Silver Screen (May-Oct 1939)

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BE SURE OF YOUR "LOOKS" USE EYE-GENE making a test for a part in a picture called "Darkness" . . . but she would not be in the contest, ... "I would not risk being a loser," she told me. "I cannot bear not to win, not to be First in whatever I am doing. When I was a stenographer I had to be First and Best, I had to graduate at the head of my class, able to type 100 words a minute, take dictation at the rate of 140 words a minute. When, later, I attended the Academy of Dramatic Arts in Milano, which is a part of the Filodramatic Theatre, I graduated, with honors." And Pat, too, must be a First . . .Pat, too, refused small offers, tests for things she did not believe in doing, contests, easy steps to, she suspected, spurious success. Pat preferred to understudy Helen Hayes in "Victoria Regina" . . . watching Helen Hayes, she could study, she could learn . . . what if she never played the part herself, before the footlights? She was playing the part, every night of her life, from behind the footlights . . . and so for weeks, for months, Pat waited and watched and drank in the theatre at its finest until she had the opportunity to make her debut on Broadway, in "The Two Bouquets" . . . and not until then would she listen to Hollywood calling. Pat, too;< protects her dream, does not see rushes, will not discuss her part with anyone save her director, invites no opinion and wants no opinion on her work until it is done . . . Nothing stands between happiness .and me but — me. But, the "me" of Miranda and of Morison are not, perhaps, as other "me's." For Miranda, "Darkness" was followed by "Everybody's Wife" and she became, as we say in Hollywood, an overnight success" . . . critics and men who were not critics at all, saw her and said "yes, there is Everybody's Wife . . . everyman's dream of what his wife might be . . . and then Henry Koster sent for Miranda to come to Vienna, to make "Diary of a Woman Who Is Loved." And, speaking not one word of German, Miranda went to Vienna. The production date was two months off. And for those two months Miranda lived in a little room in the little house of a German family. She locked herself into that room and did not stir out of it. She made her simple wants known in the German tongue and if she could not make them known, she went without. When, later, she went to Paris to star with Fernand Gravet in "The Lie of Nina Petrovna," it was the same spartan story. Again, she did not speak a word of French. Again, she lived in complete seclusion until she had mastered the French tongue. And when she came to Hollywood, it was all to be done again, for she spoke no word of English . . . yes, this is courage, this quality which drives the spirits of these girls to such self-sacrifices and selfimmolations. Sadly so, then, these beautiful girls rip their warm and human happiness out of their hearts while, with the other hand, they rip their stardom out of the Hollywood heavens. "Nothing stands between happiness and me but — me ..." I think that Bette Davis must have made just this moan when she tore her heart out of Ham's husbandly keeping, gave it, so to speak, into the cold, gold hands of — Oscar! She could have spared herself this "sadness of farewell" — and well she knew it. She could have dimmed her star. She could have abandoned her career, her great career. She had only to say "I will give up my work" and the reverse side of those words would have been, "I have my husband, my home, my happiness, as a woman." . . . "Nothing stands between happiness and me but — me." I think that Madelaine Carroll must often be wrenched and -wrung when she bids her perennial farewells to Captain Philip Astley, puts the "cold, estranging sea" between herself and the man she married. I think that Anne Sheridan may have known some dark hours when she said "goodbye" to Eddie Norris, "hulloa" to stardom . . . Dorothy Lamour had a dream of a baby of her own . . . she put herself between herself and that happiness, for a little time, at least . . . after all, babies and sarongs don't mix . . . the pillow of Ginger Rogers was once wet with tears when Lew Ayres no longer was content in the too-pervasive limelight of her life . . . perhaps Joan Crawford suffered pangs when Franchot Tone departed, quietly, from the unquietness of her days and ways . . . Olivia de Havilland, Nancy Kelly, how often, I wonder, are their young hearts torn into ribbons and streamers . . . and the tragedy of it is that nothing does stand between them and their personal, private happiness, their fulfillment as wives and mothers, but themselves. It sounds so easy, so simple . . . but is it? / don't know. I know only that they are far more to be pitied than scorned . . . whatever they do, whichever way they walk. I only know that when they are applauded they should be applauded, even more emotionally, for the scenes they do not play on the screen. Nothing stands between happiness and them but — themselves. Pretty valiant "selves," say I. She's Like Sparkling ampagne [Continued from page 23] Bacon-and-Eggs Rogers. I cook them in the woods and I order them at the Victor Hugo. Whenever I am in doubt what I want to eat, I eat bacon and eggs. "It was about nine when we reached Palm Springs, and there weren't many people awake so I drove on to La Quinta and chose a beautiful horse from the stables there and went for a long ride across the desert. My hair was a mess. I never wear a hat, as you know, and the freckles fall where they may. Back at Palm Springs in time for lunch at a quiet little inn, and then I took on Phyllis for some snappy ping pong. After that an afternoon swim in the El Mirador pool and then about six sets of tennis with the 'pro' over at the Racquet Club. I'm not boasting about my tennis, mind you, the 'pro' didn't have to strain himself much to return myjjalls." (Ginger is trying to be modest. She's a darned good