The seven deadly sins of Hollywood (1957)

THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS OF HOLLYWOOD " I don't know," he said, " I really don't. I don't have much occasion to meet Hollywood tycoons. I don't live there. Living there is like living in a hothouse . . . the breezes are all so gentle and the temperature is so ideal. And I'm not just discussing the climate when I say that. Nothing to stimulate you there." He paused, considered my question again. "I suppose," he said, "the tycoons must think I'm either an idiot or a genius." Mr. Clift, I would say, certainly does not regard himself as an idiot. Nor do I. Nor, on the other hand, would I say that he was a genius. • • • • • At the age of forty, Van Johnson, that freckled, gangling American co-ed, has the distinction of being the oldest adolescent in the movie business. He wore red socks and red shirt, the trousers of a dinner suit and a pair of velvet slippers with the initials V.J. embossed over the toes. He flopped around the room miming exhaustion (from lack of sleep) , a headache (from a hangover) and ecstasy (because he was in London). I had never seen him so expressive. The telephone rang. He lifted it, pretending, for my benefit, that it was a dumb-bell. "You want me to come in today? For what? For make-up! Listen, I've never worn make-up in sixty-five pictures and I'm not going to start now." He hung up. He said to me, "I don't dig that creep. Make-up? I guess I was rude to him — huh? Why'd they want me to wear make-up?" I suggested they might want to conceal his freckles, as he was playing a playwright. Freckles, for some reason, did not seem to suggest literary qualities. Nor, for that matter, did crimson socks particularly. In that case, 114