Screenland (Jun-Oct 1932)

for August 1 932 83 Garbo "Really Means It," says Vicki Baum if she cannot find it at once she keeps on trying, and will brook no substitutes. Only once during the entire interview was she forced to admit herself baffled — "What is this 'for keeps'?" she asked puzzledly, in reply to a carelessly worded question. Film stories, it appears, will remain only a part of the busy Miss Baum's activities, and her work in the novel form, in which "Grand Hotel" originally appeared, continues unabated. In little more than a year she has published two novels — "Martin's Summer" and "And Life Goes On," and completed a third, built around Hollywood, which is on the verge of publication. What is more, she expects to have still another completed by the time she reaches Hollywood — and to sandwich in occasional short articles or stories between ! "It is not at all difficult," she naively told a slightly flabbergasted interviewer, "though you have to keep at it incessantly if you want to get anywhere. Here in Xew York, especially, there are so many, many demands on one's time." (As though to punctuate her utterance, the phone rang for the fourth time during the interview.) "People are always wanting to crowd in upon you — to steal little bits of your time that are so precious. "When working I sometimes dictate to a stenographer ; but more often I use this little typewriter — we are such old friends." She indicated a diminutive German-made Continued from page 29 portable machine, equipped with strange, fascinating gadgets. "But I am quite at home with your American machines, too," she added quickly, with evident eagerness not to slight any product of her newlychosen land. Back in Germany, in the pre-"Grand Hotel" era, Miss Baum's days were no less crowded than they are now. Not content with being the editor of three widely-circulated women's magazines (the largest piquantly named "Uhu"), she also wrote novels in her "spare time," to say nothing of rearing her two young sons, Wolfgang, now aged 15, and Peter, now 11. This fairly full program, however, did not baffle the energetic lady one bit. "It is all a matter of organizing your day. In the morning the first task was to get my boys off to the gymnasium — it is what you call a 'prep school' here, I believe— on time. I made it a rule to be up by 7 o'clock, saw that the boys were scrubbed and dressed neatly, had breakfast with them and my husband, and then hustled them off to school. In the summer, before breakfast, we would all go in for a swim off the beach near our house." Then came the office, and work until six in the evening. And when Vicki Baum sa}'s "work" she wishes it understood that she means just that. Editing three magazines is, after all, no child's play; and once she sat down at her desk and began the day's routine nothing was allowed to intervene until the day was over. "I would reach home by 6 :30 to join my family at dinner," she proceeded, "and after dinner and an hour or so of relaxation I would put the boys to bed, reading to them or telling them stories until they fell asleep. That was a pleasure that I could not deny myself, especially when the boys were little. "By eight o'clock I was ready to begin my writing — and for the rest of the evening, unless there were extremely pressing social engagements, I devoted myself to the part of my day's work that I loved best. Really, it all worked out quite smoothly— the most difficult problem I had to solve was fitting in a session with my hairdresser." Kappclmcistcr Lert, Miss Baum's musical husband, remained for a long time calmly unimpressed by her literary achievements. When she first started writing novels he smiled indulgently as at a harmless whim, making no objection but evincing little interest. When her novels were published he could not be bothered to read them, even when they began to attract a degree of notice. Finally, in desperation, she dedicated a novel "to him — then he simply had to read it ! But now that his wife and her writings are world-famous, with an income in proportion, Herr Lert is ready to concede that the little lady really has something after all! Stone, the Unstarred Star wood. A keen trader. You've heard of the chap who could have made a fortune if he put his money in Los Angeles real estate before the boom? Stone is that fellow. Never reads press clipping. A walking library of information and statistics. An omnivorous reader. Knows every book in his tremendous library. Has a way of folding his hands when he chats. WTatch it, next time you see him on the screen. Can register more with an eyebrow than most actors can with grimaces. Never blows up in his lines. Needs no rehearsals. Has a patient tolerance for upstart stars and directors. A wealth of ready wit. Nobody can tell a story quite as he can. Was one of the town's most versatile red-paint artists in the good old days of Janhke's Grill and the Bristol Cafe. Can't tolerate embryonic geniuses who whine. No one ever saw him needing a shave. Not even a barber. Regards with utmost suspicion flatterers and back-slappers. Don't ever fidget with the radio dials when he's around. Has a stable of horses and a tanbark arena on his grounds. His daughter, Barbara, his pal on hikes and hunts. Older daughter, Virginia, on New York stage. The Wallace Beerys among his most frequent house guests. You should hear him tell of his early adventures in the frontier Indian country. And about the time he borrowed the mounted policeman's horse in Chicago. Without telling the policeman about it. A devout lover of good music arid good drama, his interest in the theatre has never waned. Yet he harbors no ambition to return to it. Can't stand suspenders and girls who giggle to put periods to their sentences. Likes to climb under his automobile and get dirty. Continued from page 2j> Does his own gardening and runs a tractor to cultivate his truck garden. Always reads the items at the bottom of the newspaper first. Has the barest of dressing rooms. Indulges in few personal vanities. But succumbs on sight of new pajama tints. Has safety valve temper. Which has spared the life and limb of countless I-remember-you-when hounds in public places. Never wears make-up on the screen. And he's a dutiful husband — he's never late for dinner. Mrs. Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., and Mrs. Le Seuer — or Joan Crawford and her mother. Notice the striking resemblance. Joan is busy at work on "Rain."