Screenland (Dec 1933-Apr 1934)

for December 19 3 3 87 ture in the commissariat of the studio. "We're shooting that story you worked on," he told me. "Come take a look at it. We're doing the wedding ceremony today." "Who's getting married?" I inquired cautiously. "Who do you suppose? The girl and the boy, of course." "But how can they? He's a poor dragoman and she's an English lady." "Oh, we've fixed all that," he assured me. "He was really a prince in disguise." "Even so," I said, trying not to blink too idiotically. "He's still a black prince and she's a white woman." "That's where you're wrong," he grinned. "They discovered — what do you think — that she was a half caste." Would you like to know how the normal day of a writer in Hollywood ends? Well, it's something like this. At six o'clock you heave a sigh, take a look at your muddled desk, decide that your muddled head won't work any longer and that you'll call it a day. You reach the door and the telephone rings. The supervisor would like to see you at seven. You sit hopefully in his waiting-room till nine, when he asks you in. At 10 :30 you leave the studio — there's no one at the door now to check you out — the good-looking boys have gone home. You're trying to bear up under the blow just dealt you by the supervisor, who has informed you kindly but firmly that the meeting you've contrived with so much agony between your lovers is banal, and that the motive you've supplied for their falling in love is inadequate. You go home, you eat a little dinner, you sit in your bathtub and the whole performance starts all over again. Would you like to know the feelings of a writer in Hollywood? I can give them to you in a nutshell. When I was first introduced to the head of my studio, he said : "You're considered a good writer, Miss Baum, and of course you've had a certain amount of success in the world. But that means nothing to us. You've got to prove that you're a good writer in Hollywood, and until then you don't count." You don't count in Hollywood — and that's exactly how you feel. Jean Harlow's 3rd Marriage Continued from pctge 21 Oh, he will be painted as handsome. One writer has already referred to his mustache as "distinguished." Another compared him to the late Paul Bern, Jean's second husband. Erase all such description from your mind. Hal Rosson, one of my good friends, is just an ordinary guy, even as you and I. He isn't handsome by far, and he knows it. He is certainly not "distinguished." As for comparison with Bern, that is most ridiculous. Except that Rosson, like Paul Bern, is rather less than medium in height, and has the same kind of "immature mustache," I see no reason for comparing them. At the golf club, where Hal and I often play together, he is a popular member. Men like him, and he is always a welcome addition to any match. He is a good sport. He is possessed of a remarkably even temperament. He is a fine loser and an equally pleasant winner. He is, to be precise, a man's man. That he is also a woman's man goes without saying. Jean Harlow married him, didn't she? The three of us have often played together. In fact, my first intimation that they were in love came on the golf links. I noticed that he condoned her poor shots, and enthused about her fine ones. When a masculine golfer achieves that interest in a feminine golfer, there's more in the air than drives and putts. _ Hal would watch her with adoring eyes. After a particularly good shot, he would sometimes glance at me and smile happily. I honestly believe that Rosson enjoyed her good shots better than his own. I am a golfer, and I can tell you that nothing could better prove love than the statement just offered. Rosson has made no secret of his love for Jean. Ever since he photographed her in "Red Headed Woman," he has been in love with her. I think the reason no one took his declarations seriously was that many other men o'so were in love with Jean, and they weren't secretive about their worship, either. Most of these other suitors were far handsomer than Hal, and I rather believe that Hollywood expected Miss Harlow to wed a dashing hero-type, or a romantic millionaire. Therefore, most of us regarded Rosson's asserted love rather amusedly. Had Hal been a less popular chap, we might have pitied him. Still, I am not particularly surprised that she chose him. Jean has told me countless times that masculine handsomeness means nothing to her. She has always looked for good sportsmanship and cleverness. Til say for her that she has found both in Hal Rosson. Don't think, because he is a cameraman, that he is merely a salaried worker. Rosson was once a director. The coming of talking pictures, which strangely twisted the careers of many in Hollywood, abruptly cut short Rosson's directorial success. Now he has become one of the film industry's ace cameramen, and his weekly salary far exceeds that of many fine directors. Furthermore (and this can be regarded only as a prophesy, of course), Rosson will return to his directorial capacity ere long. I was one of the first to hear about the wedding, for Jean telegraphed me from Yuma. Her wire read, in part : "Dear Jimmie. Hal and I married here today. You were right." [A few weeks previously I had_ predicted, on my radio program, that I anticipated Jean's marriage to Rosson]. "Wish you were here. Jean." Of course, that final tag was in the nature of a jest. Jean wished no such thing. On her return, Jean told me that she and Hal arrived in Yuma hours before the hour at which the Justice of Peace ordinarily crawls out of bed. Nothing daunted, they hammered on that austere gentleman's door until he answered. "And was he peeved!" exclaimed Jean. "Until he found out that it was Jean Harlow he was invited to marry," interrupted Hal. 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