Screenland (Nov 1939–Apr 1940)

during Guild, Anderson is empowered to draw up contracts. On a sheet of paper supplied by Bella, he and Muni drew up a binding agreement that covered the essentials in three lines. The rest of the day was given to excited discussing and planning.' When the door closed behind their guests, Muni turned to his wife. "So I'm engaged, hm?" "So I'm going to New York, hm?" Bella retorted. He put "Key Largo" out of his mind, as one puts a Christmas package on a shelf, to devote himself to "We Are Not Alone." As you've heard before, he's obsessed by the part of the moment. Bella prepares herself for the inevitable period of stress and strain. In this case, it began the eveninghe saw "Mr. Chips." She had literally to drag him from the phone, to which he'd rushed for the purpose of informing the studio that he couldn't undertake Dr. Nezvcome. "It would be sheer arrogance," he stormed, "for me to play an Englishman in a Hilton story after that perfect performance of Donat's." She argued with him for hours and prevailed upon him only by pointing out it was too late to withdraw. Not till the picture is finished, does she relax. For though he continues to mutter, "I should have done that scene this way," she then has the final unanswerable word. "It's _ in the can now, darling. What are you going to do about it?" Once, standing beside her chair, he frowned : "You've got some gray hairs." "Mhm. This one's from 'Zola,' this one's from 'Pasteur,'" she told him, "and this one's from 'Juarez !' " Her husband wasn't impressed. While the picture was shooting, Mum spent so many nights at the studio that they gave up the rented house. Bella stayed with her brother and sister-in-law. Simon hadn't liked the house anyway. Indeed, so annoyed did he become by the restrictions placed on his roving spirit that he ran away. Muni was hurt, bewildered, and indignant. "If that's all he cares about us, let him stay away. I won't let him in, if he does come back." Four days later a dirty, dishevelled Simon, his conscience apparently quite clear, bounded into the arms of his master, who all but wept with relief. So now they were homeless. The Palos Verdes house had been sold. The ranchhouse had been put on the market. Bella looked the other way when she turned it over to the agent. She had always loved the ranch-house. She kept putting off a necessary check-up visit to the place, till she could put it off no longer. When she got there, her heart turned over. It was even lovelier than she remembered. Three years earlier she'd had a pergola built, with grapevines trained over it. The Easterner in her had hankered after Concord grapes, and here they hung in thick purple clusters. Three years earlier she'd planted some almond trees outside her bedroom. They'd been sticks when she left. Now they were tall green beauties, shadowing the window. That night she said to_ her husband: "Would you consider moving back to the ranch-house?" He could see it wasn't a casual question. "You don't want to give it up? All right. You can have the ranch-house, if I can have my shack at the beach." Not that he was able to build it before he left. But he could and did make exhaustive plans. On seven and a half acres of beach property, this shack of his dreams will go up — a single huge studio room with kitchenette and bath— no frills, no servants' quarters, no chance of its ever turning into an epic. He's going to furnish it himself, with benefit of suggestion from no one. That's what he says now, anyway. It's to be his kingdom, and he its unconditional monarch. Even Bella will come out only by invitation. And she'll have to cook. If this gives the impression that there are times when Muni enjoys solitude, it's a correct impression. There are also times when he doesn't. He's no brooding hermit. Though he hates crowds and is shy of strangers, he can be as companionable as the next. While you won't catch him hoofingat the Cocoanut Grove, he's an expert dancer and, to the tune of Benny Rubin^s cornet, will do a soft-shoe specialty on his own hearthstone that would make Juarez whistle. He's been known to give vent to his spirits by leaning out of his car and gravely shaking the hand of a lady, whose arm is out for a left turn. "That's in Hollywood," says Bella, "where everyone's crazy and we can get away with murder." In New _ York, she's afraid they'll be picked up, singly or to Here's a new departure for Richard Greene. For the first time, he appears in costume, in "Little Old New York," Alice Faye's latest film. gether, some day and sent to Bellevue for observation. Muni stopped traffic at Broadway and 42nd one afternoon by impersonating a hick who couldn't extricate himself from the jam. There must have been something appealing about him. While horns hooted and drivers swore, the harried cop took him by the arm, planted him on the sidewalk, and commanded him to "Stand there, Hi, till I find yuh a nursegirl." Airedales are Bella's hazard. No dog of that breed is safe from her. She stops them, smiles at them, holds conversations with them. Though their owners may raise condescending eyebrows in the best New York manner, the dogs themselves don't seem to mind. As this is written, the Munis are in New York with "Key Largo." The glowing reports of play and performance indicate that they will spend at least part of the winter in New York. Still, New York is an interlude. Mr. Muni goes to town, but Mr. Muni will return to Hollywood. The plans for the shack are waiting. "Beethoven" is waiting. The ranch-house is waiting. Simon's installed there, with a caretaker and Muni's secretary. He helps with the marketing. He makes a daily tour of inspection over his five acres. He's fairly happy — as happy as a dog can be without his nearest and dearest. For all Simon cares, "Key Largo" could be a flop. Saint or Devil? Continued from page 29 an extra smart Eve, that one, with more subtle sophistication in her finger-tip than most stars have in their entire anatomy. No wonder men go mad over Marlene. My press agent friend was back. "See that girl over there?" he said. "That's her daughter Maria. She's shot up something awful these last few years. Marlene doesn't try to conceal her, but has her on the set with her nearly every day. See that whistle the assistant director wears around his neck? Dietrich gave it to him. He called her one day and she didn't answer, and he said, 'In the future. Miss Dietrich, I'll whistle for you.' 'All right,' said Marlene, 'whistle.' And the next day she presented him with an expensive whistle, all monogrammed, from the best jewelers. And that fellow over there has a cigarette case she gave him that's a knock-out. He had to watch her words when she was doing her song recordings and so she had an impression of her mouth made in the inside of the case. The hairdressers are crazy about her and the waitresses in the commissary— she eats right in there with everybody, none of this I-want-to-be-alonein-my-dressing-room stuff about Marlene — practically shove and push each other down to wait on her. I'm telling you, she's a New Dietrich !" And I'm telling you, my friends, that the press agent is full of soap. There isn't a New Dietrich. It's the same Old Dietrich, for which heaven be praised. She hasn't changed a bit. I admit that at first I was a little skeptical. Marlene hasn't made a picture in Hollywood in over two years — not since she mewed about the mystery of the desert and nearly choked herself to death with scarfs in "The Garden of Allah"— and two years off the screen is a long time in the career of a movie star. Also, it is reported that she used to get $150,000 for a picture, and that she made "Destry Rides Again" for $75,000. (If I know Marlene, and I think I do, she w^ould have made that picture for nothing, so enchanted was she with the part of Frenchie, the dance hall dame.) A drop in the exchange, and a drop in the box office, is certainly more than a drop in the bucket to a Glamor Girl. It has a very chastening effect. Yes, I admit, I was a bit wary at first. Since I watched Marlene and Una scratch and pull and bite on the set that day I have spent an afternoon with Marlene at her bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel, and I take great pleasure in announcing, and definitely, that Marlene hasn't changed. She hasn't any wings, or any halo. Why all this hoopla about the New Dietrich she doesn't know. She'll tell you that she's just like she always was, a little good, and a little bad. Marlene always was the "easiest touch" in Hollywood. I've known her off and on for some seven years now, and with the possible exception of Joan Crawford she has paid more hospital bills and handed out more groceries, rent checks, and winter coats than any star in Hollywood. (''She'll die a pauper," her friends have said for years.) And I suppose with the exception of Barbara Stanwyck and Mae West she has donated more watches, cigarette cases, bill folders, and bracelets to the people who work with her than any star in Hollywood. She gets a big kick out of giving expensive presents to people who can't afford expensive presents. She adores sending flowers to people to whom an Orchid is an Event. But she gets mad when you write about it. "I don't want to be known as Good Deeds Dietrich," she'll complain. 73