TV Radio Mirror (Jul - Dec 1962)

had found contentment at least matching his own and that, if anything, his marriage had thrived because of his caveman tactics. "I definitely feel I would never have been married this long if I had been at all wishy-washy," Clint said, untroubled. "If I hadn't been the way I am, I probably wouldn't have made it with all the pressures. Women love this much more in the long run, and there's not a woman in the world who won't admit it if you pin her down. "When women are running the ship completely, they might think they like it. But really, underneath, they're pretty unsolid about everything. If they feel they're running the show, they wonder, Gee, what happens if something goes wrong? Then they're left by themselves." During the first years — when his marriage was a catastrophe — Clint pitched in on the chores. But, even then, he never let Mag get any ideas that he was trading in his trousers for an apron just because he got alongside her in the kitchen. "She'd come home tired and I'd come home tired," he explained, "so we'd split it all down the middle. When I had time off, I did the housework. When she had time off, she did it. I'd cook half the meals. It was strictly fiftyfifty, so far as that type of thing went. "But I still always made the decisions. Doing chores didn't bother me because I always did 'em for myself, anyway. It was like being a bachelor again. I've never been defensive about masculinity. I never thought about it." Clint really dug his spurs into the subject of men who, unlike himself, permitted themselves to be dominated by their wives. "Nowadays, it seems a lot of gals come from a family where the mother might be the dominating factor. They just grow up to think this is the way it's supposed to be. Then, when they marry some guy and he rebels — they can't understand it. They think something's wrong with him." Clint not only insists on running the show — he insists on running a show that is not sloppy. Clint avoids overt demonstrations of affection as though it were against his religion. He might weaken on an anniversary or birthday, by coming up with a mink coat or a red Cadillac hardtop for Mag, but he covers up his emotion by making a crack about how long he expects it to last he*. "I'm not terribly sentimental," he affirmed. "It gets maudlin, making a Federal case out of something. That's my pet peeve." Of course, there was the time Mag was hospitalized with a critical case of hepatitis and the doctor said she was as ill as anyone could get without dying. Clint was worried stiff then. No matter how late he worked, he dropped by. He kept phoning at all times of the day and night, and he sent a steady stream of flowers to Mag's room. "You don't appreciate some things until they look like they might be shaky," he allowed, with typical understatement. "She was pretty shaky, I guess. When she came out all right from that, it was pretty good." Clint was never more jubilant or thankful than the day he brought Mag home from the hospital. But even an event of that magnitude was not sufficient to break open the padlock he keeps on his emotions. "I just brought her home," he drawled, "and I figured she'd be so happy to be out of the hospital that she'd be glad to be home and clean the house." Unreconstructed and unreformed, Clint Eastwood had a warm sparkle in his eyes as he gave his wife her due for having the sense to know when she was overpowered, and having the grace — as well as the charity — to accept him as he was. "I feel that she's a lot sharper than she was a few years back," he said magnanimously. "Mag's not a dumb girl. She's learned to understand me and she's learned to accept some of my faults. When I find somebody who accepts some of my faults, then I figure I really found a gem." There was even more praise where that came from — although tempered, to be sure, in Clint's own laconic idiom. He had especially approving words for Mag because of the way she stood by him during the dog days of his acting career. "I wasn't able to get a job. We had trouble buying groceries. She stuck by me pretty well when we had it low. The best thing she probably did — she kept her mouth shut." Then Clint really got going on Mag's good points. "She's real," he said appreciatively. "A lot of times she says what she thinks, which is good and bad. She's not a phony. She's honest — as close to being totally honest as any person I've ever met. I respect this. "We still argue now and then. We have some beauts. And when we do, you can hear it around a few blocks. But," he added expansively, "she's as good a wife as you can get." Clint wasn't the least bit vague about what was entailed in Mag's measuring up to his expectations. "She must not get jealous about the fact that I'm constantly exposed to a lot of feminine creatures. And she has to know enough to keep her mouth shut when I'm having troubles." Clint thought about it judiciously. Then he looked up with an agreeable smile. "For the most part," he nodded, satisfied, "Mag passes all that." As for Clint Eastwood's wife, there is much to suggest that Mag has been on to him all along. One afternoon recently, Clint was bemoaning the fact that it was four years since he had played a "heavy." He said that he would like to dig his teeth into a nice, meaty part as a villain. "Yeah," Mag drawled. "Wouldn't that be type casting? You could play yourself." There must be some rewards for such bravery — and Hollywood's most outspoken wife-tamer admitted to one of them which means a lot. "Sure, I tell Mag I love her," he said, with a crimson flush of embarrassment. "I'm that emotional. I'm not that reserved!" — William Tusher Clint is Rowdy Yates in "Rawhide," on CBS-TV, Fri., 7:30 to 8:30 p.m. edt. 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