Radio-TV mirror (Jan-June 1954)

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Don't delay. Sold by Liqqettand Walgreen Drug Stores and other leading druggists. LAKE LABORATORIES. Box 3925, Strath moor Station, Dept. 8604, Detroit 27, Mich. spent a year studying dramatics at the Pasadena Playhouse. She didn't like it. At the age of fifteen, she was by far the youngest girl in the school. She was separated by miles from the social life, interests and attitudes of her older classmates. At the end of the year, she told her mother she wanted to go to New York and see what she could do for herself on Broadway. "Wendy was always a sensible and intelligent girl," says Mrs. Kent. "I've never had to worry about her taking care of herself." So Wendy went to New York and moved in with a relative. She had a reference from Farley to an agent friend. The agent at once sent her to a theater for a reading. Otto Kruger was taking a new play on the road, "A Joy Forever," and he needed an understudy for the part his daughter played. "There were a couple of dozen actresses at the theater waiting to read for the job," Wendy recalls, "and everyone of them looked so experienced and glamorous." She grappled with her innate shyness, and she lost. She went into a corner and sat down. She watched the others as they read for the job. Then a stranger sat down beside her. "Aren't you going to read?" he asked. "I couldn't do it." "How do you know until you try?" She didn't move. A few more girls read. "You can't lose anything by going up there," the man said. "Any one of those girls can do it better," she answered. She sat still and so did the stranger. There were just a few girls waiting now. The man said, "You came here to try out for the part, didn't you?" "Yes." "Well, go on up there. It'll take only a minute." She didn't stir. The last applicant was on the stage. "It's now or never," the man said. "They've probably already decided." "How do you know? Go up and find out." Wendy walked up to the stage and was handed a script. She read. It all took less than three minutes. "You've got it," she was told. And that's how Wendy got her first job on Broadway. It was a great break for a sixteen-year-old actress, because it gave her the confidence to go on. The play itself, after two-and-a-half months on the road, closed in two weeks on Broadway. Then the tough sledding began. Wendy looked for nighttime work that would leave her days free to audition and haunt casting offices. She took a job as cashier in a movie box office, but she was the one who was "taken." She trained one week for free. The second week she was docked twenty of her twenty-five dollars salary for being short in her receipts. "Later, I found they had failed to instruct me in one little detail," she says. "I had thought my relief used the same cash drawer as I did, and so I never locked it." She quit. Next she took on a job as cigarette girl in a well-known Manhattan restaurant because her duties only took up her evenings. They paid her only $16.50 for some forty-seven hours a week. All tips were to be turned in to the management. "It's a racket and all restaurants do it and everyone knows about it," she says. It was explained to her that, in the cause of survival, cigarette girls allowed themselves to "steal" fifteen per cent of the tips. It had to be done cagily and money was secreted in one's shoes or the bosom of her dress. Wendy "stole" a quarter from her tips once and put it in a shoe. "My conscience went right down to my foot," she says, "and I hobbled around like a cripple that night with the guilt worrying me to death." Wendy's mother arrived in New York for a visit, spent a night at the restaurant watching Wendy vending, and was disgusted. "All Wendy did was sit around looking pretty," she remembers. "It was a dull and enervating job for anyone as bright and lively as Wendy." So Wendy's mother stopped in a good bookstore and got Wendy a job which delighted Wendy and which she held for three years. It was a salesgirl's job for Saturdays and Sundays. "I almost lost that," she says. "The first Saturday I was to report, I got a call to act on CBS's Let's Pretend. The second Saturday, I went out of town for three weeks in a winter stock company. I phoned the lady who ran the bookstore and said, 'You couldn't still want me?' And the woman said, 'Of course, if you're as nice as your mother.' " Wendy got parts in radio and TV now and then, but not enough to »»»V? p living. Once she went through the Midwest for a month of one-night stands in "Dear Ruth," traveling with the cast in a station wagon. They would travel a few hundred miles each day, put on the play at night, sleep a few hours in a hotel and drive on to the next town. "I loved it," she says. "I even gained ten pounds." Then, a few years ago, she began to get more frequent calls from TV producers. "Why, I don't know," she says. "But, for an actress, it's always either feast or famine." She worked on most of the big shows, including Kraft and Philco Theaters, and Studio One. Then her mother and sister joined her in New York, and they took up their fourth-floor roost in Manhattan. "I don't like living in The city, but I love to act," Wendy says. "Maybe some day I'll have a home near both the beach and my acting." Some day, too, she hopes to be married and have children. "I'd want at least three," she says. "I think children are the happiest part of a marriage." To date, she hasn't quite met "the right man." Or, if she's met him, she doesn't know it — or hasn't been convinced. Anyway, she doesn't have to worry much, for she's the kind of gal who makes a lasting impression. That accounts for her getting the part of Young Widder Brown. She had auditioned for the office which produces the popular daytime drama, when she first came to New York. Almost eight years later, they still remembered her — and called on her to take over the role. "You can understand why I was startled," she says. "I wondered about Wendy playing the part of Young Widder Brown, as I suppose many other people might," says her mother. "The widow, though certainly youthful, has a couple of children and serious problems — and how would a young girl understand them? Well, Wendy certainly hasn't led a sheltered existence. She was my oldest child and shared many of my problems. She practically raised her sister and brother during the years I worked. She's quite a mature girl." Then she adds, "But you know, in spite of that, I think Wendy is still almost childlike in her enthusiasm for people and her work. She's as vibrant as she is serious." And that's young Wendy Drew, kind of contradictory, even bewildering . . . but isn't that what makes women so mysteriously charming? Particularly young widows and pretty ash blondes!