Screenland (Nov 1931-Mar 1932)

for j an u ar y 19 3 2 111 going in swimming ! Yep, in the water ! "I knew what that meant — maybe I wouldn't be too late. I would save her from drowning. Me, with a Red Cross diploma from the Grand Street Boy Scout Council, I knew the peril of swimming after a heavy meal of smorgasbrod, lutfisk and julgrob — me alone, no one else ! "I ran into Leila Hyams' place to borrow a bathing suit. On the way I met with an encounter. It was Clark Gable. He laughed and I laughed and then he laughed some more, I laughed some more to think he was laughing without knowing what I was laughing for. What's up, he says and I says, nothing, so he walks off laughing one way and I walks off laughing another way. "No sooner do I get in my bathing suit than I hear a scream. A scream, well, a S-C-R-E-E-E-AM, more like. It turns my blood into cold water and then back again before I get my attitude. I am impassioned with speed. On the beach there is pantomime. Everyone is running, yelling, hollering, and making utterances like, oh, she is drowning — help her — fire — murder and police, and so forth. I don't wait to hear all the remarks since they weren't personal. I scans the horizon. There is a bobbing head. A hand reaching for someone and not finding anyone there — but that's another song. I casts about for a straw. A drowning man will cling to one. Why not a drowning woman? I tears the skirt off a Hawaiian princess and dashes in the surf. I swallows enough brine to turn into corned beef. Nearer and nearer — are you following me? — I approach the victim. Soon I will have Greta Gar bo in my arms. The thought runs up a temperature and the water boils like a cauldron. "At last I reach her. She has her hat jammed over her face and is throwing her arms around wild. I slugs her in the jaw and starts back to the beach. The crowds are intensified. I jerk off her hat and looked. What do you think I saw?" Mr. Durante's eyes burned like hot coals. "Greta Garbo," we suggested. "No, Polly Moran!" he gasped. "She ups to me and socks me, bawling me out for interfering when she was trying to scream loud enough to attract Clark Gable's attention !" Mr. Durante was now in tears. "And what did you do?" we asked kindly. "Me? Oh, I ups to her and threw her back in the ocean !" The chauffeur turned in his seat and yanked Mr. Durante by the collar. "Hey, you mugs," he snarled. "Get outa this car — here comes Mr. Tibbett and he's in a hurry to get home!" Jimmy Durante, impersonating a zebra wearing pants, tells one to Lawrence Tibbett. Editor's Note : For those who are interested in some of the more sober facts about the incomparable zany whose heartrending story is told above, here you are : James Durante was born in New York City in February, 1894. He went on the stage at an early age, and later became famous as one of the team of Clayton, Jackson and Durante. His latest and best talkie was with William Haines in "The New Adventures of Get-Rich-Quick Wallingford." Confessions of a Lonely Hollywoodian high-minded beings who envied Jim and Betty ; and if you have ever been tempted to become a Jim or a Betty, just listen to the confession of one who tried it and what he found out. The only success that I can claim in this business of complete emancipation is that I did attain a state of ridiculous detachment. In other words, I gave the idea a fair break and a chance to perform the miracle of perfect bliss ; but Old Man Bliss would have none of it, and he very inconsiderately marched off in the opposite direction. That state which I visualized and achieved was, in form, a sort of personal Monroe Doctrine. No entangling alliances, no treaties, and no concessions. This meant that no one person could be the object of any affection or sentiment on my part. "Love the world and all in it!" said I boldly, with the martyred look of the hero in an ancient melodrama. Yes, I actually believed it could satisfy that natural craving to love. At first, I got a kick out of playing God (for that is really what it amounted to). I began to think that the lives of the garbage collector and the bootblack were as important to me as those of my immediate family and long tried friends. I am sure Pollyanna was never as gay and cheerful and as concerned for a stranger's happiness as I. Never have I been subject to so much suspicion for being either a lunatic or a salesman as during that attack of love-your-neighbor. But the whole thing was a smoke screen, and a very inefficient one at that. It was a desperate attempt to avoid being hurt by allowing affection to center on no one person. Life was free all right — and how ! Continued from page 23 I had to give account of myself to no one. There was no one concerned about what I did or where I went. I became so busy being an individual and living my own life that I forgot for the time being to notice how desperately lonely and empty life was becoming. I killed myself by saying that it was only the change and that I would soon get used to it. But it got worse. My new-found freedom became the worst prison I ever hope to find myself in. I began to long for someone to care enough to be interested in whether I was alive or dead. Surely there must be some happy medium between an all-consuming love for one, and social suicide. Then one day I got a new angle on the whole business. It came apparently as an accident, but I honestly believe it was the manifestation of a very definite plan. All cars have a habit of running out of gas unexpectedly at some time or other, especially when your needle gauge isn't working — which is generally the case with mine. But to cut a long preamble short, I ran out of gas on an unfamiliar road almost directly opposite one of the most charming farm bungalows which abound in the valleys of Southern California. After admiring the neatness and pretty arrangement of the front garden, and stopping to speak to a very friendly fox terrier which ran down the steps to greet me, I rang the bell of the house, hoping to be lucky enough to purchase a gallon or two of gas or else telephone to the nearest garage. A fair-haired lad — just a youngster, really — answered my ring, and when I explained my difficulty, informed me that both his mother and father were away in the car, but that I might use the telephone if I wished. I was ushered into a sunny room in the rear of the house where, to my astonishment, I saw a very beautiful girl stretched out on a rather worn chaise-longue. She smiled, but it was not a smile of surprise — rather of welcome. The lad explained my presence and she insisted upon looking up the number of the garage for me while I protested feebly. I called the number of the garage and was told that a car would be sent immediately with a can of gas, but that it would be at least five minutes on the way. In those five or ten minutes that I had to wait, I had one of the most delightful conversations I have ever had. I discovered that the girl was the lad's sister and that she had been crippled from babyhood. She had spent all of her twenty years of life in the chair in which I now found her. Here was a sample of apparently the most imprisoned being I had come in contact with ; but to my utter amazement I found her at the same time the freest of free beings. She possessed a wondrous quantity of intuition, and without my stating any of my complex troubles, she seemed to divine the whole miserable affair of my disastrous marriage, my disappointment and fear of further hurt. As she talked, without inhibition or self-consciousness, I suddenly began to see quite plainly that my effort for freedom was based on cowardice. I was running away from the very things that were to make me an individual being with strength of character. I suddenly saw that freedom would not come from any outward pose or effort of the conscious or even unconscious will. In those few precious minutes I saw quite clearly that freedom— the freedom I was seeking — would come only from