Screenland (Nov 1945-Oct 1946)

. first Halo Shampoo will Here's why your vjnr ««» ™» , ,uster. ,eaVe your hair aglow with now ^ V Halo reveals the t™e ^ ^m^ ^fiBtu^-CU!|1Ei-tort -aps leave jjjg glorious highlights. 2 ^ contains no soap. Made e .film on hair. But naio ^ ^ ^nnQt leav, fiW 3. Neeas no lemon orvmj Makeg oceans away, ^^"E^^at*. Leaves hair bodice broke without my noticing it and everything came apart. The audience must have felt that they had dropped in on a burlesque show. Afterwards T was near to tears, but Al merely smiled. Others would have kidded me unmercifully, but he just let me know that it was all part of the theater. That the unexpected, even if it happen against you, makes for the glamor and the glitter and the excitement that is the real show world." After that came a four-side part, with billing, in the Philip Barry play, "Liberty Jones." Then, as Constance explains it, the show played twelve performances before the warehouse trucks arrived to remove that part of the scenery the actors hadn't chewed to pieces. Next came a bit in "Panama Hattie" with Ethel Merman, and the chance to play Virginia Field's part for a whole week. After that came a play with a short life and imperishable title, "The Strings, My Lord, Are False." Despite the expert ministrations of both Ruth Gordon and Walter Hampden this lasted but two weeks. For Constance, the turning point came soon after that. Most of the New York first-string critics caught her in "Only the Heart," at the Provincetown Theater. They were unanimous in their praise of her delineation of Jxilia, a girl in the grandly emotional throes of rebellion against the tyranny of her mother. Clutching the clippings of the critics' honeyed words, her agent bestirred himself to arrange an audience with Mr. Goldwyn. With the producer testing her in New York, and again in Hollywood, Constance's highly histrionic and very convincing rendition of a scene from "Golden Boy" decided everything. "I shall never forget my first day before the cameras for 'Up in Arms,' " said Constance, and shivered although the day was far from cold. "I had never been so scared in my life. It was thanks to Danny Kaye that I was able to pull myself out of it. They were ready for the first take when Danny blew up in his lines. He turned to me with a rueful smile, 'You see, Connie, it can happen to anyone.' It gave me just the courage I needed. And it was many days before I found out that Danny, knowing how I felt, had purposely fluffed his lines to help me along." Originally Constance Dowling had intended to become a ballet dancer. She had never been to the ballet, but some paintings by Degas of backstage ballet scenes had left a lasting impression on her. She joined a school, and for many months devoted all of her time to learning the rudiments of pirouettes, entrechats, and limb-breaking exercises. "It wasn't long before the glamor of Degas faded," revealed Constance. "The arduous routines, strict dieting and extraordinary discipline that all would-be ballerinas have to undergo was having a disquieting effect on my ambitions. I began to think that Degas was more inspired than inspiring and I soon gave it up." You get a pretty fair idea of what Constance Dowling is like when you know that she can't stand creamed foods, intoxicated individuals, plain white toast, selfish, backbiting, gossipy people, tepid tea, sour milk and warm coca-cola, very modern classical music, hats, ultra-feminine dresses, ostentatious jewelry, cigarettes, dyed hair, radio commercials, towels marked His, Hers, Theirs, small rooms and the Sunday funny papers. On the other hand she waxes enthusiastic at the mere thought of coq-auvin, intelligent and creative people, black bread, duck mandarin, moderate temperatures, unusually handsome women, pea pods and rye toast, evening gowns, gin rummy, all Russian foods and walking in the rain. Born in New York on July 24, Constance Dowling has honey-brown hair, stands five feet five inches in the pumps of her pre-movie days, weighs a constant. 110 pounds and has intense dark brown eyes that, in moments of emotion, turn to ebony black. She is in love with New York, and has a deep respect for Hollywood. She loves New York for the vitality of the city, the friendliness of its people, the pace and rhythm of the life you live there. Her growing respect for Hollywood comes of a sudden, firsthand and completely astonished knowl edge that the making of movies is a serious and complex and amazingly expensive business. And that the people in it are as real as in any of the great industrial towns of America. Today in Hollywood Constance Dowling prefers to live in a simple, twobedroom modern apartment in Hollywood. She shares the apartment with her Irish mother, Mrs. Mabel Dowling, who does all the cooking, and her sister Doris, of "Lost Weekend" and "Blue Dahlia" fame. She has two brothers, Richard, 13, and Robert, her twin, who served in the Army. Constance looks to the future with equanimity and a total and quite refreshing lack of false pride. Her ambition is to be given a chance to play any and every kind of part. Once she hoped to do nothing but dramatic roles. Now she realizes that there's a lot to be said about comedy, too. As for romance, Constance will have you know that it plays no great part in her life. "Frankly," confesses Constance, with that slow, disarming smile of hers, "I am first and last a career girl. I want to work hard and make everyone glad, including myself, that I was yanked so unceremoniously out of the floor show that night." SCREENLAND 77