Screenland (Nov 1935-Apr 1936)

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Helena rubinstein 8 East 57th St., New York City PARIS LONDON © 1936, H. R-. INC. native land is no derogatory decision, as you recognize; it is a natural aftermath of roaming and experimenting. Literally, home is an enchanting estate in the countryside, an hour's jaunt from London. There he has everything from a polo field to vegetable gardens. It is a heaven-like haven from the activity which regularly surrounds him. Although, for a measure of seclusion, he resides at a quiet hotel when busy in London, and locates likewise whenever he is in New York. The movies, a current national radio hook-up, the legitimate — in work that invigorates, Leslie has stumbled upon stability. The more responsibility he assumes, the more details fall upon his shoulders. He told me of his forthcoming production of "Hamlet" on Broadway. "They have been so grand to me, American theatregoers, that I want to do my utmost in thanks !" Essaying the title role would be sufficient for the average star. Yet Leslie, for his most ambitious stage effort, has been slaving over the special adaptation necessary; he has schemed out the lighting effects, supervised the designing of the costumes, the painting of the scenery, and the picking of the performers. A man of his intelligence wouldn't settle down to standard Hollywood stardom when his scope can be so much wider. He is not only emphatically not guilty of ingratitude to American fans, but on the contrary he estimates them so highly that he is actively in the vanguard of a new crusade for better entertainment. In acquiring personal discernment he has hit upon a cause we will all favor. When he stood up to bid me goodbye he broke into an embarrassed grin. He was thoroughly surprised with his own frankness. I beamed myself. Had I been bolder I'd have patted him on the back and cried "Bravo." There's happiness ahead for Leslie Howard now ! Forever Yours Continued -from page 25 much to say beyond agreeing. But then that wasn't unusual, Karen never had said a great deal and Tom had always filled in every conversational gap. Columnists, seeing them a deux, didn't hint any more. The platonic companionship of Tom and Karen had become an old story. The most ardent gossips had long since relinquished Tom as a matrimonial bet — he was the perennial bachelor who liked women, but not that much. As for Karen, she was a strange proposition. "Too cold to fall in love," a scenario writer said, with a touch of rhetoric, "her air of chill aloofness is borrowed from her native fjords." The world at large, you see, had forgotten that Karen was French — excepting, always, the wife of the westcoast millionaire who had imported her and who now, on rare occasions, entertained her at tea. Naturally there were a few torrid rumors. A camerman went swimming with Karen and was marked for a fortnight by the glare of publicity. Her Jiauffeur was rumored to be a love-crazed nobleman, and was trailed by a reporter who :aw him eating with his knife, at a cheap lunch counter, and lost interest. An impressionable leading man went about in a dither through the length of a picture and didn't get his contract renewed. But though there was no one else in either of their lives, and though they were continually seen with each other, Tom and Karen were actually drifting apart. He had his interests — she hers. And hers were growing by leaps and bounds, and his were slowly diminishing. There was a lugubrious dumpling of a fat man who was sneaking past Tom in the laughter consciousness of the country. There was a hungry-looking boy, with a sad gaze, who convulsed the picture going public with his pantomimic agonies. Nor did competition have a quickening effect upon Tom's comedies — it dulled them, and made him lose zest. He dimissed the blonde with the dimples and the legs (grown plumper at ankle and knee) and hired a slim brunette, and then a platinum statuette. But it didn't help much, for Tom had begun to slide ever so slightly while Karen was steadily mounting the rungs of the well-known ladder. She was at the beginning of a vogue, Tom was nearing the end of one. It was late of an afternoon when Karen drifted into Tom's studio. The girl at the switchboard automatically rang Tom's private office and announced her, before she said in a husky little voice — "You can go right in. He's with Mr. Feinberg." Karen said, "Thanks." On impulse she turned to the girl, who was as familiar to her — and as impersonal — as a bit of the reception hall furniture. "Do you notice anything different about Meester Kildare's