Screenland (May 1943-Oct 1944)

His leading lady! She's first in war activities . . . she'll be first in the peace parades . . . and she's first in the heart of her serviceman! If you're the girl who leads, you want Varva's leading, lasting fragrance, "Follow Me"! Extract, $1 to $15 Face Powder, six guest puffs, S 1 Talc, 55<i; Sachet, SI & $1.75 Bath Powder, $1 Bubble Foam, S 1 (plus taxes) Golden Boy Continued from page 31 VA R VA THE FRAGRANCE THAT LEADS AND LASTS 19 West 18th Street, New York ll.N.Y. a couple of days later when, all of a sudden, Director Sandrich up and decided to film the kissing sequence. The decision came as a sort of a blow to the Tufts rooter. It was a bit early in the picture, all hands agreed, for an utter tyro to take Paulette in his arms (and her caparisoned in a slinky black nightdress that revealed every billow in her geography), muzzle her a bit, and then, as per script, kiss her smack on the mouth. It takes time and experience to acquire the necessary nonchalance — especially before a hundred critical eyes. And here a young Lochinvar was bidden to do it after a mere two days of shooting. One of the major worries was Goddard, herself, who half expected him to wilt the minute she threw her arms around his neck, squeezed him hard, and looked up at him winsomely. A half dozen rehearsals and a baker's dozen of "takes" and Paulette was sitting in her dressing room removing her makeup and feeling sorry for poor Tufts when there was a knock at the door. She opened it. There stood Sonny himself, looking as blithe as a man who has dined on canaries. "I dropped by to thank you for a lovely afternoon," he said, gravely. "It was a lot of fun." "Don't mention it," Paulette said, a mite flabbergasted. Exit a blond galoot whistling. Sonny Tufts, Paramount's own golden boy, comes by his nonchalance, poise, and easy grace as naturally as Boston-born blue-bloods land in the social register. The Tufts (if you aren't plagued with an inferiority complex) have been bivouacked in Boston since 1638 and if any of them has ever needed the help of the public almoner, there is no evidence of the fact. Tufts pere, in approved Tufts fashion, was a leading Boston banker so that when the Tufts kith and kin first laid eyes on the mewing little tyke about to be christened with the resounding name of Bowen Tufts, III, they sighed and pronounced in unison: "What a fine-looking banker he'll make!" On which score they were doomed to disappointment, even as. they were in his choice of a college — a bit later in life. He grew like a rumor, survived the usual juvenile maladies, and, in due time, was dispatched to Philips-Exeter Academy. He blossomed into an unorthodox Tufts by exhibiting a curious passion for three unrelated subjects, football, Greek, and music, all of which he negotiated with equal ease. To foster his last passion, he organized an orchestra, which hired itself out for all hops and proms within striking distance of the campus. It wasn't a bad outfit, all things considered. At least, it was good enough to be invited, come vacation time, to provide dance music on a trans-Atlantic liner. Sonny accepted in a hurry. They made two round trips that first summer, Sonny at the drums and acting as leader. The Tufts Troubadours must have done all right on the deep. They were rehired the following summer. For a while the boys deliberated about adding a girl warbler to give the band a little class. However, signing up a girl for trans-oceanic voyages can become a pretty complicated business. After sober reflection they abandoned the idea in favor of having Sonny sing the choruses. They put it up to him and he agreed. All that summer he stood up in front of the band, singing weepy ballads while impressionable college girls heaved and sighed. He collected something like 37 mash notes before the cruise was over. The following summer he didn't have to be coaxed to croon. He volunteered for the job. The Tufts Troubadours embarked, had a pleasant crossing, debarked at Naples, bade each other good-bye, and took off in all directions to see Europe, after promising to meet in Naples six weeks from date for the return journey back — tooting for their return passage, of course. Sonny had himself a whale of a time that summer bicycling all over Europe, sampling Paris, exploring Vienna, marvelling at Budapest, and loitering in Prague. He woke up one morning, looked up at the calendar, and made the melancholy discovery that he was due in Naples in 17 hours. He checked out of the hotel on the run, grabbed the first train headed South, and arrived at Naples five hours after the boat had sailed. He counted up his money. Cash reserves: $17.10, 19 francs, 11 marks, and 43 lira. Undismayed, he scouted around, lined himself up a job as an able seaman on a tramp freighter and came home the hard but interesting way. He received a royal welcome by the family after which paternal joy changed to concern. "Classes at Harvard have already begun," his sire announced, "but I think I can square you with the freshman dean." "That's swell, Dad," Sonny announced, "only it'll have to be the freshman dean of Yale." "Yale!" chorused the Tufts, shocked. "I guess I forgot to tell you," explained the Tufts scion. "Yale is where all my friends are going, and Yale is where I've decided to go." "But the Tufts are Harvard men I" his mother protested. "Your father and four of your uncles are Harvard men." "Maybe that's why the Tufts ought to start giving Yale a break," quoth Sonny. He arrived at Yale a little late to get in much for football, but not too late to play a couple of bang-up games on the frosh eleven thereby making secure his bid for a position on the varsity team the following year, a bid that was realized three years in a row and commemorated by three varsity Y's in football. His passion for Greek gave way to a new mania, anthropology. His interest in music, far from abating, mounted. During his four years at Yale he bossed five bands all told, three of them simultaneously. Jettisoning the drummer's post, he concentrated on crooning, which, judging from the favorable reaction of at least half his listeners — the prettier half, incidentally — was a wise move. He took the applause so seriously that come senior year he engaged a vocal coach, who did all he could do for him and encouraged him to stick with singing. He did. Following graduation, he hied himself and his voice to Paris for study. Six months of Paris and he returned home, fired with the ambition to become an opera singer, a star at the Metropolitan, no less. His mind was made up. Losing no time, he arranged for an audition at the Metropolitan, sang, and was accepted for a debut the next season. He took one glance at the projected contract and was bowled over at the small salary he was to receive as a beginner. He was still mulling the project over in his mind when he was offered a singing spot in a Broadway musical, "Who's Who," an unimportant spot to be sure but a spot paying twice the money the Metropolitan offered. He snapped it up and kissed opera good-bye. From "Who's Who" he went into another (short-lived) musical named "Sing for Your Supper," after which, flushed with success and nice little notices, he wangled a singing engagement at a hotel spot 62 S GREENLAND