Screenland (Dec 1933-Apr 1934)

72 SCREENL AND through for a while. Hollywood takes beautiful girls and develops them into good, even fine actresses for the film medium. I'm a trouper of the theatre, I guess. I went into it when I was a little child, and I'll live in it and die in it." I watched this wonder-child as she talked, awed as I always am by her canny good sense and by the stupendous power of the spirit that burns in that tiny body, that unresting little brain. It is this spiritual power, guided by her long and excellent training, that makes Helen Hayes the consummate artist she is. I think of her as the faultless actress. It is this inner, quenchless fire that can grow her from five feet to six, and dominate a high-hat stage filled with uptown actors. This priceless quality permits her to work her magical skullduggery on us befuddled customers, making us believe in anything she chooses, from Infant Damnation to the Moral Efficacy of Spinach. One of Helen's most amazing tricks is the way she can jam the illusion of beauty into our brains. Helen would be the last to deny that she is no star-spangled lallapalooza for looks. In fact, if it were not for those eyes, she'd be a pretty plain little baggage. Her nose is just something to catch cold in, and no one ever looked twice at her Dietrichs. Yet we've all seen Helen Hayes — notably in certain scenes in "A Farewell to Arms" — when she gave the illusion of being the most beautiful creature on earth, lovelier than fifty head of smouldering and mysterious Garbos. What a little queen ! In all her life there has been one motivating force, one driving power — her beloved theatre. As great fiddlers got that way by sawing in solitude for years, as famous pickpockets learned their art by practicing on Father when he A bicycle built for — ? Eddie Cantor, who takes his exercise seriously, goes out for a little spin with the famous Sophie Tucker on a tandem bike. rolled home on Saturday nights, as saints won immortality by focussing their rapt eyes on Heaven — so Helen Hayes laid her girlhood, her toil, her whole being on the altar of make-believe. Nothing turned her aside, and at an age when most girls are getting silly crushes on marcelled crooners, Helen was an exalted figure on the Ameri can stage, acclaimed by the theatre world. Verily, she has her reward in love and glory today, this half-portion of remarkable woman ! Is she going back to Hollywood? "Certainly!" Helen told me. "I'm engaged with this play until June, and then I expect to go back to the Coast. M-G-M has bought Barrie's 'What Every Woman Knows' for me, and that's what I hope to do next." And when she does, mates, you are in for something ! She played it for sixty weeks on the stage, and my memory of Helen as Maggie Shand in this fine play is one of the most precious my heart holds. So this is my report to you on the present happy state of one of our best beloved stars. Her toes may hurt, but her heart is high. She's again the toast of Broadway — once more she feels the surf-beat of applause as the last curtain falls. No true trouper is ever really happy without it, any more than the old fire-horse can help straining his ears for the clang of the third alarm. She's happy with her Charlie and her baby and her mama at the old home in Nyack, with Wild Ben Hecht four doors away for laughs and company. And she's earned every dad-burned ounce of joy that Heaven sends ! I got up to make my farewells. The little doc still tampered with those million-dollar toes. "Goodbye, Helen," I said. "Take care of the tootsies." "I will," she said. "Be kind to your typewriter." "And watch those marital jitters when you get back to Hollywood." She laughed. "I will," she said. "Remember, there's always Nyack!" named Miriam — or "Li'l Gawgia," suh ! There was the chorus girl Miriam. That was in '21. She played either "si" or "la" — I forget — as one of the "Eight Little Notes" in the great "Music Box Revue," first edition. Then there was the struggling youngingenue Miriam Hopkins. That would be about '25 or '26, when she was playing in "The Fall of Eve." The play's big moment came when the bedevilled heroine, Miriam, tore practically all her clothes off, to the consternation of the villain and the joyous whoops of the crowd. I remember thinking then that she looked like an ivory toothpick — for that was before the time when God, Time, Prosperity and Prof. Ernst Lubitsch had made her into one of Hollywood's more luxurious maids. After the play's opening, the producer gave a grand party, and there was "Li'l Gawgia" — champagne in one hand and a hot dog in the other, and didn't we have fun, just! Such a jolly, regular kid! And the Miriam of '30, a looming Broadway hit. Again at a New York party, laughing and natural and gay, with a glass in one hand and the other employed for gestures, as my old pal O. Henry used to say at Jack's. Now I was to deal with the Hopkins of '34 — three years and better in Hollywood — Paramount star ; a picture stolen from right under Chevalier's nose ; a Lubitsch Creation, Class of '31 ; a booming star temporarily kettled by an unlucky floperoo. What now? The lift popped me into the corridor, and I toddled to the door of 3311 and pushed Stars Return Continued from page 26 the buzzer. Rose, coffee-colored maid of eight years' service, admitted me. What ho! On a wide and squashy sofa lolled Miriam Hopkins, finishing a smidgin of toast and a dish of coffee, the hour being 11.30 A. M. She didn't seem to mind being caught thus in her second best lounging pajamas, without a spot of make-up. At the moment the lass had no more glamor than my aunt Minnie. She looked like a nice, well-washed girl, with peachfuzz on her cheeks, dawdling over a lazy breakfast. Which of course she was. No camera within miles — no Lubitsch under the couch with a j ug of Glamor ! Looking a bit thinnish, I thought. Must feed the gell up a bit, what? (She later told me that she had taken to drinking up what the baby left of its certified milk, which I thought a cute idea for putting on bulk). Greetings over, would I have a spot of coffee ? No, thanks. Would I have a glass of sherry? I opined it was no sin to absorb a mite of sherry at noon, tossing in the uninteresting news that I had practically given up cocktails for sherry before meals. "I loathe cocktails," said the star. "I simply cannot stand cocktails before dinner, and brandy and highballs afterward. But champagne, or sherry, now — " I, too, admitted a fondness for those vinous tipples. "Too bad about 'Jezebel,' " I said, curse me for my cruel heart. "Yes, wasn't it," she agreed. "I liked the play, and Guthrie McClintic — pro ducer— is so nice and so talented. But that's the theatre." "And now what ?" I asked. "Perhaps I'll do another play before I go back to Hollywood in June. I have seven or eight here now. There are some back of the couch. [I confess I jumped slightly.] Gilbert Miller has two, and the Theatre Guild has a play by Milne I'm sure I'd love to do. They do things so well at the Guild. "In Hollywood I want to free-lance. No more long contracts. Jesse Lasky advised me against contracts— free-lancing would assure me of better stories. Louis B. Mayer of Metro assured me they'd welcome me there, and so did Joe Schenck of United Artists. "Then I want to divide my time between New York and Hollywood. I'd like to have a house on the East River, where I could have my books and my pictures and — oh, all the things one gathers through life. Hollywood in the summer — it's lovely then — and New York for a play at least part of the season." The foregoing should be read very rapidly, like coal going down a chute. The Hopkins rattles on like a machine gun, coiling and uncoiling herself gracefully the while. The breakfast things were toted away. "Did you notice that set of china," asked Miriam. "That's very funny. Now that I'm out of work I thought I'd economize. I wouldn't have our breakfasts sent up from the hotel. Rose could make it in our own kitchen and I'd save money. So I bought a percolator and a toaster, and Rose