Screenland (Nov 1936-Apr 1937)

for January 1937 75 Joan Bennett Markey sets out from her home to assume her professional life as a screen star. is seemingly quite nonchalant about my career. The only thing she ever mentioned about it was once when we were between governesses for her, (you see, there is such a great difference in their ages I must have a nurse for Melinda and a governess for Ditty), she said: 'Do we have to get somebody else to look after me? Couldn't you sort of button me up in the morning, and that's really all I need?' I assured her that she really needed quite a bit more attention than this and she finally agreed. Another time, when I asked her if she missed me when I was working, she said: 'Of course I do : but then I hardly have much time myself staying in school so late in the afternoon and then my music lesson right after.' " Joan laughed, "At least the children of professional people learn self-confidence and independence early in life and these two sterling virtues' certainly can't hurt them." "A moment ago you spoke of a routine you seldom deviate from in your household, Joan." I suggested. "Does it have to do with planning menus and the actual management of your household, or is it merely a schedule of hours for prompt meals and so on?" "It is actually a plan," she replied. "We are a pretty large household, counting all noses, and considerable management is required. Not figuring the four of us of the immediate family, my household consists of my secretary, Ditty's governess, Melinda's nurse, my personal maid, the cook, a parlor maid which I prefer to a butler, and the chauffeur. Naturally, the meals for our minor hotel are quite a problem. There are at least three sets of breakfasts served, first Melinda's, an hour later, Ditty's, still later Gene's, and then my tray. At night, it is almost the same thing, with the children eating earlier than we do. Naturally, the nurse and the governess are the authorities on the children's meals. But I insist on planning the other menus1, and making all arrangements, at least by proxy, for the entertaining we do. "Let me run through a typical studio working day for me as it affects my home : "I arise promptly at seven in the morning. By seven-thirty I've had my shower and the morning paper has come up along with orange juice, toast, and coffee on my tray. After this is over, and it doesn't take long, I make out a list of memos for Dorothy, my secretary. These usually consist of flowers to be ordered and arranged, a note to my dressmaker concerning a few hems and such, or a call to Magnin's to send out the hat I tried on the day before. That sort of thing. Then the children come in while I make-up. By eight, I am usually down-stairs to join Gene who is indulging a much healthier breakfast. Sometimes Gene swears he doesn't see me for days at a time when I'm working — but he's a fibber, even if he does occasionally hail my entrance with something like: "Well! If it isn't the popular Miss Bennett! Fancy, seeing you here." And then follows the usual pow-wow about ' . . . what's on for tonight ?' "Oh yes ! after you pass the bride-andgroom stage it's the same thing in Hollywood as it is in Paduca : that business of squirming out of that date with the bridgeplaying Joneses or getting together on a show that one or the other of you hasn't seen. Or else we agree that, should one of us be tired that evening, the other will pinch-hit for 'The Markeys' at somebody or other's party. Of course we've accepted invitations without one another ! Wouldn't it be silly for Gene to sit at home just because I happen to be tired and wanted to go to bed early, or for me to curl up on the divan and sleep while he works late on a script? We don't consider it 'modern' for one of us to be out on his own for a couple of hours in the evening. It's merely sensible. "But to get back to this typical day of mine: during the drive to the studio, I fill out a little book we call The Kitchen Diary. It is just like a date book : with each day listed as to breakfast, luncheon, and dinner, and spaces' into which you may fill your guest list and what you plan to serve. It is really a gorgeous idea because if you want to look back over it, you can find the exact menu you served the same guests the last time they dined with you — in that way, avoiding repetition even if you had planned the same thing again. The Kitchen Diary is then sent back with the chauffeur and cook begins the marketing immediately. We've worked out a schedule of three marketing days a week and on those particular days', all vegetables and staples are ordered. The only thing left to order at the last minute, then, is the entree or perhaps some special dessert. "I leave the studio promptly at six o'clock ; that's something new in my contract, by the way. For years, I went along working until all hours, missing seeing the children and frequently missing Gene when he had an early preview. But no more of that, thank you. Ever since I signed my last contract, a certain clause has stipulated that my day's work is finished at a certain hour — and that hour happens to be six. It isn't fair, otherwise. It isn't fair to your husband, your children, or to your staff. So, off little Joan goes at six — and I mean promptly ! If we're having guests, I make a hurried tour of the living-room taking a look at the flower arrangements; then I make sure that the cigarette boxes are filled and that the hors d'ouvres and cocktails are about ready to serve. With these things in order,' I've found that a slightly tardy hostess may be excused if she is a moment or two late in dressing. And then dinner promptly at seven-thirty with either the newest picture, a play, or an hour or two of dancing. I insist on being in bed by eleven if I am working. If I'm not, I don't care much what the late hour is." I asked : "Joan, do you think your career has been a help or a handicap in your marriage? I mean: is your husband intrigued or annoyed by your having such a busy life of your own ?" She smiled quizzically: "It's hardly fair to make up Markey's mind for him, is it? But if you really insist, I suppose the answer is : a little of both — though heaven knows, Gene is the most understanding and generous person in the world. He knows studio life. He is confronted with the same demands it makes on me. So, naturally, he understands a great deal easier than a man in some other walk of life would; I think the only thing that seriously annoys Gene is that in all the years we've been married, we've never been able to plan a vacation together. Oh, we've been close to it ; but just as we get as far as the reservations, he is signed to start a new screen story or I am rushed into a new production. This is disappointing. There are so many places Here's a view of the playroom at the Gene Markeys'. The bar, done in blue and white. Note the novel lighting fixture with illuminated bottles.