Screenland (Nov 1935-Apr 1936)

74 SCREENLAND >)< Ann Dvorak ^ in Warner Bros, "bright lights' Ann Dvorak REVEALS HER ROUGE SECRET jRIENDS marvelled at the exquisite coloring in Ann Dvorak's cheeks. They couldn 't be f^1 J 1 ' lieve it was not her own natural coloring . . , rouge could never look so lifelike and last so long, they insisted. Finally, Ann Dvorak told them. Max Factor, Hollywood's make-up genius, had created the rouge for her, based on a discovery of color harmony shades that give radiant beauty to blondes, brunettes, redheads, brownettes. Wouldyou like to share Ann Dvorak's rouge secret? You can. ..at nominal cost. All you have to do is to use Max Factor's Rouge in your color harmony shade. Instantly it will give your cheeks an alluring lifelike glow. Creamy -smooth, it blends easily, evenly, and lasts for hours. Its purity will keep your skin fine textured, young, just as it does for screen stars. You will find Max Factor's Rouge in color harmony shades for blondes, brunettes, brownettes, redheads, at your favorite store, for 50c. Max Factor's Powder, and Max Factor's Super-Indelible Lipstick in color harmony shades, one dollar each. yifax'Jactor ; Hollmvoocl * siuiiljWOOi Powder, Rouge and Lipstick in Color Harmony : Mail for ^OWDEK. KOUCiE Atttt * MAX FACTOR, Hollywood SEND Pursc-Sizc Box of Powder and Rouge Sampler m my color harmony shade; also Lipstick Color Sampler, four shades. I enclose ten cents for postage and handling.-* Alao send me my Color Harmony Makc-Up Chart and 48-page Illustrated Instruction Book, "The New An of Society Moke-Up" . . . FREE. 1 l'\H l 1 \ lVJ.\S EYES }}A\R Vtry Lighl □ Fair □ Otimy □ Medium Ruddy. □ SjIId Q F.«lltd □ OW □ Blut □ Guy. O G.«n □ Haiti □ Brown □ Black □ Y-\ ■ >, HI Light O Da.t—O BROWN ETTE Light-□ Da.k.-O BRUNETTE Lighl..O Darlt-.D REDHEAD Light. .□ Dirl(..D / t$HES,< ■ LiEh« D Dark □ SKIN Dry □ O.l/D NomlIQ ACE could play the role acceptably. Reinhardt consented to listen to her read. "Never shall I forget that moment when I stood before The Professor," (Olivia always refers to Reinhardt as "The Professor"). "Not a word would come out of my mouth ! Hermia stuck in my throat and refused to budge. I had been so confident I would give a magnificent reading — and now that opportunity had come knocking on my door I could not remember a single line of the role. My career begun to vanish in smoke, when I think Puck must have come to my rescue. Words begun to flow. Hermia emerged! When I had finished The Professor sat back for a long time in silent judgment. I thought it was the end — the end of the dream, when he said in his simple way, "You are Hermia s understudy." Then at the last moment Gloria Stuart withdrew from the cast for strong professional reasons — and Olivia was Hermia in earnest. A real drerm in a real play had come true in the magical forest. It was inevitable after the Bowl premiere that motion picture offers would pour in for the services of the unknown, browneyed girl billed as Hermia. Motion picture executives in bidding for her talents believed they were offering tempting contracts to a European celebrity of the Reinhardt Theatre and traditions. Certainly they didn't know she was a novice of the grease-paint, who but a few months before hadn't even the slightest hope of ever crashing the sacred portals of a motion picture studio. Courageously she did turn down several lucrative contracts to wait on Reinhardt's decision as to whether or not he would remain in Hollywood to produce the film version of "The Dream." He had promised her the screen role of Hermia if the picture were made. To make her stage and screen debut under the direction of the genius of the world theatre was more than any one girl could hope for in one lifetime. Yet such was her fate. "Now that you have experienced both mediums, the stage and the screen, in rapid succession, which do you prefer?" I asked. "That's like asking a fond mother which of her twins she loves best," Olivia an swered frankly. "Only unlike twins the stage and screen are so very different ; related only by their entertainment values. On the stage the actor has a feeling that his body means everything to a part. Sweep, grace of movement, rhythm, are as essential as voice and pantomime. On the screen the face seems to count most. Beauty and character are at the mercy of a pitiless camera. So much must be told with the eyes and the mind. But the stage does at least teach one how to use the body in a screen characterization. Or at least I have found it so." "It will be fun seeing yourself as Hermia," I said. "That is one advantage you will have to concede to the screen." "There are two thrilling moments in an actress' life that are probably never recaptured," she mused. "The first is her initial appearance before the footlights, when she faces an audience for the first time, and is able to win their applause. The other is when she beholds her image on the screen for the first time and discovers things about herself that no mirror has the power to reveal. I don't know yet which is the more thrilling." Watching her speak I thought of Shakespeare's own words — Helena's description of Hermia in the play : She was a vixen when she went to school ; And though she be but little, she is fierce. Her tribute was paid to Reinhardt with touching sincerity. In turn perhaps Hollywood shall one day pay him the same sort of honor for the discovery of Olivia de Havilland, his first and only Hollywood protegee. A product, not of his own theatre, nor of his widely scattered theatrical enterprises, but strictly of the cinema and its far-reaching shadows. If Reinhardt makes no other pictures for the rest of his life he will have left as a living monument to his memory the celluloid upon which is written his "Midsummer Night's Dream" — and also a gift which Hollywood should cherish and endow with fame and fortune : Olivia de Havilland. Or else the trees in the magical forest will weep, and Puck will never come again to make laughter for the world. Clamor wifh a Grin Continued from page 55 Michael is one of the best reasons why Miriam can be found at home practically all the time she has away from the studio. She likes to stay home with a charmed circle of friends around and let everyone else do the gadding. She prefers life reduced to its least common denominator, simplicity. Says it is not as easy to have nice people together out here as it is in New York, because here it is like visiting the neighboring farm twenty miles away — you have to hitch up the buggy and drive forever. She compares it with an army post, with "army" talk. Everything has to be planned ahead, and she misses the extemporaneous groups one runs into in New York — as for instance, the evening she went to what promised a very dull affair and found herself at four in the morning in a little library surrounded by nine men of four different nationalities, discussing brilliantly everything under the sun. "It was so lovely," she sighs. "And out here it is lovely in a different way. There is no place to go, unless you are giddy to dance, so one stays home and creates one's own group. There are things I miss, like certain smells of familiar restaurants, and the fresh aroma of damp pavements. And walking. You cannot walk any place out here, the distances are so great. I love to walk across 57th Street and look in all the shop windows." At that moment, Aesop arose majestically and shook himself, scattering liberal sand and ocean. He yearned to be clubby, but a warning sat him down again, looking wistful. "He's trained, now," Miriam announced proudly. "When we first got him he was an anti-social dog, so we sent him away to school — a progressive school — to learn manners. I was so anxious to put him through his paces when he returned — you know, rather like a mother looking over a report card — but he bounded right in and sat on my lap! (Aesop weighs about 250 pounds). So we had to begin all over and teach him not to be too social. I think he's a little confused about it all." "And the deep mystery with which you are further confusing us — how about that?" Seemed like a good time to work back to it. "Can you throw any more light on it?" But cagey, oh so cagey, the little Hopkins. "Nothing but this : I have arrived at an in-between stage. Between love, between pictures, between plans, between everything — even career." Now, Watson, what do vou make of that?