Silver Screen (Nov 1938-Apr 1939)

Now that Hubby Lew Ayres has made a comeback, perhaps Ginger Rogers will think better of paddling her own canoe. Pictures on the Fire [Continued from page 51] cocktail. We sit there for a half hour cutting up old touches or tearing up old papers which, in plain English, means talking over old times. And, under the stimulus of a cocktail— or two— I confess I used to detest her. That hands Bette a laugh because, she says, she used to think I was the ne plus ultra of nothing. And now, here we sit, closer than Saturday and Sunday. All of a sudden it's 4:30 so I dash back to the Gale Page set. "Dinner at eight," Gale murmurs without waiting for a cue. That floors me so I leave her and stagger out to— 2 0th Century-Fox O-LENTY doing out here today, believe you me. The first set I head for is "Tailspin" where Constance Bennett and Alice Faye are staging a fist fight. This is the "punch" scene of the picture— in more ways than one. I forget what it was Connie said to Alice but Alice resented it. "Take that back," she says, "or I'll pin your ears back." Connie drags out a load of the best Bennett hauteur, and surveys Alice coolly. "The crack still goes," she announces and the battle is on. It's one of those scenes I've read about for years but never managed to witness first; hand before. And leave me tell you, my fraands, it is really something to see the suave, sophisticated Constance stand up there, swapping blows. There is no pulling the punches either and each slap sounds like the crack of a rifle. Finally the shot is finished to the satisfaction of the director. The girls give each other a little hug and start for their dressing rooms. "My jaws feel like they have been lying under a piledriver for a couple of weeks," Connie laughs ruefully. "Come on in and rest the body." In her dressing room we cut up some more old touches. I recall the first time I saw Connie after she returned to pictures eight or nine years ago. She was— and still is, to me— the most glamorous girl I've ever known. But that day she found a lowly worm in her salad. It had been sent in from a nearby drugstore and I expected fireworks. But she just skipped the salad and went on talking. And Connie recalls the nights, before she was married, when we used to sit up playing backgammon until 2:00 and 3:00 in the morning. Some exciting lives we used to live in those days before Father Time mowed us down. Then a lug by the name of Alderton who works on the lot has to spoil everything. "This is all very nice," he observes tartly, "but it's getting late and, after all, we have some other pictures and players working, too, you know." So I tell Connie goodbye and I'm telling you, "Don't miss 'Tailspin.' " Next we come to "The Three Musketeers." This stars Don Ameche and the Ritz Brothers. Don, who never objects to anything, seems well pleased with his assignment to this picture. The Ritz Brothers continue to put on a better show when the camera isn't grinding than they do when it is. They're having a lot of fun with their swords and other props. When anyone drops anything on this set he just lets it lie. It isn't safe to bend over. "All right, talent," the director calls. "Excuse us," chorus the Ritzes as they troop off to their dressing room trailer to fix their make-up. This scene is another free for all. Don, as D'Artagnan, is fighting the three musketeers. The Ritzes, no masters with rapiers, are doing what they can to help him. The brawl takes place in a sort of inn and they are throwing meat cleavers, cheeses and even strings of garlic at Don's adversaries. "Come on," orders the relentless Aiderton, just when the going is getting good. Nearby is a junior all-star cast in "Thanks For Everything"— featuring Jack Oakie, Adolphe Menjou, Arleen Whelan, Binnie Barnes and that cutie-pie Jack Haley. As I come on to the set Oakie and Menjou are trying on strait-jackets. A year ago Mr. Oakie was what you might call bovine in his movements. He was so fat it was all he could do to hoist himself up out of a chair. The getting down into it again wasn't so complicated. He just stood in front of it and dropped. Now since he's lost sixty pounds and can move without running up his blood pressure, he likes to squirm. His strait-jacket doesn't please him. His arms aren't exactly comfortable. "Who expects to be comfortable in a strait-jacket?" I inquire helpfully. "Quiet, please," orders Mr. Oakie. "I'm not speaking to you since you tried tt put that sleeping powder in my soup fou; years ago." "I was just trying to be helpful, then ai now," I mutter. Duke Abrams, the property man, fasten: the last buckle, steps back and surveys lj| work. "Looks pretty good to me," he opi "Hew does it feel?" "A little snug— just a little snug," Oaku responds. "But," heaving a sigh, "it's al'i right. Life isn't all beer and skittles. Ever the Great Oakie must suffer for his art."« Mr. Menjou lets out a whoop. "You never looked better in your life. In fact, I'll ever go so far as to buy you a strait-jacket thai you can keep— you look so much at home in one." Oakie disposed of— temporarily— it is Menjou's turn. He encounters a little trouble in getting what he describes as a "Hart-ShafTner and Marx fit." He tries on four but they all bulge in the wrong places. Strait-jacket or tails, Menjou must be immaculate. The fifth one suits him. And the scene starts. Trussed up in their strait-jackets, the pair are vigorously denying their insanity tai officials of the Chelsea Hospital when Binnie Barnes dashes in, in search of Oakie— her intended. "You have the funniest ideas of whal the well-dressed bridegroom will wear," she vouchsafes, eyeing him disgustedly. Oakie is happy beyond words. Just th# sight of her leaves him speechless. But Mr. M. is not a gent to mince words. "This is an outrage!" he thunders. "Get me a lawyer! Get me the Foreign Ambassador. Get me—" But Jack, with eyes only for Binnie, » terrupts him with a happy yelp. "Get me a minister," he orders. "Cut!" Director Seiter instructs and turns to the hapless pair. "You fellows might as well shed those jackets. It'll be half an hour before we're ready for another shot." Menjou slips out of his but not Jack. "After all the trouble I had getting this thing on it stays on," he cries. "I may be wearing a straitjacket but I'm not that crazy— yet!" "Come on," Alderton goes into his theme song again. "There's still Shirley Temple." ! "There's one compensatory thing about Shirley's pictures," I console myself as we start for the Will Rogers Memorial stage. "I may have to cover her sets but I don't have to see her films." As fond as I am of Shirley personally and as much as I admire her histrionic ability there is such a thing as too much dessert. However, that's only my own reaction and I guess fifty million picture-goers can't be wrong. Dressed shabbily, as never before, her hair pinned back, she waits for her cue in an attic hallway. As Director Walter Lang calls "Action"— the cruel Miss Minchin (Mary Nash— and there is an actress!) starts upbraiding her. In a moment, Shirley bursts into the garret, slamming the door behind her. Confronting the beautiful wax doll seated beside her dismal bed, Shirley berates it for offering no sympathy in her misery. "You're just a doll!" she cries. "You haven't a heart!" With that she dashes the doll to the floor, flings herself on the bed and sobs her heart out until Lang says "Cut!" At the sound of his voice Shirley leaps from the bed, dries her eyes and picks up the doll to see if it is broken. "Emily's all right," she calls happily to the prop man. Whoever said there is no rest for the weary. I suddenly find I am through— fini! In all the years I have been set-trotting this is the first time there is nothing doing at M-G-M. At United Artists there is only "Trade Winds" about which I have already told you. So, until next month, I'll leave you. Try to contain yourselves, will you? 5 8 Silver Screen