Screenland (May-Oct 1936)

72 SCREENLAND What Men Wish Women Wouldn't Do He subsided, abruptly, and would not be persuaded to further revelations of personal prejudices about the opposite sex. But I didn't forget. Oh, no ! And a few days later I set forth to make more investigations about what famous and sought-after men wished women wouldn't do. George Raft said, instantly and unhesitatingly, "I wish they wouldn't wear pants! Or slacks, or even riding breeches ! No woman should ever appear in public in any kind of trousers until she has had some kind, honest friend tell her about how she looks from the back. If women could get views of themselves from behind, walking, you wouldn't find one female in ten thousand wearing any kind of trousers ! They're almost always awful. "I wish they wouldn't wear flat-heeled shoes, either. They spoil a woman's carriage, mar her figure. A man likes a woman with a dainty foot and ankle," he went on, plaintively. "He likes to look at her and think how nice it would be if they could start to dance right away. '"I wish women wouldn't get themselves sunburned until they look like Indians. I don't like to look at an almost black woman, lying on the beach, all covered with olive oil and smothered in sand. I like a woman with a nice, pink and white skin, wearing a smart, dark dress, maybe one gardenia, nice gloves, and carrying a smart bag to meet me somewhere for tea. Rather late," he added hastily. (If George could have his choice about the hours he keeps, he would breakfast at about three in the afternoon) . "I wish," he went on, "that if I take a woman to a party or a night club, she wouldn't get tight on three Martinis and lop on me in the taxi going home. I wish women wouldn't get tight, anyhow. It isn't becoming to them. Their faces get loose. A clever woman won't ever do it." Georgie, you see, doesn't drink, and apparently he has had some painful experiences with women who do. I pursued this matter and presently I caught up with Ronald Colman, who told me that he wished, most earnestly, that women wouldn't be consciously, deliberately, fluffily cute at him. "It embarrasses a chap, you know," he said. "It gives the woman away, makes her seem obvious and a little cheap. Cuteness belongs to very young creatures who are unstudied and un-selfconscious in their charm. Maybe it's the Hollywood influence," he went on, in his grave, judicious manner. "Most of the women here have careers. They write, or act, or direct, or design. They are sensible, shrewd people who meet men on their own ground, play outdoor games with them, consult with them at conferences in the studio. "Your helpless, frilly, giggly, sleep-untilnoon, take-me-to-tea female hasn't much place here. Nor has she, I think, in any other modern community. W e like them crisp and gay and alert and intelligent. A clever woman won't pretend helplessness or affect frilliness." "A clever woman!" I began to catch on. It's showmanship that these men demand. They don't mind being fooled if you do it cleverly. What they mind most is having you give yourself away ! The remark kept cropping up as I continued my investigations. "A clever woman won't do it." Clark Gable, I found, wishes that women wouldn't be noisy or conspicuous — ever. He wishes that they wouldn't be coy. He wishes that they would not try to seem sophisticated when they are not. "They merely Continued from page 23 succeed in being vulgar," he said. He wishes that they would not he-deck themselves with what he terms "things" — bangles, ribbons, ruffles, ear-rings, artificial flowers, trains. He grew really oratorical over his dislike of trains. "I do wish, though," he sighed, when he had quieted down a bit, "that they ivould wear stockings. About one pair of legs in a thousand will bear scrutiny without them. They should get just one glimpse of their knees from the back ! Well-shaped legs may look lovely when thinly covered with silk. But there should be a law against legs appearing in public, unclad." As I went further and further into this matter, I discovered that it was the comparatively small things which counted. These men who spend their working days in the company of some of the most beau Madge Evans wears a sky-blue taffeta negligee, with silver bands and ruffled underskirt of pink. tiful women in the world and who may, if they choose, spend their evenings with women of the same calibre, are as much affected by small, seemingly unimportant gestures as is your, (or my), Uncle Ned in Dobb's Corners. Freddie March said, "You don't know what it does to a man when a seemingly fastidious woman suddenly attacks an intimate problem in a public place ! Perhaps she is gossiping, (in an elevator), about a mutual friend. Perhaps she is taking up your own affairs with you — love, money, or what the neighbors said. She will complain at her husband or reprimand her child in front of guests or servants. She will shout the latest tid-bit of gossip from one restaurant table to another. She will discuss her best friend's domestic difficulties with her hairdresser. "This is the type of woman who will make a scene at her husband or her brother or her best male friend over a bridge-table. She won't do it to — or at — a stranger. She is all cheerful tolerance to the man she has but recently met. If she could know what the other men in the room are thinking when she makes those scenes, she certainly would restrain herself. // she were clever, she ivould — " "If she were clever!" The phrase was beginning to haunt me. Were women, I wondered, just plain stupid about pleasing men? I sought out some of the younger fry. And there I found some bitterness ! "The aspiring young actresses are the worst," Eric Linden told me. "They must be seen only in 'the right places and with the right people.' If you take one to a premiere or a night club, you can't just tuck her into the little car you yourself use to drive to work. No ! You must rent a limousine and a driver. If you want to take her swimming, you can't just pick out a good beach and go there and swim. No ! She may be seen only on private beaches or at the side of a pool which belongs to Someone Important. She spends three hours getting ready, appears with a car-load of equipment, and when you arrive at whatever piece of water is good enough, she can't go in because it might spoil her make-up and she might be glimpsed by an important executive when she is not looking her best. We can't have fun with these girls. They aren't waterproof !" Bob Taylor's complaints were not so different. "I wish they wouldn't meet me at the door, holding the hand out for the orchids and demanding , 'Where shall we go?' " he pronounced. "I like to take a pretty girl places, of course. What man doesn't? But I'd like, once in a while, to think that it was my own idea. I'd like to think, some times, that she would enjoy it if we just sat down and talked. If she would say, just once, 'Let's stay here and make a pan of fudge !' I would probably insist upon taking her somewhere because I should know that she would enjoy it. But the gesture and the offer would be comforting. "If they were clever, they'd pretend, some times, that they wanted to see a man just for himself." Robert Young thinks that the nagging, suspicious woman is the worst of all. "I once thought that I was falling in love with a girl," he related, gravely. "She was lovely and all my imagination was intrigued and fascinated. I left her at her home one evening and was so uplifted and thrilled that I drove about for perhaps an hour and a half, thinking about her. When I finally went home I found several telephone messages from her. When I answered, I found her in a state of suspicious temper. She demanded to know where I had been and with whom. When I told her she didn't believe me; she accused me of various things. "It was an ugly and revealing scene and it destroyed something very lovely that I had created in my own mind about her. I never went back to see her. "I know a wife who, when her husband says that he would like to go to the fights or have a game with the boys, replies, absently, 'Certainly, dear. I hope you will have a nice time. I wanted to go to Marjorie's, anyhow.' "You have never seen a more uneasy man than that husband is at the fights or while he is indulging in his little game. He keeps worrying about what his wife is doing, whether she really is at Marjorie's and why she was so willing to have him leave her for an evening. She makes him so unhappy by not nagging or complaining that he won't leave her again for six months. "She is clever, that one!" All of which leads me to believe that what a man wants most — even the experienced, male film charmer — is showmanship. Haven't they always?