Screenland (Nov 1931-Mar 1932)

102 SCREENLAND which the American girl lent the vibrancy and abandon of her personality. To her London audiences, reared on the tradition of restraint in the theatre as in all things, she came as an ever-fresh and ever-stimulating delight. All the New York successes played in this country by the shining lights of our stage were, in London, handed over as a matter of course to Tallulah. She acted Katherine Cornell's part in "The Green Hat" and the part of Jeanne Eagels in "Her Cardboard Lover," Francine Larrimore's part in "Let Us Be Gay" and Ina Claire's in "The Gold Diggers." And each of these plays in turn ran and ran and ran — they ran until she was sick of the sound of her lines and the thought of her evening's performance made her want to shriek with boredom. And still the queues continued to form outside the theatre, and her London worshippers refused to stay away from the show. Once, when she felt she had reached the extreme end of her rope, she hit upon a novel idea. With her secretary, Mrs. Larke, she betook herself to the front of the theatre, and having first taken the precaution of veiling her face, she sauntered with her companion up and down in front of the queue, uttering loud and uncomplimentary remarks about the play, the production and the star. "Will you look at that queue!" she shuddered. What in heaven's name are they standing there for? Jerry dragged me to see this show last week and the theatre was half empty. I don't wonder, either. It's the filthiest tripe I ever sat through." "Isn't it?" concurred Mrs. Larke warmly. "And as for that Bankhead woman, the sooner she's shipped back to America where she came from, the better it'll be for England." But the only reward they reaped was a harvest of scowls and acid reflections on the quality of their brains, their unmitigated gall and their generally repellent appearance. As she had made a conquest of social New York, so did Tallulah make a conquest of social London. The letters of Tallulah— So Far! Continued from page 83 introduction to prominent people, which she had brought over with her, she took back eight years later, unopened, unused, unwanted. Her exquisite little house in Berkeley Square, which had been made over from a stable, was always ablaze with light and gaiety. Augustus Johns, the popular portrait painter, asked her to sit to him, and the portrait received more newspaper space than if it had been a queen's. She was quoted, pursued, publicized. If a robbery was reported, Tallulah's telephone would be sure to tinkle : "Mrs. John Smith was awakened by a burglar at 2 o'clock this morning and ordered to hand over her jewels. The Daily So-and-So would like to know what you'd have done under those circumstances, Miss Bankhead." She reveled in it all. Naturally she had her moments of irritation at the silliness of some of these manifestations of fame, and she had her moments of black anger when she found herself being exploited, misquoted and generally victimized. But for the most part, she realized that it was all a part of the feverish game she had chosen to play, and her humor usually came to the rescue. "I don't give a hoot what opinions of their own they air," she explained. "That's their privilege. But what burns me up is when they put words into your mouth that you've never said — words you'd have choked on before saying them. I can't stand injustice." Her eyes blazed. "I think the way they badger Garbo is a crime. I think the things they've said about poor little Clara Bow ought to be rammed down their throats. As for myself, I've had my share and I'm prepared for more of the same, but it doesn't really bother me. Of course I'd rather have everyone like than dislike me, but what a sap I'd be to expect it ! And in a way, it's a compliment when they try to tear you down. It's their way of telling you that you're sitting high and pretty — too high and pretty to suit them." High and pretty she sat for eight years in London, and toward the end of that time she began to feel a little bored. Another play? Another success? All well and good. But the prospect lacked the old thrill. She had been too long in one place. She was going stale. Her temperamental restlessness was asserting itself. Then, like an answer to prayer, came the talkies. "Or rather," says Tallulah, "like an answer to two prayers. 'Relieve me, Lord, of my spiritual weariness,' was one, and 'Relieve me, Lord, of my material poverty' was the other. "I haven't a grain of sense about money," she went on. "When I bought my first car in London, I didn't know the streets, and I'd hire a taxi to drive ahead of me and show me the way. I'd made plenty in England and I'd spent every cent I made. I had a house in Berkeley Square and a Bentley car and five servants, and half the time I'd start out of my sleep in a cold sweat, wondering where in Hades the money was coming from to pay the servants. "But I knew that the movies paid so much money that some of it would have to stick even to a fool like me. And I zuant to save," she wailed. "I want to be independent, so I can retire. I don't want to turn into a snivelling old bore of an actress, living on my own old cold memories and other people's charity. "As soon as I'd seen 'The Jazz Singer,' I said to myself, 'That's going to be the thing to do.' I'd had an offer from a British company, but all my love and gratitude to England, bless her dear heart, couldn't induce me to make pictures there. Her film companies are about her only objectionable feature. It's this way. I'm no technical beauty. I think I've a fairly interesting face, if you'll excuse my saying so, featuring good points and bad. Well, it's got to be lighted — question of shadows and bones. If it wrere a hundred times better-looking, it would have to be lighted. The face of the most perfect sixteen-yearold has to be lighted. And there you are! When it comes to lighting, England is a babe in arms ! "I made up my mind I was going to Paramount. I'd decided that Paramount was the best, and little Tallulah would have nothing if not the best. I got bids from others, but not the suggestion of a peep from Paramount. Yet when my friends asked me, 'You going into the talkies, Tallulah?', I'd tell them, 'Yes, I'm going to Paramount.' "Sounds like sheer arrogance, doesn't it, but maybe that wasn't all. I had a hunch. Go on, laugh, see if I care, but believe me or not, the only mistakes I ever made in my life came from squashing my instincts. "Anyway, the proof of the pudding lies in the fact that I got the offer. Walter Wanger saw a test of me in America that had been made in England, and signed me from across the seas. And so I took ship and sailed back to my beloved country and very glad I am to be here again thank you kindly to all who may inquire and I've got a most abominable thirst let's have a coca cola. E-c-die ! !" In comes Edie for perhaps the nineteenth time, cheerful, serene, competent, a rock of comfort in a tempestuous ocean. "There's a darling, if you like," says Tallulah, after her disappearance. "I shudder to think what my life would be like without her and Mrs. Larke. Mrs. Larke has five children in England, but she came here with me because I needed her. Edie used to wait for me at the stage door, and I noticed her specially because she looked so fresh and sweet. Then when my Scotch maid left me, I wanted someone young and jolly to take her place, and I offered Edie She's in again — in bed, that is. It's an easy life for Miriam Hopkins on the screen; first in "The Smiling Lieutenant," and now as Rosie Dugan in Louis Bromfield's "Twenty-four Hours."