Screenland (Nov 1938-Apr 1939)

In the largest set constructed for a Fred Ast a i r e G i n,g e r Rogers film (and they've had some big ones in previous films), the stars of "The Castles" dance across a map of the U. S. A. Hollywood Women Are Sexless! Continued from page 23 with the well-built-up story of Sir Galahad's Hollywood fling. Before they get through with him, he'll wish he never saw the Tinsel City, nor the maiden who caught his eye. Of such are Hollywood press agents made. There is more hokum in most of the socalled screen romances than you can shake a stick at. Time and again have I listened on the radio or read this or that wellpublicized column giving the supposed lowdown on your idol and mine. And then out at the Trocadero I've seen them with entirely different people. I'm too old a bird at the game to comment on this, but if I weren't, I'd be shocked and horrified at their mutual infidelity. Old-timers in the business of a pound of flesh would merely give me a glassy stare and laugh me off the Boulevard. Publicity is Hollywood's middle name. Without it no star is born. Without it no star remains long in the brilliantly lit Hollywood firmament. Without it Tilliethe-Toiler and Minnie-Mouse are plain Janes. Time was when I thought Kay Francis, Ginger Rogers, Jean Harlow, Carole Lombard and Mae West had something. It took a turn in the Shim-Sham City to change my point of view. Fifteen years ago I lived next door to Gloria Swanson and her then husband in Beverly Hills. You can't fool your barber or your next-door-neighbor. Gloria is a charming person, effervescing with personality, but as for sex — well, I know a score or more lassies in Los Angeles itself who would put her to shame. Sylvia Sidney once caught my eye. In pictures she tugged at the heart-strings. One summer I saw a lot of her on the Riviera where she was relaxing. True, she was a glamor girl deluxe, but as for sex, the Statue of Liberty had her beat a mile. Virginia Pine coursed across my horizon and my midsummer's dream was ablaze with variated color. Her winsomeness and her femininity won me from the start. She 98 was my Venus-de-Milo and my Joan-ofArc rolled into one. But an Atlantic voyage quickly convinced me she was like all the rest of the Hollywood beauties. Down in Palm Springs Constance Bennett was vacationing at a then littleknown spot called La Quinta. I hadn't seen her since Davis Island, near Tampa, Florida, more than a decade before. Her husband in those days was young Phil Plant. Today, Phil is raising chickens on a farm in Connecticut, and Constance is still in the cinema. In the intervening years I had come to know Constance almost better than George Brent, and knowing her I let her alone. Ginger Rogers is a gay gal who intrigued for a while a younger cousin of _ mine, until his wife-to-be appeared in his life. Trying to avoid columnists and other literary vultures, he and Ginger used to eat at the "Drive Inns" on Sunset Boulevard. Theirs was a real romance, but publicity agents wanted to make it a reel romance, and today she isn't Mrs. Alfred Vanderbilt. There was a time when Kay Francis, then unknown, attended some of my youthful bachelor parties. She was full of life and the joie-de-vivre. Then she became so immersed in the cares of her career she had little energy left for social pastimes. What a price they pay for fame! Joyful, happy little girls turned into weary, nervous care-ridden women. Many a girl I've seen through the years who, before she reached stardom, exuded sex of such power that it was difficult to get within range without exploding, only to turn a few years later into a wax model. Features are hardened. All expression has been ironed out by beauty experts, except when a director puts on the heat. Voices have been cultivated in a hybrid affected accent. They simply cannot let down their hair and be themselves. Too many producers, directors, agents, publicity men, have diverted and distorted their thoughts. They scarcely know who they are, or whence they came. The bright, imaginative souls have fled. They have been but bits of clay, moulded by a merciless, inhuman sculptor. To love well, one must have sufficient leisure to concentrate on the ideas and thoughts of the loved one. There must be a merging of two minds and personalities. This cannot be done if one's time and energy is sapped and diverted by the thousand and one demands which a Hollywood career entails. Love flies out the window when the Kleigs flash. Little Cupid is a diffident, shy fellow. Too many people and too much glitter spoil his aim. After a few misshots he runs away with his bow and arrow and tries no more. He seeks the quiet and seclusion of humbler and less publicized surroundings. There are too many other places that welcome^ him. Too much synthetic love-making in pictures before directors, authors, electricians, stagehands, script-girls and extras cause most stars to feel affected and strained when they attempt the real thing. They find themselves stopping to think what brand of love they should use, and thought is death to real emotion. The man in question, on the other hand, feels that he is trying to kiss lips which have endured a thousand embraces on the screen, _ and Heaven only knows how many in private. This doesn't make him feel any too much at ease. He begins to wonder too how he is shaping up with the crack lovers of the movies. In the confusion of these thoughts sex has flown out the window. The amount of immorality among the recognized stars is so little as to be negligible. I venture to say that no body of women of similar income in the entire United States preserve as high standards of moral conduct. Most of them have pulled themselves up to the topmost pinnacle solely through their own efforts, and not by making concessions to men for real or fancied aid. I feel sure there are many readers who will disagree with me over the title of this story. But I know whereof I speak, and base my opinion on my own observations and the personal confidences of many friends closely identified with the movies. A friend of mine, a Virginia newspaper publisher, came to Hollywood. He had read and heard much of the glamor and charm of the twinkling stars. Another friend of mine, a movie director, arranged a party for him which included seven or eight of the prettiest of the younger, lesser known stars. When my Virginia friend first saw the assemblage of youth, beauty, and talent, he was in the seventh heaven of delight. It was an evening-long affair. When we met next day I found a sadder and wiser man. "Not one of the girls would even kiss me," he complained. "At home I'm not supposed to be a wet blanket. I get along as well or better with the girls as the next one." I couldn't help saying, "My friend, there are many things in Hollywood undreamt of in your philosophy." So much publicity came from this party that on his return to the east his fiancee broke off their engagement. Poor fellow, he got the name without the game. And I'm sure he was glad to be back at something easy like running a daily newspaper. I'll pick any woman from the broad highway of life and not the Hollywood Broadway of glitter and tinsel. I find that women, like the less gifted males, can only do one thing at a time. And if they are to engage in an intense and enduring love, they must cast all else aside. Happiness does not come easy. It must be eagerly sought for and vigorously defended. It is as elusive a quality as liberty, difficult to gain and hard to hold, but well worth the battle when ultimately reached. And in this world of ours, there is only one real happiness, the chaste, all-embracing, and lasting love of one man for one woman. THE CUNEO PRESS, INC. , U. S. A.