Radio and television mirror (Jan-June 1942)

(^aA| ftetvo lo^ JOAN DAVIS — the film comedienne who is branching ouf these days as a radio star too, by appearing every Thursday night to heckle Rudy Vallee and John Barrymore on their NBC program. Joan is a pretty girl who mokes a living by emphasizing her worst ■features; as you con see by the picture, she's really sort of glamorous when she wonts to be. Joan went into vaudeville as soon as she was out of school in St. Paul, her home town. In 1931 her manager teamed her up with another vaudeville performer. Si Wills, and it wasn't six months before she was Mrs. Wills. They have one daughter, Beverly, and own a beautiful home in Hollywood. Joan likes to ride horseback, go to the movies, eat chow mein, and listen to music. At comedy falls she's an expert. Continued was nearly a hundred per cent perfect in the hospitality setup. When Stan urged too many drinks on a budding genius it was Carol who put the girl (the genius was always a girl) to bed. It was she who saw that the aspirin bottle in the powder room was always full, and that went for bromo seltzer, too. She seemed to love having "our friends" drop in, she especially seemed to love having a crowd arrive on Friday afternoon and stay until Monday morning, for — as long as he was surrounded by eager ears, mostly in pairs, and hands that were willing to clap — Stan was content to stay at home. And as long as he was content to stay at home Carol was content to be combination wife and alibi and manager. But, though her smile was eager and her voice calm, her transparency increased as day followed day. She was more than fragile — she was gossamer. "A good puff of wind would blow her away," Maude told Ken Williams. "A good slap would knock her over." KEN'S answer was on the bitter side. "She can't stand this constant tension," he told Maude. "She's living in a whirlpool. She never climbs down from the merry-go-round horse. Carol needs some rest — and even Stan should have a few quiet moments!" "When they have a quiet moment Stan finds an excuse to go to town," Maude said. "Are we a couple of heels. Ken — running out to Connecticut for weekend after weekend, eating Breen food and lapping up Breen highballs, and feeling the way we do about — " her voice grew thoughtful. "I could make up a poem on the subject," she said. "I feel so mean about Stan Breen. He is — " "Shut up," interposed Ken. "We don't go to Connecticut on account of Stan. We go there to see Carol." "I'm just a fifth wheel," said Maude, "but the fact that you hang about just gives Stan a lot of pleasure. I'll bet he never puts his arm around Carol unless you're in the room — I'll bet he never kisses her unless he knows you're watching out of one eye." Ken said, "Shut up!" again, but he spoke wearily. "It's Friday now and we're in for another couple of ghastly days. . . . Do you think Carol will ever get wise to him?" "Do you?" countered Maude, but Ken only said, "The weather reports are lousy. It'll probably rain for the entire weekend." It did rain for the entire weekend. It rained cats and dogs. The Stanley Breen household tried to amuse from page 50 themselves in their various ways — each guest after his own fashion. There was ping-pong and backgammon and bridge and poker for high stakes, and the blonde Russian girl sang throaty things and told Carol that she'd forgotten her weekend case, and could she borrow a nightgown? Carol's largest nightgown would have been like a bib on the Russian and they both knew it, but Carol brought out a chiffon number and handed it over without blinking. The Russian held it against her more than ample bosom and it gave Stan a chance to make a wisecrack. Rain Friday night — more rain Saturday— Ken and Maude took a long tramp, rain or no, on Saturday afternoon, and came back to see a fire lighted on the living room hearth and people sprawled about drinking hot Tom and Jerrys which were slightly out of season. More rain Saturday night — and a veritable cloudburst Sunday, with ping-pong growing brittle and pocketbooks empty because of bridge and poker, and tempers wearing thin. When it was late afternoon and Stan began to make ready for his trip to town — the Sunday night job was there, come hell or high water — he was being short with his guests and snappish to Carol. "You should have arranged games to keep the gang amused," he told her. "Not that I go for games usually, but three days in the house has been an eternity — to say nothing of lousy, unimaginative food. Roast beef and lamb and chicken. Carol, can't we ever have anything but roast beef and lamb and chicken?" Carol said, "I order the sort of food that will stretch — I never know how many people we'll have. . . . Darling, be sure to wear your muffler and your raincoat. I always worry for fear you'll take cold." The blonde Russian laughed and said, "She thinks you're made of sugar, Stan. She thinks you'll melt," and Stan said angrily, "Why should I wear a raincoat and muffler when I'm going to town in a car?" The Breens had two cars now and a station wagon. "Take the sedan," begged Carol. "It has the best heater and—" But Stan interrupted, "One more word out of you — " he growled — "and I'll go in the convertible with the top down. I don't like interference, Carol." It was then that Ken Williams said quietly, "That's a stupid way to talk, Stan. You'i-e being absurd. Carol's only thinking of your best good." Stan said, "Keep out of this. Ken. If I'm being absurd it's my own busi ness." He rang for the Chinese butler — the sixth successive butler they'd had since they moved into the new home. "Bring around the convertible,. Chang," he said, "and make it snappy, and put down the top. Don't stand blinking at me like a Mongolian goop — do as I tell you." COMEHOW, after Stan left the ^ house, the crowd brightened up. Carol did suggest games — kid games, like musical chairs — and they played hilariously, without having to nod approval and roar at jokes they'd heard before. Sunday night supper was buffet as usual — cold lamb and roast beef weren't bad, taken along with chicken salad. The crowd grew very cheerful and without benefit of the bar, but when Stan came back about eleven, wringing wet and in a vile mood, the laughter died away and people went quietly to bed. Carol gave Stan hot whiskey and some of the ever present aspirin, and he went to bed, too, but the next day — before any of the crowd left for the city — he had developed a nasty cough. He went into town for his regular show but when the director saw how he was coughing he sent post haste for a substitute and told Stan to go home and soak his feet in a mustard bath. Stan went home, choking and sniffing, but he didn't bother about the mustard bath. He drank straight Scotch until it was coming out of his ears, and blamed Carol for the whole thing. "You deviled me into riding in the open car," he told her. "It's your fault I'm this way." Carol had taken a lot since she became Mrs. Stanley Breen. She said now — "That's a lie, Stan. If you have a cold it's your own fault." Crossing the room on staccato feet she called the doctor, and Stan was so surprised that he didn't offer any suggestions. By the time the local M.D. got there he was being pathetic and lonely, and the doctor gave him something to make him sleep. But it didn't stop the approaching laryngitis. The first week Stan was away from the studios they used the same man who had substituted for him on the first off day. The second week they began to cast around for someone better — not that there was anyone who could duplicate Stan's golden voice, but beggars can't be choosers. On the weekend between the first and second week Carol canceled all invitations and sent the people who came uninvited back to town in the station wagon. THE third week. Ken — riding out on a way train to spend an evening with Carol and Stan — was told by Carol in a hushed voice that Stan's laryngitis had settled in his vocal chords — that there seemed to be something malignant about it. To use her own words, "The chords were tied in hard knots and the doctor couldn't untie them!" She told Ken that they were going to have a consultation — that a big man was coming up from Baltimore, that another one was flying in from Minnesota — and that, together with the local man, they were going to make Stan open his mouth and say "ah." When Ken asked if he could do anything Carol turned away with her shoulders shaking, and Ken — loving her like crazy — made a stupid excuse and took the train back to town. No one ever knew what the specialContinued on page 54 52 BADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR