Silver Screen (Nov 1935-Mar 1936)

Silver Screen for January 1936 "Everything Has Been Done Before" 57 There was a clippity cloppity sound which turned out to be La Lombard making a down-the-stairs entrance in a pair of mules. And a very good looking pair of pajamas I might add. With a few understatements regarding my ability as a writer Carole dropped onto her best tufted sofa, as only Carole can drop, lit a cigarette and gave out, "Now this is going to be fun. Miss Wilson is about to spring an idea on us, though personally I don't think she has had an idea in years. Fieldsie, better bring in some knick-knacks for her to chew on or she'll want to stay to dinner." Remind me to have Paramount fire Miss Lombard. "I've thought of an awfully ducky subject for this interview," I said with false enthusiasm. "Clothes." "If I have given out one interview on clothes," said Carole with a sneer, "I've given out a hundred. I don't know' why you writers always think I know so much about clothes. I grant you that an actress might make more of a study of clothes than the average woman, clothes are part of her business. . . ." And letting an actress talk is part of my business, so I just sat— I do that awfully well anyway— and let Carole speak her mind. "Of course I do not think it takes the intelligent woman long to find out what colors are most becoming to her," Carole continued, "I say she should stick to those colors. She can wear all the various shades blended out of those colors and often she can combine two or more of those colors and in that way get away from wearing a solid shade all the time." "You're doing an awful lot of talking about clothes, Miss Lombard," Fieldsie interrupted, "for an actress who doesn't know anything about them." "I'm not talking about clothes," Carole snapped, "I'm just talking common sense." "Isn't it funny, now, I could have sworn you were talking about clothes," and Fieldsie made for the door. "I guess we need a cocktail." "While we're on the subject of clothes," I said hastily, hoping to keep Carole talking, "what about your winter wardrobe?" "Mine is the same as it was last winter, only older," said Carole. "Do you know something, Elizabeth Wilson? Do you know that we had this same interview exactly a year ago in my dressing room and you were eating a chicken sandwich and drinking coco cola and it was a stupid interview then and I don't think a year has improved it any. Think up something new." (Carole has an uncanny memory.) "What kind of a cocktail do you want?" Fieldsie shrieked from the next room. "Just a little Sherry for me," I said wistfully, "I don't drink." So a few minutes later Fieldsie appeared with a shaker of "Between the Sheets" for herself and me, a glass of milk for Carole who is building up, and a tray of tiny sandwiches and nuts. "Well," said Carole, "what about that interview. I've got better things to do than watch you two stuff yourselves. Where are all those angles you said you had? I haven't heard you mention anything but clothes so far, and clothes have been done before, millions of times." I felt that it was up to me to think of something quick. Carole reached for a handful of nuts. "Nuts," said Fieldsie, "make your face break out." "Fieldsie, my pet," said Carole caressingly, "don't you think you'd better go up \Conlinued from page 19] stairs and make out my income tax or a revised list of telephone numbers or something?" "I don't want to type any more this month," replied Miss Field, "it breaks off my finger-nails. Maybe you had better employ a typist to assist me." "Oh, Oh, OH," shrieked Carole, going into one of her big emotional scenes. "To think that I should live to see the day that my own secretary should speak to me like this. Is there nothing sacred any more? And I suppose you, Miss Wilson, would like to have me write this story for you! REALLY." "Now, Carole," I said soothingly, "I just want you to say a few intelligent things that I can print. Let's see now. There must be some good angle we haven't used before. How about the kind of home surroundings an actress should have. You know, should it be quiet and simple and restful, or gay with a touch of glamor." Joe Mankiewicz got himself all wrought up talking about someone he considered particularly stupid, ignorant, incapable, etc., and, for the final touch, he burst out with, "Why, he's so dumb he has to take his shoes off to count to twenty." "If I remember correctly," said Miss Lombard icily, "I discussed that with you in the November issue of Silver Screen two years ago and you were eating salami and drinking martinis at that interview, and wearing a blue dress with white collars and cuffs, at least they had been white, and I don't think anybody gives a darn about my surroundings anyway." "Neither do I," ups Fieldsie. "You know very well," said Carole, "that an actress's home is no different from that of any other woman. Any home, I don't care who lives in it, should have as much charm and reflect the occupant's personality as much as possible. No, the home thing is out. You've done it before, and so has every one else." "Have another sandwich," said Fieldsie. "Give it to Wilson," said Lombard. "After all she doesn't have to appear before the camera. In fact she doesn't even have to appear!" I got that dirty crack all right, but what with night coming on and no interview I decided not to start resenting just here. "Well," I said, "now that you've mentioned it, what about dieting? We could make this interview about diets." "We could, but we won't!" came back from Carole. "You know I never diet. And besides you interviewed me on that subject two summers ago, and since then nine other fan writers have done so— all of them fat." Yes, indeed, I must speak to Mr. Zukor about having Lombard fired at once. "I've got a dinner date," said Carole, "and I don't care if you cry your eyes out, you've got to leave here not a minute later than five-thirty. Think fast now and get a subject for this interview before you get thrown out." "Well," I said, sort of floundering about, "what do you think of an actress marrying." "It's been done," said Carole, cleaning her nails with the pad I had brought to take notes on— optimistically. "What do you think of technicolor?" "Done." "Do you have to love to live?" "Done. Six times. Yours was the worst." "How do you develop glamor?" "Done." "What made you decide to be a movie star?" "Done." "I never would have believed it," said Miss Field breaking into our routine, "but do you know that it is five-fifteen already. And I have a dinner date with my Uncle Bob Cobb. Don't you think he's swell?" At that moment I had a bright idea. "Men," I shouted in exultation, and giving Fieldsie a grateful look. "I've never done that." "Go on, Carole," urged Fieldsie, "tell Wilson about the men in your life. She won't print it— not much." "Men," said Carole in beautiful contempt. "So you've ruined my afternoon to interview me on men. Well, I'll tell you now. I think that pictures are everything in this business. If you have good pictures you are a success and if you haven't you aren't, no matter if you are the greatest actress in the world. My job is to get good pictures and—" "Have a heart, Carole," I mourned, "that's your career interview. Don't you remember, we did it last month. Don't ask me to do that over again." "And don't ask me to stay here another minute," came from Carole. "You know very well that you haven't got an idea in your head for an interview, and never did have, and I want you to take your Christmas present now so you won't bother to come back until next year. Maybe by then you can think of something that's never been done before." Well, dear reader, there I was and here I am. Can you think of anything that hasn't been done before in the way of a Lombard interview? Do you want my undying gratitude, or do you care? "Psst," said Fieldsie, escorting me to the door with the air of a tragedy queen. "I have a swell gag for you if you ever have a chance to interview Carole on men. Have Lombard say, 'Who do you think I am? Helen of Troy or Cleopatra?' And then you say, 'The only difference is that neither of those girls lived to tell the tale, and you did.' How's that?" "It's been done before," I said gloomily. "The editor deleted it from a story I did in 1932."