Screenland (Nov 1944-Oct 1945)

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He hired half a barn (horses lived in the other half) in a pretty orange-scented suburb of Los Angeles, called Hollywood. "The Squaw Man" was made in twenty-eight days and cost $25,450. It grossed $400,000. DeMille has been in the groove ever since. Many are the stories told about DeMille and his early days in the movie industry. The former twenty-bucks-aweek assistant pulled many a fast one that quickly made him the envy of his slow-witted competitors. For instance, while he was shooting "The Warrens Of Virginia," he decided to experiment with lighting. Instead of flooding the actors' faces as was the custom then, he decided to leave half their faces in shadow. But when he sent the film to New York he promptly got an irate wire from Goldwyn saying that the film buyers said that, inasmuch as only half the actors' faces were visible, they would pay only half the usual price for the picture. DeMille hastily wired back, "Not my fault if you and your halfwitted buyers don't recognize Rembrandt lighting when you see it." Back came a wire from Goldwyn, "Rembrandt lighting, eh.'' I'll make these buyers pay double." They paid double, and have done so on DeMille pictures many times. DeMille today is the liighest paid director in the industry. And as the pro ducer of the Radio Theater he is als( one of the highest paid radio performer; on the air. This Fall he also celebratei his ten years in radio. Ten years ago when the Lux people decided to move their hour-long program to Hollywood they realized that they needed a producer who not only knew liis drama from "oh" to "ah," but one who had a radio personality besides. DeMille was their man. A born showman, he took to the air like the well-known duck to the aqua. "Think of it," he says enthusiastically of radio, "half of a nation opening its doors to you, and letting you come right into their homes. Think of being able to say hello to fifty million people!" With DeMille, those Monday nights when the soap program goes on the air are nothing short of sacred. Nothing can keep him away from his broadcasts. He loves this intimate contact with the people who have loved his pictures and made him the big shot in the industry he is today. He never lets them down. He gives them a good show. Once when the "heavy dew" in California tricked the Chamber of Commerce and turned into an old-fashioned flood that swept bridges away, DeMille, who had been week-ending at his luxurious Paradise Ranch, threw a .saddle on one of his horses and trotted into town, somewhat the worse for the storm, but there in person. Another time, when he broke his leg he had the ambulance pick him up at home, and, while the photographers stood by, deliver him to the Radio Theater, where he was carried to the mike on a stretcher. The first Radio Theater broadcast from Hollywood (June 1, 1936) was "The Legionnaire And The Lady," costarring Marlene Dietrich and Clark Gable. DeMille quickly discovered that agents were just as nice to have around as a basket of cobras. And there was something about the ether that really brought out the hambo in the actors. The first show was a radio version of Dietrich's "Morocco," in which she had played on the screen with Gary Cooper. Gable's agent insisted that the title be changed. DeMille suggested "The Legionnaire And The Lady," and the agent was pleased — not only had he gotten his client a new title, which would in no way be connected with Cooper, but he had also gotten him top billing over Dietrich. DeMille expected fireworks from Marlene's corner, but she only smiled. In the picture Marlene had sung a song and she was all for singing it on the air. But Gable's agent protested. Gable had no song. "If Dietrich sings. Gable walks out," he snapped. DeMille was about to tear out his hair, when he saw Marlene smile again. He had a feeling that she had everything under control. And he knew so when he saw her winking quietly at Lou Silvers, musical director of the program. They finished the show, with a few minutes to spare. Gable said "Good night" and walked away. Marlene sang. From then on DeMille knew that life would never be dull on Mondays. But he was always one who could take hysterics and ham right in his stride — and by some miracle or other actors and things always got straightened out a few seconds before the show went on the air. But even he had quite a jolt the evening Bette Davis, her face white as a sheet, dashed up to him just as Lou Silvers was raising his baton, and gasped, "I've just taken poison!" Seems that Bette had sent an attendant out to the drugstore for some spirits of ammonia to settle her nerves, and after she had swallowed a goodly bit of it discovered that it was kitchen ammonia. But she lived. Confusion reigned the night that Bob Hope turned two pages of his script and threw himself off, not to mention the three actors doing the scene with him. Nothing was making any sense but the 76 Screen LAND