Walker Stock, playing Cincinnati, Indianapolis and Dayton. Then three New York successes followed in succession, “Venus,” “Crime,” and “Elmer the Great.” In the latter play, she had met Walter Huston, who left to make “Gentlemen of the Press,” as a film. There was a role open in the Huston screenplay but the director wanted a blonde for the part. But Kay put up a good battle, and her tryout was so satisfactory, that she was engaged. Always a hard worker, her success in Hollywood was né accident. Although she has a normal enjoyment of good times, she allows nothing to interfere with her work. While in a picture, she retires at nine o’clock every night except Saturday. Nothing has ever tempted her to break this self-imposed discipline. Hailed by authorities as one of the country’s best dressed young women, she dislikes “fittings.’”’ She dodges portrait and ite dish is lamb chops with a sauce of creamed mushrooms. Her beauty secret is no secret at all. She keeps her face clean with soap and water, and gives herself big doses of sunshine and fresh air. She is an avid reader, with a preference for Hemingway and Schnitzler, mixed with detective yarns and current topics. She has a small circle of intimate friends whom she frequently entertains at her charming home. Informality is the rule there—and her parties are famous for good food and good talk as well as their gracious hostess. She likes to extend a helping hand to young girls of her acquaintance—anonymously, if possible. Golf is her favorite sport—but she likes watching tennis, polo and prize fights from the sidelines. Recently, she’s been taking dancing lessons for her role in “Confession,” in which she plays a Viennese actress, and she likes the lessons so much that she plans to keep them up. Dogs, cats, canaries, goldfish, rabbits and frogs have at times constituted her menagerie of pets. She drives her own car, feels that relaxing in a back seat while a chauffeur drives her to work gives too good an opportunity to magnify the ordinary little problems of picture making. Among her best known pictures are “Mary Stevens, M. D.,” “I Loved a Woman,” “The House on 56th St.,” “Wonder Bar,” “Dr. Monica,” “I Found Stella Parrish,” “Living on Velvet,” “Stranded,” “The White Angel,” “The Goose and the Gander,” “Give Me Your Heart,” “Stolen Holiday,” ‘Another Dawn” and “Confession.” This last-named drama, which was directed by the famous Continental, Joe May, comes to the Strand Theatre next week. In “Confession,” Miss Francis has perhaps the most dramatic role of her career. Basil Rathbone, Ian Hunter, Jane Bryan, Dorothy Peterson and many other famous screen folk are in the stellar cast. Cc still photographers and hates arranged interviews. Her hobby, diversion and chief delight is traveling. She is always planning a “next trip.” She does nothing in particular to keep physically fit. Even dieting seems unnecessary. She eats what she pleases without fear of putting on weight. Her favor Kay in a more serious mood, revealing the great emotional depths which make her the screen’s greatest actress. In love with life — this is the Kay her friends see most often — sparkling gay, with a delightful sense of humor. Mat No. 103—10¢ Mat No. 101—10¢