Screenland (May-Oct 1942)

The Strangely Fascinating Mr. Sanders Continued from page 51 jnember when we pad-and-pencil girls around the free and festive board at jyentieth Century-Fox, unlimited sugar i coffee in those days, and compared jtes on the charming compliments paid | by those young gallants, Tyrone Power, I'bert Taylor, and Errol Flynn. But now i different. 'That horrible George Sanders!" one i who dabbles in the intimate interview f d at lunch the other day. "The minute Bat down beside him — did he offer me jrhair ? he did not — he went right off into sound sleep. He even snored. Right in • face. 'A good sleep?' I asked saritically when he^ came to an hour later. ;s,' he said, without the slightest emrrassment. 'While I was asleep I figured ; something. Everyone is worried these fs about their tires, and what's going happen when their tires wear out. I ured out a solution for myself. I'm ing to buy an invalid's electric chair ! e government will not refuse tires for h a chair, the battery can be easily :harged, and I can ride in great comfort i dignity.' I simply glared at him. He's elfish, horrible, unpatriotic man." 'Horrible is an understatement," said other of my carbon-stained ilk. "When vent to interview him he told me quite nkly that he thought woman's place s over the washtub, and not the typeiter. They had coffee and doughnuts on set that day, and you won't believe but that horrid man grabbed the last ighnut on the dish right from under my id. And he didn't even offer to share it h me. I've never seen such rudeness." 'I don't know why I ever did it, and e been kicking myself ever since," confuted another member of the profession, ut when I bumped into him on the lot morning after the preview of 'Man int' I couldn't help but tell him that I night he was simply wonderful in the ture. Do you know what he said? He d, 'Naturally,' and almost knocked me *n on his way to the water-cooler." 'How you girls must loathe him," I d sympathetically, thinking of those ightful, and cozy, hours spent with wer, Taylor, and Flynn. 'Loathe him?" they turned on me in ming indignation. "Why, we love him! :'s the most fascinating man !" This opinion, strangely enough, seems be shared by women all over the coun. I say strangely enough because with v exceptions George has only played t\s, cads and bounders ever since he and rone Power got off to a good start in loyds of London." None of that hero ff for Georgie. But suddenly women :rywhere have gone completely mad out him. They send him mash notes tell,r him how charming and irresistible he but that he really ought to reform, th their help of course. Not since Clark ble pasted one on Norma Shearer in "A Soul" has the male repulsive seemed te so attractive. 'I'm no isolationist. I could hardly wait be insulted by Mr. Sanders. And ask n what he thinks of women. It's cer P >re Lamarrl You can't get too much of 5 beauty. Hedy, opposite as Tondeleyo "White Cargo," introduces the "lurong" '•he "costume" she wears in the new film, lis not a sarong, but it does have lots < allure — hence the name, "lurong." tainly no secret what women think of him. "What do you think of George Sanders?" I asked a press agent at one of the studios where George has worked. "In case he sleeps out my interview, what can I write about him ?" "It's hard to tell where to start, or where to end, in describing the peculiarities of our Mr. Sanders." The press agent settled back comfortably in his chair, put his feet on the desk, and with great relish, I susspected, tore into Mr. Sanders. "He is, as you know, a mountain of huge flesh, with the frightening aspect of the giants in fables. He has a handshake that feels like putty, or jello in the process of liquefying. As a matter of fact he puffs like a steam engine after but a few steps, and I rather suspect that he has no more strength than a chain store oyster. He seems to be afraid of strong physical exercise so he sits and sits. I think the man's rudeness is an act with him. "George has the self -egotism of the glamorous foreign feminine stars of years ago-^-a mountainous disbelief in the ability or integrity of others, and a corresponding belief in himself. He doesn't think he is the best actor in the world. He thinks he is the only one." Nice going, I thought, nice going indeed. But after all you can't expect a press agent, and a man, to appreciate the charms of Mr. Sanders. However, he had me worried. I wasn't exactly looking forward to being insulted. I thought longingly and lovingly of those delightful, and cozy, hours spent with Tyrone, Robert, and Errol. I finally ran down the idol of American movie-goers on the set of Director Albert Lewin's "The Moon and Sixpence," which is being adapted of course from Somerset Maugham's tremendous best seller of twenty years ago. After watching several scenes being made that day I gathered that "The Moon and Sixpence" doesn't handle sex with gloves. It's strictly adult. And considerably on the shocking side. But Producer Loew and Director Lewin are betting a million dollars that you will like it. George is playing Charles Strickland, unquestionably one of the most reprehensible characters in literature. He is selfish, capricious, domineering, lustful, and totally self-centered. He ain't no gentleman. "You're in luck," a member of the publicity department whispered in my ear. "George is so crazy about the scene he's going to do this morning that he's in fine fettle. He's actually laughing." (The scene, I was to discover later, permits Mr. Sanders, in the character of Mr. Strickland, to express himself whole-heartedly about women. And what he said — whew!) I would like to report that I said something very scintillating to Mr. Sanders, and that he responded with the retort discourteous. As well as I remember we both just said "Hello" and let it go at that. He seemed friendly enough, as a matter of fact, he smiled, and I was completely captivated. His handshake was not like jello. But I wasn't taking any chances on the slumber that seems to envelop Mr. Sanders at the approach of an interviewer. I plunged. "What do you think of women?" I asked breathlessly. "I suppose you know that we've all gone pleasantly insane over you. What do you think of us?" "Women," said George Sanders, "are constantly trying to become the superior sex, when they know darned well that they are the inferior." He fixed me with his cold, basilisk eyes and I knew I was a gone goose and wouldn't utter one word in defense of my sex. "They are so charming and beautiful and feminine, when they are feminine, you'd think they would have sense enough to remain that way. But no, they want to become superior. And the minute they try to become superior — which they never can do, anyhow — they are just about as interesting as a flat souffle." Well ! I certainly began to wonder about Mrs. Sanders who called herself a "broad-minded wife." "It's a sad situation," he continued grandly, "and it keeps growing worse. I am going to do all in my power to keep women the inferior sex. Women never were more appealing, never more charming and beautiful, than during the days of Sir Walter Scott's tournaments when they stayed in the background and cheered their knights on to glory. You'd think, wouldn't you, that they'd want to remain feminine. And desirable." So that was what Mrs. Sanders did. Stayed in the background and cheered her knight on to glory. Well, maybe. George proceeded to yawn and stretch himself out on his spine with his feet in a nearby chair. "This," he said sleepily, "is the only reasonable position for a man of intelligence." "You were saying about women — " I hastily reminded him. "I am very worried about some of my friends who have married actresses," he continued. "They are groping around in the most abysmal depths to which human suffering can go. To remedy this dire situation, I am going to get up an organization of good, stalwart, hardy men and campaign for a 25 per cent tax on all actresses. This tax will be for the preservation of femininity. The studios should take the 25 per cent tax out of every actress' salary', and give it to some worthy charity. An actress should have only a little pin money, so that she can't make her husband feel inferior. She should earn only enough, say, for some new clothes, or to send her mother a present at Christmas time. After all, it should be sufficient compensation just to have the privilege of playing opposite someone like Tyrone Power or Clark Gable. "The 25 per cent tax offers interesting possibilities. The glamor girls would enjoy their work more, knowing that they were doing it only for the fun of it, and not for commercial reasons. They would take pride in making many charities possible. And when they went home at night they wouldn't give their husbands that I-maketwo-thousand-a-week-and-you-make-onlyfifty-you-poor-sap kiss. "If the 25 per cent tax didn't remedy the situation, we could increase it gradually each year. I don't think it should ever exceed 50 per cent. After all, I am a generous man and I think the movie heroines should have sufficient pin money to keep their inferiority well-clad and wellornamented." He grinned as he noticed my astonishment. "I don't think Miss Dunne, Miss Russell, Miss Colbert, Miss Tierney and Miss Davis will like you," I gasped. "I wouldn't have a wife who made more money, or was more famous than myself." George added emphatically. "You can't expect a man to be happy with a wife who Don't forget to buy your War Savings Bonds and Stamps at your local theater! 57