Screenland Plus TV-Land (Jul 1959 - May 1960)

I'll Lead My Own Life" continued from page 21 to disprove her highly exaggerated beatnik publicity or to explain that for a brief spell a long time ago, she had explored, but never had embraced, the beat world. She even turned aside my personal affirmation that she was not one to parade in the funereal garb of the beat generation — black sweater, black stockings and black capri pants. "You're too well-groomed," I paid her a deserved compliment. "Everything is in just the right place. Your hair is on top of your head!" "Today!" she exclaimed mirthfully. "Anyhow." I persisted in her defense, "I've never seen you dress as a beatnik." But with her girlish mischievousness — so often mistaken for brazenness — she declined my kind offer of a whitewash. "Occasionally I do!" she protested in mock indignation. "Now wait a minute there! What are you saying? Lies! Lies! All lies!" "Well, at least you don't go to beat dives," I said. But again, in a renewed outburst of deviltry, she passed up the opportunity for absolution. "Oh I don't know," she grinned. "I do once in a while. I have to keep the publicity going, you know. I can't drop the whole thing. After all, they make it sound so interesting. I have to see what this is about now." Tuesday had no intention of depriving her would-be tormentors of their pleasures, let alone begging mercy. She was sublimely content to let them believe what they wished. She argued only one minor point in her defense — that whatever madness might be attributed to her, there was at least some method to that madness. "There's always a reason for what I do — if I really did it," she chided. "It might be a lurid reason, but you can be sure there's a reason." Many of her friends were greatly upset about the tongue-lashing administered recently in a nationally syndicated gossip column. They were up in arms in Tuesday's behalf because she had been called a bad example to other teenagers. They all wanted blood or retraction. But not Tuesday. She refused to get caught up in a whirlpool of righteous indignation. "I don't do a darn thing," she sighed a little wearily. "All I do is sit. I don't even read the papers. All these people go storming around about what's been said. I don't even know this columnist. All of a sudden she started on this hatred kick and kept it going for about three months. Then she stopped." Nor was Tuesday even willing to take umbrage at stories of her allegedly temperamental behavior on the set of "The Many Loves Of Dobie Gillis". Instead of giving the lie to the rumors whizzing around the town's ice cream parlors, Tuesday was the first to admit that she was indeed capable of temperament — and she 68 was not contrite about the fact, either. Most people accused of less than saindy conduct invariably fall back on their defenses and cry, "Who me?" Not so our forthright Tuesday. No such injured innocence was forthcoming from her. She agreed in a flash that all anyone has to do to bait her is to be a bore or a cold fish. "You're darn tootin' I get ornery, impatient and snappy when I'm disappointed in people," she said. Her tone implied there was no other way to. act. She felt no more remorse about blowing up under provocation of asininity than she would at bleeding if she were cut. She regarded both as simple cases of cause and effect. However, Tuesday did ridicule the proposition that her willingness to blow her pretty cork on occasion meant that she was anti-people or even that she was anti-social. "It's not that I don't like people," she smiled warmly. "It's just that I wish there were more people to like. When people give me a bad time or talk behind my back, I can't really say I dislike them. I can't say I hate them. That's much too good to spend on generalizations. You save your hate for something juicy. I'm just mainly indifferent about people who don't inspire or stimulate me." "THERE is always a reason for what I do — if I really did it," laughs Tuesday gaily. Basically, Tuesday's flashes of petulance well might stem from her annoyance at her own basic shyness. "One of my biggest battles — or fears — is trying to relate and open up to someone who is obviously very shy," she said earnestly. "I'm very shy. People who are shy make me twice as shy. I don't know what to say. I clam up. I feel rather inadequate. It's odd. Gregarious people bring me out of myself. Yet I can't bring other people out of themselves. It shouldn't be that way." Meanwhile, what frequently is normal and uncontrived for Tuesday seems like a shocking escapade to others. One reason may be that she lacks the usual fearridden approach to Hollywood and stardom. She balks at tribal mumbo-jumbo on the set just as much as she refuses to submit blindly to arbitrary social rituals. For a girl of a mere 16 summers she has developed a very low tolerance for sham — in herself as well as in others. This is an attitude that was certain to bring her into disfavor with self-righteous and selfconstituted morality monitors — and indeed it has. "People seem to expect you to play games all the time," Tuesday explained as she carved her succulent cut of New York steak. "To me that's living a lie. You know what I mean— they'll like me better if I do this or that and don't dp this. What's the use of pretending you're something you're not — for a boy friend or for anyone else? I don't like games, that's all. Tell the truth about things and feelings. That's what I happen to believe in." Tuesday's fork dangled mid-air as she developed the contention. Her manner underlined the very point she was making. She wasn't talking for effect. The words tumbled out — and she didn't stop to screen them, to decide whether her thoughts would meet standards of safety and conformity before expressing them. In my many contacts with Tuesday I never have found her sullen, unreasonable, affected, uncivil—or dull. Yet she did not choose to challenge the grumblings — among those who do not find her sufficiently subservient — that she can be a very moody young doll. "How could I try to pass myself off as an actress if I were otherwise?" she wanted to know. Even so, Tuesday was forced to admit, sheepishly, that she does try not to inflict her darker moods on innocent bystanders. "I save ray brooding," she smiled, owning up unabashedly to a midVictorian conviction that one should show consideration for the feelings of others even if it hurts. "I cover it up. Then I'm twice as moody when I get alone, or something like that. Of course, there's a point where moodiness is inescapable. I think it's all right to be in any mood as long as you're not hurting anyone. If you feel like standing on your head, then by all means stand on your head." A second later she blurted out an impulsive disclaimer of nobility.