Screenland (Nov 1934-Apr 1935)

for December 1934 If winter comes, spring isn't far behind, provided you keep on existing. Bill Powell somehow managed and blossom time brought a part in a roadshow. He played forty-tzvo weeks of one-night stands. Don't tell "him about the gruelling hardships of climbing the stellar ladder ! Stock engagements in various cities followed. It was six years before he won a supporting role on Broadway, and two years more before he stepped into his first Broadway lead. This, if you're checking, was eight years after he'd started acting ! "It was thirteen years before I could repay my aunt," he admits. In 1921 Bill made his film debut in an Eastern studio. It was in a John Barymore production. Gradually he began to stand out as a villain. Then, stamped as a picture-stealer, he was eventually rewarded with top billing himself. And his versatility transformed him into a sympathetic lead. He judges his performances severely. His four best, in his own estimation, were in "The Bright Shawl," "Beau Geste," "Interference," and "Street of Chance." Deliberate about learning his roles, he detests being rushed into a part for which he has not prepared at length. Exceedingly bashful by nature, he has cultivated a mask of suavity until it has become almost real. But his practical jokes with his pals show that he is still a kid at heart. I am wondering if the venerable painting of Barthelmess is to hang in the swanky new abode? What, you haven't heard of Bill's prize possession? It seems that a fan sent Barthelmess a fine painting of Dick at his best. When going to Europe a few years ago, Dick thought it would be a nice present to leave Bill. When he came back to Hollywood, he was more than startled to find his portrait hung above Bill's bar, with a fearful mustache decorating his erstwhile smoothly shaven face. Bill dignifiedly wiped off this adornment, and does so every time Dick Barthelmess pops over — which is often. It's gone on and off so frequently that the very lips are practically in shreds ! _ Worrying has always been Bill Powell's hobby. Now that he doesn't have to fuss over where his next check is coming from, or fume over his roles, he is worrying about where the screen actors of tomorrow are to get started. "At least when I started we had a wealth of stock companies to practice on. But today the stage is more difficult, for amateurs anyway. I think we oldtimers are in the money because we're staple products. We've had a great deal of experience, years either on the stage or in pictures and generally in both mediums. "Becoming a star has always been the toughest thing in the world, for the odds are a hundred-thousand-to-one. Now, with the talkies demanding fine diction and the 'color' which is gained only by much actual acting, it's more difficult than ever ! We must find some solution. Right this minute my only advice for aspiring young players is — 'God help you !' " 77 Nevertheless, granting the tribulations of getting a break and succeeding today, remember, too, the odds Bill Powell himself was up against. His charm is undeniable, but sheer determination carried him to where he is. And has the battle been worth the strife and sorrows, the climaxes and anti-climaxes? "Emphatically yes!" he exclaimed as I was departing. "As for whatever I have failed to acquire or hold, I have just my self to blame !" That I took as a reference to his two unhappy trys at matrimony. Spoken like a gentleman and a scholar — and this man Powell is both. He deserves having reached his current enviable spot where — wealthy, worldly and wise, beyond the elemental struggle for existence and the passionate heartbreaks of youth — life begins! Movie stars, but they go to school just like any other boys — or rather school goes to them. But it's the same thing — lessons every day. Above, Billy Lee, Baby LeRoy, David Holt and their teacher, Rachel Smith. How Hollywood Came to the University Continued from page 25 ences, and they must take examinations." "Then I'll do those things," she answered. And she does them. What is more, she does them so much better than the average college student, that, as my acquaintance with her grew and the keenness of her mind delighted me at every new comment upon old material, I began to realize that as we rate intelligence in a university, this girl was well within the upper twenty per cent. I actually felt cheated that she could not go to college — not that she needed it, particularly, for books are open to everyone — but that it needed her. Think of the j aded, weary professors who were missing the liveliness of her remarks and the revivifying effect of her exuberant youth ; think of the young and vital ones who would have found an appreciative audience in her — not to mention the pleasure of getting befuddled with their notes through looking at her ! If you have gone through the mill of English literature, you will remember how you struggled from the beginning of the AngloSaxon period through the Middle Ages, and greeted with thanksgiving some gleam of light in the Renaissance. Paulette had no such difficulties. Beowulf, (you know, he comes first in the text-book) , she translated calmly to a modern chest-thumper. "He thought he was good, and he ivas good. He was always thumping his chest and saying, 'I can do it'." (This with appropriate gestures.) "All of his men peeked through the keyhole — if they had keyholes in those days — but they wouldn't come in to help him — oh, no !" But for that beautiful, melancholy lyric of our ancestors, "The Wanderer," she had nothing but reverence, reading the lines with the combination of intelligence and high esthetic sense which makes me shift all the necessary reading to her — for my own pleasure. "I'd like to have this book," she decided. Always now, when we find an author that she likes, she must have the -book for her library. It is a fast-growing _ one, containing not only the books which she finds for herself but the autographed copies of modern writers who have met her and found her as vivid and appreciative as I do. "I was reading Spengler's 'Decline of the West' yesterday," she will remark. "He covers a tremendous amount of material with his beautiful style." Then suddenly she contrasts an earlier author. "He's not a bit like Macaulay though; I can't read Macaulay." (I secretly sympathize with her.) "I have just received Will Durant's new book. He has style, too," she will add. Then we talk of all the modern authors who have contributed signed copies to this library she is accumulating. One of the most gratifying things about Paulette Goddard is the fact that precedent does not dictate her favorites among books. A sample of Malory's "Le Morte D'Arthur" sent her post-haste for a copy. Stories of Tristan and Iseult, of Arthur, Guinevere. and Lancelot found an echo immediately in her. And why not? She is, after all, sister to these women, Iseult of the dark hair, Elaine, the lovable, and the grey-eyed