Screenland (Nov 1937-Apr 1938)

expressions so valuable in films are valueless on the air. Looks are no help. Never a victory without the conqueror assimilating some of the traits of the subdued. A visitor to Hollywood is in for a surprise at the town's new business-like complexion. Evenings of gay, carefree fun are definitely fewer and farther between because most of the stars have an air program on the fire and are maneuvering for rehearsals. "W hen I do an hour's play for Radio," says Joan Crawford, "I need forty hours of advance rehearsal." That's the all-time high fur preparation, but Joan is ambitious and she's not given to kidding herself. When she spent that much time she scored ; she eased up once and wasn't so well prepared. But forty hours at eight a day — union standard — add up to five full days. Now figure out how you'd sandwich in five days into Joan's picture-making schedule for a week! Il'd turn you into a pretty methodical person, also. In days of yore Joan could capture Charleston cups; now, except for Saturday night fun, she studies. She is scared stiff of the new medium, but wants to click in it as a prelude to stage success. ''The only thing to do," counselled Franchot Tone, "is to beat your nervousness by working like a dog." Fine chatter to a glamor girl, but a swell tip. And Joan accepted it gratefully. Anyway. Miss Crawford can now stand up before the mike and an audience; but Claudette Colbert, once on Broadway and outwardly a lot calmer, isn't up to getting off her stool. Claudette sits on a high stool, with her script propped on a stand that won't shake or drop it. She then slips off her shoes and endeavors to remember that she's positively serene. Her doctor husband stands in the control room and holds the good thought, too. Recently, during a broadcast, Claudette accidentally fell off her perch. The audience giggled, and so did she. Dr. Pressman impulsively cried, "They must have a funny sense of humor !" Frank Oiapman, husband and manager of Gladys Swarthout, is likewise in the control room and unwittingly mouths every nuance of hers. She glances towards him frequently for assurance, a clinging-vine type. He's dripping with perspiration when she finishes. Paul Muni, who wants Mrs. Muni on his picture sets to okay every move of his, is valiantly becoming self-reliant via Radio, though. Studied rather than impetuous, he is forcing himself to go on the air without her help. Bette Davis' hands fascinate everyone watching her at a broadcast. She is so intense that she grips her script stand, running a veritable gamut in gripping. When she's most intent it seems as if she may break the wood. The nonchalant Clark Gable is runnerup to Bing Crosby for number one mostat-ease star. Clark wears sweatshirts or tricky sweaters to rehearsals and wins everyone by behaving as though he were the most unimportant person present. When he broadcasts there are so many fans that he has to be spirited out through the door where the pianos are shuttled. Bing is amazing. He's as peaceful as the Rock of Ages. The other night, three minutes before he was to sing, his sheet of music performed one of those mystery odd stunts. The band was readying. Bing didn't know the words. Everyone else went wild. He ambled around the stage, before the audience, peering hither and yon. He couldn't locate the music and there he was on! He boo-boo-booed melodically through a refrain, until someone spotted the paper under the drumstand. Bing's show is the only big one that has no elaborate dress rehearsal. The last get-together is informal. Bing will chat with the songpluggers who hang around. After rehears 82 Dorothy Lomour's leoding mon — not screen, real-life! He's Herb Koy, Dorothy's husband. They ought to be in pictures together. ing his songs awhile, he'll wait for Bob Burns to drop around. Bob never sees the show script before then, and last week what a rare crisis popped up as a result! The program had been devised around the beard Bob had been wearing for a picture ; Mr. Burns checked in clean-shaven. All the dialog had to be revised immediately. Yet neither Bing nor Bob could be fazed. Dick Powell glows when he senses a favorable audience ; nevertheless he's strictly on his toes. As he finishes each page of his script he rolls it up and tosses it at someone nearby. Robert Taylor is extremely conscientious, and personally liked as a result. The inner worry that seizes him is ever concealed. He demands no privileges and goes without his meals if necessary to be on schedule. Perhaps because he doesn't forget that three years ago he was only an extra in air shows. See Marlene Dietrich rehearsing for a broadcast and all those vanity cracks go up in thin smoke indeed. She sits on the floor to go over her lines, and when there's a funny one she roars and has to start all over again. She dresses not in plumes and veils, but in chic simplicity. She manages very well without mirrors. Alice Faye honestly hates to put up a front, but since she's been broadcasting at night she's promised to appear in a chic gown. She now brings along her own hairdresser to guarantee that her coiffure is correct. Julius Stein, from her film studio, arranges all her tunes. Alice doesn't read a note, you know, so she'd rather rely on a pal. She has recordings made of her broadcasts, so she can replay them for self-improvement. NBC rents a theatre set at Warners' Sunset Boulevard film studio. Tyrone Power and his guest stars act here. Audiences revelled in his kissing duel with Loretta Young, incidentally. The first time they teamed on the air he kissed her so hard she practically reeled into the wings. When they teamed anew she got even ; she gave him "the business." Martha Rave is hail-fellow-well-met still, but she is anxious to get more true character into her public character. So she's stopped singing hot rhythms on the air. She hasn't been practicing with a teacher solely for the fun of it. Comedians need audience reaction. At least. Eddie Cantor and Jack Oakie feel so. Eddie is a terrific clown ; he plays chiefly to his visual fans, it seems. He throws bakers' pies when there's an opportunity for slapstick and he doesn't mind stopping the show for audience howls. Jack ad libs, making mince-meat of the script. Charlie Butterworth is unique ; he's so quiet and he'll sit munching in a next-door cafe until two minutes before he's to be on the air. He won't rush then, but casually walks to the mike. Gracie Allan is as hilarious as an ogre before her broadcasts; she doesn't want to spoil a one of her silly remarks so she isn't to be disturbed. She lets George Burns do the bantering ; he doesn't have to get into the mood. You never see even George before the team's literally in action, though. With Jack Benny it's the opposite; he comes out a half hour beforehand and chums with the audience. The riot of Radio today is, of course, Mister Charlie McCarthy. You'll be seeing him in pictures any moment. He wears green satin pajamas to shock his heckler Mr. Fields, and he enjoys every minute of the shows he's in on. When he was doing a burlesque on a spy drama, with Nelson Eddy, he was so versatile juggling three different accents that Nelson had to hold the Eddy face to keep in character. The world's favorite dummy rates a kiss hello from Dorothy Lamour, without fail. ( She hasn't gone glamorous on her Radio buddies; she still drives up in her coupe.) W. C. Fields, invariably attired to perfection, with spats and all, has given up trying to top Charlie. Don Ameche, who is the A-l prankster of a great film studio, does behind-the-wings antics to distract Charlie, and to no avail yet. Eddie Bergen, Charlie's dad, is a dignified, well-mannered young man who bought a second-hand camera and made post-card views of grocery stores until he decided to be a ventriloquist. He dates Loretta Lee. But he has to cart Charlie McCarthy along to most of his parties, and just after politely acknowledging an introduction Bergen is appalled to hear Charlie mutter. "Who's this guy ? And what's his racket?" Currently Nelson Eddy is matinee idol number one, if the ardent feminine fans have anything to do with the ranking. He was fond of closed studios, where he could take off his coat and unloosen his collar and concentrate on his singing. But now he's unbending, doing comedy lines with new facility, and getting a kick out of tliis. So many girls think he's irresistible that two page boys regularly act as bodyguards to get him out of the station safely. Every picture star but Shirley Temple, Chaplin, Garbo, and Mae West has been featured on the air by now. Mrs. Temple has rejected fabulous propositions, believing Shirley's film work is enough. Chaplin's voice isn't in keeping with his tramp characterization and he hasn't yet had the heart to come out of his mold. Garbo, it's reported, has turned down $15,000 for a single air show. It would ruin her mystery line. Myrna Loy and William Powell had a hunch they'd be a keen air team. Their agent asked $15.000 — and as yet there are no takers. Mae West is rumored to want ten grand, a little too much for the sponsors. From New York to Hollywood to broadcast have come such Radio stars as Rudy Yallee, Don Ameche, Walter Winchell. Lanny Ross, Irene Rich, Dorothy Lamour, Bob Hope, Kenny Baker and Ken Murray. Rudy is now playing in the Cocoanut Grove, for the first time, and like all the rest in this illustrious group is acting for the movies besides. The talent for the supporting roles in air shows used to be all Radio-trained. But now this is altered. That monopoly is broken and Hollywood's character actors juveniles, and ingenues are receiving mo^t of these bit assignments. Yes. when Radio vowed it could make the movie stars cry Uncle it forgot one thing: Hollywood had the stars the public love? ! THE CLNCO FPESS. INC.. U.S.A.