Screenland (Nov 1934-Apr 1935)

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What does any degree of fame amount to when you can't have the one you love? I suppose these bumps are what Maureen rates for being a valorous, unchained individual. She wanted to grasp life, know its emotions to the full. And she likely will proceed, gallantly, until she figures out a philosophy of her very own. A protective shield, a satisfying design for living. But as her life is now — I'm genuinely sorry for her. She has a career and it's like holding onto a lion's tail. It would be foolish to let go until she can make a quick change, until some solution to her love plight, some better thing evolves for her. And meanwhile, as her countrymen would say, "It's a divil of a dilemma!" But It's All News to John Continued from page 21 "Two Martinis," said John to the waiter. John is also by way of being a psychologist. "Jerry tells me you're crazy," I informed him optimistically. John looked vaguely alarmed. "I try to keep it a secret when I first meet people," he explained, "or at least until I know if it's safe to relax." "Never mind," I consoled him. "I'd probably have guessed it. Say," after a moment's pause, "they tell me that after you made 'Another Language' last year you were deluged with picture offers but said you wanted to go back to the stage for more experience. Is that right?" Once I knew a girl who prefaced important announcements with "This is no ie, either." John's revelations are usually preceded by "You won't believe this." When he had finished his Martini he began : "You won't believe this, but I did. I wasn't deluged with offers as you put it, but I did have several and turned them down. You see, what I want is to be a really good actor and I think the place to learn that is on the stage. In pictures, you can't experiment. You make a scene and it's in the bag. On the stage you can try out different nuances and bits of business both during rehearsals and after the show has opened." "And now you've learned enough that you feel you can sign a contract?" I put in. "No," said John promptly, "but this last year on the stage has taught me a lot. I've got tne only kind of contract I'd want. It specifies two or three pictures a year and it also stipulates that they have to be made in the summer and that I can do plays in New York between September and June." I thought of what time and Hollywood have done to James Dunn; of what they did to Alexander Kirkland. I remembered something Kay Francis said to me once: "We all come out here with high ideals and great ambitions. Look at Muni and Edward G. Robinson. The only kind of contracts they would sign were those permitting them to do plays. Muni went back once and did a play. This last year he just traveled and the stage was forgotten. Robinson has never done a play since he first came to Hollywood. He just loafs between pictures." If Time could just stand still for John and Hollywood ebb and flow around him without touching him ! _ For here is a really fine actor — one with youth and ambition, ideals and illusions. If I were the Almighty I'd crystallize him as he is today. But Joshua is dead these many centuries. Time stands still for no one. And Hollywood is a Charybdis that sucks under all who venture near. "Your parts in 'Another Language' and 'She Loves Me Not' were very different," I remarked, harking back to the interview but thinking how much more pleasant it would be just to chat and forget business. "Which did you prefer?" "Both," said John promptly. "I don't want to be typed. 'Another Language' was a comedy drama. 'She Loves Me Not' was farce comedy and that was some John Beal and Gloria Stuart in "Laddie," based on Gene St rat ton-Porter's novel. thing I'd never done before and couldn't make the New York managers believe I could do. I want to do some musicals and eventually," hesitantly, "I hope to be a good enough actor to do the sort of character leads that Leslie Howard does." "Well, that's quite a repertoire to aspire to," I observed, "but I'll tell you this : all actors howl about not wanting to be typed but if they aren't they never get to be very big stars. The public doesn't know just what to expect of them." "You won't believe this," said John, "but being a star means less than nothing to me. I don't care a tinker's damn about fame and fortune. The only thing in the world I care anything about is being a good actor. If, when people see me in a part, they'll believe me and come away feeling, 'He can act' that's all I want. "You won't believe this," he went on, "but ever since I was a kid, all I've ever wanted to do was either draw or act. When I was in college — " "Princeton, wasn't it?" I interjected. "Pennsylvania," said John, " — I drew and drew and drew until suddenly my eyes went back on me. I thought it would be foolish to start out to be an artist when one of my chief tools was no good so I concentrated on acting. I got pretty good parts in the Mask & Wig plays.' "Your home is in Philadelphia, isn't it?" I went on. "Joplin, Missouri," said John. "Say! They've got all my history in the publicity department if you're interested in that." "All right." I agreed. "Now, what's in those little books you're carrying?" John flushed. "Some sketches I made. I thought maybe you'd rather look at pictures than talk. But you don't have to if you don't want to. We can just sit." I shot him a suspicious glance but he was dead-panning me. Darned good the sketches were, too. Yes — young John Beal is going places !