Screenland (Nov 1935-Apr 1936)

26 SCREENLAND Read the real lowdown on Hollywood's playground where your picture pets work as hard at relaxing as they do in the studios Playing at IIFE, these days, seems to be so arranged that there is plenty of time for everything except resting. The good old cuddly-wuddly rest with the J eyes half-closed dreamily watching for hours a group of fleecy white clouds over there meet a group of fleecy white clouds over here has gone completely out of vogue, the man on the street will tell you — he told me — and there seems to be nothing we can do about it. Just imagine anyone these days spending an entire afternoon watching cloud meet cloud, or Mrs. Ant bringing home the bacon, or Mrs, Spider whipping up a little something in gossamer on the old pear tree — mercy no, before those two clouds could even make the thirty-yard line in God's blue heaven, Miss Movie Star and you, and me too, and don't forget the man on the street, would have lost fifty cents at bridge, bought a hat, bawled out the telephone operator, fired the servants, attended three cocktail parties and gotten neatly squiffed. Yes, your Auntie Maggie believes that those cuddly-wuddly days are gone forever. But Hollywood still talks about resting even though it does astonishingly little about it. Hardly a day passes but what Gloria Swanson, or Grace Moore, or Carole Lombard, or Norma Shearer, or some of their gang start yapping, "I must have rest. My nerves are on edge. I must get away from it all." ("It all" can be studios, parties, fan writers, dressmakers, radios, Jean Harlow, friends, family, Jack Warner, process servers, telephones or practically anything.) Now resting, in the vernacular of those who toil while the cameras click means only one thing — Palm Springs, America's foremost desert resort. (Advt. but not paid for.) Palm Springs is a nice little hunk of desert about three hours' ride from Hollywood, so