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Scanned  from  the  collections  of 
The  Library  of  Congress 


Packard  Campus 
for  Audio  Visual  Conservation 
www.loc.gov/avconservation 

Motion  Picture  and  Television  Reading  Room 
www.loc.gov/rr/mopic 

Recorded  Sound  Reference  Center 
www .  I  oc .  g  o  v/rr/reco  rd 


KOTEX  and  KIMLON  are  trader 

Free  to  do  as  you  please . . .  now  that  you're  protected  so  much  longer 

Whatever  your  favorite  fun,  you  enjoy  it  even  more  when  you're  comfortably  protected 
by  new  Kotex  napkins.  These  softer,  more  gentle  napkins  with  the  Kimlon  center  protect 
better,  protect  longer — even  on  your  most  active  days.  So,  when  confidence  is  really 
important,  count  on  new  Kotex  napkins — most  girls  do. 

New  Kotex  napkins  — choice  of  most  girls 


DEC  29 


B  811560 


Every  time  you  brush  your  teeth  9 
finish,  the  job... reach  for  Listerine 


Germs  in  mouth  and  throat  cause  most 
bad  breath.  You  need  an  antiseptic  to  kill 
germs,  and  no  tooth  paste  is  antiseptic. 
No  tooth  paste  kills  germs  the  way 
Listerine  Antiseptic  does  .  .  .  on  contact, 
by  millions,  on  every  mouth  and  throat 
surface.  That's  why  .  .  . 

Listerine  stops  "bad  breath 
4  times  "better  than  tooth  paste ! 


YOU  KILL  GERMS 
ON  4  TIMES  AS  MUCH  ORAL  SURFACE 
THE  LISTERINE  WAY* 

OIL! 


T::th  paste  reaches 


The  Listerine  way 
kills  germs  on  teeth, 
tongue. throat, palate, 
everywhe 


NOW- 
TOTAL  RELIEF 
FROM 
PERIODIC 
DISTRESS 

FEMICIN 

TABLETS 

Hospital-tested,  prescription-type 
formula  provides  total 
treatment  in  a  single  tablet  I 


Worked  even  when  others  failed! 

Now,  through  a  revolutionary  discovery  of 
medical  science,  a  new,  prescription-type  tab- 
let provides  total  relief  from  periodic  com- 
plaints. When  cramps  and  pains  strike, 
FEMICIN'S  exclusive  ingredients  act  in- 
stantly to  end  your  suffering  and  give  you 
back  a  sense  of  well-being.  If  taken  before 
pain  starts-at  those  first  signs  of  heaviness 
and  distress  — further  discomforts  may  never 
develop.  No  simple  aspirin  compound  can  give 
you  this  complete  relief.  Get  FEMICIN  at 
your  drugstore  today!  It  must  give  you 
greater  relief  than  you  have  ever  experienced 
or  your  purchase  price  will  be  refunded. 

For  samples  and  informative  booklet,  "What 
You  Should  Know  About  Yourself  As  a 
Woman!",  send  1W  for  postage  and  handling. 
Box 225,  Dpt.  Di3,ChurchSt.Sta.,N.Y.8,N.Y. 


modern 


JANUARY.  1960 


AMERICA'S  GREATEST  MOVIE  MAGAZINE 


STORIES 

Mario  Lanza  20    An  Ave  Maria  for  Mario  by  Ed  DeBlasio 

Errol  Flynn    22    "Errol  Flynn  Died  In  My  Arms"   by  George  Carpozi.  Jr. 

EXCLUSIVE  photos  by  BILL  C  RE  SPIN  EL  from 

COMBINE 

Debbie  Reynolds   24    Cool  It,  Debbie! 

Annette  Funicello  '  , 

Pool  Anko    26    The  Thrill  Of  First  Love  by  Steve  Kahn 

Troy  Donohoe    28    Troy  by  Deborah  Marshall 

Jimmie  Rodger*    30    "We  Were  Afraid  We  Couldn't  Have  A  Baby" 

by  Colleen  Rodgers  as  told  to  Helen  Weller 

Elizobeth  Toylor  ,       „  _ 

Eddie  Fisher    32    Eddie's  Love  Cured  Me!  by  Doug  Brewer 

Betle  Davis 

Gary  Merrill   34    Home  For  Christmas  by  Hugh  Burrell 

Kingston  Trio   51    Introducing  The  Kingston  Trio  Sextette 

by  Kirtley  Baskette 

A  SPECIAL  16-PAGE  REPORT 

35    The  Fabulous  Fifties 

FEATURETTE 

Grela  Chi   55    Meet  Greta  Chi 


Louello  Parsons 


DEPARTMENTS 

9  Eight-Page  Gossip  Extra 

4  The  Inside  Story 

4  January  Birthdays 

6  New  Movies 

53  Disk  Jockeys'  Quiz 

73  $150  For  You 

Cover  Photograph  from  Wide  World 
Other  Photographers'  Credits  on  Page  72 


by  Florence  Epstein 
by  Lyle  Kenyon  Engel 


DAVID  MYERS,  editor 

SAM  BLUM,  managing  editor 

TERRY  DAVIDSON,  story  editor 
LINDA  OLSHEIM,  production  editor 
ED  DeBLASIO,  special  correspondent 
BEVERLY  tINET,  contributing  editor 
ERNESTINE  R.  COOKE,  ed.  assistant 
GENE  HOYT,  research  director 


MICHAEL  LEFCOURT,  art  editor 
HELEN  WELLER,  west  coast  editor 

DOLORES  M.  SHAW,  asst.  art  editor 
MARIO  GUILIAN0,  photo  research 
LUPITA  RODRIGUEZ,  photo  research 
SHELDON  BUCHANSKY,  reader  service 
EUGENE  WITAL,  photographic  art 
AUGUSTINE  PENNETTO,  cover 


FERNANDO  TEXIDOR.  art  director 


POSTMASTER:  Please  send  notice^orf For 


3579  to  321  West 


New  York  36,  New  York 


MODERN  SCREEN,  Vol.  54,  No.  1.  January. 

Harold  CUrk.  Vioe-rro,.!ent-;\.ivf  rt,<„i>:   Direct.^    roM.shed .  simultaneously  - 
-  ■  '         :ured  under  the  prov^ifns  e-t  Hie  revised 


for  the  pro- 


When  that  lady  walks  in. 
all  restraint  flies  out! 

Enjoy  love  among  the 
adults  as  it's  never  been 
loved  before ...  with  even 
the  FBI  unable  to  find 
a  law  to  stop  it! 


COLUMBIA  PICTURES  presents 


TONY  CURTIS  •  DEAN  MARTIN  •  JANET  LEIGH 
Wivr  mi -tkaZ^i/? 

Co-starr;ng  JAMES  WHITMORE  -  JOHN  MclNTIRE  •  BARBARA  NICHOLS 

Written  ond  Produced  b,  NORMAN  KRASNA  •  t^^^^^^a^^l^l%^y0i^^  by  GEORGE  SIDNEY 
AN  ANSARK-GEORGE  SIDNEY  PRODUCTION 


JANUARY 
BIRTHDAYS 

If  your  birthday  falls  in  January,  your 
birthstone  is  the  garnet  and  your  flower  is 
the  carnation.  And  here  are  some  of  the 
stars  who  share  it  with  you: 

January  l — Dana  Andrews 

Charles  Bickford 
January   3 — Ray  Mi  I  land 
January  4 — Barbara  Rush 

Jane  Wyman 
January  5 — Jean-Pierre  Aumont 
January   6—  Loretta  Young 
January  7 — Terry  Moore 
January  8 — Jose  Ferrer 

Elvis  Presley 
January  9 — Fernando  Lamas 
January  10—  Judy  Garland 

Paul  Henreid 

Sal  Mineo 
January  1 3—  Judy  Busch 

Jeff  Morrow 

Robert  Stack 
January  14—  William  Bendix 
January  15—  Margaret  O'Brien 
January  16—  Ethel  Merman 
January  17—  Sheree  North 
January  18—  Cary  Grant 

Danny  Kaye 
January  if— Guy  Madison 
January  20—  Patricia  Neal 

Alex  Nicol 
January  21— John  Agar 

J.  Carrol  Naish 
January  22— Ann  Sothern 
January  23—  Dan  Duryea 
January  24—  Ernest  Borgnine 
January  25—  Dean  Jones 
January  26—  Mary  Murphy 

Paul  Newman 
January  27— Katy  Jurado 

Donna  Reed 
January  29— John  Forsythe 

Victor  Mature 
January  30 — Dorothy  Malone 

Dolores  Michaels 

John  Ireland 

Hugh  Marlowe 

January  31— Jean  Simmons 


David  Way 

4    January  30 


Joanne  Dru 

January  31 


Want  the  real  truth?  Write  to  IIVSIDE  STORY,  Modern  Screen. 
Box  515,  Times  Square  P.O.,  N.Y.  36,  N.Y.  The  most  interesting 
letters  will  appear  in  this  column.  Sorry,  no  personal  replies. 

For  vital  statistics  and  biographical  information  about  the  stars 
get  Modern  Screen's  SUPER  STAR  CHART.  Coupon,  page  57. 


Q.  What  made  Jennifer  Jones  consider 
studying  with  Lee  Strasberg  when  she's 
been  in  pictures  over  fifteen  years  and 
already  has  an  Oscar? 

— R.H.,  Hewlett,  L.I. 
A.  The  reviews  of  her  last  movie. 

Q.  Is  it  true  that  John  Wayne  has  gone 
on  the  wagon  because  his  doctor  warned 
him  his  health  would  be  seriously  im- 
paired if  he  continued  drinking? 

— P.W.,  Pittsburgh,  Pa. 
A.  Wayne  was  advised  to  cat  down — not 
out.  He  has  a  martini  before  dinner  now, 
a  couple  of  drinks  afterwards. 

Q.  I  have  heard  our  darling  Elvis  will 
give  up  rock  'n'  roll  singing  when  he  re- 
turns to  his  career  and  concentrate  only 
on  straight  ballads.  What  about  this? 

— T.W.,  Butte,  Mont. 
A.  Elvis  won't  give  up  rock  'n'  roll  as 
his  bread  V  butter.  He'll  try  out  a  few 
extra  ballads  however  to  insure  his  fu- 
ture when  the  fad  fizzles. 

9-  Now  that  Eva  Gobor  has  married 
for  the  '"Xth"  time,  exactly  how  many 
husbands  have  the  Gabor  gals  chalked 
up  amongst  themselves? 

— C.H.,  Orlando,  Fla. 
A.  Including  mama — thirteen. 

Q.  Whatever  happened  to  the  recon- 
ciliation so  dramatically  staged  between 
Corn  Williams  and  John  Barrymore 

Jr.  for  the  sake  of  their  son? 

— P. A.,  Litchfield,  Conn. 
A.  John  went  off  to  France.  Cara  went 
off  to  the  out-of-town  tryout  of  her  new 
play,  the  reconciliation  went  out  the 
window. 

Q.  Although  Leo  Durocher  and  Laraine 
Day  have  denied  that  there  is  trouble  in 
their  marriage,  in  vour  opinion  is  there 
a  rift? 

— WT.R.,  Washington,  D.C. 
A.  Where  there's  smoke  there's  fire  and 
we  think  this  marriage  has  burned  itself 
out. 

9-  Now  that  Binq  Crosby  has  recon- 
ciled with  his  sons,  and  all  is  well  be- 
tween him  and  Gary  again,  do  you  think 
this  will  change  Gary's  less-than-friendly 
attitude  toward  his  step-mother  Kathy? 

— L.D.,  Portland,  Ore. 

A.  No. 


9.  What  happened  to  cause  the  John 
Bromfield's  (of  TV's  U.S.  Marshal) 
split? 

— F.D.,  Trenton,  N.J. 
A.  The  marriage  allegedly  struck  out 
when  John  suspected  foul  play  between 
his  wife  and  a  famed  baseball  figure. 
Their  friends,  however,  feel  that  Larri 
(his  wife)  made  an  error  by  leaving 
home  base. 

<J>.  I  read  conflicting  reports  about  Ice 
Palace  newcomer  Diane  McBain's  big 
heart-interest.  One  paper  says  Richard 
Burton,  the  other  Troy  Donahue.  Which 
fellow  is  it? 

— R.Y.,  Madison,  Wis. 
A.  Since  Burton  is  married,  it  is  ob- 
viously Troy. 

Q.  I  saw  the  Jeff  Chandlers  together 
at  a  sports  event  here  in  Los  Angeles. 
Does  this  mean  a  possibility  of  a  recon- 
ciliation ? 

— S.F.,  Los  Angeles,  Calif. 
A.  No — merely  the  fact  that  Jeff  had  an 
extra  ticket  and  his  ex-wife  wanted  to 
see  the  game 

9-  Exactly  what  were  Liz  Taylor's  de- 
mands for  appearing  in  Butterfield  8 — 
and  why,  after  al)  the  hassles,  did  MGM 
finally  agree  to  them  ? 

— R.D.,  Staten  Island,  N.Y. 
A.  Clean  up  the  plot,  re-write  the  script, 
shoot  in  New  York.  The  grosses  of  Cat 
On  A  Hot  Tin  Roof  caused  the  studio 
to  give  Liz  what  she  wanted.  She's  a 
big  draw,  and  MGM  knows  it. 

9.  How  much  money  is  Bobby  Darin 

getting  for  his  first  movie?  How  much 
did  Fabian  get?  How  does  Ricky  Nel- 
son rate? 

— Q.W.,  Dallas.  Texas 
A.  Bobbv's  getti.ig  $45,000,  Fabian  got 
$35,000.  Ricky  wants  $100,000. 

9-  Is  it  true  that  Dick  Clark  is  annoyed 
at  his  teen-age  following  after  the  riot 
that  was  caused  when  he  made  a  per- 
sonal appearance  in  Kansas  City  re- 
cently, and  that  he  secretly  referred  to 
the  rioters  as  a  bunch  of  juvenile  de- 
linquents? 

— K.C..  Reno.  Nev. 
A.  Dick  referred  to  the  rioters  as  "adult 
delinquents."  Most  o1  them  were  over 
tort  v  vears  old 


GARY  GRANT  *  TONY  CURTIS 

submerged  with  5  Girls. ..no  wonder 
the  S.S.  SEA  tiger  was  called 


co.starring  JOAN  O'BRIEN-DINA  MERRILL -GENE  EVANS.,  DICK  SARGENT    ARTHUR  OCONNELL 

BLfiKE  EDWARDS  •  Screenplay  by  STANLEY  SHAPIRO  and  MAURICE  RiCHLIN  Produced  by  ROBERT  ARTHUR  •  A  GRANART  PRODUCTION  •  A  UNIVERSAL  INTERNATIONAL  RELEASE 


new 


1 1  U 

lorence  epstein 


M 


none  of  the  pretty  u'.'rls  at  the  Fabian  Pub- 
lishing Company  want  to  live  up  to.  What  do 
these  pretty  girls  do?  One  of  them  (Diane 
Baker)  dreams  of  playboy  Robert  Evans  as 
the  father  of  her  child.  But  that's  no  minister 
he's  driving  her  to  (in  his  foreign  sportscar)  : 
that's  an  abortionist.  Suzy  Parker  throws  her- 
self at  theatrical  director  Louis  Jourdan;  he 
ducks — and  she  goes  out  the  window.  Martha 
Hyer  has  nervous  hysterics  over  art  editor 
Donald  Harron  (he  won't  divorce  his  wife). 
Hope  Lange  loses  her  fiance  to  an  oil-well 
heiress — so  she  starts  wearing  hats  to  the 
office,  and  gets  a  promotion.  The  hats  dis- 
courage editor  Brian  Aherne  from  pinching 
her  fanny,  but  they  worry  editor  Stephen 
Boyd.  Boyd's  afraid  that  if  the  wind  stops 
blowing  through  Hope's  hair  she"ll  turn  cold 
like  Crawford.  Tired  but  true,  Stephen  is 
available  for  love.  If  these  girls  get  the  worst 
of  everything  it's  no  wonder.  Considering 
their  emotional  capacities  the  wonder  is  they 
:an  hold  on  to  a  job. — Cinemascope,  20th- 
Fox. 


-  30  - 

life  in  the  city  room 


Jack  Webb 
William  Conrad 
David  Nelson 
Whitney  Blake 
Louise  Larimer 


THE   BEST  OF  EVERYTHING 

Hope  Lange 
Stephen  Boyd 

career  qirls  versus  love  Suz2  Pa*he5 

Joan  Crawford 
Martha  Hyer 

■  If  anything  good  ever  happens  to  a  career 
girl  in  New  York,  it's  sheer  accident.  If  a 
career  girl  should  ever  meet  a  man  in  New 


York  who  is  not  amoral,  immoral,  married  or 
drunk,  it's  an  absolute  miracle.  No  working 
woman  in  New  York  believes  in  her  work; 
she  only  turns  to  it  in  despair.  That,  at  least, 
is  the  forlorn  message  of  this  movie.  Go 
ahead,  take  editor  Joan  Crawford — no  man 
ever  did  (for  a  wife,  that  is).  She's  too  clever, 
too  cold,  too  efficient;  she's  the  example  that 


■  You  may  think  that  things  are  happening 
outside — that  is,  out  in  the  world  where  people 
are.  Well,  that  may  be  where  some  things 
happen,  but  the  most  important  things  hap- 
pen inside.  Inside  a  newspaper  office  where 
Jack  Webb  is.  Where  he  is  the  editor.  Tell 
you  what  happens  there.  Nothing.  Never  have 
so  many  reporters  and  copyboys  and  city 
editors  and  lady  editors  done  so  much  talking 
about  so  little.  (Mention  the  weather  in  there 
and  you'll  get  a  discourse  on  the  nature  of 
realitv — with  a  two  column  head.)    I'll  tell 


Jpss  by  kiss  the  time  ran  out 


FRANK 
SINATRA 

He  was  one  of  the  forgotten  few, 
fighting  a  forgotten  war 


in  CinemaScope  and  METR0C0L0R 

i63mVk  Co-starring 
*      -  nnr 


you  some  of  the  things  that  are  happening 
outside,  which  this  newspaper  notes  in  pass- 
ing: a  three-year-old  girl  wanders  into  a 
sewer  without  her  glasses;  an  ace  pilot  (rela- 
tive of  a  lady  editor)  makes  a  test  flight:  it's 
raining.  But  inside  I  Inside.  Jack  Webb  strolls 
from  desk  to  desk,  curbing  his  mounting  tur- 
moil. He  has  mounting  turmoil  because  his 
wife  (Whitney  Blake)  wants  to  adopt  a 
child — and  he  doesn't  want  to.  Inside,  city 
editor  William  Conrad  drinks  forty  cups  of 
coffee,  writhes  in  agony  at  the  sight  of  David 
Xelson  (he's  a  copyboy).  reels  off  witticisms 
as  though  he  were  auditioning  for  the  part 
of  a  city  editor  and  Elia  Kazan  were  hiding 
under  his  desk.  Inside,  heiress  Nancy  Valen- 
tine indulges  in  nasalized  tirades  trying  to 
prove  she  can  so  be  a  girl  reporter  even 
though  she  went  to  Smith  (the  college,  not 
the  cough-drop  company).  Inside,  all  is 
drama  of  the  sort  that  never  gets  into  a  news- 
paper— and    never    should. — Warxers. 


BELOVED  INFIDEL 

a  novelist  and  a  lady 


Deborah  Kerr 
Gregory  Peck 
Eddie  Albert 
Karin  Booth 
John  Sutton 


■  Last  year.  Hollywood  columnist  Sheilah 
Graham  wrote  a  book  about  her  life.  In  it 
was  the  story  of  her  romance  with  F.  Scott 
Fitzgerald,  one  of  the  outstanding  novelists 
of  our  time.  The  book  was  a  natural  tor  a 
movie — and  here  it  is.  With  Deborah  Kerr  as 
Sheilah  and  Gregory  Peck  as  F.  Scott  Fitz- 
gerald. It  opens  on  an  ocean  liner  with  Deb- 
orah sailing  for  Xew  York  from  London,  her 
home.  Lord  John  Sutton  doesn't  want  her  to 
go.  He  wants  her  to  stay  and  marry  him — 
even  if  his  mother  cuts  him  off  without  a  cent. 
Deborah's  too  practical,  too  ambitious  to  ac- 
cept this  sort  of  proposal.  Shortly  after  her 


arrival  in  the  States  she  becomes  a  reporter, 
is  sent  to  Hollywood  where  she  attracts  at- 
tention by  sniping  at  movie  stars,  notably  at 
the  glamour  girl  of  the  hour — Karin  Booth. 
Eddie  Albert  (as  the  late  Robert  Benchley) 
befriends  Deborah  and,  at  one  of  his  parties, 
she  meets  Gregory  Peck.  Peck's  once-beloved 
wife  has  been  in  a  sanitarium  for  years,  his 
reputation  as  a  novelist  is  at  a  low  ebb,  he 
drinks  too  much.  He  and  Deborah  fall  in  love. 
Their  romance  is  gay.  tender,  touching.  Dur- 
ing this  period  he  begins,  but  never  finishes, 
what  critics  later  consider  his  most  mature 
novel.  But  for  him  happiness  comes  too  late 
to  save  him;  for  Deborah  it  comes  in  time 
to  make  a  real  woman  of  her. — 20th-Fox. 


LI'L  ABNER 

Dogpatch.  U.S-A. 


Peter  Palmer 
Leslie  Parrish 
Stubby  Kaye 
Howard  St.  John 
Julie  Newmar 


■  Just  imagine  all  those  beautiful  girls  from 
Dogpatch  in  Technicolor.  Imagine  Sadie  Haw- 
kins" day  when  the  girls  chase  the  fellows 
and  Appassionata  (Stella  Stevens)  puts  the 
'whammy'  on  Li-1  Abner  (Peter  Palmer)  thus 
clearing  the  field  of  Daisy  Mae  (Leslie  Par- 
rish). Daisy  is  loved  by  Earthquake  McGoon 
(Bern  Hoffman) — the  world's  'champeen  dirty 
wrassler'  who  is  dirty  enough  to  want  to  steal 
her  away  from  Abner.  But  the  folks  have 
even  bigger  problems  brought  on  by  the 
government's  decision  to  use  Dogpatch  as  an 
atomic  testing  ground.  Dogpatch,  according 
to  the  government,  is  the  '"most  useless  town 
in  America."  Useless !  When  it  can  produce  a 
tonic  that  turns  apes  into  matinee  idols? 
When,  under  the  statue  of  Jubilation  T.  Corn- 
pone,  is  found  a  tablet  signed  Abraham  Lin- 
coln ?  Abner  takes  the  town's  fight  to  Wash- 
ington and  before  he's  through,  Dogpatch  be- 


comes a  national  shrine.  Lots  of  songs  and 
lively  dancing. — Vistayjsion.  Paramount. 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  MARY  DEARE 

Gary  Cooper 
Charlton  Heston 

adventure  at  sea  Michael  Redgrave 

Emlyn  Williams 
Virginia  McKenna 

■  There's  a  gale  blowing  in  the  English  Chan- 
nel when  two  ships  don't  pass  each  other  in 
the  night:  they  collide.  Aboard  the  Sea 
Witch,  a  salvage  boat,  are  Charlton  Heston 
and  Ben  Wright.  Aboard  the  Mary  Deare  is 
no  one — or  so  it  seems  when  Heston  boards 
her.  Only  one  lifeboat  is  left,  a  fire  is  raging 
and  the  ship  is  heading  toward  a  rocky  grave- 
yard. Suddenly  Heston  is  seized  from  behind 
by  Gary  Cooper,  the  captain  himself,  a  man 
who  looks  and  acts  as  if  he's  been  having 
violent  nightmares.  The  question  is:  how  did 
the  Mary  Deare  deteriorate  into  practically  a 
ghost  ship?  The  answer  is:  sabotage,  mutiny 
— even  murder.  Cooper  begins  the  story  which 
ends  in  a  London  Court  of  Inquiry  where  he 
must  defend  himself  against  wild  accusations. 
It's  an  adventure  story  in  the  salty  old  sense 
— full  of  blood,  thunder  and  a  heavy  air  of 
my  sterv . — M  GM . 


THE  WONDERFUL  COUNTRY 

Robert  Mitchum 
Julie  London 

north  of  the  Rio  Grande  Gary  Merrill 

Pedro  Armendariz 
Albert  Dekker 

■  Robert  Mitchum  fled  to  Mexico  as  a  boy — 
after  killing  a  man  who  murdered  his  father. 
In  Mexico  he  works  for  Pedro  Armendariz 
who,  with  his  brother,  is  rich  and  ambitious 
for  power.  This  makes  Mitchum  a  hired  killer 


(Continued  on  page 


.  and  never  so  few  were  the  moments  left  for  love! 


The  Opposite  Sex 
and  Ybur  Perspiration 


Q.  Do  you  know  there  are  two 
kinds  of  perspiration? 

A.  It's  true!  One  is  "physical." 
caused  by  work  or  exertion;  the 
other  is  "nervous,"  stimulated  by 
emotional  excitement.  It's  the 
kind  that  comes  in  tender  mo- 
ments with  the  "opposite  sex." 


Q.  How  can  you  overcome  this 
"emotional"  perspiration? 

A.  Science  says  a  deodorant  needs 
a  special  ingredient  specifically 
formulated  to  overcome  this 
emotional  perspiration  without 
irritation.  And  now  it's  here  . . . 
exclusive  Perstop*.  So  effective, 
yet  so  gentle. 


Q.  Which   perspiration   is  the 
worst  offender? 

A.  The  "emotional"  kind.  Doc- 
tors say  it's  the  big  offender  in 
underarm  stains  and  odor.  This 
perspiration  comes  from  bigger, 
more  powerful  glands  — and  it 
causes  the  most  offensive  odor. 


Q.  Why  is  arrid  cream  America's 
most  effective  deodorant? 

A.  Because  of  Perstop*.  the  most 
remarkable  anti-perspirant  ever 
developed,  ARRID  CREAM  Deo- 
dorant safely  stops  perspiration 
stains  and  odor  without  irrita- 
tion to  normal  skin.  Saves  your 
pretty  dresses  from  "Dress  Rot." 


"Why  be  only  Half  Safe  ? 
use  Arrid  to  be  sure .' 


It's  more  effective  than  any  cream,  twice  as 
effective  as  any  roil-on  or  spray  tested!  Used 
daily,  new  antiseptic  arrid  with  Perstop*  actually 
stops  underarm  dress  stains,  stops  "Dress  Rot"  stops 
perspiration  odor  completely  for  24  hours.  Get 
ARRID  CREAM  Deodorant  today. 

•Carter  Frcducts  Tr.->d«  iv.,,  k  'or  >- o.  ii * «?  i.y.  ■>-.  .  ..  .icn  -urfaetants 


43« 


new  movies 

(Continued  jrom  page  7) 

— unloved  in  any  country.  One  day  he  crosses 
the  Rio  Grande  with  an  oxcart  full  of  smug- 
gled pesos.  Pedro  sent  him  to  buy  guns. 
Unfortunately.  Mitchum  breaks  his  leg  when 
his  horse  falls.  There  he  lies,  north  of  the 
border,  wanted  for  an  old  murder.  Albert 
Dekker,  Captain  of  the  Texas  Rangers,  is 
willing  to  forget  Mitchum's  past  if  he  joins 
the  Rangers.  Julie  London  thinks  only  of  their 
future.  The  present  is  what's  bothering  her: 
she's  married  to  dedicated  Army  Major  Gary 
Merrill.  Because  of  Julie,  Mitchum  has  to 
shoot  a  man.  Back  to  Mexico  he  runs.  Un- 
fortunately, Pedro  never  got  the  guns  be 
sent  pesos  for  and  he  blames  Mitchum  (actu- 
ally, the  Apaches  stole  them).  Pedro's  willing 
to  forget  the  guns  if  Mitchum  agrees  to 
assassinate  his — Pedro's — brother.  Nothing  do- 
ing, says  Mitchum.  Back  to  the  Rio  Grande 
he  gallops,  trailed  by  a  would-be  executioner. 
En  route  Mitchum  comes  upon  a  patrol  led 
by  a  dying  Merrill  and  his  chief  officer  LeRoy 
"Satchel''  Paige;  they're  fighting  Apaches. 
There  is  no  end  to  the  action  around  Mitch- 
um who,  underneath  everything,  is  looking 
for  a  little  peace  of  mind. — Technicolor, 
United  Artists. 


RECOMMENDED  MOVIES: 

A  SUMMER  PLACE  (Warners):  This  is  the  place 
where  old  passions  are  rekindled,  and  new  ones  burst 
into  flames.  Among  those  with  old  memories  are 
Richard  Egan  and  Dorothy  McGuire,  who  knew 
each  other  long  ago  on  this  summer  island:  he  now 
has  a  frigid  wife  (Constance  Ford)  and  she,  a 
drunken  husband  (Arthur  Kennedy).  The  victims 
of  all  these  triangles,  who  build  a  new  life  and  love 
together,  are  Troy  Donahue  and  Sandra  Dee.  Sandra's 
egnant  state  brings 
ummer  place." 


unfortunate  and  unmarried 
troubles  crashing  down  on  "thi 

THE    LAST    ANGRY  MAN 

Dr.  Pa 
David  ' 
Betsv  1 


who 


aimer  and  presently  stumped  over  an  idea 
ew  show.  Muni  s  nephew  Joby  Baker  has 
an  account  of  Uncle's  treatment  of  a  badly 
irl,  left  at  his  door  by  hoods.  The  way  the 
ilds  into  an  inspiring  TV  show  and  the  way 
rhanged  by  Muni's  noble  character  make  a 


CAREER    I  Pi 

acknowledged 
struggle.  It  al 
company  (on 
Dean  Martin, 
like  Robert  1 
Blackman  (it 
friends  as  a 


Anthony  Franc 


.1,11c 


doesn't  last).  Then  Ma 
big-shot  in  Hollywood  and  Fi 
marries  Middleton  s  daughter  Shirley  MacL 
lush  in  love  with  Martin).  Carolyn  Jones,  Fra 
agent,  is  the  last  member  of  this  complicate 
It  s  good  therapy  for  would-be  actors. 


lass 
orgets 


ON  THE  BEACH  (Unit, 
world  is  near  after  an  & 
Anthony  Perkins  and  Fr 
crew  of  an  American  At 


1  Ai 


The  end  of  the 
Gregory  Peck, 
aire  are  part  of  the 
ubmarine  headed  for 


War 


Australia,  the  only  safe  place  left.  Perkins'  wife. 
Donna  Anderson,  is  pregnant:  Ava  Gardner  is  in 
love  with  Peck  (who  remembers  only  his  dead  wife 
and  child);  Astaire  finds  nothing  left  to  him  but 
suicide  auto-racing.  The  banner  in  Melbourne's  square 
savs   "There's   still  time,  brother."   Find  out  how 


THE  MOUSE  THAT  ROARED  (Columbia):  The 
Grand  Duchy  of  Fenwick  is  full  of  people  who  look 
like  Peter  Sellers  (he  plays  the  roles  of  Duchess. 
Prime  Minister  and  Field  Marshal).  When  a  Cali- 
fornia firm  comes  out  with  a  cheap  wine  that  imitates 
the  product  that  keeps  Fenwick  going,  the  Duchy 
declares  war  on  the  U.  S..  and  wins!  Sellers  takes 
Professor  David  Kossoff  (inventor  of  the  terrible 
Q-Bomb),  his  daughter,  Jean  Seberg,  and  four  po- 
licemen as  prisoners  of  war.  A  funny  clever  satire. 


MODERN  SCREEN'S 

8  PAGE  GOSSIP  EXTRA 

by 

HOLLYWOOD'S 
GREATEST  COLUMNIST 


Bob  Neal  was  Debbie's  escort  for  the  lavish  Thalian  benefit. 
$55,000  teas  raised  that  night  for  the  Thalian  children's  clinic. 


The  Thalian  Wingding 

This  is  an  annual  wingding,  with  Debbie 
Reynolds,  and  the  others  active  in  this 
charity  for  the  mentally  retarded  children's 
clinic,  always  working  very  hard  to  think  of 
original  skits  and  to  put  it  over  with  a  flourish. 

This  year  the  theme  for  the  show  was  those 
lost  twenty  minutes  out  of  the  Academy 
Award  Show.  As  emcee  Dick  Powell 
stated,  "This  show  is  being  presented  without 
the  cooperation  of  the  Motion  Picture  Acad- 
emy of  Arts  and  Sciences"  (which  took  an 
awful  drubbing  about  being  twenty  minutes 
short  on  the  last  televised  awards  program). 

Jimmy  McHugh  and  I  sat  at  the  table  with 


Dick  Powell  and  June  Allyson.  Dinah 
Shore,  and  George  Montgomery, 
Frances  and  Edgar  Bergen  and  Kitty 
and  Mervyn  Le  Roy.  Dinah  is  certainly  be- 
coming one  of  the  world's  best  dressed 
women — her  new  gown  was  of  rose  silk — 
and  really  fabulous. 

The  party  was  held  in  the  ballroom  of  the 
Beverly  Hilton  Hotel  and  immediately  follow- 
ing dinner  the  show  went  on.  Believe  me,  the 
'awards'  were  plenty  crazy — here  are  some 
of  them: 

June  Allyson  and  Rory  Calhoun  pre- 
senting the  award  to  "The  Outstanding  New 
Personality  of  the  Year"  in  Hollywood.  The 
winnah — The  Fly'. 


Debbie    Reynolds    and    Hugh  O'Brtan 

made  the  award  to  "The  Outstanding  Con- 
tribution by  an  Outside  Industry"  (the 
nominees  were  Abbey  Rents,  Home  Savings 
and  Loan,  and  Instant  Sweat — Sweat  win- 
ning). 

Groucho  Marx  awarded  the  "Best  Prop" 
to  the  bed  in  Cat  On  A  Hot  Tin  Roof. 

This  was  followed  by  a  skit  based  on 
Cat  with  Shirley  MacLaine  Ernie  Ko- 
vacs  and  Louis  Nye  playing  the  parts 
created  by  Liz  Taylor,  Paul  Newman 
and  Burl  Ives.  (A  bit  risgue  if  you  ask  me.) 

But  everyone  seemed  to  have  a  good  time 
and  applauded  long  and  loud  when  Debbie 
announced  355,000  had  been  raised. 


Eddie  Cantor  has 
Liz   backstage  at 


Everything's  Going 
for  Eddie 

Elizabeth  Taylor,  looking  slim  and  her 
glamorous  self  again  after  losing  all  that  un- 
becoming weight,  sat  with  us  during  Eddie 
Fisher's  show  at  the  Desert  Inn.  As  usual, 
when  Eddie  is  performing,  Liz  didn't  take  her 
eyes  off  him.  And,  he  still  directs  all  his  love 
songs  straight  to  "Mrs.  Fisher,"  as  Eddie  al- 
ways introduces  her. 

Liz  was  wearing  a  black  lace  cocktail  gown 
and  even  after  the  lights  were  lowered  for 
Eddie's  act,  a  lot  of  people  kept  watching 
Elizabeth — particularly  the  women. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  spent  an  evening 
with  Elizabeth  since  the  start  of  all  the  Liz- 
Eddie-Debbie  fuss.  It's  typical  of  Liz  that  she 
made  no  reference  to  this  interim.  Poised  and 
sure  of  herself  as  always,  she  sort  of  'picked 
up,'  as  it  were,  where  we  left  off. 

At  this  time,  she  was  terribly  upset  that 
MGM  was  going  to  suspend  her  for  refusing 
to  do  Butterheld  8  which  would  kill  her 
chances  of  doing  Cleopatra  and  picking  up  a 
cool    million    dollars    offered    her    by  20th. 

(Later,  Elizabeth  won  every  point  she  had 
demanded  in  this  battle.  The  script  of  Butter- 


held  8  was  rewritten  to  suit  her.  with  much  of 
the  salaciousness  taken  out.  And  she  was 
given  permission  to  do  Cleopatra  as  well! 
If  you  think  Elizabeth  Taylor  isn't  a  plenty 
smart  business  woman  you've  under-estimated 
this  belle.) 

But  at  this  time,  she  didn't  know  she  was 
going  to  get  her  way.  "If  I  can  only  accept 
Cleopatra  I'll  take  the  money  I  receive  and 
establish  a  trust  fund  for  my  children  which 
will  insure  their  security  for  life,"  she  told  me. 

"I  suppose  MGM  thought  if  I  got  the  mil- 
lion for  Cleopatra  I  would  retire  without  do- 
ing the  movie  I  owe  them  on  my  old  con- 
tract," she  went  on.  "I  offered  to  put  up  the 
million  as  collateral  to  prove  my  good  faith 
and  that  I  would  keep  my  word  to  MGM.  I 
never  go  back  on  my  word,"  she  said  firmly. 

After  Eddie's  show,  we  went  with  Liz  to 
his  dressing  room  where  we  had  champagne 
and  toasted  old  times — and  new.  Eddie  was 
in  a  wonderful  humor  and  I  meant  it  when 
I  told  him  he  was  singing  better  than  I  had 
ever  heard  him.  I've  always  liked  him,  and 
we  were  so  close  he  used  to  call  me  "Mom." 

"I'm  singing  better  because  I  am  so  happy," 
he  said,  putting  his  arm  around  "Mrs.  Fisher." 
He  drew  Liz  close  and  kissed  her  on  the 
cheek,  "I've  got  everything  going  for  me. 
Mom,"  he  whispered. 


I  nominate  for 
STARDOM 


Diane  Baker: 


I  don't  know  when  I've  been  more  im- 
pressed with  a  newcomer  than  I  am  with 
Diane  in  The  Best  of  Everything.  What  a 
socko  performance  she  gives  as  the  pretty 
little  secretary  whose  love  is  betrayed  by  a 
rich  young  cad.  With  her  heart-shaped  face, 
•wide  hazel  eyes,  a  completely  natural  beauty, 
she  is  unlike  any  other  star  personality. 

At  first  meeting,  she  strikes  you  as  a  de- 
mure, rather  strait-laced  little  person  with  a 
formal  manner.  One  of  the  20th  press  agents 
:old  me  he  was  in  daily  contact  with  Diane 
dor  eight  weeks  making  Best  and  it  wasn't 
until  the  last  day  of  the  picture  that  she 
called  him  by  his  first  name! 

Also,  she  stated  quite  firmly  in  her  polite 
way  that  she  didn't  think  she  would  like  to 
pose  for  cheesecake  art.  Nor  would  she  attend 
movie  premieres  or  parties  with  young  actors 
she  didn't  know,  just  to  be  seen  at  the  right 
places. 

A  native  of  Los  Angeles,  her  parents  live 
here,  but  Diane  doesn't  live  with  them.  She 
has  a  small  apartment  at  the  Chateau  Mar- 
mont  where  she  lives  alone — and  likes  it. 
"I'm  so  single-minded  about  my  career  and 
I  study  drama  so  many  long  hours  a  day, 
it's  best  that  I  have  my  own  place  so  I 
don't  upset  the  routine  of  my  family,"  she  says. 

Diane  was  born  in  Hollywood  Presbyterian 
Hospital  during  a  terrific  flood.  Her  mother  is 


Dorothy  Harrington  Baker  who  used  to  play 
in  Marx  Brothers  movies;  her  father  is 
Clyde  Baker,  former  USC  star  athlete.  Diane 
attended  local  grade  schools  until  her  family 
moved  to  Laguna  and  it  was  in  the  little 
beach  resort  town  that  she  became  interested 


in  school  plays.  Later,  at  Van  Nuys  High 
school,  Diane  was  the  star  of  the  drama  class. 
The  rest  of  her  way  to  a  studio  contract  is 
almost  routine — modeling,  beauty  contests, 
TV  commercials  in  New  York  and  then  thp 
proverbial  talent    cout  for  20th. 


11 


GJ^^»J  continued 


Frankie,  Bing,  and  Dean  arrived  late 
because  they'd  been  taping  a  TV  shoiv. 


PARTYo/ 

the  month 


I  always  get  a  kick  out  of  the  way  movie 
stars  lionize  sports  figures  when  they  meet 
them  in  person — the  stars  are  really  the  big- 
gest fans  in  the  world. 

At  the  party  Kitty  Le  Roy  gave  honoring 
Mervyn's  birthday,  at  the  beautiful  home  of 
the  Le  Roys  in  Bel  Air.  Walter  O'Malley, 
president  of  the  World  Champion  Dodgers, 
was  there  as  was  his  charming  wife.  And 
Mr.  O'Malley  had  more  movie  stars  hanging 
avidly  on  every  word  he  uttered  than  the 
original  Pied  Piper  had  children  on  his  trail. 

The  biggest  Dodger  fan,  of  course,  is 
Mervyn,  and  he  was  as  delighted  as  a  kid 
when  the  O'Malleys  gifted  him  with  a  regu- 
lation Dodger  baseball  suit  with  his  lucky 
number,  sixty-two,  written  on  it. 

Frank  Sinatra,  Bing  Crosby  and 
Dean  Martin  arrived  late,  after  dinner,  as 


they  had  been  taping  Frank's  TV  show  on 
which  Bing  and  Dean  made  guest  appear- 
ances. But  like  all  the  rest  of  us  they  headed 
straight  for  Mr,  O'Malley  to  get  the  'inside' 
on  how  the  Cinderella  team  of  all  time  won 
the  World  Series. 

I  overheard  Mrs.  Kirk  Douglas  telling 
Mrs.  O'Malley  that  she  is  such  a  Dodger  fan 
she  is  going  to  become  an  American  citizen! 

Next  to  baseball,  the  Stork  was  the  im- 
portant topic  and  a  pretty  group  of  mothers- 
to-be  compared  nursery  notes.  Among  them 
was  Dana  Wynter  (Mrs.  Greg  Bautzer) 
who  looked  so  beautiful  in  a  maternity  gown; 
also  Mrs.  Dick  Shawn  (her  husband  has  a 
top  role  in  Mervyn's  new  movie  Wake  Me 
When  It's  Over)  who  is  expectinc,  their  sec- 
ond, even  though  their  first  child  is  not  yet 
a  year  old.  and  Los  Angeles'  Councilwoman 
Rosalind  Wyman. 

Gloria  and  Jimmy  Stewart  sat  at  our 
table  and  Gloria  and  I  told  Mary  (Mrs. 
Jack)  Benny  we'd  like  to  take  that  beau- 
tiful dress  of  hers  right  off  her  back.  It  was 
a  flowered  satin  with  two  shades  of  red 
roses — a  knockout. 


George's  Royal  Rolls 

A  handsome  young  man  who  asked  me  to 
go  riding  offered  and  produced  a  conveyance 
much  to  my  taste.  George  Hamilton,  the 

new  white  hope  at  MGM,  invited  me  to  dine 
with  him  and  called  for  me  in  a  Rolls-Royce. 

Such  style!  When  I  asked  George,  who  has 
made  only  one  or  two  films,  how  he  came 
by  such  a  swanky  car  he  said: 

"The  Rolls  originally  belonged  to  King 
George  VI  and  Queen  Elizabeth,"  this  tall, 
dark  and  handsome  twenty-six-year-old 
charmer  said.  (He  hails  from  a  wealthy  and 
social  family  of  Florida  and  had  money  be- 
fore he  entered  pictures.) 

He  continued,  "The  Royal  family  couldn't 
use  the  car  during  the  war  so  it  was  shipped 
to  America.  It's  the  first  car  I've  bought  for 
myself — and  I  love  it." 

Unlike  many  of  the  new  young  bachelors 
on  their  way  up  the  movie  ladder,  George 
didn't  mind  discussing  his  dates.  When  he 
was  in  Mississippi  on  location  making  Home 
From  The  Hill  he  had  met  Lynda  Lee  Meade. 
He  escorted  her  to  a  couple  of  parties. 

"When  she  later  won  the  'Miss  America' 
contest.  I  called  her  to  congratulate  her," 
George  told  me.  "She's  really  a  very  nice 
girl  and  I  hope  to  meet  her  again  when  I  go 
East  again — or  South."  He  doesn't  know  ex- 
actly when  that  will  be  as  he  is  soon  starting 
Cimarron  and  it  has  a  long  shooting  sched- 
ule. But  George  likes  Lynda  Lee  and  doesn't 
mind  admitting  it. 


George  Hamilton,  MGM's  new  white  hope,  drives  a  swanky  1938  Rolls-Royce 
that  used  to  belong  to  England's  King  George  VI  and  Queen  Elizabeth. 


12 


Debbie  on  the  Paar 
Show: 

Debbie  Reynolds  telephoned  tc  ask  me 
and  Jimmy  McHugh  to  be  her  guests  at  the 
Thalian  party  and  while  I  had  her  ear  I 
asked,  "What  got  into  you  to  go  on  such  a 
rampage  on  Jack  Paar's  TV  show — tear- 
ing off  his  shirt  and  all  that  nonsense?" 

Debbie's  antics  had  stirred  up  a  lot  of 
rcmment,  not  all  of  it  complimentary. 


She  said,  "Jack  told  me  not  to  be  serious — 
tc  live  it  up  and  act  like  I  was  having  fun." 
Debbie  sounded  really  chastened  as  she 
added,  "I'm  sorry  if  some  people  got  the 
wrong  impression." 

Chcnging  the  subject,  I  Said,  "At  least  six 
people  have  called  me  this  morning  saying 
that  Harry  Karl  has  just  paid  S400,000  for  an 
estate  next  to  Dinah  Shore's  and  that  he 
bought  the  house  for  a  honeymoon  home 
for  you.  True  or  false?" 

This  time,  Debbie  really  laughed.  "You 
know  it  isn't  true.  I  like  Hcrry.  He's  a  nice 


man  and  a  thoughtful  one.  But  there's  abso- 
lutely no  thought  of  marriage  between  us 
and  never  has  been." 

"How  are  those  wonderful  babies?"  I 
asked,  meaning  adorable  little  Carrie  Frances 
and  Todd. 

"I  sent  them  up  to  be  with  Eddie  in  Las 
Vegas  over  the  week  end,"  Debbie  said,  "and 
I  never  knew  how  much  I  could  miss  them! 
But  it  is  only  right  that  Eddie  should  have 
some  time  with  Carrie  Frances  and  Todd.  Be- 
lieve me,  though,  I  was  the  happiest  mother 
in  town  when  they  got  home  this  evening." 


France  Nuyen  hasn't  apologized  for  her  inexcusable  behavior  when  photographers  tried  to  snap  her  and  Marlon  Brando. 


names,  even  to  changing  initials  on  their 
luggage — but  where  in  the  world  did  they 
think  they  could  go,  except  on  a  rocket  to 
the  moon,  and  not  be  recognized? 

One  of  the  prices  of  rather  unorthodox  be- 
havior is  some  completely  orthodox  publicity. 
You  can't  have  your  fame — and  be  nobodies 
too. 

As  France  intends  to  resume  her  film  career 
(she  debuted  in  South  Pacific}  at  20th  Cen- 
tury-Fox after  the  run  of  her  play,  it  might 
behoove  her  to  improve  her  relations  with 
the  press.  Her  boyfriend  is  a  big  star — but 
she  isn't,  yet. 


I'm  on  my 
SOAP  BOX 


.  .  tc  say  I  think  the  conduct  of  France  Nuy- 
en (who  may  be  the  next  Mrs.  Marlon 
Brando}  at  the  Miami  airport  when  she  and 
Marlon  flew  back  from  a  little  vacation  in 
Haiti,  was  inexcusable.  Miss  Nuyen  saw  fit 
to  strike  out  at  reporters  and  photographers 


who  report  her  conversation  equally  torrid. 

Surprisingly,  Marlon  stood  by  mere  or  less 
calmly — maybe  he  was  so  taken  with  the  be- 
havior of  his  companion  he  decided  to  let 
her  handle  affairs  for  the  two  of  them. 

France  kept  yelling  something  about  her 
privacy — which  is  a  laugh.  When  a  young 
lady  who  is  the  star  of  a  hit  New  York  show, 
The  World  of  Suzie  Wcng,  decides  to  take  a 
trip  with  a  young  man  who  is  probably  one 
of  the  most  famous  actors  in  the  world,  she 
may  expect  many  things — but  privacy  isn't 
one  of  them! 

True,   Marlon  and  France   assumed  Icke 


13 


continued 


The  Funeral 


The 
at  E 


great  crowd  of  three  hundred  fans  ivho  tvaited  outside  the  chapel 
rrol  Flynn's  funeral  behaved  with  decorum  and  respectful  tribute. 


Wiser  men  than  1  have  puzzled  over  the 
workings  of  the  mass  mind.  In  other  words, 
who  knows  what  the  public  is  going  to  do? 

When  six  hundred  people  showed  up  for 
the  funeral  of  Errol  Flynn — only  three 
hundred  of  them  friends  (inside  the  Chapel  at 
Forest  Lawn)  and  the  others,  fans  and  curious 
mourners — they  behaved  with  such  decorum 
and  respectful  tribute  to  the  late  great  swash- 
buckling star,  I  couldn't  help  but  recall  an- 
other recent  funeral. 

At  the  funeral  of  Tyrone  Power,  who 
lived,  breathed  and  died  like  a  gentleman — 
a  boisterous  crowd  behaved  like  hoodlums. 
They  screamed  and  yelled,  and  tore  flowers 
off  the  WTeaths  to  stick  in  their  hair  and 
brought  box  lunches  to  munch  beside  his 
grave.  Hysteria  marked  the  whole  shocking 
proceedings. 

Yet,  the  general  deportment  at  the  last 
rites  for  Errol — that  gay  scalawag — was  as 
dignified  as  though  a  statesman  was  being 
laid  to  rest. 

I'm  not  going  into  all  the  angles  of  Errol's 
death.  The  less  said  about  the  Aadland 
girl,  the  better. 

I  prefer  to  remember  Errol  as  the  gay 
charming,  devilishly  handsome  man  he  was 
at  the  height  of  his  stardom.  He  was  a  de- 
lightful friend,  witty,  well  read,  a  fine  con- 
versationalist. He  was  also  his  own  worst 
enemy. 

The  last  time  he  came  to  town,  he  called 
me,  as  he  always  did.  and  we  talked  over 
the  telephone.  The  papers  were  full  of  his 
arrival  here  with  his  "protege." 

I  remember  I  said  to  him,  "Errol.  I  don't 
approve  of  you.  But  I  like  you — and  I  always 
will." 

And  I  always  will. 


The  Crosby  Rift 
Is  Healed 

Had  quite  a  nice  talk  with  Bing  Crosby 
who.  the  very  next  night,  patched  up  his 
long  standing  feud  with  son  Gary  by  drop- 
ping by  the  Moulin  Rouge  to  catch  the  act 
of  the  Crosby  Boys.  I'm  so  glad  this  rift 
has  been  healed.  It  was  so  distressing  and 
disillusioning  to  all  the  Crosby  fans  and 
friends. 

Bing  was  happy,  too,  about  his  first  little 
daughter,  Mary  Frances.  He  was  every  inch 
the  proud  father,  bustin'  his  buttons  with 
pride,  when  he  told  me,  "She's  the  daintiest 
little  doll  you  ever  saw — such  a  little  beauty 
and  with  the  loveliest  hands." 

I  have  a  feeling  that  not  only  will  her 
famous  dad  spoil  Missy  Crosby,  but  so  will 
those  big  brothers  of  hers.  Lindsay,  the 
youngest,  stood  up  as  godiather  when  Mary 
Frances  was  baptized  and  he  presented  her 
with  a  tiny  cross  of  diamonds. 


Bing  thought  his  sons 


the  Moulin  Rovgi 


right  are  Philip,  Lindsay,  Gary  (with  his  arm  around  his  dad) ,  Bing  and  Dennis. 


14 


Predictions  for  1960 


II  you'll  go  along  with  me  I  think  I'll  have 
a  little  fun  at  this  season  of  the  year  and 
look  into  my  private  crystcl  ball  to  predict 
what  I  thin >  is  coming  up  in  Hollywood  news 
during  1960.  I  think — 

Kim  Novak  will  become  the  bride  of 
director  Richard  Quine.  .  .  . 

Marlon  Brando  will  marry  France 
Nuyen  (see  SOAPBOX)  

Hope  Lange  will  be  the  bright  new  star 
of  20th  pictures.  In  The  Best  of  Everything 
Hope  gives  premise  of  beina  a  new  Grace 
Kelly'... 

The  David  Nivens'  reconciliation  will 
stick  

Elvis  Presley  will  return  to  his  career- 
and  even  greater  popularity  than  he  enjoyed 
before  serving  his  stint  in  the  Army  in  Ger 
many  (and  believe  me  that's  plenty  popular) 
Producers  are  already  battling  to  get  first 
call  on  Elvis  after  his  Hcl  Wallis  movie,  par 
tially  completed  

Shirley  MacLaine  will  get  quite  tern 
peramental  until  she  comes  to  her  senses, 
and  the  level-headed  girl  she  really  is,  and 
realizes  being  "a  ferninine  Frank  Sinatra 
doesn't  pay. 


G.I.  Eli 

the  St 


Louella  predicts  that  the  recent  reconciliation  of  handsome 
David  Niven  and  his  lovely  ivife  Hjordis  is  going,  to  stick. 


No  Motor  Scooter 
for  Louella 


This  has  been  my  month  for  invitations 
from  good-looking  young  men  to  go  riding 
with  them  in  an  assortment  of  vehicles. 

Edd  "Kookie"  Byrnes  and  I  hit  it  off 
great  when  we  met  at  Dino's  at  dinner  one 
night.  A  few  afternoons  later  he  came 
a'cclling  at  my  home  and  didn't  once  comb 
his  hair! 

"Kookie,"  who  has  sent  the  teenagers  into 
their  loudest  squeals  since  the  advent  of 
Elvis  Presley,  flattered  me  by  saying  he 
hed  been  dying  to  meet  me.  Now  girls,  don't 
get  too  jealous  but  he  invited  me  to  take  a 
ride  on  his  motor  scooter. 

"You  must  be  kidding,"  I  gasped. 

"Oh.  no — it's  safe,"  he  laughed.  "It  has  a 
side  car  which  is  very  comfortable.  The  studio 
(Warners)  won't  let  me  drive  it  except 
around  the  lot — so  there's  no  danger." 

I  told  "Kookie"  I  would  take  this  into  con- 
sideration, but  you  can  bet  your  last  dollar 
I'm  taking  no  rides  in  that  contraption — • 
Kcckie"  or  no  "Kookie." 


A  fan  predicts  Audrey  Hepburn  will  Kay  Kendall  has  left  a  ivonder-  The    Tuesday    Weld  controversy 

get  an  Oscar  for  "The  Nun's  Story."  ful  legacy-magnificent  courage.  rages;  some  like  her  ortgnwhty. 


LETTER 
BOX 


The  Tuesday  Weld  controversy  rages 
and  rages!  Enid  DeVore,  Atlanta,  represents 
one  school:  Hurrah  for  Tuesday  who  dares 
to  be  herself  in  convention-ridden  Hollywood! 
She  has  courage  and  guts  to  defy  those  who 
would  mold  every  young  girl  on  the  screen 
into  another  Sandra  Dee.  So  Tuesday  goes 
barefoot?  So  her  hair  looks  like  a  mop?  So 
she  sounds  like  a  beatnik?  She's  different — 
she's  original,  she's  herself! 

Now  comes  Mrs.  Bob  Beers,  Los  Angeles: 
Never  have  I  seen  anything  on  TV  as  dis- 
gusting as  Tuesday  Weld  on  Paul  Coates 
TV  show.  Looking  like  nothing  ever  seen  be- 
fore (wasn't  she  wearing  a  nightgown?),  her 
answers  to  intelligent  questions  were  as  fuzzy 
as  her  eyes.  Can't  someone  stop  this  What's- 
Her-Name  before  other  silly  young  girls  start 
acting  like  her? 

Blinky  Champagne,  Covington,  La.,  (is 
that  a  real  name,  Blinky?).  writes:  Shame 
on  you,  Louella.  You  have  let  Tab  Hunter 
down  as  much  as  his  fickle  fans.  Two  or 
three  years  ago  your  Modern  Screen  news 
was  filled  with  Tab  and  his  doings.  Now — 


Silence  where  he  is  concerned.  Isn't  he  as 
talented  as  ever?  Yes.  although  Tab's  TV  ap- 
pearances have  been  better  than  his  recent 
movies.  Tab  was  lost  in  That  Kind  of  Wom- 
an. 

Hollywood  need  look  no  more  for  next 
year's  Oscar  winner  among  the  women  stars, 
opines  Clarissa  Burnside,  East  Detroit. 
Mich.  Audrey  Hepburn  will  get  it  hands 
down  for  her  superb  performance  in  The 
Nun  s  Story.  Audrey  thanks  you,  I'm  sure, 
Clarissa. 

Kay  Elizabeth  Dietz,  Mt.  Prospect.  III.. 
writes  a  beautiful  letter  about  Kay  Kendall. 
How  terrible  the  loss  of  her  gaiety,  her  beauty 
and  her  talent.  But  what  a  wonderful  legacy 
she  left  us  with — her  magnificent  courage. 

Hans  J.  Ring,  New  Haven.  Conn.,  writes  a 
most  intelligent  letter  in  excellent  English. 
/  have  been  in  this  country  for  only  two 
months,  having  come  over  from  Germany  to 
make  my  permanent  home  here.  My  first  im- 
pression on  movies  and  movie  magazines  is 
there  is  too  much  emphasis  on  teenagers  and 
their  preferences.  Write  please  about  June 
Ally  son  (where  is  she  hiding?}.  Jessie 
Roy ce  Landis  and  Thelma  Ritter.  June 
has  her  own  TV  show.  Hans.  Jessie  Royce 
Landis  is  very  good  in  North  By  Northwest 
and  Thelma  is  all  over  the  screen  and  TV. 

Will    Peasl    Johnston,    Arlee.  Montana, 


who  wrote  the  lovely  poem  in  memory  of 
Ritchie  Valens  (I  piinted  a  part  of  it  in 
this  department)  please  send  copies  of  the 
entire  poem  to  Mary  Anne  Manff,  3807  Ver- 
mont Rd.,  Atlanta  19,  Ga..  (she  is  presi- 
dent of  the  Ritchie  Valens  Memorial  Club 
and  also  to  Lois  Teller.  630  Pasadena  Ave.. 
St.  Petersburg,  Fla.? 

Did  William  Holden  leave  this  country 
to  live  in  Switzerland  fo  deliberately  avoid 
paying  income  taxes  in  the  U.S.A.?  indig- 
nantly inquires  Lillian  V.  McMasters.  New 
York.  N.Y.  He  says  not,  Mrs.  McV.— Bill  says 
he  can  keep  his  eye  on  his  business  interests 
(  Japan  and  Africa)  better  if  he  locates  in 
Europe.  At  least,  that's  what  the  man  says. 

Maureen  Cassiday,  Ft.  Worth,  Texas. 
says  she  is  just  sixteen  years  old,  but  pretty 
smart,  in  her  own  words:  J  can  tell  producers 
they  won't  start  making  big  money  again 
until  they  again  start  making  love  stories 
like  Love  Is  A  Many  Splendored  Thing  or 
The  Best  of  Everything  which  1  have  just 
seen.  Men's  stories.  Westerns,  war  yarns, 
etc.,  do  not  draw  in  the  women.  Hurray  for 
The  Best  of  Everything  and  wonderfu 
Diane  Baker  and  Hope  Lange. 

That's  all  for  now.  See  you  next  month. 


■ 


Is  it  true . . 
blondes 
have  more 
fun? 


t  41 


Just  for  the  fun  of  it,  be  a  blonde  and  see ...  a  Lady  Clairol 

blonde  with  shining,  silken  hair !  You'll  love  the  life  in  it !  The 
soft  touch  and  tone  of  it !  The  lovely  ladylike  way  it  lights  up 
your  looks.  With  amazingly  gentle  new  Instant  Whip  Lady 
Clairol.  it's  so  easy !  Why,  it  takes  only  minutes ! 
And  New  Lady  Clairol  feels  deliciously  cool  going  on,  leaves 
hair  in  wonderful  condition— lovelier,  livelier  than  ever.  So  if 
your  hair  is  dull  blonde  or  mousey  brown,  why  hesitate? 
Hair  responds  to  Lady  Clairol  like  a  man  responds  to  blondes 
—  and  darling,  that's  a  beautiful  advantage!  Try  it  and  see! 


Your  hairdresser  will  tell  you 
a  blonde's  best  friend 


s  NEW  INSTANT  WHIP*  Lady  Clairof  Creme  Hair  Lightener 


)1959  Clairol  Incorporated,  Stamford,  Conn.  Available  ; 


GIFTS,  $1  TO  $25 


this  season  we  celeBRate 
the  BiRth  of  our  Lor6. 

we  celeBRate  the 
BiRth  of  a  new  yeaR, 
a  new  oecade. 
and  we  celeBRate  all  this 
in  ]oy  an6  hope. 
But  this  season, 
we'Re  also  fORced  to  mouRn. 
two  men  have  died 
who  meant  much  to  us. 
one  man  could  sing 
like  an  angel, 
the  otheR...well,  he  was 
sometimes  thought  of 

as  a  6evil... 
except  By  his  fRiends. 
much  of  hollywood's  glORy 
an6  excitement  died  with 

MAEIO 
AND 


mama 


mamo 


v 


PHILADELPHIA— 1921:   The  midwife 
wrapped  the  baby  in  a  soft  white  blanket 
and  placed  it  in  its  weary  mother's 
arms.  Then  she  turned  to  the  dark, 
good-looking  man  who  sat  in  the 
wheelchair  alongside  the  bed — the  new 
baby's  father,  wounded  badly,  perma- 
nently, in  the  Great  War  that 
had  ended  only  a  couple  of  years  be- 
fore— and  she  asked,  "Now  it  is 
the  time  for  the  three  of  you  to  be  alone — 


you  and  your  wife  and  your  new  one,  eh?" 
The  man  nodded.  . 

"And  for  me,"  the  midwife  continued,  "it  is  time  to  go  and  make  myself  a  nice  big  cup 
of  coffee." 

She  left  the  bedroom  of  the  apartment  and  went  to  the  kitchen.  It  wasn't  long 
after,  as  she  sat  at  the  table,  sipping  from  her  cup,  that  she  heard  a  knock  on  the  door. 
"Yes?"  she  called  out. 
A  neighbor  woman  poked  her  head  in. 

"I  heard  the  screaming,  from  upstairs  ...  Is  it  born  yet?"  she  asked,  excitedly. 

"Yes,"  the  midwife  said,  "it  is  born." 

"A  boy.  like  they  wanted?"  (Continued  on  page  70) 


BY  GEORGE  CARPOZI,  JR. 


■  Enrol  Flynn  died  the  way  he  lived,  surrounded  by  the  things  he 
liked  best — good  liquor  and  a  beautiful  young  girl. 

He  died  in  the  arms  of  that  girl,  a  shapely,  sexy  blonde  who  professed 
her  love  openly  and  unabashedly,  more  so  than  any  other  woman  who 
shared  the  moments  and  years  with  the  erratic  playboy-aetor  during 
his  stormy  life. 

Moments  before  death  took  Errol  Flynn  at  the  age  of  fifty  in  Van- 
couver, B.  C,  last  October  15,  he  looked  up  into  the  eyes  of  his 
seventeen-year-old  sweetheart,  Beverly  Aadland.  He  saw  tears  streak- 
ing down  her  cheeks.  A  wan  smile  broke  on  his  lips  as  he  studied  the 
anxiety  and  grief  on  her  face. 

Errol's  lips  trembled.  He  seemed  to  be  trying  to  speak.  He  looked 
as  if  he  wanted  to  reassure  Beverly — 

"I  have  no  complaints  about  my  life.  I"Ve  enjoyed  every  minute  of  it." 

But  Beverly,  her  hair  wildly  tangled  and  with  {Continued  on  page  58) 


COOL 


DEBBIE! 


■  DEAR  DEBBIE: 

We  watched  you  on  the  Jack  Paar  Show. 

We  stayed  up  past  midnight  just  to  see  you. 

There  is  a  running  gag  on  the  show  about  what  Jack  Pam  is 
really  like. 

And  we  felt  the  candidness  of  this  late-hour  program  would 
give  us  an  idea  of  ivhat  Debbie  Reynolds  is  really  like  these  days. 

You  see,  Debbie,  reports  have  been  coming  into  our  office  about 
the  way  you  have  changed.  Reports  on  (Continued  on  page  66 ) 

25 


■  Running  across  the  meadow  hand  in  hand  with 
Paul  Anka,  Annette  Funicello  is  living  one  of  the 
most  delicious  moments  of  her  romance  with  Paul. 
But  anguish  as  well  as  beauty  has  marked  their 
tender  affair.  And  when  night  falls,  Annette's  mind 
will  be  clouded  with  those  "special  doubts  and 
torments  known  to  every  girl  who  has  fallen  in 
love  for  the  first  tune.  And  then,  in  the  midst  of 
her  doubting,  s1&  will  remember,  poignan'tjj, jhat  « 
day  shfe  first  knewj,he  sweetness  of  love. 
KkSESK?"  <  Continued  on  par.?  7  -7 1 


■  On  a  day  when  he  was 
fourteen,  he  put  his  child- 
hood behind  him. 
He  walked  out  of  the  bare, 
white-tiled  hospital  that 
smelled  of  carbolic  acid  and 
fear  into  a  fall  afternoon,  grey 
sky,  and  a  brightness  in  the 
leaves,  and  children  screaming 
on  roller  skates,  but  the  life  of 
the  street  washed  around 
him  blurrily.  The  only  reality 
he  knew  was  back  in  that  high 
white  bed  where  his  father 
lay.  He's  going  to  die,  the 
boy  thought,  he's  going  to  die, 
and  he  pressed  a  round  gold 
watch  to  his  cheek  in  a  queer, 
half -hunching  gesture. 
He  had  been  eleven  years 
old,  when  the  sickness  hit  his 
father.  Eleven  years  old, 
and  a  junior  high  school  kid. 

He  and  the  other  guys  were 
crazy  about  sports,  they  hung 
around  the  drugstore  drinking 
cokes  and  teasing  girls,  and 
they  dreamed  of  racing  hot 
rods,  diving  for  treasure 
in  the  south  seas,  playing 
big-league  baseball,  flying  jet 
planes.  Merle  Johnson,  Jr.,  had 
one  other  dream,  though.  The 
big  one.  To  be  an  actor. 
At  home  on  Long  Island  he 
was  exposed  to  plenty  of 
theater.  His  mother,  Edith 
Johnson,  had  been  an  actress; 


^Mw.  ansl  tjft&b.  ^im/mie  0bwkjpwt6, 


We  were  afraid 

we  couldn't  have  a 

baby.  We  had  been  hoping 

for  a  little  son  or  daughter  of 

our  own  to  bless  our  home  ever  since 

we  were  married  in  January  of  1957.  But  as  the 

(Continued  on  page  56) 


■  To  those  of  us  who  know  Liz  Tay- 
lor— who've  seen  her  recently,  been 
with  her  these  past  few  weeks — one 
fact  is  extraordinary : 

Never  in  her  life  has  she  been  hap- 
pier, healthier,  more  content,  more 
calm,  than  since  her  marriage  to  Ed- 
die Fisher. 

This  includes  the  short,  suppos- 
edly-fabulous period  of  time  she  was 
married  to  Mike  Todd. 

Certainly  this  includes  the  years 
she  spent  as  the  wife  of  Michael 
Wilding. 

And  Nicky  Hilton. 

The  years  of  her  childhood,  when 
she  was  the  most  beautiful  and  the 
most  spoiled  young  girl  in  all  of 
Hollywood.  .  .  . 

Most  of  you  have  been  reading 
about  Liz  for  years.  You've  read 
about  some  of  the  downs  in  her  life. 
But  mostly  you've  read  about  the 
ups,  the  good  times,  the  gay  times, 
the  marvelous  times  that  have  been 
bestowed  on  this  loveliest  of  all 
movie  princesses. 


Let  us  say,  right  here  and  now, 
that  those  accounts  of  the  good,  gay, 
marvelous  times  were  very  much 
exaggerated. 

For  here  is  a  girl  who,  until  now, 
has  not  been  very  happy. 

Who  has,  indeed,  suffered. 

Who  has  suffered  physical  pain. 

Heartbreak. 

And  an  emotional  instability  so 
terrible  that,  more  than  once,  she 
has  been  on  the  verge  of  a  serious 
nervous  breakdown.  .  .  . 

Those  of  us  who  know  Liz  Taylor 
see  the  bright  look  in  her  eyes  today, 
and  we  remember  the  times  when 
those  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

The  tears,  for  instance,  brought 
on  by  the  awful  pain  her  back  con- 
dition would  cause  her. 

"An  imagined  condition,  purely 
psychosomatic , ' '  some  people  have 
shrugged. 

"A  very  real  condition,"  others 
have  said,  "a  slipped  disc  that  has 
required  operation  after  operation." 

Real  or  (Continued  on  page  69) 


Bette  Davis's  little  girl 
lives  very  far  away . . . 
in  a  world  no  normal  person 
has  ever  entered. 
She  comes  home  only  once  a  year . . . 


■  The  beautiful  blue-eyed  girl,  nine  years  old,  will  sit  at  the  table  in  the  big 
Hollywood  house  this  Christmas  afternoon  to  come. 

She  will  talk  a  little,  as  well  as  she  can  talk. 

She  will  eat  a  little. 

But  she  will,  mostly,  just  sit  there  at  her  place  at  the  large  table,  looking 
at  the  others. 

And  the  others  will  smile  at  her. 
And  they  will  say  nice  things  to  her. 

And  they  will  pretend  that  nothing  is  wrong,  that  she  does  not  have  to  leave 
them,  soon,  that  the  place  from  which  she  came — to  which  she  must  return — 
is  far  away.  They  will  pretend  for  the  few  hours  they  are  together. 

These  short  and  very  precious  hours. 

These  blessed  hours  of  Christmas  Day.  .  .  • 

It  all  began  at  another  Christmastime,  a  night  in  December  of  1951,  as 
Bette  Davis  opened  the  door  of  her  daughter  Barbara's  bedroom,  to  see  if  the 
child  was  still  asleep. 

She  wasn't,  and  Bette  turned  on  a  lamp  and  smiled. 

"Beedee,"  she  said,  "your  daddy  and  I  have  a  surprise  for  you." 

The  five-year-old  sat  up  in  bed.  "Is  Santa  Claus  here  already?"  she  asked, 
rubbing  her  eyes.  (Continued  on  page  67) 


Christinas    1951.   Bette   and   Gary   did   not   realize   baby  Margot   (right)   was  ill. 


In  the  fabulous  fifties 
we  learned  that 

fairy  tales  could  come  true 


April  19,  1956,  Grace  Kelly  and  her  parents  kneel  beside  Prince  Rainier  at  royal  wedding. 


T 

_M_his  afternoon,  while  our  two  small  children  were  napping,  my  wife 
and  I  went  down  to  the  basement  to  see  if  we  could  ferret  out  the  three  (or 
was  it  four?)  boxes  of  Christmas  tree  ornaments  we  had  stored  away  last 
January.  If  your  basement  is  anything  like  ours,  then  you  can  probably  imag- 
ine what  happened  to  us — at  least  the  beginning  of  it.  We  hadn't  been  there 
five  minutes  when  the  only  light  in  the  place  blew  its  brains  out,  plunging 
us  into  total  darkness.  While  I  fumbled  about  in  vain  for  a  flashlight,  my  wife 
(the  practical  member  of  our  family)  made  her  way  cautiously  towards  the 
steps,  intent  on  getting  a  new  bulb  upstairs.  Fate,  however,  had  a  detour 
planned,  and  instead  of  guiding  her  foot  onto  the  first  step,  it  guided  it  onto 
a  collapsed  old  baby-stroller.  From  where  I  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  cellar 
all  I  heard  was  a  dull  thump  and  then  a  long  relentless  moaning.  Somehow, 
despite  the  pitch  blackness,  I  was  suddenly  able  to  make  things  out  quite 
clearly.  Maybe  my  eyes  had  adjusted  to  the  dark,  or  maybe  there  is,  after  all, 
some  extra  candle-power  within  us  which,  in  times  of  extreme  necessity,  casts 
its  own  ray  of  light.  Whatever  the  explanation,  I  reached  my  wife  in  a  flash  to 
find  her  lying  motionless,  flat  on  her  face.  I  bent  down. 

"Can  you  get  up?"  I  whispered. 

"Of  course  I  can!"  she  said,  leaping  to  her  feet  and  dusting  herself  off. 

"You  mean  you  aren't  hurt?  From  the  way  you  were  moaning  I  thought — " 

"I  wasn't  moaning,"  she  said,  looking  at  me  sheepishly.  "I  was  cursing. 

You  know  I  never  curse  out  loud.  Now  let's  get  a  light  down  here 

so  we  can  see  what  we're  doing.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  pile  of  old  magazines 
I  might  really  have  conked  myself." 

That  pile  of  old  magazines  that  had  broken  her  fall  against  the  hard  con- 
crete floor,  those  wonderful  soft  old  paper  magazines  (which  I  had  been  too 
lazy  to  burn)  were,  we  discovered  when  we  came  back  with  a  light  bulb  five 
minutes  later,  movie  magazines — a  bunch  of  old  Hollywood  Yearbooks,  Hol- 
lywood Romances,  Screen  Albums,  and  a  complete  collection  of  Modern 
Screens  going  back  to  1950.  All  of  which  proves  what  I've  been  saying  ever 
since  I  became  an  editor:  If  you  want  to  stay  healthy,  happy  and  safe  in  this 
dark  cruel  world  buy  lots  and  lots  of  Modern  Screens1.  They  saved  my  wife, 
and  they  might  save  you. 

But  seriously,  when  we'd  pulled  ourselves  together,  Astrid  insisted  we  put 
the  baby-stroller  in  a  safe  place  (the  garbage),  and  straighten  out  the  maga- 
zines, which  were  scattered  around  like  cards  in  a  game  of  52-Pick-Up.  I  got 
a  cardboard  carton  and  we  started  piling  them  in  when  suddenly  she  turned 
to  me  out  of  the  blue  and  said,  "Guess  when  Eddie  walked  out  on  Debbie?" 

"In  the  morning?"  I  said. 

"C'mon,  really,  when?"  she  insisted. 


i 


It  was  an  age  when 

teenagers  with  guitars 
could  become  kings. . . 


Let  me  explain  at  this  point  that  my  wife,  who  is  otherwise  normal,  does 
have  one  special  form  of  madness — a  tendency  at  certain  times  to  believe 
she's  a  quizmaster  and  I'm  a  contestant.  After  years  of  marriage  I've  found 
that  if  I  play  along  seriously  for  five  or  ten  minutes  the  madness  passes  and 
she  resumes  her  role  as  a  housewife  again.  So,  I  furrowed  my  brow,  wiped 
some  imaginary  sweat  off  it  with  a  handkerchief,  and  tried  to  come  up  with 
the  answer.  This  quiz  was  definitely  not  fixed  and  I  was  in  deep  trouble.  I 
tried  to  visualize  the  hundreds  of  photos  I'd  seen  of  Liz  and  Eddie  in  New- 
York  when  they  spent  their  first  notorious  week  end  at  Grossingers.  Was  it 
last  vear,  or  the  year  before?  Were  they  wearing  overcoats?  Was  it  March 
or  September?  Lives  and  loves  change  so  quickly  in  Hollywood  it's  almost 
impossible  to  keep  track,  and  yesterday  usually  seems  like  a  million  years 
ago.  For  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  remember. 

"Your  time  is  up,"  she  said,  handing  me  a  dusty  copy  of  Modern  Screen 
which  had  a  picture  of  Debbie  and  Eddie  on  the  cover  and,  in  large  black 
type,  the  historic  words  WHY  EDDIE  WALKED  OUT  ON  DEBBIE.  The 
date  on  the  magazine  was  July,  1955. 

"Seems  like  walking  out  on  Debbie  wTas  an  old  established  custom  with 
Mr.  Fisher."  said  my  wife.  "Even  before  thev  wTere  married.  Look." 

She  opened  to  the  article  and  there  it  was — all  the  postponed  wedding 
plans,  the  hassles  with  business  managers,  the  problems,  the  uncountable 
problems  that  Debbie  and  Eddie,  not  yet  married,  were  already  facing — or 
perhaps  I  should  say  running  awTay  from.  "The  seeds  of  future  tragedy," 
I  intoned  in  my  most  philosophical  voice,  "were  planted  from  the  very 
beginning." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  seeds,"  said  Astrid,  "but  I  do  know1  we've  got 
to  find  those  Christmas  decorations.  Now  hurry  up  and  start  looking.  I  hear 
the  kids."  And  off  she  ran  to  the  children's  room,  leaving  me  sitting  there 
alone  marveling  at  the  supernatural  ability  mothers  have  to  hear  the  cries 
of  their  children  no  matter  how  far  away  they  are  or  how  many  doors  and 
walls  are  shut  between  them.  The  ability  to  listen  with  their  hearts.  I  found 
myself  wondering  whether  trained  baby  nurses  (w?e'd  never  had  one)  could 
also  listen  with  their  hearts,  and  I  decided  that  probably  they  couldn't,  and 
then  I  found  myself  thinking  of  all  those  mothers  in  Hollywood  who,  like 
Debbie,  had  to  hire  nurses  to  bring  up  their  children,  competent  efficient 
nurses  who  could  do  everything  for  the  children  except,  perhaps,  listen  with 
their  hearts. 

Suddenly  the  top  of  my  head  began  to  itch.  Now  when  the  top  of  my  head 
begins  to  itch,  it  always  means  (except  in  mosquito  season)  that  I've  got  what 
the  Italians  call  "a  bad  thought."  I  tried  to  figure  it  out.  I'd  been  thinking 
about  Debbie,  or,  more  specifically,  about  her  children  Carrie  Frances  and 


Todd  Emanuel.  I  had  probably  been  feeling  a  little  sorry  for  them,  feeling 
that  my  own  kids,  David  and  Erika,  who  are  just  about  the  same  age  as 
Debbie's,  were  more  fortunate  because  at  that  moment  they  were  being 
diapered  and  dressed  by  their  own  mom.  I  guess,  to  be  perfectly  honest,  I 
was  congratulating  myself  that,  though  Debbie  was  rich  and  famous  and 
talented,  somehow  our  house  was  better  than  their  house.  And  the  more  I 
kept  thinking  of  this  the  harder  my  head  kept  itching  away,  obviously  trying 
to  tell  me  something. 

"Okay,  Head,"  I  said  finally,  "what's  bothering  you — I  mean  me?" 

To  which  my  Head  calmly  replied,  "That  thought  we  just  had  about  being 
better  off  than  someone  else  is  just  what  causes  so  much  tragedy  for  so  many 
people  in  Hollywood.  If  I  may  quote  from  the  Bible,  Pride  goeth  before  a 
fall.  Whosoever  shall  exalt  himself  shall  be  abased.  Now  you  see  those  old 
magazines,  well,  they're  not  exactly  Bibles  but  they  make  the  same  point. 
They're  filled  with  pictures  of  the  most  beautiful,  rich,  exalted,  proud  people 
in  the  world,  and  what  happens  to  these  people?  Pull  over  an  orange-crate, 
make  yourself  comfortable,  and  take  a  look.  .  .  ." 

For  more  than  an  hour  I  sat  there  in  the  chilly  cellar  turning  through  hun- 
dreds of  dusty  pages  of  Life  in  Hollywood  in  the  decade  that  is  almost  over 
now — the  decade  of  the  Fifties.  I  heard  again  Ingrid  Bergman's  anguished 
cry,  "I'm  not  a  saint,  I'm  human!"  as  she  carried  the  baby  of  Roberto  Ros- 
sellini  safe  in  her  womb  against  the  outrage  of  a  shocked  world.  I  looked 
again  at  the  joyous  faces  of  "perfect  couples"  like  Liz  Taylor  and  Nicky 
Hilton  uniting  in  "ideal  marriages"  doomed  to  wither  and  die  overnight. 
I  read  again  all  the  sad  sordid  details  in  the  lives  of  Rita,  Lana,  and  Ava, 
the  triple  goddesses  of  the  post-war  years,  the  most  envied  women  in  the 
world,  setting  their  feet  on  paths  leading  to  heartbreak,  murder,  and  lonely 
exile.  I  shuddered  again  as  Judy  Garland  in  her  twenty-seventh  year,  the 
girl  I  had  fallen  in  love  with  when  she  was  Dorothy  in  The  Wizard  of  Oz, 
put  a  knife  to  her  throat  and  slashed  herself  in  an  agony  of  unknown  despair. 
And  again  and  again  I  paused  at  pictures  of  a  girl  who  really  had  every- 
thing, not  only  fame,  fortune,  beauty  and  a  distinguished  husband  but  the 
rarer  advantage  of  having  been  born  into  a  home  of  taste,  culture  and 
refinement,  a  girl  named  Gene  Tierney  who  in  1950  was  acknowledged  by 
Modern  Screen  as  the  best-dressed  star  in  Hollywood  and  who  this  past 
October  was  discovered  (at  the  age  of  37)  working  as  a  sales  clerk  in  a 
clothing  shop  in  Topeka,  Kansas.  I  looked  and  nodded,  beginning  to  under- 
stand, when  suddenly  my  head  began  to  itch  again. 

"Here  we  go,  with  that  same  old  bad  thought,"  said  my  Head,  "congratu- 
lating ourselves  that,  though  we've  had  our  little  problems,  we've  never 


In  1955,  Hollywood  worried  about  Susan  Hayward's  sleeping-pill  suicide  try. 

But  it  was  an  age 
when  our  luckiest  and 

most  glamorous  people 
got  into  the  worst  troubles. 


In  1958,  the  world  worried  about  a  murder  by  Lana  Turner's  daughter  Cheryl. 


really  hit  bottom.  It's  almost  Christmas  and  we're  forgetting  one  of  the 
profund  truths  He  left  us — that  suffering  is  ennobling,  that  He  who 
would  save  his  life  must  first  lose  it.  Do  you  see  that  picture  of  Frank 
Sinatra  on  page  45?" 

I  turned  to  page  45.  The  year  was  1951.  The  picture  was  a  pitiful  one, 
of  a  shell  of  a  man  walking  along  a  desolate  beach  in  autumn,  his  trousers 
rolled  up,  his  head  hanging  down  wearily  as  a  flower  at  the  end  of  autumn 
hangs  its  head  on  a  thin  dry  stem. 

"How  does  he  look?"  asked  my  Head. 

"Awful,"  I  had  to  admit. 

"Weight:  112.  Identifying  marks:  razor  scars  on  wrist.  Marital  status: 
lousy.  Mental  attitude:  extremely  lousy.  Career:  a  total  washout.  Future?" 

"Absolutely,  positively  brilliant,"  I  answered.  "But  if  you're  trying  to 
tell  me  that  Frank  Sinatra  suddenly  became  a  great  actor  and  a  great  singer 
because  he  had  fallen  so  low,  well.  .  .  ." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  said  a  strangely  familiar,  high-pitched 
voice,  and  I  looked  up  to  see  my  wife  standing  on  the  cellar  stairs,  staring  at 
me  incredulously  and  scratching  her  head. 

"Do  you  know  why  your  head  itches?"  I  said. 

"Now  I  know  you're  crazy.  Do  you  realize  I've  been  standing  here  for 
ten  minutes  and  all  you've  been  doing  is  mumbling  to  yourself?  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  what  have  you  been  doing?" 

"It  so  happens,"  I  smiled,  "that  I've  been  making  a  study  of  life  in 
Hollywood  in  the  1950's,  so  that  the  next  time  you  start  in  with  one  of  your 
ridiculous  quizzes  you  won't  be  dealing  with  any  lunkhead — at  least  in  that 
category.  Go  on,"  I  said,  "ask  me  a  question.  Anything." 

I  knew  I  had  her  then.  Her  frown  disappeared,  that  well-known  mad- 
ness lit  up  her  eyes  gaily,  she  came  down  the  steps  and,  using  an  old  broom 
for  a  microphone,  said,  "Your  first  question  is  state  the  important  events  in 
Hollywood  by  years,  beginning  with  the  year  1950.  You  have  exactly 
six  minutes." 

Well,  with  an  unorganized  bean  like  mine  that  couldn't  even  remember 
when  Debbie  married  Eddie,  I  knew  she'd  stumped  me  again.  Then  sud- 
denly I  realized  that  in  the  inside  pocket  of  my  jacket  was  a  carbon  copy  of 
an  excellent,  informed  article  Louella  Parsons  had  just  written  for  Modern 
Screens  Hollywood  Yearbook,  in  which  Louella  had,  among  the  many 
interesting  things  she  had  to  say,  listed  the  important  events  of  the  Fifties 
year  by  year.  A  wild  thought  came  upon  me.  "It  just  so  happens,"  I  lied, 
that  I  knew  you  were  going  to  ask  that  question  and  so,  for  the  sake  of 
time,  I've  written  down  my  answers."  At  which  point  I  took  out  the  article, 
moved  back  aways  so  she  could  not  see  that  it  was  a  typed  carbon,  and 
coolly  began  to  shoot  the  answers  to  her. 


We  were  constantly  being 
shocked,  constantly  being 
asked  to  forgive,  and 
constantly  forgiving. 


1950.  The  world  ostracized  Ingrid  Bergman 
when  she  fell  in  love  with  Roberto  Rossellini. 


But  when  she  came  to  claim  her  Oscar  in  1956,  a  forgiving  public  welcomed  her  back. 

CLAIM  BAG  GAG 

I  if'XSt 

itescnYOU 


1950:  The  Ingrid  Bergman- Roberto  Rossellini  love  story  set  the  world 

on  fire — particularly  after  the  birth  of  their  love  child,  Robertino. 

No.  2  Passion  was  Ava  Gardner  and  Frank  Sinatra,  so  explosive  in  their 
romance  that  Nancy  Sinatra  was  forced  to  file  for  divorce. 

Whispers  were  strong  that  Rita  Hayworth  and  Aly  Khan  were  tired  of 
marriage  and — each  other. 

Shirley  Temple  admits  she  is  in  love  with  San  Francisco  business  man 
Charles  Black  and  will  marry  him  following  her  disillusioning  divorce 
from  John  Agar. 

Elizabeth  Taylor  says  "I  Do"  to  hotel  scion,  Nicky  Hilton  Jr.,  in  what 
the  newspapers  hail  as.  "a  story  book"  wedding  in  Beverly  Hills. 
Clark  Gable  elopes  with  Lady  Sylvia  Ashley. 
Cary  Grant  and  Betsy  Drake  marry. 

The  Oscars  were  won  by  Judy  Holliday  in  Born  Yesterday  and  Jose 
Ferrer  for  Cyrano  de  Bergerac. 

1951:  Dawns  sadly  with  the  death  of  Dixie  Lee  Crosby  from  lingering 
malignancy. 

Elizabeth  Taylor  and  Nicky  Hilton  end  five  months  of  marriage. 

Lana  Turner  and  Bob  Topping  divorce. 

Frank  Sinatra  marries  Ava  Gardner. 

Carlton  Carpenter  is  the  "teenagers'  delight." 

Anne  Baxter  and  John  Hodiak  welcome  daughter,  Katrina. 

Errol  Flynn  marries  Patrice  Wymore. 

Marlon  Brando,  little  known  actor  from  Broadway,  arrives  to  start  his 
film  career. 

Oscars  are  won  by  Vivien  Leigh  in  Streetcar  Named  Desire  and  by  Hum- 
phrey Bogart  in  African  Queejn. 

1952:  Pia  Lindstrom  breaks  heart  of  mother  Ingrid  Bergman  with 
headline  statement:  "I  do  not  want  to  go  to  my  mother.  I  do  not  love  her. 
I  love  my  father." 

Battles  between  Ava  Gardner  and  Frank  Sinatra  hit  all  gossip  columns. 

Shirley  Temple  nearly  dies  in  birth  of  son  at  Bethesda  Naval  Hospital. 
Maryland,  where  Lt.  Charles  Black  is  stationed. 

Asphalt  Jungle  in  general  release  has  made  a  new  star  of  a  blonde,  pouty 
girl  who  plays  just  a  bit — Marilyn  Monroe. 

Olivia  de  Havilland  and  Joan  Fontaine  continue  un-sisterly  feud. 

Oscars  are  won  by  Shirley  Booth  in  Come  Back,  Little  Sheba  and  by  Gaiy 
Cooper  in  High  Noon. 


1955.  The  teenagers  may  have  laughed,  but  Liberace  was  dear  to  the  hearts  of  a  million  middle-aged  ladies. 


Fortunately,  every 
year  brought  a 
new  fad... a 

new  character. . . 
a  new  laugh. 

1955's  hottest  fad,  Davy  Crockett. 


mam 

Some  snickered,  but  Jayne  Mansfield  and  her  muscle- 
man,  Mickey  Hargitay,  were  made  for  each  other. 


1953:  Rita  Hayworth  marries  Dick  Haymes  in  Las  Vegas.  Says, 
"This  marriage  will  stick." 

Rumors  out  of  Africa  are  that  Clark  Gable  (divorced  from  Lady  Ashley) 
and  pretty  newcomer  Grace  Kelly  are  "in  love"  on  location  on  Mogambo. 

Olivia  de  Havilland  marries  Paris  magazine  journalist  Pierre  Galante. 

Beautiful  Suzan  Ball  saddens  hearts  of  fans  by  having  a  leg  amputated 
because  of  cancer. 

Elizabeth  Taylor  and  new  husband  Michael  Wilding  on  Stork's  list. 

The  Gregory  Pecks  end  their  marriage.  Rumors  that  Greg  will  marry 
Veronique  Passani. 

Bing  Crosby's  dates  with  Mona  Freeman  stir  up  much  talk.  But  everyone 
convinced  Bing  will  never  marry  again. 

Big  news  of  the  Oscars  this  year  is  that  "best  support"  is  won  by  Frank 
Sinatra,  launching  him  on  brilliant  acting  career. 

1954:  Debbie  Reynolds  gives  up  dating  Robert  Wagner  and  starts 
dating  Eddie  Fisher.  (Heaven  help  us  all!) 

Marilyn  Monroe  and  Joe  di  Maggio  in  bombshell  divorce  after  short 
marriage.   Marilyn  starts  kicking  up  heels  on  contracts. 

Pier  Angeli  and  Vic  Damone  marry  despite  belief  that  Pier  was  very 
much  in  love  with  new  rage,  James  Dean,  of  East  of  Eden  fame. 

Beloved  Lionel  Barrymore  passes. 

Robert  Taylor  marries  Ursula  Theiss  after  a  divorce  and  13  years  of 
marriage  to  Barbara  Stanwyck. 

Peter  Lawford,  new  "teenagers'  delight,"  marries  Patricia  Kennedy, 
daughter  of  former  Ambassador  to  England,  Joseph  Kennedy,  and  sister  of 
Senator  John  Kennedy. 

John  Wayne  and  Pilar  Pallette  wed  in  Honolulu. 

Tyrone  Power  and  Linda  Christian  divorce.  Ditto  Susan  Hayward  and 
Jess  Barker,  both  couples  with  much  bitterness. 

Grace  Kelly  soars  to  stardom  in  The  Country  Girl  for  which  she  wins  an 
Oscar.  Marlon  Brando  wins  for  the  males  in  On  the  Waterfront. 

Hottest  box  office  attractions  in  Hollywood:  Marlon  Brando,  Grace 
Kelly,  and  James  Dean. 

1955:  Liberace,  the  rage  of  the  TV  screen,  makes  his  screen  debut  in 
the  financially  disastrous  Sincerely  Yours,  proving  that  the  public  won't 
pay  to  see  what  it  can  get  free  on  TV. 

Mario  Lanza  starts  a  series  of  explosive  headlines  having  nervous- 
breakdown  tantrums  at  the  New  Frontier  Hotel  in  Las  Vegas.  His  entire 
career  is  imperiled. 


1952:  Brando  is  first  beat.  1955:  Jimmy  Dean,  the  loneliest  beat,  dies  in  a  race  car  crash. 
1959:  Sixteen-year-old  Tuesday's  Queen  of  beats. 


No  one  seemed  to  know 

whether  to  take 
the  beat  generation 

seriously  or  not.  In 
time  everyone  did. 


Joan  Crawford  elopes  with  soft  drink  tycoon  Al  Steele  to  Las  Vegas. 
Clark  Gable  marries  Kay  Williams  Spreckles. 

John  Hodiak  dies  suddenly  of  heart  attack  in  home.  His  divorced  wife 
Anne  Baxter  and  their  child,  griefstricken. 

Warner  Bros,  and  Columbia  Studios  start  own  TV  productions.  Warners 
producing  such  top  Westerns  as  Maverick  with  sensationally  popular  James 
Garner  and  Columbia  sets  up  successful  Screen  Gems  productions. 

Rock  Hudson  marries  Phyllis  Gates  in  Santa  Barbara. 

Mike  Todd,  brash  young  producer,  signs  up  such  top  stars  as  Ronald 
Colman,  Marlene  Dietrich  for  his  Around  The  World  In  80  Days  which  he's 
filming  in  his  new  Todd-AO  process. 

James  Dean  tragically  killed  in  race-car  accident  setting  off  a  mass 
hysteria  of  juvenile  mourning.  And  the  influence  of  this  moody,  introspec- 
tive young  idol  is  to  live  on  after  him.  He  was  perhaps  the  first  of  'the 
angry  young  men'  and  the  'beatnik'  type. 

Oscars  won  by  Ernest  Borgnine  in  Marty  and  Anna  Magnani  in  Rose 
Tattoo. 

1956:  The  year  Elvis  Presley  arrives  in  Hollywood  to  make  his  first 
picture  Love  Me  Tender  for  20th  Century-Fox. 

Business  world  startled  when  major  companies  begin  to  sell  backlogs 
of  old  films  to  arch  rival  TV.  Most  spectacular  deal — Warner  Bros,  sale 
of  750  motion  pictures  to  TV  for  $21,000,000.  Later,  Paramount  and 
MGM  follow  this  lead — which  I  feel  was  one  of  the  big  mistakes  of  film 
history.  Old  movies  on  TV  became  the  greatest  rival  of  new  movies  in 
theaters! 

Biggest  romantic  news  of  years:  Grace  Kelly  announces  engagement  to 
Prince  Rainier  of  Monaco. 

Pregnant  Debbie  Reynolds  (now  Mrs.  Eddie  Fisher)  sings  Tammy 
and  sets  off  the  biggest  record  sale  in  years. 

Dean  Martin  and  Jerry  Lewis  explode  as  a  comedy  team  and  part  in 
bitterness. 

Marilyn  Monroe  marries  Arthur  Miller  in  White  Plains,  New  York. 
Debbie  and  Eddie  welcome  a  daughter,  Carrie  Frances. 
Elizabeth  Taylor  tells  world  she's  passionately  in  love  with  Mike  Todd 
and  will  marry  him  when  free  of  Mike  Wilding! 


But  the  biggest  story  of  the 

fifties  was  the  eternal 
triangle  to  beat  all  eternal 
triangles. 


THE  FABULOUS  FIFTIES 

Continued. 


1957:  Howard  Hughes,  all-time  bachelor  prize,  marries  Jean  Peters  so 
secretly  (I  have  the  world  scoop  on  this)  that  no  one  yet  has  been  able  to 
find  out  where  or  when  it  even  occurred. 

Humphrey  Bogart  dies  early  in  year — and  his  likes  won't  be  seen  again 
soon. 

A  Princess  born  to  former  Grace  Kelly  and  Prince  Rainier.  Tne  arrival 
of  Princess  Caroline  the  most  publicized  birth  of  any  baby  next  to  Prince 
Charles,  son  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

Liz  Taylor  and  Mike  Todd  marry  in  Acapulco,  Mexico,  with  Eddie 
Fisher  serving  as  best  man  and  "Liz's  best  friend,  Debbie  Reynolds," 
also  present. 

Lana  Turner  and  Lex  Barker  divorce. 

Frank  Sinatra  and  Lauren  Bacall  rumored  "engaged." 

Roberto  Rossellini,  Ingrid  Bergman's  husband,  in  scandal  with  East 
Indian  charmer,  Sonali  das  Gupta. 

Marlon  Brando  marries  Anna  Kashfi. 

The  Gene  Kellys  part  after  17  years  of  marriage. 

Marie  MacDonald  kidnapped!  (?) 

Surprise  of  Surprises:  Bing  Crosby  marries  Kathy  Grant  in  Las  Vegas! 
Film  tycoon  L.  B.  Mayer  dies. 

1958:  Knife  stabbing  of  underworld  figure  Johnny  Stompanato  by  Lana 
Turner's  14-year-old  daughter,  Cheryl,  shocks  world. 

Mike  Todd's  plane  crashes  in  fiery  blaze  over  New  Mexico  widowing 
Elizabeth  Taylor. 

Son  born  to  Kathy  Grant  and  Bing  Crosby.  Also  to  Marlon  Brando  and 
Anna  Kashfi. 

Joanne  Woodward  and  Paul  Newman  wed  in  Las  Vegas. 
Rita  Haywortn  marries  Jim  Hill  in  Las  Vegas. 
French  Brigitte  Bardot's  films  rock  American  box  offices. 
Debbie  and  Eddie  welcome  a  son. 
Tycoon  (Columbia)  Harry  Cohn  dies. 
Rock  Hudson  and  Phyllis  Gates  separate. 

Tyrone  Power  marries  Debbie  Minardos,  dies  6  months  later  in  Spain. 
Marlon  Brando-Anna  Kashfi  separate. 

Deborah  Kerr  and  Tony  Bartley  end  marriage  of  many  years  sensationally 
with  Bartley  charging  his  wife's  affections  "pirated"  by  scripter  Peter  Viertel. 

Ingrid  Bergman  scorns  Rossellini — tells  world  she  will  marry  Lars 
Schmidt.  (Continued  on  page  72 ) 


BY  KIRTLEY  BASKETTE 


INTRODUCING 

THE 

KINGSTON  TRIO 

SEXTETTE 


Dave  Guard 


Gretchen  Guard        Bob  Shane 


Louise  Shane        Nick  Reynolds 


Joan  Reynolds 


Friday,  the  thirteenth  of  last 
March,  tailed  off  with  a  storm 
over  the  town  of  Goshen,  Indi- 
ana. Late  season  blasts  from 
Lake  Michigan  whipped  a  murky 
sky  and  batted  a  chartered  Beech- 
craft  plane  around  like  a  bad- 
minton bird.  Inside,  while  the 
pilot  fought  the  controls,  three 
fairly  beat  rah-rah  types,  named 
Dave  Guard,  Nick  Reynolds  and 
Bob  Shane,  rattled  around, 
among  a  jumble  of  guitars,  ban- 
jos and  bongo  drums  like  beans 
in  an  over-sized  maraca. 

The  Kingston  Trio  was  fresh 
from  a  swing-ding  at  Notre 
Dame    University,    headed  for 


their  next  one-nighter,  and  the 
situation  was  normal— which  is 
to  say— desperate. 

In  this  clutch,  two  of  the 
striped-shirted  troubadours  re- 
laxed :  Stubby,  needle-nosed  Nick 
("the  Runt  of  the  Litter") 
closed  his  baby-blue  eyes,  curled 
up  and  snored  peacefully.  Brain- 
busy,  stringbean  Dave  ("Our 
Acknowledged  Leader")  fended 
off  flying  missiles  with  one  hand 
and  thoughtfully  polished  a  new 
routine  with  the  other.  Only  the 
usually  jolly  boy,  curly  mopped 
Bob  ("Our  Sex-Symbol")  sweat- 
ed it  out. 

Every  minute  or  so  he  leaned 


over  the  pilot,  breathing  hard 
down  his  neck.  "How  we  doin'?'" 

"In  this  weather?"  Bob  got  a 
glance  almost  as  dirty  as  the 
clouds.  "Just  great— gas  low,  gen- 
erator out,  visibility  zero— and 
South  Bend  says  we  can't  come 
back  in !" 

"I  got  to  get  down,"  said  Bob. 

"Doesn't  everyone?  You  took 
the  words  right  out  of  my 
mouth !" 

They  got  down— blind.  They 
ticked  power  lines,  skimmed 
roofs  and  clipped  trees,  finally 
skidded  to  a  stop  in  a  farmer's 
pasture,  scattering  a  flock  of 
frozen  {Continued  on  page  52) 


turkeys  like  ten-pins.  "Now,  Buster," 
sighed  the  flyboy,  "Tell  me — what's  your 
big  sweat?" 

Bobby  Shane  grinned.  "Well,  tomor- 
row"— he  glanced  at  his  watch — "yeah, 
tomorrow,  I'm  getting  married  in  Washing- 
ton, D.C."  The  pilot  grunted  congratula- 
tions, the  fact  that  Washington  was  almost 
a  thousand  miles  away  and  he  sincerely 
hoped  Bob  made  it. 

If  he'd  known  the  hi-balling  Kingston 
Trio  better  that  skeptical  crack  was  hardly 
worth  the  breath  it  took  to  utter.  Bobby 
Shane  made  it  to  the  altar  on  time,  of 
course,  and  with  him  Dave  Guard  and 
Nick  Reynolds,  who  wouldn't  have  missed 
the  fun  for  anything.  To  get  there  from 
the  turkey  patch  they  hiked  to  town,  com- 
mandeered a  car,  drove  all  day,  played 
their  date  that  night,  then  hopped  for  the 
Capital,  arriving  at  3:00  a.m.  That  after- 
noon all  were  sharp  for  the  joyous  rites. 
But  next  morning — the  groom  was  rousted 
out  of  his  nuptial  bed  at  six  to  take  off 
once  more.  And  his  pretty  Dixie  bride 
didn't  lay  eyes  on  him  for  a  full  month! 

For  the  Kingston  Trio,  such  risks  and 
rigors  of  big  time  barnstorming,  mixed 
with  richer  rewards,  have  been  par  for 
the  course — ever  since  Tom  Dooley  sent 
them  winging  a  little  over  a  year  ago. 

Going  for  broke  with  a  dream 

In  that  time  they've  hustled  over  150,000 
miles  to  meet  the  demand  for  their  clean 
cut  folk-and-rhythm  harmonies,  witty 
cut-ups  and  quips.  They've  played  over  a 
hundred  college  campuses,  almost  as  many 
clubs,  fairs  and  theaters,  and  missed  only 
one  date.  To  make  it,  they've  scrambled 
by  train,  plane,  boat,  bus,  truck,  hack, 
and — as  Dave  Guard  puts  it — "If  they'll 
bring  over  some  coolies  we'll  go  by  rick- 
shaw." Along  the  way,  they've  sweltered 
and  frozen,  slept  standing  up  and  gulped 
vitamins  like  jelly  beans  to  keep  going. 
Often  they've  worked  eighteen  hours  out 
of  twenty-four  and  started  all  over  again 
after  a  couple  for  shut-eye. 

But  they've  also  had  packed  houses  wait 
three  hours  to  hear  them  sing,  after  some- 
thing broke  down,  as  happened  last  year 
in  Lawrence,  Kansas.  At  Indiana  U.,  just 
the  other  day,  tickets  vanished  one  hour 
after  they  went  on  sale  for  a  date  two 
months  ahead.  Right  now  they're  booked 
ahead  solid  until  next  May.  What  with 
albums,  gold  records,  TV,  clubs  and  one 
nighters,  Nick,  Bob  and  Dave  will  rack 
up  a  cool  million  this  year  for  their  pipes 
and  patter  and  they'll  top  that  in  '60. 

Yet,  their  really  important  payoff — 
which  Dave  Guard,  Nick  Reynolds  and 
Bob  Shane  gratefully  recognize — is  some- 
thing you  can't  measure  in  tax  brackets 
or  fickle  fame.  A  good  sample  is  just  what 
happened  that  March  15th  in  Washington 
when  Bob  made  beautiful  Louise  Brandon 
his  bride,  with  his  pals  standing  by.  That 
day  playboy  Bob,  last  bachelor  of  the 
bunch,  snugged  down  meaning,  at  last, 
for  his  young  life — and  the  Kingston  Trio 
became  the  Kingston  Sextette.  Today, 
three  wives  named  Gretchen  Guard,  Joan 
Reynolds  and  Louise  Shane  are  helping 
build  three  purposeful  lives  with  three 
once  aimless,  knockaround  guys.  But  that 
wouldn't  have  happened  if  the  boys  hadn't 
teamed  up  first  and  gone  for  broke  with 
a  dream.  And  that's  not  all — 

"There's  no  doubt  about  it,"  states  Bob 
Shane  flatly.  "We've  all  been  good  for 
each  other.  By  getting  together  this  Trio 
has  solved  the  emotional  problems  of  three 
fairly  mixed-up  guys." 

"Face  it,"  confirms  Dave  Guard.  "We 
were  a  bunch  of  wild  hairs  pointing  in  all 
directions  until  we  tied  into  this  chal- 
lenge." 

"Yes,  sir,"  argues  Nick  Reynolds.  "How 
many  fellows  really  know  what  they  want 
52  to  do  when  they  get  out  of  school?  None 


of  us  did.  Mostly,  you  want  to  make  a 
living  doing  what  you  like,  and  the  big 
dream  is  to  do  it  with  your  pals.  Man, 
we  got  that  dream!  Whatever  happens 
later  on,  these  two  years  have  filled  a  gap 
with  something  we'll  always  prize,  when 
we  might  have  just  goofed  off,  fumbling 
around  alone." 

All  these  reflections,  of  course,  refer  to 
the  days — only  a  brief  spell  ago — when 
Dave,  Nick  and  Bob  were  fresh  out  of 
Stanford  University  and  Menlo  College, 
respectively,  wondering  what  next.  At 
that  point,  about  all  they  owned  in  com- 
mon was  an  education,  good  looks,  plenty 
of  pizazz  and  obvious  talents  for  making 
music.  Now  and  then  they  did,  and  as 
long  as  people  cheered  and  gave  them 
plenty  of  beer  to  drink  they  were  happy — 
or  so  they  pretended.  But  underneath  each 
nursed  a  private  puzzler  that  you'd  never 
suspect.  And  all  were  putting  off  the  an- 
swers. 

Take  big  Dave  Guard:  Then,  as  now, 
dapper  Dave  seemed  to  have  the  world 
right  by  the  tail.  Six-foot-three,  hand- 
some and  smart  as  a  whip,  Dave  trailed 
nothing  but  honors,  accomplishments  and 
popularity  in  his  wake.  Talents?  You 
name  them;  Dave  had  them.  Athlete,  judo 
expert,  honor  student,  campus  activity 
leader,  money  maker,  top  musician  and 
dynamite  with  the  girls,  you'd  say  gradu- 
ate student  Dave  was  Stanford's  man 
most  likely  to  smell  sweet  success.  "Of 
course,  I'm  prejudiced,"  sighs  his  pretty 
blonde  wife,  Gretchen,  today,  "but  I  think 
Dave's  close  to  being  a  genius."  She  isn't 
the  first  to  figure  that  way. 

Says  Bobby  Shane,  who  grew  up  with 
Dave  in  Hawaii  and  went  to  the  same 
school,  Punahou,  "Dave  was  always  two 
jumps  ahead  of  everyone  in  everything. 
He  was  a  natural  brain.  His  grades  were 
always  terrific  and  so  was  everything  else 
about  him." 

Dave  had  a  degree  in  Business  Admin- 
istration.   "But  what  business?    I  didn't 


tM  !  I  I  I  I  I  !  !  !  I  !  I  I  1  I  I  I  I  I  M I  I  I  t 

;     Steve    McQueen:    I    don't    talk  - 
■numbly.    People  listen  mumbly. 

Sidney  Skolsky  - 

in  the  New  York  Post  ~ 

n  1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 


know,"  he  admits.  "Business  is  such  a 
nebulous  word.  I  wanted  to  make  the 
right  move  because,  you  see,  I've  always 
wanted  security."  That's  not  too  original 
an  urge  these  days,  but  in  Dave  Guard's 
case  it  traces  way  back. 

When  he  was  only  seven,  Dave's  world 
literally  went  up  in  smoke.  That  was 
Sunday,  December  7.  1941.  Red-balled  Jap 
planes  buzzed  down  to  the  rooftops  of  a 
new  housing  tract  at  Hickam  Field  and, 
as  he  watched  in  terror,  sprayed  bullets 
all  around  him  and  set  the  place  on  fire. 
Dave,  an  only  child,  lived  there  because 
his  dad  was  a  reserve  colonel  who  worked, 
and  still  does,  for  the  Army  Engineers. 
After  the  Pearl  Harbor  debacle  they 
evacuated  Dave  and  his  mom  to  the 
States. 

That  gave  a  jolt  to  his  security,  for  sure, 
but  even  after  he  came  back,  "wearing 
shoes,"  young  Donald  David  Guard  rattled 
around  Honolulu  pretty  much  on  his  own 
without  a  normal  home  life.  His  mother, 
Marjorie,  was  secretary  to  the  Commander 
of  Military  Air  Transport  and  away  all 
day.  Dave  was  placed  in  private  school 
and  "my  parents  gave  me  carte  blanche 
long  ago."  He  used  his  independence  pok- 
ing into  everything  and  every  place,  often 
with  his  classmate,  Bob  Shane. 

One  favorite  spot  was  Waikiki  Beach, 
where  every  Island  kid  bangs  a  ukelele 
between  rides  on  the  rollers.  "You  get  an 


awful  good  crack  at  musical  styles 
Hawaii,"  says  Dave  today.  "South 
Japanese,  Chinese  and  good  old  Amer 
jazz — the  whole  melting  pot."  With  ] 
he  was  sopping  it  all  up  and  sendin 
out,  kid  style,  summers  and  after  set 
which  to  Dave  soon  became  somewha 
a  bore.  At  Punahou  High  he  ran  the 
880  and  hurdles,  played  end  on  the  f 
ball  team,  starred  in  a  variety  show 
banged  out  his  island  folk  songs. 

"I  liked  all  that,"  he  remembers.  "It 
a  bid  for  popularity."  But  classwork 
brilliant  Dave  Guard  was  too  easy  to  1 
his  interest.  "I  figured  nothing  was  I 
penins,"  he  says.  "I  wanted  to  get  aw; 
specifically  back  to  the  States.  Honolv 
fine  but  it's  only  eighty  miles  around 
Island.  I  still  get  nervous  when  I  sta; 
one  place  more  than  three  weeks,"  g 
Dave.  "That's  why  this  life  I've  got  ] 
is  my  dish.  Travel's  exciting  to  me." 

Dave's  deal  with  the  folks 

In  his  junior  year  at  Punahou,  E 
made  a  deal  with  his  folks  to  earn  ! 
his  expenses  if  they  sent  him  State 
to  Menlo  Park  prep.  He  piled  up  his 
— $1000 — greaseballing  in  a  service  sta 
and  diving  for  coral.  But  at  Menlo,  pi 
ping  for  Stanford,  it  was  the  same 
story.  Bored  with  work  that  came 
easy,  Dave  started  messing  around  i 
six  months  before  graduation,  got  boun 
out  of  school  for  "an  incident  involvin 
bottle  of  vodka."  But  he  stuck  aroi 
Menlo  Park  with  another  service  stai 
job  and  they  let  them  come  back  for 
finals.  He  graduated  in  a  breeze 
walked  right  into  Stanford. 

Now,  Stanford  University  is  no  joyi 
for  anyone,  not  even  a  brain  like  D 
Guard.  But  to  show  you  what  a  real  ( 
head  can  do:   Dave  fell  out  of  a  sea 
story  window  of  his  frat  house  the  i 
confused  week  end  and  broke  his  b 
on  the  pavement  below.  They  shipped  1 
to  Honolulu  and  he  lost  his  whole  f 
year.   Even  with  that  setback,  he  gra< 
ated  in  three  years,  taking  sometimes 
units  and  hitting  A's  and  B's.  He  worl 
all   his   way    through— hashing   at  gi 
dorms,   gardening,   janitoring   in  the 
brary,  moving  furniture  and  pumping  j 
But  he  still  had  time  to  staff  on  the  hur 
magazine,  Chapparal.  write  songs  for 
Stanford    Gaieties,    win    the  Sigma 
Award  for  "greatest  contribution  to 
house"  and  pin  a  collection  of  cam] 
queens! 

It's  no  wonder  Dave  Guard  took  on 
graduate  School  of  Business  with 
greatest  confidence  although  he  had  o 
$3  to  start.  By  that  time,  he  had  anoti 
more  interesting  racket  to  earn  his  cal 
With  Bobby  Shane,  only  a  mile  away 
Menlo  Business  College,  he  harmoni 
for  $15  a  night  at  parties  and  Stanf< 
off-campus  hangouts  like  Rossotti's  i 
The  Cracked  Pot.  But  Dave  still  packed 
one  big  nagging  question  mark:  Where 
I  really  headed?  "I  had  no  real  idea," 
says.  "I  figured  I'd  just  try  to  play  i 
cards  right  and  something  would  take  c; 
of  me.  How  vague  could  you  be?" 

Bob's  a  real  Kamaaina 

By  then  Bob  Shane  had  an  equa 
opaque  view  of  his  future  but  for  differ* 
reasons.  Bobby  knew  what  he  wanted 
do  and  had  for  a  long  time.  But  it  did 
figure  out  with  him — or  his  family.  "S( 
sort  of  rebelled,"  he  says,  "and  I  got 
mixed-up,  acted  pretty  bad  for  a  whi 
too." 

Like  Dave,  Bobby's  Hawaiian  born  a 
bred — only  more  so.  His  great-grandfath 
came  over  as  a  missionary  back  in  Ki 
Kamehameha's  day,  so  Bob's  a  fourt 
generation  Islander  or,  as  they  say  ov 
there,  a  real  Kamaaina.  The  Shanes  are) 
Irish;  they're  German  and  it  started  o 


hoen,  which  means  beautiful — "and 
it's  just  why  we  changed  it,"  chuckles 
bby.  Anyway,  the  Shanes  prospered 
d  when  Bobby  came  along  twenty-five 
ars  ago,  just  like  Dave — Art  Shane,  his 
I,  ran  the  flourishing  family  firm.  Ath- 
ic  Supply  of  Hawaii.  Curiously,  that 
•ned  out  to  be  Bob's  trouble — or  one  of 
;m  at  least.  He  was  expected  to  carry 
in  the  business,  but  he  just  didn't  fit 
:  pattern. 

vlaybe  he'd  eaten  too  much  poi  as  a  kid 
jut  somehow  easy  going  Bob  liked  the 
■laka  idea  of  letting  life  ripple  through 
a  pleasantly,  and  no  sweat.  At  Punahou 
was  good  in  track,  basketball,  the  glee 
b  and  school  operettas,  but  his  sad  re- 
•t  card  usually  kicked  up  a  rumble  at 
ne.  In  preference  to  books,  Bobby  liked 
:  sun  and  surf  at  Waikiki,  the  native 
.us,  plunking  a  guitar  and  singing.  And, 
en  grown  up  a  bit,  he  too  frequently 
ed  a  cool  can  of  beer.  Long  before  Dave 
Nick  turned  pro  Bobby  Shane  was  play- 

5  singles  around  Honolulu  night  spots, 

6  having  himself  a  ball. 

Jot  a  while  his  folks  didn't  get  too  nerv- 
s.  thinking  he'd  settle  down,  like  his 
er  brother.  And  that  was  another  thing: 
b's  brother  liked  business,  worked  hard 
i  finally  built  up  a  booming  electronics 
n  of  his  own.  The  contrast  hatched  a 
emotional  bug:  Bobby  sensed  his  par- 
s' disappointment  in  him  and  tension 
unted.  But  it  didn't  blow  off  until  later 

?oth  Bobby  Shane's  parents  had  gone 
Stanford  and  his  brother  to  Menlo. 
ey  hoped  Bob  would  follow  in  their 
tsteps  and  shipped  him  off  to  Menlo 
-k  prep,  after  Punahou.  But  it  was 
tty  obvious  that  Bobby's  marks  would 
•er  rate  Stanford.  Each  time  he  flew 
ne  for  Christmas  or  summers,  the  out- 
k  seemed  grimmer  and  sometimes  there 
re  scenes.  It  let  his  folks  down  some- 
at  when  he  enrolled  in  Menlo  College 
:t,  but  at  least  he  took  on  Business  Ad- 
listration.  A  dim  hope  flickered  that 
d  wind  up  running  the  Athletic  Supply 
>.r  all. 

■ut  even  studying  business  was  a  drag 
Bob.  "I  was  a  pretty  bad  boy  all 
DUgh  that  school,"  he  confesses.  "Had 
ot  of  eight  o'clock  classes,  but  some- 
9  I  couldn't  get  up  in  time  to  make 
m.  The  most  important  thing  that  hap- 
ed  to  me  there  was  getting  together 
singing  with  Dave  and  Nick," 
obby  missed  graduating  by  a  few 
iits,  kicked  around  San  Francisco  a 
le  trying  to  latch  on  as  a  single  in  one 
the  clubs  with  no  luck  and  finally — 
ted — took  out  for  home,  Dad  and  the 
jpe — a  prodigal's  return. 
But,"  sighs  Bob.  "I  lasted  at  the  Ath- 
:  Supply  just  one  week.  It  just  wasn't 
me.  I  couldn't  take  it."  That's  when 
and  Shane,  Sr.  had  some  stormy  argu- 
tts  and  Bob  blasted  off.  But  he  hugged 
uilt  complex  that  lasted,  underneath 
ly,  until  the  Kingston  Trio's  success 
.  ed  him  right. 

laughs  from  himself 

:>r  a  while,  Bobby  Shane  sharpened 
style  around  Honolulu's  night  clubs, 
Pearl  City  Tavern,  The  Clouds  and 
Yee  Chai's,  with  a  song  and  comedy 

ersonation  act  taking  off  on  Belafonte, 
s  Presley  and  the  other  greats.  He 
e  good  money  and  he  got  laughs  from 

-yone,   but  not   really  from  himself. 

letimes,  when  people  asked  Bob  how 
tabbed  his  own  singing  voice,  he'd 
hk  cynically,  'A  whisky  baritone"— 
that  wasn't  far  from  the  truth.  "I 
\  drinking  too  much,  gambling  and 
ing  around,"  Bobby  admits.  "Clear 

:he  track." 

hat  switched  him  back  on  was  a  nag- 
nostalgia  for  the  swinging  camaraderie 


he  used  to  enjoy  with  Dave  Guard  back 
around  Palo  Alto.  With  a  clever  guy  like 
Dave,  you  could  really  work  up  a  team 
and  go  places,  or  maybe  expand  to  a  trio. 
Automatically,  Bob  Shane's  thoughts 
flashed  Stateside  to  this  great  little  guy 
named  Nick  Reynolds  he'd  palled  and 
played  with  at  Menlo.  Nick  could  do 
anything — harmony,  guitar,  bongos  and 
congas.  Only  trouble  was — Nick  probably 
wouldn't  buy.  He  had  things  too  easy. 
He  was  in  a  rut. 

Back  on  Coronado  Island,  California, 
Nicholas  Reynolds  was  in  a  rut,  but  no- 
body had  called  it  to  his  attention.  Al- 
though he'd  been  carted  all  over  the 
world  as  a  kid  with  his  Navy  captain  dad, 
Coronado  was  always  home  port  and  it 
never  occurred  to  Nick  that  his  future 
lay  anywhere  else.  Coronado's  a  cozy, 
sleepy  resort,  a  ferry  jump  from  San 
Diego's  fleet  base.  Retired  sea-dogs,  like 
Nick's  dad,  crowd  the  place.  The  life's 
routine:  sports,  home  life,  cocktails  when 
the  sun  dips  under  the  yardarm.  The  best 
business  is  hotels.  After  snagging  his 
Business  Administration  B.S.  at  Menlo, 
Nick  had  returned  like  a  homing  pigeon. 
He  found  a  job  in  a  hotel  and  took  up 
where  he'd  left  off  after  leaving  Coronado 
High. 

Nick  liked  it  there — why  not?  He  knew 
everybody.  He  was  close  to  his  parents. 
His  married  sisters,  Barbara  and  Jane, 
had  homes  next  door  to  each  other  in 
Coronado  and  everybody  in  the  family 
got  along  great.  As  for  sports — he  could 
beat  all  of  the  ones  he  loved  right  at 
home.  Nick  Reynolds  was  a  whiz  at  most 
every  sport.  Small  but  mighty,  he'd  won 
tennis  tournaments  and  skeet  champion- 
ships at  Coronado,  and  the  U.  of  Arizona, 
too.  Later,  while  at  San  Diego  State,  he'd 
road  raced  his  Crosley  Fiat  Special,  until 
a  pal  got  killed  on  the  Torrey  Pines  run. 
To  top  all  this,  worries  about  future  secu- 
rity never  wrinkled  Nick's  brow.  A  great 
uncle  had  willed  him  a  fortune,  which  he'd 
come  into  (and  still  will)  by  his  thirties! 

But  deep  inside,  Nick  Reynolds  still  felt 
restless  and  unfulfilled.  Was  he  just  set 
to  go  down  the  drain  in  his  cozy  corner  of 
the  nation?  What  troubled  Nick  was  an 
unexpressed  talent.  He  was  musical  by 
nature.  His  mother  and  his  sisters  all 
sang.  His  Aunt  Ruth  had  been  with  the 
Metropolitan  Opera.  Even  Captain  Steward 
Reynolds,  USN,  off  duty,  thrummed  "a 
real  swingin'  guitar." 

Ferment  of  discontent 

Nick  had  the  hotel  business  in  mind 
when  he  tailed  off  his  training  at  Menlo 
Business  College.  But,  like  Bob,  his  rosiest 
campus  memories  were  those  free  riding 
harmonies  at  Stanford  parties  and  spots 
with  Dave  and  Bob.  Something  made  him 
keep  in  touch  with  Dave,  up  North,  and 
Bobby  in  the  Islands.  When  he  ran  on  to 
a  good  tune,  he'd  write  them  about  it, 
and  hear  what  they  were  working  up. 

"I  loved  nothing  better  than  the  life  I 
was  leading,"  Nick  sums  it  up  today.  "But 
I  couldn't  forget  what  Dave,  Bob  and  I 
might  be  doing  together."  When  he  learned 
that  Bobby  Shane  had  suddenly  flown 
back  from  Hawaii  to  join  Dave,  the  sun 
didn't  seem  quite  so  bright  over  Coronado. 

That  was  the  ferment  of  discontent  that 
brewed  the  fabulous  Kingston  Trio.  In- 
gredients: three  variously  gifted,  attrac- 
tive, high-type  guys.  But — for  one  reason 
or  another — fizzing  off  flat  on  their  own. 
They  needed  a  swizzler  to  mix  them  up — 
and  luckily  one  came  along.  His  name 
was  Frank  Werber. 

Frank's  the  Trio's  manager  today.  To 
the  boys  he's  'Black  Bart'  or  'The  Whip.' 
"I  run  interference,"  grins  smart,  beatnik, 
bearded  Frank.  Actually,  he  runs  the 
whole  Kingston  show  and  nursemaids  the 
Kingstons  wherever  they  go.  It  was  Frank 


BY"  LYLE  ICE^Y'ON  EXCEL 


The  Nation's  Top  Disc  Jockeys  pose  a 
series  of  questions  to  see  if  you  know 
your  record  stars. 


1.  You    certainly   couldn't  call 

this  maestro' s  music  Rock 
Roll.  Hoivever,  his  music  is  in- 
toxicating and  very  square.  He 
had  a  gal  singing  for  him  by  the 
name  of  Alice  Lou. 
2m  She's  small,  intense  and  sings 
a  beautiful  ballad.  Her  spon- 
sor for  a  long  time  zcas  Chevro- 
let. Capitol  Records  just  signed 
Ibum 


her,  and  her  fi 
on    this    label    is  called 

 ,  Yes  Indeed. 

3.  The  Steve  Allen  Show 
gave   this  little  lady 
her  big  break  by 
ducing  her  singing  to  mi 
lions  of  viewers.  She  m 
Steve  Lawrence  on  th 


tro- 


Dearborn,  Mich. 


shoie  and  soon  thev  were  5RPerk,J?; 
„.    •  j   CJ,„  „■  ,  Station  WTRL. 

married.  6he  now  records        Bradenton,  Fla. 
for  ABC-Paramount.  Her 

latest  album  is  On 

Stage. 

4.  His  name  lias  something  to 
do  with  the  beach.  He  made 
his  name  through  Rock  V  Roll 
type   recordings   but  has  just 
announced  that  he  has  given 
up  this  style  of  singing.  Only 
beautiful  songs  will  he  sing 
.       from  nozo  on. 
M       5.  His  latest  album  is  Heav- 
iin  Seymour.  enly  on  the  Columbia  label. 

Station  WKMH,         He  is  one  of  the  finest  new 
singers  to  come  along  during 
the  past  few  years.  One  of  his 
first  great  hits  was  Chances 
Are. 

$.  His  hobby  is  the  drum.  He 

is  acknowledged  as  one  of  f 
the  best  popular  dancers  ever 
seen.  He  makes  his  first  nan-  jfr, 
dancing  dramatic  movie  role  *^ 
in  the  screen  version  of  On 
The  Beach. 

7.  He's  a  top  singer  with  a 
warm-  appealing  voice. 
His  hobby  is  songwriting. 
One  of  his  compositions  is 
That  Chick's  Too  7 

Fry.  His  latest  albumwas  just  New  York  City, 

released   by   Lion   Records.         New  York 
and  it  features  his  name  and 
photo  on  the  cover. 


Bill  Wright, 
Station  WIBG. 
Philadelphia. Pa. 


spun*;  \\uiuo_l 


who  pulled  the  Trio  together,  whipped 
them  into  shape  and  shoe-horned  their 
first  breaks.  Only,  when  Werber  first 
spotted  them  they  weren't  a  Trio,  but  a 
quartet — and  their  tag  was  "Dave  Guard's 
Calypsonians." 

Dave  and  Bob  had  started  that  combo 
with  a  bass  fiddler  and  a  girl  singer,  while 
Nick  was  still  dragging  his  feet  in  Coro- 
nado.  They  played  the  party  circuit  again, 
still  around  Stanford,  with  a  steady  home 
at  The  Cracked  Pot.  Off  nights  they  audi- 
tioned San  Francisco  at  famous  clubs  like 
the  Hungry  i  and  the  Purple  Onion.  "Okay 
lor  college — but  too  unprofessional"  was 
the  verdict  they  usually  got. 

But  during  one  tryout  at  the  Purple 
Onion,  a  waiter  hustled  upstairs  to  the 
two-by-four  office  where  Frank  Werber 
squeezed  out  a  living  as  a  night-club 
press  agent.  "Catch  these  kids  down- 
stairs," he  advised.   "They  ain't  bad." 

Frank  caught  one  song — but  at  first  he 
didn't  get  the  message  at  all.  Used  to  pro- 
fessionals, he  thought  the  "Calypsonians" 
were  strictly  for  amateur  night.  Then,  on 
a  hunch,  he  gambled  the  gas  to  Palo  Alto 
to  hear  them  in  their  natural  rah-rah  set- 
ting. At  the  Cracked  Pot,  with  the  Stan- 
ford kids  whooping  he  thought  he  saw 
something.  "But  the  fiddler  and  the  girl 
are  drags,"  he  told  Dave.  "Know  anyone 
one  who  might  work  into  a  trio?"  Did 
they!  That  night  Nick  Reynolds  got  a  wire: 
GREAT  THINGS  ARE  COOKING.  GET 
UP  HERE  FAST.  DAVE  AND  BOB. 

Wake  up  and  live,  man 

Nick  got  there  fast  enough,  but  the  great 
things,  he  learned  even  faster,  were  mostly 
a  lot  of  wild  hopes  jazz.  As  he  wobbled 
indecisively,  Dave  unleashed  the  hard  sell. 
"Wake  up  and  live,  Nick,"  he  plugged. 
"You  want  to  shrivel  up  and  go  to  seed 
in  that  sunny  rat  race  down  there?  Come 
on,  Man,  let's  get  some  beer  and  talk." 

That  night  they  tried  to  drink  all  the 
brew  in  San  Francisco  and  wound  up 
climbing  statues  in  Golden  Gate  Park. 
But  by  dawn  Nick  was  persuaded.  They 
rented  a  one-room  San  Francisco  apart- 
ment, all  slept  in  the  one  bed  and  re- 
hearsed night  and  day  until  the  landlord 
threatened  to  call  the  cops.  A  week  later 
they  walked  into  Frank's  attic  office  and 
said  they  were  ready.  Frank  wedged  them 
in  downstairs  for  one  week's  tryout.  They 
stayed  seven  months. 

Of  course,  Dave  Guard,  Bob  Shane  and 
Nick  Reynolds  didn't  Cinderella  into  the 
slick  Kingston  Trio  via  one  easy  stanza. 
It  took  work,  seasoning  and  discipline  to 
turn  that  trick.  Says  Frank  Werber,  "What 
the  boys  had  was  natural  talent,  enthusi- 
asm, sharp  humor  and  a  fresh,  intelligent 
slant  on  songs.  But  to  them  it  was  still 
mostly  a  ball  and  they  were  plenty  rough 
around  the  edges." 

For  one  thing,  all  three  were  singing 
themselves  hoarse  each  night.  Frank 
routed  them  to  Judy  Davis,  a  professional 
voice  coach,  who  taught  them  how  to  relax 
and  spread  it  out.  For  another,  the  boys 
were  tossing  their  rapid  fire  wit  around 
ad  libitum  and  forgetting  the  good  ones. 
Frank  camped  each  night  with  a  notebook 
jotting  the  best  down,  then  turned  Dave 
Guard  loose  to  write  a  crisp  patter  rou- 
tine. He  made  them  rehearse  six  days  a 
week  before  the  show  and  then  a  couple 
of  hours  afterwards,  polishing  this  and 
that.  Most  important,  "I  made  them  take 
the  pledge,"  chuckles  'Black  Bart.'  "They 
signed  on  the  line  not  to  take  a  drink  for 
six  months — and  I  guess  that  really  hurt. 
If  they  backslid  or  acted  up — no  paycheck. 
I   figured   that   could   hurt   even  more." 

After  seven  months  at  the  Purple  Onion 
the  Kingstons  had  got  to  believing  they 
owned  the  joint.  Frank  took  them  down 
several  pegs  by  booking  them  into  Holiday 
54  Hotel,  a  gambling   lounge  in  Reno.  Up 


there,  if  you  started  drawing  attention 
from  the  gambling  play  the  dealers  hol- 
lered, "Shut  up!"  and  the  normal  clatter 
was  awful  anyway.  By  the  time  they  left 
Reno,  Bob,  Nick  and  Dave  knew  a  few 
more  hard  facts  and  tricks  about  show 
business.  All  this  polished  a  raw  college 
combo  into  a  smooth  team  of  pros. 

They  went  to  Hollywood  next,  to  make 
their  first  album,  The  Kingston  Trio, 
for  Capitol.  In  it  was  a  haunting  la- 
ment they'd  always  scored  big  with  at 
the  Purple  Onion,  Tom  Dooley.  They  didn't 
dream  how  big  that  would  score.  In  fact, 
for  the  next  few  months,  in  Chicago  and 

MHHVHMWMUHMHMVUMWMW 

j!  Erin    O'Brien    figures    a    sensible  j! 

J[  girl's  one  who  has  sense  enough  J[ 

«'  not  to  look  sensible.  <! 

I!  Earl  Wilson  ', 

l>  ii,  the  New  York  Post  <> 

^wwvwvvwwwwwwwwwwwvw^ 

next  in  New  York,  at  the  Blue  Angel  and 
Village  Vanguard  each  one  was  still  living 
on  $60  a  week,  and  Frank  Werber  was 
chronically  floating  loans  to  keep  them 
going.  They  flopped  in  crummy  hotels,  ate 
in  one-arm  joints.  The  money  looked  good 
— but  a  trio's  expenses  swallowed  it  up. 
Whenever  Bob,  Nick  or  Dave  would  ask 
Frank,  "How's  the  album  doing?"  the  an- 
swer was,  "It  ain't."  Appropriately  the 
Trio  came  back  to  San  Francisco  playing 
the  Hungry  i.  That  was  the  summer  of  '58. 

A  disk  jockey  in  Salt  Lake  City  flashed 
the  good  news  first.  He  called  Frank  at 
the  Hungry  i.  "All  they  want  to  hear  up 
here  is  Tom  Dooley  from  that  Kingston 
album,"  he  complained.  "Can  you  bring 
those  guys  to  town?"  Seattle  d.j.'s  called 
next — same  thing.  Frank  buzzed  Capitol 
Records  in  Hollywood.  They  shot  out  a 
single  of  Tom  Dooley  and  put  the  promo- 
tion works  behind  it.  When  the  Trio  rolled 
into  Seattle  a  few  weeks  later  it  was  be- 
hind a  police  motorcade.  They  cleaned  up 
$3000  in  two  nights. 

Since  then,  the  Kingston  Trio  has  rolled 
in  triumph  almost  any  place  you  can 
name — except  Kingston,  Jamaica.  This 
winter  they  fly  to  Australia,  next  spring 
to  Europe.  They've  turned  down  four 
movies,  but  the  right  one  comes  soon. 
Three  hot  selling  albums,  their  own  pub- 
lishing firm  and  TV  make  the  Kingston 
Trio,  Inc.,  big  business.  Off  hand,  you 
wouldn't  say  the  boys  had  a  problem  in 
the  world.  But  they  have  one.  Home  life. 

Dave,  Nick  and  Bob  all  owe  their  happy 
marriages  to  the  Trio.  Gretchen  Ballard, 
for  instance,  first  laid  eyes  on  Dave  Guard 
when  he  sang  at  a  Stanford  football  rally. 
A  tall,  tailored  type,  Gretchen  was  a  mere 
freshie  there  at  Stanford  and,  although 
she  rated  Dave  "dreamy"  right  off,  her 
prospects  seemed  slim.  Dave  dated  her  big 
sis,  Sarah,  and  after  that  pinned  her  best 
friend,  Cordie  Creveling.  When  he  finally 
got  around  to  Gretchen,  Dave  was  heating 
up  The  Cracked  Pot,  so  that's  where  he 
took  her  on  their  first  date.  From  then 
on  all  Dave's  songs  were  beamed  at 
Gretchen.  "The  child  bride,"  as  Nick  and 
Bob  call  her,  was  the  first  female  to  crack 
the  Kingston  club. 

That  happened  in  September  of  '57  dur- 
ing their  first  paid  engagement  at  the 
Purple  Onion  when  the  whole  crew  and 
half  of  Stanford  University  traveled  to 
San  Marino,  California  for  a  full  dress 
wedding,  with  Nick  best  man  and  Bob 
head  usher.  Gretchen's  dad  hired  cham- 
pagne-stocked busses  to  haul  the  wedding 
party  away  and  pour  them  on  trains  and 
planes.  Life  afterwards  wasn't  so  plush. 

"We  spent  our  honeymoon  in  Dave's 
bachelor  apartment — a  slum,  believe  me," 
sighs  Gretchen.  "He  went  to  work  the 
next  night  and  I  stayed  awake  until  3:00 


a.m.,  scared  half  to  death."  Mrs.  Guc 
got  used  to  it  though  and  until  she  vi 
pregnant,  scooted  around  wherever  1 
boys  went.  But  Dave  bit  his  nails  ale 
in  New  York  waiting  to  hear  he  was 
father.  Their  daughter,  Cappy,  is  n< 
eighteen  months  old  and  they're  expect; 
again  in  May.  "Cappy's  wild  about  Dav 
smiles  Gretch.  "I  tell  him  it's  because  ? 
likes  strangers." 

Nick  Reynolds  tumbled  next  for  cu 
bouncy  Joan  Harriss,  who's  almost 
double  for  Shirley  MacLaine.  In  ii. 
Joan,  a  San  Francisco  girl,  was  a  corner 
enne,  too,  "set  to  be  the  biggest  thi 
ever  to  hit  night  clubs,  sex  and  all  tha 
she  admits,  "when  I  got  hooked  on  tl 
Reynolds  man."  That  happened  at  t 
Purple  Onion,  too.  Joan  was  just  arou 
the  corner  at  Ann's  440,  where  she  v 
giving  out  songs  and  satirical  sketches. 

"Nick  started  it  all  by  dropping  ir 
Ann's  after  his  show  for  a  beer  and  pee 
ing  at  me,"  relates  Joan.  "Now,  I  spe 
half  my  life  waiting  for  a  peek  at  hir 
The  romantic  switch  took  a  little  lonj 
to  come  about  than  Gretchen  and  Dave 
although  from  point  of  contact,  Joan  1 
been  in  on  the  Kingston  act  as  long.  A 
she's  the  only  wife  who's  been  on  t 
payroll.  When  Frank  Werber  first  to 
the  boys  away,  he  hired  Joan  (who's 
typist,  too)  to  run  his  publicity  offi 
Then  she  took  off  for  New  York,  hopi 
to  crash  Broadway,  but  ended  up  a  hosti 
in  Verney's  restaurant  down  in  the  V 
lage.  Guess  who  was  at  the  Village  Va 
guard,  nearby — and  who  picked  her 
every  night  after  work?  That's  right.  Nil 

"It  just  kind  of  gradually,  inevital 
happened,"  says  Joan.  "When  the  T: 
went  back  to  the  Coast,  I  said  'Nuts  to 
career'  and  went,  too.  When  they  | 
booked  in  Hawaii  next — well,  that  seem 
awfully  far  away  from  Nick." 

Half  way  through  the  Trio's  last  ni| 
at  the  Hungry  i,  Nick  whispered  sorr 
thing  to  Bobby  Shane  right  before  intt 
mission  and  the  pair  ducked  out.  Wh 
they  came  back,  late  for  their  show,  Jo 
was  with  them,  her  face  as  pink  as  r 
nuptial  dress.  The  orchestra  struck 
the  Wedding  March,  best  man  Bob 
hopped  up  on  the  stand  to  announce  ii 
and  the  place  went  wild  drinking  chai 
pagne  on  the  house  and  smashing  t 
glasses.  Joan  flew  with  the  Trio  to  Hawj 
as  Mrs.  Nicholas  Reynolds.  That's  where  1 
last  Kingston  hold-out  began  to  weak 
Bobby  Shane  didn't  know  it,  but  a  dar 
eyed  Atlanta  belle  was  already  talki 
about  him  aboard  a  boat  steaming  i 
Diamond  Head. 

Louise  Brandon  certainly  would  ne\ 
have  met  Bob  if  she  hadn't  heard  Tt 
Dooley.  Not  that  Louise  was  a  cool  < 
particularly.  On  the  contrary,  soft  spok< 
queenly  Louise  was  educated  in  sel< 
seminaries  as  befits  a  gentle  young  Sout 
ern  lady  and  had  made  her  debut.  B 
grandfather  was  on  the  Board  of  Gene] 
Motors,  her  dad  a  successful  Atlar 
lawyer.  Louise  had  been  to  Hawaii  a  f< 
weeks  before  and  liked  it  so  much  tr 
she  was  going  back  to  stay  with  a  frie 
for  a  year.  Her  cabin  mate  was  a  deligr 
ful,  sixtyish  lady  named  Miss  Evel; 
Shane. 

"Those  Kingston  brothers" 

They  discovered  a  love  for  classic 
music  in  common  (Louise  plays  the  pian< 
"But  when  I  left  Atlanta,"  she  remark* 
"all  you  heard  around  there  was  a  so 
called  Tom  Dooley  by  those  Kingst 
Brothers."  Miss  Evelyn  nodded  unde 
standingly.  She'd  heard  it  plenty  herse 
she  allowed.  Her  nephew  Bob  was  one 
the  Trio — only  they  weren't  brothers 
all.  Bob's  dad,  Art,  met  his  sister  at  i 
boat.  So  Bobby  Shane  had  two  fami 
members  telling  him  about  the  beautif 


girl  who'd  just  arrived.  Next  morning 
'ouise  found  a  note  at  her  hotel,  "Please 
rail  Bobby  Shane."  She  didn't;  she's  not 
hat  bold."  But  Bobby  called  back,  invit- 
ng  her  to  a  party  his  dad  was  throwing 
lext  night  at  the  Royal  Hawaiian  when 
he  Trio  opened  there.  Shane,  Sr.,  playing 
:upid,  picked  Louise  up. 

"There  were  three  other  single  girls  at 
he  table,"  says  Louise.  "Bob  spent  the 
■veriing  trying  to  figure  out  which  girl 
le'd  talked  to  on  the  phone." 

"I  knew  it  was  the  prettiest  one,"  says 
Bob.  gallantly. 

"He  doesn't  see  very  well  without  his 
jlasses,"  explains  Louise. 

Anyway,  they  didn't  miss  an  evening 
ogether  the  rest  of  that  month.  And  when 
he  Kingstons  hopped  back  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, Bob  called  the  minute  he  landed 
^egging  Louise  to  come  back,  too.  When 
he  Leilani  sailed  next  day  Louise  was 
m  it.  She  traveled  down  to  Hollywood 
vith  Bob,  Nick  and  Joan  for  a  TV  date, 
net  Dave  and  Gretchen  there  and  it 
eemed  like  they'd  always  been  together. 
3ack  in  Atlanta  the  Brandons  got  the 
vord:  "We're  having  a  visitor  for  Christ- 
nas."  Bob  met  the  folks  and  slipped  on 
^ouise's  engagement  ring  Christmas  Eve. 
"hey  were  married  after  that  wild  plane 
ide  in  Indiana  last  March.  Washington 
;ot  the  nod  because  it's  Louise's  second 
iome.  Her  grandfather  owns  a  hotel  there. 
Vlso,  it  was  closer  for  the  Trio.  When 
hey  left  at  dawn,  Joan  Reynolds  helped 
fry  Louise's  tears  and  took  her  out  to 
?an  Francisco  for  the  next  lonely  month, 
just  like  a  sister." 

Actually,  that's  about  how  the  Kingston 
vives  think  of  each  other  by  now.  Nor 
vas  Louise  too  wild  when  she  called  Bob, 
sick  and  Dave  "the  Kingston  Brothers." 

"It's  amazing,"  ponders  Gretchen  Guard, 
peaking  for  the  girls.  "We're  all  from 
lifferent  backgrounds,  we  live  differently 
Jid  in  different  places.  We  never  knew 
ach  other  before.  But  we've  never  had 
ven  an  argument." 

"There's  never  been  a  reason,"  explains 
oan  Reynolds.  "We're  all  in  the  same 
>oat.  Same  crazy  time  demands,  same 
Toblems,  same  waiting  at  the  garden 
ate.  .  .  ." 

".  .  .  And  the  same  wonderful  thrill 
>hen  they  all  come  in!"  adds  Louise 
inane. 

That  same  one-for-all — all-for-one  spirit 
lues  Nick,  Dave  and  Bob  together.  "We're 
olid,"  says  Shane.  "Why  not?  We  aren't 
ivals.  We  all  make  the  same  money, 
.ork  the  same  hours,  have  about  the  same 
ilent  and  stand  or  fall  together.  Besides, 
.e're  all  pals  from  away  back." 

"Things  wig  us  now  and  then — sure," 
dmits  Dave.  "Sometimes,  the  way  we 
.  ork,  we  could  wind  up  a  bunch  of  neu- 
otics  yelling  at  each  other.  But  we  don't. 
Ye  play  it  silly.  And  a  hassle  turns  into 
]  laugh.  We  know  each  other  so  well 
hat  nobody  has  to  pretend.  On  one-night- 
;  rs  sometimes  we  don't  speak  to  each  other 
;nce  we're  off.  Just  hit  for  the  sack.  All 
p  all  we  keep  the  whole  thing  a  gas." 

he  only  time  they  missed 

That  one  time  the  Trio  missed  a  play- 
ate  found  them  in  Minneapolis  boarding 

plane  for  the  Universit  y  of  Montana  at 
lissoula.  But  a  blizzard  swooshed  down 
nd  they  spent  three  hours  right  there  on 
ie  ground.   Things  were  getting  gloomy 

hen  Bob  Shane  had  an  idea.  "This  is 
champagne  flight,  isn't  it?"  he  asked 
ne  stewardess.  "Well — ?" 

So  they  talked  her  into  unlocking  the 
ar.  As  the  snow  howled  outside  they  had 
bash,  finally  unlimbering  the  guitars 
nd  bongos.  "This  is  for  you,  Missoula, 
/herever  you  may  be!"  cried  Dave — and 
ney  warmed  it  up  all  by  themselves  with 


Greta  Chi  is  a  beautiful  young 
girl  who  lived,  not  long  ago, 
in  Switzerland,  very  near  to  Aud- 
rey Hepburn  and  Mel  Ferrer.  She 
had  a  wonderfully  exotic  face.  Her 
father  was  Chinese  (he  was  China's 


ambassador  to  Switzerland)  and 
her  mother  German.  When  she  was 
little  she  studied  ballet  and  by  the 
time  she  was  nineteen,  she  had  ap- 
peared in  many  operas,  French  and 
German  plays. 

When  Audrey  and  Mel  saw  Greta, 
they  suggested  that  she  go  to  Holly- 
wood. Greta  decided  their  sugges- 
tion was  an  excellent  one  and  came 
to  the  United  States  and  enrolled  in 
La  Jolla  Playhouse.  She  appeared 
in  Skin  of  Our  Teeth  and  she  was 
very  good— so  good  in  fact  that  sev- 
eral studios  were  ready  to  give  her 
her  start  in  the  movies  right  then 
and  there. 

But  her  agent  wanted  her  start 
to  be  the  best  possible  beginning 
and  he  advised  her  to  hold  off,  keep 
studying  and  wait  for  the  right  role, 
the  role  that  would  launch  her  ca- 
reer successfully. 

Greta  did  just  that— but  nothing- 
happened. 

All  those  offers  just  seemed  to 
disappear. 

Greta's  work  visa  would  expire 
on  June  18,  and  that  day  was  get- 
ting terribly  close— with  no  work  in 
sight.  Sadly,  she  began  to  pack  to 
go  home. 

There  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

On  the  morning  of  June  18,  Greta 
was  ready.  Not  ready  in  her  heart, 
but  ready  with  her  luggage  and  her 
passport.  She  was  making  a  few 
last  good-bye  phone  calls,  when  her 
phone  rang. 

It  was  her  agent,  not  saying 
good-bye,  but  with  the  incredible 
news  that  20th  Century-Fox  wanted 
her  for  a  leading  role  in  Five  Gates 
to  Hell. 

What  timing! 

There  was  not  a  moment  to  lose. 
Negotiations  had  to  be  made  quick- 
ly because  if  that  contract  weren't 
signed  within  the  very  next  few 
hours,  her  work  visa  would  still  ex- 
pire and  she'd  have  to  go  back  to 
Switzerland  without  even  taking 
the  job! 

But  the  contract  was  signed  in 
time,  and  the  film  was  made. 

And  the  outcome? 

Greta  proved  to  be  a  girl  of  un- 
usual talent  as  well  as  beauty,  and 
you  can  see  for  yourself  soon  in 
20th's  absorbing  new  drama,  Five 
Gates  to  Hell. 


the  stewardess  joining  in.  "Luckily,"  says 
Nick,  "we  didn't  get  there  that  night  at 
all.   Luckily,  that  is,  for  the  customers." 

Half  the  year — when  the  boys  make 
those  frantic  one-nighter  dashes — Gretch, 
Jo  and  Lou  are  widows.  If  the  gang  lights 
anywhere  near  for  as  long  as  a  week 
they're  all  on  hand,  fussing  around  the 
motel  rooms  to  make  them  seem  like  home. 

But  when  the  heat's  off,  even  briefly, 
the  Reynolds,  Guards,  and  Shanes  scatter 
to  separate  set-ups  and  stay  there.  "On 
the  road  we  all  practice  togetherness  until 
it's  frightening,"  laughs  Gretchen  Guard. 
"But  at  home — it's  three  wives,  three  lives." 

Their  homes  are  all  around  San  Fran- 
cisco, but  not  one's  alike.  Nor,  for  that 
matter,  are  the  three  designs  for  living. 

Conservative  Nick  Reynolds,  for  in- 
stance, is  now  the  bohemian  of  the  bunch. 
For  a  while  Nick  and  Joan  lived  on  a 
houseboat  anchored  off  the  picturesque 
art  colony  of  Sausalito,  where  about  any- 
thing goes  and  nobody  cares.  "When  the 
house  got  dusty  you  just  opened  the  win- 
dows and  the  breeze  blew  it  out,"  says 
Joan.  "You  dumped  the  garbage  out  the 
door  and  the  tide  took  it  away."   With  a 


baby  due  in  April,  Joan  and  Nick  have 
given  that  up  for  an  old  artist's  studio, 
with  a  skylight  in  the  kitchen,  perched 
on  a  hill  with  a  view  of  all  San  Francisco, 
over  the  Golden  Gate  Bridge. 

Nick  and  Joan  love  Sausalito,  never 
plan  to  leave.  Their  dreams  rest  right 
there.  "Someday,"  says  Nick,  "maybe 
we'll  have  our  own  bar  and  night  club 
here.  We'd  like  that." 

On  the  other  hand,  once  skittery  Dave 
Guard  is  now  as  solid  a  citizen  as  you'd 
care  to  know.  Dave  and  Gretchen  rent 
a  place  in  Palo  Alto,  drive  a  '53  Ford 
wagon  with  a  dent  in  the  door,  play  tennis 
and  go  to  movies  just  like  any  exurbanite 
pair.  With  one  child  and  another  due, 
maybe  Dave's  more  of  a  worry  wart  than 
the  rest.  He  and  Gretchen  don't  stop  a 
minute  building  for  a  solid  future:  "You 
see,"  says  Dave,  "I've  still  got  problems 
of  security  that  Bob  and  Nick  don't  have. 
My  goal's  $400,000,  and  I'm  getting  on  the 
way  there.  We're  buying  good  Danish  fur- 
niture a  piece  at  a  time,  so  it  will  last  the 
race.  One  of  these  days  I'll  get  a  Rolls- 
Royce  and  drive  it  the  rest  of  my  life." 

Moreover,  Dave  has  leveled  down  on 


what  he  really  wants  to  do  if  or  wher 
the  Kingston  bonanza  plays  out.  "I  knov. 
now  I  want  to  write,"  he  says.  "Somedaj 
we'll  move  to  Big  Sur  (a  remote  beaut} 
spot  on  the  Pacific  shore)  and  dig  in." 

Bob  and  Louise  Shane  are  already  du| 
in  at  a  new  modern-Oriental  pad  acros: 
the  bay  in  Tiburon  with  their  toy  poodle 
Trinket.  No  stork  signs  have  shown  ye' 
but  they're  hoping.  Just  the  same,  free- 
wheeling Bob  has  settled  down  to  a  con- 
tented domestic  pattern  with  Louise.  H< 
sends  money  to  Honolulu  where  he  ha; 
set  up  an  investment  company  with  hi; 
dad.  There's  always  a  light  in  the  win- 
dow, too,  at  the  Athletic  Supply. 

But  right  now,  all  things  considered,  jus' 
what  the  Kingston  Trio's  doing  suits  Dav« 
Guard,  Bob  Shane,  Nick  Reynolds  anc 
their  wives  right  down  to  a  living  "T." 

"The  truth  is,"  agrees  Dave,  "we're  al 
having  even  more  fun  than  we  did  ir 
school — and  we're  getting  paid  for  it!" 

But  Nick  Reynolds  hits  nearest  to  th< 
heart  of  the  matter:  "We've  been  loadec 
with  luck.  But  so  what  if  we'd  flopped: 
We'd  have  kicked  ourselves  all  our  live: 
if  we  hadn't  given  it  a  try."  EN  I 


We  Were  Afraid  We  Couldn't  Have  a  Baby 


(Continued  jrom  page  30) 

months  went  by  and  there  was  no  sign  of 
the  child  we  longed  for,  I  began  to  be  a 
little  concerned.  Jimmie  would  comfort  me 
and  say,  "But  honey,  lots  of  couples  don't 
have  a  family  right  away;  don't  worry 
about  it,"  and  he'd  suggest  going  to  a  doc- 
tor to  reassure  me  that  there  was  nothing 
wrong.  But  I  did  worry  about  it,  and 
finally  Jimmie  was  beginning  to  wonder 
too.  At  last  I  went  to  a  gynecologist  "for 
reassurance."  I  was  crushed  when  he  said 
there  was  a  great  possibility  that  I'd  not  be 
able  to  have  a  child  of  my  own,  but  Jimmie 
kept  up  my  courage  by  insisting  that  this 
was  just  one  doctor's  opinion,  and  besides, 
he  didn't  actually  say  there  never  could 
be  a  baby,  just  maybe  not.  Thus  began 
a  series  of  visits  to  doctors,  each  one 
more  discouraging  than  the  last.  I  didn't 
want  to  go  to  another,  didn't  want  to  hear 
those  words  condemning  us  to  an  empty 
existence.  I  felt  that  I  had  let  my  beloved 
Jimmie  down.  It  was  because  of  an  injury 
to  me,  the  doctors — all  of  them — had 
told  me,  that  we  couldn't  have  a  baby. 
Then  one  day  we  heard  of  a  very  fine 
gynecologist  and  obstetrician,  a  leading 
specialist  in  his  field.  There  was  still  room 
for  hope.  With  a  prayer  in  our  hearts,  we 
went  to  this  doctor,  expecting  a  mir- 
acle. .  .  . 

We  entered  his  office,  smiling  but  nerv- 
ous, to  get  the  result  of  my  examination, 
hoping.  .  .  . 

And  then:  "You  may  never  have  a 
baby  of  your  own.  .  .  ." 

We  had  dreamed  and  hoped — and  lost 
again. 

That  night,  Jimmie  tried  to  comfort  me. 

"Darling,  we  can  adopt  a  baby,  you 
know,"  he  began.    "Plenty  of  couples  do." 

Plenty  of  people  had  adopted  babies 
and  had  been  very  happy.  But  it  was  a 
little  different  with  me.  Jimmie  had  given 
me  so  much.  I  wanted  to  give  him  some- 
thing, too.  I  wanted  to  give  him  a  baby 
that  was  his. 

The  effect  of  the  terrible  accident 

I  felt  that  it  was  my  fault  that  I  couldn't 
give  him  his  baby.   It  all  went  back  to  that 
accident  in  1956,  before  I  married  Jimmy. 
The  car  I  was  riding  in  that  night  had 
56  rammed  head-on  into  another,  and  I  was 


taken,  more  dead  than  alive,  to  the  hos- 
pital. The  accident  left  me  with  internal 
injuries  that  were  later  to  stand  in  my 
way  when  I  wanted  to  have  a  baby. 

Most  couples  want  a  baby.  But  I  think 
that  Jimmie  and  I  wanted  one  more  than 
most.  Jimmie  is  the  kind  of  man  who  was 
made  for  roots.  Although  he  didn't  have 
a  dime  when  we  got  married,  shortly  aft- 
erwards Jimmie  got  his  big  break  with 
Honeycomb  and  we  knew  we  could  afford 
that  home  and  family  we  both  wanted  so 
much. 

Once  our  hearts  and  minds  were  made 
up,  we  naively  assumed  that  we'd  have 
our  baby,  so  we  weren't  prepared  for  the 
enormous  difficulties  that  lay  ahead. 

Five  months,  six  months,  seven  months 
had  gone  by — and  no  sign  of  a  baby. 

I  was  impatient  to  get  started  on  our 
family,  so  when  we  were  in  New  York 
on  a  personal  appearance  tour  of  Jimmie's, 
I  looked  up  an  obstetrician  and  asked  him 
why  I  hadn't  become  pregnant  yet.  I 
wasn't  prepared  for  the  answer  he  gave  me 
after  he  examined  me. 

As  the  doctor  talked  to  me.  his  words 
struck  like  a  blow. 

"Mrs.  Rodgers,  you  should  know  that 
due  to  your  accident,  you  are  not  strong 
enough  internally  to  conceive,"  he  said. 
"Even  if  you  were  to  conceive,  I  don't 
believe  you  would  be  able  to  carry  a  baby 
through  to  a  complete  term.  Your  back 
was  so  badly  twisted  in  the  accident  it's 
too  weak  to  stand  up  under  pregnancy." 

When  Jimmie  came  home  he  found  me 
shaking. 

"Don't  carry  on  like  that,  darling,"  he 
said.  "There  are  other  doctors.  Remember 
there  were  some  doctors  who  said  you'd 
never  walk  again  after  your  accident,  and 
look  at  you  now.  New  York  is  full  of 
specialists.  We'll  find  one  who  can 
help  us." 

But  we  didn't.  I  went  to  one  doctor  after 
another  and  finally  Jimmie  and  I  had  to 
face  it.  My  chances  of  giving  birth  were 
very  dim. 

Although  Jimmie's  heart,  like  mine,  was 
broken,  his  first  thought  was  to  comfort 
me.  "If  we  can't  have  one  of  our  own, 
darling,  we'll  adopt  one.  The  good  Lord 
put  many  children  on  earth,  and  not  all 


of  them  have  parents  and  homes.  There'; 
a  baby  in  this  world  waiting  just  for  us.' 

I  was  willing  to  accept  this  as  the  an- 
swer. We  made  inquiries  about  adopting  < 
baby  but  soon  found  we  couldn't  ever 
file  yet.  I  believed  Jimmie  and  I  woulc 
make  the  best  possible  parents.  What  mon 
could  anyone  give  a  baby  than  bountifu 
love  and  care? 

Even  adoption  was  out 

But  after  checking,  I  discovered  then 
would  be  plenty  of  objections:  Our  cai 
was  mortgaged;  Jimmie  was  a  singer  anc 
had  no  steady  income;  we  didn't  own  « 
home;  we  were  constantly  on  the  road 
we  were  too  young.  In  our  minds  all  thi; 
was  rubbish  compared  to  the  real  thing! 
we  could  give  a  baby. 

"Suppose  our  car  is  mortgaged,"  I  re- 
member pleading.  "Lots  of  babies  ridt 
in  mortgaged  cars.  So  we  haven't  a  hom< 
of  our  own  yet.  We  will.  And  we'rt 
young,  but  we  are  responsible.  Anc 
Jimmie's  a  singer,  but  there  isn't  a  mar 
alive  who  would  make  a  more  devotee 
father." 

We  were  more  determined  than  ever  t< 
have  a  baby  of  our  own.  I  traveled  witl 
Jimmie  on  his  hectic  one-night  stands,  anc 
visited  the  outstanding  gynecologists  in  al- 
most every  big  city  we  hit.  In  Miami, 
asked  the  doctor  there  to  give  me  the  tes; 
to  determine  if  I  was  pregnant.  He  lookec 
at  me  kindly  and  said,  "Mrs.  Rogers,  \ 
won't  even  bother  with  the  test.  I'm  goinf 
to  tell  you  right  now  you  aren't  pregnant 
These  signs  that  you  think  indicate  preg- 
nancy are  merely  signs  that  you're  over- 
tired. You  must  rest." 

All  our  thoughts  were  centered  on  try- 
ing to  have  a  baby.  One  night  I  felt  ter- 
rible pains  and  Jimmie  called  the  doctor 
It  was  a  recurrence  of  my  accident  in- 
juries, and  the  doctor  wanted  to  operate 
immediately.  I  remember  seeing  Jimmie's 
face,  drained  white,  and  hearing  him  tell 
the  doctor:  "Take  good  care  of  her,  doc- 
tor. Do  what  you  think  you  have  to  do 
but  take  good  care  of  Colleen." 

I  was  frightened  for  another  reason.  1 
was  afraid  this  operation  might  cut  off  for- 
ever my  chances  of  ever  becoming  a 
mother.  So  while  Jimmie  pleaded  with 
the  doctor  to  save  me,  I  pleaded  with  the 
doctor  to  save  my  chances  of  motherhood 
When  I  learned  that  the  surgeon  was 
planning  to  remove  a  vital  organ  necessary 
for  pregnancy,  I  became  hysterical  and 
begged  him  not  to.  I  wouldn't  even  sign 


le  release  permitting  the  doctor  to  per- 
irm  the  surgery. 

Although  the  doctor  saved  my  chances  of 
;coming  a  mother,  as  the  months  went 
i  there  still  was  no  sign  that  a  baby 
as  on  the  way.  We  moved  into  a  big, 
;autiful  modern  style  home  on  top  of  a 
11  in  a  California  suburb  called  Granada 
ills,  but  it  didn't  bring  me  the  happi- 
;ss  I  expected.  I  found  myself  going 
om  room  to  room  and  crying.  The  love- 
garden,  the  open  feeling  of  the  house, 
ie  den  with  the  practical  cork  floors  and 
special  yellow  room  with  built-in  shelves 
1  cried  out  for  the  presence  of  a  child. 
Jirnmie  had  even  consented  to  taking 
sts  himself,  but  the  results  proved  that 
e  reason  lay  with  me,  not  him. 
I  felt  that  I  was  a  failure  as  a  woman, 
became  self-reproachful  and  sad.  I  felt 
iat  I  had  failed  Jimmie.  What  good  was 
as  his  wife  if  I  couldn't  give  him  a  child? 

t  the  agency 

Jirnmie  was  wonderful.  He  would  take 
e  in  his  arms  and  tell  me  he  loved  me. 
e'd  maintain  that  somehow,  some  day, 
e  would  have  a  baby.  And  one  night 
;  suggested  that  we  go  down  to  the 
doption  Institute  of  Los  Angeles  and 
5 ply  again. 

Jimmie  was  like  a  little  boy  the  morning 
e  were  to  go  to  the  adoption  offices  and 
eet  the  investigators.  He  went  through 
s  closet  a  dozen  times  to  try  to  decide 
i  just  the  right  thing  to  wear  to  impress 
em.  "If  I  wear  this  sport  jacket  I  might 
ok  too  young,"  he  said.  "And  if  I  wear 
is  dark  suit  I  might  look  too  dressed  up. 
ou  know,  honey,  I  don't  think  I  ever 
snt  to  an  audition  as  flustered  as  I  am 

)W." 

We  walked  into  a  great,  big  room  that 
as  filled  with  other  couples,  like  our- 
Ives,  who  wanted  babies.  Jimmie  looked 
rious  in  a  grey  suit  and  navy  tie,  and 
e  cowlick  that  he'd  tried  to  slick  down 
that  he  would  look  dignified  was  mis- 
•having  and  had  sprung  up,  giving  him 
at  boyish  look  he  wanted  to  avoid. 
We  filled  out  reams  of  papers  and  then 
e  went  home  to  wait.  Every  day  we 
dted  for  the  phone  to  ring  telling  us  we 
Duld  have  our  baby.  We  were  approved 
our  lovely  home,  our  paid-up  cars,  the 
Dney  in  the  bank  and  Jimmie's  career 
lich  was  now  on  a  stable  level — made 
e  picture  completely  different  than  it  had 
en  a  year  ago.  It  was  only  a  matter  of 
'ne. 

With  some  justification,  I  began  to  get 
at  nursery  ready.  And  then  another 
dw  fell.  Jimmie's  TV  show  was  being 
msf erred  to  New  York  and  we  had  to 
ck  up  and  leave.  This  meant  that  the 
option  proceedings  had  to  be  canceled. 
'Jirnmie  was  as  disappointed  as  I  was, 
it  he  was  still  a  pillar  of  strength.  "Who 
'e  we  to  question  what  the  good  Lord 
s  in  store  for  us?"  he  said.  "Maybe  this 
part  of  His  plan,  that  we  wait  a  while 
"iger." 

"Jimmie  has  always  been  a  religious  per- 
n,  and  so  have  I.    It  was  our  faith  that 

"rried  us  through  the  latest  setback  in 
r  attempt  to  have  a  baby. 

i  unfruitful  stay 

r.We  took  a  six-month  lease  on  an  apart- 
snt  in  New  York,  which  represented  the 
I  igest  we'd  ever  stayed  in  one  place.  Then 
f  rimie  and  I  sat  down  and  talked  and 
[  cided  that  since  we  were  going  to  be 
rtled  for  a  while  in  one  place  I  should  get 
iether  with  a  specialist  and  go  through 
!  the  tests  to  try  to  get  at  the  root  of 
."  trouble. 

!  The  doctor  was  a  kindly  man  who  un- 
r  stood  our  frantic  desire  for  a  baby. 

I  v/ent  to  him  regularly  and  took  every 
id  of  test  that  might  help  me.  When  I 


underwent  the  Rubin  test,  which  is  a 
rather  painful  test  to  blow  out  the  tubes 
in  case  there  is  any  obstruction  that  would 
prevent  pregnancy,  I  was  elated  when  it 
was  discovered  that  one  of  the  tubes  was 
closed.  I  felt  that  now  that  something 
tangible  was  discovered,  and  could  be 
corrected,  maybe  I  would  become  pregnant. 

The  desire  to  have  a  baby  had  almost 
become  a  fetish.  I  was  becoming  tense 
and  nervous.  I  took  hormone  pills  regu- 
larly. I  followed  a  temperature  chart 
beside  our  bed. 

After  several  months  of  this,  Jimmie 
came  home  and  announced  that  we  would 
be  taking  off  for  a  tour  in  Australia  as 
soon  as  his  television  show  was  finished 
for  the  season.  I  was  so  disappointed  that 
our  stay  in  New  York  had  come  to  an 
unfruitful  end  that  I  blew  my  top.  I  tore 
up  the  chart,  threw  the  thermometer 
against  the  wall  and  tossed  the  pills  in 
a  basket.  "Nothing  has  helped  me,"  I 
wailed. 

Jimmie  laughed.  "The  heck  with  all  this, 
honey.  If  the  pills  don't  give  us  a  baby, 
the  good  Lord  will." 

Thoroughly  discouraged  by  this  time,  I 
decided  to  forget  about  having  a  baby 
for  the  time  being.  I  would  go  to  Aus- 
tralia with  Jimmie,  have  fun  and  when  we 
returned  we  would  re-open  our  adoption 
proceedings.  For  the  first  time  in  a  long 
time  I  felt  relaxed  and  let  go  of  my  feel- 


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ings  of  inadequacy  and  anxiety. 

The  typhoid  and  smallpox  shots  that  I 
had  to  take  before  going  overseas  made 
me  very  sick.  I  could  hai-dly  get  up  for 
breakfast  and  I  was  drained  of  all  energy. 
When  I  complained  to  my  doctor  that  the 
overseas  shots  were  not  agreeing  with  me, 
he  gave  me  a  blood  test. 

A  little  rabbit 

I  had  just  returned  home  when  my 
phone  rang. 

"Guess  what?"  the  doctor  said  cheer- 
fully. 

"I  can't  guess,"  I  replied  miserably. 

"You  can't  go  to  Australia  with  Jimmie." 

"Oh  no,"  I  said,  slumping  into  a  chair. 
You  mean  those  overseas  shots  made  me 
too  ill?" 

"No,"  said  the  doctor  firmly.  "I  mean  a 
little  rabbit  just  told  me  you  can't  go 
traipsing  around  the  world.  Not  in  your 
condition." 

"In  my  condition?"  It  took  a  minute. 
"Oh,  you  mean  in  my  condition?" 

"Exactly,"  said  the  doctor. 

I  was  reeling. 

"Can  I  tell  Jimmie?" 

"Well,"  replied  the  doctor,  "it's  custom- 
ary for  the  wife  to  break  the  news." 

Jimmie  was  rehearsing  his  TV  show 
at  the  theater  on  Broadway.  I  wanted  him 
to  savor  the  full  joy  of  the  news.  I  called 
Western  Union  and  blurted:  "Send  this 
wire  to  Jimmie  Rodgers:  YOU  ARE  GO- 
ING TO  BE  A  FATHER.  HOW  ABOUT 
THAT?  I  LOVE  YOU.  COLLEEN.  And 
please  send  it  as  quickly  as  possible." 

"Ma'am,"  said  the  Western  Union 
operator,  "if  I  could  leave  my  desk  I 
would  take  it  to  him  myself." 

I  found  Jimmie,  an  hour  later,  stretched 
out  on  his  dressing  room  couch,  a  cup  of 
hot  bouillon  in  one  hand,  the  wire  in  the 
other.  He  was  staring  up  at  the  ceiling. 
I'd  never  seen  such  a  look  of  bliss  on  his 
face. 

The  director  tore  in.  "Your  husband 
is  in  a  daze.  We  haven't  been  able  to  get 
him  to  do  a  thing  for  the  past  hour.  What's 
in  that  blamed  telegram  anyway?" 

It  hasn't  been  clear  sailing.  Many  times 
since  then  Jimmie  and  I  have  had  to  turn 
to  God  to  save  our  baby.  Only  a  short 
while  ago,  after  we  were  settled  back  in 
our  home  in  Granada  Hills,  I  awoke  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  with  sharp  abdominal 
pains.  Jimmie's  hand  shook  as  he  dialed 
for  the  doctor.  As  we  waited  for  the  doc- 
tor to  arrive,  we  both  prayed. 

We  became  even  more  frightened  when 
Dr.  Kaplan  ordered  me  into  the  hos- 
pital for  immediate  surgery.  Again  it  was 
a  throwback  to  my  accident.  A  tumor  had 
formed  and  was  pressing  against  the 
uterus.  All  I  could  think  of  was  the  baby. 

"Dr.  Kaplan,  whatever  you  do,  please 
don't  touch  the  baby." 

As  I  was  about  to  be  wheeled  down 
the  corridor  into  surgery,  Jimmie  leaned 
over  to  kiss  me.  He  pressed  something 
into  my  hand.  It  was  our  little  St.  Genesis 
medal.  Guide  Our  Destinies  is  inscribed 
on  it.  In  the  past,  any  time  anything  very 
big  has  faced  us,  we  have  kissed  the 
medal.  And  then  we  would  be  relieved, 
knowing  that  we  were  in  God's  hands,  our 
destinies  guided  by  a  Divine  Force. 

Jimmie  held  the  medal  to  my  lips.  I 
kissed  it.  He  took  the  medal  and  held  it 
up  to  his  lips.  He  had  been  on  the  verge 
of  tears,  but  now  his  face  looked  serene. 

"God  will  watch  over  our  baby,"  said 
Jimmie  slowly. 

I  was  operated  on  that  night  and  I  was 
told  I  was  in  surgery  three  hours.  When 
I  opened  my  eyes  I  saw  Jimmie's  face  in 
a  foggy  world. 

"Is  the  baby  all  right?"  I  asked. 

"Our  baby  is  all  right,"  said  Jimmie.  "Our 
baby  is  all  right."  END  57 


"Errol  Flynn  Died  in  My  Arms" 


(Continued  from  page  22) 

no  make-up  on,  could  only  sob  as  death 
stepped  in  and  took  away  "the  only  man 
I   really  loved"   from  her  embrace. 

As  the  final  curtain  rang  down  on  one 
of  the  last  of  the  gallant  screen  greats,  the 
dreams  of  the  future  that  Errol  and  Bev- 
erly had  shared  for  themselves  suddenly 
went  into  oblivion,  too. 

"We  were  going  to  be  married  and  live 
in  Jamaica  as  soon  as  Errol  got  his  di- 
vorce," Beverly  sobbed  after  she  recovered 
from  the  initial  shock  of  Flynn's  sudden 
death  from  a  heart  attack. 

"We  were  going  to  live  in  a  house  we 
designed  together.  It  was  to  have  been 
the  most  beautiful  house  in  all  the  British 
West  Indies.  But  now  ...  all  those  plans 
are  gone  forever. 

"I  still  can't  accept  Errol's  death.  I  don't 
know  if  1  ever  will.  I  had  promised  him 
if  anything  happened  I  would  go  ahead 
and  face  up  to  life  in  the  Flynn  tradition — 
live  for  today  and  have  a  wonderful  time 
doing  it.  He  always  said:  'No  tears,  break 
open  a  bottle,  and  toast  me  in  pink  cham- 
pagne.' 

"I  can't  do  that.  I  never  will.  He  told  me 
also:  'If  anybody  comes  to  my  funeral  I'll 
cut  them  out  of  my  will.'  But  I  can't  help 
the  way  I  feel  about  him.  I  can't  ever  for- 
get the  two  years  we  spent  together — the 
happy  times  we  had. 

"Errol  was  more  to  me  than  a  sweet- 
heart and  the  man  I  was  to  marry.  He  was 
my  everything — my  father,  my  mother,  my 
lover,  my  companion,  my  advisor,  my  idol." 

Fifteen  and  forty-eight 

When  Beverly  met  Errol,  she  was  just  a 
wide-eyed  girl  of  fifteen.  He  was  forty- 
eight.  His  greatness  for  the  most  part  was 
in  his  past.  He  was  no  longer  Hollywood's 
top  lover — at  least  not  on  screen.  In  the 
past  few  years,  freewheeling  Errol  had  led 
a  nomadic  life,  wandering  from  Europe  to 
Jamaica,  to  Cuba,  to  New  York,  and  back 
to  Hollywood,  picking  up  work  wherever 
be  could  find  it. 

For  twenty-five  years  he  had  been  the 
epitome  of  the  suave,  love-'em-and-leave- 
Vm  Lothario  who  built  his  reputation  on 
h  heap  of  broken  hearts.  He  had  made 
women  forget  Douglas  Fairbanks  and  Ru- 
dolph Valentino. 

Flynn  was  built  for  the  part.  He  had 
the  vigor,  good  looks,  charm,  and  animal 
magnetism  that  drew  women  like  moths 
to  the  flame.  And  they  all  got  burned. 

Now,  that  flame — still  flickering  even 
though  not  as  bright — had  attracted  Bev- 
erly Aadland. 

"You  might  ask  what  I  saw  in  a  man 
thirty-three  years  older  than  I,"  Beverly 
said.  "I  will  tell  you  that  I  saw  everything 
in  Errol — everything  in  the  world  for  me. 

"I  always  had  been  starved  for  love.  I 
always  wanted  to  be  hugged  and  loved. 
Even  as  a  little  girl,  I  wanted  my  father 
to  hug  and  love  me.  But  he  never  gave 
me  the  attention  and  devotion  I  wanted 
from  him. 

"Perhaps  that  is  why  I  started  dating 
when  I  was  twelve.  By  the  time  I  was 
fifteen — when  I  finally  met  Errol — I  had 
been  engaged  four  times! 

"But  most  of  the  boys  I  had  known  were 
shallow.  They  were  after  one  thing — and 
one  thing  only." 

Fate  destined  Beverly  to  meet  Errol  on 
the  Warner  Brothers  lot  in  Hollywood  in 
October,  1957.  Beverly  had  a  dancing  part 
in  Marjorie  Morningstar.  Errol  was  work- 
ing in  Too  Much,  Too  Soon. 

"I  noticed  someone  staring  at  me,"  Bev- 
erly related.  "I  didn't  know  who  it  was. 
58  I  had  read  about  Errol  Flynn  in  some 


magazines  and  had  seen  his  pictures.  But 
I  didn't  recognize  him.  Not  at  first.  Finally, 
though,  I  realized  who  it  was. 

"I  was  instantly  afraid  of  him  because 
of  the  things  I  had  read  about  him — about 
that  rape  trial  and  things  like  that." 

Beverly  was  referring  to  the  sordid  case 
in  1943  that  had  threatened  to  wreck 
Errol's  movie  career.  Two  young  girls, 
Betty  Hansen,  seventeen,  and  Peggy  Sat- 
terlee,  sixteen,  charged  Flynn  with  rape. 

It  was  Flynn  who  was  seduced,  his 
lawyer  Gerry  Geisler  shouted  at  the  trial. 

Peggy,  a  chorus  girl,  said  Flynn  lured 
her  below  decks  in  his  yacht  "to  show  me 
the  moon  through  a  porthole."  Betty,  a 
star-struck  waitress,  claimed  Errol  served 
her  a  "greenish"  drink  at  a  Hollywood 
party,  then  took  her  to  a  bedroom  when 
she  became  ill,  and  seduced  her. 

A  jury  of  nine  women  and  three  men 
acquitted  him.  Two  of  the  men  had  held 
out  for  conviction.  It  was  a  close  call. 

The  case  which  shocked  Hollywood  had 
come  the  year  of  his  divorce  from  actress 
Lili  Damita,  the  fiery  French  delight  whom 
Errol  had  married  in  1935.  Lili  told  the 
court  Errol  wanted  to  be  free — didn't  want 
a  wife  and  child.  They  had  one  son,  Sean, 
who  was  a  year-old  at  the  time. 

And  at  that  time,  1943,  Beverly  was  only 
two  years  old! 

The  intense  magnetism 

Yet  when  Errol  gazed  over  at  Beverly 
on  the  Warner  lot  that  October  day  in 
1957,  the  shapely,  blonde  starlet  couldn't 
help  but  feel  the  intense  magnetism  that 
lured  women  to  him. 

"When  he  looked  at  me  I  felt  some- 
thing," Beverly  said.  "I  know  it  always 
was  like  that — whenever  Errol  looked  at 
a  girl  she  felt  it! 

"For  four  days  there  on  the  Warner  lot 
it  went  like  that — Errol  watching  me. 

"Then  Errol  sent  someone  over — it  was 
Orry  Kelly,  the  big  dress  designer — to  tell 
me:  'Mr.  Errol  Flynn  would  like  to  meet 
you.' 

"My  heart  started  to  pound  when  I 
heard  that.  A  warmth  glowed  inside  me. 
Butterflies  fluttered  in  my  stomach." 

There  was  no  hesitation  on  Beverly's 
part. 

"Take  me  to  him,"  she  told  Kelly  impa- 
tiently. 

Kelly  escorted  Beverly  to  Errol's  dress- 
ing room. 

"I  was  shaking  when  we  were  intro- 
duced," Beverly  said.  "  But  Errol  was  so 
nice  that  I  began  to  feel  at  ease  somewhat. 
Still  and  all  I  couldn't  help  being  flustered 
inside." 

Errol  started  by  saying,  "I  noticed  you, 
my  dear.  I  think  you  have  possibilities  of 
becoming  a  great  actress." 

At  first  Beverly  thought  Errol  was  "just 
being  kind." 

"We  talked  a  while  and  he  asked  me 
a  lot  of  questions  about  myself.  Then 
came  the  zinger. 

"  'I'd  like  you  to  come  to  my  house,' 
Errol  told  me. 

"  'Wow!'  I  told  myself.  'This  guy  really 
has  earned  his  reputation.  He  certainly  is 
a  fast  worker.'  " 

Errol  could  see  the  apprehension  in 
Beverly's  face. 

"I  want  you  to  read  a  part  of  Jane  Eyre 
for  me,"  Errol  said.  "I'm  very  tired  now 
and  I  don't  want  to  do  any  more  work 
here  at  the  studio.  Will  you  come  up?" 

"I  couldn't  figure  out  if  it  was  the  old 
line,  'Come  up  and  see  my  etchings,' " 
Beverly  said.  She  couldn't  tell  if  Errol 
really  was  sincere. 


"Errol  could  see  me  hesitate  and  he 
quickly  assured  me  that  we  wouldn't  be 
alone.  He  said  his  secretary  would  be  at 
the  house,  too.  He  asked  me  to  dinner 
first,  and  told  me  his  lawyer  would  accom- 
pany us  to  the  restaurant. 

"I  couldn't  resist  the  invitation  any 
longer.  There  was  something  about  the 
way  Errol  talked — he  had  a  flair,  a  man- 
ner, a  style  that  completely  disarmed 
you." 

Beverly  was  voicing  the  sentiments  that 
were  expressed  many  times  before — by  the 
women  whom  Errol  had  wooed  and  won, 
then  impulsively  dropped  like  hot  potatoes. 
Halfway  round  the  world  warning  signals 
rose  from  the  wreckages  of  Errol's  past 
romances  to  tell  Beverly  of  the  danger 
that  could  lie  ahead. 

But  Beverly  was  blind  to  these  signals. 
She  accepted  Errol's  invitation. 

"After  I  finished  work,"  she  related.  "I 
rushed  home  to  dress  for  my  date." 

Beverly  lived  with  her  mother  and 
father  in  Ingle  wood,  just  outside  Holly- 
wood. 

"I  didn't  let  on  to  them  that  night  that 
I  had  a  date  with  Errol  Flynn.  And  as 
things  turned  out,  I'm  glad  I  didn't." 

Beverly  hurried  out  and  met  Errol  and 
his  lawyer  in  a  restaurant.  After  dinner. 
Errol  took  Beverly  to  his  house  "up  on  a 
hill." 

Beverly  was  overcome 

"I  was  awed  by  the  sight,  its  magnifi- 
cence and  splendor,"  Beverly  said.  "I  was 
overcome  by  the  beautiful  surroundings, 
the  landscaping,  the  house  itself,  and  by 
the  breathtaking  furnishings.  It  was  so 
exquisitely  decorated. 

"But  most  of  all  I  was  overwhelmed  by 
Errol  himself — by  his  charm  and  glam- 
our." 

As  Errol  had  promised,  his  secretary 
was  there.  Errol  took  Beverly  into  the 
living  room  and  began  to  talk  about  his  in- 
terest in  her  as  an  actress. 

"He  told  me  again  he  thought  I  had 
great  possibilities.  He  wanted  to  make 
Jane  Eyre,  he  said,  and  was  thinking  of 
me  for  the  lead  role.  I  was  thrilled  at  the 
idea  of  playing  the  part  Joan  Fontaine 
had  in  the  earlier  version  of  that  film.  I 
could  hardly  believe  my  ears." 

As  Errol  talked  on,  Beverly  suddenly 
became  conscious  of  a  small  development. 
The  secretary  was  not  in  the  room  any 
longer.   Beverly  and  Errol  were  alone. 

"Errol  moved  closer  to  me  and  said, 
'Let's  sit  on  the  rug.' 

"It  was  a  white  bearskin  rug.  I  con- 
sented and  we  threw  ourselves  on  it  in 
front  of  the  fireplace.  We  talked  some 
more  and  smoked.  We  used  the  bear's 
mouth  as  an  ashtray. 

"As  Errol  talked,  I  forgot  all  about  Jane 
Eyre.  I  began  to  think  about  other  things 
— like  love.  I  could  tell  the  way  Errol 
began  to  look  at  me  now  that  he  loved  me. 
And  I  knew  about  myself — I  loved  him. 

"There  were  things  about  him  that  I 
never  found  in  any  other  man. 

"He  was  the  first  person  who  ever  really 
listened  to  what  I  said.  I  could  think 
about  all  the  unhappiness  at  home  and 
about  my  social  and  love  life  of  the  past, 
and  of  the  bores  I  used  to  date.  This  was 
so  different. 

"My  dates  had  been  so  dull  and  simple. 
I  would  go  to  drive-in  movies  with  them. 
About  the  most  exciting  thing  they  could 
do  was  sneak  a  bottle  of  liquor  into  the 
car.  It  was  disgusting. 

"As  these  things  ran  through  my  mind, 
Errol  took  my  hands  and  pulled  me  close. 

"  'I  don't  usually  kiss  girls,'  Errol  told 
me.  'I  have  a  reputation,  you  know.  I'm 
a  very  dangerous  man.  But  with  you,  my 
dear  Beverly,  I  have  a  sudden  great  desire 
to  kiss  you.' 

"He  put  his  arms  around  me  and  drew 


e  in  close  embrace.  Then  he  kissed 
e.  It  was  spine-tingling. 
"I  had  been  kissed  before  by  other  men. 
tit  it  was  nothing  like  this.  The  others 
ere  so  empty,  so  meaningless,  so  cold. 
"My  heart  began  to  race  a  mile  a  min- 
:e.  I  felt  all  choked  up.  Everything  all 
once  became  so  unclear,  so  misty — so 
eamy. 

"In  the  next  instant.  Errol  swept  me  up  ' 
his  arms.  I  didn't  care  what  happened 
•.ymore.  I  was  in  love  and  I  knew  he 
ved  me.  I  felt  since  we  both  shared  this 
eling  for  each  other  it  didn't  really  mat- 
r  what  happened.  Anything  that  did 
.ppen  would  be  worth  it. 
"I  had  an  hour  of  sheer  heaven  with 
m.  The  best  way  I  can  describe  it  is  to 
y  that  Errol  made  mad  love  to  me — love  ; 

you  ne\er  have  seen  him  make  in  any 
ovie  role.  And  I  made  mad  love  back.'" 

er  parents  would  worry 

When  it  got  late.  Beverly  told  Errol  she 
id  to  go  home  because  her  mother  and 
-her  would  be  worried  about  her. 
"Errol  didn't  want  me  to  go,  but  I  told 
m  it  had  to  be  that  way — at  least  for 
e  present.  He  understood." 
Errol  called  his  chauffeur  and  told  him 
take  Beverly  home. 

"As  I  got  in  the  car,  the  chauffeur  looked 
nd  of  funny  at  me.  I  guess  he  was 
inking  that"  Errol  had  made  another 
■nquest.  But  I  didn't  care.  I  knew  he 
ould  find  out  soon  enough  that  I  was 
it  just  another  girl  in  Errol's  life — that 
was  something  special. 
Then  I  began  to  think  as  the  car  drove 
E.  Suddenly  I  began  to  cry.  I  cried  be- 
ase  I  didn't  know  whether  I  had  done 
e  right  thing.  I  cried  because  I  didn't 
low  for  certain  if  I  would  ever  see  Errol 
ain.  Even  though  I  believed  he  was  in 
s  e  with  me,  he  never  did  come  out  and 
y  "I  love  you.'  Perhaps  I  was  just  an- 
ker date,  after  all. 

"  But  most  of  all  I  cried  because  it  had 
en  such  a  spinning  evening.  The  emo- 
>nal  impact  was  terrific  on  me.   I  cried 

the  way  home." 
Beverly  went  to  bed  that  night  without 
eing  her  mother  or  father.  The  next 
Dining  when  her  mother  came  into  the 
om  to  awaken  her  at  six  so  she  could 
t  to  work  at  the  studio.  Mrs.  Aadland 
ticed  a  strange  expression  on  Beverly's 
:e. 

Tve  never  seen  you  look  quite  like 
.5  before."  Beverly's  mother  told  her. 
."ho  are  you  in  love  with?"  she  asked. 

Errol  Flynn."  Beverly  replied. 
-Mrs.    Aadland    laughed.    She  thought 
:  verly  was  still  dreaming. 
-  Wake  up!"  she  told  her  daughter.  "Come 
:-.vn  to  earth." 

3everly  didn't  try  to  explain  that  she 
.3  telling  the  truth.  She  knew  it  would 
hard  to  explain  everything.  She  went 
the  studio  and  worked  all  day.  But 
2  didn't  see  Errol. 

Ihat  night  Beverly  had  a  date  with  a 
y  named  Jim.  Beverly  wanted  to  cancel 
r  date  but  there  was  no  way  she  could 
:  in  touch  with  Jim.  So  she  kept  her 
pointment. 

When  Jim  took  me  out  I  had  lost  all 
;ire  for  his  company.  When  I  compared 
n  with  Errol  Flynn — why  there  was  just 
thing  at  all  to  Jim.  And  I  realized,  too, 
mt  I  could  never  have  fallen  in  love 
:h  him. 

'He  took  me  to  a  drive-in  and  tried  to 
i  :k  with  me.   I  had  no  feeling  for  Jim 

y  more  and  I  pushed  him  away.  Jim 

:ldn't  understand  me  because  we'd  been 
r  ng  steady  for  some  time  and  I'd  never 
:  ed  like  this  before.  But  I  just  couldn't 
any  other  man  touch  me  now  that  I 

=w  what  it  was  to  be  loved  by  Errol  '. 

nan." 

m  took  Beverly  home  early  that  night. 


take  a  qreat  writer... 

Guy  Endore 

distinguished  author  of  the 
best-selling  KING  OF  PARIS 

and  an  all-time  favorite  story... 

Ben-Hur 

a  tale  of  the  Christ 
by  Lew  Wallace 

put  them  together... 

BEN-HUR  became  a  popular  classic  almost  overnight  when 
it  was  originally  published  80  years  ago.  It  was  an  exciting 
story  .  .  .  written  in  the  ornate,  slow-moving,  elaborate  style 
popular  in  the  1880's. 

Xow  BEN-HUR  is  back  on  every  tongue  because  M-G-M 
has  turned  it  into  one  of  the  colossal  movies  of  all  time. 
To  tie  in  with  the  film,  Guy  Endore  has  modernized  this 
19th-century  classic.  He  has  taken  the  same  dramatic  mate- 
rial— the  barbaric  splendor  of  Ancient  Rome  and  the  heroic 
beginnings  of  Christianity* — and  completely  re-written  it. 
Picked  it  up.  Paced  it  fast.  Translated  it  into  the  quick,  color- 
ful language  of  today. 


READ  THE  DELL  EDITION  BEFORE  YOU  SEETHE  MAGNIFICENT  M-G-M  MOVIE 


When  she  came  in,  her  mother  told  Bev- 
erly she  had  a  phone  call  earlier  in  the 
evening. 

"It  was  Errol  Flynn,"  Mrs.  Aadland  told 
her  daughter.  "I  guess  you  weren't  kid- 
ding this  morning,  were  you?" 

Beverly  dashed  for  the  phone  with  her 
heart  skipping  beats  to  call  Errol.  He  told 
her  he  wanted  to  see  her  the  next  night. 

No  one-night  thing 

"That  was  what  I  had  been  dying  to 
hear.  Now  I  knew  for  certain  it  wasn't 
just  a  one-night  thing  between  Errol  and 
me.  I  knew  now  that  we'd  be  together 
forever." 

And  it  began  to  look  like  Beverly  was 
right.  From  then  on  Errol  and  Beverly 
seemed  to  go  everywhere  and  do  every- 
thing together. 

"That  was  our  story — togetherness," 
Beverly  said.  "Errol  and  I  went  every- 
place— to  all  the  big  cities  in  America, 
Europe,  and  to  Africa  and  Cuba." 

The  gossip  columnists  had  a  field  day. 
"Another  young  girl  in  Errol  Flynn's 
clutches,"  they  wrote.  "How  long  will  she 
last  with  him  until  she's  burned?"  they 
asked. 

But  Beverly  didn't  seem  to  care. 

"I  knew  what  they  could  not  know — of 
the  real  and  vibrant  love  that  Errol  and 
I  shared. 

"The  words  'I  love  you'  were  difficult 
for  Errol  to  express.  He  had  used  them 
first  when  he  met  his  first  love,  Lili  Da- 
mita,  whom  he  married  twenty-five  years 
ago.  And  he  never  spoke  them  again  in 
real  life — until  he  whispered  them  to  me." 

That  happened  in  Paris  while  Errol  was 
making  Roots  of  Heaven  for  Darryl  Zan- 
uck. 

"I  was  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world 
that  day." 

After  that.  Errol  and  Beverly  were  seen 
more  and  more  together. 

"People  who  knew  Errol  would  stop  and 
ask  him,  'Isn't  Beverly  too  young  for  you?' 

"But  Errol  had  a  ready  answer  for  all  of 
them.  His  eyes  would  twinkle  and  he 
would  reply  in  that  clipped  way  of  his, 
'I  may  be  too  old  for  her,  but  she  is  not 
too  young  for  me.' 

"In  truth,  he  was  not  too  old  for  me. 
Believe  it  or  not,  I  felt  like  a  mother  to 
him. 

"He  needed  watching  over.  And  that 
was  my  job.  That  was  the  way  I  acted 
toward  him — as  a  sort  of  guardian. 

"There  was  a  very  young  quality  about 
Errol  even  if  he  was  forty-eight  years  old 
and  I  only  fifteen.  He  was  in  many  ways 
a  child — a  daredevil  and  a  pixie. 

"I  felt  I  was  his  stabilizer.  Physically 
and  emotionally  I  felt  ten  years  older  than 
Errol.  Yet,  I  was  never  too  aware  of  his 
age.  He  was  the  kind  of  man  who  im- 
pressed me  as  being  ageless. 

"He  needed  a  young  girl  like  me.  An 
older  woman  could  never  have  under- 
stood Errol." 

As  Beverly  got  to  know  Errol  better, 
she  began  to  know  more  about  his  ways 
and  his  interests.  She  saw  the  real  Flynn. 

"He  was  not  just  a  zany,  happy-go-lucky 
individual  as  most  people  knew  him.  There 
were  many  sides  to  Errol  Flynn." 

People  generally  saw  the  three  sides  of 
Flynn — the  lover,  the  drinker,  and  the 
adventurer. 

"It's  true  that  Errol  loved  those  three 
things  the  most — wine,  women,  and  ad- 
venture," Beverly  explained.  "But  he  also 
was  a  man  of  great  polish  and  brilliance. 
There  were  many  other  sides  to  his  nature. 
There  was  not  only  Errol  the  lover,  but 
there  was  Errol  the  man  who  loved  life. 
And  there  was  Errol  the  man  who  loved 
culture,  and  Errol  the  teacher." 

Beverly  also  found  out  that  Errol  was 
a  sincere  and  loyal  person  with  a  strong 
60  distaste  for  hypocrisy. 


"He  never  gave  a  hang  for  the  critics. 
He  knew  he  was  being  ridiculed  and  criti- 
cized for  being  seen  with  me.  But  he 
would  say  to  me,  'Don't  let  that  talk  get 
you  down.  I  want  to  do  exactly  as  I  please 
— and  being  with  you  is  what  I  want  most 
in  the  world.'  " 

Errol 's  attachment  and  fondness  for 
Beverly  was  reflected  in  the  nickname  he 
gave  her — 'Woodsie'  for  'Woodnymph.' 

"He  told  me  I  was  like  a  woodnymph. 
Errol  was  like  that.  He  could  never  see 
people  as  people.  His  imagination  soared 
too  high  for  that.  To  him  people  were 
symbols — or  delightful  animals,  or  coarse, 
crass  objects.   But  never  people." 

Errol  also  devised  another  nickname. 

"He'd  call  me  his  'S.C  This  meant 
'small  companion.'  But  most  of  the  time 
I  was  his  'Woodsie.' " 

When  Beverly  came  into  Errol's  life, 
his  hell -raising  days  were  for  the  most 
part  behind  him.  But  that  only  was  by 
contrast  to  the  Flynn  of  old.  To  Beverly, 
it  wasn't  exactly  so. 

"There  was  still  a  lot  of  hell  in  Errol 
even  as  I  knew  him,"  she  said. 

Errol  and  Beverly  often  talked  about 
those  days  of  yesteryear,  of  the  early 
'30's  when  Flynn  shot  up  like  a  meteor 
on  the  Hollywood  scene.  There  were  some 
bitter,  some  scandalous  episodes. 

■M  !  !  !  !  !  !  I  !  I  !  I  I  I  !  I  !  I  I  !  I  !  I  !  !  !  * 

~      Tennessee  Ernie  Ford:  Life  doesn't  Z 

-  begin  ot  40  for  those  who  went  - 

-  like  60  when  they  were  20. 

Sidnc\  Skolskv 

-  in  the  New  York  Post  ~ 

Ti  i  i  i  n  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  " 

"Errol  never  did  mind  talking  about  the 
past.  He  had  no  bitter  feelings  about  it. 
But  our  talks  of  the  old  days  never  lasted 
long.  We  lived  in  the  present." 

Beverly  recalled  the  happy  days  she 
spent  in  New  York  with  Errol. 

"We  had  such  wonderful  communication 
between  us.  We  would  sit  for  hours  by 
the  window  and  look  out  at  the  sky- 
scrapers and  the  great  melting  pot  of 
humanity  below,  the  city  with  its  endless 
traffic  jams  and  grinding  noises. 

"We  could  sit  together  like  that  in  any 
situation  or  place  and  share  the  most 
trivial  experience  together,  as  we  shared 
the  biggest  moments. 

"  'We're  like  ham  and  eggs.'  Errol  would 
say.  'I'm  the  ham — we  go  together.'  " 

Beverly  can  never  forget  one  winter 
morning  in  New  York. 

"Errol  got  me  up  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  and  said.  'Let's  get  out  and  com- 
mune with  nature.'  I  didn't  think  the 
idea  was  wild  at  all.  I  simply  got  dressed 
and  went  out  with  him. 

"We  went  walking  through  Central  Park 
in  the  snow.  It  was  so  peaceful  and  so 
beautiful.  You  can't  imagine  what  it  was 
like  unless  you've  done  the  same  thing  .  .  . 
and  you've  done  it  with  Errol  Flynn. 

"We  even  sat  on  the  hotel  room  floor 
and  watched  a  fly  crawl. 

"And  if  that  sounds  crazy,  it  isn't  at  all. 
That  was  part  of  our  togetherness." 

Then  Errol  took  Beverly  to  Europe. 

"It  was  there  Errol  had  his  first  chance 
to  show  me  his  great  depth.  He  took  me 
to  the  museums  in  London  and  Paris; 
then  I  learned  the  side  of  Errol  that  was 
the  teacher,  the  man  who  loved  culture. 

"He  also  took  me  to  the  English  country- 
side and  showed  me  the  castles.  He  spun 
tales  of  English  lore  that  fascinated  me. 

"In  Paris,  I  learned  more  about  Errol 
the  fun-lover.  I  remember  we  sat  in  the 
hotel  balcony  overlooking  the  street.  We 
had  green  almonds  and  started  to  spit 
them  down  on  the  gendarmes  below. 

"We'd  made  1,000  franc  bets  on  who 
would  hit  the  gendarmes  first.    After  a 


few  tries.  I  made  a  direct  hit  on  a  gen 
darme's  face.  It  really  stung  him.  H< 
came  charging  up  the  stairs  and  storme< 
into  the  room. 

"We  threw  the  almonds  under  the  sof; 
and  sat  on  the  balcony  pretending  we  wen 
gazing  out  at  the  view.  We  laughed  lik< 
the  devil  after  the  gendarme  left  our  suit* 
disgusted  because  he  couldn't  prove  any- 
thing." 

Errol  also  took  Beverly  to  many  bril- 
liant parties  in  Paris.  It  was  there  she  go 
to  know  still  another  side  of  Errol — th< 
bon  vivant. 

"Women  practically  fell  at  his  feet.  The} 
simply  adored  him.  They  were  awed  bj 
his  charm  and  personality." 

Then  there  was  the  trip  to  Africa.  Erro 
had  to  go  on  location  in  French  Equatoria 
Africa  for  the  shooting  of  Roots  of  Heaven 
Beverly  could  not  make  the  entire  trip  t< 
the  Dark  Continent  with  him,  but  wai 
able  to  spend  a  few  days  together  then 
with  Errol.  And  now  Beverly  had  a  chanc< 
to  see  Errol's  adventurous  side. 

"We  went  on  small  game  hunts  and  w< 
did  things  together  like  we'd  never  don« 
before,  like  swimming  with  hardly  : 
stitch  on.  .  .  ." 

Beverly  then  came  back  to  New  Yori 
alone.  And  here  she  learned  of  still  an- 
other Flynn — the  Pygmalion — a  man  driver 
by  some  compulsion  to  remold  his  younf 
sweetheart.  From  the  fetid,  forsaken  regioi 
of  the  Equatorial  jungles  Errol  penned  i 
series  of  letters  to  Beverly,  spouting  ar 
array  of  poetry,  passion,  concern  for  hii 
young  beloved,  and  a  desire  to  make  some- 
thing of  her. 

Presumably.  Errol  wrote  to  Beverly  in 
one  letter,  you  have  never  delved  intc 
anything  more  profound  in  the  literary 
sense  than  reading  the  funnies  on  Sunday 
morning.  Why  don't  you  try  reading  a 
book.  .  .  . 

He  suggested  that  Beverly  read  George 
Bernard  Shaw's  Pygmalion,  the  classical 
myth  of  a  king  and  sculptor  of  Cyprus 
who  carved  an  ivory  statue  of  a  maiden 
who  suddenly  came  to  life.  Shaw  adapted 
this  ancient  tale  to  forge  his  own  modern 
allegory  of  a  wealthy  scholar  who  changes 
a  poor,  ragged  girl  into  an  electrifying 
articulate  society  woman.  It's  the  story 
now  celebrated  in  song  in  My  Fair  Lady. 

And  to  Flynn,  Beverly  was  his  own  Fair 
Lady.  This  passage  from  another  letter 
clearly  showed  Errol's  concern  about  Bev- 
erly"s  dress: 

I  just  bought  you  some  lovely 
African  Moorish  embroidered  cloth 
so  we  can  design  something  quite 
different  for  dresses  for  you  and 
have  it  made  up. 
Yet  even  when  Errol  was  being  serious 
still  another  of  his  many  sides  seemed  to 
pop  up — this  one  the  pixie.   In  that  very 
same  letter  that  talked  of  Beverly's  attire 
he  wrote  her: 

Following  are  the  matters  on  the 
agenda  I  will  now  take  up  with    ■  I 
you  .  .  .  note: 

(1)  Your  extreme  precocity 
(your  adolescence  is  no  excuse)  is 
funny. 

(2)  Your  almost  hedonistic  de- 
light in  any  pretense  to  the  rudi- 
ments of  culture  or  acquisition  of 
the  basic  ladylike  behaviorism  (I 
think  we  shall  avoid  this  subject; 
if  I  ever  find  you  being  ladylike 
I'll  clip  you  over  the  side  of  the 
ear)  is  deplorable. 

In  this  next  letter  to  Beverly.  Flynn 
shattered  the  traditional  conception  of  him 
as  the  insouciant  lover — the  man  who 
took  romance  on  the  wing. 

In  my  throat  there  is  a  sort  of 
lump— nothing  physical — just  pure 
emotion.  I  guess,  when  I  think  of 
you.  .  .  . 

And  there  was  more  of  Flynn's  emo 


mal  outpouring  in  this  letter  of  March 
th.  1958: 

Woo^sie — what  a  funny  adorable 
little  idiot  you  are,  do  you  really 
think  I  can  iust  pick  up  a  'phone 
here  and  call  you?  I  can't  even 
scream  or  yell  for  the  boy  to  bring 
me  orange  juice  in  the  morning. 

I  loved  your  two  letters.  They 
reached  me  here  together — one 
dated  Feb.  23.  the  other  March  3rd. 
It's  now  the  18th.  I  feel  like  telling 
you  so  many  human  things  but  I 
can't  read  by  this  lamp  what  I'm 
saying. 

But  I  do  know  one  sure  thing — 
that  my  heart,  my  real  heart,  goes 
out  to  you  as  I  write  this.  .  .  . 
Woodsie — you're  hooked. 

I  just  got  back  from  the  hunt. 
Didn't  shoot  a  living  thing,  thank 
God.  Every  time  we  sneaked  up  on 
the  'game'  I'd  fire  a  big  fat  bullet 
and  make  sure  I  would  miss — so 
that  the  animal  escaped  unharmed, 
and  I  cursed  loudly  and  called  my- 
self a  lousy  shot  and  everyone 
agreed  and  I  was  secretly  so  happy 
not  to  have  killed  some  poor  thing 
— in  Africa  you  must  kill.  Lousy! 

You  should  join  me  here  ...  or 
Paris,  won't  you  love  that?  I  will. 
I  have  much  to  tell  you — so  much 
— but  this  lamp  is  fouling  up  my 
prose. 

( The  lamp  Errol  is  referring  to  is  a 
rricane    lamp,    used    in    the  primitive 
untry  where  the  film  was  being  made.) 
Dear,   very   dear    little    girl.  I 
think  of  you  constantly.    When  I 
say  that  there  is  one  constant  image 
in  my  mind  and  heart  it  seems 
strange.  Strange  indeed. 

Both  your  letters  gave  me  the 
very  strange,  very  strong,  vibrant, 
vital  feeling  that  you  really  care 
for  me  and  I  can  hardly  credit  this, 
but  hope  and  long  with  this  tor- 
mented, empty,  calloused  heart 
that  it  is  true.  Is  it?  True,  I  mean, 
that  what  you  write,  you  mean? 
That  you  really  love  me?  It  seems 
incredible.  I  don't  think  I'm  by  any 
means  gullible  to  the  degree  that 
one  is  overwhelmed  by  a  mere  ex- 
pression of  something  deep  be- 
tween two  people — one  so  much 

older  than  the  other  and  a  h  

of  a  lot  of  other  things.  .  .  . 

Oh,  well,  go  to  sleep,  little  one. 
Remember  that  this  heart  has  for 
you   a   strong   fierce    beat  which 
you  can  easily  wreck  if  you  treat 
it  lightly. — Errol. 
3everly  read  these  passages  and  there 
re  tears  in  her  eyes. 
'Now  do  you  see  what  there  was  be- 
een  Errol  and  me?   Now  do  you  see 
:  deep  and  devoted  love  we  shared? 
rs  was  a  love  that  would  have  lasted 
i  lasted  .  .  ." 

There  were  many  other  letters — letters 
which  Errol  poured  out  his  love  for 
verly  in  beautiful  prose,  like  this  pas- 
Words,  mere  words  cannot  con- 
I  vey  what  I  feel  for  you  in  this 

crusty  heart  of  mine.  .  .  . 
But  time  heals  all  wounds  and  the  tem- 
-ary  hurts  of  Errol's  and  Beverly's 
arts  by  the  separation  of  distance  was 
n  to  end,  and  they'd  be  together  again. 
We  met  again  in  Paris,"  said  Beverly, 
lose  moments  of  seeing  Errol  again 
fer  his  long  absence  I  shall  cherish  for- 

"\here  in  Paris,  Errol  decided  that  Bev- 
v  would  make  a  picture  with  him.  And 
*as  to  be  another  overseas  venture — to 
ba.  And  what  a  time  to  be  there — when 
country  was  being  swept  by  revolu- 
Ln!  The  picture  was  Cuban  Rebel  Girls. 


"We'd  hardly  been  in  Havana  a  day 
wb<m  Errol  and  producer  Jackson  Mahon 
ard  I  were  hauled  into  police  headquar- 
ters to  answer  questions  about  why  we 
hadn't  submitted  the  script  of  the  movie 
to  the  Cuban  government  for  review  and 
apm-oval.  But  things  were  straightened 
out. 

"I  hated  it  in  Cuba  because  most  of  the 
time  I  was  safely  in  Havana  while  Errol 
went  out  into  the  hills  plaving  at  being 
a  rebel  with  Fidel  Castro.  He  was  where 
the  guns  were  firing  real  bullets,  and  it 
was  no  place  to  be.  It  was  pretty  terrifying 
for  me. 

"And  as  you  probably  read,  he  finally 
got  hurt.  A  Batista  plane  flew  over  while 
Errol  was  riding  in  a  jeep  and  started  to 
stitch  the  road  with  bullets.  Errol  dove 
into  a  ditch.  He  escaoed  getting  shot  but 
he  hurt  his  knee  and  hip. 

"I  was  never  so  glad  as  when  the  picture 
was  finished  and  we  left  Cuba  to  go  to 
New  York." 

When  they  got  back.  Errol's  knee  was 
giving  him  trouble  and  he  entered  Hark- 
ness  Pavilion  at  Columbia  Presbyterian 
Medical  Center  for  treatment.  He  was  con- 
fined there  for  a  number  of  days — but  it 
must  have  seemed  like  years  to  the  medi- 
cal director.  Errol  almost  disrupted  the 
hospital's  entire  routine. 

Someone  had  started  a  rumor  Errol  tried 
to  induce  the  nurses  at  Harkness  to  wear 
only  bikinis  while  he  was  there. 

Errol  denounced  the  rumor  to  a  re- 
porter, saying:  "That's  a  shocking  he  and 
a  canard.  Mac." 

Then  Errol  added  thoughtfully:  "Be- 
sides, it's  against  the  rules." 

It  was  while  he  was  in  the  hospital  that 
Errol  received  the  galley  proofs  from  the 
publishers  of  the  book  he  had  written. 
My  Wicked,  Wicked  Ways. 

Errol  screamed  when  he  saw  what  the 
publishers  had  done  to  some  of  the  parts 
on  sex.  It  was  Errol's  autobiography,  and 
he  had  wanted  the  story  printed  just  as  he 
had  written  it — bluntly  and  accurately. 

"I've  been  working  on  that  stupid  book 
a  whole  year,"  Errol  complained.  "I've 
gathered  the  material  since  I  was  six.  It 
just  gives  me  prostration  to  see  what 
those  stupid  publishers  did  to  the  parts 
about  sex." 

One  reporter  who  interviewed  Errol  in 
the  hospital  asked  him  about  a  poem  he 
had  written  which  gave  title  to  the  book. 

Errol  smiled  and  said  he  would  recite 
it.  It  went  like  this: 

Come,  all  you  young  men,  with 

your  wicked,  wicked  ways. 
Sow  all  your  wild,  wild  oats  in 

your  younger  days, 
So  that  you  may  be  happy  when 
you  grow  old. 

Later,  when  the  reporter  wrote  the  in- 
terview, he  commented: 

"By  those  standards,  the  poem  was  writ- 
ten by  a  happy,  happy  man." 

"How  right  that  reporter  was!"  said 
Beverly. 

"Errol  was  a  very  happy  man.  He  was 
like  someone  who  had  just  taken  out  a 
new  lease  on  life.  I  don't  want  to  seem 
presumptuous  and  say  it  was  all  on  ac- 
count of  me.  But  I  do  think  I  had  a  little 
something  to  do  with  Errol's  happiness — 
new-found  happiness,  you  might  say." 

The  months  that  followed  after  Errol 
got  out  of  the  hospital  continued  to  be 
heavenly  ones  for  Beverly. 

"Errol  filled  my  life  with  the  love  that 
had  eluded  me  so  long.  And  he  kept  me 
laughing.  He  was  so  unpredictable. 

"Errol  loved  children  and  animals.  We 
talked  about  children  as  something  that 
would  come  in  the  future — when  we  were 
married  and  had  gone  to  live  in  the  fabu- 
lous house  Errol  planned  to  build  in  Ja- 
maica. 

"But  animals  were  something  Errol  and 


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MERCOLIZED  WAX  CREAM 

At  All  Drug  and  Cosmetic  Counters 


High  School  Course 

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So  as  rapid!;  as  your  time  and  abilities  permit.  Coursa 
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American  School.  Dept.H  1 1 4,  Drexel  at  58th,  Chicago  37 

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SHORTHAND 

Famous  SPEEDWRITDsG  shorthand.  1? 
words   per    minim.    No    symbols,    no  it 

Ch  ine--      Use-      ABl    -       l.Piirn  "i..w'es"'en 

m 


P  IN 


SS   W.  42 


POEMS 


WANTED 


For  musical  setting  .  .  .  send 
Poems  today.  Any  subject. 
Immediate  Consideration.  Phonograph  records  made. 
CROWN  MUSIC  CO.,  49  W.  32  St.,  Studio  340,  New  York  1 


NEVER  FAIL- 
ZONE  YOUR  MAIL 

The  Post  Office  has  divided  1 06 
cities  into  postal  delivery  zones  to 
speed  mail  delivery.  Be  sure  to  in- 
clude zone  number  when  writing  to 
these  cities;  be  sure  to  include  your 
zone  number  in  your  return  address 
— after  the  city,  before  the  state. 


Woman  Tortured 
by  Agonizing  ITCH 

"/  nearly  itched  to  death  for  7%  years.  Then  1 
discovered  a  new  wonder  creme.  Now  I  am 
happy,"  writes  Mrs.  D.  Ward  of  Los  Angeles 

Here's  blessed  relief  from  tortures  of  vaginal  itch, 
re«3l  itch,  chafing,  rash  and  eczema  with  a  new 
amazing  sciencific  formula  called  LANACANE.  This 
fast-acting,  stainless  medicated  creme  kills  harmful 
bacteria  germs  while  it  soothes  raw,  irritated  and 
inflamed  skin  tissue.  Stops  scratching  and  so  speeds 
healing.  Don't  suffer!  Get  LANACANE  at  druggists!  6 


I  could  share  in  the  present.  And  we  did. 
Aside  from  the  alligators,  Errol  bought  me 
a  rabbit  called  'McTavish,'  a  spider  monkey 
named  'Agnes  Gootch,'  after  the  secretary 
in  Auntie  Mame,  and  a  mynah  bird  and 
a  cat  which  we  called  'Dagmar.' " 

Errol  and  Beverly  finally  ended  up  in 
Hollywood  late  last  Summer. 

When  Beverly  got  home  to  Inglewood, 
she  was  shocked  to  find  her  parents  had 
been  separated.  Her  father  had  left  home. 

"My  father  had  not  liked  my  association 
with  Errol  and  he  blamed  my  mother  for 
not  stopping  it.  My  father  is  a  very  hard- 
headed  man.  He  is  a  German-Norwegian 
and,  although  he  never  showed  his  feel- 
ings for  me,  I'm  sure  he  loved  me.  And 
that  is  why  he  took  it  out  on  my  mother. 
He  had  to  blame  someone,  I  guess. 

"Mama  tried  to  talk  me  out  of  marrying 
Errol.  But  she  saw  I  was  determined.  She 
knew  that  I  was  very  much  in  love  with 
Errol  and  she  wanted  me  to  be  happy.  She 
could  see  that  I  was  happier  than  I'd  ever 
been  in  my  life." 

While  in  Hollywood,  Errol  decided  to 
throw  a  party  for  Beverly.  That  was  last 
September  16  when  Beverly  turned  seven- 
teen. The  party  was  in  Francati's.  Errol 
invited  a  lot  of  people,  including  his  sec- 
ond wife,  Nora  Eddington  Haymes,  who 
was  escorted  to  the  party  by  songwriter 
Dok  Stanford.  After  the  party  was  over, 
Beverly  wished  she'd  never  come. 

"A  lot  of  unpleasantness  broke  out.  Nora 
accused  me  of  making  remarks  about  Er- 
rol being  elderly.  She  said  to  me,  'You 
are  very  lucky  to  have  a  man  like  Errol 
interested  in  you.' 

"I  told  her  I  never  spoke  of  Errol's  age 
or  ever  said  anything  against  him.  I  don't 
remember  my  language,  but  it  was  pretty 
strong,  and  it  shut  her  up." 

Later,  Dok  hit  a  man  named  Otto  on 
the  jaw  because  he  was  lavishing  too 
much  attention  on  Nora. 

In  what  was  considered  a  remarkable 
feat,  Errol — although  the  center  of  the 
controversy — managed  to  stay  out  of  the 
rhubarb  without  throwing  a  punch. 

His  invitation  to  Nora  to  attend  a  party 
for  his  new  sweetheart  was  part  of  the 
unpredictable  nature  that  was  Errol's. 

Nora  was  a  young  girl  when  she  fell  in 
love  with  Errol.  She  had  read  about  him 
and  his  trouble  in  1943  and  came  to  Los 
Angeles  and  got  a  job  at  a  cigarette  stand 
in  the  courthouse  where  Errol  was  on  trial 
just  to  be  near  him.  Errol  spotted  her 
and  they  fell  in  love. 

That  same  year,  as  soon  as  his  divorce 
from  Lili  Damita  was  finalized,  Errol  mar- 
ried Nora  Eddington  in  Mexico.  The  mar- 
riage ended  in  1949.  Nora  complained  that 
she  and  Errol  hardly  were  ever  together. 
Errol  was  always  off  making  pictures  or 
sailing  the  seas. 

Their  two  daughters,  Deirdre  and  Rory, 
went  to  live  with  Nora.  And  ten  days  after 
the  divorce,  she  married  singer  Dick 
Haymes. 

Incidentally,  Beverly  resembles  Errol's 
daughter,  Rory,  who  is  now  fourteen  years 
old! 

The  day  after  the  birthday  party,  Errol 
had  a  look  of  solemnity.  Beverly  wanted  to 
know  what  was  wrong. 

"Are  you  angry  with  me?"  she  asked. 

"No,  darling,"  he  replied.  "It's  just  that 
I've  come  back  from  the  doctor  and  found 
out  that  I've  got  to  slow  down  a  bit." 

Errol  told  Beverly  the  doctor  had  given 
him  an  electro-cardiogram  and  it  showed 
his  heart  wasn't  in  the  best  of  shape. 

"But  Errol  didn't  tell  me  that  he  had 
suffered  two  earlier  heart  attacks — before 
we  had  met. 

"I  was  very  worried  and  I  pleaded  with 
him  to  take  it  easy.  I  begged  him  to  stop 
drinking,  too.  He  told  me  he  would." 

The  next  day  Errol  was  in  excellent 
62  spirits  again.  He  took  Beverly  swimming 


at  a  Beverly  Hills  hotel  pool.  While  they 
were  sitting  poolside  a  reporter  came  over 
for  an  interview  with  Errol. 

Errol  lit  a  cigarette  and  sipped  a  drink. 
He  stroked  Beverly's  blond  tresses  as  he 
started  to  tell  the  reporter  about  himself. 
It  seemed  then  Errol  might  have  suspected 
he  didn't  have  long  to  live.  He  spoke  of 
his  life  in  the  past  tense.  But  he  was 
cheery  about  it.  He  admitted  he'd  been  a 
scalawag,  but  said  he'd  never  change  a 
thing  if  he  had  his  life  to  live  over  again. 

"I  have  no  complaints,"  Errol  said.  "I've 
enjoyed  every  minute  of  my  life. 

"I  have  a  great  talent  for  spending.  I've 
squandered  more  than  $7,000,000  during 
my  career.  The  public  expects  me  to  be  a 
playboy,  and  I  don't  want  to  let  people 
down.  When  I  was  broke  I  didn't  let  it 
worry  me.  And  until  now  I  have  managed 
to  hang  onto  my  yacht  Zaca  no  matter 
how  badly  things  went. 

"But  I  guess  I  need  the  money  now,  old 
bean.  That  is  why  I'm  going  up  to  Van- 
couver to  see  if  I  can  sell  her.  She's  a 
$100,000  baby,  and  someone  up  there  wants 
to  buy  her. 

"I  guess  I'll  be  criticized  for  a  long  time 
for  carrying  on  with  Beverly.  But  it's  a 
question  of  living  the  life  you  see  fit  to 
live.  I've  been  careless  of  other  people's 


K  Mamie  Van  Doren:  I  wear  extreme  V. 

#  low-cut  dresses  because  they  help  f 

4)  my  posture.  In  those  dresses,  one  A 

m  slouch  would  be  fatal.  A 

U  Sidnev  Skolskv  K 

W.  in  the  New  York  Post  # 

opinions.  I  never  thought  the  public  would 
be  interested  in  my  so-called  antics. 

"Years  ago  it  was  a  matter  of  choosing 
which  road  to  travel.  After  all,  there  is 
only  one  road  to  hell,  and  there  aren't 
any  signposts  along  the  way. 

"I've  taken  the  human  disasters  in  the 
same  stride  as  the  good  times,"  Errol  said, 
referring  to  the  many  highpoints  he  hit 
in  life  and  the  numerous  plunges  to  the 
depths  which  invariably  followed. 

"I  hope  I  managed  to  face  it  all  with  a 
brave  front.  You  shouldn't  distress  your 
friends  or  have  them  feeling  sorry.  The 
worse  the  disaster,  the  braver  the  front. 

"I've  lived  hard,  spent  hard,  and  be- 
haved as  I  damned  well  chose.  You'd  think 
I'd  be  ready  for  the  wheelchair  after  the 
last  twenty  years  of  hell-raising.  But  I 
never  felt  better. 

"I  like  to  travel,  and  that's  what  I'm 
going  to  keep  doing.  I  have  no  intention 
of  slowing  down  .  .  ." 

Beverly  said  she  believed  everything 
Errol  had  said  except  that  last  part — about 
slowing  down. 

"If  he  were  being  honest  with  me  when 
he  promised  to  slow  down  for  his  health's 
sake,  I  know  he  was  just  putting  on  a  front 
for  the  reporter. 

"Errol  didn't  want  his  millions  of  fans 
finding  out  he  was  a  sick  man." 

Beverly  said  she  was  beside  herself 
trying  to  figure  it  all  out.  Errol  had  spoken 
of  his  life  in  the  past  tense.  At  the  moment, 
Beverly  thought  it  was  very  significant. 

"I  thought  perhaps  the  doctor  might  have 
told  him  his  heart  condition  was  more 
serious  than  Errol  was  letting  on.  But  I 
really  never  got  to  know." 

Whatever  Beverly's  concern  for  Errol, 
he  quickly  made  her  forget  it. 

"We're  going  to  Vancouver,"  he  an- 
nounced unexpectedly.  "Up  to  George 
Caldough's  place.  He's  interested  in  buy- 
ing the  yacht." 

Beverly  and  Errol  flew  to  Vancouver.  It 
was  their  first  trip  to  Canada — but  just 
another  country  on  their  rapidly-building- 


up  itinerary  of  world  travel. 

"Our  visit  in  Vancouver  was  wonder 
ful,"  Beverly  said.  "The  Caldoughs  mad. 
delightful  hosts.  I  had  a  thoroughly  en 
joyable  time,  and  so  did  Errol.  I  wa 
sorry  when  our  visit  came  to  the  end  oi 
its  sixth  day. 

"We  started  for  the  airport  to  fly  bacl 
to  Hollywood.  We  were  being  taken  then 
by  George  and  his  wife  in  their  car  whei 
Errol  complained  of  pains  in  his  back. 

"He  mentioned  then  for  the  first  tim< 
to  George  that  he  had  suffered  two  hear 
attacks  in  the  past,  and  thought  perhap 
this  might  be  another.  That  was  the  firs 
I  knew  of  the  other  attacks. 

"George  said  he  thought  Errol  shoulc 
see  a  doctor  and  he  drove  the  car  to  Di 
Grant  A.  Gould's  apartment  in  Vancouver. 

As  Dr.  Gould  began  examining  Erro 
there  was  no  immediate  diagnosis  of  aj 
emergency  condition.  Errol  told  the  docto: 
he  had  suffered  recurring  attacks  of  ma- 
laria while  in  Vancouver. 

Then  Errol  drifted  into  how  he  con- 
tracted malaria  in  the  South  Seas.  Tha 
started  him  talking,  and  he  rambled  abou 
his  experiences  in  Hollywood. 

As  Errol  spoke,  music  and  voices  fron 
an  apartment  next  door  could  be  hear< 
in  the  doctor's  office.  It  was  a  cocktai 
party.  Somehow,  word  got  there  tha 
Errol  Flynn  was  visiting  Dr.  Gould. 

One  by  one  the  guests  began  to  floa 
into  the  physician's  office  uninvited  t< 
listen  to  Errol  in  fascination  as  he  spui 
his  stories  of  the  golden  days.  He  proppec 
himself  against  the  door  and  spoke  end- 
lessly— for  a  solid  two  hours! 

"He  talked  about  W.  C.  Fields,  the  artis 
John  Dexter,  John  Barrymore  ...  all  th< 
greats,"  Beverly  recalled. 

"His  eyes  lit  up  as  he  stood  there  waving 
his  arms  in  magnificent  gestures,  imitatinj 
these  movie  greats.  It  was  a  beautiful  per- 
formance. His  stories  were  thrilling — h< 
was  a  wonderful  story  teller." 

Suddenly,  Errol  seemed  to  tire.  H( 
bowed  gracefully  and  said: 

"I  think  I  might  lie  down." 

Then  he  walked  steadily  to  a  bedroorr 
in  the  doctor's  apartment.  As  he  reachec 
the  door,  he  turned  in  a  gesture  of  moci 
heroics  and  declared  grandly: 

"But  I  shall  return.  .  .  ." 

Errol  went  into  the  bedroom  and  laj 
on  the  bed.  Dr.  Gould  followed  him  ii 
and  examined  Errol  there.  A  momeni 
later  the  doctor  came  running  out  of  tht 
room. 

"Concern  was  plainly  written  on  th« 
doctor's  face,"  Beverly  said.  "I  knew 
Errol  was  seriously  ill. 

"I  went  into  the  bedroom  and  saw  Erm 
gasping  for  breath.  I  sat  on  the  bed  anc 
put  my  arms  around  him.  A  few  seconds 
later  I  noticed  he  was  barely  breathing 

"But  I  saw  a  smile  on  Errol's  lips,  which 
were  trembling.  He  was  trying  to  say 
something — perhaps  that  he  loved  me.  FB 
never  know.  He  never  did  speak. 

"I  had  a  feeling  this  was  the  end.  I  had 
a  feeling  that  Errol  Flynn,  the  man  ] 
loved  so  very  much,  had  died  in  my 
arms.  .  .  ." 

The  door  opened  suddenly  and  Dr 
Gould  came  into  the  room.  Beverly  got 
up  and  went  to  the  door  to  be  out  ol 
the  way. 

Dr.  Gould  and  George  took  Errol  from 
the  bed  and  placed  him  on  the  carpet. 
Errol  wasn't  breathing  anymore.  Dr 
Gould  took  a  hypodermic  of  adrenalin  and 
plunged  it  directly  into  Errol's  heart,  try- 
ing to  shock  it  into  action.  Then  the  doctor 
stepped  back. 

He  said  he  hoped  the  Fire  Department 
inhalator  squad  would  get  there  in  time 
He  had  phoned  them  when  he  had  gone 
out  of  the  bedroom  the  last  time. 

In  desperation,  Caldough  asked  Dr 
Gould  if  nothing  couldn't  be  done  to  save 

I 


irol.  "Mouth-to-mouth  breathing  might 
elp."  Dr.  Gould  said. 

Caldough  dropped  to  his  knees  and  be- 
an to  breath  into  Errol's  mouth. 

"He  must  have  kept  it  up  for  ^some- 
ting  like  twenty  or  thirty  minutes."  Bev- 
:ly  said.  "All  I  know  is  it  seemed  like 
a  eternity  until  the  inhalator  squad  got 
lere." 

The  squad  then  took  over.  The  mask 
as  put  over  Errol's  face. 

In  a  few  minutes,  the  ambulance  arrived. 

stretcher  was  brought  into  the  room 
id  Errol  was  lifted  gently  on  to  it.  Then 
5  was  carried  downstairs  into  the  ambu- 
:ice. 

T  was  desperate,"  Beverly  said.  "I 
ished  downstairs.  I  tried  to  get  into  the 
ack  of  the  ambulance  with  Errol.  But 
ley  wouldn't  let  me.  The>-  told  me  I 
juld  ride  up  front  in  the  cab  with  the 
river. 

T  watched  as  they  put  Errol  into  the 
nbulance.  The  inhalator  crew  got  in 
ith  him.  still  administering  oxygen  to 
rrol." 

As  the  doors  were  closed.  Beverly  ran 
o  front  and  got  in  beside  ambulance 
iver  Al  Gowan.  Dr.  Gould  followed  be- 
nd in  Caldough's  car  as  the  ambulance 
axted  up  for  its  seventy-mile-an-hour 
^■ee-mile  dash  to  Vancouver  Hospital. 
Beverly  was  weeping  hysterically  now. 
Gowan  tried  to  comfort  Beverly. 
Please  don't  worry,"  he  told  her.  "They 
iow  what  they're  doing.  Everything  will 
;  all  right." 

As  the  ambulance  pulled  up  at  the  hos- 
tal.  Beverly  leaped  out  and  ran  over 
watch  intently  as  the  attendants  hoisted 
e  stretcher  out  and  carried  Errol  into 
e  emergency  room. 

Beverly  then  started  to  pace  the  long 
rridor  outside  the  emergency  room. 
Dr.  Gould  and  the  other  doctors  on  the 
•spital  staff  took  over  again  in  the  efforts 
revive  Errol. 

"I  died  a  thousand  deaths  waiting," 
sverly  related. 

As  she  paced  up  and  down  the  long 
11.  the  clock  on  the  wall  ticked  off  the 
mutes  .  .  .  five  .  .  .  ten  .  .  . 
It  was  8:30  p.m.  when  the  door  of  the 
-.ergency  room  opened  slowly.  Dr.  Gould, 
Diting  distraught,  walked  out.  Beverly 
as  at  the  far  end  of  the  corridor  and  she 
rinted  the  full  length  to  him. 
How  is  he.  Doctor?"  she  asked  plead- 
gly.  hoping  to  hear  Errol  would  be  all 
•ht. 

He  is  dead,"  Dr.  Gould  told  Beverly 
-ectly.  simply. 

-he  words  hit  Beverly  like  a  ton  of 
ieks.  She  let  out  a  soft  anguished  sigh, 
an  collapsed  on  the  floor  in  a  dead  faint. 
;:he  was  picked  up  and  carried  into  the 
largency  room,  in  a  section  apart  from 
lere  Flynn's  body  lay.  She  was  given 
sedative. 

When  I  came  to  they  drove  me  to  the 
■orge  Caldoughs'  place.  I  was  in  deep 
ack.  I  wouldn't  believe  Errol  was  dead, 
kept  crying.  "There's  nothing  wrong 
th  Errol.  He's  just  sick.  He's  got  to 
y  in  the  hospital.  He'll  be  all  right  in 
:  ew  days,  and  he'll  be  back  in  my  arms 
jain.' 

"I  couldn't  believe  Errol  had  died — in 
arms. 

y  the  Caldough  home  Beverly  was  put 
bed. 

They  kept  me  under  sedatives  for  near- 
rwenty-four  hours  because  of  the  way 
ook  Errol's  death.   The  only  person  I 

2r  really  loved — the  man  I  was  to 
iry — was  dead.    It  was  an  incredible 

»ck." 

\fter  Beverly  regained  her  composure 
i  her  full  senses,  she  began  to  plan 
ol's  funeral. 

He  always  said  he  wanted  to  be  buried 
his  plantation  in  Jamaica.  I  had  prom- 


tender,  exciting 
love  stories 

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-  The  Heart 
Remembers 

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Ten  5'ears  ago  they 
had  loved,  quarreled, 
and  parted.  Now,  sud- 
denly, they  were 
face  to  face. 


Only  Akiko 

by  Duncan  Thorp 

He  was  a  tough 
sergeant  on  the  make  .  .  . 
She  was  available  .  .  .  The 
last  thing  they  expected 
was  love. 


Kind  Are 
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What 

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ised  him  that  if  anything  happened  to 
him,  I  would  see  to  it  that  his  wish  was 
fulfilled." 

But  that  was  not  to  be.  Patrice  Wymore, 
Errol's  third  wife  and  now  estranged  from 
him,  stepped  into  the  picture.  Patrice,  who 
had  married  Errol  in  Monte  Carlo  in  1950, 
was  in  Washington,  D.  C,  appearing  in  a 
nightclub  act.  She  flew  West  immediately 
to  make  her  own  funeral  plans  for  a  Holly- 
wood burial. 

Even  though  Errol  was  planning  to  di- 


vorce Patrice  to  marry  Beverly,  Patrice 
was  still  Flynn's  legal  wife. 

And  through  all  of  Errol's  romantic  run- 
about with  Beverly,  Patrice  somehow  still 
seemed  to  kindle  the  flame  of  love  in  her 
heart  for  Errol. 

Just  before  Errol's  death,  Patrice  had 
said:  "I  wish  I  could  hate  him  but  I  can't." 

Which  proved  again  the  old  saying — all 
the  world  loves  a  lover. 

Beverly  took  the  defeat  philosophically. 
'All  that  really  matters  to  me  now  is 


that  I've  lost  Errol.  I  have  lost  the  mai 
I  loved  with  all  my  heart.  It  will  take  | 
long  time  for  the  wound  to  heal. 

"But  I  must  accept  his  death.  And 
must  live  by  my  promise  to  Errol — tha 
if  anything  happened  to  him  I  would  gi 
ahead  in  the  Flynn  tradition,  living  fo 
today  and  having  a  wonderful  time  do 
ing  it. 

"That  is  what  I  must  do.  .  .  ."  EN 
Errol  and  Beverly  star  in  Cuban  Rebe 
Girls,  Exploit  Films. 


Troy 

(Continued  from  page  28) 

older  person.  He  carried  the  burden  of  his 
father's  death,  but  he  had  to  make  sure 
it  never  showed  in  his  eyes. 

Merle  Johnson,  Senior,  failed  slowly. 
Eventually  he  was  bed-ridden,  later,  hos- 
pitalized. During  the  final  months  of  his 
illness,  he  was  almost  entirely  paralyzed. 

Merle  Junior  was  fourteen,  then,  and  he 
went  to  the  hospital  every  day  to  visit. 
Toward  the  end,  Mr.  Johnson,  by  now 
pitifully  weak,  contracted  pneumonia.  The 
last  time  his  son  saw  him,  Mr.  Johnson  in- 
dicated the  gold  watch  on  the  table  beside 
his  bed.  The  watch  was  his  favorite  pos- 
session, and  he  had  kept  it  always  near 
him.    "Take  it  home,"  he  said  now. 

The  boy  tried  to  speak,  but  no  words 
would  come.  He  shook  his  head,  finally 
got  his  voice.   "You'll  need  it — " 

"No,"  his  father  said,  keeping  the  tone 
light.  "There's  no  sense  having  it  around; 
please  take  it  when  you  go." 

He  knows,  the  boy  thought,  startled,  and 
a  wave  of  love  and  pity  flooded  through 
him,  and  his  throat  ached  with  feelings  he 
didn't  understand. 

He  walked  down  the  street  clutching  the 
gold  watch  which  had  ticked  away  the 
minutes  of  his  father's  life,  and  he  turned 
into  a  luncheonette  where  a  bunch  of  kids 
he  knew  could  generally  be  found  driving 
the  waitress  crazy.  They  were  all  there, 
and  over  the  jukebox  Louis  Armstrong  was 
growling  A  Kiss  To  Build  A  Dream  On. 

The  gang  talked  about  the  football 
schedule,  and  whether  you  could  ever  get 
any  homework  done  in  study  period,  and 
who  was  taking  whom  to  the  Bayport  High 
School  sophomore  dance,  and  at  one  point 
Merle  Junior  looked  up  and  his  family's 
maid  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"Go  home  right  away,"  she  said.  "Your 
father's  passed  on — " 

The  day  Troy  became  a  man 

He  didn't  cry.  It  was  as  though  he'd 
been  expecting  it,  but  his  fingers  closed 
around  the  gold  watch  in  his  pocket,  and 
all  the  way  to  his  house  he  caressed  that 
cool,  smooth  surface.  He  was  saying  good- 
bye to  his  father,  he  was  saying  good-bye 
to  his  childhood;  something  had  broken  in 
him,  he  would  never  be  the  same  any 
more. 

If  his  father  had  lived,  young  Merle 
Johnson  might  have  had  the  courage  to 
fight  for  his  idea  of  becoming  an  actor. 
As  it  was,  he  felt  an  obligation  to  try  to 
make  his  mother  happy,  since  he  was  all 
she  had. 

After  two  years  at  Bayport  High  he 
transferred  to  the  New  York  Military 
Academy  at  Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, 
with  his  future  one  huge  question  mark. 
He'd  agreed  to  turn  his  back  on  theater, 
but  theater  and  sports  were  all  that  in- 
terested him.  Scholastically,  he  was  close 
to  awful;  he  never  enjoyed  studying,  but 
what  he  did  enjoy  was  writing  plays,  di- 
recting them,  playing  parts  in  them.  He 


was  a  demon  athlete,  too,  winning  letters 
for  football,  basketball  and  track. 

He  and  his  mother  finally  agreed  that  he 
should  try  out  for  West  Point.  He  passed 
his  first  test,  then  fell  and  broke  his  knee 
in  a  track  meet.  The  injury  automatically 
disqualified  him  for  acceptance  at  the  Point, 
and  he  found  himself  breathing  a  sigh  of 
relief.  "It's  fate,"  he  believed.  "Now  may- 
be I  can  do  what  I  want  to  do — " 

Tired  of  living  a  life  somebody  else  had 
figured  out  for  him,  he  went  to  his 
mother  one  last  time.  "I  want  to  be  an  ac- 
tor.   You  still  don't  approve?" 

"That's  right,"  she  said.    "I  don't.'' 

"Okay,"  he  said.  "I  don't  want  to  hurt 
you,  but  I  can't  lie  any  more.  I'm  going 
to  the  city  and  try  my  luck.  I  won't  ask 
you  for  help — " 

She  watched  him  up  the  stairs,  she  heard 
the  thump  of  the  suitcase  being  lugged 
down  out  of  the  closet,  perhaps  she  even 
remembered  her  own  youth,  and  that  no 
one  could  have  stopped  her,  or  told  her. 
"You've  got  to  fail  on  your  own  terms," 
she  said  to  the  empty  room,  permitting  her 
son,  at  last,  his  freedom. 

In  New  York  City,  Merle  Johnson. 
Junior,  was  a  busy  boy.  He  took  journ- 
alism classes  at  Columbia  University,  he 
studied  acting  with  Ezra  Stone,  and  he 
worked,  worked,  worked.  He  was  a  mes- 
senger with  a  commercial  film  company — 
you  picked  up  the  can  of  film  from  one 
place  and  delivered  it  to  another,  and  it 
didn't  do  much  for  your  voice  and  speech, 
but  it  taught  you  how  to  tell  uptown  from 
downtown,  and  which  subways  got  you 
where.  He  took  a  job  as  a  laborer  on  a 
road  construction  project  in  Jersey,  and 
he  waited  on  table  in  Sayville,  Long  Island 
(the  first  was  good  for  his  muscles,  the 
second  taught  him  to  be  comfortable  in 
those  stiff  shirt  fronts),  and  he  sang  with 
a  dance  band,  and  did  a  little  summer 
stock,  and  he  never  went  near  his  mother. 

Not  that  he  didn't  phone,  just  that  he 
knew  if  he  visited,  she'd  press  money  on 
him,  and  he  was  determined  not  to  be  sup- 
ported by  her. 

He'd  call  her  up.  "Mom?" 

She'd  try  not  to  sound  anxious.  "How 
are  you,  darling?" 

"Fine,  fine,"  he'd  say,  hearty  tone  belying 
the  fact  that  the  landlord  was  pounding  on 
the  door. 

Dodging  eviction 

He  lived  in  eight  different  rooms  in  New 
York,  and  was  evicted  from  two  of  them. 
The  process  was  very  simple.  The  land- 
lord would  appear  and  demand  the  rent. 
Merle  would  look  innocent.  "I'm  terribly 
sorry,  sir,  I  just  don't  have  it." 

Sometimes  it  worked,  twice  it  didn't. 
Twice  they  gave  him  back  the  same  in- 
nocent stare  he'd  turned  on  them,  and  said 
politely,  "Get  out." 

Between  jobs,  starvation  is  the  main 
problem  of  actors,  and  Merle's  solution  for 
this  was  original.  He'd  get  up  at  seven  or 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  go  to  a  one- 
arm  joint  and  eat  a  hot  dog.  This  would 
make  him  queasy  enough  so  he  didn't  want 
to  face  nourishment  again  till  night. 

Lots  of  days  there  were  parties  where 


people  served  food;  occasionally  somebod; 
got  married,  or  had  a  graduation,  and  th 
spreads  would  be  sumptuous;  even  whei 
you  didn't  know  the  principals  involvei 
too  well,  you  could  always  squeeze  by  th 
door-keeper  if  your  shirt  was  clean,  an< 
you  had  a  good  crease  in  your  trousers. 

He  fell  in  love  for  the  first  time  whei 
his  fortunes  were  at  their  lowest  ebb.  He'i 
gone  to  a  cocktail  party  thrown  by  som 
in-the-chips  pals,  and  he'd  no  sooner  set 
tied  himself  in  a  chair,  than  the  most  beau 
tiful  girl  in  the  world  walked  into  th 
room.  She  was  almost  buried  in  a  mini 
coat,  which  she  removed  as  she  crossei 
the  floor  toward  him.  She  dropped  th 
coat  in  his  lap.  "Watch  it  for  me.  wi] 
you?"  she  said. 

He  couldn't  believe  it  had  happened 
Out  of  all  the  people  there,  she'd  decidei 
to  honor  him  with  the  custody  of  he 
wrap.  Watch  it  for  me,  watch  it  for  m( 
It  was  like  a  song.  Someone  to  watch  i 
for  me. 

He  sat  there,  hand  protectively  stretchei 
across  the  silky,  precious  fur,  and  the  part; 
built  up  around  him.  He  never  moved,  h 
didn't  even  go  over  to  where  the  food  wa: 
though  he'd  been  famished  before. 

Half  an  hour  later,  the  girl  came  bad 
laughing.  "You  really  are  watching  ii 
aren't  you?" 

"Hmm."  he  said.  He  remembers  it  wa 
something  brilliant  like  that. 

"Look,"  she  said.  "Why  don't  you  tak 
me  to  dinner?    This  bash  isn't  much  fun. 

He  began  to  stammer.  Somebody  stud 
a  pink  paper  hat  on  the  girl's  head,  an 
she  brushed  it  off  with  a  look  of  irritatior 
"Well?" 

"I  can't,"  he  said.   "I  have  no  dough." 

Her  smile  was  dazzling;  her  voice  ha< 
been  written  by  Mozart.  "I'll  take  you, 
she  said,  offering  her  back,  so  that  h 
could  slip  the  mink  onto  her  shoulders. 

Troy  and  the  model 

For  three  months,  he  couldn't  think  c 
anything  but  the  girl.  First  thing  in  th 
morning,  last  thing  at  night.  She  was 
model,  and  she  was  coining  money.  Hi 
career  couldn't  have  been  said  to  faltei 
since  it  had  never  really  got  going  in  th 
first  place,  but  it  sure  looked  dead. 

Probably  the  girl  was  fond  of  him,  bu 
she  was  ambitious,  and  a  lot  of  guys  wit! 
heavy  wallets  and  custom-made  suits  wer 
ringing  her  bell,  and  she  started  being  bus> 

He  got  the  "Troy,  honey,  I  just  have  t 
break  our  date"  once  too  often,  and  wen 
marching  over  to  her  place  with  fire  in  hi 
eyes,  and  of  course  her  headache  turne 
out  to  be  tall,  dark  and  diamond-studdec 
and  Merle  was  turned  away  from  th 
premises  a  much  sadder  boy. 

It  was  his  first  broken  heart,  and  h 
didn't  know  how  to  handle  it,  so  he  did  i 
all  wrong.  There'd  be  phone  calls.  He'i 
yell,  "I'm  never  going  to  see  you  again, 
and  her  silvery  laughter  would  float  acros 
the  wire,  and  she'd  say,  "All  right,  honey, 
and  he'd  be  suddenly  frightened. 

For  three  months  he  hung  around,  re 
duced  to  taking  any  crumb  of  time  tha 
she  would  spare  him.  Finally  he  wen 
away  to  play  in  stock.    At  summer's  em 


he  came  home  again,  the  wound  healed. 

That  fall,  he  took  a  good,  long  look  at 
himself.  Swell,  you  want  to  act.  he  mut- 
tered into  his  mirror.  But  right  now  the 
only  thing  that's  getting  any  action  is  your 
feet.  You're  just  another  pavement- 
pounding  idiot,  in  a  city  full  of  so  many 
pavement-pounding  nuts  that  some  joker 
left  a  fund  to  Actors'  Equity  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  providing  said  nuts  with  new 
shoes.  Merle  didn't  want  new  shoes;  he 
didn't  want  any  kind  of  handout.  He 
wanted  work. 

A  man  who'd  been  a  friend  of  his 
father's,  a  fellow  named  Darryl  Brady, 
suggested  that  Merle  come  to  Hollywood. 
He  had  a  job  for  him — not  acting,  but  he 
wasn't  acting  in  New  York  either. 

Holl}rwood.  That's  where  they  picked  up 
shipping  clerks  and  truck  drivers  and  co- 
eds and  turned  'em  into  stars,  wasn't  it? 
He  could  be  a  shipping  clerk  as  good  as 
anybody,  so  maybe  stardom  was  a  mere 
3.000  miles  away. 

Several  months  later,  he  hadn't  become 
a  star,  but  he  was  working  steadily  for 
Mr.  Brady,  and  he'd  put  all  his  money 
into  a  second-hand  MG,  and  a  little  shack 
at  the  beach,  and  he  was  reasonably  happy. 
One  night  he  was  eating  at  a  place 
called  The  Green  Pheasant  in  Malibu,  and 
all  of  a  sudden,  the  whole  scene  turned 
into  something  out  of  a  Lana  Turner  movie. 
Two  men  came  up  and  introduced  them- 
selves. One  was  a  producer  named  William 
Archer,  the  other  was  a  director  named 
James  Sheldon,  and  they  didn't  waste 
words.  "We'd  like  to  give  you  a  screen 
test  at  Columbia,"  they  said. 

Figuring  it  was  a  gag  a  buddy  had  set 
up,  he  grinned  at  them  wisely.  "Sure  you 
would.  And  I'll  bet  you  want  me  to  play 
the  King  of  Rumania." 

The  offer  turned  out  to  be  a  real  one, 
a  fact  of  which  he  was  ultimately  con- 
vinced, and  then  began  several  weeks  of 
cramming  so  he'd  be  good  enough. 

Just  when  life  looked  good  .  .  . 

The  day  before  his  test  was  scheduled, 
he  rehearsed  and  rehearsed  on  the  scene 
he'd  been  given.  He  worked  himself  to 
the  point  of  exhaustion,  then  took  a 
breather,  went  to  visit  some  friends  in 
town.  By  the  time  he  started  back  to  his 
Malibu  shack,  he  was  bone-tired. 

It  was  very  late,  and  he  fought  against 
an  overpowering  sleepiness.  It  went 
through  his  mind  to  pull  the  car  off  the 
road  and  take  a  nap.  No,  he  told  himself. 
You'll  never  wake  up  in  time,  and  then 
you'll  be  in  rotten  shape  tomorrow.  He 
drove  on,  fell  asleep  at  the  wheel,  the 
:ar  hurdled  an  embankment. 

He  doesn't  remember  how  he  got  out 
ji  the  wreckage,  he  doesn't  remember 
crawling  up  the  road,  but  somehow  he 
Tiade  it,  and  a  terrified  motorist,  appalled 
at  the  sight  of  a  bloody,  weaving  giant, 
.oicked  him  up  and  took  him  to  the  nearest 
nospital. 

Lucky  to  be  alive,  he  didn't  complain 
;about  his  fractured  skull,  his  bruised 
spinal  column.  The  thing  that  bothered 
11m  was  that  they'd  shaved  his  head,  and 
-"taturally  nobody  was  going  to  screen  test 
!;ome  bald  boy.  He  lay  on  his  back  for 
vhat  seemed  like  years,  pondering  the  odd 
jvays  of  destiny,  and  one  day  while  he 
.".-as  pondering,  he  had  a  visitor.  An 
ictress  friend  named  Fran  Bennett  dropped 
By,  and  she  brought  with  her  an  agent 
lamed  Henry  Willson.  Merle  knew  Will- 
on's  name.  He'd  created  Tab  Hunter  out 
•f  Arthur  Gelien,  and  turned  Roy  Fitz- 
;erald  into  Rock  Hudson.  Now  he  was 
ooking  contemplatively  at  Merle. 

When  Merle  Johnson,  Junior,  finally  got 
ip  out  of  bed,  he'd  been  re-christened 
>oy  Donahue,  and  he  was  on  his  way. 
Willson  got  him  a  contract  at  Universal- 


International.  He  was  6'  3"  tall,  blond 
and  blue-eyed,  as  handsome  as  anything 
they'd  seen  around  there  in  a  long  time, 
and  they  put  him  into  seventeen  movies 
in  two  years,  though  no  one  seems  to  recall 
any  of  them  with  excitement. 

While  he  was  at  Universal -International, 
he  met  Judi  Meredith,  who  was  also  un- 
der contract.  In  fact,  they'd  tested  to- 
gether. Judi  was  the  first  girl  since  the 
lady  in  mink  who'd  really  knocked  Merle 
— or  Troy,  as  we'll  call  him — out. 

"'I  flipped,"  he  says,  still  not  pretending 
to  be  cool  about  the  whole  thing.  He  was 
scared,  of  course.  He  was  a  burnt  child, 
and  it  had  been  his  experience  that  if 
you  liked  a  girl  too  much  you  left  your- 
self open  to  being  kicked  in  the  teeth,  but 
Judi  tore  him  up.  There  was  nothing  he 
could  do  about  it. 

Another  romance 

Actually,  the  romance  wasn't  a  sweet, 
boy-girl  kind  of  affair.  There  was  too 
much  Hollywood  in  it.  Premiers,  date 
layouts,  and  always  the  photographers 
saying.  "Kiss  her  again,  Troy,"  and  her 
career  booming  but  not  his. 

Then  she  fell  in  love  with  Wendell 
Niles.  Jr.  Wendell  was  a  friend  of  Troy's, 
and  neither  he  nor  Judi  wanted  to  hurt 
Troy,  so  they  lied. 

There  was  the  night  Judi  told  Troy  she 
had  to  go  to  the  Ice-Capades  alone. 

Troy  phoned  Wendell.  "How  about  us 
having  a  guy  evening?  Let's  wander 
around  some  place — " 

Wendell  hedged.  "I  don't  know.  I'll  call 
you  later — " 

After  dinner,  Troy,  still  restless,  rang 
Wendell  back.  "He's  in  the  shower."  said 
Wendell's  mother.  "But  Judi's  here.  Do 
you  want  to  talk  to  her?" 

He  felt  as  though  he'd  been  punched 
in  the  stomach.  "No  thanks,"  he  said,  and 
hung  up  the  phone.  He  turned  off  the 
lights  in  his  room,  and  walked  over  to 
the  window.  The  ocean  had  a  lonely 
look  to  it,  with  that  strange  phosphores- 
cence etching  the  waves,  and  the  moon 
half  gone.  It  doesn't  seem  to  matter,  he 
said  to  himself.  New  York  or  Hollywood. 
My  girls  just  don't  ever  belong  to  me. 

Next  day,  he  faced  Judi.  "Why,  why, 
why.  why?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

She  was  embarrassed,  sorry,  but  unable 
to  give  him  any  satisfactory  answer.  "We've 
had  it,"  she  said,  and  that  was  that.  .  .  . 

About  a  year  ago,  while  he  was  making 
Imitation  of  Life,  Troy  met  another  girl. 
This  time,  she  wasn't  an  actress.  He  liked 
her  a  lot,  but  he'd  learned  caution.  When 
he  felt  she  was  beginning  to  care  too 
much,  he  told  her  the  truth. 

They  were  sitting  in  a  diner,  garish 
lights,  and  tired  faces  all  around  them,  and 
he  thought  later,  what  funny  places  you 
play  out  the  most  important  moments  of 
your  life. 

"I  don't  feel  I'm  really  ready  for  mar- 
riage." he  said,  and  her  face  crumpled,  and 
smoothed  out  again  all  in  the  space  of 
an  instant,  and  he  was  stricken.  "I  don't 
want  to  hurt  you,  baby,"  he  said. 

"I'm  not  hurt,"  she  said,  in  a  funny,  low 
voice,  and  she  stood  up  abruptly.  "I  want 
to  go  home.   Let's  get  out  of  here — " 

Now  that  relationship  is  finished,  and 
Troy  concentrates  on  his  career.  Warner 
Brothers,  impressed  by  Imitation  of  Life, 
cast  him  in  A  Summer  Place  (he  co-stars 
with  Sandra  Dee),  and  he'd  no  sooner  fin- 
ished that  than  he  went  into  The  Crowded 
Sky.  Warners  is  absolutely  sold  on  him — 
"he's  got  nowhere  to  go  but  up" — and  he's 
determined  to  be  a  big  star. 

Fourteenr-year-old  Troy  is  a  man  now, 
finding  what  he's  always  wanted,  after 
all.  ...  END 

Troy's  in  A  Summer  Place,  and  The 
Crowded  Sky.  both  Warner  Bros. 


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Cool  It,  Debbie 


{Continued  from  page  25) 

how  the  gay  and  charming  girl  the  world 
had  taken  to  its  heart  for  ten  years  had 
turned  into  a  hard,  cynical  tres-gai  play- 
girl. 

We  felt  if  this  was  true  we  would  spot  it 
in  a  minute  through  the  penetrating  eye 
of  the  TV  close-up. 

But  we  didn't  expect  to  spot  that.  I 
guess  what  we  expected  to  see  was  a 
mature  and  bright  young  woman  handle 
herself  with  taste,  decorum  and  intelli- 
gence. 

But  we  were  wrong. 

You  came  on  like  gangbusters,  a  three 
alarm  fire  and  the  blare  of  76  trombones — 
all  off-key. 

Before  you  even  sat  down,  your  stum- 
bling and  jumping  around  caused  a  few 
raised  eyebrows.  You  made  anything  but 
a  dignified  entrance. 

You  looked  lovely,  all  right.  Your  hair- 
do was  perfect.  Your  flower-printed  dress 
was  one  of  the  most  charming  we've  ever 
seen  you  wear.  Your  make-up  was  just 
right.  You  were  quite  a  contrast  from 
the  girl  in  pig-tails  and  blue  jeans  every- 
one recalls.  Yet  the  loveliness  and  subtlety 
of  your  appearance  was  destroyed  by  your 
actions. 

You  didn't  give  the  world  a  chance  to 
know  Debbie. 

You  came  on.  And  you  were  phony. 
And  we  and  everyone  else  who  loves  you 
were  upset. 

Fantastic  performance 

Oh,  we  thought  your  imitation  of  your 
close  friend  Eva  Gabor  was  brilliant  and 
your  Genevieve  showed  remarkable  per- 
ception and  certainly  the  fact  that  you 
made  an  effort  to  entertain  was  not  to  be 
censured.  But  we  were  embarrassed  when 
you  tried  to  force  Jack,  against  his  will, 
to  dance  with  you,  and  we  were  embar- 
rassed by  the  way  you  made  fun  of  some 
of  his  clothes.  And  it  was  obvious  that 
he  was  embarrassed  too. 

Halfway  through  the  program  you  got 
serious.  You  began  to  talk  of  Khrushchev 
and  world  problems — and  you  made  sense 
— good  sense.  The  phoniness  was  gone. 
You  spoke  like  a  mature  young  woman. 
A  woman  of  twenty-seven  who  is  genu- 
inely concerned  about  what  is  going  on 
in  the  world — because  current  events  seri- 
ously affect  the  lives  of  her  children.  The 
audience  was  interested  in  what  you  had 
(o  say,  too. 

Then  you  were  interrupted  by  a  com- 
mercial and  by  the  time  the  announcer 
finished  extolling  the  virtues  of  the  latest 
deodorant  or  headache  remedy  your  mood 
had  changed  again.  You  were  back  on  the 
bandwagon  as  explosive  and  as  volatile 
as  ever. 

Maybe  Jack  was  annoyed  that  you  were 
running  away  with  the  show.  Maybe  his 
nerves  had  had  just  too  much.  Or  maybe 
he  just  didn't  think  about  what  he  was 
saying.  But  he  came  out  with  a  remark 
that  stunned  us.  "Is  this  what  Eddie  had 
to  go  through?"  he  asked. 

We  went  through  the  floor  with  embar- 
rassment for  you.  We  wondered  how  you 
would  handle  it. 

Well,  you  went  to  the  floor — not  through 

it. 

And  as  the  two  of  you  remained  under 
the  desk — out  of  sight  of  the  viewing 
audience,  strange  things  began  to  come 
into  sight:  Jack's  tie  and  coat  and  shoes 
and  handkerchief — and  your  shoes. 

It  was  funny  all  right.  The  audience 
roared.  In  the  same  way  people  roar  when 
they  see  someone  slip  on  a  banana  peel. 
66      It  seemed  like  an  eternity  before  you 


finally  came  up  for  air  with  a  somewhat 
undressed  and  disheveled  Paar.  He  was 
obviously  unhappy.  But  you  still  wouldn't 
stop.  You  threw  his  tie  around  his  neck, 
began  to  tuck  his  shirt  back  into  his  pants 
— and  while  all  this  was  going  on  Paar 
continued  to  needle  you.  "Eddie  must 
have  felt  he  was  married  to  an  Olympics 
champion,"  he  commented.  But  you  still 
wouldn't  stop.  And  when  Paar  not-too- 
gently  tried  to  get  you  off  the  show  by 
stating  that  "we  are  running  a  half  hour 
late  and  I'm  sure  you  are  in  a  hurry  to  get 
someplace,"  you  ignored  the  hint  and  said 
"I  haven't  anyplace  to  go." 

Prize-fighters  who  go  down  for  the 
count  are  often  saved  by  the  bell.  You, 
Debbie,  were  saved  by  another  commer- 
cial. By  the  time  it  was  over  you  got  the 
message.  You  said  good  night,  but  you 
didn't  exit  gracefully.  One  of  your  shoes 
had  gotten  misplaced  in  that  'strip-tease' 
act  and  you  had  to  hobble  off  the  stage. 

The  studio  audience  obviously  loved 
your  act.  We  didn't! 

Maybe  that's  because  we  care  about  you 
too  much.  We  felt  Paar,  intentionally  or 
unintentionally,  had  humiliated  you.  We 
know  that  every  TV  network  has  offered 
sums  ranging  up  to  a  quarter  of  a  million 
dollars  to  appear  in  an  hour  spectacular. 
Paar  got  you  for  his  usual  minimum  of 
$320.  You  were  willing  to  stay  on  'forever.' 
Yet  he  brushed  you  off  in  a  manner  which 
would  have  been  humiliating  to  even  a 
publicity-mad  starlet. 

He  said  the  "show  was  running  late." 

We  stayed  with  it  to  see  what  was  so 
important  to  make  you  so  'expendable.' 
Scheduled  after  you  was  an  old  Benchley 
short  subject,  filmed  maybe  twenty  years 
ago  that  could  have  been  run  anytime. 

And  to  add  insult  to  injury,  Paar  ended 
his  show  with  the  words:  "Goodnight, 
Debbie  Reynolds,  whatever  you  are!" 

J.M  J  !  I  I  !  !  I  I  I  I  !  I  !  I  !  I  !  I  I  !  !  !  I  II 

-  John  Drew  Borrymore:  I  love  this  - 
~  business,  but  it  breeds  ulcers  and  ~ 
Z     gray  hair.  _ 

Sidne\  Skolsky  ~ 
in  the  New  York  Post  ~ 

:  I  1  I  1  1  I  1  I  I  1  1  1  I  1  1  1  I  1  I  1  1  1  I  1  1  1  r 

We  pondered  that  statement  well  into 
the  early  hours  of  the  morning.  Whatever 
you  are.  What  are  you  Debbie? 

Are  you  really  the  over-active  exhibi- 
tionist we  saw  on  the  Paar  show?  The 
personality  whose  actions  were  more 
grammar-school-girlish  than  feminine  and 
professional? 

That  girl's  actions  are  belied  by  her 
words:  "I  don't  think  I'm  mature  yet.  That 
takes  many  more  years  of  living  than  I 
have  had.  But  I  know  more  about  life 
than  I  have  before.  And  I've  had  many 
more  experiences — some  good,  some  bad. 
However  I  don't  worry  much  because  I 
know  that  any  minute  some  one  could 
push  a  button  that  may  end  the  whole 
world.  When  I  get  unhappy  about  some- 
thing, I  just  picture  that  button  and  a 
bomb  coming  down  on  us  and  I  don't  fret 
anymore.  It's  good  just  to  be  alive." 

It  is  good  to  be  alive.  But  you've  got  to 
slow  down  to  appreciate  the  joys  of  living. 

The  Debbie  we  all  know  told  a  reporter 
a  couple  of  months  ago:  "As  a  bachelor 
mother  I'm  very  happy.  When  I  come 
home  at  night  I  really  come  to  a  home  and 
not  an  empty  house.  The  fact  is  I  don't 
have  much  time  to  date.  I  get  home  around 
6:30.  I  play  with  the  children  until  they 
go  to  bed.  On  week  ends  I  don't  have  the 
desire  to  go  places.  My  first  obligation  is 
still  to  my  children.  Then  comes  my  own 
life,  my  career,  my  charities.  I'm  planning 
my  life  ahead  now.  I  have  to  be  sure  I'm 
able  to  be  at  home  with  my  family. 

"But  as  a  bachelor  girl  I'm  very  un- 


happy. Going  out  with  someone  once  o 
twice  means  involvements  here  in  Holly 
wood  and  I  don't  want  to  be  involved.  Als 
I  made  a  habit  of  not  dating  estrange 
husbands.  It's  all  too  complex.  I'd  rathe 
go  to  the  movies  alone." 

That's  what  you  said,  Debbie.  You  sai< 
it  late  last  fall.  But  your  actions — befor 
and  after  that  remark  seemed  to  negat 
the  words. 

The  new  Debbie 

Instead  of  giving  in  to  yourself  am 
what  you  really  needed,  you  took  lesson 
in  how  to  be  a  "gay  divorcee" — the  phras 
you  beg  reporters  not  to  call  you — fror 
Eva  Gabor.  Eva's  personal  philosophy  wa 
exactly  opposite  to  what  yours  had  beer 
"Marriage  is  not  for  me,"  she  has  toll 
Louella  Parsons.  "I  have  found  out  tha 
careers  and  marriage  don't  mix.  I  wan 
to  be  free  to  travel  to  any  part  of  th 
world  when  a  motion  picture  assignmen 
takes  me  there,  and  a  husband  certainl; 
interferes.  I  have  been  married  oftei 
enough  to  know." 

The  job  she  did  to  transform  your  warn 
beauty  into  a  sizzling  come-on  was  no 
half  so  charming  as  the  news  items  tha 
drifted  back  to  us.  Items  like:  Aceordini 
to  folks  present  on  the  screen  set — woe  bi 
the  man  who  wound  up  with  both  Debbh 
R.  and  Eva  Gabor  on  a  date.  The  tvM 
beauties  did  nothing  but  concentrate  oi 
making  life  miserable  for  the  poor  guy 
They  made  him  jump  through  hoop 
throughout  the  evening.  If  he  balked,  the] 
gathered  up  their  things  and  walked  out 
But.  Debbie,  even  Eva  doesn't  follow  he: 
own  advice:  got  herself  married  again. 

In  any  case,  allowing  for  gross  exaggera- 
tion, even  for  outright  lies,  it  had  to  be  ; 
new  kind  of  Debbie  that  inspired  a  re- 
porter even  to  think  such  thoughts. 

You  wouldn't  give  the  real  Debbie  < 
chance.  Not  even  when  you  fainted  dea( 
away  in  a  hotel  room  after  you'd  knockec 
yourself  out  at  a  party. 

For  months  you  picked  up  speed  by  dat- 
ing the  two  most  ineligible  bachelor: 
available — Bob  Neal  and  Harry  Karl.  Fron 
Neal  you  collected  two  gifts  of  diamond 
in  two  weeks  and  some  unsavory  publicity 
that  made  you  mad.  But  it  wasn't  lon| 
ago  that  you  yourself  would  have  disap- 
proved of  a  girl's  accepting  diamonds  front 
"just  a  friend,"  and  you  wouldn't  hav« 
indulged  with  Neal  in  what  the  news- 
papers called  "a  necking  session  ringside 
at  Ciro's."  Not  unless  you  were  engaged 
But  why  get  engaged  to  Neal  wher 
Harry  Karl  was  waiting  to  invite  you 
your  mother,  your  children  and  a  nurst 
to  a  friend's  house  in  Honolulu.  We  know 
that  you,  not  Karl,  paid  the  rent  and  thai 
if  there'd  been  any  more  chaperones  there 
wouldn't  have  been  room  to  sit  down 
But  what  kind  of  game  were  you  playing 
Debbie?  Especially  when  Bob  Neal  showec 
up  and,  according  to  the  Mirror's  Let 
Mortimer,  you  slept  most  of  the  day  and 
spent  most  of  every  night  at  Don  the 
Beachcomber's  holding  hands  with  either 
Harry  or  Bob. 

When  Karl  upped  and  married  Joan 
Cohn  (for  all  of  25  days  as  it  turned  out), 
you  merely  shrugged  your  shoulders  and 
went  out  and  found  yourself  a  new  mil- 
lionaire: Walter  Troutman — who  gave  you 
the  champagne  and  El  Morocco  treatment. 
No  one  took  the  Troutman  'romance'  seri- 
ously. The  New  York  cafe-society  set 
knew  Walter  very  well.  After  your  sec- 
ond date  a  columnist  wrote:  Debbie  Reyn- 
olds who  has  been  taking  too  many  vita- 
mins lately  and  man-about-New  York 
Walter  Troutman  are  a  little  premature  in 
the  dating  department,  despite  the  billing 
and  cooing,  to  be  called  a  romantic  item 
yet.  .  .  .  Walter  is  a  professional  bachelor 
and  movie  stars  are  old  hat  to  him. 
Still  you  seemed  to  glow  in  the  El  Mor- 


•co  treatment  and  even  when  you  lost 
diamond  brooch  there  that  Bob  Neal 
i  given  you  a  couple  of  months  before, 
a  couldn't  have  been  less  concerned. 

heart  too  hurt  to  feel 

Behavior  like  this  confuses  us  and  the 
sole  who  love  you  as  much  as  your 
.avior  on  the  Paar  show. 
77  e  know  you  are  a  devoted  mother, 
t  in  one  breath  you  say  you  value  your 
Zdren  more  than  any  career  and  in  the 
it  you  add,  "But  I'm  so  busy  with  my 
eer  I  won't  be  able  to  be  with  them  as 
ch  as  I  like." 

Ve  know  you  are  a  devoted  actress, 
hough  you  worked  all  day  long  on  ex- 
ior  shooting  for  The  Rat  Race,  you  spent 
ir  evenings  at  the  Majestic  Dance  Hall, 
iking  incognito  as  a  dime-a-dance  girl, 
you  would  be  able  to  understand  the 
i  whom  you  are  playing.  Yet  during 
t  same  week  you  allowed  your  acting 
get  out  of  hand  on  the  Paar  show. 


You  are  aware  of  the  rumors  linking 
your  name  romantically  with  Glenn  Ford; 
both  you  and  Glenn  have  denied  therri — 
but  still  they  have  continued.  We  can't 
look  into  your  heart  and  find  an  answer. 
But  we  wonder  if  it  isn't  possible  for  you 
to  have  fallen  in  love  with  Glenn.  We  won- 
der if  perhaps  you  aren't  trying  to  hide 
or  deny  that  love  through  your  actions. 
And  if  you  are — unless  in  some  way  you 
have  been  hurt  again — why? 

We're  not  trying  to  preach  to  you,  Deb- 
bie. Or  to  criticize  you  or  knock  you.  But 
we  are  knocking  the  new  kick  you're  on. 
The  hard  work  and  harder  play  kick  that 
leaves  no  time  for  real  living  or  loving. 

Come  off  it,  Debbie.  Cool  down.  How 
can  you  7tot  want  love.  And  how  can  you 
imagine  that  being  true  to  yourself  will 
stop  you  from  getting  it?  end 

Debbie's  latest  films  are  The  Gazebo, 
MGM.  and  The  Rat  Race.  Paramount. 


ome  for  Christmas 


zntinued  from  page  34) 

In  a  way,"  said  Bette,  "even  though  he 
s  a  few  days  early  with  this  particular 
•sent." 

.he  turned  towards  the  door. 
Gary,"  she  said,  " — all  right." 
iarbara's    eyes    widened    as    she  saw 
ry  Merrill,  her  stepfather,  walk  into  the 
m. 

Daddy,"    Barbara    shouted,  gleefully, 
en  she  saw  what  he  was  cradling  in  his 
is,  "you've  brought  me  a  baby!" 
A  little  girl,"  said  Gary.  He  approached 

bed.  "And  just  for  you." 
Oh  Daddy — oh  Mommy,"  Barbara  cried 
she  looked  down  at  the  wide-eyed  in- 
t.  "Oh  she's  so  beautiful  .  .  .  and  pink 
.  and  wonderful!"  She  looked  up  again. 
dw  old  is  she?"  she  asked,  excitedly. 
Exactly  a  year,"  said  Gary. 
And  what's  her  name?" 
Margot." 

And  can  I  hold  her,  please,  please?" 
-bara  asked. 

ler  mother  took  the  baby  from  Gary's 
is  and  placed  her  in  Barbara's. 
Careful  now,  she's  so  tiny,"  Bette  said. 
I  know,"  said  Barbara.  She  made  a 
ny  little-girl's  face.  The  baby  gurgled. 
ie  likes  me,"  Barbara  squealed.  "She 
r.vs  me  already,  and  she  likes  me  .  .  . 

Daddy.  Mommy.  Can  she  stay  with  us 

long,  forever?" 
pf  course  she  can,"  Bette  said,  nodding 
sitting     down     alongside  Barbara, 
irgot's   your   new    sister,  sweetheart, 
sir  daddy  and  I  just  got  her  from  an 
hanage,   a   place   where   little  babies 
hout  any  parents  have  to  live  until 
pie  come  along  and  take  them  home 
h  them,  as  we  have  done,  tonight." 
■^nd  she  will  stay?"  Barbara  asked. 
She'll  stay,"  Bette  went  on,  "as  long 
you  remember  you  must  always  love 

and  help  take  care  of  her  and  protect 

and  do  all  those  things  good  big  sisters 
for  their  little  sisters — as  long  as  you 
'.ember  that  she  is  one  of  us,  from  this 
nent  on,  one  of  our  very  own  family." 
She's  my  sister,"  Barbara  said,  em- 
tically. 

Yes"  said  Bette. 

And  I  do  love  her,"  said  Barbara. 
3ood." 

And" — the  girl  giggled — "can  she  sleep 
nere,  in  this  room  with  me?" 
-ater  on,"  Bette  said,  "when  she's 
jr.  But  for  now" — she  picked  up  the 
y — "Margot  sleeps  in  your  old  nursery, 
.  our  crib,  which  is  where  she's  going 
it  now.  to  sleep  .  .  .  And  that  is  some- 


thing you're  due  for,  young  lady,  and  right 

now,  too." 

"Okay,"  Barbara  said,  " — excepting  for 

one  thing.  I've  got  to  say  my  prayers  all 

over  again  now.  Because  I  left  out  one 

thing  before.  All  right?" 
Without   waiting   for    an    answer,  she 

jumped  out  of  the  bed,  kneeled,  closed 

her  eyes,  and  said,  quickly: 

Thank  You  for  the  world  so  sweet. 
Thank  You  for  the  food  we  eat. 
Thank  You  for  the  birds  that  sing. 
Thank  You,  God,  for  everything — 
especially  for  my  new  little  sister. 
She  paused.  Then: 
Oh  yes — And  I'd  like  You  to  know, 
just  to  show  You  how  glad  I  am, 
that  when  Christmas  comes  I'm 
going  to  give  her  all  my  presents. 
Thank  You,  God.  Amen.  .  .  . 

The  terrible  things  about  Margot 

Barbara  was  crying  this  day  two  years 
later,  as  she  stood  outside  the  neighbor's 
house. 

She  couldn't  wait  for  her  mother's  car 
to  come  and  pick  her  up. 

And  when  it  did  come,  and  she  had 
climbed  inside,  she  cried  even  more. 

"What's  the  matter — is  this  the  way 
birthday  parties  affect  you  all  of  a  sud- 
den?" Bette  asked,  puzzled,  trying  lamely 
to  make  a  joke. 

Barbara  shook  her  head.  "I  want  to  go 
home,"  she  sobbed. 

"What  happened?"  Bette  asked,  taking 
her  daughter's  hand. 

For  a  moment,  Barbara  was  silent.  And 
then,  looking  down,  she  said,  "It  was  ter- 
rible, Mommy,  the  things  some  of  those 
girls  were  saying  .  .  .  about  Margot." 

Bette  took  a  deep  breath.  "And  what 
did  they  say,  Beedee?"  she  asked. 

"That  Margot's  sick,"  Barbara  said.  She 
looked  back  up  at  Bette.  "I  was  standing 
there  and  two  of  them  came  over  to  me 
and  one  of  them  said,  'How's  your  adopted 
brother  and  sister — the  boy  your  parents 
just  adopted  and  the  girl  they  adopted 
that  time?  And  I  said,  "Their  names  are 
Woody  and  Margot  and  we  don't  call  them 
"adopted"  like  that  in  our  house.'  And 
the  girl  said,  'Don't  get  so  smart,  Barbara; 
it  just  so  happens  they  are  adopted.'  And 
then  she  said,  'Anyway,  I  just  wanted  to 
find  out  if  your  sister  is  still  sick.'  I  said 
that  Margot  was  never  sick.  And  they 
laughed.  They  said  they'd  heard  their  own 
mothers  say  that  she  is,  that  Margot  walks 
funny,  always  falling  and  walking  into 
things,  that  she  doesn't  talk  right  yet  like 
she  should — that  she's  sick.  And  one  of 
the  girls  said  her  mother  was  to  our  house 
once  and  that  she  saw  Margot  sitting  on 
the  floor  for  an  hour,  holding  her  teddy 
bear,  not  doing  anything  but  just  holding 


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it  and  looking  at  it.  And  when  this  girl 
told  me  this,  she  and  the  other  one  began 
to  laugh.  And  I  got  mad  and  I  said,  'My 
sister  loves  her  teddy  bear,  that's  why  she 
was  holding  it  so  long.  It's  a  very  special 
teddy  bear  which  J  used  to  have  and 
which  J  gave  her.'  I  said,  'Besides,  besides, 
she  doesn't  walk  funny  really,  and  she 
does  talk  a  little.  You  see,  if  it's  any  of 
your  business,'  I  said,  'she  happens  to  be 
still  only  a  baby.  Three  years  old,  that's 
only  a  baby  still,'  I  said  .  .  .  And  it  is. 
Mommy,  isn't  it?  Isn't  it?" 

"Of  course  it  is,"  Bette  said.  She  opened 
her  purse  and  reached  for  a  handkerchief 
and  wiped  some  of  the  tears  from  her 
daughter's  eyes.  "Some  children  develop 
more  slowly  than  others,"  she  said.  "Some 
children — " 

She  stopped. 

"Barbara,"  she  said,  after  a  moment,  "I 
want  you  to  promise  me  one  thing.  I  want 
you  to  be  a  big  girl  and  strong  and  listen 
to  what  I  have  to  say.  To  promise  me  this 
— that  if  we  ever  do  find  out  that  some- 
thing is  wrong  with  Margot  .  .  .  that  you 
won't  love  your  sister  any  less  than  you 
do  now.  That  you'll  love  her  even  more,  if 
that's  possible.  And  that  you  won't  cry, 
the  way  you're  crying  now  .  .  .  And  that 
you'll  understand." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  mother  now,  try- 
ing to  understand  what  she  was  saying. 

And  then,  as  if  she  did — even  a  little — 
she  said,  softly:  "All  right,  Mommy  .  .  . 
all  right.  .  .  ." 

The  awful  diagnosis 

The  doctor  examined  the  child,  thor- 
oughly, carefully. 

When  he  was  finished,  he  called  in  a 
nurse. 

"Stay  with  her  outside,"  he  said,  "and 
send  in  Mrs.  Merrill." 

Bette  sat,  a  few  minutes  later,  across 
from  him. 

"Is  it  bad?"  she  asked. 

The  doctor  nodded. 

"Margot  is  retarded,"  he  said. 

Bette  clutched  her  hands  together.  "Re- 
tarded," she  said,  slowly,  after  him. 

He  had  examined  the  child — four  and  a 
half  years  old  now — this  past  hour,  the 
doctor  went  on,  and  during  the  examina- 
tion he  had  even  called  the  orphanage 
from  which  she'd  come.  The  people  at  the 
orphanage  had  checked  the  little  girl's 
records.  There  had  been  no  mention  of 
anything  unusual  regarding  her  medical 
history  for  the  first  year  of  her  life.  How- 
ever, there  was  a  notation  in  her  records 
stating  that,  at  birth,  delivery  had  been 
difficult  and  that  there  had  been  a  "minor 
injury."  Obviously,  the  doctor  told  Bette 
now,  it  had  been  more  than  a  minor 
injury,  a  concussion  perhaps. 

"What  will  happen?"  Bette  asked. 

"I  think,"  said  the  doctor,  "that  it  would 
be  best  for  you  to  send  her  away  ...  to  a 
home.  She  is  a  very  sad  little  girl,  a  lost 
little  girl.  They  can  help  her  there,  at 
a  home." 

Bette  pursed  her  lips. 

"And  then?"  she  asked. 

"There  is  always  hope,"  the  doctor  said. 
"But  for  now  it's  clear  that  only  one-half 
of  her  brain  is  functioning  and  .  .  .  It's 
best,  Bette,  for  the  child,  for  everybody, 
if  you  send  her  away." 

"I  don't  want  to,"  Bette  said.  "I  can't 
.  .  .  Can't  we  get  a  nurse  and  keep  hei- 
st our  home,  with  the  other  children, 
where  she  belongs?  Certainly  we  could 
afford  that,  and  would  want  to  do  that. 
Certainly — " 

"I'm  afraid  it's  more  serious  than  that," 
said  the  doctor.  Then,  again:    "It's  best 
this  way,  Bette." 
He  lit  a  cigarette  and  handed  it  to  her. 
She  took  a  quick  puff. 

"Would  she  be  able  to  come  home  week 


"No,"  the  doctor  said.  "We  find  it's  best, 
at  the  begiiming,  at  least,  to  keep  the 
children  in  the  home,  away  from  what 
they've  known.  Holidays,  maybe — after  a 
while.  But  not  weekends  .  .  .  It's  just  bet- 
ter all  around  that  way." 

Bette  looked  over  at  the  doctor.  She 
wanted  to  talk  to  him  more,  as  if  by  talk- 
ing things  might  become  suddenly,  mirac- 
ulously, solved. 

But  she  knew  that  that  would  not  be  so. 

And  so,  putting  out  her  cigarette,  she 
asked,  "When  does  she  have  to  go?" 

"As  soon  as  possible,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Yes,"  Bette  said  rising,  and  turning, 
and  walking  out  of  the  office. 

In  the  anteroom  she  saw  little  Margot, 
sitting  on  a  long  wood  bench. 

She  walked  up  to  the  child. 

She  took  her  hand. 

'  Come  on,  darling,"  she  said,  "we've  got 
to  go  home  now." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  her.  Then  she 
lowered  her  eyes. 

And  then,  slowly,  she  slipped  off  the 
bench  as  Bette  held  to  her  hand,  tightly.... 


Home  for  Christmas 

It  was  Christmas  morning,  1955. 

Margot  had  been  away  for  two  months. 

Bette  and  Gary  and  Barbara  got  into  the 
car,  to  visit  her,  this  first  time  these  past 
two  months,  and  to  pick  her  up  and  take 
her  back  home  with  them  for  Christmas 
dinner. 

The  institution,  they  saw  when  they  got 
there,  was  gaily-decorated,  with  a  big  tree 
near  the  door,  big  wreaths  on  the  windows, 
a  giant  papier-mache  Santa  Claus  in  the 
garden,  with  sled  and  reindeer,  all  cir- 
cled by  a  fort  of  fake  snow  in  which  giant, 
live  poinsettias  grew.  It  would  have  been 
a  fine  place  for  children  to  play,  they  all 
thought — in  their  separate  ways,  except 
that  there  were  no  children  around. 

A  nurse,  a  tall  woman,  met  them  at  the 
door,  and  began  to  write  out  their  pass. 
"The  children  are  all  in  the  assembly 
room,  opening  their  presents,"  she  said. 
"You'll  have  to  wait  just  a  few  minutes 
.  .  .  Now,  the  name  of  the  child  you've 
come  to  fetch?" 

"Margot  Merrill,"  said  Bette. 

The  nurse  finished  writing  out  the  pass. 
And  then  she  said,  "Would  you  like  to  see 
Margot's  room,  meanwhile?" 

They  followed  the  nurse  as  she  led  them 
to  the  room,  and  opened  the  door. 

It  was  a  small  room,  they  saw.  with  a 
little  bed,  a  bureau,  a  tiny  blue  rocking 
chair — nothing  more. 

It  struck  them  all — Bette  and  Gary  and 
Barbara — as  the  saddest,  loneliest  little 
room  they  had  ever  seen. 

And  they  were  glad,  very  glad,  that  in 
a  few  minutes  they  would  be  able  to  take 
Margot  away  from  it,  this  room,  this  place, 
and  bring  her  back  home  for  a  few  hours 
at  least. 

"Now,"  the  nurse  said,  looking  efficiently- 
down  at  her  watch,  " — the  assembly  room's 
back  this  way.  Why  don't  we  go  there  and 
wait  in  the  rear.  .  .  ." 

They  stood  there,  a  few  minutes  later, 
trying  to  single  Margot  out  from  the 
dozens  of  children  who  sat  in  a  large  circle 
in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"There  she  is,"  Barbara  said,  softly,  ex- 
citedly, pointing.  "Look." 

They  all  looked  now  and  they  saw  her. 
Margot  .  .  .  She  sat,  like  the  others,  lean- 
ing forward  a  little  in  her  chair,  holding 
a  small  toy  in  one  hand,  a  big  candy  stick 
in  the  other,  listening  wide-eyed  to  the 
man  in  the  center  of  the  circle  who  was 
dressed  as  Santa  Claus  and  who  was  in 
the  midst  of  a  rousing  refrain  of  Jingle 
Bells. 

They  continued  watching  her — as,  like 
the  other  children,  she  listened,  joined  in 
on  the  final  chorus,  clapped  and  then  rose 


to  leave. 

"Margot,"  Barbara  called  out.  jus 
over  to  her  now,  past  some  of  the  o 
children,  grabbing  her,  hugging  her.  "'. 
are  you?  .  .  .  How  are  you?" 

"I  fine,"  Margot  said,  " — Barbara." 

She  smiled  a  big  smile  suddenly.  As 
smiled,  too,  when  Bette  and  Gary  c 
over  and  bent  and  kissed  her. 

Then,  after  a  few  moments,  the  n 
stepped  forward  and  said,  "All  right,  S 
got,  you've  got  to  get  ready  to  go  now, 

The  little  girl  looked  at  her.  The  s 
began  to  leave  her  face.  "Go?"  she  as 

She  looked  at  them  all. 

"Go?"  she  asked,  again. 

The  other  nodded. 

"Don't — don't  you  want  to  come  h 
with  us?"  Barbara  asked,  confused. 

The  little  girl  didn't  answer.  But 
stead  she  turned  and  looked  around 
big  room,  at  some  of  the  other  chil< 
still  there,  some  of  them  playing  with  t 
new  toys,  some  of  them  sucking  t 
candy  sticks,  some  of  them  just  stani 
there,  looking  back  at  her. 

"What's  wrong.  Margot?"  Barbara  as 
approaching  her. 

Margot's  gift 

The  girl  didn't  move,  nor  look  at 

Barbara  looked  up  at  her  mot 
"What's  wrong?"  she  asked. 

"Wrong?"  said  the  nurse,  standing  ] 
to  them.  She  shook  her  head.  "Five 
even  four  weeks  ago,"  she  said,  "sometl 
was  wrong.  Margot  was  as  unhappy  1 
as  the  day  she  arrived.  She  missed 
all,  so  much.  She  cried  lots,  she  woul 
eat  more  than  a  few  mouthfuls  of 
food,  she  sat  alone  in  her  room  mos 
the  time,  on  that  rocking  chair  you 
there,  just  rocking  away,  and  staring,  rc 
ing  and  staring  all  the  time  .  .  .  And  tl 
as  it  happens  with  most  of  the  chile 
here,  something  changed  suddenly.  Ma 
made  a  friend.  Don't  ask  me  exactly  ] 
it  happened,  I  don't  know.  But  she  m 
one  friend,  then  another,  then  anot 
And  suddenly  she  was  happy  here  .  .  . 
she  missed  you  all  still.  She  always  a 
I'm  sure  .  .  .  But  this  has  become  her  i 
home.  These  children  have  become 
new  family.  And.  strange  as  it  may  se 
you  must  explain  to  her  now  that  si 
be  coming  back  here." 

The  others  looked  at  the  nurse. 

And  then  they  turned  again  to  Mar 

The  little  girl  had  her  back  to  tl 
still;  she  had  not  moved  and  she  was  : 
watching  the  other  children  in  the  ro 

Bette  stooped,  after  a  moment, 
gently,  she  picked  the  girl  up  in  her  ar 
She  began  to  talk  to  her,  slowly,  softl 
explaining  to  her  about  how  they 
wanted  to  take  her  with  them  now, 
dinner,  for  just  a  little  while;  how,  a 
dinner,  they  would  all  get  back  into 
car  and  come  back  .  .  .  "here,"  she  s: 
"right  back  here." 

She  looked  into  the  little  girl's  eyes. 

"All  right,  Margot?"  she  asked. 

The  little  girl  smiled  again,  as  she  ) 
before,  and  she  nodded.  "All  right." 
said. 

"Good,"  said  Bette.  "Good." 

And  then,  still  carrying  Margot.  Be 
took  her  daughter  Barbara's  hand. 

"You  see,  Beedee,"  she  asked,  "h 
things  work  out  in  strange  and  beaut 
ways  sometimes?  We  came,  thinking 
gift  to  Margot  would  be  to  take  her  he 
for  a  few  hours.  We  didn't  think  Mar 
would  have  any  gift  for  us,  did  we?  1 
she  has.  The  most  wonderful  gift  any  ol 
will  ever  receive  .  .  .  She  is  happy,  final 

They  brought  Margot  home  that  day 

As  they  will  this  Christmas  to  come 
for  a  few  short  and  very  precious  hoi 

Bette  appears  in  John  Paul  Jo: 
Warner  Bros.,  and  The  Scapegoat.  MCI 


Eddie's  Love  Cured  Me! 


Continued  from  page  33) 

nagined.  whatever  the  condition  actually 
as.  Liz  suffered.    This  we  know. 

For  we  have  seen  the  tears  of  a  woman 
r.mistakably  in  pain.  We  saw  them  in  her 
.  es  that  night,  four  or  five  years  ago.  at  a 
irty  in  Beverly  Hills  when  suddenly, 
jiile  dancing.  Liz  stopped  and  turned  pale 
"_d  reached  for  her  back  with  her  right 
;nd  and  then,  helplessly,  fell  weeping  to 
ie  floor.  We  saw  them  the  day.  in  1957.  in 
exico.  when  she  married  Mike  Todd, 
hen  towards  the  end  of  the  reception  .  .  . 
~er  the  champagne  and  the  wedding  cake 
ere  finished,  after  most  of  the  guests  and 
\  the  photographers  had  left  .  .  .  Liz 
rned  to  Mike  and  mumbled  something 
id  threw  herself  in  his  arms  and  then 
:ed  out.  helplessly.  "It  hum.  it  hurts,  oh 
od.  it  hurts  so  much.'"'  We  saw  them  in 
it  eyes  a  little  over  a  year  ago  when  we 
sited  her  in  the  hospital,  following  an 
.-eration  on  her  spine,  when  we  walked 
to  that  S40-a-day  room  filled  with  flow- 
s  and  sunlight  and  saw  her  lying  rigidly 
1  her  stomach,  her  back  covered  with 
ndage  and  tape,  looking  over  at  us.  try- 
g  to  smile  and  tell  us  that  she  felt  fine 
id  that  everything  was  all  right,  but  with 
=rs  in  her  eyes,  nonetheless,  tears  she  did 
•t  even  have  the  strength  to  wipe  away. 
Yes.  we  have  seen  the  tears  of  her  pain. 
And  we  tell  you  now.  happily,  that  those 
irs  are  gone — now  that  Liz  Taylor  is  Mrs. 
idie  Fisher — gone  for  good.  Since  Eddie 
s  come  into  her  life,  there  has  never 
en  a  recurrence  of  her  back  trouble. 
Just  as  that  look  of  agonized  confusion. 

inner  torment,  that  would  come  across 
r  face  much  too  often,  is  gone  now  too. 

She  is  emotionally  unstable,  we  re- 
member someone  writing  back  in  1952. 
And  why  shouldn't  she  be?  At  eight 
vears,  an  actress.  At  fourteen,  a  star.  A 
*;eird  home  life — with  an  aggressive 
■iama  taking  over  the  reins  of  her 
t.oung     daughter's     upbringing  and 

areer,  a  quiet  and  ignored  papa  sit- 
ting in  the  background,  watching, 
wondering,  not  daring  to  say  anything. 
4r  fifteen,  the  perplexed  cry:  'I  have 
he  body  of  a  woman  and  the  emo- 
■  ons  of  a  child.'  At  seventeen,  a  long 

id  desperate  run  from  home — mar- 
■ age  to  Nicky  Hilton,  young  and 
eckless  playboy — and  disaster,  culmi- 
nating in  divorce.  More  running  then, 
<  ild  and  free,  from  man  to  man,  party 
o  party,  thrill  to  thrill,  sensation  to 
ensation.  Till  now,  barely  in  her 
wenties,  the  news  that  she  is  in  Eng- 
and,  her  outrageous  flirtation  with 
orty- year -old  Michael  Wilding  having 
y.cceeded.  that  they  will  probably  be 
narried  by  the  time  you  read  this. 

'motionally  unstable,  the  writer  had 
d. 

ind  much  as  we  hated  to  agree — we  had 

'  ust  as  we  had  to  shake  our  heads,  as  the 
:t  few  years  passed,  over  her  marriage 
Wilding,  neither  of  them  doing  the  other 
eh  good,  and  admit  that  her  emotional 
oility  was  going  from  bad  to  serious  to 
ive. 

Jh,  there  were  the  fine  bright  moments 
.  Liz,  all  right. 

"hat    January    morning    when  little 
:nael  Jr.  was  born, 
hat   February   afternoon    when  little 
istopher  was  born. 

laybe  some  other  moments;  good.  pure, 
utiful  moments. 

ut.  mostly,  there  were  Ions,  seeminslv- 


endless  moments  of  discontent  for  Liz. 

So  that  her  face — when  she  was  away 
from  the  camera,  or  the  public's  glare — 
often  became  a  study  in  distress,  a  cause  of 
increasing  worry  to  all  of  us  who  knew  her. 

Who  can  forget  the  look  on  her  face 
that  day  on  the  set  of  Giant,  when  word 
came  that  James  Dean  had  just  been 
killed — the  stunned  look,  followed  by  the 
hysterical  weeping,  the  shouted  cries  of 
disbelief,  the  stumbling  walk  from  the 
sound-stage,  the  collapse  in  the  dressing 
room? 

Who  can  forget  the  look  on  her  face  the 
night,  minutes  after  he'd  left  a  party  at  her 
hilltop  home.  Montgomery  Clift  smashed 
his  car  into  a  tree — the  look  of  fright  in 
her  eyes  as  she  rushed  down  the  road  to 
the  car.  the  look  of  terror  as  she  knelt 
alongside  Monty  and  lifted  his  bleeding 
head  into  her  lap,  as  she  began  to  sway 
her  own  head  back  and  forth  and  moan 
and  chant  and  cry,  louder  and  louder  and 
louder,  until  she  was  in  a  state  of  near- 
shock? 

People  who  knew  Liz  vaguely  wondered, 
both  these  times,  why  the  act? 

What  Liz  could  not  control 

It  was  no  secret  around  Hollywood  that 
James  Dean  and  Liz  hadn't  gotten  along 
well  all  during  the  making  of  Giant.  That 
Dean  had  once  told  a  reporter,  "If  you 
don't  think  this  gal  is  much  on-screen,  you 
should  get  to  know  her  off."  That  they 
had  fought  on  more  than  one  occasion.  That 
they  had  made  it  a  point  to  avoid  each 
other  as  much  as  possible. 

About  the  Monty  Clift  incident,  it  should 
have  been  obvious  to  Liz — certain  people 
said  on  hearing  what  had  happened — that 
although  her  dear  friend  had  been  injured, 
he  was  in  no  great  danger.  That  her 
"raving'  at  the  scene  of  the  crash  made  it 
seem  that  somebody  had  just  been  killed. 
That  Monty  was  "—after  all.  still  very 
much  alive." 

So  spoke  the  cynics. 

But  those  of  us  who  knew  Liz.  knew 
her  well,  understood  that  these  were  not 
"acts.*' 

That  these  were  inevitable  outlets  of  ex- 
pression for  a  tortured  girl  who  seemed  al- 
most to  wait  for  tragedy  so  that  she  could 
free  herself — even  for  a  short  while — of  her 
own  burden  of  recurring  pain,  of  growing 
discontent. 

There  are  no  outbursts  now.  Today,  we 
see  Liz  miraculously  changed — happy, 
healthy,  content,  calm,  at  peace  with  her- 
self, with  life. 

In  short,  cured.  .  .  . 

Liz  was  cured  by  Eddie  Fisher. 

For  well  over  a  year  now.  millions  of 
people  all  over  the  world  have  scorned 
these  two. 

You  yourself  have  heard  the  cracks, 
maybe  even  made  some  of  them. 

"Liz  Taylor?    What's  she  got  to  offer 
him  except  a  lot  of  trouble  .  .  .  Home- 
wrecker  .     .  Husband-snatcher  .  .  .  Miss 
Big  Movie-Star  .  .  .  Money  spender  .  .  .  j 
How  long  is  she  going  to  last  with  him? 

"Eddie  Fisher?  What's  he  got  to  offer 
her  except  his  old  records  .  .  .  Has-been 
.  .  .  Mike  Todd's  best  friend,  ha  ha  .  .  . 
Sucker  .  .  .  Weakling  .  .  .  Deserter  .  .  . 
How  long  is  he  going  to  last  with  her?" 
^  Some  people,  even  less  impressed  with 
EMie  than  with  Liz,  went  on  to  wonder: 
"What  does  she  want  with  such  an  ordi- 
nary guy,  anyway?  Nicky  Hilton — at  least  I 
he  had  looks  and  money.  Michael  Wilding  I 
—at  least  he  had  class.  Mike  Todd — he  had 
everything  to  give  her;  glamour,  wealth.  ; 


P/ay  Right  Away! 


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old.  This  is  the  first  time  his 
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excitement,  the  biggest  of  the  big  time." 

"Well,  they  deserve  each  other,"  prac- 
tically everybody  sneered,  the  day  last 
May  when  Eddie  and  Liz  were  married. 

Everybody  except  those  very  few  people 
who  realized  the  truth.  And  who  said, 
"They  need  each  other,  desperately,  don't 
they?" 

For  these  are  the  people  who  saw  behind 
the  titillating  newspaper  headlines,  who 
sensed  the  real  truth  of  this  couple. 

What  Eddie  had  to  offer 

"We  got  to  know  each  other,"  Liz  has 
said,  in  private,  to  friends,  "soon  after 
Mike  died.  We  had  seen  each  other  for 
years,  Eddie  and  I.  We  had  been  in  the 
same  room  a  thousand  times.  He  had 
been  best  man  when  I  married  Mike.  But 
it  wasn't  till  the  night,  not  long  after 
the  funeral,  when  Eddie  called  me  that  we 
actually  got  to  know  one  another. 

"Lots  of  writers — newspapers  and  maga- 
zine people — have  written  about  this  call. 
They  say  it  came  at  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  They  indicate  that  Eddie  and 
I  talked  about  Mike  for  a  while  and  that 
then  Eddie  asked  me  what  I  was  doing  the 
next  night.  They  wrote  what  lots  of 
their  readers  wanted  to  read — about  these 
two  bad  people  plotting  their  future,  evilly, 
clandestinely,  while  the  rest  of  the  world 
was  fast  asleep. 

"Actually,  Eddie's  call  came  shortly  be- 
fore midnight  that  night.  I  remember  this 
because  I  was  just  about  to  go  to  bed 
when  the  phone  rang. 

"Yes,  we  talked  about  Mike,  of  course. 
Mike  was  all  we  talked  about,  in  fact.  For 
ten  minutes,  fifteen,  twenty — I  don't  re- 
member exactly. 

"Except  that  I  do  remember,  just  before 
we  hung  up,  Eddie  saying  something  to 


me  that  I  will  never  forget: 

"  'Liz,'  he  said,  'I've  botched  my  life 
up  with  all  kinds  of  problems,  so  I  guess 
I'm  not  really  the  guy  who  should  go 
around  offering  help — but  if  you  ever  need 
anything,  want  to  talk  over  anything,  if 
.  .  .  going  through  what  you're  going 
through  now  .  .  .  you  find  yourself  faced 
with  problems  you  can't  solve  yourself, 
alone,  please — please,  Liz,  get  in  touch  with 
me.   For  what  little  help  I  might  be  .  .  .  .' 

"I  loved  Eddie  for  that.  Hundreds  of 
people  had  gotten  in  touch  with  me 
those  past  few  days,  offering  me  help,  con- 
solation, solace.  I  knew  they  would  take 
me  to  dinner,  if  I  liked.  I  knew  they 
would  take  the  children  for  a  drive,  out 
of  the  house  for  a  while,  for  some  fresh 
air,  if  I  wanted  that.  Invite  us  all  out 
somewhere  for  a  week  end.  I  knew  they 
meant  well,  that  their  offers  were  genuine. 

"But  something  about  Eddie — about  what 
he  had  just  said,  the  way  he'd  said  it,  the 
lost,  sad  feeling  and  sound  of  his  voice 
— made  me  feel  that  here  was  the  only  per- 
son alive  I  would  really  want  to  call  on  if 
the  days  ahead  became  any  blacker  than 
they  already  were. 

"  'Thank  you,  Eddie,'  I  said.  'I  may 
just  do  that — give  you  a  ring  some  day.' 

"And  then  I  hung  up. 

"And  it  was  the  next  day,  as  the  lonely 
hours  grew  darker,  that  I  found  myself 
thinking  about  him,  what  I'd  said  .  .  . 
as  I  found  myself  staring  at  the  phone, 
wanting  to  talk  to  him  again,  wanting  so 
much  to  talk  to  him  again." 

Liz  did  phone  Eddie —  a  few  days  later. 

"There  were  moments  during  that  call," 
Liz  recalls,  "when  there  were  long  silences 
between  the  two  of  us — when  neither 
Eddie  nor  I  said  anything  .  .  .  Other  people 
might  have  cleared  their  throats  during 


those  pauses  and  made  one  excuse  or  an 
other  and  finally  said  'Well  .  .  .  good-by 

for  now,'  and  hung  up. 

"But,  for  us,  even  in  those  pauses  ther 
was  warmth,  a  wonderful  warmth,  th 
beginnings  of  our  love. 

"I  began  to  realize — during  that  tall 
and  the  meetings  that  inevitably  followe 
— that  I  was  with  a  human  being  I  coul 
understand,  who  could  understand  me. 

"What  was  it  about  Eddie,  exactly,  tha 
made  me  feel  this  way? 

"Well,  let's  put  it  this  way,  simply: 

"I  learned  to  share  life  with  Eddie, 
learned — me,  someone  who  had  been  wa; 
up  on  a  special  pedestal  all  her  life,  wh 
had  been  on  the  receiving  end  of  life  a] 
these  years — that  there  was  soraeont 
somewhere,  with  whom  I  could  exist  on  ai 
equal  level,  someone  I  could  give  to  whil 
I  received. 

"I  had  never  given  before.  I  don' 
know  that  I  had  ever  thought  about  givinf 
It  had  been  comfortable,  convenient,  to  b 
clothed  in  a  warm  blanket  of  security,  sur 
rounded  by  people  who  wanted  to  d 
things  for  me,  and  only  for  me. 

"But  now  I  realized  that  what  I  hai 
thought  to  be  comfort  .  .  .  convenience  .  . 
was  not  that  at  all. 

"That  all  my  life  I  had  really  wanted 
person  I  could  comfort,  who  needed  m; 
giving  as  much  as  I  needed  his. 

"This  has  been  the  special  beauty  of  ou 
love,  mine  and  and  Eddie's. 

"I  needed  him.   He  needed  me. 

"Together,  we  have  shared  life.  .  .  . 

"I  have  learned  to  give.  And  for  this,  ti 
God,  to  my  husband,  I  will  always  b 
grateful.  .  .  ."  EN 

Liz  stars  in  Suddenly  Last  Summer.  Co 
lumbia.  Butterfield  8,  MGM.  and  Cleo 
patra.  20th-Fox. 


An  Ave  Maria  for  Mario 


(Continued  from  page  21) 
"A  boy." 

"And  what  are  they  naming  it,  do  you 
know?" 

"Mario,  after  the  mother,  Maria,"  said 
the  midwife.   "Mario  Lanza  Cocozza." 

The  neighbor  woman  listened  as  the 
baby,  in  the  next  room,  began  to  cry  sud- 
denly. 

"Listen  to  that  noise,"  she  said,  "You 
sure,  with  a  big  voice  like  that,  he  was 
only  just  born?" 

The  midwife  smiled.  "I  told  the  father," 
she  said,  "as  soon  as  I  heard  that  loud 
voice,  that  first  moment — I  said,  'If  any- 
thing, you  should  name  this  little  one 
Enrico,  in  honor  of  Caruso.' " 

"Ah,"  the  neighbor  woman  said,  shaking 
her  head,  "it's  a  sin,  isn't  it,  what  hap- 
pened to  Caruso?" 

"What  happened?"  the  midwife  asked. 

"He  died,"  the  other  woman  said.  "Last 
night.  In  Italy.  I  just  heard  it  on  the 
radio  .  .  .  He  was  singing.  His  throat  be- 
gan to  bleed.  And  he  went,  just  like  that. 
You  didn't  know?" 

"No,"  the  midwife  said,  her  smile  dis- 
appearing, saddened  by  the  knowledge  that 
the  greatest  tenor  voice  of  all  time  had 
been  silenced,  and  feeling  foolish  inside 
herself  that — even  in  jest — she  had  com- 
pared a  tiny  newborn  baby's  crying  with 
his  voice.  .  .  . 

HOLLYWOOD— THE  WINTER  OF  1949:  "I 

know,  I  know,"  the  agent,  a  smaii  and 
enthusiastic  man,  agreed  with  the  MGM 
producer,  a  big  man,  a  bored  man,  "they 
say  it  about  any  guy  who  can  open  his  trap 
and  reach  a  high  C — 'He  sounds  just  like 


Caruso!'  .  .  .  But,  believe  me,  this  guy  I've 
got  waiting  outside  does." 

"Does  what?"  the  producer  asked,  yawn- 
ing. 

"Sings,"  the  agent  said,  for  the  tenth 
time  those  past  five  minutes.  "Like  Caruso, 
he  sings.  Like  an  angel.  Like  nobody 
you've  ever  heard  before." 

"Same  guy  I  saw  you  walking  with  be- 
fore, near  the  commissary?"  the  producer 
asked. 

"Yes,"  the  agent  said. 

"He's  too  fat  for  pictures,  you  should 
know  that,"  the  producer  said.  "He  must 
weigh  300  pounds." 

The  agent  shook  his  head.  "He  weighs 
240  right  now.  But  he  can  cut  off  fifty 
of  'em  easy.  He's  a  nervous  type.  He 
needs  a  job  now.  When  he's  nervous  he 
eats — poor  as  he  is,  he  eats  and  eats  and 
gets  fat.  Sign  him  up,  relax  him  and 
you'll  see  how  fast  he  loses." 

The  producer  shrugged.  "Look,"  he  said, 
"this  fellow  of  yours,  he's  got  some  test 
recordings  he's  made,  hasn't  he?" 

"S"re,"  the  agent  said. 

"Well,  mail  me  a  few  of  them  and  I'll 
listen  when  I  have  some  time  .  .  .  I'm 
busy  right  now." 

He  yawned  again,  and  started  to  turn 
away. 

"Nossir,"  the  agent  said,  "it's  now  or 
never.  You  hear  him  today,  live,  or  you 
don't  hear  him  at  all.  Not  at  this  studio." 

The  big  producer  turned  back  to  look  at 
the  little  agent  again.  Little  agents,  he 
knew,  didn't  talk  this  way  to  big  pro- 
ducers unless  they  were  pretty  damn  sure 
of  themselves. 


"In  exactly  forty-five  minutes,"  the  agen 
went  on,  "I  have  an  interview  with  m; 
boy  over  at  U-I.  This  afternoon  we  go  tx 
Warner's.  I  brought  him  here  first  be 
cause  I  think  you  people  can  put  him  b 
best  use.  But  if  you  don't  even  want  b 
hear  him — " 

"All  right,"  the  producer  said,  bringinj 
up  his  hand,  "wait  a  minute." 

He  picked  up  his  phone  and  dialed  ai 
inter-office  number. 

"Joe?"  he  asked,  talking  now  to  Josepl 
Pasternak,  another  Metro  producer,  th< 
most  music-minded  of  all  the  Hollywooc 
brain-trust,  "got  a  kid  here,  young  tenoi 
from  Philly.  He's  supposed  to  be  good 
Want  to  hear  him  with  me?  .  .  .  Okay,  se< 
you  on  Stage  12  in  ten  minutes." 

He  hung  up  and  rose. 

"Come  on,"  he  said  then,  to  the  agent 
"let's  pick  up  this  marvel  of  yours  anc 
get  this  thing  over  with!"  .... 

"It  was  the  most  unbelievable  moment  oi 
my  life,"  Joe  Pasternak  has  since  said.  11 
got  to  the  soundstage  a  little  late.  He  had 
already  begun  to  sing.  I  recognized  th« 
song  as  the  tenor  aria  from  The  Girl  c\ 
the  Golden  West,  by  Puccini.  I  stood  there] 
at  the  door,  listening  for  a  few  moments, 
If  he  had  stopped  right  then  and  there, 
I'd  have  known  that  this  was  the  mosl 
beautiful  male  voice  I  had  ever  been 
privileged  to  hear.  But  he  did  not  stop 
He  sang  on  and  on,  other  Puccini  arias 
Verdi  arias,  popular  tunes,  Neapolitan 
street  songs  and  sea  chanties  his  parents 
had  taught  him.  The  voice  grew  more 
and  more  beautiful  as  he  sang.  I  was 
awe-struck.  I  even  wept  a  little.  I  have 
since  wept  over  him — over  what  eventu 
ally  happened  to  him  as  the  next  year 
passed.  But  at  that  moment,  that  firs 
moment,  standing  there  at  that  door,  m 
tears  were  only  for  his  voice,  strong,  an< 
pure,  and  beautiful,  that  voice  that  h 


iself  was  to  describe  as  'a  gift  given 
ne  by  God  so  that  its  sound  and  feeling 
ht  be  passed  on  to  others.  .  .  ."' 
,'ithin  that  next  hour,  Mario  Lanza 
ozza  (soon  to  drop  his  last  name)  was 
his  way. 

[idway  during  the  audition.  Pasternak 
the  other  producer  had  summoned 
e  Scharv.  then  talent  and  production 
d  of  MGM.  to  Stage  12  to  hear  the 
jig  man  sing. 

chary  came,  listened,  and  then  asked 
io  to  come  to  his  office  for  a  talk, 
"hen  the  talk  was  over.  Mario  rushed 
n  Schary's  office — past  Schary.  Paster- 
.  the  other  producer,  his  agent — to  a 
sing  lot  just  outside  the  studio,  where 
wife  of  four  years,  Elizabeth  Hicks. 

lovely  dark-eyed  girl  he'd  married 
945.  when  he  was  in  the  Army,  sat  in 
mall  rented  Chevy-  waiting  for  him. 
3etty,"  he  called,  as  he  apnroached  her, 
nade  it.  .  .  .  Fm  in.  ...  It  happened." 
he  girl  in  the  car  smiled  nervously, 
excited  to  say  anything. 
'.  sang  for  them."  Mario  said,  opening 
door  and  getting  in  alongside  her.  "I 
% — and  they  took  me  to  their  offices 

they  said.  'Man.  we  want  you  for 
ores,  lots  of  pictures.*   And  to  show 
they  meant  it,  they  gave  me  this." 
e  reached  into  his  pocket  and  pulled 
a  check. 

[Ten  thousand  dollars,"  he  said.  "You 
it?  .  .  .  Just  to  sign  with  them,  and 
1  nobody  else." 
e  handed  his  wife  the  cheek. 
jo  ahead,"  he  said.  "Take  it  in  vom- 
ers. Feel  it.  It's  real.  It's  good.  Betty, 
i;  as  good  as  the  bad  we've  known  has 
n  bad.  .  .  .  It's  a  house.  Betty.  The 
n-payment,  anyway.  .  .  .  And  it's  food 
>f  out-of-cans  food  anymore,  but  good 
I.  call-the-butcher- and  -ask -for -steak 
i  of  food.  .  .  .  And  it's  a  family  for  us, 
:y;  kids,  like  we've  always  wanted. 
I  a  career.  And  a  whole  new  life!" 
e  took  a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket, 
dere,"  he  said,  laughing  through  his 
tears,  " — don't  cry.  .  .  .  This  is  the 
nning  of  everything  we've  wanted, 
ring  for. 

3on't  cry,  Betty,"  he  said,  putting  his 
around  her.    "You'll  get  tears  on  the 
:k,  and  itH  blur." 
£  laughed  some  more. 
it  she  did  not. 

Don't  cry,  come  on,"  he  said.  "People 
supposed  to  cry  at  the  end  of  some- 
g.  And  this  is  the  beginning, 
"he  beginning.  .  .  ." 


,  VENING  IN  1954:    It  s  all  over,"  he  said, 

lg  back,  despondently. 

»  looked  around  the  room.  The  room. 

room,  was  only  one-twentieth  of  the 
pe — the  biggest,  the  most  lavishly  dec- 

=d  and  furnished  house  in  Bel- Air; 
castle,"  the  rest  of  Hollywood  called 

■  looked  around  the  room,  empty  now, 
!pt  for  himself  and  his  Betty, 
had  been  crowded,  just  a  little  while 
er.  with  reporters,  with  a  butler  serv- 
champagne  and  Scotch,  with  three 
is  passing  'round  the  heaps  of  hors 
nvres.  with  Mario  standing  near  the 
3.  smiling  away  as  if  he  didn't  have  a 
y  in  the  world,  making  fight  of  what 
■ened  that  day. 

3  Metro  fired  me  this  afternoon,"  his 
!  had  boomed,  " — so  what?  So  they 
me  lax.  imtrustworthy.  because  I  cost 

money  holding  up  their  Student 
?e  while  I  tried  to  lose  some  weight, 
they  wanted,  insisted  on.  and  while  I 

to  get  some  other  affairs  in  order. 
'  forget  at  Metro  the  money  I  made 
hem  these  past  five  years?  They  for- 
t-iat  The  Great  Caruso  alone  made 
een-million  dollars  in  its  first  -ear. 


for  them?  Look  at  all  I've  done  for  them! 

"Yes."  he'd  nodded,  "they  forget.  But  so 
what?  They  have  fired  me  and  Fm  free 
now,  free  to  make  the  kind  of  pictures  I 
want  to  make.  For  other  studios.  They  all 
want  me — Paramount.  Warners.  Univer- 
sal. They  all  want  me!" 

He'd  gone  on.  his  voice  lowering  a  little. 
"Most  of  you  people  here  know  me  pretty 
well,  right?"  he'd  asked.  "For  five  years 
now  you'd  been  writing  about  me  in  your 
newspapers  and  your  magazines.  You've 
written  about  the  good  things  that  have 
happened  to  me — my  success,  my  popular- 
ity, my  wonderful  life  with  my  wife  and 
children.  You've  written,  too.  about  the 
not-so-good  things — the  trouble  I've  had 
with  my  studio  and  some  of  the  stars  out 
here,  the  trouble  I've  had  with  my  weight, 
the  trouble  with  false  friends  who've  mis- 
led me  and  who've  squandered  most  of  the 
money  I've  earned. 

"WelL  now  I  want  you  to  write  this  in 
your  newspapers  and  magazines,  word  for 
word: 

"The  rumors  that  Mario  Lanza  is  through 
are  false. 

"The  rumors  that  he  has  pushed  his 
voice  too  far.  and  that  it  is  going,  are  false. 

■"The  rumors  that  he  is  a  troublesome 
no-good  who  enjoys  making  life  hard  for 
anybody  he  works  with  are  false." 

He'd  raised  a  glass  he  was  holding. 

"To  the  future."  he'd  said.  " — right  here 
in  Hollywood." 

"To  the  future — in  Hollywood."  the  re- 
porters who'd  been  listening  said  back. 


NEXT  MONTH: 

Watch  for 
LOUELLA'S 

big  story 
on  DEBBIE! 

And  they  had  all  drunk. 
And  laughed. 

And  slapped  his  back,  wishing  him  luck. 

And  then,  after  a  while,  they  had  gone  

"It's  all  over."  Mario  said  now.  the  big 
smile  no  longer  on  his  lips,  the  room 
quiet,  empty.  "I'm  finished  here.  Betty." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  his  wife  asked, 
shaking  her  head. 

"Who  am  I  kidding?"  Mario  said.  "I  try 
to  talk  it  into  myself.  I  try  to  convince 
others.  "Everybody  wants  me.'  I  brag — " 

"Your  fans  want  you,"  his  wife  said,  "the 
people  want  you." 

"But  not  the  studios,"  Mario  said. 
"They're  wan-  of  me.  All  of  them.  They're 
afraid  to  take  a  chance  with  me.  I'm  a 
tiger  to  them,  untamed  and  dangerous. 
They're  afraid  of  me  .  .  .  They're  business- 
men, with  their  problems.  I'm  an  artist, 
with  mine.  How  can  we  ever  understand 
one  another?" 

His  wife  said  nothing  for  a  while. 

Then,  softly,  she  asked,  "What  do  you 
want  to  do,  Mario?" 

"Buy  a  ranch,"  he  said,  quickly,  nod- 
ding, "a  beautiful  and  lonely  ranch,  far 
away,  in  Montana  maybe,  or  in  Arizona. 
And  work  hard  all  day.  out  in  the  open, 
for  you  and  for  our  children.  And  then  at 
night,  when  the  sun  goes  down,  come  back 
to  the  house  for  a  big  supper,  with  no  wor- 
ries about  my  weight — just  eating  and  get- 
ting as  heavy  as  God  intended  me  to  get. 
with  no  worries  about  the  cameras,  the 
producers,  the  directors,  the  wardrobe 
men  with  their  tape  measures  around  my 
waist  .  .  .  And  then,  after  supper.  I  would 
sing.  In  the  living  room,  you  at  the  piano. 


me  standing  there  behind  you.  the  children 
sitting  around  listening  if  they  want — and 
me,  I  would  sing,  just  singing  for  the  love 
of  it.  for — " 
He  stopped. 

"Someday  maybe."  he  said,  "when  we 
have  some  money  again,  when  Fve  paid 
these  debts  I  owe.  we  can  do  that.  hah. 
Betty?" 

"And  for  now?"  his  wife  asked. 

"For  now  well  go  to  Europe."  Mario 
sal-*.  "They  want  me  for  some  pictures  in 
Italy.  There  they  still  do  want  me.  .  .  .  We 
can  five  in  Rome.  .  .  .  All  right?" 

Betty  nodded — this  woman  about  whom 
it  has  been  said:  "She  understood  and 
appreciated  Mario  as  no  one  else  in  the 
world  ever  could.  Through  good  times 
and  bad.  she  rode  right  along  with  him. 
this  wife,  sweetheart,  manager  and  mother 
to  a  big  lost  boy." 

"All  right?"  Mario  asked  again. 

And  Betty  nodded  again.  "Of  course," 
she  said,  "if  vou  think  it's  best." 

Mario  sighed. 

"Who  knows  what's  best  anymore?"  he 
said. 

ROME  — 1958 — FROM  AN  INTERVIEW  WITH 
MARIO:  "Everything  is  fine.  I  am  riding 
high  again.  Hollywood  counted  me  out.  I 
took  the  long  count — three-and-a-half- 
years,  no  work.  I  cried  on  the  ropes.  But  I 
got  up  and  started  belting  out  songs  and 
pictures  again,  and  I  am  going  back  to  the 
top  of  the  heap.  Man.  I'm  living.  And  I 
want  to  go  on  forever.  On.  On.  On.  Go. 
Go.  Go.  Don't  ask  me  why.  but  I  would 
like  to  live  forever.  .  .  .  Maybe  because  I 
and  my  wife  and  my  family  have  never 
been  so  happy!" 

ROME— THE  CLINIC  OF  SANTA  GIULIA— OC- 
TOBER 7,  1S59:  He  had  lied  to  Betty,  that 
day  a  little  over  a  week  earlier.  He'd  told 
her  that  the  dieting  he'd  been  undergoing 
these  past  couple  of  months  had  weakened 
him.  that  he  was  coming  down  with  a  bad 
cold,  that  the  doctor  had  suggested  a  rest 
in  the  hospital.  He'd  said  nothing  of  the 
truth  to  her — that  the  dieting  had  weak- 
ened him  to  the  point  where  he  was  feeling 
pains  around  his  heart,  that  the  doctor  had 
examined  his  heart  and  suggested  a  long 
period  of  tests  and  observation. 

He  had  lied  so  well  that  Betty  hadn't 
been  the  least  bit  concerned  about  him 
these  past  days,  other  than  that  he  was 
away  in  the  hospital,  and  that  she  and  the 
children  missed  him. 

He  had  lied  so  well  that  even  now,  this 
Wednesday  morning,  as  she  sat  there 
alongside  his  bed.  holding  his  hand,  as  she 
listened  to  him  speak  the  strange  and  mel- 
ancholy words,  she  found  herself  smiling. 

"You  won't  like  what  I'm  going  to  talk 
about  now.  Betty-,"  Mario  said.  "I  know 
that.  But  I  must.  .  .  .  When  I  die,  my 
Betty— " 

"Yes,  forty  years  from  now."  Betty  said, 
"fifty  years,  when  you  die — " 

"Whenever  I  die."  Mario  said,  "I  want 
— I  want  you  to  do  certain  things  for  me." 

'And  that  is?"  Betty  asked. 

"First  of  all,"  Mario  said.  "I  want  you 
to  be  very  brave,  to  promise  me  that  you 
won't  cry  too  much." 

"I'll  probably  be  too  old  to  raise  a  tear 
by  that  time."  Betty  said. 

"That  you  will  take  care  of  the  children, 
continue  to  take  care  of  them,  with  as 
much  love  and  care  as  you  always  have." 
Mario  went  on. 

"They'll  all  be  married."  Betty  said,  "and 
have  children  enough  of  their  own  to  take 
care  of." 

"And."  Mario  said.  "I  want — " 

"Mario,  that's  enough."  Betty  said, 
squeezing  his  hand,  her  smile  tentative 
now.  nearly  gone. 

"That  at  my  funeral."  he  said,  "you  will 
ask  the  priest  if  he'll  give  permission  to 


have  one  of  my  records  played  in  the 
church,  during  the  Mass." 

He  closed  his  eyes. 

Betty  said  nothing. 

"The  Ave  Maria"  Mario  said.  "My  voice, 
I  'want  it  to  ring  through  the  church  as 
I  lie  there.  I  want  it  for  you  and  the 
children — so  you  will  know  that  a  part 
of  me,  at  least,  is  still  alive,  and  with  you." 

His  eyes  opened. 

"Will  you  do  that  for  me?"  he  asked. 
"Yes,"  Betty  said,  suddenly  afraid. 

FOUR  DAYS  LATER:  "I  am  sorry,  Signora," 
the  priest  said,  at  the  Lanza  villa,  that 


morning.  "I  have  spoken  to  the  Bishop. 
The  idea  of  the  recording,  though  it  was 
your  husband's  last  wish,  must  be  vetoed. 
Schubert,  the  composer,  was  not  a  Catho- 
lic. It  is  a  matter  of  ecclesiastics  .  .  .  We 
know  how  you  grieve  right  now.  Anything 
else  in  our  power,  within  sanction,  we  will 
do  .  .  .  But  this  we  cannot.  .  .  ." 

Three  thousand  Romans  stood  in  the 
square  outside  The  Church  of  the  Sacra 
Cuore  della  Madonna  later  this  sun-filled 
morning,  watching,  silently,  as  the  coffin 
was  lifted  from  the  black-draped  hearse, 
and  carried  inside — followed  by  the 
stunned  widow  and  her  four  small  chil- 


dren, and  by  the  others  who  had  arri 
with  them. 

The  people  outside  waited,  still  sili 
throughout  the  Mass.  Till,  towards  the  € 
the  bells  of  the  church  began  to  toll  i 
till  someone,  an  old  woman,  weeping, 
gan  to  pray  aloud  for  the  repose  of 
soul  of  Mario  Lanza. 

Ave  Maria,  she  prayed,  chanting,  si 
ing,  almost, 

Ave.  Ave,  Dominus,  Dominus  tecum 

Benedicta  te  in  mulieribus 

Et  benedictus  fructus  ventris. 
Mario's  last  film  is  For  The  First  Ti 
MGM. 


The  Fabulous  Fifties 


(Continued  from  page  50) 

And,  toward  the  end  of  the  year,  in  late 
September — that  seemingly  never-to-end 
story  starts,  which  began  with  the  head- 
line: ELIZABETH  TAYLOR  DATES 
HUSBAND  OF  "BEST  FRIEND"  DEBBIE 
REYNOLDS  IN  NEW  YORK.  EDDIE 
FISHER  CONFIRMS  HE  WILL  ASK 
DEBBIE  FOR  A  DIVORCE. 

1959:  Ingrid  Bergman,  that  most  con- 
troversial lady,  was  invited  to  return  for 
her  first  visit  in  years  as  a  special  guest 
of  the  Academy.  Accompanied  by  her 
bridegroom,  Lars  Schmidt  and  daughter 
Pia,  Ingrid  accepted — leading  to  many  de- 
bates pro  and  con  as  to  whether  she  should 
ever  have  been  invited. 

The  coveted  Oscars  of  '59  were  won  by 
Susan  Hayward  for  /  Want  To  Live  and  by 
David  Niven  in  Separate  Tables. 

MOVIE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  YEAR— 
naturally  was  that  of  Elizabeth  Taylor  and 
Eddie  Fisher  in  a  Jewish  ceremony  in  Las 
Vegas  on  May  8th. 

MOVIE  DIVORCE  OF  THE  YEAR— just 
as  obviously  Debbie  Reynolds'  freeing  the 
way  for  the  marriage  above — and  thank 
heavens,  at  last,  we  began  to  hope  we 
could  take  a  breather  from  this  triangle! 

Next  to  Debbie's  divorce  the  most  star- 
tling suit  was  Eleanor  Powell's  against 
Glenn  Ford  after  16  years  of  marriage. 
"I've  had  it!"  Eleanor  told  the  Judge  on 
May   2nd — incidentally   Glenn's  birthday. 

Less  startling  partings  were:  Anita  Ek- 
berg's  from  Tony  Steele  on  April  28th:  the 
not  surprising  action  filed  by  Mrs.  Peter 
Viertel  paving  the  way  for  her  writer  hus- 
band to  marry  Deborah  Kerr  when  she  is 
free — and  May  Britt  and  her  youthful 
Stanford  student  socialite  bridegroom  of  a 
year,  Ed  Gregson. 

BABY  NEWS:  The  birth  of  a  DAUGH- 
TER—at  last— to  Bing  Crosby  and  his 
actress  wife  Kathy  Grant,  their  second 
child,  after  five  sons  for  Bing! 

An  earlier  birth  to  make  news  was  the 
arrival  of  a  much  desired  son  to  the  late 
Tyrone  Power  and  his  widow,  Debbie  Min- 
ardos,  on  January  22nd. 

DEATHS  of  1959  were  numerous  and 
shocking  starting  with  the  loss  of  that 
master  showman,  Cecil  Blount  De  Mille. 
great  creator  of  screen  spectacles,  on  Jan- 
uary 21st. 

A  severe  loss  to  Hollywood. 

Joan  Crawford's  husband,  Al  Steele, 
high-salaried  head  of  a  soft  drink  company 
died  in  their  New  York  apartment  in  April. 

Another  top  directorial  name,  Charles 
Vidor,  was  lost  to  us  while  directing  Magic 
Flame  (the  Franz  Liszt  story)  in  Vienna. 

Then  early  September  brought  those 
three  tragic  deaths  of  superstitious  belief 
— beautiful,  gay  Kay  Kendall  who  cap- 
tured all  our  hearts  in  Les  Girls  and  who 
had  so  much  to  live  for — died  at  the  age 
of  32,  of  leukemia,  in  the  arms  of  her 
grieving  husband  Rex  Harrison. 


A  few  days  later,  in  almost  the  same 
manner,  in  the  arms  of  his  wife,  Jan 
Sterling,  Paul  Douglas  suffered  a  fatal 
heart  seizure;  lovable  little  Edmund 
Gwenn,  that  fine  actor  and  comedian  who 
had  been  tops  with  American  audiences 
since  his  touching  and  prize-winning  per- 
formance in  Miracle  On  34th  Street,  also 
passed  away. 

1959  brought  an  end  to  the  short  violent 
life  of  Mario  Lanza.  And  to  the  rich,  full 
and  daring  life  of  swashbuckling  Errol 
Flynn,  whose  death  seemed  to  epitomize 
the  end  of  the  gay  romantic  era  in  Holly- 
wood's history. 

1959  saw  film  personalities  having  their 
usual  share  of  accidents  and  illnesses,  the 
most  serious  being  Bob  Hope's  eye  trouble 
(he  has  now  permanently  lost  partial  sight 
in  his  left  eye).  And  Audrey  Hepburn's 
bad  fall  from  a  horse  while  shooting  a 
scene  for  The  Unforgiven  in  Durango, 
Mexico. 

Also,  Hollywood  was  electrified  by  two 
widely  divergent  developments  during  '59. 
Fast  rising  young  actress  Diane  Varsi.  a 
smash  in  her  first  big  role  in  Peyton  Place 
— walked  out  flat  on  her  career  to  enroll 
as  a  college  student  in  Bennington  College 
in  far  off  Vermont.  Diane's  parting  shot 
was  "I'm  through  with  Hollywood  and  its 
false  face." 

Want  to  bet? 

Another  "private  life"  shocker  was  the 
family  feud  which  broke  out  between  Bing 
Crosby  and  his  four  grown  sons  after  Bing 
was  quoted  as  saying  "I'm  a  bad  father." 
Unfortunately,  Gary  agreed  with  him — 
all  this  to  the  tune  of  some  pretty  disillu- 
sioning and  unhappy  headlines.  Let's  hope 
1960  will  find  this  family  clan  devoted  and 
united  again. 

The  outstanding  MOVIE  GIRL  OF  THE 
YEAR  was  that  redheaded  pixie  Shirley 
MacLaine — with  blonde  Lee  Remick  of 
Anatomy  of  a  Murder  fame  not  very  far 
behind. 

And  if  you  think  I  am  going  to  close 
this  fascinating  chapter  on  the  fascinating 
year  of  1959  without  mention  of  that  great 
day  in  my  own  life,  June  7th,  when  I  was 
presented  with  an  honorary  Doctor  of 
Letters  Degree  at  Quincy  College,  Quiney, 
111. — you  just  don't  know  your  girl  re- 
porter. .  .  . 


PHOTOGRAPHERS'  CREDITS 

The  photographs  appearing  in  this  issue 
are  credited  below  page  by  page: 

9 — Nat  Dallinger  from  Gilloon;  10 — Globe;  11 
— UPI;  12 — UPI;  13 — Wide  World;  14 — Wide 
World.  UPI;  15 — UPI;  16 — Galaxy.  Nat  Dal- 
linger of  Gilloon:  22.  23 — AP  Wirephoto;  24  

Jack  Albin  of  Burchman;  26.  27 — Peter  Oliver 
of  Topix;  31— Topix;  32 — Wide  World:  34 — 
Burchman:  35-50 — INP,  UP.  European,  Mag- 
num Photos,  Jacques  Lowe,  Wide  World,  Hans 
Knopf  of  Pix,  Topix.  Del  Hayden  of  Topix.  Bob 
Beerman,  Jack  Albin  of  Burchman,  Globe;  51 — 
Larry  Barbier  of  Globe;  55 — Sam  Wu  of  Galaxy. 


"Your  what?"  Astrid  almost  screamet 
me. 

"Here,  let  me  see  what  you're  read 
anyway." 

Stealthily,  like  a  cornered  rat,  I  bad 
away. 

But,  quick  as  a  cat,  she  leaped,  : 
snatched  the  article. 

She  flipped  to  the  front  page  wh 
Louella  had  typed  her  name,  cast  a  I 
cold  eye  at  me  and  said.  "So!  Two  seco 
ago  I  thought  I'd  married  a  genius,  am 
turns  out  he's  nothing  but  a  crook!" 

Redemption 

I  hung  my  head  in  shame. 

I  had  nothing  to  say. 

"Nothing  but  a  crook,"  she  repeated. 

"The  crooked  shall  be  made  straight 
replied  weakly.  "It  says  so  in  the  Bi 
I'll  redeem  myself.  I'll  wash  the  dis 
tonight." 

"It's  bad  enough  that  you've  lied  i 
broken  my  faith  in  you,"  she  said,  gu 
ing  down  a  giggle;  "don't  come  i 
my  kitchen  and  break  all  the  disl 
too." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do  then."  I  a 
"I'll  answer  your  impossible  questi 
"Not  in  six  minutes,  but  tonight.  1 
very  night  I  promise  I'll  write  it  all  do' 
all  by  myself,  all  about  the  Fifties,  a  wh 
long  article  that  I  might  even  print 
Modern  Screen,  and  I  won't  steal  a  wc 
not  a  single  word,  from  anybody,  not  e^ 
Louella. 

"And  you  know  what  it'll  be  about? 

"The  really  wonderful  thing  that  h; 
pened    in    the    entertainment  world 
the     Nineteen     Fifties — Youth.  Vitar 
Y-O-U-T-H. 

"A  great  big  shot  in  the  arm  of  Elvis  c 
Frankie  and  Tommy  and  Connie  and  Ric 
and  Fabian,  all  turning  loose  on  the  w; 
weary  old  world  of  the  Fifties  a  wh 
circus  wagon  full  of  old-time  joyful  sing 
and  dancing. 

"And  it'll  be  about  the  moody,  qu 
ones  too,  the  strange  ones — all  the  k 
from  Jimmy  Dean  to  Tuesday  Weld  M 
said  to  the  tired  old  world  of  the  Fift 
"Listen,  World,  we  may  not  be  the  v 
you  think  kids  should  be.  in  fact  you  n 
think  we're  kookie  as  Kookie,  but  in  < 
own  way  we're  serious,  World,  and  you 
got  to  dig  us  sooner  or  later.  .  .  ." 

"Sooner  or  later,"  Astrid  cut  in, 
appreciate  it  if  you'd  listen  to  me.  too. 
one  second.  Now  before  you  get  can 
away  (and  I  do  mean  by  the  man  in 
white  coat)  will  you  please  find  th 
Christmas  decorations?" 

Stick  around 

Well,  to  make  a  long  story  just  a  t 
bit  longer,  I  still  haven't  located  the  th 
(or  was  it  four?)  boxes  of  last  ye 
colored  lights  and  tinsel,  and  I  still  hav 
written  that  article  for  Modern  Scr 
about  Hollywood  in  the  Fabulous  Fifi 
but  I  would  at  least  like  to  say  to  al 
you  Merry  Christmas.  Happy  New  Y 
and  stick  around  for  the  Sensatk 
Sixties. 


first  Love 


'ontinued  from  page  27) 

That  day  began  with  a  song,  a  sad  song, 
mette  was  staying  in  bed  late  that  morn- 
f,  listening  to  her  record  player  spinning 
olaintive  tune  of  loneliness  and  dream- 
f  about  the  date  she  would  have  with 
ul  Anka  that  evening.  She  had  often 
nired  his  singing,  often  thought  about 
n,  always  wanted  to  meet  him.  Then 
t-xpectedly.  Irv  Feld,  Paul's  manager. 
:  to  thinking  that  these  two  kids  would 
it  off  beautifully,  and  he  arranged  a 
iner  date  for  them.  Tonight  was  the 
;ht. 

ohe  lay  in  bed,  listening  to  Paul's  voice, 
;amily  imagining  what  their  date  would 

like,  what  Paul  would  be  like. 
That   would   come    of   their  meeting? 
mid  they  meet,  be  stiffly  cordial  and 
n  never  see  each  other  again?  Or  would 
•re  be  a  spark  and  would  the  lights  go 

in  their  eyes  and  would  they  want  to 

each  other  again  and  again  and  again? 
innette,  one  of  the  more  fickle  young 
ies  in  this  world,  had  gone  out  with  and 
■n  attracted  10  many  boys.  But  though 

was  sixteen  and  had  often  been  kissed, 
le  of  her  romances  had  been  lasting. 
Tie  one  serious  crush  she'd  had  was 

an  'older  man'  of  twenty -six,  a  camera  - 
n  named  Jack  who  worked  for  her 
dio,  who  had  promised  to  wait  for  her. 
nette  was  fifteen  then.  But  this  dream 
5  shattered  when  he  upped  and  married 
ly  this  year  .  .  .  leaving  Annette  broken 
j-ted. 

he  had  never  fallen  into  the  tender 
p  of  love  with  a  boy  her  own  age,  but 
he  bait  were  attractive  she  was  willing 
h,  so  willing — to  be  captured. 


Perhaps  tonight  would  be  the  night  An- 
nette was  going  to  surrender  her  heart.  .  .  . 

I'm  just  a  lonely  boy  .  .  .  Lonely  and 
blue.  .  .  . 

Paul's  song  interrupted  her  reverie  and 
Annette  smiled  to  herself  and  promised 
herself  that  Paul  Anka  would  not  be 
lonely  tonight  .  .  .  ! 

That  first  date 

But  this  promise  wasn't  easy  to  keep.  At 
first,  they  were  both  lonely  .  .  .  and  shy. 
Whenever  their  eyes  met,  Paul  and  Ann- 
ette would  smile  softly  at  each  other  and 
then  quickly  shift  their  attention  to  the 
tablecloth.  Both  nervously  fingered  the 
silverware  and  both  were  looking  around 
the  room  for  familiar  faces  they  never 
found. 

"Isn't  Dick  Clark  great?"  asked  Paul,  in 
a  desperate  attempt  to  get  a  conversation 
going. 

"I'm  in  love  with  Dick,"  answered 
Annette,  in  a  rush  of  relief  at  having  any- 
thing to  talk  about.  "He's  wonderful  and 
I'll  never  be  able  to  thank  him  for  every- 
thing he's  done  for  me.  I  can't  wait  until 
he  gets  out  here  this  summer  to  make  his 
film.  You  know,  Paul,  my  secret  ambition 
is  to  be  in  that  picture." 

"I'll  be  here  then,  too,"  Paul  said  en- 
thusiastically, "to  make  my  first  film.  I 
wonder  what  it  will  be  like?" 

It  may  have  been  a  slow  beginning,  but 
they  soon  found  they  had  a  lot  to  discuss 
with  each  other — the  movies,  the  record 
industry,  Irv  Feld,  the  weather,  Fabian, 
food,  the  new  house  Annette  was  about  to 
move  into,  rock  'n'  roll,  and  the  Los 
Angeles  Dodgers.  They  stopped  looking  for 
other  faces  and  began  to  concentrate  on 
one  another's. 

If  I  get  my  way,  dreamed  Annette  in  the 
semi-darkness  of  the  restaurant,  this  lone- 
ly boy  is  never  going  to  be  lonely  again. 


Too  bad  I've  got  to  leave  town  so  soon. 
Paul  wistfully  thought.  This  girl  is  too 
good  to  leave  behind.  .  .  . 

And  all  too  soon  Paul  led  Annette  up 
the  short  walk  to  her  front  door.  The 
evening  drew  to  a  close.  Without  saying  a 
word,  they  both  knew  instinctively  that 
they  would  be  seeing  a  lot  more  of  each 
other.  Paul  didn't  want  to  end  their  rela- 
tionship with  just  one  dinner  engagement 
and  Annette  was  anxious  to  see  Paul 
under  more  informal  circumstances. 

Annette  leaned  expectantly  against  the 
door.  Paul  edged  closer  and  murmured, 
"Thanks  for  a  wonderful  evening.  I'll  call 
you  as  soon  as  I  can." 

Then  he  silently  turned  away,  headed 
back  to  his  car,  and  drove  off,  remember- 
ing the  sweetness  of  Annette's  shining 
smile.  .  .  . 

Up  in  her  room,  Annette  tossed  about 
in  her  bed,  wondering  about  the  last  few 
moments  of  her  date  with  Paul.  She  was 
certain  he  had  been  about  to  kiss  her,  but 
had  hesitated  at  the  last  moment.  She 
wondered  why.  She  was  perfectly  willing 
to  kiss  a  boy  on  a  first  date,  if  the  boy 
meant  something  to  her.  And  though  she 
hardly  knew  Paul,  she  was  certain  that 
he  was  going  to  mean  a  great  deal  to  her. 
She  really  suspected  that  he  liked  her 
too  .  .  .  maybe  he  didn't  want  her  to  think 
he  was  too  fast,  she  decided  .  .  .  But  she 
wished  he  had  kissed  her.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  her  guess  was  wrong  and  Paul's 
sweet  good-bye  had  just  been  the  cue  for 
a  hasty  exit?  Perhaps  she  was  drawing  too 
many  conclusions  from  just  one  brief  en- 
counter? Perhaps  she  ought  to  turn  over, 
she  told  herself,  shove  her  head  under 
the  pillow  and  forget  she  ever  met 
Paul.    .  . 

But  those  doubts  need  not  have  worried 
her.  For  Paul  had  been  completely  cap- 
tivated by  Annette;  he  found  her  so  nat- 


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Please  circle  the  box  to  the  left  of  the  one 
I.  I  LIKED  MARIO  LANZA: 

JJ  more  than  almost  any  star  [JJ  a  lot 
T  fairly  well  [JJ  very  little  [JJ  not  at  all 
TJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  JJ  all  of  his  story  J]  part  J]  none 
T  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  [TJ  super-completely 
Tj  completely  J]  fairly  well  [TJ  very  little 
TJ  not  at  all 

l  I  LIKED  ERROL  FLYNN: 

TJ  more  than  almost  any  star  [JJ  a  lot 
Tj  fairly  well  [JJ  very  little  TJ  not  at  all 
TJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
READ:  [TJ  all  of  his  story  [TJ  part  [JJ  none 
T_  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  JJ  super-completely 
U  completely  JJ  fairly  well  [JJ  very  little 
TJ  not  at  all 

i.  I  LIKE  DEBBIE  REYNOLDS: 

JJ  more  than  almost  any  star  (JJ  a  lot 
JJ  fairly  well  [JJ  very  little  JJ  not  at  all 
U  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 


phrase  which  best  answers  each  question: 

I  READ:  JJ  all  of  her  story  [JJ  part  JJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  JJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely  JJ  fairly  well  JJ  vary  little 
JJ  not  at  all 


4.  I  LIKE  ANNETTE  FUNICELLO: 

JJ  more  than  almost  any  star  JJ  a  lot 
JJ  fairly  well  JJ  very  little  JJ  not  at  all 
JJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 


I  LIKE  PAUL  ANKA: 

JJ  more  than  almost  any  star  JJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  JJ  very  little  JJ  not  at  all 
JJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  JJ  all  of  their  story  JJ  part  JJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  JJ  super-completeiy 
J]  completely  JJ  fairly  well  [JJ  very  little 
J]  not  at  all 


5.  I  LIKE  TROY  DONAHUE: 

JJ  more  than  almost  any  star  [JJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  JJ  very  little  JJ  not  at  all 
J]  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  JJ  all  of  his  story  JJ  part  JJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  JJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely  J]  fairly  well  JJ  very  little 
JJ  not  at  all 


6.  I  LIKE  JIMMIE  RODGERS: 

JJ  more  than  almost  any  star  JJ  a  lot 
J]  fairly  well  JJ  very  little  JJ  not  at  all 
JJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  JJ  all  of  his  story  [JJ  part  JJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  JJ  super-completely 
J]  completely  JJ  fairly  well  JJ  very  little 
JJ  not  at  all 

(see  other  side) 


ural  and  unpretentious,  yet  so  grown  up. 
Courting  time 

From  then  on,  whenever  Paul  flew  into 
Hollywood,  he  would  rush  down  the  air- 
line ramp  and  dash  into  the  nearest  phone 
booth  to  buzz  Annette  and  tell  her  that 
he  was  on  his  way  over.  Suddenly  Ann- 
ette's time  became  Paul's  time.  She  looked 
forward  to  Paul's  infrequent  visits,  al- 
though there  were  moments  when  her 
happiness  would  evaporate  with  the  sud- 
den realization  that  their  romance  was 
existing  almost  by  remote  control. 

The  rare  dates  they  managed  to  share 
were  memorable,  though.  Like  the  night 
at  the  Palladium  Ballroom.  What  made 
that  occasion  so  special  was  that  they  were 
able  to  dance  all  night  unrecognized  in  a 
crowd  of  over  a  thousand.  If  they  were 
noticed,  they  just  seemed  like  any  other 
young  couple  in  love. 

Then  there  was  the  exciting  'grand  tour' 
evening  Paul  planned  when  he  got  back 
to  Hollywood  after  a  long  absence. 

This  night  to  remember  began  with  a 
multi-course  dinner  at  Paul's  rented  house. 
This  time,  in  contrast  to  their  first  awk- 
ward meeting,  neither  Paul  nor  Annette 
was  self-conscious.  No  spoons  rattled  and 
no  knees  shivered.  They  just  basked  in  the 
enjoyment  of  being  together  again. 

After  dinner,  on  an  impulse,  they 
changed  into  bathing  suits.  They  splashed 
in  Paul's  swimming  pool  for  an  hour  and 
came  out  gay  and  light-hearted. 

Then  Paul  whisked  Annette  to  a  local 
amusement  park.  Riding  anything  which 
moved,  throwing  at  anything  which  stood 
still  and  laughing  at  anything  at  all,  they 
emerged  from  the  park  at  closing  time 
happier  than  they  had  ever  been  together. 

The  next  morning  Annette  told  a  girl- 
friend, "What  a  fabulous  personality  Paul 
has.  He  sure  can  show  a  girl  a  good  time 


.  .  .  and  can  he  kiss  .  .  .  !" 

Her  friend  was  convinced  that  Annette 
was  finally  shedding  her  fickle  nature. 

The  romance  begins  to  cool 

But  even  as  Annette  was  bubbling  over 
about  what  a  marvelous  time  she'd  had, 
she  was  already  beginning  to  feel  a  slight 
change  in  her  feelings  about  Paul.  They 
certainly  had  fun  times  together,  no  one 
could  deny  that,  but  that  magic  something 
that  had  put  stars  in  her  eyes  when  they 
first  met  was  beginning  to  dim  a  little 
each  time  they  were  together.  She  was 
beginning  to  see  Paul  with  clearer  eyes 
now  and  in  a  different  image. 

'Perhaps,"  a  doubtful  Annette  began  to 
realize,  "Paul  is  destined  to  become  a 
platonic  friend.  Somehow  I  can  picture 
him  more  as  my  brother  than  my  boy- 
friend. .  .  ." 

It  was  a  painful  realization  and  it  took 
courage  for  Annette  to  admit  it  but  the 
pain  now  would  be  nothing  compared  to 
a  later  heartbreak. 

And  Annette  did  not  want  to  hurt  Paul. 
She  was  determined  to  make  the  change 
subtly.  For  a  while  nothing  seemed  to  be 
any  different  than  before. 

Then,  without  warning,  they  had  an 
argument,  the  same  silly  sort  of  problem 
that  so  often  manages  to  push  a  wedge 
into  a  teenage  romance. 

The  argument  took  place  not  in  Cali- 
fornia but  in  New  York.  Paul  was  open- 
ing in  a  Syracuse  nightclub  the  same  week 
that  Annette  was  appearing  in  a  rock  'n' 
roll  revue  in  nearby  Albany.  Annette  had 
promised  to  commute  to  the  club  to  catch 
Paul's  act  and  he  was  anxiously  anticipat- 
ing her  visit. 

But  Annette  never  arrived.  Her  show, 
which  co-starred  Frankie  Avalon,  had  run 
an  hour  overtime  in  response  to  an  en- 
thusiastic crowd  and  Annette  had  decided 


that  it  wouldn't  be  fair  to  arrive  only 
time  to  catch  a  small  portion  of  Paul's  a 

But  she  was  tired  from  the  grueling  p« 
formance  and  put  off  calling  Paul  ur 
the  morning.  When  she  finally  did,  Pi 
was  angry  but  willing  to  accept  her  e 
planation.  She  repeated  her  promise 
show  up  that  night. 

But  fate  and  another  enthusiastic  a 
dience  combined  to  prevent  her  from  gi 
ting  to  Syracuse.  Paul  was  upset  about  i 
incident  and  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  tr, 
kept  out  of  each  other's  way. 

Finally  they  mutually  apologized  a 
picked  up  their  friendship  as  if  it  nei 
had  been  interrupted.  But  as  far  as  Anne 
was  concerned,  that's  just  what  it  w; 
friendship.  Those  weeks  of  being  aw 
from  Paul  only  reinforced  her  feeling  tl 
for  her,  the  romance  was  dead.  She  lit 
Paul  very  much,  yes,  but  definitely  a: 
friend;  she  could  never  think  of  him  a: 
sweetheart  again. 

But  before  she  had  found  the  right  n 
ment  to  break  the  news  to  Paul,  fate 
tervened  again.  Both  were  signed  for  D 
Clark's  national  musical  road  show- 
seven-week  cross-country  caravan  wh 
thrust  them  together  in  daily  contact. 

Reports  from  the  just-concluded  t< 
indicated  that  the  embers  are  still  smo 
dering  and  that  Paul  is  trying  to  far 
spark  where  a  flame  once  blazed.  Tl 
are  spending  their  off-hours  together,  av 
from  the  watchful  eyes  of  potential  crit 

If  they  should  beat  the  odds  and  man; 
to  rekindle  the  glory  of  their  first  love 
mantle  of  doubt  will  nevertheless  have 
shroud  their  romance;  a  carbon  copy  ne 
is  as  genuine  as  the  original.  I 

Annette's  in  Walt  Disnev's  Shaggy  E 

Paul's  in  Girl's  Town,  MGM,  The  P 
vate  Lives  of  Adam  and  Eve,  Warner  Bi 

Permission  to  quote  Paul  Anka's  s< 
Lonely  Boy  given  by  Spanka  Music  Cc 


7.  i  LIKE  ELIZABETH  TAYLOR: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 


]  LIKE  EDDIE  FISHER: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  al! 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
3  READ:  CO  all  of  their  story  00  part  GO  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  super-completely 
GO  completely  GO  fairly  well  Gil  very  little 
G[]  not  at  all 


8.  i  LIKE  BETTE  OAVIS 

CO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 


I  LIKE  GARY  MERRILL: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
1  READ:  GO  all  of  their  story  GO  part  GO  none 
3T  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  super-completely 
GO  completely  GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 


9.  I  LIKE  THE  KINGSTON  TRIO: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  them 
I  READ:  GO  all  of  their  story  GO  part  GO  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  super-completely 
Q0  completely  00  fairly  well  GO  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 

10.  I  READ:  HO  all  of  the  FABULOUS  FIFTIES 

GO  part  00  none 

IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  00  completely  GO  fair- 
ly well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 

11.  I  READ:  GO  all  of  LOUELLA  PARSONS 

GO  part  GO  none 

IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  completely  00  fair- 
ly well  00  very  little  GO  not  at  all 


.2.  The  stars  I  most  want  to  read  about  are: 


(  3  5 


U). 

(2)  . 

(3)  . 


AGE  ......  NAME  . 

ADDRESS  

CITY  


74 


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n  Thorndike-Barnhart  Comprehensive 

L-1    Dictionary-set  (9) 

□  Parrish  (44) 

□  Health  Set-2  vols.  (50) 

□  Columbia- Viking  Encyclopedia-set  (61) 

□  Outline  ot  History-set  (62) 

□  Around  the  World  in  2000  Pictures  (67) 

□  Treas.  Great  Mysteries-set  (76) 


□  Victorine  (92) 


□  Kids  Say  Darndest  Things  i 

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□  Ladies'  Home  Journal  Book 


of  Interior  Decoration  (138) 
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Every  time  you  "brush  your  teeth, 
finish  the  job... reach  for  Listerine 


Germs  in  mouth  and  throat  cause  most  bad 
breath.  You  need  an  antiseptic  to  kill  germs,  and 
no  tooth  paste  is  antiseptic.  No  tooth  paste  kills 
germs  the  way  Listerine  Antiseptic  does  . . . 
on  contact,  by  millions,  on  every  oral  surface. 
No  wonder  more  American  families  use  Listerine 
than  all  other  mouthwashes  combined !    .  >  .  ■  , 

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4  times  better  than  tooth  paste ! 

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THE  LISTERINE  WAY* 


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only  teeth,  gum-  germs  on  tongue  pa 

line.  And  it's  NOT  ate.  tonsils,  all  ovs 

antiseptic.  mouth  and  throat. 


habits 

Today's  smart  girls  never  let  time-of-the- 
month  interfere  with  fun  and  freedom. 
Why  do  you?  Why  do  you  insist  on 
clinging  to  old,  uncomfortable,  undainty 
ways  of  sanitary  protection?  Choose  the 
modern  way — the  Tampax  way. 

Tampax  never  chafes  or  binds.  Never 
betrays  itself.  Never  causes  odor.  Made 
of  pure  surgical  cotton,  its  special  shield 
never  lets  your  fingers  touch  it.  What 
could  be  daintier  for  changing  and  dis- 
posal? And,  it's  so  easy  to  learn  how  to 
use.  So  convenient  to  carry  extras. 

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2  now  used  by  millions  of  women 


modern 


FEBRUARY.  1960 


AMERICA'S  GREATEST  MOVIE  MAGAZINE 


STORIES 

Beverly  Aadland 

Errol  Flynn   20  At  17,  My  Life  Is  Over  by  Hugh  Burr  ell 

Tuesday  Weld 

John  Ireland    22  At  16,  I  Know  I'll  Never  Have  A  Husband  Or  Children 

Debbie  Reynolds   24  Me,  My  Kids  And  Glenn  Ford  by  Louella  Parsons 

Crash  Craddock    26  Introducing  Crash  Craddock  by  Ed  DeBlasio 

Cathy  Crosby 

Bob  Crosby   28  The  House  Of  Terrified  Women 

Evy  Norlund 

Jimmy  Darren   30  Intimate  Thoughts  Of  A  Bride-To-Be  by  Terry  Davidson 

Gia  Scala 

Don  Burnett   34  Death  Opened  Our  Hearts  by  Doug  Brewer 

Jean  Simmons 

Stewart  Granger  36  A  Visit  With  Jean  Simmons  And  Stewart  Granger 

Annette  Funicello   38  I  Believe  I  Heard  The  Voice  Of  Jesus 

by  Annette  Funicello  as  told  to  George  Christy 

Sammy  Davis,  Jr  40  We  Have  A  Right  To  Be  Married 

James  Amess  42  The  Story  Of  A  Hollywood  Wife 

Dick  Clark   44  Dick  Clark,  I  Love  You— No  Matter  What  You've  Done! 

by  Myrna  Horowitz  as  told  to  Ed  DeBlasio 

Sandra  Dee    46  Let  Sandra  Dee  Be  A  Warning!       by  Louella  Parsons 

Evelyn  Rudie   48  Little  Girl  Lost  by  Helen  Wetter 

Troy  Donahue   50  The  Two  Faces  Of  Troy  Donahue  by  Robert  Peer 

FEATURETTES 

Jimmy  Durante  52  "Forever   ...  A  Nose" 

Bing  Crosby   64  A  Cool  Cat  And  His  Hot  Money 

Hugh  O'Brian 

James  Garner   74  Maverick  Rescues  Wyatt  Earp  In  The  Shower 

Dinah  Shore  77  The  Day  Dinah  Was  Almost  Shot 

Paul  Anka   80  Paul  Anka's  Tommy  Gun 

DEPARTMENTS 

Louella  Parsons    9  Eight-Page  Gossip  Extra 

4  The  Inside  Story 

6  New  Movies 

56  Disk  Jockeys'  Quiz 

70  February  Birthdays 

83  $150  For  You 

Cover  Photograph  from  Topix 
Other  Photographers'  Credits  on  Page  80 


DAVID  MYERS, 

SAM  BLUM,  managing  editor 
SHIRLEY  LAIKEN,  promotion  director 


editor 


MICHAEL  LEFCOURT,  art  editor 
HELEN  WELLER,  west  coast  editor 


TERRY  DAVIDSON,  story  editor 
LINDA  OLSHEIM,  production  editor 
ED  DeBLASIO,  special  correspondent 
BEVERLY  LINET,  contributing  editor 
ERNESTINE  R.  COOKE,  ed.  assistant 
GENE  HOYT,  research  director 


DOLORES  M.  SHAW,  asst.  art  editor 
MARIO  GUILIAN0,  photo  research 
LUPITA  RODRIGUEZ,  photo  research 
SHELDON  BUCHANSKY,  reader  service 
EUGENE  WITAL,  photographic  art 
AUGUSTINE  PENNETT0,  cover 


FERNANDO  TEXID0R,  art  director 


POSTMASTER:  Please  send  notice  on  Form  3579  to  321  West  44  Street,  New  York  36,  New  York 


MODERN  SCREEN.  Vol.  54,  No.  2.  February,  1960.  Published  Monthly  by  Dell  Publishing  Co..  Inc. 
,,(  ,,ulilu.iii,in :  .ii  Washington  and  South  Aves..  Dunellen,  N.  J.  Executive  and  editorial  offices.  7?0 
Avenue  New  York  17.  N.  Y.  Dell  Subscription  Service:  .U)  W  4411,  St..  New  York  36,  N.  Y.  Chicago  adve 
office  221  No.  LaSalle  St..  Chicago.  111.  Albert  P.  Delacorte.  Publisher;  Helen  Meyer,  President;  Paul  R. 
Fxe.utiw  Vkc-VresiUfiit;  William  F.  (  allahan.  Jr..  Vice-President;  Harold  Clark.  Vice-President-Advertisi 
rector  Published  -iinultaneou-.lv  in  the  nonunion  of  Canada.  International  copyright  secured  under  the  provis 
the  in  immI  Convention  for  the  protection  of  Literary  and  Aiti-fu  Work-  All  right*  reserved  under  the  Bueno 
Convention  Single  copv  price  25c  in  C.  S,  A.  and  Possessions  and  Canada.  Subscription  in  V.  S.  A.  and  Poss 
oal  C  ui  ula  4  '  st)  one  vear.  $4. Do  two  rears,  $5.50  three  years.  Subscription  for  Pan  American  and  foreign  cot 
st  =ti  a  rear  Second  class  postage  paid  at  Dunellen.  New  Jersey.  Copyright  1  owl  hy  Dell  Publishing  Co..  Inc. 
in  U  S  A.  The  Publishers  assume  no  responsibility  for  the  return  of  unsolicited  material.  Trademark  No. 


Office 
Third 


.^•ek 


THEY'RE 

Having 
A  Little 

trouble 
With  her 
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METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER  i 

Presents  j 

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FORD  REVnOLDS 


in  AN  AVON 

PRODUCTION  THE 


gazebo 


THE 
HILARIOUS 
BROADWAY 
SMASH 
Hlf/  ' 


J  */z"s  a  little  house 
I     w/YA  a  6/p  secret! 


CO-STARRING  CARL  REINER 
with  JOHN  McGIVER 


SCREEN  PLAY  BY 

in  Cinemascope  ■  GEORGE  WELLS 

DIRECTED  BY  PRODUCED  BY 

GEORGE  MARSHALL  •  LAWRENCE  WEINGARTEN 


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you  this  complete  relief.  Get  FEMICIN  at 
your  drugstore  today!  It  must  give  you 
greater  relief  than  you  have  ever  experienced 
or  your  purchase  price  will  be  refunded. 

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Woman!",  send  104  for  postage  and  handling. 
Box  225,  Dpt.  D 1  ^Church  St.  Sta.,  N.  Y.8,N.Y. 


T  WHO VSR  RESEARCH  ' 


THAYER]  ...a 
©1959 


SETTER  PRODUCT 


Want  the  real  truth?  Write  to  INSIDE  STORY,  Modern  Screen, 
Box  515,  Times  Square  P.O.,  N.Y.  36,  N.Y.  The  most  interesting 
letters  will  appear  in  this  column.  Sorry,  no  personal  replies. 


Q  I've  been  reading  a  great  deal  about 
Cary  Grant's  date  with  young  Las 
Vegas  chorines,  air-stewardesses,  etc.  Has 
Cary  ever  considered  dating  a  woman  of 
his  own  age? 

— J.W.,  Tallahassee,  Fla. 

A  Not  for  the  past  twenty  years. 

9  What's  the  scoop  behind  the  report 
that  Kirk  Douglas  threatened  to  walk 
out  of  the  movie  Strangers  When  We 
Meet  because  Kim  Novak  and  director 
Richard  Quine  kept  carrying  their  per- 
sonal problems  onto  the  set? 

— J.L.,  Rocky  Mount,  N.C. 

A  Kirk  couldn't  walk  out  of  the  picture 
because  of  contractual  demands.  He  was 
upset  at  any  delays  which  might  have 
kept  him  working  overtime  since  he  had 
other  projects  demanding  his  attention. 

9  Is  it  true  that  Lauren  Bacall  was 

finally  able  to  get  over  her  infatuation 
with  Frank  Sinatra  by  strictly  adhering 
to  the  adage  that  time  heals  all  wounds  ? 

— S.M.,  Butte,  Mont. 

A  Her  friends  say  Miss  Bacall's  philoso- 
phy was  'time  wounds  all  heels.' 

9  Is  the  Roger  Moore  marriage  head- 
ing for  stormy  weather? 

— C.C.,  Newtown,  Conn. 

A  The  rains  came.  But,  the  Moores  are 
reconciled — for  now. 

9  There  was  a  great  to  do  in  the  papers 
about  Happy  Anniversary  not  being  able 
to  get  a  production  code  seal  unless  the 
words,  "It  was  wrong.  I  shouldn't  have 
taken  Alice  to  that  hotel  room,"  were 
added  to  the  finished  print.  I  saw  the 
picture — and  somehow  David  Niven's 
voice  sounded  different  when  he  said 
them.  What  caused  this  difference? 

— F.E.,  New  York,  N.Y. 

A  "Niven's  voice"  sounded  different  be- 
cause Niven  refused  to  do  his  own  dub- 
bing on  the  principle  that  the  addition 
of  lines  was  juvenile  and  insulting  to  au- 
dience intelligence. 

9  I  read  that  Ray  Anthony,  Mamie 
Van  Doren's  "ex,"  is  intent  upon  mak- 
ing Lana  Turner  his  next  bride.  Any 
truth  to  this? 

— E.C.,  Richmond,  Va. 

A  Ray  is  intent,  Lana  both  amused  and 
uninterested  in  the  whole  idea. 

9  I  haven't  read  too  much  about  Pat 


Boone  lately.  Is  he  still  as  hot  with  the 
fans  as  ever?  Or  is  he  fading  out  now 
that  Fabian,  Bobby  Darin,  etc.,  are 
leading  the  field? 

— S.F.,  Woodmere,  L.I. 

A  Pat's  popularity  is  at  a  nice  steady 
stage.  It  is  the  consensus  of  opinion  in 
the  music  business  that  he's  passed  the 
teen-age  idol  stage,  and  will  develop 
into  a  sure  and  steady  Perry  Como  type. 

9  I  saw  Gregory  Peek  in  Beloved  In- 
fidel. As  Greg  Peck,  he  was  gorgeous;  as 
F.  Scott  Fitzgerald,  he  was  a  bust.  Since 
Peck  always  seems  to  fight  for  his  rights 
with  directors,  why  didn't  he  insist  that 
Fitzgerald  be  played  as  the  disintegrat- 
ing man  he  was  in  his  later  years? 

—S  B.,  Cairo,  III. 

A  Greg  did  fight  for  his  rights.  His  di- 
rector, who  wanted  a  less  strong  and 
virile  character,  went  down  for  the  count. 

9  Why  has  Alan  Ladd  put  his  foot  down 
about  his  son  David  working  in  any 
more  films?  Is  it  because  David  was 
getting  too  much  publicity? 

— C.S.,  Steubenvtlle,  Ohio 

A  No — not  enough  formal  schooling. 
Alan  will  allow  David  to  make  films — 
but  only  during  the  summer  months. 

9  Did  Liz  Taylor  use  any  of  her  per- 
sonal influence  to  get  Eddie  Fisher  the 

role  of  her  piano  player  in  Butterfield  8 
— or  is  this  casting  an  added  publicity 
gimmick  for  the  picture? 

— A.M.,  Johnstown,  Pa. 

A  All  her  influence. 

9  I  read  your  story  on  Beverly  Aad- 

land.  What  do  those  in  the  know  in  the 
movie  industry  feel  will  be  her  profes- 
sional future,  after  all  the  Errol  Flynn 

publicity  has  been  forgotten? 

— B.H.,  Pleasantvtlle,  Mo. 

A  Oblivion. 

9  Why  did  Janet  Leigh  accept  a  tiny 
part  in  Psycho?  What  is  the  reason  for 
her  feud  with  Vera  Miles,  who  is  in  the 

same  picture? 

— G.L.,  Albuquerque,  NJMex. 

A  Although  Janet  gets  killed  off  in  the 
second  reel,  her  role  up  until  then  is  a 
meaty  one.  No  feud,  just  some  dissension 
as  to  who  would  get  top  billing — Janet, 
with  the  bigger  name,  Vera,  with  the  big- 
ger part. 


James  Garner 
Natalie  Wooa 


Big  Charm.  .  Big  mii&ions.. 

THE  GlSU  NOT  EVErt  A  UTTlE  k.ss 


This  fellow- 
he's  a  zillionaire... 
But  this  girl -she 
keeps  giving 
him  the  air...! 
Why  should  it 
be?  People, you 
gotta  see ! 
It's  the  new  year's 
big  bright 
romantic  delight! 


FROM  THE  BIG  BEST-SELLER  BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  EXECUTIVE  SUITE 

a  WARNER  BROS,  picture  •  TECHNICOLOR* 


L_  ~_  J 


S:reer.p,3,-  ty 


Produced  by  lyivMh, 

WBM-jmW 


new 


ARLEEN  KAITIS,  Junior,  St.  Angela 
Hall  Academy,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.  says: 
"When  my  face  broke  out,  I  tried 
one  thing  after  another,  but  nothing 
seemed  to  help,  until  I  found  Clearasil. 
With  Clearasil  I  noticed  improve- 
ment right  away,  and  in  a  short  time, 
my  face  was  clear  again." 


Scientific  Clearasil  Medication  . . . 

GETS  INSIDE 


PIMPLES 

to  Clear  Them  Fast! 

You  see  only  the  top  of  a  pimple.  The  real 
trouble  is  inside  because  a  pimple  is  actually 
a  clogged,  inflamed  pore.  That  is  why  Skin 
Specialists  agree  the  vital  medical  action  you 
need  is  the  Clearasil  action,  which  brings  the 
scientific  medications  down  inside  pimples, 
where  antiseptic  and  drying  actions  are  needed 
to  clear  them  fast. 

HOW  CLEARASIL  WORKS  FAST 

1.  Gtli  Intide  Pimpfoi  —  'Keratolytic'  action 
dissolves  and  opens  afl'ected  pimple  cap  so 

pore  can  clear  quickly  .  .  .  and 
:  medications  can  get  inside. 

2.  Stops  Bacteria.  Antiseptic  medication 
penetrates  to  any  lower  infection,  stops 
growth  of  bacteria.  Encourages  quick  growth 
of  healthy,  smooth  skin. 

3.  Dn'ej  up  Phnplet  Fail  —  Oil-absorhing  ac- 
tion works  to  dry  up  pimples  fast,  remove 

lat  can  clog  pores,  cause  pimples. 
Helps  prevent  further  outbreak. 

Skin-colored  .  .  .  hides  pimples  while  it  works. 
clearasil  also  softens  and  loosens  blackheads, 
so  they  'float'  out  with  normal  washing. 
Proved  by  Skin  Specialists.  In  tests  on  over 
300  patients,  9  out  of  10  cases 
completely  cleared  up  or  definitely 
improved  while  using  clearasil. 
Guaranteed  to  work  for  you  or 
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I  I  L* 

by  florence  epstein 


BEN  HUR 

a  tale  of  the  Christ 


Charlton  Hestort 
Stephen  Boyd 
Haya  Harareet 
Jack  Hawkins 
Sam  Jaffe 


■  From  the  very  first  moment  of  Ben  Hur  the 
view  is  dazzling.  Indeed,  the  prologue — scenes 
accompained  by  narration  of  the  birth  of 
Christ — is  of  breath-taking,  overwhelminp 
beauty.  Immediately  after  begins  a  story 
which,  although  it  is  nearly  four  hours  long, 
rarely  drags  and  never  lets  you  down  as  far 
as  emotional  excitement,  suspense  or  climax 
are  concerned.  Ben  Hur  (Charlton  Heston), 
scion  of  a  rich  Jewish  family  of  Judea,  wel- 
comes the  new  Roman  Tribune  to  his  city. 
The  Tribune,  Messala  (Stephen  Boyd),  is  his 
boyhood  friend  and  Heston  hopes  that  the 
tyrannical  hand  of  Rome  will  soften  under  his 
rule.  But  Boyd  believes  that  Caesar  is  divine; 
Heston  believes  with  the  Jews  that  there  is 
only  one  God.  Conflict  between  these  former 
friends  is  inevitable.  Although  this  is  the 
story  of  Heston's  conversion  to  Christianity, 


it  is,  on  the  surface,  an  adventure  story  packed 
with  action.  Boyd,  to  teach  other  Jews 
submit,  condemns  Heston  to  a  galley  and 
throws  his  mother  (Martha  Scott)  and  sistei 
(Kathy  O'Donnell)  into  a  dungeon.  Incredi- 
bly, it  seems,  Heston  survives  three  years  or 
the  galley.  Then  during  a  sea  battle  he  rescue 
Commander  Jack  Hawkins  who  takes  him  to 
Rome  and  a  new  life  of  splendor.  Filled  with 
hatred  for  Boyd  and  lust  for  revenge,  Heston 
can't  rest.  Returning  to  Judea  he  meets  his 
enemy  in  the  arena  where  they  both  enteS 
the  chariot  race.  It  is  a  brutal,  highly  exciting 
event.  Afterward  Heston  is  still  unsatisfied; 
he  has  yet  to  discover  the  whereabouts  of  hig 
mother  and  sister.  An  ex-slave,  the  girl  he 
now  loves  (Haya  Harareet),  knows  that  they. 
are  lepers  living  in  a  valley  of  Untouchables 
and  she  tries  to  spare  him  by  saying  they  are; 
dead.  On  the  same  day  that  Christ  is  to  ba 
crucified  Heston  leads  them  out  of  the  valley] 
This  movie  cost  a  fortune  to  produce  and  ifj 
looks  it.  It  is  a  magnificent  spectacle. — MGMl 
(Continued  on  page  72n 


YOU  ENTER  FREE!  No  Statements 

SSL 


some  of  Europe's  most  famous  capitals.  You  will  be  furnished  ail  the  trappings  of 
=  — ....  :r.  aire's  Safari,  including  your  ;\vn  personal  White  Hunter  and  a  full  staff 
of  natives  to  care  for  your  every  need.  Then  after  weeks  of  unbelievable 
adventure  —  seeing  thousands  of  animals,  native  villages,  tribal  dances,  mystic 
ML  Kilimanjaro  . . .  you'll  both  fly  home  again  with  memories  enough 
to  last  a  lifetime! 

AN  ADVENTURE  FOR  THE  ENTIRE  FAMILY 

Everyone  ir.  the  family  may  enter — see  the  Rules.  You'll  have  fun  and 
adventure  solving  the  puzzles  together.  The  sample  solution  to  the 
right  shows  you  how  to  collect  S3.250  worth  of  animals — quite  a  bag 
t  see  if  you  can  do  better!  Read  how  to  solve  basic  Official  Puzzle 
=  1  below — work  out  your  own  solution — then  use  one  of  the  Free 
Entry  Coupons  to  mail  in  your  solution.  Have  a  friend  or  relative  use 
the  other  coupon  and  you  may  win  an  extra  S  1.000.00  Cash  —  see 
Bonus  F':oe   ::  the  "  .  • 


HOW  TO  SOLVE  PUZZLE  #1 


.E.:=E  : 

YOU  MUST  ENCLOSE  »  STiMPtD  SfLf-AODIESSED 


The  swinging  purse . . .  the  swaying  hips . . .  the  sensuous  body  against  the  lamp-post 
. .  .then,  the  sudden  glint  of  a  knife  ...  a  choked  scream  . . .  fleeing  footsteps 
and  over  and  over  he  would  repeat  his  brutal, compulsive  act  of  killing! 


THE  MOST  DIABOLICAL  MURDERER  IN  ALL 
THE  ANNALS  OF  CRIME!  HE  BAFFLED 
THE  GREAT  SCOTLAND  YARD,  THE  CELEBRATED 
ARTHUR  CONAN  DOYLE  AND 
ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON  ...THE  FILE  ON 
JACK  THE  RIPPER  HAS  NEVER  CLOSED. 


JOSEPH  E.  LEVINE 


JACK 
THE  RIPPER 


JACK  THE  RIPPER 


JOSEPH  E.  LEVINE  presents  JPtVlt  I  Ilk  Ft  I  ■  ■  k  It  starring  LEE  PATTERSON  •  EDDIE  BYRNE  •  BETTY  McDOWALL  •  EWEN  SOLON 
Screenplay  by  JIMMY  SANGSTER  •  From  an  original  story  by  PETER  HAMMOND  and  COLIN  CRAIG  •  Produced,  Directed  and  Photographed  by  ROBERT  S.  BAKER  and  MONTY  BERMAN 

A  Mid-Century  Film  Production  •  A  PARAMOUNT  PICTURES  RELEASE  jjjjfc 


SOON  AT  YOUR  FAVORITE  THEATRE 


MODERN  SCREEN'S 

8  PAGE  GOSSIP  EXTRA 

by 

HOLLYWOOD'S 
GREATEST  COLUMNIST 


n  this  issue: 

'arties,  Parties,  Parties 
i  Talk  With  Lana  Turner 
ookie's  Bank  Account 


David  Janssen  is  so  much  fun  at  a  party,  and  Louella 
diets  he'll  soon  be  as  big  in  motion  pictures  as  he  is  on 


continued 


Zsa  Zsa  Gabor's  escort,  Hal 
Hayes,  was  without  a  place  card. 


Lovely  Cyd  Charisse  and  (right)  Dano 
Wynter   in   fabulous   maternity  gown. 


Merle  Oberon  (holding  son)  and  husband  ( right) 
hosted  the  lavish  party  for  the  Henry  Fords. 


Aly  Kahn  flew  from  New  York 
especially   for   Merle's  party. 


Poor  Martha  Hyer  (here  with 
Richard  Burton)  was  robbed!'. 


PARTYo/ 

the  month 


Merle  Oberon  s  party,  in  her  Bel  Air 

home,  honoring  the  Henry  Fords  was  not  only 
one  oi  the  largest  and  most  lavish  of  the 
season — it  was  packed  with  drama  and  ex- 
citement from  start  to  finish. 

Unless  you've  been  hibernating  in  a  cave, 
you  must  have  read  the  headline  stories  about 
how  Zsa  Zsa  Gabor  arrived  with  Hal  Hayes 
(whom  Merle  had  not  invited)  and  for  whom 
she  had  no  place  card.  Nor  did  she  write  one. 
When  Zsa  Zsa  and  her  escort  later  departed 
in  a  huff — it  hit  the  headlines.  But  enough  of 
this.  It's  been  argued  pro  and  con  by  ;he 
experts — and  as  a  close  friend  of  Merle's  and 
a  guest  in  her  home  I  promised  not  to  discuss  it. 

But  this  was  just  one  of  several  eventful 
happenings  of  this  eventful  evening. 

Aly  Khan  had  flown  out  from  New  York  with 
his  current  girl  friend,  Gwinella  Riva  (a 
Swedish  beauty  but  she  makes  her  home  in 
Paris)  especially  for  Merle's  party.  So  when 
Aly's  former  wifa  Rita  Hayworth  showed 


up,  every  eye  was  on  this  interesting  "three- 
some." 

Strangely  enough,  the  suspense  did  not  last 
long.  Aly  and  Rita  chatted  like  old  and  good 
friends  and  when  the  dancing  started  after 
the  formal  sit-down  dinner,  Aly  asked  Rita  to 
dance  with  him. 

Martha  Hyer,  beautifully  gowned  in  a 
long  picture-portrait  black  velvet  dress,  had  a 
ball — until  she  returned  home  that  night  and 
found  she  had  been  robbed  of  $80,000  worth 
of  priceless  paintings,  jewelry  and  furs!  Poor 
Martha  collapsed  when  she  found  out  that 
among  the  looted  treasures  were  her  prize 
Renoirs  and  Utrillo  oils. 

Meanwhile,  back  at  the  party  (to  para- 
phrase the  TV  westerns)  there  was  never  a 
dull  moment  even  up  to  midnight  when  Senator 
John  Kennedy  arrived  and  immediately  was 
the  center  of  a  circle  of  friends  and  relatives, 
including  his  sister  Pat  (Mrs.  Peter  Law- 
ford    Pete,  and  Frank  Sinatra. 

Aly  Khan  was  also  noted  dancing  with  Kim 
Novak — which  brought  to  mind  that  they  had 
also  been  a  spark  in  each  other's  lives  at  one 
time — last  summer  it  was,  when  Kim  was  in 
Europe.  But  the  flame  seemed  to  be  banked 
when  Kim  and  Aly  danced  and  chatted,  and 


his  girlfriend  had  nothing  to  be  jealous  of 
any  more  than  when  Aly  danced  with  Rita. 

Almost  all  the  women  were  arrayed  in  th« 
most  fabulous  gowns  from  such  designers  a: 
Sophie,  Mainboc-her,  Fontana,  Dior  and  others 
So  I  was  really  amazed  when  one  of  the  pret 
tiest  women,  wearing  one  of  the  lovelies 
gowns  and  coats,  Mrs.  David  Janssen.  told 
me  she  made  every  stitch  of  her  ensemble! 

(Incidentally,  everyone  is  crazy  about  th( 
Janssens  and  I  admit  I'm  a  fan  of  David' 
popular  TV  show  Richard  Diamond.  Ellie  anc 
David  are  so  much  fun  and  she  gets  a  laugl 
when  some  friends  call  her  "Sam,"  the  sexi 
telephone  gal  on  David's  show.  Mark 
words,  David  will  soon  be  as  big  in  motioi 
pictures  as  he  is  on  TV.  He's  a  young  Clark 
Gable.) 

As  usual — it's  a  habit  with  her — Cyd 
Charisse  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
women  present  and  Tony  Martin  is  always^ 

so  proud  of  her. 

It  was  really  a  party  of  parties  and  the ' 
young  Henry  Fords,  who  had  come  to  the  j 
Coast  to  be  the  godparents  of  Merle  and 
Bruno  Pagliai's  adorable  little  adopted  son. 
certainly  got  an  interesting  close-up  of  Holly- 
wood before  this  evening  was  over. 


'Just  Good  Friends" 
it  Las  Vegas 

Debbie  Reynolds  stuck  to  her  code  of 
never  dating  a  married  man  until  he  is  di- 
rrced"  (as  she  told  me  in  my  interview  with 
=r,  which  is  on  page  24  of  this  issue)  before 
le  appeared  with  millionaire  Harry  Karl  as 
Br  escort  in  Las  Vegas.  It  was  about  a  week 
:-.er  Joan  (the  former  Mrs.  Harry)  Cohn  di- 
sced Karl  that  Debbie  resumed  the  dates 
19  was  having  with  him  before  his  surprising 
znd  short)  twenty -five  day  marriage  to  Mrs. 
chn. 

Debbie  was  in  Las  Vegas  at  the  invitation 
Shirley  MacLaine  to  take  part  in  the 
g  Operation  Typhoon  charity  affair  staged 
,-  Steve  Parker  and  his  Japanese  Revue  stars 
the  New  Frontier  to  aid  Japanese  sufferers 
the  recent  typhoon.  With  their  usual  gen- 
osity.  many  Hollywood  stars  including  Bob 
ope.  Donald  O'Connor,  Lucille  Ball, 
sa  Zsa  Gabor  and  others,  flew  up  to  take 
jrt  in  the  show  and  buy  many  of  the  fine 
izes  auctioned  off  from  the  stage. 
Looking  cute  as  a  button  arrayed  in  white 
;  and  tails  and  top  hat,  Debbie  did  a  dance 
rmber  for  which  Mr.  Karl  applauded  loudest 
all.  Later,  Harry  bought  a  chinchilla  coat 
hich  was  auctioned  off  for  sweet  charity, 
id  presented  it  to  Debbie!  She  keeps  insisting 
me  that  she  and  Karl  are  "just  good  friends" 
id  I  think  she  means  it.  But  I'm  beginning 
believe  it's  deeper  than  that  on  his  side 
.d  if  he  can  change  her  mind — he  will. 
I  thinlf  a  special  bow  goes  to  Lucille  Ball 
letting  back  to  the  show  for  Operation  Ty- 
loon)  who  almost  stole  the  evening  with  her 
perb  clowning.  Lucille  is  not  a  happy  girl 
=se  days.  There  is  trouble  between  her  and 
si  Arnaz,  although  both  half-heartedly  deny 
But  she  put  her  personal  problems  aside  to 
me  up  to  Vegas  and  help  Shirley  and  Steve 
ise  money  for  this  worthy  cause.  She's  a 
e  girl,  this  "Lucy" — and  here's  hoping  Desi 
iikes  up  before  it's  too  late. 


Congratulations,  Dorothy  and. Jacques, 
i  Dorothy  is  expecting  the  Stork.) 


"A  Baby  Is  Coming" 

I  kept  saying  that  Dorothy  Malone  cer- 
tainly looked  pregnant.  And  Dorothy  kept 
denying  that  she  and  Jacques  Bergerac 

are  expecting  a  baby.  We  kept  up  this  jolly 
little  game  for  about  two  weeks. 

Then,  one  morning,  to  my  desk  came  a  beau- 
tiful large  white  orchid  to  which  was  attached 
a  white  satin  streamer  with  ABC  printed  in 
gold  letters — and  a  note  reading: 

Dear  Loueila:  You  are  quite  right, 
Jacques  and  I  are  happily  expecting  a 
baby  in  May-  In  case  you  are  curious, 
the    ABC   printed    on    the  streamer 
means.    'A  baby  is  coming.' 
Congratulations,  Dorothy  and  Jacques.  And 
thank  you  for  the  charming  way  you  verified 
my  story  that  Dorothy  is  expecting  the  Stork. 


Kookie  had.  a  funny  a 


Kookie  Can't 
Afford  Two  Combs 


'cs  a  fine  girl,  this  "Lucy,"  and 
e's  hoping  Desi  wakes  up  to  it. 


Never  let  it  be  said  that  Edd  "Kookie" 

Byrnes  hasn't  kept  his  sense  of  humor  through 
his  suspension  troubles  at  Warner  Bros,  (which 
I'm  sure  will  be  settled  by  the  time  you  read 
this). 

When  I  asked  "Kookie"  if  he  planned  to 
marry  Asa  Maynor  any  day  now,  he 
cracked: 

"The  answer  is — no.  I  can't  afford  two 
combs." 

Edd  is  very  grateful  to  Warners,  the  studio 
that  discovered  him  and  gave  him  his  big 
chance  on  77  Sunset  Strip.  It's  just  that  he  can't 


questioned  about  mo/t  riage  and  Asa  Maynor. 


get  along  on  his  S284-per-week  taice-home 
salary.  That  may  seem  like  a  good  salary — 
and  it  is  outside  of  the  acting  profession.  But 
with  all  the  expenses  even  a  young  actor  is 
heir  to,  and  the  front  he  is  expected  to  put  up, 
it's  small  pickings. 

Edd  has  really  been  up  against  it  financially 
speaking.  For  one  item  alone,  his  tuxedo,  cost 
him  S240,  almost  a  week's  salary. 

Jack  Warner,  a  fair  man,  offered  to  up 
"Kookie"  to  S750  weekly  which  is  okay  with 
Edd  and  his  agents.  But  "Kookie"  is  also  hop- 
ing the  studio  permits  him  to  keep  50  °o  of 
what  he  is  being  offered  for  nightclub  and  per- 
sonal appearances.  This,  my  friends,  is  as  high 
as  S10.000  weekly. 

Not  bad  for  that  cute  "parking  attendant" 
at  77  Sunset  Strip! 


Kim  was  there  with  Dick  Quine  (right) 
and  she  made  up  with  Kirk  Douglas. 


Bob  Stack  and  Rosemary  Bowe  sat  with  Louella.        The  Danny  Thomases  stop  to  chat  with  Louis  Prima  and  Keely  Smith. 


More  Parties,  Parties, 
Parties : 

I  needed  a  scooter  to  get  around  to  all  the 
social  events  of  the  month.  Come  to  think 
of  it,  maybe  I  should  have  taken  up  Edd 
"Kookie"  Byrnes'  offer  to  ride  on  his  motor 
scooter  (remember  I  told  you  about  that  last 
month)  to  cover  all  the  ground. 

There  were  rhree  big  ones  on  the  same 
night — and  that  takes  a  bit  of  doing  even  for 
me — but  I  made  'em! 

First  doorbell  we  rang  was  at  Anne  and 
Kirk  Douglas'  big  wingding  at  their  home 
for  Simone  (Room  at  the  Top)  Signoret 
and  Yves  Montand,  her  husband,  a  fine 
French  entertainer  making  his  Hollywood  debut 
at  the  Huntington  Hartford  Theater  a  few  nights 
later. 

Everybody  but  everybody  was  there — but 
I'll  admit  I  was  surprised  to  see  Kim  Novak 
considering  that  she  and  Kirk  had  been  re- 
ported feuding  all  during  the  making  of  Strang- 
ers When  We  Meet. 


Kim  said,  "Come  with  me,  Louella" — and 
just  to  prove  there  were  no  bad  feelings,  she 
marched  up  to  Kirk  and  gave  him  a  big  kiss! 
Mr.  Douglas  didn't  mind  in  the  least.  Of 
course,  Kim  was  with  her  'heart'  (also  her 
director)  Dick  Quine. 

Anne  Douglas  had  decorated  her  house  in 
red,  white  and  blue  flowers  in  honor  of  her 
approaching  American  citizenship.  This  set 
Tony  Curtis  off  to  drumming  Yankee  Doodle 
on  the  toy  drum  of  the  Douglas'  child,  much  to 
the  amusement  of  Janet  Leigh,  who  looked 
stunning  in  red  chiffon.  In  the  crowd  I  saw 
Steve  Allen  and  Jayne  Meadows,  Judy 
Garland  and  Sid  Luft,  Dinah  Shore  and 
George  Montgomery  (Dinah  in  one  of  her 
long  Paris  gowns).  Gene  Kelly  with  Jeanie 
Coyne  (methinks  this  is  a  new  romance — 
leanie  is  his  former  dance  assistant);  the 
Gregory  Pecks  and  Jean  Simmons 
and  Stewart  Granger.  I  told  you  every- 
body was  there. 

Hated  to  tear  ourselves  away  from  the  Doug- 
lases, but  on  to  the  dinner  Jack  Warner  gave 
for  Vice  President  Richard  Nixon  and  his  so 


attractive  wife  Pat.  The  Nixons  are  always 
welcome  visitors — if  you  can  call  them  visitors. 
They  hail  from  nearby  Whither,  California. 

I  can  tell  you  our  Vice  President  has  a  very 
good  and  most  flattering  memory.  He  said  to 
me,  "The  last  time  I  saw  you  was  in  the  ele- 
vator in  the  Waldorf  Towers  in  New  York. 
Do  you  remember?"  I  certainly  remembered — 
but  I  hardly  expected  he  would. 

But  time  was  ticking  on,  as  much  as  we 
would  have  liked  to  linger  on  at  this  interest- 
ing affair,  we  were  due  at  the  WAIF  Imperial 
Ball,  one  of  the  big  charity  affairs  of  every 
season  with  proceeds  going  to  the  fund  for 
orphaned  children  of  Europe.  Jane  Russell 
is  a  guiding  light. 

When  we  arrived  at  the  ballroom  of  the 
Beverly  Hilton,  Edd  "Kookie"  Byrnes 
with  his  date,  pretty  Dorothy  Johnson, 
the  Bob  Stacks,  Donna  Reed,  Tony 
Owen  and  the  Danny  Thomases  were  al 
ready  seated  at  our  table. 

The  guest  of  honor  was  her  Imperial  High- 
ness Princess  Marie  Cecilie  of  Prussia,  a  very 
pretty  seventeen-year-old  blonde  whose  par- 


I  nominate  for 
STARDOM 


ookie  found  the  Princess  charming. 


Charming  date,  too— Dorothy  Johnson. 

nts  accompanied  her  to  Hollywood  and  per- 
litted  her  to  make  her  bow  to  society  at  this 
/orthy  occasion. 

I  had  made  arrangements  for  "Kookie"  to 
e  one  of  the  young  men  to  dance  with  the 
rincess.  He  was  a  bit  nervous  about  it — but 
erne,  and  they  made  such  an  attractive  couple 
n  the  floor  that  the  cameramen  kept  their 
cshbulbs  popping  all  during  the  dance. 

When  "Kookie"  returned  to  the  table  he  told 
ie  the  Princess  was  a  charming  and  vivacious 
irl  and  a  good  dancer — and  "What  a  hand- 
nake  she  has!"  I  knew  what  he  meant  a  few 
moments  later  when  I  met  her  and  she  gave 
ly  hand  such  a  hearty  grip  it  nearly  took  me 
ff  my  feet. 

I  was  also  very  much  impressed  with  the 
rincess'  mother.  Grand  Duchess  Kira,  who 
egged  those  of  us  who  were  presented  to 
er  to  sit  and  talk  with  her  a  moment.  I  asked 
er  if  she  and  her  family  were  movie  fans. 

"We  see  few  motion  pictures,"  the  Grand 
uchess  replied  tactfully,  "but  we  like  those 


Even  his  MGM  bosses  were  impressed  when, 
following  the  sneak  preview  of  Home  from 
the  Hill  (stars  Bob  Mitchum  and  Eleanor 
Parker)  221  preview  cards  out  of  the  300 
distributed,  read  A  new  srar  is  born  in  George 
Peppaid — or  words  to  that  effect. 

The  good-looking  blonde  graduate  of  Mar- 
lon Brando's  alma  mater,  Lee  Strasberg's 
Actors'  Studio  in  New  York,  was  waylaid  by 
eager  teenage  fans  who  told  him,  "You  are 
now  a  big  movie  star." 

"No,"  said  the  flabbergasted  George,  "I'm 
just  an  actor."  I  say  some  actor — to  make  such 
a  splash  in  his  first  important  screen  role  even 
if  he  has  made  his  mark  on  Broadway  in  such 
hits  as  Girls  of  Summer,  The  Pleasure  of  His 
Company  and  on  TV  in  Little  Moon  ot  Alban, 
the  Alfred  Hitchcock  shows  and  several 
U.S.  Steel  Hour  presentations. 


A  most  amiable  and  easy-to-know  young 
man,  George  gets  hot  under  the  collar  about 
only  one  thing:  the  criticism  leveled  at  young 
actors  (particularly  the  'method'  group)  for 
the  way  they  dress  in  jeans,  denims  and  sweat 
shirts. 

"I  often  wore  jeans  to  interviews  with  pro- 
ducers for  the  good  reason  I  couldn't  aftoid  to 
buy  a  good  suit!  And  this  is  true  of  the  ma- 
jority of  young  actors  struggling  for  a  break — 
including  some  girls  like  Diane  Varsi.  When 
we  first  start  making  money,  we  need  it  for 
our  studies,  not  for  flashy  wardrobes."  So 
there! 

George  Peppard  is  his  real  name  and  he 
was  born  in  Detroit,  Michigan,  the  son  of  a 
(late)  building  contractor  and  Vernelle  Pep- 
pard, a  former  opera  singer  and  voice  coach. 
After  graduation  from  Dearborn  High  School, 
in  his  native  city,  and  several  years  at  Purdue 
University,  George  headed  for  New  York  and 
the  Actors'  Studio.  Shelley  Winters'  play  GirJs 
of  Summer  was  his  kick-off  hit.  Yes,  girls,  he  is 
married.  Helen  Davies  has  been  Mrs.  P.  since 
1954. 


13 


continued 


Lana  Turner  likes  Fred  May  (left)  better  than  any  other  man  she  knows,  but 
neither  of  them  is  thinking  in  terms  of  marriage— not  right  now,  anyhow. 


A  Talk  With  Lana— 

I  asked  Lana  Turner  just  how  serious  she 
is  about  Fred  May.  the  good  looking  and  re- 
putedly wealthy  businessman  whom  she  is 
dating  constantly.  "I  like  Fred  better  than  any 
man  I  know.  But  his  divorce  won't  be  final 
until  February — and  neither  of  us  is  thinking 
in  terms  of  marriage,"  Lana  told  me. 

"He  has  two  children — which  means  obli- 
gations— and  so  do  I." 

I  said.  "You  certainly  have  no  financial 
worries  with  all  those  millions  coming  in 
from  Imitation  oi  Life,  Lana." 

She  laughed,  "So  far  I  haven't  seen  any 
of  those  millions,  but  I'm  told  I'll  get  the 
money.  When  it  comes  it  will  be  very  wel- 
come." 


Marilyn's 
Husband  and 
Marilyn's  Script 

No  matter  how  politely  Gregory  Peck 

worded  his  reasons  to  me  for  walking  out  of 
The  Billionaire  with  Marilyn  Monroe  before 
the  picture  started  at  20th,  the  truth  is: 

He  was  burned  up  with  the  way  Marilyn's 
playwright  husband  Arthur  Miller  was  rewrit- 
ing the  script,  building  up  Marilyn's  role  with 
each  click  of  his  typewriter. 

But,  behaving  like  a  gentleman,  Greg  told 
me,  "I  read  Norman  Krasna's  original  story 
and  that  is  what  I  signed  to  make.  I  have  not 
seen  the  rewritten  version. 

"What  I  object  to  is  that  the  rewriting  is 
holding  up  the  starting  date  which  was  sup- 
posed to  be  November  1st.  Three  quarters  of 
the  month  is  gone  and  we  still  are  not  into 
production.  I  have  signed  a  contract  to  star 
in  The  Guns  oi  Navarone  in  Greece  late  in 
December — and  I  can't  wait  any  longer  for 
The  Billionaire." 

Spoken  like  a  gentleman,  Mr.  P. — and  very 
nice,  except  that  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it. 


Marilyn  Monroe  and  Arthur 
way  to  Hollywood  here— and  to 


Miller 
those 


were  on  their 
script  changes. 


14 


Childhood  is  for  laughter,  as  one  reader  poignantly  reminds  us,  but  even  Evelyn 
Rudie's  mother  and  father  admit   that  "Eloise"   is  not  like   other  children. 


Interesting  problem-the  similarity  of  the  names  of  Bobby  Darin  and  Jimmy  Darren.  Do  you  get  them  mixed  up? 


LETTER 
BOX 


What  a  heart-breaking  thing  that  nine-year- 
old  Evelyn  Rudie  should  be  so  worried 
about  her  career  that  she  landed  in  that  silly 
publicity  stunt  and  trip  to  Washington,  writes 
Mrs.  E.  Dekringer,  Tacoma.  Childhood  is  tor 
laughter — not  fears  or  tears.  It's  cured  me  of 
wanting  to  put  my  little  girl  in  the  movies  or 
TV.  Wise  words,  Mrs.  D.  .  .  . 


Cleo  Van  Zandt,  Miami,  has  an  idea:  I'm 
crazy  tor  both  Bobby  Darin  and  Jimmy 

Darren.  But  the  similarity  ol  their  names,  I 
think,  is  bad  for  both  of  their  careers.  Before 
they  go  on  and  become  even  more  famous — 
why  doesn't  one  change  his  name?  Particularly 
as  both  are  now  actors  in  the  movies,  as  well 
as  singers.  Does  everyone  get  these  boys  as 
mixed  up  as  Cleo  thinks  .  .  .  ? 

I  saw  Pillow  Talk  with  my  sixteen-year- 
old  boyfriend  and  it  made  both  of  us  blush, 
postcards  Evelyn  Greer,  Madison,  Wis.  Well, 
Evelyn,  if  this  amusing  comedy  makes  you 
blush — keep  away  from  the  French  movies 


now  on  display.  .  .  . 

Dee  Dee,  Atlantic  City,  asks:  Do  you  feel 
as  I  do  that  May  Britt  is  the  next  Greta 
GarJbo?  No.  .  .  . 

Personal  to  Ptjrveen,  Karachi,  Pakistan — 
Thank  you  for  your  kind  words  about  this  de- 
partment and  about  Modern  Screen,  written 
in  excellent  English  for  which  I  compliment 
you.  I  am  sorry  if  you,  such  an  ardent  movie 
fan,  are  not  receiving  replies  to  your  letters  to 
Elizabeth  Taylor,  Pier  Angeli,  Hope 
Lange  and  Susan  Hayward.  Perhaps 
they  will  read  of  your  disappointment  here — 
and  write  to  you,  such  an  interesting  fan  from 


continued 


One  fan  thinks  Rock  is  slated  for  marriage  in  1960,  Tony  Randall  is  an  actor  who  can  be 

but  it's  doubtful— he  was  badly  burned  the  first  time.  amusing  and  romantic  at  the  same  time. 


such  a  far  away  country.  .  .  . 

Why  do  you  of  the  press  pick  on  Ava 
Gardner?  snaps  Bob  Weill,  Boston.  If  you 
ask  me.  Bob, — it's  Ava  picking  on  us  of  the 
press,  particularly  as  she  now  has  it  in  her 
contract  that  she  can  walk  off  her  new  movie 
set  if  any  reporter  shows  up. 

I  worked  out  Rock  Hudson's  future  by 
numerology,  pens  Peggy  Brown,  Cleveland, 
and  the  numbers  say  he  will  be  married  again 
in  1960.  Want  to  bet?  Rock  was  badly  burned 
in  his  first  marriage.  I  doubt  if  he'll  try  ma- 
trimony again  so  soon.  .  .  . 

Tony  Randall  is  just  wonderful!  One  ot 
the  few  actors  who  can  be  amus'ng  and  ro- 
mantic at  the  same  time,  enthuses  Mrs.  Vivyan 


Oldfield,  Dallas.  Why  isn't  he  a  star?  The 
next  time  you  look  at  the  billing,  Mrs.  O.,  Tony 
may  jolly  well  be  a  star.  .  .  . 

Odessa  McDaniels,  Duluth,  writes:  I  cried 
my  eyes  out  when  I  read  that  Bob  Hope  is 
completely  blind  in  one  eye  now  and  is  losing 
the  sight  ot  the  other.  Wait  a  minute — Bob 
himself  says  that  report  is  greatly  exaggerated. 
He  has  lost  about  50  percent  vision  in  one 
eye  and  the  other  has  not  been  affected 

Sally  Phillips,  Homestead,  Florida,  begs 
the  fans  not  to  forget  the  great  Mario  Lanza. 
Though  he  did  some  things  at  the  height  ot  his 
fame  that  seemed  wrong,  his  was  a  great 
talent.  I  believe  all  admirers  of  Mario  can 
best  express  their  sympathy  to  his  bereaved 


family  by  buying,  and  then  buying  more,  of 
his  wonderful  records.  That  is  a  very  fine  idea, 
Sally.  .  .  . 

Has  somebody  in  authority  clamped  down 
on  Tuesday  Weld?  postcards  Jimmy  Stei- 
ger,  Brooklyn.  Haven't  read  much  nonsense 
about  ihis  wild  kid  this  month.  Maybe  some 
latent  good  sense  came  to  her  rescue.  But 
don't  count  on  it.  Where  Tuesday  is  concerned, 
she  can  erupt  again  any  minute.  .  .  . 

That's  all  for  now.  See  you  next  month. 


hard-  V 
working  \ 
hands 


BEFORE  TPUSP 


October  26  195 


heal  twice  as  fast 


AFTER  TRUSHAY — 

Same  hands, 
skin  unretouched, 

with 

October  30, 1959 

1 

1   -                                ':  Mil!:--'- 

mi- 

new 

heavy- 
(lulv 

TRUSHAY 

with  si  I  icones 


Kitchen  tests  prove  it  ...with  women  just  like  you!  What  happened  to  these  hands  can  happen  to 
Hard-working  hands  heal  twice  as  fast  with  new  you.  And  new  Trushay  protects  your  hands  against 
heavy-duty  Trushay  with  silicones.  Try  newTrushay.         detergents  and  through  every   chore  you  do. 

TRUSHAY.. .the  heavy-duty  lotion  for  hard-working  hands 


NEW  LIQUID  LUSTRE-CREME  IS  HERE! 

Now  you  can  shampoo... 
Set  with  plain  water...and  have 
lively,  natural  looking  curls! 


Vicl*  liquid 


LOVELY  JANE  POWELL  must  keep  lier  hair  looking  soft  and  shining  at  all  times  for  her  many  television  appearances  and  screen  roles. 
That's  why  she  always  asks  her  hairdresser  for  a  Lustre -Creme  shampoo  because  it  leaves  hair  shinier,  easier-to-manage  in  any  hair 
style.  Shouldn't  you  use  it,  too? 


FOR  CURLS  THAT  COME  EASY— HERE'S  ALL  YOU  DO: 


Shampoo  with  new  Liquid  Lustre-Creme. 

Special  cleansing  action  right  in  the  rich, 
fast-rising  lather  gets  hair  clean  as  you've 
ever  had  it  yet  leaves  it  blissfully  manage- 
able. Contains  Lanolin,  akin  to  the  natural 
oils  of  the  hair;  keeps  hair  soft,  easy  to  set 
without  special  rinses. 


Set— with  Just  plain  water. 

An  exclusive  new  formula — unlike  any 
other  shampoo — leaves  hair  so  manageable 
any  hair-style  is  easier  to  set  with  just  plain 
water.  Curls  are  left  soft  and  silky — spring 
right  back  after  combing.  Waves  behave, 
flick  smoothly  into  place. 


noJtx  dries  — 
if  beau-rifles  — 
how  in  liquid., 
lofioK  or  cfeaivJ. 


4  OUT  OF  5  TOP  MOVIE  STARS  USE  LUSTRE-CREME  SHAMPOO! 


On  the  next  4  pages 
Modern  Screen  brings 
you  the  real  truth 
about  two  Hollywood 
teenagers— Beverly  Aadland 
and  Tuesday  Weld — 
who  learned  about  love 
from  men  three  times 
their  age— and  lost...  — 


CAN  A  TEENAGE  GIRL 
LEARN  TOO  MUCH  ABOUT 
LOVE  TOO  SOON? 


r 

I 


AT  17 
MY  LIFE 
IS  OVER 


The  girlfriend  really  wanted  to  say,  "Look,  Errol  Flynn  is  dead. 

The  funeral  was  two  weeks  ago.  He's  gone,  Beverly.  Sad,  tragic, 
heartbreaking  as  it  is,  the  man  you  loved  and  lived  with  for  two 

years  is  gone.  And  it's  time  you  realize  that  now,  and  try  to 
pull  yourself  together." 

But  aloud  she  said,  instead,  "You've  barely  touched  your  salad, 

honey.  Here  I  take  you  to  lunch  at — ahem,  excuse  me  for  bragging — 
one  of  the  most  expensive  restaurants  in  Hollywood. 
And  what  do  you  do?  You  sit  and  look  at  your  food  like  it  was  a 
decoration,  a  display  .  .  .  Now  come  on.  Perk  up  and  eat  a 
little.  This  isn't  on  any  expense  account,  you  know.  This  is  on  me, 
jm  your  old  hard-working  chum!" 

Seventeen-year-old  Beverly  Aadland  looked  up  from  her  plate, 
ik*  "I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "I'm  just  not  too  hungry." 

'Til  make  you  pay  for  your  share  of  this  if  you  don't  eat," 
her  girlfriend  said,  laughing. 
-^X  'Til  pay,  if  you  want,"  Beverly  said. 

She  looked  away. 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 
Her  girlfriend  stopped  laughing  and  sighed  and  reached 
across  the  table  for  Beverly's  hand. 
'I  was  teasing  you — "  she  started  to  say.  "Hey,  what's 
happened  anyway  to  the  gal  who  used  to  be  able  to 
take  a  joke  and  who  could — "  {Continued  on  page  79) 


Beverly  Aadland  thought  she  was 


AT  16 

I  KNOW  I'LL 
EVER  HAVE 
A  HUSBAND  OR 
CHILDREN 


■  Actually,  Tuesday  and  John  met  on  the  set  of  Spartacus 
at  U-I  Studios.  Tuesday,  wearing  one  of  her  famous  beatnik  outfits 

that  day,  levis,  sweat  shirt,  sandals  and  mix-master  wig,  was  visit- 
ing the  set  with  a  friend,  Marsha.  John,  in  the  picture,  was 

doing  takes  on  a  scene  with  Kirk  Douglas  and  Laurence  Olivier. 
The  introduction  was  made  between  a  pair  of  takes  by  Marsha, 
who  had  known  John  for  several  years. 

It  was  a  very  uneventful-seeming  introduction,  short  and  sweet. 
John  said  hello,  Tuesday  said  hi,  John  turned  to  talk  to 
Marsha  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  he  went  back  to  work. 
As  he  did,  Tuesday  sighed.  "He's  the  (Continued  on  page  54) 


I  Weld  was  shattered  when  John  Ireland  said  good-bye... 


What  is  the  truth  about  Debbie  \ 
Now,  in  a  personal  heart- to-  i 
friend  Louella  Parsons,  Debbie  \ 
Glenn  Ford  away  from  the  sets 


t 


m 


This  is  a  photo  from 
It  Started  With  a  Kiss, 

the  film  that  paired 
Debbie  and  Glenn  'and 
started  all  the  rumors. 


Reynolds'  private  life  today  ? 
heart  talk  with  her  long-time 
confides  all:  "I  have  never  seen 
of  the  three  pictures  we  have 


(Continued  on  page  53) 


He  was  alone  now.  The 
people  who'd  been 
with  him  a  few  minutes 
earlier — the  press  agent, 
the  man  from  the  record 
company,  the  musician 
or  two — had  gone  to  their 
own  rooms.  What  laugh- 
ter and  talk  and  congrat- 
ulations there  had  been 
about  the  show  he'd  done 
that  night  were  over. 
The  hotel  room  was  emp- 


ty. And  he  was  lonely, 
so  terribly  lonely  ...  He 
was  nineteen  years  old 
and  far  away  from  home 
and  from  the  girl  he 
loved  and  he  wondered 
what  he  was  doing  here, 
anyway.  In  this  strange 
room.  In  this  strange 
city.  This  night.  Far 
from  Greensboro,  North 
Carolina,  and  the  life  he 
knew.    Far    from  the 


great,  big,  beautiful,  glo- 
rious future  everybody 
had  been  predicting  for 
him.  Smack  in  the  middle 
of  what,  he  wondered — 
of  what? 

He  walked  over  to  the 
phone.  He  wanted  to  call 
May.  He  wanted  to  say, 
"Honey,  this  is  Billy.  I'm 
comin'  home.  I'm  tired 
of  being  Crash  Craddock. 
I  want  to  be  Billy  again, 


your  husband  again.  I 
miss  you,  honey,  and  I 
love  you  and  I'm  comin' 
home  to  you." 

But  his  hand  left  the 
receiver  before  he  even 
picked  it  up. 

Without  looking  down 
at  his  watch,  he  knew 
that  it  was  late — well  aft- 
er midnight.  That  May, 
busy  working  all  day  at 
(Continued  on  page  63) 


Crosby 
220  N#  Layton  Dr« 


THE  HOUSE 
OF 

TERRIFIED 
WOMEN 


A  few  miles  away 
•  from  the  big  house 
at  220  N.  Layton  Drive, 
Beverly  Hills,  the  beau- 
tiful girl  sat  up  in  her 
bed.  It  was  10 :40  o'clock 
of  this  mild  and  lovely 
Saturday  evening,  No- 
vember 7th,  1959.  The 
others,  in  the  rooms 
flanking  hers,  in  the 
stretch  of  rooms  down 
the  long  and  silent  hall- 
way— they  were  fast 
asleep  by  now.  But  she 
was  not.  She  was  sit- 
ting up,  and  she  was 
{Continued  on  page  70) 


Evy  Norlnnd  and  Jimmy  Dar  ren 

A  young  engaged  girl,  her  heart  bursting 
with  happiness,  can  have  a  strange  problem. 
You  see,  Evy  Norlund  has  no  one  near  to  share  her  joy; 
she  has  no  one  with  whom  to  share  the 


Evy's  oirtfit 


Ballerina  Bridal  .  .  . a  Maurer  Original 


Mrs.  Jimmy  Darren,  Mrs.  Jimmy 
Darren.  .  .  .  These  words,  like  an 
unforgettable  melody,  keep  sing- 
ing in  Evy  Norlund's  mind  as  she 
makes  her  plans  for  her  coming 
marriage.  All  the  while  she  is  think- 
ing of  important  things,  big  things, 
like  her  trousseau  ("So  many 
lovely  new  clothes  ...  I  want  to  look 
beautiful  for  him  always.  .  .  .") 
and  furniture  ("Our  bedroom  will  be 
the  sweetest,  most  romantic  room 
in  the  whole  world.  .  .  .")  and  silver- 
ware ("We'll  eat  dinner  by  candle- 
light. .  .  .")  and  how  she'll  make 
Jimmy's  favorite  dishes  ("I  hope  I 
can  learn  to  cook  the  way  his  mother 
does.  .  .  .")  in  a  sparkling  new 
kitchen — in  the  midst  of  all  her 
planning,  these  precious  words,  Mrs. 
Jimmy  Darren,  keep  coming  back, 
and  Evy  hugs  them  close. 

Her  heart  is  bursting  to  tell  some- 
one how  happy  she  is,  how 

(continued  on  next  page) 


wonderful  he  is,  how  much  in  love  she 
is  .  .  .  and  yet  how  apprehensive 
she  sometimes  is.  .  .  .  But  these  are 
intimate  thoughts  to  share  with 
a  girlfriend,  a  best  friend,  and  Evy's 
best  friend  is  6,000  miles  away 
from  Hollywood,  back  home  in  Den- 
mark. If  Evy  were  home,  she 
would  be  confiding  now  in  Hanne 
Blarke,  the  girl  she  grew  up  with,  the 
girl  she  promised  would  be  her 
maid  of  honor  someday. 

At  home,  getting  married  would 
mean  walking  down  the  aisle  on  her 
father's  arm,  in  the  dear  old 
church  where  her  childhood  priest, 
Jack  Stenberg,  had  confirmed  her, 
and  a  lavish  wedding  reception 
at  the  smart  Europa  Hotel  in 
Copenhagen  with  everybody  there, 
all  her  family,  her  three  sisters 
and  her  two  brothers,  her  sixteen 
aunts  and  uncles,  her  thirty  cousins, 
and  the  kids  she'd  gone  to  school  with. 

Evy  misses  all  this,  not  having  her 
family  and  friends  with  her  to 

(Continued  on  page  82) 


Evy's  in  The  Flying  Fontaines 
and  Jimmy's  in  The  Gene  Krupa  Story 
and  Because  They're  Young- 
all  from  Columbia. 


3  pc.  silk  suit  .  .  .  Sacony 


Knitted  Sheath  .  .  .  Sacony 

Handbags  by  Etra 
Jewelry  by  Cora 


Dress  by  Kay  Windsor 


STORE  LISTINGS  &  PRICES  ON  PAGE  82 

33 


■  Don  Burnett  lay  down 
the  newspaper,  this  summer 
night  a  little  over  a  year  ago. 
And  as  he  did  his  mother, 
setting  the  table  in  the 
dining  room  a  few  yards  away, 
called  out,  "Almost  ready 

for  dinner?" 
Don  shook  his  head.  "I'm 
not  hungry,  Mom,"  he  said. 
"Don't  bother  about  me 
right  now." 
His  mother  walked  into  the 

living  room,  confused. 
"Don,"  she  said,  smiling, 
"I've  got  the  roast  almost 
ready  .  .  .  You  said  you  were 
famished  when  you  called 
before.  And  I — " 
{Continued  on  page  66) 


DEATH 
OPENED 

OUR 
HEARTS 


The  strange 
love  story  of 
Gia  Scala 
and  her  husband 
Don  Burnett . . 


A  Modern  Screen  Photo  Scoop! 

A  VISIT 

WITH  JEAN  SIMMONS 
AND 

STEWART  GRANGER 


Jean  stars  in  Universale  Spartacus  and  ivill 
soon  appear  hi  United  Artist's  Elmer  Gantry. 


(Opposite)  Lined  up 
on  the  horses  from  left 
to  right:  Lindsay. 
Stewart,  Jean,  and 
Jamie.  (Above)  Stew- 
art tries  to  keep  the 
barbecue  under  control. 
(Above  right)  Tracy 
smiles  good-night  to 
her  mommy.  (Right) 
Stewart  lends  a  hand  to 
his  pretty  passenger. 
(Below)  Stewart  proud- 
ly shows  off  a  prize 
Charolais  bull  calf. 


■  Everyone  in  Hollywood  has  some  method 
of  getting  away  from  it  all.  Some  eat, 
some  drink  .  .  .  but  some  just  get  up  and 
go !  Take  Stewart  Granger  and 
Jean  Simmons.  They  head  south  to  their 
own  10,000-acre  ranch  named  Yerba 
Buena  on  the  Mexican  border.  There  with 
their  three-year-old  daughter  Tracy 
and  Stewart's  thirteen-year-old  daughter 
Lindsay  and  fifteen-year-old  son  Jamie, 
they  ride  herd,  milk  cows,  try  to 
forget  about  Hollywood — and  guard  their 
privacy.  That  last  is  the  important 
matter.  When  they  invited  us  out,  we 
were  very  shy  about  asking,  "May  we  bring 
a  camera  ?  You  know  .  .  .  our  readers  .  .  . 
your  fans.  .  .  ."  Jean  laughed  and 
said,  "Of  course,"  and  we  were  almost 
at  a  (rare  for  us)  loss  for  words.  We've 
wanted  to  bring  you  these  pictures  for  so 
long,  we  take  great  pride  in  presenting  the 
first  picture  story  anywhere 
on  the  life  of  "The  Granger  Rangers." 


In  my  agony 

I  kissed  the  Cross. 
I  heard  a  Voice  say, 
"I  am  with  you." 

i  Beueve 

IH671RD 
TH€ 

voice  of 
jesus  i 


told  to  George  Christy 


Even  the  doctor  didn't  suspect.  He  told  us  everything  was  all 
right.  It  just  turned  out  to  be  one  of  those  nightmares  you 
hear  about  and  never  think  can  happen  to  you. 
Nobody  expected  it. 

My  brother,  Joey,  was  six  and  I  was  nine  when 
we  had  our  tonsils  removed  in  St.  Joseph's 
Hospital  in  Burbank,  California.  It  was  during 
the  Christmas  holiday  because  my  mom  and 
dad  didn't  want  us  to  miss  any  school.  My 
tonsils  had  bothered  me  from  the  day  we 
moved  to  California  from  Utica,  New  York, 
i^^f  where' I  was  born. 

The  doctor  agreed  it  was  a  good  idea  to  per- 
form a  double  operation.  Joey  and  I  could  keep  each  other  company 
in  the  hospital — and  at  home — while  we  got  well. 

Two  days  after  the  operation  we  were  released  by  Dr.  King,  the  kind,  soft- 
voiced  surgeon  who  patted  me  on  the  arm  and  said,  "Now,  keep  up  the 
good  spirits.  You're  going  to  be  all  right." 

Dr.  King  walked  down  the  long  hospital  corridor  with  us  to  the 
front  entrance.  Both  Joey  and  I  carried  our  overnight  plaid  suitcases 
with  our  pajamas. 

At  the  door,  Dr.  King  said,  "Don't  they  look  fine?"  as  he  patted  us 
on  the  back.  My  mom  and  dad  smiled.  Mom  was  pregnant  with  Mike  then, 
and  she  was  wearing  maternity  clothes.  When  we  got  home  that 
December  afternoon,  we  celebrated  with  vanilla  ice  cream  and  fresh  orange 
juice,  and  I  was  allowed  to  play  with  my  Christmas  doll  in  bed  until 
I  fell  asleep  .  .  . 

Mom  and  Dad  were  having  coffee  in  the  kitchen  when  Mom  decided  to 
take  a  look  into  the  bedroom  to  make  sure  I  hadn't  kicked  off  my  blankets. 
After  an  operation  like  that,  you  fall  into  deep  sleeps  where  you  feel  so 
warm  you're  uncomfortable.  So  you  toss  and  turn  and  push 
the  blankets  away. 

All  I  can  remember  is  my  mother  yelling  and  the  hallway  light  shining  into 
the  bedroom.  She  was  standing  above  me,  and  I  heard  her  cry 
out,  "Joe  .  .  .  Joe  .  .  .  Joe!" 
"What's  the  matter?"  my  father  called  back  from  the  kitchen. 
"Joe,"  my  mother  sobbed,  the  shiver  of  distress  in  her  voice.  "It's  Annette! 
She's  bleeding!" 

My  father  rushed  into  the  room.  He  snapped  on  the  overhead  light,  I  tried  to 
speak.  I  wanted  to  sleep.  Why  were  they  bothering  me?  But  I  couldn't  talk. 
My  mouth  tasted  of  blood.  My  pillow  was  moist  and  clammy.  I  looked 
at  it  in  the  light  and  I  saw  it  was  red,  dark  red,  soaked  with  blood. 
I  was  hemorrhaging. 

"Oh,  my  baby."  my  mother  cried  as  she  took  me  in  her  {Continued  on  page  78) 


3S 


■  Sammy  Davis  Jr.'s 
heart  wasn't  in  this  cock- 
tail party.  He  was  tired 
after  the  long  trip  from 
Hollywood  to  Montreal, 
tired  just  thinking  about 
his  opening  tomorrow 
night  at  the  Bel  Vue 
Casino,  here  in  the 
French-Canadian  city. 

He  shook  hands  with 
most  of  the  hundred-or- 
so  guests.  He  laughed  at 
their  jokes.  Because  it 
was  expected  of  him,  he 
told  some  jokes  of  his 
own. 

"I've  got  to  get  out  of 
here  and  grab  some  shut- 
eye,"  he  told  one  of  his 
managers,  "or  I'm  just 
gonna  sit  down  in  that 
chair  over  there  and 
this  town's  gonna  know 
me  as  Sleepin'  Sam." 

"Sure,  sure,  Sammy," 
the  manager  said,  laugh- 
ing and  taking  his  arm 
and  leading  him  through 
the  crowd,  to  a  corner 
way  across  the  room. 
"But  these  kids,  they're 
dying  to  say  hello.  Show 
kids,  from  some  club 
down  the  street.  And 
just  a  few  minutes,  just 
(Continued  on  page  60) 


■  "I  thought  I  would  die  when  Jim  told  me  he  didn't  ever  want  to  come  back  to 
me.  I  wanted  to  die.  I  could  no  more  live  without  him  than  I  could  live  without  my 
right  leg. 

"I  had  gone  on  a  trip  around  the  world  to  forget  him.  But  I  couldn't.  Wherever 
I  went,  I  saw  Jim's  face  before  me.  In  Honolulu,  on  my  way  home,  great,  black 
waves  of  emptiness  overwhelmed  me.  Years  before,  Jim  and  I  had  been  in  Honolulu 
together.  I  wanted  nothing  more  in  the  world  than  to  have  Jim  with  me  again. 
Frantic,  I  called  him  on  the  phone.  'Jim,'  I  said,  'I  love  you.  I  can't  live  without  you. 
Please  come  back  to  me.' 

"There  was  a  pause.  It  was  agony  waiting  for  him  to  reply.  Finally  it  came. 
'No,'  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  like  ice.  'No,  Virginia,  I  can't.  It's  all  over.'  And  he 
hung  up. 

"I  shivered.  In  my  distraught  state  I  thought,  'There  is  nothing  to  lire  for 
any  longer.'  I  was  so  tired. 

The  Story  of  a  Hollywood  Wife 

"I  went  into  the  bathroom  and  took  a  razor.  I  lay  down  in  the  bathtub  and  ran 
the  razor  over  one  wrist.  There  was  a  terrible  sting.  Then,  with  my  bloodied  hand,  I 
took  the  razor  and  slashed  my  other  wrist.  I  began  to  black  out.  I  closed  my  eyes 
and  waited  to  die." 

This  is  what  Jim  Arness'  wife,  Virginia,  said.  The  tragedy  of  Virginia  Arness  is 
the  tragedy  of  a  woman  who  loved  her  man  too  much.  Divorce  is  an  almost  daily 
occurrence  in  Hollywood,  with  heartache  its  companion.  But  what  would  make  a 
woman  so  despairing  on  knowing  she  had  lost  her  husband  that  she  would  try  to  take 
her  life,  as  Virginia  Arness  had  tried  to  do?  Here  is  Virginia's  own  story: 

"Jim  and  I  were  desperately  poor  when  we  got  married  ten  years  ago.  But  we  were 
very  much  in  love,  and  we  were  very  happy.  It  was  only  after  Jim  had  a  taste  of 
success  as  the  star  of  TV's  Gunsmoke  that  things  began  to  go  very  wrong  with  our 
marriage.  It  was  when  that  crazy  thing  called  Hollywood   (Continued  on  page  68) 


n 


As  we  go  to  press,  Dick  Clark  appears  to  be  on  the  brink  of 
possible  trouble.  The  newspapers  are  full  of  the  word  Payola 
(trade  jargon  for  bribes).  The  intimation  is  that  Dick  and 
other  deejays  might  have  accepted  money  or  gifts  to  plug 
certain  records  and  singers.  There  are  some  people  around 
who  think  Dick  is  guilty  of  this  charge,  and  that  he  has 
betrayed  the  teenagers  of  America.  We  went  to  see  one  of 
these  teenagers— Myrna  Horowitz— whom  you  have  undoubt- 
edly seen  dancing  on  The  American  Bandstand.  We  wanted  tc 
know  how  Myrna  really  felt  about  Dick  since  the  headlines 
broke . . . 


Wo 


■  Myrna  is  a  Phila- 
delphia girl,  seventeen 
years  old.  When  she 
was  six,  she  was  struck 
■  down  by  polio.  It  was 
a  serious  attack,  the 
worst  kind  of  polio.  It 
left  her  with  a  perma- 
nent scar — an  abnor- 


mally-thin left  leg,  still 
encased  in  a  large  steel 
brace.  For  years  it  left 
a  scar  on  her  heart, 
too;  in  her  spirit. 
Myrna  felt  she  was  not 
like  other  girls.  Other 
girls  walked.  She 
limped.  Other  girls  ran. 


She  limped.  Other  girls 
played.  She  limped.  In 
Myrna's  own  words, 
"I  lived  in  a  kind  of 
shell,  I  guess,  a  little 
lonely,  afraid,  ill  at 
ease." 

And  then,  one  day, 
she  met  Dick  Clark. 


And  things  began  to 
change  for  her. 

Myrna  told  us  about 
these  changes  when  we 
visited  her  recently  in 
Philadelphia.  It  was 
night,  a  Friday,  about 
7:30  p.m.  We  sat  on 
(Continued  on  page  82) 


AN  IMPORTANT  MESSAGE  FROM  LOUELLA  PARSONS 


TO  ALL  DIETING  TEENAGE  GIRLS 


|  ■  I  want  to  say  that  if  the  shocking  example  of  seventeen-year-old  Sandra  Dee's  being  rushed  to  the 
1  hospital  in  an  ambulance  to  have  her  stomach  pumped  from  an  overdose  of  Epsom  Salts  (to  keep  her  weight 
I  down)  isn't  a  lesson  to  you  girls  who  go  in  for  'crash  diets' — then  go  ahead,  ruin  your  health! 
1  Frankly,  I'm  surprised  at  Sandra,  whom  I  know  and  like  very  much.  She's  always  seemed  so  level  headed. 
1  I  was  aghast  when  I  learned  that  she  had  been  rushed  to  the  hospital  as  an  emergency  case  suffering  from 
||  a  dangerous  attack  of  gastritis. 

I  investigated  and  found  out  that  Sandra  had  been  taking  Epsom  Salts  over  a  period  of  a  long  time  to 
I  keep  her  weight  down.  And  after  a  particularly  large  dose  brought  on  unbearable  stomach  pains,  she  became 
I  frightened,  particularly  as  she  also  suffers  from  a  chronic  inflamed  appendix,  a  condition  made  dangerous 
j  by  potent  laxative. 

How  many  times  is  it  necessary  to  say  to  you  dieting  youngsters — and  to  Sandra — that  these  extremes 
are  not  necessary!????  Put  yourself  in  the  hands  of  a  reputable  doctor  who  will  give  you  a  sensible  diet. 

Far  too  many  of  you  read  of  where  some  glamour  girl  or  social  belle  has  lost  'pounds  and  pounds'  on 
something  silly  like  eating  nothing  but  boiled  chalk  or — worse — going  with  no  food  at  all.  Then  you  go 
ill  ahead  and  try  to  do  the  same  thing. 

|;  It's  a  crime  against  your  good  health — and  I  say  stop  it.  Don't  be  little  fools!  Without  good  health— 
!'  all  the  fame  in  the  world  is  worth  little.  I  think  Sandra  has  learned  her  lesson  the  hard  way.  I  hope  you 
t   will  be  as  wise.  END. 

Ill 

LET  SANDRA  DEE 
BE  A  WARNING! 

46 


LITTLE 
GIRL 
LOST 


At  seven  Evelyn  Rudie 
played  Eloise  on  television. 
It  made  her  a  star. 
But  at  nine 
Evelyn  stamped  her  foot, 
said,  "I'm  a  has-been  and 

I  won't  stand  for  it," 
broke  into  her  piggie  bank 
and  flew  off  to  see  Mamie  Eisenhower. 
Cute? 

Not  the  story  behind  it ! 
We  think  it's  tragic. 

■  The  most  wonderful — and  probably  the  most 
awful — thing  that  happened  to  a  little  girl  with  a  pixie  face, 

turned-up  nose  and  agile  mind  was  when 
she  became  the  star  of  a  big  Playhouse  90  spectacular  at  the 
age  of  seven  and  was — briefly — an  acclaimed 
child  star. 

When  Evelyn  Rudie  Bernauer — her 
name  shortened  to  Evelyn  Rudie — became  Eloise, 
she  and  her  parents  thought  she  was  going  to  be  another 
Shirley  Temple.  Her  whole  world 

began  to  spin  in  high-ten- 
sioned  glamour.  She  could  never  ever 
change  into  a  little  girl  again.  She  could  never  ever  be- 
come a  child  whose  world  revolved  around 
Girl  Scouts,  dolls  and  simple  birthday  parties.  She  was,  at 
the  age  of  nine,  to  feel  she  was  a  has-been, 
bored  with  the  ordinary  things  that  give  other  youngsters 
a  charge,  unable  to  build  slowly  but     (Continued  on  page  56) 


The  two  faces  of 


TROY  DONAHUE 

■    "Troy  Donahue/'  said  Sandra  Dee's  mother,  "is  one  of  the 
nicest,  best  behaved  boys  in  Hollywood.  I  have 
complete  trust  in  him.  There  are  few  boys  I'd  rather  see  take  Sandra 
out  than  Troy." 

"Every  time  I  hear  what  a  nice  guy  Troy  is  supposed  to  be,  it  makes  me 

burst  out  laughing,"  said  a  former  girlfriend  of  his.  "And  it's 
not  just  because  of  what  happened  to  me.  Since  we  broke  up,  he's  been 
going  with  Nan  Morris  for  two  years.  (Continued  on  page  73) 


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The  nation's  foremost  nose  is  go- 
ing to  the  nation's  foremost  mu- 
seum. 

What  more  fitting  subject  for  a 
monument  than  Jimmy  Durante's 
nose,  and  what  more  fitting  place 
for  such  a  monumental  nose  than 
the  Smithsonian  Institution? 

The  make-up  men  at  NBC  took 
a  mold  of  Jimmy's  nose  with  a 
liquid  rubber  material.  They  then 
made  a  cast  of  synthetic  stone, 
which  later  will  be  covered  with 
bronze  spray  and  when  dry  will  be 
mounted  on  a  bronze  plaque. 

The  stone  nose,  standing  by  it- 
self, looked  about  twice  the  size  of 
the  original. 

"Holy  smoke!"  exclaimed  Du- 
rante, "is  it  really  that  big?" 

The  old  schnozzola,  measured  for 
the  first  time  during  the  molding 
operation,  is  77  millimeters,  or  a 
little  more  than  three  inches  from 
the  superior  (topi  to  the  inferior 
(bottom).  It  is  nearly  four  inches 
from  one  nostril  to  the  other,  go- 
ing across  the  bridge. 

Although  Durante  had  little  to 
say  during  the  whole  operation,  he 
is.  nevertheless,  very  proud  to  think 
that  his  nose,  of  all  the  noses  in  the 
nation,  will  be  sitting  there  among 
all  those  famous  heads  in  the  In- 
stitute. 

Said  Durante: 

"It'll  overshadow  everything  else 
in  the  joint." 


"FOREVER 
A  NOSE" 


Debbie 

(Continued  from  page  25) 


made  together."  Debbie  Reynolds  told  me, 
"and  all  this  talk  that  I  am  in  love  with 
him — or  he  is  in  love  with  me — is  just 
plain  stupid. 

"I,  better  than  anyone  else,  know  what 
it  means  to  have  another  woman  break  up 
a  marriage. 

"Do  you  for  one  minute  think  that  I 
would  be  secretly  seeing  Glenn  while  he 
is  having  trouble  with  Eleanor  Powell?  I 
know  him  very  well  professionally  and  I 
know  her  scarcely  at  all.  But  even  though 
Glenn  and  I  are  friends,  my  only  contact 
with  him  has  been  as  co-star  of  the  movies 
we  were  making.  I  like  Glenn  very  much. 
He  is  very  pleasant  to  work  with  and  a 
very  good  actor. 

"But  as  for  a  hidden  romance — well, 
that  just  isn't  my  code  of  behavior." 

Enough  men  around 

She  went  on.  the  words  spilling  out  on 
top  of  each  other  in  her  indignation,  "I 
won't  even  see  Harry  Karl  until  he  is 
divorced,  although  I  did  see  him  before 
he  married  Joan  Cohn.  There  are  enough 
men  around  without  dating  some  other 
woman's  husband!" 

I  hadn"t  interrupted  Debbie  during  this 
hurling  down  of  the  gauntlet  because  it 
would  have  taken  a  combination  of  an 
earthquake  and  a  baby  typhoon  to  inter- 
rupt Debbie  at  this  moment.  She  was 
angry  and  she  was  disgusted. 

Debbie  and  I  were  lunching  at  Romanoff's 
this  particular  Saturday — Saturday  being 
a  'day  off  for  both  of  us.  As  usual  these 
days.  Debbie  looked  very  chic  in  a  bright 
blue  suit  she  had  bought  in  Spain,  a  tiny 
matching  hat  and  veil,  and  shorty  white 
gloves — the  whole  fashion  bit!  Believe  me. 
this  gal  has  come  a  long  way  from  her  pig- 
tails and  blue-denim  days.  But  the  subject 
of  clothes  was  not  on  her  mind. 

Just  that  morning,  before  we  met  at 
noon,  she  had  read  a  story  in  another 
fan  magazine  with  the  startling  title. 
DEBBIE  REYNOLDS  WILL  MARRY 
GLENN  FORD.  Wowie! 

Even  before  we  ordered.  Debbie  was  off 
and  running.  She  said.  "The  person  who 
wrote  it  must  have  been  out  of  his  mind. 
The  whole  thing  is  sheer  insanity.  How 
dare  they  print  such  complete  falsehoods!" 

And  then  she  went  on  to  tell  me  heat- 
edly the  comments  which  lead  off  this 
story.  In  fact,  she  was  in  such  a  huff  and 
a  puff  both  the  waiter  and  I  wondered 
when  she  would  give  her  order.  And  as  so 
'  much  emotion  is  hardly  conducive  to  di- 
gestion, I  suggested  we  get  on  with  our 
diet  meal — and  change  the  topic,  at  least 
temporarily. 

That  wasn't  hard  to  do  because  Debbie 
had  just  signed  a  contract  for  a  million 
dollars  for  a  series  of  TV  spectaculars  and 
I  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  distressing  fan 
magazine  story,  she  would  have  been 
jubilant.  In  fact,  she  it  as  jubilant. 

I  couldn't  help  wondering  if  the  fact 
that  Elizabeth  Taylor  had  just  made  public 
that  she  is  to  receive  a  million  dollars 
I  for  making  Cleopatra  didn't  add  to  Deb- 
bie's delight  in  grabbing  off  a  million  for 
herself? 

Isn't  it  the  irony  of  fate  that  the  two 
feminine  angles  of  the  most  publicized 
Hollywood  triangle  in  years  are  in  line 
for  a  million  dollars  apiece — everybody 
but  Eddie?  Oh,  well — he  still  has"  time. 
He's  never  looked,  or  sung,  better. 

Now  that  she  was  in  a  financial  mood 
;     Debbie  told  me.  "I  get  S300.0C0  and  five 
|     percent  for  each  of  my  four  TV  shows.  It's 
i     the  most  money  I've  ever  earned,"  she 
smiled  happily.  "It  means  so  much  security 


for  Carrie  Frances  and  Todd."  she  added. 

"I'm  really  a  completely  happy  woman 
now."  she  said  with  sincerity.  "I  have  my 
children,  and  my  work,  and  my  health 
and  I  manage  to  have  a  good  time,  too." 

I  laughed.  "That  I'll  not  deny!  How 
you've  changed  from  that  stay-at-home 
girl  you  used  to  be." 

Then  she  said  something  rather  sur- 
prising. "Perhaps  the  change  isn't  as  deep 
as  you  think — except  outwardly." 

And  I  knew  what  she  meant.  I  think  in 
the  beginning,  after  the  first  blow,  when 
Eddie  Fisher  came  out  and  said  he  did  not 
love  her.  that  he  loved  Elizabeth  Taylor. 
Debbie  went  all  out  to  prove  she  wasn't 
as  badly  hurt  as  all  of  us  who  love  her 
knew  her  to  be. 

Laughter  a  little  too  forced 

Perhaps,  in  her  confusion  and  hurt. 
Debbie  went  overboard.  One  day  when  I 
went  out  to  MGM  to  visit  her  on  the  set 
of  It  Started  With  A  Kiss,  I'll  admit  I  was 
a  bit  surprised  at  the  way  Debbie  was 
clowning  around. 

Between  rehearsals  she  was  putting  on 
the  hat  of  director  George  Marshall  and 
doing  tap  dance  steps.  She  was  kidding 
with  everyone  and  cracking  jokes.  And  her 
laughter  seemed  to  be  a  little  too  loud 
and  a  little  too  forced. 

Nor  did  she  seem  to  mind  the  splash  of 
publicity  she  rated  when,  on  a  visit  to  New 
York.  Bob  Neal  gifted  her  with  a  diamond 
pin. 

More  recently  she  surprised  her  fans,  in- 
cluding TV  star  Jack  Paar  and  th's  viewer, 
by  pulling  Jack's  coat  off.  making  him 
dance  with  her  and  generally  staging  some- 
thing of  a  roughhouse. 

When  I  spoke  with  her  about  this  later 
Debbie  was  a  bit  sheepish.  She  said.  "Oh. 
Jack  told  me  not  to  be  stuffy  or  straight- 
laced,  to  let  myself  go  and  clown  it  up  a 
bit.  I'm  sorry  if  it  was  misunderstood." 

No  one  knows  better  than  I  that  at 
heart  Debbie  is  not  an  exhibitionist — it  is 
not  in  her  nature. 

Actually  she  is  a  shy  and  retiring  girl 
except  when  before  the  camera — or  per- 
haps putting  on  a  show  when  the  Thalians 
whoop  it  up  for  her  favorite  charity 
(mentally  disturbed  children  and  the  new 
clinic  being  built  for  their  treatment  at 
Mt.  Sinai  Hospital). 

But  when  a  girl  is  as  bitterly  hurt  as 
Debbie  was — it's  easy  to  understand  how 
she  would  not  want  the  world  to  know 
how  deep  the  wound  went  and  to  keep  up 
a  big  front. 

Now  that  the  big  hurt  is  all  gone — at 
least  that  is  what  the  lady  says.  I  doubt  if 
we'll  get  much  more  of  this  play  acting 
(for  that's  just  what  it  is)  from  Debbie. 

The  men  in  her  life 

Getting  back  to  the  men  in  her  life,  I 
said,  "Well,  if  Glenn  isn't  the  one — and  I 
believe  you — who  is?" 

Debbie  sighed  over  her  Sanka,  then 
laughed.  "We've  been  over  this  so  often 
it's  beginning  to  sound  like  a  record.  You 
know  better  than  anyone  the  way  I  feel. 
I  don't  plan  to  marry  anyone  I  know  now. 
But  I  won't  say  I'll  never  marry.  Being 
happy  in  marriage  is  the  only  completely 
happy  life  for  a  woman — and  that  goes 
for  a  movie  star." 

I  said.  "I  think  Bob  Neal,  that  rich  young 
Texan,  would  marry  you  in  a  minute  if 
you  would  say  yes."  I  looked  at  that  famed 
diamond  pin  of  his  glittering  on  her  lapel. 
"He  showers  you  with  gifts  and  whenever 
his  sister  and  her  husband  come  to  town — 
you  are  the  only  girl  he  invites  out." 

Debbie  nodded.  "I've  said  so  many  times 
how  much  I  appreciate  Bob's  friendship. 
He  is  one  of  the  most  thoughtful  men  I 
know.  When  I  was  in  New  York  he  went 
out  of  his  way  to  get  good  tickets  to  shows 
I  hadn't  seen.  And  when  he  drove  me  to 


WAIST- IN 

Gentlv  vet  firmly  will  whittle  your 
waist.  Tuck  in  tummy  too.  White 
breathable  feathernap  —  adjustable 
supporters.  Sizes  22-36.  S2.95. 


the  airport,  just  before  I  got  on  the  plane — 
he  put  a  jewelry  box  in  my  hand.  Told 
me  not  to  open  it  until  I  got  on  the  plane. 
It  was  this  beautiful  pin.  What  girl  wouldn't 
be  pleased  with  this  kind  of  attention?" 

If  you  ask  me,  as  much  as  she  likes 
Bob — I  don't  think  Debbie  is  one  little  bit 
in  love  with  him.  In  Hollywood,  it  is  never 
safe  to  venture  a  guess  (look  at  all  the 
'smart'  guys  who  would  have  bet  their 
shirts  that  Bing  Crosby  and  Kathy  Grant 
would  never  marry)  but  I'm  willing  to  bet 
my  bankroll  that  Debbie  and  Bob  will 
never  marry. 

I'll  make  the  same  flat  statement  about 
wealthy  Harry  Karl,  even  if  Debbie  does 
start  dating  him  again  after  he  is  divorced 
from  Joan  (Mrs.  Harry)  Cohn  to  whom  he 
stayed  married  a  brief  twenty-five  days! 
Both  of  these  gentlemen,  the  younger  Bob 
and  the  more  mature  Harry,  come  under 
the  heading  of  playboys,  whether  they  like 
the  label  or  not.  Another  strike  against 
them,  they  are  not  actually  of  Debbie's 
world — show  business. 


It  doesn't  take  an  oracle  to  predict  that 
with  her  career  at  its  very  height,  where 
she  can  command  and  get  $1,000,000  for 
her  services,  her  work  will  become  more 
and  more  important  to  Debbie.  And  show 
people  talk  a  language  of  their  own. 

When  I  had  talked  with  her  several 
months  previous  to  our  luncheon  date 
Debbie  had  told  me  frankly,  "Despite  the 
way  things  turned  out  for  us,  Eddie  and  I 
shared  years  of  real  happiness  and  con- 
tentment. I  was  so  proud  of  him  when  he 
began  to  soar  to  the  top  and  was  in  such 
demand  for  TV  and  nightclubs." 

And,  when  and  if,  she  marries  again,  my 
money  says  Debbie  will  be  looking  for  ex- 
actly this  kind  of  happiness.  Someone  of 
her  own  world,  in  her  line  of  work,  has 
the  best  chance  of  winning  her  hand. 

"When  I  think  of  marriage  again — it  will 
be  different  from  the  first  time,"  she  said 
seriously  "Then  there  was  just  Eddie  and 
me.  Now  there  are  my  children. 

"Every  man  I  am  ever  serious  about 
again  I  shall  judge  by  just  one  considera- 


tion: will  he  be  patient  and  loving  an  i 
kind  to  my  Carrie  Frances— who  is  stil 
so  little,  just  going  on  three,  and  to  Todc 
who  hasn't  yet  reached  his  second  birth 
day."  She  laughed,  "It's  a  case  of — lov 
me,  love  my  kids." 

I  had  just  one  more  question  to  poi 
to  Missy  Reynolds  before  we  called  for  th 
check  for  our  luncheon. 

"Debbie,"  I  asked,  "when  and  afte: 
Glenn  is  divorced  and  he  is  a  free  man 
would  you  accept  some  dates  with  him? 

She  gave  me  a  sharp  little  sidelong 
glance.  "That's  not  a  fair  question,"  she 
laughed.  "He  can't  possibly  be  free  for  s 
year — California  law,  you  know.  Whc 
knows  what  a  year  will  bring?" 

It  will  bring  a  lot  of  success  and  mone\ 
to  Debbie  Reynolds,  that's  for  sure.  Will 
it  also  bring  a  new  love?  Thafs  the 
question  en: 

Debbie  stars  in  The  Gazebo,  MGM,  and 
The  Rat  Race,  Paramount.  Glenn  also 
stars  in  The  Gazebo,  and  Cimarron,  MGM. 


At  16  I  Know  I'll  Never  Have  a  Husband  or  Children 


(Continued  from  page  23) 


ultimate,"  she  said,  "the  absolute  ultimate." 

"Lots  of  women'll  agree  with  you  on 
that,"  said  Marsha. 

"Who  is  he?"  Tuesday  asked.  "I  mean, 
he's  got  me  all  with  a  pepped-up  heart 
and  everything  already." 

Marsha  gave  her  a  quick  run-down  on 
the  tall,  rugged-looking,  strangely-attrac- 
tive actor.  John  Ireland,  she  said,  had 
the  reputation  of  being  (one)  a  hyper- 
individualist  and  (two)  a  ladies'  man. 
Regarding  the  former,  Marsha  said:  "He's 
a  free-thinking,  free-talking  guy,  very 
salty,  very  sophisticated,  very  wild,  who 
does  exactly  what  he  pleases,  when  he 
pleases."  Regarding  the  ladies — "He's  been 
married  twice,"  Marsha  said.  "But  there've 
been  lots  of  other  loves.  Just  last  year 
it  was  Kim  Novak.  They  were  crazy  about 
each  other.  But  her  studio  didn't  like  it 
and  one  day— he  was  visiting  her  on  the 
set,  you  see,  and  he'd  been  warned  to  keep 
away — and  on  this  particular  day  two  men 
actually  picked  him  up  from  under  the 
armpits  and  threw  him  out,  right  onto  the 
sidewalk  on  Gower  Street.  John  got  up 
and  said,  'No  woman  is  worth  this.'  And 
that  was  the  end  of  that  love  affair." 

Tuesday  giggled. 

"He  sounds  wonderful,"  she  said. 

Marsha  nodded.  "He  is,"  she  said.  "Also 
—I  forgot  to  tell  you— he's  forty-five  years 
old." 

"Oh  yes?"  Tuesday  said,  looking  away 
from  her  friend  and  back  at  the  action  on 
the  set.  .  .  . 

To  the  bitter  end 

It  was  two  hours  later — about  7:00 
p.m. — when  he  came  walking  over  to  where 
she  was  standing. 

"You  still  here?"  John  asked. 

"Yes,"  Tuesday  said.  "Marsha  had  an 
appointment  and  had  to  go.  But  I — I  felt 
like  staying,  to  the  bitter  end." 

"We're  going  to  be  shooting  till  mid- 
night," John  said. 

"That's  good,"  said  Tuesday.  "I  mean, 
midnight  would  be  the  perfect  time  for  us 
to  meet — really  meet — alone." 

"What?"  John  asked. 

"Would  you  come  home  with  me  after 
you're  finished?"  Tuesday  asked.  "I'd  like 
to  be  with  you.  To  talk  to  you  .  .  .  You 
see,  you  fascinate  me.  And  I  hear  we're 
quite  kindred  in  spirit — just  like  one  an- 
other." 

54     John  cleared  his  throat. 


"How  old  are  you,  Tuesday?"  he  asked. 
"Fifteen,"  she  said.   " — Sixteen  in  Au- 
gust." 

"Do  you  know,"  John  said,  "that  I  have 
a  son — let's  see — six  months  older  than 
you." 

"Well,  how  about  that!"  Tuesday  said. 
Then:  "Will  you  come?" 

John  looked  at  her,  incredulously,  for  a 
moment. 

The  next  moment,  he  was  laughing. 

"You're  quite  a  little  character,"  he  said. 

"I  guess  I  am,"  Tuesday  said,  not  laugh- 
ing. "But  at  least  I'm  an  honest  one." 

Then  she  asked  again: 

"Will  you  come?  I'd  like  you  to  come 
home  with  me,  for  just  a  little  while,  to- 
night." 

John  found  himself  nodding. 
"Yes,  I'll  come,"  he  said.  .  .  . 

"My  own  place" 

"I  can  scream,  play  hi-fi  as  loud  as 
I  want,  do  anything.  It's  the  first  time 
I've  had  my  own  place,"  Tuesday  said  as 
she  showed  John  around  the  new  Holly- 
wood Hills  apartment.  "It's  a  divine  feel- 
ing." 

"You  live  alone?"  John  asked. 

"Practically,"  Tuesday  said.  "That  is, 
my  mother  has  an  apartment  upstairs. 
But  she  lets  this  be  my  place.  .  .  .  And  we 
get  along  better  this  way.  We  usually  get 
along  okay.  But  we  fight  sometimes  about 
some  of  the  boys  I  date,  my  smoking  .  .  . 
things." 

She  walked  over  to  a  small  bar  to  pour 
John  a  drink. 

John,  meanwhile,  sat  on  a  long  couch 
and  picked  up  a  scrap-book  from  the  cof- 
fee table  in  front  of  him. 

It  was  titled  Me!  and  was  crammed  with 
newspaper  and  magazine  articles  on  Tues- 
day, all  written  since  her  arrival  in  Holly- 
wood only  a  few  months  earlier. 

John  was  scanning  the  fourth  or  fifth 
article  when  Tuesday  walked  over  to  him, 
handed  him  his  drink  and  sat  alongside 
him. 

She  looked  down  at  the  book  and 
pointed  to  a  line  that  read:  Says  director 
Rod  Amateau — Tuesday  Weld  has  been 
around  for  centuries.  That's  why  she 
knows  so  much.  She  cut  Samson's  hair 
and  kept  running. 

She  smiled.  "That's  cute,"  she  said, 
"isn't  it?" 

"Yeah,   sure   is,"   said   John,   taking  a 


swallow  from  his  drink.  Tuesday  reached 
over  and  took  the  book  from  him  and 
turned  the  page. 

"I  think  this  is  cute,  too,"  she  said,  point- 
ing to  something  else.  She  read  aloud: 
"  '1  know  it  looks  like  I  bite  my  finger- 
nails,' says  Tuesday  Weld.  'But  it's  not 
true.  Actually.  I  have  someone  come  in 
and  bite  them  for  me.'" 

"Did  you  actually  say  that,  all  by  your- 
self?" John  asked. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  Tuesday  said. 

John  began  to  laugh. 

Tuesday  looked  at  him,  quizzically. 

"Are  you  teasing  me?"  she  asked. 

"A  little,"  said  John.  "Now  let's  get  back 
to  this  publicity  folder  of  yours.  .  .  .  What 
else  do  you  think  is  cute?" 

"Well,"  said  Tuesday,  turning  another 
page,  "this,  what  Sheilah  Graham  wrote: 
Tuesday  has  a  Saturday  sophistication. 
I  like  that." 

She  turned  still  another  page. 

"But  this."  she  said,  "She's  a  combina- 
tion of  Shirley  Temple  and  Jezebel — I 
don't  care  much  for  that." 

She  turned  more  pages,  continuing  to 
read  aloud  from  here  and  there  and  smil- 
ing as  she  did: 

'"I  hate  clothes,'  Tuesday  Weld  will  tell 
you.  'I'd  never  wear  underwear  if  I  didn't 
have  to — and  sometimes  I  don't.' 

"  'I'm  a   kleptomaniac.    I  like  to  take 
things — not  big  things,  little  things.' 

"'I've  been  dating  since  I  was  twelve. 
Now  that  I'm  fifteen,  I  guess  I  know  a  L 
lot  more  about  men  and  boys  than  most  '.. 
girls  my  age.' 

"Quoth  the  wild  Miss  Weid:  'I  haven't 
read  "Lolita"  yet.  But  everyone  keeps 
mentioning  her  to  me.' 

"  'I'm  part  little  girl  —  bigger  part  . 
woman.' 

'"Everybody's  trying  to  make  me  digni- 
fied— and  I'm  rebelling.  My  motto  is:  Obey 

your  impulses!'  " 

A  nice  sip  of  scotch 

She  looked  up  from  the  scrap-book  and 
over  at  John. 

"My  impulse  right  now,"  she  said,  "is  3; 
to  have  a  nice  sip  of  your  Scotch." 

John  shifted  the  glass  he  was  holding 
into  his  other  hand,  away  from  her. 

"No,  ma'am,"  he  said. 

"Why  not?"  Tuesday  asked. 

"Because   you're   a   child."   John  said. 
"And  children  don't  drink  Scotch." 


"A  child?"  Tuesday  asked,  the  smile 
at  had  been  on  her  face  disappearing. 
V  child?" 

John  nodded,  and  shrugged. 
Tuesday  reached  forward  onto  the  table 
id  lifted  a  cigarette  from  a  box  that  sat 
ere.  and  lit  it  and  took  a  long  drag. 
"I  am  not  a  child.  I  am  not  normal,  my 
e  has  not  been  like  that  of  the  average 
rl."  she  said  then,  her  voice  even,  almost 
ird.  "It  so  happens  that  I"ve  known  ma- 
re responsibilities  since  I  was  a  child 
three,  when  I  started  modeling.  .  .  . 


mat  s  ngnt.  at  three. 

She  took  another  drag  on  the  cigarette. 

Her  face  began  to  flush. 

"Whoa."  John  said.   "Take  it  easy." 

"I  began  modeling  at  three."  Tuesday 
said,  "because  we  needed  the  money.  Be- 
cause my  father  was  dead  and  my  mother 
had  three  children  to  bring  up  and  be- 
cause we  never  knew  from  one  month  to 
another  if  we  could  even  pay  the  rent  on 
that  stinking  cold  water  flat  we  had  to 
live  in.  So  I  was  pretty  and  I  went  to 
work.  At  three.  And  that's  the  way  it's 
been  ever  since.  Working.  Working.  Get- 
ting up  for  assignments  at  seven,  growing 
up  at  ten.  eleven — " 

She  stopped  and  shook  her  head. 

She  looked  as  if  she  might  begin  to  cry. 
suddenly. 

"My  life  has  never  been  like  the  average 
girl's,"  she  whispered.  "And  I  am  not  a 
child." 

John  sat  for  a  moment,  staring  at  her. 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

And  then  he  removed  it  and  he  put  down 
his  half-empty  glass  and  he  rose. 

"Fve  got  to  go  now.  Tuesday,'"  he  said, 
gently.  "It's  getting  late." 

"Yes.  I  guess  it  is."  Tuesdav  said,  rising 
too. 

She  tried  to  smile  again. 

"I  hope  I  haven "t  ruined  your  evening." 
she  said.  "I  get  like  this  even.-  once  in  a 
while.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry." 

"You  haven't  ruined  anything,"  said 
John. 

Tuesday  walked  him  to  the  door. 

"Will  I  see  you  again.  John?"  she  asked, 
as  he  was  about  to  leave. 

"I  don't  think  so,"'  said  John. 

"Whatever  you  say,"  Tuesday  told 
him.  .  .  . 

Some  sort  of  spell 

"He  phoned  her  two  days  later,"  says  a 
friend  of  John's.  "It  was  as  if  Tuesday 
had  cast  some  sort  of  spell  on  him,  and 
he  hadn't  been  able  to  shake  it.  Anyway, 
he  phoned  and  she  invited  him  over  to 
dinner — chili  con  carne  and  salad — and 
they  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  sitting 
out  in  the  garden,  talking. 

"The  next  day.  John  told  me:  It's  un- 
believable. This  girl  is  so  sharp,  so  bril- 
liant. I  think  she's  the  most  fascinating 
person  in  Hollywood  today.  She  loves  life, 
and  she  has  the  guts  to  be  herself.  She's 
lots  brighter  than  lots  of  women  I  know 
two  and  three  times  her  age." 

"It  was  obvious  to  anyone  who  ever 
saw  them  together  that  Tuesday  was  wild 
about  John.  I.  for  one.  think  that  by  the 
time  summer  came  around  (Tuesday  was 
sixteen  by  now) .  John  was  in  love  with 
her.  too. 

"Their  fling  was  a  surprisingly  secret 
thing  for  a  while.  Actually  quiet  might 
be  a  better  word.  Except  for  a  few  friends 
and  the  inevitable  under-the-counter  gos- 
sip set  who  find  out  all.  there  were  rela- 
tively few  people  who  knew  w-hat  was 
going  on  between  Them.  During  this 
period.  Tuesday  and  John  were  two  su- 
premely happy  people. 

"For  Tuesday,  the  girl  who  had  loved  to 
brag  about  her  early  dating,  her  constant 
dating,  this  was  the  first  real  romance  of 
her  fife.  She  convinced  herself  that  it 
vould  be  first,  last  and  forever.  She  idol- 


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BY-  LYLB  KENYON  EISTGEL- 


The  Nation's  Top  Disk  Jockeys  pose  a 
series  of  questions  to  see  if  you  know 
your  record  stars. 

1.  Her  real  name  is  Clara  Ann 
Fowler.  She  was  born  in 
Oklahoma,  sang  on  local  radio, 
became  a  top  band  singer.  Big- 
gest novelty  was  Doggie  In 
The  Window.  Her  latest  record 
Charlie  Murdock,  "  Goodbye  Charlie  on  Mercury. 
Station  WQAM,  2.  His  second  name  is  also  the 
Miami,  Fla-  name  of  a  car.  He's  18,  was 

born   in   Houston,   Tex.,  has 
leading  role  In  the  film 
Take  a  Giant  Step.  One 
of  his  singles  was  But 
Not  for  Me. 

3.  He  is  the  son  of  a 
Baptist  Minister. 
There  is  royalty  in  his 
name.  He  has  recorded 
for  Capitol  Records  for 
17  years,  with  hit  rec- 
ords on  every  type  song. 
His  new  record  album  is 
spirituals. 

4.  This  trio  is  composed  of 
19-year-olds,  boy-girl-boy. 

They  met  at  a  party,  sang  to- 
gether for  the  first  time;  then 
formed  the  trio.  A  hit  single 
was  Come  Softly  To  Me. 
Their  latest  is  Mr.  Blue. 

5.  His  home  town  is  Phila- 
delphia. He  started  his  ca- 
reer with  Art  Mooney  as  a 
vocalist  and  then  became  a 
winner  on  the  Arthur  Godfrey 
Show.  His  two  big  record  hits 
were  Here  In  My  Heart  and  I 
Can't  Get  You'  Out  of  My 
Heart. 

6.  He's  a  movie  star.  His 
real  name  is  Arthur  Gel- 

ien  and  his  musical  interest 
is  Jazz.  His  first  record  re- 
lease became  a  million- 
record  seller.  The  record 
was  Young  Love. 

7.  She  collects  stuffed  ani- 
mals. Her  career  started 

as  a  child  TV  singer.  Accor- 
dion and  piano  are  her  favor- 
ite instruments.  She's  also  a 
songwriter  and  is  one  of  our 
current  top  vocalists.  One 
of  her  hits  was  Lipstick  On 
Your  Collar. 


Buddy  Deane, 
Station  WJZ-TV, 
Baltimore,  Md. 


3" 


Paul  Brenner, 
Station  WNTA, 
)  Newark,  N.  I. 


i3pmH  qi>£  .g 

spoomtJJij  3ifx 

3dVJ  11)0  j  -J 


ized  John — his  looks,  his  brain,  his  spirit. 
My  thought  is  that  in  John  she  had  found 
not  only  the  one  man  in  the  world  with 
all  the  strong  physical  attractions  and  the 
powerful  individual  personality  that  she 
could  so  easily  fall  in  love  with — but  that 
she  had  found,  too,  unconsciously,  the 
father  who  had  been  taken  from  her  as  a 
child,  whom  she'd  always  been  seeking. 

"As  for  John  during  this  period,  well, 
he  was  having  fun  again,  for  the  first  time 
in  a  long  time  Career-wise,  finance-wise, 
things  hadn't  been  going  too  well  for  him 
these  past  few  years,  and  he'd  been  de- 
pressed. Now,  in  Tuesday,  he'd  found  a 
girl  who  could  stimulate  him,  cheer  him 
up.  She  was,  very  often,  full  of  mischief, 
full  of  kooky  ideas — and  John  went  along 
with  them,  happily.  He  learned  how  it 
felt  to  really  laugh  again.  He  began  to 
get  the  same  kick  out  of  life  that  he'd 
thought  had  gone  from  it,  for  good.  For 
this  reason  alone,  an  observer  could  see 
how  he  might  easily  have  fallen  in  love 
with  Tuesday. 

Interestingly,  Tuesday's  mother,  Mrs. 
Aileen  Weld,  was  fully  aware  of  what  was 
going  on  between  her  daughter  and  John, 
and  she  gave  her  unqualified  approval. 

"John's  very  protective,"  she  said.  "He's 
the  kind  of  a  man  a  young  girl  like  Tues- 
day can  look  up  to.  He's  enough  like  her 
so  that  she  can  feel  as  though  he's  one  of 
her  own — yet  he's  old  enough  to  know 
how  to  handle  her." 

And  so  it  went,  all  happy  and  well  for 
all  concerned,  right  through  the  spring 
and  summer  of  last  year. 

Swipes  at  Tuesday 

But  then,  in  September,  the  whole  thing 
was  ended  suddenly — by  John. 

"He  did  it  to  protect  Tuesday,"  says  one 
friend.  "You  can't  keep  a  relationship  like 
theirs  under  wraps  forever — and  gradually 
word  of  them  began  to  get  into  the  papers. 
The  writers  all  seemed  to  think  that  John's 
position  was  'amusing,'  but  they  all  took 
swipes  at  Tuesday.  (A  typical  bit  of  re- 
portage: Tuesday  Weld  is  becoming  a 
name  in  the  American  Cinema.  She  seems 
to  have  everything  it  takes  to  make  it 
big  on  modern  Hollywood  standards — good 
drinker,  lives  it  up  and  is  only  sixteen. 
Now  if  the  kid  can  only  get  in  a  real  good 
scandal,  she'll  be  one  of  our  great  stars.) 
John  didn't  want  to  see  her  career 
wrecked.  He  knew  how  basically  impor- 
tant it  was  to  her,  this  girl  who'd  known 
little  else  but  work  since  the  time  she 
was  a  baby.  So  he  decided  to  get  out  of 
her  life — pronto." 

"It  dawned  on  John  one  day,"  says  an- 
other friend,  "that  much  as  he  loved  Tues- 
day, the  thirty-year  difference  in  their 
ages  was  too  great  a  difference.  There 
was  a  time  he'd  talked  of  marrying  the 
girl,  the  hell  what  anybody  might  say. 

"But  now  he  realized  that  it  probably 


wouldn't  be  that  easy  in  the  long  run- 
for  either  of  them." 

Some  people  insist  that  John  didn't  eve 
say  good-bye  to  Tuesday. 

Others  will  tell  you  that  he  phone' 
started  to  tell  her  that  he'd  decided  to  g 
to  Europe — immediately,  and  that  he  hur. 
up  on  her  when  she  started  to  cry  an 
plead  with  him  to  let  her  see  him  again. 

At  any  rate,  he  left. 

And  everyone  waited  to  see  how  Tues 
day  would  take  the  shock  of  his  leaving.  .  . 

That  television  interview 

It  was  two  nights  later  when,  a  fev 
minutes  before  program  time,  she  showec 
up  at  the  television  studio. 

Paul  Coates,  the  interviewer,  looked  a 
her  once,  and  then  again. 

The  girl  was  barefoot,  her  hair  was  un- 
combed, she  wore  a  low-cut  dress  tha 
has  since  been  described  as  a  "burlap 
nightie";  she  appeared  to  be  lost,  as  if  ir 
a  trance  of  some  kind. 

"Miss  Weld?"  Coates  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Tuesday. 

"Is  this  a  joke?"  asked  Coates. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  Tuesday  asked. 

"Do  you  always  dress  this  way  for  TV 
appearances?" 

Tuesday  shook  her  head,  slowly.  "No,'' 
she  said.  "I  was  home.  It  got  late.  This 
is  what  I  was  wearing.  This  is  the  way 
I  decided  to  come  .  .  .  You  look  upset. 
You  are.   I  hope  it's  not  my  fault.  .  .  ." 

On  the  air,  a  little  while  later,  Tuesday 
upset  Coates  even  more. 

She  stuck  a  piece  of  hard  candy  in  her 
mouth  as  the  program  began,  and  she 
sucked  on  it  throughout. 

She  fiddled  endlessly  with  the  straps 
and  hem  of  her  dress. 

She  spoke  softly,  mumbled  her  answers 
and,  more  than  once  she  took  up  to  a  full 
minute  to  decide  that  "I  really  didn't  un- 
derstand that  question." 

At  one  point,  when  Tuesday  did  under- 
stand the  question,  the  dialogue  went  like 
this: 

COATES— "Would  you  ever  like  to  settle 
down  and  get  married?" 
TUESDAY— "No." 

COATES— "Why  not?  Don't  you  want 
to  have  children  someday?" 

TUESDAY— "Huh-uh.  I  don't  want  kids. 
I  don't  like  them.  Not  me." 

And  Tuesday  began  to  smile  strangely 
.  .  .  for  deep  in  her  heart  she  knew  she 
was  telling  the  truth,  that  somewhere 
along  the  line  something  had  happened 
to  her  that  had  destroyed  the  basic  instinct 
of  womanhood  for  a  mate  and  children. 
She  knew,  in  her  heart,  that  whatever  else 
— whatever  kicks  were  in  store  for  her — 
she  would  always  remain  unfulfilled.  .  .  . 

END 

Tuesday's  seen  in  Because  They're 
Young,  Columbia,  and  The  Private  Lives 
of  Adam  and  Eve,  U-I. 


Little  Girl  Lost 

(Continued  from  page  49) 


firmly  to  a  secure,  normal  future  like  other 
children. 

Her  parents  believe  that  Evelyn  may 
have  been  born  with  some  magic  about 
her.  Her  parents  are  Edith  and  Emery 
Bernauer,  and  Evelyn  was  born  twenty- 
four  years  after  they  were  married.  At  first 
it  was  probably  a  shock  to  the  middle-aged 
couple  to  learn  they  were  going  to  have 
their  first  baby.  Then  they  remembered 
that  very  often  'change  of  life'  babies  are 
supposed  to  be  set  apart  from  other  babies. 
These  babies  were  often  more  beautiful, 
more  brilliant  (even  with  a  touch  of  gen- 


ius)  than  other  babies.    Special,  indeed. 

Their  little  baby  arrived  and  she  was 
everything  they'd  dreamed  of.  Evelyn  was 
always  very  bright,  very  precocious.  She 
did  everything  faster  and  better  than  other 
babies.  She  walked  sooner,  talked  sooner, 
and  raised  in  the  completely  adult  world 
of  two  older  and  rather  intellectual  par- 
ents, she  had  a  chance  to  develop  this  pre- 
cociousness.  Also,  she  was  thoroughly 
worshiped  by  her  parents.  Their  lives  now 
revolved  around  her. 

Emery  Bernauer's  father,  Rudolf  (from 
whom  Evelyn  got  her  name),  was  a  big 
theater  owner,  had  been  a  writer  of  stage 
hits,  among  them  the  librettos  of  The 
Chocolate  Soldier  and  May  Time.  Emery 
Bernauer  was  a  writer,  producer  and 
director  of  musical  shows  in  Europe.  An 
uncle  of  Evelvn's  is  Desmond  Leslie,  a 


British  novelist.  The  woman  who  became 
Evelyn's  godmother  is  Fay  Wall,  once  a 
child  actress  herself,  who  had  been  a 
movie  actress  in  Germany. 

In  Hollywood,  Emery  Bernauer  contin- 
ued to  write,  but  had  not  been  anywhere 
near  the  success  he  was  in  Germany. 

Evelyn's  early  years 

At  a  very  early  age.  EveljTi  was  given 
dancing  lessons,  "dramatic  lessons,  singing 
lessons,  attended  Shakespeare  classes 
(called  the  Strolling  Players)  and  ice  skat- 
ing lessons.  She  performed  all  the  time — 
an  elfin,  graceful  little  child  who  loved  to 
mimic  and  act.  and  whose  every  move  was 
noticed  and  doted  upon  by  her  parents.  Her 
parents  enjoyed  having  Evelyn  show  off 
for  everyone.  ""She  was  always  a  ham," 
they  recall  lovingly.  When  she  was  four 
years  old,  her  ice  skating  club  was  sup- 
posed to  put  on  a  show  in  Pershing  Square, 
downtown  Los  Angeles,  for  a  convention. 
When  Evelyn  showed  up.  with  her  parents, 
it  was  discovered  that  not  one  of  the  other 
kids  in  the  club  was  there.  Some  had  stage 
fright,  some  had  runny  noses,  some  were 
not  allowed  to  perform  by  their  parents. 
But  Evelyn  was  all  dressed  up  in  a  short, 
red  velvet  skirt,  white  angora  sweater, 
looking  like  a  doll.  All  the  people  were 
waiting  for  the  ice  show.  This  possibility 
~Az'~~  have  friglvrsr.er.  any  other  :our- 
year-old.  Not  Evelyn.  She  got  out  on  the 
ice  as  the  solo  performer  and  performed 
for  one  and  one  half  hours.  She  spun  and 
spiralled  and  threw  kisses  to  the  crowd. 
She'd  come  off  the  ice  for  a  moment,  tell 
her  parents  cagily.  "That  man  over  there 
is  not  laughing,  Mommy.  I'll  make  him 
laugh.  I've  got  to  get  them  all  to  watch 
me."  And  she  went  out  again,  blew  kisses 
to  the  man.  had  him  laughing  and  ap- 
plauding and  she  was  happy. 

•""That  showed  me,"  says  her  father,  "that 


she  sure  had  that  theatrical  something. 

Shortly  afterwards  Emery  Bernauer's 
brother-in-law.  Desmond  Leslie,  came  in 
from  London.  Little  Evelyn  showed  off 
for  him  and  he  was  entranced.  Leslie  was 
invited  to  the  home  of  Henry  Koster,  a 
friend  of  his  who  is  a  big  director  here, 
and  he  asked  the  Bemauers  if  he  could 
take  Evelyn.  They  said  yes. 

When  Evelyn  was  at  Koster's  house, 
knowing  he  was  a  director,  she  put  on  a 


ind 


and  Kos 


"More  than 
Mi-.  Koster. 
daddv."  It  ^ 
right  with  D 


Svelyn  b 
Throus 


mis  Kid  nas  to  oe  m 
;ked  Evelyn  if  she'd 
5.  and  Evelyn  replied, 
g  else  in  the  world, 
all  right  with  my 
course,  perfectly  all 
id  with  Mommy,  too. 
i  with  the  thought  of 
ires. 


cer.  Evelyn  got  an  audition 
at  20th  Century-Fox,  where  they  were 
looking  for  a  child  to  play  Leslie  Caron  as 
a  child  in  the  picture  Daddy  Long  Legs. 
Her  parents  brought  Evelyn,  all  dressed 
up.  to  Fox.  Evelyn  went  into  her  per- 
formances. She  also  bears  a  remarkable 
resemblance  to  Leslie  Caron.  same  tiny 
nose,  same  pouting  lips,  same  petite  figure. 
They  signed  Evelyn  for  the  pan.  then 
later  changed  the  script  so  that  there  was 
no  child  in  the  picture.  Evelyn  was  very 
put  out  at  not  doing  the  part,  but  the 
producer  put  Evelyn  in  the  picture  any- 
way, as  one  of  the  children  in  it.  Evelyn 
sang  a  song  with  Leslie  Caron  and  she 
floated  for  days. 

The  movie  bug 

This  gave  Evelyn  the  bug.  The  child  was 
terribly  movie-struck!  Her  parents  were 
also  movie-struck.  They  remember  that 
neoDle  on  the  set  said  of  Evelyn.  "She's  a 


real  trouper.  The  kid  is  talented;  she's 
a  mimic  and  a  quick  study." 

The  Bernauers  took  Evelyn's  acting  job 
seriously.  They  saw  that  Evelyn  was  all 
wrapped  up  in  acting,  and  they  encour- 
aged her.  The  mother  took  Evelyn  aside 
once  and  told  her  something  like  this: 
"You  have  talent  and  you  can  be  in  the 
wonderful  world  of  the  theater.  Show 
business  is  a  profession.  If  your  talent  is  to 
act.  you  are  blessed  with  a  special  magic. 
It  is  the  greatest  thing.  Show  business  can 
be  your  life." 

Her  mother  began  to  take  Evelyn  around 
to  the  studios.  The  child  had  made  a  hit 
at  20th.  she  did  show  genuine  ability  as 
an  actress,  and  she  had  a  terrific  love  of 
acting.  Never  at  any  time  did  Evelyn  go 
to  a  professional  school — she  always  at- 
tended the  Gardner  Street  School  in  Holly- 
wood, a  public  school:  when  she  was  work- 
ing she'd  have  a  tutor  on  the  set.  Then 
she'd  return  to  the  school. 

The  kids  there  have  known  she's  an 
actress — later,  when  she  became  Eloise, 
she  was  known  as  Eloise.  Some  of  the  kids 
there,  she  said,  were  jealous  of  her.  They 
didn't  all  like  her.  She  never  had  a  chance 
to  join  the  Girl  Scouts  in  school.  She 
didn't  join  the  usual  class  clubs,  she  was 
always  too  busy  -with  dancing,  singing, 
dramatic  lessons,  and  going  to  the  studios. 
School  work  was  easy  for  her.  she  got 
good  marks,  but  her  mind  was  always  far 
away  from  the  classrooms,  always  at  the 
studios. 

Getting  back  to  her  career:  her  mother 
was  always  taking  her  around  when  she'd 
hear  of  a  studio  that  wanted  a  child  ac- 
tress. Fay  Wall  would  coach  Evelyn.  Al- 
though she  had  some  girlfriends  in  school, 
she  felt  most  at  home  with  her  parents, 
with  Fay  Wall,  with  the  adults  she  met  at 
the  studios.  Once  she  invited  fifty-five 
children  to  her  house  for  her  eighth  birth- 


4uo4i  iiCtmdtt  -luCauofit  h/io&W- 
a  « 


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day  party.  A  lot  of  kids — most  mothers 
would  have  objected — but  Mrs.  Bernauer 
likes  to  give  in  to  Evelyn  on  everything. 
When  the  kids  were  there,  Evelyn  assem- 
bled them  all  together  and  put  on  a  show 
for  them.  They  were  her  friends  but  they 
were  her  audience.  That's  the  way  she 
regarded  most  kids. 

Evelyn  was  asked  to  appear  in  Holly- 
wood parades  with  all  their  hoopla.  More 
and  more  she  craved  the  glamour  and 
excitement  of  Hollywood;  school  work 
was  simple  and  unexciting. 

Fame  approached 

Then  came  her  greatest  opportunity. 
Kay  Thompson's  famous  Eloise  was  going 
to  go  on  Playhouse  90.  This  was  two  years 
ago  and  the  biggest  acting  plum  of  all  for 
a  child.  Eloise — the  precocious,  sophisti- 
cated youngster  who  lived  in  New  York's 
elegant  Plaza  Hotel — had  become  a  big  hit 
in  book  form  and  in  recordings.  She  was 
an  unusual  type  of  child;  not  a  pretty 
Shirley  Temple  child  but,  well,  Eloise.  It 
was  going  on  TV  as  a  spectacular.  A  big 
cast  lined  up — Ethel  Barrymore,  Monte 
Wooley.  The  search  went  on  for  Eloise. 
Evelyn's  parents  submitted  Evelyn's  photo. 
The  NBC  studios  and  Kay  Thompson  audi- 
tioned two  hundred  kids.  Evelyn's  father 
told  me,  "Evelyn  wanted  the  part  very 
much.  She's  a  real  pro.  It  meant  every- 
thing to  her.  When  she's  waiting  for  a  role, 
she  gets  nervous.  She  starts  combing  her 
hair,  getting  jumpy.  She  has  to  be  work- 
ing to  be  happy." 

Kay  Thompson  saw  Evelyn's  picture, 
said,  "Well,  this  one  looks  like  Eloise." 
Kay  went  to  the  Bernauers'  home  in 
Hollywood  and  met  Evelyn.  The  parents 
played  a  recording  of  Evelyn's  on  tape 
for  Kay  to  hear.  It  was  a  Shakespeare 
reading  in  Evelyn's  childish  voice,  but  it 
indicated  talent.  Kay  was  impressed.  No- 
ticing how  the  parents  hovered  over  the 
child,  Kay  wanted  to  be  alone  with  Evelyn. 
She  asked  if  she  could  take  her  for  the 
day,  to  get  acquainted  with  her.  The 
Bernauers  beamed.  Kay  and  Evelyn  went 
off.  When  Kay  came  back  she  said,  "This 
is  a  delightful  child.  We  had  a  wonderful 
time  together."  The  Bernauers  knew  that 
Evelyn  was  going  to  be  Eloise. 

They   were   right.    Shortly  afterwards, 


the  studio  called  and  told  them  that  they 
wanted  to  sign  Evelyn  for  the  role. 

Evelyn  was  thrilled.  She  worked  with 
a  coach  extensively.  It  was  a  difficult  role 
for  a  child  to  do.  Eloise  was  the  whole 
show;  she  was  in  every  minute  of  the 
story.  It  was  live  television — something 
that  makes  experienced  actors  crack.  It 
was  ninety  minutes.  And  she  was  in  big- 
time  company — Barrymore,  Wooley,  etc. 
And  Eloise,  by  this  time,  had  become  such 
a  well-known  figure  to  America,  that  the 
child  who  played  her  just  had  to  be  per- 
fect. Some  forty  million  people<were  going 
to  watch  it. 

Evelyn  wasn't  frightened.  She  began  to 
live  the  part.  Never  did  a  child  love  show 
business  and  love  the  experience  of  get- 
ting up  and  performing  as  much  as  she 
did.  And  this  was  a  tough  job,  for  Kay 
Thompson  had  made  many  stipulations  of 
her  own.  At  first,  Evelyn  was1  supposed 
to  only  act  out  Eloise,  with  Kay  doing  the 
talking  for  Eloise.  This  was  what  Kay 
wanted,  and  since  this  was  Kay's  property 
the  studio  had  to  adhere  to  this.  It  was 
very  difficult  for  Evelyn  to  act  Eloise  and 
mouth  the  lines,  while  Kay's  voice  was 
dubbed  in.  It  was  an  ordeal.  But  she  did 
it.  Then,  three  days  before  the  show  was 
to  go  on,  the  director,  John  Franken- 
heimer,  called  Evelyn's  father,  late  at 
night,  and  said,  "We're  going  to  do  the 
whole  show  with  Evelyn  speaking  the 
lines,  instead  of  Miss  Thompson  speaking 
the  lines.  This  doesn't  give  Evelyn  much 
time  to  learn  the  lines.  Do  you  think  she 
will  do  it?" 

The  father  said,  "You  ask  Evelyn.  She 
is  a  real  performer.  If  you  ask  her  to  do 
it,  she  will.  It  will  be  an  even  greater 
challenge  to  her." 

Praise  for  everyone 

Next  morning,  Frankenheimer  asked 
Evelyn  if  she  was  willing  to  take  on  the 
job  of  learning  all  the  lines  in  three'  days. 
Evelyn  said,  "Why,  sure."  She  was  thrilled 
with  it.  She  got  up  and  spoke  all  the  lines 
in  the  whole  play.  People  watching  her 
were  dumbfounded.  Ethel  Barrymore'  said, 
"If  I  hadn't  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes,  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it.  This  child  is 
the  greatest  find." 

Another  big  shot  on  the  set  watching 


said,  "Now,  we've  just  seen  another  littl 
Mozart.  I've  never  seen  an  actor  do  wht  i 
this  child  did." 

Evelyn  was  a  hit  as  Eloise.  She  ws 
raved  about,  written  about,  interviewee  ; 
cuddled,  chin-chucked,  adored.  There  wer 
Eloise  dolls,  Eloise  make-up  kits,  Elois 
dresses.  (Incidentally,  none  of  this  mone; 
went  to  Evelyn — but  to  Kay.  But  Evelyi 
was  so  closely  identified  with  Eloise,  tha 
she  revelled  in  the  fact  that  her  name  wa:  < 
becoming  a  household  word.)  All  sorts  o 
wonderful,  beautiful,  fairy-tale  thing: 
were  happening  to  Evelyn  Rudie.  Sh< 
was  a  real,  honest-to-goodness  child  staj 
of  first  magnitude.  It  was  like  the  day.< 
of  Shirley  Temple. 

Fan  clubs  sprang  up  in  her  name.  Proud- 
ly she  signed  her  name  to  thousands  anc 
thousands  of  cards  and  letters  to  her  fans 
When  she  walked  down  the  streets — "par- 
ticularly in  New  York,"  she  recalls  with 
glistening  eyes — she  was  recognized.  Fans 
— adults  as  well  as  kids — surrounded  her. 
swarmed  around  her;  yelled  after  her.  It 
might  have  been  inconvenient  to  be  stared 
at,  called  at  and  mobbed,  but  Evelyn  abso- 
lutely gloried  in  it.  So  did  her  parents. 
This  was  what  they  had  dreamed  of.  She 
received  an  Emmy  nomination.  She  was 
being  referred  to  as  the  "most  important 
child  star  since  Shirley  Temple." 

She  was  sent  to  New  York  on  four  occa- 
sions in  connection  with  Eioise.  She  stayed 
at  the  Plaza  Hotel — the  swank  hotel  where 
the  fictional  Eloise  resided — and  all  with- 
out charge.  The  Plaza  was  very  delighted 
to  have  her.  Delighted — they  absolutely 
kow-towed  to  her!  As  she  says,  "Once 
they  gave  me  their  Presidential  Suite,  the 
second  time  the  Royal  Suite,  and  once 
they  even  gave  me  the  Bridal  Suite.  It 
was  wonderful.  They  treated  me  like 
royalty." 

Evelyn  also  remembers  that  she  and  her 
mother  used  to  eat  in  the  Plaza  Hotel 
dining  room,  and  everyone  would  come 
to  her  table — and  how  once  there  were 
so  many  people  crowding  around  her  that 
she  couldn't  even  eat  her  lamb  chop.  "I 
just  didn't  eat  at  all  that  day  because  of 
the  people  crowding  around.  But  I  loved  it. 
I  wasn't  one  bit  angry  with  them.  I'd  do 
without  food  any  day  to  have  fans  recog- 
nize me,"  she  said. 

Child  star 

After  Eloise,  Evelyn  was  still  going 
around  with  the  giddy  sensation  of  being  a 
child  star.  She  appeared  as  guest  on  The 
Dinah  Shore  Show,  The  George  Gobel 
Show,  The  Red  Skelton  Show,  on  Aljred 
Hitchcock  Presents,  on  Omnibus.  She 
worked  hard,  but  as  she  said  then,  "I  want 
to  breathe  the  air  of  the  studios."  She'd 
come  to  life  when  she  set  foot  inside  the 
studio.  She  worked  hard — but  where  most 
people  lose  weight  when  working  hard, 
Eloise  would  eat  twice  as  much  when  she 
worked.  The  child  was  absolutely  exhilar- 
ated when  working.  She  had  to  stay  out  of 
regular  school,  but  never  for  one  minute 
did  she  miss  the  normal  activities  of  the 
kids  in  school.  She  was  a  child  star.  Every- 
one felt  it  was  exactly  what  had  been  fore- 
ordained for  her. 

She  had  a  co-starring  role  at  20th  in  a 
picture  called  The  Gift  of  Love.  Her  co- 
stars  were  Lauren  Bacall  and  Robert  Stack. 
But,  although  she  did  a  good  job,  the  pic- 
ture laid  an  egg. 

While  Evelyn  and  her  parents  felt  that 
she  might  be  going  along  on  this  big  surge 
of  Eloise  popularity  and  be  another  Shirley 
Temple,  what  had  actually  happened  was 
that  Evelyn's  advent  into  pictures  hap- 
pened at  a  different  time  in  Hollywood's 
history  than  Shirley  Temple's  had.  When 
Shirley  was  a  child  star,  it  was  the  thing 
then  for  studios  to  sign  up  large  numbers 
of  actors  to  long-time  contracts.  When 
Evelyn  made  her  big  splash,  studios  were 


reluctant  to  offer  long  contracts.  "'Ten 
years  ago."  Mrs.  Bernauer  explained  sadly, 
"the  studios  would  have  given  a  child  like 
Evelyn  a  contract.  Today,  they  don't"  So, 
where  Shirley  Temple  had  a  long-term 
contract  and  a  studio  that  was  anxious  to 
put  her  in  one  picture  after  another,  and 
where  Shirley  had  the  rights  and  royalties 
to  all  the  Shirley  Temple  products,  the 
case  was  different  with  Evelyn.  She  didn't 
have  a  long-term  contract — she  had  to  get 
one  role  after  another  by  herself.  She 
didn't  get  any  money  from  the  sale  of 
the  Eloise  products,  because  she  was.  actu- 
ally, Evelyn  Rudie  and  not  Eloise,  and 
Miss  Kay  Thompson  was  getting  the  money. 

And  since  she  had  no  contract,  there 
was  no  particular  studio  who  felt  they  just 
had  to  get  a  story  property  for  this  bright, 
precocious  little  moppet.  And  TV  was 
suddenly  going  Western.  And  a  pilot  that 
Evelyn  had  made  hadn't  sold.  And  for 
nine  months,  Evelyn  didn't  do  any  work. 

No  longer  were  stacks  of  fan  mail  pour- 
ing in  at  the  frame  house  on  Hollywood 
Boulevard  where  they  lived.  No  longer 
were  fantastic  invitations  coming  to  her — 
invitations  that  no  other  child,  no  other 
child  but  a  child  star,  would  dream  of 
receiving.  Like  the  time,  two  years  ago, 
when  she  had  been  invited  to  "the  White 
House  and  had  met  Mamie  Eisenhower. 
Evelyn  had  made  a  Savings  Bond  short 
film  and  was  invited  on  a  tour  of  Washing- 
ton, and  had  been  invited  inside  the  White 
House.  She  had  walked  right  into  the 
White  House  (other  kids  her  age  read 
about  the  White  House,  but  she  was  actu- 
ally inside  it),  and  she  had  met  Mamie 
Eisenhower.  Mrs.  Eisenhower  had  been 
so  warm  and  friendly.  She  had  told  her 
that  she  and  her  grandchildren  had  en- 
joyed Evelyn  in  Eloise  on  TV. 

She  became  listless  at  home.  "I  want 
to  act  again,"'  she  told  her  parents.  Her 
parents  were  helpless.  They  begged  Eve- 
lyn's agent  to  find  her  a  job.  The  agent 
told  them  that  Evelyn  had  a  certain  salary 
level  that  she  had  to  stick  to,  and  they 
couldn't  help  it  if  there  just  were  no  calls 
at  this  time  for  a  child  actress  of  Evelyn's 
fame  and  salary  stature.  Evelyn  missed 
the  thrills  of  acting  and  the  excitement. 
She  was  nine  years  old.  and  the  ordinary 
things  a  nine  year  old  has  in  her  life  bored 
her.  How  could  she  be  thrilled  at  doing 
a  school  play  as  •'Cinderella"  with  the 
English  teacher  in  charge,  when  she  had 
done  a  picture  with  Alfred  Hitchcock  in 
charge.  She  tried  to  be  excited  about 
school  and  ordinary  normal  living,  but 
she  couldn't.  She  just  couldn't.  How  does 
a  child  star  suddenly  turn  into  a  little 
girl  again?  Evelyn  Rudie  found  that  she 
couldn't. 

No  wonder  she  was  restless  and  un- 
happy. All  she  talked  about  at  home  was 
the  fact  that  she  wanted  to  act  again.  She 
recalled  those  glorious,  golden  days  when 
she  was  a  real,  honest-to-goodness  child 
star  and  had  met  Mamie  Eisenhower  in 
person.  "Maybe  Mrs.  Eisenhower  can  help 
me  get  a  job  in  pictures  or  television 
again?"  said  Evelyn.  (This  is  the  account 
Evelyn  and  her  parents  give).  "Yes,  yes, 
darling,"  said  Mummy  and  Daddy,  to  "re- 
assure her.  Because  life  was  pretty  dull, 
comparatively  speaking,  Evelyn  and  her 
parents  began  to  live  in  a  world  of  make- 
believe.  "We'll  travel  all  over  Europe — 
we'll  go  to  the  White  House — they'll  all 
acclaim  you  again,"  said  Mrs.  Bernauer  to 
her  sad  little  daughter. 

The  Bernauers  say  they  were  only  mak- 
ing-believe. Evelyn  says  she  took  them 
seriously  when  they  said  "Yes,  darling, 
you  may  go  to  the  White  House." 

Mr.  Bernauer  became  very  ill  with 
pneumonia  and  was  taken  to  the  hospital. 
He  wasn't  around  to  reassure  Evelyn  any 
more.  Even  her  mother,  whose  whole  life 
and  attention  was  wrapped  around  Evelyn, 


now  had  to  spend  some  of  her  time  with 
the  father.  Evelyn  loved  her  father  and 
was  frightened  when  he  became  ill.  She 
was  also  desolate  because  of  lack  of  the 
assurance  from  her  parents.  At  least  it 
was  something  when  they'd  all  sit  together 
on  the  couch  in  the  living  room  and  talk 
about  Evelyn's  great  gift  and  how  she  had 
been  the  greatest  child  star  since  Shirley 
Temple,  and  how.  if  it  weren't  for  Holly- 
wood's changing  pattern,  she  would  still 
be  the  biggest  child  star,  and  how  sure 
they  were  that  if  she  were  given  another 
part  she  would  come  back  as  a  child  star. 
"This  time  not  only  as  a  comedienne  in 
Eloise,  but  as  a  great  dramatic  actress 
capable  of  playing  tragedy,"  Mr.  Bernauer 
had  said  very  earnestly  many  times. 

When  Mr.  Bernauer  came  home  from 
the  hospital,  he  was  very  weak.  They  still 
talked  about  going  to  the  White  House, 
but  Mr.  Bernauer  was  too  weak  to  make 
any  kind  of  trip. 

Evelyn  was  afraid  they  might  change 
their  minds.  She  was  getting  more  and 
more  restless.  Evelyn  told  me.  "I  felt  I 
had  my  parents'  permission  to  go  to  the 
White  House.  We  had  talked  about  it 
many  times.  Maybe  they  were  pretending, 
but  I  was  sure  they  meant  it.  If  I  asked 
their  permission  again,  they  might  not  give 
it  to  me.  One  night  I  decided  I  must  get 
to  the  White  House  to  see  Mrs.  Eisen- 


hower. I  was  sure  that  the  First  Lady  of 
the  land  could  get  me  a  job." 

The  rest  is  newspaper  fact.  Eloise  set 
her  alarm  for  6:00  a.m.,  picked  up  the 
ticket,  got  on  the  plane,  her  parents  noti- 
fied the  police,  etc.,  etc. 

Was  it  on  the  level  or  a  hoax? 

The  Bernauers  say  it  was  not  a  pub- 
licity stunt.  "People  forget  that  Evelyn 
is  not  an  ordinary  child.  An  ordinary 
child  would  not  get  on  a  plane  and  go  to 
the  White  House  to  try  to  see  Mrs.  Mamie 
Eisenhower.  It  never  occurred  to  her  that 
what  she  was  doing  in  trying  to  get  to 
see  Mamie  Eisenhower  again,  was  un- 
usual." 

Did  Evelyn  get  a  spanking  for  running 
off?  "No,"  said  the  Bernauers.  "We  felt 
that  it  was  our  fault  in  encouraging  her 
to  think  that  we  approved  of  her  going. 
We  had  gone  along  with  her  thoughts  on 
this,  never  dreaming  that  she  might  do 
it  herself." 

Evelyn  said  she  had  written  a  note  to 
her  parents  when  she  ran  off,  but  had 
forgotten  to  leave  it, 

Evelyn  is  back  in  school  again.  She  is 
also  up  for  a  Warner's  TV  show,  and  for 
other  things.  She  still  wants,  more  than 
anything  else,  to  be  what  she  once  was: 
a  child  star.  She  wants  fame  and  the  ex- 
citement of  the  camera.  She  will  never  be 
an  ordinary  nine-year-old  girl.  END 


You  want  to  be 
popular- 

You  grieve  when 
you  aren't- 

But  can  you 
recognize 

WHO  IS  THE 
POPULAR  GIRL? 

IT  CAN  BE 

YOU! 

Find  out  how  in 


INGENUE  (Ari-je-noo) 
the  magazine  for  teen-age  gir 


BUY  IT  NOW 


35* 


We  Have  A  Right  To  Be  Married 


(Continued  from  page  41) 

a  few  words— it  means  so  much  to  them, 
you  know  Sammy." 

Sammy  saw  her  at  that  moment,  even 
before  he  reached  the  corner  where  she 
stood  with  others.  She  looked  familiar, 
this  loveliest-looking  of  girls — tall,  pale 
blonde,  green-eyed. 

Instinctively,  Sammy  smiled  at  her.  And 
she  smiled  back. 

Of  the  group,  she  was  the  last  to  intro- 
duce herself. 

"I'm  Joan  Stuart,"  she  said,  when  her 
turn  came. 

"Hi,"  Sammy  said,  shaking  her  hand. 

"Ahem,"  she  said,  embarrassed,  when 
he  failed  to  let  it  go. 

Sammy  laughed  nervously,  jerking  his 
hand  back  to  his  side.  "Excuse  the  old 
worn-out  line,"  he  said,  "but  haven't  we 
met  before?" 

Joan  nodded.  "Sort  of,  in  Toronto,  a 
few  months  ago,"  she  said,  "at  CBC — when 
you  did  your  television  show.  I  was  doing 
a  show,  too.  My  parents  came  to  visit  me 
one  day.  We  passed  you  in  the  hall  and 
said  hello." 

"Well!"  Sammy  said,  laughing  nervous- 
ly again,  and  then  turning  back  to  the 
others. 

For  the  next  ten  minutes,  excitedly,  the 
others  asked  him  all  sorts  of  questions; 
about  himself,  show  business  in  America, 
Hollywood,  Vegas,  about  friends  of  his 
like  Sinatra,  Dean  Martin,  Tony  Curtis. 

And  then,  suddenly,  a  waiter  sang  out 
"Last  call  for  drinks!" — and  they  excused 
themselves  and  were  gone. 

"Some  friends  you've  got,"  Sammy  said, 
lightly,  smiling,  turning  again  to  Joan 
Stuart,  the  only  one  of  the  group  who'd 
remained  behind.    "Very  polite,  I  mean." 

"They're  just  excited,"  Joan  said.  "It 
isn't  often  we  get  invited  to  parties  like 
this,  with  big  celebrities,  fancy  canapes, 
drinks,  everything.  It's  a  little  hard  know- 
ing where  to  turn  first." 

Strangely  uneasy 

How  come  you  didn't  go  with  them?" 
Sammy  asked. 

"I've  had  a  drink,"  said  Joan.  "I  have 
two  shows  to  do  tonight.  One  drink  is 
enough  for  me." 

"You  sing?   Dance?"  Sammy  asked. 
"Dance,"  Joan  said.     "Right  now  I'm 
working  a  club  down  the  street." 

"I'd  like  to  come  and  see  you  some 
night,"  Sammy  said. 

"Would  you?"  Joan  asked. 
Sammy  reached  into  his  pocket  for  a 
cigarette     He  was  feeling  strangely  un- 
easy.   "Sure,"  he  said,  "you  just  name 
the  night." 

His  manager  came  over  to  them  now, 
before  Joan  had  a  chance  to  speak  again. 

"Sammy,"  said  the  manager,  whispering 
hoarsely,  "the  people  who're  throwing  this 
blast,  they  want  you  to  go  to  dinner  with 
them  tonight.  I've  been  telling  them 
how  pooped  you  are,  but  they  won't  listen. 
Will  you  go  over  and  tell  them  yourself 
— please?" 

Sammy  lit  his  cigarette,  briskly. 
"Pooped?"  he  asked.    "Who's  pooped?" 
His  manager  looked  at  him,  stunned. 
"Well,  it  ain't  me  who's  been  doing  the 
complaining,"  he  said.     "You're  the  guy 
who  was  just — " 

"Listen,"  Sammy  said,  cutting  in.  "I've 
got  a  great  idea.  If  it's  dinner  we've  got 
to  have,  why  don't  we  have  it  at  the — " 
He  looked  over  at  Joan.  "Where'd  you 
say  you  worked?" 

"The  Chez  Andre,"  Joan  said. 
"Chez  Andre,  that's  it,"  Sammy  said. 
"We  can  watch  Miss  Stuart's  show  first,"  he 


went  on,  "and  then,  if  it's  all  right  with 
Miss  Stuart,  she  can  join  us  for  dinner 
after  the  show  ...  Is  that  all  right  with 
you,  Miss  Stuart?  Joan?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

Then  she  nodded. 

"See,"  Sammy  said  to  his  confused 
manager,  "it's  all  settled.  Now  go  tell  the 
people.  .  .  ." 

After  dinner  that  night,  Joan  did  a 
second  show  and  then  went  with  Sammy 
and  the  rest  of  the  small  party  to  a  coffee 
house  not  far  from  the  club. 

Sammy  remembers 

"We  sat  next  to  each  other,"  Sammy  re- 
members, "and  we  talked.  We  felt  close 
to  each  other  right  from  the  beginning. 
Joan  told  me  about  herself.  She  was 
twenty-one,  from  Toronto.  Her  folks  were 
conservative  people,  who  didn't  want  her 
to  enter  showbusiness,  but  who  gave  in 
after  a  while,  after  they  saw  how  much 
she  loved  dancing,  how  it  meant  practi- 
cally everything  to  her.  She'd  led  a  pretty 
sheltered  life,  she  said.  She  hadn't  gone 
out  on  dates  much,  she  hadn't  ever  had  a 
real  boyfriend.  When  she  was  fifteen,  the 
age  most  other  girls  start  going  out  with 


Next  M 072  th  I 77 

MODERN  SCREEN: 

Scoop  . . . 
LANA  TURNER'S 

love  life 

Exclusive  report  of 
LIZ  TAYLOR'S 

fight  for  her  life 


boys,  Joan  was  beginning  to  dance  with 
the  Canadian  Ballet.  This  was  a  rugged 
life,  a  strict  life,  with  little  time  for  having 
fun.  Now  that  Joan  was  out  of  the 
ballet  and  doing  club  work,  she  had  more 
time  to  herself,  she  said.  And  she  spent 
most  of  her  free  time  reading,  or  taking 
long  walks  up  and  down  streets  she'd  never 
walked  before,  or  going  to  a  park  and 
sitting  and  watching  the  other  people 
there,  the  kids  mostly.  She  loved  kids, 
she  said. 

"Me,  when  I  began  to  talk  to  Joan.  I  felt 
like  a  different  person.  I  found  that  this 
was  the  first  time  I  ever  sat  with  a  girl 
and  was  myself — talking  about  myself  as 
I  really  am,  not  as  Sammy  Davis  Jr.,  night- 
club star.  I  was  serious.  For  once,  with 
this  girl,  I  felt  I  could  let  go  of  the  clown 
face  I've  had  to  wear  all  the  time,  the 
clown  face  people  always  expect  me  to 
wear.  I  didn't  have  to  be  flip  and  cute. 
Boy,  it  was  a  wonderful  feeling,  me  talking 
to  her,  her  talking  to  me.  Once  we  got 
started,  we  didn't  seem  to  ever  want  to 
stop." 

It  was  dawn  when  he  and  Joan  finally 
did  stop. 

They  looked  around. 
The  others  had  all  gone. 


The  place  was  empty  except  for  them- 
selves and  a  doorman,  who  sat  snoozing 
on  a  chair  near  the  entranceway. 

"Hey/'  Sammy  said,  "what  time  is  it, 
anyway?" 

Joan  looked  down  at  her  watch.  "A 
quarter  after  six,"  she  said. 

"What  do  you  say  we  go  grab  some 
breakfast?"  Sammy  asked. 

"Oh  no,"  Joan  said.  "You  open  in  a 
show  tonight,  remember?  You're  tired, 
Sammy,  and  you  need  some  sleep." 

"Awwwww,"  he  started. 

"Don't  be  a  little  boy  now,"  Joan  said, 
gently.  "Tonight's  a  big  night  for  you. 
An  opening.    Tonight's  important." 

"Tonight's  important,"  Sammy  said, 
quickly,  "only  if  I  know  I'm  gonna  be 
seeing  you  again." 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  again,  Sammy," 
Joan  said.    "This  was  fun,  such  fun." 

"Better  than  your  books,  your  walks, 
your  parks?"  Sammy  asked,  winking. 

"A  little,"  said  Joan,  winking  back. 

They  got  up,  and  held  hands,  and  left 
the  place. 

And  as  they  did  the  doorman,  still 
sitting  in  his  chair,  opened  one  eye, 
watched  them,  and  shook  his  head.  .  .  . 

How  can  one  man  be  so  lucky? 

They  met  that  night.  And  the  day  and 
night  after.  And  the  day  and  night  after 
that.  They  had  a  great  time  together,  a 
fabulous  time.  They  drove  out  to  the 
country.  They  saw  the  famous  sights  of 
the  city.  They  went  searching  for  out- 
of-the-way  restaurants  in  the  Old  French 
Town.  They  took  a  river  boat-ride  down 
the  St.  Lawrence.  They  climbed  to  the 
top  of  the  Hill,  and  looked  down  at  the  city, 
the  river,  the  fields  beyond.  And  all  the 
time  they  talked  and  were  together,  and 
got  to  know  each  other  more  and  more.  .  . 

The  fifth  night  was  different  somehow, 
right  from  the  beginning.  Joan,  walking 
with  Sammy  down  Victoria  Street,  away 
from  her  club,  noticed  that  he  was  quiet, 
unusually  quiet,  that  he  seemed  to  be 
worried  about  something. 

"How'd  your  show  go,  Sammy?"  she 
asked,  after  a  while. 

"Not  too  hot,"  he  said. 

"Are  you  feeling  a  little  sick?"  Joan 
asked. 

"No,"  Sammy  said. 

"Then  what  was  wrong?"  Joan  asked. 
"I  had  something  on  my  mind,"  Sammy 
said. 

"What?"  she  asked. 
"Never  mind,"  he  said. 
"Please,    Sammy,    won't    you    tell  me 
what?"  Joan  asked. 
"I  said  never  mind!" 

The  words  came  like  a  slap.  Joan  stopped 
walking  and  faced  him. 

"If  you'd  rather  not  go  anywhere,  I 
can  take  a  cab  and  go  home,"  she  said. 

Sammy  took  a  deep  breath.  "Look, 
Joan,"  he  said,  his  voice  softer,  "what  I 
was  thinking  during  the  show,  all  during 
the  show — it  was  funny." 

"Funny?"  she  asked. 

"I  mean  you'd  laugh  at  me  if  you  knew 
what  I  was  thinking,"  Sammy  said.  "See?" 

"No,"  Joan  said,  "I  don't  see." 

"I  mean,"  Sammy  said,  "you'd  laugh  if 
you  knew  I  was  thinking  about  you  and 
me,  about  us  being  married,  about  you 
being  my  wife." 

"Why  would  I  laugh?"  Joan  asked. 

Sammy  took  her  hand.    He  held  it  hard. 

"Hey,"  he  said,  "hey  .  .  .  hey  .  .  .  this  is 
all  backwards,  all  cockeyed  backwards." 
Again,  he  breathed  in  deeply.  "Let  me 
start  from  the  beginning,"  he  said.  He 
shrugged.  "I  love  you,  Joan,  and  I  want 
to  marry  you,"  he  said. 

"I  want  to  marry  you,  Sammy,"  she  said. 
She  brought  her  free  hand  up  to  his  cheek, 
and  held  it  there.    "I  love  you  more  than 


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cleanliness 


Day  before  yesterday,  many  women 
hesitated  to  talk  about  the  douche 
even  to  their  best  friends,  let  alone  to 
a  doctor  or  druggist. 

Today,  thank  goodness,  women  are 
beginning  to  discuss  these  things  freely 
and  openly.  But  — even  now— many 
women  don't  realize  what  is  involved 
in  treating  "the  delicate  zone." 

They  don't  ask.  Nobody  tells  them. 
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which  may  not  be  completely  effective, 
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It's  time  to  talk  frankly  about  in- 
ternal cleanliness.  Using  anything  that 
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dark".  .  .  is  practically  a  crime  against 
yourself,  in  this  modern  day  and  age. 

Here  are  the  facts:  tissues  in  "the 
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are  very  persistent.  Your  comfort  and 


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This  preparation  is  far  more  effec- 
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than  other  liquid  antiseptics  for  the 
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motes confidence  as  nothing  else  can. 

This  is  modern  woman's  way  to 
internal  cleanliness.  It  is  the  personal 
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cally for  "the  delicate  zone."  It  is 
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cases  of  persistent  discharge,  women 
are  advised  to  see  their  doctors. 

Millions  of  women  already  consider 
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to  yourself  to  try  Zonite  soon. 


anything  in  life.  I  feel  good  when  I'm 
with  you.  I'm  alive  when  I'm  with  you. 
Alive  and  happy,  like  I've  never  felt  be- 
fore .  .  .  Last  night,  Sammy,  after  I  left 
you,  I  went  to  bed  and  prayed  for  only 
one  thing.  That  the  night  would  go 
quickly  and  that  morning  would  come, 
so  I  could  see  you  again  .  .  .  Oh  Sammy, 
I  love  you  so  much.    So  much." 

"My  God,"  he  said,  throwing  back  his 
head,  looking  up,  "how  can  one  man  on 
this  here  earth  be  as  lucky  as  I  am?" 

He  laughed  now  and  grabbed  Joan  and 
kissed  her 

And  then,  after  the  kiss,  he  took  her 
hand  and  they  began  to  walk  again. 

Problems  bigger  than  most 

"We  must  have  walked  a  couple  of 
hours,"  he  remembers.  "There  were  so 
many  things  to  talk  about.  Real  things. 
Problems.  I  told  Joan  it  wasn't  going  to 
be  any  bed  of  roses  for  us,  a  colored  man 
married  to  a  white  girl.  She  said  she 
knew  that.  I  told  her  there  were  going 
to  be  lots  of  uncomfortable  moments  in 
her  life  from  now  on,  that  she  was  going 
to  get  a  lot  of  criticism  and  ridicule  and 
dirty  looks,  lose  a  lot  of  her  friends.  She 
said  she  knew  that,  too,  and  didn't  care. 

"Besides  the  color  problem,  there  was 
the  difference  in  our  religions:  Joan  is 
Catholic,  I'm  a  Jew.  I  became  a  convert 
several  years  ago.  We  talked  about  that, 
about  how  strongly  I  felt  about  being 
Jewish,  and  Joan  said  that  while  she  would 
not  change  her  faith  she  would  have  our 
children  raised  as  Jews. 

"I  remember  Joan  saying,  'These  prob- 
lems, Sammy — they're  bigger  than  most 
people's,  yes.  But  we  can  lick  them, 
Sammy.  Love  can  lick  anything.  And 
that's  what  we've  got,  to  start  with,  to 
last  us  through  the  rest  of  our  lives  .  .  . 
Love.' " 


They  walked  on,  holding  hands,  talking. 

Till,  at  one  point,  they  came  to  an  all- 
night  drugstore  and  Sammy  said,  "You 
know  what  I'm  going  to  do,  honey?  I'm 
going  to  phone  my  Mom,  in  Hollywood, 
and  tell  her  the  news." 

They  went  into  the  drugstore,  and  Joan 
waited  outside  the  phone  booth  while 
Sammy  called. 

He  was  all  smiles  when  he  came  out. 

"What  did  she  say?"  Joan  asked. 

"She  said:  'She  must  be  very  nice, 
Sammy,  for  you  to  want  to  marry  her  in 
spite  of  what  the  consequences  might  be,'  " 
Sammy  told  Joan.  "Then  she  said:  'I'm 
glad  for  you,  son.  You're  thirty-four 
years  old.  You've  worked  hard  all  your 
life,  since  you  were  five  years  old.  It's 
about  time  you  started  getting  some  per- 
sonal happiness  out  of  this  life.' " 

Joan  smiled,  too,  now. 

"She  sounds  like  a  beautiful  woman," 
she  said. 

"Mom?"  Sammy  asked.   "You'll  be  crazy 
about  her.    Just  wait  till  you  meet  her." 
He  paused. 

"Joannie,"  he  said  then,  "about  your 
parents — are  you  going  to  call  them,  tell 
them?" 

He  watched  the  smile  begin  to  disappear, 
slowly,  from  her  face. 

"Of  course,"  she  said. 

"Now?"  Sammy  asked. 

Joan  shook  her  head.  "No,  not  right 
now,"  she  said.  "It's  .  .  .  It's  after  one 
already.  They're  probably  fast  asleep.  I'd 
hate  to  get  them  up.  My  father,  especially, 
he's  such  a  sound  sleeper  and — " 

Sammy  laughed  and  interrupted  her. 

"So  you'll  call  them  tomorrow,"  he  said, 
"same  thing."  He  pointed  to  a  counter,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  drugstore.  "Come  on,  > 
let's  have  a  cup  of  hot  coffee  for  now, 
huh?"  he  asked. 

Joan  followed  him,  but  didn't  answer  this  61 


time.  She  seemed,  suddenly,  to  be  thinking 
about  something  else.  .  .  . 

"We  have  a  right  .  .  ." 

It  was  6:00  p.m.  the  following  day.  Joan 
was  in  her  room,  alone.  She  sat  staring  at 
the  telephone  beside  her.  She'd  been  sit- 
ting this  way  for  more  than  an  hour  now, 
staring  at  the  phone,  wanting  to  pick  it  up, 
not  picking  it  up. 

Finally  she  brought  her  hand  over  to  the 
receiver,  and  lifted  it  and  dialed. 

She  heard  her  mother's  voice  a  few  sec- 
onds later: 

"Joan,  how  are  you,  darling?  It's  been 
days  since  you've  called.  Is  everything  all 
right?" 

Joan  said  she  was  fine;  that  yes,  every- 
thing was  all  right. 

For  the  next  minute  or  so  she  asked 
about  her  father — how  was  he;  had  he  got 
home  from  work  yet? 

"Just  now,  he  got  in  this  second,"  her 
mother  said. 

"Mother,"  Joan  said,  suddenly,  urgently. 

"Yes?"  her  mother  asked. 

"I'm  getting  married,"  Joan  said. 

"You're — "  Her  mother  stopped  and  be- 
gan to  laugh.  "Joan.  How  wonderful.  What 
a  wonderful  surprise.  When  did  all  this 
happen?  Who,  who's  the  man?" 

"You  met  him  once,  mother,  at  CBC,  a 
few  months  ago,"  Joan  said.  "The  day  you 
came  to  visit  the  studio." 

"That  nice  director?"  her  mother  asked, 
" — The  one  from  Winnipeg  with  the  deep 
blue  eyes?  Him,  Joan?" 

"No,"  Joan  said.  "His  name  is  Sammy 
Davis.  He's  an  entertainer.  Sammy  Davis, 
Jr." 

There  was  a  long,  a  very  long,  pause. 

"Joan,"  her  mother  said,  finally,  a  trem- 
or in  her  voice,  "are  you  talking  about 
the  American — the  colored  singer?" 

"Yes,"  Joan  said. 


"And  you're  what?"  her  mother  asked. 
" — You're  going  to  marry  him?" 

"I  love  him,  Mother,"  Joan  said.  "And 
yes,  I'm  going  to  marry  him." 

"Is  this  a  joke,  Joan  Stuart — is  this  your 
idea  of  something  funny,  calling  me  up  and 
telling  me  something  like  this?" 

"Mother — "  Joan  started  to  say. 

"Is  this  something  you're  doing  for  pub- 
licity?" her  mother  shouted.  "Did  one  of 
those  agents  get  you  into  this,  for  publicity, 
for  some  disgusting  publicity?" 

"Mother,"  Joan  said,  "I  just  want  you  to 
know,  no  matter  what  you  feel  right  now, 
that  I  am  deeply  in  love  with  this  man  and 
that  I  want  to  marry  him.  I'd  like  your 
approval,  yours  and  Dad's.  Your  blessings. 
But—" 

Again  her  mother  cut  in.  "Approval? 
Blessings?"  she  asked.  Her  voice  rose.  "Are 
you  serious?  Are  you — " 

Joan  heard  her  mother  scream,  suddenly, 
and  call  for  her  father.  She  heard  her  re- 
peat some  of  the  facts  she  had  just  told 
her — "Sammy  Davis,"  she  heard  her  say, 
"Negro  .  .  .  our  baby  .  .  .  marry  .  .  .  Negro 
.  .  .  Negro  .  .  .  Negro!" 

Finally,  she  heard  her  dad's  voice. 

"Joannie,"  she  heard  him  say,  "you're 
twenty-one  now,  on  your  own.  You  make 
your  own  decisions.  But  just  let  me  tell 
you  this:  I've  raised  you,  daughter,  and  I 
know  you're  a  good  girl.  Just  take  your 
time.  And  don't  do  anything  foolish." 

"Dad,"  Joan  said,  "I  know  exactly  what 
I'm  doing.  Believe  me.  Please  believe  me 
.  .  .  You're  right,  Dad.  I  am  twenty-one.  I 
am  on  my  own  now.  I  do  have  to  make  de- 
cisions for  myself.  And  this  is  my  decision. 
Sammy  and  I — we  have  a  right  to  be  mar- 
ried. We — " 

Now  she  began  to  cry. 

"Joan,  Joanie,"  she  heard  her  father's 
voice  say 

She  tried  to  answer,  to  talk. 


But  she  couldn't. 

Before  she  knew  it,  she  had  hung  up. 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  and  walked 
across  the  room,  to  a  window  there.  She 
looked  down  at  the  street  below,  at  the 
stream  of  people  walking  by. 

"Please,  please,"  she  found  herself  sob- 
bing, "give  us  a  chance.  Won't  you?" 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door  then. 

It  opened,  and  Sammy  walked  in. 

He  knew  immediately  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

"You  called  your  folks?"  he  asked. 
"Yes,"  said  Joan. 

"They  don't  want  it,  us,  together,  mar- 
ried?" Sammy  asked. 

Joan  shook  her  head. 

Sammy  walked  to  a  chair  and  sat.  He 
looked  at  Joan,  near  the  window,  crying. 

"Joannie,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  softly, 
"maybe  this  is  for  the  best.  Maybe  it's  good 
you  learn  now,  from  your  own  family,  what 
part  of  your  future  would  be  like." 

He  paused. 

Joan  said  nothing. 

"Maybe  it's  best  you  find  out  now,  at  the 
beginning,"  he  went  on  then,  " — in  time 
for  you  to  change  your  mind." 

"I  can't  say  I  won't  mind,  Joannie,"  he 
said,  "but — " 

"Don't,  Sammy,  don't,"  Joan  shouted, 
suddenly.  "Don't  talk  like  that  .  .  .  Don't 
you  start  talking  like  that  now.  Or  else 
I'll  die.  Right  here,  on  this  spot,  I'll  wither 
up  and  die  ...  I  love  you,  Sammy.  I  love 
you." 

"And  you  still  want  to  marry  me?"  he 
asked. 

Joan  ran  from  the  window,  and  threw 
herself  in  his  arms. 

This  was  her  answer — her  final,  never- 
ending  answer.  end 

Sammy  starred  in  Porgy  and  Bess,  Co- 
lumbia, and  will  be  seen  in  Oceans  11, 
Warner  Bros. 


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Introducing  Crash  Craddock 


page 


the  Burlington  Mills,  tired  after  working 
and  coming  home  from  work  and  making 
supper  and  doing  the  dishes  and  some 
washing  or  sewing,  was  probably  asleep 
now. 

He  didn't  want  to  wake  her. 

Much  as  he  needed  her.  now.  to  talk  to. 
he  would  not  wake  her. 

"Tomorrow  mornin".  Til  call  first  thing 
and  tell  her,"  he  thought  as  he  turned  and 
walked  over  to  the  bed  and  flopped  down 
on  it. 

"That  Fm  comin'  home.  back,  where  I 
belong." 

He  reached  and  turned  off  the  lamp. 

But  sleep  would  not  come. 

"May."  he  whispered  to  the  silent  hotel 
room,  the  loneliness  inside  him  growing 
by  the  moment.  "Why'd  I  leave  you  in  the 
first  place  .  .  .  Why'd  I  even  think  I  wanted 
to  try  for  any  kind  of  a  success  without 
you  near  me?" 

He  remembered  the  night  two  weeks 
earlier  when  he'd  told  her  that  he  was 
going  away. 

"Columbia  Records,  honey."  he'd  said, 
happily,  triumphantly.  "One  of  the  biggest 
outfits  in  the  world.  They've  signed  me  up 
and  now  they  want  me  to  go  out  on  tour. 
They  want  to  build  me  into  something  big." 

He  remembered  the  look  on  May's  face 
as  he  explained  what  the  word  "tour 
meant,  what  it  involved. 

"Boston.  New  York.  New  Haven.  Detroit. 
Chicago  and  lots  of  other  places,''  he'd 
said.  "That's  where  they  want  me  to  go  .  .  . 
to  sing  in  cities  like  those. 

"Now."  he'd  gone  on.  "of  course  Til  have 
to  go  alone  May.  I  mean,  tours  like  this 
cost  them  companies  plenty  of  money  and 
they  sure  can't  pay  for  the  two  of  us. 

"But  even  though  we'll  miss  each  other, 
just  think,  what  this  could  mean.  That 
maybe  IH  be  on  my  way  to  makin'  the 
big-time.  That  maybe  fll  start  makin' 
some  money,  real  money,  for  a  change. 
That  maybe  in  a  couple  of  years,  even  less, 
we  can  buy  ourselves  a  house  instead  of 
this  tiny  li'l  apartment  we  live  in  and  I 
can  buy  you  all  kinds  of  pretty  clothes  and 
we  can  even  go  on  that  honeymoon  we 
always  wanted." 

That  dreams  might  come  true 

He'd  watched  his  wife  as  she'd  tried  to 
smile  and  as  she  d  cried,  both  at  the  same 
time. 

"Well."'  he'd  said,  "maybe  now.  this  way. 
all  those  dreams  of  ours  can  come  true." 
He'd  continued  watching  her  as  the  tears 
in  her  eyes  seemed  to  become  bigger. 

"Come  on.  May,"  he'd  said,  taking  her  in 
his  arms  and  holding  her  close  to  him. 
"'You  knoic  that  this  is  what  Tve  wanted 
all  my  life.  Don't  you  know  that.  May? 
Don't  you?" 

He'd  felt  her  head  against  his  chest 
nodding. 

He'd  heard  her  say.  "Yes.  of  course, 
darlin'.  I  know.  It's  wonderful.  It's  just 
that  .  .  .  after  two  years  with  you  ...  all 
the  time  ...  m  miss  you.  So  much." 

And  now.  this  night,  he  missed  her.  So 
much.  After  only  a  week. 

He  turned  and  tossed  in  the  bed. 

Again,  he  closed  his  eyes  and  tried  to 
sleep. 

But  still  the  sleep  would  not  come. 

And  then,  opening  his  eyes  again,  he 
saw  the  outline  of  his  guitar  case,  sitting 
on  the  big  overstuffed  chair  in  the  far 
corner  of  the  darkened  room. 

And  he  thought  of  the  dreams  he  used 
to  have,  as  a  boy — the  dreams  that  had 
been  so  beautiful  then  and  that  he  re- 
sented so  much  now.  .  .  . 


And,  in  the  dark,  out  of  his  loneliness 
and  need  for  her,  he  began  to  speak  to 
May  of  those  dreams.  .  .  . 

''Other  boys  I  knew  back  home,  they  had 
other  ambitions.''  he  whispered.  "They 
were  goin'  to  be  cops  and  flyers  and  things 
like  that.  But  me,  ever  since  I  can  re- 
member. I  was  goin'  to  be  a  record  star, 
playin'  on  my  guitar  and  singin'  and 
makin'  records,  just  like  Hank  Williams 
and  all  my  other  favorites. 

"That  guitar  we  had  at  home.  It  really 
belonged  to  brother  Clarence.  But  I  was 
the  one  who  used  to  play  it  most  of  the 
time.  I  used  to  go  out  behind  the  barn 
with  it,  in  the  big  tobacco  field  there,  and 
give  my  •performances."  I'd  start  by  shout- 
ing: The  famous  Grand  Ole  Opry  now 
pre-sents  its  most  famous  and  most  fa- 
vorite enter-tainer  .  .  .  Billy  Craddock.' 
Then,  liftin'  my  guitar.  I'd  strum  out  an 
introduction  and  I'd  begin  to  sing.  I'd  sing 
all  the  songs  I  knew.  And  then  when  I  was 
finished  Fd  bow  and  listen  to  the  applause 
— which  never  got  much  louder  than  the 
tobacco  leaves  clappin'  against  each  other 
if  there  happened  to  be  a  wind  blowin',  or 
maybe  a  couple  of  cows  mooin'  away  if 
they  still  happened  to  be  out  to  pasture. 

"But  to  me,  this  was  all  applause.  And 
I'd  bow.  And  while  I'd  be  bowin'  some- 
times I'd  say  a  prayer  and  say:  "When  I'm 
big.  please  make  it  all  come  true  .  .  .  with 
real  people  listenin'.  I  mean." 

"There  came  a  time.  I  don't  mind  tellin' 
you.  when  I  thought  this  career  of  mine 
was  goin'  to  be  over  before  it  even 
started. 

"That  was  the  day — I  was  about  twelve. 
I  guess — when  Clarence  came  over  to  me 
while  I  was  settin'  on  the  porch  of  our 
house,  stxummin'  away,  and  said  he  had 
to  have  his  guitar  back.  I  asked  him  why. 
He  said  'cause  he  had  to  take  it  to  a  hock 
shop.  I  asked  him  why  that.  'Cause  he 
needed  the  money,  he  said:  he  had  a  big 
date  this  comin'  Saturday  night,  he  said, 
and  he  didn't  have  any  funds  with  which 
to  accomplish  this  date  otherwise  ...  I 
played  dumb.  "Gee.  Clarence."  I  said,  "Why 
don't  you  ask  Daddy  or  Ma  for  the 
money?" — Dretendin'  to  forget  that  our 
daddy  and  ma  had  ten  children  to  raise 
and  that  they  couldn't  spare  the  money, 
good  as  they  were,  for  anybody's  dates. 
Clarence  didn't  even  bother  answerin'  me 
on  this  one.  Instead  he  just  picked  up  the 
guitar  from  out  my  lap  and  high-tailed  it 
for  the  hock  shop. 

"I  high-tailed  it  there  the  very  next  day. 
There  was  a  real  grouchy-lookin'  man  be- 
hind the  counter.  I  pointed  up  to  Clarence's 
guitar,  settin'  high  up  on  a  shelf  now.  and 
asked  the  man  how  much  it  would  cost 
for  me  to  get  it  back.  Twenty  bucks.'  he 
said,  and  he  turned  away. 

"Well,  four  mouths  later,  almost  to  the 
day.  I  was  back  in  that  hock  shop.  I  handed 
the  man  behind  the  counter  a  heavy  bag 
I  was  carryin".  There's  twenty  dollars  in 
there,  Mistuh.'  I  said.  I  pointed  to  the 
guitar.  "Now  can  I  have  it.  please?' 

"The  man.  grouchy-lookin'  as  ever, 
mumbled  something,  opened  the  bag  and 
counted  the  money — nickels,  dimes,  quar- 
ters, a  few  dollar  bills. 

"  "How'd  you  get  all  this?'  he  asked  me. 
after  he  was  through  countin'. 

"  "Mowed  lawns  all  summer,  all  over 
town.'  I  told  him.  'And  didn't  go  to  a 
movie  Saturdays,  not  a  once.  And  I  even 
worked  at  the  A&P  helpf-'  Oliver  for  a 
couple  of  weeks  .  .  .  The  —  sman  there 
told  me  I  was  the  youngest  employee  in 
the  history  of  the  A&P.  ever."  I  added, 
braggin'. 


UNDER -ALL 

Don't  make  a  move  without  your 
"guardian  angel"— the  dress  shield 
that  keeps  you  confident  in  com- 
fort! Elasticized  to  stay  put:  S2.75. 


BING  CROSBY 


and 


his 


A  COOL  CAT 
HOT  MONEY 


Some  folks  think  that  Bing  Crosby's  casual  air  is  just  a  pose.  But 
those  who  really  know  him  will  tell  you  that  nothing  could  be 
farther  from  the  truth. 
There's  the  time  Bing's  twenty-room  colonial  house  in  North  Holly- 
wood caught  fire  and  burned  to  the  ground.  Bing  got  word  of  it  from 
his  friend  and  lyricist,  Johnny  Burke,  who  had  been  phoning  all 
over  town  trying  to  locate  him.  Burke  finally  caught  up  with  him  at 
the  Brown  Derby  where  Bing  was  lunching  after  a  round  of  golf. 

Breaking  the  news  gently,  Burke  said:  "Listen,  Bing,  before  I 
say  anything,  I  want  you  to  know  everyone's  okay." 

Bing  had  shot  a  74  that  morning,  and  was  in  good  humor.  "Isn't 
that  nice,  Johnny,"  he  said  amiably.  "And  how's  your  family?" 

Burke  tried  again,  and  this  time  he  made  no  effort  to  soften  the 
blow.  "Look,  Bing,  your  house  just  burned  down!" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  then  Bing  drawled : 
"Huh,  that  old  barn!  Did  they  save  anything?" 

Somewhat  exasperated.  Burke  told  him:  "You'd 
better  hurry  out  here  right  away  and  see  for 
yourself!" 

"But  I  just  ordered  my  lunch!"  Bing  pro- 
tested. And  he  wasn't  kidding,  either.  Since 
the  family  was  safe,  he  saw  no  reason  to 
skip  his  lunch.  After  all,  he'd  had  quite  a 
workout  on  the  golf  course,  and  he  was 
real  hungry. 

When  Bing  finally  did  drive  out  to 
look  at  the  pile  of  smoking  embers,  he 
started  to  poke  around  the  ashes  until 
he  came  upon  one  of  his  shoes.  It 
was  charred  but  still  intact.  Noncha-  A 
lant  as  you  please,  Bing  stuck  in  a 
hand  and  fished  out  what  he  was 
looking   for— $1500   in   bills.  He*i 
placed  it  there  to  take  to  the  race- 
track next  day. 

As  it  turned  out,  this  hot  money 
was  all  that  had  been  saved  from 
the  flames! 


"  'Did  all  that  work  just  so's  you  could 
get  back  that  battered  ole  guitar  up  there?' 
the  man  asked  me. 

"  'Sure,'  I  said,  ' — how  else  am  I  gonna 
practice  to  become  a  famous  enter-tainer 
if  I  ain't  got  no  guitar?' 

"  'Well,'  the  man  said,  'well,  son,  you 
know,  the  price  on  this  guitar  is  up  to 
twenty-two  dollars  now.' 

"  'What?'  I  said.  'Why?' 

"  'Interest,  son,'  the  man  said.  'It's  hard 
to  explain;  but  it's  a  fact.  A  fifty-cent  a 
month  fact  in  this  here  business.' 

"I  began  to  cry  like  a  baby,  I  was  so 
disappointed. 

"  'But,'  the  man  behind  the  counter  said, 
after  listenin'  to  my  cryin'  and  wailin'  for 
a  little  while,  'I've  always  said  that  some- 
day I  was  gonna  have  to  be  sobbed  into  an 
exception  in  the  matter  of  interest.  And  I 
guess  today's  that  unlucky  day  for  me,  eh?' 

"With  that,  he  climbed  a  ladder  to  the 
high  shelf,  took  hold  of  the  guitar,  leaned 
over  and  handed  it  to  me. 

"  'Now  scat  out  of  here,'  he  said,  'and 
make  sure  you  practice  hard  on  this 
danged  thing.  Or  I'll  haunt  you  from  my 
very  grave  after  I'm  gone.' 

"I  took  the  guitar  and  I  touched  the 
man's  hand,  just  to  show  him  how  much  I 
appreciated  what  he'd  done. 

"'Scat!'  he  hollered  again. 

"And  I  scatted,  all  right. 

"And  I  went  back  home  and  I  began  to 
play  and  practice  and  sing — till  I  was 
hoarse  some  nights  from  singin'  so  much, 
and  till  my  fingers  got  red  and  raw  and 
nearly  bleedin'  at  the  tips  sometimes  from 
pluckin'  away  so  much  at  those  strings. 

"But  I  didn't  care.  Didn't  bother  me  how 
hoarse  or  bruised  I  got. 

"I  had  an  ambition. 

"And  I  knew  there  was  to  be  lots  of 
hard  work  involved.  .  .  . 

"I  had  lots  of  luck  along  the  way,  too. 
When  I  was  about  thirteen  my  brother 
Ronald  and  I  formed  a  duo  and  entered  a 
contest  on  a  Greensboro  TV  station.  We 
won,  and  stayed  on  that  show  for  fifteen 
consecutive  weeks.  Then,  in  high  school,  I 
organized  a  quartet  called  The  Rebels  and 
we  did  lots  of  singin'  together,  all  through 
those  four  years.  Just  singin',  singin' 
singin'  away. 

"Of  course,  my  life  wasn't  oil  music.  I 
managed  to  study  my  schoolwork  some.  I 
played  football — which  is  where  I  got  my 
nickname,  Crash.  Because  I  could  always 
use  the  extra  money,  I  even  got  a  part- 
time  job  with  the  Lorillard  company  in 
Greensboro,  liftin'  tobacco  from  the  big 
boxes  that  came  in  from  the  fields  and 
dumpin'  this  tobacco  into  the  machines  it 
was  supposed  to  go  in. 

"No,  I  didn't  spend  all  my  time  with  my 
music  and  with  my  thinkin'  about  the 
future  I  wanted  to  make  for  myself  in  it. 

"But  I've  got  to  tell  you  that  I  sure  did 
manage  to  spend  most  of  my  time  this  way. 

"There  was  only  one  period,  I  remember, 
when  I  didn't  care  what  happened  about 
my  music,  or  about  anything,  in  fact. 

"That  was  the  time,  four  years  ago,  when 
Ma  died. 

"Not  only  was  Ma  a  hard-workhv 
woman  at  home — what  with  ten  children 
to  raise  and  take  care  of — but  she  worked 
at  the  mill,  too,  the  same  mill  where 
Daddy  worked,  till  practically  the  end  of 
her  life,  just  to  help  out.  She  was  such  a 
wonderful  woman.  She'd  give  you  her  last 
dime — the  very  last  dime  she  had.  And  she 
was  a  very  religious  woman.  I  went  to 
church  as  a  kid,  but  I  guess  you  could 
never  call  me  over-religious  that  way. 
Anyway,  when  Ma  was  sick  I  knew  it 
would  please  her  if  I  went  and  got  bap- 
tized, something  she  had  always  wanted 
and  that  I  had  kept  puttin'  off.  It  pleased 
her,  all  right. 

"She  died  of  cancer.  You  know  how 


IF  youre 

STOUT 

Free 

style  book 


painful  that  is.  Well,  all  the  time  she  had 
it  we  never  heard  her  holler  once.  We 
used  to  have  to  take  her  for  treatments, 
and  carry  her  from  the  house  to  the  car.  I 
used  to  help  carry  her.  I  used  to  see  the 
expression  of  pain  on  her  face.  But  never 
once  did  I  ever  hear  her  moan  or  say  any- 
thing about  her  pain. 

"Anyway,  after  she  died,  I  didn't  care  if 
I  ever  sang  or  played  the  guitar  again. 

"But  then,  one  day,  I  had  a  talk  with  a 
relative  of  ours,  someone  who  saw  what 
was  goin'  on  with  me. 

"And  he  said,  'No  sense  givin'  up  your 
music,  Billy.  First  of  all,  you  won't  be 
cheatin'  nobody  but  yourself.  And  second, 
your  ma — if  she  was  here  to  tell  you — 
she'd  tell  you  that  she  didn't  like  this 
nohow,  you  givin'  up  what's  always  been 
the  most  important  thing  to  you.' 

"And  so,  after  a  while,  I  picked  up  my 
guitar  again  and  I  re-started  my  singin'. 

"And  all  the  ambition  for  music  that  had 
been  in  me  came  back  to  me  again.  .  .  . 

"It  was  at  about  this  time  that  I  met 
you,  May. 

"I  was  sixteen  years  old  the  first  time  I 
saw  you,  over  at  the  recreation  center  in 
Greensboro,  remember,  May?  I  had  just 
been  in  the  pool  for  a  swim  and  you  were 
walkin'  around  near  the  pool,  and  let  me 
tell  you,  you  were  the  prettiest  li'l  girl  I 
had  ever,  ever  seen. 

"Now,  I'd  never  been  known  to  be  a 
bold  type  when  it  came  to  girls.  But  when 
I  saw  you  that  first  time,  I  just  slid  myself 
up  out  of  that  pool  and  I  went  up  to  you 
and  introduced  myself  and  asked  you  the 
first  thing  that  came  to  my  mind — if  I 
could  buy  you  a  soda. 

"You  were  very  shy  then,  as  you  still 
are  today,  and  it  took  a  lot  of  talkin'  on  my 
part  to  convince  you  that  this  was  all  on 
the  up-and-up. 

"But  I  did  it,  someways. 

"And  we  had  our  soda. 

"And  we  started  goin'  out  together. 

"And,  after  a  while,  we  realized  that  we 
were  in  love,  and  so  we  decided  to  get 
married. 

"The  date  of  our  marriage  was  June  22, 
1957.  We  were  both  seventeen  years  old. 
We  eloped  to  South  Carolina  for  the  mar- 
riage— with  our  parents'  consent,  but  with 
nobody  else  knowing  about  it — because 
there  were  too  many  people,  we  knew, 
who  would  have  criticized  us  and  told  us 
we  were  too  young,  too  immature. 

"But  we  didn't  really  care  what  any- 
body was  sayin'.  We  just  knew  we  loved 
each  other.  And  we  figured  that,  even  if 
we  were  a  little  on  the  young  side,  it  was 
a  good  thing  for  two  people  in  love  to  grow 
up  with  each  other. 

"From  the  day  we  were  married,  May, 
you  stuck  with  me  in  my  ambition  to  be- 
come a  singer. 

"You  never  minded  when  I  sat  myself  in 
a  corner  and  practiced.  When  I  came  home 
late,  way  after  suppertime,  from  an  audi- 
tion someplace  .  .  .  You  didn't  even  mind 
when  I  gave  up  my  job  at  Lorillard  so  I 
could  study  and  be  able  to  audition  even 
more. 

"And  May,  you  know,  the  dreams  started 
coming  true  last  New  Year's  Eve,  when  I 
sang  for  the  first  time  at  Mr.  Fred  Koury's 
Plantation  Club  in  Greensboro. 

"After  that  one  show,  Mr.  Koury  hired 
me  and  became  my  manager. 

"Through  him,  the  big  record  people 
from  New  York  City  came  down  to  hear 
me.  And,  finally,  one  day  not  too  long  ago 
the  Columbia  people  signed  me  up  to  cut 
my  first  record — Don't  Destroy  Me — and 
to  go  on  tour. 

"May,  it  was  one  of  the  happiest  mo- 
ments of  my  whole  life.  .  .  ." 

Except,  he  thought  as  he  lay  here  now, 
on  the  narrow  bed  in  the  darkened  hotel 
room,  this  night,  a  week  after  the  tour  had 
begun — except  that  he  was  alone,  and  May 


SAVE  MONEY  on  the 
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Uailt  'NDIANAPOUS  7, 

•J  INDIANA 


LANE  BRYANT,  lirpartment  15 
Indianapolis  7,  Indiana 

Pleat-e  rush  VKKI-;  style  Book  lor  Stout  Women. 


was  not  with  him. 

Was  it  right  .  .  .  this  way?  Crash  won- 
dered. 

Was  it  fair  to  the  girl  who  loved  him, 
and  whom  he  loved — to  make  her  wait 
behind  while  he  went  off  and  made  his 
bid  for  success? 

Was  it  worth  the  maybe  of  that  house 
they'd  talked  about,  of  that  money  in  the 
bank,  of  that  honeymoon  they'd  never 
had — if  May,  his  wife,  couldn't  be  with 
him,  here,  now,  right  now? 

"No,"  he  thought  aloud.  "And  tomorrow , 
first  thing,  I'm  goin'  to  phone  and  say  I'm 
comin'  back  .  .  .  back  home." 

The  knock  on  the  door  awakened  Crash. 

He  got  out  of  bed,  groggily,  and  opened 
the  door. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Craddock,"  said  a 
bellhop,  standing  there.  "Letter  for  you." 

Crash  could  see  immediately,  from  the 
handwriting  on  the  envelope,  that  it  was 
from  May.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  first  letter  Crash  had  gotten 
from  May  since  he'd  left  home  the  week 
before.  And  it  was  a  long  letter. 

She  wrote  how  she  had  been  visiting 
relatives  most  nights — both  his  and  hers; 
and  she  told  about  which  nephew  and 
niece  had  just  gotten  over  a  cold,  which 
ones  were  just  getting  one  .  .  .  who  had 
said  what,  done  what. 

And  then,  towards  the  end  of  the  letter, 
she  wrote  this:  I  miss  you.  as  you  must 
know.  And  I  am  lonely  for  you.  As  I  know 
you  must  be  for  me.  But,  as  I  have  figured 


it  since  that  night  last  week  when  you  left, 
this  being  separated  is  a  sacrifice  we  have 
both  got  to  make  in  order  that  all  the 
years  we've  got  ahead  of  us  can  possibly 
be  even  happier  than  the  two  happy  years 
we  have  had  already. 

It  is  easier  for  me  to  make  this  sacrifice 
than  it  is  for  you.  I  am  here,  in  our  home, 
with  all  our  memories  around  me,  so  close. 

You,  on  the  other  hand,  are  far  away. 
It  must  be  very  difficult  for  you.  There  are 
times  you  must  want  to  give  it  all  up  and 
come  home,  I  know. 

But,  darling,  when  those  times  come — 
just  remember  this: 

We  miss  each  other,  yes — but  I  know 
that  it  takes  a  lot  of  time  and  a  lot  of 
courage  to  try  to  get  where  you've  always 
wanted  to  go. 

And  the  fact  that  you've  always  tried 
and  that  you're,  trying  so  hard  now,  makes 
me  the  proudest  wife  in  the  whole 
world.  .  .  ." 

Crash  read  this  portion  of  May's  letter, 
over  and  over  again. 

Till  the  phone  beside  him  rang,  and 
he  picked  up  the  receiver. 

It  was  his  press-agent,  calling  from  a 
room  down  the  hall. 

"Ready  for  some  breakfast?  .  .  .  Gotta 
eat  and  then  get  ready  to  make  that  plane 
for  Chicago  ...  Be  ready  soon?" 

Crash  looked  down  at  May's  letter  now. 

Then  he  smiled,  and  nodded. 

"I'll  be  with  you  in  twenty  minutes," 
he  said.  .  .  .  end 


Gia  Scala 


(Continued  from  page  35) 

"I'm  not  hungry,  Mom,"  Don  said,  ab- 
ruptly, interi-upting  her.  "I'll  help  myself 
to  something  later." 

His  mother's  smile  lessened.  "What's 
wrong,  son?"  she  asked. 

Don  didn't  answer. 

His  mother  looked  down  at  the  news- 
paper in  his  lap,  at  the  big  headline  there: 
GIA  SCALA  GRABBED  FROM  BRIDGE 
WALL— LONDON  CABBIE  FOILS  AC- 
TRESS' SUICIDE  TRY. 

"Do  you  know  her?"  Mrs.  Burnett  asked. 

Don  shrugged.  "A  little,  I  guess,"  he 
said.  "We  met  a  few  times  on  the  set,  at 
Metro,  when  I  was  doing  Don't  Go  Near 
The  Water." 

"Of  course,"  his  mother  said,  "the  Italian 
girl  who  played  the  native.  So  lovely  she 
was,  too.  .  .  .  Now  why  would  a  lovely  girl 
like  that  ever  want  to  go  and  do  a  thing 
like  this,  try  to  take  her  own  life?" 

Again  Don  shrugged.  "I  don't  know," 
he  said.  "The  paper  says  something  about 
her  being  depressed  over  her  mother's 
death." 

"Tsk,"  said  his  mother.  Then  she  sighed. 
"Well,  at  least  the  girl's  all  right  now. 
The  cabdriver  grabbed  her,  it  says,  and 
she's  obviously  all  right." 

"I  hope  she  is,"  Don  said. 

"I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Burnett.  She 
smiled  again.  "And  I  do  wish  you'd  come 
eat  your  dinner  now." 

"I  hope  she  is,"  Don  repeated,  not  hear- 
ing his  mother,  but  thinking  about  a  girl 
far  away,  whom  he  barely  knew  but  whom 
he  remembered  very  well,  a  girl  alone  and 
in  distress,  a  girl  he  wished  very  much  he 
could  be  near  right  now.  .  .  . 

Gia's  return 

It  was  early  November  by  the  time  Gia 
Scala  returned  to  Hollywood  from  Europe. 
It  was  a  day  and  a  half  after  her  return 
when  Don  phoned  her. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "yes,  I  remember  you." 

He  noticed  that  her  voice  was  different 
than  it  had  been  those  few  other  times 
they'd  talked;  tired-sounding  instead  of 
alive,  very  tired-sounding. 

He  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  go 
out  with  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  without  any  enthusiasm, 
"that  would  be  very  nice." 

"I  guess  you're  all  booked  up  the  rest 
of  this  week,"  Don  said. 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Gia  said,  "No, 
I  have  nothing  to  do  this  week  ...  or 
next  week.  You  tell  me  the  evening — " 

"Well,"  Don  said,  "tomorrow  night 
there's  a  dance,  a  charity  ball  for  The 
Helpers,  over  at  the  Hilton.  I  bought  two 
tickets.  I  didn't  expect  to  use  them.  But 
if  you'd  like — " 

"That  would  be  nice,"  Gia  said.  "I  will 
see  you  tomorrow  night  then." 

And  she  hung  up.  .  .  . 

"I'll  never  in  my  life  forget  how  beauti- 
ful she  looked,"  Don  recalls  about  that 
next  night,  their  first  few  minutes  together. 
"Gia  wore  a  green  gown,  matching  the 
green  of  her  eyes.  And  a  plain  gold  neck- 
lace with  an  italian  cameo  in  the  center. 
Her  hair  was  combed  back  very  simply. 
She  was  practically  without  make-up.  She 
looked  like  a  goddess,  freshly-arrived  on 
earth.  She  was  the  most  beautiful-looking 
girl  I  had  ever  seen.  And  the  saddest, 
too.  .  .  ." 

The  ball  at  the  Hilton  was  a  lovely  affair. 
For  the  few  hours  they  were  there,  Don 
and  Gia  sat  at  a  table  with  some  of  Don's 
friends  and  their  dates. 

Once  in  a  while,  they  danced. 
Throughout  it  all,  Gia  was  quiet,  speak- 
66  ing  only  when  spoken  to,  smiling  rarely, 


barely  joining  in  on  any  of  the  fun-doings. 

"Why  the  far-away  look?"  Don  asked 
her,  softly,  at  one  point. 

Gia's  face  reddened  a  little.  "I  don't 
know,"  she  said.  And  that  was  all  she  said. 

After  the  dance,  they  went  to  the  nearby 
Trader  Vic  for  a  bite  to  eat. 

"What'll  you  have?"  Don  asked. 

"Just  coffee,"  Gia  said. 

"Well,"  Don  said,  winking,  "me,  I'm  a 
growing  boy,  and  I'll  have  to  have  a  little 
more  than  that." 

"Korean  specialties,"  he  said,  reading 
the  menu  and  trying  hard  not  to  make 
it  look  as  if  he  were  forcing  any  conversa- 
tion.   "You  ever  been  there — Korea?" 

"No,"  Gia  said. 

"Then  you've  never  had  the  pleasure  of 
trying  any  of  their  specialties,"  Don  said. 
Gia  shook  her  head. 

Don  began  to  tell  her  about  something 
that  had  happened  to  him  while  he  was 
there,  with  the  Army. 

"I  was  riding  around  in  this  jeep  one 
day,"  he  said,  "and  I  came  across  this  old 
lady,  walking  up  the  road.  She  looked  so 
tired  that  I  stopped  and  asked  if  I  could 
give  her  a  lift.  Oh  no,  she  said,  she'd  come 
a  long  way  but  she  still  had  an  even 
longer  way  to  go.  'How  far?'  I  asked  her. 
About  forty  miles,'  she  said.  Well  now,  I 
sure  wasn't  going  to  have  this  little  old 


ELINOR 
DONAHUE 


I've  just  read  a 
terrific  story  in 
INGENUE  Magazine 
called  "Give  a 
Weekend."  Tells 
about  teen-agers 
doing  volunteer 
work  in  the  Phila- 
delphia slums  .  .  . 
not  glossy  charity- 
type  work,  but  real 
'get  your  hands 
dirty'  helping. 
What  a  great  job 
they  do! 


lady  walking  down  that  road  another 
couple  of  days,  was  I?  So  I  said,  'Hop  in, 
Grandma,  I'll  drive  you  and  get  you  home 
chop  chop!' " 

Gia  began  to  smile  a  little. 

"So  there  we  were,  the  two  of  us.  riding 
away  a  little  while  later,"  Don  went  on, 
"when  all  of  a  sudden  the  woman  reached 
into  a  bag  she  was  carrying  and  said  to 
me,  'Here,  young  soldier,  eat.'  I  looked 
at  what  she  was  holding.  It  was  a  dried 
red  pepper,  this  long  and  this  red.  'Eat?' 
I  asked,  ' — that?'  'You  honor  me  with  your 
politeness,'  the  old  lady  said,  'now  I  must 
honor  you  with  my  hospitality.' 

"Well,  let  me  tell  you.  Gia — "  Don 
stopped  and  laughed,  happy  to  see  that  she 
was  really  beginning  to  smile  now.  " — I 
took  one  bite  of  that  hospitality  of  hers 
and — " 

"Gia!"  a  voice  interrupted  him,  sud- 
denly. "Giiiiiia,  darling!" 

They  both  turned  to  look. 

A  girl — young,  pretty,  bleary-eyed — was 
approaching  their  table. 

"Gia,  sweet-heart,"  she  said,  finally 
reaching  the  table,  "I  was  sitting  over 
there  .  .  .  and  I  turned  around  to  look  .  .  . 
and  I  saw  you.  I  couldn't  believe  it.  I 
didn't  know  you  were  back  in  town." 

"I  am,"  Gia  said. 

"And  you  look  so  terrif — "  The  girl 
brought  her  hand  up  to  her  mouth,  to 
hide  a  hiccup.  "Terrific!" 


"Thank  you,"  said  Gia. 

"I  was  worried,"  the  girl  said,  her  face 
turning  suddenly  somber.  "Oh  boy,  I  was 
worried,  ever  since  I  heard  about  it,  you 
on  that  bridge — just  thinking  about  you 
staring  down  into  that  awful,  awful  water 
and  .  .  .  Gia,  I'm  so  glad  you're  all  right. 
And  here.  Back  with  us." 

The  girl  turned  to  Don,  for  the  first  time. 

"Life,  life,  it's  wonderful,  isn't  it?"  she 
asked. 

Don  didn't  answer.  Instead  he  looked 
back  at  Gia.  He  saw  the  tears  as  they 
began  to  come  to  her  eyes. 

"I  mean,  where'd  we  be  without  life?" 
he  heard  the  girl  say  and  giggle. 

He  reached  across  the  table  and  touched 
Gia's  hand. 

It  was  cold. 

"Come   on."   he   said,   rising   from  his 
chair,  "let's  get  out  of  here." 
Gia  rose,  too. 

Don  took  her  arm.  and  they  began  to 
walk  away. 

"Well  .  .  .  pardon  me  for  trying  to  be 
so  concerned!"  they  heard  the  girl  say  as 
they  left.  .  .  . 

A  little  spunk 

They'd  driven  back  in  silence. 

And  it  was  only  when  they  got  to  the 
door  of  Gia's  house  that  Don  spoke  and 
asked  if  he  could  come  inside  for  a  while. 

"Why,"  Gia  asked,  "haven't  I  made  your 
evening  unpleasant  enough?" 

Don  nodded. 

"Yep,"  he  said,  smiling,  "you've  been 
pretty  bad.  I  mean,  I've  been  out  with 
friendlier  girls  in  my  time.  Girls  who 
talked  to  me,  at  least." 

"I'm  sorry  about  that,  about  everything." 

"Too  late."  Don  said,  continuing  his 
tease.  "But  there  is  one  thing  you  can  do 
for  me."  He  brought  his  hands  up  to  his 
stomach.  "You  can  give  me  something  to 
eat.  Because  I'm  starving.  And  a  guy's 
gotta  eat  sometime!" 

"Oh,"  Gia  said,  "yes  .  .  .  Won't  you 
come  in  then?" 

Don  followed  her  through  the  foyer  and 
living  room  and  into  the  kitchen. 

"You'll  wait  outside  the  kitchen,  please," 
Gia  said.  "This  is  one  room  that  is  for 
the  women  and  only  the  women." 

Don  didn't  move. 

"Now  go  ahead,  vatene."  Gia  said.  "Go 
back  inside  and  make  yourself  a  little 
drink  if  you'd  like.  I  will  have  something 
ready  for  you  in  a  little  while." 

With  that,  she  took  Don's  arm  and 
turned  him  around. 

"Okay,  okay."  Don  said,  very  reluctant- 
sounding,  but  glad  deep-down  that  she  was 
finally  beginning  to  show  a  little  spunk.  . . . 

Don  had  put  some  records  on  the  phono- 
graph and  Sinatra  was  singing  a  moody 
ballad  when  Gia  walked  into  the  room. 

"Dance?"  Don  asked,  walking  over  to 
her. 

Gia  nodded.  "If  you'd  like,"  she  said. 

They  began  to  move  around  the  floor. 

"What's  cooking?"  Don  asked,  after  a 
few  moments. 

"Cosa?"  Gia  asked.  "What?" 

"Smells  like  something  good  coming 
from  the  kitchen,"  Don  said. 

"Oh,  the  calzone,"  Gia  said.  "Yes,  I  hope 
it  is  good." 

"Cal — who?"  Don  asked. 

"It's  an  Italian  dish."  Gia  said. 

"I  couldn't  have  guessed,"  said  Don. 

"It's  very  good,"  Gia  said.  "You'll  see. 
It's  a  dough  crust  and  inside  there  is  the 
two  cheeses — the  ricotta  and  the  mozza- 
rella." 

"And?"  Don  asked. 

"And  a  little  pepper  and  salt."  Gia  said. 
"And?" 

"And  a  glass  of  wine,  if  you'd  like." 

"For  a  hungerin'  man  like  me — a  couple 
of  slices  of  cheese  and  some  dough?"  Don 
asked,  holding  back  his  smile. 


"There  is  many  a  hungerin'  Italian  man." 
Gia  said,  "who  has  not  been  able  to  finish 
one  calzone.  I  have  made  you  three.  Just 
wait.  You  will  like  it  ...  I  do." 

"So  what  does  that  mean?"  Don  said.  "I 
bet  there  are  a  lot  of  things  that  I  like 
and  you  don't." 

"Maybe,"  Gia  said.  "For  instance?-' 

They  stopped  dancing. 

"Well,"  Don  said,  thinking  for  a  moment. 
" — do  you  like  a  foggy  day  at  the  beach, 
for  instance?" 

"No,"  Gia  said.  "I  like  a  sunny  da}-  at 
the  beach.  Much  sun.  Much." 

"Do  you  like  your  windows  open  way 
up.  all  the  way.  at  night?" 

"No,"  Gia  said,  "I  like  them  shut.  I  am 
afraid  when  they  are  open." 

"Mmmmm."  Don  said.  "Do — do  you  like 
sports  cars?" 

"I  would  prefer,"  said  Gia,  "if  I  could 
do  all  my  traveling  on  a  bicycle." 

"See?"  Don  said.  "You  don't  like  any- 
thing I  like.  But  still  you  expect  -me  to 
go  wild  over  your — " 

"Calzone."  Gia  said. 

"Yeah  .  .  .  cal-zo-ne,"  Don  said,  trying 
to  imitate  her  deep  accent. 

"Awful."  Gia  said.  "Your  pronunciation, 
it  is  so  awful." 

And  then,  suddenly,  she  began  to  laugh 
— a  happy,  heart}-,  open  laugh. 

"I  am  sorry,  Don,"  she  said,  after  a  few 
moments,  "it  is  impolite,  I  think,  for  a  girl 
to  laugh  so  much  and  so  loud.  But  it  just 
struck  me  very  funny — "  she  lowered  her 
eyes,  and  paused  " — and  I  have  not 
laughed  like  this  for  a  long  time,  for  a  very 
long  time." 

Don  took  her  chin  in  his  hand  and  lifted 
her  face  to  his. 

"Like  the  fly-boys  used  to  say:  Mission 
Accomplished,"  he  said. 

""What?"  Gia  asked. 

"It's  good  to  see  you  laugh,  Gia — that's 
what  I  said,"  Don  whispered.  "And  you 
want  to  know  something?  .  .  .  You  look 
more  beautiful  than  ever  when  you  laugh." 

They  looked  at  one  another  now. 

And  then  Don  kissed  her,  lightly,  on 
the  forehead  first,  then  on  the  lips. 

And  they  began  to  dance  again.  .  .  . 

The  need  to  be  needed 

Those  next  two  months  were  the  best 
either  of  them  had  ever  known. 

When  they  weren't  working — Gia  on  a 
picture,  Don  on  some  TV  assignments— 
they  were  together,  constantly.  They'd 
drive  to  the  beach,  on  foggy  days  and  on 
days  of  much  sun.  They'd  weekend  with 
friends  at  Lake  Arrowhead  or  up  in  Car- 
mel.  They'd  take  long  walks,  out  in  the 
country  sometimes,  right  through  the 
streets  of  Hollywood  other  times,  and 
they'd  talk  and  laugh  and  hold  hands,  as 
they  got  to  know  one  another. 

"I  love  you,  Gia,"  Don  said  suddenly 
one  afternoon  in  late  December,  as  they 
were  out  walking.  "I  want  to  marry  you." 

The  smile  that  had  been  on  Gia's  lips 
began  to  fade. 

"Don't  say  that,"  she  whispered, 
" — please." 

"Why  not?"  Don  asked.  "I  love  you," 
he  said.  'T  love  you." 

"And  I  think  I  love  you,  too."  Gia  said. 
She  nodded.  "Yes,  I  think  I  do.  .  .  .  But 
to  talk  of  marriage  already —  It  is  too  soon, 
Don.  We  haven't  known  each  other  long 
enough,  not  really." 

She  took  a  deep  breath. 

"And,"  Gia  said,  "I  must  be  sure,  before 
I  ever  say  yes  to  you,  Don,  I  must  be  sure 
that  you  need  me." 

"But  I  do  need  you,"  Don  said.  "That's 
why  I'm  asking  you  to  marry  me.  That's 
the  reason  any  guy  asks  a  girl  to  marry 
him,  isn't  it?" 

Gia  faced  him  again.  "I  mean  need  me," 
she  said.  "I  mean  need  me.  I  mean  the 
kind  of  need  that  is  not  satisfied  in  enjoy- 


ing my  company,  in  kissing  my  lips,  in 
talking  or  walking  or  being  together  with 
me  like  this.  I  mean  the  kind  of  need  that 
is  satisfied  in  knowing  that  I  will  be  the 
most  important  part  of  your  life,  forever 
and  ever.  In  knowing  that  I  must  be  the 
person  to  share  everything  with  you.  to 
help  you.  to  comfort  you.  to  be  with  you — 
forever.  ...  A  person  very  close  to  me 
once  said.  Don,  that  there  is  nothing  more 
difficult  in  life  than  finding  the  person 
who  truly  needs  you.  I  b  eh  eve  this." 

"We'll  give  it  time  then,  won't  we?"  Don 
said,  taking  hold  of  her  hand  again. 

"Yes,"  said  Gia.  "if  you  will  be  patient 
with  me.  For  one  way  or  another,  some- 
day, I  will  know.  .  .  ." 

Months  passed  during  which  Don  and 
Gia  grew  closer  and  closer,  and  yet  as 
though  they  mysteriously  understood  that 
the  right  time  had  not  come  for  them, 
neither  mentioned  marriage  again.  Then 
one  afternoon  in  March  Mrs.  Burnett 
phoned  Gia  at  her  studio  and  invited  her 
to  dinner  that  night.  At  6:30.  Gia  pulled 
up  to  the  house,  reached  for  a  little  present 
for  Don's  mother  and  got  out  of  the  car. 

Don  met  her  at  the  door  of  the  house. 

He  was  very  pale. 

His  hand  seemed  to  tremble  when  it  took 
hold  of  Gia's. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Gia  asked. 

"It's  Mom."  Don  said.  "She  was  in  the 
kitchen,  just  a  little  while  ago,  fixing 
dinner.  Suddenly  she  had  a  heart  attack. 
It  was  so  quick.  The  doctor's  with  her." 

He  led  Gia  into  the  living  room,  where 
Don's  father  was  sitting.  Gia  walked  over 
to  Mr.  Burnett,  whispered  something  to 
him  and  then  she  sat  beside  him  and 
across  from  Don. 

They  sat.  the  three  of  them,  in  silence, 
those  next  fifteen  minutes. 

Finally  a  door  opened  and  the  doctor 
appeared. 


"Mr.  Burnett,"  he  said,  his  voice  grim, 
"Don—" 

The  two  men  rose  and  followed  him 
back  out  of  the  room. 
Gia  sat  alone  now. 
She  waited. 

And  as  she  did.  she  closed  her  eyes  and 
remembered  the  phone  call  from  Mrs.  Bur- 
nett just  a  few  hours  earlier. 

"I'm  making  lamb,"  the  woman  had  said, 
"and  potatoes  nice  and  brown,  just  the 
way  you  and  Don  like  'em." 

Gia  remembered  how  she'd  said  no  at 
first,  that  she  couldn't  accept  the  invitation. 
"Twice  last  week,  twice  the  week  before. 
You're  going  to  too  much  trouble,  Mrs. 
Burnett." 

And  how  the  woman  had  said,  "Non- 
sense, Gia.  Dad  and  I  like  you  so  much, 
and  we  like  the  fact  that  Don  likes  you — 
and  we  just  wish  we  could  see  even  more 
of  you." 

"Lamb,  you  say?"  Gia  remembered  ask- 
ing, and  laughing.  "And  browned  potatoes?" 

"Just  the  way  you  and  Don  like  'em," 
she  remembered  Mrs.  Burnett  saying. 
"Now  be  sure  to  tell  those  producers  of 
yours  that  you  have  to  be  here  early,  6:30 
the  latest,  and — " 

Gia's  eyes  opened  suddenly. 

Don  had  come  back  into  the  room. 

She  could  tell,  immediately,  from  the 
look  on  his  face,  that  his  mother  was  dead. 

She  watched  him  as  he  walked  over  to 
where  she  sat,  as  he  sat  alongside  her. 

She  watched  his  fists  clench  in  his  lap. 

"Gia,"  he  said,  staring  at  the  floor,  "Help 
me.  I  need  you." 

Don  and  Gia  were  married  in  a  quiet 
and  beautiful  ceremony  in  Los  Angeles. 
California,  on  August  22.  1959.  END 

Gia  will  be  seen  in  Battle  Of  The  Coral 
Sea,  I  Aim  At  The  Stars,  both  Columbia.  67 


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JUST  OUT 

The  sensational  NEW 
story  about  the  town 
that  shocked  a  nation! 

RETURN  TO 
PEYTON 
PLACE 

by  Grace  Metalious 
A  DELL  BOOK       •  50<t 


The  Story  of  a  Hollywood  Wife 


(Continued  from  page  43) 


fame  came  in  that  I  began  to  lose  Jim. 

"When  I  first  met  Jim  he  was  living  like 
a  beachcomber  and  his  life  was  aimless 
and  lonely.  He'd  come  out  of  the  war  and 
didn't  know  what  he  wanted  to  do  with 
himself  I  was  lonely,  too.  I'd  just  gone 
through  an  unhappy  marriage  and  had  a 
little  boy.  I  wasn't  aware  of  it,  I  guess,  but 
I  was  looking  for  someone  who  needed  me. 
someone  whom  I  could  love  and  someone 
who  would  make  me  feel  like  a  woman 
again  after  my  marriage  failure. 

I  had  done  some  acting  at  the  Pasadena 
Playhouse  and  had  studied  theater  at 
UCLA.  A  friend  told  me  about  a  young 
veteran  who  seemed  to  show  some  rough 
talent  as  an  actor,  but  who  didn't  know 
how  to  develop  that  talent.  'He's  living 
like  a  drifter,'  said  my  friend.  'Maybe  you 
can  help  him.' 

"So  I  met  Jim.  I  was  both  shocked  and 
fascinated  by  him.  He  was  a  tall,  scowling 
string  bean.  He  wore  dirty  old  blue  jeans, 
he  needed  a  shave,  he  needed  a  good 
meal.  And  he  needed  someone  to  care  for 
him. 

"His  home  was  a  broken-down  car 
which  he'd  parked  on  the  sand  in  a  re- 
mote section  of  the  beach  near  San  Cle- 
mente.  He'd  sleep  in  the  sleeping  bag  on 
the  beach;  when  it  was  too  cold  he'd  sleep 
in  the  back  of  his  car.  To  eat,  he'd  steal 
food  from  the  farmers  and  go  into  the 
post  office  once  a  month  to  pick  up  his 
small  GI  check. 

"I  didn't  think  of  falling  in  love  when  I 
asked  to  meet  him.  I  thought  only  that 
perhaps  I  could  help  him  get  started  as  an 
actor,  by  sharing  with  him  some  of  the 
things  I  had  learned,  and  this  in  itself 
would  give  me  something  to  do  to  fill  my 
own  empty  life. 

He  had  nothing  then 

"Like  a  true  hermit,  he  was  angry  at  the 
whole  world,  and  when  I  met  him  he 
looked  down  at  his  feet  and  wouldn't  talk. 
Then  I  asked  him  if  we  couldn't  read  a 
play  together.  His  face  suddenly  lit  up  and 
he  began  to  come  alive.  We  talked  and  I 
discovered  that  once  he'd  lost  his  sullen- 
ness,  he  had  a  tremendous  charm. 

"We  began  to  see  each  other  first  as 
'teacher'  and  'pupil.'  We  read  plays  to- 
gether, we  worked  on  scripts.  And  we  fell 
in  love.  He  didn't  have  a  cent  and  nobody, 
at  that  time,  would  have  bet  a  nickel  on 
his  chances  of  ever  becoming  an  actor.  But 
I  saw  something  in  him.  Maybe  it  was 
through  the  eyes  of  a  woman  in  love.  I 
tried  to  tell  myself  that  I  was  looking  at 
him  only  as  a  'pupil.'  But  I  was  kidding 
myself.  The  more  I  was  with  him,  the  more 
deeply  in  love  I  fell.  Once  I  penetrated  the 
hostility  and  crudeness  on  the  surface  I 
discovered  a  great  magnetism  that  ran  like 
a  deep  well.  He  began  to  become  my  whole 
life. 

"We  were  married  in  Santa  Barbara  and 
I  started  married  life  with  a  man  who 
had  nothing  except  the  dreams  we  shared. 
My  father  let  us  live  in  an  old  flat  in  a 
huge  Victorian  house  he  owned.  To  save 
Jim's  pride,  we  paid  my  father  $20  a  month 
rent.  We  fixed  up  our  first  home  together. 
Jim  steamed  off  the  old,  ugly  wallpaper 
and  we  painted  and  papered  the  rooms 
ourselves.  Often  we'd  stop  in  the  middle 
of  our  work  just  to  hold  each  other  close 
and  kiss.  We  scrimped  but  we  were  very 
happy  because  we  were  doing  everything 
together. 

"Jim  was  getting  occasional  roles  in 
Westerns,  and  producers  were  beginning 
to  see  the  same  thing  in  him  that  I'd  always 
seen — a   vital   personality   and   a  rugged 


talent.  I  was  thoroughly  dedicated  to  him 
and  was  happy  to  be  so  involved  in  his 
life.  Those  first  years  of  our  marriage, 
when  we  didn't  have  a  dime,  were  the  hap- 
piest of  our  lives. 

"When  we  learned,  during  the  first  year, 
that  we  were  going  to  have  a  baby,  I  gave 
up  a  job  I  had  in  my  father's  company.  My 
parents  thought  it  wasn't  right  to  raise  a 
baby  in  a  cramped  little  flat  and  bought 
us  a  small  house  in  the  Pacific  Palisades, 
with  a  backyard  that  faced  the  ocean. 

The  beginning  of  the  end 

"By  the  time  our  second  baby,  Rolf, 
came  along,  seven  years  ago,  Jim  was  be- 
ginning to  do  well  as  an  actor.  He  was 
under  contract  to  John  Wayne  and  it 
looked  as  though  now,  with  Jim  finally 
getting  recognition,  we  would  be  heading 
for  certain  paradise.  But  it  didn't  turn  out 
that  way  at  all.  I  didn't  know  it  then,  but 
as  my  husband  came  into  his  own  as  an 
actor,  I  was  beginning  to  lose  him.  And 
lose  myself. 

"When  Jim  was  asked  to  go  on  location 
in  Honolulu  for  Wayne,  the  wives  were  in- 
vited to  go  along.  I'd  just  finished  nursing 
our  second  baby,  and  Jim  and  I  agreed  it 


I  guess  I'm  lucky. 
I've  never  really 
been  a  "wallflower: 
But  I  do  have 
some  advice  for 
any  girl  who  feels 
like  one;  read  the 
article  called  "The 
Girl  Who  Hunted 
Popularity"  in 
the  new  INGENUE 
Magazine. 


would  be  a  wonderful  second  honeymoon. 
I  went  off  to  the  Islands  with  Jim  joyously, 
never  dreaming  that  this  was  to  start  a 
disastrous  turn  in  our  marriage.  .  .  . 

"It  was  Jim's  first  experience  as  a  movie 
actor  in  an  important  production.  It  was 
my  first  experience  as  the  wife  of  a  lead- 
ing man.  The  social  life  with  this  film  com- 
pany in  Honolulu  was  fast  and  hectic.  Up 
until  now,  Jim  and  I  had  lived  very 
simple,  almost  elemental  lives.  In  our 
home  in  the  Palisades,  we'd  worked  and 
gardened  and  cooked  and  had  been 
wrapped  up  in  our  three  youngsters — Jim 
treated  my  son,  Craig,  like  his  own. 

"Now  suddenly  we  were  wrapped  up  in 
a  social  life  that  was  wild  and  intense.  It 
was  a  round  of  parties  that  lasted  until 
dawn.  Beautiful  women  began  to  go  on 
the  make  for  my  husband.  I  didn't  doubt 
his  faithfulness  then — I  could  see  that  Jim 
was  often  flustered  by  the  attention  he 
received.  He  didn't  know  how  to  take  it. 
This  was  the  first  taste  of  sophisticated 
living  Jim  had  ever  had.  He  didn't  know 
how  to  handle  it.  Neither  did  I.  I'd  beg 
Jim  to  leave  a  party  and  come  back  to 
the  hotel  with  me.  But  he  was  eating  it  all 
up  like  a  child  at  his  first  Christmas  party. 
He'd  never  had  any  of  this  kind  of  fun, 
and  he  was  enjoying  his  own  importance. 
There  had  been  no  other  woman  in  his 
life  before  myself,  and  it  flattered  him  to 
see  the  way  beautiful  women  fell  over  him. 

"But  I  wasn't  enjoying  these  parties.  I'd 


;ust  had  two  babies  in  a  row.  and  I  would 
ore  quickly.  Besides,  I  just  couldn't  keep 
up  with  this  fast  crowd.  I  would  beg  Jim 
:o  take  me  home,  but  he  didn't  want  to 
leave  any  of  the  parties.  Once,  I  couldn't 
Take  a  certain  party  any  longer.  Everyone 
vas  drinking,  several  women  were  hang- 
ing around  Jim  and  I  was  left  out  and 
miserable.  Finally,  after  asking  Jim  for  the 
dozenth  time  to  take  me  home,  he  turned 
to  me,  annoyance  on  his  face,  and  said. 
Don't  be  a  kill-joy.  I'm  having  fun.  If  you 
want  to  go.  youll  have  to  go  by  yourself.' 
Z  walked  home  from  the  party  myself,  cry- 
ing all  the  way.  It  was  our  first  big  quarrel. 

"From  that  time  on,  I  began  to  lose  my 
husband.  But  at  the  time  I  was  blind  to  it. 
Jim  was  set  for  Gunsmoke.  and  I  had  a 
feeling  that  this  would  make  him  a  star. 
I  was  glad  for  him.  and  I  think  a  little 
frightened,  too.  For  the  first  time,  when 
he'd  come  home  he  wouldn't  want  to  dis- 
cuss his  work  with  me.  We  had  shared 
everything  before,  so  I  couldn't  under- 
stand this. 

Wives  are  not  welcome 

"I  began  to  know  what  it  was  like  to 
be  the  wife  of  a  star.  To  so  many  women 
outside  of  Hollywood  who  lead  what  they 
think  are  humdrum  lives,  it  may  come  as 
a  shock  to  learn  that  the  'Hollywood  wife" 
is  a  very  forlorn  creature.  In  this  industry, 
wives  are  not  welcome.  Usually,  the  wife 
of  a  star  is  an  irritant  to  those  surround- 
ing her  husband.  She  is  often  merely  toler- 
ated, pushed  aside,  openly  informed  by 
producers  and  press  agents  how  much 
better  it  would  have  been  for  her  hus- 
band's career  if  he  had  no  wife  in  tow. 

"As  I  saw  Jim  drift  from  me,  he 
seemed  even  more  attractive  than  ever.  I 
had  fallen  in  love  with  him  when  he  was 
shabby,  penniless  and  hostile.  Now,  added 
to  the  natural  magnetic  personality  which 
began  to  emerge,  was  a  swagger  and  a 
self-confidence  that  made  him  more  at- 
tractive than  ever.  I  had  a  great  yearning 
to  be  with  him.  A  yearning  that  became 
frustrating  because  I  couldn't  have  him. 

"I  tried  to  win  my  husband  all  over 
again.  At  night  I  would  dress  up  for  him. 
look  my  best  as  though  waiting  for  a 
lover.  But  after  sitting  up  until  late,  and 
Jim  still  not  home,  I'd  doze  off.  Or  else, 
I'd  be  so  upset  that  when  he  did  come 
home  he'd  find  me  red-eyed  and  nervous, 
and  less  desirable  than  I'd  ever  been. 

"As  I  saw  Jim  slipping  away  from  me,  I 
felt  that  part  of  myself  was  slipping  away. 
I  found  myself  crying  during  the  day.  Poor 
Jim,  it  probably  was  hard  on  him.  too, 
to  come  home  to  a  woman  who  was  upset. 
I  couldn't  contain  my  fears  any  longer.  "I 
want  to  be  part  of  you,'  I  remember  once 
saying,  my  voice  rising  hysterically.  'I 
want  to  be  part  of  you:'  Jim  looked  at  me 
coldly,  and  walked  out.  Our  house  was 
Elled  with  cold,  empty  silences.  And  inside 
of  me  that  great  longing  to  be  Jim's  sweet- 
heart again.  God,  I  loved  him  so. 

Couldn't  live  without  him 

"He  kept  telling  me  to  get  a  divorce  if 
i[  was  so  unhappy.  It  was  a  simple  solu- 
::on  for  him,  but  not  for  me.  I  was  tied 
:d  him  body  and  soul.  I  couldn't  make  him 
understand  that  I  couldn't  divorce  him  be- 
cause I  couldn't  five  without  him. 

"The  silences  were  interrupted  only  by 
luarrels.  One  night  there  was  a  terrible 
:uarrel.  I  said,  merely  as  a  bluff,  'I  guess 
:ne  time  has  come  for  me  to  get  a  divorce.' 
kVishful  thinking — I  had  hoped  he  would 
:ecome  frightened  and  hold  me  in  his 
arms  and  say,  'No,  I  don't  want  to  lose 
•  ou/  Instead,  he  seemed  relieved  and 
aid,  'Okay.  A  divorce.  It's  best."  And 
.e  walked  out. 

"I  couldn't  take  it.  How  does  a  woman 
orget  the  man  she  loves?  How  does  she 
earn  to  live  without  the  man  who's  been 


her  whole  life  for  ten  years?  I  couldn't  get 
Jim  out  of  my  mind.  There  followed  long, 
black  nights  that  even  sleeping  pills 
couldn't  shorten,  and  long,  grey  days  in 
which  I  mostly  lay  in  a  stupor.  I  begged 
Jim  to  come  back.  His  voice  was  final:  "No. 
I  don't  love  you..' 

"My  family  worried  about  me.  They 
urged  me  to  take  a  trip  around  the  world 
to  forget.  Forget!  Paris,  London.  Vienna 
were  six  thousand  miles  away,  but  when  I 
was  there  I  saw  Jim's  face  in  the  crowds. 
Hong  Kong  was  a  blur — all  I  wanted  was 
to  be  with  Jim.  It  was  worst  of  all  in 
Honolulu.  This  was  the  last  stop  on  my 
two  months'  global  trip.  I  was  very  nervous 
when  I  got  off  the  plane.  A  heavy,  warm 
wind  brought  back  a  thousand  old  mem- 
ories— memories  of  the  time,  seven  years 
before,  when  Jim  and  I  had  been  here  to- 
gether. True,  misunderstandings  had  be- 
gun to  arise  between  us  then,  but  Jim 
had  been  with  me.  his  love  had  not  turned 
to  coldness  and  there  was  still  a  magic 
about  our  marriage.  Memories  over- 
whelmed me  as  I  stared  out  at  the  tall,  old 
palms  that  lined  the  streets  as  the  taxi 
drove  me  to  the  Royal  Hawaiian  Hotel.  I 
broke  down  and  cried  in  the  taxi,  feeling 
unbearably  lonery.  I  left  my  bags  in  my 
room  and  walked  down  the  beach  myself, 
my  head  throbbing.  "Jim  .  .  .  Jim."  I  sobbed 
to  the  waves.  I  ran  back  to  the  hotel.  In 
my  room  I  put  through  a  call  to  him.  The 
walls  seemed  to  close  in  on  me  as  I  waited 
for  Jim  to  get  on  the  phone.  'Jim,'  I  cried, 
'let's  try  again.  I'm  so  lost  without  you. 
I  can't  go  on.'  The  room  pressed  in  on  me 
as  I  heard  his  words,  slow  and  deliberate. 
'No.  Virginia.  No.  You'd  better  forget  it.' 

"That's  when  I  fell  completely  to  pieces. 
I  stumbled  toward  the  bathroom.  Things 
didn't  appear  very-  real  any  more.  I  looked 
for  the  razor.  I  curled  up  in  the  bathtub, 
my  head  on  a  towel,  and  I  waited  for  ob- 
livion. When  I  felt  the  razor  against  my 
wrist,  I  relished  the  hurt.  I  thought  the 
physical  pain  would  stop  my  other  pain. 

"I  had  almost  passed  out  when  someone 
shook  me  and  I  heard  voices  in  a  foggy 
world  say,  'She'll  be  okay.'  During  the 
drive  to  the  emergency  hospital  I  was  told 
that  Jim  had  become  alarmed  at  the  des- 
peration in  my  voice  and  had  notified  the 
police  in  Honolulu  to  look  in  on  me.  My 
cuts  were  treated,  my  wrists  bandaged  at 
the  hospital.  And  then,  my  body  drained 
of  blood,  my  heart  drained  of  hope,  I  got 
on  the  plane  for  home.  .  .  . 

"Yes,  it  was  a  foolish  tning  I  did.  I  lost 
my  head.  Friends  tell  me  I  was  lucky  I 
didn't  lose  my  life.  They  say  I'll  get  over 
this  and  find  happiness  again.  There  are 
three  children  who  need  me.  I  forgot 
everything  and  everyone  in  the  pain  of 
loving  just  one  man.  Now  I  know  I  have 
lost  him,  and  I  must  learn  to  five  without 
him.  Dear  God,  please  show  me  how."  END 


PERMANENT  DARKE NER 
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NAME  

ADDRESS  

TOWN  STAT 


□  3  : 


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7021  Santa  M 


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I 


NAME  

ADDRESS  - 
CITY  


FEBRUARY 
BIRTHDAYS 

If  your  birthday  falls  in  February,  your 
birthstone  is  the  amethyst  and  your  flow- 
er is  the  violet  or  primrose.  And  here  are 
some  of  the  stars  who  share  your  birthday: 


February  1— 

February  4— 

February  5- 

February  6- 


February  8- 
February  9- 
February  10- 

February  11- 
February  12- 
February  13- 

February  15- 
February  16— 

February  18- 
February  19— 
February  20- 

February  21— 

February  22- 
February  23— 
February  24- 


-  Clark  Gable 

-Ida  Lupino 

-Red  Buttons 

-Mamie  Van  Dorei 
Zsa-Zsa  Gabor 
John  Lund 
Ronald  Reagan 

-Lana  Turner 

-Kathryn  Grayson 

-Jimmy  Durante 
Robert  Keith 
Robert  Wagner 

-Leslie  Nielsen 

-Forrest  Tucker 

-Kim  Novak 
Lyle  Bettger 

-Kevin  McCarthy 

-Peggy  King 
Vera-EIIen 

-Jack  Palance 

-Lee  Marvin 

-Norma  Moore 
Patricia  Smith 

Dane  Clark 
Guy  Mitchell 

-Robert  Young 

-Race  Gentry 

Barbara  Lawrence 
Marjorie  Main 


February  26 — Betty  Hutton 
Peter  Lorre 
Tony  Randall 


February  27 — 
February  29 — Arthur  Franz 


Joan  Bennett 
Elizabeth  Taylor 
Reginald  Gardiner 


Sir  Cedric  Hardwicke     Thelma  Ritter 

February  9  February  14 


The  House  of  Terrified  Women 


Adolphe  Menjou 

70  February  18 


Ann  Sheridan 

February  21 


{Continued  from  page  28) 

dreaming,  with  her  large  blue  eyes  wide 
open,  peering  through  the  darkness,  and 
beyond  that  darkness  .  .  .  dreaming  back 
to  an  actual  night  in  her  life,  nine  years 
ago,  when  she  was  eleven. 

She  remembered  it  so  well,  so  vividly, 
her  first  night  in  show  business.  Her 
parents  had  driven  her  to  the  radio  sta- 
tion. Her  uncle,  Bing,  had  taken  her 
hand  and  led  her  into  the  studio  and  over 
to  the  microphone.  "And  now  folks,  I'd 
like  to  introduce,"  he  had  said,  "a  brand 
new  singer,  a  sweet  kid,  my  niece  .  .  . 
Miss  Cathy  Crosby!"  There  had  been  ap- 
plause, she  remembered.  Then  silence. 
And  then  she  had  begun  to  sing  her  song, 
Dear  Hearts  and  Gentle  People. 

Remembering,  dreaming  back,  she  be- 
gan to  hum  that  same  song  now. 

She  stopped  suddenly  when  she  heard 
the  footsteps  outside  her  door. 

She  figured  that  it  was  probably  a  night 
nurse,  making  her  rounds,  listening  at 
doorways  to  see  if  you  were  asleep. 

So  she  stopped  her  singing,  and  she 
waited,  in  the  darkness,  staring  vacantly 
at  a  shadow  on  the  wall  ahead  of  her, 
until  the  footsteps — having  stopped,  too — 
moved  on  down  the  long  and  silent  hall- 
way of  this  place,  this  hospital,  this  in- 
stitution, as  some  people  called  it. 

And  then,  once  again,  still  sitting  up  in 
her  bed,  the  beautiful  girl  with  the  large 
blue  eyes  continued  with  her  song.  .  .  . 

Preying  on  his  mind 

It  was  a  few  minutes  after  10:40  that 
night  when  Bob  Crosby  entered  the  big 
house  at  220  N.  Layton  Drive.  He  parked 
the  golf  clubs  he  was  carrying  in  a  foyer 
closet  (he'd  been  playing  that  afternoon 
with  Vice  President  Richard  Nixon  and 
actors  Robert  Sterling  and  George  Mur- 
phy) and  he  walked  into  the  living  room. 

His  wife,  June,  was  upstairs  at  the  time, 
in  her  eight-year-old  daughter  Malia's 
bedroom.  The  little  girl  had  been  suffer- 
ing from  a  bad  cold  all  that  day,  she  had 
a  slight  fever  now,  she  couldn't  sleep,  and 
June  had  been  sitting  with  her  this  past 
hour  or  so  reading  to  her. 

When  June  heard  her  husband  enter, 
she  lay  down  the  book,  got  up  from  her 
chair  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"Bob,"  she  called,  when  she  saw  him. 

She  waited  for  him  to  answer. 

Instead,  she  saw,  he  stood  there  mo- 
tionless, in  the  center  of  the  living  room 
for  a  moment,  mumbling  to  himself;  and 
then  he  began  to  walk  towards  the  big 
mirrored  cabinet  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room,  the  cabinet  where  the  whisky  was. 

June  turned  now,  too,  and  walked  back 
into  Malia's  room,  leaving  the  door  open 
behind  her. 

"What's  the  matter?"  the  little  girl  asked, 
softly,  from  her  bed,  seeing  the  look  of 
worry,  and  fear,  in  her  mother's  eyes. 

"Nothing,"  June  whispered. 

"Is  Daddy  home?" 

June  nodded. 

Then  she  walked  over  to  the  little  girl's 
bed  and  took  her  hand  in  hers. 

It  was  preying  on  his  mind,  June  knew — 
preying  on  his  mind,  terribly.  She  could 
tell  by  the  way  he  had  looked  a  moment 
before.  She  could  tell  by  the  way  he  had 
looked  that  morning,  when  they'd  gone  to 
have  a  talk  with  Cathy's  doctor. 

"What  do  you  mean  a  complete  break- 
down?" he'd  asked  the  doctor  then.  "I 
thought  she  only  needed  a  week  here. 
And  now  it's  a  month  and  she's  still  here. 
.  .  .  What  do  you  mean  a  complete  break- 
down, a  mental  breakdown?"  he'd  asked 


the  doctor. 

June's  hand,  still  clutching  Malia's,  be- 
gan to  tremble  now. 

"Mommy,"  the  little  girl  asked,  "are  you 
all  right,  Mommy?" 

"Yes,"  June  said.  "Yes.  Shhhhh.  Yes." 

She  looked  away  from  her  daughter  and 
towards  the  door  again. 

She  wished  that  her  sons,  Chris  and 
Bobby  and  Steve,  were  back  home  from 
that  party  they'd  gone  to. 

She  wished,  with  all  her  heart,  that 
Cathy  were  home,  too,  instead  of  in  that 
place.  .  .  . 

Something  is  wrong 

Cathy  got  out  of  her  bed  and  rushed  to 
a  chair  near  the  window  and  sat. 

The  feeling  of  faintness  had  overtaken 
her  suddenly.  She'd  been  singing  one. 
moment,  remembering  the  nice  tune,  the  ' 
nice  night.  And  then  her  head  had  begun 
to  spin  and  the  tightness  had  grabbed  at 
her  stomach  and  she'd  felt  sick. 

Something  is  wrong,  she  thought,  sit- 
ting on  the  chair  now,  looking  out  the 
window,  at  the  night.  Somewhere,  some- 
how, something  is  wrong. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  tight. 

She  didn't  want  to  think  about  trouble. 

The  doctor  had  told  her  that  she  was 
here  to  rest,  that  she  must  rest  as  much 
as  possible,  and  think  pleasant  thoughts, 
especially  at  night,  at  bedtime. 

She  had  tried,  too.  Tried  very  hard. 
Every  night  this  past  long  month. 

But  it  was  no  use  trying  now. 

Because  she  knew,  deep  down  inside 
herself,  that  there  was  trouble. 

And  she  thought  of  her  father. 

She  saw  him  very  clearly,  though  her 
eyes  were  still  closed. 

He  was  standing  in  front  of  her,  looking 
at  her.  saying  nothing. 

He  stood  there  for  what  seemed  to  be 
a  very  long  time.  And  then  he  stepped 
back,  back  away  from  her,  back  in  time, 
and  into  the  den  of  their  house. 

He'd  yelled  at  her  mother  that  night. 
Cathy  remembered.  He'd  yelled  long  and 
loud.  He'd  yelled  so  much  that  Cathy, 
nine  years  old  then,  listening  from  the 
staircase,  had  run  over  to  him  and  begged 
him  to  stop.  He'd  ordered  her  up  to  her 
room  instead.  And  she'd  gone.  And  for  hah 
an  hour  more,  an  hour  more,  she'd  heard 
the  yelling  continue.  Till  finally  it  had 
ended  and  her  mother  had  come  to  her 
room  and  they'd  both  sat  and  cried. 

"Does  it  mean  .  .  .  when  Daddy  fights 
with  you  .  .  .  does  it  mean  he  doesn't  love 
you  any  more?"  Cathy  had  asked  her 
mother  that  night. 

"Of  course  he  loves  me,  baby,"  her 
mother  had  said,  wiping  away  her  tears.; 
and  her  daughter's.  "This  was  just  an- 
argument.  He's  nervous  about  his  work. 
Something  happened  today  and — " 

She'd  paused. 

"Today  he  got  a  wire,"  she'd  said  then. 
"It  was  from  this  booking  agent  in  Atlantic 
City.  This  man  said  he'd  just  heard  that 
Daddy  doesn't  like  any  mention  of  his . 
brother  in  any  advertising,  for  any  show- 
he  and  the  band  are  scheduled  to  do.  And 
this  man.  he  wired  that  either  he  be  al- 
lowed to  advertise  daddy  as  'Bing  Crosby's 
brother,'  or  else  not  to  bother  to  come. 

"And  so  Daddy  was  nervous  tonight. 
And  he  had  to  pick  on  somebody.  And 
he  picked  on  me. 

"It's  all  happened  before.  It'll  happen 
again  ...  I  guess  that's  just  the  way  it's 
got  to  be." 

"And  the  fights  you  have,"  Cathy  had 


asked,  when  her  mother  was  finished  ex- 
plaining, "they  don't  mean  that  Daddy 
doesn't  love  you  any  more?" 

'"Of  course  not,"  June  had  said. 

"Because  if  he  doesn't  love  you,"  Cathy 
had  said,  "how  could  he  love  me — or  any- 
body ....?" 

"He  loves  us,  you  and  me,"  her  mother 
had  said.   "Very  much.  .  .  .  Believe  me." 

"I  hope  so,  Mommy,"  Cathy  had  said.  "I 
hope  so.  .  .  ." 

"I  wish  we  were  closer  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  I  hoped  so,  so  much,"  she  said  to 
herself  now,  sitting  there  in  that  hospital 
room,  alone,  remembering. 

And  as  she  said  that,  she  saw  his  face 
again,  in  front  of  her,  pale  and  angry. 

This  time  he  was  yelling  at  her. 

"Who  were  you  out  with  tonight?"  he 
asked. 

"Dino,"  Cathy  said. 

"I  told  you  to  stop  seeing  him,"  he  said. 

"I  love  him,  Daddy,"  Cathy  said. 

"I  don't  care,"  he  said.  "He's  too  old  for 
you,  for  just  one  thing." 

"Thirteen  years  difference  isn't  that 
much,"  Cathy  said. 

"He's  divorced,"  her  father  said.  "Doesn't 
that  mean  anything  to  you  as  a  Catholic?" 

"I  love  him,"  Cathy  said.  "That's  all 
that  means  anything  to  me  right  now." 

Her  father's  voice  became  louder. 

"Have  I  denied  you  anything,  before, 
ever,  in  your  life?"  he  asked.  ".  .  .  How 
many  other  seventeen-year-old  girls  have 
gotten  all  the  things  I've  given  you?" 

"Not  many,"  Cathy  whispered,  almost 
methodically,  looking  down. 

"You  have  a  convertible,  pink  and  black, 
just  the  way  you  like  it?" 

"Yes." 

"You  have  pretty  clothes?    Closets  of 
them?" 
"Yes." 

"Have  you  gotten  everything  from  me 
you've  ever  wanted?" 
This  time  Cathy  didn't  answer. 
"Well?"  he  asked. 

Cathy  looked  up  and  stepped  towards 
him  and  put  her  arms  around  him.  "Some- 
times," she  said,  "sometimes,  Daddy,  I've 
wished  we  could  have  been  closer  to  each 
other.  Sometimes  I've  wished  there  could 
have  been  fewer  fights  between  us.  Like 
now,  Daddy.  I  know  you're  thinking  about 
me.  Itfs  for  her  own  good — I  know  that's 
what  you're  saying  to  yourself  through  all 
this.  Just  like  you  said  the  other  times, 
with  any  other  boyfriends  I  ever  had, 
when  you  told  me  to  get  rid  of  them.  'It's 
for  her  own  good'  you're  telling  yourself, 
and — " 

But  her  father  didn't  seem  to  be  listen- 
ing to  her. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  see  this  Dino  Cas- 
telli  anymore,"  he  said,  interrupting. 

"I  love  him,"  Cathy  said. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  see  him,"  he  said, 
"and,  for  the  time  being,  I  don't  want  you 
getting  interested  in  anyone  .  .  .  You're 
still  just  a  baby,  Cathy.  Remember  that. 
You  don't  know  what  you're  doing.  You're 
like  most  kids  today.  With  crazy  ideas 
about  life,  romance,  everything.  New- 
fangled ideas  about  morality.  Bad  ideas. 
You  take  the  Ten  Commandments,  and  if 
there's  one  of  them  you  don't  like — " 

He  stopped,  and  he  removed  Cathy's 
hands  from  around  his  waist. 

"Now  get  to  bed,"  he  said. 

"Something  I'm  not  guilty  of  .  .  ." 

Cathy  didn't  move. 

"Did  you  hear  me?  Get  to  bed,"  he  said. 
'And  from  this  moment  on  I  want  you  to 
start  acting  respectable."  He  shouted  the 
word.  "Respectable!" 

"I  haven't  done  anything  wrong,"  Cathy 
said,  still  not  moving. 

"Oh  Daddy,  oh  Daddy,"  Cathy  said, 
fighting  back  the  tears.    "What  do  you 


want  from  me?  What  do  you  expect  me 
to  do?  Do  you  want  me  to  go  upstairs  and 
lock  myself  in  my  room  and  stay  there 
the  rest  of  my  life?  Do  you  want  me  to 
get  on  my  knees  and  beg  your  forgiveness 
for  something  I'm  not  guilty  of?" 
She  gasped. 

"Or  do  you  just  want  me  to  go  away?" 
she  asked,  suddenly. 

He  turned  back  to  her. 

"Is  that  what  you  really  want  to  do,"  he 
asked,  "go  away?" 

Cathy  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  know. 
...  I  don't  know  what  I  want  any  more, 
Daddy,"  she  said.   "I'm  so  confused." 

"I've  said  what  I  have  to  say,"  he  told 
her.  "Now  you  do  what  you  want." 

"Please,  Daddy — "  Cathy  started  to  say. 

"And  if  you  do  go,"  he  cut  in,  "be  sure 
to  leave  your  car  keys.  I'll  call  you  a  cab." 

And  with  that  he  left  the  room.  .  .  . 

The  memories  of  what  had  happened 
after  that  moment  rushed  through  Cathy's 
mind  now.  The  cab  that  came  to  pick  her 
up  the  next  day.  The  flight  to  that  tiny 
apartment  on  Dohany  Drive.  The  two 
years  on  her  own,  making  ends  meet  with 
the  money  she  got  from  a  few  scattered 
nightclub  and  TV  appearances.  The  break- 
ing off  with  Dino  in  that  time.  The  com- 
plete loneliness — broken  only  by  occa- 
sional secret  visits  with  her  mother.  The 
attempt  at  a  reconciliation  with  her  father 
last  April,  arranged  and  prayed  for  by  her 
mother.  The  dinner  at  home  again  that 
night.  The  smiles  from  her  dad.  The  hug- 
ging and  the  kissing  and  the  tears  of  joy. 
And  then — a  few  weeks  later — the  fights 
again,  the  bitter  tears  again,  the  bad  words 
all  over  again,  just  like  the  old  days.  Until 
there  was  another  flight,  another  apart- 
ment, another  period  of  terrible  loneliness 
and  confusion. 

Until  there  came  that  night,  last  month, 
when  she  could  cope  with  it  no  longer. 

And  she  collapsed. 

And  she  was  brought  here,  to  this 
place.  .  .  . 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  rose  from  her 
chair  and  walked  across  the  dark  little 
room  to  a  sink. 

She  filled  a  glass  with  water  and  brought 
it  to  her  lips. 

There's  trouble  again,  she  thought, 
—tonight.  I  know. 

The  house  of  terrified  women 

At  the  big  house,  at  that  moment,  Bob 
Crosby  put  down  the  glass  he'd  been  hold- 
ing, rose  and  went  to  Malia's  room. 

According  to  June,  his  wife,  this  is  what 
happened  next: 

"He  walked  into  the  room  and  I  could 
see  he  was  feeling  belligerent,  that  some- 
thing was  wrong.  I  suppose  he  had  been 
drinking  quite  a  bit.  He  usually  does 
drink.  I  wanted  to  ask  him  where  he'd 
been  since  his  golf  game  ended.  Except 
that  I'm  not  supposed  to  ask.  He  has  a 
persecution  complex.  He  thinks  everyone 
is  against  him. 

"Yes,  I  could  see  that  something  was 
wrong,  by  the  way  he  was  still  talking  to 
himself,  by  the  look  in  his  eyes.  I  didn't 
want  any  trouble  in  the  baby's  room.  So 
I  ■  got  off  her  bed  and  went  to  another 
room.  I  called  our  doctor  and  asked  him 
if  there  was  anything  I  could  do.  The 
doctor  said  no,  just  to  keep  quiet  and  not 
to  get  into  an  argument  with  him. 

"I  went  back  to  Malia's  room,  to  see  if 
he  was  still  there.  He  was.  As  soon  as  he 
saw  me  this  time  he  began  to  shout.  It  was 
something  about  where  were  the  boys  and 
why  weren't  they  home  yet.  I  know  it 
was  mostly  Cathy's  being  in  the  hospital 
that  was  preying  on  his  mind.  But  he 
didn't  mention  that. 

"Then,  suddenly,  in  the  presence  of 
Malia,  he  began  to  walk  over  towards  me 
and  he  began  to  beat  me.  He  beat  me 
unmercifully.   He  hit  me  about  the  head 


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new  movies 

(Continued  from  page  6) 


HOUND-DOG  MAN 

country  living 


Fabian 
Carol  Lynley 
Stuart  Whitman 
Arthur  O'Connell 
Betty  Field 


■  Fabian  wants  to  go  hunting  with  the  hound- 
dog  man  (Stuart  Whitman).  Fabian's  dad, 
Arthur  O'Connell,  convinces  Betty  Field  that 
their  son  is  old  enough  to  let  go  of  her  apron 
strings.  Off  he  and  his  kid  brother  trot.  They 
don't  go  far  before  they  meet  Carol  Lynley 
and  friend.  Whitman,  who  doesn't  believe 
much  in  marriage,  (and  who  would  take  in 
all  those  hounds?)  should  never  have  set 
eyes  on  Carol.  He  and  the  boys  turn  up  at 
her  family's  farm  with  a  turkey  and  some 
sassy  behavior  that  gets  them  kicked  right 
back  onto  the  trail  again.  There  they  find 
one  of  their  pals  lying  helpless  in  a  ditch 
(broken  leg)  and  Fabian  rides  into  town  for 
the  doctor.  After  the  leg-setting  there's  a  big 
party  to  which  the  whole  county  comes. 
Fabian  sings,  everybody  dances  in  the  barn. 
Fabian  stops  singing  when  he  sees  his  girl 
(Dodie  Stevens)  snuggling  up  to  another  fel- 
low. All  the  music  stops  when  a  jealous  husband 
tries  to  blast  Whitman  out  of  a  hayloft. 
Fabian's  father  is  the  only  man  in  the  crowd 
who'll  stand  up  to  the  bully.  Makes  Fabian 
decide  home  isn't  such  a  bad  place  after  all, 
not  with  a  man  like  his  father  in  it.  It's  a 
homespun,  happy  kind  of  movie. — Cinema- 
scope, 20th- Fox. 


HAPPY  ANNIVERSARY 

a  husband  confesses 


David  Niven 
Mitzi  Gaynor 
Carl  Reiner 
Monique  Van  Vooren 
Patty  Duke 


■  For  nearly  thirteen  years  David  Niven  and 
his  bride  (Mitzi  Gaynor)  have  been  living  in 
Gramercy  Park.  It's  been  swell.  He's  successful, 
she's  chic,  the  kids  (Kevin  Coughlin,  Patty 
Duke)  are  understanding.  And  a  TV  set  has 
never  crossed  the  threshold.  Until  tonight,  the 
eve  of  their  13th  anniversary.  The  TV  set 
crosses,  followed  by  its  donors — Mitzi's 
mother  and  father.  David  tries  to  control  him- 
self all  through  a  champagne  dinner.  Finally 
he  lets  the  cat  out  of  the  bag.  Yes,  we've 
been  legally  married  thirteen  years,  he  says. 
But  illegally?  Ha-ha.  Fourteen.  The  thought 
of  that  first,  illegal  year  sends  his.  in-laws 
home  in  a  helpless  rage.  Niven  kicks  in  the 
TV  screen.  Mitzi  locks  the  bedroom  door. 
Patty  goes  on  a  TV  show  to  discuss  her 
parents'  pre-marital  problems  before  a  panel 
of  her  peers.  By  this  time,  a  second  TV  set 
has  arrived  in  the  Niven  home.  Just  in  time 
for  Niven  to  kick  in  the  screen.  So  much  for 
his  marriage.  He's  through.  His  in-laws  are 
through,  too.  Niven's  business  partner  (Carl 
Reiner)  and  a  client,  divorcee  Monique  Van 
Vooren,  are  in  and  out  trying  to  patch  things 
up.  It's  much  ado  about  not  very  much,  but 
the  acting's  pleasant.- — United  Artists. 

THE  FLYING  FONTAINES       Joan  Evans 
Michael  Callan 

,  Roger  Perry 

daring  young  men  Evy  Norlund 

Joe  de  Santis 

■  Out  of  the  Army,  Michael  Callan  returns  to 
the  'big  top'  where  he  was  a  star  on  the  flying 
trapeze.  First  disappointment:  his  old  girl 
(Joan  Evans)  has  married  his  old  catcher  (on 
the  trapeze)  Roger  Perry.  Second  disappoint- 
ment: Mike  thinks  he's  found  a  new  girl  (Evy 
Norlund)  but  she's  engaged  to  Rian  Garrick 
who  replaced  Mike  in  the  air.  Third  disap- 


pointment: Mike's  father  (Joe  de  Santis) 
hasn't  changed  a  bit;  he  still  thinks  Mike 
needs  more  training  before  he  can  join  the 
biggest  circus  of  all,  Ringling  Brothers.  Well, 
all  of  this  could  drive  a  boy  to  drink.  But  when 
a  boy's  drunk  he  shouldn't  try  to  fly.  In  an  at- 
tempt to  save  Mike's  neck  Rian  Garrick  falls 
and  breaks  a  few  bones,  which  makes  him 
afraid  ever  after  of  trapezes.  Rian  becomes  a 
bitter  clown;  he's  bitter  because  his  girl,  Evy, 
likes  Mike  more  and  more.  Mike,  the  show-off, 
does  good  deeds — such  as  not  handing  Rian 
over  to  the  cops  when  Rian  cuts  a  rope  that 
holds  up  the  trapeze,  such  as  telling  Joan  to 
go  back  to  her  husband  when  Joan  decides 
to  make  a  play  for  him.  If  only  Rian  would 
stop  seeking  revenge  everything  would  be 
okay.  The  movie  picks  up  whenever  it's  fo- 
cused on  the  circus  itself. — Technicolor, 
Columbia. 

A  TOUCH  OF  LARCENY 

Vera  Miles 
George  Sanders 

outrageous  comedy  Harry  Townes 

Robert  Fleming 

■  Once  a  war  hero,  never  a  husband,  James 
Mason  is  the  freest  soul  in  the  British 
Admiralty.  That  is,  he  is  the  freest  with 
women.  Women  adore  him,  even  married 
women,  even  women  who  ought  to  know 
better.  Like  American  widow  Vera  Miles.  Vera 
has  come  to  London  to  marry  George  Sanders 
who  has  a  rather  stilted  charm  but,  con- 
sidering his  vast  wealth  and  potentialities  as 
a  diplomat  (he's  about  to  become  an  ambas- 
sador), it  sits  well  on  him.  When  George 
dashes  off  to  Brussels  (duty  calls)  James 
spirits  Vera  onto  a  sailboat.  Marry  you?  she 
says,  shakily,  don't  be  silly.  James  admits 
that  the  only  asset  he  lacks  is  money  but  he 
has  a  fantastic  scheme  to  get  some — loads 
of  some.  His  idea  is  to  overstay  his  naval 
leave,  after  hiding  a  top  secret  file,  and  to 
shipwreck  himself.  While  he  is  sitting  com- 
fortably on  a  little  island  the  newspapers 
will  accuse  him  of  delivering  information  to 
a  rival  power.  Then  he  has  only  to  return, 
prove  his  innocence  and  sue  the  press  for 
defamation  of  character.  You  wouldn't,  you 
couldn't — says  Vera,  completely  enchanted.  Of 
course  he  would  and  he  could  and  he  does. 
He  is  a  terrible  fraud.  And  the  worse  he  be- 
haves the  more  delightful  this  movie  gets. — 
Paramount. 


RECOMMENDED  MOVIES: 

THE  BEST  OF  EVERYTHING  (20th-Fox) :  Point 
One:  All  the  men  in  New  York  are  either  immoral, 
amoral,  married  or  drunk,  and  they  all  seem  to 
work  at  the  Fabian  Publishing  Co.  Point  two:  all 
the  appealing  ladies  (Joan  Crawford,  Diane  Baker, 
Suzy  Parker,  Hope  Lange,  Martha  Hyer)  who  also 
toil  for  Fabian  become  hopelessly  involved  with  these 
no-goods.  The  somewhat  forlorn  message  here  seems 
to  be  that  true  love  and  careers  do  not  always  mix 
well. 


BELOVED  INFIDEL  (20th-Fox) :  F.  Scott  Fitzger- 
ald, outstanding  American  novelist,  had  a  romance 
with  Sheilah  Graham,  Hollywood  columnist.  A  nat- 
ural for  a  movie?  You  bet!  Gregory  Peck  and  Deb- 
orah Kerr,  as  the  lovers,  are  introduced  by  Peck's 
friend  Eddie  Albert  (playing  the  late  Robert  Bench- 
ley).  Peck's  much-loved  wife  has  been  ill  for  years, 
be  drinks,  his  writing  is  nearly  nil.  But,  the  romance 
which  begins  on  this  doomed  note  brings  happiness 
too  late  for  Peck,  just  in  time  for  Deborah. 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  MARY  DEARE  (MOM): 
There's  a  gale  blowing  in  the  English  Channel  and 
two  ships  collide  in  the  night.  Charlton  Heston  and 
Ben  Wright,  aboard  the  Sea  Witch,  find  the  Mary 
Deare  in  flames,  with  one  lifeboat  and  sailing  to  a 
rocky  graveyard.  Captain  Gary  Cooper,  the  almost- 
mad  sole  survivor,  grabs  Heston  from  behind.  When 
the  Captain  calms  down,  he  finally  begins  the  strange 
story  that  ends  in  a  London  Court  of  Inquiry. 


and  nose  and  he  broke  one  of  my  ribs. 

"While  he  was  hitting  me  I  saw  Malia, 
in  her  bed,  watching,  terrified.  Then  I  saw 
this  letter  opener  on  the  bureau.  I  picked 
it  up.  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  him.  I  delib- 
erately tried  to  inflict  as  minor  damage  as 
possible  to  scare  him  and  make  him  stop 
beating  me. 

"When  I  saw  the  blood  on  his  shirt,  I 
dropped  the  letter  opener  to  the  floor  and 
rushed  to  the  phone  again.  This  time  I 
called  the  Beverly  Hills  police.  I  was  in  a 
panic.  I  said,  'I've  just  stabbed  my  hus- 
band,' and  asked  them  to  send  over  an 
ambulance,  fast. 

"But  he  was  gone,  out  of  the  house,  a 
few  minutes  later. 

"Later  I  was  to  find  out  that  he  went 
to  his  brother  Bing's,  and  spent  the  night 
there.  That  he  was  to  pass  off  the  incident 
by  saying,  T  really  don't  think  June  in- 
tended to  do  anything.  She  just  got  mad, 
so  mad  she  didn't  know  what  she  was  do- 
ing. We've  had  family  arguments  before. 
I  guess  this  one  just  exploded.' 

"He  said,  too,  'I'm  not  a  wife-beater.  I 
didn't  lay  a  finger  on  my  wife.  If  my  wife 
is  hurt,  it's  only  because  I  had  to  use  force 
to  take  the  letter  opener  away  from  her. 
I'm  the  one  who  got  stabbed,  not  her.' 

"It's  true.  I'm  not  the  one  who  got 
stabbed.  Not  with  a  letter  opener. 

"But  for  twenty-one  years  now  I've  been 
taking  this,  these  constant  arguments,  con- 
stant fights.  If  you  live  with  Bob  on  the 
inside  you  know  he's  not  the  easy-going 
Crosby  that  the  public  imagines  him  to  be. 
.  .  .  This  has  been  going  on  for  twenty-one 
years.  And  I've  had  it,  finally.  I've  put 
up  with  it  for  the  sake  of  the  children. 
Twice — once  in  1943  and  once  in  1956 — I 
started  divorce  proceedings  against  Bob. 
Both  times  I  changed  my  mind.  I  took 
him  back  both  times.  But  after  everything 
now,  this  night,  I've  had  it.  I'll  never  take 
him  back.   This  is  the  end." 

What  could  be  wrong? 

At  12:05  that  night,  the  nurse  heard  a 
report  of  the  Crosby  incident  on  the  radio. 
At  12:20,  while  making  her  rounds  of  the 
hospital,  she  decided  to  have  a  look  in 
Cathy's  room. 

She  was  surprised  to  see  Cathy,  not  in 
bed.  but  standing  near  the  sink. 

She  was  about  to  say  something. 

But  before  she  had  a  chance,  Cathy 
turned  towards  her  and  asked,  "Is  some- 
thing wrong?  Is  that  what  you've  come 
to  tell  me?" 

The  nurse  shook  her  head. 

"Of  course  not,"  she  said.  "Nothing's 
wrong.  Nothing  at  all  ...  I  was  just 
checking  the  room  down  the  hall  and — " 

She  stopped  as  she  saw  Cathy  begin  to 
lean  against  the  sink,  hard,  and  grab  it 
with  her  hands,  as  if  she  might  fall.  She 
rushed  over  to  the  girl,  put  her  arm  around 
her  waist  and  began  to  lead  her  to  the  bed. 

"Is  it  a  bad  dream  you've  been  having 
tonight?"  the  nurse  asked. 

Cathy  shrugged,  "I  ...  I  don't  know." 

The  nurse  helped  her  into  the  bed,  and 
then  she  lifted  a  sheet  over  her. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "the  dream  is  over  and 
done  with  and  now  you're  ready  for  a 
good  night's  sleep,  eh?" 

Cathy  didn't  answer. 

"My,  what  a  lovely  night  it  is,"  the  nurse 
said,  suddenly,  turning  towards  the  win- 
dow and  looking  out.  "Just  lovely.  .  .  . 
And  tomorrow,  tomorrow  should  be  just  as 
nice.  I  hope  so,  anyway.  Because  tomor- 
row, right  after  breakfast,  we're  all  going 
to  take  a  walk  on  the  grounds.  And  pick 
flowers." 

She  had  walked  to  the  door  and  snapped 
off  the  light  when  she  heard  the  girl  ask, 
"And  nothing's  wrong?" 

She  forced  a  great  big  smile. 

"Really,  child — what  could  be  wrong  on 
such  a  lovely  night  as  this?"  she  said,  end 


The  Two  Faces  of  Troy  Donahue 


(Continued  from  page  50) 

And  what  happened?  When  she  caught 
him  making  love  to  another  girl  in  his 
apartment — while  they  were  still  going 
steady  for  two  years — and  demanded  an 
explanation,  he  threw  her  out  bodily — !" 

Could  this  be  one  and  the  same  Troy 
Donahue? 

It  is! 

But  how  could  a  fellow  like  Troy  have 
such  a  wonderful  reputation  with  some 
people,  and  create  such  a  strong  antipathy 
with  others?  Why  has  it  never  been 
brought  to  the  surface  before?  And  what 
turned  him  into  the  kind  of  guy  he  is — 
which  is  a  far  cry  from  the  typical  young 
Hollywood  leading  man  type  of  the  Tab 
Hunter,  Rock  Hudson.  Edd  Byrnes  tradi- 
tion? 

Those  who  know  him  closely  agree  that 
there  is  in  Troy  a  temper,  a  fire,  a  drive, 
an  ambition  that  seems  in  direct  contrast 
to  the  easy-going,  pleasing  mannerisms 
that  has  endeared  him  to  Hollywood  moth- 
ers and  daughters  alike. 

Much  of  the  answer  to  Troy's  twin  be- 
havior can  be  found  in  his  own  back- 
ground. 

Troy's  father  was  the  head  of  General 
Motors'  motion  picture  division.  His  moth- 
er was  a  stage  actress,  who  retired  after 
her  marriage.  The  Johnsons — Troy's  real 
name  was  Merle  Johnson.  Jr.  until  agent 
Henry-  Willson  changed  it  to  Troy  Dona- 
hue— had  a  fashionable  home  in  Long 
Island,  and  an  equally  fashionable  apart- 
ment on  New  York's  East  Side. 

Troy  himself  attended  some  of  the  best 
schools  in  the  country,  including  the  New 
York  Military  Academy  at  Cornwall-on- 
the-Hudson  in  upstate  New  York.  And  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  a  severe  knee  injury-  he 
suffered  during  a  track  meet  in  his  senior 
year,  he  would  have  continued  to  the 
United  States  Military  Academy  at  West 
Point.  Undoubtedly  he  had  all  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  rich  man's  son. 

And  this  is  where  his  trouble  started. 

He  remembers  being  sent  to  first  grade 
in  flannel  slacks,  jacket,  white  shirt  and 
imported  tie,  and  expensive  custom-made 
moccasins  which  were  in  dire  contrast  to 
the  dungarees  and  tee  shirts  worn  by  the 
other  boys.  Right  away  they  treated  him 
like  Little  Lord  Fauntleroy. 

During  the  very  first  recess,  Troy  found 
himself  at  the  bottom  of  the  heap  of  six 
boys  who  were  beating  up  on  him,  and 
tearing  his  clothes  to  shreds.  Yet  when 
he  came  home  he  would  not  tell  his  par- 
ents what  happened,  and  why.  But  there- 
after, he  tried  to  assimilate  in  his  own 
way.  On  the  way  to  school  he  would  mess 
up  his  clothes  by  rolling  in  the  dirt,  by 
tearing  his  shirt,  by  ripping  off  buttons. 

In  wanting  to  look  like  the  other  boys, 
however,  he  went  overboard  to  such  an 
extent  that  the  teacher  finally  sent  a  note 
to  his  parents,  demanding  to  know  why 
they  sent  him  to  school  looking  like  a  little 
tramp.  As  a  result,  he  got  it  from  the 
other  side  too.  They  could  not  understand 
how  a  boy  like  Troy,  raised  by  a  gov- 
erness, could  feel  so  indifferent  about  his 
own  appearance! 

Troy*s  attempts  to  be  like  others  con- 
:inued  to  get  him  in  trouble. 

He  was  twelve  when  he  snitched  his 
father's  double-barrelled  shotgun  out  of 
--he  glass -enclosed  cabinet  in  the  den,  and 
sneaked  out  of  the  house  to  meet  a  pal, 
with  whom  he  went  on  a  hunting  expedi- 
tion. 

They  stalked  through  the  swampy  area 
near  the  Johnsons'  Long  Island  home,  but 
Jie  only  thing  they  could  find  were  some 
crows.  It  was  good  enough  for  them.  Troy 


fired  two  shots  in  quick  succession  before 
he  reloaded  and  handed  the  gun  to  his 
friend,  who  managed  to  get  off  just  one 
more  shot  before  they  heard  someone  call 
out. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  funny  if  this  were  a 
cop?-'  Troy  giggled. 

''Sure  would  be,"  his  friend  agreed. 

It  was!  A  few  seconds  later  they  were 
whisked  to  the  nearest  station,  and  booked 
on  six  counts — hunting  out  of  season, 
hunting  without  a  license,  hunting  in  a 
residential  area,  trespassing,  walking 
around  with  a  loaded  gun,  and  carrying  a 
gun  while  being  under  age! 

Needless  to  say,  his  father  was  not  in  a 
cheerful  mood  when  he  had  to  bail  out 
his  son. 

It  wasn't  long,  however,  till  even  the 
restraint  of  his  father  was  gone.  Merle 
Johnson  died  when  Troy  was  barely  four- 
teen. Yet  if  anything,  Troy's  ambition  to 
be  accepted  by  the  group,  to  be  one  of 
them,  to  be  important  in  his  own  rights, 
grew  with  age. 

At  fourteen,  except  for  his  family's 
wealth — which  he  tried  to  ignore — there 
were  other  things  he  felt  he  could  boast 
about  to  raise  his  importance,  such  as 
the  famous  people  he  met  at  his  house, 
and  the  trips  he  had  taken.  But  instead 
of  winning  his  fellow  students'  respect, 
he  earned  their  jealousies. 

The  situation  changed  for  the  better  in 
the  next  couple  of  years,  when  Troy  shot 
up  to  nearly  his  present  six-foot  three. 
Tall,  well-built,  and  strong,  he  became  a 
member  of  almost  every  athletic  team  in 
school,  and  was  instrumental  in  winning 
victory  after  victory  for  it.  And  with  it, 
the  adulation  and  admiration  of  his  fel- 
low students. 

Troy  wanted  more  than  just  to  prove 
himself  on  the  football,  baseball  and  bas- 
ketball field.  He  wanted  to  be  accepted  so 
badly  that  he  went  to  any  length  to  achieve 
being  a  "regular"  guy.  This  often  ran 
counter  to  Mrs.  Johnson's  wishes. 

The  relationship  between  Troy  and  his 
mother  had  become  strained  already  dur- 
ing his  father's  long  illness.  Looking  back, 
he  now  recognizes  the  tremendous  re- 
sponsibility she  took  on  when  her  husband 
became  incapable  of  making  decisions,  and 
it  was  entirely  up  to  her  to  raise  Troy 
and  his  younger  sister,  Eve,  who  is  now 
fifteen. 

Yet  Troy  began  to  resent  more  and 
more  what  he  considered  his  mother's 
over-concern.  He  was  afraid  she  would 
make  a  sissy  out  of  him,  by  keeping  him 
from  doing  what  the  other  boys  did.  And 
so  he  rebelled — never  realizing  that  the 
other  boys'  parents  were  often  just  as  op- 
posed to  their  offsprings'  actions  as  she 
was. 

For  instance,  after  ball  games  the  other 
boys  would  frequently  sneak  off  to  a  little 
beer  joint,  strictly  off-limits  to  them. 
When  Troy's  mother  heard  about  it,  she 
promptly  forbade  her  son  to  go  along. 
He  did  anyway.  When  he  was  seen  by  a 
friend  of  the  family,  who  told  his  mother, 
she  bawled  him  out  right  in  front  of  his 
classmates  when  he  came  home.  This 
made  him  feel  all  the  worse. 

Thereafter  he  would  often  sneak  out 
after  his  mother  was  asleep,  usually 
through  the  bedroom  window. 

Troy  got  away  with  it  till  he  attended 
a  senior  party  one  night,  where  everyone 
had  a  lot  more  to  drink  than  was  good  for 
them.  Troy  himself  drank  so  much  that 
he  felt  ill,  and  scared.  All  he  wanted  was 
to  get  back  to  his  house,  and  his  bed. 
He  never  made  it. 


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It's  hardly  a  secret  that  little  hoys  practically  worship  two-gun  heroes  like 
Hugh  (Wyatt  Earp)  O'Brian  and  Jim  (Maverick)  Garner — especially  in  Ari- 
zona, where  Indians  are  a  dime  a  dozen  and  cowboys  still  ride  the  desert  range. 

Hugh  tells  this  one  on  himself,  in  connection  with  a  benefit  he  did  for  the 
Scottsdale  Boys'  Club  near  Phoenix. 

The  benefit  was  staged  at  the  swank  Paradise  Valley  Racquet  Club,  and 
small-fry  sons  of  the  members  pestered  the  daylights  out  of  their  dads  to  get 
them  Wyatt  Earp  autographs.  The  most  insistent  fan  was  Tommy  Woods,  aged 
seven. 

Hugh  was  just  emerging  from  a  shower  in  the  Racquet  Club  locker  room 
when  Tommy  barged  in,  eluding  his  father's  grasp.  The  boy's  father,  who  had 
become  somewhat  chummy  with  Hugh  the  previous  evening,  hastily  performed 
an  embarrassed  introduction. 

"Tommy,  this  is  Wyatt  Earp,"  he  said.  "Mr.  Earp — my  son,  Tommy." 

"How  are  you,  Tommy?"  Hugh  said  cordially,  extending  a  dripping  hand. 

"Okay,"  replied  the  lad,  staring  up  at  the  naked  hero,  whom  he  had  a  hard 
lime  recognizing.  "If  you're  Wyatt  Earp,  where  are  your  guns?" 

"I  don't  wear  them  in  the  shower,"  said  Hugh,  somewhat  taken  aback. 
"I  .  .  .  uh  .  .  .  I  left  'em  in  my  locker." 

"I'll  wait,"  Tommy  said  suspiciously  "You  don't  look  like  Wyatt  Earp  to  me. 
You  know  Annie  Oakley?" 

"Sure  do." 

"Can  you  shoot  better'n  she  can?" 

Hugh  hedged.  "Never  met  the  lady  in  a  contest,"  he  said. 

"Any  man  that  can  let  a  woman  shoot  better  ain't  much,"  the  boy  said  critical- 
ly. "If  you're  really  Wyatt  Earp  I  gotta  see  your  guns." 

"Come  to  think  of  it,"  said  Hugh,  thinking  fast,  "I  let  a  fellow  borrow  those 
guns  for  a  spell.  Fellow  named  Maverick.  Goes  by  the  name  of  James  Garner 
sometimes." 

"DO  YOU  KNOW  JAMES  GARNER?" 

"Personal  friend  of  mine.  Taught  him  how  to  shoot." 

"Gee,"  Tommy  said  faintly.  "Gee."  He  obviously  thought  Jim  Garner  is  The 
Greatest.  "You  must  be  all  right,  then.  I  guess  you  really  are  Wyatt  Earp. 
What  did  Mr.  Garner  borrow  your  guns  for?" 

Still  dripping  from  his  shower,  Hugh  had  an  inspiration.  Bending  down,  he 
put  an  arm  around  the  little  boy  and  whispered,  "Can  you  keep  a  secret,  son?" 
His  erstwhile  skeptic  nodded.  "Don't  let  this  get  out,"  Hugh  said,  "but  that 
fellow  Garner  is  on  the  warpath.  Some  Arizona  Indians  crossed  him." 

"Apaches!" 

"Right,"  said  Hugh  grimly.  "Now  if  you'll  excuse  me,  before  this  air-con- 
ditioning gives  me  pneumonia." 

"Sure,  Mr.  Earp,"  said  Tommy  respectfully. 

He  made  his  father  take  him  home  immediately  in  order  to  inform  his  mother, 
in  sworn  secrecy,  that  no  Arizona  woman  need  fear  those  diehard  Apaches  any 
more.  Two-Gun  Garner  was  on  the  warpath!  And  Wyatt  Earp  sent  him! 


MAVERICK 
RESCUES 
WYATT  EARP 

(in  the 
shower) 


A  friend  drove  him  back  to  his  place 
at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  As  Troy 
was  trying  to  raise  himself  up  to  the 
porch,  he  fell  over  the  lawn  furniture 
which,  in  turn,  collapsed  with  a  big  bang. 
"I  can  still  see  my  mother  come  running 
out  of  the  house,"  he  remembers,  "shout- 
ing that  if  I  could  stay  out  this  late,  I 
might  as  well  stay  out  a  little  longer,  and 
slammed  the  door  in  my  face.  I  crawled 
back  on  the  lawn  and  fell  asleep.  It  was 
ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  when  I  woke 
up— just  in  time  to  see  people  stop  on 
their  way  to  church.  I'll  never  forget 
those  expressions  as  they  saw  me  on  the 
front  lawn,  still  dressed  in  a  tuxedo,  obvi- 
ously sleeping  off  a  hangover — " 

The  unruliness,  the  rebellion  continued. 
Troy  was  just  about  to  get  his  driver's 
license  at  sixteen,  when  he  was  out  with 
a  group  of  friends,  one  of  whom  let  him 
drive  his  car.  He  got  caught  by  the  police 
for  going  through  a  red  light.  The  offense, 
in  itself,  was  not  too  serious.  But  when 
the  officer  found  out  he  only  had  a  stu- 
dent's license  and  was  not  allowed  to  drive 
without  an  adult  next  to  him,  he  promptly 
called  Troy's  mother.  Mrs.  Johnson  be- 
came so  upset  that  although  he  was  sup- 
posed to  have  gotten  his  license  two  days 
later — and  a  car  with  it — she  told  him  he 
would  have  to  wait  a  full  year  before  she 
would  allow  him  to  get  his  own  car. 

Again  her  strictness  had  the  opposite 
effect. 

To  show  his  independence,  one  night 
Troy  sneaked  out  of  the  house  and  headed 
for  the  garage.  With  all  the  strength  he 
could  muster  he  rolled  out  the  family  car 
and  drove  off,  to  pick  up  a  girlfriend. 

As  bad  luck  would  have  it,  about  an 
hour  later  his  mother  decided  to  visit 
some  friends.  She  didn't  check  Troy's 
room  to  see  if  he  was  still  there,  asleep. 
!  When  she  realized  her  car  had  disap- 
i  peared,  she  naturally  presumed  it  was 
stolen,  and  notified  the  police.  An  all-car 
alert  was  promptly  put  out  via  police 
short  wave,  giving  the  license  number  and 
description  of  the  'stolen'  car,  a  brand 
new  Cadillac  convertible. 

A  cop  finally  found  it  parked  in  front 
of  a  drugstore.  "Who's  been  driving  the 
Cadillac?"  he  demanded  in  a  loud  voice 
when  he  walked  in.  Without  hesitation, 
Troy — who  was  having  a  soda  with  his  girl, 
and  another  couple — admitted  it  was  he. 
To  his  humiliation  the  policeman  hand- 
cuffed him,  and  dragged  him  to  the  nearest 
police  station  to  book  him  for  theft.  Not 
fill  his  mother  was  notified  was  the  mys- 
tery cleared  up,  and  Troy  released. 

Mrs.  Johnson  hoped  that  a  military 
school  would  straighten  out  her  boy.  For 
a  while  it  looked  like  she  was  right. 

Troy  rather  enjoyed  his  life  at  the  New 
York  Military  Academy  at  Cornwall-on- 
the-Hudson.  He  did  so  well — both  aca- 
demically and  in  sports — that  he  became 
a  student  officer.  Yet  even  this  couldn't 
keep  him  out  of  trouble,  indefinitely. 

In  his  class  was  a  Cuban  boy,  nick- 
named Gato,  the  Cat.  He  was  a  tall,  quiet, 
strange  sort  of  boy  who  didn't  associate 
with  others,  and  a  fanatic  about  cleanli- 
ness and  health.  While  other  students 
would  get  out  of  bed  at  5:40  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  got  up  at  4:30  to  do  calisthenics 
on  the  parade  ground.  He  brushed  his 
teeth  ten  times  a  day.  To  sneeze  in  his 
presence  was  a  sin  to  him. 

His  behavior  caused  the  other  fellows 
to  constantly  play  tricks  on  him,  particu- 
larly since  Gato  was  not  considered  too 
bright.  One  day,  Troy  remembered,  one 
of  the  cadets  told  him  that  if  he  would 
stick  his  finger  into  a  light  socket,  he 
would  light  up.  He  did.  And  got  knocked 
out.    It  was  a  miracle  he  wasn't  killed! 

Gato  particularly  didn't  like  Troy  be- 
cause the  two  of  them  had  been  in  compe- 
tition for  high  jumping  for  some  time,  with 


mmm 


Troy,  the  top  athlete  of  the  school,  always 
outdoing  him. 

One  day  as  the  cadets  were  sitting 
around  the  high  jumping  pit,  looking  at 
all  the  earthworms  crawling  around  in  it, 
one  of  the  boys  got  an  idea.  Why  not  take 
a  handful  of  these  worms  and  put  them 
on  Gato's  pillow? 

Everyone  thought  it  was  a  hilarious 
joke,  but  who  would  do  it? 

Troy  volunteered.  He  picked  up  a  hand- 
ful of  the  earthworms  and  carried  them 
to  Gato's  pillow. 

Three  minutes  later  the  dormitory  door 
flew  open,  and  Gato  rushed  out  and  across 
the  parade  grounds  straight  to  the  com- 
mandant's office. 

The  commandant  had  a  hard  time  con- 
taining himself,  but  had  no  choice  but  to 
promise  the  boy  proper  disciplinary  ac- 
tion. During  the  final  inspection  of  the 
day,  Gato  was  permitted  to  step  forward 
and  ask  his  officer — Troy — for  permission 
to  speak  up.  "As  all  of  you  know,  some- 
one put  worms  on  my  pillow,"  he  shouted. 
"If  whoever  did  it  is  not  too  much  of  a 
coward,  I  want  him  to  admit  it  now." 

Troy  took  a  step  forward.  Before  he 
knew  what  had  happened,  Gato  had  hit 
him  like  a  freight  train.  It  took  half  a 
dozen  men  to  pull  them  apart  again,  bloody 
and  exhausted  from  the  brief  but  violent 
encounter.  The  commandant  promptly  told 
them  that  if  they  wanted  to  fight,  they 
should  do  it  with  gloves  on,  in  the  gym. 
They  agreed. 

In  spite  of  the  gloves'  cushioning  effect, 
the  result  was  probably  the  longest  and 
most  brutal  fight  in  the  history  of  the 
military  academy,  with  Troy  getting  the 
better  of  Gato  but,  as  he  admits,  not  much 
better.  Yet  when  it  was  over,  Gato's  anger 
was  satisfied.  He  was  willing  to  shake 
hands,  and  eventually  he  and  Troy  became 
the  best  of  friends. 

Troy  learned  a  very  fundamental  lesson 
that  day.  If  anything  has  to  be  done,  good 
or  bad,  it  should  be  done  promptly  and 
openly,  and  not  held  back.  If  he  hadn't 
stepped  forward  that  day,  Gato's  suspi- 
cion might  have  grown  to  where  they 
could  never  have  made  up. 

By  the  time  he  came  to  Hollywood,  Troy 
felt  he  had  outgrown  any  tendency  to 
be  hurt.  He  soon  found  out  differently. 
What's  more,  when  a  crisis  arose,  he  con- 
tinued to  resort  to  his  fists  to  settle  it. 

Shortly  after  he  arrived  in  California, 
he  took  a  group  of  friends  to  Gogi's,  a 
coffee  shop  on  the  Sunset  Strip.  In  con- 
trast to  a  lot  of  other  customers,  Troy  was 
extremely  well  dressed.  Furthermore,  he 
still  had  enough  money  left  to  pay  the  bill 
for  the  five  of  them — which  caused  a  dis- 
gruntled beatnik  at  one  of  the  tables  to 
make  a  crack  about  the  big,  tall.  New 
York  show-off  who  was  all  dressed  up 
like  a  Christmas  tree. 

Troy  turned  for  an  appropriate  reply. 
Before  he  got  very  far,  the  beatnik  stormed 
toward  him. 

Troy  was  tall  and  strong  enough  to  have 
held  the  man  at  bay.  But  his  temper  blew 
up  and  with  four  well-laid  punches,  he 
was  laid  out  flat. 

Five  minutes  later  he  found  himself  in 
a  police  car,  bound  for  headquarters.  Only 
an  influential  friend's  influence  managed 
to  cover  up  the  incident. 

Yet  behind  this  aggressiveness,  there 
is  another  side  to  Troy,  equally,  if  not 
more  powerful — a  sensitive,  understanding 
maturity  far  beyond  his  years.  And  contra- 
dictory as  it  may  sound,  his  early  environ- 
ment was  responsible  for  this,  too.  Par- 
ticularly the  death  of  his  father. 

Till  Troy  was  twelve  years  old,  he  could 
never  remember  a  single  day  that  his 
father  was  sick.  In  fact,  he  was  probably 
the  healthiest,  most  athletic  type  of  man 
he  ever  knew.  The  first  indication  that 
something  was  wrong  occurred  the  after- 


noon they  playfully  wrestled  on  the  front 
lawn.  To  the  surprise  of  both  of  them, 
Troy  managed  rather  easily  to  pin  his 
father  on  his  back. 

For  days  after,  the  older  man  began  to 
feel  weaker  and  weaker,  till  he  went  to 
the  Columbia  Medical  Center  in  New  York 
City,  for  a  complete  check-up. 

Nothing  could  be  found  wrong  at  the 
time. 

As  the  weeks  went  by,  he  grew  weaker, 
without  any  apparent  reason.  A  painful 
ripple  developed  in  his  muscles,  which 
made  it  continually  harder  for  him  to 
move,  till  he  finally  decided  to  go  to  Johns 
Hopkins'  Hospital,  near  Baltimore,  Mary- 
land, for  another  check-up.  This  time 
the  doctors  quickly  discovered  the  trouble 
— hopeless,  acute  sclerosis,  which  would 
paralyze  him  progressively  until  it  would 
finally  draw  life  out  of  him  completely. 

Only  they  didn't  tell  him,  because  obvi- 
ously he  didn't  want  to  be  told.  And  so 
they  described  it  as  a  disease  with  similar 
symptoms,  and  hopes  of  complete  recovery. 

But  someone  had  to  be  told  the  truth, 
and  that's  how  it  came  about  that  Mrs. 
Johnson  and  Troy  were  to  share  the  aw- 
ful burden  till  his  death.  For  two  years 
Troy  lived  with  the  knowledge  that  his 
father  would  die  without  anyone  being 
able  to  do  anything  about  it. 

"At  first  I  couldn't  believe  it  myself," 
Troy  remembers.  "To  make  it  worse  I 
was  plagued  by  a  feeling  of  guilt  when- 
ever I  visited  him.  I  did  things  which 
weren't  right,  yet  mother  never  told  him. 
On  the  contrary,  she  assured  him  how 
wonderfully  behaved  I  was,  which  made 
me  feel  all  the  worse.  Oh  how  I  wished 
the  things  she  told  him  about  me  were 
true — yet  it  seemed  the  more  glowing 
terms  she  used,  the  stronger  my  reaction 
to  do  the  opposite — the  worse  I  felt  about 
it.  It  was  an  uncontrollable,  vicious  circle." 

Every  time  Troy  visited  his  father  at  the 
hospital,  the  old  man  was  a  little  bit  more 
paralyzed,  to  where  finally  he  could  only 
make  known  what  he  wanted  with  the 
help  of  a  chart  on  the  wall.  Only  six 
people — Troy  included — would  be  able  to 
point  to  one  of  the  drawings,  and  accord- 
ing to  the  way  Merle  Johnson  blinked 
his  eye,  knew  what  he  wanted,  whether 
it  was  to  eat,  to  rest,  to  get  a  bath,  what- 
ever it  was. 

In  spite  of  everyone's  attempts  to  keep 
the  truth  from  him,  Merle  Johnson  finally 
realized  he  was  dying.  But  then  he  had 
but  one  day  of  life  left  in  him. 

Troy  found  this  out  when  he  visited  his 
father  that  afternoon.  Merle  Johnson 
somehow  managed  to  tell  him  to  take  his 
gold  watch  from  the  night-stand.  "It  was 
his  most  cherished  possession,"  Troy  re- 
calls with  sadness  in  his  voice.  "When  he 
gave  it  to  me,  I  knew  he'd  lost  hope.  .  .  ." 

Troy  was  sitting  in  an  ice  cream  parlor 
with  two  friends  the  next  day  when  the 
maid  ran  in  breathlessly.  "Come  home 
right  away!"  she  shrieked. 

Troy  looked  at  her  with  quiet  compo- 
sure, "Dad?" 

She  broke  into  tears.  He  knew  the  an- 
swer. 

The  other  fellows  were  surprised  that 
Troy  didn't  seem  shocked,  or  hurt.  Quietly 
and  dutifully  he  went  home  and  then 
helped  his  mother  make  the  necessary  ar- 


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rangements   for    the    funeral    and  after. 

"My  immediate  feeling  was  one  of  relief 
that  Dad's  suffering  was  over.  It  took  me 
months  to  find  out  what  I  had  really  lost 
when  he  passed  away." 

Yet  after  his  father's  death,  instead  of 
becoming  more  dependent  on  his  mother, 
his  own  feeling  of  independence  grew. 
Partly  he  was  still  afraid  to  become  a 
mama's  boy  if  he  couldn't  assert  himself, 
partly  he  felt  that  he  was  now  the  man  in 
the  family  who,  in  spite  of  his  young  age, 
should  have  a  voice  in  determining  at 
least  his  own  future.  And  so,  when  it 
came  to  a  most  important  choice — which 
career  to  pursue — he  found  himself  op- 
posed to  his  mother's  wishes. 

Through  her  own  career  in  showbusi- 
ness,  as  well  as  her  husband's  position  as 
head  of  the  motion  picture  section  for 
General  Motors,  Mrs.  Johnson  had  been 
close  enough  to  the  entertainment  business 
to  be  aware  of  the  disappointments  it 
could  bring.  She  didn't  want  Troy  to  face 
a  life  full  of  doubts  and  insecurities. 

From  riches  to  rags 

On  the  other  hand,  once  his  knee  injury 
prevented  his  appointment  to  West  Point, 
Troy  had  made  up  his  mind  to  become 
an  actor  anyway.  He  took  up  dramatics  in 
school  and  when  he  still  couldn't  get  his 
mother's  support,  after  his  graduation,  he 
saw  no  choice  but  to  walk  out  of  the  family 
home,  almost  penniless. 

For  almost  two  years  he  subsisted  on 
whatever  he  could  make  as  a  messenger 
boy,  construction  laborer,  waiter,  coun- 
selor at  boys  camp  and  other  odd  jobs 
which  enabled  him  to  study  acting  under 
Ezra  Stone  and  get  further  experience  in 
summer  stock.  He  lived  in  cold  water 
walk-up  flats,  the  YMCA.  He  often  got 
along  on  one  meal  a  day,  determined  to 
succeed  without  asking  his  mother  for 
help.  Once  he  was  so  broke  that  he  had 
to  walk  seventy-six  blocks  to  save  a  dime 
subway  fare. 

It  was  Darrell  Brady,  an  old  friend  of 
his  father's  who  brought  him  to  Hollywood 
by  offering  him  a  job  with  his  commercial 
film  company.  It  was  another  friend, 
actress  Fran  Bennett,  who  introduced  Troy 
to  her  agent,  Henry  Willson,  who  in  turn 
was  responsible  for  getting  Troy  a  test  at 
Universal-International,  which  eventually 
led  to  the  lead  opposite  Sandra  Dee  in  A 
Summer  Place,  and  as  a  result  of  it,  a 
starring  part  in  The  Crowded  Sky. 

Once  Troy  was  on  his  way  to  becoming 
established — professionally,  personally,  and 
financially — his  relationship  to  his  family 
changed  abruptly.  Troy  suddenly  became 
so  conscious  of  his  responsibilities  as  head 
of  the  family,  that  he  was  determined  to 
do  something  about  it.  He  sent  for  his 
mother  and  younger  sister.  He  found 
them  a  place  to  stay.  When  his  mother 
needed  financial  assistance,  when  her  in- 
come from  her  investments  did  not  come 
in  on  time,  he  was  always  ready  to  assist. 
He  now  attends  P.T.A.  meetings  for  his 
sister,  Eve,  and  has  adopted  other  parental 
prerogatives — without  giving  her  a  chance 
to  rebel,  as  he  once  did.  "I  won't  tell  her 
what  to  do.  I  simply  suggest  what's  best 
for  her,  and  then  let  her  make  up  her  own 
mind,"  he  insists. 

For  instance,  she  used  to  date  quite  a 
wise  guy,  at  least  in  Troy's  eyes.  He  was 
particularly  upset  when  Eve  told  him  that 
he  always  carried  a  bottle  in  his  car,  and 
tried  to  talk  her  into  taking  a  drink.  "Had 
I  forbidden  Eve  to  see  him,  she  might 
have  done  it  behind  my  back,"  he  rea- 
soned. "So  we  just  had  a  heart-to-heart 
talk.  I  emphasized  the  trouble  she  could 
get  into  with  this  boy,  then  left  the  decision 
up  to  her.  She  stopped  seeing  him." 

Whereas  at  one  time  Troy  would  leave 
the  house  under  almost  any  pretense,  he 
now   makes  a   point   of  getting  together 


with  his  family  several  times  a  week — and 
likes  it. 

Looking  back  at  the  last  few  years,  Troy 
still  feels  that  his  abrupt  decision  to  leave 
home  was  best  for  all  concerned.  It  helped 
establish  his  independence — and  made  a 
man  out  of  him. 

He  feels  constant  compromises  and  half- 
way measures  lead  to  nothing  but  trouble 
in  any  relationship — which  is  also  the  rea- 
son he  had  earned  both  the  good  and  bad 
reputation  with  women! 

Nan  Morris  was  by  no  means  his  first 
love.  When  he  was  nineteen,  he  got  en- 
gaged to  a  beautiful  New  York  model. 
But  as  she  grew  more  successful,  Troy's 
meager  earnings  couldn't  provide  her  with 
her  constantly  more  expensive  tastes,  till 
the  gulf  between  them  grew  to  a  point 
where  it  split  them  apart.  "I  saw  it  com- 
ing for  a  long  time,  yet  didn't  have  the 
courage  to  admit  it  to  myself.  Luckily 
one  evening  she  made  it  quite  clear  what 
was  happening.  Although  I  was  hurt  at 
the  time,  it  was  best  for  both  of  us  to 
recognize  realities.  It  would  have  been 
much  harder  on  both  of  us  if  I'd  played 
the  hurt  lover  indefinitely!" 

His  next  infatuation  was  for  a  girl  under 
contract  to  Universal-International,  the 
same  time  he  was  tied  to  the  studio.  Her 
success  came  about  much  faster  than  his, 
and  the  New  York  episode  repeated  itself 
almost  verbatim  when  she  told  him  quite 
frankly  one  day  that  they  weren't  right 
for  one  another  any  longer. 

Again  Troy  preferred  the  abruptnness 
that  wrote  'finis'  to  their  romance  to  a 
long,  dragged  out  affair.  This  is,  he  told 
himself,  how  he  would  finish  a  relationship 
if  he  were  ever  caught  on  the  other  end 
of  the  line — which  is  exactly  what  hap- 
pened with  Nan  Morris. 

Although  they  were  not  officially  en- 
gaged, they  had  gone  steady  for  two  years. 
When  Troy  became  interested  in  another 
girl,  he  tried  to  tell  Nan  as  gently  as  pos- 
sible. She  refused  to  believe  it. 

The  woy  it  looked! 

One  evening,  not  long  ago,  he  took  out 
this  other  girl.  But  he  was  so  tired  after 
a  long  day  at  the  studio  that  he  asked 
if  she  minded  driving  herself  home  in  his 
car,  after  dropping  him  off  at  his  house. 
She  didn't  mind. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  When  she 
returned  Troy's  Porsche,  she  arrived  just 
as  he  got  ready  to  leave  to  meet  his  mother 
and  sister  for  church. 

She  too  was  tired  from  the  night  before, 
and  asked  if  she  could  rest  on  his  couch 
till  he  came  back.  He  didn't  object. 

Troy  returned  two  hours  later.  He  was 
just  taking  off  his  coat  and  loosening  his 
tie  when  Nan  arrived  unexpectedly,  says 
Troy.  Through  a  peephole  in  his  door, 
she  could  see  a  girl  lying  on  the  couch, 
covered  by  Troy's  bathrobe,  and  Troy 
taking  off  his  jacket  and  loosening  his  tie. 
"She  put  two  and  two  together,  and  made 
twenty-five  out  of  it,"  Troy  said. 

Nan  frantically  knocked  on  the  door. 
The  other  girl  hastily  put  on  her  coat,  and 
ran  out  of  the  apartment,  right  past  her. 

Nan  started  to  yell.  When  she  kept  it 
up,  Troy  took  her  inside  and  shook  her 
hard  by  the  shoulders,  till  she  stopped. 
When  she  refused  to  believe  what  he  told 
her,  he  angrily  asked  her  to  leave,  insisting 
it  was  all  over  between  them! 

While  this  seemed  abrupt  and  ungentle- 
manly  to  Nan,  under  the  circumstances 
Troy  felt  it  was  the  only  sensible  thing 
to  do.  Apparently  he  was  right,  for  two 
weeks  later  Nan  called  uneasily,  and  asked 
to  see  him.  He  agreed,  though  still  fearful 
of  another  scene.  Instead  she  wanted  his 
advice  on  a  professional  matter. 

Several  weeks  have  passed  since  then. 
Today,  Nan  and  Troy  still  get  together 
occasionally.    They  are  no  longer  a  ro- 


mantic  item.  But  they  have  managed  to 
re-establish  a  friendly  relationship  in  spite 
of  what  has  happened,  or  maybe  because 
of  ft  And  even  if  Nan's  closest  friends 
don't  understand,  she  does — and  that's 
what  counts  for  Troy. 

Still,  he's  embarrassed  about  the  inci- 
dent. "This  sort  of  thing  never  happened 
to  me  before,  and  I  hope  it  never  will 
again,"  he  insists.  "I'd  much  rather  be 
jilted  by  a  girl  than  appear  to  be  the 


one  responsible  for  something  like  this." 

So  these  are  the  two  faces  of  Troy.  So 
different,  yet  so  inter-related  that  one 
could  not  be  without  the  other.  Whether 
one  likes  or  dislikes  him  for  what  he  is, 
whether  one  agrees  or  disagrees  with  the 
way  he  manages  himself,  and  others,  one 
has  to  admit  there's  nothing  wishy-washy 
about  him. 

Thank  heavens — Hollywood  has  found  a 
man  again.   A  real  man!  END 


the  day  Dinah 
was  almost  SHOT 


It  happened  in  France,  during  World  War  II.  just  a  few  hundred 
yards  from  the  enemy  lines.  But  the  biggest  threat  that  day  was  not 
the  German  guns.  .  .  . 

Dinah  Shore  was  entertaining  our  servicemen  on  an  improvised 
stage  in  an  open  field.  More  than  6.000  GI's  were  crowded  around  that 
afternoon — sitting,  squatting,  lying  on  the  grass. 

Once  Dinah  had  sung  a  couple  of  numbers  she  asked  for  requests. 
After  she  finished  the  fourth  or  fifth,  a  GI,  tall,  rugged-looking  and 
obviously  unsteady-on-his-feet.  got  up  and  shouted,  "Sing  Paper  Doll!" 

It  was  a  man's  song.  Dinah  knew  her  presentation  just  wouldn't  be 
what  it  should  be.  But  there  was  no  time  for  explanations.  "I  can't 
sing  that  one."  she  hollered  back. 

The  GI,  weaving  unsteadily,  tore  his  .45  automatic  out  of  his  holster 
and  released  the  safety.  At  first  the  other  GI's.  and  Dinah,  thought  he 
was  kidding.  After  a  few  weeks  in  the  line,  combat  soldiers  are  apt  to 
have  peculiar  ways  of  having  fun.  "Paper  Doll!"  he  yelled  again. 

"I  can't  sing  it!"  Dinah  called  back  over  the  heads  of  several  hundred 
men. 

When  the  drunken  GI  started  to  push  his  way  through  the  crowd 
toward  the  stage,  everyone  quickly  realized  that  this  was  no  joke.  They 
also  knew  better  than  to  argue  with  a  guy  who  was  intoxicated  and 
wildly  swinging  a  loaded  gun.  Nobody  dared  touch  him.  .  .  . 

When  he  reached  the  podium,  he  stared  up  at  Dinah,  his  eyes 
blood-shot,  his  voice  hoarse,  his  right  hand  still  gripping  the  gun — which 
was  now  pointing  straight  at  Dinah's  heart. 

"I  ask  you  for  the  last  time — are  you  or  ain't  you  goin'  to  sing  that 
song?" 

Dinah's  legs  grew  weak,  but  if  she  lost  her  composure,  she  didn't 
show  it.  "I  guess  I'll  have  to.'"  she  smiled.  Then  she  gently  took  the 
soldier's  hand  and  helped  him  on  stage.  She  put  her  arm  around  his 
waist,  and  led  him  to  the  microphone.  His  right  hand  was  still  gripping 
bis  gun. 

"All  right'?"'  she  asked  quietly. 

"Just  sing!"  he  demanded. 

Dinah  nodded  to  her  accompanist  and  began  to  sing — softly  at  first, 
then  louder  and  louder  till  a  wave  of  applause  rose  from  the  audience 
who  knew  she  was  singing  to  save  her  life. 

Dinah  was  half-way  through,  when  two  MP's  carefully  sneaked  up 
behind  the  GI.  One  got  a  tight  grip  on  him  and  the  other  twisted  his 
arm  till  the  automatic  dropped  to  the  floor. 

Dinah  had  tears  in  her  eyes  when  she  watched  him  walk  down  the 
podium  steps  between  the  MP's,  looking  more  bewildered  than  danger- 
ous. Then  she  turned  back  to  the  audience,  and  asked.  "All  right  boys, 
what's  next?"' 


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I  Believe  1  Heard  the  Voice  of  Jesus 


(Continued  from  page  39) 


arms.  "My  baby  .  .  .  my  own  baby.  .  .  ." 

"Virginia,"  my  father's  voice  was  sharp. 
"Quick,"  he  said.  "Call  the  doctor.*' 

I  swallowed  and  it  was  as  if  a  thousand 
needles  were  stuck  in  my  throat.  My 
father  brought  me  a  small  white  wash 
basin  and  he  held  it  in  front  of  me  as  I 
coughed  blood  into  it. 

When  my  mom  returned  to  the  room 
after  telephoning  the  hospital,  she  said, 
"They'll  send  an  ambulance,  but  I  told 
them  you  would  drive  her  there.  It'll  be 
faster.  We'll  save  time.  They're  notifying 
Dr.  King  to  rush  to  the  hospital  immedi- 
ately." 

I  have  never  seen  my  mother  look  so 
worried.  Tears  ran  from  her  eyes,  and,  as 
my  father  wrapped  me  in  a  dark  blanket, 
I  remember  hearing  my  mother's  voice 
whispering,  "Hail  Mary,  full  of  grace, 
blessed  art  Thou  amongst  women  .  .  ." 

My  father  lifted  me  into  his  strong  arms, 
and  I  looked  at  his  round  face,  his  warm 
brown  eyes  and  dark  wavy  hair,  and 
suddenly  he  looked  fuzzy.  I  squinted  to 
try  to  see,  and  I  fainted. 

I  bled  all  the  way  to  the  hospital,  my 
father  told  me.  Mom  stayed  home  with 
Joey.  Dad  drove  me  to  the  emergency 
entrance  of  St.  Joseph's  where,  he  says, 
two  internes  were  waiting.  I  was  carried 
to  the  emergency  room  where  Dr.  King 
gave  me  a  shot  in  my  arm. 

When  I  came  to,  I  was  lying  on  a  long 
hospital  table,  wrapped  in  the  blanket 
from  home  I  looked  up  into  Dr.  King's 
kind  eyes,  and  he  said,  "There,  there  now. 
we're  going  to  do  everything  we  can." 

He  was  so  gentle,  so  sure  of  himself  that 
I  was  calmed,  although  I  continued  to 
bleed.  The  internes  placed  towels  around 
my  neck  to  catch  the  hemorrhaging  blood 
that  dribbled  down  my  chin. 

In  a  few  minutes,  Dr.  King  inserted 
silver  rods  in  my  mouth,  and  I  lay  back 
while  he  stroked  my  forehead  and  soothed 
me.  There  was  a  strong  smell  of  alcohol 
in  the  room  that  gagged  me.  The  internes 
assisted  Dr.  King  as  he  called  out  instruc- 
tions. My  father  stood  by  me  crying.  When 
your  father  stands  beside  you  with  tears 
brimming  over  in  his  eyes,  you  know 
something's  wrong. 

For  my  father  to  cry,  my  life  had  to  be 
in  danger. 

All  I  could  do  was  pray 

I  closed  my  eyes.  My  mother's  prayer 
came  into  my  mind.  And  I  began  reciting 
the  prayer  in  my  head.  I  couldn't  speak 
or  whisper  with  the  silver  rods  stuck  in 
my  throat.  But  I  said  the  prayer  over  and 
over  again  in  my  mind  until  the  white 
emergency  room  with  its  shiny  silver  in- 
struments and  snow-white  walls  came 
rushing    toward    me,    overpowering  me. 

But  the  words  stayed  with  me.  Hail 
Mary,  full  of  grace  .  .  .  pray  for  us  sinners 
now  and  at  the  hour  of  our  death.  With 
all  my  heart  I  prayed.  There  was  a  thump- 
ing then  in  my  brain,  and  I  blacked  out. 

I  remained  unconscious  all  through  my 
stay  in  the  hospital  and  the  return  home. 
The  first  thing  I  saw  when  I  opened 
my  eyes  was  the  wooden  crucifix  on  the 
blue  wall  of  my  mother's  bedroom. 

I  prayed  with  all  my  might.  I  prayed  to 
the  Virgin  Mary,  whose  own  Child  had 
suffered  when  He  was  hung  on  the  Cross. 

Ha  l  Mary,  full  of  grace  .  .  .  pray  for  us 
sinners  now  and  at  the  hour  of  our  death. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  again  I  saw  the 
soft  rosy  light  of  dawn  filtering  thi-ough 
the  ruffled  white  curtains  at  the  window. 
My  mother,  sitting  on  a  chair  beside  me. 
her  eyes  daik  and  baggy  and  her  hair 


pulled  back  in  a  knot,  caressed  my  cheeks 
with  her  warm  hand.  She  had  stood  vigil 
with  me  through  the  night. 

I  couldn't  see  my  mother  too  well,  but 
the  crucifix,  which  was  further  away, 
seemed  like  it  was  next  to  me.  The  small 
Cross  of  dark  wood  with  the  figure  of 
Jesus,  crowned  with  thorns,  was  right  in 
front  of  me,  and  I  kissed  it. 

"I  am  with  you,"  I  heard  a  Voice  saying. 

All  that  day  I  was  delirious  with  fever. 
And  that  same  night,  my  head  was  dizzy 
and  I  craved  ice-water  every  time  I 
woke  up.  My  mother  kept  a  lamp  lit  in 
the  room  while  I  slept,  and  whenever  I 
awakened,  I  would  see  the  pink  wool 
blanket  on  the  bed  and  I  would  finger  it 
lovingly  before  I  dozed  off,  thinking, 
Someday.  I'm  going  to  have  an  all-pink 
bedroom.  I  still  remember  one  of  the 
strange  dreams  I  had  as  I  lay  there  de- 
lirious. In  the  dream  I  saw  a  beautiful 
pink,  satin-covered  bed,  a  vanity  dresser 
with  a  mirrored  top  and  a  wide  pink-net 
skirt.  On  the  dresser  were  sparkling  at- 
omizers and  bottles  of  perfume  with  sweet, 
flowery  scents.  I  dreamed  I  sniffed  all  the 
perfumes,  then  sat  cross-legged  on  the 
pink  satin  bedspread  in  my  pink  pajamas 
while  a  white  bedside  radio  serenaded  me 
with  dance  music  and  I  ate  a  hot  fudge 
sundae. 

That  next  morning  when  I  woke  up  I 
saw  the  crucifix  again,  and  I  prayed.  My 
brother  Joey,  chubby  and  brown-eyed, 
bounced  into  the  room  in  good  spirits  and 
said  he  was  going  to  read  me  a  poem  from 
his  first-grade  book. 

Getting  better 

I  sat  up  in  bed  and  my  mother  served 
me  a  warm  broth.  Joey  asked  Mom  if  he 
could  read  another  poem,  and  she  told 
him  to  be  careful  and  not  to  strain  his 
throat. 

He  leaned  over  and  kissed  me  on  the 
cheek  and  said,  "Annette,  I  don't  want  you 
to  be  sick.  I  want  you  to  get  out  of  bed — 
like  me." 

Then  Mom  told  him  to  let  me  rest,  and 
as  I  lay  there  in  bed,  I  could  hear  the 
kids  on  the  block,  playing  and  laughing. 
Some  of  the  girls  were  skipping  rope  to 
jump-rope  rhymes,  and  others  were  play- 
ing hopscotch.  I  could  hear  the  clack  of 
the  slate  against  the  sidewalk  as  they  took 
hopscotch  turns.  One  of  the  neighbor 
girls,  Mary  Jo,  bounced  a  ball  to  the  tune 
of  One,  Two,  Three  O'heary. 

For  the  first  time  since  I'd  been  in  bed 
I  felt  lonely.  I  wanted  to  go  out  and  play 
with  them. 

When  the  doctor  came  that  afternoon, 
he  asked  me  if  I  wanted  anything.  I  asked 
him  if  I  could  have  a  few  visitors  for  a 
little  while.  I  wanted  some  company. 

I  could  have  them,  he  said.  But,  only  if 
I  promised  not  to  talk. 

Three  of  my  girlfriends  came  at  five 
o'clock.  They  brought  me  presents — a  rec- 
ord and  a  charm  bracelet  and  a  Peter 
Rabbit  hand  puppet  made  out  of  a  Christ- 
mas stocking. 

They  sat  by  the  side  of  my  bed  on  the 
kitchen  chairs  my  father  brought  in  for 
them.  All  of  them  were  dressed  up  in 
pretty  Christmas  dresses,  and  they  told  me 
they  wanted  me  to  get  well. 

I  wanted  to  reach  over  and  hug  them  all. 

My  mother  served  them  cups  of  hot 
chocolate  and  anise  cookies,  and  when  the 
sun  started  going  down  they  left  and  said 
they'd  come  back  and  see  me  tomorrow. 

They  visited  me  every  day  until  I  was 
completely  well.  We  played  Jacks  and  Old 
Maid  and  sometimes  Mary  Jo  would  tell 


split  nails... 


made  lovely  in  minutes 

WTH  Marvel  Nails 


us  a  ghost  story  her  old  sister  Rosie  had 
read  in  a  grown-up  magazine. 

Then  came  the  day  when  mother  cooked 
spaghetti  and  the  doctor  said  I  could  come 
to  the  table  to  eat  it.  I  knew  I  was  well. 
My  sickness  was  over. 

That  next  Sunday  we  went  to  Mass  at 
St.  Charles  Roman  Catholic  Church  on 
Moore  Park  Boulevard,  and  as  I  knelt  to 
pray  to  Him,  I  also  thanked  Him  for  look- 
ing after  me,  for  watching  over  me  all 
through  my  crisis. 

That  night  I  went  into  my  mother's  bed- 
room and  looked  at  the  figure  of  Jesus  on 
the  wooden  Cross,  and  I  leaned  over  and 
kissed  it. 

I  have  never  forgotten  my  faith  since.  I 
pray  every  day. 


I  thank  Him  for  protecting  me.  And  for 
letting  me  see  my  dreams  come  true. 

For,  not  long  afterward,  the  day  came 
when  I  appeared  on  television,  in  my  short 
skirt  and  cheerleader  sweater,  as  one  of  the 
Mouseketeers  on  the  Mickey  Mouse  Club 
TV  show.  And,  later  on,  when  we  moved 
into  our  new  house,  my  bedroom  wish 
came  true.  It's  all  pink,  and  the  bed  has  a 
pink  satin  bedspread,  and  in  the  corner  I 
have  my  mirrored  vanity  dresser  with  the 
ruffled  pink  skirt  and  a  collection  of  per- 
fume bottles,  each  of  them  with  a  sweet 
heavenly  scent. 

God  never  forgets  those  who  trust  in 
Him.  END 
Annette's  last  picture  was  Walt  Disney's 
Shaggy  Dog. 


At  17  My  Life  is  Over 


(Continued  from  page  20) 

"I  think  I'm  pregnant,"  Beverly  said, 
softly,  still  looking  away. 

Her  girlfriend  squeezed  her  hand  now. 

"Yes,"  Beverly  said.  "I'll  know  for  sure 
in  just  a  little  while.  I  have  an  appoint- 
ment with  the  doctor.    At  two  o'clock." 

She  pulled  her  hand  back  from  her 
friend's  and  brought  it  up  to  her  face  to 
wipe  away  the  tears  that  were  there. 

"There,"  she  said,  "I've  told  you.  What 
I*ve  told  nobody  else  .  .  .  Are  you  sur- 
prised?" 

Her  friend  nodded. 

"I  am,"  she  said.  "Yes." 

Beverly  smiled  a  little. 

"It's  funny,"  she  said.  "I'd  thought  it 
would  be  so  different  ...  I  mean,  here  it  is, 
the  middle  of  the  day,  a  bright  and  sunny 
day,  in  a  restaurant,  over  lunch,  a  cold 
chicken  salad,  me  in  my  black  dress,  my 
eyes  still  burning  from  all  the  crying,  look- 
ing like  I-don't-know-what  because  I 
haven't  looked  in  a  mirror  for  two  weeks 
now — looking  like  I-don't-know-what  and 
caring  even  less  .  .  .  and — " 

She  shook  her  head.  The  smile  was  gone 
from  her  lips  already.  The  muscles  in  her 
slender  white  neck  seemed  to  be  pushing 
hard  against  her  skin. 

"And  what,  Bev?"  her  friend  asked. 

"And  I'd  just  thought,"  Beverly  went 
on,  straining  to  get  the  words  out,  "that 
it  would  be  so  different  .  .  .  that's  all." 

She  picked  up  a  glass  of  water  and 
took  a  sip. 

She  held  up  the  glass  for  a  long  minute, 
looking  into  it,  at  the  insipid  and  colorless 
water — silently,  neither  she  nor  her  friend 
saying  anything. 

"I  want  this  baby  .  . 

And  then,  talking  again,  almost  as  if  to 
herself,  she  said,  "For  two  years  I'd 
thought  exactly  how  it  would  be,  if  and 
when  this  moment  ever  came,  when  it 
came  time  for  me  to  tell  ...  It  would  be 
night,  I'd  thought.  I  would  be  wearing 
something  new,  and  special.  I  would  be 
beautiful.  And  I'd  joke  with  him  for  a 
while.  And  then  I'd  run  into  the  kitchen, 
to  the  refrigerator,  and  grab  hold  of  a 
bottle  of  champagne  I'd  had  icing  all  that 
day,  hidden,  behind  a  big  milk  container 
or  something.  And  I'd  run  back  to  where 
he  was  sitting  and,  holding  the  cham- 
pagne up  high,  I'd  say,  'It's  time  for  a  little 
celebration,  my  darling.'  He'd  ask  why, 
of  course — 'And  what  is  it  we  have  to 
celebrate  now,  Woodnymph?'  he'd  ask. 
And  I'd  make  him  try  to  guess.  Till  he  did 
guess.  And  then  we'd  both  begin  to 
laugh.  And  he'd  get  up  and  kiss  me  and 
hug  me  and  squeeze  me,  hard,  so  hard  that 
I'd  have  to  remind  him  to  be  more  gentle. 


that  I  was  very  fragile  now,  that  I  was 
different  now  and  had  to  be  treated  very 
tenderly.  And  he'd  stop.  'Yes,  that's 
right,'  he'd  say,  'you're  not  a  little  girl  any 
more,  Woodsie,  are  you?  You're  the 
woman  I'll  be  marrying  someday  soon,  as 
soon  as  I  get  my  divorce.  You're  the 
woman  who  will  be  my  wife,  and  the 
mother  of  my  child.  Aren't  you?'  And  as 
I  would  say  yes,  happily,  he'd  take  me  in 
his  arms  again,  only  much  more  gently 
this  time,  much  more  tenderly.  And  we 
would  kiss.  That  minute.  The  next  min- 
ute. All  night.  Kiss  and  hold  each  other 
and  make  love,  forgetting  all  about  the 
champagne,  all  about  everything.  Every- 
thing but  us.  .  .  . 

"I  had  it  all  figured  out,  dreamed  out, 
if  and  when,"  she  said,  putting  down  the 
water  glass.  "It  would  have  been  so 
wonderful.  Except  that  he  died,  before  I 
even  knew  about  the  baby  myself,  or  had 
a  chance  to  tell  him." 

She  smiled  again,  a  small  and  bitter 
smile  this  time. 

"It's  all  what  I  guess  some  people  would 
call  ironic,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"Beverly,"  her  girlfriend  asked,  "are 
you  sure?    About  the  baby?" 

"Pretty  sure,"  Beverly  said.  "I  wake  up 
sick.    I  hurt  up  here  .  .  .  I'm  pretty  sure." 

"And  do  you  feel  all  right  about  it?" 
her  friend  asked. 

"Do  you  mean  how  do  I  feel  about  it  in 
my  heart,  a  young,  husbandless,  loverless, 
broken-up  girl  like  me?"  Beverly  asked 
back.  "Do  you  want  to  know  if  I'm 
happy  or  sad  about  this?  Ashamed  or 
proud?  Is  that  what  you  mean?  Honestly. 
Is  that  what  you  mean?" 

Her  girlfriend's  face  reddened  and  she 
tried  to  say  something  to  explain. 

"This    baby — "    Beverly    said,    after  a 
moment,  " — this  is  all  I've  got  left  of  the 
only  man  who  has  ever  meant  anything 
to  me,  or  ever  will  ...  I  want  this  baby 
More  than  anything  else  on  earth." 

A  waiter  came  over  to  the  table  now,  as 
she  said  this,  and  he  asked  the  two  girls  if 
they  would  care  for  something  else. 

"A  brandy,  Beverly?"  her  girlfriend 
asked. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said. 
"Coffee?" 

"No,"  Beverly  said.  She  looked  down 
at  her  watch.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,"  she 
said  then,  "it's  about  time  for  me  to  be 
going.  Two  o'clock,  the  doctor  said.  It's 
nearly  that  now  .  .  .  Do  you  mind  if  I  go? 
Now?" 

"No,  not  at  all,"  said  her  friend. 
Beverly  rose  from  her  chair  and  began 
to  reach  into  her  purse. 

"Forget  about  splitting  anything,"  her 


— a  new  liquid  preparation  that  hardens  into  long, 
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BITING. 

Will  not  break  or  crack.  Stays  on  until  your  own 
nails  grow  out.  Can  be  filed,  trimmed  and  beauti- 
fully polished.  Each  nail  is  made  in  one  minute. 
You  can  do  any  type  work  while  wearing  these 
nails.  No  oreparation  like  it. 

MARVEL  KIT.  59« 
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■  The  hotel  detective  raced  for  the  elevator  lobby. 

"Woman  just  told  me  about  three  guys  walking  in  here  with 
tommy  guns,"  he  said.  "Who  were  they?" 

The  elevator  boy — new  on  the  job — shrugged.  "Don't  know,"  he 
said.  "I  just  took  them  where  they  told  me — twelfth  floor." 

"Get  me  up  there,"  the  house  dick  said,  "and  quick!" 

The  corridor  of  the  twelfth  floor  was  quiet — for  a  moment. 

Then  the  detective  heard  the  voices,  loud  and  lusty,  from  a  room 
a  few  yards  away. 

It  sounded  like  trouble,  all  right. 

The  detective  rushed  over  to  the  door. 

"Open  up  in  there,"  he  shouted.  "Come  on  .  .  .  Open  up!" 

Slowly,  the  door  did  open. 

A  pair  of  mischievous  eyes  looked  up  into  the  detective's. 
"Hi,"  a  voice  said,  softly. 

"Paul  Anka!"  the  detective  said,  recognizing  the  culprit,  who 
happened  to  be  drenched  with  water  from  head  to  toe.  "What's 
going  on  here?" 

Paul  explained.  "Sir,"  he  said,  pointing  into  the  room,  "my 
buddies  and  I,  we're  in  town  for  a  few  days  to  cut  some  records  .  .  . 
and  because  we  had  nothing  to  do.  but  nothing,  we  decided  to 
have  a  li'l  ole  water  fight  ...  so  we  went  out  a  little  while  ago  to 
buy  some  water  guns,  and — " 

He  went  on  and  on  explaining,  until  the  detective  put  up  his 
hand  and  sighed. 

"All  right,  Paul,  all  right,"  he  said,  "fool  around  a  little  bit 
more,  if  you  have  to  .  .  .  But  please,  try  not  to  get  too  much  of 
that  juice  on  the  walls  or  anything." 

He  turned  and  began  to  leave  the  room. 

He  was  just  about  out,  in  fact,  when  he  felt  a  dash  of  some- 
thing— strangely  water-like — hit  him  in  the  neck. 

"Who  did  that?"  he  asked,  turning  back  around. 

The  three  boys  stared  at  him,  the  picture  of  angels. 

"What  .  .  .  who  .  .  .  how?"  they  asked,  their  guns  planted  firmly 
at  their  sides. 

The  detective  couldn't  help  laughing. 

And  then  he  walked  out — backwards,  this  time. 


Paul 
Anka's 
Tommy 

Gun 


friend  said.  "I  told  you  I  was  only  kid- 
ding.   Lunch  was  on  me." 

"Thank  you,"  Beverly  said. 

Then  she  bent  and  kissed  her  friend, 
quickly. 

"Excuse  me  if  I  was — "  she  started  to  say. 

"Never  mind,"  her  friend  said.  "I  know 
how  you  must  feel  right  now." 

Beverly  turned,  and  began  to  walk 
away. 

And  her  girlfriend,  watching  her, 
thought:  "God,  protect  this  poor  lost 
kid.  .  .  ." 

All  that's  left  of  the  man  she  loved 

The  doctor  was  a  busy  man.  He  minced 
no  words.  "Miss  Aadland,"  he  said,  after 
he'd  completed  his  examination,  "there  is 
no  way  of  telling  immediately  whether 
you're  pregnant  or  not.  We  just  don't 
know  yet.  It  takes  a  laboratory  report 
and  that  won't  be  back  here  in  this  office 
till  tomorrow.  Tomorrow  morning  at  nine. 
Now  why  don't  you  go  home  and  try  to 
relax  and  give  me  a  ring  then?  Tomorrow 
— nine  o'clock.  That's  all  I  can  say  to  you 
now.  Good-bye,  Miss  Aadland.  .  .  ." 

Beverly  stood  at  the  door  of  Errol 
Flynn's  house.  She  hadn't  been  here 
since  that  night,  three  weeks  earlier,  when 
they'd  left  for  Vancouver,  together.  She'd 
thought,  when  he  died,  that  she  would 
never  come  back  to  this  house.  Not  alone. 
Not  without  him. 

But  she  did  not  feel  alone  now. 

Inside  her,  she  knew,  somewhere  deep 
inside  her,  lay  the  little  germ  of  the  baby 
that  was  hers  and  Errol's. 

It  didn't  matter  to  her  that  the  doctor 
she'd  seen  a  few  hours  earlier  had  been 
evasive  about  the  whole  matter.  Baby 
doctors,  for  all  the  humanity  they  tended, 
were  men  of  science,  she  figured.  They 
never  said  yes  or  no  to  anything,  she 
knew,  till  they'd  checked  with  their  test 
tubes,  their  blood  specimens,  their  rabbits 
and  mice,  their  laboratory  reports:  till 
they'd  scratched  their  graying  heads  and 
studied  these  reports  and  come  to  their 
'conclusions.' 

Well,  she  thought  now,  let  the  men  of 
science  do  their  scratching,  their  checking. 

But  she — she  was  a  woman. 

And  women  knew  these  things,  instinc- 
tively. 

As  she  knew  now. 

That  inside  her,  somewhere,  lay  that 
child  of  hers  and  Errol's. 

As  she  knew,  too,  that,  though  her  lover 
and  husband-to-be  was  dead  and  gone,  she 
was  no  longer  alone.  .  .  . 

She  opened  the  door  and  entered  the 
house. 

She  flicked  a  switch  that  turned  on  all 
the  lights  downstairs. 

She  walked  through  the  foyer,  past 
the  living  room  to  the  right,  past  the 
raised  dining  room  to  the  left,  to  the  sun- 
room  in  the  rear  of  the  house — the  room 
that  had  been  their  room,  complete  with 
shining  checkered  linoleum  and  well- 
stocked  bar  and  big  fat  TV  and  view  of 
the  pool,  and  with  the  old  soft  couch. 


PHOTOGRAPHERS'  CREDITS 

The  photographs  appearing  in  this  issue 
are  credited  below  page  by  page: 

9 — Globe;  10 — Globe;  11 — Nat  Dallinger  of 
Gilloon,  Larry  Schiller,  Frances  Orkin;  12-13 — 
Nat  Dallinger  of  Gilloon,  Globe;  14 — UPI:  IS — 
Gene  Trindl  of  Topix,  Gary  Wagner;  16— Wide 
World,  UPI;  19 — Globe,  Wide  World;  20-21  — 
Bill  Crespinel  of  Combine,  UPI;  22-23 — Topix, 
Pictorial  Parade;  26 — Bruno  of  Hollywood:  28- 
29 — Don  Ornitz  of  Globe;  30-33 — Larrv  Schiller 
of  Globe;  34-35 — Larry  Schiller,  Globe;  36-37 — 

Dick  Miller  of  Globe;  38-39  Larry  Schiller  of 

Globe,  Brown  Bros.;  40-41 — Dick  Miller  of 
Globe,  Wide  World;  42 — Del  Hayden  of  Topix; 
44-45 — Globe;  47 — Jacques  Lowe;  48 — Wide 
World. 


where  they  used  to  sit — so  close,  so  much 
of  the  time— still  there,  just  like  always. 

She  walked  over  to  the  couch  now,  and 
she  sat. 

After  a  moment — the  room  was  quiet, 
too  quiet — she  reached  for  the  little  TV 
switcher  that  sat  on  the  end  table  to  the 
right,  blew  off  some  of  the  dust  that  had 
gathered  on  it,  and  pressed  a  button. 

The  television,  across  from  her,  lit  up. 

A  man  said  something  to  her  about  a 
1960  car.  '"Big,  beautiful  and  roomy;  a 
totally  new  idea  in  automobile  styling," 
he  said.   "Made  for  you!" 

Beverly  pressed  another  button. 

A  girl  in  a  ruffled  dress  sat  at  a  piano, 
playing  something  Schubert-like,  candle- 
light playing  on  her  face.  She  looked  over 
at  a  man,  who  stood  listening  to  her, 
watching  her.  He  began  to  approach  her — 

Beverly  pressed  another  button. 

This  time  she  got  a  Western,  two  men  in 
big  hats  arguing,  slurringly. 

She  pressed  another  button. 

Another  western. 

Another  button. 

A  cartoon  lady,  advertising  bread. 

Another  button. 

Another. 

Another. 

Till  she  rose  from  the  couch,  suddenly, 
the  room  quiet  once  more,  the  television 
off.  and  walked  over  to  the  bar,  in  the  far 
corner  of  the  room. 

"My  life  won't  be  over  .  .  ." 

Among  all  the  bottles  there,  a  small  split 
of  champagne  had  caught  her  eye. 


Learn  4810  facts  about 
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Which  actress'  husband 
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wrote  articles 
on  fox-hunting? 


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She  reached  for  it  and  took  it  from  its 
shelf. 

She  struggled  for  a  moment  with  the 
wiring  and  silver  foil  around  its  neck,  and 
finally  she  opened  it. 

"My  darling,"  she  said,  aloud,  as  she 
reached  for  a  glass  and  poured  in  some  of 
the  champagne,  " — it's  time  for  a  little 
celebration." 

She  lifted  the  glass  to  her  lips,  and  took 
a  sip. 

She  shuddered. 

"It's  warm,  much  too  warm,"  she  said.  "I 
know  how  you  like  it  iced  .  .  .  but,  you 
see,  I've  been  so  busy  today,  at  the  doc- 
tor's .  .  .  because,  you  see,  we're  going  to 
have  a  baby — Yes,  yes,  my  darling — A 
baby.  And  it's  certain.  Oh  yes,  of  course 
it's  certain.  .  .  ." 

Her  hand  began  to  tremble. 

She  let  the  glass  she  was  holding  fall. 

It  crashed  to  the  floor,  the  wine  splash- 
ing against  her  ankles. 

She  walked  back  to  the  couch. 

She  sat  once  more. 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

"'Darling,"  she  whispered,  her  voice 
breaking  as  she  made  her  confession  to  the 
silent  room,  " — it's  almost  certain."  She 
brought  up  her  hand  and  ran  it  through 
her  long  blonde  hair.  "Only  a  phone  call," 
she  said.  "I  have  only  to  phone  the  doctor, 
tomorrow,  and  he  has  only  to  say  'Yes,  it's 
true'  .  .  .  And  then  everything  will  be  all 
right  with  me  again.  And  I'll  know  that  my 
life  isn't  over." 

She  fell  back  on  the  couch. 

"Our  child,"  she  said.  "I'll  have  at  least 
that  ...  It  will  grow  inside  me,  and  then 
it  will  come.  It  will  get  big.  I  will  take  such 
care  of  it,  such  loving  care.  And  one  day  I 
will  tell  our  child  about  its  father — about 
how  good  and  glorious  a  man  he  was.  And 
when  I  am  finished  telling  our  child,  he 
will  smile,  proudly — and  he  will  ask  me  to 
tell  him  even  more  about  you,  his  father. 
And  I  will.  And  so  you  will  always  still  be 
with  us — with  me,  with  our  child." 

She  nodded. 

She  brought  her  hand  up  to  her  stomach. 

"Little  baby,"  she  whispered,  "I  want 
you  so  much." 

And  then,  desperately,  she  tried  to  fall 
asleep,  so  that  the  morning  would  come 
that  much  more  quickly.  .  .  . 

Too  hard  from  here  on  in 

It  was  exactly  9:00  asn. 

Beverly  picked  up  the  receiver  and 
dialed  the  doctor's  office. 

"Hello?"  she  heard  the  busy-sounding 
voice  ask. 

"This  is  Miss  Aadland,"  she  said.  "Bev- 
erly Aadland  ...  I  wondered — "  she  started 
to  say,  nervously. 

"The  report,  yes,"  the  doctor  said.  "It 
should  be  here — among  my  papers." 

She  heard  the  rustle  of  the  papers;  the 
short  silence  that  followed;  then  the  doc- 
tor's impatient  voice,  calling  out,  "Nurse!" 

Another  silence  followed. 

Till,  finallv,  the  doctor  spoke  up  again. 

"Miss  Aadland?" 

"Yes,"  Beverly  said. 

"Now.  the  report,"  the  doctor  said,  "yes. 
It's  negative." 

Beverly  repeated  the  word  after  him. 

"That's  right,"  said  the  doctor.  "You're 
not  pregnant." 

"That  can't  be,"  Beverly  said.  "There 
must  be  a  mistake." 

The  doctor  told  her  that  the  report  was 
conclusive.  "The  nausea,  the  other  symp- 
toms that  you  told  me  about,"  he  said, 
"are  probably  the  result  of  the  tension 
you've  been  undergoing  these  past  few 
weeks." 

"But  that  can't  be,"  Beverly  said  again, 
her  hand  clutching  hard  at  the  receiver. 
"There  must  be  a  mistake!" 

"Miss  Aadland,"  the  doctor  said — there 


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was  a  different  tone  to  his  voice  now;  soft- 
er, friendlier — "let  me  tell  you  something, 
please  ...  I  think  I  know  most  of  the  facts 
of  this  case,  more  than  the  medical  facts. 
And  I  think  I  should  tell  you  this.  There  is 
nothing  more  beautiful  in  life,  for  a  wom- 
an, than  to  have  a  child  by  the  man  she 
loves.  This  I  know.  I  have  delivered  many 
babies  in  my  time,  seen  the  expression  on 
the  faces  of  many  new  mothers  right  after 
the  deliveries  .  .  .  But  I  have  seen,  too,  the 
faces  of  mothers  whose  children  arrived 
fatherless,  girls  who  thought  that  this  was 
what  they  had  wanted — thought.  And  these 
girls — girls  like  you — they  did  not  smile 
when  the  important  moment  came.  For  it 
was  as  if  they  had  realized  suddenly  that 
it  would  be  too  hard  from  here  on  in — not 
for  them — but  for  the  little  son  or  daugh- 
ter they  had  just  given  birth  to.  As  if  they 
realized  that  from  here  on  in  it  would  be  a 
life  of  continual  explanations,  of  terrible 
incompleteness,  of  foisting  a  mother's 
memories  on  a  child  who  knows  only  the 
present,  and  does  not,  never  will,  under- 
stand a  distant  and  far-removed  past.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  understand,  Miss  Aadland,  what 
I  am  trying  to  say,  to  tell  you?" 

Beverly  did  not  answer. 

"Miss  Aadland?  Do  you  understand?" 

"No,"  Beverly  said,  finally. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  the  doctor  said.  "It 
doesn't  make  much  sense  to  you  now,  does 
it?  But  someday  it  will.  Believe  me.  .  .  ." 

He  said  good-bye. 


DIANE 
BAKER 


I  was  once  a  model 
so  I  know  that 
models  work  just 
as  hard  as  gals  in 
Hollywood  do — 
maybe  even  harder. 
That's  why  I  got 
such  a  kick  out  oj 
that  article  in  the 
new  INGENUE  Mag- 
azine called  "Beauty 
Tips  From  Top 
Teen  Models."  That 
ev  ery -hair-in-its 
place  look  is  an 
around-the-clock 
job. 


And  they  hung  up. 

And  Beverly,  looking  around  the  room 
she  and  Errol  had  shared,  felt  cold  sud- 
denly, and  she  rose,  looked  down  at  the 
wrinkled  dress  she  had  slept  in,  picked  up 
her  purse  and  walked,  slowly,  alone  again, 
towards  the  door.  END 

Beverly  stars  in  Cuban  Rebel  Girls,  Ex- 
ploit Films. 


Dick  Clark,  I  Love  You 


(Continued  from  page  45) 

the  sun-porch  of  the  house  where  she  lives 
with  her  parents  and  her  twenty-three- 
year-old  brother,  Marty.  We  were  alone. 
Her  mother,  Essie,  had  just  cleared  the 
supper  dishes  and  was  in  the  living  room, 
reading  the  Evening  Bulletin.  Her  father, 
Samuel,  a  public  relations  man,  was  up- 
stairs dressing,  getting  ready  to  go  visit 
some  relatives. 

"When  did  I  first  meet  Dick  Clark?" 
Myrna  said,  in  answer  to  our  first  question. 
"It  all  started  on  a  Monday,  I  remember, 
during  school  lunch,  two  and  a  half  years 
ago.  I  heard  from  somebody  that  Tab 
Hunter,  my  then  most  favorite  of  all  the 
stars,  was  going  to  be  on  the  Dick  Clark 
Bandstand  that  coming  Friday.  I  wanted 
to  see  him  in  person,  so  much,  that  that's 
all  I  thought  about  for  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon.  Then  after  school  I  decided  to 
go  to  the  Bandstand  studio,  only  four 
blocks  from  the  school,  to  see  if  I  could 
get  a  ticket  in  advance  maybe.  I  went. 
I  got  on  a  line.  And  before  I  knew  it, 
somehow,  I  was  following  the  line  right 
into  the  studio  and  up  to  Dick  Clark  who 
was  saying  hello  to  everyone  as  we  passed, 
saying,  'Welcome  to  today's  show.  I  hope 
you  have  a  good  time.'  I  thought  to  my- 
self, 'My  gosh,  am  I  going  to  be  seeing  a 
real  TV  show?    Oh  my  gosh!'  " 

The  first  thing  Myrna  did  inside  the 
studio  was  to  look  for  a  seat,  a  good  place 
from  which  to  watch  the  goings-on.  She 
found  one,  and  for  the  next  few  minutes 
she  kept  her  eyes  glued  on  Dick,  busy  now 
talking  with  his  director,  producer  and  a 
few  of  the  technicians.  Then  she  watched 
him  as  he  walked  up  to  his  podium,  called 
the  crowd  to  order  and  gave  his  pre-show 
speech.  "You  know,"  Myrna  says,  "for  the 
fellows  to  keep  their  jackets  on,  for  every- 
one to  look  his  pleasantest,  directions  as  to 
how  to  get  to  the  boys'  and  girls'  rooms 
just  in  case,  and  things  like  that." 

After  the  speech,  Myrna  was  surprised 
to  see  Dick  step  down  from  the  podium 
and  walk  over  to  her. 

She  was  nervous,  so  nervous  that  she 
82  found  herself  speaking  even  before  he  did. 


I  didn't  even 
'Is   it  in  the 


'You  can  do 


"Hi,"  she  said,  "this  is  my  first  time 
here." 

"I  know,"  Dick  said,  "I  just  wanted  to 
check  ...  to  see  if  you'd  signed  the  guest 
book.  Everybody  does  that  the  first  time 
they  come  on  the  show." 

Myrna  shook  her  head, 
see  the  book,"  she  said, 
lobby?" 

"That's  right,"  Dick  said 

Myrna  started  to  rise. 

"Never  mind,"  Dick  said, 
it  later,  on  your  way  out." 

As  Myrna  sat  again,  he  said,  "I  hope  you 
enjoy  the  show  this  afternoon." 

"I'm  sure  I  will,"  Myrna  said. 

"You  know,"  Dick  said,  "most  of  the 
fun  for  our  kids  is  the  dancing — " 

"Oh  yes,"  Myrna  said.  "I've  seen  the 
show  .  .  .  and  I  think  that's  the  best  part, 
too,  watching  the  kids  dance  and  have 
fun." 

"You  going  to  dance,  Myrna?"  Dick 
asked. 

She  shrugged.  "Gee,  I  don't  know,"  she 
said. 

"Do  you  like  to  dance?"  Dick  asked. 

"I  guess,"  Myrna  said.  "I've  danced  a 
few  times  at  school.  But,  gee,  I  don't 
know.  Here.  On  television  and  every- 
thing ...  I  really  don't  think  so,  Mr. 
Clark." 

"Well,"  Dick  said,  after  a  moment,  "I'm 
not  going  to  ask  you  to  do  what  you  don't 
really  want  to  do.  But  let's  just  say  one 
of  the  fellows  here  comes  over  to  you 
later  and  asks  you  to  take  a  few  turns 
around  the  floor — will  you  think  it  over 
before  you  say  no  to  him?" 

Again,  Myrna  shrugged. 

"Please?"  Dick  asked. 

He  smiled  now. 

And  then  he  walked  away.  .  .  . 

A  few  minutes  later — at  exactly  3:30 — 
the  show  began.  And  it  wasn't  long  after 
that,  in  the  middle  of  a  swingin'  R&R 
number,  that  a  boy  did  come  over  to 
Myrna  and  ask  her  to  be  his  partner. 

Myrna  took  a  deep  breath. 

"Gee,  I — "  she  started  to  say,  looking 


Intimate  Thoughts  of  a  Bride-to-Be 

(Continued  from  page  33) 

share  her  joyful  plans.  "I  have  to  keep 
all  the  excitement  to  myself,"  Evy  com- 
plains wistfully — but  only  to  herself.  She 
does  not  want  to  tell  Jimmy.  "I  want  to 
be  everything  for  him,"  she  says  to  herself, 
"everything  good  ...  I  do  not  want  to 
bring  him  any  sadness  .  .  .  Because  of 
Jimmy,  I  am  happier  than  I  ever  dreamed 
possible.  I  want  him  to  be  as  happy  be- 
cause of  me." 

Then  Evy  smiles,  looking  forward  to 
the  wonderful  honeymoon  they  will  have 
in  Europe  soon,  and  that  very  special  day 
when  her  husband  will  meet  her  family. 

These  are  the  intimate  thoughts  of  a 
bride-to-be.  END 


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away  from  the  boy.  Her  eyes  shot  over  to 
the  podium. 

She  hoped  that  Dick  wasn't  watching 
this. 

But  he  was. 

She  tried  to  smile  at  him. 

He  grinned  a  big  grin,  and  he  winked. 

Myrna's  head  felt  hot,  suddenly.  I  don't 
want  to,  she  thought.  No.  I  don't  want 
to  .  .  .  But  he's  been  so  nice  to  me — 

She  looked  back  at  the  boy.  "I  thought 
it  over,"  she  said,  rising.  "And  yes,  I'd  like 
very  much  to  dance.  .  .  ." 

It  was  fun  after  all  .  .  . 

At  the  end  of  the  show,  Dick  came  over 
to  her.  He  put  his  arm  around  her  shoul- 
der. "How  was  it.  Myrna — fun?"  he  asked. 

"I  felt  a  little  shaky  at  first,  I've  got  to 
admit,"  Myrna  said.  She  nodded.  "But  it 
was  fun — at  least,  soon  as  I  got  over 
thinking  that  there  were  a  couple  of  thou- 
sand people  watching  me  on  their  sets." 

"A  couple  of  thousand?"  Dick  asked.  He 
stepped  back  from  her  and  gave  her  that 
famous  mock-shocked  look  of  his.  "Miss 
Horowitz,"  he  said,  "don't  you  realize  that 
at  last  count  there  were  eighteen  million 
people  who — " 

"Eighteen  million?"  Myrna  interrupted 
him.  She  closed  her  eyes.  "Oh  no,"  she 
said,  moaning,  as  if  she  had  a  sudden 
stomach  ache. 

"If  it  was  that  bad — well,  you  don't  have 
to  come  back  any  more,  you  know,"  Dick 
said. 

Myrna  opened  her  eyes,  quickly. 

"Or  do  you  think,"  Dick  asked,  "that 
maybe  you'd  like  to  come  back?" 

"Oh  I  would,"  Myrna  said.  "You  see  .  .  . 
the  reason  I  came  in  the  first  place  was  so 
I  could  come  Friday.  I  wanted  to  make 
sure  I'd  see  Tab  Hunter,  I  mean.  And  he's 
going  to  be  here  Friday." 

Dick  reached  into  his  pocket  and  handed 


Myrna  a  ticket.  "This'll  get  you  in  Friday," 
he  said.  " — Matter  of  fact,"  he  said,  "this 
ticket  will  get  you  in  tomorow,  too,  if  you 
decide  you'd  like  to  come  then  .  .  . 
Would  you?" 

"I  wasn't  so  sure  at  that  exact  moment," 
Myrna  recalls.  "But  the  next  morning, 
soon  as  I  woke  up,  I  found  myself  thinking 
how  much  I  really  would  like  to  go  back 
that  afternoon.  And  so  I  went.  And  I 
went  the  next  day.  And  the  next.  And 
each  day  I'd  find  myself  having  a  better 
and  better  time,  and  dancing  more  and 
more,  too.  I  went  so  much,  in  fact,  that 
after  a  while  one  of  my  teachers  at  school 
stopped  calling  me  Myrna  and  started  re- 
ferring to  me  as  'Bandstand.' 

"Boy,  things  really  got  funny  like  that. 
So  many  people  began  to  recognize  me 
from  the  show.  I  remember  once  I  was  in 
Atlantic  City,  walking  down  the  board- 
walk, and  an  old  lady  came  rushing  over 
to  me  and  pinched  my  cheek  and  said,  'I 
watch  you  on  TV — you're  so  cute.'  And 
there  was  the  time  I  was  sitting  in  the 
trolley  and  two  little  kids  saw  me  and 
asked  me  for  my  autograph.  That  was  the 
first  time  that  happened.  It's  happened  lots 
of  times  since.  Oh  I've  had  the  time  of 
my  life  ever  since  I've  been  going  on  the 
show. 

"Like  the  people  I've  met,  for  instance. 

"Friends  first.  Other  Philadelphia  girls 
who  come  to  the  show  all  the  time.  Joyce 
Shafer  and  Carole  Higbee  and  Mary  Ann 
Cuff  and  Lois  and  Barbara  Trott,  the  twins. 
You  should  hear  the  phone  ringing  all  the 
time  in  our  house  now7.  My  father  says  it 
sounds  like  a  Bell  Telephone  Exchange 
office. 

How  life  has  changed 

"And  stars!  I've  met  Roger  Smith  on  the 
show — he's  so  cute,  such  a  doll.  And  Pat 
Boone.  Annette  Funicello.  Johnny  Mathis. 


Connie  Francis.  James  Garner.  The  Teddy 
Bears — Phil,  Marshall  and  Annette.  And 
Fabian.  I  even  danced  with  Fabian. 

"And,  of  course,  there's  Dick. 

"And  how  can  I  tell  how  great  I  think 
he  is,  all  that  he's  done  for  me? 

"Like  the  time  I  went  to  the  hospital,  for 
instance.  .  .  ." 

The  time  was  December.  1958.  Myrna's 
bad  leg  was  beginning  to  bother  her.  A 
doctor  recommended  corrective  surgery  on 
the  knee-cap.  Myrna's  first  question  was, 
"How  long  will  I  have  to  be  in  bed?"  The 
doctor  told  her,  "A  few  weeks  in  the  hos- 
pital— then  a  few  months  at  home,  two, 
maybe  even  three." 

That  afternoon,  after  the  show,  Myrna 
told  Dick  about  the  operation. 

He  took  her  into  his  office,  behind  the 
studio,  and  closed  the  door. 

"When's  the  operation?"  he  asked  her. 

"Day  after  tomorrow,"  Myrna  said.  "I 
go  to  the  hospital  tomorrow,  and  then,  the 
next  morning,  the  doctor  operates." 

Dick  took  her  hand.  "I  guess  this  is  the 
time  for  a  nice  speech  from  me,"  he  said, 
softly.  "Well  .  .  .  I'm  not  good  at  making 
speeches,  Myrna.  But  let  me  tell  you  this: 
I  wish  you  all  the  luck  in  the  world.  I 
know  you'll  come  through  with  everything 
all  right.  I  have  faith.  I  want  you  to  have 
faith,  too." 

He  leaned  over,  and  kissed  her  on  the 
cheek. 

"Good  luck,"  he  said,  again,  " — and 
hurry  back  to  us." 

The  next  day,  on  the  air,  Dick  told  a 
nationwide  audience  about  Myrna  and  the 
operation. 

"She'll  be  away  from  us  for  a  little 
while,"  he  said,  "but  if  you'd  like  to  keep 
in  touch  with  her,  just  drop  her  a  postcard 
every  once  in  a  while.  I  think  she'd 
appreciate  that.  .  .  ." 

"And  do  you  know  what  happened,  just 


s150  FOR  YOU! 

Fill  in  the  form  below  (or  a  reasonable  facsimile  thereof)  as  soon  as  you've  read  all  the  stories  in  this  issue.  Then  mail  it  to  us  right  away. 
Promptness  counts.  Three  $10  winners  will  be  chosen  from  each  of  the  following  areas — on  a  basis  of  the  date  and  time  on  your  postmark: 
Eastern  states;  Southern  states;  Midwestern  states;  Rocky  Mountain  and  Pacific  states;  Canada.  And  even  if  you  don't  earn  $10,  you'll 
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Please  circle  the  box  to  the  left  of  the  one  phrase  which  best  answers  each  question: 


1.  I  LIKED  ERROL  FLYNN: 

rj]  more  than  almost  any  star  E  a  lot 
E  fairly  well  E  very  little  E  not  at  all 

am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  E  all  of  his  story  0  part  E  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  T  super-completely 
E  completely  E  fairly  well  [JJ  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 

2.  I  LIKE  TUESDAY  WELD: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  E  a  lot 
E  fairly  well  E  very  little  Jl!  not  at  all 
ID  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 
I  READ:  E  all  of  her  story  E  part  E  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  S  super-completely 
E  completely  IT]  fairly  well  E  very  little 
E  not  at  all 

3.  I  LIKE  DEBBIE  REYNOLDS: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  (TJ  a  lot 
E  fairly  well  S  very  little  E  not  at  all 
[J]  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  GLENN  FORD: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  [JJ  a  lot 
E  fairly  well  E  very  little  E  not  at  all 


E  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  E  all  of  their  story  E  part  E  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  E  super-completely 
E  completely  E  fairly  well  E  very  little 
E  not  at  all 

4.  I  LIKE  CRASH  CRADDOCK: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  E  a  lot 
E  fairly  well  E  very  little  E  not  at  all 
E  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  E  all  of  his  story  E  part  E  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  E  super-completely 
E  completely  E  fairly  well  E  very  little 
E  not  at  all 

5.  I  LIKE  CATHY  CROSBY: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  E  a  lot 
E  fairly  well  E  very  little  E  not  at  all 
E  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 
I  READ:  E  all  of  her  story  E  part  E  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  E  super-completely 
E  completely  E  fairly  well  B  very  little 
E  not  at  all 

6.  I  LIKE  EVY  NORLUND: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  E  a  lot 


E  fairly  well  E  very  little  [JJ  not  at  all 
E  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  JAMES  DARREN: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  E  a  lot 
E  fairly  well  E  very  little  E  not  at  all 
E  am  not  very  familiar  with  him  _ 
I  READ:  Lii  all  of  their  story  E  part  E  none 
IT_  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  T  super-completely 
E  completely  E  fairly  well  E  very  little 
E  not  at  all 

7.  I  LIKE  GIA  SCALA: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  E  a  lot 
E  fairly  well  E  very  little  E  not  at  all 
E  am  no_t  very  familiar  withjier 
I  READ:  E  all  of  her  story  [JJ  part  E  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  E  super-completely 
E  completely  _3i  fairly  well  E  very  little 
E  not  at  all 

8.  I  LIKE  JEAN  SIMMONS: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  E  a  lot 

fairly  well  j_i  very  little  E  not  at  all 
E  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  STEWART  GRANGER: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  E  a  lot 


from  what  Dick  said?"  Myrna  asked  us. 
"I  didn't  only  get  postcards,  hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  them,  from  people  all  over  the 
country.  But  I  got  fancy  cards,  bought  and 
homemade.  And  I  got  things  like  bracelets 
and  necklaces.  And  handkerchiefs,  hand- 
kerchiefs, handkerchiefs — I  don't  know 
how  many  of  those  I  got. 

"I  was  in  the  hospital  for  a  couple  of 
weeks.  Then,  on  Christmas  Eve,  I  was 
sent  home.  I  was  home,  recuperating,  for 
fourteen  more  weeks.  I  watched  the  show 
on  TV  every  day.  Boy,  came  3:30  and  you 
knew  what  I  was  doing — it  was  stop 
everything  and  turn  on  the  set  .  .  .  All  of 
the  shows  were  great,  I  thought.  But  there 
was  a  best  show  for  me,  a  special  show. 
That  was  on  February  25.  It  was  after  five 
o'clock  and  nearly  the  end  of  the  show. 
All  of  a  sudden — I'll  never  forget  it — Dick 
stopped  everything  and  reached  for  a  cake 
somebody  was  holding.  It  was  a  beautiful 
cake,  all  lit  with  candles.  'Today,'  Dick 
said,  'is  Myrna  Horowitz'  birthday.'  Then 
he  looked  straight  into  the  camera  and 
said,  'Happy  Birthday,  Myrna.'  I  felt  kind 
of  funny,  lying  there  in  my  bed,  having 
Dick  talk  to  me.  I  even  felt  kind  of  funny 
crying  in  a  room,  all  alone.  But  as  I  kept 
looking  at  that  cake,  and  at  Dick,  I  didn't 
care.  I  just  sat  up  in  my  bed  and,  as  if 
I  were  right  there  in  the  middle  of  the 
studio,  I  said,  'Thank  you,  Dick' — just  like 
that. 

Dick's  been  wonderful 

"Another  time  I'll  never  forget,"  Myrna 
goes  on,  "was  the  party  Dick  and  the  kids 
gave  for  me  the  first  day  I  was  allowed  to 
get  out  of  bed.  It  was  at  Palumbo's  res- 
taurant. It  was  a  surprise.  There  was  din- 
ner at  Palumbo's.  And  then,  later,  Dick 
took  us  all  to  the  movies,  to  see  Ricky 
Nelson  in  Rio  Bravo  ...  At  first,  at 
Palumbo's,  I  thought  it  was  just  the  kids 


who  were  giving  the  party  for  me.  But 
then,  through  the  main  door,  in  walked 
Dick.  He  made  believe  he  didn't  see  me 
at  first.  'What's  this  all  about,'  he  asked, 
keeping  a  straight  face,  'who's  here?'  One 
of  the  girls  said,  'Oh,  you  know — Myrna 
Horowitz.'  'Myrna  Horowitz,'  Dick  said, 
'who's  that?  There's  no  such  person?'  And 
then  he  looked  over  at  me  and  he  started 
to  laugh  and  to  say  something  like, 
'Myrna,  it's  so  good  to  see  you  again — .' 
And  I  started  to  cry — I  cry  very  easily, 
you  see;  at  the  movies  and  on  TV,  in 
plays,  I  even  cry  at  happy  endings.  And 
there  was  such  emotion  between  us  that 
night." 

Myrna  paused  for  a  moment  as  she  re- 
membered that  night. 

"There  are  so  many  other  things  I  can 
tell  you  about  Dick,"  she  said  then.  "Things 
he's  done  for  me,  reasons  I  love  him  so 
much  ...  I  just  wouldn't  know  where  to 
begin." 

Her  father  walked  into  the  sun -porch 
now. 

"Phone  call,  Myrna,"  he  said. 
He  watched  his  daughter  as  she  rose  to 
leave. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  said,  "just  like  the  Tele- 
phone Exchange,  this  house." 

Then  he  turned  to  us  and  smiled. 

"Dick  Clark,  Dick  Clark."  he  said.  "He's 
become  like  another  member  of  the  family 
these  past  couple  of  years  ...  I  guess  you 
could  tell  by  now  that  our  daughter  is 
crazy  about  him.  And,  you  know.  I  like 
him,  too,  very  much,  very  much.  To  me, 
he's  what  I'd  call  a  moral  therapist.  He 
keeps  morality  in  the  kids.  He  speaks 
softly  to  them,  kindly.  But,  from  what  I 
understand,  he's  a  hard  taskmaster  when 
he  doesn't  like  something  the  kids  might 
do.  I  hear,  for  instance,  that  he  won't  put 
up  with  kids  cutting  school  just  to  come 
to  the  show.  Some  of  the  kids  tried  to  get 


away  with  this.  But  when  he  found  out 
he  banned  them  from  the  show,  for 
good.  He  means  business.  He's  like  a  good 
teacher.  Well,  you  remember  a  good 
teacher  long  after  you've  graduated  and 
grown  up  and  got  married  and  had  kids 
of  your  own.  And  that's  the  way  I  feel 
it's  going  to  be  with  Dick  Clark  and  the 
children  of  the  present  generation  who 
have  got  to  know  him  .  .  .  Like  Myrna." 

Myrna  returned  to  the  sun-porch  now. 

"That  was  Joyce  Shafer,  one  of  the  girls 
I  told  you  about,  from  the  show,"  she  said. 
"We're  going  to  the  movies  together  in  a 
little  while." 

She  sat  again. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "on  the  way  to 
the  phone,  and  back,  I  was  thinking  that 
everything  I've  been  saying  so  far  is  to 
make  people  who  read  this  story  know 
what  I  think  of  Dick. 

"And  I  thought:  There's  Dick  himself 
now,  probably  sitting  at  home  and  looking 
through  some  newspapers  right  now,  read- 
ing more  of  the  things  they've  been  writing 
about  him  these  past  few  days,  and  feeling 
just  awful. 

"And  I  thought  I'd  like  to  say  some- 
thing to  him,  while  I'm  talking;  something 
to  maybe  make  him  feel  better. 

"I'd  say  it  to  him  in  person,  at  the  studio, 
except  I  guess  I'm  too  shy  that  way,  still. 

"But,  anyway,  I'd  like  to  tell  him  now 
that  I,  for  one,  am  behind  Dick  Clark,  no 
matter  what.  And  I'd  like  to  tell  him  the 
same  thing  he  told  me  when  I  went  to  the 
hospital  last  December:  I  wish  you  all  the 
luck  in  the  world.  I  know  you'll  come 
through  with  everything  all  right.  1  have 
faith.  I  want  you  to  have  faith,  too. 

"All  right?"  Myrna  asked.  "Would  you 
please  print  that  in  your  magazine?" 

We  promised  that  we  would.  END 

Dick  stars  in  Because  They're  Young. 
Columbia. 


GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  (JJ  all  of  their  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  super-completely 
00  completely  00  fairly  well  00  very  little 

00  not  at  all 

9.  I  LIKE  ANNETTE  FUNICELL0: 

GQ  more  than  almost  any  star  00  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  GO  all  of  her  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  00  super-completely 
00  completely  00  fairly  well  00  very  little 
00  not  at  all 

10.  I  LIKE  SAMMY  DAVIS,  JR.: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  00  a  lot 

00  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  00  all  of  his  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  super-completely 
00  completely  00  fairly  well  GO  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 


11.  I  LIKE  JAMES  ARNESS: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  GO  all  of  his  story  00  part  GO  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  super-completely 
[i]  completely  GO  fairly  well  00  very  little 

00  not  at  all 

12.  I  LIKE  DICK  CLARK: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  00  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  00  all  of  his  story  00  part  Gil  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  super-completely 
00  completely  00  fairly  well  GO  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 

13.  I  LIKE  SANDRA  DEE: 

00  more  than  almost  any  star  00  a  lot 
00  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
00  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 


I  READ:  GO  all  of  her  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  00  super-completely 
00  completely  GO  fairly  well  00  very  little 

00  not  at  all 

14.  I  LIKE  EVELYN  RUDIE: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  00  a  lot 

00  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  00  all  of  her  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  00  super-completely 
00  completely  00  fairly  well  00  very  little 
00  not  at  all 


15.  I  LIKE  TROY  DONAHUE: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  00  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  00  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  GO  all  of  his  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  00  super-completely 
00  completely  00  fairly  well  00  very  little 
00  not  at  all 


16.  The  stars  I  most  want  to  read  about  are: 


(3) 


(!) 

(2)  . 

(3)  . 


AGE  NAME  . 

ADDRESS  

CITY   


ZONE  STATE 


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rinsed  in  Sta-Puf  iron  easier,  and  much  flatwork  dries  wrinkle-free,  needs  no 
pressing  at  all!  Be  sure  to  use  Sta-Puf  Miracle  Rinse  in  your  next  wash.  You'll 
find  Sta-Puf  at  vour  favorite  grocer's. 


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Invisible  porous  openings  blend  just  the  right  amount 
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B^COOP!  LANA  TURNER'S  LOVE  LIFE  ! 
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DRY  SKIN 
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FEB  29  I960 


Every  time  yoxx  "brush 
yoixr  "teeth, 
finish  the  job... 
reach  for  Listerine 


Germs  in  mouth  and  throat  cause  most  bad 
breath.  You  need  an  antiseptic  to  kill  germs,  and 
no  tooth  paste  is  antiseptic.  No  tooth  paste  kills 
germs  the  way  Listerine  Antiseptic  does  . . . 
on  contact,  by  millions,  on  every  oral  surface. 
No  wonder  more  American  families  use  Listerine 
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Xiisterine  stops  "bad.  breath 

4  times  "better  than  tooth  paste ! 


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only  teetl 
line.  And 
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;e— .;:n::n;te 
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MARCH.  1960 


AMERICA'S  GREATEST  MOVIE  MAGAZINE 


STORIES 

Debbie  Reynolds   19    Frustration  by  Bob  Thomas 

Robert  Blake   22    Biography  of  a  Beatnik  Boy  by  Ed  DeBlasio 

Elvis  Presley  24    Happy  Valentine's  Day  from  Elvis 

Elizabeth  Taylor 

Eddie  Fisher  26    I  Don't  Want  to  Leave  You,  Eddie  by  Earl  Wilson 

Diane  Baker  28    The  Nice  Girl  by  Doug  Brewer 

Pamela  Lincoln 

Darryl  Hickman   30    A  Real  Swinging  Shower,  and  an 

Old-Fashioned  Wedding  by  Terry  Davidson 

lana  Turner  34    Lana  In  Love!  A  Louella  Parsons'  Scoop 

Pat  Boone   36    "I  Never  Feel  Sure  About  My  Marriage"  by  Daniel  Stern 

Diane  Varsi   38    Last  Photos  of  Diane  Varsi  by  Hugh  Burrell 

Brigitte  Bordot 

Jacques  Charrier    44    The  Truth  About  Brigitte  Bardot's  Marriage 

Janet  Leigh 

Tony  Curtis   48    Daddy's  Pictures  Always  Say  "I  Love  You" 

by  Janet  Leigh  as  told  to  William  Tusher 

Gene  Barry  50    In  The  Shadows  Behind  Bat  Masterson: 

A  Broken  Wing,  A  Shattered  Dream,  A  Woman  in  Love 

by  Lou  Larkin 

SPECIAL  FEATURES 

41    Should  I  Go  Steady? 
Elizabeth  Taylor    57    A  Special  Report  From  Liz'  White  Prison 

FEATURETTES 

Michael  London   17    Michael  Landon's  Tale  of  the  Cat 

Joan  Crawford    18    The  Visitor 

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4  The  Inside  Story 

6  New  Movies 

70  March  Birthdays 

72  Disk  Jockey's  Quiz 

73  $150  For  You 

Cover  Photograph  from  Wagner-International  Photos,  Inc. 
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MODERN  SCREEN.   Vol.   54.   No.   3.   March.   1960.   Puhlished  Monthly 
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Want  the  real  truth?  Write  to  INSIDE  STORY,  Modern  Screen, 
Box  515,  Times  Square  P.O.,  N.Y.  36,  N.Y.  The  most  interesting 
letters  will  appear  in  this  column.  Sorry,  no  personal  replies. 


9  Aside  from  the  comedians  and  the 
older  character  actors,  are  there  any  top 
male  stars  in  Hollywood  who  have  stayed 
married  to  the  first  and  only  woman  in 
their  life  for  more  than  ten  years — and 
without  any  separations  either? 

— T.  R.,  Staten  Island,  N.  Y. 
A  Not  too  many.  But  Bill  Ho/den,  Gor- 
don MacRae,  Joel  McCrea,  Richard 
Widmark,  James  Stewart,  James 
Cagney,  Gene  Barry,  Van  Johnson, 
Burt  Lancaster,  Van  Heflin,  Louis 
Jourdan,  Arthur  Kennedy,  Robert 
Ryan,  Wendell  Corey,  MacOonafd 
Carey,  Jerry  Lewis,  Lloyd  Bridges 
and  Clint  Walker  fit  into  this  category. 
Other  old  marrieds  like  Gary  Cooper, 
Danny  Kaye,  Ray  Milland,  Spencer 
Tracy  and  Bob  Mitchum—have  stayed 
married  but  skirted  the  divorce  courts 
on  several  occasions. 

9  Could  you  tell  me  Zsa  Zsa  Gobor 

secret  of  having  such  beautifully  groomed 
hair?  I've  never  seen  her  with  a  wisp 
out  of  place.  _r  p.,  Odessa,  Texas 
A  Wigs.  Zsa  Zsa  has  a  dozen. 

9  Who  hold  Hollywood's  record  for  the 
most  husbands  and/or  wives? 

—A.  S.,  Reno,  Nev. 
A  Martha  Roye  has  said  "I  do"  six 
limes.  Clark  Gable  leads  the  men  with 
5  marriages  to  his  credit. 

9  Will  you  tell  me  who  is  the  wealthier 
— Liz  Taylor  or  Debbie  Reynolds? 

— E.  F.,  Cincinnati,  Ohio 
A  Liz — by  virtue  of  her  share  of  the  late 
Mike  Todd's  estate. 

9  Is  it  serious  between  Frank  Sinatra 
and  dancer  Juliette  Prowse?  Is  there 
any  possibility  they  will  marry  ? 

— G.  A.,  Birmingham,  Ala. 
A  As  villi  all  Frank's  romances — serious 
at  the  moment,  but  Frank's  moments  are 
all  short  lived. 

9  Is  Lee  Farr,  co-star  of  Robert  Tay- 
lor's The  Detectives,  any  relation  to  ac- 
tress Felicia  Farr? 

— L.  J.,  Encino,  Calif. 
A  He's  the  father  of  her  nine  year  old 
daughter.  Felicia  divorced  Lee  when  she 
got  her  first  film  break. 

9  If  Esther  Williams  is  dating  that 
Doctor  LaScola  as  reported — where  does 
this  leave  Jeff  Chandler  ? 

— M.  N.,  Tacoma,  Wash. 
A  Sitting  at  home  nights. 

9  Is  Bob  Hope  completely  cured  of  that 
eye-ailment  that  bothered  him  most  of 
last  year — or  is  it  a  permanent  condition  ? 

— B.  S.,  Scranton,  Pa. 


A  Bob's  eye  has  improved — but  doctors 
feel  it  could  be  a  permanent  malady  un- 
less he  follows  their  orders  and  slows 
down. 

9  I  read  that  Gary  Merrill  left  the  tour 
he  was  on  with  Bette  Davis  because  he 
had  a  picture  commitment.  Is  this  really 
so — or  are  there  other  reasons? 

— D.  D.,  Sioux  City,  Iowa 
A  Gary  who  had  to  report  for  The 
Pleasure  of  His  Company  was  report- 
edly not  enjoying  the  pleasure  of  his 
wife's  company.  The  marriage  is  shaky 
again. 

9  Is  it  true  that  20th  Century-Fox 
wouldn't  give  Stephen  Boyd  the  lead 
opposite  Marilyn  Monroe  in  Let's  Make 
Love  because  they  were  so  furious  at  him 
for  walking  out  on  The  Story  of  Ruth? 

—R.  K.,  Muncie,  Ind. 

A  Partially. 

9  Could  you  tell  me  which  movie  stars 
have  made  the  list  of  the  ten  best-dressed 
women  in  America  this  vear? 

— B.  T.,  Albany,  N.  Y. 

A  None. 

9  How  are  such  stars  as  Henry  Fonda, 
June  Allyson,  Robert  Taylor,  Betty 
Hutton,  Dennis  O'Keefe,  etc  ,  doing  on 

TV?  Popularity-wise? 

—P.  D.,  Washington,  D.  C. 
A  Fine  on  the  Late  Show.  Their  series 
have  failed  to  recapture  their  golden  days 
on  the  big  screen. 

9  What  makes  a  movie  or  TV  star  fight 
with  his  studio  for  a  new  contract  and 
more  money  the  minute  he  achieves  any 
kind  of  popularity — when,  just  a  year 
ago,  he'd  have  given  his  right  arm  for 
any  kind  of  a  break? 

— S.  B..  Hardy.  Ark 
A  Short  memories — big  heads! 

9  It's  been  a  whole  year  since  Rock 
Hudson  made  Pillow  Talk.  Since  he's  the 
most  popular  star  in  Hollywood — what's 
keeping  him  from  working? 

—P.  G.,  Oak  Ridge,  Tenx. 
A  .-1  difference  of  opinion  with  Universal- 
International.  They  won't  allow  him  to 
leave  the  lot  for  the  pictures  and  plays 
he  wants  to  do — he  doesn't  like  the 
scripts  they  want  him  to  do. 

9  Now  that  Ava  Gardner  has  gotten 
such  good  reviews  for  On  The  Beach,  has 
she  softened  her  hostile  attitude  toward 
the  press?  — P.  K.  D.,  Trenton,  N.  J. 
A  Only  toward  the  critics  that  gave  her 
the  fine  notices.  Interviews  and  photog- 
raphers are  still  on  her  "get  lost"  list. 


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STARRING 

Richard  Burton  Barbara  Rush 

Jack  Carson  Angie  Dickinson  James  Dunn 

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HENRY  JON  ES- Screenplay  by  MILTON  SPERLING  and  PHILIP  YOR  DAN- From  the  novel  by  CHARLES  MERGENDAHL  RjffiM 
Music  Composed  and  Conducted  by  LEONARD  ROSENMAN  •   Produced  by  MILTON  SPERLING   •  Directed  by  DANIEL  PETRIElfcal 
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ONCE  MORE,  WITH  FEELING 

Yul  Brynner 
Kay  Kendall 

music  and  madness  Gregory  Ratoff 

Geoffrey  Toone 
Maxwell  Shaw 

■  Yul  Brynner  is  a  marvelous  symphony  con- 
ductor, but  he  is  an  impossible  person.  If  it 
weren't  for  his  wife  (the  late  Kay  Kendall) 
his  temper  tantrums  would  have  ruined  his 
career  long  ago.  She  smooths  the  way,  faints 
at  appropriate  moments,  is  unfailingly  charm- 
ing. One  day  while  she  and  Yul's  manager, 
Gregory  Ratoff,  are  out  managing  his  career, 
Yul  prepares  to  hear  a  12-year-old  child 
prodigy  (Shirley  Ann  Field).  Shirley,  it  seems, 
was  the  victim  of  a  typographical  error.  She's 
21.  This  delights  Yul,  who  knows  how  to  turn 
a  private  concert  into  a  personal  conquest. 
Unfortunately,  when  Kay  comes  home  she 
kicks  him  out  of  the  house.  His  career  plunges 
while  Kay  is  falling  in  love  with  a  college 
president  (she's  teaching  music  at  the  college). 
A  rich  music  lover,  and  orchestra  sponsor 
(Grace  Newcombe)  agrees  to  sign  Yul  to  a 
contract  if  he  can  prove  that  he  and  Kay 
have  reconciled.  Kay  arrives  at  the  right  time 
and  place  (Yul's  house)  but  for  the  wrong 
reason.  She  announces  that  she  wants  a  divorce. 
The  catch  is,  they  were  never  legally  married. 
Now  Kay  wants  to  get  married  so  that  she  can 
get  a  divorce  so  that  she  can  marry  the  presi- 
dent without  having  to  seem  like  a  fallen 
woman.  Zany's  what  you  call  this  film,  and 
f un ,  too . — Tec  h nicolor- Columbia  . 


WHO   WAS  THAT   LADY?      Tony  Curtis 
Janet  Leigh 

how  to  save  your  marriage  BarE  N-Tchois 
James  Whitmore 


■  When  Janet  Leigh  sees  Tony  Curtis  kissing 
another  girl  she's  off  to  Reno — or  says  she  is. 
And  all  this  time  she  thought  she  was  married 
to  a  simple  college  professor!  Tony  calls  on 
his  old  college  pal,  Dean  Martin,  now  a  TV 
writer,  to  save  him.  He  convinces  Janet  that 
Tony  is  an  undercover  FBI  agent.  Further- 
more, says  Dean,  Tony  knows  the  names  of 


all  professors  working  on  secret  projects.  And. 
of  course,  he  was  kissing  that  girl  in  the  line 
of  duty.  Didn't  enjoy  it  a  bit.  Janet  swallows 
this  whole;  particularly  since  Dean  has  pro- 
vided Tony  with  a  revolver  and  an  FBI  card 
(props  from  CBS).  But,  the  prop  man  un- 
wisely notifies  the  FBI.  Now  that  Tony's  in 
Dean's  power,  Dean  ropes  him  into  spending 
an  evening  with  a  couple  of  chorus  girls 
(Barbara  Nichols,  Joi  Lansing).  Loyal  Janet 
runs  after  Tony  (into  a  Chinese  restaurant) 
to  give  him  his  revolver.  Janet  is  accom- 
panied by  FBI  agent  James  Whitmore  who 
plays  it  cool.  In  the  powder  room  Janet 
hears  what  she  considers  a  plot  to  assassinate 
her  husband  (it's  the  chorus  girls  discussing 
one  of  Dean's  'proposals')  and  starts  a 
scuffle  with  the  revolver.  A  cruising  TV-news- 
unit  truck  drifts  by  and  Janet  tells  the  world 
about  her  brave  husband.  In  the  world  are 
some  real  foreign  agents  who  come  after  him 
in  the  morning.  Well,  that's  marriage  for 
you. — Columbia. 


THE  HYPNOTIC  EYE    Jacques  Bergerac 
Allison  Hayes 

■t   u  7.:;i  Marcia  Henderson 

ij  looks  could  kill  .  .  .  Merry  Anders 

Joe  Patridge 

■  One  would  think  that  Jacques  Bergerac 
didn't  have  to  use  any  hocus-pocus  to  hypno- 
tize the  ladies,  but  here  he  is  as  the  Great 
Desmond  who  has  an  eyeball  throbbing  with 
light  (not  his  eyeball  but  a  prop  he  uses  on 
stage).  Ladies  come  to  see  the  show  and  then 
they  go  home  arid  do  all  kinds  of  terrible 
things  to  themselves.  (One  girl  wen4,  home  and 
washed  her  hair  in  a  gas  burner — the  burner 
was  lit.)  Detective  Joe  Patridge  takes  his  girl. 
Marcia  Henderson,  and  her  friend,  Merry 
Anders,  to  a  Bergerac  performance.  It  looks 
harmless;  Merry  volunteers  to  be  hypnotized 
on  stage  and  Bergerac's  beautiful  assistant. 
Allison  Hayes,  assists  her.  That  night  Merry 
douses  herself  with  acid.  Next  night  Marcia 
goes  back  to  the  theater  and  pretends  to  be 
hypnotized.  Bergerac  isn't  fooled.  Anyway, 
there's  a  monster  in  this  picture  who  hates 
beautiful  girls.  Is  it  Bergerac? — Allied  Artists. 


SUDDENLY,  LAST  SUMMER 

Katharine  Hepburn 
Elizabeth  Taylor 

violent  death  abroad         Montgomery  Clift 
Albert  Dekker 
Mercedes  MacCambridge 

■  Grief  has  turned  Katharine  Hepburn  into  an 
elegant  recluse.  She  lives  in  a  mansion  in  New 
Orleans  surrounded  by  memories  of  her  bril- 
liant son,  Sebastian,  who  died  suddenly  last 
summer  in  Italy.  With  him  when  he  died  was 
her  niece  Elizabeth  Taylor.  Now  Elizabeth 
is  in  a  sanitarium,  apparently  insane.  Miss 
Hepburn  has  asked  young  psychiatrist,  Mont- 
gomery Clift,  to  perform  a  frontal  lobotomy 
on  Elizabeth  in  a  last  attempt  to  relieve  her 
misery  (a  lobotomy  is  a  brain  operation  that 
kills  the  disease  but  renders  the  patient  more 
or  less  infantile).  As  payment  Miss  Hepburn 


offers  to  build  a  hospital  for  Clift  and  his 
superior,  Albert  Dekker.  It's  not  that  a  loboto- 
my is  illegal,  it's  that  the  patient  must  be 
really  hopeless  to  undergo  it.  Clift,  being  an 
ethical  physician,  wants  to  be  sure.  The  trouble 
is  that  Elizabeth,  despite  the  fact  that  she  was 
badly  shocked  by  her  cousin  Sebastian's  death 
and  overwrought  by  being  confined  to  a  sani- 
tarium, is  more  or  less  sane.  However,  Miss 
Hepburn  is  insistent,  Albert  Dekker  wants  his 
hospital  and  Montgomery  Clift  must  make  up 
his  mind.  As  the  mystery  of  Sebastian's  hor- 
rible death  unfolds,  it's  much  easier  for  Clift 
to  separate  the  insane  from  the  merely  neu- 
rotic. The  movie  is  beautifully  written,  exoti- 
cally  imaginative,  and  essentially  the  story 
of  a  twisted  relationship  between  a  mother 
and  her  son. — Columbia. 


NEVER  SO  FEW 

in  the  Burmese  hills 


Frank  Sinatra 
Gina  Lollobrigida 
Peter  Lawford 
Steve  McQueen 
Paul  Henreid 


■  Captain  Frank  Sinatra's  men  do  more  with 
less  than  any  other  troops  in  World  War  II. 
They  are  a  small  group  of  Allied  soldiers, 
stationed  in  the  hills  of  Burma. 

No  medical  supplies,  no  doctor  (until  Peter 
Lawford  is  drafted),  no  artillery  support, 
not  even  orders.  They  just  keep  killing 
Japanese  who  nightly  raid  the  camp. 

Well,  Sinatra,  being  a  rugged  individualist, 
is  very  successful  at  the  sport.  However, 
he  must  necessarily  take  a  great  deal  into 
his  own  hands  and  this  is  what  gets  him 
into  trouble  with  the  higher-ups.  When 
one  of  his  Burmese  soldiers  is  mortally 
wounded  Sinatra  kills  him  rather  than  pro- 
long his  death  agony.  When  a  Chinese  convoy 
is  slaughtered  by  other  Chinese  (working  for 
War  Lords)  Sinatra  leads  an  unauthorized 
raid  into  bandit  headquarters.  This  provokes 
an  international  incident  and  Sinatra  faces 
hanging  by  his  own  government  (us). 

Also,  in  Burma  proper,  is  Gina  Lollo- 
brigida, looking  luscious  as  the  constant 
companion  and  houseguest  of  rich  Paul  Hen- 
reid. She  gives  Sinatra  the  cold  shoulder 
(once  she  gives  it  to  him  from  the  bath- 
tub) but  it's  obviously  love.  They  come 
from  different  worlds,  she  keeps  telling  him. 
Never  mind.  Sinatra  is  an  old  hand  at  making 
it  all  one  world.  This  movie  hops  rapidly 
along  to  its  exciting  climax.  Metrocolor, 
MGM. 


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long-lasting  action.  Will  not  harm  delicate  tissues. 

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clinic  and  found  to  be  more  effective  than  anything  it  had  ever 
used.  Norforms  are  deodorant — they  eliminate  (rather  than  cover  up) 
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(And  some  women  expand  up  to  two  inches.) 
It's  done  with  bias-cut  panels,  a  fabric  that 
really  gives!  And  look:  extra-wide  shoulder 
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BEST FORM 


new  movies  (Continued  from  page  7) 
THE  GENE  KRUPA  STORY   sal  Mineo 

Susan  Kohner 

Sal  Mineo  at  the  drums  'sSS^au^ 
Yvonne  Craig 

■  Well,  it  begins  in  Chicago  in  the  '20's.  Gene 
(Sal  Mineo)  wants  to  be  a  drummer,  but 
when  he  brings  home  a  set  of  drums  his  father 
destroys  them;  his  father  wants  him  to  be  a 
priest.  Sal  rebels,  plays  in  a  jazz  band  or- 
ganized by  his  friend  James  Darren  and  is 
much  admired  by  girls  (especially  Yvonne 
Craig  and  Susan  Kohner).  When  his  father 
dies,  dutiful  Sal  enters  a  seminary.  It  isn't 
for  him.  Despite  the  bitterness  and  disappoint- 
ment of  his  mother  (Celia  Lovsky),  he  takes 
his  drums  to  New  York  and,  with  driving  am- 
bition, works  his  way  up  to  the  big-time. 
Success  ruins  his  romance  with  Susan  Kohner 
and,  temporarily  ruins  him  (girls,  girls,  girls — 
parties,  parties,  parties)  !  And  one  day  police- 
men find  marijuana  in  his  overcoat  pocket. 
After  ninety  days  in  jail  and  months  with- 
out work,  Sal  makes  a  comeback — looking 
startlingly  unchanged.  YouH  hear  some  good 
music,  and  swinging  singing  by  songstress 
Anita  O'Day. — Columbia. 


THE  GAZEBO 

corpse  in  the  house 


Debbie  Reynolds 
Glenn  Ford 
Carl  Reiner 
John  McGiver 
Mabel  Albertson 


■  Broadway  star  Debbie  Reynolds  once  made 
the  mistake  of  posing  for  photos  in  the  nude. 
Now  her  husband,  TV  director  Glenn  Ford, 
is  paying  for  it.  Blackmail.  Ford  would  do 
anything  to  protect  his  wife's  reputation;  he'd 
even  commit  murder.  That's  where  the  gazebo 
comes  in  and  where  the  high-pitched  hilarity 
of  this  movie  goes  distinctly  off-key.  A 
gazebo  is  a  round  open-air  platform  with  a 
high  roof.  Ladies  like  to  put  one  in  the 
garden  and  serve  tea  there.  Ford  would  drink 
tea  there  if  he  weren't  upset  by  the  fact  that 
a  corpse  is  buried  under  it.  He  buried  it. 
This  whole  movie  revolves  around  Glenn's  nit- 
wit attempts  first  to  pay  off  the  blackmailer 
without  making  Debbie  suspicious,  and  sec- 
ondly to  turn  that  blackmailer  into  the  afore- 
mentioned corpse.  Everybody's  so  gay  about 
it  you'd  think  murder  was  almost  as  good  a 
game  as  Monopoly. — MGM. 

RECOMMENDED  MOVIES 

BEN-HUR  (MGM):  The  magnificent  spectacle  of 
Ben-Hur  opens  with  a  prologue  of  dazzling  beauty — 
scenes  of  the  birth  of  Christ — and  moves  into  the 
conflict  between  the  Judean  prince  Ben-Hur  (Charlton 
Heston)  and  Roman  Tribune  Messala  (Stephen 
Boyd).  Boyd  finally  condemns  Heston  to  galley  slav- 
ery, puts  his  mother  (Martha  Scott)  and  sister 
(Kathy  O'Donnell)  into  a  dungeon.  Jack  Hawkins, 
as  a  Roman  Commander  who  rescues  Heston,  and 
Haya  Harareet,  an  ex-slave  who  loves  him,  figure 
prominently  in  this  story  of  the  triumph  of  the  new 
kind  of  love  taught  by  Christ. 

HAPPY  ANNIVERSARY  (United  Artists) :  David 
Niven  and  Mitzi  Gaynor  are  successful,  chic,  proud 
parents  (of  Kevin  Coughlin,  Patty  Duke)  and  happily 
married.  Happily,  that  is,  until  David's  in-laws  give 
them  a  13th  anniversary  present — a  TV  set.  An  en- 
raged David  tells  how  it  all  really  began  in  a  happily 
unmarried  state  fourteen  years  ago.  Well!  AM  that 
follows  is  complicated  but  good  fun. 

HOUND-DOG  MAN  (Cinemascope,  20th-Fox) : 
Fabian  wants  to  go  hunting  with  hound-dog  man 
Stuart  Whitman.  Fabian's  folks,  Arthur  O'Connell 
and  Betty  Field,  finally  let  him  go,  with  misgivings. 
The  hunters  meet  Carol  Lynley  (bachelor  Whitman 
likes  her),  find  a  pal,  on  the  trail,  with  a  broken  leg. 
After  the  leg-setting,  there's  a  barn  party  where 
Fabe's  father  proves  to  everybody  he's  pretty  brave, 
and  to  Fabian  that  home  isn't  such  a  bad  place,  after 
all.  This  is  Fabian's  first  picture. 


MODERN  SCREEN'S 
8  PAGE  GOSSIP  EXTRA 
by 

HOLLYWOOD'S 
GREATEST  COLUMNIST 


Sam  Spiegel  (standing),  producer  of  Suddenly,  Last  Summer,  stops  to 
congratulate  Liz  Taylor  (center)  on  her  wonderful  performance.  Louella, 
Jimmy  McHugh,  Liz'  mother,  and  Eddie  Fisher  also  consider  it  a  triumph. 


continued 


Though  they  seldom  go  to  Hollywood  parties, 
the  Clark  Gables  attended  the  one  for  Suddenly. 


That  charmer,  Rock  Hudson,  was  attentive  t( 
Doiis  Vidor,  ividow  of  the  late  Charles  Vidor 


So  in  love,  Jimmy  Darren  and 
Evy  Norlund,  will  wed  soon. 


Comedians  Milton  Berle  and 
Danny  Kaye  amuse  Mrs.  Kaye. 


Although  Liz  teas  still  weak  from  he 
pneumonia,  she  gave  off  a  wonderful  r 


r  recent 
adiance. 


Liz  Taylor's 
Happiest  Night 


The  most  star-glittery  night  of  the  Holly- 
wood holiday  season  was  the  turn-out  of  big 
names  for  the  'dressy'  showing  of  Suddenly, 
Last  Summer  at  the  Screen  Directors  Guild,  fol- 
lowed by  supper  at  Chasen's. 

Although  she  had  been  a  very  sick  girl  in 
New  York  with  pneumonia,  Elizabeth  Tay- 
lor was  able  to  fly  out  for  her  picture,  with 
Eddie  Fisher,  of  course. 

And  what  a  radiance  Liz  gave  off,  arrayed 
in  a  cloth-of-gold  gown  sprinkled  with  rhine- 
stones  and  with  real  diamonds  around  her 
neck  and  wrists. 

At  Chasen's,  we  sat  with  Elizabeth's  mother 
and  father  and  later  Liz  and  Eddie  joined 
Jimmy  McHugh,  Joseph  Levine,  myself  and 
her  parents. 

On  closer  look,  Liz  was  still  very  pale  from 
her  serious  illness  and  it  was  hardly  a  sur- 


prise that  she  also  had  her  doctor,  Dr.  Rex 
Kennamer,  with  her.  But  she  was  -ery  gra- 
cious and  pleased  at  the  compliments  she 
received  on  her  really  wonderful  performance. 
(Right  here  I'd  like  to  say  the  Tennessee 
Williams'  story.  Suddenly,  Last  Summer,  which 
Sam  Spiegel  produced,  is  one  of  the  best-acted 
films  I've  ever  seen,  a  triumph  for  Liz,  Kath- 
arine Hepburn  and  Monty  Clift— but  oh, 
oh,  oh — the  subject  matter!  It's  a  shocker!) 

Elizabeth  said  to  me,  "I  can  hardly  wait 
to  get  to  Palm  Springs  and  sit  in  the  sun  and 
rest.  I  feel  quite  weak.  But  as  soon  as  I  get 
my  strength  back,  Eddie  and  I  will  return  to 
New  York  for  BufterfieJd  8."  This  is  the  movie 
in  which  Eddie  has  a  big  role  with  his  wife. 

At  both  the  showing  and  the  supper  I  saw 
Rosalind  Russell,  that  always  effervescent 
stunner — wearing  the  latest  fashion,  a  real 
dog-collar  choker  of  pearls  and  diamonds — 
and  having  a  ball  greeting  old  friends  after 
several  months  in  New  York. 

Two  other  'returnees,'  Kay  and  Clark 
Gable,  just  back  from  Rome,  were  very  much 


present — although  The  King  and  his  Queen  sel- 
dom show  up  for  social  affairs. 

Had  quite  a  chat  with  Rock  Hudson  (he 
was  with  Doris  Vidor,  widow  of  the  late 
director  Charles  Vidor)  and  Rock  told  me  he 
was  a  very  disappointed  boy  that  his  studio, 
Universal-International,  wouldn't  let  him  co- 
star  with  Marilyn  Monroe  in  Let's  Fall  in 
Love.  He  said.  "Of  course  I  wanted  to  do  this 
picture  with  Marilyn — and  I  am  so  sorry  I 
can't  get  permission." 

Mary  Benny  looked  like  a  fashion  plate 
in  a  stunning  red  dress,  and  she  was  with 
Sylvia  and  Danny  Kaye.  Gary  Cooper  and 
Rocky,  with  their  daughter  Maria,  dropped  by 
Chasen's  just  long  enough  to  congratulate 
Elizabeth,  as  they  were  planing  out  at  the 
crack  of  dawn  the  following  morning  for  the 
debut  of  the  Henry  Fords'  daughter  at  Grosse 
Pointe. 

The  Milton  Series,  the  Mervyn  Le  Roys 
— oh,  just  everybody  was  there  for  what  must 
have  been  Elizabeth  Taylor's  happiest  night 
in  Hollywood  in  a  long  time. 


Mickey  Rooney  ever  per- 
go  on  if  he  ivas  'loaded?' 


The  TV  Mess  of 
Mickey  Rooney 

And,  I'm  on  sort  of  a  sub-Soap  Box  about 
the  Mickey  Rooney-Jack  Paar  TV  show 
debacle.  Don't  think  I'm  taking  Mickey's  part. 
He  had  no  business  showing  up  when  he'd 
been  'celebrating'  a  marriage  anniversary — 
or  anything  else — to  make  a  public  appear- 
ance. 

But  if  he  was  as  'loaded'  as  Paar  insists — 
for  heavens  sake,  why  was  Mickey  ever  per- 
mitted to  step  in  front  of  a  camera?  It  was 
certainly  'careless'  on  someone's  part  to  let 
Mickey  go  on. 

My  final  thought  is  that  the  whole  thing  was 
a  mess — which  might  have  been  avoided  with 
just  an  iota  of  common  sense  on  somebody' s 
part.  And  if  that  shoe  fits,  Mr.  Paar,  you  can 
wear  it. 


Debbie's  a  dear  where  Glenn  Ford  is  concerned— but  he  feels  more  like  patting 
her  head  than  holding  her  hand.  To  him,  she's  the  'little  girl  next  door.' 


Hard-to-Kill  Rumor 

Don't  get  excited  because  Debbie  Reyn- 
olds and  Glenn  Ford  walked  into  a  Thalian 
club  meeting  at  the  Beverly  Hills  Hotel  arm 
in  arm.  They  met  accidentally  in  the  lobby, 
Debbie  having  driven  herself  from  her  home 
alone — and  ditto  Glenn. 

He  has  steadfastly  refused  to  discuss  either 
his  divorce  from  Eleanor  Powell  (for  which 
I  admire  him)  or  all  the  rumors  which  have 
linked  his  name  with  Debbie's. 

But  not  long  ago,  Glenn,  feeling  that  he 
was  speaking  off  the  record  said,  "Debbie 


seems  like  a  little  girl  to  me.  There's  never 
been  even  the  slightest  romantic  flare  be- 
tween us.  I  would  feel  foolish.  Like  getting 
romantic  ideas  about  the  little  girl  next  door 
whom  you've  watched  grow  up  from  grade 
school  to  high  school." 

In  other  words,  Debbie's  a  dear  where 
Glenn  is  concerned — but  he  feels  more  like 
patting  her  head  than  holding  her  hand. 

Debbie,  as  well,  has  persistently  denied  any 
flame  between  herself  and  her  co-star  of  sev- 
eral gay  comedies. 

But  it's  really  one  of  the  hardest-to-kill 
rumors  that  ever  cropped  up  in  our  town. 


A 


to  Tony  Franciosa 

Take  it  easy.  Slow  down — Stop — Look — and 
Listen : 

You  are  at  a  stage  in  your  screen  career, 
with  two  hits  in  release.  Career  and  Story  on 
Page  One — which  could  see  you  as  the  new 
big  movie  rage  of  1960.  After  a  slow  start,  you 
are  now  breathing  the  rarefied  air. 

It  is  also  a  very  dangerous  and  unsettling 
spot  to  be  in.  Important  things  in  your  life — 
for  instance  your  marriage  to  Shelley  Win- 
ters— are  sure  to  be  affected.  In  fact,  I  have 
heard  disturbing  rumors  about  you  and  Shel- 
ley which  I  hope  are  not  true.  Or,  if  true,  that 
you  will  evaluate  what  may  seem  today  like 
big  problems. 

Frankly,  Tony,  you  have  always  been  a 
bit  of  a  problem  boy  since  your  advent  into 
Hollywood  from  a  successful  stage  career.  You 
have  had  several  headlined  fights  (literally) 
with  the  press — one  that  had  serious  conse- 
quences. You  are  not  given  to  easy  friend- 
ships or  to  understanding  the  other  fellow's 
point  of  view. 

But,  believe  me,  you  are  a  fine  actor.  From 
here  on  in  you  are  sure  to  reap  all  the  good 
things  that  come  with  success.  It's  just  im- 
portant to  not  reap  too  many  of  the  bad  ones. 

People  who  know  you  well  are  a  bit  afraid 
you  may  be  becoming  a  little  off  balance  in 
your  perspective.  Taking  it  big,  in  other  words. 

But  please  forget  that  chip  on  your  shoulder 
and  make  sure  your  hat  band  still  fits  that 
handsome  head  of  yours.  You  have  so  very 
much  to  give  in  the  line  of  talent — don't  give 
yourself  a  personal  clip  on  the  chin. 

In  the  most  friendly  feeling  may  I  repeat — 
take  it  easy — stop — look — and  listen. 


That  chip  on  Tony's  shoulder  may  af- 
fect his  marriage  to  Shelley  Winters. 


continued 


I  nominate  for 
STARDOM 


James  Shigeta 

.  .  .  which  may  come  as  a  bit  of  a  sur- 
prise. But  not  since  the  days  when  the  young 
Sessue  Hayakawa  completely  charmed  Ameri- 
can movie  fans  has  a  Japanese  actor  regis- 
tered as  compellingly  as  this  tall,  dark  and 
handsome  Japanese. 

I  caught  Jimmy  first  when  he  was  appear- 
ing in  Las  Vegas  in  the  revue  Shirley  Mac- 
Lai lie's  husband,  Steve  Parker,  imported 
from  Honolulu  to  the  New  Frontier.  I  was 
amazed  at  the  way  Shigeta  scored  as  a  singer 
and  dancer  but  I  was  even  more  amazed  when 
I  saw  his  Columbia  picture  The  Crimson  Ki- 
mono to  see  what  a  fine  dramatic  actor  he 
is.  His  second  Hollywood  picture  will  be  Walk 
Like  a  Dragon  for  Paramount  and  he  will  be 
starred. 


Personally,  he  is  a  most  gracious  and  polite 
young  man  with  excellent  manners.  After  I 
had  written  a  glowing  tribute  to  him  in  my 
newspaper  column,  he  called  to  ask  if  he 
might  drop  by  to  thank  me. 

Even  more  handsome  off-stage  than  on,  Jim- 
my arrived  bearing  a  beautiful  bouquet  of 
gardenias  and  violets  from  his  native  Hawaii. 
"These  are  inadequate  to  express  my  appreci- 
ation," he  said,  "but  I  am  deeply  grateful  for 
the  interest  you  have  shown  in  my  career — 
and  in  me." 

Oh,  what  a  charmer  this  boy  is! 

As  we  talked,  I  discovered  he  has  a  won- 
derful sense  of  humor  in  addition  to  his  other 
assets.  He  also  loves  music,  American  va- 
riety, and  plays  the  piano  as  though  he 
had  been  born  in  a  band. 

"I  want  to  make  my  home  in  Hollywood," 
he  told  me  before  he  left,  "everyone  here  is 
so  kind  and  helpful."  He'll  have  to  go  travel- 
ing, however,  after  he  finishes  at  Para- 
mount, for  he  has  a  big  role  with  Marlon 
Brando  coming  up  in  The  Ugly  American 
to  be  shot  in  the  Near  East.  Look  out,  Brando, 
you'll  have  your  work  cut  out  for  you. 


A  Name  for  Audrey 
and  Mel's  Baby 

If  you  can  think  of  a  name  for  a  baby  that 
goes  well  with  Ferrer,  Audrey  Hepburn 
and  Mel  Ferrer  will  be  glad  to  listen!  I 
was  very  amused  when  the  Ferrers  came 
calling  on  me  so  happy  and  excited  about 
that  long-desired  baby  that  they're  having 
one  of  the  few  disagreements  of  their  married 
life  over  a  name. 

These  two  who  are  known  as  a  couple  of 
love  birds  who  never  argue  (as  a  matter  of 
fact,  Mel  treats  Audrey  like  a  treasured  child 
or  a  delicate  piece  of  Dresden  China)  are 
pretty  definite  about  this  name  business — and 
pretty  far  apart. 

If  'it'  is  a  girl,  Audrey  is  holding  out  for 
Kathleen  (her  middle  name).  Mel's  solid  for 
Maria.  If  'it'  is  a  boy — Audrey  wants  Ian — 
for  her  brother. 

"I  don't  like  Kathleen — and  I  don't  like 
Ian,"  laughed  Mel.  "This  is  getting  serious.' 

"Well,  I  don't  like  Maria,"  kidded  Audrey 
so  slender  she  looked  like  anything  but  an 
expectant  mother  in  a  bright  red  suit  from 
Paris. 

But  one  point  the  Ferrers  meet  on  is  they 
want  this  baby  more  than  anything  else  in 
the  world,  Audrey  particularly,  as  Mel  has 
four  children  by  two  previous  marriages. 

Audrey  was  brokenhearted  last  year  when 
she  lost  an  expected  baby.  She  and  Mel  were 
in  Switzerland  at  the  time  and  when  Deborah 
Kerr  returned  to  Hollywood  she  told  me,  "I've 
never  seen  anyone  cry  as  Audrey  did  when 
she  lost  that  baby.  My  home  in  Switzerland  is 
near  hers  and  I  went  to  be  with  her  during 
this  difficult  time.  She  tried  so  hard  to  be  brave, 
but  unexpectedly,  she  would  just  burst  into 
tears.  And  this  went  on  for  days  until  the  doc- 
tor told  her  that  there  was  no  physical  reason 
that  she  might  not  again  expect  a  baby." 

The  Ferrer  baby  will  be  born  in  the  USA  al- 
though Mel  and  Audrey  will  go  to  Europe  first 
where  Mel  will  direct  Blood  and  the  Rose  in 
Italy. 


PARTY  of 

the  month 


There's  one  department  in  which  the  former 
glamour  queens  of  the  screen  have  it  all  over 
the  present  day  crop — and  that  is  in  giving 
parties.  Proof  of  this  was  brought  vividly  to 
mind  when  Sonja  Henie  returned  to  Holly- 
wood after  a  year  in  Europe  and  gave  one  of 
those  all-out  parties  for  which  she,  and  other 
movie  queens  of  several  years  past,  used  to  be 


We  don't  hardly  'git  them  kind'  no  more,  nc 
more. 

For  the  cocktail  party  (from  six  to  nine\ 


Sonja  opened  her  beautiful  Beverly  Hills  home 
and  gardens. 

The  home  is  so  luxurious  and  the  landscap- 
ing so  beautiful,  it's  more  of  a  minor  palace 
than  a  residence. 

And  what  a  day  and  evening  Sonja  had 
for  her  fete.  Although  it  was  mid-winter,  the 
weather  was  so  warm  that  roses  were  bloom- 
ing everywhere,  mingling  with  the  December 
poinsettias.  As  late  as  8:30,  the  beautifully 
gowned  feminine  guests  were  sitting  around 
the  swimming  pool  without  wraps. 

Sonja's  jewels,  of  course,  are  famous  and 
fabulous — but  on  this  occasion  she  was  much 
more  proud  of  the  new  paintings  she  has  ac- 
quired. On  exhibition  were  a  Rouault,  several 
by  Picasso,  and  others  of  the  modem  school, 
which  she  and  her  handsome  husband  Niels 
Omstad  just  recently  purchased. 


Against  the  musical  background  of  a  strum- 
ming Hawaiian  orchestra,  I  chatted  with  Ron- 
ald Reagan  and  his  wife.  Nancy  Davis, 
who  confided  the  music  made  them  homesick 
for  Honolulu  where  they  had  recently  vaca- 
tioned. Norma  Shearer  looked  as  beautiful 
as  when  she  herself  was  a  top  screen  star,  in 
a  bright  red  dress.  Mildred  and  Harold 
Lloyd  were  there  from  their  neighboring 
show  place. 

Virginia  Mayo,  whom  I've  not  seen  in 
ages,  looked  lovely  in  a  green  cocktail  dress. 
Jeanne  Crain  (Mrs.  Paul  Brinkman),  who 
is  again  expecting,  wore  a  blue  maternity 
suit. 

Although  there  were  about  150  guests  pres- 
ent, Sonja  wailed,  "Everybody  changes  his 
telephone  number  all  the  time.  I  didn't  get 
half  the  people  I  wanted." 


Norma  Shearer  (left)  wore  a  glamorous  satin  dress 
and  hostess  Sonja  Henie  displayed  her  famous  jewels-. 


Reginald  Gardiner's  'deadpan'  story-telling  found  a  reall 
receptive   audience   in  Mr.   and  Mrs.   Ronald  Reagai 


Jeanne  Crain 
man  are  happi 


band  Paul  Brink- 
their  sixth  child! 


Russ  Tamblyn  was  thrilled  at  being  able  to  play  a  role  in  Cimarron, 
even  though  it  means  serving  three  extra  weeks  of  his  Army  duty. 


3. 


I'm  on  my 
SOAP  BOX 


I'm  really  burning  over  these  criticisms  of 
some  people  who  haven't  bothered  to  get  the 
facts  straight — or  to  get  facts  at  all — over 
RUSS  Tamblyn's  'getting  out  of  the  Army' 
to  play  a  role  in  Cimarron. 

One  woman,  who  states  she  is  speaking  for 
six  mothers,  writes  that  their  indignation  knows 
no  bounds  that  a  movie  star  can  get  out  of 
the  service  for  a  mere  motion  picture,  when 
their  sons  can't.  And  some  TV  commentators 
who  should  know  better  have  popped  off  along 
the  same  lines. 

Now  here  are  the  tacts:  Russ  is  nof  out  of 
the  Army.  Nor  has  he  received  preferential 
treatment.  The  three  weeks  he  was  given  off  to 
make  the  MGM  picture  with  Glenn  Ford  and 


Maria  Schell  will  be  added  to  his  dis- 
charge date — meaning  Russ  will  serve  three 
weeks  at  the  end  of  his  term  of  Army  duty. 

Secondly,  if  any  young  boy  deserves  a  hand 
for  the  way  he  has  overcome  initial  difficulties 
in  the  service,  it  is  Russ.  When  he  was  first 
inducted,  it  is  no  secret  that  the  discipline  and 
hard  training  was  rough  on  him.  He  became  ill 
on  several  occasions.  It  was  feared  for  a  time 
that  he  might  have  a  nervous  breakdown. 

But  Russ,  himself,  insisted  on  remaining  in 
the  service  and  doing  his  stint  of  duty  just  as 
other  young  men  in  his  age  bracket  were 
doing. 

As  time  went  along,  he  was  no  longer 
troubled  with  nervousness  or  bad  health.  His 
commanding  officers  expressed  themselves  as 
very  pleased  with  his  conduct  and  his  effort 
to  serve. 

If  anything — Russ  deserves  commendation 
and  praise  for  the  extra  effort  he  made — not 
snide  criticism  from  those  who  do  not  know 
the  truth. 


Love  in  Capital 
Letters 


How  guickly  these  youngsters  grow  up  to 
marriageable  age!  But  it  still  comes  as  a 
shock  to  me  when  one  of  these  'little  girls' 
calls  to  tell  me  she's  getting  married. 

Pretty  Luana  Patten,  cavorting  in  pig- 
tails such  a  short  time  ago,  sounded  so 
grown  up  and  happy  when  she  telephoned 
that  she  and  young  actor  John  Smith  were 
tying  the  knot  within  a  few  weeks. 

John  Smith's  real  name  is  Robert  Van  Orden 
and  I've  never  been  able  to  riddle  why  he 
changed  such  a  high-sounding  name  (and  a 
very  good  one  for  an  actor)  to  plain  John 
Smith.  When  I  commented  on  this  in  my  news- 
paper column,  John  called  to  say,  "I  did  it 
because  'John  Smith'  is  so  plain  it's  almost 
startling  for  an  actor." 

So  I  kidded  Luana  when  I  asked  her,  "Will 
you  call  yourself  Mrs.  Van  Orden  or  Mrs. 
Smith?" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Smith,"  she  laughed.  "John  has 
changed  his  name  legally." 

Both  these  young  people  are  doing  very 
well  in  their  careers,  John  on  the  Laramie  TV 
show  and  Luana  working  with  Harriet  and 
Ozzie  Nelson. 

"I'll  remember  this  as  one  of  the  most  won- 
derful years  of  my  life,"  Luana  enthused. 
"Everything  good  has  happened  in  my  work — 
and  then  along  came  iove."  and  believe  me 
she  put  that  word  "love"  in  capital  letters  in 
her  happy  voice. 


It  was  not  long  ago  that  pretty  Luana 
Patten  was  cavorting  around  in  pig- 
tails. Now  she's  engaged  to  John  Smith. 


14 


Even  though  Katharine  Hepburn  didn't 
like  the  script,  she  may  get  an  Award. 


Sandra,  Tony,  and 
the  Diet 


No  high  school  freshman  co-ed  was  ever  as 
thrilled  as  Sandra  Dee  over  her  'blind  date' 
with  Tony  Perkins.  "We've  never  met,"  the 
pretty  blonde  Sandra  confided,  "and,  well, 
what  girl  wouldn't  be  excited  about  going  out 
with  Tony?"  In  Sandra's  set,  I  guess  Mr.  Per- 
kins rates  as  an  'older  man.' 

I  didn't  happen  to  catch  them  out  on  this 
date,  but  Tony  must  have  liked  Sandra.  I 
saw  them  on  a  'repeat'  at  Kathryn  Gray- 
son's opening  at  the  Moulin  Rouge  and  Tony 
looked  quite  smitten. 

P.S. — Sandra  told  me  that  never,  never  again 
would  she  over-dose  herself  with  Epsom  Salts 
to  keep  her  figure.  I  scolded  her  about  that — 
and  she  agreed  with  me  that  she  was  wrong. 


Sandra  Dee  was  thrilled  when  Tony 
Perkins  phoned  her  for  a  'blind  date.' 


Superstitious  Kim  Novak  may  not  be  sure  of  it  herself, 
but  the  odds  are  that  she'll  marry  Dick  Quine  in  1960. 


Sid  Luft  says  that  his  wife  Judy  Garland  is  going  to 
come  out  of  her  current  illness  a  'very  slender  girl  again.' 


PERSONAL 
OPINIONS 


Don't  get  the  idea  that  it  was  Rock  Hud- 
son who  turned  down  Let's  Fall  in  Love  with 
Marilyn  Monroe.  Rock  was  very  upset — 
he  told  me  so — when  his  U-I  bosses  nixed  the 
picture  at  20th  even  though  Marilyn  had  prom- 
ised to  make  a  movie  for  Rock's  company  if 
she  could  get  him.  .  .  . 

What  a  bit  of  irony  it  will  be  if  Katharine 
Hepburn  is  up  for  an  Oscar  for  her  out- 
standing performance  in  Suddenly,  Last  Sum- 


mer. Katharine  didn't  like  Tennessee  Williams' 
story,  didn't  like  working  with  the  other  actors 
(Elizabeth  Taylor  and  Montgomery 
Clift),  nor  being  directed  by  Joe  Mankiewicz. 
Wonder  why  she  ever  accepted  the  part — 
which  jolly  well  may  win  her  the  Academy 
Award.  .  .  . 

Shelley  Winters  is  an  unhappy  girl.  Not 
only  is  she  having  her  problems  with  Tony 
Franciosa,  but  she  deeply  misses  her  little 
girl  who  remained  in  school  in  the  East  while 
Shelley  was  making  Reach  for  Tomorrow 
(formerly  Let  No  Man  Write  My  Epitaph)  in 
Hollywood.  On  top  of  everything  she  fell  very 
ill  with  a  near  attack  of  pneumonia.  .  .  . 

What  a  lot  of  illnesses!  Elizabeth  Tay- 
lor's personal  physician.  Dr.  Rex  Kennamer, 


who  flew  East  when  Liz  was  hospitalized  with 
pneumonia,  told  me  that  this  was  one  of  the 
most  critical  illnesses  of  her  life.  .  .  . 

Judy  Garland  is  another  victim  of  sick- 
ness. She  and  Sid  Luft  planed  East  to  see 
some  shows  and  have  a  good  time  when  Judy 
was  unexpectedly  stricken  with  a  bad  case  of 
hepatitis  and  was  in  a  hospital  for  two  months. 
One  favorable  thing  about  it — Sid  says  Judy 
is  going  to  come  out  of  this  illness  a  "very 
slender  girl  again.  .  .  ." 

Kim  Novak,  a  very,  very  superstitious 
girl,  lost  two  'prop'  wedding  rings  making 
Sfrangers  When  We  Meet  and  worried  that 
this  might  be  a  "subconscious  resistance  to 
marriage"!  Even  so,  I  bet  she  marries  Dick 
Quine  in  1960.  .  .  . 


continued 


Even  when  Mickey  Rooney  asks, 
Zsa  Zsa  isn't   telling   her  age. 


Millie  Perkins  doesn't  like  publicity,  es- 
pecially concerning  her  Dean  Stockwell. 


The  Fabian-Elvis  contro- 
versy rages.  Who's  cutest? 


A  thirty-nine-year-old  fan  from  Switzerland  believes  she  speaks  for  people  in  her  age  bracket  ichen  slu 
makes  a  request  to  hear  about  {left  to  right)  Karl  Maiden,  Alec  Guinness,  Henry  Fonda,  Fred  Astaire 


LETTER 
BOX 


How  can  Hollywood  be  so  careless  of  real 
talent?  asks  Roy  Hehberger,  Williamsville, 
New  York.  What  has  happened  to  George 
Nader?  Is  he  on  a  'black  list'?  Where  ever  did 
you  get  that  idea?  George  is  busy  on  TV  these 
days  having  gone  into  a  new  series  Man  and 
the  Challenge  following  Ellery  Queen.  But 
where  movies  are  concerned,  George  is  hold- 
ing out  for  an  important  picture.  No  more  pot- 
boilers. .  .  . 

Your  glasses  must  have  been  smudged  with 
smog  when  you  said  that  Fabian  is  more 
handsome  than  Elvis  Presley,  snaps  Vir- 
ginia Minger,  Pottstown,  Pa.,  (and  at  least 
ten  other  fans  made  a  similar  complaint!)  Mrs. 
Roy  Pine.  Chesapeake,  Ohio,  is  even  more 
indignant:  Presley  is  Prince,  the  others  just 
Phonies — incJuding  Phabian!  All  right,  I  agree 
that  Elvis  looks  great  with  his  new  army  hair 
cut  in  his  photos  from  Germany.  .  .  . 

From  Zurich,  Switzerland,  comes  a  most 
intelligent  letter  in  excellent  English  (and 
typewritten)  from  Leni  Egli:  Both  you,  Miss 
Parsons,  and  Modern  Screen  make  a  big  mis- 


take in  cafering  so  much  to  the  preferences  of 
teenagers.  I  am  39  years  old  and  there  are 
many  fans  in  the  world  in  my  age  bracket. 
We  want  so  much  to  read  about  Fred  As- 
taire, Eli  Wallach,  Karl  Maiden,  Alec 
Guinness,  Henry  Fonda.  But  all  we  get 
are  Debbie  and  Liz  and  Eddie  and  Ricky 
Nelson  and  some  character  named  'Hook- 
ie.'  Why  not  a  department  in  the  magazine 
devoted  to  actors — nof  rock  n'  rollers?  How 
about  it,  David  Myers  .  .  .  ° 

Never  was  I  more  ashamed  and  shocked 
than  I  was  at  Anatomy  Of  A  Murder,  writes 
Mrs.  J.  J.  Brown,  San  Diego.  Nothing  but  sex, 
sex,  sex!  I  don't  agree  with  you.  While  I 
grant  there  was  some  ultra  frank  dialogue,  I 
do  not  think  this  picture  catered  to  sensational- 
ism. Its  approach  was  almost  clinical.  Holly- 
wood films  cannot  stay  forever  in  swaddling 
clothes.  .  .  . 

I'm  sick  of  the  names  Liz  and  Debbie, 
snaps  Theresa  Townes,  Chicago,  III.  Let's 
hear  about  the  talent.  Don't  be  quite  so  snippy, 
Theresa.  You  may  be  sick  of  Elizabeth  Tay- 
lor and  Debbie  Reynolds — but  don't  sell  them 
short  on  talent.  Liz  was  up  for  an  Oscar  in 
Cat  On  a  Hof  Tin  Hoof  and  Giant  (and  may  be 
up  for  another  in  Suddenly,  Last  Summer^. 
And  Debbie  is  proving  herself  a  deft  light 
comedienne  in  all  her  films  or  haven't  you 
read  the  critics  .  .  .  ? 


Connie  Van  der  Voors,  Duluth,  asks:  Last 
year  Millie  Perkins  was  receiving  more 
publicity  than  any  newcomer  in  Hollywood. 
In  Diary  of  Anne  Frank  she  proved  she 
rated  all  the  fuss.  Now  nothing  about  Millie? 
What's  happened?  Is  she  being  temperamen- 
tal? No.  Millie  is  a  shy  girl  and  doesn't  like 
the  spotlight,  particularly  where  her  romance 
with  Dean  Stockwell  is  concerned.  But 
20th  is  biding  its  time  about  her  next  picture, 
feeling  Millie  is  a  future  big  star  and  must 
have  just  the  right  story.  .  .  . 

How  old  is  Zsa  Zsa  Gabor?  is  Mrs. 
Vera  Session's  loaded  question  from  Dallas. 
Even  if  I  knew  (which  I  don't)  I  wouldn't 
answer  that  one,  Mrs.  S.  Zsa  Zsa  is  really  in 
the  'ageless'  bracket.  .  .  . 

A  cute  letter  from  "Missy"  Tangier,  Detroit. 
who  wants  to  know  if  movie  stars  spank  their 
children.  (I  gather  from  the  printing  that 
Missy  is  about  seven  to  ten  years  of  age). 
Well,  Missy — all  I  can  say  is  that  some  stars 
spank  their  children  (but  never  too  hard)  and 
some  don't.  But  on  the  whole,  the  stars  insist 
on  discipline  and  well-behaved  youngsters 
around  the  house.  .  .  . 

That's  all  for  this  month. 


Michael  Landon's  TALE 


OF  THE  CAT 


Dodie  and  I  met  on  a  blind  date. 
All  I  knew  about  her  was  that  she 
was  a  widow  with  a  young  son,  and 
that  I  wanted  to  see  her  again.  When 
I  arrived  for  the  date.  I  got  my  first 
shock — Dodie  likes  cats. 

At  that  moment  she  had  six.  They 
ranged  from  a  large  elderly  Siamese 
named  Pogo  through  various  half- 
breeds  to  a  stray  named  Dormouse. 
As  cats  go.  they  were  nice:  well-bred, 
friendly.  But  I  detested  cats. 

I  did  like  Dodie.  though,  so  I  kept 
my  sentiments  to  myself  at  first. 
Later  on  it  became  a  terrible  prob- 
lem— because  I  wanted  to  marry  her. 
I  never  was  able  to  get  up  the 
courage  to  tell  her  I  didn't  like  cats, 
so  we  drifted  along  having  dat°s  and 
falling  in  love.  Finally,  we  had  a 
terrible  argument  over  something 
I  quite  unconnected  with  cats  I .  and 
we  split  up. 

I  was  dreadfully  unhappy,  and  as 
it  turned  out,  so  was  Dodie.  She 
stood  it  for  a  week.  Then  when  it 
began  to  seem  that  I  wasn't  going  to 
give  in.  she  took  action.  I  got  a 
telegram  saying  POGO  VERY  ILL 
COME  AT  ONCE,  signed  Dormouse, 

Of  course,  I  thought  it  was  only  a 
gag.  but  my  pride  had  been  saved  by 
her  making  the  first  move,  so  I 
hustled  over  at  once — and  you  know 
what?  Pogo  really  was  ill!  He  was 
in  the  Small  Animal  Hospital  and 
not  allowed  any  visitors! 

Once  Dodie  got  me  back  by  a 
clever  excuse,  she  never  let  me  go 
again.  Pogo  was  pronounced  'con- 
valescent'— so  we  piled  the  rest  of 
the  cats  into  the  car  and  took  them 
to  the  kennels,  sent  Dodie's  son  to 
stay  with  friends,  and  we  took  off 
for  Mexico  where  we  were  married. 

We  got  back.  Pogo  was  well.  What 
miracles  love  can  work:  and  I  was 
glad  to  have  him.  I  complicated 
things  more,  gave  Dodie  a  new  Sia- 
mese for  a  wedding  gift,  and  bought 
a  puppy  for  my  new  son. 

Today  we  have  eleven  cats,  plus 
the  puppy,  and  a  look  in  Dodie's  eye 
that  says  no  end  is  in  sight! 


Woman's 'Difficult  Days' 

and  Her 
Perspiration  Problems 

Doctors  tell  why  her  underarm  perspiration 
problems  increase  during  monthly  cycle. 
What  can  be  done  about  it? 


Science  has  now  discov- 
ered that  a  thing  called 
"emotional  perspiration"  is 
closely  linked  to  a  woman's 
'"difficult  days."  So  much  so 
that  during  this  monthly 
cvcle  her  underarm  perspi- 
ration problems  are  not 
onlv  greater  but  more  embarrassing. 

You  see.  "emotional  perspiration" 
is  caused  by  special  glands.  They're 
bigger  and  more  powerful.  And 
when  they're  stimulated  they  liter- 
all}-  pour  out  perspiration.  It  is  this 
kind  of  perspiration  that  causes  the 
most  offensive  odor. 

New  Scientific  Discovery 

Science  has  found  that  a  woman 
needs  a  special  deodorant  to  counter- 
act this  "emotional  perspiration"  and 
stop  offensive  stains  and  odor.  And 
now  it's  here  ...  a  deodorant  with  an 
exclusive  ingredient  specifically 
formulated  to  maintain  effectiveness 
even  at  those  times  of  tense  emotion 
.  .  .  during  "difficult  days"  when  she 
is  more  likely  to  offend. 

It's  wonderful  new  ARRID  CREAM 
Deodorant,  now  fortified  with  amaz- 
ing Perstop,*  the  most  remarkable 
antiperspirant  ever  developed!  So 
effective,  vet  so  gentle. 


Used  daily,  ARRID  with 
Perstop*  penetrates  deep 
into  the  pores  and  stops 
"emotional  perspiration" 
stains  and  odor  .  .  .  stops  it 
as  no  roll-on.  spray  or  stick 
could  ever  do ! 

You  rub  ARRID  CREAM 
in  .  .  .  vou  rub  perspiration  out.  Rub 
ARRID  CREAM  in  .  .  .  rub  odor  out. 

Twice  as  effective  as  roll-ons 

Doctors  have  proved  ARRID  is  more 
effective  than  any  cream,  twice  as 
effective  as  any  roll-on  or  spray 
tested.  And  yet  ARRID  CREAM 
Deodorant  is  so  gentle,  antiseptic, 
non-irritating . . .  completely  safe  for 
normal  underarm  skin. 

So  ...  to  be  sure  you  are  free  of 
the  embarrassment  of  "emotional 
perspiration,"  use  this  special  kind  of 
cream  deodorant.  ARRID  with  Per- 
stop* stops  perspiration  stains  .  .  . 
stops  odor  too.  not  only  during  the 
"difficult  days"  but  every  day. 

Remember,  nothing  protects  you 
like  a  cream,  and  no  cream  protects 
you  like  ARRID.  So  don't  be  half  safe. 
Be  completely  safe.  Use  ARRID 
CREAM  Deodorant  with  Perstop*  to 
be  sure.  Try  it  today.  Buv  a  jar  at 
anv  drug  or  cosmetic  counter. 


-Carter  Products  trademark  for  sulfonated  hydrocarbon  surfactants. 


17 


•  1 


ober  26.  1959 


hard- 
worked 
hands 


heal  twice  as  fast 

with  new 
t  heavy-duly 

*     *  TRUSHAY 

§  withsilicones 

Ik  III  — 


9 


Kitchen  tests  prove  it...  with  women  just  like  you  I 
Hard-worked  hands  heal  twice  as  fast  with  new 
heavy-duty  Trushay  with  silicones.  Try  new  Trushay. 
What  happened  to  these  hands  can  happen  to  you. 
And  new  Trushay  helps  protect  your  hands  against 


■  Glamorous  Joan  Crawford  often  likes 
to  do  her  own  housework,  and  when  she 
does,  she  dispenses  with  make-up  and  puts 
on  an  inexpensive  house  dress. 

One  day  when  she  was  cleaning  the  sink 
in  her  palatial  Hollywood  home,  the  door- 
bell rang.  She  was  alone  so  she  answered 
it  herself.  A  neatly  dressed  young  man 
stood  there,  smiled  timidly  at  the  be- 
smudged  woman  before  him  and  said,  "I 
know  it's  presumptuous  of  me.  but  for  ten 
years  I've  had  just  one  ambition:  to  meet 
Miss  Crawford."  He  hesitated,  "Uh.  do 
you  think  she  would  just  say  hello  to 
me  .  .  .  ?" 

"I'm  sorry,  but  she's  in  New  York  on 
business."  said  the  lady  in  the  house  dress. 

The  visitor's  face  fell.  "Darn  it.  just  my 
luck,"  he  said.  "Probably  the  only  time  in 
my  life  I'll  ever  be  in  Los  Angeles  and 
she's  away." 


Joan  Crawford: 


detergents  and  through  every  single  chore  you  do. 

TRUSHAY.. .the  heavy-duty  lotion  for  hard-worked  hands 


The  Visitor 


"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  sympathetically 

and  started  to  close  the  door. 

He  smiled  again.  "Sorry  enough  to  do 

me  a  favor?  If  she's  not  around — do  you 

1  think  I  could  possibly  just  look  around  her 

!  house?  Just  see  how  she  lives  ...  I  mean, 

I  if  it  wouldn't  get  you  in  any  trouble.  .  .  ." 

I  Joan  Crawford  hesitated.  Then,  smiling. 

|  "I've    been    her    housekeeper    for  many 

1  years.  She  won't  mind  whatever  I  do.  Come 

I  in." 

§  For  an  hour,  they  explored  the  house. 

1  In  the  kitchen  they  had  a  companionable 

I  cup  of  coffee.  The  young  man  sighed  hap- 

|  pily.  "This  has  been  the  greatest  day  of  my 

I  life.  I  hope  one  day  I'll  meet  Miss  Craw- 

|  ford  in  person,  but  you've  been  the  most 

|  wonderful    hostess.    I    can't    thank  you 

|  enough." 

{  "That's  perfectly   all   right,"   she  told 

|  him.  "I — I'm  glad  you  like  Miss  Crawford 

I  so  much.  She'll  be  happy  to  hear  it." 

|  The  caller  got  up  and  said.  "I  must  go 

|  now."  She  accompanied  him  to  the  front 

I  door.    Suddenly    he    grinned    and  said. 

1  "Thanks  for  everything — Miss  Crau  ford.'' 


FRUSTRATI 


ft  can  be  a 
young  divorcee's 
most  perplexing 
problem.. 


[TurrTthe  page  for  Debbie  Reynolds'  explanation  o 
jhow  and  why  she  is  able  to  live  a  life  without  frus 
itration  -  -  -  without  the  need  for  romance 


 Can  a  woman  live  without  love  -  the 

love  of  a  man?  Debbie  Reynolds  thinks  so, 
and  that  is  what  she  admitted  to  me  in  a 
private  heart-to-heart  we  had  recently  in  her 
dressing  room.  She  and  I*  have  been  having 
heart-to-hearts  for  several  years.  We  can  speak 
directly  and  honestly  with  each  other— so,  I 
started  off  right  at  the  heart  of  the  problem: 
"Is  the  breakneck  schedule  you've  been  leading 
a  substitute  for  love?"  "Perhaps  so,"  she  ad- 
mitted, "if  you  mean  romantic  love.  I  don't 
think  I'm  ready  for  that.  I'm  not  interested  in 
romantic  love  right  now.  I  don't  have  time  for 
it,  and  I  don't  care  about  it.  Even  if  I  wanted 
to,  I  couldn't  do  any  steady  dating.  I  leave  the 
house  at  six  in  the  morning,  work  all  day  at  the 
studio  and  return  home  at  seven-thirty.  By  the 
time  I  get  cleaned  up,  have  dinner  and  play 
with  the  kids,  it's  nine  o'clock  and  I  have  to  go 
to  bed.  I'm  an  eight-hour  sleep  girl;  and  I  can't 


{Continued  on  page  67) 


FROM  ELVIS! 


*(P.S.  Why  not  give  Elvis  a  chance  to  find  out? 
Send  him  your  own  valentine  picture  %  Modern  Screen) 


I  DON'T  WANT  TO 
LEAVE  YOU,  EDDIE 

When  Elizabeth  Taylor  resisted  going  to  the  hospital  a  few 
weeks  ago,  even  though  she  got  double  pneumonia  as  the  result  of  her  delay, 

people  psychiatrically  inclined  claimed  this  was  more  than 
just  a  beautiful  wife  being  stubborn. 

They  maintained  that  Liz  was  determined  not  to  leave  Eddie 
Fisher  alone  while  he  was  fighting  his  comeback  battle; 
that  he  was  now  her  man  and  that  she  wasn't  going  to  leave  him  for  love, 
money — or  pneumonia.  .  . 

Too  vividly  in  her  mind  was  engraved  (the  amateur  psychol- 
ogists and  philosophers  believed )  the  memory 
of  the  time  she  permitted  Mike  Todd  to  board  an  (Continued  on  page  56) 


Gir 


DIANE  BAKER  clutched  the  suit- 
case and  looked  over  at  the  small 
house.  Her  plane  had  been  de- 
layed, it  was  late  and  she'd  wondered 
till  now  if  anyone  would  still  be  up. 
There  was,  she  noticed,  a  light  on  down- 
stairs, in  the  parlor.  She  didn't  know 
whether  to  be  glad  or  sad  about  this, 
whether  it  wouldn't  have  been  better 
just  to  be  able  to  sneak  up  to  her  room 
now  and  face  the  family  in  the  morning 
— her  mother,  her  dad,  her  sisters 
Cheryl  and  Patricia.  She  sighed.  Well, 


someone  was  still  up,  and  there  was 
nothing  she  could  do  about  it.  And, 
nervously,  she  began  to  walk  towards 
the  house. 

Reaching  the  front  door,  she  knock- 
ed, lightly. 

Her  mother  answered. 

"Diane,"  Mrs.  Baker  called  out, 
stunned.  "Diane,  what  on  earth — ?" 

She  stared  at  her  daughter  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  she  began  to  laugh  and 
she  threw  her  arms  around  the  girl. 

"This  is    [Continued  on  page  64) 


Maynard 
(Daddy-O)  Krebs 

Dobie 

(Girl-Crazy)  Gillis 

and  Judi 
(Best-Friend)  Meredith 


THROW  A  REAL 


■    "It's  so  wonderful  to  be  engaged,"  sighed  Pamela 
dreamily.  "And  a  long  one — well,  I  guess  I'm 
old-fashioned,  but  I  wouldn't  have  given  up  those 
ten  months  Darryl  and  I  were  formally  engaged  for 
anything.  We  figured  if  marriage  is  for  a 
lifetime,  why  not  an  engagement  of  at  least  a  few 
months  .  .  .?  Why  rush  into  marriage?  It's 
something  you  do  only  once." 

"And,"  Pamela  added  with  a  twinkle  in  her  eye,  "one 
of  the  nicest  things  about  being  engaged 
is  that  you  give  your  friends  {Continued  on  page  32) 


Silver— Young  Love  in  Heirloom  Sterling  by  Oneida;  China— King sley  by 
Lenox;  Fry  Pan— a  Toastmaster  Automatic;  Luggage— a  Silhouette  Beauty 
Case  by  Samsonite ;  Clock  Radio— from  Westinghouse;  Ekco  Kitchen  Appliances. 


%ing//Vg  shower 

for  Dobie's  lovely  new 
sister-in-law 

Pamela  (I'm-oid-Fashioned)  Lincoln 


But  on  the  big  day,  poor  Maynard  (l-forgot-to-wear-my-tie) Krebs  couldn't 
Anyhow,  he  was  happy  for  he  knew  that  a 


HAVE  THE  DREAMIEST 


parents.  (Below)  That's  some  kiss  for  a  new  brother-in-lai 


(Continued  from  page  30)  a  chance  to  toss 
a  shower  for  you,  like  Judi  Meredith  did  for 
me  . 

Pamela  Lincoln  and  Darryl  Hickman's  closest 
friends  are  Judi,  and  Darryl's  brother  Dwayne — 
he  plays  the  girl-crazy  Dobie  in  The  Many 
Loves  of  Dobie  Gillis  on  CBS-TV,  and  Bob 
Denver,  the  boy  who  plays  the  beatnik,  May- 
nard Krebs,  in  the  same  series.  The  three  friends' 
got  together  and  decided  to  throw  a  real  swing- 
ing shower  for  the  bride-to-be — only  Judi  made 
the  boys  promise  they  wouldn't  show  up  at- the 
party,  at  least  not  until  it  was  over. 

The  way  it  worked  out,  it  really  was  an  honest- 
to-goodness  surprise  for  Pam.  Judi  phoned  her 
one  day  and  suggested  they  have  lunch  on 
Saturday  at  the  Sheraton  West  Hotel  and  then 
go  shopping  together. 

When  Pamela  got  there  (Continued  on  page  53) 


get  into  the  church  or  the  reception  afterwards. 

real  Daddy -0  and  Mommy -0  wanted  Pamela  and  Darryl  to 


OLD-FASHIONED  WEDDING 


LANA  TURNER  SPEAKING  AND  SHE  AND  I  HAD  bIenYlKING 


^STHIS  MARRIAGE,  LANA?"  I  fl<wrn  uC„  „,  ^ 


INTIMATELY  FOR 


KNOW.  I  DO  KNOW  HE  IS  THE 


A  Louella  Parsons'  Scoop 

LANAIN 
LOVE! 


^SEVERAL  HOURS  ON  THIS  EARLY  WINTER  DAY  WHEN  SHE  CAME  TO  My'hOME~ 


f  NEST  MAN  I  HAVE  EVER  KNOWN.  HE  IS  SELF 


■  This  is  a  story  about  Pat  and  Shirley  Boone.  But  it's  more  than  just 
a  story:  it's  a  plea  ...  a  plea  for  understanding  from  Pat 
Boone  to  you.  And  it's  a  chance  to  tune  in  on  the  wave-lengths  of  Pat 
and  Shirley's  hearts,  and  to  hear  how  they  really  feel  about  the 
stars  who  have  not  been  as  lucky  as  they  have;  the  stars  who  have  been  overtaken 
by  the  tragedy  of  separation  and  divorce.  .  .  . 

It  starts  a  little  while  ago  when  Pat  and  Shirley  did  something 
they  rarely  have  a  chance  to  do  any  more.  They  took  a  weekend  trip,  alone, 
like  a  couple  of  newlyweds  without  kids  or  any  responsibilities  at  ail. 
Pat  was  to  race  in  the  annual  Soap  Box  Derby  at  Akron, 
Ohio,  in  the  special  'celebrity'  part  of  the  event.  And  so,  their  hearts 


Pat  Boone  confides: 


pounding  with  the  fun  and  excitement  of  a  week- 
end stolen  from  a  busy  life  full  of  work  and  responsibilities.,  they  ran  off, 

as  free  and  as  gay  as  birds. 
It  was  a  golden  weekend  ...  at  first.  It  started  off  with  a  glow.  Pat 
won  the  Derby  against  a  field  of  such  stalwarts  as 
,  Jimmy  Stewart  and  Guy  Madison.  At  the  end  of  the  race  there 
was  a  ceremony  before  the  seventy-five 
thousand  people  in  the  stands,  who  had  come  from  fifteen  countries  to  watch 
the  ramshackle,  careening  soap-box  cars. 

As  soon  as  the  ceremony  was  over,  Pat  ran  to  Shirley 
and  held  up  the  trophy  award:  a  big,  chromium  plated  oil  can.  Shirley 
embraced  him  and  said,  laughingly  but  with  pride:  "I'll  bet  the 
kids  will  try  to  drink  out  of  it." 
"How  about  that?"  Pat  said,  pleased  in  spite  of  himself,  at  (Continued  an  page  66) 


Strangers  think  she  owns  the  big  white  house, 
but  Diane  lives  in  the  little  annex  on  the  right. 


Diane  showed  us 
the  countryside 
where  she'd 
found  peace. 


PHOTOS. 
OF 


DIANE 


The  living  room 
had  little  besides 
a  couch,  a  chair. 


■  The  photos  of  Diane  Varsi  on  these  pages  are  the  last  that 
you  may  ever  see  in  any  publication.  They  were  taken  at  her 
Bennington,  Vermont,  home  one  day  last  December  when  we 
visited  the  runaway  actress.  We  had  not  been  invited  to  visit 
Diane.  We  went  on  our  own  because,  as  old  friends  from  her 
Hollywood  days,  we  were  worried  about  her  and  had  a  message 
for  her. . . .  We  were  worried  because  we  (Continued  on  next  page) 


m 


Though  she  is 
poor  and  lonely 
in  Vermont, 
Diane  will  probably 
never  go  back 
to  Hollywood 


Last  Photos  of  Diane  Varsi  continued 


felt,  in  our  hearts,  that  Diane — one 
of  the  saddest  and  most  confused 
girls  in  all  movie  history — was  not 
happy  in  Vermont.  The  message 
we  took  with  us  was  this :  //,  Diane, 
it  is  true  and  you  are  not  happy, 
don't  be  too  proud  to  admit  it. 
Come  back  to  Hollywood,  to  tvork. 
There  are  producers  who  still  want 
you,  fans  who  still  want  you.  You 
left  our  toivn  a  year  ago.  You  said 
some  pretty  nasty  things  about  our 
town  in  leaving.  Well,  all  that  is 
forgotten  now.  So  forget  your  own 
pride,  Diane — and  come  on  home. 

Our  fears  for  the  girl.  Our  mes- 
sage. 

With  these  two  bits  of  baggage 
— and  one  light  suitcase  and  a 
camera — we  took  off  by  plane  one 
day  for  Bennington. 

We  arrived  there  late  in  the 
afternoon. 

We  had  no  idea  about  the  kind 
of  reception  we  would  get. 

In  fact,  the  first  indication  we 
had  that  the  reception  might  not 
be  too  pleasant  came  from  a  cab- 
driver,  a  small  and  old  and  bony 
Vermonter,  whom  we  approached 
outside  the  airport.  .  .  . 

"Yup,"  he  said,  removing  a 
toothpick  from  his  mouth,  looking 
jis  over,  "sure  I  know  where  she 
lives.  But  before  you  get  in  that 
cab,  maybe  I  can  save  you  your 
fare  .  .  .  You  happen  to  be  from 
the  newspapers  or  the  magazines?" 

We  worked  for  a  magazine,  we 
told  him. 

"Well,"  he  said.  "I  know  for  a 
fact  that  that  actress  don't  talk  to 
nobody  from  the  press.  Some  big 
magazine  came  up  here  little  while 


ago.  Offered  her  $20,000,  just  to 
talk  to  them  and  pose  for  some  pic- 
tures. But  she  said  no  and  she  said 
git-and-skedaddle  to  both  of  them, 
that's  what  she  said." 

We  told  the  old  man  we  were 
friends  of  Diane's,  as  well  as  being 
from  the  press. 

"Well,"  he  said,  eyeing  us  sus- 
piciously, "that's  what  some  of  the 
others  said.  But  I  seen  what  hap- 
pened to  them  when  they  got  to 
her  door.  It  was  git-and-skedaddle 
and — " 

He  interrupted  himself,  when  he 
saw  us  begin  to  shiver  from  the 
unaccustomed  cold. 

"All  right,  all  right,"  he  said, 
"get  in  the  cab  'fore  you  freeze  to 
death.  But  just  mark  my  words — " 

He  was  silent  throughout  the  rest 
of  the  trip,  as  he  drove  from  the 
station  through  the  town — a  pretty 
town,  larger  than  we'd  thought  it 
would  be,  and  warm-looking,  many 
of  its  store  windows  festooned 
with  Christmas  lights — and  then 
as  he  drove  out  into  the  country- 
side, the  countryside  that  must 
have  been  pretty  in  the  summer, 
we  knew,  but  that  was  cold  now, 
gray,  all  frosted  earth  and  chill- 
swept  sky  and  sleeping  trees  and, 
here  and  there,  silent  houses. 

And  it  was  only  when  he  pulled 
up  a  long  roadway  leading  to  one  of 
the  houses  that  the  cabdriver  spoke 
again. 

"See  that  big  place  ahead?"  he 
asked.  "Well,  that  ain't  her  place 
— not  all  of  it.  Big  house  to  the 
left  belongs  to  a  professor  at  our 
college  here.  And  she,  the  actress, 
she  lives  (Continued  on  page  70) 


Jimmy  Clanton:  I  went  steady  when  I  was  seventeen  with  a 
home-town  girl,  and  I  wanted  to  marry  her.  In  fact,  we 
rented  a  two-room  apartment  for  $65  a  month,  furnished, 
and  we  had  planned  to  elope  because  my  parents  did  not 
like  her  and  did  not  want  me  to  marry. 

We  broke  up  when  she  objected  to  my  pushing  my  career 
as  a  musician  and  singer.  When  I  told  my  father  about  the 
bust-up  of  our  year-long  romance,  he  said  he  was  glad  and 
reminded  me,  "You've  got  a  career  in  music  at  stake,  and 
you've  got  plenty  of  time  for  marriage." 

I'll  be  twenty  next  June  20th,  and  I'm  glad  I  went  steady, 
but  I'm  even  more  glad  I  didn't  marry  then.  Now  I'm 
dating  a  nineteen-year-old  brunette  who  looks  like  Diana 
Dors.  A  great  gal. 

Dick  Caruso:  Yes,  I've  steady  dated,  but  with  poor  results. 
When  I  was  five,  I  was  in  love  with  Roberta,  also  five, 
who  lived  next  door  until  we  were  nine.  And  then  my  family 
moved  away.  Then  there  was  Barbara,  my  steady  when  I 
was  fourteen.  She  left  me  for  another  guy,  and  I  was  so 
bitter  I  ate  too  much  and  got  fat,  and  refused  to  talk  to 
my  friends.  I  sulked  and  practiced  piano  and  wrote  love 
songs,  one  of  them  being  I'll  Tell  You  (Continued  on  page  62) 


Edd  Byrnes 


Kimm  Charney 


Edd  Byrnes:  I  steady-dated  once  for  about  a  year,  back  in  1952. 
and  she  told  me  that  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  another  fellow. 
Well,  it  took  me  about  half  a  year  to  get  over  it.  I  kept  busy  by 
working  in  a  defense  plant  and  driving  an  ambulance,  while 
fiddling  around,  on  the  side,  with  acting. 

When  she  called  me  again,  hinting  she'd  like  to  resume  with 
me,  I  had  become  interested  in  acting  too  deeply  and  didn't 
w7ant  to  steady  date  any  more.  I'm  glad  I  didn't  many  when  I 
was  a  teenager  ...  and  I'm  glad  I  had  a  broken  heart  early  in 
life. 

For  me,  steady  dating  was  unpleasant.  (Continued  on  page  62) 


Andy  Williams      Johnny  Restiv 


PpE3 
■        M     Michael  Callan 
Frankie  Avalon       Bl  ~  dH 


Bobby  Rydell 


0 

Danny  Valentino 


MAYBE 


Fabian:  Who  am  I  to  say  that  going 
steady  is  right  or  wrong?  I  don't 
think  I  have  the  right  to  make  a 
statement  either  wav. 


Going  steady  has  many  advantages 
and  disadvantages. 

Advantages  include:  You  are  al- 
ways going  to  be  with  the  person 
you  want  to  be  with.  You  never  have 
to  worry  about  getting  a  date  for 
this  or  for  that.  You're  pretty  sure  of 
being  remembered  on  your  birth- 
day or  on  (Continued  on  page  62) 


The  story  of  the  private  Curtis'  family  album... by  Janet  Leig 


■  Quite  a  few  people  seem  to  be  under  the  impression 
that  we  moved  to  a  larger  house  because  the 
family  was  expanding.  That  is  not  entirely  true.  The 
real  reason  is  that  my  camera-happy  husband  re- 
fuses to  stop  taking  pictures  of  the  children, 
and  we  had  to  make  room  for  the  hundreds  of  photo 
albums  that  kept  piling  up. 
I  exaggerate  not.  We  have  without  doubt  one  of  the 
greatest-if  not  the  greatest-collections  of  father- 
taken  photographs  in  the  world.  If  Tony  doesn't 
have  three  or  four  cameras  hanging  from  his 
neck,  he  feels  positively  naked.  Around  our 
house  we  call  him  Tony,  the  Picture  Taker. 
In  most  homes  I  know  of  when  the  husband  arrives  in 
the  evening,  the  first  thing  he  wants  to  know  is 
what  time  dinner  will  be  ready.  Tony  no  sooner 
sets  foot  in  the  door  than  he  casts  hungry  eyes  around 
for  something  warm  or  unusual- (Continued  on  page  68) 


49 


/^ENE  BARRY  came  to,  lying  on  the  field.  The  crowd  was  roaring 
y  his  name,  shrieking  his  praise,  but  all  he  noticed  was  that  his 
right  arm  had  another  elbow. 

He  looked  at  the  football  there  on  the  green  grass  of  the  field  and 
wondered  how  it  had  happened.  Seconds  before,  he  had  been  carrying 
that  ball.  Then  a  ton  of  bodies  fell  on  him  and  the  lights  went  out. 
How  long  he  had  been  unconscious  he  did  not  (Continued  on  page  51) 


know.  But  it  had  been  enough  time  for 
his  teammates  to  circle  around  him  and 
stare  at  him  with  grim  faces  as  he  lay 
sprawled  on  the  ground. 

Now  a  doctor  pushed  his  way  through 
the  ring  of  players.  He  took  one  look  at 
the  youth's  arm  and,  with  a  professional 
sight,  said,  "You  are  not  only  out  of  the 
game,  lad,  you  are  out  of  the  season." 

Suddenly  a  surge  of  vicious,  excruciating 
pain  shot  up  the  boy's  arm  like  a  bolt  of 
lightning.  He  gasped,  groaned  inaudibly 
and  gritted  his  teeth. 

A  broken  wing 

"Go  ahead  and  holler,  son,"  the  doctor 
said  lifting  the  arm  gently,  "not  even  a 
man  should  keep  your  kind  of  agony 
inside." 

The  seventeen-year-old  boy  looked  up 
at  the  faces  of  his  team  and  knew  it  was 
the  one  thing  he  could  not  do,  no  matter 
how  much  he  wanted  to.  So  instead  of 
screaming,  he  fainted. 

Only  vaguely  did  he  hear  the  wild  young 
voices  from  the  bleachers  shouting,  in 
unison,  "Yay!  Barry!  .  .  .  Yay!  Barry!" 

When  he  came  to  he  was  in  the  locker 
room  on  a  table.  The  doctor  was  in  the 
midst  of  wrapping  his  throbbing  arm  in 
a  splint. 

"We're  taking  you  to  the  hospital,"  the 
doctor  said,  "where  we'll  put  on  a  cast." 
The  physician  looked  at  the  boy,  half  in 
sympathy,  half  in  admiration.  "You're  all 
right,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  smile.  "I've 
seen  tougher  men  than  you  wail  their 
heads  off  with  broken  arms  like  yours." 

Gene  closed  his  eyes.  If  only  the  pain 
would  go  away. 

"By  the  way,"  continued  the  doctor,  "as 
we  carried  you  off  the  field  you  mumbled 
something  about  a  violin.  Isn't  that 
strange  talk  for  a  young  man  just  hurt 
in  a  football  game?" 


Oh,  God,  thought  Gene,  the  violin!  My 
arm!  What  if — ?  He  swallowed  hard  and 
slowly  turned  his  head. 

"Doctor,  I  play  the  violin.  Will  I  be  able 
to  after--?" 

"Oh  sure,"  the  doctor  replied  lightly, 
"you'll  play.  Good  hobby,  too.  Relaxing, 
music.  'Course  if  you'd  been  planning  to 
be  a  concert  violinist  you'd  never — "  The 
doctor  needed  only  to  see  the  look  on 
Barry's  face  to  realize  what  he  had  said. 
"I'm  sorry,  Gene,  I  didn't  know  it  was 
that  serious  with  you.  But  you  might  as 
well  know  now.  Your  arm  will  heal,  but 
it  will  never  stand  seven  hours'  practice 
every  day.  Believe  me,  Gene,  don't  hope." 

Ten  years  of  learning.  The  ragging  he 
had  taken  from  the  kids,  as  only  Brooklyn 
kids  can  rag!  Gene  thought  bitterly  of  all 
the  money  his  parents  had  hoarded  for 
the  lessons  and  the  best  violin  they  could 
buy  for  him.  Their  dreams  and  his, 
cracked  into  eternity  by  a  hard-charging 
left  tackle  on  a  teen-age  football  team. 

A  shattered  dream 

"Don't  hope,"  Gene  repeated  to  himself 
bitterly.  But  what  do  you  do  instead? 

Gene's  depression  over  his  broken  arm 
and  his  lost  dream  of  being  a  concert 
violinist,  however,  lasted  only  as  long  as 
it  took  for  him  to  get  well.  His  parents, 
familiar  with  the  uncertainties  of  life,  were 
disappointed,  but  the  unfortunate  incident 
was  dismissed  by  Gene's  dad  with,  "As  long 
as  young  men  play  football,  young  men 
will  break  their  arms." 

Gene  soon  discovered  that  he  had  a 
hangover  from  his  hard  study  of  music. 
And: 

"One  morning  while  exhaling,"  says 
Gene,  "my  breath  got  caught  in  my  larynx. 
The  whole  family  looked  at  me  in  sur- 
prise. I  was  singing!  I  asked  a  teacher  if 
she  thought  I  had  enough  mellow  vibrato 


to  think  about  a  singing  career.  She 
thought  I  might  make  it  with  study.  Well, 
I  was  off  to  out-Caruso  Caruso." 

By  the  end  of  his  senior  year  Gene  was 
good  enough  to  win  a  scholarship  at  the 
Chatham  Square  School  of  Music  in  New 
York  City. 

But  it  was  Gene  himself  who  soon 
realized  that  although  he  was  surprisingly 
good  as  a  pop  and  operetta  vocalist,  he 
didn't  want  a  career  as  a  singer  of  serious 
music. 

Still,  his  appealing  voice  got  him  a  week- 
ly radio  show,  followed  by  a  short  go  as 
a  band  vocalist  in  nightclubs. 

And  then,  prophetically  perhaps,  he  au- 
ditioned and  was  chosen  to  play  The  Bat 
in  a  Broadway  musical  Rosalinda.  The 
show  ran  two  years.  By  then  Gene  knew 
he  wanted  to  be  an  actor.  But  the  best 
he  could  get  was  a  character  part  in  a 
White  Way  production  of  The  Merry 
Widow. 

"I  was  sittin'  pretty,"  Gene  remembers. 
"I  wasn't  shooting  to  stardom,  but  I  was 
working  and  getting  good  pay,  getting  bet- 
ter parts.  I  played  around  a  lot,  dated  the 
prettiest  girls  I  could  find,  learned  what 
made  women  happy  and  what  made  them 
angry. 

"And  then  one  night  I  went  out  with 
Mae  West! 

"Not  a  date  exactly.  I  was  in  her  show 
and  the  cast  decided  to  have  an  evening 
at  the  Copacabana  after  the  performance. 
Some  of  the  guys  brought  dates.  I  didn't. 
Mae  was  the  hostess,  and  I  was  her  un- 
official escort. 

"It  was  pretty  crowded  at  the  Copa 
and  we  bunched  up  around  two  tables. 
Suddenly  I  found  myself  squeezed  in  be- 
tween Mae  and  a  girl  I'd  never  seen  be- 
fore. I  learned  later  she  was  another  guy's 
date.  But  after  what  you'd  call  a  very 
unexpected,   but   intimate    association,  I 


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discovered  her  name  was  Betty  Kalb.  And 
for  the  next  few  days  I  just  couldn't  get 
her  out  of  my  mind.  That's  when  I  dis- 
covered I  had  to  see  her  again.  It  wasn't 
easy,  but  after  a  lot  of  double  talk  I 
think  I  confused  Betty  into  a  date. 

"I  sometimes  think  I  didn't  know  as 
much  as  I  thought  about  women,  because 
now  that  I  recall,  Betty  never  did  say  no. 
She  just  didn't  say  yes.  I've  asked  Betty 
about  it  a  couple  of  times,  but  she  just 
smiles  and  looks  very  wise. 

"Well,  we  got  to  dating  pretty  steadily 
and  one  night  after  leaving  her  at  the  door 
I  walked  home  in  one  of  those  woozy 
trances.  As  the  lady  says,  I  wasn't  sick, 
I  was  in  love. 

"Lucky  for  me,  Betty  felt  the  same  way. 

"Marriage?  Why  not?  I  had  it  made. 
There  were  plenty  of  parts  around.  And 
I  was  in  love. 

"We  were  married. 

"Three  days  later  I  lost  my  job,  as  the 
show  closed  suddenly.  I  didn't  work  on 
the  stage  for  a  year. 

"A  month  later  I  was  desperate.  Our 
money  was  gone.  I  used  to  wonder  how 
a  man  could  love  a  woman  so  much  and 
yet  provide  her  with  nothing  but  failure. 
You  see,  auditioning,  for  an  actor,  is  both 
expensive  and  time-consuming.  If  he  tries- 
out  during  the  day  and  works  nights  he 
looks  like  hell  the  next  morning  from  lack 
of  sleep.  Casting  directors  want  you  fresh, 
clear-eyed  and  full  of  energy.  And  you 
can't  fool  them.  They  know  all  the  angles. 

"Finally  I  gave  up  auditioning  and  took 
a  job  selling  jewelry  in  a  store.  The  boss 
decided  I  was  no  diamond  in  the  rough. 
Then,  odds-and-ends  salesman  in  a  depart- 
ment store.  The  floorwalker  just  didn't 
understand  actors.  Then  I  sold  stove-oil 
from  a  truck.  I  swear  I  don't  know  how 
our  marriage  managed  to  survive.  It  wasn't 
the  sad  state  of  our  finances — and  let  me 
tell  you  they  were  really  sorrowful.  But 
it  was  the  frustration  that  was  eating  my 
insides.  I  was  nothing  unless  I  was  up 
there  making  an  entrance  from  stage  left. 
And  I  knew  it.  That's  what  was  tearing  at 
me.  And  Betty  knew  it. 

"I  discovered  it  was  tearing  at  her,  too. 

A  woman  in  love 

"One  morning  I  woke  up  and  it  was 
10:00  a.m. 

"  Tor  crying  out  loud,"  I  bellowed  at 
Betty,  I'm  two  hours  late  for  work.  Why 
the  devil  didn't  you  get  me  up?' " 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Gene  Barry 
discovered  what  a  wise  and  wonderful 
woman  he  had  taken  for  a  wife. 

Betty  sat  down  next  to  him.  She  looked 
positively  grim. 

"Gene,"  she  began,  "you're  going  to  be 
angry  when  I  tell  you.  But  please,  hear 
me  out  before  you  splash  all  over  the 
ceiling. 

"I've  taken  a  job.  (Sit  down!)  I've  got 
the  hatcheck  stand  at  the  Copa.  (Honey, 
let  me  finish.)  We've  got  to  accept  one 
thing  about  you  because  you  are  the  kind 
of  man  you  are.  You  don't  belong  in  a 
store  and  you  don't  belong  on  an  oil 
truck.  You  belong  on  the  stage,  you  belong 
before  an  audience.  Any  audience,  even 
if  you  only  carry  a  spear.  I've  watched 
the  last  few  months.  If  you  could  see 
what's  happening  to  you,  you'd  agree  with 
me.  What  I  want  to  do  is  this.  I  intend 
to  work  for  about  four  months.  We  can 
live  on  my  salary  somehow.  Maybe  even 
save  a  little.  But  more  important,  you'll 
have  the  days.  You  can  sleep  at  night  and 
look  the  way  you're  supposed  to  look  at 
auditions,  well-rested  and  eager  for  the 
part.  Don't  argue,  Gene,  please.  I've  made 
up  my  mind." 

"But  my  mind's  made  up  too,"  Gene 
exploded.  "What  kind  of  oaf  do  you  think 
I  am?   Whv  do  vou  insist?" 


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"I'll  tell  you  why  I  insist.'"  Betty  said 
evenly.  "Because  I  love  you.  And  I  know 
you  love  me.  And  because  it  is  that  way 
between  us  I  want  to  do  something  for 
you. 

"Don*t  deny  me  a  chance  I  may  never 
have  again.  For  the  rest  of  my  life  111 
need  you.  Gene.  And  I'll  like  that.  But 
right  now  I  can  help.  Please,  let  me  do  it." 

Gene  looked  at  his  wife  and  knew  that 
she  meant  every  word  she  had  spoken. 
Suddenly  he  put  his  arms  around  her  and 
for  a  moment  they  hugged  all  the  happi- 
ness, love  and  sadness  that  a  man  and  a 
woman  can  have  for  each  other. 

"Besides,"  Betty7  said  with  the  hint  of 
sniffle,  "you  may  have  a  son  this  Fall — or  a 
daughter." 

In  the  next  few  weeks  Gene  tried  harder 
than  ever.  He  took  any  job  he  could  get 
as  long  as  it  was  before  an  audience.  He 
emceed  programs  in  theaters  and  night- 
clubs. He  performed  in  New  York  towns 
where  they  still  had  vaudeville  shows.  He 
sang  at  State  fairs.  He  took  small-paying 
parts  in  off-Broadway  plays. 

"Once,"  said  Gene,  '"I  toyed  with  the 
idea  of  becoming  an  auctioneer.  But  Betty 
put  her  foot  down. 

A  man  named  Mike  Todd 

"Finally  Betty  had  to  quit  her  job.  You'd 
think  that  a  man  as  desperate  as  I  was  at 
that  time  would  stumble  onto  something, 
anything.  It  didn't  happen.  I  don't  know. 
Somehow  we  made  it.  Because  the  day 
my  son  was  born  I  got  a  call  from  a  man 
named  Mike  Todd.  He  had  a  job  for  me. 
My  son's  name  is  Michael.  And  from  that 
moment  on  things  improved.  Nothing  sen- 
sational. But  I  did  a  number  of  plays  and 
finally  got  a  bid  from  Paramount  where 
I  did  Red  Garters  and  a  couple  of  other 
pictures.  In  between  I  did  a  lot  of  TV 
work,  about  a  hundred  shows. 

"Still,  Betty  and  I  played  our  dollar  bills 
close  to  the  vest. 

"One  day  my  agent  called  me  and  asked 
if  I'd  like  to  do   a  Western  TV  series. 


"  "Me?  A  cowboy?  Not  on  your  life,' "  I 
said. 

"It  may  sound  strange,  but  I've  always 
wanted  to  be  a  super-actor.  What  this 
actually  is  I  don't  know.  But  I  used  to 
think  about  getting  a  chance  at  an 
Academy  Award.  Winning  an  Oscar.  It 
was  a  big  dream  with  me.  Then  one  day 
I  thought  it  over  and  asked  myself.  'Barry, 
just  suppose  for  a  moment  that  you  never 
do  win  an  Oscar?  What  then?"  it's  funny, 
but  after  all  that  yearning,  the  only  answer 
I  could  think  of  was  a  brilliant  'So  what?' 

'T  guess  a  little  of  that  longing  was  still 
in  me  when  the  agent  asked  me  about 
the  Western.  It's  why  I  said  no.  I  felt 
there  was  nothing  grand  about  a  Western. 

'""But  then  he  asked,  'Is  it  still  no  if  I 
tell  you  that  the  character  you  play  wears 
a  derby  hat  and  carries  a  gold-headed 
cane?' 

"  'It  is  now  yes.'  I  said,  very  distinctly. 
That  sounded  elegant.  Til  do  it.  What's 
the  character's  name?'" 

"Bat  Masterson." 

Today.  Gene  Barry,  as  the  famous  well- 
dressed  Western  play-boy  marshal,  is 
easily  one  of  the  best-known  personalities 
on  television. 

Gene  and  Betty  have  built  a  house  in 
Hollywood's  semi-exclusive  Benedict 
Canyon.  It  is  a  big  house.  4.500  square  feet. 
It  is  exactly  the  kind  of  house  the  Barrys 
wanted,  principally  because  Gene  built 
most  of  it  himself.  They  have  another  son 
now.  Frederic,  age  five.  Betty  needs  Gene, 
just  as  she  said  she  would — and  she  likes 
it,  just  as  she  said  she  would.  And  they 
are  a  warm,  wonderful,  happily  married 
couple  because  they  still  like  to  do  things 
for  each  other. 

But  Gene's  life  is  not  quite  complete. 

"There's  just  one  thing  I  wish  Bat 
Masterson  did.  But  I've  checked  and  he 
never  got  around  to  it." 

What  was  that? 

"He  never  played  the  violin."  Gene  says 
with  a  long  soft  look  back  at  the  past.  .  .  . 

END 


A  Real  Swinging  Shower 


(Continued  from  page  32) 

—but  let  her  tell  it:  "When  I  walked  in 
and  found  my  girlfriends  there.  I  thought 
I'd  keel  over!  I  was  just  flabbergasted. 
When  I  saw  them  there,  all  dressed  up. 
Elinor  Donahue,  Gigi  Perreau.  Jennifer 
West,  Danny  Thomas'  daughter  Margaret, 
calling  out  Surprise,  Surprise.'  and  saw  all 
those  pretty  packages  ...  I  don't  know 
why,  but  suddenly  I  found  myself  kind  of 
choked  up  and  for  a  moment  I  couldn't 
say  anything.  I  tried  to  cover  my  confu- 
sion and  say  something  off-hand  and  bril- 


PHOTOGRAPHERS'  CREDITS 


The  photographs  appearing  in  this  issue 
are  credited  below  page  by  page: 

9 — Darlene  Hammond  of  Pictorial  Parade:  10 — 
Dsrlene  Hammond  of  Pictorial  Parade.  Dave 
Sutton  of  Galaxy,  Wide  World:  12-13 — Darlene 
Hammond  of  Pictorial  Parade.  Nat  Dallinger  of 
Gilloon:  14-15 — UPI.  Globe.  Jacques  Lowe. 
Wide  World.  Frances  Orkin:  16 — Al  Morch  of 
Pictorial  Parade.  Curt  Gunther  of  Topis:  19-20 
— Zinn  Arthur  of  Topix:  22 — Larrv  Schiller:  24 
—Galax:.-:  26-27 — Wagner-International:  34-35 
— Globe:  36 — Topix:  45-47 — Topix.  Wide 
World.  Paris  Match.  Europres-Gilloon:  48-49 — 
Tony  Curtis:  50 — Earl  Leaf  of  Galaxy. 


liant.  like  'Oh.  you  shouldn't  have — '  but 
I  found  there  were  some  tears  in  my  eyes 
that  got  in  the  way." 

"But  Judi  hurried  over  to  me  and  put 
her  arms  around  me  and  teased  me,  "Come 
on  in.  Pamela:  this  is  going  to  be  a  happy 
party7,  honestly  it  is." 

"And  we  did  have  fun.  Lots  of  girl  talk — 
and  lots  of  teasing  too.  .  .  . 

"Judi  was  a  riot.  She  said  she'd  been 
engaged  three  times  so  far  but  never  had 
a  shower  like  this.  'Next  time  I  get  en- 
gaged.' she  said,  'I'd  like  one  of  you  girls 
to  arrange  a  shower  like  this  for  me.  Then 
I'll  just  have  to  marry  the  guy!' 

"Everyone  wanted  me  to  tell  (again) 
how  Darryl  and  I  met.  when  we  were 
'finally'  getting  married,  what  'that  apart- 
ment' of  ours  was  like.  .  .  . 

"All  the  girls  knew  the  story  but  they 
also  knew  I  loved  telling  it.  How  Darryl 
and  I  met  when  we  were  both  doing  a 
play  in  a  little  theater  in  Hollywood.  How 
our  romance  grew  when  we  were  in  The 
Tingler  together. 

"And  how,  once  we  knew  we  were  in 
love  and  wanted  to  get  married,  we  sat 
down  one  evening  and  talked  it  over.  We 
believe  that  couples  who  rush  into  mar- 
riage are  missing  an  experience  they'll 
never  be  able  to  recapture.  Darryl  and  I 
had  all  the  fun.  the  parties  and  the  special 
kind  of  excitement  that  only  engaged  cou- 


You'll  be  glad  you 
tried  Tampax! 

Glad  you  discovered  its  comfort  and 
freedom!  Comfort,  in  anything  you  do! 
Freedom,  to  do  what  you  like — even 
shower  and  bathe — as  you  would  any 
other  time  of  the  month!  Freedor, 
pads,  belts,  pins  —  No  chafing  ~ 
and  bulging  —  No  disposal  or 
odor  problems.  Discover  Tam- 
pax8 ,  the  internal  sanitary  pro- 
tection. Ask  for  it  wherever  such  prod- 
ucts are  sold.  Regular,  Super,  Junior 
absorbencies.  Tampax  Incorporated, 
Palmer,  Massachusetts. 


Invented  by  a  doctor 
-now  used  by  millions  of  u  omen 


■  About  thirty  years  ago,  when  Babe  Ruth  was  at  the  height  of  his  glory,  a 
chunky  little  boy  named  Billy  was  batboy  for  the  New  York  Yankees. 

Billy  grew  to  love  Babe  Ruth  with  a  fierce  loyalty.  He  was  almost  a  slave  to 
all  the  great  man's  wants.  That  batboy  followed  Babe  Ruth  wherever  he  went. 
He  ran  errands  for  him.  He  shined  his  shoes.  He  was  his  messenger  boy.  his 
servant;  he  was  the  keeper  of  Babe  Ruth's  bats.  When  Babe  Ruth  had  a  good  day 
in  a  ballgame,  Billy  would  be  the  happiest  youngster  in  the  world.  When  Ruth 
had  one  of  those  bad  days  on  the  field,  he  would  feel  worse  than  the  Babe  himself. 

That  chunky  little  batboy  wanted  to  be  just  like  Babe  Ruth.  He  would  say  to 
Ruth,  "Babe,  would  you  teach  me  to  play  ball?  There's  nothing  I  want  more 
than  to  become  a  major-league  ballplayer  like  you." 

Babe  Ruth  would  put  his  arm  around  him  and  say, 

"Son,  you  can  be  anything  you  want,  if  you  want  it  bad  enough,  and  try  hard 
enough." 

Ruth  encouraged  him  to  stick  around  and  learn  all  the  baseball  he  could.  He 
told  him  to  practice,  practice,  and  then  practice  again. 

"Stick  to  the  training  rules,"  Ruth  would  advise,  "and  live  a  clean  life." 

But  there  were  times  when  Ruth,  himself,  did  not  follow  his  own  advice.  He 
stayed  up  late  at  nights.  He  stuffed  himself  with  food  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
without  any  regard  for  training  rules.  Many  of  his  foolish  acts  made  newspaper 
headlines,  as  did  his  home  runs.  But  to  that  batboy,  the  great  Babe  Ruth  could 
do  no  wrong. 

One  afternoon,  before  a  ballgame,  Babe  Ruth  decided  to  have  a  little  snack. 
He  told  his  loyal  batboy  to  go  fetch  him  a  couple  of  hot  dogs  and  some  soda 
pop.  Billy  rushed  away  to  do  Babe  Ruth's  bidding.  He  brought  back  a  dozen 
hot  dogs  and  a  dozen  bottles  of  soda  pop.  And  Babe  Ruth  ate  all  those  hot  dogs 


and  drank  all  that  soda  pop.  Of  course,  no  one  knew  about  this  except  Babe  and 
the  batboy. 

That  afternoon  the  million-dollar  ballplayer  came  down  with  a  bellyache 
heard  'round  the  world. 

He  collapsed,  and  had  to  be  rushed  to  a  hospital. 

Newspaper  headlines  all  over  the  world  blazed  with  the  shocking  news  that 
Babe  Ruth  was  dying.  When  the  Yankees'  manager  found  out  who  had  fed  the 
Babe,  he  promptly  fired  that  unhappy  batboy. 

Very  soon  Babe  Ruth  became  well  again  and  went  on  to  even  greater  glory. 
Billy  never  did  become  a  big  league  ballplayer.  Being  fired  from  his  job  and 
not  being  near  his  idol,  crushed  him. 

His  baseball  dreams  were  dead. 

His  whole  world  crashed  about  him. 

As  the  years  drifted  by,  that  chunky  little  batboy  looked  back  upon  his 
baseball  dreams  and  considered  himself  a  failure.  But  he  did  go  on  to  become 
famous,  though  not  in  baseball.  He  followed  Babe  Ruth's  advice,  and,  in  time, 
went  on  to  become  a  famous  motion  picture  and  television  actor.  You  know 
him  now  as  William  Bendix. 

However,  the  strangest  part  of  the  story  is  that  William  Bendix  was  the  actor 
chosen  to  play  the  part  of  Babe  Ruth  in  the  motion  picture  story  of  his  fabulous 
life — The  Babe  Ruth  Story. 


pies  can  share.  And  we  had  a  chance  to 
know  each  other  as  we  really  are,  to  iron 
out  problems  so  that  there  wouldn't  be 
any  unpleasant  surprises  or  disillusioning 
discoveries  after  we're  Mr.  and  Mrs.  .  .  . 

"We  took  our  time  about  planning  all 
the  details  of  our  wedding  and  it  was  the 
most  wonderful  kind  of  planning.  We  de- 
cided on  a  formal  wedding  at  an  early 
nuptial  mass  with  Dwayne  as  best  man. 

"In  those  months  we  had  together,  plan- 
ning our  future  together,  I  made  an  im- 
portant decision — to  give  up  my  career 
and  be  a  full-time  wife.  Our  engagement 
period  made  me  know  that  what  I  wanted 
most  out  of  life  was  to  be  Mrs.  Darryl 
Hickman,  wife,  homemaker,  mother. 

"And  because  there  was  no  particular 
rush,  we  could  take  all  the  time  we  wanted 
finding  our  first  home.  That  was  so  much 
fun,  looking  at  model  rooms,  model  homes, 
dreaming  and  planning.  We  looked  at 
houses  and  apartments  both  and  finally 
agreed  that  we'd  rent  an  apartment.  Then 
when  children  arrived,  we'd  buy  a  house. 

"Furniture  shopping  took  us  to  antique 
shops,  quaint  out-of-the-way  stores,  ex- 
citing auctions  where  we'd  bid  for  just 
the  right  piece.  What  a  thrill  it  was  to  go 
to  the  apartment  that  would  soon  be  our 
very  own  and  rearrange  the  furniture  each 
time  something  new  was  delivered.  We 
were  going  to  have  a  lovely  place  that  was 
truly  our  home,  furnished  leisurely  just 
the  way  we  both  wanted  it,  to  move  into 
right  after  our  honeymoon.  .  .  ." 

In  between  the  questions  and  the  teas- 
ing, Pamela  did  manage  to  open  all  her 
gifts.  Then  Judi  stood  up  and  made  a  little 
speech: 

"We  hope  the  gifts  we  gave  you  are 
just  what  you  need,  Pam,  but  there  is 
something  that  every  bride-to-be  needs 
most — and  I'm  afraid  it  hasn't  arrived  yet." 

"What's  that?"  Pamela  asked  innocently. 

"A  husband!"  Judi  laughed.  At  that  mo- 
ment the  door  opened  and  in  came  Darryl. 
followed  by  'Dobie'  and  'Maynard.' 

Pam's  husband-to-be  was  just  as  de- 
lighted with  the  gifts  as  she  was,  which  is 
a  good  thing  since  the  loot  got  piled  in 
his  strong  arms,  and  he  left  the  party 
loaded  down  with  all  their  packages.  .  .  . 

Not  long  after  the  shower,  Pamela  had 
a  luncheon  party  for  her  bridesmaids — 
Darryl's  sister  Dierdre,  Judi  (Mrs.  Martin) 
Milner,  Anna  Lou  Kent,  and  Diane  Miller 
— and  her  matron  of  honor,  Ruth  (Mrs. 
Jerry)  Paris.  Pam  had  her  heart  set  on  an 
all  white  wedding,  but  she  wanted  the  girls 
to  have  a  say  in  what  style  their  gowns 
would  be.  They  decided  on  something  that 
would  look  lovely  and  appropriate  for  the 
wedding  and  yet  could  be  worn  later  on  for 
I  parties.  They  chose  a  simply-cut  white 
'  dress  with  a  scoop  neckline,  bell  skirt  and 
three-quarter  sleeves,  and  with  it  they'd 
carry  deep  red  American  Beauty  roses. 

Pamela's  mother  was  flying  to  Holly- 
wood from  Connecticut  for  the  wedding, 
but  she  couldn't  get  there  in  time  to  be 
with  her  daughter  for  that  crucial  time  of 
getting  ready  for  the  ceremony  and  easing 
pre-ceremony  jitters.  But  her  landlady, 
Mrs.  Brown,  was  a  kind  and  motherly 
woman  and  offered  her  own  home  for  the 
bridal  party  to  dress  in.  When  the  girls 
arrived,  at  8:00  in  the  morning,  Mrs. 
Brown  had  fruit  cake  and  coffee  waiting. 

Pamela  was  too  trembly  to  button  but- 
tons properly;  however  with  the  help  of  her 
bridesmaids  and  her  landlady,  she  man- 
aged to  get  into  something  old,  something 
new,  something  borrowed,  something  blue. 
An  old  lace  handkerchief  of  her  mother's, 
a  borrowed  hoop  petticoat,  a  blue  garter — 
and  her  new  wedding  gown.  She  looked 
very  sweet  in  her  beautiful  wedding  gown, 
but  she  kept  asking  the  girls  nervously, 
"Do  I  look  all  right.  Do  I  look  all  right?" 

Somehow  they  got  to  the  church,  in 
plenty  of  time  and  all  in  one  piece.  It 


wasn't  yet  10:00.  and  the  church  was  cool 
and  hushed,  and  the  heavy  scent  of  the 
flowers  and  the  candles  hung  in  the  air. 
The  organ  was  playing  softly  and  the 
guests  were  already  beginning  to  arrive. 

But  Darryl  wasn't  there!  Ruth  Paris' 
husband  Jerry  was  supposed  to  drive  him 
to  the  church,  and  now  Ruth  groaned,  "Oh 
dear,  Jerry  is  alirays  late.  He's  always 
getting  lost.  He  was  two  hours  late  at  his 
own  wedding."  Poor  Pam,  she  was  nervous 
enough  as  it  was — 

They  showed  up.  however,  before  Pam 
collapsed,  Jerry  muttering  vaguely  some- 
thing about  getting  West  Hollywood  con- 
fused with  West  Los  Angeles.  .  .  . 

At  last  everyone  was  in  place  and  ready . 

The  organist  waited,  poised  for  the  cue  to 
begin  the  wedding  march.  Suddenly  the 
little  flower  girL  five-year-old  Tina  Hillie. 
became  involved  with  a  butterfly  that  had 
flown  into  the  waiting  room.  She  just 
couldn't  be  persuaded  to  walk  out  like  a 
good  girl  and  strew  the  rose  petals  along 
the  aisle.  Finally  one  of  the  bridesmaids 
promised  to  help  her  find  another  butter- 
fly after  the  wedding  and  Tina  consented. 

Pamela  is  a  very  sentimental  girL  The 
excitement  of  the  Most  Important  Day  in 
her  life  and  the  strain  of  all  the  delays 
were  too  much  for  her.  and  as  she  walked 
down  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  her  Uncle  Ed 
Hillie.  her  smile  was  very  tremulous — 
when  she  managed  to  smile  at  all. 

Deirdre  and  Dwayne  knelt  with  Pamela 
and  Darryl  before  the  altar  as  the  vows 
were  recited.  By  now  Pam  was  a  little 
weepy.  It  affected  everyone,  in  fact,  ex- 
cept Father  ODonnell  (who  had  seen 
many  a  weepy  but  happy  bride).  The 
bridesmaids'  eyes  were  wet,  and  even 
Darryl  began  fishing  for  his  handkerchief. 
Pam's  hands  were  shaking  so  she  could 
hardly  put  the  ring  on  DarryFs  finger,  but 
Father  O'Donnell  leaned  over,  smiled  en- 
couragement, and  helped  her. 

Pam  may  have  been  terribly  nervous  at 
the  church,  but  at  the  reception  at  the 
Beverly  Hills  Hotel  she  was  like  a  new 
woman.  Well,  she  was — she  was  the  brand 
new  Mrs.  Darryl  Hickman,  and  a  radiant 
bride.  She  laughed  and  chatted  with  the 
guests  and  thoroughly  enjoyed  herself. 
She  tossed  her  bouquet.  Deirdre  caught  it. 
She  handed  her  blue  garter  to  Darryl  to 
toss  to  the  ushers.  Dwayne  caught  it. 

Said  Pam's  new  sister-in-law:  "I  think 
I'll  put  that  bouquet  to  work  and  get  mar- 
ried." Said  Pam's  new  brother-in-law: 
"'So  I'm  supposed  to  be  next.  Hmm,  we'll 
see." 

Said  Pam's  new  father-  and  mother-in- 
law:  "Let's  get  over  the  excitement  of 
this  wedding  before  we  have  another  one 
in  the  family!"  end 

Gigi  Perreau  is  in  CBS-T\r's  Betty 
Hutton  Show:  Elinor  Donahue  is  in  CBS- 
TV's  Father  Knows  Best:  Dwayne  Hick- 
man and  Bob  Denver  are  in  CBS-TV's  The 
Many  Loves  of  Dobte  Gnxis. 

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Let  s  talk  frankly  about 

internal 
cleanliness 


Day  before  yesterday,  manv  women 
hesitated  to  talk  about  the  douche 
even  to  their  best  friends,  let  alone  to 
a  doctor  or  druggist. 

Today,  thank  goodness,  women  are 
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women  don't  realize  what  is  involved 
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or  kitchen-type  antiseptics  which  mav 
be  harsh  or  inflammatory. 

It's  time  to  talk  frankly  about  in- 
ternal cleanliness.  Using  anything  that 
comes  to  hand  .  .  ."working  in  the 
dark".  .  .  is  practically  a  crime  against 
yourself,  in  this  modern  dav  and  age. 

Here  are  the  facts:  tissues  in  "the 
delicate  zone"  are  very  tender.  Odors 
are  very  persistent.  Your  comfort  and 


well-being  demand  a  special  prepara- 
tion for  the  douche.  Today  there  is 
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This  preparation  is  far  more  effec- 
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Millions  of  women  already  consider 
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I  Don't  Want  to  Leave  You,  Eddie 


(Continued  from  page  26) 

airplane  one  fatal  day  without  her.  .  .  . 

"When  I  opened  at  the  Waldorf-Astoria 
Empire  Room  in  November,"  Eddie  ex- 
plained to  me  recently,  "Elizabeth  already 
had  temperature  and  a  cruel  hacking 
cough.  But  she  knew  how  important  this 
opening  was  to  my  career,  and  wouldn't 
hear  of  going  to  the  hospital. 

"Elizabeth  just  hates  hospitals,"  he 
added,  shaking  his  head  to  indicate  puzzle- 
ment, as  we  rode  up  to  Doctors  Hospital 
— where  Liz  had  finally  been  forced  to 
go  on  Thanksgiving  day. 

"Elizabeth's  been  in  so  many  hospitals, 
— about  fifteen  in  all,"  Eddie  continued, 
reeling  off  mentions  of  her  back  ailment 
that  had  kept  her  in  a  cast  .  .  .  her  throat 
operations  .  .  .  and  the  birth  of  her 
daughter  Liza  when  she  was  married  to 
Michael  Todd. 

"Elizabeth" — that's  what  Eddie  always 
calls  her — "had  that  Caesarean  against  the 
advice  of  twelve  doctors,"  he  said. 

"And  to  make  it  worse,  she  resists  anes- 
thetics— they  can't  seem  to  knock  her 
out.  She  sleeps  two  hours  and  she's 
conscious  again." 

I  asked  Eddie  how  her  attack  of  pneu- 
monia had  come  about,  and  he,  knowing 
Liz'  revulsion  to  discussing  details  of 
her  illness,  replied,  "You're  not  going  to 
get  medical,  are  you?" 

Eddie  let  himself  get  'medical'  enough 
to  say,  "Actually,  all  we  know  is  that 
for  a  long  time  she's  had  spasms  of 
coughing  that  she  can't  control — accom- 
panied by  very  painful  headaches." 

Eddie  was  especially  bothered  because 
no  one  seems  to  know  what  caused  the 
coughing.  "I'm  sure  it's  not  due  to  smok- 
ing," he  said.  "Elizabeth's  not  a  heavy 
smoker.  She  never  starts  smoking  until 
5:00  in  the  afternoon.  She  says  she  doesn't 
like  the  taste  of  cigarettes  in  the  daytime." 
Those  six-month  presents 

When  I  had  interviewed  the  Fishers  in 
their  five-bedroom  apartment  at  the  Wal- 
dorf shortly  before  Eddie's  Empire  Room 
opening,  Liz  had  been  less  concerned 
about  her  illness  than  about  keeping  her 
husband's  spirit  up — and  being  a  dutiful 
mother. 

Eddie  was  holding  hands  with  Liz,  who 
was  watching  the  two  dogs,  and  Do-do  the 
Siamese  cat  which  was  on  my  lap  biting 
my  pencil,  and  baby  Liza,  who  was  on 
my  lap  biting  Do-do. 

It  was  the  six-month  anniversary  of 
their  wedding,  and  Liz  had  brightened 
the  occasion  by  giving  him  a  gift  of 
diamond-studded  cufflinks,  the  diamonds 
in  X's,  and  engraved  with  some  very 
personal  (and  unprintable)  endearment. 
(They  wouldn't  even  let  me  peek.) 

Eddie's  reaction  was,  "Oh,  they're  beau- 
tiful .  .  .  marvelous." 

"Tell  him,"  Liz  directed  Eddie,  "what 
you  got  me!" 

"A  mink  sweater,"  Eddie  smiled  bash- 
fully. 

"Something  every  girl  needs,"  Liz  said. 

Regarding  their  future  plans,  Eddie  an- 
nounced, "We  plan  to  live  here  perma- 
nently. The  kids  are  going  to  school 
here." 

"Michael  was  sick  and  stayed  home 
the  other  day — and  actually  did  his  home- 
work in  bed,"  Liz  added.  "I  don't  see 
how  he  could  be  a  child  of  mine." 

Eddie  was  tickled  as  a  little  boy  when 
he  revealed  that  Liz  had  helped  him  get 
a  part  in  her  new  movie,  Butterfield  8. 

"I'm  gonna  play  a  piano  player  named 
Eddie.  Elizabeth  plays  a  ...  a  ...  a  lady 
56  of  the  evening.    I  never  acted  before." 


Eddie  seemed  to  say  this  emphatically. 

I  asked,  "Didn't  you  act  in  Bundle  of 
Joy?"  (which  you'll  remember  he  did 
with  Debbie  Reynolds) . 

"No!  I  looked  like  a  gook.  Now  I'm 
in  the  hands  of  a  very  good  director — 
and  directress — my  wife."  He  smiled  little- 
boyishly  at  the  pretty  Mrs.  Fisher. 

Eddie  was  also  joyous  about  his  new 
recording  arrangement — heading  his  own 
company,  with  Liz  also  heading  it — if  you 
can  straighten  that  out. 

I  couldn't  get  clear  from  them  who  is 
president  and  who  is  vice  president.  Each 
said  the  other  was  president.  Regardless, 
the  moneybags,  the  angel,  is  Canadian 
multimillionaire  Lou  Chesler,  of  General 
Development  fame. 

"Why  don't  you  do  a  TV  spec  together?" 
I  asked. 

"What  would  Elizabeth  do?"  Eddie 
asked.    "She  can't.  .  .  ." 

"Don't  knock  her,"  I  warned  him.  "I 
happen  to  like  her." 

Eddie  laughed.  "She  can't  sing.  She 
started  as  a  singer.    She's  terrible." 

"That's  right,"  Liz  nodded.  "I  can't 
even  croak." 

Eddie  was  hurt  about  a  few  stories  in 
the  papers — especially  one  that  implied 
that  his  engagement  at  the  Las  Vegas 
Desert  Inn  had  been  a  failure. 

"That's  as  true  as  we're  not  sitting  here," 
he  said.  "It  was  a  wonderful  engagement. 
In  fact,  we're  going  to  work  there  eight 
weeks  a  year." 
Liz  and  that  baby 

"By  the  way,"  I  suddenly  burst  in, 
"are  you  expecting?" 

"Expecting  what?"  Liz  shot  back,  play- 
ing it  innocently. 

"To  become  a  mother,"  I  exclaimed. 

"I  am  a  mother,"  she  reminded  me. 

Then  laughingly,  she  stood  up  and 
showed  how  lean  she  was  in  her  sky- 
blue  slacks. 

"No,  we're  not  expecting — and  if  we 
were,  we'd  be  delighted  to  tell  the  whole 
world." 

As  for  Eddie's  engagement  at  the  Wal- 
dorf, Liz  did  her  wifely  duty  doubly, 
quadruply!  Eddie's  opening  night  in 
the  Empire  Room  was  the  most  glamorous 
I've  seen  this  decade  in  New  York — I'm 
not  sure  that  even  Frank  Sinatra  attracted 
more  big  names  when  he  opened  there. 

It  was  Liz,  the  promoter,  the  public 
relations  wizard,  who  made  it  all  pos- 
sible. 

Word  spread  around  midtown  New 
York  that  Liz  was  in  the  Empire  Room 
for  both  the  dinner  and  supper  shows, 
and  the  Waldorf  lobby  soon  had  more  peo- 
ple in  it  than  when  Khrushchev  was  there. 

Aly  Khan  squeezed  through,  along  with 
Jack  Benny,  Edie  Adams,  Mrs.  Milton 
Berle,  Composer  Jule  Styne,  Ethel  Mer- 
man, Sandra  Church,  Gloria  Vanderbilt, 
Audrey  Meadows,  Phil  Silvers,  Red  But- 
tons, Ingemar  Johansson,  Arthur  Loew 
Jr.,  and  Johnny  Mathis. 

A  famous  columnist  left  muttering  that 
he'd  forgotten  to  make  a  reservation  and 
they  were  going  to  seat  him  behind  the 
orchestra.  They  dragged  him  back  and 
gave  him  a  table  right  in  front  of  the 
other  front  tables. 

The  maitre  d'hotel,  Louis,  was  retain- 
ing his  equanimity  as  well  as  he  could 
under  fire. 

And  at  the  side  of  Aly  Khan,  surveying 
it  all,  was  Liz  Taylor  wearing  quarts  and 
quarts  of  diamonds  and  a  long  chinchilla 
wrap. 

One  table  of  twelve  which  had  seen 


Eddie  at  dinner  wouldn't  go,  so  Liz  had  to 
pay  their  $450  tab  to  get  them  to  depart. 

At  first  we  of  the  press  wondered  just 
how  it  happened  that  there  was  such  a 
fabulous  outpouring  of  celebrities — and 
then  the  truth  came  out. 

Liz  had  invited  them  as  her  guests, 
meaning  that  they  had,  of  course,  paid 
no  checks.  She  had  literally  invited 
seventy  people — her  excuse  being  that  in 
addition  to  it  being  Eddie's  opening,  it 
was  their  first  anniversary — six  months 
married. 

Some  buttinsky  asked  Liz  about  her 
generosity.    She  bristled  a  little. 

"Can't  a  girl  invite  a  few  guests  in  if 
she  wants  to?"  she  demanded. 

The  Waldorf  figures  about  $20  a  throw 
for  a  party  in  the  Empire  Room,  so  Liz' 
tab  for  her  "few  guests"  came  to  around 
$1500. 

It  was  worthwhile,  however,  for  never 
has  there  been  such  a  discussed,  written- 
about  and  photographed  opening  .  .  .  and 
Eddie's   vital  engagement  was  off  to  a  i 
smashing  start. 

Eddie  sang  many  love  songs  that  seemed 
personally  aimed  at  Liz,  and  in  a  closing 
speech  said,  "This  wouldn't  have  been 
possible  without  the  greatest  little  lady 
in  the  world. 

"I'd  like  to  have  her  take  a  little  bow 
— not  too  big  a  one — she  really  is  Mrs. 
Eddie  Fisher." 
Another  party 

Afterward,  Liz  gave  Eddie  another 
party — for  all  the  same  V.I.P.'s — at  Leone's 
restaurant.  That  started  at  2:00  a.m. 

The  champagne  was  plentiful.  It  was 
still  going  strong  when  I  arrived— about 
4:00  a.m. 

"Do  you  know,"  somebody  said,  "that 
there's  probably  only  one  other  person 
in  recent  show  business  history  who 
would  have  thought  of  such  promotion 
for  an  opening?" 

"Who  is  that?"  I  asked. 

"Who  was  that?"  the  party  commented, 
correcting  me.  "Mike  Todd!" 

Maybe  Liz  had  learned  it  from  him.  .  .  . 

Liz  appeared  in  good  health  at  the 
Waldorf  opening,  but  as  Eddie  later  told 
me,  her  cough  had  been  getting  worse 
and  her  temperature  rising,  and  by  de- 
laying her  trip  to  the  hospital,  she  was 
making  herself  sicker. 

A  week  later  she  was  in  Doctors  Hos- 
pital, with  two  doctors  in  attendance  diag- 
nosing her  condition  as  double  pneu- 
monia. 

And  the  lavish  Thanksgiving  dinner 
she  had  arranged  was  left  uneaten. 

Liz'  hospitalization  was  a  trial  for  Eddie 
because  people  were  always  asking  him 
how  she  was — and  she  wasn't  good. 

"Somebody  even  stopped  me  and  said 
they'd  seen  her  on  the  street — right  while 
she  was  at  her  sickest,"  Eddie  said. 

"Who  was  it  they  saw  on  the  street 
who  looked  like  her?"    I  asked. 

"I  doubt  if  there's  anybody  who  really 
looks  like  her,"  he  said  loyally. 

Her  first  visitor  when  she  began  to 
recover  was  playwright  Tennessee  Wil- 
liams, who  wrote  Cat  on  a  Hot  Tin  Roof 
— the  movie  that  won  her  an  Academy 
Award  nomination — and  followed  it  up 
with  Suddenly,  Last  Summer. 

Her  second  visitor  was  director  Joseph 
Manckiewicz,  who  claims  she's  due  to 
win  an  Oscar,  long  delayed,  for  her  role 
in  that  new  film. 

Eddie  said,  "I  didn't  count  as  a  visitor." 

At  first  Eddie  had  a  room  at  the  hospital, 
adjoining  Liz' — "but  the  hospital  needed 
the  room,  and  I  got  dispossessed,"  he  ex- 
plained. 

He  raced  uptown  to  see  her  in  a  cab 
between  shows — toting  some  pizza. 

"Every  night,  pizza  she's  got  to  have," 
laughed   Eddie.    "We   try   different  res- 


taurants,  hunting  the  best  pizza  for  her. 
She  really  keeps  me  on  my  bicycle.  Last 
year  after  her  throat  operation — and  she 
had  a  tough  throat  operation — she  had  to 
have  chile  cor.  carne.  Real  hot  chile  con 
came!"  Eddie  held  his  throat  thinking 
about  it. 

Eddie  considered  her  rapid  recovery 
quite  remarkable. 

"She  was  hardly  coughing  at  all,  and 
was  talking  about  going  out  to  the  desert 
to  get  some  rest,  and  some  sun,"  he  said. 

Eddie  managed  to  obtain  delivery  of  the 
mink  sweater  while  Liz  was  hospitalized. 

"Did  it  measure  up  to  expectations?"  I 
asked  Eddie. 

"Yes — and  it's  pretty  hard  for  anything 
to  measure  up  to  Elizabeth,"  Eddie  an- 
swered. .  .  . 

What  Liz  has  done  for  Eddie 

The  mutual  adoration  of  Eddie  and  the 
girl  sometimes  called  the  most  beautiful 
one  of  the  world  seems  to  have  given  Eddie 
some  confidence. 

For  instance,  one  night  he  appeared  at  a 
Waldorf  benefit  for  Mayor  Robert  Wagner 
and  Mrs.  Wagner.  Former  President  Harry 
S.  Truman  made  a  surprise  appearance 
there  and  played  the  piano. 

Eddie  came  on  the  dais  just  as  Truman 
left,  with  his  accompanist,  Eddie  Samuels, 
coming  along  with  him. 

The  toastmaster,  Harry  Hershfield,  after 


introducing  Eddie,  said,  "What's  the  name 
of  your  accompanist?" 

"Harry  Truman,"  joked  Eddie.  After  the 
first  song,  Eddie  told  Eddie  Samuels,  "Harry 
would  have  played  it  in  a  better  key  than 
that." 

The  audience  gave  him  a  tremendous 
ovation  when  he  sang,  You  Gotta  Have 
Heart.  Eddie  told  the  crowd  that  he  was 
always  easy  to  get  out  for  such  events. 

"All  they  had  to  do  was  ask  me,"  he  said. 
"I'm  available.  I  have  a  tuxedo — and  I 
have  another  tuxedo.  .  .  ." 

To  close  observers,  it  seemed  that  Eddie 
was  unmindful  of  some  lingering  criticism 
of  his  romance  with  Liz.  Columnists  and 
other  feelers-of-the-public-pulse  are  aware 
that  some  of  this  feeling  still  exists. 

Any  mention  of  either  of  them  by  a 
columnist  is  sure  to  bring  a  trickle  of 
protest  mail — some  of  it  bitter — often 
anonymous.  But  those  who  protest  don't 
have  much  to  say  except  that  they  think 
Debbie  Reynolds  was  made  unhappy.  To 
those  who  have  watched  Debbie  lately,  she 
seems  very,  very  much  the  opposite. 

Eddie  and  Liz  seem  to  have  licked  most 
of  the  complaints,  but  as  Eddie  says  in  the 
song,  You  Gotta  Have  Heart.  END 

See  Liz  now  in  Suddenly  Last  Summer, 
for  Columbia,  and  soon  in  Cleopatra,  for 
20th-Fox,  Liz  and  Eddie  later  in  Butter- 
field  8,  for  MGM. 


Special  Report  From  Liz'  White  Prison 


At  Harkness  Pavilion,  Elizabeth  Taylor 
was  only  a  fair  patient.  For  years  Liz  had 
been  in  and  out  of  hospitals  and  had  built 
up  a  resentment  against  them.  She  thinks 
of  hospitals  as  "white  prisons." 

She  instructed  nurses  and  doctors  on 
where  to  place  strategic  needles  and  de- 
manded to  know  every  other  half-hour 
when  she  would  be  able  to  leave,  leave, 
leave. 

Eddie  took  an  adjoining  suite.  He 
showed  the  harrowing  effects  of  worry  and 
sleepless  nights.  His  eyes  had  dark  circles. 
He  was  losing  weight.  He  read  to  her. 
watched  television  with  her  between  his 
own  shows  and  after  midnight.  He  tried  to 
keep  her  spirit  up  by  talking  about  what 
they  would  do  on  her  release. 

On  the  third  day  of  Liz'  hospitalization, 
the  doctors  called  him  up  and  said:  "Ed- 
die, your  wife  has  the  worst  case  of  double 
pneumonia  we've  seen  in  the  past  ten  years. 
Both  of  her  lungs  are  virtually  filled,  her 
general  condition  is  not  strong  and  the 
fever  and  cough  have  taken  their  toll  of 
whatever  reserve  she  may  have  had  to  bat- 
tle this.  She  is  a  stoic  and  seems  unper- 
turbed over  the  seriousness  of  her  condi- 
tion, but  she  will  need  constant  care  and  a 
minimum  of  four  weeks  here." 

To  break  the  bad  news  gently,  Eddie 
ordered  some  of  Liz'  favorite  foods  from 
Lindy's.  He  called  her  on  the  phone  from 
the  Waldorf  and  asked  her  for  a  date.  She 
played  along  and  said.  "Wonderful,  darling. 
Why  don't  we  just  stay  here  at  my  place 
and  we'll  have  a  cozy  dinner  for  two?" 


Eddie  arrived,  stopped  in  the  hospital 
florist  shop  for  a  moment,  then  went  right 
up  to  the  fifth  floor.  He  helped  the  nurse 
prepare  the  tray  of  Lindy's  goodies,  stuck 
a  velvety  red  rose  in  a  paper  cup  and 
wrote  a  little  note  on  the  paper  place  mat. 
On  the  edge  of  the  tray  he  propped  a 
little  doll,  a  gift  from  Liza. 

Liz,  propped  up  on  pillows,  in  a  white 
hospital  gown,  broke  into  a  wide  smile 
and  sniffed  hungrily.  She  did  her  best  to 
eat  but  barely  managed  to  nibble  as  Ed- 
die passed  each  plate  to  her.  She  made  an 
effort  to  chat  between  coughs.  Eddie 
hushed  her  by  touching  a  kiss  from  his 
lips  to  hers. 

At  2:00  a.m.  he  was  back.  Liz'  nurse  said 
the  doctor  had  just  been  there  and  her 
fever  had  gone  down  one  degree.  She  had 
also  slept  in  snatches  without  the  racking 
cough.  The  nurse  said  that  there  was  a 
definite  improvement  in  her  attitude. 

Eddie  sat  in  the  chair  till  she  awakened 
and  greeted  her:  "I  came  to  give  you  a 
good-night  kiss;  now  it's  good  morning.'* 

She  asked  about  the  children,  recalled 
their  sad  voices  on  the  phone.  ("Mommy, 
we  miss  you."  "When  are  you  coming  home. 
Mommy?"  "Mommy.  I'm  making  a  get-well 
present  for  you  in  school.  All  the  children 
are  helping  me.") 

"Tell  them,"  she  whispered  to  Eddie, 
"that  I'm  ' coming  home  sooner  than  any- 
body thinks."  On  December  13th,  Eliza- 
beth Taylor,  smiling,  leaning  gently  on  the 
arm  of  her  husband,  walked  out  of  her 
"white  prison,"  a  free  woman  again.  END 


DIANNE  McCORD,  Senior,  David 
Lipscomb  H .  S.,Naslnille,Tenn.says: 
''My  skin  blemishes  seemed  to  get 
worse  whenever  I  had  something 
important  to  do,  even  though  I 
used  special  skin  creams.  I  wish  I 
had  tried  Clearasil  sooner.  I'll 
always  remember  the  way  Clearasil 
cleared  my  complexion,  am 
quicklv,  too!"  


SCIENTIFIC 


>IL  MEDICATION 


STARVES 
PIMPLES 

SKIN-COLORED,  Hides  pimples  while  it  works 

clearasil  is  the  new-type  scientific  medication 
especially  for  pimples.  In  tubes  or  new  squeeze- 
bottle  lotion,  clearasil  gives  you  the  effective 
medications  prescribed  by  leading  Skin  Special- 
ists, and  clinical  tests  prove  it  really  works. 
HOW  CLEARASIL  WORKS  FAST 


1.  Penetrates  pimples.  'Keratolvtic'  action 
softens,  dissolves  affected  skin  tissue  so 
medications  can  penetrate.  Encourages 
quick  growth  of  healthy,  smooth  skin! 

2.  Stops  bacteria.  Antiseptic  action  stops 
growth  of  the  bacteria  that  can  cause 
and  spread  pimples  .  .  .  helps  prevent 
further  pimple  outbreaks! 

3.  'Starves'  pimples.   O  i  1  -  a  b  s  o  r  b  i  n  g 

helps  remove  excess  oils  that  'feed* 
pimples  .  .  .  works  fast  to  clear  pimples ! 


'Floats'  Out  Blackheads,  clearasil  softens 
and  loosens  blackheads  so  they  float  out  with 
normal  washing.  And,  clearasil  is  greaseless, 
stainless,  pleasant  to  use  day  and  night  for 
uninterrupted  medication. 
Proved  by  Skin  Specialists!  In  tests  on  over 
300  patients,  9  out  of  every  10  cases  were 
cleared  up  or  definitely  improved 
while  using  clearasil  (either  lo- 
tion or  tube).  In  Tube,  69 £  and 
98£.  Long-lasting  Lotion  squeeze- 
bottle,  only  S1.25  (no  fed.  tax). 
Money-back  guarantee.  ^^^f 

Guoionleed 


LARGEST-SELLING  PIMPLE  MEDICATION 
BECAUSE  IT  REALLY  WORKS 


Clearasil 


The  Truth  About  Brigitte  Bardot's  Marriage 


(Continued  from  ■page  46) 

many  clothes  on,  and  they  told  reporters 
they  were  married  when  they  weren't  mar- 
ried, and  then  they  looked  at  each  other, 
suddenly  charmed  by  the  whole  idea.  Why 
not  get  married? 

The  wedding  was  part  of  the  game,  too, 
no  rules,  no  penalties,  just  two  golden 
movie  stars  imitating  life.  Brigitte  giggled 
in  Jacques'  arms,  and  Brigitte's  father 
fought  with  a  photographer,  and  it  was 
more  a  comic  opera  than  a  sacred  cere- 
mony. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  bash  your  face  in?" 
Brigitte's  father  asked  a  cameraman,  bit- 
ing the  fellow's  hand  to  prove  he  wasn't 
just  empty  threats,  and  the  Mayor,  at- 
tacked by  Monsieur  Bardot  for  not  having 
provided  more  police,  nearly  walked  off 
in  a  huff.  "I'm  not  going  to  act  like  a 
prizefighter,"  bellowed  Mayor  Guillaume, 
nervously  stroking  his  tri-colored  sash. 

"Let's  do  it  quickly,"  said  Brigitte,  and 
there  in  the  Mayor's  private  office,  under  a 
dangling  electric  bulb,  Brigitte  Bardot 
Vadim  became  Mme.  Jacques  Charrier. 

The  reception  was  private,  with  the 
guests  drinking  champagne,  while  Jacques 
nibbled  on  Brigitte's  bare  toes. 

And  so  the  languorous  summer  months 
drifted  by,  with  love,  oh,  love,  oh,  careless 
love,  and  no  end  to  the  wine  and  the 
kisses,  and  music  and  dancing  and  shop- 
ping sprees,  and  buying  twenty-five  cash- 
mere sweaters  at  a  clip —  "You  like  them 
all?  Let's  take  them  all" — and  crazy  nights 
at  the  beach  with  Jacques  trying  to  abash 
nosy  neighbors  by  brandishing  a  toy  pistol. 

Minor  annoyances  marred  the  idyll, 
from  time  to  time.  Pregnancy  rumors 
started  a  week  after  the  wedding,  and 
separation  rumors  started  almost  as  soon, 
and  Jacques  had  appendicitis  and  lost 
twelve  pounds,  and  then  it  was  Fall. 

The  game  was  ending 

Cold  weather  and  cold  facts  descended 
on  the  Charriers.  Brigitte  was  dunned  for 
back  taxes  by  her  government — one  of 
France's  biggest  assets  was  now  being 
treated  like  a  step-child.  She  developed 
skin  trouble,  and  hid  in  the  house,  un- 
willing to  show  her  blemished  face  to  the 
public.  Then  it  turned  out,  she  was  preg- 
nant, and  she  was  afraid  to  have  a  baby — 
can  a  baby  have  a  baby? — and  to  top  it 
off,  Jacques  was  drafted. 

All  at  once,  the  game  wasn't  fun  any 
more.  The  Charriers  regarded  each  other 
anxiously.  Only  a  little  time  ago,  they'd 
frolicked  in  the  sun,  the  world's  most 
beautiful  irresponsibles,  and  now  suddenly 
the  sun  had  gone  in,  and  they  were  here 
in  this  grey  place  wondering  how  to  cope. 

What  would  she  do  without  him?  Jacques 
Charrier  must  have  asked  himself,  glanc- 
ing from  the  army  orders  to  his  frightened 
wife.  She,  who'd  never  been  able  to  stay 
alone,  who  used  screaming  rock  'n'  roll 
records  to  fill  the  void  of  silence,  who 
fondled  stuffed  teddy  bears  when  no  hu- 
man being  was  near. 

Even  her  career  was  cut  off  now,  until 
the  baby  should  arrive.  Jacques  Charrier 
shook  his  head,  a  boy  who  needed  to  be- 
come, overnight,  a  mature  man.  He  took 
his  bride  on  his  lap,  and  smoother!  the 
wild  hair,  the  frowning  forehead.  "I'll  be 
very  good,"  she  said  seriously,  like  a  five- 
year-old  promising  to  remember  to  use 
his  handkerchief.  "I'll  stay  home  and  be 
quiet  and  think  of  names  for  the  baby." 

And  then  she  kissed  him,  trembling. 
"Will  you  phone?  Will  you  phone?" 

On  November  6th,  not  five  months  after 
their  marriage,  Brigitte  saw  Jacques  off  on 
58  the  train  to  the  induction  center.  At  the 


station  she  cried,  and  he  turned  away  so 
he  wouldn't  see  his  pregnant  little  girl- 
wife  who  couldn't  understand  where  all 
her  good  times  had  gone. 

You  wonder  what  Jacques  Charrier 
thought  when  he  learned  that  Brigitte  had 
gone  to  the  theater  the  evening  of  that 
very  first  day  he'd  left.  Their  Paris  apart- 
ment had  seemed  so  bare,  so  full  of  shad- 
ows and  echoes,  and  her  father  had  called, 
and  she'd  grasped  at  his  invitation. 

A  man  could  be  only  grateful  to  his 
father-in-law  for  looking  after  his  lonely 
wife.  But  what  about  the  next  night?  And 
the  next?  Who  would  companion  Brigitte 
through  all  the  nights  of  the  twenty-seven 
and  a  half  months  Jacques  would  be  gone? 

A  man  beside  her 

You  remember — and  surely  Jacques  re- 
members— when  Brigitte  was  in  love  with 
actor  Jean-Louis  Trintignant.  She'd  left 
her  first  husband,  Roger  Vadim,  for  Jean- 
Louis,  and  she'd  even  turned  domestic 
for  him — decorating,  cooking — but  when 
he'd  been  called  up  for  military  service, 
the  romance  had  not  survived. 

She'd  told  the  press  about  it  later,  in  a 
sad  little  voice.  "I  don't  hold  anything 
against  Jean-Louis,"  she'd  said.  "He  was 
no  longer  beside  me,  that's  all.  And  I  need 
a  man  beside  me  all  the  time  ...  to  con- 
sole me." 

Were  these  words  ringing  in  Jacques 
Charrier's  ears  as  he  approached  the  army 
post  at  Orange?  It's  hard  to  know. 

With  his  commanding  officer,  Jacques 
behaved  very  well.  "I  expect  to  be  treated 
just  like  everyone  else,"  he  said,  but  that 
was  before  he  walked  into  the  barracks 
and  saw  a  pinup  of  his  wife  over  almost 
every  bunk.  Jacques  had  been  willing  to 
share  the  other  soldiers'  work,  but  he 
hadn't  figured  on  the  other  soldiers  shar- 
ing Brigitte.  "It's  bad  enough  to  leave  her 
to  join  the  army,"  he's  reported  to  have 
moaned,  "but  to  see  her  like  that  above 
every  bed — it's  just  a  nightmare!" 

Less  than  a  week  after  induction,  Jac- 
ques was  hospitalized  with  "a  bad  case  of 
nerves,"  though  army  doctors  said  Char- 
rier was  having  his  "eyes  checked." 

Three  days  later  he  was  back  in  Paris 
with  Brigitte  (he'd  been  given  an  emer- 
gency leave)  and,  when  it  was  printed 
that  he'd  spent  some  of  this  leave  shoot- 
ing his  latest  movie,  all  hell  broke  loose. 

Jacques  returned,  not  to  his  barracks, 
but  to  the  military  hospital  of  Val  de  Grace 
for  psychiatric  treatment  of  his  "nervous 
depression,"  and  a  member  of  Parliament 
took  exception  to  what  he  felt  were  the 
unusual  goings-on. 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  cried  Deputy 
Roland  Boudet,  "is  whether  all  recruits 
are  submitted  to  the  same  obligations 
when  they  enter  their  regiments,  even  if 
they  come  from  the  arms  of  a  movie  star!" 

Other  deputies  chimed  in,  yelling  "Very 
good!"  and  "Bravo!"  and  the  army  minister 
looked  pained,  and  within  a  matter  of 
hours,  the  Bardot-Charrier  family  doctor 
had  got  into  the  act. 

He — one  Dr.  Duprouy — wrote  to  the 
newspaper  Paris  Jour,  condemning  stories 
about  the  couple.  He  said  Brigitte  and 
Jacques  were  both  ill,  and  that  "putting 
forward  doubts  on  the  importance  and 
gravity  of  Charrier's  health  had  become 
so  excessive  that  it  is  grotesque. 

Because  this  is  also  doubting  the  honesty 
of  the  doctor  who  is  taking  care  of  him, 
Duprouy  went  on,  and  whose  name  you 
put  in  your  articles.  I  sent  a  telegram  to 
Jacques  Charrier's  colonel.  It  was  because 
his  wife  was  in  bad  shape.  If  I  have  sent 


Jacques  Charrier  to  the  hospital,  it  was 
because  his  health  was  also  alarming  ...  I 
am  disgusted  that  someone,  anyone,  can  be 
that  partial,  that  unjust  and  that  hateful, 
and  do  so  much  harm  to  those  who  have 
only  one  thing  against  them,  that  they 
have  succeeded  too  well. 

Brigitte  followed  the  doctor's  letter  with 
a  message  of  her  own  to  the  same  Paris 
Jour:  My  husband  is  really  sick  and  is 
now  under  treatment  at  Val  de  Grace,  she 
wrote.  He  has  only  one  desire,  which  I 
share  with  him:  that  is,  that  as  soon  as  he 
gets  well,  he  will  go  back  to  do  his  military 
service  as  anyone  else.  Never  would  he 
accept  special  treatment,  nor  would  his 
family.  (Jacques  has  a  father  and  two 
brothers  in  the  French  army.)  If  I  can 
formulate  one  wish,  Brigitte  wound  up, 
it  is  that  the  public  consider  him  as  a 
soldier  among  the  others  and  stop  being 
ironic  toward  him  when  misfortune  causes 
him  to  fall  sick.  .  .  . 

Behind  barred  doors  set  in  the  great, 
keyhole  shaped  stone  wall  of  Val  de  Grace 
Hospital,  Private  Jacques  Charrier  paced 
like  an  animal,  head  down,  shoulders 
hunched,  thoughts  pulling  back,  back, 
back  .  .  . 

What  did  he  know,  after  all,  about  the 
woman  he  had  married?  Try  to  sort  the 
truth  from  the  fiction,  try  to  understand 
the  future  by  examining  the  past  .  .  . 

"Bribri,"  that  was  what  her  sister 
Mijanou  had  called  Brigitte.  "We  were 
both  very  romantic  as  children,"  Mijanou 
had  said.  "And  the  stories  Brigitte  would 
write  always  had  a  Prince  Charming  who 
never  failed  to  love  and  marry  the  heroine." 

During  the  war,  it  was  Brigitte  who 
clung  to  her  fuzzy  bears,  her  dolls  when 
the  air  raid  sirens  sounded,  because  the 
real  world  was  too  scary,  but  in  an  imag- 
inary world,  peopled  with  soft  velvet  ani- 
mals, a  little  girl  didn't  have  to  be  afraid. 

At  twenty-three,  Brigitte  still  sucked  her 
thumb,  and  ate  too  much  chocolate,  and 
was  terrified  of  airplanes,  and  hated  the 
cold,  and  admitted  she  owed  everything  she 
was  to  Roger  Vadim. 

She'd  met  him  when  she  was  sixteen,  and 
he  was  an  ambitious  assistant  director  in 
French  movies,  and  he  invented  her,  the 
professional  her.  The  tousled  hair,  the 
nakedness,  the  sex-kitten  label,  all  were 
Vadim's  ideas. 

He  even  made  publicity  out  of  their  mar- 
riage, but  his  hard  work  boomeranged 
when  Brigitte,  herself  beginning  to  believe 
the  stories  about  how  she  was  just  a  child 
of  nature,  proceeded  to  fall  in  love  with 
her  leading  man. 

Instructions  from  a  husband 

There  are  film  technicians  who  remem- 
ber the  day  it  hanpened,  on  the  set  of  And 
God  Created  Woman.  It  was  hot,  and 
Jean-Louis  Trintignant  hovered  over  a 
bedded  Bardot,  covered  only  by  a  thin 
sheet. 

"Caress  her  hair,"  called  Brigitte's  hus- 
band, Vadim.  "Softly.  That's  it,  very  softly. 
Closei\  Jean-Louis.  Get  closer.  And  now 
you  can't  stand  it  any  more.  You  grab  her, 
you  squeeze  her,  you  kiss  her.  Stronger, 
more  violently!" 

Jean-Louis  kissed  Brigitte.  The  long, 
passionate  embrace  went  on  in  the  quiet 
until  finally  Vadim  stirred  in  his  canvas 
chair,  raising  his  hand.  "Cut!"  he  called. 

The  cameras  stopped,  but,  on  the  bed, 
the  kiss  continued. 

It  was  the  end  of  a  marriage  which  had 
lasted  four  years.  Vadim  had  succeeded  in 
fulfilling  his  ambitions  for  himself  and 
Brigitte,  but  he  had  also  succeeded  in  de- 
stroying their  life  together. 

"Why  don't  you  at  least  wait  until  we 
finish  the  picture?"  he  asked  Brigitte  that 
night.  "Afterward,  you  can  do  what  you 
like—" 

"Thanks  for  your  permission  "  Brigitte 


said  sharply.  "I'll  use  it." 

"Jean-Louis  is  a  nice  guy,"  Vadim  said. 

"That's  right,  said  Brigitte.  "So  long." 

There's  been  plenty  of  criticism  leveled 
at  Brigitte  for  her  airy  disregard  of  her 
marriage  vows;  there's  been  plenty  of  sym- 
pathy for  Vadim,  who's  always  been  a  glib 
talker.  "I  suppose  I  should  have  slapped 
her  when  she  looked  at  another  fellow," 
he's  said  breezily,  "but  how  could  I?  She 
has  always  had  such  an  innocent  look." 

Still,  perhaps  Brigitte  was  more  to  be 
pitied  than  scorned.  Picture  a  gawky  ado- 
lescent in  a  pleated  skirt,  a  heavy  sweater, 
soft  brown  hair,  being  transformed  by  a 
brilliant  promotor  into  a  sex  symbol — "the 
unattainable  dream  of  every  married  man." 

And  she  loved  the  promoter.  "I  used  to 
wake  up  at  night  just  so  I  could  look  at 
him."  But  Vadim  was  a  sophisticate  who 
cared  more  about  her  as  a  property  than 
a  wife.  "He  wasn't  even  jealous,"  Brigitte 
said  wistfully.  "How  could  he  have  loved 
me  if  he  wasn't  even  jealous?" 

With  Jean-Louis  (though  he  was  already 
married),  Brigitte  moved  into  a  duplex, 
furnished  it  with  Empire-style  couches,  and 
hi-fi  sets  and  animal-skin  rugs.  She  gave 
Jean-Louis  an  allowance,  and  he  gave  her 
a  few  insights  into  herself. 

"The  first  scene  we  shot  together,"  he 
said,  "I  thought  to  myself,  What's  the  mat- 
ter with  that  little  mouse  there?  At  fust. 
I  felt  pity  for  you.  You  must  forgive  me, 
but  I  said  to  myself,  This  girl  is  lost.  They 
have  put  a  mask  on  her  face  and  told  her 
it  is  her  face,  and  now,  without  realizing 
it,  she  is  trying  to  live  up  to  the  mask." 

"Say  you  love  me,"  said  Brigitte. 

"I  love  you,"  said  Jean-Louis.  "And  your 
caprices,  your  bad  side,  all  that  is  not 
really  you.  At  heart,  you  are  afraid  of 
being  judged  as  you  are.  You  are  afraid 
someone  will  find  beneath  that  vamp  ex- 
terior a  silly  little  girl  who  is  ashamed  at 
being  a  silly  little  girl." 

For  a  while,  Brigitte  and  Jean-Louis 
were  happy.  Vadim  had  been  aloof,  Jean- 
Louis  was  warm,  and  Brigitte  felt  safe. 

As  though  a  desperate  old  woman  .  .  . 

But  Jean-Louis  was  called  into  military 
service,  and  Brigitte,  ever-needing,  unable 
to  be  satisfied  by  long-distance  phone  calls, 
took  up  with  a  Spaniard  called  Gustavo 
Rojo  who  had  movie  ambitions  and  saw 
Brigitte  as  a  logical  means  to  his  end. 

Rojo  announced  they'd  marry,  and  Bri- 
gitte, outraged,  promptly  announced  she 
was  going  to  marry  Jean-Louis,  which  sur- 
prised Jean-Louis'  wife,  who  had  refused 
him  a  divorce. 

In  the  end,  it  didn't  matter.  Jean-Louis, 
home  on  leave,  found  Brigitte  in  the  arms 
of  a  singer  named  Gilbert  Becaud,  and 
made  his  final  exit,  after  throwing  a  salad 
bowl  at  his  love  and  her  new  friend. 

Becaud  also  had  a  wife,  and  gave  Brigitte 
up  when  the  going  got  public.  Brigitte  took 
sleeping  pills,  collapsed  briefly,  but  recov- 
ered as  soon  as  she  met  Italian  actor  Raf 
Valone.  Raf  liked  her  fine.  The  only 
trouble  was  he  liked  his  wife  and  children 
even  better,  and  soon  that  amour  was  fini. 

She  seemed  defeated.  The  most  desirable 
girl  in  the  world,  reduced  to  picking  up 
pretty  boys  as  though  she'd  been  a  des- 
perate old  woman. 

In  1958,  she  had  a  mild  fancy  for  a  youth 
named  Lhote,  and  she  got  him  an  extra's 
job  in  her  picture,  The  Woman  and  the 
Puppet,  and  after  the  movie  was  finished, 
she  moved  him  into  the  villa  at  St.  Tropez. 
Dressed  in  a  bikini,  seated  in  Lhote's  lap, 
occasionally  kissing  him,  she  received  vis- 
itors. Asked  about  her  new  love,  she  re- 
acted with  a  male  kind  of  frankness.  "He's 
not  my  love,"  she  said.  "He's  my  flirt." 
Cruelly,  she  gestured  toward  him.  "He's 
cute,  no?  But  oh,  how  stupid.  .  .  ." 

One  writer,  calling  her  a  bad  little  bad 
girl,   saw   Brigitte   destined    to  continue 


down  the  long  road  Vadim  set  her  on, 
without  guidance,  without  loyalty,  without 
love. 

Brigitte  might  have  been  the  first  to 
agree  with  that  writer.  Shifting  between 
fits  of  elation  and  dejection,  sometimes 
kind,  sometimes  mean,  she  cared  more  for 
her  dog  Froufrou  than  for  anyone  in  the 
world  until,  late  in  1958,  she  met  Sacha 
Distel  in  St.  Tropez. 

"I  had  known  him  slightly  before  that," 
she  said,  "and  hadn't  found  him  particu- 
larly interesting.  He  felt  the  same  way 
about  me.  We  were  on  vacation,  and  I  was 
tired,  depressed  and  a  little  sad." 

Brigitte  hired  Sacha  to  teach  her  the 
guitar,  and  the  first  afternoon  he  came 
over,  she  asked  him  to  stay  for  dinner.  He 
said  no,  she  said  yes.  And  he  was  undone 
by  the  anxiety  in  her  voice.  "I  want  to  eat 
dinner  with  someone,  I'm  so  alone  here — " 

He  stayed,  and  he  believed  her  when  she 
said  the  thing  she  most  wanted  was  to  be 
a  wife  "To  bear  children,  to  raise  a  loving 
family  in  the  eyes  of  God — " 

With  newspaper  columnists,  however, 
Brigitte  waxed  nowhere  near  so  maternal. 
"I'm  in  love  with  Sacha,"  she  said,  "but  I 
live  from  day  to  day.  Maybe  one  day  I  will 
just  decide  to  get  married.  Not  now." 

Sacha  and  Brigitte  got  along  famously, 
though  they  didn't  agree  on  everything. 
"He  can  spend  a  whole  day  listening  to 
Frank  Sinatra,"  Brigitte  once  complained. 
"I  like  Sinatra  too,  but  there's  no  need  to 
exaggerate  it — " 

Sacha  enjoyed  saying  he'd  fallen  in  love 
with  Brigitte's  piano  before  he'd  fallen  in 
love  with  Brigitte—  "It's  the  best  piano  in 
Saint  Tropez" — and  on  September  8th,  Bri- 
gitte announced  their  engagement,  and  said 
they'd  be  married  next  spring.  "Marriage," 
she  commented,  "is  decidedly  beautiful." 

What  did  Sacha  most  admire  in  his 
fiancee?  Her  youth,  he  said.  And  her  frank- 
ness. "When  she  thinks  something,  she  says 
it.  When  she  wants  something,  she  gets  it." 

Even  when  that  something  was  Jacques 
Charrier,  as  it  turned  out.  Jacques  ap- 
peared to  co-star  in  Brigitte's  picture,  and 
stayed  on  to  co-star  in  her  life,  but  the 
very  knowledge  that  he  pushed  Sacha 
aside  must  make  Jacques  nervous. 

After  all,  can't  he  be  pushed  aside  too? 

And  now  Brigitte's  gone  on  record  as 
saying  her  first  child  will  be  her  last.  She 
doesn't  want  any  more,  she  doesn't  find 
pregnancy  "much  of  a  joke,"  she's  alarmed 
by  the  coming  birth,  "but  I'm  afraid  I  can- 
not find  any  way  of  avoiding  it." 

Restless,  cooped  up  awaiting  her  con- 
finement in  February,  Brigitte  complains 
that  she  misses  doing  "hundred  of  things," 
but  "I'll  make  up  for  it  afterwards." 

There  must  be  a  threat  in  her  words  for 
Jacques,  who  can't  kid  himself  into  cher- 
ishing the  picture  of  a  contented  little 
woman  playing  with  a  rosy  baby  while 
waiting  for  her  husband's  discharge. 

And  it  isn't  just  Brigitte's  new  words 
that  threaten.  So  many  of  her  old  words 
could  come  back  to  haunt  the  troubled 
man. 

"When  Jean-Louis  was  doing  his  mili- 
tary service,  how  I  wanted  him  near  me!" 
she  said  once.  "I  always  need  someone  near 
me  ...  I  need  real  affection.  I  need  to 
feel  it  and  to  give  it.  The  other  day  a 
contractor  who  was  working  on  my  house 
said  to  me:  You  know,  you're  really  very 
nice.'  That  made  me  melt.  I  could  have 
thrown  my  arms  around  him — " 

A  wife  who  hates  being  pregnant,  who 
falls  in  love  too  easily,  who  can't  bear 
solitude,  who's  vulnerable  to  the  kindness 
of  any  stranger  .  .  . 

Behind  barred  doors  set  in  the  great, 
keyhole  shaped  stone  wall  of  Val  de  Grace 
Hospital,  Private  Jacques  Charrier  paced 
like  an  animal,  head  down,  shoulders 
hunched,  thoughts  pulling  back,  back, 
back  ...  END 


PERIODIC  PAIN 

Midol  acts  three  ways  to  bring 
relief  from  menstrual  suffering. 
It  relieves  cramps,  eases  head- 
ache and  it  chases  the  "blues". 
Sally  now  takes  Midol  at  the 
V»  first  sign  of  menstrual  distress.^ 


WHAT  WOMEN  WANT  TO  KNOW 

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Lana  in  Love! 


(Continued  from  page  35) 

brilliant,  sensitive,  intelligent  and  with  a 
real  sense  of  humor.  Moreover,  he  is  hon- 
orable and  good.  And  so  handsome!"  she 
enthused.  "Six  feet  tall,  dark  hair — and 
the  most  amazing  hazel  eyes  I  have  ever 
seen. 

"But  to  answer  your  question — Fred  isn't 
free  until  February — and  this  time,  with 
me,  it  has  to  be  right.  Oh,  how  right  it 
has  to  be  this  time.  We  are  not  discussing 
marriage  until  the  day  we  have  the  right 
to  discuss  it.  He  has  not  asked  me  to 
marry  him." 

I  persisted,  "And  when  he  does?" 

She  made  an  almost  imperceptible  ges- 
ture of  the  shoulders  as  though  she  had 
already  given  that  answer  when  she  said, 
"Who  can  plan  for  tomorrow?  Life  is  so 
uncertain." 

"And  how  does  Cheryl  feel  about  Fred?" 
I  went  on. 

"She  likes  him  and  respects  him  as  I  do. 
I  know  now,"  Lana  said,  "that  love,  the 
real  thing,  isn't  a  wild  passion.  It's  based 
on  companionship  and  respect  and  mutual 
interests  and  an  admiration  for  the  man 
in  your  life. 

"Fred  talks  to  me  and  advises  me  and 
what  he  says  is  always  so  sane.  He  always 
wants  me  to  do  what  is  expected  of  me — 
even  to  small  things  like  being  on  time 
and  keeping  appointments.  If  I  make  a 
promise  he  insists  that  I  keep  it. 

"He  has  three  children,  two  girls,  one 
twelve — one,  eight,  and  a  boy  of  five.  Fred 
is  devoted  to  them  and  naturally  feels  a 
deep  sense  of  responsibility — just  as  I  feel 
for  Cheryl.  I  couldn't  feel  as  I  do  about 
him  if  he  felt  less  deeply  about  his  chil- 
dren." 

I  thought,  Lana,  my  jriend,  these  are  the 
words  of  a  woman  in  love  and  I  mean  a 
woman,  not  the  girl  I  have  talked  with  so 
many  times  over  the  long  years  I  have 
known  you,  a  girl  who  was  in  love  with 
love. 

The  difference 

At  thirty-eight,  Lana  is  as  beautiful  and 
as  much  the  glamorous  movie  star  as  she 
was  at  sixteen.  But  with — oh— what  a  dif- 
ference! Maturity,  and  a  new  serenity  set 
on  her  shoulders  as  tangibly  as  the  decora- 
tions on  a  soldier  who  has  been  brave  in 
a  dangerous  battle. 

I,  who  have  known  her  so  long,  realized 
that  this  Lana,  who  has  suffered  and 
known  the  bitterness  of  tragedy  and  al- 
most unbearable  heartaches  and  heart- 
breaks through  sorrows  that  would  have 
broken  a  less  strong  woman,  is  a  much 
finer  person  at  this  point  in  her  life  than 
she  has  ever  been. 

I  couldn't  take  my  eyes  off  her  when 
she  entered  the  room  overlooking  my  gar- 
den where  I  have  interviewed  her  so  many 
times  in  the  past.  I  couldn't  believe  she 
was  the  same  woman  who  was  so  crushed 
at  the  time  her  daughter  Cheryl  had  ended 
the  life  of  the  late,  unlamented  Johnny 
Stompanato  in  an  effort  to  save  her  adored 
mother.  Then,  Lana  had  looked  her  age, 
with  sadness  etched  deep  into  her  face. 

But  this  day  she  looked  so  glamorous, 
so  poised,  so  chic,  so  in  possession  of  her- 
self. Lana  was  wearing  a  Jean  Louis  dress 
and  short  coat  of .  beige  with  a  matching 
mink  collar,  the  whole  ensemble  melting 
into  the  shades  of  her  hair. 

After  we  had  greeted  each  other,  both  of 
us  interrupting,  trying  to  cover  all  the 
ground  since  we  had  last  met  and  talking, 
talking,  talking  as  women  do  who  haven't 
recently  seen  each  other,  I  said,  "Oh,  how 
different  you  look,  Lana." 


"Maybe  it's  my  hair,"  she  laughed.  "It's 
called  the  'frosted'  look.  It's  several  shades 
darker  than  my  natural  color  and  is  just 
streaked  with  blonde."  She  wears  it  in  a 
bouffant  style  that  frames  her  face  in  a 
soft  and  becoming  effect. 

"Could  be  part  of  it,"  I  agreed,  "but 
there  is  something  more  than  a  mere  ex- 
ternal change.  You  have  an  inner  glow." 

She  was  quiet  a  moment,  looking  out 
over  the  garden  at  the  lovely  roses  still 
in  bloom,  and  the  greens  so  verdant  after 
our  long  Indian  summer,  even  though  this 
was  the  first  afternoon  with  winter  nip  in 
the  air. 

Lana  seemed  to  be  measuring  her  words 
before  she  spoke.  "Perhaps  that's  because 
I  have  found  faith,  a  faith  I  never  knew 
before."  Her  voice  was  low  and  soft  as 
she  went  on,  "I  have  found  God  and  I 
have  placed  myself  in  his  hands.  I  no 
longer  worry  about  tomorrow.  I  meet  my 
problems  as  they  come  up  day  by  day — 
knowing  that  He  will  take  care  of  me." 

She  was  silent  a  minute  but  I  didn't 
interrupt.  She  said,  "You  know  perhaps 
better  than  anyone  that  I  used  to  live  as 
well  as  work  in  a  make-believe  world.  I 
didn't  particularly  want  to  face  reality. 
My  trouble  was  that  I  existed  in  a  sort 
of  fairyland,  believing  that  everything  and 
everyone  was  good  and  never  realizing 
that  this  beautiful  dream  world  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  deep  and  dreadful  jungle." 

I  assumed  Lana  meant  Stompanato,  but 
she  mentioned  no  names  and  neither  did  I. 
I  had  promised  not  to  go  into  that  closed 
chapter  in  her  life.  Besides,  we  had  other 
things  to  discuss. 

Lana  and  Fred  May 

I  particularly  wanted  to  know  about  this 
Fred  May  in  her  life,  this  brilliant  young 
business  executive  in  the  manufacturing 
field  with  whom  Lana's  name  is  linked 
exclusively  these  days. 

When  I  mentioned  his  name,  Lana's 
mood  brightened.  Those  old  dimples 
sprang  back  into  her  smile  as  she  said, 
'You  know — I  nearly  brought  Fred  with 
me  this  evening.  I  so  very  much  want  you 
to  know  him  and  like  him — and  for  him 
to  know  you,  my  friend." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  we  had  the 
conversation  which  opens  this  story  and 
naturally  I  was  eager  to  learn  more  about 
this  man  whom  Lana  describes  so — shall 
we  say — affectionately. 

"How  and  where  did  you  meet  Fred?"  I 
asked. 

She  said,  "I  was  invited  to  a  party  at  the 
beach.  I  hadn't  been  going  out  socially  at 
all  and  I  dreaded  to  accept.  I  almost 
backed  out  at  the  last  moment  I  so  dreaded 
being  in  a  large  group  of  people  again. 
But  I  went.  The  jump  had  to  be  made 
sometime. 

"I  was  sitting  with  a  group  of  casual 
acquaintances  wondering  again  why  I  had 
come — when  suddenly  a  man,  a  stranger, 
walked  down  the  stairs  from  the  entrance 
hall. 

"I  liked  his  looks,  he  was  different. 
Later,  we  were  introduced  and  after  we 
chatted  a  while,  I  thought — how  easy  he 
was  to  talk  to.  No  strain.  No  fencing.  I 
really  laughed  when  he  told  me  confiden- 
tially that  he  very  nearly  had  not  accepted 
the  invitation  either! 

"We  talked  about  so  many  things — and 
he  made  them  sound  so  interesting — even 
those  topics  far  removed  from  my  usual 
spheres.  Horses,  for  instance.  Fred  owns 
a  stable  of  race  horses,  among  other  inter- 
ests." 

Lana  didn't  need  any  prodding  from  me 
to  continue  telling  about  this  (perhaps) 
fateful  night  in  her  life.  "When  the  eve- 
ning was  over,  he  asked  for  my  telephone 
number.  I  was  surprised  to  find  this  made 
me  very  glad.  I  gave  it  to  him,  of  course. 

"Then,  three  days  went  by  without  a 


word.  I  thought.  WelL  that's  that.  It 
seemed  obvious  he  didn't  intend  to  follow 
up  our  pleasant  evening,  or  that's  what 
I  thought 

"I  told  myself  when  he  did  call— I'd  be 
quite  aloof.  So  when  that  phone  finally 
rang  and  he  asked  me  out  to  dinner,  what 
did  I  do?  I  accepted,"  Lana  laughed.  "From 
that  time  on,  we  started  seeing  each  other 
four  or  five  times  a  week — and  now  it's 
every  night." 

The  kind  of  man  she  needs 

"Lana,"  I  said,  "from  the  way  you  are 
talking  I  have  a  feeling  Fred  is  just  the 
kind  of  a  man  you  need." 

"I  need  a  strong  man  and  he  needs  a 
strong  woman — and  I  guess  this  is  it,"  she 
said  with  startling  honest}.-. 

I  can  state  with  equal  honesty  from  the 
front  row  seat  I  have  occupied  during 
other  loves  and  marriages  in  her  life,  that 
Lana  has  not  made  a  habit  of  falling  in  love 
with  strong  men — at  least  strong  enough 
for  her  to  lean  on. 

Of  all  of  the  loves  of  her  life,  I  know 
she  most  deeply  cared  for  Tyrone  Power, 
and  she  admits  it.  As  dark  as  she  was 
blonde,  as  handsome  as  she  was  beautiful, 
passionately  in  love  at  the  height  of  their 
fame  and  youth.  I  have  always  felt  that  if 
Ty  and  Lana  had  married,  how  different 
both  their  lives  might  have  been. 

I  remember  attending  that  lavish  party 
they  gave  together  just  before  Tyrone  left 
for  Italy— and  subsequently  (and  sadly) 
Linda  Christian! 

How  sentimental  and  naive  Lana  and 
Ty  were  in  their  love  story.  The  decora- 
tions at  the  party  were  hearts  and  flowers 
entwined:  And.  during  the  entire  evening 
they  were  never  more  than  a  handclasp 
apart. 

Who  will  ever  know  what  happened  to 
break  up  this  id\-ll?  Lana  believes  that 
someone  poisoned  Ty's  mind  and  heart 
against  her.  Others  think  that  Linda  Chris- 
tian, the  original  'Lola'  who  gets  what 
she  wants,  decided  she  wanted  Ty— and 
got  him.  Whatever  the  reason,  the  mar- 
riage turned  out  to  be  a  bad  mistake  for 
Tj-rone  and  a  shattering  heartbreak  for 
Lana. 

Her  marriage  to  millionaire  Bob  Topping 
was  definitely  on  the  rebound  from  Ty. 
In  trying  to  forget  him.  Lana  rushed  into 
marriage  with  the  millionaire- sportsman 
with  whom  she  had  little  in  common.  She 
admits  she  was  never  in  love  writh  him. 
In  addition,  most  of  the  time  of  their  mar- 
riage she  was  quite  ill,  once  from  a  dan- 
gerous miscarriage. 

I  mention  Topping  in  Tina's  life  ahead 
of  her  first  husband.  Artie  Shaw,  and  her 
second.  Steve  Crane,  to  explain  why  she 
rushed  so  impulsively  into  a  union  she 
knew  from  the  start  couldn't  be  happy. 
But,  just  as  Topping  was  an  antidote  to  a 
heartache,  both  Shaw  and  Crane  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  married  to  Lana  before 
she  had  really  grown  up.  while  she  was 
still  living  in  that  •make-believe'  world 
she  had  spoken  of. 

Of  that  long  ago  first  marriage  to  Artie 
Shaw  when  she  was  just  a  girl,  the  less 
remembered  the  better.  Lana  was  just 
starting  out  in  her  career  and  also  in  her 
love  life.  I've  always  thought  she  was 
more  impressed  with  Artie's  fame  as  a 
musician  and  his  highly  touted  'culture' 
than  she  ever  was  with  him  as  a  human 
being.  She  was  flattered  by  his  attention 
in  the  beginning — and  that's  about  all.  She 
has  said.  "When  I  eloped  with  Artie  it  was 
like  ninning  away  with  a  stranger  I  had 
just  read  about." 

Cheryl's  father 

Shaw  did  very  little  to  become  more 
than  just  a  stranger  in  her  life.  His  main 
concern  seemed  to  be  to  improve  the  mind 
of  his  new  bride — a  little  habit  he  carried 


over   to   his   next    wife,    Ava  Gardner. 

Husband  Number  Two,  Steve  Crane, 
was  something  else  again.  A  handsome 
and  sympathetic  young  man,  he  was  far 
more  in  love  with  Lana  than  she  with 
him.  He  was  devoted  and  tender  with  her 
and  out  of  this  union  came  great  happiness 
when  Lana's  only  child  was  born,  their 
daughter  Cheryl.  To  this  day — and  all 
through  the  shattering  nightmare  of 
Cheryl's  tragedy,  Lana  and  Steve  have 
remained  friends. 

As  for  Lex  Barker,  that  typical  matinee 
idol  who  became  Lana's  third  husband, 
this  was  another  romance  that  Lana  built 
out  of  all  proportion  to  reality.  Lex  was 
not,  and  is  not,  a  temperamental  person 
nor  a  mean  one. 

But  he  was  a  typical  actor  on  the  make 
for  stardom,  involved  to  the  hilt  in  his 
own  career,  looking  and  acting  the  role 
of  the  movie  idol  away  from  the  camera 
as  well  as  in  front  of  it.  Lana  and  Lex 
were  bound  to  break  up.  There  was  noth- 
ing substantial  to  hold  them  together. 

No.  Lana  has  never  had  a  man  in  her 
life  like  Fred  May — removed  from  her 
world  of  show  business,  substantial,  not 
blinded  by  her  glittering  fame  as  a  movie 
queen. 

Not  too  long  ago  Lana  had  told  me,  over 
the  telephone,  before  we  met  for  this  more 
detailed  talk.  "From  here  on,  I  want  the 
quiet  life.  I've  had  the  headlines,  the 
heartaches  and  the  hectic  pace.  I  want 
peace  of  mind  and  the  solid  things.  I 
want  this  more  than  anything  else  in  life. 
I  want  to  understand  people — as  I  pray 
they  will  understand  me." 

This  is  no  idle  talk  on  her  part.  Every- 
thing about  Lana's  'new'  life  bears  out 
this  philosophy.  Even  to  the  house  she 
lives  in.  No  longer  does  she  live  in  a  typi- 
cal movie-star  mansion  manned  by  a  staff 
of  servants  and  costing  a  small  fortune  to 
maintain,  the  way  she  lived  with  Lex. 

"As  soon  as  you  can,  I  want  you  to  come 
up  and  see  my  'happ3r'  house,"  said  Lana 
continuing  our  interview.  "It's  not  a  big 
place.  It's  atop  a  mountain,  each  window 
looking  out  on  the  most  beautiful  view  of 
all  of  Los  Angeles.  I  suppose  you  would 
describe  it  as  Hawaiian  in  design,  all  on 
one  floor,  and  there's  not  a  room  the  sun- 
shine doesn't  pour  into  many  hours  of 
each  day.  I  was  so  glad  when  Cheryl  said 
the  same  thing  I  had  thought  about  the 
place — it  is  a  happy  house." 

Of  her  daughter  growing  tall  and  ma- 
ture and  beautiful  and  getting  such  fine 
marks  in  high  school,  Lana  speaks  with 
the  most  touching  devotion. 

She  said  with  such  pride  in  her  voice, 
""Cheryl  and  I  are  closer  today  than  we 
have  ever  been.  Our  troubles  have  brought 
us  closer  together.  Tragedy  either  brings 
on  a  complete  estrangement  between  the 
people  involved — or  else  it  brings  you  into 
each  other's  arms.  Thank  God,  with  us,  it 
has  been  the  latter. 

"I  don't  suppose  I  ever  really  had  to 
come  into  Cheryl's  arms,"  Lana  went  on. 
"We  have  always  loved  each  other  very 
much.  But  somehow  my  concern  for  her 
after  the  tragedy  and  hers  for  me.  has 
made  us  more  conscious  of  this  love." 

Cheryl  continues  to  five  with  Lana's 
mother,  Mrs.  Mildred  Turner,  under  the 
terms  imposed  by  the  Juvenile  Court  au- 
thorities. But  she  is  free  to  come  and  see 
Lana  whenever  she  wishes  and  Lana  is 
free  to  visit  her.  A  few  weeks  ago,  Cheryl 
was  ill  with  the  flu  and  as  her  grand- 
mother had  to  be  out  of  town  for  a  few 
days,  Lana  brought  Cheryl  back  to  her 
home  and  nursed  her  back  to  health. 

She  said,  "I  can't  tell  you  how  precious 
those  dajTs  of  closeness  were  to  both  of  us." 

Career  excitement 

Another  vital  point  in  Lana's  newly 
opening  door  of  life — is  that  her  career 


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is  winging  again.  She  agreed  with  me 
when  I  mentioned  it.  "I  seem  to  have  hit 
another  peak,  and  I'm  grateful  indeed." 
She  admitted  she  really  hadn't  known 
what  would  happen  when  she  signed  for 
Imitation  of  Life  at  U-I,  her  first  movie 
following  the  tragedy. 

"Thank  heavens,  Imitation  of  Life  won 
me  a  new  place  in  the  sun.  When  I  first 
hit  the  big  time  at  MGM  those  many  years 
ago,  those  golden  years  of  first  stardom, 
I  thought  nothing  could  ever  again  be  so 
exciting  in  my  career. 

"But  there  is  excitement  and  interest 
and  intensity  in  these  days,  too,"  Lana 
said.  "Again,  I  feel  I  must  keep  building. 
I  have  implicit  faith  in  Ross  Hunter,  who 
produced  Imitation.  That  is  why  I  am  so 
glad  to  do  this  second  picture  for  him, 
Portrait  in  Black.  I  just  hope  Portrait 
will  be  as  good.  I  just  have  to  pray  that 
it  will  be — and  not  worry.  I  can't  afford 
to  make  a  bad  picture." 

Now  it  was  growing  late  in  the  evening, 
and  time  for  Lana  to  leave.  She  was  meet- 
ing Fred  at  her  home  and  they  were  going 


on   to   dinner  from  her   'happy'  house. 

"Why  don't  you  buy  that  place  and  make 
it  your  honeymoon  house?"  I  laughed  as 
we  tarried  at  the  doorway. 

"I'd  buy  it  in  a  minute  if  the  owners 
would  sell  it,"  she  said.  "But  I'm  afraid 
they  love  it  too  much  to  give  it  up.  Any- 
way, when  I  got  rid  of  that  mansion  Lex 
and  I  lived  in  I  swore  I'd  never  own  an- 
other house." 

"Not  even  a  honeymoon  house?"  I  re- 
peated. She  laughingly  refused  to  rise  to 
that  bait. 

"I'm  going  to  bring  him  to  see  you,"  she 
repeated.  "Fred  wanted  to  come  today — 
but  I  thought  another  time  might  be  bet- 
ter. You  and  I  always  talk  'girl  talk.' " 

And  as  I  watched  her  leave,  I  thought  to 
myself  how  much  I  wanted  to  meet  this 
man  who  sounds  so  right  for  Lana.  I've 
known  all  the  men  in  her  life — and  if  you 
ask  me— this  sounds  very  much  like  the 
one.  END 

Lana  stars  in  Portrait  In  Black,  20th- 

Fox. 


Should  I  Go  Steady? 


YES 

(Continued  from  page  42) 

In  This  Song,  which  later  became  my 
first  record  for  MGM. 

Between  steady  girls,  I  always  felt  frus- 
trated, always  overate.  So  maybe  I'm  the 
type  who  should  go  steady  and  keep  thin! 

Anyway,  going  steady  is  okay,  if  you 
don't  let  it  frustrate  you  when  the  ro- 
mance collapses.  And  at  my  age,  eighteen, 
they  usually  do. 

Neil  Sedaka:  There's  nothing  wrong  with 
going  steady.  I  usually  went  steady  every 
summer,  at  camp,  and  the  romance  always 
ended  in  tender  promises  to  write  each 
other.  Then  we'd  forget  each  other. 

I  always  enjoyed  a  summer  better  be- 
cause I  went  steady.  Summer  romances  are 
good  because  they  prepare  you  for  the  real 
big  romance  that  usually  comes  later  in 
life.  They  teach  you  to  be  considerate  of 
the  other  person,  to  be  attentive,  to  be 
sensitive  to  the  other's  needs,  to  share. 

I  rarely  go  steady  during  the  winter  be- 
cause then  I'm  too  busy  with  school  and 
my  songwriting  and  singing  jobs.  But,  oh. 
those  summers! 

Rod  Lauren:  I'm  steady  dating  a  girl  in 
Fresno,  California,  and  I  met  her  last  sum- 
mer in  a  swimming  pool,  introduced  by  a 
mutual  friend.  She's  still  in  high  school, 
and  I'm  in  Hollywood  or  on  the  road  most- 
ly; but  I'm  not  seeing  any  other  girl. 

Now  about  steady  dating,  it's  a  funny 
deal.  When  a  boy  and  a  girl  go  steady, 
they  get  tied  up  with  each  other,  and 
that's  bad.  They  don't  get  a  chance  to  en- 
joy all  the  school  activities  because  they 
get  jealous  of  each  other  and  that  spoils 
the  fun.  It's  better  to  meet  other  boys  and 
girls,  and  have  fun.  It's  better  to  be  able  to 
meet  other  kids  without  feeling  you're 
betraying  your  steady. 

It's  okay  to  go  steady  only  if  you  can 
still  see  others  and  be  part  of  the  crowd. 
As  for  me,  I've  told  my  steady  to  see  other 
boys,  and  she  says  I  can  see  other  girls;  but 
I  admit  I  haven't  felt  like  seeing  other  girls. 

Dion,  of  Dion  and  the  Belmonts:  My  parents 
think  I'm  too  young  for  marriage,  and  I 
agree  with  them.  I've  told  them  I  don't 
intend  to  marry  now  or  in  the  near  future. 
I've  got  a  career  to  worry  about. 

But  that  doesn't  mean  I'm  against  steady 
dating.  I've  gone  steady  myself,  and  en- 


joyed it.  But  I  admit  I've  also  liked  the 
periods  when  I  was  not  steady  dating. 
When  I  was  steady  dating,  I  liked  the  idea 
of  having  the  girl  available  for  dating  when 
I  felt  like  it.  But,  sometimes,  when  she 
came  around,  I  was  sort  of  bored.  Still,  I 
don't  see  any  harm  in  it. 
Everybody  to  his  taste,  I  say. 

MAYBE 

(Continued  from  page  43) 

holidays  by  someone  who's  really  special. 

The  disadvantages  include:  It  limits 
your  meeting  other  people  and  enjoying 
their  company.  It  can  create  many  emo- 
tional problems.  It  seems  to  cause  parents 
undue  worry  because  they  fear  your  going 
steady  may  curtail  your  interest  in  getting 
a  good  education,  etc. 

Speaking  for  myself,  going  steady  would 
not  be  the  wise  thing  to  do  now,  because 
of  my  career.  I  feel  that  it  is  up  to  you,  and 
you  alone,  to  make  this  decision. 

NO 

(Continued  from  page  43) 

Paul  Anka:  I  went  steady  only  once  when 
I  was  still  living  in  my  home  town,  Ottawa. 
Canada.  I  gave  her  my  class  ring  and  she 
wore  it  on  a  string  around  her  neck. 

She  was  planning  marriage  for  us  for 
five  years  later. 

Personally,  I  am  not  in  favor  of  steady 
dating  for  young  fellows.  The  girls  want  to 
know  where  you  are  and  they  write  your 
name  all  over  their  books,  and  everybody 
knows  it.  They're  always  calling  you  on  the 
phone,  wanting  to  know  what  you're  doing 
and  what  you  are  going  to  do  next.  You 
can't  get  any  work  done. 

The  girls  are  always  chasing  you,  and 
you  just  can't  stop  them.  I  don't  think  of 
marriage.  I'm  too  young.  I  want  to  stay 
single  for  a  long  time. 

Kimm  Charney:  I'm  only  fourteen.  I  won't 
be  fifteen  until  August  2nd.  and  I'm  no 
expert  on  steady  dating.  In  fact,  I  haven't 
started  to  date  yet.  When  I  go  out,  it's  with 
a  bunch  of  fellows  in  the  neighborhood 
and  we  go  to  each  other's  house,  where  we 
often  meet  bunches  of  girls,  and  we  sit 
around  and  joke  and  spin  the  new  records. 

I'm  too  young  to  even  think  of  steady 
dating,  although  I  admit  some  fellows  my 
age  are  already  going  steady.  It  seems  to 
me  steady  dating  is  too  serious  to  think 
about  when  you're  fourteen  or  fifteen.  I'm 
talking  about  the  fellows.  Girls  are  dif- 
ferent; they  seem  to  like  going  steady  at 
an  early  age. 


Andy  Williams:  I've  dated,  and  I'm  dating 
now,  but  I  never  went  in  for  steady  dating. 

I  see  value  in  going  steady:  learning  how 
to  get  along  with  the  opposite  sex,  learn- 
ing how  to  fit  in  with  the  moods  of  some- 
body you  see  often,  learning  to  hold  back 
jealousy,  learning  how  to  communicate 
without  saying  a  word,  learning  how  to 
anticipate  another's  wishes.  It's  the  closest 
you  can  get  to  marriage  without  a  formal 
engagement.  It's  a  sort  of  practice  run  for 
the  real  big  romance  that  leads  to  mar- 
riage. It's  okay  for  teenagers,  if  they  don't 
take  it  too  seriously  .  .  .  but  as  I  said,  it's 
not  for  me. 

Johnny  Restivo:  I'm  not  much  for  steady 
dating.  I'm  shy,  and  not  too  talkative,  and 
I  don't  like  a  girl  to  be  loud,  so  the  girl 
has  to  start  the  conversation. 

I  had  my  eye  on  a  beautiful  blonde  girl 
I  met  on  the  beach,  but  when  my  career 
with  RCA  Victor  started,  I  agreed  with  my 
dad  and  managers  that  I  shouldn't  date 
any  girl  steady.  So  I  stopped  seeing  this 
girl. 

Since  my  career  picked  up,  I  have  had 
only  a  few  dates  with  girls  I  already  knew. 
I'm  being  cautious  about  girls.  My  dad 
says  I  ought  to  watch  out  for  girls  who  get 
you  into  trouble,  who  maneuver  into  a 
position  to  blackmail  you.  He  says  I  should 
never  get  too  serious  with  a  girl  at  my 
age,  sixteen.  I'm  sure  he's  right. 

Johnny  Ma  this:  I've  never  really  steady 
dated.  Sure,  there  was  one  chick  who  al- 
ways wanted  me  to  be  her  close  friend;  but 
she  lived  differently  and  talked  differently 
than  I  expected.  We  became  half  romantic, 
after  we  decided  we  could  not  really  make 
it  romantic.  Then  she  decided  we  should  be 
close  friends,  anyway;  but  it  did  not  work 
out. 

I'm  not  the  type  to  go  steady.  I  can't 
stand  having  any  one  person  around  me 
all  the  time.  When  I  marry,  this  may  be  a 
problem. 

Six  months  is  the  most  I  ever  knew  one 
girl,  and  it  annoyed  me  when  everybody 
took  it  for  granted  we  were  engaged.  So  I 
ended  that  'engagement'  quickly! 

Dick  Roman:  I've  never  gone  steady  and 
I've  never  been  engaged,  and  if  I  can  help 
it,  I  don't  intend  to  go  steady  in  the  near 
future. 

I've  gone  out  with  Millie  Perkins,  Molly 
Bee  and  Jill  Corey  when  I  was  in  Holly- 
wood, and  I've  dated  plenty  of  young 
singers  in  New  York,  my  home  town — but 
nothing  steady.  I  want  to  get  my  career  set 
first. 

I'm  twenty-two,  and  don't  want  to  get 
married  until  I'm  twenty-seven  or  twenty- 
eight.  I  want  to  have  career  security  be- 
fore I  add  to  my  problems  by  marrying. 
Remember,  I'm  not  against  romance.  I'm 
just  suspicious  of  steady  dating.  I  feel  it 
sort  of  sneaks  you  into  marriage  and  when 
you  snap  out  of  your  happy  daze,  you're  a 
married  man!  I  don't  feel  I'm  good  mar- 
riage material  yet,  and  don't  want  to  be 
sneaked  into  marriage. 

Bobby  Darin:  I've  gone  steady,  but  each 
time  the  romance  turned  out  to  be  wrong 
and  I  was  glad  to  get  out  when  I  did.  Go- 
ing steady  just  didn't  work  out  for  me. 

When  I  was  a  teenager  I  always  had  a 
lot  of  freedom  at  home  and  I  like  to  fol- 
low my  impulses — so  strict  steady  dating 
always  made  me  nervous.  In  fact,  I  hope 
to  do  the  same  things  when  married  as  I 
do  now  that  I'm  single — which  means  I'll 
need  a  very  understanding  wife. 

My  dating  a  lot  gave  me  a  chance  to 
learn  a  lot  about  girls,  and  I  know  what  is 
the  best  in  girls,  and  I've  enjoyed  finding 
out  what  makes  a  girl  happy.  For  me,  in- 
formal dating  has  been  mo-e  fun  than 
steady  dating. 


Elvis  Presley:  I  like  girls,  and  I've  dated 
many  girls,  but  I  guess  I  travel  too  much 
to  ever  steady  date.  I've  been  on  the  road 
almost  continuously  since  I  was  eighteen, 
and  I'm  twenty-five  now,  so  how  could  I 
ever  steady  date  with  anybody? 

Of  course,  when  I  was  in  Germany  with 
the  U.  S.  Army,  I  could  have  steady  dated. 
But,  although  I  did  date  certain  girls  sev- 
eral times,  I  did  not  really  consider  my- 
self going  steady  with  any  one. 

I  guess  I'll  marry  late  in  life.  I'm  just  too 
busy  now.  My  Army  buddies  kid  me  that 
I'll  be  fifty  before  I  marry,  and  maybe 
they're  right. 

Danny  Valentino:  I  never  went  out  much. 
Shy,  I  guess.  Besides,  I  was  always  so  busy 
practicing  up  on  my  music:  drums,  xylo- 
phone, singing.  Since  finishing  my  first 
year  at  Hofstra  College  in  Hempstead, 
Long  Island,  I've  been  appearing  nightly 
at  a  night  club  in  East  Rockaway  and  go- 
ing into  New  York  for  recording  sessions 
and  to  see  my  manager. 

I  have  no  time  to  date,  and  I  wouldn't 
even  consider  steady  dating.  That  just 
doesn't  fit  in  with  my  life,  at  the  moment. 
As  for  marriage,  I  don't  want  even  to  think 
about  it  now.  Let  the  other  guys  go  steady; 
not  me.  I've  got  too  much  to  do  before  I'll 
let  myself  concentrate  on  one  girl.  It 
wouldn't  be  fair  to  let  myself  tie  a  girl 
down  when  I  have  so  little  to  offer  her  now. 

Johnny  Nash:  Steady  dating?  Not  me! 

I  know  lots  of  fellows  who  go  steady 
only  because  most  of  the  girls  they  know 
are  booked  solid  and  they're  scared  there 
will  be  no  girls  left. 

I  think  most  fellows  my  age,  eighteen, 
don't  know  their  own  minds  yet  about 
girls.  Girls  are  still  too  mysterious  for  us, 
and  there's  so  much  we  ought  to  know  be- 
fore we  try  steady  dating.  I'd  like  to  date 
more  girls  before  I  feel  secure  enough  to 
concentrate  on  one. 

Michael  Callan:  When  I  was  a  teenager  I 
went  steady  with  a  girl  who  worked  in 
shows  with  me;  but  we  broke  up  and  now 
she's  married  and  we  won't  have  to  waste 
any  more  time  wondering  if  we  had  made 
a  mistake.  We're  friends  now,  and  I  know 
her  husband.  Before  that,  I  went  steady 
with  another  girl,  after  she  broke  up  her  ! 
engagement  to  another  fellow.  Then  I  got 
engaged  to  the  second  girl,  and  we'd  fight. 
It  was  quite  complicated,  too  complicated 
for  me. 

So  now  I'm  not  steady  dating  anybody.  I  j 
just  date.  Sometimes  I  double  date  with 
Tommy  Sands  or  Steve  Rowland.  Since  I  | 
don't  want  to  get  serious  with  any  girl,  the 
best  thing  to  do  is  not  go  steady. 

Bobby  Rydell:  Going  steady  is  for  the  birds! 
For  teenagers,  that  is.  I  don't  want  to 
sound  harsh,  but  how  can  a  guy,  or  a  gal, 
ever  really  know  whether  his  steady  is 
the  right  person  if  he  hasn't  played  the 
field  first? 

I  read  in  a  magazine  article  the  other  day 
that  one  out  of  three  marriages  end  in 
divorce — and  that,  of  these  divorces,  over 
fifty  per  cent  are  teenage  marriages.  Boy! 
.  .  .  That  really  makes  you  think,  doesn't  it? 

I'm  for  free-lance  dating  for  teenagers. 

Frankie  Avalon:  I  do  not  feel  that  boys  and 
girls,  especially  in  their  early  teens,  should 
go  steady. 

This  is  the  time  in  life  when  we  have  a 
chance  to  meet  lots  of  people  and  get  to 
know  what  makes  them  tick,  so  that  when 
we  reach  maturity  we'll  have  some  idea 
what  type  of  person  we  want  as  our  part- 
ner in  life. 

To  me,  the  teens  are  our  best  learning 
years,  and  I  feel  we  should  not  hinder  our- 
selves by  limiting  our  activities  by  going 
steady.  end 


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EART  DISEAS 

#X  Enemy 


The  Nice  Girl 


(Continued  from  page  28) 

such  a  surprise,  Diane,"  she  said.  "Such  a 
wonderful  surprise." 

She  drew  back  her  head,  suddenly. 
"Darling,  there's  nothing  wrong,  is  there?" 
she  asked. 

Diane  forced  a  smile.  "Of  course  not, 
Mother,"  she  said.  She  shook  her  head. 
"I  was  just  lonesome,"  she  said,  "and  I 
missed  you  all  and  .  .  .  well,  I  still  had 
the  money  I'd  saved  and  I  decided  to  come 
back.  That's  all.  There's  nothing  wrong." 

"Well,"  her  mother  said,  taking  her  hand 
now,  "you  just  come  inside  and  I'll  go  up- 
stairs and  wake  up  Daddy  and  the  girls 
and  we'll  all — " 

"No,  Mom,"  Diane  said,  interrupting  her, 
"don't  wake  them.  Not  now.  It's  so  late. 
...  I'd  rather  you  didn't  wake  them." 

Her  mother  looked  at  her,  then  shrugged. 

"Well  then,"  she  said,  "you  just  come 
inside  and  I'll  turn  off  the  TV  and  you'll 
talk  to  me  at  least.  It's  been  a  long  time, 
Diane.  Six  months.  And  New  York's  a 
far  away  place,  three  thousand  miles  from 
California.  And  you  haven't  exactly  writ- 
ten us  every  week,  you  know."  She 
laughed  again.  "Come  on,"  she  said,  "and 
tell  me  all  about  it.  .  .  . 

Life  in  the  big  city 

"Has  it  been  fun,  Diane?"  she  asked, 
when  they  were  seated  on  the  couch. 

"Yes,  Mom,  it's  been  great  fun,"  she 
said.  She  tried  to  be  very  airy  about  this, 
very  gay.  "It's  a  little  harder  in  New  York 
than  I  thought.  But  I've  been  taking  my 
acting  lessons,  and  I've  been  modeling.  I 
made  three-hundred  dollars  on  my  last 
job  alone,  Mom — three  hundred  dollars. 
And  I  wrote  you  I  was  moving.  .  .  .  Well, 
this  new  apartment  is  divine.  It's  on  Riv- 
erside Drive,  looking  out  on  the  Hudson 
River,  the  river  down  below  and  the  New 
Jersey  Palisades  on  the  other  side — you 
know,  and  there  are  four  other  girls,  air- 
plane stewardesses,  real  swell  girls.  And 
between  the  five  of  us  girls  there  are  fel- 
lows over  all  the  time.  And  I  go  out  quite 
a  bit,  to  restaurants  for  dinner,  to  movies 
on  Broadway,  to  the  theater — the  theater! 
It's  fabulous  in  New  York,  Mom,  just  like 
everybody  says.  Golly,  I  don't  know  how 
many  plays  I've  seen  since  I've  been 
there." 

She  stood  up,  suddenly,  and  ran  over 
to  the  suitcase  she'd  brought  in  with  her. 

"I  nearly  forgot,"  she  said,  opening  the 
suitcase.  "I  brought  something  home. 
Something  I  want  you  to  hear." 

She  pulled  an  L-P  out  from  under  some 
clothing  and  held  it  up. 

"What's  that,  Diane?"  her  mother  asked, 
squinting  a  little. 

"A  record,  the  whole  musical  score  from 
one  of  the  shows  I  saw,"  Diane  said.  "It's 
got  a  song  in  it  I  want  you  to  hear  .  .  . 
It's  kind  of  special." 

She  walked  towards  the  phonograph,  in 
a  corner  of  the  room. 

She  placed  the  record  on  the  turntable. 

A  voice,  Ethel  Merman's,  began  to  sing. 

"Gee,  but  it's  great  to  be  here!  .  .  ." 

"I  bought  this,"  Diane  said,  looking  over 
at  her  mother,  "because  the  words  in  this 
song — they  say  what  I  feel." 

She  smiled  again,  and  threw  out  her 
arms,  musical-comedy  style,  and  she  began 
to  sing  along  with  the  record. 

"Gee,  but  it's  great  to  be  here!"  she  sang. 

"Gee,  but  it's  great  to  be — " 

Suddenly,  she  lowered  her  head.  And 
she  stopped  singing.  And  she  began  to  cry. 

"Oh  Mom,  oh  Mom,"  she  sobbed,  rush- 
ing back  to  the  couch. 

"Diane."  her  mother  asked,  taking  her 


hand,  "what  is  wrong?  What  is  wrong, 
honey?" 

Failure 

"Mom,"  Diane  said,  "I've  been  lying  to 
you.  I've  been  happy  in  New  York  in  one 
way — yes.  But  when  I  think  of  all  the  hurt 
I  caused  you  and  Daddy,  when  I  left,  run- 
ning off  like  that  .  .  .  When  I  think  that, 
fun  or  no  fun,  I  really  did  the  wrong  thing 
in  hurting  you — when  I  realize  this.  .  .  ." 

"Diane,"  her  mother  started  to  say. 
"what's  past  is  past.  Over  .  .  .  You 
shouldn't  get  upset  this  way." 

"But,  Mom,  I  ran  out  on  you  and  Dad." 
Diane  said.  "I  thought  I  was  going  to  prove 
so  much  by  doing  what  I  wanted  to  do. 
And  all  I've  proved  is  that  .  .  .  that  I've 
taken  some  acting  lessons  and — " 

The  tears  came  rolling  down  her  cheeks 
now. 

"And,"  she  said,  " — that  I'm  such  a  fail- 
ure ...  As  a  daughter." 

Her  mother  squeezed  her  hand.  "Now 
you  can  talk  and  talk,  Diane,  and  get 
whatever  you  want  out  of  your  system, 
and  I'll  listen  to  you,"  Mrs.  Baker  said, 
gently.  " — But  don't  let  me  hear  you  say- 
ing bad  things  about  yourself." 

"I'm  not  much  good,"  Diane  said.  "I'm 
not." 

Again,  her  mother  squeezed  her  hand. 

"You  are,"  she  said.  "You're  a  good  girl, 
a  good  daughter.  And  we're  all  very 
proud  of  you,  always,  no  matter  what. 
You  should  know  that.  .  .  . 

"Now  really,"  her  mother  went  on,  after 
clearing  her  throat  and  letting  go  of  her 
daughter's  hand,  "what's  all  this  fuss 
about,  anyway,  Diane?  You  went  to  New 
York  and  you  made  a  mistake  by  doing 
that?  Well,  you  were  trying  to  do  the 
right  thing." 

Diane  said  nothing. 

"A  person  makes  mistakes,  I  always  say. 
and  that  person  learns  by  those  mistakes," 
her  mother  said.  "You've  made  mistakes 
before  in  your  lifetime,  haven't  you?  And 
learned  by  them." 

She  stopped,  and  she  took  a  deep  breath. 

"You're  tired,  Diane,"  she  said,  suddenly. 
"And  you  must  be  hungry  after  that  long 
trip  .  .  .  Can  I  go  inside  and  make  you 
some  tea?" 

Diane  nodded. 

"Yes,  some  hot  tea,"  her  mother  said, 
getting  up.  "A  cup  for  you,  and  a  cup  for 
me.  It'll  set  nice  with  us  both,  and  make 
us  both  feel  better." 

And,  with  that,  she  left  the  room. 

And  Diane,  sitting  there  alone  now. 
wiped  some  of  the  tears  from  her  face. 
And,  as  she  did,  she  thought  of  what  her 
mother  had  said  to  her  a  few  minutes 
back: 

"You've  made  mistakes  before  in  your 
life,  haven't  you?  And  learned  by  them." 
Diane  remembered  now. 

Such  a  nice  girl  .  .  . 

She  was  fifteen,  a  sophomore  in  high 
school.  She  was  a  popular  girl.  She  went 
around  with  a  group  of  girls  whom  she 
liked,  and  who  liked  her.  Except  that  one 
day  Diane  realized  that  this  group  was 
more-than-a-little  on  the  snobbish  side, 
that  they  made  a  point  of  'outlawing' 
girls  of  any  religion  different  from  theirs, 
girls  whose  fathers  didn't  earn  as  much 
as  theirs,  girls  who  just  weren't  quite  up 
to  standard. 

Diane  objected  to  this  one  day. 

But  she  didn't  get  very  far  in  her 
objection. 

"Oh,  Diane,"  the  other  girls  started  to 
say,  "you're  such  a  nice  girl — so  gosh- 
darned  nice — - 

The  sarcasm  in  their  voices  wasn't  lost 
on  her. 

Diane  knew  she  was  being  made  fun  of. 
She  didn't  like  being  made  fun  of.  And 


HEART  FUND 

Defence  6 


x>ut  this  to  them, 
a  few  weeks  after 
;  chosen  to  repre- 


few 


so  she  said  no  more 

Now  it  happened  tfc 
this  incident.  Diane  1 
sent  her  school's  Y 
two-week  internatioi 
:  called  A;;.:~ai" 
hundred  miles  away. 

At  Asilomar.  Diane  found  herself  room- 
ing in  a  large  barrack  with  some  forty 
other  girls,  girls  from  all  over  the  world: 
Xegro  girls,  blonde-barred,  girls  with  al- 
mond-shaped eyes:  rich  girls,  poor  girls; 
all  sorts  of  girls. 

"They're  such  a  terrific  group."  she 
wrote  home  one  day.  "and  we're  having 
the  best  time.  We  swim  and  hike  and  play 
croquet  and  checkers  and  things.  And  we 
go  to  Chapel  every  night  right  after  sup- 
understanding  arr.or.g  the  people  o:  the 
world.  And  it's  so  interesting  and  wonder- 
ful I  hope  it  never  ends." 

The  two  %veeks  passed  quickly,  however. 
And  finally  one  night,  the  night  before  all 
the  girls  were  to  say  good-bye  to  one  an- 
other and  leave  for  their  homes,  a  last 
service,  candle-lit  and  beautiful,  was  held 
in  the  Chapel. 


Join 
LIZ 

at  the  happiest  birthday 
of  her  life 


in  next  month 


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a  revelation  ot  a  ki 
Too  sad  to  join  th 
well  meeting  at  the 
she  went  off  alone  I 
beach,  to  walk,  an 
vately  this  time. 

She  prayed,  first 
would  have  a  safe  j 
be  traveling  all  Hiffea 


came  to  Diane, 
her  girls  in  a  fare- 
n  hall  of  the  camp, 
night,  down  to  the 
3  pray  again — pri- 

LrSme".  ^Thev'll 
it  'ways,  to  all  dif- 
sase  keep  the  skies 


ferent  places  ...  So  p] 
clear  and  the  oceans  cairn  and.  please,  keep 
the  railroad  engineers  and  bus-drivers 
wide  awake." 

Next  she  prayed  that  two  of  the  girls — 
"Babette.  from  France,  with  her  terrible 
cold  from  too  much  swimming:  and  Yu- 
kiko.  from  Japan,  with  that  swelling  on 
her  big  left  toe  from  the  crab  that  bit  it" — 
recover,  quickly. 
And  then  she  prayed  for  herself. 
Tlease."  she  said,  "from  all  that  I  have 
experienced  here  I  know  that  there  is 
something  I  should  have  learned,  some- 
thing to  keep  with  me  for  the  rest  of  my 
life — but  honestly,  honestly,  I  don't  know 
what  that  is  exactly.  And  if  You  could 
just — " 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Diane  stopped 
as  she  noticed,  ahead  of  her,  a  bench, 
right  there,  in  the  middle  of  the  beach — 
and  a  wooden  plaque  behind  the  bench. 


She  looked  up  at  the  plaque  and  tried 
to  make  out  the  words  that  were  carved 
on  it. 

From  a  Sermon  of  John  Donne.  1624. 
she  read.  And  then  she  read  the  words 
below: 

No  man  is  an  island,  entire  of  it- 
self; every  man  is  a  piece  of  the 
continent,  a  part  of  the  main. 

Diane  read  the  words  again,  and  again. 
And.  finally,  she  sat  and  she  looked  out  at 
the  water,  the  ocean,  dark  and  endless. 

And,  thinking  about  the  words  she  had 
iusi  read,  she  said  to  herself:  "That's  it — 
isn't  it?  That's  what  I've  learned  here, 
being  with  all  these  girls,  girls  from  all 
corners  of  the  world — girls  of  different 
colorings,  religions,  backgrounds — was  that 
people  can  live  together,  get  along  to- 
gether, love  one  another,  if  only  they  try — 
that  none  of  us  can  five  alone,  either  in- 
dividually or  in  cliques,  and  exist  as 
islands,  entire  of  ourselves?'" 

She  could  feel  her  face  flush  as  the  word 
cliques  repeated  in  her  mind. 

She  remembered  her  group  back  home, 
the  cliquishness  of  it.  how  she  had  once 
objected  mildly  to  tbig  cliquishness,  how 
she'd  kept  silent  about  the  matter  after 
she'd  been  called  ""nice  girl — oh  so  nice 
girl." 

"Well"  Diane  murmured  to  herself  now. 
"T  was  wrong,  I  made  a  mistake  not  talk- 
ing up.  I  made  a  terrible  mistake  acting 
so  weak,  so  cowardly  .  .  .  But  I  tell  you 
this.  That  come  tomorrow  and  I'm  back 
home  Im — Tm  going  to  have  a  talk  with 
every  girlfriend  of  mine  and  tell  them  ex- 
actly what  I  think  about  their  attitudes. 
And  no  matter  what  they  call  me — let 
them  call  me  anything  they  want — I'm  go- 
ing to  tell  them  about  Asilomar.  About 
girls  living  together  the  way  we  did  here. 
About  the  complete  absence  of  any  kind 
of  prejudice  here.  About  the  real  good 
friends  we  all  became  here  .  .  .  Yes  sir. 
Im  going  to  tell  them  all  about  it.  Exactly 
what  I  should  have  said  that  other  rime!" 

And  she  nodded. 

As  she  nodded  now.  this  night  years 
later,  remembering  her  thoughts  on  that 
bench  that  night — remembering,  too.  her 
mother's  questions,  the  questions  that  had 
prompted  all  this: 

'"You're  made  mistakes  before  in  your 
life,  Diane,  haven't  you?  And  learned  by 
those  mistakes,  too — didn't  you?" 

'"But  this  mistake,  this  mistake."'  Diane 
-sked  herself,  suddenly.  " — have  I  learned 
anything  from  this?  Running  off  and  going 
to  New  York,  leaving  my  home,  my  family, 
the  life  I  knew.  Running  out  on  every- 
thing. My  home,  my  family  .  .  .  Denny.' 

She  closed  her  eyes  as  the  name  came 
to  her  mind. 

Denny — so  tall,  so  handsome,  so  good, 
so  loving. 

Denny — so  concerned  that  night,  six  long 
months  ago.  when  they'd  sat  together  at 
the  hamburger  joint,  over  a  couple  of  cups 
of  coffee,  and  Diane  had  told  him  she'd  de- 
cided to  go  away. 

"How  long  have  we  been  going  to- 
gether?" Denny  had  asked  after  he'd  heard 

"Four  years,  going  on  five,"  Diane  had 
said. 

"And  in  that  time,"  Denny  had  asked, 
""have  I  ever  told  you  you  were  doing  the 
wrong  thing?  About  something  big?  Some- 

"I  guess  not."  Diane  had  said. 

"Well  Fm  telling  you  now.  that  you're 
doing  the  wrong  thing,  and  about  a  big 
thing." .  he'd  said.  "Why.  Diane,  just  tell 
me  whv  in  the  world  do  vou  have  to  go 
to  New'  York?" 

"'Because.  Denny,"  she'd  said,  "for  the 
tenth  time — I  want  to  be  an  actress.  And 
to  be  a  good  actress  you've  got  to  have 
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few  stages  around  here,  and  lots  of  them 
in  New  York.  New  York,  Denny,  that's 
where  the  breaks  are.  That's  where  I 
want  to  go  to  get  my  chance." 

"And  you  think  it'll  be  easy  there?" 
Denny  had  asked. 

"I  do." 

"Do  you  think  it's  going  to  be  the  same 
as  the  last  time  you  were  there,  last  year? 
A  celebrity.  A  princess.  One  of  the  Miss 
Rheingold  finalists,  living  in  the  fancy 
Ambassador  Hotel,  with  lots  of  pampering, 
nothing  to  pay  for,  nothing  to  do  but  stand 
around  and  look  pretty?" 

"Not  exactly,  no,"  Diane  had  said.  "But 
New  York,  big  as  it  is,  happens  to  be  a 
wonderfully  warm  and  big-hearted  town.  I 
know,  Denny.  I've  been  there,  happy  there. 
And  I'm  sure  I'll  be  happy  there  again. 
And  no,  no,  I  don't  think  I'm  making  any 
mistake,  or  doing  anything  wrong.  And  I'm 
going,  Denny,"  she'd  said.   "I  am  going!" 

She  opened  her  eyes  now,  as  her  mother 
re-entered  the  living  room,  carrying  a 
tray  and  tea. 

"Feeling  better?"  Mrs.  Baker  asked  her 
daughter,  as  she  walked  towards  the  couch. 

"A  little,"  Diane  said. 

"Well,  take  my  word,  a  few  tastes  of 
this  magnificent  brew  of  mine  and  you'll 
be  feeling  lots  better,"  Mrs.  Baker  said, 
laying  down  the  tray,  pouring  the  tea. 

She  handed  a  cup  to  Diane. 

"You  still  look  so  serious  .  .  .  and  pale, 
darling,"  Mrs.  Baker  said,  after  a  little 
while.  "What've  you  been  thinking?" 


"Just  now,  about  New  York  again," 
Diane  said.  "About  the  mistake  that  it 
was.  About  how  tired  I  am  of  making 
mistakes.  About — " 

"Yes?"  her  mother  asked. 

'About  how  I'm  going  to  rectify  this 
mistake,  Mom,"  Diane  said.  She  brought 
her  cup  up  to  her  lips.  Her  hand  trembled 
a  little,  as  she  did.  She  took  a  sip  of  her 
tea.  "I've  decided  to  give  up  the  whole 
acting  thing,"  she  said  then.  "It's  no  good 
for  me.  I'm  going  to  give  it  up." 

"Now  wait  a  minute — "  her  mother 
started. 

"Give  it  up,"  Diane  interrupted,  softly, 
"forget  about  it.  And  stay  here,  at  home, 
where  I  belong.  With  you.  With  daddy. 
The  girls.  Denny." 

"Now  wait  a  minute"  Mrs.  Baker  re- 
peated, more  sharply  this  time.  "Staying 
at  home.  Yes.  That's  fine,  Diane.  But  giv- 
ing up  your  acting,  your  ambitions,  all 
those  dreams  you  used  to  have  as  a  little 
girl.  That,  Diane,  that  I  don't  like. 

"Look,"  she  went  on,  "I  said  it  before, 
and  I'll  say  it  again.  You  made  a  mis- 
take? You  learned  something  from  it? 
Fine.  That's  what  mistakes  are  for. 

"But  to  become  defeated  by  a  mistake?" 
She  shook  her  head.  "No.  No.  That's  no 
good.  And  I,  as  your  mother,  won't  hear 
of  it.  Not  from  any  daughter  of  mine! 

"Now  listen,"  she  said.  "Sherman  Oaks 
here  isn't  so  very  far  from  Hollywood,  is 
it?  And  in  Hollywood  they've  got  the  big- 
gest movie  studios  in  the  world,  don't  they? 


And  all  sorts  of  producers  on  the  watch 
for  talent?  And  agents?  And  drama 
schools?  And  everything  you  could  want? 

"Well,"  she  said,  "in  a  couple  of  weeks, 
after  you've  had  a  nice  rest,  after  you've 
gotten  to  know  your  family  again,  gotten 
to  know  your  Denny  again,  you  hie  on 
down  to  that  town  called  Hollywood  and 
you  might  just  be  surprised  to  find  it 
waiting  for  you.  Right  here! 

"How  about  it,  Diane,"  her  mother  asked, 
" — does  that  sound  reasonable  to  you?" 

"Yes,  Mama,"  she  said.  "Yes." 

Mrs.  Baker  sighed. 

"And  Diane,  Diane,"  she  said,  "please 
don't  go  crying  again  now,  with  that  cup 
up  there  in  front  of  your  face.  •  .  .  It's  sugar 
you"re  supposed  to  put  in  your  tea.  Not  salt." 

And  after  she'd  said  that,  they  both 
looked  at  one  another  and  began  to  smile 
— Diane  through  her  tears,  Mrs.  Baker 
through  a  few  tears  of  her  own.  .  .  .  end 

Editor's  Note:  Within  a  year  after  this 
evening,  Diane  Baker,  who'd  since  enrolled 
in  a  drama  class  with  coach  Estelle  Har- 
man,  was  spotted  by  a  talent  scout,  given 
a  test  at  Twentieth  Century-Fox  Studios 
and  signed  to  play  the  role  of  Margot  in 
The  Diary  of  Anne  Frank.  Following  this 
came  star  billing  in  The  Best  of  Every- 
thing oid  the  just-released  Journey  To 
The  Center  Of  The  Earth,  with  Pat  Boone 
and  James  Mason.  The  word  around  Fox 
is  that  this  is  only  the  beginning  ...  it 
couldn't  happen  to  a  nicer  girl! 


"I  Never  Feel  Sure  About  My  Marriage" 


(Continued  from  page  37) 

having  won  this  borrowed-from-kids  race. 

Then,  surrounded  by  press  agents,  man- 
agers, and  a  swarm  of  fans,  they  went 
back  to  the  hotel  to  dress  for  dinner.  Even 
though  the  afternoon  had  been  busy  and 
they  had  been  surrounded  by  strangers 
all  day,  Pat  didn't  mind,  because  this  eve- 
ning they  were  going  to  have  a  quiet  din- 
ner with  two  friends,  a  couple  from 
Hollywood  who  were  coming  down  espe- 
cially for  the  race. 

When  they  were  alone  at  the  hotel  Shir- 
ley told  Pat  the  bad  news.  Their  friends 
wouldn't  be  joining  them. 

"Nobody  sick,  is  there?"  Pat  asked  wor- 
riedly. 

Shirley  shook  her  head.  Then  she  took 
a  deep  breath  and  told  him.  Their  friends 
were  getting  a  divorce.  As  swiftly  and  as 
suddenly  as  that. 

"But  everything  was  fine  when  we  left," 
Pat  said  in  amazement.  "He'd  finished  his 
picture  and  they  were  coming  down  here 
to  have  some  fun  with  us.  I  just  can't 
believe  it." 

"I  didn't  want  to  tell  you  before,"  Shirley 
said.  "I  didn't  want  to  spoil  winning  the 
race  for  you,  darling." 

Pat  gave  her  a  grateful  kiss.  Then, 
shaking  his  head  in  disbelief,  he  repeated: 
"I  still  can't  believe  it." 

But  the  newspapers  they  glimpsed  on 
the  way  out  to  dinner  confirmed  the  sad 
story,  in  glaring  headlines,  of  another 
"idyllic"  Hollywood  marriage  that  had  hit 
the  rocks.  They  had  dinner  alone  at  a 
small,  dimly  lit,  romantic  restaurant.  Try- 
ing to  forget,  for  a  few  hours,  the  unhap- 
piness  of  their  friends,  they  joked,  held 
hands  and  whispered  to  each  other  as  if 
the  years  had  rolled  away. 

"Pat,"  Shirley  said,  "I'm  so  glad  we 
came.  Even  if  it  is  only  a  weekend." 

Pat  grinned  and  squeezed  her  hand.  But, 
he  couldn't  get  his  mind  off  his  friends' 
66  divorce  .  .  .  They'd  had  plenty  of  money  .  .  . 


fame,  too  .  .  .  and  yet,  in  the  midst  of  the 
terrific  pressures  of  the  life  of  fame  that 
stars  in  Hollywood  lead,  something  had 
gone  wrong  with  their  marriage  ...  it 
was  too  easy  to  throw  stones  at  people  for 
this,  Pat  knew  .  .  .  most  people  see  only  the 
bright,  glittering  exterior,  not  the  day  to  day 
tug-of-war  which  anyone  has  who  wants  to 
remain  a  simple  human  being  in  the  middle 
of  the  most  glamorous  life  in  the  world 
And  one  thing  Pat  was  sure  of:  that  the 
only  kind  of  person  who  could  keep  a  mar- 
riage alive,  was  a  simple,  human  kind.  .  .  . 

Be  vigilant,  always 

"Penny  for  your  thoughts,"  Shirley  was 
saying. 

"Oh,  I  was  thinking;  wondering  how 
many  stars  will  be  taking  that  sad  divorce 
road  this  coming  year.  It's  kind  of  a  sober- 
ing thought." 

"I  was  thinking  kind  of  the  same  thing," 
she  replied  sympathetically. 

"Remember  that  magazine  reporter  in 
the  hotel  this  morning?"  Pat  said.  "Well,  he 
asked  me: 'Pat,  with  things  the  way  they 
are  in  Hollywood,  why  are  you  so  certain 
of  your  marriage?'  ...  I  said,  'I'm  not!' 
Boy,  did  he  jump.  But  then  I  told  him 
what  I  really  believe:  As  soon  as  you're 
sure,  you're  in  danger."  Pat  glanced  at 
Shirley  to  see  her  reaction  to  this. 

"I  think  you're  right,  Pat,"  she  said. 

w  Good  news  for  Pat  Boone  fans.  A 

A  On  March  1,  his  best-selling  book,  Zk 

A  "Twixt  Twelve  and  Twenty"  will  J 

*A  come    within    allowance    range.  E 

2  After   selling    close   to    half   a  R 

K  million  copies  at  $2.95  per.  it's  # 

W.  being  published  in  a  paperback  A 

w  edition  priced  at  just  35$!  A 


Pat  laughed.  "I  figured  and  hoped  you 
would.  After  all,  I've  always  called  you 
the  pessimist  of  the  family." 

I'm  not,"  Shirley  rebelled,  "I'm  just  a 
realist.  That's  an  important  difference.  If 
more  people  in  Hollywood  were  my  kind 
of  realists,  things  might  turn  out  a  lot 
better  for  some  of  them.  I've  done  a  lot  of 
thinking  about  it.  So  often  you  see  a  young 
couple  come  to  Hollywood.  They're  happy 
with  each  other  and  all's  well.  Then  the 
guy  makes  it  .  .  .  makes  it  big.  There  are  a 
million  demands  on  him,  on  his  time,  on 
his  mind  and  feelings.  It's  not  easy  to  keep 
things  on  an  even  keel  any  more. 

"When  they  were  struggling,  they  never 
knew  where  the  next  pork  chop  was  com- 
ing from;  and  they  had  fun  just  watering 
the  lawn,  or  window  shopping.  Now,  when 
things  are  big,  the  people  change  .  .  .  and 
somehow  nothing's  fun  any  more.  It's  not 
simple  to  insure  yourself  against  that. 
That's  why  it's  best  to  be  a  realist  before 
that  happens." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  honey,"  Pat 
said,  slipping  her  arm  through  his.  "You've 
got  to  be  vigilant,  always  .  .  .  you've  got 
to  safeguard  your  marriage." 

He  sighed  and  it  was  a  sigh  of  double 
meaning.  It  was  full  of  happiness  and  also 
tinged  with  sadness  .  .  .  sadness  for  all  those 
who,  like  his  friends  and  all  other  unhappy 
stars,  couldn't  make  it  .  .  .  who  couldn't 
hold  on  to  each  other  in  the  stormy  seas  of 
Hollywood  marriage  .  .  ■  and  for  all  those 
who.  in  the  coming  year,  would  be  dragged 
away  from  each  other  by  the  relentless 
undertow  of  success  and  stardom.  .  .  . 

He  thought  then  of  the  people,  all  over 
America,  who  loved  these  stars  and  wished 
them  well.  He  wished  there  was  some  way 
he  could  tell  them  about  the  problems,  the 
difficulties  of  being  a  star,  as  well  as  just 
a  human  being  .  .  .  and  ask  them  to  have 
patience  and  compassion.  .  .  . 

Probably,  Pat  Boone  thought,  if  I  had 
that  chance  I  could  only  say  to  all  of  them: 
"Please  try  to  understand.  That's  all  .  .  . 
Before  you  ever  judge  or  condemn  .  .  .  try 
to  understand!" 

Pat  stars  in  Journey  To  The  Center  Of 
The  Earth.  20th-Fox. 


Debbie  Reynolds:  Frustration 


(Continued  from  page  21) 

survive  on  any  less.  I  do  some  dating  on 
the  weekend,  when  I  don't  have  to  work. 
But,  sometimes  I'd  just  as  soon  go  out  with 
friends,  as  I  went  to  the  Dean  Martin 
testimonial  dinner  with  the  Buddy  Adlers. 
It's  comfortable  to  go  out  with  old  friends, 
and  then  I  can  leave  and  go  home  any  time 
I  want. 

"Even  though  my  life  has  no  romance, 
I'm  not  without  love.  I  have  a  great  deal 
of  love  in  my  life.  The  love  of  my  children. 
When  you  have  two  young  children  like 
mine,  your  house  is  full  of  love  and  there 
is  plenty  to  do,  just  picking  up  after  them. 

"I  also  have  the  love  of  my  family  and 
of  my  friends.  I  have  friends  I  have  known 
for  years  and  years,  and  I  can't  say  merely 
that  I  like  them.  They  are  so  close  to  me 
that  I  love  them." 

Millionaires  and  a  gas  station  attendant 

But  what  about  recurrent  rumors  of  new 
romances  for  Debbie?  One  columnist  even 
boldly  predicted  that  she  would  become 
the  new  Mrs.  Harry  Karl  as  soon  as  he 
was  free  of  Joan  Cohn.  Debbie  laughed 
over  that  one. 

"I  don't  even  date  him  now,"  she  said. 
"I  don't  believe  in  dating  someone  who  is 
not  free  of  his  marriage.  When  he  is 
divorced,  I'll  probably  go  out  with  him 
again.  Harry  is  one  of  the  nicest  people 
I  know;  he's  kind  and  generous  and  has 
done  a  great  deal  of  good  for  many  persons. 
But  there's  no  question  of  a  romance." 

Nor  is  there  any  romantic  attachment 
involved  in  her  dates  with  Bob  Neal,  she 
said.  "I've  known  Robert  for  nine  years — 
almost  since  I  started  in  the  business,"  she 
explained.  "We  have  fun  on  a  date  and 
we're  excellent  friends.  That's  all." 

The  same  goes  for  Leon  Tyler,  she  added. 
He  is  an  old  buddy  and  they  like  to  go 
dancing  together — when  she  isn't  tied  up 
in  a  picture  and  he  isn't  working  at  his 
father's  gas  station.  It  somehow  seemed 
quite  like  Debbie  to  number  as  her  dates 
two  millionaires  and  an  actor  who  pumps 
gas  in  a  service  station. 

I  asked  her  if  she  shared  Kim  Novak's 
complaint  about  the  scarcity  of  males  in 
Hollywood.  For  that  and  other  reasons, 
Kim  prefers  the  New  York  life. 

"It's  true  that  there  might  be  a  more 
solid  group  of  men  to  pick  from  in  New 
York,"  Debbie  said.  "You  have  a  more 
stable  community  there;  there  are  men  of 
the  advertising  world  and  the  stock  market. 
Out  here  in  Hollywood,  there  are  fewer 
men,  and  many  of  those  lack  stability. 

"But  the  lack  of  eligible  males  doesn't 
concern  me  right  now.  And  I'm  different 
from  Kim,  anyway.  When  I  go  home  after 
work,  my  two  children  are  there,  and  the 
house  is  lively  and  full  of  love.  There's  no 
chance  to  be  lonely. 

"When  you  work  all  day  and  then  go 
home  to  an  empty  house,  it  can  be  awfully 
lonely.  No  matter  how  many  servants  you 
have,  it's  still  a  lonely  house." 

She  conceded  that  in  Hollywood  her 
dates  are  likely  to  be  actors,  and  she's  not 
so  sure  that  is  a  good  idea. 

"I  think  it's  a  good  idea  to  date  men  who 
are  in  the  industry  or  understand  it,"  she 
said.  "It's  a  lot  easier  when  they  know 
what  you  have  to  face.  A  lot  of  men 
wouldn't  understand  when  you  said  you 
had  to  leave  the  party  at  ten  because  you 
had  to  work  the  next  day.  Or  they  would 
resent  it  when  you  stopped  to  talk  to  fans 
in  a  public  place. 

"But  though  I  feel  an  actress  needs  a 
man  who  understands  her  problems,  I'm 
not  so  sure  of  the  actor-actress  relation- 
ship. There  is  bound  to  be  some  competi- 


tion present,  and  that's  bad  for  a  marriage. 

"In  some  cases,  the  actor-actress  rela- 
tionship has  worked.  Take  Janet  Leigh  and 
Tony  Curtis.  They  had  their  problems,  but 
they  have  worked  them  out  and  they're 
very  happy  together.  But  one  of  the  main 
reasons  is  that  Janet  has  subordinated  her 
career  to  Tony's.  She  doesn't  make  many 
pictures  any  more.  That's  the  way  most 
marriages  of  actors  and  actresses  succeed." 

Filling  the  vacuum  in  her  life 

But  isn't  it  difficult  for  an  actress  to 
loosen  her  grip  on  a  career  she  has  fought 
so  hard  for? 

"It  wasn't  for  me,"  Debbie  replied.  "I 
did  it  when  I  was  married  to  Eddie.  I  made 
only  three  pictures  in  a  three-year  period. 
I  didn't  mind.  I  felt  my  home  and  family 
were  more  important." 

The  bust-up  with  Eddie  changed  all 
that.  She  is  devoted  to  her  children 
spends  more  time  with  them  than  many 
working  mothers.  But  the  vacuum  in  her 
life  caused  by  the  end  of  her  marriage 
has  been  filled  by  work,  work  and  more 
work. 

Debbie  has  been  on  a  schedule  that 
would  make  a  stevedore  tired.  She  has  gone 
from  one  picture  to  another  with  scarcely 
a  day  off  between.  Say  One  for  Me  .  .  . 
It  Started  with  a  Kiss  .  .  .  The  Gazebo  .  .  . 
The  Rat  Race  .  .  .  The  Pleasure  of  His 
Company.  .  .  .  All  of  them  big,  important 
pictures.  All  of  them  hard  work  for  Debbie. 

"The  only  thing  that  saved  me  was  going 
to  Hawaii  for  a  month,"  she  said.  "I  took 
all  my  family  along,  so  I  could  really  rest; 
I  wouldn't  be  able  to  relax  if  they  were 
back  here.  I  slept  most  of  the  time.  I  got 
up  late,  sat  on  the  beach  and  then  took  a 
nap  with  the  children.  I  was  back  in  bed 
by  nine  o'clock  at  night." 

Besides  making  movies,  Debbie  has 
served  as  president  of  The  Thalians,  the 
charity  organization  of  young  people  of 
Hollywood. 

"It  has  been  a  big  job,  but  well  worth 
it,"  she  said.  "We  put  on  two  big  dinners 
this  year.  Our  last  one  raised  $100,000. 
Deducting  expenses,  that  means  $80,000 
will  go  toward  helping  mentally  disturbed 
children." 

Debbie  is  no  mere  figurehead  in  the 
organization.  She  pitches  right,  in  and 
helps  with  plans  and  projects,  playing  a 
major  part  in  the  entertainment  at  the 
dinners.  She  is  not  a  girl  to  do  anything 
half-way,  and  that  helps  to  explain  the 
tremendous  leaps  her  career  has  taken. 

Until  recently,  she  has  been  tied  to 
MGM,  for  whom  she  has  labored  ten  years. 
But  now  she  has  only  one  more  picture  to 
make  for  the  old  home  lot  and  she  will  be 
her  own  master.  She  has  the  future  well 
planned. 

Already  Debbie  has  made  a  dream  deal 
for  several  films  with  Perlberg-Seaton, 
which  will  bring  her  a  healthy  salary,  plus 
ten  per  cent  of  the  gross  income.  That 
means  for  every  dollar  that  comes  into  the 
box  office,  Debbie  gets  a  dime.  Only  a 
dozen  top  stars  in  Hollywood  can  exact 
that  kind  of  deal. 

"Then  I've  got  my  own  company,  Har- 
man  Productions,"  she  said.  "It's  named 
after  my  grandmother — it's  my  mother's 
maiden  name  and  a  lucky  one.  I've  already 
bought  a  story  that  I'd  like  to  do,  and  the 
company  would  make  pictures  that  I  didn't 
appear  in,  too. 

"This  doesn't  mean  that  I'm  going  to 
blossom  out  as  the  girl  producer.  I'd  be  out 
of  my  head  to  try  that.  I'll  hire  a  producer 
who  knows  what  he's  doing,  and  I'll  sit 
in  on  the  preparations.  But  I'm  not  going 


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to  worry  about  all  the  business  matters.  It 
doesn't  appeal  to  me,  and  I  don't  think  I'd 
be  any  good  at  it." 

Marching  to  the  bigtime 

Harman  Productions  will  also  produce 
Debbie's  TV  spectaculars.  That's  the  latest 
development  in  her  march  to  the  big-time. 
She  signed  a  million-dollar  deal  to  produce 
three  specials  for  ABC  in  the  next  three 
years.  As  with  the  rest  of  her  career,  she 
is  going  about  it  with  careful  thought. 

"I've  been  around  TV  shows  (Eddie's)  so 
it's  not  entirely  new  to  me,"  she  said.  "I 
know  that  you  can't  get  any  quality  unless 
you  take  pains.  A  lot  of  stars  just  throw 
together  a  show,  collect  the  money  and  get 
out. 

"I  can't  do  that.  I  was  schooled  in  movies 
done  by  craftsmen  like  Gene  Kelly.  Gene 
and  Fred  Astaire  have  pointed  the  way 
on  how  to  do  TV  well.  They  take  their  time 
and  rehearse  until  they  get  the  quality 
they're  looking  for.  I  hope  I  can  do  the 
same.  I  plan  to  devote  two  months  to 
preparations." 

All  this  activity  makes  it  sound  as  if 
Debbie  is  working  herself  to  a  frazzle. 
She  admitted  that  the  pace  has  been  too 
great  for  her.  And  the  untimely  deaths  of 
figures  like  Mario  Lanza,  Errol  Flynn 
and  Wayne  Morris  have  given  her  pause. 


"It  made  me  stop  and  think,"  she  said 
seriously.  "Maybe  this  pace  we  lead  has 
something  to  do  with  stars  dying  early. 
Perhaps  it  doesn't  show  up  when  you  are 
young.  But  in  later  years  the  hectic  life 
may  take  its  toll. 

"I  like  it  here.  I  hope  to  be  around  for 
a  long,  long  time.  So  I'm  going  to  try  to 
plan  my  career  so  I  will  have  long  periods 
between  pictures  when  I  can  spend  time 
with  the  children  and  get  away  from  the 
frantic  life." 

I  asked  her  if  she  wasn't  worried  about 
getting  ulcers  as  girl  president  of  a  big 
production  company. 

"Me  get  ulcers?  Never!"  she  said  flatly. 
"Nor  do  I  give  them.  There  is  nothing  in 
the  world  important  enough  for  that." 

That  gave  me  a  chance  to  ask  about  the 
printed  report  that  she  had  shut  down  the 
set  of  The  Rat  Race  because  of  her  argu- 
ments with  the  young  director,  Robert 
Mulligan. 

"I  don't  know  how  that  one  got  started," 
she  said  "I've  never  closed  a  set  in  my 
life;  I  wouldn't  know  how  to  go  about 
doing  it  or  even  if  I  could. 

"Actually,  the  set  was  closed  by  Bill 
Perlberg,  the  producer,  because  I  had  a  lot 
of  dramatic  work  to  do.  Crying  and  all 
that.  Dramatic  stuff  doesn't  come  easily 
to  me;  I'd  much  rather  do  comedy.  I  guess 


Bill  was  trying  to  make  things  easier  for 
me. 

"I  don't  argue  with  directors.  I  might 
discuss  things  with  them,  but  I  always 
accept  their  judgment.  Their  job  is  to 
direct,  mine  is  to  act.  If  we  have  a  differ- 
ence of  opinion,  I'll  do  it  their  way.  If  the 
scene  comes  out  badly,  we'll  do  it  over. 
If  it's  good,  the  picture  is  helped  and  I'll 
admit  I  was  wrong." 

Try  as  you  may,  you  can't  find  a  shred 
of  neurosis  in  this  girl.  Her  attitude  is  so 
deucedly  normal  that  it's  catching.  She 
told  of  another  actress  on  The  Rat  Race 
who  was  in  a  bit  of  a  snit  about  something 
that  had  happened  on  the  picture.  Debbie 
stopped  her  ranting  with  this  logic: 

"Three  days  from  now,  you  will  have 
forgotten  what  you  were  so  upset  about. 
And  if  they  push  the  bomb  button,  you 
won't  have  anything  to  remember,  any- 
way." 

Who  knows?  Maybe  a  level-headed  girl 
like  Debbie  Reynolds  can  confound  the 
experts  and  be  able  to  live  without  the 
love  of  a  man. 

For  a  while,  at  least.  end 

Debbie  can  be  seen  in  The  Rat  Race, 
and  The  Pleasure  Of  His  Company,  both 
Paramount,  and  right  now  in  The  Gazebo. 
MGM. 


Daddy's  Pictures  Always  Say  "I  Love  You" 


(Continued  from  page  49) 

most  likely  both — over  which  he  can  ex- 
claim, "Gee,  that  will  make  a  great  pic- 
ture!" 

People  who  don't  know  us  too  well  can 
and  frequently  do  get  the  wrong  idea.  It  is 
not  very  often  that  a  visitor  finds  my 
husband  in  a  vertical  position.  They  are 
just  as  apt  to  encounter  Tony  on  his  back, 
hands  and  feet  waving  like  an  overturned 
beetle,  crawling  on  all  fours  sneaking  up 
on  some  deathless  moment,  hanging  from 
the  chandeliers  or  practically  climbing  up 
a  wall. 

I  remember  one  time  a  flustered  middle- 
aged  woman  was  at  the  house  on  business, 
and  I  overheard  her  whisper  to  her  hus- 
band, who  had  accompanied  her: 

"Good  Lord,  I  would  have  thought  he 
would  be  more  dignified  than  that." 

It's  not  that  Tony  lacks  dignity,  or  even 
that  he's  in  his  second  childhood.  It's 
simply  that  he's  exercising,  with  an  ex- 
uberance that  only  he  is  capable  of,  the 
time-honored  paternal  privilege  of  enjoy- 
ing the  first  childhood  of  his  children. 

I  doubt  that  there  is  a  mood  or  gesture 
either  of  our  four-year-old  daughter,  Kelly 
Lee,  or  one-year-old  Jamie  that  Tony  has 
not  captured  on  film.  He's  taken  pictures 
from  every  conceivable  position,  and  from 
many  positions  not  previously  conceived 
of — including  shots  that  he's  ricocheted  off 
mirrors  to  be  sure  that  the  subjects  were 
unaware  that  his  camera  was  eavesdrop- 
ping. 

"Great  shot,  great  shot  .  . 

Wherever  Tony  and  I  go,  the  babies  go, 
and  wherever  the  babies  go,  Tony's  cam- 
eras go,  too.  Kelly  and  Jamie  are  never 
safe  from  his  image  grabbers — whether 
peeking  out  of  their  carriages  as  infants, 
waking  up  from  a  sound  sleep,  raiding  the 
candy  jar,  or  being  wheeled  by  me — as 
Kelly  was — on  the  streets  of  Paris,  London 
and  Berlin,  with  Tony  walking  backwards, 
oblivious  of  the  gaping  crowds,  and  yelling 
like  a  crazy  American  tourist,  "Great  shot! 
Great  shot!" 

Yet  in  all  the  thousands  upon  thousands 
63  of  pictures  that  Tony  has  taken  of  the  chil- 


dren I  don't  think  there's  a  single  stereo- 
typed pose.  In  fact  there  just  isn't  anything 
posed.  Pose  is  a  dirty  word  to  Tony.  If  a 
situation  is  stilted,  artificial  or  prosaic  he 
wouldn't  think  of  contaminating  his  film 
with  it. 

Tony  never  takes  a  picture  because  it's 
a  special  occasion,  a  holiday,  a  birthday- 
party  or  anything  like  that.  He  just  takes 
pictures  when  it  comes  on  him,  and  believe 
me,  it  comes  on  him  often-  With  him,  there's 
no  such  thing  as  blowing  the  dust  off  the 
cameras  to  photograph  the  children  at 
six  months,  one  year  and  eighteen  months. 
He  does  it  when  the  spirit  moves  him. 

He  hates  it  when  I  forget  myself  and 
say,  "Tony,  I  think  we  ought  to  take  some 
pictures  because  grandma  and  grandpa  are 
here  today,"  or  if  I  have  a  similar  lapse 
and  remark,  "Gee,  this  is  the  first  day  the 
sun's  come  out  in  a  long  time.  Don't  you 
think  it  would  be  nice  to  take  pictures?" 

Tony  is  absolutely  insulted  when  I  make 
a  suggestion  like  that.  He  feels  I  should 
know  better,  and  I  do — when  I  think  about 
it.  Tony  despises  the  idea  of  taking  ordi- 
nary pictures.  To  him  it  isn't  enough  that 
he's  taking  pictures  of  Kelly  and  Jamie. 
Our  little  girls  must  be  doing  something  he 
feels  would  be  worth  putting  on  film  even 
if  they  weren't  related  to  us.  Long  before 
all  the  quiz  and  'payola'  scandals,  Tony 
never  would  think  of  taking  a  rigged 
picture. 

If  he's  shooting  Kelly  and  Jamie,  what  he 
tries  to  do  is  let  them  do  what  they're 
going  to  do  anyhow.  He  shoots  very  fast. 
He  may  take  thirty  pictures  in  just  a  few 
minutes,  and  he  catches  wonderful  ex- 
pressions that  way. 

The  exclusive  pictures  accompanying  this 
story  are  examples  of  unforgettable  mo- 
ments Tony  has  preserved  on  film.  This 
is  the  very  first  time  he  has  allowed  any 
of  his  pictures  to  be  published.  Tony  never 
took  them  with  anything  like  that  in  mind. 
But  I  feel  they're  so  wonderful,  that  look- 
ing at  them  has  brought  us  such  pleasure, 
that  it  would  be  nice  to  share  them. 

I  couldn't  even  begin  to  describe  Tony's 
equipment.  The  only  way  I  can  take  a  pic- 


ture is  to  push  down  a  Brownie  button. 
With  Tony,  it's  a  science — a  challenge.  He's 
always  making  sure  of  the  lighting,  taking 
readings  on  the  light  meter,  figuring  out 
composition.  He's  always  spinning  dials 
and  making  settings.  He  switches  like  a 
juggler  from  one  camera  to  another,  from 
his  thirty-five  millimeter  to  his  Polaroid— 
for  a  fast  sixty -second  burst  of  enthusiasm 
or  groan  of  disappointment — or  the  home 
movie  camera.  He's  a  real  expert  with  his 
camera  gear,  but  shall  I  tell  you  some- 
thing? 

I'm  convinced  that  the  real  secret  of 
Tony's  gift  for  picture  taking  is  that  he 
photographs  with  his  heart.  He  doesn't 
take  pictures  with  film  alone.  He  weaves 
some  kind  of  magic  with  his  love  and  en- 
thusiasm. There  isn't  a  picture  he's  ever 
taken  of  the  children  that  doesn't  have  "I 
love  you"  written  all  over  it.  Every  snap- 
shot is  a  valentine  from  their  daddy.  Waves 
of  mutual  adoration  go  back  and  forth 
between  them  and  somehow — not  because 
of  all  the  intricate  gadgets,  but  in  spite  of 
them — that  exquisite  affection  gets  on  film. 
All  Tony's  rejoicing  in  the  children,  all 
his  tenderness  for  them  is  transmuted 
when  Tony  clicks  the  camera. 

It  simply  would  be  impossible  to  say  that 
any  set  of  pictures  are  the  five  or  ten  best 
Tony  has  ever  taken.  But  those  published 
with  this  article  certainly  have  those  won- 
derful, intangible  qualities  that  only  so 
loving  a  father  could  imprison  in  the  split 
second  it  takes  for  an  insight  into  human 
personality  to  dart  across  a  room. 

Tony  shot  most  of  them  week  ends, 
afternoons  at  the  pool  or  evenings  in  the 
house,  while  we  were  playing  man  and 
wife,  of  all  things,  in  Who  Was  That  Lady? 
If  I  may  be  pardoned  a  slight  family  bias, 
I  think  they're  priceless. 

Take  that  precious  picture  where  Kelly 
is  laughing  so  hard,  so  joyously,  that  she 
just  can't  contain  herself.  That's  the  shot 
in  which  she's  got  her  little  terrycloth  robe 
over  her  sunsuit.  Let's  admit  that  Kelly  is 
a  ham — which  she  most  assuredly  is.  Still, 
in  a  hundred  years  no  one  could  purposely 
pose  a  picture  like  that.  Of  course  while 
her  daddy  insists  on  spontaneity  at  all 
costs,  he  is  not  beyond  inducing  spon- 
taneity. And  if  there's  one  thing  Tony- 
knows,  it's  where  Kelly's  funnybone  is 
located.  There's  nothing  in  the  world  Tony- 
enjoys    more   than   the   laughter   of  the 


children,  and  there  seems  to  be  nothing 
they  enjoy  more  than  to  have  their  daddy 
make  them  laugh. 

When  Tony  took  this  particular  picture, 
Kelly  had  been  swimming  all  afternoon 
and  she  was  awfully  tired.  But  Tony  is  a 
big  tease  and  he  felt  like  playing  with  her. 
Pretty  soon  Kelly  was  laughing  and  laugh- 
ing, and  poor  Tony  was  frantically  flying 
off  for  the  cameras.  By  the  time  he  re- 
turned to  the  scene  of  the  hilarity,  Kelly 
was  limp  with  exhaustion.  She'd  laughed 
herself  dry.  But  Tony  had  no  intention  of 
letting  that  moment  get  away.  He  aimed 
his  camera,  made  funny  faces  and  kept 
threatening,  "I'm  gonna  tickle  you!  I'm 
gonna  tickle  you!" 

It  doesn't  take  too  much  to  give  Kelly 
the  giggles,  anyhow.  Pretty  soon  the  giggles 
developed  into  rolling  laughter.  And  with 
Tony  goading  her  on,  there  was  no  stop- 
ping Kelly.  She  got  to  laughing  so  hard 
that  she  had  to  hold  herself.  She  almost 
couldn't  stand  it.  To  Tony,  who  drinks  of 
Kelly's  laughter  as  nectar  from  the  gods, 
this  was  something  worth  photographing. 

Tony's  assistant 

There  have  been  times,  I  must  hasten  to 
add,  when  Tony  has  been  similarly  moved 
by  moods  of  the  children,  but  has  been 
unable  to  get  them  to  sustain  or  turn  on 
these  moods  again.  Somehow,  in  many 
cases  like  that,  I  seem  to  wind  up  in  the 
middle.  When  Tony  is  after  a  picture  of  the 
children  he  simply  takes  the  impossible  for 
granted.  He's  such  a  bug  for  trapping  the 
unexpected  that  he  sees  no  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  be  able  to  freeze  spontaneity 
dead  in  its  tracks  until  he  can  get  film  into 
the  camera. 

Jamie  or  Kelly  might  suddenly  be  doing 
something  he'd  like  to  photograph.  He'll 
turn  to  me,  and  shout,  "Hold  that  now! 
Hold  that,  Janet!  Keep  her  there  and  don't 
let  her  change  that  expression!" 

It's  nice  that  Tony  should  credit  me  with 
such  occult  powers,  but  somehow  I  al- 
ways let  him  down,  and  he  never  seems 
quite  able  to  understand  my  mortal  fail- 
ings. 

"Why  did  you  let  her  move?"  he  asks, 
completely  crushed.  "I  told  you  to  keep 
her  that  way." 

But  if  Tony  seems  a  trifle  unreasonable 
at  such  moments,  I  never  really  mind.  It 
is  such  a  small  price  to  pay  for  the  pictures 
that  he  doesn't  miss,  and  that  he'd  never 
get  if  he  wasn't  just  a  little  bit  hysterical 
about  the  whole  thing. 

In  another  of  the  accompanying  pictures. 
Tony  caught  Kelly  as  she  took  it  into  her 
pixie  head  to  play  with  the  little  golf  stool 
that  Tony  was  using  while  convalescing 
from  the  injury  to  his  leg.  What  he  caught 
in  that  picture,  which  is  so  darling  to  both 
of  us,  is  not  merely  Kelly  in  a  playful 
mood,  but  the  serenity,  the  wistfulness  that 
is  so  much  a  part  of  her  personality.  And 
he  took  such  sensitive  advantage  of  the 
luminous  light  coming  in  through  the 
windows  that  he  had  her  emerge  pictori- 
ally  as  she  is  in  his  heart — an  angel. 

In  another  moment  that  I  think  is  per- 
fectly breathtaking,  Tony  captured  that 
absolutely  divine  image  of  Kelly  cupping 
her  face  in  her  hands  and  being  a  positive 
riot  of  coyness.  Her  coyness  was  prompted 
by  the  fact  that  she  was  wearing  her  frilly 
baby- doll  pajamas  for  the  first  time,  and 
was  showing  them  off  for  her  daddy  as  she 
came  down  to  say  good  night. 

Weather  willing — and  it  pretty  nearly 
is  the  year  round —  I  take  little  Jamie  in 
the  water  almost  every  day  I'm  not  work- 
ing. She  just  loves  it.  She  splashes,  kicks 
and  purrs.  I'm  sure  she'll  grow  up  to  be 
a  wonderful  swimmer.  Usually  I  don't  even 
bother  to  put  anything  on  Jamie  when  it's 
swim-time.  One  day,  when  I  didn't  realize 
Tony  was  home,  I  decided  to  show  my  little 
birthday-suit-girl   how  to   float   on  her 


back.  As  I  started  to  put  her  in  position, 
I  heard  a  roar  of  approval  from  the  side- 
lines. 

"Wonderful!"  Tony  yelled  as  he  dangled 
like  a  spider  from  a  ladder  rail  and  kept 
taking  pictures.  "Just  beautiful,  Janet. 
Beautiful!" 

Considering  how  the  pictures  came  out, 
I  wouldn't  even  say  that  Tony  was  carried 
away  with  his  enthusiasm. 

Spontaneity — sometimes  induced 

Tony's  own  zest  for  living  and  his  sensi- 
tivity to  beauty  are  always  the  determining 
factors.  The  shot  he  took  of  Kelly  going 
for  that  toy  is,  in  my  opinion,  a  cameo.  I'd 
go  so  far  as  to  say  that  another  masterpiece 
of  its  kind  was  the  picture  Tony  took  of 
Kelly  as  she  was  poised  to  leap  off  the 
diving  board.  He  caught  the  expression  on 
her  face  so  vividly  as  her  little  toes  left  the 
board  that  looking  at  the  picture  you 
practically  can  hear  her  counting  off,  "'One 
— two — fee — jump!" 

As  you  might  know,  Kelly  doesn't  always 
feel  like  sitting — or  standing — still  for 
daddy's  hobby.  It  is  during  such  spells  of 
reluctance  that  Tony  is  forced  to  fall  back 
on  his  induced  spontaneity.  Once  when  all 
other  conditions  were  perfect  but  Kelly 
wasn't  in  the  mood,  Tony  charmed  her  into 
cooperating  by  giving  her  a  camera  and 
saying,  "All  right,  you  take  a  picture  of 
Daddy." 

Sitting  on  the  floor  like  a  trading  post 
Indian.  Tony  got  this  hauntingly  lovely 
study  of  Kelly  with  the  hall  seeming  to 
unreel  behind  her. 

Most  of  Tony's  pictures  are  gems,  but  as 
I  mentioned  before,  sometimes  even  the 
master  misses.  I  remember  when  Kelly  was 
starting  to  walk.  Oh,  poor  Tony  was  so 
anxious  to  get  home  movies  of  that.  He  was 
so  excited!  He  went  to  such  trouble  to  set 
up  the  whole  thing  in  her  room.  The  after- 
noon fight  spilling  through  the  curtains 
was  just  right.  As  far  as  Tony  was  con- 
cerned, he  couldn't  ask  for  more  ideal 
conditions  under  which  to  photograph  this 
imperishable  moment  in  Kelly's  develop- 
ment. 

Everything  was  under  control — but 
Kelly.  Not  that  she  stopped  walking  the 
minute  Tony  trained  the  home  movie 
camera  on  her.  She  walked  a  blue  streak — 
only  out  of  camera  range,  out  of  the  light, 
and  out  of  sight.  Tony  almost  went  out  of 
his  mind.  He  cooed  and  crooned  to  her. 
Ordinarily,  she'd  be  spellbound  at  the 
sound  of  his  blandishments.  This  time, 
wouldn't  you  know,  she  was  aloof.  She 
turned  her  back  on  Tony  as  if  he  wasn't 
in  the  room.  She  climbed  up  a  chair.  She 
did  everything  but  get  within  camera 
range. 

Tony  waited  and  waited  and  waited, 
tried  and  tried  and  tried.  Finally,  he  was 
so  exasperated  that  he  reached  for  his 
handkerchief  and  wiped  his  face.  Somehow 
the  sight  of  the  kerchief  as  Tony  mopped 
his  furrowed  brow  intrigued  Kelly  and 
she  made  a  beeline  for  him— right  in 
camera  range! 

The  trouble  was  that  Tony  was  operating 
the  handkerchief  instead  of  the  camera, 
and  he  never  did  get  pictures  of  Kelly's 
first  steps. 

Tony,  the  Picture  Taker,  is  not  infallible, 
I  grant.  However,  considering  the  pictures 
he  has  come  up  with,  and  considering  that 
every  last  one  of  them  is  so  fresh  and 
natural  and  uncontrived,  I'd  venture  that 
my  husband  has  the  smallest  margin  of 
error  of  any  picture-taking  father  in  cap- 
tivity. And  he  has  that  rarest  of  talents — 
the  ability  to  put  "I  love  you"  on  film.  END 

Tony  and  Janet  are  seen  in  Who  Was 
That  Lady?,  Columbia;  Janet  stars  in 
Psycho,  Paramount,  and  Tony  in  The  Rat 
Race,  Paramount,  Spartacus,  Universal-In- 
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CITY  STATE 


MARCH 
BIRTHDAYS 

If  your  birthday  falls  in  March,  your 
birthstone  is  the  aquamarine  and  your 
flower  is  the  jonquil.  And  here  are  some  of 
the  stars  who  share  it  with  you: 

March    l—  Harry  Belafonte 
David  Niven 

March    2—  Jennifer  Jones 
Desi  Arnaz 

March    8—  Cyd  Charisse 
Sean  McClory 

March  16 — Cornell  Borchers 
Jerry  Lewis 

March  //--Michael  O'Shea 

March  IS    Marjorie  Hellen 

March  19 — Louis  Hayward 

March  20—  Wendell  Corey 

March  22— Karl  Maiden 

March  23— Joan  Crawford 

March  24 —  Richard  Conte 
Gene  Nelson 

March  26—  Sterling  Haydert 

March  28—  Frank  Lovejoy 

March  29—  Dennis  O'Keefe 

March  31—  Diane  Jergens 
Shirley  Jones 
Richard  Kiley 


Jay  C.  Fiippen  John  Smith 

March  6  March  6 


Gordon  MacRae  MacDonald  Carey 

70  March  12  March  15 


Last  Photos  of  Diane  Varsi 


{Continued  from  page  40) 

in  that  tiny  annex  right  next  door  to  it. 
It's  got  two  rooms  upstairs.  Two  rooms 
down  .  .  Fools  lots  of  curious  folks  who 
drive  by  Sundays  to  take  a  look  and  who 
think  that  maybe  they'll  get  to  see  her  and 
that  little  son  of  hers."  He  turned  his  head 
slightly.  "She's  been  divorced  twice,  you 
know,"  he  said.  "Son's  from  the  first  mar- 
riage .  .  .  Twenty-two  years  old  and  di- 
vorced twice.  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 
He  looked  back  at  the  road.  "Yup,"  he 
said,  "that's  it,  up  ahead,  the  small  place. 
And  it  sure  fools  folks  who  drive  by  Sun- 
days to  take  a  look.  Most  of  'em  think 
she's  still  got  all  that  California  money 
and  lives  in  the  big  house." 

He  stopped  the  cab,  with  a  jolt,  in  front 
of  the  little  place. 

"I  better  wait,"  he  said,  as  we  paid  him 
and  got  out.  "You're  liable  to  be  right 
back  in  here,  you  know." 

We  felt  him  watching  us  as  we  walked 
to  the  door  and  knocked;  as — after  a  few 
moments — the  door  opened  and  Diane 
stood  there  looking  at  us;  as  she  whispered 
something,  surprised,  at  first;  and  then  as 
she  began  to  smile  a  little  and  said  how 
nice  it  was  to  see  us  and  asked  us  if 
we  wouldn't  come  inside. 

"You  stayin'?"  we  heard  the  cabdriver 
call  out,  at  that  point. 

We  said  we  were,  for  a  little  while. 

"Humph."  he  said.  Then  he  said,  "Well, 
let's  make  it  a  hour-and-a-half,  if  that's 
all  right  with  you.  'Cause  you  can't  phone 
me  when  you  want  me  to  come.  She  ain't 
even  got  a  phone  in  there!" 

Diane  today 

And,  with  that,  he  drove  away.  .  .  . 

Diane  closed  the  front  door  and  led  us 
into  the  living  room  of  her  house.  As  we 
walked  along  with  her,  we  noticed  that 
she  looked  lovely,  and  relaxed — more  love- 
ly, more  relaxed  than  we  had  ever  known 
her  to  look.  She  was  dressed  in  slacks,  light 
blue,  and  a  white  blouse.  Her  hair  was 
longer  than  she  had  usually  worn  it,  soft- 
er-looking, it  seemed.  Her  blue  eyes  were 
bright.  Her  skin  was  clear,  her  cheeks 
rosy,  minus  the  blemishes  that  had  marred 
them  at  the  time  she  left  Hollywood. 

The  living  room  we  entered  now  was  a 
smallish  room,  no  larger  than  eight-by- 
twenty;  sparsely-furnished — with  one 
couch,  one  chair,  a  phonograph,  some  rec- 
ords, a  bookcase — half -filled,  a  Picasso 
print  on  one  of  the  walls,  a  pair  of  neat 
but  ancient-looking  curtains  on  the  win- 
dow. 

We  both  sat. 

And  Diane  spoke  first. 

She  asked  us  nothing  about  why  we  had 
come  to  see  her  (a  subject  we  ourselves 
didn't  intend  to  bring  up  immediately). 
Instead,  she  said,  very  simply,  "Nobody 
has  ever  come  to  visit  here  before.  You're 
the  first  company  I've  had  in  this  house. 
It  feels  nice.  Very,  very  nice." 

Then,  quickly,  she  began  to  ask  about 
the  few  good  friends  she'd  had  in  Holly- 
wood the  three  years  she  was  there,  people 
we  mutually  knew. 

She  asked  about  Diane  Baker,  Dick  Sar- 
gent, Dean  Stockwell. 

She'd  worked  with  Dean  in  Compulsion, 
her  last  picture.  They'd  been  very  close. 
"Has  he  done  any  directing?"  she  asked. 
"I  remember  the  last  time  I  talked  to  him 
he  said  how  anxious  he  was  to  do  that." 

We  told  Diane  that  as  far  as  we  knew 
he  hadn't  directed  anything  yet,  but  that 
he  was  doing  lots  of  television.  Had  she 
seen  him,  we  asked,  in  the  Ernest  Heming- 
way story,  The  Killers,  a  few  months 
back? 


Diane  shook  her  head. 

"Like  the  taxi  man  told  you,  I  don't  own 
a  phone,"  she  said,  "and  I  don't  own  a 
TV  either. 

"Maybe  when  Shawn  is  a  little  older — 
maybe  then  I'll  get  one,"  she  went  on.  "I 
mean,  he'll  want  to  see  things  like  cartoons, 
the  Disney  things.  And  the  way  he's  so 
crazy  about  cowboys — "  She  nodded.  "Yes, 
I  guess  I'll  have  to  get  one  then,  when  he's 
older  .  .  .  But  not  before." 

We  asked  about  Shawn,  how  he  was. 

"Sweet,"  Diane  said.  "A  good  boy."  He 
went  upstairs  now,  she  said.  He'd  had  his 
nap  a  little  while  earlier  and  he  was  up- 
stairs getting  dressed.  "My  mother's  here 
for  a  while,  with  us,  and  she's  helping. 
They  get  along  very  well.  They're  very 
simpatico,  my  mother  and  my  son.  They 
can  spend  hour  after  hour  together  and 
enjoy  themselves  thoroughly.  Time  passes 
very  quickly  for  them." 

And  how  was  time  passing  for  herself? 
we  asked. 

"It  passes  well,"  Diane  said,  smiling  a 
little  again.  She  brought  her  hands  up 
behind  her  head.  Taking  care  of  her  son 
— of  her  house — that  made  time  pass,  she 
said.  Fooling  around  with  her  jeep  when 
something  went  wrong  with  it — that  made 
time  pass.  Taking  classes  at  the  college  a 
few  times  a  week — mostly  in  poetry — 
studying,  reading,  writing  poetry  of  her 
own — that  made  time  pass. 

We  asked  Diane  if  we  could  read  one  of 
her  poems,  hear  one. 

"Never,"  she  said,  bringing  down  her 
hands  and  clapping  them  together,  laugh- 
ingly. "Nobody  read  Emily  Dickinson's 
poems  till  she  was  dead.  And  nobody's 
going  to  read  mine — ever."  She  winked. 
"Unless  maybe  one,  someday,  maybe,  if  I 
feel  it's  good  enough." 

She  got  up,  suddenly. 

"Coffee,"  she  said,  " — I  should  have 
asked  you  earlier.  Would  you  like  some? 
Good  and  hot  and  with  rich  brown  sugar?" 

We  said  we  would. 

Souvenirs 

Diane  headed  for  a  door  that  led  to  the 
kitchen,  stopped  midway  and  walked  over 
to  the  phonograph  instead.  She  picked  up 
the  few  records  that  lay  on  the  floor,  un- 
derneath the  phonograph,  and  examined 
them.  "Just  so  you  won't  get  bored  wait- 
ing," she  said,  "how  about  a  little  music?" 

We  noticed  that  one  of  the  records  was 
a  capriccio  by  Saints-Saens.  One  was 
Bach — toccatas  and  fugues.  One  was  the 
Surprise  Symphony  by  Haydn.  One  was 
Kurt  Weill's  Berlin  Songs  .  .  .  We  remem- 
bered, silently,  that  these  were  the  same 
few  records  Diane  had  had  when  she  was 
back  in  Hollywood,  in  her  home  in  To- 
panga  Canyon.  And  we  wondered,  silent- 
ly, if  Diane  kept  these  records,  and  only 
these  records,  as  a  link  to  the  past,  a 
past  she  somehow  missed.  Despite  her  re- 
laxed look.  Despite  her  smiles.  Her  laugh- 
ter. .  .  . 

We  brought  up  the  subject  of  returning 
to  Hollywood,  finally,  a  little  while  later, 
as  we  were  having  our  coffee. 

We  brought  it  up  suddenly,  in  order  to 
get  an  immediate  and  true  reaction. 

And  a  reaction  we  got. 

Before  Diane  said  a  word  the  coloring  in 
her  cheeks  vanished,  we  saw.  The  bright- 
ness in  her  eyes  dimmed.  Her  lips  pursed 
momentarily.  And  then  she  sighed  and, 
her  voice  tight-sounding,  tense,  she  said. 
"I  couldn't  ever  go  back.  It's  not  for  me. 
It  never  was  and  it  never  will  be.  Know 
that  .  .  .  please.  Please  know  that." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment. 


"Do  you  know  what  living  out  there 
did  to  me?"  she  asked,  then.  "When  I  got 
sick — you  remember  that,  don't  you?  How 
the  studio  said  I  was  just  a  little  tired, 
nervous,  needed  a  couple  of  weeks  in  the 
hospital?  How  they  didn't  say  that  for 
five  days  of  those  two  weeks  I  was  blacked 
out,  completely  blacked  out,  sick  and  tired 
and  completely  blacked  out? 

"The  opposition  .  .  .  Maybe  the  right 
word  is  jealous  y,  competition- — I  don't 
know.  But  the  first  word  that  comes  to 
my  mind  is  opposition.  I  felt  it  there,  in 
that  town,  Hollywood.  All  the  time.  All 
over  ...  I  could  never  take  opposition. 
Even  as  a  little  girl,  playing  a  game,  chil- 
dren opposing  one  another.  I  couldn't  take 
it  then,  when  I  was  small.  I  can't  ever  take 
it.  Other  people  can.  But  not  me." 

She  turned  away  from  us,  towards  the 
window. 

"Here  it's   different,"   she  said 

"There's  nothing  to  fight  here.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I'm  somewhere  where 
there's  nothing  to  fight.  There's  only  beau- 
ty here.  Only  nature.  Things  change — they 
are  not  stagnant  here.  Things  change,  and 
in  their  changing  there  is  .  .  .  peace.  The 
peace  of  a  snowfall,  the  peace  of  a  bird  in 
spring,  the  peace  of  the  summer  sun,  of 
an  autumn  leaf,  that  turns  color  and  with- 
ers but  does  not  die,  not  really.  There's 
quiet  here  .  .  .  but  there's  life  here,  too, 
nonetheless.  To  me,  it's  the  most  real  kind 
of  life.  It's  seeing  things  grow,  and  die, 
and  then  become  reborn  again.  There's  no 
destruction  here.  There's  only  peace.  And 
quiet.  And  the  most  beautiful  kind  of 
strength." 

Shawn 

She  rose  again,  suddenly,  at  the  sound 
of  a  noise  on  the  staircase. 

"And  there's  him,  my  son,"  she  said, 
walking  toward  the  doorway.  "I  have 
him  all  the  time  here.  He's  mine  here.  No 
maids,  no  nannys,  no  baby-sitters  sitting 
by  while  I  am  off  in  the  world  of  make- 
believe.  I  have  him,  in  this,  my  real  world. 
And,  believe  me,  I  need  nobody  except  my 
baby." 

Shawn,  a  handsome,  blond-haired  boy — 
three-and-a-half  years  old  now — rushed 
into  the  room  at  this  point,  and  over  to 


Diane.  He  wore  a  fancy  little  cowboy  suit. 
He  held  a  small  object  in  his  hand. 

"Mommy,"  he  asked,  holding  up  the  ob- 
ject, "What's  this?" 

"A  Brillo  pad,"  Diane  said.  "That  is 
called  a  Brillo  pad." 

"And  what's  that?"  Shawn  asked. 

"A  pad — for  cleaning — that  I  use  for 
cleaning  the  kitchen,  and  the  bathroom." 
Diane  said. 

Shawn  nodded. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  he  said. 

Then  he  asked.  "And  what  are  you, 
Mommy?" 

Diane  looked  down  at  her  son  for  a 
moment.  And  then  she  knelt  and  took  him 
in  her  arms  and  she  hugged  him,  very 
tight. 

"I  am  a  person.  Shawn,"  she  said.  "And 
more  and  more  and  more,  as  I  live,  I  hope 
to  become  a  better  person.  .  .  ." 

A  message  from  Diane 

The  cabdriver  removed  the  toothpick 
from  his  mouth  as  he  drove  away  from 
the  house. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "you  get  what  you 
came  for?" 
No,  we  told  him. 

"Too  bad,"  he  said,  "Not  even  any  pic- 
tures with  that  camera  you  lugged?" 

A  few  pictures,  yes,  a  few  pictures  we  i 
got,  we  said    But  they  were  the  last  pic-  ! 
tures  that  would  ever  be  taken  of  Diane  ' 
Varsi,  we  added.    Because  nobody  was 
ever  going  to  come  bother  her  again.  We  : 
had  come  with  a  message.  Now  we  would 
return  with  one.    Leave  her  alone,  we 
would  say  to  the  world  outside.    She  is  I 
happy.  She  is  very  happy.   And  what  is  I 
more  important  than  that? 

The  old  cabdriver  shrugged. 

"Humph,"  he  said,  "and  why  shouldn't 
she  be  happy  here?  This  is  a  friendly  place  I 
we  have  here,  ain't  it?" 

As  he  said  that,  a  very  light  snow  began  I 
to  fall.  And  we  thought  of  what  Diane 
had  said  about  her  snowfalls  here,  of  her  I 
bird  in  spring,  of  her  summer  sun,  her  | 
turning  leaves,  of  the  joy  these  things  i 
brought  her.  the  new-found  love  she  felt  J 
for  them. 

And  we  said,  "Yes,  it  is.  A  very  friendly 
place  you  have  here  "  END 


Biography  of  a  Beatnik  Boy 


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{Continued  from  page  23) 

Joannie,  then  at  his  son  Jim.  "Didn't  we, 
Mike,  hah? — Didn't  we  get  it?"  he  asked, 
squeezing  the  hand  he  was  holding. 

The  small  boy  looked  at  the  others,  too, 
and  nodded. 

"The  MGM,"  Papa  Gubitoni  said,  "—the 
biggest  studio  in  all  Hollywood.  They  gave 
our  baby  a  test  today  and  before  we  could 
leave  they  said  they  want  him  for  the 
Our  Gang.  The  big,  famous  Our  Gang 
comedies.  He's  a  movie  star,  our  Mike, 
our  little  boy.  Everybody,  get  up  from 
your  chair  and  come  kiss  him." 

The  others  did,  obediently. 

And  as  they  did,  Papa  Gubitoni  closed 
his  eyes.  "They  laughed,"  he  said,  "they 
made  faces,  they  whispered  things  behind 
my  back,  those  people  in  Nutley,  New 
Jers',  when  I  told  them:  'Yes,  yes,  it's  true. 
I  only  got  seventy-five  dollar  to  my  name, 
but  I  sick  of  this  Depression  and  this  WPA 
and  I  gonna  pack  my  family  in  the  car 
and  take  them  to  Hollywood,  California, 
and  make  my  Mike  a  movie  star.  Because 
he's  got  talent,  my  Mike.  You  just  gotta 
hear  him  sing,  a  kid  his  age,  to  know  that, 
how  much  talent  he  got!'  .  .  .  They  laughed, 
and  whispered.  And,  San  Rocco,  mio,  what 
they  would  have  done  when  they  see  us 


arrive  here  last  month,  ail  dirty  and  with 
only  thirty-eight  dollar  left  out  of  the 
seventy-five,  and  having  to  move  into  this 
place,  two  tiny  room  and  a  lousy  tiny 
bathroom,  worse  than  anything  even  in 
Nutley,  New  Jers',  hah?" 

He  opened  his  eyes,  quickly. 

"Hah?  What  they  would  have  said?"  he 
asked. 

The  others,  all  standing  now,  nodded. 

"Well,"  Papa  Gubitoni  went  on,  "the 
next  things  they're  all  gonna  say,  I  can 
tell  you  what  those  are  gonna  be.  They're 
gonna  say,  'That  Gubitoni,  did  you  hear 
about  his  kid?  He's  in  the  Our  Gang,  in 
Hollywood,  the  movies,  honest  to  God!' 
And  ten  years  from  now  they're  gonna  say, 
'That  Gubitoni,  you  remember?  Well,  his 
kid's  still  in  the  movies,  better  all  the 
time,  working  all  the  time,  making  we 
don't  know  how  much  money  by  now.  San 
Rocco  mio,  and  how  we  used  to  laugh  at 
the  old  man.  And  just  look  at  him  and  his 
kid  today!" 

He  looked  down  at  his  son. 

"Mi  jai  felice,  Michele,"  he  said.  "You 
make  me  very  proud  and  happy,  Mike,  by 
what  happen  today." 

"That's  good."  the  boy  said,  shrugging. 


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The  Nation's  Top  Disk  Jockeys  pose  a 
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1.  He  has  attained  phenomenal 
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short    time.   He's    married  to 
Eydie  Gorme,  records  for  ABC- 
Paramount,  was  featured  on  the 
Steve  Allen  show. 
Fred   Allen,      2.  This  trio  records  for  Capitol. 
WIRK,  West  The  boys  had  a  hit  in  Tom 

Palm  Beach,      Dooley;   their  latest   single  is 
Coo  Coo  U.  Their  hobbies  are 
songwriting,  surfing, 
sports   car   racing,   and  .. 
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long    scored    music  for 
spectacular-type  movies. 
His  latest  music  is  for  SJL 
the  film  Ben-Hur,  and 
was  released  as  an  album   Ken    Gaughran,  WREB, 
by  Lion  Records.  Holyoke'  Mass' 

4.  This   gal  vocalist 

gained  fame  singing  ivith  Benny  Goodman's 
band.  She's  appeared  in  mov- 
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Skin.  Latest  album  is  Beauty 
And  The  Beat,  with  George 
Shearing. 

5.  This  young  vocalist  came 
to  America's  notice  with 
his  recording  of  Venus.  First 

KEZYny  Anaheim!  movie  wa,s  Gun*  0f  The  Tim- 
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He  records  for  Chancellor. 

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known  for  his  lush  ar- 
rangements. One  of  his  own 
songs  is  Holiday  For  Strings. 
Lion  has  issued  an  album 
titled  The  Magic  Melodies 
Of  . 

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famous  for  comedy  song-       ;  \ 

renditions,    is    married    to  W 
vocalist  Keely  Smith.  Lat-  * 
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Cucuzza,   backed  by  Hey!     cit*'  N-  Y- 
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vmujnnoj 
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"And  all  of  us,  the  family,"  Papa  Gubi- 
toni  said,  looking  back  at  the  others,  "all 
of  us  should  be  very  proud  of  our  baby." 
"We  are,"  his  wife  said. 
"We  are,"  said  Joannie,  then  Jim. 
"Now,"  said  Papa  Gubitoni,  walking  over 
to  the  table,  still  holding  his  young  son  by 
the  hand,  "for  tonight  you  sit  here,  at  my 
place,  Mike.  And  you  eat  in  the  place  of 
honor.  And  as  long  as  you  live  you  will 
remember  this  night,  and  the  happiness 
that  you  bring  to  all  of  us." 
He  let  go  of  the  boy's  hand. 
The  boy  stood  there,  motionless  momen- 
tarily, confused. 

"Go  'head,  sit,"  Papa  Gubitoni  said. 
And  as  the  boy  did,  finally,  Papa  Gubi- 
toni picked  up  the  plate  in  front  of  him 
and  walked  to  the  stove  to  serve  him  him- 
self. .  .  . 

Hard  work  and  pampering 

"I  played  in  the  Our  Gang  series  for  five 
years,  till  I  was  ten,"  Robert  Blake  (for- 
merly Michael  Gubitoni)  says  today.  "I 
don't  remember  much  about  those  years 
except  that  it  was  a  lot  of  hard  work  and 
that  I  got  a  lot  of  pampering,  from  my 
father  at  home  and  from  producers  and 
directors  at  the  studio.  But  then,  when  I 
was  ten,  the  series  was  dropped,  I  was  re- 
leased from  my  contract  and  the  misery  be- 
gan. At  first  it  centered  around  school.  I 
was  sent  to  a  public  school  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  and  I  found  out  right  away 
what  people  on  the  outside  thought  of 
child  stars.  They  hated  them.  The  teachers 
figured  I  had  to  be  snotty,  because  of  my 
|  background,  and  so  that's  what  they  were 
to  me.  Snotty.  The  kids — they  were  even 
worse;  the  same  kids  who  used  to  run  to 
see  me  on  the  screen  on  Saturday  after- 
noons. Well,  I  found  out  the  movies  were 
one  thing  and  real  life  was  another.  And 
now  that  these  kids  had  me  in  their  midst, 
in  real  life,  I  was  like  some  crippled  mon- 
ster to  them.  They'd  pass  jokes  and  push 
me  around  and  a  couple  of  times  a  few  of 
them  sneaked  up  on  me  and  pulled  off  my 
pants  and  threw  them  out  the  window.  As 
time  went  on,  things  got  worse.  I  got  beat 
up  more  than  once  and  I  guess  the  only 
reason  I  never  fought  back  was  that  I 
figured  once  I  started  throwing  my  fists 
around  I  would  never  stop.  Anyway,  that 
was  school,  the  misery  there.  Then  there 
was  the  misery  at  home.  My  father,  he 
was  like  a  broken  man  when  I  wasn't 
working.  He'd  had  this  big  dream  about 
me  going  places,  and  now  nothing  was 
happening.  He  was  broken,  defeated.  And 
always  complaining.  Twice  he  got  happy 
again.  Once  was  when  I  was  about  twelve 
and  Republic  Pictures  signed  me  to  play 
Little  Beaver,  the  Indian  boy,  in  the  Red 
Ryder  series.  That  was  a  big  success.  And 
Pop  was  happy.  While  it  lasted.  Then, 
when  I  was  fifteen,  I  was  signed  to  play 
in  Black  Rose,  with  Tyrone  Power.  Pop 
was  real  happy  this  time.  His  son  was  off 
to  Europe  to  make  a  big-time  picture  with 
a  big-time  star  for  a  big-time  studio.  This 
was  going  to  be  it.  The  beginning  of  the 
real  big  stuff.  But  when  Pop's  son — when 
I  got  back  from  Europe  that  week  end  and 
went  back  to  school  that  Monday  morning 
and  got  beat  up  by  a  couple  of  tough  guys 
and  then  got  a  paddling  on  the  behind  by 
the  vice-principal  who  said  it  was  me  who 
started  the  whole  thing,  well,  I  went  home 
and  told  my  father  I  didn't  care  what,  but 
the  hell  with  movies,  and  I  wasn't  ever 
going  to  make  another  one  again.  We  had 
a  big  fight.  I  don't  want  to  say  too  much 
about  it,  because  it's  about  my  family  and 
I  don't  want  them  to  be  hurt  by  this.  But 
things  came  up  during  the  fight  like  me 
asking  what  happened  to  all  the  money  I'd 
made  all  these  years  and  why  didn't  we 
ever  seem  to  have  a  cent,  nothing,  nothing 
except  for  this  new  house  I'd  bought,  and 


I  started  hearing  from  my  father  about 
some  bad  investments  he'd  made  with  the 
money — bad  investments — bad  property — 
bad  land— bad  this— bad  that— and  I 
stopped  my  father  right  in  the  middle  and 
told  him  I  was  getting  out,  leaving,  that  I 
didn't  want  to  live  in  this  place  anymore. 
I  went  upstairs  to  pack  a  suitcase.  When 
I  came  back  down  I  could  hear  my  parents 
talking  in  the  other  room.  My  mother  was 
crying  and  saying,  'He  shouldn't  break  up 
the  family  like  this.'  My  father  was  say- 
ing, 'That  boy  belongs  in  the  house,  with 
us.  What  does  he  mean  by  wanting  to 
leave?  What  does  that  ungrateful  boy 
mean?  That  ungrateful  boy!'  My  sister 
Joannie  was  standing  there,  near  the  front 
door,  as  I  came  down  the  stairs.  She  didn't 
say  anything  but  I  could  tell  from  her 
expression  that  she  understood  why  I  had 
to  go.  I  was  sick  and  miserable  from 
everything  and  I  couldn't  take  it  anymore. 
She  understood,  a  little  at  least.  So  I 
walked  past  her  and  out  the  door.  For  a 
while,  I  just  walked  down  the  street, 
lugging  my  suitcase.  I  didn't  know  where 
to  go.  I  didn't  really  have  enough  money 
to  go  anyplace.  And  then,  suddenly,  it 
came  to  me.  There  was  this  couple,  parents 
of  this  guy  I  knew  who  was  away  in  the 
Marines.  I'd  visited  them  a  few  times.  They 
were  pretty  poor,  so  I  didn't  know  if  they 
could  take  me  on.  They  were  pretty  drunk, 
too,  those  few  times  I'd  seen  them — I'd 
even  heard  they  were  alcoholics — so  I 
didn't  know  if  they'd  want  to  take  me  on. 
But  they  were  good  people.  And  they'd 
been  nice  to  me.  I  remembered  that.  And 
I  thought  I'd  go  to  them  and  see  what 
they'd  say.  .  .  ." 

Cure  for  the  woes 

"Hello  there,  son,"  the  man,  all  bleary- 
eyed,  said  when  he  opened  the  door  and 
saw  Bob.  "Sure,  sure  I  remember  you.  And 
how've  you  been?  Going  someplace  with 
that  valise?  Wanna  stay  here?  Sure.  Sure. 
Now  come  in  and  talk  to  Mama  first.  And 
tell  me,  how've  you  been?" 

"Wanna  stay  here?"  the  woman  was 
asking  Bob  a  few  minutes  later.  "Well, 
now,  I'm  not  gonna  pry  into  why.  Ain't 
none  of  my  business.  But  I'm  gonna  tell 
you  this.  If  you  do  stay  with  us,  we  want 
you  to  be  happy.  We  don't  want  you  feelin' 
formal  about  things  or  addressin'  us  Sir 
and  Ma'am,  like  you  been  doing.  Pop  there 
— he's  Unc.  And  me — I'm  Aunt.  That's  the 
only  condition  we  lay  down  with  you.  We 
want  you  to  feel  like  part  of  the  family. 
And  if  you  don't  like  that,  vou  can  git." 
(They  all  laughed.)  "You'll  stay?"  (Bob 
nodded.)  "Well,  good.  Now  let  me  show 
you  where  you'll  sleep  and  then  let's  all 
keep  quiet  and  watch  TV!" 

It  was  a  little  after  eleven  that  night — 
they  were  sitting  in  the  parlor,  watching 
the  News — when  Unc  passed  Bob  the  bot- 
tle he  and  Aunt  had  been  drinking  from, 
and  a  glass. 

"Help  yourself.  It's  Four  Roses — not  that 
cheap  stuff.  It'll  do  you  good,"  he  said. 

Bob  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  drink  hard — "  he  started  to  say. 

"Hard?"  Unc  asked,  interrupting,  his 
eyes  still  glued  on  the  screen.  "Why,  boy, 
that  what  you  have  in  your  hands,  that  is 
the  softest  and  the  gentlest  stuff  in  the 
whole  world.  It's  warm.  Clean.  Alcohol 
kills  any  impurities.  You  should  know 
that.  And  it'll  make  you  feel  better,  if  it's 
woes  you  got.  It's  made  me  and  Mama 
feel  better  a  long  time  now.  Contented's 
what  we  are  now.  Contented,  not  woeful 
no  longer.  .  .    You  got  woes,  boy?" 

Bob  nodded.  "Yes,"  he  said. 

"Then  help  yourself  to  that  stuff.  Not 
too  much.  But  not  too  little,  either,  if'n  you 
want  to  get  the  proper  effect." 

Bob  looked  at  the  bottle  and  the  glass 
in  his  hands.  Then  he  looked  over  at  Aunt 


and  Unc,  sitting  there,  holding  their  glasses. 

They  both  seemed  very  contented. 

And  so,  after  a  moment,  he  found  him- 
self pouring  a  drink.  .  .  . 

"I  went  to  bed  dead  drunk  that  night," 
he  recalls,  "and  I  was  relaxed  and  happy 
for  the  first  time  I  could  remember,  and 
glad  I'd  gone  there  to  stay.  I  stayed  two 
years,  in  fact,  until  about  a  year  after  I 
graduated  from  high  school.  Practically 
every  night  of  those  two  years  I  got  drunk. 
Not  rowdy.  Not  out  in  bars.  But  home,  just 
me  and  Aunt  and  Unc  together,  real  quiet- 
ly, slowly,  friendly-like,  watching  our  TV 
till  the  moment  came  when  I  just  went  to 
bed  and  forgot  everything  that  had  hap- 
pened in  my  past  and  didn't  care  what 
happened  in  my  future.  Drunk.  Happy. 
Glad  I'd  come  to  stay  . . .  The  one  thing  I 
didn't  count  on,  though,  was  getting  sick. 
After  high  school.  I'd  taken  on  some  jobs. 
Construction  gangs,  lifting  crates  in  a  TV 
factory,  stuff  like  that.  Heavy  work.  Sweat 
work.  Almost  like  self-punishment  work. 
Well,  after  a  while,  between  the  work  and 
the  drink,  I  got  sick.  I  dropped  about 
twenty  pounds,  to  115.  I  had  headaches  all 
the  time,  stomachaches,  aches  in  the  neck, 
the  arms,  everyplace.  .  .  .  Then  one  night 
Aunt  and  Unc  had  a  talk  with  me.  They 
said  they  didn't  want  to  butt  into  my  per- 
sonal affairs,  but  that  maybe  what  I  needed 
was  to  get  back  to  acting.  We  talked  a  long 
time,  me  saying  that  it  was  the  last  thing 
I  wanted  to  do.  ever,  and  them  saying 
maybe  now  that  I'd  been  away  from  it 
two  years  I  would  find  it  different  to  go 
back  to,  better.  While  they  talked,  I  began 
to  realize  something.  That  these  people  had 
been  carrying  me  for  a  long  time  now,  that 
I  was  becoming  a  broken  arm  to  them, 
that  I'd  never  given  them  more  than  a  few 
bucks  a  week  and  that  maybe  it  was  about 
time  I  did  something  to  pay  them  back. 
So  I  said  okay.  And  a  few  days  later  I 


got  myself  an  agent  ...  I'd  never  had  an 
agent  before.  Pop  had  always  handled 
everything  for  me.  But  I  signed  with  this 
fellow  Carlos  Alvarado  now  and  I  went 
back  to  work.  There  was  plenty  of  work, 
mostly  TV,  some  movies.  And  I  started 
making  plenty  of  money.  The  checks  really 
came  flying  in  and  for  the  first  time  they 
were  addressed  to  me  and  came  to  me.  The 
money  felt  good.  I  payed  back  Aunt  and 
Unc  every  cent  I  owed  them.  I  bought  a 
car,  too,  an  old  Ford  jalopy,  yeah,  but  the 
first  thing  I'd  ever  actually  owned.  It  felt 
great  sometimes  at  night  to  sit  back  and 
think  I  was  paying  my  debts  and  had  a 
car  and  that  if  I  stuck  with  this  acting 
thing  I'd  never  have  a  debt  again  and 
own  lots  more  things. 

Beatnik 

But  in  the  morning,  mornings  I  had  to  go 
to  work,  back  to  the  studio,  the  feeling 
was  different — lousy  and  sick  again,  as  if 
getting  out  of  bed  and  knowing  that  in 
a  little  while  I'd  be  walking  through  that 
studio  gate  was  like  knowing  I'd  be  walk- 
ing right  into  my  own  coffin.  The  memories 
were  still  with  me.  My  father.  The  big 
star  I  was  supposed  to  be  to  him.  School. 
The  teachers  calling  me  Snotty.  The  kids 
laughing,  pushing,  hitting,  hating.  The 
brand  of  Outcast,  my  label  to  the  outside 
world.  Me.  me  myself,  running  away  from 
home  and  taking  to  drink  and  practically 
turning  into  a  vegetable.  And  why?  I 
knew  why.  That  it  was  because  of  studios 
like  this  one  I  had  to  get  up  and  go  to 
that  all  this  had  happened  to  me.  Because 
of  that  great  industry  known  as  the  movies, 
TV,  acting.  Because  of  the  big  swell  glam- 
orous life  you  were  supposed  to  get  out  of 
all  this  and  never,  except  in  few  rare  cases, 
did  ...  So  one  morning,  waking  up,  think- 
ing. I  decided  the  hell  with  it  all  again,  and 
I  stayed  in  bed.  I'd  be  a  vegetable  again,  I 


figured.  Nobody'll  be  hurt  but  me,  so  what 
difference  did  it  make.  I  hung  around.  I 
didn't  work — not  at  construction,  not  at 
acting,  not  at  anything.  I  became  a  bum. 
I  became  a  Beatnik  bum,  the  worst  kind. 
I  didn't  want  any  friends,  but  I  couldn't 
take  being  alone  either,  so  I  joined  the 
Hollywood  coffee  house  herd,  the  weirdos 
in  sandals  and  jeans,  the  phonies,  the  peo- 
ple who  had  settled  for  their  misery.  I 
wallowed  in  their  company,  in  the  stink 
of  their  life.  And  when,  after  about  six 
months,  I  got  my  letter  from  Uncle  Sam, 
telling  me  he  wanted  me  to  come  serve  in 
this  man's  Army,  I  couldn't  have  cared 
less.  Even  when,  after  basic  training,  they 
sent  me  up  to  Alaska  and  stationed  me  at 
Anchorage  and  I  met  a  girl,  a  beautiful 
girl  named  Gloria  Cross,  a  ballerina,  and 
we  thought  we  were  in  love,  me  for  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  and  then  her  father 
forbade  her  to  see  me — he  didn't  like  sol- 
diers, he  said;  we  were  all  a  bunch  of 
no -goods  out  for  no  good,  he  said — I  didn't 
care.  Even  when,  after  Anchorage,  they 
sent  me  up  to  the  north  part  of  Alaska 
and  put  me  into  a  guinea-pig  experimental 
outfit  that  had  to  live  in  fifty  degree-below 
weather,  I  didn't  care.  I  didn't  care  about 
anything  anymore.  I  didn't  care  the  day 
that  sergeant  with  the  big  fat  face,  the  one 
who  used  to  roar  with  laughter  every  time 
he  saw  me  and  called  me  Little  Beaver — 
Hollywood's  Answer  to  the  United  States 
Army,  the  day  he  came  and  told  me  I  was 
going  to  be  court-martialed.  I  just  didn't 
care  about  anything  anymore.  .  .  ." 

"I  was  caught  stealing  .  .  ." 

The  Chaplain,  a  big  Irishman,  a  Catholic 
priest,  asked  Bob  to  have  a  seat. 

"I've  sent  for  you,  Private,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing a  little,  "so  that  we  could  have  a  talk 
about  this  court-martial.  A  private  talk." 

"There's  nothing  much  to  talk  about," 


150  FOR  YOU! 


Fill  in  the  form  below  (or  a  reasonable  facsimile  thereof)  as  soon  as  you've  read  all  the  stories  in  this  issue.  Then  mail  it  to  us  right  away. 
Promptness  counts.  Three  $10  winners  will  be  chosen  from  each  of  the  following  areas — on  a  basis  of  the  date  and  time  on  your  postmark: 
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GRAND  CENTRAL  STATION,  N.  Y.  17,  N.  Y. 


Please  circle  the  box  to  the  left  of  the  one 

1.  I  LIKE  DEBBIE  REYNOLDS: 

B  more  than  almost  any  star  B  a  lot 
dO  fairly  well  E  very  little  B  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 
I  READ:  B  all  of  her  story  E  part  E  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  [TJ  super-completely 
B  completely  QTj  fairly  well  B  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 

2.  I  LIKE  ROBERT  BLAKE: 

B  more  than  almost  any  star  B  a  lot 
[H  fairly  well  B  very  little  QD  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  UJ  all  of  his  story  [Tj  part  GO  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  [TJ  super-completely 
QO  completely  GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 

3.  I  LIKE  ELVIS  PRESLEY: 

[TJ  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 


phrase  which  best  answers  each  question: 

I  READ:  GO  all  of  his  story  GO  part  GO  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  E  super-completely 
GO  completely  GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little 
Q{]  not  at  all 

4.  I  LIKE  ELIZABETH  TAYLOR: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  B  not  at  all 
E  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  EDDIE  FISHER: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
E  fairly  well  E  very  little  E  not  at  all 
E  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  B  all  of  their  story  E  part  E  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  E  super-completely 
E  completely  E  fairly  well  E  very  little 
E  not  at  all 


5.  I  LIKE  DIANE  BAKER: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  E  a  lot 
E  fairly  well  E  very  little  E  not  at  all 
E  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 
I  READ:  E  all  of  her  story  E  part  E  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  E  super-completely 
E  completely  E  fairly  well  E  very  little 
E  not  at  all 

6.  I  LIKE  PAMELA  LINCOLN: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  E  a  lot 
E  fairly  well  E  very  little  E  not  at  all 
E  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  DARRYL  HICKMAN: 

E  more  than  almost  any  star  E  a  lot 
E  fairly  well  E  very  little  E  not  at  all 
E  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  E  all  of  their  story  E  part  E  none 
IT  HELO  MY  INTEREST:  E  super-completely 
E  completely  E  fairly  well  B  very  little 
E  not  at  all 


Bob  said.  "I  committed  a  crime,  I  was 
caught  and  now  they're  going  to  get  me." 

"This  crime,"  the  Chaplain  asked,  "what 
was  it?" 

"I  told  you  I  stole,"  Bob  said. 

"And  you  stole  what — a  jeep,  a  truck,  an 
airplane?"  the  Chaplain  asked. 

"Aw,  come  on.  You  know  what  I  stole," 
Bob  said.  "You've  read  the  reports.  I  stole 
a  can  of  gasoline." 

"And  why,  Private?"  the  Chaplain  asked. 

Bob  shrugged.  "It's  not  important,"  he 
said. 

"But  it  is,"  the  Chaplain  said.  "If  you're 
convicted  of  this  charge  it  could  mean 
years,  long  years,  in  prison." 

"So  what?"  Bob  asked. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  why,"  the  priest 
said,  raising  his  voice  now,  the  smile  gone 
from  his  face.  "I  want  you  to  stop  being 
a  wise  guy  and  tell  me  why,  so  that  maybe 
I  can  help  you." 

"Well,"  said  Bob,  "at  night  when  you 
and  all  the  other  officers  are  sleeping  in 
your  barracks,  we  guys — " 

He  looked  down. 

"You  guys  what?"  asked  the  Chaplain. 

"We  guys,"  said  Bob  " — we're  out  in 
those  tents  of  ours." 

"Yes,"  the  Chaplain  said,  breathing  deep- 
ly, "yes,  I  know." 

"Father,"  Bob  went  on,  staring  down  at 
his  shoes,  "the  last  few  nights  .  .  .  it's  been 
murder.  Fifty-five  below.  Fifty-eight  be- 
low. Four  nights  ago  one  of  our  guys,  while 
he  was  sleeping,  his  ears  froze  and  turned 
black  on  him.  The  next  morning  the  medics 
came  and  took  him  away.  That  afternoon 
they  cut  off  one  of  his  ears.  A  big  guy.  A 
healthy  guy.  They  took  off  one  of  his  ears." 

"Yes,"  the  Chaplain  said. 

"And  two  nights  ago,"  Bob  said,  "I  woke 
up.  It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  And 
I  saw  this  guy  who  sleeps  next  to  me.  He'd 
been  mumbling  something  about  his  fin- 


gers beginning  to  turn  color  and  freeze. 
He  was  afraid  they  were  going  to  freeze 
but  good  in  a  few  hours  and  that  they'd 
have  to  be  cut  off,  too.  And  so  he  was 
standing  there  now,  trying  to  make  a  fire 
out  of  two  lousy  post-cards  he'd  received 
from  home.  He  was  crying  and  shivering 
and  afraid,  and  his  hands  were  so  frozen 
he  couldn't  even  strike  the  match.  .  .  . 

"Well,"  Bob  said.  He  paused.  "Well,  our 
stove  had  gone  out.  We'd  used  up  all  the 
gasoline  we  had  for  the  night.  We  needed 
more.  I  knew,  too,  where  the  gasoline  was 
stored.  So  I  left  the  tent  and  went  there 
and  stole  a  can  and  came  back  and  filled 
up  our  stove.  It  was  a  little  warmer  after 
that.  It  wasn't  as  cold  as  it  had  been  be- 
fore." 

He  looked  up. 

"That's  it,"  he  said.  "That's  what  hap- 
pened." 

"And  you  were  caught,"  the  Chaplain 
said. 

"This  sergeant,"  Bob  said,  "in  the  morn- 
ing, he  followed  my  footprints  from  the 
storehouse  to  the  tent.  I  was  caught,  all 
right." 

The  Chaplain  offered  Bob  a  cigarette 
now.  and  took  one  for  himself. 

For  a  while  neither  of  them,  the  priest 
nor  the  private,  spoke. 

And  then  the  priest  said,  "Blake,  I'm 
going  to  see  what  I  can  do  for  you,  see  if 
I  can  get  you  out  of  this  mess." 

Bob  shook  his  head.  "Father,  I  don't 
want  to  sound  like  that  wise  guy  you  were 
talking  about  before.  But  I  say  what  I 
think.  And  I  think  that  if  you're  doing 
this  for  me  to  be  grateful,  so  that  I  start 
coming  to  Chapel  on  Sundays  or  do  any 
of  those  things  I  don't  do  any  more — well, 
I  just  don't  want  you  to  go  wasting  your 
time  then.  I'm  not  the  kind  of  guy  who 
goes  to  church  or  anything  like  that." 

"You  mean  you  don't  want  me  bugging 


you    about   God?"   the   Chaplain  asked. 

"If  that's  the  way  you  want  to  put  it," 
Bob  said. 

The  Chaplain  shook  his  head.  "I'm  not 
going  to  bug  you,  Blake,"  he  said.  "I'm 
going  to  try  to  help  you,  period,  no  strings 
attached,  because  I  think  you  did  the  right 
thing,  because  I  don't  want  you  to  be 
punished  for  something  you  felt  you  had 
to  do  .  .  .  About  God — "  He  sighed.  "God 
will  help  you  in  His  own  way,  in  a  way 
and  at  a  time  He  deems  best,  when  you're 
most  alone,  when  you  need  His  help  most. 
For  God,  you  see,  Private,  God — " 

He  shook  his  head  again  and  put  out 
his  cigarette. 

"I'll  try  to  help  you,  son,"  he  said,  then. 
" — period,  no  strings  attached.  All  right? 
.  .  .  That's  all." 

"I  got  out  of  the  court-martial,  thanks 
to  the  priest,"  Bob  remembers.  "And  after 
a  while  my  Army  hitch  was  over  and  I 
got  out  of  that.  And  I  found  myself  back 
in  L.A.,  in  Hollywood.  And  I  found  that 
things  seemed  somehow  different  about 
me.  my  life.  I  wanted  to  work,  really 
wanted  to  work,  for  the  first  time.  I 
wanted  friends,  too,  people  to  like  and 
to  like  me.  It  wasn't  easy  at  the  begin- 
ning. But  as  time  passed,  things  worked 
out.  I  started  getting  the  jobs,  good  jobs. 
And  I  started  having  friends.  And  I  was 
closer  to  any  kind  of  happiness  than  I'd 
ever  been  before.  Like  I  am  now  .  .  . 
Sometimes  I  wonder  how  it  happened. 
Why  it  happened.  I  honestly  don't  know. 
But  sometimes  I  find  myself  thinking  that 
maybe  it  has  to  do  with  what  that  big 
Irish  priest  told  me  that  day,  about  God. 
God  helping  you  when  you're  most  alone, 
when  you  need  that  help.  And  I  find  my- 
self thinking,  Well,  maybe.  .  .  ."  end 

Robert  is  in  The  Purple  Gang.  Allied 
Artists. 


7.  I  LIKE  LANA  TURNER: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  GO  all  of  her  story  GO  part  GO  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  super-completely 
GO  completely  \T\  fairly  well  GO  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 

8.  I  LIKE  PAT  BOONE: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  00  a  lot 
HO  fairly  well  00  very  little  00  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  [j]  all  of  his  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  super-completely 
GO  completely  QO  fairly  well  GO  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 

9.  I  LIKE  DIANE  VARSI: 

nrj  more  than  almost  any  star  [T|  a  lot 


13.  The  stars  I  most  want  to  read  about  are: 


(3)  

AGE  NAT 

ADDRESS  

CITY  


0  fairly  well  00  very  little  00  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  [TJ  all  of  her  story  GO  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  [TJ  super-completely 
GO  completely  00  fairly  well  [JJ  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 

10.  I  LIKE  BRIGITTE  BARD0T: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
00  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  GO  all  of  her  story  00  part  GO  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  super-completely 
GO  completely  00  fairly  well  GO  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 

11.  I  LIKE  JANET  LEIGH: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  00  not  at  all 
00  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 


I  LIKE  TONY  CURTIS: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 

00  fairly  well  00  very  little  00  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  GO  all  of  their  story  GO  part  GO  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  super-completely 
GO  completely  00  fairly  well  GO  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 

12.  I  LIKE  GENE  BARRY: 

GO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
GO  fairly  well  GO  very  little  GO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  GO  all  of  his  story  GO  part  GO  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  GO  super-completely 
GO  completely  00  fairly  well  GO  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 


(1)  . 

(2)  . 

(3)  . 


.  ZONE  STATE 


lust  for 


f 


Isit 
true... 
Mondes 
have  more 
fun? 


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•mazmghj  gentle  Instant  Whip  Lady  Clairol,  it's 
o  easv!  Takes  only  minutes! 


And  Lady  Clairol  feels  deliciously  cool  going 
on,  leaves  hair  in  wonderful  condition  — lovelier, 
livelier  than  ever.  So  if  your  hair  is  dull  blonde  or 
mousey  brown,  why  hesitate?  Hair  responds  to 
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Lady 
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CREME 
HAIR 
LIGHTENER 


Your  hairdresser  will  tell  you 
a  blonde's  best  friend  is 


NSTANT  WHIP*  Lady  Clairol  Creme  Hair  Lightener 


*T.  M.  ©1960  Clairol  Incorporated,  Stamford,  Conn.  Av 


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Capital  ( 10) 


□  Favorite  Stories  Old  and  New  (13)   p-j  Kids  Say  n 


□  War  and  Peace 

□  Life  of  Christ  (21) 

□  Round  World  with  Authors  (2i;) 

□  Pict.  Hist.  Amer.  Presidents  (37) 

□  More  Stories  to  Remember — set  ( 13) 


□  Around  World  In  Pii 
rj  Modern  Family  Cookbook  174) 

□  Amy  Vanderbilt  Etiquette  (90) 
~'  ngs  (105) 


□  Parrish  (44) 

□  The  Laugh's  on  Me  (47) 

□  Post  Reader  Civil  War  Stories 

□  Health  Set— 2  vols.  (50) 
QCol.-Vlk.  Encyclopedia— set  (6 

□  The  Outline  of  History— set  (6S 


□  Lorena  i 

□  Grimm'sTales  &.  Black  Beauty  (I 

□  The  New  Complete  Hoyle  (117) 

□  Family  Book  of  Poems  (119) 

□  I  litis.  Book  Wild  Animals  (1251 

□  Ladu 


Journal  Book  of 
Interior  Decoration  (138) 

□  Station  Wagon  In  Spain  (141) 

□  Hammond  Family  Atlas  (155) 

□  Many  Loves  of  Oobie  Gillis  (163) 
QTen  Great  Mysteries  (164) 

Include  my  first  issue  of  The  Bulletin  describing  the  new  forthcom- 
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tions. I  do  not  have  to  accept  a  book  every  month  — only  6  a  year. 
I  pay  nothing  except  $1  for  each  selection  I  accept  (plus  a  small 
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what higher  price. 

NO-RISK  GUARANTEE:  //  not  delighted  return  all 
books  in  7  days  and  membership  will  be  cancelled. 


Zone  State  

Offer  silently  different  in  Canada.  Address  105  Bond  St..  Toronto  2. 

Offer  good  in  Cont.  U.S.  and  Canada  only.  D-3S4A 


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Club  now  and  take  advantage 
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ELVIS  COMING  HOME!  special  stories  and  pictures 


odern 


r.  25c 


Wedding 


bells 
for 


DEBBIE? 

tead  it  here  first! 
nsider's  report  on 
he  biggest,  most 
surprising  romantic 
lews  of  the  year 


,  20  ws-****** 


At  last...in  sunshine  or  in  starlight... 

YOUR  POWDER  WILL  STAY  COLOR-TRUE  TO  MJ! 

New  Dream  Stuff  by  Woodbury.  In  any  light . . .  with  any  costume  you  wear  . . . 

this  velvety,  fragrant  powder-plus-foundation  stays  completely  true  to  your  natural  coloring. 

The  secret?  An  exclusive  new  ingredient,  "Dreamlite". . .  yours  only  with  Woodbury! 

Try  long-lasting,  lovely  new  Woodbury  Dream  Stuff  today  and  see  your  natural 
beauty  come  alive!  Five  warm  and  glowing  shades. .  .one  perfect  for  you! 

WOODBURY  DREAM  STUFF 


r 


lpact.  just 
Box.  onlv 


MAR  -4  I960 

Every  time  you  brush  your  teeth  . 
finish  the  j ob. . .reach  for  listerine 


Germs  in  mouth  and  throat  cause  most  bad 
breath.  You  need  an  antiseptic  to  kill  germs  and 
no  tooth  paste  is  antiseptic.  No  tooth  paste  kills 
germs  the  way  Listerine  Antiseptic  does  . .  . 
on  contact,  by  millions,  on  every  oral  surface. 
No  wonder  more  American  families  use  Listerine 
than  all  other  mouthwashes  combined! 

listerine  stops  "bad.  "breath. 

4  times  hetter  than,  tooth,  paste  ! 


YOU  KILL  GERMS  ON 
4  TIMES  AS  MUCH  ORAL  SURFACE 
THE  LISTERINE  WAY* 


Tooth  paste  reaches  Listerine  way  kills 
only  teeth,  gum-  germs  on  tongue  pal- 
line.  And  it's  NOT  ate.  tonsils,  all  over 
ir'  sep'jc.  mouth  and  throat.  , 


Jour  all  day 


scents,  smooths,  clings 

more  lovingly,  more  lastingly 

than  costly  cologne 


■I 


No  cologne  prolongs  and  protects 
your  daintiness  like  Cashmere 
Bouquet  Talc.  Never  evaporates. 
Never  dries  your  skin.  Leaves 
you  silken-smooth,  flower-fresh  all 
over.  Make  Cashmere  Bouquet 
...pure,  imported  Italian  Talc... 
your  all  day  Veil  of  Fragrance. 

Cashmere 
Bouquet  Talc 

2  the  fragrance  men  love 


modern 


APRIL,  1960 


AMERICA'S  GREATEST  MOVIE  MAGAZINE 


S  T 

Debbie  Reynolds   19 

Jo-Ann  Campbell 

Bobby  Darin   22 

Audrey  Hepburn 

Mel  Ferrer    24 

Elizabeth  Taylor 

Eddie  Fisher   26 

Stephen  Boyd   28 

Betty  Lou  Keim 

Warren  Berlinger  30 
Margaret  Sullavon  38 

Elvis  Presley  .  41 

42 
45 
45 

Dodie  Stevens  46 

Brigitte  Bardot  48 
Tony  Randall   50 


S  P 

35 
70 
75 

F  E 

Kathy  Nolan   54 

Kevin  Corcoran   56 

Bob  Hope   64 

James  Arness    66 

Shirley  MacLaine   80 

D  E 

Louella  Parsons    9 

4 


17 
52 
81 


O  R  I  E  S 

Wedding  Bells  For  Debbie  And  Harry?  by  Helen  Wetter 

The  Bad  Boy  And  The  Good  Girl 

An  Unborn  Life  At  Stake 

"This  Was  The  Happiest  Birthday  Of  My  Life" 

by  Doug  Brewer 

Introducing  Stephen  Boyd  by  Kirtley  Baskette 

Perfect  Honeymoon 

Peace  Comes  At  Last  To  A  Tortured  Soul 

by  Deborah  Marshall 

Welcome  Home,  Elvis 

The  Memories  That  Will  Never  Die  by  Ed  DeBlasio 
Elvis'  Grown-up  Way  With  The  Girls  by  George  Christy 
Elvis'  Plans,  Projects  And  Dreams 

by  Hal  Wallis  as  told  to  May  Mann 
"I'm  Like  13  And  It's  Like  Awful!"  by  Maxine  Arnold 
BB's  Bebe 

The  Mad,  Mad  Romance  Of  Tony  Randall 

by  Tony  Randall  as  told  to  Paul  Denis 

ECIAL  FEATURES 

Should  I  Go  Steady? 

Behind  The  Scenes  At  Teen  Town 

"Travel  And  Fashion  Contest" 


ATURETTES 

Said  With  Flowers 

Mr.  Stubbs  Rescues  Toby  Tyler 

Par  For  The  Course 

Escape  From  Anzio 

Lemonade  And  Fried  Mice 

PARTMENTS 

Eight-Page  Gossip  Extra 
The  Inside  Story 
New  Movies 
April  Birthdays 
Disk  Jockeys'  Quiz 
$150  For  You 


by  Florence  Epstein 


Cover  Photograph  by  Nat  Dallinger  from  Gilloon  Agency 
Other  Photographers'  Credits  on  Page  57 


DAVID  MYERS,  editor 


SAM  BLUM,  managing  editor 
SHIRLEY  LAIKEN,  promotion  director 


MICHAEL  LEFCOURT,  art  editor 
HELEN  WELLER,  west  coast  editor 


TERRY  DAVIDSON,  story  editor 
LINDA  OLSHEIM,  production  editor 
ED  DeBLASIO,  special  correspondent 
BEVERLY  LINET,  contributing  editor 
ERNESTINE  R.  COOKE,  ed.  assistant 
GENE  HOYT,  research  director 


DOLORES  M.  SHAW.  asst.  art  editor 
CARLOS  CLARENS,  research 
MARIO  GUILIANO,  research  assistant 
SHELDON  BUCHANSKY,  reader  service 
EUGENE  WITAL,  photographic  art 
AUGUSTINE  PENNETTO,  cover 


FERNANDO  TEXIDOR,  art  director 


„;;.-.,;.:  liiiiiiiiiui;!,;: 


POSTMASTER:  Please  send  notice  on  Form  3579  to  321  West  44  Street,  New  York  36,  New  York 

MODERN  SCREEN,  Vol.  54.  No.  4,  April.  1960.  Published  Monthly  by  Dell  Publishing  Co.,  Inc.  Office 
nt  iHiblic.ili.nl-  .it  Washington  and  South  Aves..  Dunellen.  N.  J.  Executive  and  editorial  offices.  750  Third 
Vvenue  New  York  17.  N.  Y.  Dell  Subscription  Service:  321  W.  44th  St..  New  York  36.  X.  Y.  Chicago  advertising 
office.  221  No.  I.aSatle  St..  Hm.,*...  Ill  AlWrt  I'.  Dclacorte.  Publisher:  Helen  Meyer.  President;  Paul  R.  Lilly. 
Executive  Vice-President;  William  F.  Callahan.  Jr..  Vice-President;  Harold  Clark.  Vice-President-Advertising  Di- 
rector. Publish,-, 1  simultaneously  i„  the  Dominion  of  Canada.  International  lopynghl  secured  under  the  provisions  of 
the  revised  Convention  for  the  protection  oi  Literary  and  Artistic  \\  oi  ks  All  rights  re-erved  under  the  Buenos  Aires 
Convention.  Singh-  copy  price  25c  in  U.  S.  A.  and  Possessions  and  I  anada.  Subscription  in  U.  S.  A.  and  Possessions 
and  Canada  $2.-0  one  vear.  54.00  two  years,  55.-0  three  years.  Subscription  tor  Par,  American  and  •.. reign  countries. 
$3  50  a  year  Second  class  postage  paid  at  Dunellen.  New  Jersey,  l  opyngb.t  i'-i.n  by  Pell  Publishing  Co..  Inc.  Printed 
in  U  S   A   The  Publishers  assume  no  responsibility  for  the  return  oi  unsolicited  material   Trademark  No.  596800. 


First  permanent  that 
waves  from  inside  out 


New  PACE 


gives  you  the  most  perfect 
permanent  possible— or  money  back 


Now,  for  the  first  time,  you  can  wave  your  hair  as  it  should  be  waved— from  inside 
out— for  soft,  springy  end  curls  .  .  .  deep,  natural-looking  crown  waves  that  last. 

Only  Procter  &  Gamble's  new  Pace  puts  the  lotion  in  the  waving  papers  to  put 
controlled  waving  power  in  the  heart  of  the  curl.  Roll  hair  up  as  usual,  wet 
thoroughly  with  plain  water.  Pace's  waving  papers  concentrate  lotion  where  it's 
needed  most— in  the  end  curls— while  measuring  out  just  the  right  amount  for 
lovely  crown  waves. 

No  stragglers,  no  strays,  no  first-week  frizz.  Pace  gives  you  the  most  perfect 
permanent  possible— automatically.  Money  back  if  you  don't  agree. 


the 
lotion  is 
in  the 
waving  papers 


Messy  liquid  lotion  is  out 
.  .  .  Pace's  waving  lotioa 
is  in  the  exclusive  waving 
papers. 


Rolled  inside,  these  pa^ 
pers  put  controlled  wav- 
ing power  where  it 
belongs — in  the  heart  of 
the  curl. 


Wetting  with  plain  water 
releases  Pace's  waving 
power  from  inside  out— 
for  perfect  results. 


STAY-RITE  SHIELDS 

Wily  new  way  to  keep  dainty-dry, 
save  clothes  and face!  Slip-on  styling 
stays  put  with  ease.  $1.89 


Want  the  real  truth?  Write  to  INSIDE  STORY,  Modern  Screen. 
Box  515,  Times  Square  P.O.,  N.Y.  36,  N.Y.  The  most  interesting 
letters  will  appear  in  this  column.  Sorry,  no  personal  replies. 


9  Will  you  tell  me  if  it  is  true — as  re- 
ported— that  Eleanor  Powell  has  re- 
lented and  given  custody  of  their  son 
Peter  to  Glenn  Ford? 

— D.  W.,  Chicago,  III. 

A  Only  for  the  month  that  Glenn  will 
be  in  Paris  making  The  Image  Makers. 
Glenn  has  visitation  rights,  however,  at 
other  times. 

9  I  read  that  Betsy  Drake  and  Cary 

Grant  have  been  seeing  a  lot  of  each 
other.  What  does  this  mean? 

— M.  M.,  Princeton,  N.  J. 

A  It  means  they  still  like  each  other — 
and  enjoy  each  other's  company  on 
double  dates.  Cary  takes  his  girl  of  the 
moment,  Betsy  her  current  beau,  and 
they  have  a  jolly  foursome. 

9  Rock  Hudson  hasn't  made  a  movie 
for  over  a  year.  Has  he  been  sick  or  is 
he  just  plain  lazy? 

— G.  P.,  Darjen,  Conn. 

A  He's  sick— and  tired  of  his  studio's  re- 
fusal to  loan  him  out.  The  Marilyn 
Monroe  picture  was  just  one  example. 
There  have  been  others.  However, 
Rock's  starting  work  this  month  on  a 
new  Western,  Day  of  the  Gun. 

Q  Can  you  tell  me  what  the  mystery 
malady  was  that  felled  Marilyn  Monroe 

during  the  filming  of  her  latest  picture? 
Is  she  pregnant  again? 

— T.  L.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

A  No — just  allergic  to  the  miracle  drugs 
she  took  to  stifle  a  cold. 

9  I  read  that  after  a  year  Kirk  Douglas 

put  Spartacus  back  before  the  cameras 
for  added  scenes.  Is  the  picture  that 
bad?  — D.  D.,  Munch:,  Ind. 

A  Kirk  Douglas  is  making  every  at- 
tempt to  see  that  it  is  that  good.  So  far 
he  is  not  completely  satisfied  with  the 
results. 

9  What  is  the  problem  that's  been 
bothering  Sophia  Loren  and  her  hus- 
band Carlo  Ponti— and  I'm  not  talking 
of  the  fact  that  their  marriage  can't  be 
recognized  in  Italy? 

— B.  D.,  Boise,  Idaho 

A  The  problem  was  a  handsome  top  star 
who  kept  insisting  that  he  was  madly  in 
love  with  Sophia  and  she  was  really  in 
love  with  him.  He's  finally  stopped  in- 


sisting— and  Sophia  and  Carlo  have 
laughed  the  whole  thing  off. 

9  Now  thai  Ernest  Borgnine  and  Katy 

Jurado  have  finally  wed — after  all  their 
pre-marital  fussing  and  fuming — what 
chance  does  Hollywood  give  this  mar- 
riage? — j.  R.,  Trenton,  N.  J. 

A  The  chance  of  a  lot  of  post-marital 

fussing  and  fuming. 

9  Any  truth  to  the  rumor  that  Nick 
Adams  and  his  bride  are  planning  to 
split-up  as  soon  as  their  baby  is  a  decent 
age?  — N.  W.,  Atlanta,  Ga. 

A  No-. 

9  What's  the  story  about  Pier  Angeli 
being  in  love  with  Buddy  Bregman, 

who  has  been  so  much  in  the  public  eye 
lately?        — D.  V.,  Kansas  City,  Kan. 

A  Pier's  in  love — but  not  with  Buddy 
nor  anyone  else  who  is  in  the  public  eye. 

9  What  is  Hope  Lange  going  to  do 
now  that  her  husband  Don  Murray  has 

been  dropped  by  20th  Century -Fox? 

— W.  S.,  Montpelier,  Vt. 

A  Hope  will  continue  at  the  studio.  Don 
wanted  his  release  since  he  felt  his  tal- 
ents weren't  being  properly  used. 

9  Is  is  true  that  Anna  Kashfi  will  re- 
institute  legal  action  in  keeping  Marlon 
Brando  from  their  son  because  he  is  now 
running  around  with  a  girl  with  a  po- 
lice record?         — B.  I.,  Orlando,  Fla. 

A  Anna  will  fight  Marlon  again  if  he 
continues  to  prevent  her  from  leaving 
the  country  with  her  son.  A  girl  Mar- 
lon has  been  seeing  hasn't  a  police  record 
per  se — but  was  picked  up  for  allegedly 
possessing  marijuana. 

9  Why  was  Debbie  Reynolds  in  New 

York — and  at  the  same  night  clubs 
and  plays  Liz  Taylor  and  Eddie  Fisher 

were,  at  certain  times?  Is  she  trying  to 
irritate  her  ex-husband  with  her  pres- 
ence, or  is  she  so  anxious  to  see  Eddie 
again — even  from  afar? 

— J.  F.,  Beverly,  Mass. 

A  Since  Debbie  has  no  guarantee  of 
being  able  to  avoid  Eddie  and  Liz  in 
Hollywood — she  felt  there  was  no  rea- 
son to  change  her  own  traveling  plans 
because  of  a  vague  chance  of  an  em- 
barrassing situation. 


THE  'LOVE-PAT'  LOOK. ..BY  REVLON 


Face  your  world  beautifully. . .  even  on  a  moment's  notice  I 
Because  'Love-Pat'  is  complete  make-up-  not  just  pressed 
powder.  No  other  make-up  gives  you  this  exact  blend  of 
foundation  plus  powder.  There's  no  fussing  with  extra 
base,  and  Revlon  color  won't  cake,  streak  or  turn  orange-y! 


new 


Pi 


cool 

clean 

fresh 

AS  April 

Showers  ! 


That's  how  you'll  feel  when  you  change 
to  Tampax — the  nice  way,  the  right 
way  for  sanitary  protection.  Tampax 
never  shows,  never  embarrasses,  never 
reveals  itself.  Never  allows  a  hint  of 
odor.  Satin-smooth  applicator  makes  it 
so  simple  to  use.  Fingers  never  need  to 
touch  it.  No  wonder  millions  choose  it. 
Why  don't  you?  Try  it  this  month. 
Worn  internally,  it's  the  modern  way! 

Tampax®  internal  sanitary  protec- 
tion: Regular,  Super,  Junior  absorben- 
cies,  wherever  such  products  are  sold. 
Tampax  Incorporated,  Palmer,  Mass. 


Invented  by  a  doctor — 
used  by  millions  of  women 


byflorence  epstein 


SOLOMON    AND   SHEBA       Yul  Brynner 
Gina  Lollobrigida 

Old  Testament  spectacle    Ge£,ragr1sf  aSS 
John  Crawford 

■  This  is  a  spectacle — if  not  quite  as  lavish — 
in  the  DeMille  tradition.  It  takes  us  way  back 
to  when  Solomon  was  King  of  Israel,  Sheba 
was  Gina  Lollobrigida  and  orgies  took  place 
in  the  open  air. 

Before  Sheba  came  to  Jerusalem,  Solomon 
(Yul  Brynner)  was  doing  fine.  His  jealous 
older  brother,  George  Sanders,  plotted  against 
him,  but  otherwise  the  nation  was  unified. 
Brynner  had  asked  God  for  wisdom  and 
got  it;  he  promised  to  build  a  beautiful 
temple  and  built  it;  he  was  a  peace-loving 
man. 

The  prosperity  and  unity  of  Israel  worried 
the  Egyptian  Pharaoh.  Enter  Sheba  (Gina). 
Quit  worrying,  she  tells  the  Pharaoh.  Make 
me  a  present  of  a  seaport  and  I'll  destroy 
Solomon.  The  Pharaoh  says  okay.  Next  thing 
you  know  Sheba's  slinking  into  Jerusalem  to 
make  eyes  at  Solomon  and  invite  him  to 
midnight  suppers.    That's  allowed. 

But  when  she  sets  up  her  pagan  statues 
in  the  holy  city,  that's  blasphemy. 

It  takes  a  while  for  Yul's  loyal  following  to 
turn  against  him,  but  they  can't  help  them- 
selves. 

Just  as  he  can't  help  himself  and  permits 
Gina  to  hold  a  'sacred'  orgy  practically  in  his 
back  yard.  At  that  point  lightning  destroys 
the  temple. 

It  also  destroys  Marisa  Pavan  who'd  been 
praying  for  Yul  there. 

Gina,  overwhelmed  by  guilt,  confesses  all  to 
Brynner  who,  wise  man,  suspected  her  from 
the  start.  Now  he  has  even  more  to  worry 
about.  Pharaoh,  at  George  Sanders'  sugges- 
tion, decides  to  march  on  Israel. 

There  aren't  many  people  left  who'll  fight 
by  Yul's  side. 

But  these  are  the  days  of  visions  and,  one 
night,  Brynner  sees  the  way  to  destroy  the 
enemy.  Gina,  meanwhile,  sees  the  way  to 
atone  for  what  she  has  come  to  realize  were 
her  sins. — Cinemascope,  United  Artists. 


VISIT  TO  A  SMALL  PLANET 

Jerry  Lewis 
Joan  Blackman 

from  outer  space  Ear'  H?,linian 

Fred  Clark 
Lee  Patrick 


■  Jerry  Lewis  lives  way  up  in  another 
galaxy.  He's  mad  about  the  earth;  studying 
earth  people  (from  afar)  is  his  hobby.  One 
day  he  just  can't  control  himself  any  more 
and  flies  down  in  his  disc.  He's  all  dressed  up 
like  a  Confederate  general  (no  scholar  he,  he 
miscalculated  the  century).  He  lands  on  the 
lawn  of  a  TV  commentator  (Fred  Clark)  who 
is  preparing  to  make  an  ass  of  himself  by 
telling  the  nation  that  there  are  no  such 
things  as  flying  saucers.  He  doesn't  believe 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  Jerry  Lewis,  either, 
until  Jerry  shows  him  a  trick  or  two.  Clark 
has  a  pretty  daughter  (Joan  Blackman)  who 
is  being  courted  by  madly  jealous  Earl  Holli- 
man.  Earl  really  has  nothing  to  be  jealous 
about  because  Jerrj^  doesn't  even  know  what 
it's  like  to  be  in  love  (where  he  comes  from 
they  did  away  with  it).  But  before  Jerry  goes 
back  to  where  he  comes  from  he  has  a  few 
moments  of  feeling  like  an  earth  man  (that's 
why  he  wants  to  go  back).  Best  thing  in  the 
movie  is  a  visit  to  a  beatnik  saloon  where 
Barbara  Lawson  dances. — Paramount. 

GUNS  OF  THE  TIMBERLAND 

Alan  Ladd 
Jeanne  Crain 

up  a  tree  with  Alan  Ladd     Gilbert  Roland 

Frankie  Avalon 
Lyle  Bettger 

■  Alan  Ladd  and  Gilbert  Roland  are  loggers. 
They  don't  know  from  nothing  but  cutting 
down  trees  to  build  up  railroads.  Imagine 
their  surprise  when  they  come  to  this  town 
and  discover  that  everybody  hates  them — and 
all  their  men.  What's  everybody  so  mad  about, 
Alan  Ladd  wants  to  know?  Rancher  Jeanne 
Crain  tells  him.  If  Alan  chops  down  all  the 
trees  on  the  mountain  there  won't  be  any 
town  left  in  the  valley- — floods,  you  see. 
Jeanne,  who  owns  the  biggest  ranch  in  the 
valley,  is  maddest  of  all.  No.  Wait  a  minute. 
Her  foreman,  Lyle  Bettger,  is  maddest.  (He 


was  born  in  a  town  that  had  a  watery  death.) 
Well,  Alan  having  a  legal  paper,  he  sets  his 
lips  and  starts  chopping.  Lyle,  having  a  venge- 
ful mind,  he  sets  dynamite  on  the  one  road 
open  to  the  loggers,  and  then  he  lights  the 
wick.  Alan  gets  another  legal  paper  giving  him 
access  to  Jeanne's  road.  Lyle  gets  some  wood- 
choppers  of  his  own  and  has  some  trees  cut 
to  fall  on  and  block  Jeanne's  road.  Meanwhile 
Alan  and  Jeanne,  who  have  just  fallen  in  love, 
start  hating  each  other.  If  it  weren't  for 
likeable  Frankie  Avalon  the  problem  in  this 
movie  could  never  be  resolved. 

— Technicolor,  Warners. 

HOME  FROM  THE  HILL 

Robert  Mitchum 


OTi  the  edge  of  manhood 


Eleanor  Parker 
George  Hamilton 
George  Peppard 
Luana  Patten 


■  In  a  little  Southern  town  Robert  Mitchum 
is  big  man.  He  owns  everything;  he  gets  any- 
thing he  wants,  except  his  wife's  love.  She 
(Eleanor  Parker)  turned  cold  after  the  honey- 
moon when  she  discovered  that  Mitchum  had 
an  illegitimate  (and  unacknowledged)  son. 
Their  own  son  (George  Hamilton)  has  been 
her  exclusive  property.  But  now  Mitchum 
takes  over  to  make  a  man  of  him.  With  the 
help  of  George  Peppard,  Hamilton  becomes  a 
first-rate  hunter  and  also  gets  his  first  date 
(with  Luana  Patten).  He  loses  his  'sheltered 
child'  ideas  in  a  couple  of  hard  blows.  When 
he  discovers  that  Peppard  is  his  half  bro- 
ther, Hamilton  wants  him  to  be  treated  like  a 
son  instead  of  a  hired  hand  and  to  share  the 
family  fortune.  Mitchum  won't  budge — so 
Hamilton  leaves  home,  only  to  come  back 
when  his  mother  has  a  'heart  attack.'  His 
parents'  problems  are  so  disturbing  to  him 
that  Hamilton  can't  handle  any  of  his  own. 
He  isn't  even  told  when  his  girl  (Luana) 
discovers  she's  pregnant.  Never  mind,  the 
ever-faithful  Peppard  is  there  to  make  up  for 
the  family's  mistakes.  This  film  has  the  ele- 
ments of  soap  opera  but  it  rises  above  them. 

— Cinemascope,  MGM. 

THE  GALLANT  HOURS      James  Cagney 
Dennis  Weaver 
.7    ,  j    •    ,  Ward  Costello 

tribute  to  an  admiral  Richard  Jaeckel 

Vaughn  Taylor 

■  War  movies  usually  can't  help  mixing  glam- 
our with  gore,  giving  the  stay-at-homes  a  very 
distorted  picture.  This  movie's  different.  It's 
a  kind  of  dramatized  documentary  (much  of 
it  narrated  by  Robert  Montgomery)  ;  it  has 
the  solidity  of  truth  behind  it.  Based  on  only 
a  few  weeks  of  Admiral  William  F.  Halsey 
Jr.'s  long  career  it's  a  tribute  to  him  and  also 
a  stirring  account  of  war  from  the  'top.' 
Halsey  (beautifully  played  by  James  Cagney) 
took  over  command  of  the  South  Pacific  area 
on  a  day  in  1942  and  proceeded  to  save  Gua- 
dalcanal from  the  hands  of  the  Japanese. 
Weighted  down  by  responsibility,  Cagney  as 
the  admiral  is  always  decisive,  daring — and 
usually  right.  That's  why  his  staff  (among 
them  Dennis  Weaver,  Les  Tremayne,  Walter 
Sande,  Karl  Swenson)  revere  him.  He  and 
the  Japanese  admiral  (who  planned  the  at- 
tack on  Pearl  Harbor)  study  each  other's 
moves  like  crafty  poker  players,  always  aware 
of  the  incredibly  high  stakes.  When  Cagney 
takes  over,  the  Japanese  are  already  planning 
to  accept  our  surrender  terms.  Our  side  ob- 
viously lacks  the  men,  the  arms,  the  morale 
to  hang  on  to  Guadalcanal.  Cagney's  coming 
changes  everything  because  he  is  a  leader  in 
the  real  sense  of  the  word.  What  makes  a 
leader?  Nothing  phony  or  arrogant.  Mostly 


ALL  THIS  FURNITURE, 

ALL  THESE  APPLIANCES, 
AND  A  MODERN,  TWO  BEDROOM  HOME. 
FOR  LESS  THAN  $6,500. 

It's  no  problem  at  all  to  live  a  whole  lot  better  .  .  . 
for  so  much  less  .  .  .  when  you  own  a  spacious, 
distinctively  styled  New  Moon  home. 

The  down  payment  is  surprisingly  low,  and  monthly 
payments  easily  fit  the  tightest  budget.  Best  of 
all,  your  New  Moon  home  is  completely  furnished 
throughout,  ready  right  now  for  you  to  move  in. 

your  nearest  New  Moon  dealer  or  write  for  free  literature. 


■7  NEW  MOON  h 


OMES.  INC. 


STATE  

and  the  best  buy  for  better  living. 


brains,  experience,  inexhaustible  energy  and 
the  courage  to  stick  out  one's  neck.  Go  see  this 
one!  — United  Artists. 


THE  RISE  AND  FALL  OF    Ray  Danton 
Karen  Steele 
Elaine  Stewart 
Jesse  White 
Robert  Lowery 


LEGS  DIAMOND 

when  crime  paid 


■  They  used  to  say  that  if  you  had  enough 
ambition  you  could  get  anywhere.  Legs  Dia- 
mond wanted  to  get  to  the  top  of  the  under- 
world (he  had  a  sick  brother,  Warren  Oates, 
who  needed  medicine). 

This  was  in  the  1920's  and  30's  when 
there  was  a  lot  of  room  for  expansion. 
As  Legs  Diamond  (he  was  a  good  dancer) 
Ray  Danton  gives  an  electric  performance. 
He  starts  off  as  a  very  clever,  even  amusing 
thief.  To  meet  reigning  czar  Arnold  Roth- 
stein   (Robert  Lowery)   Legs  flies  down  to 


Miami,  buys  $5,000  worth  of  personal  apparel 
and  charges  it  to  Rothstein.  Rothstein  appre- 
ciates his  nerve,  hires  him  as  a  'collector' 
(Rothstein  sells  'protection')  and  eventually 
makes  him  a  rich  man.  When  Legs  is  rich 
enough  he  jilts  Rothstein's  girl  (Elaine  Stew- 
art) and  arranges  to  have  Rothstein  murdered. 
Then  Legs  becomes  czar.  Of  course  it  isn't 
that  easy.  There  are  all  these  famous  rack- 
eteers he  has  to  convince,  and  all  the  rack- 
eteers have  bodyguards  (from  Chicago).  But 
there  isn't  a  better  man  with  a  gun  than  Legs ; 
he  shoots  two  guns  at  a  time,  sometimes  hit- 
ting three  men.  The  only  one  who  loves  him 
is  his  wife  (Karen  Steele)  and  he  married  her 
to  keep  her  from  testifying  against  him.  This 
movie  really  zips  along.  It's  fast,  violent, 
gruesomely  comical.  You  certainly  won't  be 
bored.  — Warners. 

(Continued  on  page  8) 


It's  you— with  slimmer  hips,  a  flatter  derriere, 
a  tauter  tummy.  No  diet!  No  exercise!  Simply 
this  airy,  boneless  wonder.  Yes,  boneless. 
Three  inner  bands  do  all  the  smoothing— and 
keep  you  comfortable,  too.  Doesn't  design  like 
this  come  dear?  Nonsense!  The  cost's  a  mere 
$8.95.  So  why  gamble?  Get  FASCINATION  by 

BRA  SHOWN:  HOLD  UP  $3.95  ® 

BE3TFORM 


new  mOVieS   (Continued  from  page  7) 


HELL  BENT  FOR  LEATHER 

Audie  Murphy 
Jan  Merlin 
Felicia  Fan- 
Stephen  McNally 
Robert  Middleton 


the  wrong  man 


■  All  Audie  Murphy  has  to  do  is  walk  into 
town  and  everybody  panics.  It's  embarrassing 
because  he's  just  a  nice  fellow  passing  through. 
Trouble  is  he's  carrying  a  rifle  that  belongs 
to  an  escaped  murderer  (Jan  Merlin).  Mer- 
lin attacked  him  on  the  trail  and  stole  his 
horse.  The  town's  sheriff,  Stephen  McNally, 
is  crazy  to  capture  this  murderer  and  he  fig- 
ures that  Audie  will  make  just  as  convincing 
a  corpse  to  the  townspeople.  Getting  away 
from  McNally  isn't  easy.  Luckily,  Audie  runs 
into  Felicia  Farr  who  knows  how  to  climb 
mountains.  She  takes  him  straight  up  a  cliff 
(with  the  sheriff  and  posse  hot  on  their  heels) 
and  down  the  other  side.  Felicia  believes  in 
Audie's  innocence  but  Audie  has  an  urge  to 
clear  his  name.  Off  he  and  Felicia  head  for 
the  town  of  Paradise  where  the  killer  is.  The 
sheriff  and  posse  are  still  hot  on  their  heels 
and  by  this  time  the  sheriff  is  nearly  out  of 
his  mind.  He'll  kill  anybody.  In  Paradise 
Audie  finds  the  real  murderer  who  heads  for 
the  hills.  Audie  heads  after  him.  Guess  who 
heads  after  Audie?  Now  that  everybody's 
caught  up  with  each  other,  justice  can  tri- 
umph.— Universal  International. 


SWAN  LAKE 

Russian  ballet 


Maya  Plisetskaya 
Nicolai  Fadeychev 
Bolshoi  Theater  Ballet 


■  In  1958  we  and  the  Russians  agreed  to  ex- 
change motion  pictures  so  that  we'd  all  un- 
derstand each  other.  That  may  be  why  the 
camera  is  always  moving  from  the  stage  of 
the  Bolshoi  Theater  in  Moscow  to  the  audi- 
ence. If  it  had  stayed  on  the  stage  (or  even 
backstage)  Swan  Lake  would  have  been  a 
much  better  picture.  As  it  is,  the  dancing  of 
Maya  Plisetskaya  is  wonderful  to  behold,  and 
the  rest  of  the  ballet  company  are  no  slouches, 
either.  The  dancing  is  great  although  it  might 
have  been  shown  to  better  advantage. — East- 
man Color,  Columbia. 

RECOMMENDED  MOVIES: 

WHO  WAS  THAT  LADY?  (Columbia):  Janet 
Leigh  is  off  to  Reno  when  she  sees  her  college-pro- 
fessor husband  Tony  Curtis  kissing  another  girl. 
Dean  Martin — a  TV  writer  and  Tony's  friend — con- 
vinces Janet  that  her  husband  is  really  an  under- 
cover FBI  agent,  and  that  the  kiss  was  in  the  line  of 
duty.  Chorus  girls  Barbara  Nichols,  Joi  Lansing,  real 
FBI  agent  James  Whitmore,  realer  foreign  agents, 
and  some  CBS  props  thicken  the  plot  until  Janet  tells 
a  cruising  TV-news-unit  truck  (and  the  world)  about 
her  husband's  bravery! 


SUDDENLY,  LAST  SUMMER  (Columbia):  Kath- 
arine Hepburn  is  a  wealthy  elegant  recluse,  who 
grieves  constantly  over  the  memory  of  her  son  Se- 
bastian who  died  suddenly,  last  summer  in  Italy. 
With  him  when  he  died  was  her  niece  Elizabeth  Tay- 
lor, now  in  a  sanitarium,  apparently  insane.  Miss 
Hepburn  asks  young  psychiatrist  Montgomery  Clift 
to  perform  a  crucial  operation  on  Elizabeth,  promis- 
ing to  build  Clift  and  his  superior  Albert  Dekker  a 
new  hospital.  Cliffs  problem  is  to  make  sure  that 
Elizabeth  is  hopeless  enough  to  need  the  operation.  It 
gets  easier  to  separate  the  sane  from  the  insane  as 
this  strange  story  unfolds  to  its  chilling  end. 

NEVER  SO  FEW  (MGM) :  Captain  Frank  Sinatra 
is  stationed  in  the  Burmese  Hills  with  a  small  group 
of  Allied  soldiers.  What  they  do  mainly  is  kill  Jap- 
anese soldiers  who  raid  camp  at  night.  Sinatra's  dar- 
ing provokes  an  international  incident :  he  faces  hang- 
ing. At  other  times  he  faces  Gina  Lollobrigida  (rich 
Paul  Henreid's  lovely  and  permanent  houseguest). 
It  all  moves  fast  and  has  an  exciting  climax. 


MODERN  SCREEN'S 

8  PAGE  GOSSIP  EXTRA 

by 

HOLLYWOOD'S 
GREATEST  COLUMNIST 


in  this  issue: 

Harry  Karl's  long  wait 

for  Debbie 
Marilyn  today 
A  new  Crosby  marriage 


At  MGM's  party  in  honor  of  top  feminine  singer  Connie  Francis:  (left  to  right) 
Barbara  Rush,  Louella,  Connie,  Jimmy  Boyd,  Diane  McBain,  Jimmy  McHugh. 


continued 


Louella's  not  saying  Karl  won't  win  Debbie. 


Lindsay  Crosby's  'heart'  is  Barbara 
Fredrickson,  and  Papa  Bing  approves. 

Lindsay's  Doing  It  Too 

Well,  my  pet  among  the  Crosby  boys. 
Lindsay,  is  going  to  follow  in  the  footsteps 
of  his  twin  brothers  and  marry  a  former  Las 
Vegas  show-girl  beauty,  Barbara  Diane  Fred- 
rickson. And  I  mean  she's  a  beauty. 

Ran  into  Linny  and  Barbara  at  the  reception 
honoring  Johnny  Mathis  after  Johnny's 
opening  at  the  Cocoanut  Grove — and  a  bril- 
liant opening  it  was!  Everyone  was  there — 
but  I'll  tell  you  more  about  that  later. 

After  Linny  introduced  me  to  Barbara,  he 
leaned  over  end  whispered  in  my  ear,  "We 
are  going  to  be  married.  Haven't  set  the  date 
yet — but  I  wanted  you  to  know  first."  He 
told  me  that  until  they  marry,  Barbara  will 
continue  her  present  career  as  a  dress  and 
photographic  model.  Papa  Bing  thoroughly 
approves  of  Linny 's  choice. 

"Dad  gave  me  a  wonderful  birthday  party," 
Linny  said.  "We're  all  the  best  of  friends 
again — and  I  know  you'll  be  happy  to  hear 
that." 


Harry  Karl  Will  Have 
To  Be  Patient 

Millionaire  Harry  Karl  is  very  much  in  love 
with  Debbie  Reynolds — there's  no  doubt 
in  anyone's  mind  about  that.  And  he's  going 
to  do  everything  in  his  power  to  get  her  to 
marry  him.  (See  full-length  story  on  page  20.) 

Harry's  Christmas  gift  to  Debbie  was  an 
emerald  necklace,  emerald  earrings  and  a 
matching  bracelet  and  ring — the  cost  of  these 
trinkets  being  540,000! 

Not  long  ago,  the  Karl  Shoes  tycoon  pur- 
chased a  3200,000  home  in  the  exclusive 
Truesdale  Estates  district  (where  Dinah 
Shore  lives)  and  Harry  admits  to  his  pals 
that  he  hopes  it  will  be  a  honeymoon  home 
for  himself  and  Debbie. 

But  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know.  .  .  . 

Harry  is  a  handsome  and  personable  man 
in  those  interesting  (for  a  man)  middle  years 
— and  he's  rich,  which  never  hurt  any  suitor. 
It's  happened  before  and  it  will  happen  again 
that  a  young  woman,  hurt  by  an  unhappy 
first  young  love,  turns  to  an  older,  more  mature 
man,  and  finds  happiness  in  a  second  mar- 
riage. 

And,  if  there  had  not  been  an  unusual  fac- 
tor in  Debbie's  life,  the  same  thing  might  have 
happened  here. 

But  that  unusual  factor  did  happen — I  mean 
the  extraordinary  zooming  of  her  career.  When 
she  was  married  to  Eddie  Fisher  she  was 


Dick  says  baby's  beautiful  like  mama. 


doing  well.  But  she  was  not  the  sensation  she 
has  become  since  the  Debbie-Eddie-Liz  Tay- 
lor triangle  hit  headlines. 

Few  women  in  the  world  ever  hit  such 
world-wide  headline  publicity  as  Debbie  did 
in  this  marital  rift.  Rightly  or  wrongly  she  re- 
ceived almost  hysterical  sympathy.  Witness 
her  trip  to  Spain  during  the  filming  of  It 
Started  with  a  Kiss  which  was  covered  by 
national  'news'  magazines  because  of  the 
adulation  the  Spaniards  heaped  on  her — even 
to  carrying  Debbie  on  their  shoulders  through 
the  streets. 

She  is  a  very  talented  young  comedienne, 
singer,  and  performer,  and  I'm  not  saying  that 
her  unhappiness  is  the  sole  reason  for  the 
rise  of  her  career. 

But  rise  it  has — to  astounding  proportions, 
including  a  million-dollar  contract  for  four  TV 
shows!  She  is  one  of  the  most  'in  demand' 
stars  for  pictures  (she  has  done  four  in  a  row) 
and  during  1959,  for  the  first  time,  she  made 
the  elite  circle  of  the  ten  stars  who  have 
brought  in  the  most  money  at  the  box  offices. 

Debbie's  career  has  become  Big  Business. 
As  she  told  me,  "I  never  dreamed  that  I  ever 
would  be  making  this  much  money."  Next  to 
her  two  healthy,  happy  children,  her  work  is 
the  greatest  thing  in  Debbie's  life — and  I  be- 
lieve it  will  be  for  the  next  several  years. 

This  is  why  I  believe  that  Harry  Karl  will 
have  to  be  a  very  patient  man.  I'm  not  say- 
ing he  won't  win  the  girl  of  his  heart.  But  I 
don't  think  it  will  be  any  time  soon. 


That  Egan  Girl 

At  last — a  girl  in  the  Egan  family — and  no 
one  in  the  world  could  have  been  happier  than 
Richard  Egan  was  when  he  called  me  to 
report  that  his  beautiful  wife  Patricia  had 
given  birth  to  a  daughter  (5  pounds,  4  ounces) 
at  St.  John's  Hospital. 

"My  parents  and  my  brother  (Father  Willis 
Egan)  are  so  happy  to  have  a  girl  in  the 
family,"  Dick  enthused.  "Like  the  Crosbys, 
we've  been  mostly  a  family  of  males." 

Because  the  new  arrival  was  a  bit  under- 
weight, having  arrived  a  month  early,  she  was 
put  in  an  incubator. 

"But  she's  beautiful,"  said  the  proud  father, 
"the  most  beautiful  girl  I  ever  saw — -except 
her  mother." 


10 


The  Dean  Martins  put  the  seal  of  approval  on  Harvey's  pa) 


4 


Frank  Sinatra  applauded  George  Burns'  dance. 


one  Signoret  was  never  far  from  husband  Yves  Montand.  And  here's  Laurence  Harvey— the  party  was  for  him. 


More  Room  at  the  Top 
for  Laurence  Harvey 

Frank  Sinatra,  who  cavorts  only  with  his 
handpicked  'clan'  (The  Peter  Lawfords 
the  Dean  Martins,  Shirley  MacLaine 

his  songwriters  and  a  few  other  annointeds) 
put  the  seal  of  social  approval  on  Laurence 
Harvey  by  attending  Minna  Wallis'  invita- 
tional preview  and  party  for  Larry's  new  mo- 
vie. Espresso  Bongo. 

Frankie  couldn't  make  it  to  the  preview,  but 
he  showed  up  early  and  stayed  late  at  the 
supper-and-dancing  party  that  followed  at  the 
Beverly  Hills  Hotel.  Frank  was  flanked  by 
Jimmy  Van  Heusen  and  Shirley  MacLaine, 
who  was  all  dolled  up  in  a  red  dress. 

I've  always  said  that  movie  stars  are  bigger 
fans  than — fans.  And  they  certainly  demon- 


strated it  the  way  the  'names'  turned  out  for 
the  good-looking  Harvey,  who  has  become  an 
'actor's  actor'  since  floom  At  the  Top. 

There  had  been  some  gossip  that  Larry  and 
John  Wayne  did  a  bit  of  feuding  during  the 
making  of  The  Alamo,  but  there  was  no  evi- 
dence of  it  this  evening.  John  and  Pilar  were 
the  first  to  arrive  at  the  20th  projection  room 
for  the  preview  and  later,  Larry  spent  most  of 
the  evening  with  Duke  and  his  wife  at  their 
table.  Pilar  dazzled  everyone  in  the  most  gor- 
geous coat  of  the  season,  full-length  sable. 

Janet  Leigh  and  Mrs.  Kirk  Douglas 
came  'stag,'  saying  their  husbands  were  work- 
ing on  Spartacus.  Janet  wore  a  stunning  black 
cocktail  dress  with  absolutely  no  jewelry. 

On  the  other  hand  Roz  Russell  was 
ablaze  with  rubies,  topped  by  a  ruby-red  tur- 
ban, and  as  always  Roz  had  a  ball.  The 
dance  she  put  on  with  George  Burns  had 


the  ringsiders  holding  their  sides — so  funny  all 
the  other  dancers  got  off  the  floor  to  applaud 
Roz  and  George. 

The  good-looking  French  singer  Yves 
Montand  with  his  wife  Simone  Signoret 
(the  other  half  of  Room  at  the  Top)  was  re- 
ceiving congratulations  on  that  day  being 
awarded  the  role  of  Marilyn  Monroe's  co- 
star  in  Let's  Make  Love.  By  the  way,  Simone 
Signoret  is  never  very  far  away  from  her 
attractive  young  husband! 

Zsa  Zsa  Gabor  was  the  height  of  luxury 
in  a  gold  brocade  suit  and  sporting  a  new 
beau,  wealthy  Sid  Barton  of  New  York. 

Cliff  Robertson  devoted  himself  exclu- 
sively to  Nancy  Sinatra.  (She  and  Frank  are 
very  friendly  when  they  meet  socially.)  And 
among  others  who  had  a  good  time  were  the 
Peter  Ustinovs,  Barbara  Rush  (so 
pretty  in  red  satin)  and  the  Milton  Series. 


11 


I  nominate  for 
STARDOM 


continued 


The  Cash  Kings 
—and  Queens 


as  box-office  bonanzas  during  '59.  After  Rock 
came:  Cary  Grant,  James  Stewart. 
Doris  Day.  Debbie  Reynolds.  Glenn 
Ford,  Frank  Sinatra.  John  Wayne, 
Jerry  Lewis,  Susan  Hayward. 

It's  the  first  time  Debbie  Reynolds  has  made 
the  sacred-money  circle  and  the  second  year 
in  a  row  Doris  Day  has  led  the  women. 

Again — male  stars  dominate  as  the  top 
movie  'draws' — seven  against  three. 

Jerry  Lewis  is  the  only  out-and-out  comedian 
to  make  it — although  the  films  of  Debbie  and 
Glenn  Ford  were  'light'. 

Only  confirmed  Western  star  is  John  Wayne. 

The  entire  industry  considers  this  poll  very 
important  as  it  reveals — in  a  cash-on-the-line 
way — what  the  public  wants. 


Once  again  Rock  Hudson  is  back  in  No.  1 
spot  as  the  star  who  lured  the  most  paying 
customers  to  the  box  offio  during  1959.  Rock 
had  been  on  top  in  '57.  slipped  to  No.  5  spot 
during  1958,  then  boomed  back  in  '59  on  the 
strength  of  This  Earth  is  Mine  and  Pillow  Talk. 
Only  five  other  actors  in  the  28-year-old  his- 
tory of  the  Motion  Picture  Herald's  poll  of  the 
nation's  exhibitors,  have  bounded  back  to 
number  one  position  after  slipping.  They  are 
John  Wayne,  Bing  Crosby.  Mickey 
Rooney.  Shirley  Temple  and  Marie 
Dressier.  Nice  going,  Rock. 

Now  to  get  back  to  the  others  who  rated 


Doris  and  Rock  were 
votedtopbox-officestars. 


Visit  from  Marilyn 

Of  all  times  to  be  told  that  Marilyn  Mon- 
roe has  dropped  in  unexpectedly  to  say 
"Hello"  and  is  downstairs — is  just  after  a  gal 
has  shampooed  her  hair  and  her  head  is 
dripping  wet!  Yes,  that's  what  happened  to 
me.  This  visit  of  MM's  couldn't  have  been  more 
surprising,  as  it  was  on  the  same  day  she 
gave  a  party  to  introduce  Yves  Montand 
and  her  other  co-star  of  Let's  Fall  in  Love, 
Frankie  Vaughn,  at  the  20th  Century-Fox 
studio.  I  was  unable  to  attend  the  party — and 
believe  me.  no  visitor  could  have  surprised 
me  more  than  the  hostess  dropping  in  the  day 
of  her  party. 

Emily  Post  doesn't  exactly  cover  this  situa- 
tion socially,  so  I  just  asked  Marilyn  to  come 
up  to  my  bedroom  while  my  hair  was  pinned 
up  to  dry,  and  I  finished  dressing  for  a  din- 
ner engagement. 

I  hadn't  seen  Marilyn  for  quite  awhile — and 
I  had  been  told  she  has  put  on  weight.  But 
she  looked  very  pretty  in  a  beige  cocktail 
dress  she  had  worn  to  the  party  and  quite 
slender,  I  thought.  Marilyn  admitted  she  had 
lost  some  weight,  "as  usual"  before  starting  a 
picture. 


Marilyn  gave  a  party 
to  introduce  co-stars 
Yves  (left)  and  Frankie. 


"You  couldn't  come  to  the  party,"  laughed 
Marilyn,  "so  I  came  to  you.  You  are  one  of 
the  first  friends  I  ever  had  in  Hollywood." 

Marilyn  seemed  unusually  happy  and  ex- 
cited about  starting  a  picture  although  she 
much  prefers  the  original  title  of  The  Bil- 
lionaire to  the  switch  to  Ler's  Fall  in  Love. 

I  asked  her  how  she  liked  having  two  new 
co-stars,  Yves  and  Frankie,  the  latter  the  sing- 
ing idol  of  the  British  teenagers. 

"Oh,  Yves  is  an  old  friend,"  she  explained. 
"He  was  in  Arthur's  (Arthur  Miller,  her  hus- 
band) play,  The  Citadel,  in  Paris.  It  was  just 
a  question  of  his  learning  English  quickly, 
which  wasn't  hard  for  him.  Yves  speaks  sev- 
eral languages  fluently — and  it  was  not  hard 
for  him  to  pick  up  English."  As  for  Frankie 
Vaughn,  Marilyn  thinks  he  will  be  every  bit 
as  popular  with  the  American  fans  as  he  is 
with  the  English  after  her  picture  is  released. 

Ler's  FaJJ  in  Love  has  been  a  long  time 
getting  started  following  a  series  of  delays. 
"But  we  get  going  next  Monday,"  said  Marilyn, 
"and  I'm  looking  forward  to  it." 

So  what  happens?  On  Monday  our  girl  came 
down  with  the  flu  and  the  picture  had  to  start 
without  the  star!  All  I  can  say  is — I  hope  she 
didn't  get  the  flu  from  my  wet  head! 


Peter  Palmer— the  genial  giant  ex-foot- 
ball star  of  the  University  of  Illinois,  who 
makes  his  screen  debut  as  a  full-fledged  star 
in  the  title  role  Li'i  Abner.  Starting  at  the  top 
is  nothing  new  for  Peter.  His  first  appearance 
on  the  stage  was  as  the  star  of  Li'J  Abner  on 
Broadway.  And  when  the  show  played  Las 
Vegas  for  twelve  weeks,  Peter's  name  was  up 
in  electric  lights  in  the  gambling  mecca. 

Having  started  as  a  star— he's  beginning 
to  wonder  where  he  goes  from  here? 

"I  owe  my  good  start  to  a  fluke,"  Pete 
tells  you  honestly.  "When  producers  Norman 
Panama  and  Melvin  Frank  were  getting  ready 
to  cast  their  Broadway  version  of  Al  Capp's 
cartoon,  they  happened  to  be  looking  at  some 
TV  shows  hoping  to  get  some  new  talent.  They 
happened  to  turn  the  dial  to  Ed  Sullivan's 
show  just  as  I  was  doing  my  bit  as  one  of 
the  Army  talent  contest  winners  singing  Gran- 
ada. Later,  they  told  me  they  made  up  their 
minds  then  and  there  that  I  was  their  'Li'l 
Abner'." 

However,  it  took  Panama  and  Frank  two 
weeks  to  locate  Pete  and  make  the  necessary 
arrangements  with  the  Army  to  fly  him  to 
New  York  for  an  audition. 

"I  had  done  a  lot  of  singing  at  the  University 
of  Illinois  and  during  my  Army  stint — but 
'Abner'  was  my  first  professional  engage- 
ment," Pete  says. 

Of  the  two  mediums — the  stage  and  the 
movies,  he  prefers  motion  pictures.  He  felt  not 
a  whit  nervous  before  the  cameras,  because 
he  had  played  the  part  so  long  on  Broadway 
it  was  second  nature  to  him. 

Although  his  home  town  is  Milwaukee,  Pete 
attended  the  "U"  of  Illinois  and  played  right 
tackle  on  the  football  team  from  '50  to  '54. 
When  he  started  singing  the  school  wits 
dubbed  him  "Brawn  'n'  Brahms."  Now  he 
hopes  it  will  be  "Pete  'n'  Pictures." 


12 


It  was  a  brand-new  Tuesday  Weld  who 
appeared  at  Johnny  Mathis'  debut. 


Johnny  Mathis'  Debut 

Everybody  but  everybody  turned  out  for  the 
Johnny  Mathis  debut  at  the  Cocoanut 
Grove.  I  take  a  great  deal  of  pride  in  the 
success  of  this  young  singer  who  is  such  a 
rage.  Two  years  ago,  I  attended  Johnny 's  first 
opening  night  in  Hollywood — at  the  Crescendo. 
He  came  over  to  the  table  and  told  me  how 
grateful  he  was  that  I  had  come.  Later,  I 
predicted  great  things  for  him  in  my  news- 
paper column.  He  has  alwcys  said  it  was 
one  of  the  things  that  helped  put  him  over 
in  a  big  way.  If  you  ask  me — he  can  take  a 
bow  on  that  because  of  his  voice  and  the  fine 
way  hs  has  conducted  himself. 

One  look  around  the  Cocoanut  Grove — and 
it  was  obvious  that  Johnny  has  arrived.  I  saw : 

Zsa  Zsa  Gabor  in  a  brilliant  red  dress 
and  pink  shoes — "the  latest  color  combination 
from  Paris,  dolling." 

Shirley  MacLaine  was  in  the  big  party 
hosted   by    Barbara    Rush    end  Warren 


Cowan  that  also  included  the  Edward  G. 
Robinsons,  Jimmy  McHugh  and  myself. 

I  could  hardly  take  my  eyes  off  Simone 
Signoret  end  her  husband  Yves  Mont- 
and.  She  kept  kissing  the  back  of  Yves' 
neck  all  evening  long. 

But  even  more  of  an  eyeful  was  Tuesday 
Weld  dressed  to  the  teeth  and  a  model  of 
sartorial  splendor  in  a  formal  gown.  Even 
Tuesday's  hair  was  carefully  groomed!  And, 
I  assume  she  was  wearing  shoes — she  was  so 
dignified  posing  for  the  photographers  as  they 
snapped  picture  after  picture.  Little  wonder. 
This  was  a  brand-new  Tuesday. 

Also  spotted  Norma  Shearer  (as  beauti- 
ful today  cs  she  was  when  she  was  a  top 
MGM  star)  with  her  husband  Marty  Arrouge 
and  her  daughter  Katherine;  and  another  old 
and  good  friend  of  mine,  Frances  Lang- 
ford,  and  her  millionaire  husband,  Ralph 
Evinrude. 

Do  you  wonder  that  Johnny  Mathis  sang  his 
heart  out  to  such  a  brilliant  audience? 


praise  Shirley  MacLaine  heaped  on  him  at  his  Cocoanut  Grove  opening.  date,  Sidney  Barton,  New  York  realtor. 


continued 


The  big  question  for  busy  John  Smith  and  fiancee,  former  child-star 
Luana  Patten,  is:  "When  are  toe  going  to  have  the  time  to  get  married?" 


Despite  many  doubters,  Ernest  Borg- 
nine  and  Katy  Jurado  did  marry. 


Love  V  Marriage 

It's  been  a  big  month  for  Cupid.  When  I 
received   an  invitation  to  Julie  London's 

new  home  for  a  New  Year's  Eve  party — who 
could  have  suspected  this  was  a  cover-up  for 
her  wedding  to  Bobby  Troup.  Unfortunately. 
I  had  to  regret  because  I  was  going  to  be  out 
of  town.  And  poor  Julie's  big  surprise  back- 
fired in  a  way  she  had  least  expected.  The 
day  before  New  Year's  Eve,  she  came  down 
with  the  flu  and  a  temperature  of  103.  It  was 
too  late  to  cancel  out  the  party  and  Julie  was 
just  barely  able  to  make  it  down  stairs,  say 
"I  do"  to  her  long  time  suitor,  Bobby,  and  then 
return  to  her  bed  achin'  and  groaning.  .  .  . 

Same  day.  South  of  the  Border,  strong-willed 
Katy  Jurado  and  the  "man  I  love  with  a 
passion,"  Ernie  Borgnine,  were  married  in 
her  home  town  Cuernevaca,  Mexico,  in  a  civil 
ceremony.  There  are  many  people  who  had 
doubted  this  romance  would  end  in  matrimony 


as  there  was  a  long  drawn  out  hassle  between 
the  sweethearts  over  where  they  should  live. 
Ernie  was  holding  out  for  Hollywood  because 
of  his  work  and  Katy  was  just  as  adamant 
for  Mexico.   The  lady  won  the  first  round.  . . . 

Even  the  youngsters  have  been  having  pre- 
marriage problems.  When  former  child  star 
Luana  Patten  and  John  Smith  lunched 
with  me  to  tell  me  about  their  matrimonial 
plans — the  first  thing  you  know  they  were  in 
an  argument  about  Luana  accepting  a  new 
film.  "When  are  we  going  to  have  time  to  get 
married?"  protested  John — and  he  wasn't  kid- 
ding. "Well,  you  just  signed  up  for  more  Lara- 
mie TV  chapters,"  countered  Luana.  "Maybe 
we  can  find  a  convenient  week  end,"  said 
John  a  bit  sarcastically.  I  stepped  in  as  peace- 
maker by  suggesting  we  go  on  with  our  lunch- 
eon— and  like  most  men,  he  began  feeling 
better  after  a  good  meal.  But  seriously,  these 
two  attractive  young  people  are  much  in  love 
and  I'm  sure  they  will  be  happy. 


Fabian,  Pat  and  Bing    Steve's  Choice 


Fabian's  nose  isn't  at  all  out  of  joint  be- 
cause his  co-star  in  High  Time,  Bing  Crosby, 
proclaimed  Pat  Boone  as  the  best  of  the 
young  singers. 

"Mr.  Crosby  sings  well  enough  for  both  of 
us,"  said  Fabian. 

Touche, — eh,  Bing? 


Stephen  (Ben  Hur)  Boyd  can't  seem  to 
make  up  his  mind  between  two  fair  charmers: 
Anna  Kashfi  or  British  actress  Elizabeth 
Mills. 

Bet  Marlon  Brando  could  help  him  de- 
cide! 


Poor  Julie  London: 
Bobby    Troup  was 


Her  wedding  to 
marred    by  flu. 


14 


Dorothy  Provine  cairn 
with  steady-date  Buddy 


?  Francis'  party 
Ann  Maria's  'ex.' 


That  well-mannered  young  singer,  Fabian,  overwhelmed 
Connie  Francis  with   compliments   and  congratulations. 


Cocktails  for  Connie 

If  you've  ever  -wanted  to  mingle  with  to- 
day's (and  tomorrow's)  stars  you  should  have 
been  with  me  at  the  cocktail  party  given  for 
top  feminine  singer  Connie  Francis  by 
MGM  Records  at  The  Cloister  in  Hollywood. 

From  the  moment  I  walked  in,  Fabian 
parked  himself  by  me  and  never  left  my 
side.  He's  a  happy  boy  because  Bing 
Crosby  with  whom  he  is  working  in  High 
Time  has  been  so  kind  and  patient  with  him. 
He  is  so  very  young,  this  boy.  He  was  just 
seventeen  February  6th. 

That  gay  young  man  around  town  and  pal 
of  the  Crosby  boys,  Jimmy  Boyd,  joined 


our  group,  escorting  pretty  Diane  McBain 

who  makes  her  debut  in  Ice  Palace. 

I  was  surprised  to  see  Edd  'Kookie' 
Byrnes'  girl,  Asa  Maynor,  with  Michael 
Callan,  young  actor  at  Columbia.  I  don't  be- 
lieve Asa  and  'Kookie'  are  seeing  much  of 
each  other  these  days. 

Troy  Donahue,  the  boy  Warners  is  build- 
ing to  stardom  since  A  Summer  Place,  intro- 
duced me  to  Nan  Morris,  who  was  dressed  in  a 
severe  tailored  suit  with  her  hair  slicked  back. 
"She  is  my  best  girl,"  said  Troy.  "I  don't  like 
to  date  actresses  because  they  never  pay  any 
attention  to  anyone  else's  career  but  their 
own." 

Dorothy  Provine  (the  girl  who  gets  a 


good  role  in  High  Heels  at  Warners  and  who 
is  as  blonde  as  Anna  Maria  Alberghetti 

is  brunette)  was  with  Buddy  Bregman,  Anna's 
ex-fiance.  At  this  writing,  Dorothy  is  steady- 
dating  young  composer-arranger  Bregman. 

Molly  Bee,  much  thinner  and  looking  very- 
chic  in  a  white  suit,  told  me  she  had  spent  the 
Christmas  holidays  in  the  hospital.  She  in- 
troduced me  to  her  escort,  young  attorney  Dan 
Busby.  Alan  Ladd's  pretty  daughter  Alana 
turned  her  smiles  on  Chris  Seitz,  son  of  direc- 
tor George  Seitz. 

Jlldi  Meredith,  once  a  good  friend  of 
Frank  Sinatra,  looked  like  a  young  carica- 
ture of  Garbo  wearing  a  slouch  hat  and  wear- 
ing the  proverbial  trench-type  coat. 


IS 


A  fan  had  the  most  unusual  experience  at  Contrary  to  popular  opinion,  tempestuous  Ava  Gardner  does  not 

the  horse  show  with  Tab  and  his  horse.  hate  her  fans;  she's  just  a  lonely  and  sometimes  mixed-up  person. 


j'WI 


LETTER 
BOX 


I  agree  with  E.  Cussin,  (is  this  your  right 
name?)  Chula  Vista,  Calif.,  that  she  had  a 
most  unusual  experience  with  Tab  Hunter! 
My  friends  and  I  were  at  the  Del  Mar  Horse 
Show  and  spotted  Tab.  We  followed  him  to 
the  stable  where  he  kept  his  horse  and 
watched  him  as  he  started  rubbing  the  horse 
down.  1  asked  him  for  an  autograph  and  he 
said  'Write  my  studio.'  Well,  I  was  shocked 
— but  not  nearly  as  shocked  as  I  was  a  mo- 
ment later.  Someone  connected  with  the  stable 
came  up  and  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  walk 
the  horse  around  and  cool  it  off.  Said  he  would 
pay  me  to  do  the  job!  So,  I  didn't  get  the  auto- 
graph but  I  got  a  few  of  Tab's  dollars  for 
walking  his  nag!  Your  letter  gave  me  a  real 
laugh — you  seem  to  have  a  fine  sense  of 
humor.  .  .  . 

Beatrice  Johnson,  West  Toledo,  Ohio,  prob- 
ably the  most  active  fan  of  the  James  Dean 
Memorial  Clubs,  writes:  If  only  all  of  Jimmy's 
fans  could  have  seen  the  flowers  that  be- 
decked his  grave  in  Park  Cemetery,  Fairmont, 
Ind.,  on  September  30th,  anniversary  of  his 
death!  But  it  is  still  shocking  that  nothing  has 
been  discovered  about  who  stole  the  bronze 


James  Dean  head  that  marked  the  grave — a 
terrible  thing  and  not  done  by  a  James  Dean 
fan,  I'm  sure.  .  .  . 

I  live  in  Bennington,  Vermont,  and  the  other 
day  I  ran  into  Diane  Varsi  in  a  market, 
writes  Penny  La  Plante.  I  went  up  to  her  and 
asked  her  for  her  autograph  and  told  her  how 
much  I  wish  she  would  come  back  to  the 
screen.  She  thanked  me  politely  but  refused 
to  give  her  autograph.  Her  exact  words  were, 
"It  isn't  worth  anything.  .  .  ." 

James  McMasters,  Detroit,  has  an  interest- 
ing point:  it  would  be  wise  if  Hollywood 
clamped  down  on  all  the  publicity  about  mil- 
lion dollar  salaries  such  as  Liz  Taylor  will 
receive  for  Cleopatra  and  Debbie  Rey- 
nolds for  four  TV  shows.  Also  all  we  read 
about  Bill  Holden  and  John  Wayne. 
Bing  Crosby,  Bob  Hope  and  Gary 
Grant  is  about  how  rich  they  are.  Are  these 
people  artists  or — financiers?  It  this  keeps  up 
we'll  be  reading  about  them  all  in  the  Wall 
Street  Journal.  Yes,  you  guessed  it — my  salary 
is  S78.50  weekly.  .  .  . 

David  Janssen  coming  up  fast  in  the  fan 
mail!  David  Bruce,  Dallas;  Nancy  Bryant, 
Richland,  Mich.;  Eleanor  Damuno,  Ridge- 
field  Park,  N.  J.,  all  write  to  say  they  can 
hardly  wait  to  see  Richard  Diamond  in  an  im- 
portant screen  role.  Eleanor  opines  that  David 
would  be  wonderful  opposite  Elizabeth 
Taylor,  Doris  Day  or  Debbie  Reynolds. 


Well,  I've  been  beating  the  drums  for  David 
for  months.  .  .  . 

I'd  like  to  write  to  Ava  Gardner  who  has 
been  my  favorite  for  years.  But  from  what  I 
read  1  guess  she  hates  fans  almost  as  much 
as  she  hates  the  press,  says  Bonita  Garzio, 
San  Diego.  I  don't  think  Ava  hates  her  fans. 
Bonita.  She  is  a  lonely  and  sometimes  mixed- 
up  person — but  you  sound  very  sincere.  Why 
not  try  your  luck  and  send  her  a  letter  to  the 
MGM  studio  in  Rome?  No  one  of  us  is  so  bit- 
ter we  hate  a  gesture  of  friendship  and  ad- 
miration. .  .  . 

Is  Modern  Screen  big  enough  to  take  some 
criticism?  asks  Mrs.  Theo.  Bissel,  Kansas 
City.  Too  much  Debbie.  Too  much  Liz  and 
Eddie.  Too  much  Fabian,  Ricky.  Tues- 
day, Sandra.  Not  enough  Rock  Hudson 
(he  ;'ust  won  the  exhibitors'  vote  as  the  actor 
who  had  brought  the  most  money  into  the  box 
office  during  J959).  Not  enough  Doris  Day 
((he  fop  money  earning  woman) — and  cer- 
tainly not  enough  David  Niven,  who  won 
last  year's  Oscar.  Just  what  audience  is  Mod- 
ern Screen  catering  to?  Well,  don't  say  we 
didn't  print  your  quite  intelligent  plaint,  Mrs. 
B.  .  .  . 

That's  all  for  now.  See  you  next  month. 


16 


APRIL 
BIRTHDAYS 

If  your  birthday  falls  in  April,  your 
birthstone  is  the  diamond  and  your  flower 
is  the  sweet  pea.  And  here  are  some  of  the 
stars  who  share  your  birthday: 


April 

l — Debbie  Reynolds 

April 

2 — Alec  Guinness 

Jack  Webb 

April 

3 — Doris  Day 

Jan  Sterling 

Marlon  Brando 

April 

5 — Bette  Davis 

Gale  Storm 

Gregory  Peck 

Spencer  Tracy 

April 

8    Ward  Bond 

April 


9—  Virginia  Gibson 
Brandon  DeWilde 


April   13—  Mari  Blanchard 

April   14—  Anthony  Perkins 
Rod  Steiger 

April  15—  Elizabeth  Montgomery 

April  16—  Barry  Nelson 

April  17— William  Holden 

April  18—  Barbara  Hale 

April   19— Jayne  Mansfield 
Hugh  O'Brian 


A  pril 
A  pril 
April 


20—  Nina  Foch 
22-Eddie  Albert 
24—  Shirley  MacLaine 


April  29—  Celeste  Holm 
Jeanmaire 
Richard  Carlson 
Tom  Ewell 
Tom  Noonan 


Jane  Powell  Ann 

April  1  April  12 


BEFORE  TRU5HI 

Photograph,  skin 
unretouched, 
October  26.  1959 


hard- 
worked 
hands 


f 


heal  twice  as  fast 


with  new 
*  heasy-duty 

*     '  TRUSHAY 

with  si  I  icones 

9 


Howard  Keel  Anthony  Quinn 

April  13  April  21 


Kitchen  tests  prove  it. .  .with  women  just  like  you 
Hard-worked  hands  heal  twice  as  fast  with  new 
heavy-duty  Trushay  with  silicones. Try  new  Trushay. 
What  happened  to  these  hands  can  happen  to  you. 
And  new  Trushay  helps  protect  your  hands  against 
detergents  and  through  every  single  chore  you  do. 


TRUSHAY  .the  heavy-duty  lotion  for  hardrworked  hands 


AT  ACADEMY  AWARD  TIME 


Lustre-Creme  Shampoo  salutes  these  beautiful  stars 
who  have  made  this  the  greatest  movie  season  ever 


SANDRA  DEE,  co-starring  in 
"Imitation  of  Life" 

\  Universal-International  Pictur 


TURNER,  starring  in 
"Imitation  of  Life" 

A  Universal-International  Pictur 


SUSAN  KOHNER,  co-starring  in 
"Imitation  of  Life" 

A  Universal-International  Picture 


MILLIE  PERKINS,  starring  i 
"The  Diary  of  Anne  Frank' 

A  20th  Century-Fox  Picture 


MARTHA  HVER,  co-starrii 
"The  Big  Fisherman' 

A  Rowland  V.  Lee  Produc 


SIMONE  SIGNORET,  starring  in 
"Room  at  the  Top."  Released  through 
Continental  Distributing,  Inc. 


AUDREY  HEPBURN,  starring  in  SHIRLEY  MacLAINE.  co-starring  in  "Career"      ELIZABETH  TAYLOR,  starring  in  Horizon- 

"The  Nun's  Story"  A  Hal  Wallis  Production  American  Pictures'  "Suddenly  Last ! 

A  Warner  Bros.  Picture  A  Paramount  Picture  A  Columbia  Pictures  Corp.  Release 


BARBARA  RUSH,  co-starring  in 
"The  Young  Philadelphians" 

A  Warner  Bros  Picture 


2^ 


DORIS  DAY.  starring  in  "Pillow  TalK' 

An  Arwin  Production 
A  Universal-International  Picture 


JOANNE  WOODWARD,  starring  in 
"The  Sound  and  the  Fury" 

A  20th  Century-Fox  Picture 


LEE  REMICK.  co-starring  in  "Anatomy 
of  a  Murder."  Carlyle  Productions 
A  Columbia  Pictures  Corp.  Release 


VERA  MILES,  co-starring  in 
"The  FBI  Story" 

A  Warner  Bros  Picture 


DEBORAH  KERR,  starring  in  Jerry  Wald'i 
Production  "Beloved  Infidel" 

Released  by  20th  Century-Fox 


HAYA  HARAREET.  co-starring  in 
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer's 


Watch  the  Academy  Awards  Show 
on  TV  April  4  and  see  which  star 
wins  the  most  honored  award  in 
the  motion  picture  industry. 


Glamorous  Hollywood  stars  use  Lustre-Creme 
Shampoo  because  it  leaves  hair  shinier,  easier-to- 
manage,  makes  any  hair  style  easy  to  set.  Try 
Hollywood's  favorite  shampoo,  New  Lustre-Creme 
— now  in  creme,  lotion  and  liquid,  too! 


For  the  most  beautiful  hair  in  the  world 

4  out  of  5  top  movie  stars  use  hustre-Creme  Shampoo! 


Has  Debbie  come  to  the  2nd 
Have  the  expensive  gifts  of 


•  When  Hollywood  learned  that 
Liz  and  Eddie  were  going  to  be 
present  at  the  elegant  New 
Year's  party  hosted  by  Frank 
Sinatra  at  Romanoff's,  whispers 
flew  all  over  town:  "What  do  you 
suppose  Debbie  will  do?  Did  you 
know  she  and  Harry  Karl  plan 
ned  to  be  there?  But  I  don't 
suppose  they'll  come  now. 


Many  gasped  with  surprise 


when  Debbie  and  Karl  showed 
up.  Theirs  was  no  quiet,  sub 
dued  entrance.  Debbie  was 
gowned  in  clinging  white  satin 
that  made  her  look  almost  like  a 
bride.  Around  her  throat  spar 
kled  an  (Continued  on  page  60) 


angerous  crossroad  of  her  life? 
millionaire  turned  her  head? 


i 


The  love  story  of 
Bobby  Darin  and  Jo -Ann  Campbell 

■  "I'm  Bobby  Darin.  Sometimes  I'm  glad  of  it.  Sometimes 
I'm  not,  because  I'm  my  own  worst  enemy.  Girls,  for  example. 
For  a  while  it  must  have  looked  as  if  I  was  out  to  hurt  any 
girl  who  came  near  me.  It  kept  happening  the  same  way.  I'd 
meet  a  girl,  and  I  wouldn't  deliberately  lead  her  on  .  .  .  not 
exactly.  I'd  just  be  nice  and  unconcerned,  and  I  suppose  the 
ones  who  liked  me  got  fond  of  me.  Then  when  they  began  to 
get  serious,  I'd  hurt  them.  I'd  lay  it  right  on  the  line.  I'd  tell 
them  I  was  going  with  them  just  for  kicks,  that  that  was  the 
only  kind  of  girl  I  liked  to  date.  .  .  .(Continued  on  page  78) 


23  J 


■  There  was  a  three-quarter  moon  that  night.  Audrey  remembered  it  very  well, 
because  for  hours  she  had  sat  by  the  broad  window  of  the  living  room  in  their 
Pacific  Palisades  home,  staring  out  into  the  night,  noting  to  herself  the  bluish  re- 
flection the  moon  made  on  the  swimming  pool. 

She  hadn't  been  able  to  sleep  that  night.  Ever  since  she  had  become  pregnant 
she  hadn't  always  been  able  to  sleep  well,  sometimes  out  of  excitement,  some- 
times because  she  would  suddenly  feel  hungry  and  just  had  to  have  something  to 
eat  that  very  instant.  At  those  moments,  Mel,  with  that  instinctive  bond,  would 
begin  to  stir,  hold  out  his  hand  to  take  hers  and  mumble,  "Darling,  what  is  it?" 
Then  he'd  be  awake  and  they  would  whisper  and  laugh  together  softly,  always  talk- 
ing about  the  coming  baby.  Or  Audrey  would  make  a  funny  face  and  say,  "I 
guess  I  shouldn't,  but  isn't  there  some  leftover  lasagne  in  the  refrigerator.  .  .  ?" 
And  Mel  would  pretend  to  ^^^^^^^  be  stern.  "I  should  say  not," 
he  would  reply.  "Now  darling,  can't  you  have  a 

craving  for  something      A  Plnl       ^     sensible?  Even  ice  cream 

and  pickles  would  be      M  Eilkfl  ^      better  than  the  stuff 

you  want  to  eat." 

But   tonight  was 
ly,   Mel   hadn't  even 
ped  out  of  bed.  It  was 
was  meant  to  have  this 
out  alone.  Never  before  had 


AN 

UNBORN  LIFE 
AT  STAKE 


different.  Surprising- 
stirred  when  she  slip- 
almost  as  though  she 
moment  to  think  things 
she  (Continued  on  page  76) 


24 


■  Liz  and  Eddie,  late  for  the 
party,  rushed  from  their 
room  and  down  the  hallway. 

As  they  did,  Eddie  adjusted 
the  zipper  on  the  back  of  Liz' 
gown.  And  as  he  did,  he 
asked  The  Husband's  tradi- 
tional last-minute  questions: 
"Got  your  bag?" 
Liz  nodded.  "Yes,  dear." 
"Gloves?" 
"Uh-huh." 

"Kiss  the  children  good- 
night?" 
"Yes,"  Liz  said. 
They  were  at  the  end  of  the 
hallway,  near  the  staircase, 
when  Liz  stopped  walking 
suddenly.  "Just  a  second, 
Eddie,"  she  said,  noticing  a 
light  (Continued  on  page  58) 


INTRODUCING 

THE 
SENSATIONAL 

STAR 
OF 

BEN-HUR 

AND 

THE  BEST  OF  EVERYTHING 


■  The  London  fog  of 
'52  was  a  killer.  It  rolled 
in  from  the  sea,  ghostly 
and  poisonous,  shroud- 
ing the  city  and  choking 
the  weak  who  breathed 
it.  Thousands  died  be- 
fore it  blew  away. 

One  who  almost  did 
was  a  sick  and  lonely 


youth  from  Belfast, 
Ireland,  named  Billy 
Millar.  Shivering  one 
minute  and  burning  the 
next,  Billy  huddled  in 
a  draf  ty  hall  of  a  cheap 
rooming  house.  He'd 
come  to  London  to  act. 
Instead,  he  was  bedded 
with  a  dangerous  flu, 


flat  broke  and  starving. 
All  he'd  had  for  a  week 
was  water. 

In  his  delirium,  Billy 
dreamed :  He  was  stand- 
ing over  a  deep,  deep 
well.  Inside  it  were  all 
the  emotions  and  feel- 
ings of  the  world.  He 
could  reach  down  at 


random,  lift  them  up, 
take  them  in  and  give 
them  out.  When  he 
dreamed  that,  Billy 
Millar  didn't  care  if  he 
ever  got  well. 

But,  of  course,  he 
did.  Because  today 
Billy  Millar  is  Stephen 
(Continued  on  page  63) 


Warren  Berlinger  and  Betty  Lou  Keim 
invite  you  along  on  their 

Perfect 
Honeymoon 


■  "A  lot  of  people  think  it's  a 

big  mistake  for  kids  to  go  steady  for 

a  long  time. 

"But  for  Warren  and  me, 
going  steady  was  the  best  thing 
that  happened  to  us.  We 
steady-dated  for  three  years,  and 
now  we're  sailing  along  on  our 
perfect  honeymoon. 

"I  don't  think  it  would 
have  been  nearly  as  perfect," 
said  Betty  Lou  Keim 
with  a  smile,  f  'if  we  hadn't  gone 
together  all  that  time." 

Watching  the  honey- 
mooning young  Warren  Ber- 
lingers  as  they  lazed  under 
(Continued  on  page  32) 


#2 


'0^ 

hranh 


Betty  Lou's  ensemble  by  Schrank;  lace  cap  by  Kleinert 


Top  sail,  Rose  Marie  Reid's  elasticized  orlon  knit;  Kleinert  Cap;  GE  Transistor  Radio 


a  palm  tree,  that  first  week  end  of  their 
honeymoon  at  Balboa  Isle,  no  one  could 
doubt  that  they  were  made  for  each  other. 

"This  is  the  honeymoon  we'd  dreamed  of 
when  we  were  going  steady,"  Betty  Lou 
said.  "We  think  it's  so  much  better  than 
running  off  on  a  sudden  elopement.  Wed- 
dings are  beautiful;  a  marriage  should  be 
for  a  lifetime.  So  why  not  give  a  few  years 
to  knowing  each  other  first? 

"I  guess  Warren  and  I  could  have  eloped 
soon  after  we  realized  we  were  in  love. 


But  we  would  have  been  taking  an  awful 
chance  if  we  had.  And  we'd  have  had  such 
a  humdrum  start  on  married  life;  nothing 
as  memorable  as  our  honeymoon. 

"There  has  been  so  much  said  against 
young  people  going  steady.  Even  ministers 
preach  against  it  from  the  pulpit.  I  can 
understand  why.  Warren  and  I  agreed  that 
aimless  going  steady,  because  it's  the 
school  custom,  or  because  it  gives  a  girl 
a  secure  feeling  to  know  that  good  ole 
Joe  is  around  to     {Continued  on  page  7k) 


Treasure  of  the  deep  for  your  fingertips 

zmr  pearl  polishes 


Made  with  essence  of  pearl!  Fathoms  deep  down 
in  the  ocean,  Nature  produces  the  precious 
nacre  for  Cutex  pearl  polishes.  Along  Fifth 
Avenue  and  the  rue  du  Faubourg  St.  Honore  its 
pearly  sheen  gives  a  whole  new  look  to  smart 
hands.  Because  Cutex  pearl  polishes  have  a  sub- 


tle excitement  that  makes  other  polishes  seem 
dim  and  lifeless  by  comparison.  Whether  you 
prefer  a  vivid  pink  or  an  offbeat  green  or  orchid, 
Cutex  pearl  colors  have  a  special  radiance  all 
their  own.  Turn  your  fingertips  into  gleaming 
jewels. ..with  Cutex  long-lasting  pearl  polishes! 


HOULD  I  GO  STEADY? 

Sach  year  for  the  past  ten  the  custom  of  going  steady  has  grown 
nore  and  more  popular  among  American  teenagers;  and  each  year 
nore  and  more  American  parents  worry  about  it.  According  to 
J.  S.  Government  figures,  "81,000  babies  are  born  to  unmarried 
eenage  girls  each  year."  Some  authorities  blame  this  troublesome 
ttatistic  directly  on  going  steady.  We  think  that's  overstating  the 
:ase,  but  there's  no  question  that  going  steady  is  fraught  with 
tath  delights  and  dangers.  Last  month  in  Modern  Screen  20  boys 
yere  asked  if  teenagers  should  go  steady.  And  answering  out  of 
heir  own  experience,  14  said  no,  5  said  yes  and  one  said  maybe. 
?his  month  we  asked  20  girls  the  same  question/Maybe  we  can  all 
earn  from  their  experiences  and  mistakes  — ^ 


Kathy  Nolan:  There's  nothing  wrong  with  steady-dating.  I've 
steady-dated  with  many  boys,  and  I  don't  think  it  did  me 
harm. 

Once  I  steady-dated  a  New  York  actor  who  had  a  cousin 
abroad,  and  the  actor's  sisters  thought  they'd  play  Cupid 
and  'engage'  me  to  the  cousin.  So  they  put  a  ring  on  my 
finger  and  phoned  the  cousin  in  Scotland  to  tell  him  he  and 
I  were  engaged.  So,  not  wanting  to  hurt  anybody's  feelings, 
I  stayed  'engaged'  for  a  week  and  returned  the  ring. 

This  was  an  odd  incident,  but  for  me  steady-dating  has 
been,  generally,  a  pleasant  experience.  When  I  break  up 
with  a  boy,  we  stay  friends.  All  my  ex-beaux  are  close  to  me. 

I've  got  a  goal:  to  make  a  bridge  between  career  and 
marriage.  If  steady-dating  is  part  of  that  bridge,  I'm  satis- 
fied. The  truth  is  that  I  never  think  of  steady-dating;  I 
just  date. 

(Kathy  is  a  star  of  The  Real  McCoys  on  ABC-TV  net- 
work.) 

Asa  Maynor:  I  think  there's  nothing  that's  more  fun  in  the 
world  than  going  steady  with  the  right  boy. 

It's  hard  to  go  steady  with  one  person  in  Hollywood, 
because  people  assume  you're  engaged  {Continued  on  page  55) 


YES,  BUT: 

£1  All  £1 


Gigi  Perreau 


Anita  Bryant       Elana  Eden 


Diane  Baker 


Jeannie  Thomas  -*^B       Margo  Moore 

Carol  Lynley 


Gigi  Perreau:  I'm  for  steady-dat- 
ing, with  reservations. 

Going  steady  means  differ- 
ent things  to  different  people. 
To  the  thirteen-  or  fourteen- 
year-olds,  itisoftennothingmore 
than  exchanging  of  ID  brace- 
lets. To  fifteen-,  sixteen-  and 
seventeen-year-olds,  it  often 
means  the  security  of  having 
a  definite  date  Saturday  nights. 
To  the  older  teenagers  and 
young  adults,  it  is  generally 
more  (Continued  on  page  55) 


Dorothy  Provine:  I  am  really  against  steady-dating  for  teenagers. 

I  sincerely  believe  it  is  unwise  for  teenagers  to  go  steady. 
Steady-dating  in  high  school  frequently  leads  to  marriage  at 
too  early  an  age  when  neither  party  is  in  a  position  to  maturely 
consider  the  responsibilities  they  have  to  face  in  married  life. 

Furthermore,  a  person's  outlook  on  life  is  apt  to  undergo -a 
complete  change  during  the  formative  years,  and  the  boy  we 
may  have  thought  dashingly  handsome,  witty  and  debonair  in 
our  teens  may  not  have  the  same  appeal  to  more  mature  eyes. 

(Dorothy  is  the  femme  lead  in  the  Warner  Bros,  series,  The 
Alaskans,  on  ABC-TV.)  (Continued  on  page  55) 


A  fine  actress 
who  felt 
she  was  a  failure 

A  wife 
and  mother 
who  thought 

nobody 
loved  her 

For 

Margaret  Sullavan 


T©irttOT(B(d, 


■  They  found  Margaret  Sullavan  uncon- 
scious in  a  New  Haven  hotel  room,  next  door  to  the  theater 
where  she  was  to  have  played  that  night.  The 
surroundings  were  queerly  im- 
personal, as  though  she  had  collapsed  in  a  railroad  station, 

while  waiting  for  a  train. 
On  the  bed,  beside  the  slight  figure  (Continued  on  page  40) 


Maggie  met  Henry  Fonda  By  1933  they  were  both  big 
in  1928,  wed  him  in  1930.   Hollywood  stars,  but  divorced. 


Mir  J 


She  next  married  and  di-  At  the  peak  of  her  fame, 
voreed    William    Wyler.   she  deserted  Hollywood. 


f 


She  married  Leland  Hay-  Voice  of  the  Turtle  was  her  big 
ward,  had  three  children,    hit.  But  she  said,  "I'm  cheating." 


After  Hayward,  Maggie  She  told  Wagg  "this  new 
married  Kenneth  Wagg.   show  might  kill  me." 


Margaret  Sullavan 

continued 

in  white  pajamas,  lay  a  script, 
and  a  copy  of  The  Adventures  of 
Mark  Twain.  Nearby,  there 
were  several  half-empty  bottles 
of  pills. 

There  was  no  note,  no  indica- 
tion that  she  had  sought  death, 
rather  than  sleep. 

She  had  never  appeared  suici- 
dal, but  for  a  long  time  now,  she 
had  been  very  tired.  At  fifty, 
she  still  had  fire,  temperament, 
charm,  wit,  looks — qualities  for 
which  she  was  famous— but 
something  had  broken  in  her. 
Some  zest  was  gone,  some  cour- 
age, lost  with  her  youth  and 
early  dreams. 

"Nervous  exhaustion"  they 
called  what  ailed  her,  and  once 
before  it  had  put  her  into  a 
hospital  for  therapy.  That  time 
she  had  battled  her  way  out  of 
the  dark,  this  time  she  seemed 
to  have  embraced  it,  drifting 
silently  into  its  peace,  its  noth- 
ingness. 

The  official  verdict  was  "bar- 
biturate poisoning."  Suicide? 
Accident?  There  is  no  final 
answer.  There  is  only  the  blunt 
fact  that  a  talented  woman 
died  because  she  could  no  longer 
cope  with  the  problems  of  her 
world. 

What  were  those  problems? 

Certainly  not  money.  Only 
the  week  before,  she  had  been 
joking  {Continued  on  page  72) 


By  the  time  you  read  this,  the  best  known,  most  derided, 
most  admired  young  entertainer  in  the  world  may  be 
home— home  with  his  friends,  his  music,  his  memories.  In 
response  to  the  wide  public  enthusiasm  on 
this  occasion,  and  as  our  own  personal 
tribute  to  Elvis  Presley,  Modern  Screen 
has  prepared  3  stories,  each  with  its  own 
special  and,  we  believe,  interesting  slant. 


First,  there's  a  direct  impression  of  El  by  3  American 
teenage  girls  who  spent  the  best  part  of  a  week  end  with 

■  ■  mm  him  very  recently.  Next,  Hal 

H  1    1 1  ml  I  Wm     ^a^s>  ^e  famous  Hollywood 

■  "  producer  of,  among  others, 
Elvis'  new  picture  GI  Blues,  talks  about  his  star  from  a 
professional  yet  warmly  human  point  of  view.  Finally, 
with  the  invaluable  cooperation  of  the  Presley's  friends 
and  neighbors  in  Memphis,  Tennessee,  we  offer  a  glimpse 
of  what  for  Elvis — returning  to  walk 

the  street  of  memory,  past  the  house  of  M      I   %  M  I 
empty  rooms,  up  the  hill  to  the  cemetery  £^  Lbi  W 
—will  surely  be  the  real  story  of  his 
homecoming      mmm 


Elvis  longed  for  the  sight 

of  Graceland,  the  mansion  he 

bought  his  mother,  and 

to  kneel  again  at  her  grave. 

by  Ed  DeBlasio 

As  we  go  to  press,  Ellis 
Presley  is  expected  home.  This 
is  the  story  of  that  home- 
coming, by  a  newspaper- 
friend  of  the  celebrated  G.I. 

■  A  very  few  days  from 
now.  the  soldier  will  be  home 
from  Germany.  According  to 
present  plans,  he  will  be 
handed  his  discharge  papers 
in  the  same  building  where 
he  was  inducted  two  years 
ago,  on  March  20,  1958— 
a  big  and  old  and  homely 
red-brick  building  some  six 
miles  outside  of  Memphis, 
Tennessee,  a  building  called, 
simply,  the  Army  General 
Depot.  Papers  in  hand,  his 
dad  at  his  side,  he  will  leave 
the  building  and  begin  to 
(Continued  on  page  52) 


Three  American  teenagers 
(LaVerne  Novak,  Pattie  McCabe 
and  Toni  Cistone) 
report  on  their  recent 


Hal  Wallis  (producer  of 
Elvis'  upcoming  Gl  Blues) 
reports  on  his 
star's  immediate  future 


his  grown-up  way  with  the ; 


■  Probably  one  of  the  greatest  thrills  for  any  teenage  girl  in  this  tw 
is  the  opportunity  to  meet  and  talk  to  Elvis  Presley.  Recently  three  t 
to  Europe  on  a  singing  tour,  and  they  not  only  had  the  chance  to  me< 
were  lucky  enough  to  spend  part  of  a  weekend  with  him,  talking,  sin: 
what  makes  Elvis  the  great  guy  that  he  is. 

Who  were  the  girls?  The  Poni  Tails,  a  young  and  exciting  singing  g 
fine  harmony  in  Born  Too  Late  and  I'll  Be  Seeing  You). 

Of  the  three,  Toni  Cistone,  who's  brown-haired  and  brown-eyed,  is 
sing  while  washing  dishes.  Blue-eyed  Patti  McCabe  is  chestnut-haired  ( 


his  plans,  his  projects  &  his  d 

■  When  Modern  Screen  learned  that  Hal  Wallis  was  going  to  Gerr 
the  new  Elvis  Presley  picture,  G.I.  Blues,  we  asked  him  for  news  of  E 
discovered  and  has  carefully  guided  Elvis  to  stardom  in  pictures,  not  e 
as  a  substantial  actor,  we  asked  Mr.  Wallis  to  bring  us  a  candid  repoi 
Elvis  himself.  A  report  to  separate  the  facts  from  the  many  conjectu] 
saturated  Elvis'  loyal  fans  these  past  two  years. 

And  here  in  detail  is  Mr.  Wallis'  account  of  his  meetings  with  Elv 
G.I.  Blues  in  Hollywood  on  his  release  from  the  Army  in  March. 

"  'I've  sure  been  getting  a  lot  of  experience  and  local  color  to  play  « 


LIKE 
AWFUL 


11 


Afternoon  bike-rides  with  Kimm  Charney,  or  sisterly  TV  ses- 
sions, are  okay — but  Dodie  dreams  of  a  night-time  date. 


Dodie  hears  it  from  all  the  boys  right  now : 
"Like  I'll  call  you  back  in  about  three  years." 


■  Saturday  night  on  Sun- 
set Boulevard.  And  thirteen  - 
year-old  Dodie  Stevens  was 
doing  a  last  run-through 
at  a  recording  session.  Crying 
her  heart  out  into  the  studio 
microphone.  Like  she'd  loved 
and  lost  a  lifetime  .... 

With  excited  big  brown 
'  eyes — just  level  with  the  glass  in 
the  sound-box — she  watched 
Louis  Prima  gesturing 
from  the  control  booth,  super- 
vising her  first  album  session 
for  Dot.  She  looked  at  the 

(Continued  on  page  68) 


■  Here  is  a  happy  woman  .  .  .  oblivious  to  the  camera, 
lost  in  the  discovery  of  her  new-born  son,  lost  in  the  un- 
believable joy  of  motherhood.  Unbelievable  to  Brigitte, 
because  this  is  the  same  girl  who,  not  long  ago,  told 
the  world  that  she  didn't  find  pregnancy  "much  of  a 
joke,"  that  she  was  "alarmed"  by  the  coming  birth — in 
fact  almost  admitted  that  she  really  didn't  want  this 
child. 

And  the  ecstatic-looking  young  man,  toasting  the 
little  family  with  sparkling  champagne.  .  .  This  is 
Jacques  Charrier,  the  proud  father,  whose  nerves,  not 
long  ago,  were  so  frazzled,  whose  depression  was  so 
grave  that  he  had  to  undergo  psychiatric  treatment. 
With  the  coming  of  little  Nicolas,  his  sanity  is  restored, 
Brigitte  is  delivered,  and  no  longer  remembers  the  an- 
guish, for  the  joy  that  a  child  is  bom  into  the  world. 


■  It  seems  like  only  yesterday  that  I  was  standing  in  line  at  the  bank— making  a  withdrawal,  of  course. 

It  was  my  second  day  at  Northwestern  University,  where  I  was  taking  summer  courses.  I  had 
enrolled  because  all  my  friends  were  going  there,  and  because  I  had  heard  everybody  went  there  either 
to  make  up  courses,  or  to  indulge  in  the  legendary  summer  romances  on  the  shore  of  Lake  Michigan. 

Well,  here  I  was  at  the  bank  .  .  .  and  three  or  four  paces  ahead  of  me  was  a  beautiful,  tall  girl- 
making  a  deposit,  no  doubt! 

I  stared  at  her,  and  noticed  her  prematurely  gray  hair,  her  lovely  figure,  her  freckles,  her  bank 
book  .  .  .  No,  not  her  bank  book. 

I  gaped,  and  I  gulped,  and  my  little  heart  pounded.  I  suspect  all  115  pounds  of  me  shook.  My  small 
brown  eyes  grew  smaller  as  I  squinted  at  this  lovely  girl.  I  clutched  my  withdrawal  slip  while  she  finished 
her  business.  Then  she  walked  briskly  out,  and  I  lost  her  in  the  crowd  of  students  pouring 
into  the  bank  (to  make  withdrawals,  of  course). 

I  snapped  out  of  my  daze,  forgot  to  withdraw  the  money,  staggered  out  uncertainly,  and  wandered  back 
to  my  room  to  inform  my  best  friend:  "I  just  saw  the  girl  I  am  going  to  marry!" 

He  just  yawned  and  went  back  to  eating  a  potato  chip  sandwich. 

When  I  got  hold  of  myself,  I  scurried  out  to  hunt  down  this  girl. 

Soon  I  discovered  she  was 
Florence  Mitchell,  a  student  at  the 
same  university,  who,  unfor- 
tunately, was  not  in  any  of  my 
classes.  So  I  managed  to  get  up  a 
list  of  her  classes. 

Since  (Continued  on  page  51) 


never  before  told 
(and  probably  never  again) 


CE 


Parboil 


by  Tony  Randall 


there  was  just  10  minutes  between  classes, 
I  would  run  to  the  classroom  where  she 
was  due,  just  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her. 

I  didn't  have  the  nerve  to  talk  to  her. 

At  times,  I  would  run  into  her  quite 
accidentally  in  the  corridors  or  on  the 
campus  (well,  not  always  accidentally) 
and  my  heart  would  pound  something  ter- 
rible. 

Of  course,  I  never  let  on  that  her  mere 
presence  threw  me  into  a  tizzy.  Being  part 
of  the  clique  of  kids  who  did  the  school 
plays,  I  was  quite  an  actor,  and  I  knew 
how  to  conceal  my  true  feelings. 

She  has  always  said  she  never,  never 
did  notice  me.  But  she  must  be  fibbing,  for 
how  could  she  have  failed  to  notice  me? 
After  all,  I  was  then  about  a  half  inch 
taller  than  I  am  now.  I  was  a  solid  115 
pounds,  including  pimples  and  a  pinch 
face.  I  had  bushy  hair,  with  a  great  big 
wave  up  front,  which  made  my  forehead 
look  only  one  inch  deep. 

I  had  black  rings  under  my  eyes,  and 
humped  shoulders  from  always  slumping 
because  I  didn't  get  enough  sleep  and  was 
always  napping  in  my  chair. 

I  was  18  then,  at  the  age  when  I  felt  it 
was  real  living  to  stay  up  all  night  and 
drink  beer  and  talk  and  talk.  I  never  went 
to  bed,  and  I  was  always  tired  and  sleepy, 
and  I'm  sure  I  had  a  charmingly  idiotic 
look.  Worse,  I  smoked  a  lot  and  drank 
coffee,  and  wasted  my  life  away. 

Of  course,  I  felt  that  I  was  living  a  ter- 
ribly romantic  life.  And  the  only  reason  I 
don't  live  this  kind  of  life  any  more  is 
that  I  cannot  stand  it!  It  would  kill  me! 

Well,  one  bright  day  .  .  .  no,  it  couldn't 
have  been  bright  because  I  was  carrying 
an  umbrella  ...  or  maybe  I  was  still  in 
a  daze  .  .  I  was  walking  along  with  some 
fellows  when  I  realized  (sigh!  sigh!)  that 
she  was  walking  behind  us. 

Joe  College  wasn't  chic 

I  don't  know  why  I  did  it,  but  I  suddenly 
started  to  show  off  badly.  I  exclaimed 
loudly,  so  she  could  hear,  that,  "This 
summer  I'm  going  to  be  Joe  College!"  This 
meant  that  I  would  wave  the  banner  and 
wear  a  racoon  coat  and  wide  bell-bottom 
trousers,  and  act  like  the  movie  version  of 
a  wild  college  student.  And  at  our  school, 
all  students  were  trying  desperately  not  to 
behave  like  students.  It  just  wasn't  chic 
that  summer. 

So,  of  course,  I  screamed  and  fussed  and 
made  an  idiot  of  myself  (which  was  not 
difficult)  and  presumed  that  She  was  im- 
pressed. 

Several  days  later,  I  was  again  carrying 
an  umbrella  (it  was  a  rainy  summer,  you 
know),  when  I  saw  her. 

Don't  ask  me  why,  but  on  sheer  im- 
pulse I  went  over  to  her  and  started  beat- 
ing her  on  the  shoulders  with  my  um- 
brella, and  shouting. 

(Poor  girl,  it  seems  I  never  had  these 
impulses  on  a  sunny  day  when  I  wasn't 
carrying  an  umbrella.) 

Well,  she  did  not  kick  me  in  the  shins 
or  call  for  the  police,  as  she  should  have. 
Instead,  she  said,  sweetly,  "Stop  Joe!" 

(I  guess  she  thought  my  name  was  real- 
ly Joe  College.) 

Bless  her  heart,  she  wasn't  mad  at  me. 
She  thought  I  was  very  funny. 

I  realized  at  once  that  she  was  a  girl  of 
superior  intelligence. 

She  laughed  at  everything  I  said  or  did, 
and  I  was  shocked  into  sheer  delight.  No 
other  girl  had  reacted  so  wholeheartedly 
to  my  alleged  sense  of  humor. 

We  made  a  date  to  go  swimming. 

I  will  never  forget  the  date:  July  3.  I 
joined  her  on  the  beach.  There  she  was:  a 
Venus  in  a  beautiful  blue  bathing  suit. 
And  there  I  was:  a  sight  in  my  yellow 
bathing  trunks,  my  concave  chest  sag- 
ging, my  shoulders  sticking  out  like  wings, 
my  ribs  sticking  out  like  a  set  of  old  pipes, 


BRA  BY  PER  MA-LIFT 

Adorned  with  Self -Fitting  Cups 
Blessed  with  the  Neveride  Band 


Your  bosom,  is  gentry  cradled  from  the  sides,  gloriously 
lifted  to  bewitching  new  contours,  by  a  new,  trium- 
phantly feminine  "Perma  •  lift"  bra  with  Self  "Fitting  cups 
that  conform  to  you,  and  a  Neveride  Band  that  securely 
holds  your  bra  in  place.  Wash-'n'-wear  cotton,  S3.  Con- 
tour or  padded  style,  S3. 95.  At  the  finest  stores. 

3.  Pat.  Off.  A  product  of  A.  Stein  &  Company  ■  Chicago — New  York — Los  Angeles — Toronto 


Jim  Martin, 
Station  WSOC, 
Charlotte,  N.  C 


Howie  Leonard, 
Station  WLOB, 
Portland,  Me. 


The  Nation's  Top  Disk  Jockeys  pose  a 
series  of  questions  to  see  if  you  know 
your  record  stars. 

1.  His   Calypso   records  were 
big  hits.  Perhaps  the  best 

folk-singer  of  the  day,  RCA- 
Victor  issued  a  special  album 

titled      at  Carnegie 

Hall.  He  starred  in  the  movie 
Odds  Against  Tomorrow. 

2,  The  title  of  her  new  album, 
a  Disneyland  release,  is  her 

first  name.  She's  eighteen,  had 
hit  singles  such  as  Tall 
Paul,  Danny  Boy.  An 
original  member  of  the 

TV  MOUSKETEERS, 

starred  in  Shaggy  Dog. 
3.  He  records  for  Verve, 
Roulette,  plays  great 
piano  with  his  orches- 
tra: latest  album  is 
Chairman  of  the 
Board.  He's  been  in 
movies,  TV,  radio.  Two 
hit  singles  were  Shake, 

Rattle  and  Roll,  and  One 
Mori    Tim i  . 
jfF****^^         4.  Before  his  first  big  hit,  on 
m  %  :  Chess  label,  he  worked  as 

a    hairdresser.    The    hit  was 
^p^tCS*!       Ma  ybellene,     which  he 

.  u  rate:  latest  album  is   

J  *;      on  Top  and  some  of  his  hit 

I^L  '  jmm     singles    were   Sweet  Little 
Sixteen,   Too   Much  Mon- 
.   /,  key     Ht  sini.ss     and  Ron. 

Si  '  'Warn      Over,  Beethoven. 
Jerry  Grisham,        5.  These  girls  are  a  quartet 
Station  KVIP  known  bv  one  name.  They 

Redd.ng.  Calif.        smg  fof  jom  Qn  ^ 

Arthur  Godfrey  Show:  their 
latest    single   is   A  Girl's 
Work  Is  Never  Done.  Ca- 
dence label.  A  past  hit  was 
Mr.  Sandman. 

6.  A  smooth-style  singer; 
he's  written  an  auto- 
biography titled  Twixt  12 
and  20:  stars  in  Journey 
to  the  Center  of  the 
Earth,  had  past  hits  Ain't 
That  a  Shame,  I  Amost 
Lost  My  Mind. 

7.  He's  on  the  Atco  Label, 
had   the    biggest  single 

hit  of  the  year,  Mack  the 
Knife.  Paramount  Pictures 
just  signed  him. 


uuvq  Xqqog 
juoog  joj  .g 

3}SBgtunoj  -£ 


Bill  "Total"  Reck, 
Station  WTRR, 
Sanford,  Fla. 


George  E.  LeZotte, 
Station  WTRY, 
Troy,  N.  Y. 


my  ears  sticking  out,  my  eyes  ringed  in 
dark  circles. 

She  looked  like  a  model  for  good  health. 
I  looked  like  the  Before  fellow  in  the 
before-and-after  ads  for  vitamin  pep  pills! 

I  still  don't  know  why  she  was  not 
ashamed  of  being  seen  with  me.  I  tried 
puffing  out  my  chest,  but  this  was  im- 
possible. I  strutted  a  bit — this  was  easier, 
although  a  gruesome  sight.  Finally  we  ran 
briskly  into  the  water. 

We  splashed  around,  and  I  had  to  strug- 
gle to  hold  my  place  when  the  waves  re- 
ceded and  tugged  at  my  legs.  Yes,  I  know 
the  waves  of  Lake  Michigan  are  pretty 
weak,  but  so  was  I!  Finally,  we  came  out 
of  the  water  and  as  we  walked  happily  on 
the  sand,  she  put  a  wet  lily-white  hand 
on  my  shoulder  and  whispered,  "My 
Adonis!" 

I  looked  around  furtively,  and  asked, 
"Who  .  .  .  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  back,  evidently 
annoyed  that  I  would  doubt  her. 

"Not  skinny  me?"  I  protested,  half 
heartedly. 

But  she  insisted  I  was  her  Adonis.  And 
to  this  day  I  periodically  ask,  "Did  you 
really  mean  it  when  you  said  I  was  your 
Adonis?"  And  she  keeps  saying,  "You 
were  magnificent,  dear." 

Two  weeks  after  I  had  hit  her  with  the 
umbrella,  we  sneaked  off  to  Worcester, 
Massachusetts,  and  got  married.  We  were 
both  18,  and  we  were  mad  for  each  other. 
We  were  laughing  all  the  time.  She  was 
the  greatest  one-woman  audience  I've  ever 
had. 

She  was  laughing  so  much,  we  had  to 
do  something  to  stop  that.  We  did  .  .  .  and 
to  this  day,  I  beg  her  to  go  back  to  those 
mad  courtship  days  when  she  laughed  and 
laughed. 

(Sometimes  I  wonder  if  it's  because  I'm 
hooked  now  .  .  .  and  she  doesn't  have  to  . . . 
Well,  it's  a  dark  thought  and  we  won't  go 
into  it.) 

We  did  not  tell  our  parents.  In  fact, 
we  eloped  without  telling  anybody!  We 
sneaked  back  to  college  after  our  week- 
end in  Worcester  and,  of  course,  started 
living  together. 

All  our  friends,  naturally  enough,  sus- 
pected we  were  living  together  without 
benefit  of  clergy.  We  would  not  tell  them. 
Why  should  we  worry,  we  thought  .  .  . 
let  them  worry! 

When  I  recall  our  courtship,  I  just  can- 
not remember  how  I  proposed,  if  I  did  at 
all.  I  blank  out  on  it.  And  nobody  is  going 
to  trap  me  into  saying  I  blank  out  be- 


cause it  was  an  unhappy  experience.  I'm 
too  foxy  for  that. 

Flo  Flo,  which  is  what  I  call  her  some- 
times, won't  tell  me  how  I  proposed.  She 
says  it's  her  secret. 

It  was  while  studying  speech  at  North- 
western that  I  decided  to  become  an 
actor.  Before  that  I  had  only  worked  for 
three  weeks  as  an  office  boy  with  an  oil 
company,  and  the  oil  industry  made  it  clear 
that  it  could  survive  my  departure.  Any- 
way, after  our  summer  course  at  North- 
western, Flo  Flo  and  I  went  to  New  York. 

She  notified  her  parents  and  I  notified 
my  parents  that  we  were  in  New  York  for 
further  studies,  so  they  continued  to  send 
us  our  allowances.  These  allowances,  plus 
what  I  could  pick  up  as  a  struggling  actor 
and  what  Flo  Flo  could  get  from  modeling, 
kept  us  alive  during  our  early  years  of 
marriage. 

We  didn't  tell  our  parents  that  we  were 
married  until  two  or  three  years  later, 
when  we  no  longer  needed  our  allowances. 

I  went  into  the  U.S.  Army  for  four  years, 
serving  in  the  Signal  Corps,  and  Flo  Flo 
traveled  with  me  as  much  as  possible. 
When  I  returned  to  Broadway,  my  career 
started  to  pick  up  and  I've  managed  nicely, 
and  now  Flo  Flo  doesn't  have  to  work  at 
modeling  any  more.  She  just  stays  home 
and  cooks. 

Sometimes,  in  a  desperate  effort  to  get 
her  laughing  again,  I  call  my  wife  Ivan 
Simpson,  after  an  old  actor  with  whom  I 
worked  in  Caesar  and  Cleopatra.  He  wore 
his  hair  in  bangs  for  the  role,  and  my 
wife  cut  her  hair  short  at  that  time  and 
looked  a  bit  like  Ivan  Simpson. 

Unfortunately,  she  doesn't  laugh  at  this. 

She,  in  turn,  calls  me  Idol  of  the  Mil- 
lions. After  dinner,  when  I  am  washing 
the  dishes,  she  sits  (exhausted  from  the 
big  meal,  of  course)  and  lights  a  cigarette. 
And  while  she  blows  smoke  rings  toward 
the  chandelier,  she  says  (somewhat  sar- 
castically, I  must  say),  "Well,  weD  .  .  . 
everybody  from  the  building  across  the 
way  is  looking  over  at  the  Idol  of  the 
Millions  washing  dishes!" 

Unfortunately,  I  don't  think  this  is 
funny  .  .  .  and  I  don't  laugh. 

So,  you  see,  we  have  a  few  kinks  to 
iron  out. 

And  to  think  that  it  all  started  when 
I  went  to  the  bank — to  make  a  withdraw- 
al, of  course.  END 

Tony  co-stars  in  Pillow  Talk,  U.I.,  will 
be  seen  later  in  Let's  Make  Love  for  20th- 
Fox. 


The  Memories  That  Will  Never  Die 


(Continued  from  page  43) 

head  for  his  car,  one  of  the  two  new  Cadil- 
lacs that  have  already  been  ordered  for 
him.  He  will  walk  out  of  the  door,  and 
onto  the  steps  that  lead  down  to  the  side- 
walk. But  he  will  not  get  far  down  these 
steps  before  the  crowds,  waiting  for  him 
since  early  that  morning,  will  surround 
him.  Hi,  Elvis,  they'll  shout,  welcome 
home  .  .  .  the  kids,  the  grown-ups,  the  cops, 
even  the  MPs.  A  few  babies,  held  high  by 
their  mothers,  will  wave  haphazardly.  A 
few  young  girls,  blushing  and  brazen,  will 
rush  forward  to  touch  him.  And  he  will 
smile  politely,  warmly,  and  say  thank  you 
ma'am,  thank  you  sir,  thank  you  sis.  thank 
you  .  .  .  And  as  he  speaks  he  will  look 
around  and  remember  this  same  spot,  that 
other  morning,  exactly  two  years  ago,  that 
chill  and  rain-swept  morning  when  she 
stood  there,  in  her  plain  black  coat,  the 
little  black  hat  on  her  head,  the  handker- 
chief clutched  tightly  in  her  hand,  in  the 


midst  of  this  same-type  crowd,  and  how, 
smiling  through  her  helpless  tears,  she  said 
to  him:  Good-bye,  God  bless  you.  Take 
care.  And  write  so's  I  don't  worry  too 
much. 

And  to  himself,  as  he  stands  there  this 
morning,  two  years  later,  remembering 
her,  he  will  think:  Later,  later,  when  dark- 
ness begins  to  come  and  we  can  be  to- 
gether again,  for  just  a  little  while  at 
least.  .  .  . 

Questions,  answers 

Once  in  the  car,  there'll  be  the  usual  de- 
lay. The  motor  warming,  ready  to  go,  he 
will  lean  out  the  window  and,  still  smiling, 
he  will  wait  while  the  photographers,  pop- 
ping away  these  past  few  minutes,  call  out 
for  one  more,  a  couple  more,  just  a  few 
more  shots  pu-leez;  while  the  reporters — 
men  from  the  Commercial  Appeal  and  the 
Press-Scimitar   and   the   big   three  wire 


services— finally  making  their  way  through 
the  crowd,  call  out  their  questions. 

"Come  on,  'fess  up,  did  you  get  engaged 
to  any  of  those  frauleins  over  there?" — it's 
a  cinch  they  11  ask  this. 

"Nope,"  Elvis  will  say. 

"How  long  you  going  to  be  in  Memphis 
before  you  head  for  Hollywood?"  they'll 
ask. 

"Two,  three  weeks — the  longer,  the  bet- 
ter." 

"Going  to  live  it  up?" 

The  smile  widening:  "I  hope  so." 

Then: 

"Is  it  true  about  the  rumor,  Elvis,  that 
you're  planning  to  sell  Graceland?" 

And  Elvis  will  shake  his  head  and  he 
will  say,  "No.  Not  on  your  life.  Never.  .  .  ." 

Stop  on  the  hill 

The  ride  home,  down  Airways  Boule- 
vard, will  be  as  swift  as  Tennessee  law 
allows.  The  tobacco  fields,  the  farms,  the 
factories,  the  patches  of  still-brown  wood- 
land, the  schoolhouses,  the  motels,  the  bill- 
boards, the  fruit  stands,  the  turn-offs  with 
their  zigzag  signposts,  the  new  shopping 
center,  the  new  housing  developments,  the 
used  car  lots,  the  empty  lots,  the  circus 
site — all  will  pass  by  him  quickly.  The 
windows  of  the  car  will  be  down.  The  air, 
filled  with  the  sweet  clay  smell  of  South- 
ern earth,  will  whip  against  the  sides  of 
his  face  and  up  into  his  nostrils.  The  feel- 
ing will  be  a  good  feeling,  familiar  once 
but  then  half-forgotten  and  now,  once 
more,  familiar. 

The  car  will  continue  to  race  on. 

Till  when  it  reaches  the  hill  it  will  slow 
down  momentarily,  practically  stop.  For 
from  the  crest  of  the  hill  he  will  be  able 
to  look  down,  way  down,  and  there, 
slightly  to  his  right,  three-quarters  of  a 
mile  away,  he  will  be  able  to  see  it — 
Graceland. 


It  will  look  as  lovely  as  ever,  this  lovely 
house,  with  its  white-pillared  entranceway 
standing  out  bright  and  proud,  with  its  big 
windows  glistening,  its  acres  of  rolling 
lawn  hugging  all  four  sides  of  it,  with  its 
sleepiness,  its  majesty  ...  its  memories. 

And  as  he  looks  down  at  it  from  the  top 
of  the  hill  this  day,  he  will  remember 
exactly  how  it  was  the  first  time  she  saw 
it,  that  morning  back  in  '57.  How,  when  he 
stopped  the  car  in  which  they  were  riding 
at  this  exact  same  place  and  pointed  to 
the  house,  she  turned  to  him  after  a  mo- 
ment and  she  said,  That  beautiful  place? 
For  us?  So  big?  Oh  my  God.  How  much 
did  it  cost  you,  Elvis?  Now  come  on.  How 
much?  How,  when  he  told  her  how  much, 
she  said,  Ohhhhhhhh — breathless,  unbe- 
lieving, thinking  back,  as  she  was  to  say 
later,  to  a  two-room  shack  in  Tupelo, 
Mississippi,  a  shack  built  by  her  hus- 
band's hands  and  hers,  where  the  boy 
seated  next  to  her  once  lay  in  a  rough- 
hewn  cradle  while  she  and  his  father 
talked,  sometimes-hopelessly,  sometimes- 
dreamingly,  about  his  future. 

And  he  will  remember  her  reaction  this 
day,  this  moment — every  bit  of  it,  just  as 
it  was. 

And  he  will  think  to  himself:  Later, 
later,  when  darkness  begins  to  come  and 
we  can  be  together  again,  for  just  a  little 
while  at  least.  .  .  . 

He'll  understand 

Travis  Smith,  his  uncle  and  head  care- 
taker of  Graceland.  a  lean  and  tall  man, 
his  hair  just  a  little  grayer  now  than  it 
had  been  the  last  time,  will  be  at  the  gate. 
He  will  grin  as  the  big  car  pulls  up.  They 
will  shake  hands,  he  and  his  famous  neph- 
ew. The  nephew  will  ask  a  few  questions 
about  this  and  that — and  then  he  will  ask 
his  uncle  about  the  bad  fall  he  took 
around  Christmastime  and  about  the  con- 


dition of  his  back,  which  bore  the  brunt 
of  the  fall.  Fine  now,  Travis  will  probably 
say.  He  will  probably  add:  And  thanks  for 
taking  care  of  all  those  bills,  the  doctor's, 
the  hospital.  He'll  understand  when  his 
nephew  makes  light  of  this — That  boy,  he 
once  told  a  reporter,  is  one  of  those  people 
who  just  doesn't  like  you  to  mention  any- 
thing he's  ever  done  to  he'p  you;  embar- 
rasses him,  1  guess.  And  he'll  understand, 
too,  when  the  car  pulls  away  after  a  few 
minutes'  time.  Because  he'll  know  how 
much  his  nephew  wants  to  get  up  to  the 
house.  .  .  . 

The  little  trench  chair 

He'd  made  it  clear  to  her,  from  the  be- 
ginning, that  it  was  her  house.  But  she 
could  never,  in  that  short  year-and-a- 
half  she  lived  there,  get  used  to  the  idea. 
The  idea  of  having  a  place  with  a  swim- 
ming pool,  no  less,  and  five  bedrooms — 
five — and  five  bathrooms — and  with  those 
what-they-calls,  strange  words,  a  solarium 
and  a  den  and  a  library  and  a  game 
room —  This  was  too  much  for  her  to  get 
to  know  really. 

But  there  was  a  place  in  the  house  that 
she  did  know.  A  room  with  a  chair.  A 
very  special  chair  .  .  .  She'd  seen  the 
chair  once  at  a  charity  auction — a  very 
elegant  little  chair  with  shining  wood  han- 
dles and  a  petit-point  design  embroidered 
on  its  back,  A  great  little  beauty  from  la 
belle  France,  the  auctioneer  had  said,  from 
the  summer  chateau  of  a  real  king.  It  was 
so  expensive  a  chair  that  that  night  she 
had  mentioned  its  price  over  supper — Can 
you  believe  it,  she'd  asked,  what  they  want 
for  some  things?  But  he  had  sensed,  from 
the  way  she'd  said  that  despite  her 
shocked  tones,  that  she  loved  the  chair. 
And  so  he'd  gone  the  next  day  and  bought 
it.  And  surprised  her  with  it.  And  it  had 
become  her  pride  and  joy — Not  to  be  sat 


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■  Kathy  Nolan,  a  girl  discovered  by  Hollywood,  was  in  the  hospital, 
suffering  from  a  severe  brain  concussion.  The  room  was  filled  with 
flowers,  telegrams,  baskets  of  fruit,  and  the  visitor's  chair  was  never 
empty. 

Alyson,  a  girl  who  hadn't  yet  been  discovered,  was  a  visitor  in  tears. 
"I  know  I  oughtn't  to  bother  you,"  she  sobbed,  "but  I'm  frightened. 
My  understudy  role  ...  I  have  to  play  it  tonight,  and  don't  know  how." 

"Of  course  you  do,"  Kathy  said  firmly.  "You're  a  good  actress;  all  you 
have  to  do  is  go  on  stage  and  show  them." 

"But  I  relied  on  you,"  Alyson  sighed,  "and  you  can't  come." 

"I'll  call  my  friends,"  Kathy  assured  her.  "They'll  all  be  there,  and 
tomorrow  you  can  tell  me  about  it.  .  .  ." 

Much  cheered,  Alyson  wiped  her  eyes  and  left  bravely — while  Kathy 
lay  in  her  hospital  bed,  staring  at  the  ceiling  thoughtfully.  She'd  prom- 
ised to  call  her  friends,  to  pack  the  audience  with  people  to  applaud 
for  Alyson — but  sadly  she  realized  it  would  be  hard  to  keep  that 
promise. 

After  an  hour  of  phoning,  only  two  people  had  agreed  to  go.  Then  the 
nurse  came  in  and  firmly  removed  the  phone.  "You'll  have  a  relapse," 
she  reproved,  and  began  fussing  about,  clearing  up  the  room  while 
Kathy  concentrated  on  what  to  do.  And  as  firmly,  the  nurse  said,  "I'll 
just  take  the  flowers  out  now,  Miss  Nolan.  You  know  you  can't  have 
them  in  the  room  at  night,  and  there'll  be  a  lot  more  tomorrow." 

"Flowers!"  said  Kathy  excitedly.  "Of  course!  Bring  me  some  florist's 
cards,  and  bribe  that  clerk  you're  always  flirting  with  to  bring  up 
wrapping  paper."  Blushing,  the  nurse  hurried  away,  while  Kathy  giggled. 

At  8:00  p.m.,  the  stage  entrance  to  a  small  Hollywood  theater  was 
electrified  as  two  delivery  boys  hauled  seventeen  floral  tributes  to 
Dressing  Room  One.  Miss  Alyson  Lewis  was  obviously  a  person  to  be 


aM  witk 


respected,  and  the  cast  treated  her  accordingly.  Alyson  herself,  jittery 
with  first-night  nerves,  glanced  hastily  at  the  cards,  gasped,  and  burst 
into  happy  tears. 

Kathy  had  certainly  kept  her  promise !  It  seemed  that  every  important 
person  in  Hollywood  wished  Alyson  Lewis  the  best  of  luck  that  night. 
Everybody  had  sent  flowers,  promising  to  be  out  front,  wishing  her 
success. 

"I  won't  let  her  down,"  Alyson  vowed,  as  she  put  on  her  make-up. 
"I'll  show  them  Kathy  Nolan  was  right!" 

On  stage,  she  gave  her  best  performance — and  won  enthusiastic  ap- 
plause. Glowing  with  excitement,  Alyson  went  back  to  her  dressing 
room  after  the  final  curtain  call.  Happily,  she  took  another  peek  at 
the  cards  on  the  flowers,  saying  proudly  to  herself,  /  hope  you're  all 
impressed  with  Kathy' s  friend  I 

She  took  a  second  look  at  the  cards  on  the  flowers,  hastily  gathered 
them  together,  spread  them  out  on  her  dressing  table  and  stared  in 
bewilderment,  and  burst  into  laughter.  She  was  still  giggling  when  her 
fellow  actors  crowded  into  the  room  to  congratulate  her. 

"But,  I  was  playing  to  an  audience  of  ghosts,"  she  said.  "Look!" 
Now,  she  realized  the  handwriting  on  all  the  cards  was  exactly  the 
same — and  all  Kathy  Nolan's. 


j  on,  please,  she  would  say,  just  to  look  at 
j  and  enjoy  that  way. 

And  now,  standing  in  the  room,  he  will 
!  look  at  the  chair  again  after  these  two 
!  long  years. 

And  he  will  remember  how  she  had 
j  stood  alongside  it  that  last  time  they'd 
!  been  together,  when  the  Army  had  given 
j  him  special  leave  so  he  could  come  be 
;  with  her.  How  she'd  sighed  and  said,  One 
j  thing  1  wish  about  this  hospital  where  I'm 
j  going — that  they'd  let  me  take  just  this. 
\  But  they  won't  .  .  .  No,  you  know  how 
\  hospitals  are. 

And  as  he  remembers,  he  will  think  to 
i  himself,  Later,  later,  when  the  darkness 
i  begins  to  come.  .  .  . 

Busy  afternoon 

The   afternoon   of  that   first   day,  the 
j  homecoming,  will  be  a  busy  one.  After 
!  lunch,  as  now  planned,  he  will  drive  into 
j  town.  With  what  is  described  as  "the  most 
i  minor  fanfare,  as  per  the  subject's  request"' 
|  he  will  go  to  the  office  of  Memphis'  mayor 
i  Henry  Loeb  to  accept  a  key  to  the  city. 
;  Following  this,  there  will  be  a  small  recep- 
j  tion  at  either  the  Peabody  or  Claridge 
hotels  (not  yet  decided  on),  given  by  some 
of  his  old  hometown  buddies.  And  then, 
undoubtedly,  there  will  be  a  quick  drive 
|  over  to  radio  station  WHHM  and  a  reunion 
i  with  that  station's,  and  probably  the  en- 
tire South's,  prettiest  disk  jockey,  blonde 
blue-eyed  Anita  Wood,  his  all-time  favor- 
ite local  girlfriend  of  years  gone  by  (rem- 
iniscences here — and  news:  Did  you  know 
that   so-and-so   married   guess-who  last 
year;  that  such  and  such  owns  his  own 
taxicab  now  and  that  he's  in  college,  and 
she's  in  New  York  trying  to  become  a 
model)  .  .  .  and  then,  a  drive  over  to  the 
First  Assembly  Church  of  God,  and  a  talk 
with  the  minister  there,  his  old  friend,  the 
Reverend   James   Hamill  (reminiscences 
here,  too — and  laughter:  I  remember  you 
at  thirteen.  Elvis,  when  you  always  needed 
a  haircut:  and  who  can  jorget  the  time  you 
tried  out  for  my  son  Jim's  Gospel  quar- 
tette and  lost  out,  because  your  voice  just 
didn't  have  it,  the  others  said.  Eh?) 

And  then,  after  all  this,  then  finally,  it 
will  be  late  afternoon — nearly  evening — 
and  he  will  get  into  his  car  again. 

And  then,  then  finally,  alone,  he  will 
drive  out  to  that  most  important  of  all  the 
places.  .  .  . 

Finally,  nightfall 

The  gatekeeper  at  Forest  Hill  Cemetery 
may  have  a  question  or  two. 
"How  you  feelin'?" 
"Fine,  sir." 

"How's  civilian  life  treating  vou?" 
"Fine." 

"Been  expectin'  you  .  .  .  Fact,  thought 
you'd  be  here  first  thing  today,  soon's  you 
got  your  discharge  papers." 

"I  waited  for  now  so  the  others  would 
go.  I  didn't  want  there  to  be  anyone  else 
here,  spoiling  anything." 

"Sure  .  .  .  Well  go  on,  son  .  .  .  Just  one 
more  thing,  though,  before  you  do  go.  I 
jus'  want  you  to  know  that  those  flowers 
you  been  orderin' — that  we  been  puttin' 
'em  on  the  grave  every  week,  nice  and 
fresh,  jus'  like  you  asked  us  to." 

"Thank  you,"  he  will  say,  as  he  begins 
to  walk  away. 

It  will  be  a  long  walk  he  will  have  to 
make. 

Not  remembering  exactly — for  he  has 
only  been  here  once  before,  exactly  nine- 
teen months  before — he  may  even  lose  his 
way  somewhat. 

But,  eventually,  he  will  reach  the  spot 
he  has  been  looking  for. 

And,  once  there,  he  will  stop  and  lower 
his  head. 

He  will  whisper  something,  too. 

Softly,  he  will  say,  "Ma  .  .  .  I'm  home." 

END 


Should  I  Go  Steady? 


{.Continued  from  page  36) 

YES 

so  darn  fast.  But  when  you  like  being 
with  a  certain  person,  it's  kind  of  nice  to 
know  he's  the  one  you'll  be  spending  the 
time  with.  It's  sort  of  a  prelude  to  an 
engagement  without  any  of  the  entangle- 
ments of  an  engagement. 

I  think  it's  reassuring  for  a  girl  to  have 
a  man  to  count  on,  once  she  starts  dating. 
I  do  feel,  though,  that  a  girl  should  try  to 
go  steady  with  a  lot  of  boys  before  she 
starts  thinking  of  anything  like  an  en- 
gagement. After  all,  there  are  loads  of 
boys  and  girls,  and  it  wouldn't  be  right  if 
you  felt  you  hadn't  met  enough  to  be 
really  sure  of  the  final  choice  for  the 
matrimonial  leap. 

(Asa  just  finished  Tightrope  for  CBS- 
TV  and  Not  For  Hire  for  WNEW-TV.) 

Jill  Corey:  When  I  was  fifteen,  back  in  my 
home  town  of  Avonmore,  Pennsylvania, 
all  the  boys  and  girls  my  age  steady-dated, 
I  steady-dated,  and  I  liked  it. 

Most  of  us  girls,  from  fifteen  to  about 
eighteen,  went  steady.  But  it  didn't  mean 
you  were  going  to  marry  the  guy.  It  just 
meant  you  liked  one  particular  boy  more 
than  the  others,  so  you  hung  around  to- 


gether. It  was  comfortable,  and  it  got  to 
be  a  habit. 

Today,  of  course,  I've  got  a  career  cook- 
ing and  I  can't  steady-date  any  more.  I'm 
on  the  road  about  twenty  weeks  a  year, 
and  even  when  I'm  home  (New  York)  my 
staying  home  is  often  interrupted  by  quick 
trips  to  Hollywood  and  back.  So  I'm  not 
long  enough  in  one  place  to  get  to  build 
up  a  steady-dating  habit. 

As  a  result,  I  date  a  lot  now  but  with 
various  fellows.  And  that  means  each  date 
involves  dressing  up,  having  a  fancy  din- 
ner out,  going  to  a  show  or  maybe  a  night 
club,  and  coming  home  late.  Each  date 
becomes  a  production.  But  if  I  still  had 
a  steady,  I  could  stay  home  and  relax, 
have  a  home-cooked  meal,  watch  TV  and 
sit  around  listening  to  records.  For  me, 
steady  dating  is  better.  I'm  in  favor  of  it. 
I  wish  I  could  get  back  to  it. 

(Jill  is  currently  in  the  Columbia  movie, 
Senior  Prom,  and  records  for  Columbia.) 

Judi  Meredith:  I'm  for  going  steady.  The 
only  reason  I'm  for  it  is  because  I'm  prac- 
tical. In  Hollywood,  when  you've  dated  a 
man  more  than  once,  everyone  assumes 
you're  going  steady.  No  actress  has  time 
to  experiment  with  lots  of  dates  with  dif- 
ferent fellows  when  she's  working. 

So,  instead  of  dating  all  sorts  of  people, 
I  go  out  with  people  I  enjoy  being  with. 
It's  natural  that  when  you  enjoy  a  man's 
company,  and  he  enjoys  yours,  you  end 
up  spending  lots  of  time  together.  I  sup- 
pose this  could  be  called  going  steady. 

If  a  girl  is  planning  on  marrying  at  some 
point  in  her  career  (and  what  girl  isn't?) 
then  she's  got  to  get  to  know  whether  she 
likes  someone  well  enough  to  get  engaged. 


This  works  out  to  a  strong  vote  for  going 
steady  in  my  book.  I  felt  this  way  in  my 
teens,  just  as  I  do  now.  If  you  date  a 
person  often,  at  any  age,  let's  face  it, 
you're  going  steady! 

(Judi  is  in  Hotel  de  Paree  and  River- 
boat  episodes  on  TV.) 

Penney  Parker:  I  believe  every  girl  should 
go  steady  with  a  fellow  she  enjoys. 

Sometimes,  simple  companionship  is 
taken  as  'going  steady'  when  this  may  not 
be  the  case  at  all  .  .  .  especially  where  the 
companionship  is  relative  to  mutual  in- 
terests such  as  hobbies  or  careers.  This  is 
not  going  steady  in  its  strictest  sense  since 
the  mutual  interests  are  not  deep  and 
lasting  as  perhaps  those  found  in  engaged 
couples. 

However,  going  steady  can  many  times 
aid  a  person  in  determining  what  he  or 
she  is  looking  for  in  a  mate — what  he  or 
she  dislikes  in  a  mate. 

I'm  for  it. 

(Penney,  eighteen,  is  a  feature  of  The 
Danny  Thomas  Show  on  CBS-TV.) 

YES,  BUT: 

(Continued  from  page  37) 

serious,  and  the  first  step  to  eventually 
becoming  engaged. 

To  me,  however,  going  steady  is  very 
serious  and  not  something  to  be  taken 
lightly  or  to  do  just  because  "everyone 
else  is  doing  it." 

I  wouldn't  condemn  any  teenager  for 
going  steady  if  he  or  she  is  mature  enough 
to  realize  the  responsibility  that  such  a 
relationship  holds. 

We  owe  ourselves  the  right  to  develop 
as  well-rounded  persons — physically,  so- 
cially, spiritually — and  it  is  during  the 
formative  years  between  thirteen  and 
twenty  that  we  establish  our  basic  prin- 
ciples and  character.  Therefore,  by  going 
out  with  only  one  person,  we  are  limiting 
our  own  development,  as  well  as  coming 
up  against  many  unnecessary  problems. 

So,  have  fun,  date  many  different  types, 
and  pray  that  one  day  you  will  meet  the 
right  person  when  you  are  ready. 

(Gigi  is  a  regular  on  The  Betty  Hutton 
Show,  on  CBS-TV.) 

Anita  Bryant:  I've  always  felt  it  was  im- 
portant to  have  many  friends. 

If  one  goes  steady  only  for  reasons  of 
security,  to  assure  a  prom  date,  or  as  in- 
surance against  being  the  only  one  without 
a  Saturday  night  date,  then  I'm  against 
steady-dating. 

If  one  finds  the  company  of  one  person 
more  pleasant  than  any  other,  there  must 
be  an  attraction,  which  is  good  reason  to 
go  steady. 

The  important  thing  is  to  know  why  you 
are  taking  either  course. 

(Anita  is  a  feature  of  The  George  Gobel 
Show,  on  CBS-TV.) 

Elana  Eden:  I  am  for  steady-dating,  if  you 
are  in  love. 

For  example,  if  a  girl  likes  a  boy  so 
much  no  other  seems  as  interesting,  and 
she  realizes  she  loves  him  and  he  loves 
her — then  all  is  wonderful.  No  need  to 
date  anyone  else. 

But  if  you  are  not  in  love,  there  is  no 
reason  to  steady-date. 

I  was  in  love  with  a  man  whom  I  found 
so  fascinating,  I  did  not  have  the  faintest 
interest  in  dating  anyone  else.  Of  course, 
I  had  other  friends  whom  I  loved,  both 
men  and  girls;  but  there  is  a  vast  difference 
between  loving  people  as  friends  and 
being  in  love  with  one  person.  We  saw 
our  friends  together.  We  did  everything 
together.  We  went  for  walks,  we  went  to 
concerts,  to  the  theater,  to  movies,  to  par- 
ties. We  enjoyed  everything  and  every- 


The 
perfect  pair 
lovelier  hair 


COMFY  CURLER  KIT 

with  REMOVABLE  BRUSH 

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HOLD-BOB® 

BOBBY  PINS 


Mr.  Stubbs 
Rescues 
Toby  Tyler 


When  Kevin  Corcoran  was 
on  location  during  the  filming 
of  Walt  Disney's  Toby  Tyler, 
he  got  to  be  very  good  friends 
with  the  monkey,  Mr.  Stubbs. 
The  movie  is  the  story  of  a 
young  runaway  boy  (Toby  Ty- 
ler, played  by  Kevin)  who 
joins  the  circus.  Toby  and  the 
circus  monkey  become  insepa- 
rable pals — just  as  Kevin  and 
Mr.  Stubbs  did  in  real  life. 

One  day  between  scenes,  Kev- 
in got  out  a  pint-sized  milk  bot- 
tle, and  a  needle  and  a  razor 
blade.  Then  he  picked  up  a  piece 
of  wood  and  began  carving. 

"What  are  you  making?"  the 
director  asked. 

"A  ship  in  a  bottle." 

The  director  thought  this  was 
pretty  delicate  work  and  he  was 
a  little  worried. 

Mr.  Stubbs  thought  this  was 
terribly  dangerous  work  for  his 
friend  to  be  attempting,  and 
he  was  very  worried.  He  began 
chattering  and  making  frantic 
motions  and  trying  the  best  he 
could  to  distract  Kevin  from 
playing  with  that  razor  blade. 

Even  the  director  asked  if 
the  boy  weren't  afraid  of  nick- 
ing himself. 

"Nope,"  he  said,  "I'm  not  go- 
ing to  hurt  myself.  But  just  in 
case,  I  brought  along  a  couple 
of  band-aids,  too!" 

Well,  Kevin  finished  his  ship- 
in-a-bottle  (a  pretty  good  one, 
too)  and  he  didn't  cut  himself. 
Mr.  Stubbs  was  so  relieved  that 
his  friend  had  finished  his  dan- 
gerous task  safely  that  he  threw 
his  arms  around  Kevin  and 
begged  him  (in  monkey-talk,  of 
course  )  not  to  take  such  a 
chance  again! 


one  even  more  because  we  were  together. 

But  when  you  are  not  in  love,  then  you 
date  many  boys,  because  you  are  curious, 
and  you  wonder  perhaps  this  one  will  be 
interesting,  or  that  one  will  be  fascinating. 

Some  people  say  you  should  not  steady 
date  when  you  are  fourteen  or  fifteen  or 
sixteen.  But  age  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
Some  young  people  are  more  mature  than 
others.  True  feelings  count  more  than  age. 
Of  course,  I  am  aware  that  feelings  can 
change.  But  that  is  part  of  growing  up, 
becoming  more  adult.  But  it  is  only  by 
going  steady  with  the  person  you  think  you 
love  that  you  learn  whether  you  really  do. 

(Elana  stars  in  the  title  role  of  The 
Story  of  Ruth  for  20th  Century-Fox.) 

Diane  Baker:  I  am  not  against  steady- 
dating.  I've  been  steady-dating  the  past 
few  years  with  Denny,  an  artist  at  Occi- 
dental College. 

But  I  am  against  possessive  steady- 
dating  that  cuts  you  off  from  the  rest  of 
the  world,  that  means  you  see  only  one 
person  all  the  time.  Denny  and  I  under- 
stand each  other,  and  we  see  others  on 
different  levels.  I  can  see  one  man  be- 
cause we're  studying  a  script;  and  another 
man  at  drama  classes;  and  another  man 
for  something  else.  Each  man  has  some- 
thing different  to  give. 

When  you  love  somebody  you  don't 
care  what  other  people  he  sees. 

Unfortunately,  to  many  young  people, 
steady -dating  is  a  set  of  rules,  and  it 
means  you  must  keep  up  with  the  rules 
and  they  become  more  important  than  the 
actual  seeing  of  each  other.  The  ritual  of 
exchanging  gifts,  wearing  each  other's  pin 
or  ring,  or  seeing  each  other  constantly, 
becomes  the  thing  .  .  .  rather  than 
romance. 

I'm  for  steady-dating,  but  without  pos- 
sessiveness  or  emphasis  on  ritual. 

(Diane's  featured  in  Journey  to  the 
Center  of  the  Earth  for  20th  Century- 
Fox.) 

Jeannie  Thomas:  I'm  twenty-three  now,  and 
I  started  to  date  when  I  was  about  six- 
teen. My  parents  were  very  strict,  and  I 
felt  I  was  lucky  enough  to  be  permitted 
to  date,  let  alone  steady-date.  So  I  never 
steady-dated. 

Of  course,  even  then  I  was  busy  with 
music  lessons  and  had  less  time  for  ro- 
mance than  my  girlfriends.  Now  that  I'm 
older  and,  I  hope,  wiser,  I  could  steady- 
date  but  don't.  That's  one  of  the  sacrifices 
a  career  girl  makes.  I  just  don't  have  the 
time  now. 

Personally,  I'm  for  steady-dating — but 
only  after  a  girl  has  dated  a  lot  of  boys. 
She  should  never  steady-date  with  her 
first  boyfriend.  She  should  first  go  out 
with  a  lot  of  boys,  so  she  can  learn  to 
differentiate  between  worthwhile  boys  and 
time-wasting  boys.  Then,  after  she  has 
had  this  experience,  she  can  concentrate 
on  one  boy  at  a  time. 

(Jeannie,  a  former  Miss  Virginia,  is  with 
Seeco  Records.) 

Carol  Lynley:  I  believe  in  going  steady 
only  if  people  are  in  their  late  teens, 
eighteen  and  nineteen,  and  are  mature. 

I  don't  think  it  is  wise  for  girls  (or  boys, 
either),  just  starting  to  date,  to  tie  them- 
selves down  to  one  person.  I  think  you 
benefit  by  meeting  and  getting  to  know 
a  great  many  boys — and  not  until  you 
have  known  many  boys,  should  you  settle 
down  to  dating  just  one  person. 

I  think  for  older  girls,  eighteen  or  nine- 
teen, who  have  met  and  dated  lots  of  boys, 
steady  dating  is  all  right. 

(Carol,  eighteen,  is  in  Hound  Dog  Man 
for  20th  Century-Fox.) 

Margo  Moore:  There  is  nearly  as  much  to 
be  said  in  favor  of  steady-dating,  I  believe, 


as  there  is  against  it.  I  am  for  it,  if — 
Now  I  can  remember,  as  a  teenager,  that 
terrible  left-out  feeling  that  comes  when 
every  other  girl  had  a  date  for  the  big 
dance  or  the  big  party,  but  me.  Every  girl 
has  felt  this,  and  often,  rather  than  be  left 
out,  accepts  a  date  with  a  boy  she  neither 
cares  about  nor  wishes,  really,  to  be  with. 
Going  steady  eliminates  this  urgency  about 
a  'must  date.' 

Also,  going  steady  allows  a  young  fellow 
and  girl  to  enjoy  and  understand  the  nice- 
ties of  a  relaxed  and  companionable  re- 
lationship. 

However,  the  grave  tendency  in  steady- 
dating  is  to  get  too  serious  at  too  early 
an  age.  Until  a  boy  or  girl  is,  at  the  very 
least,  eighteen,  he  or  she  cannot  have  an 
intelligent  idea  of  what  sort  of  person  they 
want  to  settle  with  seriously.  One's  needs 
change  with  maturity.  Some  of  our  very 
young  marriages,  so  often  doomed  to  early 
failure,  are  a  result  of  serious  steady  dating 
at  too  early  an  age. 

I  did  not  go  steady  as  a  teenager.  I  ap- 
prove of  steady-dating  if  youngsters  keep 
their  good  sense  and  don't  look  upon  it 
as  a  preamble  to  marriage. 

Most  youngsters,  I  think,  will  find  there's 
more  fun  and  more  to  do  in  groups.  A 
wide  circle  of  friends,  at  any  age,  is  worth 
having. 

(Margo  is  in  Wake  Me  When  It's  Over 
for  20th  Century-Fox.) 

NO! 

(Continued  from  page  37) 

Suzanne  Storrs:  Teen  steady-dating,  it  seems 
to  me,  is  often  a  business  arrangement,  a 
practical,  lazy  method  to  insure  having  a 
partner  on  dates.  It  provides  for  a  second- 
rate  kind  of  social  life  when  you're  a  teen- 
ager, a  period  when  you  should  be  meeting 
a  lot  of  people  and  learning  to  be  more 
adept  at  social  relationships.  It  brings 
teenagers  together  too  often  and  too  inti- 
mately, and  this  sometimes  leads  to  sex- 
before-marriage  and  worse.  It  often  leads 
to  young,  unhappy  marriages. 

Steady-dating  in  the  early  teen  years 
doesn't  seem  a  rewarding  or  a  rich  ex- 
perience. But,  in  the  early  20's,  steady- 
dating  leading  to  engagement  and,  in  turn, 
to  marriage,  is  all  right.  This  kind  of 
mature  steady-dating  happens  when  you 
meet  the  person  you  love  and  you  want 
to  be  with  them  all  the  time. 

(Last  seen  in  the  Naked  City  series  on 
TV,  Suzanne  appears  on  top  TV  dramatic 
shows.) 

Connie  Francis:  I  went  steady  for  about  a 
year,  when  I  was  seventeen,  and  looking 
back  on  it  now,  I  know  it  was  a  mistake. 

To  me,  going  steady  means  being  en- 
gaged, and  if  you're  not  ready  to  be  en- 
gaged then  you  should  not  get  involved. 

The  trouble  with  going  steady  while 
you're  still  a  school  girl  is  that  it  shuts 
you  off  from  variety  in  boys,  and  it  takes 
you  out  of  circulation,  and  you  don't  get 
to  know  enough  people.  During  your  high 
school  years,  you  might  think  you  know  a 
lot  about  boys,  but  you  usually  don't,  and 
it  takes  a  few  years  of  outside  living  to 
really  know  boys. 

The  divorce  rate  is  higher  among  teen 
marriages,  and  it's  due  a  lot  to  young 
people  steady-dating  and  thinking  they 
know  a  lot  about  each  other  and  have  a 
lot  in  common  .  .  .  and  then  marrying  and 
finding  out  this  was  not  so. 

Too  often,  steady -dating  during  your 
high  school  years  is  only  date-insurance. 
It's  understandable  when  your  crowd  is 
doing  it  and  you're  afraid  of  being  left 
out  in  the  cold.  But  I  still  say  that  steady- 
dating  for  the  sake  of  convenience  and 
conforming  with  the  crowd  is  all  wrong. 

(Connie,  with  MGM  Records,  is  top- 


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selling  girl  recording  artist  in  the  world 
today.) 

June  Blair:  I've  gone  steady,  and  I  don't 
like  it. 

Maybe  I'm  too  darned  independent.  As 
much  as  I've  liked  some  of  the  boys  I've 
dated  steadily,  I  never  enjoy  the  feeling 
that  I've  got  to  be  out  with  that  particular 
boy  or  I  shouldn't  be  out. 

Most  of  the  boys  I  did  date  steadily  were 
fair,  I  must  admit.  They  didn't  mind  if  I 
went  out  with  someone  else  for  a  friendly 
date  now  and  then.  But  their  friends 
minded!  Oh,  did  they!  I've  had  people 
look  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  scarlet  woman 
because  I  walked  into  a  party  with  some- 
one other  than  the  boy  I  was  supposed  to 
be  going  steady  with  at  the  time.  It  didn't 
matter  that  my  steady  date  was  out  of 
town,  or  that  he  himself  had  called  and  ar- 
ranged for  me  to  be  taken  to  this  party  by 
his  best  friend.  All  these  so-called  'friends' 
cared  about  was  that  I  was  out  with  some- 
one else. 

I  think  more  romances  are  ruined  by 
well-meaning  friends  who  meddle  than 
anything  else. 

Until  I  find  the  boy  I  want  to  marry,  I'm 
going  to  date  lots  of  boys.  After  all,  like 
I  said,  I'm  independent. 

(June  Blair  is  in  a  new  TV  series,  Two 
Faces  West.) 

Molly  Bee:    Steady-dating?    I'm    agin  it! 

Why  should  a  girl  limit  herself  to  one 
fellow,  or  for  that  matter,  try  to  limit  an 
active  young  male  to  one  giri?  It  doesn't 
make  sense,  at  least  not  to  me. 

It's  okay  if  you  are  on  the  way  to  the 
altar  real  soon;  but  I'm  only  twenty  years 
old  and  I  don't  want  to  be  tied  down  to 
one  man  yet.  Think  of  all  the  others  I'd 
never  get  to  know!  I  don't  like  to  be 
selfish  with  a  man's  time,  and  I  sure  don't 
like  anyone  else  to  be  selfish  with  my  time. 
Some  day,  when  the  right  guy  comes  along, 
the  natural  process  will  be  to  end  up  going 
steady  with  him.  But  I  don't  think  you 
decide  these  things  in  advance.  They  just 
work  out  that  way.  Pretty  soon  you  look 
around  and  you're  seeing  just  one  fellow 
all  the  time.  But,  until  that  time,  I'm 
going  out  with,  different  fellows  and  enjoy 
doing  it! 

(Molly  stars  in  the  movie  Chartroose 
Caboose,  and  on  Capitol  Records.) 

Cindy  Robbins:  I'm  against  steady-dating, 
the  way  it's  practiced  now.  Too  often,  the 
girl  who  maneuvers  a  boy  into  steady - 
dating  does  it  to  rush  into  marriage.  She's 
rushing  into  marriage  not  so  much  because 
she's  in  love  but  to  get  away  from  home 
and  try  'adult  living.' 

I  don't  think  a  girl  should  even  consider 
steady-dating  until  she's  gone  out  with  a 
lot  of  boys,  and  only  after  she's  dated 
this  particular  boy  for  quite  some  time. 
Steady-dating  should  be  the  result  of 
courting  rather  than  a  method  of  courting. 
And  steady-dating  should  last  a  year  at 
least  before  the  girl  should  even  consider 
marriage. 

(Cindy  was  Rock  Hudson's  leading  lady 
in  This  Earth  Is  Mine.) 

Shelley  Fab  ares:  During  my  junior  high 
school  years,  I  steady-dated  with  five  boys 
because  it  was  the  thing  to  do. 

I  think  it's  a  terrible  thing  for  a  girl  to 
tie  herself  down  to  a  steady  boyfriend  at 
that  age.  Like,  for  instance,  if  you  go  to 
a  party  with  a  boy  and  happen  to  meet 
another  fellow  who  likes  you  and  would 
like  to  date  you. 

A  girl  can't  very  well  accept  an  invita- 
tion to  go  out  with  this  new  friend  because 
of  a  so-called  regular  companionship  with 
the  other  boy.  It  leads  to  all  sorts  of  com- 
plications, keeps  you  tied  down,  and  hurts 
your  chances  of  making  new  friends. 


It's  always  your  fault  if  and  when  your 
steady  gets  mad,  or  jealous,  and  it's  not 
worth  it  to  be  stuck  this  way.  And  I  mean 
it  works  both  ways — for  a  boy  as  well 
as  a  girl.  At  my  age,  sixteen,  I  feel  we 
should  all  "play  the  field"  and  not  be  obli- 
gated to  any  one  person.  There's  plenty  of 
time  to  decide  on  a  definite  'steady.' 

A  girl  might  begin  going  steady  at  about 
her  college  freshman  year.  By  this  time, 
she's  maturing,  especially  in  her  emotional 
evaluations. 

(Shelley  is  a  feature  of  The  Donna  Reed 
Show,  over  ABC-TV,  for  Screen  Gems.) 

Ziva  Rodann:  I  don't  believe  in  going  steady, 
except  when  you're  serious  about  a  man. 

For  young  boys  and  girls,  not  mature 
enough  to  know  the  one  person  they  want 
to  be  with  all  the  time,  it  is  ridiculous  to 
go  steady  just  because  it  is  the  vogue. 

I  am  aware  that  maturity  does  not  de- 
pend on  actual  years,  but  going  steady 
means  you  are  engaged,  are  going  to  marry 
the  person — otherwise  why  go  steady? — 
and  you've  got  to  have  judgment  for  it. 
You  must  know  people. 

The  more  people  you  know,  the  more 
your  judgment  develops  so  that  you  can 
recognize  the  right  person  when  he  comes 
along. 

If  you  don't  go  out  with  a  variety  of 
members  of  the  opposite  sex,  then  you 
don't  learn  enough  to  judge  them.  We 
really  never  know  our  minds  completely 
unless  we  are  aware  of  knowing  the  minds 
and  characters  of  many  different  indi- 
viduals. 

In  knowing  others,  we  learn  to  know 
ourselves. 

So,  really,  "going  steady"  makes  me 
smile.  I  have  seen  too  many  high-school 
boys  and  girls  going  steady  just  to  avoid 
being  considered  unpopular.  The  phrase, 
"going  steady,"  is  juvenile.   I  doubt  you 


ever  hear  it  mentioned  among  college 
boys  and  girls.  It  is  a  junior  phrase,  not 
an  adult  one.  Mature  people  don't  use 
the  phrase  "steady-dating"  because  it 
represents  constant  dating  without  good 
reason. 

I  have  been  fortunate  in  that  I  have 
always  been  considered  popular;  but  I 
have  never  been  interested  in  going  out 
a  lot  for  the  sake  of  being  considered 
popular. 

I  have  always  enjoyed  the  company  of 
just  a  few  men.  I  like  them,  their  intelli- 
gence, their  companionship.  I  feel  at  home 
with  them. 

I  don't  believe  in  going  steady  as  an 
institution  (except  when  you're  serious 
about  a  man) .  One  doesn't  have  to  wear 
a  fraternity  pin. 

What  you  wear  in  your  heart  doesn't 
need  a  label  or  a  phrase.  end 

(Ziva  portrays  Orpah  in  The  Story  of 
Ruth  for  20th  Century-Fox.) 


PHOTOGRAPHERS'  CREDITS 

The  photographs  appearing  in  this  issue 
are  credited  below  page  by  page: 

9 — Jules  Davis;  10-11 — Nat  Dallinger  from  Gil- 
loon  Agency,  Frances  Orkin,  Metropolitan  Photo 
Service,  Inc.;  12-13 — Nat  Dallinger  from  Gilloon 
Agency,  UPI.  Frances  Orkin:  14-15  —  Rick 
Strauss,  Wide  World,  Dave  Sutton  of  Galaxy: 
16 — Wide  World,  Dick  Miller  of  Globe,  The 
Harwyn  Club;  19-21 — Gilloon  Agency;  22-23 — 
Bill  Hamilton  of  Galaxy.  Marvin  Wellen;  24- 
25 — Pictorial  Parade;  26-27 — Nat  Dallinger  from 
Gilloon;  30-33 — Larry  Schiller;  38-40 — Wide 
World,  Galaxy;  41-45 — Wide  World.  Galaxy, 
UPI,  Conda-Galaxy;  46-47 — Curt  Gunther  of 
Topix;  48-49 — Paris  Match. 


The  Happiest  Birthday  of  My  Life 


(Continued  from  page  27) 

on  in  the  children's  playroom,  a  few  yards 
away. 

She  walked  to  the  door,  opened  it  and 
peered  into  the  room. 

There,  in  a  corner,  seated  at  a  little  table, 
she  saw  her  son  Michael  Jr.,  seven  years 
old. 

"Hey  there,  young  man — "  she  called. 
The  boy  turned  around  suddenly. 
Liz  smiled.  " — the  last  time  I  saw  you, 
you  were  in  bed." 

"I  know,"  the  little  voice  piped  up. 
"And  well  on  your  way  to  sleep  " 
"I  know." 

"And  what  happened?" 
"I  don't  know — not  'sactly,"  the  little 
boy  said. 

Liz  noticed  that  he  crossed  his  pajama-ed 
legs  as  he  said  that  (a  sure  sign  that  he 
was  fibbing);  that  he  sat  very  rigidly  now; 
that  his  arms,  spread-eagled  on  the  table 
in  front  of  him,  seemed  more  and  more 
to  be  covering  something. 

Liz  turned  to  Eddie. 

"Something  wrong?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  Liz  whispered,  " — not 
'sactly.  But  I'm  going  to  find  out." 

Michael's  surprise 

She  asked  Eddie  if  he'd  go  downstairs 
and  wait  for  her — she  would  be  down  in 
a  few  minutes,  she  said.  And  then  she 
turned  towards  the  playroom  again  and 
walked  inside  and  over  to  the  little  chair 
where  Michael  Jr.  sat. 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  head,  and  sat, 
on  a  little  chair  beside  him. 

"Mike,  you  know  it's  late,  don't  you?" 
she  asked. 

"You  look  awful  pretty,  Mommy,"  the 
boy  said. 

"Now  don't  go  changing  the  subject- 
It's  late,  and  you  should  be  in  bed,"  Liz 
said. 

"You  look  sooooooo  pretty,"  the  boy 
tried  again. 

"Mike!"  Liz  said. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  now. 
And  Liz  had  a  hard  time  keeping  back 
a  smile  during  this  time. 

"Now  come  on,  Mike,"  she  said,  "what 
in  the  world  are  you  doing  up?" 

"I  was  just  finishing  my  surprise,"  the 
boy  said,  finally.  He  lifted  his  arms  from 
the  table.  "See." 

Liz  looked  down.  Her  eyes  fixed  on  two 
small  pieces  of  paper.  On  one  of  the  pa- 
pers she  read  the  words,  gayly  crayoned: 
HAPPY  BIRTHDAY, 
CHRISTOPHER 
On  the  other: 

HAPPY  BIRTHDAY, 
MY  MOTHER, 
MOMMY 

"Today,"  Michael  said,  as  Liz  looked 
down  at  the  papers,  "Missy  (the  children's 
governess)  said  to  me,  'You  know.  Mi- 
chael, in  not  too  long  from  now,  on  Feb- 
ruary the  twenty- seventh  of  Nineteen 
Hundred  and  Sixty,  this  year,  it's  going 
to  be  both  your  Mommy's  and  your 
brother's  birthdays.'  And  she  said  to  me, 
'Now  that  you're  getting  to  be  a  big  boy, 
you've  got  to  think  about  giving  them 
presents.'  And  we  thought  and  we  thought 
what  those  presents  could  be.  And  while 
we  were  thinking  I  said  to  Missy,  'Besides 
from  presents,  there  have  to  be  birthday 
cards,  too.'  And  Missy  said  what  a  good 
idea,  and  why  didn't  I  make  them — my 
own  cards  to  you.  And  I  started.  I  made 
about  ten  of  them.  But  none  of  them  were 
good.  And  then  Missy  said,  'Tomorrow, 
Michael,  we  will  continue  to  try.  .  .  .' 
"But  tonight,  Mommy,  in  bed,  I  thought 
58  I'd  like  to  keep  trying  now,  and  not  to- 


morrow .  .  .  And  so  that's  why  I  got  up." 
He  shook  his  head. 

"I  guess  I  shouldn't  have  gotten  up, 
should  I  have?"  he  asked.  "Because  now 
you've  seen  my  surprise.  And  so  it  isn't 
a  surprise  any  more  ...  is  it?" 

Liz  put  her  arms  around  her  son,  and 
she  hugged  him.  "Oh  yes  it  is,"  she  said, 
"the  most  wonderful  surprise  I've  ever 
gotten,  Mike  .  .  .  for  what's  going  to  be 
the  happiest  birthday  in  my  whole  life. 

1  know." 

Some  birthdays  aren't  happy 

"Didn't  you  always  have  happy  birth- 
days?" the  boy  cut  in.  "Like  I  always 
have?" 

"Oh,  when  I  was  small  .  .  .  yes  ...  I 
had  very  happy  birthdays,"  Liz  said.  "My 
mommy — Grandma  Taylor — she  would  in- 
vite all  my  friends  over  to  the  house,  and 
then  we'd  play  pin-the-tail-on-the-don- 
key,  and  other  games.  And  we'd  have  a 
cake,  and  ice  cream,  and  colored  candies 
in  those  little  paper  baskets — " 

"Just  like  my  birthday,"  Michael  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Liz,  "just  like  yours  .  .  . 
But  then  the  years  pass,"  she  went  on, 
"and  we  grow  up,  and — " 

"And  then  the  birthdays  aren't  happy 
anymore?"  her  son  asked. 

"They  should  be,"  Liz  said.  "For  most 
people  they  are — always,  every  year,  very 
happy." 

"But  not  for  you,  Mommy,  they 
weren't?" 

A      Doris  Day:  People  don't  have  to  P 

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K  what  you  sinq.  The  important  A 
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W     say,  not  just  to  say  them. 

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"No."  Liz  said,  "not  always,  Mike." 
"Why?"  he  asked. 

The  question  hit  Liz  strangely.  She  was 
used  to  having  her  son  ask  "why"  to  this 
and  to  that — ingenuously,  the  way  seven- 
year-olds  almost  invariably  ask  the  ques- 
tion, after  almost  any  statement  of  fact. 
She  was  used,  too,  to  answering  the 
"why's"  quickly,  not  with  annoyance,  to 
be  sure,  but  with  a  let's-see-how-quickly- 
we-can-get-this-settled  attitude.  But, 
somehow,  this  time,  there  was  something 
about  the  way  young  Michael  asked  his 
question  that  prompted  Liz  not  to  rush 
her  answer.  But  to  talk  to  her  son  .  .  . 
really  talk  to  him. 

And  so  she  started. 

"When  Mommy  was  just  a  little  over 
being  a  little  girl,"  she  said,  "her  life  be- 
came a  very  unusual  one  ...  Do  you 
understand  what  the  word  'unusual' 
means,  Mike?" 

"Sort  of,"  he  said. 

"Well,  in  my  case,"  Liz  said,  "it  meant 
that  suddenly  I  was  in  the  movies,  an 
actress,  a  very  special  person—  in  the 
movies  at  thirteen  and  fourteen,  an  age 
when  most  other  girls  get  excited  just  at 
the  thought  of  going  to  the  movies." 

"And  this  made  you  not  happy?"  the 
boy  asked. 

"At  first,  Mike,"  Liz  said,  "it  made  me 
very  happy.  As  I  said,  I  was  suddenly  very 
special.  There  were  all  sorts  of  people 
doing  all  sorts  of  things  for  me.  I  went  to 
a  special  little  school.  I  had  my  pick  of 
the  nicest,  the  most  special  clothes  any- 
body could  want.  I  made  lots  and  lots  of 


money — not  ftfty-cents-a-week  allowance 
like  you  get,  Mike  .  .  .  but  hundreds  of 
dollars,  then  even  thousands." 

"Wow,"  the  boy  said. 

"Yes,  wow,"  said  Liz,  sighing  just  a 
little.  "Except  that  after  a  while  I  real- 
ized, young  as  I  was,  that  there  was  a  price 
I  had  to  pay  for  all  this  specialness.  I 
realized  it,  in  fact,  on  one  of  my  birth- 
days— on  the  day  I  became  fifteen  years." 

"Was  that  one  of  the  not  happy  birth- 
days, Mommy?"  Michael  asked. 

Liz  nodded. 

Some  promises  must  be  broken 

"Someday,  Mike,  when  you're  older," 
she  said,  "you  might  just  find  yourself 
looking  through  some  of  your  Mommy's 
scrapbooks.  And  you  might  come  across 
some  pictures  and  some  articles,  from 
newspapers  and  magazines,  showing  your 
Mommy  on  her  fifteenth  birthday.  And 
you'll  see  the  big  party  her  studio  gave 
for  her  that  night,  and  all  the  people  who 
were  there — oh,  so  many  people,  all  look- 
ing so  happy  and  festive.  And  you  might 
say  to  yourself,  'I  wonder  why  my  Mommy 
said  that  was  a  not  happy  birthday.  .  .  .' 

"Well,"  she  went  on,  "I'll  tell  you  why, 
Mike.  You  see,  at  this  studio  where  I 
worked,  there  was  a  lady  called  Helen. 
She  was  what  they  call  a  hairdresser — 
she  used  to  fix  my  hair  whenever  I  was 
making  a  picture.  She  was  a  very  nice 
woman,  always  smiling,  always  so  friendly. 
And  she  had  a  daughter,  a  girl  called 
Lucille,  who  was  just  as  nice  as  her 
mother — one  of  the  nicest  girls  I  ever 
knew." 

"She  was  your  friend?"  Michael  asked. 

"My  very  good  friend,"  Liz  said,  "my 
only  friend  really  .  .  .  Lots  of  times  Lu- 
cille, my  friend,  would  come  to  the  studio 
and  the  two  of  us  would  find  a  quiet  place 
and  we  would  talk.  We  would  talk  for 
hours.  For  hours.  About  just  about  any- 
thing that  came  to  our  minds — about  peo- 
ple and  pets  and  parents  and  books  and 
music  and  poetry  and  clothes  and  boys, 
sometimes,  and  oh  about  lots  and  lots  of 
things  .  .  .  And  then  one  day,  just  at 
about  this  time  of  the  year,  we  started 
talking  about  birthdays  and  the  fact  that 
mine  was  coming  around  soon.  And  I  said 
to  her,  'Speaking  of  birthdays,  Lucille,  I 
just  found  out  that  I'm  going  to  have  a  big 
party  at  a  big  hotel,  a  real  special  party, 
given  just  for  me  by  the  studio — and 
Lucille,'  I  said,  'I  want  you  to  come.  More 
than  anybody  else.'  " 

Again,  Liz  sighed. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mommy?"  Michael 
asked.   "Couldn't  Lucille   come   to  your 

party?" 

"She  wasn't  allowed  to  come,  Mike," 
Liz  said.  "There  was  something — some- 
thing very  important — called  a  guest  list. 
I  found  out.  It  was  made  up  by  one  of 
the  men  at  the  studio.  When  I  asked  this 
man  to  put  Lucille's  name  on,  with  the 
others — hundreds  of  other  people,  most 
of  them  people  I  didn't  even  know — he 
said,  I'm  sorry,  Elizabeth,  my  child,  but 
if  we  include  this  Lucille,  there  are  other 
children,  children  of  other  studio  em- 
ployees, we'll  have  to  include.  And,'  he 
said.  'I  might  add,  children  of  much  more 
important  people  than  your  hairdresser!' 

"  'But  I  promised  Lucille,'  I  started  to 
say.  I  started  to  cry.  'I  promised,'  I  said. 

"And  this  man  said  to  me,  'Some  prom- 
ises must  be  broken,  Elizabeth.  Youll  find 
that  out  as  you  grow  older.  .  .  .' " 

"So  that's  how  Lucille  wasn't  allowed  to 
come  to  the  party?"  Michael  asked. 

Liz  nodded. 

"Was  she  mad,  Mommy,"  the  boy  asked 
then,  "that  you  had  to  break  your  promise 
to  her?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Liz  said.  "I  never  found 
out.  Because  I  felt  so  bad  about  the  whole 
thing  that  the  next  time  Lucille  came  to 


the  studio  I — I  avoided  her.  Turned  and 
walked  the  other  way.  Just  so  I  wouldn't 
have  to  talk  to  her.  To  tell  her  .  .  .  And. 
as  it  turned  out.  Lucille  stopped  coming 
to  the  studio  altogether  a  little  while 
after  that  .  .  .  And  I  never  spoke  to  her, 
or  saw  her.  again." 

"Gee,''  Michael  said.  "Gee  Mommy,  that 
was  not  a  very  happy  birthday,  was  it?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  wasn't,"  Liz  said. 

Birthdays  in  bed 

Her  son  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"But  the  other  ones."  he  said,  "the  ones 
after  that — they  were  happier,  weren't 
they,  Mommy?" 

"Some  were  .  .  .  yes,"  Liz  said.  "And 
some —  Well,  Mike,  this  Mom  of  yours 
can  remember  two  birthdays  after  that 
she  spent  in  bed.  Sick.  Sick  with  back- 
aches and  with  doctors  standing  around 
and  with  a  table  next  to  her  bed  loaded 
with  more  medicine  bottles  than  little 
Liza  has  blocks  and  dolls  or  you  have 
soldiers  or  Chris  has  trucks  and  cow- 
boy hats  .  .  .  Those  were  my  presents 
those   two   birthdays.  Medicine  bottles." 

"Some  presents."  Michael  said,  consol- 
ingly. 

"And  then  .  .  .  other  birthdays,"  Liz 
started  to  go  on.  She  paused  suddenly, 
looking  away  from  her  son  for  a  moment, 
then  looking  back  at  him. 

"Last  year,  Mike,"  she  said,  " — I  don't 
know  if  you  remember.  You  probably 
don't.  Not  exactly.  But  that,  that  was  the 
worst  birthday  I  ever  had." 

"Why,  Mommy?"  the  boy  asked. 

"Well,"  Liz  said — the  words  came  slowly 
now — "lots  of  things,  strange  things,  almost 
bad  things,  were  happening  to  your  Mom 
last  year  this  time.  They're  too  involved  to 
go  into  now.  Honestly.  Mike,  you're  not  old 
enough  to  understand  them  yet.  even  if 
I  did  go  into  them.  Someday,  when  you 
are  older,  when  you  read  about  them,  or 
hear  about  them — as  you  probably  will — 
well,  then  youll  know  what  I  mean,  by 
these  things.  But  for  now,  just  under- 
stand this — that  your  Mom  was  the  most 
unhappy  woman  on  this  here  earth.  Peo- 
ple, everywhere,  were  saying  things  about 
her.  pointing  their  fingers  at  her,  whis- 
pering, whispering,  the  most  terrible 
things.  And  because  your  Mom  didn't 
want  to  show  these  people  that  they  were 
winning  their  point,  that  they  were  in  any 
way  bothering  her — she  acted  very  blase 
about  the  whole  thing  ...  Do  you  know 
what  blase  means,  Mike?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said. 

"It  means  unconcerned,"  Liz  said,  "not 
caring,  not  being  the  least  bit  interested. 
That's  what  blase  means." 

"Oh,"  the  boy  said. 

"But,"  Liz  said,  "I  did  care,  Mike.  I 
cared  so  much  that  I  got  sick.  Not  sick 
with  my  back  again,  like  the  other  times 
I  told  you  about.  Not  the  kind  of  sickness 
that  sent  me  to  bed.  Or  that  brought  doc- 
tors running.  Or  that  I  had  to  take  medi- 
cines for  .  .  .  But  a  sickness  of  the  heart. 
A  sickness  that's  called  sadness.  And  sad- 
ness, Mike,  that  is  the  worst,  the  very 
worst  kind  of  sickness." 

"Sadness,"  the  boy  said.  "Is  that  like 
when  you  lose  something  and  you  cry?" 

"Sadness,"  said  Liz.  "is  like  .  .  .  is  like 
when  you  lose  something,  Mike,  and  you 
don't  cry,  but  you  force  yourself  to  go  on 
smiling  still." 

Difficult  words  and  deep  matters 

The  boy  looked  -at  her,  and  shrugged. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  Liz  said,  "I'm  talking 
difficult  words  now,  aren't  I?" 

"A  little,"  the  boy  said. 

"Well,"  Liz  said,  "no  more  difficult 
words.  They're  all  too  much  for  you  to 
understand —  And  it's  too  late,  too^  to  go 
into  such  deep,  deep  matters  .  .  .  But. 
Mike,   just    let   me   tell    this — this  one 


more   thing   before   we   finish  talking. 

"I  said  to  you  before,  about  birthdays, 
that  this  birthday  of  mine,  the  one  com- 
ing up.  was  going  to  be  the  happiest  ever. 
Remember?" 

"Yes." 

"I  just  want  to  tell  you  why,"  Liz  said. 

"It's  going  to  be  the  happiest  birthday. 
Mike,"  she  said,  "because  in  this  year  that 
has  passed,  between  my  last  birthday  and 
this,  I  have  become  happy.  More  happy 
than  I've  ever  been." 

"Why?" 

"One,"  Liz  said,  "selfish  maybe,  maybe 
the  least  important  reason,  but  a  real  rea- 
son nonetheless — I've  worked  very  hard 
this  past  year  as  an  actress.  I've  worked 
in  hope  of  the  day  when  people  would  stop 
saying.  "That  Elizabeth  Taylor  is  pretty, 
yes;  but  what  else  does  she  do?' — in  the 
hope  that  they  would  pause  one  day 
and  say,  "She's  been  in  this  acting  field 
for  fifteen  years  now  and  do  you  know, 
gosh  darn  it.  she  really  is  an  actress!'  .  .  . 
Well.  Mike,  this  year,  finally,  they've  been 
saying  it.  That  your  Mom  is  a  worthwhile 
member  of  her  profession — a  great  pro- 
fession. That  she's  more  than  just  a  face. 
A  figure.  A  newspaper-and-magazine  per- 
sonality. They've  been  calling  me  an  'ac- 
tress,' Mike.  This  has  made  me  happy." 

"I'm  glad.  Mommy."  the  boy  said. 

Liz  reached  over  and  took  him  in  her 
arms  and  hugged  him. 

"And  other  things."  she  said,  still  hold- 
ing him,  "other  things  have  made  me 
happy. 

"Liza,  our  baby,  getting  over  her  bad 
sickness  of  last  year. 

"You  and  Christopher  growing  up  into 
such  fine  young  boys,  good  boys,  making 
me  prouder  and  prouder  of  you  both  as 
each  day  passes. 

"And  then — " 

She  paused  again. 

"And  then,"  she  went  on,  after  a  mo- 
ment, "there's  a  wonderful  man  who  has 
made  me  happy.  You  call  him  Uncle 
Eddie.  I  call  him  my  husband.  He  is  the 
man  I  married  last  May  .  .  .  He's  a  fine 
man,  Mike.  And  he's  made  life  fine  for 
me.  And  I  love  him  very,  very  much. 
Just  the  same  way  he  loves  me,  and  you. 
and  Chris  and  Liza.  And — " 

"And."  a  voice  behind  her  interrupted, 
"you  keep  this  up  and  you'll  embarrass 
the  heck  out  of  me." 

"'Uncle  Eddie,"  Michael  said,  as  Liz 
began  to  turn  around. 

"Eddie."  Liz  whispered. 

Eddie  looked  down  at  his  watch. 

"I  hate  to  break  this  up."  he  said.  "but. 
you  know.  I  think  it's  about  time  for  all 
young  men  named  Michael  to  be  tucked 
away  in  bed."  He  looked  at  the  boy.  "Huh 
— what  do  you  say?"  he  asked. 

"Okay,"  said  Michael. 

"And,"  Eddie  said,  "for  all  mothers 
named  Elizabeth  to  stand  by  while  I  pick 
up  Michael — "  He  scooped  up  the  boy 
" — and  take  him  to  that  bed  of  his  .  .  . 
Huh.  what  do  you  say?" 

"Okay,"  said  Liz. 

"  'Night,  Mommy."  Michael  called  out 
to  her  as  Eddie  began  to  carry  him  away. 

And  then,  as  Eddie  continued  carrying 
him,  she  heard  her  son  say.  "Did  you 
know,  Uncle  Eddie,  that  Mommy's  going 
to  have  the  happiest  birthday  in  her 
whole  life  on  February  the  twenty- 
seventh.  Because,  you  know  why?  Be- 
cause— " . 

And  Liz  smiled  and  closed  her  eyes  as 
his  little  voice  trailed  off.  farther  and 
farther  down  the  hallway.  .  .  .  end 

Liz  can  be  seen  now  in  Suddenly.  L^st  Stam- 
mer. Columbia:  in  a  guest  performance  in 
Scent  Of  Mystery,  Mike  Todd  Jr.  Prods.; 
later.  Liz  stars  in  Cleopatra,  20th-Fox, 
Two  for  the  Seesaw,  UJL.;  and  Liz  and 
Eddie  are  both  in  Butterfteld  8,  for  MGM. 


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Wedding  Bells  for  Debbie  and  Harry? 


(Continued  from  page  20) 

emerald  necklace  which  picked  up  the 
brilliance  of  her  matching  emerald  ear- 
rings. Her  hands  looked  dazzling,  for  she 
wore  an  emerald  ring  and  bracelet.  All  of 
these  had  been  Christmas  gifts  for  which 
Harry  Karl,  her  escort,  had  paid  $40,000 
only  a  few  days  previously.  A  look  of 
radiance — almost  triumph — shone  on  Deb- 
bie's face  as  Karl,  suave  and  attentive, 
helped  her  off  with  her  chinchilla. 

A  woman  who  knows  Debbie  fairly  well 
leaned  over  and  said  to  another  woman 
at  her  table.  "I'll  bet  she  came  tonight 
because  she  knew  Eddie  and  Liz  would 
be  here.  She  wants  them  to  see  her  with 
Harry.  He's  a  big  catch  and  she  wants 
to  show  him  off.  I  think  that  means 
Debbie's  really  getting  serious." 

All  Hollywood  is  wondering:  What  does 
Debbie's  intensified  interest  in  Harry  Karl 
mean?  Could  it  possibly  be  a  prelude 
to  marriage? 

Harry's  divorce  from  Joan  Cohn,  Harry 
Cohn's  beautiful  widow,  won't  be  final 
until  November.  Some  of  Debbie's  closest 
friends  believe  that  if  she  continues  to 
feel  about  Harry  the  way  she  does  right 
now,  there  may  be  wedding  bells  for  Deb- 
bie and  Harry  when  his  divorce  is  final. 

Who  is  Harry  Karl?  And  why  does  he 
currently  seem  to  be  the  leading  contender 
for  Debbie's  hand? 

Harry  is  47,  not  handsome  but  dis- 
tinguished looking,  with  horn-rimmed 
glasses,  a  serious  mien  and  iron-grey  hair 
around  the  temples.  He  dresses  elegantly 
but  conservatively,  like  the  millionaire 
businessman  that  he  is.  He's  a  big  money 
man  and  heads  a  large  chain  of  shoe  stores 
along  the  West  Coast. 

A  friend  says,  "Harry's  the  most  fabu- 
lous catch  in  town.  He  knows  how  to  court 
a  girl — and  beautiful  women  who  are  used 
to  the  best  will  go  out  with  him.  He  has 
dated  the  top  glamour  women  in  town,  like 
Zsa  Zsa  Gabor  and  Hedy  Lamarr." 

Harry  Karl  is  not  only  extremely  rich, 
but  extremely  generous  with  his  women 
friends.  Only  a  few  months  before  he 
began  to  steady-date  Debbie,  he  took 
Audrey  Meadows  to  the  "Share"  party 
which  was  held  at  the  Moulin  Rouge.  A 
full-length  mink  coat  was  being  auctioned 
off  for  charity.  The  bidding  started  at 
$1,000,  but  Harry  rapidly  brought  the 
bidding  up  to  $15,000.  When  no  one  could 
top  his  bid,  Harry  bought  the  mink  for 
$15,000,  and  while  the  spotlight  was  on  his 
table,  he  casually  draped  it  around 
Audrey's  shoulders  and  said,  "It's  yours." 

Everyone  in  the  room,  accustomed 
though  they  were  to  lavish  spending, 
gasped.  Audrey  was  just  a  casual  girl- 
friend of  Harry's. 

Mr.  Charity 

"He's  the  last  of  the  big  spenders,"  a 
friend  who  knows  him  well  says.  "Harry's 
the  same  type  of  big  sport  as  Diamond 
Jim  Brady  was — only  Harry's  got  a  lot 
more  class.  Even  a  movie  star  as  success- 
ful as  Debbie  is  bound  to  be  swept  off 
her  feet  by  his  big  spending." 

But  it  isn't  only  Harry  Karl's  wealth 
and  extravagance  that  impressed  Debbie. 
She  is  also  impressed  by  his  kindness.  In 
Hollywood  Harry  is  also  known  as  'Mr. 
Charity.'  He  gives  enormous  sums  to 
charities.  He  gives  with  his  heart,  because 
Harry  Karl  has  heart.  This,  too,  is  what 
has  endeared  him  to  Debbie.  Harry  is 
deeply  aware  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  kindness  of  the  two  people  who  are  the 
only  parents  he  has  ever  known,  he  would 
D  have  had  a  life  of  poverty  himself. 


When  he  was  a  baby  his  mother,  a 
penniless  widow,  was  forced  to  place  him 
in  an  orphanage  because  she  was  unable 
to  take  care  of  him.  With  tears  rolling 
down  her  face  she  placed  her  infant  in  the 
arms  of  the  superintendent  of  a  shabby  lit- 
tle Home  on  New  York's  lower  East  Side, 
mumbled  a  Jewish  prayer,  and  left. 

He  was  not  a  pretty  baby.  He  was  thin 
and  wan  and  sickly  and  cried  a  lot.  To  this 
Home  one  day  came  Rose  and  Pinches 
Karl,  a  middle-aged  couple  who  had  no 
children  of  their  own  but  whose  hearts 
yearned  for  a  child.  When  they  saw  the 
sickly  little  baby  who  had  recently  been 
placed  there,  Rose  Karl  picked  him  up 
and  cuddled  him. 

As  Harry  once  told  a  friend,  "They  could 
have  chosen  a  dozen  other  babies  who 
looked  a  lot  better.  But  they  chose  a 
baby  who  needed  love  and  care,  because 
that's  the  kind  of  people  they  are.  I 
became  their  son,  just  as  though  I  had 
been  born  to  them.  They  gave  me  love, 
and,  as  my  father's  shoe  business  grew, 
every  advantage  that  money  can  bring. 
But  the  kindness  they  showed  in  adopt- 
ing the  sickliest  little  baby  in  the  or- 
phanage was  something  I'll  never  forget. 
All  through  his  life,  my  father  gave  to 
those  who  needed  help.  And  this  is  some- 
thing I  hope  I've  learned  from  him." 

I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  T  I  T  T  I  T  T  I  I  T  I  I 

Z      Steve    McQueen:    I    don't    talk  ~ 

-      mumbly.  People  listen  mumbly.  ~ 

Sidncv  Skolsk\ 

~  in  the  New  York  Post  - 

Tt  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  t  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  i  r 

When  Debbie's  favorite  charity,  the 
Thalians,  whose  purpose  is  to  help  mentally 
disturbed  children,  put  on  a  big  campaign 
to  raise  money  to  add  a  new  wing  to  Mt. 
Sinai  Hospital  Debbie  discovered  that  the 
project  would  cost  a  fortune.  Even  the 
$100,000  raised  by  the  Thalians'  Christmas 
Ball  was  not  enough.  She  decided  to  make 
a  personal  appeal  for  contributions  to 
wealthy  men  about  town,  in  order  to 
reach  the  needed  quota.  She  recalled  that 
only  recently  Harry  Karl  had  spent  $110,- 
000  building  an  entire  floor  at  the  City 
of  Hope  and  dedicated  it  to  his  parents. 

For  years  she  had  known  Harry  Karl 
casually.  He  had  always  been  interested 
in  theatrical  personalities,  and  was  a 
member  of  the  Friars  Club,  which  consists 
primarily  of  theatrical  men.  with  a  scat- 
tering of  influential  business  men. 

Debbie  knew  the  many  favorable  com- 
ments in  town  about  'Mr.  Charity.'  She 
knew,  also,  that  he  had  a  weak  spot  for 
actresses,  and  that  he  had  dated  many  of 
the  most  glamorous  girls  in  pictures.  She 
also  remembered  his  heartbreaking  mar- 
riage to  Marie  McDonald,  and  their  head- 
lined divorce  which  had  been  so  humiliat- 
ing to  Karl.  She  had  felt  sorry  for  him 
when  she  had  read  about  it,  and  she 
realized  how  he  must  have  suffered  when 
Marie  had  publicly  proclaimed  that  she 
was  "allergic"  to  him.  Even  after  that, 
Debbie  remembered,  Harry  had  made  up 
for  a  while  with  Marie,  had  forgiven  her 
and  tried  to  make  a  go  of  their  marriage. 

At  this  time — shortly  after  her  inter- 
locutory divorce  decree — Debbie  wasn't 
particularly  interested  in  dating.  She  had 
suffered  too  much  herself  to  want  to  go 
out  on  dates.  But  she  was  convinced  that 
anyone  as  kind  and  sentimental  as  Harry 
would  respond  to  her  appeal  for  a  contri- 
bution to  the  Thalians. 


She  phoned  him  and  talked  as  only  Deb- 
bie can  talk — with  sincerity  and  charm 
and  enthusiasm.  Harry  said,  "You  know 
I  won't  turn  down  a  good  cause.  Why 
don't  you  have  dinner  with  me  tomorrow 
night  and  we  can  talk  about  it?" 

When  Harry  called  for  her  the  next 
night,  he  was  driving  his  $22,000  gunmetal 
Rolls-Royce  convertible.  Later  she  was 
to  learn  that  this  is  only  one  of  the  three 
sumptuous  cars  he  uses;  the  other  two 
being  a  black  Ghia  limousine,  custom- 
built  for  him  in  Italy  at  a  cost  of  $17,000. 
which  is  usually  chauffeured,  and  a  red 
convertible  Cadillac. 

Santa  Claus  and  Prince  Charming 

Harry  took  Debbie  to  dinner  at  La- 
Rue's,  a  swank  restaurant  on  the  Sunset 
Strip.  The  maitre  d',  deferential  to 
Harry,  immediately  ushered  him  to  the 
best  table.  Everyone  bowed  and  scraped 
for  Harry.  People  waved  to  him.  Debbie, 
used  to  being  the  big  wheel  when  she  went 
out  on  a  date,  was  surprised  to  find  so 
many  people  kowtowing  to  a  man  who  is 
not  a  "name"  in  pictures. 

Over  the  dinner  table  she  began  to  tell 
him  of  the  work  the  Thalians  were  doing 
for  mentally  disturbed  children. 

Harry's  mind  flashed  back  to  his  own 
childhood,  and  the  thought  came  to  him 
that  perhaps  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
wonderful  couple  who  had  adopted  him. 
he  might  have  not  only  grown  up  in 
poverty  but  with  warped  emotions. 

And  he  couldn't  refuse  this  pretty  movie 
star  opposite  him.  He  promised  her  a 
huge  donation. 

At  that  moment,  Harry,  to  Debbie, 
seemed  like  Santa  Claus  and  Prince 
Charming  rolled  into  one.  She  must 
have  realized  that  her  personal  charm 
had  influenced  him  as  much  as  the  need 
of  children  for  his  help — and  this,  too, 
was  balm  for  her  bruised  ego.  Since  her 
break-up,  she  had  often  wondered  if  she 
was  lacking  in  that  magic  quality  women 
like  Liz  have  for  men.  In  Harry's  eyes 
she  read  the  truth  she  wanted  to  discover 
— that  she  herself  has  the  capability  of 
being  fascinating  to  men. 

After  dinner,  Harry  suggested  going  to 
an  amusing  night  club,  the  Largo.  At  the 
Largo  they  were  joined  by  another  couple, 
Zsa  Zsa  Gabor  and  Hal  Hayes. 

When  he  took  her  home,  Harry  didn't 
attempt,  as  so  many  men  might  have, 
to  make  love  to  Debbie.  Only  his  eyes 
told  her  how  desirable  he  thought  her. 
Before  her  marriage,  Debbie  had  been 
a  good  girl,  almost  puritanical,  in  fact. 
And  underneath  the  more  seductive  ex- 
terior Debbie  began  to  acquire,  she  is  still 
a  girl  who  keeps  most  men  at  a  distance. 
She  would  resent  a  man  who  expected 
lovemaking  in  return  for  a  kindness  shown 
to  her  favorite  charity.  Harry  showed 
no  such  crudeness. 

Next  day,  one  messenger  after  another 
arrived  at  Debbie's  home  bringing  her 
long  boxes  of  flowers.  They  were  all  from 
Harry  Karl.  He  called  that  night.  They 
arranged  another  date. 

Even  though  they  began  to  see  each 
other  frequently  now,  Debbie  wasn't  dating 
Harry  exclusively.  She  was  also  seeing 
Bob  Neal,  the  rich  young  coffee  heir. 

Harry  decided  to  make  himself  indis- 
pensable to  Debbie,  to  impress  her  more 
than  any  other  man  could.  There  wasn't 
a  thing  he  wouldn't  and  didn't  do  for 
her.  He  deluged  her  with  expensive  gifts. 
When  she  was  working  in  The  Rat  Race 
at  Paramount.- he  sent  her  an  $1800  electric 
golf  cart  so  she  could  spin  gaily  around 
the  big  studio  lot. 

One  day  he  went  to  Abe  Lipsey,  a  well- 
known  Beverly  Hills  furrier  who  makes 
up  the  finest  furs  for  many  of  the  movie 
stars.    Abe  is  Elizabeth  Taylor's  favorite 


shave  lady? 
don't  do  it! 


Cream  hair  away  the  beautiful  way... 

with  new  baby-pink,  sweet-smelling  Xeet — you'll  never  have  a  trace 
nasty-  razor  stubble!  Always  to  neaten  underarms,  even-time  to  smo 
legs  to  new  smoother  beauty,  and  next  time  for  that  faint  downy 
fuzz  on  the  face,  why  not  consider  Neet; 
Goes  down  deep  where  no  razor  can  reach 
to  cream  hair  awav  the  beautiful  wav. 


& 


furrier,  so  Harry-  went  to  see  him  and 
told  him  he  wanted  to  knock  Debbie's  eyes 
out  with  something  lavish. 

"A  stole?"  suggested  Abe  Lipsey. 
liNo,  something  more  unusual  and 
original.''  said  Harry.  '•Something  imp- 
ish and  different  for  a  girl  who's  different.'" 
Together  they  figured  out  something 
that  would  surely  amuse  and  impress 
Debbie— dozens  of  red  roses,  each  stem 
wrapped  in  lustrous,  dark  rnink. 

Chuckling  to  himself  at  the  thought  of 
the  surprise  in  store  for  Debbie,  Harry- 
ordered  the  lavish  gift.  Debbie  was  de- 
lighted and  showed  her  mink-trimmed 
roses  to  everyone  at  Paramount. 

When  Debbie  went  to  Palm  Springs  for 
a  rest,  Harry  followed.  He  has  a  beautiful 
modern  home  in  Palm  Springs,  as  well  as 
bis  S200.000  estate  in  Beverly  Hills.  Dur- 
ing her  week  in  Palm  Springs.  Debbie  had 
to  go  to  Las  Vegas  to  appear  at  a  benefit 
which  Shirley  MacLaine  had  arranged  for 
the  hurricane  victims  of  Japan.  Debbie 
didn't  want  to  disappoint  Shirley,  but  she 
realized  she  had  to  be  there  that  very 
night.  She  told  Harry  her  problem,  and 
he  chartered  a  plane  and  pilot,  and  flew 
to  Vegas  with  her.  After  Debbie's  per- 
formance, Harry  tried  to  charter  another 
plane  for  Debbie,  but  couldn't  get  one. 
So  instead,  he  rented  a  limousine  and 
chauffeur  and  drove  back  with  her. 

She  has  begun  to  lean  on  him  and  his 
generosity.  But  earlier  in  their  friend- 
ship his  generosity  had  boomer anged. 

Debbie  had  to  face  the  fact  that  Harry 
was  in  love  with  her,  and  that  he  was 
hoping  to  win  her  love. 

She  didn't  want  to  lose  her  heart  again: 
she  was  all  wrapped  up  in  her  accelerated 
career,  in  her  new  freedom.  She  felt  she 
could  not  return  Harry's  love.  One  night 
she  told  him  that  they  must  not  see  each 
other  so  much.  She  began  to  date  Bob 
Neal  more  frequently — feeling  sure  that 
happy-go-lucky  Bob,  whom  she'd  known 
for  years,  would  not  become  as  serious  as 
Harry  KarL  She  took  a  trip  to  New  York 
and  went  night-clubbing  with  Walter 
Troutman,  a  millionaire  realtor. 

Harry  was  terribly  lonely.  He  missed 
the  gay,  happy  companionship  of  Debbie. 
Before  he'd  become  so  deeply  interested 
in  Debbie,  he  had  courted  Joan  Cohn,  the 
beautiful  widow  of  Harry-  Cohn.  the  late 
head  of  Columbia  Pictures.  In  her  way7, 
Joan  is  as  big  a  catch  as  Harry.  Beautiful, 
chic,  she'd  been  left  millions  by  Harry 
Cohn's  death — but  she  was  lonely  and 
suspicious.  She  was  afraid  that  w-hen  a 
man  showed  interest  in  her.  he  was  really 
interested  in  her  money.  But  when  Harry 
started  to  shower  attention  on  her,  she 
was  not  apprehensive.  She  knew  that 
he  had  millions  of  his  own  in  the  business 
which  he  headed  after  his  father's  death, 
and  that  through  his  business  alertness. 
Harry  made  this  chain  of  shoe  stores  even 
more  successful. 

Joan  and  Harry  became  engaged:  then 
their  engagement  was  mysteriously  broken. 
To  this  day,  no  one  knows  wrhy.  But 
Joan's  friends  think  that  the  day  he 
discovered  Debbie  was  the  day  he  lost  in- 
terest in  Joan. 

When  Debbie  told  Harry  that  she  could 
never  become  seriously  interested  in  him. 
he  went  back  to  Joan.  Joan  Cohn  had 
not  found  anyone  she  seriously  cared  for. 
In  a  moment  of  mutual  loneliness  Joan 
and  Harry  decided  to  marry. 

Ten  days  later  they  faced  the  heart- 
breaking fact  that  they  were  not  in  love 
and  never  had  been — that  Harry  had 
married  her  on  the  rebound. 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  face  the  ridicule 
of  the  world  if  he  had  to,  in  order  to 
break  up  the  marriage  that  was  meaning- 
less. When  he  tried  to  date  Debbie,  she 
told  him,  "I  won't  date  a  married  man." 


It  was  only  when  Joan  Cohn  went  to 
the  divorce  court — and  was  given  S100.000 
by  Harry  Karl  for  their  ten-day  mar- 
riage that  Harry  and  Debbie  started  see- 
ing each  other  again. 

When  Harry-  Karl  pursues  a  woman,  she 
really  knows  she's  pursued.  Since  his 
interlocutory  divorce  from  Joan.  Harry 
has  been  even  more  attentive  to  Debbie. 

A  friend  of  Harry's,  seeing  how  over- 
board he's  gone  for  Debbie,  asked  him. 
'"Harry,  you've  gone  with  the  most  beau- 
tiful women  out  here.  What  do  you  see  in 
Debbie?"  Harry-  replied,  "She's  the  most 
wonderful  girl  I've  ever  known.  I've 
never  had  so  much  fun  with  anyone." 

One  of  Debbie's  closest  friends  told  me. 
"I  don't  think  Debbie  is  in  love  with 
Harry,  but  she  may  not  be  looking  only 
for  love  now.  She  once  married  for  love 
— and  got  badly  hurt.  She  figures  now, 
'In  every  marriage  one  person  is  more 
deeply  in  love  than  the  other.  I  loved 
Eddie  more  than  he  loved  me.  Mightn't 
it  work  out  better  if  I  married  a  man  who 
was  more  in  love  than  I?'  She  respects 
Harry,  and  that  may  be  enough." 

There  are  still  remnants  of  the  puri- 
tanical girl  in  Debbie's  personality7.  The 
gifts  she  has  accepted  from  Harry  are 
hardly-  tokens.  Could  a  girl  of  Debbie's 
makeup  accept  such  gifts — chinchilla, 
minks  and  S40.000  emeralds — from  a  man 
she  has  no  intention  of  marrying? 

Some  in  Hollywood  feel  that  the  differ- 
ence in  their  ages  is  a  great  barrier. 

"Actually.  Harry  is  47  years  old — al- 
though he  may  look  older,"  says  a  friend. 
"That's  not  too  great  a  disparity  for 
Debbie,  who's  about  30  no%v.  (And  Debbie 
does  not  feel  that  this  is  necessarily-  a 
handicap  to  a  happy  marriage.  Eddie  was 
about  her  own  age,  and  that  didn't  work 
out.  Debbie  feels  that  perhaps  a  more 
mellow  man — one  whose  mind  and  heart 


have  been  deepened  by  suffering — may 
be  better  for  her  than  some  good-looking, 
conceited  young  actor. 

"In  spite  of  the  fact  that  Harry's  a 
grandpa — his  daughter  by  his  first  mar- 
riage has  a  baby  son — Harry  is  young  in 
spirit,"  this  friend  went  on. 

"And  he  supplies  a  vital  need  in  Deb- 
bie's life — the  feeling  that  she  has  a  man 
around  who  is  mature  enough  to  advise 
her  when  she  needs  advice.  I  know  the 
kind  of  girl  Debbie  is,  and  the  kind  of 
mother  she  is.  She  would  never  give  her 
children  a  stepfather  whom  she  felt  would 
be  too  young  to  take  the  responsibility 
seriously." 

Another  friend  of  Debbie's  thinks  that 
Debbie  may  find  Harry's  three  marriages 
and  divorces  a  distinct  handicap.  "One 
marriage  failure.  Debbie  feels,  might  be 
the  woman's  fault,"  explained  this  friend. 
But  it  is  hard  for  Debbie  to  believe  that 
if  a  man  has  failed  at  marriage  three  times, 
each  time  it  was  the  woman's  fault.  Harry 
was  married  the  first  time  when  he  was 
in  his  twenties,  to  a  non-professional.  They 
have  a  daughter,  Judy,  who  is  now- 
married. 

"Although  Debbie  is  very  sympathetic, 
she  doesn't  want  to  be  a  two-time  loser 
in  the  marriage  game.  And  she  knows 
very  well  that  the  chances  of  a  happy 
marriage  are  less  with  a  man  who  has  had 
three  divorces.  She's  got  that  thought  in 
her  little  noggin,  too." 

Between  now  and  the  day  Harry  gets 
his  final  decree  of  divorce.  Debbie  will 
have  to  face  these  problems  and  think 
about  them. 

Debbie  has  seven  months  in  which  to 
make  up  her  mind.  END 

Debbie  can  be  seen  now  in  The  Gazebo. 
MGM:  soon  in  The  Pleasure  of  His  Com- 
pany and  The  Rat  Race,  both  Paramount. 


Elvis'  Grown-up  Way  with  Girls 


U.  S.  for  a  few  weeks  and  that  El  missed 
him  very  much. 


(Continued  from,  page  45) 

and  adores  costume  jewelry  and  red  shoes. 
Hazel-eyed  LaVerne  Novak  is  auburn- 
haired,  dreams  someday  of  becoming  a 
movie  actress. 

All  three  girls  have  bright,  sunshiny 
personalities.  They  hail  from  Cleveland, 
Ohio,  and  confess  they  began  singing  dur- 
ing 'babysitting'  nights. 

Here  are  their  individual  reports  on  their 
unexpected  meeting  with  Elvis.  Isn't  it  in- 
teresting how  each  of  them  noticed  differ- 
ent things? 

TONI  CISTONE:  After  we  toured  Ireland 
and  England,  we  went  to  Germany  where 
we  sang  at  a  hotel  called  the  Von  Steuben 
in  Weisbaden.  About  forty-five  minutes 
out  of  Weisbaden  is  Bad  Nauheim  where 
Elvis  is  stationed,  and  we  never  ever  ex- 
pected to  meet  him. 

But  through  a  friend  of  ours,  Cliff 
Cleague,  who  knew  Elvis'  traveling  com- 
panion, Lamar  Fisk,  we  got  to  meet  Elvis 
on  a  Friday  night. 

We  drove  out  and  stopped  at  a  sign  that 
said  11  Goethe  Street — Autographs  be- 
tween 7:30  and  8:30  p.m. 

It  was  dark,  and  the  house  was  dark 
because  the  windows  were  boarded  up  for 
Elvis'  safety.  There  were  hundreds  of  fans 
waiting  outside,  and  Lamar  pushed 
through  the  crowd  to  make  room  for  us 
to  go  through  the  gate.  The  house  was 
dark  inside,  too.  There  was  only  one  lamp 
on,  and  I  couldn't  help  thinking,  "What  a 
nice  and  soft  romantic  atmosphere." 

We  sat  on  a  low  couch  and  waited  for 
Elvis. 

We  were  all  nervous.  I  could  hear  the 
other  girls  breathing,  and  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do  with  my  hands  so  I  fidgeted 
with  my  skirt. 

All  of  a  sudden  Elvis  barged  in  and  he 
came  right  up  to  us,  shook  our  hands  and 
repeated  our  names  back  to  us  as  we  intro- 
duced ourselves. 

That  was  a  great  thrill  in  itself,  hearing 
Elvis  say  each  of  our  names. 

Then  for  a  couple  of  minutes  I  was 
dumbfounded.  I  didn't  know  what  to  say 
or  think.  I  remember  I  kept  wishing  I  had 
my  best  dress  on.  Finally  I  pinched  myself 
to  snap  out  of  my  daze,  and  I  found  myself 
staring  into  Elvis'  eyes.  They're  very  blue, 
bluer  than  they  look  in  pictures.  They're 
like  pools  of  clear  blue  lake  water  on  a 
sunny  summer  day.  I  could  look  into  them 
forever. 

I  was  a  little  surprised  by  Elvis'  hair- 
cut. It  was  a  crewcut  and  it  wasn't  long. 
It  was  an  in-between  haircut  I'd  never 
seen  in  pictures  before.  Of  course,  I've 
always  loved  his  sideburns  and  I  hope  he 
goes  back  to  them  when  he  gets  out  of  the 
Army.  He  wore  a  sexy  pink  shirt  and  dark 
frontier  pants. 

Then,  after  our  introduction,  he  did  the 
most  wonderful  thing.  He  went  over  to  his 
rack  of  single  records  and  pulled  out  a  45 
record,  and  he  said,  "I've  got  one  of  your 
songs  here!" 

And  all  three  of  us  swooned. 

We  told  him  how  we  went  to  see  him 
at  the  Cleveland  Arena  Auditorium  and 
how  we  lost  our  purses  in  the  mob.  We 
talked  about  showbusiness,  our  marvelous 
trip  through  Europe,  and  he  listened  very 
attentively. 

He  was  so  easy  to  talk  to  that  I  told  the 
other  girls  later,  "Gee,  El  is  a  wonderful 
everyday  kind  of  fellow."  He  didn't  scare 
us  off  the  way  some  stars  can. 

He  walked  out  of  the  room  for  a  moment 
then  and  came  back  with  his  big  guitar  and 
flashed  a  dreamy  smile.  When  he  smiled 
62  that  dark  living  room  lit  up.  Elvis  has  a 


big  smile  (it's  a  little  crooked,  goes  way 
up  the  right  side  of  his  face)  and  it's  so 
real,  so  beautiful,  that  you  can't  help  but 
shiver  when  you  first  see  it. 

Elvis  strummed  his  guitar  and  asked  us 
to  sing  our  hits — I'll  Keep  Trying  and  I'll 
Be  Seeing  You.  Then  he  imitated  a  couple 
of  old-style  singers  and  sang  Good  Golly 
Miss  Molly. 

We  clapped  to  the  beat,  and  while  I  was 
listening  to  him  I  realized  Elvis  had  lost  a 
lot  of  weight.  I've  often  thought  back  to 
how  Elvis  looked,  and  I  believe  Elvis  is 
better-looking  now  than  before,  if  that's 
possible.  His  face  looks  leaner,  and  you 
can  see  that  wonderful  bone  structure 
very  clearly. 

We  talked  after  we  sang,  and  then  we 
had  to  return  to  the  club  for  our  show.  El 
came  out  to  our  blue  Ford  convertible  and 
he  said  he'd  join  us  at  the  Roman  Gar- 
dens later  if  he  could.  The  Roman  Gardens 
is  a  pizza  place. 

But  if  he  didn't  get  away,  he  made  us 
promise  to  come  back  to  a  pizza  party  on 
Sunday. 

He  didn't  come  to  the  Roman  Gardens 
that  night — so  we  couldn't  wait  'til  Sunday. 

PATTI  McCABE:  On  Sunday  we  went  to 
mass  at  a  lovely  old  church,  the  Church  of 
St.  Augustine.  Then  we  lunched  at  our 
hotel,  and  Mark  Wildey,  the  tall,  young, 
handsome  blond  manager  of  the  Von  Steu- 
ben, drove  us  out  to  Elvis'.  The  day  was 
perfect  with  a  bright  sun  and  blue  skies. 
When  we  arrived  at  11  Goethe  Street, 
there  were  thousands  of  fans  crowding 
around  the  house. 

Well,  we  went  into  Elvis'  house  by  the 
backdoor  because  of  the  big  mob  out  front. 
The  house  was  a  dark  grey  stucco,  and 
there  was  a  nice  lawn  around  it.  I  re- 
member there  were  fruit  trees  in  the  back- 
yard: apple  and  plum  and  pear.  And  there 
were  wasps  and  bumblebees,  too,  because  a 
bumblebee  almost  stung  me,  and  I  couldn't 
help  chuckling  because  Elvis  has  a  song 
called  J  Got  Stung! 

That  day  El  struck  me  as  being  different. 
He  wasn't  as  shy;  he  seemed  more  re- 
laxed; he  talked  more. 

He  was  wearing  an  open-necked  blue 
sport  shirt,  a  grey  Perry  Como  Sweater 
and  navy  blue  pants,  and  he  had  a  black 
pearl  ring  on  his  little  finger.  We  talked 
about  what  hit  records  were  popular  in 
the  U.S.,  and  he  told  us  he  constantly 
reads  movie  magazines  to  keep  up  with 
everything. 

Some  GI's  came  from  Elvis'  camp  then, 
and  the  jam  session  started.  Al,  the  sol- 
dier who  played  piano  for  a  while,  told  me 
how  Elvis  was  the  end.  He  made  me  prom- 
ise not  to  tell,  but  he  did  tell  me  a  couple 
of  stories  of  how  Elvis  went  out  of  his  way 
to  cover  up  for  a  couple  of  guys  in  his 
outfit  who  were  eightballs. 

In  the  middle  of  the  jam  session  I  went 
into  the  kitchen  for  a  glass  of  water,  and 
his  grandmother  was  there. 

She's  a  riot. 

She's  tall,  almost  six  feet,  nearly  as  tall 
as  Elvis,  and  she's  got  a  sense  of  humor 
that's  a  dilly.  She  started  telling  me  what 
a  big  pain  all  the  immunization  shots  were. 
When  Elvis  asked  her  to  come  over,  she 
had  to  get  lots  of  overseas  shots.  "They 
nearly  killed  me,"  she  screamed,  "and  if 
they  have  to  give  them  to  me  again  when 
I  go  back  to  the  States  I'll  stow  away  or 
something.  Anything  to  avoid  that  needle!" 

She  said  she  cooks  for  Elvis,  and  that  he 
won't  eat  just  anybody  else's  food.  He 
flips  for  juicy  steaks  and  apple  pies. 

She  also  told  me  Elvis'  dad  was  in  the 


LAVERNE  NOVAK:  You  know  a  guitar 
is  what  usually  symbolizes  Elvis  Presley, 
and  he  does  have  a  beautiful  bass  guitar 
made  of  black  wood. 

But  we  were  all  very  surprised  halfway 
through  the  afternoon  to  see  Elvis  put 
down  his  guitar  and  go  to  the  piano.  And 
do  you  know  something?  He's  just  as  good 
a  piano  player,  if  not  better,  as  a  guitar 
player.  He  played  dozens  and  dozens  of 
songs  and  sang  along  with  himself  which 
is  pretty  hard. 

Do  you  know  what  he  sang?  He  sang 
mostly  spirituals.  I  was  so  impressed.  He's 
such  a  wonderful  emotional  singer  that  I 
just  couldn't  stop  crying  when  he  sang. 
His  voice  is  so  rich  and  full,  and  if  you 
listen  to  him  sing  7  Understand  and  I  Be- 
lieve, The  Lord's  Prayer  and  I'll  Never 
Walk  Alone — well,  you  just  get  goose- 
bumps  from  all  the  feeling  he  gives  them. 

After  all  those  hours  (four  or  five)  of 
singing,  we  were  all  a  little  hungry,  so  El 
sent  out  for  the  pizzas,  and  I  don't  know 
how  many  he  ordered  but  I've  never  seen 
so  many  pizzas  in  my  life. 

All  kinds  of  pizzas — tomato  and  cheese, 
sausage,  pepperoni,  mushroom.  Everybody 
ate  and  ate.  Elvis  himself  had  four  or  five 
huge  pieces.  He's  got  a  wonderful  appetite, 


IN  THE  MAY  ISSUE 

Louella  tells  the  facts  about 

MARILYN  MONROE'S 

marriage 

The  romance  of 
KIM  NOVAK 

and 

RICHARD  QUINE 

LOOK  FOR  DORIS  DAY 
ON  THE  COVER 


and  he  eats  as  though  he's  enjoying  evei-y 
single  bite. 

I  don't  think  I  can  ever  forget  the  way 
Elvis'  face  glows  when  he  smiles  at  a 
girl.  He  kept  smiling  at  us  and  I  kept 
wondering  if  I  was  in  a  dream.  It  was  too 
unbelievable  to  be  true,  seeing  and  being 
with  Elvis  for  all  this  time. 

Something  else  that  made  a  very  deep 
impression  with  me:  Elvis'  gentlemanli- 
ness. 

He  never  forgets  his  manners,  ever, 
even  with  his  fans.  He  went  out  to  sign 
autographs,  and  we  stood  with  him,  and 
he  was  just  as  nice  to  the  last  person  who 
asked  as  he  was  to  the  first. 

Finally  we  had  to  get  back  to  the  hotel 
and  we  started  to  say  good-bye  and  he 
leaned  over  and  kissed  Torn  and  Patti  and 
myself,  and  said,  "Gee,  I  hope  I  have  a 
chance  to  see  you  all  again  real  soon!" 

There  were  lumps  the  size  of  apples  in 
our  throats. 

We  just  couldn't  talk.  We  left,  happy 
tears  in  our  eyes,  unable  to  speak,  choked 
up  with  admiration  and  emotion  over  our 
singing  idol. 

Of  course,  being  in  showbusiness  it  was 
an  extra-special  thrill  for  us  to  meet  Elvis 
because  we  were  able  to  share  our  sing- 
ing with  him,  and  I  don't  think  I'll  ever 
forget  our  week-end  with  Elvis  as  long  as 
I'm  alive.  END 


Stephen  Boyd 


(Continued  from  page  29) 

Boyd.  He  has  a  different  name  but  often 
the  same  wonderful  dream,  asleep  or 
awake.  And  he  believes  it  as  firmly  as  he 
believes  in  leprechauns.  That  is  one  big 
reason  why  Irish  Steve  Boyd  is  the  honest 
new  he-man  star  in  Hollywood. 

Since  his  ruthless  Messala  lost  the 
chariot  race  but  captured  the  sympathy 
and  sex-appeal  of  Ben-Hur.  Steve  has  had 
to  turn  down  eleven  juicy  offers  that 
could  make  him  rich — if  he  were  a  foot- 
ball squad  instead  of  just  one  man.  Steve 
missed  starring  with  Marilyn  Monroe  in 
Let's  Make  Love  by  a  flick  of  her  false 
eyelash — but  he's  up  for  Marc  Antony  with 
Liz  Taylor's  Cleopatra.  After  that  they're 
talking  Valentino's  sexy  part  in  Four 
Horsemen  of  the  Apocalypse  for  Steve. 
Critics  are  already  running  out  of  five- 
dollar  adjectives  describing  Steve's  virile 
authority,  and  even  tough-minded  Willie 
Wyler.  Ben-Hur s  director,  calls  him  a 
young  Clark  Gable.  Wherever  Steve  goes, 
girls  break  out  in  goose  pimples. 

Some  reasons  why  are  obvious.  Steve 
Boyd  is  a  gorgeous  broth  of  a  boy  with 
a  wavy,  red-glinted  mop  of  hair.  Celtic 
blue  eyes  and  a  rocky,  deep-dimpled  chin. 
He's  loaded  with  genuine  Irish  wit  and 
charm  and  there's  nothing  wrong  with 
his  six-foot-plus.  180-pound  hunk  of  mus- 
cle, either.  But  there  the  standard  Holly- 
wood hero  portrait  stops,  and  Steve's 
dream  takes  over.  All  he  really  cares 
about  is  acting. 

For  himself,  handsome  Steve  Boyd  has 
absolutely  no  admiration.  "I'm  not  very 
fond  of  myself."  he'll  tell  you.  "but  I'm  all 
wrapped  up  in  the  people  I  play."  Fame 
leaves  him  cold.  He  doesn't  care  about 
being  a  star.  He  can  skip  fun.  too.  and 
even  money.  Til  work  for  nothing."  he's 
offered,  "if  I  like  the  part.  But  I'll  go  out 
of  my  mind  if  I  don't.'" 

Nothing  besides  his  job 

Steve  has  even  less  interest  in  sports, 
social  life,  politics,  business  or  much  of 
anything  besides  his  job.  If  people  ask  him 
about  them  he  has  a  stock  answer:  "T  don't 
know.  I'm  an  actor."  Not  long  ago  an 
interviewer  dreamed  up  a  fancy  quote: 
"If  I  have  one  cause  in  life."  he  had 
Steve  say  grandly,  "it  is  to  fight  for  the 
freedom  of  Ireland;" 

When  that  hit  his  home  town.  Belfast 
people  who  knew  him  laughed  out  loud, 
along  with  Steve  Boyd.  For  one  thing, 
they're  all  loyal  subjects  of  the  Queen. 
Corrected  Steve.  "The  only  cause  I've  had 
to  fight  for  all  my  life  is  my  own  freedom. 
That's  a  battle  that  keeps  on  and  on." 

When  fans  mobbed  Steve  for  his  auto- 
graph recently  in  New  York  he  was 
equally  amazed.  "Why  should  anybody 
want  anything  from  me?'"  he  puzzled. 
"What  have  I  got  to  do  with  that  guy  in 
Ben-Hur?"  To  him  Steve  Boyd  and  Mes- 
sala were  two  entirely  different  people. 

A  character  like  that  can  be  hard  to  fig- 
ure in  a  town  where  the  first  person,  sin- 
gular, is  almost  holy  writ.  Steve  Boyd  is 
hard  to  figure.  You  have  to  start  all  over 
again  ■with  each  part  he  plays. 

As  long  as  two  years  ago,  when  Steve 
first  came  to  Hollywood  to  play  a  Tsad 
guy'  in  The  Bravados,  the  impact  was 
baffling  to  all  concerned.  In  fact,  when 
Steve  showed  up  at  Twentieth  Century- 
Fox  to  draw  his  wardrobe.  Mickey  Sher- 
rard,  in  charge,  took  one  look  at  him  and 
exploded.  "My  God — they've  gone  out  of 
their  minds:"  Steve's  Savile  Row  clothes 
and  London  accent  seemed  about  as  right 
for  a  western  heavy  as  David  Niven's. 
Furthermore,    Steve   cheerfuilv  admitted 


he  didn't  know  how  to  strap  on  his  guns, 
shoot  them  or  straddle  a  horse.  But  he 
learned — and  he  was  perfect  in  the  pic- 
ture. As  for  Steve's  experiences — he  took 
a  walk  from  his  hotel  the  first  night  and 
got  stopped  by  the  cops.  "It's  not  safe  to 
walk  in  Beverly  Hills."  they  told  him 
cryptically,  escorting  him  back.  When  he 
got  his  hotel  bill,  each  day  nicked  him  for 
more  than  his  dad  earned  in  Ireland  for 
a  week's  labor.  The  apartment  he  fled  to 
promptly  stuck  him  for  six  months'  rent, 
even  though  almost  all  that  time  he  was 
in  Mexico  and  Rome!  "I  found  it  all  pretty 
confusing,"  says  Steve. 

He  could  say  the  same  thing  today,  be- 
cause the  truth  is  that  Stephen  Boyd 
doesn't  fit  the  Hollywood  pattern,  or  any 
pattern  for  that  matter.  He  doesn't  because 
with  him  reality  always  takes  second 
place.  Acting  comes  first  and  it  always  has. 
But  it  hasn't  made  things  easy  for  Steve. 

This  kind  of  schizophrenia  is  nothing 
new  to  Steve  Boyd.  He's  been  dreaming 
as  much  as  waking  and.  in  one  way  or  an- 
other, acting  as  often  as  living,  ever  since 
he  was  born  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  1928. 
in  Glen  Gormley.  outside  of  Belfast. 

His  mother.  Martha  Boyd,  who  traced 
back  to  the  Bally  Castle  Boyds.  was  the 
youngest  of  thirteen  children,  and  Wil- 
liam Millar,  as  Steve  was  christened,  was 
her  last  baby.  "The  last  child  of  a  last 
child."  says  Steve,  "and  they're  always 
queer  ones."  Besides.  Martha  had  "a  poi- 
son in  her  stomach"  most  of  the  months 
she  carried  Billy  and  even  the  doctor 
didn't  expect  much  of  value  to  be  deliv- 
ered. "I'm  inclined  to  think  he  was  right," 
grins  Steve  today. 

Billy  was  no  prize 

Stacked  against  his  husky  brothers,  it's 
true.  Billy  was  no  prize.  They  took  after 
their  dad.  James  Millar,  a  mountain  of  a 
man  who  drove  a  truck  for  a  living,  who 
could  down  a  mug  of  beer  at  a  gulp  and 
who.  even  today.  Steve  proudly  claims, 
"can  wipe  up  the  floor  with  me  any  time 
he  feels  like  it."  The  brothers,  from  James, 
twenty  years  older,  to  Alex  next  above, 
were  buckos  so  famous  for  their  brawn 
and  red  tempers  that  one  was  called 
"Blow"  at  school,  because  he  blew  his  top 
and  clobbered  anyone  who  crossed  him. 

Billy  wasn't  like  that.  He  was  solid  and 
strong  enough,  a  "Billy  Bunter"  kid,  as 
they  said  around  Belfast.  He  could  run 
like  the  wind,  rough  it  up  in  soccer  and 
hockey,  but  fighting,  which  was  glorious 
sport  for  his  brothers,  made  him  feel 
cheap.  But  once,  when  an  American  boy 
named  Eugene  challenged  him  on  the 
school  grounds  Billy  fought  desperately, 
"and  I  beat  the  tar  out  of  him."  says  Steve. 
"But  I  was  sorry  afterward.  The  master 
bent  us  both  over  and  whacked  our  bot- 
toms with  a  paddle."  Billy  never  hit  any- 
one after  that.  Sometimes  Billy  Millar 
couldn't  understand  himself,  but  he  didn't 
try  too  hard.  He  was  too  busy  being  some- 
thing else. 

He  was  a  steamship,  usually  the  Queen 
Mary,  blowing  foghorn  blasts  through  his 
fingers  and  sailing  up  and  down  the  side- 
walk. He  was  a  racing  automobile,  rip- 
ping down  the  hills  in  a  skateboard,  once 
clear  under  the  wheels  of  a  passing  car. 
The  driver  only  jumped  angrily  out  at  the 
bump,  yelling  "You  little  so-and-so!"  and 
chased  him  up  the  street.  He  roamed  the 
woods  outside  of  town  and  up  on  the  Cave 
Hill,  alone — being  whatever  came  to  his 
imagination — Robin  Hood.  Brian  Boru.  a 
deer,  fox,  or  even  a  tree.  Later,  when  he 
grew  up  enough,  he'd  set  out  on  solitary 
hikes  through  the  Mourne  Mountains, 
singing  Irish  ballads  .  .  .  "where  the 
mountains  of  Mourne  sweep  down  to  the 
sea  .  .  ."  and  staying  at  youth  hostels.  "I 
was  a  dreamer."  admits  Steve.  "And  the 
things  I  liked  best  I  liked  to  do  alone." 


W         SANITARY  BRIEF 

Keeps  you  cool  and  calm  'cause  thev 
fit  to  a  fare-thee-well— feel  like  noth- 
ing at  all.  All-Acetate  tricot,  water- 
proof panel.  White  or  Pink:  SI. 85. 


■  The  distinguished-appearing  man  behind  the  wide  mahogany  desk  looked  at 
the  signed  contract  with  satisfaction.  Then  as  his  eyes  surveyed  the  signer  sitting 
opposite,  his  face  grew  troubled. 

"You  have  three  weeks  before  your  first  costume  fitting,"  Y.  Frank  Freeman, 
the  head  of  Paramount,  said  firmly  to  Bob  Hope.  "The  clothes  of  that  period 
were  form-fitting,  remember,  so  you  better  spend  all  your  time  on  that  golf  course!" 

"That's  the  nicest  order  I  ever  got,"  Hope  said  happily,  and  departed  for  the 
links.  But  two  weeks  later,  he  hadn't  taken  off  an  ounce,  and  studio  officials  were 
in  despair. 

The  suits  for  the  movie  were  to  be  made  by  Sy  Devore,  noted  Hollywood  stylist. 
The  fittings  for  Bob  Hope  were  cancelled  several  times,  until  Mr.  Devore  pointed 
out  that  time  was  getting  short. 

"We  know  it,"  the  studio  said  sadly,  "but  the  suits  are  to  be  size  32  and  Mr. 
Hope's  only  down  to  36.  How's  he  to  try  them  on?" 

"Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Devore,  "but  send  him  in  for  a  fitting." 

Accordingly,  Bob  Hope  arrived  at  Devore's — but  he  couldn't  quite  get  into  the 
suit.  "I  don't  understand  it,"  he  commented  blandly.  "I've  been  losing  Aveight 
steadily  for  three  weeks." 

"Oh,  I  can  see  that,"  Sy  Devore  told  him,  "but  you'll  need  to  take  off  just  a 
little  more.  This  is  Monday;  come  in  Thursday  for  the  next  fitting." 

For  three  weeks  thereafter  Bob  Hope  still  couldn't  quite  get  into  the  suit.  Sy 
Devore  would  say  encouragingly,  "You  just  need  to  take  off  a  little  bit  more, 
Mr.  Hope." 

It  was  a  great  day  when  the  suit  fitted  superbly.  Bob  Hope  said  delightedly, 
"That  shows  what  golf  will  do  for  you!" 

But,  it  was  only  when  the  picture  was  finished  that  Sy  Devore  revealed  the  secret. 

"I  never  saw  anybody  need  so  many  fittings  for  a  suit,"  Bob  remarked  one  day. 
"Why,  you  could  have  made  four  suits  in  the  time  it  took  you  to  fit  that  one!" 

"I  did,"  said  Sy  Devore  with  a  chuckle.  "That  first  suit  was  a  35:  you  were  a  36. 
The  next  week  when  you'd  lost  a  bit,  I'd  made  a  34 — and  so  on,  until  you  finally 
got  down  to  a  32." 

Bob  Hope's  last  words?  "Now  I  know  what  they  mean  by  'Clothes  make  the 
man.'  " 

The  picture  was  Beau  James,  in  which  Bob  Hope  portrayed  the  late  svelte 
Mayor  Jimmy  Walker  of  New  York.  Today  Bob's  golf  score  is  still  in  the  low  80's — 
and  his  waistline  is  back  in  the  high  30's! 


PAR 

FOR  THE 
COURSE 


That  was  hard  to  manage  the  way  the 
Millars  lived  in  Glen  Gormley.  They 
rented  a  tiny  house,  smaller  than  the  mod- 
est apartment  Steve  has  in  Hollywood  to- 
day, for  $1.10  a  week.  All  eleven  crowded 
inside,  and  a  succession  of  cats  who  in- 
evitably met  sad  ends.  The  main  support 
for  this  brood  was  James  Millar's  salary 
of  $18  a  week.  Sometimes  Martha  worked 
and  each  Millar  kid,  girl  or  boy,  found  a 
job  as  they  grew  up  to  help.  Billy  pulled 
potatoes  on  farms  nearby.  Once  he  tried 
a  job  in  a  garage,  until  a  towed  tractor  he 
was  steering  tipped  over  on  the  slippery 
road  to  Belfast  and  almost  killed  him. 

Ireland  was  poor  and  the  Millars  were 
poor  Irish.  The  world-wide  depression  in 
Steve's  boyhood  didn't  help,  and  then 
came  the  war  to  make  things  desperate. 
Food  was  scarce  and  the  Nazis  plastered 
the  port  of  Belfast  regularly,  leaving  in- 
cendiaries and  delayed  action  bombs  that 
blew  up  without  warning  and  killed  plenty 
of  kids  Billy  knew.  Some  families  moved 
out  into  the  hills  but  the  Millars  stayed 
where  they  were,  thinking  themselves 
lucky  compared  to  Jack,  Billy's  brother, 
who  joined  the  Navy  and  stuck  out  the 
war  on  Malta,  the  heaviest  bombed  spot 
of  all.  Despite  all  this  and  his  poverty, 
Steve  Boyd  calls  himself  lucky  to  have 
had  the  boyhood  he  had. 

Nobody's  impressed 

He  likes  to  go  back  home  today.  "In 
fact,"  says  Steve,  "I  need  to.  It  gets  my 
feet  back  on  the  ground."  When  he  does 
his  mother  tells  him,  "Now,  there'll  be 
none  of  that  Stephen  Boyd  business 
around  here,  boy.  You're  still  Billy." 
Sometimes  she  calls  him  "Poison,"  from 
the  recollection  of  his  birth.  And  his  dad 
who,  after  thirty-two  years,  drives  the 
same  trucks  for  the  same  company  and 
makes  about  the  same  pay,  teases  him 
roughly.  "How's  the  head,  Billy — swelling 
up?  I'll  get  a  bucket  of  water!"  His  broth- 
ers are  all  men  who  work  with  their 
hands.  He  has  twenty-two  nephews  and 
nieces.  Nobody's  impressed. 

Stephen  Boyd  prizes  this  and  even 
envies  them.  "My  father  and  mother,"  he 
believes,  "are  both  remarkable  people.  At 
an  early  age  they  made  and  kept  their 
happiness.  If  I  could  ever  achieve  what 
they  have,"  he  muses  wistfully,  "I'd  be 
content." 

Back  then  contentment  didn't  mix  with 
Billy  Millar's  dreams  any  more  than  it 
does  today.  But  he's  grateful  that  some 
virtues  and  values  of  respectable  poverty 
rubbed  off  and  clung  to  him.  "Life  was  a 
struggle,"  as  he  puts  it.  "But  a  cheerful 
struggle.  We  never  had  a  shilling  ahead 
but  I  don't  remember  any  feeling  of  fear 
or  insecurity.  There  was  always  life  and 
excitement  in  our  house,  always  love,  al- 
ways humor  and  always  pride." 

At  school  Billy  Millar  had  a  nickname. 
"Smiler."  "I  was  a  serious  kid,"  he  ex- 
plains, "but  happy  serious."  From  the  min- 
ute he  trotted  off  to  classes,  at  the  age  of 
four,  he  liked  everything  about  school. 
But  he  was  always  speaking  his  mind. 
He'd  argue  until  they  shut  him  up.  "I  was 
sure  hard  to  convince,"  says  Steve. 

At  the  Scottish  Presbyterian  church  he 
even  argued  with  the  Reverend  Nicholson 
about  his  sermons.  "It  amazed  me."  states 
Steve,  "that  a  man  could  read  a  text  from 
the  Bible  and  then  have  the  nerve  to  tell 
others  what  it  meant.  Why,  it  means  some- 
thing different  to  everyone  who  reads  it!" 
He'd  tell  the  good  man  this  and  they'd 
have  word  battles  after  church,  to  the 
preacher's  delight.  But  later,  when  Billy 
Millar  briefly  thought  he'd  like  to  study 
theology  and  be  a  minister  himself,  Rev- 
erend Nicholson  shook  his  head. 

"I  know  your  mind,  Billy,"  he  counseled. 
"And  you  won't  do  for  organized  religion. 
You'd  never  accept  it." 


By  then  Billy  Millar  was  already  a  vet- 
eran in  a  profession  where  it  didn't  hurt  a 
bit  to  have  ideas  of  your  own.  But  it  did 
hurt  to  have  your  voice  change.  At  four- 
teen, Billy  was  a  has-been  kid  actor. 

It  had  all  begun  when  he  was  eight 
with  a  little  school  play  in  Glen  Gormley, 
something  about  Scotland  Yard,  as  Steve 
remembers.  He  played  a  policeman  and  he 
can  still  rattle  off  his  opening  lines, 
"Lrook — Maggie  and  Jim  are  comin'  down 
the  street.  She's  grumblin'  like  me  grand- 
mother's parrot — and  he's  gone  all  red  in 
the  face!"  A  scout  from  the  British  Broad- 
casting company  was  combing  the  schools 
for  a  kiddie  talent  and  he  snapped  Billy 
right  up  for  the  Children's  Hour  program. 
A  kid  who  was  always  being  something 
else  anywuy  found  this  a  pushover.  For 
most  of  the  next  six  years  Billy  was  either 
rehearsing  or  happily  being  everybody  but 
himself  over  radio.  This  was  good — but 
bad,  too. 

Into  the  family  pot 

The  good  part  was  the  expressive  out- 
let for  imaginative  Billy  Millar — and  may- 
be even  more  than  that — the  money.  For  a 
skit  he  collected  the  equivalent  of  $16,  a  de- 
cent week's  wages  for  any  grown  working 
man  in  Ireland.  For  a  play  he  got  $25,  more 
than  his  own  dad  earned.  All  of  it  went 
into  the  family  pot,  which  could  use  it. 

But  it  was  bad  being  cut  off  from  his  age 
group  at  a  time  when  Billy  Millar,  par- 
ticularly, needed  them.  "Sometimes," 
glooms  Steve  Boyd  today,  "I  still  have  the 
feeling  I'm  a  bit  of  an  adolescent." 

He  never  had  a  chance  to  knock  around 
and  get  the  growing  kinks  out  of  his  sys- 
tem. There  wasn't  time  to  do  what  the 
other  guys  did — play  on  soccer  teams, 
dance,  join  a  gang,  mess  around.  All  that 
time  Billy  never  had  a  date.  With  all  the 
chicks  nipping  around  Stephen  Boyd  now 
it's  hard  to  believe,  but  in  those  days  he 
couldn't  get  to  first  base  with  the  colleens. 
By  North-of-Ireland  standards,  they  fig- 
ured him  a  kind  of  'kook.' 

Steve  still  winces  remembering  one  who 
gave  him  a  specially  hard  time.  Audrey 
was  a  dainty  blonde  doll  he  worshiped 
hopelessly.  His  big  brother,  Alex,  took  her 
out  whenever  he  wanted  to.  But  when 
Billy  tried  she  just  swished  her  skirts  and 
snapped,  "No!" 

"Lord  knows  I  was  persistent,"  grins 
Steve.  "I  kept  asking  her  for  six  straight 
years  and  I  got  the  same  answer  every 
time."  Finally  she  told  him,  'Billy,  you're 
just  too  odd  a  one  for  me." 

While  Steve  was  still  on  BBC,  but  fad- 
ing, he  entered  Hughes  Academy  in  Bel- 
fast, a  business  school.  His  aim  was  a 
white-collar  job  in  an  office.  University 
was  out  of  the  question  for  the  likes  of 
the  Millar  kids.  Billy  always  knew  that — 
there  wasn't  the  money.  But  he  didn't 
want  to  steer  a  truck,  or  swing  a  pick.  He 
hit  typing  and  shorthand  hard  and  got 
pretty  sharp. 

He'd  been  there  about  a  year  when 
Martha  Millar  met  him  one  day  as  he 
rolled  in  on  his  bike.  "Let's  take  a  little 
walk,  Son,"  she  said.  And  then  she  told 
him,  "Things  are  bad  with  so  many  mar- 
ried and  gone.  We  can't  keep  it  up  with 
you  in  school  and  all."  Billy  knew  what 
she  meant:  That  he  had  to  start  bringing 
in  steady  money.  That's  what  an  Irish 
family's  son  like  Billy  Millar  had  to  do 
when  it  came  time.  He  was  fourteen. 

So.  Billy  got  himself  a  job  in  a  Belfast 
insurance  office,  "assistant  in  charge  of 
motors,"  he  called  himself  dramatically. 
Actually,  he  was  office  boy.  He  got  a  bet- 
ter one  soon  at  McCalla's  Travel  Agency, 
earning  $20  a  week.  For  a  fifteen-year-old 
in  Belfast  that  was  fabulous.  His  family 
and  friends  began  thinking  maybe  Billy 
was  going  to  amount  to  something  in  busi- 
ness after  all.  Billy  told  himself  that  was 


his  one  ambition.  Now,  Steve  Boyd  knows 
he  just  wanted  to  please  his  folks.  Be- 
cause, nights  he  joined  up  with  an  acting 
group  called  the  University  Players.  After 
seven  months  at  McCalla's  he  faced  his 
boss  one  day  and  announced  that  he  was 
quitting.  The  boss  almost  fell  out  of  his 
chair. 

"What  for?" 

"I  want  to  be  an  actor,"  said  Billy. 

"Humph!"  snorted  the  man,  "Now  lis- 
ten, Lad — a  rolling  stone,  y'know,  gathers 
no  moss." 

Maybe  Billy  had  heard  his  snappy 
comeback  somewhere.  Anyway  he  said, 
"Sure,  and  who  wants  moss?"  He  applied 
to  a  professional  acting  company  named 
the  Ulster  Group  Theater,  took  an  exam 
and  got  a  job.  Five  dollars  a  week.  He 
stayed  there  three  years.  At  the  end  he 
was  making  $10. 

"I'll  bet  on  the  Irish" 

But  Billy  swallowed  his  pride  and  stuck 
it.  He's  never  been  sorry.  He  learned  the 
tricks  of  his  trade  with  the  Ulster  Group. 
Steve  Boyd  thinks  there  are  few  better 
places  to  learn  them.  He  has  great  respect 
for  America's  'Method'  actors  like  Brando 
and  Newman.  "But  when  it  comes  to 
tricks,  acting  or  any  other  kind,"  smiles 
Steve,  Til  bet  on  the  Irish!" 

He  learned  more  than  tricks,  of  course. 
Starting  on  the  ground  floor,  literally, 
sweeping  out  the  house,  Billy  shifted 
scenery,  hammered  sets,  stage  managed, 
worked  up  from  bits  to  character  parts  and 
then  leads.  Finally,  he  was  playing  eight 
shows  a  week,  forty-eight  weeks  a  year — 
Noel  Coward,  Bernard  Shaw,  Terence  Rat- 
tigan,  Sean  O'Casey,  J.  M.  Synge  and  all  the 
modern  playwrights.  By  the  time  he  was 
twenty,  Billy  Millar  figured  he  was  a  pro- 
fessional and  he  longed  for  the  Big 
League — London. 

Billy  got  there  first  in  1950  for  the  Fes- 
tival of  Britain.  The  Ulster  Group  sent 
over  three  plays  for  that,  and  Billy  got 
a  free  ride  as  an  understudy.  He  tried  to 
stick  around  when  the  party  was  over  to 
find  a  job.  All  he  got  was,  "What've  you 
done  in  England?"  Since  the  answer  was 
"Nothing,"  they  yawned,  "Come  back 
when  you  have." 

Instead,  Billy  went  back  to  Ireland, 
broke  and  in  the  doghouse.  The  Ulster 
Group  figured  he'd  deserted  them,  and  the 
head  director  kicked  him  out,  "To  teach 
you  a  lesson." 

"He  did,"  says  Steve  grimly.  "The  lesson 
was  that  if  you  want  to  get  anywhere 
you'd  better  not  depend  on  anyone  but 
yourself."  That  fall  he  borrowed  five 
pounds  (about  $15)  from  a  Belfast  pal  and 
boarded  a  boat  back  to  Liverpool,  lugging 
a  cheap  guitar  that  was  kicking  around 
the  house.  The  battered  box  occupies  a 
place  of  honor  by  Steve's  fireplace  today. 
In  London  it  practically  saved  his  life. 

He  got  there  after  hitching  the  long 
stretch  from  Liverpool.  But  he  didn't  know 
a  soul  and  his  stake  was  all  of  ten  shill- 
ings. He  found  a  job  at  Lyon's  Corner 
House,  a  chain  cafeteria  on  Piccadilly  Cir- 
cus, pouring  coffee  and  carting  out  dirty 
dishes  for  four  pounds  a  week,  and  a  room 
for  thirty  shillings.  The  job  was  okay,  al- 
though he  worked  twelve  hours  a  day,  but 
the  room  was  pretty  grim.  It  was  actually  a 
tiny  hall,  four  by  nine  feet,  "and  you  had 
to  edge  in  sidewise  or  you'd  step  right  into 
the  bed,"  recalls  Steve.  "There  wasn't  a 
window,  but  there  was  a  door  out  to  the 
garden.  The  other  roomers  had  to  go 
through  my  place  to  get  out."  That  was 
bearable  as  long  as  he  just  slept  there 
nights. 

But  after  he'd  saved  up  ten  pounds, 
Billy  quit  his  bus-boy  job  to  make  the 
agent's  rounds,  with  plenty  of  no  luck.  He 
was  about  broke  again  when  that  fog 
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Undernourished  anyway,  Billy  was  a 
set-up  for  pneumonia-flu.  He  was  desper- 
ately sick  for  a  whole  month.  In  the  midst 
of  this  his  landlady  demanded  her  rent 
and  when  he  couldn't  come  up  with  it, 
ordered  him  out.  Next  day  was  the  dead- 
line. 

"It's  funny  what  you  can  do,"  reflects 
Steve  Boyd,  "when  you  have  to."  What 
he  did  was  to  somehow  drag  himself  and 
his  guitar  down  to  Leicester  Square  that 
night.  In  front  of  the  Empire  Theater  long 
lines  of  ticket  buyers  queued  up.  Billy 
Millar  started  'busking.' 

Whanging  his  guitar,  he  croaked  out  the 
folk  songs  he  knew  from  childhood,  Star 
of  the  County  Down,  Just  a  Poor  Way- 
farin'  Stranger  and  such.  People  tossed 
him  pennies  and  sometimes  a  shilling. 
That  was  Stephen  Boyd's  first  London 
performance,  and  for  him  it  was  a  big 
success.  "Not  because  of  my  music,"  ad- 
mits Steve,  "but  because  I  looked  like  I'd 
drop  dead  if  they  didn't  tip  me.  I  prob- 
ably would  have,  too." 

But  a  nice  little  racket  like  'busking' 
was  not  overlooked  in  crowded  London. 
There  were  pro  'buskers;'  they  even  had 
a  union.  Pretty  soon  a  goon  squad  chased 
wobbly  Billy  Millar  off  the  Square.  By 
then  he  had  enough  for  his  first  meal  in  a 
week,  and  a  pound  to  stall  off  the  land- 
lady. He  bolted  the  meal — veal  schnitzel 
and  beer — bought  a  small  bottle  of  brandy 
and  a  packet  of  aspirin.  Back  in  his  room 
he  downed  those  and  crawled  in  between 
the  sheets.  Twenty  hours  later  he  woke 
up  in  a  sea  of  sweat.  But  he'd  had  that 
wonderful  dream.  He  felt  just  great. 

From  that  low  point  the  only  way  Billy 
could  go  was  up.  Not  very  far  up,  at  first. 
But  the  doorman's  job  he  snagged  next  at 
the  Odeon  Theatre,  with  its  gorgeous 
uniform,  triggered  the  break  he  was  hunt- 


ing. Billy  was  so  impressive  in  the  glit- 
tering rig  that,  when  they  staged  the 
British  Academy  Awards  at  the  Leicester 
Square  Cinema  across  the  way,  someone 
grabbed  him  to  usher  in  the  winners.  Billy 
took  stars  up  to  emcee  Michael  Redgrave, 
all  that  evening.  At  the  end  Redgrave,  a 
star  himself  in  London,  politely  inquired 
just  what  the  hell  Billy  was  doing  in  that 
field  marshal's  uniform  parking  cars  and 
opening  doors? 

"You're  an  actor,  aren't  you?" 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"I  can  tell,"  said  Mike,  "by  the  way  you 
handle  yourself.  Why  aren't  you  acting?" 
So  Billy  told  him  his  sad  story:  Nobody 
would  give  him  a  job.  After  a  chat,  Red- 
grave said  maybe  he  could  fix  that.  He 
gave  Billy  a  note  to  the  director  of  the 
Windsor  Repertory  Group,  and  Billy  took 
a  train  up  the  next  day.  Luckily,  they 
were  just  casting  a  play  and  needed  a  boy 
for — of  all  things — Little  Women.  He  hired 
Billy  for  the  part  of  Laurie,  and,  says 
Steve,  "Was  I  ever  lousy!"  But  they  kept 
him  on  and,  after  a  few  plays,  his  second 
good  luck  angel  zeroed  in. 

This  one  was  Derek  Marr,  a  London 
agent.  Before,  whenever  Billy  Millar  had 
busted  into  London  agents'  offices  they'd 
practically  called  the  bobbies  to  boot  him 
out.  Of  course,  Marr  hadn't  come  to  Wind- 
sor to  see  Billy.  He  had  a  client  who 
starred  in  the  show.  But,  like  a  lot  of  other 
people  since,  he  saw  something  in  the 
handsome  young  Ulsterman  that  Billy 
couldn't  see  in  himself.  The  day  Marr  took 
on  Billy  as  a  client  things  began  to  change. 
"In  fact,"  says  Steve,  "everything  good 
that  happened  to  me  up  to  Ben-Hur  I  owe 
to  him." 

Derek  switched  Billy's  name  to  Stephen 
Boyd,  for  one  thing.  He  lent  him  money 
to  operate.  He  took  him  to  West  End  tai- 


lors and  taught  him  how  to  dress,  tamed 
his  wild  Irish  mop  at  the  barber's.  He 
calmed  him  down,  took  his  dreamy  head 
out  of  the  clouds  and  planted  his  feet  on 
the  ground.  Best  of  all,  he  forced  out  Ste- 
phen Boyd's  thunderclap  personality.  "It 
was  the  turning  point  for  me,"  Steve  be- 
lieves. "Until  then  I  kept  myself  inside 
myself.  I  wouldn't  let  anything  out  to  hit 
people  with,  on  stage  or  off."  In  no  time 
he  was  hitting  them  hard. 

At  both  the  Guildford  Repertory  and 
Midland  Group  in  Coventry,  where  Marr 
steered  Steve,  he  played  leads  and  col- 
lected rave  notices.  When  he  came  back 
to  London  he  took  on  TV  and  soon  could 
pick  and  choose  his  scripts.  "So  I  picked 
and  I  chose,"  grins  Steve,  "and  I  starved." 
Not  like  he  had  that  time  before,  of 
course;  what  Steve  means  is  that  he  was 
stubborn  about  doing  the  right  ones,  and 
you  don't  get  rich  saying  "No."  "I  didn't 
care,"  he  says.  "I  developed  almost  a  reli- 
gious feeling  about  what  I  did.  I  guess 
you'd  have  called  me  a  long-haired  actor. 
Maybe  I  was.  But  it  was  the  happiest 
time  of  my  life."  And  in  the  end,  it  paid 
off. 

Steve  took  on  a  job  in  a  TV  play  called 
Barnett's  Folly,  which  no  other  London 
actor  would  touch  with  a  ten  foot  pole.  He 
played  an  idiotic  weakling.  Well,  it  just 
won  him  a  nomination  for  an  English  Em- 
my, and  a  contract  with  Sir  Alexander 
Korda  for  movies.  In  fact,  it  pointed  Ste- 
phen Boyd  toward  Hollywood,  although  he 
certainly  didn't  know  that  then. 

Because,  after  a  couple  of  break-in 
movies  for  Korda,  Steve  played  an  Irish 
spy  in  a  war  thriller,  The  Man  Who  Never 
Was.  and  that  put  him  up  for  a  British 
Oscar,  only  three  years  after  he'd  ushered 
other  winners  in  his  doorman's  rig.  Then 
Korda  died  and  Twentieth  Century-Fox 


JIM  ARIMESS  ESCAPES  FROM  ANZIO 


■  Long  before  a  young  giant  named  Jim  Arness  ever  dreamed  of  being  a 
hero  on  a  television  screen,  he  was  trying  to  find  himself  after  a  rugged 
stretch  as  a  member  of  the  Third  Infantry  Division — the  one  that  assaulted 
the  Anzio  beachhead.  He  was  wounded  in  that  assault  and  now  he  lay  in  an 
Army  hospital  in  North  Africa  and  did  a  great  deal  of  thinking.  He  wanted 
to  forget  all  the  terrors  he  had  known.  He  wanted  to  settle  down  somewhere 
to  a  nice,  pleasant  career  far  removed  from  violence. 

With  his  discharge,  he  returned  to  his  native  Minneapolis  planning  to  en- 
ter the  University  of  Minnesota.  He  had  no  definite  career  plans  as  yet — 
just  something  as  unlike  the  fires  and  horror  of  war  as  possible. 

Then  while  he  was  waiting  for  the  new  semester  to  begin,  he  happened  to 
get  a  job  at  a  local  radio  station.  WLOL.  He  liked  it  so  well  that  he  con- 
tinued, even  after  classes  at  the  University  had  started.  This  might  be  just 
the  career  for  him — no  bloodshed,  no  fire,  no  violence. 

It  was  a  small  station,  and  Jim  did  a  little  bit  of  everything.  He  did  the 
commercials,  read  spot  announcements,  was  disc  jockey,  weather  reporter 
and  all-around  handyman. 

But  on  his  first  day  as  a  full-fledged  newscaster,  the  fellows  at  WLOL  de- 
cided that  he  was  due  for  a  bit  of  hazing.  The  news  was  read  as  it  came  off 
the  teletype,  in  strips  many  feet  long.  On  this  occasion,  the  boys  set  fire  to 
the  other  end  of  it! 

"Here  I  was,"  Jim  recalls  ruefully,  "trying  to  make  good  on  my  first  big 
chance.  I  had  to  read  the  top  footage  of  the  teletype  in  an  authoritative, 
well-modulated  voice,  while  the  bottom  footage  was  roaring  up  in  flames! 
Anzio  was  never  like  this!" 


inherited  Steve's  contract.  But  it  took 
them  two  years  to  get  him  to  Hollywood. 

Most  of  "that  time,  Steve  Boyd  played 
loan  out  jobs  in  England  and  around  Eu- 
rope. And  in  that  time,  there  were  more 
changes  made.  With  a  decent  income,  he 
moved  into  a  Kensington  flat,  built  up  a 
smart  wardrobe,  even  bought  himself  a 
second-hand  Vauxhall  to  run  around  in. 
He  got  away  from  London  for  some  trips 
to  Italy  and  "the  South  of  France.  A  picture 
in  Paris  helped  his  education  along.  So 
did  women. 

He  made  a  picture  called  Seven  Thun- 
ders with  French  actress  Anna  Gaylor  and 
lightning  struck  them  both.  Anna,  -who 
still  acts  in  Paris,  is  in  Steve's  words, 
"beautiful,  fascinating  and  a  true  artist.'' 
The  liaison  lasted  for  18  months  and  Steve 
still  hasn't  forgotten  Anna.  In  fact,  he  still 
writes  her  now  and  then.  Like  all  romantic 
involvements  since,  it  ended  without  hard 
feelings.  "It  always  comes  to  the  point 
where  either  you  do  or  you  don't'  explains 
Steve  simply.  ''Anna  and  I  reached  that 
point  and  we  made  the  right  decision.  But 
she  was  very,  very  good  for  me." 

Steve  signed  for  The  Night  That  Heaven 
Fell  before  he'd  laid  eyes  on  Brigitte  Bar- 
dot.  When  he  did,  he  got  an  excellent 
view.  Roger  Vadim.  Bardot's  first  husband, 
took  Steve  to  Brigitte's  Paris  apartment  to 
meet  her.  She  met  them  wearing  only  a 
smile.  "I  know,"  announced  BB  in  her 
cutest  English,  "that  Fm  going  to  enjoy 
working  weeth  you  varee  mooch."  All 
Steve  could  stammer  was,  "My  name's 
Stephen  Boyd."'  But  Brigitte  was  right:  she 
thoroughly  enjoyed  working  with  Steve — 
and  it  was  very  much  vice  versa. 

Steve  and  Brigitte 

They  shot  most  of  the  film  in  Spain,  and 
Steve  says  frankly,  "She's  a  great  com- 
panion. Around  Brigitte  you  feel  more 
alive  than  you  normally  do.  She  has  the 
most  animal  in  her  of  any  woman  I've  ever 
known.  As  a  person,  I'm  still  a  fan.  She's 
a  remarkable  girl."  he  confesses. 

Brigitte  was  so  remarkable  that,  after 
five  months  as  her  leading  man,  Steve  had 
to  take  a  vacation  in  Wales  to  recuperate. 
He  was  finally  summoned  by  Fox  to 
Hollywood,  in  January,  '58. 

Once  he  started  making  movies.  Steve 
had  always  itched  to  come  to  America,  but 
the  closest  he'd  got  was  the  West  Indies 
with  Island  in  the  Sun.  "I  had  a  special 
reason,"  reveals  Steve,  "and  it  wasn't 
money.  I  thought  American  writers  turned 
out  the  kind  of  things  that  were  right  for 
me.  Americans  and  Irish  have  a  close  af- 
finity. They're  both  gutsy." 

If  Steve  longed  for  the  gutsy  bit  in 
Hollywood,  he  got  it,  pronto.  To  prepare 
him  for  that  western  badman  the  studio 
sent  Steve  out  to  Fat  Jones'  riding  stable. 

Steve's  rear  was  just  getting  used  to 
riding  Western  style  down  in  Mexico, 
when  Derek  Marr  cabled  him  about  Ben 
Hur.  He  barely  had  time  to  collect  his 
things  in  Hollywood  before  he  was  back 
in  Europe.  He  reported  to  Rome  in  April, 
1958.  this  time  to  learn  how  to  drive  horses 
instead  of  ride  them — four  big,  black  ones 
from  Yugoslavia.  Several  times  they  bolted 
away,  once  crashing  Steve  through  a  high 
fence.  That  was  just  a  sample  of  things  to 
come.  Making  Ben  Hur  was  "a  fabulous 
experience"  for  Steve  Boyd.  In  fact,  plenty 
of  times  he  felt  as  did  General  Lew  Wal- 
lace, who  wrote  the  epic,  "My  God.  did  I 
set  all  this  in  motion?" 

Each  morning  Steve  had  to  sweat  out 
having  his  dyed  hair  curled.  All  day  he 
had  to  bear  the  cutting  pain  of  contact 
lenses  to  tint  his  blue  eyes  brown.  He 
could  see  only  straight  ahead  through  a 
tiny  peephole,  so  he  was  always  bumping 
into  things  and  had  to  be  led  around  the 
huge  Cinecitta  studio  sets.  The  armor  he 
wore  was  heavy  steel.  Under  the  sizzling 


Italian  sun  it  got  so  hot  that  wardrobe 
boys  had  to  wear  gloves  to  remove  it,  so 
you  can  imagine  how  Steve  fried  under- 
neath. What  was  left  of  Steve's  skin  got 
peeled  when  they  plastered  him  with 
blood-and-muck  makeup  for  his  death 
scenes.  It  took  three  men  three  hours  each 
time  to  strip  off  the  rubber  adhesive  and 
red  goo.  Today  his  skin  still  bleeds  when- 
ever he  gets  run  down.  As  for  the  risky 
chariot  spills — Steve  figures  he's  alive  to- 
day only  because  Yakima  Canutt,  Holy- 
wood's  stunt  wizard,  taught  him  tricks  to 
stay  in  one  piece. 

But  while  Steve  Boyd  kept  his  life  those 
six  months  in  Italy,  he  lost  his  heart  al- 
most the  day  Ben  Hur  started.  Mariella 
di  Sarzana  was  Rome  representative  for 
MCA.  the  big  talent  agency.  MCA  handles 
Steve,  so  Mariella  had  instruction  from 
Hollvwood  to  "take  good  care  of  Stephen 
Boyd."  She  did. 

Steve  often  worked  from  six  o'clock  in 
the  morning  until  nine  at  night.  But  after- 
wards and  on  weekends  he  viewed  the 
beauty  and  grandeur  of  Rome  through  the 
eyes  of  romance.  Mariella.  in  Steve's 
words,  is  "a  beautiful,  sophisticated,  in- 
telligent woman.  She  speaks  eight  lan- 
guages, has  great  taste,  sense  of  values 
and  understanding  of  artists.  She's  full  of 
entertainment  and  charm."  He  concludes, 
"Ours  was  a  wonderful  courtship  of  two 
people  in  love." 

From  May  until  August  they  -visited  the 
Colosseum  in  the  moonlight,  prowled  the 
museums  and  ruins,  the  Vatican.  St.  John's 
Lateran  and  such.  On  weekends  they 
drove  in  Steve's  little  MG  down  to  Anzio 
and  Naples  or  up  to  Florence.  With  Ma- 
riella Steve  saw  sights  tourists  never  see 
because  Rome  was  her  home.  Special 
views  from  hilltops,  hidden  cafes,  quiet 
gardens  and  fountains  off  the  beaten  path. 
And  sometimes  just  quiet  dinners  alone 
together  at  Steve's  apartment  in  the  Ter- 
mecaracaldi  section  or  at  Mariella's  in  the 
Parioli.  One  blue  sky  day  in  Sperlonga.  a 
beautiful  seaside  village.  Steve  asked  Ma- 
riella to  marry  him  and  got  the  right  an- 
swer— or  so  they  both  deeply  believed 
then.  When  he  had  five  days  off,  they  flew 
to  London  and  were  married.  Steve's  Brit- 
ish citizenship  made  arrangements  faster 
there. 

Back  in  Rome,  Steve  and  Mariella  lived 
together  exactly  one  month  to  the  day. 
When  Ben  Hur  ended,  he  flew  off  to  Lon- 
don alone.  Every  night  for  two  weeks  they 
talked  long  distance  trying  to  find  out 
what  had  gone  wrong.  The}-  never  did. 
Then  Steve  flew  to  Hollywood  to  make 
Woman  Obsessed  with  Susan  Hayward. 
Last  February  Mariella  travelled  there, 
too — to  get  a  divorce. 

Stephen  Boyd  still  struggles  to  explain 
to  himself  what  happened.  "I  really  don't 
know  for  sure,"  he  admits.  "I  suppose  I 
wasn't  ready  for  marriage.  Maybe  I  was 
still  too  much  of  an  adolescent.  There  are 
so  manj'  things  to  think  about  before  you 
take  that  step  and  I  didn't  think  them 
through.  I  wish  to  hell  it  had  worked." 

Steve  Boyd  carries  no  torch.  But  after 
his  experience  he  thinks  another  marriage 
is  a  long  way  off  for  him,  even  though 
he'll  be  a  free  man  this  March.  "I'll  get 
married  again."  he  promises  himself.  "I 
think  I  need  marriage.  But  I've  got  to 
come  to  terms  with  myself  and  my  work 
first."  Meanwhile,  he's  playing  the  field,  if 
you  can  call  it  that. 

The  only  framed  photograph  Steve 
keeps  in  his  apartment  is  one  of  a  fas- 
cinating blonde  named  Valerie  Till.  Steve 
helped  her  father,  Antony,  come  over  from 
England  and  establish  himself  in  Holly- 
wood in  the  auto  business.  Recently,  Val- 
erie got  a  job  as  a  model.  She's  five  vears 
old. 

In  Hollywood,  Steve  Boyd  leads  the  life 
of  a  typical  bachelor,  but  not  a  typical 


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Woman  Nearly 
Itches  To  Death 

"I  nearly  itched  to  death  for  7%  years.  Then  I 
discovered  a  new  wonder-working  creme.  Now 
I'm  happy," writes  Mrs.  D.  Ward  of Los  Angeles 
Here's  blessed  relief  from  tortures  of  vaginal  itch, 
rectal  itch,  chafing,  rash  and  eczema  with^  a  new 
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inflamed  "skin  tissue.  Stops  scratching  and  so  speeds 
healing.  Don't  suffer!  Get  LANACANE  at  druggists! 


Hollywood  bachelor.  His  pad  is  a  comfort- 
able old,  pink-tinted  duplex  in  the  un- 
fashionable part  of  town.  Since  Ben-Hur 
a  secretary  comes  in  some  days  to  handle 
his  ballooning  fan  mail,  but  that's  about 
his  only  luxury.  The  small  Falcon  he  owns 
is  the  first  new  car  he's  driven  and  he 
still  wears  the  tailored  suits  he  bought  in 
London.  He  drinks  only  beer,  skips  parties 
and  night  clubs  and  squanders  $25  a  week 
that  his  business  manager  doles  out. 

Partly,  this  is  because  in  some  years,  87 
per  cent  of  Steve's  four-figure  paycheck 
vanishes  with  double  taxes — to  Britain  and 
Uncle  Sam,  too.  Partly,  it's  because  he 
likes  to  send  money  home.  Besides,  there's 
still  a  lot  of  Scot  in  Steve  Boyd  and  he 
can't  forget  his  poor  Belfast  beginnings. 
He  has  bought  his  mother  and  father  a 
house  in  Belfast. 

But  mainly,  the  reason  Steve  operates 


quietly  despite  the  furor  of  his  big  hit,  is 
that  that's  the  way  he  likes  it.  "I'm  often 
alone,"  he'll  confess,  "but  I'm  never 
lonely."  Steve  still  has  his  dream  to  keep 
him  company. 

Most  nights  Steve  Boyd  settles  down  to 
work  on  that  at  home.  He  shuts  off  the 
phone,  turns  on  the  hi-fi  for  background 
music,  gets  out  his  tape  recorder  and  stack 
of  scripts.  Any  part  will  do.  He's  still 
working  on  Messala,  for  instance,  although 
Ben-Hur  has  been  playing  for  months. 
For  that  matter,  he's  still  polishing  up  his 
drunk  in  The  Best  of  Everything,  the  spy 
in  The  Man  Who  Never  Was — and  back 
beyond. 

Sometimes  he  forgets  the  clock  and  it's 
daylight  before  the  well  runs  dry.  Then 
Steve  blanks  out  on  his  king-size  bed  and 
it  might  be  midnight  again  before  his 
belly  feels  like  an  empty  mail  sack  and 


"I'm  Like  13  and  It's  Like  Awful!" 


(Continued  from 


47) 


symphony  of  instruments — so  many  of 
them — surrounding  her. 

"Wowie — fifteen  violins,"  she  counted. 

And  golly,  what  an  afternoon  it  had 
been.  A  real  princess  from  Europe  who 
was  visiting  Hollywood  had  come  to  the 
studio  to  hear  Dodie  sing,  and  they'd  taken 
a  picture  of  the  two  girls  together. 

For  young  Dodie,  sometimes — like  now, 
it  was  all  just  too  much.  Her  new  20th 
Century-Fox  contract.  The  big  television 
shows.  Personal  appearances  like  in  Aus- 
tralia. And  now  this  album  for  Dot 
Records.  No  rock  'n'  roll  either.  Just 
beautiful  standards — all  love  songs — like 
this  one  she  was  doing  now. 

"Ready,  Dodie,  darlin'?"  Louis  Prima 
said. 

Her  voice,  a  lot  like  Judy  Garland's, 
flooded  the  big  room,  the  last  note  dying 
slowly  in  a  catchy  sob. 

"That's  it,  Dodie,  baby!"  Louis  said.  And 
she  could  tell  he  was  real  happy  with  the 
way  it  turned  out. 

She  stepped  out  of  the  sound-box,  a 
little  girl  in  red  plaid  cotton  capris  and  tan 
leather  moccasins,  lugging  an  enormous 
white  bag.  A  cute  young  colt  of  a  girl, 
all  legs  and  expressive  eyes  and  heavy 
shoulder-length  brown  hair. 

She  looked  at  the  clock,  and  Dodie's 
brown  eyes  clouded  and  the  happy  feeling 
died — just  as  always  when  a  session  ended. 
It  was  six  o'clock,  and  everybody  else  was 
so  happy  because  Dodie  had  done  such  a 
great  job  and  they'd  finished  on  time. 

But  six  o'clock  for  this  little  thirteen- 
year-old  Cinderella  meant  the  magic  was 
over,  and  she  would  be  taking  the  freeway 
back  to  Temple  City  .  .  .  and  homework. 
At  six,  Dodie  Stevens,  star,  turned  into 
Geri  Pasquale,  Temple  City  school  girl. 

Tomorrow,  another  record  session  in 
Hollywood!  Then  tomorrow  night,  back 
to  Temple  City — and  more  homework.  It 
was  so  discouraging  sometimes. 


dino  Freeway,  and  turn  into  the  driveway 
of  a  modest  stucco  home.  And  in  no 
time  Dodie  would  be  spending  the  rest 
of  Saturday  night  at  the  mahogany  dining 
table  doing  double  homework. 

"Golly,"  thought  Dodie,  "why  did  it  all 
have  to  finally  happen  now,  when  I'm 
like  thirteen?" 

"Thirteen  is  awful — it's  so  .  .  .  in-be- 
tween," Dodie  explains  when  you're  talk- 
ing a  few  days  later  in  her  Temple  City 
living  room. 

"I  wish  I  wouldn't  have  gotten  my  real 
break  now,"  she  goes  on.  "I  just  wish  I 
would  have  waited  until  I  was,  oh — like 
sixteen  or  seventeen.  It  would  have  been 
so  much  more  fun.  I'd  be  getting  out  of 
school  and  everything  would  be  so  much 
simpler  for  me,"  she  sighs. 

"There's  no  other  girl  in  the  business 
who's  just  thirteen,"  Dodie  goes  on  with 
a  grimace.  "Like  Annette  Funicello  is 
seventeen  and  Sandra  Dee  is  seventeen — 
and  I  mean  I  could  go  on  and  on.  You 
have  more  of  a  chance  then — because  you 
can  do  date  lay-outs,  see  .  .  .  and  every- 
thing. 

"I  was  supposed  to  have  two  date  lay- 
outs with  Fabian,"  Dodie  says  sadly.  "But 
I  couldn't  because  when  you're  like  thir- 
teen-and-sixteen,  well  they  just  didn't 
think  it  would  work  out  very  well,  you 
know.  If  I  could  be  sixteen  now,  see — it 
would  be  so  much  better." 

And  being  sixteen  would,  see,  solve  so 
many  problems  in  her  personal  life  too. 
"Mom  and  Dad  won't  let  me  date  until 
I'm  like  sixteen,"  Dodie  says.  "They  think 
when  you're  sixteen — that's  just  right.  They 
think  you  know  everything  then,  I  mean, 
well,  practically  everything.  But  three 
more  years  isn't  going  to  make  any  dif- 
ference. Because  I  think  a  lot  of  kids 
know  just  as  much  when  they're  thirteen 
as  they'll  know  when  they're  sixteen. 

"Practically  all  the  freshmen  at  Temple 


Dodie  at  home 

In  a  few  minutes  Dodie  Stevens  would 
leave  the  studio,  along  with  her  youthful 
parents,  her  Italian  father,  Cesare  Pas- 
quale, a  house  painter,  and  her  pretty 
dark-eyed  Yugoslavian  mother,  Mary  Pas- 
quale, housewife.  They'd  get  into  the 
family  Ford  and  turn  south  on  Sunset, 
away  from  the  bright  lights  and  the  mo- 
tion picture  and  television  studios.  Away 
from  the  fifteen  violins  and  the  visiting 
princesses.  Away  from — well — people  like 
Fabian  and  Frankie  Avalon. 

They'd  drive  across  Los  Angeles  and 
68  twenty  miles  further  on  the  San  Bernar- 


City  High  date — except  the  weird  ones," 
Dodie  goes  on.  "I'm  asked  a  lot,  and  at 
first  when  boys  asked  me  to  go  out  I  used 
to  make  an  excuse.  Like  I'd  say,  'I'm 
going  over  to  my  aunt's  or  something.  Then 
I  thought,  'Well  I  can't  always  be  going 
over  to  my  aunt's.'  So  now  I  just  tell  them, 
'My  parents  are  old-fashioned  and  they 
don't  think  I'm  old  enough  to  date.'  " 

And  what  do  the  boys  say  to  this? 

"They  say,  'But  that  isn't  fair.'  And  I 
say,  'I  know — but  what  are  you  going  to 
do  about  it?'  And  then  they  say,  'Oh  well, 
we'll  call  you  back  in  three  years.'  " 

That's  what  they're  going  to  do  about 
it.    Everybody.    Call  Dodie  back  in  like 


wakes  him  up.  He  goes  out,  wolfs  a  big 
steak  and  feels  fine.  If  some  people  think 
him  crazy,  that's  okay  with  Steve.  He 
thinks  they're  nuts  when  they  call  him 
"another  Gable". 

Because  Stephen  Boyd  knows,  only  too 
well,  that  he's  nobody  but  himself.  Yet 
sometimes  he's  not  sure  who  that  is,  ei- 
ther. "All  I'm  really  certain  about,"  he 
says,  somewhat  pensively,  "is  that  it's  get- 
ting to  be  a  very  complicated  world." 

That  it  is  for  Stephen  Boyd,  since  Be?i- 
Hur.  And  the  plot  seems  due  to  thicken, 
day  by  day.  But,  thick  or  thin,  five  will 
get  you  ten  that  Mrs.  Millar's  boy,  who 
still  believes  in  leprechauns,  keeps  the 
luck  of  the  Irish,  enough  of  their  tricks — 
and,  above  all,  his  right  to  dream.  end 

Stephen  is  currently  co-starring  in  Ben- 
Hur,  MGM. 


three  years.  But  there's  nothing  much 
that  you  can  do  about  life  when  you're 
thirteen.  You  can  just  do  homework  and 
dream  and  die  waiting — until  you're  like 
sixteen— when  you  can  do  all  the  really  im- 
portant things. 

Not  that  Dodie  isn't  thrilled  about  to- 
day's success  and  all.  And  though  she's 
just  thirteen  now,  "It  sure  took  a  long 
time,"  she  sighs. 

"Don't  call  me,  we'll  call  you" 

Show-business  may  think  of  Dodie 
Stevens  as  an  over-night  discovery,  but 
as  she  says,  "I  don't  remember  my  first 
audition.  Golly,  that  was  a  long  time  ago. 
I  just  remember  their  exact  words,  "Don't 
call  me — we'll  call  you.'  That's  all  I  re- 
member— it  was  coming  out  of  my  ears 
all  the  time." 

She  was  able  to  sing  just  about  as  soon 
as  she  could  talk,  as  the  neighbors  on 
the  other  side  of  the  thin  walls  of  the 
Pasquales'  two-room  apartment  in  Chicago, 
where  Geri  and  her  older  sister,  Elaine, 
were  born,  could  undoubtedly  affirm. 

Since  the  Pasquales  moved  to  Southern 
California  when  Dodie  was  two  years  old, 
she  considers  herself  "practically  a  native 
Californian." 

Her  father  worked  as  a  house  painter, 
but  he  started  giving  Geri  voice  lessons  at 
$5  a  lesson  when  she  was  five  years  old, 
so  happy  to  be  able  to  give  his  little  girl 
the  training  that,  for  all  his  own  love  for 
singing,  Cesare  Pasquale  could  never  af- 
ford back  in  Italy.  He  always  managed 
his  work  to  be  able  to  drive  her  to  her 
lessons,  or  get  her  to  an  audition  at  CBS 
or  NBC  or  wherever  they  were  holding 
them. 

When  she  was  six  years  old  Geri  was 
singing  7  Believe  on  USO  camp  shows. 
When  she  was  "just  turning  seven,"  she 
sang  on  Art  Linkletter's  Houseparty. 
"When  I  was  eight — no,  eight  and  a  half — 
I  was  one  of  the  kids  who  sang  Italian 
folk  songs  on  the  CBS-TV  spectacular,  A 
Bell  For  Adano." 

Ten-year-old  Geri  sang  Come  Back  To 
Sorrento  in  Italian,  like  she  was  born 
there.  She  memorized  Italian,  French  and 
Yiddish  and  she  projected  so  much  feeling 
into  the  words  her  father  says,  "When 
Geri  sang  the  songs  people  would  think 
she  knew  what  the  words  meant — but  be- 
lieve me,  she  didn't  know  a  thing  about 
them.  She  would  sing  for  a  dinner  for 
the  City  of  Hope  and  people  would 
walk  from  the  table  with  tears  in  their 
eyes."  Once  Eddie  Cantor  heard  a  tape 
of  Geri  singing  a  Yiddish  song  and  asked 
later,  "Did  you  say  your  name  is  Pas- 
quale?" 

The  pay-off  began  "about  two-and-a- 
half  years  ago  when  I  was  on  Larry 
Finley's  local  TV  show,"  Dodie  recalls. 
The  president  of  Crystalette  Records  saw 


the  show  and  was  very  impressed  with 
her.  "But  that  was  when  the  rage  was 
just  Elvis  and  all  the  boy-singers." 

"When  the  time  was  right  and  some 
good  material  came  along,  Mr.  Burns  said 
he'd  give  us  a  call.  So  when  Pink  Shoe- 
laces came  to  his  office,  he  called  us.  I 
didn't  like  it.  I  thought  it  was  a  silly 
song,"  she  says  frankly.  But  Geri  really 
performed  it,  and  she  became  Dodie  Stev- 
ens, recording  star,  almost  over-night.  "I 
didn't  like  the  name  they  gave  me  either. 
I  like  Geri  better,  and  I  used  to  go  by 
Geri  Pace,  which  means  'peace'  in  Italian 
—but  they  didn't  like  Geri  at  all.  They 
thought  Dodie  Stevens  would  catch  the 
attention  more,  you  know." 

Pink  Shoelaces  sold  over  a  million 
records,  and  it's  still  selling.  Now  under 
contract  to  Dot  Records,  she'd  recorded  her 
album  of  standards,  Dodie  Sings.  After 
her  first  movie,  Hound  Dog  Man.  20th-Fox 
signed  her  to  a  contract  for  two  pictures  or 
more  a  year,  at  up  to  SI 000  a  week. 

Fame  comes  to  Dodie 

It's  all  very  thrilling,  even  though  she 
feels  her  thirteen  years  do  handicap  her. 
When  Dodie  went  to  the  preview  of  her 
first  movie  '"when  they  came  on  with  '20th 
Century-Fox  Presents"  and  all  the  fan- 
fare, the  tears  started  rolling  down  my 
face.  And  when  they  started  reeling  off 
the  names  and  came  to  me — well,  I 
really  cried."  And  to  walk  down  the 
street  in  Melbourne.  Australia  and  find 
they  knew  her  way  over  there!  "When 
I'd  go  shopping  people  would  turn  and 
look  at  me  and  I'd  hear  them  say,  'There's 
Dodie  Stevens'— just  like  they  would  if 
Lana  Turner  walked  down  Hollywood 
Boulevard.  I  was  so  amazed. 

"But  it  sure  took  a  long  time."  Dodie 
repeats.  And  since  it  was  going  to  take 
like  eight  years,  why  couldn't  she  have 
hit  when  she  could  really  feel  part  of  this 
new  exciting  life,  when  she  could  be 
working  at  it  and  enjoying  it  full-time? 

"Like  when  Fabian  went  on  tour  for  the 
studio  for  ten  days  and  they  wanted  me 
to  go — I  would  have  enjoyed  that  trip. 
But  because  of  school  I  couldn't  go.  I 
mean  if  I'm  going  to  have  to  turn  down 
all  these  things.  .  .  ."  Dodie  says.  Then  if 
she  does  miss  any  school  at  all,  she  has 
to  do  double  homework  to  make  up  for  it. 

Today  at  thirteen  little  Dodie  feels  she's 
pretty  much  of  a  misfit  in  either  life,  the 
new  or  the  old.  She's  torn  between  two 
worlds  that  keep  overlapping.  "Some- 
times when  I'm  singing,  I'll  be  thinking 
about  a  math  exam,"  she  says.  ''And  when 
I'm  doing  my  homework  I'll  be  thinking  of 
the  lyrics  to  a  song." 

She  feels  a  little  like  a  stranger  in  her 
own  hometown  now.  She  can't  seem  to 
belong  to  the  gang  any  more,  and  her 
schoolmates  don't  accept  Dodie  as  they 
did  Geraldine  Pasquale.  Between  them 
is  envy  and  jealousy  and  a  world  they 
don't  know  and  can't  share  with  her. 

"I  don't  have  any  best  friends  any 
more,"  Dodie  says  sadly.  "There's  one 
girl  I  used  to  be  real  good  friends  with, 
but  after  I  got  back  from  the  Australian 
tour  with  Jimmie  Rodgers,  she  just 
changed  completely.  I  mean  she  really 
ignored  me.  At  school  we  used  to  always 
lunch  together,  and  we'd  make  a  point  to 
meet  before  and  after  school,  just  to  be 
together,  you  know.  But  after  this  she 
wouldn't  lunch  with  me,  she  wouldn't 
talk  to  me  or  say  'Hi'  when  I'd  walk 
down  the  halls,  and  she  started  saying 
things  to  the  other  kids  about  me. 

"It  hurt  at  first,"  adds  Dodie,  "It  hurt 
a  lot.  As  it  might  hurt  any  sensitive  warm- 
hearted thirteen-year- old  who  wants  to 
be  liked  by  the  crowd. 

"The  boys  treat  me  pretty  good,"  Dodie 
goes  on.  "Of  course  there's  always  a 
few  who   make  wisecracks   and  every- 


thing. Like  sometimes  when  I'm  walking 
down  the  hall  to  class  one  of  the  seniors 
will  say,  'Oh  there  she  goes,'  or  some- 
thing, but  I  just  smile,  you  know,  and 
walk  on." 

Dodie  can't  really  participate  in  school 
activities  because  of  her  part-time  career. 
"I  can't  run  for  office  in  the  Student 
Cabinet  or  anything,"  she  says,  "because 
I  would  have  a  big  responsibility  and  I 
wouldn't  always  be  able  to  be  there  at 
meetings.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  the  kids 
or  to  those  running  against  me  who  could 
be  there,  you  know. 

"I  can't  try  out  for  Junior  Varsity,  be- 
cause they're  the  cheer-leaders  and  I  can 
just  hear  me  screaming  at  a  football  game 
and  then — no  voice.  Of  course  I  couldn't 
anyway,  and  I  couldn't  be  a  Song  Girl  and 
help  lead  the  singing  either,  because  I 
wouldn't  be  able  to  be  at  practically  any 
of  the  games.  I  love  football,  but  the  games 
are  always  on  Friday  and  I'm  usually 
working  on  weekends." 

And  if  she  makes  a  personal  appearance 
or  jets  to  New  York  for  a  fast  television 
show  it's  doubly  hard,  because  the  teachers 
really  descend  with  the  homework. 

"It's  so  rough  because  some  of  the 
teachers  don't  really  understand  what's 
happening  to  me,  you  know,"  she  says. 
"They  give  you  a  deadline  and  that's  it. 
Like  one  of  my  teachers  just  gave  me  a 
week  to  do  two  weeks  and  four  days  of 
work — and  it  was  in  history  too. 

"History's  my  hardest  subject,"  Dodie 
goes  on.  "I  can't  remember  things — and 
it's  terrible.  Like  if  I  read  a  paragraph 
in  a  history  book  about  the  boundaries 
of  Switzerland  and  the  natural  resources 
there,  well  I  read  it  and  it's  gone.  Be- 
cause I  don't  think  I'll  ever  be  able  to 
use  it  when  I  get  older,  you  know.  I  mean, 
what  am  I  going  to  do?  Give  a  speech 
about  Switzerland?" 

To  Dodie  it  just  seems  teachers  don't 
communicate  with  her  on  the  importance 
of  music — or  realize  how  much  her  music 
means  to  her. 

The  shock  of  death 

The  one  person  who  could  have  helped 
so  much  to  synchronize  the  confusing 
worlds  of  young  Dodie  Stevens  now,  died 
a  few  months  ago.  Mrs.  Helen  Bishop. 
Dodie's  singing  teacher  since  she  was 
seven,  whose  training  and  whose  faith  in 
her  were  so  important  to  her  success,  died 
suddenly  of  a  heart  attack  at  the  age  of 
fortyr -seven. 

"She  had  just  become  legally  my  per- 
sonal manager,"  Dodie  says  slowly.  "We'd 
just  gotten  back  from  a  world  disc  jockey 
convention  in  Miami,  Florida.  All  the  big 
stars  were  there,  and  we'd  had  a  grand 
time."  Her  teacher  had  been  proud  of 
the  way  Dodie  performed  among  the  many 
pros,  and  Dodie  had  been  so  happy. 

"Then  just  two  days  after  we  got  home 
...  all  of  a  sudden — she — "  Dodie  breaks 
off,  her  voice  almost  a  whisper.  On  the 
plane  back  from  Miami  her  teacher  had 
mentioned  having  a  pain  in  her  chest  for 
the  past  two  weeks.  "She  said  she  was 
going  to  go  to  the  doctor  when  we  got 
back,  but  she  said  it  wasn't  anything  seri- 
ous, you  know." 

Two  days  later  while  Dodie's  mom  and 
dad  and  their  lawyer  and  Mrs.  Bishop 
were  all  in  conference  in  her  agents'  office, 
the  pain  became  suddenly  acute — and  in  a 
matter  of  minutes  she  was  gone.  All  the 
way  back  to  Temple  City,  her  parents  kept 
worrying  how  to  break  the  news  to  Dodie. 
She  and  her  sister,  Elaine,  had  gone  over 
to  a  friend's  house  after  school  and  were 
staying  there  until  their  father  came  for 
them. 

"Dad  came  to  pick  us  up,  you  know — 
after — and  we  got  in  the  car,"  Dodie  says 
softly.  "He  said,  T  have  something  to 
tell   you.     It's   something   that  happens. 


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you  know,  and  we  don't  know  when  it's 
going  to  happen.'  He  talked  just  as  if 
something  had  died." 

Dodie  thought  of  her  toy  German  Shep- 
herd dog.  "All  I  could  think  of  was  that 
something  had  happened  to  Frisky.  I  knew 
it  wasn't  Mom,  because  Dad  wouldn't 
have  been  taking  it  that  easy.  And  my 
sister  was  with  me. 

"Frisky's  dead!"  she  cried. 

"No,  Geri,"  her  father  said  sadly. 

"Well,  I  know  it  isn't  Mom,"  Dodie  went 
on — wide-eyed — waiting — fearing — 

"It's  Mrs.  Bishop." 

Dodie  sat  there  in  the  car  in  a  state  of 
shock.  Disbelieving.  "But  I  just  talked 
to  her  on  the  phone  today,"  she  said.  "I 
just  talked  to  her."  How  could  Mrs. 
Bishop  be  dead  .  .  .  when  she'd  just  talked 
to  her  ...  ? 

Then  within  a  matter  of  hours,  for  young 
Dodie  the  sad  experience  of  learning  the 
show  must  go  on — some  way — 

"Mrs.  Bishop  has  always  said  that  some 
day  she  wanted  to  go  to  New  York  before 
she  died.  She'd  never  been  there.  And 
then  the  next  day  after —  I  got  a  call  say- 
ing I  was  supposed  to  go  to  New  York  for 
a  TV  show."  Dodie  did  that  one  in  a 
dream. 

For  Dodie,  first  shock,  then  tears — then 
the  terrible  feeling  of  loss.  The  wonder 
what  to  do.  Where  to  turn.  "I  didn't  know 
what  to  do,  because  I  used  to  go  to  her 


house  for  a  lesson  .  .  .  and  she  wasn't 
there  any  more.  I  didn't  want  to  go  any- 
where. I  wasn't  practicing  or  anything, 
and  my  voice  got-  in  pretty  bad  shape  for 
a  while.  I'd  try  to  forget  about — about  .  .  . 
but  I'd  keep  thinking,  'What  am  I  going 
to  do?' " 

But  finally  the  music  goes  on  too,  as 
young  Dodie  discovered.  Her  voice  coach 
now  is  Jerry  Dolan,  her  arranger,  who 
also  conducts  the  orchestra  for  her  record 
sessions.  Dodie  takes  lessons  from  him 
remote  .  .  .  via  a  tape  recorder.  "Jerry 
tapes  the  vocal  exercises  and  instructions 
and  everything,  and  when  I  come  home 
from  school  I  play  the  tapes  on  my  re- 
corder and  practice  here." 

The  house  she  lives  in 

Hers  is  a  normal  warm  family  home  life 
in  suburban  Temple  City,  far  removed 
from  any  celebrity-atmosphere.  The 
modest  stucco  home  has  traditional  fur- 
nishings. The  dining  room  also  serves  as 
Dodie's  trophy  room  with  a  few  gold 
cups  and  plaques  on  the  shelves  for  a 
starter.  There's  a  big  shady  backyard 
with  fruit  trees  and  a  barbecue  table  and 
benches.  And  there's  a  patch  of  lawn 
where  Dodie,  who  must  have  a  tan,  takes 
sun  baths  "when  I  can't  go  to  the  beach." 

Dodie's  own  immediate  world  is  the 
pink-and-white  bedroom  she  shares  with 
her  sister,  Elaine.    She's  proud  of  their 


new  pale  grey  bedroom  suite  and  the 
bed  with  the  ruffled  white  organdy  canopy 
and  the  white  organdy  bedspread  over 
pink.  "But  Elaine  doesn't  sleep  here 
with  me,"  Dodie  volunteers.  "She  sleeps 
in  the  living  room  because  she  says  I 
snore." 

Theirs  is  a  normal  sisterly  relationship 
too,  undiluted  by  Dodie's  fame.  "'Elaine's 
thirteen  months  and  five  days  older  than 
I  am,"  Dodie  informs.  Being  even  that  near 
the  same  age  might  be  all  right — well  in 
a  way,  she  agrees  doubtfully.  "But  I  just 
wish  we  were  almost  the  same  size,"  Dodie 
says.  "Elaine  wears  my  socks  and  she 
takes  an  eight-and-a-half  and  I  take  a  size 
five.  They're  angora— and  she  really 
stretches  them  out.  It  isn't  as  bad  if  I  wear 
hers  because  I  don't  stretch  them." 

Elaine,  on  the  other  hand,  has  a  fairly 
steady  and  legitimate  complaint  about  the 
state  of  the  one  closet  they  share.  "I  guess 
Elaine's  more  neat  and  all,"  admits  Dodie. 
"I'm  neat  and  everything,  but  maybe  I'll 
hang  one  of  my  blouses  on  the  rack  with 
hers  and  she  really  gets  mad.  She  keeps 
the  closet,  I  keep  the  dresser  and  the  bed." 

"Who  keeps  the  dresser?"  Elaine  says, 
entering  then. 

"Well —  I  keep  the  bed — "  Dodie  amends. 

"So  what  is  that  to  keep  clean?" 

Dodie's  hobby  is  collecting  shoes  and 
she  has  "eleven  pairs  of  heels  and  seven 
pairs  of  flats.  Whenever  I  go  traveling  I 
get  different  shoes,  like  those  red  ones  I 
brought  from  Australia.  I  like  high  heels 
mostly,  and  I  like  the  New  York  shoes. 
They're  different  from  California  shoes — 
they're  a  little  pointier  and  the  very 
latest,  you  know." 

Dodie's  mad  for  the  color  pink  and  for 
talking  on  the  telephone,  and  she  and 
Elaine  have  their  own  prized  pink  phone 
in  their  bedroom  with  their  own  private 
number,  which  was  the  only  way  their 
father  could  get  any  business  calls 
through.  "Our  phone  bill  was  like  $62  the 
first  month  for  the  two  phones,"  Dodie 
tells  you.  "Like  I'd  call  Mrs.  Bishops 
daughters  in  Hollywood  and  I'd  talk  for 
an  hour  and  that's  a  toll  call,  but  it 
doesn't  seem  like  it  though." 

She  sets  her  own  hair,  a  little  to  her 
despair  now.  "I  used  to  have  a  certain 
way  to  set  my  hair  and  it  would  go  into  a 
perfect  page-boy.  I  set  it  exactly  the  same 
way  now — and  it  doesn't  come  out  like 
that,  and  I  just  don't  know  why." 

Make-up  for  a  13-year-old 

On  the  other  hand,  Dodie  is  compara- 
tively indifferent  about  make-up.  "Ex- 
cept I  line  my  eyes  and  my  eye-brows, 
but  sometimes  I  don't  even  wear  lipstick. 
Mom  sort  of  gets  on  me  for  that,  because 
she  says  I  look  too  pale  without  it.  But  ifs 
such  an  effort  to  put  lipstick  on,  and  I 
like  light  oranges  and  pinks  and  toward  the 
end  of  the  day  they  change  to  a  real  dark 
pink  or  red.  Then  I  have  to  wash  it  off 
and  rub  real  hard — and  put  it  on  again, 
and  well — it's  all  such  a  mess." 

She's  living  for  the  day  "when  I  can 
have  my  own  car — when  I'm  fifteen-and- 
a-half.  I  want  a  pink  or  gold  1957  T-bird 
—I  love  those  little  darlings  and  I  can't 
wait  until  I  get  mine!  I  don't  like  the 
new  ones.  I  like  the  '57's  because  they're 
so  tiny  and  sort  of  long  and  they  have  such 
a  good  body  to  them,  you  know." 

And  she  just  loves  records,  naturally. 
"I  love  all  the  records  today,  but  I  don't 
like  to  sing  them,"  she  says.  "I  just  like 
to  sing  the  standards,  and  if  they  want 
to  put  a  triple-beat  to  them  I  wouldn't 
mind  singing  that."  But  when  it  comes  to 
buying  records,  Dodie  buys  "the  ones 
that  when  I  hear  them  on  the  radio  I  have 
to  turn  them  up  real  loud  and  dance 
to  them.  I  love  to  dance,"  she  says. 

Dancing,  of  course,  like  just  about  any 
interesting  social  activity,  is  sort  of  con- 


Behind  the  scenes  at  TEEN  TOWN 

"It  all  started  this  way,"  says  George  Christy,  the  mayor  of  ABC 
radio  network's  Teen  Town  program.  "One  day  when  I  was  talking  with 
Connie  Francis  she  mentioned  that  she  was  dying  to  hear  about  Edd 
"Kookie"  Byrnes.  I  had  interviewed  him  for  a  story  in  MODERN 
SCREEN,  and  I  had  gotten  to  know  Edd  pretty  well.  So  I  told  Connie  all 
about  Edd,  what  a  great  guy  he  was  and  how  easy  he  was  to  get  along 
with.  And  when  I  told  her  he  had  given  me  a  preview  of  some  of  the  brand 
new  "Kookie"  words  he  was  planning  to  use  this  season.  Connie  just 
flipped.  I  promised  her  the  next  time  he  came  to  town  I'd  introduce  her  to 
Edd. 

"Then  a  couple  of  weeks  later  Fabian  asked  me  about  Annette  (this 
was  before  Fabe  met  her  in  Hollywood),  and  I  told  him  what  a  doll  she 
was.  Again  I  said,  'Gee,  I  wish  you  could  meet  her  .  .  .!' 

"All  of  this  sparked  off  my  thinking,  and  I  wondered  if  it  wouldn't  be 
a  great  idea  for  all  the  teens  to  meet  their  idols,  to  hear  them  talk  about 
their  lives  personally:  the  things  they  do,  what  they  believe  in.  dating 
problems  they've  ironed  out." 

George  brought  his  idea  to  Glenn  Mann  who  produced  The  Frankie 
Avalon  Show,  and  the  two  of  them  got  to  work  and  set  up  a  stake  at  the 
ABC  radio  network. 

Every  night,  Monday  through  Friday,  George  interviews  a  teen  favorite 
("already  he's  interviewed  Fabe  on  how  to  be  popular,  Carol  Lynley  on  her 
beauty  secrets,  Annette  on  how  she  buys  a  dress.  Bobby  Darin  on  how  to 
get  out  of  the  boredom  ruts,  plus  dozens  of  other  stars).  Besides  the 
interviews,  George  gives  tips  on  dating,  careers,  appearance,  fads.  It's  a 
fun  show,  and,  of  course,  there's  music — hits,  as  well  as  the  new  records 
Mayor  George  is  stamping  with  Teen  Town's  We-Dig-This  seal  of  ap- 
proval. 

Recently,  the  editor  of  MODERN  SCREEN,  David  Myers,  was  inter- 
viewed by  George  on  the  pros  and  cons  of  a  Hollywood  career  for  the 
teens.  David's  verdict:  Go  to  it — but  don't  be  a  phony. 

George  has  asked  David  to  return  to  the  show  for  another  talk  about 
Hollywood.  Meanwhile'  George  is  asking  for  suggestions  and  comments 
from  all  the  citizens,  his  Teen  Town  listeners,  on  what  they  want  their 
favorite  stars  to  talk  about. 


fined  for  a  13-year-old  who  isn't  allowed 
to  date.  "There's  nothing  much  to  do  in 
Temple  City  anyway,"  she  says.  "  There's 
a  miniature  golf  course  but  it's  nothing, 
because  none  of  the  kids  hang  around 
there." 

There  is,  however,  a  pretty  keen  school 
hang-out  in  nearby  San  Gabriel,  but 
Dodie's  limited  there  too.  "It's  called  'The 
Yankee  Doodle'  and  I  like  it  but,  well — 
you  have  to  go  there  with  a  guy  who  has 
a  car." 

Any  romancing  Dodie  does  now  has  to 
be  generally  confined  to  operating  by  re- 
mote— via  the  pink  telephone.  But  she 
has  her  views  on  the  matter,  subject  to 
change. 

Like  making  out — 

"I  think  to  make  out  is  a  real  mess," 
Dodie  says  with  a  grimace.  "The  other 
kids  think  I'm  gone,  you  know,  just 
real  gone  to  feel  this  way.  But  I  think  it's 
just  awfully  stupid  really,  because  like 
if  you're  thirteen  or  fourteen  and  you're 
makin'  out,  well  it's  like  you're  really  put- 
ting on  an  act — like  something  you  saw 
in  the  movies  or  something. 

"Everybody  says.  "But  Geri.  you  don't 
know  what  you've  missed  until  you've 
made  out."  But  I  just  don't  think  that's 
any  fun.  I'd  rather  go  to  a  drive-in  and 
see  a  movie  and  then  go  have  a  Coke  and 
hamburger,  you  know,  and  just  goof  oft 
and  talk." 

And  Dodie  isn't — well — entirely  inexpe- 
rienced— 

Dodie's  sort-of  boyfriend 

"Mike  kissed  me  good  night  once — and  he 
knows  how  I  feel,"  she  says,  dropping  a 
name  that  she  can  expand  on  for  any 
given  length  of  time. 

Who's  Mike?    Some  platonic  boy  friend? 

"That's  right."  Dodie  agrees.  Then 
thoughtfully.  "What's  platonic  mean?"  And 
when  told.  "Well — "  she  hesitates. 

"Mike's  my  boyfriend — in  a  way.  He's 
a  real  good  friend  of  Mrs.  Bishop's  daugh- 
ters. Adria.  who's  sixteen,  and  Jane,  who's 
thirteen.  I  met  him  at  their  home  in  Holly- 
wood. He  used  to  work  at  a  gas  station, 
but  he  quit.  He  goes  to  St.  John's,  he's 
sixteen,  and  he's  sort  of  moody,  you  know, 
like  me. 

"He  has  blue  eyes  and  he  has  short  hair 
— a  flat-top — and  he  has  a  real  good 
physique."  Dodie  goes  on.  "He  calls  me 
about  every  night,  and  whenever  I  go 
over  to  the  Bishops'  Mike  comes  over  there, 
because  that's  the  only  time  we  can  see 
each  other.  But  we  just  talk.  Mike  knows 
how  I  feel  about — well — you  know." 

He  did  kiss  Dodie  goodnight  once,  when 
her  sister.  Elaine,  egged  him  into  doing 
it.  "We  have  a  sliding  joke  that  all  the 
time  we're  saying  good  night  to  each 
other,  we  shake  hands  like  everybody  else 
would  kiss." 

"Don't  shake  her  hand,  go  on  and  kiss 
her.  Mike,"  Elaine  urged. 

"I  don't  want  my  face  slapped."  he  said. 

"So  Mike  looked  at  me  and  I  looked 
at  him  and  we  both  smiled — and  he  kissed 
me,"  says  Dodie.  "And  then  I  said,  1 
fooled  you.  didn't  I?' " 

Even  at  thirteen  that's  a  woman's  pre- 
rogative. 

"I  like  him  a  lot — but  I  just  don't  like 
that  .  .  .  you  know."  Dodie  goes  on.  "When 
I  was  seven  or  eight  a  little  boy  kissed  me 
at  a  party  and  wowee — I  thought  it  was 
great.  Golly,  it  should  be  just  the  opposite, 
that  I  should  like  it  now.  I'm  a  weird  one. 
I  guess." 

And  like  why  is  Dodie  so  moody  about 
men? 

"When  I'm  around  boys  Fm  terrible," 
she  says.  "Especially  when  I'm  around 
Mike.  I  don't  know  why,  but  just  because 
I  like  him  I  guess,  Til  go  in  another  room 
and  Til  ignore  him — like  I  can't  stand  rrm. 
But  I'm  not  that  way  around  anybody 


else."  Why  does  she  act  like  she  doesn't 
like  Mike  when  Mike's  the  only  one  she 
does  like? 

"Maybe  I'll  be  more  sensible  when  I'm 
like  sixteen."  Dodie  sighs.  Maybe  she'll 
have  more  answers  then.  "Or  maybe 
when  I'm  fifteen,"  Dodie  says,  hopefully 
trying  to  advance  the  magic  hour.  "I  think 
Mom  and  Dad  might  let  me  ride  home 
in  a  car  with  a  boy  then,  just  as  long  as 
it  isn't  a  date,"  she  says,  watching  her 
dad  out  of  the  corner  of  one  eye. 

"If  Mike  came  over  here — he  was  going 
to  come  to  a  ball  game  once — I  don't  think 
Dad  would  have  minded  that."  Dodie  goes 
on  hopefully.  "He  would  have  just  picked 
me  up,  we  would  have  gone  to  the  game, 
then  gone  to  the  dance  afterward  .  .  .  and 
then  he  would  have  brought  me  home." 

"I  call  that  a  date,  Geri,"  her  father 
observes. 

"But  it  isn't,  Daddy,  because  it  wasn't 
just  going  to  be  me  going."  Dodie  goes  on 
carefully,  losing  ground  but  still  trying. 
"Mike  was  going  to  bring  two  other  guys, 
one  for  my  sister  and  one  for  another  girl. 
We  were  just  going  and  coming  home,  you 
know.  There  wasn't  going  to  be  anything 
wrong  with  that — " 

"Oh  ...  a  group  thing?"  her  dad  says — 
doubtfully. 

Between  two  worlds 

During  these  in-between  years  when 
she's  torn  between  two  worlds  and  two 
lives  and  her  own  hopes  and  fears,  little 
Dodie  is  feeling  more  and  more  at  home 
on  the  Hollywood  end  of  the  freeways. 

She  spends  as  much  time  as  she  can  in 
the  home  of  her  late  teacher,  who  was  such 
an  important  part  of  this  new  exciting 
life.  She's  more  comfortable  around  Helen 
Bishop's  teenage  daughters,  who  five  in 
the  family  home  with  their  father,  than 
she  is  with  the  kids  at  Temple  City  High. 

"They  know  a  lot  of  kids  and  they're  all 
so  friendly.  They  go  to  Fairfax  High, 
you  know,  and  they're  the  sweetest 
"bunch  of  kids.  They  wouldn't  do  anything 
to  hurt  you."  Dodie  says  earnestly.  They're 
closer  to  Dodie's  life  today  too — to  motion 
pictures  and  records  and  TV.  They  don't  I 
make  her  feel  apart  from  them. 

With  her  new  20th-Fox  contract,  Dodie's 
really  pulling  for  the  Pasquales  to  move 
over  on  the  Hollywood  side,  and  they're 
considering  moving  to  the  San  Fernando 
Valley,  which  would  be  so  much  closer  to  | 
her  work. 

"And  see — if  we  moved  to  the  valleyr 
then  I'd  be  able  to  go  to  school  on  the 
studio  lot!"  Dodie  says,  her  eyes  lighting 
up.  "Wouldn't  that  be  wonderful!"  Say — 
just  Dodie  and  Fabian,  when  he  was  in 
town,  going  to  the  studio  school. 

And  what  about  Tuesday  Weld? 

"Yeah."  Dodie  says,  her  face  falling  to 
her  shoes.  She'd  forgotten  Tuesday.  What 
chance  could  you  have  when  you  were 
thirteen? 

Any  day  now  Dodie  Stevens  will  be 
fourteen — which,  when  yrou  come  right 
down  to  it.  isn't  much  better. 

"Oh  fouiteen's  ivorse — golly,  fourteen's 
awful."  she  says. 

And  so  for  Dodie  at  thirteen  the  future 
means — like  sixteen.  Like  eternity.       END  j 

Dodie  can  be  seen  in  Hottxd-Dog  Man, 
for  20th-Fox. 


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Peace  Comes  at  Last  to  a  Tortured  Soul 


(Continued  from  page  40) 

with  her  stage  manager  who  asked  her, 
"Maggie,  did  you  ever  put  any  money 
aside?"  She  said,  "Oh  yes,  but  it's  not 
from  show  business.  I  put  some  money 
in  I.B.M.  eighteen  years  ago  and  it's 
four  million  now." 

Certainly  her  problem  wasn't  talent. 
She  had  been  a  star,  a  real  star  for  over 
thirty  years. 

And  we  know  that  she  was  loved  by 
her  husband  and  her  three  children. 

Still  and  all,  we  know  that  the  problem 
that  was  on  her  mind  the  week  before  she 
died  was  love.  She  was  heard  to  say  time 
after  time,  "I  cannot  make  them  like 
me  .  .  .  I've  never  been  able  to  make  them 
like  me." 

To  understand  that,  we  should  start  at 
the  beginning: 

Margaret  Garland  Sullavan  was  born  on 
May  16th,  1909,  in  Norfolk,  Virginia,  into 
a  family  which  boasted  Revolutionary  War 
heroes  as  ancestors.  But  American  aris- 
tocracy didn't  impress  little  Margaret.  She 
set  her  sights  higher.  "I  was  secretly  con- 
vinced I  was  of  royal  blood.  I  kept  a 
suitcase  packed,  so  I'd  be  ready  when  my 
real  people  came  for  me." 

Money  couldn't  buy  it 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cornelius  Sullavan  adored 
their  child,  and  they  had  the  money— he 
was  a  stock  broker — to  indulge  her  whims. 
But  what  Margaret  wanted,  money  couldn't 
buy,  and  what  Margaret  needed,  only  a 
psychiatrist  might  have  figured  out.  When 
she  was  older,  she  recalled  that  she  had 
"suffered  from  malnutrition."  The  state- 
ment was  true,  yet  the  fault  was  Mar- 
garet's own.  She  asserted  herself  against 
her  parents  by  refusing  to  eat. 

And  by  running  away. 

In  her  teens,  she  ran  away  seven  times 
in  three  years.  The  last  trip,  she  got  all 
the  way  to  New  York,  and  her  father,  worn 
out  with  fetching  her  home,  settled  down 
to  have  a  talk  with  her.  "Peggy,  what's 
the  matter  with  you?" 

"I  want  to  go  on  the  stage,"  Peggy  said 
defiantly. 

The  good  man  offered  a  compromise. 
"When  you're  twenty-one,  you  can  do  as 
you  please." 

His  daughter's  blue  eyes  glinted.  She 
could  wait. 

Eventually,  she  got  her  way.  She  studied 
acting  in  Boston,  she  played  in  stock  shows 
on  Cape  Cod — and  she  met  Henry  Fonda, 
whom  she  married.  The  year  was  1930, 
and  the  marriage  was  over  before  1933, 
by  which  time,  according  to  one  reporter, 
Fonda  "had  evidently  suffered  enough 
from  the  Sullavan  temperament." 

The  likelihood  is  that  work,  not  tempera- 
ment, destroyed  the  lovers.  Margaret,  set 
upon  her  goal  of  stardom  ("I'm  not  going 
to  be  an  off-stage  voice  the  rest  of  my 
life")  couldn't  have  had  much  instinct  for 
wifehood. 

In  New  York,  she  made  the  usual  dreary 
actors'  rounds,  then  got  a  road  show  of 
Strictly  Dishonorable,  and  soon,  a  Broad- 
way lead.  It  was  in  a  play  called  A  Modern 
Virgin,  and  Lee  Shubert  hired  her  because 
he  liked  her  voice.  "You  sound  like  Ethel 
Barrymore,"  he  said. 

"He  didn't  know,"  said  Margaret  Sulla- 
van later,  "that  my  huskiness  was  due  to 
a  bad  case  of  laryngitis  which  I  subse- 
quently took  great  pains  to  prolong.  After 
several  months  of  mistreating  my  vocal 
cords,  it  stuck.  My  voice  is  now  perma- 
nently ruined." 

In  after  years,  Margaret  Sullavan  was 
to  insist,  "I'm  no  pillar  of  the  theater.  If 


I  didn't  need  the  money,  I  wouldn't  be 
working."  But  people,  remembering  the 
fanatic  determination  of  the  Sullavan  be- 
ginnings, found  this  hard  to  believe. 

Not  that  she  didn't  always  mean  what  she 
said  at  the  moment  she  said  it,  just  that  she 
often  changed  her  mind. 

A  Modern  Virgin  was  a  flop,  and  four 
more  New  York  flops  followed,  but  a 
movie  director,  John  Stahl,  brought  her 
to  Hollywood,  where  she  amazed  people 
who  thought  they'd  seen  everything.  She 
wore  slacks,  and  sneakers.  She  went  to 
a  showing  of  her  first  movie,  Only  Yester- 
day, and  was  so  horrified,  she  tried  to 
buy  up  her  contract.  She  refused  to  let  the 
studio  fix  her  teeth.  And  she  attempted 
to  keep  a  lion  cub  as  a  pet. 

She  likened  acting  in  movies  to  "ditch 
digging,"  and  she  wouldn't  go  to  premieres. 
She  made  a  movie  called  The  Good  Fairy 
for  director  William  Wyler,  during  the 
ten-week  course  of  which  she  and  the  bril- 
liant Wyler  fought  all  over  the  set,  and 
then  confounded  everybody  by  eloping. 

Again,  the  marriage  lasted  a  scant  two 
years. 

Moggie  as  mother 

The  next  man  on  Margaret's  horizon  was 
Leland  Hayward,  an  agent  who  was  clearly 
destined  for  grander  things.  Even  in  those 
days,  he  was  known  as  the  "boy  genius." 

Those  days.  The  year  was  1936.  Maggie 
Sullavan  had  divorced  Wyler,  and  come 
back  to  New  York  to  do  a  part  in  a  play 
called  Stage  Door.  "I  want  to  learn  how 
to  act,"  she  said,  ungratefully  brushing 
off  Hollywood's  golden  dust. 

All  during  the  rehearsals  of  Stage  Door, 
Leland  Hayward  was  omnipresent.  And 
Maggie  Sullavan,  who'd  never  listened  to 
a  word  of  advice  from  another  living  soul, 
was  paying  strict  attention  every  time 
Hayward  opened  his  mouth.  It  was  ob- 
viously love,  and  soon  it  was  marriage, 
and  then  it  was  baby  rumors.  But  no- 
body dared  to  ask  the  new  Mrs.  Hayward 
whether  she  was  expecting. 

One  columnist  wrote  hopefully  of  Lin 
Yutang's  observation  that  "many  a  vixen 
or  hot-tempered  woman  has  grown  sweet 
and  supine  with  the  coming  of  a  child." 
Yet  Maggie's  temper  seemed  to  continue 
unabated. 

After  a  while,  Maggie's  press  agent  sent 
out  a  release  announcing  her  imminent 
retirement,  but  the  mother-to-be  still  kept 
her  mouth  shut.  Backstage,  nobody  knew 
what  to  do.  Congratulate  her?  What  if 
she  snapped  your  head  off?  She  was  fa- 
mous for  being  inexplicable,  for  spicing 
her  moments  of  charm  with  outbreaks 
of  fury. 

One  night  a  gentleman  in  the  cast  took 
a  chance.  He  stopped  by  the  star's  dress- 
ing room,  and  offered  his  good  wishes. 
"Kids,  are  a  lot  of  trouble,"  he  said,  "but 
they're  worth  it.   I  know,  I've  got  three — " 

Maggie  rose  from  her  dressing  table, 
five  foot  two-and-a-half  inches  of  out- 
rage. "It's  a  lie,"  she  screamed.  "It's  a 
lie!"  She  darted  past  the  actor,  into  the 
hall,  then  turned  back.  "Three  children," 
she  said  softly.  "How  perfectly  wonder- 
ful— "  Then  she  slammed  the  door. 

Baby  Brooke  Hayward  was  an  Act  of 
God.  She  closed  Stage  Door,  and  she  put 
an  end  to  her  mother's  war  against  the 
West  Coast.  The  Haywards  settled  down 
in  a  big  Brentwood  house,  complete  with 
swimming  pool,  and,  in  1939,  Bridget  was 
born,  and,  in  1941,  William  was  born. 
Maggie  went  back  to  ditch-digging,  too. 
She  signed  an  MGM  contract,  and  made 


Three  Comrades,  Shopworn  Angel,  The 
Shining  Hour. 

She  didn't  exactly  mellow — "No  one  can 
be  so  completely  rude  as  Margaret  Sulla- 
van, who  makes  it  a  habit,"  wrote  a  miffed 
columnist  in  1942 — but  she  looked  as  if 
she'd  found  what  she'd  wanted. 

She  was  so  charmed  with  her  husband 
and  babies  that  in  January  of  1943,  she 
issued  an  announcement  of  her  retirement 
from  the  movies.  "The  best  service  that 
mothers  can  render  their  country  in  these 
wartimes  is  to  take  care  of  their  children," 
she  said. 

Four  months  later,  she  was  back  in  pic- 
tures. Merle  Oberon  had  been  set  for  a 
part  in  Cry  Havoc,  Merle  Oberon  had  got 
sick,  and  that  was  that. 

Maybe  if  she'd  stayed  retired  ....  but 
that's  hindsight.  And  she  was  an  actress, 
and  a  fine  one,  and  after  Cry  Havoc,  a  play 
called  The  Voice  of  the  Turtle  came  along, 
with  a  girl's  part  nobody  could  turn 
down.  .  .  . 

That  year,  1944,  she  was  professionally 
triumphant.  The  Voice  of  the  Turtle  got 
great  reviews,  and  Maggie  herself  collected 
more  awards  than  she  could  count.  Still, 
she  couldn't  eat,  and  she  couldn't  sleep, 
and  she  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  she'd 
paid  too  much  for  her  new  laurels. 

"I  don't  want  to  be  one  of  those  ruth- 
lessly successful  actresses  whose  whole  life 
is  lived  in  the  theater,  or  the  movies,  and 
who  end  up  with  nothing  at  all,"  she  told 
an  interviewer.  "Success,  yes,  I'm  glad  to 
have  it.  I  love  the  play,  and  giving  eight 
performances  a  week — but  I  cannot  have 
a  happy  private  life.  I'm  giving  up  every- 
thing for  such  success — " 

Growing  suspicion 

She  spoke  of  separation  from  her  three 
children,  her  husband.  "I've  lost  fifteen 
pounds  since  the  play  opened.  Much  as  I 
like  to  act,  I  like  to  do  other  things  too. 
I'm  not  going  to  do  another  play  after  this. 
And  I'm  not  going  back  to  movies,  either. 
I  gave  up  movies.  I  wanted  a  play,  and 
I've  got  a  play  I  love,  but — " 

The  but  was  a  big  one  .  .  .  bigger  than 
anyone  dreamed  till  the  days  immediately 
before  her  death.  Maggie  was  living  with 
a  growing  suspicion  that  audiences  hated 
her.  It  was  only  when  it  was  too  late  that 
a  few  very  close  friends  began  to  under- 
stand. "I  was  always  cheating  the  au- 
diences," she  said.  "But  nothing  I  could 
do,  could  get  them  to  like  me  .  .  .  really  like 
me." 

In  Hollywood,  Leland  Hayward  com- 
mented on  the  difficulties  of  maintaining 
a  marriage  by  phone  calls  and  cross-coun- 
try commuting.  "I  never  knew  it  would 
be  so  tough  without  her,"  he  said. 

Sad  to  say,  tough  things  get  easier.  One 
separation  leads  to  another.  And  love, 
untended,  dies. 

In  the  summer  of  1947,  Margaret  Sulla- 
van starred  in  The  Voice  of  the  Turtle 
in  London.  That  same  summer,  in  Holly- 
wood, Leland  Hayward  was  the  constant 
companion  of  Slim  Hawks,  estranged  wife 
of  producer  Howard  Hawks. 

The  Hayward  marriage  was  over,  and 
the  principals  had  stopped  fooling  them- 
selves. 

In  her  divorce  suit,  Margaret  testified 
that  Hayward  had  declared  his  marriage 
irksome.  "I'm  not  meant  for  home  life," 
he'd  complained. 

It  was  an  ironic  note,  consdering  that 
the  only  simon-pure  home  life  the  Hay- 
wards  had  known  in  more  than  ten  years 
of  marriage  had  been  the  four  months  of 
Maggie's  'retirement'  in  1943. 

She  was  a  three-time  loser,  but  now 
there  were  children  to  consider.  Margaret 
moved  her  brood  to  Greenwich,  Connecti- 
cut, and  threw  her  considerable  energies 
into  domesticity.    "I've  never  understood," 


she  said,  "how  a  woman  can  have  a  career, 
and  be  the  right  sort  of  mother,  too.  I 
made  my  choice  long  ago,  and  I've  never 
regretted  it." 

Long  ago?  the  listener  wondered.  Long 
ago? 

For  two  years,  Margaret  Sullavan  re- 
mained content.  The  kids  got  big,  her 
garden  grew,  the  deafness  which  had 
plagued  her  since  the  early  days  of  the 
war  yielded  to  an  operation.  How  strange. 
she  must  have  thought,  that  this  cure 
should  come  now,  when  it  hardly  matters 
any  more.  When  I  no  longer  force  myself 
to  stand  in  the  wings  of  a  theater,  panicked 
that  I  may  not  hear  my  cue.  too  proud  to 
admit  my  trouble.  .  .  . 

Irresistible  challenge 

She  turned  down  scripts  by  the  bushel, 
until  1950,  when  she  was  offered  a  movie 
called  No  Sad  Songs  for  Me.  It  was  a 
movie  that  Joan  Crawford,  Irene  Dunne 
and  Loretta  Young  had  all  rejected,  but 
Margaret  loved  it.  "It  presents  an  irresis- 
tible challenge." 

She  worried  about  leaving  the  children, 
but  rationalized  her  worry.  In  the  future, 
she  would  work  only  during  the  summer 
months,  while  the  children  were  in  camp. 
As  for  this  time,  "I  have  a  wonderful 
housekeeper,  and  it's  perfectly  all  right 
to  leave  them  with  her — except  I  find  when 
I  get  back,  they're  rotten  spoiled." 

In  August  of  1950,  Maggie  married  for 
the  fourth  time.  Her  new  husband  was 
Kenneth  Arthur  Wagg,  a  "British  indus- 
trialist," according  to  the  papers,  and  the 
bride  and  groom  honeymooned  in  England. 

Now  there  were  seven  children  in  the 
family  (since  Wagg  had  four  sons  by  his 
first  marriage),  and  Margaret  could  be 
motherly  to  her  heart's  content.  But  the 
need  to  act  still  set  up  conflicts  for  her. 
She  worked  in  television,  though  she  called 
it  '•hellish,"  and  in  1952.  she  was  back  on 
Broadway,  in  The  Deep  Blue  Sea. 

She  liked  The  Deep  Blue  Sea  because  it 
wasn't  a  play  "about  international  prob- 
lems, or  headaches."  The  world  was  get- 
ting to  her,  and  she  turned  from  it,  afraid. 

In  1953,  she  played  Sabrina  Fair  on 
Broadway.  She  was  forty-four,  but  her 
portrayal  of  a  young  girl  was  masterful. 

The  year  1955  brought  Janus  to  New- 
York,  and  more  critical  raves  for  Miss 
Sullavan's  skill. 

The  seven  children  were  by  now  all 
away  at  school.  "Seven  tuitions,  seven 
allowance  checks  to  pay  each  month.  Seven 
letters  a  week  to  write,  and  each  has  to  be 
different,"  the  Waggs  told  Leonard  Lyons. 
"We  figure  we've  paid  for  seventy-eight 
years  of  education,  with  thirty-six  more  to 
go." 

Except  for  a  tendency  to  flee  from  dis- 
cussions of  global  woes,  and  an  aversion 
to  any  kind  of  turmoil,  Margaret  seemed 
well.  She  was  moody,  but  she'd  always 
been  moody;  she  was  nervous,  but  what 
sensitive  artist  didn't  suffer  from  nerves? 

Early  in  1956,  her  doctor  ordered  Mag- 
gie out  of  Janus  (she  was  replaced  by 
Claudette  Colbert)  "to  rest"  and  there 
were  rumors  that  her  "condition"  was 
worse  than  people  guessed. 

There  was  no  more  news  until  the  fall 
of  the  year,  when  headlines  broke  again. 
Miss  Sullavan  had  accepted  a  starring 
role  on  a  Studio  One  show,  but  the  day 
of  the  performance,  she  hadn't  appeared. 

Reporters  cornered  her  husband,  who 
looked  harried.  "She  hasn't  been  well  for 
some  time,"  Wagg  said.  "I  think  it  is  prob- 
ably the  strain  again.  She  is  in  a  hospital, 
and  I  would  prefer  not  to  say  where." 

Hubbell  Robinson,  a  CBS  vice  president, 
was  dumbfounded.  "She  is  not  a  woman 
who  would  capriciously  not  show  up.  I 
just  hope  and  pray  that  nothing  is  wrong 
with  her,  and  that  she  hasn't  had  an  acci- 
dent, or  an  unexpected  breakdown." 


Unexpected  breakdown  as  opposed  to 
expected  breakdown? 

To  avoid  pressure 

Brooke  Hayward,  who'd  quit  Vassar  to 
elope  with  a  Yale  student,  fretted  in  her 
New  Haven  apartment,  while  her  husband 
tried  to  explain  to  newspapermen.  "My 
wife  is  upset,  but  feels  her  mother  will  get 
in  touch  with  her  when  she  wants  to." 

A  couple  of  days  later,  Margaret,  where- 
abouts still  unknown,  contacted  her  lawyer, 
and  issued  a  statement.  "I  did  not  realize 
that  my  failure  to  appear  would  create 
such  a  stir,"  she  said.  "Last  Sunday,  the 
day  before  scheduled  telecast,  I  was  not 
satisfied  with  aspects  of  the  rehearsal,  and 
particularly  with  my  ability  to  portray 
the  leading  role.  I  advised  the  producer 
(Felix  Jackson)  of  my  dissatisfaction  and 
advised  him  that  I  did  not  feel  up  to  the 
role  and  could  not  appear. 

"I  insisted  I  be  replaced.  The  producer 
apparently  did  not  take  me  seriously.  The 
next  day,  in  order  to  avoid  pressure,  I 
decided  to  leave  town.  I  regret  the  inci- 
dent, and  am  glad  it  is  closed." 

After  a  while,  there's  almost  no  place 
left  you  can  go  to  "avoid  pressure." 

You  have  to  have  help. 

Help  for  Margaret  Sullavan  was  found 
in  a  rest  home  called  the  Austen  Riggs 
Center  at  Stockbridge,  Massachusetts.  The 
Center  gives  "therapy  to  persons  not  able 
to  cope  with  their  emotional  problems  in 
their  customary  home  or  business  en- 
vironments, but  not  sick  enough  for  a 
closed  institution." 

For  several  weeks,  Margaret  stayed  in 
Stockbridge.  Then  she  came  home  to 
Greenwich,  where  she  spent  nearly  four 
years — the  first  truly  quiet  years  of  her 
life— as  Mrs.  Kenneth  Wagg.  But  last  fall, 
she  read  a  script  called  Sweet  Love  Re- 
member'd,  and  she  got  excited. 

"I  read  it  on  Wednesday,  and  on  Thurs- 
day, I  knew  I  wanted  to  be  in  it,  desper- 
ately. I  haven't  been  so  anxious  to  go 
to  work  in  a  play  since  I  was  young,  and 
just  beginning." 

Kenneth  Wagg,  however,  knew  his  wife 
well.  "Everything's  so  great  now,"  he  said. 
"You're  relaxed,  happy.  You  know  how 
disturbed  you  get  when  you  do  a  show." 

But  Maggie  said,  "It's  a  calculated  risk. 
I'll  be  miserable  if  I  don't  do  this  script 
— and  it  will  probably  kill  me  if  I  do." 

Rehearsals  began  on  December  1st.  Be- 
fore starting  work,  Maggie  took  a  two- 
week  vacation  in  Jamaica,  and  had  a  phys- 
ical check-up.  She  was  pronounced  healthy. 

On  Monday,  December  28th,  the  play 
opened  at  New  Haven's  Shubert  Theatre. 
Critics  were  not  impressed,  though  they 
gave  Miss  Sullavan  glowing  personal  praise. 

By  Thursday  of  that  week,  she  was  jit- 
tery, worn-out,  and  she  phoned  her  hus- 
band in  Greenwich.  She  told  him  she 
wanted  to  quit  the  play.  Wagg  came  to 
New  Haven,  called  in  a  local  doctor.  At 
2  in  the  morning,  the  doctor — Dr.  Rafi 
Tofig — gave  the  near-hysterical  actress  a 
tranquilizing  injection.  "I  found  her  nerv- 
ous and  depressed,"  he  said  later. 

It  was  like  an  old  nightmare  repeated. 
Kenneth  Wagg  saying  his  wife  had  been 
exhausted,  and  "fed  up  with  show  busi- 
ness," while  producer  Martin  Gabel  denied 
the  whole  thing.  "She  was  full  of  tempera- 
ment, but  behaved  very  well  with  us.  She 
never  indicated  that  she  was  unhappy!" 

But  the  cast  disagrees  with  Mr.  Gabel. 
Backstage  they  had  begun  to  notice  that 
she  was  crying,  crying  silently  to  herself. 

"I  couldn't  believe  it  was  Maggie  when 
she  began  to  tell  me  that  the  audience 
didn't  like  her,"  states  one  of  her  friends 
in  the  cast.  "I  kept  saying,  'It's  not  true, 
maybe  they  don't  like  the  play  .  .  .  maybe 
they're  not  ripping  up  the  seats  or  any- 
thing, but  they  think  you're  great.'  But  it 
wasn't  doing  any  good.    Maggie  wouldn't 


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believe  me.  And  then  she  stopped  seeing 
anybody  .  .  .  anybody  at  all. 

"I  tried  to  get  her  to  go  to  the  cast's 
New  Year's  Eve  party,  but  she  said  'I 
just  can't  do  it.  I  just  can't  face  them.  I'll 
try  to  sleep.'  I  know  she  didn't  sleep 
though.  At  two  o'clock  she  called  the 
party  and  asked  if  we'd  send  her  up  a 
sandwich." 

"A  wonderful  girl" 

Your  mind  flies  back  to  that  fateful 
television  show,  and  producer  Felix  Jack- 
son insisting,  "She  never  said  she  wasn't 
coming  back!"  And  you  think  of  poor 
Maggie,  who  could  no  longer  finish  what 
she  started.  Except,  perhaps,  in  one  ter- 
rible way. 

On  Friday,  Dr.  Tofig  again  visited  his 
patient.  Her  condition  was  no  better.  He 
left  her  resting,  early  in  the  afternoon, 
and  at  5: 30,  when  Wagg  came  to  her  room, 
he  found  a  chain  across  the  door. 

Frightened,  because  he  couldn't  rouse 
his  wife  by  calling  her,  he  notified  the 
hotel  manager,  who  got  an  employee  to 
saw  through  the  chain. 

She  was  dying,  when  they  reached  her, 


the  remains  of  three  bottles  of  Seconal  on 
the  night  table.  .  .  . 

In  a  hotel  room  next  to  the  theater  with 
his  wife's  name  on  the  marquee,  Kenneth 
Wagg  wept. 

In  an  off- Broadway  theater,  where,  the 
week  before,  she'd  begun  work  in  her 
first  play,  Brooke  Hayward  listened  to 
the  news,  then  +urned  blindly  out  into  the 
street,  headed  for  her  father's  apartment, 
though  she  had  no  idea  where  he  was. 

At  his  Manhattan  home,  Henry  Fonda 
said  he  was  "shocked  and  saddened,"  and 
in  New  Haven,  producer  Gabel  unsuccess- 
fully went  about  the  business  of  seeing 
that  his  show  would  go  on  (he  hired  his 
wife,  Arlene  Francis,  to  fill  the  star  part 
but  the  show  folded  anyway),  and  two 
days  after  her  death,  Margaret  Sullavan's 
temporal  bones  (the  bones  of  the  ear) 
were  delivered  to  the  doctor  who'd  once 
cured  her  deafness. 

"The  bequest  was  a  complete  surprise 
to  me,"  announced  the  doctor.  "She  never 
had  said  anything  to  me  about  it.  She 
was  a  wonderful  girl." 

Maybe  that's  the  best  way  to  remember 
her.  END 


Perfect  Honeymoon 


(Continued  from  page  32) 

take  her  to  dances  and  the  movies  every 
week,  is  unwise." 

"And  can  be  dangerous,"  added  Warren. 
"Like  those  two  kids  in  Blue  Denim.  They 
were  young  and  inexperienced.  When  they 
got  so  involved  with  each  other  and  they 
didn't  know  how  to  handle  themselves  or 
sex — and  got  into  trouble.  When  I  was 
making  that  picture,  Brandon  de  Wilde, 
Carol  Lynley  and  I  would  talk  about  it. 
Most  of  us  agreed  that  going  steady  could 
be  like  playing  with  dynamite." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Betty  Lou,  slipping 
her  hand  possessively  into  Warren's,  "it 
was  right  for  us — even  though  I  wasn't 
quite  fifteen  nor  Warren  sixteen  when  we 
began  to  steady-date.  Each  person  must 
decide  if  going  steady  is  best. 

"It  was  for  us,  because  we  really  wanted 
to.  Not  because  it  was  a  fad.  And  not 
because  it  was  security.  Our  feelings  for 
each  other  were  real.  We  didn't  tie  each 
other  down. 

"And  we  went  steady  because  we  were 
really  in  love.  Our  marriage  was  a  cul- 
mination of  that  love." 

Warren,  who  is  in  Because  They're 
Young  and  played  Brandon's  pal  in  Blue 
Denim,  and  Betty  Lou,  who  is  the  young 
girl  in  Henry  Fonda's  TV  series,  The 
Deputy,  met  when  they  were  both  in  the 
stage  play,  A  Roomful  of  Roses,  four  years 
ago.  They  were  teenage  actors  even  then. 

"I  think  that  two  people  see  each  other 
at  their  worst,  as  well  as  their  best,  when 
they're  thrown  together  in  work,"  ex- 
plained Betty  Lou.  "While  we  were  re- 
hearsing in  the  play,  Warren  saw  me  flying 
around  backstage  in  jeans  and  oversize 
shirts,  my  nose  shiny,  my  hair  in  curlers. 
I  saw  him  when  he  was  moodily  concen- 
trating on  his  lines. 

"We  started  going  out  for  Cokes  during 
rehearsal  breaks,  and  then  for  hamburgers 
after  the  show.  Soon  we  discovered  we 
were  seeing  a  lot  of  each  other. 

"We  learned  we  had  a  lot  in  common. 
We  even  found  out  that  we  had  first  met 
when  we  were  seven,  and  we  had  both 
done  extra  roles  in  a  picture  that  was 
filmed  in  New  York  called  The  Window. 

"One  day  I  came  to  the  theater  wearing 
an  oversized  red-and-white  checked  boy's 
shirt.  Warren  showed  up  wearing  the 
identical  shirt.   Warren  has  always  loved 


to  tease  me.  When  he  saw  me  he  grinned 
and  said,  'Look,  girl,  that  means  you  have 
the  same  awful  taste  in  clothes  I  have. 
Why  don't  we  go  steady?'  I  was  really 
pleased,  but  I  wouldn't  let  him  know  it. 
'Go  steady  with  you?'  I  replied.  'Just  be- 
cause we  both  liked  red-and-white  shirts? 
Humph!  That's  a  dandy  reason.  Besides,' 
I  said,  'I  wouldn't  go  steady  with  anyone.' 

"But  later  that  evening  Warren  and  I 
talked  more  seriously.  He  gave  me  a 
charm  bracelet.  That  meant  I  was  'pinned.' 
I  was  his  girl.  He  was  my  boyfriend. 

"But  even  though  we  began  to  go  steady 
we  didn't  feel  that  we  owned  each  other. 
I  guess  it  was  our  work  that  saved  us.  I 
had  to  go  to  Hollywood  to  make  a  pic- 
ture, and  I  told  Warren  he  ought  to  go 
with  other  girls.  In  Hollywood  I  dated 
other  boys.  I  discovered,  though,  that  I 
didn't  like  any  of  them  as  much  as  I  liked 
Warren.  And  Warren  had  the  opportunity 
to  go  with  other  girls,  but  that  didn't  seem 
to  mean  much,  either. 

"I  think  the  main  objection  to  the  cus- 
tom of  going  steady  is  tied  around  the 
necking  problem.  They  say  that  young 
people  going  steady  tends  to  lead  to  grow- 
ing intimacy.  How  did  Warren  and  I  avoid 
it?  Warren  is  a  gentleman.  And  behaved 
like  one.  And  we  were  both  so  interested 
in  acting,  it  took  the  stress  somewhat  off 
sex.  We'd  get  so  excited  talking  shop  and 
discussing  what  was  going  on  in  Broad- 
way and  Hollywood  that  we  just  didn't 
have  to  get  too  steamed  up  over  each 
other. 

"Our  dates  were  filled  with  activities. 
I  think  that  kids  have  a  tendency  to  rely 
upon  heavy  necking  when  there  isn't  very 
much  else  to  do.  Because  Warren  and  I 
were  all  wrapped  up  in  the  theater,  we 
had  lots  to  do,  lots  to  talk  about  when  we 
got  together.  We  had  that  kind  of  ex- 
citement. Some  kids  go  in  for  the  other 
kind  of  excitement  out  of  sheer  boredom. 

"The  longer  we  went  together,  the  more 
our  friendship  mellowed  into  a  warm, 
wonderful  romance.  We  felt  that  we  were 
really  in  love.  By  this  time,  we  had 
worked  out  many  of  the  differences  be- 
tween us. 

"And  there  were  differences.  Plenty  of 
them.  I'm  headstrong  and  have  a  temper. 
Warren  likes  to  have  his  own  way,  and 
underneath  his  boyish  looks  is  a  very 
strong,  mature  personality.  He  has  a  lot 
of  drive  and  serious  ambitions  for  his  fu- 
ture. He  is  serious  about  acting,  but  he 
also  wants  to  study  law.  Well,  if  he  had 
sprung  that  on  me  as  a  surprise  after  we 


were  married,  I  might  have  not  have  un- 
derstood his  wanting  to  take  certain  col- 
lege courses  at  night.  We  could  have  had 
some  big  battles  over  it.  This  way,  gradu- 
ally- by  going  with  him,  I  learned  why 
he  wants  to  take  law  courses,  and  what 
it  means  to  him.  I'm  all  for  it. 

"Our  most  serious  difference  was  that  of 
religion.  It  took  years  of  going  steady  for  us 
to  blend  that  difference  and  really  mean  it. 

"This  way,  I  had  a  chance  to  know — to 
really  know — Warren's  family.  To  have 
dinner  with  them  on  their  religious  holi- 
days, to  realize  what  Warren's  back- 
ground was,  because  this  is  what  makes 
him  what  he  is  today.  He  also  had  a 
chance  to  know  my  parents  and  realize 
what  my  childhood  religious  background 
meant  to  me. 

"This  took  time.  It  wouldn't  have  been 
right  for  Warren  to  demand  that  our 
children  be  raised  in  his  faith,  or  for 
me  to  demand  that  they  be  raised  in  mine. 

"But  after  going  with  Warren  for  sev- 
eral years,  I  decided  that  I  would  want 
our  children  brought  up  in  the  Jewish 
faith,  which  is  Warren's.  He  didn't  force 
that  on  me.  I  came  to  that  decision  after 


I  got  to  know  Warren  and  his  family  so 
well.  I  could  see  what  his  family  back- 
ground meant  to  him.  I  realized,  when  I 
saw  him  on  many  occasions  with  young 
children,  how  much  he  loves  children, 
and  that  he  would  probably  make  a  won- 
derful father  some  day.  In  fact,  one 
evening  as  we  were  talking  about  what 
we  wanted  out  of  life  after  we  were  mar- 
ried, Warren  said,  'I'd  like  to  have  chil- 
dren right  after  we  marry.  I  don't  want 
to  wait.  I  want  to  be  a  young  father  and 
grow  up  with  my  children.  I  want  to 
play  baseball  with  my  sons,  and  be  young 
enough  to  understand  them  and  be  a  pal.' 

"I  know  that  although  Warren  may  be 
young,  he  isn't  too  young  to  assume  the 
responsibilities  of  being  head  of  the  house. 
Warren  likes  responsibilities.  This  I 
know.  If  he's  going  to  be  head  of  the 
house,  then  I  felt  it  right  that  the  children 
be  raised  in  his  religion.  .  .  . 

"Now  we  have  each  other  for  a  life- 
time. And  our  honeymoon  is  the  perfect 
start  of  that  lifetime  together."  END 


Warren's 
School. 


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An  Unborn  Life  at  Stake 


(Continued  from  page  24) 

even  wanted  to  make  a  decision  on  her 
own.  Since  she  had  married  Mel,  she  had 
wanted  him  to  make  every  plan  for  her. 
She  felt  better  that  way,  leaning  on  him 
for  his  strength.  But  somehow,  only  a 
woman's  heart  could  give  her  the  answer 
she  had  to  find  tonight. 

That  day  at  the  doctor's 

Her  mind  went  back  to  that  afternoon 
when  she  and  Mel  had  sat  side  by  side 
in  the  doctor's  office  in  Beverly  Hills.  They 
had  gone  together  to  see  him  to  let  him 
know  that  they  were  going  to  leave  for 
Rome  at  the  end  of  the  week.  There,  Mel 
was  to  start  work  in  Paramount's  Blood 
and  Roses,  and  Audrey,  quite  naturally, 
was  planning  to  go  with  him.  Since  she 
was  now  only  two  months  pregnant,  she 
wanted  to  know  what  she  must  do  to  make 
sure  that  her  baby  would  be  born  alive. 
She  had  endured  a  miscarriage  only  last 
summer.  .  .  . 

The  doctor  had  looked  strangely  grave 
at  the  news  of  the  trip  to  Rome. 

"There  was  a  reason  why  you  lost  your 
first  baby  through  a  miscarriage,"  he  had 
said.  "And  since  we  do  know  why,  we 
can  try  to  prevent  its  happening  again." 

Then  he  had  gone  on  to  explain  that  in 
her  particular  case  there  weren't  enough 
hormones  being  secreted  in  her  body.  This, 
the  doctor  had  added  kindly — noting  the 
alarm  in  her  face — was  not  too  unusual. 
Many  women  with  this  problem  had  gone 
through  the  heartbreaking  ordeal  of  one 
miscarriage  after  another,  until  medical 
science  had  recently  discovered  a  hormone 
that  worked  almost  miraculously  so  that 
these  women  could  bear  their  babies. 

Audrey  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"It  sounds  so  simple,  doctor,"  she  said. 
"You  mean  I  could  have  these  hormone 
treatments  and  they  could  help  prevent 
another  miscarriage?  Why,  that's  won- 
derful." 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "But" — he  paused  for  a 
second — "just  as  important  as  the  hormone 
treatments  is  the  fact  that  you'll  have  to 
stay  in  bed  a  good  part  of  the  time,  not 
have  any  excitement  and  not  move  around 
too  much.  That  means  cutting  out  major 
traveling." 

When  he  announced  that  the  trip  to 
Rome  would  add  to  the  risk  of  her  having 
a  baby,  a  look  of  panic  came  into  Audrey's 
eyes.  By  an  effort  of  will,  she  wiped  away 
that  look.  She  didn't  want  Mel  to  know 
how  upset  she  was  at  the  thought  that  she 
might  have  to  give  up  going  with  him. 

Audrey  hates  every  moment  when  she 
is  away  from  Mel.  Up  until  that  moment 
in  the  doctor's  office,  she  hadn't  even  con- 


sidered staying  at  home  while  Mel  went 
to  Rome. 

But  faced  with  this  heartbreaking  di- 
lemma, she  didn't  even  want  to  turn  to 
Mel  for  an  answer,  for  if  he  were  to  make 
the  decision  and  it  didn't  turn  out  well,  he 
would  never  be  able  to  forgive  himself. 

She  stole  a  quick  look  at  Mel's  face.  It 
was  tense.  Audrey  realized  that  Mel  was 
going  through  the  same  torment  of  inde- 
cision she  was. 

The  hardest  decision 

That  night,  for  the  first  time,  they  had 
their  dinner  almost  in  silence.  There  was 
none  of  the  gay  conversation,  the  happy 
banter  about  the  coming  baby  that  had 
marked  their  dinners  in  recent  months. 

Audrey  thought  to  herself:  "This  is  the 
hardest  decision  I've  ever  had  to  make.  I 
can't  bear  to  risk  the  life  of  Mel's  child 
and  mine  .  .  .  but  neither  can  I  bear  to 
spend  the  next  few  months  without  Mel. 
Particularly  now." 

What  was  it  to  be:  the  safety  of  her 
unborn  baby,  or  the  blessed  months  to  be 
spent  with  Mel?  How  could  she  make  such 
a  choice?  When  she'd  experienced  the 
first  signs  that  she  might  be  pregnant, 
she'd  welcomed  them  with  the  fervent 
hope  that  she  was  carrying  a  baby.  And 
she'd  taken  the  usual  medical  tests.  All 
morning,  while  waiting  for  the  results  of 
those  tests,  she'd  prayed.  When  she 
learned  the  good  news  from  her  doctor, 
she  had  called  Mel  at  the  studio.  He  was 
thrilled,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his 
career  he  left  his  work  to  come  home  so 
that  he  could  kiss  her  tenderly  and  tell 
her  how  happy  he  was. 

From  that  time  on,  Mel  had  treated  her 
almost  like  a  baby  herself,  insisting  that 
she  stay  in  bed,  having  breakfast  brought 
in  to  her,  joining  her  for  coffee  in  the 
sunny  bedroom  that  overlooked  the  Pa- 
cific. When  he'd  had  to  leave  her  to  go 
to  the  studio,  he'd  told  the  maid  that 
Audrey  must  not  get  out  of  bed  until 
noon. 

And  she,  too,  had  been  very  cautious. 
She  would  shop  very  carefully  for  baby 
things — some  of  them  useful,  some  of 
them  just  gags  that  she  and  Mel  could 
laugh  at,  like  the  baby  toothbrush  she'd 
bought  when  she  heard  that  the  baby's 
teeth  would  be  forming  during  a  certain 
period. 

Most  women  put  off  wearing  maternity 
clothes  until  they  absolutely  have  to.  But 
Audrey,  almost  from  the  moment  she 
knew  she  was  pregnant,  was  so  happy 
about  it  that  she  had  gone  almost  imme- 
diately to  a  maternity  shop  in  Beverly 


Hills  and  asked  to  be  shown  some  ma- 
ternity outfits. 

"What  size  is  the  woman  for  whom 
you're  buying  these?"  asked  the  sales- 
woman. 

"My  size,"  she  replied.  "They're  for  me." 

The  woman  was  amazed.  "But  you're  so 
flat.  You  won't  need  maternity  clothes  for 
months." 

"I  want  them  now— just  as  soon  as  I 
can  get  them,"  replied  Audrey,  eyes  shin- 
ing.  "I  can't  wait  to  wear  them." 

Only  recently  the  memory  of  her  first 
miscarriage,  last  year  in  Switzerland,  had 
come  back  to  panic  her.  The  talk  with 
the  doctor  today  had  allayed  that  fear — 
only  to  produce  a  new  one. 

If  she  wasn't  quiet;  if  she  moved  around 
too  much,  as  she  must  to  get  to  Rome, 
would  she  be  risking  the  life  of  the  baby 
she  and  Mel  wanted? 

"But  planes  today,"  she  argued  with 
herself,  because  this  was  the  answer  she 
really  wanted,  "are  so  safe  and  smooth. 
And  once  we  get  to  Rome,  I  can  remain 
quietly  in  our  hotel  suite,  waiting  for  Mel 
each  day.  I  know  Italy  so  well,  I  needn't 
do  any  sightseeing.  I  can  stay  quiet,  just 
as  I  would  here." 

She  thought  how  much  happier  she 
would  be  with  Mel  beside  her — how  miser- 
able she  would  be,  and  how  long  the 
months  would  seem,  if  they  were  apart. 

"And  Mel  will  be  finished  with  the 
picture  in  March,"  she  thought,  trying 
to  reason  this  thing  out.  "We  can  go 
home  then,  together,  and  be  back  in  Cali- 
foria  for  the  final  months  before  our  baby 
is  born. 

"The  doctor  said  it  would  be  better  for 
the  baby  if  I  were  relaxed  all  through  my 
pregnancy  rather  than  tense.  If  I'm  with 
Mel,  I'll  be  happy  and  relaxed.  If  I'm 
home  alone,  I'll  be  nervous  and  tense,  and 
all  the  bed-rest  in  the  world  won't  change 
that." 

The  moon  had  disappeared  and  the  sky 
was  beginning  to  lighten.  Like  her  heart. 
She  stood  up.  holding  the  chiffon  peignoir 
around  her.  She  walked  up  the  curved 
stairway  and  down  the  hall,  her  head  high, 
a  smile  on  her  face. 

When  she  stepped  into  the  bedroom, 
Mel  stirred.  He  opened  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  her.  There  was  an  expression 
of  infinite  content  on  her  face. 

"You  look  so  happy,  darling,"  he  said. 
"What's  happened?" 

Audrey  reached  over  and  slipped  her 
hand  into  his. 

"I  am  happy.  I  really  am.  I'm  going  to 
Rome  with  you,  darling.  I'm  going  to  be 
with  you.  Everything  will  be  all  right. 
I  just  know  it  will  be.  .  .  ."  end 

Audrey  will  star  in  The  Unforgiven  and 
My  Sister  And  I,  both  United  Artists.  Mel 
will  be  seen  in  Blood  And  Roses,  Para- 
mount. 


Elvis'  Plans,  Projects  and  Dreams 


(Continued  from  page  45) 

this  part,'  remarked  Elvis  with  his  usual 
sense  of  humor.  'And  I'm  sure  anxious 
to  see  the  script.' " 

"  'I'd  like  to  give  you  one,  but  I  didn't 
bring  you  a  script,'  "  I  told  him.  "  'You'd 
probably  memorize  it,  and  we  might  make 
some  changes  between  now  and  when 
you  start  shooting  in  Hollywood.'  "  Actu- 
ally I  didn't  take  Elvis  a  script  because  I 
remembered  when  I  first  signed  Elvis  for 
pictures,  I  didn't  have  a  script  ready  for 
him  at  that  time,  and  he  went  to  Fox  to 
make  Love  Me  Tender.  The  studio  sent 
76  him  a  script  to  Memphis,  and  Elvis  arrived 


with  every  line  of  his  part  and  everyone 
else's  parts  memorized.  If  he  could  mem- 
orize an  entire  script  when  he  was  on  a 
heavy  schedule  of  personal  appearances, 
TV,  and  recording  dates— I  felt  sure  he'd 
do  it  on  his  free  time  after  Army  hours. 
And  I  didn't  want  him  to  put  himself  to 
such  a  task,  although  knowing  Elvis' 
restless  mind,  he'd  probably  have  en- 
joyed it. 

"  'I'm  sure  anxious  to  get  back  to 
work,'  "  Elvis  continued.  "  'And  you  are 
here — actually  here  in  Germany  with  the 
cameras,  and  the  crew  all  set  to  go — it's 


really  great,'  "  he  repeated,  with  excitement. 

"Then  I  had  to  disappoint  Elvis  all  over 
again,  and  watch  the  excitement  in  his 
eyes  fade  to  a  thoughtful  mood  that  hid 
any  let-down  he  may  have  felt. 

"  'You  won't  be  before  the  cameras  over 
here,' "  I  said.  "  T  understand  that  this 
is  your  own  decision,  too.'  " 

"  'Yes,  of  course.  I  guess  I  just  forgot 
for  the  moment,'  he  sighed.  'It's  because 
I'm  so  anxious  to  get  back  to  work.' " 

"While  anyone  in  the  Army  could  do 
whatever  they  liked  on  their  own  time, 
I  had  decided  in  the  beginning  that  Elvis 
would  not  appear  in  any  scenes  we'd  shoot 
in  Germany.  I  didn't  want  him  to  take 
the  risk  of  being  embarrassed  by  putting 
him  in  front  of  a  camera,  and  then  have 
some  people  take  the  position  that  he 
was  being  privileged  to  work  as  a  movie 


star  while  he  was  still  in  the  service. 
This  is  one  of  the  daily  problems  that 
Elvis  faces  as  a  GJ..  making  sure  that 
he  does  not  receive  any  special  atten- 
tion or  privileges.  He  himself  doesn't 
make  a  case  out  of  it,  but  he  is  very- 
careful  to  go  along  living  a  normal  life, 
as  quiet  as  possible,  as  a  soldier.  That's 
why  he  has  been  successful  in  the  Army, 
and  he  has  won  the  liking  and  respect  of 
his  buddies. 

"  'Man.  how  Pd  like  to  be  working  in 
front  of  those  cameras,' ?'  Elvis  repeated 
with  boyish  enthusiasm  cropping  out. 
"Tve  often  wondered  if  I've  forgotten 
everything  I  learned,  and  what  it  will 
be  like  again.  Man,  how  Td  like  to  try 
it  again.  I  can't  believe  it — you're  all  here, 
the  whole  crew!' "  Then,  "  "It's  just  like 
it  was  yesterday  at  Paramount,  and  it's 
almost  two  years.' " 

"Elvis  was  reacting  to  my  announcement 
that  I  had  brought  my  director,  Mickey 
Moore,  he  was  assistant  director  on  Elvis" 
last  picture  King  Creole,  and  my  art 
director,  first  cameraman  and  my  com- 
pany unit  manager  with  me  to  Germany 
to  start  Elvis'  new  picture.  I  had  filled 
in  the  rest  of  the  crew  I  told  him,  and 
we  had  forty  ah  set  to  shoot  locations  when 
I  went  out  to  see  Elvis. 

"  'Fm  sure  glad  to  see  you;  "  Elvis  had 
greeted  me  when  I  had  first  arrived  at 
his  house  which  is  outside  of  Frankfurt 
in  Bad  Nauheim.  Elvis  is  living  in  a 
little  house — a  cottage  with  a  fenced  in 
back  yard,  rather  than  the  huge  castle 
he  was  reputed  to  live  in.  Soldiers  are 
all  permitted  to  live  off  base  if  they  so 
desire,  and  if  their  families  are  there,  and 
many  others  five  in  similar  places.  Elvis' 
house  is  stucco  and  small  and  when  I  ar- 
rived Elvis  opened  the  door.  "  Golonel 
Parker  wrote  me  you  were  coming,  and 
man  it  is  good  to  see  you,  Sir,' "  he  said 
warmly.  He  was  playing  records  at  the 
time,  but  not  his  records.  "  'Some  new 
imports  from  the  United  States — Bobby 
Darrn  and  Ricky  Nelson's  new  hits,' "  he 
said.  There's  not  an  atom  of  jealousy 
in  Elvis,  and  while  he  has  consistently 
worried  that  his  fans  might  forget  him.  he 
is  a  great  booster  of  the  boys  with  talent 
who  have  come  up  as  the  top  waxers  of 
Rock  'n'  Roll  during  his  Army  stint. 

We  exchanged  greetings  and  then  Elvis 
said,  "  "Come  on  out  into  the  kitchen,  and 
we'll  have  a  Coke.' "  We  sat  down  at  the 
table  and  I  was  delighted  at  the  new- 
Elvis.  He  was  in  uniform,  since  he'd 
just  come  back  from  field  maneuvers. 
He's  matured  and  while  he  still  naturally 
retains  his  youthful  quality  of  charm, 
and  he  is  basically  the  same — he  is  also 
noticeably  sleek  and  he's  physically-  as 
hard  as  nails.  Too.  the  Presley  with  the 
duck  tail  hair  cut  and  side  burns  is  gone. 
For  he  will  wear  his  same  G.I.  hair  cut 
in  the  picture — since  he  will  be  playing  a 
GJ. 

"Elvis  wanted  to  hear  all  about  his  new 
picture,  however,  and  I  told  him  that  we 
were  taking  some  exciting  locations — 
shooting  all  of  the  exteriors  in  the  locale 
of  his  Army  activities.  We'd  shot  in 
Frankfurt.  Weisbaden.  Idsten,  Friedberg. 
and  along  the  Rhine  River  and  we  were 
set  and  did  ultimately  shoot  the  tank 
corps  in  action,  but  never  with  Elvis.  We 
used  plenty  of  G.I.'s  but  again  not  Elvis. 
This  seemed  unfair,  but  I  would  not  take 
a  chance  of  any  criticism  being  directed 
towards  him  with  this  picture." 

"  'Are  you  shooting  in  color?'  "  he  asked. 
I  told  him  that  I  was,  and  that  the  weather 
was  perfect. 

"  'Now  that  the  two  years  are  up,  it  all 
doesn't  seem  so  long,'  Elvis  said,  'but 
Man,  in  the  beginning  I  counted  the  days 
— thirty  and  thirty-one  to  each  month, 
and  365  days  to  a  year — like  that,' "  he 
laughed.    "  'Then  it  seemed  forever.'  K 


"'Elvis'  face  saddened  when  I  again  ex- 
pressed my  condolences  in  the  loss  of  his 
mother.  'You'll  remember.  Elvis.'  I  re- 
called, 'that  we  had  both  your  mother  and 
your  father  in  a  scene  of  your  picture.  You 
remember  they  were  visiting  you  on  the 
set  that  last  day  of  the  shooting,  and  we 
asked  them  to  sit  in  the  audience  as 
players?  We  have  some  good  footage,  and 
you  can  have  it  as  a  clip  when  you  re- 
turn.' 

"Elvis'  appreciation,  which  is  so  ready 
and  so  genuine  lighted  his  eyes.  He 
swallowed  hard.  "I  miss  her,'  he  said.  T 
guess  111  never  get  over  losing  her.' 

"I  could  well  understand  Elvis'  feelings. 
We  sat  and  talked  for  awhile  longer,  and 
then  we  went  outside  for  awhile  to  get 
a  breath  of  air,  and  we  sat  on  the  grass. 
The  boys  took  some  snapshots  of  us. 
When  it  began  to  get  dark,  I  arose  to  go. 

"  'Maybe  we  could  have  dinner  to- 
gether if  you  can  spare  the  time,'  "  Elvis 
said.  I  told  him  to  call  me  the  following 
week  at  my  hotel. 

"In  the  interim  we  began  shooting  the 
picture,  and  I  must  admit  I  felt  a  little 
regret  that  Elvis  couldn't  have  been  with 
us,  if  only  as  a  spectator.  But  his  Army 
duty  kept  him  elsewhere.  His  officers  and 
Army  friends  however,  were  anxious  to 
talk  with  me. 

"  'El's  a  £ne  boy,  and  he  does  his  job 
well,'  one  said.  'He  certainly  avoids  any 
favoritism.  and  he  bends  over  backwards 
to  do  his  job  one  hundred  percent!' 

"Another  of  his  officers  observed,  'The 
Army  has  sure  changed  Elvis.  We  got 
hold  of  an  old  movie  magazine  with  a  pre- 
army  story  about  Elvis.  It  sure  made  him 
out  to  be  a  belly-rolling  vulgar  type  of 
singer  who  had  a  bad  if  popular  influence 
with  the  American  teenagers.  But  today 
he  sure  has  changed.  He  is  a  perfect 
gentleman.  He  is  always  polite,  and  no 
one  has  ever  heard  him  say  a  vulgar  word 
or  tell  an  off- color  story — '  I  could  have 
told  him  that  he  had  found  a  very  wrong 
story  based  on  a  very  wrong  conception 
of  Elvis.  One  that  has  long  since  been 
dispelled  and  erased.  He  was,  and  long 
before  he  came  to  Hollywood,  a  thorough- 
ly nice  and  well  mannered  boy.  who  had 
no  feeling  about  ever  being  vulgar.  As  he 
once  said.  'I  just  follow  the  beat  of  the 
music.  It's  the  folk  dancing  of  this  gen- 
eration. The  kids  understand  it.  Some- 
times I  get  carried  away,  but  I  never  think 
it  is  vulgar.' 

"  'Our  only  trouble.'  another  officer  told 
me,  'is  the  girls.  They  won't  leave  Elvis 
alone.  We've  had  to  put  up  roped  lines 
to  get  him  through  them  at  times.  Elvis  j 
always  looks  amused,  but  he  never  takes 
advantage  of  his  popularity.  He  just  trys 
to  go  on  with  what  he  is  doing.  And  when 
he  is  off  duty,  I've  been  amazed  at  his 
patience.  He'll  spend  time  talking  to  these 
kids,  and  some  of  them  are  only  ten  or 
twelve.  They  can't  speak  English,  and 
he  can't  speak  German,  but  he  has  the  ut- 
most patience  with  them. 

"  "Elvis  will  get  out  his  little  German- 
English  dictionary,  and  they'll  make  signs 
and  talk  back  and  forth.  The  kids  worship 
him.  But  he  sure  has  an  amazing  patience 
with  children,  and  such  a  real  liking,  that 
he'll  be  a  wonderful  father  someday.' 

"Another  G.  I.  made  this  observation 
on  Elvis'  romantic  status,  'It  looks  like 
Elvis  is  going  home  single  all  right.  He'll 
take  a  fraulein  out  a  few  times,  and  they 
blow  it  up  big  in  the  papers.  But  he  hasn't 
gone  steady  over  here  with  any  one  girl. 
He  doesn't  have  much  time,  and  the  time 
he  does  have  he  spends  pretty  much  at 
home  with  his  dad  and  his  grandmother. 
His  grandmother  sure  can  cook.  El  is  al- 
ways nice  about  taking  some  of  us  home 
for  her  real  southern  cooking.' 

"Elvis  is  very  prompt  and  reliable  and 
he  called  me  a  week  later  as  he  said  he 


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would.  'I  can  make  it  tonight  to  get  in 
for  dinner,'  he  said.  We  made  an  engage- 
ment to  have  dinner  together  that  night. 
And  Elvis  arrived  driving  his  Mercedes 
Benz,  a  stock  model  sedan.  We  went  to 
a  German  restaurant,  and  I  must  report 
that  it  was  very  unique.  There  wasn't  a 
dozen  or  so  girls  popping  out  of  the  walls 
and  the  ceilings  as  they  did  in  America 
when  I  took  Elvis  out  to  dinner.  I  said 
to  him,  'This  is  different  than  it  was  in 
New  Orleans.'  He  smiled.  For  in  New 
Orleans,  on  the  location  of  King  Creole, 
I  had  to  hire  a  special  security  policeman 
to  keep  the  girls  off  his  hotel  floor,  and  still 
they  seemed  to  manage  to  come  in  through 
the  walls — in  every  direction. 

"Elvis  ordered  German  food.  An  ac- 
cordion trio  played  during  dinner,  and 
again  I  must  report  that  Elvis  did  not  get 
up  and  sing.  The  bus-boys  and  the 
musicians  recognized  him  and  one  by  one 
they  politely  sent  a  menu  over  with  a 


request  for  his  autograph.  Elvis  seems  to 
have  a  quality  that  is  warm  and  polite, 
but  one  which  also  commands  respect. 
Today  people  no  longer  seem  to  impose 
on  him  even  though  the  very  little  girls 
may  mob  him. 

"  'I've  been  very  homesick  at  times. 
That's  the  worst,'  Elvis  admitted  as  we  ate. 
'I've  thought  again  and  again,  Man,  if  I 
could  only  go  home  for  just  one  day.  And 
wow,  the  time  is  almost  here  to  go  home. 
And  I'm  very  excited  about  it.' 

"Elvis  also  said  that  he  wasn't  going 
steady  and  that  his  'little  old  heart  is  still 
in  one  piece.  But  it  would  be  nice  to  fall 
in  love — after  I  get  my  career  going  again. 
But  not  before — because  I've  got  too  much 
work  to  do  first — to  have  the  kind  of  time 
to  fall  in  love.' 

"His  thoughts  kept  returning  to  the  pic- 
ture, his  new  picture.  I  told  him,  'There'll 
be  parts  for  two  German  girls  and  one 
Italian  girl.  And  there'll  be  parts  for  your 


G.I.  buddies,  for  you'll  be  playing  your- 
self, a  G.I.  in  the  tank  division.' 

"'Have  you  cast  the  girls?'  he  asked 
with  natural  male  interest. 

"  'No,  not  yet,'  I  laughed,  'any  sugges- 
tions?' 

"  'No,  I  guess  not,'  Elvis  replied  thought- 
fully, adding  half  to  himself,  'as  long  as 
they're  pretty.' 

"  'I'll  be  seeing  you,'  Elvis  said,  'in 
Hollywood!  Man,  that  sounds  good,  be  see- 
ing you  in  Hollywood,'  he  repeated  with  a 
flash  of  a  smile.  Then  he  turned  and 
walked  towards  his  car,  jumped  in, 
switched  on  the  ignition  and  roared  up 
the  road." 

From  that  minute  on,  Mr.  Wallis  says  he 
was  besieged  all  of  the  way  home  by  the 
foreign  and  the  international  and  the 
domestic  press — for  any  word  of  this  inter- 
view and  his  visit  with  Elvis,  of  their  plans. 
Luckily,  we  caught  up  with  him  for  this 
exclusive  report  on  Elvis!  END 


The  Bad  Boy  and  the  Good  Girl 


(Continued  from  page  23) 

"Like  with  Jo-Ann.  I'm  sorry  it  had  to 
happen  this  way  with  her.  I'm  sorry  I  ever 
had  to  hurt  her  for  one  single  minute. 

"But  what  else  can  happen  when  a  bitter, 
unhappy  guy  like  me  meets  a  good,  sweet 
gal? 

"What  else  can  come  of  this  but  hurt — 
lots  and  lots  of  it.  .  .  ." 

Bobby  and  Jo-Ann  Campbell  first  met 
one  night  three  years  ago  (he  was  nine- 
teen, she  was  just  going  on  eighteen). 
With  two  dozen  other  young  entertainers, 
they  sat  around  a  few  tables  in  the  rear 
of  Hanson's  Drugstore,  just  off  Times 
Square  in  New  York  City,  waiting  for 
the  bus  that  would  take  them  to  a  record 
hop  over  in  Brooklyn.  Actually,  Bobby  sat 
at  one  table,  gabbing  away,  surrounded 
by  five  or  six  wide-eyed  girl  vocalists  and 
dancers;  while  Jo-Ann — new  to  New  York, 
show  business,  this  crowd — sat  alone  at  her 
table,  a  few  yards  away.  Like  most  of  the 
others  she  had  ordered  a  sandwich  and 
something  to  drink,  a  chocolate  milkshake 
in  her  case.  But,  this  being  her  first  close- 
to-bigtime  record  hop,  she  was  too  nervous 
to  eat  or  drink  much.  And,  besides,  that 
fellow  over  there,  that  Bobby  Darin,  made 
her  just  a  little  more  nervous,  the  way  he 
was  constantly  looking  over  at  her,  even 
while  he  was  gabbing  away  the  way  he 
was  and  being  oohed  and  aahed  over  by 
those  girls  sitting  with  him. 

Jo-Ann  was  glad,  very  glad,  when  the 
announcement  was  made,  finally,  that  the 
bus  for  Brooklyn  had  pulled  up  outside 
the  drugstore. 

That  fellow,  that  Bobby  Darin 

And  she  was  surprised,  once  inside  the 
bus,  sitting  in  her  seat  next  to  the  win- 
dow, watching  the  others  climb  aboard, 
to  see  that  fellow,  that  Bobby  Darin,  enter 
with  his  crowd  of  girls,  break  away  from 
them  suddenly,  and  come  rushing  over  to 
grab  the  empty  seat  alongside  her. 

"I  guess  you  know  who  I  am,"  he  said — 
his  first  words. 

Jo-Ann  nodded. 

"How  do  you  know?"  Bobby  asked. 

"That  Splish-Splash  you  just  recorded—" 
Jo-Ann  started  to  say. 

"And  wrote,"  Bobby  put  in. 

"And  wrote,"  said  Jo- Ann,  " — well,  it's 
been  making  quite  a  splash,  hasn't  it?  And 
they've  started  writing  stories  about  you 
in  the  papers  and  magazines,  and  putting 
in  your  picture  .  .  .  And  that's  how  I 
know." 

78     "Uh-huh,"  Bobby  said.  Then  he  asked, 


"And  who  are  you?" 
Jo-Ann  told  him. 

"Pretty  .  .  .  blonde  .  .  .  blue-eyed  .  .  . 
and  with  an  accent  like  that  yet,"  Bobby 
said.  "Where  you  from,  honey  chile?  South 
Cah'lina?" 

He  laughed  and  Jo-Ann  smiled. 

"No,"  she  said,  "Jacksonville,  Florida. 
And  I'm  a  singer,  in  case  you  never  heard 
of  me,  which  you  no  doubt  never  did.  And 
I've  cut  two  records,  neither  of  which  has 
sold  very  well,  but  my  manager  tells  me 
not  to  worry  about  that,  he  being  a  very 
nice  and  understanding  manager.    And — " 

The  bus  began  to  move. 

"And?"  Bobby  asked. 

"And,"  Jo-Ann  said,  "I  guess  there's  not 
much  more  to  tell  except  that  my  daddy 
thought  it  might  be  good  for  any  career  I 
might  have  in  store  for  me  if  he  and  my 
mother  and  I  moved  up  here  to  New  York. 
So  that's  what  we  did.  And  here  we  are,  all 
settled  in  a  little  apartment  over  Flushing 
way,  waiting  to  see  what  the  future  will 
bring  .  .  .  hoping  it'll  all  have  been  worth 
it." 

She  turned  to  look  out  the  window,  at 
the  theater  marquees,  the  cars  and  cabs, 
the  blur  of  people  on  the  sidewalks. 

"Glad  you  came?"  Bobby  asked,  after  a 
moment.  "To  big  old  wonderful  New 
York  town?" 

Jo-Ann  looked  back  at  him  and  nodded. 

"Well,"  Bobby  said,  sitting  back  in  his 
seat,  "lemme  tell  you  something  about 
this  big  old  wonderful  town,  this  big  old 
wonderful  business  of  show  business  .  .  . 
They  can  both  turn  out  to  stink  if  you 
don't  watch  that  pretty  step  of  yours." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  Jo- Ann  asked. 

"The  people,"  Bobby  said.  He  spelled  out 
the  word.  "Sniff-sniff-stmk,  if  you  don't 
watch  your  step.  All  kinds  of  creeps.  But 
the  leeches,  first  of  all.  They're  the  first 
ones  you  got  to  worry  about." 

"Borrowers?"  Jo- Ann  asked. 

"Takers,"  Bobby  said.  "Takers — It's  a 
whole  bit,  and  I've  been  through  it  all. 
Take  a  place  like  that  drugstore  we  just 
came  from.  It's  a  hangout  for  our  crowd. 
A  new  one  like  you  walks  in  and  you're 
spotted.  The  leeches,  they  know  how  you 
feel.  All  young  inside  and  nervous  and 
wanting  to  please,  to  make  friends,  to  be 
accepted,  considered  nice,  A-l.  So  for 
this  privilege  they  invite  you  over  to  their 
table  and  then,  then  they  let  you  pick  up 
their  check.  A  cheeseburger  here,  a  steak 
sandwich  there,  a  Danish,  a  couple  of  cups 
of  coffee — 'You  don't  mind  just  this  once, 


do  you,  pal?'  they  say,  'I'm  just  a  little 
short  right  now.' " 

"Is  this  what  happens  to  you?"  Jo-Ann 
asked. 

"Juggle  those  verbs  around  a  little, 
honey,  and  you've  got  it,"  Bobby  said. 
"It's  what  used  to  happen  to  me  ...  I 
used  to  be  the  champion  check  grabber 
wherever  I  was.  As  long  as  I  shelled  out, 
man,  I  was  the  most.  They  used  to  wait 
for  me  to  come  in,  the  whole  damn  bunch 
of  them.  And  me,  I  wanted  to  be  accepted 
so  bad,  I  never  said  no.  Not  till  one  day 
when  the  message  came  to  me  and  I  said 
the  hell  with  them  and  being  nice  and  all 
that  junk,  and  stopped." 

"Gee,"  Jo-Ann  said. 

Backslappers 

"Then,"  said  Bobby,  looking  up  at  the 
ceiling  of  the  bus,  remembering,  "there's 
the  backslappers.  I  guess  they're  like  the 
leeches,  basically,  except  with  diplomas. 
They're  the  ones  who  get  after  you  when 
the  breaks  start  coming  your  way.  They're 
the  ones  who  want  the  favors.  You've  been 
meeting  big  people  in  the  business?  They 
want  to  get  to  meet  them.  You're  their 
best  bet,  so  they  start  slapping  your  back 
so  hard  that  just  to  get  them  to  stop  and 
to  end  the  embarrassment  you  say,  'Gee 
thanks,  now  what  can  I  do  for  you?'  And 
they  tell  you.  Until  you  find  yourself 
spending  so  much  time  working  for  them 
that  you're  lousing  up  on  yourself." 

"How'd  you  stop  them?"  Jo-Ann  asked. 

"Same  as  with  the  others,"  Bobby  said. 
"I  woke  up  one  day  and  told  them  all  to 
go  to  hell,  that  I  knew  I  was  good,  that  I 
didn't  need  their  compliments,  and  that 
they  could  all  just  go  to — " 

"I   know,"   Jo-Ann  said. 

"Yeah,"  said  Bobby.  He  turned  to  face 
her  again.  He  looked  into  her  eyes.  "Then 
there's  the  love  crowd,"  he  said. 

Jo- Ann  began  to  blush.  "Yes?"  she  said. 

"Watch  for  'em,  honey — watch — or  they'll 
drag  you  down  under,"  he  said.  "With  me 
it  was  this  dancer.  She  had  to  have  me,  had 
to  love  me  .  .  .  she  said.  I  was  seventeen, 
she  was  thirty-one.  Man,  was  I  impressed 
with  myself.  I  was  so  impressed  I  couldn't 
see  what  a  patsy  I  was  being  used  for.  This 
dame,  she  was  a  pathological  liar,  along 
with  being  a  tramp.  She  didn't  know  how 
to  tell  the  truth,  so  how  could  she  know- 
how  to  be  true  to  anyone  .  .  .  ?  I  was  hit 
over  the  head  with  danger  signals.  But 
did  I  take  'em?"  He  shook  his  head.  "No," 
he  said.  "Instead,  I  talked  about  getting 
married  with  her.  And  I  talked  about  com- 
mitting suicide  with  her.  And  all  this  while 
I  found  out  she  was  just  using  me  for  what 
I  was  worth  to  her,  cheating  on  me — " 

He  stopped,  suddenly. 

"Now  you  tell  me  your  problems,"  he 


said,  still  looking  at  her,  hard,  intently. 

Jo-Ann  smiled  again.  "They'd  sound 
pretty  third-class  next  to  yours."  she  said. 

"No  boyfriend  problem?"  Bobby  asked. 

"Xot  really."  Jo-Ann  said.  "There's  this 
boy  in  Jacksonville.  I  liked  him  some.  I 
thought  I'd  miss  him  when  I  had  to  leave. . . 
But  I  don't — not  terribly.  I  mean." 

"Want  a  new  boyfriend?"  Bobby  asked. 

Jo-Ann  said  nothing. 

"Don't  get  scared,  sweetheart — I  mean 
just  for  tonight."  Bobby  said.  "To  ex- 
plain." he  said,  still  getting  no  reaction 
from  Jo-Ann.  "tonight,  after  the  show, 
you  and  me  take  this  bus  back  to  town. 
And  then,  when  we  get  off.  I  take  your 
hand  and  take  you  to  this  pizza  joint  on 
Forty-ninth  Street  where  we  grab  a  pizza 
and  some  cream  sodas  or  something  .  .  . 
Sound  okay?" 

Before  Jo-Ann  had  a  chance  to  answer. 
Bobby  pointed  out  the  window  of  the  bus. 
"This  here  we're  crossing  now  is  the 
Brooklyn  Bridge — and  that  back  there,  all 
those  twinkling  lights."  he  said,  "that's 
Manhattan  .  .  .  New  York.  Few  years  from 
now  I'm  gonna  own  that  town.  Then,  few 
years  from  now.  when  I  ask  a  gal  for  a 
date  it's  gonna  mean  El  Morocco  and  the 
"2T  and  the  Stork  Club  and  Copa  and 
everyplace — "  His  eyes  began  to  brighten. 
" — With  waiters  tripping  over  their  fool 
feet  to  get  to  my  table  and  hatcheck  babes 
framing  the  dollar  bills  I  give  'em  and  all 
the  bigshots  in  town  staring  over  at  me  and 
my  date,  some  of  'em  just  looking,  others 
waving,  and  nodding  and — " 

Again,  he  stopped  and  looked  back  at 
Jo -Ann. 

"But  for  tonight,"  he  said,  "after  the 
show,  pizza  and  cream  soda  at  this  joint 
on  Forty-ninth  Street.  Sound  okay1?" 

He  put  his  hand  on  hers. 

"Huh?"  he  asked. 

He  smiled  at  the  wav  Jo-Ann  began  to 


blush  again,  at  the  way  she  nodded  slowly 
and  said  yes.  .  .  . 

One  of  these  New  York  creeps 

The  show  in  Brooklvn  ended  at  11:10 
that  night.  By  11:20  Jo-Ann  had  her  stage 
make-up  off.  had  changed  and  stood  just 
inside  the  stage  door  waiting  for  Bobby. 

It  was  some  twenty  minutes  after  that — 
seconds  after  the  bus.  loaded  with  the 
others,  had  left — when  Bobby  did  show. 

"Jo-Ann — "  he  started,  out  of  breath. 

"Bus  took  off."  Jo-Ann  cut  in.  starting  to 
laugh,  "but  there's  always  the  subway." 

"Jo-Ann."  Bobby  said,  shaking  his  head, 
not  listening.  "I  can't  make  it.  Not  tonight." 

"You  can't?"  Jo-Ann  asked,  the  laugh 
suddenly  gone. 

"Look,"  Bobby  said,  bringing  up  his 
hands,  holding  them  together,  "this  dame 
.  .  .  Fd  forgotten  all  about  her.  Two  weeks 
ago  she  says  to  me,  'After  the  Brooklyn 
show,  how  about  it — a  night  out.  us  two?" 
And  me.  I  don't  know  what  I  was  think- 
ing, but  I  said.  "Yeah.  sure.  .  .  ."' 

Jo-Ann  waited  for  him  to  go  on. 

He  didn't, 

"She's  here?"  she  asked,  then. 

"In  my  dressing  room."  Bobby  said. 
"She  showed  up  right  after  the  show.  She's 
a  little  on  the  loaded  side.  I  tried  talking 
to  her.  I  thought  maybe  I  could  get  her 
to  call  this  off  and  we,  we — " 

"Bobby."  Jo-Ann  said.  She  forced  a  great 
big  smile.  "Bobby,  it's  perfectly  okay  what's 
happened." 

"It  is?'"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  Jo-Ann  bed. 

"Listen."  Bobby  said,  "this  subway.  Do 
you  know  how  to  get  to  it  from  here?" 

"Oh  yes."  Jo-Ann  lied  again. 

"Better."  Bobby  said,  "if  you  wait  a  few 
minutes,  we'll  be  getting  a  taxi  and  we  can 
drop  you  off.  This  dame — "  He  shrugged, 
and  forced  his  own  smile  now.  "—She 


never  wants  to  ride  in  anything  but  taxis. 
And  she  always  pays.  So — " 

"No,  thanks.  Bobby."  Jo-Ann  said.  "I 
can  walk  it." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  moment. 

"Jo-Ann."  Bobby  said,  "these  New  York 
creeps  I  was  telling  you  about  before.  I 
guess  you  think  I'm  one  of  'em  but  good — 
huh?  .  .  .  Lots  of  other  people  do,  you 
know.  So  you're  not  alone  in  what  you're 
thinking." 

"No  ...  I  don't  think  that,"  Jo-Ann 
said  softly. 

"No.  Ill  bet."  Bobby  said.  He  laughed  a 
hollow  laugh.  Then.  "Well,  no  sense  us 
standing  here  like  this  ...  So  long,  Jo- 
Ann  .  .  .  I'm  sorry."  • 

"So  long.  Bobby."  she  said,  turning 
quickly,  and  leaving. 

"Another  girl  would  have  been  sore  as 
heck,"  a  friend  of  Jo-Ann's  has  said.  "But 
Jo,  she'd  fallen  for  him  from  those  first 
few  minutes  together,  in  the  bus.  And 
nothing,  not  even  being  stood  up  that 
first  night,  was  going  to  change  the  way 
she  felt  about  young  Mr.  D." 

A  quiet  love 

"She  carried  her  love  for  him  about  as 
quietly  as  is  humanly  possible.  She'd 
never  mention  him  to  you  .  .  .  never.  But. 
boy,  when  someone  else  mentioned  his 
name,  you  should  have  seen  the  things 
that  happened  to  her  face — her  eyes  get- 
ting big.  shiny:  her  color  all  flushed;  all 
that.  And  if  she  ever  happened  to  be 
carrying  a  copy  of  Variety  and  you  asked 
to  see  it  and  noticed  something  clipped  out. 
you  could  be  sure  the  clipped-out  article 
had  something  to  do  with  young  Mr.  D. 
and  that  that  clipping  was  tucked  in  the 
bottom  of  her  pocketbook  where  she  could 
take  it  out  when  she  was  alone  and  read 
it  over  and  over  again. 

"I  guess  it  was  nine  or  ten  months  after 


The  Greatest  Addition  to  Bath  Time  since  Soap... 


DONALD  DUCK  SOAP  BOAT 


one  of  the  many  new 

WaitDisneV 

SQUEEZE  TOYS 

designed  and  distribuied  by 


DELL 


Shirley  MacLaine 

LEMONADE 

AND 
FRIED  MICE 


■  Although  by  now  Shirley  MacLaine  is  getting  used  to  being  one  of  Hollywood's 
most  sought-after  actresses  and  top  money-makers,  she  was  once  quite  accustomed 
to  living  on  "nothing  a  week." 

This  was  when  she  was  struggling  to  get  a  break  in  New  York. 

Rodgers  and  Hammerstein  were  auditioning  for  Me  and  Juliet,  and  five  thousand 
hopefuls  showed  up  at  the  first  try-out. 

"I  lied,"  Shirley  recalls,  "changed  my  name  three  times,  was  turned  down  five 
times  and  kept  using  other  people's  Equity  cards. 

"There  were  seventy-five  at  the  final  audition — and  I  wasn't  a  good  dancer  then. 

"They  got  down  to  the  last  person,  and  Dick  Rodgers  called  out,  'Hey,  you 
with  the  legs!' 

"That  was  me." 

Shirley  had  to  run  through  every  dance  there  was,  and  sing  too.  And  she  got 
the  job. 

And  she  figures  she  owes  it,  in  a  way,  to  lemonade  and  fried  mice.  Because  in 
those  days,  she  saved  every  cent  she  made  I  and  that  wasn't  often  I  for  lessons. 
Every  kind  of  lesson  there  was.  Singing,  dancing,  acting. 

And  to  do  this,  she  had  to  cut  down  on  eating.  Or  eating  money  anyhow. 

Shirley  had  two  tricks  to  help  her  along. 

One  had  to  do  with  the  awful  old  apartment  where  she  lived  with  "twelve  dif- 
ferent roommates  every  year.  They  would  get  tired  trying  to  crash  Broadway  and 
go  back  to  Baltimore  or  wherever  they  came  from.  That  was  1952,  when  unemploy- 
ment in  the  theater  was  at  its  highest.  Three  thousand  girls  would  show  up  when 
six  were  needed. 

"Still  the  roommates  and  I  didn't  starve.  We  could  always  count  on  one  thing 
when  we  got  home  for  dinner — fried  mice,  because  they  were  always  on  the  oven!" 
At  least,  that's  what  Shirley  says.  .  .  . 

Shirley's  other  trick,  the  Automat  Ploy,  sounds  a  little  more  palatable. 

The  Automats  in  New  York  are  like  inexpensive  cafeterias.  You  serve  yourself. 
Put  a  coin  in  a  slot  and  open  a  little  glass  door  and  out  comes  a  fresh  sandwich 
or  dessert. 

For  beverages  like  iced  tea,  or  iced  coffee,  the  ingredients  are  laid  out.  You 
help  yourself  to  ice,  to  sugar,  to  cream,  and  then  purchase  the  tea  or  coffee. 

"That's  how  I  learned  to  like  lemonade,"  Shirley  explains.  "I  would  make  out 
like  I  was  going  to  order  iced  tea.  I'd  get  some  lemon,  then  take  sugar  from  the 
table  and  have  lemonade  .  .  .  free  of  charge." 

Well,  those  days  are  past.  And  the  way  she  lives  now?  Oh,  she  likes  it  fine. 
But  if  the  day  ever  came  that  she'd  have  to  go  back  to  a  budget,  Shirley  MacLaine 
80  can  qualify  as  experienced  and  expert. 


that  first  night  that  they  saw  each  other 
again.  It  was  at  a  nightclub.  Bobby  was 
on  his  way  up  by  now,  and  playing  his 
first  big  club  date  in  New  York.  Jo-Ann 
wanted  to  go  see  him  something  desperate, 
of  course.  She  wouldn't  ask  a  boy  to  take 
her,  she's  that  shy.  And  none  of  us  girls 
could  go  with  her  for  the  simple  reason 
of  money.  So  she  went  alone,  about  a  week 
after  he'd  opened — after  she'd  got  up 
enough  money  for  herself.  And  enough 
nerve.  .  .  ." 

Jo-Ann  sat  at  the  little  table  way  in  the 
rear  of  the  nightclub  and  watched  Bobby 
make  his  entrance.  And  she  could  tell,  from 
the  beginning,  that  something  was  wrong 
that  night. 

It  seemed  to  start  with  the  audience.  It 
was  a  bad  audience,  unusually  bad — talka- 
tive, a  big-drinking  crowd,  a  convention- 
type  crowd  where  practically  everyone 
seemed  out  to  put  on  his  own  show. 

Then  Bobby  tried  to  handle  this  audi- 
ence. And  he  didn't  help. 

Midway  through  his  first  number  he 
called  out  to  the  crowd  to  clap  along 
with  him. 

"Help  old  Bobby  keep  the  beat — 
yeahhhh?"  he  asked. 

And  he  began  to  clap. 

But  most  of  the  customers  didn't  co- 
operate. 

Jo-Ann  could  see  him  begin  to  do  a 
slow  burn.  She'd  been  reading  quite  a  bit 
recently  about  his  bad  temper,  about  how 
he'd  blown  his  top  at  one  performance 
somewhere  in  Pennsylvania  not  too  long 
ago  and  told  his  audience  off,  another  time 
in  Florida  .  .  a  few  other  times,  a  few 
other  places. 

She  hoped  nothing  like  that  would  hap- 
pen this  night. 

"Shhhhhh,"  she  found  herself  saying  as 
Bobby  began  his  second  number  and  the 
audience  continued  talking  it  up. 

"Shhhhhh!" 

But  nobody  paid  any  attention  to  Jo- 
Ann. 

Nor  to  Bobby. 

And,  finally,  Jo-Ann  saw  it  happen,  as 
midway  through  his  third  number,  Bobby 
brought  up  his  hands  to  stop  the  band, 
mumbled  something,  went  into  his  finale, 
cut  that  short  too  and  went  rushing  off 
the  stage. 

It's  safe  to  guess  today  that  if  nothing 
had  gone  wrong  with  Bobby's  show  that 
particular  night,  Jo-Ann  would  very  likely . 
have  finished  her  dinner,  paid  her  check 
and  taken  the  subway  back  to  Flushing. 
And  that  would  have  been  that. 

But,  because  something  had  gone  wrong, 
because  she  knew  that  Bobby  was  un- 
doubtedly hurt  and  sulking  now,  feeling 
as  if  he  didn't  have  a  friend  in  the  world — 
because  she  wanted  to  show  him  that  she 
was  still  his  friend,  for  a  few  minutes  at 
least — Jo-Ann  got  up  from  her  table  and 
made  her  way  backstage  and  to  Bobby's 
dressing  room.  .  .  . 

"Lousy  show,"  he  was  saying  a  few 
minutes  after  she'd  entered  and  they'd 
said  hello,  " — but  lousy,  wasn't  it?" 

Jo-Ann  began  to  shake  her  head. 

"Sure  it  was,"  Bobby  said.  "And  you 
know  why?  Because  me  and  that  audience 
out  there  were  having  a  fight."  He  lit  a 
cigarette  he'd  been  holding.  "Me,"  he  said, 
"I  was  fighting  with  them  before  I  even 
went  out.  I  was  in  a  mood.  I  felt  low,  I 
mean.  And  when  I'm  low,  I'm  low.  And 
there's  not  much  I  can  do  about  it  ...  . 
You  know  that  feeling?" 

"Some,"  Jo-Ann  said. 

Bobby  nodded.  "And  then  that  mob  out 
there,"  he  said.  "A  bunch  of  drunks.  Boy, 
have  you  ever  seen  a  bunch  of  drunks  like 
that?  Noisy?  Rude?  Rude  to  me?  Well,  I 
figured  from  the  beginning  that  I'd  have  to 
show  'em.  And  I  did,  too.  Cut  the  whole 
damn  act  short  and  showed  'em." 

Jo-Ann  looked  at  him  and  said  nothing. 


Bobby  took  a  long  drag  from  his  ciga- 
rette. "You  don't  buy  this  kind  of  talk, 
do  you?"  he  asked. 

"It's  not  that  .  .  .  exactly.  .  .  ."  Jo-Ann 
started  to  say.  She  looked  down. 

"Well,"  said  Bobby,  "you  sure  don't  look 
as  though  you'd  pay  a  nickel  for  it." 

To  show  the  audience 

Jo-Ann  looked  up  again,  quickly.  "No, 
Bobby,  you're  right,"  she  said,  her  voice 
suddenly  firm,  "I  wouldn't  pay  a  nickel 
for  it.  You  talk  .  .  .  you  talk  as  though 
you're  so  proud  in  a  way  that  you  went 
out  there  and  showed  that  audience.  You 
sound  as  though,  just  because  you  cut 
your  act  short,  that  you  hurt  them.  Them. 
When  the  person  you  really  hurt,  the 
only  person,  is  yourself." 

Bobby  took  another  drag  from  his  ciga- 
rette, a  short  one  this  time. 

"The  others,"  Jo-Ann  said,  "they're  out 
there  still,  Bobby — eating,  drinking,  talk- 
ing, having  fun.  They've  probably  for- 
gotten all  about  you  by  now  .  .  .  Isn't 
that  wonderful?  Ten  minutes  after  you've 
left  the  stage.  They've  probably  forgotten 
all  about  you.  Isn't  that  wonderful,  that 
that's  what  you're  so  proud  of?" 

She  took  a  deep  breath. 

"Bobby,"  she  went  on,  "I  don't  know 
much  about  show  business.  I've  been 
around,  but  not  that  much  .  .  .  But  I  do 
know  this.  That  the  only  time  an  enter- 
tainer should  be  proud  is  when  he's  given 
his  audience  everything  that's  inside  him, 
everything  he's  got — good  audience  or  bad. 
When  he's  taken  a  bad  audience  and 
quieted  them  and  made  them  better  by  just 
one  thing — " 

"His  talent?"  Bobby  cut  in. 

"Yes,"  Jo-Ann  said,  "his  talent." 

Bobby  looked  down  at  his  cigarette. 
"Seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "I  have  heard 
that  song  before." 


"Well,  learn  the  song  then,"  Jo-Ann 
said,  her  voice  doubly  firm  now.  "Learn 
it!" 

Bobby  watched  an  ash  fall  from  his 
cigarette  to  the  floor. 

"Bobby,"  he  heard  Jo-Ann  say  then, 
her  voice  somewhat  softer  now,  "you've 
got  talent.  More  than  anybody  else  I've 
ever  seen  or  heard,  you've  got  it.  And 
someday,  someday  you'll  be  sitting  on  the 
top  of  the  whole  wide  world — " 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  Bobby  asked. 

"For  one  thing,  you  told  me,"  Jo-Ann 
said. 

"Yeah?"  Bobby  asked,  looking  over  at 
her. 

"And  for  another,"  Jo-Ann  said,  " — I 
just  know  it." 

"Yeah?"  Bobby  asked. 

"Yes,"  Jo- Ann  said,  " — I  fust  know  it. 
And  I  just  happen  to  think  that  you're 
the  most  marvelous,  the  most — " 

She  stopped. 

And  rose. 

"It's  getting  late,"  she  said.  "I  think 
I'd  better  be  going." 

"Hey,"  Bobby  said,  rising  too,  "I  haven't 
even  offered  you  a  drink  yet." 

"No  thanks,"  Jo-Ann  said.  "I  don't 
drink." 

"Stay  for  a  cigarette?" 

"No— don't  drink,  don't  smoke,  and 
very  boring  in  conversations  sometimes 
.  .  .  like  tonight,"  Jo-Ann  said.  She  picked 
up  the  purse  she'd  put  down  earlier. 
"Well — "  she  said,  beginning  to  walk  to- 
wards the  door. 

"Somebody  waiting  for  you  there?"  Bob- 
by asked. 

Jo-Ann  shook  her  head.  "I'm  alone,"  she 
said. 

"So  can't  you  stay  for  a  little  while 
more?" 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

Bobby  walked  over  towards  the  door 


now,  too.  "Tell  me,  Miss  Florida,"  he  said, 
putting  his  hand  on  hers.  "You  still  liv- 
ing out  in  Flushing?" 

"Yes,"  Jo-Ann  said,  "still." 

Hello  and  good-bye 

"You  know,"  Bobby  went  on,  "I  got  a 
car  now.  And  I  was  just  thinking  how  it 
would  be  if  I  came  out  to  pick  you  up 
some  time  and  the  two  of  us  took  a  drive 
someplace  .  .  .  Can  you  give  me  your 
number  so  I  can  give  you  a  call  some 
time?" 

"No,"  Jo-Ann  said.  She  removed  her 
hand  from  his.  "You're  not  going  to  call. 
I  know  that.  You  know  that.  And — "  She 
smiled.  " — And,  anyway,  I  just  came  by 
to  say  hello,  Bobby. 

"And  now.  good-bye,  Bobby.  .  .  ." 

"You  could  have  knocked  Jo-Ann  over," 
says  her  friend,  "but  Bobby  got  her  phone 
number  somehow  and  called  her  the  very 
next  day.  That  afternoon,  they  went  out 
driving  in  his  new  car.  And  soon  their 
friendship,  their  relationship — whatever 
you  want  to  call  it — was  well  on  its  way. 

"For  that  next  year,  whenever  they  were 
both  in  New  York  and  not  out  on  tours, 
they  were  almost  always  together.  Bobby 
would  take  Jo  out  a  lot — movies,  restau- 
rants, nightclubs.  But  most  of  the  time 
he  just  enjoyed  going  over  to  her  apart- 
ment and  having  dinner  with  her  and  her 
folks,  watching  TV,  telling  jokes,  relaxing, 
talking.  They  both  seemed  very  happy,  and 
it  was  enough  to  make  you  take  back  any- 
thing you  might  have  said  about  Bobby 
had  you  only  known  him  casually  and  not 
as  the  friend  of  your  friend. 

"Bobby,  by  the  way,  became  a  very  hot 
property  during  this  year.  Every  month 
he  seemed  to  grow  more  and  more  popular 
and  famous.  He  was  beginning  to  do  lots  of 
TV  and  swank  club  dates.  He  made  his 
biggest  hit  record — Mack  The  Knife — dur- 


150  FOR  YOU! 


Fill  in  the  form  below  (or  a  reasonable  facsimile  thereof)  as  soon  as  you've  read  all  the  stories  in  this  issue.  Then  mail  it  to  us  right  away. 
Promptness  counts.  Three  $10  winners  will  be  chosen  from  each  of  the  following  areas — on  a  basis  of  the  date  and  time  on  your  postmark: 
Eastern  states;  Southern  states;  Midwestern  states;  Rocky  Mountain  and  Pacific  states;  Canada.  And  even  if  you  don't  earn  $10,  you'll 
be  glad  you  sent  this  ballot  in — because  you're  helping  us  pick  the  stories  you'll  really  love.  MAIL  TO:  MODERN  SCREEN  POLL,  BOX  2291, 
GRAND  CENTRAL  STATION,  N.  Y.  17,  N.  Y. 


Please  circle  the  box  to  the  left  of  the  one 
1.  I  LIKE  DEBBIE  REYNOLDS: 

Ui  more  than  almost  any  other  star  rjp  a  lot 
10  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 
I  READ:  rjj  all  of  her  story  HJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  JJ  super-completely 
HI  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 


2.  I  LIKE  BOBBY  DARIN: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  other  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  UJ  all  of  his  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  JJ  super-completely 
B  completely  0  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
GO  not  at  all 


phrase  which  best  answers  each  question: 

3.  I  LIKE  AUDREY  HEPBURN: 

JJ  more  than  almost  any  other  star  [JJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  JJ  very  little  [JJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  MEL  FERRER: 

JJ  more  than  almost  any  other  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  [JJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  JJ  all  of  their  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  JJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely  [JJ  fairly  well  JJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 

4.  I  LIKE  ELIZABETH  TAYLOR: 

JJ  more  than  almost  any  other  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  JJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 


I  LIKE  EDDIE  FISHER: 

JJ  more  than  almost  any  other  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  JJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  JJ  all  of  their  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  JJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 


5.  I  LIKE  STEPHEN  BOYD: 

JJ  more  than  almost  any  other  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  JJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  JJ  all  of  his  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  J]  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 


ing  this  time.  In  fact,  it  was  because  of 
Mack  and  its  success  that  he  got  his  biggest 
break  up  to  that  time,  an  appearance  on 
the  Perry  Como  show. 

"And  it  was  at  this  time,  too,  that  the 
thing  happened  between  him  and  Jo-Ann. 
The  thing  about  the  ring.  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  Tuesday  night,  late.  Rehearsals 
for  the  Como  show  had  ended  a  little 
while  before  and  Jo-Ann,  who'd  come  to 
watch,  had  gone  with  Bobby  to  a  small 
French  restaurant  not  far  from  the  studio. 

The  place  was  only  half-filled. 

Bobby  and  Jo-Ann  sat  at  a  window 
table,  sipping  their  cafe  espresso,  waiting 
for  their  desserts. 

Finally,  the  waiter  returned  to  their 
table.  Winking  at  Jo-Ann,  he  said,  "Creme 
caramel  for  mademoiselle  .  .  .  and  for 
monsieur,  the  mousse — and  this,  mais 
what  have  we  here?" 

On  that  last  word,  he  lifted  a  tiny 
package  from  the  side  of  the  dish  and 
handed  it  to  Bobby. 

"What  is  it?"  Bobby  asked. 

The  waiter  grinned.  "You  will  have  to 
discuss  that  with  the  mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  as  he  bowed  slightly,  and  left. 

"What's  up,  Jo?"  Bobby  asked.  "What's 
in  here,  anyway?" 

"Just  a  little  something,"  she  said. 

"From  you?"  Bobby  asked. 

"Uh-huh,"  Jo-Ann  said,  beaming. 

She  watched  Bobby  as  he  placed  the 
paper  wrapping  aside,  as  he  stared  for 
a  moment  at  the  box  in  front  of  him,  as 
he  opened  it,  then  as  he  looked  up  again. 

"It's  a  ring,"  he  said. 

"That's  right,"  Jo-Ann  said.  Proudly, 
she  added,  "A  genuine  star  sapphire  ring." 

"What's  it  supposed  to  mean.  .  .  ?" 

She  waited  for  Bobby  to  take  it  out  of 
the  box  now  and  put  it  on. 
Instead,  he  asked,  "What's  it  for?  What's 


it  supposed  to  mean?" 

Jo- Ann  found  herself  clearing  her  throat. 
"I  don't  know  exactly,  Bobby,"  she  said 
"Lots  of  things,  I  guess.  Good  luck  on 
the  show  tomorrow  night.  Thanks  for  all 
the  nice  times  we've  had  together.  I  like 
you.  I  hope  you  like  me  .  .  .  Lots  of  things." 

Bobby  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  wear  it,"  Bobby  interrupted  her. 

"You  can't  wear  it?"  Jo-Ann  asked,  the 
smile  beginning  to  disappear  from  her  face. 
"Why  not?" 

"Because,"  Bobby  said,  "guys  don't  go 
taking  rings  like  this  from  girls  unless — " 

He  picked  up  a  half-filled  glass  of  water 
and  took  a  swallow. 

"Because,"  he  said,  " — because  it  would 
mean  that  there's  something  more  serious 
between  us  than  there  actually  is  .  .  . 
Look,  sweetheart,  you  and  me,  we've  been 
seeing  a  lot  of  each  other  lately,  sure.  But 
I  don't  want  you  to  go  getting  the  idea 
that  you're  the  only  girl  I  see." 

"I  didn't  say  I  was,"  Jo-Ann  said. 

"But  you  thought  maybe  that's  the  way 
it  was,  didn't  you?"  he  asked.  Without 
giving  her  a  chance  to  answer,  he  went  on, 
"Well,  it's  not  that  way,  honey.  I  see  you. 
I  see  other  girls.  I  like  them.  I  like  you — 
none  better,  none  worse.  I  like  all  girls. 
I'm  peculiar.  That's  how  I  get  my  kicks, 
from  knowing  lots  of  girls — some  nice  like 
you,  some  not  so  nice.  .  .  ." 

He  picked  up  the  glass  of  water  again, 
swallowed  again. 

"Honey,"  he  started,  "you're  probably 
the  best  girl  in  the  world  for  me.  Pals  of 
mine  who've  met  you  once  have  told  me 
that.  But,  honey — " 

"Don't,"  Jo-Ann  said,  suddenly,  strange- 
ly. "Don't,  Bobby.  Don't  call  me  honey 
anymore.  Don't  say  anymore.  Don't  try 
to  follow  me  as  I  walk  out  of  here  now. 
And  don't  try  to  give  the  ring  back  to 
me.  It's  yours,  Bobby.  I  bought  it  for  you, 


and  it's  yours.  To  throw  out  if  you  want, 
or  to  put  in  your  bottom  drawer  and  keep 
for  old  times'  sake,  or  to  throw  in  a  fire 
and  watch  melt,  or  to  do  anything  you 
want." 

She  got  up. 

Bobby  started  to. 

"Don't,"'  she  said.  She  looked  at  him. 
Then  down  at  the  ring,  once  more.  .  .  . 

Bobby  had  never  been  drunk  before. 
But  he  was  now. 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  waiter,  approaching 
the  table,  "this  is  the  very  last  cognac  I 
can  serve  you.  We  must  close  in  ten  min- 
utes. C'est  la  loi — the  law." 

But  Bobby  didn't  hear  him. 

He  picked  up  the  glass.  And  he  looked 
down  into  it,  beyond  the  eerily-ambered 
fluid  there.  And  he  thought  of  two  women. 

Damn  you,  he  thought  about  the  first. 
Taking  a  kid.  Lying  to  him.  Cheating  on 
him.  Sucking  him  in  with  your  talk  about 
marriage,  your  talk  about  death.  Holding 
him  in  your  arms  one  minute,  throwing 
him  out  the  next.  Making  him  sick  and 
bitter  and  self-pitying  .  .  .  making  him 
take  it  all  out  on  other  girls.  On  her.  .  .  . 

"Jo,"  he  whispered.  "Jo-Ann  .  .  .  Jo." 

The  waiter  came  back  to  the  table. 

"You  called  me,  monsieur,"  he  asked. 
"You  wish  your  check  now." 

Bobby  shook  his  head. 

He  reached  for  the  little  box  on  the 
table  and  opened  it. 

"Tomorrow,"  he  said,  " — I'm  gonna  call 
her.  First  thing.  And  I'm  gonna  tell  her 
I'm  wearing  it.  .  .  .  I'll  always  wear  it." 

The  waiter  smiled. 

"I  do  not  know  the  girl,  except  for 
tonight,"  he  said,  "but  I  do  know  this — 
that  it  will  make  her  very  'appy." 

"I  hope  so — finally,"  Bobby  said. 

And  he  saw  that  his  hands,  which  had 
begun  to  shake  these  past  few  hours, 
stopped.  END 


6.  I  LIKE  BETTY  LOU  KEIM: 

0  more  than  almost  any  other  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 
0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  WARREN  BERLINGER: 

0  more  than  almost  any  other  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  their  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 

7.  1  LIKED  MARGARET  SULLAVAN: 

0  more  than  almost  any  other  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 


0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 

8.  I  LIKE  ELVIS  PRESLEY: 

0  more  than  almost  any  other  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  his  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 

9.  I  LIKE  DODIE  STEVENS: 

0  more  than  almost  any  other  star  0  a  lot 


0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 

10.  I  LIKE  BRIGITTE  BARDOT: 

0  more  than  almost  any  other  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 


11.  The  stars  I  most  want  to  read  about  are: 


(2)  . 

(3)  . 


(2)  . 

(3)  . 


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Cover  Photograph  by  Gene  Trindl  from  Topix 
Other  Photographers'  Credits  on  Page  24 

DAVID  MYERS,  editor 

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POSTMASTER:  Pleolse  send  notice^rfForm  3579 }o  321  West  44  Street,  New  York  36,  New  York 


579-Jo 


MODERN  SCREEN.  Vol.  54,  No.  5.  May.  1960.  Published  Monthly  by  Dell  Publishing  Co..  Inc.  Office 
of  publication,  .it  Washington  ami  South  Aves..  Ounellen.  N.  J.  Executive  and  editorial  offices.  750  Third 
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Executive  Vice-President:  William  F.  Callahan.  Jr..  Vice-President:  Harold  Clark.  Vice-President-Advertising  Di- 
rector. Published  Miiiiillaneoii-.lv  in  the  Dominion  of  Canada  International  copyright  secured  under  the  provisions  of 
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Trademark  No.  596800. 


Tune  in  to  the  Oscar  Show  on  April  4.  See  local  newspapers  for  time  and  station. 


A  true 
and  touching 
fairy  story 

translated  from 
the  French 


PRINCESS  WHO  SAVED 
THE  BIRDS 


■  Grace  Kelly  Rainier  was  awakened  by  the 
guns:  loud,  sharp  sounds  of  bullets  whistling 
in  the  early  spring  winds. 

Turning  in  her  wide,  comfortable  bed,  she 
looked  at  the  luminous  green  dial  of  the  gold 
boudoir  clock  on  the  nightstand.  Five  o'clock! 
Would  she  never  get  a  full  night's  sleep?  Out- 
side, through  the  filmy  billowing  curtains  at 
the  windows,  she  could  see  the  orange  flames 
of  dawn  beginning  to  rise  in  the  velvety  dark  sky. 

Each  and  every  morning  it  was  this  way. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  recited  a  prayer  only  to 
have  it  punctuated  by  the  sound  of  gunfire. 
Shivering  from  the  cool  morning  winds,  she 
pulled  the  soft  satin  covers  close  about  her 
throat.  She  fervently  hoped  that  the  prayer 
would  quiet  her  spirit. 

There  were  few  things 
that  this  gentle  woman 
hated  in  her  life,  and 
this  she  loathed.  From 
that  very  first  day  when 
Princess  Grace  heard 
the  guns  outside  her 
bedroom  window,  she 
turned  frantically  to 
her  husband,  her  nerves 


suddenly  quaking  with  fear  and  foreboding. 

But  the  Prince,  his  loving  eyes  tender  with 
sincerity,  smiled  gently.  "Darling,"  he  said  in 
his  low  soothing  voice,  "you'll  get  used  to  it. 
All  you  hear  are  the  guns  of  hunters.  Did  you 
think  we  were  having  a  war?" 

"Hunters?"  Princess  Grace  questioned. 
"Hunters  on  the  palace  grounds?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  spoke  calmly.  "Now  don't 
look  so  worried,  my  love.  There  are  wonderful 
game  birds  here.  In  abundance.  Pheasants  and 
quail  and  pigeons.  And  the  friends  of  the 
Throne  come  by  in  the  mornings  to  pass  their 
time.  It's  been  a  tradition  here  for  years, 
and  years.  Hunting's  a  big  sport  with  many 
of  our  friends.    There's  nothing  to  fear." 

She  sighed.  Then  he 
added,  "You'll  get  used 
to  the  guns.  Have  no 
fear.  In  another  month 
you  won't  even  be  con- 
scious of  them." 

She  didn't  know  how 
to  answer  him.  There 
was  a  tight  knot  in  her 
throat.  Should  she  tell 
{Continued  on  page  6) 


THE  BROADWAY  HIT-NOW  THE  SCREEN'S  CRAZIEST  LARK! 

Joan  Blackman  •  Earl  Holliman  •  Fred  Clark  &s  barbIu™ 

Oirected  by  NORMAN  TAUR06  •  Screenplay  by  EDMUND  BELOIN  and  HENRY  GARSON  •  Based  on  the  play  by  GORE  VlDAL  •  A  PARAMOUNT  PICTURE 


Only 
20  minutes 
more  than 
last  night's 
pin-up . . . 


(Continued  from  page  4) 
him  she  hated  the  sound  of  guns  for  as 
long  as  she  could  remember?  And  now  she 
was  going  to  have  to  live  with  them  every 
day  of  her  life  as  a  princess  in  Monaco. 
She  nodded  to  her  husband,  pretending  to 
understand,  pretending  to  be  sympathetic, 
but  within  her  heart  she  was  petrified. 

How  could  she  ever  get  used  to  the  gun- 
fire, accept  it  as  every-day  routine?  When- 
ever she  heard  a  bullet  fired,  she  recalled 
the  day  when  she  was  nine  or  ten.  when 
she  first  heard  that  terrifying  sound.  And 
she  remembered  the  sad,  forlorn  face  of 
Pinky,  the  blond-pink  Pekingese  she  and 
her  sister  Margaret  had. 

Pinky  had  been  given  to  the  two  sisters 
one  Christmas  by  their  mother  who  wanted 
them  to  have  the  responsibility  of  looking 
after  something  of  their  own.  And  the 
girls  adored  him.  They  pampered  him, 
brushed  him,  taught  him  'company'  tricks, 
even  bought  a  small  mattress  bed  for  him 
by  saving  money  for  several  months  from 
their  weekly  allowances. 

Pinky  was  very  affectionate  and  he  would 
play  with  the  girls  for  hours  on  end. 
Whenever  they  went  to  school,  he  missed 
them  and  cried.  Pinky  was  so  lovable  he 
was  the  talk  of  the  neighborhood.  He  was 
not  only  well-groomed  but  very  well- 
behaved. 

That  terrible,  tragic  first  time 

Then,  one  summer  afternoon  when 
Pinky  was  romping  through  the  thick 
green  grass  in  the  backyard,  they  heard 
the  shot. 

Grace  and  Margaret,  in  pale  summer 
dresses,  were  sipping  lemonade  in  the 
kitchen.  They  looked  at  each  other  quiz- 
zically. The  gunfire  sounded  frighteningly 
near.  Where  was  it  coming  from? 


wake  up 


In  a  moment  another  shot  rang  in  the 
air.  Grace  looked  at  her  sister.  "Am  I 
hearing  things?"  she  said, 
i     "It's  a  gun,"  her  sister  said.  "I  hear  it, 
too." 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  disbelief, 
put  down  their  lemonade  and  walked  to 
the  back  porch.  Where  was  the  gunfire 
coming  from?  Standing  there  on  the  porch 
steps,  in  the  heavy  silence  of  that  sunny 
afternoon,  they  waited.  But  the  gunfire 
stopped. 

Suddenly  Marge  screamed.  And  pointed 
to  the  middle  of  the  yard.  There,  prostrate 
in  the  green  grass,  lay  Pinky,  his  small 
round  body  smeared  with  blood. 

Grace  gasped  and  then  shrieked  and  she 
started  to  run  to  him,  but  as  she  rushed 
there  was  a  throbbing  in  her  head  and  a 
fierce  pounding  in  her  heart,  and  only  a 
few  feet  away  from  the  bleeding  Pinky, 
she  dropped  to  the  ground,  fainting  from 
shock. 

When  she  came  to,  she  was  Kong  in  her 
mahogany  four-poster  bed  with  its  white 
dotted  Swiss  canopy.  Her  mother  waited 
with  her  m  the  shaded  room.  White  pencil- 
strokes  of  sunlight  filtered  through  the 
drawn  Venetian  shades. 

"Grace,"  her  mother  spoke  softly,  "just 
close  your  eyes  and  relax." 

But  the  nightmare  of  the  afternoon  ex- 
ploded in  her  mind,  and  she  began  to 
sob  uncontrollably.  Her  mother  tried  to 
calm  her  by  telling  her  the  cook  was  pre- 
paring her  favorite  lamb  chops  for  dinner. 
But  Grace  demanded  to  know  what  had 
happened  to  Pinky. 

Her  mother  tried  to  avoid  relating  the 
tragic  news.  Finally,  she  lowered  her  eyes 
and  told  Grace  the  veterinarian  had  been 
called  but  Pinky  had  died  before  his  ar- 
rival. "Your  father  has  the  police  checking 
to  see  who  was  roaming  the  neighborhood 
with  a  loaded  gun,  and  when  they  find 


him  we'll  take  him  to  court." 

Grace  fell  back  into  her  bed.  Her  dear, 
beloved  Pinky  was  dead.  How  could  she 
and  Margaret  ever  get  along  without  him? 

For  days  afterward,  Grace  moped  around 
the  house,  heartbroken,  haunted  by  the 
echo  of  gunfire  in  her  ears.  It  was  months 
before  she  agreed  to  another  pet,  and, 
even  then,  whenever  she  fed  or  brushed 
her  new  pup,  she  couldn't  help  recalling 
the  horrible  death  of  her  beloved  Pinky  as 
tears  flooded  her  eyes.  .  .  . 

Part  and  parcel 

Now  in  Monaco  she  was  expected  to 
learn  to  live  with  the  sound  of  gunfire, 
morning  after  morning.  At  first,  she  chided 
herself  for  being  hypersensitive.  After  all, 
weren't  there  women  in  the  world  who 
actually  went  on  hunting  expeditions?  And 
she  herself  had  learned,  hadn't  she,  while 
working  for  the  Red  Cross,  to  stand  the 
sight  of  blood.  Couldn't  she  now,  as  an 
adult,  face  the  sound  of  a  hunter's  rifle? 

She  tried.  For  months  she  prodded  her- 
self to  be  less  fearful  of  the  shooting,  but, 
even  so,  it  disturbed  her,  awakened  her  in 
the  pre-dawn  hours  of  night.  .  .  . 

Months  passed  into  years.  Her  children, 
Princess  Caroline  and  Prince  Albert  Alex- 
andre, were  born.  Her  days  were  full.  She 
was  complete  now  as  a  woman,  a  wife  with 
a  doting  husband,  a  mother  with  a  loving 
daughter  and  son. 

Her  days  were  steeped  in  family  and 
palace  activities,  and  each  evening  she 
craved  a  long  night's  sleep  and  rest — but, 
every  morning,  the  guns  awakened  her. 
And  every  shot  was  a  stab  tearing  through 
her  heart.  For  months  she  debated  what 
to  do.  Her  final  answer  was:  nothing.  She 
must  simply  learn  to  accept  the  hunting  as 
part  and  parcel  of  the  palace  routine.  .  .  . 

Then,  late  one  autumn  afternoon,  as  she 
was  strolling  through  the  palace  woods, 


admiring  the  pink  and  gold  of  the  autumn 
leaves,  she  paused  to  take  a  deep  breath. 
Her  children  were  napping,  and  the  Prince 
was  on  a  tour  of  official  duties.  She  had  a 
moment  to  breathe,  to  catch  up  with  her- 
self. Standing  in  the  woods  with  the  whis- 
pering leaves,  she  looked  around  her  at 
the  beautiful  world  God  had  created.  Tall 
trees  and  evergreens  and  wildflowers,  blue 
sky  and  golden  sunlight  and  soft  warm  air. 

Amid  the  rustling  leaves  she  heard  a 
sound,  a  pitiful  cheeping.  Was  it  a  bird 
calling?  Didn't  it  sound  pained?  She 
turned,  and  there,  behind  a  massive  oak 
tree,  in  a  blanket  of  fallen  yellow  leaves, 
lay  a  baby  quail  with  a  wounded  wing. 
Princess  Grace  looked  down  at  it  lying 
there  in  quivering  pain,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  She  fell  to  her  knees  and 
gently  lifted  the  wounded  bird  and  held 
it  against  her  breast.  For  a  moment  she 
didn't  know  what  to  do.  Should  she  call 
for  help? 

No,  she  decided.  Time  was  of  the  essence 
and,  with  the  hurt  little  bird  cupped  in 
her  palms,  she  hurried  back  to  the  palace, 
left  it  with  the  caretaker  and  summoned  a 
doctor  to  look  after  it. 

Then  she  went  upstairs  to  dress  for  the 
evening  meal.  She  just  couldn't  hold  back 
her  feelings  any  longer.  She  would  tell  the 
Prince  tonight  that,  for  her  own  peace  of 
mind  and  heart,  the  shooting  must  stop  

The  Prince's  problem 

Prince  Rainier  shook  his  head  in  dis- 
agreement. "You're  taking  all  of  this  too 
personally,"  he  said.  "If  the  guns  bother 
you,  we'll  change  the  bedroom." 

"No,"  she  told  him.  "I  just  won't  be  able 
to  five  with  myself  if  I  know  these  poor 
helpless  birds  are  being  killed  outside  our 
windows.  Maybe  it's  childish  of  me,  but  I 
can't  stand  killing,  and  I  beg  you,  please, 
to  have  it  stop.  (Continued  on  page  24) 


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desires  (his  too!)  when  you  surround  yourself 
with  Evening  in  Paris,  the  fragrance  that  keeps 
him  falling  in  love  with  you  again  and  again! 
And  you'll  fall  in  love  with  this  almost  unbeliev- 
able bargain!  created  in  paris  •  made  by  bourjois  in  u.s.a. 


Want  the  real  truth?  Write  to  INSIDE  STORY,  Modern  Screen, 
Box  515,  Times  Square  P.O.,  N.Y.  36,  N.Y.  The  most  interesting 
letters  will  appear  in  this  column.  Sorry,  no  personal  replies. 


9  Is  it  true  that  all  is  not  well  between 
Betty  Grable  and  Harry  James? 

— T.T.,  Nanticoke,  Pa. 

A  The  marriage  has  hit  some  sour  notes. 
Harry  is  ready  to  blow  taps. 

9  Does  Troy  Donahue  intend  to  marry 
his  long-time  girlfriend,  Nan  Morris? 

— J.H.,  Orlando,  Fla. 

A  \7o. 

9  What  about  the  rumors  of  a  romance 
between  Maureen  O'Hara  and  Rex 
Harrison? 

— D.B.,  Reno,  Nev. 

A  The  only  time  that  Maureen  and 
Rex  romanced  was  in  the  movie,  Foxes 
of  Harrow,  made  ten  years  ago.  Mau- 
reen's heart  still  belongs  to  her  long- 
time Mexican  beau,  and  she's  furious 
about  the  rumors. 

9  What  is  holding  up  the  release  of  The 
Fugitive  Kind?  I  thought  the  picture 
was  to  be  released  in  time  to  contend 
for  this  year's  Oscars. 

— W.T.,  Canton,  Ohio 

A  That  was  before  the  sneak  preview. 
Anna  Magnani  is  difficult  to  understand. 
She  refuses  to  return  for  retakes  because 
of  her  lack  of  admiration  for  co-star 
Brando — and  his  multitude  of  close-ups. 

9  Is  there  any  substance  to  the  fact  that 
Tony  Steel  is  threatening  to  end  it  all 
— unless  Anita  Ekberg  gives  him  an- 
other chance  to  make  their  marriage 
work? 

— A  S.,  Paris,  III. 

A  Tony  is  threatening — but  neither  his 
friends  nor  Anita  are  taking  the  matter 
very  seriously. 

9  Why  does  Dirk  Bogarde  call  Ava 
Gardner  'mother  dear,'  as  I  read  in  a 
column  he  does  ? 

— F.S.,  Beverly  Hills,  Calif. 

A  He  brings  out  the  maternal  instincts 
in  her. 

9  Can  you  possibly  tell  me  how  some 
of  those  aging  movie  stars  who  appear 
aging  in  'still'  photographs  manage  to 
look  like  ingenues  when  they  appear  on 
TV?  Is  it  lighting,  a  special  make-up? 

— R.T.,  Buffalo,  N.Y. 

A  Sagging  chins  and  necklines  are  pulled 
back  tight  by  a  thin  strip  of  netting. 


Make-up  is  blended  over  it  and  ten  to 
fifteen  years  melt  away — temporarily. 

9  How  serious  is  it  between  Tuesday 
Weld  and  Ray  Anthony? 

— J. I.,  New  Haven,  Conn. 

A  As  serious  as  it  is  between  Tuesday 
and  anybody.  A  passing  fancy. 

9  There's  a  story  going  around  that 
Shelley  Winters  will  no  longer  let  Tony 
Franciosa  out  of  her  sight  for  a  minute. 

Anything  to  it? 

— C.B.,  Seattle,  Wash. 

A  Xo.  Shelley  merely  plans  to  spend 
more  time  in  her  husband's  company. 

9  I  read  your  story  on  the  Bob  Crosbys 

a  couple  of  months  ago,  but  have  seen 
nothing  about  what  happened  after  the 
stabbing.  Did  Bob  divorce  his  wife? 

— R.P.,  Wilmington,  Del. 

A  Bob  patched  up  his  knife  wound  and 

his  marriage. 

9  Isn't  it  unusual  that  Marilyn  Monroe 

was  given  the  rights  to  cut  and  edit  her 
scenes  in  Let's  Make  Love?  How  come 
the  studio  agreed  to  put  this  in  her 
contract? 

— J.R.,  Topeka,  Kan. 

A  It  wasn't  in  her  contract.  Marilyn 
Monroe  personally  persuaded  director 
George  Cukor  to  let  her  sit  in  on  the 
editing.  Cukor  found  it  easier  to  agree 
than  to  argue  and  hold  up  production. 

9  Could  you  tell  me  why  all  the  TV 
cowboy  stars  like  Dale  Robertson.  Nick 
Adams.  Bob  Horton,  Peter  Breck,  Ty 
Hardin.  Gene  Barry  and  Hugh  O'Brian 

suddenly  consider  themselves  singers  and 
are  turning  up  as  such  on  TV  guest  shots 
and  records? 

— G.H.,  Far  Rockaway,  N.Y. 

A  Gene  Barry  was  a  former  musical 
comedy  star.  The  others  are  optimistic 
about  becoming  same  when  the  Western 
craze  is  over. 

9  Do  Frank  Sinatra's  gifts  of  a  huge 
Palm  Springs  home  and  diamond  ring 
to  ex-wife  Nancy  and  the  frequent  din- 
ners they've  been  having  together  mean 
that  there  is  a  possibility  that  there  may 
be  a  re-marriage  some  time  in  the 
future? 

— V.C.,  Montpelier,  Vt. 

A  No.  Nancy  still  has  a  place  in  his  heart, 
but  other  girls  keep  catching  his  eye. 


2a 


ELI  A 


SMOULDERING 
STORY  OF 
THE  SOUTH! 


You 
can't 
hold 
back... 

A  WILD  RIVER. .  . 
A  DEEP  LONGING... 

A  SUDDEN  LOVE! 


starring  - — 

MONreOMERYCUFT7  LK  REMKJK^ joVan  Fleet 


Produced  and  n  I    I  A    1/  A  "7  A  M        Screenplay  by         ^  COLOR  by 

Directed  by  LLIA  l\AZ.AN -PAUL  OSBORN    OlMEN/lAS<=OF>e  DELUXE. 


COLOR  by 


JANE  HUGHES, /uraior,  Clarke  High 
School,  East  Meadow,  L.I.,N.Y.,  says : 
"I  used  to  be  tormented  by  skin 
blemishes.  They  just  wouldn't  clear 
up  even  with  scrubbing  and  special 
skin  creams.  A  friend  urged  me  to 
try  Clearasil  and  right  away  I  saw 
improvement.  Now  my  skin  is  com- 
pletely clear."      .  .  . 

\jMefWirie4- 


SCIENTIFIC  CLEARASIL  MEDICATION 

STARVES 
PIMPLES 

SKIN-COLORED,  Hides  pimples  whi/e  if  works 

clearasil  is  the  new-type  scientific  medication 
especially  for  pimples.  In  tube  or  new  lotion 
squeeze-bottle,  clearasil  gives  you  the  effective 
medications  prescribed  by  leading  Skin  Special- 
ists, and  clinical  tests  prove  it  really  works. 
HOW  CLEARASIL  WORKS  FAST 

1.  Penetrates  pimples.'  Keratnlvtic'  action 


medications  can  penetrate.  Encourages 
quick  growth  ol  healthy,  smooth  skin! 
2.  Stops  bacteria.  Antiseptic  action  stops 

and  spread  pimples  .  .  .  helps  prevent 


clear  pimple 


lurther  pimple 
3.  'Starves'  pimples  O 

action  'starves*  pimple 
helps  remove  excess 
oimples  .  .  .  works  fast  I 


'Floats'  Out  Blackheads,  clearasil  softens 
and  loosens  blackheads  so  they  float  out  with 
normal  washing.  And,  clearasil  is  greaseless, 
stainless,  pleasant  to  use  day  and  night  for 
uninterrupted  medication. 
Proved  by  Skin  Specialists !  In  tests  on  over 
300  patients,  9  out  of  every  10  cases  were 
cleared  up  or  definitely  improved 
while  using  clearasil  (either  lo- 
tion or  tube).  In  Tube,  69<£  and 
98(f.  Long-lasting  Lotion  squeeze- 
bottle,  only  $1.25  (no  fed.  tax). 
Money-back  guarantee. 
At  all  drug 
counters. 


10    LARGEST-SELLING  BECAUSE  IT  REALLY  WORKS 


•jf  ill 

■{movies 


by  Florence  Epstein 


Doris 
an  en 


Day  finds  that  taking  care  of  a  successful  drama-critic  husband  and 
irgetic  family  of  little  boys  gets  her  into  some  comical  situations. 


PLEASE  DON'T  EAT  THE  DAISIES 

Doris  Day 
David  Niven 

domestic   comedy  Richard  Haydn 

Charles  Herbert 
Patsy  Kelly 

■  It's  an  apartment  in  New  York — you  can 
tell,  even  though  it's  buried  under  the  scattered 
belongings  of  four  healthy  sons.  Happy  parents 
(Doris  Day,  David  Niven)  live  there,  too. 
Tonight's  the  night.  David  has  left  his  teaching 
job  to  become  drama  critic  on  a  big  newspaper. 
As  soon  as  Doris'  mother  (Spring  Byington) 
comes  to  "sit"  they're  off  to  their  first  open- 
ing. Thus  ends  one  life  and  begins  another. 
Does  a  drama  critic  have  any  friends  ?  Does 
he  deserve  them  when  he  raps  their  plays?  Is 
a  drama  critic's  wife  glamorous  enough  to  hold 
her  husband — with  all  those  gorgeous  actresses 
buttering  him  up?  We'll  see.  Doris  doesn't  wait 
and  see.  She  moves  to  the  country,  joins  the 
PTA,  involves  herself  in  the  local  theater  group. 
Well,  a  wife  has  to  do  something  when  she 
only  has  four  kids,  a  new  house  and  a  thousand 
repairmen  to  keep  her  busy!  The  conflicts 
come — but  they're  small  and  cozv. — MGM. 


TALL  STORY 

campus  romance 


Anthony  Perkins 
Jane  Fonda 
Ray  Walston 
Anne  Jackson 
Marc  Connelly 


■  If  you're  a  co-ed  and  want  to  catch  a  hus- 
band try  for  a  basketball  star.  You  see,  there 
are  gamblers  near  every  campus  who  try  to 
bribe  basketball  stars.  Co-ed  Jane  Fonda 
doesn't  know  anything  about — well,  nearly 
anything.  She  just  wants  to  marry  basketball 
star  Tony  Perkins.  She  knew  that  even  before 
she  met  him.  It's  only  a  matter  of  weeks  after 
she's  met  him  that  he  proposes.  Swell.  But 
where  will  they  get  the  money  to  move  out  of 
the  dormitory  and  into  a  trailer?  It  just  so 
happens  that  unseen  gamblers  offer  Tony  the 
money  (and  much  more  than  he  needs)  if  only 
he'll  throw  a  game  against  visiting  Russians. 
Tony  is  honest,  but  he's  tempted.  "My  uncle 
is  sending  me  money,"  he  tells  Jane.  Somehow 
that  doesn't  sound  right.  It  throws  Tony  into 
turmoil.  Turmoil  leads  to  his  purposely  flunk- 
ing a  midterm  exam  so  that  he'll  be  disquali- 
fied for  playing.  The  whole  school  rises  against 
(Continued  on  page  12) 


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new  movies 

(Continued  from  page  10) 

Professor  Ray  Walston  (they  want  him  to 
give  Tony  another  exam).  Walston  won't.  Not 
even  when  Tony  tells  about  the  bribe  and  his 
reasons  for  flunking?  No.  Not  even  when  the 
Russians  have  a  nineteen-point  lead?  Well — 
that's  better.  That's  Tall  Story.— Warners. 


EXPRESSO    BONGO        Laurence  Harvey 
Sylvia  Syms 

,     ,  ,  Yolande  Donlan 

wonderful  satire  Cliff  Richard 

Meier  Tzelniker 


■  This  is  an  hilarious  comedy  that  takes  place 
in  London's  Soho — a  section  full  of  espresso 
joints,  seedy  nightclubs,  shady  ladies.  Laurence 
Harvey's  a  talent  agent  but  his  clients  can't 
even  keep  him  in  salami  sandwiches.  For  a 
couple  of  years  he's  been  in  love  with  a 
stripper  (Sylvia  Syms).  She's  a  sweet  school- 
girl type,  wants  to  become  another  Judy  Gar- 
land. That's  her  problem.  Laurence  wants  to 
become  a  bigtime  operator.  Enter  teen-ager 
Cliff  Richards  whose  nagging  mother  drives 
him  to  the  bongo  drums  (for  solace)  and  to 
singing  rock  'n'  roll.  Laurence  signs  him  to  a 
SO-SO  contract.  Then,  by  a  series  of  outrageous 
and  daring  maneuvers,  turns  him  into  a  na- 
tional idol.  The  money  isn't  pouring  in  long 
before  a  visiting  American  singer  (on  the  way 
down)  takes  Cliff  under  her  wing.  Laurence  is 
out  in  the  cold — his  50-50  contract  wouldn't 
stand  up  for  one  minute  in  any  court.  Teen-age 
fads,  television,  a  whole  segment  of  the  enter- 
tainment world  is  brilliantly  satirized. 

— Continental. 


HELLER  IN  PINK  TIGHTS 

Sophia  Loren 
Anthony  Quinn 
Margaret  O'Brien 

new  twist  on  the  Old  West    Steve  Forrest 
Eileen  Heckart 

■  From  the  moment  it  starts  you  realize  that 
Heller  has  a  special  charm.  It's  about  show 
business  in  the  Old  West  when  performers 
traveled  from  one  wild  town  to  another  in 
painted  wagons — and  often  traveled  fast,  to 
lose  their  creditors  or  the  sheriff.  The  heller 
is  Sophia  Loren,  a  gorgeous  flirt,  who  plays 
all  the  star  roles  in  Anthony  Quinn's  stock 
company.  The  plays  are  terrible  (for  the  climax 
of  one  Sophia's  tied  to  a  white  horse  which 
is  let  loose  in  the  theater)  but  the  charm  is 
that  Quinn  and  company  (Eileen  Heckart, 
Margaret  O'Brien,  Edmund  Lowe)  are  serious 
about  their  'art.'  Quinn  loves  Sophia;  she 
loves  excitement.  She  falls  for  the  first  hired 
gunman  (Steve  Forrest)  she  sees,  but  when  he 
wins  her  in  a  poker  game  she  gets  scared — 
he's  a  man  who  collects.  Owing  money  to 
everybody,  it's  into  the  wagons  again  for  the 
company.  Indians,  mountain  blizzards,  stray 
gunmen,  and  Steve  Forrest  dog  their  trail.  By 
the  time  they  get  to  the  next  town  they've  lost 
everything — and  Quinn  is  convinced  he's  lost 
Sophia  to  Forrest.  The  acting  is  excellent,  the 
story  is  solid  and  colorful  with  many  satiric 
touches. — Paramount. 

BABETTE  GOES  TO  WAR 

Brigitte  Bardot 
Jacques  Charrier 

BB  in  the  secret  service      Ronald  Howard 
Francis  Blanche 
Hannes  Messemer 

■  BB  wears  clothes  all  through  this  movie, 
which  should  have  ruined  the  movie  but  didn't. 
Takes  place  in  1940  when  the  Germans  occu- 
pied France.  BB  manages  to  be  in  London  at 


the  time  where  she  serves  as  charwoman  at 
Free  French  Forces  headquarters.  (The  reason 
she  submits  to  the  khaki  and  mop  is  because 
Jacques  Charrier  is  a  lieutenant  in  those 
forces.)  One  day  British  Major  Ronald  How- 
ard notices  that  BB  bears  an  uncanny  re- 
semblance to  the  ex-girlfriend  of  a  German 
general  (Hannes  Messemer)  who  just  happens 
to  be  planning  the  invasion  of  England.  Much 
against  the  better  judgment  of  Charrier  (who 
thinks  BB  is  cute  but  stupid)  Brigitte  and  a 
radio  set  are  dropped  from  a  plane  outside 
Paris.  The  idea  is  for  her  to  find  Messemer  and 
kidnap  him.  That  way  the  Germans  will  think 
he  deserted  (with  the  invasion  plans)  and 
they'll  have  to  dream  up  a  whole  new  invasion. 
While  Charrier  (who  jumped  in  another  para- 
chute) is  still  getting  off  the  ground  at  his 
end  of  Paris,  BB  is  sending  radio  messages 
from  her  own  bedroom  at  Gestapo  headquar- 
ters where  she  has  become  the  protegee  of 
Gestapo  leader  Francis  Blanche  (who,  as  a 
lunatic  rolypoly  monster,  steals  the  picture). 
He  notices  an  uncanny  resemblance  between 
BB  and  Messemer's  ex-girl  and  instructs  BB 
to  dazzle  Messemer  and  report  every  move 
he  makes  Poor  Messemer  doesn't  have  a 
chance  because  he,  too,  notices  an  uncanny  re- 
semblance etc.  Needless  to  say,  BB,  gay  and 
Gallic  all  the  way,  almost  singlehandedly  stems 
the  German  invasion. — Columbia. 

THE   MOUNTAIN    ROAD    James  Stewart 
Glenn  Corbett 
Lisa  Lu 

trouble  in  China  Frank  Silvera 

Henry  (Harry)  Morgan 

■  This  road  is  uphill  all  the  way.  It  wind; 
through  East  China  and  where  it  ends  nobody 
knows.  But  Major  James  Stewart  knows  his 
job:  It's  to  slow  down  the  Japanese  who  are 
advancing  just  a  little  behind  the  retreating 
Allies.  Well,  he  and  his  crew  of  eight  demoli- 
tion experts  get  to  work  lighting  fuses.  First 
they  blow  up  an  Allied  airstrip,  then  a  Chinese 
bridge,  then  a  curve  in  the  road,  then  an  am- 
munition dump.  It  would  be  good  clean  work 
if  there  weren't  so  many  Chinese  civilian; 
around.  These  Chinese  civilians  get  in  the  way 
of  all  that  dynamite  and  it's  pretty  trying  on 
James.  Somewhere  along  the  road  his  jeep  has 
picked  up  (by  official  request)  the  widow 
(Lisa  Lu)  of  a  Chinese  General  and  she  and 
James  indulge  in  a  continuous,  if  well-man- 
nered, argument.  It  boils  down  to:  he  likes  his 
job,  she  doesn't  like  his  job.  What  James 
doesn't  like  is  the  fact  that  two  of  his  crew 
are  murdered  by  Chinese  bandits,  and  the  fact 
that  starving  Chinese  trample  on — and  kill — 
crewman  Glenn  Corbett  while  he's  in  the  act 
of  giving  them  food.  War  is  hell,  as  they  say. 
It's  even  worse  when  you  can't  tell  your  friends 
from  your  enemies.  That's  James'  problem. 

— Columbia. 


TOO  SOON  TO  LOVE 

teen-age  romance 


Jennifer  West 
Richard  Evans 
Warren  Parker 
Ralph  Manza 
Jacqueline  Schwab 


■  The  way  to  keep  teen-agers  down  in  Los 
Angeles  is  to  set  the  police  on  them.  Minute 
they  park  in  a  car — police.  Minute  they  gather 
in  groups  of  two— police.  Never  mind,  some 
kids  are  dangerous.  Jennifer  West  and  Richard 
Evans  are  not.  They're  just  in  love.  Jennifer's 
father  (Warren  Parker)  would  probably  beat 
her  black  and  blue  if  she  even  mentioned  the 
word.  That's  why  she  and  Richard  meet  secret- 
ly. Too  often.  Jennifer's  mother  never  told  her 
you  can  get  pregnant  that  way.  Too  bad.  Be- 
cause when  Jennifer  gets  pregnant  she  feels 


like  committing  suicide,  dreadful  thought. 
Richard  isn't  very  happy  about  it,  either. 
Their  idyllic  romance  turns  somewhat  sordid. 
The  acting's  fine  but  the  problems  the  movie 
presents  might  have  done  with  a  little  more 
analyzing. — U-I. 


MAN  ON  A  STRING 

the  spy  game 


Ernest  Borgnine 
Kerwin  Mathews 
Colleen  Dewhurst 
Alexander  Scourby 
Vladimir  Sokoloff 


■  Ernest  Borgnine  is  just  a  well  meaning,  rich 
Hollywood  producer.  If  the  Chief  of  the  Rus- 
sian Espionage  in  the  U.S.A.  (Alexander  Scour- 
by)  pays  for  the  parties  Ernest  gives  and  then 
gets  introduced  to  influential  guests — is  that 
bad?  Ernest  doesn't  think  it's  bad  as  long  as 
Scourby  lets  Pop  (Vladimir  Sokoloff)  and 
Ernest's  brothers  leave  Russia.  The  Central 
Bureau  of  Intelligence  shortly  informs  Ernest 
that  what  he  is  doing  is  not  only  bad  it's  prac- 
tically treason.  In  which  case  Ernest  agrees  to 
work  for  the  CBI  as  a  counter-spy.  (Even  so, 
he's  kind  of  upset  when  he  discovers  that  his 
production  assistant,  Kerwin  Mathews,  has 
been  a  CBI  agent  all  along.)  Being  a  movie 
producer,  it  doesn't  seem  suspicious  for  Ernest 
to  shoot  a  film  in  West  Berlin  (meanwhile  he 
picks  up  information  on  East  Berliners).  Then 
he's  invited  to  Moscow  where  his  old  friend, 
Scourby,  vouches  for  his  loyalty.  There  he's 
taken  on  a  grand  tour  of  a  super-spy  school 
and  memorizes  the  names  and  descriptions  of 
all  his  future  contacts  in  the  U.S.A.  Naturally, 
it's  only  a  matter  of  time  before  the  Russians 
realize  he's  spying  on  them  instead  of  for 
them.  He  gets  out  of  Moscow,  all  right,  but  he 
has  a  heck  of  a  time  getting  out  of  East  Ber- 
lin (in  handcuffs).  Fascinating  to  see  how  our 
spy  system  works  (hidden  TV  sets,  hidden 
mikes,  hidden  tape  recorders);  fascinating  to 
see  how  theirs  works,  too:  particularly  since 
this  movie  is  based  on  a  true  story. 

— Columbia. 

RECOMMENDED  MOVIES: 

SOLOMON  AND  SHEBA  (Cinemascope,  United 
Artists):  Way  back  when  Solomon  ( Vul  Brynner) 
was  King  of  Israel,  and  Sheba  (Gina  Lollobrigida) 
was  Queen  of  .  .  .  well,  you  know,  everyone  was  doing 
fine  until  Egypt's  Pharoah  got  worried  over  Israel's 
prosperity.  Solomon's  older  brother  (George  Sanders) 
had  been  plotting  against  him;  but  when  Sheba  and 
Pharoah  join  forces,  Yul  is  really  in  trouble.  His 
trials  include  blasphemous  'sacred'  orgies,  and  the 
destruction  of  a  temple  (in  which  Marisa  Pavan  was 
praying  for  Yul).  But,  in  these  days  of  visions,  Yul 
sees  how  to  destroy  his  enemies,  and  Gina  repents  her 
sins.  It's  a  lavish  spectacle! 

VISIT  TO  A  SMALL  PLANET  (Paramount): 
Other-galaxy  man  Jerry  Lewis  is  crazy  about  Earth. 
One  day  he  flies  down  in  his  disc,  and  lands  on  the 
lawn  of  TV  commentator  Fred  Clark.  Clark  is  about 
to  broadcast  his  views  that  such  things  as  Jerry  and 
his  saucer  don't  exist.  Well,  Jerry  shows  him,  his 
daughter  {Joan  Blackman),  and  her  jealous  suitor 
(Earl  Holliman)  a  trick  or  two  before  he  leaves. 
Keeps  you  laughing. 

GUNS  OF  THE  TIMBERLAND  (Warners):  Alan 
Ladd  and  Gilbert  Roland  are  loggers.  When  they 
come  to  this  town  and  want  to  chop  some  trees,  every- 
body's mad  at  them.  Why?  Rancher  Jeanne  Crain 
tells  how  no  trees  on  the  mountains  mean  floods  in  the 
town.  Lyle  Bettger.  her  foreman,  tries  his  darndest 
to  do  in  Alan's  plans.  Frankie  Avalon,  a  likeable  sort, 
helps  solve  the  problem. 

THE  GALLANT  HOURS  (United  Artists):  This  is 
a  tribute  to  Admiral  William  F.  Halsey  Jr.'s  long 
career,  and  a  aood  war  movie.  Halsey  saved  Guadal- 
canal from  the  Japanese,  and  his  daring  and  decisive- 
ness earned  the  admiration  of  his  staff  (here,  played 
by  Dennis  Weaver,  Les  Tremayne,  Walter  Sande, 
Karl  Swenson).  Cagney's  leadership,  'ourage,  and 
everyone's  awareness  of  the  high  stakes  add  great 


WHOEVER  YOU  ARE 

YOU'RE  IN  THIS  PICTURE! 

Because  this  tells  of  youth's  challenge 
to  grown-ups  who  don't  understand! 


: 

"One  mistake 

L   "My  kisses  aren't  'M 

doesn't  make  me 

B    going  to  pay 

a  scarlet  woman!" 

;     rent  for  the  ring  m 

■    you  gave  me!"  ■ 

"We  don't  love  people 
because  they're 
perfect... we'd  have 
no  one  to  love!" 


His  first 
film  role! 


Columbia 

Pictures 

presents 

the  movie 

you've 

been 

hearing 

about  on 

Radio 

and  TV! 


fa  9i 


Michael  Callan  Tuesday  Weld  and  Victoria  Shaw 

»,.« Warren  Berlinger-  Roberta  Shore 


.............    GUEST  STARS  •*»•«•»«»•♦»•*«« 

James  Darren  •  Duane  Eddy  and  the  Rebels  : 

Hear  James  Darren  sing  "Because  They're  Young"  ♦ 
Don't  miss  the  Academy  Awards  TV  show  April  4th.  Check  your  local  newspaper  for  time  and  station. 


H  ! 


Wear  it  off  the  shoulder  —  on  the  shoulder  — 

strapless.  That's  one  joy  of  this  convertible 
corselette!  Another  joy:  a  zipper  that  zips  in 
front!  Also,  there's  the  chic  of  a  plunged  hack, 
the  subtle  deception  of  padded  cups.  Sound 
expensive?  Actual  cost  is  just  $12.50.  So  even 
on  a  no-car  income  you  can  afford  CAPRI  by 

BEST  FORM 


BIT  LYLB  KBNYON  EXGEL 


The  Nation's  Top  Disk  Jockeys  pose  a 
series  of  questions  to  see  if  you  know 
your  record  stars. 

1.  The  singing  of  these  two 
young  brothers  is  hailed  by 

teenagers.  One  was  born  in  1937 , 
the  other  in  1939.  Million- 
record  sellers  of  theirs  were 
Wake  Up,  Little  Susie  and 
Bird  Dog. 

2.  This   curly-headed  songster 
records    for    Roulette,  has 


Jack  Lacy 
Station  WINS 
New  York,  N.  Y. 


hobbies 
guitar. 


been  on  TV 
piano  and 


fib; 


Hi 


are 

Two  million- 
record  sellers  were  Kisses 
Sweeter  Than  Wine 
and  Honeycomb. 
3.  He's  a  singer  on  the 
Columbia  label.  He 
writes  songs  and  insists 
that  his  hobby  is  fishing: 
One  great  single  is  I 
Walk  The  Line.  His  lat- 
est hit  is  Little  Drum- 
mer Boy 


Johnny  Johnson 
Station  KOY 
Phoenix,  Ariz. 


Paul  Flanagan 
Station  WPTR 
Albany,  N.  Y. 


4.  This  songstress  is  a  former 
ballerina.  She  records  for 
|^BHB|      MGM  and  is  married  to  con- 
ductor  Acquaviva    Ho  latest 

W  1       album  is  Sings  Sweet. 

5^        *1      Her  latest   single  is  Little 
Things  Mean  A  Lot.  Past 
jL-f    •      hit  single*  nere  Your  Cheat- 
v        ing  Heart  and  Why  Don't 
You  Believe  Me? 

^Hfl^Fh  so  relaxed  that  some  people 

wait  for  him  to  fall  asleep 
while  he  sings  on  his  TV  show. 
He  records  for  RCA  Victor, 
and  he  used  to  be  a  barber. 
G.  At  ten,  he  played  piano 
by  ear,  sang  in  New 
Orleans'  honky-tonks.  His 
recording  company  is  Im- 
perial. One  great  single  was 
Blueberry  Hill.  His  latest 
album  is  Twelve  Million 
Records. 

7.  She  is  known  as  the 
greatest  jazz  singer  of 
our  time.  She  records  for 
Verve  Records,  was  once 
married  to  Chick  Webb. 
She's  been  seen  on  TV  and 
in  films.  The  song  that  cata- 
pulted her  to  fame  was  A 
Tisket,  A  Tasket. 


ouiutoQ  stvj  -g 
S3UtV£  mof 

TO  »"»'"(«/  "£ 


Jim  Mack 
Station  WJBW 
New  Orleans,  La. 


MODERN  SCREEN'S 
8  PAGE  GOSSIP  EXTRA 
by 

HOLLYWOOD'S 
GREATEST  COLUMNIST 


Louella  asks  the  critics  to  please  give  Fabian  a  chance  and  stop  attacking  his  act- 
ing and  his  singing.  He's  a  -nice  kid,  she  declares;  he  deserves  a  hand— not  a  boot. 


!!  » 


Prediction:  Marlon  and 
France  will  Marry 

Now  that  the  smoke  is  beginning  to  clear 
around  the  big  romantic  explosion  of  the  year 
and  we  can  see  the  situation  a  little  more 
clearly,  I'm  going  out  on  a  limb  and  make  a 
prediction: 

That    Marlon    Brando    and  France 

Nuyen  will  marry  as  soon  as  his  divorce  is 
final  in  May.  Perhaps  before  that,  if  he  can 
enlist  the  aid  of  Anna  Kashfi  (she  has  to 
give  permission  for  a  'quickie'  divorce  in 
Nevada) — which  I  doubt.  Anna  just  isn't  in  the 
frame  of  mind  to  cooperate. 

Certainly  l'aftaire  Brando-Nuyen-and  Bar- 
bara Luna  has  been  the  big  story  in  the  love 
realm  out  of  Hollywood  in  months  and  months. 
For  the  press  it  had  everything — famous 
names,  jealousy,  a  headline  phrase  "compul- 
sive eating"  (which  first  appeared  in  my  front 
page  story  ),  and  money — a  S750.000  loss  to 
producer  Ray  Stark  when  France  had  to  be  re- 
placed in  his  The  World  of  Suzie  Wong  be- 
cause she  had  gained  so  much  weight  from 
compulsive  eating,  worrying  over  Marlon  and 
Barbara  back  in  Hollywood. 

Unless  you've  been  hibernating  in  a  cave 
like  the  bears  during  these  winter  months,  I'm 
sure  you  are  familiar  with  the  details: 

Marlon  and  France  were  apparently  very 
much  in  love  when  she  left  for  Hong  Kong  to 
start  the  screen  version  of  her  Broadway  hit. 
The  World  ot  Suzie  Wong,  opposite  Bill 
Holden.  Then,  it  starts  getting  talked  that 
Brando  is  seeing  Barbara  Luna,  former  girl- 
friend of  Vic  Damone 

Maybe  in  way  off  Hong  Kong,  France  didn't 
hear  this  gossip — but  she  most  certainly  did 
when  the  company  got  to  London  to  film  the 
interiors. 

If  you  can  believe  what  you  hear — France 
meets  emotional  problems  by  eating,  eating, 
eating,  and  the  first  thing  you  know  she  had 
added  so  much  poundage  she  didn't  "match" 
up  with  the  Hong  Kong  exteriors — and  she  was 
removed  from  the  part — practically  a  million- 
dollar  decision  and  loss  to  the  producer. 

There  is,  however,  an  element  of  mystery 
here.  A  friend  of  mine,  a  reporter  who  had 
gone  to  London  expressly  to  interview  France 
for  a  national  magazine,  tells  me  she  talked 
with  the  half-Chinese,  half-French  charmer  fhe 
day  previous  to  her  departure,  " — and  she 
didn't  look  fat  to  me.  At  least,  not  fat  enough 
to  be  removed  from  a  role  that  was  practically 
completed." 

Second  element  adding  to  the  puzzle  came 
after  I  talked  over  the  telephone  to  Barbara 
Luna,  herself  an  exotic  Oriental,  half-Filipino 
and  half-Hungarian. 

"I  don't  know  what  all  the  fuss  is  about." 
she  told  me,  "I've  been  out  of  town  over  the 


Since  Fro 
do  has  be 


?  Nuyen's  return  to  Hollywood,  Moody  Marlon  Bran- 
devotion  itself  to  his  emotionally-npset  girlfriend. 


week  end  and  knew  nothing  about  this  storm 
until  I  returned  yesterday. 

"I'm  not  in  love  with  Marlon  Brando  but  I 
do  admire  and  respect  him.  I  haven't  heard 
from  him  since  all  the  commotion  started.  Yes. 
my  name  has  been  submitted  to  Ray  Stark  to 
replace  Miss  Nuyen  in  the  picture,  but  I  doubt 
I'll  get  the  part."  (She  didn't.  The  girl  who 
made  the  original  test  for  the  picture.  Nancy 
Kwan.  did.) 

Away  planed  Marlon  to  New  York  to  meet 
his  "emotionally  upset,  plus  bronchitis  victim- 
ized" girlfriend,  France,  as  she  planed  in  from 
England. 

Since  her  return  to  Hollywood  he  has  been 
devotion  itself,  dining  with  France  nightly  in 
the  out-of-the-way  spots  and  being  most  sym- 
pathetic. 

From  all  I  can  gather,  France  needs  friend- 
ship and  help.  Long  before  she  was  taken  off 
the  film,  there  were  reports  that  she  was  very, 
very  difficult,  some  people  close  to  the  situation 


saying  she  was  doing  all  she  could  to  be  a 
"female  Brando." 

Her  outbursts  reached  the  unreasonable 
stage  in  London  when  she  blew  a  fuse  over 
being  quartered  in  the  Connaught  Hotel,  which 
is  one  of  the  finest  in  London  and  where  the 
rest  of  the  cast  including  Bill  Holden  was 
staying. 

Many  people  feel  faintly  sorry  for  her.  What- 
ever the  cause.  France  has  'blown'  a  great  op- 
portunity— there  are  few  and  far  between  roles 
as  fine  for  an  Oriental  girl  as  The  World  of 
Suzie  Wong.  On  the  other  hand  there  are 
others,  Barbara  Luna  among  them,  who  feel 
France  has  been  her  own  worst  enemy.  "Mar- 
lon never  mentioned  her  name  to  me,"  said 
Barbara,  "I  don't  know  her  at  all — so  I  can- 
not say  whether  I  feel  sorry  for  her  or  not." 

My  personal  reaction  is  this:  It's  a  shame 
she  lost  Suzie — but  in  the  long  run  France  may 
gain  what  she  apparently  wants  most — Mar- 
lon Brando. 


Las  Vegas  Highjinks 


All  roads  lead  to  Las  Vegas  this  month.  With 
Oceans  11,  starring  Frank  Sinatra,  Dean 
Martin.  Sammy  Davis.  Jr.  and  Peter 

Lawford,  shooting  there  with  a  host  of  guest 
stars,  the  gambling  mecca  was  jammed  with 
Hollywoodites  and  fans  from  all  over  the 
country. 

The  big  show,  of  course,  was  the  nightly 
appearance  of  Frank,  Pete,  Dean  and  Sammy, 
(plus  that  wonderful  Joey  Bishop)  on  the 
stage  at  the  Sands  Hotel — and  you  never  heard 
or  saw  such  wonderful  clowning  as  these  top- 
notchers  breaking  each  other  up  at  every  per- 
formance. 

To  give  you  an  idea,  during  a  sentimental 
song  of  Frank's  Dean  Martin  called  from  the 
wings,  "And  now  we'll  hear  two  words  from 
Eva  Marie  Saint!'' 

The  week  end  I  spent  in  Las  Vegas  it  was 


hard  to  tell  whether  there  was  a  better  show 
on  the  stage  or  in  the  audience. 

Even  those  stay-at-homes,  Joanne  Wood- 
ward and  Paul  Newman,  came  down  to  see 
the  fun.  I  always  thought  Joanne  a  pretty  girl. 
But  she  is  so  glowingly  happy  since  her 
marriage  to  Paul,  she's  really  beautiful  these 
days. 

Her  hair  is  very  blonde  (for  her  role  in  From 
The  Terrace^  and  the  night  I  saw  her  she  was 
wearing  an  orange-pink  evening  gown — by  far 
the  prettiest  girl  in  the  room  (or  the  chorus). 

Joanne  told  me  that  when  she  and  Paul  com- 
plete Terrace,  she's  getting  ready  to  be  just 
"Mrs.  Newman."  She  said,  "When  Paul  leaves 
for  Israel  to  mcke  Exodus,  I'm  going  along  just 
as  his  wife.  Remember  when  you  interviewed 
me  in  New  York  (for  Modern  Screen)  I  told 
you  I  didn't  want  any  long  separations  in  our 
marriage.  So,  I'm  going  along  just  for  the  ride," 
she  laughed. 

Shirley  MacLaine  was  bounding  around 


here,  there  and  everywhere.  She  had  come  to 
Vegas  to  do  a  small  guest  appearance  role  in 
Oceans  1 1  with  Frank — and  Miss  Shirley  was 
having  a  ball. 

The  little  Mexican  comedian,  Cantinflas  is 
such  a  dear.  Chatted  with  him  right  after  the 
show  at  the  Sands  and  he  invited  me  to  be  a 
'guest'  in  his  picture!  My  typewriter  keeps  me 
too  busy. 

Mrs.  Peter  Lawford  was  in  a  party  with  her 
distinguished  brother,  Senator  Jack  Kennedy, 
who  is  running  as  fast  as  he  can  to  be  the 
Democratic  presidential  nominee. 

Joey  Bishop  said  from  the  stage,  directly  to 
the  Senator:  "If  you  become  President,  sir,  I 
have  a  few  requests — just  simple  ones:  Make 
Sinatra  ambassador  to  Italy,  send  Lawford  to 
England — and  for  me — just  see  I  don't  get 
drafted  again." 

Las  Vegas  is  always  jumping.  But  I  wonder 
if  it  will  ever  hit  this  peak  of  on-stage  and  off- 
stage excitement  again.  Wow! 


Joanne  and  Paul  enjoyed  the  big  show 
the  Oceans  11  cast  put  on  at  the  Sands. 


The  stars:  Peter  Laxoford;  Frank  Sinatra;  Dean  Martin;  Sammy 
Davis,  Jr.;  the  producer,  Jack  Entratter;  and  comedian  Joey  Bishop. 


Sammy  and  Frankie  applauded  the 
others;     they    all    were  great. 


Senator  John  Kennedy  (center)  chatted  with 
his  sister  Pat  and  her  husband,  Peter  Laic  ford. 


continued 


PARTY  of 

the  month 


Never  have  the  Hollywood  juveniles  had  it 
so  exotic  as  the  Oriental  costume  party  Lita 
and  Rory  Calhoun  hosted  for  daughter 
Cindy's  third  birthday.  The  entire  nursery  so- 
cial set  was  there,  turned  out  in  Oriental 
splendor — and  never  have  you  seen  anything 
so  cute. 

To  show  you  how  far  this  Oriental  angle  was 
carried  out,  the  hostess,  Miss  Cindy  Calhoun, 
and  her  sister  Tami  had  a  regular  studio  hair- 
dresser do  their  hair  in  Eastern  style — and 
when  Lita  first  saw  her  Cindy  she  didn't  rec- 
ognize her  child  in  the  black  wig  and  make-up. 
Carrie  Frances  Fisher  and  her  brother  Todd 
were  done  up  in  Japanese  costumes  Debbie 
Reynolds  had  bought  for  them  in  Honolulu. 
The  little  Fishers  attended  under  the  proud  eye 
of  their  great-grandmother,  Mrs.  O.  Harmon 
who  was  visiting  Mrs.  Maxine  Reynolds.  She 
told  me  she  had  never  seen  such  adorable  cos- 
tumes and  such  a  children's  dream  of  toys  as 
highlighted  the  big  Calhoun  garden. 


There  were  hobby  horses,  big  stuffed  ani- 
mals including  a  life-size  giraffe  and  elephant 
big  enough  for  the  children  to  ride.  There  was 
a  merry-go-round  playing  tinkling  tunes,  bal- 
loons galore — and  everyplace,  everywhere 
were  the  'little  people'  toddling  around  in 
their  Japanese  or  Chinese  togs. 

Keenan  Wynn's  two  little  girls,  Hilda  and 
Edwina,  had  fantastic  eyebrows  under  their 
coolie  hats.  Keenan.  who  came  with  them,  told 
me  he  had  made  them  up. 

Charlie  Robert  Stack,  son  of  Rosemary  and 
Robert  Stack,  wanted  no  part  of  any  of  the 
little  girls  and  ran  away  bawling  when  they 
came  near.  His  big  sister  Elizabeth  had  herself 
a  time,  particularly  when  she  sat  down  at  the 
table  and  saw  the  big  cake  decorated  in  Orien- 
tal motif.  Her  eyes  got  as  big  as  the  cake. 

The  table  where  the  children  sat  was  gaily 
decorated  with  every  Japanese  favor  imag- 
inable and  they  brought  squeals  of  delight 
from  each  and  every  little  guest. 

Dean  Martin's  youngest,  Gina,  was  the 
only  one  who  did  not  come  in  Oriental  splen- 
dor, selecting  instead  a  ballet  costume.  She  is 
the  cutest  thing  you  ever  saw  and  as  good  as 
gold,  never  grabbing  a  thing  off  the  table — 
which  is  more  than  I  can  say  for  some  of  the 
other  Orientals. 


Jane  Powell's  three.  Cissy,  Jay  and  Lind- 
say, amused  themselves — the  two  older  ones 
playing  ping-pong  in  a  corner  and  the  youngest 
just  jumping  up  and  down  on  a  specially  con- 
structed contraption. 

Two  of  my  godchildren  were  done  to  the 
teeth,  I  mean  Miss  Dolly  Madison  (accom- 
panied by  her  parents  Sheila  and  Guy  Madi- 
son) and  little  Tami  Calhoun,  the  cutest  Ori- 
ental I  ever  saw.  Dolly's  older  sisters  Brigit  and 
Erin  were  in  Japanese  kimonos  with  their  long 
blonde  hair  falling  to  their  shoulders. 

John  Wayne's  little  Aissa  was  ill — so  Lita 
sent  her  all  the  favors  to  make  up  to  the  young- 
ster for  missing  out  on  the  big  social  event  of 
the  season. 

Got  a  chuckle  out  of  Ricardo  Montalban 

arriving  by  himself  because  his  small  son  Victor 
had  the  flu  and  Georgiana  had  to  nurse  the 
young  man.  Ricardo  had  promised  to  bring 
home  a  blow  by  blow  account  of  the  event  plus 
any  favors  he  could  pick  up! 

One  young  lady  I  would  love  to  have  stolen 
was  tiny  Nikki  Ericson,  the  John  Ericson  s 
beauty.  What  a  darling  and  so  well  behaved. 

I  missed  seeing  Yvonne  De  Carlo  and  her 
son  Bruce  who  were  late  and  arrived  after  I 
left.  But  I  wouldn't  have  missed  this  party  for 
anything! 


I 


Carrie  Frances  and  Todd  came  in  cos- 
tumes Debbie  bought  them  in  Honolulu. 


This  is  the  banquet  room  that  Lita  and  Rory  Calhoun  prepared  in  honor 
of  their  daughter  Cindy's  third  birthday.  The  kids  never  had  it  so  exotic. 


Mrs.  Calhoun  and  little  Miss  Calhoun 
<  right)  chat  with  the  Madison  children. 


Gina  Martin,  Dean's  youngest, 
came    in    a    ballet  costume. 


The  Star  Had 
to  Go  to  Bed 


Sue  and  Alan  Ladd  invited  a  lew  of  us  to 
dine  at  their  home  (really  a  beautiful  place 
since  Sue  redecorated  it)  and  see  a  special 
showing  of  Dog  of  Flanders.  It's  the  first  time 
I've  been  present  at  a  movie  party  at  which 
the  star  of  the  picture  had  to  retire  before  the 
screening  because  of  his  tender  years — and  I 
do  mean  11-year-old  David  Ladd. 

Right  after  dinner,  David  politely  made  the 
rounds  shaking  hands  with  the  Gregory 
Pecks,  pretty  Margot  Moore  (leading  lady 
of  Wake  Me  When  It's  Over),  her  fiance  Bob 
Radnitz — who  produced  Dog  of  FJanders,  and 
the  Hall  Bartletts. 

To  each  and  every  one  of  us,  he  said  (loud 
enough  for  Alan  to  hear).  "I  certainly  hope 
you  enjoy  the  picture.  I'd  like  to  stay  up  and 
see  it  myself,  but — ."  Alan  didn't  come  up  for 
air.  The  star  of  this  delightful  and  enchanting 
movie  about  a  boy  and  his  dog  departed  slow- 
ly upstairs. 

But  don't  think  for  a  moment  that  Sue  and 
Alan  aren't  proud  of  their  small  fry.  David  is 
such  a  fine  little  actor.  "If  he  keeps  on  being 
this  much  competition  he's  going  to  have  to 
pay  for  his  room  and  board,"  kidded  Alan. 

The  movie  was  made  in  Holland  and  Belgium 
and  the  backgrounds  in  color  are  so  beautiful. 
Take  my  word  for  it  that  Dog  of  Flanders  is 
worth  your  investment  at  the  box  office — a 
breath  of  clean,  vigorous  fresh  air  and  beauty 
in  the  midst  of  too  many  smutty  plots. 


Sue  and  Alan  Ladd  are 
he's  a  tine  little  actor 


certainly  proud  of  their  David  (center), 
in  a  delightful  movie— Dog  of  Flanders 


I'm  on  my 
SOAP  BOX 


continued 


Eva  Marie  Saint  is  a  fine  person,  but  hates  being  called  'nice.' 


A 


OPEN 
LETTER 


To  Eva  Marie  Saint 

Ii  you  think  I'm  on  a  soap  box  to  lecture  you 
about  that  headlined  'word'  you  used  at  the 
Producer's  Dinner,  you  are  mistaken.  I've 
known  you  ever  since  you  came  to  Hollywood 
and  I  know  you  to  be  a  fine  mother,  wife  and 
actress — and  a  very  'nice'  person  as  well,  as 
much  as  you  hate  being  called  'nice.' 

But,  my  dear,  never  be  afraid  to  say  "I'm 
sony." 

So  far,  you've  said  everything  else. 

When  I  talked  with  you  over  the  phone  the 
following  morning,  you  said:  "You've  known 
me  well  enough  to  know  I  don't  ordinarily  use 
such  language. 

"I  had  expected  Jack  Benny  to  say  just  a 
few  words  introducing  me — instead  he  made 
such  a  flowery  speech,  including  how  George 


Jessel  would  have  said  it,  that  I  didn't  think 
I  could  reply  with  a  mere  'thank  you.' 

"It  was  a  closed  party,  that  is,  no  TV  or 
radios,  and  I  thought  I  was  among  friends.  I 
guess  I  wanted  to  'top'  Mr.  Benny,  a  dramatic 
impulse  of  an  actress — and  well,  it  just  popped 
out! 

"But  with  all  the  important  things  happening 
all  over  the  world — they've  sure  made  a  big 
fuss  about  me  on  the  front  pages." 

And  you  are  right,  there  was  a  lot  of  com- 
ment— some  being  indulgent  and  excusing  you, 
others  having  the  proverbial  'fit'  gasping,  "Eva 
Marie  Saint  of  all  people!"  Well,  so  much  for 
the  unfortunate  slip  itself — and  the  ensuing 
reaction. 

But  afterward,  there  were  some  stories  print- 
ed that  you  woke  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
laughing  about  it,  and  there  were  other  stories 
insinuating  that  you  didn't  really  care  about 
saying  that  word. 

I  don't  believe  it.  But  I  do  think  that  if  you 
ever  get  in  a  spot  like  this  again  (heaven 
forbid")  it  would  be  so  easy — and  so  like  the 
real  Eva  Marie  Saint,  to  say  that  one  little 
phrase,  "I'm  sorry." 


For  heaven's  sake,  let's  give  Fabian  a 
chance.  These  kind  words  on  my  part  are  not 
payola  because  he  sends  me  red  roses  by  the 
dozens  and  is  also  so  very  grateful  when  I 
print  anything  complimentary  about  him. 

I  happen  to  know  that  he  is  very  hurt  over 
much  of  the  criticism  he  has  taken  about  his 
movie  acting.  But  it  is  in  his  favor  that  he  isn't 
becoming  difficult  or  temperamental  about  it. 

He  told  me,  "I  guess  getting  panned  is  doing 
me  good.  I  want  to  be  deserving  of  the  chance 
I'm  getting  at  20th.  I'm  now  studying  with 
Sandy  Meisner  in  the  hopes  of  getting  some 
pleasant  nods  from  the  critics  instead  of  their 
disapproval." 

Despite  his  enormous  popularity  as  a  singer, 
he  doesn't  claim  to  be  the  greatest  warbler  on 
the  pike.  "I  caught  on;"  he  admits,  "I'm  lucky." 

Such  a  nice  kid  deserves  a  hand — not  a  boot. 
He's  only  17 — and  it's  to  his  everlasting  credit 
that  this  big  success  hasn't  gone  to  his  head. 

He  doesn't  talk  about  it  much,  but  he  feels 
he  has  a  debt  \o  aid  other  young  people.  He 
and  Frankie  Avalon  hope  to  raise  S750.000 
from  their  records  and  personal  appearances 
to  go  to  youth  centers  around  the  country. 

And  while  he  has  been  shooting  High  Time, 
his  college  campus  movie  with  Bing  Crosby, 
at  Stockton,  California,  not  a  Sunday  has  gone 
by  that  Fabian  hasn't  visited  the  Stockton  Boys' 
Home  to  put  on  a  show  for  these  less  fortunate 
boys. 

For  his  efforts  in  their — and  his  own — behalf 
I  repeat — let's  give  this  boy  a  great  big  chance. 
He  deserves  it. 


Fabian's   hurt   about   those  crac 


20 


(Left  to  right):  Barbara  Fredrickson  Crosby  cuts  the  cake;  groom  Lindsay, 
Philip  and  Sandra  Crosby,  Dennis  and  Pat  Crosby,  and  maid-oj -honor  Nina 
Vaughn  smile;  Gary  Crosby,  the  unmarried  brother,  ponders  the  situation. 


Another  Crosby 
Settled 

During  the  height  of  the  quite  formal  recep- 
tion Bing  and  Kathy  Crosby  gave  for 
Linny  Crosby  and  his  bride  Barbara 
Frederickson  (nothing  served  but  wedding 
cake  and  vintage  champagne),  Bing  came 
downstairs  carrying  his  only  daughter,  infant 
Mary  Frances. 

"Note  how  good  I  am  at  this,"  he  kidded, 
"complete  support  of  her  spine  and  her  head 
doesn't  wobble  because  I  have  it  in  a  hammer 
lock."  Bing's  a  happy  man  these  days  with  a 
little  girl  in  his  life  and  all  those  old  feuds  with 
his  sons  settled. 


Millie  and  Dean's 
Confusing  Romance 

I'm  confused  about  all  this  pussyfooting  se- 
crecy in  the  romance  of  Millie  Perkins  and 
Dean  Stockwell  Here  are  two  healthy, 
happy  young  people,  obviously  very  much  in 
love,  who  carry  on  their  nice  boy-and-girl 
romance  as  though  it  were  some  sort  of  illicit 
grande  passion. 

Even  when  they  first  started  dating  in  Holly- 
wood, while  Millie  was  making  Diary  ot  Anne 
Frank,  they  entered  small  restaurants  by  the 
back  door.  If  photographers  showed  up  they 
fled  like  a  pair  of  guilty  married  (to  someone 
else)  lovers. 

Why? 

Not  long  ago,  when  Millie  returned  from  visit- 
ing Dean  in  London  where  he  is  working  in 
Sons  and  Lovers,  she  moved  into  his  home. 
Nothing  wrong  with  that.  Dean  wasn't  in  this 
country  and  why  shouldn't  Millie  use  the 
house  until  he  returned? 

Yet,  when  a  press  agent  at  20th  called  her 
there,  Millie  disguised  her  voice  saying,  'Miss 
Perkins  no  livvee  here,'  or  something  like  that. 

Someone  who  was  in  London  on  Dean's  pic- 
ture told  me  that  when  he  innocently  inquired 
of  Millie  if  she  and  Dean  expected  to  marry  in 
England  she  looked  as  though  he  had  said 
something  risque  and  turned  her  back.  Dean 
managed  to  stand  up  under  it  better  and  ad- 
mitted they  are  engaged  before  walking  away. 

I  hope  her  first  and  only  movie  starring  role, 
playing  Anne  Frank  and  hiding  out  in  a  garret 
so  long,  hasn't  rubbed  off  on  Millie. 

Doesn't  she  know,  as  Mr.  Shakespeare  put  it, 
"all  the  world  loves  a  lover" — particularly 
when  the  romancers  are  such  nice,  wholesome 
youngsters  as  Dean  and  Millie.  .  .? 


.."All  the  world  loves  a  lover,"  but  Millie  Perkins  and  Dean 
Stockwell  don't  want  the  world  to  know  about  their  romance. 


Many  fans  were  heartbroken  about 
the   death   of   Margaret  Sullavan. 


Bing  Crosby  handed  out  lots  of 
laughs  to  the  fans  following  him. 


Tuesday  Weld  just  might  be  a  lot 
smarter  than  we  all  think.  .  .  . 


W| 


LETTER 
BOX 


Are  you  sure  Tuesday  Weld  isn't  foxing 
all  you  columnists  by  being  a  lot  smarter  than 
you  think?  A  year  ago,  no  one  had  ever 
heard  ot  this  girl.  Today  she  is  nationally  and 
internationally  known  as  the  girl  who  showed 
up  barefoot  on  a  TV  show,  who  never  combs 
her  hair,  etc.  Her  salary  has  jumped  by  leaps 
and  bounds.  Dumb?  1  wish  1  were  so  dumb!  is 
the  pertinent  comment  of  Claire  Kelly  (no  re- 
lation to  the  movie  star)  of  Duluth.  Maybe 
you've  got  something  there,  Claire.  .  .  . 

Bevehly  Edwards,  Orinda,  California, 
writes:  J  offended  fhe  Bing  Crosby  Golt 
Tournament  in  Monterey — yes,  in  all  that  storm 
and  downpour.  I  had  always  heard  that  Bing 
was  cold  and  stand-offish.  He  couldn't  have 
been  nicer  to  me  and  he  and  Phil  Harris 
certainly  handed  lots  ot  laughs  to  the  crowds 
that  followed  the  players.  I  love  Bing.  I'm  sure 
Mr.  Crosby  thanks  you,  Beverly.  .  .  . 

7  dare  you  fo  print  this:  It  makes  me  sick  the 
the  way  you  writers  harp  on  Marlon 
Brando's  hassles  with  Anna  Kashfi  and  his 
'love  life'  with  France  Nuyen  and  Barbara 
Luna,  snaps  Katrina  Boyer,  Brooklyn.  The 
only  important  thing  about  Marlon  is  that  he  is 


the  screen's  greatest  actor!  It's  Marlon  making 
the  news  about  his  love  life,  my  fine  friend, 
not  the  writers.  We  just  report  it.  .  .  . 

Diana  Dixon,  Atlanta,  cried  my  eyes  out 
when  /  read  of  the  death  of  my  beloved 
Margaret  Sullavan  and  learned  of  her 
serious  deafness.  I  am  not  a  teen-ager,  in  fact, 
I  am  the  mother  of  four  small  children.  But  no 
actress  of  the  screen  ever  gave  me  so  much 
pleasure  as  the  incomparable  Margaret  and  I 
shall  never  forget  her.  Your  sentiments  are 
echoed  by  many  others  who  remember  Mar- 
garet in  her  heyday  and  who  grieve  over  her 
passing,  Diana.  .  .  . 

Where,  oh  where  is  John  Kerr?  He's  the 
greatest  in  South  Pacific.  Yet  Hollywood  lets 
him  get  away — and  Modern  Screen  isn'f  much 
beffer.  No  stories  on  him,  complains  Theresa 
McNeill,  Dallas.  I  agree  John  is  great  but  I'll 
be  darned  if  I  know  where  he  is. 

This  is  an  old  query — but  still  many  people 
ask  the  question  posed  by  Mrs.  Sam  Feinberg, 
Cleveland:  Whaf  do  fhe  stars  do  with  their 
old  clothes  either  from  their  personal  or  studio 
wardrobe?  Can  the  public  buy  them?  Some 
stars  give  their  clothes  outright  to  charity  or- 
ganizations, Mrs.  Sam.  Others  give  them  to  be 
sold  by  charity  organizations  which  maintain 
small  shops.  But  most  of  the  clothes  worn  by 
actresses  go  back  into  the  studio  wardrobe 
departments  to  be  remodeled  for  "extras"  or 
lesser  players.  And  there  are  always  relatives 


to  inherit  personal  wardrobes  of  the  stars. 

Do  you  fhink  Doris  Day  is  really  shy  or  is 
she  just  using  this  as  a  means  for  escaping 
personal  appearances,  charity  affairs  and  other 
outside  interests?  asks  Vivien  McCary  of 
Walla  Walla,  Wash.  I  think  Doris  is  shy — 
but  I  also  think  she  dislikes  very  much  making 
appearances,  although  she  isn't  as  retiring  as 
she  used  to  be.  .  .  . 

There  were  more  comments  about  Carol 
Lynley  than  any  of  the  new  young  femmes 
this  month — all  of  them  good.  Shelley  Chester, 
of  Los  Angeles,  says:  Carol's  face  is  tender 
and  beautiful — she  is  indeed  Younger  Than 
Springtime  and  she  is  our  next  big  woman 
star — when  she  becomes  a  woman.  .  .  . 

Maybe  you  and  American  fans  might  be  in- 
terested in  letter  from  German  girl,  Christa 
Walz,  h'ving  in  Stuttgart,  Germany,  and 
how  we  feel  about  USA  stars,  writes  this  same 
Christa  Walz.  We  like  very  much  Marlon 
Brando  but  also  Pat  Boone  who  are  of  a 
difference,  no?  So  far,  only  read  about  Fab- 
ian, Paul  Anka,  Ricky  Nelson  and  this 
'Kookie'  but  we  want  to  know  better.  You 
can  see,  we  are  very  dated.  Not  dated,  Christa, 
you  mean  'up-to-date.'  And  yes,  we  enjoy 
knowing  about  your  favorites. 

That's  all  this  month.  See  you  next  month. 


MAY 

BIRTHDAYS 

If  your  birthday  falls  in  May.  your 
birthst'one  is  the  emerald  and  your  flower 
is  the  lily  of  the  valley.  And  here  are 
some  of  the  stars  who  share  your  birthday : 

May  l— Glenn  Ford 

May  2— Bing  Crosby 

May  4— Audrey  Hepburn 

May  6—  Stewart  Granger 

May  7— Gary  Cooper 

May  8— Lex  Barker 

May  15— Anna  Maria  Alberghetti 
Ursula  Thiess 
Joseph  Gotten 
James  Mason 

May  16—  Henry  Fonda 
Liberace 


May  17— Dennis  Hopper 

May 


May 
May 
May 


20—  George  Gobel 
James  Stewart 

21—  Raymond  Burr 
Rick  Jason 

22—  Susan  Strasberg 
Laurence  Olivier 

23—  Joan  Collins 
Betty  Garrett 
John  Payne 


May  24—  Mai  Zetterling 

May  25— Jeanne  Crain 
Susan  Morrow 
Victoria  Shaw 
Steve  Cochran 


26—  James  Arness 
John  Wayne 


May 
May 

May  31— Elaine  Stewart 


25— Carroll  Baker 
Sally  Forrest 


Maureen  O'Sullivan     Vincent  Price 

May  17  May  27 


BRA  BY  PERM  A-LIFT 

Adorned  with  Self- Fitting  Cups 
Blessed  with  the  Neveride  Band 


See  how  the  Magic  Insets  gently  cradle  your  bosom 
from  the  sides  and  from  below,  gloriously  lifting 
you  to  bewitching  new  lines.  Self-Fitting  cups  con- 
form to  your  exact  size  and  the  "Perma-lift" 
Neveride  Band  holds  your  bra  in  place  always. 
Long  line  style  of  wash  'n'  wear  cotton,  $5.  Bandeau 
Bra  $3.  At  nice  stores  everywhere. 

t.  Off.  A  product  of  A.  Stein  &  Company  •  Chicago— New  York— Los  Angeles—  Toront 


■  Three  of  the  fellows  in  Donna  Reed's  son's  gang  started  to  take  newspaper  routes, 
because  their  father,  a  self-made,  very  successful  business  man,  wanted  them  to 
"know  how  to  work." 

It  was  getting  pretty  lonely,  young  Reed  thought,  with  half  the  gang  gone,  "out 
working,"  so  he  figured  he  might  as  well  get  himself  a  route,  too. 

Donna,  who  has  always  been  very  careful  not  to  let  her  kids  be  spoiled  by  money 
or  by  her  fame,  thought  it  was  a  fine  idea.  Teach  them  independence,  initiative,  self- 
reliance,  perseverance,  conscientiousness.  Donna  was  certainly  proud  of  her  boy. 

Meantime,  the  last  remaining  boy  in  the  bunch  was  the  loneliest,  and  longed  to 
join  in  what  "everybody  else  is  doing."  But  his  father,  an  arc-self-made  millionaire — 
couldn't  see  any  reason  for  any  son  of  his  to  be  delivering  newspapers  and  wouldn't 
give  his  consent.  So  most  of  the  time,  the  boy  was  either  moping  around  the  mansion 
waiting  for  the  other  guys  to  be  free,  or  else  hanging  around  Donna  Reed's  house, 
waiting  for  his  buddies  to  come  home  from  the  route. 

The  next  week,  Donna  noticed  that  the  millionaire's  son  didn't  come  around  any 
more,  and  that  her  own  son  got  back  from  delivering  all  those  papers  pretty  quickly. 

She  was  worried  that  maybe  his  original  enthusiasm  was  lagging,  that  he  was  tired 
of  the  job  and  cutting  corners  now,  to  get  it  over  with  .  .  .  And  where  was  all  that 
perseverance  and  conscientiousness? 

So  she  gently  probed  him: 

"Darling,  you're  still  with  your  newspaper  route,  aren't  you?" 
"Sure,  Mom." 

"Well,  uh,  you  do  take  time  to  get  close  enough  to  the  house  so  that  the  paper 
lands  on  the  porch,  don't  you?  I  mean,  you  don't  just  rush  by  and  aim  at  the  lawn, 
or  the  driveway  .  .  .?" 

"No,  Mom,  honest." 

Well,  that  seemed  to  be  that,  and  then  one  day  Donna  happened  to  be  outside 
around  delivery  time,  and  discovered  the  secret  of  her  speedy  young  business  man. 
There  was  the  limousine,  belonging  to  the  millionaire,  and  the  millionaire's  son,  and 
the  chauffeur,  and  the  "hard-working"  guys  in  the  gang,  and  they  all  had  just 
returned  from  their  routes. 

And  who  do  you  think  ran  the  papers  up  to  the  porches? 

You  guessed  it,  the  chauffeur. 


Donna  Reed: 

SMART 
BUSINESS- 
MAN, 
THAT 
BOY  OF 
HERS 


(Continued  from  page  7) 
Can't  our  friends  go  elsewhere  to  hunt?" 

He  didn't  answer  her  immediately,  then 
he  asked  her  to  let  him  sleep  on  it.  When 
she  approached  him  about  it  the  next  day, 
he  admitted,  "I  just  can't  stop  it.  It's  .  .  . 
it's  a  tradition.  How  can  I  put  an  end  to 
something  as  deeply  rooted  as  that?" 

"Oh  my  dear,"  the  Princess  said,  "I  have 
prayed  to  St.  Francis,  the  patron  saint  of 
the  birds,  to  show  me  what  is  right,  and 
I  believe  my  prayers  are  answered.  I  know, 
deep  in  my  heart,  that  this  is  murder,  that 
we  are  sanctioning  destruction  of  God's 
beauty  right  here  on  our  estate." 

The  Prince  had  no  reply. 

The  following  morning,  after  the  usual 
round  of  gunfire  from  the  hunters,  Prin- 
cess Grace  went  to  the  Prime  Minister  to 
seek  his  advice.  He  was  very  sympathetic 
but  suggested  she  talk  to  the  Prince. 

The  Prime  Minister  looked  at  her  kind- 
ly, lifted  his  right  hand  to  adjust  his  silver 
pince-nez,  and  said,  "In  this  matter,  Your 
Royal  Highness,  you  can  probably  exer- 
cise the  greatest  influence." 

When  she  talked  to  the  Prince  again  he 
said  he  needed  time  to  think  about  it.  And 
all  through  the  following  months  of  Octo- 
ber and  November  the  hunting  continued. 

December  arrived  with  cold  winds, 
snow.  Gifts  were  to  be  chosen  for  her 
staff,  for  her  own  dear  children,  for  her 
beloved  Prince.  Two  weeks  before  Christ- 
mas, when  she  told  him  she  had  ordered 
a  white  Jaguar  convertible  as  a  gift  for 
him,  she  smiled  and  added,  "My  darling, 
the  greatest  gift  you  can  give  me  this 
year  is — " 

He  lifted  a  finger  to  her  lips  and  stopped 
her  sentence  short.  "Wait!"  he  said.  "I 
have  a  surprise  for  you.  But  I  can't  tell 
you  until  Christmas  Day." 

"But—" 

"Please,"  he  begged.  "Wait!" 

On  Christmas  morning,  she  awaited  his 
gift  with  anticipation.  The  Prince  gave  her 
a  diamond  tiara  with  teardrop  earrings. 
The  diamonds  were  dazzlingly  beautiful, 
and  she  was  thrilled,  but  what  she  wanted 
for  Christmas  was.  .  .  . 

"This  isn't  all,"  the  Prince  added,  inter- 
rupting her  thoughts  as  she  admired  the 
tiara  and  the  earrings.  He  handed  her  a 
large  ivory  parchment  envelope.  "Read 
this,"  he  said. 

Removing  the  crinkling  sheet  of  parch- 
ment from  the  envelope,  she  began  read- 
ing, and  her  heartbeat  quickened  from  a 
sudden,  overwhelming  happiness.  It  was  a 
Royal  Decree  with  an  official  seal,  signed 
with  the  Prince's  flourishing  signature. 
for  all  hunting  on  palace  grounds  to  termi- 
nate commencing  this  Christmas  Day. 

"It  was  what  you  told  me  about  St. 
Francis  that  convinced  me,"  the  Prince 
admitted.  She  looked  up,  into  the  Prince's 
twinkling  eyes.  She  murmured  a  prayer 
of  thanksgiving  to  the  patron  saint  of  the 
birds,  and.  smiling,  she  stepped  forward 
to  meet  her  husband's  tender  embrace. 

END 


PHOTOGRAPHERS'  CREDITS 

The  photographs  appearing  in  this  issue 
are  credited  below  page  by  page: 

4 — Ed.  Quinn.  A.  W.  Ambler  of  Nafl.  Audubon 
Society:  15— Vista  Photos;  16 — Wide  World; 
17 — UPI.  Dave  Sutton  of  Galaxy;  18-19 — Globe, 
Nat  Dallinger.  Gilloon:  20 — Gilloon;  21 — UPI; 
22 — UPI,  Gilloon,  Don  Ornitz  of  Globe;  26 — 
Ken  Regan:  29-31 — Topix.  David  Preston,  Len 
Weissman:  32-33 — Topix,  Alfred  Wertheimer: 
34-37 — Larrv  Schiller:  39 — Gilloon,  Nat  Dal- 
linger;  42-43 — Topix,  Gene  Trindl:  44-46 — 
N.  Y.  Daily  News.  Acme  Photo.  UPI.  Wide 
World;  48-49 — Topix.  Vista  Photos.  Sandy  Har- 
ris: 50 — Wagner-International;  57 — Friedman- 
Abeles:  58 — Topix,  Curt  Gunther;  60 — Frances 
Orkin. 


world's  fastest 
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MFWIE 


Want  a  honey  of  a  tan  in  a  hurry  ? 

There's  only  one  lotion  with  a  tanning  booster 

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and  no  burning  or  peeling. 

It's  Tanfastic! 

And  what  better  way  to  show  off 

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—"Tanfastic"  by  White  Stag! 


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available  everywhere 
handy  tubes  or 
plastic  squeeze  bottle 


GET 

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with  Bobby's  "Moment  of  Love"  on  the  flip  side! 

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with  your  name  and  address,  to: 
Tanfastic.  Box  4A,  Hollywood,  California 
(Offer  expires  December  31.  1960.  Void  where 
taxed,  prohibited,  or  otherwise  restricted.) 


■  The  ceremony  was  in  the  lovely 
candle-lit  Our  Lady  Chapel  of  St. 
Patrick's  Cathedral,  on  New  York 
City's  Fifth  Avenue.  Not  quite  the 
wedding  of  Evy's  dreams— not  in  her 
own  church,  back  home  in  Denmark, 
with  her  own  family  at  her  side— but 
still,  dignified,  reverent,  beautiful. 
Jimmy's  too-full  schedule  would  not 
let  him  travel,  and  Evy  had  waited  a 
long,  long  time  for  this  marriage.  She 
had  wanted  it  to  be  right,  to  be  for- 
ever. Now  she  was  done  with  waiting. 
There  was  no  telling  how  long  it  would 
be  before  Jimmy  could  go  to  Copen- 
hagen; her  family  would  understand, 
and  Evy  and  Jimmy  would  visit  them 
when  they  went  to  Europe— as  man 
and  wife. 

Jimmy's  father  had  taken  her  aside 
and  said  gently,  "You  will  be  like  a 
daughter  to  me,''  and  so  it  was  he  who 
j  gave  the  bride  away. 

The  photographers   (the  very  few 
i  who  were  admitted,  by  personal  in- 
jvitation  only)  respected  the  Church's 
ruling   of   "No   flashbulbs."    No  re- 
porters, no  autograph  hunters,  to  dis- 
turb the  beauty  of  the  ancient  rite. 

Jimmy  and  Evy  wanted  to  cooperate 
with  the  press,  though,  and  planned  to 
pose  on  the  church  steps  immediately 
after  the  wedding.  But  they  were  met 
with  a  mob  of  squealing  girls,  crying, 
"Jimmy,  don't  leave  us,"  and  trying  to 
kiss  him.  Some  representatives  from 
the  studio  had  been  waiting  by  the 
car,  keeping  the  motor  running,  ready 
to  rush  the  newlyweds  off  to  the  pri- 
vate reception.  Now  they  couldn't  even 
26  help.    The  mob  of  fans  and  photog- 


Evy  Norlund— Jimmy  Darren 


raphers  had  surged  around  Jimmy  and 
Evy  with  such  force  that  they  were 
gradually  being  pushed,  not  in  the 
direction  of  the  waiting  car,  but  into 
the  church  fence.  Photographers 
shoved  through,  shouting  directions. 
"Hey,  Evy,  over  here,  let's  have  a  smile 
.  .  .  Hey,  Evy,  give  us  a  few  words  on 
how  it  feels  to  be  Mrs.  Darren.  .  .  ." 

At  that  moment  Jimmy  bent  to 
whisper  something  to  a  sweet-faced, 
middle-aged  woman,  and  a  photograph- 
er yelled,  "Hey,  lady,  get  out  of  the 
way,  I'm  trying  to  get  a  shot  of  the 
bride  and  groom." 

Jimmy  could  take  no  more. 

"Get  this  straight,"  he  said  firmly, 
coldly,  as  he  put  his  arm  protectively 
around  the  woman.  "Don't  talk  to  my 
mother  that  way  or  there'll  be  no 
pictures  at  all.  .  .  ." 

The  couple  finally  managed  to  get 
to  the  car,  despite  the  girls  who  strug- 
gled to  touch  him  through  the  open 
window.  They  were  still  calling. 
"Jimmy,  don't  leave  us,"  as  they  fol- 
lowed the  limousine  down  the  street. 

As  they  drove  away,  Jimmy  tender- 
ly cupped  Evy's  face,  so  serious-look- 
ing now,  in  his  hands  and  said,  con- 
cerned, "I  hope  all  that  rumpus  didn't 
upset  you,  Evy ;  I  hope  it  didn't  spoil  | 
your  wedding  day.  .  .  ." 

She  hushed  him  with  a  kiss.  "No. 
my  darling,"  she  murmured,  "I  will 
remember  always  the  beautiful  mo- 
ents  at  the  altar— that  is  what  counts 
—and  this:  I  have  you.  .  .  ."  end 

Jimmy's  in  Columbia's  Because 
They're  Young. 


Is  it  true.. 
blondes 
have  more 
fun? 


: 


- 


Your  hairdresser  will  tell  you 
a  blonde's  best  friend  is 


Just  for  the  fun  of  it.  be  a  blonde  and  see  ...  a  Lady  Clairol 

blonde  with  shining,  silken  hair!  You'll  love  the  life  in  it! 
The  soft  touch  and  tone  of  it!  The  lovely  ladylike  wav  it  lights 
up  your  looks.  "With  amazingly  gentle  Instant  Whip  Lady 
Clairol,  it's  so  easv!  Takes  onlv  minutes! 

And  Ladv  Clairol  feels  deliciouslv  cool  going  on,  leaves  hair 
in  wonderful  condition— lovelier,  livelier  than  ever.  So  if  vour 
hair  is  dull  blonde  or  mousev  brown,  why  hesitate?  Hair  re- 
sponds to  Lady  Clairol  like  a  man  responds  to  blondes— and 
darling,  that's  a  beautiful  advantage!  Trv  it  and  see! 


NSTANT  WHIP"  Lady  Clairol8Creme  Hair  Lightener 


Each  curl  and  wave  on  this  page  came  out 
of  this  bottle    of  protein  waving  shampoo 


(I 

wash'ii  Wrlb#$^$f 

the  greatest  discovery  Each  model's  hair  was  washed,  suds  left  for  five  minutes,  rinsed 

Since  the  home  permanent!  feS  ?  and  set.  Lovely,  lustrous  waves  last  from  shampoo  to  shampoo. 


This  picture  of  Terry  Melcher 
was  taken  many  years  ago. 
Since  then,  there  have  been 
no  public  photographs,  no 
discussion  of  him  by  his  parents. 
Now— Modern  Screen  lifts  the  veil 
on  Hollywood's  best-kept 
f  amilv  secret 


"I  do  not  want  to  talk  about 
my  private  life!"  For  several 
years  now,  Doris  Day  has 
greeted  interviewers  with 
these  words— and  a  charm- 
ing smile.  "Tell  us  about 
Terry,"  the  interviewer  will 
persist,  "I  understand  he's 
living  at  home  now,  and. . . ." 
But  suddenly  the  interview- 
er will  stop,  feeling  under 
the  table  the  warning  kick 
of  the  studio  representative 
or  press  agent  who  attends 
such  interviews  with  Doris, 
and  noticing  how  Doris' 
charming  smile  has  quickly 
disappeared  into  a  frown. 
"Okay,"  he  will  say,  "let's  get 
on  with  it.  Shall  we  talk 
about  your  latest  record,  or 
picture,  or  how  about  giving 


us  your  opinion  of  Rock 
Hudson?"  And  so  it  will  go; 
small  talk,  small  talk,  small 
talk.  For  over  the  Melcher 
home  a  heavy  cloud  of  se- 
crecy has  been  dropped— a 
cloud  so  heavy  that  many  of 
Doris'  most  ardent  fans  are 
not  aware  she's  a  mother, 
few  know  that  her  son  Terry 
is  eighteen  years  old,  and 
none  of  us  have  seen  any  pic- 
tures of  Terry  in  the  last  few 
years.  A  few  months  ago,  we 
at  Modern  Screen  began  to 
ask  ourselves  (and  others) 
Why?  And  the  harder  we 
looked  into  the  matter  the 
stranger  it  all  became.  We 
learned  that  Terry's  dad  —  a 
man  named  Al  Jorden,  di- 
vorced from  Doris  sixteen 


years  ago,  and  whom  we 
tracked  down  recently  in 
Cincinnati  —  knew  as  little 
about  his  own  son  as  we  did. 
"Haven't  seen  the  boy  in 
twelve  years  now,"  he  said. 
"Say,  you  wouldn't  happen  to 
have  a  recent  picture  of  him, 
would  you?"  When  we  told 
him  we  did  not — that  no  one 
did— Jorden  said:  "I'd  like  to 
see  my  boy.  But  I  haven't 
been  able  to.  I  wonder  what 
he's  like  now.  I'd  sure  like  to 
know."  This  spurred  us  on. 
Where  was  Terry  now?  What 
kind  of  boy  was  he?  Why  — 
why  was  his  mother  hiding 
him?  The  story  that  follows 
presents,  for  the  first  time  in 
any  magazine,  the  answer. . . . 
(Continued  on  page  66 > 


BRING  ME 
BACK 
TO  YOUR 

HOUSE, 
OH  LORD 


SUDDENLY,  IN  ANSWER  TO  HIS  PLEA, 
ELVIS  FELT  AN  EASTER  MIRACLE 
HAPPENING  INSIDE  HIS  HEART... 


■  The  little  old  man  stood 
along  with  the  rest  of  the 
mob  outside  the  Hollywood 
hotel  where  Elvis  was  staying. 

His  was  the  only  placid 
face  of  the  group.  He  was  the 
only  one  who  did  not  speak. 

.  "When's  he  coming?"  some 
of  the  others,  girls,  would  ask 
from  time  to  time. 

Those  who  knew  were 
proud  to  tell:  "He  had  to  do 
his  TV  rehearsal  with  Frank 
Sinatra  this  morning,  don't 
y'understand?  He  had  to  go 
to  the  studio,  too,  to  talk 
about  his  next  picture.  They 
had  a  big  homecoming  lunch 
for  him  at  the  commissary 
over  at  Paramount.  It's  prob- 
ably not  even  over  yet. 

"But  don't  worry.  He'll  be 
here.  Soon  ...  I  hope!" 

The  little  old  man  listened. 
And  he  continued  to  wait. 

And  he  smiled  when,  final- 
ly, the  big  white  Cadillac  was 
seen  coming  down  the  long 
palm-lined  street  and  the 
shout  went  up  among  the 
girls:  "El-vis!!" 

He  watched  the  famous 
young  man  as  he  stepped  out 
of  his  car,  as  he  waved  at  the 
mob. 

He  watched  the  mob  as  it 
began  to  push  closer  around 
the  famous  young  man.  And 
then  he,  too,  began  to  push. 

Old  as  he  was,  small  as  he 
was,  he  was  at  Elvis'  side 
(Continued  on  page  72) 


Jl  DI.  THE  LITTLE 


I 


I  S 


«h  j 


Young 
girls  in 
Hollywood 
-seventh 
of  a 
series 

Subject: 
Judi  Meredith 


H  j! 


LOVE  -  GODDESS 


■  One  recent  morning,  a  white  Plymouth 
convertible  streaked  out  of  Hollywood  along 
Ventura  Boulevard  a  few  notches  under  the 
speed  of  light.  At  the  wheel,  Judi  Meredith 
muttered  "Darn!"  when  the  cop  wailed  her 
down.  She  smoothed  her  wind-tossed  auburn 
mop  impatiently,  turned  up  the  radio  full- 
blast  to  drown  out  the  scolding,  and  sassily 
stuck  out  her  hand  for  the  ticket.  Then  she 
gunned  off,  dusting  the  cop's  pants  with  her 
fender.  The  cop  didn't  like  it  at  all. 

Two  blocks  later  he  flagged  her 
again.  This  time  Judi  blasted  away 


with  a  roar  that  knocked  off  his  cap.  The 
third  time,  the  Law  inquired  ominously, 
"Where  do  you  want  to  go,  Lady — jail?" 

"No,"  stated  Judi,  leveling  her  hazel- 
green  eyes.  "I  want  to  go  to  my  job — and 
I'm  late."  This  time  she  left  him  gasping  in 
confusion  and  a  puff  of  scorched  rubber. 
That  evening,  when  Judi  Meredith  got  home, 
she  dumped  three  speed  tickets  out  of  her 
purse,  collected  in  almost  as  many  minutes. 
She  also  opened  a  ribboned  box  on  her 
doorstep  and  put  the  red  roses  in  a 
vase.  They  {Continued  on  page  37) 


Judi  Meredith  — continued 


I'm  the  kind  of  girl  who  frightens 
people  because  if  I  love  someone, 
I  come  right  out  and  say  I  love  you. 


came  from  the  cop  who'd  flagged  her  down. 

That's  a  fair  sample  of  saucy,  sexy  Judi 
Meredith's  effect  on  men.  On  the  record, 
it's  devastating. 

In  the  five  years  since  Judi  hit  Holly- 
wood, she's  been  engaged,  officially,  and 


unofficially,  five  times — to  Troy  Donahue, 
Wendell  Niles,  Jr.  and  Barry  Coe,  among 
others.  In  between,  she's  had  so  many  dates 
she  can't  remember  them.  Frank  Sinatra 
adores  her  and  Bobby  Darin  does,  too.  Judi 
dates  delightedly  and  (Continued  on  page  68) 


37 


SCOOP! 


■  "Please  write  a  story  about  Johnny  Nash,  and  print  his 
picture.  We  think  he's  marvelous."  The  letter  was  ad- 
dressed to  Modern  Screen  and  signed  by  six  teen-age  girls 
from  Atlanta.  That  was  four  months  ago,  the  first  inkling 
we  had  that  a  new  star  was  being  born.  We  heard  his 
records,  A  Very  Special  Love,  As  Time  Goes  By,  Too  Proud, 
but  had  no  idea  who  he  was.  More  letters  came  in,  so  we 
sent  for  photographs  of  this  fellow  Nash.  We  were  not 
surprised  to  find  he  was  a  teen-ager.  We  were  surprised 
that  he  was  Negro . . .  and  delighted.  We  had  known  it  was 
going  to  happen  sooner  or  later.  Belaf  onte  had  paved  the 
way.  Johnny  Mathis  built  himself  a  teen-age  following,  but 
sooner  or  later,  some  Negro  boy  had  to  come  along  who 
could  hold  his  own  with  Fabian  and  Frankie  Avalon, 
Tommy  Sands,  Bobby  Darin,  and  from  the  streams  of 
letters  that  were  now  coming  in,  we  knew  this  boy  was 
doing  it.  Johnny  Nash  was  not  simply  another  entertainer 
. . .  he  was  something  new  in  our  world ...  he  was  the  first 
Negro  to  become  a  teen  idol.    (Continued  on  page  76) 


FIRST 

NEGRO 
TEEN 
IDOL! 


Diane  McBain/  Brian  Kelly,  Cindy  Robbins, 
and  Mike  Callan  prove: 

WhEN  Youi- 


arE  Doubl§ 


■  There  comes  a  time  in  every  girl's  life  when 
she's  not  in  love  and  she  sees  no  good  reason 
why  she  should  be  in  love  ...  at  least  not 
immediately.  Things  are  just  too  pleasant  the  way 
they  are.  No  madness,  no  lovers'  rights,  no  sadness, 
no  sleepless  nights.  But  it's  no  easy  matter  to 
keep  things  in  that  euphoric  state.  At  least  that  is 
what  Diane  McBain  has  (Continued  on  page  74) 


WHAT 
KILLED 
DIANA 
BARRYMORE? 


SLEEPING  PILLS' 


■  There  was  the 
name.  Barrymore. 
She  loved  it,  and 
she  hated  it.  When 
she  was  proud  she 
would  proclaim, 
"It's  bigness,  it's 
life,  it's  everything 
beautiful  about 
the  theater,  about 
the  world,  my 
world  —  really 
the  only  world." 
When  she  was  miserable  she  would  moan,  "My 
father  was  a  bum  to  me — I  never  really  knew 
him.  My  uncle  Lionel,  I  think  I  met  him  four 
times.  My  aunt  Ethel  was  forever  telling  people 


She'd  complained  to  her  friends 
sleeping  pills  gave  her  no  rest. 


about  what  an  embarrassment  I  was.  They  all 
hate  me.  She's  degrading  us,  they'd  say;  she's 
not  living  up  to  the  name!  Them  and  their  pride 
— and  their  name,  their  great  big  lousy  name!" 

She  didn't  have  to  take  the  name. 

Actually,  she  was  born  Joan  Blythe,  the 
daughter  of  John  Blythe  (John  Barrymore's  true 
name)  and  Blanche  Oelrichs  (a  renegade  society 
girl,  a  would-be  writer,  who  married  the  famous 
actor  and  then,  after  the  birth  of  her  daugh- 
ter, embarked  on  a  writing  career  and  took  the 
pen-name,  Michael  Strange). 

Born  Joan  Blythe,  she  could  have  remained 
Joan  Blythe. 

But  when,  at  eighteen,  she  decided  to  follow 
in  the  family  tradition  and  become  an  actress, 
she  told  her  agent  that  the  name  was  to  be 


OR  THE 


HEARTBREAK? 


She  couldn't  hold 
first  husband, 
Bram  Fletcher. 


She  tried  mar- 
riage again,  with 
John  Howard. 


She  threw  her  last 
husband,  Robert  Wilcox, 
out  of  her  house. 


She  hoped  for hap- 
piness with  Ten- 
nessee Williams. 


Barrymore.  That  was  the  way  she  wanted  it. 

"Diana,"  she  said,  "after  the  name  my  mother 
has  always  called  me  by.  And  Bam-more,  after 
him  .  .  .  my  father.  ..." 

And  there  was  the  booze. 

She  loved  the  stuff,  and  she  hated  it. 

When  she  was  happy,  it  was  loathsome  to  her. 

"Who  needs  it?"  she  told  a  friend,  two  years 
ago,  when  she  gave  it  up,  temporarily.  "It's  got 
me  looking  five  years  older  than  my  real  age 
ithen  thirty-six)  ...  I  spend  three-quarters  of 
my  time  reeling  ...  I  can't  memorize  a  line 
after  a  couple  of  sips  .  .  .  It's  making  me  fat  .  .  . 
I  forget  names,  places,  thoughts  ...  I  feel  like 
hell  just  thinking  about  it." 

Yet,  when  things  went  wrong  again,  recently, 
she  said,  "I  need  it  like  I  need  the  air  to  breathe, 
like  a  baby  needs  milk  to  stop 
it  from  crying.  I  need  it  for 
strength — there's  nothing 
sweeter-feeling  to  my  bones.  I 
need  it  because  I'm  me,  be- 
cause it's  a  curse — an  inheri- 
tance, from  my  father,  his 
father  probably,  way  down  the 
line.  Because  our  middle  name 
is  A,  for  Alky  " 


Men. 

There  were  men,  too. 
They  were  nothing  to  her, 
at  first.  Then  they  were  every- 
thing. 

As  a  young  girl — when  she 
was  pretty,  independent,  a  deb- 
utante-going -on -actress  —  she 
laughed  them  off.  She  didn't 
need  them.  They  were  rich, 
these  men,  most  of  them.  Hand- 
some, some  of  them.  Passionate,  a  few. 

"How  they  all  bored  me,"  she  once  said.  "The 
world,  my  life  ahead,  had  so  much  more  to 
offer.  Theater.  Art.  That  was  my  life." 

But  when,  after  a  couple  of  years  on  Broad- 
way and  in  Hollywood,  after  her  flops,  after  she 
began  her  drinking,  after  she  realized  that  she 
needed  something  more  than  those  early  dreams, 
she  turned  to  men,  and  love. 
At  least,  she  tried. 

There  were  three  disastrous  marriages  in  the 
course  of  the  next  twelve  years — one  with  an 
actor,  one  with  a  tennis  player,  one  with  a 
playboy. 

"Love,"  she  mumbled,  in  1955,  after  a  suicide 
attempt,  as  two  doctors  stood  over  her,  slowly 
pumping  the  powdered  remains  of  twenty-one 
sleeping  pills  from  her  stomach, 
" — love  .  .  .  there's  no  such 
thing." 

She  came  close  to  it — once, 
later. 

Two  years  ago. 
She  called  him  Tom,  this 
man  who  seemed  to  come  to 
her.  His  full  name  was  Tennes- 
see (Continued  an  next  page) 


She  inherited  the  curse  of  alcohol,  Diana 
said,  from  her  father,  John  Barrvmore. 


FAMILY  CURSE? 


WHAT 
KILLED 
DIANA 
BARRYMORE? 


Continued 


The  Rev.  Sidney  Lanier  pre- 
sided at  the  burial ;  her  friends 
felt  Diana  had  found  at  last 
the  peace  she'd  sought.  .  .  . 


Williams.  He  was  the  most  famous  and  successful  play- 
wright in  America,  author  of  The  Glass  Menagerie,  A 
Streetcar  Named  Desire,  Cat  on  a  Hot  Tin  Roof.  They'd 
met  just  at  the  point  when  she  thought,  again,  that  every- 
thing was  over.  Despite  her  name,  despite  the  success  of 
her  autobiography,  Too  Much,  Too  Soon,  and  the  movie 
based  on  that  autobiography,  despite  all  this,  she  was 
having  trouble  getting  work — more  important,  getting 
praise,  encouragement.  Then,  from  out  of  the  blue,  a  pro- 
ducer-friend gave  her  a  chance  to  do  the  lead  in  one  of 
Williams'  lesser  works,  Garden  District,  in  a  small  theater 
in  Chicago.  Williams  happened  to  be  in  town  the  night  of 
the  opening.  He  attended  the  performance.  Afterwards,  at 
a  party,  he  approached  Diana.  No  woman,  he  told  her— 
not  Vivien  Leigh,  not  Jessica  Tandy,  not  Julie  Haydon, 
not  Geraldine  Page — no  one,  he  said,  had  ever  played  any 
role  of  his  the  way  she  had,  that  night. 

They  became  immediately  attached  to  one  another,  a  news- 
paper columnist  has  written.  Diana  not  only  fell  for 
Tennessee,  but  she  was  sure,  from  the  way  he  talked,  that  his 
next  play  would  have  a  starring  part  for  her,  get  her  back  into 
the  harness  again.  The  'next  play'  turned 
out  to  be  Sweet  Bird  of  Youth.  The  star- 
ring part — that  of  The  Princess  Kosmono- 
polis — went  not  to  her,  but  to  Geraldine  Page. 
Diana  was  disappointed,  to  put  it  mildly. 
But  still,  she  felt,  she  had  'Tom.' 

She  did  everything  to  please  him.  She 
changed  her  mode  of  dress  to  try  to  please  him. 
She  cut  out  a  lot  of  the  boisterousness.  The 
drinking  was  definitely  out — even  the  oc- 
casional nips.  And  she  waited,  hoped  and 
prayed  for  the  day  he  would  want  to  turn 
their  friendship  into  marriage. 

Only,  recently,  Tennessee  told  Diana  that 
there  could  be  no  marriage.  Neither  he  nor 
she,  he  told  her,  could  ever  expect  to  be  happy 
people. 

Recently  was  obviously  Christmas  Eve  of  last  year,  1959. 
That  is  the  night  Diana  toppled  off  the  wagon  and  took 
up  drink  again. 

That  night,  friends  say,  there  was  approximately  a  case 
and  a  half  of  Scotch  in  her  New  York  apartment,  nine  or 
ten  bottles  of  vodka,  three  or  four  (Continued  on  page  75) 


46 


PETTING  AND  PARKING 


"What's  wrong  with  kids  today?"  is  a  question  we've  all  heard  often. 
But  are  the  customs  and  morals  of  today's  teen-agers  really  different 
from  those  of  the  past?  We  went  to  Annette  Funicello  and  Frankie 
Avalon,  two  very  nice  and  typical  teen-agers,  to  learn  what  they 
consider  sexually  right  and  wrong.  We  owe  .them  both  a  debt  of 
gratitude;  although  our  questions  were  very  intimate,  their  answers 
were  very  frank..  .   ^ 


the  facts  of  life 


in  teen-age  Hollywood 
third  of  a  series 


Frankie  Avalon:  I  pet...  we're  all  human 


1 1 1 

!||     j  48 


Q  Are  you  really  turning  over  a  new  leaf? 

A  Oh,  yes.  IVe  had  it.  Being  fickle  was 
fun  when  I  was  young,  which  wasn't  so  very 
long  ago,  I  guess.  But  today  I  think  I'm 
grown-up  and  have  passed  this  baby-ish 
stage.  I've  started  looking  for  the  boy  and 
don't  go  out  very  much  any  more.  I  don't 
care  about  it  any  more. 

Q  What  do  you  mean  by  'it'? 
A  Sex,  I  suppose. 

Q  Hate  you  also  stopped  falling  for  older 
men — a  habit  which  used  to  cause  you  great 
grief? 

A  Yes.  Long  ago.  It  was  another  of  the 
little  girl  problems  I've  outgrown. 

Q  But  there  is  one  older  man  you  can't  erase 
from  your  memory,  isn't  there? 

A  So,  you  found  out  about  Jack.  He's  a 
handsome  cameraman  at  the  Disney  Studios. 
I  had  a  mad  crush  on  him  and  he  once 


promised  to  'wait'  for  me.  But  when  he  got 
married  last  year  I  guess  he  forgot  that 
promise.  But  I  suppose  he's  just  a  part  of 
the  past.  I'm  trying  to  forget  him. 
Q  It's  not  easy,  is  it? 

A  To  be  honest,  no.  I'm  having  a  hard 
time  convincing  myself  that  it's  all  over. 
But  it  is.  It  was  just  another  one  of  my 
silly  crushes. 

Q  You've  had  a  lot  of  them,  haven't  you? 

A  I  used  to  fall  in  love  every  other  week. 

Q  There  was  also  Guy  Williams,  wasn't 
there? 

A  That  was  another  crush.  I  see  him  all 
the  time  and  we  do  publicity  together.  But 
that's  it. 

Q  From  the  past  let's  jump  to  the  present. 
Rumor  has  it  that  three  guys  whose  initials 
are  P,  F  and  F  are  sort  of  chasing  you.  Care 
to  confirm  the  rumor?  {Continued  on  page  80) 


Q  Being  on  the  road  as  much  as  you  are, 
and  on  your  own  so  much  of  the  time,  don't 
a  lot  of  girls  make  advances  to  you? 

A  They  sure  do ! 

Q  Are  most  of  the  women  younger,  or  older? 
A  They  vary. 

Q  Are  they  obvious,  or  subtle? 

A  Well — they're  subtle  yet  obvious.  If 
they  know  they're  going  to  meet  you,  they'll 
do  anything  to  get  your  attention.  Some- 
times they  ask  a  lot  of  questions.  Sometimes 
they  even  ask  you  to  come  to  their  house 
for  dinner.  I've  never  accepted  any  of  these 
invitations,  although  I  would  like  to.  But 
I  can't  afford  to  get  into  trouble,  and  since 
I  don't  know  the  people  extending  the 
imitation,  I  have  no  way  of  knowing  what 
I'd  be  getting  into  if  I  did  accept. 

Q  Did  anyone  ever  get  into  your  bedroom 


while  you  were  out,  or  while  you  were  in? 

A  No  one  has  broken  into  my  room,  but 
they've  made  it  to  the  door.  I've  come  home 
and  found  fans  waiting  outside  my  door 
several  times.  Once  they  tried  to  break  in, 
but  I  managed  to  hold  the  door  and  keep 
them  out.  Of  course,  then  I  couldn't  leave! 
Another  time  I  walked  into  my  room  and 
found  three  girls  in  it.  Dumbfounded,  -I 
wanted  to  know  how  they  got  in.  They 
blithely  answered  that  the  maid  had  let 
them  in.  Now  I  always  tell  the  maid,  no 
matter  where  I  am,  not  to  let  anyone  in! 
Otherwise  I  could  never  tell  when  someone 
might  be  hanging  around  .... 

Q  What  was  the  hardest  time  you  ever  had 
getting  rid  of  a  fan? 

A  I  guess  getting  rid  of  those  girls  was 
about  my  worst  {Continued  on  page  80) 


For  the 
first  time 
in  any 
magazine 
the  plain 
truth  about 


It's  almost  two  years  now  since  the  headline-making-,  heart-breaking  divorce  of 
ock  Hudson  and  Phyllis  Gates.  Since  then  Rock,  who  once  squired  Hollywood's 
oveliest  young  ladies  around  town,  has  steadily  retreated  from  the  world  of  ro- 
|  nance.  Deeply  hurt  by  that  ill-fated  marriage,  Rock  has,  like  a  wounded  animal, 
kone  off  by  himself  to  nurse  his  scars,  scars  that  some  people  say  will  never  heal.  In 
k  small  remote  beach  community  many  miles  from  Hollywood,  a  place  called  Lido 
L'sle,  Rock  has  made  his  sanctuary — a  gorgeous  home  within  whose  walls  the  soft 
bound  of  a  woman's  voice  is  rarely  heard. 

The  home  is  Rock's  alone,  a  home  into  which  he  has  poured  every  ounce  of  his 
^xtra  energy,  as  though  he  knew  deep  in  his  heart  that  this  was  not  to  be  the  usual 
pakeshift  bachelor  quarters,  which  some  future  bride  would  refurnish  to  her  own 
;aste.  With  decorator  Peter  Shore,  Rock  has  torn  down  interior  walls  to  achieve  at 
eat  expense  the  special  effects  he's  wanted;  at  night,  when  he's  not  recognized  so 
Easily,  he's  roamed  the  streets  window-shopping  for  paintings  and  furnishings;  and 
pn  free  days  he  and  Peter  have  traveled  up  and  down  the  West  Coast  from  San 
IDiego  to  San  Francisco  stopping  at  auctions,  antique  shops,  junk  shops,  everywhere, 
to  find  the  exact  piece  needed  for  some  corner  of  his  private  sanctuary.  Few  people 
taiow  what  this  sanctuary  looks  like  inside,  few  people  have  stood  in  the  grand  airy 
living  room  with  its  muted  shades  of  beige,  white,  mocha  and  burnt  orange,  and 
looked  out  onto  the  roaring  ocean  below — for  the  house  is  off-limits  to  members  of 
the  press  and  photographers.  He  surrounds  it  with  secrecy,  and  only  a  certain  group 
of  his  friends,  close  friends  such  as  George  Nader,  and  producer  Ross  Hunter,  are 
invited  there.  Often  they  are  invited  for  the  weekend,  to  talk,  play  guessing  games, 
do  imitations,  take  trips  on  Rock's  boat  (in  season)  to  Catalina  Island,  and  to  cook 
fancy  gourmet  dinners  for  themselves.  For  variety,  once  or  twice  a  month,  in  slacks 
and  open  sport  shirt,  Rock  drives  up  the  Coast  in  his  new  Silver-grey  Chrysler 
Imperial  (top  down)  to  a  little  artists'  colony  called  Sausalito,  just  outside  of  San 


ROCK  AND  WOMEN  continued 


m 

mk 


Francisco,  for  coffee  Matches,  small  dinner  parties  and  long  seri- 
ous discussions  with  sensitive  artists.  But  in  his  private  life  (a  life 
never  discussed  in  movie  magazines)  there  seems  now  to  be  little 
or  no  place  for  feminine  companionship.  Only  when  required  to 
attend  an  opening  night  or  big  Hollywood  party,  does  a  woman 
manage  to  occupy  his  time— and  on  these  occasions  he  will  usually 
invite  his  current  leading  lady  or  some  friend  who  is  a  casual— 
not  romantic — acquaintance.  Rock's  world,  in  short,  is  a  world 
without  women,  his  home  a  kind  of  fortress  protecting  him  against 
the  dangers  of  love.  "I've  had  enough  marriage  to  last  me  a  life- 
time," he  says.  "I'm  happy  with  the  way  things  are  now.  I  have 
my  dream  house,  and . . . ."  But  those  of  us  who  know  and  love  Rock 
turn  away  saddened  and  care  to  hear  no  more.  Saddened  to  think 
that  someday  when  he  is  old  and  grey  this  wonderful,  charming, 
sensitive,  intelligent  man  will  wake  up  one  morning  and,  sitting 


by  the  window,  looking  down  at  the  ocean,  drinking  orange  juice 
for  one,  hear  in  his  imagination  the  footsteps  of  children  and 
grandchildren  who  were  never  born,  turn  his  back  to  the  window 
and  understand  that  the  life  he  built,  like  the  living  room  itself 
this  morning,  is  suddenly,  strangely,  terrifyingly  empty. 

And  yet  there  is  a  girl . .  •  please  turn  the  page 


OCK  AND  WOMEN  continued 


This  is  the 

moving  story  of  / 
Rock  Hudson  and 
Linda  Cristal— 
the  one  girl  in  all 
the  world  who  can. 

(if  Rock  returns  her  love) 

save  him  from  the 
empty  bachelorhood 
to  which  he  has 
doomed  himself. 


■  It  begins  on  a  Saturday 
morning.,  not  long  ago. 

Rock  stood  on  the  deck 
of  his  yacht,  the  Khairuz- 
ham,  tied  to  its  pier  in 
Newport,  a  little  coastal 
town  not  far  from  Los 
Angeles. 

He  was  annoyed. 
His  guests  —  four 
couples,  friends  and  their 
dates — had  been  told  to 
show  up  by  nine  o'clock, 
so  that  this  week  end 
cruise  could  get  off  to  a 
brisk  and  early  start. 

And  here  it  was,  nearly 
9:30  now,  and  only  three 
{Continued  on  page  64) 


Anna  Kashfi 
g5£ 


Barbara  Luna 


France  Nuyen 


M.emoirs 
Beautiful  and  Bitter 
of  Casanova's 
Ladies 

A  psychoanalyst's  intimate  report  on  the  strange  love-life  of  Marlon  Brando 

■  Once  Marlon  loved  a  woman,  pretty  as  a  wildnower,  with  shaggy  black  bangs.  She 
had  the  look  of  never  quite  belonging  in  the  small  towns  where  they  lived.  She 
talked  about  art,  she  forgot  to  stock  the  refrigerator,  and  she  drank.  When  the  world  grew  too 
ugly,  too  sharp-cornered,  too  grey,  she  drank  it  back  to  blurry  pinkness,  and  then  the 
proprietor  of  the  particular  tavern  where  she  happened  to  be  would 
phone  her  house  and  ask  for  somebody  to  come  and  fetch  her. 
Her  name  was  Dorothy  Pennebacker  Brando.  She  was  Marlon's  mother. 
After  he  was  a  star,  he  had  a  dream  of  bringing  her  to  New  York.  "I  thought  if  she  loved  me 
enough,  trusted  me  enough,  then  we  could  be  together  and  I'd  take  care  of  her. 
Well,  she  left  my  father  and  came  to  live  with  me.  But  my  love  wasn't 
enough.  She  was  there  in  a  room  one  horrible  night  holding  on  to  (Continued  on  page  72) 


FROM  UGLY  DUCKLING 


Connie  Francis 
own  story  of 
her  remarkable 
transformation 


■  When  Macy's  Department 
Store  called  me 
and  asked  me  to  be  the 
Cinderella  in  their 
Thanksgiving  Day  parade 
last  year,  I  was 
flabbergasted  and  speechless. 

"Me?"  I  said,  a  funny 
burr  in  my  throat.  I 
was  certain  they'd  made  a 
mistake. 

Don't  get  me  wrong.  I 
was  thrilled.  More  than 
that:  flattered!  Because, 
never,  in  my  wildest 
dreams,  did  I  imagine 
myself  as  a  glamour  girl. 
Not  that  I  don't  like 
gorgeous  dresses  and  gowns 
and  jewelry.  I  flip  for 
them.  Like  any  normal  girl, 
I  love  dressing  up  in 
rhinestone  necklaces, 
pretty  silks  that  smell  of 
cologne,  high-heeled  satin 
shoes,  the  works. 

But  me,  Connie 
{Continued  on  page  78) 


Small?    Very  Small? 


LOVABLE  Ira  is  a  welcome  addition 


in-between? "Interplay"  (above)  with 
foam  contour  shell  to  round  out  your 
glamour.  Curved  front  defines  beauti- 
fully. White,  black.  Only  $1.50 
small?  "Add  Vantage"  (far  left)  with 
medium  foam  contouring  to  fulfill  the 
promise  of  your  figure.  Soft-touch 
anchor-band  never  curls.  White.  Only  §2 

very  small? "Add-a-Pad"  (near  left) 
with  removable  full-foam  pads  to  make 
the  most  of  you.  Pert  demi-plunge  neck- 
line. White,  black.  Only  $1.50 

It  Costs  So  Little 
To  Look  Lovable. 

The  Lovable  Brassiere  Co.,  New  York  16 
•  Los  Angeles  16  •  Also  sold  in  Canada. 
1    Ask  for  Lovable  girdles,  and  panties,  too. 


 A 


A  Modern  Screen  Special  Feature 


Cyd  Charisse— Tony  Martin 


■  "For  better,  for  worse;  for  richer,  for  poorer, 
in  sickness  and  in  health,  till  death  do  you  part 
.  .  .  Whom  God  hath  joined  together,  let  no  man 
put  asunder.  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  long  pause  when  the  minister  fin- 
ished the  marriage  service.  Then  the  tall  hand- 
some groom  opened  his  arms  and  embraced  his 
lovely  bride.  Finally  Cyd  and  Tony,  starry-eyed, 
turned  to  accept  the  congratulations  of  the 
minister  and  the  wedding  guests. 

No  marriage — not  even  in  Hollywood — started 
out  with  such  good  wishes — and  such  dire  prophe- 
cies— as  did  the  union  of  Cyd  Charisse  and  Tony 
Martin.  It  couldn't  last,  their  friends  said.  There 
were  too  many  strikes  against  it.  They  had  warned 
Cyd  careers  never  mixed — especially  careers  like 


theirs.  Singers  and  ballerinas  were  both  tem- 
peramental. And  both  Tony  and  Cyd  had  been 
married  before  and  divorced.  Cyd  had  a  child  by 
that  first  marriage.  Tony  was  supposed  to  be  hard 
to  get  along  with.  "Ask  Alice  Faye  what  she  had 
to  put  up  with,"  they  said,  "and  he  was  madly  in 
love  with  her,  too." 

His  and  Cyd's  interests  were  so  different.  He 
loved  sports  and  she  didn't ;  he  liked  people  around 
him ;  she  was  a  homebody ;  he  liked  to  be  on  the  go 
constantly;  she  was  content  to  stay  put.  "And 
you  didn't  like  him  when  you  first  met  him,"  her 
friends  reminded  her.  The  marriage,  they  felt, 
didn't  stand  a  chance. 

Nevertheless,  Cyd  Charisse,  despite  the  warn- 
ings,  serenely  and    (Continued   on  page  61) 


60 


(Continued  from  page  60) 
confidently  went  ahead  with  the  wedding 
plans:  her  friends  had  completely  missed 
the  point.  They  forgot  that  she  loved  Tony, 
that  he  and  she  were  in  love  with  each 
other,  that  she  had  faith  not  only  in  him 
but  what  was  even  more  important — in 
herself.  What  did  her  friends  know  of  the 
depth  of  her  understanding  of  this  man? 
What  measure  did  they  have  to  gauge  the 
sureness  of  her  instincts  about  him?  She 
herself  was  the  best  judge  of  what  she 
was  doing  and  why  she  was  doing  it. 
She  saw  qualities  in  Tony  that  others 
perhaps  did  not  see.  She  knew  that  he 
was  good  and  kind  and  sweet  and  that  all 
that  was  needed  was  a  guiding  hand.  She 
felt  she  had  that  hand.  Her  marriage,  she 
was  convinced,  would  succeed. 

Her  friends  pooh-poohed  her  theories. 
They  had  heard  them  before. 

It  must  be  a  source  of  great  satisfaction 
to  Cyd  Charisse  to  know  that  she  has 
proved  her  own  instincts  right  and  the 
dire  prophecies  of  the  crepe-hangers 
wrong.  The  marriage  has  lasted.  To  all 
intents  and  purposes,  it  will  last  "until 
death  do  them  part."  This  marriage  has 
not  only  confounded  the  Hollywood  wise- 
acres, it  has  also  given  renewed  hone  to 
marriage  as  an  institution  and  proved  that 
every  marriage  can  succeed  if  the  two 
people  involved  have  faith  in  each  other 
and  are  willing  to  work  for  success. 

Why  it  has  succeeded 

Every  happy  marriage  has  its  own 
formula,  its  own  recipe  for  happiness.  It  is 
interesting  to  analyze  the  reasons  why 
this  marriage  succeeded  when  every 
signpost  pointed  to  failure.  Why  was 
Cyd  Charisse  so  sure  of  the  Tightness  of 
her  instincts  about  her  husband?  What  in- 
gredients made  up  the  recipe  for  happiness 
in  her  case?  To  get  the  answers,  we  must 
first  study  the  two  personalities  involved 
— their  characters,  their  backgrounds  and 
the  circumstances  which  helped  to  mold 
them. 

Cyd  Charisse  was  born  Tula  Ell  ice 
Finklea  in  Amarillo,  Texas.  She  came 
of  good  healthy  Irish,  French,  and  English 
stock.  From  the  time  she  was  a  small  girl, 
she  was  surrounded  by  nothing  but  love 
and  understanding.  "There  always  was 
so  much  love  in  our  house."'  she  recalls. 
Between  her  and  her  father,  a  jeweller 
who  loved  the  ballet,  there  was  a  special 
raDoort.  Her  little  brother  adored  her, 
called  her  Cyd  because  he  couldn't  pro- 
nounce Sis.  Cyd  she  remained. 

The  little  girl  grew  rapidly.  At  eight, 
she  could  pass  for  twelve,  she  was  so  tall. 
"But  I  grew  too  fast  and  I  was  as  thin 
as  a  rail,"  she  says  now.  Her  father  in- 
sisted she  take  ballet  lessons  to  develop  her 
body. 

Cyd,  anxious  to  please  her  beloved  father, 
and  already  sensing  that  her  destiny  lay 
in  a  dancing  career,  enrolled  in  a  local 
school.  "She  has  talent."  her  teacher  said. 
After  four  years  of  lessons  in  Amarillo. 
her  teacher  admitted  that  the  girl  had 
gone  as  far  as  she  could  with  her.  She 
needed  a  better  teacher. 

Inquiries  brought  forth  the  informa- 
tion that  there  was  a  famous  school  in 
Hollywood,  California,  run  by  a  man 
named  Nico  Charisse  who  was  connected 
with  the  Ballet  Russe.  Nico  gave  her  an 
audition  and  was  enthusiastic  about  her. 
After  several  years  as  his  pupil,  he  con- 
sidered her  good  enough  to  join  the  Ballet 
Russe  troupe  and  recommended  her  to 
the  attention  of  the  troupe's  head.  Colonel 
de  Basil.  De  Basil  watched  her  perform 
and  signed  her  on  the  spot. 

The  troupe  toured  Europe  each  spring 
and  as  the  time  neared  for  its  departure  for 
abroad,  Cyd  was  thrilled  beyond  words. 
She  was  as  happy  for  her  parents  as  she 


The  Opposite  Sex 
and  Ybucc  Perspiration 


Q.  Do  you  know  there  are  two 
kinds  of  perspiration? 

A.  It's  true!  One  is  "physical," 
caused  by  work  or  exertion:  the 
other  is  "nervous,"  stimulated  by 
emotional  excitement.  It's  the 
kind  that  comes  in  tender  mo- 
ments with  the  "opposite  sex." 


Q.  How  can  you  overcome  this 
"emotional"  perspiration? 

A.  Science  says  a  deodorant  needs 
a  special  ingredient  specifically 
formulated  to  overcome  this 
emotional  perspiration  without 
irritation.  And  now  it's  here . . . 
exclusive  Perstop*.  So  effective, 
yet  so  gentle. 


Q.  Which   perspiration   is  the 
worst  offender? 

A.  The  "emotional"  kind.  Doc- 
tors say  it's  the  big  offender  in 
underarm  stains  and  odor.  This 
perspiration  comes  from  bigger, 
more  powerful  glands— and  it 
causes  the  most  offensive  odor. 


Q.  Why  is  arrid  cream  America's 
most  effective  deodorant? 

A.  Because  of  Perstop*,  the  most 
remarkable  anti-perspirant  ever 
developed,  ARRID  CREAM  Deo- 
dorant safely  stops  perspiration 
stains  and  odor  without  irrita- 
tion to  normal  skin.  Saves  your 
pretty  dresses  from  "Dress  Rot." 


Why  be  only  Half  Safe  ? 
use  Arrid  to  be  sure .' 


It's  more  effective  than  any  cream,  twice  as 
effective  as  any  roll-on  or  spray  tested!  Used 
daily,  new  antiseptic  ARRID  with  Perstop*  actually 
stops  underarm  dress  stains,  stops  "Dress  Rot"  stops 
perspiration  odor  completely  for  24  hours.  Get 
ARRID  CREAM  Deodorant  today. 


494 


•Carter  Produ 


;  Trademark  for  sulfonated 


Fblte  who  care 
buy  Brand  Name 
Health  and 
Beauty  Aids! 

Why  do  you  buy  Brand  Names? 
Because  you  trust  them.  You 
know  that  they  are  consistently 
good,  that  they  always  meet  the 
high  standards  of  quality  you've 
set  for  yourself  and  your  family. 
You'll  find  Brand  Name  prod- 
ucts wherever  you  go.  No  guess- 
work shopping.  Like  good 
friends,  they're  always  there. 

The  Brand  Name  manufac- 
turer has  built  a  reputation.  He 
must  maintain  it,  so  he  keeps 
his  standards  high,  and  strives 
constantly  to  make  his  product 
better.  He's  always  first  with 
new  products  and  ideas.  He  em- 
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was   for   herself   over   this  opportunity. 

Practically  on  the  eve  of  departure,  a 
tragic  incident  occurred  which  was  to 
change  the  course  of  Cyd's  life.  A  tele- 
gram was  handed  to  her.  It  was  from  her 
mother  advising  her  that  her  father  was 
gravely  ill.  There  was  no  word  about  her 
having  to  come  home.  She  must  make  up 
her  own  mind  about  it.  But  her  mother, 
knowing  Cyd,  knew  what  she  would  do. 
She  decided  to  go  to  Amarillo  at  once  and 
see  her  beloved  dad.  Her  decision  gives  us 
an  insight  into  the  character  of  Cyd  Cha- 
risse,  a  foretaste  of  one  of  the  reasons  for 
the  success  of  her  marriage  with  Tony 
Martin.  Hers  was  no  brave  'the-show- 
must-go-on-my-career-comes-first'  philos- 
ophy. She  was  a  loving  daughter;  she 
loved  her  father;  that  was  enough.  Her 
place  was  with  them.  The  troupe  sailed 
without  her. 

Her  father  died.  The  young  girl,  now 
sixteen  years  of  age  and  saddened  by 
grief,  returned  to  Hollywood  and  to  the 
dance  troupe.  When  Nico  Charisse  saw 
her  again,  he  was  startled  by  the  change  in 
her.  When  she  had  left  for  Texas,  she  had 
been  a  child.  Now  she  was  a  woman,  a 
very  beautiful  woman.  Grief  had  molded 
her,  had  matured  her.  Unusually  tall  for 
her  age,  she  could  pass  for  several  years 
older.  Nico  Charisse  fell  in  love  with  his 
pupil.    He  asked  her  to  marry  him. 

May-September  marriage 

Lonely,  in  need  of  comfort  and  strength, 
Cyd  married  a  man  much  older  than  her- 
self. Though  she  looked  like  a  woman,  she 
was  in  truth  still  a  child.  She  had  had  no 
youthful  experiences  with  boys,  no  adoles- 
cence, no  fun. 

The  time  came  for  the  troupe  to  tour 
Europe  again  and  this  time,  Cyd,  accom- 
panied by  her  husband,  went  with  them. 
In  Paris,  Nico,  Jr.  was  born.  The  year  was 
1942  and  the  world  was  at  war.  The 
troupe  decided  to  return  to  the  States. 

Back  in  Hollywood,  Cyd  resumed  her 
dance  career,  but  now  it  took  a  new  turn. 

David  Lichine,  choreographer  for  the 
troupe,  introduced  her  to  Gregory  Ratoff, 
the  famous  Russian  actor  and  director. 
Through  this  introduction,  she  got  parts 
in  pictures  like  Something  to  Shout  About, 
Mission  to  Moscow,  Ziegfeld  Follies,  and 
The  Harvey  Girls.  She  did  not  cut  a 
particularly  wide  swathe  at  this  time,  but 
acting  in  motion  pictures  intrigued  her, 
and  she  decided  to  remain  in  that  medium. 

Meanwhile,  her  marriage  was  crumbling. 
Though  Charisse  was  kind,  Cyd  began  to 
realize  all  she  had  missed  by  marrying 
him.  She  was  hungry  for  the  youth  she 
should  have  had. 

They  were  divorced  in  1947.  Cyd  was 
only  twenty-four  years  old  at  the  time. 
Divorce  embitters  some  people;  it  ma- 
tures others.  It  made  Cyd  a  calm,  wise, 
tolerant,  understanding  woman  who  had 
profited  by  her  experience  and  had  learned 
a  new  set  of  values. 

This  was  the  woman  who  accepted  an 
invitation  from  Nat  Goldstone,  her  agent, 
to  attend  a  party  he  was  giving  at  the  Bel 
Air  Hotel.  Goldstone  seated  her  next  to 
a  tall,  dark,  handsome  man.  "This  is  Tony 
Martin,"  Goldstone  said. 

She  found  the  young  man  interesting  and 
the  feeling  was  evidently  mutual,  because 
he  invited  her  to  Chasen's  after  the  party 
to  enjoy  a  little  snack. 

The  date,  however,  was  not  a  success. 
Instead  of  sitting  down  and  quietly  con- 
versing with  Cyd,  Tony  table-hopped  all 
evening. 

She  decided  she  would  not  go  out  with 
him  again — this  man  was  not  for  her. 

She  forgot  about  him  completely.  Then 
one  evening  Nat  Goldstone  called  her  again. 

"We're  seeing  the  premiere  of  Black 
Narcissus  next  Wednesday  night  and  I 


called  to  ask  if  you'd  like  to  join  us  all." 

Cyd  gladly  accepted  the  invitation.  When 
she  arrived  at  Nat's  home,  she  was  amazed 
to  find  that  Tony  Martin  was  her  escort. 

"He  asked  me  to  invite  you,"  Goldstone 
whispered  to  her. 

She  liked  Tony  much  better  on  this 
second  meeting.  He  was  kind  and  sweet 
and  very  attentive.  It  is  significant  that 
on  the  occasion  of  their  second  meeting, 
she  began  to  show  that  deep  and  remark- 
able understanding  she  has  of  him.  She 
realized  he  had  table-hopped  that  last 
time  because  of  his  great  need  and  his 
great  love  of  people. 

As  she  saw  more  and  more  of  him,  she 
found  herself  falling  in  love  with  him. 
She  knew  all  his  faults,  but  she  knew  his 
good  qualities  too,  and  to  her,  the  good 
qualities  far  outweighed  the  faults.  What 
was  important  to  her  was  that  she  could 
make  this  man  happy  just  as  he  could 
make  her  happy.  They  were  good  for 
each  other.  She  could  bring  her  maturity 
to  his  small  boyishness,  her  serenity  and 
calm  to  his  restlessness.  He  was  gay 
and  fun-loving  and  exciting.  She  had 
never  known  such  a  man. 

Tony's  background 

Tony  Martin  was  born  in  Oakland,  Cali- 
fornia. He  was  born  Alvin  Morris  and  he 
was  the  only  child  of  a  mother  and  father 
who  was  a  physician  and  who  died  when 
Tony  was  only  two  years  old.  Thus,  the 
little  boy  had  never  known  a  father's  love 
or  a  father's  guiding  hand. 

As  a  child,  he  began  to  show  great 
musical  talent.  At  the  age  of  twelve, 
when  most  youngsters  are  playing  marbles 
and  hooky,  Tony  was  playing  the  saxo- 
phone and  the  clarinet.  At  Oakland  High 
School,  he  was  organizer,  leader  and  sax 
player  for  a  four-piece  orchestra.  Even 
as  a  kid,  he  was  a  good  earner.  He  was 
exceedingly  good  to  his  mother,  to  whom 
he  felt  a  great  responsibility,  and  handed 
over  most  of  his  earnings  to  her.  Along 
with  his  love  of  music,  he  early  showed 
an  interest  in  sports;  he  was  sports  editor 
of  the  student  paper,  and  excellent  at 
baseball  and  track. 

After  he  was  graduated  from  Oakland 
High,  he  was  enrolled  in  St.  Mary's 
College  since  his  mother  wanted  him  to 
follow  in  his  father's  footsteps  and  become 
a  doctor.  He  was  an  excellent  student 
but  while  there,  he  showed  a  tendency  to 
get  himself  into  difficulties  with  those  in 
authority.  One  day,  in  a  moment  of  youth- 
ful exuberance,  he  played  a  jazz  solo  on 
the  college  organ.  To  the  school  authorities, 
that  was  nothing  short  of  sacrilege  and  he 
was  promptly  asked  to  leave  college. 
Tony  seized  this  opportunity  to  get  into 
show  business  where  he  felt  he  belonged. 
He  headed  for  Chicago  where  he  played 
and  sang  with  a  band  at  night  clubs,  among 
them  the  Chez  Paree.  Here  he  met  Frances 
Langford  who  sold  him  the  idea  of  going 
to  Hollywood.  It  was  then  he  assumed 
the  name  of  Tony  Martin  and  headed  back 
to  California. 

The  country  was  in  the  depths  of  the 
depression  and  musicals  were  not  being 
made  in  Hollywood.  He  got  a  job  as  a 
singer  on  the  Burns  and  Allen  show  and 
appeared  at  the  Trocadero,  then  Holly- 
wood's most  elegant  night  spot. 

His  first  pictures  were  Follow  the  Fleet 
and  Poor  Little  Rich  Girl.  One  day  at  the 
horse  races  he  was  introduced  to  a  very 
pretty  girl  named  Alice  Faye.  She  was  a 
former  show  girl  who  was  beginning  to 
make  a  name  for  herself  in  motion  pic- 
tures. Their  courtship  was  one  of  the 
stormiest  in  the  annals  of  Hollywood 
romances.  It  was  on  again,  off  again,  on 
again.  Finally  when  everyone  agreed 
it  was  off  and  probably  would  not  be  on, 
they  astounded  their  friends  by  eloping 


suddenly,  -unexpectedly,  to  get  married. 

In  speaking  of  the  failure  of  this  mar- 
riage they  admitted  that  they  were  both 
too  stubborn  to  give  in  to  each  other. 
The  marriage  ended  in  divorce.  What  Tony 
needed  then  and  has  always  needed  was 
a  girl  like  Cyd  Charisse. 

When  World  War  II  was  declared  Tom- 
was  called  to  the  colors.  After  his  honor- 
able discharge  he  went  back  to  Hollywood 
to  take  up  his  career.  Nervous,  restless, 
lonely  he  found  it  difficult  to  make  an 
adjustment  to  Chilian  life.  He  became  the 
gay  young  blade  of  Hollywood.  He  went 
in  for  flashy  clothes,  for  sports,  for  people 
of  all  kinds.  He  was  never  alone:  he  never 
wanted  to  be  alone.  He  was  always  on  the 
go.  This  was  the  man  who  was  introduced 
to  Cyd  Charisse  the  night  of  Nat  Gold- 
stone's  party  at  the  Bel  Air  Hotel. 

Cyd's  happy-marriage  theories 

For  one  tbing,  she  has  never  tried  to 
change  her  husband.  She  has  learned  to 
live  with  his  craze  for  sports  and  for  the 
people  with  whom  he  must  necessarily  sur- 
round himself,  such  as  music  arrangers, 
press  agents,  musicians,  song  pluggers,  TV 
big  shots  and  his  pals  in  the  sports  world, 
people  with  whom  his  wife  has  nothing 
in  common  but  accepts  without  a  word  of 
protest.  "I  know  Tony  thoroughly,"  Cyd 
said,  "and  I  don't  want  to  change  him.  I 
fell  in  love  with  him  as  he  is,  not  as  the 
man  I  want  him  to  be." 

For  another  thing,  she  has  never  let  her 
career  interfere  with  her  marriage.  She 
has  a  clause  in  her  contract  that  when 
she  is  not  making  a  film,  she  has  per- 
mission to  join  her  husband  wherever 
he  may  be.  It  is  the  first  clause  of  its  kind 
ever  inserted  in  the  contract  of  a  lead- 
ing Hollywood  personality.  But  good  wife 
though  she  is.  she  has  never  forgotten  she 
is  a  mother,  too.    She  and  Tonv  alwavs 


manage  to  be  home  in  time  to  spend  their 
wedding  anniversary  with  then-  son,  Tony. 
Jr.,  born  in  1950. 

Not  only  has  she  never  let  her  career 
interfere  with  her  marriage,  but  she  has 
done  what  few  women — far  less  gifted  and 
far  less  prepossessing  than  she  is — are 
willing  to  do.  She  has  submerged  her  own 
personality.  When  Tony  wants  to  go  out 
at  night  to  a  night  club.  Cyd  goes  with 
him  even  though  there  are  times  when 
she'd  much  rather  stay  at  home.  She 
has  turned  down  good  roles  in  pictures 
whenever  she  thought  they  interfered 
with  her  marriage. 

With  insight  and  emotional  maturity,  she 
has  turned  her  unhappy  experience  in  her 
first  marriage  to  profit  in  her  second.  She 
learned  not  to  deflate  a  man's  ego,  nor  to 
worry  him  needlessly;  and  never  to  be 
possessive  nor  jealous  of  her  husband. 

She  manages  to  be  a  delightful  com- 
panion to  her  husband,  springing  all  sorts 
of  surprises  to  give  him  pleasure. 

Once  she  talked  him  out  of  buying  a 
new  Jaguar  which  he  wanted  badly.  Then 
later  at  Christmas,  which  also  happens  to 
be  his  birthday,  Cyd  suggested  that  they 
go  for  a  little  stroll.  As  they  walked,  she 
pointed  to  a  lovely  Jaguar  at  the  curb. 

"That's  the  kind  I  wanted  to  buy," 
Tony  said  sadly.  "Isn't  it  a  beauty?"' 

"It  certainly  is."  she  laughed.  "And 
that's  my  birthday  present  to  3rou." 

She  cannot  understand  women  who 
constantly  whine  and  complain  to  their 
husbands,  without  even  giving  the  man 
a  chance  to  cross  his  threshold  and  wash 
his  hands.  A  man's  home  should  be  his 
peaceful  castle,  she  says.  Neither  can  she 
understand  women  who  do  not  want  their 
husbands  around  too  much.  "I  can't  see 
enough  of  Tony.  Gosh,  when  you  love  a 
person,  how  can  you  see  too  much  of 
him?"  She  doesn't  believe  in  the  theory 


that  a  wife  should  keep  her  husband 
guessing.  "If  a  woman  wants  her  peace 
of  mind  and  wants  her  husband  to  have  his 
peace  of  mind,  she  should  let  him  know 
she  loves  him  and  leave  no  doubt  about 
her  loyalty." 

She  is  convinced  that  a  calm  and  happy 
woman  has  a  better  chance  of  succeeding 
in  her  career  than  has  a  tense  or  overly - 
ambitious  one.  As  a  result,  she  has  attained 
great  success  in  her  career  since  her  mar- 
riage. Singin'  in  the  Rain,  The  Band  Wag- 
on. Easy  to  Love,  Brigadoon,  Deep  in 
My  Heart,  and  It's  Always  Fair  Weather 
.  .  .  smash  successes  which  have  brought 
her  stardom  were  filmed  after  her  mar- 
riage. 

"If  a  woman  doesn't  succeed,'"  Cyd  said 
once  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  "a 
happy  woman  will  learn  to  accept  failure, 
too." 

Their  friends  say  that  marriage  with 
Cyd  has  made  a  remarkable  change  in- 
Tony.  He  is  quieter,  gentler,  more  re- 
laxed. Ironically  enough,  if  Cyd  had 
planned  this  change  in  him,  it  probably 
would  not  have  happened. 

The  change  was  wrought  by  the  miracle 
of  happiness.  His  star  too,  is  in  its  ascen- 
dency. 

What  makes  these  two  vivid,  vital  charm- 
ing people  so  remarkable  is  that  neither 
is  envious  of  the  other.  On  the  contrary, 
each  takes  delight  in  the  other's  success,  in 
each  new  triumph. 

Perhaps  the  best  reason  for  the  suc- 
cess of  this  marriage  which  everyone 
thought  was  doomed  to  failure,  lies  in  the 
words  which  Cyd  Charisse  once  said  to 
her  bosses  at  MGM  when  she  turned  down 
a  role  because  she  felt  it  would  inter- 
fere with  her  marital  happiness. 

"A  career  is  a  wonderful  thing  but  it 
will  never  take  the  place  of  a  husband.  I 
know.    I've  tried  it."'  END 


Married  women 
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But  One  Girl  Won't  Give  Up 


(Continued  from  page  55) 

of   the   couples   had   managed   to  show. 

"Five  minutes,"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
about  the  others,  "and  show  or  not,  we're 
taking  off." 

At  exactly  9:30,  the  little  yellow  convert- 
ible pulled  up  alongside  the  yacht. 

Rock  watched  as  the  girl — tall,  dark, 
dressed  in  white  slacks  and  shirt  and  a  red- 
striped  jacket — got  out  of  the  car  and 
rushed  towards  the  boat. 

He  recognized  her  as  Linda  Cristal.  the 
young  South  American  actress  who 
worked  at  the  same  studio  where  he 
worked,  whom  he'd  met  a  few  times,  at 
a  party  here,  a  reception  there. 

He  recognized  her  type,  too,  he  thought. 
The  vital  type,  he  thought  to  himself, 
yawning  internally,  as  she  waved  at  him 
and  shouted  "Hi,  Rrrrrrock!!"  as  she  con- 
tinued to  rush  towards  the  boat. 

"I'm  here,"  she  said,  smiling  broadly, 
when  she  reached  him.  "I  hope  I  am  not 
too  late.  I  really  hope  that,  in  all  apology. 
Are  you  surprised  to  see  me?" 

Rock  ignored  the  apology,  the  question. 

"Where's  Al?"  he  asked. 

"Al — "  Linda  said.  "I'm  sorry  to  have 
to  tell  you  this  about  a  friend,  Rock — but 
he's  sick,  with  the  bad  sore  throat.  Thurs- 
day night,  when  he  called  and  asked  me 
if  I'd  like  to  come  along  on  the  cruise,  he 
sounded  fine.  But,"  she  went  on,  "this 
morning,  at  eight  o'clock,  when  he  called  to 
say  he  couldn't  make  it.  because  his  throat 
had  the  soreness — "  She  shook  her  head. 
" — he  sounded  terrible  .  .  .  like  this." 

She  made  a  gargling  noise,  and  laughed. 

Rock  did  not  laugh  back. 

Instead,  he  continued  to  look  at  her. 

And  Linda's  laughter,  her  smile,  disap- 
peared. 

"I  don't  mean  to  make  fun,"  she  said.  "I 
know  that  the  sore  throat  is  not  a  pleasant 
thing.  But  with  the  pills,  the  salt  and 
warm  water  .  .  .  he'll  get  over  it.  Don't 
worry." 

There  was  a  pause,  a  long  one,  as  Rock 
continued  to  say  nothing. 

Linda  forced  a  smile  to  her  lips  again. 

"And  meanwhile,"  she  said  then,  "I 
thought  I  might  as  well  come  anyway,  on 
the  boat  trip,  even  if  Al  couldn't." 

Her  face  began  to  redden  a  little. 

"I  know,  maybe  it  isn't  proper,  a  girl 
coming  alone,"  she  said,  " — but  for  two 
days  now  I  look  so  forward  to  this  .  .  . 
I  thought  maybe  it  would  be  all  right." 

Her  fingers  played  momentarily  with 
the  handle  of  her  small  suitcase. 

"Is  it,"  she  asked,  "all  rieht?" 

"Sure,"  said  Rock,  unenthusiastically. 

"Bueno.  good,"  said  Linda. 

She  looked  up,  towards  the  sails. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "let's  hoist  the  mizz- 
mast  and  be  off." 

"Miz?enmast,"  said  Rock. 

She  looked  back  at  him.  "Is  that  how 
vou  say  it,  in  the  nautical  language  ...  in 
English?"  she  asked.  "Mizzenmast?" 

"Yep."  Rock  said. 

"So  then,"  Linda  started  to  say  again, 
"let  the  crew  hoist  the — " 

Rock  interrupted  her. 

"Lin'-'a,"  he  said,  "if  you'd  like  a  cup  of 
hot  coffee  .  .  .  some  bacon  and  eggs — "  he 
pointed  " — that  ladder  will  take  you  down 
below,  to  the  galley.  And  you  can  join 
the  others. 

"Me,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  be  busy 
now  .  .  .  It's  late  ...  I'd  like  to  take  off 
while  the  tide  is  still  with  us." 

Linda  clutched  the  handles  of  her  suit- 
case even  more  tightly. 

"Yes,  mi  capitan,"  she  said,  softly,  her 
<S4  voice  quivering  just  a  bit,  as  she  turned 


and  walked  towards  the  staircase  to  which 
Rock  had  pointed.  .  .  . 

God  tempers  and  worse  moods 

"It  was  a  strange  day,  the  rest  of  that 
first  day,"  another  member  of  the  party 
has  since  said.  "Both  Linda  and  Rock  were 
quiet,  reserved,  out  of  it,  out  of  the  whole 
mood  of  what  was  supposed  to  be  this  fun, 
salt-sprayed  week  end.  Linda  was  em- 
barrassed. She'd  come  alone  and  she  was 
sorry  now  for  having  done  this.  Rock's 
reception  had  been  far  from  cordial  and 
Linda  couldn't  seem  to  understand  why. 
And  this  not  knowing  why  bothered  her. 
Made  her  gloomy,  after  a  while.  Tense. 
Silent  .  .  .  Rock  was  in  an  even  worse 
mood.  He  was  downright  bad-tempered 
all  the  rest  of  that  morning,  and  afternoon. 
Those  of  us  who  knew  him  had  never  seen 
him  act  like  this  before.  But  we  began  to 
grasp  the  reason  for  his  moodiness  after 
a  while.  We  realized  that  it  had  to  do 
with  Linda.  She  had  broken  a  cardinal 
rule  of  his.  'Never.'  he'd  once  said,  'am 
I  going  to  bother  with  a  girl  aboard  the 
Khairuzham.  The  Khairuzham's  my  girl, 
my  date,'  he'd  said,  ' — you  others  can  cou- 
ple up,  but  for  me.  my  boat's  enough.'  This 
anti-female  attitude,  of  course,  was  a  re- 
sult of  Rock's  trouble  with  Phyllis  (his  ex- 
wife)  the  divorce,  the  haggling  over  the 
settlement,  the  mess  of  headlines  the  whole 
thing  caused,  the  bad  taste  it  left  in  his 
mouth  for  anything  romantic,  even  to  the 
point  of  spending  a  little  time  with  a  girl, 
more  or  less  alone.  And  now.  with  Linda 
on  board,  alone,  unescorted,  Rock  had 
the  feeling  that  he  was  obliged  to  be  polite 
and  spend  some  time  with  her. 

"And  damn  if  he  was — was  his  attitude. 

"So  the  day  passed,  the  two  of  them 
uncomfortable.  All  of  us  uncomfortable. 

"Until  finally,  at  seven  o'clock,  when  the 
supper  gong  rang  the  rest  of  us  were  all 
too  glad  to  head  for  the  galley,  and  the  food 
and  wine,  just  to  break  the  strain. 

"So  glad  that  we  didn't  even  notice  at 
first  that  neither  Rock  nor  Linda  was  with 
us.  And  when  we  did  notice  this,  finally, 
we  figured,  well,  they'd  each  gone  to  their 
cabins  in  order  to  get  away,  not  only  from 
us.  their  by-now  whispering  audience— 
but  from  each  other.  .  .  ." 

Talk  topside 

Actually,  the  friend  was  right. 

Both  Rock  and  Linda  had  retired  to 
their  cabins. 

But.  somehow,  after  a  while.  Rock  had 
decided  to  go  topside,  to  sit,  alone,  on  a 
bench  at  the  stern  of  his  boat. 

And.  not  long  after,  Linda  too  had  de- 
cided to  go  up  for  some  air.  .  .  . 

They  saw  each  other,  just  as  dusk  began 
to  descend. 

Rock  had  been  sitting  back,  gazing  up 
at  the  sky. 

"Hello."  Linda  said. 

"Hi,"  said  Rock,  facing  her  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

He  looked  back  at  the  sky  again. 

"That."  Linda  said,  following  his  gaze, 
"those  stars  you  look  at — that  is  the  con- 
stellation Orion.  Yes?" 

Rock  nodded. 

"That  is  my  favorite  of  all  the  constel- 
lations." Linda  said. 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Rock. 

"Really,"  Linda  said.  "You  won't  believe 
this,  but  on  my  right  leg,  right  here" — she 
pointed,  and  Rock  looked  down — "in 
tiny  little  moles,  I  have  the  exact  repro- 
duction of  Orion  .  .  .  Isn't  that  silly?  But 
it's  true  .  .  .  Five  little  tiny  marks,  and 


then  three  larger  ones  .  .  .  And  do  you 
know,  but  for  some  reason  I  am  very 
superstitious  about  this.  I  look  on  this 
constellation  as  having  brought  me  any  of 
the  luck  I  might  have  in  my  life  today. 

"It  is  silly,"  she  repeated,  "isn't  it?" 

Rock  shrugged.  "Not  if  that's  what  you 
really  believe,"  he  said. 

"Orion,"  Linda  said,  after  a  moment.  "I 
think  that  is  a  very  appropriate  name  for 
us  to  be  discussing  on  this  trip.  ...  I  mean, 
Orion  was  the  name  of  one  of  the  most 
famous  yachts  of  all  time.  Isn't  that  right? 
Built  in  the  city  of  Norfolk,  in  the  state 
of  Virginia,  in  the  year  1930 — or  1931." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  Rock  asked. 

"My  father,"  Linda  said,  "he  told  me 
that.  ...  He  used  to  have  a  boat.  A 
sail-boat.  ?  "'ttle  smaller  than  this,  but 
a  sail-boat  just  the  same  .  .  .  And  he  used 
to  tell  me  all  these  things  when  we  were 
on  the  boat." 

Remembering,  she  smiled  a  little. 

"He  used  to  call  me  his  first-mate,  my 
father,"  she  went  on.  "I  had  two  brothers. 
Miguel,  he  was  the  oldest — he's  married 
now.  And  Antonio — he  was  next;  he  has 
since  died.  But  my  father,  with  both  his 
sons,  he  used  to  favor  me.  I  guess  because 
I  was  the  youngest  and  the  girl  he  had 
waited  for  so  long— his  daughter.  And 
so,  when  I  was  old  enough,  he  used  to  take 
me  all  over  with  him,  everyplace,  and  all 
of  his  attention  was  to  me.  And  all  of 
mine  was  to  him  ...  I  guess  that's  why 
I  remember,  even  about  the  Orion." 

Something  in  common 

She  looked  away  from  Rock  now,  out 
at  the  water. 

"As  a  boy,"  she  asked,  "did  you  have 
the  kind  of  life  I  did,  with  your  father,  on 
the  sea  so  much?" 

"No,"  Rock  said.  " — We  lived  in  Chi- 
cago. There  was  a  lake.  But  we  didn't 
see  much  of  it.  We  didn't  have  much 
money.  We  certainly  didn't  have  any 
boats  .  .  .  The  closest  I  got  to  the  water  was 
in  the  summer,  for  swimming,  the  hottest 
days  of  the  year,  when  my  mother  would 
take  us  .  .  .  This  boat,  this  is  something 
new." 

"My  father."  Linda  said,  "he  was  fairly 
wealthy— he  had  a  factory  of  some  sort  in 
Uruguay.  And  in  Argentina,  where  we 
live-',  'le  published  a  magazine,  with  stories 
about  movie  stars  and  romantic  figures  and 
such  things  ...  So  he  had  some  money. 
And  he  had  his  boat.  And  we  would  spend 
much  time  on  it.  .  .  ."  Her  voice  seemed  to 
trail  off  a  little.  "And  do  you  know 
what  I  would  do  on  it?" 

"What?"  Rock  asked. 

"Well."  Linda  said,  remembering,  more 
and  more,  "during  the  day  I  would  be 
the  tomboy,  my  father's  helper  ...  I  would 
spend  all  the  time  polishing  this  brass 
thing  and  fixing  up  that  broken  line, 
doing  all  sorts  of  things  like  that  .  .  .  And 
then  at  night — " 

She  paused,  and  she  sighed. 

" — At  night  then,"  she  said,  "always  my 
father  and  my  mother  and  the  boys  would 
go  to  bed  early,  right  after  dinner,  to  read, 
or  do  puzzles,  to  get  relaxed  for  the  next 
day.  And  then  it  became  my  time  on  the 
boat,  my  time  alone. 

"I  would,  I  would  come  up  here,  alone, 
to  the  deck  then,  just  like  this.  I  would 
stand.  For  hours  and  hours.  I  would  look 
out  at  the  sea  then,  just  like  now.  And 
I  would  watch  its  rhythm  and  its  peace 
and  I  would  think  of  all  of  the  important 
things  of  life — my  happiness,  my  sorrows, 
my  confusions.  And,  somehow,  looking 
at  the  sea,  its  rhythm,  its  peace,  all  of  the 
important  things,  the  questions,  would 
become  answered  in  my  mind.  .  .  ." 

She  turned  to  face  Rock  again. 

"Have  you  ever  done  that,"  she  asked, 
"communed  with  the  sea?" 


"Yes,"  Rock  said,  "often  when  I'm  alone." 

"And  have  you  talked  to  it,  the  way  I 
used  to?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  sometimes,"  he  said. 

"And  even  begun  to  sing  to  it  after  a 
while,  you  were  so  happy  with  what  it  did 
for  you?" 

"Once  in  a  while,"  Rock  said. 

For  a  little  while  after  that,  neither  of 
them  spoke. 

And  then  Rock  asked,  "Does  your  father 
still  have  his  boat,  Linda?" 

She  turned  quickly,  and  returned  her 
gaze  to  the  water  once  more. 

"He  is  dead,"  she  said.  "—When  I  was 
thirteen,  both  my  mother  and  my  father 
were  killed  in  an  automobile  accident.  I 
was  in  the  same  automobile.  A  truck  hit 
us  and  the  car  turned  into  flames.  I  lived. 
But  they  died — " 

"I'm  sorry,"  Rock  started  to  say. 

Linda  brought  her  hand  to  her  fore- 
head, as  if  to  rub  away  the  memory. 

"It  was  the  end  of  many  things  for  me 
that  day,"  Linda  said.  "The  end  of  being 
a  daughter,  a  little  girl,  the  end  of  Marta 
Victoria  Moya  Burges— that's  my  real 
name,  Marta  .  .  .  The  end  of  many  things 
.  .  .  And  the  end  of  the  sea." 

"You  didn't  go  back  to  the  boat?" 

"I  didn't  want  to,"  Linda  said.  "For 
so  many  years,  I  never  wanted  to  know 
a  boat  again,  or  the  sea.  So  many  things 
happened  to  me  in  those  years.  I  changed. 
I  became  from  the  shy  little  girl  into  the 
actress.  I  went  from  the  secluded  home  in 
Buenos  Aires,  first  to  Mexico,  then  to 
Hollywood.  I  became  Linda  Cristal.  I 
became  married  in  those  years,  twice,  and 
divorced  twice.  I  became  a  woman  .  .  . 
My  childhood,  the  sea,  it  was  all  far  be- 
hind me  suddenly.  I  pushed  it  as  far  away 
as  I  could.  And  I  thought  I  was  doing  a 
good  job  of  pushing  it.  I  thought  I  really 
wanted  to  forget  it  all  .  .  .  And  then — " 


"But  now  I'll  die  .  . 

"What  happened,  Linda?"  Rock  asked. 

"It  was  three  years  ago,"  Linda  said, 
slowly.  "...  I  was  in  Mexico,  on  lo- 
cation, near  Cuernavaca,  working  on  my 
first  American  picture.  It  was  just  be- 
fore the  picture  started.  The  night  be- 
fore. I  was  nervous,  so  nervous.  I  couldn't 
sleep.  And  that  night,  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  I  got  up  from  my  bed  and  I  got  into 
my  car  and  I  began  to  drive  fast,  up  a 
road.  I  didn't  know  that  the  road  was  so 
bad,  that  they  were  fixing  it.  Suddenly 
the  tires  of  my  car  hit  some  sand.  The  car 
skidded  and  rolled  over.  As  it  did,  I  re- 
membered the  other  accident.  I  lived  then, 
I  thought  to  myself  in  those  seconds,  as 
the  car  rolled  over,  but  now  I'll  die.  .  .  . 

"A  little  while  later,  the  doctor  came  in. 
'My  eyes,'  I  asked  him,  'why  are  they 
covered — will  I  be  able  to  see  again?'  He 
told  me  yes.  It  was  other  parts  of  my 
face  there  was  trouble  with,  that  were 
broken,  he  said.  I  needed  an  operation. 
I  would  be  all  right.  But  before  the  oper- 
ation, for  some  reason,  he  said,  my  eyes 
would  have  to  be  covered. 

"I  didn't  believe  what  he  said.  I  was 
in  terrible  pain,  especially  about  the  area 
of  my  nose.  But  all  the  time  I  was 
thinking  of  my  eyes.  And  I  was  thinking. 
'Why  did  I  not  go  back  once  more  to  the 
sea,  to  look  at  it  once  more,  so  that  I  could 
remember,  really  remember  what  it  was 
like  that  I  had  loved  so  much.  I  began  to 
dream  about  it.  Its  color — in  the  morn- 
ing, the  light  blue,  mixing  with  the  damp- 
ness; in  the  afternoon,  when  it  was 
sunny,  the  deep  blue;  at  night,  the  lovely 
blackness  of  it  with  the  little  bits  of 
white  spray  playing  over  the  blackness.' 

"And  I  would  beg  God  to  let  me  see  it 
once  more — my  sea." 

She  stopped  and  turned  to  look  at  Rock 
again.  


He  took  a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket 
and  wiped  away  some  of  the  tears  that  had 
come  to  her  eyes. 

"And  it  all  turned  out  okay,"  he  said. 
"Here  you  are,  Linda — looking  at  the  sea. 
And  everything's  all  right  again." 

She  said  nothing,  but  began  to  sob. 

"And  everything's  all  right  ag  ain,"  Rock 
repeated. 

"Yes,"  Linda  tried  to  say. 

Her  body  began  to  shake. 

"You're  cold,"  Rock  said.  "The  night  air 
— it's  cold — " 

He  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  drew 
her  close  to  him. 

"It's  all  right,  it's  all  right,  Linda,"  he 
whispered.  .  .  . 

"They've  been  seeing  a  lot  of  each  other," 
someone  from  the  cruise  has  said.  "And 
we  like  to  think  that  maybe  this  is  it 
for  Rock. 

"As  far  as  Linda's  concerned,  we  know 
that  she's  grown  deeply  attached  to  him. 

"As  for  Rock — well,  who  knows.  He's 
very  close -mouthed  about  his  true  feelings 
for  Linda.  At  times,  when  he's  with  her, 
or  when  her  name  comes  up  in  a  conver- 
sation, he  glows  .  .  .  Then,  other  times,  he 
shows  absolutely  nothing.  In  fact,  you 
have  a  hunch,  watching  him,  these  times, 
that  he's  running  scared  again,  that  he  is 
still  trying  to  escape  from  any  romantic 
involvment,  that  he  is  telling  himself,  firm- 
ly, 'Never  again  .  .  .  Not  me!  No  more  love. 
No  more  marriage.    Not  for  me.    No  sir!' 

"Still,  he's  seeing  Linda  now  .  .  .  more 
often  than  he's  seen  any  other  girl  in  the 
past  two  years. 

"And  those  of  us  who  know  them  both 
like  to  think — 

"Well,  you  know  what  we  like  to 
think!  .  .  ."  END 

Rock  stars  in  Day  Of  The  Gun,  for  U-I 
and  Linda's  in  The  Alamo,  United  Artists. 


Yesterday  Jim  brought  me  roses 


I  thought  I  was  a  good  wife  and  mother  .  .  . 
but  I  almost  made  a  fatal  mistake. 

When  the  children  were  small  I  was  often 
too  busy  to  fuss  over  my  husband  when  he 
left  for  work  or  returned  .  .  .  and  too  busy 
to  take  the  right  care  of  myself. 

When  the  children  started  to  school  and 
began  to  criticize  my  looks,  I  woke  up  to  the 
fact  that  I  was  doing  an  injustice  both  to 
myself  and  my  family. 

I  talked  to  a  friendly  neighbor.  How  did 
she  manage  to  look  so  fresh  and  attractive? 

"I'll  tell  you  my  secret,"  she  laughed.  "No 
matter  how  tired  or  rushed  I  am,  I  always 
give  myself  a  one-minute  lather-massage 
morning  and  night  with  Cuticura  Soap." 

I  decided  to  try  Cuticura  Soap.  In  just  a 
few  days  my  skin  began  to  bloom.  This  inspired  me  to 
take  better  care  of  my  hair  and  figure.  Most  importantly, 
I  stopped  taking  my  patient,  uncomplaining  husband  for 
granted. 

You  know,  he  must  have  appreciated  the  change  because 
yesterday  Jim  brought  me  roses. 

{Advertise! 


i 


When  blemishes  occur,  get  the  full  treatment.  Along  with 
superemollient  Cuticura  Soap  get  soothing  Cuticura  Oint- 
ment to  overcome  dryness  and  relieve  pimples  and  black- 
heads .  .  .  cooling  Cuticura  Medicated  Liquid  to  keep  blem- 
ished skin  antiseptically  clean,  curb  oiliness,  dry  up  pimples 
fast.  In  soap  and  toiletry  sections  everywhere.  Canada  also. 


Doris  Day's  Secret  Son 


(Continued  from  page  31) 

The  two  people  who  were  to  become 
Terry's  parents  met  one  night  late  in  1940. 

The  place  was  a  small  and  dingy  night- 
club in  Cincinnati. 

The  girl — Doris  (KappelhofT)  Day — was 
sixteen,  a  pretty,  freckle-faced  and  very 
ambitious  singer.  There  was  nothing  ex- 
ceptional about  her  voice  at  the  time. 
But  people  who'd  heard  her  sing  at  her 
first  job,  in  a  Chinese  restaurant,  had 
liked  her.  And  the  owner  of  this  place, 
the  nightclub,  hearing  her,  liked  her  too, 
sensing  her  possibilities,  signed  her  up 
and  hoped  for  the  best. 

The  boy— Albert  Paul  Jorden — was 
some  two  years  older  than  Doris.  He  was 
a  musician  who  played  trombone  in  the 
nightclub  band.  He  was  tall  and  good- 
looking,  "a  nice  guy,  very  friendly  and 
intelligent" — people  who  knew  him  then 
recall — who  had  only  one  real  ambition 
in  life:  to  earn  enough  money  playing 
trombone  so  that  he  could  quit  the  band 
business  by  the  end  of  the  next  five  or 
six  years  and  open  a  business  of  some 
more  steady  sort,  in  Cincinnati,  his  home- 
town, and  settle  down. 

In  one  of  her  rare  statements  about  Al 
and  their  relationship,  Doris  has  said: 
"It  was  one  night  soon  after  I  began  sing- 
ing at  this  place  that  I  asked  him  if  he 
would  give  me  a  ride  home.  I  was  earn- 
ing twenty-five  dollars  a  week  and  spend- 
ing it  all  on  clothes  and  I  didn't  have 
the  carfare.  He  said  yes,  he'd  take  me 
home.  And  that  began  it.  Not  that  we  got 
along  at  first.  We  really  didn't.  I  was 
young  and  very  shy  with  boys.  And  he 
was  bored  with  the  girl-singer  type.  .  .  . 
Anyway,  after  a  couple  of  months  the 
nightclub  folded  and  we  were  both  out 
of  jobs.  We  didn't  see  one  another  for  a 
while.  Then,  one  day,  the  trombone  play- 
er suddenly  came  around  and  asked  for 
a  date.  Turned  out  he'd  missed  me,  or 
something.  He  paid  me  lots  of  attention. 
And  I  fell  in  love  with  him." 

They  were  married  early  the  following 
year,  1941,  and  went  to  New  York  to 
live. 

Al  had  gotten  a  good  break  there — a 
job  with  Jimmy  Dorsey's  band.  Doris, 
too,  got  a  break  shortly  after  they  ar- 
rived— a  job  singing  in  a  little  downtown 
nightspot.  Between  the  two  of  them  they 
earned  nearly  $100  a  week.  Life  couldn't 
have  been  better  for  the  two  kids  from 
Ohio. 

Then,  in  the  spring  of  that  year,  Doris 
learned  she  was  pregnant. 

Laughingly,  she  said  to  friends,  "Well, 
it's  good-bye  career  .  .  .  time  to  be  a 
mommy." 

These  friends  recall  that  she  was  seri- 
ous-sounding about  giving  up  the  busi- 
ness; that  she'd  had  a  taste  of  it,  had 
enjoyed  it,  but  had  decided  that  being  a 
mother  came  first.  "She  was  only  seven- 
teen," one  of  them  says,  "but  you've 
never  seen  a  girl  with  as  much  drive,  at 
that  age,  to  make  good  at  a  career.  So  I 
was  surprised  when  she  said  this,  about 
giving  up  the  career.  But  she  said  it. 
And  the  way  she  did,  you  had  to  believe 
her." 

Yet  when,  towards  the  end  of  the  fol- 
lowing February,  shortly  after  the  birth 
of  her  son,  Terry,  Doris  was  re-offered 
her  old  job,  she  took  it. 

"I've  phoned  Alma  (her  mother),"  she 
told  her  husband.  "She's  coming  to  New 
York  to  help  take  care  of  the  baby.  It'll 
all  work  out  fine.  All  right,  Al?" 

Al  said  he'd  think  it  over. 
6C     "Al,"  Doris  went  on,  "I've  got  to  do  this. 


I  can't  help  it.  It's  in  me — and  I've  got  to. 

"Don't  worry,"  she  said  then.  "It'll  all 
work  out  fine  ...  I  know." 

It  didn't.  .  .  . 

The  trouble  starts 

The  trouble  between  Al  and  Doris 
started  soon  after  this.  Some  sources 
state  that  it  was  Al's  doing.  Others  that 
it  was  Doris'.  Doris  has  always  flatly  re- 
fused to  go  into  the  matter.  Al  himself 
told  us  recently,  "It's  an  old  issue,  so  why 
bring  up  questions?  .  .  .  But  I  will  tell 
you  this.  There  was  a  religious  problem. 
I'm  Protestant  and  Doris  was  Catholic. 
This  made  for  a  breach  between  us.  .  .  . 
It  was,  at  least,  a  part  of  the  whole 
difficulty." 

Whatever  the  full  difficulty,  Doris  and 
Al  reached  the  breaking  point  when 
Terry  was  a  little  less  than  one  year  old. 
They  separated  (Al  continuing  with 
Dorsey  for  a  while,  then  returning  to 
Cincinnati),  and  were  officially  divorced 
about  a  year  later. 

For  a  time,  Doris  brooded. 

But  the  brooding  ended,  suddenly, 
when  Les  Brown,  the  bandleader,  heard 
her  one  night  at  the  downtown  night- 
spot where  she  was  singing  and  signed 
her  up  to  become  girl  vocalist  with  his 
band,  one  of  the  biggest  of  the  time. 

Doris  was  jubilant. 

"I'm  on  my  way!"  she  shouted  when 
she  told  her  mother  the  news  that  night. 

With  her  first  paycheck — the  drive  to 
do  things  big  back  in  her  again — she 
moved  the  family  (her  mother,  her  son 
and  herself)  to  a  nice  apartment,  a  far 
cry  from  the  "dump"  they'd  been  living 
in. 

With  her  second  check,  she  put  money 
down  on  new  furniture  for  the  place. 

With  her  third — which  she  received  the 
day  before  she  was  to  leave  New  York 
on  an  extended  tour  with  Brown  and  the 
band — she  raided  Macy's,  Gimbel's  and  a 
few  other  stores  and  bought  every  imag- 
inable kind  of  toy  for  her  son. 

The  first  of  the  toys  arrived  after  Doris 
had  left  for  work  early  that  evening. 

When  she  got  home,  the  next  morning, 
exhausted,  as  usual,  Terry  was,  as  usual, 
asleep. 

"The  big  teddy  bear,  the  fire  engine, 
the  wooden  soldier  set — they  all  arrived, 
nice  and  unbroken,"  her  mother  told  her 
at  the  door.  "And  Terry,  he  loved  them. 
Just  loved  them." 

Doris  walked  into  the  bedroom,  and 
over  to  the  crib  where  her  son  lay 
sleeping. 

"Hi,  Mr.  Freckles,"  she  whispered. 
She  bent  and  touched  the  boy,  who 
stirred  a  little,  but  did  not  wake. 

"Your  Mommy's  home,"  she  whispered. 
Still  the  boy  did  not  wake. 
Doris  smiled. 

"That's  right,"  she  said,  "don't  let  your 
old  Mom  tease  you  into  opening  your 
eyes  .  .  .  You  get  your  sleep,  like  a  good 
little  boy.  And  you  dream  about  your 
new  toys.  And  about  lots  of  nice  things, 
all  sorts  of  nice  things.  .  .  ." 

She  stood  upright  again,  and  she  began 
to  unbutton  the  gown  she  was  wearing. 

"And  your  Mom,"  she  went  on,  as  she 
did,  "she's  got  to  go  to  bed  now,  too.  And 
she's  got  to  sleep  and  dream,  too. 

"About  nice  things,  too,  Terry. 

"About  the  years  that  are  coming. 

"Our  years,  Terry. 

"About  those  years  when  I'll  be  very 
famous  and  rich — oh  so  rich. 

"And  when  you'll  be  a  big  boy,  and 


the  son  of  this  rich  and  famous  lady  over 
here. 

"About  when  I'm  not  a  Miss  Nobody 
anymore. 

"And  when  you're  not  a  sleepy  little 
Mr.  Nobody  anymore.  .  .  . 
"That's  what  I'll  dream." 
The  gown  was  off. 
She  got  onto  the  bed. 
Under  the  covers. 

She  turned  her  head  on  the  pillow  and 
faced  the  crib,  a  few  yards  away,  and 
she  smiled  again. 

"Isn't  that  a  good  kind  of  dream  to 
have,  Mr.  Freckles?"  she  asked. 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

The  smile  began  to  leave  her  face. 

"Isn't  that  a  good  kind  of  dream, 
Terry  .  .  .  Even  if  it  means  I've  got  to 
leave  you  for  a  little  while,  once  in  a 
while  .  .  .  Like  today  .  .  .  Later  .  .  .  Later 
today.  .  .  ." 

A  long,  long  trip 

The  tour  Doris  left  on  later  that  day — 
and  the  separation  from  her  son — were 
nothing  to  compare  with  a  trip  she  would 
make  within  the  next  two  years,  and  that 
separation. 

"It  was  1946,"  a  friend  recalls.  "Doris 
had  left  her  job  with  Brown  to  go  on 
radio,  with  The  Hit  Parade.  It  all  looked 
great  at  first.  Except  that  she  was  fired, 
suddenly,  after  thirteen  weeks,  and  every- 
thing looked  suddenly  black.  .  .  .  She'd 
met  a  man  in  this  time,  a  saxophone 
player  named  George.  He'd  been  propos- 
ing to  her  since  they'd  met,  and  now 
Doris  accepted.  His  plan  was  for  them 
to  leave  New  York  right  after  they  were 
married  and  go  to  California,  where  both 
of  them  could  get  a  fresh  lease  on  life, 
a  fresh  slant  on  their  careers.  Doris  as- 
sumed, of  course,  that  her  boy  would 
come  along  with  them.  It  wasn't  until  it 
was  too  late  that  she  found  out  differ- 
ently. The  problem  was  money.  'Wait  till 
we  can  afford  to  send  for  him  and  bring 
him  up  right,'  George  said.  So  Doris,  re- 
luctantly, sent  her  son  and  mother  back 
to  Cincinnati  and  went  to  California,  to 
her  new  life,  with  her  new  husband.  .  .  . 
It  couldn't  have  been  worse,  right  from 
the  beginning.  Jobs  were  few  and  far 
between.  Money  was  at  a  minimum.  They 
moved  into  a  trailer.  After  a  while, 
George  bored  with  trailer  life,  and  the 
marriage,  left.  Doris  was  alone,  and 
broke,  and  miserable.  I  firmly  believe 
that  if  she'd  had  the  forty  or  fifty  dollars' 
bus  fare  to  get  back  to  Ohio  right  then, 
she  would  have  chucked  everything.  But 
this  gal,  lolling  in  dough  today,  didn't 
have  beans — and  when  she  did  have  a 
little  she  would  go  without  food  half  that 
time  just  so  she  could  afford  to  phone 
Cincinnati  every  once  in  a  while  and  talk 
to  her  mother  and  ask  about  her  boy.  I 
knew  her  then.  She  was  a  different  Doris 
Day  from  the  happy  face  you're  used  to 
seeing  on  the  screen,  on  most  magazine 
covers.  She  would  talk  about  her  boy 
and  how  she  missed  him.  And  she  would 
cry,  and  cry,  and  cry.  .  .  ." 

The  picture  session 

The  story  of  how,  in  late  1947,  Doris 
cried  nervously  all  during  her  interview 
with  Warner  Brothers'  director  Mike 
Curtiz  is  a  famous  one.  Enough  to  repeat 
here  that  Curtiz  was  impressed  with  the 
unknown  singer  "mit  all  der  freckles" 
and  decided  to  take  a  chance  on  using 
her — using  her  big — in  his  forthcoming 
musical,  Romance  on  the  High  Seas. 

The  rest,  professionally,  is  Doris  Day 
history. 

What  has  never  been  recorded  is  what 
happened  then  between  Doris  and  her 
son  .  .  .  that  day  a  few  months  later. 

It  was  a  Saturday. 




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The  picture  had  just  been  completed. 

Midway  during  the  shooting  of  the  pic- 
ture, word  had  got  around  Hollywood 
that  ''the  Day  girl"  was  good,  that  a  pos- 
sible new  star  was  in  the  making.  Doris, 
having  heard  the  word,  encouraged  by  it, 
had  gone  all  out  and  rented  herself  a 
big  house  in  the  Valley,  wired  money  East 
and  sent  for  her  mother  and  son — "at 
long  last,"  as  she  wrote. 

The  boy,  who  was  five-and-a-half  now, 
and  who  hadn't  seen  his  mother  in  nearly 
two  years,  was  cold  to  her  when  he  ar- 
rived, almost  afraid  of  her.  Doris'  mother, 
his  Nana,  was  the  only  woman  he  knew, 
and  loved.  Doris  herself  was  a  stranger 
to  him.  He  could  cry,  at  the  very  begin- 
ning, when  they  were  alone  in  a  room. 
He  would  want  his  Nana.  And  his  Nana 
was  usually  close  by. 

"Time,"  Doris  would  say,  " — I'm  not 
stupid.  I  know  it's  going  to  take  time  .  .  . 
But  someday,"  she  would  add,  "my  boy's 
going  to  know  and  understand.  When  he 
has  everything.  When  he  knows,  and  sees, 
what  I've  struggled  for;  when  he  holds 
it  all  in  his  hands  .  .  .  He'll  come  to  me 
then  .  .  .  He'll  come.  .  .  ." 

Time  passed. 

Days. 

Weeks. 

And  then  came  this  day,  the  Saturday. 

The  studio  phoned  Doris  that  morning. 
"Magazine  wants  to  do  a  layout  on  you — 
full  color,"  they  said.  "Guys  know  you 
were  married,  that  you've  got  a  kid.  So 
why  don't  we  relax  and  give  them  the 
happy  home  routine  .  .  .  Okay?" 

"Of  course,"  Doris  said. 

The  magazine  photographer  arrived  at 
about  four  o'clock  that  afternoon. 

"This  is  my  son,"  Doris  said,  holding 
Terry  by  the  hand. 

"Yeah?  Good,"  said  the  photographer. 

For  the  next  two  hours  he  snapped 
away,  shouting  his  instructions  as  he  did 
(Doris  was  just  another  newcomer  to 
him;  her  son  just  another  newcomer's 
kid). 

"How  about  one  near  the  refriger- 
ator .  .  .  You  opening  the  door,  honey, 
and  asking  him  if  he'd  like  something, 
jam  and  bread  or  a  couple  of  scrambled 
eggs  .  .  .  something  .  .  .  Ready? 

"Now  one  in  the  living  room — here  on 
the  couch  .  .  .  Mama  telling  her  boy  a 
story  ...  I  don't  know  .  .  .  Tell  him  any- 
thing, sweetie  .  .  .  Just  make  it  look  like 
love  .  .  .  Mother  and  son  .  .  .  Come  on, 
smile — the  two  of  you. 

"Okay  now,  the  garden,  before  it  gets 
dark  .  .  .  Smell  the  flowers  together  .  .  . 
That's  right  .     .  Smell  'em  together. 

"You  got  a  dog?  .  .  .  Damn  it!  Dogs  are 
always  good  with  kids. 

"Well,  how  about — " 

And  so  it  went,  those  two  hours. 

Until,  finally,  shortly  after  six,  the 
photographer  left,  and  Doris  and  her  son 
were  alone  again. 

She  noticed  that  he  was  tired,  very 
tired. 

She  took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him 
back  into  the  living  room,  over  to  the 
couch. 

They  sat. 

"Terry,"  Doris  said,  looking  down  at 
her  boy,  "did  you  enjoy  it  today — the 
man  with  his  camera,  all  those  bulbs 
popping,  all  over  the  place? 

The  boy  shrugged. 

"Terry,"  Doris  said  then,  "would  you 
like  some  supper  now,  before  you  go 
to  bed.  You  must  be — " 

"Where's  Nana?"  the  boy  interrupted. 

"Nana,"  Doris  said,  "Nana's  gone  to  a 
movie." 

"Why?"  the  boy  asked. 

"She  didn't  want  to  interfere  while  we 
were  taking  our  pictures,"  Doris  said,  "for 
the  big  magazine — 


"Terry,"  she  started  to  say  again, 
"would  you  like  it  now  if  I  went  into  the 
kitchen  and — " 

The  boy  interrupted  again.  "I  want  to 
wait  for  Nana,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  Doris  said,  " — you're  right, 
Terry.  We'll  wait.  She  won't  be  long  .  .  . 
I'm  sure  of  that.'" 

She  looked  away  from  the  boy  now, 
and  over  at  one  of  those  Old  Masters 
reproductions  that  hung  on  the  wall 
across  from  them,  over  the  fancy  new 
shining-white  fireplace  there. 

And  some  of  the  words  of  that  day 
went  spinning  through  her  brain,  over 
and  over,  hard,  loud,  over  and  over, 
louder  and  louder: 

"Big  magazine! 

"Big  layout! 

" — The  happy  home  routine.  Okay? 
"This  is  my  son. 

"Tell  him  anything,  sweetie  .  .  .  just 
make  it  look  like  love. 
"Where's  Nana? 
"This  is  my  son. 

"Where's  Nana?  ...  I  want  to  wait 
for  her. 
"My  son. 
"This  is  my  son. 
"My  son — " 

When,  finally,  Doris  looked  away  from 
the  picture  and  back  at  her  boy  she  saw 
that  he  was  asleep. 

"Terry,"  she  said,  half  calling. 

"Mr.  Freckles,"  she  said,  remembering 
another  time,  long  ago,  the  tears  begin- 
ning to  come  to  her  eyes  as  she  remem- 
bered. 

"Oh  Terry,"  she  said,  reaching  over  and 
putting  an  arm  around  the  still-sleeping 
boy,  " — what  have  I  done  to  you  all  these 
years,  Terry?  .  .  .  Where  have  I  been?  .  . 
What — what  am  I  trying  to  do  to  you 
now?" 


"Big  magazine!"  the  words  came  to  her 
again. 

"Big  layout! 

"The  happy  home  routine.  Okay?" 

Doris  shook  her  head. 

She  took  a  deep  breath. 

"There's  going  to  be  no  more  of  it 
not  around  here  .  .  .  not  ever,"  she  said. 
"No  men  with  cameras  running  around. 
No.  Nobody  asking  my  boy  questions 
about  a  mother  he  doesn't  even  know. 
Nobody  following  my  boy  around  the  rest 
of  his  life,  turning  his  life  into  a  big 
Hollywood  sideshow,  an  empty  circus — " 

With  her  free  hand  she  began  to  wipe 
some  of  the  tears  from  her  face. 

"I  promise  you,  Terry,"  she  said,  as 
she  did.  "From  now  on  you're  going  to 
have  a  mother — a  mother  you're  going 
to  get  to  know,  a  mother  who's  never 
going  to  leave  you  again.  And  a  home,  a 
normal  home.  A  real  home.  And  a  real 
life.  — And  to  heck  with  everything  else." 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  she  held  her 
son  even  closer  to  her. 

"I  promise  you  this.  Terry,"  she  re- 
peated. 

And  then  she  whispered: 

"God      .  ' .  dear  God  in  heaven  . 
Don't  make  it  too  late.  And,  please,  give 
me  the  strength  to  keep  this  promise. 

"For  my  boy's  sake. 

"For  my  little  boy.  .  .  ." 

A  promise  kept 

Doris  has  kept  her  promise. 

We  at  Modern  Screen  learned  this  in 
our  recent  search  for  the  truth  about 
Terry. 

We  learned  too  that  Terry — now  eight- 
een— is  a  very  happy  young  man. 

As  a  close,  and  normally  close-mouthed, 
friend  of  Doris'  puts  it: 

"You  ask   about   the   hidden   boy,  the 


secret  son.  Well,  if  these  past  twelve 
years  of  not  exposing  the  boy  makes  him 
'hidden,'  I  guess  people  are  right.  But  I 
think  by  now  you  know  and  understand 
Doris'  reasons  for  doing  what  she  did. 

"At  any  rate,  let's  bring  the  record  up 
to  date. 

"Where  is  Terry,  you  ask. 

"What  does  he  look  like? 

"What  kind  of  boy  is  he? 

"First,  he  lives  with  his  mother  and 
step-father  (Marty  Melcher),  whom  Doris 
married  in  1951),  in  a  house  at  713  North 
Crescent  Drive.  A  pretty,  not  terribly  big 
house — off  the  street,  so  to  speak.  And 
in  Beverly  Hills  .  .  .  This,  I  think,  is  sig- 
nificant .  .  .  Normally  a  star  of  Doris' 
stature  lives  not  'in  town,'  nor  'off  the 
street,'  but  up  in  a  secluded  Bel-Air 
mansion  or  over  in  the  Pacific  Palisades. 
Doris,  however,  has  always  wanted  her 
son  to  attend  a  public  high  school,  as  he 
has  wanted.  And  it  happens  that  the  best 
high  school  in  the  area  is  in  Beverly  Hills. 
So  that's  where  they  live  .  .  .  About  school, 
by  the  way,  Terry's  a  senior  now,  and  he 
graduates  in  June.  He's  a  good  student, 
not  outstanding,  but  good.  More  than 
that,   he's   a    very   well-liked   boy  and 


(Continued  from  page  37) 

dangerously,  and  she  lives  the  same  way. 

"I'm  the  kind  of  girl  who  frightens 
people,"  she  says  frankly.  "Because  if  I 
love  someone  I  come  right  out  and  say,  'I 
love  you.'  Young  men,"  Judi  sighs,  "can't 
understand  this.  They're  not  used  to 
someone  completely  giving  herself.  They 
have  to  play  a  game.   I  hate  games." 

When  the  games  have  ended  for  Judi's 
men,  she's  blown  the  whistle,  sharply  and 
firmly.  Troy  Donahue's  game  ended  when 
he  got  too  rough,  Wendell's  when  he  left 
town,  Barry's  when  he  strayed.  Judi  blot- 
ted them  out  of  her  mind  with  no  regrets. 
"When  something's  over  and  done,  I  forget 
it,"  she  says.  But  it's  not  always  vice 
versa. 

Once  in  love  with  Judi,  some  people  stay 
hooked. 

There's  a  man  in  New  York  right  now, 
for  instance,  who  loved  Judi  in  Holly- 
wood and  lost.  He  still  writes  her  letters, 
tears  them  up  and  then  can't  help  send- 
ing them  anyway.  "Try  as  hard  as  I  may," 
he  penned  miserably  the  other  day,  "the 
joker  just  won't  come  out.  That  girl  Judi 
was  one  hell  of  a  real,  feeling  girl  and  I 
certainly  was  in  love  with  her!" 

Judi  caught  a  brief  pang  when  she  read 
that.  But  she  doesn't  let  sentiment  stall 
her.  She's  too  lusty  for  life  and  what 
comes  up  next  in  it. 

"And  I  never  know  what  I'm  going  to  do 
next,"  she  admits.  "All  I  know  is  I  can't 
stand  anything  dull.  If  it's  dull  I  do  some- 
thing different." 

She'll  do  .  .  . 

If  Judi  Meredith  isn't  a  woman,  she'll  do 
until  one  comes  along.  Twenty-three  and 
ripe  as  an  August  peach,  Judi  has  the  35- 
22-35  figure  of  a  junior  Venus,  a  lovely  full 
lipped  mouth,  dimples  and  a  mass  of  titian 
hair  that  tumbles  sexily  across  her  eyes  and 
pert,  pointed  nose.  But  she  thinks  and 
often  acts  like  a  man.  Could  be  that's  why 
most  men  can't  resist  the  combination. 

In  whatever  she  does  Judi  Meredith  is 
as  direct  as  a  bullet,  straight  as  a  string. 
Anyone  looking  for  feminine  tricks  in  Judi 
is  just  out  to  lunch.  "I  don't  ever  want  to 
get  to  the  point  where  I  screen  everything 
68  I  do  before  I  do  it,"  she  scoffs.  "Life's  too 


there's  strong  talk  among  his  classmates 
that  he'll  be  voted  Most  Popular  come 
June.  Whatever  the  outcome,  it's  going 
to  be  close. 

"His  looks?  He  looks  a  lot  like  his 
Mom— fair  skin,  the  freckles  all  over  the 
place,  the  sparkling  blue  eyes.  He  looks 
like  a  slightly  over-aged  version  of  The 
Barefoot  Boy.  Girls  think  he's  cute.  I 
think— Terry  forgive  me — that  he's  ador- 
able. Five  years  from  now,  when  he's 
really  matured,  I  think  he'll  be  downright 
handsome. 

"As  for  what  he's  like — he's  normal. 

"He  likes  to  laugh;  he  breaks  up  over  a 
good  joke,  a  medium  one,  even  some  bad 
ones. 

"He  likes  to  eat — hamburgers,  garlic 
salami  and  lemon  meringue  pie,  these  are 
his  favorites. 

"He  likes  his  mother,  to  put  it  mildly. 

"He  likes  his  stepfather,  respects  him 
tremendously. 

"He  likes  to  go  out  on  dates  Saturday 
nights  with  some  of  the  girls  from  school 
— and  sometimes  get  home  a  little  later 
than  Doris  likes.  (But  boy,  can  he  get 
around  her!) 

"He  likes  to  fiddle  around  in  the  cellar 


short.  Maybe  I'm  uncompromising.  But  I 
don't  expect  anything  of  anyone  that  I 
don't  expect  of  myself."  She  can  be  soft 
as  a  kitten  or  terrible  as  a  tiger. 

In  her  career,  Judi  plays  it  just  as  gutsy. 
She  had  a  nice  co-starring  contract  with 
Hotel  de  Paree.  for  instance,  but  not  co- 
starring  parts.  A  while  ago  she  chopped 
it  off,  along  with  $1000  a  week.  "I  don't 
like  glorified  walk-ons,"  she  explained.  On 
the  other  hand,  last  winter  Judi  wallowed 
two  straight  days  in  a  freezing  pond  for 
some  Riverboat  scenes  when  she  was  burn- 
ing up  v/ith  Asian  flu.  Next  day  she  was 
in  the  hospital  with  pneumonia. 

"Judi  doesn't  take  benzedrine — benze- 
drine takes  Judi,"  cracks  her  stand-in 
chum.  Nan  Morris,  another  way  of  saying 
that  not  since  the  hey-hey  days  of  Lana 
Turner  and  Ava  Gardner  has  such  a 
charged-up  charmer  kept  Hollywood  jump- 
ing alternately  with  jitters  and  joy.  Judi 
has  no  intention  of  changing.  "People  tell 
me,"  she  says,  "  'being  around  you  is  like 
being  around  six  girls.'  I  feel  the  same 
way.  And  that's  the  way  I  want  to  feel." 
Judi  wanted  to  long  before  she  tackled  the 
movies,  almost  on  a  dare,  when  she  was 
eighteen. 

Family  tree 

In  fact,  Judi  Meredith  has  been  as  full  of 
beans  as  a  Boston  belle  ever  since  she  was 
born,  October  13,  1937,  although  the  place 
was  Portland,  Oregon.  Get-up  and  go  just 
naturally  runs  in  Judi's  blood:  Her  grand- 
mother was  a  White  Russian  named  Von 
Kinski,  who  beat  the  Bolsheviks  to  the 
border  in  the  bloody  Revolution  of  1918. 
Then  she  married  a  hi-balling  French-Ca- 
nadian lumberman  named  Frank  Boutin, 
who  rambled  on  to  Oregon  and  wound  up 
the  richest  man  in  the  state.  Judi  Mere- 
dith's real  tag  is  Judith  Claire  Boutin. 
So  she's  Russian-French  with  some  English 
from  her  mom,  Janice  Starr,  also  a  streak 
of  talent.  Two  concert  pianists  roost  in 
the  Starr  family  tree. 

After  Grandpa  Boutin  died,  there  was 
quite  a  family  fortune,  "until,"  Judi  sighs, 
"his  kids  got  hold  of  it."  Nonetheless,  no- 
body played  benefits  for  the  Boutins 
around    Portland.     Judi's    dad,  Herbert, 


workshop,  alone,  or  with  Marty. 

"To  work,  in  general— when  he  was 
ten  or  eleven,  I  remember,  he  had  a 
paper  route.  The  last  few  summers  he's 
taken  a  job  as  office  boy  with  the  Rogers 
and  Cowan  publicity  people. 

"To  drive  his  car. 

"To  ride  his  bike. 

"To  sit  and  talk  with  other  fellows 
about  their  futures — college,  the  Army, 
careers,  girls. 

"To  dress  up  once  in  a  while,  go  sloppy 
the  rest  of  the  time. 

"To  watch  TV — westerns,  newscasts. 

"To  go  to  drive-ins. 

"To  hike. 

"Swim. 

"Dance — he's  pretty  good. 
"Sing — he's  pretty  bad. 
"Read. 

"And  so  on.  and  so  on.  .  .  . 

"Doris  is  very  proud  of  her  boy,"  the 
friend  goes  on,  "the  way  he's  grown  up. 

"And  those  of  us  who've  known  Doris 
these  past  twelve  years  .  .  .  we're  very 
proud  of  her!"  end 

Doris  stars  in  Please  Don't  Eat  The 
Daisies,  MGM. 


operated  successfully  as  a  businessman -in- 
vestor and  owned  the  Mobilift  Corpora- 
tion. Although  Herb  got  kicked  in  the 
head  playing  football  at  Shattuck  Mili- 
tary Academy,  and  was  partially  para- 
lyzed from  then  on,  he  never  let  that  stop 
him.  "My  father,"  says  Judi  adoringly, 
"is  a  rare  individual — brilliant,  full  of  life, 
cocky  and  sporty."  With  no  false  modesty 
whatever  she  adds,  "I  take  after  him." 

But  Herbert  Boutin  (you  pronounce 
that  Boo-tan)  had  old-fashioned  ideas 
about  raising  his  kids.  Judi  lived  in  a  big 
brick-and-stone  house  in  the  plush  part 
of  Portland  and  had  everything  she 
needed — period.  The  extras  she  worked 
for  so  she'd  appreciate  them.  When  she 
got  out  of  line  she  got  cracked  down  on — 
hard.  Judi  looks  back  and  approves. 
"When  I  have  my  kids."  she  states  firmly, 
"I'm  gonna  raise  them  by  the  rod!" 

Of  course,  Judi's  kids  may  not  be  ex- 
actly what  she  was  when  she  grew  up 
in  Oregon,  namely,  a  fascinating  tomboy 
— all  girl  in  important  respects — but  rough, 
tough  and  hard  to  bluff.  Her  dad  called  her 
"Pixie."  which  about  nailed  it.  Judi  is  the 
ham  in  the  sandwich  between  two  sisters: 
Mab  (Meredith  Ann,  from  whom  Judi 
swiped  her  stage  name)  and  Louise. 
"Father  took  one  look  at  me,"  Judi  reports, 
"and  was  just  sick.  He  thought  I  was  the 
ugliest  little  brat  he  ever  saw.  He's  been 
telling  me  that  for  twenty-three  years," 
she  grins.  "I  tell  him,  'Yeah,  I  know — but 
I'm  making  money!'  " 

Actually,  Judi  was  no  more  an  eyesore 
back  then  than  she  is  today,  which  is 
definitely  not  at  all.  Her  hair  was  a  pack 
of  glinting  ringlets  and  her  eyes  gave  off 
the  same  sparks.  Glands  hadn't  started 
moulding  Judi's  curves,  but  her  wiry 
figure  was  cute  and  trim.  Womanhood — 
and  Hollywood — have  necessarily  altered 
Judi's  slant  on  things  somewhat  but  her 
attitudes  were  about  the  same  then  as 
now,  too. 

Could  be  little  Judi  Boutin  never  did 
trust  her  own  femininity.  But  certainly 
she  harbored  no  doubts  about  her  abilities 
to  get  what  she  wanted  in  straightforward, 
masculine  style.  Judi  liked  what  boys 
like — action.  She  couldn't  stand  tame  little 
girl-  games,  like  playing  house  and  dolls. 
She  hated  dolls.  She  took  a  wicked  de- 
light in  knocking  off  their  pretty  china 
heads  whenever  she  ran  across  one.  In 
fact,  they  bugged  Judi  to  the  point  of 
phobia.     At  St.  Mary's  school  one  day  a 


Judi,  the  Little  Love  Goddess 


dainty  little  darling  was  scared  half  to 
death  when  for  no  apparent  reason  Judi 
suddenly  pounced  and  started  choking 
her.  "She  was  so  sweet  looking  that  I 
hated  her."  Judi  explains  calmly.  "I  saw 
that  white,  soft  back  of  her  neck  and  I  just 
grabbed  it."  The  nuns  pulled  her  off  and 
demanded  an  explanation.  "'She  reminded 
me  of  my  sifter's  doll."  replied  terrible- 
tempered  Boutin. 

Secrets  and  surprises 

A  few  months  ago.  one  of  Judi's  boy 
friends.  Ivan  Townsend-Smith.  took  her  on 
a  drive  to  Lake  Tahoe.  Coming  back,  they 
stopped  at  June  Lake  in  the  Sierras,  where 
the  millionaire  playboy  suggested  trout 
fishing.  He  said  he'd  show  Judi  how. 
Well.  Smitty  barely  got  his  gear  together 
before  Judi  had  her  limit — sixteen  fat 
trout.  It  was  really  old  stuff  to  her:  she'd 
hiked  and  camped  and  fished  in  the  moun- 
tains since  the  time  she  could  walk.  But 
why  pop  off  about  it? 

Says  Judi  "I  never  in  my  life  told  any- 
body I  could  do  anything  until  I  did  it. 
Not  even  my  own  family." 

That  meant  that  independent  Miss  Bou- 
tin had  plenty  of  secrets  in  her  young  life 
which,  sooner  or  later,  exploded  like  bombs 
before  her  startled  family  and  friends. 
Her  sharp  little  nose  was  always  poking 
into  something  that  promised  excitement. 
One  day,  during  the  war.  for  example, 
she  was  happily  gobbling  popcorn  at  a 
movie  house  with  a  schoolmate  when  the 
master-of-ceremonies  invited  anyone  up 
on  the  stage  who  wanted  to  sing. 

"Go  ahead."  prodded  the  girl  friend,  "if 
you  do  m  buy  you  a  chocolate  bar." 

Judi  bounced  right  up.  sang  Paper  Doll. 
Praise  the  Lord  and  Pass  the  Ammuni- 
tion, and  a  few  other  wartime  hits.  They 
almost  never  got  rid  of  her.  After  that  she 
started  singing  all  around  Portland,  to 
her  parents'  complete  surprise.  It  was  the 
same  way  with  boys. 

One  afternoon,  when  she  was  twelve,  her 
dad  came  home  to  find  eighteen  bikes 
parked  in  the  front  yard.  Inside  the  house 
were  eighteen  boys — and  Judi  bopping 
it  up.  "Hey."  protested  her  dad.  'This 
isn't  a  poolroom!"  Later  he  puzzled  to  his 
popular  daughter.  "T  didn"t  know  you 
knew  any  boys." 

"Ha!"  laughed  Judi. 

When  Judi  took  violin  lessons  her  fam- 
ily could  never  figure  how  she  got 
good  enough  to  play  in  the  Portland 
Junior  Symphony  Orchestra.  She  never 
seemed  to  touch  the  instrument  at  home. 
They  were  considering  choking  off  the  les- 
sons because  she  didn't  practice,  when 
a  bus  driver  spilled  the  mystery.  "This 
crazy  kid  of  yours/'  he  informed  Mr.  Bou- 
tin, "hauls  out  her  fiddle  and  saws  it  all 
the  way  downtown."  Judi  practiced  on 
the  bus  to  her  lessons.  Like  today,  she 
tried  to  cram  forty-eight  hours'  living  into 
twenty-four. 

But  the  biggest  surprise — and  what  set 
Judi  Boutin  off  on  the  track  to  show  busi- 
ness— was  ice  skating.  One  day  a  friend  of 
Mab's  came  around  to  take  her  to  the 
Portland  Ice  Rink,  but  Mab  wasn't  home 
so  she  took  Judi.  Judi  took  to  ice  like  a 
penguin.  But.  like  everything,  she  told 
nobody.  She  went  down  alone  on  the  bus. 
rustled  up  her  own  admissions  and  hid 
under  the  seats  between  sessions  so  she 
could  skate  the  next  round  free.  Her  folks 
thought  she  was  just  playing  hockey  at 
school. 

But  one  day  someone  at  the  rink  took 
it  upon  himself  to  call  Mr.  Boutin.  "Say." 
he  said,  "do  you  know  that  this  Judi  girl 
of  vours  is  a  great  little  ice-skater?" 

"No!" 

"Yeah — you'd  better  get  down  here  and 
take  a  look  at  her."  Herbert  Boutin  did. 
He  was  so  impressed  he  bought  Judi  figure 


skates  and  all  the  gear  she  needed.  In  no 
time  at  all  Judi  was  a  whirling  whiz  on 
rockers.  In  fact,  from  the  time  she  was 
twelve  until  she  was  sixteen  that  was  her 
biggest  charge.  Right  away,  she  made  the 
Portland  Figure  Skating  Club,  the  only  kid 
in  a  field  of  adults.  Next  summer  she 
boarded  alone  in  Tacoma  to  take  instruc- 
tion from  teacher  Johnny  Johnson  at  the 
Lakewood  Arena.  At  fourteen  they  flew 
her  up  to  Alaska  to  entertain  troops. 
When  she  was  only  fifteen  Shipstad  and 
Johnson  saw  Judi  in  action  and  asked 
her  to  join  the  Ice  Follies  as  a  pro. 

"Sure!"  agreed  Judi. 

"Nope,"  said  her  dad.  You  see,  there 
was  school. 

Creating  doubt 

Being  a  Catholic.  Judi  had  rattled 
around  mainly  in  convents.  She  was  a 
good  student:  in  fact,  a  near  genius  in 
what  boys  are  usually  best  at — math. 
Otherwise,  well,  there  were  problems.  Judi 
wasn't  cut  out  to  be  a  placid  convent  girl. 
Besides  throttling  innocents  who  had 
offensive  white  necks.  Judi  owned  a  red 
temper  to  match  her  hair  and  a  ready 
knockout  punch  to  back  it  up.  She  was 
always  being  hauled  on  the  carpet  for 
flattening  some  opponent  with  a  quick 
one-two.  Also,  she  was  forever  pester- 
ing the  sisters  with  embarrassing  questions. 
Inquisitive  Judi  wanted  to  know  how  come 
about  every-thing  to  the  'Nth'  degree. 
"Judith."  the  nuns  told  her,  "ask  your 
questions  after  class,  not  when  the  other 
children  are  around.    You  create  doubt." 

Anyway,  whether  Judi  created  doubts 
or  havoc,  she  still  had  to  be  educated,  the 
way  her  parents  figured  it.  But  Judi 
wanted  to  join  the  Ice  Follies — and  wmat 
Judi  wants  Judi  usually  gets.  She  saw  no 
reason  whyT  she  couldn't  take  on  high 
school  and  a  strenuous  Ice  Follies  tour,  too 
— which  is  just  what  she  did.  While  Judi 
skated  around  the  U.S.  and  Canada  she 
also  took  eleven  subiects  b\T  mail  and 
passed  them  all.  In  the  Follies,  fifteen- 
year-old  Judi  did  a  line  specialty'  and 
trained  for  a  comedy  ice  act  of  her  own. 
What  happened  next  wasn't  very  funny, 
though. 

Judi  went  to  Reno,  after  her  tour,  to  live 
with  her  aunt  and  attend  Manogue  school 
in  the  Nevada  city.  The  idea  was  to  bring 
her  back  down  to  earth.  "After  your 
Ice  Follies  career,"  cracked  her  dad,  "youll 
be  such  a  smarty  you  won't  be  able  to 
go  back  with  kids  your  age  and  act 
normal."  Judi  promised  she  would,  too. 
and  she  showed  'em.  She  made  the 
highest  grades  in  her  class.  But  otherwise 
the  move  was  a  mistake.  Judi  and  her  aunt 
just  didn't  hit  it  off  at  all. 

"She  didn't  have  kids  of  her  own,"  Judi 
explains,  "so  she  didn't  like  them  or  un- 
derstand them.  I  was  treated  like  Cin- 
derella. I  wasn't  allowed  in  the  living 
room,  and  when  guests  came  I  had  to  eat 
in  the  kitchen."  When  a  cousin  she'd 
never  met.  Bud  Boutin,  the  golf  profes- 
sional, dropped  by  for  a  visit,  he  told  Judi, 
"I  thought  you  were  the  maid." 

The  blow-off  came  when  Judi  skipped 
school  one  day.  When  her  aunt  found  out, 
she  really  stormed  up  a  scene,  locked  Judi 
in  her  room  and  hired  a  sitter  to  guard 
her.  That  night  Judi  was  scheduled  to 
step  out  to  the  U.  of  Nevada  prom.  But 
when  her  date  showed  up  with  flowers  he 
got  the  door  slammed  in  his  face.  Then 
Judi's  aunt  called  Portland  and  ripped  her 
to  pieces  over  the  phone.  Her  dad  drove 
up  the  next  day.  Judi  doubts  if  shell  ever 
again  play  quite  as  dramatic  a  scene  as 
that  one. 

Both  Herb  Boutin  and  Judi  sat  silent 
while  her  aunt  recited  her  crimes  and 
called  her  every  name  in  the  book.  Sud- 
denly Judi  said  coldly.  "Shut  your  mouth!" 


SPORTS  GIRDLE 

Dainty  but  determined  natural 
rubber  figuring— has  exclusive 
breathable  surface.  White  or  Pink: 
Petite.  5.  M.  L:  82.50. 


She'd  never  said  that  to  any  grown-up 
before.  Her  aunt  slapped  her  and  Judi 
knocked  her  clear  into  the  dining  room. 
Then  she  ran  upstairs  and  sat  on  the  win- 
dow ledge  to  cool  off;  thinking,  says  Judi, 
"that  Daddy  would  probably  kill  me." 
Next  thing  she  knew  Judi  almost  did  that 
job  herself. 

She  slipped  off  the  ledge  and  landed  on 
her  tail,  busting  two  vertebrae.  Her  dad 
took  her  home  to  a  Portland  hospital. 

Trouble  on  her  back 

Sometimes  when  trouble  hops  on  your 
back  it  just  stays  there,  riding  like  a  mon- 
key. From  then  on  trouble  rode  Judi  Bou- 
tin's teens,  almost  until  she  got  to 
Hollywood.  First  off,  they  put  her  back  a 
grade  at  Holy  Name  Academy  in  Seattle, 
where  her  folks  shipped  her.  Then,  Easter 
vacation  she  caught  a  critical  dose  of  poi- 
son oak  that  invaded  her  lungs  and  blood- 
stream. She  puffed  up  like  a  balloon, 
couldn't  eat  and  darned  near  died  in  an- 
other hospital.  To  this  day  Judi  breaks  out 
in  spots  every  spring,  even  though  she 
stays  miles  away  from  the  shrub. 

Then,  it  cooked  her  junior  year  but  she 
got  into  Holy  Child  School  in  Portland  as 
a  senior  by  boning  up  that  summer.  One 
week  end  in  November  Judi  went  skiing 
on  Mount  Hood,  zipped  into  a  turn  and 
found  herself  tangled  up  in  a  mess  of  ice 
and  snow. 

"Come  on,  Judi — get  up,"  the  kids  said. 

"I  can't,"  she  told  them.  She'd  shattered 
her  left  leg.  That  put  her  on  crutches  for 
six  months  and  finally  the  doc  cut  out  her 
knee  cap.  "You  won't  be  skating  again," 
he  sentenced. 

"Try  and  stop  me,"  gritted  Judi.  She 
meant  it,  too.  Judi  fully  intended  to  rejoin 
the  Ice  Follies  the  minute  she  got  out  of 
school.  "The  whole  thing  had  been  such  a 
big  gas,"  she  sighs,  "and  I  knew  that  what- 
ever happened,  show  business  was  for 
me." 

But  the  doc  was  right — her  knee  wob- 
bled— so  Judi  had  to  bounce  off  in  another 
direction.  That  last  year  she  did  some  mu- 
sicals at  the  Portland  Civic  Theatre.  Her 
folks  didn't  object;  they  called  it  a 
"phase."  But  Judi's  dad  had  other  plans  for 
her — he  wanted  her  to  go  to  Oregon  U.  and 
study  chemical  engineering.  He  said  she 
could  join  some  other  girls  on  a  trip  to 
Europe  first,  as  a  graduation  present. 

"I  want  another  one,"  said  Judi.  "A  sum- 
mer course  at  the  Pasadena  Playhouse." 

"Good  Lord,"  her  father  flipped,  "I 
thought  we'd  gotten  over  that!  But,"  he 
finally  softened,  "we'll  make  a  deal.  You 
can  go,  but  if  you  don't  have  yourself  an 
acting  job  by  the  end  of  summer,  you'll  hit 
the  math  books  at  Oregon  State — okay?" 

By  summer's  end,  Judi  was  prepared  to 
pay  off  the  bet.  The  six  weeks'  session  at 
Pasadena  hadn't  set  any  rockets  blasting. 
So  many  other  stage-struck  kids  swarmed 
around  Pasadena  that  she  barely  edged 
into  a  dinky  part  in  the  last  act  of  Picnic 
for  one  performance.  She  didn't  meet  any 
Hollywood  directors,  agents,  or  producers. 
In  fact,  Judi  herself  invaded  Hollywood 
only  once  expressly  to  get  a  look  at 
Schwab's  Drug  Store,  which  she'd  read 
about  and  hankered  to  see.  The  only  stars 
she  saw  were  George  Burns  and  Gracie 
Allen,  who  came  over  to  see  their  son 
Ronnie  in  the  same  play  with  Judi.  They 
just  mumbled  "very  good"  politely  when 
Ronnie  introduced  them,  without  much 
enthusiasm. 

No  joke 

"See?"  her  dad  triumphed,  back  in 
Portland.  "You're  not  such  a  great  actress 
as  you  think  you  are,  are  you?  Now,  get 
with  that  geometry  and  trig." 

Grimly,  Judi  got  with  it — for  two  weeks. 
I)  Then  one  day  the  telephone  rang.  "Miss 


Boutin,"  said  a  gravelly  voice,  "this  is 
George  Burns." 

"Go  away,"  said  Judi,  "I'm  studying." 
She  thought  it  was  a  joker  she  knew  who 
always  tried  to  be  funny.  It  wasn't. 

"We  thought  you  might  like  to  do  our 
TV  show  with  our  son  Ronnie,"  explained 
George.  "Can  I  speak  with  your  father?" 

So,  Judi  was  saved  by  the  bell,  a  tele- 
phone bell.  With  a  bonafide  acting  offer 
and  George's  promise  to  take  care  of  his 
little  girl,  Herbert  Boutin  knew  he  was 
licked.  Judi  knew,  of  course,  that  it  wasn't 
really  George  Burns  who  wanted  her  for 
the  show;  it  was  Ronnie.  They'd  got  along 
great  as  classmates  in  Pasadena.  As  a  pro 
in  Hollywood,  Judi  soon  discovered,  with 
a  jolt,  things  could  be  different. 

Judi  stayed  with  family  friends  first  and 
the  day  she  arrived,  Ronnie  Burns  came 
over.  He  mixed  himself  a  drink,  put  on  a 
record  and  promptly,  according  to  Judi, 
"made  the  big  pass." 

"I  let  him  drop  with  a  thud,"  she  says, 
"and  out  he  stormed.  Next  day  we  re- 
hearsed at  the  Burns  house  and  Ronnie 
wouldn't  speak  to  me.  I  seem  to  lose 
friends,"  muses  Judi,  "before  I  gain  'em." 
She  wasn't  a  bit  surprised  when,  five 
weeks  later,  she  was  dropped  from  the 
show,  on  a  flimsy  excuse.  But  they  soon 
asked  her  back.  Judi's  a  habit  that,  once 
acquired,  is  hard  to  break.  Judi  Meredith 
(she  switched  her  name  because  people 


Is  the  startling  change  in 

NATALIE  WOOD 

and 

BOB  WAGNER 

good  or  bad  .  .  .? 
Read  Louella  Parsons' 
exclusive  report  in 

Next  Month's 
MODERN  SCREEN 
On  Sale  May  5 


insisted  on  calling  her  real  one  'Button') 
worked  with  the  Burns  family  four  years, 
three  with  Burns  and  Allen  and  one  with 
George.  Most  of  that  time  she  played  Ron- 
nie's girl  friend,  Bonnie  Sue.  But  all  that 
time  Ronnie  wouldn't  speak  to  her  and 
still  doesn't.  "He  hated  me  so  he  even 
wore  dark  glasses  the  minute  our  scenes 
were  over  so  he  wouldn't  have  to  look 
me  in  the  eye,"  reveals  Judi  rather  sadly. 
"Young  men  take  things  so  hard,  don't 
they?" 

Luckily,  Judi  doesn't.  She's  so  loaded  for 
life  that  she  welcomes  anything  that  comes 
along,  good,  bad  or  indifferent.  Her  funny- 
bone's  so  responsive  and  her  moxie  so 
strong  that  she  can  weather  any  wallop 
with  a  laugh.  "I've  got  more  guts  than 
talent,  you  know,"  she  says  cheerfully. 
Judi  might  get  an  argument  on  that  last 
part,  but  not  on  the  first.  Because  in  her 
five  years  around  Hollywood  she's  bumped 
into  some  rumbles  that  would  send  the 
average  girl  crying  home  to  mama. 

Like  any  pea-green,  super-attractive 
eighteen-year-old  doll  who  solos  in  Holly- 
wood, Judi  Meredith  learned  the  bache- 
lor girl  ropes  the  hard  way.  She  ran  into 
all  Hollywood  types — free  livers  and  free 
loaders,  nice  people  and  heels,  lambs  and 
wolves.  Being  a  heads-on  type  herself, 
honest,  trusting,  open  hearted  and,  at  first, 


as  gullible  as  a  gooney  bird,  Judi  paid  to 
learn. 

That  jail  record 

One  boy  who  took  her  out,  for  instance, 
conned  Judi  into  giving  him  $1500  tc 
finance  a  fancy  sports  car.  At  the  time 
Judi  had  exactly  $1531  in  the  bank,  but  she 
trustingly  scribbled  the  check.  For  weeks 
after  she  was  so  broke  (she  never  hollered 
home  for  help)  that  she  couldn't  even  buy 
soap.  She's  yet  to  get  paid  back  on  that 
deal,  but  she's  not  sore.  Another  heel,  a 
producer  whom  she  interviewed  for  a  job, 
tried  forcibly  to  attack  her — and  that  still 
makes  her  see  red.  "Him  I'll  get  someday,'' 
she  growls.  "I'll  destroy  him!" 

The  first  girl  Judi  took  an  apartment 
with— after  a  chaperoned  Studio  Club 
stretch,  which  Judi  hated — promoted  her 
for  rent,  groceries,  laundry,  cleaning  and 
Judi's  automobile.  When  this  mooch  finally 
departed  she  walked  off  with  half  Judi's 
wardrobe.  In  between,  she  also  managed  to 
lan^  Judi  in  jail. 

The  roommate's  boyfriend  (later  un- 
masked as  a  professional  con  artist  who'd 
had  nine  wives)  dumped  a  hot  Thunder- 
bird.  paH  for  with  a  rubber  check,  at  their 
door.  "Have  Judi  switch  license  plates 
with  her  car,"  he  instructed  his  sweetie. 
Judi  obliged — she  thought  it  was  just  a 
friendly  gesture — having  no  idea  switch- 
ing plates  can  be  a  Federal  rap  involving 
two  years  in  the  pen.  When  she  drove  up 
to  her  pad  next  day,  five  men  were  there. 
They  chorused,  "Hi,  Judi." 

"Hi,"  she  said,  friendly  like. 

"Where's  the  Thunderbird?*'  one  wanted 
to  know. 

"What's  it  to  you?" 

The  five  all  flashed  badges  like  Dragnet. 
"Come  with  us."  They  took  Judi  and  the 
other  babe  to  the  tank,  tossed  them  in 
with  junkies,  prostitutes  and  pickpockets. 

Judi  was  cleared  pronto,  of  course,  when 
it  came  out  she  was  innocent  of  all  the 
skullduggery.  She  asked  her  roommate. 
"Why  didn't  you  tell  them  I  didn't  know 
anything  about  all  this  business?" 

"I  didn't  want  to  go  to  jail  alone,"  wailed 
the  chick. 

But  even  in  this  most  frightening  epi- 
sode in  her  life,  Judi  Meredith  kept  her 
sense  of  humor.  At  the  jail  tank  all  the 
fallen  women  crowded  around  her.  "What 
you  in  for,  Eaby?"  they  asked.  Judi  sum- 
moned up  her  most  hard-cooked  leer. 
"Grand  theft — auto,"  she  barked.  "Me," 
she  laughs  today,  "I  was  just  one  of  the 
girls!" 

That's  the  point  about  Judi — you  just 
can't  beat  her  down  with  a  baseball  bat. 

Leading  with  her  heart 

Careerwise,  Judi  Meredith  has  had 
things  fairly  steady,  with  all  those  Burns 
shows.  She's  done  some  seventy-five  other 
TV  jobs  on  about  any  show  you  can  name, 
too.  and  had  a  crack  at  a  studio  contract 
with  Universal-International.  It  lasted  for 
three  pictures,  then  the  lot  started  to  shut- 
ter down,  and  she  had  nothing  to  do.  Judi 
faced  her  bad  luck  squarely:  She  walked 
into  the  office  of  Jim  Pratt,  the  executive 
who  had  hired  her.  "Look,"  she  suggested. 
"You  offer  me  a  picture  part  and  I'll  turn 
it  down.  That  will  make  things  easy,  won't 
it?"  She  left  with  no  hard  feelings,  regrets 
or  glooms. 

But  it's  in  the  romance  department  that 
Judi  Meredith  reveals  a  most  awesome  re- 
silience— or  maybe  you'd  call  it  a  protec- 
tive philosophy  aimed  at  keeping  her 
fractured  feelings  glued  together.  Since 
she  arrived  love's  been  a  chronic  condition. 
Always,  Judi  has  led  with  her  heart. 
Luckily,  it's  a  gay  heart,  and  sturdy. 

As  far  back  as  Pasadena  Playhouse  days, 
Judi  was  engaged.  A  student  named  Rod 
Franck  sealed  it  with  a  ring  and  every- 


1 


Let's  talk  frankly  about 

internal 
cleanliness 


Day  before  yesterday,  many  women 
hesitated  to  talk  about  the  douche 
even  to  their  best  friends,  let  alone  to 
a  doctor  or  druggist. 

Today,  thank  goodness,  women  are 
beginning  to  discuss  these  things  freely 
and  openly.  But  — even  now— many 
women  don't  realize  what  is  involved 
in  treating  "the  delicate  zone." 

They  don't  ask.  Nobody  tells  them. 
So  they  use  homemade  solutions 
which  may  not  be  completely  effective, 
or  kitchen-type  antiseptics  which  may 
be  harsh  or  inflammatory. 

It's  time  to  talk  frankly  about  in- 
ternal cleanliness.  Using  anything  that 
comes  to  hand  .  .  .'"working  in  the 
dark".  .  .  is  practically  a  crime  against 
yourself,  in  this  modern  day  and  age. 

Here  are  the  facts:  tissues  in  "the 
delicate  zone"  are  very  tender.  Odors 
are  very  persistent.  Your  comfort  and 


well-being  demand  a  special  prepara- 
tion for  the  douche.  Today  there  is 
such  a  preparation. 

This  preparation  is  far  more  effec- 
tive in  antiseptic  and  germicidal  action 
than  old-fashioned  homemade  solu- 
tions. It  is  far  safer  to  delicate  tissues 
than  other  liquid  antiseptics  for  the 
douche.  It  cleanses,  freshens,  elimi- 
nates odor,  guards  against  chafing,  pro- 
motes confidence  as  nothing  else  can. 

This  is  modern  woman's  way  to 
internal  cleanliness.  It  is  the  personal 
antiseptic  for  women,  made  specifi- 
cally for  "the  delicate  zone."  It  is 
called  Zonite®.  Complete  instructions 
for  use  come  in  every  package.  In 
cases  of  persistent  discharge,  women 
are  advised  to  see  their  doctors. 

Millions  of  women  already  consider 
Zonite  as  important  a  part  of  their 
grooming  as  their  bath.  You  owe  it 
to  yourself  to  try  Zonite  soon. 


thing.  "But,"  reports  Judi,  "I  got  into  TV 
[  and  he  was  going  on  to  school.  Besides, 
j  going  steady  got  a  little  overpowering,  too 
married  before  married.  I  don't  like  to  be 
cornered."  So  that  was  that.  Came  next 
this  fellow,  Stewart,  who  writes  her  those 
torchy  letters  he  tears  up  but  keeps  send- 
ing. "I  think  I'd  have  married  him  even 
at  eighteen,  except  that  his  parents  raised 
such  a  rumpus,  and  so  did  mine."  reflects 
Judi.  Stewart  was  Jewish  and  Judi  Catho- 
lic, and  parental  consent  was  important. 
There's  still  a  soft  spot  on  both  sides. 

Troy  Donahue  was  number  three.  He 
lived  downstairs  from  Judi  and  they  made 
a  couple  of  pictures  together  at  U-I.  Troy 
didn't  even  own  a  car  then,  but  they  drove 
Judts  around  to  friends'  houses,  and  the 
beach,  skated,  played  touch  football — love 
on  a  dime.  "We  were  unofficially  engaged," 
says  Judi.  "but  Troy  was  just  too  posses- 
sive." One  night  he  busted  into  her  apart- 
ment jealously  when  she  was  just  about  to 
retire,  made  a  scene  and  wound  it  up 
pushing  Judi's  face  into  a  glass-framed 
picture.  That  was  enough.  She  bounced  off 
to  a  friend  of  Troy's,  Wendell  Niles,  Jr. 

It  was  official  again,  with  another  ring. 
But  Judi  sniffed  trouble  ahead.  Wendell 
was  tied  too  close  to  his  parents.  "I'll  tell 
you  one  thing,"  stated  Judi,  "when  we  get 
married.  I'm  not  going  to  live  with  your 
folks."  She  kept  after  Junior  to  get  a  job 
on  his  own.  He  did,  but  in  New  York.  That 
wasn't  where  Judi  meant.  "I'm  twenty- 
one,"  she  declared  herself  openly.  "And 
too  young  to  stay  tied  to  someone  clear 
across  the  country.  If  you  go,  I  guess  it's 
good-bye." 

Almost:  Barry  Coe 

Judi's  closest  call  was  with  Barry  Coe. 
At  first  Judi  tabbed  Barry  as  just  an- 
other movietown  snake.  At  a  press  party 
he  had  his  arm  linked  in  another  cutie's, 
but  he  gave  Judi  the  eye.  "And  that  made 
me  sore,"  reports  Meredith.  "I  thought — 
what  a  two-timer!"  Next  day  when  a  pub- 
licity type  called  suggesting  she  shoot  a 
magazine  layout  with  Barry,  Judi  told 
them  both  where  they  could  go.  But  Barry 
called  most  politely,  apologized  and  sug- 
gested a  day  at  the  beach  to  get  ac- 
quainted. Judi  was  two  hours  late  to  give 
him  a  hard  time.  She  discovered  Barry  to 
be  "a  real  person,  honest,  unspoiled,  un- 
assuming— just  adorable."  Four  weeks  lat- 
er Barry  popped  the  question. 

"No — let's  wait  a  year  and  see  how  we 
feel  then,"  sparred  Judi.  "Lucky,"  she 
sighs,  "that  I  did."  Last  May  Judi  discov- 
ered she  had  a  rival,  a  married  actress, 
that  Barry  hadn't  told  her  about.  "Okay," 
she  signed  off.  "We're  finished.  I  never 
want  to  see  you  again." 

"I  was  too  much  of  a  mother  to  Barry," 
Judi  quarterbacks  that  year-long  episode 
now.  "I  did  a  lot  for  him — got  him  a  new 
agent,  new  press  agent,  made  him  more 
conscious  of  his  career,  I  think.  I  don't 
think  that  was  what  he  wanted  from  a 
girl."  Graciously,  Judi  thinks  Jorunn 
Christensen,  (Miss  Norway  whom  Barry 
met  and  married  last  year)  is  perfect  for 
him.  "She  wants  to  be  just  a  wife,  stay 
home  and  everything,"  she  concludes.  "I 
don't  fit  that  picture." 

After  her  break-up  with  Barry  Coe, 
Judi  dropped  twelve  pounds,  but  mostly 
because  she  got  bronchial  pneumonia.  Her 
heart  did  crack  a  little,  but  she's  not  the 
kind  to  wither  away.  "I  make  snap  judg- 
ments and  I  stick  to  them,"  claims  Judi.  "I 
get  hurt — sure — every  day.  But  I've  never 
given  any  man  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
me  busted  up  or  crying — and  I  never  will!" 

That's  the  way  love  is — that's  how  it 
goes  with  Judi  Meredith,  to  quote  Bobby 
Darin's  song  hit.  A  sort  of  tightrope  walk 
between  Heaven  and  hostilities.  Bobby,  by 
the  way,  is  a  devoted  Meredith  boyfriend 


whenever  he  lights  long  enough  in  Holly- 
wood. In  fact,  Judi's  the  only  girl  he  takes 
out  at  such  times.  "We  go  for  rides,  sit  and 
gab  mostly,"  says  Judi.  "Bobby's  a  great 
talent  and  almost  as  charged  up  as  I  am. 
A  little  cocky,  maybe,  to  cover  up  his  in- 
security," she  analyzes,  "but  a  real  doll. 
We're  two  of  a  kind  and  we  have  a  lot  of 
fun.  Am  I  involved?  We-1-1-1 — I  don't 
know!  Maybe." 

Like  Bobby,  Judi  also  worships  Frank 
Sinatra,  who  takes  her  out,  too.  But  at  the 
start  of  their  friendship  she  promised  not 
to  say  a  word  about  Frankie,  and  she's 
stuck  to  it.  Columnists  pester  her  some- 
times long-distance  from  New  York,  but 
she  hasn't  chirped  about  Frank  and  doesn't 
intend  to.  "I  know,"  says  Judi  simply,  "that 
he  hates  anyone  to  talk  about  him,  and  I 
respect  that.  I'd  expect  anyone  to  do  the 
same  for  me — if  I  felt  that  way." 

Judi  lives  in  a  cute  little  apartment 
perched  on  a  hillside,  with  a  spoiled  Skye 
terrier  named  Little  Face.  She  decorated 
the  place  herself  and  is  forever  bustling 
around  fixing  it  up.  If  she's  not  yanking 
down  her  curtains,  washing  and  ironing 
them,  she's  unscrewing  the  garbage  dis- 
posal (as  she  did  the  other  day)  and  tun- 
ing it  up.  When  she's  home  she  scatters 
her  favorite  violets  all  around,  keeps  the 
hi-fi  going  (music's  like  dope)  and  shifts 
colorful  paintings  here  and  there  to  suit 
her  moods.  Meals  are  no  problem:  she  goes 
out  about  every  night.  When  she  does  Judi 
loves  to  dress  up.  She's  a  clothes  horse 
who  can  design  her  outfits  and  then  spend 
her  last  cent,  if  necessary,  to  have  them 
made.  She  likes  exciting  colors — greens, 
yellows,  oranges  and  reds — and  always 
real  jewelry,  diamonds,  rubies  and  gold. 
She  always  wears  a  wedding  ring  on  her 
third  finger,  left — "because  I  don't  want  to 
be  bothered  with  phonies.  If  a  man  ap- 


proaches me  with  that  on,  I  know  I  don't 
want  to  go  out  with  him  anyway!"  She 
skips  both  make-up  and  booze  because  she 
doesn't  need  either  one.  And  where  she 
goes  doesn't  matter,  so  long  as  she's  going. 

Of  course,  Judi  also  works — hard.  She 
drives  around  Hollywood  on  her  scattered 
TV  chores  "like  a  maniac"  in  her  '59  con- 
vertible that's  had  the  brakes  re-lined  five 
times.  Right  now  she  has  two  video  series 
coming  up  and  a  picture  at  Columbia.  But 
she  doesn't  care  a  cookie  about  money  for 
money's  sake. 

"All  I  really  want,"  says  Judi,  "is  to  be 
happy — and  to  make  people  happy.  The 
only  way  I  know  is  to  entertain  them.  So, 
that's  what  I  want  to  do,  all  my  life,  in  one 
way  or  another." 

In  one  way  or  another,  that's  exactly 
what  Judi  Meredith  has  been  doing,  so 
far:  entertaining  people  and  herself  at  the 
same  time.  If,  along  the  way,  she  kicks  up 
a  storm  here  and  there,  so  much  the  better. 
It's  usually  a  beautiful  storm  to  watch, 
and  the  world  around  her  comes  to  life  in 
Technicolor. 

The  last  time  I  dropped  in  on  Judi  she 
was  wrapped  up  in  a  telephone,  as  usual. 
"Yes,  Bobby,"  she  said.  "I  love  you.  Do 
you  love  me?  Ah — so?  Well,  that's  too  bad, 
because  you  wouldn't  send  anyone  else 
flowers  and  ask  her  out  to  dinner,  now 
would  you?" 

I  know  Bobby.  I  stole  the  phone. 

"Mr.  Darin,"  I  nailed  him,  "what  is  your 
candid  opinion  of  a  certain  notorious  girl 
named  Miss  Judi  Meredith?" 

"Now  hear  this,"  came  back  the  Knife. 
"She  is  just  one  of  the  swellest  all-around, 
all-time,  All-American  girls — ever!  And," 
he  added,  "you  can  quote  me." 

So  I  will.  I  agree.  For  various  reasons  so 
does  about  everyone  else  once  exposed  to 
Judi.   END 


Casanova's  Ladies 


(Continued  from  page  57) 

me.  And  I  let  her  fall.  I  just  couldn't 
take  it  any  more — watching  her  break  apart 
in  fi-ont  of  me,  like  a  piece  of  porcelain.  I 
stepped  right  over  her.  I  walked  right  out. 
Since  then,  I've  been  indifferent — " 

Actually,  Marlon  was  and  is  far  from 
"indifferent."  When  an  emotional  ex- 
perience of  such  intensity  occurs,  it  can- 
not be  sloughed  off  or  forgotten.  The  mem- 
ory of  it  remains  in  the  mind,  and  so  do  the 
guilty  feelings  about  what  happened.  For 
one  as  sensitive  as  Marlon,  the  result  may 
be  continuing  remorse,  even  self-torture — 
until  finally  it  seems  there  is  only  one 
thing  to  do,  one  way  to  rid  himself  of  his 
guilty  feelings,  and  that  is  by  finding  an- 
other woman  like  his  mother  and  this  time 
not  failing  her.  Doesn't  this  explain  why, 
with  all  the  women  in  the  world  to  choose 
from,  this  handsome  Casanova  continually 
selects  someone  who  is  in  some  way  phys- 
ically or  emotionally  sick?  Let  us  look 
briefly  at  the  three  women  pictured  here 
with  Marlon,  the  three  most  important 
love-figures  in  his  recent  life: 

Anna  Kashfi,  born  Joan  Mary  O'Calla- 
ghan,  is  a  strange  girl  who,  while  working 
as  a  cashier  in  a  butcher  shop  in  Wales, 
deluded  herself  into  thinking  she  was  an 
Indian.  She  borrowed  an  Indian  mother 
from  some  Indian  friends  (Selma  Ghose, 
listed  as  Anna's  parent  on  her  wedding 
certificate,  really  exists),  and  she  created 
an  Indian  father  out  of  her  interesting 
imagination.  In  order  to  do  this  she  must 
have  been  in  some  way  emotionally  dis- 
turbed, deeply  dissatisfied  with  the  way 
she  really  was  in  reality,  and  Marlon,  sens- 
ing this  as  soon  as  they  met,  was  sympa- 
thetic. They  liked  each  other,  were  con- 
versational soul-mates,  then  suddenly  a 
few  months  later  Anna  developed  tuber- 
culosis. Odd  as  it  may  seem,  this  was  the 
point  at  which  all  of  Marlon's  sympathies 
were  engaged,  as  they  had  never  been 
with  any  girl  since  his  mother.  Here  was 
the  chance  he  needed,  to  redeem  himself, 
to  not  fail  the  sick  woman  he  loved,  as  he 
had    once    failed    Dorothy  Pennebacker 


Brando.  He  sent  flowers,  he  phoned  the 
hospital,  he  was  sheer  kindness,  he  married 
her,  they  had  a  son  together,  they  lived 
together,  and  then  Anna  began  to  be  well 
again  and  happy,  and  as  she  became  hap- 
pier and  happier  Marlon  became  more  and 
more  restless.  For  somehow  the  guilty 
feelings  about  his  mother  remained;  though 
he  had  not  failed  Anna  he  was  still  not  sure 
inside  himself  that  he  had  done  enough  to 
redeem  his  behavior  with  his  mother. 
Unable  to  control  himself,  he  left  Anna 
and  the  baby  at  home  alone  in  the  house 
high  in  the  hills,  frightened,  huddled  to- 
gether, listening  to  the  mountain  lions  that 
roamed  around  in  the  dark  wind,  and 
forced  on  by  his  powerful  and  terrible 
memory,  he  began  searching  again  for  a 
woman  wounded  and  sick  whom  he  could 
help. 

He  found  her  in  France  Nuyen,  a  beau- 
tiful little  half-Chinese,  half-French  girl 
who  at  twenty  was  as  broken  inside  as 
his  mother  had  been  at  forty.  A  child  of 
the  second  World  War,  surviving  on  hand- 
outs in  the  slums  of  Marseilles,  France, 
ended  her  formal  education  when  she  was 
eleven  years  old,  and  learned  to  exist  from 
moment  to  moment  in  a  world  with  no 
past,  no  future.  Friendless,  ambitionless, 
gloomy,  even  as  a  Broadway  and  Holly- 
wood star,  she  said:  "I  am  a  stone,  I  go 
where  I  am  kicked." 

Marlon  picked  up  the  stone,  held  it  ten- 
derly, and  the  stone  bled  tears.  "Come  live 
with  me  and  be  my  love,"  he  said,  as  he 
had  said  to  Anna  and  to  his  mother  long 
ago — and  off  they  went  together  to  Haiti. 
The  nights  were  beautiful,  their  happiness 
pounded  like  the  bongos  and  stretched  as 
clean  and  far  as  the  sandy  beaches,  then 
suddenly  it  began  to  happen  again — that 
strange  restless  feeling  in  Marlon,  that 
feeling  that  this  wasn't  it  after  all,  that  this 
wasn't  enough  to  make  up  for  what  he 
had  done  to  his  mother,  to  erase  that  bitter 
memory  forever.  Good-bye,  France,  he  said, 
and  flew  to  Hollywood,  to  search  again. 

He  went  to  Cyrano's,  a  coffee  house 
on  Sunset  Strip.  It  was  late,  after  mid- 
night. A  dark-eyed  beauty  named  Bar- 
bara Luna  was  at  a  nearby  table.  "I  could 
feel  his  eyes  penetrate  through  me,"  Bar- 
bara told  us.  "Finally  he  came  over.  We 
drank  wine,  we  talked  about  the  world, 


about  books,  about  politics.  There  was  a 
strange  immediate  bond  between  us  .  .  ." 

The  bond  was  deeper  than  either  of  them 
knew.  Like  Dorothy  Brando,  Anna  Kashfi 
and  France  Nuyen,  Barbara  Luna  was  bits 
and  pieces  of  broken  porcelain.  Another 
tortured  soul — a  girl  who  in  1953  brought 
assault  charges  against  a  young  Turkish 
exchange  student,  and  two  years  later  ap- 
peared in  juvenile  court  on  a  dope  charge. 

Marlon  loved  her  in  his  way,  and 
Barbara  loved  him  enough  to  say  later 
when  it  was  all  over  that  she  could  un- 
derstand how  a  girl  who  had  been  loved 
by  Marlon  could  never  love  another  man 
as  long  as  she  lived.  As  it  turned  out, 
though  Barbara  had  been  emotionally  dis- 
turbed as  a  child,  she  wasn't  any  longer, 
and  so  their  romance  never  achieved  any 
real  intensity,  but  it  did  receive  enough 
publicity  for  France  to  read  about  it  in  the 
Hong  Kong  papers — France,  the  girl  who, 
despite  all,  somehow  remained  in  love  with 
Marlon.  As  she  read  the  items  and  waited 
in  vain  for  mail  from  Marlon,  she  began 
having  attacks  of  nausea,  developed  laryn- 
gitis, couldn't  say  her  lines,  became  nasty 
to  everyone  on  the  set  of  the  movie  The 
World  of  Suzie  Wong  in  which  she  had  the 
lead.  In  the  grip  of  an  emotion  larger 
than  she  had  ever  known,  she  began  stuff- 
ing herself  with  food,  crazily,  desperately, 
trying  to  fill  the  emptiness  that  Marlon  had 
left  in  her  life.  She  stuffed  herself  right 
out  of  the  part  in  the  picture  and  almost 
into  the  hospital. 

Was  it  some  strange  feminine  instinct 
that  told  her  if  she  became  sick,  really 
sick  again,  Marlon  would  want  her  again? 
Whatever  it  was,  whatever  name  we  psy- 
choanalysts might  give  it,  I  prefer  to  call  it 
Love.  A  love  so  powerful  and  self- 
sacrificing  that  it  brought  Marlon  back  to 
her  side  and  will,  I  truly  believe,  do  what 
all  of  Marlon'-s  previous  loves  plus  a  bat- 
tery of  psychiatrists  could  not  do — erase 
the  bitter  memory  of  his  mother,  and 
give  these  fine,  sensitive,  tortured  human 
beings  the  share  of  normal  love  and 
companionship  to  which  all  of  us  are  en- 
titled. END 

Marlon  stars  in  The  Fugitive  Kind  and 
in  One-Eyed  Jacks,  both  films  United 
Artists  releases. 


Bring  Me  Back  to  Your  House,  Oh  Lord 


(Contimied  from  page  32) 

within  a  matter  of  moments.  So  close,  in 
fact,  that  one  of  the  young  men  who'd  come 
out  of  the  car  with  Elvis,  a  bodyguard,  no 
doubt,  was  annoyed. 

"Hey  oldtimer,  step  back  a  li'l  bit,  will 
you?"  he  said. 

The  old  man  did  not  move. 

"Hey,  old  boy — c'mon."  He  said  it  loudly 
now,  harshly.   "Git  movin'.  C'mon." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Elvis  turned  to 
see  what  was  going  on;  at  this  point  that 
the  old  man,  still  smiling,  raised  his  hand 
and  showed  a  small  passel  of  papers  he 
was  holding. 

With  his  thumb,  he  slipped  one  of  the 
papers  forward. 

"That  for  me?"  Elvis  asked. 

The  old  man  nodded. 

Elvis  began  to  reach  for  the  paper. 

The  bodyguard  intercepted  it. 

"This  geezer's  a  crackpot,  El  boy,"  he 
said.   "Here,  let  me  have  that." 

Elvis  looked  over  at  the  old  man. 

He  saw  that  the  smile  was  gone  from 
his  face  now. 

He  put  out  his  hand. 

"Give  it  back,"  he  said  to  the  body- 


The  bodyguard  looked  at  Elvis  and  did. 

Elvis  looked  down  at  the  paper  and  read 
the  few  words  printed  on  it. 

Easter  is  coming,  it  read.  Are  you 
coming  to  church? 

"Ha!"  said  the  bodyguard,  reading  it 
over  Elvis'  shoulder. 

"Mister,"  Elvis  started  to  say,  looking 
up  from  the  paper,  over  towards  where 
the  old  man  was  standing,  "why  do  you — " 

But  he  stopped. 

Because  the  old  man,  in  those  few  mo- 
ments, had  taken  one  step  back  into  the 
crowd. 

Another  step. 

And  then,  as  quickly  as  he'd  come,  he'd 
disappeared.  .  .  . 

Another  Easter 

It  was  about  an  hour  later. 

Elvis  was  in  the  bedroom  of  his  huge 
suite,  lying  on  his  bed. 

Outside,  in  the  living  room,  he  could 
hear  the  others — members  of  his  retinue; 
the  bodyguard,  a  few  musicians,  an  agent, 
a  couple  of  hometown  buddies — talking, 
some  of  them;  playing  cards,  a  couple  of 
others;  one  of  them  strumming  away  on 


his  old  guitar,  humming  as  he  strummed. 

But,  actually,  Elvis  barely  heard  them 
at  all. 

For  he  was  thinking,  thinking  hard, 
about  a  little  something  he  couldn't  seem 
to  get  out  of  his  mind — about  the  strange 
and  silent  old  man  who'd  come  up  to  him 
before,  about  the  paper  he'd  handed  him. 

"I  wonder,"  Elvis  thought,  after  a  while, 
"how  long  it's  been  since  I've  been  to 
church,  at  all — Easter  or  any  other  time." 

He  closed  his  eyes. 

And  he  began  to  remember,  for  some 
reason,  an  Easter  a  long  time  ago,  back  in 
Mississippi,  when  he  was  just  a  little  snip 
of  a  boy. 

He  remembered  it  clearly. 

His  ma  and  his  daddy,  he  remembered, 
had  bought  a  brand  new  suit  for  him,  for 
that  day,  from  money  they'd  been  saving 
for  well  on  a  year  now.  And  ca  _  '  the  day, 
and  they'd  dressed  him  up  in  the  new  suit 
and  then,  each  holding  him  by  a  hand, 
they'd  left  the  tiny  house  where  they  lived 
and  they'd  walked  a  couple  of  miles  down 
the  dusty  road,  towards  town,  and  to  the 
building  there  which  they'd  told  him  was 
called  a  church — "a  house  of  God,"  as 
they'd  said. 

The  church,  he  remembered,  was  a  small 
place.  But  crowded.  Crowded  with  lots  and 
lots  of  people  who,  like  his  ma  and  like 
his  daddy,  were  poor  people,  hard-working 
and  sad  and  impoverished  people. 


Yet.  he  remembered,  it  wasn  t  Ions  after 
They'd  all  sat  down  inside  the  church  and 
die  minister  had  come  out  to  deliver  his 
sermon — "Jesus  Christ,  on  this  day."  the 
minister  had  begun.  "He  rose,  this  holiest 
of  men.  and  He  went  from  the  tomb  in 
which  He  lay.  straight  up  to  Heaven, 
glorious  Heaven,  so's  He  could  look  down 
on  and  take  care  of  you,  sir.  and  you, 
na'am" — that  something  had  begun  to  hap- 
pen to  these  people. 

He'd  looked  around,  midway  during  the 
sermon.  Elvis  remembered,  and  he'd  no- 
:iced  that  the  faces  of  these  people  were 
different-looking  suddenly.  That  they  were 
oecoming  transformed  by  the  words  they 
were  hearing — transformed  from  the  faces 
of  poor  and  sad  and  weary  people  to  the 
faces  of  people  who  were  rich  and  happy, 
-ike  the  richest  and  the  happiest  people 
on  this  here  earth. 

And  Elvis  remembered  how.  after  the 
service  was  all  over  and  they  were  walk- 
ing back  up  the  road  again,  him  and  his 
folks,  he'd  said.  "That  was  sure  nice  ...  I 
wish  it  was-next  Easter  comin'  soon  so  we 
could  come  back  here  again." 

And  how  his  Ma  had  said,  "From  now 
on.  Elvis,  we're  all  goin'  to  come  to  church 
meetin'  every  Sunday.  Been  bein'  lazy 
about  it  long  enough,  we  have.  But  from 
now  on.  we're  comin".  every  Sunday.  And 
we're  goin'  to  pray  and  sing  and  hear 
God's  word,  jest  like  today. 

"After  all."  she'd  added,  "how  is  God 
goin'  to  know  we  love  Him  ifn  we  don't 
show  up  at  His  house  for  a  little  while, 
jest  the  way  we  expect  Him  to  keep 
showin'  up  at  ours?" 

Elvis  remembered  this. 

And  what  happened  after. 

The  years  in  Mississippi,  then  up  in 
Memphis,  where  the  family  eventually 
moved — the  years  of  going  to  church,  faith- 
fully, every  Sunday,  as  if  their  whole  true 
lives  depended  on  it. 

And  then  how  the  church-going  ended, 
suddenly,  a  few  years  ago,  when  he — Elvis 
Presley — became  a  singer,  and  a  success. 

There  was  that  other  Sunday  morning, 
back  in  early  1956.  He  would  never  forget 
it.  How  he  and  the  folks  had  walked  into 
their  church  and  how  that  group  of  kids, 
standing  just  inside  the  big  doors,  actually 
inside  the  church,  had  begun  to  shout,  and 
scream,  and  squeal.  How  he  and  the  folks 
hadn't  even  been  able  to  get  beyond  where 
they  stood.  How  they'd  turned,  eventually, 
and  walked  back  outside,  and  away,  afraid 
they  were  going  to  make  a  mockery  of 
their  church,  their  love  for  God. 

That  had  been  the  first  time  he'd  gone 
to  church  after  his  big  success.  Elvis  re- 
membered. And,  aside  from  his  hitch  in 
the  Army — when  he  had  been  able  to  go 
uninterrupted,  it  had  been  his  last. 

"And  I  guess."  he  thought  now,  lying  on 
his  bed  in  the  big  Hollywood  hotel,  four 
years  later,  "that's  the  way  it's  got  to  be. 

"Just  the  way  it's — " 

A  cold  shiver,  gigantic,  heavy,  rushed 
through  his  body.  He  opened  his  eyes. 

The  sun  that  had  been  lingering  outside 
this  late  afternoon  had  gone  down  by  now. 

And  the  room  was  pitch  black. 

"Lord — "  Elvis  cried  out.  suddenly. 

The  talking  in  the  living  room  stopped, 
for  a  moment. 

"Lord — "  Elvis  said,  whispering  this  time. 

"O  Lord  .  .  .  Bring  me  back  to  Your 
house. 

"If  only  they  understood,  the  other  peo- 
ple in  Your  house,"  he  said,  "if  only  they 
realized  how  much  I  want  to  come  to  You 

.  .  have  wanted  to  ...  all  these  years. 

''If  only  they  realized  that  I  am  one  of 
them,  just  like  them  .  .  .  Nothing  more 
than  one  of  Your  children. 

"Just  like  them.  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  few  minutes  after  ten  o'clock 
the  following  morning  when  Elvis,  alone, 


pulled  up  to  the  church,  an  Assembly 
Church  of  God.  in  downtown  Los  Angeles. 

From  his  car.  he  looked  at  the  entrance- 
way,  watching  as  a  few  persons,  late  com- 
ers, walked  inside,  hurrying,  in  order  that 
they  wouldn't  be  too  late. 

He  waited  a  few  minutes — till  everyone, 
it  seemed,  was  inside. 

And  then,  slowly,  he  got  out  of  the  car. 
walked  towards  the  entranceway  and  went 
inside,  too. 

From  the  rear  of  the  church  he  could 
see  that  the  service  had  already  begun: 
the  minister  was  in  his  pulpit,  delivering 
his  preliminary-  announcements. 

Elvis  looked  around  the  rear  section, 
where  he  still  stood,  for  a  pew  with  an 
empty  space. 

There  was  none. 

He  had  just  begun  to  turn  to  his  right, 
with  the  intention  of  walking  to  the  side 
of  the  church  and  standing  there,  through- 
out the  rest  of  the  service,  when,  from  the 
corner  of  his  eye.  he  saw  someone  signal- 
ing him. 

He  turned  again  and  he  saw  that  it  was 
an  usher,  up  in  the  front  of  the  church, 
pointing  to  a  pew  there,  an  empty  place. 

Somehow,  during  the  signaling,  a  few 
members  of  the  congregation  turned  to  the 
rear,  to  see,  out  of  curiosity,  who  had  ar- 
rived so  late. 

And.  suddenly,  it  began — the  murmur- 
ing, the  turning  of  more  heads,  and  more, 
and  more.  Until,  finally,  the  entire  con- 
gregation was  facing  Elvis,  and  the  min- 
ister, aheming  at  first,  then  realizing  what 
was  going  on.  stopped  what  he  was  saying 
and  called  out  instead: 

"Young  man." 

Elvis  looked  up  at  him. 

"Would  you."  the  minister  asked,  "pre- 
fer to  continue  standing  there?  Or — " 

He  smiled. 

" — would  you  like  to  take  advantage  of 
this  free  space  up  here?" 

The  murmuring,  which  had  continued 
through  all  this,  quieted  now. 

Until  there  was  absolute  silence. 

Until  Elvis,  realizing  what  he  had  to  do. 
nodded,  and  began  to  walk  down  the  aisle. 

It  was  a  long  walk — the  longest  walk  of 
his  entire  life. 

And  it  was  nearly  over  ...  he  had  no 
more  than  ten  steps  to  take  .  .  .  when  he 
saw  the  girl,  and  he  slowed  his  pace. 

The  girl  was  seated  in  the  end  seat  of 
the  third  pew.  She  was  a  young  girl,  no 
more  than  fourteen  or  fifteen,  redhaired 
and  pretty.  Her  head  was  turned.  She  was 
facing  Elvis,  her  blue  eyes  glued  on  his. 
And  in  those  blue  eyes  Elvis  could  see 
everything  that  had  been  responsible  for 
his  fantastic  success  in  show  business  these 
past  four  years,  everything  responsible  for 
his  terror  here  in  church,  this  morning. 

He  didn't  take  his  eves  awav  from  the 
girl's. 

He  couldn't. 

Instead,  he  found  himself  continuing  to 
stare  back  into  them.  And.  as  he  did,  he 
found  himself,  begging,  silently: 

"Please.  Lord,  please  .  .  .  Make  her  turn 
to  You.  .  .  ." 

Suddenly,  he  noticed,  very  suddenly,  the 
girl  lowered  her  eyes,  and  looked  away, 
back  towards  the  front  of  the  church. 

While  Elvis,  taking  a  deep  breath, 
walked  on  to  his  seat. 

And  once  there  he,  too.  lowered  his  eyes. 

As,  humbly,  he  thanked  God  for  making 
this  morning  possible. 

As  he  thanked,  then,  just  as  humbly,  a 
strange  little  old  man  who'd  stood  in  that 
crowd  outside  the  hotel  only  the  day  be- 
fore, and  who  had  handed  him  that  piece 
of  paper  .  .  .  and  whom  he  knew  he  would 
never  see  again.  end 

Elvis  will  be  seen  soon  in  GJ.  Blues. 
Paramount;  later  in  Live  Wire,  20th-Fo.v. 


PERIODIC  PAIN 

Don't  let  the  calendar  make  a 
slave  of  you,  Betty!  Just  take  a 
Midol  tablet  with  a  glass  of  water 
. . .  that's  all.  Midol  brings  faster 
and  more  complete  relief  from 
menstrual  pain— it  relieves 
cramps,  eases  headache  and 


No  Tears,  No  Trouble  When  Your  Dates  Are  Double 


(Continued  from  page  42) 


discovered.  For  she  has  found  that  a  girl 
all  alone  is  lonely.  A  girl  all  alone  with  a 
boy  makes  two,  and  two  make  a  dangerous 
situation.  Three  have  always  been  a  crowd, 
and  a  crowd  is  a  drag ...  so  the  answer 
seems  to  lie  in  the  number  four. 

Four  make  a  double  date.  A  good  all- 
play-and-no-consequences  date. 

When  Brian  Kelly  phoned  Diane  for  a 
date,  she  was  surprised  at  the  way  her 
heart  leaped  at  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

"Whoa,  girl,"  said  Diane  to  herself. 
"Don't  start  that  again.  .  .  ." 

Into  the  telephone  she  said  lightly,  "Why, 
Brian,  of  course  I'd  love  to  see  you  again. 
Yes  . . .  yes  . . .  and  I've   been   thinking  of 

you  since  that  party,  too.    Of  course  

Swimming  first?    Wonderful  Oh,  let's 

kind  of  make  it  a  foursome,  couldn't 
we...?  Who?    Mickey?    Mickey  Callan? 

Why  yes.  He's  a  darling. ...  Of  course  

Yes,  I  have  a  friend.  Real  cute.  Just  right 
for  Mickey.  She's  tiny  and  blonde  and 
loads  of  fun. . . .  Swell. . . .  That's  a  date. . . ." 

Brian  was  nice,  thought  Diane  after  she 
hung  up.  A  TV  actor,  quite  Rock  Hudson- 
ish  looking,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes 
and  a  blarney  kind  of  charm —  Diane 
stopped  short.  She  didn't  want  any  in- 
volvement, not  with  Brian  or  any  other 
charmer.  She  has  good  reason  for  wanting 
to  keep  her  heart  free.  She's  on  the  verge 
of  something  very  bright  and  wonderful 
in  her  career.  Last  year  she  was  chosen- — 
practically  pulled  out  of  the  senior  class  of 
Glendale  High — to  play  Richard  Burton's 
teen-age  granddaughter  in  7ce  Palace,  a 
very  important  production.  Several  of  the 
studio  brass  at  Warners'  had  told  her 
then,  "We've  got  great  plans  for  you." 

Advice  from  a  pro 

An  actress  on  the  set  had  taken  her  aside 
and  suggested,  "Don't  get  yourself  in- 
volved, honey.  I've  seen  more  girls'  chances 
ruined  because  they  fell  in  love  right  at 
the  outset  of  their  careers.  Something 
happens  to  a  girl  when  she  falls  in  love. 
She  can't  think  of  anything  else.  And 
sometimes  she  gets  hurt — it  shows  in  her 
work.  She's  through  before  she  gets  started. 
See  what  I  mean,  dear.  .  .  ." 

Diane  nodded.  She  saw.  She  knew 
what  it  was  like  to  be  hurt  by  falling 
in  love — to  forget  everything  but  the 
memory  of  a  boy's  arms  around  her  and 


suddenly  discover  the  arms  gone,  the 
shoulder  to  snuggle  on  no  longer  there. 
She  knew  of  the  evenings  when  she'd 
suddenly  burst  into  tears,  and  of  the 
afternoons  in  class  when  the  instructor's 
words  were  only  a  blur. 

Her  parents  and  his  had  called  it  "puppy 
love,"  "just  a  teen  crush."  Deciding  it 
was  time  to  break  up  the  two-year  dating, 
the  boy's  parents  had  sent  him  off  to 
military  school  out-of-town,  and  when  he 
left,  Diane  thought  her  sixteen-year-old 
heart  was  broken  forever. 

She  had  tearfully  confided  to  her  closest 
girl  friend  at  Glendale  High,  "No  one  un- 
derstands. They  think  a  teen-ager  doesn't 
have  feelings.  I'm  utterly  devastated." 

Time  had  erased  the  first  stinging  hurt, 
but  it  had  not  erased  the  memory  of  it. 

"No  more  falling  in  love,"  she  told  her- 
self. "Not  until  it's  for  real.  No  more 
getting  involved  and  being  hurt. 

"Still,  I  love  to  go  out  with  boys.  Dating's 
part  of  my  life.  How  to  do  it  and  steer 
clear  of  trouble?  I  remembered  something 
I  learned  in  high  school.  When  I  was  a 
junior  and  senior,  going  out  on  a  foursome 
could  give  me  all  the  fun  of  dating,  and 
none  of  the  complications." 

Oddly  enough,  one  of  the  girls  she  met  in 
the  Hollywood  circles  she  now  began  to 
move  in  was  tiny,  blonde  Cindy  Robbins. 
As  girls  do,  they  had  a  gab  session  one  day 
about  clothes  and  men  and  marriage.  Cindy 
had  gone  through  an  unhappy  love  affair 
herself.  She  and  Rock  Hudson  had  dated 
exclusively  for  several  months,  and  Cindy 
had  fallen  madly  in  love  with  him.  Cindy 
took  their  dates  seriously,  but  Rock  was 
just  going  with  Cindy  to  forget  the  strain 
of  his  unhappy  divorce  at  the  time.  Rock 
thought  of  cute,  laughing  Cindy  as  a  de- 
lightful companion  who  could  make  him 
relax  during  a  tense  period  in  his  life. 
Afterwards,  he  stopped  seeing  her. 

It  took  Cindy  a  long  time  to  get  over  it. 

"Next  time,"  she  promised  herself,  "I'm 
not  going  to  go  out  with  a  fellow  on  solo 
dates  until  I  know  what  the  score  is." 

There  they  were.  Two  beautiful  young 
girls,  full  of  life,  full  of  fun,  and  bent  on 
keeping  out  of  love. 

Doubling  was  the  answer.  Brian  brought 
Mickey  Callan.  Mickey  and  Cindy  hit  it 
off  immediately.  Diane  and  Brian  con- 
tinued to  find  each  other  delightful  com- 


pany. Being  a  foursome  kept  them  from 
getting  sloshily  sentimental.  There  they 
were,  poolside  at  the  Beverly  Hills  Hotel, 
laughing,  flirting,  swimming,  goofing 
around,  teasing  each  other  affectionately. 
They  all  had  such  fun  they  extended  the 
date  to  dinner  and  a  drive  along  the  beach 
at  night.  Having  another  couple  along 
took  the  accent  off  sex  and  put  it  on 
laughs. 

Later  that  night,  at  Diane's  doorstep, 
Brian  leaned  over  and  said,  "It  was  fun, 
wasn't  it?" 

Diane  looked  dreamy.  "It  was  lovely 
fun." 

Mickey,  in  the  convertible  with  Cindy, 
called  out:  "Let's  make  it  again." 

Cindy  and  Diane  looked  at  each  other. 
And  exchanged  a  wink.  end 

Diane  McBain  is  in  Warner  Bros.'  Ice 
Palace;  Michael  Callan  is  in  Columbia 
Pictures'  Because  They're  Young  and  will 
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What  Killed  Diana  Barrymore? 


(Continued  from  page  46) 

of  gin — stuff  Diana  had  kept  on  hand  for 
them,  friends,  and  for  acquaintances, 
moochers,  whoever  might  drop  by. 

On  the  morning  of  January  24,  a  Sun- 
day— thirty-two  days  later — there  was  only 
one  quarter  of  one  of  these  bottles  left. 

Diana  held  it.  tremblingly,  in  her  hand, 
pouring  some  of  it  into  a  glass. 

"I'll  finish  it,"  she  mumbled,  groggily. 
as  the  maid,  Eva  Smith,  walked  into  the 
room.  " — And  then,  after  I'm  through,  I'll 
get  some  more.  .  .  ." 

Dangerous  combination 

The  maid  was  worried. 

"Miss  B."  she  said,  "it's  nearly  noontime. 
Ain't  you  ever  planning  to  get  out  of  bed 
today?" 

"A  person  gets  out  of  bed  after  she's 
slept.  I  haven't  slept,"  Diana  said.  "Not 
for  two  days." 

The  maid  looked  over  at  the  table  next 
to  the  bed,  at  the  tiny  bottles  of  Seconal 
and  barbiturates  there.  "The  pills  don't 
help?"  she  asked. 

Diana  shook  her  head.  "No." 

"Maybe  you're  taking  too  many  of  them," 
the  maid  said. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Diana. 

"Maybe,"  said  the  maid,  "could  be,  I 
mean,  that  it's  the  whisky  combining  with 
them  pills  that  don't  make  them  work 
You  got  to  be  careful  about  the  whisky 
and  them  pills,  Miss  B.  They  can  produce 
dangerous  results  taken  together.  Bad  on 
the  heart."  She  nodded.  And  then  she 
walked  over  to  the  bed,  and  slapped  some 
life  into  the  pillow  on  which  the  weary 
Diana  lay,  and  then  she  reached  for  the 
glass  Diana  was  holding.  "Now  maybe  if 
you  stopped  on  the  whisky  for  a  while — " 
she  started  to  say. 

Diana  drew  back  her  hand,  the  glass. 
"Would  you  raise  the  shade?"  she  asked. 

"Yes  ma'am,"  the  maid  said.  She  walked 
across  the  room,  to  the  window,  lifted  the 
shade  and  looked  out.  "My,"  she  said, 
"looks  like  a  nice  cold  one  again  today  .  .  . 
People  coming  back  from  church,"  you 
should  see  how  bundled  up  and  shivering 
they  all  are." 

Diana  faced  the  window. 

She  squinted. 

Then  she  brought  her  glass  to  her  lips 
and  took  a  swallow. 

"Did  the  papers  come?"  she  asked. 

"The  Times  and  The  Tribune,"  the  maid 
said,  " — I  put  them  on  the  foot  of  vour 
bed." 

Diana  reached  for  one  of  them. 

She  flipped  for  the  theatrical  section, 
and  pulled  it  out. 

She  began  to  scan  the  columns. 

"All  these  new  names,"  she  said,  after 
a  while,  bringing  the  glass  back  up  to  her 
lips,  taking  another  swallow,  " — being  cast 
for  this  play  and  for  that  .  .  .  Who  knows 
them?" 

"I  bet,"  the  maid  said,  as  she  walked 
back  towards  the  bed,  "I  bet  you  can  re- 
member when  your  name  used  to  be 
there." 

"Vividly,"  said  Diana.  (Another  swal- 
low.) 

"And  I  bet  you  something  else,"  said  the 
maid — she  smiled  now,  " — that  it  s  gonna 
be  back  there  again,  your  name,  before 
too  long.  I  just  got  the  feeling  .  .  .  Things 
start  getting  back  to  normal  around  here. 
You  start  sleeping  again,  getting  strong 
again,  talking  to  those  producers  on  the 
telephone  again.  And  I  bet  you  it  won't  be 
long  till  your  name  be  back  there,  Miss  B." 
Her  smile  broadened. 
"Now,  for  now,  Miss  B,"  she  said,  "why 


don't  you  just  try  to  get  some  of  that 
sleep."  She  began  to  reach  for  the  glass 
again.  "And  then,  after  you  wake — " 

Again,  Diana  drew  back  her  hand. 

"Keep  your  hands  off  this,"  she  said, 
sharply. 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

"I'm  not  going  to  sleep,"  she  said.  "I 
wish  I  could  .  .  .  But  I  can't." 

"Gonna  have  some  lunch  then,  some 
soup  maybe?"  the  maid  asked. 

"I'm  not  going  to  have  anything  but 
this."  Diana  said,  raising  the  glass  a  little, 
as  if  she  were  toasting  some  invisible 
guest.  "And  then,"  she  said,  "after  I  finish 
— like  I  told  you — I'm  going  to  get  some 
more." 

The  maid  started  to  leave  the  room. 

"Eva,"  Diana  said,  opening  her  eyes  sud- 
denly, calling,  pleadingly.  " — don't  be 
angry." 

"I'm  not  angry,  Miss  B,"  said  the  maid, 
shaking  her  head. 

"Don't  be,"  said  Diana.  "Not  with  me  . . . 
not  today.  .  .  ." 

The  Sunday  search 

It  was  shortly  before  two  that  afternoon 
when  the  bottle,  the  last  bottle,  was  empty, 
and  when  she  got  out  of  her  bed  and 
walked  over  to  the  phone. 

She  looked  up  the  number  of  the  swank 
restaurant  across  the  street,  The  Colony, 
and.  slowly,  she  dialed. 

"Mr.  Cavallero,"  she  said,  controlling 
her  voice,  asking  for  the  owner.  " — This 
is  Diana  Barrymore.  B — A — R — R — Y — " 
— she  finished  it  and  repeated  it,  until  she 
heard  the  familiar  voice  on  the  other  end 
of  the  line. 

"Gene?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Diana?" 

"I  need  your  help.  I  need  a  bottle, 
whisky  .  .  .  any  kind." 

He  hesitated.  " — And  how  can  I  help?" 

"You  take  one  of  your  bottles,  you  put 
it  in  a  paper  bag,  you  give  it  to  one  of 
your  boys,  he  brings  it  over — " 

"Diana,"  he  said,  interrupting.  "It's  il- 
legal. I  can't." 

"Please,"  she  said. 

"I  can't." 

"Please  .  .  .  I'll  pay  you.  I  have  lots  of 
money.  Lots." 

"I'd  lose  my  license." 

"Please.  ..."  She  began  to  cry.  "It's  the 
last  favor  I'll  ever  ask  of  you,  Gene." 

"Diana — "  he  started  to  say. 

"I've  been  a  good  customer  of  yours, 
haven't  I,  always?"  she  asked. 

"Sure  you  have,"  he  said,  "but  that's 
got  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"Please,  Gene,  please." 

"Look.  I — "  he  started  to  say.  He  paused. 
"Diana."  he  said  then,  "there's  a  call  on 
another  phone  .  .  .  I'll  be  right  with  you. 
Hold  on." 

Diana  didn't  seem  to  hear  him,  the  sound 
his  receiver  made  as  he  lowered  it. 

"Are  liquor  stores  open  on  Sunday?" 
she  asked,  suddenly,  excitedly. 

She  answered  her  own  question. 

"Yes,  some  of  them  are  ...  Of  course. 
Some  of  them  must  be,"  she  said. 

She  hung  up  the  phone. 

And  got  up  from  where  she  was  sitting. 

"Who  needs  anybody  when  there  are 
good  liquor  stores  around,"  she  said,  as  she 
rushed  over  to  her  closet,  pulled  out  a 
coat,  threw  it  over  her  slip,  grabbed  her 
purse  and  headed  for  the  door. 

Outside — where  it  was  cold,  just  as  Eva 
had  said,  freezing  cold — she  walked  the 
practically-deserted  streets  for  nearly  an 
hour.  East  to  Park  Avenue.  Then  to  Lex- 


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ington.  Then  south  down  Lex  .  .  .  from 
Sixty-first  Street,  through  the  Fifties, 
through  most  of  the  Forties  .  .  .  block  after 
block  after  block  .  .  .  the  wind  hitting 
hard  against  her  face,  blurring  her  eyes, 
dishevelling  her  hair  .  .  .  not  caring, 
though;  walking  still  .  .  .  block  after  block 
after  block  ...  in  search  of  an  oasis  with 
a  neon  sign  over  it,  all  lit  and  inviting, 
with  a  sticker  on  its  front  door  marked 
'Open.' 

But  none  of  the  liquor  stores  was  open. 
Not  one. 

And,  by  the  time  she  reached  Forty- 
second  Street,  she  was  exhausted.  And  she 
turned  and  walked  into  Grand  Central 
Station  and  went  to  a  phone  booth  there 
and  called  a  friend. 

"Isn't  there  anyplace  in  this  town,"  she 
asked,  "where  I  can  buy  a  bottle?" 

"Diana,"  her  friend  said,  "you  sound  as 
if  you've  already  had  enough." 

"Don't  holler,"  she  said.  "I'm  going  to 
die — " 

"Diana!" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "I  know  it.  I  can  feel  it. 
My  time  is  running  out  .  .  .  I've  been  run- 
ning .  .  .  And  so  is  time." 

"Where  are  you,  Diana?" 

"And  all  I  want,"  she  went  on,  ignoring 
the  questions,  "is  a  bottle!" 

"Diana,  where  are  you?" 

"Do  you  have  a  black  hat,"  she  asked, 
"and  a  black  dress?  For  my  funeral.  You'll 
be  needing  them  ...  if  you  come." 

"Diana — where  are  you?" 

She  didn't  answer.  She  didn't  say  any- 
thing this  time.  She  simply  dropped  the 
receiver  and  left  it  dangling  and  mut- 
tered the  word  funeral  again,  as  she  ran 
from  the  booth  and  back  outside,  into  the 
street,  and  hailed  a  cab  to  take  her  home. 

In  her  building  again,  a  little  while 
later,  she  began  to  climb  the  stairs  to  her 
apartment. 

She  lived  on  the  third  floor. 

She  stopped  on  the  second. 

She  walked  to  a  door,  and  she  knocked. 

A  young  man,  in  a  sweater  and  slacks, 
opened  the  door. 


"You  don't  know  me,"  she  said  to  him, 
quickly,  "but  my  name  is  Diana  Barry- 
more.  I'm  a  neighbor  of  yours  ...  I  won- 
der if  you  would  sell  me  a  bottle  of  liquor." 

The  young  man  looked  at  her.  Silently. 

He  turned  and  disappeared  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

Then  he  returned. 

"This  is  vermouth,"  he  said,  handing  her 
what  he  was  holding.  "There  were  a  few 
people  over  last  night,  for  drinks.  It's  all 
I've  got  left.  It's  dry  vermouth.  I  hope 
that's  all  right." 

"Dry  vermouth,"  Diana  said. 

She  smiled. 

Then,  opening  her  purse,  she  said,  "Here, 
please  let  me  pay  you  for  this.  I  owe  you 
a  lot  for  this." 

"No,"  the  young  man  said,  still  looking 
at  her,  trying  to  smile  back.  "It's  on  the 
house." 

"Oh?"  Diana  said. 

She  clutched  the  bottle. 

Without  another  word,  she  turned  and 
she  began  to  climb  the  stairs  again.  .  .  . 

Last  act 

Eva  had  left.  Some  friends  who'd  come 
to  visit,  two  men  and  a  woman,  disgusted 
with  the  way  she'd  been  drinking,  with 
her  talk  of  impending  death,  had  left,  too. 
She  was  alone  now,  in  the  living  room, 
standing  near  the  big  mirror,  the  glass  in 
her  hand,  the  bottle  nearby.  She  stared 
over  at  the  clock.  It  was  nearly  11:05  p.m. 

"This  was  always  the  worst  part  of  the 
day,  for  Diana,  those  last  days,"  a  friend 
has  said.  "At  eleven  o'clock  every  night 
she  would  begin  imagining  that  she  was 
at  the  Martin  Beck  Theater,  over  on  Forty- 
fifth  Street,  where  Sweet  Bird  of  Youth 
was  playing.  That  she  was  just  finishing 
her  performance  in  the  play.  She  would 
rise  from  wherever  she  was  sitting  and 
walk  across  the  room,  to  a  spot  she  pre- 
tended was  the  stage,  the  mirror  in  front 
of  her  the  theater.  She  would  stand  there, 
stiffly,  for  five  full  minutes.  And  then,  at 
11:05,  she  would  imagine  that  the  curtain 
was  coming  down  and  that  her  perform- 


ance was  over  and  that  the  applause  was 
beginning." 

It  was  nearly  that  time  now — eleven — 
this  night. 

And  Diana,  in  front  of  the  mirror,  looked 
from  the  clock  to  a  photograph  on  the 
fireplace,  which  she'd  had  framed  and 
which  she'd  placed  there  a  few  months 
earlier. 

It  wasn't  much  of  a  photograph.  Just  her 
and  a  man  standing  together,  on  a  pier  in 
some  sunny  place,  the  man  looking  over 
at  her  and  she  looking  at  the  man,  and 
holding  the  small  bouquet  of  violets  he 
had  just  bought  for  her. 

She  stared  at  the  photograph  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

And  then  she  stared,  again,  at  the  clock. 

She  watched  its  big  hand,  carefully  as 
it  went  from  three  minutes  after,  to  four, 
to  five. 

And  when  it  hit  the  five-mark,  she  faced 
the  mirror  once  more  and  she  bowed. 

"I  am  The  Princess  Kosmonopolis,"  she 
whispered,  rising,  looking  at  herself  in  the 
mirror.  "I." 

She  looked  at  her  face,  the  lines,  the 
paleness,  as  she  repeated  the  words. 

"I  am  The  Princess  Kosmonopolis  ...  I 
am  ...  7  am  .../...." 

She  bowed  again. 

Then  she  turned. 

She  walked  from  the  living  room,  into 
her  bedroom. 

As  she  approached  the  bed,  she  dropped 
the  glass  she  was  still  holding. 

"  On  God,"  she  said. 

She  threw  herself  onto  the  bed. 

"Oh,  God,"  she  said. 

"Please. 

"I'm  so  tired. 

"Please  .  .  .  give  me  sleep.  .  .  ." 

Diana  Barrymore  died  in  her  sleep, 
sometime  early  the  next  morning — victim 
of  a  long-range  combination  of  liquor  and 
barbiturates. 

At  her  funeral,  four  days  later,  her  cas- 
ket was  covered  completely  with  violets. 
The  card  that  accompanied  the  flowers  was 
signed,  simply,  "Tom."  end 


America's  First  Negro  Teen  Idol 


(Continued  from  page  40) 

This  is  his  story.  Johnny  began  singing 
when  he  was  very  young,  but  it  wasn't 
show  business  then,  it  was  for  his  church, 
his  school,  his  family.  His  childhood  was 
humble,  simple,  happy.  His  mother  and 
father  loved  gospel  and  spiritual  singing. 
Their  home  had  a  strong  religious  feeling. 
They  went  to  church  together,  they  said 
grace  at  every  meal,  and  his  mother  read 
from  the  Bible  every  day.  The  church  mis- 
sionary group  met  frequently  at  their 
house.  And  young  Johnny  was  always 
singing,  because  "only  singing  gives  me 
such  a  wonderful  feeling."  Out  of  respect 
for  his  church  and  his  folks,  he  avoided 
blues,  but  he  did  enjoy  spirituals  and  in- 
spirational songs.  Everybody  told  him  he 
had  a  "God-given  voice.  .  .  ." 

But  Johnny  didn't  realize  he  could  charm 
the  birds  off  a  tree  with  his  singing  until 
he  was  five  and  attending  Harrison 
Kindergarten  down  the  street  from  his 
home. 

It  was  then — in  white  pants,  white  shirt, 
white  cape — that  he  sang  his  first  solo, 
Away  in  the  Manger,  in  the  school's 
Christmas  show,  and  won  his  first  prize, 
a  coloring  book. 

As  he  grew  older,  he  sang  everywhere 
they  tolerated  him.  But  he  didn't  earn 
money  until  he  competed  on  Trummie 
Cain's  radio  Talent  Show  on  station  KCOH. 
76  He  won  $15  each  time,  for  a  month,  and 


then  $50  for  the  grand  prize. 

That's  when  he  got  his  first  press  notice, 
his  photo  in  a  local  colored  weekly.  The 
Informer.  The  family  liked  the  recogni- 
tion, but  didn't  buy  any  extra  copies  or  do 
any  showing  off.  Immodesty  was  not  a 
Christian  virtue,  they  felt. 

Johnny's  mother  was  pleased  when 
Johnny  offered  to  sing  for  the  Christian 
Society  missionary  group  that  met  in  the 
Nash  house.  So  Johnny  sang,  Yes,  God  Is 
Real,  and  later  the  minister  said  Johnny 
had  the  makings  of  a  fine  minister. 

"We  would  be  pleased  if  he  felt  he  had 
such  a  call.  But  he  has  to  make  the  de- 
cision himself,"  said  Johnny's  mother. 

Rules  and  miracles 

At  home,  life  was  God-fearing  yet  warm 
and  good.  Johnny  loved  to  gaze  quietly  out 
of  the  big  picture  window  of  the  house  he 
had  been  born  in.  The  planter  box  under- 
neath the  window  and  the  natty  awning 
framed  the  lovely  view  of  the  world  out- 
side. The  magnolia  tree  in  front,  the  nice 
lawn  and  the  flowers  along  the  yellow 
cyclone  fence,  set  the  borders  of  their  little 
world  of  gospel  singing,  Bible  meetings, 
marvelous  kitchen  smells  ("oh  the  fried 
chicken  and  apple  pie  that  Mother 
baked!"),  the  relatives  and  friends  who 
crowded  the  house  on  festive  days. 

Outside  of  their  familiar  neighborhood 


was  the  touchy  world  of  segregation;  but 
Johnny  knew  the  rules  and  did  not  trans- 
gress. But,  in  spite  of  the  edginess  of  the 
times,  Johnny  kept  finding  outstretched 
hands  of  friendship  from  white  folk  as 
well  as  his  own. 

"It  is  a  miracle,"  his  mother  would  sigh. 
"A  true  miracle  .  .  .  !" 

One  of  the  miracles  in  Johnny's  life  be- 
gan the  day  he  was  caddying  at  the  Hous- 
ton Municipal  Golf  Course  and  got  a  spe- 
cial request  to  sing  for  a  certain  distin- 
guished-looking, white-haired  gentleman, 
right  there  on  the  clubhouse  patio. 

The  man  listened  intently  to  the  boy's 
lyric  baritone  (he  was  singing  Because) 
and  took  careful  note  of  the  handsome 
thirteen-year-old's  poise  and  neat  way  of 
dressing.  Then  he  told  Johnny  he'd  like  to 
bring  him  to  the  local  television  station 
for  an  audition  sometime.  Johnny  thanked 
him  and  went  back  to  work.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Frank  Stockton,  he  found  out  from 
other  caddies,  was  a  retired  real  estate 
broker,  whose  only  son  had  been  killed  in 
an  automobile  accident  just  after  his  re- 
turn from  the  Service.  He  certainly  seemed 
like  a  kindhearted  gentleman,  Johnny  de- 
cided, but  it  was  not  the  first  time  some- 
one had  heard  him  sing,  and  promised  him 
something.  .  .  . 

When  Johnny  got  home  and  told  his 
dad,  John  Lester  Nash,  Sr.,  and  his  mother, 
and  his  older  sister  Dorothy  Jean,  they 
cautioned,  "Don't  be  disappointed  if  noth- 
ing happens." 

But  his  mother  added,  "If  it  is  the  will 
of  the  Lord,  then  it  will  happen." 

The  phone  rang.  It  was  Mr.  Stockton, 


and  he  explained  to  Johnny's  dad  that  he 
wanted  Johnny  to  meet  him  the  next  after- 
noon at  KPRC-TV  and  introduce  him  to 
Dick  Gottleib,  His  dad  agreed. 

His  mother  sighed.  "I  have  always  hoped 
that  Johnny  would  become  a  minister; 
but  he  shall  do  what  he  must." 

Steady  singer 

The  next  day,  Johnny  met  Mr.  Stockton, 
was  introduced  to  Gottleib,  and  sang  for 
him.  "Come  around  tomorrow,  and  I'll  let 
you  sing  on  the  show,"  Gottleib  said. 

The  next  day,  Johnny  asked  for  and  re- 
ceived permission  to  leave  Jack  Yates  High 
School  at  2:30  so  he  could  make  the  3:00 
show  at  KPRC.  He  got  to  the  station,  did 
a  song,  and  went  home.  Gottleib  phoned 
him  to  say  so  many  calls  has  come  in  com- 
plimenting Johnny  that  he  wanted  Johnny 
to  return  the  next  day  and  become  a 
steady  singer  on  the  show,  at  $12  a  song. 

The  swiftness  of  the  deal  stunned  the 
Nash  family.  It  meant  Johnny  would  be 
the  only  Negro  entertainer  on  the  show, 
earning  $60  a  week,  more  than  his  father 
got  for  his  chauffeur  job. 

Johnny,  not  believing  his  good  luck 
could  last,  held  on  to  the  caddy  job  which 
brought  him  about  $15  a  week,  and  his 
week-end  job  carrying  grocery  bags  to 
customers'  cars  at  the  Avalon  Market.  He 
gave  his  earnings  to  his  mother,  who 
banked  them  for  him,  and  held  on  to  his 
grocery  job  tips. 

At  school,  they  cooperated  by  letting 
him  leave  gym  class  at  2:30  each  day  but 
warned  him  he  would  have  to  keep  his 
marks  up. 

On  TV,  as  in  all  his  jobs,  he  was  a  per- 
fectionist. He  knew  he'd  have  to  be  extra 
good,  and  when  something  went  wrong 
with  the  music  or  his  singing,  he  would 
become  so  distressed  he  would  threaten  to 
quit  singing  forever. 

In  time,  he  quit  his  caddy ing  job  and  the 
grocery  job,  and  in  his  second  year  on 
the  TV  program,  he  sang  only  twice  a 
week  so  he  could  maintain  his  high  marks 
at  school. 

He  continued  to  go  to  the  Baptist  Church, 
where  he  and  his  dad  and  sister  sang  in 
the  choir.  But  his  active  week  kept  him 
away  from  kids  his  age,  and  he  had  few 
friends. 

He  studied  hard,  was  among  the  top  five 
students  at  school,  and  was  at  his  best  in 
science  and  math.  He  talked  about  going 
to  U.C.L.A.  for  a  degree  in  science,  but 
somehow  he  kept  getting  deeper  and 
deeper  into  show  business. 

He  was  always  healthy,  energetic  and 
athletic,  but  couldn't  find  enough  time  for 
school  sports.  He  could  have  made  the  first 
team  in  basketball  at  school,  but  he 
wouldn't  give  it  the  time.  He  was  invited 
to  try  out  for  the  second  team,  but  re- 
fused. He  wanted  to  be  No.  1  or  nothing. 

He  did  not  care  for  baseball,  and  pre- 
ferred hunting  and  riding  to  everything 
else,  until  he  became  fascinated  by  golf. 
He  used  to  go  to  his  grandmother's  ranch 
and  hunt  for  squirrels,  rabbits  and  deer. 
He  loved  to  get  up  on  a  horse  and  round 
up  the  cattle. 

Guardian  angel 

As  he  became  a  TV  personality  around 
Houston,  Mr.  Stockton  continued  to  be  his 
'guardian  angel.'  In  fact,  he  began  to  look 
upon  Johnny  as  a  son. 

Amazingly  enough — in  a  city  where  the 
races  are  still  segregated— Johnny  attracted 
white  men  who  insisted  on  helping  him. 
A  helping  hand  always  seemed  to  be  ex- 
tended to  him  by  strangers. 

With  the  same  unexpectedness  that  Mr. 
Stockton  had  helped  Johnny,  a  man  from 
the  local  Paramount  Theater  urged  Johnny 
to  audition  for  the  new  ABC-Paramount 
Records    company.    Johnny    taped  three 


songs,  Hey  There,  Young  at  Heart  and  I 
Believe  at  the  TV  station,  which  then  re- 
fused to  charge  him  for  the  service. 

The  man  at  the  theater  shipped  the  tapes 
to  New  York,  and  the  tapes  were  so  good 
that  Johnny  received  a  contract  by  mail. 
His  dad  took  the  contract  to  his  white 
employer,  who  had  his  attorney  okay  it. 
Then  Johnny  and  his  father  signed  the 
papers  and  mailed  them  to  New  York. 

In  August  of  1956,  the  recording  com- 
pany asked  Johnny  to  go  to  New  York  for 
his  first  recording  session. 

It  was  then  that  the  Nash  family  were 
faced  with  the  realization  that  Johnny's 
career  was  changing  sharply.  Singing  at 
church,  on  local  TV  and  at  local  clubs 
seemed  all  right,  but  going  to  New  York 
seemed  such  a  drastic  step.  It  meant  be- 
coming a  recording  artist,  and  traveling. 
It  meant  becoming  a  professional  pop 
singer,  whereas  both  his  mom  and  dad  had 
hoped  he  could  become  a  religious  singer. 

But  his  parents  did  not  try  to  persuade 
Johnny  to  avoid  a  singing  career.  "If  it  is 
the  Lord's  will  for  Johnny  to  be  a  singer, 
then  that  is  what  he  will  be,"  his  mother 
said. 

His  father  took  a  vacation,  and  accom- 
panied Johnny  to  New  York,  where  Johnny 
cut  his  first  disk,  a  ballad,  Teenager  Sings 
the  Blues.  The  next  day,  on  August  19,  he 
was  sixteen  years  old. 

They  returned  to  Houston,  and  Mr. 
Stockton  decided  Johnny  ought  to  audi- 
tion for  the  Arthur  Godfrey  Talent  Scouts 
program,  then  searching  Houston  for  po- 
tential contestants.  More  than  thirty  per- 
formers auditioned,  and  Johnny  was  one  of 
three  accepted.  Three  months  later,  he 
went  to  New  York  with  Mr.  Stockton  to 
appear  on  Godfrey's  Talent  Scouts,  and 
won. 

Part  of  the  first  prize  was  a  week  on 
Godfrey's  morning  show.  At  the  end  of 
the  week,  he  was  given  his  fee  at  CBS.  It 
was  a  check  for  $700,  and  Johnny  gazed  at 
it,  awed.  "It's  a  lot  of  money!"  he  gasped. 
It  was  his  first  inkling  of  the  big  money 
ahead  for  him. 

Godfrey  liked  Johnny  so  much,  he  kept 
inviting  him  back  on  the  morning  show, 
and  Johnny  didn't  go  back  to  Houston. 
His  mother  quit  her  job  as  housekeeper 
and  stayed  in  New  York  with  Johnny  for  a 
year.  Then  she  went  back  to  Houston, 
knowing  Johnny  was  mature  enough  to 
handle  himself. 

Another  guardian  angel 

Godfrey's  admiration  for  Johnny  grew 
so  much  that  he,  too,  became  a  'father.' 
He  decided  Johnny  ought  to  have  a  per- 
sonal manager,  and  sent  him  to  Peter  Dean 
and  Bob  Altfeld,  whom  Johnny  accepted 
as  his  management  firm. 

Dean  and  Altfeld  scurried  around  to  find 
Johnny  an  apartment.  After  considerable 
difficulty,  they  found  him  an  apartment 
near  Columbia  University.  Then  they  per- 
suaded Johnny  to  change  schools,  switch- 
ing him  to  the  School  for  Young  Pro- 
fessionals, where  Tuesday  Weld,  Sal  Mineo 
and  Carol  Lynley  were  among  the  other 
students. 

Then  they  attacked  Johnny's  big  prob- 
lem: loneliness.  They  brought  him  into 
their  homes,  introduced  him  to  new  friends, 
took  him  to  golf  links  and  tennis  courts, 
brought  him  to  parties.  A  friendly  mixer 
when  working,  Johnny  becomes  terribly 
shy  when  socializing.  His  quiet  personality 
did  not  help  him  fight  off  the  loneliness 
that  engulfs  a  close-to-home  boy  living 
1,500  miles  from  home. 

Despite  his  big  readjustment,  Johnny 
kept  developing  his  talent.  His  records  be- 
came top  sellers  on  the  ABC-Paramount 
label.  On  the  Godfrey  show,  he  became  a 
steady.  Godfrey  himself  described  Johnny 
this  way:  "I  don't  really  think  good  voices 


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are  as  rare  as  people  say  they  are.  What  is 
rare  is  a  good  voice,  combined  with  a  good 
appearance,  an  engaging  manner,  a  deep 
sense  of  what  words  mean,  and  a  love  of 
singing  so  sincere  that  it  shines  in  the 
eyes  every  time  a  song  is  sung. 

"You  don't  find  that  combination  very 
often.  But  I  felt  Johnny  Nash  had  the 
right  mixture  of  all  these  things  the  first 
time  I  watched  him  work.  Since  then,  I've 
worked  with  him  on  show  after  show,  and 
every  time  I  hear  him  sing,  I  know  I  am 
right.  I  can  honestly  say  I  think  he's  about 
the  best  young  singer  on  the  scene  today." 

The  miracle  that  smoothed  Johnny's 
path  with  astonishing  good  fortune  was 
repeated  when  Burt  Lancaster  saw  Johnny 
singing  on  the  Godfrey  show.  Lancaster 
had  been  searching  for  a  seventeen-year- 
old  Negro  boy  to  play  the  lead  role  of  the 
film  version  of  a  Broadway  drama,  Take 
a  Giant  Step,  and  he  had  auditioned  750 
boys  over  a  period  of  three  years. 

When  he  saw  Johnny,  he  liked  him  at 
once  and  offered  to  send  him  to  Hollywood 
for  a  test. 

When  Johnny  was  told  this,  he  scoffed, 
"Ha  .  .  .  !  You're  kidding  .  .  .  !  What  would 
Hollywood  want  with  me  .  .  .  ?  I  have  no 
experience  in  acting  .  .  .  I'm  only  a  singer." 

But  he  yielded  to  his  managers'  insist- 
ence and  studied  the  script,  learned  it 
quickly,  and  reported  to  Lancaster  in 
Hollywood. 

After  working  with  Johnny  for  a  while, 
Lancaster  told  Johnny's  managers,  "This 
boy  is  so  good!  How  much  acting  experi- 
ence has  he  had?"  He  was  assured,  "He 
was  once  in  a  high  school  operetta  .  .  . 
that's  all." 

After  the  test,  Lancaster  said,  "I  don't 
have  to  see  the  test.  I  have  seen  what  I 
want.  But  I  still  think  you're  lying  .  .  . 
This  boy  has  had  experience!" 

Johnny  got  the  contract  and  made  the 
movie.  On  the  basis  of  sneak  previews  of 
Take  A  Giant  Step,  MGM  signed  Johnny 
for  the  only  Negro  role  in  its  big  film, 
Key  Witness. 

The  first  Negro  teen  idol 

Johnny  earned  almost  $50,000  in  1959, 
and  is  already  the  first  Negro  teen  idol, 


drawing  a  tremendous  fan  mail.  He  is 
clearly  destined  to  be  the  'next  Belafonte.' 

He  takes  his  success  with  calm.  "Around 
our  house,"  he  explains,  "we  never  boasted. 
We're  not  the  type  who  exult  when  we're 
lucky.  Ours  is  a  quiet  kind  of  joy.  We're 
not  too  demonstrative,  although  when  I'm 
home  Mother  still  wakes  me  up  with  a  kiss 
and  the  words,  'Time  to  get  up.' 

"We  don't  express  our  joy  outside;  we 
feel  it  inside.  We  know  our  strength  comes 
from  within,  and  we  are  ready  for  what- 
ever comes.  When  things  are  bad,  nobody 
complains.  We  know  that  This  too  shall 
pass." 

As  soon  as  Johnny  felt  more  secure 
about  his  earnings,  he  asked  his  mother 
to  quit  her  housekeeping  job  and  stay 
home.  "She  hadn't  been  feeling  well,  and 
I  felt  good  being  able  to  tell  her  to  take  it 
easy." 

When  he  visited  the  family  last  Easter, 
he  asked  his  mother,  "What  do  you  want 
for  Christmas?" 

She  said,  "Nothing." 

"How  about  a  new  house?"  he  asked, 
his  velvet-brown  eyes  sparkling. 

She  gasped,  "You're  kidding?"  and  he 
said,  "I  am  not!"  When  his  dad  heard 
about  it,  he  said,  "Son,  save  your  money." 

But  Johnny  is  looking  for  a  plot  of  land 
in  Houston,  and  wants  to  build  his  par- 
ents a  new  house.  But  if  his  movie  career 
builds  up,  he  may  buy  them  a  house  in 
Hollywood,  instead. 

Last  summer,  he  had  another  thrill  at 
home.  He  flew  in  one  Saturday  morning, 
took  his  sister  to  an  auto  agency,  and 
bought  a  new  black-and-white  Buick  se- 
dan. Then  he  drove  it  home  and  said, 
quietly,  "Mom,  I've  got  you  a  new  car!" 

His  mother  wept  happily,  and  his  dad 
protested,  "No  .  .  .  !  Our  old  car  is  good 
enough."  But,  in  time,  they  accepted  the 
new  car,  and  now  his  dad  shines  the  car 
personally  and  explains  to  neighbors,  "This 
is  the  car  Johnny  bought  for  us  with  his 
own  earned  money." 

Mom  Nash  says,  the  mother  love  shin- 
ing in  her  eyes,  "Johnny  is  what  God  in- 
tended every  son  to  be." 

His  success  has  not  changed  his  values. 
When  he  was  earning  $3,000  a  week  for 


two  weeks  at  the  Apollo  Theatre,  he 
walked  to  his  apartment  between  shows  to 
rest  and  eat.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  to 
hang  around  backstage  or  to  go  to  fancy 
restaurants  with  an  entourage. 

"I  don't  want  to  live  a  fancy  life,"  he 
explains.  "I  like  to  live  simply." 
A  new  world 

His  managers  keep  his  accounts,  pay  his 
bills,  give  him  an  allowance,  prepare  a 
detailed  monthly  financial  statement  and 
send  a  copy  to  his  parents.  But  he's  so 
frugal,  he  rarely  spends  his  allowance. 

He  keeps  busy  around  the  apartment, 
constructing  lamps,  fixing  lights,  setting 
up  a  hi-fi  system,  reading  books  on  science 
and  math. 

His  experiences  away  from  home  have 
shaken  him  up,  of  course.  Arthur  Godfrey, 
virtually  a  national  institution,  has  em- 
braced him  in  full  view  of  millions  of 
TV  viewers,  and  invited  him  to  his  Vir- 
ginia estate. 

He  has  found  white  as  well  as  colored 
girls  sweet,  understanding  and  inspiring. 
They  have  triggered  off  self-improvement 
sprees.  One  white  girl,  employed  by  a 
publishing  house,  impressed  him  with  her 
erudition  so  much  that  he  told  his  man- 
agers the  next  day,  "I  realize  now  that  a 
high  school  education  is  not  enough  ...  I 
must  somehow  get  a  higher  education!" 

Because  he  cannot  take  time  out  for 
college,  he  has  begun  to  read  better  books, 
carrying  them  with  him  constantly  into 
rehearsals  and  trips  out  of  town. 

He  hungers  for  social  contacts  that  will 
bring  him  new  insights  into  life.  He'd  like 
to  see  white  and  colored  people  know  each 
other  better.  He  worships  Harry  Belafonte 
because  Belafonte  is  a  solid  citizen  as  well 
as  a  top  entertainer.  He  is  a  friend  of 
Johnny  Ma  this  and  Earl  Grant. 

His  loneliness,  despite  his  growing  cir- 
cle of  friends,  is  real.  It  is  not  easy  for  a 
teen-ager  to  be  away  from  home,  accepted 
but  not  yet  completely  part  of  a  new  and 
exciting  world. 

"But  I  am  never  really  alone,"  he  ex- 
plains, "I  have  my  faith,  and  it  is  my  con- 
stant companion."  END 

Johnny  stars  in  MGM's  Key  Witness. 


From  Ugly  Duckling  to  Cinderella 


(Continued  from  page  58) 

Franconero  from  Newark,  New  Jersey, 
being  the  Cinderella  in  the  huge,  popular 
Macy's  Thanksgiving  Day  parade — ?  Well, 
it  was  too  much.  Macy's  told  me  Shirley 
Temple  and  lots  of  other  stars  would  be 
in  it,  and  they  wanted  me  to  have  a  float 
of  my  own.  The  reason  I  hesitated  wasn't 
that  I  didn't  want  to  be  a  part  of  it.  It 
was  because  I  was  bowled  over.  I  gulped 
and  swallowed  and  finally  muttered  a 
"Yes,  I  would  love  to,"  and  when  I  hung 
up  the  telephone  I  was  so  excited  I  could 
hardly  speak.  My  mom  wanted  to  know 
who'd  called,  and,  in  a  timid  voice,  I  said, 
"Macy's."  I  was  afraid  to  tell  her  the 
whole  story  for  fear  they  had  made  a  mis- 
take. Maybe  they  wanted  a  Connie  Some- 
body Else  instead  of  me.  But  she  finagled 
the  news  out  of  me,  and  she  said  we  ought 
to  celebrate  with  coffee  and  cake. 

"No  cake  for  me,  Mama,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  come  on,  honey,"  she  answered. 
"Just  this  once." 

"Uh-uh,"  I  said  firmly. 

And  I  sat  down  at  our  big-yellow-and- 
chrome  kitchen  table  in  our  nice  new 
house  in  Bellefield,  New  Jersey,  and  began 
to  think.  My  mother  started  the  coffee  pot 
percolating  while  I  gazed  out  the  window 
78  at  the  October  sun  dipping  behind  the 


dry  brown  hills.  All  I  could  think  of,  all 
I  could  recall  were  my  days  in  Junior 
High  School,  when  I  was  fat  as  an  over- 
stuffed chicken,  unhappy  and  made-fun- 
of.  Because,  now,  Macy's  wanted  me  to  be 
their  Cinderella. 

The  truth  is  I  wasn't  only  fat.  I  had  no 
confidence  at  all  in  whatever  I  did.  I  was 
terrible  in  sports,  in  gym  class.  Whenever 
the  captains  of  different  teams  in  gym 
class  would  line  up  the  girls  for  their 
teams,  they  tried  to  pretend  I  wasn't  there 
and  would  always  leave  me  until  last;  and 
then  finally  the  gym  teacher  would  tell 
me  to  go  over  to  such-and-such  a  side.  I 
was  too  short  for  basketball,  not  strong 
enough  to  throw  a  volley  ball.  And  I  al- 
ways kept  goofing  in  the  middle  of  a  game. 

And,  besides,  I  was  very  heavy.  I  was 
twelve  going  on  thirteen,  and  I  weighed 
one  hundred  and  thirty-eight  pounds.  And 
I  was  a  shrimp,  too.  People  used  to  say, 
"Connie,  you're  no  bigger  than  a  minute!" 
and  they  made  me  very  self-conscious  of 
my  height. 

The  only  thing  people  would  mention  to 
me  when  they  were  hard-pressed  for 
something  nice  to  say  was,  "Connie,  you 
have  such  nice  long  hair."  And,  one  day, 
a  boy  I  had  a  crush  on  announced  he  liked 


short  hair  during  a  class  break  at  school 
so  I  went  and  got  a  "butch  bob" — and 
when  I  got  home  and  looked  at  myself  in 
my  dresser  mirror  I  screamed.  I  looked 
like  a  scalped  porcupine,  and  I  began 
bawling  because  I  knew,  then  and  there. 
I  looked  awful. 

I  was  ugly,  I  told  myself.  Ugly.  And  I 
cried  every  night  for  two  weeks.  I  tried 
to  make  excuses  to  my  mom  about  not 
going  to  school,  but  she  wouldn't  have 
any  of  it.  I  just  didn't  want  to  face  any 
of  the  kids. 

But  the  heartbreaking  climax  of  my 
short  haircut  story  is  that  the  boy  who 
said  he  liked  short  hair  came  up  to  me  in 
school  and  said,  "What's  the  matter  with 
you?  You  look  so  funny."  And  he  scowled, 
and  I  went  home  bawling  like  a  baby 
again. 

All  the  while  I  had  to  make  the  rounds 
for  auditions  for  TV  and  stage  shows,  and 
wherever  my  father  and  I  would  go,  I'd 
see  girls  my  age  looking  like  dreams  in 
picture-pretty  dresses,  with  doll-baby 
figures.  They  looked  like  somebodies,  and 
I  felt  like  such  a  nobody.  They'd  wear 
cute  shoes  with  small  heels.  I  knocked 
around  in  scuffed-up  flats.  They'd  use 
all  sorts  of  make-up  tricks:  lipstick 
brushes  and  mascara  and  pancake  powder. 
And  I  wouldn't  bother. 

One  day  I  was  to  play  my  accordion  and 
sing  Golden  Earrings  on  George  Scheck's 
Startime  program  on  TV,  and  a  boy  I 
liked  whose  name  was  Tommy  was  also 


on  the  program.  I  was  dressed  in  a 
flouncy  gypsy  costume  that  probably  made 
me  look  twice  as  heavy;  and  after  I  fin- 
ished my  song,  I  went  up  to  Tommy  and 
said,  "Hey  Tommy,  how  did  I  do?"  And 
he  looked  at  me  and  nodded  his  head 
hopelessly  and  muttered,  "Connie,  you'd 
have  looked  better  if  you  wore  your  ac- 
cordion." 

I  didn't  know  what  he  meant  at  first. 
Then  it  struck  me.  He  didn't  like  the 
way  I  was  dressed.  So  I  went  home  and 
told  my  mom  what  he  said. 

"Why  don't  you  make  a  pretty  dress 
for  yourself.  Connie?"  my  mom  said,  try- 
ing to  pick  up  my  spirits. 

"I'm  no  good  at  sewing,"  I  told  her. 

"But  you'll  never  learn  if  you  don't 
try,"  she  emphasized. 

The  following  Saturday  I  went  to  a 
yard-goods  store  and  bought  some  brown 
plaid  material.  I  decided  I'd  make  a  skirt. 

I  spent  seven  dollars  on  the  fabric,  and 
when  I  finished  it,  I  tried  it  on  and  I 
looked  like  a  blimp.  I  had  made  it  too 
small.  It  had  taken  me  weeks  to  finish  it, 
and  I  was  so  disappointed  I  started  to  cry. 

But,  you  can  cry  just  so  much  without 
getting  fed  up  with  yourself.  Then  and 
there  I  told  myself  I  had  to  face  the  fact 
I  was  a  mess.  I  was  fat.  Why?  I  was 
always  eating  salami  sandwiches  and  sugar 
cookies  and  pizza  pies.  I  never  paid  any 
attention  to  what  I  ate.  And  I  never 
looked  after  my  appearance  the  way  a  girl 
should. 

When  I  went  to  bed  that  night.  I  vowed 
that  tomorrow  would  be  the  dawn  of  a 
new  Connie.  I  don't  know  what  made  me 
so  determined  to  change.  Maybe  it  was 
my  anguish  over  the  brown  plaid  skirt  I'd 
spent  weeks  sewing.  Or  maybe  it  was 
just  the  plain  hard  fact  I  was  going  out 
of  my  way  to  look  unattractive  and  the 
fellows  didn't  like  me. 

I  couldn't  sleep  that  night.  I  kept  toss- 
ing and  turning,  wondering  how  I  could 
make  such  a  big  change. 

That  next  morning  I  went  to  my  health 
teacher  at  school  and  told  her  I  wanted 
to  lose  weight,  and  she  sat  me  down  and 
explained  what  I  should  eat.  Meats,  vege- 
tables, fruits  and  milk.  Hero  sandwiches? 
They  were  out.  My  mom's  chocolate 
cakes?  Out!  Pizza  pies  and  soda-pop  and 
candy?  Taboo. 

I  decided  I  wouldn't  tell  anyone  I  was 
going  to  change  my  eating  habits  because 
I  was  afraid  they'd  persuade  me  not  to. 
When  I  went  home,  I  just  sat  silently  at 
the  supper  table  and  ate  only  what  the 
teacher  told  me  I  should.  Both  my  mom 
and  dad  looked  at  me  as  if  I  was  sick. 
Well,  I  was.    Sick  of  the  way  I  looked. 

"Eat,  eat,"  my  mom  said.  "Look  at  all 
those  delicious  mashed  potatoes  on  your 
plate." 

I  tried  to  look  up  and  smile.  "But  .  .  . 
but  I'm  not  hungry,"  I  managed  to  say, 
and  I  got  up  from  the  table.  I  was  afraid 
if  I  stayed  they'd  coax  me  into  eating. 

But  the  most  upsetting  thing  of  all  was 
that  a  month  passed  and  nothing  hap- 
pened. I  didn't  look  any  different.  And  I 
had  a  frightening  suspicion  that  I  would 
never  lose  any  weight,  that  my  trouble  was 
glandular. 

Then,  during  that  fifth  week,  I  weighed 
myself  on  our  bathroom  scale  and  I  had 
lost  five  pounds! 

The  following  week  I  lost  another  five. 

In  another  month  I  had  lost  twenty- 
eight  pounds!  I  couldn't  believe  it.  I  was 
down  to  one  hundred  pounds.  I'd  look  at 
myself  in  the  mirror  and  shake  my  head. 
That  wasn't  me;  if  it  was,  it  was  a  ghost. 
But  I  liked  it! 

None  of  my  clothes  fit  me,  of  course, 
and  even  my  shoe  size  changed  from  a 
seven  to  a  five  and  a  half. 

Boys  began  paying  attention  to  me,  and 
all  of  a  sudden  I  noticed  the  other  girls 


at  school  were  jealous.  I  had  more  re- 
spect for  myself  now,  and  I  started  to 
think  about  clothes  and  make-up  and 
looking  pretty.  Oh,  I  goofed  plenty  of 
times — like  the  day  I  put  on  so  much 
rouge  and  somebody  wisecracked  that  I 
looked  like  a  floozy.  I  was  shattered,  to 
say  the  least.  But  I  learned,  and  I  learned 
because  I  wasn't  afraid  to  ask  questions 
of  my  teachers  and  friends. 

Now,  perhaps,  you  can  understand  how 
deeply  thrilled  I  was  when  Macy's  called 
me  and  asked  me  to  pose  as  their  Cinde- 
rella in  their  fabulous  Thanksgiving  Day 
parade.  I  never  dreamed  such  an  honor 
would  be  bestowed  upon  me,  the  fat  girl 
from  Newark,  New  Jersey. 

Though  I'm  still  not,  and  never  will  be, 
a  fashion  model  type,  you'll  pardon  me 
I'm  sure  for  being  pretty  pleased  with  the 
changes  that  occurred  to  me — changes 
which  enabled  me  to  like  myself  well 
enough  to  try  to  be  somebody.  Pardon 
me  also  if  I  make  like  an  expert  for  a 
moment  now  and  give  others,  who  may 
be  in  a  spot  like  I  was,  a  little  advice, 
learned  in  the  school  of  experience. 

IF  YOU'RE  SHORT,  as  I  am,  remember 
you've  got  to  watch  your  weight  con- 
stantly. One  extra  pound  can  look  like 
ten. 

Don't  wear  horizontal  stripes,  even 
though  you  can't  resist  the  color  or  the 
fabric  of  the  dress  or  skirt.  Every  hori-  I 
zontal  stripe  you  wear  adds  poundage  to 
your  appearance,  and  there  are  dozens  of 
other  designs  styled  especially  for  you. 

The  all-one-color  look  on  a  short  girl 
is  great  because  it  lengthens  the  body. 
That's  why  I  buy  matching  blouses,  skirts. 

Make  the  most  of  your  petite  feminin- 
ity. The  Peter  Pan  collar,  shortie  cotton  i 
gloves,  slim  gold  bracelets — all  these  are 
delicate  and  might  be  lost  on  a  larger  girl. 
But  they  look  very  natural  and  lovely 
on  a  short  girl. 

IF  YOU'RE  TALL,  don't  slump  or  stoop 
because  you're  just  calling  attention  to 
your  figure,  and  you  look  like  you're  ready  i 
for  the  grave. 

Designers  say  tall  girls  shouldn't  be 
afraid  of  dramatic  colors,  which  heavy  and 
skinny  girls  have  to  bypass. 

Don't  be  afraid  to  wear  a  medium  heel; 
it  doesn't  add  that  much  extra  height. 
Wearing  flats  all  the  time  gives  you  a 
tomboy  look. 

The  three-quarter  coat  is  ideal  for  the 
tall  girl;  it  breaks  up  the  line  of  her  figure. 
Horizontal  stripes,  sharp  color  contrasts, 
big  belts  are  swell,  too. 

IF  YOU'RE  THIN,  beware  of  sleeveless 
blouses,  particularly  if  your  arms  are 
bony.  And  don't  wear  airy  fabrics  unless 
they're  draped  or  bunched  up.  You  should 
wear  linens  and  velvets  and  heavy  tweeds 
rather  than  cottons,  taffetas,  fine  wools. 

Take  advantage  of  the  drama  in  big  full 
skirts,  puffy  sleeves,  plaid  jumpers,  bows 
and  pleats  and  frills — so  many  things  most 
girls  can't  wear. 

IF    YOU'RE    HEAVY,    you    have  the 
easiest  problem  of  all  because  you  can  do  j 
something  about  it — lose  weight. 

Wear  medium-length  skirts,  and  be  sure  | 
they  fall  evenly  and  aren't  pulled  tight 
across  your  hips.  Have  you  ever  noticed 
how  a  heavy-set  girl  who  pays  attention 
to  details  (such  as  fit  and  a  lovely  neck- 
line, polished  shoes,  freshly  ironed  clothes) 
always  looks  beautifully  put  together  next 
to  someone  with  a  doll-like  figure  who 
de-emphasizes  her  loveliness  by  dressing 
like  a  beatnik? 

But  most  important,  if  you're  too  fat  or 
thin,  if  you  have  a  problem  you  can  do 
something  about,  wake  up  tomorrow 
morning  and  really  decide  to  change!  If 
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Petting  and  Parking 

(Continued  from  page  49) 

ANNETTE  FUNICELLO: 

A  I  suppose  you  mean  Paul,  Fabe  and 
Frankie. 

9  You  supposed  correctly. 

A  Well,  may  I  honestly  set  the  record 
straight  on  this  confused  story  for  the 
last  time? 

<J>  Go  right  ahead. 

A  I'm  terribly  fond  of  each  one  of  these 
three  guys  and  we  have  a  lot  of  fun  to- 
gether. But  there's  nothing  like  a  romance 
involved.  We  just  enjoy  each  other's  com- 
pany. 

9  Why  not  take  each  boy,  one  at  a  time, 
and   reveal    your    specific   feeling  about 

A  Fine.  First  there's  Paul.  There's  little 
to  say  about  Paul  except  that  he's  my  big 
brother  and  very  closest  friend.  What  was 
once  is  no  longer  and  I'm  sure  we've  be- 
come better  and  more  understanding 
friends  as  a  result. 

9  Fabian? 

A  What  can  I  say  about  that  crazy 
hound-dog  man?  He's  the  ginchiest  and 
we've  had  a  lot  of  laughs  together.  In- 
cluding the  time  he  shoved  a  watermelon 
in  my  face.  But  as  far  as  a  romance  goes, 
I  haven't  got  a  chance.  I'm  just  one  of  a 
million  girls  in  his  life. 

9  And,  last  but  not  least,  Frankie. 

A  To  tell  you  the  truth,  we've  never  had 
a  real  date  together.  But  there's  some- 
thing very  special  about  him  that  I  haven't 
figured  out  yet.  I've  seen  him  less  than 
Paul  or  Fabe  but  I  think  of  him  more.  I 
don't  know  what  it  is.  One  of  the  nicest 
things  that  ever  happened  to  me  was  when 
Frankie  called  me  on  my  birthday  from 
Texas.  It  meant  so  much  to  me.  I  hope 
that  I  can  see  more  of  him.  He's  great. 

9  Now  let's  go  from  the  specific  to  the 
general.  Let's  talk  about  the  problems 
teen-agers  always  worry  about.  Like  first- 
date  kissing.  Do  you  believe  in  it? 

A  I  dig  it.  But  it  actually  depends  on 
the  guy  you  are  with.  If  he's  just  a  friend, 
platonic  and  all  that,  then  don't  kiss  him. 
But  if  you  like  him,  then  you  should.  I 
think  it's  a  natural  reaction  to  having  had 
a  good  time.  Most  of  the  guys  out  here 
expect  it. 

Q  You  don't  date  many  'friends?' 

A  Nope! 

9  How  about  first-date  hand-holding? 
A  Oh,  sure! 

<?  Have  you  learned  any  lessons  about 
sex? 

A  Only  one.  To  take  it  slow. 
9  What's   the   biggest   mistake  you've 
made? 

A  I  haven't  made  a  big  one.  Just  a  lot 
of  small  ones  during  the  course  of  a  date. 
But  then  there  really  is  no  formula  to 
dating.  Every  boy  is  a  new,  and  usually 
exciting,  experience. 

9  And  experience  is  the  best  teacher? 

A  For  me  it  is. 

9  Do  you  park  with  a  guy? 

A  Sure.  But  not  until  the  third  or  fourth 
date  and  I'm  certain  that  I'm  fond  of  him. 

Q  Do  you  have  a  favorite  parking  spot? 
Like  Los  Angeles'  famed  Mulholland 
Drive? 

A  Yes,  and  don't  laugh.  I  like  to  park 
right  in  front  of  my  own  house. 
9  Why? 

A  So  I  don't  have  to  rush  at  the  last 
minute  if  I'm  late! 

9  How  do  you  handle  wolves? 

A  I  just  don't  lead  them  on.  If  you 
don't  lead  them  on,  then  I've  found  that 
you'll  have  no  trouble.  If  they  do  make 
a  pass,  and  many  of  them  do,  then  just 


kid  them  along  and  show  them  that  while 
they  may  mean  business,  you're  only  kid- 
ding them  along.  Just  put  them  into  their 
place. 

9  Do  you  believe  in  drinking  on  a  date? 

A  No.  Definitely  no!  It's  bad.  Usually 
you're  just  a  little  girl  trying  to  be  big. 
But  drinking  does  not  prove  a  thing.  Don't 
drink  until  you're  over  twenty-one  and 
even  then  it  isn't  necessary. 

9  Are  your  parents  too  strict? 

A  No,  they're  not  very  strict.  They  trust 
my  judgment.  All  they  ask  is  that  I  in- 
troduce them  to  the  fellow  I  date,  and  I 
don't  think  this  is  unfair. 

9  What  do  you  think  of  going  steady? 

A  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  it.  I'm  away  so  much  that  it 
wouldn't  be  fair  to  the  boy. 

9  And  for  others? 

A  I  think  it's  up  to  the  individuals, 
though  I'm  not  really  in  favor  of  it.  I 
think  that  after  a  while  it  becomes  un- 
fair to  both  the  guy  and  the  gal. 

9  Do  you  think  that  you  can  define  the 
most  precious  word  in  the  dictionary — 
love? 

A  I'll  try.  I  think  that  you're  really  in 
love  when  you  have  a  special  under- 
standing with  him.  When  you  like  no  one 
else  and  have  no  jealousy  and  trust  only 
him.  But,  then,  I  guess  love  is  also  a  sort 
of  a  jealousy.  Crazy.  It's  when  you  want 
to  be  together  and  do  everything  together. 

9  Have  you  a  current  romance? 

A  Yep,  but  I'm  not  talking.  All  I'll  say 
is  that  he's  tall,  dark  and  handsome  and 
lives  near  me. 

9  Describe  your  version  of  the  ideal 

guy- 

A  He's  5  feet  11,  he  has  dark  brown 
hair,  a  good  build  and  a  great  smile.  That's 
my  dream  because  I've  never  met  the 
'ideal'  guy — and  probably  never  will. 

9  Who  are  your  favorite  men? 

A  Frankie,  Paul,  Fabe,  my  brothers 
Mike  and  Joey,  my  current  'Mr.  X'  who 
I'm  not  talking  about,  and  my  daddy. 

9  How  does  the  transition  from  girl  to 
woman  feel? 

A  I  don't  know.  I  haven't  made  the 
change  yet.  I  don't  feel  any  older  than  I 
did  a  year  ago  though  I  suppose  I  do  look 
older.  It's  just  that  I  look  at  things  dif- 
ferently than  I  did  a  year  ago.  I'm  still  a 
girl,  but  no  longer  a  little  girl.  end 

FRANKIE  AVALON: 

(Continued  from  page  49) 

experience.  I  finally  had  to  get  the  man- 
ager of  the  hotel,  and  it  took  hours  to 
find  him,  to  convince  the  girls  they  should 
leave.  Everyone  in  the  hotel  knew  what 
was  going  on  before  they  finally  left. 

9  Are  your  parents  worried  about  your 
trips  away  from  home? 

A  Yes.  They  can't  wait  until  I  get  back. 
I've  been  away  about  ten  months  this 
year. 

9  What  sort  of  advice  has  your  father 
given  you  about  girls  you  meet? 

A  He  has  always  told  me  to  be  careful 
and  watch  myself.  He  reminds  me  there's 
a  lot  to  tempt  a  fellow,  and  that  a  guy  has 
to  learn  self-control. 

9  Was  there  a  time  when  you  had  to 
remind  yourself  of  his  advice? 

A  Oh,  sure! 

9  What  did  your  mother  suggest  you 
do  to  stay  out  of  trouble? 

A  She  always  leaves  the  advice  up  to 
my  dad.  She  was  just  nineteen  when  she 
married  him,  you  know.  .  .  . 

9  What  was  your  most  embarrassing 
moment  with  a  girl? 

A  Once,  on  a  date,  I  tried  to  get  a  girl 
out  of  the  car,  and  dashed  around  the  front 
of  the  car,  tripped  and  fell  flat  on  my 
face!  I  was  all  shook  up  and  had  quite  a 
time  pretending  to  keep  my  poise. 


9  If  a  girl  gets  aggressive,  how  do  you 
react? 

A  I  never  let  the  girl  get  me  alone. 
They  seem  to  hold  back  if  there  are  other 
people  around. 

9  Did  you  ever  feel  like  going  beyond 
the  accepted  relationship  with  a  girl? 

A  I'm  just  normal! 

9  If  you  never  got  into  trouble,  to  what 
do  you  credit  it?  Your  parents'  influence? 
Your  religious  background?  Your  man- 
agers' warnings? 

A  It's  a  combination.  My  homelife  and 
my  church  and  my  religious  background 
naturally  have  a  lot  to  do  with  it,  plus 
the  important  factors  of  my  early  sur- 
roundings. 

9  Have  your  managers  ever  forbidden 
you  to  date  a  certain  girl? 

A  No.  I'd  heard  that  they  supposedly 
refused  to  let  me  date  Tuesday  Weld,  but 
that  isn't  so. 

9  Do  you  check  with  them  before  you 
take  out  a  girl? 

A  No — never! 

9  Do  they  tell  you  how  much  money 
you  can  spend? 

A  Yes.  I  get  an  allowance  of  twenty 
dollars  a  week.  But  that  doesn't  mean 
I'm  restricted  to  that.  I  get  more  if  I 
need  it. 

9  Did  you  ever  have  a  crush  on  one  of 
your  women  teachers? 

A  Yes.  I  couldn't  wait  until  I  was  in  her 
class.  She  must  have  been  twenty-two. 
She  wasn't  too  big,  sorta  blonde  and  cute. 
I  couldn't  seem  to  get  any  work  done.  I'd 
just  sit  there,  looking  at  her.  She  used  to 
say,  "Frankie,  would  you  please  run  to  the 
office  with  this  message?"  or  ask  me  to 
pull  the  shades  down,  or  some  other 
errand,  and  I  thought  she  really  liked  me. 
Until  the  end  of  the  semester,  that  is. 
Then  she  flunked  me. 

9  Were  you  ever  in  trouble  with  the  law? 

A  Once,  in  Milwaukee.  I  left  my  hotel 
room  with  a  police  escort,  because  of  all 
the  fans  hanging  around,  about  ten  in  the 
morning,  and  didn't  get  back  until  11:30 
at  night.  When  I  did,  I  found  three  girls 
outside  my  room.  Every  night  after  that, 
when  I  returned,  I  found  more  and  more 
girls  until  I  think  some  kind  of  a  record 
was  set.  It  got  so  when  I'd  try  to  get  into 
the  elevator  to  get  to  my  floor,  there 
would  be  girls  waiting  in  it  to  ask  for  my 
autograph.  One  night  I  got  into  the  ele- 
vator and  there  were  three  girls  with 
pencils  and  notebooks.  They  asked  if  they 
could  come  in  and  visit,  so  I  told  them 
sure.  After  all,  it  takes  time  to  unwind 
after  a  day's  work,  so  I  didn't  mind  some 
company.  Anyway,  they  came  in,  and  we 
sat  around  and  talked  about  movies  and 
movie  stars  for  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  All  at  once  there  was  a  knock  on 
the  door,  and  some  detectives  burst  in. 
The  girls  had  told  me  they  were  seven- 
teen, but  when  the  detective  warned  them 
he'd  talked  with  their  mothers,  they  ad- 
mitted they  were  only  fifteen!  I  didn't 
even  know  that  a  curfew  existed  in  town, 
but  as  soon  as  he  got  them  to  admit  their 
ages,  he  told  me  that  they  were  all  out 
way  past  the  curfew — and  I  was  at  fault! 
I  had  to  report  to  the  court  to  explain 
what  had  happened.  I  said  I  didn't  know 
the  girls  were  under-age.  So  they  let  me 
go. 

9  How  do  you  feel  about  premarital 
relations  between  a  boy  and  a  girl? 

A  I  think  it  is  very  nice  for  a  boy  and 
girl  to  go  steady.  But  it  is  better  not  to 
see  a  girl  that  much.  There  are  too  many 
temptations.  I  pet  .  .  .  we're  all  human.  It's 
better  to  go  to  the  movies,  listen  to  rec- 
ords and  dance,  and  have  fun,  without 
letting  it  get  too  complicated. 

9  Do  you  think  there's  too  much  em- 
phasis on  sex  in  literature,  school,  and 
church? 


A  I  had  health  hygiene  in  school.  It 
started  in  the  ninth  grade.  In  some  schools 
they  start  in  the  eighth.  I  went  to  a 
Catholic  school,  and  the  sisters  instructed 
us.  They  sent  the  girls  out  of  the  class 
room  and  then  we  had  free  discussion. 
Most  of  us  were  embarrassed,  but  frankly, 
they  didn't  tell  anything  we  didn't  already 
know.  In  fact,  most  teen-agers  know  the 
answer  before  they  get  into  a  hygiene 
class. 

9  How  did  you  first  learn  about  sex? 

A  I  lived  in  a  big  city,  full  of  a  lot  of 
people.  By  the  time  I'd  gone  through 
school  I  hadn't  missed  much,  and  then  the 
crowds  I  hung  around  with  helped  fill  in. 
My  father  talked  things  over  with  me, 
too. 

Q  When  do  you  feel  is  the  best  time  for 
a  boy  and  a  girl  to  get  married? 

A  I  feel  that  a  fellow  should  be  about 
twenty-five,  but  that  doesn't  mean  he  can 
be  stopped — or  should  be  stopped — if  he 
meets  the  right  gal  tomorrow,  and  elopes 
to  Mexico.  You  can't  really  say  someone 
is  too  old  or  not  old  enough.  It's  more  a 
matter  of  whether  or  not  they  are  ready 
and  willing  to  take  on  the  responsibility 
of  marriage." 

9  Did  you  ever  read  any  books  on  sex? 

A  No. 

9  Did  you  know  that  Annette  Funi- 


cello  has  a  big  crush  on  you,  Fabian,  and 
Paul  Anka? 
A  Yes. 

9  How  do  you  feel  about  her? 

A  I  like  to  be  with  her.  But  I'm  not  in 
love  with  her. 

9  When  did  you  fall  in  love  for  the  first 
time? 

A  I've  never  been  in  love.  I've  had 
crushes  on  millions  of  girls.  I'm  never  in 
one  place  long  enough  to  get  really  at- 
tached. Today  I  may  be  in  Buffalo,  and 
tomorrow  in  Minnesota.  I  meet  too  many 
girls  to  fall  in  love. 

9  When  did  you  first  kiss  a  girl? 

A  At  a  party,  when  I  was  eight. 

9  When  did  you  kiss  a  girl  for  the  first 
time  when  it  meant  something? 

A  When  I  was  thirteen. 

9  Do  you  consider  yourself  worldly,  or 
naive? 

A  Neither.  I've  always  hung  around 
older  fellows,  and  as  a  result  have  always 
known  more  answers  than  I  should  know 
at  my  age. 

9  Are  actresses  on  location  too  friendly? 

A  Sometimes  they  are.  I  try  to  be 
friendly — but  if  it  gets  serious,  I  try  to 
get  out  of  it  by  kidding  them.  end 


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{Continued  from  page  38) 

the  prettier  of  the  two  Novak  daughters. 

She  was  a  quiet  girl. 

She  did  fairly  well  in  school — history 
being  her  best  subject,  arithmetic  her 
worst. 

Her  favorite  foods  were  homemade 
apricot  ices  and  burned-sugar  cake  ("To 
this  day  on  her  birthday,  ask  her  what 
she'd  like  best,"  her  mother  said  recently, 
''and  it's  a  burned-sugar  cake.") 

Her  favorite  color  was  red — she  had  two 
prized  red  skirts. 

Her  favorite  pastime  was  to  pretend  she 
was  sick.  ("Just  so  I  could  go  to  bed," 
she's  said,  "and  lie  back  against  the  big 
pillow  and  design  beautiful  clothes  for  my 
paper  dolls,  and  wait  for  my  mother  to 
bring  me  a  glass  of  warm  milk  and  some 
buttered  toast.  .  .  .") 

Her  ambition  in  life  was  to  become  a 
secretary  and  work  in  a  downtown  office, 
just  like  one  of  her  aunts  did. 

She  loved  animals  and  secretly  con- 
sidered the  family  dog,  a  brown  and  sad- 
eyed  mutt,  to  be  hers. 

She  liked  insects,  too,  and  once  be- 
friended a  fly  her  mother  had  swatted 
from  the  kitchen  wall,  picking  up  the  still- 
live  fly  from  the  floor  after  her  mother  had 
left  the  room  and  taking  it  to  the  desk,  in 
the  room  she  shared  with  Arlene,  placing 
it  on  a  blotter  and  talking  to  it,  consol- 
ingly, until  it  died  half  an  hour  or  so  later. 

She  was  sometimes  mischievous.  ("One 
Easter  around  this  time  we  went  visiting 
some  friends  of  the  family.  There  was 
lots  of  candy  on  the  table  next  to  where 
I  was  sitting,  and  I  had  this  urge  to  steal 
some  of  it.  I  was  wearing  a  dress  with  a 
pocket  and  I  stuffed  the  pocket  full.  Only 
I'd  forgotten  the  pocket  had  a  hole  in  it. 
And  when  I  got  up  to  say  good-bye — bang, 
all  over  the  floor,  about  twenty  pieces  of 
candy!") 

Mischievous  sometimes,  yes. 

But,  mostly,  she  was  a  dreamer. 

She  dreamed  of  growing  up  someday. 
Of  maybe  being  pretty  someday.  Of  hav- 
ing beautiful  clothes,  like  the  kind  she 
drew  for  her  paper  dolls.  Or  what  that 
office  downtown,  where  she  would  some- 


day work  and  begin  to  make  her  mark 
in  life,  would  look  like. 

Of  lots  of  things — none  of  them  extraor- 
dinary, but  all  of  them  important  to 
her  .... 

Meanwhile,  Richard  Quine  •  •  • 

In  1941,  that  same  year,  twenty-year-old 
Detroit-born  Richard  Quine  (his  real 
name)  signed  a  contract  with  MGM 
Studios  in  Hollywood  and  was  touted  as  a 
real  star  of  the  future.  There  was  little 
reason  to  believe  that  this  would  not  be 
the  case.  He  was  good-looking — had  blue 
eyes,  light  brown  hair,  stood  six  feet  three. 
He  was  charming.  He  was  bright.  And  he 
was  a  good  actor.  (He  has  learned  lots 
from  his  dad,  Thomas  Quine,  vaudeville 
veteran,  reads  his  studio  biography  of  the 
time,  has  appeared  on  hundreds  of  radio 
programs  since  age  six  and  recently  spent 
a  year  in  New  York  playing  the  young 
male  lead  in  the  hit  play,  My  Sister  Eileen, 
starring  Shirley  Booth.  .  .  .) 

Early  the  following  year — some  two 
months  after  the  Japanese  attack  on  Pearl 
Harbor  and  America's  entry  into  the  war — 
Dick  began  work  on  his  third  picture. 

It  was  titled  Tish. 

Also  in  the  picture  was  a  young  MGM 
contract  actress  named  Susan  Peters. 

Susan,  an  extremely  talented  girl,  was 
also  a  very  beautiful  girl. 

It  wasn't  long  before  Dick  fell  in  love 
with  her,  and  she  with  him.  ("She  likes 
to  swim  and  rhumba — so  why  shouldn't  I 
love  her?"  Dick  jokingly  told  a  reporter. 
Said  Susan:  "He's  gentle  and  handsome — 
I  can't  think  of  a  better  combination.") 

They  went  together  for  exactly  a  year 
and  they  were  engaged  in  February  of 
1943,  during  a  party,  the  night  before  Dick 
left  Hollywood  for  duty  with  the  Coast 
Guard. 

In  the  summer  of  that  year  Susan  got 
her  biggest  professional  break  to  date,  a 
lead  in  Random  Harvest,  with  people  like 
Ronald  Colman  and  Greer  Garson. 

In  late  October,  immediately  following 
completion  of  the  picture,  she  flew  to  her 
hometown,  Spokane,  Washington,  to  make 
plans  for  the  wedding. 

Dick,  nervous,  excited,  arrived  on  spe- 
cial leave  the  night  of  November  6.  The 
following  morning,  he  and  Susan  were 
married  and  took  off,  in  a  borrowed  car,  for 
Santa  Barbara  and  their  honeymoon. 


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Reported  a  newspaper  columnist  of  their 
trip:  The  start  of  the  Susan  Peters-Richard 
Quine  honeymoon  was  like  something  out 
of  a  movie  farce.  Three  quarters  of  the 
way  to  Santa  Barbara  they  ran  out  of  gas 
and  had  to  walk  two  miles  to  a  service 
station.  Then,  back  in  the  car,  they  were 
stopped  on  the  road  by  crews  fighting  a 
fire.  They  talked  their  way  through  this, 
but  didn't  reach  their  hotel  until  5:00  a.m. 
Some  way  to  begin  a  honeymoon,  I  must 
say. 

Actually,  despite  its  beginnings,  it  was  a 
beautiful  honeymoon. 

It  lasted  for  ten  days. 

And  when  it  was  over  Dick  reported 
back  to  his  ship,  while  Susan  returned  to 
MGM  to  begin  work  on  The  Song  of  Russia, 
in  which  she  co-starred  with  Robert 
Taylor. 

During  the  making  of  the  picture  people 
on  the  set  noted  her  extra-radiance,  her 
undeniable  happiness. 

"Marvelous,"  they'd  say  to  her,  "the 
way  you  can  be  so  happy  with  your  hus- 
band so  far  away." 

To  which   Susan   would   answer,  "I'm 
happy  just  thinking  about  the  future,  about 
a  few  years  from  now  when  the  war  will 
be  over  and  he'll  be  back  with  me  .  . 
for  good." 

No  one — not  she,  nor  any  of  the  others — 
had  any  way  of  knowing  then  that  Dick 
would  be  back  much  sooner  than  ex- 
pected. That  tragedy,  sudden  and  violent, 
would  see  to  that.  .  .  . 

Young  Kim  starts  a  hope  chest 

Marilyn  Novak's  aunt — the  secretary- 
phoned  her  this  Christmas  day  of  1944. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  she  said,  referring 
to  the  chiffon  scarf  she'd  sent  to  her  niece. 
"Of  course  you're  only  eleven-going-on- 
twelve,  and  lavender's  a  pretty  grown-up 
color,  but — "  she  added,  laughing,  " — may- 
be for  now  you  can  tuck  it  away  in  your 
hope  chest  and  save  it  for  the  big  event." 

Her  niece  asked  her  what  a  hope  chest 
was. 

"A  wooden  box,  usually,  sweetheart," 
said  the  aunt,  "where  a  girl  keeps  lots  of 
stuff,  clothes  and  bedding  and  things  like 
that,  for  when  she  gets  married." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Marilyn,  somewhat  dis- 
interestedly. 

"I  know,  sure,"  said  the  aunt,  laughing 
again,  "it  must  seem  like  a  faraway  day 
right  now,  mustn't  it?  But  a  nice  girl  like 
you,  sweetheart,  a  girl  who  gets  prettier- 
looking  every  time  I  see  her,  come  seven 
or  eight  years  from  now  and  you'll  be 
surprised  how  fast  some  fellow,  some  won- 
derful fellow  with  a  good  job  and  a  good 
heart,  is  gonna  come  find  you  and  nab  you 
and  carry  you  off  to  the  church  so  you  can 
say  'I  do'  to  him  .  .  .  You'll  be  reaZ  sur- 
prised at  how  soon  it's  all  gonna  come.  . .  ." 

A  little  while  later,  alone  in  the  room 
she  shared  with  Arlene,  Marilyn  Novak, 
eleven  years  old,  going  on  twelve,  finished 
emptying  the  wooden  toy  box  which  had 
sat  all  these  years  against  the  wall,  be- 
tween the  two  windows.  And,  carefully, 
she  placed  the  lavender  scarf  inside  it. 

Then,  hesitantly,  she  began  to  wonder 
about  what  her  aunt  had  said.  .  .  . 

Tragedy,  sudden  and  violent 

It  was  exactly  a  week  later,  New  Year's 
Day,  1945.  Dick  Quine  was  home  on  holi- 
day leave.  He,  Susan — his  wife  of  slightly 
more  than  a  year  by  now,  his  brother  and 
his  brother's  wife  were  hunting  duck  in 
the  Cuyamaca  Mountains,  down  near  San 
Diego.  Of  the  four,  Susan,  practically  a 
novice  at  all  this,  was  having  the  best  day 
of  all — she'd  bagged  a  half-dozen  birds 
within  the  first  hour  of  shooting;  Dick's 
brother  the  worst — he'd  misplaced  his  gun 
at  one  point,  thought  it  lost,  good- 
naturedly  but  disappointedly  joined  the 
82  others  as  they  continued  with  their  hunt. 


It  was  about  5:00  p.m.,  some  seven  hours 
after  they'd  started,  when  the  four  de- 
cided they'd  had  enough  and  began  to 
head  back  to  their  car. 

As  they  walked,  Susan  teased  her 
brother-in-law  about  losing  his  gun.  "Talk 
about  butter-fingers — "  she  said.  "Big  boy 
like  you  losing  a  gun  like  that — " 

"You're  so  smart,"  somebody  said, 
laughingly,  "why  don't  you  find  it?" 

"Okay,"  said  Susan,  "I  will." 

She  did,  too,  about  ten  minutes  later.  It 
lay  under  a  bush,  at  a  spot  where  they'd 
stopped  earlier  in  the  day  for  a  few  min- 
utes' break  and  a  cigarette — where  she'd 
had  a  hunch  all  along  it  might  be. 

"Hey,"  she  called  out  to  the  others  now, 
spotting  it,  "here  she  is!" 

She  could  hear  the  others  call  something 
back,  then  heard  one  of  them — Dick,  prob- 
ably— as  he  began  to  make  his  way  through 
the  foliage,  towards  her. 

Susan  began  to  whistle. 

She  bent  to  pick  up  the  gun. 

Somehow,  as  she  lifted  it,  she  jarred  the 
trigger. 

The  gun  went  off. 

A  bullet  ripped  through  her  side. 

She  dropped  to  her  knees. 

She  was  still  conscious,  still  holding  the 
gun,  when,  moments  later,  Dick  came  rush- 
ing over  to  her. 

His  first  reaction  was  one  of  relief. 

He  smiled. 

"Susie,"  he  said,  "I  thought  I  heard  the 
damn  thing  go  off.  I  thought — " 

But  then  he  stopped.  And  he  looked 
from  her  face,  down  to  her  side.  And  he 
saw  the  blood  beginning  to  rush  through 
the  brown  leather  of  her  jacket. 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  just  as  she 
began  to  fall  back.  .  .  . 

The  bullet  had  lodged  in  Susan's  spine. 
Three  delicate  operations  in  the  course  of 
the  next  few  months  proved  futile.  "Your 
wife  will  live,"  a  doctor  told  Dick,  "but 
there's  nothing  that  can  be  done  about  the 
paralysis.  She'll  be  paralyzed  from  the 
waist  down,  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  .  .  ." 

"No  weeping  around  here  .  .  ." 

It's  hard  to  know  who,  in  the  three  years 
that  followed,  was  the  more  gallant,  brave, 
of  the  two — Susan,  in  her  wheelchair,  or 
Dick,  since  transferred  to  a  Coast  Guard 
film  unit  in  Hollywood,  practically  con- 
stantly at  her  side. 

Certainly,  at  the  beginning  at  least,  both 
seemed  brave. 

In  August,  her  first  week  home  from  the 
hospital,  Susan  told  an  interviewer:  "We're 
going  to  pick  up  exactly  where  we  left 
off.  There'll  be  no  weeping  around  here, 
no  tears,  no  sir.  In  fact,  we're  making  plans 
about  my  doing  picture  work  again — 
MGM's  been  great  to  me,  I  want  every- 
body to  know  that,  just  great.  And  Dick 
will  be  out  of  the  service  soon  what  with 
the  war  practically  over  now,  and  he'll  be 
coming  back  to  make  pictures,  too.  And 
Dick  and  I  have  talked  about  how  we're 
going  to  adopt  a  little  baby  boy  as  soon  as 
we  can.  And  Dick's  already  planning  a 
new  house  for  us — or  else  we  might  over- 
haul this  place;  but  he's  got  something  in 
mind  with  ramps  and  things  instead  of  all 
these  steps,  so  I  can  get  around  more 
easily  in  this  doggoned  chair  I'm  stuck  to. 

"Dick,"  she  went  on,  "Dick's  been  won- 
derful. He  does  everything  for  me.  He's 
better  than  any  nurse  I  ever  had.  Why. 
when  I  left  the  hospital,  they  were  going 
to  give  him  a  cap.  You  know,  before  I 
was  hurt  the  thought  or  sight  of  blood 
made  him  ill.  Yet  he  was  in  the  room  the 
first  time  the  doctor  opened  my  bed  sore; 
the  doctor  went  to  work  and  Dick  helped 
him  .  .  .  helped  him." 

She  smiled. 

"No,"  she  said,  "there's  going  to  be 
nothing  wrong  with  the  Quines,  not  with 
us.  In  fact,  life  is  going  to  be  better  than 


ever  for  us.  You  just  watch,  and  wait, 
and  see." 

That  was  Susan  talking,  in  1945,  at  the 
beginning. 

"A  Susan,"  as  someone  has  said,  "who 
still  believed,  somewhere  way  in  the  back 
of  her  mind,  that  something  miraculous 
would  happen  soon  and  that  she  would, 
despite  what  any  doctors  said,  be  able  to 
walk  again.  A  Susan  who,  despite  her  out- 
ward laughter,  smiles,  was  miserable  inside 
herself.  A  girl  who  dreaded  two  things — 
being  confined  forever  to  this  wheelchair 
she  joked  about;  and  tying  down  her  hus- 
band, the  man  she  loved,  to  a  life  of  bore- 
dom, of  slavery,  of  unfulfillment,  of  noth- 
ingness. 

"Those  of  us  who  really  knew  Susan, 
know  why  she  suddenly  asked  Dick  for  a 
divorce  that  day  in  1948.  After  three  years, 
she  realized  that  there  would  never  be  any 
improvement  in  her  condition.  That  she 
was  a  broken  woman.  Doomed. 

"That  Dick  was  doomed,  too. 

"She  didn't  want  it  to  be  this  way,  not 
for  both  of  them. 

"She  wanted  Dick  to  be  free. 

"She  never  told  him  why  she  asked  for 
the  divorce.  She  just  made  up  her  mind 
and  one  day,  putting  on  the  greatest  per- 
formance of  her  life,  she  asked  him  to 
leave  the  house. 

"He  begged  her  to  reconsider. 

"She  refused. 

"  'Please  go,'  she  said. 

"And,  finally,  he  did. 

"There  was  no  sadder,  more  lonely,  more 
heartbroken  man  than  Dick  Quine  after 
that— for  a  long,  long  time  after  that.  .  .  ." 

Kim  heads  west 

It  was  July  in  Chicago— July  of  1952— 
and  Marilyn  Novak,  nineteen  now,  knew 
that  she  must  leave.  The  decision  came 
upon  her  suddenly.  She  was  out  with  her 
fiance,  a  young  electrician  named  Bill. 
They'd  been  to  the  movies  and  they  were 
walking  home  when  Marilyn  said: 

"It's  no  good,  everything  that's  been 
happening — not  really." 

"What?"  Bill  asked. 

"Us,"  she  said,  "planning  to  get  married 
like  this,  when  we  hardly  know  each 
other  .  .  .  Even  though  we've  been  going 
together  for  two  years  now — hardly  know- 
ing each  other  .  .  .  hardly  knowing  what 
love  is." 

He  turned  to  look  at  her.  "Huh?"  he 
asked. 

"And  me,"  she  went  on,  "enrolling  in 
that  secretarial  school,  when  the  last  thing 
on  earth  I  really  want  to  be  any  more  is 
to  be  a  secretary." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  going  away,"  she  said,  " — that's 
what  I'm  talking  about." 

He  stared  at  her.  "The  heat  got  you  or 
something?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  what's  got  me,"  she  said. 

Bill  cleared  his  throat.  "You  didn't,"  he 
said,  "you  didn't  let  that  guy,  what  he  said, 
go  to  your  head,  did  you?" 

"Guy?"  she  asked. 

"The  guy  who  told  you  he  wants  you  for 
a  model,  for  that  refrigerator  company." 

Marilyn  Novak  nodded.  And  smiled. 
"  And  travel,'  he  said.  'Leave  Chicago  for 
a  while  and  come  to  California,  the  great 
Far  West,  to  San  Francisco,  Los  Angeles. 
Hollywood — '  he  said." 

"Is  that  what  it  is,"  Bill  asked,  "that  you 
really  want  to  do  that?" 

"Partly."  she  said. 

"And  what's  the  rest  of  the  partly?"  he 
asked. 

"I  don't  know.  Not  for  sure,"  she  said. 
She  stopped  walking.  She  faced  him.  "I'm 
sorry,  Billy,"  she  said.  "I  feel  like  that 
girl  in  the  second  feature  tonight,  that 
bad  girl,  when  she  told  that  fellow  off  and 
left  him  .  .  .  But  I  know  now,  it's  the  way 
it's  got  to  be." 


Bill  shook  his  head. 

"Don't  be  hurt,  please  don't,"  she  said. 
"It's  not  love  we've  got,  anyway.  It's  just 
like  we're  part  of  the  pattern  and  feel  we 
should  conform  to  the  pattern — the  people 
our  ages  who  think  they've  got  to  get  mar- 
ried and  settle  down  before  they  get  too 
old  and  lose  out  altogether,  or  before  other 
people,  their  friends,  their  families,  start 
talking,  saying  'What's  wrong  with  them? 
Don't  they  believe  in  love,  institutions — 
anything?' " 

Bill  shook  his  head  again. 

"This  is  it,  then?"  he  asked.  " — Just  like 
that?  .  .  .  We're  through?  ...  Is  that  what 
you're  trying  to  say  with  all  those  fancy 
words  of  yours?" 

"I  guess  so,  Billy,"  Marilyn  Novak  said. 
"It's  better  to  know  before  than  after,  isn't 
;  it?" 

She  tried  to  take  his  hand. 

He  pulled  it  away. 

"I'm  sorry,  Billy,"  she  said.  .  .  . 

Susan  didn't  want  any  help 

It  was  October  in  Hollywood — October  of 
that  same  year,  1952 — when  Susan's  doctor 
phoned  Dick  Quine  and  asked  him  to  rush 
to  her  house. 

"She's  a  very  sick  girl,"  the  doctor,  an 
old  man,  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  said 
when  Dick  arrived.  "Seven  years  since  the 
accident,  it's  knocked  a  lot  out  of  her  .  .  . 
It's  tired  her  .  .  .  She  could  fight.  But  she 
won't.  She  hasn't  let  any  of  us  help  her 
for  more  than  two  years  now  .  .  .  Her  pic- 
ture flopped.  That  was  a  blow.  The  play 
tours  were  too  much  strain.  Even  the  radio 
work  .  .  .  And  the  pain  never  left  her  .  .  . 
She's  tired  .  .  .  And  she  doesn't  want  any 
help  .  .  .  She  hasn't  much  longer,  Richard." 

"Can  I  see  her?"  Dick  asked. 

"I  don't  think  so,  not  now,"  the  doctor 
said.  "I  just  wanted  you  to  know,  to  be 
here.  I  knew  you'd  want  to." 

They  both  sat. 


The  doctor  strove  to  talk  about  other 
things. 

"It's  been  a  long  time,  Richard,"  he  said. 
" — How  have  you  been  doing?" 
"All  right,  I  guess,"  said  Dick. 
"Re-married,  I  hear,"  said  the  doctor. 
Dick  nodded. 
"Children?" 

"One  .  .  .  another  on  the  way,  we  think." 

"Been  acting  much — working?" 

"Acting,  no,  not  at  all  any  more — I  gave 
that  up,"  said  Dick.  "I'm  a  dialogue  direc- 
tor now,  over  at  Columbia." 

"I  see,"  said  the  old  man. 

Both  he  and  Dick  turned  now  as  a  nurse 
walked  into  the  room. 

"Doctor — "  she  said,  urgently. 

The  old  man  rose. 

He  said  nothing  to  Dick  as  he  walked 
out  of  the  room.  .  .  . 

Dick  was  sitting  with  the  boy,  Timothy, 
the  boy  he  and  Susan  had  adopted  years 
ago — the  boy  he  had  not  seen  these  past 
four  years,  when  the  doctor  returned. 

It  had  been  more  than  an  hour  now 
since  the  old  man  had  left  the  room.  He 
looked  weary,  pale,  older,  much  older. 

"Susan  is  gone,"  he  said,  looking  at 
Dick.  "She  was  tired  .  .  .  She  didn't  want 
any  help,  not  from  any  of  us.  .  .  ." 

Dick  looked  over  at  the  boy. 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Tim,"  he  said,  "would  you  like  to  come 
home  with  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy. 

They  got  up. 

And,  together,  they  left.  .  .  . 

The  nervous  director  and  the  scared  starlet 

Dick  Quine  first  met  Marilyn  Novak  on 
a  March  morning  in  1954.  Marilyn  Novak 
was  Kim  Novak  now.  She  had  been  spotted 
by  a  Columbia  Pictures  talent  scout  while 
modeling  at  a  refrigerator  salesmen's  con- 
vention a  few  months  earlier,  had  been 
introduced  to  Columbia  bossman  Harry 


Cohn,  had  been  given  Cohn's  nod,  and  then 
the  works — a  screen  test,  a  new  first  name, 
a  new  hairdo,  a  short-term  contract,  and 
a  pep-talk  on  how  her  break  would  come 
if  she  studied  hard,  cooperated,  waited. 

Now,  this  day,  her  break  had  come. 

A  young  actress  scheduled  to  play  the 
role  of  Lona  McClane  in  a  B-picture  called 
Pushover,  had  fallen  sick  the  night  before 
production  got  under  way.  There  was  no 
time  to  wait  for  her  to  recover — not  under 
the  speed-and-save  Cohn  system.  And  so, 
that  next  morning,  after  a  night  of  con- 
ferences, Kim  was  called  to  the  studio  and 
told  to  report  to  work.  Immediately. 

Script  scheduling  called  for  her  to  be 
in  the  first  scene. 

Shooting  was  to  begin  at  9:00  a.m. 

At  9: 15,  Dick  Quine,  the  picture's  direc- 
tor, called  out  for  Miss  Novak,  the  only 
missing  player. 

"Not  here,"  somebody  called  back. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"In  her  dressing  room — bawling,"  he  was 
told.  "You'd  better  go  have  a  talk  with 
her.  .  .  ." 

Kim,  who  had  indeed  been  bawling, 
bawled  even  more  when  she  saw  Dick. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "I'm  spoiling  every- 
thing for  everybody.  But  I  can't  go  out 
there." 

"I'm  scared  stiff,  for  one  thing  .  .  .  I'm 
so  scared,"  she  said.  She  pointed  to  the 
script  on  her  dressing  table.  "And  I'll 
never  be  able  to  remember  my  lines." 

"Lines?"  Dick  asked.  "You  only  have 
six  or  seven  to  remember  for  today." 

"But  I  won't  remember  them,"  Kim  said. 
"I  know  it."  She  brought  up  a  Kleenex 
she  was  holding  and  wiped  away  some  of 
her  tears.  "Please,"  she  said  then.  "I've 
been  sitting  here  waiting  for  someone  to 
walk  in  and  tell  me  the  joke's  over  .  .  . 
You  tell  me  that,  Mr.  Quine — you  just  tell 
me  that.  And  I'll  understand.  And  I'll  go 
home  .  .  .  Just  tell  me  that." 


150  FOR  YOU! 


Fill  in  the  form  below  (or  a  reasonable  facsimile  thereof)  as  soon  as  you've  read  all  the  stories  in  this  issue.  Then  mail  !t  to  us  right  away 
Promptness  counts.  Three  $10  winners  will  be  chosen  from  each  of  the  following  areas — on  a  basis  of  the  date  and  time  on  your  postmark: 
Eastern  states;  Southern  states:  Midwestern  states;  Rocky  Mountain  and  Pacific  states;  Canada.  And  even  if  you  don't  earn  $10,  you'll 
be  glad  you  sent  this  ballot  in— because  you're  helping  us  pick  the  stories  you'll  really  love.  MAIL  TO:  MODERN  SCREEN  POLL,  BOX  2291, 
GRAND  CENTRAL  STATION,  N.  Y.  17,  N.  Y. 


Please  circle  the  box  to  the  left  of  the  one  phrase  which  best  answers  each  question: 


1.  I  LIKE  DORIS  DAY: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  QG  all  of  her  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
00  completely  00  fairly  well  00  very  little 
00  not  at  all 

2.  I  LIKE  ELVIS  PRESLEY: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  00  a  lot 
00  fairly  well  00  very  little  00  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  00  all  of  his  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  UJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely  00  fairly  well  00  very  little 

00  not  at  all 

3.  I  LIKE  JUDI  MEREDITH: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 


IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
UJ  completely  00  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 

00  not  at  all 

4.  I  LIKE  KIM  NOVAK: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  UJ  all  of  her  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 

5.  I  LIKE  JOHNNY  NASH: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  their  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HEL0  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 

6.  I  LIKED  DIANA  BARRYM0RE: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 


0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 

7.  I  LIKE  ANNETTE  FUNICELL0: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 

8.  I  LIKE  FRANKIE  AVAL0N: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  his  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 


"Why  should  I  do  that?"  Dick  asked. 

"Please,"  said  Kim. 

Dick  looked  at  her,  for  a  long  time. 

"You  know  something?"  he  said,  finally. 
" — I'm  scared  right  now,  too." 

"Sure,  Mr.  Quine — sure,"  said  Kim. 

"I  mean  it,"  he  said.  "Look  .  .  .  This 
happens  to  be  my  first  picture,  too,  in  case 
you  didn't  know  that.  It's  a  big  thing  for 
me,  too,  this  whole  project.  Oh,  my  teeth 
may  not  be  chattering,  and  my  knees  may 
not  be  shaking  much — and  I  may  not  be 
shedding  any  pretty  tears,  like  yours.  But 
I'm  scared  stiff,  too.  Believe  me." 

Kim  looked  away  from  him. 

He  clicked  his  fingers.  "I  know  what's 
wrong,"  he  said.  "I  read  somewhere — I'd 
forgotten — but  I  read  that  a  decent  direc- 
tor, first  day  of  shooting,  sends  all  the 
ladies  in  his  cast  a  bunch  of  flowers."  He 
shook  his  head.  "I  didn't  send  you  any," 
he  said,  "and  that  hurt  you,  huh?" 

"It's  not  that,"  said  Kim.  "Don't  be 
silly." 

"Champagne  then,  is  that  what  you 
expected?"  Dick  asked.  " — First  thing  in 
the  morning,  two  men  in  red  coats  walking 
into  your  dressing  room,  one  holding  the 
bottle,  the  other  the  glass.  Both  of  them 
saying,  in  chorus,  'Miss  Novak — something 
to  calm  your  nerves,  compliments  of  the 
nervous  director.'  " 

The  beginnings  of  a  smile  came  to  Kim's 
face.  "Don't  be  silly,"  she  said  again,  and 
looked  down. 

"Well,"  Dick  asked,  after  a  moment, 
"will  this  do  then?" 

He  bent,  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

Kim  looked  up,  suddenly. 

"Don't  be  shocked,"  he  said.  "It's  an  old 
show-business  custom.  It  means  good 
luck  .  .  .  It's  like  shaking  hands." 

He  looked  at  Kim  again,  for  a  long  time. 

"How  about  it,"  he  asked,  " — coming  to 
work?" 

Kim,  silent,  stared  at  the  floor. 


9.  I  LIKE  ROCK  HUDSON: 

U]  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  ROCK  AND  WOMEN  0  part 
0  none 

IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
00  completely  QO  fairly  well  GO  very  little 
00  not  at  all 

I  LIKE  LINDA  CRISTAL 

QO  more  than  almost  any  star  00  a  lot 
00  fairly  well  00  very  little  00  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  their  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
00  completely  00  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 


"If  you  really  want,"  Dick  said,  "I'll 
close  down  the  set  now,  for  the  day.  It 
won't  mean  much.  Just  a  few  thousand 
dollars.  Only  money  .  .  .  And  the  front 
office  won't  be  sore  with  me  when  I  go 
and  tell  them  what's  happened.  'Your 
first  picture,  boy — take  it  easy,'  they'll  say. 
'Go  to  the  beach.  Take  it  easy  the  rest 
of  the  week.  We'll  find  somebody  else  for 
you  by  Monday.  We'll—'  " 

Kim  interrupted  him. 

"Mr.  Quine  .  .  .  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes?" 

She  breathed  in  deeply.  Slowly,  the 
words  came  out.  "Can  I  have  a  few 
minutes?"    she  asked. 

"What  for?" 

"I'd  just  like  to  look  at  my  lines  again, 
before  I  come  out,"  she  said. 

"Okay,"  he  said. 

"Mr.  Quine.  .  .  ."  Kim  called. 

Kim  walked  over  to  him. 

"May  I?"  she  asked.  Without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  she  stood  on  her  toes  and 
she  kissed  him,  lightly,  on  the  cheek. 

"For  good  luck,"  she  said.  "For  you. 
For  me.  For  both  of  us." 

Dick  nodded. 

"You've  got  five  minutes,"  he  said,  softly. 
"I'll  be  there,"  said  Kim.  .  .  . 

A  quiet  love 

The  rest  of  our  story,  the  ending — cover- 
ing these  years  between  1954  and  1960 — is 

short  and  simple  and.  eventually,  happy  

It  wasn't  long  after  they'd  met,  after  they'd 
worked  together  for  a  while,  that  Kim 
knew  she  was  in  love  with  Dick  Quine. 
She  knew,  too,  that  he  was  married,  that 
she  had  no  reason  nor  right  to  love  him. 
But,  still,  she  did. 

It  was  a  quiet  love.  At  least,  Dick  never 
knew  about  it. 

Kim.  as  the  years  passed,  as  her  career 
skyrocketed,  as  she  became  one  of  the 
most  famous  and  dazzling  stars  in  the 


10.  I  LIKE  MARLON  BRANDO: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  his  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 


11.  I  LIKE  CONNIE  FRANCIS: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 


world,  tried  to  push  this  love  from  her 
heart.  She  dated  lots — with  Mac  Krim, 
Frank  Sinatra,  Mario  Bandini,  Cary  Grant, 
Aly  Khan,  Rafael  Trujillo,  others. 

She  began,  this  quiet  girl  from  Chicago, 
to  live  flamboyantly. 

She  became,  in  a  sense,  the  total  movie 
star — given  to  hollow  laughter,  hollow 
quotations,  a  hollow  life. 

She  grew  older,  as  single  girls,  glamour 
girls,  go. 

Twenty-five,  they  said  two  years  ago — 
when's  she  going  to  settle  down,  marry? 

Twenty-six.  they  said  last  year. 

What  they  didn't  know  was  that  Kim 
had  made  up  her  mind  that  she  would 
never  marry. 

Not  so  long  as  she  could  not  marry  the 
only  man  she  ever  really  loved.  .  .  . 

Sometime  during  the  fall  of  last  year — 
while  Kim  and  Dick  were  working  on 
Strangers  When  We  Meet  (their  third  pic- 
ture together) — Dick  and  his  wife,  Bar- 
bara, announced  that  they  had  given  up 
on  their  marriage.  "It  hasn't  worked."' 
Dick  said  to  whoever  asked.  "That's  all 
there  is  to  it.  .  .  ." 

Somehow,  after  the  announcement  was 
made,  Dick,  a  rare  party-goer,  attended  a 
party  at  which  Kim  was  present. 

She'd  come  alone. 

He  asked  her  if  he  could  take  her  to 
dinner.  She  said  yes. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  they  left.  .  .  . 

The  romance  that  has  followed  has  been 
as  quiet  as  anything  else  that  Kim  has 
ever  felt  for  Dick. 

She's  wanted  it  this  way. 

There  have  been  no  headlines,  no  bally- 
hoo, few  column  mentions. 

But  we  at  Modern  Screen  have  it,  from 
people  who  know  them  both,  that  they  will 
be  married  soon. 

And  we  couldn't  be  happier.  END 
Kim  stars  in  Strangers  When  We  Meet 
for  Columbia. 


12.  I  LIKE  CYD  CHARISSE: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 
0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  TONY  MARTIN: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  their  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 

13.  I  READ:  0  all  of  NO  TEARS  NO  TROUBLE 
WHEN  YOUR  DATES  ARE  DOUBLE  0  part 
0  none 

IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  completely  0 
fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 


14.  The  stars  I  most  want  to  read  about  are 


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AMERICA'S  GREATEST  MOVIE  MAGAZINE 


STORIES 

Sal  Mineo  21  The  Sal  Mineo  Story 

by  Sal  Mineo  as  told  to  George  Christy 

Debbie  Reynolds   22  Dare  She  Wear  White?                         By  Doug  Brewer 

Tommy  Sorvds 

Frank  Sinatra   24  The  Sinatra  Women                              by  Hugh  Burrell 

Natalie  Wood 

Robert  Wagner  28  Endsville                                        by  Louella  Parsons 

Lee  Remick  32  Dear  God,  Please  Don't  Let  Him  See  Me  Cry  .  .  . 

Sandra  Dee  34  When  A  Girl  Becomes  A  Woman          by  Bethel  Every 

Elizobeth  Taylor 

Eddie  Fisher  36  Why  Liz  Is  Taking  The  Children  Away 

Lucille  Boll 

Desi  Amci   38  Where  Did  I  Fail? 

Richard  Egan   42  The  Story  Of  Trish                             by  Helen  Weller 

Cary  Grant   44  The  Love  Drug 

lona  Turner  46  One  Little  Girl  Against  The  World       by  Helen  Weller 


loan  Crawford 


Louella  Parsons 


SPECIAL  FEATURE 

51    They  Do  It  To  Music — Modern  Screen's  Exercise  Plan 


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A  GIANT  AMONG  MEN 
I/IN  A  GIGANTIC  SPECTACLE ! 

When  treachery  stalks  the  land,  a  Giant  among 
men  and  his  Gallant  Hundred  Young  Giants,  with 
their  loin-clothed  bodies  girded  for 
action,  defy  legions  of  enemies 
on  land  and  sea. 


trembled 
before  the  fury 
of  his  naked 
strength  . .  .women 
hungered  for  the 
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EMWM.BM. 


DANIELA  ROCCA  * lvo  Garrani"Philippe  Hersent 


Produced  by  Directed  by 

Sergio  Fantoni-Alberto  Lupo      BRUNO  VAILATI  "  JACQUES  TOURNEUR 


EASTMANCOLOR-DYALSCOPE  •  A  Titanus-Galatea-Lux  Production 


i 


VICKI  HESS,  Senior,  Marion- 
Franklin  High  School,  Columbus, 
Ohio,  says: 

"When  blemishes  broke  out  on  my 
face,  I  became  terribly  self-conscious. 
Special  skin  creams  and  lotions 
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tion. Now  my  complexion  is  really 
clear  again!" 


SCIENTIFIC  CLEARASIL  MEDICATION 

STARVES 
PIMPLES 

SKIN-COLORED,  Hides  pimples  while  it  works 

clearasil  is  the  new-type  scientific  medication 
especially  for  pimples.  In  tube  or  new  lotion 
squeeze-bottle,  clearasil  gives  you  the  effective 
medical  ions  prescribed  by  leading  Skin  Special- 
ists, and  clinical  tests  prove  it  really  works. 
HOW  CLEARASIL  WORKS  FAST 

1 .  Penetrates  pimples. '  Keratoly  tic'  action 
softens,  dissolves  affected  skin  tissue  so 
medications  can  penetrate.  Encourage! 
quick  growth  ot  healthy(  smooth  skin! 

2.  Stop*  faocferio.  Antiseptic  action  stop* 
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and  spread  pimples  .  .  .  helps  prevent 
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3.  'Starves'  pimples.  Oil-absorbing 
action   'starves'  pimples  .  .  .  dries  up. 


pimples  . 


pimple 


'Floats'  Out  Blackheads,  clearasil  softens 
and  loosens  blackheads  so  they  Moat  out  with 
normal  washing.  And,  clearasil  is  greaseless. 
stainless,  pleasant  to  use  day  and  night  for 
uninterrupted  medication.  . 
Proved  by  Skin  Specialists!  In  tests  on  over 
300  patients,  9  out  of  every  10  cases  were 
cleared  up  or  definitely  improved 
while  using  clearasil  (either  lo- 
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98(J.  Long-lasting  Lotion  squeeze- 
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LARGEST-SELLING  BECAUSE  IT  REALLY  WORKS 


Want  the  real  truth?  Write  to  INSIDE  STORY,  Modern  Screen, 
Box  515,  Times  Square  P.O.,  N.Y.  36,  N.Y.  The  most  interesting 
letters  will  appear  in  this  column.  Sorry,  no  personal  replies. 


9  Was  another  man  involved  in  the 
Don  Murray-Hope  Lange  split-  And 
why  did  they  deny  the  rumors  so  vehe- 
mently when  it  was  first  suggested  all 
was  not  well  in  that  household? 

— N.D.,  Montreal,  Can. 
A  No  other  man  was  involved  in  the 
Lange-Murray  split.  Don  and  Hope 
wanted  to  keep  their  problems  to  them- 
selves in  hopes  of  working  them  out. 
Hope's  still  hoping  they  can,  despite 
the  rumor  that  Don  is  infatuated  with 
Dolores  Michaels 

9  What's  behind  the  reports  of  a  torrid 
romance  between  Maureen  C  Hc-o  and 
Rex  Harrison? 

— M.H.,  Hanover,  N.H. 
A  A  misinformed  columnist.  Maureen 
has  barely  said  "Hello"  to  Rex  since  they 
co-starred  in  Foxes  of  Harrow  over  10 
years  ago.  Rex  is  interested  in  Tommy 
Grimes,  estranged  wife  of  actor  Chris- 
topher Plummer  who  in  turn  it  inter- 
ested in  Susan  Blanchard,  ex-wifi  o) 
Henry  Fonda. 

9  I  read  that  Liz  Taylor  and  Eddie 
Fisher  are  planning  to  get  married  again 
— to  each  other,  that  is.  Are  they  going 
to  do  this  for  sentimental  reasons? 

— J.R.,  Oshkosh,  Wis. 
A  No.  For  legal  reasons.  They  want  to 
marry  in  California — 50  there  can't  be 
any  future  problems  there  about  the 
status  of  his  Las  Vegas  divorce  and 
marriage. 

9  What  ever  happened  to  Johnny  John- 
ston and  Kathryn  Grayson?  I  know 
they  divorced  each  other  a  long  time 
ago  but  what's  with  them  careerwise? 

— T.D..  Berwick,  Pa. 
A  Kathryn  is  going  to  tour  the  country 
with  her  own  revue,  A  Night  At  The 
Opera,  She  hasn't  made  a  film  since 
the  ill-fated  The  Vagabond  King. 
Johnny  is  an  apprentice  in  a  New  York 
brokerage  house  while  he  learns  that 
particular  trade.  He's  just  about  given 
up  show  business. 

9  Is  it  true  the  Brigitte   Bordot — 

Jacques  Charrier  marriage  has  been  in 
trouble  ever  since  the  birth  of  their 
baby  ? 

— B.N.,  Dallas,  Texas 
A  It's  been  in  trouble  ever  since  they 
posted  the  wedding  banns. 

9  TV  missed  a  great  bet  by  not  record- 
ing it — but  is  there  an}'  report  on  how 
Debbie  Reynolds  reacted  when  Liz 
Taylor  was  announced  at  the  Golden 
Globe   Awards   as   the   best  dramatic 


actress  of  the  year  bv  the  Foreign  Press. 

— E.D.,  Boston,  Mass. 
A  Debbie  applauded — along  with  every- 
one else. 

9  I  read  that  Glenn  Ford's  real  heart 
interest  is  a  beautiful  German  star  who 
is  about  to  divorce  her  husband.  Do  you 
know  to  whom  the  columnists  are  refer- 
ring? 

— B.B..  Charleston,  W.V. 
A  They  are  referring  to  Maria  Sehell 

— who  in  turn  denies  the  report  that  she 
is  contemplating  a  divorce. 

9  Do  you  have  any  idea  of  how  much 
money  Sandra  Dee  spends  a  year  on 
clothes?  She  always  looks  so  well 
dressed,  much  more  so  than  the  typical 
teen. 

— D.L.  Brooklyn,  N.Y. 
A  Last  year  untypical  Sandra  acquired 
a  S40,000  wardrobe — including  a  blue- 
white  mink  coat. 

9  Can  you  tell  me  how  much  Orson 
Welles  weighed  when  he  made  Citizen 
Kane  and  those  other  movies  now  on 
TV — and  what  his  weight  was  in  his 
most  recent  movies — and  why  he  got  so 
hcavv  ? 

— R.H.B.,  Hartford.  Conn. 
A  Welles  carried  200  pounds  on  his  6'1" 
irame  when  he  made  Kane  {approxi- 
mately 15  pounds  overweight  > .  In  Crack 
of  the  Mirror,  the  scale  cracked  when 
it  hit  three  hundred.  Evidently  Welles 
is  a  consuming  genius. 

9  Would  it  be  possible  for  you  to  list 
all  the  aging  glamour  girls  still  acting  in 
movies  or  TV  who  have  gone  past  their 
50th  birthday? 

— J.G.,  Berwyn.  III. 
A  Joan  Crawford  (52),  Claudette 
Colbert  (55),  Bette  Davis  (52),  Mar- 
lene  Dietrich  (55),  Irene  Dunne  (55), 
Katharine  Hepburn  (50),  Myrna  Loy 
(55),  Barbara  Stanwyck  (55).  Others 
like  Ginger  Rogers,  Luc///e  6a//  and 
Roz  Russell  have  a  year  or  so  to  go. 

9  I  think  the  death  of  Mario  Lanza's 

wife  Betty  is  the  saddest  thing  that  hap- 
pened in  Hollywood  this  year.  I  am 
concerned  about  Lanza's  four  children. 
What  will  happen  to  them  now?  Will 
they  be  separated? 

— S.S..  Phh-adelphlv  Pa. 
A  They  will  undoubtedly  be  taken  care 
of  by  their  aunt  and  uncle  in  Chicago, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bert  Hicks,  in  whose 
charge  they  were  when  their  mother  was 
still  in  a  state  of  shock  over  Mario's 
death.    Thev  will  not  be  separated. 


ami 


JL 


Jv 


THE  SEARCHERS  ■  THE  INFORMER  •  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  •  HOW  GREEN  WAS  MY  VALLEY  •  STAGE  COACH  •  QUIET  MAN  •  WHAT  PRICE  GLORY  •  GRAPES  OF  WRATH 


iffflHUS 

(the  only  director  in  history  to  win  thft  many!) 


TECHNICOLOR®  From  WARNER  BROS. 


^JEFFREY  HUNTER' CONSTANCE  TOWERS- BILLIE  BURKE 

wth  WOODY  STRODE  •  JUANO  HERNANDEZ  •  WILLIS  BOUCHEY  Written  by  JAMES  WARNER  BELLAH  and  WILLIS  GOLOBECK 
Produced  by  WILLIS  GOLOBECK  and  PATRICK  FORD  •  Directed  by  JOHN  FORD 


We've  said  it  before  -  but  never,  never  for  such  a  surprising  reason ! 
NO  SEATING   LAST  TEN  MINUTES 


BEAUTIFUL  HAIR  IS 

(^Jolorflxl 


■^MOVIES 


by  Florence  Epstein 


Hair*  Color 

R/NSES  IN. . .  SHAMPOOS  OUT 

Nestle  Colorinse  glorifies  your 
natural  hair  shade  with  glamorous 
color-highlights  and  silken  sheen. 
It  removes  dulling  soap  film,  makes 
hair  easier  to  manage,  unbelievably 
lovely!  12  shades  that  stay  color- 
true  till  your  next  shampoo.  35? 

NESTLE  COLORINSE 

Nestle  Colortint  intensifies  your 
natural  hair  color  OR  adds  thrilling 
NEW  color.  Colortint  also  blends-in 
gray  hair— beautifies  all-gray  and 
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a  permanent  dye  — Colortint  lasts 
through  3  shampoos!  10  shades.  35ff 

NESTLE  COLORTINT 


COLORS  YOUR  HAIR 

WITHOUT  BLEACHING  or  DYEING 


In  Can-Can,  'boulevardiers'  like  Frank  Sinatra  and  Maurice  Cheval- 
ier find  that  horse-play  with  girls  like  Shirley  MacLaine  is  fun. 


CAN-CAN 

not  so  gay  Paree 


Frank  Sinatra 
Shirley  MacLaine 
Maurice  Chevalier 
Louis  Jourdan 
Juliet  Prowse 


■  Can-Can  takes  place  in  Paris  in  the  mid- 
nineteenth  century:  Frank  Sinatra  plays  a 
lawyer  and  determined  bachelor,  and  Shirley 
MacLaine  owns  a  cabaret  where,  when  the 
gendarmes  are  properly  bribed,  can  be 
seen  the  daring  and  illegal  can-can  dance. 
When  the  gendarmes  are  neglected  Shirley 
usually  winds  up  in  court  before  Judge 
Maurice  Chevalier,  in  which  case  Sinatra 
defends  her.  Chevalier,  if  he  were  not  a 
judge,  would  definitely  be  a  can-can  fancier. 
Sinatra,  if  he  were  not  a  cad,  would  definite- 
ly marry  Shirley.  Chevalier's  new  assistant, 
Louis  Jourdan,  frowns  on  the  can-can  but 
falls  at  Shirley's  feet.  Sinatra,  considering 
Shirley  as  plebian  as  himself,  tries  to  show 
her  up  for  what  she  is  at  her  swank  engage- 
ment party.  Whatever  she  is  Louis  still  wants 
to  marry  her.  Will  this  young  barrister's 
dream  come  true?  Cole  Porter's  songs — many 


of  them  old  favorites — are  as  good  as  ever. 
The  same  can  be  said  of  Shirley's  dancing, 
and  of  Juliet  Prowse's  dancing — especially  in 
the  ballet  about  Adam  and  Eve. — Todd  A-0, 
20th  Century-Fox. 


BECAUSE  THEY'RE  YOUNG  Dick  Clark 

Michael  Callan 

high  school  drama  SSSfcSST  "haw 

Warren  Berlinger 

■  In  every  teen-age  movie  there's  a  boy  with  a 
knife — or  else  someone  is  very  disappointed. 
Well,  we  live  in  a  violent  age — age  1 7 — and  high 
school  teacher  Dick  Clark,  for  one,  is  well 
aware  of  it.  The  principal  keeps  telling  him 
to  mind  his  own  business  (American  history)  ; 
his  girlfriend  (Victoria  Shaw)  says  ditto; 
his  eight-year-old  nephew  (for  whom  he  is 
trying  to  make  a  home)  would  relish  more 
of  Dick's  attention,  but  Dick  is  determined 
to  help  his  students  find  themselves.  He's 
got  his  work  cut  out  for  him.  Among  Dick's 
students  are  (a)  Warren  Berlinger,  whose 
(Continued  on  page  76) 


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BY  LYLE  KENYOX  EXGEL 


The  Nation's  Top  Disk  Jockeys  pose  a 
series  of  questions  to  see  if  you  know 
your  record  stars. 


1.  He  has  curly  hair  and  rugged 
features.  He  is  known  for 

singing  popular  songs  in  a  folk 
style.  An  excellent  guitarist,  he 
made  the  big  time  with  million- 
record  single  The  Story  of  My 
Life.  Latest  single's  El  Paso, 
Columbia. 

2.  This     great  arranger-con- 
ductor is  best  known  for 

lush  instrumentals.  His 
biggest  hit  in  the  pop 
song  category  was  The 
Song  From  Moulin 
Rouge.  Latest  hit  sin- 
gle's Theme  From  A 
Summer  Place. 
3.  She  sang  with  Lionel 
Hampton  at  the  age 
of  19.  Her  real  name  is 
Ruth  Jones.  Her  last 
great  single  was  What  New  Yorh'  N-  Y- 
a    Difference    a  Day 

Makes.  Her  current  hit  is 
Baby,  on  the  Mercury  label, 
with  Brook  Benton. 

4.  This  Texan  was  bom  in 
1924.  He  sings  and  plays 

the  guitar.  His  favorite  hob- 
by is  baseball,  and  he  was 
signed  to  play  by  the  St. 
Louis  Cardinals.  An  injury 
forced  him  into  the  music 
business.  His  latest  hit  single 
is  He'll  Have  To  Go,  on 
the  RCA  Victor  label. 

5.  This    25-year-old  singing 
star  is  married  and  has 

three  children.  Real  name  is 
Harold  Jenkins.  A  past  hit  was  It's  Only 
Make  Believe.  His  latest  hit 
is  Lonely  Blue  Boy,  MGM. 

6.  This  inimitable  singing 
star  has  sold  more  mil- 
lions of  records  than  any 
other  singer  in  the  busi- 
ness. A  relaxed  style  is  his 
forte.  Current  MGM  hit  is 
Among  My  Souvenirs. 

7.  She's  a  great  blues  sing- 
er  and   helped  Johnny 

Ray  develop  his  famous 
style.  A  past  hit  was  Twee- 
dle  Dee.  Harbor  Lights  is 
a  hit  single  on  Atlantic. 


1  Lit, 

Station  WCAU-TV, 
Philadelphia,  Pa. 


USljOQ  UU3.ZDJ  'I 

iCqsojJ  6u\q  "9 
uotButifsajH  fouiQ  "£ 

'Z 

suiqqoy  fivvn  "T 


MODERN  SCREEN'S 
GOSSIP  EXTRA 
by 

HOLLYWOOD'S 
GREATEST  COLUMNIST 


Louella  stopped  to  congratulate  these  happy  young 
lovers  at  the  Grove:  Frank  Sinatra's  sweet  little 
Nancy  and  her  husband-to-be,  singer  Tommy  Sands. 


Barbara  Rush  seemed  to  love  the  joke  master-of- 
ceremonies  Tony  Randall  made  about  her  hairdo. 


Demure  Marilyn  Monroe  won  her  Globe  for  "the  best 
comedy  performance  by  a  woman"  in  Some  Like  It  hot. 


Mickey  Hargitay  laughed  along  with  the  audience 
at  his  adored  loife  Jayne  Mansfield's  opening  line. 


Big  Night- 
Golden  Globe  Awards 

Hollywood's  Foreign  Press  handed  out  its 
annual  accolades  at  a  brilliant  night  at  the 
Cocoanut  Grove. 

I'll  be  honest  and  admit  I  had  special  in- 
terest in  the  event  this  year  as  I  was  honored 
with  a  Golden  Globe  (more  about  this  later), 
and  also  was  honored  by  being  invited  to 
present  the  most  important  awards  of  the  eve- 
ning, "the  world's  most  popular  actor  and 
actress." 

Despite  the  blues  of  the  strike,  every  star 
in  Hollywood  turned  out  dressed  to  the  teeth 
to  either  receive  an  award  or  to  present  one. 

Photographers  had  a  field  day  snapping 
Bing  Crosby  and  Kathy.  Marilyn  Mon- 
roe, and  Debbie  Reynolds  and  Glenn 
Ford  making  their  first  appearance  as  a 
'date'  in  public. 


Bing  and  Kathy  came  late,  left  early.  I 
doubt  if  Emily  Post  would  approve,  but  Bing 
made  his  "Thank  You"  speech  (he  won  the 
C.  B.  De  Mille  Memorial  Award  for  greatest 
contribution  to  entertainment):  then  he 
grabbed  his  Globe  with  one  hand  and  Kathy 
with  the  other  and  ran,  didn't  walk,  for  the 
exit.  Oh,  well — Bing  always  has  been  a 
social  law  unto  himself. 

On  the  other  hand,  a  model  of  politeness 
was  Debbie  Reynolds  who  conspicuously  ap- 
plauded Elizabeth  Taylor's  winning  "best 
actress  of  the  year"  award  (Suddenly,  Last 
Summer^.  Debbie  looked  beautiful  in  pale 
green  chiffon  and  Glenn  patted  her  hand  en- 
couragingly when  she  got  up  to  make  one  of 
the  presentations.  Glenn  is  very  sweet  with 
Debbie — but  gossip  is  his  heart  is  elsewhere. 

Doris  Day  won  "the  most  popular  actress 
in  the  world"  Globe  and  she  wore  a  high- 
fashion     ankle-length     cream-colored  moire 


gown  with  a  matching  jacket  lined  in  sable! 
I  was  very  flattered  at  being  asked  to  present 
her  Globe  to  Doris — and  later  to  Rock  Hud- 
son as  "the  most  popular  actor." 

The  evening  was  well  underway  when 
Marilyn  Monroe  arrived  and  the  room  was 
darkened  except  for  the  lights  on  the  dais, 
but  with  a  small  army  of  photographers  mak- 
ing a  dash  for  her  we  were  not  long  unaware 
of  MM's  presence.  She  looked  like  a  poster 
girl  in  a  long  white  dress  cut  low  with  gobs 
of  white  fox  around  her  shoulders.  Marilyn 
won  her  Globe  for  "the  best  comedy  per- 
formance by  a  woman"  in  Some  Like  It  Hot. 

But  the  real  comedy  hit  of  the  evening  was 
Jayne  Mansfield,  whose  opening  line,  com- 
ing on  the  heels  of  the  strike,  "I'm  glad  to  be 
working  again,"  brought  down  the  house  al- 
though most  of  us  were  laughing  with  tears 
in  our  hearts,  I'm  afraid.  .  .  . 

There  was  some  mix-up  about  Rock  Hud- 


International  favorites:  Doris  Day,  "the  most  popular  actress 
in  the  world,"  and  Rock  Hudson,  "the  most  popular  actor!" 


This 
Ford 


was  the  night  Debbie  Reynolds  and  Glenn 
made  their  first  appearance  as  a  'date.' 


son's  seats  and  he  and  his  date,  Pat  McCal- 
lum,  were  shifted  from  table  to  table  and  even 
stood  up  for  a  long  time  with  no  seats  at  all. 
Rather  unusual  considering  that  Rock  was  the 
winner  of  the  most  important  male  trophy! 
He  certainly  was  pleasant  about  all  the 
switching  around  and  showed  not  the  slight- 
est temperament  nor  annoyance.  .  .  . 

I  thought  Susan  Kohner  and  Angie 
Dickinson  gave  the  nicest  speeches  of 
"Thanks"  among  the  new  stars  honored. 
Susan  has  a  special  glow  about  her  these 
days  and  I  think  her  new  romance  with 
George  Hamilton  has  a  lot  to  do  with  it. 
Of  course  she  was  with  George. 

For  some  reason  every  woman  at  Dinah 
Shore's  table  seemed  to  have  her  hair  done 
exactly  like  Dinah's— even  to  the  blonde  color. 
Dinah  won  as  "outstanding  woman  singer 
and  TV  personality" — doesn't  she  always? 
She  wore  black  and  white,  and  somebody 


cracked,    " — a    switch    from    her    color  TV 
show." 

Although  Marilyn  Monroe,  his  co-star  of 
Some  Like  It  Hot,  was  in  the  room.  Jack 
Lemmon  made  no  mention  of  her  (or  Tony 
Curtis)  when  Jie^jpiqked  up  Jjis^  Globe  fgJi^-Pps' 

Ji^  <*ss*8 — "  *  '  |l  w 


Tuesday  Weld,  all  dolled  up  formal, 
complete  with  shoes,  lost  her  voice,  called  it 
"laryngitis"  and  whispered  "Thank  You"  for 
her  promising  new  star  award.  Eve  Arden 
(then  mistress  of  ceremonies)  said,  "Laryn- 
What  you've  got  is  nerves,  girl!".  .  .  . 
was  nervous,  too,  but  I  hope  I  didn't  show 
when   Dick   Powell   gave   me  such  a 
bnderful  introduction  before  presenting  me 
&&.    my    Golden    Globe    for  "outstanding 
^rnalistic  reporting  throughout  the  world." 
f  am  deeply,  deeply  grateful  and  so  happy 
'Hat  Dick  was  selected  to  make  the  presenta- 
;ion  as  he  and  I  are  old  friends  and  co-stars 
i  Hollywood  Hotel,  the  first  hour-long  broad- 
4t  ever  put  on  radio.   I  am  a  sentimental 
"nan  and  I  treasure  such  a  tribute  as  this 
Jn  the  representatives  of  the  Foreign  Press, 
j  fellow  workers  and  craftsmen. 
<jes,  it  was  a  Big  Night,  and  particularly 


Lidia  and  Rossano  Brazzi  were  just  Ricardo  Montalban  congratulated  Judy  Garland 

delighted  with  Anna  Maria's  singing.  on  how  well  she  looked  after  her  long  illness. 


(Left  to  right)  Jimmy  McHugh  (co-host  with  Louella  at  party  in  honor  of  George  Hamilton  has  that  look  in  his  eye 
Anna  Maria  Alberghetti's  opening) ,  Anna,  actress  Barbara  Rush,  Louella.        for  his  one-and-only,  lovely  Susan  Kohner. 


Lidia  and  Rossano  Brazzi  were  present, 
Rossano  being  my  dinner  partner.  He  told 
me  he  thought  Anna  Maria's  voice  was  as 
lovely  as  many  singers  he  had  heard  at  La 
Scala  in  his  native  Milan. 

Others  who  loved  the  show  and  later  went 
back  to  congratulate  the  happy  young  star 
were  the  Van  Heflins  Guy  Madisons 
Eddie  O'Briens.  Terry  Moore  and  her 
husband,  Jayne  Mansfield  and  Mickey 
Hargitay,  the  Ronald  Reagans  and 
Ricardo  Montalbans  and  Nancy  Sinatra 
and  Tommy  Sands. 

And  if  I  say  so — as  I  shouldn't — I  had  a 
wonderful  time  at  my  own  (and  Jimmy's) 
party  myself! 


Party  for 
Anna  Maria 


Little  wonder  that  songbird  Anna  Mar".. 
Alberghetti   sang  like  an  angel  straight 
down  from  heaven  her  opening  night  at  llsfo 
Cocoanut  Grove.  The  stars  seated  ringside  to 
listen  to  this  beautiful  Italian  girl  with  the 
magnificent  voice  (and  she's  branched  out 
into  dancing,   too)   would  have   turned  th* 
head — and  heart — of  any  performer.  Becau 
she  has  long  been  a  close  friend  of  Jimr 
McHugh  and  mine,  we  jointly  hosted  a  pai 
for  Anna  Maria. 

Judy  Garland  came,  one  of  her  first  pu 
lie  appearances  since  her  long  illness,  ai 


»"=>ryone  was  so  fSelwihtsd  to  see  her  well 


12 


Sad 

Divorce 


fast  doesn't  seem  possible  that  /  Love 
isn't  true  anymore  and  that  the  end  of 
was  the  most  popular  TV  show  of  all 
also  sees  the  end  of  the  marriage  bet 
Lucille  Ball  and  Desi  Arnaz.  Of  : 
■he  —  orried  stories  ::  Hollywood  this 
:-  many  ways  the  —  est  iontost: 
redheuued  girl  with  z  great  sense  ::  ; 
ay  zzz  z  Zzzzz  with  z  tunny  accent 
were,  respectively,  hits  and  then  flc; 
Hollywood,  went  on  to  build  up  an 
pire  of  fame  and  finance  that  has  no 

Tie  whole  world  caught  its  breath  ■ 
TV  brought  such    '  and  fortune 

and  Lucy  that  they  casually  bough- 
Si  1.000,000  the  old  ~RKO  Studio  which 
once  fired  Desi. 


one  mucn  .:ve;  cntiareo.  _~r.a  r.cx  or.  =  : 
nineteen  colorful,  explosive,  unbelievable, 
tempestuous  their  marriage  was  neve: 
quiet)  years  it's  ended  in  the  big  nothingness : 

I  know  Lucille  well  and  I  know  she  tried, 
tried,  tried  to  keep  this  marriage  together 
She  loved  Desi — she  probably  still  loves  him 

But  Desi  is,  well — Desi.  Hot-headed,  fun 
loving,  nightclub-addicted,  too  easily  flat 
tered,  cften  foolish,  but  also  sometimes  sweet 
D-d  appealing.  New  that  it  is  all  ever  1 
wender  what  he  will  do  without  that  always 
extended   helping-hand    and    heart    of  the 

She  has  gone  to  New  York  (later  the  chil- 
dren will  join  her)  to  build  a  new  life. 

Desi?  He  rem  cms  in  Hollywood,  the  boss 
cf  their  TV  company,  and  he  has,  well — 
that  Sll, 000,000  studio  he  acquired  because 
"I  L-cve-c  Lucy." 


Lucille  forces  a 
dren.   Lucy  and 


the  camera.  The  cha- 
parents   are  divorcing. 


Liz'  Latest  Injury 


Elizabeth  Taylor  had  expected  to  ciace 
oat  with  Eddie  Fisher  to  pick  up  her  "best 
actress"  award  at  the  Foreign  Press  Dinner 
in  person.  But  she  and  Eddie,  the  day  be- 
fore, had  made  a  hurried  trip  to  Philadelphia 
to  visit  his  mother  who  has  been  quite  ill. 
Entering  a  cafe  where  they  had  gone  for  a 
bite  of  dinner,  Liz  slipped  on  the  ice  and 
strained  her  ankle. 

Her  New  York  movie,  BufferfieJd  8,  which 
she  s  making  with  Eddie  end  Laurence 
Harvey  had  just  been  shut  down  bee -use 
of  the  actors'  strike. 

Ii  anything  good  could  be  said  tc  be  com- 
ing oui  of  all  this  trouble  it  is  that  the  delay 
revs  Liz  z  chance  ic  nurse  her  injured  cnkle. 


I  nominate  for 
STARDOM 


Margo  Moore 


Believe  me,  a  beauty!  Because  she  has  rr.cce 
enly  two  pictures  (Hound  Dog  Man  and  Wake 
Me  When  It's  Over)  she  isn't  always  recog- 
nized when  she  walks  into  a  nightclub  or 
restcurant.  But  you  know  she's  there.  You  ccr. 
hecr  the  murmurs,  "Who  is  she?" 

And  then,  "She  looks  like  Grace  Kelly." 

She  does — but  she  doesn't  appreciate  the 
compliment.  "I  dont  want  to  be  a  'poor  man's 
cnybody,'  "  she  begs. 

Also,  despite  her  success  as  a  model  she 
doesn't  admit  to  being  "a  model  turned  ac- 
tress." She  says,  "Acting  was  always  my 
goaL  I  studied  dramatics  in  college,  and 
later  in  New  York,  and  I  turned  to  modeling 
only  to  pay  for  my  lessons  until  I  was 
equipped  tc  seek  work." 

Recently  she  has  made  the  gossip  columns 
as  an  item  with  smart  young  producer  Boh 
Rcdnitz  whose  current  hit  is  A  Dog  of  Flan- 
ders. Neither  dates  anyone  else — yet  she 
skirts  a  definite  marriage  date.  "I  suppose 
you  might  describe  our  situation  as  being  en- 
gaged to  be  engaged,"  Margo  smiles. 

It  will  be  her  second  marriage  and  she 
has  a  five-year-old  son  named  Dcrryl  by  her 
first  husband.  The  boy  lives  with  Margo  in 
an  apartment  in  Beverly  Hills.  "I  couldn't* 
bear  to  have  him  uwuy  from  me."  she  ex- 
plains. 

She  was  born  Marguerita  Guarnerius  in 
Chicago  on  a  certain  April  29th,  but  attended 
the  University  of  Indiana  for  her  schooling. 
She  is  grateful  that  her  successful  modeling 
career  led  her  to  Hollywood  with  time  off  for 
TV  in  between.  She  did  commercials  as  well 
as  drama  on  TV.  and  likes  it.  But  she  Jcves 
motion  pictures. 

And  her  20th  Century-Fox  bosses  are  sure 
you  are  going  to  love  Margo,  the  cool,  grey- 
blue  eyed,  intelligent  blonde  who  locks  and 
acts  a  great  deal  like  a  one-time  Miss  Kelly, 
at  Hollywood. 


Poor  Liz, 
pr'tals—thi 


in  and  out  of  hos- 
me  for  her  ankle. 


Glittering  "Can-Can" 
Premiere 

It  might  seem  from  all  the  social  activity  the 
week  the  strike  was  declared  that  Hollywood 
was  being  frivolous — but  believe  me,  we  were 
keeping  our  chins  up  with  tears  in  our  hearts. 

It  helped  no  one.  even  those  laid-off,  to 
sink  into  gloom  and  it  was  a  courageous  lace 
Hollywood  turned  to  the  world,  her  glamour 
banners  flying. 

The    entire   Carthay   Circle  forecourt  and 


terraced  approach  looked  like  a  Paris  street 
as  the  stars  turned  out  for  Can-Can,  the 
big,  bright,  gaudy,  entrancing  picture  starring 
Frank  Sinatra,  Shirley  MacLaine, 
Maurice  Chevalier  and  Louis  Jourdan. 

Director  Walter  Lang,  and  his  wife,  Field- 
sie,  had  invited  Jimmy  McHugh  and  me  to  be 
their  guests  and  it  was  an  added  thrill  to 
spend  the  evening  of  such  a  big  triumph  for 
Walter  as  a  member  of  his  party. 

Along  with  us  were  those  two  cute  'just- 
engaged'  Nancy  Sinatra  and  Tommy 
Sands,  and  Nancy's  mother.  The  junior 
Miss  Sinatra  kept  flashing  her  beautiful  dia- 
mond engagement  ring  (which  held  her 
attention,  I'm  afraid,  more  than  her  father 


up  on  the  screen). 

Shirley  McLaine  kept  us  amused  by 
asking  ii  we  thought  Can-Can  would  be  re- 
leased in  Russia  where  'Mr.  K'  (who  panned 
it  as  in  bad  taste  when  he  visited  the  set  ) 
could  see  the  finished  movie. 

Jayne  Mansfield,  sporting  more  decol- 
letage  than  usual  (if  that's  possible)  was  on 
the  arm  of  her  ever-lovin'  Mickey  Hargitay 
and  I  must  say  the  crowds  seem  fond  of  this 
really  good-natured  girl— she  always  gets  a 
big  hand. 

Among  others  I  saw  Eddie  G.  Robinson 
June  Haver  and  Fred  MacMurray,  pro- 
ducer Buddy  Adler  and  his  wife.  Nanette 
Fabray,  and  many,  many  others. 


PERSONAL 
OPINIONS 


I  think  1960  will  be  the  marriage  year  of 
Kim  Novak  and  director  Richard  Quine.  She 
was  beside  herself  when  she  heard  he  had 
fallen  ill  in  London  after  flying  there  to  take 
over  the  direction  on  The  World  of  Suzie 
Wong,  and  as  I  write  this  she  is  planning  to 
join  him.  Could  be  the  wedding  will  be  in 
England.  .  .  . 

Got  a  chuckle  out  of  reading  in  Insider's 
Newsletter  that  Princess  Grace's  efforts  to  be 
a  matchmaker  between  millionaire  Aristotle 
Onassis  and  Ava  Gardner  came  to  naught. 
The  Princess  was  so  sure  the  Greek  ship- 
building magnate  would  fall  for  Ava,  her 
friend  from  Hollywood  days,  that  she  ar- 
ranged a  most  intimate  dinner.  But  the  ex- 
pected flame  didn't  ignite — and  the  palace 
dinner  turned  into  a  bit  of  a  fiasco.  .  .  . 

Who  says  Hollywood  forgets  or  is  cold 
to  former  movie  Queens?  The  reception  re- 
ceived by  Bette  Davis  when  she  and 
Gary  Merrill  opened  before  the  home  folk 
in  The  World  of  Carl  Sandburg  was  tre- 
mendous and  even  over  the  footlights  you 
could  see  Bette's  eyes  shining  with  hap- 
piness. .  .  . 

I'm  getting  fed  up  with  master  of  cere- 
monies who  try  to  be  funny  by  making  ref- 
erences to  "the  men's  room"  or  "powder 
rooms."  Certainly  Hollywood's  most  formal 
affairs  do  not  need  this  type  of  Chic  Sale 
humor.  .  .  . 

Nor  have  I  been  amused  at  many  cracks 
about  the  strike — whether  it  proves  to  be  short 
or  long.  Steve  Allen  went  up  in  my  estima- 
mation  when,  acting  as  M.C.  at  the  prem- 
iere of  Can-Can,  he  said  he  had  deleted  all 
jokes  referring  to  the  strike  from  his  script.  . . . 


Grace  Kelly  and  her  Prince  exchanged  delighted  smiles,  thinking  their 
matchmaking  was  working;  they  didn't  notice  Ava's  bored  expression. 


Poet  Carl  Sandburg  is  very 
the   way   Bette   Davis   read  ) 


proud  of 
is  ivorks. 


Could  be  a  London  wedding 
for  Kim  and  Richard  Quine. 


Nancy  was  glad  to  do  her  father 
the  favor  of  welcoming  Elvis  home. 


Elvis  Made 
Her  Weep 

I'm  sure  the  only  teenager  who  ever  broke 
into  heartbroken  sobs  because  she  had  to 
meet  Elvis  Presley  is  Nancy  Sinatra,  the 
19-year-old  apple  of  Frank  Sinatra's  eye! 

And  lest  you  other  girls  find  this  hard  to 
believe,  remember  that  Nancy  and  Tommy 
Sands  had  just  given  me  the  scoop  of  their 
engagement  and  Tommy  was  waiting  on  the 
Coast  with  her  engagement  ring  while  poor 
little  Nancy  remained  in  New  York  as  a  favor 
to  her  father. 

Frank  was  paying  Elvis  5125,000  to  ap- 
pear on  his  (Frank's)  TV  show — a  welcome 
home  to  the  world's  most  famous  GI,  and  he 
had  asked  his  daughter  to  do  the  honors  for 
him  and  meet  Elvis  when  he  flew  in.  It  was 
very  appropriate  as  Nancy,  too,  was  to  ap- 
pear on  ihe  show  as  her  father's  hostess. 

She  is  a  dear  little  girl  and  glad  to  do  a 
favor  for  her  Dad — even  though  her  heart 


was  3,000  miles  away  in  California  with  an- 
other popular  singer. 

But  the  morning  Elvis  arrived,  the  Eastern 
seaboard  was  hit  with  the  worst  March  snow 
storm  in  100  years!  With  teeth  chattering, 
Nancy  had  met  Elvis,  welcomed  him  for  her- 
self and  her  father,  posed  for  pictures  and 
then  started  (she  hoped)  for  another  airport 
where  she  would  catch  her  own  plane  to 
Los  Angeles  and  Tommy! 

Half-way  back  to  New  York,  the  chauf- 
feured  limousine  Frank  had  sent  for  her  broke 
down  in  the  enormous  snow-drifts  and  half- 
frozen  to  death  she  walked  to  a  service  sta- 
tion and  put  in  a  call  to  her  mother — and 
Tommy. 

"Yes,  I  met  Elvis,"  she  told  Nancy  Sr.  and 
Tommy,  "But  I'm  so  cold  and  miserable1." 
And  the  next  thing  her  mother  and  sweet- 
heart heard  were  just  heartbroken  sobs! 

That  didn't  last  long — not  after  Tommy 
slipped  that  four-carat  emerald  cut  diamond 
surrounded  with  baguettes  on  her  finger  five 
hours  later  in  Sunny  California! 


15 


Dozens  of  readers  say  Elvis'  imita- 
tors will  fade  now  that  he  is  back. 


The  fans  are  suggesting  names  for  Audrey 
Hepburn  and  Mel  Ferrer's  expected  baby. 


In  one  month,  there 
rave  letters  about  Jamt 


Brandon  DeWilde:  one  girl 
calls  him   "the  cutest  boy." 


LETTER 
BOX 


You  fans  are  pretty  nice  people  and  much 
more  concerned  with  the  inner  workings  of 
Hollywood  than  I  supposed.  The  very  week 
of  the  strike  many  of  you  airmailed  letters  to 
my  desk  expressing  sympathy  for  actors  as 
a  group  and  your  favorites  in  particular.  As 
expressed  by  some  of  you: 

Poor  Edd  "Kookie"  Byrnes,  my  fa- 
vorite. First  the  suspension  by  his  studio  and 
now  this  strike,  sympathizes  Virginia  DeWitt. 
Atlanta.  Some  of  the  stars  are  rich  and  can 
weather  bad  times.  But  we  people  who  work 
tor  smaller  salaries  can  certainly  teel  tor 
the  others  like  "Kookie."  What  a  thoughtful 
comment,  Virginia.  May  Hollywood's  troubles 
be  settled  by  the  time  you  read  this.  .  .  . 

Donald  Weir,  Brooklyn,  has  an  active 
plan:  I'm  not  going  to  patronize  any  foreign 
made  movies  while  Hollywood  is  having  such 
a  bad  rime,  he  writes.  Hollywood  has  given 
me  my  greatest  pleasure  and  has  brightened 
my  life  in  many  sad  times — and  I'm  going 


to  prove  my  appreciation  by  spending  my 
money  only  on  Hollywood  made  films.  Hurray 
for  you,  Don.  .  .  . 

Elvis,  Elvis,  Elvis — all  over  the  mail!  Elvis, 
the  original,  is  back — now  watch  all  his 
imitators  fade,  opines  Phyllis  Terry  Smith. 
Tacoma,  who  admits  she  is  only  15.  But  the 
girl  speaks  for  dozens  of  fans,  many  of  them 
older,  who  echo  her  sentiments. 

Audrey  Hepburn  is  the  only  real  beauty 
in  Hollywood  and  makes  those  wholesale 
blondes  look  like  floozies.  I  hope  she  wins 
the  Award  for  The  Nun's  Story,  postcards 
Clementine  O'Donnell,  Baton  Rouge.  Well, 
you  are  certainly  extravagant  in  your  praise 
for  your  favorite,  my  friend.  .  .  . 

Well,  another  letter  from  Baton  Rouge  (you 
Louisianians  are  going  strong  this  montlO 
Why  don't  you  and  Modern  Screen  conduct 
"A  Date  With  Brandon  de  Wilde"  contest? 
enthuses  B.  Williams.  What  a  prize  to  win — 
being  escorted  around  HoJJywood  by  the 
cutest  17-year-old  boy  on  this  earth! 

And,  Virginia  Heinze,  Tipp  City,  Ohio, 
wants  us  to  conduct  a  contest  awarding  a 
date  with  Elvis  Presley!!!  Are  you  listenin'. 
David  Myers?.  .  .  . 

Germaine  Roy,   Springfield,   read  where 


Audrey  Hepburn  and  Mel  Ferrer  are  wel- 
coming suggestions  for  a  name  for  their  ex- 
pected baby  and  Germaine  offers:  For  a  boy 
— Mark,  Paul,  Tony,  Kenny,  Scott,  all  go  well 
with  Ferrer.  For  a  girl — Suseffe.  Paula,  Donna 
Marie  and  Penny  are  my  suggestions — and 
good  ones,  too,  Germaine.  .  .  . 

Thank  you  for  nominating  James 
Shigeta  for  stardom,  writes  Pat  Gerber, 
Placerville,  Calif.  J  saw  The  Crimson 
Kimono  twice  and  believe  me  my  eyes  were 
glued  to  this  wonderful  and  handsome  ac- 
tor! ...  (By  actual  count,  twenty  letters  of 
raves  over  Shigeta  this  month).  .  .  . 

Georgette  Dawson  writes  snappily  from 
Dallas,  What's  the  matter?  You  haven't 
panned  Marlon  Brando  as  an  actor  lately? 
Can't  remember  ever  panning  Marlon  as  an 
actor.  I  think  he's  great.  It's  just  some  of  his 
off-screen  antics  I  find  annoying.  .  .  . 

That's  all  this  month.  See  you  next  month 


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Joan  Crawford 

THAT'S 


A 


■  "I  might  be  a  little  late  for 
our  dinner  date  tonight,"  Joan 
Crawford  said  as  she  hurried 
out  the  door  on  her  way  to  the 
television  studio.  "I've  got  a 
lot  of  screen  tests  to  take." 

Her  daughter  Christina 
closed  the  door  after  her  and 
wondered,  ".  .  .  Screen  tests?" 
Her  mother,  after  all,  hadn't 
taken  a  test  in  years;  she  was 
a  proven  star. 

But  she,  Christina,  wasn't 
proven  yet,  and  if  she  was  go- 
ing to  be  on  time  for  her  own 
appointment,  she'd  better  hur- 
ry and  dress.  Her  agent  had 
phoned  her  that  she  was  going 
to  be  tested  for  a  leading  role. 

Mother  and  daughter  met 
again  at  dinner  that  evening, 
star  and  starlet.  After  they  or- 
dered, Christina  said,  "Mother, 
what  was  that  you  said  this 
morning  about  making  a  lot  of 
screen  tests?  I  thought  you 
didn't  bother  any  more." 

"Oh  no,  darling,"  Joan 
laughed.  "1  was  testing  the 
cameramen.  I  did  take  a  screen 
test,  dozens,  but  I  was  looking 
for  the  best  cameraman." 

"But  tell  me,  how  did  your 
day  go?  Didn't  you  have  an 
appointment?" 

"I  did,"  Christina  sighed  rue- 
fully. "But  I  didn't  get  it." 

"Why  not  ?"  her  mother  asked 
sympathetically. 

"They  said  I  wasn't  the  type." 

"Really?  What  type  were 
they  looking  for?" 

"Well,  Mother,"  Christina 
giggled,  "believe  it  or  not,  they 
wanted  a  girl  who  looked  like 
the  daughter  of  a  movie  star!" 


— ^^^^^^ 

fifteen 


flee! 


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Send  50*  for  each  record, 
with  your  name  and  address,  to: 
Tanfastic,  Box  4A,  Hollywood,  California 
(Offer  expires  December  31,  1960.  Void  where 
taxed,  prohibited,  or  otherwise  restricted.) 


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available  everywhere  in 
handy  tubes  or 
plastic  squeeze- bottles 


In  your  hour 
of  torment,  Sal, 
we  are  all 
praying  for  you. 


In  Sal  Mineo's  right  eye 
there  is  a  constant,  excruciating 
pain.  The  medical  name  for 
the  disease  is  Dendrite.  It  is  a 
disease  which  30  years  ago 
was  almost  certain  to  result  in 
blindness.  Today  a  cure  is  possible, 
and  Sal  has  not  let  his  spirit  flag. 
Bravely,  perhaps  even  a  little 
foolishly,  he  has  gone  on  working 
harder  than  ever — despite  warnings  that 
he  needs  all  his  strength  to 
finally  lick  this  trouble  which  first 
hit  him  7  years  ago. 
Here  now  is  Sal's  own  story  of  his 
fight  to  save  his  sight.  We  thank  him 
for  telling  this  story,  which  may  help 
others— and  we  are  sure  that 
everyone  who  reads  it  will  offer  his 
or  her  own  prayer  for  Sal. 
(Story  begins  on 


Debbie  as  a  Bride 


DARE  SHE  WEAR 
WHITE 

Before  saying  no,  read  the  strange  miracle  of  this  wedding  gown... 


When  the  lovely  photographs  of  Debbie  in  her  new  wedding  dress  arrived,  all  work 
stopped  at  Modern  Screen.  Artists,  writers  and  secretaries  crowded  around  to 
I !  look  and  go  ooh  and  ah — and  then  to  wonder.  "Is  Debbie  marrying  Harry  Karl?"  more  than  one 
person  asked.  "Is  this  the  dress  shell  wear  if  she  does  marry  him?"  "How 
could  she?"  somebody  asked.  "Marry  him  or  not,  she's  been  married  before.  And  a 
bride  doesn't  wear  white — never,  never — when  she  gets  married  a  second  time."  The  gals  around 
the  office  continued  speculating  on  the  problem,  until  finally,  in  order  to  get 
I  them  back  to  work,  our  managing  editor,  Sam,  called  them  into  his  office  to  give  them  the  inside- 
inside  story —  the  story  behind  the  wedding  dress — and  to  ask  them  if,  after  hearing 
the  story,  they  still  felt  that  Debbie  shouldn't  wear  white  at  her  wedding.  (Continued  on  page  68 


ncy  Berg.. •Joan  Blackmail. - •  Joan  Boston 
by  Buyer e. ..Jeanne  Carmen. . .Leslie  Car< 
rguerite  Cha^jraj^  ^  »]^z^c^  Charles . .! 
ck  . .  »RoJmafc_J.jJlBrda .  .Marion 

an  Collins . .  .WggJTHirpSy. . .  Jill  Cor 
tty  Cooper...  Maxmlrmmmtk .  *  Bella  Dar 
oria  DeHaven. . .Marlene  Dietrich. .  .Vide: 

pp  Hamilton. .  .Beverly  Hills. .  .Jennifer 
rrie         MlSS^  Mr n§B .RRlIk 4er .  •  o 


nne  J|i|f|at|  |»fMofcfe|b\|eefer 

aire  Kjf  l]f  WW^^W^W1  Ker: 

i  Lansing. . .Ann  Lynch. .  .Jackie  Lougher, 

tty  Mack...Ginny  Mq1  Iflftw rBfinTlf'^  Maloi 

r 


s  •••Ann  M 
uoSl  Meredith. .  .Debbie 
e  Neyl and. . .Joyce  Nizzari...Kim  Novak 
ise  0,Brien...The  Marquesa  de  Portago 

~rmen  Sev 


Tli  -, 


REACTS,  THEIR  VERY  WEsTilljKS 


t  Taylor. ••June  Tolley. . . Dorothy  to- 
ana  Tr ask. . .Joan  Tyler. . .Gloria  Vanderl 
esday  Weld. . .Melissa  Vies  ton. .  .Nancy  Wh] 


Nancy  Jr.,  Nancy  Sr.,  Juliet 


THESE  WOMEN  ARE 
WAITING,  FRANK-THEIR 
LIVES  ARE  IN  YOUR  HANDS 


■  This  was  going  to  be  a  big  hour  for 
Frank  Sinatra.  He  knew  that. 

He  began  by  loosening  his  tie  and 
looking  around  the  living  room  of  his 
Las  Vegas  hotel  suite. 

His  ex- wife  sat  just  across  from  him. 

His  daughter,  Nancy  Jr.,  and  Tom- 
my Sands,  who'd  come  with  Nancy 
Sr.,  sat  on  a  small  couch  to  his  left. 

"Well,"  Frank  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment, breaking  the  silence,  "what's 
the  case,  and  who's  the  first  witness?" 

The  other  three  laughed  a  little, 
nervously. 

"You  know  what  we  came  for, 
Daddy,"  said  Nancy  Jr. 

"I  do?"  asked  Frank. 

"I  told  you  on  the  phone  yester- 
day, from  California,"  the  girl  said. 
"Tommy  and  I — we  want  to  get 
married." 

"And — "  Tommy  started  to  say. 

But  he  gulped  and  stopped. 

"And,"  Nancy  Sr.  took  over  for 
him,  "they  want  your  permission  of 
course,  Frank." 

Frank  Sinatra  nodded,  slowly. 

"Okay—"  he  said. 

The  others  (Continued  on  page  60) 


first  trip 
at 


he  fantastic  secret  castle 

id  Bob,  the  mad  young  milium 


By  LouellaJPa^sons 


■  Natalie  Wood  and  Bob  Wagner 
have  passed  their  second  milestone 
— having  reached  two  years  and 
two  months  (as  this  is  written)  of 
marriage  with  their  romantic  love 
still  burning  brightly,  even  if  she 
does  call  him  "old  R.J."  and  he 
calls  her  "Nat."  "How  about  these 
so-called  difficult  first  years?"  I 
asked  the  lovebirds  as  we  sat  in  the 
colorful  playroom  of  their  elaborate 


new  house — and  I  mean  elaborate! 
"That  first- year  stuff  is  all  non- 
sense," said  Bob.  "All  you  have  to 
do  is  use  a  little  common  sense.  Why 
should  the  first  year,  even  though 
it  is  a  period  of  adjustment,  be  any 
different  from  the  second  or  any  of 
the  years  that  follow?  Who  started 
this  business  that  the  beginning  of 
marriage  has  to  be  rough— or  that 
scenes  {Continued  on  next  page) 


"This  girl  I've  known  so  long,  who  always 
went  in  for  comfort  and  simplicity,  as  did 
her  beloved  'old  R.  J.,'  sounded  so  serious 
and  'wealthy'  I  couldn't  help  but  laugh." 


ENDSYILLE 


continued 


How  do  you  get  to  Endsville?  Well,you  take  your 
Rolls-Royce  and  go  by  way  of  the  bank.  Then 
ask  any  ancient  Greek.  When  you  see  no  more 
beatniks,  you're  there!  You'll  know  it.  It's  way  out. 

or  bad  temper  are  to  be  excused  on  the  grounds  of  'Oh,  well — it's  their  first 
year — they'll  get  over  it.'  Why  start  anything — then  you  don't  have  to  get  over 
it!"  Natalie,  who  looked  like  a  doll  in  coral  silk  slacks  that  matched  the  shutters, 
nodded  her  dark  head  in  agreement  with  her  husband's  philosophic  comments. 
I  had  accepted  the  invitation  of  the  Wagners  to  visit  them  and  have  a  look  at 
the  mansion  that  the  combined  salary  checks  of  Natalie  and  Bob  have  bought. 
There  is  no  other  home  like  it  in  Beverly  Hills — or  probably  anywhere  else. 
What  they  purchased  was  an  English  Colonial.  What  it  will  be  when  they  get 
through  with  it  is  something  best  described  by  the  Wagners.  "When  the  re- 
modeling is  complete  it  will  be  along  the  lines  of  Greek  revival,"  said  Natalie 
knowingly.  "Greek  revival!"  I  said,  trying  not  to  show  my  ignorance.,  "What's 
that?"  "Well,"  answered  Natalie,  "our  decorator,  Dewey  Spriegel,  says  the 
early  Greeks  and  Italians  had  the  most  beautiful  homes  of  all — and  livable  and 
perfect  for  the  climate  of  Southern  California.  The  next  time  you  visit  us  you 
won't  even  recognize  the  present  architecture.  By  that  time  towering  Grecian 
columns  will  front  the  house,  the  landscaping  will  be  formal,  and  there  will 
be  a  feeling  of  open  spaciousness  everywhere."  This  girl  I've  know  so  long,  who 
always  went  in  for  comfort  and  simplicity,  as  did  her  (Continued  on  page  58) 


dear  God  please 


donft  let  him 


The  courageous 


life  of  Lee  Rente 


■  Lee  Remick  rushed  from  the  plane  and  into  the 
waiting  car. 

The  telephone  call  of  just  a  few  hours  ago — those  horrible 
words,  those  painful  words — still  buzzed  in 
her  ears: 

"I'm  a  doctor.  Your  husband's  been  in  an 
accident.  He's  calling  for  you.  There  may  not  be 
much  time.  You'd  better  come  quickly." 
Lee  had  prayed  on  the  plane. 

And  she  prayed  now,  in  the  car. 
The  same  prayer.  Over  and  over  and  over 
again. 

"Dear  God  in  Heaven,"  she  whispered.  "Oh 
God,  please  don't  take  him  away  from 
me  .  .  .  And,  please,  oh  God" — she 
brought  {Continued  on  page  73) 


WHEN 

GIRL 

BECOMES 

A 

WOMAN.... 

Sandra  Dee's  most  intimate 
thoughts  on  her  18th  birthday.. . 


■  The  sun  came  pouring 
brightly  through  Sandra's 
beautiful  bedroom  on  the 
morning  of  April  23  and 
its  rays  bathed  her  sleep- 
ing figure  with  a  golden 
glow. 

Sandra  stirred,  then 


slowly  opened  her  eyes. 

Oh,  what  a  beautiful  day, 
she  thought.  It  couldn't 
be  nicer  if  I'd  ordered  it 
specially. 

She  stretched  out  luxuri- 
ously on  her  white  quilted 
king-sized  bed.  She  knew 


she  should  get  up  and  join 
her  mother  for  breakfast, 
but  she  just  wanted  to 
snuggle  under  the  covers 
a  little  longer. 

When  she  had  retired 
the  night  before,  she  had 
(Continued  on   page  70) 


34 


t 


■  "I  want  to  take  the  children  away," 
Liz  said.  Eddie  put  down  his  morning 
newspaper  and  looked  across 
the  table  at  her  with  a  stunned 
expression.  "What  in  the  world  are 
you  talking  about?"  he  said. 
"I'm  talking  about  this,"  she  said, 
walking  over  to  the  window  of  the 
Park  Lane  Hotel  in  Manhattan, 
and  looking  down  onto  the  concrete 
far  below,  filled  with  bustling 
people  and  traffic. 
(Continued  on  page  54) 


WHERE 
DID  I 

FAIL? 


■  Lucy  opened  one  of  the  huge  closets  in  the  master 
bedroom  of  her  Beverly  Hills  home,  and  tears  began  to 
mist  her  eyes.  Desi's  closet.  Once  filled  with  the  colorful 
sport  shirts  he  loved,  with  the  fine  custom-tailored  suits 
she  had  helped  him  select.  Now  it  was  empty.  Only  that 
morning  the  movers  had  come  to  pack  the  clothes  and 
take  them  away  to  where  Desi  was  now  living.  Watching 
the  men  walk  down  the  stairs  carting  the  clothes  away, 
Lucille  felt  as  though  she  were  watching  them  carry  away 
the  last  visible  remains  of  her  marriage. 

It  had  not  seemed  so  final  until  this  moment.  Now, 
suddenly,  she  saw  how  very  much  over  it  all  was.  The 
marriage,  the  way  of  life,  her  dreams  and  her  hopes  and 
her  love.  That  great,  overwhelming  love  she  had  for  Desi 
that  had  kept  her  going  for  so  many  years.  He  was  gone. 
She  felt  chilly  and  shivered.  She  lowered  her  head  and 
found  some  slight  relief  in  the  tears.  They  seemed  to  loosen 
up  the  sadness  tied  up  inside  of  her.  The  memories,  too.  .  .  . 

Sitting  down  weakly  on  the  bed,  she  closed  her  eyes, 
shutting  out  the  present,  recapturing  some  of  those  wonder- 
ful days  of  the  past  when  she  and  {Continued  on  next  page) 


Lucille  Ball's 
own  tragic 
story  of  her 
marriage 


1  f 


WHERE 
DID  I 
FAIL? 


She  gave  him  children,  fame,  and  twenty  years 


4.  But  Desi  was  the  only  one  she 
loved.  She  remarried  him  in  1949. 


2.  Desi  was  in  the  Army.  The  fight  he  was  concen- 
trating on  wasn't  with  the  enemy,  but  with  Lucy. 


3.  The  fights  got  too  bad  and  they  sep- 
arated. Now  Lucy  dated  Peter  Lawford. 


1.  1940.  An  actress  and  a  band- 
leader were  married  by  a  judge. 


5.  It  seemed  they  would  never  have  a 
child,  but  1951  brought  Lucie  Desiree. 


Desi  were  married,  before  Desi  grew  cold. 

"Where  have  I  failed?"  she  asked  her- 
self. "I  loved  him  so.  Did  I  love  him  too 
much  .  .  .  ?" 

With  a  slight  start,  she  recalled  that 
several  of  her  friends  had  accused  her  of 
that.  It  had  first  been  thrown  up  to  her 
long  ago,  soon  after  she  and  Desi  were 
married.  Something  a  friend  had  said  to 
her  shortly  after  she  and  Desi  were  settled 
in  their  first  home,  an  Early  American 
house  in  the  Valley.  What  was  it?  Yes,  it 
was  that  time  when  she  was  telling  her 


friend  what  had  happened  the  night  before. 
She  had  thought  it  very  delightful,  very 
cute.  Everything  Desi  did  was  delightful 
and  cute.  The  friend  had  come  by  that 
afternoon  and  had  noticed  how  tired 
Lucy  was. 

Lucy  laughed  and  admitted  that  she  was 
tired.  "Do  you  know  what  happened?" 
she'd  said  to  the  friend.  "The  funniest 
thing.  In  the  middle  of  the  night — oh,  it 
must  have  been  around  4:00  or  5:00  in  the 
morning — Desi  woke  up  and  said  to  me, 
'Honey,  please  get  (Continued  on  page  71 ) 


r$  of  her  life  -  what  more  could  a  woman  give  ? 


8.  And  I  Love  Lacy  became  the  biggest  moneymaker  in  TV. 


6.  1953  brought  a  second  miracle,  the  birth  of 
the  son  they  longed  for.  They  named  him  Dor,; 


L  Lacy  fought  everybody  to  get  Desi  onto 
her_new^show— nobody  else  wanted  him. 


10.  She  had  given  him  children, 
wealth,  and  20  years  of  her  life. 


9.  They  bought  an  entire  studio.  Lucy 
gave  out  the  word,  "Desi's  the  boss." 


The  story  of  Trish 
our  game  little 
premature  baby 


■  Richard  Egan  had  waited  a  long  time  to 
marry.  He  was  in  his  thirties  when  he  pro- 
posed to  pretty  Pat  Hardy  of  the  moonlit  hair 
and  Irish  blue  eyes. 

But  once  he  had  carried  Patricia  over  the 
threshold  of  his  sprawling,  modern  home  in 
Brentwood,  he  decided  it  would  be  a  good  idea 
to  get  started  on  a  family  as  soon  as  nature 


would  permit.  "All  the  playing  around's  been 
done,"  he  said.  "The  bachelor  living  is  over. 
I  want  to  dig  in  as  a  father  as  well  as  a  hus- 
band. I  can  take  care  of  a  family.  No  sense 
waiting." 

Patricia  felt  the  same  way.  Every  month  she 
hoped  to  become  pregnant.  It  seemed  like  for- 
ever to  her  before  she  had  the  first  indications 


that  a  baby  would  be  on  its  way.  It  was  the  him  "Doc."  Happy  plans  were  made  for  the 

day  before  Father's  Day  last  year  that  the  doc-  baby,  due  in  February. 

tor  gave  her  the  good  news.  Although  bursting         They'd  come  home  from  a  big  Christmas 

to  tell  Rich,  she  kept  the  secret  to  herself  all  party  at  the  Walter  Wangers'  late  at  night 

that  day.  The  following  morning,  Richard  found  when  Patricia  began  to  have  cramps, 
an  elaborate  Father's  Day  card  under  his  cof-         "It  must  be  the  rich  food.  After  all,  it 

fee  cup.  "To  be  cashed  in  next  year,"  it  read,  couldn't  possibly  be  the  baby.  The  nursery  isn't 
and  he  almost  choked  on  his  toast.  ready,"  she  protested  with  a  desperate 


hildless  and  discontent,  at  56 


Gary  Grant 


las  dared  to  submit  himself  to  controver- 


sial medical  treatment— a  mysterious  new 


Irug  called 


L.  S.  D. 


which  intensifies  the 


motions  and  unlocks  hidden  desires.  Under 


L.S.D.  Cary  says  he  is  now  ready  to  fall  in  love 


for  the  first  time  in  his  life . . .  Here  is  the  ex- 


traordinary account  of 


THE  LOVE  DRUG 


i  On  that  most  impor- 
ant  day  of  his  life, 
-lmost  two  years  ago, 
'ary  Grant  walked  pur- 
>osefully  to  his  room, 
losed  the  door,  and  sat 
lown  to  take  stock  of 
ds  life.  He  had  to  know, 
learly,  realistically,  what 


his  years  had  meant  to 
him,  and  what  he  felt 
about  his  future.  Because 
he  was  about  to  make 
the  greatest  decision  he'd 
ever  made,  and  no  one 
could  help  him  make  the 
choice.  He  had  never,  in 
his  lifetime,  felt  so  alone. 


He  was  past  fifty;  he 
was  a  rich  man;  he  was 
a  star  very  much  in  de- 
mand, with  salary  and 
terms  of  his  own  asking ; 
he  was  adored  by  women, 
teen-agers  and  grand- 
mothers ;  he  was  idolized 
everywhere ;  he  was  wel- 


come in  palaces  and 
aboard  yachts;  he  was 
an  international  symbol 
of  male  elegance.  Yet  all 
this  had  brought  no  hap- 
piness, and  he  was  facing 
it,  painfully,  now.  That 
suave  charmer  the  fans 
(Continued  on  pape  66) 


ONE 
LITTLE 


by  Helen  Weller 


■  Why  was  Cheryl  Crane,  Lana  Turner's 
daughter,  taken  out  of  Beverly  Hills 
High— out  of  her  grandmother's  lovely 
^^^^         home  in  Beverly  Hills— out  of  a 

1  f  M  ~*  'normal'  atmosphere — to  be  com- 
^      m  mitted  to  a  State  institution 

m     m  for  wayward  girls,  El  Retiro  School? 

^    ^™  I  spoke  to  many  people,  in- 

cluding the  head  probation  officer  of 
the  County  of  Los  Angeles. 

He  told  me:  "There  was  no  one  specific 
incident  that  made  us  decide  to  send  Cheryl  to 
El  Retiro.  She  did  not  commit  a  specific 
misdeed.  It  was  only  that  living  in  the 
outside  world  had  become  very  diffi- 
k  cult  for  her.  She  was  being  reminded  again 

and  again  of  that  terrible  episode  in  her 
W  life  (the  stabbing)  and  these  reminders 

were  having  a  terrible  effect  on  her.  No 
one  could  have  taken  it,  least  of  all  a  sixteen- 
year-old  girl. 

"Cheryl  is  a  growing  girl — sixteen  going  on 
seventeen  (she  will  be  17  in  July).  She  is 
passing  through  the  most  difficult  years  of  her 
life.  We  felt  she  could  no  longer  be  exposed 
to  the  finger-pointing,  made  directly  or  in- 
directly. It  might  have  ruined  her 
forever.  Cheryl  {Continued  on  next  page) 


Probation  officer  Car-hoD 

Jeanette  Muhlbach  Robert  Martin  Gunn 


Friendless,  homeless, 
exiled  to  grandma's  house, 
guarded  constantly 
by  a  probation  officer, 
Cheryl  escaped  at  night 
to  find  with  car-hop  Bob  Gunn 
affection  and  solace 
no  one  else  could  offer. .  . 


had  been  completely  ex- 
onerated by  a  coroner's 
jury  of  the  stabbing.  She 
had  been  cleared  by  the 
court  of  any  intent  to 
commit  a  crime.  Because 
of  her  youth,  she  was 
made  a  ward  of  the  court. 
The  court  placed  her  in 
the  home  of  her  grand- 
mother, Mrs.  Mildred 
Turner  (Lana's  mother). 
Everyone  tried  to  co-oper- 
ate— the  grandmother, 
Lana  Turner,  the  father, 
Steve  Crane  and  Cheryl 
herself.  We  tried  it  that 
way.  But  in  the  end,  it 
didn't  work. 

"Cheryl's  case  has  been 
such  an  extreme  one  that 
the  ordinary  probation- 
ary care  couldn't  handle 
it.  The  slaying  she  had 
been  involved  in  had  made 
the  front  pages  for  months. 
We  had  hoped  that  per- 
mitting Cheryl  to  live 
learly  as  normal  a  life  as 
Continued  on  next  page) 


ONE  LITTLE  GIRL  AGAINST  THE  WORLD  continued 


Inside  the  walls  of  El  Retiro,  tall  oleander  and 
olive  trees  create  an  illusion  of  peace.  Within 
the  rooms,  photos,  dolls,  precious  bits  of  memory, 
remind  each  girl  of  the  lost  bright  world  outside. 


?o 

I 

1 9 

 3> 

possible  would  be  a  good  one  for  her,"  the  probation 
officer  continued.  "So  the  court  allowed  her  to  live  with 
her  grandmother.  She  was  permitted  to  go  to  a  public 
high  school,  Beverly  Hills  High,  where  she  would  associ- 
ate with  teen  age  boys  and  girls. 

"She  also  had  constant  sessions  with  a  psychiatrist 
outside  of  high  school  life.  Her  probation  officer,  Mrs. 
Jeanette  Muhlbach,  met  with  her  very  frequently — more 
times  than  the  probation  officer     {Continued  on  page  61+) 


so 


■HI  i  v  ~~-__JB 

for  a 
slim  waist  and 
flat  tummy 


These  and  more  helpful  exercises, 
all  set  to  your  favorite  music, 
are  recorded  in  Modern  Screen's 
Hollywood  Method  album, 
released  by  RCA  Camden  Records 
($1.98  Monaural,  $2.98  Stereo 
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with  step-by-step  pictures, 
for  12  slim  'n  trim  exercises, 
is  included  with  the  album. 
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for  a  l 
pretty  chin 
and  throat  line 


6 


Why  Liz  Is  Taking  the 


(Continued  from  page  36) 

Eddie  got  up  and  stood  beside  her  and 
looked,  too. 

"What  do  you  see?"  Liz  asked. 

"New  York — Park  Avenue,"  Eddie  said. 
"Your  favorite  city — your  favorite  street. 
.  .  .  And  mine,"  he  added. 

"But  is  this  the  right  kind  of  place  for  the 
children?"  Liz  asked. 

Before  Eddie  had  a  chance  to  answer, 
she  went  on: 

"Eddie,  why  kid  ourselves — it's  not  right 
for  them  .  .  .  It's  not  right,  first,  that 
they  should  be  cooped  up  in  a  hotel  suite 
most  of  the  time.  That  when  they  go  out — 
for  a  walk  up  the  street,  just  to  get  some 
fresh  air  and  some  color  in  their  cheeks — 
they  have  to  go  with  a  nurse  and  not  with 
us,  or  else  they  may  get  mobbed  .  .  . 
That's  not  right,  is  it?" 

Eddie  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said. 

"And  it's  not  right,"  Liz  went  on,  "that 
they  live  in  a  place  where  there's  no 
chance  for  them  to  make  any  friends  .  .  . 
Who,  Eddie,  who  was  their  best  friend 
these  past  few  months  here?" 

"Jimmy?"  Eddie  asked. 

"Yes,  Jimmy — the  bellhop,"  Liz  said. 
"And  what  did  they  do  last  week  when  he 
told  them  he  was  quitting,  that  he'd  gotten 
a  better  job  at  the  Waldorf.  They  cried 
their  eyes  out  for  two  days,  didn't  they?" 

Eddie  nodded. 

"And  Nature,  or  the  natural  life  that 
children  love  and  need,  or  'The  Outdoor 
Bit,'  whatever  it's  called,"  Liz  said, 
" — trees,  grass,  flowers,  grounds  to  play  on, 
sunshine  that  doesn't  necessarily  come 
through  a  twelfth-floor  window  pane  .  .  . 
they  don't  get  any  of  that  here,  do  they, 
Eddie?" 

"Huh-uh,"  Eddie  said. 

"They  certainly  do  not,"  Liz  said.  "And 
besides" — she  bit  her  lip — "I  didn't  want  to 
tell  you  this,  I  didn't  want  you  to  worry. 
.  .  .  But  yesterday,  I  was  standing  here,  at 
this  window,  just  looking  down.  .  .  .  And  I 
saw  the  children,  the  three  of  them  coming 
back  from  a  walk  with  the  Nurse.  They 
were  crossing  there" — she  pointed  down  to 
the  wide  avenue — "and  they  were  halfway 
across  when  this  taxi  came  zooming 
towards  them.  As  if  it  were  out  of  control. 
.  .  .  And  for  a  second.  .  .  .  And  for  a  sec- 
ond— " 

She  stopped. 

A  great  idea 

"Honey,"  Eddie  said,  after  a  moment, 
putting  his  arm  around  her,  "I  just  had  a 
great  idea.  .  .  .  What  do  you  say  we  leave 
this  town  and  move  ourselves  up  to  the 
country?" 

Liz  looked  up  at  him. 

She  smiled  first. 

And  then,  she  began  to  laugh. 

"Eddie,"  she  said,  "a  place  of  our  own, 
in  the  country — do  you  know  how  nice 
that's  going  to  be?  A  house,  some  land, 
trees,  fresh  air,  a  babbling  brook — " 

"A  what?"  Eddie  asked. 

"I've  got  a  mad  thing  for  babbling 
brooks,  all  of  a  sudden,"  Liz  said,  " — and 
that's  the  one  thing  I  want  for  me  .  .  .  All 
right?" 

"Sure,"  Eddie  said.  Then  he  took  Liz' 
hand  and  led  her  from  the  dining  room  to 
the  breakfast  room  next  door,  where  the 
children — Mike  Jr.,  seven;  Christopher,  six; 
and  Liza,  nearly  three — were  finishing 
their  morning  meal. 

"Kids — "  he  called  out,  "big  announce- 
ment time!"  He  told  them  of  his  and  Liz' 
decision  to  look  for  a  place  in  the  country, 
asked  if  the  idea  was  okay  with  them  (they 
54  okayed  it  enthusiastically),  and  then  he 


Children  Away 


said,  "Now,  as  long  as  this  is  Saturday 
morning  and  we've  got  nothing  planned, 
what  do  you  say  we  all  hop  into  the  car, 
drive  up  to  Connecticut  and  have  a  look 
around? 

"Before  we  go,  though,"  he  added,  "one 
thing  more —  Since  we're  all  going  to  have 
to  live  in  this  place  we  choose,  I  want  to 
make  it  clear  that  the  choice  has  to  be  by 
unanimous  vote." 

He  pointed  to  himself:  "I've  got  to  like 
it,"  he  said. 

He  pointed  to  Liz:  "Mom  has  to  like  it." 

To  Mike:  'You." 

To  Chris:  "You." 

And  to  Liza:  "And  you — we've  all  got  to 
like  it." 

"How  about  Matilda?"  little  Liza  asked, 
pointing  to  a  pet  monkey  who'd  just  tod- 
dled into  the  room.  "Does  she  have  to  like 
it,  too?" 

Eddie  bent  and  hugged  the  girl.  "As  long 
as  you're  there,  sweetheart,  and  as  long  as 
we  keep  buying  Matilda  bananas,  she'll 
like  it,  don't  worry  about  that,"  he  said. 

The  others  laughed. 

"Okay,"  said  Eddie,  looking  down  at  his 
watch,  "I'd  better  call  an  agent.  .  .  .  Then, 
half  an  hour,  and  we're  off!" 

He  started  to  leave  the  room. 

He  was,  in  fact,  just  about  out  when  he 
turned,  once  more,  to  Liz,  and  asked: 

"Babbling  brook?" 

She  winked. 

"Or  I  won't  vote  yes,"  she  said.  .  .  . 

Estates  and  mansions 

The  agent  Eddie  had  phoned  was  only 
too  delighted  to  serve  the  Fishers,  when  he 
realized  just  who  the  Fishers  were.  "Eliza- 
beth Taylor  and  Edwin  Fisher,  yes,  of 
course,"  he  said,  as  he  got  into  the  car  with 
them,  the  dollar  signs  fairly  popping  onto 
his  forehead.  "And  such  an  adorable  little 
brood  of  children,"  he  said,  glancing 
towards  the  back  seat.  "And  a  monkey, 
too,"  he  added,  forcing  his  already  forced 
smile,  " — how  de-lightful.  .  .  !" 

"Now  this  magnificent  estate,"  he  was 
saying,  a  little  while  later,  as  he  showed 
them  all  around  the  first  place  on  his  list, 
"this  is  a  buy  I  doubt  you  will  be  able  to 
resist.  It  is,  in  fact,  one  of  the  great  Con- 
necticut showcases.  .  .  .  The  house — or 
mansion,  as  I  liked  to  call  it — contains 
twenty-three  rooms,  all  of  them  huge,  as 
you  can  see.  You  are  surrounded  by  350 
acres  of  choice  land.  There  is  a  private 
lake,  a  swimming  pool,  a  riding  ring — the 
children  will  treasure  that,  eh?  And  then 
there  are  135,000  spring  trees,  deer  and 
sheep  sheds.  And  the  recent  addition  of  a 
mink  ranch — with  mink,  of  course." 

"Of  course,"  said  Liz. 

"And  how  much  is  this  buy?"  asked 
Eddie. 

"Ahem,"  said  the  agent,  clearing  his 
throat.  He  checked  his  list.  "Exactly  $590,- 
000,"  he  said. 

"Wow,"  said  Mike  Jr.,  who  happened  to 
be  standing  close  by  at  this  point.  "That 
sure  sounds  like  a  lot  of  money  to  me  .  .  . 
And  besides,  it  wouldn't  get  my  vote  any- 
way, even  if  it  were  a  whole  lot  cheaper." 

"Why  not?"  Liz  asked. 

"It's  too  big,"  the  boy  said.  "A  person 
could  get  lost  in  here,  Mom,  and  it'd  take 
a  couple  of  days  to  find  him,  at  least,  I  fig- 
ure." 

"Yeah,"  said  Chris,  seconding  his  broth- 
er's motion.  "Besides,  it's  too  flat  outside. 
And,  long  as  we're  going  to  move,  I  want 
some  hills  for  my  bike." 

"And,"  said  little  Liza,  piping  up,  "me 
and  Matilda  don't  like  it,  neither." 


"Why  not?"  asked  the  agent  this  time. 
"I  dunno,"  Liza  said,  "we  just  don't  like 
it." 

The  agent  looked  from  the  girL  to  her 
monkey,  astounded;  then  up  at  Liz  anc 
Eddie. 

"I  guess,"  said  Liz,  "that  this  isn't  it — 
right,  Eddie?" 

"Right,"  said  Eddie. 

"Ahem,"  said  the  agent,  "so  I  can  see.  .  . 
Well,"  he  said  then,  forcing  back  his  smile 
again,  "we  have  other  places,  lots  of  others 
to  show.  The  Cranshaw  estate — naturally 
the  swimming  pool  with  the  lucite  covei 
cost  $250,000  alone.  The  Gruenther  estate- 
one  hundred  acres,  a  twenty-one  room 
main  house,  several  ten-room  guest 
houses,  two  tennis  courts,  a  seven-car  ga- 
rage— only  $625,000.  The  LaSalle  estate— 
ah,  the  LaSalle  estate,  with  a  marvel,  e 
true  marvel,  a  half-acre  hothouse,  pat- 
terned after  an  actual  patch  of  tropicam 
in  the  Hervy  Islands,  with  copra  growing 
real  coconut  trees,  citrus,  orchids — surelj 
the  monkey,  at  least,  will  appreciate  that— 
with  mangoes  and  guava,  papaya  and  pas- 
sion fruit — "  And  on  and  on  he  went. 

And  on  and  on  they  all  went  for  the  re 
mainder  of  that  morning  and  part  of  th< 
afternoon,  looking  at  estate  after  estate 
marvel  after  marvel,  the  agent  always  stat- 
ing he  hoped,  ahem,  that  this  place  was  th< 
place,  his  hopes  always  dashed  immedi- 
ately by  the  three  children  who  votec 
everything  down  moments  after  he'd  fin 
ished  making  his  high-class  pitch. 

The  country  man 

And  on  and  on  this  might  well  still  b  I 
going,  weeks  later,  were  it  not  for  the  care 
taker  at  one  of  the  last  places  on  th  a 
agent's   list   that   Saturday   afternoon — 
very  old  man,  "a  country  man,"  as  he  de 
scribed  himself,  "who  gets  into  the  ac  j 
when  he's  not  wanted  sometimes,  but  wh 
can't  help  trying  to  help  people  who  nee  < 
it  when  he  can.  .  .  ." 

"Now,"  he  said,  getting  into  the  ac 
much  to  the  agent's  annoyance,  "it  looks  t 
me  like  what  you  folks  are  seeking  is 
more  intimate  place  than  this  here  cav- 
ern—  A  place  where  you  can  enjoy  your 
selves,  where  the  kids  here  'specially  ca 
have  a  good  time. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "  'bout  two  mile  fror 
here  is  just  that  place.  Smallish.  But  lovel 
as  you  can  imagine,  with  character,  anj 
history,  and  a  whole  spirit  about  it  tha 
says  'Hello,  folks,  how  are  you  ...  It  surf 
is  nice  to  see  you!' " 

"What,"  asked  the  agent,  "is  the  name  q 
this  estate?" 

"Ain't  an  estate,  Mister,"  said  the  oloj 
timer,  "and  ain't  got  no  name  .  .  .  It's  jus 
a  house  I'm  talking  about." 

"And  do  you  represent  the  owner  in  th 
transaction?"  the  agent  asked  then,  begin 
ning  to  fume. 

"Sure,"  said  the  oldtimer,  "anybod 
around  here  wants  to  show  it,  does  .  . 
And  gets  a  flat  five  percent  on  the  sale  if  r 
makes  it,  too." 

He  turned  back  to  Liz  and  Eddie. 

"Like  I  was  saying,"  he  went  on,  "it's  gr 
a  spirit  about  it,  this  house.  And  it's  g< 
good  solid  land  around  it.  And  there's  rooi 
for  one  and  all  to  have  fun,  inside  and  ou 
smallish  as  it  is.  And  come  the  summe 
there's  this  brook  down  the  properl 
apiece — " 

"A  brook?"  interrupted  Liz. 

"Nothing  wrong  with  having  a  brook  c 
your  property,  is  there?"  asked  the  ok 
timer. 

"No,"  Liz  said.  "I  was  just  wondering- 
I  mean,  does  it  babble,  this  brook?" 

"Of  course  it  does,"  said  the  oldtime 
"Who  ever  heard  of  a  brook  that  dor 
babble?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "I  ain't  got  all  day 


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stand  around  here  and  talk  to  you  people, 
nice  as  you  seem  to  be.  So  if  you  want  to 
see  the  house,  let's  go.  If  not,  it's  been  a 
pleasure  meeting  you  .  .  .  Well?" 

Liz  nodded.  "I'd  like  to  see  it,"  she  said. 

"So  would  I,"  said  Eddie. 

They  looked  over  at  the  agent.  "You 
don't  mind,  do  you,  sir?"  Eddie  asked. 

The  agent  swallowed  hard.  "Not  at  all, 
Mr.  Fisher,"  he  said.  "Ahem — as  long  as 
there'll  be  time  for  me  to  show  you  a  few 
other  properties  I  have  on  my  list  after- 
wards." 

"Time,"  said  the  oldtimer.  "To  every- 
thing there  is  a  season,  Mister,  and  a  time 
to  every  purpose  under  the  heaven.  That's 
from  Ecclesiastes.  Means  there's  plenty  of 
time  for  you  to  try  to  make  your  commis- 
sion, for  me  to  try  to  make  mine." 

"One-line  Bible  quoters,"  the  agent  mut- 
tered, loud  enough  for  everyone  to  hear. 

Ignoring  him,  the  oldtimer  clapped  his 
hands. 

"Now  come  on,  kids,  and  you  too,  mon- 
key," he  said,  looking  down  at  the  little 
group  that  had  gathered  around  him  these 
past  few  minutes.  "It'll  be  too  crowded 
if  we  all  pile  into  that  Caddy  there.  What 
I  suggest  is  the  big  folks  follow  in  the 
Caddy.  And" — pointing  to  his  car,  a  relic, 
almost  as  old  as  he — "me  and  the  kids  and 
the  monkey  take  my  old  gal  over  there 
and  lead. 

"So  come  on,  let's  go,  before  I  talk  my- 
self blue  in  the  face.  Because  he  that 
hath  knowledge  spareth  his  words." 

He  faced  the  agent  once  more. 

"One-line  Bible  quoter,  indeed,"  he  said, 
as  Liz  and  Eddie  tried  hard  to  hold  in 
their  laughter.  .  .  . 

A  house  that  says,  "Howdy" 

The  children  hadn't  seemed  impressed 
with  the  house.  Or  else  why  would  they 
have  barely  looked  at  it  before  running 
off  somewhere  to  play? 

And  the  agent — he'd  even  refused  to 
step  foot  inside  the  place  once  he'd  seen 
it,  preferring  to  remain  on  the  porch, 
"until,"  as  he'd  said,  "you  are  ready  to 
rejoin  me  on  our  tour  of  our  State's 
more  livable  domiciles." 

And,  to  tell  the  truth,  even  Liz  and 
Eddie  were  sorry  they'd  said  they'd  look 
at  the  house  at  first  because,  well,  because 
it  was,  now  that  they  saw  it,  a  very  plain 
old  house  that  might  have  been  very  lovely 
in  its  day  ...  a  couple  of  hundred  years 
ago  .  .  .  but  that  certainly  had  little  to 
recommend  it  now. 

In  fact,  it  was  only  the  oldtimer  who 
seemed  to  be  impressed  with  the  whole 
thing;  who,  as  he  proudly  showed  the 
Fishers  around,  seemed  to  become  nearly 
transported  by  something  wonderful  that 
neither  Liz  nor  Eddie,  much  as  they  tried, 


The  Story  of  Trish 

(Continued  from  page  42) 

the  night.  When  he  discovered  that  Pa- 
tricia wasn't  in  bed  he  got  up  and  found 
her  lying  on  the  living  room  floor,  curled 
up  in  pain.  "It's  false  labor.  It  will  go  away. 
Don't  bother  the  doctor  at  this  hour, 
please.  .  .  ." 

Richard  sat  down  to  keep  her  company, 
and  took  out  the  book  on  pregnancy  they 
kept  handy.  Opening  to  a  certain  chapter, 
his  eyes  on  the  book,  he  asked  her  casu- 
ally: "Do  you  have  a  pain  now?" 

"Yes." 

A  few  minutes  later. 
"And  one  now?" 
"Yes." 

Richard  jumped  up. 


could  somehow  really  put  their  finger  on. 

"Just  look,"  he  said  at  one  point,  as 
the  three  of  them  entered  a  first-floor  room 
which,  he  pointed  out  to  them,  was  the 
kitchen.  "Have  you  ever  seen  anything 
more  homey?  .  .  .  Naturally,  it's  a  bit 
old-fashioned.  And  those  brown  walls 
don't  help  any.  And,  anyone  who  moves 
in  is  going  to  have  to  spend  a  few  dollars 
to  get  rid  of  that  old  ice-box  there  and 
change  that  sink  and  make  some  replace- 
ments. But  I  mean,  folks,  have  you  ever 
seen  a  room  in  your  life  that  said,  'I'm 
a  real  kitchen,  folks' — like  this  one  does?" 

"No,"  Liz  and  Eddie  both  had  to  admit, 
"we  haven't." 

"And,"  said  the  oldtimer,  showing  them 
the  living  room,  "sure  there's  a  few  cracks 
in  the  walls  here — but  plaster  'em  up  and 
paint  'em  over  and  they  won't  bother  you 
no  more.  And  that  done  with,  can  you 
imagine  what  this  room  could  be  like — 
the  beauty  of  it,  the  honest-to-goodness 
beauty  of  it?" 

"No,"  both  admitted  again. 

For  the  next  half  hour  or  so,  the  old- 
timer  continued  showing  them  through 
the  house  .  .  .  carefully,  slowly  .  .  .  not 
missing  a  thing  .  .  .  snowing  them  the 
upstairs,  the  downstairs,  the  cellar,  the 
attic  .  .  .  apologizing  at  times  for  some 
of  the  obvious  imperfections,  but  assuring 
them  that  with  a  few  changes  those  im- 
perfections could  be  easily  corrected. 

"Well,"  he  said,  when  the  grand  tour 
was  over,  " — how  do  you  like  it?" 

Neither  Eddie  nor  Liz  answered.  They'd 
been  whispering  between  themselves  all 
during  the  tour — wondering  just  how  they 
were  going  to  tell  this  good  old  man  that 
they  couldn't  possibly  take  the  place. 

When  the  old  man  smiled,  suddenly, 
and  said,  "I  know,  it  fairly  takes  your 
breath  away,  the  whole  thing — don't  it? 

"And — "  he  started  to  say. 

But  he  stopped,  as  the  front  door  opened 
and  as  the  children— Mike  Jr.  and  Chris 
and  Liza,  with  Matilda — came  running  into 
the  room. 

"Mommy  .  .  .  Eddie — we  just  voted  yes," 
shouted  Mike,  excitedly.  "This  is  the  place 
we  want  to  take." 

"You  what?"  Eddie  asked. 

"Mike,  children,"  Liz  said,  "you  haven't 
even  seen  the  house  yet." 

"That  doesn't  matter,  Mommy,"  Mike 
said. 

"No,"  agreed  Chris. 
"No,"  said  Liza. 

"You  see,"  Mike  explained,  "when  we 
were  playing  before,  the  three  of  us  and 
Matilda,  we  saw  a  house  next  door,  through 
the  trees.  So  we  decided  to  go  have  a  look 
at  it.  We  thought  it  might  be  haunted 
or  something — like  this  one  looked  .  .  . 
And  guess  what?" 


"Holy  smoke,  that's  not  false  labor. 
You're  about  to  have  your  baby,  darling. 
That's  what  the  book  says  here." 

"That's  ridiculous,  darling,"  said  Patricia 
weakly.  "It  can't  be.  .  .  ." 

By  this  time  Richard  was  on  the  phone 
talking  to  Dr.  Aaberg. 

Happy  hearts  and  empty  arms 

The  doctor  ordered  Richard  to  take  her 
to  St.  John's  in  Santa  Monica  immediately. 
He  bundled  her  up  in  the  brand  new  mink 
coat  he  had  given  her  for  Christmas  only 
the  day  before.  Driving  to  the  hospital,  he 
tried  to  whistle  to  prove  how  calmly  he 
was  taking  the  whole  thing.  The  whistle 
stuck  in  his  throat.  Patricia  put  her  hand 
on  his.  "Don't  worry,  darling.  I'll  be  all 
right.  You'll  see.  They'll  send  me  right 
home.  It  just  can't  be.  Not  for  two 
months.  .  .  ." 

She  was  rushed  into  the  labor  room  im- 


"It  was?"  asked  Eddie,  grinning  at  them. 

"Nooooo,"  said  Mike.  "There  were  people 
living  there.  Real  live  people.  A  mommy, 
and  a  daddy — and  a  whole  bunch  of  kids." 

"Three  boys,"  said  Chris. 

"And  a  girl,"  said  Liza. 

"That's  right,"  Mike  said.  "And  do  you 
know  what?" 

"I  can  guess,"  Liz  said,  sighing.  "You 
all  started  to  play  together." 

"That's  right,"  the  children  said. 

"And  you  had  lots  of  fun,"  said  Liz. 

"That's  right." 

"And,"  said  Eddie  now,  "it  felt  good 
having  other  kids  to  play  with." 
"That's  right." 

"And — you  told  them  we  might  buy  this 
house  here,  next  door,  and  that  if  we  did, 
then  you  could  be  their  friends  and  play 
with  them  lots  and  lots  more  times." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Mike  Jr.,  shaking  his 
head.  "We  told  them" — he  looked  down 
suddenly  and  said  the  rest  softly — "that 
we  already  did  buy  it  .  .  .  and  that  we're 
going  to  move  in." 

Chris  and  little  Liza  looked  down  now, 
too. 

"That's— right,"  Chris  said.  "That's  what 
we  told  them." 

"Because,"  said  Liza,  "they  liked  us — 
and  Matilda — so  much." 

Liz  and  Eddie  turned  and  faced  one 
another. 

"Oy,"  said  Eddie. 

"Double  oy,"  said  Liz. 

"It's  really  a  nice  place,  like  I  told  you," 
the  oldtimer  said  at  this  point.  "All  you 
need's  a  couple  of  coats  of  paint  and  a 
little  fixin'  here  and  there — " 

Liz  and  Eddie  said  nothing,  not  for  a 
long,  long  while. 

No  one  did,  in  fact. 

Not  until  Mike  Jr.,  obviously  sorry  for 
what  had  happened,  walked  over  to  his 
mother  and  Eddie  and  started  to  say,  "If 
you  want  us  to  change  our  votes — we'll 
understand.   Honest,  we  will." 

Liz  looked  up  from  her  son,  and  back 
over  at  Eddie.  "How  about  it?"  she  asked. 
"I'm  getting  to  like  it" — she  gulped — "little 
by  little." 

"I  am,  too,"  said  Eddie,  slowly. 

"Sold!"  shouted  the  oldtimer,  suddenly. 

"S-sold?"  asked  Liz  and  Eddie,  stut- 
tering in  perfect  unison. 

But  their  question,  their  stuttering,  were 
drowned  out  by  the  happy  shouts  and 
laughter  of  the  children. 

And  so — laughing  themselves,  finally — 
did  Liz  Taylor  and  Eddie  Fisher  realize 
that  they  had  just  bought  themselves  a 
house  in  the  country.  END 

Eddie  and  Elizabeth  both  appear  in 
Butterfield  8,  for  MGM.  Liz  is  also  in 
Cleopatra  for  20th  Century-Fox. 


mediately.  An  unutterably  lonely  feeling 
overwhelmed  her  as  she  lay  there  waiting 
for  the  ordeal  of  bringing  her  baby  into 
the  world.  Suddenly,  she  felt  a  hand — a 
large,  firm  hand — reach  for  hers.  Richard's. 
She  looked  up  at  him  foggily  and  smiled. 
"I'm  with  you,  honey,"  he  said,  his  own 
voice  slightly  shaky.  "Ill  be  right  here." 

Expectant  fathers  are  not  ordinarily  per- 
mitted in  the  labor  room.  Richard  had 
asked  Dr.  Aaberg  to  be  allowed  in.  The 
doctor  hesitated,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
"Okay,  Rich.  I  can  tell  when  a  man  can 
be  sent  into  the  labor  room.  Go  on  in." 

If  Patricia  needed  Richard  beside  her 
as  she  faced  the  moment  of  giving  birth, 
she  needed  him  even  more  after  the  baby 
was  born. 

A  beautiful  baby  girl  with  black  hair 
and  exquisite  doll-like  features,  but  she 
was  a  premature  baby,  and  like  most 
"preemies,"   her  tiny  life  wavered.  She 


was  taken  from  Patricia  and  placed  into 
the  incubator  immediately. 

There  was,  at  first,  the  great  anxiety 
shared  by  Richard  and  Patricia  as  to 
whether  their  baby  would  survive.  After 
the  first  night,  baby  Patricia  Marie  was 
given  a  good  chance.  There  remained  the 
added  anguish  for  Patricia  of  lying  in  bed 
in  the  hospital  and  hearing  the  happy 
noises  in  die  corridor  when  the  other 
babies  were  brought  by  the  nurses  to 
their  mothers,  while  her  own  baby  re- 
mained in  the  incubator.  Patricia's  arms 
felt  intolerably  empty  and  her  body  hun- 
gered for  the  feeling  of  her  baby  pressed 
close  to  her. 

Richard  was  with  her  as  much  as  the 
hospital  would  allow.  The  card  on  the 
three  dozen  long-stemmed  roses  he'd  sent 
Patricia  brought  tears  to  her  eyes:  To 
my  darling  wife — a  game  little  girl.  And 
to  that  game  little  girl  of  ours.  I  love  you 
both.  He'd  look  in  on  the  baby  through 
the  glass  window  of  the  incubator  and 
rush  back  to  Patricia's  room  to  give  her 
reassuring  accounts  of  the  baby's  progress. 

"She's  gained  weight,  I  swear  it.  She's 
a  knockout,"  he  told  her,  and  Patricia's 
face  began  to  brighten.  "She  even  recog- 
nized me.  She  absolutely  did.  Looked 
smack  into  my  eyes  and  winked  straight 
at  me." 

The  house  seemed  strangely  quiet  when 
Patricia  came  home  from  the  hospital. 
The  baby  had  to  remain  in  the  hospital 
nursery  until  she  had  gained  the  proper 
weight. 

"It's  funny,"  Richard  remarked  the  first 
morning  Patricia  was  home,  "we've  lived 
here  for  a  year  and  a  half,  and  suddenly 
it  seems  so  empty  without  the  baby." 

Mornings  he  would  hang  around  the 
gay  yellow  bassinette,  peering  forlornly 
inside.  "Can't  wait  till  that  little  doll's  in 
this,"  he'd  say. 


It  was  on  a  morning  that  they  were 
planning  to  sleep  late  that  the  phone  rang. 
They'd  stayed  up  late  the  night  before  at 
a  party.  Richard  had  insisted  that  Patricia 
go  to  the  party.  It  had  been  three  weeks 
since  the  baby  was  born,  and  Patricia 
had  been  moping  around  the  house.  Rich- 
ard himself  found  it  hard  at  times  to  pre- 
tend he  wasn't  worried.  At  the  party  they'd 
deliberately  been  the  last  to  leave  in  order 
to  forestall  facing  the  emptiness  in  their 
own  hearts. 

Sunday  special 

Richard  was  groggy  when  he  answered 
the  phone  that  early  Sunday  morning. 
Suddenly  he  sprang  to  life.  "You  mean 
this  morning  ...■'?-" 

Patricia  knew  before  he  told  her,  what 
the  call  was  about.  Only  one  bit  of  news 
could  have  made  Rich  spring  up  so  happily 
and  exclaim,  "It's  a  wonderful  day  today — 
a  wonderful,  wonderful  day." 

He  strode  into  the  hospital,  his  chest 
bigger,  as  he  announced,  "I've  come  to 
get  my  daughter." 

Since  they  had  both  agreed  they  didn't 
— definitely  didn't — want  a  nurse  to  take 
over  the  care  of  their  baby,  Patricia  in- 
sisted upon  sleeping  in  the  same  room 
with  the  baby.  Rich  found  her  making  up 
the  bed  in  the  nursery. 

"What's  going  on  here?"  he  asked. 

"IH  sleep  here  in  the  nursery  with  her 
so  that  you  won't  be  disturbed  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night." 

Rich  looked  hurt. 

"The  baby  will  sleep  in  our  room  with 
us,"  he  announced.  "I  don't  care  if  she 
keeps  me  up  all  night.  I  don't  want  to 
miss  one  minute  of  my  baby.  I've  missed 
enough  time.  .  .  ." 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  Pat  woke  to 
the  soft  chuckling  sounds  of  the  baby.  By 
the  dim  light  of  the  night  lamp  she  saw 


Richard  sitting  in  the  rocking  chair,  sing- 
ing softly  to  the  baby  cupped  gently  in 
the  cradle  of  his  arms. 

He  not  only  takes  pictures  of  Trish 
in  every  position,  asleep,  awake,  on  her 
tummy  or  on  her  back  playing  with  her 
toes,  he  also  has  his  tape  recorder  going 
something  like  twenty-four  hours  a  day 
picking  up  every  sound  she  makes. 

He  holds  the  baby  in  the  crook  of  one 
arm  and  carries  on  the  most  amazing  con- 
versations with  her. 

"Now  see  here,  young  lady,"  he  says 
seriously,  "when  you  start  seeing  one 
young  man  in  particular,  I'd  like  you  to 
let  your  old  man  in  on  it.  I  won't  inter- 
fere, you  understand,  if  it's  the  right  thing, 
but  I  can't  have  a  daughter  of  mine  going 
with  just  any  guy.  .  .  ." 

Trish  looks  up  at  him  very  soberly  out 
of  round  blue  eyes  and  emits  knowing 
gurgles. 

"She  knows  what  I'm  talking  about,  all 
right,"  he  boasts  to  Patricia.  "This  little 
tootsie  roll  knows  exactly  what  her  old 
man  is  saying.  She's  a  very  intelligent 
baby.  .  .  ." 

He  moves  her  bassinette  into  his  dress- 
ing room  as  he  shaves,  and  father  and 
daughter  continue  their  profound  con- 
versations, with  Richard  making  big  talk 
about  the  coming  presidential  election  and 
the  stock  market,  and  Trish  responding 
with  delighted  chortles. 

Patricia  Egan  is  a  very  happy  woman. 
She  looks  at  the  baby  held  so  securely  in 
the  crook  of  Richard's  arm  and  says, 
"There's  the  other  woman  in  my  home. 
And  it's  pretty  obvious  why  she  arrived 
ahead  of  schedule:  she  just  couldn't  wait 
to  be  hugged  and  kissed  by  Richard  Egan!" 

END 

Richard  can  now  be  seen  in  A  Summer 
Place,  Warner  Bros. 


A  squeeze  of  Cuticura  shampoo 
brings  starlight  to  y o  u  r  h  ai  r  /  £k  * 


Just  a  quick  squeeze  of  new  Cuticura  Shampoo— 
you  get  mountains  of  gentle  lather.  A  rinse  of  clear 
water— your  hair  becomes  naturally  luminous,  with 
starry  highlights.  Naturalhj  smooth  with  completely 
manageable  body.  Cuticura  does  far  more  than 
ordinary  shampoos.  Combines  two  kinds  of  cleansers. 
Guards  the  life  of  your  hair  as  it  cleanses,  conditions, 
beautifies.  Goes  twice  as  far— costs  no  more.  Can't 
break— a  joy  for  the  shower,  children,  all  the  family. 


Cuticura 


Wonderful  new  way  to  wash  your  hair! 


Squeeze  Bottle 
SHAMPOO 


Endsville 


(Continued  from,  page  31) 

beloved  "old  R.J.,"  sounded  so  serious 
and  "wealthy"  I  couldn't  help  but  laugh. 

"Well,  get  you,  both  of  you,"  I  chuckled. 
"When  did  this  love  of  elegance  crop  up?" 

"It  really  hasn't  cropped  up,"  Natalie 
smiled.  "Both  Bob  and  I  love  beautiful 
things,  we  always  have — and  we  can  afford 
them.  This  is  our  first  home  and  nothing 
is  going  into  it  that  we  do  not  love  and 
value." 

"But  I've  always  thought  of  you  as  so 
practical,  Natalie,"  I  pursued. 

Up  spoke  R.J.  "But  who  says  valuable 
and  beautiful  things  aren't  practical?  Look 
at  today's  market  for  paintings  and  ob- 
jets  d'art." 

"All  right,  all  right — I  give  up,"  I  con- 
ceded. "From  now  on  just  tell  me  about 
the  lovely  things  you  are  getting — you've 
sold  me!" 

"This  room,"  went  on  Natalie,  indicat- 
ing the  playroom  where  we  were  sitting, 
"is  the  only  one  completed.  It's  to  be  the 
only  informal  room  in  the  house." 

Certainly,  sheer  comfort  and  hospitality 
dominated  this  large  room.  The  color 
scheme  of  the  large  chairs  are  beige,  pale 
green  and  coral,  each  chair  having  its  own 
ottoman.  The  fireplace  has  been  resurfaced 
with  travertine.  "And  there's  always  a  fire 
crackling  there — whether  it's  warm  or  not," 
said  Natalie,  the  proud  home-maker. 

One  whole  wall  is  taken  up  by  a  built- 
in  television,  built-in  radio  and  an  elabo- 
rate hi-fi  set.  An  opposite  corner  is  oc- 
cupied by  a  poker  table  and  chairs.  The 
complete  effect  is  of  color,  comfort  and 
hominess,  including  the  enormous  coral 
divans  with  multi-colored  pillows. 

Said  Bob,  "There's  nothing  in  here  we 
can't  either  lie  on  or  put  our  feet  on." 

"Just  remember  that,"  laughed  Natalie. 
"But  please  come  now  and  let  us  show  you 
the  rest  of  the  place  and  how  it  is  going 
to  be." 

Visualize  the  rest  of  the  house 

We  crossed  the  black  and  white  marble 
entrance  hall  to  a  large  high-ceilinged  for- 
mal living  room  which  was  bare  of  furni- 
ture. 

"But  visualize  this,"  said  Natalie  almost 
bursting  her  buttons  with  enthusiasm. 
"Deep  white  rugs  will  be  placed  over  part 
of  this  black  and  white  marble  floor.  The 
fireplace,  too,  will  be  black  and  white  mar- 
ble. The  walls  will  be  stark  white  and  the 
furnishings  of  vivid  lipstick  red  and  dulled 
gold." 

The  words  were  literally  tumbling  out 
of  Natalie  as  Bob  stood  by  proudly  sec- 
onding her  happiness. 

"One  thing  that  should  interest  you  par- 
ticularly," went  on  the  tiny  Mrs.  Wagner, 
"are  the  wrought  iron  gates  which  will  be 
gold-leafed  and  open  from  the  hall  into 
this  room.  They  were  purchased  from  the 
San  Simeon  estate  of  Mr.  William  Ran- 
dolph Hearst.  Also,  the  really  beautiful 
crystal  chandelier  which  will  center  the 
living  room.  Bob  and  I  treasure  these 
things  so  much,  coming  from  the  estate 
of  such  a  great  man  who  loved  beauty  so 
much  that  his  former  home  is  now  one  of 
the  art  show  places  of  the  world." 

What  a  tug  at  my  heart  it  was  to  re- 
member the  magnificent  San  Simeon  and 
the  many  happy  hours  and  days  I  spent 
as  the  guest  of  my  former  boss,  the  great 
W.R.  Hearst.  I  think  Mr.  Hearst  would  be 
pleased  to  know  that  even  a  few  of  the 
treasures  he  had  searched  the  world  for 
had  come  into  the  possession  of  these  two 
young  people  who  love  them  and  value 
5g   them  so  highly. 


Adjoining  the  living  room,  I  could  see 
an  open,  walled-in  section  which  had 
already  begun  to  be  planted  with  beauti- 
ful foliage  and  unusual  blooms.  I  ven- 
tured, "Is  that  a  lanai?" 

Bob  burst  into  laughter  and  squeezed 
my  hand.  "Well,  it's  the  Grecian  equiva- 
lent of  a  lanai,  and  that's  good  enough. 
It's  actually  an  integral  part  of  what  will 
be  an  indoor -outdoor  garden  room.  During 
the  warm  weather  months — it  will  always 
be  opened.  For  the  cold  weather  there  is 
an  enormous  glass  door  closing  it  off  but 
not  shutting  it  out.  In  addition  to  the 
planting  we  have  two  Greek  statues  with 
orchids  blooming  at  the  base  which  go 
there." 

In  spite  of  my  promise  to  be  good,  I  just 
couldn't  help  gasping:  "But  all  this  must 
be  costing  a  fortune!" 

Natalie  and  Bob  slipped  their  arms 
around  each  other  and  turned  beaming 
faces  on  me.  "Not  a  cent  more  than  our 
business  manager,  Morgan  Maree,  has 
okayed,"  they  chorused  practically  in  uni- 
son. "He  must  think  what  we  are  doing  is 
okay  because  he  won't  usually  give  a  nickel 
where  a  nickel  isn't  due.  Not  even  for  our 
allowances." 

Natalie  started  back  toward  the  play- 
room. "There's  no  need  to  take  you  on  a 
tour  of  the  second  floor — not  enough  to 
show  you.  But  our  room  is  going  to  be  in 
all  shades  of  red  from  the  most  brilliant 
to  the  palest  pink.  And  our  bed  is  a  mas- 
terpiece— it's  eight  feet  wide  and  the  back- 
board is  a  15th  Century  hand-carved  gold 
frame,  another  treasure  from  the  estate  of 
San  Simeon." 

The  bedroom,  in  fact  the  entire  back  of 
the  house,  overlooks  the  only  salt  water 
swimming  pool  in  all  Hollywood! 

Natalie,  the  hostess 

Once  more  seated  in  the  comfortable 
chairs  of  their  "one  room"  ready-to-use, 
Bob  stretched  his  legs  out  toward  the  fire 
as  Natalie  gave  a  gesture  to  bring  in  hors 
d'oeuvres  and  the  makings  for  cocktails. 

Taking  the  platter  of  appetizers  from  the 
maid,  she  served  me  and  Bob,  herself, 
after  taking  a  good  first  look  that  they 
were  prepared  as  she  wanted  them. 

I  couldn't  help  but  be  impressed  by  what 
a  good  and  thoughtful  young  hostess 
Natalie  is.  It  was  a  new  angle  to  her  per- 
sonality and  I'll  admit  I  liked  her  new 
dignity  and  pride. 

She  must  have  caught  my  thought  for 
she  said  suddenly,  "I  hope  you  don't  think 
Bob  and  I  have  been  bragging.  Far  from  it. 
Bob,  of  course,  has  always  had  a  very  nice 
home  when  he  was  growing  up  and  living 
with  his  parents.  But  having  all  these 
beautiful,  exquisite  possessions  is  all  so 
new  to  me.  I'm  so  appreciative  of  every- 
thing— I  hope  it  doesn't  sound  like  boast- 
fulness." 

"It  doesn't,"  I  quickly  assured  my  big- 
brown-eyed  young  friend. 

She  went  on,  "As  you  know,  after  we 
were  married  we  first  lived  in  Bob's  bache- 
lor apartment,  later  in  my  small  apartment, 
and  than  on  our  boat — and  having  this 
wonderful,  wonderful  place  just  seems  like 
a  dream  come  true  to  us." 

"You  wouldn't  be  human  if  it  didn't,"  I 
assured  both  of  them.  "Imagine  being 
young  and  so  in  love  and  having  so  much 
which  you've  built  together.  It's  been  a 
charmed  marriage,  hasn't  it?" 

"It's  been  wonderful  from  the  moment  I 
slipped  that  wedding  ring  on  Nat's  finger," 
Bob  said  seriously;  "But  it  isn't  true  that 
we  haven't  had  some  rough  spots.  Not  be- 
tween us,  you  understand — but  during 
our  first  year  of  marriage  Nat  was  having 
serious  career  trouble." 

He  referred  to  the  year  Natalie  was  on 
suspension  at  Warner  Bros,  and  she  could 
not  accept  any  outside  pictures. 


Bob  went  on,  "It's  a  curious  thing  and  I 
doubt  if  many  people  realize  it — but  at 
that  same  time  when  Natalie  was  out  of 
work,  I  was  working.  Then  there  was  a 
period  when  I  had  a  long  wait  between 
pictures.  There  were  moments  when  we 
were  worried. 

"But  instead  of  our  career  troubles  mak- 
ing a  wedge  between  us — they  brought  us 
closer  together." 

Natalie  interrupted,  "I  can't  imagine 
being  married  to  anyone  who  hasn't  the 
same  interests.  I  never  accept  a  script  with- 
out having  Bob  read  it  and  he  has  never 
agreed  to  do  a  picture  without  getting  my 
advice.  We  both  make  suggestions  and 
while  we  don't  always  agree — each  lis- 
tens attentively  to  the  other." 

This  Garden  of  Eden 

"Don't  you  ever  have  any  good  old 
fashioned  quarrels?"  I  laughed.  There 
must  be  some  disturbing  element  in  this 
luxurious  Garden  of  Eden. 

"Seriously,  not  many,"  Bob  answered. 
"If  you  want  to  know  the  truth  we're 
always  too  busy  to  let  personal  differences 
disrupt  our  lives." 

Natalie  seemed  on  the  verge  of  saying 
something  but  Bob  reached  out  his  hand, 
patting  hers.  "I  just  want  to  say  this:  I 


MARILYN  MONROE'S 

Untold  Story 
by  Louella  Parsons 

watch  for  it  in  next  month's 
MODERN  SCREEN 


on  sale  June 


believe  that  the  woman  is  the  most  impor- 
tant facet  in  married  life.  She  sets  the 
pattern.  She  makes  the  home  and  the  so- 
cial life.  And  in  our  particular  case,  she 
is  a  full  business  partner. 

"I'm  a  lucky  man  to  have  a  wife  who  is 
so  beautiful  and  who  has  a  wonderful  dis- 
position as  well.  You  can't  be  around 
Natalie  for  any  length  of  time  and  feel 
discouraged  or  blue.  Whether  she  is  ac- 
tively conscious  of  it  or  not,  she  has  a 
great  philosophy  of  life.  She  believes  that 
anything  that  happens  to  you  is  enriching — 
and  that  goes  for  the  bad  spots  as  well  as 
the  good  ones.  Add  to  this  her  sense  of 
humor  and,  well — you  have  a  mighty  fine 
girl." 

A  world  of  affection 

It  had  been,  for  Bob,  a  long  "speech."  He 
looked  a  bit  sheepish  because  Natalie  and 
I  had  been  listening  to  him  so  intently. 
But  I  knew  Natalie  was  deeply  touched. 
She  was  absolutely  glowing.  But  what  she 
did  was  typical. 

She  threw  a  pillow  at  him  and  said,  "Oh, 
old  R.J.  How  you  go  on."  But  what  a  world 
of  affection  there  was  in  that  gesture  and 
that  remark! 

It  was  such  a  nice  sentimental  moment 
that  I  was  really  being  facetious  when  I 
said,  "And  does  all  this  'togetherness'  go 
for  when  you  are  working  together  on  a 
picture?"  The  young  Wagners  had  just 


npleted  their  first  co-starring  stint  in 
The  Fine  Young  Cannibals  at  MGM. 
Yup!"  they  both  laughed,  a  la  Gary 
Dper. 

What  about  your  boat?  Are  you  still 

,it-crazy?"  I  wanted  to  know. 

"he  Wagners  had  practically  existed  on 

b's  boat  before  and  right  after  their 

rriage.  But  they  said  they  had  sold  the 

lit. 

Natalie  said,  'We  still  love  the  water  and 
\ts.  But  we  couldn't  have  both  the  boat 
1  the  house.  And  the  house  means  so 
ch  more." 

3ob  laughed,  "But  we're  playing  it 
art.  We  have  good  friends  who  have 
its!  We're  usually  available  for  their 
ek-end  invitations." 
vmong  their  waterfront  pals  are  Claire 
evor  and  her  agent  husband  Milton 
pn  who  have  a  lovely  home  on  popular 

0  Isle.  The  Wagner  boat  used  to  be 
ored  next  to  the  Bren  boat  and  through 
•ir  mutual  love  of  the  water  the  couples 
:ame  good  friends. 

Claire's  an  excellent  artist,  too,"  Natalie 

1  me.  "She  recently  completed  an  oil  of 
b  that  is  really  very  good.  We're  hang- 
it  right  there,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the 

ice  over  the  fireplace. 

Sob  said,  "Well,  go  on.  As  long  as  we're 

ting  our  hair  down  to  Louella  tell  her 

at  else  we  have  acquired  in  the  fine  of 

ntings." 

-.ike  a  small  girl  listing  off  her  most 
zed  Christmas  or  birthday  presents, 
talie  obliged.  "Bob  just  surprised  me 
:h  an  original  Vlaminck — a  really  beau- 
il  thing,  I'm  so  proud  of  it." 
:And  then,  we  enjoy  the  new  young 
ists.  There  is  Walter  Keane,  a  new 
Jiter  Nat  likes  very  much.  We  went  on 
juying  spree  and  bought  several  paint- 
is  of  his.  Both  he  and  his  wife  are  artists, 
orefer  the  wife's  work,  Natalie  prefers 
ane's  paintings  of  children— so  we  set- 
d  this  difference  of  opinion  by  buying 
Teral  of  each!" 

5aid  Natalie  archly,  "Good  investments 
the  future,  you  understand?" 
understood.  I  also  understood  that  these 
o;  "old  R.J."  and  his  Nat  are  two  very 
?py  people  in  this  frequently  unhappy 


[  slipped  my  arms  around  Natalie's  slen- 
r  shoulder  as  they  walked  to  the  door 
th  me.  She's  such  a  little  thing. 
'How  much  do  you  weigh?"  I  asked 

•  -s.  Wagner. 

;   'Ninety-four  pounds,  five-feet-two  and 
"  ;s  of — brown!"  she  chuckled,  paraphras- 
l  the  old  song.  And  Bob  was  about  to 
n  her  in  a  slight  duet  when  there  was 

-  i  loudest  sound  of  barking  I  ever  heard 
;  tside  a  kennel.  Apparently,  other  "mem- 
:  rs"  of  the  Wagner  family  had  heard 

sir  masters'  voices  raised  in  song  and 

■  cided  to  join  in. 

j  Sure  enough,  as  Bob  opened  the  door,  in 

■  iped,  jumped  and  skidded  a  tiny  toy 

-  odle  and  a  big  Labrador  retriever,  both 
6  nping  all  over  Natalie  and  R.J.  in  sheer 
i  light 

•  4bove  the  yelps  and  din,  I  heard  Bob 
/  that  Bing  Crosby  had  given  them  the 
Tiever.  I  didn't  get  much  of  a  chance  to 
ally  view  either  pooch,  including  Mr. 

•  osbys  gift,  as  dog-like,  the  animals  were 
1  w  making  a  race  track  of  the  entire 
f  ver  floor  chasing  each  other,  then  run- 
1  ig  back  to  leap  toward  Bob  or  Natalie. 
i  My  parting  shot  was,  "Is  this  house  ever 

ing  to  be  so  elegant  that  these  dogs  can't 
'-  me  in?" 

'Never!"  said  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robert 
agner  who,  you  can  be  sure,  are  going 
have  a  home  as  well  as  a  mansion  to 
e  in.  END 

Vat  and  Bob  star  in  All  The  Fine  Young 
.nnibals,  for  MGM. 


as  lovely 

Gloria  Grahame 

CO-STARRING  IN  "ODDS  AGAINST  TOMORROW" 

a  Harbel  Production-released  thru  United  Artists 

Be  a  star  beachcomber 
all  summer  long  in 


Other  exciting 
summer  DREAM  STEP  styles 
on  sale  at: 

Schiff's,  GallenKamp's, 
E.  D.  Edwards,  R&H,  R&S, 

Kirby's  (East  of  the  Rockies], 

Big  Shoe  Stores,  Federal's, 
Bamberger's,  Danburg's, 
Mandel's,  Higbee's  or  write 

35  N.  Four  i  St.,  Columbus,  Ohio 


The  Sinatra  Women 


(Continued  from  page  27) 

began  to  smile.  " — Like  I  said,"  he  went 
on,  "who's  the  first  witness  then?"  He 
looked  straight  at  Tommy  as  he  said  that. 
"A  father-in-law  to  be,  if  that's  what  I'm 
going  to  be,  he's  got  to  ask  some  ques- 
tions first  before  he  makes  up  his  mind, 
doesn't  he?" 

"Sure,"  Tommy  whispered,  a  very  hoarse 
whisper. 

"Okay,"  said  Frank.  He  paused.  Then 
he  asked:  "Do  you  love  my  little  girl 
here?" 

"Oh  yes  sir  .  .  .  Frank  .  .  .  Mr.  Sinatra," 
Tommy  said,  sitting  forward  on  the  couch, 
reaching  for  Nancy  Jr.'s  hand.  "I  love  her. 
I  sure  do  love  her." 

Frank  stared  at  the  boy. 

"How  much?"  he  asked. 

"With  all  the  love  that's  in  me,"  Tommy 
said.  "Practically  ever  since  the  first  time 
we  met,  I — " 

Frank  brought  up  his  hand.  "Whoaaaa," 
he  said,  "and  tell  me  about  that;  the  first 
time  you  met, Mr.  Sands.  The  story,  if  you 
please." 

That  first  meeting 

"Well  .  .  ."  said  Tommy,  clutching  at 
Nancy  Jr.'s  hand,  "...  I  was  singing  at 
the  Cocoanut  Grove  and  a  gang  of  young 
people  came  by  one  night  and  I  went  over 
to  their  table  to  say  hi.  Nancy  here  was 
one  of  them.  I  don't  remember  exactly 
any  more  if  we  said  more  than  five  words 
to  each  other  then,  at  that  time. 

"But,"  he  said,  "I  do  remember  that 
when  I  went  back  to  the  bandstand  to  do 
my  next  song,  I  couldn't  take  my  eyes  off 
Nancy.  And  she  couldn't  seem  to  take 
them  off  me  ...  At  least,  that's  what  I 
imagined." 

"You  were  right,  Tommy,"  Nancy  said. 
"I  couldn't." 

"Well,"  Tommy  went  on,  "well,  as  soon 
as  I  finished  singing,  the  group  Nancy  was 
with  got  up  and  left.  And  I  didn't  see 
her  again  for  a  long  while — not  until 
Thanksgiving  time. 

"Then,  around  that  time,  I  met  a  pal  of 
mine,  fellow  named  Buddy,  who'd  been 
with  the  group  that  night  back  at  the 
Grove.  I  happened  to  mention  Nancy  to 
him.  'Seems  like  a  nice  girl,'  I  said. 

"Buddy  said,  'You  been  thinking  about 
her  all  this  time,  from  that  one  night  you 
said  hello?'^ 

"I  said  yes. 

"And  he  laughed  and  said,  "Well,  don't 
waste  your  time,  pal.    She's  going  steady.' 

"I've  got  to  admit  this  made  me  a  little 
sore — the  way  he  laughed.  And  so  I  said, 
'Who's  wasting  time?  I  only  said  she 
seemed  like  a  nice  girl.  I  didn't  say  I 
wanted  to  marry  her.' 

"  'Okay,  okay,'  Buddy  said,  'take  it  easy 
— I  just  wanted  to  clue  you  in,  to  make 
sure  you  knew  the  score.' 

"Well,  about  a  month  passed  after  that. 
The  worst  month  of  my  life,  I  guess.  I 
don't  know  how  to  describe  it  exactly,  ex- 
cept that  I  was  lonely.  I  felt  empty  inside 
me,  like  there  was  something  important. 
I  know  now  it  was  love.  But  even  then  I 
wasn't  sure.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  over  at  Frank  again. 

"Go  ahead,"  Frank  said. 

"And  then,  one  day,  who  do  I  run  into 
again  but  this  fellow  Buddy,  who  says, 
'Say — did  you  hear  about  Nancy  Sinatra? 
She's  not  going  steady  anymore.' 

"That  simple. 

"She — is — not — going — steady — anymore. 
"And  the  rest  of  the  day  it  was  like 
a  new  song  in  my  head,  the  lyrics  spinning 
60  over  and  over  again  in  my  brain. 


"You  know  how  it  is  with  some  lyrics, 
how  they  keep  spinning  up  there?" 

Frank  pursed  his  lips,  and  said  nothing. 

"Well,"  Tommy  said,  reaching  into  his 
pocket  for  a  handkerchief  now,  wiping 
some  of  the  perspiration  from  his  fore- 
head, "I  called  Nancy  later  that  night  and 
I  asked  her  for  a  date.  And  she  said, 
'Tommy,  I'd  love  it' — just  like  that;  no 
airs,  but  simple  and  nice  and  sweet,  like 
she  really  meant  it. 

"We  had  a  great  time  that  night,  Nancy 
and  I,"  he  said  then.  "And  I  began  to  think 
to  myself  .  .  .  Here  I  am  dancing  with  a 
girl  I  barely  know,  talking  away,  yakking 
away,  like  I've  done  so  many  other  times 
in  my  life — but  this  time  I  think  I'm  fall- 
ing in  love.  .  .  . 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  "what  happened 
after  that  happened  quickly. 

"Two  days  later  I  got  a  note  from 
Nancy.  It  was  an  invitation  to  a  party 
she  was  having  the  coming  Saturday.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  invitation  she  wrote  a 
P.S.,  telling  me  how  much  she'd  en- 
joyed our  last  Saturday  night  together. 

"I  called  her  to  say  thanks.  And  we 
talked  for  two  hours.  My  mother  moaned 
about  my  tying  up  the  telephone,  but  I 
couldn't  help  it.  We  talked  and  talked, 
and  by  the  end  of  our  talk  we'd  made  a 
movie  date  for  Friday.  And  then  that 
next  night,  Saturday,  was  the  party  .  .  . 
And  that's  when  it  all  really  happened." 

"What  happened?"  asked  Frank. 

".  .  .  After  the  party  ended,"  Tommy 
said,  "I  stayed  to  help  Nancy  clean  up.  We 
were  in  the  kitchen.  I'd  never  kissed  her 
before  this,  on  either  of  our  two  dates. 
But  now  I  did.  I  took  her  in  my  arms  and 
kissed  her — because  I  couldn't  wait  to  kiss 
her  anymore.  And  then  I  asked  her  if 
she'd  be  my  steady.  And  she  whispered 
yes. 

The  secret 

"We  decided  to  keep  our  going  steady 
quiet.  We  didn't  want  the  newspaper  col- 
umnists to  get  hold  of  this  and  make  a 
big  thing  of  it.  We  just  wanted  to  be 
alone  together,  without  the  whole  world 
looking  in  at  us.  So  we  went  together  for 
a  couple  of  months,  dating  three  or  four 
times  a  week,  going  to  movies,  having  din- 
ners in  small  restaurants,  taking  long 
drives. 

"In  February,  towards  the  end  of  the 
month,  I  flew  to  New  York  to  do  a  TV 
show.  A  few  days  later  Nancy  flew  out 
to  get  ready  to  do  some  work  for  you, 
welcome  Elvis  back  from  Germany,  and 
greet  him  on  behalf  of  your  TV  show. 
Well,  we  were  together  there  for  a  couple 
of  days.  But  then  I  had  to  return  to  the 
Coast  before  Elvis  arrived,  so  we  really 
didn't  have  too  much  time  together. 

"And  it  was  back  in  California  when 
it  began  to  hit  me,  how  much  I  missed  be- 
ing separated  from  Nancy,  how  I  couldn't 
stand  being  separated  from  her. 

"After  two  days  of  this  I  phoned  her, 
at  the  hotel  where  she  was  staying. 

"I  told  her,  'Nancy,  I  miss  you  ...  I 
miss  you  so  much!' 

"  'And  I  miss  you,  Tommy,'  she  said. 

"There  were  goosebumps  all  over  me, 
just  from  hearing  her  voice. 

"  'Nancy,'  I  said,  'maybe  you'll  think  I'm 
fresh,  maybe  you'll  think  I'm  crazy,  but 
Nancy,  I  love  you  .  .  .  And  I  want  to 
marry  you.' 

"She  didn't  say  anything.  I  waited, 
holding  the  receiver.  But  there  was  noth- 
ing at  the  other  end — " 

"I  asked,  'Nancy,  are  you  all  right?' 

"And  after  a  pause  she  said,  'Yes, 
Tommy,  I'm  all  right.  I'm  just  so  happy 
that  I'm  crying  .  .  .  Yes,'  she  said  then, 
'yes,  Tommy,  I'll  marry  you.  I  love  you, 
too.  And  I  want  very  much  to  marry 
you.' " 


"Very,  very  much,  I  said,"  Nancy  cut 
in  here.  "Very  very  much." 

To  make  everything  complete 

Tommy  looked  back  at  Frank  now. 

"To  finish  up,"  he  said,  " — the  next  day 
I  went  and  bought  a  ring.  And  when  she 
came  home  to  California,  after  her  meet- 
ing with  Elvis,  I  gave  her  the  ring  as  she 
got  off  the  plane.  Then  we  went  to  see 
Mom  here" — he  indicated  Nancy  Sr.  again, 
"and  ask  for  her  permission.  She  said 
yes  .  .  .  And  now,  to  make  everything 
complete,  I'm  asking  your  permission.  To 
marry  your  daughter." 

The  room  was  very  silent,  suddenly. 

"Do  you  think  I  might  have  any  ob- 
jections?" Frank  asked. 

"You  might,"  said  Tommy. 

"Like?" 

"Religion,  for  one  thing,"  Tommy  said. 
"Nancy's  Catholic.  I'm  not  .  .  .  You 
might  object  to  that." 

"And?" 

"And  maybe" — Tommy  swallowed  some- 
thing which  seemed  to  catch  in  his  throat 
— "maybe  you  don't  want  her  to  marry 
a  singer.  To  be  truthful,  it's  an  up-and- 
down  life  and  you  might  not  want  your 
daughter  to  go  through  those  ups  and 
downs,  and  the  trouble  that  it  can  cause, 
sometimes,  between  married  people." 

Frank  looked  over  at  Nancy  Sr.,  quickly, 
then  back  at  Tommy. 

"And?" 

Tommy  shrugged.  "And,"  he  said, 
"there's  always  a  chance  that  you  might 
not  like  me,  that  you  might  not  think  fm 
the  guy  for  your  daughter." 

Frank  said  nothing  for  a  moment. 

Then,  he  got  up  from  his  chair  and, 
slowly,  he  walked  to  a  window. 

"You  know,"  he  said  then,  "about  this 
religious  thing — I'm  no  square.  Why  should 
I  care? 

"About  being  a  singer,"  he  said  then, 
"...  well,  salesmen  and  truckdrivers  have 
their  problems,  too." 

"One  last  thing,"  he  said,  "about  me 
liking  you,  or  not  liking  you — " 

He  stopped  when  he  got  to  the  couch.  He 
put  out  his  hand. 

"I  like  you  fine,  Tommy,"  he  said.  "My 
decision  is  yes." 

"Oh  Daddy,"  Nancy  Jr.  shouted,  joy- 
ously, jumping  up  and  throwing  her  arms 
around  Frank.  "Daddy,  Daddy,  Daddy. 
Thank  you.  .  .  ." 

And  for  those  next  few  minutes  as 
the  others  laughed — Frank  and  Tommy  and 
Nancy  Sr. — the  girl  continued  hugging  her 
father,  thanking  him,  kissing  him. 

Until,  finally,  Frank  said  something 
about  this  being  a  time  to  celebrate,  left 
the  room,  went  into  the  kitchen  and  re- 
turned, a  few  minutes  later,  with  a  huge 
bottle  of  cold  champagne  and  four  glasses. 

The  courtship  of  Frankie  and  Nancy 

For  the  next  half  hour  or  so,  the  four 
of  them  continued  sitting  around,  drink- 
ing a  little,  talking,  Nancy  Jr.  doing  most 
of  the  talking,  actually — telling  Frank  ex- 
citedly, happily,  about  her  plans  for  the 
wedding,  the  exact  kind  of  gown  she 
wanted,  the  kind  of  reception,  the  friends 
and  family  she  wanted  to  ask. 

Until  at  one  point  she  stopped,  rather 
suddenly,  and  her  voice  a  shade  softer  than 
it  had  been,  she  asked,  "Mama,  Daddy, 
what  kind  of  wedding  did  you  have?" 

Frank  laughed. 

"Things  were  a  little  tougher  for  me 
in  those  days." 

"But  was  it  nice?"  the  girl  asked.  "I 
mean,  do  you  remember  what  it  was  like, 
exactly,  after  all  these  years?" 

Frank  looked  over  at  Nancy  Sr. 

"Sure  ...  I  remember,"  he  said.  "But 
women  are  supposed  to  remember  these 
things  better  .  .  .  You  tell  them,  Nancy. 


Creain  hair  away  the  beautiful  way... 

with  new  baby-pink,  sweet-smelling  Neet — you'll  never  have  a  trace  of 
nasty  razor  stubble!  Always  to  neaten  underarms,  everytime  to  smooth 
legs  to  new  smoother  beauty,  and  next  time  for  that  faint  downy 
fuzz  on  the  face,  why  not  consider  Neet? 
Goes  down  deep  where  no  razor  can  reach 
to  cream  hair  away  the  beautiful  way. 


just  how  it  was."  He  smiled  hesitantly. 
Nancy  Sr.  sighed. 

"Well."  she  said,  after  a  moment,  "the 
g    date  was  February  4.  1939." 
J       She  paused. 

'■That  was  a  Sunday."  she  said. 

And  she  paused  again. 
3       "And  it  was  a  very  cold  day — I  remem- 

-  ber  that."  she  said.  "  "—The  religous  part 
-:  of  the  wedding  was  in  a  church,  of  course. 
^  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows,  in  Jersey  City, 
-;    where  I  used  to  live.    And  then,  after 

the  church,  we  went  to  my  parents'  house 
for  the  reception." 
:-       "On   Arlington   Avenue."   Frank  said. 
"Number  172  Arlington  .  .  .  Right?  ...  A 
memory  I've  got?" 
"Yes."  Nancy  said,  nodding.    She  went 

-  on  then:  'And  we  had  the  reception.  It 
~    was  very  simple.   We  had  just  the  family, 

my  brothers  and  sisters,  my  folks,  daddy's 
folks.    And  for  food,  lots  of  pastries.  And 
~    football  sandwiches — those  were  ham  and 
z    salami  sandwiches  wrapped  in  wax  paper 

-  that  the  kids,  the  nephews  and  nieces. 
:-    used  to  toss  around;  so  they  called  them 

■  football  sandwiches.  And  wine  .  .  .  And 
:i    I  guess  that's  all." 

s.       "And."  Frank  said.  "I  didn't  sing." 

"That's  right,"  Nancy  said.    She  smiled. 

-  "I  think  it  was  the  first  and  last  party  your 
daddy  went  to  that  he  didn't  sing— he  was 
so  nervous." 

±       Frank  winked.  "I  should  have  though. .  ." 

u    he  said.  "I  knew  I  had  a  good  deal.  You 

C  were  a  typist,  damn  good,  too.  and  I  knew 
I  had  a  gal  who  was  going  to  go  out  and 
make  at  least  twenty-five  bucks  a  week 

j    and  keep  me  in  clover  .  .  .  Right?" 
Nancy  nodded,  and  sighed  again. 

.,       "That's  right."  she  said. 

■  First  baby,  first  dreams 

"Man,  man  the  money  situation  those 
'~    days,"  Frank  said.    "Most  of  the  time  I 
didn't  have  two  nickels  to  make  a  dime. 
And  sometimes  to  pay  the  rent  at  that  first 
place — " 

-t       He  looked  up  from  his  glass  and  over 

at  Nancy  again, 
j       "You  remember  that  first  place?"  he 
L~-  asked. 

"Audobon  Avenue?"  Nancy  said. 
"The  Audobon  Arms,  Number  12  Audo- 
rf    bon  Avenue,  Apartment  37 — three  rooms, 
"    forty-two  bucks  a  month."  he  said.  "I 
remember." 

*  ;     He  looked  over  at  Tommy. 

■  :     "That's  where  Nancy  Sandra  was  born," 

-  he  said,  "your  bride,  our  first  baby  .  .  . 
Number  12  Audobon  ...  It  was  right 

^  ;  across  the  street  from  Audobon  Park,  this 
■-■  '■  place.    And  I  was  just  beginning  as  a 
"~    singer  then.    Lots  of  time  away.    Lots  of 
'■■  night  work  and  rehearsals.  But.  man.  came 
a    the  afternoon  and  Td  be  home  and  Td 
pick  her  up  from  her  crib,  my  baby,  and 
put  her  in  her  carriage  and  out  I'd  go, 
:  -  '  '.vheeling  her  through  the  park   for  an 

i-  ■  hour,  to  show  her  off  to  the  neighbors,  to 
:S  I  show  her  all  the  squirrels  and  the  birds 

ii-  and  the  trees  .  .  Real  nature  bug  I  was 
j  i  then.  .  ." 

iii     He  faced  his  daughter. 

"You  remember,  baby?"  he  asked. 
"No,  Daddy,  not  really,"  she  said. 
"You    remember?"    he    asked,  facing 
%    Nancy  Sr. 
7       "Yes,"  she  said,  softly. 

His  glass  empty.  Frank  re-filled  it  now, 
drank  some  more  of  the  champagne,  and 
mi  said:  "Number  12  .  .  .  We  had  our  good 
times  there  .  .  .  Dreams  were  born  right 
_<  there,  right  at  Number  12.  .  .  . 

"I  was  nothing  then.  .  .  . 
-s      "And  we  used  to  dream  what  I  might 
be.  .  .  . 
"We  dreamed  hard.  .  .  . 

*  "And  they  came  true,  the  dreams  .  .  . 
3:  didn't  they?" 

"Yes."  Nancy  said,  p^ain 


"And  then  what  happened?"  Frank 
asked. 

Nancy  said  nothing  now. 

"So  then,"  Frank  went  on,  "what  hap- 
pened? Everything  continued  going  fine. 
We  had  another  baby,  a  son.  And  then  an- 
other daughter.  And  we  moved  to  Cali- 
fornia, and  we  got  a  house  .  .  .  Where 
was  that  house,  Nancy?" 

"Toluca  Lake."  she  said. 

"Yeah,"  said  Frank,  "that's  right.  A  big 
house.  Big.  With  a  yard  that  ran  right 
down  to  the  water.  And  we  had  our  own 
landing  and  our  own  boat.  And  every 
Sunday  was  picnic  day — lunch  on  the 
grass,  a  ride  in  the  boat,  the  whole  family, 
you  and  me  and  the  kids. 

"And  you  remember  the  kids  then?  .  .  . 
Boy,  they  were  small  .  .  .  And  Sundays, 
before  the  picnic,  Nancy  Sandra  here  all 
dressed  up  on  her  way  to  church,  in  those 
white  gloves? 

"White  gloves,"  he  said,  turning  to  his 
daughter.  "I  was  always  buying  you  white 
gloves.  Two  and  three  pairs  a  week.  And 
how  you  loved  to  wear  them.  How — " 

He  stopped  as  he  watched  his  daughter 
get  up.  suddenly,  from  the  couch  and  low- 
er her  head. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing.  Daddy,"  Nancy  Jr.  said. 

"So  why  are  you  crying,  honey?"  he 
asked. 

"I'm  sorry.  Daddy,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
know  why." 

She  took  Tommy's  hand,  and  he  rose, 
too. 

"I  had  the  best  once" 

Frank  put  down  his  glass. 
"Where  you  going?"  he  asked,  as  he 
watched  them  walk  to  the  door. 
"Where—" 

But  they  were  gone,  suddenly. 

And  Frank  shook  his  head.  And  looked 


over,  once  more,  at  Nancy  Sr..  who'd  re- 
mained in  her  chair  all  this  while.  And  he 
said,  after  a  while.  "I  didn't  mean  for  any- 
thing like  this  to  happen  ...  I  wanted 
this  to  be  nice  for  her.  Happy  and  nice." 

"I  know,"  Nancy  said. 

Frank's  head  fell  against  the  back  of  his 
chair,  and  he  mumbled  something. 

"Are  you  all  right?"  Nancy  asked. 

"Sure."  Frank  said,  his  voice  flat. 

"You  look  tired  all  of  a  sudden."  said 
Nancy. 

"Maybe   I   am.    a   little."   Frank  said. 

Again,  he  mumbled  something. 

"You've  been  working  hard,  Frank." 
Nancy  said,  " — on  this  picture  here  in  Ve- 
gas, on  everything." 

"That's  what  happens  when  a  guy  de- 
cides to  ride  a  merry-go-round,"  Frank 
said.  "He  can  never  stop  .  .  .  You  should 
know  that,  Nancy;  you  should  remember. 
It  never  stops.  You  get  twenty-four  hours 
and  somehow  you  have  to  make  a  day  of 
them.  Sometimes  it's  strictly  from  bedlam. 
Sometimes  I  don't  even  remember  what 
day  it  is  .  .  .  You  tell  yourself  when  you're 
young  that  you've  got  to  be  nine  feet  tall, 
and  not  a  shrimp — and  you  never  lose  that 
feeling." 

For  a  long  while  after  that,  he  said 
nothing — he  just  sat  there,  looking  up.  And 
as  he  did.  Nancy  could  see  his  face  turn 
paler,  could  hear-  his  breathing  growing 
heavier,  and  heavier. 

"You're  sure  you're  all  right?"  she  asked 
again. 

"Yep,"  said  Frank. 

He  took  another  deep  breath. 

And  then  he  looked  down,  and  across 
the  room,  at  her. 

"And  how  about  you?"  he  asked.  "How's 
everything  been  going?  We  see  each  other 
quite  a  bit.  sure.  But  it's  funny,  isn't  it. 
how  we  never  really  talk  about  those 
times?  How   about   you,   Nancy?"  61 


"I'm  fine,"  she  said,  in  a  quiet  voice. 
"Happy?"  Frank  asked. 
"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Have  they  been  tough,  too  tough,  these 
past  ten  years?"  Frank  asked. 

"At  the  beginning,  they  were  tough," 
Nancy  said.  "But  you  learn  to  live  with 
your  life,  the  way  it's  got  to  be,  after  a 
while  .  .  .  And  then  it  gets  less  and  less 
tough." 

"You  going  to  get  married  again?" 
Frank  asked.  "You've  been  going  out  for 
quite  a  while  now,  to  parties  and  things. 
I  know  he's  a  nice  guy,  from  people  who 
know  him.  I  know  he's  proposed  to  you. 
That  he  wants  to  marry  you.  But  that  you 
keep  saying  no  .  .  .  Isn't  that  right?" 

"That's  right,"  Nancy  said. 

"Why,  Nancy?"  Frank  asked. 

"I've  said  it  before,"  she  said.  "I  guess  I 
can  say  it  again  ...  I  had  the  best  once. 
I  can't  expect  anything  more  in  life  than 
that.  .  .  ." 

"You  know  where  to  call" 

She  smiled,  and  tried  to  change  the  sub- 
ject. 

"I  hear,  Frank,  that  you've  been  going 
pretty  steady  recently  .  .  .  with  the  dancer 
.  .  .  Juliet  Prowse?" 

"Yeah,"  he  said. 

"She  seems  lovely,  Frank,"  Nancy  said. 
"I  saw  her  in  Can-Can.  I've  seen  her  on  a 
couple  of  your  shows.  .  .  ." 

"She's  hip,"  Frank  said.  "And  she's  a 
good  gal.  She's  one  of  the  few  who  didn't 
come  after  me  for  what  she  could  get." 

"That's  the  way  it  should  be,"  Nancy 
said. 

"That  ain't  the  way  it  often  is,"  said 


Frank,  more   than  a  little   bit  ruefully. 

Again  Nancy  smiled. 

"Tommy,"  she  said,  " — he's  an  awful 
nice  boy,  isn't  he,  Frank?" 

Frank  nodded. 

"And  our  girl,"  Nancy  said,  "did  you 
ever  see  her  look  prettier,  more  radiant, 
happier,  than  she  was  when  she  was  sit- 
ting there,  looking  at  him,  while  he  was 
talking  to  you." 

"She  looked  beautiful,"  Frank  said. 

Nancy  nodded. 

She  rose  from  her  chair. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I'd  better  be  going 
now." 

Frank  got  up,  too. 

"We'll  be  here  through  Sunday,  Frank," 
Nancy  said,  walking  towards  him,  taking 
his  hand  in  hers,  gently.  "Are  we  going  to 
see  you  sometime?  Tomorrow,  maybe?" 

"Tomorrow  .  .  .  sure,"  Frank  said. 

"Well,"  Nancy  said  again — she  kissed 
him  on  the  cheek  now —  "You  know  where 
we're  staying  .  .  .  And  if  you're  not  feel- 
ing well  tonight,  and  you  need  somebody 
to  come  take  care  of  you — you  know 
where  to  call." 

She  was  gone  a  few  moments  later. 

And  Frank,  alone  now,  completely  alone 
in  the  big  room,  walked  back  to  the  chair 
on  which  he'd  been  sitting  and  he  sat 
again. 

"Ten  years  ago,"  he  found  himself  ask- 
ing, after  a  while,  "what  happened  ten 
years  ago?" 

He  found  himself  looking  over  at  the 
couch  to  the  left,  to  the  spot  where  Tom- 
my, his  son  in  law-to-be,  had  sat  a  little 
while  earlier. 

"I  had  everything,"  he  remembered  the 


boy  saying  before,  during  those  awful 
nervous  minutes  for  him,  when  he  was 
asking  for  Nancy  Jr.'s  hand,  " — except  I'd 
get  lonely.  I  felt  empty  inside  me,  like 
there  was  something  important  missing.  I 
know  now  that  it  was  love.  .  .  ." 

"I'd  get  lonely,"  Frank  repeated  the 
boy's  words  to  himself  now. 

He  nodded. 

Lonely,  he  thought. 

He  laughed  an  empty  laugh. 

As  he  remembered  his  own  loneliness 
now,  these  past  long  years. 

And  how  he'd  fought  it. 

With  women — with  woman  after  woman 
after  woman  after  woman — so  many,  he 
couldn't  list  them  for  you  right  now,  not 
for  a  thousand  bucks. 

Women. 

All  kinds  of  them. 

Good  women,  bad  women,  happy  wom- 
en, miserable  women,  love-making  wom- 
en, fighting  women — starting  from  A  and 
going  through  Z,  and  Z  finished  with, 
starting  with  A,  all  over  again.  .  .  . 

He  slumped  even  further  back  in  his 
chair. 

He  looked  from  the  spot  where  Tommy- 
had  been  sitting,  with  his  daughter,  Nancy 
Jr.,  and  over  to  the  chair  where  Nancy, 
the  other  Nancy,  had  sat. 

He  stared  at  the  chair,  for  a  very  long 
time. 

And  he  closed  his  eyes,  wearily. 
And  he  tried  not  to  think,  nor  remember, 
any  more.  end 

Frank  will  star  in  Ocean's  Eleven,  War- 
ner Bros.:  and  can  be  seen  right  now  star- 
ring in  20th  Century-Fox's  Can-Can. 


The  Sal  Mineo  Story 


{Continued  from  page  21) 

Thirty  years  ago  my  eye  wouldn't  have 
had  a  chance.  The  doctors  tell  me  I'd  have 
been  blinded  the  very  first  time  I  neglected 
the  pain. 

And  now,  all  through  these  warm  spring 
days,  I  sit  in  my  dark  room,  waiting,  hop- 
ing, praying  this  crisis  will  pass. 

Occasionally  I  walk  over  to  the  window, 
and  although  I  shouldn't,  I  peek  through 
the  slats  in  the  Venetian  blinds.  My  dark 
eyeglasses  distort  the  color  of  the  green 
buds  unfurling  in  the  outstretched  branches 
of  the  apple  tree,  and,  in  the  distance,  the 
bright  gold  of  the  April  sun  silvers  the 
Long  Island  Sound.  And,  within  my  heart, 
I  thank  God  for  the  beauty  He  has  given 
the  world,  the  beauty  we  so  often  take  for 
granted  until  suddenly  we're  shocked  into 
consciously  appreciating  it. 

This  latest  relapse  of  my  eye  trouble — 
the  crisis  I'm  going  through  now — occurred 
a  couple  of  months  ago  after  I  finished 
working  on  my  movie,  The  Gene  Krupa 
Story  Not  only  did  I  have  to  learn  to  play 
the  drums  the  way  Gene  played  them,  but 
I  sat  for  weeks  and  weeks  with  the  writer 
and  producer  working  out  the  'little  things' 
in  the  script.  I'd  be  up  at  dawn,  drive  to 
the  studio,  act  in  front  of  the  cameras  all 
day,  finish  at  seven  or  eight  o'clock.  I'd 
grab  a  quick  bite  to  eat,  go  to  rehearsal 
hall  to  rehearse  the  drum  numbers,  then, 
by  ten  o'clock  I'd  hurry  to  the  projection 
room  to  catch  the  rushes  of  the  day's  shoot- 
ing. I'd  get  home  by  one,  only  to  wake  up 
again  at  five.  I  never  had  a  moment  to 
stop  and  breathe.  It  was  go,  go,  go  all  the 
time. 

Giulty  secret 

They  say  a  runner  never  feels  tired 
<62  while   he's  running.   It's   only  when  he 


stops  that  he's  out  of  breath.  Or  feels  the 
keenness  of  pain  in  his  heart  from  over- 
strain. 

And  suddenly  when  I  finished  filming 
The  Gene  Krupa  Story,  I  was  out  of  breath, 
on  the  verge  of  collapse.  I  woke  up  that 
first  morning  after  the  shooting  was  over, 
and  there  was  that  terrible  and  excruci- 
ating pain  in  my  right  eye.  I  closed  my 
eye.  I  wasn't  imagining  it;  it  was  there, 
a  pain  that  felt  as  though  hundreds  of 
sharp-edged  knifeblades  were  hacking  at 
my  eyeball. 

For  three  days  I  didn't  tell  anyone  about 
the  pain.  I  was  scared,  petrified.  I'd  been 
warned  about  what  could  happen.  By  the 
end  of  the  third  day  the  pain  became  so 
torturous  and  unbearable  I  screamed  in  my 
sleep.  And  my  mother  knew  my  secret. 

"Sal,  Sal,"  she  cried  as  she  ran  to  my 
room,  her  eyes  flooded  with  tears,  "why 
haven't  you  told  any  of  us?  What's  the 
matter  with  you?  Do  you  want  to  destroy 
yourself?"  Her  voice  was  kind,  loving, 
sympathetic,  and  I  felt  like  a  heel.  But 
like  a  child  I  kept  hoping  against  hope  the 
pain  would  pass,  that  it  was  only  mo- 
mentary. 

Deep  down  within  my  heart  I  knew  bet- 
ter. I  knew  the  pain  was  worse  than  it  had 
ever  been,  and  the  doctors  had  warned 
me  twice  before.  Mom  didn't  lose  any 
time.  First  thing  in  the  morning,  she  had 
my  brother,  Mike,  drive  me  to  Dr.  Hu- 
bert's office  in  the  East  Sixties  in  New 
York,  and  when  I  got  there  and  Dr. 
Hubert  looked  at  me,  he  shook  his  head 
impatiently. 

"Sal,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice,  "you'll 
never  learn,  will  you.  When  I  operated  on 
this  eye,  what  did  I  tell  you?  That  if 
you  didn't  look  after  it,  you'd  be  in  real 
trouble,  that  you  were  playing  with  fire 
as  far  as  this  eye  was  concerned.  What's 
the  matter  with  you?  Can't  you  under- 
stand plain  English?" 

He  was  right.  He  had  warned  me.  But 
that  had  been  part  of  my  trouble  all  my 


life;  the  fact  that  danger  fascinates  me. 
When  I  went  to  Mexico  one  summer,  for 
instance,  I  took  a  chance  and  didn't  get  all 
the  inoculations  (I  hate  needles  going  into 
my  arms!)  Once  I  rode  a  wild  horse  and 
it  was  one  of  the  greatest  moments  of  my 
life:  the  challenge  of  whether  or  not  the 
horse  would  throw  me.  It  did,  and  for 
weeks  I  suffered  with  a  broken  knee  cap 
that  wouldn't  heal.  But  the  broken  knee 
cap  was  worth  the  thrill  of  excitement. 

"Sal,"  Dr.  Hubert  continued,  after  he 
had  examined  my  eye,  "this  is  it.  Your 
last  warning.  Your  eye  muscles  are  so 
weak  it's  a  miracle  you  can  see  out  of 
your  right  eye.  If  the  pressure  isn't  eased, 
we'll  have  to  operate  again  to  alleviate  it. 
But,  Sal,  stop  and  take  inventory  of  your- 
self. What  in  the  world's  bothering  you? 
Something's  eating  at  your  insides  for  you 
to  have  such  a  terrible  pressure  crippling 
your  eye." 

I  didn't  say  anything.  What  was  bother- 
ing me?  Everything.  And  nothing.  The 
desire  to  do  right  by  my  work,  the  desire 
to  keep  growing  as  an  actor.  You  know 
an  actor's  only  as  good  as  his  last  movie. 
And  although  I  had  thousands  of  fans,  I 
was  strangely  lonely. 

"You  must  go  into  seclusion  for  a  month. 
At  least!  If  there's  no  improvement,  there's 
the  danger  of  complete  atrophy  which 
will.  .  .  ."  He  stopped,  pursed  his  thin  lips 
together.  "Let's  say  this:  that  if  the  eye 
improves  we  stand  a  chance  of  saving  it." 

"My  own  enemy" 

His  words  didn't  sound  real  to  me.  They 
sounded  far  away  like  an  echo,  as  if  some- 
one was  calling  from  another  world.  I 
probably  didn't  want  to  believe  what  he 
was  saying,  and  when  I  left  his  office  and 
walked  out  into  the  sunlight  I  wore  a 
black  leather  patch  over  my  right  eye  and 
my  dark  glasses.  Dr.  Hubert  told  me  I'd  , 
have  to  confine  myself  to  dark  rooms  for 
the  next  month.  He  didn't  want  the  other  j 
eye  strained. 


And  for  a  month  now  I've  been  wearing 
my  patch  and  waiting  for  hours  to  pass  in 
my  dark  room  at  our  new  home  in 
Mamaroneck.  I  keep  thinking  how  strange 
destiny  is.  Here  I  am,  with  a  new  home, 
and  unable  to  enjoy  it.  I  wonder  if  perhaps 
God  isn't  punishing  me,  sentencing  me  to 
this  confinement  to  prove  to  me  how 
precious  life  is,  that  it  mustn't  be  taken 
for  granted. 

And  as  I  sit  in  this  dark  room,  day  after 
day,  unable  to  read,  listening  to  music  on 
my  hi-fi  set,  I  realize  how  much  I've  been 
my  own  enemy.  Seven  years  ago,  when  I 
was  fourteen  and  understudying  the  Crown 
Prince  in  the  Broadway  musical,  The  King 
and  I,  I  was  constantly  on  the  go,  trying 
to  get  TV  roles,  studying  acting,  going  to 
school.  I'd  get  up  at  the  crack  of  dawn, 
study  my  lines  for  television,  go  to  school, 
rush  home  for  supper,  take  the  subway  to 
the  theater,  finish  the  performance  by 
eleven-thirty  and  get  home  by  one  in  the 
morning. 

Call  it  ambition,  call  it  drive,  call  it 
what  you  like.  One  week  end  I  remember 
there  was  an  elevator  strike,  and  on  Sat- 
urday morning  I  decided  I'd  still  make  the 
rounds  of  the  producers'  offices  and  casting 
cubicles,  in  spite  of  the  elevators  not 
working.  So  I  climbed  up  and  down  flights 
and  flights  of  stairs  to  ask  producers,  cast- 
ing directors,  secretaries  to  place  my  photo 
in  their  files. 

That  was  around  the  time  the  first  pain 
began.  It  started  that  spring,  and  I  tried 
to  ignore  it,  to  pretend  it  wasn't  there,  but 
by  midsummer  it  was  too  sharp  to  neglect. 
Whenever  I  walked  out  into  the  steaming 
hot  sun,  it  was  as  if  my  eye  was  on  fire, 
and  I  felt  feverish  and  dizzy. 

Finally  I  told  my  mom  and  dad.  We 
were  living  at  Wenner  Place  in  the  Bronx 
then,  near  the  Whitestone  Bridge.  Mom 
was  fit  to  be  tied.  She  couldn't  understand 
why  I  hadn't  said  something  about  my  eye 
before. 

Mom  and  Dad  made  an  appointment  for 
me  with  Dr.  Miller,  who's  died  since,  and 
it  was  Dr.  Miller  who  performed  the  first 
operation  on  my  eye. 

"Never,  in  all  my  years  of  practice,"  Dr. 
Miller  said,  "have  I  known  a  young  boy 
to  be  afflicted  with  this  dendritic  condition. 
Usually  it  occurs  in  the  early  forties  or 
fifties.  It's  a  ...  a  warning.  .  .  !"  He 
paused.  "Had  you  let  this  go  another  week, 
young  man,  you  might  have  lost  your 
vision  altogether!"  He  rushed  me  over  to 
the  Manhattan  Eye  and  Ear  hospital,  and 
that  following  morning  he  performed  the 
operation. 

He  explained  he  couldn't  give  me  an 
anesthetic  because  he  had  to  see  the  eye 
react.  The  operation  lasted  forever,  and 
the  pain  was  devastating,  but  the  pressure 
was  relieved. 

"Don't  kill  yourself" 

For  three  weeks  I  lay  in  that  bed  with 
a  bandage  over  my  eyes.  You'd  think  that 
I  would  have  had  time  to  think,  to  re- 
evaluate, but  I  was  young  and  flip  and 
probably  in  love  with  the  drama  of  it  all. 
But  living  in  darkness  for  three  weeks 
seemed  like  an  eternity.  Voices  took  on 
new  colors,  sounds  became  so  personal  and 
important.  At  the  end  of  the  three  weeks, 
the  doctor  came  into  my  room  one  morning 
to  remove  the  bandages  and  I  could  sense 
his  nervousness  as  he  unwrapped  the 
bandage  from  my  eyes.  His  hands  were 
steady,  but  there  was  an  unevenness  to  his 
breath.  When  he  lifted  the  bandage,  I 
blinked  and  for  a  minute  closed  my  eyes. 

"Sal,"  Dr.  Miller  announced,  "the  oper- 
ation's a  success.  You've  blinked  against 
the  light."  I  opened  my  eyes.  He  was  right. 
I  had  blinked  my  eyes  against  the  sudden 
harsh  whiteness  of  the  hospital  room. 

"Sal,"  Dr.  Miller  continued,  a  firmness 
in  his  deep  voice,  "I  know  you  have  a 


lot  of  ambition  and  that  you  have  a  long 
way  to  go  in  this  business.  But  remember 
Rome  wasn't  built  in  a  day.  If  you  ask 
me,  you're  trying  to  build  it  in  an  hour. 
Relax.  Take  things  easy.  Don't  kill  your- 
self. You're  young — enjoy  the  world!" 

For  the  next  three  years  everything  was 
all  right.  I  heeded  Dr.  Miller's  good  ad- 
vice I  tried  to  take  things  easy. 

Then  I  came  home  one  summer  after 
making  my  movie,  Dino,  a  film  I  loved  and 
believed  in.  I  decided  to  tour  for  six  weeks 
to  promote  it.  On  tour  I  didn't  sleep  and 
eat  regularly.  When  I  returned  to  New 
York,  my  head  was  throbbing  from  the 
pressure,  throbbing  so  hard  it  nearly  burst. 
The  pain  was  worse  than  ever. 

I  told  my  folks.  Mom  tried  to  set  up  an 
appointment  with  Dr.  Miller  but  he  had 
died.  So  I  went  to  Dr.  Hubert  who  didn't 
spare  any  words. 

"Your  eye  is  damaged,"  he  told  me, 
staring  at  me  from  behind  his  rimless 
spectacles.  "I  can't  operate  for  months.  It's 
too  dangerous.  It's  like  a  deep  wound  that 
needs  healing  before  I  can  possibly  at- 
tempt to  touch  it. 

"Mineo,"  he  called  me,  before  he  got 
to  know  me,  "I'm  afraid  of  complications 
so  I  want  you  to  have  a  complete  check- 
up." 

I  went  to  a  physician  who  examined 
everything  from  my  heart  to  my  reflexes. 
And  do  you  know  what  he  said?  "You're 
so  calm  on  the  outside,  but  you're  churn- 
ing inside  at  a  wild  pace.  You  don't  have 
to  function  at  a  100-mile-an-hour  speed 
in  order  to  get  the  most  out  of  life.  Why 
are  you  killing  yourself?" 

For  two  months  Dr.  Hubert  and  the  phy- 
sician confined  me  to  our  house.  I  couldn't 
watch  television,  read,  use  my  eye  in  any 
way  that  would  strain  it.  I  listened  to  mu- 
sic for  hours  on  end,  and  my  love  for  it 
grew  and  grew. 

Then,  I  had  my  second  operation. 

For  weeks  afterward  I  spent  hours  and 
hours  in  my  dark  room,  listening  to  my 
records — jazz,  swing.  Dixieland.  I  wished 
I  could  have  punched  a  punching  bag  to 
get  rid  of  the  tension,  but  Dr.  Hubert  in- 
sisted on  total  rest  so  I  learned  to  release 
the  tension  inside  me  by  listening  to  the 
music,  letting  its  powerful  drive  carry  me 
away. 

"Man  enough  to  face  it" 

For  four  months  my  eye  was  bandaged, 
and  I  wore  dark  glasses  all  through  that 
time.  At  one  point,  I  got  so  depressed  I 
found  myself  actually  wishing  God  would 
strike  me  dead  and  that  my  life  would  be 
over  because  I  hated  being  a  burden  to 
everyone.  But  that  was  sinful.  My  mom 
and  dad  had  Masses  said  for  me  at  church 
as  did  thousands  of  my  fans.  I  received 
get-well  cards  from  all  parts  of  the  world, 
also  holy  crosses  and  mezuzahs  from  peo- 
ple everywhere  who  cared. 

Gradually  my  eye  improved,  and  the 
pain  relaxed,  and  Dr.  Hubert  told  me 
everything  was  all  right  for  the  time  be- 
ing. But  he  warned  me  strongly  against 
overworking.  His  final  words  to  me  then, 
as  I  left  his  office,  were,  "Sal,  don't  let  this 
happen  again.  The  next  time  may  be.  .  .  ." 

He  never  finished  the  sentence. 

But,  fool  that  I  am,  I  flirted  with  fire 
again.  I  got  caught  up  in  the  momentum 
of  my  work  on  The  Gene  Krupa  Story, 
and  now,  for  the  third — and  Dr.  Hubert 
tells  me,  the  last — time  my  eye  is  in  dan- 
ger. Dr.  Hubert  says  the  eye  won't  be  able 
to  take  it  the  next  time;  it's  given  me  a 
final  warning,  the  last  chance  to  know 
better. 

God  has  given  me  my  last  warning.  I 
must  be  man  enough  to  face  it.  Or  lose 
the  vision  in  my  right  eye  for  the  rest  of 
my  life.  END 

Sal  is  a  star  of  United  Artists'  Exodus. 


PERMANENT  DARKENER 
FOR  LASHES  AND  BROWS 


(lor  the  nairs  ;o  wnvc  ip;  *f 

"Dark-Eyes"  goes  on  once  . . .  stays  o 
are  replaced  by  new  hairs  every  four 
to  apply! 

"Dark-Eyes"  colors  .  .  .  doesn't  coat,  rt 
brittle,  breaking  hairs.  All  day,  all  nig 
brows  are  NATURALLY  soft,  dark  luxi 
"Dark-Eyes"  doesn't  smear,  doesn't 
your  eyes,  swim,  walk  in  the  rain,  even 
movies— yet  retain  that  "born  beautiful 
Contains  no  aniline  dyes.  "Dark- 
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One  Little  Girl  Against  the  World 


(Continued  from  page  50) 

ordinarily  meets  with  her  charge.  This  was 
because  of  Cheryl's  extreme  situation.  And 
also  because  a  very  warm  relationship  had 
grown  up  between  Mrs.  Muhlbach  and 
Cheryl.  Mrs.  Muhlbach  has  two  children 
of  her  own,  and  she  grew  to  love  Cheryl. 
Cheryl  and  Mrs.  Muhlbach  were  more  like 
mother  and  daughter  than  probation  officer 
and  charge. 

"We  wanted  Cheryl  to  have  as  normal 
an  environment  as  possible,  hoping  this 
would  be  the  best  thing  for  her.  But  with 
a  child  like  this  it's  a  gamble,"  the  County 
probation  officer  sighed. 

"Before  the  school  session  began  at 
Beverly  High  last  September,"  he  went  on, 
"Mrs.  Muhlbach  went  to  the  school  and 
spoke  to  the  principal,  the  dean  of  girls 
and  several  faculty  members  to  pave  the 
way  for  Cheryl,  who  would  be  starting  her 
Junior  year  there.  There  was  not  only  the 
problem  of  Cheryl's  being  accepted  in 
school  in  spite  of  the  notoriety  connected 
with  her,  but  also  the  question  of  Cheryl's 
ability  to  do  well  in  school.  She'd  been  in 
and  out  of  so  many  schools  in  the  past 
that  even  without  the  notoriety  it  still 
would  have  been  a  problem.  She's  not  the 
best  student. 

"Cheryl  attended  Beverly  High  and  tried 
to  be  one  of  the  crowd.  The  students  tried 
to  accept  her  as  one  of  them.  But  things 
happened  that  were  beyond  control.  Cheryl 
became  nervous  and  withdrawn.  She  didn't 
mingle  freely.  She  felt  self-conscious,  even 
though  most  of  the  kids  there  tried  to 
treat  her  like  everyone  else.  Things  were 
happening  inside  this  girl  to  make  her 
feel  different.  She  shivered  and  shook. 
The  more  she  was  with  the  other  girls  at 
school,  the  more  she  realized  how  differ- 
ent she  was.  Even  though  she  was  treated 
like  one  of  them,  she  was  always  afraid 
of  what  might  come  up.  This  kept  her  in  a 
state  of  tension  and  nerves,  which  was  de- 
stroying her. 

"She  lived  in  a  constant  state  of  fear  and 
apprehension.  She  wondered  what  the  stu- 
dents at  Beverly  really  thought  of  her. 

"And  she  lived,  always,  in  constant  fear 
of  having  the  newspapers  suddenly  print 
her  story  again.  About  every  two  or  three 
months  a  rash  of  publicity  would  come  out 
about  her,  re-hashing  the  old  episode.  The 
sorry  mess  in  her  life  was  always  being 
dug  up  and  splashed  in  the  papers.  She 
was  terribly  frightened.  Even  though  the 
case  was  over  and  she  had  been  complete- 
ly exonerated,  she  wasn't  allowed  to  for- 
get, it." 

Here's  what  the  kids  thought  of  her: 

One  Sunday  Cheryl  woke  and  discov- 
ered that  the  Sunday  supplement  of  the 
papers  had  made  a  big  story  of  the  Cheryl 
Crane  Case  all  over  again,  as  part  of  a 
series  they  were  doing  on  sensational  mur- 
ders. When  Cheryl  saw  it,  she  became  sick. 
,  Her  immediate  reaction  was  that  of 
shame — and  fear.  She  said  to  her  grand- 
mother, whimpering,  "I  can't  go  to  school 
tomorrow.  I  just  can't.  All  the  kids  in 
school  have  read  this.  How  can  I  face 
them?  Yet  I  can't  stay  away  from  school. 
They  won't  let  me.  I'll  have  to  go  back 
some  day.  What  shall  I  do?" 

She  slumped  on  the  bed  and  sobbed.  The 
poor  child  was  trapped.  The  grandmother 
didn't  know  how  to  handle  it.  Neither  did 
Lana,  when  she  was  called. 

As  she  did  so  often  when  she  was  con- 
fused and  frightened,  Cheryl  turned  to 
Jeanette  Muhlbach.  Mrs.  Muhlbach  came 
over — knowing  how  desperately  Cheryl 
needed  her — and  held  Cheryl's  hand  in 
64  hers,  talking  to  her  for  a  long  time,  trying 


to  comfort  the  weeping  girl.  Strengthened 
by  this  session,  Cheryl  decided  that  she 
would  go  to  school  the  next  day  and 
face  it. 

Mrs.  Muhlbach  was  so  proud  of  her. 
She  said,  "I  loved  her  all  the  more  for 
arriving  at  that  decision.  I  said  to  my- 
self, 'You're  worth  saving.'  She  had  to 
fight  the  world  all  by  herself.  That's  the 
tragedy  of  her  life  right  now — fighting 
the  world." 

Back  in  school  the  next  day,  Cheryl 
tried  to  hide  from  the  other  girls.  She  was 
even  quieter  than  usual.  When  any  girl 
approached  her,  she  ran,  fearing  the 
criticism  or  taunts  she  was  sure  would 
come  from  the  girl.  She  ducked  a  group 
of  girls  at  lunch.  As  she  passed  hurriedly 
along  the  broad  green  campus  to  her  next 
class,  a  girl  ran  up  to  her  and  handed  her 
a  paper  that  was  rolled  up  and  covered 
with  wax  paper.  "Here,"  said  the  girl. 
"This  is  from  us.  Take  this  and  look  at 
it  when  you  have  a  chance."  Then  the  girl 
ran  away  to  her  own  class. 

Cheryl  stood  there,  her  heart  pounding, 
unable  to  move.  Shame  froze  her.  She 
didn't  know  whether  to  throw  away  the 
rolled  paper  or  not.  She  dreaded  looking 
at  it.  She  remained  this  way  like  a  fright- 
ened little  animal  for  many  moments. 
Finally,  she  slipped  off  to  a  quiet  corner 
and  opened  it,  her  hands  trembling. 

When  she  finally  managed  to  smooth  the 
paper,  she  read  what  it  said: 
Dear  Cheryl, 

We  girls  at  Beverly  High  want  you 
to  know  that  we  read  the  Sunday 
paper.  We  also  want  you  to  know 
that  this  made  no  difference  to  us 
at  all.  We  think  you're  a  good 
sport  and  a  fine  girl.  We  like  you 
very  much.  Forget  that  story  in 
yesterday's  paper.  We're  forgetting 
it,  too. 

Underneath  it  were  the  signatures  of  360 
girls  at  Beverly.  .  .  . 

The  probation  report  continues 

"Of  course,"  says  the  probation  officer, 
"this  incident  did  a  great  deal  to  help 
Cheryl.  But  the  fear  and  shame  she  ex- 
perienced earlier  was  something  that  left 
another  scar  on  her  spirit.  All  of  these  ex- 
periences, accumulating,  couldn't  help  but 
have  a  damaging  effect  on  her.  Every  time 
she  turned  around,  went  anywhere,  she 
was  afraid  somebody  might  be  staring  at 
her,  whispering  about  her.  Often  they 
were.  Every  time  she  picked  up  a  news- 
paper, she  was  afraid  her  case  would  be 
blazoned  across  the  pages  again.  She  could 
never  get  away  from  it.  She  felt  trapped. 
She  was  a  teen-age  girl  with  the  usual 
emotional  stresses  of  a  teen-ager.  But  with 
the  additional  problems  of  those  fears,  and 
the  feeling  that  she  was  an  outcast.  We 
couldn't  let  her  go  off  the  deep  end. 

"We  were  watching  her  closely.  We 
could  see  this  happening.  We  couldn't 
continue  to  expose  her  to  the  unexpected 
blows  of  the  outside  world.  This  girl  had 
to  be  protected,  particularly  during  the 
crucial  teen  years  when  she  was  develop- 
ing into  a  woman.  In  a  sense,  she  had  to 
be  placed  in  a  protective  shell,  to  be 
shielded  from  the  wear  and  tear  of  the 
outside  world.  Continued  exposure  might 
have  ruined  her  beyond  powers  of  re- 
habilitation. 

"So  we  recommended  that  she  be  placed 
in  the  El  Retiro  School  for  Girls.  She 
needed  the  guidance,  the  counseling  and 
protection  of  El  Retiro.  Cheryl  tried  her 
best  to  adjust  to  the  outside  world.  I'm 
afraid    the    outside    world    couldn't  let 


her.  People  can  be  cruel  sometimes.  .  .  ." 
The  first  cruelties 

Even  though  the  kids  at  Beverly  High 
tried  hard  to  treat  Cheryl  like  one  of  their 
own,  things  would  crop  up  to  hurt.  At  the 
beginning  of  the  school  year  last  Septem- 
ber, when  it  was  first  learned  that  Cheryl 
would  be  attending  the  school,  there  were 
many  jokes  about  it.  The  main  one  being: 
"I  hear  Cheryl  is  going  to  work  in  the 
school  cafeteria — in  charge  of  knives." 
Later,  as  the  kids  got  to  know  her,  this 
crack  was  never  uttered  again. 

Also,  although  the  girls  at  Beverly  really 
liked  her,  she  could  never,  ever  really  be 
one  of  them.  She  could  never  really  live 
down  that  horrible  "Thing."  Like  the  girls 
in  all  high  schools,  there  are  cliques  at 
Beverly.  Cheryl  was  not  excluded — but 
well,  when  the  girls  would  make  dates  to 
spend  the  night  at  each  other's  homes. 
Cheryl  was  never  one  of  those  invited. 
You  know  how  it  is.  The  mothers  didn't 
feel  quite  right  about  permitting  a  girl 
who'd  done  what  she'd  done  to  be  in  such 
close  contact  with  their  own  daughters. 

The  kids  at  Beverly  say  Cheryl  was 
quiet.  Actually,  she  was  withdrawn,  and 
scared. 

It  would  have  taken  a  remarkable  per- 
son to  give  Cheryl  the  guidance  and  home 
atmosphere  she  required.  This  was  not  the 
normal  child.  Mrs.  Mildred  Turner  loved 
Cheryl,  but  the  girl  was  beyond  her.  Mrs. 
Turner — as  the  probation  officer  said — 
"hadn't  had  an  easy  life  herself."  She  is 
not  young — fifty-nine — not  experienced  in 
raising  a  teen-age  girl  in  normal  circum- 
stances. When  her  own  daughter,  Lana. 
was  a  teen-ager,  it  was  Lana  who  ran 
Mama,  not  Mama  who  ran  Lana.  Lana  was 
quite  wild,  was  a  movie  star  and  bread- 
winner. Mrs.  Turner  is  a  mild  little  wom- 
an, unable  to  wield  authority. 

Also,  she  herself  was  frightened.  She 
was  afraid  for  Cheryl.  She  was  always 
afraid  that  the  child  might  get  into  trouble, 
without  meaning  to.  This  would  be  dis- 
astrous. The  child  is  a  ward  of  the  court, 
on  parole,  and  any  misstep  could  lead  her 
into  deep  waters  again.  Also,  she  realized 
that  the  girl,  now  developing  into  a  tall, 
full-busted  young  woman  with  maturing 
desires,  would  have  all  the  problems — and 
more — that  go  with  teen  dating.  The  child 
was  extremely  vulnerable.  Some  boys 
wanted  to  go  out  with  her  in  order  to  get 
to  Lana  and  have  Lana  get  them  into  pic- 
tures. Maybe  the  girl  would  get  into 
trouble  with  a  boy.  The  girl  wanted  so 
much  to  love  and  be  loved.  She  was  so 
confused.  Mrs.  Turner  didn't  know  what 
to  do  with  her.  And  the  grandmother  was 
very  lenient  with  her,  felt  sorry  for  her — 
the  probation  officer  could  see  that  she 
couldn't  really  control  this  girl. 

As  for  Cheryl's  parents— they  gave  her 
everything  money  could  buy.  Little  else. 
They  meant  well,  but  neither  Lana  nor 
Steve  Crane  have  the  kind  of  sense  of 
values  a  girl  like  this  needs.  Lana  bought 
Cheryl  a  white  mink  stole,  beautiful 
clothes — bulky  Italian  sweaters,  bought 
dresses  for  her  in  quantities  of  a  dozen  at 
a  time.  Lana  took  her  to  previews  and 
premieres,  arranged  dates  for  her  with 
charming  young  movie  actors,  like  George 
Hamilton,  for  instance.  George  is  hand- 
some, suave,  a  real  charmer — but  Cheryl 
was  tongue-tied  and  felt  inadequate  with 
him.  "I'm  sure  he  doesn't  like  me."  she 
thought  miserably,  but  her  mother  and 
Fred  May  joined  them  later,  and  she  tried 
so  hard  to  pretend  to  her  gorgeous,  poised 
mother  that  George  Hamilton  was  im- 
pressed with  her.  The  kid  was  subjected 
to  so  many  tensions,  to  so  much  she  felt 
she  couldn't  live  up  to.  Everything  was 
piling  up  to  make  her  feel  more  insecure. 
She  often  felt,  in  those  social  contacts  that 
Lana  arranged,  that  she  was  disappointing 


her  beautiful,  gay.  and  charming  mother 
Her  father,  Steve  Crane,  handsome, 
suave,  a  former  man-about-town  now  a 
successful  restaurateur,  loved  her.  But  he 
was  always  busy — busy  with  his  work,  his 
social  engagements,  with  his  new  girl- 
friend. Steve  and  his  girlfriend,  a  gorgeous 
girl,  had  Cheryl  join  them  for  dinner  at  the 
Beverly  Hills  Luau  (which  Steve  owns). 
Cheryl  walked  in,  felt  eyes  on  her.  Sat 
next  to  Helen  (the  girlfriend)  and  wanted 
to  shrink.  Cheryl  felt  '"so  big  and  ugly"' 
next  to  beautiful,  graceful,  smiling  Helen 
whom  her  father  obviously  adored. 

Steve  Crane  couldn't  give  his  insecure, 
tormented  daughter  much  comfort,  but  he 
tried  to  give  her  what  he  could  buy.  On 
her  sixteenth  birthday  he  gave  her  a  car, 
a  smart  sports  job. 

Understanding  from  a  car  hop 

The  day  after  her  sixteenth  birthday 
party,  Cheryl  still  felt  that  great  in- 
security and  inadequacy.  The  party  had 
been  a  knockout,  at  the  Bel-Air  Hotel,  but 
had  she  lived  up  to  it  all?  Her  mother 
looked  so  beautiful — was  she,  Cheryl, 
clumsy? 

Restless,  she  drove  the  car  along  Wil- 
shire  Boulevard,  that  evening.  Dropped  in 
at  Dolores'  Drive-in  which  is  a  hangout  for 
teen-agers.  Sitting  in  her  new  car,  waiting 
for  her  order  of  hamburger  and  coke,  she 
noticed  a  tall,  blond  boy  working  behind 
the  fountain.  And  the  boy  looked  at  her  as 
though  he  was  admiring  her.  Cheryl  felt  a 
tingle  inside  her.  The  boy  leaped  over 
the  counter  and  walked  up  to  her.  He  was 
wearing  the  jaunty  little  white  cap  of  the 
carhop,  the  white  apron.  He  was  long- 
legged  and  good-looking,  and  had  a  friend- 
ly grin.  "Hi,"  he  said,  "you  look  cute." 
They  chatted.  Cheryl  glowed.  He  seemed  to 
like  her  for  herself.  They  made  a  date. 
They  went  to  a  movie  later. 

The  boy  is  Robert  Martin  Gunn,  from 
Sandusky,  Ohio.  She  liked  Bob.  As  she 
grew  to  know  him,  she  was  thrilled  at  his 
attentions.  She  felt  loved  for  herself.  She 
felt  beautiful  and  important.  Bob  gave 
her  understanding.  He's  nineteen  and 
seemed  to  talk  her  language.  He  was 
working  at  Dolores'  Drive -In  at  night  be- 
cause he  wanted  to  be  an  actor. 

Bob  worked  late  at  the  drive-in — 
till  1:00  ajn.  To  see  him,  their  dates  had 
to  be  late. 

Cheryl  liked  Bob.  She  had  him  at  her 
grandmother's  house  for  dinner.  Lana  met 
him.  However,  in  order  to  see  him,  the 
dates  usually  had  to  be  late  (after  work). 
Much  later  hours  than  a  sixteen-year-old 
girl  should  keep.  Her  grandmother  told 
her  she  could  no  longer  see  him  at  1:00 

am 

One  night,  after  Cheryl  went  to  bed, 
after  the  grandmother  had  retired  for  the 
night,  Cheryl  slipped  out  of  bed,  got  into 
her  car  and  went  to  meet  Bob  at  the 
drive-in.  The  grandmother  got  up  and 
noticed  Cheryl  gone.  She  panicked.  Called 
Lana. 

This  was  a  dangerous  situation  for  a 
girl  like  Cheryl  to  be  in.  Any  offense  or 
misdeed  by  a  person  on  probation  is  mag- 
nified. Here  was  this  child  on  probation, 
a  ward  of  the  court,  driving  her  own  car 
in  the  wee  hours  of  the  morning.  Anything 
could  happen.  An  incident  with  the  boy. 
Even  a  traffic  violation  at  that  hour  for  a 
teen-age  girl  on  probation  could  be  ruin- 
ous. Lana  was  at  the  house  when  Cheryl 
finally  came  home.  The  grandmother  and 
Lana  were  almost  hysterical.  Together  with 
Mrs.  Muhlbach  they  realized  the  girl  had 
to  be  protected  from  herself.  What  Cheryl 
was  doing,  we  must  assume,  was  being 
done  in  teen-age  innocence  or  impulsive- 
ness. But  it  could  have  dreadful  conse- 
quences for  her.  She  just  had  to  be 
protected. 

This,  plus  all  the  hurts  and  terrors  she 


was  experiencing  in  everyday  living,  final- 
ly made  all  of  those  concerned  with 
Cheryl's  welfare  realize  that  it  was  be- 
coming increasingly  dangerous  for  her  to 
continue  as  she  was. 

El  Retiro  School  seemed  more  and  more 
the  answer.  .  .  . 

A  poem  Cheryl  wrote  last  November 
gives  an  insight  into  the  heart  of  this 
brave,  tormented  girl.  It  shows  the  search 
she  is  making  for  something  bigger  than 
herself.  Introspection  won  first  prize  in  a 
literary  contest  run  by  the  literary  society 
at  Beverly  High,  Quill  and  Scroll.  Modern 
Screen  is  proud  to  be  the  first  (outside  of 
the  school  paper)  to  publish  it. 

Introspection 

by  Cherie  Crane 

My  Father 

Long  have  I  sought  in  many  lands 
That  for  which  I  long 
And  never,  never  found. 

Long  have  I  waited 
In  blindness. 

In  hate,  fear  and  human  frailty 
In  all  that  this  outer  shell  which 

covers  me 
Longs  to  possess. 

But  1, 

Myseif,  underneath  and  deep 

Have  touched  this  long-sought  thing, 

Have  reached  out  with  the  fingers 

of  my  soul 
And  touched 
Ever  so  lightly. 

The  sweetness  of  that  moment 
Has  filled  me  ever  since. 

Oh.  God, 

It  fills  me  to  an  overflowing.  ... 
Of  love. 

The  night-tide  is  dark — 
All  around  me  is  quiet, 
And  I  wait  in  the  never  pausing 
solitude. 

My  Father 

YOU  ARE  MY  LONGING, 

You  live  within  me; 

Only  You  share  the  house  of  my 

inner-self, 
And  look  out  from  the  shell 

within  me, 
As  only  I  do. 

Oh  God, 

Now  when  Your  vastness 
Fills  the  void  in  my  heart, 
It  is  enough. 

Only  look  with  me  through  the 

windows, 
Look  through  the  mask 
At  the  outer  world 
While  all  the  time  sensing 
With  the  fingers  of  my  soul 
Such  sweetness  as  I  could  share  with 
only  You. 

.  .  Can  the  girl  who  wrote  this  be  a 
"bad  girl"? 

Cheryl's  new  school 

What  is  El  Retiro  like? 

El  Retiro  School  is  in  the  San  Fernando 
Valley,  in  the  town  of  Sylmar,  some  thirty - 
five  miles  from  Beverly  Hills. 

When  Cheryl  was  first  told  she  would 
be  sent  to  El  Retiro  for  Girls  she  was 
frightened.  What  is  it  like?  How  could 
she  leave  Beverly  High?  This  home  she 
knew?  Bob?  What  was  she  going  into? 
The  poor  kid  was  scared.  It  took  long 
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to  calm  her  fears. 

The  morning  she  was  to  leave,  Cheryl 
wanted  to  take  all  her  lovely  clothes. 
Clothes  mean  so  much  to  a  teen-age  girl. 
And  Lana  and  Steve  had  been  generous. 
Cheryl  had  beautiful  clothes.  Lovely  eve- 
ning gowns,  stunning  Italian  knits,  racks 


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Callouses 

Relief  Starts  in  Seconds! 

No  waiting  for  action  when 
you  use  soothing,  cushioning,  / 
Super-Soft  Dr.  Scholl's  Zino-  C 
pads!  Nerve-deep  relief  starts  /~^f 
in  seconds.  Used  at  first  sign  I 
of  soreness,  callouses  are  /  t 
stopped  before  they  can  devel-  \ 
op.  The  separate  Medications  j 
included  remove  callouses 
one   of  the   quickest   ways  \ 
known  to  medical  science!  At  1 
Drug,  Dept.,  5-10*  Stores.  \ 


DfScholl's 

Zino-pads 


Pain, 
Burning, 
Soreness' 


and  racks  of  smart  sport  blouses,  rows  of 
skirts,  many  of  them  imported  wools,  chic 
mad  sport  things  from  Jax  in  Beverly 
Hills. 

Mrs.  Muhlbach  told  the  girl  gently,  "You 
won't  need  all  these  things.  Take  just  a 
few — a  very  few  simple  things."  It  was 
explained  to  Cheryl  that  she  could  wear 
her  own  clothes  at  El  Retiro — Cheryl  was 
comforted  to  learn  she  would  not  have  to 
wear  a  uniform.  But  the  closets  are  small 
there,  and  shared.  She  wouldn't  need  her 
party  dresses.  Just  one.  No  low-cut  for- 
mals  that  she  was  so  proud  of.  Not  the 
beautiful  strapless  gown  she'd  gotten  for 
her  Sweet  Sixteen  party  only  a  few 
months  earlier. 

Weariness  engulfed  Cheryl  as  she  dis- 
covered she  had  to  leave  her  beautiful 
things  behind.  She  took  a  small  suitcase 
and  packed  it  with  the  things  she  would 
need — a  pathetically  small  amount,  a  few 
cotton  shirtmakers,  some  skirts  and  shirts. 
"May  I  take  this?"  It  was  a  stuffed  animal 
she'd  slept  with.  Mrs.  Muhlbach  realized 
this  girl  who  had  been  through  so  many 
sordid,  worldly  experiences,  was  still  a 
little  girl.  She  nodded.  Cheryl  took  her 
stuffed  animal. 

It  was  decided  that  Mrs.  Muhlbach  would 
take  Cheryl  to  El  Retiro.  Lana  might  break 
down.  It  would  upset  Cheryl  too  much  to 
have  an  emotional  sendoff. 

Cheryl  walked  out  of  the  house  in  Bev- 
erly Hills  she'd  lived  in  for  the  past  two 
years  with  her  grandmother,  a  very  tall 
girl  but  looking,  all  of  a  sudden,  like  a 
frightened  little  child.  She  walked  down 
the  path  slowly  and  stepped  into  the  car, 
placing  her  little  suitcase  next  to  her,  the 
stuffed  animal  on  top  of  it.  Mrs.  Muhlbach 
sat  next  to  her,  at  the  wheel. 

They  started  the  drive — past  Beverly 
High  and  its  campus  and  its  football  field. 
Past  Blum's,  the  ice  cream  parlor  where 
the  Beverly  kids  hang  out,  past  Wil  Wright's 
Ice  Cream  with  its  gay  red-and-white 
striped  awning  .  .  .  and  then  drove  onto 
the  Freeway,  toward  El  Retiro.  They  sped 
along  the  Freeway  to  Ventura  Boulevard 
in  the  Valley,  past  the  stores  and  the 
traffic  in  the  Valley's  business  district, 
past  the  low  ranch  homes  in  the  Valley. 
Farther  and  farther  out  they  drove,  toward 
the  hills,  with  the  houses  farther  apart. 
Past  Hanson  Dam,  where  there  is  a  play- 
ground, where  Cheryl  looked  out  and 
saw  girls  her  age  and  their  boy  friends 
in  boats  on  the  small  lake.  It  was  country 
now,  with  lots  of  trees,  green  mountains 
rising  on  one  side,  the  foothills  of  San 


Fernando  Valley  in  front  of  them.  There 
is  the  small  suburb  of  Sylmar.  The  air  is 
always  clear  and  crisp  in  Sylmar,  so  high 
above  Los  Angeles. 

There  is  a  twelve-foot  concrete  wall 
surrounding  El  Retiro,  with  a  barbed  wire 
running  on  top  of  that  wall.  A  heavy, 
locked  steel  gate. 

The  little  car  stopped  outside  the  gate. 
The  probation  officer  announced  her  name. 
The  steel  doors  opened.  Cheryl,  clutching 
her  little  suitcase,  entered  with  the  officer. 
And  the  heavy  iron  door  closed  behind 
her. 


There  is  a  peaceful  atmosphere  inside 
El  Retiro,  as  though  to  give  sanctuary  and 
peace  to  the  troubled  young  girls  within. 
Tall  oleander  and  olive  trees  abound  on 
the  grounds  and  give  it  a  sleepy  atmos- 
phere; the  grass  dotted  with  the  olives 
that  have  dropped  from  the  trees. 

Here  are  girls  of  all  races  and  creeds. 
Some  of  the  inmates  have  committed  a 
misdeed  against  society,  some  girls  may  not 
necessarily  have  committed  any  offense 
but  are  here  because  they  cannot  adjust 
to  outside  life.  They  need  psychiatric 
therapy  and  that  extra  guidance  and 
cave  which  they  have  been  unable  to  get 
in  their  own  homes.  It  is  a  State  institu- 
tion for  handling  girls  who  are  wards  of 
the  court  and  are  in  need  of  a  character 
building  program  in  order  to  prepare 
them  for  successful  living  and  adult  re- 
sponsibility. El  Retiro  is  a  correctional 
school.  It  is  there  for  the  purpose  of  re- 
habilitation, not  punishment. 

The  girls  are  allowed  freedom  on  the 
grounds,  but  the  tall  steel  gate  is  always 
locked.  And  the  girls  are  under  constant 
supervision.  Cheryl  is  the  thirty-eighth 
girl  there,  and  the  girls  range  in  age  from 
thirteen  to  seventeen. 

Also,  there  is  much  done  in  the  way 
of  psychiatric  therapy  which  Cheryl, 
and  the  other  girls,  are  exposed  to  as 
part  of  their  rehabilitating  treatment. 
They  need  to  make  the  adjustment  so 
that  eventually  they  can  live  in  the  out- 
side world  again. 

There  are  many  long,  low  cottages  on 
the  grounds — the  dormitories  where  the 
girls  live.  The  dorms  are  named  after 
famous  women:  Florence  Nightingale 
Building,  Susan  B.  Anthony,  Jane  Addams. 
At  the  beginning,  Cheryl  was  placed  in 
the  Receiving  cottage,  in  a  room  by  her- 
self. New  girls  live  in  a  room  by  them- 
selves for  the  first  few  weeks — to  adjust. 
Later,  she  will  share  a  room  with  another 


girl  in  one  of  the  long  low  dormitories. 

Much  is  done  to  eliminate  the  "institu- 
tion" look.  The  furniture  is  simple,  the 
rooms  plain,  but  the  rooms  are  brightly 
painted  and  the  girls  hang  up  photos  of 
their  favorite  rock  and  roll  singers  and 
idols.  Covers  of  Modern  Screen  are  up  on 
the  wall.  One  girl  has  her  parakeet  in 
a  cage  next  to  her  bed.  Girls  can  keep 
their  perfume  bottles  and  make-up  on 
shelves.  Cheryl  carefully  laid  out  her  ex- 
pensive perfume  bottles,  those  beautiful 
perfumes  her  mother  and  father  had  given 
her.  The  girls  looked  at  them  longingly, 
and  Cheryl  promised  to  give  a  bottle  to 
one  of  the  girls  who  had  nothing. 

Cheryl  takes  care  of  her  own  room,  does 
her  own  laundry  (except  sheets),  is  learn- 
ing how  to  iron,  helps  set  the  table,  clear 
the  table,  helps  with  the  dishes  in  the 
kitchen.  The  girls  divide  chores  in  the 
dining  room. 

Cheryl  now  goes  to  bed  at  9:30,  is  up 
at  6:45.  On  Friday  and  Saturday  nights, 
to  bed  at  10:30.  Once  every  other  month 
there  is  a  dance  at  El  Retiro.  To  this 
dance  come  boys  who  are  carefully  se- 
lected. Some  of  the  boys  are  from  families 
in  the  community.  Some  are  carefully 
selected  from  the  Youth  Honor  Farm,  a 
correctional  institution  for  boys.  Dancing, 
punch — all  supervised.  To  warm-blooded 
girls  who  no  longer  are  able  to  join  their 
crowd  for  school  dances  and  parties  at 
home,  this  is  eagerly  awaited. 

During  the  first  month  or  six  weeks, 
Lana  will  not  be  able  to  visit  Cheryl. 
Afterwards,  she  can  visit  her  every  week 
end.  Months  later,  perhaps,  Cheryl  will  be 
permitted  to  spend  a  week  end  at  home, 
if  Lana  is  not  busy  working  in  Europe. 

Cheryl  will  undoubtedly  take  Lana 
around  the  grounds,  show  her  the  Recrea- 
tion Room  where  she  and  the  other  girls 
watch  TV  at  night,  or  sew  clothes  for 
themselves.  There  is  a  record  player,  and 
perhaps  Lana,  noticing  how  few  records 
there  are,  will  come  some  Sunday  loaded 
with  record  albums  for  Cheryl  and  the 
other  girls.  Cheryl  will  show  her  mother 
her  room  and  how  she  has  dressed  it  up 
with  photos  on  the  wall,  made  it  "hers." 

Maybe  some  day  Lana's  lost  girl  will 
no  longer  be  lost.  Maybe  this  little  girl 
who  had  tried  so  hard  to  hold  her  head  up 
against  the  world,  when  she  leaves  El 
Retiro,  will  be — with  God's  help — a  happy, 
secure  young  woman.  end 

Lana  will  star  in  Portrait  In  Black, 
Universal-International. 


The  Love  Drug 

(Continued  from  page  45) 

admired  on  the  screen  ("I'm  bored  with 
that  word  charm,"  he  muttered)  had  to 
admit  he  didn't  like  himself.  He  was,  he 
told  himself  harshly,  "emotionally  im- 
mature, painfully  shy,  egocentric  and  at 
fault  for  the  failure  of  the  three  mar- 
riages." 

Those  marriages  .  .  .  what  had  he 
brought  to  them,  what  had  he  left  of 
them,  but  a  feeling  of  emptiness  .  .  . 
Actress  Virginia  Cherrill,  heiress  Barbara 
Hutton,  and  his  partner  of  the  "perfect 
marriage,"  Betsy  Drake.  Lovely  women, 
good  women,  blonde,  blue-eyed  beauties, 
well-bred,  elegant  ladies.  Three  marriages, 
fruitless  matches.  The  years  would  go  by, 
a  procession  of  emptier  and  emptier  years; 
he  would  get  older.  That's  all.  He'd  never 
know  the  meaning  of  life,  he'd  never 
know  the  fulfillment  of  watching  a  child, 
66  his  child,  grow. 


"All  my  life  I've  searched  for  peace  of 
mind  .  .  .  Yoga,  hypnosis,  mysticism — 
nothing  has  given  me  what  I  needed  .  .  . 
All  my  life  I've  been  running  away  from 
what  I  wanted  most  .  .  .  What  do  I  want 
out  of  life  .  .  .  ?  Beautiful  women?  Fan- 
tastic houses?  No  .  .  .  Courage  to  live  in 
the  truth  .  .  .  before  it  is  too  late.  Before 
it  is  too  late." 

He  had  been  offered  a  chance,  a  last 
chance  perhaps,  and  he  would  take  that 
chance.  No  matter  what  the  risk,  he  would 
take  the  plunge  into  the  unknown.  .  . 

What  L.S.D.  does 

The  experiment  that  Cary  Grant  turned 
to  in  desperation  involves  psychoanalysis 
with  the  aid  of  lysergic  acid  diethylamide 
( L.S.D. ).  Dr.  Mortimer  Hartman,  the  man 
who  administerd  the  treatment,  described 
L.S.D.  as  a  "psychic  energizer  which  emp- 
ties the  subconscious  and  intensifies  emo- 
tion and  memory  a  hundred  times." 

Under  the  drug's  influence,  given  in 
small  doses  only  under  the  supervision  of 
a  doctor,  patients  find  that  memory  blocks 
are  broken  down  and  past  experiences. 


even  away  back  in  childhood,  are  vividly 
relived.  This  provides  an  emotional  re- 
lease and  may  hasten  a  new  understanding 
of  their  problems.  In  large  doses,  it  in- 
duces a  dream -like  state  in  which  the 
patient  has  bizarre  hallucinations,  sees  a 
dream  world  in  brilliant  colors,  and  feels 
disassociated  from  reality. 

Since  November,  1958,  Cary  has  spent 
many  hours  in  sessions  with  Doctor  Hart- 
man.  The  L.S.D.  pills,  and  mood  music 
and  Hartman's  promptings  brought  out 
fantastic  self-discoveries. 

"A  lot  of  scientists  on  the  West  Coast 
are  grateful  to  me  and  a  few  others  who 
volunteered  for  the  treatments,"  Cary  said. 
"Some  people  may  think  us  nutty,  but  the 
doctors  don't." 

Cary  explains,  "What  L.S.D.  does  is  re- 
lease the  mind  to  a  fantastic  degree.  You 
have  waking  dreams,  and  sometimes  weird 
and  wonderful  hallucinations.  But,  most 
important,  it  cuts  down  psychoanalysis  to 
a  very  short  period.  For  anyone  like  me, 
who  has  a  deep-rooted  desire  for  under- 
standing and  peace  of  mind,  it's  almost  like 
a  miracle 


"I  feel  now  that  I  really  understand  my- 
self. I  didn't  ever  before.  And  because  I 
never  understood  myself,  how  could  I  have 
hoped  to  understand  anyone  else?  That's 
why  I  say  that,  now,  I  can  truly  give  a 
woman  love  for  the  first  time  in  my  life 
.  .  .  because  I  can  understand  her." 

The  changes  L.S.D.  has  brought  about  in 
Cary  are  remarkable  and  astounding.  For 
one  thing,  he  is  willing  to  talk  about  it. 
Or  any  other  topic.  Before  L.S.D.,  he  al- 
ways managed  to  turn  off  or  change  the 
conversation  when  it  came  too  close  to  his 
personal  life  or  feelings.  "If  I  was  a  snob 
in  the  past."  he  says  now,  "I  was  looking 
down  on  my  faults  in  other  people.  If  I 
didn't  like  humanity,  it  was  because  I 
didn't  like  myself.  For  the  first  time  in  my 
life.  I'm  ready  to  let  people  in." 

Disturbing  discovery 

One  of  the  disturbing  facts  Cary  dis- 
covered about  himself  was  that  he  had  al- 
ways felt  rejected  by  his  mother,  and 
consequently,  "I've  always  shied  from 
women  who  look  like  my  mother."  His 
mother,  Mrs.  Elias  Leach,  was  a  tall,  black- 
haired  beauty  with  olive  skin,  who  lives 
alone  now,  in  her  80's,  in  England,  where 
Archibald  Leach  was  born.  Her  son  looks 
like  her,  and  their  personalities  are  similar. 
Mrs.  Leach  will  admit  today  that  she's 
proud  of  him,  but  snaps,  "But  then  he 
should  be  proud  of  me.  as  I  brought  him 
into  the  world."  She  used  to  be  a  singer 
and  mimic.  When  Archie  was  twelve,  his 
mother  was  placed  in  a  mental  institution, 
suffering  from  a  severe  mental  breakdown. 
She  was  just  gone,  disappeared,  as  far  as 
the  boy  knew — no  one  told  him  the  truth 
for  a  long,  long  time.  He  locked  his  misery 
inside  himself,  his  father  took  off  with 
another  woman,  and  the  boy  left  home. 

The  L.SD.  therapy  has  brought  out  at 
last  all  the  tormented  feelings  of  those 
lonely  boyhood  years  that  Cary  Grant  had 
kept  welled  up  inside  himself  so  long. 

He  says,  "It  was  horrendous.  I  had  to 
face  things  about  myself  which  I  never 
admitted,  which  I  didn't  know  were  there. 
Now  I  know  that  I  hurt  every  woman  I 
loved  ...  I  was  hiding  behind  all  kinds  of 
defenses,  hypocrisies  and  vanities.  I  had 
to  get  rid  of  them  layer  by  layer  .  .  .  That 
moment  when  your  conscious  meets  your 
subconscious  is  a  wrench.  You  feel  the 
whole  top  of  your  head  is  lifting  off." 

He  adds,  "I  think  I'm  ready  at  last  to 
have  children.  I'd  like  to  have  a  whole 
brood  chattering  around  the  dining-room 
table.  I  think  my  relations  with  women 
will  be  different  too.  I  used  to  love  a 
woman  with  great  passion,  and  we  de- 
stroyed each  other.  Or  I  loved  not  at  all. 
or  in  friendship.  Now  I'm  ready  to  love  on 
an  equal  level.  If  I  can  find  a  woman  on 
whom  I  can  exhaust  all  my  thoughts, 
energies  and  emotions,  and  she  loves  me 
that  way  in  return,  we  can  live  happily 
ever  after  .  .  .  My  attitude  toward  women 
is  completely  different.  I  do  not  intend  to 
foul  up  any  more  lives.  I  could  be  a  good 
husband  now." 

Now  that  Cary  Grant  realizes  that  he 
was  deliberately  avoiding  women  who 
looked  at  all  like  his  mother,  he  no  longer 
has  to  hide  from  them.  Lately  he  is  seeing 
a  lot  of  Madlyn  Rhue,  a  young  actress 
with  black  hair,  fair  skin,  enormous  dark 
eyes  with  thick  brows,  a  girl  who  comes 
from  nothing  like  a  society  background. 

Madlyn  has  had  to  fight  for  everything 
she  wanted.  Before  she  was  born,  her 
father  had  abandoned  her  mother,  and  her 
early  childhood  had  its  resultant  depriva- 
tions. Her  mother  had  to  go  to  work  to 
support  Madlyn  and  an  older  sister,  and 
Madlyn  lived  with  a  succession  of  uncles 
and  aunts  all  over  the  country.  Her 
mother  loved  her  children,  but  at  times  it 
was  physically  impossible  for  the  mother 


to  work  and  also  keep  house  for  them. 

When  she  was  fourteen  she  was  in  Los 
Angeles  with  her  mother,  who  had  just 
remarried.  Madlyn  was  used  to  working — 
she  knew  she  had  to  work  for  what  she 
wanted. 

She  wanted  very  much  to  be  an  actress. 
Her  mother  wasn't  for  it,  because  she 
thought  Madlyn  would  be  hurt.  However, 
when  Madlyn  earned  her  own  money  to 
finance  a  trip  to  New  York,  she  consented. 

In  New  York  she  was  completely  on  her 
own,  and  developed  a  brand  of  courage 
that  young  girls  on  their  own  often  do. 
She  studied  drama  by  day,  danced  at  the 
Latin  Quarter  by  night.  Once,  in  taking 
a  routine  X-ray,  she  was  told  she  had  TB. 
She  collapsed  in  her  apartment  that  night 
and  was  'out'  for  four  days.  She  was 
finally  discovered  by  Jim  Downey,  who 
owned  the  restaurant  where  she  usually 
ate.  He  had  become  worried  when  he 
didn't  see  her.  He  sent  her  food,  and 
Madlyn  began  to  recover. 

We  are  usually  the  product  of  our  early 
circumstances.  All  these  things  could  have 
destroyed  Madlyn — or  made  her  a  strong, 
vital,  cheerful  and  gutsy  girl.  She  is  the 
latter.  She  learned  from  her  experience 
that  the  human  spirit  has  great  resiliency 
and  that  abounding  faith  and  courage  will 
see  a  person  through  black  periods. 

The  reason  this  has  significance  is  that 
this  girl  is  a  type  different  from  any  of  the 
spoiled  darlings  Cary  Grant  has  usually 
been  attracted  to. 

In  Hollywood  Madlyn  met  Tony  Curtis 
and  Janet  Leigh,  who  were  fond  of  her. 
Tony  told  her  about  Operation  Petticoat 
and  thought  she  would  be  good  for  the  vo- 
luptuous young  Army  nurse  who  is  Cary's 
vis-a-vis.  Madlyn  phoned  her  agent  at 
three  in  the  morning,  awakening  him,  and 
told  him  that  she  wanted  to  have  an  inter- 
view for  the  role.  "I  will  phone  you  every 
hour  on  the  hour  until  you  promise  you'll 
get  me  the  interview."  She  phoned  him 
again  at  4:00  aan.  Then  at  5:00  a.m.  At 
6:00  a.m.  her  weary  agent  said,  "Okay. 
I'll  get  you  the  interview." 

She  got  a  role  in  Operation  Petticoat— 
not  as  leading  lady  to  Cary,  but  as  one 
of  the  five  nurses.  She  went  to  Key  West, 
Florida,  on  location,  and  he  showed  his 
interest  in  many  little  ways — like  sending 
her  a  single  rose.  Or.  on  the  set,  saying 
suddenly  to  her,  "Let's  dance,"  and  danc- 
ing while  production  waited.  She  says,  "I 
love  that  man.  Even  if  I  marry  another 
man,  I  will  always  love  him." 

When  he  takes  her  to  the  movies,  it's  to 
a  drive-in  in  the  Rolls-Royce,  with  cham- 
pagne to  sip  while  watching  the  movie. 

Neither  Madlyn  nor  Cary  have  actually 
said  that  there  is  a  wedding  in  the  offing. 
But  he  does  say,  "My  next  marriage  will 
be  complete.  Or,  if  this  one  to  Betsy  (he 
and  Betsy  Drake  are  only  separated,  not 
divorced)  persists,  this  will  be  a  full, 
happy,  utterly  satisfying  union.  I  just  don't 
know  yet.  But  I  do  not  intend  to  foul  up 
any  more  lives.  I  could  be  a  good  husband 
now.  I  am  aware  of  my  faults,  and  I  am 
ready  to  accept  responsibilities  and  ex- 
change tolerances.  Even  if  I  stay  alone, 
that  will  be  all  right,  too." 

The  important  thing  now  is  that  Cary 
Grant  is  ready  for  life,  ready  for  love. 
As  he  says,  "Every  day  now  is  wonderful. 
I  wish  I  could  live  400  years.  I  am  con- 
vinced I  will  live  to  a  healthy  old  age,  but 
if  I  drop  dead  within  the  next  ten  years 
I  will  have  enjoyed  more  living  in  the 
latter  part  of  my  life  than  most  people 
ever  know." 

The  daring  experiment  with  the  drug 
called  L.S.D.  has  proved  to  be  a  success. 

END 

Cary  stars  in  The  Grass  Is  Greener, 
Universal-International. 


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Dare  She  Wear  White? 


(Continued  from  page  23) 

We  now  present  for  you  this  strange  and 
miraculous  story  .  .  . 

It  is  a  story  that  begins  in  the  attic 
of  a  small  house  on  a  small  Texas  farm, 
back  in  1945,  when  Debbie  Reynolds — 
then  Mary  Frances  Reynolds — was  twelve 
years  old. 

She  had  been  visiting  her  grandmother 
for  the  past  two  weeks.  And  now  it  was 
nearly  time  to  leave.  And  her  grand- 
mother, who  had  promised  her  a  very 
special  present  when  she  left,  had  taken 
her  up  to  the  attic  to  show  her  the  present. 

"What  is  it,  Gram'?"  Debbie  had  asked, 
excitedly,  all  the  way  up  the  stairs.  "What 
is  it?" 

"It's  no  thin'  that'll  overjoy  you  now, 
Mary  Frances,"  the  old  woman  said  as 
they  entered  the  room,  nicking  on  the 
light,  " — not  a  two-wheeler  bike  or  a  new 
ketcher's  mitt  or  whatever  it  is  a  tomboy 
your  age  craves.  In  fact,  it's  not  even 
something  I'm  goin'  to  let  you  take  away 
with  you  now.  It's  too  precious  to  be 
trusted  on  one  of  those  busses  all  the  way 
to  California,  with  all  that  dust  and 
grease  and  everything.  Come  the  time, 
though,  and  I'll  send  it  to  you  by  Santa 
Fe.  That's  the  only  way  I'd  trust  that — " 
"But  what  is  it,  Gram'?"  Debbie  inter- 
rupted. 

The  old  woman  led  her  across  the 
crowded  room,  to  a  box,  a  huge  card- 
board box  which  sat  alone  on  the  top  of 
an  ancient  bureau,  a  somewhat  tattered 
box,  but  shining-free  from  dust,  as  if, 
from  time  to  time,  it  had  been  wiped 
clean — tenderly,  lovingly,  specially. 

"Go  ahead,"  the  old  woman  said  then, 
"take  the  lid  off  and  have  a  look  for  your- 
self .  .  .  Go  ahead." 

Debbie  began  to  remove  the  top  of  the 
box. 

"Phew!"  she  said,  crinkling  her  nose, 
when  the  top  was  halfway  off. 

Her  grandmother  nodded.  "That's  just 
what  the  moths  say  when  they  git  that 
close — phew!"  she  said.  "Now  come  on, 
keep  liftin'  and  take  your  look  and  then 
let's  be  off  with  you." 

When  the  top  was  removed,  finally,  a 
few  moments  later,  the  old  woman  stepped 
back  a  bit  and  squinted  her  eyes  and 
watched  her  granddaughter's  expression. 

She  was  pleased  to  see  the  girl  smile  as 
she  looked  inside  the  box. 

She  was  pleased  to  see  her  reach  and 
lift  out  the  white  dress  that  lay  there. 

She  was  pleased  to  see  her  stare  at  the 
dress  for  a  little  while  and  then  to  hear 
her  say,  "Gee,  Gram',  this  is  pretty." 

"It's  my  weddin'  dress,"  the  old  woman 
explained,  simply.  "The  dress  I  wore  when 
I  got  married,  and  that  your  own  Ma  wore 
when  she  did."  She  pointed  back  into  the 
box.  "And  see,"  she  said,  "there's  the  veil 
that  comes  with  it — and  it's  the  veil  and 
the  dress  I'd  like  for  you  to  wear  when 
you  get  married." 

The  smile  disappeared  from  Debbie's 
face. 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  get  married, 
Gram',"  she  said. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"I  was  twelve  years  old  once  myself,  Mary 
Frances.  And  just  like  you,  believe  it  or 
not — a  little  hellion  of  a  gal  who  loved  to 
play  with  boys  but  who  thought  to  her- 
self, 'Me,  I'm  never  going  to  marry  one 
of  'em!'  .  .  .  Well,  child,  someday  you're 
goin'  to  be  a  young  lady.  And  you're  goin' 
to  meet  a  fellow.  And  instead  of  rough- 
housin'  together,  you're  goin'  to  find  your- 
self wantin'  to  be  together.  And  then 
|     68  you're  goin'  to  find  yourself  wantin'  to 


marry  together.  And  that's  where  this 
dress  is  goin'  to  come  in.  .  .  ." 

She  took  the  dress  from  Debbie  and  she 
held  it  herself  now  and  looked  down  at 
it,  as  she  continued  talking. 

"It  was  that  way  with  me  and  your 
Grandpa,  lots  and  lots  of  years  ago,  you 
know  .  .  .  We  fell  in  love  with  each  other. 
And  we  decided  to  get  married.  And  first 
thing  I  thought  of  was,  'Well,  I've  got  to 
have  me  a  real  nice  dress  the  day  I  get 
married.  Real  nice.'  And  so,  even  though  I 
didn't  have  much  money  to  my  name,  I 
wrote  to  New  York  City  and  sent  for 
this  material — this  lace  and  this  satin  and 
that  veil  stuff  and  those  little  hand-made 
lilies  of  the  valley  on  the  veil — and  I  didn't 
flinch  a  mite  even  when  I  saw  the  bill.  For 
thirty-eight  dollars  it  was;  a  lot  of  money 
in  those  days.  But  I  just  sat  down  and 
made  my  dress  and  came  the  weddin'  and 
I  wore  it." 

She  paused  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
looked  back  up  at  her  granddaughter. 

"You  know,  Mary  Frances,  truthful,  at 
the  time,"  she  said,  "I  didn't  know  why  I 
needed  so  special  a  dress — not  really,  I 
didn't  know.  I  even  thought  to  myself 
from  time  to  time,  as  I  was  sittin'  there 
sewin'  it  together,  I  thought,  'Miss,  you 
sure  are  a  vain  and  selfish  young  lady 
spendin'  all  this  money  on  something 
you're  only  goin'  to  wear  for  one  short  day 
in  your  life.' 

"But  later  on,  pass  time,  I  began  to 
realize  why  I'd  really  wanted  it,  my  dress, 
my  white  long  fancy  dress  on  my  weddin' 
day. 

"And  that  reason  was,  pure  and  simple, 
that  I  got  to  realize  that  my  weddin'  day 
was  the  most  important  and  beautiful  day 
in  my  whole  life  ...  A  day  I  was  on  my 
way  to  bein'  a  wife  .  .  .  And,  eventually, 
a  mother  .  .  .  And,  then,  a  woman,  a  real, 
grown,  bona-fide  woman.  .  .  . 

"And  that  for  that  one  day  that  I  was 
so  special,  it  was  right  for  me  to  want  to 
go  lookin'  so  special." 

She  winked. 

"And  child,"  she  said,  "there's  practical 
reasons  behind  it  all,  too.  Like  the  walk- 
in'-down-the-aisle-of-the-church  part,  I 
remember  that.  And  that  fellow,  your 
Grandpa,  standin'  there  lookin'  at  me  like 
I  was  something  special.  I  remember  that. 
And  I  think  he  remembered  it,  too, 
pass  time.  So  that  as  we  lived  together  and 
got  into  the  little  tiffs,  sometimes  the  big 
tiffs,  all  married  folk  get  into,  I'm  sure 
there  were  times  he  stopped  a  bit  in  his 
bickerin'  and  remembered  me  not  as  an 
agin'  lady  with  hands  red  from  hot  water 
and  field  work  and  wrinkles  formin'  near 
my  eyes  and  my  body  slowly  gettin' 
different-shaped,  but  as  that  girl  he  saw 
that  one  day,  that  special  day,  all  young 
and  dressed  up  in  her  pretty  white  dress 
and — " 

She  stopped. 

And  cleared  her  throat. 

"Am  I  talkin'  too  much,  Mary  Frances?" 
she  asked. 

Her  granddaughter  shook  her  head. 

"Well,"  the  old  woman  said,  "I  guess  I 
am,  really.  But  I'm  near  through  now. 
And  all  I  want  to  say  before  I  finish  is 
that  I  feel  somewhere  in  my  bones  that 
this  dress  brought  me  and  your  Grandpa 
a  lot  of  luck  in  our  married  life.  And  your 
Ma,  she  wore  it,  and  it's  brought  her  a 
good  lot  of  years  with  your  Daddy.  And 
someday,  Mary  Frances,  I  want  you  to 
wear  it,  for  luck  in  your  marriage.  And 
maybe  if  you  ever  have  a  daughter — " 

She  stopped  again. 


"Now  I  am  talkin'  too  much,  too  far 
ahead,  eh?"  she  said.  "—Oh,  what  a  ter- 
rible gabby  old  lady  I'm  gettin'  to  be." 

She  turned  now,  and  placed  the  dress 
back  into  the  box. 

"There,"  she  said,  when  the  lid  was  on 
the  box  again.  "Now  let's  go  back  down- 
stairs so  you  can  get  ready  to  get  your 
bus." 

She  began  to  walk  towards  the  door. 

"Are  you  comin',  child?"  she  called  out 
to  her  granddaughter,  who  hadn't  moved 
from  the  spot  where  she'd  been  standing. 

Debbie  nodded. 

"Yes,  Gram',"  she  said,  "except  I  just 
want  to  say  two  things  before  I  do  come 
and  go  away — two  things." 

"What  might  they  be?"  the  grand- 
mother asked. 

"First,"  said  Debbie,  "you're  not  a 
gabby  old  lady,  like  you  said." 

"I'm  not?"  the  old  woman  asked,  softly. 

"No,"  said  Debbie.  "No  .  .  .  And  second, 
I'm  not  saying  I  ever  will — but  if  I  ever 
do,  find  a  fellow  someday  and  get  mar- 
ried to  him,  well,  I  just  want  you  to  know 
that  I'll  be  honored  to  wear  your  dress 
at  my  wedding,  Gram'.  Just  like  you  did. 
And  my  Ma  did." 

"That's  nice  of  you  to  teU  me  that,"  said 
the  old  woman.  And  then,  reaching  for  a 
handkerchief,  she  said,  "Now  here.  Take 
this  and  dry  your  eyes  .  .  .  Come  on  .  .  . 
Come  on,  child." 

Suddenly,  Debbie  ran  across  the  room 
and  into  her  grandmother's  arms. 

"My,  my,"  the  old  woman  said,  holding 
her  close,  trying  to  laugh,  trying  to  push 
back  her  own  tears.  "What  kind  of  hellion 
are  you,  anyway?  Gettin'  so  mushed-up 
over  an  old  weddin'  dress?  And  cryin'  like 
this — as  if  you  were  forgettin'  you  got 
good  strong  Texas  blood  in  you.  .  .  ." 

The  fate  of  the  wedding  dress 

To  this  day,  no  one  knows  exactly  how 
the  fire  started.  Some  people  say  there 
was  a  short  circuit  in  the  electricity,  and 
that  started  it.  Others  will  tell  you  that 
the  Texas  sun  was  so  hot  that  summer  of 
1947  that  it  acted  like  a  match  to  some 
of  the  old  wooden  farmhouses  down  in  the 
southern  part  of  the  state  and  actually 
burned  them  up.  At  any  rate,  there  was  a 
fire.  And  it  spread  very  quickly  through 
the  little  house,  burning  to  ashes  every- 
thing as  it  went.  Burning,  up  in  the  attic, 
amid  everything  else,  a  long  white  wed- 
ding dress,  a  dress  that  had  been  worn 
twice,  and  that  would  never  be  worn 
again. 

Debbie  Reynolds  had  forgotten  about 
that  dress  by  the  time  her  own  wedding 
day  came  around,  some  eight  years  later. 
It  was,  in  fact,  too  hectic  a  wedding  to 
think  of  anything  but  getting  it  done  with. 
Debbie  was  an  actress  by  this  time,  one 
of  the  brightest  young  stars  in  Hollywood, 
and  she'd  been  going  these  past  couple  of 
years  with  Eddie  Fisher,  one  of  the  most 
promising  young  singers  in  the  country. 
They'd  been  engaged  for  a  while  now. 
Theirs  had  been  one  of  the  most  up-and- 
down,  on-again  off-again  engagements  in 
show  business  history.  So  that,  finally, 
when  the  wedding  did  take  place,  it  was 
put  together  as  quickly  and  frantically  as 
a  Saturday  lunch  for  unexpected  visitors. 

The  site  for  the  wedding  was  a  resort 
in  the  decidedly  un-mountainous  Catskill 
Mountains,  about  forty  miles  from  New 
York.  The  atmosphere  surrounding  the 
entire  affair  can  best  be  described  as 
circus-like.  Guests  at  the  resort  peeked 
through  the  windows  of  the  makeshift 
chapel,  some  with  autograph  books  in 
their  hands,  ready  to  corner  the  bride  and 
groom  on  their  way  out.  Photographers, 
refused  admittance  to  the  actual  ceremony, 
drowned  out  the  wedding  march  with 
their    hollering.    Reporters,    pencils  and 


pads  in  hand,  hovered  over  the  couple  to 
catch  and  describe  their  every  word,  and 
breath,  even  their  beads  of  understandable 
perspiration. 

The  next  day  practically  every  one  in 
the  country  read  these  reporters'  stories 
of  the  celebrated  wedding  in  their  news- 
papers. 

And  only  one  woman,  a  very  old  wom- 
an, squinting  at  her  newspaper  as  she  sat 
on  a  porch  some  2,500  miles  from  the  Cat- 
skill  Mountains,  shook  her  head  sadly 
when  she  read  the  words: 

The  bride  wore  a  lovely  new  dress.  .  .  . 

Debbie  today 

By  this  day  in  early  April  of  1960, 
Debbie  Reynolds  was  one  of  the  most 
successful  young  women  in  the  United 
States.  True,  her  marriage  with  Eddie 
Fisher  had  been  a  flop,  and  had  ended  in 
divorce.  But,  at  age  twenty-seven,  she 
could  list  as  assets  two  good  and  healthy 
children,  a  healthy  career  (as  movie  ac- 
tress and  TV  producer),  and  a  fund  of 
energy  that  promised  to  boost  this  career 
beyond  imagination. 

What  was  Debbie  like — within — on  this 
particular  April  day? 

There  are  people  who  will  tell  you,  "She 
was,  and  is,  a  fortunate  girl.  She  has 
everything  a  girl  can  ask  for.  She  has 
good  looks,  a  family,  money,  a  future.  She 
is  happy-go-lucky,  forgiving  of  the  past, 
unafraid  of  the  future.  She  is  optimistic, 
carefree.  She  is,  most  important,  happy. 

And  then  there  are  people  who  will  say, 
"'She  was,  and  is,  a  very  sad  creature.  She 
moves  ahead,  but  without  reason,  without 
direction.  Her  gaiety  is  an  act.  She  laughs 
when  there  is  nothing  to  laugh  about.  She 
is  a  bitter  young  woman.  Her  marriage 
was  a  shambles,  her  divorce  a  terrific  hurt, 
and  she  tries  desperately  now  to  make 
light  of  this  shambles,  this  hurt.  She 
wisecracks  too  hard.  She  works  too  hard. 
She  fives  and  does  everything  too  hard. 
And,  doing  this,  she  kids  nobody." 

Whichever  side  is  right,  we  know  only 
this: 

That  on  this  day  in  April,  just  a  few 
short  weeks  ago,  Debbie  Reynolds  for- 
got about  everything  concerning  herself, 
the  good,  or  the  bad,  and  thought  of  some- 
one else.  . 

It  was  a  busy  day  for  Debbie,  an  un- 
usually busy  day.  She'd  had  a  few  TV 
conferences  in  the  morning,  an  interview 
at  lunch,  a  movie  rehearsal  following.  And 
now  it  was  late  afternoon  and  she  had  to 
rush  for  a  final  wardrobe  fitting  for  her 
latest  picture,  The  Pleasure  of  his  Com- 
pany. 

"Okay,  I'm  here,"  she  called  to  Edith 
Head,  Paramount  Studios'  fashion  de- 
signer, as  she  entered  the  fitting  room. 
"What've  you  got  for  me  today?" 

"One  last  dress,"  said  Miss  Head.  "The 
wedding  dress — for  the  final  scene." 

"Oh  boy,"  said  Debbie,  joking.  "I  can 
hear  the  old  organ  music  now  .  .  .  Dum 
dum  de-dum,  dum  dum  de-dum  .  .  ." 
she  laughed. 

Miss  Head  laughed  too,  and  left  the 
room  to  get  the  dress. 

It  was  a  few  minutes  later  when  she  re- 
turned. 

She  walked  over  to  Debbie. 

"Beautiful,  isn't  it?"  she  asked. 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Debbie,  half-looking. 
" — Now  what  do  you  say  I  slip  out  of  this, 
try  on  that,  and  get  it  all  over  with  so  I 
can  get  home,  okay?" 

"Oh,  Debbie!"  said  Miss  Head,  when 
the  dress  and  veil  were  on.  "I  don't  think 
I've  ever  seen  anything  lovelier  ...  I 
don't  think  I've  ever  seen  you  look  any 
lovelier." 

"Sure,"  said  Debbie. 

She  turned  and  looked  into  a  floor- 
length  mirror  on  the  other  side  of  the 


room.  Her  reflection  shimmered  back  at  her. 

'"Sure,"  she  said  again. 

"And  now,"  she  started  to  say,  "if  the 
fit's  okay  with  you — " 

But  she  didn't  go  on. 

She  was  looking  at  herself  in  the  mir- 
ror, still. 

Staring. 

"Debbie,"  Miss  Head  asked,  after  a  mo- 
ment, "is  something  wrong?" 

Debbie  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said.  ".  .  .  No." 

"You're  sure?"  Miss  Head  asked,  after 
another  moment. 

"No,"  Debbie  repeated.  ".  .  Nothing's 
wrong." 

She  tried  then  to  look  away  from  the 
mirror. 
But  she  couldn't. 

"This  dress,"  she  said,  finally,  softly. 
"This  dress — " 

-What?"  Miss  Head  asked. 

"This  dress,"  Debbie  said.  "I've  seen  it 
before,  Edith." 

Miss  Head  smiled.  "Oh  no,  dear,"  she 
said.  "This  is  what  they  call  'ze  original 
from  Paree.'  It  arrived  this  morning,  Deb. 
Air  France,  special  delivery  .  .  .  There 
were  sketches,  yes.  But  you  didn't  see 
them  .  .  .  Nobody  did." 

"I  know,"  Debbie  said,  turning  to  her 
now.  "I  know  it  sounds  strange,  Edith.  But 
I  have  seen  this  dress  before  .  .  .  When  I 
was  a  little  girl,  I  saw  a  dress  once,  a  wed- 
ding dress,  with  lace  on  the  skirt  like 
this,  and  with  this  same  top,  and  with  the 
sleeves  puffed  just  like  this — and  the  veil, 
too,  Edith,  the  crown,  the  lilies  of  the  val- 
ley— just  like  this." 

Miss  Head  looked  puzzled. 

"Where,  Debbie?"  she  asked. 

"In  Texas,"  Debbie  said. 

"Texas?" 

Debbie  told  her  about  that  afternoon, 
when  she  was  twelve,  with  her  grand- 
mother— how  her  grandmother  had  shown 
her  the  wedding  dress  both  she  and  her 
daughter  had  worn. 

"It's  amazing,"  said  Debbie,  " — but  this. 
Edith,  this  was  that  dress." 

"For  thirty-eight  dollars?"  asked  Miss 
Head,  laughing  again.  "Honey  .  .  .  honey, 
I  don't  know  exactly  what  you  remember 
about  that  dress.  But  this  one  was  made 
for  us,  specially.  For  exactly  four-thou- 
sand dollars  ...  I  mean — " 

"Edith,"  Debbie  interrupted.  "It's  the 
same  dress.  I  swear  to  you,  believe  me,  it's 
the  same  dress. 

"I  remember,"  she  said,  going  on,  "how 
it  looked  as  I  lifted  it  from  that  box. 

"And  I  remember  my  Gram',  and  how 
she  looked  that  day. 

"And  what  she  said  to  me. 

"How  she  took  the  dress  from  me  after 
a  while  and  held  it,  like  this,  so  lightly, 
in  her  fingers,  and  how  she  said  certain 
things  to  me — " 

For  a  long  while  after  that,  Debbie  was 
silent. 

And  then,  suddenly,  she  said,  "Edith,  I 
want  this  dress." 

"You  mean,  to  keep?"  Miss  Head  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Debbie.  "I  want  to  buy  it, 
after  the  picture." 

"Why?"  asked  Miss  Head,  directly. 

"I  need  it,"  Debbie  said,  just  as  directly. 
"I  lost  it  once.  And  now  I've  found  it 
again  .  .  .  And  I  need  to  have  it." 

Miss  Head  shrugged.  "If  you  want  it  to 
buy,  dear,  it's  all  yours,"  she  said.  "Though 
to  tell  you  the  truth — " 

"I  need  it,  Edith,"  Debbie  interrupted. 
"I  want  it  .  .  .  More  than  I've  needed  and 
wanted  anything,  in  a  long  long  time.  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  few  weeks  later. 

The  picture  was  over. 

Debbie  left  the  studio  and  drove  home. 

Carrie  Frances,  her  four-year-old 
daughter,  met  her  at  the  front  door. 

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box?"  she  asked,  after  Debbie  had  kissed 
her  hello.  "Is  it  something  for  me?" 

"Yes,"  Debbie  said. 

"What?"  the  little  girl  asked. 

"The  most  beautiful  dress  in  the  whole 
world."  said  Debbie. 

The  little  girl  clapped  her  hands. 

"Can  I  wear  it  for  my  birthday?"  she 
asked. 

"No,"  said  Debbie,  "but  someday,  dar- 
ling, when  you're  a  big  girl,  then  you'll 
wear  it." 

"Oh,"  said  Carrie  Frances,  disappoint- 
ed. 

Debbie  smiled. 

"You're  right,"  she  said.  "It's  nothing 
that'll  overjoy  you  now.  But  someday," 
she  said,  "someday  it's  going  to  be  the 
most  special  dress  of  your  life." 

She  took  her  daughter's  hand. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  it,"  she  asked, 


" — before  I  put  it  away,  upstairs  in  the 
attic?" 

"Okay,"  said  Carrie  Frances. 

And  they  walked,  together,  towards  the 
stairs.  .  .  . 

"What  a  touching  story,"  our  secretary, 
Cookie,  said,  brushing  aside  a  tear.  "You 
know,  it's  a  shame,  that  if  Debbie  ever 
gets  married  again — and  let's  face  it,  she 
probably  will — she  won't  be  able  to  wear 
this  particular  dress  herself." 

"Yes,  it's  a  shame,"  another  girl,  an  artist 
said.  "Like  I  mentioned  before,  a  girl  who 
marries  a  second  time  can  never,  never, 
wear  white.  Its  a  tradition.  A  tradition 
nobody'd  dare  break,  not  even  in  Holly- 
wood." 

"I  know,"  said  Cookie.  "But  in  a  case 
like  this,  when,  almost  as  if  by  a  miracle, 
this  dress  was  returned  to  her — don't  you 
think  there  could  be  some  kind  of  special 


dispensation  made,  so  that  she  could  wear 
it  and — " 

"It's  not  a  case  of  anybody  making  a 
dispensation,"  said  the  artist,  interrupting. 
"It's  a  case  of  respecting  tradition!" 

"Well,"  said  the  secretary,  "I  have  a 
feeling,  a  real  strong  feeling,  that  Debbie 
would  want  with  all  her  heart  to  wear  it. 
And  in  this  case  I  say  to  heck  with  tra- 
dition." 

After  a  little  more  talk,  the  two  girls 
turned  to  us,  the  editors  of  Modern  Screen. 

They  asked  our  opinion. 

We  told  them,  in  all  honesty,  that  we 
didn't  know — that  we  would  like  to  present 
the  question  to  our  millions  of  readers, 
and  especially  Debbie's  millions  of  fans. 

Well,  readers,  what  do  you  think?  end 

Debbie  stars  in  Paramount's  The  Pleas- 
ure Of  His  Company  and  The  Rat  Race. 


When  a  Girl  Becomes  a  Woman 


(Continued  from  page  34) 

put  on  her  most  precious  nightie — a  shock- 
ing pink  nylon  affair  which  made  her  look 
very  grown  up — and  very  sexy.  She 
wanted  to  wake  up  feeling  grown  up  and 
sexy. 

Instead  she  woke  up  feeling  exactly  the 
way  she  had  the  morning  before  and  the 
morning  before  that  and  the  morning  be- 
fore that. 

"Must  get  up,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"Really  must  get  up.  There's  so  much  to 
do." 

But  before  she  could  she  heard  a  soft 
tapping  on  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  she  called. 

Her  mother  entered  the  room,  carrying 
a  breakfast  tray. 

"Good  morning,  birthday  girl,"  she  said 
as  she  kissed  Sandy  on  the  cheek. 

"We're  not  going  to  make  a  habit  of  this 
breakfast  in  bed,  you  know,  but  it's  not 
every  day  a  girl  is  eighteen.  And  I  thought 
you'd  like  to  look  at  your  cards  while 
you're  still  in  bed." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  I  would,"  Sandra  re- 
plied. "But  I  promise — I'll  be  up  soon." 

"Take  your  time,"  Mrs.  Douvan  an- 
swered. "Remember.  This  is  your  day." 

Then  she  left  the  room. 

Message  from  a  friend 

Sandy  sipped  her  oranffe  juice  and 
opened  card  after  card.  It  seemed  as 
though  everyone  remembered. 

Some  cards  were  cute  and  sentimental, 
some  gay  .  .  .  and  a  few  comic. 

Then  she  came  across  one  which  she 
read  over  and  over  again. 

For  under  the  printed  message  was 
scrawled — How  does  it  feel  to  be  eighteen 
at  last?  How  does  it  feel  to  be  a  woman? 

Why.  thought  Sandra,  it  doesn't  feel  any 
different  at  all,  really.  I  look  the  same.  I 
feel  exactly  the  same  as  I  did  when  I  was 
17  years  366  days  old — tossing  in  an  extra 
day  for  leap  year. 

It's  silly  for  anyone  to  ask,  "How  does 
it  feel  to  be  eighteen?"  as  though  one  extra 
day  will  bring  a  miraculous  change  in  you. 
And  yet.  maybe  it's  not  so  silly.  When  I 
went  to  sleep  last  night  I  secretly  thought 
there  would  be  a  difference  in  me  this 
morning. 

She  kept  thumbing  through  her  cards — 
and  another  message  seemed  to  jump  out 
from  the  white  parchment  paper  upon 
which  it  was  printed.  It  was  a  quote  from 
Longfellow: 

Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past. 
It  comes  not  back  again. 
70        Wisely  improve  the  Present, 


It  is  thine. 

Go   forth   to  meet   the  shadowy 
Future, 

Without  fear  and  with  a  womanly 
heart.  .  .  . 

The  card  was  simply  signed  ...  "a 
friend." 

Sandra  wondered  who  could  have  sent 
it  and  why  there  was  no  name  attached 
to  it.  Then  she  read  the  words  again  and 
began  to  understand  the  significance  of 
the  message — and  the  significance  of  the 
day. 

Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past.  .  .  . 

Why,  she  thought,  for  the  past  five 
years,  ever  since  Daddy  died,  I've  been 
doing  just  that. 

Her  thoughts  wandered  to  her  beloved 
step-father,  the  late  Eugene  Douvan — and 
she  felt  the  same  stab  of  pain  she  always 
felt  when  she  thought  of  him  too  much. 
During  the  past  few  years  she'd  finally 
become  adjusted  to  her  loss — but  there 
were  times,  like  Christmas  and  her  birth- 
days, when  the  knowledge  that  Daddy  was 
irrevocably  gone  was  almost  more  than 
she  could  bear.  Particularly  on  her  birth- 
day. 

Memories  of  years  and  years  of  birth- 
days kept  coming  back.  She  thought  of  the 
evenings  when  he'd  come  home  from  work 
with  a  sly  smile  on  his  face  and  a  package 
behind  his  back — and  he'd  pretend  not  to 
remember  what  day  it  was — but  she  knew 
he  wouldn't  forget. 

She'd  be  dressed  up  in  her  prettiest  par- 
ty dress  and  the  whole  family  would  go 
out  to  some  wonderful  restaurant  that 
Daddy  would  pick  for  the  occasion.  And 
there  would  always  be  a  cake  and  candles 
and  his  wonderful  voice  would  boom  out 
"Happy  Birthday"  and  it  would  be  the 
most  wonderful  night  of  her  year. 

She  remembered  her  thirteenth  birth- 
day particularly.  Daddy  bought  her  her 
first  formal — and  her  first  heels.  The  shoes 
were  white  satin,  the  strapless  dress, 
white,  trimmed  with  red  roses.  And  as  a 
special  present  Daddy  allowed  her  to  wear 
lipstick  for  the  first  time,  because  they 
were  going  out  dancing  at  a  very  chic  and 
grown-up  night-club. 

She  remembered  her  thirteenth  birth- 
day particularly — not  only  because  of  the 
shoes  and  the  dress  and  the  lipstick  and 
the  fun,  but  because  it  was  the  very  last 
birthday  she  shared  with  Eugene  Douvan. 
A  year  later  he  was  dead.  Snatched  from 
her  and  her  mother  by  the  cruelty  of  a 
fate  she  couldn't  and  wouldn't  understand. 


When  her  fourteenth  birthday  rolled 
around,  she  refused  any  kind  of  celebra- 
tion. "What  is  there  to  celebrate?"  she 
asked  her  mother  bitterly.  "I'm  not  happy 
and  I  can't  be  happy  without  Daddy — 
ever."  She  wouldn't  leave  the  house — she 
wouldn't  touch  the  beautiful  pink  and 
white  cake  her  mother  brought  home. 

Her  next  three  birthdays  found  her  a 
little  happier.  She  had  gone  from  being  a 
successful  model  to  being  a  successful  ac- 
tress. She  was  getting  all  the  best  parts 
and  every  material  thing  her  heart  de- 
sired. On  her  sixteenth  birthday  she  got 
her  first  car — a  beautiful  white  Thunder- 
bird. 

If  only  Daddy  were  here  to  see  me 
drive,  she  thought.  And  then  even  that 
day  lost  much  of  its  glory  because  he 
wasn't  there  at  all.  .  .  . 

Look  not  mournfully  into  the  Past. 

It  comes  not  back  again. 

Room  for  improvement 

Sandra  repeated  the  words  to  herself. 
It's  true,  she  thought.  I've  looked  back- 
too  much.  There  may  never  be  another 
man  as  dear  as  Daddy,  but  even  if  there 
is,  I  wouldn't  be  able  to  see  it  if  I  keep 
on  making  comparisons.  Of  course  I  miss 
him.  But  I  mustn't  go  on  missing  him  for 
the  rest  of  my  life  .  .  .  It's  immature — it's 
futile.  He  wouldn't  want  me  to  be  un- 
happy. I'm  luckier  than  most  girls — that  I 
had  such  a  wonderful  person  in  my  life 
even  for  a  little  while. 

Wisely  improve  the  Present, 
It  is  thine. 

Those  words  went  whirling  around  in 
Sandy's  head  as  she  got  out  of  bed. 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  large  mir- 
ror over  her  dressing  table.  She  stuck  out 
her  tongue  to  the  image  she  saw  reflected. 

Oh,  that's  a  childish  thing  to  do,  she 
thought.  But  nevertheless  there's  still 
room  for  improvement.  Have  to  stick  to 
my  diet  and  watch  those  hips.  No  more  of 
those  crash  diet  affairs  or  anything  as  silly 
as  taking  epsom  salts  to  hurry  things 
along.  I've  got  to  stop  behaving  like  a 
fourteen  year  old  when  it  comes  to  eating. 
I've  got  to  stop  raiding  the  ice  box  at 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  stuffing 
myself  with  hamburgers  and  those  quarts 
of  ice-cream  my  unknown  suitor  leaves 
at  the  house  each  week.  If  I  become  as 
plump  as  a  butterball,  Cary  Grant  will 
never  ask  me  out. 

I've  got  to  stop  that  too.  Daydreaming 
about  men  like  Cary  Grant — and  getting 
crushes  on  all  the  older  stars.  It's  abso- 
lutely sophomorish  .  .  .  It's  one  thing  to 
get  a  crush  on  Paul  Newman  when  you're 
fourteen  .  .  .  and  hate  Joanne  Woodward 
for  two  weeks  after  they  got  married- 
then  switch  to  Rex  Harrison  and  Rock 
Hudson  and  Jeff  Chandler.  But  to  blush  a 


fire-red  and  hardly  be  able  to  say  hello 
when  I  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Grant  and 
then  go  home  and  day  dream  about  how 
I'd  dress  and  act  and  talk  when  he  took 
me  to  La  Rue's  and  Chasen's — how  young 
can  I  get? 

What  Mother  said 

It's  no  wonder  with  thoughts  like  these 
that  I  haven't  been  able  to  seriously  think 
of  a  permanent  relationship.  Mother  told 
me  my  crushes  are  harmless — and  that 
they  only  meant  that  I  wasn't  ready  to  fall 
in  love  and  was  only  playing  at  it  with  im- 
probable and  impossible  suitors.  She's 
probably  right.  But  it  is  time  that  I  begin 
to  get  ready.  This  means  no  more  Grants  or 
Harrisons  in  my  thoughts.  And  it  means 
I  should  stop  constantly  dating  young  ac- 
tors whose  only  thoughts  are  on  publicity 
dates  and  themselves.  Sure,  they  are  safe. 
And  publicity  dates  are  occasionally  nec- 
essary. But  they  will  lead  absolutely  no- 
where. I'm  not  worried  about  being  an  old 
maid — not  at  eighteen.  But  unless  I  start 
leaving  myself  open  for  relationships  that 
can  have  substance.  I  may  never  find  the 
right  boy.  And  as  much  as  I  tell  people 
that  I'm  in  no  hurry  to  experience  love, 
that  I  have  no  time  for  it,  I  secretly  look 
forward  to  the  moment  when  I'm  drawn 
to  someone  with  all  my  heart. 

Sandra  began  zipping  one  of  her  pret- 
tiest new  dresses.  She  looked  around  her 
lovely  bedroom  and  shuddered.  Her  lus- 
cious nightie  was  crumpled  in  a  ball  on 
the  floor  where  she  had  dropped  it.  One 
bedroom  slipper  was  by  the  window,  the 
other  half-way  under  the  bed.  Her  robe 
was  tossed  carelessly  over  a  chair,  or 
rather  over  a  dress  which  she  had  tossed 
over  a  chair.  Her  beautiful  room  was  a 
mess. 

This  has  got  to  stop,  she  told  herself.  1 
must  be  neater.  My  mother  isn't  my  maid 
to  go  around  picking  up  after  me.  But 
when  I  finish  with  anything  I  just  leave  it 
like  a  two  year  old.  I'm  always  in  such  a 
hurry  and  so  anxious  to  get  on  to  the  next 
thing — even  if  the  next  thing  is  bed. 

She  started  to  apply  her  lipstick,  then 
stopped  and  for  the  first  time  that  she 
could  remember  began  putting  everything 
neatly  away.  Now  if  I  can  only  continue 
doing  this,  I  will  have  really  accomplished 


something.  I  will  continue  doing  this,  she 
resolved. 

There  is  so  much  I  want  to  do,  she 
thought.  I  want  to  stop  being  afraid  of  go- 
ing to  bed  unless  a  light  is  burning  just 
outside  my  room.  I  want  to  stop  staying 
up  until  all  hours  of  the  night  because  I 
think  it's  so  chic.  I  want  to  be  able  to 
control  myself  and  my  moods  so  I  won't 
think  the  whole  world  is  beautiful  and  I 
love  everybody  and  everything  one  day 
and  then  the  next  day  convince  myself 
that  life  isn't  worth  living  and  that  I'd  just 
as  soon  shoot  myself  as  not. 

I  want  to  make  friends.  Oh  sure,  I  know 
I  said  that  having  friends  is  like  having 
strawberry  shortcake.  If  you  don't  have  it, 
you  don't  miss  it.  But  I  would  enjoy  the 
companionship  of  a  girl  my  own  age; 
someone  to  go  shopping  with  and  share 
secrets  with — and  just  know. 

I  want  to  end  this  dependency  I  have 
on  Mother  and  she  has  on  me.  I  want  to  I 
let  her  know  that  I  would  think  it  would  j 
be  right  for  her  to  remarry  and  have  a  life 
of  her  own.  I  know  she's  waiting  until  I'm 
twenty-one  before  she  starts  thinking  of 
herself — but  maybe  she  shouldn't  wait. 
She's  still  so  young  and  pretty.  She  should 
have  her  chance  for  happiness — and  not 
worry  about  me. 

Two  years  ago  Ross  Hunter  told  me  not 
to  hurry  and  grow  up,  that  I  have  a  whole 
lifetime  ahead  for  that.  Maybe  that  was 
wonderful  advice  for  a  girl  of  sixteen  who 
couldn't  wait  till  she  painted  her  face  and 
perfumed  herself  to  the  hilt — or  who  only 
wanted  to  wear  black  slinky  dresses. 
That's  phony  hurrying  and  false  growing 
up.  But  real  growing  up  is  a  day-to-day 
process — and  now  is  the  time  to  start. 

Sandra  heard  her  mother  calling  to  her 
from  the  living  room. 

"Hurry  and  come  outside,  Sandy,"  she 
called,  "and  see  what's  waiting  for  you 
today." 

Sandra  knew  what  was  outside.  It  was 
her  beautiful  new  silver  Imperial  sedan. 

It  was  also  the  future.  And  she  went 
forth  to  meet  it  without  fear  and  with  a 
womanly  heart.  END 

Sandra  stars  next  in  Gidget  Goes  Ha- 
waiian. Columbia,  and  Portrait  In  Black, 
Universal-International. 


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MUSIC  &  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENTS 


Where  Did  I  Fail? 


(Continued  from  page  41) 

me  a  glass  of  water.'  That's  what  he  said 
to  me." 

"And  .  .  ."  the  friend  had  asked. 

"And,"  said  Lucy,  dimpling,  "I  got  up. 
How,  I  don't  know.  I  was  still  half-asleep 
— and  got  him — and  got  him  the  glass  of 
water." 

The  friend  was  shocked.  Lucy  still 
remembered  how  surprised  she  was  at  her 
friend's  outraged  reaction. 

"Lucille,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  got 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  just  to  get 
your  husband  a  glass  of  water?  Don't 
you  know  you're  spoiling  him?  That's  no 
way  to  treat  a  husband!  You'd  be  smart 
if  you  got  him  to  spoil  you." 

Lucy  couldn't  understand  that  at  all. 
She'd  said  to  her  friend,  very  simply,  "But 
I  love  him  I  think  every  woman  ought 
to  spoil  her  husband.   I  love  to  spoil  Desi." 

She'd  believed  that  with  all  her  heart 

Not  long  afterwards,  she  and  Desi  had 
gone  on  a  camping  trip.  They  slept  in  a 
tent.  She  remembered  how  frightened  she 
had  been  in  the  dark,  how  she  wanted  Desi 
to  turn  on  the  little  flash  lamp.  He'd  grum- 
bled that  he  couldn't  sleep  with  a  light 


on.  So  the  tent  remained  dark,  while  she 
shivered  with  fear  like  a  small  child. 

She'd  believed  it  was  up  to  a  wife  to 
change  herself  into  the  kind  of  woman  her 
husband  wanted  her  to  be.  Lucy  had  waited 
a  long  time  to  be  married.  Although  she'd 
always  had  a  strong,  independent  streak, 
once  she  married  she  leaned  to  the  opposite 
extreme,  her  friends  felt.  She  felt  it  was  up 
to  her  to  make  her  marriage  a  success. 

The  man  is  the  boss 

Looking  back  at  those  early  years,  Lucy 
realized  how  people  must  have  talked  about  j 
them,  not  able  to  understand  what  it  was 
that  had  made  her  cater  so  to  her  husband. 
To  Lucy,  at  the  time,  it  seemed  the  only 
thing  to  do. 

She  loved  Desi.  He  was  handsome  and 
dashing,  and  even  his  changeable  moods 
and  fiery  temper  kept  her  in  a  state  of 
constant  excitement.  He  was  a  big,  blus- 
tering male.  He  had  the  Cuban  attitude 
about  marriage.  The  man  was  the  boss. 
Lucy  did  her  best  to  conform  to  his  tastes. 

It  wasn't  easy.  With  little  movie  work 
to  do,  Desi  became  a  band  leader  and  was 
constantly  on  tour.  Lucy  would  have  given 
up  her  career  to  be  with  him,  but — well, 
that  was  a  lot  of  bacon  to  give  up,  the 
band  business  being  what  it  was,  and 
some  people  not  quite  aware  yet  of  Desi's 
great  talent. 


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JUNE 
BIRTHDAYS 

If  your  birthday  falls  in  June,  your 
birthstone  is  the  pearl  and  your  flower 
is  the  rose.  And  here  are  some  of  the 
stars  who  share  it  with  you: 


June   l— Marilyn  Monroe 
Pat  Boone 

June   3 — Paulette  Goddard 
Carol  Ohmart 
Tony  Curtis 

June   4—  Rosalind  Russell 

John  Barrymore,  Jr. 

June   7 — Dolores  Gray 
Dean  Martin 

June   8—  Dana  Wynter 
James  Darren 

June   9— Robert  Cummings 

June  10— Luciana  Paoluzzi 

June  12— Vic  Damone 

William  Lundigan 

June  14—  Dorothy  McGuire 
Gene  Barry 

June  18—  Eva  Bartok 

Maggie  McNamara 
Richard  Boone 

June  19— Pier  Angeli 

Marisa  Pavan 
Charles  Coburn 
Louis  Jourdan 

June  20— Audie  Murphy 

June  21— Judy  Holliday 

Maureen  Stapleton 

June  25— Charlotte  Greenwood 

June  26— Eleanor  Parker 

June  29 — Robert  Evans 

June  30 — Susan  Hayward 


Richard  Todd 

72  June  11 


Gower  Champion 

June  22 


He  was  on  tour  most  of  the  time,  or 
playing  late  dates  in  town,  and  she  was 
in  Hollywood  on  an  early-to-bed,  early- 
to-rise  routine,  and  only  now  and  then  did 
they  get  together.  Lucy  wanted  desper- 
ately to  put  down  roots,  so  they  bought 
a  big  house  in  the  Valley.  It  had  eleven 
rooms,  most  of  them  unoccupied,  but  to 
Lucy — weaving  dreams  about  her  mar- 
riage— it  was  a  symbol  of  permanence. 

Sometimes  the  two  of  them  got  a  break, 
like  the  time  Desi  got  a  night  club  en- 
gagement right  in  Hollywood,  at  Ciro's, 
then  at  the  height  of  its  fame.  Desi  was 
still  relatively  new  at  band  leading.  He 
didn't  have  a  big  following  yet,  but  Lucy 
was  going  to  prove  to  the  town  that  her 
man  was  popular.  She  was  working  in  a 
picture  and  had  to  be  up  early,  but  in 
spite  of  that,  she  was  at  her  ringside  table 
every  night,  entertaining  a  different  group 
of  friends,  applauding  Desi.  Night  after 
night,  she'd  sit  there,  her  body  sagging 
with  fatigue,  but  a  bright  smile  pinned 
on  her  face  so  that  everyone  could  see 
how  much  she  enjoyed  Desi  and  his 
show. 

Her  love  for  him  was  almost  a  form  of 
worship.  She  hadn't  realized  how  much 
she  doted  on  him  until  just  now— so  many 
years  later.  There  was  the  time,  years 
ago,  when  a  friend  came  to  visit  her.  Desi 
was  still  working  nights  at  Ciro's.  Lucy 
had  a  day  off.  The  friend  came  over  for 
lunch.  Afterwards,  Lucy — and  she  re- 
called now  how  full  of  love  her  heart 
had  been  then — said  to  the  friend  brightly, 
"I'd  like  to  show  you  something."  With 
the  friend  behind  her,  she'd  tiptoed  into 
the  darkened  bedroom  where  Desi  lay 
sleeping.  She'd  turned  to  her  friend  and 
whispered  proudly:  "There.  Isn't  he 
beautiful?" 

She  couldn't  understand  then  just  why 
her  friend  had  said  to  her,  "Lucille,  honey, 
don't  show  him  off  that  way  to  others. 
They'll  all  think— well,  they'll  think  you 
idolize  him  too  much." 

Lucy  had  been  annoyed  then  at  what 
her  friend  had  said  and  had  paid  no  more 
attention  to  it.  Now  it  struck  her  what  the 
friend  meant — she  had  been  wearing  her 
love  for  Desi  like  a  bright,  red  badge. 
She  had  been  building  him  up  too  much. 
Smart  women  didn't  do  things  like  that. 
Smart  wives  would  try  to  make  their  hus- 
bands worship  them. 

The  first  time  he  left 

The  thing  of  it  was  that  it  was  easier 
to  be  that  way  than  to  buck  Desi.  There 
was  the  day  a  married  friend  came  to  their 
house  in  tears,  to  talk  over  her  own 
marriage  problem.  Desi  had  taken  the 
man's  side,  Lucy  the  wife's  side.  Soon, 
they  were  arguing  between  them  and  the 
argument  was  worse,  much  worse,  than 
their  friend's  had  been!  Lucy  wanted  Desi 
to  tell  her  she  was  right.  But  he  was 
adamant.  That  night,  the  quarrel  had 
reached  such  a  white  heat  that  he  packed 
up  his  clothes  and  moved  out  of  the 
house. 

She  remembered  how  it  had  affected 
her.  She  hadn't  been  able  to  sleep  that 
night.  She'd  become  sick  about  the  whole 
thing.  If  he'd  only  come  back.  .  .  . 

He  did,  the  next  day.  And  she  decided 
it  was  much  easier  to  give  in  to  him 
than  to  have  those  quarrels— those  dread- 
ful quarrels  which  might  end  again 
with  his  packing  his  bags  and  walking  out, 
leaving  her  in  tears,  her  heart  in  pieces.  .  .  . 

But  she  still  had  moments  of  being 
the  spirited  redhead  she  used  to  be,  and 
the  quarrels  had  become  more  frequent. 
It  had  ended  in  her  impulsively  filing  for 
divorce.  But  even  filing  those  papers 
hadn't  finished  the  marriage.  For  they 
were  so  in  love  that  they  had  fallen  into 
each  other's  arms  again  and  made  up. 


They  didn't  even  have  to  remarry,  because 
the  divorce  papers  had  never  become 
final.  But  so  anxious  was  Lucy  that  this 
become  a  strong,  strong  marriage,  with 
a  fresh  start,  that  she  insisted  upon  an- 
other marriage  ceremony. 

It  was  almost  with  a  kind  of  desperation 
that  Lucy  had  said  to  a  friend  then,  "Some- 
times second  marriages  are  happier  than 
first  ones  because  people  who've  made  a 
mistake  apply  the  lessons  they've  learned 
to  their  new  marriage.  Instead  of  Desi 
using  his  knowledge  on  a  new  wife,  and 
me  on  a  new  husband,  we  just  treated 
each  other  like  new  mates." 

All  this  now  came  back  to  her.  She 
looked  at  the  empty  closet  and  went  to  it 
and  slowly  closed  the  door. 

If  only  I  could  shut  out  all  thoughts 
of  the  past  with  the  shutting  of  the  closet 
door,  she  thought. 

But  there  was  no  way  to  shut  the  door 
on  her  thoughts. 

We  were  so  happy  for  the  next  few 
years,  she  recalled. 

During  the  next  few  years  friends  often 
had  occasion  to  tell  her  what  they'd  said 
early  in  the  marriage:  "Lucy,  you're 
spoiling  Desi  terribly." 

The  whole  household  had  to  revolve 
around  Desi.  Lucy  could  still  remember 
the  first  Christmas  they  celebrated,  when 
Desi  informed  her  that  he  considered  a 
Christmas  incomplete  without  a  suckling 
pig  on  the  festive  table. 

"Ugh — how  can  we  sit  there  and  watch 
the  poor  little  pig  on  a  turning  spit  all 
day?"  Lucy  asked  in  horror. 

"You're  just  being  sentimental,"  Desi 
had  laughed. 

And  so  eager  was  Lucy  to  please  that 
she  sat  in  the  patio,  watching  the  suck- 
ling pig,  even  turning  it  over,  so  that  Desi 
would  feel  that  Christmas  was  everything 
he  wanted  it  to  be. 

Yes,  thought  Lucy  sadly.  J  tried  in  so 
many  small  ways  to  make  you  happy. 
Desi.  Where  did  I  fail? 

The  way  Desi  wanted 

She  remembered  their  first  argument 
over  a  vacation.  "A  vacation  in  the  snow," 
Lucy  had  said,  her  eyes  dancing.  "Let's 
go  to  Sun  Valley." 

Desi,  remembering  his  happy  years  in 
Cuba,  shivered. 

"Snow?"  he  said.  "How  can  you  want 
such  a  vacation?  No,  vacations  should  be 
in  the  sun." 

And  so  the  vacation  and  most  vacations 
after  that  were  in  the  sun — the  way  Desi 
wanted  them. 

There  was  one  dream  they  both  shared. 
Lucy's  lips  curled  into  a  sad  smile  as  she 
remembered  the  one  big  dream  they 
had  realized.  Sure,  it  had  been  wonderful 
that  they  had  been  able  to  make  a  suc- 
cess of  the  big  TV  show,  I  Love  Lucy. 
in  which  she  starred.  It  had  been  fun 
making  producers  who  said  that  it  was  all 
wrong  to  co-star  Desi  in  the  series,  that 
she  should  have  an  American  actor  play 
her  TV  husband,  eat  crow.  She'd  insisted 
that  Desi  be  permitted  to  co-star  with 
her  in  the  shows,  over  the  objections  of 
practically  everyone  in  TV,  and  she'd 
been  right.  They'd  been  a  hit,  and  she"d 
insisted  that  Desi  be  given  equal  credit 
with  her  in  that  success.  But  the  big 
dream  had  been  of  something  bigger,  more 
important  than  the  success  of  their  early 
I  Love  Lucy  shows.  Even  more  important 
than  the  development  of  the  television 
kingdom  Desi  had  begun  to  build. 

From  the  time  they  were  first  married 
Lucy  wanted  a  baby  more  than  anything 
else  in  the  world. 

She  smiled  faintly  now,  remembering  the 
three  scrapbooks.  Other  actresses  keep 
scrapbooks  about  their  screen  and  TV 
triumphs — but  Lucille's  three  scrapbooks 


were  different.  They  were  started  in  the 
first  year  of  her  marriage.  Three  scrap- 
books  full  of  photos  of  babies  which  she'd 
cut  out  from  every  imaginable  source. 
And  under  each  picture  of  a  baby  there 
was  a  caption  Lucy  had  written  herself 
in  her  own  meticulous  handwriting,  as 
though  the  written  words  were  from  the 
mouths  of  the  adorable  babies  themselves. 
'"Hi.  there,  isn't  it  about  time  I  showed 
up?"  And  farther  on.  "Hey.  kids,  what's 
the  delay?" — "Say.  what's  holding  me  up?" 
Month  after  month  Lucy  cut  out  fat  little 
babies,  and  tried  to  hide  her  own  deep 
disappointment  with  the  funny  sayings. 

The  big  dream  hadn't  come  to  fruition 
easily.  The  years  went  by  and  there  wrere 
only  pictures  in  a  scrapbook  to  reveal  the 
dream. 

And  then  one  Sunday  night,  after  they'd 
been  married  ten  years,  they  were  appear- 
ing together  at  the  Roxy  Theater  in  New 
York.  Between  shows  they  were  relaxing 
backstage,  listening  to  the  radio.  Lucy 
making  some  embroidery  bits.  Desi  lying 
down. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  voice  of  Walter  Win- 
chell  came  over  the  air:  Flash  .  .  .  Desi 
and  Lucy  are  going  to  have  a  baby. 

''What?"  they'd  both  screamed.  "How 
does  he  know?"  They  themselves  didn't 
know.  Lucy  had  been  to  the  lab  on  Friday 
for  tests  and  had  been  told  to  come  in  on 
Monday  for  her  report. 

They  rushed  to  a  phone  to  find  out  from 
Winchell  himself  what  was  up.  He  had 
actually  gotten  the  report  from  some  in- 
fo rm  ant  at  the  lab. 

They'd  spent  the  next  hour  holding  each 
other  and  crying  with  joy.  Lucy  smiled 
softly  at  the  recollection.  All  through  her 
pregnancy  Desi  had  treated  her  like  she'd 
never  been  treated  before,  "as  if  I  were  a 
papier  maehe  doll."  But  that  did  not  last 
very  long.  Tragedy  struck:  the  pregnancy 
ended  in  miscarriage  ...  as  did  the  next 
one.  .  .  . 

Desi  was  wonderful  then 

Lucy  brought  herself  back  to  the  present 
again  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  She  thought  of 
the  two  children  who'd  gone  to  sleep  only 
a  little  while  ago  in  their  bedrooms  down 
the  hall.  A  wistful  smile  played  on  her 
hps  as  she  remembered  the  birth  of  her 
first  baby. 

"Desi  was  so  wonderful  to  me."  she  re- 
called, "when  I  was  carrying  Lucie."  It 
almost  seemed  as  though  Desi  wanted  to 
make  up  to  her  for  having  lost  the  other 
babies  and  finally  having  borne  one,  that 
he  began  to  treat  Lucy  like  a  baby.  It  was 
a  new  experience,  having  Desi  wait  on 
her,  bring  her  breakfast  in  bed  and  scold 
her  when  she  wanted  to  move  a  chair 
from  one  spot  to  another. 

Their  little  girl  was  everything  they'd 
hoped  for.  Lucille  thought  she  and  Desi 
had  surely  found  Paradise  together. 

But  right  after  little  Lucie  was  born, 
Paradise  ceased  to  be  perfect.  When  Lu- 
cille told  herself  everything  was  wonderful 
she  may  have  been  kidding  herself.  Desi 
began  to  go  off  on  fishing  trips  by  him- 
self. When  they'd  go  to  Las  Vegas  for  fun. 
"Lucy  used  to  hate  it  when  Desi  would 


(Co7iti?u'.ed  from  page  32) 

her  hands  up  to  her  eyes,  and  held  them 
there,  hard — "don't  let  him  see  me  cry  .  .  . 
Don't  let  me  cry  ...  I  mustn't.  I 
mustn't.  .  .  ." 

In  the  hospital  a  little  while  later,  she 
walked  over  to  his  bed. 


spend  hours  at  the  gaming  tables.  She 
never  could  understand  why  he  found  the 
dice  and  roulette  tables  so  fascinating.  "It 
must  be  his  Cuban  blood,"  she  would  tell 
herself,  but  that  didn't  help. 

When  she  learned  that  another  baby  was 
on  its  way  she  hoped  it  would  be  a  boy. 
It  would  make  Desi  so  proud  to  have  a  son 
carry  on  his  name.  Maybe  that  was  what 
he  needed  .  .  .  Like  everything  attached 
to  her  marriage,  Lucy  embarked  on  even 
this  project  with  a  great  deal  of  intensity. 
She  carried  Desi's  baby  picture  around 
with  her  in  the  hope  that  it  would  be  a  son 
who  looked  just  like  him.  Her  doetor 
laughed  at  her  when  she  told  him.  But 
somehow  when  her  boy  was  born,  he  did 
look  exactly  like  Desi.  They  named  him 
Desiderio  Alberto  Arnaz.  IV. 

She  stood  up  and  walked  over  to  an- 
other corner  of  the  room  where  a  photo  of 
big  Desi  and  little  Desi  stood  on  a  tall 
chest  of  drawers.  She  picked  up  the  picture, 
looking  at  them  both,  comparing  them 
proudly  as  she  had  done  so  many  times  in 
the  past.  The  little  boy  was  almost  a  rep- 
lica of  his  father — the  same  large,  black 
eyes,  the  round  face  and  richly  curved 
mouth.  He  even  seemed  to  have  inherited 
Desi's  love  of  music.  So  far.  fortunately, 
the  little  boy  showed  no  signs  of  having 
inherited  Desi's  quick.  Cuban  temper. 

She  had  always  said  that  she  hoped  the 
children  would  have  their  father's  mental- 
ity when  they  grew  up,  and  her  modera- 
tion. .  .  .  The  thought  of  their  growing  up 
now  in  a  house  without  a  father  was  more 
than  she  could  bear,  and  she  groped 
blindly  in  the  top  drawer  for  a  handker- 
chief .  .  .  and  there  was  the  ring. 

Her  wedding  ring.  Not  the  one  she  wore, 
even  now.  But  the  one  she  wore  the  day 
they  got  married. 

They  had  decided  to  get  married  sud- 
denly, just  like  that.  They  went  to  a 
preacher's  in  Greenwich.  Connecticut,  and 
Desi  realized  that  he  had  no  ring.  "So  he 
ran  to  some  dime  store  and  bought  me  one 
for  exactly  that — ten  cents,"  Lucy  whis- 
pered, remembering,  and  smiling  in  spite 
of  her  heavy  heart.  "And  I  wore  it  for  all 
those  years  .  .  .  till  it  wasn't  even  round 
enough  anymore  for  me  to  keep  on  my 
finger  without  cutting  into  it.  Then  it 
turned  black.  And  I  had  to  take  it  off  and 
keep  it  in  this  little  drawer,  where  I  could 
come  and  look  at  it  once  in  a  while.  .  .  ." 

Back  then,  when  they  were  first  mar- 
ried, people  would  say,  "The  marriage 
won't  last  six  months."  Lucy  enjoyed  fool- 
ing them — fooled  them  for  nineteen  years. 
"How  I  wish,"  she  thought  ruefully,  "we 
could  have  fooled  them  forever." 

But  she  herself  was  fooled.  She  and  Desi 
had  conquered  so  many  problems.  They'd 
proved  so  many  people  wrong  so  many 
times.  Perhaps  she  was  too  self-confident. 
In  the  last  few  years  she  thought  nothing 
could  come  between  them. 

But  after  the  early  years  had  come  the 
worst  years  of  their  lives.  Not  economi- 
cally but  emotionally.  Something  began  to 
so  very  wrong  at  a  time  when  everyone 
believed  their  life  together  was  running 
smoothly.  In  the  beginning  Lucy  had  al- 
ways been  afraid  that  people  would  give 


His  face  was  completely  covered  with 
bandages. 

"Lee,"  she  could  hear  a  voice  moan  from 
under  the  bandages.  "Lee — " 

As  she  looked  at  the  figure  on  the  bed, 
as  she  heard  the  voice,  a  heavy  shiver  ran 


her  too  much  credit  for  the  success  of  the 
I  Love  Lucy  shows.  She'd  always  been 
quick  to  point  out  that  the  series  was  a 
success  only  because  Desi  had  made  it  a 
success.  Without  his  genius  as  a  producer 
where  would  they  both  have  been,  she'd 
ask. 

When  people  tried  to  tell  Lucy  that 
she'd  been  the  shoulder  behind  the  wheel, 
the  star  of  the  family  from  the  beginning, 
she'd  burst  into  anger;  "Why.  that's  non- 
sense. Desi  has  always  been  a  big  shot  in 
show  business.  People  just  didn't  realize 
it,  that's  all." 

Some  of  her  friends  had  been  aghast 
when  she  insisted  that  Desi  become  the 
head  of  their  newly-formed  Desilu  Pro- 
ductions. She'd  become  very  angry  at  a 
friend  who  had  pointed  out.  "You're  the 
one  who  made  the  Lucy  show  so  big — not 
he.  Why  make  him  the  big  one?  You'll  be 
sorry."  Lucy  hadn't  spoken  to  that  friend 
ever  since.  Had  that  friend  been  right, 
after  all? 

There  was  a  sign  on  his  door.  President. 
and  everyone  on  the  huge  studio  lot  they 
had  bought  bowed  and  scraped  to  Desi.  as 
Lucy  had  hoped  they'd  do  some  day.  She'd 
seen  what  happened  to  other  women  stars 
who  shone  more  brightly  than  their  hus- 
bands— seen  their  marriages  fail.  But  that, 
she  vowed,  would  never  happen  to  them. 
She  was  all  for  Desi  being  the  big  one  in 
the  family. 

Desi  was  a  colossus  in  the  business 
world  as  well  as  in  show  business,  as  head 
of  one  of  the  most  powerful  empires  in 
TV.  As  producer  and  host,  he  was  in- 
volved in  many  big  television  productions 
without  her.  He  was  busy — busy — busy — 
seldom  home  now.  She  couldn't  see  him 
as  often.  People  swarmed  over  him. 
fawned  over  him.  There  was  a  new  swag- 
ger about  him.  He  didn't  seem  to  need 
her.  .  .  . 

A  kingdom  without  a  king 

When  people,  because  of  the  power  Desi 
wielded  now.  bowed  and  worshipped  him. 
he  might  not  need  a  worshipping  wife 
quite  so  badly.  If  the  whole  world  bows 
down  before  a  man  and  calls  him  emperor, 
the  time  may  come  when  he  really  be- 
lieves he  is  an  emperor. 

Had  Desi  reached  that  point? 

She  tried  to  shut  the  hateful  thought  out 
of  her  mind. 

"But  what  is  the  good  of  a  great  king- 
dom when  the  king  hasn't  time  to  play 
very  much  any  more  with  his  children  or 
give  his  wife  any  real  companionship?" 

She  twisted  the  ring  on  her  finger. 

"I've  tried  so  hard.  Where  did  I  fail? 
Oh  God,  did  I  love  him  too  much?" 

She  heard  a  call  down  the  hall.  Lucie 
was  nine  but,  like  most  active  children, 
would  awaken  with  a  start  now  and  then. 
Lucy  had  tried  to  keep  the  atmosphere 
at  home  the  same,  but  you  can't  hide  much 
from  children.  They  sensed  something. 

Lucie  called  out  again.  Lucille  got  up 
and  hurried  down  the  hall.  She  felt  strong 
again.  She  was  needed. 

"All  riffht.  darling."  she  said,  rushing  in 
and  holding  Lucie  close.  "Don't  worry. 
Mother's  here.  .  .  ."  END 


through  her  body,  and  something  seemed 
to  snap  inside  her,  and  a  voice  in  her  mind 
cried  out:  No,  this  can't  be!  .  .  .  then: 
No,  it's  not! 

She  turned  quickly  and  walked  over  to 
a  doctor  who  stood  nearby. 

She  smiled  strangely. 

"But  that's  not  him,"  she  said.  "The 
voice  is  different.  You  must  have  made  a 
mistake  .  .  .  That's  not  my  husband." 

"There's  no  mistake,"  said  the  doctor. 
He  reached  for  a  sheet  of  paper.  "Accord- 


Please  God,  Don't  Let  Him  See  Me  Cry  .  .  . 


ing  to  cards  in  the  wallet  police  found  on 
him,  he's  William  Colleran.  TV  producer, 
director.  New  York  address:  167  East  61 
Street.  California  address — " 

"I  don't  care,  he's  not  my  husband,"  Lee 
interrupted,  looking  back  at  the  bed,  star- 
ing. "...  The  voice  was  different." 

"Of  course,  it  sounds  different,"  the  doc- 
tor said.  "He's  practically  unconscious  .  .  . 
Don't  you  realize  what's  happened?" 

Lee  didn't  answer. 

"I  told  you  on  the  phone,"  said  the  doc- 
tor. "Don't  you  remember?" 

Still,  Lee  didn't  answer. 

"He'd  been  to  a  party,"  the  doctor  said, 
then.  "He  was  in  his  car,  alone,  coming 
down  a  hill,  steep,  very  steep.  It  was  dark. 
It  was  late.  He  must  have  fallen  asleep 
at  the  wheel.  The  car  hit  a  tree. 

"When  the  police  got  to  him,  they 
thought  he  was  dead  at  first,"  the  doctor 
went  on.  "I  got  to  him  a  little  while  later. 
The  heartbeat  was  weak,  but  I  could  see 
he  was  still  alive.  I  gave  him  some  serum. 
Then  we  rushed  him  here.  We've  ex- 
amined him.  He's  suffering  from  multiple 
fractures,  and  a  severe  concussion  of  the 
brain.  We've  got  to  operate.  We've  held 
up  till  now,  to  give  him  some  blood.  But 
very  soon,  if  we're  to  save  him — " 

"That's  not  my  husband,"  Lee  said. 

The  doctor  touched  her  arm. 

"You  may  not  want  him  to  be,  but  he 
is,"  he  said. 

Lee  pushed  him  away.  She  stood  rigid 
now.  "He's  not,"  she  shouted.  "He's  not!" 

Again  she  smiled  strangely,  as  if  she 
had  won  a  victory  of  some  kind. 

"Look,"  the  doctor  said,  "I  know  how 
you  feel.  But  I  think  you'd  feel  a  lot  bet- 
ter if  you  admitted  you  understood — " 

"No,"  said  Lee. 

"Admitted  you  understood,"  the  doctor 
said,  " — and  even  cried,  if  that's  what  you 
really  feel  like  doing  .  .  .  That  is  what  you 
feel  like  doing  right  now,  isn't  it?  .  .  . 
This  is  a  shock,  a  terrible  shock.  I  know 
.  .  .  Now,  come  on,  cry  a  little  and — " 

"No,"  said  Lee.  "I  never  cry.  I  mustn't 
cry  .  .  .  And  besides,  there's  no  need  for 
me  to  cry." 

"Lee,"  she  heard  the  voice  moan  once 
more,  from  under  the  bandages. 

"No,"  she  said. 

"Leeeeeee" — it  came  again. 

"Bill?"  she  whispered. 

"Bill?" 

And  then,  as  everything  in  the  room 
came  racing  towards  her,  she  fell,  faint- 
ing, to  the  floor.  .  .  . 

"Get  her  to  talk" 

She  felt  the  blanket  around  her.  She 
realized  she  was  lying  on  a  couch  .  .  .  that 
there  was  someone  else  in  the  room. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and,  turning  her 
head  only  slightly,  she  saw  the  nurse,  a 
big  woman,  big-boned,  middle-aged,  the 
steel  rim  of  her  spectacles  shining  under 
the  shining  white  starchiness  of  her  cap, 
seated  beside  her. 

"Well,"  she  heard  the  nurse  say,  softly, 
"time  you  came  around  .  .  .  How  do  you 
feel,  dear?  Do  you  feel  all  right?" 

Lee  nodded  slightly.  "Where's  my  hus- 
band?" she  asked. 

"Upstairs  ...  in  the  operating  room," 
said  the  nurse.  "The  operation  began 
about  an  hour  ago.  It  should  only  be  an- 
other hour  more,  maybe  a  little  less." 

The  nurse  remembered  the  chat  she'd 
had  in  the  hallway,  with  the  doctor,  a  lit- 
tle while  earlier.  "I'm  worried  about  her,'' 
he'd  said.  "Get  her  to  talk,  if  you  can.  Get 
her  to  talk  and  get  some  of  this  hysteria 
out  of  her  system." 

"Would  you  like  to  talk?"  the  nurse 
asked  now. 

Lee  sighed  and  lay  her  head  back  a  lit- 
tle and  looked  up  at  the  ceiling  overhead, 
as  if  she  were  trying  to  look  through  it, 


to  a  room  above  where  Bill   lay  now. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "yes,  I'd  like  to  talk,  a 
little." 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  nurse,  pulling  up 
her  chair  a  little,  "about  your  baby.  I've 
read  a  little  about  you  in  the  newspapers. 
I  remember  reading  when  you  had  a  baby 
last  year  .  .  .  What's  her  name?" 

"Kate,"  Lee  said.  "She  was  christened 
Kathleen.  But  we  call  her  Kate." 

"I  bet  she's  a  doll,"  said  the  nurse. 

"She  is,"  Lee  said. 

"Does  she  look  like  you?" 

Lee  shook  her  head. 

"Like  her  daddy?"  asked  the  nurse. 

Lee  closed  her  eyes.  "More  like  her 
daddy,  yes,"  she  said.  "Her  face  is  round 
like  his.  And  she  has  his  eyes  and  lips. 
And  she's  gentle  the  way  he  is  .  .  .  gentle 
and  lovable,  just  like  he  is." 

"Where  is  she  now?"  asked  the  nurse. 

"In  Tennessee,"  Lee  said.  "I  was  making 
a  picture  there.  I  mean,  I  am  making  a 
picture  there,  I  guess  ...  In  Cleveland, 
Tennessee  .  .  .  Kate  was  with  me  and  a 
girl  I  hired.  I  left  her  with  the  girl  when 
I  got  the  phone  call — " 

How  Lee  became  an  actress 

Her  voice  began  to  trail  off. 

"Get  her  to  talk — "  the  nurse  remem- 
bered the  doctor's  words. 

"Tell  me,"  the  nurse  said,  suddenly, 
changing  the  subject,  "a  person  like  me 
who  watches  TV  and  goes  to  movies,  we 
never  get  to  meet  actresses,  like  you.  And 
we  wonder  so  many  things.  Like  how  do 
they  become  actresses?" 

Lee  shrugged. 

"How  did  you  become  an  actress,  Mrs. 
Colleran?"  asked  the  nurse.  "Come  on. 
Don't  be  modest.  Tell  me  all  the  interest- 
ing facts  now." 

"There's  nothing  very  interesting  about 
my  story.'"  said  Lee,  opening  her  eyes. 
"When  I  was  a  little  girl,  in  Boston,  I  used 
to  watch  my  great-grandmother.  I  guess 
she's  the  one  who  started  me  off,  in  a 
way." 

"Was  she  an  actress?"  asked  the  nurse. 

"No,"  said  Lee.  "She  was  a  minister,  a 
Methodist  minister  .  .  .  And  from  my 
earliest  years  I  can  remember  watching 
her  in  church  every  Sunday,  talking  to  the 
congregation.  I  used  to  think  it  was  the 
most  thrilling  thing  imaginable,  somebody 
standing  and  talking  to  people  and  holding 
them  spellbound,  moving  them  ...  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  that  was  what  I  wanted 
to  do  someday,  be  a  lady  minister  and 
talk  to  people.  .  .  ." 

"Now  I  think  that's  real  interesting." 
said  the  nurse.  "Go  on  ...  Go  on,  and  tell 
me  more." 

Lee  said  nothing. 

"Go  on,"  said  the  nurse.  "Get  her  to 
talk — "  she  remembered. 

"Well,"  Lee  said,  " — I  learned  in  time 
that  to  be  a  minister  you  needed  to  have 
a  calling — some  kind  of  divine  calling,  ei- 
ther from  within  yourself,  or  from  God.  I 
never  had  the  calling.  But  still,"  she  said. 
"I  wanted  to  talk  to  people,  to  groups,  to 
congregations  of  one  sort  or  another.  And 
one  day,  I  remember,  my  mother  took  me 
into  town  to  see  a  play.  And  I  realized 
then,  sitting  in  the  audience,  watching  the 
actors  on  the  stage  talking  out  to  me  and 
all  the  other  people,  that  this  was  like  a 
church,  in  a  way,  and  that  being  an  actor 
was  like  being  a  minister,  in  a  way — at 
least,  in  a  way  important  to  me — " 

The  nurse  smiled.  "So  you  began  to 
study  acting  hard  and  your  mother  and 
father  sacrificed  every  penny  they  had," 
said  the  nurse,  "and  then  one  day  you 
were  discovered,  sitting  in  a  restaurant — 
and  boom,  you  were  a  star.  Right?" 

"Partly,"  Lee  said.  "I  didn't  study  acting 
very  hard  as  a  child.  And  if  I  had,  it 
wouldn't  have  been  a  sacrifice  to  my  par- 


ents. They  were  not  poor.  In  fact,  they 
were  wealthy — "  She  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment. "But  yes,  you're  right,"  she  said 
then,  "I  was  discovered,  in  a  restaurant." 

"How  do  you  like  that?"  the  nurse  said, 
pleased  with  herself.  "Well!" 

Two  discoveries 

"It  was  a  restaurant  in  New  York,"  Lee 
said.  "I  was  living  in  New  York  with  my 
mother  and  we  went  to  dinner  one  night. 
And  just  as  we  were  about  to  leave  this 
man  came  over.  He  said  he  was  a  pro- 
ducer, that  he  had  a  play  that  had  just 
started  rehearsals,  that  he  had  one  part 
open— for  a  girl  who  looked  like  me,  and 
that  he'd  like  it  if  I  came  to  the  theater 
and  tried  out.  I  did.  And  I  got  the  part.'" 

"Just  like  you  read  about,"  said  the 
nurse. 

"Yes,"  Lee  said,  " — except  the  play 
flopped." 

"Easy  come,  easy  go,  eh?"  said  the 
nurse,  laughing  a  little.  "Then  what  hap- 
pened, Mrs.  Colleran?" 

"I  did  some  television  work,"  said  Lee. 
"Then  I  did  a  picture,  my  first  picture.'* 

"Which  was  that?" 

"It  was  called  A  Face  in  the  Crowd." 
Lee  said.  "I  had  a  small  part.  I  played  the 
drum  majorette,  who  marries  Andv  Grif- 
fith—" 

"Ohhhh."  said  the  nurse.  "Now  was  that 

you?" 

"Yes,"  Lee  said.  She  smiled  a  little. 

She  seemed  to  be  remembering  some- 
thing. The  nurse,  glad  to  see  the  smile, 
wanting  to  see  it  stay  for  a  little  while,  at 
least,  leaned  forward  and  asked,  "And 
what  did  I  say  that  was  so  funny?" 

"Just  what  he  said,"  said  Lee,  " — the 
very  first  time  I  met  him." 

'  Your  husband,  I'll  bet,"  said  the  nurse. 

Lee  hesitated. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  said  the  nurse,  "if 
I'm  not  being  too  nosy  .  .  .  That  first  time 
you  met." 

"It  was  at  a  party,"  Lee  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment. "It  was  a  few  weeks  after  the  pic- 
ture opened.  There  were  lots  of  people 
there — some  of  the  biggest  names  in  the 
business.  And  I  was  a  nothing.  But  when 
I'd  be  introduced  to  them,  always  as  the 
girl  in  A  Face  in  the  Crowd,  they'd  say. 
'Oh  of  course,  you  were  wonderful,  just 
wonderful.'  At  first,  it  made  me  feel  good, 
very  good.  But  then,  after  a  while,  I  no- 
ticed that  all  of  them,  every  one  of  them, 
said  it  exactly  the  same  way  ...  I  began 
to  think  that  half  of  them  hadn't  even 
seen  the  picture,  or  me  .  .  .  And  I  began 
to  feel  sad." 

"And  then,"  said  the  nurse,  "Prince 
Charming  came  along — and  he  had  seen 
the  picture." 

"Yes,"  said  Lee.  "The  person  who  intro- 
duced us,  me  and  Bill,  mentioned  A  Face 
in  the  Crowd.  Bill  looked  puzzled.  I  told 
him  I'd  played  the  drum  majorette. 
'Ohhhh,'  he  said,  'now  was  that  you?' — just 
the  way  you  said  it.  And  then  he  said. 
You  were  pretty  good,  Miss  Remick.  You 
aren't  going  to  win  any  Academy  Awards 
for  what  you  did.  But  you  were  pretty 


PHOTOGRAPHERS'  CREDITS 

The  photographs  appearing  in  this  issue 
are  credited  below  page  by  page: 

9 — Globe;  10  11 — Darlene  Hammond  of  Pic- 
torial Parade,  £>ave  Sutton  of  Galaxy.  Frances 
Orkin;  12-13-  Vista  Photos.  Globe,  Wide  World: 
14-15 — Vista  Photos.  Wide  World.  Frances  Or- 
kin, UPI;  16 — Frances  Orkin,  Toby  Massey  of 
Gilloon.  Al  Wertheimer  of  Topix;  22 — Globe:  24- 
27 — Greene  of  FPG.  Gilloon  Agency:  28-30 — 
Larry  Schiller;  32-33 — Galaxy;  35 — Globe;  37 — 
Dalmas-Pix:  38-41— Wide  World,  Pictorial  Pa- 
rade.  Bob  Beerman;   42-43 — Globe;   44  Dick 

Miller  of  Globe;  46-50 — UPI.  Wide  World. 
Bernie  Abramson:  51-53 — Carl  Fischer. 


good.'  .  .  .  And  do  you  know  what  I  did?" 

"What?"  asked  the  nurse. 

"I  felt  so  good,  hearing  this,"  said  Lee, 
"that  I  began  to  laugh.  I  took  his  hand  and 
I  told  him  about  how  I'd  been  feeling  up 
to  that  point.  I'd  been  on  a  high  and  lonely 
cloud,  I  told  him,  and  he'd  come  along  and 
brought  me  right  back  down  to  where  I 
wanted  to  be  ...  I  told  him  all  this,  still 
holding  his  hand,  as  if  we  were  old  friends. 
And  while  I  was  holding  his  hand,  there, 
that  first  time,  I  fell  in  love  with  him  .  .  . 
Does  that  sound  silly?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  the  nurse  said. 

"We  were  married  a  few  months  later," 
Lee  went  on.  "We  went  to  Venice  on  our 
honeymoon.  We  stayed  there  for  three 
months.  We  said  to  heck  with  everything, 
our  jobs— everything.  We  were  there  and 
we  were  happy  and  we  stayed.  We  lived 
in  a  pensione,  one  of  those  small  hotels. 
And  it  was  only  the  beginning,  really. 
Because  after  that  we  grew  more  and 
more  in  love — something  I  didn't  imagine 
possible; — and  we  were  happier  still — " 

She  stopped. 

And  she  looked  up  again,  towards  the 
ceiling,  thinking  of  the  room  upstairs,  the 
big  white  room  with  all  the  doctors,  where 
her  husband  lay,  fighting  for  his  life. 

For  a  few  minutes,  neither  she  nor  the 
nurse  said  anything. 

And  then,  softly,  the  nurse  spoke  up. 

"Mrs.  Colleran  .  .  .  may  I  ask  you  some- 
thing personal?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Lee,  vaguely.  "Yes,  of  course, 
if  you  want." 

"I  was  in  the  room  before,"  the  nurse 
said,  "your  husband's  room,  when  you 
were — "  She  paused.  "When  the  doctor 
told  you  to  cry  .  .  .  said  it  would  help 
make  you  feel  better.  When  you  told  him 
that  you  wouldn't,  you  couldn't,  that  you 
never  did,  that  you  mustn't." 

"That's  right,"  said  Lee. 


"What  did  you  mean?"  asked  the  nurse. 

Lee  sighed.  "It's  a  long  story,"  she  said. 
"You  wouldn't  be  interested.  Really,  you 
wouldn't." 

"I  see,"  said  the  nurse.  "I'm  sorry — " 
she  started  to  say. 

When,  suddenly,  Lee  said,  "My  aunt — 
it  was  she  who  told  me  that  I  mustn't  cry." 

"Your  aunt?"  asked  the  nurse. 

Lee  didn't  answer,  just  sat  there,  still. 

"Your  aunt?"  the  nurse  asked  again. 

"A  long  time  ago,"  Lee  said,  finally. 
"When  I  was  five.  I  was  only  five,  you 
see,"  she  said,  "and  one  day  I  heard  that 
my  mother  and  father  were  going  to  be 
divorced.  Neither  of  them  had  wanted  to 
tell  me  about  it.  And  so  they  asked  her  to 
tell  me,  my  aunt.  .  .  ." 

"It  must  have  been  a  very  hard  moment 
for  you,"  the  nurse  said,  as  Lee  sighed 
again,  deeply. 

"I  cried  when  she  told  me,"  Lee  said.  "I 
cried  .  .  .  It's  been  a  long  time  since  that 
day.  But  I  remember  the  tears  running 
from  my  eyes — I  remember  that.  They  ran 
down  my  cheeks  and  some  of  them  ran 
into  my  mouth  and  I  remember  they 
burned  the  insides  of  my  mouth  and  they 
began  to  choke  me. 

"And  I  remember  starting  to  cough  at 
one  point  and  my  aunt  slapping  my  back, 
hard. 

"And  saying,  'Now  you  stop  that,  do 
you  hear?  Crying  is  for  fools,  for  silly 
people  who  don't  have  fiber,  strength, 
character,  breeding.  Crying  is  for  weak 
people.  Weak  people.  Not  people  like  us!' 

"And  I  remember  her  slapping  my  back 
harder  and  harder  as  she  said  that.  And 
her  saying,  over  and  over,  'Now  stop.  You 
look  ridiculous.  You  should  be  ashamed 
of  yourself!' 

"Until,  finally,  I  did  stop. 

"And,  from  that  day  to  this,  I've  never 
cried.  .  .  ." 


"Because,"  asked  the  nurse,  "you  didn't 
want  to  appear  weak?" 

"I  don't  know  any  more,"  said  Lee,  "not 
exactly." 

"Don't  you  know,"  said  the  nurse,  her 
voice  calm,  very  calm,  "that  it's  a  natural 
thing  to  cry  .  .  .  that  there  is  often  great 
relief  in  tears  .  .  .  that  babies,  little  babies, 
are  born  crying;  their  very  first  sound  .  .  . 
that  Jesus  wept  .  .  .  that  everyone  must 
weep  sometimes?" 

"I  can't,"  said  Lee.  "I'm  different  maybe, 
but  I  can't  .  .  .  And  now,  if  you'd  talk 
about  something  else  ...  Or  else  not  talk 
for  a  while — " 

"All  right,"  said  the  nurse.  "I'm  sorry." 

The  silence  that  followed  was  intense. 

Until  finally,  some  ten  minutes  later,  it 
was  interrupted  by  the  phone. 

The  nurse  got  up  and  answered  the  call. 
Then  she  said  to  Lee,  "It  was  the  doctor, 
calling  from  the  operating  room.  He'll  be 
down  soon.  But  he  wanted  you  to  know 
now  that  the  operation  is  over,  that  it 
was  a  success,  that  your  husband  is  going 
to  be  all  right." 

"He  is,"  said  Lee,  not  asking.  "Thank  God." 

She  got  up  from  the  couch,  dazedly. 

At  one  point,  she  seemed  to  falter,  and 
the  nurse  took  her  arm. 

"I'm  all  right,"  Lee  said. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  get  for  you? 
Do  for  you?" 

"No,"  Lee  muttered. 

She  looked  down  for  a  moment;  then 
back  up  at  the  nurse. 

And  then,  suddenly,  she  threw  her  arms 
around  her  and  she  buried  her  head  in  the 
big  woman's  shoulder. 

" — He's  not  going  to  die,"  Lee  said. 

"No,"  said  the  nurse. 

"He's  not  going  to  die." 

And  then  she  smiled  as  she  felt  the  girl's 
tears  beginning  to  wet  her  sleeve.  end 

Lee  stars  next  in  20th-Fox's  Wild  Rivek. 


_____ 

|  Fill  in  the  form  below  (or  a  reasonable  facsimile  thereof)  as  soon  as  you've  read  all  the  stories  in  this  issue.  Then  mail  it  to  us  right  away. 
J    "romptness  counts.  Three  $10  winners  will  be  chosen  from  each  of  the  following  areas — on  a  basis  of  the  date  and  time  on  your  postmark: 

Eastern  states;  Southern  states;  Midwestern  states;  Rocky  Mountain  and  Pacific  states;  Canada.  And  even  if  you  don't  earn  $10,  you'll 
I    be  glad  you  sent  this  ballot  in— because  you're  helping  us  pick  the  stories  you'll  really  love.  MAIL  TO:  MODERN  SCREEN  POLL,  BOX  2291, 

GRAND  CENTRAL  STATION,  N.  Y.  17.  N.  Y. 


phrase  which  best  answers  each  question: 


Please  circle  the  box  to  the  left  of  the  one 

1.  I  LIKE  SAL  MINEO: 

□  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  UJ  all  of  his  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  UJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 

2.  I  LIKE  DEBBIE  REYNOLDS: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 
I  READ:  (JJ  all  of  her  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  UJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 

3.  I  LIKE  FRANK  SINATRA: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 


UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

I  LIKE  TOMMY  SANDS: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  UJ  all  of  their  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  UJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 

4.  I  LIKE  NATALIE  WOOD: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  ROBERT  WAGNER: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 


I  READ:  UJ  all  of  their  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 

5.  I  LIKE  LEE  REMICK: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 
I  READ:  UJ  all  of  her  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  UJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely '  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 

6.  I  LIKE  SANDRA  DEE: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 

0  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  UJ  all  of  her  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  UJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 


new  movies 

(Continued  from  page  6) 

father  deserted  him  and  whose  devoted  moth- 
er, it  develops,  entertains  men  while  War- 
ren's in  the  study  hall  (b)  Tuesday  Weld, 
whose  bedridden,  nagging  mother  has  already 
led  her  to  seek  more  than  solace  in  the  arms 
of  (c)  Michael  Callan,  a  motherless  boy 
cynically  taking  lessons  in  crime  from  a 
local  butcher,  who  does  his  real  work  at 
night.  These  teen-agers  can  grow  up  to  be 
social  outcasts — or  butterflies,  depending  on 
Dick  Clark's  help.  There's  really  nothing  dull 
about  this  movie.  (James  Darren,  in  a  guest  ap- 
pearance at  a  high  school  dance,  sings  the  title 
song.) — Columbia. 


THE  UNFORGIVEN 

race  hatred  in  Texas 


Burt  Lancaster 
Audrey  Hepburn 
Audie  Murphy 
Lillian  Gish 
Doug  McClure 


■  Life  in  the  Texas  Panhandle  (of  the  1860's) 
has  a  desolate  beauty  about  it,  although  the 
presence  of  Audrey  Hepburn  enlivens  the 
area  and  overcomes  its  sense  of  isolation.  She 
is  part  of  the  Zachary  family.  Mom  (Lillian 
Gish)  raised  her  from  infancy  as  her  own, 
and  the  brothers,  Burt  Lancaster,  Audie 
Murphy,  Doug  McClure,  adore  her.  All  would 
be  well  if  it  were  not  for  the  sudden,  eerie 
presence  of  a  crazy  old  man  (Joseph  Wiseman) 
who  looms  like  a  threat  of  disaster:  He  has 
spread  the  news  that  Audrey  is  really  an  Indian 
who  was  kidnapped  from  the  Kiowas  by  the 
now  dead  father  of  the  Zacharys.  Not  only  is 
the  news  shocking  (and  vehemently  denied  by 
Lillian  Gish)  but  it  turns  all  the  neighbors,  in- 
cluding the  stricken  Bickford  family,  against 
Audrey.  Love  scenes,  battle  scenes,  bronco- 


busting  scenes,  scenes  of  idyllic  days  fill  the 
screen  with  charm  and  passion,  and  with  fine 
entertainment. — Cinemascope,  U.A. 

CONSPIRACY  OF  HEARTS  J-iin  Palmer 

Sylvia  Svnis 

children  of  war  ^o^ai^s 
Michael  Goodliffe 

»  Many  Italian  soldiers  had  little  enthusiasm 
for  World  War  II.  Certainly  they  didn't 
enjoy  being  jailers  of  children.  This  movie, 
based  on  fact,  is  set  in  1943.  On  a  hill  in 
northern  Italy  stands  a  beautiful  convent 
in  charge  of  Mother  Superior  Lilli  Palmer. 
Below  it  is  a  'transit'  camp  ma;n!y  occu- 
pied by  Jewish  children.  The  children  have 
dug  a  tunnel.  As  many  nights  as  possible, 
groups  of  them — starved,  frightened,  or- 
phaned— crawl  through  it.  They  are  met  at  the 
far  end  by  nuns  and  shipped  by  truck  (whose 
driver  is  Sister  Meg  Jenkins)  to  Partisans 
and  safety.  The  camp  ccmmander  (Ronald 
Lewis)  looks  the  other  way.  Then  the  Ger- 
mans take  over  and  in  the  very  next  rescue 
mission  a  nun  is  killed.  Nazi  Colonel  Albert 
Lieven  promises  the  same  fate  to  anyone  else 
who  disrupts  the  camp.  Finally  he  invades  the 
convent,  surprises  a  group  of  children  at 
religious  service  (Hebrew),  swoops  down  on 
the  nuns  at  their  devotions  and  decides  that  he 
is  going  to  place  Sister  Lilli  before  a  firing  squad. 
The  children,  of  course,  can  break  your  heart — 
and  Sister  Lilli's  nobility  is  inspiring. — 
Paramount. 


THE  SWORD  AND  THE  DRAGON 

Russian  spectacle 
■  Here  is  a  spectacle  whose  costumes,  scenery 


Boris  Andreyev 
Andrei  Abrikosov 
Nina  Medvedeva 
Alexei  Shvorin 
Sovol  Martinson 


and  action  will  dazzle  you,  partly  because  it 
was  made  in  a  foreign  country  (Russia)  but 
mainly  because  the  Russians  have  let  them- 
selves go.  In  telling  this  famous  folk  legend 
they  bring  monsters  to  life,  casually  mix 
magic  with  reality,  shamelessly  (when  they 
think  it's  called  for)  flood  the  screen  with  a 
presentation  of  'nature's  wonders'  that  you 
would  expect  to  find  in  an  animated  cartoon. 
The  total  effect  is  deeply  satisfying.  The  story 
is  about  Uya  Muromets,  for  centuries  a 
Russian  folk  hero.  The  impossibly  heroic  Dya 
(a  handsome,  bearded  giant,  usually  glittering 
in  mesh  armor),  a  cast  of  one  hundred  thousand 
and  an  old-fashioned  rendering  of  blood  and 
gore  will  hold  you  enthralled. — Yitalite. 


THE  TRIAL  OF 

SERGEANT  RUTLEDGE      Jeffrey  Hunter 
Constance  Towers 

court  martial  of  a  Negro       „  Billie  Burke 
"  Woody  Strode 

Juano  Hernandez 

■  Under  the  direction  of  John  Ford,  a  not 
very  original  plot  takes  on  stature  and  dig- 
nity. The  scene  is  the  Arizona  Territory,  the 
court  martial  is  of  a  Negro  sergeant  (Woody 
Strode)  who  is  accused  of  the  brutal  murders 
of  a  young  white  girl  he's  known  all  her 
life  and  of  her  father,  a  Major  in  command 
of  the  Post.  If  possible.  Strode  has  made 
things  even  worse  for  himself  by  deserting 
the  post  after  the  killings.  Overtaken  by- 
Lieutenant  Jeffrey  Hunter,  who  later  de- 
fends him,  Strode  claims  he  deserted  because 
he  knew  that  no  one  would  believe  a  Negro's 
story.  The  most  moving  portions  of  the  film 
are  due  to  the  face  and  carriage  of  Woody 
Strcde,  and  his  great  presence  and  reserve. — 
Technicolor,  Warner  Bros. 


7.  1  LIKE  LIZ  TAYLOR: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 
0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  EDDIE  FISHER: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  their  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 

8.  I  LIKE  LUCILLE  BALL: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 

0  fairly  well  0  very  little  QD  not  at  all 
ED  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  ED  part  ED  none 


IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  Ed  super-completely 
Ed  completely  QD  fairly  well  Ed  very  little 
fl]  not  at  all 

9.  I  LIKE  RICHARD  EGAN: 

Ed  more  than  almost  any  star  ED  a  lot 
Ed  fairly  well  Ed  very  little  ED  not  at  all 
Ed  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  Ed  all  of  his  story  Ed  part  Ed  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  Ed  super-completely 
Ed  completely  Ed  fairly  well  Ed  very  little 
Ed  not  at  all 

10.  I  LIKE  CARY  GRANT: 

Ed  more  than  almost  any  star  ED  a  lot 
Ed  fairly  well  Ed  very  little  0  not  at  all 
Ed  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  [T]  all  of  his  story  Ed  part  GD  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  Ed  super-completely 


LH  completely  ED  fairly  well  Ed  very  little 
T]  not  at  all 

11.  !  LIKE  LANA  TURNER: 

Ed  more  than  almost  any  star  Ed  a  lot 
Ed  fairly  well  Ed  very  little  ED  not  at  all 
Ed  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 
I  READ:  Ed  all  of  her  story  Ed  part  Ed  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
Ed  completely  ED  fairly  well  Ed  very  little 
Ed  not  at  all 

12.  I  READ:  0  all  of  THEY  DO  IT  TO  MUSIC 

0  part  0  none 

IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  completely  0  fair- 
ly well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

13.  How  many  phonographs  do  you  have  in 
your  home?  (if  none  write  "0")   


I 

76  I. 


14.  The  stars  I  most  want  to  read  about  are: 

(1)  .  

MALE 

(2)  

MALE 

<35  

MALE 

AGE.     .     .  .  NAME  

ADDRESS  

CIITY  


(1)  . 

(2)  . 

(3)  . 


WASH  WASH 

IN  IN 
COLOR  GLAMOUR 


w 

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replaces  fading  red  hair  with  cascades  of  brilliance.  And  hair 
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WASH  'N  TINT  does  all  this— and  more!  The  protein  in  it  adds 
bodv,  lustre,  makes  hair  more  manageable. 
WASH  'N  TINT— greatest,  safest,  easiest,  cleanest 
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Now  you  can  shampoo... 
Set  with  plain  water...and  have 


lively,  natural  looking  curls! 


co-starring  in 

The  Alfred  Hitchcock  Production 


"PSYCHO" 


A  Paramount  Release 


VERA  MILES,  one  of  Hollywood's  loveliest  new  stars,  always  makes  sure  her  hair  is  shampooed  with  Lustre-Creme.  It  leaves  her 
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Special  cleansing  action  right  in  the  rich, 
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EONE  ELSE'S 
HUSBAND  AND 
SOMEONE  ELSE'S 
WIFE...! 

How  does  such  a  thing  happen,  and 
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when?  What  does  it  lead  to.  and  to 
whom?  From  the  outspoken  best- 
seller on  marital  infidelity! 


COLUMBIA  PICTURES  presents 

KIRK  DOUGLAS  KIM  NOVAK 
ERNIE  KOVACS  BARBARA  RUSH 


S 


trangers 
When 
We  Meet 4 

co-starring 

WALTER  MATTHAU  CinemaScope  •  EASTMAN  COLOR 

VIRGINIA  BRUCE-KENT  SMITH-HELEN  GALLAGHER  a  bryna-quine  Production 

Screenplay  by  EVAN  HUNTER,  based  on  his  own  novel  ■  Produced  and  Directed  by  RICHARD  QUINE 


Jour  all  day 


scents,  smooths,  clings 
more  lovingly,  more  lastingly 
than  costly  cologne 


No  cologne  prolongs  and  protects 
your  daintiness  like  Cashmere 
Bouquet  Talc.  Never  evaporates. 
Never  dries  your  skin.  Leaves 
you  silken-smooth,  flower-fresh  all 
over.  Make  Cashmere  Bouquet 
.  .  .pure,  imported  Italian  Talc .  . . 
your  all  day  Veil  of  Fragrance. 

Cashmere 
Bouquet  Talc 

the  fragrance  men  love 


modern 


AMERICA'S  GREATEST  MOVIE  MAGAZINE 


STORIES 

Marilyn  Monroe   27    I  Am  Going  To  Adopt  A  Baby  by  Louella  Parsons 

Hope  Lange 

Don  Murray   30    What  Ever  Happened  To  Those  Nice 

Kids  Down  The  Block? 

Janet  Leigh   s  32    How  Much  Do  My  Children  Really  Need  Me? 

by  Janet  Leigh  as  told  to  Helen  Weller 

Elizabeth  Taylor 

Eddie  Fisher   34    Is  Liz  Afraid  To  Have  A  Baby  With  Eddie? 

Rock  Hudson  33    The  Terrible  Price  I've  Paid  To  Be  A  Star 

by  Rock  Hudson  as  told  to  Richard  G.  Hubler 

Evy  Norlund 

James  Darren   40    The  Haunted  Honeymoon  by  Doug  Brewer 

Debbie  Reynolds   42    "Where  Are  You,  Eddie,  I  Need  You!" 

by  Rosamond  Gaylor 

Bobby  Darin   44    The  Small  World  Of  Mr.  Big  by  Ed  DeBlasio 

Sandra  Dee   46    An  Open  Letter  To  Sandra  Dee 

Barrie  Chase 

Fred  Astaire   50    A  Love  Story  by  Hugh  Burrell 

Jane  Fonda  52    Portrait  Of  Jane  by  Charles  Miron 

Will  (Sugorfoot)  Hutchins    54    The  Night  We  Ran  Out  Of  Gas  On  A  Lonely  Road 

Jill  St.  John  58    The  Biggest  Little  Wedding  Of  The  Year 

by  Mrs.  Edward  Oppenheim  as  told  to  Robert  Peer 

FEATURETTES 

James  MatArthur   5    Letter  To  An  Adopted  Child 

Fabian    8    Fabian  Hated  His  Name 

Robert  Stack  12    Robert  Stack's  Charge  Account 

SPECIAL  FEATURE 

10    Dining  With  The  Stars 

DEPARTMENTS 

Louella  Parsons   17  Eight-Page  Gossip  Extra 

4  The  Inside  Story 

6  Disk  Jockeys'  Quiz 

14  New  Movies  by  Florence  Epstein 

16  June  Birthdays 

81  $150  For  You 

Cover  Photograph  by  Lynn  Pelham  of  Rapho-Guillumette 
Other  Photographers'  Credits  on  Page  62 


DAVID  MYERS,  editor 

SAM  BLUM,  managing  editor 

TERRY  DAVIDSON,  story  editor 
LINDA  OLSHEIM,  production  editor 
ED  DeBLASIO,  special  correspondent 
BEVERLY  LINET,  contributing  editor 
ERNESTINE  R.  COOKE,  ed.  assistant 
GENE  HOYT,  research  director 


MICHAEL  LEFCOURT,  art  editor 
HELEN  WELLER,  west  coast  editor 

DOLORES  M.  SHAW.  asst.  art  editor 
CARLOS  CLARENS.  research 
JEANNE  SMITH,  editorial  research 
EUGENE  WITAL,  photographic  art 
AUGUSTINE  PENNETTO,  cover 
FERNANDO  TEXIDOR,  art  director 


POSTMASTER:  Please  send  notice  on  Form  3579  to  321  West  44  Street,  New  York  36,  New  York 

MODERN  SCREEN.  Vol.  54.  Nc.  7,  July.  1960.  Published  Monthly  by  Dell  Publishing  Co.,  Inc..  Office 
of  publication  at  Washington  and  Smith  Aves..  Dunellen.  N.  J.  Executive  and  editorial  offices,  750  Third 
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office  221  No  LaSalle  St..  Chicago  111.  Albert  P.  Delacorte.  Publisher;  Helen  Meyer.  President;  Paul  R.  Lilly. 
Executive  Vice-President;  Willi.im  K.  Callahan.  Jr..  Vice-President:  liar,  Id  Clark.  Vice-  Pre*  idem- Advertising  Di- 
rector Published  simultaneously  in  the  Dominion  of  Canada  In'ernational  copyright  secured  under  the  provisions  of 
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METR0-60LDWYN-MAYER 

AN  ARTHUR  FREED 
PRODUCTION 


THE  SCREEN  IS  SINGING! 
M-G-M  IS  BRINGING 
BROADWAY'S  BELL- RINGING 
MUSICAL  TO  YOU! 


SONGS!  SONGS! 
"Bells  Are  Ringing' 
"Just  In  Time" 
"I  Met  A  Girl" 
"The  Party's  Over" 

and  many  more  ! 


FRED  CLARK  »  EDDIE  FOY,  JR.  •  JEAN  STAPLETON 


Based  On  the  Musical  Play 
BELLS  ARE  RINGING 


smt»P,a„„u,fct)  BETTY  COMDEN  and  ADOLPH  GREEN  •  ••     JULE  STYNE 
BETTY  COM  DEN  an  d  ADO  L  P  H  GREEN  •  JULE8TYNE  VINCENTE  MINNELLI 


Anne's 


PAIN 

pER,uu;:.»e^ 


RIO  DIC 


NVidol 


mens 

ceases 


eases 


Want  the  real  truth?  Write  to  INSIDE  STORY,  Modern  Screen. 
Box  515,  Times  Square  P.O.,  N.Y.  36,  N.Y.  The  most  interesting 
letters  will  appear  in  this  column.    Sorry,  no  personal  replies. 


9  There's  a  report  that  Shirley  Mac- 
Laine  and  her  brother  Warren  Beatty 

refuse  to  talk  about  one  another  for 
publication.  Is  this  because  Shirley  is 
opposed  to  having  Joan  Collins  as  a 

sister-in-law? 

— E.S.,    Evanston,  III. 

A  No.  It's  because  Warren  is  opposed  to 
making  it  as  a  star  on  his  sister's  fame. 

9  How  come  after  all  her  publicity — 
and  I  do  mean  all — Jayne  Mansfield 
faded  so  much  from  the  Hollywood 
scene?  Did  the  public  resent  the  imita- 
tion Marilyn  Monroe  bit? 

— I.L.,  Dallas,  Tex. 

A  They  resented  having  Jayne  pushed 
down  their  throats.  If  you  recall  it  was 
the  public  that  discovered  Marilyn  in 
small  roles  .  .  .  and  it  was  the  public 
that  demanded  better  roles  for  her. 
With  Jayne  it  was  vice  versa. 

9  I  read  a  great  deal  about  Marilyn 
Monroe's  recurring  illnesses  while  she 
was  in  production  with  Let's  Make 
Love.  What  was  the  state  of  her  health 
during  the  month-long  actor's  strike 
when  she  didn't  have  to  work? 

— K.H.,  Boston,  Mass. 

A  She  had  a  slight  cold. 

9  What  was  the  real  cause  of  the  Suiy 
Parker-Pierre  LaSalle  breakup? 

— D.L.,  Montreal,  Can. 

A  Throughout  their  marriage  both  made 
a  thing  about  being  able  to  go  their  sepa- 
rate ways.  This  time  they  went  too  far. 

9  There  was  a  rumor  circulating  that 
Dean  Martin  had  a  brain  tumor.  What 
are  the  real  facts  about  this? 

— H.G.,  Lawrence,  NY. 

A  There  was  a  suspicion  of  a  tumor. 
Ex-rays  proved  otherwise — and  Dean's 
dizzy  spells  are  suspected  of  being  the 
result  of  too  much  high  living.  At  the 
moment,  however,  he's  not  taking  ad- 
vice to  slow  down  too  seriously. 

9  How  serious  is  the  feud  between 
Tony  Curtis  and  Glenn  Ford,  and  how 

did  Tony  feel  about  not  getting  an 
Oscar  nomination  for  Some  Like  It 
Hot  when  Jack  Lemmon  got  one? 

— T.H.,  Daytona  Beach,  Fla. 

A  Because  of  their  heated  differences 
over  the  Actor's  Strike  (Tony  was  vio- 
lently for  it,  Glenn  just  as  violently 
unlikely  Glenn  and  Ton\ 


will  talk  to  one  another  again.  Tony 
still  speaks  to  Lemmon  but  was  sour 
over  his  own  lack  of  nomination. 

9  What  are  the  chances  of  Bobby 
Darin  marrvinc  Jo-Ann  Campbell? 

— R.D.,    Bangor,  Me. 

A  Excellent — //  the  romance  can  sur- 
vive the  long  separation  of  Bobby's 
new  public  appearance  tour. 

9  I  have  been  a  fan  of  Lana  Turner's 

for  more  than  20  years  and  can't  ever 
remember  her  going  on  personal  ap- 
pearances. I  read  she  is  doing  some  for 
Portrait  In  Black.  Is  she  doing  this  to 
cover  the  bad  publicity  she's  been  get- 
ting because  of  her  daughter  Cheryl? 

— T.W.,  New  London,  Conn. 

A  No.  Lana  owns  SOJc  of  the  picture. 
The  more  interest  she  can  create,  the 
greater  amount  she  figures  to  make. 

9  Do  you  think  James  Garner  will 

legally  be  able  to  walk  out  of  his  War- 
ners contract — even  though  he  insists  it 
became  null  and  void  when  the  studio 
put  him  on  suspension? 
— A.C..    An-nandale-on-Hudson,  N.Y. 

A  The  studio  will  fight  the  case  to  the 
highest  court  to  keep  Jim  in  its  fold. 
As  long  as  they  keep  fighting,  Jim  will 
be  unable  to  work  for  anyone.  Holly- 
wood bets  Jim  will  be  back  at  Warners. 

9  The  columns  seem  to  be  linking 
Lucille  Ball  with  Morton  DaCosta,  the 
producer-director  of  her  new  Broadway 
show.  What  are  the  chances  of  this 
turning  into  a  serious  romance? 

— C.B.,  Tucson,  Ariz. 

A  Nil — for  any  kind  of  romance. 

9  After  all  they  went  through  to  be 
able  to  get  married,  is  it  really  true 
that  Ernest  Borgnine  and  Katy  Jur- 

ado  are  having  serious  problems  after 
less  than  six  months  together? 

— E.W.,    Savannah,  Ga. 


A  They  were  havin 
after  less  than  three 


'rious  problei 
iths  together. 


9  Is  it  true  that  Liz  Taylor  and  Eddie 
Fisher  are  planning  to  live  in  Switzer- 
land for  good  in  order  to  avoid  paying 
exorbitant  U.S.  income  taxes? 

— S.S.,  Ithaca,  N.Y. 

A  Liz  and  Eddie  may  set  up  a  business 
in  Switzerland.  They  plan  to  live  there 
for  the  duration  of  Cleopatra. 


Directed  by  Robert  Mulligan  •  Screenplay  by  Garson  Kanin  •  Based  on  His  Play  •  A  Paramount  Picture 

5  a 


Lee  Case 
Station  WCBM 
Baltimore,  Md. 


The  Nation's  Top  Disk  Jockeys  pose  a 
series  of  questions  to  see  if  you  know 
your  record  stars. 


1.  They  are  three  Utile  fel- 
lows who  are  always  get- 
ting out  of  line.  They  are  saucy 
little  fellows  who  have  had 
several  million  record  sellers. 
These  little  characters  were  cre- 
ated by  David  Seville. 

2.  She  has  acted  and  sung  in 
many  pictures,  with  leading 

men  like  Gene  Kelly,  Donald 
Vic  Da- 


O'Connor  and 
mone.  Her  first  big  plat- 
ter was  Tammy.  Her 
latest  is  Am  I  That 
Easy  To  Forget? 
3.  Every  year  he's  vot- 
ed the  top  popidar 
instrumental  guitarist  in 
the  U.S.  He  started  out 
on  WSM's  Grand  Old 
Opry.  He's  RCA  Victor's 
A  &  R  man  for  Coun- 
try and  Western  Music. 

4.  These  f. 


Coffeehead'Larson 
Station  WRIT 
Milwaukee.  Wis. 


Ira  Cook 
Station  KMPC 
Los  Angeles,  Cal 


gers,  Tony 
Williams,  David  Lynch, 
Paul  Robi  and  Zola  Taylor, 
have  had  many  top  record 
sellers.  They  met  and  formed 
their  group  when  they  were 
parking  lot  attendants  in  Los 
Angeles.  Some  of  their  big 
hits  were:  The  Great  Pre- 
tender, Only  You  and 
Harbor  Lights. 
5.  This  singer  was  bom  in 
Texas  in  1939.  He  still 
conducts  his  band  which  he 
formed  in  high  school.  He 
records  for  Mercury  and  has 
made  a  million-record-seller , 
Running  Bear. 

6.  As  a  child  she  sang  in 
her   hometown   choir  in 

Newark,  New  Jersey.  She 
later  became  a  band  singer 
with  Earl  Hines,  Billy  Eck- 
stine  and  John  Kirby.  Her 
latest  is  You're  My  Baby. 

7.  He's    been    blind  since 
the  age  of  six  because 

of  a  childhood  illness.  This 
great  pianist  worked  with 
many  bands  at  15  and  or- 
ganized his  first  trio  at  17. 
His  latest  album  is  called 
The  Genius  Of   . 


iiBiliinOA  hoj.vs 

UOiSOAJ  \UU1(0[  -g 

suii[ty  •£ 
rp/oiiiCjjf  JiqqjQ  -JJ 


Don  Bell 
Station  KIOA 
Des  Moines,  Iowa 


CeZU^  to, 


■  James  MacArthur  is  a  happy  young  man.  with  a  promising  career  as  an 
actor,  who  only  smiles  to  himself  when  he  hears  the  old  question — should  you 
tell  an  adopted  child  the  truth  about  his  birth? 
The  answer  is  "yes,  but  gently — and  with  love." 

Jimmy  learned  that  because  he  himself  is  the  adopted  son  of  one  of  the 
world's  best-known  stage  actresses,  Helen  Hayes,  and  the  late  Charles  MacArthur. 

It  was  while  Charles  MacArthur  was  serving  in  the  Army  during  World 
War  II.  that  he  decided  ten-year-old  Jimmy  should  learn  he  was  adopted. 

One  day  he  sent  a  letter  with  a  special  message  for  Jimmy: 

FROM:  Charles  MacArthur,  Major,  U.S.A. 
TO:  Helen  Hayes  MacArthur 

SU  BJECT :  Promotion  of  Corporal  James  MacArthur. 

1:  It  has  come  to  the  attention  of  the  undersigned  that,  since  James  Gordon 
MacArthur  adopted  the  Army  as  a  career,  his  conduct  has  been  con- 
sistent with  the  highest  standards  of  military  behavior  and  deserving  of 
promotion. 

2:  Helen  Hayes  MacArthur,  in  the  absence  of  his  Commanding  Officer,  is 
hereby  empowered  to  promote  the  said  James  MacArthur  to  the  grade 
of  Master  Sergeant. 

3:  A  pair  of  Master  Sergeant's  chevrons  are  enclosed. 

Charles  MacArthur 
Major,  U.S.A. 

Helen  Hayes  read  the  'orders'  to  Jimmy  and  when  the  inevitable  word  adopted 
was  read,  and  the  inevitable  questions  followed  ...  the  unmistakable  love  that 
was  concealed  in  those  Sergeant's  chevrons,  the  love  of  more-than-real  parents, 
carried  the  day.  There  wasn't  a  kid  in  upstate  New  York,  or  the  whole  world,  for 
that  matter,  who  strutted  around  as  proudly  as  James  MacArthur.  wearing  his 
Sergeant's  stripes! 


Only  20  minutes  more  than  last  night's  pin-up  .  .  . 

wake  up  with  a permanent! 

Only  new  Bobbi  waves  while  you  sleep  .  .  . 
brushes  into  a  softly  feminine,  lasting  hairstyle! 


If  you  can  put  up  your  hair  in 
pin  curls,  37ou  can  give  yourself  a 
Bobbi — the  easy  pin  curl  permanent. 
It  takes  only  twenty  minutes  more 
than  a  regular  setting  !  Then,  the  wave 
''takes7'  while  you  sleep  because  Bobbi 


is  self-neutralizing.  In  the  morning 
you  wake  up  with  a  permanent  that 
brushes  into  a  soft,  finished  hairstyle 
with  the  lasting  body  only  a  perma- 
nent gives.  Complete  Bobbi  kit  with 
curlers,  $2.00.  Refill.  S1.50. 


The  most  convenient  permanent  of  all— home  or  beauty  shop! 


LINDA  COUCH,  Freshman,  Univ. 
of  Tampa,  Tampa,  Fla.  says: 
"I  was  heartsick  —  just  before  a 
talent  contest,  blemishes  brok 
on  my  face.  I  was  going  to  quit, 
but  my  dad  brought  home  a  tube 
of  Clearasil.  The  very  next  day, 
my  skin  looked  better  and  by  con- 
it  was  completely  clear." 


SCIENTIFIC  CLEARASIL  MEDICATION 

STARVES 
PIMPLES 

SKIN-COLORED,  Hides  pimples  while  it  works 

clearasil  is  the  new-type  scientific  medication 
especially  for  pimples.  In  tube  or  new  lotion 
squeeze-bottle,  clearasil  gives  you  the  effective 
medications  prescribed  by  leading  Skin  Special- 
ists, and  clinical  tests  prove  it  really  works. 
HOW  CLEARASIL  WORKS  FAST 


1 .  Penelrale$  pimples. '  Keratolytic'  action 
softens,  dissolves  affected  skin  tissue  so 
medications  can  penetrate.  Encourages 
quick  growth  of  healthy,  smooth  skin ! 

2.  Slops  bacteria.  Antiseptic  action  stops 
growth  of  the  bacteria  that  can  cause 
and  spread  pimples  .  .  .  helps  prevent 
further  pimple  outbreaks! 

3.  'Starves'  pimples-  Oil-absorbing 
action  'starves'  pimples  .  .  .  dries  up, 
helps  remove  excess  oil  that  'feeds' 
pimples  .  .  .  works  fast  to  clear  pimples! 


'Floats'  Out  Blackheads,  clearasil  softens 
and  loosens  blackheads  so  they  float  out  with 
normal  washing.  And,  clearasil  is  greaseless, 
stainless,  pleasant  to  use  day  and  night  for 
uninterrupted  medication. 
Proved  by  Skin  Specialists !  In  tests  on  over 
300  patients,  9  out  of  every  10  cases  were 
cleared  up  or  definitely  improved 
while  using  clearasil  (either  lo- 
tion or  tube).  In  Tube,  69$  and 
98<£.  Long-lasting  Lotion  squeeze- 
bottle,  only  $1.25  (no  fed.  tax). 
Money-back  guarantee. 


i 

Oearasil 


At  all  drug 
counters. 


LARGEST-SELLING  BECAUSE  IT  REALLY  WORKS 


■  When  Fabian  was  in  grammar  school,  he  hated  his  name. 

"I  was  named  for  my  grandfather  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  no 
one  else  in  the  world  had  the  name  of  'Fabian,'  "  he  said.  "I  wished 
fervently  that  I'd  been  christened  Joe  or  Mike  or  even  Anthony 
which  was  my  middle  name. 

"When  I  told  my  mother  I  wanted  to  drop  the  Fabian  and  use 
Anthony,  she  was  so  mad,  she  chased  me  out  of  the  house." 

In  school,  ihe  kids  gave  Fabian  a  hard  time.  They  hooted  and 
poked  fun  at  him  because  of  his  'grand'  name.  When  a  commercial 
came  out  that  said  'Fab  washes  whiter'  they  had  a  field  day. 

Fabian  was  a  safety  lieutenant  in  school.  His  job  was  to  keep 
the  kids  off  the  water  tower  during  fire  drill.  He  couldn't  leave 
his  post  so  he  had  to  stand  there  while  all  the  kids  filed  past  him 
chanting  "Fab  washes  whiter." 

But  when  Bob  Marcucci  discovered  him.  Bob  said,  "You  have 
an  unusual  name.  Odd  names  make  people  remember  you."  And 
he  proved  it  by  coming  around  to  Fabian's  house  a  second  time 
and  talking  of  making  him  a  singer. 

In  time,  they  tacked  'Fabulous'  on  to  'Fabian'  and  Fabe  began 
to  feel  that  all  the  punishment  he  had  taken  in  school  was  worth  it. 

"Don't  feel  sorry  for  yourself,  if  the  kids  make  you  a  target." 
he  summed  up.  "What  you  think  is  a  drawback  might  turn  into  an 
advantage  if  you  make  up  your  mind  to  make  the  most  of  it." 


shave,  lady?. . .  don't  do  it! 


Cream  hair  away  the  beautiful  way.  •  .with  new  baby-pink,  sweet-smelling 
NEET— you'll  never  again  be  embarrassed  with  unsightly  "razor  shadow"  (  that 
faint  stubble  of  hair  left  on  razor-shaved  legs  and  underarms).  Gentle,  wonderful 
NEET  goes  down  deep  where  no  razor  can  reach— actually  beauty-creams  the 
hair  away.  And  when  the  hair  finally  does  grow  in  again,  it  feels  softer,  silkier;  there's 
no  stubble  at  all !  So  next  time,  for  the  smoothest,  nicest  legs  in  town, 
why  not  try  NEET— you'll  never  want  to  shave  again' 


Charlton  Heston 


*  If  you  were  to  visit  Hollywood, 
one  of  the  first  things  you'd  want 
to  do,  perhaps,  would  be  to  take  a 
tour  of  a  movie  studio  and  have 
lunch  at  the  studio  commisary.  So 
did  I. 

So  when  I  called  Nick  Adams 
for  an  interview,  and  he  suggested, 
"Let's  have  lunch  at  the  Para- 
mount commissary  at  12:30,"  it 
took  less  than  three  seconds  of  deliberation  to  say 
"Fine" — and  somehow  I  got  there  by  12:12  (all 
the  better  to  get  an  advance  look  at  the  place). 

I  was  stopped  at  the  studio  gate  by  a  guard, 
but  after  he  found  my  name  on  the  appropriate 
list,  I  was  permitted  through  and  directed  to  a 
square,  flat  building  about  two  city  blocks  from 
the  entrance.  I  passed  buildings  which  housed 
a  barber  shop,  a  tailor  and  a  hairdresser,  and 
reflected  that  you  could  live  within  the 
studio  walls  for  a  week  quite  comfortably. 

The  commissary,  called  the  "Cafe  Con- 
tinental" at  Paramount,  is  a  square 
building  one  story  high,  with  a  small 
vestibule  at  the  entrance.  It  looks 
like  a  tearoom,  floored  in  shining 
linoleum,  with  square  tables  the  size 
of  bridge  tables  set  up  throughout 
the  room,  and  wide  aisles  in  between. 


DINING 
WITH  THE 
STARS 

by  Blanche  E.  Schiffman 


A  waitress  directed  me  to  a 
table,  and  handed  me  a  menu:  a 
large  square  of  cardboard  folded 
in  half,  printed  in  royal  blue  and 
bearing  a  Paramount  crest  across 
the  front. 

Nick  Adams  arrived  to  find  me 
chuckling  over  the  menu.  "I  think 
I'll  have  this,"  I  said,  pointing  to: 
Dean  Martin  Special,  Egg  Shells 
on  Toast  with  Cracked  Crab  a  la  5-Iron  ...  7  yen. 
"In  case  you're  running  short  of  yen,  you  might 
want  to  try  this,"  Nick  laughed,  pointing  to: 
Jerry  Lewis  Special,  Breaded  Tweed  Jacket  With 
Almond  Sauce  and  Roasted,  Lemon  Juice  with 
Peas  and  Canned  Pot  Roast . . .  $7.00.  "That's  just 
for  the  tourists.  Here's  the  entry  for  the  home 
folks,"  I  declared,  coming  across  another  nota- 
tion further  down  on  the  menu:  Jerry  Lewis 
Salad  (This  Is  For  Real),  Chopped  Cucumber, 
Lettuce,  Tomato,  Celery,  and  Green  Pepper 
with  Special  Dressing  .  .  .  $1.75. 
I  studied  the  menu  carefully,  trying  to 
make  up  my  mind  which  of  the  stars' 
-favorite  dishes  listed  on  the  menu  I 
would  choose:  deliberating  between 
the  relative  merits  of  Turkey  and 
Eggs  a  la  Crosby,  Spanish  Omelette 
a  la  Alan  {Continued  on  page  12) 


Jerry  Lewis 


NEW! 


Shampoofs 


.1 


Snampoo  plus  e 

in  the  handiest  packets  you  ever  poofed 

First  purse-size  shampoo  for  girls  who  go  places  .  .  .  Helene 
Curtis  Shampoo  Plus  Egg  in  spillproof,  leakproof  little  plastic 
packets !  Just  nip  off  the  tip  and  poof  a  Shampoof  .  .  .  two  heady 
headfuls  of  rich,  rich  lather.  See  the  Golden  Plus  of  egg,  nature's 
lusterizer,  relight  your  highlights,  whatever  your  hair  color.  Poof 
a  Shampoof  today  .  .  .  with  -tfiimQM  shampoo  plus  egg  2%  r.». 


1  complete  shampoo 
(2  luxury  lathers)  in  every  10c  -  <^,,: 
packet.  Card  of  6,  just  59c.  Also 
in  handy  beauty  bottle.  59c  and  $1. 


■  Twenty  four  hours  after  the  boy  had  gotten  up  his  nerve, 
and  she'd  smiled  shyly  and  said,  "Why  I'd  love  to  go  danc- 
ing with  you!",  they  were  at  the  Cocoanut  Grove,  at  a  candle- 
shaded  table.  To  a  kid  who,  until  very  recently,  had  been 
more  interested  in  athletics  than  girls,  this  was  the  life.  It 
was  also  his  very  first  date  .  .  .  alone  and  unchaperoned  with 
A  Girl! 

In  the  interim  he'd  asked  a  friend,  "How  do  you  take  a 
girl  dancing  for  the  first  time?"  Replied  the  friend,  "Give 
her  a  gardenia,  call  for  her  in  a  taxi,  dance  with  her,  pay 
the  bill,  take  her  home  in  a  taxi — and  kiss  her  goodnight. 
It's  that  simple." 

He'd  bought  the  gardenia  and  it  had  gone  over  well.  She 
was  wearing  it  now,  sitting  across  the  table  from  him,  but  he 
couldn't  see  it  any  longer.  Instead  he  was  looking  at  the 
small  silver  tray  with  a  discreetly  turned-down  white  slip: 
the  bill.  And  it  was  then  that  he  discovered  he  had  left  his 
wallet  at  home! 

For  a  breather,  he  asked  for  another  dance,  and  when  it 
was  over  he  excused  himself.  The  Maitre  d'Hotel  was  sympa- 
thetic. He  was  a  nice  clean-cut  youngster;  he  could  sign  the 
bill  with  his  name  and  address  and  leave  his  gold  wrist  watch 

ROBERT  STACK'S 
CHARGE  ACCOUNT 

for  collateral,  to  be  redeemed  next  day.  As  for  the  girl,  she 
was  none  the  wiser. 

But  the  worst  was  to  come — he  had  no  money  for  cab  fare. 
As  they  alighted  before  her  house,  he  muttered,  "Wait  for 
me,"  to  the  driver.  Following  them  to  the  door,  the  driver's 
eyes  bored  holes  in  his  back.  At  last  the  great  moment  for 
the  kiss  had  arrived  .  .  .  and,  of  all  moments,  this  was  the  one 
that  had  to  be  chaperoned!  Awkwardly  they  shook  hands, 
both  murmuring  thanks  for  a  lovely  evening,  and  he  scuttled 
ignominiously  back  to  the  cab. 

"Why  didncha  kiss  her?"  asked  the  cabbie  disgustedly. 

"Because,"  said  Robert  Stack,  with  sheer  frustration  in 
his  voice,  "you  were  watching,  you  kibitzer  .  .  .  and  I  couldn't 
pay  you  off  and  send  you  away,  because  I  haven't  any  money 
.  .  .  and  the  only  way  you're  going  to  get  your  fare  is  to  take 
me  home  and  wait  while  I  go  up  and  get  my  wallet  off  my 
bureau." 


(Continued  from  page  10) 
Ladd    (made   with   eggs   from  Alsulana 
Acres)  and  Strawberries  Heston.  Finally, 
in  deference  to  my  host,  I  decided  to  try 
"The  Rebel"  Special  a  la  Nick  Adams. 

When  we'd  finished,  I  asked  Nick  if  his 
wife  could  send  me  the  recipe.  She  could, 
and  she  did.  If  you'd  like  to  try  it,  serve 
it  with  toast  and  coffee,  and  charge  your- 
self $1.60— just  as  they  do  at  the  Para- 
mount commissary. 

"THE  REBEL"  SPECIAL 
A  LA  NICK  ADAMS 

4  links  small  country  sausage 
2  eggs 
dash  salt 
2  tablespoons  milk 

1  tablespoon  butter 

1  3-inch  square  slice  of  American 
or  cheddar  cheese 
In  a  small  skillet,  prepare  country  sau- 
sages according  to  package  directions.  Set 
under  a  tiny  flame  to  keep  hot.  Beat  eggs 
well,  add  milk,  salt,  and  beat  again.  In 
another  skillet,  melt  the  tablespoon  of 
butter  and  add  the  well-beaten  eggs.  Cook 
over  a  low  flame  until  eggs  are  set.  Then 
fold  each  side  one-third  toward  the  cen- 
ter, so  that  edges  overlap.  Top  with  the 
slice  of  American  cheese  and  place  under 
the  broiler  until  cheese  melts.  When  done, 
slip  the  omelet  on  to  a  hot  china  plate,  and 
place  the  sausages  vertically  across  it. 

And — in  case  you'd  like  to  try  some  of 
the  other  stars'  favorites  on  the  Para- 
mount menu — here's  the  way  to  do  it. 

STRAWBERRIES  HESTON 

1  container    frozen  strawberries 

(whole  or  sliced) 
1  half-pint  light  sour  cream 

2  teaspoons  honey 

cinnamon 

Defrost  strawberries  as  per  package  di- 
rections. Divide  into  two  portions.  Top 
each  portion  with  half  of  the  sour  cream. 
Add  one  teaspoon  of  honey  to  each  por- 
tion, then  dust  with  cinnamon.  Serves  2. 
(In  the  Paramount  commissary,  fresh 
strawberries  are  served,  but  frozen  straw- 
berries are  the  next  best  thing.) 

TURKEY  AND  EGGS  A  LA  CROSBY 

3  large  slices  leftover  turkey 
2  eggs 

2  teaspoons  milk  or  light  sweet 

cream 

salt 
pepper 

Butter  an  ovenproof  dish.  Place  turkey 
in  the  casserole.  Top  with  eggs  which 
have  been  broken  carefully  so  that  yokes 
remain  whole.  Add  salt  and  pepper, 
then  sprinkle  1  teaspoon  of  milk  or  cream 
over  each  egg.  Bake  on  the  lower  shelf 
of  a  moderate  oven  for  ten  minutes,  or 
until  eggs  are  set.  Makes  one  serving. 

SPANISH  OMELETTE 
A  LA  ALAN  LADD 

2  eggs 

2  tablespoons  milk  or  light  sweet 
cream 
salt 

1  tablespoon  butter 
Melt  butter  in  a  skillet.  Beat  eggs  well, 
add  milk  and  salt,  and  beat  again.  Cook 
over  low  heat  until  mixture  is  set.  When 
it  is  an  even  consistency,  fold  over  and 
top  with  Spanish  Sauce. 

SPANISH  SAUCE 

1  tablespoon  butter 
V\  chopped  onion 
V4  chopped  green  pepper 
Y2  cup  drained  canned  tomatoes 
Brown  onion  in  butter,  add  green  pepper; 
cover  and  cook  until  soft.  Add  tomatoes. 
Cook  till  thoroughly  heated.  One  serving. 


Look!  Real  cream  deodorant  your  fingers  need  never  toucli! 


New  glide-on  applicator! 
Just  twist  the  bottom  .  .  . 
cream  comes  out  the  top! 


3?o 


New  Desert  Di 


Now  you  can  have  the  all-day  protection  only 
a  real  cream  deodorant  can  give  plus  glide-on 
convenience— both  in  new  Desert  Dri.  It  glides  on  and 
rubs  in  right  from  its  own  exclusive  applicator.  Not 
just  a  rolled-on  surface  coating,  it  penetrates  for  positive 
all-day  protection.  Checks  perspiration,  stops  odor, 
won't  damage  clothes.  3  months''  supply — 1.00  plus  tax. 


ream  deodorant  — anti-perspirant  by  Shulton 


CREATED  BY 
THE  PERFECT  PAIR 
FOR  LOVELIER  HAIR 


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and 


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with 

REMOVABLE  BRUSH 


BRUSH  GOES  IN  for 


e°*y  rolling  and  setting. 


BRUSH  COMES  OUT  leaving 


flexible  roller 


7 


©I960  GAYIORD  PRODUCTS,  INCORPORATED 
Chicago  16,  III. 

COMFORT  DAY  AND  NIGHT 


QQiEWfllDi 

■^MOVIES 


THE    FUGITIVE    KIND    ,    Marlon  Brando 
Joanne  Woodward 
Anna  Magnani 
Maureen  Stapleton 
Victor  Jory 


the  despair  of 
Tennessee  Williams 


■  No  vague,  symbolic  metaphor  obscures  Ten- 
nessee Williams'  philosophy  in  this  film.  With 
agonized  (and  sometimes  boring)  clarity  he 
says:  brutality  and  evil  will  sure  enough  con- 
quer the  world,  there's  no  use  fighting  it.  All 
we  can  do— in  helplessness  and  nostalgia — is 
to  value  the  few  rare  wild  birds  who  fly  into 
our  world  now  and  then,  flutter  their  wings 
courageously  against  the  downdraughts  of  evil 
and  then  die — violently,  and  in  vain.  The  bird 
in  The  Fugitive  Kind  is  Marlon  Brando.  He 
wears  a  snakeskin  jacket,  carries  a  guitar 
(his  life's  companion)  and  drifts,  at  thirty, 
into  the  life  of  storekeeper  Anna  Magnani. 
Anna  is  a  bitter  woman  who  never  recovered 
from  the  fact  that  her  father's  house  and 
grounds  were  burned  out  by  unknown  hood- 
lums of  this  very  town.  She's  married  to  cruel 
Victor  Jory  who's  just  come  home  from  the 
hospital  to  die.  AU  of  Williams'  characters 
(except  Brando  and  the  ineffectual  Maureen 
Stapleton)  feel  like  victims  and  make  no  ef- 
fort to  get  out  of  the  muck  they're  in.  Joanne 
Woodward  can  react  to  her  life  only  by  be- 
coming a  defiant  tramp;  she  is  always  around 
(looking  like  an  unkempt  ghost)  to  lure  Mar- 
lon back  to  his  old  ways.  Resisting  her  (it 
isn't  hard),  he  gives  in  to  Anna's  great  need 
for  warmth.  Anna  plans  to  open  her  "confec- 
tionery"— an  outdoor  cafe — on  the  very  night 
that  Jory  is  dying.  By  this  time  Brando  is 


by  Florence  Epstein 


caught.  Like  a  bird  he  flutters  to  fly  away,  but 
the  forces  of  evil  embodied  by  the  town  sher- 
iff, the  dying  husband,  the  pervasive  smell  of 
rot,  the  strangling  grip  of  town  history,  all 
serve  to  destroy  him. — United  Artists. 


FIVE  BRANDED  WOMEN      van  Hetim 

Sylvana  Mangano 
love  and  war  Harry  Guardino 


■  The  very  confused  thinking  in  this  movie  is 
swept  away,  in  the  end,  by  such  a  stand  for 
the  dignity  of  man  that  you  find  yourself 
accepting  unbelievable  people  in  a  story  that 
seems  to  have  been  filmed  for  its  sensational 
appeal.  The  story  opens  in  occupied  Yugo- 
slavia where  a  Nazi  officer  (Steve  Forrest)  se- 
duces one  girl  after  another.  The  girls  give  in 
for  various  reasons — one  wanted  coal  for  the 
stove;  another  wanted  to  save  her  brother; 
another  (Barbara  Bel  Geddes),  come  hell  or 
high  water,  is  determined  to  become  a  mother; 
still  another  (Sylvana  Mangano)  hates  war 
and  wants  love.  The  five  girls  have  their 
heads  shaved  (as  punishment  for  making 
love  to  the  Nazi  soldier)  and  are  expelled 
from  the  village.  Hunger  makes  them  tough 
(they  steal)  ;  necessity  (to  protect  herself 
from  the  unwanted  advances  of  a  soldier) 
makes  Sylvana  kill,  and  the  next  thing  you 
know  the  girls  have  joined  up  with  the  guer- 
rillas— after  first  being  warned  not  to  be- 
come involved  with  them  in  love  affairs.  Too 
bad  Vera  Miles  (one  of  the  branded  girls) 
succumbs  to   Harry   Guardino    (one  of  the 


In  Tennessee  Williams'  The  Fugitive  Kind,  Anna  Magnani  and  Mar- 
lon Brando  are  two  tortured  characters  who  try  to  find  happiness. 


lusty  guerrillas).  They're  both  shot  at  dawn. 
One  of  the  girls  (not  B.  Bel  Geddes)  waits 
out  her  pregnancy  in  camp,  while  another 
( Jeanne  Moreau)  finds  it  very  hard  not  to 
fall  in  love  with  a  Xazi  prisoner  (Richard 
Basehart).  Sylvana.  fighting  like  a  lion,  takes 
part  in  a  daring  raid  on  her  home  town 
during  a  Xazi  celebration.  Heflin  (and  life) 
are  beginning  to  teach  her  that  violence, 
is  sometimes  necessary. — Paramount. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF    Eddie  Hodges 

HUCKLEBERRY    FINN  Tony  Randall 


■  Huckleberry  Finn  is  admittedly  a  classic, 
but  why  people  think  it's  for  children  remains 
a  mystery.  Huck  is  a  child  (Eddie  Hodges), 
but  they  don't  make  them  like  that  any  more 
— thank  goodness.  He  has  more  'personality' 
almost  than  you  can  take — and  crafty?  Such 
a  little  liar  has  rarely  been  found  the  whole 
length  of  the  Mississippi.  His  saving  grace  is 
that  he  lies  for  the  sake  of  a  greater  truth 
and.  also,  to  stay  alive.  His  father  (Xeville 
Brand),  a  mean,  miserable  alcoholic  who  lives 
in  a  filthy  shack,  orders  the  two  gentle  ladies 
who've  been  harboring  Huck  to  sell  their  slave. 
Jim  (Archie  Moore),  for  $500  and  give  him 
the  money — or  else  give  him  Huck.  Huck  and 
Jim  escape  on  a  raft.  Together  they  run  into 
'slicker'  Tony  Randall  and  his  companion. 
Mickey  O'Shaughnessey,  who  overpower  the 
pair  and  use  them  to  swindle  a  couple  of 
young  girls  out  of  their  inheritance.  When, 
through  Huck's  efforts.  Randall  is  exposed  he 
promises  to  get  even.  Huck  becomes  a  cabin 
bov  on  a  riverboat  and  runs  into  Randall 


again.  Learning  that  Randall  plans  to  have 
Jim  captured  as  a  runaway.  Huck  and  Jim 
swim  to  shore,  where  Huck  talks  their  way 
into  Andy  Devine's  circus  (offering  Jim  as 
an  exotic  King  of  the  Patagonians) .  Randall 
catches  up  again  and  this  time  bloodhounds 
are  set  after  Jim.  This  is  a  lively  picture  of  the 
Old  South  from  the  pen  (although  several 
times  removed)  of  Mark  Twain. — Cinema- 
scope. MGM. 


HERCULES    UNCHAINED    Steve  Reeves 
Sylva  Koscina 
Primo  Camera 
Sylvia  Lopez 
Gabriele  Antonini 


cr-.ciem  ■resiem 


■  Rest  assured  you  can  bend  Hercules  (Steve 
Reeves)  but  you  can't  break  him.  He  is  a 
walking  gymnasium,  completely  equipped. 
That  may  be  why  Queen  Omphale  (Sylvia 
Lopez)  wants  him  for  her  king.  This  queen 
has  one  king  after  another.  The  reason  Syl- 
via has  access  to  so  many  kings  is  because 
there's  a  spring  in  the  bottom  of  her  gar- 
den which,  if  you  drink  of  it,  makes  you 
forget  everything.  By  the  time  Hercules  has 
quenched  his  thirst  he's  surrounded  by  a  bevy 
of  beautiful  handmaidens.  This  is  dangerous 
because  Hercules  has  just  left  a  beautiful 
bride  (Sylva  Koscina)  at  Thebes  and  has  a 
message  he  must  deliver  within  three  days 
to  Mimmo  Palmara.  If  Hercules  doesn't  get 
through.  Mimmo  and  his  horde  of  Argives 
will  swoop  down  on  Thebes  and  massacre  its 
inhabitants.  All  because  Mimmo's  brother, 
who's  been  ruling  Thebes  for  one  year,  has 
gone  back  on  his  word  to  let  Mimmo  rule  the 
second  vear.  Mimmo's  brother,  aside  from 


being  stubborn,  is  insane.  He's  been  amusing 
himself  by  throwing  tiger  trainers  into  a  pit 
with  tigers.  Well,  now  that  the  last  trainer  in 
Thebes  has  been  slaughtered,  he's  willing  to 
give  up  the  throne  to  Mimmo — and  that's 
the  message  of  peace  and  goodwill  that  Her- 
cules must  deliver.  But  Hercules  and  his 
young  companion  Ulysses  (Gabriele  Antonini) 
weren't  counting  on  magic  spells  to  delay 
them.  Wherever  this  picture  was  made  it's 
certainly  out  of  this  world,  which,  I  suppose, 
is  its  major  charm. — Eastman  Color,  War- 
ner Bros. 


RECOMMENDED  MOVIES: 

PLEASE  DON'T  EAT  THE  DAISIES  (MGM): 
Doris  Day  and  David  Niven  have  a  healthy  family  of 
four  boys,  and  a  happy  marriage.  They  do,  that  is, 
until  David  leaves  his  teaching  job  to  become  a  drama 
critic.  It  seems  a  critic  worries  over  whether  he's  got 
any  real  friends,  and  his  wife  worries  about  all  those 
actresses.  But,  the  problems  here  are  small  enough  so 
everybody  has  a  good  time. 

TALL  STORY  Warners):  On  this  college  campus 
is  co-ed  Jane  Fonda  who  doesn't  know  anything  about 
basketball  except  that  she  wants  to  marry  the  team 
star,  Tony  Perkins.  The  money  they  need  to  get  mar- 
ried is  offered  Tony  if  he'll  throw  a  game  against 
a  visiting  Russian  team.  Tony's  conscience  and  his 
professor  (Ray  Walston)  are  active  participants  in 
the  teamwork. 

CAN-CAN  (Todd  A-O,  20th-Fox) :  In  the  Paris  of 
the  mid-nineties,  the  illegal  can-can  dance  might  be 
seen  in  Shirley  MacLaine's  cabaret  (if  the  gendarmes 
had  been  bribed).  If  they  hadn't,  Shirley  might  be 
seen  before  Judge  Maurice  Chevalier.  Frank  Sinatra 
and  Louis  Jourdan,  both  lawyers,  get  involved  legally 
and  romantically.  Cole  Porter's  music  and  the  dancing 
of  Juliet  Prowse  and  Shirley  are  a  few  delightful  in- 
gredients in  this  Parisian  cake. 


Married  women 
are  sharing  this  secret 

.  .  .  the  new,  easier,  surer  protection 
for  those  most  intimate  marriage  problems 


What  a  blessing  to  be  able  to  trust 
in  the  wonderful  germicidal  protec- 
tion Xorforms  can  give  you.  Xor- 
forms  have  a  highly  perfected  new 
formula  that  releases  antiseptic 
and  germicidal  ingredients  with 
long-lasting  action.  The  exclusive 
new  base  melts  at  body  tempera- 
ture, forming  a  powerful  protec- 
tive film  that  guards  (but  will  not 
harm)  the  delicate  tissues. 

And  Xorforms'  deodorant  protec- 
tion has  been  tested  in  a  hospital 
clinic  and  found  to  be  more  effec- 


tive than  anything  it  had  ever 
used.  Xorforms  eliminate  (rather 
than  cover  up)  embarrassing 
odors,  yet  have  no  "medicine"  or 
"disinfectant"  odor  themselves. 

And  what  convenience!  These 
small  feminine  suppositories  are 
so  easy  and  convenient  to  use. 
Just  insert — no  apparatus,  mixing 
or  measuring.  They're  greaseless 
and  they  keep  in  any  climate. 

Xow  available  in  new  packages 
of  6,  as  well  as  12  and  24.  Also 
available  in  Canada. 


Tested  by  doctors  .  .  . 
trusted  by  women  .  .  . 
proved  in  hospital  clinics 


FREE  informative  Norforms  booklet 

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Out  of  the  shocking  conflict  that  twisted 
their  lives . . .  that  drove  them  to  the  very 
brink  of  terror. . .  comes  a  story  that  is 
unsurpassed  for  sheer  dramatic  suspense! 

LANA  TURNER 
ANTHONY  dUINN 
SANDRA  DEE 
JOHN  SAXONji 

LLOYD  NOLAN  * 

as  "MATTHEW  CABOT" 

CO-STARRING 

RAY  WALSTON 
VIRGINIA  GREY  •  ANNA  MAY  WONG 

AND  ALSO  CO-STARRING 

RICHARD  BASEHART 

Directed  by  MICHAEL  GORDON  •  Screenplay  by  IVAN  GOFF  and  BEN  ROBERTS 
Produced  by  ROSS  HUNTER  ■  A  UNIVERSAL- INTERNATIONAL  PICTURE 


JULY 
BIRTHDAYS 

If  your  birthday  falls  in  July,  your 
birthstone  is  the  ruby  and  your  flower 
is  the  larkspur.  And  here  are  some  of  the 
stars  who  share  it  with  vou: 


July   l — Leslie  Caron 

Olivia  DeHavilland 
Charles  Laughton 


July  3- 
July  4- 


July  9- 
July  10- 


July  13- 
July  14- 

July  15- 

July  16- 

July  18- 

July  19- 

July  20- 

July  22- 

July  23- 

July  25- 
July  27- 
Julv  29- 


George  Sanders 

Gina  Lollobrigida 
Eva  Marie  Saint 
Stephen  Boyd 
George  Murphy 

-Janet  Leigh 
Luana  Patten 

Bob  Hope 

Jeff  Donnell 
Nick  Adams 
Edd  Byrnes 
William  Smithers 

-Yul  Brynner 
Tab  Hunter 

Sidney  Blackmer 

Nancy  Olson 
Dale  Robertson 

-Phil  Carey 
Murvyn  Vye 

Barbara  Stanwyck 
Milly  Vitale 

Red  Skelton 
Chill  Wills 

Patricia  Medina 

Natalie  Wood 

Perry  Lopez 

Gloria  DeHaven 
Michael  Wilding 

Walter  Brennan 

Keenan  Wynn 

Richard  Egan 
Robert  Fuller 
Stephen  McNally 


July  30—  Jacques  Sernas 


Farley  Granger 


Polly  Bergen 

July  14 


Ginger  Rogers 

July  16 


William  Powell 

July  29 


MODERN  SCREEN'S 
8  PAGE  GOSSIP  EXTRA 
by 

HOLLYWOOD'S 
GREATEST  COLUMNIST 


gown  iveighed  21  pounds. 
Natalie  Wood  graced  Oscar  Night  Anna  Maria  Alberghet- 

with  anew  hair-do  and  a  $650  gown.  ti's  gown  cost  $1,000! 


Highlights  of  the 
Academy  Awards 

Simone  Signoret  was  almost  ill  from 
nerves — she  was  shaking  all  over  and  her 
hair  was  sticking  to  her  forehead — an  hour 
after  she  received  her  Oscar.  When  I  con- 
gratulated her  at  the  Ball  at  the  Beverly  Hil- 
ton, she  looked  like  she'd  been  under  a 
sprinkler  and  kept  saying,  "Thank  you,  Ma- 
dame— I  am  so  excited  now  I  have  forgotten 
all  my  English — and  I  practice  so  hard." 

Every  time  Charlton  Heston  (who  had 
nof  expected  to  win  )  stood  up  at  his  table  to 
receive  congratulations,  he'd  grab  his  Oscar 
in  one  hand,  then  lean  down  and  give  Lydia 
(Mrs.  H.)  another  kiss.  No  wife  was  ever  so 
thoroughly  bussed  in  public  by  an  Oscar 
winner!  .  .  . 

The  gowns  were  the  most  costly  ever  worn 
to  an  Oscar  night:  Natalie  Wood's  short 
and  stunning  chalk-white  jewel-embroidered 
creation  cost  $650,  with  an  added  $75  for  her 
shoes  made  of  the  same  material  .  .  .  Doris 


Day's  floor-length  sheath,  solidly  encrusted 
with  silver-white  bugle  beads,  cost  $1,000; 
Janet  Leigh's  nude  chiffon  on  which  were 
crocheted  186,000  gold  bugle  beads,  weighed 
twenty-one  pounds  and  was  so  expensive 
she  won't  tell  how  much — but  it  was  plenty. 

Another  magnificent  gown  in  the  $1,000 
bracket  was  Anna  Maria  Alberghetti's 
all-over  jewelled  white  Italian  brocade  with 
sheath  front  and  great  overskirt. 

And,  three-time  loser  Liz  Taylor  (I  must 
say  she  was  a  gracious  loser  and  most  com- 
plimentary about  the  winners)  didn't  pick  up 
that  Grecian  styled  white  French  jersey  with 
its  white  mink-lined  jacket  for  peanuts.  When 
I  stopped  by  Elizabeth's  table,  she  was  smiling 
—but  Eddie  Fisher  wasn't. 

Speaking  of  clothes,  the  ecstatically  happy 
Shelley  Winters  ("I  waited  fifteen  years 
for  this  Oscar")  said  she  didn't  know  how  to 
dress.  "I  didn't  know  whether  to  go  'low  and 
sexy'  or  covered-up  and  dignified,"  said 
Shelley,  so  she  settled  for  a  conservative 
black  lace  and  jersey.  She  told  me  that  her 
husband  Tony  Franciosa,  her  mother, 
daughter  and  thirty  friends  yelled  and 
screamed  so  much  watching  the  show  from 


New  York  that  a  neighbor  called  the  police! 

The  biggest  and  most  spontaneous  hand 
from  the  audience  inside  the  Pcmtages  Theater 
went  to  Olivia  De  Havilland  the  lovely 
young  Hollywood  'veteran'  returning  from 
France  to  make  one  of  the  presentations.  Many 
onlookers  felt  it  was  a  bigger  hand  than  went 
to  Ingrid  Bergman  when  she  was  a  top 
returnee. 

Stephen  Boyd  (who  should  have  had 
a  nomination  for  Ben-Hur  and  didn't)  almost 
vaulted  over  the  railing  when  Charlton  Hes- 
ton arrived  at  the  banquet  and  was  one  of  the 
first  to  congratulate  the  winner. 

Although  Steve's  date  at  the  Ball  was  lovely 
Romney  Tree  (from  his  native  Belfast)  he  was 
overheard  whispering  to  someone  at  his  table, 
"Have  you  seen  Hope  Lange  here?"  She 
had  been  at  the  theater — but  I  don't  believe 
she  came  to  the  Ball. 

Beaming  Ben-Hur  director  William  Wyler 
had  lipstick  all  over  his  face  and  after  I 
added  some  of  my  own  I  asked  if  he  would 
like  it  wiped  off,  "Oh,  no!"  he  protested.  "It's 
been  too  much  fun  getting  it  there." 

And  so,  another  of  Hollywood's  biggest 
nights  goes  into  the  history  books. 


18 


continued 


Rock's  Off  Again 

We  won't  be  seeing  Rock  Hudson  around 
these  parts  for  about  a  year — (not  that  we 
see  him  too  often  when  he's  here).  If  there 
ever  was  a  social  recluse  it's  Rock  who  pre- 
fers to  spend  his  time  on  his  boat  to  any  gala 
event  Hollywood  has  to  offer. 

When  you  read  this  he  will  be  in  Mexico 
making  Day  of  fhe  Gun  with  Kirk  Douglas 
although  for  a  minute  or  two  it  looked  as  if 
Rock  might  balk  at  this.  Didn't  think  his  role 
was  big  enough  and  wasn't  too  keen  about  a 
Western. 

But  whatever  troubles  there  were  were 
smoothed  out  to  Rock's  satisfaction  and  off  he 
went  for  the  long  and  arduous  location  jaunt. 
After  this,  Italy  to  do  Come  September  with 
Gina  Lollobi  igida  and  then  Java  for  U-I's 
Spiral  Rock. 

So  long.  Rock.  Drop  us  a  card  now  and  then 
— particularly  if  you  meet  any  pretty  girls 
who  interest  you. 


Rock's  so  busy  he  won't  be  around 
for  a  while  .  .  .  first  stop:  Mexico. 


Kim  says  her  own  true  'heart'  is  Director  Dick  Quine.  She's  doubly  excited  at 
prospects  of  appearing  at  a  Command  Performance  and  seeing  Dick  again. 


This  Is  My 
Only  Love 


Kim  Novak  never  spoke  as  frankly  to  me 
about  her  real  feelings  as  she  did  before  leav- 
ing for  London  to  meet  Richard  Quine  and  to 
attend  the  Command  Performance  of  Once 
More  Wifh  Feeling. 

"Dick  (Quine)  is  the  only  man  I  love,"  said 
Kim — the  first  time  she  has  ever  made  such  a 
statement  about  any  of  the  many  beaux  who 
have  pursued  her. 

"So  you  may  be  married  in  London?"  I  put 
in  quickly  while  she  seemed  to  be  in  this  mood 
of  letting  her  hair  down. 

"I  don't  know,  honestly,"  she  replied.  "There 
are  so  many  things  to  think  about.  Marriage, 
to  me,  is  such  an  irrevocable  step.  I  have 
never  been  married  before — and  it  keeps  turn- 
ing over  in  my  mind  'Is  this  the  right  thing — 
is  this  the  right  thing?'  " 


Dorothy  and  Jacques  are  just  de- 
lighted over  new  daughter  Mimi. 


"But  if  you  love  Dick  so  much  and  I  know 
he  loves  you — what  is  the  chief  stumbling 
block?"  I  knew  one  of  the  answers  to  that 
question  myself  although  I  did  not  bring  it 
up  to  Kim.  In  her  quiet  way,  she  holds  her 
religion  dear  and  Dick  is  a  divorced  man. 

But  her  answer  was,  "Dick  and  I  are  both 
career  people.  He  is  just  as  wrapped  up  in 
his  directing  as  I  am  in  acting.  And  I'm  not 
sure  two  careers  under  one  roof  really  mix." 

"They  sometimes  do,  and  very  success 
fully."  I  said. 

Kim  laughed,  "And  sometimes  they  don'f!" 
But  believe  me,  she  made  no  bones  about 
being  a  happy  girl  that  she  was  again  seeing 
the  good-looking  Dick  who  is  in  England 
completing  The  World  ol  Suzie  Wong. 

She  was  also  excited  about  the  beautiful 
gown  Edith  Head  had  created  for  her  to  wear 
to  the  Command  Performance.  It's  white  lace, 
over  Kim's  favorite  color  of  lavendar,  em- 
broidered in  tiny  violets. 


A  Girl  for 

Dorothy  and  Jacques 

Just  let  me  congratulate  myself  that  I  have  I 
a  Saturday  or  Sunday  morning  to  sleep  late 
and  sure  enough  a  baby  gets  born,  somebody 
else  gets  a  divorce,  or  a  couple  that  jolly  well 
might  have  done  it  a  week-day — elopes! 

But  Dorothy  Malone  was  so  overjoyed 
when  she  called  me  from  St.  John's  Hospital 
that  she  and  Jacques  Bergerac  were  the 
parents  of  a  brand  new  baby  girl — "A  real 
beauty,"  the  proud  mother  enthused,  "and  I 
her  name  is  Mimi" — I  didn't  care  about  being 
roused  from  my  sound  sleep. 

Mimi  was  due  as  an  Easter  present — but  ar- 
rived three  weeks  early  much  to  the  delight 
of  Dorothy  and  Jacques. 


20 


June's  neiv  hair-do  got  many 
reactions  but  Fred  likes  it! 


George  Hamilton  tvas  with  Susan 
Kohner,     icho     looked  exotic. 


A  very  handsome  Rossano  Brazzi  gallantly  raises  his  glass 
to  toast  his  wife,  at  an  'Oscar'  party  they  attended. 


Olivia  DeHaviUand  looked  like  a  vision  in  white 
lace.  She  is  a  very,  very  happy  girl  these  days. 


Parties . . . 
Parties  every  night 


The  Academy  Awards  always  inspire  a  lot 
of  social  activity  and  the  week  before  Oscar- 
night  was  a  big  one  for  lovely  affairs. 

Olivia  De  Havillands  old  friends  vied 
with  each  other  to  welcome  her — and  her 
handsome  journalist  husband  Pierre  Galante 
back  to  her  old  home  town  after  so  many 
years  of  living  in  France. 

At  the  dinner  given  by  the  Lew  Schreibers, 
Livvy  looked  like  a  vision  in  white  lace  with 
that  authentic  Paris  look.  But  it  takes  real 
inner  happiness  to  give  a  gal  that  glow 
Olivia  wears  these  days — and  she  is  very 
happy  with  Pierre. 

Natalie  Wood  and  Bob  Wagner  were 
there — excited  about  their  coming-up  trip  to 
New  York  with  Liz  and  Eddie  Fisher. 
Natalie  was  'previewing'  the  new  hairdo 
she  later  wore  to  the  Academy  Awards,  short 
and  straight  with  a  sweep  of  bangs  across 
her  forehead. 

This  same  night  MGM  production  head  Sol 
Siegel  and  his  wiie  hosted  a  joint  birthday 
party  honoring  Sol  and  Mrs.  Walter  Lang.  It 


was  so  amusing  to  note  that  William  Wyler 
(everyone  was  sure  he  was  a  cinch  for  best- 
director  Oscar  for  Ben-Hur  which,  of  course, 
he  won)  kept  reminding  people  "there's  many 
a  slip,  etc.  .  .  ."  whenever  he  was  con- 
gratulated in  'advance.' 

Rossano  Brazzi  and  his  Lidia  were 
there  and  if  there's  a  more  handsome  man 
than  Rossano  I  don't  know  who  he  is — much 
more  handsome  than  he  photographs,  I  think. 

Several  people  kept  telling  June  Haver 
MacMurray  that  they  liked  her  better  as 
a  blonde  than  with  her  new  black  hair  but 
the  man  who  matters,  Fred  MacMurray, 
voted  for  the  brunette  June — and  with  her, 
that's  all  that  counts. 

Groucho  Marx,  with  cigar  of  course, 
was  in  a  serious  frame  of  mind  about  affairs 
in  and  out  of  Hollywood  and  cracked  no  jokes. 

The  Sunday  night  before  the  Oscars,  an- 
other party  was  given  for  Olivia  and  Pierre 
by  Frank  McCarthy  and  Rupert  Allen  at  the 
Beverly  Hills  Hotel.  Saw  many  of  the  same 
guests  we  had  seen  at  previous  affairs — but 
a  standout  was  Hope  Lange  who  is  really 
a  beauty.  She  hasn't  been  dating  much  since 
her  separation  from  Don  Murray — but  if  the 
smitten  bachelors  in  this  town  have  their  way 
she  soon  will  be. 


Following  this  cocktail  party,  Jimmy  McHugh 
and  I  went  on  to  the  home  of  Joan  (Mrs. 
Harry)  Cohn  who  was  entertaining  at  a  din- 
ner honoring  Laurence  Harvey,  and  later 
giving  her  guests  a  look  at  his  British-made 
comedy  Expresso  Bongo. 

This  really  looked  like  a  preview  of  the 
Oscar  contestants — so  many  were  present  and 
wishing  each  other  well  (with  their  fingers 
crossed,  I  suppose). 

Elizabeth  Taylor  and  Eddie  Fisher 
had  just  flown  in  that  morning  from  New  York 
and  I  saw  them  chatting  with  Simone  Sig- 
noret — both  ladies  in  the  running  for  best- 
actress  prize. 

Pretty,  fresh-looking  Susan  Kohner  (her- 
self contending  in  best  supporting-actress) 
was  there  with  George  Hamilton — who 
else? 

Susan  was  done  up  in  a  most  exotic 
style — a  truly  beautiful  oriental  costume. 

Laurence  Harvey  and  Liz  and  Eddie  had 
much  to  talk  about  as  all  three  are  stars  of 
the  (strike)  interrupted  Butteitield  8  and  at 
that  time  they  were  wondering  when  they 
would  be  back  at  work  again.  (Come  ten  days 
later.) 

Yes,  Oscar  time  is  a  big  season  in  Holly- 
wood. 


21 


continued 


Neivlyweds  Doris,  and  Yul  *  Brynner. 

Love  TnT  Marriages 

Love  'n'  marriages  sprung  up  with  Spring — 
some  of  them  really  surprising. 

Debra  Paget,  a  belle  who  I  is  usually 
pretty  cool-headed,  married  director  Budd 
Boetticher  after  knowing  him  just  two  weeks 
(and  separated  after  three  weeks  of  mar 
riage).  Everyone  had  thought  thatfBudd  migh 
reconcile  with  his  former  girl,  Karen  Steele 
for  the  'umpteenth  time.  He  and  Karen  had 
a  stormy  and  consistent  romance  ' for  several 
years — even  if  he  did  toss  her  in  the  swim 
ming  pool  with  her  clothes  on,  .  on  several 
occasions. 

Egually  surprising — redheaded'  Rhonda 
Fleming  knew  good-looking  TV 'actor  Lang 
Jeffries  just  three  months  when  she  lived 
up  to  her  Leap  Year  threat  and  took  herself 
a  husband.  "I've  been  searching  lor  love  and 


companionship  and  I  found  it  in  Lang,"  ex- 
plained Rhonda  after  her  elopement  to  Las 
Vegas  to  tie  the  knot. 

But  no  one  lifted  an  eyebrow  when  the 
flash  came  out  of  Mexico  that  bald-headed 
lover  Yul  Brynner  had  interrupted  work  on 
The  Magnificent  Seven  to  marry  Doris  Kleiner, 
the  young  and  beautiful  non-professional  who 
has  been  his  constant  companion  ever  since 
Yul's  marriage  to  Virginia  Gil  more  went 
on  the  rocks. 

You  might  say  ditto  for  director  Otto  Prem- 
inger  who  took  time  off  shooting  Exodus  in 
Haifa,  Israel,  to  marry  the  stunning  looking 
brunette  (  also  young)  Hope  Bryce.  Preminger, 
too,  had  to  sit  out  a  divorce  from  wife  Mary 
which  threatened  at  one  time  to  furnish  ex- 
plosive charges.  Luckily,  they  didn't  come  off. 

Young  and  popular  Michael  Callan  the 
boy  who  scored  in  They  Came  to  Coidura, 


Also  Hope  Bryce  and  Otto  Preminger. 


his  first  film  after  registering  a  hit  on  Broad- 
way in  Wesf  Side  Story,  kept  the  secret  for 
five  weeks  that  he  had  taken  Corlyn  Chap- 
man as  his  bride  in  Las  Vegas  on  March  5th. 
At  one  time  Corlyn  was  thought  to  be  in  love 
with  and  about  to  marry  Vic  Damone. 

Why  did  she  and  Mike  keep  their  marriage 
a  secret?  Who  knows?  Maybe  for  the  old- 
fashioned  reason  that  he  thought  the  movie 
fans  might  like  him  better  as  a  bachelor. 

But  he  didn't  keep  up  the  pretense  for  very 
long.  When  his  contract  studio,  Columbia, 
asked  him  to  fly  up  to  Phoenix  for  the  pre- 
miere of  Because  They're  Young,  a  press  agent 
said  he  would  reserve  an  extra  room  for 
Mike's  girl,  Corlyn. 

Whereon  young  Mr.  Callan  knocked  the 
p.a.  cold  by  replying,  "Oh,  we'll  only  need 
one  room.  Corlyn  has  been  my  wife  for  over 
a  month!" 


Third  marriage  for  Rhonda  Fleming. 


Mickey  CaU'an's  secret's  out:  Corlyn. 


Debra's  second  marriage  lasted  3  weeks. 


I  nominate  for 
STARDOM 


Nancy  Kwan 


The  twenty-year-old  porcelain-china  doll 
who  not  only  replaced  unhappy  and  tempera- 
mental France  Nuyen  in  The  World  of 
Suzie  Wong  but  is  Suzie — according  to  movie 
producer  Ray  Stark. 

So  enchanting  is  this  Hong-Kong-born  charm- 
er in  her  very  first  picture  that  William 
Holden,  no  softie  about  star  billing,  has 
cheerfully  consented  to  the  co-star  tag  going 
to  Nancy. 

What  isn't  too  generally  known  is  that  Ray 
Stark  had  considered  Nancy  for  the  role  of 
the  'yum-yum'  girl  in  his  film  before  anyone 
else.  Then  he  decided  he  needed  a  'name;' 
also  France  Nuyen  had  played  it  on  Broad- 
way. But  when  France  blew  a  fuse — it  didn't 
take  him  long  to  remember  Nancy  and  sum- 
mon her  to  London. 


"No,  I  was  not  surprised,"  Nancy  said, 
over  the  trans-Atlantic  phone,  in  excellent 
English.  "A  seer  had  told  me  the  role  would 
be  mine — and  we  Orientals  believe  in  the 
words  of  seers.  All  the  time  Miss  Nuyen  was 
working  in  Suzie  I  was  preparing  myself, 
studying,  making  ready  for  the  call!"  (How 
do  you  like  fhaf?) 

Although  she  was  born  in  Hong  Kong  of 
an  English  mother  and  Chinese  architect 
father  (since  divorced),  Nancy  was  educated 
in  England  and  studied  with  the  Royal  Ballet 
for  two  years.  Later,  she  studied  drama  under 
Salka  Viertel  in  Hollywood  and  after  France 
Nuyen  left  the  stage  cast  of  The  World  of 
Suzie  Wong,  Nancy  stepped  in  as  an  under- 
study of  the  star  who  replaced  Miss  Nuyen. 

When  the  show  took  to  the  road,  Nancy 
was  scheduled  to  step  into  the  star  spot  in 
Toronto — but  before  she  could  don  her  cos- 
tume for  the  opening  night,  the  magic  call 
came  from  London — the  role  of  the  movie 
Suzie  was  hers! 

By  the  way — that  same  fortune  teller  said 
she  would  be  married  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
two.  "I  don't  know  who,"  she  said,  "but  I 
guess  I  will!" 


Shirley's  Big  Plans 

Talked  with  Shirley  MacLaine  the  day 

she  returned  from  Japan  where  she  had  been 
with  Steve  Parker  and  where  she  entered 
little  Sachie  in  a  Japanese  school  for  six 
months. 

"I  just  don't  know  how  I'll  get  along  with- 
out her,"  wailed  Shirley  about  her  little  red- 
headed carbon  copy  of  a  daughter.  "I  miss 
her  so  much  already  I  could  break  out  crying. 
But  it's  only  fair  to  Steve  that  Sachie  should 
be  with  him  some  of  the  time,  particularly 
when  he's  been  so  ill." 

Shirley  said  she  had  gone  to  Japan  for  a 
second  honeymoon  with  Steve  whose  movie 
production  work  keeps  him  in  the  Orient.  "In- 


stead he  was  in  the  hospital  so  very  ill  with 
hepatitis,"  she  said.  "He  was  there  all  the 
time  I  was  in  Tokyo.  The  only  good  thing 
about  it  is  that  I  could  be  with  Steve  when 
he  needed  me  most." 

It  tickles  Shirley  that  Sachie  is  learning  to 
speak  Japanese  in  the  school  she  is  attending 
"and  the  way  she's  going — she'll  be  talking 
like  a  native  by  the  time  I  return." 

Missy  MacLaine  would  not  have  returned  to 
Hollywood  except  that  she  was  due  to  start 
her  new  Hal  Wallis  picture  with  Dean  Mar- 
tin, All  in  a  Night's  Work. 

When  this  is  completed,  she  planes  back 
to  Tokyo  immediately  to  stay  for  a  long  time 
while  she  stars  in  an  independent  picture 
her  husband  will  produce. 


Shirley  MacLaine  is  tich 
Japanese.  Sachie  will  soot 


d  at  the  way  her  little  mimic  Sachie  is  learning 
be  talking  like  a  native— and  have  to  teach  mama. 


It's  sad  that  the  promise  Audie  Mur- 
phy made  his  wife  didn't  hold  true. 

A  Surprising 
Separation 

While  we  are  in  the  Vital  Statistics  Depart- 
ment— the  only  surprising  parting  was  that  of 
Audie  Murphy,  America's  most-decorated 
World  War  II  hero  and  well-known  star,  and 
his  wife  of  nine  years  Pamela  Archer.  Audie 
married  the  former  airline  hostess  soon  after 
his  divorce  from  Wanda  Hendrix  and 
Audie  and  Pam  have  two  children. 

This  was  the  second  time  the  Murphys  had 
parted — but  the  reason  I  say  this  second 
rift  came  as  a  surprise  is  because  of  what 
Audie  said  when  they  reconciled:  "I'm  the 
happiest  man  in  the  world  that  Pam  took  me 
back.  We  won't  separate  again." 

Sadly,  that  promise  didn't  hold  true. 


23 


Hollywood  continues  to  show  its  mean  nar- 
row-mindedness by  again  refusing  to  vote 
Elizabeth  Taylor  the  Oscar  she  so  richly 
deserved,  writes  Mrs.  Mabel  Cummings,  Salt 
Lake  City,  who  is  really  bitter  about  Liz  not 
winning  for  Suddenly  Last  Summer.  What 
kind  ot  thinking  is  it  that  blames  Miss  Taylor 
for  being  a  party  to  a  marital  break-up  and 
then  salutes  a  foreign  star  who  was  forced  to 
make  explanations  that  she  is  not  a  Com- 
munist sympathizer?  Yours  is  not  the  only 
letter  I  received  along  these  lines,  Mrs.  C.  .  .  . 

George   Cody,  Centerville,   Iowa,  asks: 
Does  the  fact  that  a  movie  sfar  becomes  a  suc- 
cess on  TV  mean  that  she  is  through  on  the 
screen?  I  refer  to  my  two  favorites  Loretta 
I  Young  and  Donna  Reed  who  appear  to 

have  abandoned  movies  since  TV.  Both  of 
your  favorites  are  in  popular  series  which  run 
thirty-nine  weeks  annually,  George.  Doesn't 
leave  much  time  for  movie  making.  .  .  . 

7  cannof  give  my  name  because  I  might 
lose  my  job.  But  I  am  in  a  position  to  know 
the  exact  amount  of  money  brought  into  the 
box  office  by  certain  pictures  last  year — and 
whaf  a  shame  it  is  that  Rosalind  Russell 
and  Lana  Turner  were  left  off  'the  first  10 
at  the  box  office.'  Rosalind's  Auntie  Mame 
did  $9,000,000  domestic  gross  and  Lana 
Turner's  Imitation  of  Life  did  $6,500,000 
domestic  gross — and  J  can  assure  you  fhaf 
this  business  is  greater  than  that  pulled  in  by 
five  stars  on  the  official  list — (signed)  Anon- 
ymous. Those  figures  are  most  interesting. .  .  . 

Penelope,  Philadelphia,  wants  to  know — 
Why  doesn't  someone  ever  say  anything  about 
the  male  stars  who  are  overweight  and  yet 
keep  on  poking  at  the  girls  like  Judy  Holli- 
day,  Shelley  Winters,  Zsa  Zsa  Gabor. 
How  about  Tony  Curtis,  Eddie  Fisher, 

24 


Hope  Lange  may  not  be  Stephen  Boyd's 
(left)  next  wife— she  hasn't  filed  yet. 

Raymond  Burr  and  some  other  gents  who 
could  shed  some  poundage? 

I  have  a  T.L.  for  you,  writes  Vrv  Wagner, 
17,  New  York.  I  met  Fabian  coming  out  ot 
Church  last  month  and  asked  him  if  he  thought 
Hollywood  columnists  were  fair  and  square  to 
young  singers?  He  said  'Yes'  and  spoke  of 
you  as  being  the  one  the  younger  generation 
feels  is  a  real  friend.  Nice?  Certainly  is,  Vrv, 
and  nice  of  you  to  repeat  it  to  me  .  .  . 

Maxie  Sondheim,  Brooklyn,  writes:  Now 
that  Tuesday  Weld  is  dressing  better  and 
trying  to  improve  her  former  scatterbrained 
antics,  why  do  you  continue  to  write  about 
her  as  'mixed-up'?  Didn't  know  I  had  since  she 
started  wearing  shoes  and  combing  her  hair. 

You  seem  much  more  partial  to  Fabian, 
Ricky  Nelson  and  Frankie  Avalon  than 
you  do  to  the  one  and  only  Elvis  Presley, 
chides  Anna  McDonald,  Houston.  Oh,  come 
on — I'm  going  to  argue  this,  Anna.  No  one 
has  called  more  attention  to  the  fine  way 
Elvis  conducted  himself  in  the  service  and 
given  him  more  compliments  than  I.  True  I 
am  very  fond  of  Fabian  and  the  others  you 
mention  but  I'll  never  agree  that  I've  neglected 
Elvis.  .  .  . 

Polly  M.,  San  Diego,  says  she  is  a  hair- 
dresser in  one  of  the  leading  hotels  and  com- 
ments on  the  hair-dos  of  the  belles  on  the 
Academy  Award  TV  show:  Natalie  Wood 
had  the  sharpest  hair  style — a  knockout.  Ditto 
Doris  Day.  Also  Barbara  Rush.  There 
was  a  nice  absence  of  that  long,  outdated 
shoulder  length  style  that  hasn't  been  good 
since  Rita  Hayworth  was  a  starlet.  .  .  . 

Is  Hope  Lange  going  to  be  the  next  Mrs. 
Steve  Boyd?  is  the  thunderbolt  query  sent 
by  Ada  Condonito,  Brooklyn.  All  I  can  say 
is  don't  hold  your  breath — Hope  hasn't  filed 
for  divorce  from  Don  Murray  yet. 

That's  all  for  now.  See  you  next  month. 


Tuesday  Weld  is  dressing  bet- 
ter now  and  combing  her  hair. 


Knockout  hair  styles:  on 
Doris  (above),  Nat  (cen- 
ter) and  Barbara  (below). 


Co1°rs  AMemcanA 
iashioNS  AMemcanA 


Fashion  Coral 


The  new  light,  bright  fashion  tones, 
Fashion  Coral  and  Fashion  Orchid 

American  designers  have  a  way  with  color ...  American  women 
have  a  talent  for  wearing  it.  Ask  Paul  Whitney,  noted  California 
designer.  Ask  Sarmi,  famous  New  York  fashion  creator.  Each 
has  a  flair  for  color.  Each  has  used  that  flair  to  interpret  for 
you  the  new  all-Arnerican  lipstick  and  polish  shades  by  Cutex. 
"Fashion  Coral"  done  in  taffeta  by  Paul  Whitney.  "Fashion 
Orchid"  translated  into  chiffon  by  Sarmi.  "Colors  Americana," 
the  new  light,  bright  fashion  tones  for  your  lips  and  finger  nails! 


lion  Orchid 


i 


These  9  lovely  hairstyles*  came  out  of  this 
one  bottle  &  of  protein  waving  shampoo 

1  |wash'ncurlby^^$1?? 

\     Yes,  nine  shampoos!  Less  than  17tf  a  hairstyle!  Each  model's  hair  was  washed. 
Ui  suds  left  for  five  minutes,  then  just  rinsed  and  set.  You,  too,  can  shampoo  and 
;  "I  set  in  waves  and  curls  like  these.  And  Wash  'n  Curl  cleans,  shines  and  condi- 

/  i  tions  as  it  curls.  Your  hairstyle  will  last  from  shampoo  to  shampoo ! 

llllli  ^fREE  booklet  of  these  easy-to-do  hairstyles  by 
Se        '   11111    Enrico  Caruso  with  each  bottle  of  WASH  'N  CURL. 


THE  GREATEST 
DISCOVERY  SINCE 
THE  HOME 
PERMANENT! 


FOR  THE  FIRST  TIME 
IN  ANY  PUBLICATION 
MARILYN  MONROE 
FRANKLY  DISCUSSES 
HER  PRIVATE  LIFE 
WITH  HER  HUSBAND 


I  am  going  to  adopt  a  baby 


Ask  any  movie  star,  or  practically  any  woman,  the  highly 
personal  questions  I  put  to  Marilyn  Monroe  and  you'd  probably 
get  a  "It's  none  of  your  business"  retort — or  even  a  fast  "Get  lost." 

Even  to  someone  you've  known  as  long  as  I  have  Marilyn,  you 
might  hesitate  to  ask: 

Do  you  think  you  would  be  as  madly  in  love  with  your  husband 
if  he  weren't  who  he  is — the  brilliant  and  world-famed  playwright, 
Arthur  Miller? 

Which  of  you  is  boss  in  your  marriage? 

Isn't  it  true  that  he  babies,  pampers  and  pets  you  like  a  child? 

Do  you  feel  close  to  his  children  by  a  former  marriage? 

Are  you  a  married  movie  queen — or  do  you  make  a  serious  effort 
to  be  a  real  homemaker  for  your  husband? 

If  your  deepest  wish  is  denied  and  you  never  have  a  child  of  your 
own — would  you  adopt  one? 

Do  you  think  your  frequent  illnesses  before  the  start  and  during 
the  shooting  of  a  movie  are  psychosomatic? 

These,  my  friends  and  fans  of  Modern  Screen,  are  some  of 
the  blunt  questions  I  put  to  my  friend  of  many  years,  Marilyn 
Monroe,  the  world's  most  famous  blonde  darling. 

And,  to  end  the  suspense,  she  answered  them  and  others,  with 
intelligence,  humor,  understanding  and  the  complete  honesty  that 
has'marked  our  relationship  ever  since  I  first  met  her,  a  devasting- 
ly  beautiful  and  mixed-up  girl  trying  for  (Continued  on  page  64) 


Whatever 
happened  to 

those 
nice  kids 

down 
the  block? 

Sharing  a  love 
for  God  and  a  love 
for  humanity, 
Don  Murray  and  Hope  Lange 
married  and  had  children. 

It  was  easy 
for  everyone  to  love  them 
since  they  loved 
each  other. 
Who  dreamed  it  would 
all  end  in  misery? 


■  On  the  night  of  the 
Foreign  Press  Awards  last 
March  Hope  and  Don 
Murray  looked  abso- 
lutely radiant  as  they 
walked  past  the  barrage  of 

cameramen  in  the  cor- 
ridor of  the  Ambassador 

Hotel. 
They  smiled  happily  at 

one  another,  gazed 
into  each  other's  eyes 
fondly  and  gaily  quipped 
with  the  newsmen. 
They  looked  as  though 
they  were  newlyweds 
instead  of  the  parents 
of  two  children,  about 
to  celebrate  their  fourth 
wedding  anniversary. 
They  looked  anything 
except  what  they  were. 

Finished. 
They  were  invited  to  be 
among  the  presenters 
of  the  Golden  Globes  for 

many  reasons. 
Because  they  were  two 
popular  and  talented 
young  stars. 
Because  they  were  a  rare 
example  of  a  normal 

happily  married 
couple  in  an  industry 
where  divorce  and 
dissension  are  too 
common. 
And  because  they  had 
devoted  so  much  of 
themselves  and  their 
salaries  to  help  displaced 
European  refugees. 
(Continued  on  page  74) 


HOW  MUCH  DO  MY  CHILDREN  REALLY  NEED  ME? 

This  letter  is  one  of  many  I  have  received  from  young  mothers  who  feel  they  should  work : 
Dear  Janet:  I  married  when  I  was  seventeen  and  had  my  baby  on  my  eighteenth  birthday. 
Jackie  is  now  three  and  I  would  like  to  go  back  to  work.  I  have  a  wonderful  husband,  but 
with  the  high  cost  of  living,  his  salary  never  seems  quite  enough.  I  can  go  back  to  my  old 
job  with  the  insurance  company,  but  some  of  my  friends  say  that  if  I  do  my  little  boy  will 
suffer.  You're  a  working  mother  and  you  have  two  beautiful  children.  I've  read  about 
them  in  the  magazines.  But  the  magazines  haven't  told  me  what  I  want  most  to  know. 
How  can  a  girl  work  without  her  children  suffering?  Have  you  ever  been  sorry,  Janet, 
that  you're  a  working  mother?  Are  you  ever  resentful  of  the  time  you  have  been  away 
from  them?  What  do  you  do  when  one  of  your  little  girls  suddenly  becomes  ill  when  you  are 
working?  And  most  of  all,  do  you  think  the  children  feel  that  they  are  cheated?  Can  you 
work  and  still  be  a  real  mother  to  your  child?  Please  tell  me,       (Continued  on  page  80) 


Candid  confessions  of  a  "WORKING  MOTHER" 


by  Janet  Leigh 


.  XjSz  in  J&x&aica,  a  woman/^ 
5?  ~     ^  relaxed  -and  content  in 
an  island  paradise.  Househuntingy 

;>  -"  beachcombing,  Liz  feels, 
"THjgHg  gur^r'afc  lyoheymooij  ^ 
.  *  •  "  TiLe  ,t^(?6f  u§-aTonp»  and4n"l0Ve   -  * 
{  witfriiottoiig  inine  Wdrld 
to  fear: ...  %  .\ .... . . ;       *  '    *       V-  >  . 


.  but,  is  Liz 
afraid  to 
have  a  baby 
with  Eddie? 


■  It  was  morning  in  Jamaica  .  .  .  Liz 
and  Eddie  lay  on  the  rock,  their  tiny- 
private  island,  a  few  yards  out  from  the 
beach,  half  a  mile  or  so  from  the  big 
hotel.  They'd  discovered  the  rock  early 
in  their  stay  of  this,  their  second  honey- 
moon, that  really  felt  like  their  first 
honeymoon.  That  rock  had  become 
theirs,  the  place  where  they  would  come 
after  breakfast-and-a-quick-swim  and 
where  they  would  soak  up  the  sun  and 
relax  and  where — with  nothing  but  the 
sea  in  front  of  them,  the  sky  above 
them — they  could  be  alone  for  a  while, 
completely,  completely  alone. 

Usually  they  would  lie  on  their  rock 
and  they  would  talk — Liz  doing  most  of 
the  talking,  actually;  talking  about  what 
they'd  done  the  night  before,  whom 
they'd  met,  how  the  people  they'd  met 
had  impressed  her,  what  they  might  do 
this  night,  what  she'd  probably  wear  .  .  . 
traditional  and  unadulterated  wife-talk. 

While  Eddie,  the  husband,  would  nod 
traditional  husbandly  uh-huhs  and  yesses 
to  what  Liz  was  saying,  and  would  even 
doze  off  occasionally,  only  to  be  awak- 
ened by  a  handful  of  sea  water  smack 
in  his  face  and  a  playful  warning  (some- 
time accompanied  by  a  kiss,  sometimes 
by  a  poke  in  the  shoulder)  that  if  he 
dozed  off  again  he  would  find  himself 
"swimming  underwater"  —  as  Liz  liked 
to  call  it.         (Continued  on  page  65) 


the  terrible jprice_Ij?aid 
to  be  a  star  *  A  DARING 


UNCENSORED  CONFESSION  BT 
ROCK  HUDSON  *  The  First 
Of  its  kind  Ever  Printed 


In  an  American  Magazine  * 


to 


■  I  can  say  at  this  point— aged  Out  of  this  total,  I've  received 

34 — that  I'm  a  success  in  my  a  gross  salary  of  about  $250,000 

profession  but  I'm  not  a  success  for  myself.  But  for  the  various 

to  myself.  studios  in  the  past  ten  years, 

I've  been  a  movie  actor  for  I've  earned  above  $50,000,000. 

ten  years  and  a  star  for  nine.  Figures  prove  it.  And  that  at 

I've  appeared  in  40  pictures  least  makes  me  marketable  if 

whose  budgets  have  easily  run  not  marvelous, 

over  a  total  of  $80,000,000—  My  income  goes  90  percent  to 

about  20  times  the  amount  paid  the  United  States  government, 

all  of  the  presidents  of  the  after  ten  per  cent  is  taken  out  by 

United  States.  my  agent  (Continued  on  page  76) 


38 


my  Copen- 
tell  Jimmv 


■  "It  is  a  laughter-filled  city 
hagen,"  Evy  Norlund  would 
Darren  before  their  marriage,  as  they  would 
sit  and  plan  their  honeymoon.  "You  wait 
and  see,  Jimmy — and  listen,"  she  would  say. 
"You  will  hear  the  laughter  from  all  over 
.  .  .  From  the  couples  sitting  in  the  Tivoli 
gardens,  holding  hands,  sipping  their  beers, 
hearing  the  band  music  that  comes  from 
behind  the  trees  .  .  .  from  the  calliope. 

From  the  youngsters      ...A  honeymoon  should  be  private 

who  sweep  by  you  on 
their  bicycles,  so  care- 
free and  gay  .  .  .  From 


but  everywhere  Jimmy  and  Evy  Darren  went 
a  small  ghost  went  with  them...  . 


the  waiters  in  the  big  restaurants,  on  the 
Bredgade,  who  are  so  pleased  to  see  you  that 
they  laugh  .  .  .  Laughter  .  .  .  From  everyone 
but  the  tiny  mermaid  who  sits  sadly  in  the 
harbor  watching  the  boats  go  by.  And  she 
does  not  laugh,  only  because  she  is  a  statue, 
and  because  she  is  sad  not  to  be  alive  in 
Copenhagen.  Like  the.  others.  ..." 

Jimmy  had  looked  forward  to  Copen- 
hagen, to  all  these  gay,  happy  sights. 

He'd  looked  forward 
to  marrying  Evy,  of 
course,  Evy  whom  he 
(Continued  on  page  62) 


Suddenly,  one  night  just  a  few  weeks  ago, 
their  little  boy's  life  was  in  danger.  How  could 
Debbie  decide  alone  whether  to  let  them  operate?  Frantically, 
she  called  Eddie— but  there  was  no  answer... 


■  "Operator,  are  you  sure  there's  no  answer?"  There  was 
fear  in  Debbie's  voice.  She  could  barely  make  out  the 
voice  of  the  operator  in  Jamaica  in  the  British  West  Indies, 
but  she  just  had  to  get  through  to  Eddie.  "This  call  is  so 
important.  Please  try  him  again. ..." 

Down  the  hall  Debbie  could  hear  the  sound  of  her  little 
boy  crying.  Todd  had  been  in  great  pain  for  some  hours 
now,  and  she  was  quite  beside  herself.  She'd  noticed  the 
little  boy,  always  so  bouncy,  hadn't  been  himself  tonight. 
He  hadn't  been  able  to  eat  his  dinner  and  he'd  begun  to 
whimper,  something  her  little  two-year-old  seldom  did. 

When  his  cries  had  continued,  she'd  called  the  doctor. 
What  the  doctor  told  her  came  as  a  shock  to  her.  "Todd 
needs  surgery — the  sooner  the  better." 

At  a  moment  like  this,  a  woman  hates  to  be  alone.  No 
operation  is  ever  a  minor  affair.  Even  if  it's  'minor  sur- 
gery,' anything  can  happen  under  (Continued  on  page  60) 


■  The  assignment:  To  find 
out  what  Bobby  Darin, 
the  controversial,  much- 
written-about  singer, 
is  really  like.   The  place: 
Bobby's  home,  in  Lake  Hia- 
watha, New  Jersey,  thirty-five  miles 
from  New  York  City,  where  he  lives 
with  his  sister,  Mrs.  Nina  Maffey; 
her  husband,  Charlie ;  and  their  three 
children — Vivi,  sixteen;  Vana, 
twelve;  and  Gary,  four.  The  time:  A 
Saturday  morning,  a  few  weeks 
ago.  .  .  .  "He's  asleep — in  there," 
Bobby's  sister  said,  as  she 
tiptoed  us  through  the  living 
room  and  into  the  kitchen, 
pointing  to  a  door  along 
the  way.  "But  don't  get 
him  wrong.  He's 


THE 
SMALL 
WORLD 
OF 
MR. 
BIG 


not  doing  this  because  he 
doesn't  want  to  talk 
to  you,  or  to  make  a  big- 
shot  effect.  A  phony 
my   brother   is   not — no 
matter  what  some  other 
people  say  and  write  about 
him.  It's  just  that  his  plane  was  six 
hours  late  and  he  got  in  a  little 
while  ago,  and  the  way  he  looked 
— he  needed  to  get  to  bed  for  a 
while.  But  he'll  be  up  soon."  "And 
you  know  what  he'll  do?" 
asked  a  girl,  seated  at  the  kitchen 
table,  looking  through  a  batch  of 
letters,  obviously  fan  mail 
arrived  that  morning.  "He'll 
come  out  here  all  groggy- 
eyed,  with  nothing 
(Continued  on  page  68) 


His  sister,  Mrs.  Nina  Maffey,  tries  to 
take  the  place  of  his  mother. 


obby's  little  nephew  Gary  sings  just         His  niece  Vivi  wants  to  be  famous,  too.  The  family  all  together  at  suppertime, 

ke  him.  that's  really  living. 


Bobby  Darin's  been  called  the  most 
conceited  guy  in  showbusiness.  Is  he  really? 

C'mon  along  with  us  to  a  humble 
little  cottage  on  Lake  Hiawatha,  New  Jersey, 
and  be  the  first  to  meet  the  real  BD 


45 


On  the  day  of  your  greatest  triumph  you  had  time  for 
Aunts  and  Uncles,  girl  scouts  and  policemen,  priests  and 
strangers. . .  but  not  a  moment  for  the  two  human  beings 
whose  hearts  you  were  breaking. 


■  Dear  Sandra, 

You  broke  two  hearts  one  day  not  long  ago. 

Your  father's  heart,  and  the  heart  of  a  little  boy  named  Kenny — Kenny,  whom  you've 
never  met,  your  five-year-old  half-brother. 

You  came  back  to  your  hometown  of  Bayonne,  New  Jersey,  that  day — Tuesday, 
March  22.  You  spent  more  than  twelve  hours  there,  an  official  guest  of  the  city;  a  girl  who 
had  left  a  few  years  earlier,  a  nobody,  and  who  returned  now  to  be  hailed  as  Ever3rbody's 
Darling  .  .  .  rich,  famous,  beautiful.  You  greeted,  said  hello  to,  waved  to  an  estimated 
11.000  people  that  day.  (Continued  on  page  70) 


•Across  the  gulf 
of  thirty-seven 
years  Fred  ^Mstaire 

reaches  out 
his  hand  to  young 

Jtarrie  Chase, 
nare  she  take  itt 


They  met,  officially,  on 
a  sound  stage  at  MGM  Studios 
where  Barrie  (she  was 
then  twenty-two;  Fred,  fifty-eight)  was 
working  as  an  assistant  to 
the  dance  director  there,  Jack  Cole 
"I  remember,"  she  said,,  "that 
Mr.  Astaire  walked  in  one  day  while 
{Continued  on  page  7 8) 


the  life  story  of  Henry  Fonda's  little  girl  Jan 

52 


"Mother  died  when  I  ivas  twelve.  The  shock  left 
e  numb.  Too  numb  to  even  cry."  Jane  Fonda 
Dsed  her  huge  blue  eyes  for  a  long  moment.  The 
ars  almost  seemed  to  come.  Then,  with  the  soft 
tsp  of  a  sad  smile,  Jane  closed  the  tragic  chapter 
her  young  life.  "Mother  was  quite  lovely,"  Jane 
lispers  in  a  soft  voice.  The  memory  still  haunts 
^r.  .  .  .  Jane's  long  graceful  hands  play  with  the 
irk  gold  mass  of  silky  hair  that  touches  slender 
oulders.  Then,  with  a  refreshing  smile, 
e  fills  the  room  with  a  lightness  that  _  ^J^HHl 
ishes  out  the  dark  clouds  of  her 
vn  personal  tragedy.  "You 
<ow,  I  never  even  thought 
out  becoming  an  actress." 
ne,  the  daughter  of 
oviestar  Henry  Fonda, 
as  brought  up  in  a 
ther  sheltered  atmos- 
tere,  far  from  the  mov- 
glamour  that  her  fa- 
ous  father  was  exposed 
daily.  "We  lived  on  a 
rm  in  California.  Dad 
ver  brought  any  of  the  mov- 
crowd  out  to  the  farm.  So  I 
ver  knew  how  much  of  a  star 
ever  was.  Nor  did  I  know  any- 
ing  about  actresses."  Her  father, 
lowing  the  heartbreak  that  sometimes 
n  befall  a  young  girl  wrapped  up  in  wanting 
be  a  movie  star  kept  her  as  far  away  as  possible 
)m  any  undue  influences  in  the  movie  world. 
le  was  just  like  any  other  father.  Never  talked 
out  movies.  Never  tried  to  impress  me  with  how 
\portant  he  was.  And,  we  had  a  lot  of  fun  together 
the  farm."  A  twinkle  comes  into  her  eyes  when 
e  recalls  the  early  days  on  the  farm.  She  per- 
med all  the  farmgirl  chores,  and  thoroughly 
joyed  doing  her  share  of  the  work.  Her  early 


schooling  began  in  a  school  filled  with  famous- 
parent  children.  Some  of  her  schoolmates  included 
Maria  Cooper,  Gary's  daughter,  and  Christina 
Crawford,  Joan's  girl.  She  was  never  too  chummy 
with  any  of  them.  "They  went  their  way.  And  I 
went  mine."  None  of  her  school  pals  ever  made 
her  aware  that  her  father  was  a  famous  star.  Nor 
did  they  tease  her  about  it.  Her  early  years  were 
filled  with  the  everyday  pleasures  that  any  girl  of 
eight  or  nine  goes  through.  Her  brother, 
Peter,  was  her  closest  pal.  They 
romped  in  the  fields,  and  played 
pirates.  Then  when  she  was 
ten,  her  father  took  the 
family  to  live  in  Green- 
wich, Connecticut,  while 
he  was  doing  a  play  on 
Broadway  titled  Mister 
Roberts.  Jane  got  her 
first  taste  of  what  play- 
acting was  like.  "I  used 
to  play  with  a  trunkful 
of  stage  clothes,  and  a  box 
of  make-up.  Peter  always 
the  heroes,  and  I 
played  the  heroines."  But  for 
Jane  it  was  only  little-girl  play- 
acting. She  thought  she  might 
want  to  become  a  painter.  Her  art 
work  was  rather  good,  and  she  did  paint- 
ings in  oil  and  water  colors.  She  was  enrolled 
in  school  in  Greenwich,  and  developed  the  usual 
schoolgirl  crushes  and  also  broke  her  share  of 
twelve-year-old  male  hearts.  "I  was  a  little  shy 
though."  Jane  was  totally  unaware  of  her  rapidly 
developing  good  looks.  Her  resemblance  is  almost 
look-alike  to  her  father.  But  at  the  time,  her 
thin  face  bothered  her.  "I  looked  skinny  as  a  rail. 
And,  I  thought  I'd  grow  up  to  be  the  ugliest  duck 
that  ever  walked.  .  .  ."  (Continued  on  page  72) 


^rom  sheltered  child,  to  teen-age  rebel,  to  star 


Y  OF  WHAT  HAPPENED  T 


7.  By  the  time  the  police  believed 
we  were  harmless  and  helped  us 

get  gas  it  was  four-thirty.  I 
finally  got  Kathy  home  at  five. 

Then  came  the  real  adventure 
of  the  evening  .  .  .  saying  to  her 

father,  "I'm  sorry,  Sir,  but 
you  see,  we  ran  out  of  gas." 

It  even  sounded  lame  to  me. 
Someday  I  may  see  Kathy  again. 

Today  all  I  get  on  the  phone  is 
"She's  not  at  home  ...  to  you." 


Jill  St.  John  and  Lance  Reventlow 

In  a  civil  ceremony  in  a  hotel  room,  with 
only  one  bridesmaid  and  the  families 
attending,  a  twenty-year-old  divorcee 
who  had  lunched  on  a  hot  fudge  sundae 
married  the  richest  boy  in  the  world. 
This  is  the  only  intimate  account  you 
will  read  of  it.  Here,  direct  from  Jil 
St.  John's  own  mother,  is  the  exclusive, 
behind-the-scenes  story  


■  How  curious  that  everyone  is  so  calm,  I  thought,  as  1 
was  standing  behind  my  daughter  who  was  about  to  be 
married  to  Lance  Reventlow  by  Supreme  Court  Justic 
Marshall  McComb,  in  the  royal  suite  of  San  Francisco' 
Mark  Hopkins  Hotel. 


There  was  no  uneasiness,  no  tears,  no  sniffling,  and  non< 
of  the  usual  type  of  excitement  that  customarily  accomps 
nies  weddings.  (Continued  on  page  59 


58 


I   (Continued  from  page  58) 

Here  these  two  young  people  were  be- 
ing tied  to  each  other  for  what  they  hoped 
would  be  the  rest  of  their  lives,  and  yet 
they  seemed  as  relaxed  as  if  they  were 
discussing  whom  to  invite  to  a  party! 

There  were  only  a  few  of  us  present: 
Lance's  mother.  Barbara  Hutton.  who  had 
come  in  from  Cuernavaca.  Mexico,  espe- 
cially for  the  wedding:  Lance's  best  man 
and  cousin.  Jimmy  Woolworth  Dona- 
hue: my  daughter's  bridesmaid,  actress 
Nina  Shipman:  Lance's  childhood  nurse. 
Barbara  Latimer,  who  had  flown  in  from 
England  for  the  ceremony:  his  butler. 
Dudley  Walker,  and  of  course  my  husband 
and  me. 

Lance  hadn't  wanted  a  big  ceremony  be- 
cause, as  he  put  it.  "I  didn't  want  to  make 
my  wedding  a  three-ring  circus."  He  had 
chosen  San  Francisco  because  both  he  and 
Jill  feared  that  if  they  had  restricted  the 
guest  list  to  so  few  people  in  Los  Angeles, 
a  lot  of  their  friends  might  have  been 
hurt. 

But  what  the  wedding  lacked  in  people, 
was  more  than  made  up  by  the  picturesque 
setting. 

The  suite  was  beautifully  decorated  with 
peonies,  irises,  daffodils,  and  sweet  peas.  It 
looked  like  a  fairyland.  And  Lance  was  so 
r  :r.'.r  ar.i  zistir.r-isr.e:" -looking  ir.  his 
dark  suit,  and  my  daughter  so  beautiful  in 
her  pink  silk  suit.  Of  course  she  wore 
something  old  and  something  new.  Both 
were  provided  by  her  new  mother-in-law. 
the  'old'  being  diamond  earrings  given 
to  her  by  Barbara  Hutton  last  Christmas, 
the  'new'  a  double-strand  pearl  necklace 
with  a  diamond  clasp,  which  lliss  Hutton 
put  around  her  neck  just  before  the  cere- 
mony. I  lent  her  my  pink  veil  for  some- 
thing "borrowed.'  and  something  'blue' — 
a  pair  of  blue  garters — was  given  to  her 
by  a  girlfriend  the  day  before. 

Later  on  someone  told  me  that  the  cere- 
mony had  taken  only  ninety  seconds,  and 
by  doing  so  had  set  a  speed  record!  But  it 
seemed  longer  to  me,  for  during  that  time 
my  mind  wandered  back  to  the  time  that 
Jill  first  told  me  about  the  handsome 
your 2  man  she  had  met  at  a  party  at  Ron- 
nie Burns'  house,  almost  three  years  ago. 

Lance 

Frankly.  I  was  surprised  by  my  own  im- 
pression of  Lance  when  I  first  met  him.  He 
seemed  nice.  shy.  and  quite  unlike  the 
mental  picture  I  had  formed  of  him 

His  shyness  did  not  last  long,  and  as  he 
relaxed  it  was  easy  for  me  to  detect  a 
wonderful  sense  of  humor. 

There  was  only  one  time  that  I  was 
dubious  about  this  marriage — and  that  was 
exactly  forty -five  minutes  before  the  cere- 
mony started! 

Maybe  I  better  go  back  a  few  hours  to 
tell  you  what  happened.  .  .  . 

I  don't  think  Jill  slept  much  the  night 
before.  Even  after  I  said  good-night  to 
her.  I  could  hear  her  move  around  in  her 
room.  Her  light  must  have  been  on  till 
2:00  ajn..  when  she  finally  turned  it  off. 

Although  Jill  and  Lance  had  planned  to 
come  back  with  us  the  very  same  night, 
my  husband  and  I  decided  we'd  better  take 
our  own  car  to  the  airport,  because  with 
these  two  kids  you  could  never  tell  what 
they  might  do.  so  at  least  we  could  get 
home  in  case  they  decided  to  stay  in  San 
Francisco  overnight. 

We  arrived  at  the  airport  shortly  before 
11:00  and  were  greeted  by  at  least  two 
dozen  reporters  and  photographers! 

All  our  efforts  to  keep  the  departure 
as  well  as  the  place  of  the  wedding  a 
secret  failed  when,  as  I  was  told,  someone 
from  the  Mark  Hopkins  Hotel  gave  the 
news  of  all  the  arrangements  to  the  local 
papers! 

Lance  arrived  a  few  minutes  after  we 


Woman's 'Dif  ficult  Days' 

and  Her 
Perspiration  Problems 

Doctors  tell  why  her  underarm  perspiration 
problems  increase  during  monthly  cycle. 
What  can  be  done  about  it? 


Valda 


Science  has  now  discov- 
ered that  a  thing  called 
"emotional  perspiration'"'  is 
closely  linked  to  a  woman's 
"difficult  davs."  So  much  so 
that  during  this  monthlv 
cycle  her  underarm  perspi- 
ration problems  are  not 
only  greater  but  more  embarrassing. 

You  see,  "emotional  perspiration" 
is  caused  by  special  glands.  Thev're 
bigger  and  more  powerful.  And 
when  they're  stimulated  they  Iiter- 
allv  pour  out  perspiration.  It  is  this 
kind  of  perspiration  that  causes  the 
most  offensive  odor. 

New  Scientific  Discovery 

Science  has  found  that  a  woman 
needs  a  special  deodorant  to  counter- 
act this  "emotional  perspiration"  and 
stop  offensive  stains  and  odor.  And 
now  it's  here  ...  a  deodorant  with  an 
exclusive  ingredient  specifically 
formulated  to  maintain  effectiveness 
even  at  those  times  of  tense  emotion 
.  .  .  during  "difficult  davs"  when  she 
is  more  likely  to  offend. 

It's  wonderful  new  ARRID  CREAM 
Deodorant.,  now  fortified  with  amaz- 
ing Perstop.*  the  most  remarkable 
antiperspirant  ever  developed!  So 
effective,  vet  so  gentle. 


Used  daily.  ARRID  with 
Perstop*  penetrates  deep 
into  the  pores  and  stops 
"emotional  perspiration" 
stains  and  odor  .  .  .  stops  it 
as  no  roll-on.  sprav  or  stick 
could  ever  do ! 

You  rub  ARRID  CREAM 
in  .  .  .  vou  rub  perspiration  out.  Rub 
ARRID  CREAM  in  .  .  .  rub  odor  out. 

Twice  as  effective  as  roll-ons 

Doctors  have  proved  ARRID  is  more 
effective  than  any  cream,  twice  as 
effective  as  anv  roll-on  or  spray 
tested.  And  yet  ARRID  CREAM 
Deodorant  is  so  gentle,  antiseptic, 
non-irritating . . .  completely  safe  for 
normal  underarm  skin. 

So  ...  to  be  sure  you  are  free  of 
the  embarrassment  of  "emotional 
perspiration,"  use  this  special  kind  of 
cream  deodorant.  ARRID  with  Per- 
stop*  stops  perspiration  stains  .  .  . 
stops  odor  too.  not  onlv  during  the 
"difficult  days"  but  every  day. 

Remember,  nothing  protects  you 
like  a  cream,  and  no  cream  protects 
vou  like  ARRID.  So  don't  be  half  safe. 
Be  completely  safe.  Use  ARRID 
CREAM  Deodorant  with  Perstop*  to 
be  sure.  Buv  a  jar  at  anv  drug  or  cos- 
metic counter.  Only  49c  plus  tax. 


(Carter  Prwi-c^       J^r  ir-:  :":  ;    r  - 


did  with  his  butler,  his  former  nurse,  and 
Nina  Shipman. 

I  was  a  little  afraid  of  his  reaction  when 
he  saw  all  the  photographers,  and  so  was 
Jill.  But  he  came  through  very  well.  He 
smiled  amiably  and,  although  he  didn't 
dilly-dally  to  pose  for  pictures,  was  very 
pleasant  to  the  photographers. 

The  flight  to  San  Francisco  took  only  a 
little  over  an  hour.  There  we  were  greeted 
again  by  an  even  larger  group  of  reporters 
who  were  surprised  when  Jill  answered 
some  of  their  questions  before  they  were 
asked.  Like,  "Don't  ask  me  any  silly 
questions  about  my  family.  I  can  only  give 
you  the  standard,  phony  answers — like 
seven  children  would  be  just  fine." 

They  were  all  in  a  happy  frame  of 
mind  because  they  laughed  and  waved  at 
us  as  we  climbed  into  the  big  black 
limousine  provided  by  the  studio.  We  were 
whisked  to  the  Mark  Hopkins  Hotel,  where 
all  of  us  retired  to  our  own  suites,  Miss 
Hutton  had  the  Royal  Suite,  my  husband 
and  I  had  the  Ambassador  suite,  and 
for  the  life  of  me,  I  can't  remember  the 
names  of  all  the  other  beautiful  suites. 
However,  they  were  all  on  one  floor.  In 
fact,  Miss  Hutton  had  taken  over  the  en- 
tire floor  to  make  sure  that  the  ceremony 
would  be  undisturbed.  Judging  by 
Lance's  reaction,  nothing  could  have 
pleased  him  more. 

It  was  about  two  thirty  when  we  all 
assembled  in  Miss  Hutton's  suite,  excited 
and  gay,  and  anxious  for  the  ceremony  to 
start,  although  it  wasn't  scheduled  for 
another  hour  and  a  half. 

Jill's  craving  before  the  wedding 

And  then,  at  three  o'clock,  it  happened. 

I  was  standing  next  to  Lance  when 
Jill  came  over  and  tugged  on  his  sleeve. 
"I  feel  like  a  hot  fudge  sundae,"  she 
grinned. 

If  Lance  was  surprised,  he  didn't  show 
it.    But  Miss  Hutton  certainly  did. 

"What  youth  will  do!"  she  exclaimed. 

Lance  was  all  against  Jill's  idea.  First 
of  all  he  didn't  feel  like  a  hot  fudge  sun- 
dae an  hour  and  a  half  before  he  got 
married.  Secondly,  he  didn't  know  where 
she  could  get  one  at  this  time. 

"I  noticed  a  very  nice  little  ice  cream 
parlor  right  across  from  the  hotel,"  Jill 
informed  him  cheerfully. 

Lance  still  wasn't  in  favor  of  the  idea. 
"If  we  go  out  there,  we'll  be  recognized 
by  reporters." 

"We  can  sneak  out  the  back  way,"  Jill 
pleaded. 

While  Lance  was  determined  not  to  go, 
he  didn't  mind  letting  his  bride-to-be  take 
off  with  Nina.  And  so  the  two  girls 
secretly  sneaked  out  of  the  hotel,  dashed 
across  the  street,  and  without  being 
seen  by  the  thirty  or  more  reporters  who 
had  assembled  on  the  floor  below  for  the 
brief  press  conference  Lance  had  promised 
them  after  the  ceremony,  walked  into  the 
ice  cream  parlor — where  they  were 
promptly  recognized  by  a  local  reporter 


who  joined  them.  Said  Jill,  afterwards, 
"He  was  so  nice — he  even  paid  the  bill!!!" 

Yet  as  the  minutes  passed  by,  I  became 
more  anxious  about  what  was  happening 
to  them.  I  couldn't  help  glancing  at  my 
watch  every  few  seconds  wondering 
whether  my  daughter  would  get  back  in 
time. 

She  finally  did — with  about  five  minutes 
to  spare. 

Although  the  ceremony  was  brief,  it 
was  beautifully  performed,  and  I  could  see 
my  daughter's  happiness  by  the  way  she 
kissed  Lance  after  it  was  over.  But  they 
were  no  longer  willing  to  kiss  in  public. 

After  we  had  the  most  delicious  hors 
d'oeuvres — everything  from  caviar  to  im- 
ported French  champagne,  Jill's  brides- 
maid announced  that  she  had  a  very 
special  surprise  for  the  newlyweds.  "Close 
your  eyes  and  stretch  out  your  hands," 
she  ordered. 

Jill  and  Lance  did  as  told.  Two  seconds 
later  they  heard  a  click  as  Nina  hand- 
cuffed them  with  a  gold-plated  pair  of 
handcuffs.  We  all  thought  the  shackles 
were  very  funny,  although  I  said  a  silent 
prayer  that  Nina  hadn't  lost  the  key. 

They  were  still  shackled  to  each  other 
when  they  walked  downstairs  for  the  ten 
minute  press  conference  they  had  agreed 
to  give.  It  was  then  that  one  of  the 
photographers  asked  them  to  kiss  in  front 
of  the  cameras. 

Lance  came  back  with  a  very  emphatic, 
"Not  here."  And  then  Jill  refused  to 
show  her  ring,  because  she  thought  that 
would  be  vulgar. 

About  seven  we  had  a  wonderful  dinner, 
arranged  by  Miss  Hutton.  We  had  shrimp, 
waldorf  salad,  beef  stroganoff  with  wild 
rice,  and  of  course,  the  beautiful  two- 
tiered  wedding  cake — which  I  took  home 
with  us. 

Only  a  few  people  were  at  the  airport 
when  we  left,  but  there  was  a  wonder- 
ful feeling  of  gaiety  once  we  got  on  the 
plane.  The  local  papers  had  covered  the 
ceremony,  and  you  could  see  passengers 
turn  around  from  wherever  they  were 
sitting  and  stare  at  Jill  and  Lance.  And 
then  they  came  over,  one  and  two  at  a 
time,  to  wish  them  good  luck  and  all  the 
happiness  in  the  world. 

I  was  quite  exhausted  as  I  moved  my 
seat  back,  and  tried  to  relax.  But  I 
couldn't  help  overhearing  one  cynic  re- 
mark behind  me,  "I  wonder  how  long 
this  is  going  to  last?" 

I  knew  what  he  meant.  Jill  had  been 
married  before,  and  it  didn't  work  out. 

Moreover,  my  daughter  is  an  actress, 
and  supposedly  everybody  knows  that 
a  career  and  a  marriage  don't  mix. 

I  don't  agree.  First  of  all,  Jill  was 
only  sixteen  when  she  married  Neil  Dubin. 
And  they  had  known  each  other  less  than 
three  months.  It  was  no  surprise  to  anyone 
that  the  marriage  didn't  work  out. 

Lance  and  Jill  have  known  each  other 
for  three  years.  They're  sure  of  them- 
selves and  each  other.    From  the  begin- 


ning, Jill  was  impressed  by  his  straight- 
forwardness, his  manners,  his  sense  of 
humor — just  as  I  think  Lance  appreciated 
that  Jill  was  never  impressed  by  his 
wealth.  She  had  traveled  in  pretty  much 
the  same  circles  as  Lance.  A  number  of 
fellows  she  dated  were  equally  well-off. 
And  if  there  was  a  time  when  she  couldn't 
afford  something,  my  husband  and  I  al- 
ways gave  it  to  her. 

As  far  as  her  career  is  concerned,  they 
have  talked  this  over  in  great  detail.  Lance 
has  not  insisted  that  she  give  it  up  as 
long  as  she  wants  to  stick  to  it.  And 
quite  frankly,  she  does.  Jill  is  not  one 
to  come  out  with  a  pat  answer  like  "If 
my  marriage  and  my  career  don't  mix, 
I'd  quit  working."  She  is  determined  to 
go  on  with  her  career  just  as  she  is  de- 
termined to  make  her  marriage  work  out. 
And  she's  convinced  that  she  can  do  a 
good  job  with  both.  For  that  matter,  Lance 
has  already  adjusted  himself  quite  well  to 
the  role  of  a  movie  star's  husband. 

Jill  changed  him 

When  Jill  and  Lance  first  met,  he  used  to 
shun  any  type  of  publicity  gathering  such 
as  premieres,  or  big  parties.  Gradually 
Jill  persuaded  him  to  change  his  attitude. 
For  the  sake  of  her  career,  she  has  to  be 
seen  in  public,  with  or  without  Lance. 
And  one  night  she  told  him  quite  frankly 
that  being  seen  with  him  made  people 
want  to  write  more  about  her. 

Lance  appreciated  such  honesty.  While 
he  kept  teasing  her  that  she  really  didn't 
want  to  become  an  actress,  just  a  movie 
star,  he  kept  going  along  with  little 
grumbling,  to  whatever  functions  she  was 
requested  to  attend.  And  while  at  one 
time  he  would  have  balked  altogether  at 
stopping  to  pose  for  pictures,  now  he 
will  not  only  pose,  but  even  force  a  smile 
for  the  cameras  once  in  a  while. 

Of  course  Jill  has  shown  a  willingness 
to  do  things  for  Lance's  sake  as  well.  Like 
sports — the  mere  thought  of  which  she 
detested  a  few  years  ago!  Today  she's 
quite  expert  at  skin-diving  and  skiing. 
She  is  also  a  good  hostess,  and  I  think 
this  will  help  Lance  who  loves  having 
people  over  to  his  house  once  in  a  while. 

It  was  after  midnight  when  the  plane 
finally  landed  at  Los  Angeles'  Interna- 
tional Airport.  It  was  too  late,  and  we 
were  too  tired,  to  drink  another  toast  to 
the  new  couple  who  were  anxious  to  get 
home,  not  only  because  it  was  their  wed- 
ding night,  but  also  because  they  had 
planned  to  get  up  early  to  go  on  their 
skiing  honeymoon,  at  Mammoth  Lakes. 

As  my  husband  and  I  saw  them  drive 
off,  I  couldn't  help  remembering  Barbara 
Hutton's  parting  words  a  few  hours  earlier. 
"I'm  glad  they  got  married,"  she  told  me. 
"They  seem  so  good  for  one  another." 

She  was  so  right.  Lance  found  in  Jill 
what  he  wanted,  just  as  she  found  in  him 
what  she  needed.  END 

Jill  stars  in  20th-Fox's  The  Lost  World. 


Where  Are  You,  Eddie,  I  Need  You!" 


(Continued  from  page  43) 

the  knife.  It  was  a  frightening  responsibil- 
ity. 

Debbie  needed  reassurance  badly. 
Though  the  bonds  of  love  were  dead  be- 
tween them,  she  needed  Eddie  at  this  mo- 
ment. In  this  moment  when  the  life  of 
their  child  might  be  lying  in  the  balance, 
she  couldn't  just  turn  to  anyone.  Not  even 
to  Harry  Karl,  the  man  many  people  think 
60  she  will  marry.  Only  the  child's  father  had 


the  right  to  say,  "Yes.  Let  the  doctor  oper- 
ate," or  "No — let  us  consult  another  doc- 
tor." 

And  if  the  child  was  to  face  surgery,  his 
father  should  be  beside  his  bed  when  he 
opened  his  eyes  after  the  operation,  be- 
came conscious,  and  became  panicky  at 
the  thought  of  being  in  a  strange  place 
between  strange  covers.  At  such  a  moment 
a  boy,  even  the  smallest  child,  needs  not 


only  his  mother,  but  also  his  father. 

But  his  father  was  vacationing  in  Ja- 
maica, out  somewhere — pain  creased  Deb- 
bie's forehead — with  the  woman  whose 
love  had  meant  more  to  him  than  her  love 
or  staying  with  his  children. 

She'd  tried  to  get  through  to  him. 
through  almost  4,000  miles  of  telephone 
wire. 

The  operator  had  grown  tired  of  calling 
"There's  no  answer,"  she  said.  "Do  you 
want  to  leave  a  message?" 

"Doesn't  anybody  know  where  Mr 
Fisher  is?" 

"Sorry,  he  didn't  leave  any  message 
Shall  I  ask  him  to  call  you  back?" 


Debbie  bit  her  lip.  "No.  I'm  sorry,  I 
don't  think  there  will  be  time." 

She  hurried  to  the  side  of  her  sick  son 
and  sat  on  his  bed,  holding  his  hand. 
"Darling,  Mommy  will  take  you  to  some- 
one right  away  who  will  make  you  feel 
better." 

With  God  s  help 

Her  brother  Bill's  face  was  white  as  he 
waited  to  drive  Debbie  and  the  boy  to  the 
hospital.  Bill  lived  in  his  own  quarters  in 
Debbie's  large  home  in  Holmby  Hills.  He 
felt  that  Debbie  would  be  too  nervous  to 
drive  to  the  hospital,  and  he  was  going  to 
take  them  there.  Her  mother,  who  lived  in 
Burbank,  close  by  St.  Joseph's  Hospital, 
was  waiting  for  them  there. 

Carrying  the  crying  boy  in  her  arms, 
Debbie  stepped  into  the  car.  Her  face  was 
tense;  almost  as  pale  as  the  child's. 

"I  hurt,  Mommy,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  darling,  I  know,"  she  said.  "But  at 
the  hospital  they  will  do  everything  to 
make  you  better." 

With  God's  help,  she  thought.  May  God 
be  with  the  surgeon  tonight.  May  He  guide 
his  hand.  They  say  that  when  a  surgeon 
goes  to  work,  there  are  always  three  in  the 
operating  room:  the  doctor,  the  patient, 
and  God.  Please  God.  be  there  and  watch 
over  my  child. 

It  was  a  balmy  night  in  late  March  and 
the  sky  was  studded  with  stars,  but  inside 
the  car,  Debbie  shivered.  She  had  never 
known  such  fear.  To  face  this  alone  .  .  . 

"Stop  it,  Debbie,"  she  told  herself. 
"You're  being  hysterical." 

But  another  voice  within  her  whispered: 
"How  can  I  stand  it — taking  such  a  grave 
responsibility.  The  doctor  said  if  there 
were  no  surgery,  there  might  be  complica- 
tions." 

Complications?  The  vague  word  carried 
its  own  cargo  of  terror.  From  the  time  lit- 
tle Todd  was  first  born  the  threat  of  this 
moment  had  hung  over  him.  "Hernia,"  the 
doctors  had  said  then.  "Some  day  it  may 
become  serious,  requiring  an  operation. 
But  he's  an  infant  now  and  it  isn't  called 
for  right  now.  We'll  wait." 

She  and  Eddie  had  agreed  it  would  be 
wisest  to  wait  till  surgery  was  absolutely 
necessary.  How  could  she  have  dreamed 
then  that  when  the  moment  did  come  she 
and  Eddie  would  not  be  together — that  he 
would  be  married  to  another  woman  and 
that  her  frantic  telephone  call  would  not 
reach  him  in  that  distant  spot  in  the  Brit- 
ish West  Indies? 

For  a  moment  she  was  bitter.  This  was 
the  bitterness  she  had  tried  so  hard  to 
fight,  that  she  had  promised  herself  she 
would  never  let  overcome  her. 

"Well,  I  can  take  anything  life  hands 
out,"  she  told  herself  firmly.  "If  I  expected 
too  much  of  Eddie,  it  was  my  fault,  not 
his.  But  why  should  Todd  have  to  be  let 
down,  too?  The  child  is  his  baby,  too.  Why 
should  he  be  on  a  holiday  in  Jamaica, 
while  Todd  and  I  have  to  go  through  this 
ordeal  together?" 

It  was  unreasonable  of  her  to  resent  it; 
she  knew  that.  Eddie  hadn't  known  that 
terror  would  strike  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  while  he,  perhaps,  held  the  woman 
he  loved  in  his  arms  somewhere  under  a 
Caribbean  moon,  or  danced  together  in  a 
gay  Island  night  club. 

She  ran  her  fingers  through  Todd's  hair; 
touched  his  cheek  tenderly.  "Darling,"  she 
thought  to  herself,  "it's  awful  to  go 
through  this  moment,  through  this  night, 
but  I  wonder  if  your  father  knows  what 
he's  missing  most  of  the  time.  He's  missing 
some  of  the  pain,  but  a  lot  of  the  joy,  too. 

The  car  wound  up  the  hospital  driveway 
and  stopped  in  front  of  Admissions.  A 
white-uniformed  orderly  placed  the  child 
in  a  wheelchair. 

"Mommy  will  be  right  with  you,"  she 


ALL  THIS  FURNITURE, 

ALL  THESE  APPLIANCES, 
AND  A  MODERN,  TWO  BEDROOM  HOME... 
FOR  LESS  THAN  $6,500. 

It's  no  problem  at  all  to  live  a  whole  lot  better  .  .  . 
for  so  much  less  .  .  .  when  you  own  a  spacious, 
distinctively  styled  New  Moon  home. 
The  down  payment  is  surprisingly  low,  and  monthly 
payments  easily  fit  the  tightest  budget.  Best  of 
all,  your  New  Moon  home  is  completely  furnished 
throughout,  ready  right  now  for  you  to  move  in. 

your  nearest  New  Moon  dealer  or  write  for  free  literature. 
NEW   MOON    HOMES,  INC. 


Alma,  Mich.,  An 


DALLAS  1  ,  TEXAS 

Ga.,  Hazelton,  Pa.,  Rapid  Cil 


and  the  best  buy  for  better  living. 


said,  comforting  the  frightened  child. 

When  Todd  was  being  prepared  for  sur- 
gery, a  slip  of  paper — her  authorization  of 
the  operation — was  handed  to  Debbie.  For 
a  moment  the  words  danced  in  front  of 
her  eyes.  The  words  sounded  so  threaten- 
ing with  their  promise  to  absolve  the  hos- 
pital of  any  blame. 

"It's  just  a  formality,"  she  was  told. 

She  took  the  pen  and  signed  the  release, 
praying  as  she  wrote  her  name  that  all 
would  be  well. 

Todd  was  still  crying.  She  stayed  as  long 
as  they  let  her,  while  they  gave  him  a  shot 
to  make  him  drowsy  and  his  eyes  closed. 
She  walked  out  into  the  corridor,  then, 
and  watched  them  wheel  her  little  boy  on 
the  stretcher  down  the  hall. 

In  the  corridor,  she  pressed  herself 
against  the  wall,  looking  very  small.  The 
people  around  her  seemed  like  shadows  in 
the  night.  How  she  wished  that  one  of 


those  shadows  could  be  Eddie.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  ages  before  the  surgeon  came 
out.  There  was  a  smile  on  his  face.  "He's 
all  right.  Your  little  boy's  been  taken  to 
his  room.  He's  still  'out'  but  he'll  be  fine." 

Debbie  started  down  the  corridor.  "I 
said  I'd  be  right  there  when  he  opened  his 
eyes.  I  want  to  be  with  him."  She  walked 
down  the  hall  to  his  room,  alone.  .  .  . 

It  was  two  days  later  when  Eddie  arrived 
in  Hollywood,  with  Liz.  He  arrived  the  day 
his  son  was  ready  to  be  discharged.  He 
drove  directly  to  St.  Joseph's.  Todd,  like 
the  healthy  child  he  was,  was  recovering 
beautifully.  But  even  so,  he  had  come  too 
late  to  save  Debbie  from  the  night  of  fear 
— when  the  phone  call  she'd  made  to  Eddie 
hadn't  gone  through.  end 

Debbie  will  guest-star  in  Pepe,  for  Co- 
lumbia, and  stars  in  Paramount's  The 
Pleasure  Of  His  Company.  61 


The  Haunted  Honeymoon 


(Continued  from,  page  40) 

ioved  so  desperately,  so  very,  very  much. 

He'd  looked  forward  to  their  wedding 
day. 

But  most  of  all,  strangely,  he'd  looked 
forward  to  this  city  in  faraway  Denmark 
that  Evy  had  talked  so  much  about. 

To  get  away,  for  a  while,  at  least,  from 
Hollywood,  from  California,  where  there 
had  been  little  laughter  for  him  these  past 
few  weeks — ever  since  that  day  he'd  sat 
with  his  son,  his  little  boy,  and  explained 
that  things  were  going  to  be  different  for 
them  both  from  that  day  on.  .  .  . 

They'd  been  at  the  airport  that  day. 
Gloria — Jimmy's  wife,  Jimmy  Jr.'s  mother 
— had  gone  to  a  counter  to  pick  up  her 
tickets  for  Las  Vegas.  And  they'd  sat 
alone,  father  and  son. 

The  boy  was  worried-looking,  confused. 

"But  why,  Daddy,"  he  asked,  "why  can't 
you  come  with  us?  I  thought  you  were 
coming.  Why  can't  you  come?" 

Jimmy  didn't  answer  immediately.  He 
couldn't.  Instead  he  put  his  arms  around 
his  son  and  he  wondered,  "How  do  I  tell 
you  what's  happening,  baby?  How  do  I  tell 
you  the  truth — that  you  and  your  mother 
are  flying  away  so  your  mother  can  get  a 
divorce,  so  that  I  can  get  married  again? 
How  do  I  tell  you,  my  three-year-old 
baby?  .  .  .  How  will  you  even  understand 
what  I'm  talking  about?" 

"The  son  I've  always  wanted" 

For  the  next  minute  or  so,  Jimmy  lied. 
He  began  to  say  something  about  a  pic- 
ture he  was  working  on,  a  picture  that 
would  take  him  very  far  away.  "So,"  he 
said,  "I  thought  that  this  would  be  a  good 
time  for  you  and  your  mama  to  take  a 
vacation.  And  Vegas,  you  know,  that's  real 
old  Indian  territory.  And  I  thought — " 

But  he  stopped.  Because  lying  to  the 
boy,  trying  to  fool  him,  was  no  good,  he 
knew.  He  remembered  other  times  he'd 
tried.  Those  mornings  after  the  separation 
from  Gloria  when  he  would  leave  his 
apartment  on  his  way  to  the  studio  and 
drop  by  the  house,  to  be  with  his  son  for  a 
little  while.  How  the  boy  would  throw  his 
arms  around  him  and  ask,  "Daddy,  where 
you  been  this  morning?"  How  he  would 
answer.  "To  the  grocery  store — I  got  up 
early  and  went  to  do  some  shopping."  How 
the  boy  would  nod  and  say,  "Oh  sure. 
Daddy,  you  been  to  the  grocery".  .  .  But 
how  he  hadn't  been  fooled.  Not  really. 

"Your  mama  and  you,"  Jimmy  found 
himself  saying  now,  suddenly,  "you're  both 
going  to  Las  Vegas  for  six  weeks  .  .  .  And 
before  you  come  back,  I'll  have  gone  away, 
too  .  .  .  First  to  New  York.  Then  to  Europe, 
a  place  called  Europe  .  .  .  I'll  be  gone  for 
two.  maybe  three  months  .  .  .  I'm  going 
with  Evy.  Evy — the  pretty  girl  you  met, 
you  remember?  The  girl  we  went  to  the 
beach  with  on  Sundays  sometimes,  the 
three  of  us?  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  Europe,  baby. 
And  I'm  going  to  go  with  Evy.  Because, 
you  see,  I'm  going  to  marry  Evy — " 

Again  he  stopped. 

And  the  little  boy,  beginning  to  cry, 
asked  softly,  "Are  you  going  away  because 
you  don't  want  me  anymore,  Daddy?" 

Jimmy  hugged  his  son. 

"Of  course  I  want  you,"  he  said.  "I 
always  did  want  you.  And  I  always  will." 
He  tried  to  smile.  "Why,  before  you  were 
even  born,  you  were  exactly  the  baby  I 
wanted,"  he  said.  "Before  your  mother 
went  to  the  hospital,  where  you  were  born, 
you  know  what  I  said  to  her?  I  said,  'Mrs. 
Darren,  you  give  me  a  boy,  my  son,  and 
I'll  get  you  two  dozen  beautiful  roses. 
62  Otherwise,'  I  said,  'you  don't  get  anything.' 


And  she  gave  me  my  boy  .  .  .  you.  And  I 
gave  her  the  roses,  two  dozen,  just  like 
I  said. 

"Yes,  Jimmy,"  he  said.  "I  wanted  you, 
wanted  you  very  much.  And  I  still  do. 
And  I  always  will." 

He  let  go  of  the  boy  now  and  reached 
into  his  pocket. 

He  removed  a  wallet,  and  a  picture 
from  it. 

"Do  you  recognize  this  funny  face?"  he 
aske  '  the  chi'd,  trying  to  smile  again. 

"It's  you,  Daddy."  the  boy  whispered. 

"That's  right."  said  Jimmy.  "Now  here, 
you  put  this  in  your  pocket  .  .  .  like  this  .  .  . 
and  once  in  a  while,  till  I  come  back  and 
see  you  again,  you  take  it  out  and  you 
look  at  it.  So  you  don't  forget  your  daddy, 
this  funny  old  face  of  his  .  .  .  All  right?" 

"All  right,"  said  the  boy. 

And  then  he'd  begun  to  cry  again,  bury- 
ing his  face  in  his  little  hands,  and  sobbing. 

And  Jimmy,  unable  to  watch,  had  gotten 
up  and  walked  away. 

And  gone  back  to  Evy. 

Back  to  the  girl  he  loved,  and  would 
marry. 

Back  to  the  talk  of  their  wedding,  their 
honeymoon,  only  a  few  weeks  away.  .  .  . 

He  was  gloomy  those  next  weeks.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  edgy, 
nervous,  afraid,  sharp-tongued. 

Even  with  Evy. 

They  began  to  fight.  About  silly  things. 
Evy  would  say  something  and  Jimmy 
would  blow  up  one  minute  and  he'd  say 
to  hell  with  any  wedding,  to  hell  with 
everything — and  then  he'd  grab  her  and 
hold  tight  to  her  and  kiss  her.  And  every- 
thing would  be  all  right. 

He  became  abrupt,  too.  with  the  press, 
a  drastic  switch  for  a  fellow  known  as  one 
of  the  best  and  most  pleasant  interviewees 
in  all  of  Hollywood. 

According  to  one  reporter  who  talked 
with  him  during  this  period: 

"I  asked  him  first  to  answer  those  fans 
who  wondered  why  he  was  marrying  a 
European  girl  and  why  he  wasn't  giving 
an  American  girl  a  chance.  It  was  meant 
as  a  light  question,  an  opener. 

"But  he  got  snappy  and  he  said.  'How  do 
you  answer  a  question  like  that?  You  fall 
in  love  with  a  person,  not  a  nationality  .  .  . 
Is  that  a  good  enough  answer?' 

"Then,"  the  reporter  went  on.  "I  men- 
tioned an  article  somewhere  in  which 
Gloria  had  stated — and  I  quoted — 'I  hope 
his  second  wife  doesn't  go  through  what  I 
did  .  .  .  Jimmy  couldn't  let  me  be  an 
individual  after  we  got  married.  He  was 
intensely  jealous  ...  I  never  really  had 
clothes,  anything  new.  We  were  strug- 
gling along  at  first,  of  course,  even  after 
Jimmy  signed  his  picture  contract.  I 
worked  to  help  out.  Every  cent  we  had 
went  for  clothes  for  Jimmy  in  his  new 
career  .  .  .  Today  Jimmy  can't  even  seem 
to  see  why  I  should  have  any  alimony.  It's 
taken  us  months  to  straighten  that  out.  .  .  .' 

"  'How  about  it,  Jimmy,'  I  asked,  'what 
do  you  say  to  this?' 

"And  he  said,  'Gloria's  entitled  to  say 
whatever  she  wants,  I  guess.  I  have  no 
comment  to  make  on  what  she  says.' 

"Then  I  brought  up  another  quote,  this 
one  attributed  to  Jimmy  himself. 

"It  went:  'Evy  and  I  don't  plan  to  have 
children  right  away  because  children  don't 
go  with  careers.' 

"I'd  just  started  to  say  that  this  remark 
had  left  people  wondering  just  where  this 
left  his  son,  when  Jimmy  blew  up  and 
said.  'First  of  all,  I  never  said  that,  about 
me  and  Evy  going  to  wait  to  have  chil- 


dren. I  don't  know  where  they  dream  up 
that  kind  of  stuff.  But  I  never  said  it. 

"  'And  second,  about  my  kid — it's  no- 
body's business  what  I  feel  about  my  kid. 
I  happen  to  love  him.  I  happen  to  miss 
him.  I  happen  to  feel  as  though  I'm  going 
to  bust  sometimes,  break  down  inside  of 
me.  just  thinking  about  him. 

"  'But  that's  my  business,  mister.'  " 

"Maybe  we  shouldn't  get  married" 

One  friend  recalls  that  "at  any  of  the 
parties  we  had  for  him  and  Evy.  Jimmy 
would  sit  around  quiet,  brooding,  looking 
most  of  the  time  as  if  he  were  sorry  he'd 
come.  Oh  sure,  he'd  snap  out  of  it  once 
in  a  while — smile,  joke  around  a  little, 
act  like  the  old  Jimmy.  But  those  times 
were  rare.  .  .  . 

"The  worst  time  came  the  night  before 
they  left.  I  remember.  I  was  in  this  res- 
taurant having  dinner  with  them.  Jimmy 
and  Evy  and  a  couple  of  other  people.  I 
remember  we'd  just  started  to  eat  when 
Jimmy  got  up  from  the  table  and  disap- 
peared for  a  while.  And  when  he  came 
back  he  looked  as  if  his  best  friend  had 
just  died  ...  I  found  out  later  that  he'd 
gone  to  phone  Gloria  in  Vegas,  to  ask  her 
if  he  could  say  a  few  words  to  his  son. 
say  good-bye:  that  the  manager  of  the  hotel 
where  they  were  staying  said  Gloria  wasn't 
accepting  any  calls,  that  the  boy  was  asleep 
already  and  that  it  was  too  late.  .  .  ." 

When  Jimmy  and  Evy  arrived  in  New 
York  the  next  day  they  had,  in  Jimmy's 
words,  "another  of  our  fights.  Here  we'd 
come  to  make  final  arrangements  for  the 
wedding.  But  we  ended  up  arguing  about 
something.  And  I  said.  'Look,  maybe  we 
shouldn't  get  married  now.  Maybe  we 
should  go  back  to  California  and  think 
things  over  for  a  while.'  Evy  was  too  hurt 
to  say  anything.  She  said  only.  'You're  the 
man.  it's  up  to  you.'  Then,  the  next  day.  af ter 
a  long  night,  a  sleepless  night.  I  realized 
how  much  I  loved  her  and  wanted  to  marry 
her.  I  sent  her  flowers  to  her  hotel.  .  .  ." 

The  wedding  took  place  in  the  Our  Lady 
Chapel  of  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral  on  Sat- 
urday. February  8. 

And  two  days  later  Jimmy  and  Evy  were 
in  Copenhagen,  Evy's  city  of  laughter. 

The  first  stop  of  their  strange  and 
haunted  honeymoon.  .  .  . 

Jimmy  seemed  happy  enough,  out- 
wardly, meeting  En's  mother  and  father, 
her  old  friends  and  neighbors. 

To  Evy's  mother  in  particular,  reputedly 
one  of  the  best  cooks  in  Denmark,  he  was 
a  dream  come  true,  a  son-in-law  who, 
though  he  could  not  speak  her  language, 
learned  quickly  how  to  say  J  eg  er  sulten 
(I'm  hungry),  thus  sending  her  scooting 
happily  into  the  kitchen  a  dozen  or  so 
times  a  day. 

Feast  night 

It  was,  in  fact,  on  the  afternoon  of  his 
third  day  at  the  Norlunds"  when  Jimmy, 
in  the  kitchen  watching  Mrs.  Norlund 
prepare  something,  found  out  about  the 
special  feast  she  was  planning  for  that 
night. 


PHOTOGRAPHERS'  CREDITS 

The  photographs  appearing  in  this  issue 

are  credited  below  page  by  page: 
17 — Darlene  Hammond  of  Pictorial  Parade:  18 
— Darlene  Hammond  of  Pic.  Parade.  Celebrities 
from  Pictorial.  Vista  Photos.  Wide  World:  19 — 
Wide  World.  Annan  Photo  Features.  Darlene 
Hammond  of  Pic.  Parade:  20 — FLO.  Leo  Fuchs 
of  Globe.  Wide  World:  21 — Dave  Sutton  of  Gal- 
axy, Nat  Dallinger  of  Gilloon.  Vista  Photos. 
London  Dailv  Express:  22 — Wide  World.  Zinn 
Arthur  of  Topix.  UPI:  23 — Dick  Miller  of  Globe. 
Jack  Albin  of  Pic.  Parade:  24  Darlene  Ham- 
mond of  Pic.  Parade.  Celebrities  of  Pic.  Parade: 
27-29 — Zinn  Arthur  of  Topix:  30-31 — Globe: 
32-33 — Rick  Strauss  of  Globe:  34-36 — Lynn 
Pelham  of  Rapho-Guillumette:  38-39 — Topix: 
40-41 — Peter  Basch:  42 — UPI:  44-45 — Curt 
Gunther  of  Topix:  54-57 — Lawrence  Schiller. 


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"I  know,  Jimmy,"  she  said  through  Evy. 
her  interpreter.  " — you  don't  like  any  big 
crowds.  You're  tired  of  them,  too  many 
people  at  once  .  .  .  But  just  this  one  night. 
I  must  have  the  big  feast.  In  your  and 
my  Evy's  honor  .  .  .  Just  for  the  family — " 
She  winked:  " — about  thirty  of  us;  maybe 
a  few  more  ...  In  your  and  my  Evy's 
honor." 

By  eight  o'clock  that  night  the  part}-  had 
begun.  And  the  relatives — hordes  of  them — 
began  arriving. 

They  came  from  all  over,  from  Copen- 
hagen proper,  from  surrounding  towns 
and  farms  outside  those  towns;  by  car,  by 
trolley,  by  train,  by  foot. 

They  included  an  uncle,  who  played 
accordion,  for  those  people  who  would 
dance;  a  few  aunts,  who  sang,  for  those 
\  who  would  listen;  several  other  women, 
aunts  and  cousins  and  nieces,  who  brought 
along  quantities  of  homemade  foods,  to  add 
to  Mrs.  Norlund's  already-plentiful  smor- 
gasbord. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  party  was  in  full 
swing  and  Jimmy,  despite  his  silent  appre- 
hensions at  first,  found  himself  having  a 
good  time,  a  very  good  time. 

He  danced. 

He  sang  along  with  the  ever-singing 
aunts. 
He  ate. 

And,  though  normally  not  a  drinker,  he 
drank  a  little  of  each  of  the  several  drinks 
being  handed  out  by  a  jolly-faced  old- 
timer — a  little  beer  at  first,  then  some 
wine,  then  some  of  the  hard  stuff. 

And,  more  and  more,  he  found  himself 
having  a  good  time,  a  very  good  time,  for 
the  first  time  in  a  long  time. 

Until  suddenly,  at  one  point,  while 
dancing  with  Evy,  he  saw  a  couple  enter 
the  room  from  the  outside  hallway — and 
with  them  a  small  boy.  four  or  five  years 
old. 

"Look,"  Evy  said,  spotting  them  too,  at 
practically  the  same  moment,  "my  favorite 
cousin,  Helga,  and  her  husband  .  .  .  And 
they've  brought  the  little  son,  Kurt." 

She  led  Jimmy  over  to  them  and  intro- 
duced them,  first  Helga,  then  her  husband, 
then  the  boy. 

"Hello,"  Jimmy  said  to  all  three,  but 
never  removing  his  eyes  from  the  boy's. 

"Now  Jimmy,"  he  heard  the  girl  called 
Helga  say,  after  a  moment,  "though  we  do 
not  speak  English  well,  my  husband  and  I, 
we  have  taught  our  boy  to  give  you  a 
greeting  in  your  language  ...  Go  ahead, 
Kurt  .  .  .  Say  what  we  taught  you." 

The  little  boy  stiffened,  and  cleared  his 
throat. 

And  then,  very  slowly,  he  said: 
"My  name  is  Kurt  ...  I  give  you  wel- 
come ...  I  hope  you  like  our  city  .  .  .  And 
I  hope  when  you  return  to  the  United 
States  of  America  that  you  will  bring  my 
greeting  to  your  own  city  of — " 
He  stopped. 

"Hollywood?"  asked  Evy. 

"Ja."  said  the  boy,  " — Holly-vood." 

The  others  laughed. 

Jimmy  nodded. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  not  laughing, 
"thank  you  very  much." 

He  put  his  hand  on  the  boy's  head  and. 
for  a  short  moment,  he  closed  his  eyes. 

And  then,  opening  them,  he  excused 
himself  and  turned  and  walked  back  across 
the  room,  through  the  still-dancing  crowd, 
to  the  spot  where  the  jolly-faced  oldtimer 
was  still  handing  out  the  drinks.  .  .  . 

The  haunted  honeymoon 

Evy  looked  over  at  him  from  the  bed,  as 
he  stood  near  the  window,  staring  out  at 
the  night,  intently,  the  way  he  had  stared 
at  the  boy,  downstairs,  a  little  while  earlier. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  long  time,  say- 
ing nothing. 

And  then,  finally,  she  spoke. 


"Why  don't  you  talk  about  him,  Jimmy?" 
she  asked,  softly.  "It  will  make  you  feel 
better." 

"Talk  about  who?"  asked  Jimmy,  his 
voice   little   more   than   a   flat  whisper. 

"Your  son,"  Evy  said.  "I  know  you're 
thinking  of  him.  I  understand  how  you 
feel  .  .  .  You  never  talk  about  him,  Jimmy. 
But  please,  turn  around — and  talk  about 
him  to  me.  It  will  make  you  feel  better." 

"No,  Evy,"  he  said,  not  turning.  "I  won't 
feel  any  better.  And  you'll  feel  worse." 

Then  he  said,  "Haven't  I  done  enough, 
enough  to  spoil  this  honeymoon  of  ours?" 

"It's  a  beautiful  honeymoon,"  Evy  said. 
"You  haven't  spoiled  anything  .  .  .  It's  a 
beautiful  honeymoon,  Jimmy." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  wanted  it  to  be,"  he  said.  "But  how 
can  it  be?  ...  A  honeymoon  is  for  two 
people,  Evy.  That's  a  simple  fact  about 
honeymoons,  Evy.  Everybody  knows  that 
about  honeymoons  .  .  .  But  we're  not  alone, 
are  we?  There's  a  third  person  with  us. 
He's  been  with  us  since  the  minute  we 
started.  He's  going  to  be  with  us,  more 
and  more,  as  we  go  along  ...  I  know  it's 
not  right  .  .  .  But  I  can't  get  him  out  of 
my  mind." 

"He's  your  son,"  Evy  said.  "You  must 
never  get  him  out  of  your  mind.  You  must 
think  of  him  always." 

"Think  of  him?"  Jimmy  asked,  laughing 
suddenly,  a  low  and  hollow  laugh.  "Think 
of  him?  .  .  .  That's  all  I  do,  Evy,  is  think  of 
him.  And  it's  not  fair  to  you  ...  I  think 
of  him.  I  dream  about  him.  And  in  all  my 
thoughts  and  dreams,  do  you  know  what 
he's  doing?" 

He  paused. 

"What?"  Evy  asked. 

"He's  forgetting  me,"  Jimmy  said.  "Day 
by  day,  hour  by  hour,  he's  looking  around 
for  me  with  those  big  black  eyes  of  his. 
And  he  doesn't  see  me.  And  so  he's  for- 
getting me  .  .  .  Like  you  forget  anything 
you  aren't  around  all  the  time.  Like  with 
me,  when  I  go  back  to  South  Philly  some- 
times, to  the  street  where  I  was  born, 
where  I  used  to  play,  where  I  grew  up — I 
realize  when  I  get  back  there  how  much 
I've  forgotten  about  it  .  .  .  All  because  I've 
been  away  so  long.  .  .  ." 

He  took  a  deep  breath. 

"That's  how  it  is  with  people,  things, 


Evy,"  he  said  then.  "How  it  was  with  me. 
How  it  is  with  my  son  .  .  .  You  forget  .  .  . 
You  can't  help  it.  And  God,  Evy,  God,  but 
I  don't  want  my  little  boy  to  forget  me!" 

Evy  got  out  of  the  bed  and  rushed  over 
to  him  and  took  him  in  her  arms. 

"Jimmy,"  she  said,  "it's  getting  cold  here, 
by  the  open  windows.  You  should  come  to 
bed." 

Again  he  shook  his  head.  "Not  now."  he 
said,  "not  for  just  a  little  while." 

"Jimmy,"  Evy  said,  "I'm  not  going  to 
leave  you  till  you  come  back  with  me.  I'll 
stand  here  all  night." 

"Just  a  little  while  more,"  he  said.  "I 
Want  to  be  alone,  just  a  little  while  more." 

"Jimmy — please."  Evy  said,  begging  now. 

"No,"  he  said,  his  voice  loud,  angry.  "I 
said  I — " 

But  he  stopped. 

And  he  clutched  her  suddenly. 

And  he  buried  his  face  in  her  neck,  and 
he  began  to  cry. 

As  she  said,  very  softly,  "Jimmy,  Jimmy 
.  .  .  It's  going  to  be  all  right  .  .  .  You'll 
see.  .  .  ." 

How  it  is  in  Copenhagen 

It  was  the  following  morning. 

Evy  walked  into  their  room  and  handed 
Jimmy  a  letter  that  had  just  come  from  the 
States. 

The  handwriting  on  the  envelope  was 
Gloria's. 

But  the  return  address  was  marked 
"James  Darren,  Jr." 

Jimmy  opened  the  envelope  and  pulled 
out  the  sheet  of  paper  inside  it. 

On  the  paper  was  a  drawing,  crude  and 
comical,  of  a  little  boy. 

Below  it,  printed  in  large  and  slanting 
letters,  were  the  words: 

"DEAR  DADDY,  I  LOVE  YOU" 

Jimmy  and  Evy  looked  up  from  the 
paper  after  a  while,  and  at  one  another. 

And  somehow,  they  both  began  to  laugh. 

"I  told  you,"  Evy  said,  "that  this  is  the 
way  it  would  be  in  Copenhagen — on  our 
honeymoon.  Didn't  I,  Jimmy? 

"I  told  you,"  Evy  said,  laughing  even 
more,  and  bending  to  kiss  her  husband. 

"I  told  you — !"  end 

Jimmy  will  star  in  Gtjns  Of  Navarone, 
for  Columbia. 


1  Am  Going  to  Adopt  a 


(Continued  from  page  29) 

lame    and    fortune   here    in  Hollywood. 

Since  she  married  Arthur  Miller  and 
moved  to  New  York  and  Connecticut  to 
live,  we  do  not  see  one  another  as  often 
as  we  did  in  the  beginning  of  her  career 
when  her  agent,  Johnny  Hyde,  was  deeply 
in  love  with  her  (he  was  my  good  friend, 
too)  and  the  powerful  and  influential  pro- 
ducer Joseph  Schenck  befriended  her  and 
gave  her  the  advantage  of  his  wisdom  and 
understanding. 

Yet,  we  have  never  lost  touch.  When 
she  comes  to  Hollywood  to  work,  not  too 
frequently  in  the  past  years,  she  always 
calls  me,  "because  you  are  my  friend." 

Last  year  she  telephoned  to  say  hello 
on  a  day  when  I  was  giving  a  garden  party 
and  I  invited  her  to  come,  hardly  expect- 
ing she  would  accept  as  she  had  just  flown 
in  that  morning.  But  she  came — a  ravish- 
ing creature  in  a  black  cocktail  dress,  de- 
lighting my  guests,  posing  for  pictures, 
laughing  in  that  soft  child-like  voice  of 
hers — truly  a  'social  show-stopper.' 

And,  when  she  returned  to  the  West 
Coast  to  start  (the  currently  strike-struck) 
Let's  Fall  In  Love  for  20-Century  Fox,  she 
had  called  to  invite  me  to  a  studio  party 
she  was  hostessing  to  introduce  her  friend 
and  co-star,  the  talented  Yves  Montand. 
I  hadn't  been  able  to  accept  because  of  an 
early  dinner  appointment. 

So  what  happens?  Marilyn  left  her  party 
before  it  officially  ended  to  come  over  to 
my  house,  catching  me  with  my  hair  in 
pin  curls  just  before  I  got  under  the  hair 
dryer — a  strange  and  weird  time  to  be  re- 
ceiving the  world's  most  glamorous  wom- 
an, you  must  admit!  Marilyn  wasn't  in  the 
least  fazed  and  we  chatted  and  gossiped, 
as  women  do,  in  that  short  time  we  had 
before  both  of  us  were  due  for  other  en- 
gagements. 

A  real  heart-to-heart 

It  wasn't  until  later  that  it  occurred  to 
me  that  Marilyn  and  I  had  not  had  one 
of  our  real  heart-to-heart  talks  that  so 
frequently  marked  our  early  friendship 
in  a  long,  long  time.  Deciding  to  put  the 
thought  into  action,  I  called  the  studio 
and  asked  if  it  would  be  convenient  for 
me  to  see  her  that  very  afternoon  on  the 
set  of  Let's  Make  Love. 

She  sent  back  word  for  me  to  come  at 
my  convenience  (and  this  is  the  star  who 
has  frequently  been  accused  of  being  so 
difficult  and  aloof?). 

I  hadn't,  however,  exactly  been  prepared 
for  Marilyn  to  meet  me  at  the  entrance 
to  20th,  accompanied  by  none  other  than 
Arthur  Miller,  their  arms  linked  as  they 
walked  forward  to  greet  me! 

Marilyn  had  taken  the  short  stroll  from 
the  Let's  Make  Love  set  wearing  her  cos- 
tume for  the  scene,  a  black  tight-fitting 
ballet  outfit  with  a  touch  of  deep  pink 
and  slippers  with  high  pink  heels.  She 
looked  slender,  far  more  slender  than 
when  she  first  arrived,  and  even  the  heavy 
screen  make-up  and  the  exaggerated 
beading  of  her  eyelashes  couldn't  hide 
that  she  looked  well,  healthy  and  happy. 
Miller  was  in  casual  sports  attire  and  some 
of  the  California  sun  had  tanned  him.  He 
looked  younger  than  I  had  expected, 
standing  there  with  his  famous  wife,  his 
arm  now  around  her  shoulder. 

Marilyn's  introduction  was  simple,  "I 
want  you  two  to  know  each  other  and  be 
friends,"  she  said. 

Arthur  shook  hands,  "Don't  you  re- 
member we  met  at  Laurence  Olivier  and 
Vivien  Leigh's  party  for  Marilyn  and  me 
64  in  London?"— which,  of  course,  I  did. 


Baby 


He  told  me  he  had  just  returned  from 
Ireland  where  he  had  conferred  with  John 
Houston  who  is  going  to  direct  Miller's  in- 
dependent picture  starring  Marilyn,  The 
Misfits.  We  chatted  for  a  moment  about 
Ireland  which  we  both  love  and  then 
Arthur  excused  himself. 

"I'm  on  my  way  back  to  the  hotel  to 
work  on  the  story — and  besides  you  two 
don't  really  want  a  man  around,"  he 
laughed.  And  this  tall,  dark,  intelligent  and 
brilliant  man  didn't  worry  about  spoiling 
his  wife's  make-up  as  he  kissed  her  good- 
bye. 

Luckily,  Marilyn  was  not  immediately 
needed  in  the  scenes  as  we  returned  to 
the  set  and  found  two  comfortable  chairs 
where  we  could  sit  and  talk  uninterrupted. 

As  we  sat  down  I  said  to  Marilyn,  "It's 
only  fair  to  warn  you  that  I  am  going  to 
ask  you  a  lot  of  personal  questions  as  to 
what  it's  like  being  Mrs.  Arthur  Miller 
and  how  Arthur  fits  into  your  life  of 
glamour."  Everyone  knows  that  Marilyn's 
private  life  with  Arthur  Miller  has  been 
a  well-guarded  secret  and  I  believe  this 
is  the  first  time  she  has  discussed  her  per- 
sonal life  with  her  husband  with  anyone. 

She  gave  me  one  of  those  'upswept 
looks'  so  famous  in  her  screen  close-ups. 
But  she  was  smiling,  and  waiting — so  I 
took  the  plunge. 

"Do  you  think  you  would  be  so  madly 
in  love  with  Arthur  if  he  weren't  Arthur 
Miller,  the  brilliant  author  of  Death  of  a 
Salesman,  The  Bridge  and  other  Broadway 
successes?"  I  started. 

She  didn't  hesitate.  "Of  course  I  would. 
I  am  in  love  with  the  man,  not  the  mind. 
When  I  first  met  Arthur  I  didn't  even 
know  he  was  the  famed  writer  of  plays 
and  the  Arthur  Miller  I  became  attracted 
to  was  the  man — a  man  of  such  charm- 
ing personality,  warmth  and  friendliness." 

Marilyn  went  on  slowly,  "I  won't  say 
that  later  I  didn't  fall  more  in  love  with 
him  after  I  grew  to  know  him  and  to  ap- 
preciate his  great  talent  and  intellect. 
But  I  would  have  loved  him  for  himself 
without  his  fine  achievements." 

Life  with  a  brilliant  man 

"But  living  with  even  a  brilliant  man 
can't  be  all  aesthetic,"  I  said,  beginning  to 
feel  a  bit  like  a  dissecting  surgeon.  "There 
must  be  quarrels,  at  least  differences  be- 
tween you." 

"This  may  be  hard  to  believe — but  we  do 
not  quarrel  at  all!  I  mean  by  that — we 
don't  indulge  in  ugly  scenes  and  words. 
Of  course,  any  marriage  has  to  have  some 
adjustments,  but  why  can't  they  be  made 
in  good  temper?  Neither  Arthur  nor  I 
are  quarrelsome — we  aren't  quick  to  fly 
off  the  handle  about  trivial  things.  True, 
we  do  not  always  agree — but  we  always 
adjust  these  problems  with  our  voices 
lowered,"  she  smiled  again. 

"In  your  private  life  do  you  prefer  to 
be  called  Marilyn  Monroe  or  Mrs.  Arthur 
Miller?" 

She  didn't  have  to  think  about  this — 
"Mrs.  Arthur  Miller!"  and  her  voice 
tingled  with  pride. 

"In  any  marriage,  one  of  the  partners 
usually  dominates,"  I  said.  "In  yours, 
which  one  is  the  boss?" 

Someone  had  brought  us  two  paper- 
cups  of  tea  and  I  had  decided  if  this 
query  got  lost  in  the  pleasantries  of  thank - 
yous,  I  would  repeat  it.  But  Marilyn 
waited  only  until  we  were  alone  again 
before  she  said: 

"Well,  now  I  suppose  in  New  York,  Ar- 
thur is  the  boss.  And  here,  everything 


centers  around  me  when  I  am  working." 

I  had  heard  that  Arthur  babied,  pam- 
pered and  petted  Marilyn  almost  as  though 
she  were  a  child.  "He  does  baby  you, 
doesn't  he?"  I  said. 

She  really  laughed  now — leaning  over 
to  pat  my  arm.  "Of  course  he  doesn't,  nor 
does  he  treat  me  like  a  child.  I  am  his 
wife  in  every  sense  of  that  word. 

"We  meet  on  common  and  congenial 
ground  but  as  a  man  and  a  woman!" — 
and  you  just  know  she  meant  it! 

"Of  course  Arthur  advises  me  and  helps 
me  to  adjust  myself.  It  has  always  been 
a  problem  with  me  that  I  am  too  easily 
frightened,  retiring,  unsure  of  myself — and 
he  has  helped  me  very  much  toward  over- 
coming this  feeling,"  Marilyn  added. 

"You  know,"  I  told  her,  "a  psychiatrist 
said  the  reason  you  become  ill  before 
starting  a  picture  and  during  the  shooting 
is  that  you  don't  really  want  to  be  a  mo- 
tion picture  star!" 

All  this  time  we  had  been  talking, 
Marilyn  had  shown  no  displeasure  or  im- 
patience. But  she  did  now.  Obviously,  she 
had  heard  this  charge  before  and  it  was 
just  as  obvious  that  she  resented  it. 

"You,  perhaps  as  well  as  anyone  I  know, 
know  how  very  hard  I  have  worked  to 
become  a  motion  picture  star.  I  love  my 
work;  it  has  brought  me  much  happiness 
and  satisfaction.  Any  psychiatrist  who 
would  make  a  statement  like  that  can- 
not be  much  more  than  a  headline  seeker. 
Such  things  are  supposed  to  be  secret  and 
held  inviolate." 

She  repeated,  speaking  hurriedly  (for 
her)  in  her  sincerity,  "I  do  love  acting — 
and  when  I  am  in  New  York  between 
pictures  I  attend  the  Lee  Strasberg  School 
and  study  all  the  time  Arthur  is  busy  on 
his  plays." 

When  in  New  York  .  .  . 

The  mention  of  her  life  in  New  York 
gave  me  a  rather  welcome  chance  to 
change  the  subject  and  I  did  with,  "Tell 
me  something  about  the  way  you  and 
Arthur  live  in  New  York." 

Her  good  humor  restored,  Marilyn 
seemed  happy  at  the  opportunity  to  dis- 
cuss her  life  in  the  East.  "We  have  really 
a  wonderful  set  up — an  apartment  in  the 
heart  of  New  York  and  a  house  with 
beautiful  gardens  in  Connecticut.  We 
actually  live  a  very  homey  life— we  aren't 
'night-people,'  either  of  us. 

"Our  most  frequent  visitors  are  Arthur's 
two  children,  Janie,  fifteen,  and  Bobby, 
twelve."  (Marilyn  actually  glowed  when 
she  spoke  of  the  Miller  children  whom 
she  had  previously  told  me  she  likes  very 
much.)  They  come  to  us  for  dinner  every 
Tuesday,  every  other  week  end  and  for  a 
third  of  their  vacation.  They  are  such 
nice,  well-mannered  children  and  I  am 
very  fond  of  them.  I  think  they  like  me, 
too,"  she  said  softly  but  proudly. 

I  smiled,  "Sounds  like  you  run  quite 
an  establishment— rather,  two  establish- 
ments, Marilyn.  Do  you  have  a  great  deal 
of  help?" 

She  answered,  "To  the  contrary.  We 
employ  one  permanent  maid,  we  share  a 
secretary  and  a  cleaning  woman  comes  in 
as  often  as  we  need  her  depending  on  how 
much  entertaining  we  do.  When  we  are  in 
the  country — I  very  often  do  the  cooking." 

This  was  almost  too  much!  The  idea  of 
the  beautiful,  glamorous  Marilyn,  who 
looked  like  she  could  be  kept  under  glass 
she  was  so  lovely  this  day,  laboring  over 
a  red  hot  stove  was  more  than  I  could 
take.  I  had  to  laugh — and  for  the  first  time, 
even  she  gave  that  little  giggle  for  which 
she  used  to  be  famous. 

But  she  stuck  to  her  guns.  "You'd  be 
surprised— honest.  And  whether  anyone 
believes  it  or  not.  I  can  do  more  than 
scrambled  eggs  and  prepare  frozen  foods. 


I  have  learned  how  to  make  noodles  that 
don't  come  out  of  a  package — and  I  bake 
bread  very  well." 

"Oh,  come  on  now — you  buy  the  mixes," 
I  protested. 

"No,  I  don't — I  don't  like  mixes.  I  use 
yeast  and  set  my  own  bread.  Have  you 
ever  read  The  Joy  Of  Cooking?  It's  a 
cookbook  that  gives  fine  recipes  but  it  also 
emphasizes  the  actual  happiness  there  is 
connected  with  cooking — and  it  can  be  a 
big  pleasure  in  a  woman's  life,  not  a 
chore.  I  read  it  often  and  it  makes  me  feel 
happy." 

I  said,  "Marilyn,  here  you  sit  looking 
like  a  poster  girl  and  talking  like  a  hans- 
frau  with  a  dozen  children  under  her 
feet!" 

"I  wish  there  were,"  my  beautiful  friend 
said  softly.  Twice  Marilyn  had  lost  babies 
through  miscarriages,  the  last  one  with 
great  jeopardy  to  her  own  life,  and  her 
face  saddens  whenever  she  speaks  of 
children.  She  wants  one  so  very  much. 

"And,  I  haven't  given  up  hope,"  she  said 
simply.  "More  than  anything  in  the  world 
I  want  a  baby,  lots  of  babies.  And,  God 
willing,  for  every  baby  I  have — I'm  going 
to  adopt  another  one."  That  was  a  surprise! 

"Then,  why  don't  you  adopt  one  now?" 
I  asked.  '"They  say  it  frequently  happens 
that  if  a  child  is  adopted,  childless  parents 
then  are  blessed  with  one  of  their  own." 

Marilyn  looked  thoughtful,  "I  don't 
know  whether  Arthur  would  like  for  us  to 
adopt  one  first.  But  I'm  going  to  take  your 
advice  and  talk  to  him  about  it.  Mean- 
while. I  do  not  want  to  seem  sad  or  de- 
pressed about  it  to  him — I'm  very  grate- 
ful and  happy  with  my  life.  It  is  very  full. 
We  are  rich  in  our  work  and  in  our  family 
and  friends." 

"Just  who  do  you  and  Arthur  see  the 
most  often  socially?"  I  put  in. 

The  Miller  circle 

"I  suppose  our  closest  friends  are  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Norman  Rosten.  He  is  the  play- 
wright-poet and  he  and  Arthur  have  a  lot 
in  common.  I  like  Mrs.  Rosten  very  much, 
too.  We  also  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eitor  Rella. 
He  is  also  a  poet  and  writes  plays.  Our 
little  circle  is  rounded  out  by  my  hus- 
band's publishers  and,  of  course,  Paula 
and  Lee  Strasberg,  dear  and  close  per- 
sonal friends  of  mine." 

We  had  been  lucky  that  we  had  en- 
joyed such  a  long  chat  uninterrupted,  but 
Marilyn  was  now  being  summoned  before 
the  cameras.  Director  George  Cukor 
walked  over  to  personally  tell  Marilyn 
they  were  ready. 

"Don't  leave,"  she  said  to  me,  "I  want 
Paula  (Strasberg)  to  come  and  chat  with 
you.  You'll  learn  why  I  am  so  fond  of 
her,"— and  she  beckoned  for  the  famed 


woman-half  of  the  dramatic  coaching  team 
to  take  her  chair  beside  me. 

Mrs.  Strasberg  is  indeed  a  likable  per- 
son, animated,  warm  and  understanding 
and  she  is  devoted  to  her  famous  pupil. 

I  told  her,  "I  have  never  seen  Marilyn 
as  relaxed  and  as  much  at  ease  as  she  is 
today.  Yet  she  still  seems  to  have  periods 
of  illness  and  nervousness  which  keep  her 
from  working — why  do  you  think  this  is?" 

Mrs.  Strasberg  answered,  "I  think  my 
husband  has  the  solution:  he  says  that 
nervousness  indicates  sensitivity  and  that's 
what  Marilyn  has,  great  sensitivity.  And 
then,  Marilyn  is  still  frightened,  although 
she  is  overcoming  it.  Lee  says,  'Show  me 
an  actress  who  isn't  frightened  and  nerv- 
ous and  I  will  say  she  won't  go  far.' 

"Marilyn  has  God-given  talent,  really 
phenomenal  talent.  My  husband  says  she 
is  a  combination  of  Jeanne  Eagles  and 
Pauline  Lord.  Like  them,  she  is  greatly 
misunderstood.  Where  Marilyn's  work  is 
concerned,  she  wants  perfection  and  to 
achieve  perfection  in  anything  is  well  nigh 
impossible.  But  she  constantly  seeks  it — 
even  at  the  expense  of  her  health  and 
peace  of  mind." 

Time  was  getting  late  and  I  should  be 
getting  off.  But  I  wanted  to  say  good-bye 
to  Marilyn  after  she  completed  her  scene 
with  Yves  Montand.  the  fascinating  French 
"one-man  show'  making  his  American  debut 
with  la  Monroe. 

Coming  from  in  front  of  the  camera 
Marilyn  said,  "Yves  is  the  most  exciting- 
new  male  star  of  years."  she  laughed. 
"He's  all  male,  too — a  cross  between  Clark 
Gable  and  Marlon  Brando.  He's  going  to 
be  a  big  success  in  American  movies — 
watch  and  see." 

"Does  he  win  you  in  Let's  Make  Love?" 
I  prompted. 

"Yes,  but  he  thinks  I'm  in  love  with 
Frankie  Vaughn,  the  popular  English 
singer  also  appearing  in  his  first  Hollywood 
movie.  But  that's  all  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  of  the  plot.  Everybody  will  know  what 
happens — and  won't  buy  tickets,"  she 
lauehed. 

Marilyn  linked  her  arm  through  mine 
and  walked  with  me  to  the  door  of  the 
stage  where  my  car  was  waiting. 

I  was  grateful  to  her  for  seeing  me  on 
such  short  notice  on  a  day  when  she  was 
working  and  I  told  her  so  as  I  kissed  her 
good-bye. 

"But  you  are  my  friend,"  she  said, — as 
though  that  explained  everything.  And 
certainly  to  me,  it  explained  much  about 
this  beautiful  and  complicated  girl  who  is 
today's  Star  of  Stars  in  the  motion  picture 
world.  end 

Marilyn  will  star  in  The  Misfits,  United 
Artists,  and  Let's  Make  Love,  for  20th-Fox. 


aur  lashes  look  as^ 
they  really  are!  V"^ 


Is  Liz  Afraid  to  Have  a  Baby  With  Eddie? 


(Continued  from  page  36) 


these 


They   had    been    fun  mornings, 
mornings  on  the  rock. 

Except  that  this  morning,  Eddie  noticed, 
something  seemed  to  be  wrong. 

For  Liz  was  unusually  quiet. 

And  there  was  a  sadness  about  her,  sud- 
denly, in  her  eyes,  in  the  set  of  her  lips 
as  she  lay  there  on  her  back,  staring  up 
silently  at  the  sky— a  sadness  Eddie  had 
not  seen  in  her  for  a  long  time  now. 

He  tried,  at  first,  to  pretend  not  to 
notice:  as  if,  if  he  made  with  the  small 
talk  now,  tried  to  cheer  her  up,  the  sad- 
ness would  vanish. 

So  he  talked — about  this,  about  that, 
about  anything  that  came  to  his  mind. 


But,  he  saw  after  a  while,  that  it  was 
doing  little  good. 

Finally,  Eddie  asked,  "Honey  ...  is 
there  something  wrong?" 

"No,"  Liz  whispered. 

"Honey."  Eddie  said  again,  after  a  mo- 
ment, waiting  for  his  wife  to  look  over 
at  him. 

She  didn't. 

"Honev,"  he  said,  louder  this  time,  "is—" 
"I'm  sorry,"  Liz  interrupted  him,  shak- 
ing her  head,  shifting  her  eyes  to  his.  "I 
was  distracted  ...  I  was  just  looking  up 
at  that  cloud,  that  lonely  little  cloud  up 
there,  thinking  about  what  it  looked 
like.  .  .  ." 


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She  looked  back  up,  and  Eddie  followed 
her  gaze. 

"Well,  to  me,"  said  Eddie,  " — you  know 
what  it  looks  like  to  me?" 
He  hesitated. 

"Like  a  lamb,  all  white,  all  fleecy  .  .  . 
huh?"  he  said. 
Liz  said  nothing. 

"A  pillow?"  Eddie  said.  "A  little  bit 
crumpled  up?" 

Still,  Liz  said  nothing. 

"Okay,"  said  Eddie,  laughing.  "I  give  up. 
You  tell  me  .  .  .  Come  on."  He  repeated  it. 
"Come  on,"  he  said. 

"It  reminds  me,"  Liz  said  slowly,  softly, 
finally,  "of  a  baby." 

"Hmmmmrn,"  Eddie  said.  "A  baby  .  .  . 
No,  I  don't  see  that  exactly.  But — " 

He  stopped  as  he  felt  Liz  take  his  hand, 
and  squeeze  it,  tightly,  desperately. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"The  wind,"  said  Liz,  still  staring.  "It's 
breaking  it  up  .  .  .  it's  taking  the  cloud 
away.  .  .  ." 

A  dream  of  a  baby 

She  began  to  cry,  suddenly. 

"Liz,"  Eddie  said,  confused,  worried 
himself  now,  "what  is  it?  What's  the 
matter?" 

"It's — "  Liz  said.  "It's  that — " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It's  what?"  Eddie  asked. 

"It's  that."  Liz  said,  "that  sometimes  it 
comes,  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  Like  it 
came  last  night.  Last  night,  Eddie.  .  .  . 

"What  comes?"  he  asked. 

"The  dream,"  she  said,  quickly.  "I  had  it 
last  night.  I  hadn't  had  it  for  a  while.  But 
last  night,  it  came  again  . . .  The  dream  " 

Eddie  asked  her  to  tell  him  about  it. 

And,  after  a  while,  a  long  long  moment 
of  silence,  she  did. 

"It's  a  simple  dream,"  she  said,  opening 
her  eyes,  looking  back  at  him,  "very  short, 
always  the  same. 

"I'm  in  a  chair,  sitting  in  a  chair,"  she 
said.  "And  I'm  holding  a  baby,  a  tiny  baby, 
a  new-born  baby.  And  for  a  while,  as  I 
sit  there,  I  wonder  whose  baby  this  is  that 
I'm  holding.  I  never  know.  Not  really. 
And  then,  a  little  time  goes  by,  and  I 
look  up.  And  I  see  someone  standing  there. 
And  it's  you,  Eddie — it's  you  standing 
there.  And  you're  looking  down  at  me  and 
the  baby,  and  you're  smiling.  And  I  realize 
then  that  it's  our  baby.  Our  baby,  Eddie. 
Yours  and  mine  .  .  .  And  then — " 

She  paused. 

'And  then  what,  Liz?"  Eddie  asked. 

"And  then,"  Liz  said,  "then  I  wake  up. 
I  wake  up  and  I  find  myself  smiling,  too, 
just  as  if  it  weren't  all  a  dream,  as  if  it 
were  true.  And  I  keep  smiling  till  .  .  .  till 
I  realize  that  it  isn't  true,  not  at  all  true. 
That  we  have  no  baby,  you  and  me.  That 
we  may  never  have  a  baby  .  .  .  Till  I  re- 
member what  all  the  doctors  have  told 
me,  over  and  over  again,  about  the  risk  for 
me  of  having  another  child  after  three 
caesareans  .  .  And  I  get  afraid,"  she  went 
on.  "And  then  I  try  not  to  care.  I  lie  there 
and  I  say  to  myself,  'Well,  if  you  can't 
have  another  baby,  Elizabeth — not  now,  as 
some  of  the  doctors  tell  you,  or  not  ever, 
as  others  of  them  say — well,  there's  noth- 
ing you  can  do  about  it,  is  there?' 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  have  some  lovely  talks 
with  myself  after  my  dream.  Very  cheerful 
and  friendly  and  understanding.  And  I 
feel  better  after  them,  too  .  .  .  Till — "  she 
said. 

But  again  she  paused. 

"Till  what?"  Eddie  asked. 

"Till,"  said  Liz,  "as  I  grow  more  and 
more  awake,  as  I  feel  you  there,  lying  next 
to  me,  you,  my  husband  ...  it  comes  to 
me  how  much  I  must  be  disappointing  you, 
Eddie.  How  much,  how  very  much,  I  must 
be  letting  you  down. 
66     Eddie  shook  his  head  and  started  to  say 


something,  something  that  would  calm  Liz. 

"I  know,  Eddie,"  she  interrupted,  " — you 
don't  talk  about  it.  We  never  talk  about  it, 
do  we?  But  I  know,  Eddie,  how  much  you 
must  want  a  baby,  a  baby  of  our  own. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "how  much  any  man 
who  loves  a  woman  and  who  marries  her 
wants  a  child  of  their  own  to  love,  too. 

"And  I  know,"  she  said,  "what  happens 
sometimes,  between  two  people,  when 
there  is  no  baby.  When — " 

She  stopped. 

"I  know,"  she  repeated,  as  again  the 
tears  began  to  come  to  her  eyes. 

A  story  of  a  marriage 

Eddie  let  her  cry  it  out  for  a  while, 
wiping  away  the  tears  as  he  had  done  be- 
fore, waiting  for  the  sobbing  to  end. 

And  when,  after  a  while,  it  did  end,  he 
smiled,  and  he  said,  "Honey  .  .  .  Liz  ...  I 
want  to  tell  you  a  little  story.  An  old,  a 
very  very  old  story  .  .  .  You  want  I  should 
tell  you  an  old,  old  story,  Liz?" 

"Don't  kid  with  me,  Eddie,"  she  said. 
"Not  now." 

"I'm  not  kidding,"  Eddie  said.  "This  is  a 
story  I  heard  my  grandmother  tell  me 
when  I  was  a  kid — a  genuine,  bona  fide, 
serious  story  ...  Do  you  want  to  hear  it?" 

Liz  shrugged. 

"Well,"  Eddie  said,  starting  anyway, 
"you  see,  my  grandmother  was  taking  care 
of  me,  at  her  house,  this  one  day.  And  we 
were  eating  lunch,  just  the  two  of  us, 
when  this  gal  who  lived  next  door — her 
name  was  Florence,  I  remember — walked 
in  and  took  one  look  at  my  grandmother, 
who  was,  I  should  tell  you,  a  sort  of  con- 
fessor to  the  whole  neighborhood,  and  she 
started  to  cry  and  bawl  all  over  the  place. 

"  'What's  the  matter,  Fagele,  my  dear?' 
I  remember  my  grandmother  asking  her. 

"  'The  doctor,'  Florence  said,  'I  just  came 
from  the  doctor,  and  he  told  me,  once 
and  for  all,  that  I  couldn't  have  a  child. 
How,'  she  said,  'oh  how  am  I  going  to  tell 
this  to  my  husband,  for  one  thing?  And. 
for  another  thing,  how  am  I  going  to  hold 
my  husband  now,  a  man  who,  like  other 


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men,  wants  a  child?  What,'  she  said,  'what 
is  a  marriage  without  a  child?' 

"And  when  Florence  was  all  through 
talking  and  crying,  my  grandmother  said 
to  her,  'But  honestly,  my  dear,  don't  you 
know  the  story  of  Baraak  and  Shoshana?' 

"  'Of  who?'  Florence  asked. 

"  'Baraak  and  Shoshana.'  my  grand- 
mother said,  'the  lovers  of  old  times  gone 
by.' 

"'You  mean  like  Romeo  and  Juliet?' 
Florence  asked. 

"  T  mean,'  my  grandmother  said,  a  little 
annoyed,  'like  Baraak  and  Shoshana. 
These  lovers  I  talk  of,'  she  said,  'were 
married  lovers,  thank  you.' 

"And  then  she  told  their  story. 

"She  said,  'Baraak,  my  dear  Fagele.  he 
was  a  farmer,  a  very  good  man  and  a  very 
good  farmer.  And  Shoshana,  a  most  beau- 
tiful young  girl,  she  was  his  wife.  And  for 
the  first  few  years  of  their  married  life 
they  were  so  happy,  so  perfect  together, 
that  people  from  all  over  the  place,  from 
the  other  farms,  all  over,  used  to  refer  to 
them  as  Baraak  and  Shoshana,  the  most 
perfect  and  happiest  of  couples. 

"  'People  used  to  envy  them,  and  admire 
them,  both  at  the  same  time  .  .  .  The  way 
they  worked  together  in  the  fields,  planted 
and  reaped  their  crops,  side  by  side,  all  the 
time  .  .  .  The  way,  together,  they  built  the 
house  in  which  they  lived,  a  lovely  and 
handsome  domicile,  with  their  own  hands, 
side  by  side  .  .  .  The  way,  together,  they 
built  another  most  magnificent  edifice,  a 
granary,  where  they  could  store  their 
crops  after  the  harvest  .  .  .  The  way  they 
did  all  sorts  of  things  together,  for  one  an- 
other. 

"  'Yes,  people  used  to  envy  them,  and 
admire  them. 

"  'Except  that  after  a  few  years.  Baraak 
and  Shoshana — especially  Shoshana — did 
not  feel  that  they  were  either  so  happy  or 
so  perfect. 

"  'Because  of  a  very  simple  factor. 

The  wise  man's  answer 

"  'There  was,  you  see,  no  child  in  their 
life.  No  son.  No  daughter.  No  nothing. 

"  'And  oh,  after  a  while,  Shoshana  would 
weep,  all  the  time  weep,  because  she  was 
childless. 

"  'And  her  weeping  would  annoy  Ba- 
raak, who  wanted  a  little  smiling  around 
the  place  once  in  a  while,  and  not  all  this 
weeping. 

"  'But  Shoshana,  she  couldn't  help  it. 
"  'And  so  she  wept. 

"  'Until  her  eyes,  which  had  been  at  one 
time  blue  like  the  sky  at  sunrise  were  now 
red,  like  that  same  sky,  at  sunset. 

"  'Until  the  tears  she  shed  became  the 
best  friends  of  her  cheeks. 

"  'Until  she  became  atzboni — which,  in 
case  you  don't  know,  Fagele,  my  dear,  is 
Hebrew,  for  nervous  wreck. 

"  'Until  Baraak,  too,  was  becoming  atz- 
boni. 

"  'Until,'  Grandma  said,  'until  the  won- 
derful zaken  cha'cham,  the  wise  old  man, 
came  along  that  day  and  saw  Shoshana 
sitting  outside  her  house,  weeping,  and 
said  to  her,  "My  dear,  what  is  wrong  that 
you  are  weeping  so?" 

"'Well,  Shoshana,  who  at  this  point 
would  tell  anybody  her  troubles,  certainly 
told  the  wise  old  man. 

"  'And  she  said,  "Because,  zaken  cha'- 
cham, my  marriage  with  Baraak  is  child- 
less and  because,  as  everybody  knows,  in 
children  there  is  love  and  love  is  the  most 
important  thing  in  any  marriage." 

"  'I  see,'  said  the  wise  old  man.  'I  see  .  .  . 
yes  .  .  .  hmmmm  .  .  .  yes.' 

"  'And  then  he  looked  behind  where  Sho- 
shana sat,  at  the  house  behind  her,  and  he 
said,  "My  dear,  excuse  me  for  being  in- 
quisitive. But  this  house  behind  you,  it  is 
certainly  a  handsome  and  lovely  domicile. 


And,  if  you  would  be  so  kind  to  tell  me — 
who  built  it,  please?" 

"  'And  Shoshana  said,  '"The  house?  Why, 
that  was  built  by  Baraak  and  me,  by  our 
own  hands,  when  we  were  first  married, 
zaken  cha-cham." 

"  'Hmmmm,'  said  the  old  man,  nodding, 
'yes  ...  I  see.' 

"  'And  then  he  said,  "That  wonderful- 
looking  field  out  there,  with  the  wheat  and 
the  corn  and  what-have-you,  growing 
there,  so  strong  and  so  well-tended  .  .  . 
that  was  planted  by  you  and  Baraak,  I 
imagine?" 

"  'Yes,'  said  Shoshana,  'by  none  but  the 
two  of  us.' 

"  'So  pardon  me,  but  just  one  more 
question,'  said  the  wise  old  man,  sniffing  in 
deeply.  'I  smell  coming  from  somewhere, 
from  the  kitchen  of  your  house  I  presume, 
the  most  delicious  aroma  of  cooking.' 

"  'And  Shoshana  said,  "Yes,  zaken  cha'- 
cham,  it  is  chicken  soup  I  have  made  for 
me  and  for  Baraak." 

"  'And  then  the  old  man  said,  "But  tell 
me,  dear,  is  there  not  love  in  all  this?" 

"  'He  sniffed  in  again,  deeply. 

"  'In  the  chicken  soup,  zaken  cha'cham?' 
asked  Shoshana,  incredulous. 

"  Yes  .  .  .  yes,'  said  the  wise  old  man. 
'In  the  chicken  soup,  for  one  thing.  Is 
there  not  love  in  that — in  the  preparation 
of  food  for  your  husband,  to  fill  his  stom- 
ach with  good  dishes  and  aromas  and 
nourishment  such  as  that  after  a  hard  day 
of  work?' 

"  'Shoshana  said  nothing  to  the  question, 
which  struck  her  as  very  strange. 

Love  in  this 

"  'And,'  said  the  wise  old  man,  going  on, 
pointing  to  the  house,  'is  there  not  love  in 
this,  the  house  that  the  two  of  you  have 
built  together,  with  your  own  hands?' 

"  'He  pointed  to  the  field.  "And  in  that?'' 
he  asked.  "Is  there,"  he  asked,  then,  "is 
there  not  love  in  all  of  this — and  is  not 
love  itself  a  child,  your  child,  the  child 
of  you  and  Baraak? 

"  You  weep  for  a  child,  Shoshana,'  he 
said.  'Well,  my  dear,  that,  that,  the  matter 
of  being  able  to  have  children  or  not,  that 
is  a  matter  in  the  hands  of  God.  To  some 
he  gives  children.  To  others  he  does  not. 

"  'Only  God  knows  why. 

"  'But— and  remember  this,  Shoshana— 
though  God  may  deny  a  child  to  some  peo- 
ple, as  he  may  deny  wealth  to  others, 
beauty  to  still  others,  certain  things  to 
certain  others  of  us — there  is  one  thing 
that  he  never  denies. 

"  'And  that  is  love,  Shoshana. 

"  'Love — the  child  he  gives  to  all  mar- 
ried people;  a  love  to  be  treated  tenderly 
.  .  .  like  a  baby.  To  be  held  tight  and  jeal- 
ously to  the  breast.  To  be  nursed,  nour- 
ished. To  be  treasured.  .  .  .' 

"  'He  sighed. 

"  'And  then  he  said,  "I,  Shoshana,  I  am 
only  an  old  man  who  speaks  to  you.  But," 
he  said,  "having  seen  much  in  my  long 
life,  let  me  add  just  this  .  .  .  Ni  Yodea? 
Who  knows?  Who  knows  that  someday 
this  great  and  divine  power  that  is  God 
might  not  grant  you  the  baby  which  you 
seek,  for  both  yourself  and  Baraak  .  .  . 
Eh?"  he  asked. 

Eddie  stopped. 

"And  that,"  asked  Liz,  "is  that  the  end 
of  the  story?" 

"The  way  my  grandmother  told  it,  it  is," 
said  Eddie. 

"But  Shoshana  and  Baraak,"  Liz  asked, 
" — did  they  ever  have  their  child?" 

"Ni  yodea?"  Eddie  asked,  "who  knows?" 

As  he  smiled  at  his  wife. 

As  she  smiled  back  at  him. 

Liz  stars  in  Two  For  The  Seesaw, 
U.A.;  Cleopatra,  for  20th-Fox;  and  Liz 
and  Eddie  are  in  Butterfield  8.  jor  MGM. 


There  it  was  again.  That  odd  sensation  in  his  throat,  that 
stifling  headache.  Not  severe  at  all,  but,  as  Jimmy  Stewart 
complained  to  his  worried  wife  Gloria,  these  minor  aches 
just  never  seemed  to  go  away. 

Gloria  had  asked  him  before  to  see  their  doctor,  but  Jim- 
my always  insisted  that  he  wasn't  a  hypochondriac,  and 
that  he  wasn't  going  to  waste  a  busy  man's  time  with  an 
ailment  he  could  hardly  describe.  So  he'd  down  a  couple  of 
aspirin,  straighten  his  tie,  slam  on  his  hat  and  tell  her, 
"I'm  going  for  a  little  walk.  The  fresh  air  will  do  me  good." 

But  it  wouldn't. 

The  slight  headache,  the  vague  sore  throat  was  still 
there. 

And  Jimmy  did  nothing  about  it.  .  .  . 

Then  the  Stewarts  got  a  wonderful  invitation.  The 
Maharajah  of  Cooch-Behar  invited  them  to  be  his  guests 
in  Calcutta.  The  most  exciting  event  of  their  stay  would 
be  an  Indian  tiger  hunt. 

They  were  looking  forward  to  this  thrilling  adventure. 
As  they  got  busy  making  plans,  getting  their  shots,  check- 
ing their  passports,  Gloria,  with  wifely  intuition,  sug- 
gested, "We'll  be  leaving  in  a  few  weeks,  darling,  so  you'll 
have  just  enough  time  to  get  that  check-up  you  promised 
me." 

And  so  it  was  that  next  morning  Jimmy  Stewart 
straightened  his  tie,  slammed  on  his  hat,  and  set  off  for 
the  doctor's. 

When  he  got  back  he  told  Gloria,  "Well,  they  couldn't 
find  anything.  I  knew  it  was  nothing.  .  .  ." 

A  few  days  later  Gloria  presented  him  with  two  packages 
from  a  leading  men's  shop  in  Beverly  Hills.  "It's  a  prescrip- 
tion," she  explained.  "I  got  it  filled  for  you.  Open  it." 

Jimmy  unwrapped  the  boxes  in  amazement. 

Six  white  shirts  and  a  hat. 

"The  doctor  phoned  this  morning,"  she  smiled,  "and  said 
that  there  certainly  wasn't  anything  wrong  organically 
with  you,  but  that  he  noticed  you  seemed  uncomfortable 
when  you  buttoned  up  your  shirt  and  put  on  your  hat.  And 
he  got  to  thinking,  could  be  they  were  strangling  you,  just 
a  little.  Maybe  all  you  needed  was  a  larger  size.  .  .  !" 

The  diagnosis  seemed  to  be  the  correct  one. 

.  .  .  Jimmy  admits  that  he  hadn't  changed  his  size  since 
he  was  sixteen,  and  as  they  flew  off  on  their  vacation,  re- 
ported that  he  was  feeling  great ! 

Jimmy  Stewart: 
SPECIAL  PRESCRIPTION 


The  Small  World  of  Mr.  Big 


(Continued  from  page  44) 

on  but  his  shorts,  scratching  his  legs.  And 
then  he'll  see  you  and  he'll  say  'Oooooops, 
why  didn't  you  tell  me  somebody  was 
here?' " 

"This,"  said  Nina  Maffey,  pointing  to  the 
girl,  "is  my  daughter,  Vivi." 

"Hi,"  Vivi  said.  "I'm  going  to  be  an 
actress,  and  famous  someday,  I  hope." 

"And  this,"  said  Nina,  indicating  a  girl 
seated  next  to  Vivi,  "is  my  other  daughter, 
Vana." 

"She,"  said  Vivi,  "just  wants  to  grow 
up  and  marry  somebody  famous — like 
Frankie  Avalon." 

"Shhhh!"  Vana  said,  poking  her  sister, 
giggling,  turning  bright  red. 

"And  this  little  one,"  Nina  said,  com- 
pleting the  introductions,  pointing  to  a  boy 
who'd  been  following  us,  "is  my  son,  Gary. 
He's  four.  And  you  look  at  him  and  you 
see  his  Uncle  Bobby  when  he  was  this 
age.  Thin.  Big  brown  shining  eyes."  She 
covered  Gary's  ears,  momentarily.  "Very 
cute,  and  very  smart,"  she  said,  winking. 
Then,  bringing  down  her  hands,  she 
walked  to  the  stove  to  check  some  coffee 
that  was  brewing.  And  she  said,  "In  fact, 
I  think  Gary  here  is  the  next  generation's 
Bobby  Darin.  He's  always  singing,  just  like 
his  uncle  when  he  was  this  age." 

"Mama,"  Gary  asked,  "are  you  gonna  tell 
Uncle  Bobby  and  the  eggs?" 

"Later,  honey,"  Nina  said.  " — How  about 
giving  us  a  song  for  now?" 

Without  any  hesitation,  Gary  said, 
"Sure." 

"Just  like  Bobby — see?"  Nina  said.  "I 
remember  somebody'd  come  to  the  house 
and  they'd  say,  'You  going  to  give  us  a 
song?'  and  Bobby'd  say,  'Sure,  watch  me. 
I'm  Bobby!'  .  .  .  All  right,  Gary." 

The  little  boy  took  a  deep  breath  and 
began  to  sing: 

Oh  the  shark  dear 
Has  such  teeth  dear 
And  he  shows  them 
Poi-ly  wife! — 
Suddenly,  he  stopped,  bowed  and  left 
the  room. 

Bobby  and  those  moods 

"Bobby  started  singing  even  younger," 
Nina  said  then.  "When  he  was  two  and  a 
half,  I  remember,  he  came  over  to  me  one 
day  and  he  said,  'Nina,  I  sing  for  you, 
okay?'  'Okay,'  I  said.  I  thought  I  was  going 
to  hear  something  like  Mary  Had  a  Little 
Lamb.  So  what  does  he  do?  He  begins 
to  sing  McNamara's  Band.  Honest  to  God. 
The  whole  thing,  about  twelve  verses.  Just 
from  hearing  it  on  the  radio.  And  then  he 
follows  it  with  this  song  called  Turkish 
Delight — word  for  word.  And  then  he 
picks  up  a  harmonica,  one  of  those  dollar- 
and-a-half  Woody  Herman  things  we  had 
laying  around  the  house,  and  he  starts  to 
play  the  Saber  Dance  by  Khachaturian!! 
Well,  I  figured  then,  that  day,  that  we  had 
a  real  honest-to-goodness  musician  on — " 

"Mom,"  Vivi  said,  interrupting,  holding 
up  one  of  the  letters  she'd  been  looking 
through.  "Here's  one  from  a  girl  in  Texas 
who  says  that  Uncle  Bobby  is  a  grouchy 
snob,  that  he  is  very  moody — and  con- 
ceited— and  that  nobody  likes  him  for  this." 

"I  don't  like  her,  this  girl  in  Texas,"  said 
Vana. 

"She  says,"  Vivi  continued,  "that  she 
read  this  and  she  wants  to  know  if  and 
why  Uncle  Bobby  is  like  this.  'Please  an- 
swer,' she  says  .  .  .  Should  I,  Mom?" 

"I'd  like  to  answer,"  Nina  said,  pouring 
the  coffee  now.  "I'd  like  to  answer  all  the 
people  who  say  these  things  about  my 
68  brother.  And  do  you  know  what  I'd  say? 


I'd  say  the  truth— that  sometimes  Bobby 
is  grouchy,  sometimes  he  is  snobby,  some- 
times he  is  moody,  conceited.  But  this  is 
Bobby  Darin,  I'd  say,  and  this  is  the  way 
you've  got  to  take  him  if  you  want  to  take 
him  at  all."  She  took  a  deep  breath, 
brought  the  coffee  cups  to  the  table,  and 
sat.  Facing  us,  she  said,  "You  know,  when 
he  was  ten  months  old  we  could  see  that 
he  was  going  to  be  the  moody  type.  Ten 
months! — and  there  he'd  be  with  a  face 
this  long  half  the  time.  And  you  could 
cootchy-coo  him  all  you  wanted,  you 
could  stand  on  your  head,  do  anything, 
and  it  wouldn't  matter.  He  was  in  a  mood. 
And  boy,  there  was  no  changing  it. 

"Even  as  he  grew  up,"  she  went  on,  re- 
membering, "he  was  moody  lots  of  the 
time.  We  used  to  think  it  was  his  sickness, 
at  the  beginning.  He  had  rheumatic  fever 
something  terrible  and  for  years  he  was 
in  the  most  awful  pain  .  .  .  Thank  God 
that  ended.  I  don't  know  how  he  stood  it. 
He'd  have  to  lay  in  bed  all  the  time,  not 
moving,  because  to  move  caused  him  pain. 
And  you  couldn't  touch  him,  he  ached  so 
much  all  over.  And  when  he'd  have  to  go 
to  the  bathroom  and  Charlie,  my  husband, 
would  have  to  pick  him  up  and  begin  to 
carry  him  and  the  way  he'd  scream — " 

She  paused,  and  shook  her  head.  "Any- 
way," she  said,  "we  thought  then  that  this 
sickness  was  most  of  the  reason  for  Bobby's 
moodiness  .  .  .  But  even  when  he  got 
better,  after  a  few  years,  the  moods  re- 
mained. And  you  know,  the  fascinating 
thing  is  how  where  with  other  people, 
when  they're  like  that,  moody,  you  feel 
like  saying  'Aw,  get  lost!' — well,  with 
Bobby,  it's  always  like  a  magnetic  thing, 
the  way  people  flock  around  him  all  the 
time  when  he's  moody,  and  the  way  they 
all  get  so  affected  by  these  moods.  .  .  . 
It's  like  a  comedy  sometimes." 

"You  remember  the  night  with  the  pas- 
trami sandwiches,  Mom?"  Vivi  asked. 

"I  was  just  remembering,"  Nina  said. 
" — You  see,  one  night  a  couple  of  years 
ago,  before  Bobby  became  famous,  he  was 
sitting  around  the  house  with  a  whole 
bunch  of  people — his  entourage,  as  they 
say." 

"Uncle  Bobby's  entourage,"  Vivi  inter- 
rupted, "started  long  before  he  did." 

"That's  right,"  Nina  said.  "So,"  she  went 
on  then,  "they're  all  sitting  around.  And 
they're  very  quiet.  Because  Bobby  is  in 
a  mood,  about  his  appetite,  what  he  wants 
to  eat,  of  all  things.  And  he's  not  talking. 
And  they're  not  talking,  of  course.  And 
then,  all  of  a  sudden,  Bobby  jumps  up 
from  the  chair  where  he's  sitting  and  he 
says,  'I  know  what  I  need  to  put  me  right. 
A  pastrami  sandwich.  How  about  it?'  he 
says  to  the  others,  smiling  now.  And  they 
all  jump  up,  too,  and  smile,  too,  and  they 
say,  'Yeah,  a  pastrami  sandwich — just 
the  thing.'  And  they're  all  just  about  at 
the  door  when  Bobby  stops  and  says,  'Naw, 
pastrami's  not  going  to  do  me  any  good.' 
And  he  goes  and  sits  down  again.  And  so 
do  the  others.  Till  about  ten  minutes  later, 
all  of  a  sudden,  he  jumps  up  and  says, 
'Chop  Suey,  that's  what  I  want!'  So,  again, 
the  others  get  all  excited  and  they  say, 
'Yeah,  that's  it— Chop  Suey!'  .  .  .  Well, 
to  make  a  long  story  short,  let  me  just 
tell  you  that  when  they  got  to  the  door 
Bobby  decided  he  really  didn't  want  Chop 
Suey,  either,  and  so  they  all  turned  around 
and  went  to  sit  down  again — and  that 
this  went  on  and  on  I  don't  know  how 
many  times,  until  at  one  point  Bobby 
yelled  out  'Pizza!',  as  if  he  really  meant  it 
this  time,  and  the  others  cheered  and  said, 


'Pizza!  Yeah!  That's  swell!'— and,  finally, 
finally,  they  all  left." 

Nina  laughed  heartily  at  the  memory. 
And  then  she  explained: 

"Now  this,  like  I  said,  is  before  Bobby 
became  famous.  So  you  can't  say  that 
these  other  people — the  entourage — hung 
around  and  put  up  with  these  moods  be- 
cause they  were  getting  paid  for  it  or 
because  they  figured  that  no  matter  what 
Bobby  decided  to  buy  for  himself  he'd 
buy  for  them  too.  Bobby  didn't  have  more 
than  a  few  dollars  to  his  name  at  the 
time.  It  was  each  man  for  himself.  These 
people,  they  just  enjoyed  being  around 
Bobby.  And  the  moodier  he  was,  the  bet- 
ter a  time  they  seemed  to  have." 

Nina  looked  down  at  the  letter  again. 

'"Conceited,"  she  said,  reading  the  word. 
"Now  about  his  being  conceited — "  she 
started  to  say. 

A  fan  comes  to  look 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  back  door. 

Vana  got  up  to  see  who  it  was. 

"Hello,"  she  said,  seeing  a  little  girl, 
standing  there. 

"Hello,"  said  the  little  girl.  "Is  your 
Uncle  Bobby  home  yet?" 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Vana. 

"Can  I  come  in  to  see  him?"  she  asked. 

"He's  asleep  now,"  said  Vana. 

"Oh,"  said  the  little  girl,  excitedly, 
"that's  the  way  I'd  really  like  to  see  him. 
When  he's  asleep—" 

Nina  sighed  and  walked  over  to  the 
door.  "Sweetie,"  she  said,  "you  have  a  big 
brother,  don't  you?  And  does  he  like  it  if 
you  walk  into  his  room  while  he's  sleep- 
ing, to  take  a  look  at  him?" 

"I  never  want  to  see  him  sleeping.'' 
said  the  little  girl. 

"Well  then,"  said  Nina,  ignoring  the 
answer,  "Bobby  wouldn't  like  it  either. 
.  .  .  Now  why  don't  you  come  back  later 
and  take  a  look  at  him  when  he's  awake. 
All  right?" 

"All  right,"  the  little  girl  said,  disap- 
pointed. 

"Some  of  these  kids,"  Nina  said,  sighing 
again,  closing  the  door.  " — Now,  where 
was  I?" 

"About  Uncle  Bobby  being  conceited." 
said  Vivi. 

"Oh  yeah,"  said  Nina. 

She  was  just  about  to  begin  talking 
again  when  Gary  walked  back  into  the 
room,  and  over  to  us. 

He  was  carrying  a  cat. 

"This  is  Splish-Splash,"  he  said.  "He  has 
six  fingers  on  each  hand,  'stead  of  five. 
And  he  thinks  he's  a  dog  ...  I  have  a  dog, 
too,"  he  added,  quickly.  "Uncle  Bobby 
gave  him  to  me.  His  name's  Geronimo." 

Nina  leaned  over  and  patted  her  son's 
head.  "Why  don't  you  see  if  you  can  find 
Geronimo,"  she  said. 

Gary  looked  up  at  her. 

"Mama,  did  you  tell  the  story  about 
Uncle  Bobby  and  the  eggs  yet?"  he  asked. 

"Later,"  Nina  said. 

"Please,  Mama— tell  it  now,"  Gary  said. 

Nina  smiled.  "All  right.  Real  fast, 
though."  To  us,  winking,  she  said,  "This 
is  Gary's  favorite  Uncle  Bobby  story  of 
all  time." 

Then  she  said,  in  recitation-voice:  "Once 
upon  a  time  there  was  a  boy  named  Bobby. 
His  daddy  had  gone  to  Heaven  and  his 
Mama  was  sick  and  so  he  was  very  poor, 
and  lived  in  a  little  dumpy  apartment  in 
The  Bronx,  New  York.  And  Bobby  didn't 
have  many  toys,  he  was  so  poor.  And  it 
was  hard  to  have  fun,  being  without  toys 
and  being  so  poor.  So  this  one  day  he  de- 
cided to  invent  a  game,  all  by  himself. 
First,  he  went  into  the  kitchen  and  he 
found  a  few  empty  milk  bottles.  And  then 
he  went  to  the  icebox  and  he  found  about 
three  dozen  eggs  there.  Now  why  were 
there  so  many  eggs  there?  Because  this 


boy  Bobby's  family  was  on  what  they  call 
Relief,  and  every  week  the  family  would 
get  coupons  for  food — and  sometimes  the 
coupons  were  for  only  one  kind  of  food — 
and  this  week  they  were  only  for  eggs." 

""That's  why."  Gary  asked,  "there  was 
so  many  eggs  in  the  icebox?" 

"Yes."  Nina  said.  "So  Bobby,"  she  went 
oru  "to  have  fun  this  day.  lined  up  all 
the  milk  bottles  and  then  began  to  play 
bowling  balls.  With  the  eggs!  And  one 
by  one.  the  eggs  crashed  against  the  milk 
bottles — and  broke." 

"How.  Mama?"  Gary  asked,  excitedly. 

"Like  this."  Nina  said.  She  closed  her 
eyes  and  shuddered:  "Pow,  pow,  pow. 
pow.  pow.  pow  .  .  .  poic!" 

Gary  giggled  in  delight. 

"All  right  with  the  egg  story?"  Nina 
=  sked.  opening  her  eyes. 

"Yes."  Gary  said. 

All  about  conceit 

"Now"  Nina  asked,  "youil  go  find 
Geronimo?" 

"Yes,"  the  boy  said,  rushing  away. 

"And  note."  Nina  asked  again,  when  he 
was  gone,  "where  was  I?" 

"Conceit!"  Vivi  and  Vana  said  together. 

"Oh  that's  right."  Nina  said,  "about 
Bobby's  conceitedness:  this  is  what  I'd 
like  to  say  to  anybody  who  brings  that 
subject  up.  Conceitedness.  I'd  like  to  say 
first,  probably  isn't  the  right  word  even. 
Because  the  word  conceited  means  that  you 
have  the  idea  you're  good,  that  you  think 
you're  good.  Well,  in  Bobby's  case,  he 
knows  he's  good.  And  to  me  this  isn't  con- 
ceit. It's  assurance.  An  assurance  he  has 
of  his  talent.  .  .  Bobby  isn't  conceited 
about  other  things.  Not  about  his  looks. 
God  knows.  In  fact  one  day  a  photogra- 
per  was  here  taking  pictures  and  he  said. 
"Okay,  Jimmy,  how  about  a  shot  over 
here?'  And  Bobby  laughed  and  said. 
"You've  got  it  wrong.  Mister — Jimmy  Dar- 
ren's the  actor,  the  good-looking  one.  I'm 
Bobby  Darin,  the  singer,  the  homely  one.' 
...  So  it's  not  about  his  looks  that  Bobby 
brags,  or  anything  like  that.  But  about  his 
talent.  And  if  you  say  he's  bad  to  go 
around  bragging  like  this,  then  you've 
got  to  say  equally  well  that  it's  good  to 
be  a  hypocrite." 

Nina  put  down  the  letter  she'd  been 
holding  all  this  while,  and  she  smiled. 

"You  know,  though,"  she  said,  "it's 
funny  how  somebody  like  my  brother 
can,  at  the  same  time  he's  bragging  about 
himself,  feel  so  strongly  about  other  peo- 
ple— in  such  a  quiet  way.  a  humble  way. 
I  mean.  I  don't  think  that  I  have  ever  met 
a  person  on  this  earth  who  had  less 
prejudice,  no  prejudice,  towards  any  of 
his  fellow  men  .  .  .  big  or  small  .  .  .  es- 
pecially small." 

A  phone,  in  the  next  room,  rang  and 
interrupted  her. 

Nina  got  up,  excused  herself. 

A  minute  or  two  later,  she  was  back. 
"That,"  she  said,  "was  one  of  Bobby's 
would-be  girlfriends,  some  dancer  from 
New  York." 

"Goll-eeeee,"  Vivi,  her  daughter,  said. 
Soon  as  they  know  he's  home  they  start 
calling  for  dates.  ...  Is  that  what  she 
wanted.  Mama,  to  know  what  Bobby  was 
doing  tonight?" 

Nina  nodded.  Then  to  us.  she  said.  "You'd 
"Junk  they'd  know  by  now  that  if  there's 
one  thing  Bobby  doesn't  like  is  a  pushy 
girl.  I  told  this  one.  whoever  she  was. 
that  he  was  sleeping  and  that  she  should 
call  back  later.  But  between  you  and  me. 
I  don't  think  it's  going  to  get  her  very 
far." 

We  asked  Nina  to  tell  us  something  about 
ner  brother  and  his  girlfriends. 

""Well."  she  said,  "he's  never  had  any 
girlfriends,  really — not  as  far  as  I  know. 
I  mean  girls  he's  gone  out  with  steady. 


over  a  period  of  time.  .  .  .  The  very  first 
time  he  went  out  on  a  real  date.  I  remem- 
ber, was  his  high  school  prom.  I  remem- 
ber this  because,  being  so  casual  about  so 
many  things,  he  was  really  excited  about 
this,  asking  me  all  that  day  what  he 
should  do  at  the  dance,  what  he  should 
talk  about.  That  night,  I  remember.  I  drove 
him  and  his  date  to  the  dance.  I  had  this 
old  Model-A  Ford  and  I  took  them  to  this 
snazzy  hotel  down  on  Fifty-ninth  Street. 
And  I  let  them  off  about  half  a  block  from 
the  hotel  so  I  shouldn't  embarrass  them. 
.  .  .  But  what  I  remember  most  about  the 
whole  thing  is  the  next  day.  Bobby  saying 
to  me  that  he'd  had  a  nice  time,  that  the 
girl  was  nice,  all  that — but  that  he'd  de- 
cided that  he  wasn't  ready-  to  settle  down 
to  any  single  girl  the  way  some  of  the 
other  fellows  at  the  prom  seemed  to  be. 
that  he  wanted  to  take  his  time  before 
deciding  who  the  main  girl  in  his  life 
would  be.  .  .  .  And.  far  as  I  know,  this  is 
the  way  it's  been  since.  Bobby  goes  out. 
With  lots  of  girls.  But  nothing  very  seri- 
ous. He's  still  taking  his  time." 

The  girl  he'd  marry 

We  asked  Nina  then  if  she  could  picture 
the  kind  of  girl  her  brother  would  even- 
tually settle  down  with,  marry. 

"I  can  see  her,  yes,"  Bobby's  sister 
said.  "'First,  she  will  be  a  very  feminine 
type.  Very  petite.  She  laughed.  "Not  like 
me,  for  instance,  the  hefty  type." 

""Mom,"  Vivi  said,  "you're  Junoesque." 

"Call  it  what  you  will,  sweetheart,"  Nina 
said,  laughing  again,  "but  the  common 
word  is  hefty.  .  .  ." 

She  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Then."  she  said,  "for  some  reason,  she 
will  be  fair-haired,  light  brown  or  blonde 
Don't  ask  me  why.  I  just  see  her  this  way." 

Another  pause: 

"Then."  Nina  said,  "she  will  be  an  un- 
derstanding type,  understanding  from  the 
word  go.  To  put  up  with  Bobby  in  these 
moods  I  was  telling  you  about  before,  to 
help  him  when  he's  under  some  of  the 
pressures  of  this  business  he's  in — she'll 
have  to  be  understanding,  very  very  un- 
derstanding." 

" — And  a  good  housecleaner,"  Vivi  put 
in.  "You  should  see  Uncle  Bobby  with  us. 
He  always  wants  the  house  spick-and-span 
when  he's  home.  .  .  .  We're  just  through 
eating  and  he  says,  'Okay*,  Vivi,  you  clear 
the  table — and  you.  Vana.  over  to  the  sink 
and  get  that  water  pushing  through  the 
pipes.' " 

"I  wish,  Nina  said,  nodding,  "that  he 
were  home  more  often." 

"It's  true,"  Vivi  said,  chuckling,  "he's 
a  real  slave-driver  sometimes." 

Nina  nodded.  And  then  she  said,  " — And 
I  see  her,  this  girl  who  marries  Bobby 
someday,  as  having  one  other  thing.  A 
great  sense  of  humor.  Dry.  So  dry  that 
she  could  pull  his  legs  off  with  it  and  he 
wouldn't  feel  the  pain." 

"Like  Grandma's."  Vana  said. 

"Yes — like  the  kind  of  sense  of  humor 
my  mother  had,"  Nina  said.  "In  fact,  I 
wouldn't  be  surprised  if.  subconsciously. 
Bobby  were  looking  around  for  a  girl  like 
our  mom." 

She  paused  for  a  long  moment. 

"Mom."  she  said,  after  a  while,  " — she 
was  a  remarkable  woman.  .  .  .  Before  she 
married  my  father  she'd  been  in  show  busi- 
ness, a  musical  comedy  star.  But  after  she 
married  she  gave  up  the  business — com- 
pletely*— until  Bobby*  came  along  and  she 
saw.  after  a  while,  that  he  could  amount 
to  something  in  this  business  she'd  loved, 
respected,  so  much. 

"She's  the  one  who  encouraged  Bobby. 
I  mean  encouraged  him — the  one  who  told 
him,  through  all  the  years,  that  nothing 
could  ever  stop  him  as  long  as  he  never 
stopped. 


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"People  who  didn't  know  Mama  well 
criticized  her  sometimes,"  Nina  went  on. 
"Friends.  Relatives  .  .  .  'So  he's  got  a 
nice  voice,  a  nice  style,'  they'd  say,  ' — but 
why  do  you  make  it  as  though  he's  the 
most  marvelous  thing  since  John  Barry - 
more  and  Sarah  Bernhardt  combined?'  And 
Mama  would  say  'Because  he  is  the  most 
marvelous  thing,  that's  why!' 

"As  far  as  Mama  was  concerned,  there 
was  nothing  that  her  Bobby  could  do 
wrong.  I  think,  I  really  think,  that  if  he 
walked  into  the  house  one  day  and  said, 
'Mama,  I  just  killed  somebody,' — she  would 
have  said  to  him,  'Well,  killing  is  a  bad 
thing,  but  you  must  have  had  some  good 
reason,  Bobby.' 

"There  was  nothing  she  wouldn't  do 
for  him.  If  making  sure  that  Bobby 
would  be  a  success  someday  meant  her 
jumping  off  the  top  of  the  Empire  State 
Building,  Mama  wouldn't  have  thought 
about  it  twice.  She  would  have  jumped — 
smiling." 

No  one  understood 

Nina  paused  again. 
Then: 

"Some  people — and  there  were  more 
than  just  some  people — quite  a  few  peo- 
ple, in  fact — wondered  about  this  relation- 
ship they  had,  my  mother  and  my  brother. 
They  thought  it  was  too  much.  They  used 
to  be  surprised  the  way  Mama  would  talk 
to  Bobby  sometimes,  like  when  out  of  the 
clear  blue  she'd  say  something  like, 
'Bobby,  you  have  beautiful  eyes — now  learn 
to  use  them,  so  that  when  you  get  up  in 
front  of  an  audience  you  can  really  wow 
them!'  .  .  .  And  they  used  to  be  surprised, 


(Continued  from  page  49) 

Yet  you  did  not  go  to  see  your  father, 
nor  your  brother. 

Nor  did  you  phone  him. 

Nor  did  you  ask  anyone  about  them,  how 
they  were,  where  they  were;  not  one 
question  did  you  ask  about  them,  not  once 
did  you  mention  their  names. 

Why,  Sandra? 

Why? 

Oh  yes,  we  all  know  about  your  family 
history — how  your  mother,  Mary,  and  your 
father,  John  Zuck,  were  divorced  twelve 
years  ago,  when  you  were  six;  how  your 
mother  then  married  Eugene  Douvan,  her 
boss,  who  loved  you,  took  care  of  you, 
called  you  "my  daughter"  till  the  day  of 
his  sudden  death  in  1956;  how  since  that 
day  you  have  mourned  Eugene  Douvan, 
referred  to  him  in  stories  and  interviews 
as  "my  daddy."  While,  actually,  your 
true  father  was  still  alive. 

Your  true  father — yet  a  man  whose 
existence  you  deny,  a  man  whose  existence 
you  ignore. 

Why,  Sandra? 

Why? 

You  are  not  a  cold  girl. 

You  are  not  a  thoughtless  girl. 

On  the  contrary,  you  are  and  always 
have  been  one  of  the  most  delightful,  most 
sincere,  most  lovely  girls  we  have  ever 
known. 

We  like  you,  very  very  much. 

And  it  is  because  we  like  you  so  much 
that  we  are  concerned  about  you — con- 
cerned that  you  are  now,  right  now,  this 
minute,  making  the  greatest  mistake  of 
your  life,  living  one  of  the  most  terrible 
lies  a  person  can  live. 

As  you  did  that  Tuesday. 

March  22. 

That  triumphant  day  of  your  homecom- 
70  ing   when   you   smiled   and   waved  and 


these  people,  shocked,  at  the  way  Bobby 
would  spend  so  much  time  following 
Mama's  advice,  like  the  way  he'd  stand  in 
front  of  a  mirror  and  practice  with  his 
eyes.  But  what  they  didn't  realize  was 
that  my  mother  knew  show  business — 
and,  more  important,  knew  her  son's  talent 
and  his  love  for  show  business.  And  that 
there  was  no  point  she  wouldn't  go  to,  to 
see  that  he  made  it  in  this  business." 

Nina  looked  down  now,  and  was  sud- 
denly silent. 

"Mom,"  Vivi  said,  " — you  didn't  even 
touch  your  coffee  yet.  It's  cold.  Do  you 
want  me  to  heat  it  up?" 

But  Nina  didn't  seem  to  hear  her  daugh- 
ter. 

She  remained  silent  for  a  while  longer. 

And  then,  speaking  again,  she  said: 

"There  was  so  much  criticism.  Even 
towards  the  end. 

"It  was  only  a  year  ago.  .  .  . 

"Bobby  was  at  the  beginning  of  mak- 
ing it  big. 

"Mama  was  very  sick  with  her  heart. 

"Bobby  had  to  be  away  on  tours  in  Cali  - 
fornia, TV  shows,  record  hops,  this,  that. 

"And  there  were  people  who  said,  'You'd 
think  if  he  loved  his  mother  so  much,  that 
he'd  be  home  more  now,  now  that  it's  the 
end.' 

"But — but  if  they'd  only  known  how 
proud  Mama  was.  How  happy  she  was. 

"Lying  in  her  bed.  Watching  her  son 
on  the  television,  or  listening  to  his  rec- 
ords. Not  caring  that  she  was  dying.  But 
knowing  that  the  talent  in  her  boy,  the 
talent  she  had  seen  so  far  back,  so  long 
ago,  was  beginning  to  live.  .  .  ." 

Nina  looked  up.  And  she  wiped  away 


thousands  of  people  smiled  and  waved  back 
at  you. 

That  day  bands  played  in  your  honor. 

That  day  kids  and  grownups  alike 
screeched  happily  at  the  sight  of  you 
and  begged  you  for  autographs. 

That  day  Mayor  Brady  and  Congressman 
Gallagher's  wife  and  all  the  others  praised 
you  in  speech  after  speech. 

That  day  you  rode  through  the  streets 
of  your  old  hometown  in  a  long  black 
Cadillac  limousine,  escorted  by  two  police 
cars,  four  motorcycles. 

That  day  you  said  you  would  always 
remember — for  as  long  as  you  lived. 

That  day,  that  same  day,  a  man  and  a 
little  boy  sat  waiting,  in  a  small  apartment 
over  on  West  Twenty-fourth  Street,  that 
same  apartment  in  which  you  had  once 
lived,  waiting  to  see  if  you  would  re- 
member them.  .  .  . 

My  sister  Sandra  Dee 

Their  day — your  father's  and  Kenny's — ■ 
began  at  exactly  7:45  that  morning  when 
the  little  boy  awoke,  rushed  from  his  bed 
and  ran  into  the  kitchen  where  Pauline, 
his  mother,  your  father's  present  wife, 
was  preparing  breakfast. 

"Mommy,  Mommy,"  he  shouted,  accord- 
ing to  the  way  Pauline  tells  it.  "Today's 
Tuesday,  and  my  sister  Sandra  Dee  is  com- 
ing.   Isn't  she,  Mommy?" 

Pauline  explained  that  you,  Sandra, 
were  indeed  coming  to  Bayonne.  But 
that  she  didn't  know  whether  or  not  you 
would  come  by  to  see  them. 

"Oh  yes  she  will,  you  wait  and  see," 
Kenny  said.   "She's  my  sister!" 

At  that  moment,  your  father  walked 
into  the  room. 

"Won't  she,  Daddy,  won't  she  come  and 
see    us   finally?"    the    little    boy  asked 


some  of  the  tears  which  had  come  sudden- 
ly to  her  eyes. 

"There  are  always  critics,"  she  said. 
" — Like  some  of  the  people  who  said,  just 
before  Mama  died,  'You'd  think  he'd  buy 
her  a  nicer  house  than  that  place  in  Lake 
Hiawatha' — this  place  .  .  .  'After  all,'  they'd 
say,  'it's  not  very  fancy,  and  a  guy  mak- 
ing that  much  money,  who's  supposed  to 
love  his  mother  so  much,  you'd  think — ' " 

Nina  stopped,  and  shook  her  head. 

"If  they  knew,"  she  said,  "that  Bobby 
knew  Mama  didn't  have  long.  That  he 
bought  this  place  for  her  before  he  really 
made  his  big  success,  with  some  of  the 
money  he'd  saved  from  his  little  jobs — 

"If  they  knew  that  he  knew  he  couldn't 
wait  for  his  success  to  give  her  a  little 
extra  happiness,  that  he  wanted  her  to 
have  at  least  a  little  time  in  a  better 
world  than  what  she'd  known,  even  a 
small  house  like  this  compared  to  that 
dumpy  little  apartment  in  The  Bronx 
where  she'd  had  to  live  most  of  her  life — 

"If  they  knew  what  this  place  meant  to 
her.  .  .  ." 

Nina  stopped  again. 

"Excuse  me,"  she  said,  as  she  walked 
out  of  the  room. 

We  got  up,  too,  a  moment  later. 

"Are  you  leaving?"  Vivi,  Nina's  daugh- 
ter, asked  us. 

We  said  yes,  we  were. 

"But  Uncle  Bobby  isn't  up  yet,"  Vivi 
said.  "You  didn't  even  get  the  story  you 
came  for." 

We  told  Vivi  that  she  was  wrong. 

We  got  the  story,  we  said.  end 

Bobby  guest-stars  in  Columbia's  Pepe. 


again,  as  he'd  asked  many  times  before. 

And  again,  Sandra,  it  was  explained 
to  him  that  no  one  could  be  sure. 

"Maybe,"  your  father  said. 

"Maybe." 

He  looked  at  the  table  then.  It  was  all 
set. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "let's  eat.  And  latei 
we'll  see  what's  going  to  be.  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  few  minutes  before  nine  o'clock 
when  Pauline  kissed  Kenny  and  your 
father  good-bye  and  left  for  work.  You 
see,  Sandra,  your  dad  was  in  an  acci- 
dent a  few  months  ago.  He  hurt  his  foot, 
pretty  badly.  Just  at  about  the  time  he 
was  set  to  go  back  to  work  things  got 
slow  at  his  place,  and  he  was  laid  off.  He 
hasn't  been  able  to  work  since.  And  so 
Pauline,  to  help  out,  took  a  job  as  a  clerk- 
typist  at  the  Maidenform  Co.  plant.  And 
so,  this  morning,  she  left  for  work,  as 
usual,  at  about  nine  o'clock. 

Nine  o'clock  .  .  .  Just  about  the  same 
time  you  were  leaving  the  Hotel  Drake  on 
New  York's  swank  Park  Avenue  that 
morning  and — accompanied  by  your 
mother,  your  hairdresser,  your  tutor  and  a 
few  publicists  from  your  studio,  Universal- 
International — got  into  the  Caddy  that 
would  take  you  to  New  Jersey,  and 
Bayonne. 

It  was,  in  fact,  while  you  were  making 
the  drive  to  Jersey  that  Kenny  and  your 
father  had  their  first  long  talk  about  you. 
First  long  talk,  because  normally  your 
father  doesn't  talk  much  about  you  to 
Kenny.  "It  hurts  me  too  much,"  he's  ex- 
plained, understandably. 

But  this  morning  it  was  different.  .  . 

From  real  life 

Kenny  started  the  talk. 

"Daddy,"  he  said,  "do  you  remember 
Sandra  Dee,  my  sister?" 

"Sure  I  do,"  your  father  said. 

"But  you  never  go  see  her  in  the  movies 
like  me  and  mommy,"  Kenny  said.  "How 
could  you  remember?" 

"I  remember  her  when  she  was  a  little 


An  Open  Letter  to  Sandra  Dee 


girl,"  your  father  said.  He  smiled.  "From 
real  life,"  he  said. 

"Like  what  do  you  remember."  Kenny 
asked.  " — best  of  all?" 

''little  things,"  your  father  said.  He 
thought  for  a  moment.  "The  way  her 
and  I  were  buddies  when  she  was  small." 

''Lake  us?"  Kenny  asked. 

"Like  us."  your  father  said.  And  then 
he  said:  "The  way  I  used  to  call  her 
Cookie  sometimes — just  like  I  call  you 
sometimes  .  .  The  way,  when  she  first 
started  school,  I  used  to  help  her  with 
her  homework,  especially  the  additions  and 
subtractions,  in  arithmetic  .  .  .  The  way  I 
used  to  read  her  stories  from  those  big 
fairy  tale  books,  about  the  people  who 
always  ended  up  living  happily  ever  after. 
She  really  liked  those!  .  .  .  The  way  we 
used  to  go  to  the  park  together  on  nice 
days  and  buy  popsicles,  one  for  her  and 
one  for  me  " 

Your  father  stopped. 

"What  else  do  you  remember  about 
my  sister.  Sandra  Dee?"  Kenny  per- 
sisted. 

"What  else?"  your  father  asked.  "Well, 
I  remember."  he  said.  "I  remember  how 
when  she  was  small,  like  you,  I  used  to 
work  as  a  bus  driver  then.  And  how 
sometimes  I  used  to  bring  her  on  my 
route  with  me.  let  her  sit  in  the  seat  next 
to  where  I  did.  All  the  way  from  Jersey 
City  to  New  York  and  back  again.  That 
long  a  ride  " 

"What  else.  Daddy?"  Kenny  asked. 

"When  she  was  first  born — I  remember 
that,  too."  your  father  said.  "She  was 
born  right  here  in  this  house.  I  mean,  she 
was  bom  in  the  Margaret  Hague  Hospital 
over  in  Jersey  City.  But  she  lived  in 
this  house  from  the  day  she  came  home. 
And  boy.  that  day  she  came  home.  I  was 
carrying  her.  from  the  car.  And  I  was 
pretty  young,  and  nervous.  And  scared, 
too,  I  guess.  And  as  I  was  carrying  her. 
I  was  just  outside  the  front  door  when 
all  of  a  sudden  I  almost  tripped  and 
dropped  her." 

Kenny  laughed  a  little  boy's  laugh. 
You  almost  dropped  her?"  he  asked. 

"Yes."  your  father  said,  not  laughing. 
"And  you  know  what  I  swore  then?"  His 
voice  trailed  off  a  little  here.  "I  swore  then 
that  I'd  never  let  my  baby  go  ...  or  let 
anything  bad  ever  happen  to  her." 

"And  what  else?"  Kenny  asked,  impa- 
tiently. 

"I  remember  the  first  time  she  did  get 
hurt,"  your  father  said  then.  "Downstairs. 
The  front  door.  Sandy,  she  always  had 
a  habit  of  wanting  to  open  that  door  by 
putting  her  hand  on  the  glass  and  push- 
ing, instead  of  on  the  knob.  I  used  to 
warn  her  about  this.  But  one  day — it 
was  a  Sunday.  I  remember;  Sandv'd  been 
playing  over  at  Mrs.  Skranko's  house, 
next  door — and  I  was  inside,  here.  And 
I  heard  this  crash.  And  I  ran  out,  and 
there  was  Sandy — she'd  come  back  from 
Mrs.  Skranko's — and  her  hands  had  gone 
through  the  glass  pane  of  the  door  and 
were  all  bleeding.  I  yelled  at  her  at  first. 
'See.  I  told  you.'  I  said.  And  then  I  picked 
her  up  and  carried  her  to  the  sink  and 
put  her  hands  under  the  cold  water.  And 
then  I  bandaged  them.   And  kissed  them." 

Again  he  stopped. 

"Daddy."  Kenny  asked,  "don't  you  think 
my  sister  will  come  and  see  us  today?" 

"I  don't  know.  Son,"  your  father  said. 

"Doesn't  she  like  us,  Daddy?"  Kenny- 
asked. 

And  before  your  father  had  a  chance 
to  answer,  Kenny  said,  "Sure  she  likes  us. 
And  you  know  what.  Daddy — she  is  going 
to  come  to  see  us." 

He  got  into  your  father's  lap. 

"I  promise.  Daddy,  she  is,"  he  said. 

And  so,  Sandra,  for  the  next  few  hours, 
they  waited. 


Your  father  and  little  brother  \vsited. 
And  continued  waiting.  .  .  . 

The  Sondra  Dee  day 

And  you,  Sandra.  You,  meanwhile — this 
is  what  you  were  doing  those  hours: 

At  9:30,  or  a  few  minutes  after,  your 
limousine  pulled  up  to  the  Lexington 
Shop,  a  lingerie  store,  just  across  from 
the  DeWitt  Theater  where  you  would  ap- 
pear that  night.  You  posed  outside  the 
store  in  the  shivering  cold  for  a  few 
minutes  and  then  you  went  inside  and 
signed  autographs  and  greeted  old  friends 
for  about  half  an  hour. 

At  ten  o'clock  you  got  back  into  the  car 
and  drove  over  to  P.S.  3,  the  school  you'd 
attended  when  you  were  a  little  girl.  Those 
were  a  touching  two  hours  that  followed. 
So  touching  that  you  broke  down  and 
cried  when  you  stepped  onto  that  stage 
in  the  big  old  auditorium  and  when  a 
couple  of  hundred  kids  rose  and  gave  you 
the  biggest  ovation  you've  ever  received. 
It  was  here  where  Dr.  Phillips,  the  prin- 
cipal, made  his  speech  of  welcome;  where 
Ronald  Bressler,  S  boy  you'd  attended 
school  with,  made  his.  Where  your  three 
favorite  teachers— Mrs.  Sharf.  Mrs.  Pearl 
and  Mrs.  Tierney — came  onto  the  stage 
to  say  hello.  Where  nine  little  girls  came 
out  then  and  sang  and  tapdanced  to  a 
song  written  specially  for  you.  Where 
Elaine  Kunecz,  another  student,  presented 
you  with  a  loving  cup  inscribed: 
To  Sandra  Dee, 
Famed  Screen  Actress. 
Who  Brought 

Renown 
To   Her  City. 

Yes.  they  were  a  touching  two  hours. 

As  were  the  two  hours  that  followed, 
over  at  the  big  Industrial  YMCA  on  Ave- 
nue E,  where  the  Kiwanis  Club  of  Bay- 
onne  gave  a  luncheon  in  your  honor. 
Where  you  sat  on  the  dais,  flanked  by 
local  bigwigs  and  tons  of  flowers  and 
looked  down  at  the  table  directly  be- 
neath you,  where  your  mother  sat,  and 
your  great-grandfather,  and  your  grand- 
mother and  grandfather,  and  your  Uncle 
Peter  and  Aunt  Olga,  and  your  cousins 
Hope  and  Michael,  all  of  them  proud,  so 
proud. 

Proud. 

And  smiling. 

And  even  laughing  when,  at  one  point. 
Bob  Brown.  WNTA  disk  jockey  and  mas- 
ter of  ceremonies  at  the  luncheon,  asked 
you:  "Sandra,  back  in  Hollywood,  when 
those  chi-chi  actresses  say,  Tm  from 
Budapest  .  .  .  I'm  from  Paris  .  .  .  I'm 
from  Rome' — what  do  you  say?" 

And  you  yelled  out:  "Bayonne,  that's 
what  I  tell  'em!" 

Proud. 

And  smiling. 

And  laughing — your  family. 

Or  rather,  half  your  family. 

For  remember,  Sandra,  that  over  in  the 
little  apartment  on  West  Twenty-fourth  I 
Street,  John  Zuck,  your  father,  and  Kenny  j 
Zuck.    your   brother,    were    still   waiting  J 
for  you.  .  .  . 

The  long  wait 

"How  did  I  feel,  waiting?"  your  father 
asked  back,  when  we  put  the  question 
to  him,  later.  "I  don't  know.  I  guess  you 
could  say  I  felt  deep  down  in  my  heart, 
at  first,  that  Sandy  would  show  up  at 
one  point,  or  call.  I  guess  you  could  say 
I  felt  this  way  because  this  was  the  way  I 
wanted  it  to  all  happen,  and  the  way 
Kenny  wanted  it. 

"But,"  your  father  went,  on,  "after  a 
while  I  got  this  feeling  that  it  wasn't  going 
to  happen,  not  really.  Pauline  came  home 
from  work,  for  lunch,  and  then  went 
away  again.  The  clock  kept  ticking.  Time 
passed.    Every  once  in  a  while  the  phone 


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Woman  Nearly 
Itches  To  Death 

"I  nearly  itched  to  death  for  ~lA  years.  Then  I 
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rang  and  I'd  pick  it  up  thinking  maybe 
it  was  Sandy — but  twice  it  was  friends, 
just  calling,  they  said,  and  the  other  times 
it  was  crank  calls  from  kids  who  kept 
asking,  'Is  it  true?  Are  you  Sandra  Dee's 
real  father?' — and  then  giggling  and  hang- 
ing up. 

"And  so,  more  and  more,  I  got  the  feel- 
ing that  no,  it  wasn't  going  to  happen, 
that  I  wasn't  going  to  get  to  see  my 
baby." 

And  then,  Sandra,  your  father  told  us 
this  story: 

"Because,"  he  said,  "it  came  back  to  me 
what  happened  once  before,  the  last  time 
we  ever  saw  each  other.  It  was  back  when 
Sandy  must  have  been  fourteen  or  fifteen 
years  old.  Her  mother  had  remarried  by 
then — man  named  Gene  Douvan — a  man 
with  quite  a  bit  of  money.  And  Sandy 
was  living  in  New  York  with  them,  with 
lots  of  clothes  and  nice  things.  And  this 
one  day,  for  some  reason,  she  happened 
to  be  in  Jersey  City  and  my  brother,  Cus- 
ter, saw  her.  And  Custer  said,  'Sandy, 
why  don't  you  get  together  with  your 
father  for  a  little  while?  He'd  like  that.'  So 
Sandy  came  to  where  I  was  working.  And 
we  talked.  And  we  had  some  laughs,  and 
everything  was  going  real  nice.  And  so 
then  I  said  to  her,  'Sandy,  why  don't  you 
and  me  get  to  see  each  other  a  little 
more?'  And  she  said,  'All  right,  Daddy, 
I'd  like  that  very  much.'  And  I  said  to 
her  'How  about  Saturday?  Why  don't  I 
take  the  day  off  and  come  into  New 
York  and  the  two  of  us  can  go  to  a 
show  together  and  then  go  for  a  bite  to 
eat  together,  and  talk,  and  get  to  know 
each  other  again,  a  little  bit  at  least?'  And 
Sandy  said,  'All  right,  Daddy,  that  would 
be  fine.'  She  asked  me  for  my  phone 
number  and  said  she'd  call  me  that  Friday 
night,  so  I'd  know  where  to  pick  her  up 
and  what  time  the  next  day.  And  then  she 
left.  And  boy,  those  next  few  days  I  felt 
great.  After  all,  I  was  going  to  have  a 
date  with  my  kid.  And  it  had  to  be  right, 
I  told  myself,  it  had  to  be  right.  So  first 
thing  I  went  out  and  bought  myself  a 
new  suit.  And  then  I  polished  up  the  car, 
this  old  Buick  I  had.  And  I  looked  in 
the  papers  to  see  what  movies  were  play- 
ing on  Broadway,  at  Radio  City,  because  I 
wanted  to  take  my  baby  to  the  best  show 
in  town. 

"And  then,"  your  father  went  on,  Sandra, 
" — and  then,  Friday  night  came  and 
there  was  no  phone  call  from  my  Cookie. 
'Well,'  I  figured,  'she's  probably  busy  and 
she'll  call  me  tomorrow  morning.'  But 
the  next  morning  there  was  no  phone  call 
either.  Till  finally,  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do,  sitting  there  around  the  house  in 
my  new  suit,  waiting.    And  so  I  called 


her.  And  I  spoke  to  her  mother.  And 
Mary,  my  ex-wife,  she  said,  'I'm  sorry, 
John,  but  something  came  up  and  Sandy 
can't  make  it.'  .  .  .  And  that  was  that. 

"And  so,"  your  father  told  us,  "I  guess  I 
remembered  that  incident  this  Tuesday, 
all  these  years  later.  And  I  figured  I  was 
just  waiting  around  for  nothing.  And 
that  I  just  better  forget  the  whole  idea 
of  her  coming,  or  calling,  or  wanting  to 
see  me." 

Two  faces  in  the  crowd 

Your  father  did  get  to  see  you,  though 
Sandra. 
That  day. 
March  22. 

It  was  at  Kenny's  insistence. 

"Please,  Daddy,"  the  boy  kept  saying,  as 
the  afternoon  wore  on,  "if  she's  not  coming, 
can't  we  at  least  go  to  see  her — my  sister? 
.  .  .  Please?" 

Your  father  tried  to  reason  with  him. 
"Son,"  he  said,  "if  we  go  anywhere  and 
people  recognize  us,  it'll  make  it  embar- 
rassing for  Sandy — don't  you  understand? 
People'll  think  we're  there  to  make  a 
scene.  Sandy,  if  she  recognizes  us,  she 
might  even  think  that. 

"Son,"  he  went  on,  "remember  a  little 
while  back  I  told  you  the  story  about  when 
I  carried  her  home  from  the  hospital  after 
she  was  born,  how  I  almost  dropped  her 
and  got  scared,  and  how  I  swore  to  my- 
self that  I'd  never  do  anything  to  hurt  her, 
ever?  Well,  if  we  go  now,  if  anybody  sees 
us,  this  might  be  hurting  her.  And  we 
don't  want  to  hurt  her,  now,  do  we,  Son? 
And  so  that's  why  we  can't  go  to  see  her 
...  Do  you  understand?" 

But  the  little  boy  didn't  understand, 
not  at  all. 

"My  sister,"  he  kept  repeating.  "I  want 
to  see  my  sister!" 

Until,  finally,  your  father  gave  in,  San- 
dra, and  he  and  Kenny  came  to  see  you. 

"It  was  all  short,  quick,"  your  father 
told  us,  later.  "We  went  down  to  Rosen- 
berg's Hardware  Store  at  about  four 
o'clock,  because  I  knew  from  the  papers 
that  that's  where  Sandy  would  be  then, 
signing  more  autographs  and  giving  out 
pictures  of  herself  and  things.  Before 
she  got  there,  there  must  have  been  about 
two  thousand  kids  outside,  waiting,  push- 
ing each  other — they  even  broke  a  win- 
dow in  the  store.  And  then,  when  the  big 
car  pulled  up,  and  the  escort,  the  kids 
started  yelling  so  much  and  pushing 
around  the  car  that  I  couldn't  hear  my- 
self think,  or  barely  see  anything  .  .  . 
And  then,  for  a  second,  I  did  see  her, 
Sandy,  get  out  of  the  car.  Just  her  face. 
She  was  pretty,  all  right,  just  like  every- 
body's been  telling  me.  She  was  half- 


smiling,  too,  and  half  worried-looking  be- 
cause of  the  big  crowd.  I  grabbed  Kenny 
and  lifted  him  to  my  shoulders.  'That's 
her,'  I  said,  'my  kid — your  sister.  You 
see?'  'Yes,  Daddy,'  Kenny  said,  'I  see  her.' 
And  he  began  to  wave.  'You  see  that,' 
Kenny  said  then,  'how  she  waved  back?' 
But  I  knew  this  was  only  his  imagination 
because  Sandy,  she  was  in  the  store  al- 
ready, by  this  time.  I  knew  that  my  boy 
was  only  saying  this  to  make  me  feel  less 
disappointed  .  .  .  And  then  I  put  him 
back  down  on  the  pavement  and  the  two 
of  us  went  back  home.  .  .  ." 

That,  Sandra,  is  your  father's  story  of 
your  day  in  Bayonne. 

The  story  of  a  disappointed  man,  and  a 
disappointed  little  boy. 

And  why,  we  ask  now,  why  did  you  dis- 
appoint them  so  much  that  day? 

Why  did  you  make  it  so  clear  by  what 
you  did — or  rather,  by  what  you  didn't  do 
— that  you  will  continue  to  shun  them,  dis- 
appoint them,  break  their  hearts? 

We  know  that  there  are  two  sides  to 
every  story. 

We  haven't  printed  yours — because  you, 
Sandra,  refuse  to  discuss  the  matter. 

But  from  the  one  side  of  the  story  we 
do  know,  we  know  this: 

That,  should  you  ever  find  any  love 
lacking  in  your  life,  there  is  love  waiting 
for  you  at  a  certain  little  apartment  on 
West  Twenty-fourth  Street,  Bayonne,  New 
Jersey. 

That,  should  you  drop  by  someday,  even 
if  for  only  a  little  while,  that  love  will 
overwhelm  you  and  fulfill  you,  the  way  no 
career,  no  big  part  in  any  big  picture,  no 
fancy  houses  or  cars  or  swimming  pools, 
no  11,000  people  waving  and  smiling  at  you 
can  ever  fulfill  you. 

That  you  will  be  reminded,  by  looking 
around  the  apartment  where  you  once 
lived,  by  seeing  your  father  again,  by  see- 
ing the  brother  you've  never  seen  and  who 
resembles  you  so,  of  some  of  the  most  pre- 
cious years  of  your  life  .  .  .  years  which, 
sadly,  you  have  obviously  blocked  from 
your  memory  ...  of  your  childhood  .  .  . 
of  a  time  you  sat,  a  little  girl,  listening  to 
the  man,  then  the  most  important  man  in 
your  life,  who  read  to  you  from  those  big 
fairy-tale  books  about  "the  people  who 
always  ended  up  living  happily  ever 
after." 

And  doing  this,  Sandra,  you  will  dis- 
cover that  happy  endings  are  not  only 
found  in  big  fairy-tale  books  .  .  .  not  only 
in  the  Hollywood  movies  you've  been 
making.    But  in  life  itself.  ...  ENt> 

Sandra's  in  Portrait  in  Black.  Roman- 
off And  Juliet,  and  Columbia's  Gidget 
Goes  Hawaiian. 


Portrait  of  Jane 


(Continued  from  page  53) 

When  Jane  was  fourteen,  she  attended 
the  Emma  Willard  School  in  Troy.  It  was 
an  all-girls  school.  That  fact  soured  Jane 
on  school  life. 

"It  was  ghastly.    All  girls,  and  that 

can  be  real  unhealthy." 

Jane  graduated  from  Emma  Willard,  and 
was  enrolled  at  Vassar.  She  rebelled  al- 
most immediately  against  it.  The  place 
stifled  her. 

"I  wasn't  getting  much  out  of  it. 

All  the  girls  ever  talked  about  was 

nonsense." 

So  much  a  rebel  did  Jane  become  that 
some  of  her  antics  put  her  in  hot  water 
with  the  school  authorities  more  than  once. 
She  became  the  scourge  of  Vassar. 


"One   prank   almost  did  me  in.  I 
sprinkled  lighter  fluid  along  a  class- 
room door,  then  under  the  door.  I  lit 
the  fluid  and  a  fire  ran  in  a  straight 
line  right  into  class.  Everybody  flipped. 
Mostly  the  school  head,  though." 
She  was  called  on  the  carpet,  but  talked 
her  lovely  head  off  and  beat  the  penalty 
of  expulsion.  Her  reputation  in  school  was 
that  of  a  light-headed  brat.  Jane  prefers 
to  think  of  herself  as  a  rebel. 

"They  never  got  a  chance  to  throw 
me  out.  I  quit!" 

With  painting  still  on  her  mind,  and 
her  other  ambitions  temporarily  derailed, 
Jane  took  off  for  Paris.  She  studied 
painting,  and  learned  languages.  Her  paint- 
ing improved  in  the  romantic  city  of  Paris. 
And  her  beauty  began  to  attract  more  than 
a  fair  share  of  boys. 

Her  dates  were  confined  mostly  to  din- 
ners at  little  romantic  places  along  the 
Left  Bank.  But,  she  kept  strict  hours,  and 


dates  were  always  aware  of  a  curfew  time. 
"Daddy  had  set  a  curfew  for  me.  I 
had  to  be  home  by  midnight  during 
the  week,  and  by  two  on  a  Saturday. 
I  never  let  him  down.  Even  though 
my  dates  groaned  about"  the  curfew." 

"Daddy  was  strict" 

She  almost  lost  her  heart  to  Paris,  and 
to  a  few  of  the  young  men  of  Paris.  But 
one  day,  she  decided  to  return  to  New 
York.  She  began  studying  painting  at  the 
Art  Student's  League.  She  liked  the  pace 
of  New  York.  Dates  became  more  frequent 
but  still  the  curfew  remained. 

"Daddy  was  strict  about  it.  He  also 

wouldn't  let  me  wear  any  make-up,  j 

except  a   light  shade  of  lipstick.  I 

looked  a  mess!" 

Her  dates  thought  otherwise,  and  he 
phone  was  constantly  buzzing  with  nev  I 
swains,  but  Jane  never  settled  completed  I 
on  any  one  boy.  Her  favorite  dates  were  a  | 


little  restaurants  that  had  checkered  table- 
cloths and  soft  lights. 

"There's  something   very  romantic 

about  a  checkered  tablecloth." 

Along  with  her  painting,  Jane  picked  up 
a  passion  for  reading.  She  devoured  good 
books  like  a  professor  on  a  desert  island. 
"Books  on  psychology  flip  me.  The 

human  mind  is  a  whole  world  in  itself." 

Jane  also  likes  novels,  and  poetry.  Her 
poet  favorites  change  constantly.  She  dis- 
covers one  poet,  adopts  him,  reads  every- 
thing he's  ever  written,  then  moves  on  to 
her  next  discovery.  E.  E.  Cummings  was 
the  newest  poetic  darling  in  her  life. 

Jane  is  an  independent,  and  outspoken 
girl.  She  has  her  own  apartment,  which 
she  shares  with  Susan  Stein.  Susan's 
father  is  president  of  M.C.A.,  a  repre- 
sentative of  many  stars,  but  not  Jane. 
"We  get  along  great.  Susan  is  one 

of  the  other  Vassar  rebels." 

Their  apartment  is  in  a  constant  state  of 
chaos.  And  the  phone  is  forever  ringing. 
Boys  keep  calling  about  every  ten  min- 
utes without  fail.  Susan  is  a  dark-haired 
girl  with  dark  eyes  that  contrast  with 
Jane's  light  features. 

"Dates  get  a  choice.  Blonde  or  bru- 
nette." 

"Modeling  is  a  bore" 

Jane  earned  her  independence  by  be- 
coming a  photographers'  model  to  pay  her 
own  way.  She  rapidly  became  a  fashion 
magazine  favorite,  and  her  face  graced  the 
covers  of  such  fashion  slicks  as  Vogue, 
and  McCalls.  Men  flipped  at  a  cover  and 
layout  on  her  in  Esquire. 

"Modeling  is  a  bore.  If  you  look  a 

certain  way,  you've  got  it  made.  If  not, 

you're  a  failure.  Your  brains  don't 

count  for  anything." 

Jane  looked  different,  though,  and  var- 
ious photographers  found  her  a  delight  to 
work  with.  One  of  the  top  lensmen  said: 
"Janie  is  different,  all  right.  She  doesn't 
look  like  a  typical  clothes  horse.  She 
looks  more  like  the  kid  who  wrecked 
your  home  town." 

She  is  spirited  and  will  try  anything  if 
it  presents  a  challenge.  Anything,  except 
sports. 

"I  hate  sports.  With  a  passion.  Al- 
though I  love  to  exercise.  Every  day 
I  exercise  like  a  fiend.  But  sports  are 
out!" 

Her  lean  figure  attests  to  the  constant 
exercise  she  undergoes  to  keep  her  figure 
trim.  She  also  takes  dance  class  regularly. 
"I  love  to  dance.   It  gives  me  a 

sense  of  freedom.  And,  it's  darn  good 

exercise,  too." 

Dating  for  Jane  is  filled  with  the  same 
problems  as  for  any  other  girl  her  age.  In 
her  case,  it  was  made  even  tougher  by  the 
curfew. 

"Until  this  year,  Dad  kept  me  on 
my  midnight  weekday,  and  two  on 
Saturday  curfew.  He  wanted  to  make 
sure  I  didn't  become  a  good  time  Janie 
with  nothing  else  on  her  mind." 
Now,  the  curfew  is  relaxed.  Jane  sets 
her  own  hours,  but  they  aren't  far  from 
the  curfew  hours.  As  for  make-up,  she 
still  almost  never  uses  any.  Her  satin- 
smooth  complexion  is  kept  free  of  any 
make-up  irritants. 

"I  don't  like  to  wear  make-up.  It 
gives  me  an  artificial  look.  And,  any- 
thing artificial  just  bores  me  to  death." 

Jane's  dates 

Her  dates  are  usually  inexpensive  af- 
fairs. One  of  her  favorite  dates  is  going 
to  the  movies.  She  adores  watching  the 
different  stars  in  action.  She  has  seen  her 
father  on  a  score  of  occasions. 

"He's  wonderful.  A  really  fine  actor. 

Sensitive  and  warm." 

They  are  close,  her  father  and  she.  They 
talk  over  the  many  problems  that  con- 


front her  in  her  young  life.  Her  father 
advises  her.  Never  bullies  her  into  de- 
cisions. She  listens  to  him  carefully,  then 
makes  up  her  own  mind,  after  weighing 
his  words. 

"Dad  always  taught  me  by  strict 
discipline.  He  wasn't  a  Hitler,  or  any- 
thing like  that.  He  was  just  being 
protective  about  me.  I  thank  him  now 
for  his  discipline." 

Her  first  acting  job  was  playing  op- 
posite her  father  in  Country  Girl  in  Omaha. 
She  played  the  ingenue. 

"I  was  scared.  Dad  and  Dorothy  Mc- 

Guire  were  the  stars.  And  a  million 

people  seemed  to  be  staring  at  us.  But, 

it  turned  out  all  right." 

She  also  worked  with  her  father  in 
other  stock  plays  during  the  summer.  She 
doesn't  like  to  lean  on  him. 

"A  girl  has  got  to  move  on  her  own. 

She  can't  always  lean  on  dear  old  Dad." 

Jane  dates  quite  a  bit  now.  Her  current 
favorite  is  actor  Timmy  Everett. 

"I  usually  hate  to  date  actors.  All 

they  do  is  talk  about  themselves.  But, 

Timmy  is  a  lot  of  fun.  So  ...  we  date." 

She  has  yet  to  really  lose  her  loving 
heart.  But,  she  seeks  love. 

"Love  is  the  only  thing  in  life." 

A  former  date  said:  "She's  lots  of  date 
fun.  Nothing  phony  about  her." 

Jane  hates  phonies.  Nothing  to  her  is 
more  of  a  trial  than  having  to  put  up  with 
a  phony.  So,  she  usually  tells  them  to  get 
lost  in  her  most  candid  manner.  Wolves 
and  playboys  rate  a  big  zero  with  her. 
They  usually  don't  get  a  second  date. 

Jane  Fonda  is  on  her  way.  But,  she  re- 
members well  all  the  warnings  from  her 
father  of  heartbreak  and  headaches  that  a 
career  can  bring.  She  does  not  want  to  get 
wrapped  up  in  a  dog-eat-dog  career  push. 
She  does  want  to  get  married  sometime. 
"I'm  in  no  hurry,  though.  Mar- 
riage can't  be  pushed." 

More  than  one  date  has  had  the  mar- 
riage gleam  in  his  eye  after  dating  Jane. 
But,  she  hasn't  given  that  look  back. 

"My  career  is  important  to  me.  But 

when  love  hits  me,  it's  marriage  all 

the  way." 

Jane  is  impetuous  by  nature,  flying 
into  all  kinds  of  experiences  and  ad- 
ventures. But,  when  it  comes  to  marriage, 
she  plays  it  more  cautiously. 

The  Fonda  name 

Jane  has  no  acting  idols.  She  never  did. 
Those  who  appeal  to  her  most  are  Anne 
Bancroft  and  Kim  Stanley  of  the  stage, 
and  Garbo  (when  she  appeared  on  the 
screen)  and  Joanne  Woodward. 

"They're  all  good.  I  don't  copy  any 

of  their  styles.  I  just  like  to  watch 

them  work." 

Jane  is  a  personality  unto  herself.  And 
through  trial  and  error  she  learns  her 
craft.  She  knows  the  road  to  stardom  is 
a  hard  one,  but  she  is  prepared  to  pay 
the  orice  in  hard  work. 

"Nothing  comes  easy.  Dad  taught  me 
that.  So,  I  sweat  it  out  a  little.  It's 
better  to  learn  anything  the  hard  way." 
She  has  been  turned  down  for  jobs  be- 
fore. The  Fonda  name  didn't  carry  that 
kind  of  weight  to  get  her  any  jobs.  But, 
she  admits  that  being  Hank  Fonda's  daugh- 
ter has  certain  advantages. 

"It  opens  the  door  everytime.  After 
that,  I'm  on  my  own.  Dad  doesn't  get 
me  anything.  Nor  would  he  want  to, 
if  he  knew  his  name  was  the  only 
reason  I  was  being  hired." 
Jane  Fonda  is  on  the  way  to  the  top. 
Maybe  she'll  encounter  more  than  her 
share  of  the  obstacles.  But  if  sheer  heart 
and  honest  drive  can  make  it,  Janie  can't 
miss.  Not  this  year.  Not  any  year.  END 

Jane  stars  in  Tall  Story,  for  Warner 
Bros. 


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Whatever  Happened  to  Those  Nice  Kids? 


(Continued  from  page  31) 

Hope  was  called  upon  first  to  make  her 
presentation.  Then  Don  joined  her.  And 
when  she  stepped  down  he  said,  "Oh  thank 
you  so  much,  Miss — uh,  what's  your  name 
again?" 

And  Hope  laughed.  And  everybody  in 
the  audience  laughed.  It  was  corny — but 
it  was  cute — and  because  it  involved  these 
two  it  was  even  a  little  enchanting. 

A  few  minutes  later,  Don  rejoined  his 
table.  He  and  Hope  chattered  together  and 
with  their  dinner  companions.  They  danced 
together.  And  they  kept  smiling  at  one 
another. 

Always  smiling. 

But  when  they  got  into  their  car  to  drive 
home  later  that  evening,  there  were  no 
more  smiles.  And  very  few  words. 

Hope  stared  out  the  window  as  Don 
drove  the  long  distance  down  Wilshire 
Boulevard  into  Beverly  Hills. 

She  stared  and  she  thought  and  she  said 
very  little. 

Don  pulled  into  the  driveway  adjoining 
their  large  Tudor  Style  home. 

"Are  you  too  tired,  or  do  you  want  to 
talk  tonight?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"I  think  we  better  talk  tonight,"  Hope 
replied.  "I'll  fix  some  coffee  first." 

"Yes.  That  will  be  fine.  I  can  use  some 
coffee.  And  I  want  to  get  out  of  this  suit." 

Hope  brought  the  coffee  into  the  den.  It 
was  her  favorite  room.  The  first  room  they 
had  been  able  to  complete  when  they 
didn't  have  enough  money  to  furnish  the 
entire  house.  It  was  warm  and  large  and 
comfortable.  A  good  room  in  which  to  talk. 
The  room  where  they  had  managed  to 
talk  out  most  of  their  problems  in  the  past, 
and  to  solve  them. 

Only  tonight  she  knew  her  problems 
wouldn't  be  solved  as  simply  as  before. 

Had  they  really  ever  been  solved?  she 
wondered.  Or  were  we  just  pretending  to 
ourselves  that  they  were,  just  as  we  were 
pretending  to  everyone  else  tonight  that 
we  were  still  those  'wonderfully  happy 
Murrays,'  that  sterling  example  of  the 
ability  to  mix  marriage  with  tivo  careers.' 

The  talk 

She  toyed  with  her  coffee.  She  wanted 
Don  to  speak  first. 

"I  think,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  it  would 
be  be+t°r  if  I  moved  out  during  the  week 
end.  Before  I  start  rehearsals  for  Play- 
house 90.  It  will  be  easier  that  way  for 
everyone — and  I  want  to  spend  some  time 
with  the  children.  Will  that  be  all  right 
with  you?" 

"Yes,  that  will  be  all  right." 

"Hope — ,  Hope — what  I  want  to  say  is-^" 
Don  faltered.  "What  I  want  to  say  is  that 
we've  got  to  give  this  thing  time.  For  the 
children's  sake.  It  can't  be  what  I  want — 
or  what  you  want — or  the  way  it  is  or  isn't 
between  us  now.  We've  got  to  give  our- 
selves time  to  think — to  be  sure.  A  great 
deal  of  time.  I  mean  before  either  of  us 
decide  definitely  about  a  divorce." 

"Yes,"  Hope  answered,  "we'll  give  it 
time  .  .  .  and  hope  that's  the  answer.  But 
we've  made  the  important  step.  We've  let 
it  come  out  into  the  open,  the  way  we  feel. 
We're  no  longer  pretending  to  ourselves 
that  we're  the  nice  young  average  couple. 
We're  no  longer  pretending  that  we  feel 
the  same  way  that  we  felt  five  years  ago. 
By  facing  the  truth  about  ourselves,  maybe 
it  will  work  out.  We'll  give  it  time.  We'll 
try  to  put  things  into  the  proper  per- 
spective." 

They  retired  that  night  with  a  great  bur- 
den lifted  from  their  shoulders. 
They  kept  their  secret  to  themselves  until 
?M  Don  left  his  home,  the  following  week  end. 


Then  they  made  the  inevitable  announce- 
ment to  the  press: 

We  have  temporarily  separated 
to  work  out  our  domestic  prob- 
lems. No  divorce  is  planned. 

Short.  Simple.  Unrevealing. 

To  a  cynical  observer  it  was  just  an- 
other Hollywood  marriage  that  hit  the 
rocks.  On  the  day  Hope  and  Don  released 
their  statement  three  other  couples  in  show- 
business  made  similar  announcements.  The 
newspapers  grouped  them  all  under  one 
large  banner:  Hollywood  Love  Gone  Sour. 
It  was  as  though  their  marriage  was  buried 
in  a  mass  grave. 

But  Don  and  Hope  were  different.  Theirs 
wasn't  another  Hollywood  marriage.  Theirs 
was  a  marriage  destroyed  by  Hollywood, 
by  a  world  of  make-believe  and  illusion. 

Which  was  strange  because  they  never 
had  any  problems  when  it  came  to  reality. 
They  were  able  to  face  reality  fine — from 
the  very  day  they  met. 

Two  sensible  people 

They  met  on  a  double  date.  She  was  with 
another  guy  and  he  was  with  another  girl 
and  he  didn't  give  her  a  second  look.  He 
was  toting  a  torch  for  a  girl  in  California. 
He  thought  Hope  was  a  sweet  child  and 
nothing  more.  At  seventeen,  he  felt  she 
was  far  too  young  for  a  guy  of  twenty-one. 

A  few  weeks  later  they  met  again — and 
he  stopped  thinking  that  maybe  she  was 
too  young.  He  even  stopped  thinking  about 

444444444444.4.4,444444444,4,4.4,44 

^        Brigitte  Bardot  says,  "I  am  * 

neither  a  star,  a  pinup,  nor  a  mon-  4- 

*    ster,  but  all  three.    Perhaps  it  is  * 

j|    the  devil  that  made  me."  ^ 

t  in  the  NczvPYaor'kSPcst  % 


the  girl  in  California.  He  invited  her  to  be 
his  guest  at  The  Rose  Tattoo  in  which  he 
was  featured.  They  went  dancing  and  they 
talked  theater  because  she,  too,  had  been 
in  the  theater  since  she  was  twelve,  and 
they  found  they  had  a  lot  in  common.  They 
started  dating — at  first  regularly,  then  con- 
stantly, and  when  he  was  certain  that  she 
was  the  only  girl  in  the  world  for  him,  he 
asked  her  to  marry  him. 

Her  heart  wanted  to  say  yes,  but  her 
head  said  no. 

Facing  reality,  she  told  him,  "Don,  maybe 
we  should  think  it  over  some  more.  I'm 
just  too  young  to  get  married." 

Understanding,  he  answered,  "All  right. 
Hopee.  We'll  give  it  time." 

Two  sensible  people  came  to  a  sensible 
solution. 

Hope  went  off  to  college.  Don  went  on 
tour  with  his  show.  When  he  returned  he 
was  classified  as  a  Conscientious  Objector 
by  his  draft  board,  and  he  applied  for 
Foreign  Relief  work  with  the  Church  of 
Our  Brethren.  He  spent  the  next  two  years 
overseas  working  in  refugee  camps,  trying 
to  help  the  displaced  people  of  Europe 
build  new  lives  again. 

He  wrote  Hope  constantly.  But  she  didn't 
answer  his  letters.  Not  once.  She  was  being 
realistic.  She  didn't  think  a  long  drawn 
out  correspondence  would  be  practical. 

He  kept  a  farewell  telegram  and  a  Christ- 
mas Greeting  with  him  at  all  times  and  in 
one  letter,  which  she  kept  but  did  not  an- 
swer, he  wrote: 

You  know  when  we  met,  1  was 
so  confused,  so  mixed  up,  that  1 
was    beginning    to    question  the 


values  I  lived  by.  It  was  hard  to 
tell  you  really.  But  it  was  some 
thing   like  a   terrible  night  that 
seems  endless  and  you  walk  and 
walk  and  finally  you  come  to  the 
top  of  the  mountain  and  you  look 
down  and  there's  a  field  of  corn 
below,  full  of  sunlight  and  good- 
ness. That's  what  you  were  to  me 
for  all  that  you  were  so  young — 
shining  and  quiet  and  good  and 
sweet.    You    made    me    know  I 
wanted  you    but  more  than  that 
you  made  me  know  what  I  wanted 
from  myself. 
In  the  last  letter  he  wrote  from  Europe, 
he  told  her  the  date  he  was  returning 
home — and  the  name  of  the  ship.  He  didn't 
expect  her  to  be  there — but  he  secretly 
prayed  she  would. 

She  was  there — as  beautiful  as  ever.  She 
told  him  it  was  good  to  see  him  again — 
but  gave  no  explanation  for  her  silence. 
She  told  him  she'd  be  very  happy  to  date 
him  again — but  made  it  quite  clear  his  re- 
turn wasn't  going  to  disrupt  her  life  as  she 
had  been  living  it  during  the  two  years  he 
had  been  away.  She  went  right  on  dating 
other  boys.  She  even  sympathized  with 
him  for  being  in  love — unrequited. 

Fate  steps  in 

A  month  after  his  return,  he  was  back 
in  Europe  again  to  appear  in  The  Skin  of 
Our  Teeth.  Again  he  wrote.  Again  she 
didn't  reply.  When  he  returned  home,  they 
caught  up  and  became  close.  Later  Don 
was  to  say,  "From  then  on  I  saw  Hope  as 
a  precious  possession.  I  became  openly 
possessive.  I  sought  every  way  I  could 
think  of  to  be  with  her." 

When  he  got  a  lead  in  a  Broadway  show 
called  Hot  Corner,  he  managed  to  pull 
some  strings  to  get  Hope  a  reading.  When 
she  was  offered  an  understudy  part,  he 
persuaded  her  to  accept  it. 

They  were  together  constantly  on  the 
road,  ate  together,  rehearsed  together, 
traveled  together.  And  once,  they  even  had 
a  chance  to  play  opposite  each  other  when 
Don's  leading  lady  got  sick. 

Hope's  sister  flew  in  to  see  that  perform- 
ance. After  the  show  she  rushed  back- 
stage. "The  love  scenes  were  magnificent." 
she  drooled.  "Everybody  in  the  audience 
was  positively  dewy-eyed." 

And  remembering  them,  Hope  began  to 
feel  somewhat  dewy-eyed  herself. 

For  the  first  time  in  the  five  years  in 
which  they  knew  each  other,  she  became 
bewitched  by  an  illusion.  The  fantasy 
created  on-stage  and  her  relationship  with 
Don  off-stage  became  fused  together.  For 
the  first  time  she  believed  herself  in  love.  1 

When  the  show  folded,  after  three  fast 
performances  on  Broadway,  they  became 
engaged.  But  they  didn't  set  a  date. 

They  decided  to  be  sensible  and  wait 
until  Don  had  some  form  of  security  be- 
fore they  actually  got  married.  A  few 
months  later,  he  was  given  that  security 
by  way  of  a  20th  Century-Fox  contract, 
and  the  lead  in  Bus  Stop. 

He  went  west  by  himself  and  was  so 
miserable  alone  that  he  wired  Hope  to 
come  out  for  a  vacation.  Buddy  Adler  saw 
her  at  the  studio,  remembered  her  from  a 
prior  TV  appearance  and  signed  her  for 
the  role  of  the  waitress  without  even  know- 
ing she  knew  Don.  It  seemed  that  fate  had 
stepped  in  to  keep  them  together. 

Don  and  Hope  talked  vaguely  about  get-  I 
ting  married  when  the  picture  was  com- 
pleted—but on  April  14,  1956,  while  the\ 
were  still  in  production,  they  decided  tc  ' 
wed  in  a  simple  civil  ceremony. 

Later,  Don  laughed  about  it:  "In  Holly- 
wood I  had  Hope  in  a  vulnerable  position 
I  was  the  only  one  she  knew  in  town — so  " 
finally  broke  her  down." 

Bus  Stop  made  Don  a  star  and  it  brough  1 


Hope  a  new  long  term  contract  at  20th. 

They  were  on  top  of  the  world. 

They  re-married  in  church  in  New 
York  City  with  the  entire  family  present. 

Chris  was  born, 

Hope  was  nominated  for  an  Academy 
Award  for  her  performance  as  Selena  in 
Peyton  Place. 

The  two  worked  like  fanatics  for  their 
pet  project  HELP — an  organization  set  up 
to  clothe,  feed  and  help  some  50.000  refu- 
gees who  have  no  identities. 

Don  and  Hope  ear-marked  a  large  pro- 
portion of  their  salaries  toward  the  proj- 
ect. She  donated  her  services  on  a  Play- 
house 90  to  raise  additional  funds.  He  drove 
an  old  car.  She  went  without  furniture  for 
her  house. 

When  she  became  pregnant  with  her 
second  baby,  she  refused  to  cancel  a  trip 
abroad  and  instead  toured  eight  European 
Countries  on  behalf  of  HELP.  She  went 
with  Don  to  Germany,  Italy,  Switzerland. 
London,  Paris.  Rome  and  Sardinia — and 
looked  upon  the  hopeless,  the  old,  the  sick 
and  dying  children. 

She  let  no  one  know  that  she  wasn't 
completely  happy  in  her  marriage — that 
something  was  missing.  Maybe  she  didn't 
want  to  believe  it. 

The  illusion 

She  and  Don  were  looked  upon  as  model 
citizens. 

She  told  the  press —  "If  it  was  a  choice 
between  my  career  and  Dons,  there  would 
be  no  question.  Don's  career  comes  first." 
He   told   everyone   who   would  listen. 
£    "Hope  is  my  life.  I  see  her  as  a  mother,  a 
child,  a  partner  and  a  ward,  a  frustration 
-"-    and  a  satisfaction,  a  problem  and  a  satis- 
faction— and  a  constant  revelation.  Each 
morning  when  I  awake.  I  feel  like  ex- 

-  claiming  in  wonder.  'Why,  it's  you.' " 

He  created  the  illusion — and  she  lived 
'    the  part.  Perhaps  if  they  hadn't  been  so 
carried  away,  they  might  have  seen  the 
:    clouds  that  were  gathering  and  done  some- 
thing about  them  before  it  was  too  late. 
They  didn't  refuse  to  face  their  problems. 
They  just  refused  to  recognize  they  existed. 
There  was  the  problem  of  Don's  career. 
The  pictures  in  which  he  was  starred 
j   failed  miserably  at  the  box-office.  He  gave 
f   fine  performances  but  he  just  failed  to 
catch  on  with  the  public  and  the  studio 
.-  just  stopped  considering  him  for  major 
roles. 

■      Hope,  on  the  other  hand,  caught  on  fast. 
Don  said  he  was  delighted.  He  was — but 
his  masculine  ego  was  slightly  battered. 
i  He  wanted   out  from  his   contract  and 
--  talked  about  setting  up  his  own  produc- 
i   tion  company  abroad.  He  discussed  the 
s  possibility  of  starring  Hope  in  his  first 
picture — if  20th  would  agree. 

But  20th  had  bigger  plans  for  her  .  .  . 
-C  starting  with  The  Best  of  Everything. 
r      Hope  was  co-starred  opposite  Stephen 
-r  Boyd — and  almost  immediately  there  were 

-  r  jmors,  disturbing  rumors.  "How,"  en- 
:  lired  reporter  Mike  Connolly,  "can  it  be 
the  "Best  of  Everything'  for  that  couple 
•  hen  Don  Murray  is  barred  from  his 

-  :  wife's  set?" 

Hope  and  Stephen  lunched  together  con- 
"  =  -stantly  to  "work   on  their  scenes" — and 
"he  rumors  got  louder — and  louder.  Don 
uldn't  pretend  to  be  unaware  of  them — 
^  but  he  could  fight  to  stop  them. 

"Ridiculous."  he  insisted.  "These  rumors 
•"^"were  started  by  our  'best  false  friends' 
"'"working    on    the    picture    with  Hope." 
•  To  prove  they  were  ridiculous  he  started 
■  showing  up  on  the  set  and  joining  Hope 
and  Stephen  at  lunch.  To  prove  that  they 
-~  were  ridiculous,  he  invited  Stephen  to  his 
Jj  iome  to  work  on  the  script  with  Hope. 
And  he  cued  them  with  their  lines. 
Boyd  also  shrugged  the  whole  thing  off 

-  ■'■sth.  "Hope  and  I  are  friends.  How  could 


there  be  anything  between  us  when  she's 
a  married  woman?"  Then  he  added  with  a 
twinkle,  "But  this  doesn't  mean  I  wouldn't 
court  her  if  she  were  single." 

When  the  picture  was  completed  Hope 
and  Don  were  off  on  a  'second  honeymoon' 
to  Europe,  a  second  honeymoon  combining 
pleasure  with  publicity  for  The  Best  of 
Everything  and  Shake  Hands  with  the 
Devil.  They  tried  hard  to  convince  them- 
selves that  everything  was  still  idyllic. 

Magnetism  you  can't  ignore 

They  were  still  trying  late  last  winter 
when  they  vacationed  in  Acapulco.  They 
swam  together  and  danced  together  and 
pretended  it  was  all  very  romantic. 

''We  must  come  back  here  again.  Hope." 
Don  insisted.  "What  do  you  think  about 
our  buying  a  house?  The  climate  would  be 
wonderful  for  the  children.  Don't  you 
think  that's  a  great  idea?" 

"Yes,  Don.  it's  a  wonderful  idea.  We 
must  come  back  again.  .  .  ." 

But  deep  in  her  heart  she  wondered  if 
she  ever  would. 

Later,  much  later,  a  friend,  who  was  any- 
thing but  false,  tried  to  explain  what  was 
wrong.  "When  Hope  and  Don  were  in 
Europe,  and  later  in  Mexico  their  marriage 
was  in  serious  trouble.  But  neither  would 
really  face  that  fact:  In  spite  of  her  de- 
nials. Hope  had  been  infatuated  with  Ste- 
phen Boyd.  He's  a  tremendously  vital  man 
with  an  exciting  animal  magnetism  most 
women  find  hard  to  resist.  I  doubt  if  she 
ever  thought  of  divorcing  Don  then,  but 
Stephen  made  her  terribly  aware  of  the 
excitement  lacking  in  her  marriage.  Let's 
face  it.  the  Murrays  have  known  each 
other  ten  years.  They  had  a  warm  and  de- 
voted relationship — but  I  doubt  if  they  had 
the  kind  that  sends  the  blood  rushing  to 
the  head.  Boyd  can  make  a  girl's  head  spin 
— and  Dolores  can  do  the  same  thing  to  a 
guy." 

Dolores  is  Dolores  Michaels.  Don  and 
Hope  knew  her  casually  for  years.  They 
said  hello  at  the  studio,  nodded  in  the 
commissary.  That's  all.  Up  to  a  year  ago 
she  had  been  married  and  living  in  Laguna. 
Then  she  and  her  husband  separated  and 
she  started  dating  John  Duke.  Everyone 
expected  them  to  wed. 

Last  winter  she  was  cast  as  Don's  lead- 
ing lady  in  his  picture  for  20th — One  Foot 
in  Hell.  And  suddenly,  before  either  of 
them  were  really  aware  of  what  was  hap- 
pening, she  and  Don  became  disturbingly 
attracted  to  one  another. 

Hope  heard  about  it.  of  course.  There 
are  always  people  who  must  talk  about 
these  things. 

For  a  while  she  pretended  to  ignore  it. 

Then — neither  she  nor  Don  pretended 
any  longer. 

Since  leaving  his  home.  Don  has  dated 
Dolores  openly.  Sheilah  Graham  told  her 
readers  to  Look  for  Dolores  Michaels  to  be 
the  next  Mrs.  Don  Murray. 

Sidney  Skolsky  told  his  readers:  Now 
that  Don  Murray  and  Dolores  Michaels 
have  discovered  one  another,  don't  be  sur- 
prised if  Stephen  Boyd  starts  escorting 
Hope  Lange. 

The  picture  is  painted  in  bright  red 
colors. 

But  the  story  isn't  quite  over. 

Their  friends  are  hoping  that  once  Don 
and  Hope  have  their  outside  flings,  get 
whatever  it  is  they  have  to  get  out  of  their 
systems.  they'll  realize  the  importance  of 
what  they  had  and  get  back  together  again. 

If  they  do,  their  eyes  will  be  wide  open. 

If  they  do.  their  halos  will  be  gone — and 
they  will  no  longer  be  trapped  in  the  world 
of  make-believe. 

And  maybe  this  time,  they'll  make  it. 

END 

Don  stars  in  20th-Fox's  Oxe  Foot  Ix Hell. 


■  Red  Buttons  and  his  wife  had  had  quite 
a  siege  of  it — as  soon  as  one  got  over  the 
flu.  the  other  would  come  down  with  it. 

At  last  they  both  seemed  to  be  on  their 
feet  and  Red  told  his  Missis  he'd  like  to 
take  her  out  on  the  town  to  celebrate.  .  .  . 

"I'm  starving."  Mrs.  B.  announced  hap- 
pily at  the  best  steak  house  in  town,  and 
Red  suggested  the  Sirloin  Special.  "Keep 
up  your  strength." 

The  great  big  thick  juicy  steak  arrived 
and  they  eagerly  plunged  right  in. 

But  after  a  few  bites.  Red's  wife  dis- 
covered to  her  dismay  that  her  eyes  were 
bigger  than  her  appetite.  "I  can't  finish  it. 
Red."  she  moaned,  "let  alone  start  it.  I'm 
so  sorry." 

"That's  all  right,  sweetie."  he  comforted 
her.  "don't  worry  about  it." 

"Oh.  but  I  hate  to  leave  it."  she  wailed. 
"$6.50.  and  I  hardly  touched  it  ...  I  wish 
I  could  take  it  home.  Maybe  I'd  feel  more 
like  it  later,  maybe  for  a  midnight  snack. 
...  I  know.  I'll  ask  the  waiter  to  wrap  it 
for  my  dog.  .  .  .  People  do  say  that.  Red. 
don't  they?  I  mean,  people  who  have  dogs 


"RED  BUTTONS 
PUTS  ON 
THE  DOG" 


do  sometimes  take  home  left-over  meat, 
don't  they?" 

(It  must  be  pointed  out  that  not  only 
do  the  Buttons'  not  have  a  dog.  but  Mrs. 
B.  is  deathly  afraid  of  dogs.) 

"Sure,  sweetie."  Red  reassured  her.  He 
took  her  hand  and  said,  "Guess  we  came 
out  too  soon.  A  few  more  days  of  rest  and 
you'll  feel  like  eating  again  .  .  .  then  we'll 
go  out  and  really  celebrate —  \^  ell.  here's 
the  waiter." 

The  package  the  waiter  handed  them 
looked  big  enough  to  feed  a  horse. 

"Got  a  pretty  fancy  meal  here,"  the 
waiter  grinned. 

"\our  dog's  gonna  have  to  go  on  a  diet 
after  this.  .  .  ! 

"You  see.  I  was  wrapping  this  in  the 
kitchen  and  I  saw  all  this  other  meat  that 
other  customers  didn't  finish."  he  explained 
cooperatively,  "so  I  just  chopped  it  all  up 
toaether  for  you!" 


The  Terrible  Price  I've  Paid  to  Be  A  Star 


(Continued  from  page  38) 

ten  per  cent  is  taken  out  by  Henry  Will- 
son,  my  agent,  five  per  cent  by  my  busi- 
ness manager,  and  sundry  bits  by  lawyers 
and  others.  I  spend  up  to  my  neck  in 
insurance.  I've  been  married,  incorporated, 
and  agented  into  so  many  pieces  that  I 
hardly  know  which  of  me  belongs  to 
myself.  My  marriage — to  the  executive 
secretary  of  my  agent — began  in  Novem- 
ber, 1955,  and  finally  ended  last  year  but 
not  without  a  handsome  settlement. 

The  result  of  all  this  is  that  ten  years 
of  Hollywood  have  given  me  a  small 
house,  a  40-foot  sail-boat  (not  a  yacht), 
and  about  $50,000  clear — most  of  it  in- 
vested in  insurance  bonds  (I'm  trying  to 
get  back  a  little  of  what  I  have  paid  out 
to  the  companies). 

As  to  my  private,  personal  life,  well, 
every  week,  in  all  sorts  of  publications, 
there  are  stories  about  me  that  are  pure 
fabrications  written  by  people  I've  never 
seen.  I'm  damned  for  planning  to  marry 
or  not  to  marry;  for  being  seen  here  or 
not  being  seen  there.  I  tried  to  give  a  cute 
little  girl  some  help  in  her  career  by  read- 
ing lines  with  her — and  instantly  we  were 
tagged  as  a  romance.  So  now  I  just  shut 
up  about  everything — including  such 
titillating  items  as  to  whether  I  sleep  raw, 
eat  vitamins,  or  belch  after  a  good  meal. 
So,  the  writers  hate  me.  I'm  not  a  good 
interviewee.  I  clam  up  almost  immediately. 
The  result  is  that  the  writer  has  to  guess 
who  I'm  in  love  with  this  Tuesday  and 
why  I  eat  yogurt  on  alternate  Saturdays. 

Louella  Parsons  is  different.  She's  al- 
ways tried  at  least  to  get  my  side  of  a 
story.  On  one  occasion,  when  I  was  roasted 
by  an  unfriendly  gal-writer,  she  called 
me  and  said:  "I  just  don't  like  that  story, 
Rock.  I  don't  think  it's  true."  I  said:  "It 
isn't."  So  I  sat  down  with  her  and  un- 
burdened myself  and  she  wrote  a  piece 
that  for  once  tried  to  defend  me. 

Other  writers  have  called  me  a  "me- 
chanical man,"  a  big  "kick-the-dirt"  boy, 
and  like  to  say  that  my  acting  is  "pretty 
fair  for  an  ex-truck  driver."  I  used  to  be 
a  truck-driver,  sure — for  six  months  in 
the  early  part  of  my  career.  I  was  a  lot 
of  other  things,  too,  when  I  had  to  eat.  But 
I've  been  an  actor  for  ten  years  and,  I 
hope,  have  made  some  improvements  in 
the  original.  Some  of  this  rubs  off  from 
the  publicity  stories  handed  out  by  the 
studio — where  they  even  have  me  in  the 
Navy  as  an  airplane  mechanic  in  the 
Philippines  checking  out  a  "four-engined" 
B-26  Marauder.  The  Marauder  only  has 
two  engines  and  the  fact  is  that  when  I 
was  in  the  Navy  I  revved  up  the  engine  on 
one  side  so  much  that  it  chopped  up  a 
Piper  Cub  and  I  got  assigned  to  the 
laundry  detail. 

The  other  facts  are  that  I  was  a  member 
of  a  glee-club,  sang  in  a  church  choir,  and 
was  a  city  mail-carrier — as  well  as  the 
King  of  Hearts  in  a  pageant  at  the  age  of 
ten  and  one  of  the  three  wise  men  in  a 
Christmas  pageant  at  eight.  In  those  days 
I  knew  I  couldn't  act  and  I  knew  it  four- 
teen years  later  when  I  met  Henry  Willson. 
I  showed  him  my  pictures  and  when  he 
asked  me  if  I  could  act  I  told  him,  "No." 
He  told  me  that  might  be  an  asset  and  got 
me  my  first  job  at  Warner  Brothers,  a 
one-liner  as  a  fighter  pilot  that  I  managed 
to  botch  on  half-a-dozen  takes.  "Look  at 
the  backbloard,"  I  said  again  and  again. 

As  for  publicity  people — studio  or  other- 
wise— I  feel  a  little  suspicious  about  them. 
I  realize  they're  needed,  like  a  tire  needs 
a  bicycle  pump.  But  I  still  get  edgy  when 
they  come  around:  they're  too  smart  and 
76  exploitive.  After  all,  I've  had  more  than 


2,000  fan  magazine  interview  pieces — some 
real,  some  faked — and  there's  nothing 
more  to  be  said  about  Rock  Hudson.  When 
even  a  spot  of  decay  on  a  back  molar  be- 
comes of  interest  to  the  general  public,  I 
retire  into  my  shell.  .  .  . 

About  fans 

The  perennial  problem  and  the  peren- 
nial lifeblood  of  any  movie  actor  consists 
of  his  fans.  I  don't  always  expect  to  be 
cast  as  a  romantic  hero;  ten  years  or  so 
from  now,  when  I  look  forty-five,  I  want 
to  act  forty-five,  not  eighteen.  But  it's  hard 
to  go  to  get  a  meal  in  a  restaurant  before 
the  whispers  and  nudges  begin — and  finally 
the  auograph  fiends  approach.  Joel  McCrea 
once  told  me  that  this  is  a  modern  develop- 
ment in  movies.  It  never  happened  to 
those  great  old-time  stars  like  Rudolph 
Valentino,  for  whom  McCrea  used  to 
wrangle  horses.  The  addicts  of  Valentino 
would  mob  him,  tear  his  clothes — but  they 
never  asked  him  to  sign  anything. 

Strangely  enough,  the  teen-agers  are 
pretty  wonderful  about  this.  They  are 
courteous,  patient,  and  understanding.  So 
are  most  men.  But  the  women  in  their 
late  forties  are  tough  to  deal  with.  Usually 
they  come  up  to  me  just  when  I'm  about 
to  take  a  bite  of  steak. 

"Hi!"  they  say — and  often  they're 
slightly  whiffed. 

"Hello,"  I  say. 

"You  don't  have  to  be  rude,"  they  say. 

I  explain  that  all  I  want  to  do  is  finish 
my  meal — and  that  I'll  be  happy  to  sign 
anything  but  a  blank  check  then.  This 
makes  them  huffy.  "Well,"  they  say,  "I 
was  your  fan,"  and  march  off.  Most  of 
the  time  they  look  back  over  their 
shoulder  and  declare:  "The  least  you  could 
do  is  smile  at  me." 

Other  gambits  are:  "Here,  sign  this! 
You've  got  a  pen,  haven't  you?"  Or: 
"Don't  think  I'll  go  to  see  any  more  of 
your  pictures!"  The  only  recourse  I  have 
is  a  rather  childish  one:  I  often  sign  "Roy 
H.  Fitzgerald"  or  I  sign  Rock  Hudson 
backwards.  .  .  . 

I've  found  out  that  being  an  actor  can't 
be  a  nine  to  five  job.  My  office  is  in  my 
head.  I'm  not  talking  so  much  about  re- 
lationships with  fans,  or  learning  lines 
or  having  to  make  personal  appearances 
or  going  to  parties.  I'm  thinking  of  the 
twenty-four  hours  a  day,  asleep  or  awake, 
when  my  consciousness  is  running  over 
all  the  things  I've  seen  and  figuring  out 
how  I  can  use  them.  A  word,  an  expres- 
sion, a  twist  of  the  mouth,  a  lift  of  the 
eyebrow,  the  way  to  open  a  door  and 
how  to  say  "good  morning,"  seven  hun- 
dred different  ways.  I  have  to  be  aloof  and 
participate  at  the  same  time.  If  I  seem  ab- 
sentminded,  it's  usually  because  I'm  trying 
to  dig  into  a  part  to  find  the  clues  to  a 
character — especially  if  it's  a  bad  script. 

One  of  those  was  Twilight  for  the  Gods. 
I  didn't  think  the  story — that  of  a  sea 
captain  plagued  by  a  past  mistake,  slowly 
going  insane  with  bells  in  the  head  and 
all  that  jazz — was  any  world-beater.  But 
it  was  on  the  best-seller  list.  The  script 
turned  out  worse  than  I  feared.  I  didn't 
care  about  the  character  and  apparently 
no  one  else  did  either.  It  might  have  been 
perfect  as  an  Edward  G.  Robinson  role 
but  not  for  me.  It  even  presumed  that  I 
was  a  full-fledged  captain  at  the  age  of 
twenty-four.  I  asked  the  author  why  he 
had  called  it  that  and  he  said  he  just 
thought  it  was  a  good  title.  "I  could  have 
called  it  Twilight  of  the  Gods,"  he  said, 
"but  a  guy  named  Wagner  had  already 
used  it  so  I  changed  it  a  little." 


When  a  script  in  itself  fascinates  me,  I 
get  the  urge  to  try  to  add  my  bit  to  it. 
In  Giant,  I  spent  hours  listening  to  doz- 
ens of  records  of  Texas  dialect.  So  did 
Jimmy  Dean  and  Elizabeth  Taylor.  Liz's 
accent,  if  you  listen,  is  a  perfect  soft  Vir- 
ginian at  first  and  changes  through  the 
picture  until  at  the  end  she  is  speaking 
pure  Texas.  My  own  talents  at  this 
altered  the  script  of  Pillow  Talk.  They  got 
me  to  impersonate  a  Texas  oilman  with 
good  comedy  results  because  they  knew  I 
could  do  it. 

Friends  and  acquaintances 

The  trouble  with  continual  study  of 
course,  is  that  I  tend  to  become  a  spy  on 
people.  I  suppose  I  can  claim  fifty  to  a 
hundred  acquaintances  in  Hollywood.  They 
say  I  have  millions  of  fans  but  actually 
I  have  only  five  close  friends;  a  carpenter, 
a  liquor  salesman,  a  piano  teacher,  and 
one  actor  and  one  actress.  They  respect 
me  as  I  am,  not  as  a  shadow  on  film  or 
the  invention  of  some  columnist. 

My  life  is  full  enough  to  keep  me  from 
thinking  about  loneliness.  I  take  singing 
lessons  so  that  I  can  carry  a  tune  outside  a 
bucket  and  I'd  like  to  do  a  Broadway 
musical  sometime.  I  sail  as  much  as  I  can, 
I  study  art,  and  I  puzzle  over  investments. 
Someone  else  handles  my  money  but  I 
resent  it.  With  me,  money  has  become  a 
personal  thing. 

A  business  manager,  I  suppose,  is  neces- 
sary in  Hollywood.  I  just  don't  know  my 
way  around  in  taxes,  budgeting,  bills,  and 
the  like.  But  I  feel  ashamed  of  myself 
for  not  knowing  it.  Eventually  I  want  to 
learn  this  end  of  the  business  and  handle 
myself  by  myself. 

I'm  waiting  with  a  good  deal  of  anticipa- 
tion the  day  when  I  turn  forty-five  or  fifty 
and  can  move  into  the  ranks  of  the  char- 
acter leads.  This  business  of  being  the 
young  romantic  lover  is  not  half  what  it 
looks  like.  The  real  challenge  lies  in  the 
wonderful  roles  you  can  do  until  you're 
ninety-plus. 

I  guess  in  the  final  analysis  it's  people 
who  fascinate  me.  Being  in  movies  has 
given  me  the  chance  to  meet  some  really 
different  ones.  In  each  case,  I  turned  out 
to  be  the  clod.  I  was  introduced  to  the 
Queen  of  England  in  1951  in  a  long  receiv- 
ing line.  I  held  her  hand  while  she  hoped 
I  was  enjoying  my  stay  and  would  come 
again.  "T-thank  y-you,"  I  stammered.  I 
forgot  to  let  go  of  her  hand  and  she  just 
waited  and  smiled  until  I  let  loose.  I  was 
amazed  to  see  how  much  more  beautiful 
she  was  than  any  pictures  of  her. 

I  made  another  faux  pas  with  Ingrid 
Bergman.  I'd  been  a  fan  of  hers  for  years 
and  when  I  met  her  in  Europe  in  1956  at 
a  party  with  twenty  other  people,  I  was 
paralyzed.  She  was  very  charming  and 
chatted  away  while  I  was  mum.  Finally, 
just  before  she  left,  I  blurted  out:  "You 
sure  are  tall."  She  said  composedly:  "So 
are  you." 

Actually,  I'm  convinced,  my  six-feet- 
four  is  the  chief  reason  I  got  my  chance  in 
pictures.  Women  always  like  a  man  they 
can  look  up  to — it  makes  them  that  much 
more  feminine.  I  was  in  demand  from  the 
beginning  for  the  five-foot-six  or  -seven 
stars.  And  with  a  camera,  in  any  scene,  a 
taller  man  can  actually  dominate  a  scene 
from  the  beginning  no  matter  how  awk- 
ward an  actor  he  may  be.  I  have  great 
respect  for  men  like  Laurence  Olivier — 
whom  I  can  call  a  friend— who  can  domi- 
nate any  scene  by  sheer  force  of  their 
personality.  When  I  visit  him,  he's  always 
very  kind  to  me  in  spite  of  my  two  left 
feet. 

Working  with  real  actors  is  always  a 
delight.  Tony  Randall,  for  one,  is  fascinat- 
ing to  watch.  What  he  does  with  a  line  is 
sheer  magic  to  me.  His  expressions  and 


the  movements  of  his  hands  and  feet,  his 
timing,  the  way  he  raises  an  eyebrow — 
these  are  textbooks  of  comedy.  I  like 
actors:  I'm  one  myself.  To  me  they  seem 
frank  and  open,  interesting  and  always 
concerned  about  getting  better  in  their 
work.  If  they  are  egotistic,  it  is  part  of  the 
hazard  of  the  profession. 

I'm  fond  of  honest,  constructive  criti- 
cism. God  knows.  I  need  it.  It's  a  hard 
commodity  to  come  by.  No  one  knows  bet- 
ter than  I  that  I  have  a  long  way  to  go 
in  movies — but  the  offhand  renews  in  the 
papers  really  don't  help  much.  I  usually 
check  them  over  real  quickly,  muttering. 
"Well,  this  one  isn't  bad,"  or  "Man.  they 
really  shot  me  down  in  this  one" — but  a 
bad  review  doesn't  shake  me  up  the  way 
it  used  to.  .  .  . 

On  agents 

Without  seeming  ungrateful  to  my  agent 
— who  has  done  very  well  with  me — I 
must  say  that  although  a  beginner  needs 
an  agent  who  will  pay  close  personal  at- 
tention to  his  career,  an  agency  outfit  like 
William  Morris  or  the  Music  Corporation 
of  America  is  the  answer  to  an  established 
star.  Hollywood,  after  all,  is  simply  a  com- 
plex of  pressure  groups.  These  groups  of 
collective  smartness  control  stars,  writers, 
properties,  and  studios.  The  old  U-I  studio, 
for  example,  is  wholly  owned  by  MCA — 
and  last  year,  in  TV  alone.  MCA  has  put 
out  nearly  S40.000.000  worth  of  products. 
This  means  that  in  a  select  market  such 
an  outfit  has  the  power  to  make  or  break 
a  career.  It  can  deal  on  an  even-steven 
basis  with  the  heads  of  the  big  studios, 
something  that  an  individual  agent  simply 
ean't  do.  Henry,  for  example,  can  blow  off 
steam  to  the  studios  when  I  complain — 
but  generally  they  pat  him  on  the  back 
and  go  ahead  and  do  what  they  wanted  to 
do  in  the  first  place. 

Nor  is  one  agent's  reaction  to  a  script 
always  the  careful,  analytical  one  that  an 
actor  is  forced  to  use.  The  agent  is  think- 
ing of  percentages:  the  actor  must  think 
of  making  himself  a  believable  human 
being  to  the  audience.  I  received  one 
script,  well-written  and  one  that  will  ulti- 
mately make  a  good  picture  based  on  a 
book  of  F.  Scott  Fitzgerald.  My  agent 
handed  it  to  me  and  said:  "My  boy.  this 
is  one  of  the  greatest  opportunities  of  your 
life!  You  have  a  chance  to  drink,  to  cry, 
to  make  love,  and  you  have  a  good  fight, 
too!  What  more  could  you  ask?"  What  I 
asked  was  to  be  able  to  read  it.  When  I 
did  I  found  out  it  wasn't  for  me!  I  couldn't 
make  the  hero  comprehensible,  not  at  least 
as  far  as  I  was  concerned. 

Not  that  the  profession  hasn't  been  more 
than  nice  to  me.  I  was  given  awards  ga- 
lore: top  male  movie  star  by  various  mag- 
azines from  1954  onward,  gold  medals  and 
cups  right  up  to  the  present.  I  suppose  it 
started  with  my  bit  part  with  James  Stew- 
art in  Bend  of  the  River  where  the  fans 
|  really  let  loose  on  my  personal  appear  - 
s  nee  tour.  The  studio  threw  me  into  six 
Elms  the  following  year.  It  was  work  but 
work  I  enjoyed. 

On  loyalty 

This  business  of  self-evaluation  is  one 
of  the  tough  parts  of  an  actor's  life.  How 
much  does  he  owe  to  others?  How  much  is 
due  to  himself?  It's  a  hard  question  to 
answer,  at  least  for  me. 

I  wouldn't  have  moved  off  first  base  if 
the  U-I  studio  hadn't  seen  something  in 
■ne,  given  me  a  chance,  and  started  my 
:raining.  Where  my  loyalty'  ends.  I  have 
no  real  idea — but  I  feel  that  after  ten 
vears.  having  earned  millions  for  my 
sponsors  on  an  investment  of  a  few  thou- 
sand (my  agent  spent  S3000  on  me  in  the 
early  days),  that  my  time  of  independence 
s  close  at  hand. 


This  means  I  have  to  test  out  other  in- 
terests such  as  music.  I  used  to  sing  as  a 
kid  and  I  do  it  in  the  shower.  I  recently 
finished  Pilloic  Talk,  my  first  .recording, 
and  I  liked  it  better  than  anything  I've 
ever  done.  Not  that  it  was  that  good — but 
it  satisfied  me.  I  like  to  hear  music  more 
than  conversation.  I  drown  in  hi-fi  when 
I'm  home.  The  obvious  goal  I  have  is  sing- 
ing popular  songs,  knowing  that  my  raspy 
baritone  won't  make  even  the  bottom  of 
the  grade  in  any  kind  of  classical  music. 
I  want  to  work  on  the  stage,  too.  where  I 
can  have  close  enough  contact  with  the 
critics  and  the  audiences  so  I  can  use  this 
to  improve  a  performance  night  by  night. 
In  a  movie,  once  it's  on  film,  nothing  can 
be  changed.  And  you  have  to  wait  at  least 
six  months  instead  of  six  seconds  before 
you  hear  any  applause  or  boo:;.  I'd  like 
to  live  in  New  York,  rather  than  in  Holly- 
wood: it's  a  city  where  things  are  always 
happening,  where  there  are  so  many  do- 
ings that  no  one  could  ever  be  bored — a 
classic  Hollywood  disease. 

One  of  the  times  I  was  totally  frus- 
trated in  doing  a  picture  was  in  1957.  It 
showed  me  how  rarely  I  could  expect  to 
put  into  movie  practice  what  I  had  learned 
about  acting. 

The  picture  was  called  Tarnished  An- 
gels. It  was  taken  from  the  William  Faulk- 
ner classic  called  Pylon.  I'm  no  enthusi- 
ast about  Faulkner's  writing.  I,knowT  that 
he's  a  Nobel  Prize  winner  and  one  of  the 
American  all-time  authors  but  I  don't  dig 
him.  I  was  told  this  was  one  of  his  easier 
books — but  I  had  to  read  it  three  times  be- 
fore I  understood  it  and  probabiv  I  never 
did. 

The  script  came  out  like  fake  Faulkner: 
too  talky  and  too  improbable  for  even 
me  to  swallow.  It  was  a  good  example  of 
movie  blah-blah.  But  my  "character'  in- 
terested me.  I  was  to  play  a  kind  of  rene- 
gade newspaperman  of  the  '30's.  As  I  saw 
him,  he  was  a  downbeat  character  in  a 
downbeat  story.  He  had  found  some  peo- 
ple who  were  living  on  the  thin  edges  of 
their  lives  and  he  wanted  to  write  an 
honest  story  about  them. 

I  felt  the  hero  was  a  bum  himself.  He 
lived  in  a  shack,  disreputable  and  filthy, 
without  hope  or  principle.  I  suppose  he 
was  really  writing  about  himself,  the  story 
of  a  lost  man.  So  I  tried  to  work  out  the 
role  that  way. 

I  blurred  my  lines,  I  put  in  pauses  and 
empty  stares.  I  tried  to  convey  the  im- 
pression of  a  man  wandering  in  the  jungle 
of  his  own  environment,  trying  to  lick  nis 
own  personality.  I  even  got  physical 
about  the  whole  thing  in  my  enthusiasm. 
I  walked  sloppily,  with  a  stoop.  I  had  holes 
in  my  soles,  a  badly-fitting  worn  suit  that 
was  dirty  and  unpressed — I  even  had 
frayed  buttonholes,  worn-out  elbows,  and 
half-shoelaces.  Rumpled,  unshaven.  I 
worked  out  a  really  exciting  concept  with 
the  director.  Both  of  us  were  en'Jiusiastic 
about  my  ideas.  We  did  the  first  dajT's 
work  with  a  "vim."  The  rushes  went  to 
the  executives'  screening  room.  The  ver- 
dict came  in  the  next  morning:  "Dis- 
gusting!" 

The  front  office  word  filtered  down.  The 
director  braked  his  enthusiasm  and  re- 
versed his  stand.  I  was  shaved  and  my 
hair  combed  nicely.  My  worn,  elbows 
were  covered  with  leather  shooting 
patches.  My  shoes  were  polished  and  so 
were  my  lines.  The  crowning  touch  came 
when  the  producer  and  writer — both  of 
whose  names,  I  remember,  began  with  Z. 
came  to  me  and  said  I  had  to  wear  a 
hat.  I  protested  wearily  against  this  as  I 
had  protested  all  the  other  reversals. 

"My  boy."  said  the  producer  paternally, 
"all  newspapermen  wear  hats.  Don't  they, 
George?" 

The  writer  nodded  solemnlv.  "I've  been 


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a  newspaperman  myself,"  he  said,  "and 
I  always  wore  a  hat."  As  a  special  con- 
cession, though,  they  let  me  turn  the  front 
of  the  hat  down. 

Ross  Hunter 

Producers  are  not  always  unhelpful. 
One  of  the  chief  factors  in  my  career  has 
been  the  help  and  understanding  of  Ross 
Hunter.  He's  a  producer  who  used  to  be  an 
actor  himself  and  he  knows  the  problems. 

Ross  has  never  criticized  anything  in  my 
acting  except  on  one  occasion  when  he 
suggested,  "Why  don't  you  be  a  little 
more  positive,  Rock?"  He  has  given  me 
some  slaps,  though,  on  the  cut  of  my 
clothes — which  I  invariably  disregard. 

I've  done  seven  pictures  with  him. 
Though  they  aren't  all  the  ones  I  might 
have  wanted  to  do,  most  of  them  have 
boosted  me  along  the  way.  It  was  Ross, 
for  example,  who  got  me  into  my  first 
lead.  He  was  a  co-producer  at  the  studio 
in  1953  when  I  got  sick  of  being  somewhere 
down  the  list  of  the  cast.  I  sent  a  wire  to 
the  head  of  U-I  saying  that  I  didn't  want 
to  work  for  them  any  more.  Nothing  was 
said  about  it  but  a  few  weeks  later  I  was 
assigned  the  lead  in  a  show  called  The 
Scarlet  Angel.  Ross  helped  produce  it  and 
he  and  I  went  on  from  there  together.  It 
was  his  faith  in  my  ability  that  got  me  the 
comedy  role  in  Pillow  Talk.  When  he  said 
he  was  going  to  use  me  there,  I  don't 
think  anyone  in  Hollywood  agreed  with 
him.  "Sure,  Hudson  can  do  those  heroic 
and  tear- jerking  roles,"  they  told  him, 
"but  he  can  never  do  comedy.  That  takes 
a  real  actor."  But  Ross  did  it  with  me— and 
it  happened  to  come  off.  The  reason  I 
know,  is  that  I  checked  myself  out  with 
Tony  Randall,  whom  I  think  is  one  of  the 
finest  comedians  on  the  stage  or  screen.  A 
couple  of  times  he  even  said  I  did  a  "won- 
derful job."  My  ego  isn't  strong  enough 
to  resist  a  compliment  like  that.  .  .  . 

A  couple  of  years  ago,  I  was  offered  the 
lead  in  MGM's  Ben-Hur,  a  job  that  would 
have  grossed  me  a  flat  million  dollars. 

I  turned  Ben-Hur  down  because  the 
easiest  thing  for  an  actor  to  lose  in  Holly- 
wood is  himself.  The  hardest  thing  for  him 
to  find  is  someone  to  trust.  If  I  had  done 
that  picture  for  MGM,  I  would  have  had  to 
surrender  for  two  years  my  privilege  of 
doing  the  pictures  I  want  to  do.  Never  in 
the  last  ten  years  have  I  been  free  from 
being  told  what  to  do  and  how  to  act  on 
the  screen.  U-I,  the  studio  that  discov- 
ered and  developed  whatever  talents  I  have, 
has  made  about  thirty  times  the  salary 
they  have  paid  me  by  loaning  me  out  to 
other  studios.  It  still  holds  the  third  con- 
tract I  signed — good  for  three  more  years. 

I  can  say  that  only  four  pictures  out  of  my 
forty  have  been  pictures  that  I've  really 


liked.  They  were  Giant,  Farewell  to  Arms, 
Magnificent  Obsession,  and  my  last  one, 
Pillow  Talk.  They  cost  about  $26,000,000 
and  I  got  roughly  $100,000  in  salary  out  of 
them.  All  were  successful  although  Fare- 
well to  Arms — a  remake  of  the  Heming- 
way classic  with  me  playing  the  old  Gary 
Cooper  role — barely  made  the  grade. 

For  ten  years  I've  been  trying  to  make 
myself  an  actor.  I  think  I've  learned  a 
good  deal  about  it  simply  by  watching 
people  a  lot  better  than  I.  I  never  went  to 
drama  school  except  for  a  short  time  to 
the  U-I  training  group.  I've  always  wanted 
to  go  to  one  of  the  really  good  New  York 
schools  of  dramatic  art.  So  far  I've  been 
so  busy  making  money  that  I  haven't  had 
time  off  under  my  contracts. 

Nevertheless,  my  experience  has  been 
invaluable.  In  Magnificent  Obsession,  for 
example,  though  I  liked  the  role,  I  never 
liked  the  picture.  It  was  too  much  of  a 
weeper.  It  telegraphed  its  punches  all 
down  the  line,  like  an  old-time  boxer.  It 
told  you  when  to  laugh  and  when  to  cry. 
(In  Giant,  to  offer  a  contrast,  there  were 
weepy  moments — but  tears  were  optional.) 
But  working  with  someone  like  Jane  Wy- 
man  was  as  precious  as  a  handful  of  rubies. 
In  any  scene,  having  my  doubts,  I  would 
go  to  her  and  ask  her  opinion.  If  she 
thought  I  had  done  all  right,  she  would 
say  so.  If  she  had  a  hunch  that  I  had 
slipped,  she  would  say  softly:  "Better 
check  it  with  the  director.  Rock,  before 
they  print  it."  It's  awfully  easy  not  to  take 
advice  when  you're  developing  a  good 
opinion  of  yourself.  I  was  lucky  to  know 
Jane. 

George  Stevens 

George  Stevens,  the  director  of  Giant, 
was  another  person  I  was  lucky  to  know. 
One  of  the  great  men  in  the  business,  he 
had  my  talents  taped  from  the  beginning. 
He  knew  what  he  could  get  out  of  me— 
something  I  never  did.  The  night  before 
we  started  the  picture,  I  called  him  up  in 
a  frenzy.  "Mr.  Stevens,"  I  said  desperately, 
"I  don't  know  where  I'm  going  in  this  pic- 
ture. I'm  all  confused!" 

"Well,  Rock,"  he  said  in  his  ponderous 
manner,  "I'm  all  confused,  too,  right  now. 
It'll  work  out  in  the  morning.  You  go  back 
to  sleep." 

He  often  shoved  me  onto  the  set  and 
shot  a  scene  long  before  I  knew  my  lines 
or  thought  I  was  ready.  I  remember  one 
instance  when  I  was  supposed  to  be  a 
naive  young  Texan  in  Virginia  at  a  society 
dinner,  answering  questions  about  my- 
self and  my  ranch.  Mr.  Stevens  put  me  at 
a  couple  of  sawhorses  with  a  board  across 
them  and  a  glass  of  water  before  me.  He 
moved  all  the  other  actors  twenty-five  feet 
away  and  put  a  telescopic  lens  in  the 


camera. 

"Now,  Rock,"  he  drawled,  "I  want  you 
to  react.  I  know  you've  got  lines  but  I  don't 
care  if  you  say  them  or  not." 

The  result  was  that  the  other  actors 
shouted  at  me.  I  reacted  with  embarrass- 
ment, confusion,  and  ignorance — which 
was  just  the  effect  Mr.  Stevens  wanted.  He 
was  always  that  kind  of  a  director:  un- 
reliable for  actors.  I  never  knew  exactly 
what  he  wanted  me  to  do  until  I  saw  it  on 
film.  He  kept  me  alive  in  movies  because 
he  kept  me  thinking — thinking  what  to  do 
next.  Most  directors  tend  to  over-direct,  to 
tell  you  again  and  again  what  they  want 
until  you're  screaming  inside.  Mr.  Stevens 
usually  told  me  half  of  what  he  wanted 
then  said:  "Now  let's  roll  a  piece  of  film." 
He  liked  to  give  me  the  impression  that 
any  bit  I  performed  was  my  idea — but  he 
never  let  an  actor  interfere  with  what  he 
was  doing.  In  Giant  he  shot  a  fight  scene 
for  weeks.  Afterward,  when  I  hung  around 
his  cutting  room  to  see  how  it  turned  out, 
he  gave  me  the  iron  eye.  Long  afterward, 
I  told  him:  "I  wanted  to  see  that  film  real 
bad."  He  never  batted  an  eye.  "I  know 
you  did,"  he  said  "but  at  that  point  it  was 
none  of  your  business." 

I'll  always  remember  the  drunk  scene 
from  that  picture.  It  looked  as  if  I  was 
really  drunk — mainly  because  I  was.  When 
I  arrived  at  my  dressing-room  that  morn- 
ing, there  was  a  bottle  of  bourbon  on  the 
table.  It  was  gone  at  the  end  of  the  day. 
By  that  time  I  was  feeling  so  natural  that 
I  didn't  give  a  damn.  We  shot  a  sixteen- 
minute  drunk  scene  without  a  cut — and 
put  it  on  the  screen  that  way  with  only 
closeups  to  vary  the  sequence.  .  .  . 

The  study  of  acting  remains  the  most 
important  part  of  my  life.  I  find  that  I 
have  to  discover  or  invent  clues  to  create 
a  character,  especially  in  a  bad  script.  A 
lot  of  the  time  I'm  simply  not  equipped  to 
do  this  alone — I  need  the  director  and  pro- 
ducer. I  want  not  only  to  keep  my  por- 
trayals alive  and  interesting  but  I  want 
to  put  at  least  180  per  cent  of  interpreta- 
tion into  what  I'm  doing — and  hope  that 
50  per  cent  comes  through. 

To  sum  it  all  up,  the  'real  Rock  Hudson" 
the  press  is  always  trying  to  find  is  more 
than  one  person. 

To  the  producer,  I'm  the  sign  of  the 
buck.  To  a  publicity  person.  I'm  material. 
To  a  director,  I'm  a  chunk  of  clay.  To  the 
wardrobe,  I'm  a  clotheshorse.  And  to 
writers,  I'm  usually  somebody  I  don't 
even  recognize.  But  I  can't  complain— I 
can  just  look  at  myself  from  afar.  I  have 
a  good  life  and  the  movies  have  made  it 
possible.  END 

Rock's  next  is  The  Day  Of  The  Gun. 
for  U-I. 


A  Love  Story 

(Continued  from  page  50) 

I  was  working.  To  say  the  least,  I  was 
a  bit  nervous  when  I  saw  him  standing 
there,  half-watching  me.  I  tried  very  hard 
not  to  be  aware  of  his  presence  and  kept 
dancing. 

"This  went  on  for  a  week.  Mr.  Astaire 
would  pop  in,  and  watch.  And  finally  one 
day  Jack  did  call  me  over  and  we  were 
introduced. 

"We  spoke  very  little,  because  we  were 
both  quite  shy,  but  I  did  manage  to  tell 
Mr.  Astaire  that  I  had  worked  with  him  a 
few  years  earlier,  for  one  day,  in  a  picture 
called  Daddy  Long  Legs. 

"  You  won't  remember,'  I  told  him,  'but 
I  was  one  of  eight  girls  in  the  dream 
78  sequence  you  did  with  Leslie  Caron.  We 


slunk  in  and  you  took  each  of  us  in  a 
back  bend  and — ' 

"  'And,'  Fred  interrupted,  'you  were 
very  nervous.'  He  smiled.  Yes,  I  remem- 
ber,' he  said.  And  truthfully  I  thought 
that  would  be  the  last  time  I'd  see  him.  .  .  . 

"But  then  the  next  day  he  showed  up 
again,  and  we  talked  a  little  more.  And  the 
day  after  that.  And  then  finally  one  day 
he  asked  me  if  I'd  like  to  dance  in  Silk 
Stockings,  a  picture  he  was  just  beginning 
work  on.  He  told  me  it  wasn't  very  much 
of  a  part,  but  that  it  was  something.  And 
while  he  was  apologizing  I  just  stood 
there,  dumbfounded,  thinking  that  this 
couldn't  be  happening  to  me,  a  personal 
invitation  to  dance  in  a  scene  with  Fred 
Astaire. 

"Well,  a  few  weeks  later,  when  it  came 
time  to  do  the  scene,  I  must  have  been 
literally  shaking  in  my  shoes  because  my 
shoe  fell  off.  The  director  called  cut,  and 


we  did  it  over  again.  The  second  take, 
poom  again,  the  shoe.  'Please  stay  in  your 
shoe,  Miss  Chase,  and  let's  try  it  once 
more,'  said  the  director,  but  the  third  time 
it  happened  again.  Everyone  was  getting 
irritated.  Even  Fred  was  looking  at  me 
rather  sharply,  it  seemed.  Others  were 
beginning  to  look  sorry  for  me  and  I  was 
scared.  But  we  had  to  do  it  again  and 
this  time,  all  of  us  figuring  it  couldn'i 
happen  again,  the  cameras  rolled.  And 
poom,  once  more  the  shoe  was  off.  And 
then  it  happened.  Fred  walked  over  tc 
the  shoe,  slowly,  he  picked  it  up,  slowly 
And  then,  suddenly,  he  began  to  laugh 
And  everyone  else  was  so  relieved,  the> 
laughed.  Even  I,  who  was  on  the  verge 
of  tears  by  this  time,  started  to  laugh.  .  .  .' 

Their  first  evening 

It  was  a  little  while  later  that  day,  aftei 
the  scene  was  completed   (with  Barrie' 


shoe  on),  when  Fred  walked  over  to  her 
dressing  room  and  joked  a  little  about 
the  incident  first,  and  then  asked  her  if 
she  would  like  to  have  dinner  with  him 
that  night. 

"I  don"t  like  the  big  crowded  places." 
he  said.  "But  there's  a  small  place.  Italian, 
where  we  can  grab  a  bite  and  have  some 
wine  and  talk.  ...  If  you  don't  mind  a 
small  place,  and  some  talk." 

"Mind?"  Barrie  asked.  "No,  Mr.  Astaire. 
I  don't  mind  at  all." 

"At  the  beginning.  I  was  petrified." 
she  has  said  of  this  evening,  their  first 
together.  "I  rushed  home  and  looked  in 
my  closet.  I  didn't  know  what  to  wear, 
what  dress,  what  shoes.  I  didn't  know  how 
to  fix  my  hair.  And.  worst,  I  didn't  know 
what  I  would  talk  about  that  night.  What 
would  I  be  like,  I  wondered,  sitting  there 
with  Fred  Astaire.  across  the  table  from 
him.  Fred  Astaire — the  greatest  dancer  in 
the  world,  one  of  the  most  sophisticated 
and  most  urbane  men  in  the  world.  What 
would  I  say  to  him?  What  could  I  say  to 
him?" 

The  conversation  was  a  little  stilted  at 
first,  Barrie  recalls.  Fred  asked  her  to  tell 
him  a  little  about  herself,  and  she  did — 
about  how  she'd  been  a  tomboy  when  she 
was  a  girl,  how  she'd  liked  to  swam  and 
ride  horses  even  more  than  dance,  how 
her  father — a  writer — had  moved  the 
family  from  New  York  to  California  when 
she  was  about  seven,  how — right  off — she'd 
loved  the  California  sun,  the  palm  trees, 
the  deep  blue  sky.  How  she'd  been  happy. 
Very,  very  happy. 

"Till  I  was  fifteen."  she  found  herself 
saying  then.  "That's  when  my  parents  got 
divorced.  Fd  never  known  there  was  any- 
thing wrong  between  them.  And  then,  all 
of  a  sudden,  just  like  that,  they  were 
divorced.  ...  I  lived  with  my  mother  for 
a  while,  about  a  year.  But  nothing  seemed 
the  same  an\-more  at  home.  And  so  I  de- 
cided to  move  to  my  own  place,  to  be  on 
my  own.  I  moved  into  my  apartment — 
the  same  one  I'm  living  in  now.  one-and- 
a-half  rooms,  very  plain,  a  lot  different 
from  the  big  fancy  place  where  we'd  all 
lived. 

"And  I  really  wasn't  very  happy,  there 
either,"  she  said.  "But  I  knew  I  couldn't 
go  back  home  anymore,  now  that  Fd  left. 
So  I  began  to  study  my  dancing,  all  the 
harder.  And  I  got  some  jobs.  TV,  pictures, 
bits.  And  that's  all  I  did.  studied  and 
worked,  ate  and  slept,  went  to  an  occa- 
sional movie.  I  didn't  have  many  friends. 
I'd  never  had,  not  really.  There's  some- 
thing about  me  and  people — lots  of  times 

:  I  I  find  it  hard  talking,  looking  into  some- 
body's eyes  when  I'm  talking  to  them.  I 
get  afraid.  I  don't  know  why.  I  just  do — 
"So,"  she  wTent  on,  after  a  moment, 
"without  many  friends,  I  was  alone  most 
of  the  time.  And  I  was  getting  lonelier 
and  lonelier.  I  was  pretty  miserable,  in 
fact   And  that's  why  I  got  married,  so 

:      quickly,  just  like  that  I  guess. 

a       "I  was  nineteen.   His  name  was  Gene. 

-.      He  was  a  hairdresser.  I  met  him  one  day 

;      and  a  few  days  later  we  were  man  and 

tl  wife.  It  only  lasted  four  months.  It  wasn't 
a  good  marriage.  I  knew  it,  and  he  did, 
too.  We  split  up.  And  I  was  back  where 

t':    I  started. 

"Alone.  Lonely.  Working,  stud\-ing.  eat- 

c-  ing,  sleeping,  going  to  a  movie  every-  once 
in  a  while — " 

t        She  stopped  and  smiled.    "I'm  sorry," 

[      she  said. 

:         "Why?"  Fred  asked.    "Are  you  afraid 

you're  boring  me?" 
r;        Barrie  nodded. 

"Well,  you're  not,"  Fred  said.  "Because, 
believe  this.  Barrie.  when  you  talk  about 
loneliness,  you're  talking  about  a  subject 
I  know  very  well." 
Barrie  looked  surprised. 


"Yes.  that's  right,  me.  Old  Ham  Daddy. 
Old  Happy  Feet."  Fred  said.  "I've  been 
lonely  these  past  few  years  .  .  .  I've  known 
what  it's  like  .  .  .  I've  sure  known.  .  .  ." 

And  then,  softly,  slowly,  he  began  to 
talk  about  something  he  rarely  ever  talked 
about,  to  anyone.  About  Phyllis — his  wife. 

"My  beloved  Phyl  .  .  .  ,"  as  he  said. 

Fred's  beloved  wife 

"We  were  at  Santa  Anita,  sitting  in  our 
box  between  races.  And  Phyl  said,  sud- 
denly. T  think  I'll  have  to  go  home.  I  don't 
feel  well.  It's  nothing — just  some  dizzi- 
ness.' ...  So  we  left.  .  .  .  And  that's  the 
way  it  started. 

"It  was  cancer,  the  doctor  said. 

"Cancer. 

"This  was  a  Tuesday.  I  remember.  We 
were  to  move  into  St.  John's  Hospital  on 
Thursday,  two  days  later.  .  .  . 

"  'People  don't  die  so  easily,  Phyl,'  I 
told  her.  'It's  hard  to  die,'  I  said.  You 
have  so  much  to  live  for;  you're  so  impor- 
tant to  so  many  people.  This  isn't  your 
time  to  go.  It  couldn't  be.  I  know  it' — 
And  I  did  know  it.  Then. 


ATTENTION  DEBBIE 

Eddie  misses  Carrie 
and  Todd  so  much, 
he's  moving  back! 
Don't  be  shocked, 
read  next  month's 
MODERN  SCREEN 
On  Sale  July  5 


"The  operation  was  performed  that  Fri- 
day, Good  Friday.  It  was  a  long  one.  It 
seemed  successful.  The  entire  recovery 
seemed  successful. 

"But  then,  a  few  months  later,  another 
operation  was  needed.  We  returned  to  St. 
John's  for  more  major  surgery.  The  oper- 
ation was  again  called  a  success. 

"Phyl  came  home  with  some  slight  im- 
provement. 

"But  she  never  regained  her  strength. 
And  the  definite  downtrend  set  in.  .  .  . 

"She  never  lost  that  sweet  expression 
on  her  face. 

"She  slipped  away  from  us  at  ten  o'clock, 
on  the  morning  of  September  13,  1954. 

"She  was  only  forty-six  years  old.  .  .  ." 

He  paused  for  a  while. 

"So  I've  been  lonely,  too,"  he  said  then. 
"But  I  find  ways  of  fighting  it.  One  has  to." 

"How  do  you  fight  it?"  Barrie  asked. 

Fred's  remedy  for  loneliness 

"Very'  simple."  Fred  said,  smiling  a 
little.  "I  make  friends  with  the  cops,  and 
with  churches.  .  .  .  Cops  are  nice  fellows. 
I  have  a  lot  of  friends  on  the  police  force. 
And  some  nights  when  I  have  nothing  to 
do  I  just  phone  them  and  ask  if  I  can  ride 
around  in  a  prowl  car.  Here  in  Los  An- 
geles, and  New  York,  those  are  the  best 
places.  I  get  in  one  of  those  cars  and  it's 
like  going  on  a  hunting  trip.  You  suddenly 
run  into  some  excitement.  And  the  bore- 
dom, the  loneliness,  it  goes  a  little  .  .  . 
Like  with  churches.  Barrie.  Same  thing. 
Comes  an  afternoon  when  I've  nothing  to 
do,  I'm  feeling  low,  and  I  go  to  church. 
St.  Bartholomew's  if  I'm  in  New  York. 


Any  of  several  here,  if  I'm  here.  And  I 
just  sit,  alone,  for  hours  at  a  time.  And 
it's  a  beautiful  thing,  the  comfort  I  find 
those  hours.  I  think  of  everything — my 
life,  my  work,  the  hidden  meaning  of  the 
good  and  bad  things  that  have  happened 
to  me.  I  come  out  spiritually  refreshed. 
It  often  helps  me  to  go  on." 
Again,  he  smiled. 

"Maybe  that's  what  you  need,  Barrie," 
he  said,  "to  make  friends  with  the  cops, 
the  churches." 

"Maybe,"  she  said. 

"Or  maybe,  for  now."  Fred  said,  "just 
having  dinner  with  me  again  some  night, 
and  talking  again.  Talking  things  out  with 
Old  Ham  Daddy  here,  Old  Happy  Feet. 
.  .  .  How  does  that  sound?" 

"Yes,"  said  Barrie,  nodding  finally,  "that 
sounds  fine.  .  .  ." 

Rising  star 

"My  whole  life  took  a  turn  after  this 
night,"  Barrie  has  said.  "Plain  existing 
was  over  for  me.  I  began  to  live.  Fred 
and  I  went  out  quite  a  bit,  always  to  small 
quiet  places,  the  kind  we  both  liked.  We 
went  riding — we  share  a  tremendous  en- 
thusiasm for  horses.  And,  of  course,  we 
talked.  About  lots  of  things.  Even  about 
my  career.  Fred  suggested  that  I  begin 
aiming  higher,  that  I  get  an  agent  and  turn 
down  bit  parts  here  and  there  and  aim 
for  the  top.  You'll  make  it  someday,  if 
you  really  try  hard  enough.'  he'd  tell  me. 
I  got  an  agent.  And,  sure  enough,  things 
began  happening.  I  did  a  Have  Gun,  Will 
Travel  on  TV.  And  then,  before  I  knew 
it,  I  was  signed  with  Twentieth  Century- 
Fox  and  working  in  Mardi  Gras.  It  wasn't 
a  big  part,  but  it  was  something.  Slowly, 
surely,  I  was  beginning  to  get  there." 

Fred's  career,  too,  began  shifting  gears 
at  about  this  time. 

"For  the  last  few  years,"  says  a  friend 
of  his,  "he  was  content  to  do  a  picture 
or  so  a  year,  and  only  that.  TV?  A  whole 
new  medium?  He  wouldn't  hear  of  it. 
not  even  at  the  fantastic  prices  certain 
sponsors  were  willing  to  pay  him.  'I'm 
too  old,  much  too  old,'  he'd  say,  'to  start 
fooling  around  with  anything  new.'  And 
then,  suddenly,  as  if  he'd  dropped  a 
couple  of  dozen  years  someplace,  Fred 
had  a  talk  with  his  agent  one  dav.  About 
TV.  Doing  a  show.  ...  By  nightfall,  it 
was  all  arranged.  The  show,  a  full-hour 
spectacular,  was  to  be  sponsored  by  the 
Chrysler  Corporation,  and  to  be  called 
An  Evening  With  Fred  Astaire.  The  date 
settled  on  was  a  Friday,  October  17  (1958) 
— about  three  months  away." 

Fred  drove  over  to  see  Barrie  the  night 
the  arrangements  were  made. 

"Fd  like  you  to  dance  with  me,"  he 
said,  after  telling  her  a  little  about  the 
show,  " — but  as  my  leading  lady  this 
time." 

"Me?"  Barrie  asked,  falling  back  into  a 
chair. 

"Yes,  you,  young  lady,"  said  Fred.  "Now 
two  things,"  he  said  then.  "One:  I  want 
you  to  know  this — I've  chosen  you,  not 
because  you're  a  friend  of  mine,  not  be- 
cause I'm  fond  of  you.  But  because  I 
think  you're  a  great  dancer.  Understood?" 

Barrie  nodded. 

"Two."  he  said.  " — I  expect  you  to  work 
hard.  Very  hard.  We've  got  a  heavy  re- 
hearsal schedule  and  we're  going  to  start 
tomorrow,  just  me,  you.  Herm  (Hermes 
Pan,  the  choreographer),  Buddy  (Bud 
Yorkin,  the  producer)  and  a  couple  of 
others. 

"So  now  let's  take  a  few  sips  of  this 
champagne  I've  brought  and  then  you  go 
to  bed,  I  go  home  and  go  to  bed — and  to- 
morrow, first  thing,  we  work. 

"Okay?" 

"Yessir,"  said  Barrie,  sitting  forward  in 
the  chair,  making  a  mock  salute,  begin-  79 


ning  to  laugh.  "Tomorrow  morning,  sir, 
first  thing.  .  .  ." 

She  didn't 

"Everything  started  out  disastrously  that 
next  morning,"  someone  connected  with 
the  show  has  said.  "Rehearsal  had  been 
called  for  9:30.  And  by  that  time — five, 
ten  minutes  before  9:30,  in  fact — every- 
one was  there.  Including  Fred.  .  .  .  But 
there  was  no  Barrie.  Not  by  9:30,  not  by 
ten,  not  by  10:30. 

"Fred  sat  around,  sulking.  He  wouldn't 
say  anything.  But  we  could  tell  he  was 
eating  his  heart  out. 

"Once  or  twice  he'd  walk  over  to  a  pay 
phone  and  try  to  call  Barrie.  But  there 
was  no  answer. 

A  few  minutes  before  noon  she  walked 
into  the  rehearsal  hall. 

"Where've  you  been?"  Fred  asked. 

"Home.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,"  said 
Barrie.  "I'll  be  bad.  I'll  make  you  look 
bad.  .  .  .  And  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you.  .  .  ." 

Fred  looked  at  her  for  a  moment. 


And  then  he  clapped  his  hands  together 
and  made  a  short  announcement  to  every- 
one there: 

"This  girl — "  he  said,  pointing  to  Barrie 
— "has  a  case  of  the  nerves.  She's  asking 
out  of  the  show.  But  I'm  a  rough  one — 
and  I'm  not  going  to  give  her  out. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "if  everyone  will  leave 
this  hall,  until  they're  called  back,  Miss 
Chase  and  I  will  begin  to  rehearse.  Just 
the  two  of  us." 

The  others  left. 

And  Fred  and  Barrie  stood  in  the  giant 
rehearsal  hall,  alone. 

After  staring  at  her  for  a  long  moment, 
Fred  walked  over  to  a  phonograph  and 
turned  it  on. 

"Barrie,"  Fred  said,  walking  back  over 
to  her,  looking  into  her  eyes  again,  " — will 
you  try  .  .  .  for  me?" 

Barrie  stood  rigid. 

"I  can't,"  she  started  to  say.   "My  feet 
feel  heavy.  Strange.  I'm  not — " 
But  Fred  silenced  her. 
He  took  her  in  his  arms. 


And  they  began  to  dance.  .  .  . 
Like  a  kid  in  love 

The  show,  three  months  later,  was  a 
triumph. 

Fred  won  five  Emmys  for  it — more  TV 
awards  than  any  single  performer  has  ever 
received  for  a  single  show. 

But,  friends  say,  his  greatest  pride  was 
a  young  dancer  named  Barrie  Chase,  and 
how  she'd  come  through.  .  .  . 

Says  Randolph  Scott,  one  of  his  closest 
friends,  referring  to  the  down  periods, 
"'Fred  keeps  saying,  'I'll  never  marry  again. 
No  one  can  replace  Phyllis.'  And  we  keep 
telling  him,  'No  one  has  to  replace  Phyllis, 
and  no  one  ever  will.  But  you  can  find 
a  new  dimension  with  someone  else,  and 
at  least  you  can  fill  part  of  the  gap  in 
your  life.' " 

And  Barrie,  meanwhile? 

"I  have  tremendous  admiration  for  Mr. 
Astaire,"  she  says  to  any  who  ask,  and 
that  is  all  she  says,  for  the  real  words  in 
her  heart  are  too  deep  for  speech.  end 


How  Much  Do  My  Children  Really  Need  Me? 


(Continued  from  page  33) 

Janet,  how  do  you  solve  your  problem 
of  being  a  working  mother?  It  will  help 
me  solve  mine. 

Sincerely, 
Rosemary  D. 
And  this  story  is  my  answer  to  those 
letters: 

Dear  Rosemary: 

I'll  never  forget  the  time  I  was  working 
before  the  cameras  and  a  grip  came  to  me 
with  a  message:  Please  call  home.  Kelly  is 
very  sick. 

I  was  terrified.  I  wanted  to  be  with  my 
little  girl  who  was  not  quite  two  then.  In 
my  imagination  I  saw  her  in  pain,  calling 
for  me.  At  the  time  I  was  working  on  loca- 
tion in  Norway,  my  baby  in  London  with 
her  nurse.  Tony  and  I  had  taken  Kelly  to 
Europe  with  us  since  we  were  to  be  away 
five  months,  but  we  left  her  in  London  with 
the  nurse  because  the  weather  in  Norway 
was  too  harsh. 

Should  I  leave  the  set  and  fly  to  London? 
Walk  out  on  a  picture  whose  costs  were 
going  on  at  a  clip  of  thousands  of  dollars 
a  minute  to  rush  to  the  side  of  my  sick 
child?  I  had  obligations  to  my  producers, 
but  I  knew  in  my  heart  that  no  obligation 
to  them  could  outweigh  the  well-being  of 
my  child.  If  she  was  very  sick,  I'd  have  to 
fly  to  London. 

In  a  phone  booth  in  a  corner  of  the  set, 
I  put  through  a  call  to  London  and  got  a 
very  dear  friend  of  mine  who  was  living 
there.  I  asked  her  to  look  in  immediately 
on  Kelly,  and  tell  me  just  what  was  the 
matter  with  my  child.  I  waited,  my  heart 
in  my  mouth,  for  her  return  call.  In  about 
a  half  hour  she  got  back  to  me.  "Kelly  is 
fine,"  she  said,  and  my  heart  lifted.  "She 
just  had  a  slightly  upset  stomach.  The 
nurse  panicked.  But  there's  nothing  to 
worry  about."  She  promised  to  stay  there. 

If  Kelly  had  really  been  very  ill,  I  would 
have  put  her  above  anybody  or  anything. 
However,  a  working  mother  cannot  afford 
to  get  hysterical  or  over-imaginative,  other- 
wise she  won't  be  able  to  use  good  judg- 
ment when  such  conflicts  arise. 

Rosemary,  you  asked,  "What  do  you  do 
when  one  of  your  little  girls  suddenly  be- 
comes ill  while  you're  at  work?"  It  all 
depends  upon  the  seriousness  of  the  ill- 
ness. When  Kelly  was  operated  on  so  sud- 
denly one  year,  I  dropped  everything, 
canceling  every  business  appointment  I 
had  to  be  with  her.  Fortunately,  we  weren't 
in  the  middle  of  a  picture  when  she  was 
stricken,  but  if  we  had  been,  I  would  have 


told  them  to  shoot  around  me.  However, 
I  did  have  other  appointments  connected 
with  my  work — some  costume  fittings  and 
script  conferences  which  are  also  impor- 
tant— and  I  canceled  them  all. 

When  the  doctor  said,  "We  must  operate 
on  Kelly  at  once,"  there  was  no  other 
thought  in  my  mind  than  to  be  at  the 
hospital  with  my  child  for  as  long  as  she 
would  need  me. 

As  Tony  and  I  prepared  to  take  her  to 
the  hospital,  she  was  white-faced  with 
fear.  I  said  to  her,  "Mommy  will  be  with 
you  all  the  time,"  so  that  she  wouldn't  be 
too  frightened  at  finding  herself  in  a 
strange  bed  when  she  awoke  from  the 
anesthetic.  And  of  course,  I  kept  my  prom- 
ise. I  took  a  room  at  Cedars  of  Lebanon 
and  was  with  Kelly  all  the  time  until  she 
was  discharged. 

A  mother's  instinct  will  tell  her  when 
her  child  needs  her  physically,  and  when 
her  presence  is  not  essential.  When  a  child 
is  seriously  ill  or  facing  an  operation,  that 
child  needs  her  mother,  and  the  mother's 
job  must  take  second  place.  I've  gone  to 
the  studio  when  either  Kelly  or  Jamie  has 
been  down  with  a  cold.  But  if  either  of 
them  had  a  high  temperature  I  wouldn't 
leave  her  until  she  was  past  the  feverish 
stage  where  she  might  be  calling  for 
Mommy. 

From  the  studio  I  phone  at  every  oppor- 
tunity— and  /  talk  to  my  child  myself. 
Merely  calling  and  asking  the  nurse  if  the 
children  are  okay  isn't  enough.  It  makes 
my  children  feel  more  secure  to  hear  their 
mother's  voice  saying  the  warm,  dear 
things  that  only  a  mother  can  say  to  her 
child. 

I  think  every  working  mother  should 
remember  this.  Hearing  her  mother's  voice 
on  the  phone  makes  the  child  feel  that  her 
mother  isn't  too  far  away.  Probably  Kelly 
would  feel  cheated  if  Ginny,  our  nurse, 
said  to  her,  "Your  mother  called  and  asked 
if  you're  behaving."  But  when  she  hears 
my  voice  telling  her  I  love  her  and  will 
see  her  soon,  then  she  does  not  feel  cheated. 
Her  own  mommy  has  spoken  to  her. 

Rosemary,  you  asked  if  I've  ever  re- 
gretted being  a  working  mother.  No,  Rose- 
mary, I  never  have.  I  think  it  is  better  for 
my  children  to  have  a  happy  mother  who's 
fulfilled  than  a  frustrated  mother  who  may 
some  day  want  to  say  to  her  children, 
"Look  what  I  gave  up  for  you — my  career, 
my  life." 

Nothing  could  be   worse   than  feeling 


you're  a  martyr  because  of  your  child. 
However,  I  will  never  put  my  life  or  my 
work  ahead  of  my  children.  Right  now,  I 
feel  I  am  doing  more  for  them  by  con- 
tinuing with  my  work,  because  in  doing 
so  I  am  a  happy,  fulfilled  woman.  A  happy 
woman  is  a  happy  mother.  For  most 
women,  work  keeps  them  on  their  toes, 
and  is  itself  stimulating.  If  you  enjoy  your 
work,  Rosemary,  or  feel  a  sense  of  joy  in 
helping  make  things  easier  for  your  family 
by  working,  I  believe  you  can  do  it  with- 
out cheating  your  children. 

Perhaps  there  will  be  times  when  you 
feel  just  a  tiny  bit  cheated  yourself.  I 
missed  watching  Jamie,  my  baby,  take  her 
first  steps.  It  was  really  quite  a  wrenching 
thing  for  me.  Sounds  silly,  but  every 
mother  loves  to  be  with  her  child  when 
she  takes  that  first  step.  I  knew  Jamie  was 
getting  ready  for  it.  I'd  seen  her  get  up  on 
one  little  foot,  then  falter  and  plop  down. 
Then  I  saw  her  on  her  knees  still  trying 
to  be  firm  enough  to  get  up  and  walk.  I 
knew  the  day  she'd  take  her  first  step  was 
just  around  the  corner.  But  I  had  to  miss 
it.  I  was  working  in  Psycho  for  Alfred 
Hitchcock  that  day.  When  I  called  home, 
Kelly  got  on  the  phone  and  in  a  breathless 
voice  told  me  all  about  it.  I  was  disap- 
pointed at  missing  it.  But  it  would  have 
been  shockingly  inconsiderate  for  me  to 
have  taken  the  day  off  to  witness  this  j 
sentimental  event. 

And  I  also  missed  buying  Jamie  her 
first  pair  of  shoes.  I  remember  how  I  en- 
joyed going  to  the  shoe  store  with  Kelly 
two  years  ago,  seeing  her  fitted  for  her 
first  pair  of  walking  shoes  and  watching 
her  toddle  around  the  store  proudly.  I 
wanted  the  same  thrill  with  Jamie.  Know- 
ing that  I  was  going  to  be  tied  up  in  a 
picture  in  a  few  weeks,  I  took  Jamie  to 
the  store  just  before  the  picture  started. 

The  shoe  salesman  said.  "You  should 
wait  three  more  weeks.  She's  not  quite 
ready  for  shoes  yet."  Three  weeks  later 
I  was  already  in  production.  When  I  left 
for  work  one  morning  I  told  the  nursemaid 
to  take  Jamie  to  the  shoe  store  and  buy 
the  shoes  that  day.  I  knew  just  what  time 
they'd  be  going — after  Jamie's  nap.  When 
they  got  home,  I  called  from  the  set  and  ! 
got  all  the  details  of  the  little  shopping 
expedition;  hew  Jamie  had  cooed  when 
she  saw  her  little  feet  in  shoes  and  how 
she'd  looked  at  herself  so  proudly  in  the 
mirror.  Somehow  the  story  warmed  me 
and  I  kept  imagining  what  it  had  been 
like,  while  I  was  working. 

But  the  things  I  have  missed  by  being 
a  working  mother  don't  compare  in  impor- 
tance with  the  things  we  have  gained — 
not  only  materially,  but  through  the  hap- 


piness  I  have  been  able  to  achieve  and 
pass  on  to  my  children. 

Even  though  I  must  be  away  from  them 
all  day  when  I'm  in  a  picture,  I  try  to  give 
the  children  the  feeling  that  I'm  with 
them— at  least  in  spirit— all  the  time.  I 
am  very  fortunate  in  being  able  to  afford 
capable  household  help.  This  is  very  im- 
portant to  a  working  mother,  and  I  realize 
that  most  working  mothers — unless  they're 
highly-paid  career  women — can't  afford  it. 
On  the  other  hand,  just  because  I  have 
such  fine  help  does  not  mean  that  I  will 
let  them  take  over  the  mothering  of  my 
children.  They  can  feed  them,  put  them 
to  sleep,  bathe  them  when  I'm  not  home. 
But  there  are  things  only  a  mother  should 
do — like  taking  them  to  school  on  the 
first  day  of  school  and  making  the  prepara- 
tions for  her  children's  birthday  parties. 

Sure,  I  could  turn  this  over  to  my  cook 
and  the  nurse,  and  they  would  see  to  it 
that  my  children  would  have  a  beautiful 
birthday  party.  But  that  wouldn't  mean 
much  to  Kelly,  nor  to  Jamie,  when  she's 
old  enough  to  understand.  Kelly  and  I 
have  planned  all  her  birthday  parties  to- 
gether; such  whispering  and  giggling  and 
secret  conferences  that  go  on  between  us 
at  those  times! 

Once  it  looked  as  if  I  wouldn't  be  able 
to  share  in  the  preparation  of  a  birthday 
party  with  Kelly.  Just  before  her  third 
birthday  I  was  told  a  tour  had  been  ar- 
ranged for  Tony  and  me  to  publicize  The 
Vikings.  We  were  to  be  away  several 
weeks.  We  agreed  to  the  tour,  but  first  I 
asked  one  thing — that  I  could  be  home  the 
day  of  Kelly's  birthday.  "It  won't  be  a 
real  birthday  party  for  her,"  I  said,  "un- 
less Tony  and  I  are  with  her."  The  studio 
agreed. 

Before  we  left,  I  made  all  the  plans  for 
the  party,  with  Kelly.  We  went  to  the 
five  and  ten  together  and  bought  balloons 
and  favors.  She  helped  me  select  the  in- 


vitations, we  decided  together  what  kind 
of  sandwiches  we'd  serve  and  we  picked 
out  the  birthday  cake  together. 

I  wrote  all  the  invitations  before  we  left, 
and  I  ordered  everything  for  the  party.  I 
left  word  that  the  invitations  were  to  be 
mailed  out  on  a  certain  date.  With  every- 
thing bought  in  advance,  I  left.  We  re- 
turned early  on  the  Saturday  morning  of 
her  party.  And  I  took  up  where  I'd  left 
off.  My  daughter  was  the  happiest  birthday 
girl  you've  ever  seen. 

Kelly  is  just  four  now  and  goes  to  nur- 
sery school  from  9:00  to  12:00.  At  first, 
Tony  wasn't  sure  that  Kelly  should  go.  I 
thought  she  should — not  because  I  wanted 
her  out  of  the  way,  but  because  she's  a 
bright  and  active  child,  and  I  felt  she 
needed  the  stimulation  of  playing  with 
other  children. 

The  first  week,  I  took  her  there  myself 
every  morning.  You  can't  just  send  a  little 
girl  off  to  a  new,  strange  nursery  school 
without  being  with  her.  The  first  day  I 
picked  her  up  to  drive  her  home,  her  eyes 
were  dancing!  She  sang  the  words  of  a 
song  they'd  taught  her;  she  spoke  about  a 
little  girl  with  whom  she'd  played. 

I  knew  then  that  she  was  going  to  enjoy 
nursery  school.  The  other  mothers  and  I 
share  a  car  pool.  One  of  them  is  Anne 
Douglas,  Kirk's  wife.  If  I  wished,  I  could 
have  one  of  the  help  in  the  house  do  the 
driving  when  it's  my  turn  to  take  them  to 
school.  But  I  wouldn't  miss  my  turn  in  the 
car  pool  for  anything.  I  think  it's  important 
for  Kelly  to  know  that  her  mother  is  right 
there  to  do  what  the  other  mommies — the 
non-working  mommies  do.  We  pile  in  the 
car  and  I  drive  down  the  hill  and  pick  up 
little  Peter  Douglas  and  little  Scott  Shep- 
herd. I  leave  at  eight  in  the  morning.  No, 
I'm  not  tired.  When  you're  a  mother  doing 
what  you  want  to  do  for  your  child,  you're 
usually  exhilarated,  not  weary.  The  con- 
versations that  go  on  in  the  back  seat  of 


my  car  among  Kelly,  Peter  and  Scott  are 
absolutely  delicious.  I  wouldn't  miss  them 
for  the  world.  This  is  one  of  the  simple, 
inexplicable  joys  of  motherhood — driving 
my  child  to  school.  And  having  her  moth- 
er take  her  to  school  is  one  of  the  great 
joys  for  a  child. 

You  asked,  Rosemary,  if  I  am  ever  re- 
sentful about  the  time  I  spend  away  from 
the  children.  No,  I  never  have  been.  And 
I'm  quite  sure  they're  not  resentful  either. 
When  I'm  working,  the  hours  are  long.  I 
leave  at  6:00  a.m.  and  I  don't  get  home  till 
6:30  p.m.  Consequently,  I  don't  see  my 
children  in  the  morning,  except  to  tiptoe 
into  their  rooms  and  look  at  them.  When 
I  get  home,  Jamie,  who's  still  a  baby,  is 
asleep.  But  Kelly  is  up.  I  play  with  Kelly 
and  we  talk.  I  listen  to  everything  she 
has  to  say,  and  I  put  her  to  bed  myself. 
When  I'm  working  all  day,  no  one  can  tuck 
Kelly  in  but  myself.  She  needs  the  assur- 
ance that  I  love  her  so  much  that  I  want 
to  show  even  this  little  touch  of  tenderness. 
And  after  a  long  day  at  work,  I  myself 
need  the  talking  and  laughter  with  my 
child,  and  the  warm  satisfaction  of  putting 
her  to  bed. 

One  thing  I  think  is  very  important: 
many  mothers  who  work  feel  a  little  guilty 
because  their  work  keeps  them  away  from 
their  children  all  day.  And  feeling  guilty 
causes  them  to  make  a  certain  mistake. 
When  a  working  mother  comes  home,  she 
will  often  be  loaded  with  toys  and  gifts 
for  her  child,  as  though  to  compensate  for 
having  been  away  all  day.  Also,  she  is 
inclined  to  be  over-indulgent.  She  doesn't 
want  to  punish  her  little  darling  for  misbe- 
having because  she  feels  her  child  has 
been  punished  enough  by  not  having  the 
mother  around  during  the  day. 

I  don't  feel  that  way  at  all.  When  I'm 
home  after  work,  if  my  little  girl  misbe- 
haves, I  discipline  her,  just  as  as  I  would 
if  I'd  been  home  all  day.  I  think  spoiling 


150  FOR  YOU! 


Fill  in  the  form  below  (or  a  reasonable  facsimile  thereof)  as  soon  as  you've  read  all  the  stories  in  this  issue.  Then  mail  it  to  us  right  away. 
Promptness  counts.  Three  $10  winners  will  be  chosen  from  each  of  the  following  areas — on  a  basis  of  the  date  and  time  on  your  postmark: 
Eastern  states;  Southern  states;  Midwestern  states;  Roclcy  Mountain  and  Pacific  states;  Canada.  And  even  if  you  don't  earn  $10,  you'll 
be  glad  you  sent  this  ballot  in— because  you're  helping  us  pick  the  stories  you'll  really  love.  MAIL  TO:  MODERN  SCREEN  POLL,  BOX  2291, 
GRAND  CENTRAL  STATION,  N.  Y.  17,  N.  Y. 


Please  circle  the  box  to  the  left  of  the  one  phrase  which  best  answers  each  question: 
1.  I  LIKE  MARILYN  MONROE:  3.  I  LIKE  JANET  LEIGH: 


0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  [I]  all  of  her  story  0  part  [|]  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
pO  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
00  not  at  all 

2.  I  LIKE  HOPE  LANGE: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 
0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  DON  MURRAY: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  00  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  [TJ  very  little  00  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  [J]  all  of  their  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
00  completely  00  fairly  well  00  very  little 
00  not  at  all 


[TJ  more  than  almost  any  star  00  a  lot 
00  fairly  well  00  very  little  00  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  [TJ  super-completely 
00  completely  00  fairly  well  00  very  little 
00  not  at  all 

4.  I  LIKE  ELIZABETH  TAYLOR: 

00  more  than  almost  any  star  00  a  lot 
00  fairly  well  00  very  little  00  not  at  all 
00  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  EDDIE  FISHER: 

00  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
00  fairly  well  00  very  little  00  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  00  all  of  their  story  00  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  00  super-completely 
00  completely  00  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 


5.  I  LIKE  ROCK  HUDSON: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 

00  fairly  well  00  very  little  00  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  [TJ  all  of  his  story  0  part  00  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  UJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 

6.  I  LIKE  EVY  N0RLUND: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  0  not  at  all 
0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  JAMES  DARREN: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  their  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 


J  81 


a  child  in  the  hope  of  making  up  for  your 
having  been  away  is  confusing  to  the  child. 
And  I  don't  come  home  from  a  day  at  work 
loaded  down  with  gifts.  I  don't  feel  that 
I  have  to  bribe  my  children  because  I've 
been  away  at  work. 

It's  by  my  actions  that  I  show  my  chil- 
dren love  and  warmth,  even  when  I'm 
away.  When  I  come  home,  I  show  them 
how  much  I  love  them  in  the  ways  that 
are  natural  to  any  loving  mother.  But  I 
won't  let  them  get  away  with  misbehaving. 
That's  the  worst  thing  I  could  do  for  them. 
I  remember  one  night  when  I  came  home 
from  the  set  of  Psycho,  Kelly  and  I  were 
playing.  Then  I  was  called  to  the  telephone. 
When  I  returned,  I  discovered  Kelly  had 
scooped  a  fistful  of  chocolates  in  her 
mouth.  She  knows  she  isn't  allowed  to  do 
that.  Did  I  smile  indulgently  and  think, 
Well,  the  poor  child's  missed  me  all  day — 
what's  a  handful  of  candy  if  it  makes  her 
feel  happier?  I  did  not.  I  scolded  Kelly 
and  sent  her  right  up  to  bed — which  is 
just  what  I  would  have  done  if  I  hadn't 
been  away  from  the  house  working  all  day. 

The  children  of  working  mothers  can 
either  develop  into  staunch,  independent, 
secure  children,  or  spoiled  children,  over- 
indulged by  mothers  who  feel  guilty  be- 
cause they  can't  be  with  their  children 
twenty-four  hours  a  day. 

However,  when  I'm  working  I  do  spend 
all  my  week  ends  with  my  children.  For 
their  sake  and  my  own,  I  will  not  make 
social  dates  that  would  take  me  away 
from  the  house  on  the  few  days  when  we 
can  be  together. 

On  one  occasion,  when  I  was  sched- 
uled to  go  on  a  publicity  tour  in  San 
Francisco  for  Who  Was  That  Lady,  I  called 
it  off.  Why?  Because  suddenly  we  had  a 
change  in  household  help,  and  I  didn't 
want  to  leave  my  two  little  girls  with  vir- 
tual strangers. 

A  mother  shouldn't  become  panicky  for 


every  slight  cause.  Unnecessary  hysteria 
could  turn  a  working  mother  and  her 
children  into  neurotics.  Once  while  I  was 
working  in  Who  Was  That  Lady,  I  re- 
ceived a  call  on  the  set.  It  was  from  my 
house.  The  couple  who  worked  for  me 
had  suddenly  walked  out.  They  hadn't 
made  lunch  for  the  children.  It  was  up- 
setting, but  hardly  a  crisis.  I  told  my  sec- 
retary, whom  we  call  "Angel"  and  who 
was  at  the  house  at  the  time,  just  what 
to  give  the  children  for  lunch  and  when 
to  put  them  to  bed. 

Tenderness  and  motherly  love  are  not  so 
much  a  matter  of  the  hours  a  woman 
spends  with  her  children.  They're  a  matter 
of  feeling. 

There  are  so  many  small,  tender  things 
a  working  mother  can  do.  For  instance, 
Kelly  normally  wears  her  hair  in  two 
perky  pigtails.  On  the  days  of  big  events 
such  as  birthday  parties  or  special  days 
at  school,  I  curl  her  hair.  I  put  it  up  my- 
self and  she  loves  it.  It's  the  little  things 
than  can  be  warm  and  important.  .  .  . 

Library  Day  is  a  big  day  at  Kelly's 
nursery  school.  The  children  sing  and  are 
part  of  a  school  production.  For  weeks, 
Kelly  had  been  telling  me  about  it,  her 
round  eyes  shining.  She  rehearsed  her 
little  songs  at  home  and  dropped  mys- 
terious hints  about  what  she  was  going 
to  do. 

The  week  before  Library  Day,  I  got  a 
call  to  report  for  Pepe  on  Kelly's  big  day. 
Fortunately,  I  got  the  call  in  time  to  tell 
George  Sidney,  the  producer,  he  had 
chosen  one  of  the  worst  days  in  the  year 
for  me.  I  begged  him  to  change  the  sched- 
ule to  permit  me  to  start  my  role  one  day 
later.  He  agreed. 

I  shopped  with  Kelly  for  the  new  dress 
she'd  wear  on  this  important  day.  We 
bought  a  blue-and-white  ruffled  dress  with 
a  starched  white  pinafore.  The  night  be- 
fore, I  put  her  hair  up  in  curlers  myself. 


That  morning  she  looked  like  a  real  doll. 

She  was  proud  and  I  was  proud.  I  drove 
her  to  school.  As  we  walked  into  the  school 
together,  I  took  her  hand.  When  she 
walked  out  on  the  stage,  I  could  see  her — 
just  like  the  other  children — scanning  the 
audience  to  see  if  her  mother  was  there. 
How  glad  I  was  that  I  could  be! 

No,  I  don't  think  my  children  feel 
cheated  because  I'm  a  working  mother. 
Here's  one  of  the  secrets,  which  I'm  happy 
to  pass  on  to  other  mothers:  When  I  come 
home,  I  walk  into  the  house  buoyant  and 
happy,  no  matter  how  hard  the  day  has 
been  for  me. 

Rosemary,  never  show  fatigue  to  your 
children  when  you  come  home  from  work, 
no  matter  how  tired  you  really  are.  Just 
keep  in  mind  the  joy  that  lies  ahead  of 
you,  now  that  your  typewriter  has  been 
covered  or  your  last  order  for  the  day 
written.  Remember,  as  you  enter  your 
house  after  a  hard  day's  work,  you  are 
going  home  to  your  reward.  You  are  going 
to  have  your  own  little  child  run  up  to 
you  and  throw  his  arms  around  you  and 
kiss  you  and  prattle  on  to  you  what  he 
did  during  the  day.  Even  if  your  back  has 
ached  and  your  feet  have  felt  like  lead, 
knowing  this  should  be  enough  to  put  a 
spring  in  your  walk,  a  smile  on  your  face 
and  lightness  in  your  heart.  This  is  the  love 
and  tenderness,  the  feeling  that  "Mommy's 
home  with  me"  that  a  child  appreciates. 

When  I  work,  I  work  hard.  It's  usually 
a  twelve-hour  day  and  it's  emotionally  and 
physically  wearing.  Ordinarily,  I'd  want  to 
go  home  and  not  talk  to  anyone  until  my 
nerves  have  quit  jangling.  But  as  soon  as 
I  get  to  the  white  door  of  my  home,  and 
know  that  two  little  girls  are  waiting  to 
leap  into  my  arms,  I  don't  feel  one  bit  tired 
Best  wishes, 
Janet  Leigh  END 

Janet  will  guest-star  in  Columbia's  Pepe 


7.  I  LIKE  DEBBIE  REYNOLDS: 

QO  more  than  almost  any  star  GO  a  lot 
QO  fairly  well  QO  very  little  QO  not  at  all 
GO  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 
I  READ:  Q]  all  of  her  story  QO  part  QO  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  QO  super-completely 
QO  completely  QO  fairly  well  Q0  very  little 
QO  not  at  all 

8.  I  LIKE  BOBBY  DARIN: 

QO  more  than  almost  any  star  Q0  a  lot 

00  fairly  well  Q0  very  little  Q0  not  at  all 
QO  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  Qf]  all  of  his  story  Q0  part  QO  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  QfJ  super-completely 
00  completely  QO  fairly  well  QO  very  little 
QO  not  at  ail 

9.  I  LIKE  SANDRA  DEE: 

QO  more  than  almost  any  star  Q0  a  lot 
QO  fairly  well  Q0  very  little  Q0  not  at  all 


QO  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 
I  READ:  QO  all  of  her  story  QO  part  Q0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  Q0  super-completely 
QO  completely  Q0  fairly  well  Q0  very  little 
Q0  not  at  all 

10.  I  LIKE  FRED  ASTAIRE: 

QO  more  than  almost  any  star  QO  a  lot 
00  fairly  well  Q0  very  little  Q0  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  QO  all  of  his  story  QO  part  QO  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  QO  super-completely 
QO  completely  QO  fairly  well  Q0  very  little 
Q0  not  at  all 

11.  I  LIKE  JANE  FONDA: 

00  more  than  almost  any  star  QO  a  lot 
00  fairly  well  QO  very  little  Q0  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  QO  all  of  her  story  Q0  part  Q0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  Q0  super-completely 
Q0  completely  QO  fairly  well  Q0  very  little 
QO  not  at  all 


12.  I  LIKE  JILL  ST.  JOHN: 

QO  more  than  almost  any  star  QO  a  lot 
Q0  fairly  well  Q0  very  little  Q0  not  at  all 
QO  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 
I  READ:  QO  all  of  her  story  Q0  part  Q0  none  i 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  Q0  super-completely  1 
QO  completely  QO  fairly  well  QO  very  little 
Q0  not  at  all 

13.  I  LIKE  WILL  (SUGARF00T)  HUTCH  INS: 

00  more  than  almost  any  star  QO  a  lot 
QO  fairly  well  QO  very  little  Q0  not  at  all 

00  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  Q0  all  of  his  story  Q0  part  Q0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  QO  super-completely 
00  completely  Q0  fairly  well  Q0  very  little 
QO  not  at  all 

14.  I  READ:  Q0  all  of  DINING  WITH  THE 
STARS  Q0  part  Q0  none 

IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  Q0  completely  Q0  fair- 
ly well  Q0  very  little  QO  not  at  all 


IS.  The  stars  I  most  want  to  read  about  are: 
(D.  


(2)  

(3)  

AGE  NAME. 

ADDRESS  

CITY  


MALE 


(1)  . 

(2)  . 

(3)  . 


82 


YOU  FEEL  THIS  COOL,  THIS  CLEAN, 


I  illw  I  111 


With  Tampax.  you'll  never  miss  a  day  of  fun!  Swimming...  skiing...  div- 
ing. . .  flying !  You  're  free. .  .poised. . .  sure !  Millions  use  it.  Worn  internally, 
its  the  modern  way.     TAMPAX  . . ,  so  much  a  part  of  your  active  life. 


Tampax®  internal : 


ij  msde  o-,'.y  by  Tc*~.p3i  l-.corporited,  Pz'~,-t,  Mz 


A  Night  in  a 
Parked  Car -that 
Blew  the  Lid  off 
a  "Nice"  Town! 

YOUNG  Parrish  had  been  warned  to  stay  away  from 
Sala  Post's  pretty  daughter.  His  mother's  job  as 
Sala's  housekeeper  depended  upon  it.  She  had  been 
hired  to  keep  that  aristocratic  little  wildcat  out  of 
trouble.  But  the  night  of  the  big  storm  too  many 
things  happened  too  fast.  Parrish  was  in  the  garage 
—  alone.  Alison  skidded  her  yellow  convertible  in  to 
a  quick  stop  —  her  eyes  smouldering,  her  lips  wet  and 
hungry.  All  the  fire  of  his  young  manhood  clamored 
for  release  .  . 

How  did  this  passionate  encounter  trigger  the 
biggest  emotional  explosion  since  Peyton  Place? 
Read  this  bold,  pulsating  story  in  Parrish  —  just  one 
of  the  outstanding  books  you  may  choose  in  this 
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scribing the  new  forthcoming  one-dollar  se- 
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□  More  Stories  to  Remember. 

2  vols.  6  novels.  30  great  short 
stories  by  Faulkner,  Kipling. 
Hemingway,  De  Maupassant, 
other  masters.  900  pages.  (43) 

□  Parrish  -  Mildred  Savage. 
See  description  above.  (44) 

□  Columbia-  Vikino  Desk  En- 
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1,250.000  words.  31.000  arti- 
cles. 1,440  pages.  (61) 

□  Farm  Journal  Country  Cook- 
book. Over  1.000  recipes,  fea- 
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America's  farm  kitchens.  420 
pages,  many  color  photos.  (64) 

□  Around  the  World  in  2000 
Pictures.  Sail  the  Seven  Seas, 
visit  84  lands  In  exciting  photos 
and  facts.  768  pages.  (67) 

□  larrett's  Jade  -  Frank  Yer- 
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a  sword  or  a  lovely  woman  I  (80) 

□  Amy  Vanderbilt's  Everyday 
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ing, dining  out.  etc.  (90) 

□  Lorena  -  Frank  Slaughter's 
hit  novel.  Under  the  guns  of 
war,  a  proud  southern  beauty 
Trades  one  night  of  love  for  her 
plantation's  safety.  (108) 


□  Family  Book  of  Best-Loved 
Poems.  485  pages  of  world- 
favorite  poems.  (119) 

□  Ladles'  Home  Journal  Book 
of  Interior  Deeoratlon.  New 
edition!  Big  lavish  volume  con- 
tains 216  Illustrations,  90  in 
full  color.  (138) 


256-page  volume  covers  U.S.. 
Canada,  all  foreign  lands.  190 
pages  of  color  maps!  (155) 

□  Many  Loves  of  Doble  Glllls. 
Max  Shulman's  hilarious  tale 
of  a  "crew-cut  Casanova."  (163) 

□  Ten  Great  Mysteries.  Clas- 
sics of  suspense  by  Daphne  du 
Maurier.  Agatha  Christie. 
Ellery  Queen.  Dashiell  Ham- 
mett.  6  others.  2  full  novels. 
640  pages.  (164) 

□  Young  Titan.  F.  Van  Wyck 
Mason's  giant  700-page  novel 
of  men  and  women  who  lived 
and  loved  In  Colonial  America 
during  the  French  and  Indian 
Wars.  (166) 

□  California  Street  -  Niven 
Busch.  The  scandals,  love 
affairs.  Intrigues  of  San  Fran- 
cisco's fashionable  Nob  Hill! 
A  daring  novel  by  the  author  of 
Duel  in  the  Sun.  (217) 


SPECIALIZES 


■/  fashion  shades 


IINI   EVE RYTI — 1 1  f\JC3 
TO  MAKE   EYES  BEAUTIFUL 


In  all  the  world,  nothing  does  so  much  to  make  eyes  beautiful  as  Maybelline, 
the  pure  eye  make-up  you  know  you  can  use  with  perfect  confidence.  Maybelline  offers 
everything  for  eye-beauty  .  .  .  quality  unrivalled,  prices  unmatched  ...  in  a 
wonderful  range  of  precious  jewel  colors  that  give  eyes  shimmering,  glimmering  loveliness. 
That's  why  Maybelline  is  so  necessary  to  every  woman  who  wants  to  appear 
perfectly  groomed,  fashionable  ...  as  lovely  as  she  was  meant  to  be. 
Maybelline  is  a  specialist  in  eye  beauty ! 


Rer 


iber,  for  purity,  for  complete  confidence 
your  eye  make-up  insist 


4  fashion  shades 

Eij«/>iou)  Pencil 

7  flattering-  shades 


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8  iridescent  shades 


'Sn.&w  omcL  JLoaK 


IISTERM  ISM  BREATH 
TOOTH  PASTE  ISM  TEETH 


Germs  all  over  your 
mouth  and  throat  cause 
most  bad  breath. 
Tooth  paste  can't  even 
reach  most  of  these 
germs,  let  alone  kill 
them.  You  need  a 
free-flowing  liquid 
antiseptic  — Listerine 
Antiseptic — to  do  that! 


LISTERINE  KILLS  BAD  BREATH  GERMS 
TOOTH  PASTE  DOESN'T  EVEN  REACH ! 


Tooth  paste 
reaches  only  this 
area  around  teeth 
and  gums.  And 
no  tooth  paste 
is  antiseptic. 
Listerine  kills  germs 
as  no  tooth  paste 
can — on  contact, 
by  millions. 


Listerine  is 
amazingly  "wet"- 
more  fluid  than 
any  tooth  paste. 
Listerine  way* 
kills  germs  on  4 
times  more  germ- 
laden  surfaces, 
stops  bad  breath 
hours  on  end! 


*See  directions  on  label. 


E\wy  time  you  brush  your  teeth,  REACH  FOR  LISTERINE 

Tune  in  "The  Loretta  Young  Show"  and  "Overland  Trail"  NBC-TV  Network 


Jour  all  day 


scents,  smooths,  clings 
more  lovingly,  more  lastingly 
than  costly  cologne 


No  cologne  prolongs  and  protects 
your  daintiness  like  Cashmere 
Bouquet  Talc.  Never  evaporates. 
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you  silken-smooth,  flower-fresh  all 
over.  Make  Cashmere  Bouquet 
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your  all  day  Veil  of  Fragrance. 

Cashmere 
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the  fragrance  men  love 


modern 


AUGUST,  1960 


AMERICA'S  GREATEST  MOVIE  MAGAZINE 


STORIES 

Princess  Margaret  27    Princess  Margaret,   Her   Husband,   and   the   Girl  He 

Left  Behind  by  Beverly  Ott 

Elizabeth  Taylor 

Eddie  Fisher  30    Scoop   of  the   Year!    Eddie   to   Return   to   His  Own 

Children  ...  by  Rosamond  Gaylor 

Elvis  Presley  34  Have  I  Failed  as  a  True  Christian? 

Margo  Moore  38  Margo!!!                                                     by  Ed  DeBlasio 

Efrem  Zimbolist,  Jr.  40  He  Just  Didn't  Want  Me  Anymore  .  .  . 

Tommy  Sands 

Nancy  Sinatra  42  The  Tender  Tension  of  a  Long,  Long  Engagement 

by  George  Christy 

Rita  Hayworth  46  How  Could  I  Tell  Yasmin  Her  Daddy  Was  Dead  .  ,  .  ? 

Charlton  Heston  48    Here's  Charlie! 

by  Lydia  Heston  as  told  to  Kirtley  Baskette 

Carol  Lynley 

Brandon  DeWilde   50  Heartbreak 

Dick  Clark  52  Thank  God  .  .  .  For  Barbara  by  Doug  Brewer 

Sandra  Dee   54  Sandra  Dee's  Marriage  Plans  by  Stan  Cornyn 

Stella  Stevens  56  My  Son  .  .  .  Has  Been  .  .  .  Kidnapped  .  .  . 

Eddie  Cochran   8  Suddenly  There  Was  No  Tomorrow  .  .  . 

SPECIAL  FEATURE 

36    For  Adults  Only:  A  Shocking  Report  on  New  Movies 

DEPARTMENTS 

Louella  Parsons  17  Eight-Page  Gossip  Extra 

4  The  Inside  Story 

6  New  Movies  by  Florence  Epstein 

12  Disk  Jockey's  Quiz 

72  August  Birthdays 

81  100  Elvis  Records  Free  For  You 

Cover  Photograph  from  United  Press  International 
Other  Photographers'  Credits  on  Page  62 


DAVID  MYERS,  editor 

SAM  BLUM,  managing  editor 

TERRY  DAVIDSON,  story  editor 
LINDA  OLSHEIM,  production  editor 
ED  DeBLASIO,  special  correspondent 
BEVERLY  LINET,  contributing  editor 
ERNESTINE  R.  COOKE,  ed.  assistant 
GENE  HOYT,  research  director 


MICHAEL  LEFCOURT,  art  editor 
HELEN  WELLER,  west  coast  editor 

DOLORES  M.  SHAW,  asst.  art  editor 
CARLOS  CLARENS,  research 
JEANNE  SMITH,  editorial  research 
EUGENE  WITAL,  photographic  art 
AUGUSTINE  PENNETTO,  cover 
FERNANDO  TEXIDOR,  art  director 


POSTMASTER:  Please  send  notice  on  Form  3579  to  321  West  44  Street,  New  York  36,  New  Yorl 

MODERN  SCREEN.  Vol.  54,  No.  8.  August,  1960.  Published  Monthly  by  Dell  Publishing  Co..  Inc 
of  publication:  at  Washington  and  South  Ave*.,  lhmellen N.  I.  Executive  and  edit,  .rial  offices.  /.- 
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office.  221  No.  I-aSalle  St..  Chicago.  111.  Albert  P.  Delacorte.  Publisher;  Helen  Meyer,  President;  E 
Vice  Presidents,  William  F.  Callahan.  Jr..  Paul  R.  Lilly;  Harold  (lark.  \  ,ee- President-Advertising  T 
Bryce  L.  Holland.  Vice-President:  Assistant  Vice-Presidents.  lernando  1  exidor.  Richard  L.  \\ 
Carolene  Owings.  Secretary.  Published  simultaneously  in  the  Dominion  of  Canada.  International  c. 
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LOVE-HUNGRY  WORLD  OF  THE  SOPHISTICATED  YOUNG  MODERNS 


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Want  the  real  truth?  Write  to  INSIDE  STORY,  Modern  Screen, 
Box  515,  Times  Square  P.O.,  N.Y.  36,  N.Y.  The  most  interesting 
letters  will  appear  in  this  column.  Sorry,  no  personal  replies. 
For  vital  statistics  and  biographical  information  about  the  stars 
get  Modern  Screen's  SUPER  STAR  CHART.   Coupon,  page  60. 


9  I  read  that  Montgomery  Clift  and 

Lauren  Bacall  were  holding  hands  all 
through  the  preview  of  Wild  River. 
What  does  this  mean? 

— F.G.,  Cornwall,  Conn. 
A  Their  hands  were  cold. 

9  Is  Sammy  Davis,  Jr.  going  to  mam- 
May  Britt? 

— J.S.,  Roanoke,  Va. 

A  He  hopes  to. 

9  Why  was  the  Ingrid  Bergman-Maxi- 
millian  Schell  TV  spectacular,  24  Hours 
in  the  Life  of  a  Woman  cancelled?  I 
thought  it  was  supposed  to  be  the  big 
TV  treat  of  next  season. 

— S.M.,  Saginaw,  Mich. 
A  It  was — until  CBS  carefully  read  the 
script  that  Ingrid's  producer  husband 
Lars  Schmidt  presented.  The  show  was 
then  indefinitely  postponed. 

9  What  happened  to  the  budding  ro- 
mance between  Elvis  Presley  and  Tues- 
day Weld? 

— D.M.,  Sioux  Falls,  S.  Dak. 
A  It  was  nipped  when  Tuesday  stood 
Elvis  up  for  their  second  date. 

9  What's  going  to  happen  to  Cheryl 
Crane  now?  Is  she  going  to  be  placed 
in  a  regular  reform  school? 

— C.W.,  Salem,  Ore. 
A  Lana  Turner  hopes  not.  She's  trying 
to  get  the  court's  permission  to  take 
Cheryl  to  Europe.  If  it  is  granted,  she 
will  enroll  Cheryl  in  a  Swiss  School  and 
take  up  residence  in  Switzerland  herself. 

9  With  no  TV  or  movie  offers  forth- 
coming— is  it  true  that  Eddie  Fisher  is 

terribly  worried  about  his  future  ?  He's 
looked  very  depressed  in  some  pictures 
I've  seen  of  him  lately. 

— R.R.,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 
A  Eddie's  future  isn't  worrying  him — 
yet.  As  soon  as  Liz  Toy/or  finishes 
Cleopatra,  Eddie  will  turn  producer 
with  Liz  as  his  star. 

9  Is  it  true  that  Tony  Curtis  and 
Janet  Leigh  have  returned  to  the  psy- 
chiatrist's couch? 

— D.S.,  Raleigh,  N.C. 
A  They've  been  airing  their  individual 
problems  to  the  doctor  in  an  upright 
position. 

9  What's  with  the  rumor  that  Howard 
Lee  gave  Hedy  Lamarr  such  a  big 
divorce  settlement  because  he  plans  to 


marry  Gene  Tierney? 

— K.S.,  Somervllle,  Mass. 
A  Mr.  Lee  wanted  to  be  free  to  court 
Gene  Tierney — who  has  no  plans  to  mar- 
ry anyone  at  this  time. 

9  Can  you  give  me  the  inside  story  on 
Debbie  Reynold's  violent  feud  with  her 
TV  network?  There  are  rumors  that 
Debbie  may  walk  out  of  her  $3,000,000 
deal.  Is  this  so? 

— M.M.,  Oak  Park,  III. 
A  ABC  wants  to  ride  its  $3,000,000  in- 
vestment to  the  highest  ratings  and  feels 
Debbie  should  use  name  guests  on  her 
shows  to  insure  this  coming  off.  Debbie, 
on  the  other  hand,  feels  she's  enough  of 
a  draw  without  bringing  in  outside  help 
(which  she  woidd  have  to  pay  for). 
She'll  stick  with  her  contract — but  the 
first  Special  will  prove  who  is  right. 

9  Is  it  possible  that  if  Jack  Kennedy  is 
elected  President,  his  brother-in-law 
Peter  Lawford  and  Prank  Sinatra  will 
be  appointed  to  posts  in  the  cabinet 
and  government? 

— R.K.,  Augusta,  Me. 

A  Hardly. 

9  Everyone  seems  to  be  whispering 
about  a  secret  marriage  between  pro- 
ducer Ross  Hunter  and  Sandra  Dee. 
How  much  of  this  is  true? 

— T.Y.,  Westfield,  NJ. 

A  Sandra  was  infatuated  with  Ross — 
who  has  nothing  but  fatherly  feelings 
toward  her.  After  one  disastrous  try  at 
marriage  it's  unlikely  that  Ross  is  in- 
terested in  becoming  serious  with  any- 


9  Do  you  think  the  Stephen  Boyd- 
Elana  Eden  romance  will  reach  the 
altar  stage — or  is  Stephen  interested  in 
Hope  Lange  now  that  she's  free? 

— E.C.,  New  Orleans,  La. 
A  Stephen  is  'interested'  in  both  wom- 
en— but  it's  unlikely  he'll  march  to  the 
altar  with  either,  at  this  time. 

9  Is  it  true  that  Elvis"  popularity 
diminished  after  his  panning  on  the 
Sinatra  show?  I've  heard  in  show 
business  talk  he's  considered  "dead"? 

— S.S.,  New  York,  N.Y. 
A  He's  very  muck  alive — via  his  new 
RCA  album  Elvis  Is  Back,  and  his  new 
picture  GI  Blues.  Only  the  highbrow 
critics  panned  him  on  the  Sinatra  show 
— and  these  guys  have  been  panning 
him  from  the  beginning. 


THE 

MOTION 
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Its  story  is  by  Edna  Ferber  GIANT 
and  its  people  are  fierce,  f\T?  1Qf\f\1 
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her  people  of 'Giant'!... These  are  people  caught  up  in 
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THE  APARTMENT 


serious  comedy 


Jack  Lemmon 
Shirley  MacLaine 
Fred  MacMurray 
Ray  Walston 
Jack  Kruschen 


■  You'll  laugh  a  lot  at  The  Apartment — it 
has  plenty  of  clever  dialogue  and  situations 
that  seem  hilarious  because  they  are  so  true — 
but  its  theme  isn't  really  funny  nor,  I  think, 
was  it  meant  to  be.  Jack  Lemmon  works  in 
a  huge  insurance  company.  He  would  be 
absolutely  lost  in  the  crowd  of  several  thou- 
sand co-workers  if  he  hadn't  stumbled  on  a 
gimmick.  He  lives  in  a  bachelor  apartment 
on  New  York's  West  Side — and  he  lends  it 
to  some  of  the  company's  middle-aged — and 
married — executives  who  have  no  place  to  be 
alone  with  their  girlfriends.  Lemmon's  con- 
science doesn't  hurt  at  all;  he  figures  this  is 
the  quickest  way  to  get  a  promotion,  and 
he's  right.  Fred  MacMurray,  head  of  per- 
sonnel, not  only  promotes  him,  but  asks  for 
the  key  to  his  apartment.  Jack  doesn't  know 
that  Fred's  girl  is  elevator  operator  Shirley 
MacLaine,  whom  Jack  loves  from  afar. 
Shirley  doesn't  know  that  Fred  has  been 
leading  girls  on  for  years,  always  promising 
to  get  a  divorce  and  marry  them.  At  a 
vividly  realistic  Christmas  office  party  she 
learns  the  truth  about  Fred,  but  she  can't 
resist  seeing  him,  and  she  can't  resist  taking  an 
overdose  of  sleeping  pills  when  Fred  gives  her 
a  line  (and  $100)  at  Jack's  apartment.  Jack 
returns  in  time  to  call  a  doctor  (his  neigh- 
bor, Jack  Kruschen,  whose  dialogue  is  the 
high  spot  of  the  film)  and  save  her  life.  Now 


by  Florence  Epstein 


Jack  wants  to  marry  Shirley  but  her  heart — 
she  thinks — still  belongs  to  Fred,  who  sur- 
prises everybody  by  making  plans  to  get  a 
divorce.  At  any  rate,  love  is  what  Jack 
needed  to  feel  in  order  to  feel  disgust  for 
having  chosen  the  low  road  to  success.  This 
movie  may  shock  you  but  the  mirror  it  holds 
up  to  a  part  of  big  city  life  doesn't  lie. — 
United  Artists. 

STRANGERS  WHEN  WE  MEET 

Kirk  Douglas 

,     ,  .  ,  ,       ,  Kim  Novak 

forbidden  love  Ernie  Kovacs 

Barbara  Rush 
Walter  Matthau 

■  One  would  think  that  Brentwood,  Cali- 
fornia, was  the  ideal  place  for  marriage  and 
the  family — such  pretty  houses,  such  pretty 
gardens.  Ha !  Every  day  Kim  Novak  takes 
her  child  to  the  school  bus  and  then,  with 
a  wistful,  lonely  longing,  she  goes  home. 
Every  day  (nearly)  architect  Kirk  Douglas 
takes  his  older  child  to  the  school  bus  and, 
one  day,  his  eyes  meet  Kim's  eyes.  Kirk, 
who  is  married  to  dominating  Barbara  Rush, 
loves  Kim's  lovely,  passive  eyes.  Successful 
novelist  Ernie  Kovacs  (who  is  an  unhappy 
Don  Juan)  has  commissioned  Kirk  to  design 
him  a  house  in  the  hills — not  that  it  will 
make  Ernie  happy.  But  it  makes  Kirk  happy. 
All  the  time  he's  building  the  house  he's 
dreaming  it's  a  home  for  him  and  Kim.  Kim, 
whose  husband  takes  a  dim  view  of  even 
married  sex,  shares  Kirk's  dream.  What's 
going  to  happen  to  their  marriages,  their 
(Continued  on  page  14) 


In  a  suburban,  young-married  type  community,  Kim  Novak 
and  Kirk  Douglas  are  caught  up  in  an  unexpected  love  affair. 


I 

A  solid  wave  of  laughter  roars  out  * 
of  fabulous  Miami-as  Jerry's  classic  comedy  performance 
launches  the  silliest  series  of  sequences 
that  ever  hit  the  screen!  w 


J*- 

A  A 


JERRY 
LEWIS 

ASSOCIATE  PRODUCER 

ERNEST  D.  GLUCKSMAN 

JERRY  LEWIS 

PRODUCTION 

PARAMOUNT  RELEASE 


On  a  fog-shrouded  night  in  London,  with  his  bride-to-be 
beside  him  and  an  airplane  ticket  for  home  in  his  pocket, 
Eddie  Cochran's  car  crashed,  and  the  song  on  his  lips  was 
stilled  forever.  For  the  thousands  who,  like  us,  belonged 
to  the  growing  army  of  Eddie's  fans,  Modern  Screen  pre- 
sents a  heart-rending  account  from  the  survivors  of  the 


crash,  of  his  final  moments... 


■  The  last  song  he  sang  was  "California  Here  I  Come,"  to  a 
small,  select  audience — Gene  Vincent,  his  roommate  on  their 
English  tour;  Patrick  Thompkins,  their  road  manager;  and 
Sharon  Sheeley,  the  girl  he  loved.  He  sang  at  the  top  of  his  lungs 
and  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  As  the  rented  sedan  sped 
through  the  night,  bound  for  London  Airport,  Eddie  Cochran 
sang  from  sheer,  almost  overpowering  happiness.  After  nearly 
five  months  of  personal  appearances  in  England,  he  was  going 
home. 

Patrick  Thompkins  had  delivered  the  plane  tickets  to  Eddie's 
and  Gene's  hotel  room  that  morning.  Sitting  up  in  bed,  they'd 
ripped  open  the  envelope.  "Take  a  look,  boy,"  Eddie  crowed. 
"Real  genuine  tickets  to  the  USA!"  (Continued  on  page  10) 


Who  pu  t  the  egg 
in  Peg's  shampoo? 

(and  why?) 

¥  III 


^Af^fil/illi that's  who!  Here's  why- 

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after-shampoo  manageability,  too.  What  do  you  want?  Cleanest, 
shining-est,  behaving-est  hair?  Then  you  want  egg  in  your  shampoo. 
You  want .  .  .  you  need  HelenejCurtis  Shampoo  Plus  Egg,  the  luxury 
shampoo  that  costs  no  more 
than  ordinary  watery  shampoos. 


New!  Shampoofs!  Shampoo  Plus  Egg  in  handy  little 
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poo (2  lathers)  per  \0t  packet.  Card  of  6,  just  59fi. 


(Continued  from  page  8) 

"Yeah!"  Gene's  grin  stretched  from  ear 
to  ear.  Then,  with  a  couple  of  whoops, 
they'd  both  tossed  the  tickets  into  the  air. 
And  Patrick  remembers,  "For  the  rest  of 
the  day,  about  all  they  did  was  sit  and 
look  at  those  tickets." 

Originally,  they'd  planned  to  catch  a 
train  for  London  after  the  last  perform- 
ance at  the  Bristol  Hippodrome.  But  the 
train  was  at  three-forty.  The  show  would 
finish  around  ten-thirty.  So  they  talked 
it  over  and  decided  that  a  car  was  the 
answer.  They  hired  a  Ford  Consul,  one 
that  came  complete  with  a  festive  scat- 
tering of  confetti,  because  it  had  been 
used  for  a  wedding  earlier  in  the  day. 

As  Eddie  sang,  Sharon  smiled  up  at 
him.  She's  really  nuts  about  the  guy, 
Patrick  thought.  It  wasn't  just  the  way 
she  looked  at  him,  the  adoration  in  her 
eyes,  that  said,  "I  love  him."  There  were 
other  things,  things  that  said  how  much. 
"Patrick,  will  you  come  shopping  with 
me?"  she'd  asked  one  day.  "It's  my  birth- 
day and  I  want  to  get  a  little  cake." 

Before  he'd  met  her  in  the  lobby,  he'd 
stopped  by  Eddie's  room.  "Patrick,  will 
you  do  something  for  me?"  He'd  just  been 
paid  and  handed  over  the  whole  wage 
packet.  "Take  this.  Use  whatever  you  need. 
Get  the  biggest  cake  in  town  and  have 
Happy  Birthday  Sharon  written  on  it." 

Patrick  moaned.  "Get  the  biggest  cake 
in  town,  he  says  .  .  .  and  in  a  couple  of 
hours!" 

"You  can  do  it,  boy,"  Eddie  assured 
him.  "Suuure  you  can!" 

But  the  cake  wasn't  destined  to  be  a 
surprise  like  Eddie's  other  gifts  to  his  girl. 
Patrick  had  to  confess,  so  they  wouldn't 
wind  up  with  a  blooming  bakery.  "What 
we'll  do  is  buy  a  small  cake."  Sharon's 
smile  was  radiant.  "I  don't  need  a  big 
one.  We'll  get  a  present  for  Eddie  in- 
stead." 

They  found  a  blue  corduroy  shirt.  And 
when  Patrick  explained  what  had  hap- 
pened, Eddie  blew  his  top — but  in  a 
pleased  sort  of  way.  Imagine  a  girl  buy- 
ing a  guy  a  present  on  her  birthday!  Yes, 
she  loved  him  all  right. 

Smash-up! 

.  .  .  "California  Here  I  Come.  .  .  ."  The 
song  was  over.  Sharon  and  Eddie  were 
silent,  thoughtful.  This  time  tomorrow 
they'd  be  home.  Gene  settled  down  for  a 
nap.  It  was  almost  midnight.  Patrick 
leaned  over  to  take  a  fresh  package  of 
cigarettes  out  of  the  small  traveling  bag 
at  his  feet. 

Suddenly,  with  a  shattering  impact,  the 
car  hit  a  lamp  standard.  And  now  a 
broken  guitar  lay  on  the  pavement.  Bodies 
were  flung  onto  the  grass,  strewn  with 
confetti.  .  .  . 

The  ambulance  reached  St.  Martin's 
hospital  around  one-thirty.  During  the 
next  few  hours,  nine  doctors  were  called 
to  Eddie  Cochran's  bedside.  As  one  of  them 
told  Modern  Screen,  "He  was  alive,  but 
deeply  unconscious.  Our  efforts  kept  him 
alive  much  longer  than  he  might  have 
lived  otherwise.  But  there  was  simply 
nothing  we  could  do  to  save  him.  He 
never  regained  consciousness."  He  died, 
of  severe  brain  lacerations,  at  4:00  a.m. 
on  Easter  Sunday.  .  .  . 

The  girl  in  the  cast  lay  in  a  pink- 
walled  ward,  with  gaily-patterned  pink 
curtains  drawn  around  her  bed.  Her 
bruised  face  bore  little  resemblance  to 
the  Sharon  Sheeley  who  had  come  to 
England  a  few  weeks  before.  She  looked 
a  tragically  battered  child,  not  a  famed, 
successful  songwriter.  When  she'd  ar- 
rived, the  papers  had  said  she'd  flown  in 
"on  business."  She'd  come,  too,  to  see  the 
boy  she  loved,  but  she  didn't  talk  about 
that.  Back  home,  whenever  anyone  asked, 


she'd  talk  about  her  friendship  with  Ricky 
Nelson  or  Elvis  Presley.  Both  boys  were 
buddies.  She'd  written  Poor  Little  Fool 
for  Ricky.  But  Eddie  .  .  .  They'd  posed 
for  a  picture  layout  together  once,  but 
that  was  all.  "Our  feelings  about  each 
other  belong  to  us,"  he'd  said.  Children 
of  retiring  non-professionals,  living  their 
home  lives  away  from  the  limelight,  in  a 
way  they'd  never  gotten  used  to  the  glare. 
They'd  stayed  away  from  nightclubs,  gone 
to  drive-ins  instead,  or  sat  around  in 
somebody's  living  room  listening  to  music, 
talking  music,  with  their  kind  of  people. 

"I  know  the  man  I'm  going  to  marry," 
she  once  told  a  reporter.  But  she'd  hastily 
added,  "I  mean  the  type  I'm  going  to 
marry.  I  want  to  marry  a  dominating 
man.  Someone  who'll  tell  me  where  to 
go,  what  to  do.  I  don't  want  to  be  the 
boss.  .  .  ." 

"Eddie,"  she'd  begged  in  London. 
"Please,  let's  go  to  Buckingham  Palace 
and  see  if  we  can  see  some  royalty." 

"What's  the  matter?"  he'd  tease.  "Don't 
you  think  I'm  royal  enough  for  you?" 

Eddie  Cochran  being  mobbed  at  the 
Palace  gates  would  be  about  all  the 
harassed,  red-coated  guards  would  need! 
"Then  get  him  up  early  in  the  morning. 
Gene,  and  we'll  go  to  the  zoo,"  Sharon 
suggested. 

"Aw,  why  do  you  want  to  go  to  the  zoo 
when  you've  got  me  to  look  at?"  Eddie 
grinned.  And  he  was  boss. 

She'd  managed  some  shopping  and  sight- 
seeing when  Eddie  and  Gene  had  taken 
off  on  a  series  of  one  night  stands  in  the 
provinces.  She  was  going  to  meet  them  in 
London  at  the  week  end  to  fly  home,  then 
she  decided  to  catch  up  with  them  on 
Thursday  instead. 

Now,  four  days  later,  she  remembered 
being  on  the  ground  somewhere  ...  an 
officer  .  .  .  somebody  saying  something 
about  an  accident.  .  .  .  Eddie  unconscious, 
so  very  still.  "Is  he  all  right?  Is  he  ...  ?" 
She  was  in  a  blurred  world  of  sedation, 
but  her  voice  cut  through  it  like  a  knife. 
"Is  Eddie  dead?    Is  Eddie  dead?" 

They  told  her,  several  hours  after  his 
death.  "We  thought  she  was  fit  enough," 
says  the  doctor.  "And  it  would  have  been 
almost  impossible  to  keep  it  from  her. 
There  are  radios  and  TV  sets  in  the  wards 
and  she  was  bound  to  find  it  out  one 
way  or  another.  We  thought  it  best  that 
the  news  come  from  us." 

After  that,  the  pain  in  her  body  was 
nothing  to  the  pain  in  her  heart.  She 
closed  her  eyes  and  wept,  quiet,  deep 
tears. 

Eddie's  roommate 

Gene  Vincent  woke  up  in  another  ward 
He  couldn't  seem  to  talk.  Maybe  it  was 
the  shot  they'd  given  him.  Men  in  white 
came  in,  murmuring  something  about 
concussion,  examining  him  again.  Then 
the  voices  drifted  away.  When  he  came 
to  later,  he  glanced  at  the  fellow  in  the 
bed  directly  across  from  him.  "Eddie.  .  .  ." 
What  a  mess  he  was  with  the  black  eye. 
And  his  skin  seemed  so  dark.  Stage 
make-up  was  the  devil  to  get  off.  "Eddie, 
you  look  awful.  How  do  you  feel?" 

There  was  no  answer.  Poor  Eddie  and 
his  black  eye!  "Hey,  Eddie,  that's  quite  a 
shiner  you  got!"  Still  no  answer.  Must 
be  pretty  miserable.  I'll  keep  talking  to 
him  anyway,  Gene  thought.  Cheer  him 
up.  Later,  much  later,  one  of  the  nurses 
stopped  beside  his  bed.  For  some  reason, 
as  she  was  leaving,  Gene  called  out.  "Don't 
forget  to  say  good-bye  to  Eddie.  .  .  ." 

She  came  back,  a  startled,  disbelieving 
look  on  her  face.  Gene  turned  his  head 
toward  the  next  bed  and  stared  at  the 
occupant.  Hard.  "Aren't  you  .  .  .  aren't 
you  .  .  .  Eddie?"  he  asked  slowly. 

He  saw  the  boy.  full  face,  for  the  first 


Look!  Real  cream  deodorant  your  fingers  need  never  touch! 


New  glide-on  applicator! 
Just  tuist  the  bottom  .  .  . 
cream  comes  out  the  top! 


I  Shulton.  Inc.,  1960 


Now  you  can  have  the  all-day  protection  only 
.       a  real  cream  deodorant  can  give  plus  slide-on 

convenience— both  in  new  Desert  Dri.  It  glides  on  and 
,  rubs  in  right  from  its  own  exclusive  applicator.  Not 

^f'  just  a  rolled-on  surface  coating,  it  penetrates  for  positive 

- 'M"  ■  all-day  protection.  Checks  perspiration,  stops  odor. 

won't  damage  clothes.  3  months'  supply — 1.00  plus  tax. 

New  Desert  Dris — real  cream  deodorant  —  anti-perspirant  by  Shulton 


Joe  Niagara, 
Station  KPOP, 
Los  Angeles,  Cat 


The  Nation's  Top  Disk  Jockeys  pose  a 
series  of  questions  to  see  if  you  know 
your  record  stars. 

1.  These  four  singers  are 
brothers.  Their  names  are 
Gene,  Vic,  Joe  and  Ed.  They 
hail  from  Maiden,  Mass.  Some 
of  their  million-record  sellers 
are:  "Undecided;  You,  You, 
You,  and  Rag  Mop. 


2.  He  has  a  strong,  vibrant 
masculine  voice.  His  first 
big  chance  was  with  Bob 
Hope's  stage  show  in  New 
York.  Gave  up  commer- 
cial art  for  recording. 
His  great,  big  record 
Because  Of  You  made 
him  a  star. 

3.  Their     names     are:  jt 
Bob     Glick,     Mike  Wa 
Kirkland,   John   Paine,         stan  z  BurnSi 
Richard  Foley,  but  they        Station  WINS, 
go  under  a  group  name.        New  York,  N.  Y. 
Their  new  hit  single  is 

Greenfields.  Their  album 
title    is    the    group's  name. 

4.  He  was  born  July  12th, 
1934,   in    Kilgore,  Texas. 
Graduated  college.  Read  mu- 
*         sic  and  played  piano  before 
6    JPW      he  was  three  years  old.  He 
X^gjflyil      won    numerous    awards  in- 
mnfi Tfi    Bk      ceding  the  Soviet  Union  Jn- 
H|    Km      ternational  Tchaikovsky  Piano 
EHIk  mm      competition  in  1958.  He  re- 
■M  mm      cords  for  RCA  Victor. 
Paul  Bartell,  _    „,  ,         _  , 

Station  WMIL,  5.  She  was  born  December 
Milwaukee,  Wis.  nth,  1944,  and  hails  from 

Atlanta,    Ga.    She    sang  on 
"Ozark  Jubilee"  and  guested  nn  many  tele- 
vision   shows.    Her  latest 
single  is  Sweet  Nothin's. 

6.  When    Dick    Clark  was 
an  anouncer  on  the  Paul 

Whiteman  show,  Paul  gave  0 
this  vocalist  his  name.  He 
plays    the    guitar,  fender 
bass  and  drums.  His  latest 
single  is  Wild  One. 

7.  He    was    born  April 
30th,  1927.  His  hobby  is 

fishing,  his  musical  interests  Tiny  Markle, 

are  songwriting,  and  singing.  san'oiego^Calif 
His  latest  single  is  Sink  The  ' 
Bismarck. 


UOfAOfl  if  11111/0/ 

ippxh  £q<t°3  "9 

lunqtjj  nnA 

JUOJ  SAOljtOAQ  ■£ 


Art  Roberts, 
„  Station  WGUE, 
\i  Akron,  Ohio 


on  time.  He  saw  two  black  eyes  looking  at 
him  as  if  he  were  crazy.  "Cor  luv  a  duck," 
a  high-pitched  unfamiliar  voice  came  from 
a  mouth  with  missing  front  teeth.  "I  fell 
off  me  motorbike." 

They'd  told  him  earlier,  they  said.  He 
mustn't  have  heard,  understood.  Eddie 
was  dead.  Oh,  God,  thought  Gene.  Let  me 
hurry  and  get  out  of  here.  From  the  side 
the  stranger  looked  just  like  .  .  .  Please, 
God,  let  me  get  out  of  here  soon.  It'll 
drive  me  batty.  .  .  . 

His  manager 

.  .  .  Patrick  Thompkins  opened  his  eyes 
to  find  himself  in  a  corner  bed  in  one  of 
St.  Martin's  wards.  All  he  could  think  of 
was  Eddie. 

Someday,  Patrick  had  figured,  the  world 
would  know  how  really  great  Eddie  Coch- 
ran was.  It  was  a  hectic  tour,  a  triumphant 
tour,  and  it  was  extended.  They'd  have 
ten  days  off  the  latter  part  of  April  and 
then  they'd  be  on  the  go  again.  By  the 
time  it  was  over,  Patrick  figured,  they'd 
have  played  nearly  every  town  in  England. 

But  how  Eddie  had  looked  forward  to 
those  ten  days.  "Home,"  he'd  sighed.  "I've 
got  to  get  home."  He  was  a  home  boy. 
Home  came  first.  He  called  his  mother 
constantly  .  .  .  spent  hundreds  of  dollars 
on  long  distance  ...  to  talk  about  the 
family  .  .  .  his  car  .  .  .  anything  that  had 
to  do  with  home.  And  when  he  wasn't 
by  the  telephone,  he  was  thinking  of  his 
family.  "I  mustn't  do  this  ...  or  that  .  .  . 
because  they  worry  when  things  get  into 
the  papers.  They  get  so  stretched  by  the 
time  the  papers  get  them  .  .  ." 

Patrick  thought  of  the  last  five  months; 
they'd  worked  together,  eaten  together, 
cut-up  together,  even  worn  each  other's 
clothes.  Eddie  had  given  him  the  fur-lined 
black  leather  jacket  from  his  own  closet. 
And  Eddie  had  been  wearing  Pat's  new 
black-and-white  leather  shoes  when — Pat- 
rick turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  .  .  . 

Aftermath 

Gene  came  back  to  London  on  Wednes- 
day night.  The  doctors  had  said  he'd  be 
able  to  travel,  go  home  to  California  for 
a  few  days  before  returning  for  the  sec- 
ond inquest  and  the  rest  of  the  tour.  Now, 
with  the  help  of  a  man  from  the  London 
agency,  he  was  packing.  Gene  held  up  a 
medallion.  "This  was  Eddie's.  .  .  ."  He 
found  another.  "And  this.  .  .  ."  He  dropped 
them  into  a  suitcase. 

Gene  went  into  the  bathroom.  His  col- 
larbone was  broken.  He  was  in  a  kind  of 
harness.  "First  time  I  ever  tried  to  shave 
with  my  right  hand,"  he  called  out. 

"You're  making  it,  aren't  you?" 

"Yeah,  I'm  making  it." 

Gene  began  to  run  the  razor  along  his 
face.  The  shaving  cream  .  .  .  everything 
reminded  him.  They  used  to  have  shaving 
cream  fights,  he  and  Eddie.  Eddie  always 
broke  up  the  dreary  traveling  routine 
with  mischief.  They'd  spray  each  other 
with  cream,  have  pillow  fights.  Maybe 
most  of  all  they'd  taken  to  the  British 
custom  of  the  guests  putting  their  shoes 
outside  the  door  of  their  hotel  rooms,  to 
be  polished  by  the  porter  during  the  night. 
He  and  Eddie  would  sneak  down  the  hall, 
mixing  up  all  the  shoes.  Then  they'd  slip 
back  to  their  room  and  listen  for  the 
swearing  that  followed  the  discovery! 

Gene  went  back  into  the  bedroom.  The 
man  from  the  agency  held  a  pair  of 
trousers.  "These  yours?" 

"Yes.  Eddie  gave  them  to  me." 

The  aide  picked  up  a  package.  "This?" 

"Eddie  got  that  for  his  mother  just  be- 
fore he  left.  He  was  his  mother's  boy.  He 
was  a  good  boy.  Still  growing  up.  He  still 
lived  with  his  family.  They'd  just  moved 
into  the  new  house  he'd  helped  them  buy 
in  Bueno  Park.  He — " 


Gene  left  for  America.  Mrs.  James 
Sheeley,  Sharon's  mother,  arrived  in  Bath. 
She'd  just  gotten  home  from  church  when 
the  telephone  rang  on  that  fatal  Sunday. 
It  was  Richy  Valens'  mother,  calling  about 
the  accident.  My  baby,  Mrs.  Sheeley 
thought.  My  poor  baby.  Sharon  and 
Eddie  had  called  from  England  only  a  few 
days  before.  They  were  so  excited,  so 
happy.  "We've  got  a  big  surprise  for 
you,"  they'd  laughed.  "We've  something 
wonderful  to  tell  you!" 

They're  married,  was  Sharon's  moth- 
er's first  thought.  Then,  "No  .  .  .  no, 
Sharon  wouldn't  do  that  to  her  mother. 
She'd  wait  until  they  got  home." 

Now  Eddie  was  dead,  her  daughter  seri- 
ously injured  in  a  hospital  thousands  of 
miles  away.  She  got  her  passport,  had 
the  necessary  vaccinations,  closed  the 
house,  all  by  Tuesday.  And  she  flew  to 
her  daughter's  bedside.  .  .  . 

Interview  with  Sharon 

.  .  .  "Come  into  the  office  for  a  moment." 
said  the  nurse  to  the  Modern  Screen  re- 
porter. She  disappeared  briefly,  then  re- 
turned with  another  nurse.  "Yes,  Sharon 
and  Mrs.  Sheeley  will  see  you.  Sharon's 
such  a  fine  girl.  She's  being  so  coura- 
geous." The  nurse  led  the  way  into  the 
ward  and  parted  the  pink  curtains. 

Sharon  lay,  so  very  still,  on  the  hospital 
bed.  She  smiled  a  small  smile.  "Hello." 

"I  didn't  know  whether  you'd  be  able 
to  see  the  press,"  said  the  Modern  Screen 
reporter. 

Sharon  sighed,  "I  hope  Modern  Screen 
and  everyone  will  understand.  I  can't  give 
a  story,  or  any  details  about  me  and  Ed- 
die. There  were  some  quotes  in  the  paper 
.  .  .  things  they  said  I  said  .  .  .  about  how 
we  were  planning  to  be  married  right 
away.  I  never  said  these  things. 

"I  can  only  say,  that  I'll  never  love  any- 
one the  way  I  loved  Eddie.  I  loved  him 
very,  very  much.  But  it's  something  I 
just  want  to  keep  in  my  heart  ...  a  very 
precious  love. 

"You  see,  he  felt  that  way,  too.  So 
that's  about  all  I  can  say.  I  guess  I  could 
sum  up  my  feelings  .  .  .  You're  gone  away, 
away  from  me.  .  .  .  Your  love  is  ...  a 
memory.  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  broke.  "I'm  sorry.  .  .  .  I  .  .  ." 
The  nurse  leaned  over  Sharon's  bed,  gently 
drying  her  patient's  tears  with  a  handker- 
chief. 

"I'm  sorry,  Sharon,"  said  the  reporter. 
"So  very  sorry." 

There  were  tears  in  Mrs.  Sheeley's  eyes, 
too.  "She's  had  such  a  great  loss,"  she 
said.  "But  in  time  ...  in  time,  she'll  re- 
build her  life.  She'll  be  here  for  several 
months.  Perhaps  by  the  time  we  go  back 
to  California.  .  .  ." 

At  the  London  Airport,  Phil  Everly  said. 
"I  guess  their  friends  always  figured  they 
would  marry.  That's  the  way  it  was  go- 
ing. .  .  .  Yes,  I  introduced  them.  Sharon's 
like  a  sister  to  me,  and  we  were  all  close 
to  Eddie.  We'll  all  miss  Eddie,  just  like 
we  miss  Buddy  Holly.  In  this  kind  of 
business,  your  friends  aren't  always  people 
you  see  every  day.  They're  people  you 
know  and  you've  toured  with.  .  .  ." 

Phil  looked  out  of  the  lounge  window, 
toward  the  large  jet  that  would  soon  be 
airborne  .  .  the  daily  Pan  Am  Flight  101. 
to  New  York.  Eddie's  ticket,  too,  had  read 
"Flight  101,"  the  ticket  he'd  looked  at  a 
hundred  times. 

An  airline  representative  appeared  in 
the  lounge  doorway.  "I  guess  it's  time  to 
go,"  said  Phil.  He  and  Don  and  the  Crick- 
ets headed  for  the  field — the  field  from 
which,  only  a  few  days  before,  another 
plane  had  taken  off.  The  plane  that  had 
taxied  down  the  runway,  soared  into  the 
sky  and  headed  out  across  the  Atlantic, 
taking  Eddie  home.  END 


7 


S3/A 


shave,  lady?. . .  doirt  do  it! 


Cream  hair  away  the  beautiful  way.  .  .with  new  babv-pink.  sweet-smelling 
NEET— you'll  never  again  be  embarrassed  with  unsightly  "razor  shadow"  (that 
faint  stubble  of  hair  left  on  razor-shaved  legs  and  underarms).  Gentle,  wonderful 
NEET  goes  down  deep  where  no  razor  can  reach  — actually  beauty-creams  the 
hair  away.  And  when  the  hair  finally  does  grow  in  again,  it  feels  softer,  silkier;  there's 
no  stubble  at  all!  So  next  time,  for  the  smoothest,  nicest  legs  in  town, 
why  not  try  NEET— you'll  never  want  to  shave  aga 


new  movies 

(Continued  from  page  6) 

children,  the  houses  they  already  live  in? 
That's  the  question  that  makes  it  all  so 
poignant. — Cinemascope,  Columbia. 


THE  SUBTERRANEANS 

George  Peopard 
,  .,.„,,.,  Leslie  Caron 

beatniks  in  Technicolor  Janice  Rule 

Roddy  McDowall 
Anne  Seymour 

■  These  are  the  'new  Bohemians,'  the  'beat- 
niks' who  live  and  surfer  loudly  in  San 
Francisco  and  cuddle  their  pain  like  teddy 
bears.  George  Peppard,  a  slightly  published 
writer  whose  mother  can't  understand  him 
and  has  contempt  for  whatever  he  stands  for, 
finally  leaves  home.  What  does  he  stand  for? 
George  Peppard  doesn't  know.  Truth?  Life? 
Freedom?  Yes.  He  is  against  all  middle-class 
hypocrisy  and  deadness;  the  trouble  is,  un- 
less the  world  is  perfect  he  doesn't  know  how 
to  live  in  it,  unless  the  world  he  hates  ap- 
proves of  him  he  can't  approve  of  himself. 
Well,  in  San  Francisco's  'Greenwich  Village' 
he  discovers  a  whole  bunch  of  charming, 
mixed-up  kids — Leslie  Caron,  who  seeks  so- 
lace in  love  but  is  afraid  to  love;  painter 
Janice  Rule,  who  hides  her  face  under  a  mask 
of  make-up  and,  out  of  fear,  hides  her  fear 
and  her  need  for  love;  Roddy  McDowell,  a 
pixie  who  loves  everyone  but  won't  get  in- 
volved with  anyone — these  and  many  more 
who  pride  themselves  on  always  speaking 
the  'truth'  but  are  left  bewildered  because 
their  truths  have  never  managed  to  set  them 
free.  Peppard  and  Caron  fall  in  love,  live 
together.  He  discovers  he  can't  write  when 
he's  with  her — and  runs  off  to  Janice  Rule 
and  booze.  Leslie  discovers  she  can't  live  with 
or  without  him — and  runs  off  to  her  psychia- 
trist. They  'work  out'  their  problems — but 
do  they?  Can  life  ever  be  beautiful  for 
beatniks?  Who  knows?  The  picture  is  novel 
and  interesting. — Cinemascope,  MGM. 


FROM  THE  TERRACE 

love  among  the 
upper  cl 


Paul  Newman 
Joanne  Woodward 
Ina  Balin 
Myrna  Loy 
Leon  Ames 


■  Home  from  the  wars,  Paul  Newman  finds 
life  in  Pennsylvania  just  the  way  it's  always 
been.  Mom  (Myrna  Loy)  is  an  alcoholic; 
Dad  (Leon  Ames)  still  doesn't  like  him,  but 
Dad's  willing  to  take  him  into  the  family 
business.  Paul  has  bigger  and  better  ideas. 
He  falls  for  society  girl  Joanne  Woodward, 
steals  her  from  her  psychiatrist  boyfriend 
and  marries  her  (Joanne's  family  accept  the 
marriage  because  Paul  is  such  a  determined 
go-getter).  Ambition  rules  his  life  and  suc- 
ceeds in  destroying  his  marriage.  Joanne, 
you  see,  gets  lonesome  because  Paul  is  for- 
ever making  field  trips  and  leaving  her  home 
for  months  at  a  time.  When  she  finally 
takes  up  with  her  old  boyfriend,  Paul  is  a 
study  in  husbandly  outrage.  Well,  Joanne 
gets  slicker  and  harder  and  Paul  keeps  mak- 
ing field  trips  (it's  the  only  way  he  can  rise 
in  his  Wall  Street  firm).  One  day,  on  one 
of  those  field  trips,  he  meets  Ina  Balin,  daugh- 
ter of  a  coal  mine  owner.  As  if  struck  by 
lightning  he  realizes  the  folly  of  his  former 
ways.  But  in  order  to  become  a  full  partner 
on  Wall  Street  he  can't  embarrass  his  su- 
periors by  getting  a  divorce.  What  will 
he  choose — love  or  money? — Cinemascope, 
14  20th-Fox. 


CRACK  IN  THE  MIRROR 

Orson  Welles 

crime  movie  with  a  twist        Juliette  Greco 
Bradford  Dillman 

■  In  this  corner  are  construction  workers 
Orson  Welles,  Bradford  Dillman  and  the  girl 
they  love,  Juliette  Greco.  Oh,  it's  a  shabby 
world  what  with  fat  Orson  sleeping  in  the 
kitchen  and  Juliette  sneaking  her  new  boy- 
friend (Bradford)  into  the  bedroom  where 
lie  her  two  children.  Only  thing  the  young 
lovers  can  think  of  to  do  is  murder  Orson, 
divide  his  remains  with  a  hacksaw  and  forget 
about  him.  Unfortunately,  Bradford  and 
Juliette  are  arrested  for  murder.  In  another 
corner  of  Paris  are  prominent  lawyer  Orson 
Welles,  his  assistant  Bradford  Dillman  and 
the  sophisticated  girl  they  love,  Juliette 
Greco.  You  follow?  Bradford  is  asked  to 
handle  the  first  Juliette's  case.  It  is  hard 
to  believe  that  he  doesn't  see  the  least  re- 
semblance between  her  and  the  Juliette  he 
loves.  Well,  so  it  goes  with  undercurrents  at 
work  to  make  the  second  Orson  suffer  the  very- 
same  fate  (at  least,  psychologically)  as  the 
first  Orson  did.  It's  a  very  tricky  idea — more 
trick  than  truth. — 20th-Fox. 


WILD  RIVER 

Montgomery  Clift 
Lee  Remick 

.  .  .  and  rising  passions  j0  Van  Fleet 

Albert  Salmi 
Frank  Overton 


■  This  story  is  set  in  the  1930's  when  the 
federal  government  created  the  Tennessee 
Valley  Authority.  Yearly  floods  have  been 
wreaking  havoc  on  families,  farms,  towns  in 
the  Valley  and  now  a  series  of  dams  are  to 
be  built.  All  up  and  down  the  Valley  only 
one  woman — Jo  Van  Fleet — refuses  to  sell 
her  property  to  the  government.  Now  eighty, 
she  lives  on  an  island ;  Negroes  work  her 
land  almost  as  slaves  had  done  a  century 
before,  and  they're  loyal  to  her.  Enter  Mont- 
gomery Clift,  government  man,  who  is  to 
persuade  Jo  Van  Fleet  to  sell.  Happens  she 
has  a  granddaughter  (Lee  Remick)  who  is 
a  young  widow  with  two  children.  Lee 
loves  her  grandmother,  loves  the  land  (but 
not  passionately),  loves  Montgomery  Clift 
(passionately).  Clift  discovers  that  persuad- 
ing Grandma  to  sell  is  not  easy,  but  getting 
involved  with  her  granddaughter  is  so  easy 
it  scares  him.  Lee  already  has  a  fiance  (Frank 
Overton)  who  is  willing  to  fight  for  her  in 
a  gentlemanly  way.  But  a  few  other  southern 
gentlemen  (particularly  Albert  Salmi)  are 
always  itching  for  violence  and  they  take  it 
upon  themselves  to  rescue  Lee  from  Clift. 
Well,  the  old  order  changeth  (Grandma  sells 
the  land)  and  the  new  order  comes  as  quite 
a  surprise  to  Monty. — Cinemascope,  20th- 
Fox. 


THE  CROWDED  SKY 

Dana  Andrews 
Rhonda  Fleming 

soap  opera  on  the  wing  John  Kerr 

Efrem  Zimbalist,  Jr. 

Anne  Francis 


■  Every  day  thousands  of  planes  are  in  the 
sky  trying  to  avoid  each  other.  You  think 
that's  a  problem?  You  ought  to  hear  the 
problems  of  the  people  in  those  planes !  Fly- 
ing a  Navy  jet  (he  already  cracked  one  up) 
is  Efrem  Zimbalist,  Jr.  Efrem's  wife,  Rhonda 
Fleming,  tricked  him  into  marriage  and  now 
she  plays  around  with  other  men.  Efrem's 
nervous  passenger  is  Troy  Donahue  who  is 
struggling  against  being  tricked  into  mar- 
riage. On  a  big  transport  coming  from  the 
opposite  direction  are  senior  pilot  Dana  An- 


drews, a  widower  who  can't  get  close  to  his 
son  and  who  hates  young  John  Kerr  who 
happens  to  be  his  co-pilot.  John  hates  Dana, 
loves  his  own  father  (a  famous  but  insane 
artist)  and  is  romantically  involved  with 
stewardess  Anne  Francis.  Anne  gaily  de- 
scribes herself  as  an  "ex-tramp"  and  would 
like  to  marry  John.  Also  on  board — a  doctor 
and  his  dying  wife,  a  'method'  actor  and  his 
patient  agent,  a  lonely  bachelor  and  a  girl 
(sitting  next  to  him)  he's  dying  to  talk  to, 
writer  Keenan  Wynn  who  is  making  passes 
at  Jean  Willes  whom  he  doesn't  recognize  as 
an  old  flame  he  put  out.  These  two  planes 
go  boom  and  not  a  minute  too  soon. — Tech- 
nicolor, Warners. 


PAY  OR  DIE 

when  the  Mafia  strikes 


Ernest  Borgnine 
Zohra  Lampert 
Al  Austin 
John  Duke 
Robert  Ellenstein 


■  If  you  were  around  New  York  at  the  turn 
of  the  century  you  would  have  heard  about 
police  lieutenant  Joseph  Petrosino.  His  beat 
was  Little  Italy;  his  meat  was  the  Mafia,  a 
criminal  organization  which — he  learned 
through  hard  experience — really  existed  and 
had  its  roots  in  the  old  country.  When  he 
went  back  to  Italy  for  important  evidence  he 
was  assassinated  in  the  streets  of  Palermo ; 
thus  ended  a  truly  heroic  career.  Ernest  Borg- 
nine, as  Petrosino,  gives  another  of  his 
warmly  human  performances.  The  immi- 
grant Italians  he  knew  distrusted  police  and 
would  rather  'pay'  than  'die'  (although  they 
often  did  both)  when  they  received  threaten- 
ing notes  signed  The  Black  Hand.  But  when 
a  neighborhood  baker,  father  of  Zohra  Lam- 
pert, is  threatened,  Zohra  (American  born 
and  studying  to  be  a  teacher)  persuades  him 
to  notify  the  police.  Borgnine  comes  into 
her  life  and  a  touching  love  story  unfolds. 
But  The  Black  Hand  doesn't  go  away.  Borg- 
nine organizes  a  special  Italian  Squad  of 
policemen  who  mix  among  the  people  of 
Little  Italy,  get  jobs  in  their  shops  hoping 
to  be  approached  by  members  of  the  mob. 
Approached  they  are ;  many  arrests  result, 
but  Borgnine  realizes  that  the  mob  is  more 
powerful  and  clever  than  any  local  organi- 
zation could  possibly  be.  That  knowledge 
takes  him  to  Italy.  This  is  the  story  of  a 
man  who,  with  death  always  breathing  down 
his  back,  went  on  loving,  dreaming  and  en- 
forcing the  law — an  inspiring  message  for 
a  plain  black  and  white  film. — Allied  Artists. 


RECOMMENDED  MOVIES: 

THE  FUGITIVE  KIND  (United  Artists):  For  Ten- 
nessee Williams,  the  'fugitive  kind'  (like  Marlon 
Brando)  are  those  few  rare  people  with  courage  who 
find  they  are  trapped  by  the  evil  in  the  world.  Anna 
Magnani,  bitter  and  love-starved,  is  married  to  sa- 
distic Victor  Jory;  Joanne  Woodward  is  defiantly  a 
tramp;  and  they,  with  the  others  in  this  southern 
town,  manage  to  destroy  Brando,  the  once-free  soul, 
the  "fugitive  kind." 

FIVE  BRANDED  WOMEN  (Paramount):  In  oc- 
cupied Yugoslavia,  five  girls  have  their  heads  shaved 
as  punishment  for  making  love  to  a  Nazi  officer. 
Barbara  Bel  Geddes  just  wants  to  have  a  baby, 
Sylvana  Mangano  hates  war,  wants  love — all  five 
had  their  reasons.  But  Van  Heflin,  the  guerrilla 
leader,  has  no  mercy  and  exiles  them.  Harry  Guar- 
dino,  Richard  Basehart,  and  Vera  Miles  are  also 
caught  up  in  this  tale  of  the  unhappy  fortunes  of  war. 
THE  ADVENTURES  OF  HUCKLEBERRY  FINN 
(MGM):  The  adventures  of  Huck  (Eddie  Hodges) 
are  many  and  wondrous.  They  begin  when  his  mean, 
alcoholic  father  (Neville  Brand)  orders  the  two  gentle 
women  with  whom  Huck  is  living  to  sell  their  slave 
Jim  (Archie  Moore).  Huck  and  Jim  escape  on  a  raft, 
but  before  their  journey  is  over,  run  into  'slickers' 
Tony  Randall  and  Mickey  O'Shaughnessy,  and  circus 
owner  Andy  Devine.  It's  all  good  fun! 


NEVER  BEFORE  ON  THE  SCREEN... 
THE  MIGHTIEST  OF  THEM  ALL! 


It  Floods  The  Screen  With  Entertainment  Wonders  Never  Before  Seen! 

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THE  TEMPTRESS  LYDIA! 

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THE  WAR  OF  THE  CHARIOTS!  | 

THE  COURT  OF  LOVERS! 

SEE! 

|    THE  CONTEST  OF  (HANTS! 

STEVE  REEVES  as  HERCULES 

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LUX-GALATEA  LUX  DE FRANCE  PRODUCTION  , EASTMAN  COLO R  sr  PATHE-DYAUSCOPE  distributed  by  WAR  N  ER  BROS. 


Soon  At  Theatres  Ail  Over  The  Land! 


It9s  here!  Hear  it! 


Brand-new  . . .  and  his  first  in  Stereo!  With  17  neyer-hefore- 
released  photos.  Also  in  Regular  L.P.  ©  HC:A\|CT0R© 


MODERN  SCREEN'S 

8  PAGE  GOSSIP  EXTRA 

by 

HOLLYWOOD'S 
GREATEST  COLUMNIST 


in  this  issue: 

Bobby  Darin's  Big  Night 

The  $125,000  SHARE 
Party 

"Surprise"  Wedding, 
"Surprise"  Divorces 


There  are  no  people  like  show  people  (left  to  right:  Frank  Sinatra, 
George  Burns,  Milton  Berle,  Dean  Martin,  Jack  Benny,  at  the  SHARE 
party)  when  it  comes  to  entertaining  to  raise  money  for  worthy  causes. 


Kim  was  in  the  hospital  ivhen  she  got  the  news  about  Aly  Khan. 


Too  much  trouble 
for  Kim 

Kim  Novak  has  been  much  too  sick.  In 
New  York  to  plug  her  Strangers  When  We 
Meet,  Kim  fell  ill  and  was  taken  to  Doctors 
Hospital  suffering  from  hepatitis  and  its  com- 
panion ailment,  yellow  jaundice — plus  being 
very  anemic  and  fatigued. 

If  this  weren't  enough,  Kim  was  deeply 


distressed  over  the  shockingly  sudden  death 
of  her  good  friend  Aly  Khan  in  a  car  crash  in 
France.  Just  the  day  previous  to  this  tragedy, 
Kim  had  received  a  bowl  of  lilies  of  the  valley 
from  Aly  and  a  get-well-soon  card. 

Despite  gossip  you  may  have  heard — Kim 
and  Aly's  'romance'  was  much  exaggerated. 
Or  if  there  had  been  a  flicker  at  one  time  it 
had  settled  into  a  genuine  friendship  on  both 
sides.  Kim  had  been  renting  Aly's  New  York 
apartment  during  her  stay  in  New  York  be- 
fore she  was  taken  to  the  hospital. 


Barbara  Rush  and  Dean  Mart  } 
were  having  a  wonderful  tinx 


PA  RTY  of 

the  month 


"Fit  for  a  King — and  a  Queen"  is  indeed 
the  perfect  description  of  the  beautiful  party 
given  by  Gloria  and  Jimmy  Stewart,  at 
their  home,  honoring  the  King  and  Queen  of 
Nepal. 

The  thing  that  made  this  party  so  outstand- 
ing is  that  everyone  present  had  a  ball — in- 
cluding Their  Majesties.  Sometimes  in  the 
past  when  Hollywood  has  entertained  Royal- 
ty, everyone  is  so  stiff  and  formal,  the  visi- 
tors don't  really  see  Hollywood  as  it  really 
is — gay,  colorful  and  exciting. 

Give  Jimmy  and  Gloria  a  lot  of  credit  for 
keeping  their  charming  affair  on  such  a  re- 
laxed and  happy  plane. 

The  decorations  were  an  eyeful.  The  tent 
where  dinner  was  served  was  festooned  in 
silk  streamers  ranging  in  color  from  the  palest 
pink  to  the  most  vivid  red  and  everywhere 
there  were  huge  bowls  of  peonies  in  the 
same  shades. 

Before  the  evening  was  half  over,  the  King 
endeared  himself  to  all  the  guests  by  saying, 
"This  is  the  best  time  we  have  had  during 
our  visit  to  your  country."  And,  he  added, 
he  wanted  everyone  he  had  met  to  look  on 
him  as  a  friend. 

The  toasts  were  both  formal  and  funny — 
Jimmy,  of  course,  leading  off  formally  by 
toasting  the  King  and  Queen,  and  the  King 
replying  by  toasting  President  Eisenhower. 


Nepal's  King  and  Queen  were  feted, 


Then  the  fun  started— Jack  Benny  and 
Bob  Hope  out-doing  themselves — and  when 
these  two  go  to  town,  it's  the  living  end. 
Even  so.  Bob  was  as  modest  and  surprised  as 
a  novice  when  the  King  asked  him  for  an 
autograph  for  his  children! 

When  the  music  started,  everyone  seemed 
to  dance  every  dance — except  poor  Gina 
LoMobrigida  who  was  at  our  table.  She 
had  hurt  her  leg  on  the  set  of  Go  Naked  in 
the  World  and  had  to  guietly  slip  off  her 
shoes  her  foot  was  in  such  pain. 

Surprisingly  present  was  Rex  Harrison 
who  makes  so  few  social  appearances,  es- 


pecially in  Hollywood,  that  he  is  always  nc 
worthy.  I  must  say  the  British  Mr.  Harri: 
put  himself  out  to  be  charming  and  when 
tries,  he's  an  expert. 

Dolores  Hart  arrived  with  the  Ga 
Coopers  and  their  daughter  Maria,  b 
girls  looking  like  covers  on  the  youth  ma 
zines.  As  for  Gary,  who  had  undergone  si 
ous  surgery  so  recently,  he  looked  great  c 
was  very  animated. 

Of  course,  the  dancing  stopped  wr  i 
Dinah  Shore  got  up  to  sing — Dinah's  gre 
est  admirers  are  the  people  of  her  own  woi 
show  business.  I  heard  that  the  Stewarts,  ; 
hosts,  had  hesitated  to  ask  Dinah  to  sing — ]  I 
when  the  invitation  came  from  the  King — s 
was  delighted  to  oblige.  George  Mor 
gomery,  always  beaming  when  'his  g 
is  singing,  also  whispered  to  me  that  h  i 
busy  cutting  his  newest  picture.  The  St 
Hoop. 

Two  ladies  in  very  bright  and  beauti  i 
gowns  were  Rosalind  Russell  and  Ai  i 
Sothern— Roz  telling  me  she  was  off  i 

Europe  soon  after  investigating  some  East< 
schools  for  her  son,  Lance.  Hard  to  belie 
he's  prep-school  age. 

John  Wayne  was  the  center  of  a  sf| 
group  telling  one  story  after  another  wh  • 
his  pretty  wife.  Pilar,  danced.  One  of  the  m 
admired  beauties  was  Capucine    the  ]  ij 
ropean  model  turned  actress,  who  makes  ] 
screen  debut  in  Song  Wifhouf  End,  the  Li  | 
story.  Others  I  saw  enjoying  a  wonder 
time  were  the  Ray  Millands,  Jerry  Wal  , 
Mervyn  LeRoys,  Henry  Hathaways,  Billy  Wi  < 
ers — truly  a  night  to  remember. 


Big  Night  for 
Bobby  Darin: 

If  Bobby  Darin  ever  wondered  how  he 
stands  with  the  Hollywood  people — he  knows 
now!  His  opening  at  the  Cloister  has  seldom 
been  equaled  by  a  long  established  star— 
and  never  by  a  newcomer. 

The  people  were  jammed  wall  to  wall  and 
the  tables  were  bumper  to  bumper.  Just 
everybody  was  there  and  what  a  hand  they 
gave  Bobby  who.  in  addition  to  his  fine  sing- 
ing, has  added  a  vibraphone  to  his  act,  and 
also  a  few  intricate  dance  steps. 

At  our  table  were  Shirley  MacLaine. 
Debbie  Reynolds  with  Harry  Karl  (these 
two  had  dined  duo  at  La  Rue,  as  we  had,  be- 
fore coming  to  the  Cloister),  Jimmy  McHugh, 
and  Barbara  Rush  and  Warren  Cowan,  our 
hosts.  Shirley  kept  us  all  laughing  with  stories 
about  her  little  daughter  Sachie,  who  at  that 
time  was  still  in  Japan  with  her  father  Steve 
Parker,  who  had  been  so  ill  wih  hepatitis. 

Edd  "Kookie"  Byrnes  dropped  by  to 
tell  us  how  happy  he  was  to  be  back  in  the 
good  graces  of  Warners  again,  even  if  the 
continued  writers'  strike  was  holding  up  pro- 
duction of  77  Sunset  Strip.  But  "Kookie"  had 
been  granted  permission  to  appear  on  one  of 
Pat  Boone's  TV  spectaculars  which  would 
help  out  greatly  in  the  moola  department. 
This  boy  had  suffered  rough  going  financially 


tor  months  while  he  was  on  suspension. 

My  boyfriend  Fabian  told  me  he  had 
lost  five  pounds  pushing  his  way  through 
to  the  table  to  say  hello — he's  always  so 
sweet  and  thoughtful  and  is  one  of  my  par- 
ticular favorites.  Fabian  was  with  June 
Blair.  Also  got  in  a  word  or  two  with 
Frankie  Avalon  and  Connie  Stevens 
(what  a  pretty  girl  she  is!) 

I  was  surprised  to  see  Keely  Smith.  I 
had  thought  she  was  on  her  way  to  Europe, 
but  she  said  she  got  as  far  as  New  York  and 
was  so  homesick  for  her  children,  she  came 
home.  Keely  was  with  Louis  Prima — and 
these  two  continue  to  deny  there's  any  prob- 
lem in  their  marriage.  They  left  by  boat  for 
Honolulu  two  days  later. 

Tuesday  Weld  was  a  model  of  deport- 
ment, and  quite  conservatively  dressed,  es- 
corted by  her  agent,  Dick  Clayton.  Ever  since 
Tuesday  has  been  working  with  Bing  Cros- 
by in  High  Time  she's  been  as  modest  as  a 
sunflower.  I  heard  she  has  a  big  crush  on 
Richard  Beymer.  who  is  in  the  same 
movie,  and  that  he  likes  his  girls  ladylike. 

Vic  Damone,  who  was  with  Pat  New- 
comb,  sat  close  enough  to  lean  over  and  say 
he  was  very  pleased  with  From  Hell  to 
Eternity  (with  David  Janssen  his  first 
movie  in  a  long  time.  He's  also  becoming 
quite  the  rancher — said  he  has  700  head  of 
cattle  on  his  ranch.  "I've  found  out  that 
ranching  is  as  profitable  as  singing,"  laughed 
Vic. 


I  told  him,  "But  don't  forget  it's  those  songs 
and  records  and  nightclub  dates  that  keep 
those  cows  in  fodder!" 

Of  course,  Gracie  Allen  and  George 
Burns  were  present,  George  glowing  with 
pride  over  the  success  of  his  protege,  Bobby. 
With  the  Burnses  were  their  daughter  Sandra 
and  her  bridegroom  Rod  Amateau — and  loud 
was  the  applause  from  this  table  all  evening. 

Jackie  Cooper,  who  had  also  been  at 
the  cocktail  party  given  by  the  Cowans,  told 
me  that  he  had  bought  an  old  scrapbook  in 
a  second-hand  store,  and  in  it  were  many 
articles  written  by  me  on  his  days  as  a  child 
star.  Golly,  how  these  youngsters  mature — 
Jackie  is  quite  the  man  of  the  world  these  days 
— and  nights. 

Nancy  Sinatra,  Jr.  and  her  favorite  sing- 
er Tommy  Sands,  as  much  in  love  as  ever 
if  not  more  so,  managed  to  tell  me  that 
Tommy's  mother,  Grace,  was  chaperoning 
them  to  Vancouver  for  Tommy's  nightclub  date 
there,  just  as  Nancy's  mother,  Nancy,  Sr.,  had 
done  the  duenna  bit  while  they  were  in 
Florida. 

And,  last  but  not  least,  when  Bobby  came 
on  for  his  show  and  the  room  lights  were 
dimmed,  he  gave  me  a  pleasant  surprise  by 
leaning  over  and  giving  me  a  hello  kiss  on 
the  cheek!  And  then  he  sang  I  Can't  Believe 
that  You're  in  Love  with  Me,  written  by  my 
escort — composer  Jimmy  McHugh.  Now  there's 
a  tactful  young  man — as  tactful  as  he's 
talented. 


Tuesday,  with,  agent  Dick  Clayton. 


Louella  and  Shirley  MacLaine  enthused  over  Bobby's  act. 


The  highlight  of  the  gala  evening  at  the  Cloister  for 
Debbie  Reynolds  ivas  meeting  Harry  Karl's  daughter. 


Keely  Smith  and  Fabi- 
an "adored"  each  other. 


Asa  Maynor  was  so  happy  to 
see  "Kookie"  so  happy  again. 


19 


Sheila  MacRae  was  overwhelmed  when  $1,000  was  paid 
for  a  song  from  Gordon.  Gordon  was  -pretty  pleased,  too. 


Charity  Party 
in  Orbit: 

$125,000  was  the  fantastic  amount  raised 
by  the  hard-working  girls  who  each  year 
stage  the  famed  SHARE  costume  parties — 
every  cent  of  it  going  to  the  care  of  men- 
tally retarded  children.  And  this  proves  that 
when  it  comes  to  pouring  their  hearts  and 
cash  into  a  worthy  cause — there  are  no  peo- 
ple like  show  people! 

Yes,  there  was  an  unfortunate  incident  be- 
tween John  Wayne  and  Frank  Sinatra, 
followed  by  a  fight  in  the  parking  lot  outside 
the  Moulin  Rouge,  which  grabbed  all  the 
headlines. 

To  me,  this  is  a  shame  compared  to  the 
line  accomplishment  of  all  the  people  who 
worked  so  hard — including  the  tempestuous 
Mr.  Sinatra — to  make  a  success  of  this  worth- 
while evening. 

For  the  fifth  year  the  great  show  was 
emceed  by  Dean  Martin  whose  pretty 
Jeanne  serves  on  the  committee  of  SHARE 
under  president  Gloria  Cahn  (Mrs.  Sammy  ). 

The  entire  Moulin  Rouge  was  jammed  with 
colorful  Western  characters  who  paid  $100 
to  sit  down  and  eat  and  watch  the  enter- 
tainment and  auction  of  furs  and  jewels  put 
on  by  Sinatra.  Milton  Berle  and  Sam- 
my Davis,  Jr.  With  tongue  in  cheek  I  report 
that  Frankie  was  done  up  as  an  'Indian.'  As 
for  the  show — in  addition  to  those  I've  men- 
tioned. Jack  Benny,  George  Burns  and 
that  talented  Frenchman,  Yves  Montand. 
kept  the  place  jumping. 

I'd  never  call  John  Wayne  a  rival  for 
Bobby  Darin  or  even  Perry  Como— but 
good  sport  that  he  is,  the  Duke  warbled  a  duel 
with  Guy  Madison  that  had  us  in  stitches. 

Jack  Warner  paid  $1,000  to  hear  Gordon 
MacRae  sing — and,  of  course,  Dinah 
Shore  obliged  as  always. 

Who  was  there?  Just  everybody.  Rocky  and 
Gary  Cooper  with  their  lovely  Maria;  the 
David  Janssens;  Lucille  Ball,  looking 
happy  for  the  first  time  since  her  divorce; 
and  all  the  top  producers  and  directors. 

_  20 


George  Montgomery  was  so  proud  of 
his  lovely  songstress  Dinah  Shore. 


Lucille  Ball  looked  so  happy—for  the  first  lime 
since  her  divorce— Milton  Berle  had  to  kiss  her. 


I  nominate  for 
STARDOM 


Connie  Stevens 

At  twenty-one,  she's  conquered  two  fields — 
records  and  TV,  and  she's  on  her  way  to  a 
big  movie  career  at  Warner  Bros,  with  a  con- 
tract, and  her  first  starring  role  opposite  Troy 
Donahue  in  Parrish. 

Like  the  words  of  the  song,  she's  /ive-feef- 
rwo  wirh  eyes  of  biue  and  packs  more  talent 
than  is  fair  for  one  girl.  Connie's  pop-single 
record  Sixteen  Reasons  has  moved  up  to  No. 
3  spot  on  Billboard's  best-selling  platters  and 
is  No.  1  best  seller  in  Honolulu  where  she's 
the  rage  as  Cricket  in  TV's  Hawaiian  Eye. 

She  was  born  on  the  8th  day  of  the  8th 
month  (August  8th)  1938,  and  her  real  name 
is  Concetta  Ann  Ingolia  (a  blending  of 
Italian,  Irish  and  Mohican  Indian  ancestry). 
But  she's  never  been  known  as  anything  but 
Connie  Stevens  because  her  musician  father 


changed  his  name  to  Teddy  Stevens  before 
she  was  born.  Her  parents  are  divorced  and 
her  mother  is  re-married,  living  in  Brooklyn. 

Connie,  who  was  always  musical,  attended 
public  schools  in  Brooklyn  and  New  Jersey. 
As  president  of  her  freshman  class  in  high 
school,  she  holds  the  distinction  of  being  the 
first  girl  ever  to  be  impeached  from  a  student 
body  office  in  the  school!  She  prevailed  on 
the  radio  appreciation  class  to  tune  in  the 
final  game  of  the  World  Series  (1955 — the 
year  Brooklyn  won!)  and  the  ensuing  bed- 
lam and  breakage  was  so  bad  Connie  was 
removed  as  the  freshmen's  guiding  light. 

At  fifteen,  she  came  to  Los  Angeles  with  ^ 
her  father,  entering  Sacred  Heart  Academy. 
After  winning  several  school  contests,  she 
transferred  to  Hollywood  Professional  school, 
which  led  to  jobs  with  singing  groups,  little 
theater  appearances,  TV  and  then  big,  big, 
big  in  records. 

Like  Kim  Novak,  her  favorite  color  is 
lavender.  She  dances,  ice  skates  and  rides. 
Her  favorite  foods  are  peanut  butter,  ba- 
nanas, lasagna,  and  Chop  Suey — and  if  this 
doesn't  prove  how  young  she  is.  nothing  will. 


"Surprise"  Wedding: 

Marriage,  if  you  please,  struck  like  light- 
ning when  Russ  Tamblyn,  twenty-five, 
just  out  of  the  Army,  flew  up  to  Las  Vegas 
and  within  twenty-four  hours,  married  English 
show-girl  Elizabeth  Kempton,  whom  he  hasn't 
seen  in  two  years! 

Now  I  call  that  fast  work,  even  for  Holly- 
wood. 

The  only  people  who  didn't  seem  to  think 
there  was  anything  unusual  in  this  were  the 
bride  and  groom.  When  queried  at  the  Dunes 
Hotel  where  the  brand  new  Mrs.  Tamblyn 
has  been  appearing  in  La  Parisienne,  one  of 
the  girly-girly  revues,  both  seemed  surprised 
over  the  'fuss.' 

Said  Russ,  "Elizabeth  and  I  met  and  worked 
together  two  years  ago  in  London  while 
making  Tom  Thumb.  We  fell  in  love.  But  as 
you  know  I  had  to  come  back  to  the  USA 
and  go  into  the  service — and  it  didn't  seem 
right  then  to  ask  Elizabeth  to  marry  me.  But 


Bette  Davis'  filing  from  Gary 
Merrill  tvas  so  out  of  the  blue. 


"Surprise"  Divorces: 

Bette  Davis'  filing  from  Gary  Merrill 

was  so  out  of  the  blue,  she  was  surprised 
heiseW.  Although  rifting  for  sometime,  Bette 
had  just  written  to  her  lawyer  in  Maine  about 
signing  a  divorce  petition.  Then,  after  the 
story  broke  that  she  and  Gary  had  staged  a 
big  tiff  and  were  separated  in  California,  Bette 
found  out  that  her  divorce  action  had  been 
filed  two  days  previous  in  Maine!  Many  di- 
vorcing couples  surprise  Hollywood — but  this 
is  the  first  case  on  record  when  the  divorcee 
herself  had  been  surprised! 

Almost  as  much  of  a  gasp  was  the  sudden- 


the  minute  I  saw  her  again — I  knew  she  was 
the  only  girl — so  we  were  married." 

Puzzlingly,  the  bride  tells  a  slightly  varied 
story.  "I  came  over  here  to  work  in  the  revue 
although  I  am  really  a  legitimate  stage 
actress.  I  was  very  lonely,  knowing  so  few 
people.  Then,  I  read  in  the  papers  where 
Russ  was  back  in  Hollywood  and  I  called 
him  long  distance  to  say  'hello'  and  tell  him 
I  was  working  in  Vegas.  He  seemed  glad  and 
flew  up  to  see  me  and  well  I  guess  we 
both  realized  it  had  been  love  all  along  and 
got  married.  No,  I  won't  work  now  I'm  Russ's 
wife.  I  want  to  make  him  happy — he's  had 
divorce  in  his  life  and  it  will  be  a  full 
time  job  making  him  happy  this  time." 

Russ's  former  wife,  Venetia  Steven- 
son, who  kept  on  with  her  career  after 
their  marriage,  had  no  comment.  But  dur- 
ing their  married  life  she  was  quoted  as 
saying,  "Russ  is  so  proud  of  my  career — 
he  says  he  wouldn't  be  interested  in  a  girl 
who  didn't  have  a  life  of  her  own." 

All  very  confusing. 


ness  of  the  ending  of  the  long-time  marriage 
of  Joan  Fontaine  and  Collier  Young. 
Collier  told  me,  "Joan  and  I  knew  six  months 
ago  when  we  were  in  Florida  that  our  mar- 
riage was  at  an  end.  But  we  hadn't  planned 
to  admit  it  until  after  our  little  daughter 
Martita  had  appeared  in  her  school  play. 

"But  our  plans  went  for  nothing  when  an 
agent  in  Paris  told  the  press  that  Joan  would 
be  unable  to  accept  a  certain  screen  role  be- 
cause of  'marital  troubles — and  an  upcoming 
divorce.'  I'm  sorry  our  marriage  had  to  end 
this  way."  Collier  said  sincerely,  "Joan  is  a 
fine  woman." 

When  redheaded  model  Suzy  Parker  ar- 


Neivlyweds  Liz  and  Russ  Tamblyn. 


Suzy  Parker  and  French  writer  Pierre 
de  la  Salle  simply  denied  it  at  first. 


rived  in  New  York  from  Paris,  with  her  chubby 
six-months-old  baby  in  her  arms,  she  actually 
snapped  at  reporters  who  asked  if  her  mar- 
riage to  French  journalist  and  photographer, 
Pierre  de  la  Salle,  was  shaky.  "Of  course 
nor,"  said  Suzy  icily. 

Then  what  does  the  gal  do  but  appear  on 
Jack  Paar's  TV  show  and  pan  the  stuffings 
out  of  France  and  Frenchmen!  Even  then,  she 
admitted  no  trouble  in  her  marriage  until,  on 
the  eve  of  departing  for  the  West  Coast  and 
a  huddle  with  Jerry  Wald  about  fiefurn  to 
Peyton  Place.  Suzy  was  again  queried  by  re- 
porters. "Of  course,  I'm  getting  a  divorce," 
she  replied,  as  if  it  should  be  obvious! 


Joan  Fontaine  and  Collier  Young  are 
sorry  their  marriage  is  at  an  end. 


Tribute  to 
Aly  Khan 

Rita  Hayworth  was  on  the  golf  links 
with  Jim  Hill  when  the  word  of  the  death  of 
Aly  Khan  flashed  into  the  teletypes  of  the 
world.  The  whole  world  knew  about  the 
passing  of  the  fascinating  former  playboy 
Prince,  turned  statesman  in  later  years,  before 
the  girl  whose  glamorous  marriage  to  him  in 
1948  was  one  of  the  'big  stories'  romantically 
of  the  decade. 

As  Rita's  good  friend,  I  covered  it — the  only 
reporter  invited  to  the  international  marriage 
of  a  movie  queen  and  a  real-life  prince. 

To  know  Aly  was  to  be  completely  charmed 
by  him.  It  was  easy  to  understand  why  they 
said  that  the  many  women  who  loved  him 
during  his  short  life  (forty -nine)  never  really 
fell  out  of  love  with  him. 


His  and  Rita's  troubles  stemmed  from  the 
fact  that  she,  an  American  woman,  could 
not  understand  Aly's  completely  continental 
way  of  complete  freedom  following  marriage. 

Rita's  director  husband,  Jim  Hill,  was  the 
first  to  learn  of  Aly's  passing  and  he  was 
consideration  itself  in  breaking  the  news  to 
her  and  to  little  Princess  Yasmin,  daughter  of 
Rita  and  Aly. 

Jim  called  the  little  girl  at  home  and  told 
her  not  to  turn  on  the  radio — that  it  might 
explode  as  it  was  out  of  order.  In  this  way 
he  hoped  to  stop  the  shock  to  the  child  of 
learning  of  the  death  in  such  a  disastrous 
manner,  of  the  father  she  adored,  and  who 
adored  his  only  daughter. 

He  and  Rita  rushed  home  as  fast  as  they 
could  to  tell  little  Yasmin  and  to  give  her  all 
the  comfort  they  could.  I  would  like  to  add 
my  own  tribute  to  Aly — the  world  is  a  less 
bright  and  happy  place  because  of  the  loss 
of  the  charming  Prince. 


This  was  194-9,  when  Rita  Hayworth 
and  Aly  awaited  the  birth  of  Yasmin. 


Who  keeps  younger  than  Ginger 
Rogers  ( here  with  Robert  Eaton)  ? 


It's  a  big  gamble  as  to  whether  Hope 
Lange  will  see  Stephen  Boyd  abroad. 


Jim  "Maverick" 
Garner  is  at  peace 
again. 


Little  Nancy  Sinatra  almost  stole  the  show  from  oldtimers 
like  Joey  Bishop,  her  dad,  Sammy  Davis,  Jr.,  when  on  TV. 


PERSONAL 
OPINIONS 


How  do  you  like  the  way  that  little 
Nancy  Sinatra,  Jr.  almost  stole  her  old 
man's  TV  show?  Both  Frank  and  one  Tom- 
my Sands  better  watch  this  singing-dancing 
'competition.'  .  .  . 

With  Hope  Lange  heading  for  Europe- 
it  raises  the  bright  question  as  to  whether 
she  will— or  won't— see  Stephen  Boyd' 
who  just  happens  to  be  in  Ireland  and  Eng- 
land making  The  Big  Gamble.  .  .  . 

You  can  kid  about  'the  good,  clean  life' — 
but  who  keeps  younger  looking  than  Ginger 
Rogers  who  does  not  smoke,  drink,  nor 
stay  up  late,  and  who  is  still  a  whiz  on  the 
tennis  courts  and  golf  links.  .  .  . 

Thank  heavens  most  of  the  'rebel  cowboys' 
are  happily  back  in  the  saddle — or  at  least 
have  smoked  the  pipe  of  peace  with  their 
studios— including  Jim  "Maverick"  Gar- 
ner whose  walkout  threatened  serious  legal 
battles  until  peace  was  declared — also  Jack 
Kelly.  And,  of  course,  Edd  "Kookie" 
Byrnes  is  back  in  the  parking  lot  of  77 
Sunset  Strip. 

Maybe  I'm  wrong — but  with  Debbie 
Reynolds  completely  inexperienced  in  the 
field  of  Television  into  which  she's  jumping 
this  fall  with  her  first  Spectacular — I  think 
she's  making  a  mistake  with  all  this  rowing 
with  ABC.  When  there  was  an  argument  over 
whether  she  should  have  top  stars  or  new- 
comers on  her  first  show,  she  said,  "Is  this 
my  show,  or  someone  else's?".  .  .  . 

Along  with  Lolifa,  another  book  that  should 
never  reach  the  screen,  is  the  slimy  Chapman 
Report,  as  much  as  I  hate  to  say  this  about 
the  producing  team  of  my  good  friends  Darryl 
Zanuck  and  his  son,  Richard.  .  .  . 


continued 


Anne  Baxter  and  new  husband  Ran- 
dolph Gait  are  living  in  Australia. 


There's  a  new  Tuesday  on  view 
■pretty  and  very  well-groomed 


Susan  Kohner's  got  everything— and 
that  even  includes  George  Hamilton! 


A  reader  suggests  that  Lana  Turner  make  Louella  doesn't  really  neg 
her  daughter  Cheryl  feel  that  she  is  needed.        led  Bradford  Dillman. 


LETTER 
BOX 


I  too  was  in  a  corrective  home  for  girls 
when  I  was  seventeen,  writes  Rosa,  Detroit, 
who  asks  her  last  name  not  be  used,  I  feel 
deeply  sorry  for  Cheryl  Crane  and  also  for 
Lana  Turner.  Through  your  column  in 
Modern  Screen  may  I  offer  one  word  of  ad- 
vice: Let  Cheryl's  mother  and  father  make 
her  feel  that  she  is  needed  in  their  busy  lives. 
Today,  I  am  a  happy  wife  and  mother  of 
two  teen-age  girls  and,  remembering  my  own 
troubled  time  in  my  youth,  I  try  to  give  them 
responsibilities.  Young  people  want  so  much 
to  serve  and  help  those  they  love.  Thank 
you,  Rosa,  for  a  letter  that  has  both  heart 
and  common  sense.  .  .  . 

From  Sydney,  Australia,  Mrs.  Leona 
Cooperman  airmails:  It's  a  kick  having  a  real 
movie  sfar,  Anne  Baxter,  living  in  our 
midst — if  you  can  caJJ  J  80  miJes  our  of  town 
"m  om  midst.'  As  Mrs.  Randolph  Gait,  Anne 
and  her  husband  frequently  drive  to  town 
and  she  is  so  gracious  to  everyone.  This  is  a 
real  love  story,  believe  me.  .  .  . 

Haven't  you  ever  heard  of  Brad  Dillman? 
snaps  Theodora  Tibbs,  Vancouver.  The  way 


you  ignore  him  and  never  mention  him,  I'd 
just  like  to  enlighten  you  that  he  is  the  finest 
young  actor  on  the  screen.  Aren't  you  a  little 
sarcastic,  Teddy?  I  think  your  favorite  is  good, 
too,  and  I  always  print  news  about  him  when 
I  get  it.  .  .  . 

Morton  Weissman,  Chicago,  writes:  J  was 
shocked  beyond  belief  to  hear  William  Wyier 
say  that  "Ben-Hur"  will  not  be  permitted  to 
be  shown  in  Egypt  because  the  heroine,  Haya 
Harareet,  is  Jewish.  And  that  the  Egyptians 
would  slash  the  screen  before  looking  at  a 
Jewish  performer.  Is  it  possible  that  this 
world  we  live  in  is  this  dark?  Unfortunately, 
what  Wyler  said  about  Ben-Hur  is  true. 
Shocking,  isn't  it.  .  .  ? 

Of  aiJ  fhe  girfs  on  the  screen  I  most  envy 
Susan  Kohner,  says  Peggy  Peppers  (cute 
name),  Atlanta.  She  has  beauty,  talent — 
and  George  Hamilton! 

Connie  Van  Doitt,  Milwaukee,  has  heard 
disturbing  rumors  about  her  particular  fa- 
vorite male  star:  /  heard  he  is  drinking  so 
much  fhaf  cameramen  have  a  hard  time  dis- 
guising his  bloated  face  and  almost-shut 
eyes,  she  writes.  Please  say  this  isn't  true. 
The  star  you  are  so  worried  about,  Connie, 
does  do  a  bit  of  nipping.  But  seldom  when 
he  is  working  on  a  picture — so  I  doubt  the 
cameraman  trouble.  Not  true  that  your  pet  is 
in  AA.  .  .  . 

It  may  surprise  you  to  learn  that  one  of  the 


most  intelligent  letters  I  ever  received  from  c 
movie  sfar  came  from  Tuesday  Weld,  say: 
Johanna  Jones,  Seattle.  7  wrore  Tuesday  tha 
I  was  about  her  age  and  had  some  problem 
and  she  wrote  me  in  her  own  handwritm 
the  nicest  letter.  Why  don't  you  stop  takin 
pot  shots  at  Tuesday?  Haven't  been  doing  an- 
sniping  at  Tuesday  lately,  my  little  friend 
She's  being  a  model  of  deportment!  .  .  . 

Angela  Dixon,  Dallas,  asks:  How  man> 
of  the  glamour  girls  wear  wigs  in  thei 
movies?  How  much  do  these  wigs  cost?  D< 
fhey  ever  give  old  ones  to  fans?  Motion  pic 
ture  lights  are  hard  on  hair — but  not  nearh 
as  many  actresses  wear  wigs  as  you  ma\ 
think.  A  good  wig,  of  real  hair,  sells  for  abou 
S200.  No,  they  aren't  passed  on  to  fans  be 
cause  of  sanitary  laws.  .  .  . 

It  would  not  be  fair  to  end  this  departmen 
without  mentioning  the  big  amount  of  fan  let 
ters  welcoming  Elvis  Presley  back  tc 
movies.  But  since  most  of  you  said  the  sam> 
thing — "The  King  is  home" — I  haven't  printec 
your  accolades  individually.  But  I  get  the 
point — you  are  delighted  the  one  and  onh 
Elvis  is  back. 

That's  all  for  now.  See  you  next  month. 


24 


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City  Statp 

"There's  nothing 

like  a 
Coppertone  tan" 


Co-Starring  in  William  Castle's 

"13  GHOSTS" 

A  Columbia  Pictures  Release 


"I  LOVE  the  rich,  deep  tan  that  I  get  with 
Coppertone",  says  Jo  Morrow.  "And  it  keeps 
my  skin  soft  and  smooth." 

Like  other  Hollywood  stars,  this  ravishing  red 
head  won't  go  out  in  the  sun  without  Coppertone. 
For  Coppertone  gives  the  fastest  tan  possible  .  .  . 
with  maximum  sunburn  protection ! 

Florida  sun  tests  prove  it !  Coppertone's  special 
sunscreen  guarantees  it !  Shuts  out  rays  that  burn 
and  coarsen  skin;  lets  in  ultraviolet  rays  that 
activate  coloring  matter  deep  within  your  skin 
...  so  it  tans  naturally  from  the  inside  out ! 

Coppertone  contains  no  artificial  tanning  agent 
to  stain  your  skin  or  clothes.  No  alcohol.  It's 
lanolized  and  moisturized  to  prevent  drying  and 
peeling.  Stays  on  your  skin  longer,  so  protects 
even  after  swimming ! 


Tan  by  Coppertone 
Swimsuit  by  Catal 


m 


COPPERTONE 

for  fastest  tan  , 


Don't  be  a  Palefo 


4- 

Coppertone  is  a  Reg.  T.  M.  ol  Plough,  Inc. 


COPPERTONE 


Another  quality  product 
of  Plough,  Inc.  Also 
available  in  Canada. 


America's  No.l 
Suntan 

Only  suntan  product 
available  in  Lotion, 
Oil,  Cream,  Spray, 
Shade  (for  children 
and  supersensitive 
skin).  Also  Noskote. 
Save-buy  large  sizes. 

See  DICK  CLARK  on 
"American  Bandstand" 
ABC  Television  Network 


Chinese  actress  ('The  World  of  Suzie  Wong")  Jackie  Chan  never 
made  a  secret  out  of  her  dearest  wish  that  one  day  she  would  be  Mrs. 
Armstrong-Jones.  Night  after  night  in  her  tight-fitting  dress  or  slit- 
skirts  revealing  her  well-shaped  legs,  she  waited  patiently  in  his  studio 
while  he  worked  in  his  darkroom  until  the  early  hours  of  the  morning. 
He  took  many  startling  pictures  of  her  which  attracted  big  people  in 
show  business.  Thus  he  helped  her  career,  but  for  Jackie  her  love  for 
Tony  was  always  the  biggest  thing  in  her  life.  During  the  last  years, 
Tony  and  Jackie  were  constantly  together.  Rarely  talking,  they  would 
sit  for  hours  over  candle-lit  meals  in  his  studio.  In  January  last  year,  when  Jackie  returned 
from  a  trip  to  New  York,  he  was  at  the  airport  to  greet  her  with  a  long  kiss.  Two  months 
later,  24-year-old  Jackie  and  Tony  went  winter-sporting  to- 
gether in  Switzerland.  Later  they  spent  some  happy  days  at 
Venice,  favorite  haunt  of  lovers.  But  within  weeks  of  their 
return,  Tony  was  seen  less  and  less  with  Jackie,  and  more  and 
more  in  the  Princess  Margaret  set.  But  when  Margaret  invited 
Tony  to  see  'West  Side  Story"  for  the  first  time  (she'd  seen 
it  four  times  before),  when  they  met  at  exclusive  house  parties 
at  Lady  Devonshire's  London  Home,  when  they  had  their  first 
week  end  together  at  the  home  of  Tony's  closest  friend,  Jeremy 
Fry,  at  Bath,  when  he  took  the  official  photos  of  Margaret  at 
Windsor  last  August,  and  when  their  love  ripened  during  his 
stay  with  the  Royal  Family  at  Balmoral  in  October  last  year, 
and  in  Sandringham  after  Christmas — Tony  kept  it  a  secret 

from  Jackie.  Once  the  secret  of  his  engagement  to 
the  Princess  was  out,  reporters  tried  in  vain  to 
get  Jackie's  story.  She  loved  him  too  much  to  spill 
the  beans.  Now,  however,  in  an  exclusive  private 
talk  with  us  in  London,  Jackie  has  agreed,  for  the 
first  time,  to  tell  her  own  story — 

(Continued  on  page  59) 


mm 


Liz  makes 


to  his 


own 
children 


■  Elizabeth  and  Eddie  bustled 
about  their  swank  seven-room 
Hotel  Park  Lane  apartment,  in 
New  York  City. 

Liz'  sons.  Mike  and  Chris, 
were  in  school.  Liza  was  having 
her  afternoon  nap.  and  the 
Fishers  were  sorting  their  things 


for  a  trip  out  to  the  West  Coast. 

Liz  held  up  a  divine  white 
chiffon  dress,  cut  in  her  favorite 
V-neckline.  tiny  at  the  waist, 
bouffant  in  the  skirt  and  just 
knee  length.  Eddie  provided 
vocal  accompaniment  .  .  .  "i 
married  (Continued  on  page  33) 


^  Suddenly  I  knew  how  much  I  missed  little  Todd  and  Carrie, 
and  I  knew,  despite  all  the  fun  and  frolic  of  their  lives, 
that  somewhere,  way  down  deep,  they  were  missing  me  too...  " 


■  Not  long  ago  we  received  a  letter 
from  a  reader  about  Elvis  Presley. 
The  letter  worried  us,  and  contin- 
ues to  worry  us. 

We  get  thousands  of  letters 
about  Elvis,  many  of  them  from 
people  who  have  been  helped  by 
him  and  who  want  to  share  their 
experience  with  us,  many  from 
people  who  praise  Elvis  as  a  Chris- 
tian who  has  never  for  a  moment 
lost  sight  of  his  religion,  or  lost 
touch  with  his  God.  And  that  is 
the  Elvis  we've  known,  and  be- 
lieved in  and  still  believe  in. 

But  this  {Continued  on  page  80) 


HAVE  I  FAILED  AS 
A  TRUE  CHRISTIAN  ? 


From  bathtubs  to  double  beds> 
from  homosexuality  to  incest^ 
here  is  a  shocking  report  on 
the  sordid  new  movies  being 
shown  to  unsuspecting  adults 
&  innocent  little  children* 


■  it's  Saturday  afternoon, 
at  the  movies  and  the 
theater  is  packed  with 
teen-agers.  Some  of  them 
are  necking  in  the  balcony; 
some  of  them  have  already 
eaten  enough  popcorn  to 
ruin  their  appetite  for  any- 


thing else,  but  all  of  them 
have  at  least  one  eye  on 
the  giant  screen.  .  .  . 
The  movie  has  a  harm- 
less title  (it  sounds  like  a 
musical);  the  movie  stars 
three  of  the  most  respect- 
ed youngsters  in  Holly- 


wood (for  parents  who 
care,  but  don't  read  movie 
ads,  their  names  are  a 
guarantee  of  wholesome- 
ness).  The  movie  unfolds. 
What's  it  about?  It's  about! 
a  nice  girl  of  sixteen  who 
(Continued  on  page  73) 


who  is 
the  most 
beautiful 
blonde  mystery 
in  the 
world 


•  •  •  •  •  •  • 


MABGO!!! 


»  In  the  fanciest  restaurants  and  night- 
clubs, at  the  most  glamorous  Hollywood  and 
New  York  parties,  in  rooms  filled  with  gor- 
geous women,  one  young  woman  today 
stands  out  from  all  the  others — the  brightest 
diamond  in  a  glittering  tiara.  When  she 
enters  a  room,  even  the  most  jaded  eyes  turn 
and  blink  twice  at  this  flawless  face  and  fig- 
ure.,  perfectly    (Continued   on   pagf  ~6) 


J3 


he  just 


didn't  wan 


..the  heartbreaking  story  of  Efrem  Zimbalist's  rejected  wife 


"But  I  don't  want  a  divorce!" 

There  was  a  touch  of  hysteria 
in  Steffi  Zimbalist's  voice.  She 
had  tried  to  control  herself 
through  most  of  the  conver- 


sation, but  when  Efrem  finally 
brought  it  into  the  open,  when 
he  finally  said  those  awful 
words,  "I  think  it  would  be 
better  if  we  get  a  divorce  this 


time,"  she  could  no  longei 
hold  in  her  emotions. 

Efrem  just  sat  there  in  the 
huge  wing  chair,  toying  ab- 
sently with  his  pipe. 


There  was  a  pained  expres- 
)n  in  his  eyes. 
'Please,  Steffi." 
She  met  his  gaze.  She  forced 
rself  to  become  calm.  She 


repeated  her  words,  "But  I 
don't  want  a  divorce.  I  still 
love  you.  I  love  you  very 
much." 

"I  know,  Steffi,  I  know,"  he 


murmured  gently.  "But  I  know, 
and  you  know  too,  if  you'll 
be  honest  enough  to  admit  it, 
that  the  love  we  had  had  for 
each  (Continued  on  page  58) 


41 


Nancy  Sinatra  and  Tommy  Sands: 


Two  kids  from  broken  homes, 
Two  lovers  in  the  warm  California  night. 
Two  human  beings  longing  for  each  other's  arms 
but  caught  in 


TK@  t$H&d®ff  tenasn 
off  a  lonug,  l®ng 
@ngag(gmenft 


He  was  afraid  to  say  what 
was  on  his  mind,  embarrassed  and 
ashamed.  Maybe  he  would— later.  He  bit  into  the  last 
of  the  tart  green  rind  of  his  watermelon,  and  he  looked  up  at  her, 
sitting  by  the  small  campfire  in  the  moonlight,  and  a 
shiver  went  through  him.  It  was  hard, 
being  in  love  and  waiting  . .  .  holding  back  his  loyeTHe  loved  looking 

at  her  and,  silently,  his  emotion  visible  in  his  eyes,  he 
stared.  For  she  was  beautiful,  no  matter  what  others  said.  Some 

people  called  Nancy  plain ;  others  said  she  was  or- 
dinary-looking. They  were  all  crazy.  She  was  lovely,  with  a  madonna 

look,  soft  dark  hair,  beautiful  brown  eyes.  And 
now  the  firelight  dimpled  her  cheeks  and  she  smiled  that  slow  smile 
that  shattered  his  heart.  He  tossed  the  hard  watermelon  rind 

on  the  dying  campfire,  and  it  sizzled  and  sput- 
tered. "Tommy,"  Nancy  said,  "you  {Continued  on  next  page) 


We  w©rk9w@  play,  we  dream... 

buft  HaotWnag  kelps.  Tkese  ajre  ftKcs 
longest  six  montiks  ©ff  ®ur  lives! 


shouldn't  do  that.  The  fire's  so  pretty. 
You'll  make  it  go  out." 

"The  fire  isn't  nearly  so  pretty  as  you, 
baby,"  Tommy  said. 

She  smiled.  She  sat  on  her  knees,  roast- 
ing a  frankfurter  stuck  on  a  long  black 
twig.  "Let  me  roast  you  a  marshmallow," 
she  offered. 


Tommy  nodded  his  head.  "Nope.  I'm 
full." 

"You  eat  so  fast,  Tommy,"  she  said, 
half -smiling,  and  her  smile  made  him  melt. 

"I  know,"  he  gulped.  "Maybe  .  .  .  may- 
be it's  because  I  love  you  so  much." 

"Wha-a-a-t?" 

"They  say  we  (Continued  on  page  74) 


how  could  I  te 


'asmin  her  daddy  was  dead..  .  When  Jim  Hill  came  to 

her  on  the  golf  course,  his  face 
colorless,  his  high  forehead 
wrinkled,  a  stunned  expression  on 
his  face,  she  wondered  if  he 
were  sick. 

"Darling,"  he  told  her,  "please 
come  with  me  to  the  clubhouse." 
"What's, the  matter?"  Rita 
Hayworth  asked  her  husband 
tenderly,  lifting  a  hand  under  her 
hair  to  brush  it  away  from  her 
damp  neck. 
He  didn't  answer  her.  He  took 
her  hand  and  the  two  of  them 
walked  to  the  lounge  of  the  club- 
house where  they  sat  on  a  pat- 
terned settee  in  the  pine-paneled 
room.  He  looked  into  her 
searching  eyes  and,  holding 
both  her  hands  in  his  lap,  he 
mumbled,  "I  ...  I  don't  know 
how  to  tell  you  this,  but  they've 
just  given  me  the  news  on  the 
telephone."  His  voice  was  flat, 
empty,  as  though  he  were  in  a 
daze,  unwilling  to  believe  what  he 
was  about  to  say. 
"Aly  .  .  .  Aly  Khan,"  he  began, 
"is  dead.  Killed  in  a  car  crash  in 

Paris  " 

She  looked  at  him  unbelievingly 
for  a  moment,  as  if  he  had 
gone  (Continued  on  page  63) 


■  When  Brandon  woke 
up,  the  sun  was  shining 
brightly,  the  morning 
looked  like  Paradise. 
When  his  eyes  were  real- 
ly open,  he  remembered 
with  a  burst  of  pleasure 
that  he  would  be  seeing 
Carol  for  dinner,  a  ro- 
mantic dinner  by  candle- 
light, he  hoped. 

He  reached  for  the 
room  phone  and  waited 
for  the  operator  to  pick 
up  his  call. 

"Your  number,  sir?" 

"Miss  Lynley's  room, 
please,"  he  asked  hap- 
pily. 

When  Carol  answered, 
her  voice  hit  him  hard. 
He  tried  to  compose  him- 
self, cleared  his  throat 
several  times. 

After  they'd  said  good 
morning,  he  tried  to 
(Continued  on  page  71) 


0) 


a? 


m 


■  "Once,"  Dick  Clark 
said  to  us  the  other 
day,  "long  before  last 
November,  when  all 
hell  broke  loose  for 
me,  I  told  my  wife 
Barbara  a  story  about 
a  vanilla  bean.  We 


Dick  Clark's 
own  story 
of  how  his 
wife  helped 
him  through 
the  dark  days 
of  his 
trial 


were  both  talking 
about  certain  things 
we  remembered  from 
our  childhoods.  And  I 
started  talking  about 
Susan.  Susie  was  the 
landlady's  daughter, 
who  lived  in  this  same 


apartment  house 
where  we  lived.  She 
was  a  beautiful  girl, 
a  real  knockout,  a 
couple  of  years  older 
than  I  was,  and  a  cou- 
ple of  feet  taller,  (Con- 
tinued on  page  65) 


n  m  UDMtTS  GIFTS 


T5*  res;  Payola,  No:  C 


gen. 


i 


si 


A**>2 
t 

■ 


-2  » 


CD    {  1 


*  3 


■Saw  ci4Mnprn_ 


ees 


Every  young  girl  dreams 

about  the  man  who  some  day  wil 

march  down  the  aisle 

with  her  to  become  her 

one  and  only  Mister. 

But  Sandra  Dee  does  more 

than  dream  .  .  .  she  has  definite 

plans  for  her  husband, 

more  definite  and  different 

than  you  ever  dreamed! 

Here,  for  the  first  time, 
are  Sandy's  ideas  about  her 
husband  in  Sandy's  own  words. 


1.  He'll  never  see  me  in  hair 
curlers. 

2.  He'll  be  the  real,  absolute 
boss  of  the  family. 

3-  He's  going  to  be  older  than 
me  by  at  least  seven  or  eight 
years,  and  probably  more. 

4.  He'll  be  impulsive,  doing  ex- 
citing things  without  any 
warning. 

5-  I  want  to  be  able  to  respect 
him,  especially  his  brain. 

6.  He  likes  classical  and  good 
popular  music,  not  rock  and 
roll. 

7.  He'll  want  me  to  keep  on 
working  in  movies.  My  work 
means  too  much  to  me,  and 
I  think  I  can  be  both  married 
and  an  actress. 

8.  I'll  ask  his  mother  what  he 
likes  to  eat,  and  then  fix  it 
for  him. 

9.  His  hands  will  'intrigue'  me; 
I  can't  explain  it  any  better 
than  that. 

10.  I  want  him  to  give  me  advice 
...  I  need  it. 

11.  He'll  bring  home  flowers; 
even  if  it's  just  one  flower, 
I'll  know  it's  for  me. 

12.  He  won't  be  stuffy  or  con- 
ceited. 

13.  I  hope  he'll  be  able  to  for- 
give and  forget  when  I  do 
something  awful. 

14.  He'll  want  to  travel  a  lot. 

15.  I  hope  he  doesn't  insist  on 
my  doing  all  the  housework! 

16.  He'll  be  patient  with  my 
crazy  fads. 

17.  He  won't  let  me  argue  with 
him.  (Continued  on  page  65) 


■  it  was  eleven-thirt 
in  the  morning,  136£ 
Benedict  Canyor 
Drive  in  West  Los  An 
geles,  the  home  o 
starlet  Stella  Steven; 
(the  fabulous  Appas 
sionata  von  Climax  o 
"Li'lAbner").  Stella'; 
five-year-old  son  And; 
was  playing  outsidf 
in  the  yard,  wher 
suddenly,  as  Stelk 
describes  it,  "I  hearc 
a  man's  voice  and  i 


In  cold  terror 

Stella  Stevens  ran  to  the  telephone 
Operator,  quickly, 
give  me  the  police... 


ffly««»son«j 


ar  drive  off.  I  ran 
i  Lit  the  front  door 
nd  saw  the  car  pull- 
ig  out.  There  were 
//o  men  in  the  front 
ieat  and  Andy  was 
between   them.  I 
creamed  and  terror 
i  lied  my  heart  and  I 
mn  frantically  to  the 
I  hone  and  called  the 
olice:  'My  son  has 
j  een  kidnapped.' 
1  hen  I  cried." 
i  Sergeant  T.  S.  Jo- 


noski,  of  the  Los  An- 
geles police,  realized 
that  this  was  a  seri- 
ous accusation.  Kid- 
napping, after  all, 
carries  a  death  pen- 
alty. And  somewhere, 
it  seemed  to  him,  he 
had  read  about  this 
woman,  this  child. 

A  glance  at  the 
records  showed  him 
that  this  wasn't  the 
first  time  Andy  had 
been  "kidnapped." 


Only  the  year  before 
the  same  thing  had 
happened,  almost  to 
the  last  detail  .  .  . 
with  one  difference 
.  .  .  the  year  before 
the  "kidnapper"  had 
been  Stella  herself. 

He  found  the  facts 
easMy.  They  were  a 
matter  of  public  rec- 
ord. Stella  had  mar- 
ried Herman  Ste- 
phens in  1954  when 
she  was  fifteen  and 


he  was  seventeen. 
They  had  convinced 
themselves  that  they 
were  very  much  in 
love  and  eloped.  By 
1956  they  were  di- 
vorced. There  was  no 
difficulty  about  a 
property  settlement 
for  neither  of  them 
owned  much  of  any- 
thing. But  they  did 
have  a  baby,  and  they 
both  loved  the  baby. 
(Cont.  on  page  78) 


He  Just  Didn't  Want  Me  Anymore 


(Continued  from  page  41) 

other  was  not  enough.  We  gave  it  every 
chance.  You  know  that.  We  tried  to  close 
our  eyes  to  everything  that  was  wrong  for 
months  before  we  separated  last  Christmas. 
Maybe  we  didn't  stay  apart  long  enough 
to  think  things  out  carefully.  Maybe  if  we 
tried  to  work  things  out  away  from  one 
another  instead  of  rushing  back  together 
within  a  week  .  .  .  we  would  have  known 
how  slim  our  chances  were  then." 

"But  you  wanted  to  come  back,"  she 
protested.  "You've  told  everyone  you've 
felt  like  a  new  man  since  we  reconciled. 
You.  .  .  ."  her  voice  trailed  off. 

"Yes.  I  know.  It  was  my  mistake.  It  was 
terribly  unfair  to  you.  I  just  wanted  to  give 
it  another  chance." 

She  didn't  want  to  ask.  But  she  couldn't 
help  herself. 

"There's  someone  else,  isn't  there?" 

He  looked  startled  for  a  moment  and 
then  regained  his  composure. 

"No  one  person  has  come  between  us, 
Steffi.  Not  really.  It's  just— well,  that  we 
have  been  living  in  separate  worlds  and 
neither  of  us  could  ever  have  been  happy 
in  the  other's." 

"But  there  is  someone  else,"  she  per- 
sisted. "It's  that  red-haired  girl,  isn't  it?" 

Ef  said  nothing. 

He  lit  his  pipe  and  stared  into  space  for 
a  few  minutes  that  seemed  like  an  eternity 
to  Steffi. 

Then  she  broke  the  suffocating  silence 
which  filled  the  room. 

"You  can  have  a  divorce,  since  that  is 
what  you  want.  It  isn't  what  I  want — but 
I  won't  stand  in  your  way." 

"Thank  you,  Steffi." 

"When  will  you  be  leaving?" 

"Over  the  week  end — if  that  is  satis- 
factory to  you." 

"And  the  children?"  She  was  thinking 
of  Efrem's  son  Skipper  and  daughter 
Nancy.  She  would  keep  them  if  he  wanted 
her  to — for  the  time  being  at  least.  It  was 
up  to  him. 

"I  think  it  would  be  better  for  everyone 
if  I  sent  them  back  east  to  their  mother's 
family  until  I'm  resettled.  I  know  it  means 
disrupting  their  classes — but  there  will  be 
less  confusion  in  every  other  way.  I'll 
make  the  reservations  for  Saturday." 

"And  you?  Back  to  the  motel?" 

"Back  to  the  motel." 

They  talked  a  little  longer  that  night — 
Efrem  and  Stephanie.  They  didn't  rehash 
their  problems.  There  was  no  longer  any 
sense  to  that.  They  talked  about  their 
plans  and  the  provisions  for  little  Stephanie 
Jr.  and  a  dozen  other  details  that  are 
among  the  remains  when  a  marriage  has 
died. 

No  reconciliation 

On  the  following  Saturday,  Efrem  drove 
his  son  and  daughter  to  the  airport.  He 
didn't  have  to  explain  much  to  them.  They 
were  teen-agers— bright  for  their  age.  They 
understood.  Particularly  Nancy  who  was 
sixteen — and  growing  so  quickly  into  wom- 
anhood. He  looked  hard  at  Nancy  and 
thought  of  her  mother:  How  much  alike 
they  were — and  how  in  a  few  years,  Nancy 
would  be  so  much  like  Emily  when  they 
had  first  met.  Nancy  was  only  six  when 
Emily  died.  "I  suppose,"  he  thought  to 
himself,  "it  was  even  harder  on  her  than 
it  was  on  me." 

He  put  his  children  on  the  plane,  then 
drove  slowly  along  the  Sepulveda  Freeway 
into  the  San  Fernando  Valley — and  back  to 
his  ranch. 

Stephanie  wasn't  home. 

Perhaps  she  thought  it  might  be  better 
58  that  way. 


He  packed  the  remainder  of  his  things, 
and  piled  them  into  the  car. 

He  drove  down  Ventura  Boulevard  back 
to  the  motel,  and  then  remembering  he 
had  hardly  had  anything  to  eat  he  stopped 
at  a  roadside  drive-in.  He  felt  as  though 
he  was  having  a  recurring  dream.  That  he 
had  been  through  these  identical  motions 
before,  and  then  he  realized  that  he  had. 
Last  December.  When  he  and  Stephanie 
separated  for  the  first  time. 

This  time  he  knew  there  would  be  no 
reconciliation. 

He  remembered  Steffi's  face  when  they 
said  good-bye. 

Drawn  and  white.  So  very  white. 


Rossano  Brazzi  says  it  in  Count 
Your  Blessings:  "Always  smile  at 
women.  If  they  are  pretty  it 
gives  you  pleasure.  If  they  aren't, 
it  gives  them  pleasure." 

Earl  Wilson 
in  the  Neiv  York  Post 


And  he  remembered  it  the  first  time  he 
ever  saw  it.  Radiant  and  half  black  with 
boot-polish  stains. 

It  was  just  before  Christmas,  in  1955,  and 
a  friend  of  his,  Bill  Windom,  took  him 
along  to  drop  in  on  a  couple  of  girls  he 
knew.  Steffi  was  in  an  old  pair  of  blue 
jeans,  shining  a  pair  of  riding  boots  and 
she  didn't  stop  polishing  even  after  they 
were  introduced. 

"What  are  you  shining,  your  boots — or 
your  face?"  he  asked.  "And  why?" 

"I'm  going  riding  tomorrow  and  I  want 
to  look  nice  when  I  fall  off  my  horse,"  she 
laughed. 

They'd  joked  pleasantly  like  that  for  a 
while  and  then  he  had  to  go.  He  was  due 
at  a  party — and  he  was  late  already. 

"Good  luck,"  he  called  out  as  he  went 
to  the  door,  and  bet  her  half-a-dollar  she 
wouldn't  fall. 

The  next  day  he  found  a  message  telling 
him  some  lady  phoned  to  say  he  owed 
her  $.50. 

He  took  the  shiny  half-dollar  and  a  gift- 
wrapped  bottle  of  pain  killer  back  to  the 
apartment  on  49th  Street. 

He  had  intended  to  stay  just  long 
enough  to  pay  his  debt. 

He  stayed  all  afternoon— and  convinced 
her  she  was  well  enough  to  go  out  to  din- 
ner, especially  since  he  knew  of  a  restau- 
rant with  very  very  soft  cushions. 

He  was  in  the  midst  of  rehearsals  for 
Fallen  Angels — which  didn't  give  him 
much  time  for  courting.  But  Steffi  was  very 
easy  to  court.  If  he  was  two  or  three  hours 
late  because  of  delays — she  understood  and 
was  patient. 

He  was  attracted  to  her  because  she  was 
fun.  Because  she  knew  how  to  make  him 
laugh.  He  hadn't  really  looked  at  women 
for  five  years — not  since  Emily  died. 

He  didn't  think  he  ever  wanted  to  get 
married  again. 

But  as  he  continued  seeing  Steffi,  he 
wondered  if  perhaps  he  should. 

He  was  honest. 

He  told  her  about  Emily.  About  the 
year  after  her  death  when  he  shut  himself 
away  from  the  world  in  Connecticut. 
About  the  three  years  after  that  when  he 
worked  for  his  father  at  the  Curtis  In- 
stitute of  Music  in  Philadelphia  and  kept 
to  himself — and  away  from  the  theater. 
He  told  her  why  he  couldn't  face  the 
stage,  how  the  heart  for  acting  had  gone 
out  of  him  because  acting  had  brought  him 


and  Emily  together  and  was  something ' 
they  both  loved. 

He  even  told  about  the  gold  signet  ring  , 
he  always  wore.  The  one  trimmed  witr 
blue -bells  winding  around  his  initials.  She 
had  given  it  to  him  because  Blue-bell  wa; 
his  pet  name. 

"I'll  always  wear  it,"  he  told  Steffi.  Anc 
she  nodded. 

He  introduced  her  to  his  children — anc 
was  pleased  they  all  got  on  so  well  to- 
gether. The  kids  needed  a  mother — some- 
one to  take  care  of  them  and  guide  them 
Particularly  since  he  was  returning  to  e 
full-time  career. 

With  each  day  of  their  relationship  he 
grew  to  care  for  Steffi  even  more.  It  wasn'\ 
exactly  the  way  it  had  been  before — bu 
he  didn't  believe  that  anything  like  tha 
could  happen  twice  in  the  same  way. 

He  knew,  however,  that  he  was  happ\ 
with  her.  For  the  first  time  in  five  years 
his  heart  was  light  again. 

Two  months  after  they  met,  they  were 
married. 

They  seemed  ideally  suited  to  one  an- 
other, with  their  almost  identical  back- 
grounds and  worldly  experience.  Steffi  wa^ 
the  daughter  of  a  Washington  diplomat 
and  educated  in  Boston  and  in  Europe,  a; 
was  Efrem.  She  was  domestic  and  artistic 
loved  the  theater  and  living  in  Connecti- 
cut much  the  same  as  Ef  did.  And  shi 
loved  children. 

They  rented  a  home  in  Connecticut  anc 
were  blissfully  happy. 

Steffi  became  pregnant.  Another  blessing  [ 

Then  late  in  1956,  Ef  was  sent  to  Holly- 
wood to  test  for  a  role  in  Sayonara.  H 
didn't  get  the  part  and  returned  east,  onb 
to  get  a  call  notifying  him  that  the  studic 
wanted  him  for  Bombers  B-52,  and  the}  j 
were  interested  in  throwing  in  a  seven- 
year  contract  too. 

Efrem  hesitated  about  the  contract. 

He  knew  Steffi  loved  it  in  the  east-  | 
where  she  could  ride  to  her  heart's  conten 
and  be  with  her  friends  and  family. 

But  he  also  knew  he  couldn't  throv 
away  the  opportunity.  TV  was  movinj-  - 
west,  and  in  spite  of  his  success  in  Fallei 
Angels,  there  just  weren't  that  many  stagi 
jobs  available  for  someone  who  wash '  ( 
considered  a  "name  star."  Movies  woul<  - 
make  him  a  name,  he  figured.  Then  hi 
could  return  to  Broadway  on  his  terms 

"Besides,"  he  told  Steffi,  "if  I  last  ou 
there  more  than  a  year  we  could  have  ou:-  j 
own  ranch  and  all  the  horses  you  want  , 
If  I'm  a  flop,  we  can  always  move  bad  " 
east." 

He  flew  to  the  Coast  on  December  17 
A  week  later,  in  time  for  Christmas,  she 

joined  him. 

They  took  a  small  house,  at  first,  whih- 

they  waited  to  see  what  happened. 

Everything  seemed  perfect 

When  Warners  picked  up  his  option  anc 
cast  him  in  77  Sunset  Strip,  they  bough  . 
the  ranch  in  the  Valley,  and  as  a  specia  y 
present  Ef  bought  Steffi  the  most  beauti  | 
ful  horse  she  had  ever  seen. 

They  joined  the  Tennis  Club  and  Th 
Hunt  Club  and  made  "hundreds  of  friends. 

Everything  seemed  perfect. 

Then  slowly  the  marriage  began  to  fal  j 
apart. 

At  first  it  was  just  little  things.  Steffi  ] 
despite  her  "hundreds  of  friends"  is  sh:  a 
and  retiring  among  large  groups  of  stran 
gers  and  she  began  to  hate  the  large  din 
ners  and  parties  that  Efrem  was  constant!; 
invited  to.  She  went  along  with  him  a  1$ 
the  beginning.  And  sat  in  the  corner- 
while  across  the  room,  debonair  and  self 
assured,  Efrem  was  the  center  of  attrac 
tion.  Even  when  she  remained  at  his  side 
she  was  largely  ignored  by  the  ladies  com  [ 
peting  for  his  attention. 

After  one  particularly  upsetting  eve  : 
ning,  they  had  it  out. 


I  hate  those  parties.  I  feel  like  part 
the  wall-paper.  I  can't  understand  why 
I  have  to  go." 

"It's  part  of  the  business,  Steffi,  you 
iow  that." 

"It's  part  of  your  business — as  far  as 
hp  concerned  I  never  want  to  go  to  an- 
her  again." 

"If  that's  the  way  you  feel.  .  .  ." 
That  was  the  way  she  felt  but  she 
dn't  think  he'd  take  her  so  literally. 
He  would  receive  an  invitation,  accept 
not  mention  it  to  his  wife,  appear  at 
e  affair  and  with  an  air  of  old  world 
llantry,  never  explain  to  a  soul  why  he 
as  alone. 

Perhaps  Steffi  could  have  adjusted  to 
ing  alone  on  these  evenings  if  she  wasn't 
Dne  so  much  the  rest  of  the  time. 
"When  Ef  became  involved  in  a  TV 
ries,  his  hours  at  work  became  long  and 
-egular.  He'd  leave  the  house  at  5:00 
6:00  am.,  often  return  exhausted  at 
:00  or  11:00  pjn. 

When  Roger  Smith  was  hospitalized  last 
mmer,  he  had  to  do  double  duty.  When 
was  home,  he  was  tired  and  irritable. 
And  Steffi  was  bored — and  irritable. 
"I  want  to  get  away  from  this  all,"  she 
otested  one  day.  "Why  can't  we  go  back 
st  for  a  while?  When  are  we  going  to 
ke  that  honeymoon  in  Europe  we've 
en  talking  about  for  three  years?" 
'Steffi,  you  know  I'd  like  a  vacation  too. 
aybe  when  we  wind  up  the  series  for 
e  season.  Maybe  when  I  have  a  few 

rjeks  off  we  can  go  to  New  York." 
But  when  he  had  a  few  weeks  off  last 
nter,  he  went  into  The  Crowded  Sky 

'stead. 

'  And  Steffi,  perhaps  as  the  result  of  ten- 
ons and  unhappiness  and  just  not  caring 
ough  to  think  about  her  health,  went 
:o  the  hospital  suffering  from  a  severe 
se  of  hepatitis. 
["When  she  was  well  enough  to  be  re- 
vised, she  talked  about  Connecticut  again. 
I  it  there  was  still  no  time. 


There  were  more  arguments.  And  with 
each  argument  a  little  bit  of  their  marriage 
died. 

They  both  tried  hard  to  prevent  a  final 
collapse.  Each  in  his  own  way. 

"The  romantic  bit" 

On  November  30,  Steffi  held  a  great  big 
surprise  birthday  party  for  her  husband — 
the  kind  of  party  he  liked  best. 

She  was  the  perfect  hostess  in  every 
way.  She  mixed  with  her  guests,  made 
sure  that  no  one  was  alone,  that  everyone 
was  having  a  wonderful  time.  And  if  she 
herself  was  having  less  than  a  wonderful 
time,  she  didn't  show  it.  Not  even  when  it 
was  over. 

Ef ,  on  his  part,  tried  to  come  home  early, 
arranged  to  stay  home  a  little  more  often. 

Maybe  both  tried  too  hard. 

On  December  21st  he  moved  out — for 
the  first  time. 

"This  is  it,"  he  said.  "I  don't  see  how 
we  can  get  back  together  again.  It's  just 
too  taut  a  situation  to  five  through." 

During  the  week  that  followed,  Steffi  on 
the  advice  of  friends,  consulted  a  psy- 
chiatrist and  the  same  friends  then  turned 
to  Efrem  and  convinced  him  it  wasn't  good 
for  either  of  them  to  be  apart. 

On  January  1,  they  resolved  to  spend 
the  New  Year  and  the  new  decade  under 
the  same  roof. 

Steffi  sent  for  her  father  in  Washington 
whom  she  hadn't  seen  for  three  years. 
Efrem  called  the  children  and  told  them 
to  return  to  California  and  finish  the 
school  term — now  that  Christmas  vacation 
was  over. 

On  their  fourth  anniversary  they  did 
the  town.  Candlelight  dinner,  dancing, 
"the  romantic  bit." 

They  tried  to  convince  themselves  that 
they  were  happy  again. 

But  they  weren't. 

And  it  was  shortly  after  their  fourth 
wedding  anniversary  that  Efrem  met  the 
sparkling  red-haired  young  actress. 


Maybe  if  his  reconciliation  had  been 
working  out  he  wouldn't  have  given  her 
a  second  thought. 

But  after  that  first  meeting  he  found  he 
was  thinking  a  great  deal  of  her. 

There  was  something  about  her  that  re- 
minded him  of  that  first  girl  he  had  loved 
a  long,  long  time  ago. 

He  saw  her  again  at  the  studio.  And  he 
wanted  to  see  her  still  again. 

They  had  coffee  together. 

It  was  innocent.  It  was  meant  to  be 
harmless.  She  knew  he  was  married.  They 
had  no  intentions  of  becoming  emotionally 
involved.  They  said  as  much. 

And  yet  they  knew  it  was  too  late  for 
words. 

Just  as  it  had  been  too  late  to  save  his 
marriage. 

And  he  had  to  face  Steffi  and  tell  her 
he  wanted  his  freedom. 

On  the  night  he  left  his  ranch  and  his 
home,  he  didn't  want  to  see  anyone. 

He  decided  on  a  Nevada  divorce.  He 
would  use  his  six  weeks  vacation  to  estab- 
lish residence.  It  would  be  easier  that  way. 
A  fast  clean  break — rather  than  dragging 
it  out  for  the  year  that  it  takes  a  divorce 
to  become  final  in  California. 

Steffi  would  get  custody  of  their  daugh- 
ter. He  knew  that.  That  was  the  hardest 
part  of  it — and  it  would  be  harder  on  him 
still  if  Steffi  decided  to  move  back  east — as 
he  presumed  she  would.  Yet  it  would  be 
better  than  having  his  littlest  girl  grow 
up  in  a  home  filled  with  tensions  and 
discord. 

After  the  divorce — well,  he'd  let  the 
future  take  care  of  itself.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Variety  reported  that  he  told  friends 
Kipp  Hamilton,  the  pretty  red-head  that 
appeared  opposite  Audie  Murphy  in  The 
Unforgiven,  will  be  his  next  wife.  And  he 
has  neither  confirmed  nor  denied  the  re- 
port. He  won't  talk  of  his  future  plans 
until  after  he's  free.  END 
Efrem  will  star,  for  Warner  Bros.,  in  The 
Crowded  Sky  and  Gown  Of  Glory. 


'rincess  Margaret,  Her  Husband,  And  the  Girl  He  Left  Behind 

'ontinued  from  page  28) 


Here  then,  is  the  report  of  Modern 
{  reen's  London  correspondent,  Beverly 
jpt,  direct  from  an  interview  in  Jackie 
i  ;an's  apartment: 

•]  Since  the  evening  of  February  27,  when 
Wfe  Queen  Mother  announced  the  engage - 
:nt  of  Princess  Margaret  to  Tony  Arm- 
-j  ong- Jones,  Jackie  Chan  has  lived  in  an 
i  welcomed  spotlight  ...  as  "The  girl  he 
t  t  behind."  Each  night,  as  she  appears 
|   stage  at  the  Prince  of  Wales  Theater, 
^|;rious  eyes  are  focused  on  her.  As  pretty 
H  mese  girls  in  brightly  colored  cheong- 
■j-ns  dance  seductively  in  the  arms  of 
4  efree  young  sailors,  it  is  Tsai  Chin,  the 
j  r  of  The  World  of  Suzie  Wong,  who 
-J  minates  the  dialogue.  But  somehow,  the 
-!  Dple  in  the  audience  search  the  scene 
j   Jackie  Chan.  And  whisper,  "Which  one 
.  ihe?"  And  nudge  one  another,  "There 

.  over  there  in  the  corner.  .  .  ." 
j   That's  her.   Her  hair's  different  She 
j  ;  ars  it  up  in  all  the  photographs.  .  .  ." 

'So  that's  .  .  .  ?"  Even  when  the  words 
j  '■  unspoken,  the  inference  is  there  .  .  . 
2  hat's  the  girl  he  left  behind.  .  .  ." 

Before  February  27th,  Jackie  Chan  had 
Jien  known  as  an  impish,  friendly,  dedi- 
;i«d  young  actress — known,  that  is,  to 
&~  friends — other  aspiring  young  actors 
J  actresses,  students,  the  gay  social  things 
;  London's  Chelsea  set.  And  her  name  was 
liliar  to  West  End  casting  directors,  as 
j  :h  a  dancer  and  an  actress.  London's 
;ss  and  publicists  knew  her,  too  .  .  .  but 


primarily  as  a  friend  of  one  of  their  col- 
leagues. "She  was  Tony's  girl,"  they  say. 
And  for  something  like  eighteen  months, 
theirs  was  the  wedding  that  newsmen  had 
expected  to  cover. 

They'd  expected  an  announcement  back 
in  March  of  '59,  when  Jackie  and  Tony  re- 
turned from  vacationing  together  in  Swit- 
zerland. When  Jackie  came  back  from  a 
trip  to  New  York  that  June  and  Tony 
swept  her  into  his  arms  and  covered  her 
cheeks  with  kisses,  they'd  thought,  "Any 
time  now  they'll  be  breaking  the  news." 

"When's  the  wedding?"  was  an  appro- 
priate question.  But  Jackie's  and  Tony's 
answer  was  always,  "Our  careers  come 
first."  It  occurred  to  no  one  that  at  the 
time  they  might  have  meant  it. 

Then,  as  one  show  business  light  re- 
members, "We  were  sitting  around  watch- 
ing TV  one  evening  when  a  commentator 
broke  in  with  'The  Queen  Mother  has  an- 
nounced the  engagement  of  her  daughter 
Princess  Margaret  Rose  to  Antony  Arm- 
strong-Jones! .  .  .' " 

Princess  Margaret  and  Tony.  Tony  and 
Princess  Margaret.  London  went  wild. 
Then,  after  a  while,  in  the  midst  of  the 
excitement,  Fleet  Street  scribes  suddenly 
began  asking,  "But  what  about  Jackie?" 

How  Jackie  took  the  news 

Jackie  was  in  her  dressing  room  at  the 
theater  when  the  news  was  announced. 
And  it  was  the  beginning  of  the  siege.  The 


backstage  telephone  rang  constantly.  The 
stage  doorman  turned  reporters  away  by 
the  dozens.  It  went  on  for  weeks,  with  the 
show's  press  agents  explaining  to  one  and 
all,  "She's  not  talking  to  anyone.  She 
hasn't  been  home.  She  hasn't  been  an- 
swering the  telephone.  Even  we  don't  know 
how  to  reach  her,  except  at  the  theater. 
Everyone's  been  after  her." 

Jackie  became  a  kind  of  nomad.  Like 
the  early  Marlon  Brando,  she  wandered 
from  one  friend's  flat  to  another.  But  it 
wasn't  just  a  Brando-like  quirk.  It  was 
desperation,  finding  refuge  from  ringing 
telephones,  inquisitive  acquaintances  and 
strangers,  prying  questions. 

The  fact  that  she  made  herself  scarce 
drove  the  press  crazy  .  .  .  yet  they  re- 
spected her  for  it,  from  the  first.  "You 
don't  get  the  feeling  she's  being  coy  about 
the  whole  bit  and,  well,  kind  of  leading 
us  on  in  the  chase,"  said  one.  "It's  not 
like  the  feeling  a  lot  of  us  got  about  Peter 
Townsend  who  invariably  seemed  to  make 
a  point  of  hiding  out  or  popping  up  where 
reporters  were  most  likely  to  find  him — 
then  protesting  in  such  a  way  and  making 
such  enigmatic  statements  that  all  he  man- 
aged to  do  was  cause  Princess  Margaret 
and  the  rest  of  the  royal  family  a  great 
deal  of  embarrassment. 

"Jackie  sincerely  feels  embarrassment, 
herself,  about  all  the  attention.  And  she's 
tried  to  avoid  it  as  much  as  she  can — but 
as  an  actress,  and  a  responsible  actress, 


she  has  to  turn  up  for  performances  at  the 
theater.  Then,  too,  as  an  actress,  she's  not 
going  to  be  able  to  stay  in  hiding,  press- 
wise,  forever.  But  if  she  feels  a  sense  of 
loss,  there'll  be  no  just-barely  trembling 
lower  lip  to  give  reporters  the  clue,  or  any 
other  nonsense. 

"She's  too  proud  to  want  a  lot  of  mawk- 
ish sympathy,  she's  too  loyal  to  take  a 
chance  of  even  unintentionally  putting  a 
friend  in  an  uncomfortable  spot,  and  she's 
too  well-bred  to  do  or  say  anything  that 
might  embarrass  English  royalty." 

"I  am  happy  for  him" 

It  was  a  few  days  after  the  wedding  that 
I  saw  Jackie  at  her  apartment.  Her  first 
words  were  a  question,  "How  did  you  get 
my  telephone  number?"  She  sighed.  "I 
don't  know  who's  been  giving  it  out,  but 
somehow  a  lot  of  people  have  managed 
to  get  hold  of  it.  So  mostly  I've  been  stay- 
ing with  friends.  It's  much  easier." 

"Then  it's  been  pretty  bad?" 

"At  the  theater,  the  phone  has  been  ring- 
ing all  during  performances.  People  ask- 
ing absurd  questions  which  I  didn't  think 
important." 

"Questions  such  as?" 

There  was  a  pause.  "This  last  week,  what 
I  planned  to  wear  to  the  wedding.  I  just 
don't  think  it's  important  what  the  guests 
wear  to  a  wedding.  One  simply  dresses  to 
suit  the  occasion." 

"Questions  about  Tony?" 

"About  Tony,"  she  said.  "I  am  happy 
for  him,  as  one  is  always  happy  for  one's 
friends  when  they  get  married.  .  .  ." 

Born  in  Trinidad  of  a  half-Russian,  half 
Chinese  father  and  a  Chinese  mother,  she'd 
dreamed  of  being  a  dancer.  She  started 
dancing  lessons  when  she  was  seven.  Her 
father  was  a  prosperous  photographer  and 
she  grew  up  in  an  artistic  atmosphere.  "I 
think  you  could  say  I  was  a  bit  of  a  tom- 
boy," she  grinned.  "I  was  the  only  girl  in 
the  family,  with  two  brothers,  Gary  and 
Ian,  and  most  of  my  cousins  were  boys  as 
well." 

It  was  her  long  black  hair  that  took  the 
worst  beating.  The  boys'  favorite  pastime 
was  blowing  bubble  gum  into  it  and  she 
was  constantly  having  to  have  it  cut  out. 
She  retaliated  by  loathing  one  of  the  boys' 
best  friends  and  encouraging  the  dog  to 
bite  him.  "The  dog  was  a  little  Pomer- 
anian," she  grins.  "And  whenever  the  boy 
wanted  to  pet  it,  I'd  tell  him  to  blow  into 
the  dog's  face  because  he  loved  it.  Actually, 
the  dog  hated  it." 

When  she  was  fifteen,  her  family  made 
arrangements  to  send  her  to  school  in 
England.  "We  were  all  sent  to  boarding 
school  somewhere,"  she  remembers.  "I 
think  my  family  rather  believed  in  it.  I 
was  happy  too.  You  see,  my  mother  was 
so  young  that  my  elder  brother  and  I  felt 
that  she  was  about  the  same  age  we  were, 
and  I  suppose  that  this  was  one  reason 
we  were  always  so  independent." 

Her  only  regret  about  leaving  was  say- 
ing good-bye  to  her  one  true  love.  "He 
was  fourteen.  Really  extraordinary  look- 
ing— half  Chinese,  half  Spanish,  and  pre- 
maturely grey  hair  ran  in  his  family,  so 
his  was  very  white.  Yes,  I  was  fond  of 
him.  But,"  she  grins,  "he  didn't  exactly 
jump  off  the  dock  in  despair  when  I  left." 

Her  school  was  Elmhurst,  in  Camber- 
ley,  a  town  in  the  south  of  England,  and 
there  were  ballet  lessons  as  well  as  class- 
room work.  "I  was  very  happy  there,"  she 
says.  "There  was  only  one  tragedy  that  I 
remember — when  I  first  arrived.  Nearby 
was  a  boys'  college  and  they  would  invite 
the  girls  at  our  school  over  for  dances, 
send  a  bus  for  us.  I'll  never  forget  the 
first  one.  Everyone  got  terribly  dressed  up. 
in  full  organdies.  The  only  dress  I  had  was 
a  slim  Chinese  one,  with  little  slits  up  the 
sides.  The  boys  must  have  been  about  six- 
teen or  seventeen  and,  when  we  arrived. 


they  stared  at  me  as  if  I  were  the  most 
freakish  thing  in  the  world.  I  was  terribly 
embarrassed." 

She  knew  what  she  wanted 

When  she  left  Elmhurst,  she  went  on  to 
the  Royal  Academy  of  Dance.  "I  thought 
I  wanted  to  be  a  teacher.  But  I  discovered 
that  I  was  completely  unsuited  for  it.  I 
just  didn't  have  enough  patience,  so  I  de- 
cided to  be  a  professional  dancer  in  the 
theater  instead. 

"Then  one  day,  the  headmistress  said 
that  the  Windsor  Repertory  Company  was 
looking  for  someone  to  cast  in  a  play  called 
Tobias  and  the  Angel.  She  knew  the  man 
who  ran  the  company  and  called  him.  to 
suggest  me.  It  was  my  first  acting  job.  I 
played  a  little  serving  girl  and  did  a  little 
dance.  I  looked  so  terrible.  I  didn't  have  a 
clue  about  how  to  make  up.  One  of  the 
other  girls  had  to  show  me  exactly  what 
to  do."  But  from  the  moment  she  stepped 
on  the  stage  and  said  her  lines,  she  knew 
what  she  wanted  to  do — become  an  actress. 

When  she  left  the  Academy,  she  went 
to  Paris,  intending  to  spend  two  weeks 
vacationing  and  then  return  and  tackle  the 
London  theater  world.  "But  somehow  the 
two  weeks  lengthened  into  six  months," 
she  smiles.  "I  sat  for  a  few  artists.  Other- 
wise, I  didn't  do  anything  at  all.  I  had  a 
small  allowance  from  my  father.  I  so  fell 
in  love  with  the  city,  I  almost  completely 
forgot  my  aim  in  life.  Then  one  day  I  ran 
into  a  girl  with  whom  I'd  gone  to  school. 
'Aren't  you  going  to  work?'  she  asked  me. 
I  decided  then  that  I  should  go  back.  But 
if  I  hadn't  run  into  my  school  friend,  I 
might  still  be  there." 

It  was  a  good  time  for  Oriental  actresses. 
She  went  into  the  play,  Teahouse  of  the 
August  Moon,  as  one  of  the  geisha  girls. 
She  toured  England  as  the  principal  dan- 
cer in  the  road  company  of  The  King  and 
I.  Then  she  danced  in  Kismet.  There  were 
others.  "One  was  a  musical  called  Simply 
Heaven,  which  I  thought  was  marvelous. 
It  lasted  for  three  weeks." 

Then  came  Suzie  Wong.  "I  just  went 


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along  and  auditioned."  she  says.  "I  w 
given  the  part  of  Lily.  It's  a  very  sm; 
one.  And  I  was  also  assigned  to  unde  I 
study  Tsai  Chin,  who  plays  Suzie.  Y' 
know."  she  adds  modestly,  "there  are  j 
limited  number  of  Oriental  actresses  I 
London." 

Then  Paramount  began  casting  the  fil  I 
version  of  the  play  and,  again.  Jack 
"just  walked  in."  Producer  Ray  Stark  ai ' 
Jean  Negulesco  (the  original  director  wl 
departed)  simply  looked  at  her  and  sa^i 
in  chorus.  "Ah  .  .  .  Gwenny."  And  | 
Jackie  won  the  coveted  role  of  Suziej 
homely  girl  friend,  who  can't  seem  to  g't 
many  men  ...  a  part  which  has  bee! 
built  up  in  the  film. 

Consequently,  daytimes,  she  was  playirl 
Gwenny.  a  completely  different  sort  j 
girl,  playing  Suzie  at  understudy  rehear  j 
als.  and  Lily  during  the  actual  perforn  > 
ances  in  the  evenings.  As  for  how  she  mar; 
aged,  she  says  simply.  ""It  took  a  bit  J 
adjusting." 

Jackie  talks  about  marriage 

Her  thoughts  on  marriage: 

"I  haven't  tried,"  she  says.  "I've  nevJ 
been  married,  but  I'm  quite  sure  that  itl 
possible  to  combine  a  career  with  mail! 
riage.  That's  what  I'd  like  to  do.  I  thinl 
I  would  hate  to  be  married  to  anyone  wh 
is  an  actor — but  I  would  like  my  husban 
to  be  interested  in  the  theater. 

"I  don't  believe  that  a  man  must  be  Eh] 
boss  in  marriage  necessarily,  or  the  won 
an  either.  I  think — I  hope — that  it's  quii 
possible  to  find  some  sort  of  relationshij 
where  no  one's  boss. 

"I  don't  believe  in  being  too  much  wk! 
people.  It  might  result  in  their  getting  oj 
each  other's  nerves.  So  unless  a  womal 
who  has  children  is  really  happy  just  stay 
ing  home  with  them,  I  think  it  is  nice  fcj 
her  to  have  a  career  .  .  .  one  that  she  caj 
work  at  if  she  wants  to,  if  she  likes." 

Romance  in  her  life?  "There  is  someonj 
I'm  dating,"  she  says.  "He's  at  Cambridge 
I'd  rather  not  talk  about  him  or  give  h] 
name."  (His  name's  David  Cammell.  thj 
brother  of  the  English  painter  Donalj 
Cammell.  He  keeps  her  picture  in  h 
room,  escorts  her  to  parties,  says,  "We'vi 
known  each  other  for  six  months.  I  reallj 
don't  want  to  say  anything  about  the  rej 
lationship  or  discuss  romance  at  the  mo] 
ment,  but  I  can't  deny  that  it  might  bj 
true.") 

"In  general."  Jackie  goes  on.  "I  don't  lik? 
aggressive  men  or  women.  And  I  suppo: 
most  of  the  men  whom  I've  been  fond  c 
seem  to  be  terribly  slim." 

About  her  past  and  present,  Jackie  say 
"I've  done  what  I've  wanted  to  do  anj 
have  been  terribly  happy.  I  make  enoug 
to  live  on  in  my  job.  And  I  can't  think  c 
anything  desperately  upsetting  that's  hap 
pened  to  me.  .  .  ."  This  she  says  withoi 
batting  an  eye,  her  face  expressionless-  ] 

Her  future  is  her  career.  At  Paramoun 
they  think  she  has  a  bright  one.  Produce 
Ray  Stark  has  talked  to  her  about  a  pai 
in  Kowloon.  another  big  picture,  vvhicj 
will  be  made  in  the  Orient.  Before  th 
Suzie  Wong  group  returned  to  Hong  Kon 
to  reshoot  scenes  that  were  scrapped  whe 
France  Nuyen  left  the  cast,  the  power 
were  saying  thusly:  "We've  decided  to  re 
lease  the  picture  the  latter  part  of  the  yea 
instead  of  holding  it  over.  We  want  to  g( 
it  into  the  Oscar  race,  as  we've  got  son 
sure-fire  performances — we  don't  see  ho1 
they  can  miss  nominations.  There's  Bi 
Holden,  Nancy  Kwan  .  .  .  and  a  girl  name 
Jackie  Chan." 

Jackie  Chan,  a  proud,  loyal  girl,  wh 
with  great  dignity  hides  from  the  wdf] 
the  heartbreak  of  being  the  girl  Princes 
Margaret's  husband  left  behind.  EN 

Jackie  can  be  seen  in  The  World  O 
Suzie  Wong.  Paramount. 


Which  to  try  first?  You'll  run  out  of  fingers 
and  toes  before  you  decide!  Because  Cutex 
has  loads  of  gay  new  polish  colors  you've 
never  worn  before.  And  Summer  is  the  time 
to  try  them.  The  time  to  experiment  with  all 
he  mad,  marvelous  shades  like  "Coral  Sand" 
and  "Capri  Blue."  The  time  to  tip  your  toes 
vith  Pearls  and  be  a  lovely  sea  siren.  You 
ire  just  not  in  the  fashion  swim  unless  you 
uxt  wearing  the  latest  fun  shades  by  Cutex. 


FUN  SHADES 

All  the  summery 
Pearl  Polishes  by 


Free  "Color  Ring"— to  match 
your  Pearl  Polish— with  each 
bottle  fnr  a  limited, time  onlv 


Eddie  to  Return  to  His  Own  Children 


(Continued  from  page  30) 

monster  and  clutched  him  in  a  bear-hug 
while  they  howled  at  their  own  expense. 
Suddenly,  Eddie  held  Liz  more  tenderly. 
He  stroked  her  face,  cupped  it  in  his  hands. 
"No  one  but  me  knows  what  a  magnificent 
human  being  you  are — me  and  the  chil- 
dren. They  don't  give  gold  awards  for 
people  like  you,  sweetheart — just  old- 
fashioned  prayers  of  thanks — like  mine." 

"Oh  come  on  now,"  Liz  chided  him, 
"here  we  are  off  to  the  land  of  fun  and 
frolic  and  here  you  are  spouting  campaign 
speeches.  Honestly,  darling,  you're  already 
elected  to  be  my  love  for  life  so  you  don't 
have  to  say  such  extravagant  things  to 
me." 

Elizabeth  jammed  a  silly  native  Jamaica 
hat  on  her  head  and  in  falsetto  sang,  "I'm 
going  to  get  you  on  a  jet  to  Los  Angeles" — 
and  the  spell  of  seriousness  was  broken 
with  her  usual  flair  for  humor  and  cheer. 
She  said  nothing  of  her  dread  of  that  jet. 

She  picked  up  two  small  straw  beanies 
decorated  in  gaily  colored  threads. 
"Todd  and  Carrie  will  love  those  hats,"  she 
said  warmly,  remembering  how  they  had 
lovingly  selected  the  little  gifts. 

Eddie's  eyes  lost  their  gleam  of  fun.  He 
sobered  immediately.  Elizabeth  ran  to  his 
side,  cupped  his  face  in  her  hands  as  he 
had  hers  only  moments  ago. 

"You  miss  them  so,  don't  you,  my 
darling.  But  just  think  of  the  reunion 
you'll  have.  They'll  be  so  glad  to  see 
you,"  Liz  said  softly. 

"I  know,  I  know,  but — "  Eddie  began. 

Liz  took  his  arm  and  said  firmly  "Enough 
for  packingsville." 

"When  we  get  back  from  California  .  . 

They  went  into  the  living  room  to  await 
the  boy's  return  from  school.  The  tiny 
terriers  and  the  Siamese  cat  scrambled  for 
position.  Elizabeth  was  draped  in  a  cat 
and  a  dog  and  Eddie  was  roughhousing 
with  the  second  toy  terrier. 

This  time  it  was  Liz'  turn  to  turn  pen- 
sive. "Oh,  Eddie,  I  hate  to  leave  in  a  way. 
I  love  New  York,  and  Chris  and  Mike  are 
here,  and  somehow  California  reminds  me 
of  so  many  things  .  .  .  the  tragedy,  the 
whispers,  the  way  people  out  there  stared 
and  gossiped.  .  .  .  New  York  has  been 
kinder  to  me — it's  Los  Angeles  where 
everyone  was  calling  me  a  wicked  woman." 

Eddie  comforted  her,  "We  won't  be  but 
a  few  days,  sweetheart,  and  the  boys  will 
soon  have  a  holiday  vacation  when  we 
can  have  some  fun  together.  .  .  .  We 
promised  to  take  them  to  the  circus  and 
on  a  picnic  in  the  park." 

They  heard  the  sound  of  the  door  being 
rattled  by  two  lively  happy-to-be-home- 
from-school  children.  The  pets  dashed  out 
of  laps  and  arms  to  wildly  welcome  their 
small  masters,  Mike  and  Chris. 

"We  were  just  talking  about  you  guys," 
said  Eddie,  to  the  two  bright-eyed,  Eton- 
capped  boys  who  headed  straight  for  him. 

"What  about?"  said  ringleader  Mike — 
who  doesn't  believe  in  saying  one  extra 
word. 

"Yeah,  what  about  us  were  you  talk- 
ing?" said  Chris — who  doesn't  believe  in 
being  left  out. 

"Well,  we  were  just  saying  about  the 
circus  and  picnic  when  we  get  back  from 
our  trip  to  California.  Your  mother  was 
unhappy  about  leaving  for  a  few  days 
and  I  reminded  her  about  our  big  plans 
for  your  spring  vacation  period." 

"Hey,  Mom,  if  you  don't  want  to  go 
to  California,  why  go?"  asked  Mike. 

"Yeah,  Mom,"  piped  Chris,  "why?" 

There  was  a  silence.     Eddie  and  Liz 


looked  at  each  other  but  neither  spoke. 
Mike,  the  diplomat,  who  sensed  some 
trouble  in  the  atmosphere,  said,  "Guess 
what.  I'm  learning  to  speak  French.  Bon- 
jour,  Monsieur!" 

"You're  not  only  learning  how  to  speak 
French,"  said  Eddie  finally,  "you're  learn- 
ing how  to  think  French,  you  genius.  .  .  . 
C'mon,  let's  get  some  cookies  and  milk 
and  then  you  can  help  us  finish  packing 
and  we'll  all  watch  TV  later." 

The  boys  trotted  off  to  put  their  books 
away.  Eddie  said  to  Liz,  "You  know, 
Mike's  beginning  to  think  like  a  French 
diplomat,  he  can  change  the  conversation 
so  quickly."  Eddie  said  it  proudly,  almost 
as  proud  as  if  Mike  were  his  own  son. 

Elizabeth  laughed,  "Now  parents  are 
going  to  have  to  take  lessons  to  keep  up 
with  their  children." 

They  spent  a  quiet  family  evening, 
reading,  chatting,  watching  two  TV  pro- 
grams. Then  it  was  time  to  put  the  chil- 
dren to  bed — after  which  Eddie  and  Eliza- 
beth retired,  knowing  it  would  be  a  busy 
morning  before  departure.  .  .  . 

They  took  a  jet  to  Los  Angeles — Eddie 
interlacing  his  fingers  with  Elizabeth's, 
knowing  her  gnawing  nervousness  about 
flights. 

They  were  met  by  friends,  by  MGM 
representatives,  by  the  press  and  by  Eliza- 
beth's parents.  Everyone  was  glad  to  see 
them  looking  so  well. 

They  were  houseguests  of  Kurt  and 
Ketti  Frings  at  their  magnificent  modern 
mansion  set  atop  a  knoll  in  Holmby  Hills. 
(Kurt  is  Elizabeth's  agent  and  Ketti  is 
the  Pulitzer-prize  winning  playwright.) 

They  talked  for  hours  over  dinner,  wine, 
demitasse  and  cordials.  It  was  exciting 
to  be  back  in  California,  Liz  insisted,  chat- 
tering gaily. 

Eddie  didn't  stop  her — but  he  remem- 
bered all  her  enthusiasm  about  New  York. 
How  much  she  loved  it,  how  much  she 
wanted  to  live  there.  He  also  remembered 
her  conversations  about  having  a  country 
place  nearby  for  the  children  where  they 
could  run  and  play. 

That  night  in  bed  the  last  words  he 
heard  his  wife  say  as  she  slipped  off  to 
slumberland  were  "Good  night.  Babies — 
Good  night,  Mike,  Good  night,  Chris,  Good 
night,  Liza." 

Eddie  kissed  her  eyelids,  and  whispered, 
"Good  night,  angel." 

Eddie's  day  with  his  children 

The  next  day  was  Eddie's  morning  to 
visit  Todd  and  Carrie.  He  got  up  early, 
while  Liz  was  still  asleep,  took  the  silly 
hats  and  a  toy  monkey  hand  puppet  he 
had  gotten  and  tiptoed  out.  .  .  . 

When  Eddie  got  back  to  the  Frings' 
home,  Elizabeth  was  sitting  in  a  lounge 
chair  by  the  pool.  She  held  out  her  arms 
to  her  husband.  "How  are  Todd  and  Car- 
rie, darling,"  she  asked. 

Eddie  didn't  say  anything  at  first.  He 
just  stood  there,  looking  very  troubled. 
Finally  he  answered  slowly,  "Well,  they're 
fine,  of  course.  They  have  a  good  life.  A 
good  home.  They're  healthy  and,  I  think, 
happy.  But  when  I  saw  them — "  He 
lifted  his  hands  in  a  helpless  gesture. 

"It  wasn't  quite  so  bad  with  Carrie — I 
mean,  she  still  seemed  like  my  daughter, 
the  little  girl  I  know  and  love.  But  Todd— 
I  had  taken  them  to  the  beach  club  and  we 
were  having  milk  shakes  by  the  pool.  I 
was  feeding  little  Todd.  And  well,  just 
that.  Little  Todd  is  getting  less  and  less 
little.  He's  changed  so  much,  he's  getting 
to  be  a  little  boy,  not  a  baby  any  more. 


And  I  had  missed  it  all.  .  .  .  Suddenly 
knew  how  much  I  missed  little  Todd  ai  I 
Carrie,  and  I  knew,  despite  all  the  b 
and  frolic  of  their  lives,  that  way  de 
down,  they  were  missing  me  too.  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  they  miss  you,  Eddie,  tb 
love  you  .  .  .  ,"  Liz  said,  stroking  his  ha; 
and  feeling  that  words  were  inadequa 

"When  I  look  my  kids  in  the  eye,  wh 
they  put  their  arms  around  me  and  c; 
me  Daddy — oh  Liz,  that's  rough.  Carr 
asked  me  if  I  was  coming  home,  To' 
just  looked  at  me  with  those  big  brov 
eyes  of  his. 

"Try  to  explain  to  them  what  unhapp 
ness  is.   Try  to  explain  why  you  had 
leave  them.    Try  it.   Just  try  it  if  yr 
want  to  experience  the  most  helpless,  sou 
wracking  experience  in  life — " 

Eddie  stopped  bleakly. 

Liz'  arms  reached  out  and  held  him.  "Dor 
torture  yourself,  my  darling,  it's  going  | 
be  all  right.  It's  going  to  be  all  right.  .  .  j 

Two  days  later,  Eddie  and  Elizabe 
boarded  a  train  for  New  York.  It  w 
their  first  train-ride  together.  They'd  be< 
on  scores  of  jets,  several  yachts,  even  c 
bikes  with  Chris  and  Mike  in  Londo 
But  never  been  on  a  train  together. 

"Isn't  this  delicious?"  said  Elizabet 
"Look  at  the  lovely  countryside  wavii 
to  us  while  we  sit  here  real  comfortabl 
Oh,  Eddie,  I'm  so  glad  you  suggested  v 
take  the  train.  This  is  the  way  we  shou 
travel  all  the  time." 

It  was  then  that  Elizabeth  decided 
spring  her   surprise:    "Eddie,"   she  sai 
"as  soon  as  we  can  arrange  it,  we're  goii 
to  buy  a  house  in  California!" 

"But — "  Eddie  began. 

"No,  darling,"  she  put  her  fingers  to  b 
lips,  silencing  him.  "No  ifs,  ands  or  but 
I've  made  up  my  mind.  You  are  my  lii 
my  happiness.  I  could  never  be  happy 
you  were  unhappy.  I  couldn't  go  on  livir 
in  New  York,  knowing  how  you're  longir  - 
to  be  with  your  children,  and  never  sayir 
anything  for  fear  of  worrying  me.  Fi 
made  up  my  mind,  Eddie — and  you  kno 
you  can't  cross  me,"  she  grinned  at  hir 

"But  what  about  the  house  in  Wes 
Chester,  honey?  I  thought  you  wanted 
be  a  New  Yorker." 

"Well  I  do— but— " 

"Yeah,  I  know — but  you  know  I  wai 
to  live  in  California  to  be  near  my  childre 
and  so  you're  changing  your  mind  aboi 
living  in  the  big  city." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  Elizabeth  smile 
"we'll  make  a  little  deal.  I'll  go  to  Cab 
fornia  like  you  want,  if  you  promise  th 
when  we  visit  New  York  it  will  alwaj 
be  by  train,  like  this." 

Eddie  shook  his  head  vigorously.  "Eliza 
beth,  you're  a  cornball.  That  ain't  a  deal- 
baby,  that's  a  steal.  And  you're  on." 

The  train  clickety-clacked  as  they  mad 
their  plans  to  go  home  to  California.  e 

Liz  and  Eddie  will  star  in  Butterfield 
for  MGM;  Liz,  later,  in  Two  For  The  Sei 
saw,  for  United  Artists. 


PHOTOGRAPHERS'  CREDITS 

The  photographs  appearing  in  this  issue 

are  credited  below  page  by  page: 
17 — Dave  Sutton  of  Galaxy;  18 — UPI,  FLO,  Nat 
Dallinger  of  Gilloon;  19 — Nat  Dallinger  of  Gil- 
loon,  Vista,  Annan  Photo  Features:  20-21 — An 
nan  Photo  Features,  Nat  Dallinger  of  Gilloon 
Bruce  Bailey  of  Pictorial  Parade,  Dave  Sutton  of 
Galaxy,  22-23 — Wide  World,  Nat  Dallinger  oi 
Gilloon,  UPI,  Annan  Photo  Features.  Bob  East 

of  Gilloon,  Pictorial  Parade;  24  UPI,  Pictorial 

Parade;  27-29 — Wide  World,  Bimback;  30-33 
— Dave  Sutton  of  Galaxy,  Jim  Howard  of  Pic- 
torial Parade,  P.  Nims:  34-35 — Bill  Sanders  and  i 
Bob  East  of  Gilloon;  38-39 — Friedman-Abeles  of 
Galaxy;  40-41 — Sanford  H.  Roth  of  Rapho-Gui! 
umette;  42-45 — Lynn  Pelham  of  Rapho-Guillu- 
mette,  Sid  Avery  of  Globe:  46-47 — Phil  Stern  of 
Zinn  Arthur,  Topix,  Wide  World;  48-49 — Dick 
Miller  of  Globe;  50-51 — Al  Wertheimer  of  Topix, 
Galaxy;  52-53 — Birnback;  54-55 — Globe:  56-5" 
— James  R.  Reid  (from  Elton  Whisenhunt). 


How  Could  I  Tell  Yasmin  Her  Daddy  Was  Dead? 


Continued  from  page  47) 


stark  raving  mad.  Then,  as  his  warm  eyes 
stared  into  hers  a  chill  ruffled  her  heart. 
Could  .  .  .  could  such  a  terrible  thing  be 
true?  Aly  .  .  .  dead? 

"I  ...  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  whispered, 
and  she  wondered  for  a  moment  if  she 
were  dreaming  a  tortuous  nightmare. 
''Aly's  so  young.  How  could  he  die?" 

Jim  called  the  waiter  and  ordered  drinks 
for  both  of  them.  Then  he  explained  Aly 
was  killed  outside  of  Paris.  He  was  at  the 
wheel  of  his  sleek  and  expensive  Italian 
sportscar,  the  new  Lancia  convertible  he'd 
bought  only  eight  days  before.  At  an  inter- 
section, on  a  sloping  road  along  the  Seine 
river,  another  car  was  speeding  straight  at 
him.  Aly  was  trapped  behind  the  wheel, 
his  neck  broken  and  his  chest  crushed. 
The  other  passengers,  the  model  Bettina 
and  his  chauffeur  whom  Aly  had  asked 
to  sit  in  the  back  seat,  escaped  with  minor 
injuries. 

A  piercing  scream  tore  from  Rita's  throat, 
and,  as  she  screamed,  all  she  could  hear  in 
her  ears  was  the  sharp  slamming  of  brakes, 
an  ear-piercing  squeal  of  tires — and  sud- 
denly the  blinding  fatal  crash. 

She  collapsed  in  Jim's  strong  arms,  and 
the  golf  club  ambulance  was  summoned. 
Jim  rushed  her  to  the  hospital  for  sedation. 

A  mournful  bell 

In  her  luxurious  aquamarine  bedroom, 
Rita  lay  on  the  giant-sized  bed  with  the 
rufted  ivory  satin  headboard.  Lace-edged 
pillows  of  lilac  and  purple  were  propped 
behind  her.  It  was  almost  sunset,  and  dust 
Tiotes  swirled,  spiral-like,  in  the  slanting 


rays  of  the  late  afternoon  sun  that  poured 
through  the  criss-crossed  silk  organza  cur- 
tains at  the  wide  windows. 

The  tragic  news  tolled  through  her  head 
like  a  mournful  bell.  Aly's  dead  .  .  .  Aly's 
dead  .  .  .  Aly's  dead!  She  coughed  for  a 
spell,  and  her  head  throbbed.  She  was 
groggy  from  the  pills  the  doctor  had  given 
her  at  the  hospital.  Jim,  dear  Jim,  sat  by 
her  side  now,  holding  her  hand. 

In  her  aching  mind  the  years  rolled  back 
furiously,  like  a  long  carpet  hurtled  down- 
hill, and  she  saw  Elsa  Maxwell,  beaming 
like  a  proud  mother,  at  a  party  in  Cannes 
in  1948,  making  the  introduction. 

"Dearest  Aly,"  Elsa  cooed,  "youll  adore 
Rita.  She's  one  of  our  most  exciting 
actresses.  .  .  ." 

"I  know,"  Aly  spoke  in  a  low,  soft  voice, 
his  eyes  burning  through  Rita,  "I've  seen 
all  her  movies." 

Rita  was  fascinated;  no  doubt  about  it. 
Aly  was  one  of  the  most  glamorous  men 
she'd  ever  met  in  her  life:  darkly  good- 
looking,  courtly  and  bursting  with  manli- 
ness. 

They  talked  light  talk  that  evening: 
about  the  other  film  stars  visiting  Cannes, 
the  lovely  Riviera  weather,  their  mutual 
love  of  music. 

And,  a  little  over  a  year  later,  Rita, 
(dressed  in  a  pale  blue  chiffon  dress  and  a 
matching  huge  picture  hat),  and  Aly  ac- 
cepted the  vows  of  marriage  in  Aly's 
palatial  home  in  Vallauris,  France.  .  .  . 

When  their  daughter  Yasmin  was  born, 
Rita  believed  she  had  found  the  enduring 
happiness  she  needed.  She  planned  to  re- 


nounce her  film  career  and  live  the  rest 
of  her  life  as  a  doting  mother  and  wife. 

But  Aly's  interests  were  too  far-flung, 
too  unpredictable.  There  were  wild  ru- 
mors, never-ending  tales  of  his  promiscu- 
ous love  life  which  shattered  her.  And 
three  years  after  their  marriage  at  Val- 
lauris, she  announced  through  her  lawyers 
that  "various  factors,  including  my  hus- 
band's extensive  social  obligations  and  in- 
terests, make  it  impossible  to  establish  or 
maintain  the  kind  of  home  I  want  and  my 
children  need." 

Aly  was  crushed,  bewildered.  He  wrote 
her  a  long  letter,  beginning  with  My 
Darling  One  .  .  .  I  do  not  want  to  marry 
again,  so  a  divorce  doesn't  interest  me. 

The  letter  tore  at  her  heart  because  she 
adored  him  and  loved  him,  but  she  knew 
their  lives  could  never  mix.  She  couldn't 
live  the  frantic  gypsy  life  of  his  playboy 
spirit.  She  was  proud  of  him,  yes,  but  that 
wasn't  enough.  She  wanted  a  foundation, 
a  solidity  to  their  marriage.  His  brilliant 
horsemanship,  his  championship  auto  rac- 
ing, his  glamorous  friends  in  the  inter- 
national set — all  these  things  were  fine  but 
they  didn't  provide  the  foundation  stone 
Rita  needed  so  desperately  in  marriage. 

When  they  divorced,  she  told  Aly  she 
would  always  love  him.  And  this  was  true. 
She  couldn't  destroy  his  spirit  in  her  heart, 
the  generous,  fun-loving,  carefree  manner 
that  first  attracted  her  to  him. 

What  she  loved  most  of  all  in  Aly  was 
his  goodness,  something  the  world  didn't 
have  an  opportunity  to  know  because  he 
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many  times  she  had  seen  him  help  people! 
Once  a  doorman  in  Deauville,  depressed 
because  he  didn't  have  enough  money  for 
an  iron  lung  for  his  daughter  who  was 
stricken  with  polio,  was  quietly  slipped 
100,000  francs  after  Aly  had  learned  his  sad 
news.  Another  time  Aly  gave  thousands 
to  an  orphanage  that  was  in  debt.  And 
there  were  many,  many  other  moments 
that  he  refused  to  talk  about,  begged  her 
to  keep. quiet  about  because  he  felt  a  good 
deed  was  not  for  publicity  but  for  the  deep 
satisfaction  within  the  human  heart. 

Rita  sat  up  in  bed.  She  had  lingered  long 
enough.  Jim  helped  her  into  her  robe.  He 
had  summoned  Yasmin  from  her  skating 
lessons,  and  she  was  in  her  room  playing. 
Rita  squeezed  Jim's  hand. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  with  you?"  Jim 
asked. 

Rita  took  a  deep  breath.  "No.  No,  dar- 
ling. I  ...  I  must  do  it  alone  ..." 


She  walked  slowly  to  Yasmin's  room  to 
tell  her  daughter,  somehow,  that  her  dad- 
dy was  dead. 

How  should  she  begin  to  break  the  news? 

Yasmin  looked  up  at  her  mother  from 
the  book  she  was  reading.  Her  dark  eye- 
lashes always  reminded  Rita  of  Aly.  Yas- 
min was  ten  now,  tall  for  her  age,  sitting 
on  the  chaise-longue  with  her  pink  em- 
broidered skirt  puffed  all  around  her. 

The  apple  of  his  eye 

"How  were  your  skating  lessons,  my 
love?"  Rita  asked,  leaning  over  to  embrace 
Yasmin  and  kiss  her. 

"The  teacher  said  I  did  real  well.  But 
they  wouldn't  let  me  finish.  They  made 
me  come  home  early,  Mommy.  Why?" 

"I  ...  I  wasn't  feeling  well,  and  I  wanted 
you  to  be  here  with  me,  Yasmin,  because 
I  .  .  ."  She  couldn't  go  on.  She  couldn't 
shatter  the  child's  innocent  heart.  How 


could  she  tell  her  that  she  would  b 
fatherless  for  the  rest  of  her  life,  espe 
cially  since  the  two  of  them  were  so  de 
voted  to  each  other.  Aly  adored  Yasmi 
she  was  the  apple  of  his  eye.  Of  all  hi 
children,  she  was  the  only  one  to  hav 
developed  his  fondness  for  horses  and  rac 
ing,  and  he  always  boasted  about  this. 

"When  I  see  Daddy  this  summer,"  Yas 
min  began,  "I'll  skate  for  him  and  he'll  cla 
his  hands  and  say,  'Bravo,  Bravo!'  " 

"Darling,"  Rita  started  again,  "you  knc 
how  much  we  all  love  you,  and  I  war. 
you  to  listen  carefully.  Last  night 
your  daddy  .  .  .  met  .  .  ."  She  held  bac 
a  moment;  she  was  on  the  verge  of  sayin 
God.  She  caught  herself.  Yasmin  was  bein 
raised  in  her  daddy's  Moslem  faith. 

"Last  night,  my  love,  your  daddy  mt 
Allah,"  Rita  said,  her  eyes  closed. 

"What?"  Yasmin  asked  incredulously. 

"He  ...  he  met  Allah.  He  was  drivin 
a  car,  and  Allah  called  him  and  he 
went  forth  to  meet  Him.  Yasmin,  my  dai 
ling,  your  father  will  always,  always  t 
with  you,  in  your  heart,  because  you  love 
him  and  he  loved  you.  You  know  that, 
last  night  .  .  ."  Her  voice  trailed.  Sh 
wondered  if  she  was  making  any  sense  i 
all. 

"Mommy,  Mommy,"  Yasmin  called  nen 
ously.  "I'm  scared.  Something's  happene< 
I  can  tell.  Your — eyes  are  crying!  What 
happened?" 

"Oh,  my  love,"  Rita  cried,  clutching  Yas 
min  to  her  breast,  lowering  her  voice,  "yo\ 
daddy  is  deau.  But,  my  darling,  he  .  .  ." 

"I  want  my  daddy!"  Yasmin  began  cry 
ing.  "I  want  my  daddy!  I  want  to  talk 
him  on  the  telephone!" 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door.  Jii 
came  into  the  room.  Yasmin  jumped  v 
and  down  screaming  for  her  father,  and  1 
went  over  to  her  and  took  her  in  his  am 
and  said,  "Yasmin,  we  love  you  .  .  . 
I  want  you  to  understand  that  nobody,  nc 
body  wants  to  hurt  you.  God  makes  all  tl 
big  decisions  in  life,  and  God  decided 

But  Yasmin  wasn't  listening  to  a  woi 
he  said.  She  was  screaming,  "Dadd 
Daddy!  Daddy!"  and  Rita  dropped  to  h< 
knees,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross 
begged  her  Saviour  for  help. 


A  prince  among  men 

Hours  later  they  put  Yasmin  to  bed 

Rita  was  going  to  stay  with  her  throu;? 
the  night,  and  she  stretched  out  on  tfc 
chaise-longue. 

Tomorrow  she  would  tell  Yasmin  th? 
regardless  of  what  rumors  she  would  he 
about  her  father  in  the  days  to  come,  si 
must  always  remember  he  was  a  prin 
among  men.  How  many  of  his  friends  h; 
said  you  always  felt  better  after  you  talk' 
with  Aly  for  a  few  minutes,  that  you  we 
in  a  better  mood  to  face  the  hum  dm 
problems  of  the  day-to-day  world. 

And  recently,  after  all  those  years 
fast  living  all  over  the  world,  Aly  h.' 
chosen  to  serve  as  the  head  of  the  Paki 
tani  delegation  to  the  UN,  and  he'd  be*1 
lauded  for  being  a  bridge  and  a  link  b 
tween  the  nations  of  Asia  and  Africa  a 
those  of  the  Western  World. 

Rita  reached  out  for  Yasmin's  wai< 
hand  in  the  darkness  of  the  room,  and  5 
wondered,  for  a  moment,  if  there  mi£ 
have  been  any  truth  at  all  to  the  gossip  s 
had  heard  lately.  That  Aly  was  tired 
life,  exhausted  by  his  whirlwind  pace  w; 
women,  horses,  cars,  society. 

No,  she  couldn't  believe  that.  Life  v 
too  full  for  Aly;  the  Aly  she  knew  was 
love  with  life.  If  death  reached  out 
him  early,  then  the  only  comfort  for  all 
them  was  that  Aly  had  lived  to  the  full 
— and  that  he  died  with  few,  if  any.  regre 

E 

Rita  stars  now  in  Story  On  Page  O 
later,  in  U.A.'s  First  Train  To  Babyl 


Sandra  Dee's  Marriage  Plans 


;  Continued  from  page  55) 

'  8.  He'll  propose  to  me,  probably  when  I'm 
i  liwenty-two. 

;  ,9.  He  won't  be  a  gossip,  especially  not 
'  bout  women. 

HO.  He'll  make  every  major  decision  in  our 

:\res. 

'  1.  He'll  be  six  inches  taller  than  me,  and 

robably  nearer  a  foot  taller. 

|2.  I  go  mad  over  clothes,  so  he'll  have  to 
'  lore  than  share  our  closet  space! 
13.  He'll  definitely  have  to  be  in  charge  of 
pie  budget. 

4.  I've  always  admired  a  man  who's 
:!  ignified. 

I  '5.  I  want  more  than  one  child,  'cause  just 
ne  can  get  awfully  spoiled.  I  know,  I  am 

j'ne.  We'll  probably  have  four  children. 

j  S.  He'll  want  to  eat  out  lots.  I  like  to  cook, 

:  ut  sometimes  my  cooking  is  disastrous! 
7  He  won't  expect  me  to  act  "icky!" 

tjjS.  He'll  have  a  deep,  masculine  voice. 

,!  9.  He'll  be  the  one  to  decide  where  we 

1  >.ke  our  vacation. 

!  p.  I'll  be  a  very  good  mother,  I  think,  but 

»r  our  children,  not  for  him. 
ft.  He'll  want  me  near  him,  but  not  all 
|%e  time. 

2.  I  want  to  have  the  feeling  that  he's 


taking  care  of  everything  and  that  I  don't 
have  to  worry  about  a  thing. 

33.  He'll  have  strength,  the  will-power 
kind. 

34.  It  would  be  nice  if  he  liked  to  do 
dishes.  .  .  . 

35.  But  I  never  want  to  see  him  in  an 
apron! 

36.  He'll  have  to  be  firm  with  me.  I  spend 
money  impulsively. 

37.  He  won't  want  me  to  be  a  baby  or 
'cute  little  girl.'  I've  had  enough  of  that! 

38.  He'll  be  able  to  talk  to  me,  'cause  I 
love  to  gab! 

39.  I  guess,  unconsciously,  I  visualize  him 
like  my  stepfather. 

40.  He'll  have  to  be  patient  with  my  groom- 
ing habits,  'cause  a  lot  of  my  success 
depends  on  my  keeping  neat  .  .  .  and  that 
takes  a  lot  of  time! 

41.  He'll  let  me  keep  my  old,  close  friends. 

42.  It  would  be  so  nice  if  we  could  just 
stay  home  some  evenings.  I  can  get  awful 
tired  of  the  social  whirl  in  Hollywood. 

43.  He'll  want  to  protect  me. 

44.  He  won't  let  me  domesticate  him. 

45.  We'll  always  have  something  to  look 
forward  to. 


46.  He  won't  mind  having  pets  around  the 
house;  I'm  crazy  about  dogs. 

47.  We'll  be  able  to  talk  out  any  disagree- 
ments we  have,  and  never  fight  them  out. 

48.  He'll  give  me  lots  of  perfume. 

49.  We'll  constantly  be  discovering  things 
about  each  other. 

50.  He'll  want  me  to  make  him  happy. 

51.  He'll  dress  neatly,  but  that  doesn't 
necessarily  mean  formally  .  .  .  just  not 
slovenly. 

52.  He'll  make  the  everyday  routine  of 
our  marriage  seem  like  one  long,  glamorous 
courtship. 

53.  We'll  have  our  honeymoon  in  a  spot 
he  picks,  and  it'll  be  a  complete  surprise 
for  me. 

54.  He  won't  be  moody. 

55.  He'll  treat  me  like  a  grown-up  woman, 
of  course. 

56.  We'll  make  a  career  out  of  our  mar- 
riage, just  as  determinedly  as  our  other 
careers. 

57.  Whenever  I  get  lonely,  he'll  be  nearby. 

58.  He'll  be  patient  when  I  don't  keep 
our  house  neat  as  a  pin. 

59.  Of  course  we'll  be  in  love,  but  .  .  . 

60.  He'll  never  realize  that  I've  caught 
him!  END 

Sandra's  newest  pictures  are  Portrait  In 
Black,  Daffy,  Romanoff  And  Juliet  (all 
17-7),  and  Gidget  Goes  Hawaiian,  Colum- 
bia. 


Thank  God  for  Barbara 


...Continued  from  page  52) 

1  io.  I  had  a  mad  crush  on  her.  She  was  my 
frst  honest-to-goodness  love.  But  Susan, 
i  ie'd  pay  me  very  little  mind.  In  fact,  the 
jKly  time  she  did  notice  me  was  whenever 
W  was  in  any  kind  of  trouble — if  I  hurt  my- 
I  ;lf  playing,  if  I  was  worried  about  some- 
f-{'ung,  if  I  was  angry  about  something. 
\  hen,  seeing  me  like  this,  she'd  say  to  me, 
W  ithout  asking  what  was  wrong,  'Dickie, 
would  you  like  to  come  inside  and 
I  nell  my  vanilla  bean?'  And  then  she'd 
j  ad  me  into  the  kitchen  of  her  family's 
i  jartment  and  over  to  a  cabinet,  where 

■  ■  ie  kept  a  big  olive  jar  with  a  bean  inside 
ej'j  And  she'd  lift  off  the  lid  and  let  me 
ifcke  a  whiff,  real  sweet-smelling  and  de- 
lj  :ious,  it  was.  And  then  she'd  say  to  me, 
Hfow  Dickie,  doesn't  that  make  everything 
!*jel  all  better  again,  just  to  smell  that  love- 
ly vanilla  bean?'  And  I'd  look  up  from  the 
iitir,  at  that  pretty  face  of  hers,  and  I'd 
luy,  'Yes,  Susie,  it  sure  does  ...  it  sure 
jbes/'  .  .  .  Well,  that  was  the  little  story  I 
(Alld  Barbara  once.  It's  strange,  but  even 
nj  ough  she  laughed  when  I  told  her  and 

en  though  she  repeated  it  to  someone  a 
:  I  uple  of  days  later,  I'd  have  thought  she'd 
■if  ve  forgotten  it  after  a  while.  But  she 
in't.  Years  passed.  And  came  the  time 
lien  all  hell  broke  loose  for  me — and  she 
lidn't.  .  .  ." 

e  investigation 

JiThe  hell  to  which  Dick  refers  erupted 
|*|e  day  early  last  November,  when  a  Con- 
,j  'essional  committee,  finished  with  the  TV 
, : .  »iz  scandals,  turned  next  to  disk  jockeys, 

acing  their  carefully -honed  needle  on  a 
,  cord  of  alleged  corruption  in  the  deejay 

nks. 

,  That  day,  committee  investigators  came 
I  ringing  out  at  Dick  Clark,  the  biggest 

■  ejay  of  them  all.  And  within  a  week, 
DUgh  he  managed  to  hide  it  well  from  his 

.  nerican    Bandstand    cameras    and  his 
j  000,000  viewers,  Dick  was  a  very  much- 
stressed  young  man. 
j  For  day  after  day,  for  a  few  hours  be- 
lj  -e  show-time  each  day,  Dick  sat  with  the 


investigators  in  his  small  Philadelphia  of- 
fice, a  few  yards  away  from  the  Bandstand 
studio,  and  repeated,  over  and  over  again, 
that  he  was  innocent  of  any  of  their 
charges. 

"I  have  never,  for  my  part,  agreed  to 
play  a  record  in  return  for  payment  in 
cash,"  he  said. 

While  the  investigators,  for  their  part, 
seemed  unimpressed. 

And  as  the  first  few  days  of  questioning 
passed  it  became  more  and  more  clear  to 
Dick  that  the  boys  in  a  back  room  on 
Capitol  Hill  were  getting  busy  tuning  up 
the  drums  that  would  accompany  his 
march  to  the  witness  chair  in  Committee 
Investigation  Room  No.  3  one  day  soon, 
and  that,  because  of  the  built-in  bad  pub- 
licity that  normally  accompanies  most 
occupants  of  that  witness  chair,  a  world  he 
had  built  these  past  few  years,  a  comfort- 
able and  happy  and  prosperous  world  for 
himself  and  his  family,  might  soon  come 
tumbling  down. 

Those  first  few  nights  at  home,  follow- 
ing the  questioning  periods,  then  the  show, 
Dick  said  nothing  about  what  had  been 
going  on  to  Barbara,  his  wife. 

And  Barbara,  likewise,  said  nothing  to 
him. 

"It  was  as  if,"  Dick  recalls,  "we  both 
thought  the  whole  thing  might  blow  over. 
I  was  tense,  and  Barb  knew  it.  The  lies  and 
insinuations  that  were  being  hurled  at  me 
now  by  certain  parties  stuck  in  my  stom- 
ach, and  hurt.  But  deep-down  I  was  con- 
vinced that  if  I  kept  on  telling  the  truth 
I'd  be  believed  and  there  would  be  nothing 
to  worry  about.  So  I'd  come  home  and  say 
nothing  about  any  investigation  I'd  been 
through,  any  headlines  I  was  making — 
I'd  eat  like  normal,  play  with  Richard  (his 
three-year-old  son)  like  normal,  watch 
some  TV  with  Barby  and  go  to  bed,  all  like 
normal.  I  had  faith,  as  I  said,  in  the  truth. 
And  in  people.  Neither,  I  felt,  would  let 
me  down." 

It  was  a  little  over  a  week  after  the 
preliminary  talks  with  the  committeemen 


ended  when  Dick's  faith  began  to  wane. 

One  evening,  shortly  after  he  got  home, 
his  phone  rang.  A  reporter  for  one  of  the 
country's  leading  slick  magazines  was  call- 
ing from  New  York.  The  reporter  was 
soft-spoken  and  sympathetic. 

"We  think  it's  a  damn  shame  up  here, 
what  you're  going  through,  Clark,"  the 
reporter  said.  "If  it's  all  right  with  you 
I'd  like  to  come  down  to  Philly,  talk  to 
you  and  get  your  side  of  the  story." 

Dick  responded  by  saying  that  he  ap- 
preciated the  sympathy,  but  he  thought  it 
was  a  little  early  for  any  story. 

"Clark,"  said  the  reporter,  "listen — there 
are  millions  and  millions  of  kids  all  around 
the  country,  and  parents  too,  who  are  with 
you  and  who  want  to  hear  what  you've  got 
to  say  about  all  this.  You  owe  it  to  them, 
Clark." 

He  talked  a  little  more,  more  and  more 
persuasively. 

Till,  finally,  Dick  agreed  to  the  story. 

For  two  days  after  that,  beginning  the 
following  morning,  Dick  talked  with  this 
reporter,  answered  all  his  questions.  They 
talked  at  Dick's  office,  in  the  studio,  while 
taking  walks,  over  lunch  in  a  small  restau- 
rant not  far  from  the  studio,  over  after- 
the-show  cups  of  coffee. 

Following  the  second  and  final  day  of 
talks,  they  shook  hands  warmly  as  the 
reporter  prepared  to  leave  Philadelphia 
and  head  back  for  home  and  his  typewriter. 

"Good  trip,"  were  Dick's  last  words  to 
the  reporter. 

"Thanks,  Clark — and  good  luck,  best  of 
luck,  to  you,"  were  his  last  words  to  Dick. 

It  was  later  that  night  when  Dick  found 
out  what  the  man  had  really  been  up  to 
all  along.  .  .  . 

He  and  Barbara  had  a  dinner  date  with 
some  friends.  They  left  the  house  at  about 
seven  o'clock.  Only  Richard  Jr.  was  home, 
sleeping;  and  the  babysitter. 

It  was  about  half  an  hour  after  they  left 
when  the  front  doorbell  rang.  The  baby- 
sitter went  to  answer.  At  the  door  stood  a 
man  who  identified  himself  as  a  reporter 
from  New  York.  He  said  he'd  been  inter- 
viewing Dick  these  past  couple  of  days  and 
that  he'd  dropped  by  for  some  more  in- 
formation. 

The  babysitter  told  him  that  Mr,  and 
Mrs.  Clark  weren't  home. 


"I  know,"  the  reporter  said.  "But  that's 
all  right — I  can  get  what  I  want  just  by 
glancing  around." 

Then  he  walked  past  the  woman  and 
started  to  look  around  the  house.  He  took 
notes  on  items  of  furniture;  how  much 
furniture  there  was,  what  it  looked  like. 
At  one  point  he  went  over  to  some  drap- 
eries, felt  them  and  said  to  the  baby- 
sitter, "Mmmm,  pretty  expensive  taste  your 
boss  has." 

"I  wouldn't  know,"  the  woman  said. 

Then  he  began  to  question  her.  He 
asked  what  she  knew  about  Mr.  Clark's 
financial  status,  about  what  items  around 
the  house  were  gifts  and  what  had  been 
bought  by  him. 

He  asked  and  asked. 

But  the  babysitter  wouldn't  answer. 

She  was  suspicious  of  this  man.  She 
hadn't  liked  his  barging  in  in  the  first 
place,  and  now  she  didn't  like  his  ques- 
tioning tactics. 

Softly,  she  told  him  that  he  had  better 
leave. 

When  he  just  smiled,  and  didn't,  she  told 
him  again,  loudly  this  time. 

"You're  trespassing,  sir,"  she  said.  "I 
don't  know  about  the  law  in  New  York, 
but  in  Pennsylvania  trespassing's  illegal. 
.  .  .  Now  if  you'll  get  out  of  my  way — "  she 
went  on,  beginning  to  head  for  the  phone, 
" — I'm  going  to  call  the  police." 

That  did  it. 

The  reporter  left. 

What  some  people  are  waiting  for 

"When  Barbara  and  I  got  home  the 
babysitter  told  me  what  had  happened," 
Dick  says.  "From  her  description  of  the 
man  I  knew  it  was  the  same  fellow  I'd  been 
confiding  in  these  past  two  days.  I  couldn't 
believe  it  ...  At  first,  I  blew  up.  I  thought 
of  that  reporter,  with  me  these  past  two 
days,  his  smiles,  his  laughter,  his  sympathy, 
his  handshakes — all  of  it  so  phony.  Sud- 
denly, I  blew  up.  I  wished  he  were  still 
there,  in  the  house,  so  I  could  belt  him  one 
in  the  nose.  I  began  to  shout.  'That's  what 
a  character  like  that  deserves,  breaking 
into  a  man's  house  like  that,'  I  shouted. 
Barbara,  who'd  been  in  the  baby's  room, 
seeing  how  he  was,  came  rushing  out. 
'Dick,'  she  said,  'that  wouldn't  do  any 
good — and  it  certainly  wouldn't  help  you, 
not  at  a  time  like  this.  It's  just  what  some 
people  are  waiting  for.  It's  all  they'd  need!" 

"Barbara's  phrase,  what  she'd  said  about 
'what  some  people  are  waiting  for,'  began 
to  spin  around  in  my  head.  Some  people, 
I  thought.  Waiting  .  .  .  waiting.  .  .  . 

"I  thought  of  people  like  this  reporter, 
like  some  others  I  knew  of,  jealous  people 
—pure  and  simple,  jealous  people,  who  be- 
grudged me  because  I'd  become  something 
of  a  success  and  who  couldn't  wait  to  see 
me  get  it  in  the  neck.  Some  people,  I 
thought,  make  the  whole  thing — the  hard 
work,  the  planning,  the  struggling,  the 
prayers,  the  hopes — not  worth  it  at  all. 

"After  our  babysitter  left  for  the  night 
Barbara  and  I  had  a  talk,  a  long  talk.  I  told 
her  how  disgusted  I  was  with  everything 
and  I  asked  her  if  she'd  mind  if  I  quit  the 
business,  show  business,  after  this  mess 
was  over.  Some  sources  have  reported  that 
I  wanted  to  quit  right  then  and  there.  This 
isn't  true.  At  no  point  did  I  ever  consider 
throwing  in  the  towel.  It  would  be  like  a 
prizefighter  sitting  in  a  comer  and  quitting 
before  the  first  round.  But  it  is  true  that  I 
thought  of  getting  out  eventually.  And  I 
talked  to  Barbara  about  it  that  night. 

"She  heard  me  out.  She  saw  how  dis- 
appointed I  was,  how  shook  I  was  by  the 
accusations  being  made,  how  shook  I  was 
that  some  sources  were  calling  me  a  liar, 
already,  before  I  had  a  chance  to  be  heard. 

"When  I  was  through  talking  she  said  to 
me,  'Dick,  I  couldn't  care  less  if  you  left 
the  business — you  should  know  that.  I 
don't  care  if  you  become  a  shoe  salesman, 


a  plumber,  anything.  I  don't  care  if  I  have 
to  pack  up  everything  tomorrow  and  we 
take  the  baby  and  just  the  three  of  us  go 
away,  to  Timbuctoo,  or  farther  even. 

"  'But,'  she  said,  'you  might  care,  Dick. 
Think  of  that.  Show  business,  your  show — 
everything  it  all  means  to  you — talking  to 
your  kids,  your  teen-agers,  playing  music 
for  them — that's  all  pretty  much  in  your 
blood  by  now.  And  it  might  be  hard  to  get 
out  of  your  blood,  just  like  that.' 

"She  talked  more,  about  the  good  friends 
I'd  made  in  the  business,  dozens  of  them; 
about  other  good  things  that  had  come  to 
me  because  of  the  business. 

"And  once  more  she  said,  'So  think  of  all 
this.  Think  of  it  carefully  before  you  make 
up  your  mind.  For  yourself,  for  your  own 
eventual  good,  Dick.' 

"We  went  to  bed  a  little  while  later.  I 
couldn't  sleep.  What  Barbara  had  said 
hadn't  changed  my  mind.  Not  really.  I  was 
disgusted,  confused.  And  I  just  lay  there 
most  of  the  night,  tossing  and  turning,  try- 
ing to  get  some  sleep,  but  not  able  to. 

"I  guess  I  finally  did  doze  off  at  about 
four,  or  five.  Anyway,  it  must  have  been 
about  seven  o'clock  when  I  half-woke  and 
saw  that  Barbara  was  up  already,  dressed, 
obviously  about  to  go  out. 

"'Where  are  you  going,  Barb?'  I  asked 
her. 

"  'To  the  store,'  she  said. 

"'At  this  hour?'  I  said.  'What  for?' 

"She  mumbled  something  I  didn't  catch, 
and  she  left. 

"I  fell  asleep  again  a  few  minutes  later. 

"And  it  was  only  after  I'd  awakened  the 
second  time  that  morning,  a  couple  of  hours 
later,  when  I  realized  what  it  was  she'd 
gone  for.  .  .  ." 

The  bedroom  was  empty.  Dick  could 
hear  Barbara,  in  the  kitchen,  giving  Rich- 
ard his  breakfast.  A  radio  was  on  in  the 
living  room.  Bobby  Darin  was  gargling  his 
way  through  Clementine,  a  then-big  hit. 
From  the  kitchen  Dick  heard  Richard  call 
out  at  one  point,  "Mommy,  is  that  Bobby 
Da- win?  That  Bobby  singing?"  "That's 
right,"  Barbara  said,  laughing,  " — that's 
Bobby  Da-win." 

Dick,  hearing  this  exchange,  started  to 
smile.  But  the  smile  didn't  last  for  long. 

More  awake  now,  he  began  to  think  of 
the  events  of  the  night  before,  the  week, 
two  weeks,  before. 


Walter  Slezak  claims  he  has  a 
very  fine  waterproof  watch.  Any 
water  that  leaks  in  can't  possibly 
get  out. 

Earl  Wilson 
in  the  New  York  Post 


Finally,  listlessly,  he  got  out  of  bed. 

He  went  into  the  bathroom — showered, 
shaved.  He  came  back  to  the  bedroom  and 
dressed.  Then,  as  he  reached  for  a  comb 
which  lay  on  the  bureau,  he  saw  it,  sitting 
there  on  the  bureau,  alongside  the  comb. 

He  looked. 

He  looked  again. 

And  then  he  called  out  for  his  wife. 

"Barb — is  this,"  he  asked,  incredulous, 
pointing,  "is  this  what  you  went  out  to 
buy  this  morning?" 

Barbara  nodded. 

"This?"  Dick  asked  again.  "For  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Barbara,  nodding  again.  She 
smiled.  "Really  Dick,  you  can  close  your 
mouth  now — there's  nothing  so  amazing 
about  it,"  she  said.  "I  just  bought  a  jar  of 
olives  and  a  vanilla  bean,  removed  the 
olives  from  the  jar  and  put  in  the  vanilla 
bean  instead  .  .  .  Isn't  that  the  way  Susie, 
the  landlady's  daughter,  used  to  do  it?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Dick. 

"And,"  Barbara  said,  "like  little  Susie 


used  to  say,  'Just  take  a  whiff  of  that  love- 
ly bean  and  see  if  everything  doesn't  feel 
all  better  inside  you'  .  .  .  Isn't  that  what 
she  used  to  say,  Dick,  when  you  were  just 
a  little  boy?" 
"Yes,"  said  Dick. 

Suddenly,  from  the  kitchen,  Richard  Jr 
called  out. 

"Oh-oh,"  said  Barbara,  "I'd  better  go." 

And  Dick  turned  back  to  his  jar. 

He  picked  it  up  now,  brought  it  to  his 
nose,  slowly,  and  he  took  a  whiff. 

"And  it  came  to  me  at  that  moment,"  he 
says,  "what  a  lucky  guy  I  really  was.  .  . 

"You  know,  once  at  a  teen-age  panel 
discussion,  somebody  brought  up  the  ques- 
tion: What  is  the  difference  in  your  opin- 
ion between  young  love  and  married  love? 

"It  was  a  hard  question — I  thought — but  I 
answered  it  as  best  I  could.  'Teen-age  love 
is  exciting,  challenging,  full  of  pitfalls  and 
always  new,'  I  said.  'Married  love,'  I  said, 
'can  be  exciting,  depending  on  the  two 
people  involved  but,  as  exciting  as  it  can 
be,  it  usually  is  not  new.' 

"I  saw  now,  this  morning,  as  I  stood 
holding  the  olive  jar,  looking  down  at  thai 
funny  little  vanilla  bean,  that  I'd  been 
wrong  in  my  answer  that  day. 

"Days  may  pass,  months,  years  may  pass 
between  two  married  people.  Nothing  new 
may  seem  to  happen.  Life  becomes  routine 
You  love  one  another,  but  you  hardly 
bother  to  tell  that  to  one  another  anymore. 
You  hardly  know  how  to  say  it  without 
sounding  silly  after  a  while.  And  then, 
suddenly,  something  happens,  trouble,  for 
instance.  And  it's  said  again,  anew,  how 
much  love  there  really  is  between  the  two 
of  you.  With  all  the  sentiment  and  beauty 
there  is  in  a  good  heart  thrown  in  for  good 
measure.  The  way  Barbara  said  it  to  me 
that  morning." 

Dick  goes  on: 

"You  know — I  knew  how  much,  thai 
morning,  I  loved  my  wife.  And  all  sorts  oJ 
things  I'd  almost  forgotten  about  Barbara 
important  moments  in  our  life,  treasureo 
moments  to  a  woman,  I  guess,  but  moment; 
a  man  can  easily  forget,  came  rushing  back 
to  my  mind  now — 

"I  thought  of  her  the  night  I  asked  hei 
to  marry  me — the  first  time  I  ever  saw 
her  cry. 

"I  thought  of  her  the  night  we  were 
married,  how  she  laughed  so  hard  and 
blushed  so  much  when  we  got  to  our  hote1 
and  this  pound  of  rice  came  rolling  from 
my  hair  as  I  bent  to  sign  the  register. 

"I  thought  of  how  her  voice  sounded  thai 
day,  years  after  we  were  married,  all  dur- 
ing which  time  we  were  trying  so  hard  tc 
have  a  baby,  when  she  phoned  me  at  work 
to  tell  me  she'd  just  taken  a  pregnancy 
test  and  had  passed  it —  'What  did  the 
rabbit  say?'  I'd  asked  her,  and  she'd  said 
"The  rabbit  said  yes,  Daddy  .  .  .  Daddy. . . . 

"I  thought  of  the  look  in  her  eyes  th« 
night  Richard  was  born,  when  I  saw  hei 
right  after,  when  before  I  had  a  chance  tc 
ask  her  how  she  was  feeling,  she  asked 
'How  are  you.  Dick?  .  .  .  Are  you  all  right? 

"I  thought  of  how  patient  she's  been  with 
me  all  these  years,  the  faults  of  mine  she'c 
had  to  put  up  with,  my  short  temper  some- 
times, my  moodiness  sometimes. 

"I  thought  of  the  evenings,  lots  of  eve- 
nings, when  I'd  come  home  from  work 
and  she'd  ask  if  we  couldn't  go  out  foi 
a  while,  and  I'd  say,  'No,  honey,  I'm  tired 
— something  like  that — forgetting  how  she'c 
been  in  the  house  all  day,  what  a  nics 
change  it  might  be  for  her  to  get  out  foi 
a  bit. 

"I  thought  of  all  these  things  as  I  stooc 
there  now,  holding  my  olive  jar,  whiffins 
my  vanilla  bean. 

"And  I  discovered,  unashamedly,  that  '. 
loved  my  wife  more  than  I  ever  though' 
was  humanly  possible. 

"As  I  discovered,  standing  there  now 
sniffing  that  little  bean,  that  my  cares 


problems,  worries — all  the  things  that  had 
had  me  so  bugged  the  night  before,  those 
Two  weeks  before — were  leaving  me.  one 
by  one. 

"I  realized  suddenly,  too.  that  it  was 
morning,  the  beginning  of  a -new  day  .  .  . 
that  I  could  face  anything  now. 

"I  put  down  the  jar  and  picked  up  my 
comb.  I  looked  into  the  mirror,  in  front 
of  me. 

'"  'You  just  keep  paddling  along.  Boy.' 
I  said  to  myself,  "because,  you  know,  every- 
thing might  turn  out  to  be  just  okav  '" 

For  the  next  five  months.  16.000.000  fans 
and  the  entire  entertainment  industry 
waited  to  see  what  would  happen  to  Dick. 

Dick  himself,  meanwhile,  continued  pad- 
dling along,  waiting  for  the  committee 
hearings  to  begin. 

"Those  five  months  weren't  exactly 
easy,"  he  recalls.  '"Unavoidably  the  tense- 
ness would  return.  And  when  it  did.  it  was 
Barbara  who  came  through,  as  always.  She 
stayed  calm,  never  moped,  never  acted  dis- 
couraged. And  I'd  become  right  again,  just 
looking  at  her.  being  with  her.  It  was  as 
simple  as  that.  .  .  ." 

Dick  Clark's  biggest  show  began  in  late 
April,  in  Washington.  D.  C. 

It  began  with  a  bang — for  the  prosecu- 
tion. 

Dick,  silent  as  the  committee  flung  its 
charges  at  him.  waited  for  his  chance  to 
defend  himself. 

His  chance  come,  finally,  he  spoke  up. 

He  spoke  softly,  surely. 

"I  have  never  accepted  any  bribery." 
he  repeated,  answering  the  official  charge 
against  him.  "As  far  as  investing  in  other 
companies  and  making  some  money  from 
these  investments."  he  said.  "I  followed 
the  ground  rules  that  existed." 

The  charges  and  questions  kept  coming 
those  next  two  days. 

Dick  kept  answering  them 

And  soon  it  seemed  that  the  case  against 
him  was  beginning  to  fizzle. 

There  was  no  actual  verdict  when  it  was 
all  over.  But  it  appeared  to  most  people 
that  Dick  had  come  out  on  top  when  Oren 
Harris,  the  committee  chairman,  summed 
up  by  saying:  "You're  not  the  inventor  of 
the  system  or  even  its  architect.  You're  a 
product  of  it" — then  adding:  "Surely,  Dick 
Clark,  you're  a  fine  young  man." 

Dick's  enemies  writhed. 

"Obviously,"  said  one  of  them,  "the 
chairman  showed  as  much  perspicacity  as 
any  fifteen-year-old." 

But  his  friends  and  fans  rocked  with  joy. 

Back  home  in  Philadelphia  that  night 
Dick  found  hundreds  of  telegrams  scat- 
tered around  the  dining  room  table,  from 
people  all  over  the  country,  congratulating 
him  and  wishing  him  well. 

Connie  Francis  phoned  from  New  York. 

Fabian  and  Frankie  Avalon  phoned 
from  Hollywood. 

Bobby  Darin,  in  Philadelphia  that  night, 
dropped  by  to  see  Dick.  Bobby  was  tired- 
looking  and  Dick  started  to  chide  him  for 
working  so  hard,  for  not  taking  it  easier. 

"Yeah,"  Bobby  agreed,  "big  eye-bags 
gotta  go  .  .  .  But  man,  like  you're  sure 
looking  good."  Turning  to  Barbara,  who 
was  standing  alongside  Dick  at  the  mo- 
ment, he  said.  "Like  you've  maybe  been 
taking  prettv  good  care  of  our  bov  here, 
hey,  Mrs.  C?" 

Barbara  looked  over  at  Dick  and 
shrugged. 

Dick  looked  over  at  her  and  smiled  and 
took  her  hand. 

Neither  of  them  said  anything. 

They  simply  continued  looking  at  one 
another. 

And.  somehow,   a   certain   third  party- 
present  felt  suddenly  that  it  was  like  time 
for  him  to  disappear,  on  the  double. 
Which  he  did.  .  .  .  END 
Dick  can  still  be  seen  starring  in  Colum- 
bia's Because  They're  Young. 


Only  20  minutes  more  than  last  night's  pin-up 

wake  up 
with  a 


^  permanent/, 


St- 


Only  new  Bobbi  waves  while  you  sleep . . . 
brushes  into  a  softly  feminine,  lasting  hairstyle 

If  you  can  put  up  your  hair  in 
pin  curls,  you  can  give  yourself  a 
Bobbi — the  easy  pin  curl  perma- 
nent. It  takes  only  twenty  minutes 
more  than  a  setting!  Then,  the 
wave  "takes"  while  you  sleep  be- 
cause Bobbi  is  self-neutralizing. 

In  the  morning  you  wake  up  with 
a  permanent  that  brushes  into  a 
soft,  finished  hairstyle  with  the  last- 
ing body  only  a  permanent  gives. 
Complete  kit,  $2.00.  Refill,  $1.50. 

The  most  convenient  permanent  of  all— home  or  beauty  shop! 


Here's  Charlie! 

(Continued  from  page  48) 

to  come  up  with  something  satisfactorily 
sensational.  Each  time  I  finished  lamely 
with  only  the  bare  truth:  "All  I  can  say  is 
— find  the  right  man  who  really  loves  you 
and  really  wants  to  stay  married.  Then 
marry  him." 

They  grinned  and  nodded  wisely.  "Ah, 
so!  You  keep  secret,  yes?" 

People  all  over,  I  finally  realized,  want 
to  make  everything  so  darned  compli- 
cated, especially  an  elemental  emotion 
such  as  plain,  old-fashioned  love. 

At  the  Academy  Awards  in  March  when 
Susan  Hayward's  words,  ".  .  .  and  the 
winner  is — Charlton  Heston,"  made  him 
officially  best  screen  actor  of  the  year, 
Chuck  did  what  to  him  came  naturally. 
He  grabbed  me  and  planted  a  long,  ardent, 
expressive  smacker  on  my  startled  lips 
before  approximately  84,000,000  delighted 
TV  kibitzers.  Then  he  trotted  up  on  stage 
to  get  his  Oscar. 

Well,  when  we  finally  turned  the  key  to 
our  hilltop  house  around  6:30  the  next 
morning,  we  had  to  read  our  way  through 
telegrams  stacked  like  giant  cornflakes 
against  the  front  door.  Inside,  the  phone 
rang  like  a  station-house  general  alarm. 
Soon  the  mailman  was  dumping  sacks  of 
letters  from  all  over  America  and  places 
as  remote  as  Rome,  Paris,  and  Tokyo. 
The  gist  of  it  all: 

"What  a  thrilling,  nice  and  wonderful 
thing  that  was  for  you  to  do!" 

Charlie  raked  his  brown  curls  in  be- 
wilderment at  this.  "Say,"  he  puzzled,  "I 
can't  have  been  the  first  guy  in  history 
ever  to  kiss  his  wife,  can  I?" 

Miracles 

I  guess  in  a  town  notoriously  ripped 
and  torn  by  domestic  rivalries,  and  paved 
with  divorce  decrees,  a  simple  kiss  some- 
times seems  like  a  miracle.  Charlie  Hes- 
ton has  always  seemed  like  a  miracle  to 
me,  anyway.  Because  ever  since  we  met 
back  in  Northwestern  University  around 
eighteen  years  ago,  miracles  have  been 
happening. 

Only  last  December,  for  example,  when 
Chuck  and  I  were  away  in  London,  a  roar- 
ing brush  fire  flared  in  Coldwater  Canyon 
back  of  Beverly  Hills,  where  our  new 
house  soars  out  into  space  on  a  mountain 
spur.  The  grim  news  was  flashed  to  us: 
House  in  path  of  flames — seems  certain 

TO  BURN. 

I  dissolved  into  tears.  But  Chuck  would 
have  none  of  the  tragic  thought.  "Don't 
worry.  Nothing  will  happen  to  our  house," 
he  assured  me.  "It  can't." 

Well,  it  didn't.  Billowing  flames  raced 
to  its  edge,  seared  trees  on  the  terrace, 
buckled  some  glass.  Then  surprisingly, 
they  leaped  over  the  roof  to  the  other 
side.  Firemen  told  us  on  our  return,  "We 
can't  understand  it.  Your  place  should 
have  burned  to  ashes."  And  they  used 
that  word — "It  was  a  miracle." 

Or,  consider  how  we  got  that  house  in 
the  first  place.  Of  all  the  things  I  defi- 
nitely did  not  want  it  was  a  house.  There 
was  already  a  Heston  house — or  an  eight- 
room  lodge,  rather — up  in  the  virgin  for- 
est of  Michigan's  peninsula,  where  Chuck 
and  I  could  go  to  get  away  from  it  all.  And 
the  way  our  lives  were  ordered,  I  wanted 
no  part  of  possessions  that  possessed  us, 
housekeeping  responsibilities  or  restrict- 
ing roots  in  any  California  soil. 

Both  Chuck  and  I  liked  to  hop  around 
the  world  like  flying  kangaroos.  All  I 
wanted  was  an  apartment  where  I  could 
just  lock  the  door  and  forget  it.  We  had 
68  two  that  were  perfect:  one  in  New  York's 


Tudor  City  for  visits,  and  homebase  at 
mammoth  La  Brea  Towers  in  midtown 
Los  Angeles.  For  eight  years  we  were 
serenely  happy  with  that  set-up. 

So,  when  our  baby  son,  Fraser,  started 
getting  active  and  Chuck  started  making 
noises  like  a  householder,  I  discreetly 
changed  the  subject.  Indulgently,  I  made 
the  rounds  of  old  houses  with  Chuck,  but 
they  were  either  in  the  wrong  place,  too 
old,  or  too  expensive  to  remodel.  That 
was  great  with  me;  I  breathed  sighs  of 
relief. 

Then  one  afternoon  Charlton  thundered 
in  all  out  of  breath.  "Come  on,"  he  panted. 
"I've  got  a  big  surprise  for  you!"  Hurry- 
ing me  into  his  Corvette,  he  raced  me  up 
the  canyon,  led  me,  blindfolded  with  his 
handkerchief,  out  on  a  point.  "Now,"  he 
said,  "look!" 

What  I  saw  was  a  breathtaking,  360- 
degree  view,  over  half  Los  Angeles  and 
Beverly  Hills,  with  even  that  well-known 
Catalina  Island  shimmering  in  the  dis- 
tance. I  burst  into  tears. 

Suddenly  I  knew  this  was  the  place. 
All  my  problems  were  solved.  I  didn't 
want  to  live  anywhere  else  but  right  here 
— and  in  a  house  with  Chuck. 

A  working  project 

One  more  miracle — the  greatest  of  all — 
lay  behind  both  of  these.  His  name  is 
Fraser  Clarke  Heston,  and  by  now  he's  a 
bright,  button-eyed  towhead  of  five. 
Neither  Chuck  nor  I  can  imagine  life 
without  'Fray.'  But  when  I  called  from 
my  backstage  dressing  room  in  a  Minne- 
apolis theater  some  six  years  ago,  caught 
Charlton  in  Paramount's  wardrobe  depart- 
ment, and  announced  breathlessly,  "You're 
going  to  be  a  father!"  the  answer  I  got 
was,  "A  baby?  That's  impossible!  What 
in  the  world  will  we  do  with  it?" 

But  what  was  to  happen  to  me  later  on 
about  that  house,  smote  Chuck  exactly  the 
same  way  now  about  the  baby  news.  "The 
greatest  moment  of  my  life,"  he'll  tell  you 
now,  "was  when  that  doctor  came  down 
the  hall  and  said,  'Congratulations — you're 
the  father  of  a  fine  son!'  Those  were  the 
most  glorious  lines  I've  ever  heard 
spoken!"' 

And  when  the  nurse  put  him  in  Charlie's 
arms,  I  could  tell  by  his  face  that  this  was 
going  to  be  a  working  project. 

I  must  confess,  though,  that  when  I  first 
met  Charlie  I  had  no  'working  project' 
ideas  about  us.  He  was  a  freshie  at  North- 
western University  and  we  were  in  a 
dramatics  class  together.  The  first  time  I 
became  aware  of  his  existence  was  when 
he  almost  blasted  me  out  of  my  seat  with 

J  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  I  * 

~      Richard  Boone:  I  live  on  a  simple  " 

~      budget.  Never  spend  more  than  ~ 

~      10  per  cent  of  my  income.  ~ 

Sidney  Skolskv 

2  in  the  New  York  Post  ~ 

Ti i  i  i  i  i i  i  i  i i  i  i  i  i i  i  i  i  i i  i  i  i  i i 7 

a  critique  of  a  play  we  were  analyzing. 
"It's  skeletal,"  pronounced  Chuck  in  a 
deep,  bass  voice.  .  .  . 

I  was  a  small-town  girl  from  Wisconsin, 
with  acting  ambitions.  Charlton  looked  like 
Young  Abe  Lincoln  of  Illinois.  He  was  a 
gangling,  bony  bumpkin  from  the  Michigan 
sticks,  nature  boy  in  the  raw.  He'd  been 
brought  up  in  the  wild  backwoods  of  Ros- 
common County,  which  his  grandad 
bought— yep,  the  whole  county— for  $80,000 
at  a  tax  sale  in  1902.  Unfortunately,  he  sold 
it  before  oil  was  discovered,  but  Chuck 
owns  1,400  acres  of  homeland  on  Russell 
Lake,  named  after  his  dad,  where  that 
getaway  lodge  is.  He  bought  it  with  the 
first  movie  money  he  made  from  The 
Greatest  Show  on  Earth,  because  that's 


where  his  roots  are — he  loves  the  land 
Chuck  went  to  a  country  school  where 
one  teacher  taught  all  eight  grades,  where 
sometimes  it  was  too  cold  to  hold  a  pencr 
and  you  couldn't  use  a  pen  because  the 
ink  was  frozen  stiff.  He  hunted,  fished  anc 
trapped  all  over  the  wilderness  from  the 
time  he  could  scamper,  and  when  he  go* 
lost — as  he  once  did — Charlton  (that's  his 
mom's  maiden  name)  saved  his  own  life 
by  getting  his  directions  from  a  wedge  of 
northerning  geese. 

Two  on  a  scholarship 

The  reason  Chuck  was  in  Northwestern 
on  a  dramatic  scholarship— like  I  was — 
was  because  he  never  had  many  playmates 
besides  muskrats,  beaver,  a  few  deer  and 
unsociable  bobcats.  So,  he  lay  under  the 
pines  for  hours  reading  all  sorts  of  derring- 
do  books,  then  let  his  imagination  act  out 
every  character  in  the  pages.  Once,  he 
got  so  carried  away  with  himself  in  the 
role  of  a  wandering  knight,  that  he  grabbed 
a  spare  shirt,  some  cake  and  apples,  a 
kitchen  knife  for  a  sword  and  a  few  books 
for  dream  fuel  and  swung  down  the  road 
to  High  Adventure.  But  when  the  sun 
went  down,  the  frogs  croaked,  owls  hooted 
and  bears  grunted,  Sir  Fearnaught  Heston 
hightailed  back  home.  Still,  by  the  time  he 
was  ready  for  college.  Chuck  was  a  natural 
actor.  That's  all  he'd  been  doing  for  years. 

But  what  Chuck  knew  about  girls  you 
could  put  in  an  empty  shotgun  shell.  He'd 
never  had  a  date.  When  he  finally  badgered 
me  into  his  first  date  I  reported  to  my 
mother  thus:  "I've  just  gone  out  with  the 
most  uncivilized,  rude  and  crude,  wildly 
untidy,  impossible  man  on  the  campus!" 

It's  a  small  wonder,  considering  the 
number  of  spurned  marriage  proposals 
made,  that  Chuck  lasted  it  out,  but  he  was 
obviously  a  bear  for  punishment.  Each 
time  I  reiterated  forcefully  what  I  had  said 
at  the  start— that  if  Mr.  C.  C.  Heston  was 
the  last  man  left  on  earth,  I  would  leap 
at  the  chance  to  be  a  spinster. 

Then  how  did  we  ever  make  it  to  a  par- 
son? It  must  have  been  the  subtle  work- 
ing of  love,  or  else  my  sheer  awe  at  Chuck's 
nerve.  This  was  dramatically  demonstrated, 
to  my  amazement,  one  New  Year  in  our 
senior  year.  At  the  time  Chuck  held  down 
a  job  as  night  elevator  boy  at  a  flossy 
North  Shore  apartment  house,  while  I 
worked  in  the  college  cafeteria.  A  bonanza 
of  Christmas  tips  dropped  $100  in  his  big 
paws,  a  sum  which  could  keep  him  in 
courting  money  for  at  least  a  year.  Instead, 
Chuck  thought  Big,  chunking  the  wad  on 
one  dazzling  pitch  to  prove  to  me  he'd 
come  a  long  way  from  Roscommon  county. 

He  rented  a  full-dress  outfit,  top  hat  and 
all,  and  invited  me  to  the  exclusive  Pump 
Room  at  Chicago's  Ambassador  East— just 
the  swankiest,  costliest  joint  in  town. 
Whirling,  or  stumbling,  about  the  floor  like 
a  Gold  Coast  playboy — Chuck  waved  con- 
descendingly to  a  few  outraged  residents 
of  his  apartment  house  who'd  dropped  ten- 
dollar  bills  in  the  tip-kitty  to  finance  the 
needy  elevator  boy's  evening! 

So  Chuck  lost  his  job,  but  for  better  or 
worse  he  won.  How  could  I  keep  on  saying 
no  to  a  wild  man  like  that?  I  didn't  for 
long,  even  though  Chuck's  stream  of  pro- 
posals had  to  come  via  Western  Union.  The 
Army  Air  Corps  gave  him  his  greetings 
and  shipped  him  to  Greensboro,  North 
Carolina,  for  training.  One  day,  about 
spring  vacation,  I  wired  from  Northwestern 
I  ACCEPT,  and  bought  a  ticket  to  Greens- 
boro. School,  it  turned  out,  had  become 
deadly  dull  without  the  'wild  man'  around. 
We  got  hitched  on  St.  Patrick's  Day,  1944. 
On  our  hurry-up  honeymoon  we  took  in 
a  play  and  the  usher  led  us  to  separate 
seatsf  And  the  hotel  clerk  even  tried  to 
sell  us  a  room  with  twin  beds!  Also,  when 
the  brief  leave  was  over.  Chiick-adlisiled 


We  Dare  Any  Other  Eye  Make-up  to  Make  This  Swim  Test! 


PERMANENT  DARKENER  FOR  LASHES  AND  BROWS 

^ {for  the  hairs  to  which  applied) 
•  1  APPLICATION  LASTS  4  to  5  WEEKS!  \f 


You  tan  swim,  walk  in  the 
rain,  weep  at  the  movies, 
and  keep  that  "faorn- 
beautifui"  look,  with 
"Dark-Eyes"  .  .  .  avoids 
looking  "featureless"  at  the 
beach.  Water  makes  mascara 
run— with  "Dark-Eyes"  this 
CAN'T  HAPPEN!  "Dark- 
Eyes"  is  not  a  mascara  .  .  . 

"Dark-Eyes"  keeps  brows 
and  lashes  NATURALLY 
soft,  dark,  luxuriant  ALL 
DAY,  AU  NIGHT.  "Dark- 
Eyes"  colors,  doesn't  coat. 
Lasts  until  hairs  are  replaced 
every  4  to  5  weeks. 

No  more  sticky,  beady  look 
—  no  more  brittle,  breaking 
hairs— no  more  tired  looking 
smudges  .under  eyes. 
"Dark-Eyes"  contains  no 
aniline  dyes.  Light  brown, 
brown,  black. 
•  Now  in  26th  year 

Year's  supply  $1.55 

at  leading  drug,  dep't  and 

variety  stores. 


250 

TODAY  FOR 
TRIAL  SIZE 


NO  DEMY-your 
rial  order  shipped 
in  24  hours. 


"DARK-EYES"  COMPANY,  Dept.  A-80 

3319  W.  Carroll  Ave.,  Chicago  24,  III. 

—tax  included)  for 
with  directions. 
□  Brown    □  Black 


I  enclose  25c  (coin  or  stam 
TRIAL  SIZE  pkg.  of  "Dark-Eye: 
check  shade    Q  Light  Brown 


North,  like  those  geese,  to  a  lonely  radio 
station,  shivering  out  what  was  left  of  the 
War  in  the  foggy  Aleutians.  I  had  to  hit 
the  books  again  at  college.  For  years  after, 
it  seemed,  everything  that  turned  up 
yanked  us  in  two  different  directions. 

Strictly  from  hunger 

We  had  a  few  months  of  love  on  a  dime 
after  J-Day,  when  Chuck  came  back,  fat 
as  a  pig  from  sitting  around  the  frosty 
Port  Heiden  hut  stuffing  his  chow.  "My 
hero!"  I  said  sarcastically  when  I  saw  him. 
But  he  soon  slimmed  down  through 
necessity.  In  fact,  the  housekeeping  we  set 
up  in  a  furnished  Chicago  room  was 
strictly  from  hunger.  Our  cupboard  was  an 
old  trunk,  our  stove  a  dinky  hotplate  and 
our  automatic  dishwasher  the  bathroom 
basin.  All  we  had  to  gorge  ourselves  on 
was  $8  a  week.  It  wasn't  much  better 
when  we  moved  to  New  York. 

There  I  got  a  job  for  $30  a  week  as  a 
model  and  Chuck  was  strictly  a  kept  man 
for  the  dismal  months  he  pounded  Broad- 
way cement  trying  for  a  break.  The  luxury 
house  which  we  have  today  is  in  stark 
contrast  to  the  dark  cold-water  flat  in 
Hell's  Kitchen  where  steamshpis  at  the 
docks  nearby  shook  the  window  with 
whistle  blasts  and  trucks  rumbled  by  night 
and  day,  shaking  our  bed — one,  by  the 
way,  which  Chuck  hammered  together 
from  some  rough  boards  for  a  total  outlay 
of  $2.60.  We  were  so  poor  that  once  Chuck 
— who  marketed  with  me  so  he  could  lug 
home  the  groceries — held  up  a  checkout 
line  twenty  minutes  returning  a  seven-cent 
can  of  evaporated  milk  we  decided  we 
didn't  need. 

Still,  in  the  luckier  years  that  followed, 
both  Chuck  and  I  were  so  sentimental 
about  that  shabby  pad  that  we  kept  paying 
the  rent  for  years  until  a  wrecking  crew 
got  it.  Reason?  We  were  together  then. 
We  weren't  together  much  after  our  two 
careers  got  rolling. 

The  first  man-sized  stage  break  Charlton 
got  sent  him  to  Boston.  At  approximately 
the  same  time  I  broke  the  ice  in  a  road 
company  headed  for  Chicago.  After  that — 
well — that  honeymoon  usher  sure  picked 
the  right  omen  with  those  separate  seats. 
Only  the  true-bluest  type  of  trust,  need, 
and  devotion  could  have  kept  a  marriage 
growing  in  those  ticklish  far-apart  first 
years.  We  can  look  back  and  laugh  today, 
although  things  weren't  always  so  funny 
at  the  time. 

We've  actually  whizzed  past  each  other 
in  planes  heading  in  different  directions. 
We've  met  in  railroad  stations,  to  share  a 
cup  of  coffee  and  a  kiss  at  a  lunch  counter, 
then  raced  for  separate  gates  at  an 
"A-l-1-1-1  Aboard!"  Once  I  had  fifty  guests 
coming  for  an  Anniversary  dinner,  only  to 
stick  Chuck  with  the  job  of  feeding  them 
when  a  "Come  at  once"  call  came  with  a 
job  offer.  Another  time  Chuck  had  to  leave 
me  holding  the  same  bag  to  mix  drinks  at 
a  cocktail  party  for  eighty.  For  a  long 
time,  Charlie  and  I  had  separate  sets  of 
friends  in  assorted  cities  of  the  U.S.A.  We 
had  several  sets  of  clothes,  automobiles, 
furniture,  apartments,  even  cooks,  thou- 
sands of  miles  apart.  We've  had  to  settle  on 
long-distance  calls,  for  "I  love  you's,"  or  a 
look  at  a  longed-for  face  over  TV.  A  few 
times  there  have  been  some  not  so  laugh- 
able misunderstandings. 

One  time,  for  example,  Chuck  called  me 
in  New  York  from  Hollywood  at  3:00  a.m. 
only  to  get  a  man's  voice.  Crossed  wires,  of 
course,  but  it  kept  up  until  everyone  was 
snapping  misunderstandings  and  sharp 
words.  Another  time  I  switched  on  my  TV. 
only  to  scream  at  Chuck's  gory  head 
hoisted  up  off  his  neck.  I  didn't  know  he 
was  playing  Macbeth  that  night,  and  that 
the  horrible  vision  was  achieved  with 
trick  camera  effects. 


But  getting  back  to  reality,  I  was  in 
Minneapolis  playing  The  Seven  Year  Itch 
when  my  tummy  got  woozy  mornings  and 
a  doctor  gave  me  the  madonna  tidings. 
By  the  time,  back  in  Hollywood,  that 
Chuck  accepted  the  frightening  fact  of 
approaching  fatherhood,  I  had  rambled 
around  the  country  dodging  spring  floods, 
narrowly  missed  a  train  wreck  and  kept 
the  show  going  (with  Fraser  making  his 
stage  entrance  ahead  of  mine)  before  I 
gave  up.  No  sooner  had  I  hit  home  nest 
in  Los  Angeles,  than  Chuck  tore  off  to 
Egypt  for  three  months  with  The  Ten 
Commandments.  Luckily,  he  made  it  back 
for  the  main  event.  By  then  I  was  so 
used  to  handling  things  by  myself  that 
when  Chuck  called,  from  the  set  to  ask 
how  I  was  I  said,  "Fine,"  even  though  I 
was  timing  my  labor  pains  at  the  moment. 

Fraser  hasn't  worked  since 

Today  we  call  our  son  "the  youngest 
retired  actor  in  Hollywood"  because  at 
three  months  of  age  Fray  played  the  Baby 
Moses  in  the  bulrushes  and  hasn't  worked 
since.  Things  aren't  quite  so  final  with 
me,  I  still  like  to  keep  my  hand  in  a 
make-up  kit;  in  fact,  only  last  summer 
we  played  together  in  State  of  the  Union 
in  summer  stock  at  Santa  Barbara.  A 
family  project  like  that's  fine,  but  as  for 
whipping  off  to  all  points  of  the  compass, 
not  any  more.  My  ambition's  simply  gone 
out  to  lunch,  because  I'm  so  fulfilled  as  a 
wife  and  mother. 

I'm  not  the  self-sacrificing  wife  or  any- 
thing like  that,  believe  me.  It's  just  that 
now  I  get  the  same  satisfaction  out  of 
Charlie's  career  as  I  once  did  my  own. 

I  guess  I  proved  that  to  myself  last  year. 
About  the  time  the  Ben-Hur  premiere 
was  set  for  New  York,  in  came  a  juicy 
picture  offer  for  me.   It  meant  a  location 


in  Denver  just  as  Charlton  was  set  for  his 
triumph.   I  turned  it  down. 

And  it  happened  again  when  Chuck 
took  on  The  Tumbler  on  Broadway.  Same 
week  he  signed  for  that  play  I  was  offered 
a  run-of-play  contract  with  another  on 
the  same  big  street.  "N-n-no,"  I  hedged  to 
Chuck  cautiously,  "what  if  your  play's  a 
flop  and  mine's  a  hit?  Then  we'd  be 
separated  again,  wouldn't  we?" 

That's  exactly  what  happened.  The 
Tumbler  lasted  a  week  and  my  rejected 
opus  is  still  running,  and  I'm  glad  I'm  not 
running  with  it. 

The  truth  is,  since  Fraser  has  made  us 
a  trio  I  find  nothing  in  show  business 
rewarding  enough  to  pry  me  away.  When 
Chuck  moved  to  Rome  with  Ben-Hur,  it 
was  a  family  move.  We  found  an  ancient 
villa  owned  by  the  noble  Flavian  family 
outside  Rome  where  the  Emperor  Do- 
mitian  once  spent  his  holidays.  It  had 
formal  gardens,  fountains  everywhere  and 
a  private  entrance  to  the  Catacombs,  if 
you  liked  that  sort  of  thing.  We  lived  at 
the  Horti  Flaviani  ten  months,  most  of 
which  I  spent  wondering  if  Charlie  would 
show  up  in  one  piece  at  night.  In  fact, 
during  this  spell  Paris  Match,  the  French 
picture  paper,  printed  shots  of  me  looking 
anxiously  on  as  Chuck  lashed  his  chariot 
perilously  around  the  Spina  racing  Steve 
Boyd.  They  captioned  them  "Madame 
Heston  crispait  les  mains"  (wrings  her 
hands) . 

The  loveliest  present 

Even  with  all  the  suspense  we  look  back 
on  that  Roman  Holiday  with  tenderness. 
When  it  was  over,  Chuck  gave  me  the 
loveliest  present  I've  ever  had  from 
him.  It's  a  gold  bracelet  with  three 
pendants  he  designed  and  had  cast.  One 
says,  "Roma-MCMLVIII,"  another  "C.L.F."  09 


glory  lingers  on 

■l  '-fin  ' 


Fraser  Heston's  now  a  great  big  boy  of  five,  but  he  made  his  mark  in  the 
world  (with  his  foot,  signing  a  contract  for  Cecil  B.  DeMille)  at  three  months. 


When  Charlton  Heston  made  his  first  impact  across  the  Ameri- 
can screen  as  Moses  in  The  Ten  Commandments,  his  little  son 
Fraser  was  allowed  to  be  on  for  a  short  while  as  the  baby  Moses. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he'd  been  promised  the  part  before  he  was 
born.  Cecil  B.  DeMille  had  told  the  Hestons  the  baby  could  have 
the  part  if  it  turned  out  to  be  a  boy.  Charlton  didn't  know  it  then, 
but  as  the  child  got  older,  he  never  forgot  what  he'd  been  told 
about  his  few  glorious  moments  on  the  screen. 

One  day  after  that  film  was  released,  the  Heston  family  were 
out  for  a  drive  and  stopped  for  a  light  on  Sunset  Boulevard.  Some 
fans  in  the  next  car  recognized  the  man  at  the  wheel  and  called 
out,  "Hey,  Moses,  say  hello!" 

Before  Mrs.  Heston  could  stop  him,  Fraser  stood  up  and  leaned 
over  and  waved,  all  smiles,  to  the  people  in  the  other  car. 

Then  he  turned  to  his  father  and  lisped  proudly,  "Look,  Daddy, 
they  know  me !" 


for  the  three  Heston  initials  and  the  third's 
a  replica  of  the  First-Century  Roman 
marble  pillar  standing  outside  our  palace. 

Ben-Hur  has  been  more  than  just  an- 
other picture  for  Charlton.  Ever  since  it 
opened  it  has  been  more  like  a  career.  So 
far,  he's  traveled  over  30,000  miles  plug- 
ping  the  epic.  I've  been  with  him  for 
25,000.  "I'll  go  anywhere  you  say  when 
I'm  free,"  Chuck  obligingly  told  MGM 
when  they  asked  him  to  spread  the  word. 
"But  not  for  long  without  my  wife."  Re- 
cently we  took  off  for  Australia. 

I  think  I've  paid  my  way,  too,  just  in 
terms  of  keeping  Chuck  'presentable'— an 
artist  in  most  lines  has  no  clothes  sense 
worth  mentioning,  cut  or  color.  He  leaves 
things  lying  around  in  a  rumpled  mess. 
He  jams  expensive  London-tailored  Sulka 
shirts  and  ties,  hand-made  boots  and  suits 
from  Italy  into  his  bags  as  if  they  came 
from  Woolworth's.  He  won't  buy  a  rag 
unless  forced  to;  in  Rome  I  had  to  coax 
Brioni,  the  famous  tailor,  out  to  the  Be?i- 
Hur  set  to  measure  Chuck  for  a  jacket.  I 
guess  you  might  say  I'm  the  neat  type, 
and  he  isn't!  In  a  lot  of  other  ways  we're 
different  too.  I'm  a  self-confessed  "hypo- 
chondriac and  gloomy  Cassandra,"  Charlton 
has  the  relaxed  pulse  beat  of  a  tortoise. 
He's  never  sick,  and  has  a  cast-iron  stom- 
ach. He  snoozes  on  planes,  between  takes 
on  sets,  even  up  to  ten  minutes  before 
he  goes  on  a  two-hour  live  TV  show. 
Chuck  rises  early  and  I  like  to  sleep  late. 
He  plays  tennis,  I  swim;  he  paints,  while 
I  click  my  Leica.  I  drive  a  Thunderbird; 
Chuck  pets  his  Corvette.  I  play  the  piano; 
he  can't  carry  a  tune,  although  he  loves 
music  so  much  there  are  twenty-seven 
speakers  scattered  around  the  new  house. 
When  we  built  it,  Chuck  went  for  a  steam 
room  as  his  extravagance.  Mine  was  a 
battery  of  drying  lights  in  my  bathroom. 

Since  I'm  the  orderly  but  sentimental 
type,  maybe  the  most  exasperating  hus- 
band-habit of  Charlie's  is  a  tendency  to 
forget  important  dates  in  the  creative 
daze  he  wanders  around  in  when  he's 
deep  in  a  picture  part.  On  a  day  that 
happened  to  be  my  birthday,  we  dined 
at  Alfredo's  famous  restaurant  in  Rome. 
Alfredo  himself  makes  a  big  fuss  over  any 
guest's  birthday.  So,  when  I  spied  another 
lucky  girl  getting  the  cake,  champagne 
and  music  treatment  I  said,  "Charlie,  let's 
pretend  it's  my  birthday  and  have  him 
do  that  for  me." 

"Don't  be  silly,"  grunted  Chuck.  "It's 
not  your  birthday." 

He  didn't  come  to  until  we  were  walk- 
ing down  the  hall  to  our  room  at  the 
Excelsior  Hotel.  Then  suddenly  the  poor 
guy  plunked  down  on  the  carpet  and 
banged  his  head  on  the  floor  as  the  awful 
truth  smote  him.  "I  forgot!"  he  yelped.  "I 
forgot!" 

So,  the  feeling  is  what  counts,  and  de- 
spite various  annoyances,  we  have  never 
come  close  to  a  real  quarrel.  Actually, 
there  are  plenty  of  other  departments  in 
which  we  see  eye  to  eye.  One  is  travel. 
We're  both  gypsies.  Just  open  a  travel 
folder  and  we're  hooked.  Another  is  the 
outdoors.  I'm  the  Girl  Scout  type,  and 
lucky  I  am.  Because,  a  couple  of  times 
a  year  at  least,  Chuck  finds  some  excuse 
to  pack  us  back  to  Russell  Lake  in  Michi- 
gan. There's  no  telephone  there  and  it's 
three  miles  to  the  nearest  road. 

We  like  it  best  in  winter  when  some- 
times it's  24°  below  and  even  the  pair  of 
golden  eagles  who  rule  the  pine  roosts 
head  for  cover.  We  cook  over  a  wood 
stove  and  pile  on  the  blankets  at  night. 
Daytimes  we  wheel  a  shack  out  on  the 
frozen  lake,  cut  holes  in  the  ice  and  fish. 
It's  a  great  shot  in  the  arm  for  us  all. 

Fray  goes  along  too.  He's  hit  the  road 
with  us  ever  since  he  was  a  year  and  a 
half  old. 


Last  year  when  we  traveled  through  the 
last  with  Ben-Hur  Fray  went  along  all 
he  way.  In  Washington  we  got  a  privi- 
2ged  look  at  inner  sanctums  of  the  White 
louse,  even  spied  President  Eisenhower 
aving  a  conference  in  the  Round  Room. 
On  the  tour  Fray  got  so  excited  he  dropped 
is  toy  six-gun  and  I  snatched  it  up.  "Let 
le  carry  it,"  I  whispered. 

Well,  as  we  rounded  a  corner  and  headed 
or  the  President's  open  door,  there  I  was, 
learning  gun  in  hand  pointed  ominously 
head.  Two  Secret  Service  men  leaped  out 
f  comers  and  grabbed  me.  I  lost  my 
cice.  Chuck  stepped  in  to  straighten  out 
ie  misunderstanding  and  explain  the  toy 
efore  they  unhanded  me.  But  it  was  an 
ncomfortable  moment. 

I  was  pretty  scared — and  then  pretty 
irilled.  I  thought  it  might  be  very  easy 
3r  a  man  to  forget  the  little  woman  in  a 
pot  like  that. 


But  there's  not  much  danger  of  big 
Chuck  Heston  losing  his  head  about  any- 
thing. Not  even  an  Academy  Award  could 
make  him  forget  what  comes  first  in  his 
heart,  even  above  acting,  as  he  impulsively 
proved.  As  for  his  art,  that  Oscar  may 
have  put  Chuck  up  on  a  lofty  pedestal  in 
the  minds  of  some  people,  but  not  in  his 
own. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  sizes  himself 
up,  "I  can  play  cowboys  better  than  Sir 
Laurence  Olivier — and  Shakespeare  better 
than  Gary  Cooper. 

"But  for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  switch 
that  around!" 

In  fact,  dear  God.  don't  switch  anything 
around  about  Charlie  Heston.  As  far  as 
I'm  concerned  he's  perfect,  absolutely 
perfect!  END 

Charlton  will  star  next  in  MGM's 
Charlemagne. 


heartbreak 


Continued  from  page  51) 

link  of  something  clever,  something  funny 
j  say,  but  the  words  stuck  in  his  throat. 
.11  he  could  say  was,  "Shall  we  eat  at  a 
rench  restaurant  tonight?" 

'If  you  want  to  .  .  .  ,"  Carol  said. 

He  remembered  that  sometimes  she 
idn't  like  to  talk  much,  so  he  asked  if 
x  o'clock  would  be  all  right,  and  she 
lid  yes,  that  would  be  okay.  He  asked 
hat  she'd  be  doing  that  day  and  she  told 
im  that  she  planned  to  read  and  take  a 
alk  in  the  hills,  alone. 

Brandon  reminded  her  that  the  TV  show 
e'd  just  done  would  be  on  that  night. 

'Maybe  we  can  watch  it  tonight  after 
inner." 

"Maybe  .  .  .  ,"  was  all  she  said. 

Brandon  had  enjoyed  doing  the  show 
at  he  didn't  want  to  push  or  brag  about 
Lmself  so  he  said  quickly,  "It's  not  im- 
Drtant." 

"We'll  see  what  happens,"  Carol  said 
/en  more  uncomfortably. 

Brandon  wanted  the  conversation  to  end 
i  a  light  note. 

'Don't  run  into  any  stray  lions  on 
Dur  walk,"  he  said. 

Finally,  he'd  made  her  laugh  a  little. 


It  was  an  actor  he  knew  from  New 
York. 
"Hi,"  he  said. 

"Leaving  tomorrow,  huh?"  the  actor 
asked. 

"Yeah.    Tomorrow  morning." 

"Well  .  .  .  have  a  nice  trip." 

"Thanks,"  Brandon  said,  and  meant  it. 
Everyone  had  been  nice  to  him.  No  one 
reminded  him  that  he  had  been  the  little 
boy  in  Shane.  They  accepted  him  as  an 
adult  actor  and  he  appreciated  it. 

The  sun  began  to  chill,  and  Brandon 
left  to  relax  and  dress  for  his  date  with 
Carol.  Heading  for  the  elevator,  he  ran 
into  Mrs.  Lynley,  Carol's  mother. 

"Hi,  Mrs.  Lynley." 

"Hello,  Brandon." 

He  liked  her;  not  because  she  was  Carol's 
mother,  but  because  she  was  nice. 

"Carol  still  reading?" 

Mrs.  Lynley  smiled,  and  shook  her  head. 
"No.  She  went  for  a  walk.  She  likes  tak- 
ing long  walks.    It  relaxes  her." 

Brandon  understood.  Carol  had  worked 
hard,  on  a  picture,  then  a  TV  show. 
She  was  still  working  on  her  TV  script. 

"How's  she  like  her  show?" 

"It's  a  good  part.  She  finishes  in  two 
days." 

Brandon  was  glad.  That  meant  she 
would  be  going  back  to  New  York,  unless 
a  picture  came  up.  Mrs.  Lynley  re- 
membered that  Brandon  had  just  finished 
his  show. 

"How'd  your  show  go?" 

"Good.  I  liked  working  with  Ward  Bond. 
He's  a  nice  guy." 

"That's  what  I  heard." 

Brandon  said  good-bye  till  later  when 
he  would  pick  Carol  up  for  dinner.  Mrs. 
Lynley  was  going  out  to  the  pool,  to  get 
the  last  sun  rays. 

A  quick  ten  minutes 

Brandon  showered  and  lay  down  to 
relax.  He  checked  the  time  and  it  was 
a  quarter  after  four.  He  thought  about 
Carol,  and  the  wonderful  fun  they  had  had 
together.  It  made  him  feel  good,  to  think 
about  her. 

The  phone  rang.  He  picked  it  up  quick- 
ly.   Maybe  it  was  Carol. 

But,  it  was  a  photographer,  remind- 
ing him  they  were  supposed  to  shoot  some 
pictures.  Brandon  checked  the  time.  He 
would  be  cutting  it  close,  but  he  had 
promised. 

"Okay.  But — can  we  make  it  kind  of 
quick?  I  .  .  .  I've  got  something  to  do. 
Later." 

The  photographer  understood.  He  had 
seen  Brandon  come  alive  when  they  had 
talked  about  Carol  the  day  before.  And 
he  knew  Brandon  was  leaving  early  the 
next  morning.  "I  need  a  half  hour.  Okay?" 


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AUGUST 
BIRTHDAYS 

If  your  birthday  falls  in  August,  your 
birthstone  is  the  peridot  and  your  flower  is 
the  gladiolus.  And  here  are  some  of  the 
stars  who  share  it  with  you: 


August  2 — Myrna  Loy 
August  3 — Jean  Hagen 

Marilyn  Maxwell 
Gary  Merrill 
Gordon  Scott 

August    5 — Natalie  Trundy 
David  Brian 
Tom  Drake 
John  Saxon 
Robert  Taylor 

August   6 — Lucille  Ball 

Robert  Mitchum 

August    8 — Connie  Stevens 
Esther  Williams 
Richard  Anderson 
Rory  Calhoun 

August    9 — Leo  Genn 

August  10 — Rhonda  Fleming 
Martha  Hyer 
Jane  Wyatt 
Eddie  Fisher 

August  11 — Arlene  Dahl 

August  12 — John  Derek 

George  Hamilton 

August  13 — Neville  Brand 

August  15— Wendy  Hiller 
Lori  Nelson 
Janice  Rule 
Michael  Connors 

August  16 — Ann  Blyth 

Julie  Newmar 
Fess  Parker 

August  17—  Maureen  O'Hara 

August  18 — Molly  Bee 

Shelley  Winters 

August  19—  Debra  Paget 
Jill  St.  John 

August  21— Patty  McCormack 

August  23 — Vera  Miles 

August  24 — Preston  Foster 

August  25 — Don  Defore 
Mel  Ferrer 
Richard  Greene 
Van  Johnson 
Michael  Rennie 

August  2<5^Susan  Harrison 

August  27 — Tuesday  Weld 
Tommy  Sands 

August  28— Charles  Boyer 
Ben  Gazzara 

August  29 — Ingrid  Bergman 
Barry  Sullivan 

August  JO— Joan  Blondell 
Shirley  Booth 
Fred  MacMurray 
Raymond  Massey 
Donald  O'Connor 

August  31— Richard  Basehart 
Warren  Berlinger 
Fredric  March 


James  Cagney  Gene  Kelly 

72  August  17  August  23 


Brandon  thought  a  minute,  then  agreed. 
"When  will  you  be  over?" 
"In  ten  minutes." 

Brandon  checked  the  clock.  They  could 
shoot  the  pictures,  and  Brandon  would 
not  be  late. 

"Okay.    But,  make  it  in  ten  minutes." 

"It's  a  deal.    And  .  .  .  thanks,  Brandon." 

Brandon  put  the  phone  back  on  the  hook, 
and  once  more  day-dreamed  of  the  little 
French  restaurant,  with  the  checkered 
table  cloths,  the  soft  lights,  and  the  ro- 
mantic atmosphere. 

The  photographer  buzzed  him  from 
downstairs.  Brandon  slipped  on  a 
short-sleeve  sport  shirt,  and  a  pair  of  tan 
pants.  He  met  the  photographer  down- 
stairs in  the  lobby,  and  they  went  around 
back  to  the  pool.  It  was  deserted.  Every- 
one had  felt  the  breeze  come  on  and  left. 
That  suited  them  fine. 

They  began  shooting  a  layout.  It  went 
easily.  The  photographer  let  him  relax. 
No  posy-pose  type  shots.  Just  Brandon — 
straight  and  simple. 

"One  more  roll,  and  we're  in." 

Brandon  checked  the  time.  It  was  after 
five.  He  hesitated.  "It'll  take  me  five 
minutes,"  the  photographer  pleaded.  And 
then  they  were  done.    It  had  been  easy. 

"Seeing  Carol  before  you  go?" 

Brandon  almost  blushed,  but  said,  "Uh 
.  .  .  yeah.   For  dinner  tonight." 

The  photographer  said,  "She's  a  real 
beauty." 

Brandon  agreed,  most  enthusiastically. 

"You  like  her,  don't  you?" 

"We  .  .  .  sort  of  go  together." 

The  photographer  smiled.  He  under- 
stood the  uncertainties  and  the  wonder 
of  first  love. 

They  shook  hands.  Then,  Brandon  hur- 
ried upstairs  to  get  ready  for  his  last  night 
in  Hollywood,  with  Carol. 

Just  lost  track  of  time 

He  paced  the  room,  glancing  periodically 
at  the  silent  phone,  growing  more  and 
more  impatient.  He  called  her  room.  She 
hadn't  come  in.  He  went  down  to  the  ho- 
tel lobby.  He  flicked  the  television  set  on, 
and  there  was  an  old  Clark  Gable  movie. 
He  watched  Gable  pursue  Myrna  Loy  all 
over  Africa,  but,  his  heart  wasn't  in 
watching  Gable  win  Loy.  His  heart  was 
jumping  for  Carol. 

"Good  picture?" 

It  was  a  writer  he  had  talked  to  before. 

"Pretty   good.     It's    a    Gable  picture." 

The  writer  was  mildly  impressed.  He 
sat  down  to  watch.  Gable  was  gaining 
ground  but  Brandon  was  losing  heart. 
Where  was  Carol?  Maybe  .  .  .  maybe 
something  had  happened  to  her.  He  began 
to  wet  the  dry  nervousness  in  his  mouth. 

Brandon  was  only  half  watching  the  pic- 
ture when  the  desk  clerk  paged  him.  He 
took  the  call  on  a  house  phone.  It  was 
Carol,  and  his  heart  skipped  a  beat. 

"Where  are  you?" 

"Well,"  she  began,  "I  was  walking.  And, 
I  lost  track  of  the  time.  I  just  got  to  a 
phone." 

Brandon  sighed  with  relief.  She  was 
safe. 

"You  had  me  worried.  How  .  .  .  how 
soon  can  you  make  it  back?" 

"In  .  .  .  about  a  half  hour." 

Brandon  checked  the  time.  They  could 
still  make  dinner  at  the  romantic  little 
French  place. 

"Okay.  I'll  wait  for  you.  And  .  .  . 
hurry.  We  .  .  .  won't  have  too  much 
time." 

"I'll  try." 

They  hung  up.  And  he  went  back  to 
watching  the  Gable  picture. 

The  picture  ended,  the  half  hour  was 
over  and  there  was  still  no  sign  of  Carol. 
Brandon  began  to  worry  about  her,  then, 
started  to  get  angry.     It  was  their  last 


evening  together  for  what  might  be 
long  time  and  she  wasn't  back  yet. 

"Is  it  okay  if  I  watch  a  show?"  h 
asked  the  others  around  the  TV  se 
They  all  knew  his  show  was  coming  uj 
and  agreed.  Brandon  watched  his  imag 
on  the  screen.  He  and  one  of  the  lead 
He  squirmed  in  his  seat  because  h 
knew  the  others  were  judging  his  worl 
He  took  a  fast  look  toward  the  lobb- 
Still  no  Carol. 

The  show  was  over  and  he  thought  he  I 
been  good,  that  he  would  be  judged  as 
mature  adult  actor,  not  a  former  chil 
star.    The  others  in  the  lobby  congratu 
lated  him,  but,  he  felt  a  little  sad  thr 
Carol  had  not  been  there  to  see  him.  ! 

"How  about  some  ice  cream,  Brandon?  \ 

It  was  the  writer.  He  realized  Brando 
was  sweating  something  out.  Brando  , 
said  thanks,  but  he  was  waiting  for  some 
one,  someone  who'd  be  there  any  minut< 

"Some  other  time  .  .  ." 

The  writer  left — one  or  two  othei 
remained — and  Brandon  tried  to  concen 
trate  on  the  next  program.  It  was  n 
use.  He  called  her  room,  she  hadn't  calle 
back  in.  Then  suddenly  the  phone  ran 
and  it  was  Carol. 

She  explained,  "I  felt  tired,  from  walk 
ing.  So  ...  I  sat  down,  and  I  must  hav 
lost  track  of  the  time.    I'm  sorry." 

He  was  furious  with  her,  he  wanted  t 
challenge  her,  so  that  she'd  be  hurt  as  h. 
was.  Instead,  he  tried  to  save  what  tim 
was  left. 

He  said,  "We  .  .  .  can  still  grab  a  bite  tj 
eat." 

It  was  too  late  for  the  French  place,  bi 
they  could  have  a  snack  and  talk. 

And  then  Carol  said,  "I  ...  I  just  ate.  -,  ] 
little  while  ago." 

In  the  shock  wave  of  disappointment  th; 
poured  over  Brandon,  he  caught  his  ne>  I 
words,  and  checked  the  flow  of  anger. 

"We  had  a  date.  Remember?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  abruptly. 

There   wasn't  much   left   to   say,  an 
Brandon  didn't  try.    He'd  noted  a  chang  ] 
in  her  voice.    An  indifference.    He  wor 
dered    what    had    happened,    what    ha  1 
changed  since  the  bright  morning. 

"Is  something  wrong,  Carol?" 

"I'm  tired,  Brandon,"  she  murmured 

"But,  we  had  a  date  .  .  .  ."  his  vok 
cracked. 

He  waited  for  some  reassuring  answe 
What  he  got  was,  "I'm  sorry.   Really  I  an,  £ 
But  .  .  .  I'm  tired.    We'll  make  it  son-  I 
other  time." 

He  wanted  to  protest  that  it  was  unfai  1 
It  was  their  last  day  in  Hollywood. 

"When  .  .  .  when  will  I  see  you?' 

He  tried  to  sound  casual,  but  his  hea 
wasn't  in  it.    He  waited,  hoping,  hiding  h  L 
fears,  praying  that  she'd  change  her  min  £ 
"I'll  be  in  New  York.    Soon.    We'll  si 
then." 

Brandon  felt  as  if  a  trapdoor  had  bee,  1 
sprung  on  him.   His  legs  were  shaky. 

He  had  to  know.  What  had  gone  wront 
Where?    When?   Was  it  something  he  he-  r 
done?    Or  said?    But  instead,  he  tried 
push  down  the  awful  idea  that  he  was  bt 
ing  rejected,  to  keep  the  tone  of  pan  g 
from  his  voice. 

"Sure,  Carol.  We'll  see  each  other  .  F 
New  York." 

"Thanks,"  she  answered. 

There  was  a  long  silence  after  he  pi  r 
the  phone  down.    And  Brandon  realize  r 
that  all  he  could  do  was  go  and  pack  f( 
his  trip  back  to  New  York,  and  go  to  slee 
But   he   knew   that   sleep   would  brii 
dreams  of  love  that  used  to  be,  and  1 
wondered   if  love   was   as   fragile   as    ; ! 
seemed.  V  ^ 

Carol  will  star  in  The  Hot  Eye  (  ! 
Heaven  (U.I.). 


For  Adults  Only 


J    (Continued  from  page  36) 

;   becomes  pregnant;  it's  about  the  frantic 
attempts  of  her  equally  young  boyfriend  to 
raise  money  for  an  abortion.  In  the  back- 
ground— to    "motivate"    the    action — are 
parents  who  lack  understanding;  in  the 
foreground — to  tingle  your  spine — is  a  visit 
to  a  seedy  part  of  town  where  an  abortion- 
ist plies  his  filthy  trade.  The  name  of  this 
movie  the  first  time  'round  was  Blue  Den- 
:    im  (with  Brandon  de  Wilde,  Carol  Lynley, 
Warren  Berlinger) .  It  was  shortly  followed 
by  a  low-budget  imitation,  Too  Soon  To 
Love.  That  same  plot  is  bound  to  be  run  in- 
to the  ground  by  a  slew  of  films  high  in 
V  sensation  and  low  in  quality — and  teen- 
;  agers  will  eat  them  up.  Unethical  movie 
producers  will  defend  themselves  with, 
"Well,  it  teaches  the  kids  a  lesson,  doesn't 
T  it?"  The  question  is — what  lesson? 

In  the  two  movies  mentioned,  teen-age 
;   sexual  experience  was  frowned  on,  but 
X  mainly  because  it  resulted  in  pregnancy. 
The    teen-agers    involved    suffered,  but 
mainly  because  they  didn't  have  the  poise 
r  to  carry  off  a  successful  abortion.  The 
moral  lesson — the  question  of  good  and 
bad — was  about  as  easy  to  find  as  a  needle 
■    in  a  haystack.  The  obvious  lesson  these 
T  movies  taught  was  that  precocious  sexual 
r  behavior  is  an  accepted  part  of  life.  Why? 
Simply  because  it  happens  in  the  movies. 
Make  no  mistake.  The  lesson  sinks  in  as 
effortlessly  as  the  popcorn.  It  has  already 
been  so  well  digested  that  everybody  going 
to  see  a  movie  with  a  teen-age  cast  auto- 
matically   expects    promiscuity  and/or 
violence — and  they  have  rarely  been  dis- 
1  appointed  from  as  far  back  as  Blackboard 
Jungle  up  to  the  very  recent  Dick  Clark 
epic,  Because  They're  Young. 

The   expectation  is  automatic  because 
this  image  of  the  teen-ager  has  been  burned 
T  into    our    eyes    shutting    out    all  other 
f  images.  And  the  teen-age  movie  fan,  seek- 
T  ing  an  identity,  tries  to  bring  to  life  what 
he  finds  of  himself  on  the  screen.  This  is 
natural,  if  only  because  Americans  have 
always  idolized  screen  stars  and  have  used 
c  movies  as  models  of  the  good  life. 

Letter  from  a  teen-ager 

*3  A  syndicated  "lonelyhearts"  columnist 
-  recently  printed  a  letter  from  a  teen-ager 
'  that  had  all  the  unreality  and  false  drama 
of  a  bad  movie.  But  it  was  this  girl's  sin- 
'  cere  view  of  herself. 

The  girl  wrote  that  she  had  "given  her- 
self"  to  her   boyfriend  because   of  the 
f  "lewd"  movies  she  had  seen.  "I  might 
r  never  have  made  the  mistakes  I  did,"  she 
:  went  on,  "had  it  not  been  for  the  uncon- 
scious  effect  of  such  movies  on  my  whole 
being.  .  .  ."  No  wonder  there  is  such  a  tidal 
i  rwave  of  delinquency.  The  screen  has  got- 
ten so  filthy  that  formerly  innocent,  sweet 
:=  kids  hardly  bat  an  eye  at  the  perverse  por- 
trayals of  sex  and  profanity. 
'      That  there  is  no  tidal  wave  of  delin- 
; 7  quency,  that  few  if  any  movies  are  actually 
'~  lewd  or  obscene,  that  this  girl  cannot 
shift  her  guilt  onto  a  movie  is  not  the 
'  point.  The  point  is  that  movies  have  given 
this  girl — and  many  others — a  dangerously 
distorted  view  of  herself.  Movies  have 
fj  penetrated  into  her  unconscious  mind  and 
2^left  there  a  message  of  hysteria,  bravura 
'  and  utter  confusion. 

%  Nearly  half  of  all  the  moviegoers  in  this 
a  country  are  teen-agers.  What  do  they  see? 

They  see  "family"  pictures  put  together 
'  with  a  technical  perfection  that  suggests 
''true  art,  but,  beneath  a  slick,  deceptive 
;oat  of  respectability,  realism  is  reduced 
\  to  dime  novel  dimensions.  So  "family  to- 
getherness" as  in  A  Summer  Place  reaches 


a  new  low  through  the  discovery  that 
parents  who  commit  adultery  are  bound  to 
be  much  more  tolerant  of  their  sexually 
active  children  (Sandra  Dee,  Troy  Dona- 
hue) than  parents  who  do  not.  In  Home 
from  the  Hill  the  begetting  illegitimate 
children  by  father  and  son  forms  the 
twin  spectres  that  haunt  their  lives,  while 
the  one  person  of  substance  in  this  many- 
peopled  saga  is  the  father's  unacknowl- 
edged— because  illegal — heir. 

Teen-agers  see  romantic  comedies,  often 
in  Technicolor,  which  are  as  light  and  airy 
as  spun  sugar  but  whose  gaiety  rests  on 
little  more  than  an  off-color  joke.  Witness 
Pillow  Talk,  whose  climactic  scene  hinges 
on  freckle-faced  Doris  Day's  attempts  to 
discover  if  her  hero  really  is  a  homosexual 
or  is  worth  another  try.  As  an  invitation 
to  manliness  she  sings  Possess  Me  with  a 
coyness  that  puts  sex  on  a  level  with 
French  postcards.  All  the  mirth — and  there 
is  not  much — to  be  found  in  Happy  Anni- 
versary rises  from  the  fact  that  a  mar- 
ried life,  which  has  long  since  been 
blessed  by  children,  began  one  full  year 
before  the  ceremony.  And  in  It  Started 
with  a  Kiss,  Debbie  Reynolds'  groom 
spends  the  better  part  of  his  honeymoon 
under  a  cold  shower — to  lessen  the  ardor 
which  Debbie  cannot  yet  trust. 

The  new  frankness 

The  new  "frankness"  which  seems  to  have 
pervaded  movies  leaves  little  to  the  imag- 
ination. We  can  no  longer  assume  that 
married  couples  sleep  together,  we  must 
be  shown  the  bed,  the  bathtub,  the  mono- 
grammed  towels  and  how  all  these  objects 
are  used.  People  can  talk  to  each  other  in 
the  living  room  but  it  is  more  'realistic' 
if  they  are  half  dressed.  You  can  spot  a 
femme  fatale  in  a  minute,  but  it  is  more 
'true  to  type'  if  she  stands  in  front  of  a 
mirror  and  slowly  unbuttons  her  blouse. 

The  screen  is  flooded  with  frigid  wives, 
lonely  husbands,  forlorn  adolescents  (of 
all  ages)  loudly  proclaiming  their  need 
for  love — but  the  cause  (and  perhaps  the 
cure)  of  their  loneliness  and  suffering  is 
largely  unexplored  since  this  would  lack 
the  instant  appeal  of  illustrated  essays  on 
their  sexual  misadventures. 

So,  in  Private  Property  a  couple  of 
beatniks  hitch  a  ride  and,  at  knifepoint, 
force  the  driver  to  follow  a  blonde  to  her 
home  in  the  Hollywood  Hills.  The  blonde 
is  a  bored  housewife  whose  husband, 
incredibly,  ignores  her  sultry  charm.  The 
beatniks,  who  are  obviously  emotionally 
deranged,  wait  in  a  deserted  house  next 
door  for  the  husband  to  leave  home.  Mean- 
while they  talk  about  their  "kicks";  they 
smack  their  lips  at  the  prospect  of  a  sex- 
ual adventure.  When  the  husband  leaves 
on  a  business  trip  a  brutal  sexual  assault, 
complicated  by  perversion  and  finished 
off  with  murder  in  a  swimming  pool,  fol- 
low. The  message?  Some  people  are  ter- 
ribly sick. 

Aside  from  the  debatable  artistic  merits 
of  the  film,  producer  Leslie  Stevens  an- 
nounced, "The  picture  isn't  for  children." 
But  any  child  who  can  find  his  way  to  the 
theater  and  has  the  price  of  admission 
can  see  it. 

What  teen-ager,  when  he  hears  on  a 
record  the  velvet  voice  of  Johnny  Mathis, 
will  not  rush  to  the  movie  his  song  intro- 
duces— The  Best  Of  Everything,  a  lavish, 
eye-filling  Cinemascope  production.  The 
very  smell  of  the  money  that  went  into  its 
making  immediately  inspires  confidence  in 
the  film.  But  what  is  this  movie  selling? 
The  idea  that  love  is  a  battle  of  wits 
between  boys  "on  the  make"  and  girls 
who,  however  beautiful  and  talented,  are 
desperate  for  marriage.  Love  is  a  market 
place  where  all  the  buyers  (boys)  try  to 
cheat,  and  all  the  sellers  (girls)  think  so 
little   of  themselves   that  self-abasement 


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is  their  outstanding  characteristic.  One 
romantic  affair  after  another  leads  to 
insanity  and  accidental  suicide,  pregnancy 
and  betrayal.  Abortion  is  discussed  (but 
with  all  the  proper  horror).  Marriage, 
although  it  is  held  out  as  the  only  hope, 
has  the  value  of  a  bargain  well-made.  Love 
itself  is  almost  non-existent.  These  are  the 
half-truths,  gross  distortions  and  blatant 
stupidities  offered,  without  any  excuse,  to 
our  children. 

A  few  challenging  themes 

But  not  all  movies  are  an  insult  to  even 
adult  intelligence.  There  are  many  pro- 
ducers, writers  and  directors  who  are 
concerned  with  challenging  themes  that 
require  maturity  and  judgment  to  enjoy — 
and  to  criticize.  But  any  child,  or  any 
teen-ager  who  is  a  fan  of  Elizabeth  Taylor 
can  treat  himself  to  Suddenly  Last  Sum- 
mer where  a  mother  (Katharine  Hepburn) 
worships  her  homosexual  son  to  the  point 
of  acting  as  his  bait  for  young  men,  and 
where  Elizabeth  Taylor,  his  beautiful 
young  cousin,  turns  out  to  be  even  better 
bait  and  is  driven  to  near  insanity  by  this 
son's  violent  death  at  the  hands  (and 
teeth)  of  his  boy  victims. 

The  Fugitive  Kind,  an  unrelieved  mes- 
sage of  despair  whose  meaning  must  surely 
escape  the  immature  mind  (while  repel- 
ling the  mature  one)  can  nevertheless 
frighten  and  disillusion  simply  by  its 
atmosphere,  its  assortment  of  weird,  lost 
souls,  its  pictures  of  drunkenness,  nause- 
ating illness,  hatred  and  murder  of  the 
only  character  in  the  film  who  is  really 
seeking  salvation.  But  any  teen-age  fan  of 
Marlon  Brando  or  Joanne  Woodward  can 
easily  and  mistakenly  assume  that  the 
movie  is  a  "must"  for  him. 

Good  movies,  bad  movies,  movies  for 
teen-agers,  movies  for  adults,  crime  mov- 
ies, westerns,  spectaculars,  comedies,  musi- 
cals, dramas  come  tumbling  into  the  movie 
houses  with  very  little  to  differentiate  them 
but  their  titles.  Movie  "ads"  if  they  are  not 
sensational  are  often  misleading.  Movie 
reviews  are  read  by  a  small  proportion  of 
the  teen-age  public.  It  is  true  that  before 
any  movie  is  released  it  comes  up  for  an 
okay,  a  Seal  of  Approval  from  the  keepers 
of  the  Production  Code  of  the  Motion  Pic- 
ture Association  of  America.  It  is  true  that 


(Continued  from  page  45) 

let  out  our  real  deep-down  desires  on 
other  things,"  he  mumbled,  then  paused 
and  sat  down  next  to  her  and  leaned  his 
head  against  her  warm  shoulder.  "Some- 
times, Nanny,  I  wonder  if  we  didn't  make 
a  mistake,  deciding  the  way  we  did  to 
have  such  a  long  engagement.  Everybody 
says  long  engagements  are  out  of  style, 
passe.  Look  at  Princess  Margaret  and  her 
guy.  They  were  only  engaged  a  couple  of 
months  and  they  got  married.  I  know 
I've  got  to  serve  time  in  the  Air  Force, 
but,  that  doesn't  mean  we  couldn't  be 
married.  There's  no  law  about  being  a 
married  man  and  serving  Uncle  Sam. 
Thousands  of  guys  have  done  it." 

"But,  Tommy,"  Nancy's  voice  was  low, 
easy,  "we  decided  this  was  best.  We 
talked  about  it  for  so  many  nights  .  .  . 
remember?" 

"I  know,  sweetheart.  But  talking  is  one 
thing  .  .  .  and  then  actually  sitting  out  a 
long  engagement  until  .  .  .  well,  they're 
two  different  things."  How  could  he  begin 
to  tell  her  of  his  overpowering  desire,  of 
the  fire  inside  him. 
74     "Tommy,"  she  said,  clearing  her  throat. 


many  exhibitors  will  not  show  films  that 
have  been  refused  the  Seal  but — and  per- 
haps rightly — there  is  no  law  to  prevent 
them.  (Private  Property,  which  did  not 
receive  the  Seal,  is  a  case  in  point.)  It  is 
also  true  that  no  movie  producer  or  ex- 
hibitor can  be  expected  to  take  the  place 
of  parents  or  teachers. 

No  one  can  measure  the  exact  effect 
movies  have  in  shaping  the  attitudes  and 
determining  the  behavior  of  young  people. 
It  would  be  foolish  and  irresponsible  to 
blame  one  facet  of  our  culture  for  any  of 
the  evils  in  our  lives.  But  certainly  it  can 
be  said  that  the  movies,  along  with  all 
other  mediums  of  mass  culture,  must  have 
a  profound  effect — otherwise  they  would 
not  continue  to  do  good  business;  other- 
wise Hollywood  would  not  have  been 
considered,  for  many  years,  the  popular 
capital  of  America. 

Is  censorship  by  law  an  answer  to  the 
current  movie  problem?  Most  Americans 
are  rightly  and  vigorously  repelled  by  the 
word.  Censorship,  whatever  small  good  it 
may  do,  limits  freedom  and  outrages  our 
constitutional  rights. 

Even  Classification — a  system  of  label- 
ing movies  a)  for  adults,  b)  for  children, 
only  if  they  are  accompanied  by  adults 
and  c)  for  everybody — a  system  which  is 
practiced  in  England,  France.  Italy  and 
other  European  countries  might  not  only 
arouse  resentment  here  but  also  might 
tempt  some  producers  to  make  their 
"adults  only"  pictures  as  shockingly  sen- 
sational as  possible. 

Only  honest  and  right 

Still,  many  movie  directors,  among  them 
Otto  Preminger,  are  in  favor  of  what  they 
call  "voluntary  classification."  "I  am  still 
very  much  against  censorship,  am  very 
much  for  classification,"  Preminger  said 
on  a  recent  Open  End  TV  show.  "I  think 
it  would  be  a  very  wonderful  thing  if  we 
voluntarily  would  let  an  honest  adver- 
tising, let  the  people  know  what  kind  of 
picture  it  is,  so  that  parents  who  do  not 
want  their  children  to  see  certain  pictures 
have  a  chance  to  tell  them  not  to  go,  stop 
them  from  going.  I  think  it  would  be  only 
honest  and  right.  .  .  ." 

Some  producers  of  great  integrity,  like 
Dore  Senary,  are  firmly  opposed  to  both 


"You  make  me  feel  very  .  .  .  funny.  .  .  ." 

He  swallowed.  "I'm  sorry,  hon'.  I  don't 
want  you  to  feel  bad.  Its  just  that  I  wish 
I  ...  I  didn't  feel  so  pent-up,  so  .  .  .  oh, 
let's  forget  it.  Forget  I  ever  brought  up 
such  a  stupid  subject.  Why  don't  you 
finish  your  hot  dog  and  we'll  go  for  a 
walk  in  the  moonlight  .  .  .  ?" 

They  walked,  Tommy's  strong  arm 
around  her  sweatered  shoulders,  through 
the  wide  stretches  of  white  sand  sparkling 
like  silver  in  the  light  of  the  crescent  moon. 
All  around  them,  the  night-blue  sky  and 
the  sea  shimmered  in  the  different 
shades  of  darkness.  Occasionally  they 
stumbled  across  bits  of  charred  logs  from 
past  picnic  fires.  They  hardly  uttered  a 
word,  so  happy  to  be  near  each  other, 
and,  when  they  turned  around  and  re- 
turned to  the  flickering  firelight,  Tommy 
stretched  out  on  an  Indian  blanket,  his 
eyebrows  knit  together  in  thought. 

Maybe  he  would  tell  her.  Now. 

Too  hard  to  wait 

Nancy  took  a  bottle  of  soda  pop  from 
the    cooler    and    handed    it    to  Tommy. 


censorship  and  classification  althoug 
Schary,  on  the  same  Open  End  prograi 
said,  "Any  industry,  any  means  of  corr 
munication  gets  itself  into  trouble  whe 
it  begins  to  use  shock  rather  than  cor 
viction,  when  it  abandons  its  right  to  cor 
vince  and  just  tries  to  shock.  And  th 
sometimes  is  what's  being  done  in  filn 
today.  .  .  ." 

Director  Elia  Kazan  says,  "The  issue 
not  one  of  making  immoral  movies.  Oi 
problem  is  to  prevent  moral  values  fro 
being  oversimplified.  People  see  a  film  th; 
has  a  phony  happy  ending  and  they  get 
distorted  view  which  hurts  them  late 
They  expect  life  to  be  what  it  isn't." 

Though  the  issue  has  been  made  subt 
and  complicated  it  includes  a  couple 
very  simple  questions:  1)  Is  it  wrong  ar 
dangerous  to  expose  children  to  filn 
which  are  morally  unsound?  2)  Shou 
parents  be  warned  about  films  that  ce 
harm  their  children? 

We  think  the  answer  to  both  questioi 
is  a  definite  "yes."  We  think  that  certa  I 
films  should  be  labeled  for  adults  only  1 
a  qualified  and  impartial  board  of  judge 
We  think  that  children  should  not  be  a 
lowed  to  see  these  films  unless  they  a 
accompanied  by  their  parents.  Will  th 
lead  to  even  more  sensation  in  adult  film 
Maybe.  But  we  feel  that  adults  can — 
should — be  able  to  take  care  of  then 
selves;  children  need — and  should  have 
adult  protection. 

That's  our  point  of  view.  But  your  poi . 
of  view  is  even  more  important,  becau 
the  decisive  voice  in  settling  Americ. 
issues  has  always  been  the  voice  of  pub 
opinion.  Your  voice,  the  voice  of  the  peor  1 
who  read  this  article  and  of  the  peoy 
who  put  down  their  money  at  the  b> 
office  in  movie  theaters  across  the  lar 

Parents,  teenagers,  kids — what  do  y 
think?  What  do  you  want  from  the  mo-\ 
industry?  What  do  you  want  from  t 
movies  you  see?  Do  you  think  that  labc 
ing  movies  for  adults  only  is  a  threat 
freedom?  Or  will  it  give  movie  produce 
even  more  freedom  and  a  sense  of  respo 
sibility  that  will  lift  the  level  of  all  fill 
and  make  moviegoing  even  more  fun?  ] 

The  editors  of  Modern  Screen  sincere 
want  your  opinion,  and  would  welcoi 
all  your  letters  on  this  subject.  e 


They'd  forgotten  an  opener,  and  Tomi 
twisted  the  bottle-top  with  his  jack-kni 
He  managed  to  open  it  but  the  pop  fizz 
all  over  him  and  the  blanket. 

"Tommy,   Tommy,"   Nancy   called  o 
"You're  all  wet!"  And  she  rushed  to  h 
with  a  napkin  and  tried  to  dry  the  stic 
soda-pop   from   his  bare   arms  and 
yellow-checked  shirt. 

He  took  her  hands  in  his  and  drew  thi 
to  his  lips  and  then  he  wrapped  his  ar 
around  her  and  slowly,  gently,  kissed  1 
full  on  the  lips. 

"Nanny,  oh,  Nanny,"  he  said,  his  bre. 
quickening  and  rising  heavily,  "let's  elc 
.  .  .  now  .  .  .  tonight!"  He  didn't  give  ¥■ 
a  second  to  answer  him;  instead  he  lock 
his  lips  with  hers  and  they  kissed.  1' 
summer  night  breeze  was  warm,  sens* 
and  the  fragrance  of  Nancy's  perfume  -v  I 
dizzy-rich. 

"I  ...  I  don't  think  I  can  wait  throv  ; 
the  long  summer,"  Tommy  pleaded, 
love  you  so  much,  darling,  I  want  to 
married  .  .  .  now!" 

His  chest  rose  and  fell  against  her  s 
body.  Now  that  he  had  said  it  .  .  .  ale 
.  .  .  his  body  seemed  to  sing  with  1 
tension  of  his  desire.  He  brushed  ; 
fingers  lightly  against  her  white  chec 
throat:  he  kissed  her  hair,  her  eyes, 
nose,  her  neck. 

And,  all  of  a  sudden  from  out  of 


The  Tender  Tension  of  a  Long  Engagement 


FRECKLES 


blue.  Nancy  started  to  cry.  Slowly  at  first, 
and  then  with  sharp,  wrenching  sobs.  She 
tried  to  speak,  but  she  couldn't,  and 
Tommy,  shaken  and  frightened  that  he 
had  hurt  her.  begged.  "Oh.  honey,  honey, 
please  don't  cry.  I  didn't  mean  to  upset 
you.  I  only  wanted  you  to  know  how 
much  you  mean  to  me,  how  much  I  love 
you.  And  how  hard  it  is  for  me  to  wait 
until  the  wintertime." 

She  continued  to  cry.  and  Tommy  kissed 
her  sweet  tears.  She  whispered  then,  a 
tender  tension  riding  her  whispers.  "Don't 
.  .  .  don't  you  think  it's  been  hard  for  me, 
too?" 

The  truth  of  the  matter.  Tommy  thought 
then,  the  headiness  of  his  passion  sobered 
suddenly  by  Nancy's  unexpected  outburst 
of  tears,  was  that  love — real,  honest-to- 
gosh  love — was  hard  to  control.  What  was 
it  they  had  both  said  once,  when  they  had 
a  press  conference  after  their  engagement: 
that  they  were  both  glad  to  have  the  ap- 
proval of  their  parents,  but  if  they  weren't 
in  the  special  kind  of  situation  they  were 
in — with  Tommy  going  off  to  serve  Uncle 
Sam — they  might  have  gotten  married 
sooner.  And.  Nancy  and  Tommy  agreed, 
they  were  both  suffering  from  an  "impa- 
tient patience"  to  get  married. 

Overpowering  feeling 

Maybe.  Tommy  confided  to  himself,  as 
he  caressed  Nancy's  silky  dark  hair,  it's 
more  of  an  "impatient  passion."  There 
were  times  that  a  fellow  hated  this  over- 
powering feeling  for  making  him  lose  his 
reason,  and  he  hoped  now  that  he  could 
hold  back  the  fire  of  passion  until  the 
night  of  their  wedding. 

"Honey,"  Tommy  burst  forth,  "I  don't 
know,  but  maybe  we  made  a  mistake.  I 
know  the  idea  of  a  long,  old-fashioned 
engagement  seems  wonderful  because  we 
can  get  to  know  each  other  better.  And 
your  mom  and  dad.  and  my  mom,  they  all 
agree  this  is  right.  But  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  just  wish 
I  didn't  love  you  so  much.  I  just  wish 
that  my  love  was  old-fashioned  and  that 
it  didn't  ache  and  beg  to  be  near  you. 
Sometimes  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  .  .  ." 

Nancy  looked  at  him  now.  lying  there  on 
the  red  Indian  blanket  in  the  white  radi- 
ance of  the  moon,  and  she  admitted  to  her- 
self there  were  times  when  he  looked  at 
her,  never  even  so  much  as  uttering  a 
word,  when  desire  trembled  through  her 
throat  and  her  heart,  throughout  the 
length  and  breadth  of  her  being.  And  the 
long  summer  wasn't  making  life  easier  for 
them  with  its  lazy  days  and  languorously 
fragrant  nights,  the  warm  air  sweet  with 
the  perfume  of  flowers. 

"Tommy,"  she  began,  fingering  the  edge 
of  the  blanket,  "we  both  come  from  broken 
homes."  Then,  speaking  softly,  evenly,  she 
said,  "You  and  I  have  done  what  we  think 
is  best  because  we  don't  want  to  make 
the  mistakes  our  parents  made.  We  don't 
want  to  get  married  on  the  run  and  live 
to  have  awful  regrets  ...  do  we?  I  know 
you  don't,  and  you  know  I  don't.  We 
want  our  love  to  grow,  and  we  want  to 
pave  children.  Not  at  first — because  we 
*ant  to  enjoy  each  other.  But  in  a  couple 
if  years  I  want  to  have  a  family  .  .  .  three. 
:our,  five  kids  wholl  look  just  like 
,/ou.  .  .  ." 

"Like  you,"  Tommy  interrupted. 

"Like  us,"  Nancy  said,  smiling. 

4o  broken  marriage  for  these  two 

She  was  right.  Maybe  he  was  impetu- 
ous, wanting  to  elope  suddenly  like  that, 
fadn't  it  been  torture  for  the  two  of  them. 
Towing  up  in  households  where  their 
10ms  and  dads  were  always  at  one  an- 
ther's throats,  screaming,  sobbing,  threat- 
ning,  until  that  one  dark  day  when  sud- 
enly  their  moms  and  dads  were  no  longer 
ogether,  when  they  went  their  different 


ways?  And  suddenly  Nancy  found  her 
father's  photo  on  the  front  pages  of  the 
big  city  newspapers,  week  after  week. 
Sunday  after  Sunday. 

She  had  told  Tommy  all  this.  How  one 
week  her  dad  was  squiring  around  a 
luscious  chorus  girl,  another  week  he  was 
involved  with  a  fast  actress.  And  week 
after  week  she  had  to  face  the  nasty  raz- 
zings  of  the  kids  in  school,  schoolmates 
who  taunted  her  with  whispers,  cruel  and 
vicious  rumors  about  her  dad  being  a 
"wild  one."  For  months  she  came  home 
from  school  and  wished  the  world  would 
end,  that  hell  would  destroy  them  all 
because  she  hated  to  face  tomorrow  and 
the  humiliating  taunts  of  her  classmates. 

"The  latest  girl  her  pop's  picked  up  .  .  ." 
the  kids  whispered  in  the  school  halls,  in 
the  drugstore,  at  the  football  games.  And 
she  felt  like  two  cents,  knowing  her  father 
had  been  good  to  her  but  that  the  world 
was  making  him  into  a  monster. 

How  many  times  she  tried  to  talk  to  her 
mother  about  all  this,  but  after  a  while 
she  gave  up  because  she  saw  how  much 
it  hurt  her  mother.  So  she  gritted  her 
teeth  and  faced  every  tomorrow  by  her- 
self, looking  forward  to  the  dawn  of  each 
new  day  with  a  sick  dread  and  a  terrible 
taste  in  her  mouth. 

And  with  Tommy,  the  kids  were  cruel, 
too.  They'd  point  to  him  and  jibe,  "His 
mom  and  dad  are  divorced.  They  never 
see  each  other."  And  whenever,  like  any 
normal  young  American  boy,  Tommy  got 
into  a  little  mischief  such  as  staying  out 
after  curfew  or  when  he  was  caught  by 
neighbors  smoking  his  first  cigarette, 
everyone  made  him  feel  that  he  was 
doomed  to  be  a  delinquent  because  he 
came  from  a  "broken  home." 

Nancy  and  Tommy  talked  about  their 
growing-up  years  constantly.  And  they 
didn't  want  their  love  to  be  strangled  by 
possessiveness,  choked  by  jealousy,  killed 
with  bitterness.  They  wanted  their  love 
to  grow,  to  flower,  to  develop  into  the  deep 
love  of  forever-lovers. 

How  could  they  do  this? 

This  was  when  they  both  decided  upon 
the  long,  old-fashioned  engagement.  When 
Tommy  gave  Nancy  her  emerald- cut  dia- 
mond engagement  ring  in  March,  they 
came  to  the  agreement  to  wait  until  Christ- 
mas before  they  married.  Time,  they  had 
a  hunch,  would  be  their  ally:  time  would 
help  their  love  bloom.  In  some  ways,  they 
looked  upon  Tommy's  service  with  Uncle 
Sam  as  a  blessing. 

But  now.  waiting  and  waiting.  Tommy 
grew  restless,  edgy,  bursting  with  the 
passion  of  a  young  man.  And  there  were 
times,  when  they  kissed  and  held  each 
other  close,  that  Nancy  shivered  with  the 
thrill  of  desire  trembling  within  her. 

That  night  on  the  beach  they  had  it  out. 
Nancy,  wiping  her  tears,  reassured  him. 
"Tommy.  I  know  we're  doing  what's  right. 
To  wait,  the  way  we  are.  Because  our 
love  isn't  something  we  want  to  play  with 
— like  a  toy." 

When  she  spoke  out  like  that  everything 
seemed  so  clear  to  him:  that  this  could  be 
the  only  way  for  two  young  people  who 
didn't  want  to  fall  into  their  parents'  foot- 
steps and  make  a  mess  of  marriage. 

She  snuggled  against  him  on  the  blanket 
and  rested  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  and 
Tommy  patted  her  gently.  "Nanny,  I'm 
so,  so  lucky  .  .  .  ,"  he  said,  and  the  two 
of  them  lay  there,  the  moon  paling  their 
faces  with  its  ivory  light,  and  they  both 
knew  that,  somehow,  their  honesty  and 
their  frankness  was  giving  them  strength. 
It  helped  them  face  the  slow  spinning-out 
of  the  summertime,  while  their  love  grew 
and  ripened  until  that  blessed  day  in 
December  when  they  would  love  each 
other  as  man  and  wife  .  .  .  and  become 
one.  end 


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Margo!!! 

(Continued  jrom  -page  39) 

poised  yet  radiating  a  subtle  sensuality 
through  the  smoke-filled  air.  The  low 
buzz  of  voices  begins.  "Who  is  she?"  they 
ask.  And  other  low  voices  answer,  "Don't 
you  remember  the  philandering,  blatantly 
sexy  wife  in  Hound-Dog  Man?" 

The  questions  continue. 

But  the  answers  become  more  and  more 
spare. 

And  after  a  while  it's  obvious  that  very 
little  is  actually  known  about  her. 

Who  is  this  girl  of  mystery? 

Her  name  is  Margo  Moore. 

Why  is  she  so  mysterious? 

"I  guess,"  Margo  herself  told  us  recently, 
"it's  because  people  with  questions  about 
me  rarely  ask  them  of  me.  It's  my  fault 
in  a  way.  I  give  the  appearance  of  being 
rather  aloof  and  cold.  This  is  mainly  be- 
cause I'm  unsure  of  myself.  But  the  truth 
is  that  I  like  to  have  friends."  She  sighed. 
"And,"  she  added,  "the  truth  is,  too,  that 
I've  never  had  many.  Not  really.  Espe- 
cially not  as  a  child,  back  in  Indiana,  back 
in  those  strange  not-so-long-ago  years...." 

Portrait  of  Margo 

She  was  Marguerite  Guarnerius  then. 
She  lived  with  her  father,  a  Free  Metho- 
dist minister,  her  stepmother  and  her 
brothers,  Joseph  and  William,  both  older 
than  she.  Their  house,  on  the  outskirts  of 
Indianapolis,  was  big  and  old  and  quiet, 
very  quiet.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Guarnerius, 
a  stern  man,  a  strict  man,  wanted  it  this 
way.  He  tolerated  no  unnecessary  noises 
such  as  the  sound  of  neighbor  children's 
voices  within  the  rooms  of  his  home  or  in 
his  front  garden  or  back  yard.  "The  re- 
sult," says  Margo,  "is  that  I  had  no  friends 
other  than  my  brothers — and  my  piano. 
My  father  was  musical.  He  was  a  direct 
descendant  of  the  violinmaker  Guarnieri, 
of  Cremona,  in  Italy,  and  he  saw  to  it 
that  we  all  studied  music.  So  for  me 
it  was  the  piano,  for  Joseph  the  violin,  for 
William  the  cornet.  Lots  of  times  the 
three  of  us  would  get  together  and  play, 
for  hours  and  hours.  They  were  fun,  those 
hours.  They  made  the  loneliness  fade  for 
us,  for  a  while,  at  least." 

Loneliness,  however — true  loneliness — 
came  crashing  down  on  Margo  when  she 
was  eleven  years  old. 

She  became  sick  one  day,  with  a  cold, 
or  so  her  parents  thought  it  was.  They 
put  her  to  bed.  They  didn't  call  a  doctor. 
(It  was  1945.  the  war  was  on  and  if  you 
felt  you  didn't  really  need  a  doctor,  you 
didn't  call  one.)  The  cold  lingered.  Margo 
was  in  bed  for  two  weeks,  beginning  to 
feel  that  she  was  coming  around,  slowly. 
When  suddenly  one  morning  she  woke  up 
and  tried  to  move  and  couldn't — only  her 
neck  would  move,  but  nothing  else.  Her 
parents  called  the  doctor  now.  He  came. 
He  examined  the  girl.  And  then  he  walked 
to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  to  where 
her  parents  stood  waiting,  and  he  told 
them  that  Margo  had  polio. 

"I  remember  that  I  was  on  my  way  to 
a  hospital  a  little  while  later,"  she  says 
today.  "That  at  the  hospital  they  put  me 
into  a  plaster  cast,  from  my  shoulder  down 
to  my  hip.  I  had  to  remain  in  that  cast, 
motionless,  for  a  few  weeks  at  the  hospital. 
Then,  for  month  after  month,  at  home. 
It  was  a  terrible  period  for  me.  Very  few 
people  came  to  see  me.  I  was  alone  most 
of  the  time.  I  was  too  tired  to  read  very 
much.  And  so,  most  of  the  time,  I'd  just 
lie  back  on  my  pillow,  my  mind  blank, 
thinking  about  nothing  except  maybe  the 
kind  of  day  it  was  outside,  or  about  when 
76  I  might  hear  the  next  car  pass  the  house." 


And  then  one  day  a  girl  came  over  to 
see  her.  She  was  from  school,  Margo's 
class.  They  barely  knew  one  another  and, 
at  first,  they  barely  knew  what  to  talk 
about.  So,  after  a  few  general  questions 
and  answers,  then  a  few  moments  of 
silence,  the  visitor  asked  the  patient  if 
she'd  like  to  hear  about  a  movie  she'd 
seen. 

"That  is,"  said  the  girl,  "if  you  haven't 
seen  it  already,  Marguerite." 

Margo  explained  to  the  girl  that  she'd 
never  seen  a  movie,  not  in  her  whole  life, 
that  her  father  didn't  allow  his  children 
to  indulge  in  such  a  what-he-called  fri- 
volity. 

"Well,"  said  the  girl,  after  she'd  gotten 
over  the  shock,  "then  let  me  tell  you  about 
this  movie  I  saw — if  you  don't  think  your 
father '11  mind  the  telling,  at  least.  It's  got 
a  very  interesting  story." 

And  she  told  Margo — in  full  detail — the 
story,  about  a  girl  and  a  boy  in  love,  how 
they'd  had  so  many  trials  and  tribulations 
to  face,  how  they'd  finally  solved  every- 
thing and  how  they'd  ended  up  getting 
married. 

The  first  dreams 

And  that  night,  after  the  girl  had  gone, 
Margo,  lying  alone  on  her  pillow,  found 
herself  thinking  about  the  movie  and  re- 
living it,  pretending  that  she  was  the  hero- 
ine in  it — saying  all  her  lines,  feeling  all 
the  things  she  felt,  smiling  when  she  did, 
crying  when  she  did. 

It  was  a  strange  feeling,  a  delicious  feel- 
ing, pretending  to  be  somebody  else,  in 
something  called  a  movie. 

And  Margo  told  the  girl  from  school 
about  her  pretending  the  next  time  she 
came  to  see  her,  a  few  weeks  later. 

The  girl  laughed.  "Gee,  Marguerite," 
she  said,  "maybe  someday  when  you're 
better,  and  older,  you'll  be  a  movie  star, 
an  actress." 

Margo  told  her  she  doubted  it.  She 
asked,  "In  the  movies  do  actresses  have 
to  wear  lipstick,  say?" 

"Of  course,"  the  girl  told  her,  " — they 
have  to  look  as  pretty  as  possible." 

"And  do  they  sometimes  wear  dresses 
with  short  sleeves?"  Margo  asked. 

"Of  course."  said  the  girl,  " — when  the 
part  calls  for  it." 

Margo  felt  very  sad.  "Well  then,"  she 
said,  "I'll  never  be  an  actress.  Because  my 
father  said  he'll  never  allow  me  to  wear 
lipstick  or  a  short-sleeved  dress.  My  step- 
mother can't.  And  neither  will  I  be 
able  to." 

When  the  girl  from  school  got  over  the 
shock  of  this,  she  asked  Margo  if,  any- 
way, she'd  like  to  hear  the  story  of  an- 
other movie  she'd  seen,  just  the  night 
before. 

Margo  said  yes,  she  would  like  that 
very  much. 

And  so  the  girl  told  it  to  her,  again  in 
full  detail,  another  beautiful  love  story. 

And  again  that  night,  alone  in  her  bed, 
Margo  repeated  the  story  to  herself,  pre- 
tending once  more  that  she  was  the  hero- 
ine. 

"And  night  after  night  after  that,"  she 
says,  "I'd  play  my  two  roles,  over  and 
over,  sometimes — when  I  wasn't  too  weak 
or  tired — in  double-feature  fashion,  first 
one,  then  the  other,  till  I  was  convinced 
that  they  were  my  roles,  and  that  if  I  ever 
did  get  to  see  either  of  these  two  movies 
after  I  got  better  I  wouldn't  be  the  least 
bit  surprised  to  see  myself  up  there  on 
the  screen  instead  of  someone  else." 

Revolt 

As  it  turned  out.  Margo  did  not  get  to 
see  either  of  the  movies  following  her 
recovery.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Guarnerius 
remained  rigid  to  his  word.  "Frivolities" 
such  as  movies  were  out. 


"In  fact."  says  Margo,  "it  wasn't  till  I 
was  sixteen  that  I  got  to  see  my  first 
movie — and  that  I  began  my  all-around 
revolt.  You  see,  I  was  tired  of  being  dif- 
ferent from  everyone  else,  of  being  stared 
at  all  the  time,  talked  about,  teased.  I 
started  to  wear  the  kind  of  clothes  I 
wanted  to  wear  now.  I  started  to  wear 
make-up;  I  suppose  for  a  while  I  went 
overboard  and  wore  practically  every  kind 
of  make-up  they  put  out.  I  even  an- 
nounced to  my  parents  that  I'd  decided  to 
become  an  actress  and  that  as  soon  as  I'd 
saved  enough  money  I  was  going  to  go  to 
New  York  to  study.  Of  course,  they  didn't 
believe  me.  'Just  foolishness,'  they  thought. 
'The  girl  will  come  to  her  senses,'  they 
thought.  But  I  meant  it.  I  was  leaving.  And. 
foolish  or  not,  there  would  be  no  two  ways 
about  it." 

She  meant  it  .  .  . 

Two  years  later,  Margo  kept  her  word. 
Equipped  with  a  single  suitcase,  a  couple 
of  hundred  dollars  and  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  a  dramatic  coach  named  Frances 
Robinson-Duff  (given  to  her  by  an  instruc- 
tor at  the  University  of  Indiana,  which 
she'd  been  attending),  Margo — by  now  a 
lovely-looking  girl  of  eighteen — took  off 
for  the  big  city  and  for  whatever  prospects 
might  be  in  store  for  her  there. 

The  prospects,  those  first  few  hours  at 
least,  seemed  dismal. 

On  the  advice  of  a  girl  at  the  University, 


NEXT  MONTH 

your  heart  ivill  go  out  to 
Tuesday  Weld  as  she  tries 
to  answer  the  most  important 

question  of  her  life: 
IS  IT  TOO  LATE  FOR  ME 
TO  BE  GOOD? 
Watch  for  it  in  the 
September  issue  of 
MODERN  SCREEN 
On  Sale  August  till 


Margo  checked  into  a  skyscraper  of  a 
women's  hotel  on  the  Upper  East  Side.  The 
girl  had  told  her  that  it  was  a  safe,  con- 
venient and  clean  place.  What  she  hadn't 
told  was  that  a  room  cost  $90  a  week  and 
that  payment  in  advance,  for  the  first  week 
at  least,  was  mandatory  .  .  .  Margo.  finding 
this  out  at  the  desk,  nervous,  not  knowing 
what  else  to  do.  gulped  and  paid. 

In  her  hotel  room  a  little  while  later  she 
picked  up  the  phone  and  dialed  the  number 
of  Miss  Duff,  the  drama  coach  to  whom 
she'd  been  recommended. 

"This  is  Marguerite  Guarnerius,"  she 
started  to  say  when  her  call  was  connected. 
"I'd  like  to  make  an  appointment  to — " 

But  that  was  as  far  as  she  got. 

For  a  sad-voiced  secretary  at  the  other 
end  of  the  line  interrupted  and  informed 
her  that  Miss  Duff  had  died  a  week  earlier. 

Again  Margo  gulped. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  was  back  down- 
stairs in  the  hotel  lobby,  standing  at  the 
desk  there.  She  explained  her  predicament 
to  a  clerk.  "And,"  she  said.  "I  was  wonder- 
ing if  you  know  of  a  drama  instructor  or 
a  school  where  I  can  apply — a  not-too- 
expensive  teacher  or  school,  please." 

The  clerk  gave  a  knowing  nod.  "Just 
arrived  in  New  York,  kind  of  low  on 
cash?"  he  asked. 


"Yes.  sort  of,"  Margo  said,  after  a 
moment. 

The  clerk  looked  her  over. 

A  reql  pretty  girl 

"Interested  in  making  some  good  money, 
quick?"  he  asked  then. 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  went 
on.  "It  happens  I  got  a  friend  connected 
with  a  big  modeling  agency  here.  He 
always  tells  me.  "You  see  a  girl  you  think 
we  can  use — a  real  pretty  girl — you  give 
me  a  ring  .  .  .  How  about  it?  Can  I  give 
him  a  ring  about  you?  ...  He  might  like 
vou  and  you're  in  a  few  bucks.*' 

Again,  without  waiting  for  an  answer  he 
picked  up  a  pencil  and  began  jotting  down 
some  information. 

"You're  how  tall?"  he  asked. 

"Five-feet-seven."  Margo  found  herself 
answering. 

"And  you  weigh?" 

"One-twelve." 

"Color  hair — blonde,"  he  said.  "Color 
eyes— grey  blue." 

Then  he  asked.  "Bust?'' 

"What?"  Margo  asked  back. 

'The  size  of  your  bust?"  asked  the  clerk. 

Margo  took  a  deep  breath.  "I've  never 
measured  it."'  she  said. 

The  clerk  looked  up  from  his  pad  and 
examined  the  anatomy  in  question. 

"Refined.''  he  said,  his  examination  over, 
as  he  wrote  down  his  finding.  "Very  refined 
.  .  .  Now.  let  me  make  the  call  and" — he 
smiled — "and  good  luck.  Miss.  .  .  ." 

If  there  was  ever  a  girl  who  entered  the 
Hatbox  Derby  and  didn't  need  anybody's 
sood  wishes,  that  girl  was  Marguerite 
Guarnerius.  Within  a  few  short  months,  the 
gorgeous  Hoosier  with  the  oddball  name 
had  become  one  of  the  most  talked-about 
models  in  New  York.  As  well  as  one  of 
the  highest -paid  (S50  an  hour).  An 
amazingly  versatile  girl,  Margo  did  all 
kinds  of  jobs — magazine  covers,  fashion 
layouts.  TV  commercials,  one  after  the 
other  after  the  other,  the  checks  rolling  in 
fast  as  a  camera's  click.  A  shy  and  lonely 
and  repressed  girl  up  to  this  time.  Margo 
zoomed  amazingly  and  full-blast  into  the 
dizzying  social  whirl  which  ninetv-nine  out 
of  a  hundred  successful  models  find  them- 
selves whirling  in  before  long. 

"It  dawned  on  me  one  day.  after  about 
a  year.  I  guess,  that  I  hated  this  life,  with 
all  my  heart"  she  says  today.  "I  hated  the 
social  part  because  of  the  people  involved — 
of  what  they  expected  of  me.  which  was 
exactly  nothing,  to  be  nothing,  to  be  only 
a  pretty  girl  to  have  around  and  help 
Hecorate  the  air  .  .  .  The  me,  whatever 
there  was  of  the  real  me.  was  tired  and 
lost.  I  swore  after  this  year,  on  this  day. 
to  give  it  all  up." 

Marriage 

This,  however,  was  easier  sworn  than 
done.  Margo.  grown  quickly  accustomed 
to  good  money,  a  good  apartment,  good 
clothes,  found  that  she  couldn't  give  up  her 
work  as  easily  as  she  thought.  She  con- 
tinued modeling. 

But  she  did  bid  good-bye  to  the  old 
crowd.  And  she  replaced  them  all  with  a 
husband,  a  fellow  named  Bill  Warner,  an 
advertising  executive  she  met  one  evening 
and,  thinking  she  was  in  love  with  him. 
married  a  few  afternoons  later. 

Today  Margo  is  reluctant  to  talk  about 
this  marriage.  The  muscles  in  her  neck 
tightening  when  she  does,  she  says  only, 
softly:  "It  was  a  disaster.  It  was  quick 
beginning,  quick  ending.  The  only  good 
"hing  that  came  out  of  it  was  our  child." 

Darryl  Warner— a  big.  beautiful  blond 
baby — was  born  shortly  before  Margo's 
divorce  was  finalized.  And.  within  only  a 
few  years  after  his  birth.  Margo  learned 
•hat  bringing  up  a  child  alone  was  not  easy. 

"My  son  was  unhappy,"  she  says,  "and  I 


was  unhappy.  It's  not  easy  for  any  boy  to 
live  with  women  only.  And  it  certainly 
wasn't  easy  for  Darryl.  living  with  only  a 
mother,  a  nurse  and  a  maid.  I  guess  the 
more  unhappy  and  disturbed  and  hard-to- 
handle  he  became,  the  more  I  tried  to  run 
away  from  him.  I  found  myself  going  out 
a  lot  again.  Tired  as  I  was  when  I'd  come 
home  from  work.  I'd  dress  and  go  to  visit 
people  for  dinner  or  go  to  the  theater  or  a 
movie.  I  didn't  date  much.  I  wasn't  inter- 
ested in  men  anymore.  I  didn't  think  I 
would  ever  be  again.  There  was,  in  fact, 
only  one  man  in  my  life,  my  son.  my  baby. 
And  he  didn't  seem  to  love  me.  He  wouldn't 
call  me  mother,  mommy.  He  wouldn't  listen 
to  anyone,  least  of  all  to  me.  So.  in  a 
strange,  confused  way.  I  tried  to  run  away 
from  him — I'd  come  home,  give  him  a 
present  I'd  bought,  very  fancy  and  expen- 
sive, as  if  to  buy  the  little  kiss  I'd  get  from 
him  as  he  took  the  package  from  me,  and 
then  I'd  run. 

"Till  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  more,  what 
was  happening  to  him.  to  me. 

"Till  I  turned  one  day  to  an  organization 
called  the  Child  Guidance  Council  and  had 
a  long  talk  with  a  director  there — that 
plain,  down-to-earth,  common  sense  type 
talk  we  all  need  once  in  a  while,  no  matter 
how  high  we  might  feel  we're  flying  up 
there  in  the  stratosphere. 

"I  was  told,  very  simply,  that  a  child 
must  be  made  to  feel  he  belongs.  'Give 
him.  not  only  presents  and  quick  kisses, 
but  love,  real  love,  and  consistency,'  I  was 
told.  'Don't,  above  all.  take  him  for 
granted.'  I  was  told. 

Learning  to  be  a  mother 

"I  went  home  that  afternoon,  and  this 
time  I  stayed  home. 

"I  learned  lots  being  with  Darryl,  even 
in  those  first  few  hours.  I  learned,  among 
other  things,  what  it  was  like  to  put  my 
boy  to  bed. 

"And  one  day  not  too  long  after  this  I 
learned  what  it  was  like  for  a  mother  to 
get  a  present  from  her  son.  I  was  in  the 
living  room,  reading,  this  afternoon,  I 
remember.  I  knew  Darryl  was  in  his  room, 
playing.  And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  came 
out  and  handed  me  something.  It  was  a 
piece  of  clay,  with  his  handprint  on  it. 
'Mommy.'  he  said,  giving  it  to  me,  'this  is 
for  you,  because  I  love  you."  I  cried.  It 
was,  up  to  that  moment,  the  happiest 
moment  of  my  life." 

It  was  at  about  this  time — with  Darryl 
changed — that  Margo  herself  decided  to 
make  some  changes. 

Once  again  she  vowed,  as  she  had  vowed 
four  years  earlier,  to  quit  modeling. 

And  this  time  she  did. 

"Smile  all  you  want."  she  told  her  doubt- 
ing agent.  "I'm  holding  on  to  a  few  TV 
jobs,  for  living  expenses.  But  I'm  dropping 
everything  else." 

Taking  a  deep  breath  and  crossing  her 
fingers,  and  remembering  for  an  instant  a 
little  girl  lying  on  her  lonely  sick-bed. 
pretending  she  was  an  actress,  feeling  her 
strange  and  delicious  feelings,  she  went 
on:  "I'm  going  to  a  drama  school.  That's 
what  I  came  to  New  York  for  in  the  first 
place.  That's  what  I  should  have  done  in 
the  first  place.  .  .  ." 

Margo  enrolled  in  a  well-known  acting 
school  the  next  day.  A  few  weeks  later 
Columbia  Pictures,  having  heard  about  her 
from  the  school's  director,  screen-tested 
her  for  a  leading  role  in  Middle  oj  the 
Night.  The  test  was  a  flop — Margo,  if  not 
downright  terrible,  was  at  least  pretty  bad. 
And  the  role  went  to  Kim  Novak,  while 
Margo  went  to  a  different  school. 

This  school  suited  her  fine.  She  studied 
there  for  nearly  two  years,  under  a  coach 
named  Wynn  Handman.  She  tried  out  for 
Broadway  plays  and  TV  shows,  dozens  of 
them.  She  was  rejected  most  of  the  time. 


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ITCH  in  Women 

Relieved  like  Magic 

Here's  blessed  relief  from  tortures  of  vaginal  itch, 
rectal  itch,  chafing,  rash  and  eczema  with  a  new 
amazing  scientific  formula  called  LANACANE.  This 
fast-acting,  stainless  medicated  creme  kills  harmful 
bacteria  germs  while  it  soothes  raw,  irritated  and 
inflamed  skin  tissue.  Stops  scratching  and  so  speeds 
healing.  Don't  suffer !  Get  LANACANE  at  druggists ! 


But  still  she  studied.  "And  prayed,"  she 
says.  Harder.  And  harder.  And  harder. 

Till,  finally,  some  six  months  ago,  the 
incredible  happened: 

A  New  York  agent  who  had  seen  Margo 
work  in  class  and  who  knew  that  Twentieth 
Century-Fox's  Hollywood  brass  was  look- 
ing around  for  a  "new  face"  to  play  Susie 
Belle,  the  floozie  wife  in  Hound-Dog  Man, 
recommended  Margo.  A  test  was  made,  in 
New  York.  And  Margo  was  given  her 
stand-by  papers — with  a  not-too-encourag- 
ing "maybe"  attached. 

A  few  weeks  later,  on  a  Saturday,  the 
agent  called  excitedly  to  tell  Margo  that 
someone  at  MGM  had  seen  her  test  and 
that  they  had  decided  to  sign  her. 

Minutes  after  this  call,  with  Margo  still 
sitting,  unbelieving,  alongside  her  phone, 
there  came  another  call.  It  was  the  agent 
again. 

"I  just  talked  to  the  boys  at  Fox,"  he 
said,  "to  tell  them  about  the  Metro  con- 
tract. But  they  were  just  about  to  call  me, 
they  said,  to  tell  me  they  wanted  you  for 
further  tests.  'Sorry,  boys,'  I  told  them, 
' — first  come,  first  served.'  There  was  a 
pause,  a  long  pause.  And  then,  suddenly, 
came  the  word:  'Bring  her  around  to- 
morrow. We'll  sign  her.  And  she  leaves 
for  the  Coast  on  Monday.' " 

There  was  a  pause  here  now,  again  a 
long  pause. 

"Margo,  did  you  hear  what  I  said — 
you're  going  to  Hollywood  day  after  to- 
morrow!" the  agent  called  out. 

But  Margo  didn't  answer. 

Couldn't  answer. 

Because  she'd  fainted  dead  away. 

Something  very  special 

And  while  we  actually  could  end  our 
story  here,  the  ending  being  a  decidedly 
happy  one,  we  feel  (1)  that  it  would  be 
impolite  leaving  a  lovely  lady  lying  on  the 
floor,  and  (2)  that  you  might  like  to  hear 
a  little  about  something  very  special  that 
happened  to  Margo  shortly  after  her 
revival  and  subsequent  arrival  in  Holly- 
wood. 

The  something  concerns  a  man,  that 
segment  of  our  population  which  Margo 
had  practically  rejected  since  her  ill-fated 
first  marriage. 


And— 

But  let  Margo  tell  it: 

"His  name  is  Bob  Radnitz.  He's  a  pro- 
ducer, very  young  and  attractive,  though 
I  must  admit  none  of  his  qualities  exactly 
bowled  me  over  the  first  time  we  met.  We 
met  on  the  set  of  the  picture.  We  were  in- 
troduced, that  is,  and  he  said  something 
like,  'Since  we're  both  from  New  York 
we've  got  to  get  together  sometime,'  and  I 
said,  'Yes,'  and  that  was  that.  I  thought. 

"Then  this  night,  a  few  nights  later,  I 
was  at  home — I'd  just  put  Darryl  to  bed — 
and  the  phone  rang. 

"  'This  is  Bob  Radnitz,'  I  heard  a  voice 
on  the  other  end  of  the  line  say. 

"'Who?'  I  asked.  I'd  forgotten  his  last 
name. 

"He  explained. 

"  'Oh,'  I  said,  not  very  enthusiastically.  I 
knew  he  was  going  to  ask  for  a  date  and, 
truthfully,  I  couldn't  have  been  less  in- 
terested. 

"Well,  he  did  ask,  and  I  said  no,  and 
again  I  thought  that  would  be  that. 

"But  he  persisted,  so  much  that  I  finally 
said,  'Look,  if  you're  so  anxious  to  talk  to 
somebody,  why  don't  you  come  over  for 
a  little  while  and  have  a  cup  of  coffee?' 

"  'Pest,'  I  thought  to  myself  when  I 
hung  up. 

"And  he  was,  too. 

"First,  as  soon  as  he  arrived,  he  made  a 
long  face  when  I  told  him  I  only  had  in- 
stant coffee.  He  said  that  there  was  nothing 
like  drip  coffee  made  in  a  drip  coffee  pot. 
'Really?'  I  said. 

"Then,  about  an  hour  later,  when  I  was 
starving  and  had  to  eat  something  and 
said,  not  too  invitingly,  'Would  you  like  to 
join  me  in  some  salad?' — he  jumped  up 
from  his  chair,  like  a  man  who  hasn't  heard 
the  word  food  in  years,  came  into  the 
kitchen  with  me,  and  then  proceeded  to 
tell  me  about  all  the  things  he  was  allergic 
to.  Things  like  tomatoes  and  tuna  fish  and 
a  couple  of  other  things  I'd  planned  to  put 
into  the  salad. 

'"When  is  he  going  to  leave?'  I  won- 
dered to  myself  as  I  stood  there  tossing  the 
lettuce,  oil  and  vinegar — the  only  ingredi- 
ents I  was  allowed  to  end  up  using.  'When?' 

"But  then  something  happened,  as  we  sat 
there  in  the  kitchen,  eating. 


"We  began  to  talk.  Really  began  to  talk. 
Bob  started  telling  me  about  his  life,  the 
good  things,  the  bad,  the  ups,  the  downs. 
And  I  told  him  about  my  life,  all  about  it. 
And  by  the  time  we  were  finished  talking, 
five  or  six  hours  later,  it  was  as  if  we'd 
known  each  other — and  liked  each  other— 
for  years. 

"We  made  no  appointment  to  see  each 
other  again  when  Bob  left  that  night. 

Flowers  and  coffee  pots 

"But  the  next  morning,  at  about  7:30, 
just  as  I  was  getting  ready  to  leave  for  the 
studio,  the  front  doorbell  rang.  And  there 
he  stood,  silly  smile  on  his  face,  holding  a 
little  pink-and-white  posy  bouquet  in  his 
hand.  I  didn't  think  that  type  thing  hap- 
pened anymore.  I  didn't  even  know  what 
to  say.  But  Bob  saved  me  the  bother.  'See 
you  sometime,'  he  said,  handing  me  the 
flowers  and  walking  away. 

"And  then  that  night,  when  I  got  home, 
guess  who  was  in  the  living  room,  on  the 
floor,  playing  like  crazy  with  Darryl. 

"He  hopped  up  when  he  saw  me.  'Margo 
— I  didn't  mean  to  barge  in,'  he  said,  'but 
there's  a  little  something  I  bought  for  you, 
that  I'd  like  you  to  have.' 

"He  led  me  into  the  kitchen.  And  there 
on  the  stove  it  sat,  a  gleaming  new  coffee 
pot. 

"  'It's  the  drip  kind,'  he  said,  'just  in 
case  you  ever  decide  you'd  like  to  have 
me  over  for  another  cup  of  coffee  .  .  .  Well.' 
he  said  then,  shrugging,  as  if  he  were 
about  to  leave,  'before  you  start  thinking 
I  might  be  some  kind  of  a  pest — ' 

"But  my  laughter  stopped  him,  I  guess. 

"And,  probably  too,  the  way  I  went  over 
to  him  and  hugged  him. 

"Because  he  stayed  that  night — for  coffee, 
and  dinner. 

"And,  come  to  think  of  it,  he's  been 
showing  up  for  same  every  night  since.  .  .  ." 

At  this  writing,  both  Margo  and  Bob 
only  smile  when  anyone  brings  up  the  sub- 
ject of  wedding  plans. 

But  to  old  crystal  gazers  like  us,  our 
so-called  mystery  girl's  future  seems  very 
clear  indeed.  end 

Margo  is  a  star  of  20th-Fox's  Wake  Me 
When  It's  Over. 


My  Son  Has  Been  Kidnapped 


(Continued  from  page  57) 

So  the  court  fight  dragged  on  and  the  baby 
was  passed  back  and  forth  between  Stella 
and  Herman  time  after  time.  The  court 
made  only  one  provision,  that  the  baby 
was  not  to  be  removed  from  Memphis  until 
the  whole  matter  was  settled  once  and  for 
all. 

But  Stella  moved  to  Hollywood  and  little 
Andy  remained  behind  with  his  father, 
now  a  $3950  per  year  IBM  machine  oper- 
ator at  the  Mallory  Air  Force  base.  They 
both  lived  with  Herman's  parents. 

The  first  kidnapping 

One  day  Stella  slipped  back  into  Mem- 
phis and  carried  her  beautiful  son  off  with 
her,  against  court  orders,  against  the  law, 
back  to  her  home  in  Hollywood. 

Now  Sergeant  Jonoski  felt  he  under- 
stood the  whole  case.  Obviously  the  boy's 
father  had  come  to  steal  back  his  own  son. 
Obviously  it  wasn't  a  matter  for  the  Los 
Angeles  police.  Obviously  it  wasn't  a  kid- 
napping ...  so  decided  Sergeant  Jonoski. 

But  we're  forced  to  wonder  just  what  it 
was.  We  went  first  to  talk  with  Stella  .  .  . 
then  to  talk  with  Herman.  First,  let's  hear 
78  Stella's  story: 


"The  house  is  so  still  now.  It  used  to  be 
filled  with  happy  noises.  My  little  boy 
laughing  or  yelling  or  playing  cowboy  and 
shooting  off  his  toy  six-gun.  Sometimes, 
when  he  became  too  noisy,  I'd  call  out, 
'Andy,  you  must  quiet  down,  honey.'  What 
I  wouldn't  give  to  hear  my  little  boy  and 
his  friends  yelling  in  the  backyard  of  my 
home. 

"When  will  I  ever  hear  my  son  saying, 
'Mommy'  again,  or  feel  his  warm  arms 
press  me  tight  in  a  bear  hug,  or  hear  his 
sturdy  little  feet  in  cowboy  boots  stamp 
noisily  in  the  kitchen  where  he'd  dig  into 
the  refrigerator  for  snacks.  I  haven't 
stocked  the  refrigerator  since  he  was 
snatched  from  me. 

"Is  being  a  movie  actress  such  a  crime 
that  I  should  lose  my  child?  The  courts  in 
Memphis  awarded  my  little  boy  to  his  fa- 
ther. But  what  about  the  law  of  God?  How 
can  anyone  tear  a  child  away  from  his 
mother? 

"I  haven't  been  able  to  sleep  well  since 
Andy  was  taken  from  me.  The  nights  are 
so  long.  It  is  hours  upon  black  hours  when 
I  lie  awake,  my  heart  absolutely  torn  with 
longing  for  my  son.  And  I  wonder,  during 


those  endless  hours:  What  is  happening  to 
Andy  now?  How  is  my  little  boy  taking  the 
shock  of  being  snatched  away  from  his 
mother?  Is  he  awake  at  night,  as  I  am, 
crying  for  me,  as  I  am  for  him? 

"For  many  months,  when  Andy  was  with 
me,  my  happiness  at  having  my  child  with 
me  was  mixed  with  a  certain  fear.  I  was 
afraid  that  a  moment  might  come  when  the 
boy's  father  would  try  to  take  him  from 
me.  I'd  had  to  steal  my  own  child  out  of 
Memphis  a  year  ago  in  order  to  have  him 
with  me  in  the  first  place. 

Once  in  a  lifetime 

"I  was  a  teen-ager  at  the  time  I  married 
Herman  Stephens,  and  it  was  shortly  after 
our  baby  was  born  in  Memphis  that  I  real- 
ized our  marriage  had  been  a  mistake.  At 
the  time  of  our  separation,  I  was  awarded 
full  custody  of  our  baby.  My  parents 
helped  me  take  care  of  him  when  I  went  to 
school  and  when  I  worked.  I  soon  had  an 
offer  to  go  to  Hollywood.  It  was  one  of 
those  golden  opportunities  that  comes  once 
in  a  lifetime  and  I  would  have  been  crazy 
not  to  take  it.  I  wanted  to  make  good  in 
Hollywood  for  my  child's  sake  even  more 
than  for  mine.  With  a  career  as  an  actress, 
I  could  take  care  of  my  son  and  give  him 
the  material  things  a  child  needs,  and  I 
could  give  him  a  lot  of  myself,  too.  There's 
lots  of  time  off  in  acting.  However,  at  the 
beginning  I  had  to  remain  in  Hollywood 


•lone  in  order  to  get  a  toehold  in  the  busi- 
ness. I  knew  my  mother  was  taking  good 
rare  of  Andy  back  in  Memphis,  and  as 
toon  as  I  was  able  to.  I  was  planning  to 
ruing  him  to  Hollywood  to  live  with  me. 

"The  thorn  in  my  happiness  was  that  al- 
hough  I  had  the  custody  of  my  son.  I 
'ouldn't  take  him  out  of  the  state  of  Ten- 
»essee  except  by  special  court  order.  And 
lis  father  had  begun  to  fight  me  on  that 
icore. 

"Many  divorced  mothers  have  to  go  to 
vork.  and  they  are  allowed  to  have  their 
hildren  with  them.  I  believed  I  would  be 
ble  to  do  just  what  so  many  other  moth- 
rs  who  are  divorced  are  allowed  to  do: 
vork  and  raise  my  child.  I  was  sure  I  could 
•resent  my  side  of  the  story  to  the  court 
nd  get.  their  permission  to  have  my  child 
.-ith  me  in  Hollywood. 

"'But  Hollywood  is  thousands  of  miles 
way  from  Memphis.  I  couldn't  always 
lake  a  court  appearance  in  Memphis  on  a 
tipulated  day  if  I  was  in  the  middle  of 
roduction. 

"Several  other  times  I'd  gone  to  Mem- 
his  to  appeal  to  the  court  for  the  right 
d  have  my  child  live  with  me.  But  on 
lose  occasions  I'd  find  myself  sitting 
round  and  waiting,  because  of  one  court 
ostponement  after  another.  Then,  when 
nother  court  date  was  set.  I  discovered  I 
'as  busy  in  a  picture  and  couldn't  walk 
ut.  The  whole  thing  was  very  confusing. 

hurt  Andy  even  more  than  it  hurt  me. 
!e  couldn't  understand  why  I'd  leave 
lemphis  without  taking  him  with  me. 
idn't  his  own  mommy  love  him?  It  used 
>  kill  me  when  he'd  run  after  me.  pulling 
;  my  skirt  and  crying,  'Don't  leave  me, 
lommy.' 

An  abnormal  thing" 

!  "One  night  last  July,  unbearably  lonely 
»r  my  child.  I  flew  to  Memphis  and  took 
.m  back  with  me  on  the  next  plane  for 
ollywood.  It  may  have  been  in  defiance 
'  the  court  order,  but  not  in  defiance  of 
hatever  heart  the  good  Lord  puts  inside 

a  mother.  Back  in  Memphis,  when  it 
as  discovered  that  I  had  taken  my  child 
)me  with  me.  there  was  a  big  hue  and 
y  about  it.  You  would  have  thought  I 
ad  done  an  abnormal  thing  in  wanting  to 
ave  my  own  child  with  me.  The  child's 
ther  and  the  folks  in  Memphis  said  I  had 
dnapped  my  child.  How  in  heaven's  name 
n  a  mother  be  accused  of  kidnapping  her 
vn  child?  I  had  given  birth  to  him.  I  had 
arsed  him  during  his  first  few  weeks  of 
e.  I  wanted  my  child. 

But  because  I  had  dared  to  take  my 
jld  with  me  to  Hollywood,  the  whole 
wn  of  Memphis  turned  against  me.  I  was 
as  cited  for  contempt  of  court.  My  ex- 
isband  was  given  full  custody  of  our 
ild.  If  I  set  foot  in  Memphis  I  could  be 
it  in  jail,  like  a  criminal. 
"Mothers  have  often  risked  their  lives 
r  their  children.  I  was  willing  to  risk  go- 
g  to  jail  for  mine. 

"Meanwhile,  Andy  and  I  were  very 
ppy  together  in  California.  I  had  rented 
homey  kind  of  house  in  Beverly  Hills, 
lere  was  a  picturesque  mountain  behind 
and  a  large  back  yard.  I  had  fixed  up  a 
om  for  Andy  with  wood  paneling  and 
:tures  of  cowboys  and  horses  on  the  wall, 
lad  a  great  incentive  to  want  to  succeed 
w.  My  career  as  an  actress  thrilled  me 
t  because  of  the  glamour  in  it — although 
olayed  glamorous  roles — but  because  it 
juld  enable  me  to  do  so  much  for  my 
y.  I  didn't  date  much  and  I  went  to  few 
rties.  There  are  many  divorced  mothers 
io  work  their  fingers  to  the  bone  for  their 
Udren.  I  was  luckier  than  those  mothers. 

career  gave  me  long  periods,  weeks  at 
time  sometimes,  when  I  didn't  have  to 
Dort  to  the  studio  at  all.  I  was  with  my 
ild  a  great  deal.  Every  moment  I  was 


free  was  a  precious  moment  to  spend  with 
Andy.  I  felt  very  lucky  that  I  could  be 
home  so  much  and  still  provide  for  my 
child  financially. 

"I  remember  the  wonderful  times  Andy 
and  I  had — how  I  would  drive  him  down 
the  hill  and  take  him  to  Ponyland  at  La- 
Cienega.  where  he  would  ride  the  ponies, 
standing  up  in  the  stirrups  and  twirling 
his  lasso  around. 

"Andy  had  been  pale  and  thin  when  I 
brought  him  back  with  me.  Very  soon  he 
began  to  grow  robust  and  tanned.  He  was 
always  laughing  and  playing  cowboy.  He 
was  such  a  happy  child.  It  was  a  natural 
life  for  him.  and  for  me. 

"If  there  were  shadows  clouding  my  hap- 
piness because  of  letters  I  was  receiving 
from  his  father  threatening  to  take  him 
back.  I  tried  to  push  them  from  my  mind. 
Andy  was  never  left  alone.  I  had  a  good 
nurse  for  him.  and  I  was  with  him  when- 
ever I  wasn't  working.  And  yet.  I  didn't 
want  to  make  the  child  feel  like  a  prisoner. 

"That  morning — that  dreadful  morning 
in  April — he  was  playing  outside.  I  was 
sitting  at  my  desk  and  had  just  begun  to 
look  over  some  papers.  I  could  hear  Andy 
calling  out  to  a  badman  he  pretended  he 
had  lassoed.  Then  I  heard  a  car  scrunching 
up  my  driveway.  Strange — I  wasn't  ex- 
pecting anyone.  I  jumped  up  and  ran  to 
the  front  door  just  in  time  to  see  the  tail 
of  a  car  going  down  the  driveway.  I  froze. 
By  the  time  I  could  scream  'stop.'  the  car 
was  gone.  I  knew,  without  even  looking 
for  him.  that  my  child  was  gone. 

"I  began  to  shake.  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do.  I  managed  to  get  to  the  phone  and 
call  the  police. 

"Then  I  just  stood  by  the  phone,  numb 
with  shock,  unable  to  move  or  to  think  or 
even  to  cry.  It  might  have  been  minutes, 
it  might  have  been  hours.  I  remained  there, 
still.  Finallv.  I  started  to  walk  across  the 
living  room.  Andy  had  left  his  new  lasso 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  It  was  the  lasso 
the  Easter  bunny  had  brought  him.  He'd 
been  playing  with  it  only  that  morning.  I 
had  told  him  not  to  play  with  the  lasso  in 
the  house,  and  he  had  said  laughingly. 
'Okay.  Mommy.  I'll  take  it  outside.'  But  he 
hadn't  taken  it  outside.  He'd  been  so  busy, 
so  very  busy  with  so  many  things  to  do, 
that  he  had  left  his  lasso  where  he  had 
dropped  it  on  the  floor,  I  tripped  over  it 
and  fell,  and  suddenly  I  cried  hysterically. 
I  couldn't  stop  crying. 

"Is  he  frightened  now?" 

"I  haven't  been  inside  his  room  since  he 
was  taken  from  me.  But  I  can't  get  the 
picture  of  his  room  out  of  my  mind.  Or  the 
beloved  memory  of  Andy  sitting  at  the  long 
desk  which  I'd  had  built  in  front  of  the 
window,  where  he  used  to  paint  and  draw. 
And  of  the  times  he  would  call  me  in  to 
admire  a  picture  he  had  drawn.  He  drew 
so  well.  And  the  hi-fi  in  the  corner  where 
we'd  sit  and  sing  to  his  records.  I  had  just 
bought  him  a  recording  of  Peter  Pan.  He 
loved  that  record,  and  he  was  going  to 
show  me  how  he  could  fly  up  to  the  ceiling 
like  Peter  Pan,  and  I  had  laughed  at  that 
and  tried  not  to  let  him  know  how  fright- 
ened I  was  at  the  thought  he  might  try  to 
fly  and  fall  and  break  his  bones.  I  didn't 
want  my  child  to  be  frightened.  Is  he 
frightened  now  .  .  .  ? 

"I  will  fight  with  the  last  dime  I  have  to 
get  my  son  back.  With  me.  Where  he  be- 
longs. If  it  means  giving  up  my  career  to 
have  him  I  will  give  it  up.  But  I  need  the 
money  my  career  gives  me  for  the  legal 
counsel  to  get  him  back. 

"Some  day  I  will  open  the  door  of  his 
room  again,  and  I  will  hear  the  laughter 
of  my  son.  and  we  will  listen  to  Peter  Pan 
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there  to  catch  him  if  he  should  fall.  .  .  ." 

That  was  Stella's  side  of  the  story.  Her- 
man's is  quite  different: 

"I  have  been  wanting  my  son  back  ever 
since  Stella  carried  him  off  to  California 
in  violation  of  the  court's  order  in  May  of 
1959.  I  have  been  planning  this  since  then. 

"I  left  Memphis  on  an  American  Airlines 
plane  at  1:30  a.m.  on  Saturday,  April  23.  I 
had  $600  in  my  pocket.  I  didn't  know  how 
much  it  would  cost. 

"I  arrived  in  Los  Angeles  Saturday 
morning  and  rented  a  car.  I  drove  to  a 
private  plane  rental  company  at  the  air- 
port and  chartered  a  plane  and  pilot.  As 
soon  as  I  arrived  at  the  airport  with  Andy, 
the  pilot  was  to  fly  us  to  Phoenix,  about 
450  miles  from  Los  Angeles. 

"I  drove  into  town  and  got  a  map  of 
Los  Angeles.  I  drove  out  Benedict  Canyon 
Drive  and  found  Stella's  house  real  easy. 

The  watch 

"I  parked  down  the  street  and  watched 
the  house  the  rest  of  the  day.  If  Andy 
came  out,  I  was  going  to  get  him  and  take 
off  fast.  But  I  never  did  see  him  that  day. 

"That  night  I  drove  off  and  found  a 
motel.  I  was  keyed  up,  tense  and  excited 
and  didn't  sleep  too  well.  I  got  up  early 
Sunday  morning  and  started  watching  the 
house  again.  No  one  came  out  for  hours. 
Then  in  early  afternoon  Stella  and  Andy 
came  out  and  got  in  a  car  and  left. 

"I  followed  at  a  distance.  She  drove  up 
and  down  the  freeways  for  a  long  time, 
just  taking  Andy  for  a  ride,  I  guess.  She 


finally  turned  off  and  I  was  afraid  she 
would  see  me  if  I  followed,  so  I  didn't. 
After  supper,  I  went  back  to  her  house 
and  began  watching  again.  But  she  didn't 
come  home  that  night.  At  least,  not  while 
I  was  there.  I  fell  asleep  in  the  car,  it  was 
so  late.  I  finally  woke  up — it  was  2:30  a.m. 
oi  later — and  drove  back  to  my  motel. 

(Ed.  note:  Stella  in  a  later  interview 
denied  she  did  not  return  home.  She  said 
she  was  home  all  Sunday  evening.  It  was 
possible,  of  course,  for  Stella  to  have 
returned  while  Herman  was  out  eating,  or 
to  have  returned  when  he  went  to  sleep.) 

"I  set  my  alarm  clock  for  6:00  a.m.  and 
got  a  few  hours'  sleep.  I  drove  back  and 
watched  the  house  again.  I  didn't  see  any- 
one and  didn't  know  if  anyone  was  home 
or  not. 

"I  began  checking  nurseries  in  the 
neighborhood  but  was  unsuccessful.  I 
drove  back  to  Stella's  house.  I  was  going 
to  make  one  last  effort.  And  for  some  rea- 
son I  can't  explain,  I  did  something  I 
hadn't,  planned  to  do.  I  parked  in  the 
driveway  and  walked  up  to  the  door.  It 
was  about  11:30  a.m.  when  I  rang  the  bell. 

"Just  at  that  instant,  I  heard  Andy's 
voice  from  the  side  of  the  house.  He  was 
playing  outside.  When  he  heard  the  bell 
he  ran  around  to  the  front.  He  saw  me  and 
hollered,  'Daddy,'  and  came  running  up 
to  me.  About  that  time  I  heard  Estelle  in 
the  house  call  out,  'Andy.' 

"About  that  time  I  was  getting  panicky. 
I  had  to  move  fast.  I  realized  that  Andy 
was  glad  to  see  me,  as  I  was  him.  I  quickly 


took  him  by  the  hand  and  said,  'Come  o 

son,  let's  go  for  a  ride.' 

The  snatch 

"Then  I  picked  him  up  in  my  arms,  p 
him  in  the  car  and  got  out  of  there  in 
hurry.  I  was  later  told  that  Estelle  sa 
she  saw  Andy  between  two  men  in  the  ca 
But,  I  was  alone. 

"I  drove  to  the  airport,  checked  in  tl 
rented  car  and  hurried  over  to  the  cha 
tered  plane.  The  pilot  was  waiting.  We  le 
immediately  for  Phoenix  and  arrive 
there  about  mid-afternoon. 

"We  got  on  the  plane  and  left  Phoen 
at  12:30  a.m.,  April  26,  and  got  in  Memph 
at  9: 15  a.m.  Boy,  was  I  glad  to  be  hon 
with  Andy.  It  had  been  too  long  since 
had  seen  him — almost  a  year." 

But  despite  Herman  Stephens'  pleasu) 
at  being  re-united  with  his  son,  his  troi 
bles  are  not  over. 

"I'm  going  to  go  back,"  says  Stella,  "ar 
get  my  boy.  Oh,  I  won't  try  to  steal  Anc 
again.  I'll  go  to  court.  They  know  a  litt 
boy  needs  his  mother.  Maybe  they'll  p< 
me  in  jail  for  a  while,  but  I  don't  care 

So  that's  where  the  story  ends  ...  in 
tug  of  war ...  in  a  little  boy  pulled  at  ar 
pushed,  having  no  idea  where  he  belon; 
or  what  tomorrow  may  hold.  Oh,  little  bo; 
have  lived  through  worse  than  that . .  .  v 
only  wonder  how  he  will  ever  understar 
that  all  of  this  confusion,  this  emotion 
torture  that  must  leave  deep  scars  is  h 
because  two  people  claim  to  love  hi 
more  than  anything  in  the  world. 


Have  I  Failed  as  a  True  Christian? 


(Continued  from  page  34) 

was  a  letter  that  did  not  praise  Elvis  .  .  . 
far  from  it!  This  letter  attacked  in  the  way 
we  know  hurts  Elvis  most  ...  it  told  a 
story  of  a  night  that  apparently  shocked 
the  letter  writer,  and  may  possibly  shock 
some  of  our  readers,  but  it  did  not  shock 
us. 

Why  not?  Because  we  have  received 
just  such  letters  about  almost  every  star 
in  the  United  States. 

We  have  never  previously  printed  such 
a  letter  because  we  felt  it  might  damage 
the  star,  but  we  feel  that  this  case  points 
a  very  important  moral  ...  if  Elvis  Pres- 
ley, one  of  the  finest  men  we  know,  can 
be  misunderstood  in  this  manner,  no  star, 
no  performer  is  ever  safe.  This  is  the 
letter: 

March  3,  1960 

Mr.  David  Myers,  Editor 

Modern  Screen 

Neio  York,  New  York 

Dear  Mr.  Myers: 

First  things  first — so  I'll  begin  by  intro- 
ducing myself. 

My  name  is  Miss  Ruby  Lee  Mays.  I  am 
24  years  old.  .  .  .  Some  time  ago  I  took  a 
job  in  Memphis,  Tennessee,  where  I 
worked  in  a  finance  company — helping  our 
customers  to  work  out  their  problems  and 
talking  with  them  about  their  personal 
troubles.  In  my  spare  time  I  began  work- 
ing with  the  kids  at  the  Crippled  Chil- 
dren's Hospital — and  found  I  completely 
surrounded  myself  with  their  problems. 
These  kids  were  not  crippled  for  life — 
there  was  hope  of  their  recovery.  Those 
with  club  feet  would  be  able  to  walk  some 
day — with  the  right  help  and  guidance. 
Those  with  polio  could  someday  walk 
again.  .  .  . 

One  day  I  walked  in  and  received  not 
so  much  as  a  "Hi"  ...  7  talked  with  the 
80  nurse  on  duty.  It  was  through  her  that  I 


learned  that  the  kids  were  "down  in  the 
dumps"  because  they  had  received  word 
that  they  were  not  going  home  for  Christ- 
mas. 

Not  going  home  for  Christmas?  Why, 
they  had  planned  on  it  so  much.  In  fact.  I 
had  helped  some  of  them  address  Christ- 
man  cards  to  their  friends  saying  they 
would  all  get  together  and  have  a  good 
time.  But  plans  had  been  altered  due  to 
a  flu  epidemic — and  the  doctors  said,  "No." 

How  in  the  world  do  you  explain  to 
children — who,  not  at  their  own  choosing, 
are  different  from  other  children?  So — 
with  one  of  my  big  ideas — J  marched  my- 
self back  into  the  room,  gathered  all  of 
them  around  me,  and  announced.  "Okay. 
I'll  tell  you  what!  You  tell  me  what  you'd 
rather  have  than  anything  else  in  the 
world  and  III  get  it  as  a  Christmas  gift 
for  you." 

I  no  more  than  got  the  promise  out  of 
my  mouth  than  I  got  an  answer  from 
Janie.  "Ruby,  will  you  get  Elvis  to  come 
see  us?"  And  a  silence  I've  never  expe- 
rienced since,  one  which  I  hope  will  never 
re-appear — came  over  the  entire  room! 

They  knew  I  had  met  Elvis  through  mu- 
tual friends.  They  knew  that  I  knew  Anita 
Wood,  the  girl  Elvis  was  dating.  But  they 
didn't  know  that  they  had  recently  had  a 
quarrel  when  Anita  had  gone  to  Holly- 
wood to  make  a  film,  that  they  weren't 
writing,  etc.  But  you  don't  try  explaining 
these  things  to  kids — you  just  don't!  And 
so — I  made  a  promise  to  TRY!  But  it 
turned  out  to  be  the  greatest  challenge  of 
my  entire  life! 

Yes,  I  had  met  Elvis.  I  don't  say  that  we 
were  friends — only  that  we  had  been  in- 
troduced many  times — each  being  very 
pleasant  due  to  his  friendly  ways.  But  I 
doubted  even  then  that  Elvis  would  re- 
member sxich  a  meeting,  even  one  of  them. 
I  don't  know  that  I  ever  really  had  an 
opinion  of  him — simply  that  I  was  glad 


to  see  a  guy  go  from  "rags  to  riches"  i 
he  finally  did.  But  other  than  that  I  real 
didn't  think  about  it. 

But  with  the  promise  I  made  to  the  ki< 
J  was  soon  to  really  think  about  it.  I  U 
the  hospital  and  drove  the  3  or  4  mil' 
to  Graceland.  Elivs'  home.  It  was  pourii 
down  rain — but  that  didn't  keep  the  fa 
away.  In  fact,  there  were  some  4-5  ca 
parked  at  the  gate  when  I  drove  up.  ft' 
first  impulse  was  to  get  out  of  there  ai 
forget  that  silly  nonsense.  But  I  couldi 
do  it!  I  had  made  a  promise  to  those  kit 
which  I  would  keep.  I  WAS  GOING  T 
TRY! 

Feeling  like  a  complete  idiot.  I  dro> 
right  up  to  the  gate  and  yelled  for  Trav< 
Elvis'  uncle  who  worked  as  guard  at  tl 
gate,  to  come  out  to  the  car.  I  had  m 
Travis  several  times  before,  so  lohen  / 
recognized  me.  he  came  out  and  sat  in  tl 
car  and  talked  with  me  for  a  while.  1  c.i 
plained  to  him  what  I  wanted  and  he  to 
me  Elvis  was  out  with  some  of  the  bo; 
but  would  be  back  shortly.  "You  just  pv 
right  up  beside  the  drive  and  you'll  caU 
him  when  he  drives  in." 

It  wasn't  ten  minutes  later  that  Elv 
appeared,  driving  the  purple  Cadillac.  a> 
paused  at  the  gate.  No  sooner  had  h 
stopped  than  eight  or  ten  kids  rushed  i 
to  him  for  autographs.  Well,  I  wasn't  gov 
to  butt  in  on  their  fun — so  in  my  car 
sat!  And  through  that  downpour  certain 
nobody  recognized  Ruby  Lee  Mays — but 
felt  as  if  everyone  was  watching  and  co> 
sidering  me  an  "autograph  hound."  It  rvi 
at  that  time  that  I  came  closest  to  leavin 
But  I  still  couldn't  do  it!  Even  if  it  meai 
pocketing  my  pride  and  making  a  fool 
myself  I'd  have  to  do  so — for  I  was  pj 
going  to  leave  in  defeat! 

As  I  made  a  move  to  get  out.  Elv 
moved  on  toward  the  house — leaving  tl 
crowd  behind. 

Eventually  all  the  cars  left — and  /  age 
drove  up  to  the  gate  in  ansioer  to  Travi 
call,  "Why  didn't  you  get  out?"  So  I  hi 
plained — then  asked  that  he  take  a  mc; 
sage  up  to  the  house  for  me.  That  messa< 
read: 

Elvis: 


I've  met  you  several  times — but  pos- 
sibly you  don't  remember.  That,  how- 
ever, is  not  important.  I'd  like  to  talk 
with  you  for  five  minutes  in  which  to 
ask  a  favor  of  you — a  favor  which 
J  would  make  some  20-30  kids  the  hap- 
piest ones  ever  at  Christmastime. 

I  know  you  must  be  busy — having 
everyone  want  to  see  you  at  this  time 
— and  I  certainly  don't  want  to  bother 
you.  But  would  it  be  possible  to  speak 
with  you  for  these  short  minutes?  I'd 
be  so  appreciative. 

Ruby  Lee  Mays 
It  was  approximately  three  minutes  later 

that    Travis   returned    with    his  answer, 

"Elvis  says  to  tell  you  he'll  be  down  in 

about  ten  minutes." 
And  now  comes  my  open  letter  to  Elvis 

Presley: 

Do  you  remember  how  you  drove  down 

-  the  road  from  the  house — parking  your  car 
'•'next  to  mine,  Elvis?  Do  you  remember 

how  you  rolled  down  the  window  and 
yelled,  "You  the  one  that  sent  the  note?" 
And  my  answer  was,  "Yes,  I'd  like  to  talk 
urith  you  for  just  a  moment  if  I  may, 

rolease."  And  do  you  remember  how  you 
yelled  back,  "Well,  I'm  a  busy  man.  I  don't 

'  have  time  to  talk." 

:l:  It  was  then,  Elvis,  that  I  said  I  was 
„sorry,  that  I  knew  you  were  busy,  that  I 
.didn't  want  to  bother  you,  but  that  I  had 
promised  the  kids  I'd  try  and  talk  with 

iou.  And  then — through  all  that  rain— 
,t.jour  answer  was  the  same,  "Well,  I've  got 

1  date  and  I've  goita  go." 

-  With  that  I  turned  the  key  and  began 
lacking  out.  Do  you  remember  calling 
tack  to  me.  Elvis,  "What  was  it  you 
vanted  to  talk  about?" 

Well,  the  little  speech  I  had  rehearsed 
rime  and  again  on  my  way  out  didn't 

eem  so  convincing  any  longer — certainly 
.  ,ot  the  type  you'd  deliver  between  two 
H  >arked  cars  in  the  rain  with  four  guys 
■:  itting  there  in  your  car  listening.  But  re- 
x  ardless,  I  had  to  make  an  attempt.  I 
'.'.'culdn't  go  back  to  the  hospital  and  tell 
::  'lose  kids  I  hadn't  even  talked  with  you. 
i  If  that  were  the  case  they'd  expect  me  to 
-i  ome  back  at  a  later  date — and  I  could 
J.-ever  go  through  this  deal  twice.  And  so 
began — I  told  you  everything.  I  ex- 
:|  lained  how  heartbroken  they  were;  your 
:\.npearance  would  make  them  happy,  that 
you  wouldn't  have  to  sing  or  spend  much 

■  me  there,  only  say  hello  and  let  them 

now  you  cared. 

I  But  you  were  having  no  part  of  it!  Do 
:ou  remember  your  reply  when  I  again 
lid  I  was  sorry  to  have  taken  up  your 
wne  and  began  backing  out?  Do  you  re- 
1  ember  jumping  out  of  the  car  and  step- 
kng  the  short  distance  to  my  side  and 
tiling  so  all  could  hear,  "Don't  you  act 
•  smart!  You  don't  realize  I'm  a  busy 
:an.  When  I  come  home  I'd  like  to  spend 
little  time  with  my  folks." 
And  again  I  said  I  was  sorry!  And  again 
backed  away.  But  you  cried  out,  "You 
ait  just  a  minute!  Don't  you  act  so  high 
:d  mighty!" 

And  do  you  remember  my  answer, 
vis?  I  told  you,  "No  one  is  acting  high 
■d  mighty!  I'm  trying  to  be  nice.  I  came 
■t  here  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.  I  didn't 
ally  expect  you  to  go — but  I  told  those 
ds  I'd  ask.  Now  that  you've  given  me 
ur  answer  I'll  leave." 
But  again  you  held  me  there.  I  can  still 
s  you  leaning  toward  my  car — dripping 
th  rain — as  you  literally  screamed,  "You 
n't  seem  to  understand  that  I  want  a 
tie  time  to  myself.  Whenever  I  come 
me  people  are  always  wanting  me  to  do 
s — and  do  that — for  charity!" 
Charity?  Charity?  Mr.  Presley,  let  me 
I  you  one  thing!  .  .  .  I  didn't  come  out 
re  looking  for  an  autograph  from  the 
ck  V  Roll  King!  I  don't  care  if  you  dig 


ditches  for  a  living — so  don't  you  get  it 
in  your  head  that  I  came  out  here  for  my- 
self— that  I'm  running  after  you.  .  .  ." 

And  do  you  remember  how  you  cut  me 
short  with,  "Now  you  listen  to  me!" 

"Listen  to  you,  Mr.  Presley?  I've  heard 
your  answer — so  I've  listened.  But  you 
just  stand  back  and  listen!  I  personally 
don't  give  a  damn  about  you — or  who  you 
are!  But  I  do  care  about  those  kids  at  that 
hospital — heartbroken  because  they  can't 
go  home  for  Christmas.  They  wanted  you 
to  stop  by  just  long  enough  to  say  you 
were  thinking  about  them.  But  no!  You 
can't  spare  ten  minutes!  Sure,  you  can 
drop  SI, 000  in  the  pot  on  Main  Street  and 
a  photographer  just  happens  to  be 
standing  there!  But  you  can't  drop  in  and 
see  some  kids  who  are  less  fortunate  than 
you!  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  have  the  press 
standing  there  with  the  flash  bulbs  popping 
— showing  what  a  thoughtful  and  wonder- 


100 

FREE 

"ELVIS 

IS 
BACK" 
ALBUMS 


■  How  can  you  win  one  of  RCA- 
Victor's  great  new  "Elvis  Is  Back" 
albums?  Just  fill  in  both  sides  of 
the  form  below  (or  a  reasonable 
facsimile  thereof)  and  mail  it  to 
us  right  away.    Twenty  winners 


ful  person  you  are.  No,  I  can't  do  that  for 
you!  Sure,  I  know  you're  busy!  And  I 
know  a  lot  of  people  must  be  on  you  con- 
stantly for  something!  So  go  about  your 
business  and  make  all  your  fans  happy! 
But  don't  you  forget  that  those  kids  at  the 
hospital — even  though  some  are  bedridden, 
some  can't  talk  or  wake  up  every  morn- 
ing and  see  what  a  beautiful  world  they 
live  in,  and  others  don't  walk — those  kids 
helped  put  you  where  you  are  today  and 
they  can  very  easily  tear  you  down! 

Do  you  remember,  Elvis?  Do  you  re- 
member how  I  sat  there  with  tears  of  joy 
streaming  down  my  cheeks  because  I 
could  appreciate  life  to  the  fullest — and 
tears  of  sorrow  for  kids  who  cared  enough 
for  Elvis  Presley  to  think  he  might  pos- 
sibly stop  by  and  say  hello? 

Do  you  remember  later  your  reply,  "I'm 
busy — you'll  have  to  come  back  later  on." 
Do  you  remember,  Elvis? 


will  be  chosen  from  each  of  the 
following  areas — on  a  basis  of  the 
date  and  time  on  your  postmark: 
Eastern  States,  Southern  States, 
Midwestern  States,  Rocky  Moun- 
tain and  Pacific  States,  Canada. 
And  even  if  you  don't  win  an  Elvis 
album,  you'll  be  glad  you  sent  this 
ballot  in  because  you're  helping 
us  discover  the  recording  stars  you 
really  care  about.  MAIL  TO: 
RECORDING  STAR  POLL, 
MODERN  SCREEN,  BOX  2291, 
GRAND  CENTRAL  STATION, 
N.Y.  17,  N.Y. 


SINGLES 

If  you  own  any  singles  (a  record  with  one  song  on  each  side)  by  any 
of  the  following  performers,  please  make  an  X  in  the  box  next  to 
his  name: 

Ames  Brothers 

O  Johnny  Horton 

□  Paul  Anka 

Q  Marv  Johnson 

□  Annette 

Q  Brenda  Lee 

□  Frankie  Avalon 

□  Little  Willie  John 

□  LaVern  Baker 

□  Rick  Nelson 

n  Brook  Benton 

□  Patti  Page 

□  Pat  Boone 

□  Platters 

□  Brothers  Four 

□  Elvis  Presley 

□  Johnny  Cash 

□  Lloyd  Price 

□  Bobby  Darin 

□  Jim  Reeves 

O  Fats  Domino 

□  Debbie  Reynolds 

□  Lonnie  Donegan 

□  Marty  Robbins 

[J  Tommy  Edwards 

Q  Jimmie  Rodgers 

CI  Everly  Brothers 

Connie  Stevens 

□  Fabian 

□  Neil  Sedaka 

□  Eddie  Fisher 

[J  Conway  Twitty 

□  Ella  Fitzgerald 

□  Sarah  Vaughan 

Connoe  Francis 

□  Jackie  Wilson 

,1  81 


Well,  I  do!  I  remembered  how  I  drove 
back  to  the  hospital  and  stood  at  the  door 
debating  what  1  should  tell  those  kids.  I 
remember  how  I  first  went  to  the  ladies' 
room  to  put  on  my  face  before  going  in 
to  see  them  again.  I  even  remember  how 
I  dropped  down  into  the  chair  in  the  office 
and  cried  my  heart  out  in  disappointment 
— because  there  wasn't  a  thing  in  this 
God's  world  I  could  do  about  it! 

Yes,  Elvis,  I  remember!  Oh,  how  I  shall 
always  remember  walking  in  and  telling 
the  kids.  I  had  decided  not  to  tell  them 
the  truth — that  you  didn't  have  time  for 
all  that  charity  work — but  simply  that 
you  were  tied  up  with  other  engagements 
and  that  was  that! 

But,  Elvis,  children  are  far  smarter  than 
we  give  them  credit  for.  .  .  .  All  they  un- 
derstood was  that  Elvis  wasn't  coming  to 
see  them!  .  .  . 

It  has  been  quite  some  time  since  I've 


thought  back  to  that  night  in  the  rain.  But 
today — when  I  picked  up  the  paper  and 
saw  your  picture  and  your  comment  to 
"give  the  people  rock  V  roll  as  long  as 
they  want  it,"  I  couldn't  help  but  re- 
member. 

And  in  remembering  1  recall  the  endorse- 
ment of  my  high  school  diploma  which 
read:  "You  have  ascended  the  stairway  of 
the  stars  and  attained  an  important  step 
in  self  -improvement.  In  years  to  come  new 
stairways  will  be  opened  to  you.  Weigh 
their  merits,  choose  them  carefully  and 
climb  them  bodily.  For  when  you  have 
reached  the  top  you  will  find  the  prize  was 
well  worth  winning." 

I  wish  for  you,  Elvis,  all  the  luck  and 
happiness  in  the  world.  And  especially 
when  you  find  the  one  thing  you  want 
more  than  anything  else  to  make  you 
happy — I  truly  hope  you  get  it. 

A  lot  of  us  don't  .  .  .  especially  at  Christ- 


ALBUMS 

If  you  own  any  albums  (an  LP  with  a  group  of  songs  is  an  album)  by 
any  of  the  following  recording  stars,  please  make  an  X  in  the  box 
next  to  his  name: 

□  Chet  Atkins 

[~l  Kingston  Trio 

□  Harry  Belofonte 

□  Mario  Lanza 

□  Pat  Boone 

□  Peggy  Lee 

Q  Brothers  Four 

Q  Henry  Mancini 

□  David  Carroll 

Q  Mantovani 

□  Ray  Charles 

□  Johnny  Mathis 

□  Van  Cliburn 

O  George  Melachrino 

Nat  King  Cole 

□  Mitch  Miller 

□  Perry  Como 

□  Platters 

□  Ray  Conniff 

□  Elvis  Presley 

□  Bobby  Darin 

□  Jim  Reeves 

□  Duane  Eddy 

□  Marty  Robbins 

□  Everly  Brothers 

□  Santo  and  Johnny 

□  Percy  Faith 

Q  Dinah  Shore 

□  Tennessee  Ernie  Ford 

fj  Frank  Sinatra 

□  Pete  Fountain 

□  Terry  Snyder  and  the  All  Stars 

Q  Connie  Francis 

□   Billy  Voughon 

□  Eydie  Gorme 

□  Dinah  Washington 

SHOW  TUNES,  TV,  MOVIE 

AND  COMEDIAN  ALBUMS 

If  you  own  any  of  the  albums  listed  below,  please  make  an  X  in  the 
box  next  to  the  title: 

Q  Flower  Drum  Song 

□  Porgy  and  Bess 

□  From  The  Hungry  1 

n  South  Pacific  (Broadway  Cast) 

□  Gigi 

Q  South  Pacific  (Soundtrack) 

O  My  Fair  Lady 

□  The  King  and  1 

□  Peter  Gunn 

Q  The  Music  Man 

Approximately  how  many  single  records  (of  all  kinds,  not  just  names 

Approximately  how  many  albums 

or  LP's  do  you  own?  

STREET  ADDRESS. 


mastime  on  a  rainy  night  tn  Memphis' 

Regards  for  the  best, 
Miss  Ruby  Lee  Mays  (Lee) 
2627  Mobile  Avenue.  Apt.  3 
El  Paso.  Texas 
It  wouldn't  be  right  or  proper  for  Elvi? 
to  answer  this  letter  ...  for  what  coulc 
he  say?  "Dear  God,  did  I  fail  as  a  Chris- 
tian?   I   didn't   mean   to  hurt  anyone.' 
Would  that  be  an  adequate  answer?  Would 
that  ease  the  pain  of  the  children  who 
waited  for  him  in  vain?  Would  that  really 
satisfy  the  young  lady  who  in  such  real 
sadness  wrote  her  letter  to  us?  We  doubt 
it. 

It's  far  more  fitting  that  we  answer  it. 
here  and  now,  for  we  can  point  to  the 
facts  that  Elvis  would  never  dream  of 
mentioning.  We  can  point  to  a  paralyzed 
thirteen-year-old  girl  for  whom  Elvis 
made  all  the  time  in  the  world  (until  she 
died),  and  a  young  polio  victim  in  Ger- 
many whom  Elvis  made  his  best  friend,  and 
hundreds  of  other  crippled  and  disabled 
children  who  are  grateful  to  Elvis  for  his 
open-handed  generosity.  No  one  could 
name  them  all. 

We  can  point  to  the  men  out  of  work 
for  whom  Elvis  has  found  jobs.  We  can 
point  to  a  park  in  Tupelo,  there  in  large 
part  through  Elvis'  gifts.  We  can  cover 
pages  and  pages  with  names  and  times 
and  events  .  .  .  but  we  doubt  even  this 
would  wipe  out  the  memory  of  that  un- 
happy evening  in  the  rain.  It  is  said  cor- 
rectly that  one  misstep  can  forever  erase 
a  man's  good  reputation. 

But  the  thing  that  is  forgotten  (in  this, 
case  by  Miss  Mays)  is  that  the  requests 
made  of  a  star  are  fantastic,  unbelievable. 
We're  not  speaking  of  the  ridiculous  re-| 
quests  like:  "Dear  Mr.  Presley,  You  have| 
so  much  money  .  .  please  send  me  ten 
thousand  dollars  .  .  ." — every  day's  mail 
brings  such  letters— but  of  the  very  sen- 
sible, often  heart-rending  pleas  for  aid: 
"My  daughter  needs  an  eye  operation"  .  .  . 
"Would  you  please  help  me  find  a  job?'' 
.  .  .  "Would  you  entertain  our  Girl  Scout 
troop?"  .  .  .  "Would  you  please  give  me 
just  a  minute  of  your  time?" 

That  any  star  finds  some  minutes  to 
spare,  sends  some  checks,  entertains  some 
troops  means  that  he  has  carefully  consid- 
ered these  requests,  and  with  a  heavy- 
heart  has  turned  down  a  thousand  times 
as  many  others. 

If  you  speak  with  any  star  you  will  find  | 
that  the  thing  he  most  craves  is  time  .  .  . 
a  half  an  hour  to  spend  with  his  family, 
seven  straight  hours  to  get  some  sleep 
fifteen  minutes  to  watch  some  television., 
Hollywood  marriages  break  up  because  | 
there  is  no  time  for  family  life.  Hollywood 
stars  get  ulcers  because  there  is  no  timej 
to  eat.  And  Hollywood  stars  have  nervous  | 
breakdowns  because  there  is  no  time  to 
relax. 

Elvis  Presley  has  less  time  than  other 
stars  and  many  more  demands  made  upon 
it.  Yet  Elvis  has  always  found  time  for  his 
church  and  his  Christianity,  so  if  we  are 
to  answer  the  letter  we  printed  above  we  I 
can  only  say: 

Dear  Miss  Mays: 

Please  try  to  find  it  in  your  heart  to  for- 
give a  man  whose  burdens  are  heavy, 
whose  time  is  limited  and  whose  nerves 
for  the  moment  snapped,  but  a  man  who 
truly  loves  all  of  humanity. 


Editor 
Modern  Screen 


ZONE  STATE 


Elvis  ivill  soon  star  in  G.  I.  Blues  for 
Paramount. 


With  Tampax,  you  re  free  as  all  outdoors.,  .free  to  ski  and  spree. . .  to 
have  fun  wherever  you  go,  whatever  you  do!  The  choice  of  millions, 
it's  the  modern  way!    TAMPAX  ...so  much  a  part  of  your  active  life. 


Tampax®  internal  sanitary  protection  is  made  only  by  Tampax  Incorporated,  Palmer,  Mass. 


Sta-Puf  helps  things  dry  wrinkle-free 
...eliminates  much  ironing! 


So  soft  to  touch,  so  smooth  and  fresh!  That's  a  wash  rinsed  with  Sta-Puf! 
For  Sta-Puf'  Rinse  softens  wrinkly  creases  in  fiatwork,  blue  jeans,  corduroys, 
work  clothes.  Keeps  wash-and-wear  always  wearable,  with  far  less  "touch- 
up"  pressing  Lots  of  things  dry  so  wrinkle-free,  they  need  no  ironing  at  all! 
And  Sta-Puf  restores  deep-piled  softness  to  all  wash-hardened  fabrics. 
Towels  fluff  up  almost  half  again  in  thickness. . .  ordinary  woolen  sweaters 
feel  like  cashmere,  muslin  sheets  like  expensive  percale!  Diapers  and  baby 
clothes  come  out  soft  as  baby's  tender  skin,  preventing  scratchy  irritation. 
Get  Sta-Puf  at  your  grocer's  for  your  very  next  wash. 

x.     And  use  Sta-F/o"  Liquid  Laundry  Starch  for  the  finest  finish  of  all! 


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Washer  Shown  is  a  Hotpoint  TOUCH  COMMAND 


AUG  18  i960 


shave,  lady?. . .  don't  do  it! 


Cream  hair  away  the  beautiful  way.  .  .  with  new  baby-pink,  sweet-smelling 
NEET— you'll  never  again  be  embarrassed  with  unsightly  "razor  shadow"  (that 
faint  stubble  of  hair  left  on  razor-shaved  legs  and  underarms).  Gentle,  wonderful 
NEET  goes  down  deep  where  no  razor  can  reach— actually  beauty-creams  the 
hair  away.  And  when  the  hair  finally  does  grow  in  again,  it  feels  softer,  silkier;  there's 
no  stubble  at  all !  So  next  time,  for  the  smoothest,  nicest  legs  in  town, 
why  not  try  NEET— you'll  never  want  to  shave  again!     A  t 


lour  all  day 


No  cologne  prolongs  and  protects 
your  daintiness  like  Cashmere 
Bouquet  Talc.  Never  evaporates. 
Never  dries  your  skin.  Leaves 
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over.  Make  Cashmere  Bouquet 
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the  fragrance  men  love 


modern 


SEPTEMBER,  1960  AMERICA'S  GREATEST  MOVIE  MAGAZINE 

STORIES 

Marilyn  Monroe   17    The  Ghost  That  Haunts  Marilyn  Monroe 

by  Victoria  Cole 

Robert  Stack   20    How  Luck  And  Love  Clobbered  Bob  Stack 

by  Ed  DeBlasio 

Shirley  MacLaine   22    The  Heartache  Of  Shirley  MacLaine's  Marriage 

by  Helen  Weller 

Kim  Novak   24    My  God,  Will  I  End  Up  A  Spinster?        by  Lance  Eliot 

May  Britt   26    An  Open  Letter  To  May  Britt's  Co-Workers 

And  Friends  .  .  . 

Tuesday  Weld   28  Is  It  Too  Late  For  Me  To  Change  My  Ways?  . 

by  Rosamond  Gaylor 

Bobby  Rydell   30    The  Kid  Was  Starving!  by  Paul  Denis 

Vivien  Leigh 

laurence  Olivier    34    This  Is  Vivien  Leigh  by  Beverly  Linet 

Annette  Funicello    38    I  Know  There  Are  Miracles  by  George  Christy 

Elizabeth  Taylor 

Eddie  Fisher   40    Liz  Walks  Out! 

Bobby  Darin    42    We're  Getting  Married!  by  Bobby  Darin 

Ava  Gardner   44    Ava  Gardner's  Lost  Baby 

Debbie  Reynolds   46    Debbie  In  Trouble!  by  Bob  Thomas 

FEATURETTES 

Linda  Crista?    5  Linda  Cristal  And  The  Battle  Of  The  Bulge 

Elvis  Presley 

Cliff  Richard   56  Cliff  Richard's  Idol,  Elvis  Presley 

Margaret  Leighton 

Laurence  Harvey   62  Meeting  Margaret 

Irene  Dunne   66  The  Red  And  The  Blue 

Joannie  Sommers   76  Paid:  By  Joanie  Sommers — An  I-O-U  To  God 


DEPARTMENTS 

Louella  Parsons    9  Eight-Page  Gossip  Extra 

4  The  Inside  Story 

6  New  Movies  by  Florence  Epstein 

64  Disk  Jockeys'  Quiz 

74  September  Birthdays 

79  $150  For  You 

Cover  Photograph  from  Gilloon 
Other  Photographers'  Credits  on  Page  53 


DAVID  MYERS,  editor 

SAM  BLUM,  managing  editor 

TERRY  DAVIDSON,  story  editor 
LINDA  OLSHEIM,  production  editor 
ED  DeBLASIO,  special  correspondent 
BEVERLY  LINET,  contributing  editor 
ERNESTINE  R.  COOKE,  ed.  assistant 
GENE  HOYT,  research  director 


MICHAEL  LEFCOURT,  art  editor 
HELEN  WELLER,  west  coast  editor 

DOLORES  M.  SHAW,  asst.  art  editor 
CARLOS  CLARENS,  research 
JEANNE  SMITH,  editorial  research 
EUGENE  WITAL,  photographic  art 
AUGUSTINE  PENNETTO,  cover 
FERNANDO  TEXIDOR,  art  director 


POSTMASTER:  Please  send  notice  on  Form  3579  to  321  West  44  Street,  New  York  36,  New  York 

MODERN  SCREEN.  Vol.  54,  No.  8,  September,  1960.  Published  Monthly  by  Dell  Publishing  Co..  Inc..  Office 
df  publication  ■  at  Washington  and  South  Aves.,  Dunellen.  N.  J.  Executive  and  editorial  offices.  750  Third 
Avenue.  New  York  17.  N.  Y.  Dell  Subscription  Service:  321  W.  44th  St..  New  York  36.  N.  Y.  Chicago  advertising 
office  221  No  LaSalle  St..  Chicago.  111.  Albert  P.  Delacorte.  Publisher;  Helen  Meyer,  President;  Paul  R.  Lilly. 
Executive  Vice-President;  William  F.  Callahan.  Jr.,  Vice-President;  Harold  Clark.  Vice-President-Advertising  Di- 
rector Published  simultaneously  in  the  Dominion  of  Canada.  International  copyright  secured  under  the  provisions  of 
the  revised  Convention  for  the  protection  of  Literary  and  Artistic  Works  All  rights  reserved  under  the  Buenos  Aires 
Convention  Single  copy  price  25c  in  U.  S.  A.  and  Possessions  and  Canada.  Subscription  in  U.  S.  A.  and  Possessions 
and  Canada  $2.50  one  year.  $4,00  two  years,  $5.50  three  years.  Subscription  for  Pan  American  and  foreign  countries, 
$3  50  a  year.  Second  class  postage  paid  at  Dunellen,  New  Jersey,  Copyright  1960  by  Dell  Publishing  Co..  Inc.  Printed 
in  U.  S.  A.  The  Publishers  assume  no  responsibility  for  the  return  of  unsolicited  material.  Trademark  No.  596800. 


Who  put  the  egg 
in  Peg's  shampoo4? 

|||;5^\     x  <j  (and  why 


uShSA that's  who!  Here's  why- 

Peg  (and  you)  need  the  Golden  Plus  of  egg,  nature's  own  hair  luster- 
zer.  A  sea  of  suds  cleans  and  sheens  every  strand,,  then  rinses  out  in 
lothing  flat!  The  Golden  Plus  richness  of  egg  helps  give  you  right- 
ifter-shampoo  manageability,  too.  What  do  you  want?  Cleanest, 
;hining-est,  behaving-est  hair?  Then  you  want  egg  in  your  shampoo, 
ifou  want .  .  .  you  need  Helene  Curtis  Shampoo  Plus  Egg,  the  luxury 
ihampoo  that  costs  no  more 
han  ordinary  watery  shampoos. 


New!  Shampoofs!  Shampoo  Plus  Egg  in  handy  little 
plastic  packets  for  girls  on  the  go.  1  complete  sham- 
poo (2  lathers)  per  10|i  packet.  Card  of  6,  just  59£. 


brings  you  the  art  of 

eye  makeup 

a  different  you  for  every  fashion  look! 


...  need  a  thin  brush  stroke  of 
Lashbrite,  non-smear  Liquid  Eyeliner  blended  ufh, 
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Turquoise,  Green,  Violet,  Blue,  Gold,  Silver.  490* 


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Swirl-on  Mascara  does  it.  Waterproof,  too.  Carry 
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In  Jet  Black,  Blue  or  Velvet  Brown.  790* 


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E5... created  with 
Lashbrite's  Shadow  Tones  in  three  fancy-free 
hues  plus  Silver  and  Gold  for  dramatic  effects 
...all  in  one  palette.  59(S! 

Golden-Cased  Eye  Shadow  stick  in  five  fabu- 
lous Iridescent  colors.  590* 


glamour  in  eye  makeup 


...at  prices  that  make  your  budget  sing! 
In  all  Variety,  Drug  and  Chain  Stores 

•plus  tax  Prices  slightly  higher  in  Canada 

4      THEON  CO.,  NEW  YORK    THEON  LTD.,  MONTREAL 


Want  the  real  truth?  Write  to  INSIDE  STORY,  Modern  Screen. 
Box  515,  Times  Square  P.O.,  N.Y.  36,  N.Y.  The  most  interesting 
letters  will  appear  in  this  column.  Sorry,  no  personal  replies. 
For  vital  statistics  and  biographical  information  about  the  stars 
get  Modern  Screen's  SUPER  STAR  CHART.  Coupon,  page  68. 

9  Jerry  Lewis  seems  to  be  running 
around  from  city  to  city  in  a  bell-hop's 
outfit — and  acting  real  wild.  Doesn't 
he  think  this  is  going  a  little  far  to  plug 
a  movie — particularly  for  a  star  of  his 
caliber  and  considering  the  poor  state 
of  his  health^ 

— R.D.,  Staten  Island.  N.Y. 


Q  Every  time  a  star  is  sick — he  or  she 
seems  to  be  suffering  from  Hepatitis — 
everyone  from  Kim  Novak  to  Mrs. 
Efrem  Zimbalist.  Is  a  bug  causing  a 
Hollywood  epidemic — or  is  it  just  fash- 
ionable to  suffer  from  Hepatitis?  Inci- 
dentally— what  is  Hepatitis?  And  how 
do  you  get  it? 

— T.R.,  Los  Angeles,  Calef. 

A  You  don't  want  it.  It's  more  serious 
than  fashionable.  The  American  Medi- 
cal Dictionary  defines  it  as  "inflamma- 
tion of  the  liver."  The  Merck  Manual 
of  Diagnosis  defines  Toxic  Hepatitis  as 
"Hepatitis  caused  by  a  wide  variety  of 
chemicals  taken  into  the  system  by  in- 
halation, ingestion,  skin  absorption  or 
injection."  Amoebic  Hepatitis  is  caused 
by  "amoebas  reaching  the  liver  through 
the  portal  system."  There's  no  epidemic 
in  Hollywood  but  the  "disease  is  prev- 
alent in  the  tropics"  and  California  is 
semi-tropical.  It  can  be  mild  as  in  Kim's 
case,  prolonged  and  serious  as  in  Ann 
Sothern's  a  few  years  ago,  fatal  if  acute 
yellow  atrophy  residts.  When  stricken 
before,  the  stars  vaguely  referred  to 
their  trouble  as  "an  internal  disorder" 
or  "jaundice." 

9  Can  you  tell  me  what  was  really  be- 
hind all  that  publicity  about  Brigitte 
Bardot's  desire  to  leave  movies  forever, 
and  then  her  equally  sudden  desire  to 
remain  a  star  after  all? 

— L.M.,  New  Orleans,  La. 

A  A  desire  for  all  that  publicity. 

9  Is  it  true  that  James  Arness  is  seeing 
an  analyst  about  his  marital  problems? 

— R.Z.,  Butte,  Mont. 

A  He's  seeing  an  analyst  about  all  his 
problems. 

9  Is  it  very  serious  between  Hope 
Lange  and  Glenn  Ford? 

— L.V.H.,  Montreal,  Can. 

A  Not  very. 

9  I  read  where  King  Farouk  and 
Debro  Paget  are  interested  in  each 
other.  This  can't  possibly  be  true — 
can  it? 

— F.D.,  Ann  Arbor,  Mich. 

A  The  ex-king  is  interested  in  Debra — 
and  a  few  dozen  others.  Miss  Paget 
was  merely  mildly  flattered  by  his  at- 
tention. 


A  The  farther  he  goes,  the  richer  he  gets. 
Jerry  owns  the  picture. 

9  Last  month's  Modern  Screen  fea- 
tured a  story  on  Princess  Margaret  and 
Tony  Jones.  Pardon  me  for  being  sar- 
castic, but  just  what  movie  did  they 
ever  appear  in  to  merit  a  story  in  the 
top  movie  magazine  in  this  country? 

— R.T.,  Newport,  R.I. 

A  The  Royal  Wedding — in  glorious 
Technicolor — seen  by  millions  in  movie 
houses  throughout  the  country.  (And 
Jackie  Chan's  in  Susie  Wong.) 

9  If  you  possibly  can,  tell  me  what 
Janet  Leigh  was  covered  with  during 
that  "crucial"  nude  shower  scene  in 
Psycho? 

— O.L.,  Wilkes-Barre.  Pa. 

A  Water. 

9  Are  Yves  Montand  and  Simone 
Signoret  as  happy  as  they  seem  to  be? 

— L.B.,  Dayton,  Ohio. 

A  They  are  now  in  the  process  of  work- 
ing out  several  serious  domestic  prob- 
lems. 

9  With  both  her  children  half-Jewish, 
and  Harry  Karl  all  Jewish,  will  Deb- 
bie Reynolds  convert  if  she  marries 
Karl? 

— E.R.,  Wichita  Falls,  Kan. 
A  Debbie  has  no  such  plans  at  this  time. 

9  I  am  a  fan  of  Dean  Stockwell's  and 

I  searched  all  the  newspapers  and  mag- 
azines for  a  photo  of  his  wedding  to 
Millie  Perkins  in  Las  Vegas.  Why 
hasn't  one  been  printed? 

— M.K.,  Nome,  Alaska 

A  Because  none  exists.  A  friend  of 
Dean's  passed  on  the  fascinating  theory 
that  Dean  and  Millie  were  married  a 
couple  of  months  before  they  sent  the 
wedding  news  out  of  Vegas.  A  check 
of  churches  and  ministers  seems  to  sub- 
stantiate this. 


Linda  Cristal.  a  shapely  girl, 
tells  the  story  that  when  her 
studio  discovered  her  in  Mexico, 
she  weighed  one-hundred-thirty 
pounds. 

Rather  a  lot  for  a  small-boned, 
pretty7  gal,  the  studio  told  her;  in 
fact,  too  fat. 

But  that's  how  the  Mexicans 
like  a  girl,  Linda  protested, 
"weeth  a  leetle  meat  on." 

No — said  the  always-right  stu- 
dio. Diet. 

So,  against  her  better  judg- 
ment, Linda  dieted  down  to  one 
hundred  and  eight  pounds. 

Now,  suddenly,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  adult  life,  something 
was  missing.  No  longer  the  whis- 
tles walking  down  the  street;  no 
longer  the  stares  in  the  restau- 
rants. "And  you  know."  she  said 
plaintively,  "we  women  do  like 
a  leetle  admiration." 

The  studio  kept  brushing  off 
her  complaints  until  one  day  a 
few  months  later,  everyone  on 
the  lot  began  to  say,  "Never  saw 
you  looking  so  well  .  .  .  See  what 
a  good  diet  does  for  you!" 

Now  that  Linda  felt  she  had 
won  her  point  she  could  keep 
her  secret  no  longer.  She  ad- 
mitted that  she  had  secretly  put 
on  seven  pounds.  "And  you  see 
what  eet  does  for  me  .  .  .  !" 

But  was  the  studio  happy?  No! 
Furious! 

But  Linda,  she  didn't  care.  She 
had  the  whistles  again. 

Linda  co-stars  in  United  Artists' 
The  Alamo. 


JUST  A'JUST 


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magic  tab  that 

adjusts  the  bra 
,  :    to  fit 
just  you 

! 


Your  form  wasn't  meant  to  conform  to  a 
cup . . .  the  cup  must  conform  to  you! 
And  I'm  the  magic  tab  that  can  pull 
the  magic  trick.  Just  pull  me  up ...  or 
down . . .  for  just  the  fullness  and 
separation  you  need . . .  just  the 

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TAMPAX 

A  PROVED 
SUCCESS 
FOR  OVER 
25  YEARS 


reason  :  Does  away  with  belts,  pads, 
pins.  Worn  internally,  Tampax  is  in- 
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reason  :  Lets  you  bathe,  shower,  from 
the  very  first  day.  Properly  inserted, 
Tampax  cannot  absorb  water  from  the 
outside. 

REASON:  Neat,  quick,  easy  to  use. 
Inserts  in  seconds  with  satin-smooth 
applicator.  To  dispose  of  Tampax,  just 
flush  away! 

REASON:  Odor  can't  form  with  Tampax. 
You  feel  so  fresh,  dainty,  tidy  at  all 
times,  you  almost  forget  it's  that  time 
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REASON:  Tampax  is  safe,  sure,  medi- 
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ALL  women,  married  or  single. 

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Tampax  takes  the  problem  out  of  prob- 
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TAMPAX  Palmer,  Mass. 


by  Florence  Epstein 


The  tortured  conscience  of  Anthony  Quinn,  as  the  doctor  who  murdered  Lana 
Turner's  husband  in  Portrait  in  Black  is  driving  him— and  her— to  desperation. 


PORTRAIT  IN  BLACK 


crimes  of  passion 


Lana  Turner 
Anthony  Quinn 
Sandra  Dee 
John  Saxon 
Lloyd  Nolan 


■  Lana  Turner,  the  second  wife  of  Lloyd 
Nolan,  wants  to  become  the  first  wife  of  doc- 
tor Anthony  Quinn.  Can  this  be  arranged? 
Well,  Nolan's  dying  anyway,  so  Quinn  sends 
him  off  with  an  air  bubble  in  a  hypodermic 
needle.  Perfect  crime.  Then  Lana  gets  a  letter 
congratulating  her  on  a  successful  murder. 
Most  disturbing.  Was  it  the  maid  (Anna  May 
Wong),  the  chauffeur  (Ray  Walston),  Lana's 
step-daughter  (Sandra  Dee)  or  Nolan's  lawyer 
(Richard  Basehart)  ?  Probably  Nolan's  law- 
yer because,  ever  since  Nolan's  death,  Base- 
hart  has  been  ruthlessly  taking  over  the  ship- 
ping empire  and  proposing  marriage  to  Lana. 
Together,  Quinn  and  Lana  plan  to  murder  him. 
When  his  body's  found  the  police  naturally 
arrest  Sandra  Dee's  boyfriend  (John  Saxon). 
John's  been  angry  at  Basehart  for  welshing 
on  a  tugboat  contract.  Another  perfect  crime. 


Then  Lana  gets  a  letter  congratulating  her. 
That  alone  can  make  a  girl  nervous.  What's 
worse  is  that  Quinn's  acting  jumpy.  He'd  like 
to  go  to  a  hospital  in  Switzerland  or  on  the 
moon  for  that  matter.  But  he  rolls  up  his 
sleeves  knowing  he  has  a  job  to  do — and  that 
is  to  find  the  letter  writer  and  kill  him — or 
her,  or  it.  Which  is  it? — Eastman  Color, 
Universal-International. 


MURDER,  INC. 

some  local  history 


Stuart  Whitman 
May  Britt 
Henry  Morgan 
Peter  Fa  Ik 
David  J.  Stewart 


■  Murder,  Inc.,  used  to  be  one  of  the  most 
successful  businesses  in  New  York.  It  special- 
ized, naturally,  in  murder  for  profit.  Names 
like  Lepke,  Anastasia,  Capone  still  ring  a  bell 
in  the  hearts  of  middle-aged  hoods.  A  lot  of 
the  "action"  took  place  in  Brooklyn,  while 
headquarters  was  in  the  garment  center.  It's  a 
big  day  for  Lepke  (David  Stewart)  when  Abe 


I  Reles  (Peter  Falk)  joins  the  organization. 
Falk  is  built  like  a  gorilla,  retains  little  human 

|  feeling  and  is  an  expert  at  "handling  iron."  A 
young  man  (Stuart  Whitman),  who  owes  Falk 
money,  is  persuaded  to  be  his  driver  on  the 
various  "contracts"  Falk  fulfills  for  Lepke. 

<  Whitman  is  weak  rather  than  brutal,  a  fact 
which  proves  fatal  to  his  pretty  wife,  May 
Britt.  Even  when  Falk  attacks  May,  Whitman 

<  can't  do  much  about  it.  He  gets  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  business.  Falk  sets  the  couple 
up  in  an  apartment  and,  when  the  heat's  on, 
Lepke  moves  in,  using  May  as  his  cook.  A 
new  Assistant  DA.  (Henry  Morgan)  finally 

,  comes  along  to  clean  up  Murder,  Inc. — a  sim- 
ple matter  of  catching  Falk  and  making  him 
''sing." — 20th-Fox. 


PSYCHO 

Hitchcock's  latest 


Anthony  Perkins 
Janet  Leigh 
Vera  Miles 
John  Gavin 
Martin  Balsam 


■  Janet  Leigh,  of  all  people,  steals  forty  thou- 
sand dollars  from  her  trusting  employer  and 
leaves  town.  She's  rushing  to  her  boyfriend 
(John  Gavin)  who,  only  yesterday,  couldn't 
afford  to  marry  her.  To  refresh  herself  (she's 
under  quite  a  strain)  she  stops  at  a  deserted 
motel.  As  young  proprietor  Anthony  Perkins 
informs  her — 12  rooms,  12  vacancies.  Never 
mind,  she  just  wants  to  sleep.  Let  me  bring 
you  a  sandwich,  he  says.  Certainly,  she  says. 
He  goes  up  the  hill  apiece  to  where  he  lives 
with  his  old  mother  and  Janet  hears  a  loud 
argument.  About  her,  of  course.  Mom  appar- 
ently hates  girls  (dirty,  scheming,  contemptible 
creatures).  Tony  returns  with  a  tray  and  he 
and  Janet  have  a  heart-to-heart  talk  in  a  room 
tilled  with  stuffed  birds.  A  boy's  best  friend  is 
his  mother,  Tony  says,  in  defense  of  her.  A 
little  mad,  a  little  old-fashioned — well,  maybe. 
If  Janet  weren't  under  such  a  strain  she  might 
have  left  the  motel  right  then.  Too  bad  she 
didn't.  Whatever  happens  to  her,  and  to  the 
private  investigator  sent  to  find  her?  John 
Gavin  and  Janet's  sister  (Vera  Miles)  pursue 
this  question  to  its  startling  conclusion.  One 
scene  is  just  a  little  too  violent  for  my  taste; 
the  rest,  forgive  me,  Hitchcock  fans,  doesn't 
seem  a  very  palatable  subject  for  what  is 
essentially,  a  thriller. — Paramount. 


Stealing  that  money  is  the  beginning 
of  Janet  Leigh's  troubles  in  Psycho. 

{Continued  on  page  8) 


Only  20  minutes  more  than  last  night's  pin-up  .  .  . 

wake  up 
with  a 

permanent/. 


Only  new  Bobbi  waves  while  you  sleep . . . 
brushes  into  a  softly  feminine,  lasting  hairstyle! 

If  you  can  put  up  your  hair  in 
pin  curls,  you  can  give  yourself  a 
Bobbi— the  easy  pin  curl  perma- 
nent. It  takes  only  twenty  minutes 
more  than  a  setting!  Then,  the 
wave  "takes"  while  you  sleep  be- 
cause Bobbi  is  self-neutralizing. 

In  the  morning  you  wake  up  with 
a  permanent  that  brushes  into  a 
soft,  finished  hairstyle  with  the  last- 
ing body  only  a  permanent  gives. 
Complete  kit,  $2.00.  Refill,  $1.50. 

The  most  convenient  permanent  of  all— home  or  beauty  shop! 


V"vf 


Look!  Keal  cream  deodorant 
your  fingers  need  never  touch ! 

Now  you  can  have  the  all-day  protection 
only  a  real  cream  deodorant  can  give  plus 
glide-on  convenience — both  in  new  Desert  Dr 
It  glides  on  and  rubs  in  right  from  its  own 
exclusive  applicator.  Not  just  a  rolled-on 
surface  coating,  it  penetrates  for  positive 
all-day  protection.  Checks  perspiration, 
stops  odor,  won't  damage  clothes. 
3  months'  supply — 1.00  plus  tax. 


New  glide-on  applicator! 
Just  twist  the  bottom  .  .  . 
cream  comes  out  the  top! 


New  Desert  Dri* 


■real  cream  deodorant— anti-per spirant  by  Shulton 

©Shullon,  Inc..  1960 


new  movies 

(Continued  from  page  7) 


THE  HOUSE  OF  USHER 

technicolor  horror  story 


Vincent  Price 
Mark  Damon 
Myrna  Fahey 

Harry  Ellerbe 


■  The  House  of  Usher  has  been  crumbling  for 
years.  Bad  blood,  whispers  Vincent  Price,  last 
of  the  Usher  males.  Don't  be  silly,  says  hand 
some  Mark  Damon,  fresh  from  Boston,  it' 
just  a  crack  in  the  wall.  Mark  likes  to  look  on 
the  bright  side  of  things  because  he's  engaged 
to  Vincent's  beautiful  sister,  Myrna  Fahey. 
One  look  at  that  house  would  have  sent  any 
other  boy  home  to  mama.  Mists  surround  it 
spider  webs  hang  all  over  it,  chandeliers 
(heavy  with  lighted  candles)  come  crashing 
from  the  ceiling.  You  can't  talk  to  Vincent 
(it  hurts  his  ears)  ;  Myrna  has  cataleptic  fits 
and  the  cellar  is  full  of  occupied  coffins.  Mark 
wants  to  take  Myrna  away  with  him  but  Vin- 
cent insists  another  fate  is  in  store  for  her- 
the  old  family  madness.  I'll  tell  you,  my  mon- 
ey's on  Vincent.— American  International. 

SONG  WITHOUT  END 


story  of  Franz  Liszt 


Dirk  Bogarde 
Genevieve  Page 
Capucine 
Martita  Hunt 
Ivan  Desny 


■  Unfortunately,  this  movie  lives  up  to  its 
title.  Dirk  Bogarde,  as  Liszt,  and  his  piano 
never  part.  He  renders  about  forty  selections, 
or  bits  of  selections,  before  one  glittering  audi- 
ence after  another,  all  over  Europe,  in  the  19th 
century.  At  least  the  women  change.  Countess 
Genevieve  Page  has  left  her  husband  to  live 
with  Bogarde  and  have  two  children  by  him. 
Her  possessiveness  finally  drives  this  flamboy- 
ant, tortured  genius  out  of  the  house.  He  goes 
on  a  triumphant  concert  tour  where  his  biggest 
triumph  is  the  beautiful  Princess  Capucine. 
Confident  that  she  can  get  a  divorce  from 
the  Prince,  Capucine  sets  out  to  inspire  Bo- 
garde as  a  composer.  This  involves  a  lot  of 
traveling.  The  Czar  won't  give  her  a  divorce, 
the  Pope  won't  give  her  a  divorce,  the  Grand 
Duchess  of  Weimar  (Martita  Hunt)  can't  give 
her  a  divorce  (but  she  can,  and  does,  appoint 
Bogarde  as  Court  Conductor).  Truly  in  love, 
Bogarde  composes  and  dedicates  "Liebe- 
straum"  to  Capucine.  Since  she  can't  live  with 
him,  he  enters  a  monastery  which,  at  any  rate, 
has  an  organ. — Cinemascope,  Columbia. 


OSCAR  WILDE 


the  famous  trial  of 


Robert  Morley 
Phyllis  Calvert 
John  Neville 


■  Oscar  Wilde,  poet  and  playwright  who 
shocked  and  delighted  Victorian  England  with 
his  wit,  also  shocked  and  horrified  them  with 
his  romantic  preference  for  young  men.  Mar- 
ried, and  the  father  of  two  sons,  he  is  never- 
theless attracted  by  one  Lord  Douglas  (John 
Neville),  a  neurotic  young  man  who  can't 
stand  his  father,  the  Marquis  of  Queensberry. 
The  Marquis,  it  turns  out,  can't  stand  Wilde 
and  slanders  him.  Persuaded  by  Douglas  to 
bring  the  Marquis  into  court  Wilde  sets  the 
stage  for  his  own  downfall.  It  appears  that 
Douglas  was  only  one  of  a  host  of  charming 
young  men  to  win  Oscar's  favor.  Brilliant  per- 
formances by  Robert  Morley  (as  Wilde)  and 
prosecutor  Sir  Ralph  Richardson  make  enter- 
taining a  movie  which  is  too  superficial  in 
treatment  to  be  satisfying. — 20th-Fox. 

{Continued  on  page  70) 


The  Latest  on 
Elvis : 

I  don't  believe  that  his  hand-holding  and 
eye-gazing  with  leading  lady  Juliet  Prowse 

on  the  set  of  GI  Blues  means  anything  serious 
romantically  for  Mr.  Swivel  Hips  anymore  than 
I  believe  his  two  or  three  dates  with  Tues- 
day Weld  add  up  to  anything. 

Elvis  hasn't  yet  found  fhe  girl — and  frankly, 
I  don't  believe  he's  looking  too  hard.  You  have 
to  hand  it  to  him  for  not  being  thrown  off  base 
by  all  the  females,  young — and  older — who 
throw  themselves  at  this  very  rich  young  man. 

Speaking  of  the  Presley  cash,  his  manager 
Colonel  Tom  Parker  tells  me  he  holds  no  reins 
on  the  way  Elvis  spends  his  money.  "The  boy 
works  hard  for  his  money.  He  has  a  lot  of  it. 
Why  shouldn't  he  enjoy  it  as  he  goes  along? 
Luckily,  he  is  sensible  and  doesn't  throw  it 
away.  But  he's  never  been  on  an  allowance 
from  me — or  anyone  else — since  he  started 


earning  big  money." 

Since  Elvis  cut  that  pompadour — or  what- 
ever all  that  big  shock  of  hair  bouncing  around 
over  his  forehead  could  be  called — he  is  more 
handsome  than  ever.  His  director  Norman 
Taurog  says,  "He's  photographing  like  a  mil- 
lion in  the  picture." 

Most  Hollywoodites  who  knew  Elvis  before 
he  went  into  the  service  and  before  the  death 
of  his  mother  whom  he  adored — find  the  boy 
quieter  and  far  more  matured  since  his  return. 

Speaking  of  his  mother — he  is  keeping  the 
big  mansion  he  bought  for  his  parents  in  Mem- 
phis about  a  year  before  Mrs.  Presley's  death, 
just  as  she  had  furnished  and  left  it. 

When  his  father  announced  his  engagement 
to  be  married  again,  he  told  his  dad:  "I'll 
keep  mother's  home  for  my  own.  I'd  like  to 
buy  a  new  one  for  you  and  your  bride. 

"It  isn't  fair  to  expect  your  new  wife  to  step 
into  a  house  so  filled  with  memories  of  an- 
other woman.  Besides,  brides  like  to  fix  up 
new  places." 


I  nominate  for 
STARDOM 


Nancy  Walters 


The  one-and-only  Elvis  and  pert  dancer  Juliet  Prowse  have  been  sharing 
some  pretty  private  jokes  but  it  doesn't  look  as  though  the  romance  is  serious. 


She's  the  first  new  young  beauty  to  be  put 
under  a  two-year  contract  at  MGM  in  a  long 
time — that's  how  much  confidence  they  have 
in  her  future. 

To  watch  her  making  eyes  at  Dean  Mar- 
tin and  almost  stealing  him  away  from  Judy 
Holiday  in  BeJJs  Are  Ringing,  you'd  never 
guess  that  for  eight  years  of  her  childhood  she 
was  in  and  out  of  hospitals  for  crippled  chil- 
dren! 

The  now  curvaceous  Nancy,  whose  figure  is 
currently  a  large  part  of  her  good  fortune,  told 
me,  "During  one  stretch  of  18  months  I  was 
never  out  of  my  bed  in  the  Hospital  For  Crip- 
pled Children  in  Amatilla,  Florida." 

It  still  upsets  Nancy  to  talk  about  the  child- 
hood accident  which  brought  on  such  serious 
bone  infection  that  it  was  feared  her  leg  might 
have  to  be  amputated.  "My  brother  Ernest  to 
this  day  considers  it  a  nightmare  that  his 
wagon  slammed  into  my  leg  while  we  were 
playing  in  the  yard  and  brought  on  my  crip- 
pling injury." 

Yet,  she  believes  there  was  a  pattern  even 
to  this  near  tragedy.  "It  was  while  I  was  in 
the  children's  hospitals  that  I  started  singing 
and  putting  on  little  puppet  shows — trying  to 
cheer  up  the  youngsters  who  were  worse  off 
than  I.  Without  knowing  it,  I  was  really  get- 
ting training  for  my  career."  She  believes  the 
"miracle"  of  her  complete  recovery  came  when 
"I  stopped  feeling  sorry  for  myself." 

At  fifteen,  well  and  strong  again,  she  was 
modeling  in  New  York.  At  the  same  time  she 
was  studying  drama  at  the  Neighborhood 
Playhouse  and  landed  a  job  singing  and 
dancing  in  the  Broadway  musical  Anchors 
Aweigh.  This  led  to  TV  which  has  a  way  of 
leading  to  Hollywood — and  did  in  Nancy's 
case. 

Big-eyed,  auburn  haired  and  quite  beautiful, 
Nancy  exhibits  a  lot  of  common  sense.  She  is 
saving  her  money  and  even  whipped  up  the 
beautiful  gown  she  wore  to  the  Academy 
Awards.  "I  just  can't  squander  my  earnings 
like  some  girls — how  far  can  you  push  your 
luck?"  she  asks. 


13 


continued 


Gina's  Glamour 
Party 

It's  not  every  hostess  beautiful  enough  to 
seat  Marilyn  Monroe  at  her  table  at  a 
party  and  hold  her  own — but  Gina  Lollo- 

brigida  did  at  her  swank  soiree  at  Roman- 
off's. 

Can  you  imagine  the  eyeful  of  the  sparkling 
beautiful  brunette  beauty  Gina  and  the  misty 
blonde  Miss  Monroe?  What  a  rare  mood  Mari- 
lyn is  in  these  days — and  nights.  She  didn't 
miss  a  dance  and  she  was  as  bubbling  as  the 
imported  Champagne  on  the  table. 

Both  beauties  were  fabulously  gowned — 
Gina  in  off-white  and  Marilyn  in  a  white 
sheath  cut  d  la  Vikki  Duggan  in  the 
back  and  as  tight  as  her  skin.  Others  at  Gina's 
table  were  Sir  Carol  Reed,  the  director;  Mrs. 
Lew  Wasserman,  Rupert  Allen,  Jimmy  McHugh 
and  this  writer. 

Gina  is  one  of  the  few  big  stars  who  really 
enjoys  giving  parties  and  knows  how.  Before 
her  dinner-dance  in  the  Crown  Room,  beautiful 
with  its  soft  lights  and  centerpieces  of  pale 
pink  roses,  she  and  her  husband  Dr.  Milko 
Skofic  had  arrived  early  enough  to  personally 
select  all  the  wines  served. 

Even  though  all  the  girls  were  dressed  to 
the  teeth  with  diamonds  sparkling,  it  was  a 
fun  party  with  everyone  having  a  ball. 

Irrepressible  Rosalind  Russell  kicked  off 
her  shoes  to  dance  with  Edward  G.  Robin- 
son, saying  over  her  shoulder  to  me  as  they 
danced  by  our  table,  "I  want  to  make  a  movie 
with  Eddie  and  I'm  proving  I'm  not  too  tall  for 
him." 

French  Yves  Montand.  a  "bachelor"  since 
his  wife  Simone  Signoret  returned  to  Paris 
for  a  movie,  was  the  dancingest  gentleman 
present  including  many  twirls  with  his  co-star 
of  Let's  Make  Love.  Marilyn. 

Oh,  yes — another  gorgeous  white  gown, 
long  and  very  formal,  was  worn  by  Dinah 
Shore,  with  her  ever  lovin'  George  Mont- 
gomery, of  course.  White  seems  to  be  the 
color  for  the  glamour  girls  this  summer. 


Russ  Tamblyn's 
On-and-Off  Marriage 

Exactly  three  weeks  after  Russ  Tam- 
blyn's spur-of-the-moment  marriage  to  twenty- 
four-year-old  British  Chorus  girl  Elizabeth 
Kempton  in  Las  Vegas  on  May  9th,  they  an- 
nounced a  seperation! 

A  week  later,  they  announced  they  were 
giving  matrimony  a  further  try. 

Until  a  new  communique — all's  quiet. 


Gina  Lollobrigida,  here  with  husband,  Dr.  Milko  Skofic, 
might  be  whistling  over  the  success  of  their  party. 


Co-stars  Marilyn  and  Yves  Montand  appear  deep  in  conver- 
sation here,  but  they  also  danced  up  a  storm  at  Gina's  soiree. 


14 


Communique 
From  Sal 


Sal  and  co-star  Jill  Haivorth  are  au- 
thorities on  the  beatnik  craze  in  Israel! 


Until  I  received  an  amusing  letter  from  Sal 
Mineo,  the  last  place  in  the  world  I  would 
have  picked  to  be  "Beatnik  crazy"  is — Israel! 

But  according  to  Sal  who  is  over  there  film- 
ing Exodus,  the  teen-agers  of  Israel  can't  hear 
enough  about  our  bearded  jive-talking  cult. 

"Since  Rebel  Without  A  Cause  was  released 
here,"  writes  Sal,  "I  am  known  as  the  King  of 
the  Beatniks — big  deal.  But  hard  to  live  up  to. 

"On  the  set,  I  am  constantly  surrounded  by 
teen-age  extras  who  ask  me  so  much  about 
how  beatniks  live  and  act  in  the  USA  I  ran 
out  of  answers — and  also  out  of  my  popu- 
larity. 

"So  I  wrote  my  brother  in  New  York  asking 
him  to  send  me  some  books  on  Beatniks  and 
ever  since  he  airmailed  How  To  Be  A  Real 
Beatnik — I'm  back  on  top  again. 

"There's  a  terrific  demand  for  guitars  (fre- 
quently a  pain  in  the  neck  to  our  director. 
Otto  Preminger).  None  of  the  kids  want  to 
learn  to  play  them  but  they  hit  long  and  loud 
chords  chanting  their  favorite  Beatnik  phrase 
in  English,  which  I  taught  them:  'Crazy,  man, 
crazy.' 

"Frankly,  I  am  as  puzzled  as  you  must  be 
over  why  such  a  crazy  American  development 
should  have  taken  hold  in  a  little  country  that 
is  fundamentally  and  historically  so  serious  in 
nature. 

"Anyway,  nice  to  write  to  you  and  best 
wishes  always. 

(signed,)  Sal,  The  King  ot  the  Beatniks." 


A  sad  Princess  Grace  came  to  her  father's  bedside,  then  to  his  funeral. 


to  Princess  Grace 
of  Monaco: 

Not  even  in  those  early  days  when  you 
were  a  glamorous  movie  star  and  you  proved 
your  liking  for  me  by  sharing  your  confidence, 
and  many  of  your  problems — with  me,  have  I 
felt  so  close  to  you  and  held  so  much  admira- 
tion as  I  did  during  these  dark  days  of  the 
illness  and  tragic  death  of  your  beloved 
father. 

Your  flight  from  Monaco,  so  sudden  you  did 
not  even  wait  to  be  accompanied  by  your 
Prince,  was  the  impulsive  action  of  a  loving 
American  daughter,  not  that  of  a  woman 
bound  by  royal  protocol.  After  your  arrival  in 
Philadelphia  you  hardly  left  the  bedside  of 
Jack  Kelly,  your  popular  dad,  except  to  ac- 
company your  mother  home  and  comfort  her 
as  much  as  possible  at  the  end  of  each  day. 


I  remember  your  once  telling  me  that  as  a 
little  girl,  you  were  rather  frightened  of  your 
father,  that  he  was  a  disciplinarian  and  very 
strict.  You  said,  "I  had  to  grow  up  and  mature 
before  I  realized  that  what  I  mistook  for 
sternness  in  my  father  was  just  his  deep  love 
for  us,  his  desire  that  we  should  grow  up  to 
be  good  people — no  matter  what  walk  of  life 
we  followed.  I  love  him  very  much." 

It  is  almost  a  sad  coincidence  that  the  latest 
informal  photograph  you  sent  me,  showing 
you  so  happy  with  Prince  Rainier,  little  Prin- 
cess Caroline  and  Prince  Albert  at  the  wheel 
of  your  station  wagon,  should  have  arrived 
just  about  the  time  the  story  broke  of  your 
worried  trip  back  home. 

You  had  written  on  the  photograph,  TO 
LOUELLA,  FONDEST  REGARDS,  GRACE. 

And  that,  your  Serene  Highness,  is  what  the 
American  public  and  I  will  always  feel  for 
you,  "fondest  regards." 


Louella  thinks  Efrem  may  be  sorry. 

Efrem's 
Divorce 

Had  an  amazing  chat  with  pretty  Stephanie 
(Mrs.  Efrem)  Zimbalist  at  a  small  dinner 
given  by  the  Jack  Warners — Jack  being  Ef- 
rem's boss  of  the  77  Sunset  Strip  TV  series. 

I  seldom  recall  an  estranged  wife  speaking 
so  frankly  of  her  trouble. 

"In  the  middle  of  the  night,  Efrem  told  me 
to  start  packing  and  get  to  Reno — that  he  was 
in  love  with  someone  else  and  wanted  a  di- 
vorce. I  told  him  I  wouldn't  go  to  Reno — so  he 
went." 

It's  no  secret  that  the  "someone  else"  is 
Kipp  Hamilton  whom  Zimbalist  plans  to 
marry  as  soon  as  he  is  divorced. 

Stephanie  said  many  of  her  friends  thought 
she  was  foolish  not  to  get  an  attorney  and 
fight  her  case. 

She  just  shrugged  and  said.  "What  good 
would  it  do  me  if  he  doesn't  want  me?" 

Efrem  went  to  Reno  but  didn't  get  his  di- 
vorce there.  Stephanie  will  now  file  for  a 
California  divorce  as  soon  as  they  work  out 
a  property  settlement. 

The  Zimbalists'  little  girl  is  four  and  a  half 
years  old  and  Efrem  has  two  children  by  a 
former  marriage. 

Looking  at  the  very  attractive  Stephanie — I 
couldn't  help  wonder  if  some  day  Mr.  77  Sun- 
set Strip  Zimbalist  might  not  regret  his  hasty 
divorce. 


continued 


A  lot  of  fans  thought  Elvis  was  "just 
wonderful"    on    the    Sinatra  Show. 


Singing  "Be  My  Girl," 
Fabian  thinks  of  Louella. 


A  reader  has  some  suggestions  for  names 
for    Mel    and    Audrey's    expected  baby. 


A 


OPEN 
LETTER 


All  right,  all  you  Fabian  fan-atics — go 
ahead  and  be  jealous  about  this  telegram  I 
received  from  your  dreamboat:  WANTED 
YOU  TO  KNOW  THAT  I  HAVE  JUST  BEEN 
GIVEN  A  FOURTH  SONG  TO  SING  IN  "HIGH 
TIME."  IT'S  TITLED  "BE  MY  GIRL."  I'LL  BE 
THINKING  ONLY  OF  YOU  WHEN  I  SING  IT. 
MUCH  LOVE— FABIAN.  How  do  you  like 
that?  .  .  . 

Will  you  answer  this  truthfully — is  the  real 
reason  such  Hollywood  stars  as  William 
Holden.  Ava  Gardner  and  Van  Johnson 

have  taken  up  residence  in  Europe  because 
Hollywood  is  a  cruel  town  where  there  is  little 
friendship  and  much  jealousy?  asks  Charles 
B.  Beers,  Jersey  City.  I'm  afraid,  Charles,  the 
real  reason  has  more  to  do  with  income  tax 
than  any  such  causes  you  list.  .  .  . 

Several  really  touching  letters  this  month 
from  girls  in  their  teens,  who  admit  to  being 
very  overweight,  pouring  their  hearts  out  over 
the  plight  of  Bill  Bendix  daughter  Lorraine 
who  is  staging  a  courageous  fight  to  reduce 
from  300  pounds.  Let  me  repeat — even  though 
you  are  begging  for  Lorraine's  diet — -your  case 


may  be  different  and  the  only  sane  thing  to  do 
is  see  your  own  doctor.  .  .  . 

There  are  no  more  beauties  in  movies  is  the 
startling  comment  of  Jerri  Patterson,  At 
lanta.  Pretty  stars,  yes.  Pert  stars  like  Shir 
ley  MacLaine  and  Debbie  Reynolds 
yes.  Good  actresses  like  Joanne  Wood 
ward.  yes.  No  beauties.  How  about  Eliza 
beth  Taylor,  Gina  Lollobrigida,  So 
phia  Loren  or  Ava  Gardner,  Miss  Jerri 

Jeanette  De  Rosa,  Brooklyn,  asks:  Is 
Audrey  Hepburn  still  looking  lor  names  lor 
her  expected  baby?  May  I  suggest  Jerene 
Marie  for  a  girl — Jody  for  a  boy?  You  may — 
don't  know  whether  you'll  win  or  not.  .  .  . 

Comes  a  note  from  San  Francisco  signed  "25 
Fans  of  Nick  Minardos":  "We  saw  Twelve 
Hours  To  Kill  with  Nick  and  think  he  is  the 
most  wonderful,  adorable,  fascinating,  sexy, 
appealing,  electric  and  fascinating  actor  since 
Marlon  Brando."  You're  not  relatives,  are 
you?  Such  praise.  .  .  . 

The  jealousy  of  Elvis  Presley  which 
started  before  he  went  into  the  Army  continues 
now  he  has  returned,  and  with  such  a  fine 
record,  too,  complains  Vera  Delancy,  Dallas. 
The  TV  critics  panned  him  on  the  Frank 
Sinatra  show.  I  hope  Elvis  paid  no  attention. 
All  my  friends  and  I  thought  he  was  just 
wonderful — but  like  you,  I'm  glad  he's  cut  that 
pompadour.  Elvis  is  the  original  and  still  the 


best.  I'm  sure  Elvis — and  Colonel  Parker — 
thank  you.  Vera.  .  .  . 

Eighteen-year-old  Sandra  McIntosh,  Seat- 
tle, took  my  breath  away  with  the  wildest 
rumor  yet :  My  girl  friend  told  me  she  read  that 
Sandra  Dee  is  really  45-years-old  and  had 
her  face  lifted.  Is  this  true?  I  should  say  not.' 
It's  the  craziest  thing  yet.  I  don't  know  how 
such  absurd  gossip  starts  and  the  only  reason 
I  print  such  nonsense  is  to  deny  it  and  stop  it 
from  growing.  Sandra  was  a  child  actress  just 
a  short  time  ago  and  has  movies  to  prove 
it.  .  .  . 

You  don't  have  to  be  Oriental  to  think  Ha- 
waiian actor  James  Shigeta  is  the  most 
attractive  of  the  new  actors,  opines  Ann  E. 
Cherry.  Lots  of  comment  about  Shigeta — all  to 
the  good.  .  .  . 

A  belle  who  signs  her  letter  I  Knew  It  All 
Along  writes:  Hear  the  Jimmy  Darrens  are 
already  quarreling — and  on  their  honeymoon, 
too.  Didn't  I  tell  you  this  marriage  wouldn't 
last?  As  we  go  to  press  it's  still  on — and  aren't 
you  just  a  bit  too  gleeful  about  a  possible 
break-up? 

That's  all  for  now.  See  you  next  month. 


i  16 


AN 

EXTRAORDINARY 
STORY 

To  those  of  us  in  the  motion  picture  field, 

Marilyn  Monroe's  behavior  has  seemed 
increasingly  strange  and  anti-social.  Some, 
like  Tony  Curtis  and  Hedda  Hopper, 
have  criticized  her  publicly.  Others 
who,  like  us,  have  remained  her  friends, 
are  disappointed  that  marriage  has  not 
smoothed  Marilyn's  relations  with  people. 
Now,  we  have  received  an  extraordinary  story 
which,  like  the  key  to  a  skeleton  closet, 
unlocks  the  secret  of  her  behavior. 
After  much  deliberation  we  have  decided  to 
print  this  story.  For,  without  the  revelations 
it  presents,  Marilyn  Monroe — one  of  the  greatest  stars 
of  all  time— will  never  be  fully  understood. 


THE 
GHOST 
THAT 
HAUNTS 
MARILYN 
MONROE 


COME  on  now, 
who's  kidding 
who?"  the 
popular  Hollywood 
columnist  told  the 
apologetic  press 
agent.  "That  child 
has  had  difficulty 
from  the  day  she 
was  born.  And  now 


that  she's  gotten 
what  she  wanted, 
now  that  she's  one 
of  the  biggest  stars 
in  Hollywood,  she's 
bound  and  deter- 
mined to  destroy 
herself." 

This  was  the  third 
time  the  columnist 


had  been  stood  up 
by  Marilyn  Monroe. 
No,  it  wasn't  per- 
sonal. Marilyn  had 
nothing  against  her. 

Nor  did  Marilyn 
have  a  n  y t  h  i  n  g 
against  the  directors 
she  worked  with  .  .  . 
who  now  refuse  to 


work  with  her  again. 
Her  tardiness  is 
exasperating,  her  in- 
sistence on  approv- 
ing all  the  rushes 
from  the  day's 
shootings,  her  prima 
donna  demand  to 
have  her  own  private 
(Cont.  on  page  48) 


■  It  was  an  April  night  in  Hollywood,  1957, 
Academy  Award  night — some  two  years  before 
TV's  "The  Untouchables"  would  come  machine- 
gunning  its  way  to  its  present  fabulous  popular- 
ity— exactly  two  minutes  before  an  announce- 
ment would  be  made,  there  in  the  crowded 
Pantages  Theater,  naming  the  best-supporting- 
actor  of  the  previous  year. 

It  was  not  a  particularly  tense  two  minutes. 
Practically  everybody  present  was  convinced 
that  Bob  Stack,  one  of  the  five  best-supporting- 
player  nominees,  and  a  stand-out  favorite,  would 
cop  the  Oscar  for  himself  that  night. 

And  so  the  crowd  waited  calmly,  most  of 
them  looking  over  to  where  Bob  and  his  wife 
Rosemarie  sat  waiting,  all  of  them  picturing  the 
moment  when  his  name  would  be  called  and 
getting  ready  to  applaud  him — a  few  of  them 
even  wondering  what,  exactly  what,  the  victor- 
to-be  was  thinking  to  himself  just  then. 

"They'd  have  beerr  mighty  surprised,"  Bob 
told  us  the  other  day,  "to  know  that  despite  all 
the  polls,  all  the  predictions,  I  sat  there  those 
last  few  seconds  realizing  that 

wasn't  going  to 
win.  The  feeling  hit  me  sud-~ 
denly.  I  wasn't  exactly  prepared  for" 

But  it  came,  and  it  said  to  me, 
Charlie,  this  isn't  your  night. 
You've  been  riding  that  old  bad; 


cfoftb 


ereof 


luck 

streak  a  Ion] 
time  now.  And  it  hasn't  ^^^^ 
ended, Charlie.  It hasn'tended.'  " 

Just  before  the  announcement  was 
made,  Rosemarie,  like  the  others  in  the  theatre, 
turned  to  Bob,  and  she  smiled. 

"Honey,"  Bob  started  to  say,  whispering, 
"now  I  don't  want  you  to  be  disappointed  if  and 
when  I  don't  get  it.  Because — " 

But  he  stopped. 

The  announcement,  from  the  stage,  loud  and 
clear,  interrupted  him. 
"The  winner  is.  .  .  ." 

And  another  name — Anthony  Quinn's — was 
called. 

"Now,  honey — "  Bob  started  to  say  to  Rose- 
marie again. 

But  again  he  stopped. 
Rosemarie  was  still  smiling;  or  rather,  she 
was  trying  to  smile,  as  if  with  this  smile  she 
could  hide  the  two  big  tears  which  had  begun 
to  come  streaming  down  her  cheeks. 

Bob  continued  looking  at  his  wife,  at  her 
smile,  her  tears. 

And  then,  for  a  moment,  he  glanced  behind 
him.  He  saw  a  few  people  he  knew,  sitting 
L%  nearby,    applauding   the   winner,  while 
"^^Mhrowing  him  long  looks  of  sympathy. 
"Poor  Bob,"  he  (Continued  on  page  74) 


The  heartache  of  Shirley  MacLaine's  marriage 


•  "Will  it  be  long  now?"  asked 

Shirley  MacLaine's  little  girl, 

Sachie.  "I'm  so  tired,  mommy." 

"It  won't  be  long,  darling,"  said 
Shirley.  "  Here,  why  don't  you 
just  lay  your  head  on  my  lap  and  try  to 
sleep.  I'll  wake  you  when  the  plane  is  here." 

Shirley  moved  slightly  on  the  wooden 

bench  in  the  waiting  room  of  the 

Japanese  Air  Line  in  Seattle. 
They'd  been  waiting  several  hours 
for  the  plane,  unexpectedly 
delayed,  and  Sachie's  eyes 

(Continued  on  page  72) 


■  Kim  Novak  sat  quietly  in  the  sculptor's  studio  as  he  worked  on  the  large  clay  bail 
which  a  few  moments  before  had  been  nothing  but  an  odd-shaped  lump.  The  sculp- 
tor's fingers,  swift  and  sure,  pressed,  formed,  squeezed  as  the  fascinated  Kim  saw 
the  moist  mass  take  on  the  rough  lines  of  a  human  head. 

"I  was  hoping  you'd  give  me  your  answer  without  my  asking,"  the  artist  said  to  the 
actress,  as  he  stepped  back  for  a  long  view  of  his  work. 

Kim  stared  down  at  the  floor.  "I'll  sit  for  the  head,  but — " 
But  you  won't  do  it  the  way  I  want  to  do  it,  is  that  right?"  the  sculptor  interrupted. 

"  What  would  people  say."  Kim  asked.  '"Wouldn't  they  think — ?" 

The  sculptor  stopped  his  work  and  iooked  at  her.  ''Stop  it,  Kim,  you  know  that 
isn't  the  reason.  You've  never  been  concerned  with  what  people  think  or  say.  Have 
you?" 

Kim  said  nothing. 

'Til  tell  you  again.  Kim.  You  have  a  beautiful  body.  (Continued  on  page  70) 


Having  found  the  man  she 


Tuesday  Weld  and  Richard  Beymer 

1HHHB 


■  All  the  kids  at  the  party  were  beginning  to 
talk  about  Tuesday.  Some  of  them  passed  the 
closed  door  of  the  bedroom  and  snickered 
meaningfully.  One  of  the  fellows  there  said, 
"Hey,  wonder  why  Tuesday's  locked  herself 
in  there.  She  won't  let  anyone  in."  One  of  the 
girls  replied  sweetly,  "Let's  take  a  roll  call 
and  find  out  which  guy  is  missing.  ..." 

It  had  started  out  as  a  lively  party  in  the 
apartment  of  John  Franco,  one  of  the  arty 
young  men  in  Hollywood.  There  were  lots  of 
pretty  young  girls,  loads  of  young  men  swarm- 
ing around.  Tuesday  Weld  had  come,  too. 
And,  so  typical  of  Tuesday,  in  a  short  while 
she  was  up  to  something  that  made  everyone 
talk  about  her.  She'd  shut  herself  up  in  the 
bedroom  and  if  anyone  tried  to  come  in, 


Tuesday  would  walk  to  the  door,  her  hair 
tousled,  her  feet  bare,  look  at  the  intruder 
like  a  sleepy  child  and  say,  "Shhh — now  go 
way  and  leave  us  alone." 

So — well,  the  crowd  knowing,  or  thinking 
they  knew,  what  Tuesday  was,  began  to  buzz. 
"What's  the  matter  with  that  girl — holing  up 
all  this  time  in  the  one  and  only  bedroom 
in  the  place.  Can't  she  take  her  sex  life 
somewhere  else?" 

To  the  crowd  it  all  figured.  Or  seemed  to. 
■  Inside  the  room,  Tuesday  held  a  shivering 
little  kitten  close  to  her  breast.  "There,  there, 
kitty-pie,"  she  whispered  huskily.  "Mama 
will  take  care  of  you."  The  girl  seemed  to 
gather  some  comfort  from  stroking  the  kitten. 
The  kitten's  shivers  subsided  and  she  purred 
softly  against  Tuesday's  soft  body.  Tuesday's 
smile  vanished  at  the  knock  at  the  door.  Put- 
ting the  kitten  down,  she  tiptoed  to  the  door, 
opened  it  a  fraction  and  said  again,  "Please 
leave  us  alone.  Go  away.  And  don't  bother 
us  again." 

The  kitten  snuggled  close  to  her,  and 
Tuesday  put  her  sweater  over  it.  "There  now, 
kitty,"  she  whispered,  and  she  felt  good  to  see 
the  change  that  had  come  over  the  frightened 
little  thing.  She'd  first  become  aware  of  it  as 
she  had  started  up  the  steps  to  John's  apart- 
ment. The  whining,  faint  sound  seemed  to 
come  from  somewhere  in  the  alley,  across  the 
street.  She'd  followed  (Continued  on  page  53) 


28 


ioves,  Tuesdiy  Weld  wonders- 


Is  it  | 

too  late 

forme 

to  change 

my  ways 

7 

■ 

■  % 


i 


49k 


Bobby  Rydell  looked  like  a  million  dollars- 
Suit  pressed,  shoes  shined,  a  great  big  smile  on  his  face- 
But 

THE 

KID 

WAS 

STARVING 
t 


■  The  red  and  white  '55  Pon- 
tiac  convertible  rolled  toward 
Washington,  D.  C,  when  the 
driver,  a  dark-haired  man  in 
his  thirties,  pulled  it  off  the 
road. 

"I'm  beat!"  he  said. 

"Me,  too!"  said  the  blond 
boy  with  hazel  eyes.  "We  ought 
to  sleep  before  we  visit  the 
deejay." 

"No  money,"  said  the  man. 

"I  know,"  agreed  the  boy. 


"But  we  don't  have  to  rent 
a  room.  Let's  take  out  the 
blankets." 

The  man  took  the  blankets 
out  of  the  rear  compartment. 
He  gave  one  to  the  boy,  who 
stretched  out  in  the  back  seat, 
wrapped  the  blanket  around 
himself,  and  fell  asleep.  Then 
the  man  locked  the  doors  from 
the  inside,  opened  one  window 
vent,  set  the  alarm  clock  to 
ring  in  three  hours,  wrapped 


himself  in  a  blanket,  and  lai; 
out  in  the  front  seat. 

When  the  alarm  rang  in  thr< 1 
hours,  they  woke  with  a  star 
Then  they  put  away  the  blanl) 
ets,  and  drove  for  another  tv, 
hours. 

"We're  only  a  mile  away,  s 
let's  wash  up,"  said  the  ma 

He  drove  into  a  gas  sk 
tion,  and  the  boy  got  out  ar 
walked  into  the  Men's  Roor 
(Continued  on  page  32) 


THE 

KID 

WAS 

STARVING 
t 


holding  a  natty  blue  suit  on  a 
hanger.  Inside,  he  took  off 
his  slacks  and  sweater,  wash- 
ed, combed  his  hair  and 
changed  to  the  suit,  white 
shirt  and  blue  tie. 

Then  the  man  followed 
him  in,  and  washed  up. 

Both  looking  fresh  and 
presentable,  they  drove  over 
to  the  radio  station  and 
asked  for  the  disk  jockey. 

"I'm  Frankie  Day,"  said 
the  man.  "I'm  manager  of 
Bobby  Rydell,  the  singer. 
I  wrote  him,  and  he  said  to 
drop  in  today." 

The  deejay  came  out  in  a 
few  minutes,  accepted  the 
new  record,  and  spun  it  in  his 
office,  then  said,  "It's  got  a 
good  sound,  Bobby,  and  I 
hope  it  sells  a  million!" 

Then  he  smiled,  "Boy,  you 
guys  must  be  making  a 
bundle!  What  do  you  do  with 
all  that  loot?" 

The  boy  said,  "Got  to  put 
it  in  the  bank.  Can't  touch 
my  money  until  I'm  twenty- 
one  .  .  .  It's  the  Pennsyl- 
vania law  .  .  .  They  gave  me 
a  legal  guardian,  a  lawyer, 
to  watch  over  it." 

(Continued  on  page  50) 


Bobby's  fifteen- 
year-old  cousin 
Angelo  (right)  re- 
members the  rough 
time  Bobby  had 
getting  started  in 
show  business  and 
insists,  "Not  for 
me."  But  his  man- 
ager, Frankie  Day 
(below)  is  grate- 
ful he  and  Bobby 
stuck  it  out.  "It 
was  worth  it," 
he  says. 


This  is  Bobby's  new  world. 
No  more  cheap  hot  dog  stands, 
No  more  sitting 
Stranded  on  lonely  roads, 
No  more  long  cold  nights 
Sleeping  in  the  car. 
Bobby  had  kept  a  vow. 
God  had  answered  a  prayer. 


32 


VIVIEN  LEIGH  continued 


AFTER  LIVING  HALI 


WITH  LARRY 


But  when  she  smiled,  a  dazzling  piquant 
smile,  the  tiredness,  the  nervousness — and  the 
years  slipped  away. 

She  was  Scarlett  O'Hara  again,  sitting  on 
her  veranda,  surrounded  by  a  worshipping 
coterie  of  beaux. 

And  the  most  worshipping  of  all  this  night, 
was  host  David  Susskind.  The  week  before  he 


Aug.  30,  1940:  They  were  finally  marrie 
and  left  for  war-torn  England  togethe 

FOUND  A 


had  successfully  parried  important  politics 
issues  with  the  vice-president  of  the  Unite» 
States. 

But  in  Vivien  Leigh's  presence  he  wa 
reduced  almost  to  the  status  of  a  love-sic1 
puppy. 

"You're  the  most  beautiful  woman  I'v 
ever  seen,"  he  kept  saying. 


36 


1936:  Film  21  Days  Together-  1939:  Vivien  came  to 
prelude  to  21  years  of  love.       see  Larry,  got  Scarlett. 


1940:  She  won  GWTW 
Oscar,  admitted  her  love. 


1  1953:  After  13  years  of  triumphs, 
"~  Vivien    had     nervous  breakdown. 


1956:  Their  happiest  moment  came 
when  they  were  going  to  have  a  baby. 


1956:  But  exhausted  from  that  charity  dance, 
Vivien  miscarried.  The  marriage  faltered. 


ffOUNGER  WOM 


a:    He  could  hardly  keep  his  mind  on  the  sub- 
,  ject  under  discussion. 

The  subject  was  "Theater"  and  Vivien  had 
a  great  deal  to  say. 

But  almost  always  the  source  of  reference 
was  "my  husband." 
"My  husband  thinks  this  ..." 
Or:  (Continued  on  page  65) 

1958:  And  Larry  found  solace  with  young  Joan  Plowright. 


From  the  shrine  of  the  Weeping  Madonna 
Annette  Funicello  tells  why: 

1  KNOW  THERE  ARE 
MIRACLES 


Annette,  do  you  believe  in  miracles? 

I  believe  in  the  power  of  prayer.  That's  what  my 
religion's  taught  me — that  prayer  can  cure  anything. 
And  this  doesn't  mean  you  pray  once  or  twice 
for  something  you  need  or  want.  My  religion — I'm 
a  Catholic — believes  a  person  should  always  pray. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  "Weeping"  Madonnas  that 
suddenly  appeared  in  New  York  this  spring?  Three  icons 
of  the  Virgin  Mary  were  found  crying  in  the  homes  of 
several  Greek  families  in  Long  Island,  and  I'd  like  to 
know  what  your  thoughts  on  this  are. 

At  first  I  thought  it  meant  the  end  of  the  world. 
I  don't  know  why  but  I  did.  It  scared  me  to  think  of  a 
Madonna  crying.  But  now — and  the  more  I  think 
about  it — I  believe  that  the  Madonnas'  tears  are  a  sign 
of  some  sort.  Perhaps  they're  a  sign  that  we're 
neglecting  religion,  and  that  the  Madonnas  don't 
want  to  be  forgotten. 

Of  course,  the  first  chance  I  get  I'd  like  to  go  and 
see  them. 

Would  you  consider  the  Madonnas'  tears  a 
miracle? 

I  don't  think  we  can  classify  them 
as  a  miracle  unless  the  church  decrees  it.  Right 
now,  I  think  everybody  should  pray 
because  (Continued  on  page  69) 


<  ? 


■  "I've  had  it,"  Liz  shouted.  "I've  taken  all  I'm  going 
to  take.  I'm  just  not  going  to  take  anymore." 

Her  violet  eyes  were  blazing  with  fury.  No  one 
had  ever  seen  her  so  violent  before.  And  Eddie  just 
stood  there  looking  wretched  and  miserable.  Yet  he 
knew  Liz  was  right — so  he  remained  silent. 

For  weeks  Liz  had  been  angry  and  unhappy.  Each 
night  she'd  return  home  feeling  a  little  sick  and 
ashamed  of  herself.  Each  morning  she  would  awaken 
loathing  to  face  the  day  ahead.  Unable  to  make  a 
decision  she  allowed  herself  to  be  subjected  to 
indignity  and  revulsion.  Finally  she  could  go  on 
no  longer.  So  she  did  the  only  thing  she  could  do: 
She  walked  out.  (Continued  on  page  63) 


40 


Liz  with  Laurence  Harvey 
on  the  set  of 
"Butterfield  8." 


■  I'm  Bobby  Darin, 
bachelor.  But  not  for  long. 
Because  there's  gonna  be 
a  Mrs.  B.D.  soon.  And 
I'd  like  to  tell  you  a  little 
about  her — my  own  dar- 
ling Jo. 

She's  the  prettiest  thing 
you  ever  saw;  brother, 
she  is  pretty.  With  that 
blondish  hair  of  hers, 
like  silk,  like  angels'  hair 
must  be,  and  those  eyes, 
big  and  blue,  blue  as  the 
prettiest  blue  you  can 
imagine,  and  that  little- 
girl  giggle  of  hers  when 
she's  happy  and  that 
little-girl  hurt-look  about 
her  when  something's 
gone  wrong — and  with 
that  figure  of  hers,  which 
isn't  little-girl  at  all,  not 
at  all. 

Can  she  cook? 

There's  got  to  be  a 
hitch  somewhere,  so  I 
(Continued  on  page  77) 


42 


A  Modern  Screen  Exclusive 
by  Bobby  Darin 


GARDNER'S 

ISST 


■  Ava  Gardner  was  suddenly  bored.  Like  a  flamenco  dancer  sud- 
denly wearied,  suddenly  flinging  down  her  castanets,  she  stopped 
what  talking  and  laughing  she'd  been  doing  these  past  few  hours, 
gulped  some  wine  and  got  up  from  the  table  where  she'd  been 
seated  with  the  other  two — her  old  friend,  a  girlfriend,  recently 
arrived  from  England,  and  a  man,  a  Roman ,  tall,  dark  and  leering, 
a  would-be  marquis  or  count  or  something — who'd  been  pursuing 
her  these  past  couple  of  weeks,  whom  she'd  invited  to  dinner  this 
night,  whom  she'd  been  very  pleasant  with,  (Continued  on  page  59) 


Ava  and  Katherine  Hill 
on  the  set  of 
ON  THE  BEACH 


DEBBIE 


•  Once  upon  a  time 
there  was  a  teen-age 
girl  who — 

Was  the  life  of  the 
party — any  party;  you 
should  have  seen  her 


imitation  of  Betty  Hut- 
ton  singing  I'm  Just  a 
Square  in  the  Social 
Circle  or  Red  Skelton 
wiggling  out  of  a  girdle ; 
Loved  to  talk — no- 


body could  outtalk  her; 

Played  baseball  and 
went  bowling  with  the 
boys,  and  somehow 
managed  to  make  them 
view  her  as  a  real  friend 


and  not  merely  as  a 
chance  for  romance; 

Was  devoted  to  her 
family,  not  just  because 
they  were  her  folks,  but 
because  she  sincerely 


TROI JRLE ! 


liked  them  'as  well; 

Threw  herself  into 
what  she  was  doing, 
whether  it  was  playing 
the  French  horn  or  go- 
ing off  on  a  field  trip 


With  the  Girl  Scouts; 

Got  a  big  charge  out 
of  being  alive. 

She  answered  to 
Mary  Frances  in  those 
days  and  later  became 


Debbie  Reynolds,  a 
topmost  star  of  Holly- 
wood, but  she  kept 
those  gay  wonderful 
qualities  and  they  were 
the  qualities  that  made 


the  world  fall  in  love 
with  her. 

No  one  has  com- 
pletely explained  the 
phenomenon,  but 
(Continued  on  page  55) 


Read 
her  own  plea 
for 

understanding 


The  Ghost  That  Haunts  Marilyn  Monroe 


(Continued  from  page  19) 

drama  coach  on  the  set  with  her  every 
minute — all  these  elements  have  given 
Marilyn  the  title  of  "The  Most  Difficult 
Star  in  Hollywood." 

As  for  her  personal  life,  there's  the  mess 
she  made  of  her  marriage  to  baseball  star 
Joe  DiMaggio,  her  unhappiness  over  her 
inability  to  bear  children  today,  her  re- 
jection of  good  friends — never  answering 
their  telephone  calls,  refusing  to  see  them 
socially. 

Misery?  When  she's  a  top  star,  earns 
millions  with  every  movie?  When  she's 
found  a  husband  whom  she  adores  and 
has  his  children  to  help  look  after?  When 
she's  found  success  in  her  work  and  hap- 
piness in  her  home  life?What  is  it,  then, 
that's  really  bothering  her? 

There  is  a  ghost  that  lurks  in  the  dark 
corners  of  Marilyn's  mind,  a  ghost  that's 
haunted  her  from  the  days  of  her  child- 
hood. 

To  understand  the  ghost  we  must  go 
back,  way  back  to  the  day  of  Marilyn's 
birth.  She  was  born  Norma  Jean  Morten- 
son  on  June  1,  1926,  in  Los  Angeles  Gen- 
eral Hospital,  and  her  mother  was  Gladys 
Monroe  Baker.  Her  father,  Ed  Mortenson, 
was  a  shady  character  who  loved  women 
promiscuously;  and,  as  soon  as  they  an- 
nounced the  news  to  him  that  they  were 
with  child  he'd  vanish,  never  to  be  heard 
from  again. 

Everyone  who  knew  Marilyn's  mother 
insists  that  Gladys  Baker  didn't  love  Ed 
Mortenson.  He  was  one  of  many  fly-by- 
night  lovers,  for  Gladys  Baker  had  the 
failing  of  falling  in  love  with  men  who 
ran  out  on  her.  Ed  Mortenson  was  an 
irresponsible  man  whose  only  pleasures  in 
life  were  fast  motorbikes  and  fast  women. 
He  married  in  Norway  in  1917,  deserted 
his  family  in  1923,  came  to  the  United 
States  and  wandered  about  on  his  motor- 
cycle, loving  whatever  women  he  chanced 
upon  and  ditching  them  as  soon  as  they 
were  pregnant.  On  June  18,  1929,  he  was 
killed  in  a  motorcycle  accident  near 
Youngstown,  Ohio,  when  he  crashed  head- 
on  into  a  Hudson  sedan. 

Marilyn  never  met  her  father;  all  she 
knew  of  him  was  that  he  was  a  lazy  man, 
a  baker  by  trade. 

When  Ed  Mortenson  ran  out  on  Gladys 
Baker,  she  tried  to  locate  him  but  she 
couldn't  track  him  down.  Alone,  unwanted, 
rejected,  Gladys  Baker  lavished  her  love 
for  a  while  on  baby  Norma  Jean.  For 
support,  Gladys  worked  as  a  negative  cut- 
ter at  a  film  studio  lab  (it's  a  known  fact 
that  if  it  weren't  for  a  collection  taken 
among  her  fellow  employees,  Gladys  Baker 
wouldn't  have  had  the  money  to  pay  the 
doctor  for  Norma  Jean's  birth). 

Sharp  whispers 

There  were  sharp  whispers  among  her 
neighbors,  among  her  co-workers,  about 
Norma  Jean's  illegitimacy,  but  Gladys  re- 
mained defiant  and  undaunted  those  first 
two  years,  even  occasionally  brought 
Norma  Jean  to  work  with  her.  Baby 
Norma  Jean  was  the  spit-and-image  of 
her  mom,  and  she  sat  by  her  side  while 
Gladys  inspected  the  negatives  for  quality. 

Then,  during  the  shattering  starvation 
months  of  the  terrible  depression,  Gladys 
Baker  became  sick.  Not  physically  ill  with 
a  fever  or  cold.  But  moody,  easily  de- 
pressed, lax  about  everything,  not  even 
caring  sufficiently  to  look  after  her  own 
beloved  child. 

Her  friends  lectured  her,  tried  to  get 
her  to  snap  out  of  her  awful  state  of 
mind,  but  Gladys  ignored  their  talk.  She 
told  Grace  McKee,  a  friend  and  co-worker, 
that  she  was  "fed  up  with  everybody." 


A  true  friend  and  a  kind  soul,  Grace 
McKee  moved  in  with  Gladys  to  help  her 
and  to  look  after  Norma  Jean.  She  tried 
to  pick  up  Gladys'  dejected  and  down- 
hearted spirits  by  dragging  her  and  Norma 
Jean  to  the  fancy  premieres  at  Grauman's 
Chinese  Theatre  to  gape  at  the  slick  and 
dazzling  box  office  stars:  Ginger  Rogers 
and  Fred  Astaire,  Janet  Gaynor  and  Gary 
Cooper,  Greta  Garbo  and  Tom  Mix.  On 
Sunday  afternoons  she'd  take  Norma  Jean 
and  her  mom  for  walks  through  Beverly 
Hills  to  stare  at  the  pink  stucco  palaces  of 
the  movie  stars. 

Norma  Jean  nearly  burst  from  excite- 
ment as  Aunt  Grace  took  them  sightseeing 
through  Hollywood,  but  Gladys  grew  more 
and  more  depressed,  talking  to  no  one, 
refusing  to  work,  cursing  the  world  that 
she'd  been  cheated  of  a  decent  and  good 
life. 

One  summer  evening  at  the  shabby  Baker 
apartment.  Aunt  Grace  and  Norma  Jean 
were  pasting  photos  of  movie  stars  from 
the  magazines  in  a  dime-store  scrapbook. 
"Someday,"  Grace  told  Norma  Jean, 
"you're  going  to  be  somebody  important, 
you're  going  to  grow  into  a  beautiful  girl 
and  a  talent  scout  will  find  you  and  make 
you  into  the  most  glamorous  movie  star 
ever!" 

Norma  Jean  trembled  with  inner  joy 
over  Grace's  dream.  "Mommy,  mommy," 
she  called  out,  "did  you  hear  what  Aunt 
Grace  said?" 

Her  mother  didn't  answer.  She  sat  in 
a  chair  by  the  kitchen  table,  slumped, 
mumbling  something  to  herself. 

"Isn't  that  right,  Gladys?"  Grace  McKee 
called  out  in  her  sweet  soprano  voice. 
"Isn't  our  Norma  Jean  going  to  be  a  big 
star  someday?" 

Gladys  didn't  reply. 

"Why  don't  we  fix  some  supper?"  Grace 
suggested  cheerfully,  a  hint  of  nervousness 
in  her  voice. 

Gladys  remained  slumped  in  her  chair. 
She  didn't  lift  a  finger  to  help.  Grace 
fried  some  eggs  and  browned  a  couple  of 
potatoes,  and  when  they  all  sat  down  to 
the  square,  oilcloth-covered  table  to  eat, 
Gladys  sat  there,  immobile,  not  lifting  a 
fork  to  her  mouth. 

"Mama,"  Norma  Jean  chided,  "your 
food's  going  to  get  cold." 

"Let  it  freeze,"  her  mother  snarled. 

"Gladys!"  Grace  reprimanded.  "That's 
no  way  to  talk  at  the  table." 

"The  hell  it  isn't,"  Gladys  yelled.  And 
she  got  up  and  opened  a  drawer  in  the 
enameled  kitchen  cupboard,  grabbed  a 
gleaming  butcher  knife  and  lunged  at 
Grace.  "You're  .  .  .  you're  trying  to  poison 
me,  that's  what!"  she  screamed  out.  Norma 
Jean  let  out  a  bloodcurdling  yell,  Grace 


George  Burns  tells  me  Gracie  Allen 
won't  miss  her  TV  audience  be- 
cause she  never  knew  there  was 
one.  "She  concentrated  so  much 
on  her  acting,"  George  said,  "that 
one  day  about  a  year  and  a  half 
after  we'd  been  on  TV,  she  said, 
'George,  what's  that  red  light  do- 
ing on  the  camera?'  I  told  her  ifd 
always  been  there.  She  said,  'Well, 
I  don't  want  it.  It  bothers  me.'  I 
said,  'It  didn't  bother  you  for  a 
year  and  a  half!' "  Anyway,  the 
red  lights  were  taken  off  the  cam- 
eras— so  Gracie  wouldn't  be  re- 
minded she  was  on  the  air. 

Earl  U'ilsov 
in  the  New  York  Post 


ducked  and  began  running  in  circle 
around  the  room  with  Gladys  Baker  chas 
ing  after  her.  'You  .  .  .  you  want  to  ge 
rid  of  me  so  you  can  have  Norma  Jea: 
all  to  yourself!"  Gladys  shrieked,  lungin:  \ 
after  Grace  again  to  stab  her  with  th 
sharp  point  of  the  knife. 

Grace  reached  out  for  Norma  Jean 
hand,  and  the  two  of  them  ran  out  of  th 
house.  She  phoned  the  police  for  help 
and  when  the  policemen  arrived  they  tic 
Gladys  in  a  strait-jacket  and  took  her  p 
the  hospital  where  the  doctors  found  he 
mentally  deranged. 

Grace's  difficult  decision 

Grace  McKee  was  then  confronted  wit! 
a  dilemma.  She  was  not,  as  Gladys  Bake 
alluded  in  her  hallucinations,  a  selfis] 
woman.  On  the  contrary,  she  was  selfles£ 
giving  generously  of  her  time  and  love  t 
Gladys  and  Norma  Jean  who  needed  out 
side  help.  And  since  Grace  worked  din- 
ing the  day  at  the  motion  picture  studio 
and  couldn't  take  care  of  Norma  Jea:  ] 
during  her  working  hours,  she  had  to  hav 
the  child  decreed  a  legal  ward  of  Lo  f 
Angeles  County  when  Gladys  Baker  wa 
declared  insane. 

At  the  age  of  four,  Norma  Jean  wa  I 
placed  in  her  first  foster  home,  a  farnj 
south  of  Hollywood  where  she  was  treate^ 
like  a  miserable  slave.  The  penny-pinch 
ing  farmer  and  his  wife  worked  Norm 
Jean  to  the  bone,  and,  in  the  evenings 
they   had    her    learn    long,  complicate! 
prayers  of  redemption  and  salvation.  The 
were  wild  religious  fanatics,  and  if  Norm 
Jean  didn't  chant  hour-long  prayers  be 
fore  bedtime  she  was  beaten. 

Every  two  weeks  a  follow-up  check  wa ; 
made  by  an  arrogant  social  worker  wb 
never  paused  to  ask  Norma  Jean  an 
questions  about  her  life  at  the  farm.  A 
the  social  worker  checked  was  Norm 
Jean's  shoes  to  see  whether  or  not  ther 
were  any  holes  in  the  soles. 

Norma  Jean's  only  happiness,  her  onl 
relief  from  the  drudgery  of  slave  labo  | 
she  was  forced  into  as  a  child,  was  goin 
to  the  "picture  show"  on  Saturday  after  | 
noon.  The  farmer  and  his  wife  would  giv 
her  a  quarter  and  tell  her  to  stay  in  th 
movie  house  until  it  closed.  Then,  aftej 
they'd  finish  their  Saturday  shopping 
they'd  come  by  and  pick  her  up. 

There  were  other  foster  families.  On 
was  an  English  couple  who  boozed  ever 
night  and  held  rowdy  gambling  partie 
until  the  wee  hours.  Eight-year-old  Norm 
Jean  prayed  for  their  souls  as  she  fixe' 
their  dinner  and  did  the  dishes. 

Whenever  Norma  Jean  asked  about  he 
mother,  she  was  told  "Mumsie"  was  sicl 
Neighborhood  children  who  had  gotte 
wind  of  her  mother's  illness  pointed 
Norma  Jean  on  the  street,  and,  in  hushe 
voices,  whispered  that  "her  mother's  th 
one  who's  in  the  crazy  house!" 

One  Sunday  afternoon,  when  she  de 
cided  to  run  around  the  block  just  fo 
fun,  one  of  the  boys,  loafing  along  th 
street,  pointed  at  Norma  Jean  and  crie 
out,  "Where  you  running  to?" 

Norma  Jean,  in  a  printed  halter  an' 
rolled-up  blue  jeans,  laughed.  "Nowheri 
special.  Just  running  around  for  fun!" 

But  one  of  the  boy's  buddies  interruptec 
cruelly  commenting,  "Let  her  alone.  Don 
you  know  she's  crazy  just  like  he 
mother?  She  doesn't  know  what  she' 
doing  half  the  time!" 

Crazy  just  like  her  mother!  The  word 
tore  at  her  insides  like  a  raw,  blisterin 
wind.  She  knew  her  mother  was  crazj 
Was  she  going  to  be  crazy,  too? 

For  weeks  the  words  haunted  Norm 
Jean.  She  didn't  tell  anyone  about  then 
but  the  threat  tortured  her  heart.  Ever 
waking  moment  she  prayed  for  her  mothe 
to  get  well,  to   (Continued  on  page  50 


show  them  that  she  wasn't  going  to  be 
crazy  forever. 

And  in  late  1934  Marilyn's  prayers  were 
answered.  Gladys  Baker  was  released 
from  the  asylum,  and  she  returned  to  her 
job  in  the  lab  of  the  film  studio.  But 
Gladys'  well-being  was  short  lived.  She 
soon  began  getting  depressed  frequently, 
and  one  Saturday  morning  she  awoke 
screaming.  She  screamed  relentlessly  for 
hours,  and  later  that  day  the  ambulance 
was  summoned  by  the  neighbors  and 
Gladys  was  committed  to  the  Norwalk 
Hospital  for  Mental  Diseases. 

Marilyn's  horrifying  family  history 

After  her  mother  was  taken  by  the  men 
in  white  uniforms  to  Norwalk,  Norma 
Jean  learned  the  family  history  from  Grace 
McKee  who  was  made  her  legal  guardian. 

On  her  mother's  side,  both  her  grand- 
parents had  been  committed  to  mental 
asylums. 

Her  grandmother,  at  her  death,  foamed 
at  the  mouth;  a  raving  paranoiac. 

And  an  uncle  from  her  mother's  side,  in 
a  moment  of  madness,  killed  himself. 

Shaken,  distraught,  barely  ten  years  old, 
a  tall,  gangling  girl  whose  chestnut-col- 
ored hair  was  too  curly,  Norma  Jean 
bawled.  She  cried  for  her  grandmother, 
her  grandfather,  her  mother,  her  uncle,  for 
all  the  blood  relatives  that  were  doomed 
to  a  screaming  world  of  madness.  Night 
after  night  she  sobbed  into  her  pillow, 
wondering  what  was  to  become  of  her? 
Would  she  wake  up  one  morning  to  find 
that  she  had  gone  crazy,  too? 

Within  a  matter  of  days  she  was  shuttled 
off  to  another  foster  home  where  a  tough, 
nasty-tongued  woman  worked  Norma  Jean 
from  dawn  until  night.  The  woman  not 
only  took  in  foster  children  (she  received 
twenty  dollars  a  month  for  each  child  from 
the  state),  but  she  also  took  in  boarders. 
And  late  one  afternoon,  toward  twilight, 
Norma  Jean  was  on  her  knees,  scrubbing 
the  upstairs  hallway. 


A  door  was  ajar. 

The  landlady's  favorite  boarder,  a  sour- 
faced  old  man  who  was  tall  and  portly 
stood  by  the  door  of  his  room.  He  called 
to  Norma  Jean,  who  had  been  trained  by 
the  landlady  to  be  obedient  to  the  boarders. 

But  she  knew  what  the  fat  white-haired 
boarder  was  doing  to  her  there  in  his  room 
was  wrong.  She  choked  on  short  breaths, 
closing  her  eyes,  clenching  her  fists  tight 
until  her  fingernails  clawed  her  flesh.  .  .  . 

When  he  dismissed  her,  she  ran,  sobbing, 
to  the  landlady  to  tell  her  what  happened. 
And  the  woman  reached  out  and  slapped 
Norma  Jean  across  the  cheek  so  hard  that 
Norma  Jean  fell  to  the  floor. 

"Don't  ever  tell  me  anything  like  that 
about  my  Mr.  K!"  the  landlady  shouted. 
"He's  the  finest  boarder  I  have." 

For  days,  nights,  months,  Norman  Jean 
lived  in  fear.  Hadn't  she  committed  the 
unpardonable  sin?  Was  she  doomed  now 
to  the  dark  inescapable  world  of  the  un- 
forgiven?  She  started  stammering,  faint- 
ing. The  landlady  no  longer  wanted  her. 
Finally  Aunt  Grace  came  and  packed  her 
clothes  to  take  her  "for  a  ride." 

In  the  car  Aunt  Grace  couldn't  stop 
crying.  Norma  Jean  sensed  something  was 
wrong.  The  car  pulled  up  to  the  colonial 
building  at  815  North  El  Centro,  and  Aunt 
Grace  clutched  Norma  Jean's  hand  and 
led  her  up  the  walk  to  the  door.  The  gold 
letters  on  the  walnut  plaque  at  the  side 
of  the  white  paneled  door  read:  LOS 
ANGELES  ORPHANS'  HOME. 

Aunt  Grace  rang  the  bell. 

Norma  Jean  screamed.  "I  won't  go  in," 
she  cried,  jumping  up  and  down.  "I'm  not 
an  orphan.  My  mother's  alive.  You  can't 
put  me  in  here!" 

But  the  attendants  came  and  carried 
the  hollering,  kicking  girl  into  the  ward. 

"I  want  my  mother!"  she  yelled. 

"Your  mother's  in  the  hospital!"  a  harsh 
voice  told  her. 

"But  I  want  to  see  her.  Take  me  to 
her!" 


"It's  impossible!"  the  voice  lashed  out. 
"Why?" 

"Because — because  she  can't  see  you. 
She's  crazy,"  the  heartless  voice  blurted, 
"that's  why!" 

Norma  Jean  lunged  at  the  attendant, 
beating  her  with  her  fists. 

"Stop  that!"  the  attendant  commanded, 
taking  her  hands  by  the  wrists  and  twist- 
ing them. 

Norma  Jean  winced,  and  a  pained  cry 
tore  from  her  throat. 

"If  you  don't  behave  yourself,"  the  at- 
tendant barked,  "everyone  will  think 
you're  crazy,  too!" 

Like  a  bird  who  has  lost  its  wings.  Norma 
Jean's  cry  trembled  and  died.  She  lay 
back  on  the  hard  white  cot,  defeated. 
Her  rigid  body  ached.  She  couldn't  fight 
it  anymore.  She  was  an  orphan.  No  one 
wanted  her.  Not  even  Aunt  Grace. 

Her  only  flesh-and-blood,  her  mother, 
was  locked  in  the  Norwalk  place  for  crazy 
people.  Couldn't,  wouldn't  she  ever  see 
her  mother  again? 

And  then  the  shiver  went  through  her, 
the  shiver  that  was  to  scare  her  every  day 
of  her  life.  Was  this  going  to  be  her  fu- 
ture, too?  Awakening  one  morning  to  hear 
herself  raging,  screaming,  unable  to  stop. 
And  the  siren- sounding  ambulance  would 
be  called  to  take  her  to  the  fenced-in 
hospital  on  the  hill. 

No,  dear  God.  No! 

Never! 

She  prayed,  harder  than  she  ever  prayed 
in  her  life,  for  God  to  help  her,  to  look 
after  her,  to  protect  her  from  the  madness 
that  destroyed  her  mother  and  her  grand- 
mother and  grandfather. 

And  to  this  day  Marilyn  prays. 

She  prays  for  protection  against  the 
skeleton  in  her  closet,  the  ghost  of  in- 
sanity, the  wraith  that  haunts  her  and 
never  lets  her  rest.  .  .  .  END 

Marilyn  stars  in  20th-Fox's  Let's  Make 
Love  and  United  Artists'  The  Misfits. 


The  Kid  Was  Starving! 


(Continued  jrom  page  32) 

"Yeah,  yeah,"  laughed  the  deejay.  "Re- 
member me  in  your  will!" 

When  Bobby  and  Day  got  outside,  they 
looked  at  each  other,  and  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. 

"He  thinks  I'm  making  a  fortune," 
Bobby  smiled.  "If  he  only  knew!  Think 
we  got  enough  gas  in  the  tank  to  get  back 
to  Philadelphia  tonight?" 

"If  we  stick  to  hot  dogs  and  coffee, 
yes!"  his  manager  laughed.  Then  he  added, 
"How  could  anybody  guess  that  this  jalopy 
has  70,000  miles  on  it  and  doesn't  carry  a 
spare  tire  because  I  can't  afford  it?  How 
could  anybody  know  that  we're  starv- 
ing? .  .  .  That  the  utility  company  cut  off 
my  gas  in  my  house  last  week?  .  .  .  That 
the  phone  company  disconnected  my 
phone  last  month? 

"How  could  anybody  guess  that  we've 
got  a  600 -mile  trip  to  make,  and  only  $11 
in  our  pockets?" 

Bobby  said,  "Lucky  Grandma  packed 
some  hero  sandwiches  for  me  .  .  .  Let's 
eat." 

They  munched  their  sandwiches,  sitting 
in  the  car,  and  then  Day  said,  "Time  to 
go  to  Richmond.  We're  due  at  WRVA-TV 
in  five  hours,  for  the  Ray  Lamont  show." 

He  gripped  the  steering  wheel,  but  be- 
fore he  started  the  car,  he  and  Bobby 
bowed  their  heads  in  silent  prayer,  as 
they  did  before  every  trip  in  the  old 
car. 


"Thank  you  God  for  bringing  us  this 
far,"  murmured  the  boy.  "Don't  let  the  car 
break  down  before  we  get  to  Richmond!" 

But  when  they  were  passing  by  Quan- 
tico,  with  only  50  miles  to  go,  there  was 
an  awful  hissing  sound  and  then  a  big 
bang!  Flat  tire. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  do,"  said 
Day,  wearily.  "Phone  Lamont  and  tell  the 
truth.   No   use  lying." 

He  walked  grimly  to  the  nearest  phone 
booth,  and  phoned  Lamont.  "We're  strand- 
ed, and  we  don't  have  money  for  another 
tire,  and  this  tire's  old  and  bald  and  be- 
yond patching.  .  .  ." 

"Wait!"  cried  Lamont.  "I'll  get  a  tire 
here,  and  bring  it  out.  It  will  take  me  an 
hour.  But  be  patient!" 

An  hour  later,  Lamont  arrived  with  a 
good  used  tire.  Then  he  and  Day  took  off 
their  jackets,  rolled  up  their  sleeves,  and 
changed  the  tire. 

Day  told  Lamont,  "Ever  since  I  became 
Bobby's  manager,  in  1957,  I've  told  him 
'Somebody  up  there  must  be  looking  out 
for  us!'  It  must  be  so,  because  we  don't 
have  the  money  to  do  promotion,  yet  we're 
crazy  enough  to  try  it  on  a  shoestring 
and  a  prayer.  .  .  ." 

He  added,  "Look  at  you!  You  leave 
your  job  to  come  and  help  us  out!  It's  a 
miracle!" 

They  drove  on  to  Richmond,  did  an 
interview  with  Lamont,  and  left  with 
promises,  "We'll  send  you  the  money  for 
the  tire,  just  as  soon  as  we  .  .  .  er  .  .  . 

get  it." 

On  the  drive  back,  Frankie  Day  sighed, 
"I  was  minding  my  own  business  at  Bay 
Shore's  when  you  came  in  .  .  ." 


This  remark  had  become  a  running 
gag.  Yes,  he  had  been  minding  his  own 
business  as  bass  player  in  Dave  Apple  & 
The  Apple  Jacks  Band  at  the  Bay  Shore 
club,  near  Atlantic  City,  in  the  summer 
of  1957,  when  he  decided  to  linger  around 
the  bandstand  and  watch  the  alternate 
combo,  Rocco  &  The  Saints.  Frankie 
Avalon  had  been  trumpetist  for  this 
combo  before  striking  out  for  himself,  and 
Day  wondered  if  there  was  any  other 
good  talent  left  in  the  band. 

So  he  watched,  and  was  pleased.  But 
when  a  thin  sixteen-year-old  blond  kid 
with  fluffy  hair  stepped  out  to  do  a  drum 
solo,  a  bit  of  dancing,  and  a  strong  vocal 
solo,  Day  was  held  spellbound.  Then 
when  the  lad  did  impersonations  of  Jerry 
Lewis  and  Louis  Prima,  Day  was  stunned. 

"Such  talent!"  he  gasped.  He  button- 
holed the  boy  later,  and  found  he  was 
Bobby  Rydell  from  Philadelphia,  which 
was  also  Day's  home  town. 

When  Bobby's  parents,  Adrio  ("Al") 
and  Jennie  Ridarelli,  arrived,  Day  told 
them,  "I'm  very  much  impressed  with 
Bobby.  I'd  like  to  manage  him." 

But  Bobby's  dad  was  not  impressed. 
"Bobby  has  been  an  entertainer  since  he 
was  ten,  and  people  are  always  telling 
him  they'll  make  him  a  star;  but  noth- 
ing happens  .  .  .  He's  been  let  down  so 
many  times  ...  I  don't  want  him  hurt 
again!"  he  said. 

He  sighed,  "When  Bobby  was  younger, 
they  were  going  to  take  him  to  Hollywood 
and  make  him  a  star  .  .  .  they  were  going 
to  put  him  on  the  Jackie  Gleason  Show  . . . 
they  were  going  to  put  him  on  the  Ed 
Sullivan  Show  .  .  .  (Continued  on  page  52) 


P.  S.  He  was  glad  he  waited. . . she  looked  so  delicious  in"Sugar 
Plum,"  one  of  the  newest  fashion-fresh  colors  by  Cutex®  in 
long-lasting  Sheer  Lanolin  and  creamy  new  Delicate  lipsticks! 


(Continued  from  page  50) 
but  nothing  happened!  He  auditioned  for 
so  many  people,  and  everybody  said  he's 
great,  but  he's  too  thin,  or  too  young,  or 
too  good.  .  .  ." 

But  Day  was  persistent,  "This  boy  has 
enormous  talent.  Let  me  try  .  .  .  I'll  do  it 
slowly  .  .  .  I'll  train  him.  .  .  ." 

Finally  Bobby's  dad  said,  "I'm  a  factory 
worker  ...  I  don't  have  any  money  for 
special  lessons.  .  .  ." 

Electrifying  news 

Three  months  later,  Bobby  Rydell  was 
being  managed  officially  by  Frankie  Day. 

Around  13th  and  Ritner,  in  South  Phila- 
delphia, the  news  that  Bobby  had  a  man- 
ager was  electrifying.  This  was  the  neigh- 
borhood that  produced  Eddie  Fisher, 
Fabian,  Frankie  Avalon,  Mickey  Callan, 
Jimmy  Darren  and  Mario  Lanza  .  .  .  Why 
Fabian  lived  only  half  a  block  away! 

The  row  house  that  Bobby  lived  in  with 
his  parents  and  grandma,  Lena  Sapienza, 
became  the  scene  for  new  excitement. 

Day  came  around  regularly.  He  per- 
suaded the  drummer  of  his  band  to  give 
Bobby  drum  lessons;  he  got  the  wife  of 
another  musician  to  teach  Bobby  new 
dance  routines.  Soon  Bobby  was  also 
taking  guitar  and  vocal  lessons. 

Day  spent  all  his  savings  on  Bobby's 
training,  then  started  borrowing  money. 
When  he  couldn't  borrow,  Bobby's  dad 
contributed  what  he  could. 

After  several  months  of  lessons,  Day 
took  Bobby  to  a  record  hop  at  Berwyn, 
Pennsylvania.  He  wanted  to  see  how  the 
girls  would  react  to  Bobby. 

What  he  saw  pleased  him:  the  girls 
screamed  with  delight. 

"You  passed  the  first  test;  they  accepted 
you  as  a  singer  and  a  personality,"  Day 
told  Bobby  later.  "Now  we've  got  to  get 
ready  for  the  interviews;  you've  got  to 
know  how  to  handle  them." 

So  Bobby  and  Day  sat  in  the  basement 
of  Bobby's  house  in  front  of  a  tape  re- 
corder, and  taped  interviews.  Day  pre- 
tended he  was  the  deejay  interviewing 
Bobby.  Then  they'd  play  back  the  tape 
and  analyze  it. 

When  Day  thought  Bobby  had  learned 
the  technique,  he  said,  "Now  we  have  to 
practice  proper  expression  while  singing." 
So  he'd  spin  records  of  pop  singers,  and 
Bobby  would  pantomime  the  singing,  in 
front  of  a  mirror.  Day  would  analyze  his 
style,  and  Bobby  would  correct  himself. 

Finally,  Day  said,  "I  think  you're  ready 
now  to  make  a  record!" 

Using  his  wife  Mildred's  contacts  in  the 
recording  business,  Day  took  Bobby  to 
Warner  Bros.  Records,  where  they  said, 
"He's  not  ready."  He  took  Bobby  to 
other  record  companies,  and  was  turned 
down  by  every  one.  "He's  too  thin,"  "He's 
too  young,"  "He  doesn't  have  a  sound," 
were  some  of  the  comments. 

"Maybe  we  ought  to  forget  the  whole 
thing,"  Bobby  said. 

"No,"  said  Day.  "I  haven't  lost  faith. 
There's  only  one  thing  left.  We've  got  to 
start  our  own  recording  company!" 

"How  about  money?  Dad  doesn't  have 
any  money." 

Day  said,  "I'm  broke  too  .  .  .  But  I'll 
borrow  the  money." 

Day  had  a  lot  of  friends,  and  he  went 
around  borrowing  small  sums  until  he 
had  enough  to  pay  the  $100  license  fee 
and  the  $700  for  the  musicians,  to  cut 
Bobby's  first  disk.  Dream  Age.  They  named 
the  label  Vico. 

Day  scurried  around  to  get  distribution, 
but  it  was  tough.  He  tried  to  do  promo- 
tion on  the  record,  but  he  didn't  have  the 
money.  In  desperation,  he  got  a  loan  from 
a  finance  company,  putting  his  apartment's 
furniture  up  for  collateral.  When  that 
money  ran  out,  he  borrowed  more  from 


another  loan  company,  using  friends  as 
co-signers. 

Finally,  he  got  another  loan,  using  his 
Pontiac  as  collateral. 

But  the  money  was  spent  quickly  in 
promotion,  and  unfortunately  the  record 
was  a  bomb.  Broke  and  desperate,  Day 
took  Bobby  to  a  local  label,  Cameo,  which 
fortunately  signed  him.  Bernie  Lowe,  head 
of  Cameo,  agreed  with  Day  that  Bobby 
had  what  it  takes. 

Learning  to  be  misers 

His  first  disk  for  Cameo  was  Please 
Don't  Be  Mad.  Day  begged  Cameo  for  ex- 
pense money  to  take  Bobby  on  a  promo- 
tion tour.  The  expense  money  would  be 
paid  back  from  future  royalties. 

Bobby  and  Day  then  hit  the  road  again, 
spending  the  meager  expense  money  like 
misers.  They  became  clever  in  cutting 
corners.  They  learned  how  to  park  the 
car  behind  a  billboard  and  take  a  nap; 
how  to  change  to  their  good  suits  in  men's 
rooms;  how  to  bring  sandwiches  along 
and  go  to  the  luncheonettes  for  coffee 
only;  how  to  tip  a  porter  fifty  cents  and 
get  a  railroad  station  cubicle  for  shaving 
and  changing;  how  to  nurse  the  car  along 
when  it  started  to  sound  sick. 

The  deejays,  fortunately,  were  friendly. 
"Glad  to  see  a  quiet,  clean-cut  kid  in  a 
business  suit,"  they'd  tell  Bobby.  "We're 
tired  of  the  professional  teenagers  in 
sports  clothes  and  open  collars." 

Most  of  the  deejays  said,  "You've  got  a 
good  sound,  kid  .  .  .  maybe  you'll  make  it 
on  the  next  record;  don't  give  up!" 

The  next  record,  All  I  Want  Is  You,  did 
a  bit  better.  But  Bobby  and  Day  were 
getting  deeper  and  deeper  in  debt.  They 
couldn't  even  invite  a  deejay  out  for  din- 
ner. So  they  were  honest  and  said,  "We'd 
like  to  ask  you  out  for  dinner,  but  frankly 
we  don't  have  the  money." 

Some  deejays  said,  "Well,  come  over  to 
my  house  for  dinner,  then,"  and  some 
said,  "Stay  with  us  tonight  and  save  ho- 
tel money  ...  if  you  don't  mind  sleeping 
on  the  sofas." 

Good  signs  and  trouble 

There  were  good  signs:  Bobby  was  be- 
ing invited  to  record  hops,  and  more  and 
more  deejays  encouraged  him  to  keep 
trying — but  the  lack  of  money  plagued 
them.  The  finance  companies  kept  threat- 
ening Day  with  court  action.  One  com- 
pany wanted  to  seize  the  car.  Bobby's 
court-appointed  guardian  kept  reminding 
Day  that  his  creditors  were  closing  in  on 
him.  Cameo  Records  gave  them  expense 
money  but  the  company's  treasurer  kept 
objecting  this  was  too  risky. 

Everywhere  there  was  trouble  and  ten- 
sion. 

At  Bobby's  house,  his  dad  said,  "Maybe 
it's  better  you  go  back  with  a  dance  band," 
His  mom  said,  "Don't  you  feel  bad  that 
your  records  are  not  selling?"  and  Bobby 
kept  assuring  her,  "No,  ma."  Grandma 
sighed,  "You're  not  eating  your  spaghetti; 
you're  too  thin  .  .  .  You  worrying  too 
much?" 

At  Day's  house,  his  wife  had  taken 
a  job  so  she  could  pay  some  of  the 
household  expenses  and  enable  him  to 
concentrate  on  Bobby's  career.  Some- 
times she'd  leave  him  a  note  on  the 
breakfast  table:  Please  leave  your  pic- 
ture. I'm  beginning  to  jorget  what  you 
look  like  .  .  .  you're  away  so  much. 

Bobby  was  having  trouble  at  school.  He 
didn't  have  time  to  do  his  homework 
properly;  he  was  often  too  tired  to  con- 
centrate. Sometimes  Day  would  ask, 
"Bobby,  want  to  give  up?"  and  Bobby 
would  say,  "No  .  .  .  I'm  willing  if  you're 
willing." 

On  the  road,  they  became  increasingly 
sensitive  to  cheap  living.  They  could  spot 


a  three-dollar  hotel  room  miles  awa> 
they  instinctively  knew  the  cheapes 
most  filling  food  on  a  menu;  they  carrie 
shoe  polish  in  the  car,  to  avoid  having  t 
pay  for  shines;  they  knew  how  to  haii 
their  suits  in  the  car,  to  avoid  gettin 
wrinkles  in  them. 

Day  often  marveled  at  how  they  sur 
vived.  "To  think  we've  had  only  one  flf 
tire,  traveling  without  a  spare  all  thi 
time!  No  doubt  about  it!  Somebody  u 
there  is  looking  out  for  us!" 

Only  once  did  they  fail  to  make  a  dee 
jay  date.  Driving  on  the  turnpike  t 
Pittsburgh,  they  were  caught  in  a  snow 
storm.  Without  snow-tires,  they  couldn 
move.  So  they  pulled  to  one  side,  wrappe 
themselves  in  blankets,  and  waited  fc 
the  storm  to  end  and  the  snow-plows  t 
come  through.  By  the  time  they  got  t 
Pittsburgh,  the  deejay  was  off  the  air. 

In  the  fall  of  1958,  Day's  phone  was  cv 
off  for  three  months,  and  he  and  Bobb 
had  a  frantic  time  communicating  wit 
each  other.  When  Day's  gas  was  cut  of 
he  and  his  wife  were  cut  off  without  hee 
or  cooking  gas,  and  his  wife  had  to  tak 
him  to  relatives  for  meals. 

But,  Day  said,  "As  long  as  I  can  be? 
borrow  or  steak  IH  stick  with  you,"  an 
Bobby  said,  "Me  too." 

In  April,  his  new  record,  Kissing  Tim 
came  out.  It  started  slowly,  but  Bobb 
was  encouraged  when  friendly  deejay 
wrote  him,  "You're  getting  close;  this  i 
a  fine  record!" 

Day  picked  up  band  jobs  one  or  tw 
nights  a  week,  and  put  die  money  into 
kitty.  When  they  had  enough  for  a  trij 
they  went  off.  "Well,  we've  got  $37,"  h 
would  say.  "If  we  sleep  at  a  YMCA  an 
stick  to  hot  dogs  and  coffee,  we  can  mak 
it  to  Rochester  and  Albany  and  back,  fo 
two  days.  .  .  ." 

On  the  way 

Then  Dick  Clark  put  Bobby  on  hi 
show,  and  record  sales  spurted.  Soon  th 
disk  was  on  the  Top  100  Chart;  and  on  th 
way  up! 

Day  was  still  staving  off  creditors.  Hi 
pockets  were  filled  with  lawyers'  threat 
ening  letters;  he  couldn't  get  a  credit  car 
because  his  credit  was  no  good  in  Phila 
delphia;  his  bank  was  angry  at  him  fc 
his  many  excuses  for  overdrawing  hi 
account. 

Then  when  Kissing  Time  rose  to  the  toj 
Bobby  had  an  attack  of  nerves.  "Whf. 
if  I  can't  follow  it  up?"  he  asked.  "Who 
if  I  turn  out  to  be  a  one-record  singer 
What  if  my  next  record  is  a  flop?"  j 

But  his  next  record  was  a  hit,  too.  Bot 
sides — I  Dig  Girls  and  We  Got  Love-: 
became  hits,  and  got  on  the  Chart.  So,  fc 
a  while,  Bobby  had  three  songs  on  th 
Top  100  Chart—  something  only  Elyi| 
Presley  had  also  achieved. 

Bobby  moved  up  quickly:  the  Die 
Clark  Show,  Red  Skelton  Show.  Dann  i 
Thomas  Show,  Perry  Como  Show.  He  ws 
voted  Most  Promising  Male  Vocalist  i 
Dick  Clark's  Fifth  Annual  America 
Bandstand  Poll.  The  critics  called  him  th, 
most  exciting  teen  singer  since  Elvis. 

On  his  18th  birthday— April  26th- 1 
Bobby  walked  over  to  the  neighborhoo 
Epiphany  Church,  where  he'd  attende ! 
so  many  times  with  Fabian  and  other  pal  i 
He  knelt  and  prayed,  and  thought  of  h 
dad  and  his  mom,  his  grandma,  and  espe 
cially  his  manager  Frankie  Day,  .  .  .  every 
body  who  had  loved  him  and  helped  hii ; 
and  wished  him  well  .  .  .  and  he  thanke 
them  and  blessed  their  names! 

He  smiled  wryly  to  himself  as  h 
thought  of  the  Pontiac  with  70,000  an 
some  miles  on  it.  "When  I'm  twenty-orl 
and  can  spend  my  own  money,  I'm  goin 
to  surprise  Frankie  and  buy  him  a  ne^ 
car.  ...  He  deserves  it!"  EN  | 


Is  It  Too  Late  for  Me 


.(Continued  from  page  28) 

ie  weak  sounds  and  had  seen  the  tiny 
sitten  huddled  in  a  corner.  Her  heart 
went  out  to  it,  and  like  a  child  she  lifted 
t  and  tucked  it  under  her  sweater. 

'No  one's  going  to  throw  you  out,"  she'd 
whispered  into  the  ears  of  the  soft,  shak- 
ng  animal.  Upstairs,  she'd  gone  to  the 
-efrigerator  and  taken  out  some  cream. 
Then  she  smuggled  it  into  the  bedroom 
and  began  to  feed  the  kitten. 

The  story  of  Tuesday's  "bad"  behavior 
&t  the  party  was  whispered  about  for 
veeks  afterwards.  This  is  the  first  time  the 
rue  story  has  ever  reached  print. 

When  a  girl  loses  her  reputation  .  .  . 

Everybody's  ready  to  believe  the  worst 
ibout  Tuesday.  When  a  teen-age  girl  loses 
ler  reputation  everything  she  does  is 
udged  harshly.  For  every  teen-ager  has 
«  know  what  Tuesday  is  just  beginning 

0  learn.  A  teen-age  girl  must  avoid  not 
>nly  evil,  but  the  appearance  of  evil.  If 
he  doesn't,  and  word  gets  around  that 
he's  fast  or  slightly  shopworn,  the  gossip 
vill  grow  and  travel.  The  longer  the  gos- 
ip  persists,  the  harder  it  will  be  for  her 
b  undo  the  damage  already  done. 

This  is  what  Tuesday  is  facing  today. 

Is  it  too  late  for  Tuesday  to  protect 
.erself  from  her  reputation? 

A  rather  chastened  Tuesday  is  asking 
hat  of  herself  these  days.  There  is  a  very 
pecial  reason  why  Tuesday  is  beginning 
d  wonder:  "Is  it  too  late  for  me  to  be 
. ood?" 

The  reason  is  a  boy— a  tall,  wavy-haired, 
lean-cut  boy.  So  far  he  isn't  concerned 
bout  her  reputation.  He's  heard  little 
bout  it,  and  doesn't  believe  what  he's 
eard.  But  every  day  Tuesday  wonders, 
What  will  he  hear  about  me  today?  Will 
>e  hear  something  that  will  make  him 
/ant  to  leave  me?" 

.  And  Tuesday  is  learning  what  a  lot  of 
;?en  girls  learn — that  she  must  guard  her 
eputation  as  her  most  precious  gift,  for 
Then  a  boy  comes  along  whom  she  really 
ares  for,  her  reputation  may  jeopardize 
is  love  for  her. 

lie  boy  in  Tuesday's  life 

Richard  Beymer  is  a  handsome  young 
:tor — he  played  Millie  Perkins'  boy- 
■iend  in  Anne  Frank — and  he  is  the  boy 

1  Tuesday's  life.  She  met  him  for  the 
rst  time  several  months  ago  on  a  plane 
ying  to  Stockton,  California,  when  she 

Mras  going  on  location  for  High  Time.  Im- 
'  P  lediately  they  felt  attracted  to  each  other, 
^hen  they  stepped  off  the  plane,  Dick 
ailed  her  aside  and  said,  "Come  on — let's 
ave  the  others  and  be  by  ourselves.  Have 
b  inner  with  me.  I  want  to  know  you 
atter." 

t  Tuesday  looked  at  him  and  smiled  softly, 
ii  While  they  sat  in  the  small  restaurant, 
llf  talked  about  himself.  He'd  come  from  a 

nail  town  in  Iowa  originally,  but  when 

Is  family  moved  to  Hollywood,  he  fell 
_.to  acting.  But  he'd  never  gone  with  the 

ovie  crowd.  Then  he  said  impatiently, 
t3ut  it's  you  I  want  to  hear  about.  You're 
jj  real  sweet  kid." 

Boys  had  called  Tuesday  many  things 

efore  that  evening — kookie,  wild,  sexpot. 

ut  she  couldn't  remember  anyone  calling 
jj|sr  sweet,  the  way  this  boy  did,  as  though 
really  meant  it.  She  was  startled.  And 

icause  this  boy  believed  this  of  her,  she 
,  arted  showing  him  a  side  of  herself  no 
1  her  boy  had  ever  seen,  except  for  brief 
..ashes. 

.  Right  now,  Dick  Beymer  is  in  love  with 
Jesday,  and  Tuesday  with  him.  He  and 
fc,Jesday  have  been  virtually  inseparable 


since  they  met.  It's  an  odd  combination — 
this  boy  who  doesn't  smoke  or  drink,  and 
Tuesday  who  has  been  smoking  since  she 
was  fifteen  and  has  had  a  reputation  of 
being  "sixteen  going  on  twenty-six." 

Their  dates  are  more  wholesome  than 
any  she  has  had  with  any  other  boy.  Dick 
has  a  small  speedboat,  which  he  keeps  in 
the  garage  of  his  parents'  house  in  the 
Valley.  He  piles  it  on  a  trailer  and  ties  it 
to  the  back  of  his  Austin-Healy.  Then  he 
and  Tuesday  drive  out  in  his  little  car  to 
Balboa.  Tuesday  wears  jeans  and  a  bulky 
sweater  over  a  bathing  suit,  her  hair 
pinned  back  in  a  pony  tail,  her  face  with 
only  a  smidgin  of  lipstick.  They  get  out 
on  the  boat  and  drive  it  out  in  the  ocean 
toward  Catalina.  They  share  a  lunch  she's 
prepared  herself.  Sometimes  Tuesday 
helps  drive  the  boat.  Her  hair  flies  in  the 
wind  and  she  laughs  a  lot,  the  spray  mak- 
ing her  face  glisten.  Often,  Dick  cups  her 
shining,  young  face  in  his  hands  and 
kisses  her.  "You're  sweet,  you're  a  sweet, 
wonderful  kid."  And  Tuesday  glows. 

Tuesday  has  wanted  this  kind  of  whole- 
some date  before,  but  most  of  her  boy- 
friends thought  she  was  putting  on  an  act 
when  she  talked  of  it. 

Once  she  asked  a  boyfriend  to  take  her 
on  a  date  outdoors.  He  laughed  at  her. 
"You're  kookie,"  he  said.  He  thought  she 
was  indeed  being  kookie — affected — and 
didn't  mean  what  she  said.  So  he  took 
her  to  a  coffee  house  instead.  They  sat 
around  in  the  murky  place,  populated  by 
beatniks  drinking  cafe  espresso  and  weep- 
ing about  the  state  of  the  world.  That 
particular  night  Tuesday  didn't  like  it. 
She  was  tired  of  the  whole  bit.  She  got 
up  abruptly,  sneaked  off,  ran  up  to  her 
home  in  the  hills  above  the  coffee  house. 
Then  she  got  into  her  car,  drove  to  the 
beach  by  herself  and  ran  along  the  surf. 
Her  boyfriend  had  waited  in  his  car  out- 
side her  house,  and  when  she  returned  in 
the  wee  hours  he  didn't  believe  her  story 
that  she'd  driven  off  to  the  beach  alone. 

Until  Dick  Beymer  came  along,  very  few 
boys  believed  that  Tuesday  was  getting  fed 
up  with  night  life,  that  she  was  beginning 
to  regret  her  own  reputation  for  being 
wild,  and  wanted  a  wholesome  date. 

Wasn't  she  the  little  darling  of  the  beat- 
niks, Hollywood's  enfante  terrible? 

People  have  tried  to  tell  Dick  about  the 
Tuesday  they  know. 

He  shrugs  off  what  they  say. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  Tuesday's 
past,"  he  says.  "I  know  her  for  what  she 
is  today.  She's  a  sweet,  feminine  girl — 
more  like  a  white  kitten  than  the  wildcat 
they  say  she  is.  I've  dated  different  girls, 
but  never  took  anyone  seriously  till  I  met 
Tuesday.  I  never  associated  with  actresses 
before.  Not  for  any  special  reason,  but 
they  just  didn't  travel  in  my  particular 
orbit.  Tuesday  is  different  from  other  ac- 
tresses,  anyway.     She   doesn't   care  for 


PHOTOGRAPHERS'  CREDITS 

The  photographs  appearing  in  this  issue 

are  credited  below  page  by  page: 
9 — Pictorial    Parade;  10 — Globe;    11 — Globe, 
Gilloon  Agency,  Pictorial  Parade;  12 — Pictorial 
Parade,  Wide  World,  Annan  Photo  Features;  13- 

14  Gilloon;  IS— Pictorial  Parade,  UPI,  Wide 

World,  Gilloon;  16— Gilloon;  17 — Couch,  cour- 
tesy Itkin  Bros.,  Inc.;  20-21 — Nat  Dallinger  of 
Gilloon;  22-23 — Bernard  Abramson  of  Vista; 
24-25 — Zinn  Arthur  of  Topix;  26-27 — Bernard 
Abramson  of  Vista;  29 — Sherman  Weisburd  of 
Topix;  30-33 — Michael  Levin;  34-37 — London 
Daily  Express  from  Pictorial  Parade,  Wide 
World,  Jules  Buck,  UPI;  38-39— Curt  Gunther 
of  Topix,  Lawrence  Schiller  of  Globe;  42-43 — 

Curt  Gunther  of  Topix;  45  Wayne  Miller  of 

Magnum;  46-47 — Leo  Fuchs  of  Globe. 


parties.  Actually,  she  finds  them  boring. 
Just  as  I  do." 

Since  meeting  Dick,  Tuesday  is  not  as 
restless  for  the  parties  and  the  crowds.  The 
other  day  she  told  a  friend,  "There  are  al- 
ways a  lot  of  people  around  to  help  you 
get  into  trouble  but  you  have  to  get  out 
of  it  by  yourself.  So  I  don't  go  to  parties 
any  more.  I  like  small  groups." 

"How  small?"  the  friend  asked. 

"Oh,  two  people,"  she  replied.  "The 
other  person  is  Dick." 

It's  different  with  Dick 

Tuesday  behaves  differently  with  Dick 
than  she  does  with  any  other  boy.  She 
not  only  loves  him,  she  respects  him.  She 
can't  twist  him  around  her  little  finger  as 
she  has  her  other  boyfriends.  When  Dick 
makes  a  date  with  her,  she  keeps  it.  With 
other  boyfriends,  she  often  broke  dates, 
or  came  very  late  with  no  explanation. 

Once,  for  instance,  she  had  a  date  with 
John  Franco,  whom  she  used  to  date 
often.  She  was  to  meet  John  at  his  apart- 
ment at  seven,  then  they  were  to  go  to  a 
restaurant  where  they  were  to  join  other 
friends  of  his.  Tuesday  didn't  show  up  at 
7:00— nor  at  8:00  or  9:00.  John  kept  tele- 
phoning, but  Tuesday  was  out.  At  11:30 
she  showed  up.  She  wore  jeans,  a  red  car 
coat  and  sneaks — hardly  an  outfit  for  din- 
ner in  a  restaurant. 

"What  happened?"  asked  John  angrily. 

"Oh,"  pouted  Tuesday,  "I  couldn't  help 
it." 

"Couldn't  help  it?  You  knew  about  our 
date.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  but  that's  the  way  it  is,"  replied 
Tuesday,  vaguely. 

Another  time,  when  Tuesday  had  two 
boyfriends  over  at  her  house,  she  slipped 
out  of  the  room  while  both  were  listening 
to  records,  and  disappeared  for  hours.  Both 
men  were  nonplussed.  When  she  returned, 
she  said,  as  though  nothing  had  happened, 
"I  just  felt  like  driving  in  the  hills  by 
myself." 

With  one  of  her  boyfriends  Tuesday  once 
went  to  a  party  barefoot,  in  a  crumpled, 
soiled  chiffon  gown.  It  had  gotten  that  way 
when  she  ran  down  the  hill  to  meet  him. 
Any  other  girl  would  have  gone  back  home 
to  change— but  not  the  defiant  Tuesday. 

With  Dick  Beymer,  Tuesday  is  different. 
She  doesn't  stand  him  up,  walk  out  on  him 
or  dress  in  a  way  that  holds  her  up  to 
talk.  She  behaves  actually  wholesomely 
and  'normally. 

One  night  when  she  got  into  his  car, 
she  didn't  have  a  drop  of  make-up  on  her 
face.  Her  eyes  were  shining.  She  hadn't 
even  smoked  a  cigarette  all  day.  They 
stopped  at  a  pizza  place,  which  is  fre- 
quented by  kids,  and  had  a  great  time 
eating  pizza. 

Other  men  in  Tuesday's  life 

If  you're  bold  enough  to  ask  Dick  about 
the  other  men  in  Tuesday's  life,  he  says, 
"I  don't  know  anything  about  them — but 
there's  only  one  guy  in  her  life  now,  and 
that's  me.  I  don't  know  the  side  of  Tues- 
day that  they  talk  about.  I'm  not  inter- 
ested in  gossip  about  her.  I've  never  seen 
that  side  of  her.  I  love  this  girl  for  what 
she  is — not  for  what  people  think  she  is. 
Tuesday  has  a  lot  of  finding  of  herself  to 
do.  But  we  have  plenty  of  time  for  it. 
She's  only  sixteen,  I'm  twenty-one.  We 
haven't  talked  of  marriage  because  we're 
both  too  young.  But  we  date  only  each 
other." 

How  long,  Tuesday  wonders,  can  this 
idyllic  state  of  affairs  continue? 

Tuesday  has  always  been  subject  to  swift 
changes  of  mood,  bitter  patches  of  rebel- 
lion— and  at  the  same  time  there  has  al- 
ways been  a  soft  side  to  Tuesday  that  few 
people  recognized  until  Dick  fell  in  love 
with  her. 

What  made  Tuesday  this  way? 


INSTANT-EASY  DYEING-easy  as  1-2-3* 


Only  PUTNAM  ^  DYES 

IN  THE  exclusive  DISAPPEARING 

'INNER-PAC 

MAKE  DYEING  SO  EASY 


jjc  here's  all  you  do: 
%±  Take  inner-pac  from  package,- 
2^Jbrop  it  in  washer; 
3»  Put  cloth  in  washer! 

No  measuring,  no  mixing,  no 
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Her  father  died  when  she  was  three; 
Mrs.  Weld  was  left  with  three  children — 
the  youngest,  Tuesday.  Finding  difficulty 
in  supporting  her  three  children,  in  des- 
peration she  accepted  a  neighbor's  sugges- 
tion that  Tuesday  would  be  a  good  model 
in  the  Infants'  Department  of  a  nearby  de- 
partment store.  Beautiful  even  as  a  baby, 
Tuesday  was  an  appealing  little  model,  and 
money  began  to  flow  into  the  Weld  home. 

This  turn  of  events  left  her  older  sister, 
Sally,  and  her  older  brother,  David,  badly 
shaken.  The  idea  of  being  supported  by  a 
baby  sister  revolted  them,  and  they  began 
to  hate  the  baby  sister  they  had  loved  till 
then.  Both  Sally  and  David  began  to  call 
Tuesday  harsh  names  and  to  torment  her. 

Tuesday  had  adored  them.  Now  she  sud- 
denly felt  like  an  outcast.  Mrs.  Weld  said 
once  that  it  took  her  hours  to  convince 
the  child  she  wasn't  as  bad  as  her  sister 
and  brother  said  she  was.  "I'd  have  to 


build  up  her  ego  again  and  again,"  her 
mother  said,  "while  Tuesday  cried  and 
cried." 

That  was  the  start  of  Tuesday,  the  rebel. 
A  Tuesday  who  had  been  rejected  by  her 
own  brother  and  sister  found  it  hard  to 
believe  that  anyone  else  would  accept  her. 
To  win  acceptance  as  a  teen-ager,  she  was 
willing  to  play  the  role  older  girls  played — 
to  appear  harsh  and  brash. 

She  ached  for  attention.  She  wanted  to 
be  part  of  the  gang.  If  playing  at  being 
the  queen  of  the  beatniks  was  the  way  to 
win  this  attention,  Tuesday  was  willing  to 
play. 

There  was  no  one  to  protect  her — to 
teach  her  differently.  If  her  father  had 
lived,  he  might  have  shown  her  that  a 
little  girl  is  entitled  to  the  strength  and 
protection  of  a  man. 

Even  after  she  learned  that  her  repu- 
tation was  cutting  her  off  from  the  com- 


panionship of  nice  young  boys  and  girl 
and  giving  her  a  place  among  the  fa;i 
crowd,  Tuesday  continued  her  attitude  c 
defiance.  Her  face  looked  bold,  her  lip 
were  mocking. 

But  underneath,  Tuesday  was  hurt. 

Even  before  she  met  Dick  Beymer,  | 
former  boyfriend  of  Tuesday's  commented 
"She  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  sh  jj 
hadn't  made  a  mistake  in  defying  publi  j| 
opinion.  But  she  was  too  proud  to  adm.j 
it." 

"One  evening,  at  a  party  we  both  at  k 
tended,  an  older  man  came  up  to  Tuesda  ■ 
and  said,  'Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yoursel  | 
a  girl  of  your  age,  smoking  and  drinkin  i 
and  going  out  with  a  man  old  enough  t  I 
be  your  father?  (At  that  time,  Tuesda  2 
was  dating  John  Ireland.)  You're  livinil 
wrong.  You'll  live  to  regret  it.'  " 

"Tuesday  couldn't  think  of  any  retor  jl 
She  just  turned  white  and  began  to  so  ] 
hysterically,  then  turned  to  a  boy  nearb  f 
and  said,  'Please  take  me  away.'  He  did-  1 
he  took  her  out  to  his  car  where  she  sa  I 
sobbing  for  hours." 

Naughty  child 

To  attract  attention,  Tuesday  has  ofte 
proclaimed  that  she  would  never  get  mar  | 
ried,  that  she  didn't  want  to  have  chil 
dren.  Then  she'd  sit  back,  like  a  naught 
child,  and  notice  the  shocked  expression  o 
peoples'  faces. 

Another  boyfriend,  Mike  McKee, 
actor,  said,  "She  used  to  run  me  raggec 
She's  unpredictable.  Once  she  had  me 
her  apartment  for  dinner.  She  made  th 
dinner — she's  a  pretty  good  cook  whe 
she  feels  like  cooking.  We  listened  to  rec 
ords,  danced.  Then  she  went  into  her  roon , 
After  a  while,  I  missed  her  and  called  ot- 
to her.  I  went  into  her  room  and  foun 
she  had  gone.  That's  the  way  Tuesday  is- 
like  some  wild  bird." 

But  Dick  Beymer  sees  nothing  of  th 
wild  bird  in  Tuesday — only  a  soft  littJ 
kitten,  like  the  kitten  that  she  herself  ha 
once  rescued. 

Not  long  ago  he  took  her  boating.  Th 
sea  was  stormy  and  the  little  craft  bega 
to  lurch.  Tuesday  became  frightened,  an 
Dick  put  his  arm  around  her.  "Don't  worr; 
doll,"  he  said.  "I'd  never  let  anything  hap 
pen  to  you.  You  know  that,  don't  you? 

His  arm  tightened  around  her — not 
sionately,  but  tenderly,  protectively,  in  th\ 
most  comforting  way. 

Tuesday,  who  has  known  men's  anr 
around  her — most  of  them  demandin; 
seeking — was  elated.  In  all  her  brief  younlj 
life  this  was  the  first  boy  who  treated  he., 
with  the  gallantry  and  protectiveness  othti 
girls  take  for  granted.  Who  in  the  past  hd 
there  been  to  protect  Tuesday?  Not  flJ 
boys  she  used  to  go  with — the  boys  wb 
enjoyed  the  spectacle  of  Tuesday  actir, 
wild.  Her  studio  has  tried,  but  Tuesda  J 
would  not  accept  dictation  from  them. 

But  love  can  achieve  miracles  that  stud: 
brass  can't.  What  she  wouldn't  do  for  20t 
Century-Fox  she  does  gladly  for  Dick.  Si 
smokes  less  when  she  is  with  him;  doesn 
take  on  an  attitude  of  defiance.  The  sutj 
merged  side  of  herself — the  feminine,  yielc  ] 
ing  side — is  coming  out  for  the  first  tim 
on  her  dates  with  Dick.  For  Dick  she 
willing  to  don  an  apron  and  be  like  evei 
girl  who  wants  to  please  a  man — cookir 
his  favorite  dishes,  hovering  over  hi 
while  she  serves  him. 

To  Dick  she  isn't  a  broad  or  a  beatnik- 
but  a  sweet,  lovable  girl  whom  he  adore ! 
And  because  of  it,  there  is  a  new  softne 
about  Tuesday  these  days.  For  the  fir 
time  in  her  life,  Tuesday  is  in  love  ar 
knows  what  it  is  to  be  loved. 

And  love  is  working  its  own  tend* 
miracle  on  her,  the  miracle  of  known1 
that  it  isn't  too  late  to  be  good.  ek 

Tuesday  is  next  in  20th-Fox's  High  Tim 


lebbie  in  Trouble! 


Continued  from  -page  47) 

ebbie,  more  than  any  other  star  of  her 
■ne,  had  the  personality  to  win  everybody, 
le  was  the  young  girl's  ideal,  the  teen- 
er's alter-ego,  the  older  woman's  daugh- 
r  and  every  man's  "girl  next-door."  But 
€  extent  to  which  her  fans  felt  involved 
,th  her  was  unknown  until  the  day  her 
is  band  walked  out  on  her  and  her  two 
tie  children  for  the  love  of  another 
oman. 

That  day  bedlam  broke  out. 
Every  magazine  and  newspaper  was  in- 
itiated with  letters,  ninety  percent  of 
em  indignant,  all  of  them  emotional, 
ritten  by  people  who  had  never  penned 
note  to  an  editor  before.  Many  of  the 
oter  writers  felt  that  their  lives  and  emo- 
tes had  been  forever  altered  by  the 
agedy  that  had  befallen  this  innocent 
ung  mother. 

Hollywood  itself,  a  place  where  divorce 
d  broken  homes  go  unnoticed,  found  it- 
J  split  into  factions.  Those  who  were 
Debbie's  side,  and  those  who  were  vio- 

-xxly  on  Debbie's  side. 
Ajid  as  is  often  the  case,  all  the  fuss  and 

mmotion  and  heartache  turned  out  to  be 
tv  useful  to  Debbie's  career.  It  did  not 
z&pe  the  eye  of  the  producers  that  Debbie 
TJnanded  the  loyalty  of  millions  of  fans 
.  and  that  it  would  do  their  films  no 
rm  at  all  if  they  starred  Debbie 
ynolds. 

Debbie  too  noticed  this  fact.  She  raised 
r  price. 

1  Hollywood  wise  guys  pointed  out  a  fairly 
stressing  fact . .  .  that  although  everybody 
'ed  Debbie,  not  too  many  people  went 
her  movies  .  .  .  because  of  this,  no  pro- 
cer  in  his  right  mind  would  pay  Debbie's 
ice. 

3ut  the  producers  paid. 
And  nothing  rankles  like  success, 
^eople  who  began  by  aclmiring  Debbie's 
ver  business  sense  ended  by  calling  her 
le  girl  with  the  cash-register  mind." 
.dn't  she  made  Eddie  pay  and  pay  and 
y  for  his  divorce?  Wasn't  she  charging 
quarter  of  a  million  dollars  per  film? 
id  wasn't  she  looking  for  a  new  kind  of 
-shand?  A  rich  one? 

effect  on  Debbie's  fans 

'  lollywood  is  not  a  loyal  town.  Friends 

-  rdened  their  hearts  towards  Debbie.  That 
:  le-girl  gaiety  now  looked  like  a  com- 
r  rcial  coyness  to  be  turned  on  and  off 

-  Debbie  felt  it  to  her  advantage.  That 
-eetness,  they  said,  was  "for  the  rubes"! 

Hie  fans  too  were  losing  interest.  They 
":in't  turned  against  Debbie,  but  they 

-  re  writing  fewer  and  fewer  letters.  Some 
them  wondered  what  she  saw  in  Harry 

*2  rl,  a  man  so  much  older  than  she. 

\  Chis  was  not  the  Debbie  they  had  fallen 

:    -ove  with.    This  was  something  else 

-  lin  .  .  .  and  they  weren't  quite  sure  how 

-  y  liked  it. 

r"  ind  all  of  this  came  to  Debbie's  atten- 
~~  n.  This,  she  knew  very  well,  was  the 
finning  of  trouble.  It  is  still  going  on, 
•  jjj  more  and  more  letters  ask,  Why  has 
'.hbie  changed? 

'  t  would  be  futile  to  contend  that  today's 
,  bbie  Reynolds  is  unchanged  from  the 
',iboy  who  starred  for  the  Girls  Athletic 
*>ciation  of  Burbank  High  School.  Deb- 
herself  admits  that  it  is  impossible. 
'  5  observes: 

If  I  haven't  changed  since  I  was  sixteen, 
...  better  see  a  doctor,  I'd  need  some  new 

imin  pills  or  something. 
:  I  believe  I  have  grown  up  in  the  past 
years.  I  don't  believe  I  have  matured 
xoletely.  I  sometimes  wonder  if  people 


ever  really  mature,  even  when  they  grow 
old." 

The  change  in  her  financial  status  is 
immense.  From  a  girl  who  earned  Christ- 
mas money  working  at  J.  C.  Penney's  for 
fifty  cents  an  hour  she  has  become  a  star 
who  can  make  Hollywood's  top  money  deal. 
Recently  her  outstanding  commitments 
were  estimated  to  be  worth  eight  million 
dollars.  This  turns  out  to  be  an  under- 
estimate. Ten  million  would  be  more  real- 
istic. 

Naturally,  someone  with  that  kind  of 
earning  power  is  not  going  to  remain  The 
Girl  Next  Door.  And  yet,  it  is  amazing 
how  little  Debbie  has  changed  in  her  ten 
years  in  the  movies.  This  is  not  sheer 
sentiment;  in  many  ways,  she  is  little  dif- 
ferent from  the  fun-loving  teen-ager  from 
Burbank. 

Debbie  on  the  set 

Life  of  the  party?  Recently,  on  the  set 
of  The  Pleasure  of  His  Company,  she  was 
all  over  the  place,  exchanging  banter  with 
the  script  girl,  make-up  man,  hairdresser, 
sometimes  in  a  Hungarian  accent  a  la  Zsa 
Zsa,  sometimes  in  a  French  accent,  some- 
times in  Japanese.  Her  longest  routine 
came  when  she  learned  George  Seaton 
spent  his  spare  time  learning  German  be- 
cause he  was  next  going  to  direct  Counter- 
feit Traitor  in  Germany. 

"Are  you  a  Cherman  boy?"  she  kept 
asking  him.  This  was  a  routine  of  Tommy 
Noonan,  whose  comedy  act  she  watched 
nightly  for  five  weeks  when  he  was  ap- 
pearing on  the  same  bill  with  Eddie  Fisher 
at  Las  Vegas'  Tropicana.  She  got  Fred 
Astaire  into  the  act,  instructing  him  to 
play  straight  man  in  the  Noonan  routine: 

Debbie:  Are  you  a  Cherman  boy? 

Fred:  No,  I'm  not. 

Debbie:  You  most  be  a  Cherman  boy — 
aren't  you? 

Fred:  No,  I'm  not. 

Debbie:  But  you  most  be.  Say  you're  a 
Cherman  boy — say  it! 

Fred:  All  right!  I'm  a  German  boy. 

Debbie:  Dot's  funny — you  don't  look  like 
a  Cherman  boy. 

Fred  went  away  laughing,  and  Debbie 
went  into  her  dressing  room  to  continue 
her  imitation  of  Noonan.  She  went  through 
his  whole  routine  of  a  television  chef  mak- 
ing a  gourmet  dish  while  testing  all  the 
liqueurs  that  went  into  it.  She  ended  up 
gassed  and  cross-eyed  while  her  listeners 
were  in  stitches. 

Debbie  the  Clown  shifts  into  Debbie  the 
Serious  Talker — with  no  clashing  of  gears — 
when  she  is  asked  if  she  has  changed. 

"Not  really,"  she  begins.  "Not  in  the 
things  that  matter.  My  life  is  pretty  much 
the  same  as  it  was  before  I  was  married. 
I'm  very  happy  this  way.  I  have  time  to 
spend  with  the  people  I  love.  And  I  have 
time  to  devote  to  my  career. 

"If  I  were  married,  I  wouldn't  be  able 
to  have  as  full  a  career  as  I  have  had  in 
this  past  year.  I  didn't  have  a  full  career 
when  I  was  married.  When  you  are  a  wife, 
you  must  devote  yourself  to  your  home 
and  your  husband.  Your  life  centers 
around  him,  and  in  some  businesses  it 
means  a  lot  of  social  life,  too.  You  must 
give  parties  and  go  to  certain  functions 
that  are  important." 

Without  a  husband  to  look  after,  Debbie 
says  her  life  has  settled  down  to  this: 
"Work,  family,  a  few  dates,  my  charity 
work." 

By  "a  few  dates,"  she  means  just  that. 
When  she's  working  in  a  picture,  as  she 
has  almost  steadily  for  a  year,  she  dates 
only  on  Friday  or  Saturday  nights.  She 
won't  go  out  during  the  week  because  it 
would  prevent  her  from  seeing  her  chil- 
dren. Since  she  leaves  for  the  studio  almost 
at  dawn,  her  only  time  to  see  them  is  in 
the  evening. 


"That  time  is  very  important  to  me," 
she  says.  "I  resent  it  when  something  in- 
terferes so  I  can't  get  home  in  time  to  see 
them." 

Debbie's  social  life 

What  about  her  dating?  One  of  her 
steady  beaus  is  millionaire  Harry  Karl,  a 
far  cry  from  the  hot- rodders  she  used  to 
date  in  Burbank. 

"But  you'd  be  surprised  about  Harry,  ' 
she  says.  "He  seems  very  dignified,  and 
he  can  be  dignified.  But  he  has  a  very  sly 
sense  of  humor.  He  can  be  lots  of  fun,  too. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  Harry  and  I  often 
have  the  same  kind  of  dates  I  used  to  have 
in  high  school.  We  go  bowling.  Yes,  I 
mean  it — Harry  and  I  go  bowling!  We 
don't  go  to  the  fancy  places  around  town, 
because  I  don't  like  to  get  all  dressed  up 
when  I  go  out.  In  fact,  the  thing  I  like  to 
do  best  is  go  to  the  movies.  Harry  loves 
them,  and  so  do  I. 

"That's  another  thing  that  hasn't  changed 
about  me.  When  I  was  very  young,  I  went 
to  the  movies  about  once  a  week,  because 
that  was  all  I  could  afford.  But  when  I 
was  sixteen  and  starting  to  earn  my  own 
money,  I  always  went  to  the  movies  at  least 
three  times  a  week.  I'm  still  crazy  about 
the  movies.  I  love  to  go  and  stuff  myself 
with  all  the  popcorn  and  Coke  I  can  hold. 
There's  nothing  I  like  better." 

Another  bowling  partner  of  Debbie's  is 
Leon  Tyler.  In  contrast  to  millionaire  Karl, 
Leon  is  a  part-time  actor  who  also  pumps 
gas  at  his  father's  service  station.  Debbie's 
friendship  with  him  goes  back  to  the  age 
of  thirteen,  when  he  taught  her  to  jitter- 
bug. 

"Leon  is  my  best  boy  friend,"  she  ex- 
plains, contrasting  those  two  words  with 
the  term  boy-friend.  "It  is  strictly  pla- 
tonic,  but  we  have  wonderful  times  to- 
gether. 

"Like  last  week  end.  He  took  me  to  a 
roadhouse  out  in  the  San  Fernando  valley. 
What  a  place!  I  didn't  know  such  places 
existed.  The  people  there  were  really  fly- 
ing and  having  a  ball.  They  had  a  four- 
piece  rock  'n'  roll  combo  of  high  school 
boys,  and  the  juke  box  played  between 
sets;  Leon  and  I  danced  up  a  storm.  I've 
got  to  take  Fred  (Astaire)  out  there  some 
night." 

Another  boy  friend  of  Debbie's  is  Paul 
Lillard.  He  also  goes  'way  back  in  her  life. 

"It  was  during  the  Korean  War,"  she 
recalls.  "My  mother  and  I  would  go 
through  the  fan  mail,  and  we  noticed  a 
certain  boy  who  kept  writing  from  Korea. 
He  was  a  private  in  the  Army  and  he  had 
no  family,  so  we  sort  of  adopted  him. 

"He  really  had  a  fantastic  life  in  the 
service.  He  was  in  one  outfit  that  had 
only  ten  survivors,  another  that  had  only 
four.  Then  he  was  put  in  charge  of  a  group 
of  Greek  soldiers  who  were  absolutely 
fearless.  He  had  a  charmed  life.  He  was 
wounded  twice  and  captured  twice,  but 
he  escaped  both  times.  He  always  says, 
"The  Good  Lord  saved  me  to  hang.' 

"When  I  went  over  to  Korea  with  Walter 
Pidgeon  and  Keenan  Wynn,  the  Army 
took  him  out  of  the  front  lines  so  I  could 
meet  him.  They  gave  him  a  new  uniform 
and  a  shave,  because  he  looked  like  Fidel 
Castro  with  his  beard.  He  and  I  hit  it  off 
great. 

"He  came  to  California  when  I  was  away 
in  Jamaica.  My  folks  took  him  right  in; 
he  moved  into  my  brother's  old  room  and 
became  a  part  of  the  family.  He  stayed 
for  two  months  and  decided  to  settle  in 
Burbank,  where  he  works  for  the  post 
office. 

"He  remains  one  of  my  best  friends — I 
call  him  my  adopted  brother.  He  drops  by 
the  house  occasionally  and  when  I  give  a 
party,  he  acts  as  bartender.  He's  a  char- 
acter— wears  a  Confederate  cap  and  keeps 


It  began  the  day  that  England's  Cliff  Richard  first  heard  a  new  record  called 
Heartbreak  Hotel.  Elvis  Presley  was  more  than  just  an  original  new  singer  to 
Cliff;  he  was  pioneering  the  kind  of  music  that  Cliff  himself  intended  to  make 
his  way  of  life.  And  whenever  Elvis  issued  a  new  disc,  Cliffs  family  knew  it 
wouldn't  leave  their  gramophone  for  weeks. 

By  the  time  rock  V  roll  star  Cliff  Richard  had  become  Britain's  answer  to 
Elvis,  he  prized  every  Presley  disc  ever  issued.  Cliff  didn't  even  mind  the 
criticism  that  he  was  a  complete  imitation  of  the  "King  of  Rock." 

When  El  was  stationed  in  Germany,  Cliff  became  determined  to  meet  his 
only  idol.  But  he  had  been  voted  Britain's  most  promising  new  singing  star, 
and  with  numbers  like  Livin'  Doll  and  Travelin'  Light  topping  the  British  hit 
parade,  he  was  never  left  time  for  vacations  in  Germany  or  anywhere  else. 

So  Cliff  wrote  a  fan  letter:  /  hope  to  visit  Germany  soon,  and  when  1  do, 
could  you  possibly  spare  the  time  to  see  me? 

A  month  later  the  reply  came.  Eagerly  Cliff  studied  the  Bad  Nauheim  post- 
mark and  ripped  the  envelope  open.  It  contained  one  postcard  picture  of  Elvis 
— and  that  was  all. 

My  letter  must,  have  been  handled  with  all  the  usual  fan  mail,  thought  Cliff. 


For  surely  if  Elvis  himself 
of  Cliff  Richard.  He  decided 

Finally  Cliff  got  a  vacation 
course.  But  at  Elvis'  house,  a 
the  door.  "You'll  have  to  see 
if  you  want  to  see  him."  said 
she's  making  appointments 

They  managed  to  get  El's 
that  proved  just  as  fruitless. 
Richard?"  said  a  voice  at 
"So  what  do  you  want — an 

Cliff  left,  disillusioned. 


X 


read  it  he  would  have  heard 
to  forget  all  about  it.  .  .  . 
— and  went  to  Germany,  of 
military  policeman  guarded 
Corporal  Presley's  secretary 
the  soldier.  "But  I  warn  you. 
for  a  month  ahead  at  least." 
phone  number,  but  calling 
"You're  a  singer  called  Cliff 
the  other  end  of  the  line, 
audition?" 

Not  long  after  Cliff  got  .  a 


bid  to  do  a  tour  in  America  with  Frankie  Avalon.  He  was  thrilled — but  worried, 
too.  Maybe  they'd  be  as  unimpressed  with  him  as  they  were  in  Germany. 

A  half  an  hour  before  take-off  a  telegram  arrived  for  him  at  the  airport. 

All  his  worries  disappeared.  The  wire  read: 

DEAR  CLIFF,  I  HOPE  YOU'LL  FORGIVE  OUR  BAD  MANNERS  RE- 
CENTLY. I  UNDERSTAND  YOU  CAME  TO  BAD  NAUHEIM  SPECIALLY 
TO  SEE  ME,  AND  WHEN  YOU  CALLED.  SOMEONE  WHO  SHOULD  HAVE 
KNOWN  A  WHOLE  LOT  BETTER  ACTED  AS  IF  HE'D  NEVER  HEARD 
OF  YOU.  I  CAN  ONLY  APOLOGIZE. 

I'VE  WATCHED  YOUR  PROGRESS  ALL  THE  TIME  AND  HAVE  LIKED 
YOUR  RECORDS  A  LOT.  I  HOPE  WHEN  I  GET  OUT  OF  THE  ARMY  WE 
CAN  GET  TOGETHER  SOMETIME  AND  I  CAN  MAKE  UP  FOR  YOUR 
LAST  VISIT.  MEANWHILE.  HAVE  A  BALL  IN  THE  STATES.  I  KNOW 
THE  AMERICAN  AUDIENCES  WILL  LIKE  YOU  A  LOT. 

YOUR  BOY,  ELVIS 
P.S.  They  did,  too! — and  especially  his  new  film  Expresso  Bongo. 

Elvis'  latest  film  is  Paramount's  G.I.  Blues. 


telling  us  "The  South  will  rise  again.' " 

Debbie's  oldest  and  best  friend  is  Jea 
ette  Johnson.  She's  a  gym  teacher  at  Gle. 
dale  High  School.  They  have  known  et 
other  since  they  were  ten. 

"Jeanette  is  busier  than  I  am,"  says  De 
bie.  "She's  always  sponsoring  dances 
clubs  or  something.  It  has  gotten  to  be 
joke  between  us.  I  call  her  up  and  s; 
'How  about  having  dinner  with  me  t 
night,  or  do  you  have  a  meeting  of  t 
Hi-Y  Tri-Y  Sky-Hi  or  something?'" 

Another  close  friend  is  Camille  Williar. 
whom  she  has  known  since  she  was  thj 
teen .  She  is  also  busy;  as  part  of  D 
Dailey's  dance  troupe  she  is  rehearsing 
traveling  most  of  the  time. 

"All  three  of  us  are  really  close  frien 
even  though  we  sometimes  don't  see  ea 
other  too  often,"  Debbie  explains.  "It  tal 
years  to  make  friends  like  that. 

"With  true  friends,  you  don't  have 
see  each  other  all  the  time.  We  have 
arrange  our  schedules  so  we  can  get  t 
gether.  But  when  we  do,  it's  as  if  we  h 
just  seen  each  other  yesterday.  Recen1 
all  three  of  us  were  together  for  the  fi 
time  in  a  year.  We  didn't  talk  about  wl 
happened  to  us  a  year  ago.  We  said,  'We 
what  did  you  do  yesterday?' " 

Debbie's  best  friend  among  her  fellc 
performers  is  Marge  Champion.  The 
again,  the  friendship  dates  back  to  wh 
they  made  Give  a  Girl  a  Break  for  MG 

"I  didn't  get  to  know  her  very  well  thei 
Debbie  says,  "because  we  were  both  ve 
busy  with  our  careers.  Later,  we  each  h 
a  baby  at  the  same  time  and  we  becai 
fast  friends.  Marge  is  a  wonderful  perse 
so  warm  and  understanding. 

"Now  our  children  are  very  close,  t< 
Gregg  Champion  is  Carrie's  boyfriend,  a 
they  both  admit  it.  He  talks  to  her  on  t 
phone  from  New  York  and  says,  'Can- 
why  don't  you  take  a  plane  and  come  a 
see  me?'  She  answers,  'Why  don't  y 
come  and  see  me?'  " 

Nowadays,  Debbie  could  afford  to  e 
nightly  at  Romanoffs.  But  do  you  kne 
what  she  likes  best?  Mexican  food.  E 
chiladas,  tacos,  fried  beans,  tortillas,  cb 
rellenos,  tamales — the  whole  works. 

"I've  always  loved  Mexican  food  bes 
she  says.  "Another  passion  of  mine  is  bla 
olives.  I'm  mad  about  'em.  When  I 
little  girl,  I  used  to  save  up  my  money 
buy  black  olives  because  we  usual 
couldn't  afford  them." 

She  still  doesn't  smoke  or  drink — "ma 
be  a  little  red  wine  with  dinner.  But  whi 
ky  or  any  hard  liquor — just  the  smell  of 
makes  me  ill." 

Another  item:  she  still  goes  to  Sund 
school  every  Sunday.  Now  she  atten 
with  daughter  Carrie. 

There  they  are:  the  arguments  th 
Debbie  hasn't  changed.  You'll  hear  oth 
testimony  to  the  contrary.  There  are  the 
who  claim  she  has  lost  her  sweetness,  citi 
her  performance  with  Jack  Paar  as  an  e 
ample.  But  Debbie  was  never  really  swe 
in  the  manner  that  Ann  Blyth  is,  thou 
many  writers  tried  to  sentimentalize  De 
bie's  early  romance  with  Eddie. 

Her  cutting  up  with  Paar  was  no  di 
ferent  from  her  riotous  Miss  Burbank  co 
test  imitations  that  began  her  fame. 

Debbie  will  go  on  leading  the  same  li 
the  only  kind  she  has  known. 

"I  don't  think  I've  changed  in  anythL 
that  is  really  important,"  she  says.  "I  li 
the  way  I  do  because  I  like  it  this  way. 
may  seem  dull  to  a  lot  of  people.  But 
isn't  dull  to  me.  I  hope  people  will  unde 
stand.  I  pray  they'll  understand.  Yes,  I' 
changed,  but  not  in  any  way  that's  de> 
and  important  .  .  .  not  one  bit."  El 

Debbie  stars  in  Paramount's  The  Plea 
ure  Of  His  Company;  guests  in  Colur. 
bia's  Pepe. 


May  Britt  and  Sammy 
Davis,  Jr. 

(Continued  from  page  26) 

forthcoming  marriage,  his  London  show 
was  being  picketed  and  May  herself  de- 
nounced. 

What  hasn't  been  printed  is  the  circum- 
stances that  led  up  to  a  relationship 
which  has  become  the  talk  of  the  town. 
That  is  what  we  want  to  do  now: 

The  story  begins  when  May  Britt's  young 
husband,  Eddie  Greggson,  left  her.  She 
was  in  a  country  foreign  to  her,  in  Holly- 
wood, with  no  one  to  help  her  get  over 
the  shock  of  her  broken  marriage.  Her 
once  promising  career  was  now  in  a  state 
of  limbo.  Her  studio  did  not  know  what 
to  do  with  her,  how  to  spot  her  in  the 
right  part. 

Her  life  was  crumbling  before  her. 

Yet  May's  career  had  begun  in  a  most 
promising  fashion.  Following  a  bit  in  War 
and  Peace,  she  won  her  first  good  reviews 
playing  the  sensuous  German  temptress 
in  The  Young  Lions. 

Twentieth  put  her  under  contract  and 
tried  to  ignite  the  same  sort  of  fire  under 
her  that  had  caused  American  audiences 
to  take  Marlene  Dietrich  and  Greta  Garbo 
to  their  hearts. 

She  made  The  Hunters  for  Twentieth, 
but  it  came  off  less  than  effectively  for 
her.  Then  they  gambled  on  May  in  the 
remake  of  Blue  Angel.  The  critics'  com- 
parison of  May  to  Dietrich  (who  played 
the  part  originally)  made  her  come  off 
second  best. 

With  the  poor  results  of  Blue  Angel 
beginning  to  haunt  her,  and  with  no  other 
picture  lined  up  for  her,  she  turned  to  her 
husband  for  the  assurance  that  she  so 
desperately  needed.  .  .  . 

Her  marriage,  too,  had  begun  in  a  most 
promising  way.  She  remembered  the  first 
night  she  had  met  Eddie.  His  father,  a 
friend  of  hers,  had  asked  her  to  drop  by 
the  house,  and  when  Eddie  held  her  hand 
to  welcome  her,  her  heart  did  a  fast  pitter- 
patter. 

Eddie  was  still  in  his  teens,  younger 
than  she  was.  but  May  felt  that  with  him 
she  would  always  know  the  meaning  of 
giving  love  and  accepting  it  warmly  in 
return. 

A  whirlwind  courtship  swept  May  off  her 
feet,  and  she  gave  of  herself  in  accepting 
Eddie  as  she  had  never  dreamed  of  giving 
herself  to  any  man.  But.  Eddie,  the  college 
boy,  was  not  yet  ready  for  the  responsi- 
bilities and  problems  of  marriage.  He  left, 
and  as  the  front  door  to  their  honeymoon 
T  retreat  slammed  shut  on  her,  she  began  to 
doubt  herself  as  a  woman. 
■     Soon  she  was  to  flinch  reading  items  like 
:  this  from  Winchell:  Cara  Williams  is  now 
the  adored  of  Eddie  Greggson.  and  he  has 
asked  May  for  a  quickie  melting  so  that 
he  can  make  Cara  his  next  wife. 
J    May  thought  it  all  out  carefully.  There 
jtaras  nothing  she  could  do  to  win  her 
'  landsome,   dark-haired  Eddie  back,  try 
ifis  she  might. 

May,  her  heart  smashed  to  bits,  took  to 
!  staying  alone  and  seeing  no  one.  She 
.vould  walk  alone  along  the  beach  and 
ft  the  wind  blow  the  misery  from  her 
;or  a  few  peaceful  moments. 

Actor-director  Theodore  Marcuse  said 
)f  May,  during  the  beginning  of  this  trial 
i  period  for  her:  "May  is  a  most  sensitive 
■reature.  She  never  had  that  much  con- 
idence  in  herself  to  begin  with,  and  now. 
he  man  she  believed  in,  and  trusted, 
las  left  her.  No  woman  I  know  feels  more 
lone  than  she  does  right  now." 


The  Opposite  Sex 
and  Ybur  Perspiration 


Q.  Do  you  know  there  are  two 
kinds  of  perspiration? 

A.  It's  true!  One  is  "physical," 
caused  by  work  or  exertion;  the 
other  is  "nervous,"  stimulated  by 
emotional  excitement.  It's  the 
kind  that  comes  in  tender  mo- 
ments with  the  "opposite  sex." 


Q.  How  can  you  overcome  this 
"emotional"  perspiration? 

A.  Science  says  a  deodorant  needs 
a  special  ingredient  specifically 
formulated  to  overcome  this 
emotional  perspiration  without 
irritation.  And  now  it's  here  . . . 
exclusive  Perstop*.  So  effective, 
yet  so  gentle. 


Q.  Which   perspiration   is  the 
worst  offender? 

A.  The  "emotional"  kind.  Doc- 
tors say  it's  the  big  offender  in 
underarm  stains  and  odor.  This 
perspiration  comes  from  bigger, 
more  powerful  glands  — and  it 
causes  the  most  offensive  odor. 


Q.  Why  is  arrid  cream  America's 
most  effective  deodorant? 

A.  Because  of  Perstop*,  the  most 
remarkable  anti-perspirant  ever 
developed,  ARRID  CREAM  Deo- 
dorant safely  stops  perspiration 
stains  and  odor  without  irrita- 
tion to  normal  skin.  Saves  your 
pretty  dresses  from  "Dress  Rot." 


Why  be  only  Half  Safe  ? 
use  Arrid  to  be  sure .' 


It's  more  effective  than  any  cream,  twice  as 
effective  as  any  roll-on  or  spray  tested!  Used 
daily,  new  antiseptic  ARRID  with  Perstop*  actually 
stops  underarm  dress  stains,  stops  "Dress  Rot;'  stops 
perspiration  odor  completely  for  24  hours.  Get 
ARRID  CREAM  Deodorant  today. 


Trademark  for  sulfonated 


surfactants 


494 

plus  tax. 


SPENCER 

TRACY: 

states9 
rights 


The  young  man  looked  furtively  up  and  down  the  street,  hurried  along  until 
he  came  to  a  building  with  the  flag  of  the  State  of  California,  then  scurried 
through  the  open  door.  Inside,  he  drew  a  breath  of  relief  and  muttered.  "I'd 
sure  hate  to  have  him  see  me  here." 

He  got  out  a  bunch  of  papers  and  took  his  place  in  the  long  line.  As  he 
waited,  he  thought  over  the  incredible  events  of  the  evening  before.  He'd 
gotten  a  phone  call  from  his  idol  Spencer  Tracy!  The  boy's  aunt  was  an  old 
friend  of  Mr.  Tracy's  but  he  was  much  too  proud  to  "use"  anyone,  much  too 
proud  to  trade  on  family  pull  to  meet  anyone. 

It  even  hurt  his  pride  to  be  standing  here,  in  the  Unemployment  Compensa- 
tion line,  but  his  last  film — his  only  film,  to  be  truthful,  though  he'd  had  a 
small  but  good  role — had  ended  months  ago  and  he  hadn't  been  able  to  find 
anything  else  since. 

He'd  been  seriously  thinking  about  quitting;  he  could  hardly  call  himself 
an  actor  after  one  job.  If  he  didn't  get  something  by  the  time  his  Unemploy- 
ment checks  ran  out,  he'd  admit  defeat  and  go  back  home.  .  .  . 

And  now  to  think  that  Mr.  Tracy  had  phoned  him,  had  told  him  he'd 
"shown  a  great  deal  of  promise  in  your  last  film"  (what  a  kind  way  to  put  it!  ) 
and  said  he  had  to  be  downtown  the  next  day  on  some  "very  important  busi- 
ness" and  suggested  lunch.  The  restaurant,  the  boy  knew,  was  very  near  the 
Unemployment  Office.  So  he'd  have  to  be  very  careful  not  to  let  Mr.  Tracy 
see  him. 

His  business  completed,  he  turned  from  the  window  and  hurried  away.  He 
thought  for  a  moment  that  he  heard  someone  calling  after  him.  calling  his 
first  name.  But  it  was  probably  another  unemployed  actor,  and  he  had  no 
time  for  that  today.  .  .  . 

The  boy  entered  the  restaurant,  safely  unseen  as  far  as  he  could  tell,  and 
sat  down  to  wait.  Quite  some  time  later  Spencer  Tracy  arrived  and  said,  "Sorry 
to  keep  you  waiting.  Son.  I  got  held  up  at  the  Unemployment  Office." 

'* — the  where?" 

"Got  held  up  signing  for  my  next  check  at  the  Unemployment  Office." 
Spencer  Tracy  repeated.  "Matter  of  fact.  I  thought  I  saw  you  there  too.  You 
know  it's  quite  a  meeting  place!  Young  man  looked  like  you  but  he  rushed 
on  out,  so  I  guess  it  wasn't."  He  added  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "If  you 
haven't  already  signed  up  for  it.  you  really  should.  We  pay  taxes  for  it.  you 
know.  It's  our  right  and  our  privilege.  I  believe  that  every  actor  should 
preserve  his  franchise — never  can  be  sure  there  won't  be  a  long  siege  of  bad 
times." 

And  with  that,  the  two  actors  sat  down  to  order  lunch. 
Spencer  Tracy  stars  in  Inherit  The  Wind,  for  United  Artists. 


Producer  George  England  became  a 
friend.  But,  with  his  marital  status  still 
in  doubt  with  his  actress  wife  Cloris 
Leachman,  May  chose  not  to  be  the  one 
to  break  up  a  marriage  and  leave  Cloris 
as  unhappy  as  she  was. 

George  England  still  speaks  highly  of 
May.  "She  deserves  so  much.  I  wish  her 
happiness  in  her  search  for  it." 

Then,  Sammy  came  on  the  scene.  He 
seemed  to  understand  the  great  strain  she 
was  under.  And  he  offered  to  help  her.  For 
a  while,  May  relegated  all  her  insecurities 
and  fears  to  the  decisions  Sammy  seemed 
to  have  for  each  problem. 

Sammy's    reputation    scarcely  recom- 
mended him  for  the  role  of  father-confes- 
sor or  decision  maker.    His  whispered- 
about  romance  with  Kim  Novak  had  put  r 
heavy  pressure  on  him  to  stay  clear  of  : 
Kim.   Sammy   protested   that  theirs  was  ic 
only  a  friendship,  but  rumor  had  the  late 
Harry  Cohn,  the  head  of  Columbia  Pictures 
at  that  time,  just  about  ready  to  kill  Sam- 
my   should    be    persist    in    courting  the 
studio's  $20,000,000  investment. 

Shortly    after    that    rumor    came  out, 
Sammy  married  dancer  Loray  Scott.  It 
was  reported  that  their  courtship  lasted  a  I 
lengthy  six  davs. 

Divorce  quickly  followed  for  Sammy,  as 
Kim  hiked  herself  off  to  Europe  and  dated  V 
such   international  charmers  as  the  late 
Aly  Khan  and  Count  Mario  Bandini. 

Sammy  was  good  for  May,  in  the  be- 
ginning.   With  the  perpetual  energy  of 
a  hurricane,  he  left  her  little  room  for 1 
brooding,  by  keeping  her  as  busy  as  pos- 
sible. After  a  while,  however,  she  began 't- 
to  sense  his  personal  magnetism  was  be- ^ 
ginning  to  creep  under  her  skin. 

With  each  step  they  took,  her  feelings  , 
changed.  She  had  taken  his  compassion 
and  understanding  and  turned  it  into 
something  that  was  beginning  to  frighten 
her.  She  had  begun  to  fall  in  love. 

They  tried  to  fight  the  feeling  that  was 
overpowering  them  with  each  passing 
moment.  And  May  tried  desperately  tc 
keep  her  heart  from  the  world's  gaze. 

She  even  tried  to  break  with  Sammy 
She  was  about  to  tell  him  that  they  coulc 
no  longer  see  each  other,  even  though  ii 
would  hurt  her  to  have  him  gone  frorr 
her  life.  But  May  could  not  end  then 
friendship.  Dangerous  though  it  was  tc 
both  of  them,  it  had  lasted  too  long  anc 
meant  too  much  to  die  easily. 

Then  in  London,  Sammy  startled  the 
world  with  his  announcement  that,  aftei 
May's  divorce  became  final  September  28 
he  and  May  would  marry  and  raise  a  larg( 
family.  He  admitted  that  the  marriag( 
might  affect  their  careers.  "But  I'm  read} 
to  take  the  risk,"  May  said  staunchly.  "I 
my  career  is  so  flimsily  put  together, : 
Sammy  insisted,  "that  my  marriage  ma; 
ruin  it,  then  my  career  isn't  worth  much.  1 

Less  than  forty-eight  hours  after,  th 
first  ugly  insults  began.  Pickets  threatens 
to  boycott  Sammy's  show,  demonstrator 
carried  signs  vilely  attacking  May. 

May  has  no  Harry  Cohn,  as  Kim  Novai 
did,  to  save  her  career.  She  does  not  hav 
the  millions  of  fans  to  rise  to  her  defense 

But  she  is  going  through  this  difficul 
time  with  courage,  supported  and  strength 
ened  by  the  love  of  the  man  she  love: 
She  is  "aware  that  this  marriage  is 
crisis  in  my  life."  And  she  knows  thf 
Sammy  "needs  loving  as  much  as  I  d( 
Lots  of  it,  and  lots  of  children." 

As  for  trouble,  well,  she  expects  it.  "' 
my  film  career  will  suffer  in  the  States, 
will  make  films  on  the  continent." 

We  hope  it  won't  have  to  come  to  thi 
We  hope  May's  career  is  not  destroyed  be 
cause  of  her  romance.  EN 

May  stars  in  20th-Fox's  Murder.  In< 
and  Sammy  in  Warners'  Ocean's  11. 


Ava  Gardner's  Lost  Baby 


(Continued  from  page  44) 

;gay  with,  up  till  now.  Except  that  now 
the  mood  had  overtaken  her  suddenly,  the 
sullen  mood,  the  had-it  mood.  And  so 
she'd  dropped  the  gaiety,  gulped  her  wine 
and  gotten  up  from  the  table. 

She  walked  across  the  room,  to  a  phono- 
graph, and  she  put  on  a  record. 

She  listened  for  a  moment,  to  the  voice 
on  the  record. 

It  sang  something  about  nightingales 
singing,  singing  sweet. 

"Si-na-tra?"  called  out  the  man  at  the 
table,  teasingly. 

"That's  right,"  said  Ava.  "Sinatra.  And 
me,"  she  added,  shrugging,  as  if  for  no 
particular  reason,  "I'm  the  ex-Mrs.  Sina- 
tra." She  laughed.  "Amen." 

The  man  at  the  table  laughed,  too.  "Sei 
ibriaga,"  he  said.   "You  are  drunk." 
I.   "Am  I?"  Ava  asked,  shrugging  again. 
h  The  man  got  up  from  the  table  and 
I  started  walking  towards  her. 
f    But  Ava  barely  saw  him  coming. 
;  She  was  listening  to  the  voice  on  the 
;-ecord,  as  it  sang  something  now  about  a 
I  andman  bringing  dreams  of  you. 
ii  The  man  began  to  put  his  arms  around 

*  "Dance  with  me,"  he  said,  not  asking. 
|   Ava  drew  herself  back.  "No,"  she  said. 
I  The  man  tried  again. 
I  "Don't  you  touch  me,"  Ava  said.  "Not 
•When  he's  singing." 

J-  She  closed  her  eyes.    The  voice  was 

Ringing  something  about  a  new  kind  of 

hive  you  bu-rought  to  me. 

!  The  man  tried  once  more. 

4  "Stop  it  .  .  .  beat  it,"  Ava  said,  snapping 

Xer  eyes  open. 

1  She  tried  to  get  away  from  him,  but  the 

1'ian  had  his  arms  around  her  waist  now, 

|  ght,  and  he  wouldn't  let  go. 

4i  Ava  began  to  struggle. 

T,  "Beat  it,"  she  said.  "Let  go  of  me  and 

J:eat  it." 

1  The  man  wouldn't. 

|,  'We  dance,"  he  said,  whispering,  pushing 
\  [s  weight  against  hers,  bringing  his  mouth 
I  p  to  her  ears. 

i|  Suddenly,  Ava  bent  her  head  and  bit  at 
%.s  arm,  hard,  savagely. 
|j  The  man  cried  out.  Stunned,  he  took  a 
|  ep  back.   Then,  with  all  his  might,  he 
[  apped  her. 

ilr'  The  lady  gets  old,"  he  said,  "with  the 
Jjg  bags  under  the  eyes.   And  the  older 

ike  gets,  the  meaner  she  gets,  eh?" 
3  Ava,  furious  now,  hysterical  now,  began 
\  shriek.  "Beat  it,  you  jaded  louse,"  she 
id.  "Beat  it  before  I  call  the  cops." 
.  She  turned  and  ran  to  a  fireplace  a  few 
Xet  away.   She  picked  up  a  vase,  small, 
Xagile,  pink-tinted,  a  smiling  cherub  danc- 
%g  lightly  over  the  belly  of  the  vase. 
4-She  aimed  it  at  the  man. 
.i  She  threw  it  at  him. 
jXIt  missed  his  head  by  inches. 
I  Beat  it,"  she  shrieked  once  more. 
JAnd  then,  as  he  turned  and  left,  she 
J  gan  to  sob. 

lot  do  they  want  from  me? 

'Why  don't  they  leave  me  alone — these 
onies?"  she  asked,  turning  to  the  table 
d  to  the  chair  where  her  girlfriend  had 
through  all  this,  quietly,  nervously, 
'hy?" 

She  brought  her  hands  up  to  her  face. 
'What  do  they  want  from  me  anyway — 
;se  creeps?"  she  asked. 
She  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
5he  stood  there  listening  to  the  voice  on 
record,  still  singing,  singing  now  about 
;iv  he  was  the  slave,  his  girl  the  queen. 
She  began  to  dig  her  fingernails  into 
-  face. 


"And  what  did  he  want  from  me?"  she 
asked. 

Her  sobbing  returned  now,  and  grew 
louder,  more  convulsive,  more  hysteri- 
cal. "What,"  she  asked,  beginning  to 
scream,  "what  .  .  .  what  .  .  .  what  .  .  . 
wwwhhhhaaaaatttttt?" 

Her  friend  jumped  up  from  her  chair. 

She  rushed  over  to  Ava. 

"Stop  it,  honey,"  she  said.  "Cut  it  out." 

Ava  didn't. 

"Stop  it,"  her  friend  said,  bringing  up 
her  hand  and  striking  it  across  her  face. 
Ava  stopped. 

And  as  she  did,  she  grabbed  her  friend's 
hand  and  held  it,  tightly,  viciously,  furi- 
ously. 

For  a  second,  neither  of  them  said  any- 
thing. 

And  then,  very  softly,  Ava  spoke. 

"Don't  give  me  this,"  she  said.  "I've  had 
all  this  before  .  .  .  the  slapping  .  .  .  the 
treatment." 

She  let  go  of  the  woman's  hand. 

And  then,  as  softly,  she  said,  "I'm  sorry." 

And  she  turned  and  walked  across  the 
room  once  more,  to  the  terrace  and  to  a 
chaise  there  and  sat  back  on  it — and  she 
closed  her  eyes  to  the  beautiful  and  ex- 
pensive view  of  night-time  Rome  below 
her. 

To  kill  the  boredom 

It  was  about  an  hour  later,  a  little  after 
midnight.  They  both  sat  on  the  terrace 
now,  Ava  and  her  friend,  Ava  smoking  and 
holding  a  drink — and  talking,  the  friend 
letting  her  talk. 

"I  don't  know  about  Europe  anymore — 
Spain,  now  Italy,"  Ava  was  saying.  "I  was 
so  bored  in  Hollywood  .  .  .  Hollywood," 
she  said  it  again,  hollowly.  "Hollywood. 
...  Do  you  know  that  there  were  days 
there  when  the  most  exciting  thing  to  do 
was  to  get  up  in  the  morning  and  pick  up 
the  papers  and  read  all  the  columns?  Can 
you  imagine  that?    Can  you  believe  it?" 

"No,"  her  friend  said. 

"Hollywood,"  Ava  said  again.  Then:  "So 
I  came  here  to  Europe,  to  mad  gay  Europe. 
And  now  after  six,  seven  years  I'm  bored 
here  too. 

"The  other  day,"  she  went  on,  "before 
you  came,  I  was  so  damn  bored,  you  know 
what  I  did?  I  went  to  the  beauty  parlor 
and  said,  'Dye  my  hair  blonde.'  Just  for 
the  hell  of  it.  'I  want  to  be  a  bionda'  I 
said.  .  .  .  Oh  boy,  did  I  look  like  something 
when  they  got  through  with  me.  I  had  it 
dyed  back  the  next  day  and  the  boy  in 
the  beauty  parlor  sighed  gratefully.  'You 
must  never  do  that  again,  Miss  Gardner,' 
he  said.  And  he  was  right,  too.  Because  I 
won't.  Because  it  doesn't  help  the  boredom, 
being  blonde.  Not  one  bit." 

She  took  a  drag  from  her  cigarette,  then 
a  sip  from  her  glass. 

"I  fought  a  bull  once  to  kill  the  bore- 
dom," she  said  then.  "And  what  happens? 
The  bull  nearly  kills  me. 

"I  bought  a  dog  once,"  she  said.  "Corgi. 
Do  you  remember  Corgi?" 

"Yes,"  said  her  friend. 

"The  sweetest  pooch  in  the  world,"  Ava 
said,  "with  the  most  beautiful,  the  most 
loving  eyes  in  the  world."  She  stopped  for 
a  moment.  "A  few  months  ago,"  she  said 
then,  "this  man — I  call  him  a  man;  ha,  I 
call  him  a  man — he  was  here.  He  began 
to  fight  with  me.  I  forget  what  started  it. 
Who  ever  remembers  what  starts  those 
things?  And  he  began  to  curse  and  shout. 
And  at  one  point  he  picked  up  that  little 
dog  and  he  began  to  thrash  him.  And  he 
thrashed  him  so  hard  that  his  eye  fell 
out — " 


SANITARY  BRIEF 

Knit  for  flawless  fit  with  pitiless 
"stay-put  power"  and  waterproof 
panel  for  ultimate  protection. 
White  all  combed  cotton  with 
nylon  reinforced  leg  bands.  $1.50. 


Time  after  time  Gregory  Peck's 
been  asked  about  his  personal 
life,  and  about  his  feelings  for  his 
fellow  man,  and  he  remains 
tight-lipped  and  taciturn. 

Still,  a  man's  character  can't 
help  but  be  revealed  to  the 
friends  he  makes.  And  when 
Greg  was  filming  Carl  Foreman's 
The  Guns  of  Navarone  on  the 
poverty  -  stricken  island  of 
Rhodes,  off  the  mainland  of 
Greece  in  the  Aegean  Sea,  he 
made  some  firm  friends. 

Every  lunch  hour,  it  seems, 
Greg  would  disappear.  News 
reporters  would  search  for  him 
in  vain  for  interviews.  But  Greg 
was  not  to  be  found.  Promptly  at 
twelve  o'clock  noon  he  mysteri- 
ously vanished.  Where? 

To  a  rundown  orphanage  for 
homeless  Greek  boys  on  a  hill- 
top near  the  location.  Greg  went 
there  every  day  to  share  a 
peasant's  lunch  of  goat  cheese, 
bread  and  olives  with  the  boys 
at  their  bare  wooden  tables.  And, 
after  lunch,  Greg  played  touch 
football  with  them. 

When  he  chose  to  disclose  his 
noontime  rendezvous,  it  was  only 
to  enlist  the  film  company's  help 
before  they  departed  from 
Rhodes  for  London.  Greg  passed 
the  hat  for  donations  for  the 
destitute  orphanage,  and  by  the 
end  of  the  afternoon  Greg  had 
collected  close  to  a  thousand 
dollars  for  his  football  buddies, 
the  poor  orphan  boys  of  Rhodes. 


60 


She  stopped  again,  in  a  dismal  silence. 

She  brought  her  glass  up  to  her  lips  and 
drank  down  what  was  left  of  the  drink. 

"It's  a  funny  thing  about  me,"  she  said, 
half-smiling,  "but  I  just  can't  seem  to  keep 
anything.  I  mean  keep.  Three  husbands, 
one  dog,  a  head  of  blonde  hair,  two  minutes 
of  excitement  with  a  bull.  .  .  .  Nothing.  .  .  . 
I  just  can't  keep  things." 

She  put  out  her  cigarette  and  then  she 
reached  for  a  bottle  which  sat  alongside 
the  chaise  and  she  poured  herself  another 
drink. 

"Sometimes — "  her  friend  started  to  say, 
as  she  did. 

"Sometimes  what?"  Ava  asked. 

"Sometimes,"  her  friend  said,  "to  keep 
something,  you  have  to  want  it  very  much." 

"I've  wanted,"  Ava  said.  "Don't  kid 
yourself  about  that." 

"But  I  mean,  Ava,"  said  her  friend, 
" — what  do  you  want  now,  out  of  life  .  .  . 
very,  very  much?" 

"Things  I  should  have  bad  by  now,"  said 
Ava,  without  pausing  to  think  twice  about 
it.  "An  education,  for  one  thing.  If  I 
could  be  born  all  over  again  and  I  could 
have  my  pickin's  from  the  beginning  I'd 
say,  'Mr.  Stork-man,  that's  one  thing 
you've  got  to  guarantee  me.  High  school, 
good  high  school,  and  college  and  all  that 
there  stuff.  So's  people  don't  think  they're 
all  the  time  smarter  than  me.  So  that 
nobody  can  ever  pull  anything  over  on 
me — or  think  they're  doing  that.'  " 

"And  what  else,  besides  an  education?" 
asked  her  friend. 

"A  baby,  of  course,"  said  Ava,  simply. 
"That,  I  can  tell  you,  would  be  first  choice 
on  my  list." 

"You  can  still  have  a  baby,"  said  the 
friend. 

"Yeah?"  Ava  asked.  "How?" 

"You  get  married  again  someday,"  her 
friend  started  to  say,  "and — " 

"No,  huh-uh,"  Ava  said,  interrupting. 
"Three  flop  marriages  are  enough  for  me. 
If  I  got  married  again  and  something  went 
wrong,  I  think — I  think  I'd  kill  myself  right 
there  on  the  spot." 

"You  could  adopt  a  baby,  then,"  said 
her  friend. 

"Me?"  Ava  asked.  "At  my  age — thirty- 
seven — start  taking  care  of  a  baby?  Alone? 
.  .  .  And  give  up  my  wild  and  wonderful 
life?" 

"You  could  adopt  one,  you  know,"  said 
the  friend. 

Heart's  desire 

Ava  threw  back  her  head  and  began  to 
laugh.  But  the  laughter  did  not  last  long. 
Because  soon,  suddenly,  seriously,  she  was 
saying:  "I'd  pick  a  girl,  a  little  girl.  And 
no  matter  what  her  name  was  I'd  change 
it  and  I'd  call  her  Lisa.  That's  the  name 
I  used  to  think  I'd  call  my  own  little  girl 
when  I  thought  I  would  have  one.  Those 
nights  I  used  to  lie  in  bed  after  I  was 
married,  the  first  time,  the  second  time, 
the  third  time,  and  think  about  the  day 
I'd  find  out  I  was  pregnant,  the  day  I'd 
give  birth,  the  moment  I'd  hold  my  baby 
in  my  arms  that  first  time  and  look  at  her 
and  say  to  her,  'Honey  child,  your  name, 
in  case  you  don't  know  it,  is — ' " 

She  stopped  and  looked  over  at  her 
friend  again. 

"Could  you  see  me  as  a  mother?"  she 
asked,  half-smiling  again. 

"Yes,"  said  the  friend. 

"This  whirlpool,  this  life,"  Ava  asked, 
the  smile  beginning  to  fade,  "do  you  think 
I  still  have  time  to  get  out  of  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  friend. 

Ava  looked  down  into  her  glass,  at  what 
was  left  of  her  drink. 

She  was  silent  for  a  while. 

And  then,  she  said,  "I'd  insist  on  that, 
though,  if  I  ever  went  to  adopt  a  child, 
even  thought  of  adopting  one.  Not  that  I 


would  think  of  it.  .  .  .  It  would  have  to  be 
a  little  girl,  I'd  say.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  the  tall  old  nun  said  to  Ava  that 
morning,  a  few  days  later,  "in  a  few  min- 
utes you  will  see  her,  the  child  we  have 
selected  for  your  consideration.  But  be- 
fore you  do  see  her,  before  you  decide 
definitely,  you  must  know  this,  my  dear 
lady.  The  rearing  of  a  child  is  a  tremen- 
dous responsibility.  Especially  with  these 
children,  here  at  our  orphanage,  who  from 
the  beginnings  of  their  young  lives  have 
only  known  the  sadness  of  things,  the 
heartbreak,  the  aloneness.  So  that  those 
who  adopt  them  must  pledge  to  God  and 
to  their  own  hearts  that  they  will  offer 
care,  and  love,  and  time,  and  attention. 

Only  these — the  good,  the  clean,  the  lov- 
ing, my  dear  lady,  to  make  up  for  all  the 
bad,  the  dirty  bad  things,  these  children  of 
ours  have  known.  .  .  ." 

A  baby  for  Ava 

Ava  thought  they  would  never  end. 
those  long  long  minutes  she  sat  waiting 
for  the  nun  to  return  with  the  child. 

She  breathed  hard  when  finally,  she 
heard  the  door  open,  when  she  turned  and 
saw  the  little  girl  standing  there. 

The  girl,  she  saw,  immediately,  was  a 
beautiful  child,  a  tiny  child,  no  more  than 
three  years  old,  brown-haired,  fair- 
skinned,  with  great  big  eyes,  a  little  nose, 
a  little  mouth,  the  mouth  half-covered  by 
a  little  yellow  flower  she  was  holding.  The 
girl,  Ava  saw  too,  looked  confused,  and 
frightened,  from  the  moment  she'd  stepped 
into  the  room,  to  this  moment,  now,  as  the 
nun  who'd  brought  her  bent  and  whis- 
pered something  about  la  etichetta,  the 
politeness,  and  then  stepped  back  outside 
the  door  and  disappeared. 

Alone  with  the  child,  Ava  rose.  She 
walked  towards  her. 

"Isn't  that  a  pretty  flower,"  she  said,  in 
broken  Italian.  "Is  that  for  me,  maybe?' 

The  little  girl  nodded  and  handed  Ava 
the  flower. 

"How  beautiful,"  Ava  said,  " — and  how 
sweet  it  smells."  She  got  down  on  her 
knees.  "Now,"  she  said,  smiling,  "I've  go1 
something  for  you." 

She  opened  her  purse  and  took  out  s 
small  package.  "This  is  for  you,"  she  said 
giving  it  to  the  girl. 

The  girl  took  the  package  and  stared 
down  at  it. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  open  it?"  Ava: 
asked,  after  a  moment.   "It's  a  present." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  Ava. 

"Don't  you  know  what  a  present  is?' 
Ava  asked. 

The  little  girl  shook  her  head. 

"A  present,"  Ava  said,  " — it's  wher 
people  like  each  other,  they  give  each 
other  something  to  show  their  friendship 
That's  a  present.  Like  this  flower  you 
gave  to  me.  Like  this  package  I  give  tc 
you." 

The  little  girl  didn't  seem  to  understand 
"You  know,"  Ava  said,  changing  the 
subject,  "this  is  very  interesting — but  you 
do  you  know  that  you  look  just  like  I  die 
when  I  was  a  little  girl?  Really.  At  home 
I  have  some  pictures.  Snapshots.  Fron 
way  way  back.  From  a  place  in  Americs 
called  North  Carolina.  And  when  we  ge 
home  someday,  I'll  show  them  to  you.  Anc 
you'll  see."  Again  she  smiled.  "Of  course, 
she  said,  "you'll  see,  too,  that  I  wasn't  a 
pretty  as  you  are,  but — " 

She  began  to  reach  for  the  little  girl' 
hand. 

The  girl  clenched  her  fist. 

" — But,"  Ava  went  on,  pretending  no 
to  notice,  bringing  her  own  hand  back  b  i 
her  side,  "I've  got  to  say,  from  what  I  hea 
from  my  family,  that  I  was  a  lot  mon 
talkative  than  you  are,  when  I  was  you 
age.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  I  used  to  like  to  talk 
they  say.  Even  worse  than  a  toy  duck 


used  to  have,  a  little  cheap  thing  that 
used  to  go  quack-quack  quack-quack 
when  you'd  wind  it.  Except,  they'd  say, 
that  fortunately  the  duck  would  get  un- 
wound once  in  a  while  and  quiet  down. 
While  I,  I'd  just  keep  on  chattering  away. 
Worse  than  any  toy  duck,  or  any  other 
child,  in  fact." 

This  silly  lady 

She  took  a  breath  and  looked  at  the 
little  girl,  who  continued  staring  up  at  her. 

"Don't  you  like  to  talk?"  Ava  asked 
then,  softly. 

The  girl  said  nothing. 

"Don't  you  like  to  talk  to  me?"  Ava 
asked. 

Still,  the  girl  said  nothing. 

"Don't  you  like  me?"  Ava  asked,  almost 
pleading  for  an  answer,  " — this  silly  lady 
who  comes  from  out  of  nowhere  one  day 
and  says  all  the  wrong  things  to  you?  But 
who  likes  you  so  much.  .  .  .  Don't  you 
like  me?" 

But  the  little  girl  seemed  suddenly  dis- 
tracted. She  turned  and  faced  the  door. 
She  was  listening  to  something  else  now, 
to  a  light  tramping  noise  that  came  from 
down  the  hall  somewhere. 

"Are  those  the  other  children,  your 
friends?"  Ava  asked. 

"Yes,"  the  little  girl  said,  speaking 
finally,  whispering. 

"And  do  you  want  to  be  with  them?" 
Ava  asked. 

"Yes,"  the  little  girl  said  again. 

With  that,  she  dropped  the  package  Ava 
had  given  her  and  she  began  to  run  to- 
wards the  door. 

She'd  practically  reached  it  when  she 
fell,  feD  hard,  and  began  to  cry. 

Ava  rushed  over  to  her. 

"Sweetheart,"  she  called  out,  "are  you 
all  right?" 

She  reached  to  pick  up  the  little  girl, 
but  the  girl  resisted. 

"No,"  she  shouted,  "I  want  to  go  out- 
side, away.  I  want  to  go." 

But  Ava,  knowing  that  she  was  hurt, 
seeing  the  deep  scrape  marks  on  her  arms, 
paid  her  no  mind. 

She  picked  her  up,  anyway. 

And  she  carried  her  over  to  a  chair, 
and  sat. 

And  she  held  the  sobbing  child  close  to 
her,  rocking  her,  kissing  her,  saying  softly 
to  her,  "It  will  go  away,  the  hurt —  Soon 
you  won't  feel  it."  Rocking  her  some 
more.  Kissing  her  some  more. 

Until,  gradually,  the  girl's  crying  less- 
ened and  lessened.  And  until,  finally,  at 
one  point,  after  she'd  stopped  crying  alto- 
gether, she  lifted  her  little  arms  and  took 
Ava's  hand  with  both  her  own  hands  and 
clasped  it,  while  with  her  mouth  and  with 
her  eyes  she  began  to  smile  a  little. 

"Some  day,"  Ava  asked,  "soon,  would 
you  like  me  to  come  and  see  you  again?" 

The  little  girl  nodded. 

"I  will  come  someday  soon,"  Ava  said. 
"The  day  after  tomorrow,  the  day  after 
ibat — no  later. 

"And  then,"  she  said,  "in  about  two 
weeks  maybe,  if  everything  is  all  right,  I 
will  come  one  fine  day  and  when  I  leave, 
you'll  be  leaving  with  me.  And  after  that, 
forever  after  that,  we'll  be  together,  you 
and  me." 

She  bent  her  head  and  kissed  the  child 
once  more. 

"Just  you  and  me,"  she  said. 

It  didn't  occur  to  Ava  at  the  time  that 
she  had  spoken  those  last  few  sentences 
in  English,  rather  than  in  Italian. 

That  the  child  hadn't  understood  these 
last  few  sentences,  their  meaning. 

And  that,  perhaps,  strangely,  it  was 
better  that  way.  .  .  . 

The  American,  a  playboy,  an  old  friend, 
phoned  Ava  that  next  night.  He  asked  her 
to  go  out  with  him — "Come  on,"  he  said, 


"a  big  night  on  the  town."  Ava  could 
have  said  no.  She  did  hesitate  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two.  But  she  ended  up  by  saying 
yes. 

That  was  the  way  it  always  was  with 
Ava. 

That  was  the  way  this  night  began. 

It  was  one  of  those  whirlpool  nights, 
when  things  get  rougher,  tougher,  crazier, 
more  senseless  as  the  hours  progress. 

Ava  had  had  them  before. 

But  this  was  the  worst. 

She  and  her  friend  began  by  having 
cocktails  at  her  apartment — a  rye-and- 
brandy  concoction;  a  little  too  strong,  a 
few  too  many. 

They  left  the  apartment  at  about  ten 
o'clock. 

Just  before  they  got  to  the  restaurant 
where  they  were  to  have  dinner,  Ava  and 
her  date  noticed  a  young  news  photog- 
rapher following  them  on  a  motorcycle. 

"You  like  this  kind  of  stuff?"  asked  the 
date. 

"No,"  said  Ava. 

The  date  stopped  his  car,  got  out  and 
flagged  down  the  photographer.  When 
the  photographer  had  stopped,  Ava's  date 
grabbed  him,  grabbed  his  camera  and 
smashed  the  camera  against  his  head. 

Dinner,  which  followed,  was  relatively 
quiet — lots  of  food,  lots  of  wine. 

But  after  dinner,  things  started  moving 
again. 

First,  Ava  and  her  date  went  to  the  Bat 
Club,  a  swank  nightspot  not  far  from  the 
Coliseum.  Here  they  drank  champagne. 
And  they  danced.  Here,  too,  after  a  while, 
while  they  were  dancing,  a  stranger  tried 
to  cut  in  on  them. 

"Scat,"  said  Ava. 

"You  insult  one  of  your  admirers?" 
asked  the  stranger. 

"You  heard  the  lady,"  said  Ava's  escort. 

The  stranger  smiled.  "This  is  a  lady?" 
he  asked. 

Whereupon  Ava's  date  slugged  him  and 
he  slugged  back  and  a  general  free-for-all 
began,  with  the  place  in  an  uproar  and 
Ava  and  her  escort  getting  away  only 
minutes  before  the  police  arrived. 

From  the  Bat  Club  they  went  to  another 
place,  where  they  skipped  the  dancing, 
and  only  drank. 

Then  they  went  to  another  place — with 
more  to  drink. 

And  another. 

And  another. 

Finally,  at  five  that  morning,  they  were 
entering  a  private  all-night  club  when 
Ava,  stumbling  a  bit,  spotted  another  pho- 
tographer standing  near  the  bar,  about  to 
take  her  picture. 

"Stop  that,"  she  shouted.  "Leave  me 
alone  with  that  damn  thing." 

The  photographer  ignored  her. 

A  flashbulb  popped. 

"I  said  stop,"  Ava  screamed,  picking  up 
a  dish  from  a  table  she  was  standing 
alongside,  and  flinging  it;  then  a  glass, 
and  another  dish,  and  another  glass. 

This  was  the  worst 

It  was  one  of  those  whirlpool  nights,  all 
right,  when  things  get  rougher,  tougher, 
crazier,  more  senseless  as  the  hours  pro- 
gress. 

Ava  had  had  them  before. 

But  this  was  the  worst. 

She  got  back  to  her  apartment  at  about 
six  o'clock  that  morning. 

She  went  straight  to  her  bedroom. 

She  kicked  off  her  shoes  and  was  about 
to  struggle  with  the  buttons  on  her  dress 
when  the  telephone  rang. 

She  let  it  ring  a  few  times,  thinking  at 
first  that  she  wouldn't  bother  answering. 

But  then  when  she  couldn't  stand  the 
sound  of  that  bell,  knifing  its  way  into  her 
head  that  way,  into  her  brain,  she  jerked 
the  receiver  up  from  its  hook  and  she 


CHAFE  GUARD 

Ingeniously  keeps  skin  safe  from 
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Laurence  Harvey  had  waited  for  that 
morning  in  1952  for  so  long.  At  last  he'd 
been  accepted  by  the  famous  Shakespeare 
Memorial  Theater  Company  at  Stratford- 
on-Avon.  and  it  was  his  first  day.  He  stood 
back  of  the  stalls  with  another  dedicated 
young  actor.  Richard  Burton,  watching  a 
rehearsal  of  The  Tempest. 

A  tall,  willowy  girl  with  short  blonde 
hair  stood  in  the  center  of  the  stage.  Larry 
whispered.  "Who  is  that  lost-looking  spin- 
ster with  the  stringbean  figure?" 

"Margaret  Leighton,"  said  Richard. 
"They're  mad  about  her  down  here.'" 

"Really?"  answered  Larry  incredulous- 
ly. "Well,  I've  never  heard  of  her." 

Yet  as  the  morning  wore  on  he  realized 
why  they  were  all  "mad  about  her  down 
here."  While  some  of  the  company  were 
moody,  Margaret  was  very  friendly.  She 
tried  especially  hard  to  make  the  new 
members  of  the  company  feel  at  home. 
"Need  any  help  with  your  scene?"  she'd 
ask  them.  "Can  I  hear  your  lines  for  you? 
I  can  never  get  mine  right." 

Consequently  it  was  more  of  a  shock 
than  a  surprise  when  Larry  invited  her  to 
lunch  a  couple  of  days  later  and  she  told 
him  quickly:  "No,  thank  you.  I'm  very 
busy  today." 

It  wasn't  any  better  when  he  suggested 
dinner.  "I'm  having  a  sandwich  in  my  room 
and  an  early  night,  thank  you,"  she  said 
coldly.  "We've  all  got  plenty  to  learn." 
Every  day  Larry  watched  her  be  charming  to  everybody.  She  dressed  in  plainer 
clothes  than  any  woman  he'd  ever  seen.  But  she  walked  and  stood  with  such  poise 
that  they  seemed  fabulous  on  her. 

He  discovered  she'd  been  separated  from  her  publisher  husband  for  some  time 
(did  he  say  spinster?),  and  she  had  no  other  romantic  interest.  But  after  several 
days  of  continually  being  told  she  was  busy,  Larry  began  to  wonder  if  his  tech- 
nique was  wrong. 

On  the  first  night  of  the  show  he  had  an  idea.  During  one  of  their  scenes 
together  Larry  paused  purposely,  as  if  un- 
sure of  the  next  line.  Margaret  thought 
he'd  dried  up,  and  turning  her  back  to  the 
audience  she  whispered  his  next  sentence 
i  >  him. 

lie  made  a  point  of  thanking  her  pro- 
fusely afterwards  for  "saving  my  big 
night." 

Margaret  told  him  not  to  worry  about 
it— the  same  thing  could  happen  to  any- 
one, she  assured  him. 

In  fact,  she  looked  so  sympathetic  and 
comforting  (as  he'd  hoped)  that  he  dared 
to  ask  her  to  dinner  again. 

"I'd  like  that."  said  Margaret  with 
hands  on  her  hips.  "But  there's  something 
I  must  tell  you  before  I  change.  With  the 
acoustics  in  this  theater,  when  you  stand 
out  on  that  stage,  you  can  hear  just  about 
everything  people  say  at  the  back  of  the 
stalls.  Yes,  I  think  a  good  dinner  would 
be  fine  for  this  lost-looking  spinster  with 
the  stringbean  figure." 


MEETING 


ED.  NOTE:  On  August  8th,  1957,  Mar- 
garet Leighton  became  Mrs.  Laurence 
Harvey. 

Laurence's  newest  films  are  United 
Artists'  The  Alamo;  MGM'S  Butter- 
field  8,  and  Expresso  Bongo,  for  Conti- 
nental Films. 


MARGARET 


asked,  painfully,   angrily.   "Who's  this?" 

A  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  phone 
identified  himself  as  a  reporter  for  one  of 
Rome's  English-language  newspapers. 

"I  hear  you  had  yourself  quite  a  time 
tonight,  Miss  Gardner,"  he  said.  "I  just 
wondered  what  your  side  of  the  story  is." 

"What  the  hell  do  you  care?"  Ava  asked. 

And  then  she  hung  up. 

And  she  threw  herself  back  on  the  bed. 

And  she  thought: 

"Don't  they  ever  leave  me  alone  .  .  .  the 
press  .  .  .  the  gentlemen  of  the  press?" 

She  took  a  deep  breath  as  she  pictured 
the  stories  in  the  papers  later  that  morning. 

All  over  the  world,  she  thought,  — Ava 
Gardner,  lady  runaround,  on  a  night  out, 
for  everybody  to  read  about. 

All  over  the  world,  she  thought,  for 
them  in  Hollywood,  them  in  New  York, 
them  in  the  rockets  and  them  in  the 
mines. 

All  over  the  world,  she  thought — even 
here,  in  Rome,  for  everybody  to  read  .  .  . 
even  the  good  nuns  .  .  .  even  the  good 
nuns  in  the  orphanage  she  was  to  re-visit 
later  this  day,  before  she  saw  her  little 
girl  again,  before — 

She  gasped. 

She  repeated  it  to  herself,  slowly,  what 
she  had  just  thought  of. 

Even  the  good  nuns  .  .  .  the  orphanage 
.  .  .  today  .  .  .  her  little  girl.  .  .  . 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

She  saw,  in  the  darkness,  for  a  moment, 
the  face  of  the  little  girl,  the  beautiful 
little  girl. 

And  then  the  face  disappeared  and  was 
replaced  by  another,  the  face  of  a  nun. 

The  nun  stared  at  her,  hard.  And  then 
she  shook  her  head. 

"A  tremendous  responsibility."  she  said, 
"a  tremendous  responsibility.  Only  the 
good,  the  clean,  the  loving,  my  dear  lady, 
to  make  up  for  all  the  bad.  the  dirty  bad 
things,  these  children  have  known." 

"But  I  love  her,"  Ava  heard  herself  say- 
ing aloud.  "I  love  her." 

"A  tremendous  responsibility."  the  words 
came  again. 

"Oh  Sister  ...  Oh  God,"  Ava  moaned, 
opening  her  eyes.  "Please  .  .  .  don't  take 
her  away  from  me." 

Her  voice  became  high,  shrill,  uncon- 
trollable. 

"I'll  be  good  to  her,  God — I  swear  it," 
she  said.  "Oh  please,  give  me  another 
chance  and  I'll  be  so  good  to  her. 

"God?   God?   Do  You  hear  me? 

"I  need  that  baby.  And  she  needs  me. 

"Do  You  hear  me?"  she  asked  again. 

"I  am  begging  You.  I  am  begging  You. 

"Can't  I  have  my  girl,  at  least? 

"Can't  I  keep  something,  o?ie  thing,  in 
this  life  of  mine?" 

She  felt  dizzy,  suddenly,  wet  and  fever- 
ish. She  pushed  herself  up  from  the  bed. 

She  walked  to  a  window  and  opened  it. 

A  breeze  came  rushing  into  the  room. 

It  came  in  hard,  so  hard  that  it  knocked 
down  a  glass  that  had  been  sitting  on  the 
windowsill.  Ava  heard  it  fall  and  crash. 

And  when  she  looked  down  she  saw, 
lying  in  the  midst  of  the  shattered  pieces 
of  glass,  a  flower,  little  and  yellow,  which 
she'd  been  given  two  days  before. 

She  fell  to  her  knees  and  she  picked 
it  up. 

"Lisa,"  she  said,  desperately,  as  she 
tried  to  fix  the  flower's  broken  stem,  so 
that  it  might  stand  straight  again. 

"My  baby,"  she  said. 

"My  baby,"  she  said  again  and  again, 
as  she  tried  to  mend  the  stem  with  all 
the  warmth  and  strength  and  tenderness 
in  her  fingers. 

But  it  was  too  late. 

The  tiny  flower  was  dead.  END 

Ava's  last  starrer  was  United  Artists'  On 
The  Beach. 


Liz  Walks  Out! 

(Continued  from  page  40) 


When  she  walked  out  of  the  door  of  the 
Gold  Medal  Studios  in  the  Bronx,  she  took 
a  whiff  of  the  cool,  fresh  air,  and  felt  clean 
inside. 

"No  regrets?"  Eddie  asked. 
"Not  one,"  she  replied  vigorously.  "And 
I  don't  care  if  I  ever  work  again." 
She  meant  it. 

She  hadn't  wanted  to  do  Butterfield  8 — 
from  the  very  beginning.  When  she 
received  the  script  she  wasn't  prepared 
for  what  she'd  find,  because  she  hadn't 
read  the  book. 

Her  own  literary  preference  was  toward 
Black  Beauty  and  Snow  White,  when 
Butterfield  8  was  published  back  in  1935. 
At  that  time  Butterfield  8  was  banned  in 
many  cities  and  severely  condemned  as 
lewd  and  offensive. 

When  MGM  first  bought  the  story,  they 
were  warned  by  The  Hays  Office  to  see 
that  it  was  "excessively  laundered"  before 
putting  it  on  the  screen. 

But  even  with  such  laundering,  the 
script  was  "put  on  the  shelf" — where  it  lay 
half-forgotten  for  nearly  two  decades. 

Ready  for  Butterfield  8 

Back  in  1939,  Hollywood  was  shocked 
when  the  singular  usage  of  the  word 
"damn"  in  the  climactic  scene  of  Gone 
With  The  Wind,  was  approved  by  the 
censors.  It  was  a  revolutionary  concession. 

By  1959,  however,  damn,  hell,  and  prac- 
tically every  other  four,  five  and  seven 
letter  word  was  being  used  indiscrimi- 
nately in  movies. 

And  by  1959,  Hollywood  felt  it  was 
ready  for  Butterfield  8.  It  was  dusted  off 


and  scheduled. 

But  ironically  when  Liz  Taylor,  the 
woman  who  had  been  morally  castigated, 
was  finished  reading  the  script  her  first 
instinct  was  to  tear  it  into  a  thousand 
shreds. 

Eddie  walked  into  the  room  as  she  was 
struggling  to  rip  the  heavy  duty  paper. 

He  had  never  seen  his  wife  in  such  a 
snit. 

"Bad  part?"  he  grinned. 

"Depends  on  what  you  call  bad,"  she 
answered,  giving  up  the  struggle  and  toss- 
ing the  manuscript  into  the  waste  basket. 

"Oh — I'm  sure  a  dozen  actresses  would 
want  such  a  fat  part — but  Eddie,  it's  posi- 
tively— well — nothing  but  sex  and  sensa- 
tionalism. I  just  won't  do  it — and  that's  all 
there  is  to  it!" 

"Worse  than  Suddenly  Last  Summer?" 
he  teased. 

She  laughed. 

"Oh  you  never  will  get  over  the  fact  that 
you  didn't  want  me  to  do  that  picture, 
will  you?" 

"Nope.  Not  even  for  six  Oscar  nomina- 
tions. Not  even  if  you  get  the  Oscar." 

"All  right,  I  grant  you  that  Suddenly 
wasn't  exactly  suitable  for  a  kiddie's 
matinee.  But  Eddie,  at  least  it  was  subtle. 
I  mean,  if  you  didn't  know  about  such 
things — it  would  go  right  over  your  head. 
And  if  you  were  old  enough  and  sophisti- 
cated enough — what  harm  would  it  do? 
Adults  are  aware  that  such  things  exist." 

"Such  things  as  cannibalism  among 
Caucasians?" 

"Oh  Eddie,  you're  impossible.  You  know 
what  I  mean."  She  playfully  tossed  a 
throw  pillow  in  his  direction. 

He  ducked  and  came  up  fighting.  .  .  . 

"Now— about  Cat  On  A  Hot  Tin  Roof? 
Kiddie  Matinee?" 

She  grew  serious. 


"That  was  for  Mike.  He  wanted  me  to  do 
it.  He  was  so  proud  because  .  .  ."  Her  voice 
trailed  off.  "But  that  was  cleaned  up — and 
if  you  didn't  know  the  play,  well  .  .  . 
Funny,  and  most  of  the  critics  complained 
because  it  was  'watered  down.'  But  dar- 
ling, this  one  is  so  different." 

Now  Eddie  grew  serious. 

"Then,  of  course,  you're  not  going  to  do 


The  threat  to  Liz 

But  Liz  had  one  more  picture  to  make 
while  she  was  under  contract — and  she 
would  make  this  one,  Sol  Siegel  felt,  or 
else.  .  .  . 

She  was  threatened  with  a  suspension — 
until  she  came  around  to  the  studio's  way 
of  thinking. 

A  furious  Liz  told  the  United  Press,  "It's 
a  terribly  mean  thing  they've  done  to  me. 
I  don't  think  the  studio  is  treating  me 
fairly.  But  they  have  the  power  to  keep  me 
off  the  screen  for  two  years  unless  I  agree 
to  do  Butterfield  and  it  looks  as  if  that's 
what  they  are  going  to  do. 

"I've  been  with  the  studio  for  seventeen 
years.  During  that  time  I  was  never  asked 
to  play  such  a  horrible  role.  The  leading 
lady  is  almost  a  prostitute.  It's  so  un- 
palatable I  wouldn't  do  it  for  anything — 
under  any  conditions.  I  was  going  to  set 
up  a  trust  fund  for  my  children  from  the 
money  I  make  in  Cleopatra.  I  don't  under- 
stand how  one  man  can  take  a  million 
dollars  from  me  and  my  children." 

Equally  furious,  Sol  countered  with: 

"We  are  willing  and  happy  to  have 
Elizabeth  earn  a  million  dollars  for 
Cleopatra — if  she  fulfills  her  contract  and 
makes  Butterfield  8  for  us  first." 

He  also  went  on  to  imply  that  Liz  had 
overestimated  her  own  importance — and 
she  was  not  needed  at  the  studio  that 
badly.  .  .  . 


Married  women 
are  sharing  this  secret 

.  .  .  the  new,  easier,  surer  protection 
for  those  most  intimate  marriage  problems 


What  a  blessing  to  be  able  to  trust 
in  the  wonderful  germicidal  protec- 
tion Norforms  can  give  you.  Nor- 
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And  Norforms'  deodorant  protec- 
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clinic  and  found  to  be  more  effec- 


Tested  by  doctors  .  .  . 
trusted  by  women  .  .  . 
proved  in  hospital  clinics 


tive  than  anything  it  had  ever 
used.  Norforms  eliminate  (rather 
than  cover  up)  embarrassing 
odors,  yet  have  no  "medicine"  or 
"disinfectant"  odor  themselves. 

And  what  convenience.'  These 
small  feminine  suppositories  are 
so  easy  and  convenient  to  use. 
Just  insert —no  apparatus,  mixing 
or  measuring.  They're  greaseless 
and  they  keep  in  any  climate. 

Now  available  in  new  packages 
of  6,  as  well  as  12  and  24.  Also 
available  in  Canada. 


FREE  informative  Norforms  booklet 

Just  mail  this  coupon  to  Dept.  MS-09 
Norwich  Pharmacal  Co.,  Norwich,  N.Y. 
^Please  send  me  the  new  Norforms  booklet, 
in  a  plain  envelope. 


63 


Mark  Pr'ttchard, 
Station  W-GTO, 
CypressGardens, 
Ha. 


The  Nation's  Top  Disk  Jockeys  pose  a 
series  of  questions  to  see  if  you  know 
your  record  stars. 


1.  Both  boys  in   this  singing 
duo  are  known  by  their  first 

names.  Their  family  name  is 
Farina.  One  plays  the  steel 
guitar,  and  the  other  the  rhythm 
guitar.  Their  latest  record  is 
Lazy  Day. 

2.  He  started  singing  in  show 
business  at  the  age  of  eleven. 

Now  19,  he  can  be  heard  on 
label.  His 


Les  Keiter, 
Station  WINS, 
New  York,  N.  Y. 


Of 


the  Columb 

past  hit  was  Don't  De- 
stroy Me  and  his  cur- 
rent release  is  titled  One 
Last  Kiss. 

3.  She  is  a  movie  star 
and  is  seen  on  TV  in 
Hawaiian  Eye.  She  sings, 
but  not  under  her  real 
name  which  is  Concetta 
Ann  Ingolia.  Her  latest 
record  is  Sixteen  Rea- 
sons an   Warner  label. 

4.  A    one-time  member 

Billy  Ward  and  the  Domi- 
noes, this  boy  is  currently 
heard  in  a  big-voiced  pop  re- 
cording of  Night.  He's  23, 
hails  from  Detroit  and  num- 
bers songwriting  among  his 
many  accomplishments.  His 
SL  ^    latest  album  is  titled  Lonely 

v  j\  Teardrops. 
WtL^Jmjk  5.  On  the  Victor  label,  his 
j^HKjaJafl|  big  disk  is  Stairway  To 
Heaven.  Born  in  Brooklyn, 
N.Y.,  in  1939,  he  studied  mu- 
sic at  Juilliard.  Past  hits  were 
Oh  Carol  and  The  Diary. 

6.  He  hails  from  Memphis, 
Tenn.,  and  heads  one  of 

the  hottest  combos  in  the 
business.  He  used  to  play 
guitar  behind  Elvis  Presley. 
His  big  record  now  is  White 
Silver  Sands. 

7.  Two  sisters  and  a  brother 
sing  under  a  group  name. 

They  hail  from  Pine  Bluff, 
Ark.  Their  names  are  Jim, 
Maxine  and  Bonnie.  They 
record  for  RCA  Victor  and 
their  big  platter  now  is  The  station 'kSbc, 
Old  Lamp  Lighter.  Hollywood,  Cal. 


wa  ma  -9 

V!jDpjS  ;pN  .g 

qooppojj  iisv.ij  .j, 
Kuui/of       OtUD$  ■•J 


Lee  G.  Rothman, 
Station  WRIT, 
Milwaukee,  Wis. 


Gene  Kaye, 
Station  WAEB, 
Allentown,  Pa. 


But  obviously  MGM  needed  Liz  more 
than  she  needed  them.  The  script  was  re- 
written— and  presumably  cleaned  up.  And 
Liz  agreed  to  start  work. 

As  a  bonus — or,  as  some  cynically  called 
it,  a  bribe — they  offered  Eddie  the  role  of 
her  piano-playing  friend. 

"You  know,"  he  told  her,  "there  are 
going  to  be  charges  of  nepotism.  It  might 
be  better  if  I  turned  it  down." 

"What  does  it  matter?"  Liz  answered. 
"We've  been  charged  with  almost  every- 
thing else.  And  Eddie,  with  you  in  the 
picture,  at  least  it  might  be  bearable. 
Please  say  yes." 

He  said  yes,  but  it  was  still  unbearable. 

Just  before  the  picture  was  to  start,  Liz 
became  violently  ill  with  bronchitis  and 
fever.  The  starting  date  was  postponed. 
She  secretly  wondered  if  the  illness  wasn't 
a  psychosomatic  reaction  to  the  thought  of 
going  to  work. 

But  when  she  recovered,  she  could  put 
it  off  no  longer.  "I  don't  know  how  good 
it'll  be,"  she  said,  "but  I  guess  like  it  or 
not,  I'm  a  professional.  I'll  do  my  best." 

But  her  best  didn't  include  "selling  the 
picture."  She  closed  the  set  to  the  press. 
She  would  talk  to  no  one.  When  she 
finally  broke  down  and  agreed  to  see 
Herald  Tribune  reporter,  Joe  Hyams,  an 
old  friend,  the  studio  was  jubilant. 

They  shouldn't  have  been. 

That  "unprintable"  interview 

Hyams  started  the  conversation  by 
saying  that  he  had  read  the  original  novel 
but  hadn't  seen  the  script. 

Liz  countered  with:  "Save  yourself  the 
time."  Then  she  made  Hyams  "promise  to 
print  everything"  she  said,  although  most 
of  what  she  said  wasn't  printable — in 
MGM's  eyes. 

"Doing  this  picture  gripes  the  hell  out 
of  me." 

Eddie  tried  to  smooth  things  over. 
"Elizabeth  is  superb  in  everything  she 
does —  and  it  will  be  commercial." 

"That's  the  trouble,"  Liz  interrupted. 
"It's  too  commercial.  It's  in  bad  taste. 
Everyone  in  it  is  crazy,  mixed-up,  sick — 
except  the  part  Eddie  plays.  This  is  the 
last  picture  in  my  contract — and  I'm  doing 
it,  but  I  don't  want  to  and  I  don't  like  it — 
and  remember  you  promised  to  print 
everything  I  said!" 

After  that  there  were  no  more  inter- 
views. 

A  week  later  the  actors  went  on  strike 
and  no  one  knew  if — or  when  Butterfield 
would  ever  be  completed. 

"You  know,  Eddie,"  she  said  when  the 
studio  went  dark,  "if  it  wasn't  for  the  crew 
and  the  stagehands  and  the  actors  who 
really  need  the  money,  I  wouldn't  care 
if  the  strike  lasted  twenty  years.  Then  I'd 
be  a  doddering  old  grey-haired  grand- 
mother— and  they'd  have  to  get  someone 
else." 

The  following  day  she  and  Eddie  left 
for  a  vacation  in  Jamaica. 

They  swam  and  danced  and  frolicked  in 
the  sun — and  never  discussed  the  movie. 
Except,  whenever  Eddie  wanted  to  tease 
Liz  he'd  sing  out  in  a  high  falsetto  voice 
"B-U-T-T-E-R-F-I-E-L-D-8,"  and  Liz 
would  throw  something  at  him — like  sand 
or  sea-shells — or  a  baby  crab. 

When  she  and  Eddie  left  Jamaica  to 
return  to  Hollywood  for  Oscar  night,  it 
looked  as  if  the  strike  was  about  over. 

Boarding  the  plane  west,  she  tripped 
and  broke  her  ankle. 

It  was  almost  as  though  she  subcon- 
sciously willed  herself  into,  being  in- 
capacitated. 

While  the  doctor  was  applying  the  heavy 
tape,  she  teased:  "Hmmm,  maybe  I  won't 
be  able  to  walk  for  a  year,  then  they'll 
have  to  replace  me  if  the  strike  ends 
soon." 


"What — are  you  trying  to  ruin  my 
career  or  something?"  Eddie  teased  her. 
"And  my  scenes  haven't  even  started  yet. 
Some  loving  wife." 

"You  should  talk,  you  have  the  healthy 
part." 

"Better  get  well  soon,  sweetheart.  There 
isn't  a  chance  of  replacing  you.  You'll  just 
get  to  play  the  rest  of  your  scenes  in  bed." 

"Come  to  think  of  it,"  Liz  laughed 
bitterly.  "That's  where  I  think  the  rest  of 
them  take  place  anyway." 

She  was  kidding — but  her  words  were 
almost  prophetic. 

When  she  returned  to  work,  strange 
things  began  happening.  Things  that 
weren't  written  into  the  script. 

Through  direction,  through  lighting, 
through  camera  angles,  the  suggestive  be- 
came bolder. 

Words  weren't  necessary. 

The  action  spoke  for  itself. 

And  that's  when  Liz  began  to  feel  dirty 
and  ashamed  of  herself  for  being  part  of 
it. 

And  when  she  could  take  no  more,  she 
walked  out! 

Eddie  didn't  try  to  change  her  mind. 
They  hadn't  done  his  scenes.  He  knew  he 
could  be  replaced.  Liz'  well-being  and 
happiness  was  all  he  was  concerned  with. 

But  her  lawyers  felt  differently. 

They  pointed  out  that  she  could  be 
barred  from  the  screen  forever  if  she 
didn't  return  to  work.  They  pointed  out 
the  millions  that  had  already  gone  into 
the  preparations  for  Cleopatra. 

"You  have  an  obligation  to  those 
people,"    they  insisted. 

Liz  said,  "I  also  have  an  obligation  to  the 
thousands  of  teen-agers  that  come  to  see 
me  in  a  movie.  Some  of  these  films  can 
only  give  them  ideas.  Dangerous  ideas. 
There  is  enough  juvenile  delinquency  and 
pregnancy  and  sex  crimes  without  inciting 
emotions  through  motion  pictures.  My 
children  are  too  young  to  see  me  in  this 
kind  of  movie  now.  But  when  it's  released 
to  television  they  will.  They'll  be  teen- 
agers then.  .  .  ." 

All  night  long  there  were  arguments. 
And  deadlocks.  And  finally  a  compromise 
was  reached.  Liz  would  return.  But  she 
would  do  no  more  objectionable  scenes. 

She  had  guts  to  put  up  a  fight  and  win. 

And  she's  to  be  admired  and  respected 
for  it.  Although  she  has  been  held  up  to 
scorn  and  great  criticism  in  her  personal 
life,  what  she  does  in  this  area  can  hurt 
only  herself.  What  she  does  professionally 
can,  as  she  has  protested,  hurt  many 
others. 

Deep  concern 

Last  month.  Modern  Screen  was  deeply 
concerned  with  the  increasing  amount  of 
filth  that  has  been  allowed  to  seep  onto 
the  nation's  screen.  We  pointed  out  that 
the  realistic  images  of  love,  marriage  and 
premarital  sex  have  been  deeply  distorted. 
What  has  been  respected  has  been  defiled, 
where  certain  behavior  that  should  be 
condemned,  has  been  glorified.  We  have 
cited  opinions  of  experts  on  how  to  keep 
pornography  from  the  screen,  opinions 
that  ranged  from  censorship  to  the  classi- 
fication of  "For  Adults  Only." 

We  asked  you  for  your  suggestions,  and 
you  sent  many  good  ones. 

Yet  the  best  suggestion  has  come 
through  Liz'  actions: 

Stars,  like  all  adults,  should  exercise 
good  judgment  and  self -censorship  in 
choosing  roles  to  play. 

Liz  has  raised  her  voice  in  protest 
against  the  lewd  and  immoral  material 
brought  to  the  screen  in  the  guise  of  en-  ! 
tertainment. 

Others  can  learn  a  lesson  from  her.  END 

Liz  and  Eddie  star  in  MGM's  Butterfield 
8;  Liz,  later,  in  20th-Fox's  Cleopatra. 


This  Is  Vivien  Leigh 


(Continued  from  page  37) 

"My  husband  has  done  that.  .  .  ." 
Or: 

"My  husband  is  the  world's  greatest  liv- 
ing talent." 

And  at  one  point  Susskind  interjected, 
"How  wonderful  to  say  my  husband  and 
have  it  mean  Sir  Laurence  Olivier." 

Vivien  just  smiled.  Her  loveliest  "Scar- 
lett" smile. 

And  anyone  who  watched  the  show 
might  have  thought:  "How  wonderful,  that 
after  twenty  years  of  marriage,  such  love 
and  unrestrained  admiration  still  ex- 
ists. .  .  ." 

They  might  have  thought  that — if  they 
hadn't  read  the  papers  that  morning,  if 
they  hadn't  seen  the  headlines  which  an- 
nounced: OLIVIER  ASKS  VIVIEN  LEIGH 
FOR  DIVORCE.  ACTOR  WISHES  TO 
MAKE  NEW  LEADING  LADY  HIS 
LADY. 

But  almost  everyone  had  read  that  head- 
line— except,  it  appeared,  Susskind — who 
seemed  guilty  of  an  embarrassing,  ill- 
timed  faux  pas. 

Actually  he  wasn't. 

The  show  had  been  taped  a  week  earlier 
— when  there  had  been  no  headlines. 

But  maybe  Vivien  had  sensed  what  was 
coming. 

Maybe  that  was  the  reason  for  the  con- 
stant glances  at  the  wedding  ring,  the  con- 
tinuous use  of  the  phrase,  "my  husband," 
when— always  it  had  been  simply,  "Larry." 

It  was  as  though  she  desperately  wanted 
to  hold  onto  the  last  remaining  vestige  of 
her  marriage. 

Letter  from  Larry 

The  special  delivery  letter  from  Lon- 
don arrived  May  21 — the  day  before 
Larry's  53rd  birthday. 

She  had  known  about  Joan  Plowright 
for  a  long  time. 

She  had  known  ever  since  she  had 
seen  the  two  rehearsing  for  The  Enter- 
tainer. 

The   signs   were  there. 

The  smiles,  the  glances,  the  magic  rap- 
port of  two  people  creating  something 
exciting — and  falling  madly  in  love  in  the 
process. 

She  knew  all  about  that — because  that 
was  the  way  it  had  happened  with  Larry 
and  her  nearly  twenty-five  years  before  

He  had  first  seen  her  on  the  London 
stage  and  instantly  wanted  to  meet  her. 
Within  a  few  months  they  were  co- 
starring  in  an  unpretentious  little  love 
story  called  21  Days  Together.  By  the 
time  the  film  had  been  completed,  they 
were  desperately  in  love. 

It  didn't  matter  that  she  had  been  mar- 
ried four  years  to  barrister  Leigh  Holman 
and  was  the  mother  of  a  two-year-old 
daughter. 

It  didn't  matter  that  he  had  been  married 
for  over  six  years  to  Jill  Esmond,  who 
had  just  told  him  she  was  expecting  their 
first  child. 

His  son  was  born  during  production  of 
Fire  Over  England — in  which  he  was  co- 
starring,  once  again,  with  Vivien  Leigh. 

Shortly  afterward,  he  told  Jill  that  he 
wanted  his  freedom.  Jill,  still  very  much 
in  love,  agreed  only  to  a  separation. 

That  same  week  Vivien  asked  Holman 
for  a  divorce.  But  he,  too,  would  give 
no  definite  answer,  beyond  that  of  con- 
senting to  a  separation. 

Censured  by  a  shocked  press,  Vivien 
was  defiant.  She  loved  Larry.  She  wanted 
him.  She  couldn't  help  it  if  there  was  a 
husband  and  a  wife  and  two  babies  to  be 
hurt.  She  hadn't  sought  this  emotion 
which  was  overwhelming  her! 


"But  you  wouldn't  give  up  your  baby, 
would  you?"  she  was  asked. 

"No,  not  exactly,  but  she's  more  with 
her  nurse  than  she  is  with  me." 

"And  your  husband?" 

"Well  I  see  him  so  seldom." 

"But  your  home  .  .  ." 

"It  no  longer  matters.  .  .  ." 

All  this  Vivien  was  prepared  to  leave. 
And  her  reputation.  No  argument  could 
change  her.   She  would  have  her  love. 

They  went  to  Elsinore,  Denmark,  to  ap- 
pear in  an  outdoor  production  of  Hamlet. 
As  they  rehearsed  in  the  castle's  courtyard, 
pelted  by  wild  summer  storms,  their  ro- 
mance reached  its  climax.  They  vowed 
never  to  be  parted. 

So  when  Larry  was  offered  the  role  of 
Heathcliff  in  Wuthering  Heights,  he  in- 
sisted Vivien  must  be  signed  for  Cathy. 

But  Merle  Oberon  was  already  set. 

It  was  Vivien  who  finally  talked  him  into 
going  without  her. 

"We'll  only  be  separated  a  little  while. 
I'll  join  you  by  New  Year's  Eve,  I  promise." 

Six  thousand  miles  away  he  bombarded 
her  with  heart-wrenching  passionate  let- 
ters, filled  with  desperation  and  longing. 

Troubled,  she  dashed  to  Hollywood  for 
a  five-day  visit  ...  a  month  early. 

But  in  his  slow  deliberate  way  he  began 
laying  plans  to  keep  her  longer. 

Vivien's  private  life 

He  knew  Selznick  was  searching  for  a 
girl  to  play  Scarlett  in  Gone  With  The 
Wind. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  only 
Vivien  should  play  the  part. 

He  wangled  an  invitation  to  visit  the  set 
where  Selznick  was  in  the  process  of 
burning  Atlanta — although  his  stars  hadn't 
yet  been  chosen. 

By  the  time  the  evening  was  over,  the 
search  for  Scarlett  had  ended. 

But  the  job  that  was  meant  to  keep  them 
together,  very  nearly  was  to  tear  them 
apart. 

As  an  English  actress  only  vaguely 
known  in  this  country,  Vivien's  private  life 
was  her  own  business. 

As  the  girl  chosen  to  play  Scarlett 
O'Hara,  it  became  everyone's  business, 
and  was  the  prime  concern  of  David 
Selznick  who  had  millions  and  his  entire 
professional  reputation  staked  on  the  film. 

The  night  before  the  contracts  were 
signed  he  took  her  aside — "like  a  father." 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  it  would  be 
better  if  you  and  Larry  do  not  see  so 
much  of  one  another  until  after  the  pic- 
ture is  released.  Even  a  hint  of  scandal 
might  queer  the  film.  Gone  With  The 
Wind  will  make  you  a  big  star.  You  can 
make  this  small  sacrifice  for  now,  can't 
you?" 

"No." 

"But  you  don't  seem  to  understand.  .  ." 

"I  understand  only  that  I  will  not  be 
separated  from  Larry  .  .  .  for  any  role.  If 
this  is  not  satisfactory  to  you,  then  per- 
haps it  would  be  better  if  you  sign  another 
girl." 

Selznick  relented.  He  had  no  choice. 
There  was  no  other  girl.  After  testing 
eight,  he  knew.  But  he  sought  every 
trick  of  the  trade  to  keep  the  love  story 
from  the  public,  and  Larry  and  Vivien 
agreed  to  "co-operate"  by  staying  away 
from  public  places. 

Instead  they  took  apartments  around 
the  corner  from  one  another  in  Beverly 
Hills.  To  guard  against  snooping  news- 
men the  nervous  studio  posted  guards  in 
the  doorways  and  on  the  corner. 

In  her  white  Colonial  house,  Vivien  and 
Laurence  spent  all  their  leisure  hours  to- 
gether. 

They  went  over  each  other's  roles,  each 
suggesting  and  helping  the  other,  schem- 
ing together  how  to  take  the  ramparts  of 
Hollywood. 


J' 


DALE  DENNIS,  Senior,  Union 
High  School,  Tustin,  Calif,  says: 
"I  was  desperate  when  I  had 
pimples.  I  scrubbed  and  scrubbed 
and  used  special  skin  creams,  but 
nothing  much  happened.  One  day, 
our  druggist  suggested  Clearasil 
and  am  I  glad!  It  was  wonderful 
the  way  it  cleared  my  skin  and 


SCIENTIFIC  CLEARASIL  MEDICATION 

STARVES 
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SKIN-COLORED,  Hides  pimples  while  it  works 

clearasil  is  the  new-type  scientific  medication 
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squeeze-bottle,  clearasil  gives  you  the  effective 
medications  prescribed  by  leading  Skin  Special- 
ists, and  clinical  tests  prove  it  really  works. 
HOW  CLEARASIL  WORKS  FAST 

J\        1 .  Penetratti  pimplet. '  Keratoly  tic'  action 
■■n^MM        softens,  dissolves  affected  skin  tissue  so 
V  J        medications  can  penetrate.  Encourages 
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Proved  by  Skin  Specialists !  In  tests  on  over 
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ML 


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TH£  MD  A»D  THE  ffl,VS 

■  Autumn  in  New  York,  and  the  air  had  a  nip  in  it — especially 
for  young  lovers  and  most  especially  for  a  girl  named  Irene  Dunne. 
The  man  of  her  fancy  was  a  successful  young  dentist.  Francis  Griffin 
— and  her  problem  was  how  to  get  him  to  propose. 

She  was  walking  happily  along  Fifth  Avenue,  excited  at  the  fact 
that  Flo  Ziegfeld  had  chosen  her  for  the  lead  in  Show  Boat  on  tour, 
when  she  spied  a  wicked,  but  very  handsome,  red  silk  dress  in  a 
store  window.  "All  men  like  red!  If  that  doesn't  do  it."  mused  the 
future  sensational  star  of  Cimarron,  "nothing  will.*' 

Irene  Dunne  wore  the  devastating  dress  at  her  next  date  with 
Dr.  Griffin.  They  went  dancing  on  the  roof  of  the  St.  Regis  to  the 
music  of  Vincent  Lopez;  the  menu  was  perfect  and  Irene  wore  her 
beau's  corsage  like  a  decoration.  Everything  was  just  right — except 
that  young  Dr.  Griffin  didn't  even  notice  the  new  dress! 

The  dates  continued  with  a  regularity  that  was  monotonous  except 
that  each  time  he  might  he  going  to  propose.  Soon  Irene  Dunne 
would  be  going  on  tour,  and  there  were  already  signs  of  Hollywood 
interest  in  the  talented  young  actress  with  a  voice  like  a  canary. 

One  early  spring  day.  the  telephone  rang.  "Would  you  like  to 
come  to  Mass  with  me  on  Sundav  an'1  lunch  afterwards?"  he  asked. 
"That's  unless  you  have  other  plans.  .  .  ." 

"Oh.  no."  said  Irene.  "I  have  no  plans  .  .  ."  Later  she  thought. 
Spring?  1  need  a  new  hat! 

The  luncheon  at  one  of  New  York's  nicest  hotels  was  only  half 
over  next  Sunday  when  Dr.  Griffin  said.  "That's  a  very  pretty  hat 
you're  wearing — that  reminds  me,  would  you  care  to  marry  me?" 

"Fes/"  said  Irene  unhesitatingly.  .  .  . 

Somewhat  later  she  asked.  "Why  did  you  never  mention  my  new 
dress?  I  thought  it  was  such  good  bait!" 

"Well,  uh."  he  said.  "I  thought — for  anything  I  had  to  say — it 
was  something  of  a  STOP  sign.  Today  I  felt  you  were  wearing  a 
sort  of  GO  sign." 

"But,"  said  Irene,  "my  hat  isn't  green — it's  blue!" 

Dr.  Griffin  grinned  at  her  wickedly.  'So  now  you  know  my  guilty 
secret."  he  said.  "I'm  color  blind!" 

Today  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Francis  Griffin  are  just  as  much  in  love  as 
ever — and  blue  is  still  their  favorite  color. 


They  were  separate-'  in  Mnrch  when 
Larry  flew  east  for  a  Broadway  show,  but 
they  talked  constantly  on  the  phone,  and 
he  secretly  flew  to  California  on  week- 
ends. 

In  July,  when  Gone  With  The  Wind  was 
completed,  he  took  leave  of  the  play  and 
they  sailed  for  London  together — for  long, 
long  talks  with  Jill  and  Leigh  Holman. 

By  this  time  they  were  living  together 
almost  openly  and  both  mates  knew  they 
were  fighting  a  losing  battle — that  this 
was  no  passing  infatuation.  They  filed  for 
divorce.  Jill  named  Vivien  as  co-respon- 
dent, Holman  named  Olivier. 

The  romance  was  out  in  the  open  and 
the  world  fell  in  love  with  their  love 
story. 

The  most  divine  fairy  tale 

With  Larry,  Vivien  flew  to  Atlanta  for 
the  world  premiere  of  Gone  With  The 
Wind. 

With  him  she  spent  the  night  of  the  New 
York  premiere,  hiding  away  in  a  little 
French  restaurant  on  Third  Avenue.  On 
this  night  she  didn't  want  the  crowds,  the 
acclaim.    Only  him. 

The  next  day  she  laughed  about  it. 

"By  the  time  the  premiere  was  over  and 
Jack  Whitney  was  putting  on  his  big 
party,  we  had  both  gone  to  bed." 

By  the  time  the  premiere  was  over, 
they  were  talking  their  heads  off  about 
their  feelings  for  one  another. 

"I  don't  suppose  there  ever  was  a  couple 
so  much  in  love  as  we  are,"  Larry  said 
happily.  "I  was  only  half  alive  before 
I  met  Vivien." 

And  she  chimed  in:  "Our  love  affair  has 
been  the  most  rlivine  fairy  tale,  hasn't  it? 
And  I'm  not  going  to  allow  my  new  fame 
to  interfere  with  my  private  life.  Even  if 
I  have  to  resort  to  outlandish  disguises  I'll 
do  it  because  I  insist  upon  living  like  a 
human  being." 

On  the  night  she  won  the  Academy 
Award  for  Scarlett,  she  revealed — to  no 
one's  surprise — that  they  would  be  mar- 
ried "as  soon  as  possible." 

"All  we  want  to  do,"  he  said,  "is  spend 
the  rest  of  our  lives  together." 

At  one  minute  past  midnight — August 
30th,  1940,  they  took  their  vows  in  the 
moonlight — at  Ronald  Colman's  Santa  Bar- 
bara ranch. 

They  had  lost  every  cent  they  had  pos- 
sessed two  months  before  in  a  disastrous 
production  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and  had 
returned  to  Hollywood  for  That  Hamilton 
Woman,  only  in  order  to  make  enough 
money  to  pay  their  debts. 

They  were  swamped  with  other  offers. 
$250,000  apiece  for  six  weeks'  work  but 
turned  them  down. 

Their  country  was  at  war — and  they 
were  needed  at  home. 

They  returned  to  England  at  the  height 
of  the  Blitz. 

Although  both  had  always  hated  and 
feared  flying,  he  joined  the  Fleet  Air  Arm 
as  a  pilot. 

She  returned  to  the  stage  in  The  Doc- 
tor's Dilemma,  doubled  as  a  fire-watcher 
between  shows  and  spent  her  week  ends 
and  vacations  entertaining  the  troops. 

Like  other  couples  in  war-torn  England, 
they  never  knew  which  night  might  be 
their  last.  When  they  were  together  they 
were  always  holding  hands,  always  kiss- 
ing. 

She  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  Selznick's  plea 
to  return  for  another  picture — even  though 
he  had  raised  the  ante  to  $350,000. 

Her  answer  was  always  the  same. 

"I  will  not  leave  Larry." 

A  miracle — and  a  tragedy 

In  spite  of  the  war,  the  buzz-bombs,  the 
insecurity,  her  one  big  dream  was  to  have 
a  baby. 

And  in  July.  1944,  while  she  was  work- 


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HOLLYWOOD  I 

with  ART     |  ADDRESS  _  

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!  ing  before  the  cameras  in  Caesar  and 
Cleopatra,  her  doctor  broke  the  happy 
news. 

The  picture  had  a  long  and  strenuous 
schedule.  When  she  told  the  director  she 
was  pregnant,  he  speeded  up  her  scenes. 

She  worked  day  and  night,  in  flimsy 
gowns  on  a  damp  and  chilly  set.  Coal  was 
a  precious  commodity.  She  was  exhausted 
most  of  the  time  and  plagued  with  a 
racking  cough.  But  she  wouldn't  slow 
down.    She  had  a  deadline  to  meet. 

The  cough  grew  worse. 

Her  strength  diminished. 

And  one  day  she  collapsed. 

Larry  was  at  her  side  when  she  awoke 
in  a  stark  hospital  room. 

He  tried  to  help. 

"We're  still  young.  There  will  be  other 
babies.    The  doctor  assured  me  we  will." 

But  he  didn't  have  the  heart  to  tell 
her  then — what  else  the  doctor  said. 

That  the  wracking  cough  wasn't  due  to 
a  bad  cold — as  she  had  insisted,  or  too 
much  smoking  or  nerves. 

But  that  she  was  suffering  from  a  severe 
case  of  TB. 

She  was  hospitalized  for  five  long 
months. 

When  she  was  finally  released,  she  was 
frail  and  spent.  The  little  girl  look  he 
had  loved  so  much  was  forever  gone. 

A  few  weeks  after  she  was  out  of  the 
hospital — in  spite  of  Larry's  pleas  to  rest, 
she  was  in  rehearsals  for  a  new  play. 

Triumphs  and  tragedy 

The  next  few  years  sped  by  in  a  whirl 
of  professional  triumphs. 

In  1947  he  was  knighted  by  the  late 
King  George.  But  the  joy  of  being  Lady 
Olivier  was  overshadowed  by  the  tragedy 
of  another  miscarriage. 

In  1948,  he  won  the  Academy  Award 
for  Hamlet  and  she  laughed:  "Oh  I'm 
so  relieved.  He  used  to  hate  the  sight  of 
my  Oscar  around.  I  had  to  make  up  one 
for  him  as  a  gag." 

In  1950  they  returned  to  Hollywood — 
for  the  first  time  in  a  decade.  She  to  make 
Streetcar  Named  Desire,  he  to  make  Carrie. 
It  was  only  the  opportunity  to  be  there 
at  the  same  time  that  made  them  accept 
the  roles.  Previous  offers  would  have 
meant  separation.  "It's  the  most  beautiful 
thing,"  sighed  a  friend.  "They  hate  to 
be  out  of  each  other's  sight  for  an  hour. 
Their  eyes  still  continue  to  light  at  the 
sight  of  the  other.  Their  hands  still  con- 
tinue to  cling.  Wherever  he  went  he 
carried  with  him  a  miniature  of  his  wife. 
If  she  — asn't  working  with  him,  she  was 
watching  him  work." 

Business  kept  him  in  England  and  Vivien 
arrived  in  Hollywood  a  week  ahead  of  him. 
Only  a  week  but  Vivien  couldn't  sleep. 
•  "I  miss  Larry  so.  England  seems  so  far 
away  when  someone  you  love  is  there — in- 
!  stead  of  beside  you." 

When  their  assignments  were  com- 
pleted, they  took  the  long  way  home  via 
a  slow  freighter.  "It's  our  first  vacation 
in  too  many  years,"  she  sighed  blissfully. 
"Nothing  to  do  except  be  with  one  an- 
;  other.     .  ." 

The  following  year  she  won  her  second 
Oscar  for  Streetcar,  and  the  Oliviers  in- 
vaded Broadway  as  a  team  again  alternat- 
ing the  two  Cleopatras — their  first  ap- 
pearance in  New  York  together  since  their 
ill-fated  Romeo. 

This  time  there  was  nothing  but  praise. 
And  a  reporter  who  paid  several  visits  to 
their  dressing  room  wrote,  "They  seemed 
sincerely  in  love  and  happy  in  their  ca- 
reers. I  have  seldom  seen  a  happier,  bet- 
ter adjusted  couple.  They  addressed  each 
other  lovingly  and  they  spoke  of  their 
home  in  England  with  nostalgic  affection." 

But  a  year  later  Vivien  strayed  alone 
into  the  darkness. 

They  v/ere  offered  co-starring  roles  in 


Elephant  Walk,  but  busy  with  pre-Coro- 
nation  duties,  Olivier  declined.  Vivien  ac- 
cepted, causing  many  to  marvel  that  she 
would  leave  her  love.  The  producer  sought 
reassurance  on  the  state  of  her  health. 

"She's  completely  recovered  from  her 
lung  ailment,"  said  Larry.  "I  believe  a 
new  environment  and  an  interesting  role 
would  do  her  a  world  of  good." 

But  in  Ceylon,  tormented  by  sleepless- 
ness, she'd  wander  at  night  among  the 
ruins  or  sit  till  daybreak  watching  the 
natives  dance.  When  she  was  urged  to 
rest  so  she  would  be  "your  most  beautiful 
self,"  her  reproach  was  "I'm  no  longer 
young.    I  shouldn't  look  like  an  ingenue." 

Larry  flew  out  and  found  no  cause  for 
concern.  Besides,  his  very  appearance 
seemed  to  calm  her.  They  flew  to  Paris 
and  he  put  her  on  the  plane  to  New  York. 
He  promised  to  come  to  Hollywood  as  soon 
as  he  was  free  of  his  commitments. 

But  he  came  a  great  deal  sooner. 

He  came  in  response  to  a  frantic  call 
from  his  friend  David  Niven. 

Vivien  had  been  acting  strangely  in  Hol- 
lywood. Eyes  overbright,  she  chattered 
ceaselessly.  Obviously  weary,  she  dreaded 
solitude,  refused  to  be  left  to  herself  for 
five  quiet  minutes.  She  shocked  people 
by  sitting  for  hours  by  a  radio  with  her 
head  pasted  against  the  loud  speaker,  the 
volume  turned  up  to  a  pitch  that  deafened 
all  others  in  the  room.  Exhausted  after 
work  she'd  spin  into  a  useless  whirl  of 
activity — sweeping,  dusting,  washing  dishes. 

And  on  the  set,  completely  unaware  of 
the  slip,  she  kept  calling  Peter  Finch,  her 
leading  man,  "Larry." 

On  March  9th  she  collapsed  on  the  set 
in  hysteria. 

Put  to  bed  she  moaned  over  and  over 
the  lines  of  the  unhappy  Blanche  Dubois 
of  Streetcar.  She  kept  crying:  "I  want  my 


daughter  to  get  married.  I  want  to  be- 
come a  grandmother." 

This  time  her  husband's  arrival  failed  to 
calm  her.  There  were  moments  when  she 
didn't  even  recognize  him. 

Larry  took  her  home.  Under  sedation 
she  was  borne  on  a  stretcher  to  the  airport. 
Again  hysterical  as  the  sedatives  wore  off, 
she  was  half  carried  onto  a  London  bound 
plane  by  her  husband  and  Danny  Kaye. 

In  Hollywood,  the  breakdown  was  ex- 
plained by  her  intense  panic-reaction  to 
air  travel,  a  panic  attributed  to  three 
near-fatal  accidents  she  had  been  in  in 
the  past.  The  trip  from  India  amounted 
to  being  "scared  to  death  for  72  hours." 

But  the  psychiatrists  in  the  Netherne 
Hospital  in  Surrey  felt  ''iTerently. 

"Your  wife's  fear  of  flying  is  a  substi- 
tute for  a  much  deeper  fear  buried  in  her 
subconscious.  Perhaps  it  is  a  manifesta- 
tion of  the  rejection  she  felt  when  her 
parents  sent  her  to  Enn1and  to  be  edu- 
cated when  she  was  a  child. 

"She's  all  wound  up.  We  will  put  her 
to  sleep  for  three  weeks  and  let  her 
unwind  slowly.  It  will  be  better  if  you 
are  not  with  her  at  this  time." 

Heartbroken,  he  returned  to  Italy — while 
the  press  had  a  field  day  with  its  own 
diagnosis. 

In  firm  black  print  they  recorded  their 
findings;  that  except  for  Vivien's  illness 
the  Olivier  marriage  would  have  been 
called  off. 

The  end  of  a  dream 

To  live  and  work  with  Larry  had  been 
her  dream — and  her  life.  Approaching  the 
age  of  forty  she  saw  the  dream  fading.  For 
years  she  had  taxed  her  frail  body  to  keep 
pace  with  him.  At  thirty-nine  she  felt  her 
forces  fail.  All  lesser  fears  stemmed  from 
the  great,  the  paralyzing  fear.  Losing  vital-  67 


ity,  losing  youth,  would  she  lose  him  too? 
Would  he  be  snatched  away  from  her  by 
a  younger,  more  vital  woman — in  the  same 
way  she  had  taken  him  away  from  his 
wife?  It  had  happened  once.  It  could 
happen  again.  Or  would  he  stick  by  her 
merely  in  an  act  of  decency  and  dull  duty? 
Such  a  prospect  reduced  her  to  quivering 
anguish.  Yet  to  lose  him  meant  losing  the 
will  to  live. 

Peering  into  the  chasm  he  shuddered 
away  from  it.  Under  the  burden  of 
terrible  conflict  she  broke. 

But  within  a  month  she  ha-l  forced  her- 
self back  into  the  world  of  the  living. 

And  within  two  months  she  was  pre- 
paring to  return  to  work. 

According  to  one  of  her  doctors — "Larry 
made  her  re-entry  into  public  life  his 
cardinal  interest." 

And  it  was  true.  Knowing  she  was 
anxious  to  work  with  him  a^ain,  he  agreed 
to  do  Sleeping  Prince — although  in  the 
play  the  male  part  was  not  of  primary 
importance.  Throughout  the  rehearsals 
and  on  opening  night  he  devoted  himself  to 
rebuilding  her  confidence. 

The  show  was  a  smash  hit,  but  in  her 
personal  life,  Vivien  still  felt  a  tremen- 
dous need. 

"If  only  we  were  able  to  have  another 
baby  .  .  .  ?"  she'd  say  over  and  over  again. 

And  two  years  later  she  learned  that  she 
would. 

She  was  working  in  South  Sea  Bubble  at 
the  time — and  Larry,  upon  hearing  the 
news,  insisted  she  take  leave  of  the  show 
immediately. 

But  she  begged  to  stick  it  out  "just  a 
little  longer.  My  doctor  has  pronounced 
me  fit."  Still,  she  kept  her  pregnancy  a 
close  guarded  secret  from  all  but  a  few 
close  friends.  Superstitiously  she  refused 
to  talk  about  it  until  she  was  in  her  fifth 
month,  and  didn't,  until  she  gave  notice 
to  her  producers. 

But  while  in  her  fifth  month  she  and 
Larry  teamed  up  in  an  energetic  song  and 
dance  number  at  the  Palladium  for  the 
Actors'  Orphanage.  She  rehearsed  a  total 
of  thirty-five  hours — and  played  a  per- 
formance of  the  show  each  night. 

On  August  11,  she  took  leave  of  the  play 
"to    be  a  full  time  lady-in-waiting." 

She  was  gloriously,  ecstatically  happy. 
Her  baby  was  due  in  November — around 
the  time  of  her  43rd  birthday. 

On  August  13th— the  pains  started. 

In  agony,  she  was  rushed  to  the  hos- 
pital. 

The  doctor's  worked  feverishly.  They 
barely  managed  to  save  her.  They  couldn't 
save  the  baby. 

Trying  desperately  to  check  his  emotions, 
Olivier  said:  "We  are  bitterly  disap- 
pointed and  terribly  upset.  The  main 
concern  now  is  Vivien.  The  important 
thing  is  that  she  should  make  a  complete 
recovery." 

Then  he  got  into  his  car  and  drove  the 
forty-five  miles  to  his  country  house,  Not- 
ley  Abbey. 

He  walked  into  the  little  yellow  and 
white  room  which  was  to  be  the  nursery. 

And  he  cried  bitterly. 

Over  the  babies  he  had  lost. 

Over  the  love  story  which  he  now  knew 
was  ended. 

After  that,  it  was  all  downhill. 

Reasonable  explanation 

The  following  summer  the  Oliviers,  who 
could  never  bear  to  be  apart,  shocked 
England  by  going  off  on  separate  vaca- 
tions; he  with  his  ex-wife  Jill  Esmond  and 
his  son  to  Scotland,  she  with  Leigh  Hol- 
man  and  their  daughter  to  Italy. 

"Did  this  mean  a  divorce?"  they  were 
asked. 

"Of  course  not.  It's  just  something  we've 
never  done  before.  We  thought  it  would 
be  a  good  idea  to  try  something  new." 


When  she  was  soundly  criticised  by  a 
female  member  of  Parliament,  she  cabled 
tersely:  "Criticism  ill-considered  and  un- 
mannerly. Presence  of  our  daughter  gives 
reasonable  explanation  of  holiday  to  any 
reasonable  person." 

In  the  fall  they  returned  from  their 
individual  holidays  happy  and  refreshed. 

In  the  fall  he  met  Joan  Plowright,  "a 
brilliant  young  actress,"  and  cast  her  as 
his  daughter  in  The  Entertainer. 

The  following  spring  he  and  Joan  came 
to  America  for  the  New  York  run. 

Vivien  stayed  home. 

The  rumors  started  again.  Vivien 
shrugged  them  off.  "People  have  been  say- 
ing for  the  last  seventeen  years  that  Larry 
and  I  would  part.  We  love  each  other.  We 
have  a  happy  married  life." 

The  following  winter  Larry  left  for  a 
six-month  stay  in  Hollywood  for  Spar- 
tacus.  The  night  before  he  left,  he  and 
Vivien  dined  at  a  romantic  Mayfair  res- 
taurant— where  she  had  the  orchestra  play 
tender  love  songs. 

But  she  never  joined  him  in  Hollywood. 

"Can't  leave  my  play." 

Joan,  in  England,  couldn't  leave  her 
play  either  But  she  quietly  left  her  hus- 
band, Roger  Gage. 

When  Larry  returned  from  Hollywood, 
he  went  straight  into  a  small  apartment  in 
Stratford.  Vivien  remained  in  London.  Her 
daughter  Suzanne  had  filled  her  greatest 
wish.  She  had  made  her  a  grandmother. 

But  the  rumors  persisted. 

This  time  Vivien  was  coy.  "I  won't  say 
yes — and  I  won't  say  no." 

Finally  in  January  Olivier  left  for  New 
York  to  direct  Charlton  Heston  in  the 
short-lived  The  Tumbler. 

Vivien  was  to  join  him  in  March  when 
she  was  due  to  start  rehearsals  for  Duel  of 
Angels.  But  they  announced  that  "they  had 
decided  against  sharing  a  flat  or  anything 
of  that  sort  because  we  won't  be  together 
that  much  to  make  it  worthwhile." 

They  weren't  together  at  all. 

He  left  New  York  a  few  days  before  she 
was  due  to  arrive. 


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But  he  sent  her  magnificent  bouquets  of 
flowers  on  the  night  her  play  opened. 

And  she  lined  her  dressing  room  walls 
with  six  photographs  of  "my  husband." 
And  told  everybody,  "If  Larry  comes  here 
June  5th  when  my  play  closes,  IH  see  him 
on  June  5th.  I  miss  him  terribly.  If  you 
live  with  a  man  for  twenty-five  years  you 
don't  stop  missing  him." 

But  secretly  she  knew  he  wasn't  com- 
ing here  on  June  5th,  and  that  he  was  no 
longer  hers  and  that  she  would  go  on 
missing  him. 

Then,  she  told  about  the  letter.  And  his 
request  for  a  divorce  and  her  plans  to  "do 
whatever  Larry  wants."  And  finally  the 
bitter  truth  about  themselves: 

"For  the  past  few  years  our  relationship 
has  been  strictly  professional.  He  has  gone 
his  way  and  I  have  gone  mine.  But  we 
have  always  told  each  other  that  we'd 
serve  our  profession  in  the  best  possible 
way.  And  sometimes  the  price  is  a  deep 
personal  loss.  I  haven't  many  regrets.  Only 
the  things  I've  done  and  said  that  have 
hurt  people." 

Full  circle 

Now  that  her  life  has  come  full  circle, 
perhaps  she  was  thinking  back  twenty- 
five  years.  To  Leigh  Holman.  To  Jill  Es- 
mond. 

Vivien  said  she'd  "do  whatever  Larry 
wishes,"  and  he's  wishing  for  a  divorce, 
but  her  friends  cannot  believe  she  will  re- 
linquish him  in  such  an  un-Leigh  like 
manner. 

"Viv  is  forty-six,"  said  one,  "a  point  in 
life  when  a  woman  as  intense  and  high 
strung  as  she  needs  security  and  tender- 
ness. She  is  still  madly  in  love  with  Larry. 
No  matter  what  has  happened  in  their 
lives,  she  never  fell  out  of  love.  And  she's 
still  Scarlett  O'Hara  and  Scarlett  was  a 
woman  who  fought  for  what  she  wanted. 
Vivien  will  bend  every  effort  to  persuade 
her  Larry  to  reconsider." 

Vivien  did  bend  every  effort. 

When  her  play  closed  she  flew  back  to 
London  and  made  an  appointment  to  meet 
with  her  husband  at  the  theater,  where  he 
was  playing 

But  when  she  arrived — ten  minutes 
early,  he  was  gone. 

There  was  only  a  note  saying  he  thought 
it  would  be  better  "if  we  don't  see  each 
other  at  the  time." 

Desperate,  she  wrote  to  Joan  Plowright, 
asking  for  an  opportunity  to  see  her,  talk 
to  her. 

Joan  never  answered  the  letter. 

Maybe  because  she  doesn't  dare  face  Vi- 
vien— or  maybe  because  as  it  is  rumored, 
she  doesn't  want  to  become  too  involved 
in  the  Oliviers'  problems  because  she's 
gotten  cold  feet  about  becoming  the  next 
lady  Olivier. 

In  England  Vivien  met  only  with  silence: 
and  her  lawyers — until  just  a  few  days 
before  she  was  to  return  to  America, 
Olivier  granted  his  wife  an  interview  in 
his  Eaton  Square  apartment.  When  she  left 
the  country  there  was  still  no  official  an- 
nouncement of  a  divorce.  "I'll  see  Larry  in 
September  when  he  comes  to  America. 
We'll  discuss  our  problems  further  then,"  , 
was  all  she  would  say. 

But  she  still  hopes  to  get  her  man  back. 

How? 

She  herself  doesn't  quite  know.  She's 
too  upset  to  think  about  it. 

Perhaps,  in  her  room  late  at  night,  un- 
able to  sleep,  she  finds  her  comfort  in  the 
lines  of  a  script  she  read  long,  long  ago: 

"I  won't  think  of  it  now.  I'll  go  crazy  if 
I  think  about  losing  him  now.  But  I  can't 
let  him  go.  There  must  be  some  way. 

"I'll  think  about  it  tomorrow.  For  tomor- 
row is  another  day."  END 

Sir  Laurence  stars  in  Universal-Interna- 
tional's Spartacus. 


r;  ravers.  God 
Father,  and  I 
to  someone  5 
ask  for  imrx 


Bur  so: 


I  Know  There  Are  Miracles 


(Continued  from  page  39) 

the  tears  are  some  kind  or  an  indication 
that  the  world  needs  our  prayers. 

Are  there  other  ~  signs"  or  ~ miracles" 
that  you've  heard  about.  Annette? 

Of  course.  there"s  the  great  miracle  with 
Samt  Eeirraderie  when,  tie  Blessed  Tirgm 
appeared  to  her  at  Lourdes  and  told 
her  to  erect  a  shrine  for  the  ailing.  And 
there  are  all  the  great  miracles  in  the 
Bible. 

But  FI1  tell  you  something  I  saw  for 
myself.  Jimmy  Dodd,  who  was  one  ox  the 
Mouseketeers.  had  a  very  rare  disease.  The 
doctors  all  said  it  was  incurable.  Anil — I 
hate  to  say  this; — just  about  everybody 
gave  up  hope  and  figured  he  had  very 
little  time  to  live.  I  can  t  remember  the 
name  of  the  disease.  It  had  some  long 
scientific  name.  But  when  he  was  finally 
sent  home  from  the  hospital.  o2Z  of  his 
friends  and  relatives  starrer  praying.  I 
went  to  church  and  lit  candles  for  Jimmy 
and  prayed  to  the  saints  and  the  Blessed 
Yirain  to  look  after  him  and  make  him 
wen- 
Believe  it  or  not.  Jimmy  became  better 
and.  after  a  while,  he  was  cured! 
We  were  all  so  happy. 
Now.  how  did  Jimmy  get  well?  The 
doctors  at  the  hospital  had  all  given  up 
hope.  So  you  can't  say  medicine  saved 
him. 

Prayer  saver  him 

And  you  know  something?  Jimmy 
couldn't  believe  what  happened  to  him  He 
was  so  weak  and  sick  that  when  he 
started  to  get  well  it  was  as  if  he  had 
::me  back  from  the  rear  .'"ell.  Jimmy's 
a  very  devout  Presbyterian  And  now 
he's  turned  tt  religrrn  icr  Iris  life's 
i  .  -  dedicating  his  life  :o  :he  church  He 
preaches  with  the  First  Christian  Grout 
ir.  i  which  Jane  Russell  starrer 

with  Roy  Rogers).  I've  gone  to  his  meet- 
ings. We  all  listen  to  Jimmy  give  an 
inspiring  talk,  and  then  we  all  pray  for 
the  world's  ills  to  be  cured.  It's  such  a 
good  feeling,  praying  together  with 
friends. 

One  person  that  Jimmy's  got  in  his 
group  now — and  I  hope  religion  helps  her 
see  the  light — is  Beverly  Aadland. 

Any  other  miracles  that  you  know  of. 
Annette? 

WeLL  my  father  was  very  sick  a  while 
back.  He  had  diabetes,  and  the  doctors 
said  his  case  was  bad.  My  mother  was 
very  depressed  about  Daddy's  being  so 
sick.  So  we  all  prayed.  I  prayed  to  the 
Infant  of  Prague,  and  I  made  novenas 
regularly.  My  mother  and  brothers  did. 
too.  And  do  you  know,  my  father  was 
cured! 

Then  mere  was  :he  lime  1  her  my  ron- 
sils  out.     When  I  came  home  from  the 

:;:::a_  I  starrer  hemorrhaging  in  the 
middle  of  the  night.  I  remember  I  heard 
my  mother  strearrur.g.  and  I  saw  my 
pillow  soaked  with  blood.  They  rushed  me 
to  the  hospital  to  stop  the  bleeding,  and 
then  I  came  home,  and  I  was  so  weak  I 
didn't  think  Fd  ever  be  able  to  open  my 
eyes  again. 

When  I  came  out  of  that  deep  sleep,  the 
first  thing  I  saw  was  the  wooden  crucifix 
on  the  wall  with  the  Blessed  Saviour 
looking  at  me. 

I  looked  at  the  Blessed  Saviour  and 
prayed,  and  I  heard  him  comfort  me.  I 
heard  hrm  say.  "I  am  with  you  .  . 

And  from  then  on.  I  didn't  worry.  I  just 
prayed,  and  I  became  well. 

How  do  you  pray,  Annette? 

I  pray  all  the  time. 

I  always  thank  the  Good  Lord  for  letting 


nakes  your  lashes  look 
long  as  they  really  are! 


PERMANENT  DARKEN E R 
FOR  LASHES  AND  BROWS 


But  I  told  myself  this  was  God's  wiu. 
And  it  was  good  for  me.  I  learned  a  lot 
about  surging  before  adult  audiences. 

Hour  ofter~do  you  go  to  church,  Annette? 

Every  Sunday,  and  on  many  holy  days. 
1  like  t:  stop  in  e  church  and  prey  when- 
ever I  have  a  moment.  You  can  always 
find  one  or  two  minutes  to  say  a  short 
prayer  and  to  pause  for  God's  blessing. 
People  who  say  they  don't  have  time  for 
church  make  me  mad.  Church  doesn't 
remand  much  time.  It  ;ust  remands  a  little 
thought.  And  if  you  don't  think  about  it, 
then  you  won't  go  and  pray. 

"■"hen  I'm  home  in  California,  we  ah  go 
as  a  family  to  St.  Cyril's  Catholic  Church 
in  Encino.  It's  nice  to  go  with  your  folks 
to  church  on  Sunday,  but  there  are  certain 
times,  too.  when  it's  really  best  to  pray 
alone. 

Some  people  beliece  religion  is  a  private 
matter.  If  your  fans  want  to  know  about 
your  faith,  does  this  bother  uou? 

No. 

For  some  folks  perhaps,  privacy  is 
important. 

But  I  like  to  share  my  feelings  about 
God  with  my  friends.  Some  of  my  fans 
send  me  religious  medals  that  have  been 
blessed  by  them  bishops  or  priests,  and  I 
think  that's  so  wonderful  of  them  to  think 
of  me. 

One  fan  sent  me  two  bottles  of  holy 
water  from  the  holy  springs  in  France, 
and  I  gave  one   of  the  bottles  to  Kevin 


my  cresser.  At  : 
of  it  on  my  fore 
sign  of  the  cross 
tell  you 


put  a  utt_e 
I  make  the 


no  matter  how  often  I  1 
runs  out! 

I  don't  believe  that  it's 
my  religion  on  anyone  els 
talking  about  my  feelings 
the  way  I  worship,  but  I 
should  be  free  to  wo: 
own  way.  I  love  my  re! 
anyone  who  loves  the 
though,  to  see  some 
who  have  no  faith.  Be 
without  His  spirit  in  y 


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new  movies 

{Continued  from  page  8) 


ALL  THE  YOUNG  MEN 


in  the  Korean  War 


Alan  Ladd 
Sidney  Poitier 
James  Darren 
Glenn  Corbett 

Mort  Sahl 


■  They  are  in  Korea,  all  of  them,  including  ex- 
heavyweight  champ  Ingemar  Johansson.  In 
case  you  didn't  know  it  before,  war  is  hell, 
snow  is  cold  and  the  Marines  are  tough. 
Twelve  of  them  have  to  hold  a  farmhouse 
until  the  main  body  of  troops  catches  up  to 
them.  Eleven  of  these  men  would  like  to  go 
meet  the  main  body  but  Sidney  Poitier,  who 
has  been  placed  in  command  by  their  now 
dead  lieutenant,  won't  budge.  Since  Sidney  is 
Negro  some  extra  tension  and  resentment  are 
felt,  particularly  by  southerner  Paul  Richards. 
Alan  Ladd's  mad  because  he's  an  oldtimer 
who  expected  to  take  command.  The  nine 
others  generally  do  what  they're  told.  Mort 
Sahl,  who  delivers  a  wryly  comic  soliloquy, 
and  James  Darren,  who  sings  a  song,  are  among 
those  others.  Holding  the  farmhouse  against 
the  enemy  horde  takes  some  doing,  but  that's 
not  all  the  drama.  Poitier  is  forced  to  give  a 
blood  transfusion  to  one  of  the  men — a  shock- 
ing experience  to  the  Southern  "gentleman," 
and  an  honest  attempt  to  save  this  film  from 
complete  triteness. — Columbia. 


RECOMMENDED  MOVIES: 


THE  APARTMENT  (United  Artists):  The  comedy 
in  The  Apartment  is  pretty  wry.  Jack  Lemmon,  see, 
works  for  an  insurance  company.  His  system  for  get- 
ting ahead  is  to  lend  his  bachelor  apartment  to  the 
older  (and  married)  men  in  the  company,  as  a  place 
to  meet  their  girlfriends.  His  boss  (Fred  MacMur- 
ray)  has  a  girl  (Shirley  MacLaine)  who  is  secretly 
loved  by  Jack,  who  doesn't  know  about  Shirley  and 
Fred.  Well,  the  laughs  are  there  but  the  humor  is 
nevertheless  mixed  with  the  unhappy  tension  of  a 
part  of  big-city  life. 


STRANGERS  WHEN  WE  MEET  (Columbia):  In 
a  suburban  community  of  young-marrieds,  Kim 
Novak  and  Kirk  Douglas  find  themselves  caught  up 
in  an  unexpected  love-affair.  Architect  Kirk  has  a 
wife,  Barbara  Rush,  and  a  commission  from  Don 
Juan-type  author  Ernie  Kovacs  to  build  a  house: 
everything  should  be  perfect  except  that  Kim  and 
Kirk  have  fantasies  that  this  new  house  is  theirs.  The 
solution  of  these  triangles  comes  with  the  finishing  of 
the  house.  Is  the  romance  also  over?  Go  see. 


FROM  THE  TERRACE  (20th-Fox) :  Returning 
soldier  Paul  Newman  has  an  alcoholic  mother  (Myrna 
Loy),  and  unloving  father  (Leon  Ames),  and  big 
ideas  about  what  he  should  now  do  with  his  life. 
Ambition  brings  about  a  marriage  with  wealthy 
Joanne  Woodward  and  destroys  it.  Joanne's  old  boy- 
friend and  Paul's  new  girlfriend  help  raise  to  fever 
pitch  the  burning  question  this  film  presents — shall 
a  man  choose  love  or  money? 

THE  SUBTERRANEANS  (MGM) :  The  'beatniks' 
of  the  world  (well,  anyway,  the  West  Coast)  gather 
in  San  Francisco  to  Live.  Create,  Suffer  (though 
mostly  it's  the  last).  Among  their  number  are  George 
Peppard.  Leslie  Caron,  Janice  Rule  and  Roddy  Mc- 
Dowall.  It's  a  complicated  though  interesting  plot. 


My  God,  Will  I  End  Up  a  Spinster? 


(Continued  from  page  25) 

You  know  how  to  model,  you  know  how  to 
pose.  But  it's  got  to  be  a  nude.  And  if  I'm 
going  to  do  it  at  all,  I  want  to  do  it  soon." 

"Why  soon?"  asked  Kim. 

"Because,"  replied  the  artist,  "and  I'm 
going  to  give  it  to  you  straight — you  are 
not  married  so  there's  no  husband  to  ob- 
ject. And  you  will  not  be  beautiful  for- 
ever. Do  you  understand?" 

Kim  stood  up  and  walked  to  the  great 
north  window  that  slanted  into  the  studio. 
She  stared  at  the  busy  city  streets  below. 

"You  mean  my  time  is  short?"  she  said, 
not  looking  at  him. 

"Every  woman's  time  is  short,"  said  the 
sculptor;  "it  is  her  proudest  moment.  But 
it  is  not  hers.  It  must  he  given  to  the  man 
she  loves.  If  she  tries  to  keep  it  to  herself 
it  will  destroy  her.  And  she  will  be  lost 
as  a  woman  forever." 

Kim  nodded  her  head,  still  staring. 

Then  suddenly,  without  warning,  she 
turned,  grabbed  her  coat  and  ran  out  the 
door. 

The  sculptor  watched  her  exit  in  silence. 
He  knew  what  he  had  said  was  true.  He 
knew,  too,  that  his  words  had  driven  deep 
into  Kim's  heart.  .  .  . 

No  running  away 

As  Kim  drove  home  one  phrase  of  the 
sculptor's  kept  repeating  itself  over  and 
over  in  her  mind.  "No  husband  ...  no 
husband  .  .    no  husband.  .  .  ." 

There  was  no  running  away  from  the 
truth. 

It  wasn't  the  first  time  Kim  had  pondered 
the  question.  "My  God,  will  I  end  up  a 
spinster?" 

Four  months  ago  the  world  would  have 
bet  that  today  Kim  Novak  would  be  Mrs. 
Richard  Quine.  Instead  it  was  all  over  with 
Dick.  Or  was  it?  Kim  didn't  know.  Even 
after  three  weeks  in  a  hospital  because  of 


a  mysterious  ailment  the  doctors  call  hepa- 
titis, Kim  didn't  know.  And  all  that  time 
thinking  hadn't  helped. 

Once  more,  following  the  pattern  of 
anguish  that  had  repeated  itself  endlessly 
in  her  life,  Kim  was  again  without  a  man. 

Is  it  Kim's  fault  that  she  is  not  married? 

Women  think  it  must  be. 

One  Hollywood  actress,  not  nearly  as 
beautiful  as  Kim,  but  married  to  a  man 
she  loves  and  the  mother  of  three  lovely 
children,  comments: 

"Kim  suffers  the  curse  of  all  beautiful 
women.  She  prizes  her  beauty  above  all 
else.  As  an  adult  female  she  has  never  had 
to  compete  with  other  women.  We  who 
are  less  than  gorgeous  have  had  to  beguile 
a  man,  deliberately  attract  him,  trap  him 
in  a  nice  way,  let  him  see  or  understand 
that  the  real  and  lasting  beauty  in  a  woman 
is  her  faith,  her  love  and  her  respect. 

"It  is  what  every  woman  should  know. 
That  beauty  can  attract  a  man  but  it  can- 
not hold  him." 

Most  of  the  men  who  have  romanced 
Kim  in  the  last  ten  years  agree. 

One  actor  says  that:  "Kim's  beauty  is 
overpowering.  Close  to  it  you  cannot  think, 
you  cannot  be  aware  of  anything  but  her 
loveliness.  What  she  says  means  nothing. 
What  she  thinks  is  a  complete  mystery. 
You  are  concerned  only  with  the  shape  of 
her  lips,  the  irresistible  moistness  of  her 
eyes,  the  grace  and  movement  of  that  beau- 
tiful body.  And  when  you  leave  her  all 
you  can  do  is  shake  your  head,  as  if  some- 
one had  slugged  you,  and  say  to  yourself. 
'What  happened?  Where  am  I?'  You  re- 
member Kim  as  a  dream  and  everyone 
knows  that  dreams  don't  come  true — not 
that  kind  of  dream." 

Kim  may  not  enjoy  her  reoutation  as  a 
sexpot,  ard  it  may  be  unfair,  but  it's  Kim's 
own  fault  she  earned  it. 


Some  time  ago  Kim.  in  a  moment  of 
independence,  based  perhaps  on  the  wor- 
ship that  is  given  her  beauty,  told  a  friend 
that: 

"I  don't  believe  I'll  ever  marry.  I  love 
the  excitement  of  falling  in  love.  You  can't 
get  that  kind  of  fun  with  a  husband." 

And,  in  a  moment  of  extreme  frankness, 
Kim  is  also  reported  to  have  admitted  that 
Sammy  Davis,  Jr.,  was  the  "one  and  only 
man"  who  ever  really  pleased  and  amused 
her. 

Kim  denies  this  memory  of  Sammy,  but 
other  beautiful  women  have  echoed  similar 
sentiments. 

Her  mother  warned  her 

One  insider  declares  that  Kim's  refusal 
to  get  married  goes  back  to  her  childhood. 

"Kim  has  always  felt  that  her  mother 
favored  her  older  sister,  Arlene.  When  the 
girls  were  in  their  teens,  Arlene  was  al- 
lowed to  wear  her  hair  long  and  arranged 
in  various  styles  of  the  day.  But  Kim  says 
her  mother  made  her  wear  her  hair  one 
way  and  no  other.  As  a  result  Kim  used 
to  restyle  her  hair  after  she  left  the  house 
and  put  it  back  before  she  returned.  Her 
mother  perhaps  because  she  could  see 
what  was  coming,  had  always  warned  Kim 
to  get  married  early  and  have  children. 
Kim  still  doesn't  like  being  told  what 
to  do." 

At  another  time  in  her  late  teens,  Kim's 
stable  of  boyfriends  was  so  great  that  the 
numbers  alarmed  her  grandmother. 

"You  must  be  careful,  Kim,"  she  said. 
"I  tell  you  that  for  every  girl  there  are 
just  so  many  boys.  You  are  using  them  up 
too  fast." 

After  her  quota  of  boys  was  exhausted, 
however,  Kim,  without  hesitation,  began  to 
work  on  her  allotment  of  men.  In  Holly- 
wood she  began  with  theater-chain  owner, 
Mac  Krim.  Mac  proposed  often.  Kim  said 
"No,"  just  as  frequently.  After  that  ro- 
mance died  came  Count  Mario  Bandini; 
Frank  Sinatra,  John  Ireland,  Sammy  Davis, 
Jr.,  Jorge  Guinle,  Gen.  Rafael  Trujillo,  Jr. 
and  director  Richard  Quine. 

There  were  lesser  loves,  but  these  are 
the  ones  Kim  seems  to  remember. 

Despite  the  fantastic  number  of  hand- 
some men  with  whom  Kim  has  had  ro- 
mances, even  those  who  know  her  best 
insist  that  she  has  never  been  in  love. 

And  though  it  is  not  generally  known, 
Kim  does  a  beautiful  job  of  concealing  the 
fact  that  until  now  her  life  as  a  woman 
has  been  short-changed.  Kim  just  doesn't 
know  whether  she's  ever  been  in  love.  The 
confusion,  when  she  is  alone,  petrifies  her. 

At  a  party  recently  Kim  was  feeling  de- 
pressed. The  public  did  not  yet  know  that 
her  "almost  certain"  marriage  to  Dick 
Quine  had  faded  miserably.  But  it  was 
obvious  to  her  friends  that  she  was  suffer- 
ing the  tormentful  remorse  of  that  "end-of- 
a-romance"  hangover. 

Someone  brought  up  the  subject  of  love. 
Definitions  of  the  grand  passion  were  of- 
fered. Finally,  with  an  air  of  expectation, 
one  of  the  men  stared  straight  at  Kim  and 
said,  "Let's  hear  what  the  Golden  Girl  has 
to  say  about  love." 

Kim's  lips  puckered  at  the  corners  in  a 
faint  smile.    She  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"Don't  ask  me,"  she  said.  "I  don't  know 
what  love  is.  I  like  to  think  that  it  is 
happiness  without  end.  It  hasn't  happened 
to  me.  I  haven't  seen  it  happen  to  anyone 
else.  God  knows  I  thought  I  was  in  love 
with  Mac.  Maybe  I  was.  But  neither  of  us 
know  where  it  went.  We'd  be  ecstatic  in 
each  other's  company.  Then  from  out  of 
nowhere  we'd  be  arguing  and  I'd  slide 
right  down  the  chute  to  misery  street.  So 
would  he.  Did  we  leave  love  or  did  it 
leave  us? 

"Sometimes  I  think  love  is  all  physical. 
Maybe  it's  just  two  people  simply  satisfy- 


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ing  each  other's  needs,  for  warmth,  comfort. 

"It  sounds  crazy,  but  I  think  you  must 
learn  to  love  first  and  then  avoid,  at  all 
possible  costs,  any  attempts  to  define  it. 

"Do  you  all  remember  that  advertising 
slogan,  'It's  fun  to  be  fooled  but  it's  more 
fun  to  know?'  It  isn't. 

"But  as  long  as  you  realize  deep  down 
inside  what  you're  doing,  it's  all  right. 

"It's  a  game.  You're  fooling  yourself, 
but  you  aren't.  You  know? 

"How  many  women  have  asked  them- 
selves, 'Are  you  really  in  love  with  this 
man?'  How  much  can  you  give  him  until 
you  haven't  any  more  to  give?  What's 
more  important — your  loving  him  or  his 
loving  you?  Those  questions  never  get 
answered  until  it's  too  late. 

"That's  why  I  have  the  jitters  about 
marriage.  I  keep  thinking  I  need  more 
time,  more  wisdom,  maybe  even  more  ex- 
perience, before  I  can  decide  on  the  man 
I  want  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  Maybe  I 
just  don't  have  the  courage." 

But  there  are  other  reasons. 

The  consequences  of  a  mistake 

Because  of  the  romances  she  has  had 
with  men  and  the  headlined  notoriety  at- 
tending them,  the  public  overlooks  one 
fact  in  Kim's  life  that  is  much  more  power- 
ful and  emphatic  than  is  suspected.  Kim  is 
a  church-going  Catholic.  Once  she  has 
taken  a  husband,  divorce  is  almost  out  of 
the  question.  Not  that  she  could  not  obtain 
one.  But  her  childhood  faith  in  God  and 
the  precepts  of  her  religion  are  now  deep 
and  abiding  spiritual  convictions.  She 
dreads  the  irrevocable  consequences  of 
making  a  mistake. 

"But,  Kim,"  one  of  the  men  insisted,  "it's 
hard  to  believe  that  you  really  want  a 
husband.  Wouldn't  it  be  more  accurate  to 
say  that  you  are  more  interested  in 
boyfriends?" 

"That,"  said  Kim,  with  a  testy  timbre,  "is 
ridiculous.  You  don't  know  how  much  I 
want  to  get  married.  I  want  children,  I 
want  a  home.  But  how  the  devil  can  you 


have  any  of  that  when  you  are  not  in  love. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  it  is  a  simple 
matter  for  a  woman  to  develop  a  liking 
for  a  man.  But  I'm  not  so  sure  it's  so  simple 
to  love  him." 

One  friend  claims  the  real  problem  is 
one  Kim  refuses  to  admit. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  the  big  gap  in  Kim's 
life  is,"  said  the  acquaintance.  "It  is  this. 
Kim  has  never  learned  anything  from 
other  women.  All  she  knows  about  love 
and  life  has  come  from  the  men  in  her 
past.  She  is  not  really  close  to  any  female 
friend  that  I  know  of.  So  she  must  rely 
on  her  beauty,  her  natural  attraction  for 
men,  which,  when  you  stop  to  think  of  it 
is  not  of  her  making.  She  was  born  with 
the  chemicals.  And  up  to  a  point  that  can 
be  very  successful.  But  sooner  or  later 
Kim  will  have  to  admit  that  although  she 
knows  a  great  deal  about  men  she  knows 
nothing  about  women  except  what  she 
knows  about  herself.  And  that  just  might 
not  be  enough." 

Not  long  after  hearing  this  unusual  ob- 
servation I  asked  Kim  if  it  was  true.  Had 
she  really  isolated  herself  from  the  com- 
fort and  consolation  of  other  women? 

She  toyed  with  the  question  for  a 
moment. 

Then  with  a  graceful  shrug,  she  said: 

"I've  never  thought  about  it  very  much. 
Now  that  I  think  of  it,  it  may  have  started 
back  in  school.  I  did  avoid  other  girls.  I 
can  remember  being  asked  to  parties,  to 
club  meetings,  to  sororities.  I  always  re- 
fused. I  just  assumed  they  were  looking 
for  a  new  character. 

"I  was  gawky  and  round-shouldered  and 
too  tall  for  a  girl.  And  I  knew  that  the 
girl  groups  all  had  characters.  You  know, 
a  tall  one,  a  fat  one.  They  are  always  the 
butt  of  the  jokes,  the  oddballs.  They're 
different.  I  think  their  presence  gives 
other  girls  a  feeling  of  superiority. 

"I'm  sure  that's  why  I  stayed  to  myself. 
Yes,  I  was  alone  and  loneliness  to  me  was 
torment,  an  inside  anguish  that  found  no 
outlet.  It  grows  and  after  a  while  becomes  71 


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almost  impossible  to  endure.  Oh,  how  I 
cry  for  lonely  people. 

"I  used  to  sit  in  my  room  and  look  out 
the  window.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I 
realized  that  the  world  wasn't  against  me. 
In  my  own  girlish,  too-sensitive  way  I  had 
turned  against  my  world. 

"I  was  wrong,  but  at  the  time  I  was  sure 
that  the  others  were  just  waiting  to  laugh 
at  me  to  make  me  even  more  miserable 
than  I  was." 

Time  is  running  out 

Kim's  father,  Joseph  Novak,  has  always 
said  that  Kim  would  marry  when  she  was 
thirty.  "She  wants  to  be  sure  she  will 
never  have  to  change  her  mind,"  says  Mr. 
Novak.  "She  has  told  me  many  times, 
'Daddy,  don't  worry.  You  will  never  see 
me  in  a  court  of  divorce.  When  I  marry 
it  will  be  for  keeps,  like  you  and  Mom.' 
That  was  my  daughter  speaking  and  I 
believe  her." 

Of  late,  however,  with  time  running  out. 
Kim  is  shaken  by  the  failure  of  her  ro- 
mance with  Quine  and  frightened  perhaps 
by  the  lately -learned  knowledge  that 
beauty  is  no  guarantee  of  love  and  mar- 


riage and  a  baby  carriage.  Kim  has  lapsed 
into  lengthy  moods  of  depression  and  dis- 
quiet. She  is  twenty-nine. 

Kim  insists  that  regardless  of  the  symp- 
toms she  is  certainly  in  no  panic  for  a  man. 

"I  promised  myself  a  long  time  ago,"  she 
told  me,  "that  I  would  make  something  of 
myself  before  I  took  a  husband.  That  I 
would  have  a  career,  do  the  best  I  could 
for  a  while  and  be  a  fine  actress. 

"When  the  time  comes,  and  I  admit  it  is 
not  far  off,  1  will  marry  and  try  to  be  a 
good  wife — and  a  good  woman.  But  I  have 
to  take  my  time." 

But  the  girl  born  Marilyn  Pauline  Novak 
must  heed  the  advice  of  a  man  who  really 
understands  that  mortal  idols  have  feet 
of  clay. 

"Every  woman's  time  is  short,"  said  the 
sculptor,  "it  is  her  proudest  moment.  But 
it  is  not  hers.  It  must  be  given  to  the 
man  she  loves.  If  she  tries  to  keep  it  to 
herself  it  will  destroy  her.  And  she  will 
be  lost  as  a  woman  forever."  end 


Kim  stars  now  in  Columbia's  Strangers 
When-  We  Meet. 


Shirley  MacLaine's  Marriage 


(Continued  from  page  23) 

were  sleepily  drooping,  closing  down  tight. 

The  child  shivered  slightly  and  rested 
her  head  on  her  mother's  lap.  A  bunch  of 
gaily  colored  post  cards  fell  from  her 
hands,  and  Shirley  smiled,  remembering 
how  she  had  bought  a  number  of  cards  to 
keep  her  active  little  child  occupied.  It 
didn't  take  much  to  make  three  and  a  half 
year  old  Sachie  happy.  She  was  such  a 
joyous  little  thing,  with  her  mother's  blue 
eyes,  turned-up  nose  and  pixie  style  red 
hair. 

Shirley  unzipped  the  hood  from  her 
own  coat  and  wrapped  it  around  Sachie's 
legs.  She  hadn't  realized  there  would 
be  this  long,  chilly  wait.  Why  did  the 
waiting  room  look  so  lonely  at  this  hour 
of  the  morning?  The  hands  of  the  big  clock 
said  1:45.  The  lights  were  bright,  pick- 
ing up  the  patient  faces  in  the  room.  Out- 
side it  was  black  and  raining,  the  drizzle 
falling  in  steady,  blue  lines.  She  looked 
at  the  sleeping  face  of  her  child.  She  should 
be  in  her  own  nice,  warm  bed  in  Califor- 
nia. But  the  child,  not  much  more  than 
a  baby,  was  on  an  important  mission.  .  .  . 

"Wake  up,"  Shirley  said  some  time  later, 
shaking  the  child  gently.  "Time  to  get 
up,  Sachie.    It's  here.    Your  plane." 

Sachie  rubbed  her  eyes  and  placed  her 
hand  in  her  mother's.  They  walked  out 
into  the  black,  wet  night  and  made  a  dash 
for  the  ramp.  Inside  the  plane,  Shirley 
settled  the  child;  took  the  arm  rest  off  the 
center  of  the  double  seat  so  that  she 
could  sleep  in  the  two  seats.  There  were 
only  a  few  minutes  left  before  take-off. 
Shirley  bent  down  and  kissed  Sachie.  The 
child  said,  "Don't  worry,  Mommy.  I'll  be 
all  right."  Shirley  smiled  very  brightly 
and  walked  toward  the  door.  Suddenly, 
she  turned  and  ran  back  to  her  child.  She 
lifted  her  and  hugged  her. 

"I  almost  forgot — oh,  my  darling,  I  al- 
most forgot.  Merry  Christmas.  Merry, 
Merry  Christmas."    And  ran  out. 

She  stood  in  the  blackness  and  watched 
the  huge  airliner  fly  into  the  skies  and 
take  her  little  girl  off  to  Japan. 

Answer  to  a  mystery 

Why  did  Shirley  MacLaine,  who  abso- 
lutely adores  her  little  girl,  send  her  six 
thousand  miles  away  at  Christmas  time 
last  year — the  one  time  of  all  the  year 


mothers  want  most  of  all  to  be  with  their 
children? 

The  answer  to  that  question  is  the  an- 
swer to  the  mystery  of  Shirley.  People 
constantly  tell  her  that  they  cannot  un- 
derstand her  strange  marriage  to  Steve 
Parker.  They  can't  believe  that  these  two 
— who  are  often  parted  by  those  same  6.000 
miles — can  stay  in  love  with  each  other. 

Shirley  sent  their  beloved  child  to 
Steve  because  he  was  sick  with  malaria 
and  needed  Sachie  even  more  than  she 
did.  Busy  at  work  in  The  Apartment. 
Shirley  couldn't  go. 

It  was  a  miserable  Christmas  for  Shirley. 
She  tried  to  be  gay  in  the  midst  of  the 
gaiety,  but  her  heart  was  torn  with  long- 
ing for  her  little  girl  and  for  Steve.  As 
New  Year's  Eve  approached  she  dreaded 
seeing  the  New  Year  in  without  the  com- 
fort of  Sachie's  presence.  She  spent 
New  Year's  Eve  at  a  party  at  Frank 
Sinatra's  home  and  tried  to  laugh  it  up. 

But  if  Shirley  was  torn  between  the 
desire  to  be  with  Sachie  and  the  desire  to 
give  happiness  to  Steve,  what  about  little 
Sachie? 

What  sort  of  a  fife  is  it  for  a  little  girl 
to  be  with  her  mother  part  of  the  time — 
to  make  long,  strange  trips  to  Japan  at 
other  times — and  seldom  to  have  the  joy 
most  little  girls  experience  of  having 
her  parents  together  with  her?  Sachie 
sees  her  parents  together  only  about  six 
weeks  out  of  the  year.  Usually,  Mommy  is 
in  Hollywood  making  pictures;  Daddy  in 
Japan  producing  movies  and  shows,  and 
Sachie  shuttles  back  and  forth. 

Shirley  can't  find  any  other  solution  to 
their  problem.  "We  both  want  her." 
Shirley  told  me.  '  So  we  have  to  divide 
her.  Sachie  loves  Japan  and  loves  Holly- 
wood. She  doesn't  see  anything  strange 
in  her  existence." 

Only  a  few  months  ago  they  were  in 
Japan  during  one  of  those  infrequent  times 
when  all  three  could  be  together  as  a 
family.  But  the  reason  was  a  sad  one. 
Shirley  noticed  that  Steve  sounded  very 
weak  when  he  phoned  her  one  evening. 
Worried,  she  asked  him  what  was  wrong. 
Finally  he  admitted  he'd  been  stricken 
with  hepatitis.  "I'm  going  to  be  sent  to  the 
hospital  soon,"  he  said,  and  Shirley  could 
hear  the  fear  and  loneliness  in  his  voice. 


■  iaumey  naa  some  unexpected  tune  on 
because  of  the  actors'  strike,  and  she  told 
him,  "I'm  going  to  take  the  first  plane  that 
leaves  for  Japan  this  week.  We'll  see 
you  soon." 

Sachie  looked  a  little  confused,  then 
smiled  when  they  got  off  at  the  Haneda 
Airport  in  Tokyo.  "I  came  here  before. 
Mommy,  but  all  alone.  It's  nicer  with 
you."  The  two  of  them  drove  directly 
to  the  Yamate  Hospital  in  Yokohama  to 
see  Steve.  With  a  high  fever.  Steve  looked 
gaunt  and  yellow.  Sachie  came  close  to 
the  bed  and  said.  "Daddy,  you've  been 
away  so  long.  Why  didn't  you  come  back, 
Daddy?" 

He  stroked  her  hand  and  said,  "I 
couldn't.  Sachie.  I  had  to  work  here  in 
Japan.  Your  mother  can  tell  you  all 
about  it." 

Together — but  not  quite 

Shirley  and  Sachie  went  back  to  their 
Japanese  home,  where,  in  a  suburban  sec- 
tion outside  of  Tokyo  called  Yoyogi.  Sachie 
had  been  many  times  without  Shirley.  But 
it  was  exciting  to  have  her  mother  with 


Look  for  Liz 
and  her  daughter 
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MODERN  SCREEN 
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On  Sale  September  6 


her.  Through  the  irony  of  circumstances, 
even  though  both  parents  wanted  to  be 
with  her,  she  could  only  see  Daddy  at  rare 
intervals  because  he  was  in  the  hospital, 
and  Mommy  only  in  the  evening  when  she 
returned  from  the  hospital  each  day. 

To  keep  the  child  from  being  lonely. 
Shirley  enrolled  Sachie  in  a  Japanese 
nursery  school.  One  day,  the  little  in- 
structor from  the  school  padded  up  to 
the  house  and  said  to  Shirley.  "You  spend- 
ing so  much  money  for  child  to  go  to 
school,  why  doesn't  she  take  up  violin 
there,  all  for  same  good  money?" 

Shirley  could  hardly  suppress  her  smile. 
The  fee  at  the  school  was  SI. 75  a  month. 
But  the  idea  of  giving  Sachie  violin 
lessons  appealed  to  her.  Practicing  each 
day  on  the  violin  would  help  Sachie  for- 
get that  she  couldn't  see  much  of  her 
parents.  But  in  spite  of  the  violin.  Sachie 
missed  her  daddy.  She  remembered  other 
visits  to  Japan,  when  he  had  been  able 
to  play  with  her  and  had  taken  her  on 
visits  all  over  Tokyo. 

The  actors'  strike  was  settled,  and  Shirley 
had  to  go  back  to  Hollywood  and  work 
again.  Originally,  she  had  planned  to 
take  Sachie  back  with  her.  But  the  child 
had  seen  practically  nothing  of  her  father 
during  this  visit.  Shirley  recalled  her 
lonely  Christmas  without  Sachie.  But  she 
thought,  also,  of  Steve  coming  home  from 
the  hospital,  weak  and  depressed,  with- 
out any  one  of  his  loved  ones  there.  Shirley 
sighed.    Sachie  would  remain  in  Japan. 

Sachie  saw  her  mother  off  at  Haneda 
Airport,  and  returned  home  to  be  with  her 
father.  Because  the  family  is  almost  con- 


stantly in  a  state  or  separation,  they  ve 
worked  out  a  system  where  they  corre- 
spond through  tape  recordings.  It  makes 
Sachie  feel  closer  to  whichever  parent  is 
away  to  hear  his  or  her  voice.  Steve  would 
play  the  tape  recordings  of  Shirley's  voice, 
and  Sachie  would  talk  her  letter  to 
Mommy  into  her  recorder. 

One  day  Steve  told  Shirley  through  the 
tape:  "I'm  feeling  better  now.  and  Sachie 
and  I  are  having  a  wonderful  time  together. 
Of  course  she  misses  you.  but  I  find  things 
to  keep  her  busy  all  day  long.  Today 
Noriko  made  a  special  flower  arrange- 
ment that  she  told  Sachie  was  just  for 
her.  Sachie  was  so  excited,  she  even  com- 
posed a  little  song  on  her  violin  for  the 
flowers. 

"Soon  I  shall  be  well  enough  to  start 
My  Geisha.  We'll  be  going  on  location  in 
a  couple  of  weeks.  How  about  my  taking 
Sachie  along?  It  will  be  a  new,  excit- 
ing experience  for  her." 

Shirley,  alone  in  her  home  in  Sherman 
Oaks,  bit  her  lips.  Finally,  she  reached 
out  for  the  little  recorder  and  spoke.  "I'm  > 
glad  Sachie  is  so,  happy,  dear,"  she  said. 
"But  please  send  her  home  to  me.  The 
interior  of  Japan  is  no  place  for  our  baby. 
It's  too  primitive.  It's  too  dangerous  for  an 
American  child." 

In  suspense,  Shirley  waited  for  Steve's 
answer.  It  was  a  happy  surprise. 

After  that  Christmas  visit 

Although  he  was  not  yet  fully  recovered 
from  the  hepatitis,  he  flew  to  Hollywood 
with  Sachie  and  surprised  Shirley.  So  many 
times  before  this,  little  Sachie  had  had  to 
make  the  journey  to  the  States  alone. 

But  it  seems  almost  as  if  Sachie  has  ab- 
sorbed the  philosophy  of  her  parents 
who  are  faced  with  a  continuing  prob- 
lem. Be  a  bamboo,  bend  with  the  wind, 
is  something  Shirley  believes.  Still,  how 
much  bending  can  a  little  girl  learn  to  i 
do?  It  was  bad  enough  that  Shirley  and  1 
Steve  had  to  work  in  separate  parts  of 
the  world  because  Hollywood  didn't  recog- 
nize Steve's  talents  the  way  Tokyo  did. 
It  was  bad  enough  that  little  Sachie  had 
to  travel  back  and  forth  between  conti- 
nents,  so  that  she  could  sometimes  be  with 
one  parent,  sometimes  with  the  other.  This 
was  what  a  woman  who  loved  her  husband 
must  do  for  both  his  sake  and  the  sake  of 
their  child. 

But  this  time.  Steve  was  coming  with 
Sachie  and  as  Sachie  watched  Mommy  and 
Daddy  fall  into  each  other's  arms  and  kiss, 
her  little  face  lit  up.  She  wondered  what  it 
would  be  like  to  have  both  her  mommy 
and  daddy  with  her  all  the  time.  How  : 
wonderful  it  would  be.  .  .  . 

It  was  only  a  few  days  later  she  walked 
into  the  back  yard  and  bent  to  pick  a  big 
daisy.  Inside  the  house.  Mommy  and 
Daddy  were  still  talking.  Just  before  she 
had  left  the  house,  Sachie  had  heard 
Daddy  say  he  would  have  to  leave  soon  i 
for  Japan.  And  Mommy's  voice  sounded 
that  quiet  way  it  always  did  when  she  j 
talked  to  Daddy  before  he'd  leave.  And 
Daddy  had  said  how  he  wished  Sachie 
could  go  with  him.  And  Mommy  had  said 
no,  not  this  time,  maybe  a  little  later. 

So  there  it  was  again.    She  would  either 
stay  here  with  Mommy  or  there   with  j 
Daddy. 

Sachie  lowered  her  head  to  smell  the 
daisy.  It  didn't  have  a  smell  at  all.  Not 
like  the  tiny  mokusei  blossoms  which 
grew  in  their  back  yard  in  Yoyogi  and 
smelled  so  sweet.  But  the  daises  had  such 
pretty  white  petals. 

It  was  all  so  confusing.  Everything 
could  get  so  mixed-up  for  a  little  girl 
who  was  hardly  four.  .  .  .  END 

Shirley's  newest  films  are  United  Artists' 
The  Apartment,  and  All  Ix  A  Night's 
Work  for  Paramount. 


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BIRTHDAYS 

If  yotrr  birthday  falls  in  September, 
your  birthstone  is  the  sapphire  and  your 
flower  is  the  aster.  And  here  are  some  of 
the  stars  who  share  your  birthday: 


September 
September 
September 
September 
September 

September 
September 
September 
September 

September 
September 
September 
September 
September 

September 
September 

September 

September 


September 
September 
September 
September 

September 

September 

September 

September 


September 


1—  Yvonne  DeCarlo 

2 —  Michael  Dante 
$—  Alan  Ladd 

4—  Mitzi  Gaynor 
/—Donna  Anderson 
Gustavo  Rojo 

6—  Jody  McCrea 

7 —  Peter  Lawford 
9—  Cliff  Robertson 

10—  Lloyd  Nolan 
Edmond  O'Brien 

11—  Earl  Holliman 

13 —  Scott  Brady 

14 —  Jack  Hawkins 

15 —  Jackie  Cooper 

16 —  Lauren  Bacall 
Anne  Francis 

17—  Pat  Crowley 

18 —  Frankie  Avalon 
Rossano  Brazzi 

19 —  Ray  Danton 
Jimmie  Rodgers 

20—  Haya  Harareet 
Sophia  Loren 
Karen  Sharpe 

22—  Paul  Muni 

23—  Mickey  Rooney 

24—  George  Raft 

25 —  John  Ericson 
Aldo  Ray 

26—  Julie  London 
Jack  Kelly 

27 —  Betty  Lou  Keim 
Kathy  Nolan 

28 —  Janet  Munro 
Heather  Sears 
Peter  Finch 

29—  Anita  Ekberg 
Lizabeth  Scott 
Gene  Autry 
Steve  Forrest 
Trevor  Howard 

30—  Angie  Dickinson 
Anna  Kashfi 
Deborah  Kerr 
Johnny  Mathis 


Claudette  Colbert 

September  13 


Greta  Garbo 

September  18 


Bob  Stack 


Greer  Garson 

74  September  29 


Ben  Cooper 

September  30 


(Continued  from  page  21) 

could  hear  them  think,  " — guy's  almost 
arrived  so  many  times,  he's  worn  out  the 
welcome  mat." 

"Poor  Bob,"  he  could  hear  them,  " — all 
these  years  of  batting  away,  and  still 
minor  league." 

"Poor  Bob,"  he  could  hear  them. 

"Poor  guy." 

He  turned  back  to  Rosemarie. 
He  took  her  hand. 

"I  love  you,  Rose,"  he  said,  very  softly. 
"I  could  have  lost  you  once.  But  I  didn't. 
Thank  God  I  have  you,  at  least." 

And  then,  facing  the  stage  once  more, 
he  began  to  think  of  that  shelf  in  the  den 
of  their  home,  which  Rosemarie  had 
cleared  earlier  in  the  day,  saying  proudly, 
"Here  is  where  your  Oscar  goes,  darling, 
right  here.  The  prize  you've  worked  so 
hard  for,  in  this  business,  all  these  years!" 

And  he  began  to  wonder,  for  the  first 
time  in  all  these  years: 

"How  did  I  get  into  this  business,  any- 
way? How?  And  why?  Why?  .  .  ." 

It  began  with  a  kiss 

Actually,  Bob's  career  in  pictures  be- 
gan on  a  light  note  .  .  .  with  a  kiss,  in 
fact;  one  of  the  most  famous  kisses  in 
screen  history.  The  year  was  1939.  Deanna 
Durbin,  the  reigning  teen-age  star,  was 
sixteen.  Her  studio,  deciding  it  was  time 
for  their  million-dollar  baby  to  grow  up, 
prepared  a  script  for  her  called  First  Love. 
The  search  for  a  leading  man  that  followed 
was  a  publicity  natural.  "Who  will  be  the 
first  young  man  to  kiss  our  Deanna?" 
came  the  cry  from  Universal  Pictures.  And 
the  world,  or  at  least  a  great  part  of  it, 
waited  breathlessly  while  young  man  after 
young  man  was  tested  for  the  job. 

As  it  happened,  no  suitable  young  man 
was  found. 

Not,  that  is,  for  about  two  months,  and 
till  the  day  a  fellow  named  Robert  Stack 
— nineteen,  six-one,  blue-eyed,  blond,  very 
handsome,  a  socialite,  an  All-American 
skeet  champion,  and  fresh  out  of  college — 
dropped  by  the  studio  for  a  visit  with 
Deanna,  whom  he  knew. 

They  were  in  the  studio  commissary, 
having  lunch,  when  it  happened. 

Deanna's  producer,  a  very  German 
German-type,  passed  by  their  table. 

"Mein  dear,"  he  said,  bowing  slightly 
when  he  spotted  Deanna. 

Then  he  looked  over  at  her  lunch  date. 

"Mein  Gott!"  he  said,  his  monocle  begin- 
ning to  twitch  against  his  nose.  "But  you 
are  wunderbar,  marvelous,"  he  said  to 
Bob.    "You  are  an  actor?" 

"No,"  said  Bob. 

"You  would  like  to  be  an  actor?"  asked 
the  producer. 

"I  never  thought  much  about  it,"  said 
Bob. 

"Mit  dot  face,  mit  dot  physique,"  said 
the  producer,  "you  must  be  an  actor  .  .  . 
I  don't  take  no  for  an  answer." 

He  didn't,  either. 

For  the  next  hour,  right  there  at  the 
table,  he  talked  to  Bob,  talking  him  right 
into  a  contract,  which  was  signed  a  couple 
of  days  later.  Then,  for  the  next  few 
months,  he  and  his  director  guided  Bob 
through  the  paces  of  picture-making,  right 
up  till  the  last  day  of  shooting,  the  day  of 
the  Big  Kiss,  the  scene  in  which  Deanna, 
once  and  finally  kissed,  swoons  dazedly 
into  her  young  boyfriend's  arms. 

When  the  picture  was  released,  Deanna's 
swooning  was  multiplied  by  millions.  Girls 
and  women  all  over  the  country  began  to 
flood  the  fan-letter  bin  at  Universal  with 
cards  and  letters  about  Bob.  They  wanted 
to  know  all  about  him.  Who  was  he?  What 


was  ne  reany  iuta : — uu, 
been  all  their  lives? 

"Adulation,  especially  at  the  beginning, 
is  a  funny  thing,"  Bob  says  today,  looking 
back.  "I  guess  it  turns  lots  of  people's 
heads  out  here.  I  don't  say  I  was  com- 
pletely untouched  by  it.  But  whenever  I 
did  start  to  get  a  little  cocky  about  the 
way  things  were  going  I'd  always  remem- 
ber what  my  brother  said  to  me  after 
he  saw  me  on  the  screen  the  first  time: 
'Bob,'  he  said,  'you're  sort  of  all  teeth  and 
no  talent.'  He  said  it  in  a  kidding  way. 
But  that  about  summed  me  up,  I  guess." 

Still,  those  first  years,  Bob  wasn't  shed- 
ding any  tears  over  the  fact  that  he  was 
minus  on  the  acting  side  "and  being  paid 
well  for  something  I  couldn't  even  do." 
Life  as  a  young  Hollywood  personality 
was  fun.  And  young  Bob  Stack  wasn't 
bound  to  start  fighting  fun. 

Active  to  passive  to  active  again 

"The  only  misgiving  I  had  at  the  time, 
those  first  four  years,  those  first  nine  or 
ten  pictures,"  he  recalls,  "was  that  I  was 
living  a  primarily  passive  existence  while 
all  my  life  I'd  been  used  to  action.  You 
see,  when  you're  in  pictures  you're  the 
guy  who  may  be  up  there  on  the  screen, 
but  behind  you  there  are  lots  of  people 
plotting  things  out  for  you,  telling  you 
what  to  do,  how  to  do  it,  what  to  say,  how 
to  say  it.  And  there's  waiting,  days  and 
weeks  and  months  of  waiting  sometimes 
between  scripts.  ...  I  wasn't  used  to  this 
As  a  kid  I'd  lived  rough,  tough,  despite 
the  fact  that  we  were  fairly  well-to-do 
My  dad  died  when  I  was  about  nine.  And 
because  he'd  been  quite  an  athlete,  my 
mother  went  overboard  with  my  brother 
and  me  in  athletics.  'Wouldn't  Jim  have 
wanted  them  to  do  this?'  she'd  say.  And  be 
fore  you  knew  it  we  were  either  riding 
motorbike  or  a  polo  pony  or  a  hydro 
plane  or  fooling  around  with  guns.  A: 
it  turned  out  my  brother  and  I  had  aboui 
a  hundred  fathers,  friends  of  my  dad': 
who'd  come  over  and  take  us  on  campin 
trips,  teach  us  how  to  ride,  this,  that.  ] 
had  been  an  active  life  for  us.    And  now 
for  me,  suddenly,  it  was  passive.  ...  As  1 
said,  I  had  some  misgivings  about  this  al 
the  beginning.    But  not  too  many.    I  wa 
living  it  up.   And,  I  guess,  I  sort  of  didn' 
make  the  time  to  think  much  about  it." 

The  war,  however,  helped  change  thing 
— and  those  five  years  between  1942  anc 
1946  which  Bob  spent  in  the  Navy  gav€ 
him  plenty  of  time  to  start  thinking  thing: 
over. 

They  were  a  long  and  sobering  five  year: 
for  the  good-looking  young  lieutenant  fron 
Hollywood. 

And  when  they  were  nearly  over,  these 
five  years  away  from  The  Town,  th 
parties,  the  general  hoopla,  Bob  decidec 
that  he  would  try  to  become  an  'Actor. 

"I  had  a  talk  with  myself  one  night,"  h« 
says.  "It  was  very  brief  and  simple.  'Goc 
willing,  Charlie,  you've  come  through  th 
war  okay,'  I  told  myself,  'and  you've  dor 
a  fair  job  at  what  you  were  assigned  tc 
do.  Now  how  about  growing  up,  getting 
serious  and  trying  to  do  a  job  at  home? ' 

When  Bob  did  get  home,  however,  ht 
found  that  nobody  there  gave  a  hoot  abou 
how  he  had  talked  to  himself,  or  what  he'e 
said. 

"To  every  producer  in  town,  I  was  ai 
image,"  he  explains.  "Their  image  o 
Bob  Stack  was  of  a  guy  who  kisses  Deann; 
Durbin,  swings  a  mean  tennis  racket  anc 
mixes  martinis  at  debutante  balls  .  .  .  Well 
I  had  an  image  of  myself,  too,  a  great  bis 
image,  of  the  guy  who  was  going  to  buckl< 
down  and  prove  himself  and  get  to  worl 
with  directors  like  George  Stevens  anc 
play  opposite  stars  like  Bergman  and  t< 
hell  with  the  tennis  rackets  and  the  mar- 
tinis. It  was  a  fight  between  the  twe 
images — theirs  and  mine.  It  was  a  worth 


while  fight.  A  valiant  fight,  you  might 
say.  But  I  lost,  almost  before  I  even 
started." 

Bob's  first  post-war  assignment  was  in 
a  trifle  called  A  Date  With  Judy,  in 
which  he  played  opposite  Jane  Powell  and 
a  then  thirteen-year-old  Elizabeth  Taylor. 

This  was  followed  by  something  called 
Miss  Tatlock's  Millions. 

And  so  it  went. 

On  and  on. 

There  were  times  when  it  looked  as 
if  things  were  looking  up  for  Bob.  He'd 
land  a  fairly  decent  role  occasionally,  give 
it  everything  he  had,  and  the  critics  would 
clap.  "Surprise  discovery — the  guy  can 
act,"  they'd  say.  in  effect.  Then  Bob.  in 
effect,  would  sit  by  his  phone,  waiting  for 
the  big  role-call  to  come. 

It  never  did. 

And  what  resulted  was  a  period  of  com- 
plete despair — some  ten  years  of  it. 

"Despair,"  Bob  says,  "and  a  kind  of 
humiliation,  a  miserable  period  that  got  so 
out  of  hand  I  didn't  know  if  I  was  com- 
ing or  going  sometimes.  I  became  like 
all  the  other  insecure  people  in  this  town. 
I'd  sit  talking  to  producers  and  I'd  find 
myself  thinking,  'Look  at  me,  Charlie! 
Love  me,  Charlie!  Pity  me,  pity  me,  Man, 
and  give  me  my  chance!'  I  began  to  re- 
alize after  a  while,  though,  that  I  was 
doomed  to  mediocrity,  and  that  that  was 
worse  than  failure  .  .  .  Other  people  re- 
alized this,  too.  Like  the  photographers, 
guys  who'd  been  great  to  me  on  my  way 
up  but  who  had  little  practical  use  for  me 
now.  How  many  premieres  did  I  go  to 
where  some  of  them  would  take  pictures 
of  me,  just  like  old  times,  only  I'd  notice 
that  their  cameras  had  the  safety-catches 
on?  .  .  .  Humiliation,  sir.  Real  bad  .  .  . 
And  so  I  began  to  hang  around  with  all 
the  other  humiliated  people  I  could  find, 
people  who  complained  all  day.  I  was  tops 
in  that  list.  I  was  miserable.  I  was  un- 
successful. And  I  didn't  care  who  I 
told  my  problems  to  and  what  misery  I  had 
to  listen  to  in  return." 

What's  needed 

One  day  during  this  period  (it  was  1952— 
Bob  was  now  thirty-two)  he  picked  up  a 
movie  magazine  that  happened  to  be  run- 
ning a  by-now  rare  story  on  him. 

The  title  of  the  story  ran  something  like: 
Why  Is  Bob  Stack  Going  To  Pot? 

The  answer,  summed  up  at  the  end  of 
the  story,  read  something  like:  What  Hol- 
lywood's most-eligible  (if  unsuccessful) 
bachelor  needs  is  to  settle  down — he  needs, 
in  short,  a  wife. 

Bob  laughed  long  and  loud  when  he  fin- 
ished reading  the  article,  as  he  threw  the 
magazine  down. 

"I  thought  to  myself,  'That's  all  I  need, 
a  wife  to  help  pull  me  under,'  "  he  says.  "I 
was  convinced  that  marriage  was  a  drag. 
And  for  good  reason,  too.  Most  of  my 
friends  at  that  time  were  either  divorced 
or  unhappily  married^  very  unhappily 
married.  And  me.  I  was  a  cuspidor  for 
everybody's  flop  marriage.  I'd  like  to  have 
a  dollar  for  every  hour  I  spent  back  then 
listening  to  somebody  gripe  to  me  about 
what  he'd  gone  through  ever  since  that 
fatal  day  when  he  said,  'I  do.'  ...  No  sir, 
I  began  to  think  at  a  very  early  age,  no- 
body was  ever  going  to  catch  me  getting 
involved  with  any  of  that  preacher  stuff. 
What  little  fun  there  might  be  left  in  life 
for  me  wasn't  going  to  be  hampered  by 
any  wije!" 

To  make  sure  there'd  be  no  slip-up.  Bob 
went  so  far  as  to  teach  himself  how  not  to 
fall  in  love.  His  system  was  painless.  He 
picked  the  most  beautiful  girls  in  town  to 
date  "because  they  are  easily  the  most 
competitive  girls  in  Hollywood  and  I  knew 
I  could  never  stand  being  with  a  competi- 
tive girl  for  long." 

He  played  the  gorgeous  gal  field  to  the 


hilt.  He  played  the  field  well,  but  strictly 
for  laughs.  One  date,  two  dates,  maybe 
three — then  finis,  and  on  to  the  next  lovely 
picking. 

The  pickings  were  lush,  needless  to  say. 
And  easy. 

New  new-girl-in-town 

But  then,  one  night,  Bob  picked  wrong — 
for  his  purposes  at  the  time. 

It  was  1955,  summer,  a  party.  Bob  hap- 
pened to  have  come  to  the  party  alone 
that  night.  So  had  a  girl,  an  unusually 
beautiful  girl. 

The  party's  hostess  introduced  them. 

And  they  began  to  talk.  Bob  asking  the 
usual  questions,  the  girl  answering. 

Her  name,  she  told  him,  was  Rosemarie 
Bowe.  She  came  from  Washington  state, 
had  been  in  Hollywood  for  a  little  over  a 
year,  had  made  a  few  pictures — and  that's 
as  far  as  she  went  with  any  career  talk. 

Now  this  alone  surprised  Bob.  Most-  of 
the  new-girls-in-town  he'd  met  never 
stopped  talking  about  the  beauty  contests 
they'd  won,  the  magazine  covers  they'd 
made,  the  producers  who  were  so  inter- 
ested in  them,  the  big  picture  possibilities 
ahead. 

But  Rosemarie,  that  first  night — she  was 
different. 

She  talked  about  things  like  home,  Ta- 
coma,  the  hundred  and  one  little  things 
she  missed  about  it.  She  talked  about  her 
mother,  her  family,  the  wonderful  kind  of 
people  they  were. 

She  was  a  smart  girl,  Bob  saw  right  off, 
smart  as  well  as  beautiful.  And  she  had  a 
joy  of  life  about  her.  And  an  openness,  as 
open  and  clean  as  a  freshly -washed  pane 
of  glass. 

Bob  liked  her,  right  from  the  beginning. 

He  asked  her,  after  a  while,  if  he  might 
take  her  to  dinner  the  following  evening. 

A  slight  blush  came  to  Rosemarie's  face 
now,  a  natural  phenomenon  Bob  hadn't 
seen  off-screen  in  a  long,  long  time. 

"Will  you,"  he  asked  again,  " — tomorrow 
night?" 

"That  would  be  very  nice,"  Rosemarie 
said,  the  blush  deepening. 

"It  was  that  next  night  at  dinner  that 
the  trouble  began."  Bob  says,  looking  back. 
"I  found  myself  rapidly  falling  in  love  with 
this  girl.  We  were  just  sitting  there,  I  re- 
member, and  I  started  to  feel  this  strange 
warm  feeling  inside  me,  just  looking  at 
her,  just  listening  to  her  talk.  Whoa. 
Charlie.'  I  said  to  myself,  'hurry  up  and  eat 
and  then  get  this  Miss  Bowe  home  before 
you  start  thinking  maybe  you  feel  serious 
about  her.  Get  her  home,  boy.  And  pronto!' 

"I  did.  I  drove  her  right  home  and  then 
I  went  back  to  my  place.  I  got  into  bed  and 
tried  to  fall  asleep.  But  I  couldn't.  Instead 
I  just  lay  there  and  kept  saying  her  name, 
over  and  over  .  .  .  'Rosemarie  .  .  .  Rose  .  .  . 
Rosemarie.  .  .  .' 

Great  for  a  while 

"The  next  morning  I  found  myself  phon- 
ing her.  I  asked  her  what  she  was  doing 
that  night.  I  told  her  I  wanted  to  see  her 
again.  I  wasn't  very  truthful — I  didn't  say 
I  had  to  see  her  again. 

"Well,  we  began  going  out.  We  went  out, 
were  together,  all  the  time.  And  before 
long  we  both  knew  it,  that  we  were  in  love 
with  each  other.  We  didn't  say  it  in  so 
many  words;  you  know,  the  I-love-you- 
do-you-love-me  thing.  But  it  was  there; 
for  both  of  us. 

"It  was  great  for  a  while,  being  in  love. 
It  was  great  to  have  somebody  to  talk  to, 
to  let  the  guards  down  with,  to  want  to  be 
with,  to  have  one  girl  who  meant  every- 
thing instead  of  a  dozen  who.  all  put  to- 
gether, meant  nothing. 

"It  was  great  all  that  summer  and  all 
that  fall,  in  fact,  being  together. 

"And  then,  in  December,  one  night  just 
before    Christmas,    Rosemarie  somehow 


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roval 


Seven-year-old  Joan  Drost  sat 
nervously  in  the  back  pew  of 
Corpus  Christi  Church  in  Buf- 
falo, New  York.  She  was  nervous 
gwgvBfM  because  the  man  with  the  collec- 

§  If  lift  tion  plate  was  headed  her  way, 

because  she  didn't  have  anything 
■  to  put  into  the  plate.  There'd 

fill  been  a  fire  at  her  house  a  few 

days  before.  Everything  had  been 
ruined.  The  Drosts,  a  poor  fam- 
ily, unable  to  get  another  place  to 
live  right  away,  had  had  to  scat- 
ter. Joan,  for  one,  had  gone  to 
live  with  a  family  friend.  It  was 
the  friend,  in  fact,  who'd  given 
Joan  the  dress  she  was  wearing 
this  Sunday  morning,  an  old  red 
velvet  affair  the  woman  herself 
had  worn  when  she  was  a  girl; 
old,  too  long,  loose-fitting  and 
!f%  m\  with   the  most   tarnished  and 

¥f%    111  If  1  loosest-drooping   brass  buttons 

Wl/  down  the  front  you  ever  did  see. 

Well,  the  dress  had  made  Joan 
uncomfortable,  to  say  the  least. 
But  that  embarrassment  was  nothing  compared  with  what  she  felt  now,  this 
moment,  in  church— as  the  man  with  the  collection  plate  came  closer  and  closer 
to  where  she  sat.  She  would  have  to  think  of  something,  she  knew,  and  quick. 

"Oh  God,"  she  whispered  closing  her  eyes,  when  the  man  was  upon  her,  "I 
know  I  should  give  you  something  in  thanks  for  this  beautiful  Mass,  but  I  don't 
have  anything.  And  You  know  how  awful  I  feel,  with  nothing  for  the  plate." 

Joan  made  her  decision.  Quickly,  very  quickly  and  clandestinely,  the  little  girl 
pulled  one  of  the  buttons  from  her  dress  and  dropped  it  into  the  collection  plate. 

When  it  clinked— just  the  way  a  nickel  would  clink,  and  when  the  man  had 
walked  away,  without  realizing,  Joan  closed  her  eyes  once  again  and  thought: 
"God,  I  know  what  I  just  did  is  wrong.  But  sometime,  when  I'm  big,  when  I 
get  a  good  job  somewhere  and  I've  got  some  money,  I'll  give  that  money  to  You 
. . .  I'll  give  You—"  What  was  all  the  money  in  the  world?  How  much  could  a  per- 


/oon/e 
Sommers- 
an  MM/ 


son  ever  hope  to  have  ? 


"—I'll  give  you,"  she  thought,  "a  whole  hundred  dollars. 

And  with  that,  the  unhappy 
child  felt  a  little  better.  .  .  . 

A  few  weeks  ago,  in  Holly- 
wood, Joan  Drost— now  eighteen, 
a  singer  and  named  Joanie  Som- 
mers— received  her  first  royalty 
check  from  her  first  album  re- 
lease, Positively  The  Most.  The 
amount  read:  $103.00. 

Without  thinking  twice  about 
what  she  was  going  to  do  with 
the  money,  she  went  to  a  bank, 
cashed  the  check,  then  walked  to 
the  nearest  church.  Inside  the 
church  she  placed  a  spanking- 
new  hundred  dollar  bill  into  a 
collection  box.  That  deed  done, 
she  said  a  prayer  and  began  to 
walk  away. 

But  at  the  door  of  the  church 
she  stopped  suddenly. 

She  had  just  now  thought  of 
something.  Something  important. 

A  moment  later,  she  was  back 
at  the  collection  box. 

Then,  one  by  one,  she  shoved 
three  spanking-new  dollar  bills 
through  the  box-slot. 

"In  case  you're  wondering, 
God,"  she  whispered  then,  smil- 
ing, "—that's  for  what  we  down 
here  call  'interest' !" 


asked  me  if  I  had  any  intention  of  marry- 
ing her. 

"  'I  know  how  you've  felt  about  mar- 
riage in  the  past,  Bob,'  she  said,  'and  I  love 
you  too  much  to  go  on  like  this  if  you 
still  feel  that  way.' 

"I  didn't  say  anything. 

"  'Do  you,  Bob— do  you  still  feel  that 
way?'  Rosemarie  asked. 

"She  gave  me  a  long  time  to  answer. 

"Finally,  I  began  to  nod. 

"  'Yes,'  I  said,  'that's  still  the  way  I  feel.' 

"Rosemarie  began  to  cry.  I'll  never  for- 
get it,  her  sitting  there  in  the  car  alongside 
me,  beginning  to  cry,  like  a  little  girl — 
and  me  sitting  there  thinking,  'Don't  go 
soft  and  let  the  tears  sway  you,  Charlie. 
Remember,  no  matter  how  much  you  love 
her,  this  marriage  stuff's  a  drag.  Remem- 
ber your  pals  and  what  happened  to  them. 
Who'll  be  your  cuspidor  when  your  prob- 
lems begin?  Who's  it  going  to  be  who'll 
have  to  listen  to  you  complain  when  your 
marriage  begins  to  go  sour?' 

"I  took  Rosemarie  home  right  after  that. 
I  told  her  I  guessed  it  was  best  if  we  didn't 
see  one  another  anymore,  seeing  how  she 
felt. 

"Then  I  went  home. 

"I  tried  to  forget  her,  everything  about 
her,  by  plunging  into  my  work.  I  was  just 
beginning  a  picture  called  Written  On  The 
Wind.  I  played  a  nut  in  this.  A  tortured 
man.  And  that  was  me  all  over  those  next 
couple  of  weeks — a  very  tortured  man. 

"And  then  one  night,  after  work,  I  was 
at  my  place,  sitting  there,  alone,  when  it 
came  to  me  that  I  was  a  fool  trying  to  fight 
a  decision  that  had  been  made  for  me  by 
a  big  power  up  there  someplace.  That 
Rosemarie,  our  love,  everything  about  the 
two  of  us  had  already  been  decided  on, 
by  a  power  bigger  than  either  of  us. 

"I  went  to  the  phone  and  I  called  her.  I 
told  her  I  was  coming  over  to  see  her,  and 
then  I  hung  up. 

"When  I  got  to  her  apartment  I  started 
talking,  as  soon  as  she  opened  the  door. 
'Rose,  will  you  marry  me?'  I  said.  I  kept 
talking,  not  waiting  for  any  answer.  'It's 
going  to  be  a  good  marriage,  darling,'  I 
said.  'We're  going  to  be  happy.  We're  go- 
ing to  have  kids,  Lord  willing.  We're  going 
to  build  ourselves  a  home.  And  we're  go- 
ing to  make  that  home  a  place  to  live  in, 
strictly,  leaving  all  the  indignities  of  this 
town,  this  business,  outside  the  door  .  .  . 
And  we're  going  to  have  fun,  a  ball,  a 
cockamamey  ball  .  .  .  And  darling,  dar- 
ling, will  you  marry  me?' 

"It  was  at  this  point  that  my  knees  be- 
gan to  shake.  They  shook  so  hard  I  had  to 
sit  down,  or  else  I'd  have  fallen  down.  So 
I  sat,  and  I  tried  to  get  up  once.  But  I 
couldn't.  So  I  sat  again. 

"Rosemarie  began  to  laugh. 

"  'What's  so  funny?'  I  asked. 

"She  pointed  to  my  knees,  still  shaking 
away  like  crazy,  my  hands  clamped  over 
them,  trying  to  get  them  to  quit  it. 

"And  then  she  laughed  some  more,  and 
some  more. 

"When  she  finally  stopped,  she  said,  'By 
the  way,  Boh — yes.' 

'"Yes  what?'  I  asked. 

"  'Yes,  I'll  marry  you,'  Rosemarie  said. 

"  'You  will?'  I  asked. 

"  'Yes,'  she  said  again. 

"Suddenly,  my  knees  stopped  shak- 
ing. .  .  ." 

The  wedding  took  place  a  few  weeks 
later,  in  late  January,  1956.  It  was  a  small 
happy  wedding,  followed  by  a  long  happy 
honeymoon  in  Hawaii — followed  by  a  very 
happy  first  year,  during  which,  for  the  first 
time  in  a  long  time,  Bob's  career  seemed 
ready  to  take  off. 

It  came  about  with  his  Academy  Award 
nomination  for  his  performance  in  Written 
On  The  Wind. 

It  had  been  a  fine  performance  and  there 
seemed  to  be  little  question  that  it  would 


get  Bob  an  Oscar  and  the  subsequent  good 
offers  that  normally  come  to  an  Oscar 
Winner.  As  if  to  insure  Bob's  victory,  Va- 
riety, the  leading  trade  newspaper  in 
Hollywood,  predicted  he  would  win — and 
Variety  hadn't  been  wrong  in  over  thirty 
years. 

But  then,  that  night  in  April,  1957,  Va- 
-iety  proved  itself  fallible. 
Bob  didn't  win. 

And,  at  thirty-eight,  he  felt  that,  his 
oiggest  chance  over  with,  a  dud,  he  was 
doomed  to  be  an  almost-made-it  from  here 
on  in. 

"My  first  reaction,"  he  told  us  recently, 
'was  to  get  mad,  to  ask  myself  what  was 
I  doing  in  this  business  in  the  first  place. 
iVTy  second  thought  was:  Well,  what  else 
did  you  prepare  for  those  years,  way  back, 
*hen  there  was  time  to  figure  things  out? 
My  third  was  a  decision. 

"I  decided  this  way: 

"I  was  through  being  desperate  about 
ny  work. 

"I  was  going  to  relax. 

"I  didn't  care  who  I  impressed  any  more. 

"I  figured  if  there  was  a  break  in  the 
itars  for  me,  it  would  come  to  me  some- 
lay,  anyway — so  why  not  relax  for  a 
:hange." 

Bob  really  relaxed  those  next  two  years. 
3e  made  a  few  pictures — "the  kind  that 
leither  hurt  nor  helped  me."  He  and 
losemarie  had  themselves  a  couple  of 
beautiful  children,  a  daughter  named 
Elizabeth,  a  son  named  Charles.  And  life, 
n  general,  went  along  smoothly,  calmly, 
lealthily  and  well. 

And  then  one  Saturday  night  about  a 
'ear  ago,  it  came — that  dazzling  profess- 
ional break  which  Bob  had  long  since 
topped  hoping  for,  or  thinking  about. 

It  didn't  sound  like  much  at  first,  the 
jhone  call  from  Desi  Arnaz,  producer  and 
lead  man  at  Desilu  Productions. 

"We've  got  a  script  here,  Bob,"  said  Desi. 
We  call  it  The  Untouchables.  There's  a 
ead  for  you — fellow  named  Ness,  a  Chi- 
ago  detective  who  tracks  down  the  Ca- 
aone  mob.  I  know,  it's  not  the  kind  of  part 
■ou're  associated  with.  But  the  script  is 
;ood.  And  it's  going  to  be  a  two-parter. 
\nd  I  think  you'd  be  good  for  it.  Real 
;ood.  I  mean  very  good." 

Bob  was  not  as  enthusiastic.  He  told  Desi 
le'd  stop  by  the  office  one  day  next  week, 


read  the  script  and  see  what  he  thought  of 
it. 

"No,  Bob,"  said  Desi.  "I  better  send  it 
over  to  your  house  tonight.  Mira — we  be- 
gin shooting  on  Monday  morning." 

"Monday?"  Bob  asked,  incredulous. 

"That's  television,"  said  Desi. 

And  that  was  television,  as  Bob  was  to 
find  out  when  he  showed  up  for  work  early 
that  Monday  morning,  the  script  he  had 
read  and  liked  hugged  under  his  arm.  Tele- 
vision— that  quick-to-get-ready,  quick- 
to-rehearse,  quick-to-make-you  or  quick- 
to-lose-you  medium. 

In  Bob's  case,  it  made  him,  literally 
overnight. 

■  The  Untouchables  was  a  smash,  it  soon 
became  a  weekly  hour-long  series  and 
Robert  Stack,  in  the  person  of  Elliot  Ness, 
had  broken  the  fifteen-year-old  bad-luck 
barrier  and,  finally,  had  arrived. 

How  did  it  feel — to  arrive,  we  asked  Bob 
the  other  day. 

"Great,  just  great,"  he  said. 

And  what  did  it  feel  like  to  see  a  jinx 
broken? 

"It  makes  me,  of  course,  appreciate  the 
break  that  did  it.  those  first  two  shows," 
Bob  said.  ".  .  .  And  it  makes  me  appre- 
ciate the  fact  that  I  decided  a  few  years 
ago  to  relax  and  let  the  break  come  natu- 
rally, instead  of  pushing  for  it,  pushing  so 
hard  that  I  might  have  pushed  it  away  .  .  . 
And  that  makes  me  appreciate,  realize,  the 
fact  that  the  only  reason  I  was  able  to  re- 
lax was  because  of  my  wife.  I  couldn't 
have  done  it  without  Rosemarie.  Without 
a  good  wife,  a  wonderful  wife,  I'd  still  be 
down  there,  somewhere,  sitting  around 
with  that  junk-heap  feeling  I  was  grow- 
ing pretty  used  to." 
Bob  smiled  then.  And  he  added: 
"Come  to  think  of  it,  when  you  say  'ar- 
rived,' you've  got  to  qualify  the  word.  For 
example,  the  other  day  I  got  a  letter  from 
somebody  who  watches  the  show.  He 
wrote: 

Dear  Mr.  Stack — Please  send  me  a  pic- 
ture of  my  favorite  person,  the  real 
Elliot  Ness.  If  you  haven't  got  a  pic- 
ture of  him,  I'll  take  one  of  my  second 
favorite  person,  Al  Capone.  And  if  you 
haven't  got  pictures  of  either  of  them, 
then  I'll  take  one  of  you. 

Bob  scratched  his  head. 

"That's  'arrived?'"  he  asked.  .  .  .  END 


We're  Getting  Married 


Continued  from  page  42) 

night  as  well  tell  you  honest  right  now — 
10,  she  can't,  not  yet.  I  mean,  she's  great 
vith  things  like  TV-dinners,  if  you  know 
vhat  I  mean.  But  with  some  of  my  favor- 
tes,  like  manicotti  and  chicken  a  la  king 
homemade,  not  that  canned  jazz)  and 
ieef  stroganoff  and  five-minute  soft-boiled 
ggs  (very  hard  to  make  just  right) ,  the  an- 
wer  remains  no,  she  can't  cook  yet.  But  I 
totice  she's  been  hanging  around  with  my 
ister,  Nina,  quite  a  bit  recently,  in  the 
dtchen,  asking  questions  and  watching 
dina  make  with  the  pots  and  pans,  and 
hough  neither  of  them  will  admit  it,  I 
lave  a  hunch  there  are  some  lessons  going 
m  and  that  there's  gonna  be  a  surprise  in 
tore  for  me  some  day  soon. 

When  Jo  and  I  get  married. 

That  first  day  after  our  honeymoon, 
naybe. 

Around  eventide,  as  the  poets  say. 

Me,  sitting  in  the  living  room,  perusing 
ny  Downbeat,  indulging  in  the  pipe-and- 
lippers  bit. 

Suddenly  sniffing  in  deep  and  smelling 
omething  delicious-smelling  wafting 
h  rough  the  room. 


Calling  out,  "Honey,  I  thought  we  were 
going  to  eat  out  tonight." 

And  her  calling  back,  "Shhhhh,  or  my 
seven-layer  cake  will  fall.  .  .  ." 

It's  funny,  me  sitting  here  now,  talking 
about  my  girl,  looking  forward  to  the  day 
when  she's  my  wife. 

I  didn't  think  way  back,  a  couple  of 
years  ago,  that  I  ever  would  get  married. 

"Not  till  I  have  a  million  bucks  and  don't 
have  to  say  sir  to  anyone" — that's  what  I'd 
tell  gals  I  came  across  who  hinted  at  the 
subject.  (Hinted?  There  was  one  who'd 
start  scratching  her  fourth-finger  left-hand 
every  time  I  saw  her!) 

"Not  me,"  I'd  say,  " — not  till  I  have  my 
million." 

Well,  here  I  am,  still  a  long  way  from 
having  that  kind  of  cash,  good  as  things 
are  going. 

But  I've  changed  my  tune  about  the 
wedding  march. 

Because  if  just  so  happens  that  I'm  in 
love. 

With  a  doll. 

And  marrying  her,  being  with  her,  for 
the  rest  of  my  life,  is  right  now  the  only 


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important  thing  in  my  whole  life.  .  .  . 

Was  it  love  at  first  sight  between  me 
and  Jo? — some  people  have  asked. 

No,  it  wasn't 

Matter  of  fact,  it  would  have  taken  a 
genius  to  figure  anything  was  ever  to  come 
of  that  first  meeting  of  ours. 

That  was  two-and-a-half  years  ago,  in 
New  York,  at  Hanson's,  a  Times  Square 
drugstore  I  used  to  hang  around  in  all  the 
time  with  all  the  other  struggling  young 
singers  and  actors  in  town. 

Well,  this  night  I  was  sitting  at  a  table 
with  one  group,  when  another  group  came 
over  and  joined  us. 

I  knew  all  of  them  except  one  of  the 
girls,  the  one  who  ended  up  sitting  next 
to  me. 

She  was  quiet,  I  remember — mainly  be- 
cause I  was  on  big  that  night,  doing  most 
of  the  talking  and  yakking,  and  so  she 
didn't  have  much  of  a  chance  to  say  any- 
thing anyway. 

But  during  one  pause,  I  remember,  she 
did  say,  "By  the  way,  my  name  is  Jo-Ann 
Campbell." 

"That's  nice,"  I  said.  And  then  I  said, 
"Mine's  King." 

"Last  name  or  first?"  she  asked. 

"Nickname,"  I  said.  "It's  what  people 
call  me,  because  I'm  like  a  natural  leader." 

I  laughed,  and  she  said,  "You  know — but 
you  sound  just  a  little  bit  conceited  to  me." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be?"  I  answered  back. 
"I'm  a  man  of  talent — and  taste." 

"Boy!"  she  said. 

And  brrrrrrrrr,  but  there  was  a  chill, 
chill  breeze  in  Hanson's  that  night. 

We  saw  each  other  a  few  times  after 
that  those  next  few  months.  Backstage  at 
places  like  the  Brooklyn  Paramount,  where 
we  were  both  booked  as  singers  on  the 
same  rock  'n'  roll  shows.  And  a  couple  of 
other  theaters,  in  Jersey  and  Pennsylvania, 
and  places  like  that. 

We  saw  each  other,  I  say. 

But  we  never  talked. 

And  then  early  one  evening  I  ran  into 
another  singer  I  know,  girl  named  Jeanie 
Allen.  She  asked  me  if  I  could  come  up  to 
her  place  for  a  little  while  to  look  over 
some  vocal  arrangements  she'd  just  had 
made  for  her  act,  since  I  was  a  hotshot 
part-time  songwriter  and  arranger  too. 

"Besides,"  Jeanie  said,  "I  want  you  to 
meet  my  new  roommate.  She's  the  sweetest 
thing!" 

"Yeah? — Who  cares?"  I  thought  to  my- 
self, since  in  case  I  haven't  said  it  yet  I'll 
say  it  now:  I  was  strictly  off  girls  at  this 
particular  time.  I'd  had  them  all  after 
Gloria.  Gloria  was  a  dancer,  thirty-one 
when  I  met  her.  And  I  was  a  kid,  eighteen, 
who  didn't  know  a  shingle  from  Cheyenne. 
And  for  some  reason  I  fell  in  love  with 
her.  And  she  said  she  loved  me,  too,  and 
that  she  had  great  plans  for  helping  me 
with  my  career.  But  that  woman  was  more 
mixed-up  than  I  was.  Because  one  day  I 
found  out  the  type  of  woman  she  really 
was.  And  I  was  so  mad,  disgusted  at  every- 
thing that  some  days  I  wouldn't  even 
bother  to  get  out  of  bed.  That's  how  bad 
it  was  for  me  at  this  particular  time. 

And  so  when  Jeanie  talked  about  her 
roommate,  I  thought  to  myself,  "Who 
cares?" 

A  cold  hello 

And  getting  to  the  apartment  and  seeing 
the  roommate  a  few  minutes  later,  the  only 
reason  I  took  a  long  look  at  her  was  be- 
cause she  turned  out  to  be  that  little  Miss 
Jo-Ann  Campbell  of  Hanson's  drugstore 
fame. 

Brrrrrrrr,  but  things  were  suddenly  cold 
again. 

We  both  said  hello  to  one  another,  final- 
ly (out  of  politeness  to  Jeanie)  and  then 
jeanie  and  I  got  to  work  on  the  arrange- 
ments, Jo-Ann  retiring  to  her  own  room 
78  for  the  hour  or  so  I  was  there. 


I  was  just  about  to  leave,  in  fact,  when 
Jeanie  extended  the  invitation  that  was, 
in  time,  to  change  my  whole  life. 

"Why  don't  you  stay  to  dinner?"  she 
asked. 

Before  I  could  get  the  ahem  out  of  my 
mouth  and  say  look  this  is  the  story  and 
so  I  don't  think  it  would  be  advisable  un- 
der the  circumstances,  Jeanie  called  out  to 
Jo-Ann  and  said,  "Sweetie,  you  and  Bobby 
go  to  the  grocer's,  while  I  fix  the  salad,  and 
pick  up  some  ice  cream,  all  right?" 

Jo-Ann  came  out  of  her  room,  looked  at 
me  for  a  second,  shrugged  and  said — re- 
luctantly, I  thought — "Oh,  all  right." 

Our  walk  to  the  grocer's  was  like  a  cross 
between  the  original  Ben-Hur  and  'Twas 
The  Night  Before  Christmas.  Very  silent. 
Very  very  silent. 

And  it  would  have  been  that  way  on  the 
walk  back,  too,  if  suddenly  I  hadn't  had 
this  feeling  that  it  was  time  to  break  the 
ice  a  little.  (Mysteriously,  for  some  reason, 
this  girl  was  starting  to  intrigue  me.) 

So  I  found  myself  taking  her  hand,  very 
quick-like. 

And  so  she  pulled  her  hand  back,  even 
quicker-like. 

Hmmmmmm,  I  thought  then,  pretty  un- 
forgiving little  gal  we  had  here. 

Well,  I  thought  then,  next  step  was  to 
embarrass  her — you  know;  make  her  just  a 
little  bit  sorry  that  she  made  a  fool  out  of 
me,  the  guy  who'd  given  up  dames  for 
good  now  and  had  started  making  such  a 
fool  of  himself. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing?"  she 
asked,  as  she  stopped  and  watched  me 
throw  myself  down  on  the  sidewalk  sud- 
denly and  press  my  ear  against  the  pave- 
ment. 

"Quiet,  gal,"  I  said.  "I  hear  hoofbeats.  I 
think  the  posse's  on  its  way!" 
Embarrass  her? 

Heck.  It  was  as  if  this  was  the  funniest 
bit  she'd  ever  seen  or  heard.  And  she 
started  to  laugh,  man,  but  laugh.  "Oh,"  she 
said,  hysterical-wise,  "you  look  so  fun-ny 
down  there — " 

And  from  that  moment  on  and  for  the 
next  couple  of  hours — the  rest  of  our  walk 
home,  dinner,  and  so  on — she  was  in  one 
of  those  moods  where  everything  I  said 
struck  her  as  funnier  and  funnier. 

She  laughed,  in  fact,  until  she  cried, 
really  cried,  I  mean,  genuine  sad-type 
tears.  And  that's  when  I  learned  the  other 
side  of  her,  my  Jo-Ann — the  soft  and  sweet 
and  sentimental  and  little-girl  side. 

It  was  about  midnight  that  same  night. 

Jeanie  and  Jo-Ann  had  done  the  dishes 
while  I  watched  some  TV,  and  then  Jeanie 
had  excused  herself  and  gone  to  bed. 

Jo-Ann  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  parlor 
of  the  apartment  alone,  just  the  two  of  us. 

Little  by  little  the  talk  had  gotten  kind 
of  serious  and  Jo-Ann  had  begun  to  tell 
me  a  little  bit  about  herself.  How  she  was 
from  Jacksonville.  Florida.  How  she  lived 
there  with  her  parents  and  grandparents. 
In  a  little  white  house  with  a  garden  and 
a  four-man  swing  in  the  back — "kind  of 
lovely  and  old-fashioned,"  like  she  said. 
All  this  not  far  from  the  water,  the  beach, 
where  they  all  went  week-ends,  year- 
round,  for  swimming  and  picnics. 

"I  came  up  here,"  she  said,  "to  New 
York — because  somewhere  inside  me,  ever 
since  I  was  a  little  child,  there's  been  a 
bug  in  me  that's  said  to  me,  'You've  got  to 
become  a  singer,  you've  got  to  become  a 
singer.'  So,  when  I  was  eighteen,  I  de- 
cided it  was  time  for  me  to  up  and  leave. 

"It  gets  a  little  lonely  for  me,"  she  said, 
"up  here,  far  away — but,"  she  said,  "when 
you've  got  a  dream,  you've  got  to  give  up 
certain  things  to  try  to  touch  that  dream." 

She  talked  about  her  dream  a  little, 
closing  her  eyes  as  she  did. 

And  then  she  opened  them  and  stopped 
what  she  was  saying  and  she  said  to  me, 
"Now  you,  Bobby  .  .  .  I've  talked  enough 


.  .  .  Now  you  tell  me  all  about  ycmrse 

I  began —  "Well,"  I  said,  "I  was  borr; 
The  Bronx,  the  sickest  baby  on  rec 
there — and  there've  been  lots  of  bal 
born  there  in  The  Bronx.  In  fact,"  I  s; 
"I  was  so  sickly  that  neighbors  used 
stop  my  mother  on  the  street  and  s 
'Whaddya  wanna  wheel  that  thing  aroi 
for?  It's  gonna  die.' " 

That's  when  Jo-Ann  began  to  cry. 

When  I  saw  these  tears,  big  as  anyth; 
come  to  her  eyes. 

"What's  the  matter,"  I  said,  " — I  die 
even  start  the  sad,  sad  story  of  my  li 

"Those  terrible  people,"  she  said,  ign 
ing  my  cute  remark,  "saying  a  thing  1 
that  about  a  poor  little  baby  .  .  .  ab 
you." 

And  she  bawled  now.  Really  baw 
And  I  sat  there  waiting,  not  knowing  w 
to  do,  till  she  stopped. 

When  she  did,  I  took  her  hand. 

This  time  she  didn't  pull  it  back. 

A  pretty  grim  childhood 

I  started  talking  again.  I  told  about 
childhood — what  I  remembered  of  it — D 
Bronx,  the  not-so-good  part  of  it  wh 
we  lived;  my  mom,  widowed  a  few  mon 
before  I  was  born,  doing  her  best  to  t; 
care  of  me  and  Nina;  the  relief  checks  w 
get  when  my  mom  couldn't  work,  and  h 
we'd  wait  for  them  and  then,  when  tl 
came,  how  we'd  be  so  ashamed  to  go; 
the  store  or  the  bank  and  cash  them; 
it  was  all  a  pretty  grim  childhood  exc 
that  inside  me,  like  there'd  been  inside  1 
was  a  bug  with  the  same  message  as  he 
"You've  got  to  be  a  singer  someday,  you 
got  to  be  a  singer  someday."  The  only  e 
ference  being  that  my  bug  had  a  cou 
who  lived  with  him  and  who  used  to  t 
onto  the  message:  "You've  got  to  be 
best  and  biggest  of  all  the  singers  son 
day!" 

I  talked  about  my  dreams  then. 

How  I  wanted  to  make  the  big-ti 
someday,  become  "famous." 

How  I  wanted  to  start  doing  it  all  f 
fast,  with  no  time  to  waste  because  (oi 
I've  always  been  an  impatient-type  g 
and  (two)  because  my  mom  was  sick  w 
her  heart  now  and  because  before 
went,  God  forbid,  if  it  was  God's  will  t 
she  did  go,  I  meant,  I  wanted  to  get 
the  one  thing  she'd  always  dreamed  oi 
house  in  the  country,  a  place  away  fr 
The  Bronx,  with  fresh  air  and  trees  an 
sky  that  didn't  look  like  a  ceiling  hang 
over  a  lot  of  red-brick  walls,  but  a  s£ 
that  she  could  enjoy  for  a  little  wh 
anyway. 

I  talked  and  I  talked  that  night. 

And  when  I  was  finished  I  could  se< 
was  dawn  coming  up  already  outside 
window  of  the  apartment. 

So  I  said,  "I've  gotta  go  now." 

But  I  didn't  move. 

Because  I  knew  that  before  I  wen 
wanted  to  kiss  this  girl  I'd  been  talk 
to,  this  girl  whose  hand  I'd  been  hold 
these  past  few  hours,  like  I'd  never  e 
wanted  to  kiss  any  girl  before. 

For  some  reason,  I  was  nervous  aboui 

So  I  started  with  the  jivey  talk. 

"My  life  you've  heard,"  I  said.  "N 
about  my  personality,"  I  said,  " — mo.' 
I'm  for  doing  what  you  feel  like,  wl 
you  feel  like." 

"Is  that  so?"  Jo  asked,  in  that  little- 
way  of  hers. 

"Yep,"  I  went  on,  "I'm  for  what  e 
person  feels  for  the  other.  Sudden 
pulses  .  .  .  Like  sudden  kisses. 

"I  mean,"  I  said,  "if  you  want  to  kis 
girl  and  it's  mutual,  then  you  should  dc 
If  you're  going  to  swing,  swing,  I  say." 

"Bobby,"  Jo  said,  very  softly,  I'll  ne 
forget  how  softly,  "Bobby — I'm  as  nerv 
as  you  are.  The  talk's  not  going  to  h< 
If  you'd  like  to  kiss  me,  please  do.  Bob! 

And  I  did. 


j     And  that's  how  it  all  started,  our  friend- 
ship, our  romance,  our  love  for  each  other 
(though,  deep  down,  I  fought  the  idea  that 
i  it  was  "love"  at  the  time).  .  .  . 
: '     We  went  out  lots  together  those  first  six 
:   months,  though  actually  "went  out"  is  the 
wrong  expression  since,  with  work  hard  to 

5  come  by,  I  didn't  have  money  for  that.  In- 
stead, we'd  spend  most  of  our  time  at  Jo's 
and  Jeanie's  apartment,  eating  those  TV- 
dinners  I  talked  about  before,  watching 
TV,  listening  to  records,  singing  ourselves; 
or  else  we'd  visit  friends,  or  my  mom,  or 

i   Jo's  mom  and  dad  and  grandparents,  Mr. 

-  and  Mrs.  Harry  Hatcher,  who'd  moved 
North  by  this  time  and  to  Long  Island, 
which  is  very  accessible  to  New  York. 

Then,  at  about  the  time  the  first  six 
months  or  so  passed,  somebody  suggested  to 
me  one  day  that  I  write  a  song.  I'd  already 

(1  written  about  ten  dozen,  seven  of  which 
were  recorded  and  became  immediate 
flops.  But  this  friend  of  mine  suggested  I 
try  something  in  the  rock  'n'  roll  style.  As 
he  said,  "Everybody  else  is  doing  it  and 
making  good." 

i      So  one  day  I  wrote  Splish-Splash,  in 

I  exactly  twelve  minutes. 

x     It  got  recorded. 

:  ;  Within  ten  days  it  had  sold  nearly  100,000 
:r  records. 

And  I  was  on  my  way. 

To  put  it  mildly,  I  was  in  seventh 
llj  heaven.  A  little  too  high  up  there,  looking 
back.  And  it  was  Jo  who  helped  bring  me 
.    down  to  earth. 

c.     I  remember  this  one  night  we  were  sit- 

-  ting  in  a  Chinese  restaurant  over  on  West 
Forty-Ninth  Street,  I  mean  actually  hav- 
ing dinner  out.    And  I  started  to  laugh 

1  about  this  and  say  something  like,  "It's 
about  time,  hey,  honey,  the  two  of  us 

6  living,  like  real  people?" 

And  I  remember  how  Jo  said  to  me, 
t  This  is  only  the  beginning,  Bobby.  Don't 
get  spoiled  or  satisfied  by  only  one  record. 


One  rock  n  roll  hit — that  makes  you  like 
a  thousand  other  fellows  instead  of  like  a 
million  others.  Now  you've  got  to  show 
them  that  you  can  really  sing,  too.  .  .  ." 

And  I  remember  another  time,  not  long 
after  I  started  to  show  them,  and  started 
getting  club  bookings  here  and  there,  how 
something  was  wrong  with  me — I  wasn't 
really  getting  through  to  my  audiences;  I 
guess  I  was  afraid  and  made  myself  into 
a  pretty  brash  and  unpleasant  character — 
and  I  remember  how  Jo  sat  with  me  one 
night  right  after  a  show  and  said  to  me, 
"Bobby,  I  don't  know  much  about  show 
business.  But  this  much  I  do  know.  The 
real  performers,  they  don't  fight  the  audi- 
ence. They  enjoy  it.  Which  is  what  you've 
got  to  do,  Bobby.  Enjoy  it.  .  .  ." 

I  remember  these  things  Jo  said  to  me, 
at  a  time  they  needed  saying. 

And,  remembering,  it's  strange,  ironic, 
to  think  that  this  is  just  about  the  time  we 
started  drifting  apart. 

Or,  I  should  say,  the  time  I  started  drift- 
ing away  from  Jo. 

What  happened? 

It's  hard  to  explain. 

I  just  wouldn't  see  her  so  much  any- 
more. I  was  dedicating  myself  to  a  whole 
new  world  now,  and  the  strain  of  this 
dedication  was  knocking  me  out — the  hard 
work,  the  newness  of  it,  the  constant  late 
hours,  the  learning  to  sleep  by  day  and 
live  by  night,  the  excitement,  the  having 
to  hang  around  a  lot  with  all  sorts  of 
people,  some  of  them  who  wished  you  well, 
others  who  didn't  give  a  damn,  you'd  find 
out,  but  just  hung  on  for  the  free  ride — 
a  new  life,  all  of  it  devoted  to  the  Big 
Crowd,  and  that  gave  me  little  time  for 
those  few  people  who  really  cared. 

People  like  Jo-Ann. 

We  had  a  discussion  about  this  one  night; 
nearly  a  fight. 

Jo  was  blue  because  I  hadn't  shown  up 
a  few  times  when  I'd  promised  to. 


I  was  born  in  a  small  town,  Bobby, 
she  said.  "Maybe  it's  different  up  here  in 
great  big  New  York.  But  where  I  come 
from  we're  used  to  a  fellow  calling  to 
break  a  date  if  he  has  to,  even  calling  a 
girl  once  in  a  while  between  dates  just 
to  talk.  Girls  like  to  be  treated  that  way, 
Bobby." 

I  answered  all  this  with  a  lot  of  stuff 
that  sounded  very  good  and  reasonable  to 
my  own  ears  at  the  time.  "The  kind  of 
thing  you're  talking  about,"  I  said,  "is 
forced — and  anything  forced  is  ill."  It  all 
boiled  down,  what  I  was  saying,  to  take 
me,  Jo-Ann,  or  leave  me. 

"Take  me?"  I  said,  when  I  was  finished. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"Good,"  I  said,  "because  this  is  just 
the  way  it's  got  to  be." 

But  nothing  was  ever  really  right  be- 
tween us,  for  a  long  time  after  that. 

I  was  still  going  through  my  period  of 
making  the  grade,  of  confusion.  And  my 
mom  died  suddenly  during  this  period,  and 
her  passing  made  me  more  miserable  than 
she  would  ever  have  wanted  me  to  be,  this 
wonderful  mother  who'd  done  so  much 
for  me.  .  .  . 

Anyway,  as  far  as  Jo  was  concerned,  I'd 
see  her  a  lot  for  a  while  and  then,  some- 
times for  three  or  four  weeks  running,  I 
wouldn't  see  her  at  all. 

Finally,  one  night,  it  really  seemed  over 
between  us. 

I  phoned  her  after  one  of  these  long 
stretches  and  told  her  that  a  friend  of 
mine  and  his  wife  had  invited  me  to  din- 
ner at  their  house  and  asked  me  to  bring 
a  date  if  I  wanted  to. 

"Would  you  like  to  come?"  I  asked. 

Jo-Ann  said  she  would. 

During  dinner  that  night  I  got  to  feeling 
depressed  about  something.  I  couldn't  eat. 
I  figured  there  was  no  sense  staying  at 
the  table.  I  don't  know  if  it  occurred  to 
me  that  this  would  make  it  a  little  hard 


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Promptness  counts.  Three  $10  winners  will  be  chosen  from  each  of  the  following  areas — on  a  basis  of  the  date  and  time  on  your  postmark: 
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Please  circle  the  box  to  the  left  of  the  one  phrase  which  best  answers  each  question: 


1.  I  LIKE  MARILYN  MONROE: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  UJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 

2.  I  LIKE  ROBERT  STACK: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 
I  READ:  UJ  all  of  his  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 

3.  I  LIKE  SHIRLEY  MACLAINE: 

□  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 


I  READ:  UJ  all  of  her  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  UJ  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 

4.  I  LIKE  KIM  NOVAK: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  UJ  not  at  all 
UJ  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  UJ  all  of  her  story  UJ  part  UJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
UJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  UJ  very  little 
UJ  not  at  all 

5.  I  LIKE  MAY  BRITT: 

UJ  more  than  almost  any  star  UJ  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  UJ  very  little  0  not  at  all 
0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

I  LIKE  SAMMY  DAVIS,  JR. 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 


0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  their  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 

6.  I  LIKE  TUESDAY  WELD: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 

7.  I  LIKE  BOBBY  RYDELL: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  his  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 


on  Jo,  sitting  alone  at  a  table  with  people 
she  barely  knew.  All  I  know  is  that  I  was 
depressed.  And  that  I  got  up  and  went  into 
the  living  room  and  put  on  some  records. 

A  little  while  later,  Jo-Ann  came  over 
to  me. 

She  put  her  hand  on  the  top  of  my  head. 
"Good-bye,  Bobby,"  she  said. 
"Where  you  going?"  I  asked  her. 
"Home,"  she  said.  "I've  apologized  to  our 
hosts." 

"How  you  going  home?"  I  asked. 

"I  phoned  a  cab,"  she  said. 

"Why  you  going  home?"  I  asked,  starting 
to  get  a  little  miffed  about  it,  mad. 

"Because,"  Jo-Ann  said,  not  mad-sound- 
ing, not  un-mad;  I  guess  "resigned"  is  the 
only  word — "because,"  she  said,  "I  don't 
want  to  be  hurt  anymore,  Bobby.  And  be- 
cause I  don't  want  to  tie  you  down  to  a 
girl  who's  always  going  to  be  hurt,  even 
for  the  few  hours  she's  together  with  you. 

"Don't  you  see?"  she  said  then.  "Don't 
you  see  what  I  mean,  Bobby?" 

I  said,  "No.  I'm  tired  and  my  eyes  are 
blurred.  I  don't  see  anything." 

And  I  turned  away. 

And  as  I  did  I  tried  to  say  to  myself, 
"Who  cares  if  you  come  or  go,  Miss  Camp- 
bell? Who  needs  you?" 

But  even  though  I  was  saying  the  words 
to  myself,  they  seemed  to  get  stuck  in  my 
throat. 

I  didn't  know  what  to  do  about  Jo. 

So  I  did  nothing,  and  just  let  her  go.  .  .  . 

Mack  the  Knife  came  to  me  shortly  after 
this.  And  the  world  came  to  me,  too  now, 
in  dollars  and  in  applause,  in  gold  records 
and  so  many  booking  offers  I  had  to  turn 
half  of  them  down,  in  screen  tests  and  in- 
terviews and  picture-taking  sessions  with 
high-class  photographers  and  in  auto- 
graphs and  screaming  kids — the  works. 

It  was  great,  and  I  put  my  arms  around 
it  like  a  lover  who'd  taken  a  girl  named 
Career  as  his  mistress,  holding  hard,  never 


letting  go.  Because  it  happened  so  fast,  it 
gave  me  little  time  to  think.  And  this,  I 
thought,  was  good  for  me.  I  was  constantly 
surrounded  by  people  now.  I  was  never 
alone.  There  wasn't  a  face  that  wouldn't 
show  for  me  at  the  snap  of  a  finger,  to  talk 
it  up  with  me,  to  keep  things  hopping,  to 
tell  me,  remind  me,  how  fine  I  was,  how 
great  I  was  doing,  how  I  had  the  world  on 
a  string,  how  I  had  everything. 

And  then  one  night,  in  California,  be- 
tween shows  at  a  club  there,  I  was  sitting 
alone  in  my  dressing  room. 

As  it  happened,  I  was  feeling  particularly 
alone  that  night. 

I  could  have  called  for  somebody, 

But  I  didn't  know  just  who  I  really 
wanted  to  see. 

I  sat  facing  the  door. 

"If  anyone  could  walk  through  that  door 
right  now,"  I  thought,  "who  would  you 
want  to  see,  more  than  anyone  else?" 

The  picture  of  her  came  to  me  in  a 
flash. 

The  golden  hair. 

The  big  blue  eyes. 

The  little  girl  look. 

Everything  about  her  that  I  thought  I'd 
forgotten  by  now,  but  hadn't. 

I  began  to  have  this  conversation  with 
myself. 

"Call  her?  See  her?  But  she's  in  New 
York,"  Part  A  of  me  said  to  Part  B. 

"So  what,  you  schnook,"  said  Part  B, 
" — you  call  her  and  maybe  she  comes  here 
tomorrow." 

"Comes?  She  probably  won't  even  talk 
to  me." 

"How  you  gonna  know,  unless  you  try?" 

"Just  like  that?" 

"Just  like  that." 

"And  what  do  I  say?" 

"You  tell  her  the  facts.  That  you've  been 
a  dope,  a  schnook,  and  that  you  miss  her 
and  you  love  her." 

"Love  her?  Me  in  love?" 


Bobby  guest-stars  in  Columbia's  Pep: 


8.  I  LIKE  VIVIEN  LEIGH: 

CO  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 
0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 


I  LIKE  LAURENCE  OLIVIER: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  their  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  welJ  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 


9.  I  LIKE  ANNETTE  FUNICEUO: 

|T|  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 


0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
rj  not  at  all 

10.  I  LIKE  ELIZABETH  TAYLOR: 

[TJ  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 
[7]  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 


I  LIKE  EDDIE  FISHER: 

[JJ  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  [TJ  very  little  [TJ  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 

1  READ:  0  all  of  their  story  [JJ  part  [JJ  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  [JJ  super-completely 
[JJ  completely  UJ  fairly  well  0  very  little 
[JJ  not  at  all 

11.  I  LIKE  BOBBY  DARIN: 

[JJ  more  than  almost  any  star  [JJ  a  lot 
[JJ  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 
0  am  not  very  familiar  with  him 


I  READ:  0  all  of  his  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 

0  not  at  all 

12.  I  LIKE  AVA  GARDNER: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  0  part  0  none 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 

13.  I  LIKE  DEBBIE  REYNOLDS: 

0  more  than  almost  any  star  0  a  lot 
0  fairly  well  0  very  little  0  not  at  all 

0  am  not  very  familiar  with  her 

1  READ:  0  all  of  her  story  0  part  0  none  1 
IT  HELD  MY  INTEREST:  0  super-completely 
0  completely  0  fairly  well  0  very  little 
0  not  at  all 


14.  The  stars  I  most  want  to  read  about  are: 
(i)  


(1)  . 

(2)  . 


AGE  NAME  

ADDRESS  

STREET 

CITY  ZONE  STATE  


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Boston  Herald. 


Pilorims  in  Paradise — Frank 
Slaughter.  A  young  doctor 
and  a  beautiful  girl  are  cast 
ashore  on  a  desolate  Ba- 
hama island.  Exciting  new 
historical  novel. 
Round  the  World  with  Fa- 
mous  Authors.  Great  writ- 
ers show  you  lands,  customs, 
people  in  every  corner  of  the 
world,  4s  pages  of  full  color 
photos. 

Seven  Wonders  of  the  World. 
Lowell  Thomas.  A  magic- 
carpet  journey  to  the  world's 
most  exciting  spectacles..  1"3 
photos.  40  in  eye -filling  color. 
Sewing  Made  Easy  —  1.000 
step-by-step  pictures  with 
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of  dress-making  and  sew- 
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Station  Wagon  in  Spain  — 
Frances  Parkinson  Keyes.  A 

gay  shipboard  blonde,  a 
dark-haired  Madrid  beauty, 
ar.i  an  An.-.-rtcan  ii-.tr.: 


prehensive    Dictionary.  2 

volumes  —  latest  edition. 
SO. 00 J  entries.  TOO  picture-. 
5?6  page,.  Hundreds  of  new 
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with 
Flame-Glo! 


All  eyes  are  on  you  when  you  use  Flame-Glo: 

beauty  secret  of  stage,  screen  and  TV  stars,  as 
well  as  smart  society.  For  your  lips,  nothing 
beats  Flame-Glo  "Lustre-Flame"  with  satin 
smooth,  dewy  moist  brilliance  that  lasts  far  longer. 
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OCTOBER,  1960 


AMERICA'S  GREATEST  MOVIE  MAGAZINE 


STORIES 

May  Britt 

Sammy  Davis,  Jr  19  May  Britt's  Own  Story  by  May  Britt 

Grace  Kelly   22  A  Tragic  Princess  by  Hugh  Burrell 

Dianne  Lennon   24  "I'll  Never  Sing  Again!"  by  Jane  Ardmore 

Debbie  Reynolds  26  The  Truth  About  Our  Make-Believe  Romance 

Elvis  Presley   28  Disgrace  At  Graceland 

Jean  Simmons 

Stewart  Granger    30  The  Saddest  Picture  Of  The  Year 

Elizabeth  Taylor 

Eddie  Fisher  32  Eddie  Named  Father  Of  Liza 

Connie  Stevens  34  The  Nun  I  Hated  by  Ed  DeBlasio 

Paul  Anka   40  Letter  To  A  Lonely  Girl  by  Paul  Anka 

as  told  to  George  Christy 

Lauren  Bacall 

Jason  Robards,  Jr.         44  A  Widow's  Torment  by  Ron  Chamm 

Sophia  Loren  50  "They  Stole  My  Memories"  by  Beverly  On 

Kathy  Nolan  52  An  Urgent  Letter  To  Kathy  Nolan  From  Her  Mother 

SPECIAL  FEATURES 

36    The  Good  Wife— A  Modern  Screen 
Special  Service  Feature 

46    One  Live,  Experienced  Fairy  God-mother! 
FEATURETTES 

6    Jimmy  Durante  And  Toscanini 
66    Deanna  Today 

80    The  Christmas  Fairy  Arrived  In  October 

DEPARTMENTS 

9    Eight-Page  Gossip  Extra 
4    The  Inside  Story 
8    Disk  Jockeys'  Quiz 
18    October  Birthdays 
79    New  Movies 


Jimmy  Durante 
Deanna  Durbin 
Jean  Simmons 


Louella  Parsons 


by  Florence  Epstein 


Cover  Photograph  from  PIP 

Other  Photographers'  Credits  on  Page  74 


DAVID  MYERS,  editor 

SAM  BLUM,  managing  editor 

TERRY  DAVIDSON,  story  editor 
LINDA  OLSHEIM,  production  editor 
ED  DeBLASIO,  special  correspondent 
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ERNESTINE  R.  COOKE,  ed.  assistant 
GENE  HOYT,  research  director 


MICHAEL  LEFCOURT,  art  editor 
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DOLORES  M.  SHAW,  asst.  art  editor 
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POSTMASTER:  Please  send  notice  on  Form  3579  to  321  West  44  Street.  New  York  36,  New  York 

MODERN  SCREEN.  Vol.  54.  No.  10.  October,  1960  Published  Monthly  by  Dell  Publishing  Co..  Inc.  Office 
of  publication :  at  Washington  and  South  Aves.,  Dunellen.  N.  J.  Executive  and  editorial  offices.  750  Third 
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Presidents.  William  1\  Callahan.  Jr..  Paul  R.  Lilly;  Harold  Clark.  Vice-President-Advertising  Director;  Bryce  L. 
Holland,  Vice- 1'iesident ;  Assistant  Vice  Presidents.  Fernando  Texidor,  Richard  L.  Williams;  Carolene  Owings. 
Secretary.  Published  simultaneously  in  the  Dominion  of  Canada.  International  cop>  right  secured  under  the  provisions 
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Inc.  Printed  in  U.  S.  A.  The  Publishers  assume  no  responsibility  for  the  return  of  unsolicited  material.  Trademark- 
No.  596800. 


Written  by  OSCAR  MILLARD  Directed  by  CHARLES  VIDOR 

in  CINEMASCOPE  and  Eastman  COLOR 


- 1 

3 


shave,  lady: 
don't  do  it! 


Cream  hair  away  the  beautiful  way... 
with  new  baby-pink,  sweet-smelling 
neet.  Always  to  nicen  underarms, 
everytime  to  smooth  legs  to  smoother 
beauty,  and  next  time  for  that  faint 
downy  fuzz  on  the  face,  why  not 
consider  neet?  Goes  down  deep  where 
no  razor  can  reach  to  cream  hair 
away  the  beautiful  way. 


Want  the  real  truth?  Write  to  INSIDE  STORY,  Modern  Screen, 
Box  515,  Times  Square  P.O.,  N.Y.  36,  N.Y.  The  most  interesting 
letters  will  appear  in  this  column.  Sorry,  no  personal  replies. 
For  vital  statistics  and  biographical  information  about  the  stars 
get  Modern  Screen's  SUPER  STAR  CHART.  Coupon,  page  64. 


Q  Who  makes  more  money — Natalie 
Wood  or  Robert  Wagner? 

— I.S.,  Mt.  Vernon,  N.Y. 

A  On  a  free-lance  basis,  Nat  makes 
twice  husband  Bob's  asking  price — but, 
considerably  less  tinder  the  terms  of  her 
Warner  Bros,  contract. 

9  Sophia  Loren  recently  made  a  crack 
that  she  was  sorry  she  got  The  Million- 
airess role  away  from  Katharine  Hep- 
burn but  Katie  was  too  old  and  hadn't 
the  sex  appeal  to  recreate  her  stage  role 
of  eight  years  ago  on  the  screen.  What 
was  Miss  Hepburn's  reply  to  this  un- 
kind remark? 

— R.E.,  Long  Beach,  N.Y. 

A  Cold  stone-dead  silence. 

9  Will  Debbie  Reynolds  allow  and 
receive  Liz  Taylor  in  her  home  when 
Eddie  Fisher  comes  there  to  visit  with 
Todd  and  Carrie? 

— K.H.,  San  Jose,  Calif. 

A  Debbie  will  allow  Liz  in  her  home, 
but  it's  unlikely  she'll  be  at  home  to 
receive  her. 

9  Is  her  mother  trying  to  force  Tues- 
day Weld  to  settle  down  and  marry 
Dick  Beymer? 

— P.E.,  Cleveland,  Ohio. 

A  She's  been  using  the  art  of  gentle 
persuasion  .  .  .  on  her  daughter:  the 
power  of  suggestion  on  Dick. 

9  Is  it  true  that  Mel  Ferrer,  who  just 
became  a  father,  has  a  daughter  who 
acts  under  a  different  family  name 
because  she's  older  than  Mel's  wife 
Audrey  Hepburn? 

— R.E.,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

A  No.  Budding  actress  Mela  Ferrer  is 
seventeen.  Audrey's  thirty-one. 

9  I  read  a  funny  story  that  Marlon 
Brando  saw  a  gorgeous  Oriental  across 
a  crowded  dimly-lit  room,  asked  to  be 
introduced  and  learned  it  was  his  own 
ex-wife,  Anna  Kashfi.  Did  this  happen 
— or  is  someone's  imagination  over- 
active ? 

— G.F.,  Montclaxr,  NJ. 

A  Marlon's  vision  was  under-active  .  .  . 
but  not  his  instinct  for  type.  To  his 
great  embarrassment — the  story's  true! 


9-  Why  did  Kipp  Hamilton  decide  to 

break  her  engagement  to  Efrem  Zim- 
balist  Jr.,  after  escorting  his  children 
to  Connecticut? 

— R.G..  San  Antonio,  Tex. 

A  Obviously  Kipp  felt  that  it  wasn't 
exactly  in  good  taste  to  be  engaged — 
when  the  fiance  in  question  wasn't 
completely  divorced. 

9  Is  it  true  that  the  ASPCA  is  taking 
Tab  Hunter's  dog  away  from  him  and 
is  trying  to  prevent  him  from  getting  a 
license  to  own  any  other  animal? 

— E.R.,  Hamden,  Conn. 

A  Tab  has  denied  beating  the  dog — said 
he  was  merely  yelling  at  it.  Since  no 
one  has  pressed  charges,  it's  unlikely 
that  the  ASPCA  will. 

9  What's  the  inside  story  about  the 
report  that  Ava  Gardner  was  badly 
crippled  in  an  accident  and  may  never 
walk  without  a  limp  again? 

— NJM.,  Boston,  Mass. 

A  An  exaggeration.  Ava  injured  her  leg 
and  went  on  to  London  for  treatment. 
She  will  walk  normally  as  soon  as  it's 
completed. 

9  Whatever  happened  to  Zanuck's 
great  plans  for  Bella  Darvi? 

— V.P.,  Rye,  N.Y. 

A  Zanuck  transferred  his  plans  to 
Ju/iette  Greco.  Miss  Darvi 's  living  it 
up  in  the  South  of  France. 

9  I  read  where  Eddie  Fisher's  record- 
ing company  is  putting  out  an  album  of 
tone-poems  dedicated  to  the  most 
glamorous  women  in  the  world — among 
them  Ava  Gardner,  Garbo,  Garland, 
Marilyn,  Zsa  Zsa,  Bardot,  Lena,  Lana, 
Liz,  and  Natalie  Wood.  I  can  under- 
stand his  choice  in  most  instances — but 
how  did  Natalie  get  into  this?  She's 
really  just  a  cute  kid. 

— P.K.,  Elko,  Nev. 


A  .      .  And 

Eddie  and  Liz'. 


a  close  friend  of 


9  Was  tax  savings  the  motive  behind 
Deborah  Kerr  renouncing  her  Ameri- 
can citizenship  and  going  to  live  in 
Switzerland — like  all  the  other  stars? 

— A.S.,  St.  Charles,  Mo. 

A  She's  not  an  American  citizen. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  THE  IVUDTMlQHT  LACE ... 
TARGET  FOR,  TEMPT/ITiOlV...OR  TERROR,? 


THE  SHOCKING 
MIDNIGHT  THREATS., 


HAD  SHE  INVENTED 
THEM...  OR,  WAS 
SHE  LIVING  TWO 

lives. ..without 

KNOWING  iT...? 


DORIS  DAY*  REX  HAR 
JOHN  GAVIN  I 


MYRNA  LOY- RODDY  McDOWALL 

HERBERT  MARSHALL  -  NATASHA  PARRY- JOHN  WILLIAMS 
«ith  HERMIONE  BADDELEY 

Directed  by  DAVID  MILLER  •  Screenplay  by  IVAN  GOFF  and  BEN  ROBERTS 
Based  upon  the  play  "MATILDA  SHOUTED  FIRE"  by  Janet  Green 
Produced  by  ROSS  HUNTER  and  MARTIN  MELCHER  •  A  Universal-International  Release 


IN  EASTMAN 


COLOR 


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6        AVAILABLE  WHEREVER  FINE  BRAS  ARE  SOLD  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  AND  CANADA 


JIMMY 
DURANTE 


AND 
TOSCANINI 


■  A  vintage  phonograph  was  one  of 
the  prize  possessions  in  the  barber 
shop  of  Papa  Durante  on  Catherine 
Street  on  New  York  City's  Lower  East 
Side. 

And  the  music  heard  on  it  most  fre- 
q-iently  was  the  symphonic  records  of 
.Arturo  Toscanini  .  .  .  with  Enrico 
Caruso  records  a  close  second. 

When  young  Jimmy  Durante  wasn't 
lathering  up  the  customers  to  get  them 
ready  for  his  dad's  razor,  he  was  for- 
wer  cranking  up  the  old  phonograph. 

"My  father  never  let  me  shave  a 
customer  or  cut  their  hair,"  Jimmy 
recalls,  "but  he  sure  did  trust  me  with 
that  phonograph.  The  only  trouble  was 
I  didn't  dare  play  the  records  I  liked. 
It  had  to  be  Toscanini  or  Caruso.  To 
him  they  were  Roman  gods. 

"I  didn't  treat  them  with  much  rev- 
erence though.  Years  later  when  I 
needed  a  specialty  song  for  my  radio 
program  I  wrote  a  tune  called  Tos- 
canini, Stokowski  and  Me.  I  got  the 
best  of  it  in  the  lyrics,  and  the  song 
wound  up  with  me  saying  that  Sto- 
kowski couldn't  sing  but  I  could,  and 
Toscanini  couldn't  play  the  piano,  but 
I  could. 

"I  could  tell  it  was  a  hit  when  the 
studio  audience  laughed  (they  got  in 
free),  and  even  up  in  the  sponsor's 
booth  there  was  a  frozen  smile  when 
they  heard  it.  So  I  sang  it  again— wid 
emphasasis ! 

"I  got  back  to  my  hotel  a  couple  of 
hours  later  and  noticed  a  little  man 
wearing  a  big  black  hat,  waiting  out- 
side my  room.  This  is  either  a  bill  col- 
lector or  an  autograph  collector,  I 
thinks— and  he  wasn't  holding  an  auto- 
graph book.  I  began  wondering  if  the 
payments  on  my  tuxedo  were  up  to 
date. 

"Well,  I  walked  up  to  the  door,  sort 
of  nonchalant,  and  he  draws  himself 
up  to  his  full  five  feet  two  and  looks 
at  me  like  I  had  insulted  all  his  an- 
cestors. 

"'Mr.  Durante?'  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  admitted.  Then  he  poked 
his  fist  at  me,  but  just  to  hand  me  his 
calling  card. 

"  'There  are  several  things  you  don't 
know  about  me,  Mr.  Durante,'  he 
shouted. 

"  'First,  my  name  is  Toscanini  .  .  . 
second,  I  do  play  the  piano-and  much 
better  than  you. 

"'I  also  can  sing  better  than  you. 
In  fact,  if  I  tried,  I  could  even  tell 
jokes  better  than  you!  Good  night, 
Mr.  Durante!'  "  end 


Look!  Real  cream  deodorant 
your  fingers  need  never  touch ! 


New  glide-on  applicator! 
Just  twist  the  bottom  .  .  . 
cream  comes  out  the  top! 


Now  you  can  have  the  all-day  protection 
only  a  real  cream  deodorant  can  give  plus 
glide-on  convenience — both  in  new  Desert  Dri. 
It  glides  on  and  rubs  in  right  from  its  own 
exclusive  applicator.  Not  just  a  rolled-on 
surface  coating,  it  penetrates  for  positive 
all-day  protection.  Checks  perspiration, 
stops  odor,  won't  damage  clothes. 
3  months'1  supply — 1.00  plus  tax. 


New  Desert  Dri®— real  cream  deodorant— anti-perspirant  by  Shulton 


©Shulton,  Inc.,  1960 


Only  20  minutes  more  than  last  night's  pin-up  .  .  . 

wake  up 
with  a 
permanent/. 


Only  new  Bobbi  waves  while  you  sleep. . . 
brushes  into  a  softly  feminine,  lasting  hairstyle! 

If  you  can  put  up  your  hair  in 
pin  curls,  you  can  give  yourself  a 
Bobbi— the  easy  pin  curl  perma- 
nent. It  takes  only  twenty  minutes 
more  than  a  setting!  Then,  the 
wave  "takes"  while  you  sleep  be- 
cause Bobbi  is  self-neutralizing. 

In  the  morning  you  wake  up  with 
a  permanent  that  brushes  into  a 
soft,  finished  hairstyle  with  the  last- 
ing body  only  a  permanent  gives. 
Complete  kit,  $2.00.  Refill,  $1.50. 

The  most  convenient  permanent  of  all— home  or  beauty  shop! 

m 


jOcKEyS- 


I3V  LYLE  IvEXVOX  EXGEL 


The  Nation's  Top  Disk  Jockeys  pose  a 
series  of  questions  to  see  if  you  know 
your  record  stars. 


known 
gyrations 


Richard  Smith, 
Station  WLCO, 
Eustis,  Fla. 


1.  This  performer 
more    for  his 

than  for  his  singing  but  he  has 
an  excellent  voice  and  can  sing 
a  beautiful  ballad.  He  just  had 
the  hit  titled  Stuck  On  You 
on  the  RCA  Victor  label. 

2.  He  was  born  in  Birming- 
ham,  Ala.,  in   1937.  His 

voice  is  the  type  that  can  sing 
most  anything.  On  the 
Cub  label  his  last  single 
was   Handy   Man.  His 
latest  record  is  the  big 
hit  Good  Timin'. 
3.  He's  twenty-two  and 
kails  from  Windsor, 
Ontario.  He  records  for 
Top  Rank.  His  musical 
interests     are     playing  ira  Cook, 
guitar,  writing  and  com-  Station  KMPC, 
Posing.  His  current  hit  Los  A"geles.  Callf- 
is  Burning  Bridges. 

4.  This  vocalist  was  a  sec- 
ond runner-up  to  "Miss 

America"  in  1958.  Her  title- 
was  "Miss  Oklahoma."  She 
was  born  in  Tulsa,  Okla- 
homa, in  1940.  Her  lovely 
voice  may  be  heard  in  an 
album  the  title  of  which  is 
her  name.  She  has  the  top 
hit  single  Paper  Roses. 

5.  Brooklyn,   N.  Y .,   is  his 
birthplace.    He's  sung  in 

movies,  on  radio,  television 
and  nightclubs.  He  had  the 
million  record  seller  Again. 
His  latest  album  is  entitled 
This  Game  Of  Love. 

6.  These  six  boys  (Terry, 

Paul,  Nate,  Jacob,  Tom-   

my  and  Zeke)  go  under  a 
group  name.  Their  latest 
album  is  Flamingo  Sere- 
nade. Their  big  song  now 
is  Nobody  Loves  Me  Like 
You  on  the  End  label. 

7.  They  sing.  He  heads  the 
group  consisting  of  Fred, 

Angelo  and  Carlo.  They've 
been  on  TV  and  in  night- 
clubs. They  record  for 
Laurie.  They  had  million 
seller  Teenager  In  Love 
and  I  Wonder  Why. 


iOBuuuvjJ  «g 
3U0MVQ  Oijf  «g 

tuViUg  vjiuy  »j 

ssuof  atuiiutf 
fo/rstj  swig  »j 


Ed  Meath, 
Station  WHEC 
Rochester,  N. 


John  Dixon  &  Chuck  Thompson, 
Station  WALA-TV, 
Mobile,  Ala. 


MODERN  SCREEN'S 

8  PAGE  GOSSIP  EXTRA 

by 

HOLLYWOOD'S 
GREATEST  COLUMNIST 


in  this  issue: 

Parties  and  Politics 
Romances  and  Partings 
Tab  In  Bad  Trouble 


(R.  to  L.)  Louella  and  Jimmy  McHugh  enjoyed 
hosting  Fabian,JudyMcHugh,Fabe'sbrotherBob. 


Lana  and  Fred  May  enjoyed  the 
party— before  the  trouble  began.  9 


continued 


Milton  Berle  and  Lyndon  Johnson 
(right)   discussed  affairs  of  state. 


Convention  delegate  Sinatra  was 
solidly  behind  Senator  Kennedy. 


The  Pete)-  Lawfords'  party  was  for  Presidential 
nominee  Jack  Kennedy  (Peter's  brother-in-law). 


Judy  Garland  and  Sammy  Davis,  Jr.  ivere  among  the  shoiv-business 
stars  gathered  in  honor  of  political  lights  like  Adlai  Stevenson. 


Parties . . .  Politics . . . 
Pretty  Girls 

Janet  Leigh  fainted  at  the  Henry 
Fondas'  party  for  the  Democratic  biggies, 
giving  rise  to  the  rumor  that  she  and  Tony 
were  expecting  a  third  little  Curtis.  But  she 
said  "No,  it's  just  a  reaction  from  some  pills 
I've  taken  for  sinus  trouble."  .  .  . 

The  TV  cameras,  having  a  field  day  with 
so  many  movie  stars  on  hand  "free,"  flashed 
to  Frank  Sinatra  and  Peter  Lawford 
(brother-in-law  of  Democratic  nominee  Senator 
John  Kennedy)  almost  as  often  as  they  did  to 
the  politicians.  .  .  . 

Edward  G.  Robinson  got  the  biggest 
hand  from  the  delegates;  Nat  King  Cole 
almost  as  big.  .  .  . 

Hope  Lange's  schoolgirl  black  dress 
with  demure  collar  was  the  most  modest  out- 
fit worn  the  entire  week  the  Democrats  were 
among  us.  .  .  . 

Janet  Leigh's  whistle-bait  decolletage,  worn 
in  mid-afternoon,  the  most  daring.  .  .  . 

No  one  seemed  to  note  or  care  that  Shelley 
Winters  arrived  and  departed  from  the 
opening  ceremonies  with  Tony  Franciosa. 
the  husband  she  had  just  announced  shedding 
twenty-four  hours  previously.  .  .  . 

When  Zsa  Zsa  Gabor  couldn't  get  a 


ticket  to  accompany  New  Orleans  mayor  De 
Lesseps  Morrison  to  the  floor  of  the  conven- 
tion, it  was  carried  as  a  "news"  flash  over 
national  television!  .  .  . 

My  own  personal  big  excitement — when 
Senator  Kennedy,  looking  as  fresh  as  though 
he  had  not  been  campaigning  for  months  and 
was  not  under  the  strain  of  the  Convention 
which  later  nominated  him,  greeted  me  at  the 
Phil  Regan  party  with  a  cheerful  "Hello, 
Louella,"  and  posed  for  picture  after 
picture.  .  .  . 

What  a  week!  Frantic,  hectic  and  exhaust- 
ing— yes,  I've  never  covered  so  many  parties, 
shaken  so  many  hands,  seen  so  many  movie 
stars  turn  out  en  masse  (even  such  staunch 
Republicans  as  the  Gary  Coopers  and 
Jennifer  Jones  and  David  Selznick 
showed  up  for  all  the  doing  for  the  Demo- 
crats). But  never  say  it  hasn't  been  tun! 

Many  days  saw  three  or  four  magnificent 
parties  within  the  twenty-four  hour  span  and 
all  I  can  say  is  that  our  movietown  hostesses 
can  stand  up  and  be  counted  among  the  finest 
in  the  nation. 

On  the  Saturday  before  the  Monday  open- 
ing day,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jules  Stein  entertained 
three  hundred  on  the  terrace  of  their  hilltop 
home;  the  Edwin  Pauleys  six-hundred-forty  at 
their  garden  supper-dance;  the  Peter  Lawfords 
over  one  hundred  at  a  "little  family"  affair 
at  their  beach  home  for  Senator  Kennedy. 


Then  Perle  Mesta — who  else — gave  a  brunch 
in  the  Cocoanut  Grove  to  which  six  thousand 
showed  up  to  shake  the  hand  of  "the  hostess 
with  the  mostest"  and  meet  her  political  and 
movie  star  pals.  My  boss,  William  Randolph 
Hearst,  Jr.,  and  his  beautiful  Austine  hosted 
a  wonderful  luncheon  at  the  Wilshire  Country 
Club,  particularly  pleasant  because  one  could 
talk  to  and  enjoy  all  the  celebrated  guests. 
Gore  Vidal,  the  playwright-politician,  took 
over  Romanoff's  for  a  delightful  affair,  and 
Phil  Regan  invited  five-hundred  and  got  over 
nine-hundred  into  Chasens. 

Style  note:  Most  of  the  screen  stars  and 
wives  of  the  politicians  wore  vivid  print  or 
lace  cocktail  dresses  with  cocktail  coats.  Few 
furs — but  much  beautiful  jewelry.  .  .  . 

The  Peter  Lawfords  had  the  most 
"Democratic"  decoration  theme — donkey  place 
cards  and  a  live,  honest-to-goodness  donkey 
in  the  garden,  delighting  all  the  Kennedy 
children  (permitted  to  stay  up  until  9:00!),  as 
well  as  Judy  Garland,  Nat  King  Cole, 
Milton  Berle,  the  Gary  Coopers,  Henry 
Fondas  and  Tony  and  Janet  who  attended  the 
family  affair.  .  .  . 

I  guess  I  could  take  the  rest  of  this  depart- 
ment telling  you  about  all  the  wonderful  times 
we've  had  while  the  Democrats  were  in  town 
among  my  little  movie  playmates.  But  space 
doesn't  permit.  Besides  I'm  limp — and  a 
Republican  to  boot! 


10 


Nursery  Notes 


The  baby  that  Audrey  Hepburn  wanted 
more  than  anything  in  the  world  was  born  on 
July  17th  at  the  Lucerne  Maternity  Clinic  in 
Switzerland,  a  strapping  nine-pound  boy, 
whom  Audrey  and  Mel  Ferrer  promptly 
named  Sean.  Despite  the  fact  that  Audrey  is 
so  frail  and  delicate  and  a  Caesarean  birth 
had  been  anticipated,  young  Sean  arrived  by 
normal  delivery.  Now,  at  last,  all  the  heart- 
ache that  Audrey  knew  last  year  when  she 
lost  a  baby,  is  past  and  forgotten  in  her 
delight  over  the  new  arrival. 

And  from  the  other  side  of  the  world,  from 
Nassau  in  the  Bahamas,  came  a  happy  cable 
from  Connie  Towers  and  Eugene  McGrath 
(Terry  Moore's  ex)  that  another  young 
man,  Michael  Ford  McGrath,  had  made  his 
arrival.  Mike  surprised  a  yachting  party  by 
deciding  to  be  born  three  weeks  ahead  of 
schedule.  Oh,  well — the  Irish  are  always 
impatient. 


Shelley  has  her-  daughter  Vittoria  to 
think  of  before  she  marries  again. 


Bobbij  Darin  and  Jo-Ann  Campbell  postponed  marriage  in  favor  of  their  careers. 


Shelley  and 
Tony  Part 

No  one,  under  similar  circumstances,  ever 
sounded  as  cool,  calm  and  collected  as 
Shelley  Winters  did  when  she  called  me 
from  New  York  to  tell  me  she  had  asked  Tony 
Franciosa  to  move  out  of  her  Beverly  Hills 
home  and  that  they  were  separating. 

I  couldn't  help  remembering  how  tearful, 
hysterical  and  unhappy  she  had  sounded  the 
time  she  had  called  to  tell  me  that  she  was 
leaving  Vittorio  Gassman,  her  first  hus- 
band, and  father  of  her  daughter,  Vittoria. 
Knowing  Shell,  I'm  sure  the  change  in  attitude 
was  not  because  she  loved  Vittorio  more  and 
Tony  less. 

It's  just  that  she  was  more  reconciled  to 
the  break-up  of  her  second  marriage.  She 
and  Tony,  during  the  past  two  years,  have 
been  on  the  verge  of  parting  so  often  the 
actual  break  must  have  been  an  emotional 
anti-climax. 

"Tony  and  I  are  not  parting  in  anger  or 
after  a  fight,"  she  said  from  3,000  miles  away. 
"I  just  had  to  face  the  situation  that  we  have 
a  different  set  of  values.  So  I  made  the 
decision  that  it's  far  better  for  us  to  live 
apart." 

Now  the  only  male  in  Shelley's  life  is  the 
treasured  Oscar  she  won  for  The  Diary  of 
Anne  Frank  and  if  you  ask  me,  Shelley  will 
think  long  and  hard  before  she  tries  matrimony 
again. 

Tribute  to 
Buddy  Adler 

Hollywood  was  deeply  saddened  by  the  loss 
of  handsome,  white-haired,  fifty-one-year-old 
Buddy  Adler,  executive  producer  of  20th 
Century-Fox  who  died  of  cancer  of  the  lung 
in  early  July. 

Nor  was  there  a  dry  eye  among  those  in 
the  Temple  attending  his  funeral  services 
when  the  organ  softly  played  Love  Is  A 
Many  Splendored  Thing  and  From  Here  To 
Eternity,  the  theme  songs  from  his  two  great- 
est pictures. 

He  will  be  deeply  missed  and  every  heart 
goes  out  to  his  actress  wife  Anita  Louise 
and  his  two  children. 


Producer  Buddy  Adler  (with  wife 
Anita  Louise)  will  be  sorely  missed. 


Cupid  Takes 
the  Count 

Take  heart,  girls;  Bobby  Darin  ran  up  a 

big  telephone  bill  to  call  me  from  Honolulu 
that  he  and  Jo-Ann  Campbell  have  broken 
their  engagement  (if  it  was  ever  really  on!). 

"Our  careers  keep  us  separated,"  said 
Bobby  from  the  Hawaiian  isle,  "the  only 
chance  Jo-Ann  and  I  have  to  see  each  other 
is  when  I  play  the  Copacabana  in  New  York. 
What  kind  of  a  marriage  would  this  be?  It 
just  wouldn't  work  out." 


As  for  you  boys  who  have  a  crush  on 
Connie  Francis — she  too  is  still  heart  free, 
despite  talk  she  could  hardly  wait  to  return  to 
Germany  to  resume  her  romance  with  screen 
star  Peter  Krauss. 

"Sure  I  had  a  crush  on  him  when  I  met  him 
in  Europe,"  Connie  told  me,  "and  when  I  go 
back  to  do  my  special  show  over  Luxembourg 
Radio,  I  expect  to  date  Peter.  But  I'm  married 
to  my  career — and  I  mean  it." 

Producer  Joe  Pasternak  tells  me  that  Connie 
is  going  to  be  just  as  much  of  a  smash  in  the 
movies  as  she's  been  making  records  after 
you  see  and  hear  her  in  his  MGM  musical 
Where  The  Boys  Are. 


OPEN 
LETTER 


The  still-strong  memory  of  hi 


Why  Elvis 
Stayed  Away 

I  don't  care  what  anyone  says,  I  think  the 
real  reason  Elvis  Presley  did  not  attend 
the  marriage  of  his  father,  Vernon  Presley,  to 
Mrs.  "Dee"  Elliott  in  Alabama,  is  because 
the  memory  of  his  mother  who  died  just  last 
year  is  still  too  deep  in  Elvis's  heart. 

I  don't  mean  to  imply  that  there's  an 
estrangement  between  Elvis  and  his  dad  and 
new  step-mother.  At  heart  Elvis  is  a  sweet 
boy  and  a  kind  one  no  matter  how  many  jibes 
he  takes  as  'Mr.  Swivel  Hips.'  I'm  sure  he 


kept  Elvis  from  his  father's  wedding. 


wants  his  father  to  be  happy. 

But  as  much  as  I  like  the  Presley  mentor, 
good  old  Colonel  Tom  Parker,  I  just  couldn't 
swallow  his  explanation  for  Elvis's  absence, 
"The  boy  thought  the  wedding  should  be  as 
quiet  as  possible.  If  he  had  flown  down  to 
Alabama,  it  would  have  been  a  riot." 

By  the  way.  Paramount  tells  me  that  Elvis's 
GI  Blues  will  have  a  special  premiere  in 
Heidelberg,  Germany,  for  his  buddies  in  the 
Third  Armored  Division. 

It  was  while  Elvis  was  stationed  in  Germany 
that  Vernon  Presley  met  Mrs.  Elliott,  the  for- 
mer wife  of  one  of  young  Presley's  superior 
officers. 


Juliet  Proivse  has  dated  co-star  Elvis  Pi 


but  her  heart  belongs  to  Frank. 


Frank  and  Juliet 


As  of  the  moment  there's  no  one  girl  in  the 
life  of  Elvis.  Forget  that  talk  about  Juliet 
Prowse,  his  GI  Blues  leading  lady.  Sure, 
there  was  a  flirtation  on  the  set  during  the 
shooting  of  the  picture.  But  Juliet's  heart 
belongs  to  Frank  Sinatra. 

Frank  brought  her  a  string  of  matched  pearls 
and  a  jade  bracelet  from  the  Orient,  not  that 
the  girl  is  influenced  by  these  baubles.  But 
when  she  and  Elvis  parted  the  final  day  of 
the  picture,  they  exchanged  a  friendly  kiss  on 
the  cheek. 


to  Tab  Hunter: 

I  know  you  have  been  advised  by  men  you 
consider  wiser  than  yourself  to  let  these  "dog 
beating"  charges  die  down  without  taking  too 
much  of  a  stand  to  fight  the  shocking  accusa- 
tions. 

Someone  close  to  you  told  me,  "Tab  has 
explained  that  he  was  only  disciplining  his 
thoroughbred  Weimaraner  hunting  dog  from 
digging  up  the  garden  as  he  had  been 
instructed  to  do  by  an  expert  trainer  of  this 
breed.  But  how  can  anyone  really  fight 
charges  like  these — it's  like  the  question: 
'When  did  you  stop  beating  your  wife?'  " 

I  can  see  the  point — but  I  do  not  agree.  I 
think  you  should  shout  from  the  housetops 
your  denial  that  you  have  been  cruel  to  a 
little  animal,  as  some  of  your  neighbors  have 
charged,  even  to  calling  the  police  and 
instigating  charges  against  you.  I  believe  it 
is  imperative  that  you  fight  back  because  you 
should  read  the  letters  that  have  poured  into 
my  office  from  irate  people  who  have  listened 
to  just  one  side. 

Nothing  arouses  the  ire  of  all  the  people 
who  love  animals  as  much  as  a  charge  of 
cruelty  to  them.  You  can't  take  it  standing 
still  and  being  silent. 

I  happen  to  know  that  the  neighbors  who 
live  right  next  door  to  you  are  horrified  and 
shocked  over  the  "beating"  complaints  lodged 
by  some  people  who  live  across  the  street 
from  your  home  in  the  Valley.  Your  next  door 
neighbor  has  said,  "Why  Tab  loves  that  dog! 
I  swear  he  has  never  been  cruel  to  him.  I 
have  a  dog  of  my  own  and  we  frequently  talk 
over  the  back  fence  about  training  our  dogs 
and  making  them  well  behaved.  I'll  gladly 
go  to  court — if  it  should  reach  there — and 
swear  to  this." 

You  have  always  been  known  as  a  lover 
of  animals,  horses  and  dogs.  If  you  are 
innocent — you  must  fight  back.  To  do  other- 
wise, could  be  dangerous  to  your  career. 


Tab  should  stand  up  to  those  who  ac- 
cuse him  of  cruelty  to  his  pet  dog! 


Party  for  "Portrait  in 
Black-and  Blue 

If  ever  a  beauty  was  created  for  triumphs 
and  troubles,  it's  Lana  Turner. 

What  started  out  to  be  her  only  happy 
"party"  night  since  the  latest  heartaches  over 
Cheryl — the  premiere  of  Portrait  in  Black 
followed  by  producer  Ross  Hunter's  swank 
party  at  Romanoff's — turned  into  another 
"black"  headline  for  Lana.  Frankly,  it  was 
just  a  pushing  skirmish  between  her  escort, 
the  man  in  her  life  these  days,  Fred  May, 
and  a  well-known  columnist. 

May,  smouldering  over  what  he  considered 
unfavorable  comments  about  his  love,  kept 
yelling,  "I  love  this  girl — I  love  her."  Well, 
anyway — now  we  know  his  real  feelings. 

Lana  burst  into  tears  asking  Fred  why  he 
had  done  it— all  of  which  wound  up  in  print 
as  a  "fight"  almost  equally  exciting  as  the 
Ingemar  Johansson-Patterson  brawl. 

But  before  all  this  -it  had  been  one  of  the 
most  glamorous  and  star-studded  social  events 
in  months.  There  were  so  many  beauties  in 
lovely  summer  gowns  dancing  every  dance 
in  the  ornate  Crown  Room  you  hardly  knew 


where  to  look  first. 

Lana,  a  portrait  in  pale  pink,  was  on  every- 
one's tongue  the  way  she  keeps  her  blonde 
beauty  both  on  and  off  the  screen.  Early  in 
the  evening  she  had  seemed  so  happy  dancing 
cheek  to  cheek  with  the  good-looking,  hand- 
some young  May. 

At  our  table  sat  two  outstanding  lovelies, 
the  dark,  exotic  Anna  Kashfi  (the  ex-Mrs. 
Marlon  Brando  was  producer  Hunter's 
date)  and  blonde,  lovely  Dina  Merrill. 

You  so  seldom  see  Loretta  Young  at  a 
party  that  she  caught  every  eye  dancing  with 
her  brother-in-law  Ricardo  Montalban 
and  her  favorite  designer,  Jean  Louis. 
Loretta's  gown  was  a  floor  length  smoky- 
colored  chiffon  which  swirled  and  flowed 
around  her  slender  figure  as  she  twirled. 

Doris  Day,  her  hair  swept  into  a  smooth 
"beehive"  around  her  head  and  wearing  an 
Oriental-type  white  gown  and  coat,  laughed 
when  I  accused  her  of  suddenly  becoming  a 
social  butterfly.  "Not  really,"  she  protested, 
"Marty  (her  ever  lovin'  husband,  Marty  Mel- 
cher)  just  comes  down  to  our  tennis  court  and 
gets  the  hook  to  make  me  go  out.  He  thinks  I 
should.  But  left  to  my  own  devices,  I'd  play 
tennis,  have  dinner  early  looking  at  TV,  and 


go  to  bed  every  night  at  ten!" 

Redheaded  Janet  Blair,  usually  so  con- 
servative, caused  a  few  surprised  gasps  of 
admiration  from  the  males,  by  a  long  dress 
but  just  a  little  above  the  knee,  " — the  most 
daring  I've  ever  owned,"  she  admitted. 

Jane  Powell,  another  going  sophisticated 
these  evenings,  was  in  short  red  strapless 
taffeta,  still  looking  "cute"  (she'll  hate  me  for 
saying  that).  I  never  before  realized  how 
witty  and  amusing  Pat  Nerney,  her  husband, 
is.  I  sat  between  Pat  and  Ross  Hunter  and 
they  certainly  kept  the  conversation  lively. 

Despite  gossip  that  he  is  madly  in  love  with 
Kipp  Hamilton,  Efrem  Zimbalist  came 
"stag."  Susan  Kohner  wasn't  with  her 
"steady"  either.  George  Hamilton  was 
out  of  town  so  Susan's  escort  was  Jim  Shelton. 

Ringsiding  at  the  candle-lit  tables  with 
centerpieces  of  pink  roses  and  peonies  were 
the  Robert  Taylors;  George  Nader 
with  Pat  McCullogh;  the  Robert  Cum- 
mings.  the  Vincent  Prices;  Craig 
Stevens  and  Alexis  Smith,  the  Art 
Linkletters,  the  Charles  Coburns,  Zsa 
Zsa  Gabor  and  Bundy  Solt,  Jeanne  Crain 
and  Paul  Brinkman,  the  Ronnie  Reagans 
— truly  a  star  turnout. 


13 


continued 


Troy  Donahue  brought  his  sister  to  the 
party,  and  she  interviewed  Louella! 


Jimmy  Boyd  and  Yvonne  Craig 
"planned  to  marry  in  just  one  week. 


Guests  of  honor  Tony  and  Joni  (left) 
chatted  with  Kookie  and  Asa  Maynor. 


Tony  Aquaviva  is  proud  of  his  wife  Joni  James'  success. 
(That's  the  real  Joni  standing  on  a  table  in  the  center.) 


Jimmy  McHugh's 
Party  for  Joni 

If  all  the  singers  who  came  to  Jimmy  Mc- 
Hugh's garden  party  for  Joni  James  and 
her  husband  Tony  Aquaviva,  had  burst  into 
song  at  the  same  time,  it  would  have  been  the 
most  expensive  chorus  ever  heard.  Practically 
every  top  composer  was  there,  so  any  record 
company  would  have  had  a  field  day. 

That  wasn't  all — the  younger  set  was  out 
in  full  force  to  welcome  Joni  before  she  opened 
at  the  Cocoanut  Grove.  Fabian,  who  spent 
most  of  his  time  with  Judy  McHugh,  grand- 
daughter of  the  host,  brought  his  young 
brother  Bobby,  fourteen.  Natalie  Trundy, 
who  has  more  freckles  than  I  have  ever  seen, 
was  with  Mark  Damon.  His  frequent  date. 
Jack  Benny's  daughter  Joan,  was  with  an- 
other handsome  escort,  whose  name  I  didn't 
get. 

Troy  Donahue  brought  his  mother  and 
fifteen-year-old  sister  who  told  me  she  is  a 
columnist.  "I  have  a  column  twice  a  week," 
she  said,  "and  I'm  going  to  write  about  you." 
She's  pretty  as  a  picture.  Edd  "Kookie" 
Byrnes  was  having  himself  a  time  with  Asa 
Maynor.  He's  so  happy  these  days,  now  that 
his  troubles  with  Warner  Bros,  are  over. 

Jimmy  Boyd  and  Yvonne  Craig,  who 
should  be  married  by  the  time  this  is  in  print 
because  they  planned  to  marry  the  week  end 
after  Jimmy's  party,  looked  very  happy. 

David  Janssen,  who  really  doesn't 
belong  to  the  younger  crowd  although  he  is 
only  twenty-nine,  created  quite  a  dash  when 
he  walked  in  with  his  Ellie.  Patti  Page  and 
Joni  James  talked  songs  and  who  recorded 
what  first.  Irene  Dunne  always  gets  a  lot 
of  admiring  glances,  even  from  the  younger 
set. 

When  Audrey  Meadows  and  her  sister 
Jayne  (Allen)  walked  in  with  Steve  Allen 
and  Robert  Six,  Audrey  asked  me  if  I  could 
tell  them  apart.  You  know  the  funny  thing  is 
that  I  don't  think  they  look  too  much  alike 
anymore. 


Cute,  freckle-faced  Natalie  Trundy 
ivas  escorted  by  actor  Mark  Damon. 


$25,000  Roman  Orgy 
-Hollywood  Style 

"I  wish  the  fans  could  see  us  now,"  whis- 
pered Jack  Lemmon  in  my  ear  as  we  sat 
in  a  Roman-Grecian  decorated  cabana  beside 
the  flower-strewn  swimming  pool  at  the 
Beverly  Hills  Hotel  which,  this  night,  million- 
aire-producer Joe  Levine  and  his  wife  had 
turned  into  a  S25.000  party-plug  for  Hercuies 
Unchained. 

I  knew  what  Jack  meant.  This  lavish  splurge 
was  just  exactly  what  some  fans  think  Holly- 
wood life  really  is:  There  were  beautiful 
models  (hired  for  the  evening)  lounging  in 
white  and  gold  Grecian  style  bathing  suits  on 
gold  satin  lounges  around  the  pool;  Hercules- 
type  young  Adonises  (also  models,  of  the 
male  gender)  were  strolling  around  in  gold- 
colored  trunks  and  little  else;  floating  in  the 
enormous  pools  were  veritable  islands  of  the 
most  gorgeous  flowers,  so  abundant  that  their 


Jack  Lemmon  came  stag  to  the  'or- 
gy' and  delighted  the  'Grecians!' 


Mitzi  Gaynor  got  quite  a  lift  from 
two    muscular    young  Adonises. 


fragrance  scented  the  air. 

Completely  modern,  however,  were  the  four 
bars  serving  everything  under  the  moon  to 
drink,  the  gold  fountains  spraying  cham- 
pagne, and  table  after  table  groaning 
with  the  finest  food  and  fruits  our  generous 
hosts  could  find. 

Rooms  overlooking  the  pool  from  the  hotel 
were  jammed  with  wide-eyed  tourists  who 
must  have  been  saying  to  themselves — "See? 
I  told  you  life  in  Hollywood  was  like  this!" 

Jack  Lemmon  had  come  alone  (who  wants 
to  bring  a  date  to  even  a  fake  'orgy')  and  he 
was  the  delight  of  the  'Grecian'  beauties  who 
asked  him  for  his  autograph  when  they 
weren't  splashing  in  and  out  of  the  pool. 

Certainly  for  lavish  outlay — Hollywood 
may  never  see  another  evening  like  this.  Even 
a  big  paper  moon  came  over  the  hibiscus 
bushes  to  cast  glamor  over  Zsa  Zsa  Gabor 
Dana  Wynter,  Barbara  Rush,  Barbara 
Nichols  and  all  the  other  goggle-eyed 
guests  who  all  said,  "This  is  the  party  the 
public  would  pay  to  look  in  on!" 


As  Barbara  Nichols  said,  "This  is  the 
party  people  would  pay  to  look  in  on!" 


-Ina  Balin 

She's  already  being  hailed  as  the  only  one 
of  the  new  actresses  to  give  promise  of  being 
a  great  glamour  star  along  the  lines  of  an 
Ava  Gardner  or  a  Lana  Turner.  That's 
how  the  critics  have  greeted  her  sexy  and 
glamorous  performance  as  the  "other  woman" 
in  From  The  Terrace  with  Paul  Newman 
and  Joanne  Woodward. 

Amusingly,  Joanne  and  Paul  and  Ina  are 
the  best  of  friends  off  screen.  Calling  them- 
selves "immigrants  from  New  York,"  they 
lived  in  the  same  apartment  building  during 
the  filming  of  the  20th  picture.  Either  in  Joanne 
and  Paul's  big  apartment  or  Ina's  small  one, 
they  spent  almost  every  evening  together 
going  over  their  "lines"  over  homemade 
dinners  of  hamburgers  and  coffee. 

Also  like  the  Newmans,  Ina  had  her  pro- 
fessional roots  in  the  New  York  theater — she 
was  a  big  hit  in  Compulsion  on  Broadway 
— before  20th  Century-Fox  grabbed  her  for 
pictures.  Ina  was  a  little  nervous  about  giving 
Hollywood  a  "second"  chance. 

She  had  been  one  of  the  actresses  in  the 
running  for  Marjorie  Morningstar  and  thought 
she  had  it  clinched  before  she  read  in 
my  column  one  morning  that  the  (then) 
coveted  role  had  gone  to  Natalie  Wood!  A 
bit  bitter  and  cynical  she  had  returned  to 
Broadway  and  Compulsion  before  Hollywood 
paged  her  again. 

Ina,  a  dark-haired,  exciting-type  beauty 
need  have  no  farther  fears  since  her  reviews 
in  Terrace.  At  the  age  of  twenty-two,  she 
seems  to  have  completely  conguered  two 
fields,  the  stage  and  the  screen. 

Born  Ina  Sandra  Rosenberg  in  Brooklyn, 
New  York,  she  can't  remember  when  she 
wasn't  stage  struck.  Used  to  baby  sit  to  earn 
money  for  dramatic  coaching  when  she  was 
just  thirteen.  She  came  up  the  usual  route, 
summer  stock,  some  modeling,  then  TV,  before 
hitting  good  roles  in  Bus  Stop,  Compulsion  and 
AJa/oriry  of  One. 

Too  bad,  Broadway — it  looks  like  Ina's  in 
Hollywood  to  stay. 


15 


continued 


Some  stars,  like  Ava  Gardner-  and  William  Holden,  have  pulled  up  stakes 
in  the  USA  and  moved  to  Europe  to  save  taxes.  Louella's  against  it. 


Louella  has  found  Fabian  to  be  a  charming 
young  boy,  hard  working,  and  not  conceited. 


LETTER 
BOX 


"What  is  your  honest  opinion  of  stars  like 
William    Holden,   Ava    Gardner  and 

some  others  who  have  pulled  up  stakes  in 
their  native  USA  and  moved  to  Europe  to  save 
taxes?  I  was  shocked  to  read  that  Holden 
reiused  to  star  in  a  picture  made  in  Holly- 
wood and  give  work  to  his  countrymen — be- 
cause he  doesn't  want  to  spoil  his  'residence' 
set  up  in  Europe,"  blasts  Mrs.  Vernon  De- 
Vore,  Atlanta.  My  honest  opinion?  I'm  very 
much  against  such  conduct  on  the  part  of 
American  actors.  .  .  . 

Mae  Belle  Marks,  Detroit,  who  says  she 
is  seventeen,  writes:  How  can  a  girl  as  young 
as  Sandra  Dee  admit  in  print  that  she  has 
spent  as  much  as  SI, 500  on  clothes  on  a  single 
shopping  jaunt?  Sounds  to  me  that  someone 
should  be  helping  Sandra  save  her  money. 
(I  have  an  interview  coming  up  in  Modern 
Screen  on  Sandra  which  will  explain  her 
attitude  on  investing  in  glamour — and  other 
things,  Mae  Belle.  Look  for  it.  .  .  . 

Do  you  deny  that  you  lavor  Fabian  above 
Bobby  Darin,  Elvis  Presley,  Ricky 
Nelson,  Frankie  Avalon  and  other  young 
singers?  snaps  Gloria  O'Dell  of  Ft.  Worth. 
I  sincerely  try  not  to  favor  any  of  the  young- 
sters. I  like  them  all.  I  have  just  found  Fabian 
to  be  a  charming  young  boy,  modest,  hard 
working  and  not  at  all  conceited — very  like- 
able qualities,  you  must  admit.  .  .  . 

Richard  Meers,  New  York,  postcards:  Is  it 
true  Kim  Novak  is  so  ill  she  will  never 
make  another  movie?  No,  no,  no.'  Kim  had  a 
siege  of  hepatitis — but  she  is  much  improved 
and  will  make  many  more  movies.  .  .  . 

You  keep  saying  that  the  family  light  be- 
tween the  Crosby  boys  and  Sing  is  all 
settled.  How  come  then  that  we  continue  to 
read  magazine  stories  in  which  Gary  criticizes 
(a  mild  word  lor  if)  his  dad?  asks  Bill 
Battenburg,  Philadelphia.  Don't  understand 
it  myself. 

Mrs.  Adelaide  Hanheimer,  Brooklyn, 
writes:  Someone  should  speak  to  Debbie 
Reynolds  about  marrying  Harry  Karl.  How 
do  you  mean  that — speak  for  or  against  it? 

My  mother  tells  me  that  she  read  that 
Dolores  Hart  dates  only  on  week  ends  and 
goes  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock  other  nights.  Is  this 
true  or  is  my  mother  just  trying  to  sell  me  the 
old-fashioned  idea  thai  young  girls  should 
stay  home  five  nights  a  week?  asks  Peggy 
Potter,  Milwaukee.  It's  true,  Peggy,  thai 
Dolores  dates  only  on  week  ends — but  that's 
because  she's  usually  working  in  a  movie 
and  believes  in  getting  her  beauty  sleep  for 
the  cameras.  .  .  . 

Dottie  Donaldson,  Seattle,  has  a  prob- 
lem: I  am  a  nice-looking  girl  except  for  very 
bad  skin.  1  have  been  told  that  movie  actresses 
have  many  secrets  for  keeping  their  skin 
good.  Can  you  tell  me  some  of  them?  If  your 
skin  is  really  bad,  Dottie,  I  suggest  you  con- 
sult a  good  dermatologist  in  your  home  town. 
Don't  accept  tips  on  treatments  or  "sure  fire" 
cures.  Get  expert  medical  advice.  .  .  . 

That's  all  for  now.  See  you  next  month. 


Louella  ivill  explain  Sandra  Dee's 
attitude  about  glamour,  etc.,  soon. 


Bing  and  Gary  surely  are  not  feuding 
here :  Bing  cam  e  during  Gary's  Vegas  stin  t. 


PHOTOGRAPHED  IN  THE  GRAND  SALON  AT  PIERRE  CARDIN  IN  PARIS 


\       uru     matdenfbrjri  bra 

/wore  an  original,  too!  New  ARABESQUE*  —  the  bra  that  tops  the  whole  Paris  picture!  Bias-cut  insert  be- 
tween the  cups  for  superb  separation,  uncanny  (almost  custom)  fit.  Noteworthy:  flowered  circular  stitching 
combines  hand-embroidered  look  with  newly  defined  contour.  Excitement  .  .  .  high!  Price  .  .  .  low!  White, 
A.  B  and  C  cups.  2.50.  Pre-shaped  ARABESQUE*  (with  light  foam  lining)  3.50.  At  stores  everywhere. 


OCTOBER 
BIRTHDAYS 


be  ahead  in  beauty 
INSTANTLY 


IMAGINE,  beautiful,  natural-looking  hair  color  in  an 
instant ...  a  woman's  dream  come  true!  A  color 
rinse  that  requires  no  patch  or  strand  tests 
That's  NOREEN  .  .  .  "INSTANT"  because 
there  is  no  waiting  for  color  to  develop 
...a  TRUE  HAIR  RINSE  because  it  adds  ' 
just  the  right  amount  of  safe,  temporary 
color  to  beautify  all  shades  of  hair,  or  blend-in 
scattered  gray.  Color  can  be  removed  only  by  shampooing.  Actually, 
all  hair  colorings  fade  and  become  dull  in  a  week  or  so,  and  should 
be  refreshed  after  each  shampoo,  NOREEN  gives  your  hair 
that  lustrous,  fresh-looking  color  instantly  .  .  .  without  rub-off. 


39C  and  69C  (plus  tax) 
At  cosmetic  counters 
everywhere. 


Noreen  of  Denver,  distributes 
Noreen  Color  Hair  Rinse  and  new  Liqi 
the  instant  liquid  color  hair  rinse. 


INSTANT 

COLOR 
HAIR 
RINSE 


If  your  birthday  falls  in  October,  your 
birthstone  is  the  opal  and  your  flower  is 
the  calendula.  And  here  are  some  of  the 
stars  who  share  your  birthday: 


October   1— Stella  Stevens 

Laurence  Harvey 
George  Peppard 

October   4— Charlton  Heston 

October   5— Peter  Brown 
Skip  Homeier 

October   7— Glynis  Johns 

October  10— Helen  Hayes 

Richard  Jaeckel 

October  13 — Laraine  Day 

Yves  Montand 
Roger  Moore 
Cornel  Wilde 

October  16— Angela  Lansbury 

October  17— Julie  Adams 
Jean  Arthur 
Rita  Hayworth 
Montgomery  Clift 

October  18— Inger  Stevens 

October  20— Barrie  Chase 
Dolores  Hart 

October  22 — Joan  Fontaine 

Annette  Funicello 

October  23 — Diana  Dors 

October  24 — David  Nelson 

October  25— Anthony  Franciosa 

October  27— Teresa  Wright 

October  28—  Suzy  Parker 

October  31— Barbara  Bel  Geddes 
Michael  Landon 


George  Nader 

October  19 


I  ^,:||  I  am  blonde,  white,  Swedish,  Prctes 

V  9ii *mJEL I  *antf  and  Samay  Davis  is  negro,  a 
|L^^«Pte#|  instead  of  hating  each  other, 

I  —  we  love  each  other •    So  we  have  de 

|     "|  cided  to  get  married,  after  Septem- 

> immm       ber  28th  nexty  namely  ^en  ^  divor 

^^^Mnj&S  from  my  first  husband  has  become 
HI    BmHH  actual*    Every  time  that  a  Negro 
makes  up  his  mind  to  marry  a  white  woman,  a  deep, 
morbid  concern  is  created  around  them,  especially 
in  the  United  States,  where  unfortunately  very  de 
race  barriers  still  exist.    Then  any  time  that  a 
Negro  and  a  white  woman,  who  are  very  well  known, 
speak  of  marriage,  the  world  seems  to  divide  into 
two  opposite  factions,  both  of  them  well  trained  d 
both  of  them  very  strong,  both  of  them  alleging 
reasons  seemingly  valid.    But  all  these  unknown 
people,  who  want  to  thrust  their  nose  into  other 
people's  life,  give  the  impression  of  not  realiz- 
ing that,  if  a  Negro  and  a  white  woman  have  made 
up  their  ndnd  to  get  married,  this  is  an  evident 
proof  that  they  love  each  other.    If  they  have  de-| 
cided  to  take  this  step,  in  spite  the  difference 
of  race,  their  love  is  certainly  much  greater  than 
that  of  many  other  people,  who  are  willing  to  get, 
married,  because  they  belong  to  the  same  race,  but 
perhaps  they  would  not  do  so,  if  they  were  of  difi| 
rent  race.    Now  I  should  like  to  ask  all  the  be-  | 
trothed  of  the  same  race  this  question:  would  you  j 
marry  your  play  boy  or  your  play  girl,  if  he  or  s 
were  of  different  races?    If  their  answer  is  posi 
tive,  I  should  be  led  to  presume  that  theirs  is  a 
real  love,  but  if  their  answer  were  negative,  I 
should  say  that  their  love  is  relative,  or  in  any 


ill 


ase  subject  to  conditions.    As  we  belong  to  two 
ifferent  religions,  we  have  made  up  our  minds  that 
four  children  may  grow  and  choose  the  religion  they 
ifeel  like  professing  the  more,  without  any  con- 
straint whatsoever  and  without  any  hurry*    As  both 
of  us  have  wished  to  have  our  own  family  for  a  long 
jtime,  both  of  us  want  a  tranquil,  calm,  usual  life 
rwith  a  brood  of  cheerful  children  around  us* 
Sammy  has  told  a  journalist,  who  put  the  question 
fof  children  before  him,  that  he  did  not  want  to  be 
ianxious  about  their  skin  colour:    It  does  not 
%atter,  whether  they  are  black,  white  or  spotted 
(because  we  shall  be  their  parents  and  we  will  con- 
sider them  all  only  as  our  children.    Many  people 
may  have  the  impression  that  all  this  is  discon- 
certing and  excessive,  but,  joking  apart,  this  is 
our  way  of  how  to  face  a  marriage*    We  are  quite 
iaware  that,  loving  each  other  and  getting  married 
Hre  shall  have  difficult  problems  to  solve  and  many 
obstacles  to  overcome*    We  have  already  asked  our- 
selves these  questions  and  they  have  been  the  ob- 
ject of  our  considerations.    We  are  quite  convinced 
^therefore,  that  our  marriage  will  be  one  of  the 
happiest.    It  is  possible  we  may  happen  to  find 
%iotels,  where  we  are  not  allowed  to  stay  as  hus- 
Jband  and  wife,  there  may  be  some  States  of  the 
%.S*A*  where  we  will  not  be  received  in  the  fami- 
lies, there  may  be  public  places,  where  we  will  be 
obliged  to  part,  owing  to  the  different  colour  of 
jour  skin*    Well,  let  it  be  so,  we  will  avoid  to 
nfrequent  these  hotels,  these  places,  these  friends 
land  it  will  not  be  a  great  sacrifice  for  any  of  us. 
Some  one  thinks  that,  if  I  marry  Sammy,  in  many 
States  and  towns  my  films  will  be  prevented  from 

(Continued  on  page  78) 


a  tragic 

princess 

tries  to 
rebuild 
her 

shattered 
life 


■  It  had  been  a  strange 
little  party  at  the  Palace 
that  night.  Grace,  the 
Princess,  had  had  a 
headache.  Rainier,  the 
Prince,  had  been  moody 
over  some  business 
transaction  gone  wrong 
during  the  day.  Their 
guests,  a  Count  from 
here,  a  ship  owner  from 
there,  their  overdressed 
and  underdressed  ladies 
— nobody  had  seemed  in 
proper  spirits  that  night. 

The  strange  little 
party  was  over  now. 

The  guests  were  gone. 

And  Grace  and  Rai- 
nier were  in  their  huge 
bedroom  now,  quiet,  not 
talking,  Grace  seated  at 
her  vanity,  listlessly 
brushing  her  hair,  Rai- 
nier seated  in  a  chair  near 
the  bed,  looking  through 
a  large  folder  of  con- 
tracts and  complicated 
legal  documents  that 
perched  upon  his  lap. 

After  a  while,  Grace's 
maid  knocked  and  en- 
tered the  room. 

She  told  her  Princess 
that  a  long  distance  call, 
from  Philadelphia,  Pa., 
U.S.A.,  had  just  been 
received  at  the  Palace 
switchboard. 

"Would  Madame  like 
to  take  it  in  the  sitting 
room  as  usual?"  she 
asked,  in  French. 
{Continued  on  page  56) 


v.  £ 

IN- 


n 


N 


I'LL  NEVER  SINC 


i 


■  I'm  quitting  the  Lawrence  Welk  Show  as 
soon  as  Dick  Gass  and  I  get  married. 
He  got  out  of  the  paratroopers  in  June  and  we'll 
get  married  this  month. 
That  will  give  us  plenty  of 
time  to  fix  up  our  home.  Dick's  family 
moved  into  a  larger  house  a  year  or  so  ago 
and  he  bought  the  two-bedroom  home 
they'd  had  and  he's  been  renting  it  out.  So  that 
means  we  have  our  own  home  to 
move  into-how  many  people  our  age  have 
that?  We're  going  to  paint  it  from 
top  to  bottom  and  Dick's  going  to  make 
some  furniture;  he's  so  handy,  he  can 
build  or  do  anything,  and  I'll  make  curtains. 
Yes,  Mr.  Welk  knows  I'm  going  to  quit. 
He's  a  family  man  and  he's  so  happy 
for  me.  The  other  girls  will  get  on  very 
well  as  a  trio.  Janet  and  I  (Continued  on  page  54) 


AGAIN! 


by  Dianne 

the  future  Mrs.  Gass 

Lennon 


■  When  Elvis  Presley  returned  from  the 
Army  in  March  to  Graceland,  his  Memphis  4-5 
mansion,  a  profound  and  disturbing  change 
in  his  life  was  in  the  making.  The  hullabaloo  ^3 
of  his  return  kept  the  disquieting  element  in 
the  background — because  all  was  happiness 
and  gaiety  and  laughter  now  that  Elvis  was  Q) 


Q 


home. 

The  change  in  his  life:  his  father's  love 

interest,  Mrs.  Devada  (Dee)  Elliott,  34,  a  ,JZj 
blonde,  pretty,  shapely  and  the  mother  of 

three  young  children,  who  had  met  Vernon  ^ 

Presley  and  had  divorced  her  Army  husband.  . 

Elvis,  an  only  child  (his  twin  brother  died  t> 

at  birth),  had  always  been  close  to  his  par-  .  2^ 

ents.  He  would  have  done  anything  for  them  £> 

— and  did.  They  were  as  close  as  parents  and  ^ 

child  could  be.  4J) 

What  Elvis  was  having  a  hard  time  adjust-  £h 

ing  to,  when  he  returned  to  Memphis  after  „ 

the  filming  of  GI  Blues,  was  that  his  father  g 

was  still  a  young  man  at  44,  lonely  and  »i— 1 

attractive,  very  much  in  need  of  love.  ^ 

(Continued  on  page  82)  £(JQ 

c3 


a  woman— including  the  first  exclusive 


A  few  weeks  after  the  tender  parting  scene  pictured 
here,  little  Tracy  was  striding  around  grandly  in  a  suite  she  shared 
with  her  mother  at  London's  Dorchester  Hotel. 
She  looked  so  adorable  in  her  new  formal 
English  riding  habit  that  Jean 
couldn't  resist  a  proud  smile.  The  fitted  jodhpurs  on  the 
child's  chubby  little  legs  were  so  unlike 
the  jeans  she  was  used  to  wearing  on  the  ranch  when  she'd  ride 
out  on  the  vast  Arizona  acres  with 
her  father.  Sometimes-and  Jean  smiled  tenderly  at  the 
memory-Tracy  would  sit  on  the  same  horse  with 
Stewart  holding  the  reins  while  he  guided  her  hand  gently, 
taking  care  that  the  horse  didn't  jounce 
her  too  hard.  Now  that  she  (Continued  on  page  68) 


EDDIE  NAMED 


The  tender, 
heartfilled  story 

of  his 
adoption  of  the 
daughter  of 
Elizabeth  Taylor 
and 
Mike  Todd 


FATHER  OF  LIZA 

■  Liza  Frances  Todd  was  only  seven  months  old  when  her  famous  father,  Mike  Todd,  met  a  spec-  j 
tacular  end  in  a  plane  crash  over  Grant,  New  Mexico.  Her  mother,  the  beautiful  queen  of 
the  American  cinema,  Elizabeth  Taylor,  was  spared  from  the  same  fate  by  the  fortuitous  \ 
fact  of  a  serious  cold  which  kept  her  homebound  that  blustery  March  day  three  years  ago. 
Liza  was  too  young  then  to  perceive  the  grief  that  had  befallen  her  and  her 
mother.  She  was  still  surrounded  by  love  and  attention.  If  she  missed  that  mock-stern  ! 
voice  of  her  father's  calling  her  "sweet  monkey,"  she  could  not  communicate 
her  loss  to  anyone.  Besides,  Mama  was  there,  hugging  her  to  pieces 
and  bathing  her  tiny  face  in  warm  kisses.  Liza  never  knew  that 
those  moist  kisses  were  mingled  with  tears  of  anguish. 
Then  there  was  all  the  traveling  and  two  big  brothers  to 
tease  her  and  please  her  every  whim.  Then  the  first 
steps  into  Mama's  arms,  the  first  word  "Mama" — for  the 
beautiful  lady  who  played  for  hours  on  end  with 
her.  The  kind  soft  voice  that  encouraged  a  baby  to  smile, 
crinkling  nose  and  mouth  and  bringing  a  sparkle  of  love  to 
those  magnificent  blue  eyes  so  like  her  late  father's. 
Then  it  was  talking  time.  Words  put  together  like  magic. 
Words  that  could  bring  squeals  of  pleasure  and 
pride  from  beautiful  Mama.  Words  that  Mama' said  over 
and  over  again  so  little  Liza  could  learn.  Mama  telling  Liza  about 
little  puppies  and  kittens  and  pretty  blue  birds,  pointing 
out  the  floppy  tail,  the  tickling  whiskers,  the  soft  feathers  and 
explaining  each  over  and  over  as  if  the  words  had  as  much 
meaning  for  the  tiny  two-year-old  as  they  did  for  Mama  herself. 

That  was  the  secret,  of  course.  Mama  felt  Liza  could  under- 
stand and  Liza  did  understand.  Mama  never  talked 
itty-bitty  baby  talk.  She  said  words  of  love,  of  instruction,  of  happi- 
ness, of  pride,  of  soothing,  of  prayer  in  her  grown-up  way  so 
Liza  could  learn  how  to  grow  up  too. 

Then  there  was  the  day  that  Mama  looked  so  very  beautiful 
in  moss  green  chiffon  with  lots  of  people  kissing  her.  Liza  wanted  to 
kiss  her  Mama  too.  She  was  like  a  fairy  tale  princess,  too 
unreal  to  be  true.  But  when  Mama  saw  her,  she  stooped  to  scoop  her 
up  in  her  arms,  crushing  the  lovely  dress  and  flowers  and  not  caring 
one  single  bit.   Then  Mama  took  (continued  on  page  78) 


4  — 


/  3f£ATecD 

An  extraordinary  account  from  Connie  Stevens  of  her  life 
as  a  tough  little  girl  in  a  Catholic  School 


New  Jersey,  Connie  thought,  looking  out  the  bus  window — they  might  as  well  have  sent  me  to 
Jhina!  She  remembered  her  father's  words:  "It's  a  good  school  you're  going  to,  Connie.  Daddy's 
:otta  pay  a  lot  of  money  to  send  you.  But  it's  a  good  place,  Catholic,  with  good  nuns,  and  you'll 
neet  nice  friends  there,  young  ladies,  with  manners,  and  good  backgrounds."  She  remembered  her 
»wn  words:  "Please  don't  send  me.  I  wanna  stay  in  Brooklyn."  And  she  remembered  the  words  of 
•ne  of  her  girlfriends:  "Just  be  mean  and  tough  with  all  those  creeps  and  you'll  see  how  fast  they'll 
end  you  back." 

The  bus  stopped,  in  front  of  the  school.  And  Connie,  clutching  her  valise,  got  out. 
On  the  porch  of  the  main  building  she  bumped  into  a  girl,  about  her  own  age,  with  short  hair, 
tnlike  hers,  and  a  pretty  dress,  unlike  hers. 

"Are  you  the  new  student?"  the  girl  asked,  smiling,  in  that  ritzy  New  (Continued  on  page  72) 


In  these  troubled  times  the  divorce  rate 
rises  every  day — especially  in  Hollywood.  We 
at  Modern  Screen,  who  are  so  close  to  the 
problems  of  the  stars  and  (thanks  to  your 
letters)  of  our  readers,  find  ourselves  in- 
creasingly distressed  by  this  situation.  Is  there 
some  small  way,  we  wondered,  in  which  we 
might  help  stop  this  alarming  increase  of  broken 
homes  across  our  nation?  After  talking  with 
hundreds  of  stars — married  and  divorced — we 
learned  that  many,  far  too  many  couples 
begin  marriage  thinking  life  together  will  be  all 
sugar  and  spice  and  everything  nice — and 
when  doubts  and  despairs  set  in  (as  they  must) 
they  assume  their  marriage  has  failed.  If  we 
could  only  show  such  people,  we  decided,  that 
doubts  and  despairs  are  a  natural  part  of 
marriage,  that  the  best,  most  lasting  and  loving 
marriages  are  never  free  of  them — then  per- 
haps some  humpty-dumpty  home  somewhere 
might  be  put  together  again,  and  our  small 
effort  would  have  been  worthwhile.  With  this 
in  mind,  we've  chosen  eight  wives  among  the 
hundreds  we  talked  with,  to  reveal  the  sorts 
and  degrees  of  problems  marriages  run  into. 
Your  own  problems  will  of  course  be  different, 
but  for  the  good  wife  the  point  is  always: 
problems  are  what  a  marriage  runs  into  and  not 
away  from!  We  would  appreciate  your  com- 
ments after  reading  the  stories  beginning  on  the 
next  page.  ^    _  O 


36 


JEANNE  MARTIN 


,11 E  AMOTHEfl 


BEAR  UmG  SEPJMM 


□  o  d  mm^^m  •>> 

SHIRLEY  PARKER 


1  PROUD 
I  TIE  FIOE 
IF  StfllE 


TIKE  ANY  CHANCI 


SHIRLEY  BOONE 


Dean  Martin  says  it's  easy  to 
raise  seven  kids:  "The  older 
children  pass  on  the  clothes;  we 
keep  the  crib  and  the  high  chair 
for  the  next  kids ;  we  never  throw 
anything  away." 

Dean  makes  everything  look 
easy,  even  his  second  marriage, 
to  petite  blonde  Jeanne  Biegger, 
in  1949.  But  for  Jeanne,  it  has 


been  no  joke  to  raise  their  three 
children,  plus  Dean's  four  chil- 
dren by  his  first  marriage. 

Jeanne  was  thrust  into  the 
difficult  and  usually  thankless 
role  of  a  stepmother  when  Dean's 
first  wife  lost  custody  of  Craig, 
Claudia,  Dena  and  Gail,  who 
then  moved  in  with  Dean  and 
Jeanne.  (Continued  on  page  76) 


Dear  Someone: 

I'm  Paul  Anka.  I'm  writing  this  open  letter  because  I  guess  you 
might  say  I  have  no  one  right  now  to  write  a  "closed,"  private  letter  to.  I'm 
loping  that  someone  who  reads  this  may  turn  out  to  be  "the"  one. 

So  I'd  like  to  just  ramble  on  here  a  few  minutes  and  tell  you  about  myself 
and  my  feelings.  ...  (Continued  on  next  page) 


4 X I !J \il ILK  1  rJ~ 


'  yL  1 
LL  1 


Isn't  it  funny  how  a  lot  of  song 
lyrics  really  tell  the  truth  about 
people's  feelings?  I  like  listening 
to  a  song  because  something 
happens  to  me — inside.  And  I 
like  writing  songs  because  I  can 
let  out  my  feelings. 

This  summer,  for  instance,  I 
knew  something  was  missing 
from  my  life,  because  I  was 
moody  and  blue.  Now,  don't  get 
me  wrong.  I  know  I'm  lucky  in 
many  ways.  I'm  healthy,  and  I 

PUPPY  LOVE 


have  the  most  wonderful  family 
and  adults  say  I'm  very  success 
ful.  But  what  was  success, 
asked  myself.  Success  brings 
fame,  fortune.  Is  this  enough  to 
make  a  person's  life  worthwhile 
So  I  wrote  a  song  about  the 
deep  feelings  in  my  heart  . 

I'm  just  a  lonely  boy, 

Lonely  and  blue. 

I'm  all  alone 

With  nothing  to  do. 
(Continued  on  page  63) 


A  WIDOW'S 


Bogie  is  dead,  Lauren  Bacall  keeps  telling 
herself  ...Jason  looks  like  Bogie  and  talks 
like  Bogie,  but  my  heart  is  in  the  gravej 
isn't  it?  Isn't  it? 


■  On  January  14, 1957,  the  un- 
yielding killer,  cancer,  robbed 
Lauren  Bacall  of  the  love  that 
shielded  her  from  the  cruelties  of 
the  world,  and  took  from  her  the 
one  man  in  her  life,  Humphrey 
Bogart. 

The  days  that  followed  were 
bleak  and  empty,  and  the  mem- 
ories that  haunted  her  made  her 
finally  sell  the  Holmby  Hills 
house  that  love  built. 

{Continued  on  page  75) 


§1111 


The  most  exciting  thing  in  the  world  (or  out  of  it) 
has  just  happened  at  Modern  Screen.  We've 
captured  alive  and  are  now  holding  in  our  offices  a 
genuine  Fairy  Godmother — the  same  one  who,  you  remem- 
ber.; many  years  ago  visited  poor,  lonely,  dusty, 
little  Cinderella,  and  with  a  few  strokes  of  her  magic 
wand  made  her  a  princess.  Impossible? 
Ridiculous?  That's  what  we  thought  too,  so  we  put 
our  captive  to  the  test:  we  took  her  downtown  in 
a  taxi  to  visit  a  poor,  lonely,  dusty, 
little  mouse  of  a  girl  who,  like  Cinderella,  was 
hard  at  work  as  a  maid  in  a  humble  cottage.  (The  humble 
cottage  belonged  to  our  editor,  by  the  way,  and 
the  maid's  name  was  Evelyn.)  Well,  out 
came  the  magic  wand  and  quick  as  a  flash  Evelyn 
became  a  princess.  We  knew  no  one  would  believe 
what  actually  happened,  so  we  took  pictures 
of  the  extraordinary  event,  and  will  publish 
them  in  next  month's  Modern  Screen.  Whatever  you 
do,  don't  miss  the  next  issue,  or  the  one  after 
that,  or  after  that,  or  after  that,  because  every 
month  in  Modern  Screen  the  Fairy  Godmother  (whose 
earth  name  is  Fran  Hodges)  has  agreed  to  perform 
one  of  her  miracles.  Meanwhile,  turn  the  page  for  a 
personal  message  from  the  Fairy  Godmother  herself  .... 

(Continued  on  next  page) 


And,  my  dears,  if  there  is  anything  you  want  to  tell  me, 
or  ask  me,  please  don't  hesitate  to  drop  me  a  line  .  .  . 
I'll  be  around,  working  on  a  new  miracle.  .  .  . 


Yes,  my  darlings,  that's  the  way  it  happened  .  .  .  And  it's 
pleased  and  proud  I  am  to  be  around  as  chief  Fairy  God- 
mother, free  every  month  to  work  a  whole  new  batch  of 
magic  on  some  Cinderella  who  might  happen  to  need  my 
attention. 

But,  don't  be  taken  in  by  all  that  talk  of  "wand-waving"- 
I'm  a  modern,  1960-type  Fairy  Godmother.  Aii  the  ingredi- 
ents for  my  magic  make-overs  will  be  easily  available  to 
every  one  of  you — as  near  as  the  corner  drugstore  or  your 
favorite  department  store,  as  simple  to  reach,  for  as  the 
telephone.  I  plan  to  tell  you  all  of  my  secrets  so  that,  wher- 
ever you  are,  you  may  use  them  to  do  your  own  miracles. 


From  lipsticks  to  lingerie  .  .  .  from  home-permanents  to 
high  fashion  . . .  from  perfume  vial  to  undercover  style  [ . . 
you'll  get  the  word,  how  to  use  our  new  MODERN  CIN- 
DERELLA beauty-fashion  portfolio  to  make  your  own 
dreams  come  true. 


See  you  in  these  pages  next  month. 


A 


LOVABLE 

Bra 

is  a 

gift  of  beauty 


To  each  her  own . . .  three  differently 
padded  contours  that  give  just-right  glamour, 
shaping  and  new  rounded  beauty. . .  and  at 
such  beautifully  low  prices ! 

Small?  "Add -Vantage"  (left)  has  medium  - 
firm  foam  padded  cups  with  new  "soft  touch" 
lining  to  add  comfort  to  contour !  White.  $2. 


The  Lovable  Brassiere  Companj 
New  York  16.  Los  Angeles  If 
Sold  in  Canada  and  throughout  the  worlt 
Ask  for  Lovable  girdles,  tcx 


i  t 


"THE¥- 
TOLE 
Y 

MEMORIES" 

Ipf    Inside  ( 
Report  from 
England 
on  the  most 
terrifying  j 
night  of 
Sophia  Loren's 
life... 


Scotland  Yard  organized  a  thorough  investi- 
gation,  but  the  thief   remains   at  large. 


■  When  Sophia  Loren  became  the  vic- 
tim of  the  greatest  jewel  robbery  in  Eng- 
land's history,  there  were  people  who 
were  inclined  to  pooh-pooh  the  whole 
situation  with  something  like,  "Oh  well, 
she's  a  big  movie  star,  she  makes  lots  of 
money  to  buy  more." 

But,  as  Sophia  Loren  frantically 
sobbed  out  her  story  to  a  Scotland  Yard 
inspector  and  said,  "Money  I  can  always 
make.  But  I  cannot  buy  back  memories," 
there  were  few  who  could  share  her  bit- 
ter memories.  Like  that  of  the  oh  so 
shabbily  dressed  little  girl  who  stood  in 
a  muddy  Naples  street  watching  a  big 
chauffeur-driven  car,  carrying  an  ele- 
gantly dressed  woman  with  two  magnifi- 
cent strands  of  pearls  around  her  throat. 
As  the  car  drove  away  and  splashed  mud 
on  the  only  dress  she  owned,  the  girl 
vowed  that  one  day  she  would  have  a 
big  car  and  driver — and  she  would  have 
pearls.  Three  strands. 

And  the  little  girl,  Sophia  Scicolone, 
grew  up  to  be  movie  star  Sophia  Loren 
and  she  kept  her  vow.  Each  movie 
brought  new  fame,  new  riches,  hosts  of 
admirers — and  with  each  success, 
Sophia  acquired  some  precious  new 
jewel,  that  would  hold  &  memory  fast  in 
its  flashing  depths. 

So,  just  this  past  May  27th,  when  the 
headlines  in  papers  round  the  world 
screamed  the  news  that  over  half  a  mil- 
lion dollars  worth  of  jewels  had  been 
taken  from  the  chalet  where  Sophia  was 
living,  called  the  Norwegian  Barn,  what 
couldn't  be  recorded  were  the  emotions 
of  a  woman  who  felt  that  she  faced  the 
greatest  tragedy  of  her  life. 


This  is  the  drawing  room  where  Sophia,  her  husband  and  her  staff  sat  leisurely  talking 
and  enjoying  a  nightcap,  never  dreaming  that  all  the  while  a  clever  thief  lurked  upstairs. 


The  heartbreak  had  already  begun 
when  Scotland  Yard  man  Eric  Shepherd 
was  roused  from  a  sound  sleep,  at  12:21 
a.m.,  Sunday,  May  29th. 

"This  is  Sophia  Loren,"  said  the  voice 
on  the  telephone. 

"Yes?"  Shepherd's  eyebrows  went  up 
a  fraction. 

"My  jewels  .  .  .  stolen.  .  .  ."  Her  words 
came  fast  and  frantically.  The  voice  was 
filled  with  grief — and  something  else. 
Fright. 

At  the  Norwegian  Barn,  Sophia  Loren 
was  standing  in  a  dark  upstairs  corridor, 
clutching  the  telephone.  The  cord  of  the 
bedroom  extension  was  taut,  strained  to 
capacity,  as  she  pulled  the  instrument  as 
far  as  she  could  into  the  hallway.  She 
could  hear  her  husband  Carlo  and  her 
manager,  Bascilio  Francina,  as  they 
searched  the  loft.  She  wanted  to  be  as 
near  as  possible  to  their  voices  and,  at 
the  same  time,  become  invisible  in  the 
corner  of  the  hall.  She  was  afraid  "he," 
the  thief,  would  return,  armed  and  in 
panic.  She  was  afraid  he  would  shoot 
her. 

She'd  dialed  999,  Police  Emergency. 

"What  number  are  you  calling  from?" 
an  operator  had  asked.  Somehow,  she'd 
managed  to  remember  it.  Moments  later, 
she  was  through  to  the  nearest  police 
station  with  a  Scotland  Yard  office,  tell- 
ing the  details,  trying  to  be  coherent. 

When  her  call  had  been  transferred  to 
Shepherd,  an  automatic  alert  went  out 
from  the  Golders  Green  switchboard — to 
radio  cars,  ports  of  embarkation,  police 
stations  throughout  the  country.  The 
men  who  handled  the  police  dogs  were 


awakened  at  their  homes,  instructed  to 
proceed  to  the  estate.  Assuring  Sophia 
that  help  would  arrive  soon,  Shepherd 
dressed  and  started  for  the  scene  of  the 
crime. 

He  arrived  at  1:00  a.m.  Policemen 
with  their  dogs  were  already  at  work, 
searching  the  grounds.  Officers  in  uni- 
form stood  in  front  of  the  doorway.  Ponti 
and  Francina  were  in  the  drawing  room, 
speaking  in  bursts  of  rapid  Italian.  Their 
search  had  been  futile.  Shepherd  intro- 
duced himself,  expressed  his  sympathy, 
then  asked,  "Now,  tell  me  where  it  hap- 
pened." 

"It  was  upstairs.  .  .  ." 

"Let's  go  up  and  look  around.  .  .  ." 

They  were  met  by  the  blue-jean  clad 
figure  of  Sophia.  Her  eyes  were  red  from 
weeping.  She  showed  them  into  the  bed- 
room. It  was  a  small  room,  with  a  little 
alcove  at  the  far  end.  A  blue  and  gilt 
Italian  chest  of  drawers  stood  beneath 
the  only  window,  a  few  feet  from  the 
door.  The  top  drawer  was  open.  It  was 
evident  that  the  lock  had  been  forced. 
The  window  was  open,  too.  Looking  out, 
the  superintendent  saw  a  light.  "What's 
that?"  he  asked  them. 

"A  little  house.  A  gardener  uses  it.  He 
comes  and  goes  in  the  daytime,"  Fran- 
cina answered.  "But  no  one  lives  there." 

They  went  downstairs,  through  the 
kitchen  door  and  over  to  the  cottage  be- 
hind a  hedge  a  few  steps  away.  An  offi- 
cer with  a  dog  entered  first.  The  place 
was  empty,  except  for  a  few  gardening 
tools.  The  dog,  sniffing  the  concrete 
floor,  led  the  way  into  the  largest  of 
three   rooms — a   room   with   a  window 


They're  gone,  these  jewels,  these  and  all  her  pre- 
cious mementoes  of  her  brilliant  rise  from  poverty. 


that  looked  directly  up  into  Sophia's  bed- 
room, a  room  from  which  a  thief  might 
have  watched,  where  an  accomplice 
might  have  waited,  possibly  to  signal, 
with  a  light,  the  arrival  of  a  car  in  the 
driveway. 

They  returned  to  the  main  house. 
"Now,  tell  me  what  happened,"  the 
superintendent  asked  them.  "How  was 
the  theft  discovered?  Tell  me  everything 
you  remember.  Everything.  .  .  ." 

Saturday  had  been  a  sterling  example 
of  good  English  weather.  The  cast  of 
"The  Millionairess"  could  especially  enjoy 
it.  There  was  no  shooting  that  day.  For 
Sophia,  herself,  it  was  a  very  special  day: 
Carlo  Ponti  was  arriving  from  Rome. 

Around  10:30  a.m.,  the  members  of 
the  household — Francina;  Franca,  the 
maid;  Maria,  the  hairdresser — gathered 
in  Sophia's  room  to  discuss  housekeep- 
ing matters.  In  the  midst  of  the  conver- 
sation, Sophia  started.  "What's  that?" 
They  listened  in  silence.  "I'm  certain  I 
heard  a  noise  downstairs." 

Francina  went  to  the  door.  "Who  is 
it?"  he  called. 

There  was  no  answer.  "Franca,  would 
you  go  and  see?" 

But  Franca  found  no  one.  Sophia 
shrugged.  "I  must  have  been  mistaken. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  wind." 

A  little  later,  while  Franca  was  prepar- 
ing lunch,  Sophia  went  over  her  lines 
with  Francina,  who  was  her  artistic  ad- 
visor as  well  as  manager.  Maria  sat  lis- 
tening. Shortly  after  noon,  they  went 
down  to  the  dining  room.  They  were 
there  for  over  an  hour.  Then,  returning 
upstairs,  they  (Continued  on  page  65) 


Dear  Kathy — 

It  was  so  good  to  see  you  when  you  were  in 
New  York,  even  though  you  had  the  measles. 
The  only  sad  thing  was  that  we  had  so  little 
time  alone  together.  That  last  day,  I'd  hoped 
we  might  snatch  a  few  minutes  for  gossip,  and 
what  happened? 

When  I  got  to  the  hotel,  your  suite  was  filling 
up  rapidly — a  close  friend,  a  newspaper  re- 
porter, the  man  responsible  for  seeing  you  got 

I'm  so  worried  about  you,  Kathy 

to  the  airport  safely,  a  writer  with  a  tape  re- 
corder to  do  an  interview,  and  telephone  calls 
by  the  dozen  ...  but  no  time  for  intimacy. 

That's  why  I'm  writing  to  you.  There  are  so 
many  things  I  want  to  say,  but  when  we  see 
each  other  face  to  face,  other  things  get  in  the 
way. 

I  was  so  proud  of  you! 

It  seemed  natural  to  see  you  surrounded  by 
friends.  You've  always  had  a  great  capacity  for 
real  friendship,  and  that  isn't  so  common 
among  theater  people  as  you  might  think. 

You're  a  thoughtful  hostess,  too.  I  noticed 
how  naturally  you  put  everyone  at  ease,  how 
generously  you  suggested  coffee,  sandwiches, 
cigarettes — anything  anyone  might  enjoy. 

Like  most  mothers,  I  slipped  away  to  pack 
your  clothes  so  you  could  make  the  plane,  so  I 
didn't  hear  all  your  answers  to  the  interviews. 


I  was  proud  of  what  I  did  hear,  but  not  sur- 
prised at  your  fluency.  Do  you  remember  your 
high  school  principal  in  St.  Louis  said,  "Kathy 
has  the  potential  to  win  a  scholarship  instead 
of  just  passing.  She's  got  a  brain!" 

In  those  days  I  spent  almost  as  much  time 
at  school  as  you.  I  was  forever  having  to  ex- 
plain your  sister  Nancy  Carroll's  tardiness,  and 
your  playing  hookey. 

I  never  blamed  you.  It  must  have  been  hard 
to  go  to  school  and  wait  to  grow  up  while  your 
sister  was  studying  drama  in  New  York.  She 
wasn't  always  entirely  sure  she  wanted  to  be 
an  actress — but  you  always  knew. 

You  always  wanted  to  be  a  star.  You've 
always  believed  in  yourself,  never  let  anything 
deter  you  from  your  goal.  So  far  you've  gone 
ahead  steadily,  because  you  put  your  whole 
heart  and  soul  into  everything  you  do.  You 
know  what  I  think  of  your  talent:  I  can  sum  it 
up  in  one  word:  great!  You're  that  rare  com- 
bination of  a  potentially  top  comedienne  with  a 
fine  serious  dramatic  actress.  That's  why  I'm 
so  happy  to  hear  about  the  experimental 
theater  work  you've  been  doing  in  Los  Angeles. 

Television  has  been  the  best  thing  in  the 
world  to  establish  you  quickly.  But  I  know 
you'll  get  the  greatest  satisfaction  out  of  a 
Broadway  play.  To  anyone  in  show  business, 
success  on  Broadway  is  like  a  writer's  winning 
the  Nobel  Prize,  so  I'm  happy  to  hear  that 
you're  working  at  your  craft. 

You  know  I  watch  (Continued  on  page  61) 


AN  URGENT  LETTER  TO  KATHY 
NOLAN  FROM  HER  MOTHER 


JUDY  SULLIVAN,  Student,  School 
of  Nursing,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  says: 
"I  cried  when  I  saw  those  pimples 
on  my  face.  I'd  been  asked  to  the 
Military  Ball  and  I  was  sure  they'd 
never  go  away  in  time.  A  friend 
suggested  Clearasil  and  it  worked 
wonders!  My  skin  was  clear  by  the 
night  of  the  dance!" 


SCIENTIFIC  CLEARASIL  MEDICATION 

STARVES 
PIMPLES 

SKIN-COLORED,  Hides  pimples  while  it  works 

clearasil  is  the  new-type  scientific  medication 
especially  for  pimples.  In  tube  or  new  lotion 
squeeze-bottle,  clearasil  gives  you  the  effective 
medications  prescribed  by  leading  Skin  Special- 
ists, and  clinical  tests  prove  it  really  works. 
HOW  CLEARASIL  WORKS  FAST 

1 .  Penetratet  pimples. '  Keratolytic'  action 
softens,  dissolves  affected  skin  tissue  so 
medications  can  penetrate.  Encourages 
quick  growth  oi  healthy,  smooth  skin  I 

2.  Stops  bacteria.  Antiseptic  action  stops 
growth  of  the  bacteria  that  can  cause 
and  spread  pimples  .  .  .  helps  prevent 
further  pimple  outbreaks! 

3.  'Starves'  pimples.  Oil-absorbing 
action  <slarves'  pimples  .  .  .  dries  up, 
helps  remove  excess  oil  that  'feeds' 
pimples  .  .  .  works  fast  to  clear  pimples! 

'Floats'  Out  Blackheads,  clearasil  softens 
and  loosens  blackheads  so  they  float  out  with 
normal  washing.  And,  clearasil  is  greaseless, 
stainless,  pleasant  to  use  day  and  night  for 
uninterrupted  medication. 
Proved  by  Skin  Specialists!  In  tests  on  over 
300  patients,  9  out  of  every  10  cases  were 
cleared  up  or  definitely  improved  fjTTTTI 
while  using  clearasil  (either  lo-  ^JLLUJJL^ 
tion  or  tube).  In  Tube,  69<i  and 
98(f.  Long-lasting  Lotion  squeeze- 
bottle,  only  $1.25  (no  fed.  tax). 
Money-back  guarantee.  ^^-^ 
At  all  drug  _^vS5S^^ 
counter*.     ^/SKKS  ^c^*^'"*"'" 


Clearasil 


LARGEST-SELLING  BECAUSE  IT  REALLY  WORKS 


I'll  Never  Sing  Again!" 


(Continued  from  page  25) 

actually  double  on  the  lead,  you  see; 
they  have  such  sweet  voices,  they'll  be 
fine.  And  I  just  can't  approach  marriage 
without  giving  myself  to  it  completely, 
the  way  my  mother  did.  Mother  was  only 
nineteen  when  she  married  Daddy  and  she 
gave  up  her  job  as  a  dental  assistant.  The 
important  thing,  the  most  important  thing 
to  me  in  the  world,  is  marriage.  Singing 
was  never  important  to  me;  it  was  fun. 
Marriage  is  a  sacrament,  and  the  more  of 
the  world  I've  seen  in  the  years  we've  been 
singing,  the  more  I've  realized  what  mar- 
riage and  a  family  mean.  There  are  so 
many  great  stars  who  have  missed  what 
we've  always  had  in  our  house  and  what 
Dick  and  I  hope  to  have  in  ours. 

Ever  since  I  can  remember,  I've  had  one 
dream:  to  grow  up  and  get  married  and 
have  a  big  houseful  of  children  like  Mom 
and  Dad.  Maybe  that's  why  I  fell  in  love 
with  Dick  Gass.  He's  dreamed  the  same 
dream,  and  he  likes  all  the  same  things 
I  do  and  he's  crazy  about  children  and 
so  wonderful  with  them.  I'm  the  oldest  in 
a  family  of  twelve,  Dick's  the  oldest  in  a 
family  of  eight— as  a  matter  of  fact  in 
school  there  was  a  Gass  for  every  Lennon 
down  to  our  Billy  and  their  Debbie,  always 
a  boy  of  one  family  and  a  girl  of  the  other 
family  in  each  room.  Dick  is  so  like  my 
dad,  he  might  be  his  son,  they  even  look 
alike;  and  Dad  is  crazy  about  Dick,  the 
whole  family  is.  They  know  he's  depend- 
able. 

What  marriage  needs 

This  is  something  terribly  important.  I 
have  seen  a  number  of  marriages  that 
started  out  with  plenty  of  love  but  they 
didn't  work  out  because  neither  the  fellow 
nor  the  girl  had  grown  up  enough.  To  be  in 
love  is  wonderful,  to  have  someone  your 
very  own;  but  I  couldn't  have  grown  up 
in  this  family,  I  couldn't  have  watched  my 
parents  handle  the  complicated  matter  of 
daily  living  for  themselves  and  all  of  us 
Lennons — without  being  aware  that  it  takes 
more  than  love  to  make  a  marriage  work. 
It  takes  faith  and  humor,  tolerance  and 
understanding  and  it  certainly  takes  the 
ability  to  assume  responsibility. 

Dick  and  I  would  just  have  to  have  these 
qualities,  each  being  the  oldest.  He  looks 
out  for  his  brothers  and  sisters  as  I  look 
after  mine.  I've  known  his  family  for 
fourteen  years,  I  dated  his  younger  brother 
in  seventh  grade  and  I  knew  who  Dick 
was  but  he  was  three  years  older  than  I. 
He  was  a  senior  at  Saint  Monica  High 
when  I  was  a  sophomore  and  I  met  him 
for  the  first  time — really  met  him — October 
19,  1957,  at  exactly  seven-thirty.  He  was 
working  at  the  telephone  company  as  a 
cable  splicer.  He  knew  my  Uncle  Dan  and 
Uncle  Dan  had  said  yes,  Dick  should  go 
ahead  and  phone  me.  So  Dick  called  and 
he  arrived,  right  on  time;  when  I  bounced 
down  the  stairs  he  was  talking  with  Daddy 
and  Daddy 'd  evidently  said  he  supposed 
we  were  going  to  the  football  game  at 
school  and  then  to  the  dance,  so  that's 
where  we  went — thanks  to  Daddy.  The 
funny  thing — neither  Dick  nor  I  wanted 
to  go  there  at  all.  We'd  each  just  broken 
up  with  a  steady  date,  we  each  dreaded 
going  back  to  school  where  everyone 
would  wonder  what  had  happened  to  our 
former  dates  and  how  come  we  were  to- 
gether. It  was  a  miserable  kind  of  eve- 
ning and  the  fact  that  I  started  it  off  step- 
ping into  a  mud  puddle  when  I  was  trying 
to  get  in  the  car,  didn't  help  things  a  bit. 
Nor  did  the  fact  that  I  couldn't  jitterbug 
so  Dick  jitterbugged  with  his  sister! 


I  didn't  ever  expect,  to  see  him  again. 
But  the  following  week,  I  guess  he  de- 
cided to  give  it  one  more  try.  He  phoned 
and  asked  me  for  a  Saturday  night  date 
and  I  said  yes;  but  Saturday  when  we 
came  home  from  the  studio,  my  throat  was 
so  swollen,  I  had  to  call  him  and  call  it 
off.  He  arrived  at  the  house  anyhow,  about 
an  hour  later,  bringing  me  a  strawberry 
sundae,  and  sore  as  my  throat  was,  he  had 
me  laughing  after  awhile. 

I  dated  other  boys  once  or  twice  after 
that,  but  from  our  fourth  date  I  just  knew 
that  I  wanted  to  marry  Dick  with  all  my 
heart — if  only  he'd  want  to  marry  me.  And 
he  did.  I  love  the  way  he  looks,  lean  and 
strong  and  clean-cut,  with  sandy  hair  and 
good  teeth.  I  love  his  religious  devotion — 
he's  Catholic,  he's  strong  in  his  faith— and 
he  studied  at  the  seminary  for  ten  years.  I 
love  the  sense  of  humor  that  shows  in  his 
blue  eyes,  I  love  his  ability  to  make  de- 
cisions and  to  take  over.  No  question 
about  who's  going  to  be  head  of  the  house. 
He  likes  sports — anyone  who  didn't  like 
sports  would  be  lost  at  our  house  because 
my  parents  love  sports  and  we've  just 
grown  up  that  way.  We're  baseball,  foot- 
ball, basketball,  boxing  and  track  fans, 
to  name  just  a  few.  Well,  Dick  loves  sports 
too,  and  he  loves  children — anyone  who 
didn't  would  certainly  be  lost  at  our  house 
where  we  enjoy  children  so  much,  where 
the  dearest  thing  in  life  has  been  caring 
for  the  babies  and  watching  them  grow. 

How  the  Lennon  Sisters  started 

In  a  way,  it  was  our  growing  family  that 
began  our  career.  We  started  singing  in 
the  first  place  to  build  on  another  bedroom 
to  our  house.  We'd  had  a  two-bedroom 
house  and  it  was  beginning  to  be  a  lot  too 
small.  My  dad  has  a  good  voice  and  we'd 
always  sung  around  the  house,  so  it  was 
easy  to  sing  for  club  groups  and  socials.  It 
was  Mr.  Welk's  son  Larry  who  heard  us 
sing  at  an  Elks  Club  affair — he  was  my 
date  that  night — and  he  was  the  one  who 
brought  us  to  Mr.  Welk.  It's  all  been  sort 
of  a  happy  accident,  especially  happy  this 
last  year  and  a  half  since  Dick's  been  with 
the  paratroopers  at  Fort  Brad,  North  Caro- 
lina; because  every  time  we  go  on  tour, 
I'm  able  to  meet  Dick  somewhere.  We 
spent  Thanksgiving  together  in  New  York 
and  he  was  with  us  in  Washington  when 
we  sang  for  the  President,  and  he  sur- 
prised us  in  Atlantic  City  Christmas  be- 
fore last. 

Of  course  he  surprised  us  even  more  last 
July  4th  when  he  gave  me  my  ring.  I 
hadn't  expected  that  until  Christmas.  Dick 
had  a  two-week  leave  last  summer.  We 
had  dinner  at  the  Sea  Lion  Inn,  and  on 
the  way  back  to  Ocean  Park  to  see  the 
fireworks,  he  gave  me  this  box  and  in  it, 
this  dear  dainty  ring,  like  a  diamond 
flower.  "Now  let's  find  your  folks  and  tell 
'em,"  he  said,  holding  my  hand  tight.  Then 
he  grinned.  "I  sure  am  scared  to  tell  your 
dad,"  he  said.  "So  let's  get  it  over  with." 
Which  wasn't  so  easy.  There  were  only  a 
few  thousand  cars  parked  at  Ocean  Park 
pier  to  see  the  fireworks.  When  we  finally 
found  my  family  it  was  a  real  sight.  They 
had  the  tail  gate  down  on  the  station 
wagon  and  the  car  was  crammed  with 
kids,  all  of  ours,  including  Annie  who  was 
asleep  on  Mother's  lap,  and  several  neigh- 
bor children  too.  Our  announcement,  as 
you  can  see,  was  very  private.  We  were 
kneeling  on  a  couple  of  children  on  the 
tail  gate  and  shouting  up  to  Dad  and  Mom 
in  the  front  seat. 

"Deedee  and  I  are  engaged!"  Dick 
shouted.  Then  he  had  to  do  it  all  over 
again  because  Dad  couldn't  hear  over  all 
the  other  noise.  "Deedee  and  I  are  en- 
gaged." 

Dad  says  he  was  all  shook  up.  Not  on 
account  of  Dick — he  knows  as  well  as  I 


ALL  THIS  FURNITURE, 

ALL  THESE  APPLIANCES, 
AND  A  MODERN,  TWO  BEDROOM  HOME. 
FOR  LESS  THAN  $6,500. 

It's  no  problem  at  all  to  live  a  whole  lot  better  .  .  . 
for  so  much  less  .  .  .  when  you  own  a  spacious, 
distinctively  styled  New  Moon  home. 
The  down  payment  is  surprisingly  low,  and  monthly 
payments  easily  fit  the  tightest  budget.  Best  of 
all,  your  New  Moon  home  is  completely  furnished 
throughout,  ready  right  now  for  you  to  move  in. 


',st  Nt 


NEW   MOON    HOMES  INC. 


Factories:  Alma,  Mi< 


DALLAS  1  ,  TEXAS 

Ga.,  Hazelton,  Pa.,  Rapid  City,  S.  D. 


big  .  .  .  beau  t  if  u  I  ly  bi 


and  the  best  buy  for  better  living. 


do  that  this  is  the  one  for  me.  Not  on 
account  of  me,  because  he  knows  I'm 
ready.  I  have  stars  in  my  eyes  but  I  know 
how  many  things  there  are  to  face  up  to 
as  you  go  along.  Not  on  account  of  the 
future,  because  it  is  Daddy  himself  who's 
always  taught  us  that  the  Lord  provides. 
It's  just  the  first  of  us  leaving  home,  the 
thought  of  it.  We've  been  so  happy. 

This  is,  I'm  sure,  why  I've  dreamed  so 
of  marriage;  we've  been  such  a  happy 
family  and  the  reason  we  were  happy 
grew  out  of  the  wonderful  easy  relation- 
ship our  parents  have.  They're  not  old 
parents,  and  I'm  not  talking  about  age, 
and  they're  not  always  parents.  What  I 
mean  is — besides  being  parents,  they're 
also  companions.  If  there's  a  baseball  game 
going  out  in  the  back  yard,  they're  in  it. 
They  enjoy  life  as  they  go  along;  nothing 
bugs  them. 

Focus  on  family 

I  think  what's  behind  my  mother  and 
father's  ability  to  get  along  is  not  only 
love  but  a  sense  of  humor  and  a  focus  on 
the  family.  There's  no  such  thing  as  keep- 
ing up  with  the  Joneses.  This  is  something 
that  just  doesn't  count.  I'm  glad  Dick  has 
a  steady  job  that  will  be  waiting  for  him 
at  the  telephone  company  when  he  gets 
out  of  the  service.  I'm  even  more  glad 
that  his  sense  of  fun  and  well-being 
doesn't  depend  on  spending  a  lot  of  money. 
When  we  first  started  dating,  there  was  a 
big  rain  storm  and  loads  of  cables  were 
out.  Dick  wasn't  on  duty  that  night  so  we 
spent  the  evening  visiting  manholes  along 
Highway  101.  It  was  exciting  and  it  was 
fun,  meeting  Dick's  friends  who'd  pop  up 
and  chat  with  us  a  moment  and  tell  us 
what  was  going  on.  Other  nights  we'd  drive 
to  the  beach,  take  the  tram  to  Ocean  Park 
pier,  watch  all  the  crazy  parade  of  people, 
such  interesting  different  people  every- 
where you  look;  then  for  another  dime, 
we'd  ride  the  tram  to  Santa  Monica  Pier 
and  watch  the  parade  there.  Or  we'd  go  to 
Palisades  Park  and  see  some  of  the  people 
we  know,  just  walking  about.  Or  we'd 
play  miniature  golf  or  see  a  movie. 

Dick's  a  person  who  knows  how  to  have 
a  good  time  without  trying  to  put  on  a 
big  splash.  And  on  Wednesday  nights, 
we'd  go  to  visit  his  grandmother.  She's 
dead  now,  and  we're  going  to  miss  her  so 
at  our  wedding,  but  we  had  lovely  eve- 
nings, watching  TV,  going  through  old 
albums  of  family  pictures.  This,  to  me,  is 
how  you  know  you  can  live  day  after  day, 
year  after  year  with  somone — that  while 
we  were  dating  we  didn't  have  to  do  ex- 
travagant things  to  have  fun.  And  many 
and  many  a  time,  Saturdays  and  Sundays 
especially,  we've  hauled  a  couple  of 
brothers  and  sisters  with  us.  If  we're  going 
to  the  beach  or  the  San  Diego  zoo — why 
not  take  some  of  the  kids?  When  Dick  was 
home  this  summer,  we  went  to  the  beach 
one  day  and  took  three  of  my  brothers 
and  my  little  sister,  three  of  Dick's  sisters 
and  a  friend's  child  besides. 

If  a  fellow  can  have  a  happy  time  and 
keep  all  those  children  happy,  and  be 
calm  even  when  they  get  rambunctious 
and  if  you  are  right  with  him,  enjoying 
it — then  you  know  you've  got  what  it 
takes  to  make  a  marriage  work. 

Plans  and  dreams 

Now  all  I  pray  for  is  Dick's  safe  return 
home.  He's  taken  seventeen  jumps  and  he 
takes  pictures  while  he's  jumping  and  he 
can't  write  every  day  because  they  go  out 
on  bivouacs — so  I  do  quite  a  lot  of  pray- 
ing. But  he  calls  on  special  days  and  sends 
little  gifts:  a  paratrooper  suit  to  each  of 
my  brothers,  a  darling  white  blouse  mono- 
grammed  in  red,  a  pink  satin  heart  of 
candy  and  a  story  book  doll  for  my  Valen- 
tine, and  we're  planning  and  dreaming. 


We'll  be  married  right  next  door  at  St. 
Mark's  church.  My  mother  says  they'll 
never  get  all  the  Lennons  and  the  Gasses 
in — the  church  was  crammed  for  the 
baby's  baptism  and  Dick  has  more  friends 
than  anyone  I've  ever  known  in  my  life. 
My  sister  Peggy  will  be  maid  of  honor, 
best  man  will  be  either  Dick's  brother 
Mark  or  his  best  friend  Don  Smith.  My 
four-and-a-half-year-old  Mimi  and  Dick's 
five- and- a -half- year -old  Debbie  will  be 
the  flower  girls;  our  junior  bridesmaids 
will  be  Joannie  Esser  and  my  sister  Janet; 
the  other  bridesmaids,  my  sister  Kathy, 
Dick's  sister  Patsy  and  my  dear  friend 
Cleo  Clapp  who's  been  my  pal  since  we 
were  little  kids.  She's  getting  married 
soon  too.  Monsignor  will  marry  us.  I  asked 
him  because  we  love  him  so  and  he's  such 
a  family  priest — that's  why  he  wanted  to 
be  here  in  Venice — it's  a  family  town. 

Oh,  and  to  make  it  perfect,  my  sister 


Kathy 's  going  to  lend  us  her  brand  new 
Lincoln  for  our  honeymoon.  It's  a  funny 
story  about  Kathy 's  Lincoln  (which  looks 
as  though  it  should  belong  to  the  British 
Ambassador  or  someone).  We  were  up  in 
St.  Cloud,  Minnesota,  recently  and  there 
was  a  Catholic  Family  Life  Benefit  dinner 
where  we  were  invited  to  sing.  Merchants 
in  the  town  presented  each  of  us  with  a 
ticket  to  the  dinner  and  after  the  dinner, 
they  asked  Janet  to  draw  a  dinner  ticket 
for  the  door  prize — this  beautiful  black 
Lincoln  lined  in  black  and  white  leather! 
Guess  what  ticket  Janet  drew — Kathy 's. 

It  seems  like  I'm  going  to  have  the  most 
wonderful  life  possible.  When  we're  on 
tour,  so  many  people  say  to  me,  "Is  it  true 
that  you're  going  to  quit  singing?"  And 
when  I  say  yes,  they  say,  "Oh,  that's  too 
bad."  But  it  isn't,  it's  going  to  be  basic,  a 
real  way  of  life,  what  I've  been  living  to- 
ward since  the  day  I  was  born.  END  55 


WAIST-IN 

Gently  yet  firmly  will  whittle  your 
waist.  Tuck  in  tummy  too.  White 
breathable  feathernap  —  adjustable 
supporters.  Sizes  22-36,  $2.95. 


A  Tragic  Princess 


(Continued  from  page  23) 

"Of  course,"  answered  Grace,  in  French. 

She  rose  and  entered  the  sitting  room 
next  door.  She  stood  by  the  phone,  wait- 
ing for  the  call  to  be  transmitted.  As  she 
stood  there  she  looked  back  into  the  bed- 
room, at  Rainier.  He  was  still  reading.  He 
yawned  once  or  twice. 

Finally  the  phone  buzzed. 

Grace  lifted  the  receiver. 

"Hello,"  she  said,  in  English  now. 
"Mother  ...  is  that  you?" 

She  frowned. 

"Mother,  what's  wrong?"  she  asked.  .  .  . 

She  walked  back  into  the  bedroom  a  few 
minutes  later.  Her  body  was  tense,  her 
face  pale. 

"Eh?"  Rainier  asked,  smiling  a  trifle, 
looking  up  as  she  entered,  " — and  what 
is  wrong  now  in  the  City  of  Brotherly 
Love?" 

"It's  my  father,"  Grace  said.  "He's  sick. 
He's  very  sick.  He  just  underwent  an 
operation.  They  thought  it  would  be  noth- 
ing," she  said.  "But  it  was  cancer." 

She  sat  down  as  she  said  the  word. 

"Cancer,"  she  said  again. 

For  the  next  moment  or  two  she  was 
silent,  as  she  thought  of  her  father,  John 
Brendan  Kelly,  Big  Jack  Kelly,  never- 
sick-a-day-in-his-life  Jack  Kelly,  strong 
unbeatable  contractor,  Brickwork-by- 
Kelly  Kelly,  Kelly  the  athlete,  the  great- 
est American  oarsman  who  ever  lived, 
Kelly  who'd  thumbed  his  nose  at  George 
V  of  England  for  not  letting  him  enter  the 
Diamond  Sculls  because  he'd  worked  with 
his  hands  and  who'd  then  raised  a  son — 
trained  a  son — who  twenty-seven  years 
later  would  win  the  Diamond  Sculls'  Cup, 
Jack  Kelly,  her  father,  The  Unbeatable, 
down  now,  with  cancer,  down  and  dying 
of  cancer.  "Six  days,  six  months,  we  don't 
know  how  long  he'll  live,"  her  mother  had 
said.  "But  he's  dying,  Grace.  .  .  ." 

Rainier  rules 

"We've  got  to  go  home,"  Grace  said, 
suddenly. 

"J?"  Rainier  asked,  almost  cutting  into 
the  sentence,  as  if  he  knew  just  what  was 
coming.  "I  cannot,  not  right  now."  He  lifted 
the  papers  he  was  holding.  "There  are 
problems  here  I  must  tend  to,"  he  said. 
"This  is  a  Principality  I  run  .  .  .  not  a 
boutique." 

"But  my  father — "  Grace  said. 

"I  cannot,"  said  Rainier. 

"Then  the  children  and  I — "  Grace 
started  to  say. 

Rainier  interrupted  her  by  tossing  down 
his  papers.  "Albert  is  sick,"  he  said.  "Is  the 
baby  not  sick?  .  .  .  And  Caroline.  What 
happened  to  her  the  last  time  she  was  in 
a  plane.  Do  you  remember?" 

"Their  grandfather  is  dying  .  .  .  dying," 
Grace  said.  "Don't  you  understand  that?" 

"You  talk — "  Rainier  said  " — and  you  get 
excited  with  me  as  if  it  is  that  uncle  of 
yours  who's  dying  instead  of  your  father. 
What  has  he  meant  to  you  really,  your 
father?  What  about  some  of  the  things 
you've  told  me  about  him  .  .  .  the  hurts, 
and  the — " 

He  stopped. 

"I'm  sorry  about  your  father,"  he  said. 
"But  I  cannot  come  with  you.  And  neither 
can  the  children." 

"You  want  me  to  go  alone  then?"  Grace 
asked. 

"Exactly,"  said  Rainier. 

"You  want  me  to  go  alone,"  Grace  said, 
not  asking  this  time,  sitting  back  wearily 
in  her  chair. 

Rainier  rose.  He  began  to  head  for  the 
sitting  room.  "I'll  phone  for  your  tickets 


right  now,"  he  said.  "Of  course  you  want 
to  leave  on  the  earliest  plane." 

Grace  nodded  and  brought  her  hand  up 
to  her  forehead. 

"You're  feeling  dizzy?"  Rainier  asked. 

Grace  nodded. 

"You'd  like  a  drink?" 

Grace  glanced  at  a  small  bar,  a  few  feet 
from  where  Rainier  stood.  Again,  she 
nodded. 

"I'll  get  your  maid  then,"  Rainier  said. 
"What  should  I  tell  her  you'd  like  ...  A 
brandy?  ...  A  cognac?" 

Grace  didn't  answer. 

Instead,  her  Serene  Highness  of  Monaco 
looked  from  the  bar,  over  at  her  husband 
— looked  at  him  long,  long  and  hard.  .  .  . 

"I  want  to  see  my  grandchildren" 

She  tried  to  smile  as  she  bent  over  to 
kiss  her  father  in  his  bed  that  next  night — 
but  she  couldn't.  Because  it  was  not  like 
seeing  her  father,  Jack  Kelly,  again,  but 
rather  it  was  to  her  as  if  there  were  some 
strange  man  in  his  bed,  an  old  man,  a 
hollow-cheeked  man  with  a  thin  neck  and 
thin  hands,  and  with  yellowing  skin  and 
with  breathings  that  came  hard  and  warm 
from  his  mouth,  and  with  eyes  that  had 
obviously  once  been  very  blue  but  which, 
somehow,  were  not  so  blue  anymore,  and 
with  a  voice,  once  so  strong  and  booming, 
now  so  weak  as  it  asked,  "Gracie,  is  it  you 
who's  come  to  see  your  old  man  in  this 
state?" 

"Yes,  Daddy,"  Grace  said,  very  softly, 
nodding. 

He  reached  for  her  hand. 

He  managed  the  smile  his  daughter  had 
not  been  able  to  manage. 

"I'm  glad,  Gracie,"  he  said,  "because  I'm 
a  sick  man.  Awful  sick.  No  matter  how 
much  those  whitecoats  try  to  fool  me,  that 
I  know.  And  because,  Gracie,  before  I 
go—" 

Grace  shook  her  head.  "Shhh,"  she  said, 
"don't  go  talking  like  that  now." 

"Because  before  I  go,"  her  father  went 
on,  "I  want  to  see  you  again,  Gracie.  You 
and  your  babies  .  .  .  I've  been  thinking  of 
this.  Of  when  you'd  come  back.  From  as 
soon  as  I  woke  up  after  that  operation  .  .  . 
Us  talking  like  this.  You  coming  with  your 
babies." 

He  squeezed  her  hand.  He  barely  noticed 
that  it  had  begun  to  tremble  in  his. 

"Carrie,"  he  asked,  "how  is  she,  that 
little  Carrie  of  yours?" 

"She's  fine,  Daddy,"  Grace  said. 

"And  Al,"  he  said,  " — did  you  know, 
Gracie,  that  I've  never  even  seen  him,  my 
new  grandson,  His  Royal  Highness  Albert 
or  whatever  the  heck  it  is  those  people 
call  him  over  there  .  .  .  Did  you  know 
that?" 

"I  know,"  Grace  said. 

"And  now,"  Jack  Kelly  said,  raising  his 
head  a  bit,  with  a  struggle,  it  seemed, 
"just  once  I  want  to  be  with  him,  so  he 
can  remember  his  old  grandpa.  And  so 
that  I,  when  I'm  Upstairs,  taking  my  walks 
in  those  Irish-green  pastures  I  hear  they've 
got  up  there,  I  can  remember  him,  too. 
Just  like  I'll  be  remembering  all  of  you. 
My  family.  My  bunch  of  Kellys  and  their 
kids." 

He  took  a  deep  breath.  And  his  head 
fell  back  on  the  pillow  once  more. 

"Are  they  downstairs,  Gracie,  the  kids 
and  your  husband?"  he  asked  then. 

Again,  Grace's  hand  began  to  tremble. 

And  before  she  could  answer,  her  father 
said,  "I'll  see  them  in  a  little  while.  I'm 
feeling  kind  of  drowsy  now.  I  don't  want 
them  to  see  me,  drowsy  like  this  .  .  .  later, 
when  I'm  better. 

"But  for  now,"  he  said  then,  letting  go  of 
her  hand,  "you  sit,  right  here  beside  the 
bed,  and  tell  me  about  yourself,  daughter, 
and  things  that  have  been  happening  since 
I  saw  you  last." 


Grace  sat.  And  she  began  to  talk,  tell- 
ing a  little  about  little  things,  about  this, 
that,  talking  just  to  talk,  talking,  on  and  on, 
as  if  by  talking  she  could  keep  what  she 
now  knew  to  be  a  room  of  death  alive — 
even  if  only  by  talking. 

"That's  nice,"  her  father  would  say,  as 
she  talked. 

"That's  nice." 

Once  in  a  while  he  would  close  his  eyes 
and  seem  to  be  asleep.  But  then,  sud- 
denly, he  would  open  them  and  he'd  say, 
"That's  nice,  my  girl,  my  Gracie." 

And  then  he'd  say,  asking,  as  if  he'd 
forgotten,  "The  kids?  Are  they  downstairs, 
Gracie?" 

And  each  time  he  said  that,  Grace  would 
start  to  tell  him  about  the  children  not 
being  there.  But,  unable  to  finish,  she 
would  stop.  Until,  unable  to  continue  talk- 
ing at  all,  she  stopped  completely  and  let 
her  father  talk.  Because  it  seemed  as  if, 
suddenly,  hard  as  it  was  for  him,  he 
wanted  to  talk  now,  very  much. 

The  Irish  influence 

"Do  they  say  their  prayers?"  he  asked, 
at  one  point,  after  he'd  been  talking  on  for 
quite  a  while. 

"Yes,"  Grace  said.  "At  least,  Caroline 
does  .  .  .  Albert's  still  too  young." 

"Well,"  Jack  Kelly  said,  "see  that  they 
both  do — just  like  you  and  your  brother 
and  sisters  used  to  .  .  .  Tell  me,  Gracie, 
how  did  it  go,  that  prayer  you  all  used  to 
say,  the  one  at  the  table?  You  should  re- 
member. You're  the  actress,  the  one  with 
the  memory  in  the  family." 

Grace  told  him. 

"We  would  sit  around  the  table,"  she 
said,  "and  Peggy  would  start. 

"  'Bless  us,  Oh  Lord,'  she'd  say,  'and 
these  Thy  gifts  we  are  about  to  receive 
from  Thy  bounty  through  Christ  our  Lord.' 

"And  then  Kelly  would  say,  'Do  unto 
others  as  you  would  have  others  do  unto 
you.' 

"And  I'd  say,  'Politeness  is  to  do  and  say 
the  kindest  thing  in  the  kindest  way.' 

"And  Lizanne  would  say,  'Amen.'  " 

"And  me?"  Jack  Kelly  asked,  beginning 
to  laugh. 

"You'd  say,  'Let's  eat!' " 

"And  your  mother?" 

"She'd  say,  'Poppa,  really!'  " 

"Yes,"  Jack  Kelly  said,  remembering, 
"that's  right  .  .  .  Your  mom,"  he  said,  the 
laugh  beginning  to  go,  " — you  know, 
Gracie,  there  is  a  woman  who  you  can 
learn  by.  She  taught  you  all  to  be  good  for 
good's  sake.  And  to  live  clean  lives.  Active 
and  healthy  lives.  That's  the  spirit  Mar- 
garet Kelly  raised  our  youngsters  by.  Let- 
ting you  have  it  when  you  needed  having 
it.  Trudging  you  all  off  to  St.  Bridget's 
every  Sunday  morning.  That  was  her 
spirit.  Her  way.  And  that's  the  way  you've 
got  to  bring  up  your  kids,  your  prince  and 
princess  or  whatever  it  is  they  call  my 
grandchildren  over  there." 

He  closed  his  eyes. 

He  seemed  to  be  in  some  pain;  Grace 
!    could  see  that. 

But,  still,  he  talked. 
"And  exercise,"  he  asked,  "are  you  see- 
ing to  it  my  grandchildren  are  getting 
plenty  of  exercise?" 
"Yes,"  Grace  said. 

"Too  much  sitting  nowadays,"  Jack 
Kelly  said.  "Too  many  escalators,  eleva- 
tors, cars.  Everybody  rides.  And  if  they're 
not  riding,  they're  sitting  .  .  .  That's  not 
the  way  you  make  a  champion,  you  know. 
And  remember,  Gracie,  it's  a  family  of 
champions — champions — you  just  happen 
to  come  from." 

Not  like  the  others 

He  opened  his  eyes. 

Again  he  reached  for  her  hand. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  smiling,  "you  were 


the  different  one,  Gracie.  Always  with 
your  dolls.  And  making  up  your  plays. 
My  quiet  little  girl,  with  her  dolls,  her 
plays.  And  her  poems.  .  .  . 

"Gracie,"  he  said  then,  still  clinging  to 
her  hand,  "sometimes — it's  no  secret  be- 
tween us — but  sometimes  I  didn't  under- 
stand you,  Gracie.  With  you  not  being  like 
the  others;  with  me  wanting  you  so  much 
to  be  like  the  others  .  .  .  And  I  hope,  all 
I  hope  now  is  that  I  never  hurt  you  for 
not  understanding  sometimes." 

His  eyes  looked  into  hers,  almost  plead- 
ingly. 

"Did  I  hurt  you,  Grace?  .  .  .  Did  I  hurt 
you  much?" 

"No,"  Grace  said,  shaking  her  head,  "you 
never  did,  Daddy." 

"That's  good  to  hear  you  say  that,"  her 
father  whispered,  closing  his  eyes  once 
again,  " — even  though  I  know  you're  lying 
to  your  old  man.  Even  though  you're  only 
saying  this  to  make  me  feel  good  now  .  .  . 
Because  I  know,"  he  said,  "that  there  were 
times — your  mother  would  tell  me  about 
them  later — times  when  I  hurt  you  .  .  . 
times  when  I  made  you  feel  bad." . 

Grace  looked  down,  and  as  she  did  the 
times  came  flashing  into  her  mind;  much 
as  she  tried  to  keep  them  from  coming, 
they  came. 

"Swim  like  a  Kelly,"  they  came,  her 
father's  words,  "not  like  a  stranger  with 
arms  made  of  putty! 

"What's  she  sniveling  about  now?  So  I 
forgot  and  put  a  candle  less  on  her  birth- 
day cake.  So  what? 

"My  daughter,  become  an  actress?  So 
she  can  get  to  be  as  shallow  as  the  rest  of 
those  people? 

"She  amazes  me,  Grace  does.  1  always 
thought  it  would  be  her  sister  Peggy.  Any- 
thing Grace  could  do,  Peggy  could  do 
better. 

"Sniveling. 

"Sensitive. 

"Different — darn  it,  she's  different. 
"Can't  anyone  knock  some  Kelly  into 
her?" 

"But  I  never  meant  to  hurt  you,  Gracie," 
she  heard  her  father's  voice  again. 
"I  know,  Daddy,"  she  said,  looking  up. 

A  chance  to  apologize 

"And  you  know,"  he  said,  "sometimes, 
most  of  the  time,  what  I  said  that  hurt  you 
was  unintentional.  But  you,  you'd  never 
admit  this  and  give  me  a  chance  to 
apologize.  You'd  just  avoid  me  after  that.  It 
made  it  hard  on  me,  Gracie.  I  was  never 
one  to  go  chasing  after  people  .  .  .  And 
you  made  it  hard  on  me  a  lot  of  the  time." 

"I  know,"  Gracie  said. 

"I  was  a  gruff  man,"  Jack  Kelly  said.  "I 
guess  I  expected  my  children  to  be  that 
way,  too.  All  of  them  .  .  .  But  you,"  he 
said,  "you  were  like  your  aunt.  I  realize 
that  now.  Just  like  my  sister  Grace,  Lord 
rest  her  sweet  and  beautiful  soul.  She 
was  the  most  beautiful  girl  you've  ever 
seen,  Gracie,"  he  went  on,  remembering. 
"She  had  a  voice,  a  real  talent.  She  wanted 
to  go  on  the  stage.  But  none  of  us  would 
ever  allow  it.  Your  mother,  she  was  preg- 
nant with  you  when  my  sister  died. 
Twenty-three  years  old  when  she  died. 
And  someone  said  the  day  of  her  funeral, 
'The  namesake  will  have  the  talent  our 
Grace  had,  and  the  chance  we  never  gave 
her.'  And  that  was  you,  Gracie.  The  name- 
sake .  .  .  Did  you  know  that?" 

Grace  nodded. 

"Like  my  sister  you  were,"  Jack  Kelly 
said,  opening  his  eyes  once  more,  " — and 
like  my  brother  George.  Like  him  you 
were,  and  not  at  all  like  me." 

Again  Grace  looked  down.  And  again, 
the  thoughts— hard  as  she  tried  to  keep 
them  from  coming — came. 

Uncle  George,  came  the  thoughts,  the 
memories.    Mr.    George    Kelly.  Writer. 


UNDER-ALL 


Don't  make  a  move  without  your 
"guardian  angel"— the  dress  shield 
that  keeps  you  confident  in  com- 
fort!  Elasticized  to  stay  put;  $2.75. 


JOHN  GAVIN: 


PAY  THE  MAN 
THE  TWO  DOLLARS! 

John  Gavin  knew  his  wife  Cecily  for 
eight  long  years  before  he  "set  the  date." 
But  once  they  decided,  they  didn't  want 
to  delay  another  minute. 

They  took  their  blood  tests  and  rushed 
down  to  the  license  bureau  about  a  half 
hour  before  closing.  They  signed  the 
necessary  papers.  Then  the  clerk  said: 
"That  will  be  two  dollars  please." 

John  reached  into  his  pocket — but  in 
his  rush  he'd  forgotten  to  take  any 
money. 

"Got  any  money  with  you,  dear?"  he 
asked. 

"About  $20,"  Cecily  replied.  "Why?" 
"Well,  it  seems  I  forgot  my  wallet,  and 
I  need  to  pay  the  man  the  two  dollars." 
"No." 

"No  what?" 

"No,  I  won't  lend  you  the  two  dollars." 

"Honey,  don't  be  silly.  I'll  give  it  to 
you  back  the  minute  I  get  home." 

"That's  not  the  point,"  Cecily  replied. 
"I'd  give  you  anything  in  the  world  .  .  . 
forever.  But  I'm  just  not  going  to  pay 
for  my  own  marriage  license." 

"But  I  won't  have  time  to  go  all  the 
way  home.  .  .  ." 

"I  love  you.  I'll  always  love  you.  But 
no." 

John  asked  the  clerk  if  he'd  accept  a 
check. 

But  the  man  said,  "Nope — two  dollars 

— cash." 

"Stay  right  here,  honey,"  John  told  his 
girl.  "I'll  be  right  back."  And  he  can- 
vassed every  gas  station  in  the  area  trying 
to  get  a  two-dollar  check  cashed.  He  was 
turned  down  cold — by  attendants  who 
looked  at  him  as  though  he  was  some 
kind  of  nut  after  they  heard  his  story. 

Finally — about  five  minutes  before  the 
license  bureau  closed,  he  found  a  fellow 
who  cashed  it  without  hesitation.  "Know 
just  how  you  feel,  Bud,"  he  said.  "Same 
thing  happened  to  me  15  years  ago." 

"How  did  you  manage  to  solve  it?" 
John  asked. 

"Didn't,"  replied  the  man.  "I  lost  the 
girl." 

John  stars,  with  Sandra  Dee,  in  Universal- 
Inter  national's  Romanoff  And  Juliet. 


Pulitzer-Prize  playwright  .  .  .  Sitting  at  the 
piano  playing  Chopin  and  Ravel  for  a  little 
girl  .  .  .  Walking  with  her  when  he  came 
to  visit,  right  here  down  Henry  Avenue, 
walking  and  reciting  his  poetry  to  her 
while  the  rest  of  the  world  rode  and 
walked  by,  not  knowing  .  .  .  "Someday,  I 
will  write  a  play  for  you,  young  lady,  and 
you  will  act  in  it  and  we  will  stand  to- 
gether during  the  curtain  calls,  arm  in 
arm"  ...  '7  look  into  your  pretty  eyes, 
young  lady,  and  I  see  that  same  strain  of 
Irish  mysticism  and  melancholy  as  is  mine, 
mine"  ...  "J  love  you,  my  niece,  my  fairy 
child  of  East  Falls,  P-A." 

"Like  him  you  were,"  she  heard  her 
father's  voice  again,  "and,  and  sometimes 
I  think  that  he  should  have  been  your 
father  .  .  .  that  you  would  have  been  a 
happier  child  with  him  than  you  were 
with  me." 

"No,  Daddy,"  Grace  said,  pressing  his 
hand.  "Don't  say  that,  Daddy." 

"I  complained  about  you  a  lot,"  Jack 
Kelly  said.  "  'No  spunk  like  the  others,' 
I'd  say.  But" — he  nodded — "I  know  now 
that  it  was  you  who  had  the  real  spunk  in 
this  family  of  ours.  Going  up  there  to 
New  York  the  way  you  did  when  you 
were  only  eighteen,  after  I'd  asked  you  not 
to  go.  And  showing  them — and  me.  The 
theater.  The  modeling.  Then  the  TV. 
Then  Hollywood.  And  those  grand  pictures 
you  made.  And  that  prize  you  won.  Your 
Academy  Award. 

"I  was  proud  that  night,  Gracie,"  he  said, 
"prouder  than  I  had  any  right  to  be.  And 
if  I  never  told  you  how  proud  I  was  .  .  . 
I  want  to  tell  you  now." 

He  sighed. 

Again  the  pain  had  hit  him,  it  seemed. 

"I'm  talking  too  much,"  he  said,  his 
voice  suddenly  more  wan  than  it  had  been 
before,  more  tired. 

"You  should  rest  for  a  while,"  Grace 
said. 

"Yes,"  Jack  Kelly  said.  ".  .  .  And  while 
I  do,  you  talk  to  me,  Gracie,  with  that  cool 
and  soothing  voice  of  yours.  And  tell  your 
old  man,  while  you're  talking,  about  some 
of  the  better  things  you  remember  about 
him."  He  smiled  a  little,  and  he  even 
winked.  "Go  ahead,"  he  said,  "and  tell  me 
about  what  a  wonderful  dad  I  was  to  you 
sometimes.  I  won't  be  embarrassed." 

Grace  smiled  back. 

"Well — "  she  started  to  say,  the  word 
sticking  in  her  throat. 
"Well—" 

She  tried  to  think.  Desperately,  she  tried 
to  think. 

"Oh  God,"  she  thought  to  herself  then. 
"I  can't  remember.  There  were  things.  I 
know  there  were  things  .  .  .  But  I  can't 
remember. 

"Oh  please,"  she  thought. 

"Oh  please. 

"Oh  make  me  remember." 

And  then,  suddenly,  she  could  hear  her- 
self talking.  Very  calmly.  Very  softly.  In 
a  voice  and  manner  that  were  obviously 
very  pleasing  to  Jack  Kelly. 

A  few  good  things 

"I  remember,"  she  said,  "playing  Tcitchen' 
this  one  day.  With  Alice  Walters.  We 
were  looking  through  the  old  Boston  Cook- 
book and  we  saw  this  recipe  for  vinegar 
candy.  It  sounded  funny,  so  we  made  it. 
And  that  night,  after  dinner,  I  said  I  had  a 
surprise  dessert  for  everyone.  And  every- 
one said,  'Really;  what  is  it,  Grace?'  And 
I  said,  'Vinegar  candy.'  And  they  all 
laughed  and  made  faces.  All  except  you, 
Daddy.  You  said,  'If  you  made  it,  daugh- 
ter, I'll  brave  it.'  And  you  had  a  piece. 
You  tasted  it  ...  I  remember  that  now. 
Yes,  I  remember  that  now." 

"And?"  her  father  asked. 

"And  the  time  I  made  the  turtle  soup — 
do  you  remember  that,  Daddy?"  Grace 


asked.  She  was  so  thankful  that  she  re- 
membered. 

"Tell  me  about  it,  Gracie,"  he  said. 

"The  time  we  were  alone  in  the  house, 
I  mean —  Everybody  was  out,  even  the 
cook,"  Grace  said,  "and  I  told  you  I'd 
prepare  your  supper.  And  I  opened  a  can 
of  Campbell's  pea  soup  and  told  you  it 
was — what  did  I  say? — I  told  you  it  was 
a  rare  green  turtle  soup,  I  said,  imported 
directly  from  the  palace  of  the  King  of 
Barcelona." 

Jack  Kelly  laughed. 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  he  said. 

"And?"  he  asked  then.  "And?" 

"And  I  remember,"  Grace  said,  "the 
night  you  made  me  sit  at  the  table  till 
nine  o'clock  because  I  wouldn't  eat  my 
calves'  liver.  How  you  wouldn't  talk  to  me 
at  first,  you  were  so  mad.  How  you  didn't 
even  talk  to  me  after  everybody  else  had 
gotten  up  from  the  table  and  just  the  two 
of  us  sat  there,  alone,  just  you  and  me  and 
that  portion  of  calves'  liver.  I  remember 
how  the  hours  passed.  How  I  didn't  eat. 
How  I  started  to  cry  all  of  a  sudden.  And 
how  you  looked  at  me  then,  sternly,  so 
sternly  that  I  figured  I'd  better  eat.  And  I 
began.  And  I  swallowed  it  down,  piece 
after  piece,  that  awful  meat.  And  I  re- 
member how,  soon  as  I  finished,  I  began  to 
cry  again.  How  you  got  up  from  your 
chair  as  I  cried.  How  that  stern  look  was 
gone  from  your  face  now.  And  how  you 
kissed  me  ...  I  remember  that." 

"Why  are  you  crying  now,  Gracie?" 
Jack  Kelly  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  Grace  said,  shrugging, 
wiping  away  her  tears  with  her  fingers. 

"Is  it,"  her  father  asked,  "is  it  because 
I  never  kissed  you  enough?" 

"No,  Daddy,  it's  not  that,"  Gracie  said. 

Jack  Kelly  brought  a  hand  up,  weakly, 
to  his  neck. 

"Is  it  because  I'm  going  to  die?"  he 
asked. 

Grace  didn't  answer. 

No  regrets 

"I'm  not  afraid,  Gracie,  in  case  that's  what 
you're  thinking,"  he  said.  "In  fact,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I'm  even  a  little  curious.  I've  lived 
seventy  years.  I'd  liked  to  have  lived  a 
little  longer.  But  I've  no  regrets,"  he  said. 

He  paused. 

"Don't  cry,"  he  said  then.  "A  few  tears 
after  I'm  gone  maybe,  Gracie.  But  no 
more  then.  And  no  more  now. 

"I'm  happy  now,  Gracie. 

"Believe  me. 

"You're  here. 

"My  grandchildren  are  here — " 
He  turned  his  head  a  little. 
"Where  are  they,  anyway,  huh?"  he 
asked. 

"The  kids. 

"I  don't  hear  them. 

"St.  Anthony  preserve  us,  but  this  house 
is  like  a  tomb  lately. 

"Even  the  voices  of  children  are  being 
hushed  in  this — " 

"Daddy,"  Grace  said,  sobbing  suddenly, 
falling  to  her  knees  suddenly,  beside  the 
bed.  "The  children  .  .  .  They're  not  here. 
I'm  sorry.  But  they're  not." 

"What?"  her  father  asked. 

"I  wanted  to  bring  them,"  Grace  said. 
"But  my  husband.  He — " 

"He  what?"  Jack  Kelly  asked. 

"He  wouldn't  let  me  bring  them,"  Grace 
said,  the  tears  coming  to  her  eyes  again, 
the  sobbing  returning. 

Her  father  brought  his  hand  down  from 
his  neck  and  touched  her  head  with  it. 

"Get  up,  Gracie,"  he  said. 

She  didn't. 

"Hey  there,"  he  said  then,  "what  kind  of 
Princess  are  you  supposed  to  be,  anyway, 
kneeling  like  this,  crying  like  this?" — the 
tears  coming  to  hip  own  eyes  as  he  said 
that. 

"Look,"  he  said,  "look  at  me,  Gracie,  and 


listen  to  me.  .  .  . 

"Your  husband,"  he  said,  talking  very 
slowly  now,  very  softly,  "—what  he  did 
may  seem  wrong  to  you,  I  know.  But  he 
must  know  what's  best  for  them,  for  the 
children.  You  see,  a  father's  job  isn't  an 
easy  one.  That  much  old  Jack  Kelly 
knows.  And  a  Prince's  job — that  mustn't 
be  so  easy,  either.  And  I  guess  a  Princess' 
too.  Not  so  easy  sometimes.  Hey,  daugh- 
ter?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Tell  me,  Grade,"  her  father  asked  then, 
"does  it  ever  get  too  tough  on  you,  being 
way  over  there  in  Monaco,  living  so  far 
away  from  everything  you  know,  living 
there  in  that  big  palace,  people  bowing  and 
scraping  all  over  the  place,  people — " 

The  door  to  the  room  opened  at  that 
moment  and  a  nurse  walked  in.  First,  she 
handed  Grace  an  envelope  she  was  carry- 
ing. And  then,  merrily,  she  said,  "Time  for 
Mr.  Kelly's  needle  so's  Mr.  Kelly  can  get 
some  sleep  now!" 

Grace  watched  her  as  she  filled  a  needle 
with  some  serum,  then  brought  it  up  to 
her  father's  arm  and  injected  it. 

Then,  after  the  nurse  had  left  the  room, 
she  looked  up  at  Jack  Kelly's  face  again. 

The  serum  had  begun  its  work  already, 
she  could  see. 

His  eyes  were  closed  again. 

His  thin  body,  for  the  first  time,  seemed 
relaxed. 

He  began  to  talk  again,  rambling  from 
this  subject  to  that.  But  as  he  talked  now 
it  was  clear  that  his  voice  was  becoming 
husky.  And  his  lips  dried,  and  he  licked 
his  lips  as  he  talked  now  and  as,  slowly, 
drowsily,  he  began  to  fall  off  to  sleep. 

"Your  Aunt  Grace,"  he  said,  at  one 
point,  forgetting  what  he'd  been  saying 
before,  about  Rainier,  a  Prince's  duties,  a 
Princess';  "dead  at  twenty-three  .  .  .  The 
namesake  .  .  .  Your  namesake.  .  .  ." 

Then: 

"I  was  proud  that  night  you  won  your 
statue,  Gracie,  you  standing  there  on  that 
stage,  all  those  people  clapping." 

Then: 

"Don't  feel  about  my  grandchildren  .  .  . 
not  being  here.  I  wanted  them,  but  if 
they're  not  here — " 

Then: 

"Gracie?" 

"Yes?"  she  asked. 

"Have  I  told  you  .  .  .  how  I  feel  ...  in 
my  heart,  about  you  .  .  .  Gracie?  Have  I 
ever  told  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  sure?" 
"Yes." 

"When  did  I  tell  you  last." 

"I  don't  know,  Daddy,"  she  said.  "I 
can't  remember  right  now." 

"Then  let  me  tell  you  .  .  .  Gracie?" 

"Yes,  Daddy;  tell  me,  Daddy." 

"Let  me  tell  you.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  Daddy" — she  leaned  forward,  closer 
to  the  bed. 

"Before  it's  too  late.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  Daddy."  She  could  feel  her  heart 
beat  strong  inside  her. 

"Gracie?  .  .  .  Gracie?" 

"Yes?" 

"Gracie? 

But  he  was  asleep  now. 

"Yes?"  she  said  once  more,  " — what  were 
you  going  to  say  to  me,  Daddy?  Were  you 
going  to  say  that  you  loved  me  .  .  .  ?" 

But  it  was  no  use  now;  that  she  knew. 

Her  father  was  asleep,  knocked  out  by 
the  drug  he'd  just  been  injected  with. 

And  so  she  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  she 
watched  him  for  a  little  while  longer.  And, 
as  she  did,  she  became  conscious  of  the 
envelope  she's  been  holding  these  past  few 
minute. 

She  looked  down  at  it. 

It  was  a  cablegram,  obviously  from 
Rainier. 


She  opened  it.  and  read  it. 

RETURN  IMMEDIATELY,  it  read. 
CHILDREN  ARE  ASKING  FOR  YOU. 
ALSO  YOU  ARE  NEEDED  HERE  FOR 
THE  RED  CROSS  BALL  NEXT  THURS- 
DAY. 

Her  eyes  darted  back  to  those  first  two 
words. 

RETURN  IMMEDIATELY. 

She  read  them,  over  and  over  again. 

And  then,  finished  reading  them,  she 
began  to  crumble  the  cablegram  in  her 
hand,  furiously. 

And  she  whispered,  "I  won't!" 

The  man  who  was  her  husband 

She  did,  however.  After  another  cable 
from  Rainier,  then  an  overseas  phone  call 
from  him,  and  after  a  talk  with  her 
mother  and  her  father's  doctor,  both  of 
whom  convinced  her  that  staying  with  her 
father  would  prove  of  no  use  now,  Grace 
returned  to  Monaco,  to  her  children,  to  the 
man  who  was  her  husband,  to  wait  for 
the  Red  Cross  ball  and  for  word  of  her 
father's  death. 

She  waited  alone,  most  of  the  time,  she 
and  the  children,  avoiding  Rainier  when- 
ever possible. 

Finally,  only  a  few  days  after  her  re- 
turn, the  news  came  that  her  father  had 
passed  away. 

Grace  was  on  a  Philadelphia-bound  jet 
again  in  a  matter  of  hours.  This  time, 
Rainier  was  with  her. 

He  remained  in  Philadelphia  with  Grace 
for  five  days  and,  immediately  following 
the  funeral,  he  flew  back  to  Monaco,  alone. 

Grace  stayed  on  a  few  days  longer. 

Then  she,  too,  flew  back. 

People  who  were  around  them  those  five 
days  they  spent  in  Philadelphia  say  they 
barely  exchanged  that  many  words,  ex- 
cept for  the  two  or  three  violent  argu- 
ments they  had. 

Word  of  the  arguments  caused  much 
speculation. 

Some  people  said  that  Rainier  was 
angered  by  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
"playfully,  but  purposely"  excluded  from 
Jack  Kelly's  will. 

Others  said  this  was  nonsense— that  it 
was  Grace's  growing  "coldness"  towards 
him  that  had  caused  the  trouble. 

At  any  rate,  Rainier  left  Philadelphia  a 
few  days  before  Grace,  and,  immediately, 
items  about  the  two  began  to  appear  in 
newspapers  all  over  the  world,  items 
liberally  sprinkled  with  the  words: 

"Rift!" 

"Separation?" 
"Divorce?" 

Quickly,  it  seemed,  was  the  fairy-tale 
romance  of  1956  heading  for  an  end.  .  .  . 

Belonging 

Grace  had  been  back  at  the  palace  for 
only  a  few  minutes,  and  she  sat  now  on 
the  terrace  just  outside  her  bedroom,  alone, 
still  wearing  the  black  dress  she'd  traveled 
in,  still  wearing  the  tight  expression  she'd 
worn  these  past  two  weeks. 

Rainier  joined  her  after  a  while,  wel- 
coming her  back  in  a  few  words,  then 
sitting  beside  her. 

"I  just  spoke  to  Caroline's  nurse,"  he 
said.  "She  tells  me  that  you  were  upset  the 
child  greeted  you  in  French." 

"I  want  her  to  speak  to  me  in  English 
from  now  on,"  Grace  said,  " — in  English." 

."I  will  make  that  clear  to  the  nurse," 
Rainier  said,  "if  that  is  your  wish." 

Grace  turned  away  from  him. 

"Grace,"  he  said,  trying  to  take  her 
hand. 

She  pulled  hers  away. 

"Grace,"  he  said,  "how  is  it  that  this  is 
happening  to  us,  these  past  few  months? 
Does  it  happen  to  all  married  people  after 
a  while,  after  such  a  short  while?" 

Grace  didn't  answer. 


SLIMDERELLA  GIRDLE 

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ROBERT 
STACK 

AND  THE 
DIGNIFIED 
ENTRANCE 


Robert  Stack,  who  portrays  the  sincere,  dedicated,  no-nonsense  Elliot 
Ness  on  TV's  The  Untouchables,  is.  in  real  life,  a  sincerely  dedicated  family 
man.  His  greatest  joy  is  spending  time  "getting  to  know  his  children,"  as 
he  calls  it.  He  and  his  wife  Rosemary  love  to  drive  out  into  the  country  for 
family  picnics,  family  beach  parties. 

One  night  Robert  Stack  and  Rosemary  were  getting  dressed  to  attend  a 
press  premiere  and  the  kids  decided  they'd  rather  have  Daddy  at  home  with 
them.  Or  better  still,  go  with  him. 

"Now  kids,"  he  said  firmly,  "you  just  can't  come  with  us.  Do  you  realize 
what  a  premiere  is?  From  the  minute  you  drive  up  to  the  theater,  everyone 
stares  at  you.  You  have  to  be  very  dignified.  It  seems  like  miles  sometimes 
till  you're  inside.  And  you  have  to  be  all  dressed  up.  It's  quite  an  elegant 
affair." 

"Are  you  elegant.  Pop?"  they  asked. 

"When  I  have  to  be.  yes,"  Robert  Stack  answered  grimly. 
"And  you're  going  to  be  dignified  tonight.  Pop?" 
"I  hope  so,  if  I  can  ever  get  dressed  in  peace.  Now  you  kids  scat." 
"Aw,  gee,  Pop,  we'd  be  good.  .  .  ."' 

"Now  look.  You  can't  squirm,  you  can"t  giggle,  and  the  hard  part  of  it  is 
you  have  to  be  ready  to  walk  right  through  that  crowd  and  not  lose  your 
composure." 

"What's  composure.  Pop?" 

"When  you're  old  enough  to  know  what  that  means.  I  promise  you,  you 
can  come  to  a  premiere.  .  .  ." 

And  so  it  was  that  Rosemary  and  Robert  Stack  managed  to  get  off  to  the 
premiere,  and  miraculously,  on  time  too. 

They  pulled  up  in  front  of  the  theater,  the  doorman  opened  the  door. 
Robert  Stack,  elegant  in  his  impeccably-tailored  evening  clothes  took  the 
arm  of  his  beautiful  wife,  and  smiled  a  dignified  smile  as  the  people  crowd- 
ing the  velvet  ropes  gasped  at  her  fabulous  gown.  Then  suddenly  a  smoth- 
ered titter  arose  from  the  crowd  and  everyone  stared  in  the  direction  of 
his  car. 

He  turned,  puzzled,  just  in  time  to  watch  two  empty  Coke  bottles  and  a 
leftover  picnic  orange  roll  to  the  pavement.  It  was  an  embarrassing  moment. 

But  his  fans  smiled  indulgently.  They  just  wanted  to  see  Robert  Stack. 
They  didn't  care  if  he  was  composed  or  dignified  or  not. 


"At  the  beginning,"  he  said,  going  on 
nonetheless,  "how  were  we  but  so  happy, 
so  much  laughing  and  joking  together  and 
being  together  .  .  .  And  now,  so  many 
angry  words.  And,  sometimes,  for  long 
times,  no  words.  Not  talking.  But  trying 
to  lose  ourselves  instead,  trying  to  get  lost 
from  one  another  all  the  time  in  these  two 
hundred  rooms  .  .  .  How  does  it  happen, 
Grace?" 

Still,  she  said  nothing. 

"I  know,"  Rainier  said,  "part  of  it  is 
your  anger  over  my  not  sending  the  chil- 
dren to  see  your  father  before  he  died.  I 
thought  I  had  good  reason  not  to.  I  realize 
now  I  had  no  reason.  And  I'm  sorry  about 
that — about  the  children,  and  about  you, 
not  being  there  when  he  died.  .  .  ." 

He  paused  for  a  while. 

"And  I  know,  too,"  he  said,  "that  it  is 
not  easy  putting  up  with  some  of  the  life 
you  must  put  up  with,  living  in  a  strange 
little  land,  attending  all  sorts  of  galas, 
night  after  night,  being  pleasant  to  people 
neither  you  nor  I  can  really  stand,  but 
being  pleasant  to  them  because  they  are 
important  to  me  and  to  this  little  bit  of 
land  which  has  been  handed  down  to 
me.  .  .  ." 

He  paused  again. 

"And  me,"  he  said.  "  'What  manner  of 
man  is  he?'  the  whole  world  asked,  when 
you  married  me,  after  so  short  a  courtship, 
' — this  Prince — who  is  he?  What  is  he 
like?  How  can  she  know  what  he  is  like 
after  so  short  a  time,  and  take  so  great 
a  chance?' 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  how  much 
you've  learned  about  me  these  four  years, 
Grace.  About  my  good  points,  I  hope  you 
have  found  a  few,  at  least. 

"And  about  my  bad  ones — " 

He  clasped  his  .hands  together. 

"About  my  bad  ones,"  he  said,  "my 
temper  sometimes,  my  giving  of  orders, 
my  moodiness,  my  suspicion  of  people;  I 
guess  you  know  those  well  by  now  .  .  . 
But,  know,  too,  Grace,  that  before  I  met 
you  my  life  was  not  an  easy  one.  I've  told 
you  something  of  my  life  before.  I've  told 
you  of  the  loneliness  of  being  a  boy  and  a 
prince  at  the  same  time.  Of  the  distrust 
that  came  to  me  of  people  who  catered  to 
me  only  for  their  own  wants.  Of  the  other 
bad  and  confusing  things  .  .  .  And  strange, 
isn't  it,  that  the  only  way  I  could  fight  the 
life  I  was  being  smothered  under  was  by 
becoming  a  bully  at  times,  and  snapping 
orders,  and  being  moody,  and  showing 
temper — just  as  I  do  with  you  some- 
times. .  .  . 

"Last  night,"  he  said  then,  "as  I  lay  in 
our  bed,  thinking  of  you  getting  ready  to 
board  the  plane,  getting  ready  to  return 
here,  I  began  to  think  what  was  it  that  had 
brought  the  two  of  us  together.  I  thought 
about  it  for  a  long  time.  Yes,  I  remem- 
bered the  first  attraction  we  had  for  one 
another.  The  first  laughter  we  shared. 
The  feeling  of  the  first  kiss.  I  remembered 
all  that.  But  I  tried  to  probe  more  deeply, 
for  a  fuller  answer.  And  I  realized  that 
what  had  really  drawn  us  together  was  an 
unbelonging,  if  there  is  such  a  word  in 
English;  a  feeling  shared  by  both  of  us 
that  despite  all  our  titles  and  honors  and 
glamour  of  living  and  money  and  such 
things,  that  neither  of  us  had  ever  really, 
really  belonged  to  anything.  And  then  we 
found  each  other.  And  we  belonged.  For  a 
while.  For  a  beautiful  while. 

"But,"  he  went  on,  "as  I  lay  there  in 
bed  last  night  I  also  began  to  wonder  what 
it  was  that  is  tearing  us  apart  now,  slowly, 
so  slowly,  but  so  surely. 

"What,  I  wondered,  is  causing  the  angry 
looks,  the  angry  words,  the  hiding  from 
one  another? 

"I  wondered.  And  I  wondered. 

"I  probed.  And  I  probed. 

"But  the  answer  never  came  to  me. 


"I  do  not  know  the  answer.  .  .  . 
"Do  you,  Grace?" 

He  waited  in  vain  for  her  to  say  some- 
thing. .  .  . 

"Only  once  before  you,"  he  said  then, 
"did  something  really  belong  to  me."  He 
smiled  a  little.  "I  have  never  told  you 
about  her  before,"  he  said,  " — but  her  name 
was  Carmen.  I  will  never  forget  her.  It 
was  a  few  years  before  I  met  you,  Grace. 
It  was  at  the  opera  where  we  met.  I  was 
very  tired  that  night,  I  remember,  and  I 
said  specifically  to  Jean-Pierre,  my  aide 
then,  that  I  wanted  only  to  hear  the  opera, 
that  I  didn't  want  to  be  with  people.  When 
we  got  to  the  opera  Jean-Pierre  said,  'Sir, 
there's  a  lady  in  your  loge.'  'I  told  you  I 
didn't  want  to  see  anyone  tonight,'  I  re- 
plied. 'But  she  is  here  anyway,'  said  Jean- 
Pierre.  'Well,'  I  said,  trying  to  keep  my 
temper,  'Well,  where  is  she?'  And  Jean- 
Pierre  pointed  to  a  forlorn  little  pigeon 
hiding  in  the  columns  of  the  loge.  I  could 
see  that  something  was  wrong  with  the 
pigeon.  I  picked  her  up  and  I  saw  that 
her  wing  was  broken.  I  held  her  in  my  lap 
all  through  the  opera  and  that  night,  later, 
I  took  her  here,  back  to  the  palace  with 
me,  and  I  began  to  tend  after  her. 

"We  became  great  friends,  my  Carmen 
and  I,  as  I  tended  her,  soothed  her  hurt, 
took  care  of  her  wing.  We  became,  you 
could  say,  almost  like  lovers,  always  coo- 
ing at  one  another  at  first  and  playing  silly 
with  one  another,  Rainier  of  Monaco  and 
the  pigeon  named  Carmen. 

"And  then  one  day  it  became  apparent 
to  me  that  Carmen's  wing  was  completely, 
mended.  And  I  began  to  notice  in  her  a 
certain  restlessness.  She  did  not  seem  to 
like  my  room  in  the  palace  anymore,  the 
big  room  with  its  big  closed  windows.  She 
seemed  to  want  to  fly  away  now. 

"I  asked  her  one  day  if  that  was  what 
she  wanted,  whispering  the  question  to 
her,  in  her  ear,  the  way  gypsies  do  with 
animals  and  birds. 

"And,  immediately,  hearing  me,  Carmen 
flew  to  the  window  and  pushed  all  her 
weight  against  it,  and  I  opened  the  window, 


then  and  there,  and  I  let  her  go.  .  .  . 

"She  was  the  first  thing  that  had  ever 
really  belonged  to  me,  Grace,  loved  me 
for  a  while.  You  are  the  second. 

"Now,  I  sense  in  you  the  same  restless- 
ness that  I  sensed  in  my  little  pigeon. 

"Now,  I  ask  you — would  you  like  to  be 
set  free?" 

He  waited  through  the  silence  that 
followed. 

"If  you  stay,"  Rainier  said  then,  "we 
will  begin  all  over  again.  And  I  promise 
you  I  will  try  to  make  our  happiness  more 
than  either  of  us  has  ever  dreamed  of. 

"But,"  he  said,  his  tone  firmer  now,  "also 
if  you  stay,  you  must  know  this.  That 
when  and  if  we  argue  again,  when  some- 
thing is  wrong,  anything,  you  must  not 
climb  into  a  shell  and  make  it  impossible 
for  me  to  apologize  to  you.  You  do  that, 
you  know.  I  don't  know  if  you've  ever 
been  told  this,  but  you  do  that.  And  I,  you 
should  know,  I  am  not  a  man  who  can  go 
out  seeking  people  to  apologize.  Not  even 
my  wife. 

"I — "  he  started.  But  he  stopped. 

Because  for  the  first  time  since  he'd 
begun  talking,  he  saw  that  Grace  had 
turned  her  head  and  was  looking  at  him. 
And  he  saw,  or  at  least  he  thought  he 
saw,  a  look  in  her  eyes  that  he  had  not 
noticed  for  a  very  long  time. 

Slowly,  almost  shyly  then,  he  took  her 
hand  and  he  kissed  it. 

"I  hope  you  stay,"  he  said.  "Because  I 
love  you,  Grace.  I  don't  tell  you  enough. 
But  I  do,  with  all  the  heart  and  blood 
that's  in  me.  And  I  tell  you  now,  as  if 
for  the  first  time,  hoping  that  it  is  not 
too  late  .  .  .  Because,  you  know,  some- 
times what  a  person  feels,  he  does  not  say 
for  a  long  time.  And  then  it  becomes  too 
late  ...  Do  you  know  what  I  mean?"  he 
asked. 

"I  know,"  said  Grace,  speaking  finally. 
"I  hope  you  stay,"  he  said  again,  begin- 
ning to  draw  his  hand  away. 
But  this  time  Grace  took  it  back. 
And  she  held  it  in  hers. 
"I  will  stay,  Rainier,"  she  said.  END 


An  Urgent  Letter  to  Kathy  Nolan 


(Continued  jrom  page  53) 

The  Real  McCoys  every  week.  I  buy  every 
magazine  that  even  mentions  your  name, 
although  some  of  your  publicity  has  been 
pretty  weird,  and  I  don't  believe  every- 
thing I  read.  I  truly  believe  your  success 
is  going  to  grow  and  develop  into  an  out- 
standing career. 

All  the  same,  I'm  a  mother  and  I  worry 
about  you  even  though  you  lead  your  own 
life  very  successfully.  I've  always  en- 
couraged you  and  your  sister  to  be  as 
independent  and  self-reliant  as  possible — 
sometimes  I  wonder  if  you're  both  a  little 
too  much  so.  But  you've  had  a  home  of 
your  own  ever  since  you  were  twenty,  and 
you've  managed  it  well.  I  taught  you  to 
be  a  good  cook  and  to  keep  house  proper- 
ly, so  it  doesn't  surprise  me  that  you'll  in- 
vite everybody  you  know  for  a  Christmas 
turkey  dinner— and  feed  them  until  they 
burst. 

The  last  time  I  visited  you  was  before 
you'd  bought  your  house,  but  I  know  it's 
going  to  be  the  sort  of  home  you  want. 
When  I  was  in  Hollywood,  I  stayed  a  month 
and  felt  we  were  very  close  all  the  time. 

You — more  than  your  sister — are  like  me. 
We  like  the  same  people,  approach  our 
problems  in  the  same  way,  and  because 
we're  so  alike,  sometimes  we  understand 
each  other  too  well  and  are  extra  critical. 


But  when  I  was  in  Hollywood,  we  were 
really  en  rapport. 

You  took  so  much  trouble  to  be  sure  I 
met  all  your  friends,  and  you  planned  such 
fun-evenings.  Remember  you  told  me, 
"You  can  dance  longer  and  stay  up  later 
than  I!"  I'll  never  forget  that  visit.  It  was 
such  deep  pleasure  to  be  with  you,  to  feel 
close,  to  be  proud  of  the  success  in  your 
life. 

The  women  in  the  family 

Still,  I  worry  about  you,  dear.  Like  all 
the  women  in  our  family,  you  have  a 
tendency  to  overdo.  I  saw  it  most  clearly 
on  this  last  trip.  You  opened  the  door  to 
me  and  you  looked  chic  in  your  beautiful 
silk  print  lounging  pajamas — but  your  face 
was  peaked  and  drawn. 

I  know  this  about  you:  when  you're  sick, 
you  won't  tell  anyone  how  badly  you  feel. 
You're  quite  a  trouper.  I  remember  when 
you  were  a  child  in  St.  Louis  and  were 
doing  a  children's  show  in  a  little  theater. 
You  were  quite  young  and  you  ran  a 
needle  into  your  foot — but  you  went  right 
on  with  the  show  and  never  told  us  about 
it  until  afterward! 

So  when  you  had  measles,  you  made 
light  of  it.  "It's  nothing,"  you  said  airily 
and  added  a  dramatic  description  of  the 


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internal  way.  So  comfortable  in  place, 
you're  not  even  aware  of  wearing  it. 
Can't  show  under  anything.  Can't  cause 
odor.  Can't  betray  your  secret.  In  just 
seconds  you  insert,  change,  dispose  of 
Tampax.  You  bathe  to  your  heart's  con- 
tent. Do  what  you  normally  do  without 
any  question  in  your  mind.  Try  Tampax! 
Really,  its  advantages  are  just  amazing!" 

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doctor's  visit.  "There  I  am,  lying  on  my  bed 
of  pain.  I  look  up  and  what  do  I  see?  The 
doctor's  brought  three  little  kids  to  visit 
me!  I  said,  'For  Pete's  sake,  don't  you  re- 
member I  have  measles?' 

"And  he  said,  'Don't  you  remember  I'm 
the  one  who  told  you  you  had  'em?  Come 
on,  kids— lean  over  and  kiss  Kathy  Nolan 
...  so  you'll  get  measles  and  be  through 
with  'em.'  Just  like  that!"  you  said,  snap- 
ping your  fingers.  "Come  to  find  out — after 
they'd  all  kissed  me  enthusiastically— they 
weren't  even  his  own  children!" 

"Whose  were  they,  then?"  someone 
asked. 

"Three  patients,"  you  replied  calmly. 
"He  went  right  home  from  diagnosing  me, 
called  their  parents  and  said,  'Kathy 
Nolan's  at  the  Sheraton  East  with  measles. 
Have  your  kids  ready  at  10:00  a.m.  and  I'll 
take  'em  down  and  expose  'em!'  Now 
there's  scientific  advance  for  you!" 

But  underneath  the  laughter,  I  could  tell 
from  looking  at  you  that  you  were  really 
pretty  miserable  and  just  putting  on  an 
act.  It  wasn't  lack  of  make-up;  you  looked 
pale  from  overwork,  and  the  very  people 
who  should  have  canceled  your  engage- 
ments were  actually  piling  more  and  more 
onto  you. 

When  someone  sympathized  with  you  for 
having  to  cancel  engagements  and  stay  in 
bed  for  three  days,  you  just  laughed.  "Who 
stayed  in  bed?"  you  remarked  sadly.  "I  did 
six  radio  shows  and  twelve  magazine  inter- 
views, and  when  I  simply  couldn't  take  a 
luncheon  appointment  yesterday,  the  pub- 
lic relations  agency  couldn't  understand  it. 
They  kept  saying,  'But  it's  only  a  little 
fever,  you  can  make  it — the  show  must  go 
on,  you  know!'  " 

But  even  though  measles  may  sound  ab- 
surd, they're  devastating  for  anyone  over 
thirteen,  and  even  though  you  no  longer 
had  a  fever,  you  showed  the  strain.  It  was 
hard  to  keep  still  when  I  saw  you  receiv- 
ing hordes  of  guests  and  answering  the 
phone  constantly.  You  should  have  been 
resting,  but  I  knew  you'd  only  be  impatient 
if  I  protested,  so  I  was  silent  .  .  .  then.  Now 
I'm  speaking  my  mind. 

You  push  yourself  entirely  too  far.  You 
don't  rest  enough  and  you  don't  eat  prop- 
erly. You  are  too  alive,  too  wound  up,  with 
too  many  things  cooking  for  you  all  the 
time.  When  someone  asked  where  you'd 
be  two  weeks  hence,  you  rattled  off  your 
schedule  like  an  airlines  announcer. 

"Next  week,  San  Francisco — then  Wash- 
ington, DC,  for  an  appearance,  three 
weeks  from  now  I  go  to  Miami  for  a  tele- 
thon ...  I  was  in  Wisconsin  last  week  end. 
.  .  ."  And  so  on  and  so  on  ...  I  was  worn 
out  just  listening  to  you. 

When  I  was  with  you  in  Hollywood,  I 
wanted  to  do  the  sentimental,  homely 
things  a  mother  always  does  for  her  child. 
I  fixed  breakfast  every  day  for  a  month — 
and  you  never  ate  a  bite.  You  were  always 
on  the  telephone,  or  late  for  an  appoint- 
ment. 

Straight  talk  from  mother 

Of  course,  I  can  understand  that  over- 
working is  part  of  being  young  and  a  star, 
but  still  7  know  you  will  pay  for  it  later. 
You  can't  ignore  regular  meals,  and  wind 
up  feeling  so  starved  at  midnight  that  you 
eat  far  too  much  of  the  wrong  things.  Per- 
haps it  doesn't  matter  now,  because  you're 
young  and  healthy — but  when  you  are 
older  you'll  begin  to  pay  for  every  one  of 
your  indiscretions. 

You've  the  wiry  physique  and  you  nat- 
urally have  a  great  deal  of  energy.  You've 
always  been  very  healthy.  Of  course  you've 
broken  a  lot  of  bones  ...  I  still  shudder 
every  time  I  see  a  Broadway  play  that 
requires  a  platform,  remembering  the  time 
you  fell  in  Peter  Pan  and  broke  your  leg. 
When  you  got  concussion  on  the  set  of  The 
62  Real  McCoys,  I  was  really  frantic! 


You  telephoned  to  let  us  know  you  were 
in  hospital,  and  you  made  light  of  it.  "I  got 
a  hit  on  the  head,  Mom,"  you  said.  "Noth- 
ing serious.  .  .  ." 

Usually,  when  you  get  even  a  minor  ail- 
ment, you're  wise  enough  to  go  to  the 
hospital  instead  of  trying  to  take  care  of 
yourself  alone,  so  I'm  used  to  your  phon- 
ing you're  in  hospital — but  that  day  I  was 
psychic.  I  simply  knew  it  wasn't  a  little 
thing.  I  couldn't  wait  for  your  father  to 
come  home  before  calling  again.  The  nurse 
told  me  you'd  been  taken  down  for  a 
spinal. 

That  didn't  mean  anything  to  me,  but 
your  father  knows  more  about  medical 
matters  than  I,  and  when  I  told  him  the 
report,  he  said,  "That  means  they  don't 
know  exactly  how  badly  hurt  she  is." 

"In  that  case,"  I  told  him,  "one  of  us 
must  be  there." 

He  wasn't  sure  it  was  that  serious,  but 
I  was  firm.  We  delayed  just  long  enough 
to  telephone  you  that  evening,  and  when 
we  heard  your  weak  little  voice,  he  was 
as  worried  as  I.  We  packed  and  phoned, 
made  his  reservation  and  didn't  get  to  bed 
until  3:00  a.m.  We'd  decided  he  should  go 
rather  than  I,  because  your  sister  was 
having  her  first  baby  and  wanted  Mama 
with  her.  But  your  father  was  on  the  first 
plane  to  Los  Angeles  next  day,  and  I  didn't 
draw  an  easy  breath  until  he  phoned  that 
you  were  all  right. 


In  a  sporting  club  on  the  French 
Riviera,  Noel  Coward  introduced 
Frank  Sinatra  to  the  audience  in 
both  French  and  English.  Frank 
mounted  to  the  stage  and  held  the 
audience  spellbound  through  a 
forty-minute  routine.  He  used  his 
own  unique  lingo,  including  words 
like  "gasser,"  "grabber,"  "clyde," 
and  others.  Frank  suggested  to  the 
audience,  "If  any  of  you  cats  don't 
dig  this  crazy  talk,  just  turn  to  the 
person  next  to  you  and  maybe  he'll 
lay  the  news  on  you." 

Leonard  Lyons 
in  the  New  York  Post 


But  I  never  know  what  you  will  do  next! 
I  never  knew  you'd  really  parachuted 
from  a  plane  until  that  last  day  when  Jody 
McCrea  came  into  the  hotel  suite.  He 
brought  you  a  silly  baby  sleep  doll, 
dressed  in  red  and  white  polka  dots,  "to 
match  Kathy's  measles."  It  had  a  music 
box  in  the  back  and  when  you  wound  it 
up,  it  played  Brahms'  Lullaby. 

Everybody  shrieked  with  laughter  when 
he  said,  "I  brought  this  because  you  never 
sleep — so  he'll  do  your  sleeping  for  you!" 
But  all  the  same,  it  wasn't  really  funny— 
because  I  knew  you'd  been  entertaining 
people,  from  critics  to  disk  jockeys,  until 
4:00  a.m.  the  night  before  .  .  .  despite  your 
measles. 

"Sleep?"  you  said  with  a  shrug,  winding 
up  the  doll  again.  "Who  needs  it?" 

"You  will,"  Jody  told  you,  "if  you  want 
to  go  parachuting  again  from  my  plane!" 

That  was  the  first  moment  I  knew  the 
story  was  true — and  it  really  startled  me. 
I  wanted  to  cry  out,  to  protest,  "Don't  you 
know  you're  taking  your  life  in  your 
hands!"  But  of  course,  I  couldn't  say  a 
word.  I  just  sat  quietly  and  listened  to  the 
banter  between  you  and  Jody  .  .  .  and 
wondered  why  you  hadn't  told  me. 

Did  you  think  I  wouldn't  understand? 
If  I  had  the  opportunity  I  might  do  the 
same  thing! 

Naturally  I  wish  you'd  write  letters  more 
regularly,  and  I'm  sentimental  enough  to 
wish  you'd  remember  to  send  just  a  card 
for  my  birthday— but  I  have  to  admit  I 


wasn't  any  more  thoughtful  of  my  parents 
when  I  was  your  age.  I  used  to  forget  to 
write,  forget  my  mother's  anniversaries, 
so  I'll  never  reproach  you.  You'll  learn 
when  you  have  children  of  your  own. 

Problem  with  love 

I'll  confess  that's  one  part  of  your  life 
that  worries  me  deeply.  I  think  you're 
completely  mature,  except  about  love.  In 
that  department,  you're  still  searching. 
When  people  ask  me  if  you're  happy  with 
stardom,  I  have  to  say  Yes — and  No.  I 
know  that  much  of  your  life  today  is  sheer 
bravado.  You  need  somebody  to  talk  to, 
someone  to  look  up  to  and  respect,  some- 
one you  can't  wind  around  your  little 
finger. 

One  of  your  greatest  problems  is  that 
you're  in  love  with  love.  You're  all  affec- 
tion, all  generosity.  I  think  sometimes 
people  take  advantage  of  this,  and  I  know 
you're  not  so  perceptive  of  people  as  you 
might  be  .  .  .  but  I  wouldn't  have  you 
different,  because  a  vital  part  of  you  is 
your  faith  in  people,  your  love  for  them. 

But  you  need  someone  to  admire  and  re- 
spect. Then  love  will  follow  naturally.  I 
think  it's  perfectly  possible  for  you  to  find 
the  sort  of  love  you  need,  even  in  the 
theatrical  profession  and  with  all  the  haz- 
ards we  both  recognize  in  two  careers  in 
a  family  and  so  on.  The  right  love  for  you 
will  grow  out  of  meeting  many  different 
people,  adding  maturity  and  experience  to 
yourself.  Then  finally,  one  day  the  right 
person  will  simply  be  for  you. 

You've  seen  that  happen  with  your  sis- 
ter. I  think  sometimes  you're  a  little  en- 
vious of  her  happiness  with  the  right 
man — but  she's  sometimes  a  little  envious 
of  you,  when  you  fly  into  New  York  with 
the  mink  and  the  chauffeured  car  to  take 
you  from  one  glamour  spot  to  another. 
That's  natural,  because  the  grass  always 
looks  greener  in  the  other  person's  yard — 
but  just  as  you  found  it  hard  to  wait 
through  high  school  when  Nancy  Carroll 
was  out  in  the  world,  so  you'll  eventually 
get  that  happy  marriage  you  yearn  for  now. 

One  thing  I'm  certain:  you'll  never  place 
security  and  money  ahead  of  love.  You'll 
never  marry  a  rich  man  because  he  if 
rich,  but  only  if  you  love  him  .  .  .  and 
he'll  have  to  understand  your  need  for  the 
theater,  because  it's  in  your  blood  and 
you'll  never  give  it  up.  I've  known  tha+ 
ever  since  the  first  big  show  you  did  on 
the  show  boat  with  your  father  and  me. 

I  know  it's  a  serious  business  with  you — 
but,  my  darling  daughter,  I  know,  too,  that 
you'll  never  be  completely  happy  .  .  . 
you  won't  even  realize  the  great  talent  I 
know  you  possess  .  .  .  without  a  full  life. 
And  that  means  a  happy  marriage,  a  home, 
husband  and  children.  You've  always  loved 
children,  and  I  think  you're  going  to  be  a 
very  good  mother. 

These  days  the  world  is  very  much  your 
oyster.  You're  pretty  and  popular,  young 
and  successful  with  lots  of  beaux  to  escort 
you  to  premieres  and  parties.  I've  never 
seriously  worried  about  your  being  able  to 
take  care  of  yourself.  The  silly  stories  that 
make  you  sound  a  madcap  are  only  stories 
— and  you're  learning  not  to  trust  every 
magazine  writer  you  meet. 

Still,  I'd  like  to  see  you  happily  mar- 
ried, enjoying  your  career,  raising  chil- 
dren, making  a  home  for  a  family  instead 
of  just  yourself.  These  are  all  things  I  can't 
say  to  you  when  we're  together.  Mostly, 
there  isn't  time  for  talking,  but  anyway  I 
know  we'd  both  be  embarrassed  by  too 
much  sentiment. 

All  the  same,  I'm  your  mother.  I  love 
you  dearly — I  always  will — and  all  I  want 
is  your  happiness.  Please  take  more  care 
of  yourself,  darling — until  that  happiness 
arrives. 

Love  always, 

Mama 


Letter  to  a  Lonely  Girl 


(Continued  from  page  42) 

I've  got  everything 

You  can  think  of. 

But  all  I  want 

Is  someone  to  love. 
How  does  a  guy  know  he  needs  some- 
one to  love?  Well,  if  you're  human, 
sooner  or  later  something's  bound  to 
pound  in  your  heart,  and  like  the  but- 
terfly that  quivers  to  be  released  from 
the  dark  cocoon,  a  guy's  love  wants  to  see 
the  light. 

True,  I've  been  fortunate  in  one  sense. 
Traveling  the  way  I  do  I  get  a  chance  to 
meet  a  lot  of  wonderful  girls.  But  the 
trouble  is  I  meet  them  for  a  moment  and 
then  it's  good-bye.  That's  the  story  of 
my  life:  here  today,  gone  tomorrow.  And 
a  lot  of  people  still  link  me  romantically 
with  Annette,  and  that's  a  piece  of  past 
history  I  want  to  clear  up  now  ...  in  this 
story.  But,  I'm  getting  ahead  of  myself. 

The  first  girl;  the  first  song 

Let  me  start  at  the  beginning  when  I 
was  a  freshman  at  Ottawa  High  School  in 
Canada.  A  gal  named  Kathy  sat  in  front 
of  me  in  class.  She  wore  her  blonde  hair 
in  a  perky  ponytail,  and  she  had  bright 
blue  eyes  that  glittered  like  jewels.  To  be 
perfectly  honest,  I  had  a  devilish  streak 
in  me  (still  do!),  and  I  used  to  pull  her 
ponytail.  And  she'd  holler,  "Paul,  will 
you  please  stop  acting  like  a  child!" 

Her  words  always  cut  right  through  me, 
but  when  a  fellow's  only  fourteen  years 
old,  he's  not  experienced  in  the  ways  of 
the  world  and  he  doesn't  know  how  to  get 
a  girl  into  civilized  conversation.  So  he 
pulls  her  ponytail  to  let  her  know  he 
notices  her.  Girls,  on  the  other  hand,  even 
at  fourteen,  seem  to  be  wiser  than  guys. 
I  guess  the  Good  Lord  made  them  that 
way  so  that  they  could  put  up  with  all 
the  guff  they  have  to  take  from  the  fellows. 

Since  I  didn't  have  any  poise  and  didn't 
know  how  to  talk  to  Kathy  in  a  sensible 
way,  I  pined  quietly  for  her  all  that  school 
year.  Finally,  an  idea  popped  in  my  head. 
Writing  never  frightened  me  as  much  as 
speaking;  so  why  not  send  her  a  note.  I 
don't  remember  the  first  note  I  wrote  her, 
but  I  started  passing  folded  pieces  of 
tablet  paper  to  Kathy,  and  I'd  write  things 
like,  You're  looking  good  today!  Or  I'd 
write,  Doing  anything  this  week  end?  And 
she'd  answer,  Yeah.  I'm  busy! 

I  got  the  message.  She  didn't  want  to 
be  bothered.  And  then,  that  spring,  I  heard 
she  was  going  steady  so  I  gave  up  trying 
to  find  out  if  she  had  a  free  week  end.  I 
just  wrote  her  nutty  like,  What's  black  and 
white  and  red  all  over?  And  she'd  write 
back,  A  newspaper,  and  I'd  answer,  No,  a 
blushing  zebra! 

We  had  laughs,  lots  of  laughs,  with  the 
notes.  And  then  school  came  to  an  end, 
and  it  was  summer,  and  I  didn't  see  her 
until  September.  But  I  couldn't  get  her  out 
of  my  mind.  I  guess  that's  when  you  begin 
to  realize  something's  happening  to  you 
and  your  heart.  I  always  wondered  about 
her,  what  she  was  doing  that  very  minute 
while  I  was  swimming  or  having  lunch 
or  riding  my  bike.  And  I'd  wonder  if  she 
liked  pistachio  ice  cream  and  cherries  and 
ukulele  music  the  way  I  did. 

Now  I've  never  been  a  great  one  for 
grades  at  school,  but  I  was  happy  as  a 
chimp  when  Labor  Day  came  around  be- 
cause I  would  be  seeing  Kathy  again.  I'll 
never  forget  the  way  she  looked  that  first 
day  at  school.  She  wore  a  blue  checked 
dress,  and  her  blue  eyes  sparkled  like 
blue-white  diamonds.  That  first  week  I 
got  up  my  gumption,  after  rehearsing  what 


I  wanted  to  ask  her  night  after  night,  I 
said,  "Kathy,  will  you  go  to  the  prep  dance 
with  me  on  Friday  afternoon?" 

Her  eyes  looked  into  mine,  and  I  melted. 
I  don't  think  I  heard  her  say  yes.  I  re- 
member seeing  her  sweet  lips  mouthing 
it.  I  was  in  a  kind  of  Utopia  just  looking 
at  her. 

That's  when  I  stopped  pulling  her  pony- 
tail.  I  didn't  stop  doing  it  consciously,  but 
I  remember  now  I  didn't  pull  it  after  that. 
I  guess  a  guy  stops  being  mischievous 
when  a  girl  he  likes  throws  a  little  atten- 
tion his  way. 

The  prep  dance  was  from  four  to  six 
(every  Friday  afternoon  there  were  prep 
dances  at  Ottawa  High).  When  I  danced 
with  Kathy,  I  was  in  what  I  called  "step- 
ladder  heaven."  They  say  there  are  seven 
heavens.  Well,  I  was  hopping  around  on 
all  of  them. 

We  danced  wonderfully  together,  and 
once  I  put  my  lips  against  her  hair  which 
smelled  so  clean. 

I  wanted  to  kiss  her  but  I  was  afraid 
she  would  think  I  was  fresh — and  fast. 

Then,  one  Saturday  night  I  asked  her  to 
a  party  at  someone's  house,  and  we  danced 
for  hours.  I  can  remember  the  songs  that 
were  our  favorites.  The  Crew  Cuts  singing 
Earth  Angel  and  the  Charms  crooning 
Two  Hearts,  Two  Kisses.  Finally,  as  the 
party  was  ending  and  we  were  dancing 
our  last  dance  in  the  dim  lamplight,  I 
whispered  in  her  ear,  "Promise  me  .  .  . 
that  when  we're  alone,  you'll  give  me  a 
kiss." 

And  she  squeezed  my  hand  and  said,  "I 
promise." 

One  of  the  guys  gave  Kathy  and  me  a 
lift  to  her  house  (she  lived  way  out  on 
the  outskirts  of  town;  I  always  had  to 
transfer  to  three  buses  when  I  went  out 
there),  and  we  ducked  behind  the  house 
to  the  back  door  because  my  buddy  was 
waiting  to  drive  me  home.  It  was  autumn, 
late  autumn  I  guess,  because  a  light  snow 
was  falling,  the  first  of  the  season,  and 
everything  looked  pure  and  white  and 
beautiful.  A  snowflake  fell  on  her  nose, 
and  I  blew  on  it  lightly,  so  lightly.  And 
the  snowflake  drifted  away. 

"Kathy,"  I  whispered,  "I  ...  I  never 
pass  up  a  promise."  And  she  looked  up  at 
me  and  I  kissed  her,  and  I'm  embarrassed 
to  tell  you  this  but  I  started  to  cry.  Don't 
ask  me  why.  But  everything  was  too  per- 
fect: Kathy  and  the  kiss  and  the  dazzling 
white  wonderland  all  around  us. 

And  suddenly  a  car  horn  honked,  and  I 
said  good-bye  and  began  to  walk  away. 
But  I  stopped  and  walked  back  to  her  and 
took  her  in  my  arms  again  and  I  said, 
"Kathy,  oh  Kathy,  I  love  you." 

Jealousy 

We  went  steady  for  almost  a  month, 
but  Lady  Luck  was  against  us.  Everything 
seemed  to  go  wrong.  If  Kathy  talked  to 
another  guy,  if  I  talked  to  another  girl, 
we  were  at  each  other's  necks.  You've 
never  seen  such  jealousy.  And  so,  one 
night,  I  went  up  to  her  house.  It  was  a 
cold  night,  but  we  sat  out  on  the  front 
porch  in  our  plaid  mackinaws  so  we'd 
have  some  privacy.  It  was  time  to  talk 
things  out.  The  evening  stars  looked  like 
a  handful  of  silverdust  in  the  inky  Ottawa 
sky,  and  there  was  a  frost  in  the  air.  Our 
breaths  clouded  in  front  of  us,  but  we 
held  hands,  and  I  said,  "Kathy,  I  like 
you.  A  lot." 

And  she  said,  "Paul,  I  like  you." 

We  were  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  I 
knew  I  had  to  say  it.  "Kathy,"  I  began, 
"we're  still  young,  and  we're  acting  like 
we're  going  to  kill  each  other  if  we  just 
happen  to  look  at  somebody  else.  We're 
only  young  once,  Kathy,  and  we're  not 
having  any  fun.  We're  making  so  many 
enemies  because  of  the  way  we  act.  You're 


spells 
bobby  pins 


HOLD-BOB® 

world's  best  bobby  pins 


©  I960,  GATLORD  PRODUCTS,  INCORPORATED  •  CHICAGO.  ILL.  53 


afraid  to  talk  to  fellows  because  I  get 
jealous,  and  I'm  petrified  if  I  say  hello 
to  another  girl  because  I  know  you'll  get 
mad." 

"Let's  call  the  whole  thing  off,"  she 
snapped,  suddenly.  And  I  said  we  didn't 
have  to  call  it  quits,  that  we  should  be 
more  reasonable  with  each  other.  But 
she  got  up,  and  she  said,  "It's  over,"  and 
walked  into  her  house. 

That  was  it.  Every  time  I  saw  her  at 
school  after  that,  she'd  lower  her  eyes  and 
I'd  feel  my  heart  twisting  and  hurting. 
So  I'd  go  home  to  our  red  brick  house  at 
87  Clearview  Avenue,  hole  up  in  the  base- 
ment with  my  second-hand  piano  and 
write  sad  songs  about  love.  That  was 
when  I  began  to  think  about  writing  a 
song — which  I  did  later — with  the  lyrics: 
When  somebody  leaves  you,  That's  the 
time  to  cry.  .  .  . 

The  next  girl;  the  next  song 

Isn't  it  funny  about  love?  You  can't 
define  it,  can  you?  And  yet,  just  look 
at  the  thousands  of  songs  we  write  about 
it.  Once  you  experience  it,  it's  the  only 
thing  that  makes  life  worthwhile. 

After  Kathy,  I  was  a  lonely  boy  for  a 
long  while,  and  then  late  that  spring  I 
noticed  Margaret,  a  girl  who  was  a  grade 
ahead  of  me.  She  was  always  coming  out 
of  Mr.  Payne's  science  class  as  I  was 
going  in;  and  I  would  smile  at  her.  But 
the  smile  got  me  nowhere.  So  I  figured  I'd 
write  a  note.  And  it  worked. 

I  wrote:  Hi,  I'm  Paul.  Can't  help  but 
notice  you.  I'd  like  to  see  you  after 
school  .  .  . 

And  the  next  day  she  passed  me  a  note, 
and  it  said:  Meet  you  by  the  tracks. 

The  railroad  tracks  were  near  the  school, 
and  so  we  met  and  talked  and  then  we 
walked  to  the  soda  shop  for  ice  cream 
sodas.  From  then  on,  Margaret  and  I  met 
by  the  railroad  tracks  after  school,  and  I 
guess  that's  where  I  got  the  inspiration 
to  write  my  song,  The  Train  of  Love. 

Margaret  and  I  were  never  serious,  but 
the  thing  that  fascinated  me  about  Mar- 
garet was  her  mystery.  She  never  told  me 
everything  about  herself.  She  always 
knew  how  to  hold  something  in  reserve 
and  to  keep  me  guessing.  And  her  gray 
eyes  had  a  strange,  faraway  look  that 
flipped  me.  After  we  went  to  a  bunch  of 
parties,  our  friendship  cooled.  I  found 
out  she  was  going  with  another  guy,  and 
I  was  crushed. 

I  stayed  away  from  girls  all  through 
that  year  at  school.  Not  that  I  didn't  notice 
them!  But  I  was  afraid  of  getting  hurt. 

In  July  of  that  summer  a  girl  came  up 
from  the  "States."  She  was  visiting  rela- 
tives who  had  a  white  cottage  by  the 
lake.  All  the  teen-agers  in  Ottawa  went 
to  the  public  swimming  pool  in  the  after- 
noons, and  that's  where  I  noticed  her. 

Her  name  was  Elaine,  and  she  was  petite 
with  dark  brown  hair,  dark  eyes  and  a 
dimple.  I  double-dated  with  her  and  her 
sister.  My  older  cousin  Bob,  who  had  a 
beat-up  Ford,  dated  her  sister.  We  went 
riding  a  couple  of  times,  and  then  one 
night  Elaine  and  I  went  out  alone,  with- 
out Bob  and  her  sister,  and  we  walked 
down  to  the  lake.  The  ivory  light  of  the 
full  moon  shone  on  the  lakewater,  and 
the  lake  looked  like  a  long  carpet  of  silver 
sequins. 

Elaine  looked  beautiful  in  the  soft  light 
of  the  moon,  and  I  said,  "Moonlight  be- 
comes you,"  and  she  turned  to  me.  Her 
face  was  so  close  to  mine  I  could  feel  her 
warm  sweet  breath  so  I  kissed  her.  And 
I'll  never  forget  what  she  said. 

"Ooh,  what  a  lover!"  Those  were  her 
words.  "I  ...  I  like  you,  Paul." 

"I  .  .  .  like  you,  Elaine." 

We  kissed  again  and  walked  home  hand 
64  in  hand.  And  for  two  weeks  we  were  al- 


ways together  and  we'd  kiss  often.  And 
I  figure  that's  where  I  got  the  inspiration 
to  write  Put  Your  Head  On  My  Shoulder. 

Only  our  happiness  was  too  short-lived. 
Elaine  had  to  return  to  Detroit,  Michi- 
gan. And  we  promised  to  write  to  each 
other.  But  that  fall  she  wrote  me  a  "Dear 
Paul"  letter,  telling  me  she  went  out  with  a 
college  guy  who  was  The  Most,  and  that 
she  wasn't  going  to  write  anymore. 

I  was  heartbroken.  I  went  back  to 
school  without  any  spirit.  I  didn't  care 
whether  I  passed  or  failed.  All  I  could 
think  of  was  Elaine  with  her  college  Casa- 
nova, the  good  times  they  were  having 
and  how  I'd  been  left  behind. 

One  day  I  finally  confided  my  feelings 
to  a  buddy. 

"I  ...  I  can't  get  this  girl  out  of  my 
mind,"  I  told  him  in  the  wash  room  after 
a  basketball  game.  I  was  sad  because 
everybody  was  going  out  with  a  girl  after 
the  game,  and  I  wasn't. 

"Who's  the  chick?"  he  asked.  "Anybody 
I  know?" 

"Nope.  She  was  here  for  a  couple  of 
weeks  this  summer,  and  we  hit  it  off. 
And  then  she  had  to  go  back  to  Detroit 
and  she  met  Joe  College  and  ditched  me." 

"Aw,  she'd  have  left  you  sooner  or 
later,"  my  buddy  said.  "Or  you  would 
have  left  her.  Look  at  that  distance 
between  you." 

"But  we  were  going  to  see  each  other 
next  summer,"  I  explained. 

"Come  on  now,  buddy  boy.  Next  sum- 
mer is  hundreds  of  years  away!" 

He  was  right!  And  in  a  while  I  took 
notice  of  Baby.  Her  first  name  starts  with 
an  M.  I  call  her  Miss  Mystery  because  I 
knew  her  all  my  life,  and  she  came  up  on 
me  unawares,  the  way  the  springtime  does. 

Her  folks  had  come  over  to  our  house 
one  Sunday  night,  and  we  were  all  having 
supper  and  I  looked  across  the  table — and 
wow!  Now,  let  me  explain.  She  wasn't  a 
knockout.  Her  looks  weren't  anything  out 
of  the  ordinary.  She  had  darkish  blonde 
hair,  plenty  of  freckles.  But  she  had  Some- 
thing. It.  Whatever  It  is. 


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We  knew  each  other  so  well  she  always 
referred  to  me  as  "Cousin  Paul"  and  I 
called  her  Coz.  I  asked  her  for  a  date 
after  the  basketball  game  next  Friday 
night,  and  she  accepted. 

I  guess  girls  have  built-in  radar,  because 
on  Friday,  after  we  whooped  it  up  at  a 
party  since  our  team  won,  she  told  me 
she  didn't  like  the  way  I  was  acting  at 
the  party,  as  if  she  were  my  one  and  only. 

And  I  became  ashamed  and  afraid  to 
ask  her  for  a  date  again.  So  I  wrote  a  pile 
of  love  songs,  packed  my  grip  and  took 
off  to  try  to  forget  my  loneliness.  Later, 
when  I  thought  about  Baby  back  home, 
I  wrote  My  Hometown. 

Well,  I  knocked  on  a  lot  of  doors  to  try 
to  get  anywhere  with  my  music.  And  Sol 
and  Joe  Bahari  of  Modern  Records  let  me 
record  Blau  Wil  de  Beest  Fontaine.  They 
paid  me  fifty  bucks  for  it,  and  I  called 
home,  bursting  with  joy,  but  the  record 
turned  out  to  be  a  bomb. 

I  went  home,  my  face  red.  I  decided  to 
organize  a  small  combo  for  some  fun  and 
excitement.  We  played  a  lot  of  school 
affairs,  and  I  got  a  great  deal  of  experi- 
ence. And  during  Easter  vacation  I  begged 
my  dad  to  let  me  try  the  big  city  of  New 
York.  He  frowned.  "Nothing  doing!"  he 
bellowed.  But  my  mom  told  him  that  if 
it  meant  so  much  to  me  that  he  should  let 
me  try  marketing  my  songs  for  a  couple 
of  days.  And  so  he  let  me  go. 

Lucky 

I  took  the  train,  arrived  in  the  big  city 
(didn't  know  a  soul),  called  the  first  re- 
cording company  I  found  in  the  classified 
telephone  directory:   ABC -Paramount. 

They  gave  me  an  appointment. 

Somebody  told  me  once  that  if  you're 
unlucky  in  love  you're  lucky  in  other 
things.  And  I  was  lucky.  My  songs  sold. 
My  mom  and  dad  were  wonderful  to  me. 
They  gave  me  the  money  I  needed  to  live 
in  New  York.  And  I  concentrated  on  my 
career. 

Diana  was  my  first  big  hit,  and  I  began 
touring,  and  I  met  wonderful  girls  all  over 
the  country.  And  last  year  I  had  the 
good  luck  to  meet  Annette  Funicello.  When 
I  met  Annette,  I  knew  she  was  a  very 
special  person.  She's  so  warm,  so  sincere. 
We  met  on  the  West  Coast  when  I  was 
filming  Girls'  Town,  and  then  we  really 
got  to  know  each  other  very  well  on  a 
p.a.  tour  across  country.  But  our  rela- 
tionship was  ruined  by  all  the  rumors. 
All  the  magazines  wanted  us  to  get  mar- 
ried. Every  other  day  Annette  or  I  would 
read  something  about  wedding  bells  ring- 
ing for  us  and  how  we  planned  to  walk 
down  the  aisle  very  soon. 

And  we  didn't  know  what  to  believe. 
Annette  wondered  if  I  was  telling  these 
stories  to  people,  and  I  wondered  if  she 
was  making  them  up.  So  we  decided  to 
cool  the  whole  thing  because  we  were 
young  and  had  our  careers.  We're  close 
friends  now,  more  like  brother  and  sister. 
After  my  romance  with  Annette,  I  wrote 
Puppy  Love. 

Now,  again  I'm  all  alone,  looking  for 
someone  who's  right  for  me.  someone 
whom  I'll  be  right  for.  And  now  that  sum- 
mer's over,  I  keep  thinking  of  all  my  sum- 
mer romances  in  Ottawa  with  the  girls  I 
told  you  about,  with  Kathy  and  Elaine  and 
Baby,  and  I've  written  a  song,  out  of  my 
nostalgia,  and  called  it  Summer's  Gone. 

In  the  song  I  say,  .  .  .  No  songbirds  are 
singing  'cause  you're  gone  .  .  .  gone  from 
my  arms,  gone  from  my  lips,  but  still  in 
my  heart. 

And  that's  the  way  I  feel.  There's  love 
in  my  heart,  and  I  want  someone  to  love. 
And  maybe,  there's  someone  else  who  feels 
the  same  way  I  do,  some  girl  somewhere 
who'll  put  her  head  on  my  shoulder  now 
that  summer's  gone.  .  .  .  END 


"They  Stole  My  Memories" 


(Continued  from  page  51) 

set  about  putting  a  lock  on  the  top  drawer. 

When  Francina  and  Maria  returned 
downstairs,  Sophia  picked  up  the  manu- 
script of  The  Millionairess.  But  she  put 
it  down  again  a  moment  later.  There 
was  something  else  to  be  done.  She 
walked  over  to  the  dressing  table,  opened 
a  drawer  and  removed  a  black  leather 
attache  case.  From  the  case,  she  took  a 
small  box,  opened  it  and  smiled  as  she 
looked  at  the  necklace.  She  held  it  up 
to  the  light.  She  loved  to  look  at  her 
jewels.  She  loved  having  them  near  her. 
They  were  beautiful.  They  were  sym- 
bolic, too.  They  were  proof  of  her  suc- 
cess, they  were  her  steps  to  fame  from 
poverty,  they  were  assurance  that  she 
would  never  again  be  poor.  She  returned 
the  necklace  to  its  box  and  placed  the 
case  in  the  chest.  She  turned  the  lock  and 
slipped  the  key  into  her  pocket.  She 
picked  up  her  script,  stretched  out  on  the 
bed  and  began  to  study. 

On  the  ground  floor  of  the  barn,  Fran- 
cina and  Maria  sat  in  the  living  room. 
Franca  was  busy  in  the  kitchen.  Outside 
a  studio  driver  waited  in  the  Rolls-Royce 
that  the  production  company  had  pro- 
vided for  its  star.  He  was  standing  by 
in  case  there  were  any  errands  to  be  done 
in  Elstree  during  the  afternoon  and,  most 
importantly,  to  drive  Miss  Loren  to  the 
airport  that  night. 

At  4:00  pjn.,  he  was  told  that  he 
wouldn't  be  needed  until  5:30.  When  he 
returned,  he  was  dismissed  for  the  rest  of 
the  day.  Ricardo  Aragno,  one  of  the 
script  writers,  and  a  close  friend  of  Carlo's 
had  stopped  by.  He  had  a  car.  He  would 
drive  Miss  Loren  to  meet  her  husband. 

Just  before  8:00  p.m.,  Sophia  went  to 
her  room  to  get  her  coat.  "Usually,  I  wore 
some  of  the  jewelry,"  she  remembered. 
"But  this  time  I  was  dressed  in  blue 
jeans.  This  time,  I  took  nothing." 

At  8:05,  she  and  Aragno  left  for  the 
plane.  At  8:25,  Franca  went  to  turn  down 
the  bed.  Afterwards,  she  and  Maria  and 
Francina  watched  television  in  the  draw- 
ing room.  Ironically  enough,  one  of  the 
programs  scheduled  that  night  was  Dial 
999. 

The  Pontis  arrived  back  at  the  house 
at  10:40.  Carlo  had  never  seen  the  house, 
Francina  volunteered  to  show  it  to  him. 
When  they  reached  the  bedroom,  Carlo 
eyed  the  drawer  with  the  lock.  It  was 
open.  "You  put  the  lock  on?"  he  asked 
casually. 

"Yes  .  .  .  for  the  jewels,"  replied  Fran- 
cina. He  thought  idly,  "She  hasn't  put 
them  in  yet."  And  he  thought  nothing 
further  about  it.  Then  he  and  Carlo 
returned  to  the  drawing  room  to  join 
Sophia  and  Maria.  Franca  mixed  every- 
one a  drink.  They  sat  and  talked. 

Discovery 

At  midnight,  Sophia  said  good  night 
and  went  upstairs.  "In  the  small  room, 
the  furniture  was  close  to  the  door,"  she 
remembered.  "You  looked  at  it  without 
even  wanting  to.  The  drawer  was  open. 
I  called  to  my  hairdresser  to  ask  if  per- 
haps she'd  picked  them  up  for  some 
reason.  She  called  back  that  she  hadn't. 
I  walked  over  to  the  dresser,  looked  at 
the  lock  and  called  Francina  and  asked 
him  if  he  had  the  jewels.  He  said  that 
he  hadn't." 

"I  saw  that  the  lock  had  been  forced," 
Francina  remembered.  "It  was  at  that 
moment  we  realized  what  had  happened. 
Sophia  screamed.  She  doubled  over,  hold- 
ing her  stomach  as  in  pain.  She  had  to 
lean  on  me.  'My  jewels  .  .  .  my  jewels  .  .  .  , 


she  cried,  over  and  over,  grief-stricken." 

Carlo  rushed  up  the  stairs  and  into  the 
room.  He  was  followed  by  the  frightened 
Maria  and  Franca.  They  heard  a  noise, 
somewhere  outside  the  room.  "He  may 
still  be  in  the  house,"  Carlo  raged.  "Call 
the  police,  Sophia,  Francina  and  I  will 
look." 

Now  the  police  were  there.  But  there 
was  little  more  they  could  do  until  day- 
light. "We'll  be  back  later  in  the  morn- 
ing. Try  to  get  a  bit  of  sleep  now,"  said 
the  superintendent. 

How   kind   they  are,   Sophia  thought. 

Before  getting  into  bed,  she  glanced  at 
the  clock.  It  was  5:00  a.m.  She  tried  to 
sleep,  but  sleep  wouldn't  come. 

The  memories 

Her  jewels.  .  .  .  They  weren't  insured. 
She'd  been  waiting  for  Carlo  to  come,  to 
make  the  arrangements,  sign  the  neces- 
sary papers.  "But  it  was  not  only  the 
financial  value,"  she  told  Modern  Screen 
later.  "Money  I  can  always  make.  But  I 
cannot  buy  back  memories." 

With  the  money  from  each  picture,  she 
bought  jewelry.  How  proud  she'd  been 
of  the  necklace  from  the  first  one,  Gold 
of  Naples.  An  inexpensive  necklace — but 
her  first.  And  she'd  been  able  to  buy  it 
herself.  There  were  the  diamonds  she'd 
worn  when  she'd  been  presented  to  the 
Queen  of  England.  Who  would  have 
dreamed  that  Sophia  Scicolone  would  ever 
have  been  presented  to  a  Queen?  There 
were  the  diamonds,  emeralds,  sapphires 
that  her  husband  had  given  her.  His  first 
gifts  to  her.  He'd  never  bought  presents 
on  her  birthday,  or  on  an  anniversary. 
No,  never.  He  would  surprise  her  on  an 
ordinary  day,  and  make  it  the  most  special 
day  in  the  world.  "My  jewels  .  .  ."  she 
moaned.  "My  jewels.  .  .  "  Finally,  she 
fell  asleep. 

The  police  returned  promptly  at  10:00 
a.m.  They  combed  the  house  and  the 
grounds. 

It  was  Carlo  who  made  the  most  spec- 
tacular discovery  of  the  day — in  the  wall 
which  separated  Sophia's  room  from  the 
half  of  the  loft  where  her  clothes  hung. 
The  spaces  between  the  logs  had  been 
filled  with  a  tan  putty-like  substance,  from 
the  loft  side.  In  the  corner,  just  to  the 
left  of  the  headboard  he  found  that  the 
putty  had  been  scraped  away.  Through 
the  crack,  the  thief  had  been  able  to  look 
straight  across  to  the  chest.  He'd  also 
had  a  perfect  view  of  the  rest  of  the  room. 
The  thief  had  obviously  been  in  the  house 
for  a  lengthy  time — and  he  had  found  a 
perfect  hiding  place. 

They  dusted  for  fingerprints.  Took  away 
the  chest.  They  discovered  that  the  win- 
dow of  Francina's  room  downstairs  had 
been  broken.  They  took  that,  too.  They 
fingerprinted  each  member  of  the  house- 
hold, so  that  they  could  eliminate  the 
prints  when  they  found  them  on  the  pieces 
of  furniture.  They  discovered  scratches 
on  the  wood  outside  Sophia's  bedroom  win- 
dow .  .  .  scratches  that  might  have  been 
made  by  someone  climbing  out. 

There  were  more  questions.  There  was 
much  to  be  discovered.  How  had  the 
thief's  mind  worked?  Had  the  robbery 
been  planned  from  the  Continent?  Had 
the  criminals  followed  her  for  days?  They 
must  have,  she  thought.  Only  a  very 
few  people  knew  the  whereabouts  of  the 
jewels  .  .  .  people  close  to  me,  people  I 
can  trust.  Whoever  it  was  must  have 
been  watching  us  all.  Whom  had  she 
seen?  Whom  had  she  met?  Who  might 
have  seen  her?    Where  had  she  been? 


PERIODIC  PAIN 

Midol  acts  three  ways  to  bring 
relief  from  menstrual  suffering. 
It  relieves  cramps,  eases  head- 
ache and  it  chases  the  "blues". 
Sally  now  takes  Midol  at  the 
first  sign  of  menstrual  distress. 


r 


"WHAT  WOMEN  WANT  TO  KNOW" 

a  24-page  book  explaining  menstruation 
is  yours,  FREE.  Write  Dep't  F100,  Box  280, 
New  York  18,  N.  Y.  (Sent  in  plain  wrapper). 


During  a  terrible  storm  in  France  recently  a 
recording  executive  just  barely  prevented 
his  car  from  skidding  on  the  slippery  roads  of 
Neauphle-le-Chateau.  He  decided  to  interrupt 
his  journey  to  Paris  and  have  a  brandy  to  steady 
his  nerves. 

As  he  entered  the  bistro  he  saw  that  the  place 
was  nearly  deserted,  and  he  was  glad  that  he 
would  be  able  to  sit  quietly  sipping  his  cognac 
while  recovering  from  the  shock. 

He  was  just  debating  whether  to  risk  having 
another  brandy  when  he  thought  he  heard  some- 
one singing  outside.  Whoever  she  was,  she  had 
the  most  exciting  voice  he  had  heai'd  in  years. 

The  recording  executive  was  most  intrigued. 
"Listen,"  he  said  to  the  barman.  "Do  you  know 
who  it  is?" 

"Yes.  That's  Madame  Charles  David.  She  has 
a  beautiful  voice,  you  know." 

"Where  does  she  live?"  the  executive  shouted  excitedly. 

"Just  a  few  minutes  walk  from  here.  She  lives  with  her  husband  and 
family  in  one  of  the  small  farmhouses  you'll  see  up  the  road.  .  .  ." 

The  recording  executive  didn't  wait  for  any  more.  He  paid  for  the  brandy, 
left  an  enormous  tip  and  raced  up  the  road. 

Madame  Charles  David  looked  quite  surprised  to  see  her  caller  when 
she  opened  the  door  to  him.  He  was  equally  surprised  because  he  had  expected 
the  owner  of  the  voice  he  had  heard  to  be  much  younger  and  slimmer.  He 
handed  his  card  to  her,  explained  that  he  was  always  looking  for  new  talent 
to  sing  on  his  records,  and  was  puzzled  when  all  she  did  was  smile  in  a  very 
secret  way,  as  if  she  was  enjoying  a  private  joke. 

He  told  her  that  he  wanted  her  to  travel  to  Paris  next  day  and  he  would 
arrange  an  audition  for  her  in  front  of  his  colleagues,  but  he  was  certain 
that  they  would  all  like  her  voice  as  much  as  he  had  done.  When  she  declined 
his  offer  he  was  puzzled,  but  then  he  told  her  how  rich  and  famous  she  could 
become  if  she  did  take  advantage  of  his  offer. 

"I'm  sorry  but  I  don't  want  to  leave  my  home  and  family,"  she  said. 

It  was  then  that  the  executive  noticed  the  trace  of  an  American  accent 
in  her  voice.  So  she  must  be  an  American  married  to  a  Frenchman.  That  was 
interesting. 

"You'll  remember  American  singers  like  Deanna  Durbin,  Jane  Powell, 
Kathryn  Grayson  and  Jeannette  MacDonald,  and  I  can  guarantee  that  my 
company  will  make  you  as  big  an  international  star  as  they  used  to  be." 

Still  Madame  Charles  David  shook  her  head,  and  eventually  he  realized 
that  he  wouldn't  do  any  good  ai'guing  with  her.  He  would  write  to  her  when 
he  returned  to  Paris.  As  he  walked  down  the  pathway  from  the  farm  onto 
the  main  road  he  heard  her  singing  again,  and  her  voice  followed  him  all 
the  way  down  to  the  bistro  where  he  went  in  to  see  the  owner  to  ask  him 
more  about  Madame  David. 

"Yes,  she  has  a  lovely  voice,"  he  laughed.  "Once  she  used  to  sing  profes- 
sionally and  make  films.  They  used  to  call  her  Deanna  Durbin  then,  you  know." 


Deanna 
Today! 


How  had  she  spent  all  of  her  time? 

.  .  .  She'd  landed  at  Folkstone  on  the 
morning  of  May  17th,  accompanied  by 
Francina.  Franca  and  Maria  would  arrive 
the  next  day,  Carlo  the  following  week.  As 
she  stepped  off  the  boat,  she  carried  the 
black  attache  case,  along  with  her  hand- 
bag. They'd  gone  straight  to  the  customs 
shed.  There,  they  stood  a  little  apart  from 
the  rest  of  the  passengers.  But,  she  thought 
later,  only  a  little. 

"Have  you  anything  to  declare?"  the 
customs  man  had  asked  her. 

"My  jewelry,"  she'd  nodded  down  at 
the  case  she  held. 

"Are  they  personal  property?" 

"Yes." 

"All  right,  then." 

She  wasn't  required  to  open  the  case. 
As  she  left  the  shed  to  board  the  train, 
she  glanced  at  the  other  passengers  from 
the  boat.  Many  of  them  had  been  watch- 
ing her,  still  watched  her.  Because  I'm 
in  pictures,  she  thought.  She  smiled  at 
them  as  she  made  her  way  to  the  Golden 
Arrow. 

Arriving  at  Victoria  Station,  she  found 
a  lavish  reception.  Her  co-star.  Peter 
Sellers,  was  there  to  meet  her.  So  were 
half  the  photographers  and  reporters  in 
London,  it  seemed.  A  crowd  gathered  to 
stare  at  the  spectacle.  She  saw  no  faces, 
only  the  outlines.  She  was  still  clutching 
the  case  when  she  walked  into  the  crowded 
lobby  of  the  Ritz  Hotel.  She  laid  her 
purse  on  the  desk  when  she  registered. 
She  held  the  case.  If  people  thought  it 
odd,  they  might  assume  she  was  carrying 
important  papers.  That's  what  attache 
cases  are  for,  she  thought.  Who  would 
dream  she  had  a  half  million  dollars  in 
her  hand?   Who,  but  a  practiced  thief? 

She  took  the  case  with  her  to  her  room, 
selected  the  jewelry  that  she  planned  to 
wear  for  the  5: 00  p.m.  press  conference, 
had  the  case  taken  to  the  hotel  safe. 

The  day  following  her  arrival  in  Eng- 
land, a  studio  driver  arrived  in  a  Rolls- 
Royce  to  take  her  to  the  studio  at  Elstree. 
It  was  9:00  a.m.  At  11:00,  he  returned  to 
pick  up  Francina  and  the  luggage.  They 
were  to  drive  to  the  house  which  the 
studio  had  rented  for  her.  "At  first  she'd 
asked  to  stay  at  the  club,"  the  owner  re- 
members. "She  liked  it  so.  But  this  time 
we  were  full,  and  so  we  offered  her  the 
Barn." 

"I  noticed  that  day  that  Mr.  Francina 
sat  with  Miss  Loren's  attache  case  on  his 
lap  all  the  way  to  the  Barn,"  says  the 
driver.  "But  like  I  told  Scotland  Yard, 
if  I'd  thought  for  one  minute  that  there 
were  even  two  or  three  thousand  pounds' 
worth  of  jewels  lying  around  the  house, 
I'd  have  gone  to  the  security  officer  at 
the  studio  and  asked  him  to  suggest  that 
they  put  the  things  in  the  studio  safe.  I 
think  the  suggestion  would  have  been 
better  coming  from  him. 

"But  if  I'd  had  any  idea  of  what  was 
in  the  house,  I'd  have  gone  mad!" 

The  driver  unloaded  the  luggage  and 
took  them  into  the  house.  Francina,  with 
the  attache  case,  walked  the  three  hun- 
dred yards  to  the  country  club.  He  asked 
for  the  secretary,  Mr.  Scriben.  When  told 
he  wasn't  in,  he  asked  whether  he  might 
put  the  jewels  in  the  club  safe.  No,  the 
gentleman  was  afraid  that  was  impossible. 
The  safe  was  for  the  use  of  members  only. 
And  it  was  only  a  small  one. 

"To  be  responsible  for  the  safekeeping 
of  things  like  that  is  something  one  thinks 
twice  about,"  the  country- club  house- 
keeper explained  to  Modern  Screen  later. 
"I  always  feel  that  things  are  safer  in  the 
bank.  I  was  under  the  impression  that 
she'd  put  them  in  the  bank." 

"I  felt  dreadful  about  the  robbery  when 
I  heard  of  it.  I  didn't  go  over— so  many- 
people  were  there  milling  about.  So  I 
sent  her  a  little  note  to  say  how  sorrv  I 


was  that  this  awful  thing  had  happened. 

Francina  returned  to  the  house  with  the 
attache  case.  It  seemed  logical  to  keep 
them  there  for  the  night.  ("The  next  day 
was  the  first  day  of  shooting  and  she  didn't 
know  which  scene  she  would  be  playing," 
Francina  told  Modern  Screen.  "She  wanted 
I  to  be  able  to  make  a  selection,  decide 
that  night,  which  might  be  the  most  suit- 
able.") 

The  days  passed.  "It  was  so  pleasant 
•  here,"  Sophia  remembered.  "It  seemed  as 
if  nothing  unpleasant  could  happen.  .  .  ." 

Yet,  on  Friday,  she  felt  vaguely  uneasy. 
Finally,  she  called  the  club.  She  spoke 
to  Mr.  Scriben.  "Would  it  be  possible 
tor  me  to  have  a  watchman?"  she  asked 
|  him.  "I  have  many  things  of  great  value 
in  the  house." 

Scriben  chuckled.  "He  told  me,"  Sophia 
recalled,  "that  in  England  you  could  sleep 
with  your  doors  open  at  night." 
|  ...  While  Sophia  talked  that  Sunday 
afternoon,  the  police  listened  intently.  She 
talked  "until  I  was  so  tired  I  just  couldn't 
talk  any  more."  She  went  to  her  room, 
lay  on  the  bed,  almost  as  in  a  daze.  "I 
couldn't  think  about  anything  but  the 
things  in  the  case,"  she  says.  "There  were 
the  awards  that  I  had  won  for  my  acting 
in  Italy  and  France.  .  .  .  They  meant  that 
I  had  been  recognized  as  an  actress.  They 
were  great  honors.  And  there  was  the 
little  gold  brooch  from  a  fan  in  Sicily. 
My  first  gift  from  a  fan — a  gift  that  for 
the  first  time  told  me  that  the  fans  loved 
me.  .  .  ."  To  the  girl  who'd  known  the 
cruelty  of  the  taunts,  the  jeers  of  "Little 
Stick,"  to  the  girl  who'd  once  thought  that 
no  one  could  ever  love  her,  the  knowledge 
was  priceless.  Her  mother  had  said  that 
the  contents  of  the  case  had  been  bought 
with  tears.  How  right  she  had  been. 

On  Monday  morning,  the  tension  at 
Elstree  was  all  but  unbearable.  When 
he'd  heard  the  news  the  day  before, 
cameraman  Jack  Hildyard  had  mentally 
begun  to  rearrange  the  lighting.  They'd 
be  shooting  another  scene,  of  course.  How 
could  Sophia  be  expected  to  appear.  As 
director  Anthony  Asquith  said  later,  "I 
was  ready  to  shoot  around  Sophia  and 
give  her  a  chance  to  recover.  I  didn't 
expect  her  that  day  at  all." 

She  arrived  at  7:45,  going  straight  to 
her  dressing  room.  "Everyone  told  how 
sorry  they  were,"  remembers  the  publicist, 
Hugh  Samson.  "But  they  didn't  keep  on 
sympathizing  in  a  maudlin  way.  That 
would  have  made  it  worse  for  her.  She 
carried  on  like  a  real  pro  in  front  of  the 
camera.  But  when  she  came  off,  she  was 
miles  away.  She'd  go  into  a  real  brown 
study.  I  felt  so  sorry  for  her.  Once  that 
day,  she  turned  to  me.  There  were  tears 
in  her  eyes.  'Please  help  me  recover  my 
jewels,'  she  asked  me. 

"I  suppose  she  thought  I  could  help 
through  publicity  .  .  .  but  I  don't  know 
how.  I  told  her,  T  wish  I  could.  I  could 
kill  the  guy  who  took  them.'  " 

Scotland  Yard  men  made  the  first  of 
many  visits  to  the  set.  They  got  a  set  of 
photographs  of  Sophia  wearing  the  jewels 
irom  the  still  department.  They  talked  to 
everyone  connected  with  the  film,  on  and 
off  the  set.  "They  came  to  me  first  thing," 
says  the  driver.  "It  was  a  natural  fact  that 
I  happened  to  know  that  she  was  going  to 
pick  up  Mr.  Ponti,  because  I  was  going 
to  take  her  to  the  airfield.  I  didn't,  only 
because  Mr.  Aragno  came  along  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment. 

"They  wanted  to  know  if  I'd  seen  any- 
one while  I  was  waiting  that  day.  Well, 
someone  could  have  stood  behind  those 
bushes  and  I'd  never  have  caught  sight  of 
him.  I  did  notice  people  coming  and  going 
over  to  the  club  .  .  .  and  some  of  them 
were  wandering  across  the  grass.  At  the 
time,  the  thought  crossed  my  mind  that 
they  must  be  having  some  sort  of  function 


there.  Franca  said  she'd  seen  a  strange  car 
arrive  and  turn  around  and  go  out  again, 
but  it  must  have  been  while  I  was  gone. 
As  for  anyone  I  could  say  looked  suspi- 
cious— no.  No,  you've  got  to  get  it  out  of 
your  mind  that  a  thief  is  going  to  walk 
around  looking  like  a  thief.  That's  only 
in  the  movies." 

...  It  was  on  Monday  morning  that  a 
fisherman  named  Fred  Smith  saw  a  black 
case  as  he  was  helping  uncover  a  cargo 
of  rice  by  Fisher's  Wharf.  He  took  a  long 
pole  with  a  hook  on  the  end  of  it,  reached 
into  the  water  and  caught  hold  of  the 
case.  The  string  around  it  broke,  and  some 
of  the  contents  spilled  out.  (They  were 
later  found  to  be  empty  boxes.)  But  Smith 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  small  gold  brooch. 
He  took  it  out  of  the  box.  Can't  be  worth 
much,  he  thought.  Hmmm.  interesting  .  .  . 
spelled  'Sophia.'  Sophia!  His  eyes  wid- 
ened. He  went  to  call  the  police. 

The  brooch  was  taken  to  the  studio. 
"Yes!  Yes!  It's  mine,"  Sophia  cried.  "May 
I  have  it  now?  May  I  keep  it?" 

The  detectives  promised  that  it  would  be 
returned  to  her. 

"Most  people  want  to  be  helpful,"  Sophia 
told  Modern  Screen.  "Most  are  kind.  But 
the  hoaxers.  .  .  ."  She  shuddered.  "They 
are  the  evil  people.  One  of  them  wired 
me,  'Meet  me  at  Victoria  Railway  Station 
tonight  .  .  .'  or  something  like  that.  Who- 
ever sent  it  promised  help,  but  signed  no 
name."  She  brightened.  "But  others  .  .  . 
they'd  written  such  nice  letters.  TheyVe 
sent  gold  rings  and  bracelets  and  crosses. 
And  I  had  a  letter  from  the  Sicilian  fan 
saying  that  he  was  so  happy  that  they 
had  found  the  brooch  he'd  given  me  and 
that  he  wished  me  luck  in  recovering  the 
rest  of  the  things.  So  there  is  something 
good  about  even  the  bad  things  that  hap- 
pen to  you.  You  see,  I  never  knew  before 
how  much  people  love  me. 

"And  then  there  are  the  police.  They 
are  kindness  itself.  .  .  ." 

And  understanding.  But  firm.  Each  day, 
the  superintendent  would  appear  to  re- 
port their  progress. 

A  $60,000  reward  was  offered  for  the 
recovery  of  the  jewels.  "That  is  approxi- 
mately ten  percent,"  said  Francina.  "Actu- 
ally, there  was  never  a  precise  evaluation. 
It  would  have  been  hard  to  make.  In 
any  event,  the  reward  is  as  much  as  the 
thief  might  get.  The  gems  were  antiques. 
They  came  from  important  jewelry.  Every 
expert  would  know  them.  And  so  they 
would  have  to  be  broken  up,  made  un- 
recognizable. And  when  you  take  them 
out  of  their  settings,  their  value  decreases." 

There  were  no  replacements  for  the 
jewels.  "I  don't  want  anything  yet,"  So- 
phia said.  "I  must  wait  a  bit.  If  Carlo 
were  to  give  me  something,  I'd  have  the 
feeling  of  starting  all  over  again.  I  don't 
want  that.  The  police  here  are  the  best 
in  the  world  and  I  must  have  faith." 

She  waited  each  day  for  the  visit  of 
Inspector  Shepherd.  And  each  day,  as 
she'd  go  to  meet  him,  her  heart  was  in 
her  throat.  But  still,  there  was  hope  in  her 
heart. 

Finally  Sophia  left  for  Rome,  the  case 
still  unsolved,  with  uninsured  luggage. 

"The  insurance  company  just  wouldn't 
insure  it,"  she  said.  "The  reason  is  pretty 
obvious,  but  I  don't  think  anyone  would 
try  anything  now.  Everything  is  gone.  ..." 
The  child  who  was  called  'little  stick' 
has  grown  up  and  need  no  longer  fear  the 
jeers  and  taunts  of  the  gutter.  But,  the 
past  is  not  so  far  behind  her  that  she 
can  keep  the  wistfulness  from  her  voice 
when  she  says  of  the  jewels  and  her  me- 
mories, "Everything  is  gone." 

END 

Sophia's  latest  films  are  It  Started  In 
Naples  and  A  Breath  Of  Scandal,  both 
Paramount. 


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The  Saddest  Picture  of  the  Year 


(Continued  from  page  31) 

had  Tracy  with  her  in  London  while 
she  was  working  on  The  Grass  is  Green- 
er there,  Jean  had  arranged  for  the  child 
to  go  horseback  riding,  because  she  loved 
horses  so.  At  first  Tracy  hadn't  been  able 
to  get  used  to  the  English  saddle.  "But 
it's  not  the  way  Daddy  and  I  ride  back 
home,"  she  said.  And  then,  after  her  first 
experience  riding  at  the  stables  outside  of 
London,  Tracy'd  come  home  with  Nanny, 
her  face  dimpling.  "I  must  tell  Daddy  how 
I  rode,"  she'd  exclaimed.  "It's  so  funny. 
Oh,  how  Daddy  will  laugh  when  I  tell 
him.  .  .  ." 

Would  he?  A  shadow  crossed  over 
Jean's  face.  She  knew  that  she  and  Tracy 
would  be  coming  home  to  Hollywood  soon. 
But  she  knew  what  the  child  didn't  know 
.  .  .  that  for  a  long  time  she'd  been  un- 
happy in  her  marriage;  that  she'd  tried  to 
save  it  because  there  was  such  adoration 
between  Stewart  and  Tracy  .  .  .  and  that 
she  was  getting  very  tired  of  living  a  lie, 
of  pretending  that  she  and  Stewart  had 
an  ideal  marriage  when  the  truth  was  so 
very  different. 

Little  girls  and  their  fathers  have  a  spe- 
cial love  of  their  own,  she'd  heard  people 
say.  She'd  seen  so  many  little  girls'  hearts 
broken  when  their  mothers  and  daddies 
could  no  longer  get  along  with  each  other. 
And  she'd  made  up  her  mind  over  three 
years  ago,  when  Tracy  was  a  baby,  that 
she  wouldn't  let  anything  deprive  Tracy 
of  her  father. 

The  only  trouble  was  that  even  then 
there  was  a  shadow  on  their  marriage. 
Even  then,  while  they  were  pretending  to 
be  so  very  happy  together,  the  marriage 
was  beginning  to  deterioriate. 

More  familiar  than  his  wife 

Nanny  came  in  to  take  Tracy  for  her 
ride  in  the  park.  Jean  knelt  and  took  her 
daughter  in  her  arms  and  said,  "Oh,  will 
your  daddy  laugh  when  you  show  him  the 
way  you  ride  now." 

She  smiled  to  herself  at  the  thought  of 
Tracy's  childlike  assumption  that  her 
daddy  knew  nothing  about  the  English 
customs.  They  were,  of  course,  as  familiar 
to  him — even  more  familiar,  she  thought 
wryly — as  the  sight  of  his  own  wife.  For 
he  had  been  brought  up  in  England,  and 
he'd  shuttled  between  England  and  other 
countries  very  often.  He'd  seen  the  shores 
of  England  almost  as  often  as  he  and  Jean 
had  seen  each  other. 

They'd  never  dreamed  when  they  were 
first  married  that  they'd  be  parted  quite  so 
much.  Picture  work  took  them  in  sepa- 
rate directions  all  over  the  world.  It  was 
odd,  with  all  their  partings  that  the  rela- 
tionship between  Stewart  and  his  daugh- 
ter was  so  close.  For  the  child  had  been 
traveling  with  her.  But  the  thing  was,  a 
little  girl  who  had  fun  with  her  father 
and  could  ride  on  the  same  horse  or  side 
by  side  with  her  father,  could  always  re- 
main close  to  him,  even  if  they  were  miles 
away.  Tracy's  Daddy  was  something  very 
special  to  her. 

But  a  grown,  warm-blooded  young 
woman  .  .  .  how  can  memories  of  a  hus- 
band who  is  far  away  be  enough  when  she 
longs  for  his  arms  on  a  lonely  night? 

It  was  so  strange  how  on  the  days  and 
nights  when  she  needed  him  most,  destiny 
had  so  often  kept  them  apart.  It  was  to- 
getherness, they  said,  that  cemented  a 
marriage. 

But  in  the  last  four  years  she  and  Stew- 
art had  been  together  less  than  two  years. 

When  she  married  him  almost  ten  years 
ago,  she  had  been  so  sure  that  their  mar- 
riage   could    survive    everything.  She'd 


adored  him  then  .  .  .  had  been  in  love 
with  him  from  the  time  she  was  fourteen 
and  had  first  seen  him  walking  across  a 
studio  lot.  It  had  taken  her  five  years  to 
win  him,  for  he  had  been  afraid  she  was 
too  young  to  know  her  own  mind.  He  had 
been  through  the  upheaval  of  one  divorce 
.  .  .  for  a  while  he  had  known  the  wrench- 
ing experience  of  being  separated  from  his 
boy  and  girl  by  his  first  marriage. 

It  was  after  Jean's  marriage  to  Jimmy 
(Jean  calls  him  by  his  real  name)  that 
the  two  children,  James  and  Lindsay, 
came  to  live  with  them,  because  their 
mother  became  too  ill  to  take  care  of 
them. 

And  being  responsible  for  these  children 
had  brought  Jimmy  and  Jean  even  closer 
together  than  they'd  been  before.  More 
than  ever,  Jean  knew  then  what  she 
wanted  most  out  of  life — Jimmy's  child 
and  hers. 

When  she  first  knew  that  she  was  going 
to  become  a  mother,  she  had  to  break  the 
news  to  him  over  the  Transatlantic  phone. 
It  was  not  the  way  she'd  dreamed.  She'd 
always  fancied  herself  whispering  the 
happy  news  to  him  and  being  swept  up  in 
his  arms.  But  he  was  in  London  making  a 
film  at  the  time. 


Ray  Bolger  once  played  golf 
with  Sam  Gold  wyn  because  he 
wanted  a  part  Goldwyn  was  cast- 
ing in  a  picture. 

Goldwyn  didn't  mention  the  pic- 
ture  for  hours.  Finally  he  got 
around  to  it.  He  said,  "I'm  looking 
for  a  great  dancer  to  do  a  won- 
derful role  in  a  new  picture.  What 
would  you  think  of  Gene  Kelly?" 

Earl  Wilson 
in  the  New  York  Post 


"What's  that  you're  saying?"  he'd  yelled 
into  the  phone.  "A  baby — when?" 

He  flew  home  as  soon  as  he  could,  and 
he  stormed  into  the  house,  railing  at  pro- 
ducers and  at  the  rat  race  of  picture-mak- 
ing that  had  kept  him  away  from  the  side 
of  his  beloved  "Pot  Face." 

Jean  smiled,  recalling  this. 

Strangers  wouldn't  understand 

"Pot  Face" — that  was  what  he  called  her 
— and  only  he  and  Jean  knew  the  tender- 
ness, the  love  that  went  into  that  nick- 
name. Strangers  thought  it  was  an  odd 
nickname;  they  didn't  understand  the  hu- 
mor that  was  shared  by  these  two. 

The  whole  family  was  Bohemian,  and 
had  customs  that  were  odd  to  Hollywood. 
They  called  Stewart's  boy  James  "James- 
bag,"  his  daughter,  Lindsay,  "Lindsay- 
bag"  and  the  children  called  Jean  just 
plain  "Bag." 

Most  people  thought  Stewart-Bag  was 
just  a  tyrant.  He  was  accustomed  to  roar- 
ing and  swaggering  around  the  studios.  At 
home,  he  had  his  own  way  100  percent. 
But  Jean  also  knew  that  at  home  he  had 
moods  of  wonderful  tenderness  when  he 
romped  with  his  two  children.  She  knew 
that  a  man  who  was  so  good  to  them 
would  be  wonderful  to  their  own  child. 

Of  course,  they  were  very  sophisticated 
people  and  Jean  knew  that  Jimmy 
wouldn't  behave  like  most  expectant  fa- 
thers. He  was  a  man  of  the  world,  his 
sentimental  feelings  controlled.  He 
wouldn't  get  excited  or  stumble  into  doors 


or  roar  if  she  tried  to  move  a  chair.  Onl; 
she  was  wrong.  Delightedly  wrong.  H< 
became  absolutely  unsophisticated  wher 
he  knew  that  they  were  going  to  have 
baby. 

Like  the  way  he  took  over  when  Jeai 
was  developing  crazy  hankerings  for  food 
She  woke  up  one  morning  with  an  acut< 
longing  for  fried  bread.  "Don't  I  smel 
bread  frying?"  she  asked  wistfully.  Almos 
from  the  beginning  of  their  marriage.  Jim- 
my, an  excellent  cook,  had  taken  over  th« 
cooking  and  baking  chores. 

"No,"  he  said. 

But  shortly  afterwards  she  smelled  ba- 
con grease  frying  in  the  kitchen,  and  knew 
that  Jimmy  was  frying  bread,  just  the  wa\ 
she  liked  it.  Knowing  it  wasn't  good  foi 
her  to  continue  to  yearn  for  fried  bread 
he  cunningly  gave  it  to  her  for  breakfast 
lunch  and  dinner — till  she  got  so  tired  ol 
it  she  never  wanted  to  taste  it  again.  Ever 
the  doctor  agreed  that  he'd  handled  il 
very  cleverly. 

She  was  grateful 

Jimmy  could  handle  everything,  just 
everything.  Jean,  on  the  other  hand,  fell 
that  she  was  a  complete  idiot  about  every- 
thing. She  gratefully  let  Jimmy  take  over 
completely.  Even  the  baby. 

When  the  baby  was  born,  Jean  was 
frightened. 

"She's  so  tiny,"  she  said.  "I'm  afraid  if 
I  hold  her  I  might  drop  her.*' 

She  remembered  how  she'd  looked  at 
Jimmy  while  he  held  his  baby  tenderly, 
his  big  hands  gentle  and  sure.  At  the  be- 
ginning he  took  over  the  care  of  the  baby. 
Tracy,  just  as  he'd  already  taken  over  the 
care  of  the  whole  house  and  everything 
else  around. 

For  all  this  and  more,  Jean  loved  him. 
She  felt  as  if  her  heart  would  burst  with 
gratitude.  If  later  this  was  to  give  her  a 
feeling  of  being  stifled,  she  had  no  aware- 
ness of  it  then.  She  thought  only,  at  that 
time,  "Where  in  the  world  is  there  another 
man  like  Jimmy — so  rough,  so  domineer- 
ing on  the  outside,  and  so  soft  with  the 
children?  And  what  other  man  would 
coddle  me  so,  make  me  feel  like  a  child?" 

It  was  a  perfect  marriage.  Even  the  peo- 
ple in  Hollywood  who  had  thought  it  was. 
a  crazy  marriage  at  first — a  beautiful,  ar- 
dent, flighty  young  girl  marrying  a  man 
twenty  years  older  than  she — were  now 
ready  to  admit  that  it  was  okay.  They 
were  beginning  to  understand  that  Jean, 
in  her  own  gentle  way.  was  able  to  handle 
the  blustering  actor  whom  most  of  Holly- 
wood feared. 

But  even  while  Hollywood  was  making 
up  its  mind  that  perhaps  these  two,  after 
all,  were  right  for  each  other,  the  seem- 
ingly wonderful  fabric  of  their  marriage 
was  beginning  to  deteriorate. 

It  had  begun  so  quietly,  so  slowly,  the 
deterioration  of  their  marriage.  Now  that 
she  thought  of  it,  it  had  begun  even  be- 
fore Tracy  was  born. 

Even  while  she  was  defending  him  in 
her  mind,  she  was  reacting  unhappily  to 
the  way  in  which  he  bawled  out  people  on 
the  set.  If  a  plumber  came  to  their  house 
to  do  work  for  them  and  Jimmy  didn't 
like  the  way  the  work  was  done,  he'd  bawl 
him  out  as  though  he  himself  knew  a 
great  deal  more  about  plumbing  than  the 
plumber  did.  It  was  the  same  way  with 
directors. 

She  knew  that  people  in  Hollywood 
thought  of  them  as  the  "doll"  and  the 
"brute."  She  was  always  popular  with  the 
people  she  worked  with;  those  who 
worked  with  Stewart  were  often  livid  with 
hostility. 

At  first  she  figured  he  was  older  and 
wiser  than  she.  And  she  thrilled  like  a 
little  girl  at  his  rages,  thinking  his  anger 
was  a  sign  of  his  strength. 

It  was  inevitable  that  when  she  was  cast 


IS  YOUR  -  ...THEN  TRY  'ROUND-THE-CLOCK 
EYE-BEAUTY-     f-J^  ^  ®„ 

»«pr  S>aAh&f<!4~ 

WASH-OFF  PERMANENT  DARKEN ER 
MASCARA    for  LASHES  AND  BROWS 

?       .  (for  the  hairs  to  which  applied) 


in  different  movies  opposite  other  hand- 
some and  competent  actors  that  she  should 
compare  them  in  her  mind  with  Stewart. 

Most  of  them  were  wiser  in  their  in- 
dustry relations.  They  didn't  fight  with 
their  directors,  didn't  tell  off  the  set  work- 
ers, display  temperament. 

Though  she  wouldn't  confess  it  even  to 
herself,  she  was  getting  a  little  tired  of 
the  temper  tantrums. 

Did  a  really  strong  man  have  to  have 
such  tantrums,  she  wondered — and  tried 
to  banish  the  thought  from  her  mind,  as 
though  it  were  a  sign  of  disloyalty. 

And  then  came  Stewart  Granger's  great 
inspiration. 

Wouldn't  it  be  wonderful,  now  that  they 
had  three  children  to  look  after,  to  buy  a 
big  ranch  in  Arizona  where  the  children 
would  have  a  normal  life?  Eventually  they 
could  retire  to  this  ranch. 

She  was  appalled.  Why,  they  were  so 
young.  How  could  Jimmy  talk  of  retire- 
ment? And  anyway,  what  did  they  know 
of  ranch  life?  Such  a  life  was  for  one's  old 
age — fifteen  or  twenty  years  from  then, 
they  might  be  ready  for  retirement. 

Jimmy  had  laughed  at  her  fears.  "Re- 
tirement?" he  howled.  "I  meant  years  from 
now.  Not  now.  Have  you  any  idea  of  the 
hard  work  involved  on  a  ranch?  I'll  be 
knocking  myself  out  like  mad.  Anyway,  a 
ranch  is  expensive.  It'll  take  us  years, 
darling,  to  pay  for  the  darned  thing  or  to 
make  it  begin  to  pay  for  itself.  Meanwhile, 
it'll  be  a  wonderful  place  for  the  chil- 
dren." 

Yes,  the  children.  Maybe  it  would  be 
good  for  them.  She  had  become  accus- 
tomed to  letting  Jimmy  make  the  deci- 
sions. Even  though  she  had  misgivings  she 
went  along  with  the  idea  and  invested  her 
money  in  the  ranch. 

They  converted  an  old  adobe  house  into 
a  beautiful  ranch  home,  and  furnished  it 
beautifully.  As  usual,  Jimmy  was  in 
charge  of  the  whole  thing;  Jean  looking 
on  like  a  child.  She  went  there  when  she 
could  and  tried  to  convince  herself  that 
she  loved  it,  but  she  was  miserable  there. 

She  felt  as  though  she  were  stuck  in  the 
middle  of  nowhere;  she  couldn't  stand 
either  the  110°  heat  outside,  or  the  dull- 
ness inside. 

Life  on  the  ranch  was  strenuous  for 
Jimmy,  but  there  just  wasn't  enough  for 
Jean  to  do.  There  were  many  times  when 
she  found  the  monotony  almost  too  much 
to  take. 

She  and  Jimmy  would  get  up  around 
seven;  then  she  and  Tracy  would  go  riding 
on  the  truck  and  she'd  take  the  child 
horseback  riding  before  the  heat  became 
unbearable.  Jean  tried  to  get  interested 
in  watching  the  branding  and  other  activi- 
ties on  the  ranch,  but  they  soon  palled  on 
her. 

Added  to  the  problem  of  adjusting  to 
the  ranch  was  the  fact  that  there  were  so 
many  times  when  she  and  Jimmy  were 
parted  by  their  work.  At  such  times  he 
would  leave  the  baby  reluctantly.  It  was 
those  reluctant  partings  with  Tracy  that 
made  her  feel  that  somehow  she  must 
make  her  marriage  last. 

When  had  it  happened,  that  feeling  that 
it  was  all  over.  .  .  ? 

Was  it  that  certain  evening  at  the 
ranch,  a  few  months  ago,  when  something 
happened  to  finally  make  her  face  the  fact 
that  she  no  longer  was  in  love  with 
Jimmy? 

The  thrill  was  gone 

The  children  were  asleep,  and  Jimmy, 
long  legs  stretched  out  on  an  immense 
leather  hassock,  his  ruggedly  chiseled  fea- 
tures and  greying  hair  highlighted  by  the 
fire  on  the  hearth,  sighed  contentedly  and 
reached  out  for  her  hand. 

She  let  him  put  his  strong  hand  over  her 
slim  one,  but  the  thrill  she  had  once  felt 


when  his  hands  touched  hers  was  no  long- 
er there.  She  stirred  restlessly,  remember- 
ing how  she  used  to  tingle  at  every  touch 
of  his.  His  face  was  as  handsome  as  ever, 
the  magnificent  body  was  still  youthful 
and  vital. 

And  there  was  so  much  more  serenity 
in  him  than  there  had  been  in  the  old 
days.  She  had  thought  she  would  welcome 
the  serenity.  Instead,  she  chafed  at  it.  It 
made  her  too  conscious  of  the  years  be- 
tween them.  In  the  nine  and  a  half  years 
they  had  been  married,  she  had  changed 
from  a  naive  young  girl  to  a  restless,  de- 
sirable woman,  and  Jimmy  had  changed  to 
a  mellow  but  middle-aged  man.  Now 
everybody  called  her  a  fascinating  wom- 
an, and  many  men  had  been  fascinated  by 
her.  That  wouldn't  have  mattered  if  Jim- 
my had  been  close  by  at  all  times  to  re- 
assure her  with  his  love,  his  physical 
presence. 

There  had  been  too  many  times  when 
he  was  away,  times  when  she  ached  for  a 
man's  arms  around  her,  but  stifled  that 
ache.  And  finally,  aching  so  much  for  love 
and  not  having  her  husband  there  to  as- 
suage the  ache  had  left  a  void  in  her 
heart. 

Make  Believe 

Their  marriage  had  been  make-believe 
for  a  long  time  now.  How  could  she  go  on 
pretending?  If  she  did,  she  might  end  by 
hating  Jimmy — Jimmy,  who,  after  all,  was 
not  at  fault.  He  had  been  very  decent  let- 
ting her  travel  thousands  of  miles  away 
from  him  with  Tracy. 

Tracy  .  .  .  Tracy  .  .  .  the  little  daughter 
named  for  one  of  their  best  friends,  Spen- 
cer Tracy.  How  she  had  put  off  the 
thought  that  she  might  some  day  be  forced 
to  tell  her,  "No  darling,  Daddy  does  not 
live  here  with  us." 

That  night  on  the  ranch  she  thought 
about  it  .  .  .  thought  about  her  restless- 
ness. 

She  couldn't  sleep.  And  finally  she  said 
to  herself,  "Some  day  I  must  decide 
whether  or  not  to  leave  Jimmy.  We're  no 
longer  right  for  each  other.  But  I'll  decide 
tomorrow." 

And  now,  sitting  in  her  suite  in  the 
Dorchester,  it  seemed  that  the  tomorrow 
she  had  been  staving  off  these  past  months, 
had  finally  come.  She  and  Tracy  would 
soon  be  leaving  London.  Jimmy  was  in 
Hollywood,  awaiting  her  return  with  their 
little  girl.  Then  he  would  take  off  for  India, 
for  a  picture.  When  he  returned  she'd  be 
off  somewhere.  Jean  put  her  hand  to  her 
head.  It  could  only  drag  on  like  that  for- 
ever. 

If  she  didn't  tell  him  now,  they'd  fall 
into  the  same  endless  pattern  .  .  .  the 
separations,  the  pretending,  the  frustra- 
tions. This  was  the  time  to  resolve  it,  be- 
fore they  came  face  to  face  again.  When 
she  faced  Jimmy,  her  courage  fled. 

She  reached  for  the  phone  and  put 
through  a  call  to  Beverly  Hills.  She  must 
tell  him  before  Tracy  came  home  with 
Nanny. 

"Darling,"  she  said  when  she  heard  his 
voice.  And  then  she  thought,  "How  we 
cling  to  old  phrases  even  after  they're 
dead." 

"Jimmy,"  she  said  slowly,  "Don't  think 
this  is  a  sudden  decision  with  me.  It's  not. 
I've  been  thinking — for  such  a  long 
time.  .  .  ." 

He  had  seemed  shocked.  Then  he'd 
asked  about  Tracy.  Yes,  he'd  be  able  to 
see  her  any  time  it  was  possible.  She 
wouldn't  deprive  the  child. 

Then  she  sat  by  the  phone  and  waited 
for  Tracy  to  come  back.  .  .  .  END 

Jean  stars  in  three  new  films — United 
Artists'  Elmer  Gantry,  and  Universal-In- 
ternational's Spartacus  and  The  Grass  Is 
Greener. 


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MATERNITY  CATALOG 


SAVE  BY  MAIL  | 


 <     P»oe    Catalog  mailed  in  plain  en- 

rawfcrA's  Dept.  26, 1015  Walnut  St.,  Kansas  City  6.  Mo. 


Q: 


TEETHING 
PMHS? 


1 


For  fast,  sure  relief,  apply  Num- 
Zit  Teething  Lotion  to  baby  s 
gums  at  the  first  sign  of  pain. 
Millions  of  mothers  prefer  it 
Baby  care  authorities  suggest  it! 
Many  doctors  recommend  it!  At 
all  drug  counters. 


NUM-ZlT 

TEETHING  LOTION 

Stops  Hin  Fasti  V 


The  Truth  About  Our  Make-Believe  Romance 


(Continued  from  page  26) 


the  public,  the  press,  and  to  some  extent 
themselves,  into  making  believe  they  are 
in  love  and  headed  for  a  lifetime  together. 
But  all  of  the  castles  they've  been  build- 
ing are  not  in  the  air;  some  are  firmly 
rooted  in  the  dry  California  soil. 

Some  months  ago  Harry  Karl  sold  a  home 
he  had  built  to  last  him  a  lifetime  as 
a  happy  bachelor.  It  had  two  bedrooms 
and  it  sold  for  half  a  million  dollars.  In 
parting  with  the  gem,  Karl  stood  sadly  in 
the  street  with  the  new  occupant  for  a 
last  look. 

"I  hate  to  give  it  up,"  he  said. 

"Then  why  are  you  selling  it?"  the  buyer 
asked. 

"I  have  to  have  a  bigger  place  for  Debbie 
and  the  kids,"  Karl  said. 

Harry's  suite  and  Debbie's  home 

And  from  his  large  suite  at  The  Beverly 
Hills  Hotel,  Harry  Karl  began  leisurely 
house  hunting.  He  pored  over  elegant 
brochures  from  the  toniest  realty  offices 
in  Hollywood  and  its  environs,  beautifully 
illustrated  with  photos  of  Taj  Mahal-type 
cottages  and  roomy  mansions  and  with 
text  bordering  on  literature  describing  the 
superb  features  of  the  properties  offered. 
And  there  were  stacks  of  blue  prints,  ex- 
pensive suggestions  as  to  what  money 
can  accomplish  in  piling  brick  on  stone  to 
come  up  with  a  home. 

In  another  part  of  the  town  Debbie 
Reynolds  walked  the  long  length  of  her 
living  room  to  a  window  that  overlooked 
the  yard  in  which  her  children,  Carrie  and 
Todd  Fisher,  were  playing.  She  listened 
to  the  sounds  of  their  play  and  watched 
the  physical  activity  they  put  into  it,  and 
she  couldn't  help  but  think:  "This  is  the 
home  they  have  always  known.  These  are 
the  trees  and  that  is  the  grass  and  those 
are  the  flowers  they  have  in  their  minds 
when  they  ask  to  go  out  to  play.  Can  I 
take  them  away  from  these  things?" 

She  let  the  curtain  fall  back  into 
place,  hiding  all  but  the  voices  of  the 
children  from  her,  and  paced  off  the  car- 
pet to  the  other  end  of  the  living  room. 
She  noticed  the  spots  on  the  carpet  where 
candy  had  been  dropped  or  milk  spilled 
or  where  a  particularly  dirty  pair  ol  in- 
fant shoes  had  left  a  permanent  mark. 
And  there  was  the  chip  in  the  edge  of 
the  coffee  table,  beyond  repair,  and  the 
scratches  made  by  adventurous  hands 
questioning  the  relative  hardness  of  a 
metal  toy  car  and  mahogany — and  the  thin, 
long  streaks  in  the  couch  cushions  result- 
ing from  a  child's  curiosity  about  how  long 
a  jutting  piece  of  thread  would  turn  out  to 
be  if  it  were  pulled  from  the  material 
with  determination. 

"Can  I,"  she  said  to  herself,  "take  these 
familiar  things  away  from  them?  Will 
they  feel  displaced,  no  matter  what  man- 
ner of  mansion  I  replace  these  things 
with?" 

Debbie  threw  herself  deep  into  the 
feathery  comfort  of  a  large  chair  and 
speculated,  not  on  brochures  or  blue- 
prints, but  on  the  manner  of  home  she 
could  provide  if  she  married  Harry  Karl. 
Luxury  would  be  there  in  abundance, 
she  well  knew,  luxury  in  real  things  be- 
yond the  hopes  of  even  the  most  famous  of 
movie  stars.  Space  would  be  there,  more 
than  enough  to  sleep  and  feed  the  five 
children  that  might  sometimes  live  there 
together — and  allow  them  room  to  romp 
— and  the  in-laws  and  Harry  Karl's  grown 
daughter,  son-in-law  and  grandson  if  they 
should  all  pile  in  at  once. 
70     And  there  would  be  servants  in  every 


doorway  and  cars  and  all  the  money 
needed  to  satisfy  the  wildest  whim  of  any 
of  them.  And  trips  and  resort  homes,  sub- 
sidiaries of  the  big  house,  and  furs  and 
jewels  and  fine  schools  for  the  children 
as  they  grew  older.  And  most  important 
of  all,  there  would  be  a  man  about  the 
house,  a  man  to  point  authoritatively 
to  the  stairway  at  bedtime,  take  care  of 
Todd  when  he  fell  out  of  a  tree,  fix  the 
broken  head  of  Carrie's  doll  and  put  them 
both  on  the  carpet  when  they  were 
naughty. 

"Could  I,"  Debbie  wondered,  "exchange 
these  precious  things  my  children  have 
lived  with  for  all  of  that?" 

She  knew  she'd  have  to  find  the  answer 
soon.  .  . 

And  at  the  Beverly  Hills  Hotel,  scan- 
ning the  pamphlets  and  plans,  Harry  Karl, 
caring  not  for  the  cost  of  anything,  halted 
for  a  moment,  leaned  back  and  pondered 
on  a  well-lived  life  and  a  future  he  was 


mmmmm 


Everybody  in  America 
ivill  be  reading 


NEXT  MONTH'S 
MODERN  SCREEN. 


You'll  see  tvhy  ivhen 
it  hits  the  neivsstands. 
On  Sale  October  U 


sure  he  would  like.  His  start  in  life 
had  been  a  foundling  home.  He  was  taken 
from  it  as  a  sickly  baby  by  a  childless 
Russian  immigrant  couple  who  doted  on 
him.  Although  he  grew  up  to  head  a 
million-dollar  enterprise,  he  could  never 
forget  that  he  started,  at  eight  years  old, 
by  polishing  shoes  in  what  was  then  a 
cramped  repair  shop.  Although  his  life 
was  one  of  ease  and  luxury  now,  he  didn't 
have  the  one  thing  he  wanted  most: 
recognition  and  the  spotlight. 

This  he  could  have,  married  to  a  famous 
movie  star.  .  .  . 

Eddie's  Worry 

At  an  elegant  New  York  restaurant, 
Eddie  Fisher  and  his  wife,  Elizabeth  Tay- 
lor, sat  at  Table  Number  One,  set  exqui- 
sitely for  two,  and  dined  silently.  Liz  had 
thoughts  about  tomorrow's  scenes  and  the 
lines  she  must  learn  before  she  went  to 
sleep.  Eddie  was  engrossed  in  a  more 
pertinent  thought: 

Did  Debbie  really  love  Harry  Karl? 
Would  she  be  happy  with  him?  It  was  im- 
portant to  him,  because  the  future  serenity 
of  his  children  might  depend  on  it.  If  she 
didn't  love  him,  would  she  be  happy  any- 
how with  what  he  could  give  her? 

"How  is  your  steak?"  Liz  asked. 

"Time  will  tell,"  said  Eddie.  Then  he 
laughed.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "I  was 
thinking  of  something  else.  .  .  ." 

The  romance — if  it  is  a  romance — of 
Debbie  Reynolds  and  Harry  Karl  is,  in- 
deed, a   matter  of   vital   concern   for  a 


number  of  people.    For  the  children  in-  j 
volved,   the   couple   themselves,   the  ex- 
husband  of  Debbie,  the  former  wives  of  1 
Harry  Karl  and  his  year-old  grandson. 
All  will  be  affected  by  it,  substantially. 
Will  they  marry? 

A  few  weeks  ago  a  press  agent  called 
a  Hollywood  columnist  and  indirectly  1 
mentioned  the  "coming  marriage  of  Deb- 
bie Reynolds  and  Harry  Karl."  The  col- 
urnnist  hit  the  ceiling.  "I  am  sick  and 
tired,"  he  snarled,  "listening  to  the  phony 
story  about  those  two.  Why  don't  you 
try  something  new?" 

Nevertheless,  all  the  newspaper  and 
magazine  reporters  who  cover  the  Hol- 
lywood beat  are  keeping  a  close  watch  on 
the  developments.  Consequently,  many 
hours  are  spent  in  the  grog  and  coffee 
shops  these  press  people  frequent  on 
speculation  as  to  where,  when,  how,  etc.  1 
And  if.  A  recent  conversation  between  the 
legmen  of  two  of  the  top  columnists  went 
something  like  this: 

"Where  do  you  think  they'll  do  it?" 

"If  it's  up  to  her  some  quiet  place,  a 
hideout.  If  it's  up  to  him,  maybe  Las 
Vegas." 

"How  do  you  figure  that?" 

"You  know  her.  Reserved,  wants  com- 
plete privacy  in  her  personal  life.  And 
he  loves  a  parade — and  publicity." 

"Do  you  think  they'll  be  happy?" 

"Why  not?  They'll  both  be  getting  what 
they  want.  She  wants  security  and  a  per- 
manent home.  He  wants  a  magenta  spot  on 
him  every  time  he  goes  outdoors.  He  can 
use  hers." 

"Do  you   think  this  marriage  will  be 
made  in  heaven?" 
"No.  .  .  ." 

What  Hollywood  thinks  of  the  "romance" 

The  gist  of  what  Hollywood  thinks  of  the 
union  of  Debbie  Reynolds  and  Harry  Karl 
is  contained  in  that  conversation.  Take 
a  look  at  the  past  of  Debbie,  for  instance. 
Torn  from  obscurity  by  a  local  beauty 
contest,  she  was  plunged  into  a  world  of 
make-believe  she  never  really  wanted.  But 
it  was  work,  better  than  she  could  have 
found  in  Burbank.  And,  while  the  glare 
of  publicity  that  went  along  with  the  job 
wasn't  much  to  the  liking  of  a  girl  who 
craved  a  lot  of  solitude,  she  was,  early 
in  the  game,  willing  to  make  the  sacri- 
fices. 

Then,  as  the  years  passed  and  Debbie 
rose  from  a  starlet  being  pushed  to  the  top 
of  the  heap  by  every  means  her  studio 
could  muster,  and  her  fan  mail  proved 
what  was  happening,  and  her  salary  in- 
creased to  that  of  a  top  star — Debbie  was 
forced  to  face  certain  facts.  The  price  of 
fame  is  high.  She  had,  by  becoming  an 
idol  of  countless  millions  of  young  people, 
accepted  certain  responsibilities  she  could 
not  shirk.  If  she  had  inclinations  to  be  ; 
wayward  they  had  to  be  curbed.  If  she  j 
wanted  to  go  to  some  place  she  saw  pic- 
tured in  a  travel  magazine,  she  had  to  re-  i 
member  she  was  not  the  little  girl  who 
lived  in  a  little  house  in  Burbank  but 
Debbie  Reynolds,  who  maybe  shouldn't 
be  seen  in  such  a  place,  or  she  had  to 
face  the  true  fact  that  she  wasn't  able  to 
go  places  like  an  average  vacationer,  be-  '\ 
cause  she  was  Debbie  Reynolds,  the  movie 
star.  And  she  had  to  forego  the  heady 
days  of  juvenile  romance,  getting  a  crush 
on  the  best-looking  basketball  player  in 
school,  steady-dating  the  kid  down  the 
block  or  falling  in  love  with  the  delivery 
boy  from  the  corner  drug  store.  She  was  ) 
a  famous  celebrity — and  it  wouldn't  have 
been  fit. 

The  price  of  fame  was  high — but  the 
rewards  were  not  in  proportion. 

Fame,  for  instance,  is,  in  the  main,  a  . 
prying  eye.     It  is  a  chain  of  bondage 
after  a  while.  And  then  the  money.  The  I 
first   figure   on   the   paycheck   was   big,  1 


real  big — but,  after  the  tax  deductions, 
it  was  small;  then  the  agents,  the  publicity 
men,  the  dressmakers,  the  hundred  and  one 
demands  made  on  the  check  brought  it 
down  to  nothing  like  what  a  girl  hoped 
it  might  be  at  the  beginning.  And  Debbie 
wondered  if  the  sacrifice  was  worth  the 
pay-off.  At  the  rate  she  was  going  she'd 
be  secure  for  life — but  she'd  never  be 
rich.  The  yachts  and  silver  Rolls-Royces 
are  not  for  movie  stars.  They  can't  afford 
them. 

There  is  no  question  about  Debbie 
Reynolds'  marriage  to  Eddie  Fisher  being 
a  love  match.  And,  as  far  as  she  was 
concerned,  it  was  for  life.  Even  in  the 
spotlight,  she  thought.  I  can  find  some 
normality,  something  that  resembles  the 
happiness  I  see  in  others.  She  was  wrong. 

'"Debbie  Reynolds,"  a  radio  gabber  said, 
"is  taking  the  smash-up  of  her  marriage 
to  singer  Eddie  Fisher  like  a  real  trouper. 
She  is  dignified  in  her  statements.  She  is 
accepting  defeat  at  the  hands  of  Elizabeth 
Taylor  graciously.  And  she  hasn't  lost  her 
sense  of  humor.  .  .  ." 

And  all  the  while  Debbie  was  like  any 
other  young  woman  in  her  situation — too 
stunned  to  make  sense,  in  tears  every  time 
she  was  alone,  proud  before  strangers, 
and,  as  she  had  been  taught,  witty  when 
the  jerks  who  couldn't  read  a  woman's 
sorrow  in  her  face  made  their  silly  jokes. 
And.  like  the  rest  of  the  women  in  her  po- 
sition, she  suffered  the  cuts  and  walked 
away  from  the  inevitable  one  day  with 
the  same  scars.  You  know  her  today  by 
those  scars. 

Debbie's  fear 

And  she  confides  to  her  closest  friends 
now  that  she  is  afraid  she  may  never  fall 
in  love  again.  Yet  being  with  Harry  Karl, 
experiencing  the  warmth  of  his  deep  con- 
cern for  her  and  her  children,  having 
someone  there  to  take  the  heavy  load  of 
her  responsibilities  on  his  shoulders,  being 
treated  like  a  glamorous  young  woman 
instead  of  a  wife  cast  aside — all  this  left  a 
glow  that  seemed  very  much  like  love. 
And  it  would  be  so  good  to  feel  that  won- 
derful feeling  again.  Debbie  longed  to  be 
in  love  again.  But  if  it  wasn't  real  .  .  .  ? 

Debbie  Reynolds  is  no  longer  the 
youngster  with  stars  in  her  eyes.  She  is  a 
mature  woman  with  concrete  values.  She 
devotes  a  good  deal  of  her  time  to  work 
with  The  Thalians,  a  group  dedicated  to 
the  care  of  mentally  retarded  children. 
She  doesn't  play  at  this — she  works  at  it 
and  she  is  known  as  a  tireless,  sound- 
thinking  executive  officer  of  the  group.  In 
business,  the  business  of  making  deals  for 
movies,  that  is,  she  is  known  as  a  sharp 
trader,  more  than  wise  to  her  own  value 
and  the  value  of  a  dollar.  As  a  film  star, 
she  knows  her  rank  in  the  firmament  and 
she  sees  that  she  gets  every  bit  of  respect 
due  her  on  the  set.  To  some  people  she  is 
known  as  a  tyrant,  to  others  a  snob,  to 
others  a  real  tough  dame.  Maybe  she  is  all 
of  these  things.  And  if  she  is,  it  is  be- 
cause she  was  made  that  way.  The  in- 
gredients of  the  formula  went  into  the 
flask — and  Debbie  Reynolds,  as  she  is  to- 
day, came  out. 

As  to  Harry  Karl,  his  tale  is  the  reverse 
of  Debbie's.  Some  say  he  has  a  very  large 
fortune — others,  including  his  former 
wives,  not  so  large.  At  any  rate  it  is 
enough  to  allow  him  to  live  in  luxury  such 
as  few  men  get  to  know.  His  whole  back- 
ground is  laced  with  evidence  of  his  lik- 
ing for  publicity  and  desire  for  acceptance 
by  the  community  of  celebrities  in  which 
he  lives  as  one  worthy  of  mention  in  the 
daily  blabs.  He  has  had  a  press  agent  for 
years— and  he  is  probably  the  only  shoe 
maker  in  the  world  with  a  private  press 
^gent.  In  moments  of  strife,  such  as  when 
his  ex -wife  got  into  quite  startling  jams, 


Harry  was  always  available  to  the  boys 
with  the  by-lines  for  a  quote.  He  con- 
tributes handsomely  to  the  Los  Angeles 
Press  Club.  One  of  his  adopted  sons  is 
named  Harrison,  after  a  local  gossip  col- 
umnist. Yes,  Harry  digs  the  limelight. 

As  to  the  kind  of  husband  he  would 
make  Debbie,  who  can  tell?  But  his  ex- 
wives  may  give  us  a  clue.  His  first  wife, 
Ruth  Winters,  now  operates  an  accessory 
shop  in  a  Beverly  Hills  beauty  salon.  They 
were  married  twenty-four  years  ago.  not 
too  long  after  Debbie  was  born,  and  have 
been  divorced  fourteen  years.  They  had  a 
daughter,  Judy,  who  is  now  twenty.  Harry 
owes  nothing,  nor  does  he  give  anything 
to  his  first  wife.  He  does,  however,  employ 
his  daughter's  husband  at  a  quite  respect- 
able salary — and  more  than  likely  gives 
his  grandson  shoes  for  free. 

Not  joyous  at  all 

Harry's  second  wife.  Marie  MacDonald. 
is  considerably  less  than  kind  in  speaking 
of  Harry  and  her  memory  of  her  times 
with  him  are  not  joyous  at  all. 

"I  hated  being  married  to  Harry,"  she 
stated  frankly  quite  recently.  "He  was  fun 
when  I  dated  him.  I  didn't  even  know  he 
was  a  rich  man.  I  thought  his  uncle  owned 
a  few  shoe  stores.  (There  will  be  loud 
laughter  from  many  who  know  the  canny 
Marie  at  this.)  After  we  were  married  I 
discovered  he  was  subject  to  terrible  fits 
of  depression.  He'd  stay  in  bed  for  days  at 
a  time,  all  wrapped  up  in  depressed 
moods.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  We  lived  in  a 
house  like  Wuthering  Heights — and  after 
a  while  I  began  to  feel  low  and  depressed 
all  the  time.  When  I  left  him,  I  felt  as 
though  a  great  weight  had  been  lifted 
from  me." 

Marie  adds.  ''I  think  he  finds  in  Debbie 
something  he  found  in  me.  Vivacity.  Now 
in  my  case,  I  had  all  the  vivacity — and  I 
think  she'll  find  out  the  same  thing.  She 
won't  know  what  he's  really  like  while 
she's  dating  him. 

"And  as  for  the  children,  we  have  three, 
two  adopted,  Denise  and  Harrison,  both 
aged  ten,  and  Tina,  who  is  our  natural 
child,  aged  three  and  a  half.  Harry  has 
seen  the  children  only  three  times  last 
year  and  twice  this  year.  I  don't  know  how 
good  he  is  to  Debbie's  kids— but  he  doesn't 
bother  much  with  his  own." 

According  to  Marie,  Harry  Karl's  in- 
come, after  taxes,  is  about  $56. 000.00  a  year 
today.  If  he  were  to  live  with  Debbie  and 
the  family,  the  way  he  wants  to  live,  this 
wouldn't  go  very  far. 

And  he  pays  a  heavy  divorce  settlement 
to  Marie.  She  gets  $3,500  a  month  alimony 
until  the  day  she  dies,  whether  she  mar- 
ries again  or  not.  She  gets  $750.00  a  month 
each  for  the  three  children — and  Harry 
pays  extra  for  such  items  as  clothing,  toys, 
medical  and  dental  care,  transportation  to 
and  from  school — and,  when  the  day 
comes,  he  will  pay  their  college  tuitions 
and  board  while  they  are  being  educated. 
So,  even  if  he  is  a  little  blue  once  in  a 
while,  he  most  surely  has  established 
credit  as  a  good  family  provider  in  latter 
years.  .  .  . 

As  Harry  Karl  pores  over  luxury  house 
plans  in  his  suite  at  the  Beverly  Hills  Ho- 
tel, Debbie  looks  around  the  home  her 
children  know  and  love.  And  she  looks 
into  her  heart  and  the  truth  becomes  very 
clear  to  her.  She  is  not  in  love  with  Harry 
Karl,  she  probably  never  was.  But  she  had 
wished  she  were.  Wished  it  so  much  that 
she  almost  believed  it,  and  certainly  the 
public  believed  it.  But  she'd  only  been 
fooling  herself. 

She  knew  now,  beyond  a  doubt  what  the 
answer  would  be:  "I  like  him  better  than 
any  man  I  know,"  she  admitted,  "but  I 
have  no  plans  to  marry  .  .  .  I'm  going  to 
think  a  long  time  before  I  marry  anyone." 

END 


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The  Nun  I  Hated 


{Continued  from  page  35) 

Jersey  tone  of  hers.  She  smiled  pleasantly. 

"Yeah,"  Connie  said,  flatly. 

"Welcome  then,"  said  the  girl,  "and  here, 
let  me  help  you  with  your  suitcase." 

Connie  pulled  the  valise  away.  "I'll  kick 
you  in  the  shins  if  you  touch  this,"  she 
snapped.  "I'll — " 

A  voice  interrupted  her.  "Hello,"  it  said, 
"you  must  be  Concetta  Ingolia.  We've  been 
expecting  you.  My  name  is  Sister  M  ." 

Connie  looked  up  at  the  nun,  a  young 
and  beautiful  lady,  with  one  of  those  faces 
and  expressions  she'd  seen  in  paintings  of 
saints  her  dead  grandmother  used  to  keep 
around  the  house.  It  made  her  sad  to  think 
of  her  dead  grandmother  now.  It  made 
her  feel  like  bawling.  But  she  wasn't  going 
to  bawl  now,  no  sir.  Because  bawling  was 
the  farthest  thing  from  being  tough. 

"Come,"  the  nun  said,  as  Connie  stood 
looking  at  her,  "let's  go  to  my  office  and 
get  to  know  one  another  a  little.  .  .  ." 

The  nosy  business 

In  the  office,  sure  enough,  the  nun  start- 
ed with  the  nosy  business. 

"I  see  no  mention  here  of  your  mother," 
she  said,  looking  at  a  paper  she'd  just 
pulled  from  a  folder.  "Is  she  alive,  Con- 
cetta?" 

"She  and  my  father  got  divorced  when 
I  was  two,"  Connie  said. 

"And  do  you  ever  see  her?"  asked  the 
nun. 

"Sure,  a  lot,"  Connie  said,  lying,  the 
truth  being  that  she  only  saw  her  mother 
a  couple  of  times  a  year. 

"And  your  father's  a  musician,"  the  nun 
said. 

"That's  why  I'm  here,"  Connie  said. 
"He's  gotta  go  on  the  road  all  the  time 
to  make  a  buck  and  he  couldn't  take  care 
of  me." 

"You  lived  with  your  grandmother  until 
recently?"  asked  the  nun. 

"Until  she  died,"  Connie  said. 

"Rest  her  soul,"  said  the  nun.  Then, 
"And  I  guess  there  was  nobody  else  to 
take  care  of  you." 

"Sure  there  was,"  Connie  said.  "I've  got 
nine  aunts  and  thirty-one  first  cousins  and 
we're  a  big  close  family — "  She  stopped. 
The  truth  would  show  if  she  kept  on  talk- 
ing, she  was  afraid;  the  truth  that  nobody 
in  that  big  close  family,  nice  as  some  of 
them  were,  really  wanted  to  take  care  of 
her,  to  take  the  responsibility  for  her. 

She  watched  the  nun  now  as  she  reached 
for  another  piece  of  paper — a  medical 
report.  And  she  listened  as  the  nun,  in  a 
very  quiet  and  long  way,  and  even  turn- 
ing red  in  the  face  once  in  a  while,  asked 
the  nosiest  question  of  them  all — "be- 
cause," as  she  said,  "I  must  know  for  our 
own  records,  my  dear,  and  so  that  we 
can  help  you  and  give  you  advice." 

Connie  sat,  hearing  her  out. 

And  then  she  said,  "Oh,  that's  happened 
to  me  already,  yeah.  I  know  all  about  it. 
I  was  in  a  hotel  room  one  night,  on  the 
road,  visiting  my  father.  He  was  out, 
working.  I  was  alone  when  it  happened. 
I  got  scared  at  first.  I  even  thought  I  was 
dying.  But  I  asked  a  maid  in  the  hotel, 
finally.  And  she  explained  it  all  to  me  .  .  . 
This  maid." 

When  she  was  finished  talking,  Connie 
noticed  that  the  nun  was  looking  at  her, 
very  sympathetic. 

This  made  her  uncomfortable. 

She  didn't  want  any  sympathy  from 
anybody  here,  especially  not  from  a  nun. 

"How  come  you're  a  nun?"  she  asked, 
suddenly,  remembering  hearing  once  from 
somebody  that  nuns  don't  like  to  be  asked 
that  question. 


"How  come?"  Sister  M  asked  back. 

And  not  mad,  either.  But  smiling  a  little, 
just  like  those  pictures  of  the  saints.  "Be- 
cause, Concetta,"  she  said,  "I  am  in  love 
with  Christ  our  Lord,  and  because  this 
is  the  only  way  I  know  to  show  Him  my 
love. 

"What,"  she  asked  Connie  then,  "do  you 
want  your  life  to  be  like,  when  you  grow 
older?  What  do  you  want  to  become?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Connie  said,  lying  again, 
since  more  than  anything  she  wanted  to  be 
a  singer — but  why  should  she  go  telling 
this  nun  and  have  to  hear  her  say,  "Oh, 
how  nice."  or  something  stupid  and  phony 
like  that? 

"Well,"  said  the  nun,  "there's  plenty  of 
time  to  decide,  isn't  there?" 

If  anything  is  ever  wrong  .  .  . 

When  Connie  didn't  answer,  she  got  up 
from  her  chair  and  she  said,  "Concetta, 
before  I  show  you  to  your  room  and  intro- 
duce you  to  some  of  the  girls,  I  want  you 
to  know  that  if  anything  is  ever  wrong, 
if  you  ever  want  to  talk  over  anything, 
you  must  feel  free  to  come  and  talk  with 
me  .  .  .  All  right?" 

Connie  shrugged.  "I  guess  so,"  she  said. 

"And,"  the  nun  started,  "if,  at  the  begin- 
ning, especially,  you  ever  find  yourself 
feeling  lonely — " 

"Me?"  Connie  interrupted.  "I'm  never 
lonely  .  .  .  Look,"  she  said,  "When  I  was  a 
little  kid,  my  very  first  day  of  school,  in 
kindergarten,  I  went  alone.  Other  kids 
were  standing  around  with  their  mothers, 
holding  their  hands,  crying.  And  me,  I 
was  alone.  And  not  crying." 

"You're  a  very  independent  young  lady, 
aren't  you?"  the  nun  asked,  still  smiling  "a 
little. 

"Yeah,"  Connie  said,  "very  independent" 
— whatever  that  word  meant. 

For  the  next  moment,  the  two  of  them 
stood,  looking  at  each  other,  the  nun 
thinking  her  thoughts;  and  Connie  think- 
ing hers— how  she  wanted  so  much  right 
now  to  say  something  mean  and  nasty 
to  this  stiff  lady  in  black  with  all  her 
make-believe  niceness,  something  so  mean 
and  terrible  that  the  nun  would  have  to 
let  her  have  it,  a  good  hard  slap  in  the 
face;  yes,  that  was  what  she  wanted. 
Connie  knew  now,  for  the  nun  to  get  so 
mad  she'd  have  to  bring  up  her  hand,  and 
so  that  she,  Connie,  could  say,  "You  lay 
a  paw  on  me  and  they'll  hear  me  all  the 
way  over  in  Brooklyn!" — just  one  good 
slap  so  she  could  leave  this  place  and  go 
back  to  where  she'd  come  from  and  stay 
with  a  girlfriend's  family,  with  anybody, 
till  she  got  old  enough  to  be  on  her  own. 

Oh  yes,  Connie  knew,  this  was  just  the 
time  for  her  to  say  something  and  get  the 
nun's  goat  and  then  get  going. 

But  she  knew,  too,  that  she  couldn't  say 
anything  now,  not  now  this  minute,  not 
as  the  nun  stood  there  with  her  fingers 
touching,  all  of  a  sudden,  very  gentle,  that 
big  silver  crucifix  she  was  wearing  around 
her  neck. 

Well.  Connie  thought,  looking  back  up, 
into  the  nun's  eye,  there's  still  time. 
And  there's  ways.  And  I'll  find  a  way  .  .  . 
You  just  wait  and  see.  .  .  . 

For  the  next  few  weeks,  Connie  tried 
everything  to  get  kicked  out  of  the  school. 
She  didn't  study;  she  yawned  all  through 
her  classes.  She  was  sullen  sometimes, 
mopey.  And  when  she  wasn't  moping  she 
was  rude,  always  looking  for  fights.  She 
tried  aggravating  everybody;  the  girls  on 
her  floor,  the  girls  in  her  classes,  the  nuns, 

Sister   M  ,  especially,   the   one  she 

couldn't  stand  most  of  all.  But  everybody, 
it  seemed,  forgave  her  her  aggravations 
and  turned  the  other  cheek.  "Poor  Con- 
cetta," she  overheard  one  of  them  say  one 
day,  "she  must  be  so  lonely  with  nobody 
ever  coming  to  visit  her.  It's  no  wonder 


she's  so  nervous  and  doesn't  want  to  talk 
to  us." 

"Poor  Concetta,  my  eye,"  Connie  thought 
"Just  give  me  time!" 
More  weeks  passed. 
And  more. 

Still,  nobody  was  kicking  Connie  ou 
of  any  place. 

How  to  get  kicked  out 

And  then,  another  day,  Connie  over- 
heard another  conversation.  This  time  the 
girls  were  talking  about  a  former  class- 
mate of  theirs,  wondering  how  she  was 
doing  now.  It  seemed  that  this  girl  had 
had  the  pleasure  of  being  asked  to  leave 
the  school,  because  she'd  been  caughi 
writing  something  "insulting,"  by  Sister 

M  ,  of  all  people,  and  in  her  class 

too. 

Mmmmmmmmmm,  Connie  thought  tc 
herself,  hearing  this. 

"Mmmmmmmmmmboy!" 

Suddenly,  she  smiled  triumphantly. 

She  knew  now  what  she  had  to  do. 

She  sat  in  Sister  M  's  class  thai 

next  morning.  The  other  girls  were  sitting 
with  clasped  hands,  looking  up  all  attention 
at  the  nun,  who  was  explaining  something 
on  the  blackboard,  while  Connie,  ignoring 
the  lesson,  was  writing  furiously  away  in 
her  notebook. 

I  hate  this  school,  she  wrote. 

1  hate  the  food. 

I  hate  my  room. 

I  hate  the  girls. 

I  hate  the  nuns. 

And  I  really  hate  Sister  M  ,  whc. 

is  a  pain  in  the  neck  and  thinks  she's  sc 
holy. 

She  looked  up  when  she  was  finished 
wondering  whether  the  nun  had  noticed 
her. 

But  Sister  M   hadn't;  or.  at  least  ? 

she  looked  as  if  she  hadn't. 

So  Connie  started  again.  And  this  time 
she  pressed  down  harder  with  her  pencil 
and  wrote  slower,  and  underlined  the 
words  really  hate  and  Sister  M  . 

And  this  time,  she  was  glad  to  see,  she 
got  caught  while  doing  it. 

"Concetta,"  the  voice  came  floating  across 
the  room,  "what  are  you  doing?" 

"Nothing,"  Connie  said. 

She  gave  her  notebook  a  push  and  made 
it  drop  to  the  floor. 

"Have  you  been  writing  something,  Con- 
cetta, instead  of  listening?"  Sister  M  

asked. 

"Sort  of,"  Connie  said. 

"May  I  see  what  you've  been  writing?' 

Connie  cleared  her  throat  and  pretended 
to  be  embarrassed.  She  picked  her  note- 
book up  from  the  floor.  "I'd  rather  not,' 
she  said. 

"Concetta,"  the  nun's  voice  came,  "if  you 
don't  mind,  please  bring  that  book  up 
to  me." 

Connie  did. 

Sister    M   read    what    she  had 

written. 

"All  right."  said  the  nun,  when  she'd 
finished,  her  voice  very  calm,  but  her 
eyes  kind  of  sad-looking,  of  all  things. 
" — now  you  tear  this  page  out  of  your 
book,  and  go  tack  it  onto  the  bulletin 
board  out  in  the  hall,  and  then  go  to  my 
office  and  wait  for  me." 

Connie  rushed — nearly  skipped — out  into 
the  hall,  and  did  as  she  was  told.  Then, 
as   she   was   about   to   go   on   to  Sistei 

M  's  office,  another  nun,  an  old  nun. 

came  over  to  see  what  Connie  had  tacked 
to  the  board. 

"Tsk-tsk,"  said  the  nun,  when  she  read 
it,  "and  we'd  had  such  high  hopes  for  you 

here.  Sister  M  ,   especially,  always 

saying  those  nice  things  about  your  po- 
tentials." 

Two  girls,  walking  by  now,  came  to 
see  what  the  old  nun  was  tsk-tsking  about 
They,  too,  read  what  Connie  had  written 


"Golly/'  one  of  them  said,  looking  at 
Connie,  "at  least  it's  nice  to  know  who 
jour  friends  are." 

"So  she's  chicken  and  can't  take  us," 
the  other  said,  not  looking.  "Well  then, 
good  riddance  to  her." 

And  they  walked  away.  .  . . 

The  nun's  farewell 

Connie  sat  waiting  in  Sister  M  's 

ioffice  a  little  while  later.  She'd  been  wait- 
ing only  a  few  minutes,  but  it  had  seemed 
like  days.  She  wished  the  nun  would 
hurry  up  and  come,  so  they  could  get  this 
ever  with.  She  didn't  feel  good,  all  of  a 
sudden,  for  some  reason;  her  head  was 
aching  and  her  stomach  was  making  noises, 
and  she  wished — oh  come  on,  come  on, 
she  wished — that  they  could  get  this  over 
-with. 

Sister  M  ,  when  she  finally  did  come 

back  to  the  office,  said  nothing  at  first. 
She  just  sat  down  in  her  chair  and  she 
looked  at  Connie  with  those  suddenly  sad 
eyes  of  hers. 

"Well,  you  gonna  kick  me  out  now?" 
Connie  said  after  a  minute,  figuring  that 
maybe  she  was  the  one  who  was  supposed 
to  start  the  conversation. 

"No,"  Sister  M   said,  shaking  her 

head.  "I'm  not  going  to  kick  you  out,  as 
you  say,  Concetta  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  let 
you  out." 

"Same  thing."  Connie  said. 

"No,"  Sister  M  said  again,  shaking 

her  head.  "It's  not  the  same  thing.  Con- 
cetta. Bad  girls,  really  bad  girls,  get  kicked 
out  of  here.  But  good  girls,  really  and 
basically  good  girls,  like  you — " 

"I'm  not  so  good,"  Connie  found  herself 
saying. 

" — But  good  girls  like  you,"  the  nun 
went  on,  "well,  it  always  gives  us  much 
sorrow  to  find  out  they  don't  want  us,  any 
of  us,  and  that  they  don't  want  to  stay 
with  us." 

Then  the  nun  said,  "We'll  have  to  notify 
your  father,  and  tell  him  that  you  want 
to  go.  Where  can  we  locate  him  right  now, 
Concetta?" 

Connie  told  her. 

"All  right,"  said  the  nun.  "I'll  phone  him 
in  a  little  while.  He  can  send  somebody 
over  to  pick  you  up  .  .  .  and  then  you 
can  go." 

Connie  took  a  deep  breath  and  rose  and 
started  to  head  for  the  door. 

"It  might  take  a  few  days,"  the  nun 
said,  as  she  did. 

"I  know,"  Concetta  said,  placing  her 
hand  on  the  doorknob. 

"And,"  the  nun  said,  "meanwhile,  if  you 
want,  you  can  keep  on  coming  to  classes. 
Or  you  can  stay  in  your  room.  Or  do 
anything,  Concetta.  .  .  . 

"And,"  she  went  on,  smiling  a  little  again 
now,  the  way  she  normally  did,  "while 
you  remain  here,  if  there's  anything  you 
want,  want  to  talk  over,  anything,  you 
just  come  down  here  and  you  still  con- 
sider yourself  free  to  talk  with  me.  Any 
:ime,  Concetta  ...  Do  you  understand, 
my  dear?" 

Connie's  hand  tightened  on  the  door 
] knob. 

She  tried  to  turn  it,  but  she  couldn't. 

Because  it  felt  heavy  in  her  hand  now, 
and  her  hand  felt  very  light,  both  at  the 
same  time,  and  she  couldn't,  she  couldn't 
open  the  door. 

"If  you'd  like  to  stay  .  .  ." 

She  stood  there  for  a  long  moment, 
trying. 

And  then  the  ache  in  her  head  got  worse, 
suddenly,  and  her  stomach  began  to  feel 
more  and  more  upset.  And  she  began  to 
cry,  suddenly. 

"You!"  she  screamed  then,  looking  up 
from  her  hand,  and  over  at  the  nun. 
Youuuuuuuuu!" 

Sister  M  got  up.  "What's  the  mat- 


ter?" she  asked,  all  concerned.  "What  in 
the  world's  the  matter?" 

"You!"  Connie  screamed  again.  "Why 
do  you  have  to  be  so  nice  like  this?  Why 
can't  you  be  mean  like  me?  Why  do  you 
have  to  go  making  me  feel  so  bad  .  .  . 
now?" 

She  was  bawling  by  this  time;  not  cry- 
ing, but  bawling. 

"I  don't  deserve  it,"  she  said,  the  bawling 
growing  louder,  " — you  being  so  nice  to 
me." 

She  leaned  against  the  door. 

"Why,"  she  bawled,  " — why  don't  you 
just  let  me  go  in  peace?" 

Sister  M   rushed  from  where  she 

was  standing,  and  over  to  Connie.  She  put 
her  arms  around  the  girl.  She  held  her  j 
close,  and  gentle,  as  she  let  her  cry  it  out. 

And  then,  when  the  crying  had  stopped, 
she  said,  "Would  you  like  me  to  get  you 
some  water?" 

"No,"  Connie  said. 

"Is  there  anything  you'd  like?"  the  nun 
asked. 

Connie  said  nothing. 

"Is  there.  Concetta?" 

Still,  Connie  said  nothing. 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  nun,  very  softly. 
"Come  on  .  .  .  don't  be  a  baby.  If  you'd 
like  to  stay,  just  tell  me." 

"You  mean  I  can?"  Connie  asked.  "I'm 
not  in  too  hot  water?  Hey,  how'd  you 
know,  anyway,  that  I  wanted  to  stay?" 

Sister  M   just  smiled  that  little 

smile  of  hers. 

And  Connie,  figuring  she'd  better  get 
back  to  her  classes  while  the  going  was 
good,  whispered  something  about  a  thank 
you,  and  turned  towards  the  door. 

And  once  again  she  brought  her  hand 
up  to  the  doorknob. 

And  this  time,  she  saw,  she  could  turn 
it,  very  very  easily.  .  .  . 

Talks  with  sister 

You  would  have  thought  Connie  had 

taken  a  lease  on  Sister  M  's  office, 

they  were  together  so  much  after  that 
incident — that  is,  when  Connie  wasn't  in 
class  or  up  in  her  room  doing  her  home- 
work or  spending  time  with  lots  of  the 
girls  who'd  become  her  friends.  She  spent 
lots  of  time  with  these  friends  now,  hour 
after  hour,  nice  pleasant  hours.  But  her 
happiest  hours,  by  far,  were  those  she 

would  spend  in  Sister  M  's  office, 

whenever  Sister  M   had  the  time  to 

spare,  and  where  they  both  would  relax, 
and  talk,  talk,  talk.  They  talked  about 
many  things,  the  two  of  them — religious 
things,  lay  things,  what  you  might  call 
hygiene  things,  happy  things,  sad  things, 
current  events  things,  future  things,  past 
things,  all  things. 

And  though  many  of  these  conversations 
they  had  are  just  vague  memories  to  Con- 
nie now,  swept  away  by  the  sands  of 
time,  as  they  say,  some  of  the  things  that 

happened  between  her  and  Sister  M  , 

and  some  of  the  conversations  they  had, 
these  Connie  will  never  forget. 

Like  their  conversations  that  day  Con- 
nie was  feeling  blue. 

"I  feel  sometimes,  Sister,"  she'd  say, 
"like  things  are  wrong,  even  though  I  don't 
know  what's  wrong.  And  I  get  all  choked- 
up  feeling  inside  me.  And  I'm  really  not 
much  good,  much  fun,  to  be  around  .  .  . 
And  I  don't  know  what  to  do  till  the 
feeling  passes." 

"Well,"  Sister  M   had  said,  "if  I 

were  you,  I'd  use  that  time  to  catch  up 
on  some  of  my  prayers,  to  begin  with.  And 
I'd  use  it  to  read;  that's  a  perfect  time  to 
sit  alone  with  a  book,  you  know.  And," 
she'd  asked,  "you  like  to  sing,  don't  you, 
Concetta?"  At  least,  I  hear  you  some- 
times, singing  softly,  when  I'm  passing 
your  room?" 

"Yes,"  Connie  had  said,  "I  love  to  sing." 

"Then  sing  aloud,"  Sister  M   had 


made  lovely  in  minutes 

"'"Marvel  Nails 


— a  new  liquid  preparation  that  hardens  into  long, 
glamorous  finger  nails.  Now  you  can  change 
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BITING. 

Will  not  break  or  crack.  Stays  on  until  your  own 
nails  grow  out.  Can  be  filed,  trimmed  and  beauti- 
fully polished.  Each  nail  is  made  in  one  minute. 
You  can  do  any  type  work  while  wearing  fhese 
nails.  No  preparation  like  It. 

MARVEL  KIT,  59* 
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store,  send  65$  tor  SI. 651  to: 

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New  York  7.  N.  Y. 


POEMS 


WANTED 

for  musical  setting  and 
recording.  Any  subject. 
Immediate  consideration.  FREE  examination. 
Send  your  poems  today  to  SO N G C R AFT E RS , 
Studio  L,  Acklen  Station,  Nashville,  Tenn. 


Monuments— Marhers— Direct  to  you 

Satisfaction  or  money  back  — Lowest 
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Shrinks  Hemorrhoids 
New  Way  Without  Surgery 
Stops  Itch -Relieves  Pain 

For  the  first  time  science  has  found  a 
new  healing  substance  with  the  astonishing 
ability  to  shrink  hemorrhoids  and  to  relieve 
pain  —  without  surgery. 

In  case  after  case,  while  gently  relieving 
pain,  actual  reduction  (shrinkage)  took  place. 

Most  amazing  of  all  —  results  were  so 
thorough  that  sufferers  made  astonishing 
statements  like  "Piles  have  ceased  to  be  a 
problem! " 

The  secret  is  a  new  healing  substance 
(Bio-Dyne* )  — discovery  of  a  world-famous 
research  institute. 

This  substance  is  now  available  in  sup- 
pository or  ointment  form  under  the  name 
Prepa.ro.tion  H.*  Ask  for  it  at  all  drug  count- 
ers—money back  guarantee.     *Ree.  o.s.  Pat.  off 


said,  "for  all  the  world  to  hear.  Happy 
songs.  Songs  you  like.  Sing,"  she'd  said, 
and  then  she'd  winked,  "except,"  she'd 
said,  "during  Mass  and  during  Meditation, 
of  course.  .  .  ." 

And  then  there  was  the  time  they'd 
talked  about  Connie's  "boyfriend." 

"Who  is  he  you're  so  stuck  on,"  Sister 

M   had  asked,  "and  why  are  you  so 

sad  about  him?" 

"Well,  you  know  on  Fridays,  when  I  go 
shopping    at    the    market    with  Sister 

A  ?"  Connie  had  asked.  "Well,  there's 

this  dreamboat  of  a  boy  who  works  there, 
in  meats  and  fish.  And  every  Friday  I'd 
try  to  catch  his  eye  and  hope  that  he'd 
talk  to  me.  And  finally,  last  Friday  he  did. 
And  do  you  know  what  he  said?  He  said 
he  was  going  in  the  Army  right  away." 

"The  Army?"  Sister  M   had  asked, 

all  astounded.  "How  old  is  this  boy,  Con- 
cetta?" 

"Going  on  twenty-one,"  Connie  had  said. 
"And  how  old  are  you?" 
"Going  on  fourteen." 

"More  like  thirteen,"  the  nun  had  said. 
"Oh,  Concetta!" 

And  there  had  followed  a  very  serious 
discussion  on  boys  and  girls  and  the  little 
matter  of  differences-in-their-ages.  .  .  . 

About  sin.  about  heaven 

There  were  other  times  together,  other 
conversations. 

Like  the  conversation  about  Connie's 
stepsister,  and  Connie's  own  sin. 

"My  mother  got  married  again,  you  see," 
she'd  said,  "and  she  had  another  daughter, 
my  stepsister  ...  I  went  to  see  them  one 
day.  My  mother  took  me  in  to  see  the  baby. 
And  you  should  have  seen  the  room — 
a  room  all  to  herself,  she  had — all  in  pink, 
and  with  a  beautiful  crib,  and  with  a  place 
where  my  mother  said  the  baby's  bed 
would  go  when  she  was  bigger,  a  canopy 
bed,  she  said.  And  all  I  could  do  was  stand 
there  and  envy  this  little  baby,  because 
she  was  going  to  get  all  the  things  from 
my  mother  that  I  never  got.  .  .  .  And, 
Sister,  I  wonder,  was  it  a  sin  to  envy 
this  baby  like  I  did?" 

"Do  you  envy  her  still?"  Sister  M  

had  asked. 

"No,"  Connie  had  said.  "I've  thought 
it  over  since  then — she's  only  a  little  baby, 
and  I  can  only  wish  her  the  best." 

"Then,"  Sister  M   had  said,  much 

to  Connie's  happiness,  "it  was  a  sin  at 
the  time.  But  it  is  no  longer.  .  .  ." 

And  then  there  was  the  time  they'd 
talked  about  Brownie. 

"He  was  my  dog,  when  I  was  a  kid," 
Connie  had  said,  "the  most  wonderful  little 
mutt  in  the  world.  He  ran  away  one  day, 
and  I  think  he  got  killed.  Anyway,  I  asked 
another  nun,  in  Brooklyn,  if  he  would  go 
to  heaven,  at  least;  if  there  was  a  place 
in  heaven  for  dogs,  even  mutts.  And  she 
said,  'Don't  go  bothering  me  with  such 
foolishness.  The  church  has  enough  to  do 
worrying  about  the  human  soul,  let  alone 
dogs'.  And,  you  know,  even  though  that 
was  years  ago,  I  still  think  about  Brownie. 

And  I  wonder,  Sister  M  ,  but  do  you 

think  there  might  be  a  place  in  heaven 
for  dogs?" 

Very  simple  and  direct,  the  nun  had 
nodded.  "I  do,"  she'd  said.  "At  least,  I'd 
be  very  disappointed  if  I  didn't  find  my 
pooch  up  there  if  and  when  our  Lord 
allows  me  in." 

And  that  had  settled  the  matter  of 
Brownie  and  his  whereabouts  for  Connie, 
once  and  for  all.  .  .  . 

There  were  other  times  together,  other 
conversations. 

And  they  all  of  them  had  made  Connie 
feel  so  good,  not  only  because  she  finally 
had  somebody  she  could  talk  to,  really 
talk  to;  but  because  when  she  talked  with 

Sister  M  ,  she  felt  she  was  talking 

74  with  a  woman  who  was  to  her  a  friend, 


a  sister,  a  mother,  and  her  private  saint. 

They  lasted,   these   conversations  with 

Sister  M  ,  for  the  two  years  Connie 

was  at  the  school. 

And  they  ended  on  that  morning  follow- 
ing Connie's  graduation  night,  when  the 
last  conversation  they  would  ever  have 
together  took  place  .  .  .  the  one  which 
began  with  Sister  M   so  mad,  sud- 

denly, at  first.  .  .  . 

The  walk  in  the  rain 

The  nun  had  been  waiting  in  Connie's 
room,  pacing  the  floor,  looking  out  the 
window  sometimes.  Waiting. 

And  then,  when  Connie  did  come  in, 
she  called  out,  "Where've  you  been?  We've 
been  worried  sick  .  .  .  And  look  at  you, 
soaking  wet.  Your  beautiful  new  dress — 
Your  hair —  Where've  you  been,  Con- 
cetta?" 

"In  the  rain,"  said  Connie,  "walking." 

"Since  last  night?"  asked  the  nun. 

"Yes,"  Connie  said. 

"But  why,  Concetta?  Why?" 

"Because,"  said  Connie  vaguely,  "I  like 
the  rain.  It's  like  life  is,  really.  It's  good 
and  it's  bad.  It  makes  the  flowers  grow, 
and  it  gives  people  colds  .  .  .  And  me,  I 
want  to  catch  cold  and  die." 

"Concetta!"  said  Sister  M  ,  sharply. 

"I  know,"  Connie  said.  "It's  a  sin  to 
say.  But  I  do.  I  do." 

"Why?"  she  was  asked. 

"Because,"  said  Connie,  "the  night  of 
all  nights— my  graduation.  And  did  she 
come?" 

"Who,  Concetta?" 

"My  mother,  that's  who,"  said  Connie. 
She  pretended  to  laugh.  "Oh  boy,  how  I 
felt.  I  didn't  think  it  would  ever  hit  me 
like  this.  But  last  night,  after  the  cere- 
mony, seeing  all  the  other  girls  with  their 
mothers  there,  waiting  for  them,  in  the 
lobby,  with  those  big  flowers,  those  big 
bouquets  .  .  .  And  me.  just  standing  there 
alone,  like  a  big  jerk,  making  believe  I 
was  looking  around  for  my  mother,  making 
believe — " 

She  stopped,  and  she  pretended  to  laugh 
again. 

"Did  you  invite  your  mother,  Concetta?" 
Sister  M   asked,  cutting  off  the  laugh. 

"She  knew  it  was  my  graduation,"  said 
Connie. 

"But  did  you  invite  her?"  the  nun  asked. 

This  time,  Connie  didn't  answer. 

"You  know,"  said  Sister  M   now. 

"she  might  have  thought  you  didn't  want 
her  to  come.  Did  you  ever  stop  and  think 
of  it  that  way?" 

"But  she  knew,"  said  Connie.  "She  knew 
it  was  my  graduation." 

Sister  M  sighed. 

"Well,  now,"  she  said,  changing  the  sub- 
ject, "most  of  the  girls  have  gone  already. 
Scooted  right  out  of  here,  first  thing  this 
morning  .  .  .  And  how  about  your  plans, 
Connie?  Still  the  same — to  leave  this  after- 
noon and  take  the  train  to  St.  Louis  and 
go  live  with  your  father?" 

"Sort  of  the  same.  I  guess,"  said  Connie. 
"Except  he's  not  gonna  stay  in  St.  Louis 


PHOTOGRAPHERS'  CREDITS 

The  photographs  appearing  in  this  issue 
are  credited  below  page  by  page: 

10 — Nat  Dallinger  of  Gilloon,  UPI;  11 — UPI. 
Pictorial  Parade.  Nat  Dallinger  of  Gilloon;  12 — 
Bob  Williams  of  Gilloon,  Vista,  FLO;  13 — Pic- 
torial Parade,  Nat  Dallinger  of  Gilloon,  Darlene 
Hammond  of  Pictorial  Parade;  14 — Earl  Leaf  of 
Galaxy.  Nat  Dallinger  of  Gilloon;  Nat  Dallinger 
of  Gilloon,  Wide  World;  19-20 — Hamilton  Mail- 
lard  of  Rapho-Guillumette,  London  Daily  Ex- 
press from  Pictorial  Parade;  22 — Howell  Conant 
from  Topix;  24-25 — Wagner  International  Pho- 
tos; 26-27 — Nat  Dallinger  of  Gilloon;  28-29 — 
UPI,  E.  H.  Jaffee;  30-31 — Bradley  Smith  of 
Rapho-Guillumette;  34 — Gene  Trindl  of  Topix: 
40-43 — Griffith  and  Reiter  from  Galaxy;  44 — 
Pictorial  Parade;   52 — Curt  Gunther  of  Topix. 


long.  He  got  a  job  in  Beverly  Hills,  Cali-y 
fornia,  beginning  a  few  weeks  from  now 
playing  at  a  restaurant  or  something  .  . 
He  wants  me  to  go  there  with  him." 

"Beverly    Hills,"    said   Sister  M  

"That's  right  near  Hollywood,  isn't  it? 

"I  think  so/'  said  Connie. 

"Well  now,"  said  the  nun,  "that  will  be 
nice  and  convenient  for  you  when  yoi: 
decide  you're  ready  to  become  a  movie 
star."  She  smiled  a  little,  in  that  way  oi  j 
hers.  "You  still  want  to  become  a  singe; 
and  a  movie  star  someday,  don't  you 
Concetta?  Or  have  you  changed  youi  i 
mind?" 

"I  don't  know  anymore,"  said  Connie. 

"Connie  Stevens,"  said  the  nun,  " — that  - 
what  you  said  you're  going  to  call  your- 
self, wasn't  it?  After  the  name  your  fathei 

uses?" 

"I  don't  know  anymore,"  said  Connie. 

"Well,"  said  the  nun,  "I  know.  I  know 
you're  going  to  make  it,  too,  Concetta.  And  i 
the  way  you've  made  us  all  so  happy  these 
past  two  years,  singing  for  us,  acting  in 
our  plays,  that's  the  way  you're  going  to 
make  the  whole  world  happy  someday  .  . 
And,"  she  said,  "believe  me,  even  though 
I  won't  be  seeing  any  of  your  big  pictures. 
I'll  know  when  you  make  them.  And  I'll 
be  rooting  for  you,  praying  for  you.  .  .  t' 

She  swallowed  something  that  seemed  to. 
get  caught  in  her  throat. 

End  of  an  era 

Then  she  said.  "All  right  now,  Concetta. 
enough  of  this  talking.  Get  on  with  you, 
now,  right  in  there,  in  the  bathroom,  and 
dry  your  hair  out  and  change  your  clothes 
And  quick,  too.  Before  you  really  catch 
that  cold  and  end  up  sneezing  your  way 
all  the  way  to  California.  .  .  . 

"Go  on,  now. 

"Go  on." 

Connie  obeyed,  going  into  the  bathroom, 
and  changing. 

And  it  wasn't  until  she  was  finished, 
till  she  came  back  out  into  her  room,  that 
she  realized  that  the  nun  was  not  there. 

Then  she  saw  the  note  on  her  desk. 

It  was  a  short  note,  very  short,  and  it 
was  signed  by  Sister  M  . 

"Dear  Concetta,"  it  read,  "I  do  not  like 
good-byes.  I  never  have.  So  please  allow 
me  to  bid  you  bon  voyage  in  this  manner. 
Be  good.  Be  successful.  Love  our  Lord, 
always.  And  remember  that  I  shall  always 
be  thinking  of  you." 

There  was  a  P.S.  to  the  note.  too. 

"Please,  too,"  it  read,  "think  about  what 
I  said  about  your  mother  not  coming  to 
your  graduation  last  night.  Remember,  you 
did  not  ask  her,  and  maybe  that  was  all 
she  was  waiting  for,  an  invitation.  Could 
I  not  be  right,  Concetta?" 

Connie  nodded. 

"Yes,  Sister,"  she  found  herself  saying, 
as  she  stared  down  at  the  note.  "Yes,  you're 
right." 

She  looked  up  then.  And  she  looked 
around  the  empty  room. 

"Sister?"  she  called  out. 

"Sister — aren't  we  ever  gonna  talk  to- 
gether again,  you  and  me?  .  .  .  Sister?" 

But,  for  the  first  time  in  two  years  now. 
there  was  no  answer  to  her  call. 

And  Connie,  knowing  that  it  was  over, 
this  part  of  her  life,  these  two  beautiful 
years,  put  down  the  note  and  walked  over 
to  the  window  and  rested  her  hand  against 
the  pane. 

It  was  still  raining  outside,  she  could  see. 

The  rain  was  really  slamming  itself 
against  the  window. 

It  was  making  a  design,  too,  a  long  and 
streaming  design,  like  tears. 

And,  all  of  a  sudden,  Connie  saw,  there 
were  tears  coming  down  both  sides  of  the 
window.  END 

Co?i?iie  will  co-star  in  Parrish.  Warner 
Bros. 


iA  Widow's  Torment 

f  '  

\(Continued  from  page  45) 

Lauren  made  up  her  mind,  packed  her 
belongings,  took  her  two  children,  Stevie, 
•aged  eight,  and  Leslie,  a  perky  four,  and 
moved  to  New  York,  far  from  the  shop 
talk  and  shattered  dreams  of  a  Holly- 
wood that  no  longer  was  home  for  her — 
not  without  Bogie. 

When  love  has  been  good  to  two  people, 
3nd  love  was  more  than  good  to  Lauren 
and  Bogie,  it  sometimes  robs  the  survivor 
of  the  will  to  love  again.  But  Lauren 
Bacall  is  made  of  stronger  stuff.  She  has 
the  guts  to  face  her  mirror  and  call  a 
6pade  a  spade. 

"Our  marriage  was  so  good  I  find 
it  difficult  to  live  any  other  way." 
In  love,  there  are  givers  and  there  are 
takers.     Lauren  is  a  giver.     Bogie  was 

fa  taker,  a  man  who  had  lost  at  marriage 

t  three  times  by  trying  for  the  impossible: 
a  bachelor's  freedom  within  the  cast-iron 

I  conventions  of  marriage. 

j!  But  with  Lauren,  he  learned  to  give. 
fThen  all  too  soon  he  was  gone.  And  Lauren 
had  to  learn  to  give  all  over  again. 

Reincarnation  of  Bogie 

New  York  was  the  spirit  and  the  soul 
that  helped  Lauren  to  forget  and  to 
^nd  a  man,  a  man  who  in  his  own  Bogart 
fashion,  helped  Lauren  to  smile  again. 

Jason  Robards,  Jr.  is  a  sensitive,  some- 
:imes  violent  stage  actor,  who  is  to  the 
teeth  a  reincarnation  of  Bogie.  But 
Jason  prefers  to  live  on  as  Jason,  not  as 
:he  spirit  of  a  dead  man.  Jason  will  not 
olay  Bogie,  though  their  physical  resem- 
blance is  not  to  be  denied. 

"Jason  did  Petrified  Forest  on  the 
Equity   Library   Theatre   stage  some 
years    back,    and    he    did    the  role 
Bogie  played  on  screen,  and  it  was 
frightening  the  resemblance  the  two 
rebels  had,"  a  director  opined. 
Lauren    noticed    the    resemblance  im- 
mediately,  but  Jason,   who   became  her 
;lose  friend  in  short  order,  fought  to  keep 
nis  own  identity,  fought  to  free  himself 
Df  the  ghost-like  role  that  Lauren  was 
Drojecting  him  into. 

On  a  recent  night,  they  entered  the 
3aq  Room,  an  intimate  West  Side  spot 
A'here  an  uninhibited  song  stylist  named 
Janice  Mars  sang  lover's  blues  like  blues 
were  meant  to  be  sung.  Sitting  in  the 
oom  were  the  perpetual  newlyweds,  Bob 
Wagner  and  Natalie  Wood. 
[  "Hi  Betty,"  Bob  warmly  greeted 
Lauren. 

Natalie  smiled  at  their  long  time  favor- 
te,  Lauren  Bacall,  who  to  her  good  friends 
s  always  Betty.  Jason  calmly  surveyed 
he  room.  Janice  Mars  was  about  to  do  an- 
other number. 

"Hey,  Jase,  join  me,"  she  called. 

Jason  winked  at  Lauren,  she  smiled  back 
2i  the  off-handed  way  that  only  she  can, 
»nd  Jason  was  off  to  the  races  in  a 
ivheel-and-deal  manner  reminiscent  of 
3ogie,  yet  completely  his  own  effortless 
<nd  unapproachable  Robards'  way  of 
aughing  at  life. 

Jason,  in  his  slow  gin  baritone,  belted 
•ut  an  old  Irish  ditty  that  was  blues  in 
he  Dublin  style.  Janice  Mars,  playing  it 
traight  faced,  chimed  in  behind  Jason, 
md  Lauren — she  just  smiled  her  warm- 
hearted approval  at  a  man  who  had  taught 
ler  how  to  smile  again. 

"Hey,  honey,  join  us,"  Jason  tossed 

in  an  aside  to  Lauren. 

The  crowd,  not  knowing  to  what  extent 
he  would  take  their  prodding,  gently  in- 
isted  she  bail  Jason  out  with  a  singing 
oice. 


And,  there,  in  the  smoke  of  a  dimly 
lit  back  room,  with  the  bluish  light  play- 
ing across  their  happy  faces,  a  happiness 
long  gone  seemed  to  be  reborn,  as  Lauren 
and  Jason  sang  in  a  broken -bottle  pair 
of  voices  that  would  have  made  Bogie 
laugh  a  thousand  times  over. 

"They    look    great,"    laughed  Bob 

Wagner.  "It's  good  to  see  her  smile 

again." 

"It's    like    old    times,"    Natalie  added. 

Lauren  Bacall's  smile  that  night  was 
a  smile  long  overdue.  And  the  man  who 
put  the  smile  on  her  face  is  a  man  who 
has  successfully  come  through  a  school 
of  hard  knocks. 

Jason  Robards,  Jr.  like  Betty  Bacall,  has 
known  moments  of  great  sorrow.  His 
idol,  Jason  Robards,  Sr.,  was  a  talented 
stage  star  who  went  blind  at  the  height 
of  his  career.  The  boy  Jason  worshipped 
his  father  and  the  thought  that  his  idol, 
now  blind  and  weary,  would  never  be 
on  a  stage  again  saddened  him  beyond  all 
sadness. 

"My  dad  was  a  great  actor,"  Jason 
said,  "and  it  was  sad  to  see  him  die 
inside  each  day." 

Finally,  after  years  of  darkness,  the 
miracle  came  to  pass.  Jason  Robards, 
Sr.  got  his  sight  back,  and  to  Jason,  Jr. 
it  was  as  if  the  heavens  had  opened  to 
them. 

Jason  had  a  tough  ride  himself.  After 
Navy  service,  during  which  a  ship  he  was 
on  was  torpedoed,  he  came  back  to  a 
theater  that  was  not  overly  anxious  to 
welcome  home  any  more  actors. 

But  he  plugged,  and  after  his  Equity 
Library  Theater  stint  in  Petrified  Forest. 
he  did  a  number  of  live  television  shows 
in  which  his  work  was  noticed.  Finally, 
his  big  break  came  on  Broadway  in 
Eugene  O'Neill's  Long  Day's  Journey  In- 
to Night. 

The  raves  were  all  his,  and  he  followed 
Journey  with  The  Disenchanted,  playing 
the  sodden  drunk  that  Scott  Fitzgerald, 
the  legendary  writer  of  the  '20's,  seemed 
to  have  become  in  his  last  days. 

But  Jason's  marriage  was  not  working 
out  too  well.  There  were  fights.  Separa- 
tions.   And  a  growing  apartness. 

His  energy  seemed  to  be  channeled  into 
areas  that  can  only  be  harmful  to  a  cre- 
ative talent.  His  drinking  bouts  became 
almost  as  legendary  as  Bogie's.    Then  .  .  . 

He  met  Lauren. 

Lauren,  having  moved  into  the  stately 
Dakota  apartments  on  Central  Park  West, 
and  having  stepped  into  the  New  York 
social  whirl,  found  little  time  on  her 
hands,  but  still  there  was  a  great  void  in 
her  life.  She  could  not  find  a  man  to 
replace  Bogie.    Then  .  .  . 

She  met  Jason. 

She  recalled  the  day  when  she  was 
only  nineteen  and  the  worldly-wise  Bogie 
had  swept  her  off  her  feet  and  married 
her. 

"I  wasn't  exactly  what  you'd  call  a 

woman  of  the  world." 

Bi  t  when  she  met  Jason,  she  had  had 
a  taste  of  the  world  of  glamour,  and  had 
known  the  thrill  of  international  adulation. 
But  .  .  . 

The  same  feeling  that  had  hit  her  with 
Bogie  when  she  was  a  fresh-faced  un- 
known of  19,  hit  her  again. 

She  has  found  many  happy  moments  in 
the  company  of  the  completely  uninhibited 
Jason  Robards.  In  New  York,  a  party 
is  not  really  a  party  until  Jason  hits  it. 
Then,  he  swings  into  high  gear,  taking 
over  the  singing,  dancing,  and  merry 
making.  A  party  brightens  with  his  ap- 
pearance, and  so  does  Lauren,  for  Jason 
has  that  hell-for-leather  attitude  toward 
life  that  her  beloved  Bogie  had. 

Lauren  has  met  the  challenge  of  lone- 
liness and  appears  to  have  come  out  of 
her  self-imposed  shell. 


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Only  Frank  Sinatra,  of  her  many  pur- 
suers, came  anywhere  near  catching 
Lauren.  But  Lauren  says  now,  "The  less 
said  about  Mister  Sinatra,   the  better!" 

Frank,  a  doting  father  to  his  own  chil- 
dren, was  not  exactly  the  best  choice  for 
Lauren  and  Bogie's  children.  And,  with 
Lauren,  her  children  come  first. 

"Right  now,"  she  said,  "the  chil- 
dren are  the  most  important  thing  in 
my  life." 

And,  she  knows  all  too  well  the  sacred 
image  held  of  Bogie  by  young  Stephen. 
"Stephen  remembers  his  father  so 
well,  and  I  want  him  always  to  think 
of  what  a  kind,  wonderful  man  he 
was."   Then,   Lauren   added   a  'but.' 

"But,  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  him 
every  day  because  I  don't  want  to  cre- 
ate any  insurmountable  obstacles  for 
them  (meaning  her  children)  when  I 
remarry." 

Jason  Robards  is  a  proud  man  and  he 
will  make  it  on  his  own.  With  Bogie's 
Lauren.  With  Bogie's  friends  and  hers. 
And,  with  Stephen  and  Leslie. 

Lauren  Bacall  is  a  lot  of  woman.  She's 
proved  it  time  and  again,  especially  during 
the  desperately  trying  period  in  which 
she  was  the  only  one  who  knew  Bogie 
was  dying.  For  ten  months,  she  played 
it  straight  as  if  nothing  were  happening. 
And,  Bogie,  realizing  the  end  was  near, 


and  watching  her  keep  her  heart  from 
showing  on  her  sleeve,  said: 

"She's  my  wife.   So  she  stays  home. 
Maybe  that's  the  way  you  tell  the 
ladies  from  the  broads  in  this  town." 
Now,  she  seeks  happiness.    And,  as  she 
says  it  in  the  candid  way  that  has  become 
her  trademark: 

"I  feel  that  the  greatest  compliment 
I  can  pay  Bogie  is  to  get  married.  Be- 
cause our  marriage  was  so  good  I  find 
it  difficult  to  live  any  other  way." 
She  leaves  her  heart  open.    And,  for 
Jason  Robards  that  opening  is  perhaps 
the  lead  he  needs  to  make  his  move. 

Jason,  delighted  when  Lauren  opened 
in  Good-bye  Charlie  on  Broadway,  boosted 
her  to  the  skies  to  all  his  close  friends. 
Then,  not  to  be  outdone,  he  starred  in 
Toys  in  the  Attic  to  rave  notices,  and  no 
one  could  have  been  happier  than  Lauren 
over  his  success. 

They  toasted  each  other  with  cham- 
pagne, and  the  bubbling  smiles  that  crossed 
their  happy  faces  were  more  than  just  the 
effects  of  sparkling  champagne. 

Theirs  is  not  one  of  those  dimly-lit, 
out-of-the-way  restaurant  type  friend- 
ships. They  appear  in  such  spots  as  the 
Brasserie,  a  restaurant  frequented  by  many 
and  as  bright  as  a  Christmas  tree.  Even 
the  most  cynical  beings  wish  them  the 
best. 


"Jason's  his  own  man.    And  Betty 
knows   it.     He   doesn't   need   to  do 
Bogie  to  make  everything  seem  right. 
And,  if  he  had  to,  he'd  change  his 
physical  resemblance  to  Bogie,  just 
to  make  it  on  his  own." 
Anyone  who  knows  Jason  knows  this. 
The  actor  who  said  it  had  known  Jason 
through    the    hard    times,    but   he  also 
knew  and  liked  Lauren.    He  was  hoping 
the  comparisons  between  Bogie  and  Jason 
wouldn't  be  any  stumbling  block  to  the 
new  happiness  Lauren  and  Jason  seem  to 
have  found. 

One  of  the  funniest,  though  cherished, 
taunts  that  Bogie  ever  tossed  out  was 
when  he  said: 

"I  had  to  marry  her.  She  chased  me 
until  I  had  my  back  to  the  wall.  I  did 
what  any  gentleman  would  do — I  gave 
in." 

Lauren  has  always  laughed  at  the 
old  line. 

It  was  a  private  joke  between  Betty  and 
her  Bogie.  Now,  she  has  left  the  way  open 
for  a  fiercely  independent  man  to  laugh 
at  the  same  line,  a  line  Bogie  coined,  but 
held  no  copyright  on.  A  line  that  any  gen- 
tleman would  be  wise  to  think  over.  For, 
as  Jason  knows,  when  a  man's  got  his 
back  against  the  wall,  giving  in  can 
be  more  fun.  Especially  if  he  gives  in 
to  Lauren.  END 


The  Good  Wife 


(Continued  from  page  39) 

Jeanne  had  to  forget  all  hopes  for  resum- 
ing her  career  as  a  model.  Besides,  she 
soon  had  her  own  Dino,  Ricci  and  Gina  to 
raise. 

Many  times,  when  the  stepchildren  were 
going  through  the  usual  adolescent  re- 
bellion, she  wondered  if  they  were  think- 
ing, "You're  not  my  real  mother;  you're 
only  my  stepmother!"  But  she  held  her 
temper,  mustered  all  her  patience  and 
offered  all  her  love  in  handling  each  little 
crisis  in  a  big  family. 

There  were  times  when  Dean  found 
married  life  oppressive  and  stormed  out, 
only  to  return  and  promise  to  try  a  little 
harder  the  next  time.  Things  got  better 
after  he  split  with  Jerry  Lewis,  and  he 
said  then,  "Now  I  can  give  more  time  to 
family  life." 

All  seven  kids,  plus  Dean,  Jeanne  and 
three  servants,  live  happily  in  a  big  11- 
room  Beverly  Hills  House.  While  Dean 
goes  out  to  work,  Jeanne  runs  the  house 
and  keeps  the  kids  in  line,  and  still  has 
enough  energy  left  to  do  occasional  party- 
ing with  Dean.  For  him,  she  is  a  patient, 
tolerant,  understanding  wife.  But  perhaps 
more  important,  at  home  she  plays  her 
greatest  role,  a  loving  stepmother,  and 
does  it  well. 

Gloria  Stewart 

James  Stewart  was  41  when  he  finally 
married,  in  1949. 

As  Hollywood's  most  eligible  bachelor 
for  a  long  time,  he  had  dated  many  stars 
from  Marlene  Dietrich  to  Olivia  de  Havi- 
land.  But  he  kept  avoiding  marriage. 

"I  couldn't  stand  having  anybody  around 
me  all  the  time,"  he  explained.  But  his 
years  in  the  U.  S.  Air  Force  changed  him, 
and  when  he  returned  to  Hollywood,  he 
was  more  of  an  extrovert.  At  the  Gary 
Coopers'  house,  he  met  and  fell  in  love 
with  Gloria  McLean  Hatrick,  a  divorcee 
with  two  children.  They  married  and  two 
years  later,  their  twin  daughters  were 
born. 

76     Jimmy's  marriage  has  worked  because 


he  wouldn't  compromise.  He  wouldn't 
marry  on  impulse.  He  held  off  the  aggres- 
sive Hollywood  actresses;  he  resisted  the 
glamour  girls  looking  for  a  star  husband. 
He  waited,  and  kept  looking,  until  he 
found  the  Right  Girl. 

Of  course,  he  had  to  make  a  lot  of  ad- 
justments. He  had  to  adjust  to  a  couple 
of  lively  stepchildren,  to  having  his  own 
children  late  in  life,  to  being  surrounded 
by  noisy,  happy  kids  in  the  house,  to  hav- 
ing a  wife  and  new  responsibilities,  not 
easy  for  a  long-time  bachelor. 

He  was  fortunate  in  finding  Gloria,  a 
well-poised,  beautiful  socialite  who  knew 
Hollywood  too  well  to  want  to  become  an 
actress.  She  runs  their  big  house  efficiently, 
giving  the  kind  of  formal  parties  he  likes, 
such  as  their  recent  party  for  the  King  of 
Nepal.  With  her  encouragement,  he  has 
come  out  of  his  shell  enough  to  become 
active  in  civic  and  school  organizations 
and  the  Boy  Scouts. 

"I  like  family  life,"  he  says.  Gloria 
sighs,  "He's  the  ideal  man:  patient,  kind, 
thoughtful." 

Jimm.v  gambled  in  the  firm  belief  there 
was  only  One  Girl  for  him  and  she  was 
worth  waiting  for  .  .  .  and  winning. 

Janet  Curtis 

When  Janet  Leigh  married  Tony  Curtis 
it  was  her  third  marriage.  She  didn't  know 
it  then,  but  it  was  destined  to  be  her 
toughest  .  .  .  and  happiest. 

On  the  surface,  at  the  beginning,  things 
looked  good.  Janet  got  better  roles;  Tony 
moved  up  at  Universal  studios;  they 
started  saving  money,  and  they  were 
working  out  their  cultural,  religious  and 
personality  differences.  Then,  suddenly, 
the  pressures  of  Hollywood  got  Tony 
down,  and  he  became  depressed,  dis- 
tressed, emotionally  ill,  and  had  to  go  to 
a  psychoanalyst  for  help. 

In  this  crisis,  when  the  man  of  the 
family  is  down,  Janet  knew  instinctively 
her  role.  She  stayed  home,  started  raising 
babies,  became  more  the  wife  and  less  the 
actress.  She  stopped  taking  picture  offers 
that  required  going  on  location  away  from 
Tony.  She  encouraged  Tony  in  his  new 
self  probings,  his  budding  intellectualism. 
She  gave  him  a  deeper  love  and  a  greater 
understanding  as  he  wandered  down  the 


dark,  tortured  paths  of  analysis,  tearing 
at  the  roots  of  childhood  memories  and  re- 
living past  agonies. 

She  summoned  all  her  patience  to 
tolerate  Tony's  mercurial  moods  of  anger, 
self-reproach,  frustration.  She  stood  fast 
by  her  man,  as  all  loving  women  have 
done  through  the  ages  when  their  man 
was  threatened. 

Instead  of  competing  with  him — as  many 
actresses  do  with  their  actor  husbands — 
she  submerged  herself  so  that  Tony  was 
undisputed  boss  and  big  star  of  the  family. 
She  watched  happily  as  he  developed  con- 
fidence, got  top  roles,  earned  huge  salaries, 
took  his  place  among  Hollywood's  articu- 
late young  leaders. 

Their  marriage' worked  because  she  did 
not  hesitate  to  continue  loving  her  mate 
through  sickness,  as  well  as  in  health, 
as  they  had  promised  each  other  solemnly 
in  the  marriage  vows. 

Lydia  Heston 

Chuck  Heston  fell  in  love  with  Lydia 
Clarke  when  they  were  speech  majors  at 
Northwestern  University.  Two  years  later, 
in  1944,  just  before  he  went  into  the  Army 
for  three  years,  they  married. 

When  he  returned,  they  started  the 
heartbreaking  job  of  looking  for  acting 
jobs.  Sometimes  they  acted  in  the  same 
play,  sometimes  they  didn't.  In  1950,  they 
won  the  Theatre  World  Awards  as  "most 
promising  actor  and  actress  of  the  year." 

Their  marriage  worked  during  their 
lean  years  because,  as  Chuck  said  then, 
"We  both  want  the  same  things — each 
other,  and  work  in  the  theater."  The  test 
came  when  Chuck's  career  started  to 
move.  Lydia  could  have  competed  with 
him,  trying  to  keep  up  the  pace.  Instead, 
she  reacted  as  a  wife  instead  of  as  an 
actress,  and  she  deliberately  slowed  down 
her  own  career,  to  help  Chuck.  She  sought 
modeling  work,  so  they  could  survive 
while  Chuck  pursued  new  acting  jobs. 
They  lived  in  a  one-room  cold-water  flat 
"overlooking  a  garbage  can." 

Lydia  said,  "Two  people  can  work  and 
still  live  together  happily  provided  they 
are  both  interested  in  each  other's  work." 
She  took  occasional  acting  jobs,  at  Chuck's 
urging,  but  when  their  first  baby,  Fraser, 
arrived,  she  went  into  semi-retirement. 


Because  Chuck  has  been  on  location  so 
much  and  because  the  baby  arrived  when 
he  was  abroad,  he  and  Lydia  have  en- 
dured many  and  long  separations.  Too. 
she  has  virtually  given  up  her  own  career. 
Yet  theirs  is  a  happy  marriage.  Chuck 
seems  calm,  considerate,  loving,  and  in- 
sists, "A  successful  marriage  is  the  art  of 
the  possible;  I  never  argue  with  my  wife."' 
She  admits  the  constant  traveling  and 
their  three  homes  make  life  exciting. 

If  she  had  tried  to  race  him.  careerwise. 
she  might  have  wrecked  their  marriage. 
By  deliberately  falling  behind,  she  won 
the  marital  race. 

Roselle  Como 

"I've  always  wanted  to  be  on  your 
show,"  the  gorgeous  girl  said  when  the 
studio  crew  wandered  away  and  left  her 
momentarily  alone  with  Perry  Como. 

"You're  a  fine  singer,"  Perry  said.  She 
smiled,  as  she  sized  him  up  apprecia- 
tively. He  was  over  40,  his  black  hair  was 
graying,  he  had  a  wife  and  three  kids.  But 
he  was  still  handsome,  a  power  in  TV,  and 
rich.  "After  the  show."  she  whispered. 
"Why  don't  you  come  over  to  my  place 
and  unwind?  .  .  .  We'll  relax." 

If  Roselle  Como  had  known  of  this  con- 
versation, she  wouldn't  have  worried — 
she  trusted  her  husband. 

"Sorry."  said  Perry.  "Can't  .  .  .  I've  al- 
ready promised  Father  Bob  and  my 
brother-in-law  Dee  to  go  for  spaghetti  .  .  . 
then  we  got  to  hurry  home  .  .  .  tomor- 
row's Sunday  .  .  .  early  mass." 

After  the  show.  Perry  did  just  what  he 
said  he'd  do.  The  next  morning  he  and 
Roselle,  and  Terry  and  David,  went  to 
church.  Their  eldest.  Ronnie,  would  have 
gone,  too;  but  he  was  away  at  Notre  Dame. 

When  Perry  and  Roselle  eloped  in  1933. 
he  was  a  touring  band  vocalist  who  peri- 
odically went  back  to  barbering  when 
things  got  bad.  When  he  finally  made  the 
big  time  in  New  York,  he  and  Roselle 
agreed  they  didn't  want  to  be  a  show- 
business  couple  living  in  a  glamorous  fish- 
bowl.  So  their  marriage  worked  because 
they  accepted  a  discipline,  backed  by  a 
strong  religious  faith.  They  moved  to  the 
suburbs,  permitted  very  few  show-busi- 
ness cronies  to  come  to  their  home,  avoided 
night  clubs  and  premieres,  and  tried  to 
lead  a  "normal  life" — going  to  church, 
playing  tennis  and  golf,  barbecuing  meals, 
singing  in  the  kitchen  while  strumming  a 
mandolin,  sitting  around  and  watching 
TV,  playing  with  the  kids  in  the  yard. 

"The  best  things  in  life  are  your  God. 
your  home,  your  family.  These  things  were 
mine  when  I  was  making  S15  a  week  as 
a  barber.  They  are  still  the  only  things 
that  count  for  me." 

Shirley  Parker 

In  these  days,  when  Togetherness  is 
supposed  to  be  the  core  of  a  good  mar- 
riage, Shirley  MacLaine  has  built  her  mar- 
riage on  Apartness. 

In  six  years  of  marriage  to  Steve  Parker, 
they  have  been  apart  most  of  the  time.  She 
works  in  Hollywood;  he  makes  movies  in 
Tokyo.  It  all  started  when  he  went  to  the 
Orient  four  years  ago  to  make  good  on 
his  own  and  thus  head  off  being  called 
"Mr.  Shirley  MacLaine."  Shirley  remained 
in  Hollywood  and  even  had  then-  baby 
alone — she  drove  to  the  hospital  unescorted 
when  the  time  came. 

When  Steve's  away,  she  goes  alone  to 
the  Sinatra-Martin  "clan"  parties,  leaving 
herself  open  to  malicious  gossip.  Yet  her 
marriage  works,  and  her  radiant  spirits 
indicate  she's  a  happy  wife.  In  a  man- 
trapping  community,  where  a  wife  doesn't 
trust  her  husband  as  far  as  she  can  throw 
a  Martini  glass,  she  often  does  not  see  her 
husband  for  months  at  a  time.  Yet  she 
doesn't  seem  to  worry;  she  doesn't  seem 


to  care  what  people  think  of  her  marriage. 

She's  admitted  that  Steve  is  so  different. 
"His  views  are  so  opposite,"  and  "the 
only  thing  we  have  in  common  is  that  we 
both  like  to  be  alone  at  times."  But  they 
love  each  other  fiercely,  and  they  phone 
each  other  an  hour  at  a  time,  two  or  three 
times  a  week,  and  they  write  daily. 

This  curious  relationship  is  being  held 
by  distance  rather  than  closeness,  and  by 
the  hope  that  today's  sacrifice  is  tomor- 
row's happiness.  Shirley  tolerates  the  sep- 
arations because  they  enable  Steve  to 
establish  himself  as  a  producer,  and  then 
he'll  be  more  comfortable  being  a  star's 
husband.  Soon,  she  says,  they'll  be  together 
all  the  time — six  months  in  Hollywood, 
six  months  in  Tokyo. 

Dorothy  Mitchum 

Bob  Mitchum  met  Dorothy  Spence  at  16 
and  married  her  at  27.  when  he  was  an 
odd -jobs  man.  restlessly  trj'ing  to  find 
the  right  occupation. 

She  has  put  up  with  him  through 
failure  and  success.  And  surely  sometimes 
she  must  have  wondered  if  success  is 
better  for  their  marriage,  because  Bob's 
being  a  star  has  made  it  impossible  for 
him  to  Live  It  Up  unnoticed.  Bob,  natural- 
ly unconventional  and  rebellious,  makes 
headlines  with  his  brawls  and  frank  talk. 

Bob  has  admittedly  been  in  and  out  of 
jails  for  vagrancy  as  a  kid;  his  fifty  days 
in  jail  on  a  marijuana  charge  made  the 
front  pages:  his  involvement  with  booze 
and  broads  is  well  known.  He  is  hardly 
the  type  of  husband  women  yearn  for 
openly.  Yet  his  marriage  has  held  fast.  He 
and  Dorothy  have  raised  three  fine  kids; 
he  is  devoted  to  them,  and  he  is  a  loving 
husband  to  Dorothy  in  his  own  fashion. 

She  understands  her  husband — and  isn't 
that  what  every  wife  should  try  to  do? 
She  expects  from  him  only  what  she 
knows  he  can  give.  Her  realistic  approach 
has  saved  this  marriage  for  20  years.  She 
has  built  an  exciting  family  life  around 
his  shortcomings  as  well  as  his  loving 
qualities — instead  of  trying  to  push  for  a 
safe,  colorless  husband  whose  main  virtue 
is  keeping  out  of  trouble. 

Shirley  Boone 

Pat  Boone  dated  Shirley  Foley  ten 
months  before  he  got  up  enough  nerve 
to  kiss  her. 

They  steady-dated  two  years,  when 
suddenly  Shirley's  family  had  to  move  to 
another  city.  The  only  way  they  could 
stay  together  was  to  marry.  But  their 
families  thought  they  were  too  young. 
Nobody  had  faith  in  two  19-year-olds 
marrying,  especially  when  the  boy  was 
still  going  to  college  and  had  no  money. 

But  Pat  and  Shirley  had  faith  in  their 
love  and  common  sense,  so  they  eloped 
with  the  help  of  a  sympathetic  minister, 
who  gave  them  their  first  gift,  a  Bible. 

Pat  did  the  impossible  by  finishing  col- 
lege while  building  a  sensational  career, 
and  Shirley  proved  she  could  run  the 
little  family  on  S40  a  week  as  well  as 
S40.000  a  week.  When  fame  came  along, 
Pat  resisted  the  usual  temptation  to  be- 
come a  playboy  or  a  showoff.  Instead,  he 
stayed  close  to  the  "square"  virtues  of 
faithfulness,  churchgoing.  giving  to  charity, 
working  for  religious  and  moral  causes. 
He  and  Shirley  periodically  repeat  their 
marriage  vows,  to  remind  themselves  that 
"you  never  get  anything  good  out  of 
breaking  a  promise  to  God." 

Their  marriage  has  worked  because  they 
had  good  family  backgrounds,  they  grew 
through  adolescence  together  and  matured 
together,  they  worked  side  by  side,  they 
struggled  together,  they  weren't  afraid  of 
problems,  they  prayed  together.  And  with 
Pat,  Shirley  knew  she  would  take  any 
chance.  END 


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Eddie  Named  Father  of  Liza 


(Continued  from  page  33) 

out  a  little  silver  comb  and  started  to. 
comb  Liza's  hair — right  there  at  that  big 
party  with  the  big  white  cake  on  the 
table  with  all  the  other  pretty  things. 
Mama  made  Liza  feel  like  the  party  was 
for  her. 

Then  Liza  saw  Eddie  kissing  Mama  and 
the  three  of  them  were  in  a  huddle  of 
love.  They  laughed  and  it  made  Liza  so 
happy.  She  reached  out  her  arms  for  Ed- 
die and  clung  to  his  neck  with  sheer  joy. 

He  said  lovely  things  to  her  in  a  tender 
voice — not  like  that  other  mock-stern 
voice  she  couldn't  quite  remember.  That 
older  voice  that  was  there,  and  then  sud- 
denly, wasn't  there  anymore. 

This  was  the  man  who  put  her  on  top  of 
a  pillow  in  a  bicycle  basket  and  took  her 
for  fun  rides  when  they  were  on  a  vaca- 
tion in  England.  This  was  the  man  who 
swung  her  way  up  in  the  air,  calling  her 
"baby  doll,"  "sweet  princess"  and  "pump- 
kin." This  was  the  man  who  held  her  tiny 
hand  so  very  gently  in  his.  The  man  who 
sang  at  the  top  of  his  voice  just  for  her. 

Mama  had  said  once,  "Daddy  has  gum." 

And  Liza  had  trotted  over  to  his  knee, 
put  her  fragile  little  hand  on  it  and  asked, 
"Daddy,  gum,  please,  gum,  Daddy." 

And  Daddy  just  sat  there,  eyes  riveted 


May  Britt's  Own  Story 


(Continued  from  page  21) 

being  performed  and  I  shall  be  forbidden 
to  work:  should  this  happen,  I  should  go 
back  to  Europe  to  work,  where  these  race 
discriminations  do  not  exist  or  are  not  so 
deeply  felt. 

Some  other  people  foresee  that,  marrying 
Sammy,  the  demand  for  my  services  as 
actress  on  the  cinematographic  market  will 
suffer  a  heavy  loss  and  I  will  find  work 
with  more  and  more  increasing  difficulty. 
And  also  this  is  a  risk  that  I  feel  like 
running. 

It  is  true  that  I  am  fond  of  my  work, 
but  it  is  true  as  well  that  I  would  give  it 
up  for  Sammy's  love:  because  I  love  him 
more  than  any  other  thing  in  the  world. 

And  Father  says  that  had  I  been  an 
American  girl,  perhaps  my  point  of  view 
would  have  been  quite  different.  But  I 
have  been  brought  up  in  a  family  and  in 
a  country  where  a  complete  race  tolerance 
exists  and  where  the  color  of  the  skin  does 
not  represent  a  barrier. 

Perhaps  it  is  due  to  this  that  I  was  not 
afraid  of  the  judgment  of  my  family  about 
the  decision  I  had  taken.  In  fact  my  father 
came  to  London  where  Sammy  had  ac- 
companied me:  they  made  their  mutual 
acquaintance  and  they  took  a  liking  to  each 
other.  They  understood  each  other  and 
joked  as  if  they  were  two  old  friends. 

Sammy  is  for  me  a  very  good  boy: 
honest,  open-hearted,  sincere,  dynamic, 
always  ready  to  make  fun  of  everything 
and  everybody,  including  himself. 

In  America  and  in  Europe,  when  his 
performance  begins  and  the  searchlights 
brighten  up  his  face,  the  public  remains  as 
if  they  were  hypnotized.  And  they  laugh 
during  the  90  minutes  of  his  performance, 
are  moved,  enjoy  themselves.  It  is  just  as 
if  he  had  a  radar,  suitable  for  getting  the 
spectators'  moods  every  evening  and  just 
as  if  he  commanded  all  their  reactions. 

This  is  the  sixth  sense  that  only  great 
actors  have  and  Sammy,  who  is  a  dancer, 
78  singer,  mime,  actor,  juggler,  possesses  it 


on  Mama — both  of  them  breathless.  Then 
Daddy  said,  "Here's  the  gum  for  Daddy's 
girl,"  and  hugged  her  so  tight  it  hurt. 

That  could  have  been  the  moment  that 
Eddie  Fisher  decided  to  adopt  Elizabeth 
and  Mike  Todd's  daughter  as  his  own. 

It  could  have  been  later  when  they  lived 
in  New  York.  It  could  have  been  one  night 
when  Eddie  came  home  tired  and  found  a 
child  waiting  with  eagerness  for  his  hug 
and  kiss.  It  could  have  been  one  morning 
when  a  little  person  that  looked  just  like 
a  bunny  walked  into  the  bedroom  and 
said,  "Daddy,  wake  up,  play  with  me." 

Or  it  might  very  well  have  been  the 
day  Daddy  held  her  up  in  front  of  the  big 
picture  of  Carrie  Frances  and  Todd.  Dad- 
dy told  her  who  they  were.  Then  he 
played  a  game  with  her  and  asked  her 
who  the  sweet  faces  were.  And  Liza  knew. 
Liza  said,  "That's  Carrie  Frances  and 
that's  Todd."  And  Daddy  said,  "That's 
right,  Liza,  those  are  Daddy's  babies." 

And  his  voice  sounded  awful  funny. 

Then  Liza  said,  "Liza  is  Daddy's  baby, 
too,"  in  a  worried  little  voice  and  Daddy 
squeezed  her  close — knowing  her  need  for 
reassurance  that  she  had  a  daddy  too. 

After  that,  Mama  and  Daddy  used  to 
have  long  talks  about  Liza.  Mama  and 


in  the  real  complete  sense  of  the  word. 

I  think  that  when  people  see  Sammy 
work  they  find  him  beautiful  and  nice, 
because  behind  his  grimaces,  his  burst  of 
laughters,  his  imitations,  his  plays,  there 
is  the  man  who  has  understood  the  secret 
to  overcoming  the  obstacle  of  the  race 
barrier,  to  start  from  nothing  and  reach 
the  stars,  to  be  a  star  in  the  most  absolute 
sense  of  the  word,  in  spite  of  his  origins 
and  of  the  narrow  mind  of  many  people. 

The  Americans  have  nicknamed  him 
"the  running  man,"  because  he  is  always 
in  a  hurry,  he  is  always  busy,  always  ac- 
tive, always  in  a  mood  for  joking,  for 
amusing  other  people. 

His  biographer  says  that  all  his  life  has 
been  a  continual  defiance  aiming  to  prove 
to  other  people  and  to  himself  that  his 
skin  does  not  mean  "inferiority"  at  all. 

Instead,  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  Sammy 
has  always  felt  tremendously  lonely,  since 
he  was  a  boy,  a  poor  boy  in  Harlem  (some 
more  than  30  years  ago)  till  when  he 
obtained  the  first  great  successes  with 
Sinatra  and  Mickey  Rooney  in  1951. 

The  more  famous  and  successful  he  has 
been,  the  more  lonely  he  has  felt.  Sam- 
my's performances  are  almost  never  over 
later  than  two  o'clock  in  the  night,  but 
he  usually  never  goes  to  bed  before  eight 
o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Two  lonely  people 

After  the  stage,  the  rejoicings,  the  jokes, 
his  friends'  uproars,  for  him  the  mo- 
ment comes,  with  dawn,  to  go  to  bed  and 
it  is  then  that  he  feels  lonely  more  than 
any  other  moment.  Sometimes  he  says  to 
his  friends  or  to  his  audience  in  a  loud 
voice:  "Let  us  take  a  taxi  and  let  us  make 
merry  at  home."  Everybody  thinks  that 
this  may  be  a  witty  remark  to  conclude 
the  night,  but  most  times  it  is  a  friendly 
invitation  that  few  people  or  nobody 
understand. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  I  was  near 
Sammy  and  for  one  moment  I  hoped  that 
the  invitation  would  be  addressed  only 
to  me,  because  I  felt  terribly  lonely — like 
he  was,  and  I  could  not  disclose  my  feel- 
ings with  anyone.  I  too  needed  much  love. 

So   we   began   by   walking   about  the 


Daddy  had  talked  to  Michael  and  Christo 
pher  and  they  understood  why  Eddie  wa 
Liza's  Daddy. 

They  never  called  Eddie  "Daddy"— onl 
Liza  could.  And  how  she  loved  her  Dad 
dy. 

Then  Daddy  told  her  one  day  that  he 
name  was  Liza  Todd  Fisher.  And  she  re 
peated  it,  Liza  Todd  Fisher.  She  knev 
something  special  was  happening  becaus< 
Mama  and  Daddy  were  so  happy.  Anr 
there  was  a  nice  man  there  from  Califor- 
nia who  said  it  was  all  official.  He  sak 
very  solemnly,  like  a  lawyer  would 
"What  a  charming  pixie  you  are,  Liza  Todc 
Fisher,"  and  suddenly  her  Daddy  wa: 
bowing  from  the  waist  and  asking  her  t< 
dance  with  him  even  though  there  wa: 
no  music  on  the  record-player. 

His  arms  were  guiding  her  so  firmly 
she  didn't  even  lose  her  footing  once.  She 
felt  safe  in  her  Daddy's  arms  even  if  sh« 
could  not  comprehend  the  complexities  o 
Life  that  had  wrought  happiness  for  hei 
out  of  tragedy. 

When  she  is  grown,  Elizabeth  and  Eddk 
will  tell  Liza  about  the  father  she  nevei 
knew.  And  Liza  will  know  that  she  toe 
has  given  happiness  to  her  adopted  Dadd> 
who  had  to  bear  silently  the  pain  of  sepa- 
ration from  his  own  babies.  end 

Liz  stars  in  20th-Fox's  Cleopatra 
United  Artists'  Two  For  The  Seesaw,  and 
Liz  and  Eddie  are  both  in  MGM's  Butter- 
field  8. 


largest  and  the  most  charming  city  in  the 
world,  getting  to  the  general  markets  al- 
ready in  excitement,  meeting  men  washing 
the  streets,  sleepy  workers  going  to  their 
work,  poor  people,  who  after  having  slept 
in  the  park,  resuming  their  begging  life. 

Talking,  keeping  silent,  walking,  enjoy- 
ing ourselves  to  follow  this  or  that  nice 
scene,  this  or  that  character,  we  began 
feeling  that  we  were  quite  happy  together, 
that  both  of  us  were  a  complete  unique 
thing,  that  we  were  no  longer  so  lonely  and 
sad.  Contrary  to  what  happens  for  most 
human  beings,  our  love  began  at  day-, 
break,  with  the  first  sunbeam. 

Now  I  know  that  when  we  go  back  to 
the  United  States,  anything  may  happen. 
Sammy  will  do  his  best  not  to  rouse 
hatred  of  violent  men,  who  intend  creating 
some  clamorous  incident  around  us.  Sam- 
my is  a  quiet  boy,  who  has  never  hurt', 
anyone  and  who  wants  to  live  in  peace, 
loving  his  fellow  creatures. 

The  incident,  which  took  place  in  Lon- 
don, where  some  violent  people  tried  to 
provoke  him  to  anger,  has  tranquillized 
me  in  this  sense.  They  had  gathered  in 
small  groups  in  front  of  the  place  where 
he  was  working,  carrying  placards  with 
outrageous  writings  against  him  and  against 
me.  Sammy  did  not  want  to  hide  himself 
in  order  to  avoid  that  hostile  manifestation, 
entering  through  a  small  back  door;  he 
had  not  asked  the  police  to  dispel  these 
demonstrants,  because  everyone  is  free 
to  profess  his  own  ideas  politely  and  with- 
out any  violence. 

Therefore  at  the  fixed  time  he  went  to 
his  work,  crossed  the  crowd  of  demon- 
strants and  went  to  prepare  his  scene.  It 
is  understood  that  he,  that  evening,  was 
not  the  happiest  man  in  the  world,  be- 
cause he  did  not  expect  to  find  so  much 
intolerance  even  in  London. 

But,  in  fact,  for  every  demonstrant  who 
intended  offending  us,  there  were  many 
other  English  people  who  have  written  to 
us,  apologizing  for  their  fellow  country 
people  who  had  ill-treated  us.  END 

May's  last  film  is  Murder,  Inc.,  /or 
20th-Fox:  Sammy's  next  is  Warner  Bros.' 
Oceans  11. 


I^WIOVIES 


by  Florence  Epstein 


Burt  Lancaster  portrays  the  opportunist  Elmer  Gantry,  a 
revivalist  who  is  all  set  to  tackle  saving  souls  in  the  big  city. 


ELMER  GANTRY 

sin  or  be  saved  .  .  . 


Burt  Lancaster 
Jean  Simmons 
Dean  Jagger 
Arthur  Kennedy 
Shirley  Jones 


SONS  AND  LOVERS 

Mama's  boy  grows  up 


Trevor  Howard 
Dean  Stockwell 
Wendy  Hitler 
Mary  Ure 
Heather  Sears 


■  One  of  the  finest  actors  in  Hollywood,  Burt 
Lancaster,  lets  out  the  stops  as  Elmer  Gantry. 
The  result  is  a  marvelous  portrait  of  an  op- 
portunist who  can  jump  on  any  bandwagon 
and  turn  it  into  the  golden  chariot  of  a 
conqueror.  Lancaster's  a  salesman  with  a  pow- 
erful gift  of  gab,  a  lively  (if  always  tempo- 
rary) interest  in  women,  a  thirst  for  alco- 
hol, a  tremendous  desire  to  be  liked  and  an 
almost  total  disbelief  in  his  fellow  man.  What 
could  fit  his  talents  more  than  to  preach  the 
fear  of  God  and  eternal  damnation  to  eager, 
lonely  souls  who  want  to  be  saved?  Making  a 
name  for  herself  in  the  midwest  is  Evangelist 
Sister  Sharon  (Jean  Simmons).  Her  saintliness 
inspires  the  constant,  paternal  care  of  Dean 
Jagger.  And  her  growing  popularity  has  added 
atheistic  newspaperman,  Arthur  Kennedy,  to 
her  caravan.  Earthly  love,  a  desire  for  the 
buck  and  an  infatuation  with  his  own  voice 
makes  Lancaster  her  newest  and  most  per- 
suasive convert.  Together  they  save  enough 
souls  to  tackle  the  big  city  of  Zenith.  There, 
business  and  religion  are  not  as  separate  as 
one  might  think,  and  the  fire  of  religious  pas- 
sion burns  in  many  directions,  few  of  them 
heavenly.  Based  on  a  famous  novel  by  Sinclair 
Lewis  which  was  banned  in  many  cities  when 
it  first  appeared,  this  is  a  vibrant,  if  not  ex- 
actly revelatory,  study  of  corruption. — Tech- 
nicolor, United  Artists. 


■  D.  H.  Lawrence's  outstanding  novel,  which 
was  autobiographical,  here  becomes  a  beauti- 
ful film.  It  opens  in  a  Welsh  mining  town 
where  a  young  man  can  dream  but  often  can't 
keep  his  head  above  the  ground  (it's  usually 
down  into  the  coal  mines  for  him!)  Dean 
Stockwell  has  a  talent  for  painting  and  a 
strong-willed  mother  (Wendy  Hiller)  who 
wants  this  favorite  son  of  hers  to  make  some- 
thing of  himself.  His  father  (Trevor  Howard), 
begrimed,  embittered — and  often  drunk  be- 
cause of  his  wife's  obvious  contempt  for  him, 
favors  another  son  who  is  soon  killed  in  a 
cave-in.  Dean  paints,  and  dreams  with  the  help 
of  Heather  Sears,  a  young  neighbor  who  loves 
him  but  it  is  somewhat  hampered  by  her 
puritannical  upbringing  (her  mother  watches 
her  carefully  and  is  always  telling  her  how  vile 
the  flesh  is).  In  flight  from  her,  and  from  his 
own  mother's  possessiveness,  Dean  is  attracted 
to  feminist  Mary  Ure  who  is  office  manager  of 
a  small  factory  that  makes  ladies'  corsets. 
(Dean  has  bypassed  a  rich  man's  offer  to  fi- 
nance a  painting  education  to  get  a  job  in  the 
factory.)  His  romance  with  Mary,  who  is 
separated  from  her  husband,  propels  him  to- 
ward a  knowledge  of  freedom.  The  illness  of 
his  mother  is  his  final  push  into  the  adven- 
turous, lonely  world  of  adulthood.  Essentially, 
this  is  the  story  of  an  unusually  sensitive  boy's 
(Continued  on  page  80) 


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THE 

CHRISTMAS 
FAIRY 
ARRIVED 
IN 

OCTOBER 


■  When  Jean  Simmons  was  a  seventeen-year-old  starlet  in  Britain,  there  was 
such  a  shortage  of  clothing  that  everyone  was  issued  a  book  of  clothing  coupons. 
For  the  ordinary  person  it  was  difficult  enough  to  find  clothes  to  wear;  for  the 
entertainers,  it  was  a  nightmare. 

Jean  had  already  appeared  in  several  films,  and  achieved  some  favourable 
notices.  But  she  knew  that  if  she  were  to  get  anywhere  big,  she  would  have 
to  be  seen  in  the  best  places.  And  getting  different  clothes  for  all  these  appearances 
was  quite  a  problem. 

One  October  evening  she  received  a  call  from  her  drama  teacher  and  agent 
who  had  just  been  given  a  number  of  tickets  for  a  very  important  film  premiere 
and  planned  to  take  a  group  of  her  most  talented  artistes.  Needless  to  say,  each 
girl  was  supposed  to  look  magnificent. 

The  clothing  coupons  were  taken  out,  and  lliere  were  just  enough  to  buv  a 
simple  evening  frock.  Al  such  short  notice  there  wasn't  time  to  get  a  gown  made 
for  her — and  there  just  wasn't  a  huge  range  in  the  fashionable  shops.  Everything 
was  supposed  to  be  for  utility  wear,  not  for  film  premieres. 

But  Jean  finally  found  a  gown,  pink,  flecked  with  white,  and  it  made  her  look 
very  much  the  film  star.  .  .  . 

As  she  was  about  to  step  from  the  taxi  she  had  taken  to  the  London  theater,  she 
saw  some  of  her  friends  waiting  for  her.  One  of  them  was  wearing  exactly  the 
same  dress  as  her  own.  At  that  moment,  another  friend  arrived — also  wearing 
this  pink-and-white  dress. 

Jean  ordered  the  driver  to  turn  'round,  and  look  out  for  a  store  where  she  could 
buy  some  trimmings  to  disguise  her  dress.  But  soon  she  was  forced  to  realize  that 
all  the  shops  were  closed — and  it  was  too  late  to  drive  home  and  change  into 
something  else. 

Then  the  driver  spotted  a  shop  still  open.  He  drove  near  it.  It  was  a  stationer's 
shop — and  Jean's  heart  fell.  How  could  magazines,  postcards,  books  or  calendars 
help  her? 

But,  perhaps  .  .  .  ? 

The  wizened  old  shop  proprietor  eyed  her.  and  asked  what  she  wanted.  She  told 
him  the  whole  story — and  he  shook  his  head.  He  couldn't  think  of  anything  at  all. 

Suddenly  he  shouted  that  he  had  an  idea,  if  she  was  willing  to  risk  making  a 
fool  of  herself.  He'd  received  his  stock  of  Christmas  decorations  that  day.  and  if 
she  could  use  anything  like  tinsel,  he  would  get  it  for  her.  .  .  . 

Ten  minutes  before  the  film  started  Jean  Simmons  arrived  at  the  entrance  to 
the  cinema,  looking  happy  and  radiant.  She  stepped  from  the  taxi-cab.  and  waved 
to  her  friends  who  ,  stared  at  her  in  disbelief.  Curious  fans  gazed  at  her  and 
smiled — while  photographers  rushed  towards  her  and  started  clicking  away. 

Next  day  pictures  of  seventeen-year-old  Jean  Simmons  appeared  in  most  of  the 
morning  papers,  and  in  one  the  caption  read  The  Christmas  Fairy  Arrived  in 
October. 

It  was  an  appropriate  caption  too.  because  Jean  Simmons  disguised  the  pink- 
and-white  dress  with  garlands  of  glittering  tinsel,  and  gorgeously  technicolored 
snowflakes ! 


80 


new  movies 

(Continued  from  page  79) 

growth,  and  of  family  ties  that  can  strangle  a 
well  as  provide,  in  their  close  moment; 
poignant  and  unforgettable  love. — Cinema 
scope,  20th-Fox. 

ALL  THE  FINE  YOUNG  CANNIBALS 

Robert  Wagne. 
Natalie  Wooc 

.  .  .  eating  their  hearts  out     Susan  Kohner 
George  Hamiltor 
Pearl  Baile 

■  Cannibals  are  notorious  for  eating  people 
(after  boiling  them  in  a  big  pot).  This  movie'- 
a  potboiler,  all  right,  in  which  the  cannibal- 
eat  each  other;  that  they  don't  all  die  of  acute; 
indigestion  is  one  of  the  miracles  of  movie- 
making. The  dinner  starts  in  Texas  where 
barefooted  Natalie  Wood  has  changed  her 
name  from  Sarah  to  Salome  on  the  theory  thai 
life  holds  more  for  her  than  what  she  finds  in 
her  father's  house — a  shanty  filled  with  bare- 
footed brothers  and  sisters.  Robert  Wagner: 
tortured  son  of  a  minister,  hopes  that  life 
holds  more  too.  but  has  no  notion  how  to  get 
whatever  it  is.  For  a  starter,  he  gets  Natalie! 
pregnant;  he  would  also  like  to  marry  her  but 
she,  fearful  of  being  trapped,  runs  out  on  him. 
Lucky  for  her  George  Hamilton  boards  the 
same  train  she  does.  George,  playboy  son  off 
a  rich  Texan,  is  trying  his  best  to  ruin  Vale's 
reputation  as  an  institution  of  higher  learn- 
ing. He  proposes  to  Natalie  and  she  hastily  ac- 
cepts him.  Back  home  Wagner  befriends  Pearl 
Bailey,  a  famous  singer  who  has  decided  to 
quit  her  career  and  die  because  her  boyfriend 
jilted  her.  Before  she  kicks  off,  however,  shei 
discovers  that  Wagner  is  a  great  horn  player 
and  insists  on  taking  him  to  New  York.  There 
he  finds  fame  and  Susan  Kohner.  George's 
playgirl  sister,  who  writhes  with  boredom.  To 
get  even  with  Natalie.  Wagner  marries  Susan. 
Get  the  picture?  George  loves  Natalie  and  the 
child  he  thinks  is  his;  Natalie  loves  nobody: 
Susan  loves  Wagner;  Wagner  hates  Natalie: 
Pearl  Bailey's  dying.  The  pot  boileth  over  in 
no  time. — Cinemascope,  MGM. 

IT    STARTED    IN    NAPLES    Clark  Gable 
Sophia  Loren 
,    ,        ,  Vittorio  De  Sica 

— and  ended  in  love  Marietto 
Paolo  Carlini 

■  When  Clark  Gable  arrives  in  Naples  he's  as 
smug  and  businesslike  as  you'd  expect  a  Phila- 
delphia lawyer  to  be.  He's  not  on  vacation;  he 
wants  to  settle  the  estate  of  his  brother  who 
deserted  an  American  wife  ten  years  before  and 
died  in  Naples  with  a  girlfriend.  Much  to 
Gable's  cynical  amusement,  his  brother  left  be- 
hind an  eight-year-old  son  (Marietto)  and  "a 
carton  of  firecrackers.  Marietto  smokes,  drinks 
wine,  ignores  school,  makes  suckers  out  of 
tourists  and  is,  all  in  all,  one  of  the  most  de- 
lightful waifs  in  film  history.  He  lives  with 
his  aunt,  Sophia  Loren,  who,  aside  from 
dancing  in  a  honky-tonk,  has  other,  question- 
able, methods  of  survival.  Gable  wou'd  like 
to  take  Marietto  back  to  America — or  at  least 
send  him  to  school  in  Rome,  but  Sophia  won't 
part  with  him.  Acting  on  the  advice  of  his 
lawyer  (Vittorio  De  Sica)  Gable  tries  to  win 
his  way  with  "sweetness  and  light."  His  ro- 
mance with  Sophia  provides  a  colorful  tour  of 
tourist  attractions  in  Naples  and  Capri,  but 
it  doesn't  provide  him  with  Marietto — not 
when  Sophia  discovers  that  Gable  is  about  as 
marriage-minded  as  his  late  brother.  The  dia- 
logue is  clever  and — in  endearing  Italian  style — 
animated.  The  mood  is  as  gay  and  carefree  as 
a  Neapolitan  love  song.  It's  a  fun  picture. — 
Technicolor,  Paramount. 


THE  SUNDOWNERS 

top-notch  saga 


Deborah  Kerr 
Robert  Mitchum 
Peter  Ustinov 
Glynis  Johns 
Michael  Anderson,  Jr. 


ijjw  This  movie  is  certainly  of  Academy-award 
winning  caliber.  It  has  a  solid,  unusual  plot 
!  :  and,  without  straining,  goes  deeply  into  the  hu- 
man heart.  Filmed  in  Australia,  it  is  the  story 
1*!  of  a  family  whose  head  (Robert  Mitchum)  has 
JT  a  restless  need  to  wander.  Out  of  devotion,  his 
«h<  wife  (Deborah  Kerr)  has  tried  to  forget  her 
jjfj  desire  to  settle  on  a  farm.  Instead,  she  and  her 
'  fourteen-year-old  son  (Michael  Anderson,  Jr.) 
w  pitch  in  and  help  him  on  one  sheep-herding 
;    drive  after  another   (hence  the  term,  sun- 
-f  downers — they  pitch  their  tent  wherever  they 
- 1  are  when  the  sun  sets).  The  marriage  is  good; 
ifj  the  love  obvious,  but  as  her  boy  grows — and 
at  ?he  gets  older — Deborah's  tension  about  settling 
a  increases  and  she  tries  to  maneuver  Mitchum 
«|i  into  earning  enough  money  for  a  farm.  At- 
m  traded  by  this  family,  a  humorous,  perennial 
itj  bachelor  (Peter  Ustinov)  becomes  their  mas- 
:  i  cot  and  aide.  Mitchum  goes  to  work  as  a  sheep- 
inj  shearer  after  a  big  drive,  but  even  staying  in 
■  >  one  place  for  a  few  months  is  too  confining  for 
4  him.  Ustinov  keeps  his  interest  alive  by  ar- 
ranging a  sheep-shearing  contest.  Losing  that, 
but  winning  a  beautiful  racehorse  while  gam- 
bling in  a  local  pub  cheers  Mitchum.  He  figures 
that  with  his  son  as  rider  they  can  win  races  all 
over  Australia.  However,  he  has  also  won 
enough  money  at  gambling  to  buy  a  farm. 
Deborah  finally  has  the  chance  to  tie  him 
down.  Trying  to  tie  Ustinov  down  is  a  lively, 
charming  pub  owner,  Glynis  Johns.  Neither 
Mitchum  nor  Ustinov  tie  that  easily.  Go  see 
this  film — the  countryside  is  beautiful,  you'll 
learn  a  lot  about  sheep  and,  you  can  count  on 
it,  a  good  deal  about  men. — Cinemascope, 
Warners. 


INHERIT  THE  WIND 

the  animal  in  man  .  .  . 


Spencer  Tracy 
Fredric  March 
Gene  Kelly 
Dick  York 
Florence  Eldridge 


■  In  a  small  American  town  where  the  Bible 
is  taken  as  the  literal  truth  a  young  biology 
j  teacher  (Dick  York)  has  the  nerve  to  lecture 
;  on  Darwin's  theory  of  evolution  to  his  class. 
[Since  his  action  violates  the  state  law  he's 
arrested.  This  incident  would  probably  have 
been  ignored  if  a  big  city  newspaperman  (Gene 
;  Kelly)  hadn't  played  it  up,  and  if  a  three-time 
Presidential  candidate  (Fredric  March)  hadn't 
announced  his  intention  to  prosecute  the  case. 
Through  Kelly's  efforts,  one  of  the  outstanding 
lawyers  of  the  century  (Spencer  Tracy)  agrees 
to  defend  York.  The  townspeople,  outraged  at 
the  thought  that  man  may  be  related  to  mon- 
keys, don't  welcome  him  kindly.  York's  own 
fiancee  (Donna  Anderson),  daughter  of  the 
local  minister,  deserts  him  temporarily.  But  the 
main  drama  occurs  in  the  courtroom  where 
jtwo  brilliant  performances  (by  March  and 
Tracy)  bring  the  issue  of  man's  right  to  think 
and  even  to  be  wrong  into  the  open.  Knowing 
that  this  film  was  based  on  the  famous  Scopes' 
trial  (whose  participants  were  Clarence  Dar- 
row  and  William  Jennings  Bryan)  gives  it 
added  excitement  and  significance.— United 
Artists. 


THE  THREE  WORLDS  OF  GULLIVER 

Kerwin  Mathews 
•      j  June  Thorburn 

magic  classic  tee  Patterson 

Gregoire  Asian 
Basil  Sydney 

■  A  special  filming  process  whereby  Gulliver 
tan  seem  like  a  huge  giant  when  all  around 


him  are  as  tiny  as  ants — and  vice -versa,  makes 
this  film  delightful.  In  other  words  this  is  not 
an  animated  cartoon,  its  characters  are  real 
people.  Gulliver  (Kerwin  Mathews)  wants 
money  instead  of  livestock  for  his  services  as  a 
doctor.  Much  against  the  wishes  of  his  fiancee 
(June  Thorburn)  he  goes  to  sea  to  make  his 
fortune  (she  stows  away  on  board).  Unfortu- 
nately, a  storm  sweeps  him  off  the  ship.  When 
he  comes  to,  he's  in  the  land  of  the  Lilliputs. 
The  king  and  his  entire  court  can  fit  into  the 
palm  of  his  hand,  but  Gulliver  is  a  kind  giant 
who  only  wants  to  help  them.  Dipping  his  hat 
into  the  sea  he  catches  enough  fish  for  a  year; 
uprooting  "forests"  he  extends  their  farm- 
lands which  he  furrows  with  his  fingers;  cap- 
turing their  neighbors'  fleet  as  if  they  were  toys 
in  a  bathtub  he  leads  them  to  victory  in  war. 
However,  the  Lilliputs  turn  against  him  and 
he  makes  his  escape.  Next  time  he  wakes  he's 
the  ant  surrounded  by  giants  in  a  kingdom  as 
backward  as  any  in  the  Middle  Ages.  There  he 
finds  his  fiancee  living  happily  at  court  in  a 
magnificent  doll's  house.  But  life  isn't  easy  for 
"ants"  who  are  smarter  than  giants,  nor  is  it 
easy  when  a  squirrel  looms  before  them  as  large 
as  a  mountain.  Another  twist  of  fate  and 
Gulliver  and  his  girl  are  back  to  normal  size  in 
their  own  country.  Was  it  a  dream?  It's  really 
a  story  of  every  human  being's  feelings  of 
omnipotence  and  insignificance,  and  a  biting 
commentary  on  the  puny,  often  stupid  desires 
of  mankind. — Columbia. 

13    GHOSTS  Rosemary  De  Camp 

Charles  Herbert 

.  .  .  and  a  handful  of  creeps    Martin  Miin™ 
Donald  Woods 

■  Donald  Woods  works  in  a  museum.  Too  bad 
he  can't  live  in  it,  because  the  finance  company- 
is  always  repossessing  the  furniture  wherever 
he  and  his  family  do  live.  Thank  goodness  old 
Uncle  Zorba  dies  and  leaves  him  a  mansion 
(complete  with  spooky  housekeeper  Margaret 
Hamilton).  Would  you  believe  it?  The  house 
is  haunted.  Thirteen  ghosts  (the  management 
will  provide  you  with  lenses  to  see  them)  are 
constantly  rattling  around  horrifying  everyone. 
Sliding  down  the  bannister  one  day,  10-year- 
old  Charles  Herbert  finds  a  couple  of  $100 
bills  at  his  feet.  You  mean  Uncle  Zorba  was 
rich,  too?  Zorba's  lawyer  (Martin  Milner) 
apparently  thinks  so.  At  first  Marty  just  seemed 
like  an  affable  fellow  enamoured  of  Woods' 
attractive  young  daughter,  Jo  Morrow.  Now, 
I  don't  know.  .  .  .  — Columbia. 

RECOMMENDED  MOVIES  NOW  PLAYING: 

PORTRAIT  IN  BLACK  (U-I)  :  Lana  Turner  is  the 
wife  of  Lloyd  Nolan,  but  would  rather  be  the  wife  of 
Anthony  Quinn.  Well,  Nolan's  dying  anyway,  Quinn's 
a  doctor— everything  can  be  arranged!  Nolan  is  dis- 
patched with  a  long  hypodermic  needle  and  a  teeny 
air  bubble — the  perfect  crime.  Only,  it's  not  so  per- 
fect, 'cause  Lana  gets  a  letter  congratulating  her  on 
the  murder.  Nervous-making,  yes?  The  letter-writer 
suspects  include  Lana's  step-daughter  Sandra  Dee, 
maid  Anna  May  Wong,  chauffeur  Ray  Walston, 
Nolan's  lawyer  Richard  Basehart,  and  Sandra's  boy- 
friend, John  Saxon.  More  murder,  more  problems, 
before  the  letter  writer  is  revealed.  Go  see' 
PSYCHO  (Paramount):  Janet  Leigh,  an  unlikely 
thief,  ts  one,  to  the  tune  of  forty  thousand  dollars. 
She's  rushing  to  meet  boyfriend  John  Gavin  but  stops 
to  rest  at  a  motel  run  by  Tony  Perkins  and  his  mom. 
Tony's  mom  doesn't  like  girls,  the  motel  is  vacant  and 
has  a  room  full  of  stuffed  birds,  and,  ultimately, 
Janet  disappears.  So  does  an  investigator  sent  to  find 
her.  Gavin  and  Janet's  sister  (Vera  Miles)  pursue  the 
investigation  further.  It's  all  a  bit  macabre. 
MURDER,  INC.  (20th-Fox) :  This  was  a  business 
that  lived  up  to  its  name.  Hoods  named  Lepke  (David 
Stewart)  and  Reles  (Peter  Falk)  are  organization 
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Disgrace  at  Graceland 


(Continued  from,  page  29) 

Elvis  filled  Vernon's  life  to  overflowing 
as  a  son — but  there  is  still  that  God-given 
need  for  a  loving  wife  and  a  real  home 
life  which  Elvis  knew  his  father  missed 
terribly.  He  knew  it  from  the  time  his 
father  met  and  began  dating  Dee  in  Ger- 
many. And  Elvis  knew  it  was  serious  when 
Dee  came  to  Graceland  for  a  visit  when  he 
and  his  father  and  grandmother  returned 
home  after  his  formal  discharge  from  the 
Army. 

Then  on  Elvis'  two -week  vacation  at 
Graceland,  before  he  was  to  return  to 
Hollywood,  it  happened. 

Elvis  had  met  Dee  Elliott  in  Germany 
and  again  when  she  came  to  visit  at 
Graceland.  Elvis  liked  her,  and  realized 
how  much  she  meant  to  his  father,  but  try 
as  he  would,  he  still  could  not  think 
of  this  attractive  young  stranger  as  his 
mother. 

In  April,  Vernon  Presley  had  announced 
that  he  would  marry  Dee,  that  they  would 
wait  till  Elvis  was  free  to  serve  as  best 
man,  and  then  they  would  have  the  church 
wedding  that  his  bride-to-be  always 
dreamed  of. 

All  this  registered  on  Elvis,  but  some- 
thing in  him  did  not  believe  it. 

When  he  finished  his  Hollywood  chores, 
he  was  so  anxious  to  get  home  that  he 
overcame  his  fear  of  flying  and  took  a  jet 
to  St.  Louis,  rented  a  car  and  sped  on  from 
there,  his  mind  on  nothing  but  two  weeks 
of  solid  rest. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he  was  now 
free,  that  the  moment  he  walked  in  the 
door  plans  of  three  months'  standing 
would  go  into  operation. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  until  he  looked 
at  his  father  and  realized  that  all  the  talk 
had  meaning,  that  the  marriage  would 
take  place,  and  that  he  could  not  go 
through  with  it. 

"I'm  sorry,"  Dad 

Vernon  Presley  knew  his  son  very  well. 
It  was  hardly  necessary  for  Elvis  to  say  a 
word.  "I'm  sorry,  Dad,"  was  the  best  Elvis 
could  do. 

And  Vernon  Presley  understood  and 
said  only,  "It's  all  right,  son.  Don't  worry. 
Everything  will  be  all  right." 

The  next  day  Vernon  Presley  drove  to 
Huntsville  where  his  bride-to-be  and  her 
three  children  were  staying.  There,  Ver- 
non and  Dee  took  out  a  wedding  license 
July  3,  and  were  quietly  married  by  Cir- 
cuit Judge  Harry  L.  Pennington  that  very 
night. 

Meanwhile,  in  Memphis,  Elvis  was  stay- 
ing up  late  and  sleeping  all  day  to  try  to 
drive  away  the  hurt  and  loneliness  in  his 
heart. 

On  July  4 — a  holiday  he  and  his  mother 
and  father  had  always  enjoyed  together, 
he  remembered  back  through  the  years  of 
his  happiness  with  his  parents  and  could 
not  restrain  the  tears.  He  slipped  away 
from  his  friends,  got  on  his  motorcycle 
and  drove  to  Forrest  Hill  Cemetery,  where 
his  mother,  Gladys  Presley,  is  buried. 
There  he  knelt  and  prayed. 

He  prayed  that  his  father  really  under- 
stood that  he  wished  him  happiness  and 
wished  him  love.  He  prayed  that  Dee 
Presley  would  understand  that  he  wished 
her  well  as  his  father's  wife,  but  could 
never  accept  her  as  his  mother.  He  prayed 
fervently  that  Graceland,  his  mother's 
house,  a  house  he  thought  of  as  almost  holy 
would  never  be  disgraced  .  .  .  That  no  one 
would  misunderstand  why  he  had  not  gone 
to  the  wedding. 

And  like  so  many  prayers  that  come 


truly  from  the  heart,  Elvis'  was  answered, 
before  it  was  spoken. 

For  Dee  Presley  had  already  opened  her 
heart  to  Modern  Screen. 

It  had  occurred  a  week  before  Elvis 
came  home,  a  week  and  a  half  before  her 
wedding. 

"I  only  hope,"  said  Dee  Elliott,  "that 
when  Elvis  gets  married  he  finds  a  girl 
who  loves  him  as  much  as  I  love  his  fa- 
ther." 

Dee  had  never  talked  to  a  reporter  be- 
fore (EDITOR'S  NOTE:  to  this  date  Mrs. 
Presley  has  given  no  other  interviews) 
and  seemed  anxious  to  tell  the  world  of 
her  love. 

"After  we  told  Elvis  of  our  plans  to 
marry,"  said  Dee,  "he  took  me  out  to  the 
cemetery  at  Memphis  to  visit  his  mother's 
grave.  When  I  saw  him  looking  so  sadly  at 
his  mother's  grave  it  just  made  me  cry.  I 
wondered  if  I  could  ever  be  an  adequate 
stepmother." 

"I  understand  about  being  left  alone 
without  a  mother.  My  own  mother  died 
when  I  was  only  four  years  old.  The  only 
thing  I  can  remember  is  kissing  her  in  her 
coffin. 

"My  father  remarried  and  I  grew  up  un- 
der the  guidance  of  a  very  sympathetic 
stepmother.  It  took  her  a  long  time  to  win 
me.  It  will  take  me  a  while  too." 

How  did  it  come  about  that  the  former 
wife  of  an  Army  sergeant,  ex-trainee 
nurse  and  hotel  hostess  found  herself 
caught  up  in  a  romance  with  Vernon  Pres- 
ley? 

Actually,  stated  Dee,  the  story  went  back 
to  an  early  fall  morning  in  1958  in  Bad 
Nauheim,  Germany,  when  she  accepted  an 
invitation  to  attend  a  morning  coffee  party 
given  by  Vernon  Presley's  mother. 

At  that  time  Mrs.  Elliott  was  living  with 
her  husband,  the  sergeant,  who  was  on 
assignment  to  Germany,  and  Vernon  Pres- 
ley had  taken  up  quarters  at  Bad  Nauheim 
while  his  son  completed  a  tour  of  Army 
duty  at  Friedberg,  a  picturesque  town  not 
far  from  Bad  Nauheim. 

First  meeting 

Well,  that  was  their  first  meeting,  but 
this  time  there  was  no  flash  of  lightning  to 
indicate  love  at  first  sight.  It  was  nothing 
like  that.  Mrs.  Elliott's  own  restrained 
comment  on  their  introduction:  "When  I 
met  Vernon  I  liked  him  immediately." 

Bad  Nauheim  is  a  fair-sized  resort  city, 
but  the  American  Army  colony  is  not  so 
large  now  and  there  were  other  occasions 
when  the  two  were  thrown  together. 

Mrs.  Elliott's  first  marriage  had  withered 
long  before  she  met  Vernon  Presley,  she 
said.  "My  husband  and  I  had  decided  on 
a  divorce  sometime  before,  but  we  hadn't 
made  any  announcement  to  our  friends," 
she  said. 

"We  would  have  separated  long  before, 
but  I  had  my  three  sons,  aged  4,  6  and  7, 
to  think  of,  and  I  didn't  want  them  to  be 
without  one  parent  as  I  had  been,"  she 
explained. 

At  any  rate  she  and  the  sergeant  de- 
cided to  call  it  quits  and  she  returned  to 
America  and  filed  for  a  divorce. 

Her  next  meeting  with  Vernon  came  in 
the  summer  of  1959  when  he  returned 
to  his  luxurious  home  at  Memphis  for  a 
two-month  visit  before  returning  to  Ger- 
many. Mrs.  Elliott,  chaperoned  by  one  of 
Elvis'  aunts,  was  a  welcome  guest  at 
Graceland  during  part  of  his  stay  in  this 
country. 

By  the  time  this  visit  ended  a  real  ro- 
mance had  bloomed  and  their  life  had 
been  set  on  a  course  that  would  inevitably 
lead  to  the  altar. 

In  the  fall  of  1959  they  were  together 
again,  this  time  in  Germany.  Mrs.  Elliott 
flew  to  Bad  Nauheim  and  spent  four 
months  in  Europe,  much  of  it  spent  as  a 
guest  of  Elvis'  grandmother. 


She  was  on  hand  at  Washington  tw  | 
months  later  when  Elvis  made  his  tri 
umphant    return    to   America    after  h:' 
Army  duty  in  Germany. 

Vernon,  accompanied  by  his  son,  me 
Mrs.  Elliott  in  the  Capital,  and  it  was  £  j 
this  point  that  the  press  spotted  her  an 
began  to  speculate  in  print  about  the  pos  ' 
sibility  of  marriage. 

From  then  on  Dee's  life  was  transformer  j 
from  the  tranquility  of  a  private  existenc 
to  the  turmoil  of  dodging  into  shadows  t< 
escape  the  spotlight  beamed  on  the  Pres-j 
ley  family. 

She  divided  most  of  her  time  betweei 
Huntsville,  Alabama,  where  her  brother  iJ 
employed  at  the  Army's  missile  center! 
and  Graceland.  At  both  points  she  waJ 
chased  by  the  curious  public  and  thu 
more  curious  press. 

False  reports 

But  her  very  reluctance  to  meet  witH 
the  press  and  share  the  public  spotligh; 
led  to  many  false  reports  being  circulated 
about  her,  she  says. 

"They  (the  newspapers)  have  even  got  ] 
ten  my  religion  wrong,"  she  said.  "The\l 
refer  to  me  as  a  'former  member  of  tha 
Church  of  Christ.'  This  is  not  true.  I  love] 
the  Church  of  Christ  and  I  am  still  arj 
active  member. 

"There  were  even  reports  that  I  lova 
wild  nightlife,  and  that's  just  pure  non-1 
sense.  Both  Vernon  and  I  are  teetotalers."' 
she  said. 

"I  didn't  know  any  reason  that  Elvis] 
shouldn't  accept  me.  I  love  him  just  be-] 
cause  he's  Vernon's  son.  I  can  only  pray] 
that  someday  he  will  have  learned  tcj 
love  me  too." 

And  possibly  Dee's  prayer  is  being  an-j 
swered  more  quickly  than  even  she  hacfl 
expected. 

For  soon  after  the  wedding  Elvis  said. 
"The  reason  for  me  not  going  is  nothing 
personal.  If  I  went,  it  would  be  made  intc 
a  big  thing — like  a  personal  appearance 
of  mine.  I  was  going,  but  I  got  to  thinking 
What  I  thought  was,  if  they  could  be 
married  without  any  clamor,  it  would  be 
better  for  all  of  us. 

"Daddy's  getting  married  doesn't  bothei 
me  one  bit. 

"Daddy  was  with  my  mother  for  26  long 
years.  He  never  left  her  side  as  far  as  I 
know.  Now  she  has  passed  away  and  he  is 
all  alone. 

"If  he  can  find  happiness  in  some  way, 
I'm  all  for  him.  All  of  the  time  he  was  in 
Germany  with  me,  he  was  a  miserable  un- 
happy, broken  man. 

"She  (Mrs.  Presley)  seems  to  be  a 
pretty  nice,  understanding  type  of  person. 
She  treats  me  with  respect  just  as  shej 
does  Daddy. 

"She  knows  she  could  never  be  my 
mother.  I  only  had  one  mother  and  that's 
it.  There'll  never  be  another.  As  long  as 
she  understands  that,  we  won't  have  any 
trouble. 

"Daddy  has  got  some  pretty  horrible  let- 
ters since  this  thing  came  out.  But  he  is- 
my  father  and  he's  all  I've  got  left  in  the. 
world.  I'll  never  go  against  him  or  stand 
in  his  way. 

"He  stood  by  me  all  these  years  and 
sacrificed  things  he  wanted  so  that  I  could 
have  clothes  and  lunch  money  to  go  to 
school. 

"I'll  stand  by  him  now — right  or  wrong.'' 

And  that  ends  the  story. 

On  July  16  Vernon  and  Dee  Presley  an- 
nounced their  secret  wedding,  and  the 
world  registered  shock  that  Elvis  had 
stayed  away. 

But  the  world  did  not  know  that  three 
thoughtful,  loving,  considerate  people  were 
doing  their  very  best  to  bring  happiness 
to  each  other.  END 

Elvis  stars  in  Paramount's  G.  I.  Blues. 


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Health  Set.  2  volumes.  "The 
Handy  Home  Medical  Ad- 
viser" by  Dr.  Morris  Fish- 
bein,  plus  "Stay  Slim  for 
Life"  — new  eat  -  and -reduce 
book.  Both  illus.  620  pages. 

Jarrett's  Jade-Frank  Yerby's 

about  a  daring  Scottish  Lord 
who  was  a  devil  with  a  sword 
in  his  hand  —  or  a  lovely 


funny  and  wise  sayings, 
quips  and  slips  by  children- 
collected  in  one  priceless  vol- 
ume by  the  famed  TV  star. 
You'll  laugh,  blush,  cry! 

Ladies'  Home  Journal  Book 
of  Interior  Decoration.  New 

edition!  Big  lavish  volume 
contains  216  illustrations,  90 
in  color.  Guide  to  furniture, 
lighting,  accessories,  fabrics, 
color,  room  arrangements,  etc. 

The  Lineoln  Lords— Cameron 
Hawley.  Smash  best  -  seller 
by  the  author  of  "Executive 
Suite"!  Dramatic,  behind- 
the-scenes  story  of  big  busi- 
ness and  modern  marriage. 
512  exciting  pages. 


ily  Cook  Book 


Moderi 

Latest  edition  of  the  most 
u5eful  cook  book  published. 
1,250  delicious  recipes.  250 
tempting  menus.  640  pages. 
Up-to-date  freezing  section. 

Parrish  —  Mildred  Savage. 

New  smash  novel!  A  night  in 
a  parked  car  triggers  the 
biggest  emotional  explosion 
since  Peyton  Place!  "Excite- 
ment, Intrigue,  conflict,  sex!" 
-Boston  Herald. 

Pilgrims  in  Paradise.  Frank 
Slaughter's  exciting  new  his- 
torical novel!  Puritan  right- 
eousness and  human  passions 
whip  up  a  storm  in  a  tropical 
garden  of  Eden. 


every  phase  of  dress-making 
and  sewing.  Invaluable  for 
beginner  or  expert. 


-latest  edition.  80.000  en- 
tries, 700  pictures,  896  pages ! 
Hundred?  of  new  words,  im- 
portant scientific  terms,  plus 
sections  on  grammar,  letter 
writing,  punctuation,  etc. 


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□  Health  Set-2  vols.  (50) 

□  Columbia- Viking  Encyclopedia-set  (61 

□  Around  the  World  in  2000  Pictures  (67 

□  Modern  Family  Cookbook  (74) 

□  Jarrett's  Jade  (80) 

□  Dr.  Tom  Dooley's  3  Great  Books  (82) 
Include  my  first  issue  of  The  Bulleti 

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□  Amy  Vanderbilt  Etiquette  (90) 

□  Sewing  Made  Easy  (95) 

□  Kids  Say  Darndest  Things  (105J 


□  Pilgrims  in  Paradise  (128) 

□  Ladies'  Home  Journal  Book 

of  Interior  Decoration  (138) 

□  Hammond's  Family  Atlas  (155) 

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describing  the  new  forthcoming 


I  Mr. 

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Miss 
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modern 


NOVEMBER,  1960 


AMERICA'S  GREATEST  MOVIE  MAGAZINE 


STORIES 

Debbie  Reynolds  20    Should  I? 

Marilyn  Monroe 

Yves  Montand   22    The  Man  Who  Almost  Destroyed  Marilyn  Monroe's 

Marriage  by  Doug  Brewer 

Tab  Hunter  26    As  God  Is  My  Witness,  I  Did  Not  Beat  My  Dog! 

by  Beverly  Liner. 

Deborah  Kerr  28    We  Paid  $300,000  For  The  Freedom  To  Love  Each 

Other  by  Victor  Anthony 

Tommy  Sands  30  A  Soldier's  Love  Story  by  George  Christy 

Bobby  Darin  32  I'm  Gonna  Die  Young  by  Rose  Perlberg 

Audrey  Hepburn 

Mel  Ferrer  40  The  Miracle  At  Buergenstock  by  Victoria  Cole 

Brenda  Lee  42    "Oh  Lamb  Of  God,  Hear  This  Sinner"     by  Brenda  Lee 

as  told  to  George  Christy 

Ingrid  Bergman    44    I  Refuse  To  Grow  Old  by  Tony  Stevens 

Rock  Hudson  48    I  Was  One  Of  Rock  Hudson's  On-Location  Girls 

by  Hugh  Burrell 

Frankie  Avalon   58    My  First  Pickup  by  Frankie  Avalon 

as  told  to  Rosamond  Gaylor 

SPECIAL  FEATURES 

34    Modern  Screen's  First  Cinderella  Story 

50    The  Case  Against  Censorship  by  Taylor  M.  Mills 

FEATURETTES 

56    Elvis  and  Charity 


Louella  Parsons 


DEPARTMENTS 

11  Gossip  Extra 

4  New  Movies 

8  Inside  Story 

67  November  Birthdays 


by  Florence  Epstein 


Cover  Photograph  from  Nat  Dallinger  of  Gilloon 
Other  Photographers'  Credits  on  page  70 


DAVID  MYERS,  editor 

SAM  BLUM,  managing  editor 

TERRY  DAVIDSON,  story  editor 
LINDA  0LSHEIM,  production  editor 
ED  DeBLASIO,  special  correspondent 
BEVERLY  LINET,  contributing  editor 
ERNESTINE  R.  COOKE,  ed.  assistant 


POSTMASTER:  Please-  send  notice  on  Form  3579  to 


MICHAEL  LEFCOURT,  art  editor 
HELEN  WELLER,  west  coast  editor 

DOLORES  M.  SHAW,  asst.  art  editor 
GENE  H0YT,  research  director 
EUGENE  WITAL,  photographic  art 
AUGUSTINE  PENNETT0,  cover 
FERNANDO  TEXID0R,  art  director 


est  44  Street,  New  York  36,  New  York 


MODERN  SCREEN.  Vol.  54.  No.  11.  November.  1960.  Publishe 
,.f  publication:  at  Washington  and  South  Aves..  Dunellen.  N. 
Avenue.  New  York  17.  X.  V.  Dell  Subscription  Service:  321  W.  44 
office.  221  No.  LaSalle  St..  Chicago,  III.  Albert  P.  Delacorte.  Publ 

Presidents.  William  F.  Callahan.  Jr..  Paul  R.  Lilly;  Harold  Clark.  Vice-President  Advert. sine  Director;  Brvce  L. 
Holland.  Vice-President:  Fernando  Texidor.  Assistant  Vice  President;  Carolene  H.  Owings.  Secretary.  Published 
simultaneously  in  the  Dominion  oi  Canada.  International  copyright  secured  under  the  provisions  of  the  revised 
Convention  for  the  protection  of  Literary  and  Artistic  Works.  All  rigMs  reserved  under  the  Buenos  Aires  Co 
tion.  Single  copy  price  25c 
Canada  $2.50  on. 


y  by  Dell  Publishing  > 
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esident-Advertisillg  Dir 


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in  CINEMASCOPE  and  METR0C0L0R 


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■4wiovies 


by  Florence  Epstein 


Billionaire  Yves  Montana*  could  have  any  girl,  but  he  tvants 
Marilyn,   and   he   has   a  delightful  scheme   to   win  her. 


LET'S  MAKE  LOVE 

.  .  .  with  Marilyn 


Marilyn  Monroe 
Yves  Montand 
Tony  Randall 
Frankie  Vaughn 
Wilfred  Hyde  White 


LET  NO  MAN  WRITE  MY  EPITAPH 


boy  of  the  slums 


Burl  Ives 
Shelley  Winters 
James  Darren 
Jean  Seberg 
Ricardo  Montalban 


■  If  the  girl's  Marilyn  Monroe  and  the  boy's 
Yves  Montand  the  picture  doesn't  need  much 
of  a  plot.  And  not  much  of  a  plot  is  exactly 
what  you  get  in  this  frothy  comedy  with 
music.  Montand  is  a  billionaire  businessman 
who  can  have  any  girl  in  the  world — and  has 
had  a  majority  of  them.  But  he  knows  they 
love  him  for  the  diamond  bracelets  he  dis- 
tributes like  popcorn.  He  has  become  such  a 
notorious  playboy  that  an  off-Broadway  group 
has  written  a  play  about  him.  Jumping  into 
his  Rolls-Royce  he  is  taken  to  the  scene  of 
this  crime  where  he  finds  Marilyn  wearing 
practically  nothing  and  knitting  (it  keeps  her 
hands  busy  during  rehearsal).  He  is  so  enam- 
oured of  her  that  when  he's  mistaken  for 
an  actor  auditioning  for  the  playboy  role  he 
goes  along  with  the  gag.  He  wants  Marilyn 
to  love  him  for  himself.  Since  she  appears  to 
be  in  love  with  the  show's  singer  (Frankie 
Vaughn)  Montand  has  a  job  cut  out  for  him. 
Desperate  to  make  good  in  the  part,  he  hires 
Milton  Berle,  Bing  Crosby  and  Gene  Kelly 
to  give  him  private  instructions  in  their  re- 
spective arts.  This  works  out  very  well  because 
Montand  has  also  bought  5V.(  interest  in  the 
show.  It's  a  slick  movie,  all  right,  and  Mari- 
lyn's singing  is  delightful.  You  keep  wishing 
Montand  could  have  displayed  more  of  his 
many  talents  and  that  a  couple  with  this 
much  fire  had  been  given  better  fuel  to  burn. 
— Cinemascope,  20th-Fox. 


■  The  young  James  Darren  doesn't  know  what 
he's  up  against — his  father  died  in  the  electric 
chair  and  his  mother  (Shelley  Winters)  works 
as  a  "B"  girl  in  a  cafe  to  support  him.  Never- 
theless, Shelley  has  some  good  friends  there 
on  the  seamy  South  Side  of  Chicago  and,  one 
Christmas  Eve,  they  all  decide  to  become 
Jimmy's  godparents.  You  can't  call  any 
of  these  people  solid  citizens — a  punch- 
drunk  ex-fighter,  a  prostitute,  a  dope-addicted 
singer  (Ella  Fitzgerald),  an  alcoholic  ex- 
judge  (Burl  Ives),  etc.,  make  up  the  "family." 
Happily  enough  they  do  him  good  and  he 
becomes  an  outstanding  piano  student.  Shelley 
worries  because  he  gets  into  fights  defending 
his  late  father's  reputation.  Jimmy  doesn't  tell 
her  that  he's  defending  her  reputation.  Finally 
hauled  up  before  a  judge  Jimmy  is  surprised 
when  a  stranger  (Ricardo  Montalban)  pays 
his  fine.  Ricardo  has  been  romancing  Shelley 
and,  just  lately,  has  introduced  her  to  the 
use  of  drugs.  Jimmy  has  just  fallen  in  love 
with  Jean  Seberg,  a  girl  from  the  other  side 
of  Chicago,  and  is  about  to  audition  for  a 
music  scholarship  when  he  learns  how  Ricardo 
has  victimized  his  mother.  In  a  rage  Jimmy 
breaks  into  Ricardo's  florist  shop  (he  peddles 
drugs  in  the  backroom)  and  waves  a  pistol  at 
him.  Luckily,  Jimmy's  godparents  are  sober 
enough  for  the  finale. — Columbia. 

(Continued  on  page  6) 


New  Vicks  "Cough  Silencer" 

stops  nagging  coughs 


New  discovery  works  in  your  cough  control  center . . . 
without  narcotic  codeine  .  .  .  lets  you  sleep  all  night! 

Did  you  know  that  nagging  coughs  are  actually  controlled  in  the  brain 
...  at  your  Cough  Control  Center?  Congestion  and  irritation  in  your 
throat  and  chest  overexcite,  aggravate  this  Control,  make  you  cough. 

Until  recently,  only  medicines  containing  narcotics  like  codeine  could 
reach  this  Cough  Control  Center.  But,  codeine  can  have  sickening  side 
effects.  Can  be  habit-forming. 

Now  Vicks  announces  an  amazing  new  cough  silencer  called 
Silentium,  that  works  in  your  Cough  Control  Center  .  .  .  calms,  quiets, 
stops  nagging  coughs,  safely,  surely  .  .  .  without  narcotic  codeine.  Lets 
you  sleep  the  whole  night  through! 

Get  Silentium  in  two  Vicks  cough  syrups:  Improved  Vicks  Cough 
Syrup  with  the  wild  cherry  flavor  children  love;  and  for  Silentium  in 
extra-strength,  new  Vicks  Formula  44.  Buy  both,  stop  nagging  coughs! 


Extra-Strength  Formula 
For  Severe  Coughs 


How  could  a  girl  resist  Martin  Denny?  He  sweeps  you  away  to  a  tropic  paradise 
and  the  gay  glam-  fjjfHMIHM  our  °^  New  York  m  a  breathtaking  eve- 
ning...with  his  new  BP^|^9H|  EXOTIC  SOUNDS  VISIT  BROADWAY  album. 
Catch  the  way  he  HTq  jWB^^"  weaves  tropic  sounds  into  "Hernando's 
Hideaway"  and  "Love  for  Sale/'  Exciting!  You'll  love  his 

other  albums  too— like  quiet  village  and  silver  screen.  But  the  man  who 
really  tickles  me  (makes  me  laugh,  I  mean)  is  Dave  Barry.  I  have  a  ball  with 
Dave  and  his  new  album  laughs  for  losers...  3  ten  laugh- 

loaded  routines  like  "The  Unfair  Sex"  and  "Dis-  H  gM  honesty  is 
the  Best  Policy"  recorded  from  an  actual  Las  BctImIt tH  Vegas  night- 
club performance.  Honey,  you  haven't  lived  till  |^HHKflH  you've  met 
Dave  Barry !  There's  another  funny  man  in  my  love  life— Spike  Jones.  Just  wait 
till  you  hear  his  latest  Liberty  album  60  years  of  music  America  hates  best. 

You'll  laugh  as  I  did  when  you  hear  some  of  his  "zany"  take- 
offs  on  tunes  like  "Three  Little  Fishies"  and  "Hut  Sut  Song." 
More  surprises  than  a  carload  of  crackerjack  boxes  and  just  as 
nutty!  If  you're  a  Spike  fan  like  I  am,  you'll  want  his  omnibust 
album  too.  P.S.  Like  to  MraSp^^HH  put  the  man  in  your  life  in  a  roman- 
tic mood?  Leave  it  to  ■gJMMlM||  me.  My  new  around  midnight 
album  has  twelve  tan-  MjK^HRM  talizing  love  songs  like  "Misty," 
"The  Party's  Over"  and  hBHHHB  "Don  t  Smoke  in  Bed  "  For  an 
encore  try  my  other  Liberty  albums  your  number  please  &  and  julie  is 
her  name.  Just  write  me  for  a  complete  catalog  of  all  the  new' 

Liberty  albums... Julie  London,  Liberty  Records,  a 

Dept.  MS-11,  Los  Angeles  28,  California. 


EXOTICSOUNDSVISIT  BROADWAr — MartinDenny — LRP3163/LST  7163  -  60  YEARS  OF  MUSIC  AMERICA  HATES  BEST — SpikeJores — LRP  31 54/LST  71 54 
LAUGHS  FOR  LOSERS— Dave  Barry— LRP  31 76,  monaural  only  •  AROUND  MIDNIGHT — Julie  London — LRP  31 64/LST  71 64 


MIDNIGHT  LACE 

suspense  in  London 


Doris  Da 
Rex  Harriso 
Roddy  McDowal 
John  Gavii 
Myrna  Lo 


■  Marry  an  American  and  anything  can  hap 
pen,  but  suave  financier  Rex  Harrison  neve 
imagined  that  his  wife  (Doris  Day)  woul< 
pounce  on  the  idea  that  someone  was  tryin 
to  kill  her.  What  for?  First  she's  walkinj 
through  the  London  fog  and  a  threaterrin: 
voice  floating  out  of  it  nearly  scares  her  t 
death.  Next  a  load  of  steel  girders  just  misse 
falling  on  her  head.  Contractor  John  Gavin 
a  husky  bloke,  hurls  her  out  of  the  way 
When  Doris  notices  that  her  housekeeper' 
son  (Roddy  McDowall)  happily  walks  o! 
with  all  his  mother's  wages  there's  more  foe 
for  thought.  And  when  Roddy  leaves,  ttv 
phone  rings — another  threat.  Rex  informs  he 
that  London  is  full  of  practical  jokers  but  h 
takes  her  to  Scotland  Yard  anyway,  when 
Inspector  John  Williams  decides  she  just  like 
attention.  She  gets  plenty — more  phone  calls 
split-second  rescues  from  a  stalled  elevato 
and  a  wayward  bus,  more  phone  calls.  Ir 
desperation  Rex  says  he'll  take  her  to  Venice 
Who  can  harm  vou  in  a  gondola?  Who,  in 
deed  ?— U.-I. 


AIM  AT  THE  STARS 


conquering  outer  space 


Curt  Jurgen: 
Victoria  Shav 
Herbert  Lon 
Gia  Seal; 
Dal) 


■  Does  a  scientist's  desire  to  conquer  oute 
space  excuse  him  from  the  necessity  of  mak 
ing  moral  choices  on  this  earth  ?  That's  a  ques 
tion  nobody  wants  to  answer  in  this  film 
Playing  it  safe  the  story  concerns  itself  mainl; 
with  a  boy  whose  infatuation  for  designing 
rockets  never  dies.  The  boy  grows  up  int< 
Wernher  von  Braun  (Curt  Jurgens)  who 
while  Hitler  is  marching  through  Europe,  i 
busily  perfecting  the  V-2  rocket  in  Germany 
Yon  Braun  doesn't  join  the  Nazi  party  at  first 
he  does  so  later  in  order  to  continue  his  work 
The  fact  that  his  work  may  reduce  London  t< 
rubbish  is  somehow  ignored  by  Jurgens  whost 
only  desire,  he  insists,  is  to  reach  the  stars 
(His  attitude,  to  be  fair,  even  makes  the  Nazi- 
suspicious.)  When  he  and  his  co-worker 
finally  surrender  to  the  Americans,  Majoi 
James  Daly  resents  the  special  treatmen,, 
given  him.  But  Daly's  resentment  is  explainer 
away  on  a  personal  basis — that  is.  his  wilt 
and  children  were  killed  in  a  London  ail 
raid.  The  war  over,  von  Braun  goes  on  T\, 
in  America  to  warn  the  people  about  the  im 
portance  of  winning  the  "space  race."  The 
President,  himself,  asks  him  to  launch  ar 
American  missile  into  orbit — which  he  does 
It  is  Explorer  I.  It's  chilling  to  think  that  ii 
the  Russians  had  captured  him  he  might  havi 
been  on  their  "team"  now.  Victoria  Shaw 
plays  his  childhood  sweetheart,  whom  he  mar-i 
ries.  Gia  Scala  is  one  of  his  secretaries  who 
was  able,  despite  the  German  secret  police,  tr. 
do  a  little  spy  work  on  the  side. — Columbia 


THE  DARK  AT  THE  TOP  OF  THE 

STAIRS  Dorothy  McGuirc 

Robert  Prestor 

,      .,     ,  Eve  Arder 

family  drama  Angela  Lansbury 

Shirley  Knighf 

■  Family  life  in  the  '20*s  was  not  radicalh 
different  from  life  in  the  '60's.  Traveling 
salesman  Robert  Preston  is  the  kind  all  cus- 
tomers love  and  all  wives  (e.g.,  Dorothy  Mc 
Guire)  complain  about.  He's  not  home  enough 
he  doesn't  make  enough  money,  he's  not  a  good 
enough  father.  Teen-ager  Shirlev  Knight  need: 


clothes  (she  needs  something  to  overcome  her 
shyness  with  boys)  and  10-year-old  Robert 
Eyer  needs  masculine  influence.  A  fight  about 
one  of  Shirley's  new  dresses  sends  Preston, 
who  has  just  lost  his  job,  flying  into  Angela 
Lansbury's  beauty  shop  (she's  a  sympathetic 
widow).  Dorothy's  unhappily  married  sis- 
ter (Eve  Arden)  arrives  with  her  unhappy 
husband  (Frank  Overton)  to  console  her. 
Dorothy  and  Preston  reconcile  only  to  split 
again  when  she  resists  his  affectionate  ad- 
vances. Meanwhile  teen-ager  Shirley  is  having 
problems  of  her  own.  She's  finally  found  a 
beau  (they  met  when  he  narrowly  avoided 
running  her  down  with  his  car)  but  he  has  a 
Jewish  name  and  is  asked  to  leave  the  coun- 
try club  where  they've  been  dancing  and 
smooching.  This  snub  is  enough  to  make  him 
commit  suicide.  Preston  has  moved  to  a  hotel 
and  found  a  new  job.  Will  Angela  Lansbury 
get  him — or  will  Dorothy  McGuire  bring  him 
home  alive? — Warners. 


SUNRISE  AT  CAMPOBELLO 

Ralph  Bellamy 

E  •     j„„       r  Greer  Garson 

early  days  of  Hume  Cronyn 

a  great  president  Ann  Shoemaker 

Jean  Hagen 

■  A  hit  on  Broadway,  Sunrise  At  Campobello 
retains  all  the  qualities  which  made  it  an  in- 
spiring story  of  courage.  It  also  retains  the 
original  star  (Ralph  Bellamy)  as  Franklin 
Delano  Roosevelt.  On  a  summer  afternoon  in 
1921  the  Roosevelts — Greer  Garson  plays 
Eleanor — and  their  five  children  are  happily 
swimming  and  sailing  near  their  summer  lodge 
in  Canada.  That  night  FDR  is  stricken  by 
polio.  A  clash  soon  develops  between  FDR's 
close  friend  (Hume  Cronyn)  and  his  domi- 
neering mother  (Ann  Shoemaker).  Mother 
wants  FDR  to  rest  and  retire  at  Hyde  Park; 
Cronyn  believes  that  a  political  career  and 
dreams  of  achievement  will  speed  his  recovery. 
Eleanor,  who  is  extremely  shy,  forces  herself 
to  enter  public  life  in  order  to  keep  her  hus- 
band informed.  Meanwhile,  he  delves  into 
business  and  spends  much  time  building  up 
his  physical  strength.  A  final  clash  with  his 
mother  about  his  future  prompts  him  to  rise 
from  his  wheelchair  in  a  brave  attempt  to 
walk.  In  1924  FDR  is  asked  to  give  the  nomi- 
nating speech  for  Al  Smith  at  the  Democratic 
Convention.  To  do  this  he  must  be  able  to 
stand  on  his  feet  for  half  an  hour  and  must 
take  ten  steps  from  his  seat  to  the  lectern.  As 
his  friend  Cronyn  informs  him,  they  are  the 
biggest  ten  steps  he'll  ever  take  in  his  life. 
Go  see! — Warners. 


HELL  TO  ETERNITY 

island  warfare 


Jeffrey  Hunter 
David  Janssen 
Vic  Damone 
Patricia  Owens 
Richard  Eyer 


■  This  movie  is  based  on  the  life  of  a  then 
eighteen-year-old  Marine  who  captured  nearly 
2,000  Japanese  single-handedly  during  World 
War  II  (it's  remarkable  what  can  happen  if 
you  speak  the  language).  The  young  Guy 
Gabaldon  (Richard  Eyer)  is  a  pugnacious  kid 
born  in  the  slums  of  Los  Angeles.  One  day 
he  steals  some  potatoes  and  the  school  ath- 
letic coach  (George  Shibata),  a  Japanese- 
American,  escorts  him  home.  It  turns  out  that 
Richard's  been  living  alone  in  abject  poverty. 
Shibata  takes  him  to  his  own  home  where 
Guy  discovers  the  warmth  and  security  of  a 
happy  family  life.  He  learns  to  speak  Japa- 
nese and  grows  up  into  a  husky,  sensitive 
specimen  of  a  man  (Jeffrey  Hunter).  When 

( Continued  on  page  56) 


JUST  AJUST 


I'm  the 
magic 


Your  form  wasn't  meant  to  conform  to  a 
cup. . . the  cup  must  conform  to  you! 
And  I'm  the  magic  tab  that  can  pull 
the  magic  trick.  Just  pull  me  up... or 
down . . .  for  just  the  fullness  and 
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JUST 
ONE 
WORD 
FROM  YOU 


„JMHl. 

"A 


CAN 

SPELL  FREEDOM 
FOR  HER 

The  word  is  — Tampax!  Tampax®  inter- 
nal sanitary  protection.  Read  what  girls 
just  like  you  have  said  about  recommend- 
ing it  to  a  friend: 

"Of  course  I'd  tell  a  friend  about  Tampax 
—just  as  Yd  tell  a  savage  that  electric  light 
is  better  than  an  oil  lamp.  " 
"I  tell  my  friends  that  using  Tampax  is  like 
moving  from  the  horse  and  buggy  age  to  the 
automotive  age." 

"I'm  just  rabid  on  the  subject.  I  can't  stand 
to  have  a  friend  of  mine  in  that  cumbersome 
belt-pin -pad  harness." 
Do  users  think  Tampax  is  a  step  ahead? 
They  most  certainly  do!  A  step  ahead  in 
freedom,  in  comfort,  in  convenience! 
Tampax  can't  be  seen  or  felt,  once  in 
place.  Tampax  prevents  odor.  Tampax  is 
easy  to  insert  with  satin-smooth  applica- 
tor, easy  to  dispose  of,  convenient  to 
carry.  And  Tampax  meets  the  needs  of 
every  girl  with  3  absorbency  sizes:  Regu- 
lar, Superjunior,  available  wherever  such 
products  are  sold. 

TAMPAX 


Want  the  real  truth?  Write  to  INSIDE  STORY,  Modern  Screen. 
Box  515,  Times  Square  P.O.,  N.Y.  36,  N.Y.  The  most  interesting 
letters  will  appear  in  this  column.  Sorry,  no  personal  replies. 
For  vital  statistics  and  biographical  information  about  the  stars 
get  Modern  Screen's  SUPER  STAR  CHART.  Coupon,  page  64. 


9  I  read  that  all  the  Crosbys  are  so 

completely  reconciled  now  that  the  en- 
tire clan,  sons,  grandsons,  Bing,  Kathy, 
etc.,  all  pet  together  for  church  on  Sun- 
days and  then  have  a  long  weekly 
brunch  at  Bing's  house  each  week.  How 
did  all  this  come  about? 

— G.F.,  New  York  City 

A  Through  the  fertile  imagination  of  a 
press-agent.  Not  a  word  of  truth  to  it. 

9  Now  that  Shelley  Winters  and  Tony 

Fronciosa  are  divorcing,  is  Tony  in- 
terested in  another  girl  already  ? 

— R.L.,  Riverside,  California 

A  Several. 

9  All  the  columns  have  Marlon  Brando 
dating  Charles  Boyer's  daughter  all 
over  Paris.  What  does  this  mean? 

— T.H.,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

A  Just  that  someone  goofed.  Boyer  only 
has  a  son. 

9  Is  it  true  that  Hope  Lange  Murray 
and  Don  s  new  girl  Dolores  Michaels 

are  set  to  appear  in  the  same  movie  to- 
gether?   Isn't   Don  embarrassed? 

— U.H.,  Portland,  Maine 


A  They  are  competing  for  I  he  same  role 
in  Dragon  Tree.  Don's  been  out  of 
town — and  out  of  the  situation. 


9  What  ever  happened  to  the  Tues- 
day Weld-Dick  Beymer  romance? 

— H.B.,  Canton,  Ohio 

A  As  usual,  Tuesday  got  bored  with  the 
whole  thing. 

9  Is  it  serious  between  Ina  Balin  and 
Roddy  McDowall? 

— Y.F.,  Brooklyn,  N.Y. 

A  It's  strictly  for  laughs. 

9  Is  it  true  that  Liz  Taylor  went  along 
with  Eddie  when  he  visited  his  children 
in  California  this  summer?  Did  Debbie 
give  her  permission  for  this? 

— M.B.,  Denver,  Col. 

A  No. 

9  They  say  Sandra  Dee  has  fallen 
for  a  boy  whom  she  met  while  she 
was  in  Rome  filming  Romanoff  and 
Juliet.  What  are  the  possibilities  of  this 
romance  lasting?  Or  do  you  think  it 


will  go  the 
romances? 


of  all  Sandra's  other 


-Z.R.,  London,  England 


A  If 


<onc. 


9  Do  Jean  Simmons  and  director 
Richard  Brooks  plan  to  get  married 
right  away  now  that  she  has  a  rush 
divorce    from    Stewart  Granger? 

— T.G.,  Portland,  Ore. 

A  You  can  gel  a  rush  divorce  in  Ari- 
zona, but  not  a  rush  remarriage.  Jean 
will  have  to  wait  a  year  before  be- 
coming Mrs.  Brooks. 

9  I  heard  a  rumor  that  Hayley  Mills. 

the  fourteen-year-old  star  of  PoUyanna, 
has  a  big  crush  on  a  famous  older  star 
and  is  dating  him  secretlv.  Who  is  it? 

— T.F.,  Fort  Lee,  N.J. 

A  Hayley  has  a  crush  on  Elvis  Presley. 

Their  only  "dates"  are  via  a  recording 
machine.  She  doesn't  go  out  with  boys 
of  any  age  .  .  .  yet. 

9  Is  it  true  that  Bill  Holden  is  still 
such  a  big  draw  that  his  name  on  a 
marquee  automatically  means  at  least  a 
million  dollars  profit  for  a  movie? 

— C.C.,  Chicago,  III. 


A  Tin  Kin 
Soph/a  Lor 


fin  which  Bill  star 
in  a  couple  of  yea 
an  a  million  'doll  a  i 
rely  on  the  story. 


cd  with 
s  back) 
loss.  It 


depends 

9  What's  the  story  behind  the  Lee 
Remick-Yves  Montand  feud? 

— T.G.,  Syracuse,  N.Y. 

A  Yves  isn't  feuding  with  Lee — just  with 
their  studio — for  giving  her  the  best 
scenes  in  their  new  movie,  Sanctuary. 

9  Now  that  Esther  Williams  has  fallen 
for  Fernando  Lamas  where  does  this 
leave  Jeff  Chandler? 

— E.E.,  Santa  Monica,  Calif. 

A  High  and  dry. 

9  I  read  a  story  in  which  Diane  Baker 
is  supposed  to  have  told  her  studio  that 
unless  she  is  give  meatier  roles  in  more 
"classy"  pictures  she'd  prefer  to  take  a 
suspension.    What's    happened  since? 

— P.L.,  Lubbock,  Texas 

A  Diane's  currently  starring  in  The 
Wizard  or  Baghdad. 


^1 


4 


NEW 
PEARLESGENT 
MAKEUP 


I 


Touches  your  complexion  with  moonlight 
Sparkles  your  lips  with  iridescent  color 

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plexion looks  flawlessly  caressed  with  moonlight.  Touch  on  new  creamy  Pearlescent 
ipstick;  your  lips  are  moist  with  an  iridescent  sparkling  beauty  that  he's  bound  to 
5nd  more  than  a  little  disturbing.  Find  out  for  yourself —pearls  are  a  girl's  best  friend! 


"Think  Pink" 


CREATED  IN  PARlJ>,«TvlADE  BY  BOURJOIS,  U.S.A. 


79*' 


■ 


Is  it  true.. 
blondes 
have  more 
fun? 


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Lady  Clairol,  it's  so  easy!  It  takes  only  minutes! 

And  Lady  Clairol  feels  deliciously  cool  going  on,  leaves  hair  in  wonderful 
condition -lovelier,  livelier  than  ever.  So  if  your  hair  is  dull  blonde  or  mousey 
brown,  why  hesitate?  Hair  responds  to  Lady  Clairol  like  a  man  responds  to 
blondes— and  darling,  that's  a  beautiful  advantage!  Try  it  and  see! 

Your  hairdresser  ivill  tell  you  a  blonde's  best  friend  is 

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MODERN  SCREEN'S 
GOSSIP  EXTRA 
by 

HOLLYWOOD'S 
GREATEST  COLUMNIST 


\in  this  issue: 

fun  Party  for  George  Burns 
and  Bobby  Darin 

e  Truth  About 
Marilyn  and  Yves 

Debbie  Makes  an 
Announcement 


Glamorous  Rosalind  Russell  (left)  joined  Louella  and  her  escort  Jimmy 
McHugh  for  George  Burns'  and  Bobby  Darin's  Greek  Theater  gala  opening. 


LOU 


continued 


Esther  and  Fernando:  seen  together 
lately  in  quiet  restaurant  corners. 


Esther  and  a  New 
Beau? 

The  first  rumor  that  Esther  Williams  had 

said  farewell  to  her  boyfriend  of  three  years, 
Jeff  Chandler,  was  surprising  news  since 
all  Hollywood  believed  they  were  preparing 
to  marry.  In  fact,  Esther  and  Jeff  hinted  they 
were  headed  in  that  direction.  Their  romance 
started  when  they  made  a  picture  together  in 
Rome  and  continued  to  be  one  of  our  most 
steady  flames. 

Then  came  word  that  Esther  had  fallen  hard 
for  another  of  her  leading  men.  Just  as  in  the 
case  of  Jeff,  this  leading  man  also  was  mar- 
ried. He  was  with  her  in  her  TV  Spectacular, 
Esther  Williams  at  Cypress  Gardens.  I  speak 
of  Fernando  Lamas. 

The  gossip  didn't  seem  possible  until,  out 
of  the  blue,  redheaded  Arlene  Dahl  sued 
Lamas  for  divorce  on  the  ground  of  extreme 
cruelty.  Then  Esther  and  Fernando  were  seen 
together  in  guiet  corners  at  smaller  restaurants. 

Whether  this  romance  will  continue  no  one 
can  say,  but  as  this  is  being  written  the  Latin 
lover  seems  to  have  fallen  hard  for  the  movie 
mermaid. 


Poor  Taina  Elg  (left).  Ont 
Larsen:  the  next  she  disco 


oment  she  ivas  looking  forivi 
■ed  he  had  just  married  acti 


visit  from  Keith 
•a  Miles  (right). 


Backstage  Drama 

The  vivid  redheaded  star  stood  in  the  wings 
of  the  Redhead  show  at  the  Dallas  State  Fair 
waiting  for  her  cue  music  that  would  bring  her 
onto  the  stage.  But  first  she  paused  to  read 
again  the  telegram  which  had  brought  such  a 
big  smile  to  her  face:  ARRIVING  OVER  THE 
WEEK  END.  LOVE,  KEITH. 

Once  again  she  quickly  read  the  message 
which  had  made  her  so  happy  before  shoving 
it  into  the  hands  of  her  dresser.  Then  Taina 
Elg  whirled  onto  the  stage  to  the  sound  of 
much  applause. 

Two  hours  later,  sitting  in  her  dressing 
room,  removing  her  make-up,  she  switched  on 
the  small  radio  on  her  dressing  table  to  a  news 
broadcast. 

"Flash  from  Hollywood,"  came  the  voice  of 


the  announcer,  "Keith  Larsen,  TV  star,  and 
blonde  actress  Vera  Miles  were  just  married 
in  Las  Vegas  in  a  surprise  move  that  caught 
most  of  Hollywood  off  guard.  The  newlyweds 
will  return  immediately  to  the  bride's  home  in 
Thousands  Oaks  in  the  San  Fernando  Valley 
where  they  will  join  Miss  Miles'  son  by  a 
previous  marriage  to  Gordon  (Tarzan) 
Scott,  and  two  daughters  by  her  marriage 
to  Bob  Miles." 

As  they  say  in  the  scripts — Cut.  And  that's 
about  all  there  is  to  this  strange  little  story  ex- 
cept that  when  Taina  returned  to  Hollywood 
someone  connected  with  Keith's  TV  show 
Aquanuf,  who  probably  was  unaware  of  the 
situation,  offered  her  the  lead  in  his  next 
chapter! 

Shrugging,  she  said,  "Everyone  will  say  that 
I  refused  it  because  of  other  reasons — but 
honestly  the  role  wasn't  up  my  street." 


Jean  and  Stewart 
Reach  a  Settlement 

Although  I  had  known  for  a  couple  of  years 
that  the  marriage  of  Jean  Simmons  and 
Stewart  Granger  was  in  shambles,  they 
persisted  in  denying  it.  Then,  out  of  the  blue, 
from  London  Jean  announced  that  a  divorce 
was  contemplated— and  about  three  weeks 
later  she  slipped  quietly  into  Nogales,  Arizona, 
her  legal  residence,  and  filed  for  a  divorce. 

Why  all  the  long  drawn-out  shenanigans? 
In  the  beginning  I  think  the  British  Stewart 
was  determined  that  his  lovely  English  bride 
of  over  nine  years  would  not  get  a  divorce 
with  his  approval.  He  seemed  on  the  verge 
of  a  nervous  breakdown  every  time  I  called  to  j: 
check  him  over  persistent  reports  that  he  and 
Jean  were  through. 

This  may  have  been  partly  due  to  the  fact 
that  Jean's  screen  career  is  soaring  and 
Granger's  has  slipped  in  recent  years.  He  was 
very  unhappy  about  not  working  more. 

Finances  were  another  hurdle.  They  had 
bought  jointly  a  10,000-acre  ranch  in  Arizona 
stocked  with  the  finest  cattle  and  the  invest- 
ment took  a  big  chunk  of  Jean's  earnings. 

There  was  also  the  big  difference  in  their 
ages.  Granger  being  forty-one  when  he  mar- 
ried the  young  teen-age  actress  in  London. 

These  tensions  mounted  over  the  years  and 
even  the  birth  of  their  loved  little  daughter 
Tracy  after  six  years  of  marriage  did  not 
bring  the  happiness  they  hoped  for. 

It  seemed  for  a  time  as  if  this  marriage  had 
reached  an  impasse  that  might  drag  into  years 
of  Jean  going  her  way  and  Stewart  going  his 
without  benefit  of  real  freedom — when  sud- 
denly a  fine  thing  happened.  MGM  signed 
Stewart  for  three  big  pictures  and  the  frustra- 
tions he  had  felt,  and  the  bitterness,  seemed  to 
melt  away  in  the  glow  of  contentment  he 
found  in  again  being  a  busy  and  active  man. 
A  settlement  was  reached  between  him  and 
Jean — and  their  friends  hope  there  is  content-  |I6 
ment  ahead  for  both  of  these  Britishers,  now 
American  citizens. 


Although  their  marriage  was  long  on 
the  rocks,  Jean  Simmons  and  Stew- 
art Granger  persisted  in  denying  it. 


12 


PERSONAL 
OPINIONS 


Now  her  divorce  from  Stewart  Granger  is 
■ehind  her  and  their  years  of  unhappiness  are 
o  longer  denied,  look  for  Jean  Simmons 
b  become  the  bride  of  director  Richard  Brooks, 
'hey  may  not  wait  the  full  year  required  by 
Arizona  law  although  neither  admits  con- 
smplating  a  quickie  marriage  in  a  state 
ermitting  immediate  remarriage  after  a 
ivorce.  .  .  . 

Too  bad.  girls.  One  more  eligible  Hollywood 
achelor  is  out  of  circulation  since  Gene 


Kelly  married  his  pretty  dance  assistant 
Jeannie  Coyne  in  a  surprise  ceremony  at  2:00 
in  the  morning  in  Tonopah,  Nevada.  Gene  had 
waited  until  his  fourteen-year-old  daughter 
Kerry  was  visiting  from  her  school  in  Switzer- 
land so  she  could  be  present  at  his  wedding. 
Jeannie  and  Gene  (euphonious,  aren't  they?) 
have  been  dating  quietly  for  some  time.  Their 
close  friends  suspected  they  were  in  love — but 
even  so,  the  marriage  came  as  a  bit  of  a  sur- 
prise. .  .  . 

How  time  passes — much  too  swiftly. 
Tommy  Rettig  the  first  little  boy  star  of 
Lassie,  now  has  a  7-pound,  13-ounce  little  boy 
of  his  own.  Tommy  and  Darlene  have  named 
their  first  Thomas  Eugene — and  Tommy  says, 
"Yes,  as  soon  as  he's  old  enough  we're  going 
to  get  him  a  dog!" 


ene  Kelly  (center)  with  his  two  favorite  girls— his  recent  bride,  Jeannie 
oyne  (left),  and  his  fourteen-year-old  daughter  Kerry,  home  from  abroad. 


>ebbie  Says 
She'll  Marry  Harry 

When  Elizabeth  Taylor  and  Eddie 
isher  were  in  Hollywood  they  saw  none  of 
eir  friends.  They  attended  no  social  events 
id  Eddie  told  pals  his  sole  reason  for  being 

Hollywood  was  to  see  his  two  children, 
rrrie  Frances  and  Todd. 
When  he  visited  them,  Debbie  Reynolds, 
e  mother  of  these  two  beautiful  children, 
ade  it  a  point  to  be  absent.  She  had  no  wish 

meet  Eddie  for  whom  she  still  holds  some 
tterness  although  she  never  admits  it,  nor 
>9S  she  show  it  by  word  or  deed. 
Those  who  claim  to  know  say  that  Debbie 
.11  be  mistress  of  the  beautiful  home  that 
3rry  Karl,  shoe  manufacturer,  has  recently 
decorated  for  her.  She  dates  no  one  else 
id  she  says  he  is  very  good  to  her  parents 
id  children. 

He  gifts  her  with  beautiful  furs  and  jewelry 
:d  she  says  no  one  has  ever  been  as  good  to 
.r  as  Karl.  That,  if  anything,  can  win  a 
oman's  heart.  She  said  they'll  marry  as 
on  as  his  divorce  is  final. 


She  said  it— they'll  marry  just  as 
as  Harry  Karl's  divorce  is  final. 


Lucky  Nat's  ever-lovin'  husband  R.  J. 
gifted  her  with  a  birthday  surprise. 

Birthday  Party  via 
Long  Distance 

If  I  had  been  there  myself  I  couldn't  have 
had  a  more  vivid  impression  of  Natalie 
Wood's  twenty-second  birthday  fiesta  than  I 
received  long  distance  from  New  York  from 
Nat  herself. 

"The  most  wonderful  surprise  was  Bob's 
having  my  mother  (Mrs.  Marie  Gurdin)  plane 
in  from  Hollywood  the  afternoon  of  the  party 
— and  then  he  hid  her  until  time  to  spring  her 
at  the  party! 

Then  Natalie  lapsed  back  into  referring  to 
her  doting  Bob  Wagner  as  the  usual  "R.J." 
as  she  happily  rattled  on.  "R.J.  took  over  the 
wine  cellar  at  Pierre's — just  like  they  do  for 
parties  in  Paris  and  all  those  kegs  and  bottles 
around  sure  puts  everyone  in  a  convivial  mood 
■ — to  understate  it,"  Natalie  laughed. 

"If  mother  and  the  party  weren't  enough — 
old  R.J.  also  broke  out  with  a  big  diamond  set 
in  the  middle  of  a  heart  for  my  birthday  gift — 
am  I  lucky  or  not?" 

Natalie  continued  to  run  up  her  'phone  bill 
as  she  went  on  with  the  details  of  the  celebra- 
tion. "Remember  Frank  (Sinatra)  gave 
me  my  twenty-first  birthday  party  last  year  at 
Romanoff's.  He  couldn't  be  in  New  York — but 
I  can  tell  you  he's  just  as  thoughtful  and 
original  3,000  miles  away  as  he  is  on  tap. 

"He  had  twenty-two  bouquets  of  flowers 
made  up — and  one  was  delivered  every  hour 
during  the  evening.  Also,  he  hired  22  musicians 
who  marched  in  playing  and  singing.  There's 
Nothing  Like  a  Dame.  How  about  that?" 

If  you're  asking  me — it  couldn't  have  hap- 
pened to  a  more  excited  or  appreciative  girl, 
Natalie.  Even  if  you  have  hit  the  big-time 
stardom  in  your  New  York  picture  Splendor  In 
The  Grass  you  still  sound  like  the  slightly 
slangy  and  down-to-earth  girl  you  were  when 
you  left  town. 


1 


Bob  Taylor's 
Stepdaughter  Elopes 

Another  teen-ager  making  Hollywood  head- 
lines was  Manuela  Theiss,  17-year-old  daugh- 
COTltinued  ter  of  Ursula  Theiss  and  stepdaughter  of 
Robert  Taylor.  Without  a  word  to  her  dis- 
traught parents,  Manuela  had  eloped  to 
Tijuana,  Mexico,  and  married  Lai  Baum. 

Ursula  was  too  crushed  to  talk  about  it  but 
Bob  told  me: 

"We  had  thought  this  whole  thing  was  over 
as  far  as  Manuela  was  concerned.  She  had 
been  dating  Baum  for  some  time  against  our 
wishes  but  lately  it  seemed  to  be  over."  I 
asked  Bob  what  business  the  bridegroom  is  in. 

He  laughed,  "He  seems  to  work  among  the 
potted  plants  in  a  nursery  most  of  the  time. 
He  told  me  he  had  an  Actor's  Guild  card — but 


I  never  knew  of  his  having  an  acting  job." 

I  had  heard  that  Ursula  and  Bob  planr 
to  have  the  marriage  annuled  as  Manuelc 
under  age. 

"Definitely  not!"  he  retorted.  "Ursula  agre 
with  me  that  Manuela  took  this  step  with  t 
eyes  open — and  if  there  is  a  lesson  to  i, 
learned — let  her  learn  it. 

"On  the  other  hand,  we  have  no  intentj 
of  giving  our  permission  for  her  to  be  remf 
ried  to  Eaum  in  the  United  States. 

"She  just  telephoned  us  from  Mexico — to* 
of  her  marriage — and  we  haven't  heard  an 
thing  since — not  even  where  she  is." 

By  this  time,  I  sincerely  hope  the  situation 
happier  for  all  concerned.  Bob  has  been' 
wonderful  father  to  Ursula's  children  by 
previous  marriage  as  well  as  to  their  own  h 
beautiful  youngsters  and  I  know  he  wai 
to  act  as  wisely  as  though  Manuela  was  3 
own. 


Swank  Young 
Set  Event 

The  visit  of  the  young  Detroit  heiresses, 
Anne  and  Charlotte  Ford,  charming  daughters 
of  the  Henry  Fords,  inspired  the  party  hosted 
by  Merle  Oberon  and  Bruno  Pagliai  at 
which  Maria  Cooper  (Gary  Cooper's  young 
beauty)  acted  as  assistant  hostess. 

All  of  Merle's  parties  are  delightful.  Even 
though  her  home  is  famed  for  its  paintings  and 
objets  d'art  and  her  silver  and  crystal  service 
is  exquisite,  she  makes  a  point  of  seeing  that 
her  affairs  are  not  stuffy  or  formal. 

Dancing  was  the  order  of  the  evening  at 


which  the  young  Ford  girls  met  many  of  their 
Hollywood  contemporaries— and  the  music 
put  everyone  in  a  toe-tapping  mood  from  the 
start. 

Hollywood's  young  "aristocrat,"  Susan 
Kohner  came  (surprisingly)  with  John 
Saxon  but  whispered  to  me  not  to  make  a 
"note"  of  it  as  George  Hamilton,  her  extra- 
special  fella,  was  working. 

Mark  Damon  spun  by  with  Joan  Benny 
Rudolph,  Jack  Benny's  daughter,  and  his 
date.  The  very  handsome  Gardner  McKay 
stagged  it — much  to  the  delight  of  many  of  the 
belles. 

Fabian  had  been  invited — but  couldn't  at- 
tend, much  to  his  regret,  due  to  a  persistent 


sore  throat.  "But  I  shall  be  represented  b 
my  fourteen-year-old  brother,"  Fabian  told  m 
over  the  telephone  before  I  left  for  Merle's. 

I  took  particular  notice  of  the  fact  that  bot- 
of  the  Nelson  boys,  David  and  Ricky,  d< 
voted  themselves  to  Anne  Ford,  one  of  th 
prettiest  and  most  intelligent  young  girls 
have  ever  met. 

Tony  Curtis,  who  kept  insisting  he  wo 
one  of  the  few  "veteran"  actors  invited,  cappe 
the  evening  for  laughs  when,  hearing  the  Goo 
Humor  wagon  passing  by,  dashed  out  an 
bought  100  chocolate-covered  ice  cream  bar 
for  all  the  guests.  The  "older"  set  also  include 
Janet  Leigh,  of  course,  the  Gary  Coopers 
Ernie  Kovacs  and  Yves  Montand. 


Arthur  Miller  (left)  advises  his  friend  Simone  Signoret,  wife  Marilyn  Monroe 
and  Yves  Montand  not  to  be  perturbed  by  the  shocking  lies  about  divorce. 


"Arthur  Miller  to 
Divorce  Marilyn 
Monroe  Naming 
Yves  Montand" 

.  .  .  this,  Yves  himself  told  me  at  Merle 
Oberon's  party,  was  the  shocking  headline 
printed  in  a  Paris  newspaper! 

He  was,  and  is,  seething  about  this  "libel" 
which  he  says  has  brought  on  intense  em- 
barrassment between  four  fine  friends.  "My 
wife  Simone  (Signoret),  Arthur,  Mari- 
9  lyn  and  I  have  been  fast  friends  ever  since 
1 1  appeared  in  one  of  Arthur's  plays  in  Paris," 
E  the  fascinating  but  very  distressed  French 


charmer  told  me. 

"Although  Simone  knew  this  to  be  the  worst 
untruth,  she  is  in  Paris  completing  her  new 
film,  and  the  headline  has  been  so  humiliating 
to  her.  We  have  talked  almost  daily  over  the 
telephone.  Marilyn  is  unhappy,  I  am  furious — 
it  has  been  such  a  headache.  Only  Arthur  is 
unperturbed  because  he  is  an  unperturbable 
man  when  confronted  by  a  lie." 

Yves  believes  the  gossip  that  he  and  Marilyn 
were  "infatuated,"  to  give  it  an  understate- 
ment, began  with  the  sexy  photographs  they 

posed  for  to  exploit  Let's  Make  Love.  . 

"It's  hitting  below  the  belt  to  print  things   CdDUCine 

that  have  no  semblance  of  truth,"  said  the  hot- 
under-the-collar  Montand — and  I'll  admit  I 
agree  with  him  in  this  case.  I  usually  stick 
up  for  my  newspaper  confreres — but  that  head- 
line was  pretty  strong  stuff. 


I  nominate  for 
STARDOM 


Terry  Moore 
1  proudly  displaying 
son  to  daddy  St  uart 
Cramer)  watched 
birth  in  a  mirror. 


Childbirth:  Ultra- 
Modern  Method 

I've  talked  with  new  mothers  soon  after  the 
V;  tilth  of  a  baby.  But  I've  never  talked  with 
c-cne  who  had  watched  the  whole  thing  in  a 

mirror  and  who  was  on  the  telephone  exactly 
•  one  hour  later  as  was  a  very  excited  and 
-i  happy  Terry  Moore  (Mrs.  Stuart  Cramer 

IH). 

"I've  just  gone  through  the  most  wonderful 
experience  of  my  life,"  said  Terry  from  her 
;:  room  in  Good  Samaritan  Hospital  to  which 
jjj  she  had  just  been  returned  from  being  deliv- 
er ered  of  a  6-pound,  13-ounce  boy  who  had 
d  chosen  to  arrive  three  weeks  ahead  of 
g  schedule. 

{;-    "I  watched  the  entire  delivery  in  a  mirror," 
tk  went  on  the  excited  redheaded  movie  star.  "I 
had  prepared  myself  by  reading  Childbirth 


Without  Fear  and  taking  all  the  exercises 
recommended.  I  feel  just  great  and  so  happy. 
Everything  they  promised  in  the  book  is  true!" 

All  I  could  do  is  just  shake  my  head  with 
wonderment  over  these  new  mothers.  Just  the 
night  previous  I  had  seen  Terry  and  Stuart  at 
Ginny  Simms'  cocktail  party.  They  had  told 
me  they  were  going  on  to  the  theater  to  see 
Vivien  Leigh  in  Duel  of  Angels. 

At  2:30  the  following  morning,  Terry 
awakened  her  husband  and  at  9:30  young  Mr. 
Cramer  arrived. 

"I  just  hope  that  any  young  wife  who  is 
afraid  of  childbirth  hears  about  my  experience 
and  prepares  herself  for  this  miracle  by  being 
well  and  happy  and  interested  during  the  birth 
of  her  baby,"  said  the  astounding  Terry. 

Then  someone  grabbed  the  telephone  and 
told  me  the  new  mother  should  really  get  some 
rest. 

I  should  think  sol 


She's  no  "cutie"  or  "doll"  or  baby  beatnik. 
On  the  contrary  the  five-feet  seven-inch  former 
model  who  hails  from  France  is  more  in  the 
tradition  of  a  Garbo,  a  Dietrich,  or  the  former 
great  beauties  of  the  screen.  In  this  wave  of 
obviously  over-sexed  and  over-exposed  glam- 
our girls,  she's  a  welcome  relief. 

The  one-name  beauty  moves  through  the  de- 
lightful Song  Without  End,  the  classic  music 
treat  with  Dirk  Bogarde  portraying  Franz 
Liszt,  like  a  series  of  animated  exquisite  posters. 
Then,  surprisingly,  she  went  from  this  lovely 
period  piece  into  the  lead  opposite  rugged 
John  Wayne  in  Worth  To  Alaska  with  equal 
effectiveness. 

Off  screen,  she  maintains  consciously  or  un- 
consciously a  feeling  of  mystery  and  excite- 
ment of  the  same  variety  she  projects  before 
the  cameras.  Yet  she  has  a  quiet  and  appeal- 
ing sense  of  humor. 

Born  Germaine  Lefebvre  in  Toulon,  France, 
she  changed  her  name  to  the  single  Capucine 
after  she  started  to  click  big  as  a  leading  model 
in  Paris.  Asked  why,  she  laughed,  "I'm  a 
name  dropper!" 

She  lives  so  quietly  since  she  was  discov- 
ered by  the  Famous  Players  Agency  and 
brought  to  Hollywood  from  New  York,  where 
she  had  transplanted  her  success  as  a  model, 
that  she's  practically  never  seen  at  the  night- 
clubs or  premieres.  But  already  she  is  a  charm- 
er in  movietown's  more  social  circles. 

She  is  crazy  about  children  and  dogs  in  the 
order  named.  She  brings  her  toy  poodle, 
France,  on  the  set  of  North  To  Alaska  and 
formed  an  immediate  and  surprising  friendship 
with  Fabian  (also  in  the  movie)  because  "he 
loves  my  dog,  too." 

To  the  public  eye  her  ash-blonde  hair  is  al- 
ways immaculately  groomed  and  her  grey- 
blue  eyes  carefully  made  up.  "But  when  I 
am  alone  and  relaxing,"  she  admits  with  that 
surprising  humor,  "I  am  really  a  mess.  Most 
models  are — it's  such  a  relief  from  always  be- 
ing dressed  up." 


1 


continued 


Ronnie  Burns  made  no  bones  about  it: 
Carol  Everne  is  his  very  best  girl! 


m 


Pamek 
proud t 


;  (Mrs.  James)  Masoi 
f  her  grownup-looking  P 


The  Fun  Party  of 
the  Month 

Guess  you  could  call  it  the  Hollywood  ver- 
sion of  the  old-fashioned  hayride.  I've  never 
seen  so  many  stars  having  such  a  gay  care- 
free time  as  they  did  riding  three  luxury  buses 
from  Gracie  Allen  and  George  Burns 
house  in  Beverly  to  the  outdoor  Greek  Theater 
prior  to  George  and  Bobby  Darin's  open- 
ing. 

Gracie  and  George  and  Mary  and  Jack 

Benny  got  the  idea  of  transporting  their 
large  group  of  pals  via  bus — and  believe  me 
they  did  it  up  with  all  the  trimmings.  Each  bus 
was  equipped  with  a  bar  and  some  very 


Bobby  Darin  ( left)  thought  it  ivas  pretty  funny  when  Pat  McCallum 
(center)  told  him  how  Rock  ate  all  his  fried  chicken— and  hers. 


Anne  and  Kirk  Douglas  had  a  gay 
time  at  George  and  Grade's  party. 


Their  old  friend  Mary  Livingston  (right)  contributed  good  ideas 
that  made  the  Burns  and  Allen  party  the  fun  party  of  the  month. 


healthy  "snacks"  plus  those  delicious  box 
lunches  ready  and  waiting. 

Rock  Hudson,  beaming  like  a  kid,  and 
with  Pat  McCallum  in  tow  (what  goes  here — 
more  and  more  Rock  seems  to  have  settled 
on  Pat  as  his  favorite  date?)  sat  in  the  front 
seats  behind  the  driver.  Rock  ate  not  only 
his  own  cold  fried  chicken — but  all  of  Pat's 
as  well. 

Ronnie  Burns  made  no  bones  about  be- 
ing with  his  favorite  date  and  called  Carol 
Everne  "my  best  girl"  when  he  introduced  us. 

The  Kirk  Douglases  were  so  happy  that 
Anne's  mother,  Mrs.  Pauline  Michael,  visiting 
from  Paris,  had  the  opportunity  of  enjoying 
such  a  different  kind  of  American  party. 


Those  dignified  ladies  of  stage,  screen  an 
TV — Greer  Garson  and  Rosalind  Rus 
sell  acted  like  teen-agers  during  the  entir 
ride — and  then  reverted  to  glamorous  movi 
queens  when  they  got  off  the  bus  and  wer 
deluged  by  all  the  fans  at  the  Greek  Theate 

Dana  Wynter  and  Greg  Bautzer  lamente 
that  their  eight-month-old  son  Mark  wasn 
"quite"  old  enough  to  be  brought  along — bi 
they  just  happened  to  have  some  pictures  c 
him! 

Portland  Mason,  looking  all  of  eighteei 
"chaperoned"  her  parents,  Pamela  and  Jame 
Mason,  and  among  others  having  a  fine  ol 
time  were  Carol  Charming  and  Barbar 
Rush.  Big  night — lots  of  fun. 


I  dreamed  I  was 


WANTED 

in  my  Maidenf  orm  bra 

Name:  Star  Flower*  Reward:  Just  wearing  it! 

Distinguishing  characteristics:  Circular  stitched  cups  in  pretty  petal 
pattern.  Twin  elastic  bands  beneath  cups.  Upper  bands  adjust  to  make  bra 
fit  like  custom-made.  Lower  bands  make  bra  breathe  with  wearer. 
Physical  description:  White  broadcloth.  A,  B,  C  cups.  2.50. 
Last  seen:  In  stores  everywhere.  Looking  ravishing. 


A  cautious  Kim  is  being  very  careful  before 
she  leaps  into  marriage  with  Dick  Quine. 


■3 


LETTER 
BOX 


Elvis  and  Juliet  Prows 
just  a  press  agent's  dreat 


Newly  weds  Millie  Perkins  and  Dean 
Stockwell  persist  in  "hiding.  .  .  ." 


What's  the  matter  with  Kim  Novak  that 
she  is  afraid  to  marry  the  man  she  admits  she 
loves — Richard  Quine?  Don't  you  think  she 
needs  psychiatric  counsel  about  her  love  lite? 
asks  Virginia  F.  Weidmann,  Spokane.  Not 
necessarily.  Kim's  just  being  very  careful  be- 
fore she  leaps,  which  is  much  better  in  my 
book  than  marrying  and  divorcing,  divorcing 
and  marrying.  .  .  . 

Wish  you  would  plug  the  career  of  John 
(Mr.  Lucky)  Vivyan  as  ardenffy  as  you  did 
for  TV's  David  Janssen.  hints  Jon  Beers,  Ft. 
Worth.  It's  my  opinion  that  the  next  great 
male  star  ot  the  screen  is  waiting  his  break  in 
the  movies  standing  in  the  wings  of  TV.  The 
P.S.  on  your  letter  reveals  that  you  are  a  girl 
with  the  unusual  name  of  Jon.  I  thought  your 
enthusiasm  sounded  quite  feminine,  my  Texas 
friend.  .  .  . 

Sixteen-year-old  Kathryn  Carter,  Mil- 
waukee, writes:  It's  all  right  to  say  that  tall 
girls  are  in  vogue  and  that  Capucine  and 
Suzy  Parker  among  other  newcomers  like 
Julie  Newmar  are  the  new  'glamazons'  of 
the  movies — buf  fake  if  from  me,  it's  tough  to  be 
a  girl  towering  5-feet,  11 -inches,  over  most  ot 
your  dates!  There  was  much  more  to  your  semi- 
comic,  semi-sad  letter,  Kathryn — but  don't  go 
into  a  spin  because  of  your  height.  Stand  up 
straight  and  look  the  world  in  the  eye — you 


may  eventually  find  yourself  looking  straight 
into  the  eyes  of  a  six-foot  male  who  will  be 
proud  of  you.  .  .  . 

Just  one  question,  postcards  Willie  Mae  Van 
Ness,  Detroit:  Whaf  has  happened  to  Millie 
Perkins?  She's  still  very  much  around — 
still  under  contract  to  20th  Century-Fox  and  as 
this  is  written,  about  to  go  into  a  new  picture. 
Don't  ask  me  why  she  and  Dean  Stockwell 
persist  in  living  and  acting  like  they  are  on 
the  lam  from  the  FBI.  .  .  . 

Dodie  Weaver  (no  relation  to  the  celebrity  ) 
who  hails  from  Albany,  has  been  making  her 
own  private  poll  of  the  stars  who  are  "polite" 
enough  to  answer  "nice"  fan  letters:  Tues- 
day Weld  is  the  best.  She  actually  answers 
questions  I  have  asked  her  and  seems  in- 
terested in  my  problems.  (This  isn't  the  first 
fan  praise  I  have  heard  about  Tuesday.)  The 
absolute  worst  is  Susan  Hayward  who  has 
not  only  ignored  my  letters  for  two  years — buf 
fhose  of  five  other  fans  I  know.  Don't  forget 
that  when  Susan  isn't  actually  working  in 
Hollywood  she's  now  a  happy  housewife  liv- 
ing in  Georgia  and  may  miss  much  of  her 
mail.  .  .  . 

You'll  never  make  me  believe  that  Elvis 
Presley  tell  for  Juliet  Prowse,  snaps 
"Tiny"  of  Tallahassee.  It  was  just  a  press 
agent's  dream  for  their  picture.  If  you  read 


what  I  wrote  in  this  department  last  mor 
you'll  know  that  I  more  or  less  agree  with  yc 
Tiny.  .  .  . 

Nice  to  hear  from  a  mature  fan  such 
Oliver  Williams  (says  he  is  fifty-two,  a  mo\ 
fan  and  proud  of  it)  who  writes:  just  saw  t 
wonderful  and  beautiful  Song  Without  E 
and  was  fransporfed  info  another  world 
music,  sight  and  sound.  There  is  nothing  wroi 
with  the  movies  that  motion  pictures  such 
this  will  not  cure.  I  agree  with  everything  y 
say,  Mr.  W. — and  thank  you  for  writing  such  c 
intelligent  letter  about  a  really  fine  picture 
it  was  almost  like  a  professional  review.  . 

Am  I  the  only  one  who  thinks  that  Fabian 
career  might  take  a  more  dignified  turn  if  1 
used  his  full  two  names — Fabian  Forte?  H< 
there  ever  been  a  big  star  with  just  one  narrn 
asks  Ginny  Greer,  Tampa.  Well,  — Cant h 
flas  comes  quickly  to  mind.  And  both  Gre1 
Garbo  and  Rudolph  Valentino  becan 
world  famous  by  just  their  last  names.  Beside 
who  wants  Fabian  overly  "dignified?" 

Thats'  all  for  now.  See  you  next  month. 


A  touch  of  smoke 

a  hint  of  fire... 

Vintage  hues  by  cutex 

From  Mediterranean  hillsides,  the  warm,  mellow  tones  of  ripening 
grapes  .  . .  the  flash  and  fire  of  a  fair  Italian  contessa.  Cutex  captures  both 
the  colors  and  the  mood  in  its  thrilling  new  "Vintage  Hues"  for  your 
lips  and  nails.  Wear  Cutex  "Tawny  Port"  for  a  smoldering  bronzy  look.  , 
Wear  "Ruby  Grape"  when  you  need  a  red  that's  rich  and  luscious.  It's  a 
vintage  year  for  color .  .  .  and  Cutex  brings  you  the  choicest  reds  of  all ! 

Tawny  Port  and  Ruby  Grape  . .  J 


This  question  whirls 
and  burns  in  Deb- 
bie's  troubled 
mind.  Should  I?  Eddie 
wants  me  to  marry. 
Should  I?  She  must 
find  an  answer  to 
the  plea  of  her  ex- 
husband,  the  father  of 
her  children.  On 
Eddie's  last  visit  to 
Debbie,  a  visit 


&  which  he  thought 
might  very  well  be 
his  last  as  the  "only- 
father"  to  Todd 
and  Carrie,  Eddie  had 
a  serious  talk  with 
Debbie.  For  on 
November  6th  Harry 
Karl's  divorce 
becomes  final,  he 
will  be  free  to  marry 
(Continued  on  page  75) 


Everyone  knew  the 
papers  were  referring  to 
Yves  Montand  and 
Marilyn  Monroe.  Every 

day  there  were  new  digs, 
new  insinuations.  But 
today  Marilyn  could 
take  it  no  longer. 
She  sat  in  the  living  room 
of  Bungalow  7  of  the 
Beverly  Hills  Hotel,  clutching^ 
the  newspaper,  the  nails 

of  her  right  hand  still 
clawing  into  the  col- 
umn item  she'd  just 
read :  What  blonde  box- 
office  queen,  whose 
husband  is  away, 
is  acting  very  cozy  with 
what  leading  man,  whose 
wife  is  away? 
"Again,"  she  thought. 
"Why  don't  they  leave  us 

alone?" 
After  a  while,  she  flung 
the  paper  to  the  floor. 
She  got  up  and  she 

walked  to  the  phone.  "Mr. 
Montand,"  she  said  into 

the  receiver,  her  voice 
tight,  tense.  "Yves  Montand. 
(Continued  on  next  page) 


Reunited  in  Paris 
after  the  hubbub 
about  Marilyn,  Yves 
Montand  and  wife 
Simone  Signoret  sat 
tensely  in  airport 
cafe,  walked  thought- 
fully by  the  Seine  as 
Yves  explained  over 
and  over,  "I  love  only 
you."  In  their  own 
home  at  last,  Simone 
believed  her  man, 
flew  into  his  arms. 
Later  to  the  world 
she  said  simply: 
"I  had  faith  in  my 
husband.  I  waited. 
He  returned." 


He  is  staying  in 
Bungalow  Nine." 
She  waited  impatiently 
while  the  operator  tried 
to  connect  the  call. 
"Sorry,  Mrs.  Miller,"  she 
heard  the  operator  say  after 
a  few  moments. 
"Mr.  Montand  does  not 
seem  to  be  in."  "But  he 
must  be," 
(Continued  on  page  60) 


A  terrible  accusation  has  been  leveled 
against  Tab  Hunter.  The  editors  of 
Modern  Screen  are  proud  that  Tab  has 
chosen  our  pages  in  which  to  answer  his 
accusers. 


■  "I  didn't  beat  my  dog.  I've  never  beaten  any  dog  or 
horse  or  animal  in  my  entire  life. 

"As  God  is  my  witness,  this  is  so. 

"For  the  past  two  months — ever  since  the  manager  of 
the  building  across  the  way  from  me  called  the  police 
and  accused  me  of  cruel  and  inhuman  treatment  of 
my  two-year-old  Weimaraner,  Fritz,  I've  been  broken- 
hearted. 

"I  didn't  have  to  defend  myself  or  deny  these  charges 
to  my  friends  or  to  the  people  who  knew  me. 

"They  know  my  love  for  animals.  And  they  have  been 
just  as  upset  as  I  have  because  they  know  there  is  no 
truth  to  these  accusations.  {Continued  on  page  78) 


IE  Pi 


■  Love  sometimes  carries  an  impossibly  high 
price.  Sometimes  it's  stolen  and  cherished  in  the 
darkness.  Other  times  it's  paid  for  with  fortunes 
or  with  debts. 

Two  years  ago  Deborah  Kerr  celebrated  her 
twelfth  anniversary  as  Mrs.  Anthony  Bartley. 
Had  she  pictured  herself  as  an  unhappy  wife? 
Never.  When  a  friend  once  asked  her  about 
herself  and  her  life,  Deborah  replied,  "I've 
been  lucky.  I  have  what  every  woman  needs. 
My  children,  a  devoted  husband  and  my  work." 

She  spoke  the  truth,  as  she  knew  it  then.  Her 
life  as  Mi's.  Anthony  Bartley  was  quiet,  sedate, 
contented.  Her  home  in  Hollywood  with  its 
spacious  gardens  and  sweeping  view  of  the 
Pacific  Ocean,  rang  with  the  cheerful  sound  of 
her  daughters'  voices.  "I  live  for  Melanie's  and 
Francesca's  happiness,"  she  told  friends  again 
and  again. 

No  one  suspected  a  marital  unrest,  least  of 
all  Deborah  herself. 

Although,  there  was  one  clue. 

On  the  door  of  her  studio  dressing  room,  she 
had  installed  a  "mood  barometer."  The  baro- 
meter, designed  in  the  graceful  curves  of  the 
Baroque  era,  had  a  dial  which  was  adjustable 
to  Deborah's  changing  (Continued  on  page  73) 


■  For  days  now  Tommy  Sands  had  been  in  a 
fog.  The  non-coms  would  issue  orders 
and  sometimes  he'd  have  to  ask 
a  buddy  to  tell  him  what  they  had 
said.  Words,  moments,  im- 
pressions all  blended  together 
because  his  mind  throbbed 
with  one  hundred  thoughts 
about  Nancy. 

For  two  weeks  they  hadn't  spoken 
on  the  telephone,  and  it  was  as  if 
his  whole  world  was  on  the  verge  of 
collapse.  He  was  on  maneuvers 
on  a  lonely  dusty  (Continued  on  page  80) 


'  5te  rest.  No  phone 
s,  no  interviews, 
t  nothing.Justquiet. 
'  iderstand?"  The 


doctor  raised  his  eye- 
brows and  peered 
down  at  the  young 
man,   stretched  out 


on  the  bed.  The  young 
man's  face  was  very 
pale,  but  he  managed 
a  cocky  half-smile. 


"Okay,  Doc,  okay. 
Anything  you  say, 
Doc.  Anything  you 
(Cont.  on  page  81) 


IMMMjjWWIll 


HSBHIIBHllHI 


g 


"Your  hair  needs  a 
vigorous  brushing  and 
.a  good  shampoo  to  give 
it  life  ...  a  new  red- 
tint  rinse  to  add  high- 
lights." 


"Try  the  blue-green  eye 
shadow  ...  a  deeper 

tone  liner  and  mascara. 

Then  groom  the  brows 
■    with  a  tiny  brush  and 

use  a  curler  to  turn 
long  straight  lashes 

upward." 


"Try  a  new  medicated 
formula  in  the 
creams,  lotions  and 
.foundations  to  improve 

your  oily  skin  and 
those  blemishes." 


"Carefully  shape  your 
lips  staying  within 
their  natural  outline. 
"    Then  add  the  magic 
of  the  new  high-bright 
red-red  lipsticks." 


"And  for  that  square 
jaw-line,  use  white 
_  make-up  stick  . . .  blend 
two  or  three  inches 
down  from  the  ears  to- 
ward the  chin  before 
final  powdering." 


Hi 


The  Cinderella  styling  takes  shape. 

If  anyone  had  ever  told  me  that  I  could  be 
beautiful — and  no  one  ever  did — Fd  have  said 
they  were  crazy.  But  the  girl  you  saw  on  page  34 
is  me,  the  mousy  me"  you  see  opposite  as  I  used  to 
be.  Honestly,  I  never  dreamed  that  anything  so 
unbelievable  could  have  happened  to  me,  and  I 
can  only  try  to  tell  you  how  it  feels  to  be  a 
Cinderella  who  found  a  fairy  godmother. 

I'm  19,  and  sort  of  a  mother's  helper  for  the 
Myers  family  to  earn  my  way  through  college. 
They're  lovely  people,  sophisticated  in  that  New 
York  way  of  editors,  artists,  writers  and  the  other 
exciting  people  who  make  Up  their  wonderful 
world,  which  I  love  to  watch,  but  a  world  I  never 
dared  aspire  to.  I  was  so  terribly  shy  and  self- 
conscious  that  I  just  (Continued  on  next  page) 


onely  lights,  I 


I  feel  just  like  a  princess 


In  Celebrities'  Cor- 
ner at  Sardi's  get- 
ting the  royal  treat- 
ment. This  is  a  few 
minutes  before  I  met 
Paul  Anka.  The 
dress  was  a  big  hit! 


Lucky  me!  Paul  asked  for  another 
date— this  one  at  the  St.  Moritz. 


couldn't  bear  to  talk  to  any  of  their  friends 
when  they'd  eome  to  the  house.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  I  couldn't  talk  casually  even  with 
the  girls  on  campus,  let  alone  the  men!  But 
I  was  at  home  with  the  Myers  children,  and 
when  I  was  with  them  I  was  happy  .  . .  very 
happy.  I  would  tell  them  the  saddest  stories 
about  the  saddest  girl  who  was  all  alone  in 
the  world:  she  had  no  friends,  no  one  to 
love  her;  she  was  ugly  and  pitiful;  she  had 
no  pretty  clothes,  no  beautiful  jewels;  she 
worked  hard,  studied  and  sometimes  had 
time  to  read  books,  exciting  ones  about 
people  she  would  never  know.  How  the 
children  loved  those  stories,  and,  of  course, 
I  was  the  heroine  of  every  one! 

One  afternoon  some  guests  arrived  and, 
as  usual,  I  quickly  rushed  to  the  garden 
with  the  children  so  that  I  wouldn't  have 
to  say  even  "Hello"  to  any  of  them.  Sudden- 
ly, as  I  was  telling  one  of  my  tales,  I  was 
aware  of  someone  sitting  near  me.  I  looked 
up  and  there  was  a  (Continued  on  page  72) 


Find  the  fashions  on  these  pages  at  Sears  Fashion 
Stores  throughout  the  country. 


Me,  going  into  Sardi's 
restaurant  ...  the 
•dress,  middled  with 
£ayon  satin,  is  a  honey- 
toned  wool  flannel  .  .  . 
matching  jacket.  Cos- 
tume, sizes  5—15, 
$10.98. 


THE  MIRACLI 


What  were  the  real  medicines  that  turned  tragedy  to  triumph  fc 


\7  BUERGENSTOCK 


■  To  visit  the  beautiful  resort 
of  Buergenstock  on  its  high 
mountain  in  Switzerland,  you 
would  never  think  of  it  as  a 
setting  for  heartbreak  or  des- 
pair. Gaze  at  the  miles  and 
miles  of  fluttering  searlet  and 
purple  wild  flowers,  breathe  the 
pure,  invigorating  air,  bask  in 
the  smiling  friendship  of  its 
kind  villagers,  and  you  are  con- 
vinced this  is  a  paradise,  a 
heaven  (Continued  on  page  68) 


jdrey  Hepburn,  the  girl  who  feared  she  was  too  fragile  to  have  a  baby. 


1=4  (Q 


9 


fa 


inner 


— My  name  is  Brenda  Lee  and  I  want  to  tell  you  about 
the  most  thrilling  thing  that  ever  happened  to  me  in  my 
whole  life.  It  wasn't  when  my  recordings  Sweet  Nutkin's 
and  I'm  Sorry  made  the  Hot  100  lists  in  Billboard  and 
Xtashbox  magazines,  although  this  was  probably  the  second 
greatest,  for  a  fifteen-year-old  girl. 

The  greatest  thrill  I've  ever  had  came  when  I  was 
saved.  Saved  from  sin  and  the  curse  of  the  devil.  Saved 
because  I  finally  mustered  up  enough  courage  to  march 
down  the  aisle  of  our  First  Baptist  Church  back  home. 
Saved  because  I  became  a  Child  of  God  after  all  the 
terrible  things  I'd  done. 

Before  I  was  saved  there  seemed  to  be  a  devil  in  my 
soul.  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  was  sinning,  but  I  couldn't 
help  it  and  I  almost  didn't  care.  My  biggest  sin  was 
against  my  pop. 

He  was  a  handsome  man  with  coal  black  hair,  deep-set 
burning  eyes  and  a  ruddy  complexion. 

His  name  was  Rube,  and  he  {Continued  on  page  79) 


The  French  people  spare  no  one 
when  it  comes  to  caustic  comment,  not  even 
Ingrid  Bergman  who,  since  her 
marriage  last  year  to  producer  Lars  Schmidt,  resides 
in  a  rambling  stone  villa  in  the  country  town 
of  Choisel,  outside  of  Paris. 
"Who  does  she  think  she  is?"  one  of  France's  top 
screen  actresses  blurted  the  afternoon 
Ingrid  appeared  at  a  theatrical 
cocktail  party  held  by  her  friends  in  Paris  to  celebrate 
Ingrid's  Emmy  Award  for  her  remarkable 
performance  in  the  TV  production  of 
The  Turn  of  the  Screw. 
"It's  after  six,"  the  French  actress  continued, 
"a  time  when  everyone  who's  anyone 
gets  dressed  to  the  hilt.  Only  our  honored  guest  bounces 
in  looking  for  all  the  (Continued  on  next  page) 


world  like  a  parlor  maid.  Not 
a  touch  of  make-up.  Her 
hair's  pulled  back  and  tied  in 
a  spinster's  knot,  and  there's 
a  milk-fed  expression  on  her 
face.  She  comes  in  wearing 
that  hideous  duffel  coat  that's 
designed  for  a  child,  and  look 
at  all  the  men.  They're  gasp- 
ing. They  think  she's  the  liv- 
ing end." 

What  the  French  actress 
said  was  true.  Ingrid  bowled 
the  men  over.  Every  man  in 
the  smoky  cocktail  salon 
preened  when  Ingrid  entered 
the  room.  She  smiled,  chatted 
with  them.  Finally,  one  of  the 
flashily-dressed  women,  a  dip- 
lomat's wife,  walked  up  to  her. 

"Miss  Bergman,"  she  said, 
"your  coat?  May  we  help  you 
with  it?" 

Ingrid,  for  a  moment, 
looked  perplexed.  "Oh, "  she 
said.  "I'd  forgotten." 

The  diplomat's  wife  clapped 
her  hands,  her  long  manicured 
fingers  glittering  with  jewels, 
and  summoned  a  servant  who 
took  Ingrid's  brown  suede, 
sheepskin-lined  duffel  coat  to 
the  cloakroom. 

The  popular  French  actress 
picked  up  the  thread  of  her 
sassy  conversation  with  her 
ladyfriend.  "Now  where  on 
earth  do  you  suppose  she 
picked  up  that  stupid  coat?" 

"What  does  it  matter?" 
her  {Continued  on  page  65) 


"each  morning  I  feel  reborn 


I  Was  One  of 
Rock  HudsoN  s 

ON'LoCATiON  GiRls 


■  Rock  and  Erika 
met  one  Sunday  re- 
cently in  Acapulco. 
Erika,  there  for  the 
week  end,  relaxing, 
had  just  completed 
touring  Mexico  with 
a  Spanish-speaking 
road-show  company 
of  The  Redhead.  The 
twenty-three-year- 
old  Erika  spoke  per- 
fect Spanish,  even 


though  she  was  an 
American  citizen. 
She'd  lived  in  Mexico 
for  thirteen  years, 
alone  now,  after  her 
Danish  father  (from 
whom  she'd  gotten  her 
slight  European  ac- 
cent) and  American 
mother  went  back  to 
the  States.  Rock  was 


relaxing,  too ;  he'd  just 
finished  all  location 
work  on  his  latest 
picture  and  would 
leave,  that  evening, 
for  Mexico  City  and 
two  additional  weeks 
of  interior  shooting. 
News  of  his  being  in 
Acapulco  was  plas- 
tered all  over  the  pa- 
pers  that  Sunday 
(Continued  on  page  69) 


1 


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By  Taylor  M.  Mills 

Director  of  Public  Relations — Motion  Picture  Association  of  America 


The  August  issue  of  Modern 
Screen  carried  an  article  entitled 
For  Adults  Only.  It  brought  forth  a 
flood  of  mail  from  readers,  many  of 
whom  agreed  with  the  theme  of  the 
article — that  movies  today  present 
too  much  adult  entertainment,  and 
that  perhaps  some  form  of  "adult" 
classification  should  be  adopted  by 
the  motion  picture  industry  to  advise 
movie  patrons  concerning  films 
treating  mature  subjects. 

We  appreciate  this  opportunity  to 
present  our  viewpoint  on  these  sub- 
jects and  to  reply  to  some  of  youi 
very  thoughtful  letters  you  wrote  in 
response  to  this  article.  The  editors 
of  Modern  Screen  were  good 
enough  to  share  them  with  us. 

The  article  discussed  ten  films 
which  the  editors  implied  were  too 
adult  for  those  of  tender  years.  The 
films  mentioned  were:  Who  Was 
That  Lady?,  Blue  Denim,  Because 
They're  Young,  A  Summer  Place, 
Home  from  the  Hill,  Pillow  Talk, 
Happy  Anniversary,  The  Best  of 
Everything,  Suddenly  Last  Summer 
and  The  Fugitive  Kind. 

Though  the  majority  of  letters  re- 
ceived agreed  with  the  publication's 
views,  more  than  a  few  readers  con- 
tributed some  interesting  personal 
comments.  In  connection  with  the 
film,  Who  Was  That  Lady?,  one 
young  film  fan  said:  "What  was  so 
terribly  'sordid'  about  that  film?  In 
the  movie  Tony  Curtis  and  Janet 
Leigh  played  the  parts  of  a  young 
married  couple — just  as  they  are  in 


real  life.  Everyone  who  saw  the  film 
realized  this.  And  if  I  can  be  frank 
for  a  moment."  she  added,  "what  is 
wrong  about  a  married  couple  being 
shown  together  in  a  bed?"  (Inci- 
dentally the  bed  scenes  shown  in  the 
two  photographs  in  the  article 
did  not  appear  in  the  picture  as 
released.) 

Blue  Denim  also  was  listed  in  the 
article  as  a  shocking  film — especially 
for  teen-agers.  A  fifteen-year-old  girl 
from  Portland,  Maine,  wrote:  "The 
advertisements  gave  a  good  idea  of 
what  the  movie  was  about.  The  ac- 
tion, dialogue  and  story-line  were 
all  handled  carefully  and  with  good 
taste.  I  personally  feel  that  all  teen- 
agers should  have  seen  this  movie." 

Another  young  writer  from  Illi- 
nois told  the  editor:  "I  thoroughly 
disagree  with  your  opinion  that  these 
movies  are  ruining  teen-agers.  Every- 
one of  the  movies  mentioned,  and  I 
have  seen  most  of  them,  pointed  out 
to  teen-agers  the  problems  that  result 
from  being  over-emotional  about 
their  feelings  and  desires.  All  of  the 
movies  mentioned  taught  a  lesson  to 
teens.  I  feel  they  are  presented  in 
such  a  fashion  as  to  teach  a  moral." 
This  young  lady  sounds  like  a 
thoughtful  and  mature  person  for 
nineteen  years  of  age. 

If  the  plea  from  those  who  wrote 
to  the  editor  asking  for  more  whole- 
some family  entertainment  is  an 
honest  and  sincere  one,  the  question 
arises  as  to  why  the  public,  sup- 
posedly hungry  for  such  films,  does 


not  give  better  support  to  these  sub- 
jects at  the  local  theaters.  Many  a 
fine  picture  suitable  for  the  entire 
family  has  failed  to  succeed  at  the 
box-office.  Frequently  these  have 
been  expensive  color  films  that  have 
been  widely  advertised  and  yet  never 
earned  their  production  cost,  not  to 
mention  any  profit  for  the  producing 
company.  So  despite  the  fact  that 
many  of  the  letters  received  by  the 
editors  appeal  for  more  fine  family 
films,  moviegoers  seem  to  flock  to 
pictures  based  on  powerful,  dramatic 
subjects  portraying  true-to-life  sto- 
ries. One  cannot  expect  any  film 
company  to  continue  to  produce 
family  films,  if  these  pictures  do  not 
gain  support  at  the  box-office. 

The  year  1-960  has  seen  more 
family-type  pictures  released  than 
have  been  noted  for  some  time. 
How  many  have  you  seen?  Over  the 
Christmas  holidays  you  had:  Jour- 
ney to  the  Center  of  the  Earth,  The 
Last  Angry  Man,  1001  Arabian 
Nights  (the  feature-length  Mr.  Ma- 
goo  cartoon)  and  Disney's  dramatic 
Alpine  story,  Third  Man  on  the 
Mountain.  The  Easter  season  saw 
Dog  of  Flanders,  Scent  of  Mystery, 
The  Snow  Queen,  When  Comedy 
Was  King  and  Please  Don't  Eat  the 
Daisies.  This  past  summer  there  were 
a  host  of  fine  family  films  to  choose 
from,  including:  The  Adventures  of 
Huckleberry  Finn,  Hound  Dog  Man, 
Kidnapped,  Toby  Tyler  and  Polly- 
anna.  And  certainly  no  one  could 
object   {Continued  on  next  page) 


on  moral  grounds  to  Ben-Hur,  Thi 
Story  of  Ruth,  Hercules  Unchained, 
Sergeant  Rutledge,  A  Visit  to  a 
Small  Planet,  Conspiracy  of  Hearts, 
or  Bells  Are  Ringing. 

Yes,  there  have  been  many  fine, 
wholesome  films  that  offer  many 
wonderful  hours  of  family  fun. 

(Family  films  for  1960  are  listed 
on  the  next  page.) 

It  seems  unfair  that  any  writer 
should  condemn  the  entire  output 
of  the  movie  industry  by  using  a 
handful  of  films  as  examples.  Many 
of  the  titles  mentioned  as  examples 
of  "adult"  films  were  spectc.  ularly 
successful  at  the  box-office.  Obvi- 
ously the  majority  of  movie  fans  en- 
joy seeing  films  with  mature  themes. 

There  have  been  great  sociological 
changes  in  our  society  since  the  end 
of  World  War  II.  The  theater,  books 
and  magazines,  and  even  our  daily 
newspapers  treat  subjects  that  twenty 
years  ago  were  considered  hush-hush 
and  taboo.  The  motion  picture  has 
been  well  behind  other  mass  media 
in  their  approach  to  mature  themes. 

When  skillfully  treated,  almost 
any  subject  can  be  presented  without 
offense.  Provocative  books  like  From 
Here  to  Eternity,  Peyton  Place  and 
Suddenly  Last  Summer  have  been 
brought  to  the  screen  under  the  Pro- 
duction Code  as  effective  dramatic 
films.  They  have  been  well  received 
by  theater  patrons.  The  industry,  in 
presenting  this  material  on  the  screen 
with  consideration  and  in  good  taste, 
is  meeting  a  definite  demand  for 
well-handled  adult  themes. 

The  article  also  broached  the  sub- 
ject of  classifying  films — in  other 
words  labeling  certain  films  as  adult 
entertainment.  Again,  a  majority 
of  you,  in  response  to  Modern 
Screen's  article,  favored  some  sort 


Against  Censorship,  continued 


of  classification.  However,  a  number 
of  young  people  felt  this  wouldn't 
work  at  all — that  any  such  classifica- 
tion of  films  would  merely  incite  the 
curious  teen-ager  to  attend  those 
films  labeled  Adult. 

Classification  is  used  in  a  number 
of  foreign  countries,  but  not  always 
with  complete  success.  In  England 
the  "X"  or  "Adults  Only"  rating  has 
resulted  in  the  production  of  a  num- 
ber of  very  daring  films.  As  long  as 
a  film  was  going  to  be  classified  "For 
Adults  Only"  some  producers  de- 
cided to  go  all  out  with  little  or  no 
restraint. 

Classification  of  films  by  any  gov- 
ernment body  is  another  form  of 
censorship  and  is  not  the  American 
way  of  solving  anything.  We  in  the 
United  States  have  always  fought  to 
maintain  our  freedom  of  expression 
and  freedom  of  choice.  We  like  to  ex- 
amine the  facts  and  make  up  our 
own  minds. 

As  far  as  young  children  are  con- 
cerned, it  is  not  only  the  right,  but 
it  is  the  responsibility  of  parents  to 
make  their  own  decisions  in  selecting 
motion  picture  entertainment  for 
their  children. 

There  are  many  sources  of  in- 
formation about  film  content  and 
audience  suitability  available.  News- 
papers usually  review  films  and 
describe  their  content.  Many  maga- 
zines carry  a  listing  of  current  films 
and  some  rate  the  films  for  various 
age  groups.  The  Film  Estimate 
Board  of  National  Organizations 
(FEBNO),  made  up  of  representa- 
tives of  eleven  national  women's 
organizations,  publish  a  monthly 
Green  Sheet  which  reviews  and  rates 
films  for  adults,  adults-and-mature- 
young-people,  family-and-children- 
under-twelve-years.  The  Green  Sheet 


may  be  found  on  library  and  church 
bulletin  boards.  The  Legion  of  De- 
cency of  the  Catholic  Church  re- 
leases regular  ratings  of  films  for  the 
members  of  their  faith.  Certainly 
any  parent  who  is  interested  can  find 
information  about  films.  You  can  al- 
ways consult  the  theater  manager  be- 
fore sending  your  children. 

The  motion  picture  industry — 
through  the  Motion  Picture  Associa- 
tion of  America — operates  a  volun- 
tary code  of  self-regulation  called 
the  Production  Code.  Every  film 
carrying  the  Production  Code  Seal 
has  been  carefully  reviewed  from  the 
first  script — right  down  to  the  final 
release  print.  The  Code  is  based  on 
sound  morals  common  to  all  peoples 
and  all  religions.  The  Code  Seal  has 
never  been  giv  en  to  an  immoral  film. 
[Editor's  Note:  You  will  find  the 
code  reprinted  in  full  on  page  54. 
We  suggest  you  decide  for  yourself 
whether  Hollywood  has  lived  up  to  it.] 

As  Production  Code  Administra- 
tor, Geoffrey  M.  Shurlock,  said  re- 
cently before  a  Congressional  Com- 
mittee in  Washington,  "In  the  long 
run  it  is  not  the  subject  matter  but 
the  treatment  that  counts.  And  it  is 
with  treatment  that  the  Code  opera- 
tion is  fundamentally  concerned. 
Hollywood  film  producers  have 
proved  themselves  skillful  and  trust- 
worthy enough  to  take  outstanding, 
if  sometimes  sensational  material 
and,  applying  the  Code  machinery, 
develop  inherent  drama  and  engross- 
ing character  delineations,  to  come 
up  with  entertainment  that  is  ma- 
ture, morally  acceptable  and  of 
world-wide  appeal." 

We  have  appreciated  the  interest 
so  many  of  you  have  shown  by  writ- 
ing your  feelings  about  Modern 
Screen's  article  on  "adult  movies." 


~2 


A  DOG  OF  FLANDERS 
BOBBIKINS 

JOURNEY  TO  THE  CENTER  OF  THE  EARTH 
MASTERS  OF  THE  CONGO  JUNGLE 
SWAN  LAKE 
KILLERS  OF  KILIMANJARO 
PLEASE  DON'T  EAT  THE  DAISIES 
SCENT  OF  MYSTERY 
TOBY  TYLER 
WHEN  COMEDY  WAS  KING 
THE  ADVENTURES  OF  HUCKLEBERRY  FINN 
THE  BOY  AND  THE  PIRATES 
CIRCUS  STARS 
POLLYANNA 
RAYMIE 
MY  DOG  BUDDIE 
STOP,  LOOK  AND  LAUGH 
TWELVE  TO  THE  MOON 
CHARTROOSE  CABOOSE 
DINOSAURUS 
JUNGLE  CAT 
FOR  THE  LOVE  OF  MIKE 
THE  LOST  WORLD 
THE  SIGN  OF  ZORRO 


THE  BELLBOY 
THE  LAST  ANGRY  MAN 
1001   ARABIAN  NIGHTS 
THIRD  MAN   ON  THE  MOUNTAIN 
KIDNAPPED 
SNOW  QUEEN 
BEN-HUR 
THE  STORY  OF  RUTH 
HERCULES  UNCHAINED 
SERGEANT  RUTLEDGE 
A  VISIT  TO  A  SMALL  PLANET 
CONSPIRACY  OF  HEARTS 

BELLS  ARE  RINGING 
SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON 
SUNRISE  AT  CAMPOBELLO 
SPARTACUS 
CIMARRON 
THE  ALAMO 
I  AIM  AT  THE  STARS 
SONG  WITHOUT  END 
101  DALMATIANS 
THREE   WORLDS   OF  GULLIVER 
CINDERFELLA 
THE  TIME  MACHINE 


GENERAL  PRINCIPLES: 

1.  No  picture  shall  be  produced  which 
will  lower  the  moral  standards  of  those 
who  see  it.  Hence  the  sympathy  of  the 
audience  shall  never  be  thrown  to  the  side 
of  crime,  wrong-doing,  evil  or  sin. 

2.  Correct  standards  of  life,  subject  only 
to  the  requirements  of  drama  and  enter- 
tainment, shall  be  presented. 

3.  Law— divine,  natural  or  human— shall 
not  be  ridiculed,  nor  shall  sympathy  be 
created  for  its  violation. 


PARTICULAR  APPLICATIONS: 

I.  CRIME: 

1.  Crime  shall  never  be  presented  in  such 
a  way  as  to  throw  sympathy  with  the 
crime  as  against  law  and  justice,  or  to 
inspire  others  with  a  desire  for  imita- 
tion. 

2.  Methods  of  crime  shall  not  be  explicitly 
presented  or  detailed  in  a  manner  cal- 
culated to  glamorize  crime  or  inspire 
imitation. 

3.  Action  showing  the  taking  of  human 
life  is  to  be  held  to  the  minimum.  Its 
frequent  presentation  tends  to  lessen 
regard  for  the  sacredness  of  life. 

4.  Suicide,  as  a  solution  of  problems  oc- 
curring in  the  development  of  screen 
drama,  is  to  be  discouraged  unless  ab- 
solutely necessary  for  the  development 
of  the  plot,  and  shall  never  be  justified, 
or  glorified,  or  used  specifically  to  de- 
feat the  ends  of  justice. 

5.  Excessive  flaunting  of  weapons  by 
criminals  shall  not  be  permitted. 

6.  There  shall  be  no  scenes  of  law-enforc- 
ing officers  dying  at  the  hands  of  crimi- 
nals, unless  ^uch  scenes  are  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  plot. 

7.  Pictures  dealing  with  criminal  activi- 
ties in  which  minors  participate,  or  to 
which  minors  are  related,  shall  not  be 
approved  if  they  tend  to  incite  de- 
moralizing imitation  on  the  part  of  the 
youth. 


S.  Murder: 

(a)  The  technique  of  murder  must  not 
be  presented  in  a  way  that  will  in- 
spire imitation. 

(b)  Brutal  killings  are  not  to  be  pre- 
sented in  detail. 

(c)  ,  Revenge  in  modern  times  shall  not 

be  justified. 

(d)  Mercy  killings  shall  never  be  made 
to  seem  right  or  permissible. 

9.  Drug  addiction  or  the  illicit  traffic  in 
addiction-producing  drugs  shall  not  be 
shown  if  the  portrayal: 

(a)  Tends  in  any  manner  to  encourage, 
stimulate  or  justify  the  use  of  such 
drugs;  or 

(b)  Stresses,  visually  or  by  dialogue, 
their  temporarily  attractive  effects; 
or 

(c)  Suggests  that  the  drug  habit  may 
be  quickly  or  easily  broken;  or 

(d)  Shows  details  of  drug  procurement 
or  of  the  taking  of  drugs  in  any 
manner;  or 

(e)  Emphasizes  the  profits  of  the  drug 
traffic;  or 

(f)  Involves  children  who  are  shown 
knowingly  to  use  or  traffic  in  drugs 

10.  Stories  on  the  kidnapping  or  illegal  ab- 
duction of  children  are  acceptable  un- 
der the  Code  only  (1)  when  the  sub- 
ject is  handled  with  restraint  and 
discretion  and  avoids  details,  of  grue- 
someness  and  undue  horror,  and  (2) 
the  child  is  returned  unharmed. 

11.  BRUTALITY: 

Excessive  and  inhumane  acts  of  cruelty 
and  brutality  shall  not  be  presented.  This 
includes  all  detailed  and  protracted  pres- 
entation of  physical  violence,  torture  and 
abuse. 

III.  SEX: 

The  sanctity  of  the  institution  of  mar- 
riage and  the  home  shall  be  upheld.  No 
film  shall  infer  that  casual  or  promiscuous 
sex  relationships  are  the  accepted  or  com- 
mon thing. 


1.  Adultery  and  illicit  sex,  sometimes 
necessary  plot  material,  shall  not  be  ex- 
plicitly treated,  nor  shall  they  be  justi- 
fied or  made  to  seem  right  and 
permissible. 

2.  Scenes  of  passion: 

(a)  These  should  not  be  introduced 
except  where  they  are  definitely  es- 
sential to  the  plot. 

(b)  Lustful  and  open-mouth  kissing, 
lustful  embraces,  suggestive  pos- 
ture and  gestures  are  not  to  be 
shown. 

(c)  In  general,  passion  should  be  treat- 
ed in  such  manner  as  not  to  stimu 
late  the  baser  emotions. 

3.  Seduction  or  rape: 

(a)  These  should  never  be  more  than 
suggested,  and  then  only  when  es- 
sential to  the  plot.  They  should 
never  be  shown  explicitly. 

(b)  They  are  never  acceptable  subject 
matter  for  comedy. 

(c)  They  should  never  be  made  to 
seem  right  and  permissible. 

4.  The  subject  of  abortion  shall  be  dis- 
couraged, shall  never  be  more  than  sug- 
gested, and  when  referred  to  shall  be 
condemned.  It  must  never  be  treated 
lightly  or  made  the  subject  of  comedy. 
Abortion  shall  never  be  shown  explicit- 
ly or  by  inference,  and  a  story  must  not 
indicate  that  an  abortion  has  been  per- 
formed. The  word  "abortion"  shall  not 
be  used. 

5.  The  methods  and  techniques  of  prosti- 
tution and  white  slavery  shall  never  be 
presented  in  detail,  nor  shall  the  sub- 
jects be  presented  unless  shown  in  con- 
trast to  right  standards  of  behavior. 
Brothels  in  any  clear  identification  as 
such  may  not  be  shown. 

6.  Sex  perversion  or  any  inference  of  it  is 
forbidden. 

7.  Sex  hygiene  and  venereal  diseases  are 
not  acceptable  subject  matter  for  the- 
atrical motion  pictures. 

8.  Children's  sex  organs  are  never  to  be 
exposed.  This  provision  shall  not  apply 
to  infants. 

IV.  VULGARITY: 

Vulgar  expressions  and  double  meanings 
having  the  same  effect  are  forbidden.  The 
treatment  of  low,  disgusting,  unpleasant, 
though  not  necessarily  evil,  subjects  should 
be  guided  always  by  the  dictates  of  good 
taste  and  a  proper  regard  for  the  sensibili- 
ties of  the  audience. 

V.  OBSCENITY: 

1.  Dances  suggesting  or  representing 
sexual  actions  or  emphasizing  indecent 
movements  are  to  be  regarded  as 
obscene. 

2.  Obscenity  in  words,  gesture,  reference, 
song,  joke  or  by  suggestion,  even  when 
likely  to  be  understood  by  only  part  of 
the  audience,  is  forbidden. 

VI.  BLASPHEMY  AND  PROFANITY: 

1.  Blasphemy  is  forbidden.  Reference  to 
the  Deity,  God,  Lord,  Jesus,  Christ, 
shall  not  be  irreverent. 

2.  Profanity  is  forbidden.  The  words 
"hell"  and  "damn,"  while  sometimes 
dramatically  valid,  will  if  used  without 
moderation  be  considered  offensive  by 
many  members  of  the  audience.  Their 


u^e  shall  be  governed  bv  the  discretion 
and  prudent  advice  of  the  Code  Ad- 
ministration. 


VII.  COSTUMES: 

1.  Complete  nuditv.  in  fact  or  in  silhou- 
ette, is  never  permitted,  nor  shall  there 
be  anv  licentious  notice  by  characters 
in  the  film  of  suggested  nuditv. 

2.  Indecent  or  undue  exposure  is  for- 
bidden. 

(a)  The  foregoing  shall  not  be  inter- 
preted to  exclude  actual  scenes 
photographed  in  a  foreign  land  of 
the  natives  of  that  land,  showing 
native  life,  provided: 
(1;  Such  scenes  are  included  in  a 
documentary  film  or  trave- 
logue   depicting  exclusively 
such  land,  its  customs  and 
civilization;  and 
(2)  Such  scenes  are  not  in  them- 
selves intrinsically  objection- 
able. 

VIII.  RELIGION: 

1.  Xo  film  or  episode  shall  throw  ridicule 
on  anv  religious  faith. 

2.  Ministers  of  religion,  or  persons  posing 
as  such,  shall  not  be  portrayed  as  comic 
characters  or  as  villains  so  as  to  cast 
disrespect  on  religion. 

3.  Ceremonies  of  any  definite  religion 
shall  be  carefully  and  respectfully 
handled. 

IX.  SPECIAL  SUBJECTS: 

The  following  subjects  must  be  treated 
with  discretion  and  restraint  and  within 
the  careful  limits  of  good  taste: 

1.  Bedroom  scenes. 

2.  Hangings  and  electrocutions. 

3.  Liquor  and  drinking. 

4.  Surgical  operations  and  childbirth. 

5.  Third  degree  methods. 

X.  NATIONAL  FEELINGS: 

1.  The  use  of  the  flag  shall  be  consistently 
respectful. 

2.  The  history,  institutions,  prominent 
people  and  citizenry  of  all  nations  shall 
be  represented  fairly. 

3.  Xo  picture  shall  be  produced  that  tends 
to  incite  bigotry  or  hatred  among 
peoples  of  differing  races,  religions  or 
national  origins.  The  use  of  such  of- 
fensive words  as  Chink,  Dago,  Frog. 
Greaser,  Hunkie,  Kike,  Xigger,  Spig. 
Wop,  Yid,  should  be  avoided. 

XI.  TITLES: 

The  following  titles  shall  not  be  used: 
L.  Titles  which  are  salacious,  indecent. 

obscene,  profane  or  vulgar. 
2.  Titles  which  violate  any  other  clause 

of  this  Code. 

XII.  CRUELTY  TO  ANIMALS: 

In  the  production  of  motion  pictures  in- 
volving animals  the  producer  shall  consult 
with  the  authorized  representative  of  the 
American  Humane  Association,  and  invite 
him  to  be  present  during  the  staging  of 
such  animal  action.  There  shall  be  no  use 
of  anv  contrivance  or  apparatus  for  trip- 
ping or  otherwise  treating  animals  in  anv 
unacceptable  harsh  manner. 


new  movies 


and  charity 

In  our  August  issue  we  ran  a  story  entitled,  "Have  I  Failed  as  a 
True  Christian?"  We  chose  this  story  because  we  wanted  to  show 
how  stars  can  be  misunderstood,  how  one  misstep  can,  sometimes, 
forever  erase  a  man's  good  reputation.  As  an  example,  we  reprinted 
a  letter  from  a  reader  about  an  encounter  she  had  with  Elvis  Presley, 
in  which  he  turned  down  her  request  that  he  appear  at  the  Crippled 
Children's  Hospital  in  Memphis.  The  mail  response  to  this  story  was 
enormous.  Most  of  the  letters  defended  Elvis  vigorously  and  com- 
pletely, and  we  were  very  glad  to  know  that  the  loyalty  of  Elvis' 
devoted  fans  and  friends  was  too  deep  to  be  affected  by  one  not-too- 
pleasant  incident.  To  bring  the  story  to  a  real  conclusion,  we  want 
to  share  with  you  the  following  letter,  which  so  perfectly  describes 
our  own  feelings  about  Elvis  Presley. 


ELVS 


Cripple!)  CijilDten'a  hospital  School 

BR  2-2261  TELEPHONES  BR  2-2620 
MEMPHIS  14,  TENNESSEE 

July  27,  I960 


Mr.  David  Myers,  Editor  Modern  Screen 
c/o  Dell  Publishing  Company,  Inc. 
750  Third  Avenue 
New  York  17,  New  York 

Dear  Mr.  Myers: 

An  article,  "Have  I  failed  as  a  True  Christian?"  referring 
to  Elvis  Presley  in  your  August  issue  of  Modern  Screen, 
has  come  to  our  attention. 

The  ladies  Board  of  Managers  of  Crippled  Children's  Hospital 
in  Memphis,  Tennessee,  and  the  people  of  Memphis  feel  most 
strongly  that  Elvis  Presley  has  been  more  than  generous 
with  his  time  and  has  graciously  supported  all  charity  work 
in  Memphis.    He  has  made  numerous  contributions  to  this 
Hospital  and  has  been  most  cooperative  whenever  he  has  been 
called  upon. 

All  the  entertainers  who  come  to  Memphis  have  been  exceptionally 
wonderful  about  visiting- our  Hospital  and  we  are  most  grate- 
ful for  their  giving  of  their  talents  to  entertain  and 
provide  happiness  for  our  children. 

We  would  like  to  request  that  you  publish  this  letter  so 
that  friends  and  fans  of  Elvis  would  know  that  his  generosity 
is  sincerely  appreciated. 

Very  truly  yours, 

CRIPPLED  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL  SCHOOL 

(Tm   h//lli'oLUU  L'TbujIdrL~ 

Mrs.  W.  L.  Taylor 

Member  of  Board  of  Managers 

cc:  Mr.  Elvis  Presley" 
Memphis,  Tenn. 


(Continued  from  page  7) 

the  Japanese  attack  Pearl  Harbor  he  is  torn 
by  conflict.  He  doesn't  want  to  fight  against 
people  like  his  family  and  he  is  enraged  by 
the  fact  that  his  adopted  mother  and  father 
are  considered  dangerous  and  sent  to  a  re- 
location camp.  However,  when  his  Japanese- 
American  brothers  join  the  Army  Jeff  signs  up 
with  the  Marines  where  he  becomes  the  close 
buddy  of  David  Janssen  and  Vic  Damone. 
Jeff's  an  expert  shot  but  he  prefers  to  talk 
the  enemy  into  surrendering  until  one  of  his 
buddies  is  brutally  killed.  Then  Jeff  goes  ber- 
serk and  runs  all  over  Saipan  bent  on  slaugh- 
ter. Later,  a  calmer  Jeff  matches  wits  against 
General  Sessue  Hayakawa  and  succeeds  in 
delivering,  unarmed,  every  Japanese  on  the 
island  to  his  superior  officer.  There  are  scenes 
of  violence  in  this  movie  which  one  can  only 
accept  as  the  truth  about  war,  but  there  are 
other  scenes  (particularly  of  a  drinking  and 
strip-tease  party)  that  are  in  amazingly  bad 
taste. — Allied  Artists. 

BETWEEN  TIME  AND  ETERNITY 

Lilli  Palmer 
Willy  Birgel 

love  aqainst  death  Ellen  Schwiers 

Carlos  Thompson 
Robert  Lindner 

■  Although  her  famous  doctor  husband  (Willy 
Birgel)  has  been  trying  to  keep  the  news  from 
her,  Lilli  Palmer  knows  that  her  days  are  i 
numbered.  She's  suffering  from  a  rare  and  f 
fatal  disease.  Determined  to  enjoy  whatever 
time  is  left  to  her  she  wanders  alone  and 
restlessly  over  Europe  and  eventually  finds  a  . 
little  island  in  the  Mediterranean  whose  seen- 
ery  is  beautified  by  Carlos  Thompson.  Thomp- 
son promptly  steals  her  bracelet  and  signs  her 
up  for  some  sightseeing  trips  with  him  as 
guide.  He  then  informs  his  girlfriend  (Ellen 
Schwiers),  a  passionate  gyspy  type,  that  he 
and  she  will  grow  rich  on  Lilli's  sentimental 
heart.  Naturally,  Thompson  has  no  intention 
of  falling  in  love  with  Lilli,  an  accident  that 
makes  him  regard  his  past  with  a  certain 
shame,  Their  romance  is  so  therapeutic  that 
Lilli  feels  completely  healthy  and  plans  to 
stay  on  the  island  with  him  forever.  Well, 
love  has  been  said  to  move  mountains — can 
it  cure  fatal  diseases,  too  ? — Technicolor,  U.-I. 

RECOMMENDED  MOVIES: 

ELMER  GANTRY  (United  Artists) :  In  Elmer 
Gantry,  Jean  Simmons  plays  Revivalist  Sister  Sharon. 
Her  saintliness  and  zeal  attract  a  number  of  different 
people  for  a  number  of  different  reasons :  Dean  Jagger  . 
gives  her  constant  paternal  care,  atheistic  newsman 
Arthur  Kennedy  is  drawn  in  spite  of  himself — and 
last,  though  surely  not  least,  is  Burt  Lancaster  (or, 
Elmer  Gantry).  Gantry,  a  preacher-cum-adman  type 
has  the  gift  of  gab,  a  powerful  alcoholic  thirst,  and 
an  equally  powerful  appetite  for  the  opposite  sex. 
Based  on  Sinclair  Lewis'  novel,  the  story  of  Gantry 
is  a  fascinating  studv  in  corruption.  A  "must"  film! 
SONS  AND  LOVERS  (20th-Fox) :  This  is  essen-  ;, 
tially  the  story  of  a  sensitive  boy's  growing-up — and 
of  the  family  ties,  both  welcome  and  unwelcome. 
Dean  Stockwell  (the  boy)  is  a  painter:  he  has  a 
strong-willed  mother  (Wendy  Hiller),  an  embittered, 
often  drunk  coal-miner  father  (Trevor  Howard)  and 
a  dream  of  escape  from  his  background.  The  women 
who  help  or  hinder  his  dream  are  Mary  Lire  and 
Heather  Sears.  Here  is  a  graphic  tale  of  the  strange, 
lonely  giant  step  into  the  alien  world  of  adulthood. 
ALL  THE  FINE  YOUNG  CANNIBALS  (MCM)  : 
All  of  these  fine  young  cannibals  (Natalie  Wood, 
Robert  Wagner,  George  Hamilton  and  Susan  Kohner) 
gobble  each  other  up  in  short  order  (no  pun  intended). 
Lives  that  begin  in  dirty  Texas  shanties  end  in  dra- 
matic and  rich  cosmopolitan  surroundings.  The  so- 
phisticated atmosphere  is  also  inhabited  by  singer 
Pearl  Bailey.  The  complications  are  numerous  and 
really  should  be  seen  in  this  film  of  love  and  life 
I  among  the  young. 


Atten-SHUN! 


Here  is  Elvis  Presley's  newest  album. 

It's  the  original  cast  soundtrack  of  "G.  I. 
Blues,"  his  new  Paramount  Picture,  now 
available  from  your  RCA  Victor  record  deal- 
er. Get  it  today.  <$  IK  TOR  © 


Paramount  Presents 

ELVIS  PRESLEY 

G.  I.  BLUES 

A  HAL  WALLIS 
PRODUCTION 
Co-starring 
JULIET  PROWSE 

Directed  By 
Norman  Taurog 


Tonight  Is  So  Right  for  Love 
What's  She  Really  Like 
Frankfort  Special 
Wooden  Heart 


G.  I.  Blues 

Pocketful  of  Rainbows 
Shoppin'  Around 
Big  Boots 
Didja'  Ever 
Blue  Suede  Shoes 
Doin'  the  Best  I  Can 


la  t 


(as  told  to  George  Christy) 


■  I  dropped  a  dime  in  the  wall  juke-box, 
and  I  sat  back  in  the  empty  booth  and 
listened  to  Little  Anthony  and  the 
Imperials  take  off  with  Shimmy  Shimmy 
Ko  Ko  Bop.  I  was  lonely.  Sure,  it  was  ex- 
citing making  a  movie  in  Texas  with  John 
Wayne,  but  I  hardly  knew  anyone  in  the 
town.  Every  day  (Continued  on  page  59) 


I  was  up  at  the  crack  of  dawn  to  go  in 
front  of  the  cameras,  and  when  evening 
came  I  was  beat.  I'd  have  dinner  at  the 
Fort  Clark  Ranch  where  we  were  staying 
in  Brackettville  (somehow  it  reminded  me 
of  Schofield  Barracks  in  the  flicker  of  From 
Here  to  Eternity).  Then  I'd  play  a  little 
ping  pong  with  Sonny  Troz,  my  guitarist 
who  was  "standing  in"  for  me,  finally  go 
to  my  room  and  play  my  trumpet  or  listen 
to  records  before  I  fell  asleep. 

But  this  was  Saturday,  our  last  day  off, 
and  I  had  driven  to  San  Antonio  with 
Sonny.  He  wanted  to  buy  some  ranch 
clothes  at  a  fancy  men's  store,  and  I  just 
wanted  to  take  it  easy  so  I  ducked  into  a 
soda  shop  for  a  pineapple  milkshake.  I 
wore  the  white  ten-gallon  hat  John  Wayne 
gave  me  because  it  shadowed  my  face  and 
this  way  people  wouldn't  recognize  me. 

SITTING  THERE  in  the  soda  shop  booth 
though,  I  was  wondering  about  the  girls 
back  home,  what  they  were  doing,  and  I 
was  wishing  I  had  a  date. 

Suddenly,  in  the  booth  in  front  of  me,  I 
saw  a  girl's  head  pop  up  quickly,  look  at 
me,  then  drop  down  like  a  jack-in-the- 
box.  I  put  another  dime  in  the  juke  box 
and  I  heard  her  voice  say,  "Hey,  play  that 
song  again.  I  like  it!" 

I  punched  the  number  for  Shimmy 
Shimmy  Ko  Ko  Bop,  and  I  got  up  and 
walked  over  to  the  booth  where  the  girl's 
voice  came  from. 

She  looked  me  in  the  eye  for  a  second; 
then  she  looked  away.  "You  .  .  .  you're 
Frankie  Avalon,"  she  said,  her  voice 
shivery  with  excitement.  "I'm  .  .  .  I'm  a 
big  fan  of  yours,"  she  told  me  and  I  found 
myself  looking  at  her  pretty  wavy  auburn 
hair  and  her  soft  brown  eyes.  She  wore 
eyeglasses  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  didn't 
really  notice  them.  There  was  something 
about  her  face  that  I  liked.  It  glowed. 

"Mind  if  I  sit  down?"  I  asked. 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"Gee,  Frankie,"  she  said,  looking  at  me, 
"I'd  ...  I'd  really  love  your  autograph 
because  nobody  will  believe  I  saw  you.  I 
wanted  to  scream  when  I  recognized  you. 
I  don't  know  how  I  controlled  myself." 

I  reached  for  a  paper  napkin  from  the 
metal  container.  "If  you  have  a  pen  I'll 
sign  the  napkin  for  you." 

"Darn,"  she  said.  "I  don't." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "I'll  ask  the  soda  jerk." 

"Oh  no,  don't.  He'll  notice  who  you  are 
and  then  there'll  be  a  riot!  I  could  tell 
you  wanted  to  play  it  cool  because  of  the 
way  you  were  wearing  your  big  hat." 

I  liked  her,  not  only  the  way  her  pink 
cheeks  glowed  but  the  way  she  talked. 

"That's  a  wild  sweater,"  I  said,  looking 
at  the  striped  white  sweater  that  brought 
out  the  pink  in  her  cheeks. 

"It's  my  Frankie  Avalon  sweater,"  she 
said.  "I  bought  it  because  it  reminds  me 
of  the  sweaters  you  wear!" 

I  didn't  know  what  to  say.  She  seemed 
to  say  such  nice  things — and  to  mean 
them.  I  was  bowled  over. 

"What's  your  name?"  I  asked. 

"Vir — "  she  started  to  say.  But  she 
caught  herself  and  said,  "Why?  You'll 
never  remember  it.  You  meet  so  many 
girls  every  day  in  the  year." 

"But  I  want  to  know,"  I  insisted. 

"Why  don't  you  call  me  KoKo?"  she 
said.  "From  the  song — Shimmy  Shimmy 
Ko  Ko  Bop!" 

"Okay,"  says  I.  "It's  KoKo  then,  if  that's 
what  you  want." 

I  ASKED  HER  if  she'd  show  me  around. 
I  wanted  to  see  a  little  of  San  Antonio. 

Her  eyes  lit  up.  Then,  in  an  instant 
change  of  mood,  she  seemed  downhearted: 
"I  can't.  I'm  supposed  to  meet  someone." 

"Oh." 

"He's  a  good  friend,  a  classmate." 
"What  year  are  you  in  school?" 


Obviously,  the  lady  doesn't  know 

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"Senior!"  she  said  proudly.  "But  we've 
got  too  much  homework.  It's  killing  me." 

"Are  you  meeting  your  friend  here?" 

"Yeah,"  she  said. 

"Well,  maybe  I  better  go!" 

"Don't  forget,"  she  reminded  me.  "The 
autograph!" 

"But  I  don't  have  a  pen  or  a  pencil  and 
you  don't  want  me  to  ask  the  soda  jerk." 

She  paused,  then  announced,  "I'll  go  up 
and  borrow  one." 

She  returned  with  a  ballpoint  and  I 
signed  the  napkin:  To  KoKo,  the  first  rose 
I  met  in  San  Antonio.  Best  o'  luck — 
Frankie  Avalon. 

"Thanks,"  she  said.  "I'll  treasure  this." 
She  looked  at  the  white  napkin  rever- 
ently. I  was  touched  because  I  could  tell 
the  autograph  meant  a  lot  to  her. 

"What  .  .  .  what  are  you  doing  later, 
KoKo?"  I  ventured. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "I'm 
waiting  for  my  friend.  I  don't  know  what 
he  wants  to  do." 

I  swallowed,  then  I  asked  the  $64,000 
question.  "Is  he  your  steady?" 

She  smiled. 

Her  eyes  sparkled. 

But  she  didn't  answer  me. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  leave  now.  Nice 
meeting  you." 

She  looked  into  my  eyes  and  there  was 
a  sweet  wistful  expression  on  her  face 
that  melted  me. 

I  wanted  to  reach  out  and  touch  her 
wavy  brown  hair  but  I  knew  I  shouldn't 
and  I  held  myself  back. 

"So  long,  pardner,"  I  muttered. 

"So  long,  Frankie,"  she  said,  and  the 
way  she  said  Frankie  it  was  as  if  she  was 
singing  lyrics  to  a  song.  It  was  beautiful. 

I  LOOKED  AROUND  the  busy  street, 
wondering  what  to  do,  where  to  go.  The 
Texas  sun  was  out  and  the  San  Antonio 
skyline  was  bright.  But  I  was  blue  be- 
cause I  was  alone  again.  KoKo  was  cute, 
and  I  wished  she  didn't  have  any  plans. 
But  it  just  wasn't  my  luck. 

I  began  walking  down  the  street,  glanc- 
ing into  the  gleaming  shopwindows,  and  I 
heard  someone  rushing  behind  me. 

I  turned. 

It  was  KoKo. 

"Hi,"  she  said  softly,  the  ribbed  wool 
sweater  looking  even  prettier  in  the  sun 
light.  "I  was  thinking  about  what  you  said. 
I'm  expecting  to  see  my  friend  now,  but  I 
thought  ...  if  you  were  free  later  .  .  .  well, 
I'd  meet  you." 

"But  won't  your  boyfriend  be  upset?" 

"Let  me  worry  about  that." 


"I  was  going  to  walk  around  town, 
that's  all." 

"Why  don't  we  meet  in  an  hour  back 
at  the  snack  shack?"  she  suggested. 

"Only  if  you  don't  get  into  any  trouble 
with  your  guy,"  I  emphasized. 

"Don't  worry." 

"Tell  the  truth.  Tell  him  you  met  some- 
one that's  a  stranger  and  that  he's  asked 
you  to  show  him  the  town." 

She  smiled,  then  nodded.  "See  you  soon, 
huh?"  she  cooed  and  her  brown  eyes 
seemed  to  be  smiling,  too.  .  .  . 

WE  MET  and  she  told  me  her  boyfriend 
was  having  trouble  with  his  car  and  that 
he  had  to  take  it  to  the  garage  for  a 
check-up.  "Anyway,"  she  explained,  "he's 
not  my  100%  steady.  We  sort  of  go  to- 
gether but  I  wish  everybody  didn't  take 
the  word  'steady'  so  seriously.  We  like 
each  other  a  lot,  but  we're  not  going  to 
stop  seeing  other  people.  It's  not  fair  when 
you're  young.  Don't  you  agree?" 

"I'm  with  you,"  I  told  her. 

We  took  a  bus  and  she  began  to  point 
out  the  sights  of  the  city  to  me:  depart- 
ment stores,  hotels,  the  city  jail.  She  told 
me  a  couple  of  jokes,  some  daffynitions  I 
got  a  kick  out  of.  A  tennis  racket  was  a 
bunch  of  holes  strung  together  and  a  dime 
was  a  buck  after  taxes. 

"When  do  you  have  to  be  home  for  sup- 
per?" I  asked  her  as  we  got  off  the  bus. 

"I'm  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  call  and  tell  Mom 
I'm  going  to  be  late." 

"Do  you  think  you  can  have  something 
to  eat  with  Sonny  and  me?" 

She  looked  directly  into  my  eyes,  and  I 
shivered  all  over.  "Maybe,"  she  said. 

She  came  back  from  the  pay  phone  in 
the  corner  drug  store  and  said  her  mom 
would  let  her  stay  out.  We  picked  up 
Sonny  at  the  men's  store,  and  KoKo  and 
he  got  along  fine. 

We  ate  in  a  noisy  cafeteria:  hamburger 
steak  and  chocolate  cake  and  milk. 

Then  we  went  for  a  spin  in  the  com- 
pany car  Sonny  and  I  had,  a  blue  and 
white  '59  Chevy,  and  we  sang  Be  My 
Guest  and  Just  Ask  Your  Heart  and  Mack- 
the  Knife.  KoKo  sat  between  us  in  the 
front  seat,  and,  boy,  did  it  feel  great  to  be 
with  a  girl. 

"I  was  wondering,"  KoKo  began,  her 
voice  soft  and  inquiring,  "if  I  called  Joey 
— he's  the  friend  I  was  telling  you  about — 
we  all  might  have  a  little  party.  Wouldn't 
that  be  fun?  Joey  plays  the  piano  and  a 
friend  of  his  plays  the  drum,  and  you  play 
trumpet,  Frankie,  and  Sonny  plays  guitar. 
We  could  have  a  jam  session.  Be  great, 


wouldn't  it?  We'd  all  just  love  it,  Frankie." 

I  didn't  want  to  disappoint  her,  but  I 
had  to  say  it.  "We  don't  have  our  instru- 
ments here." 

KoKo,  her  bright  brown  eyes  flashing, 
pooh-poohed  my  comment.  "We  could 
borrow  some,  couldn't  we?" 

We  spent  the  next  hour  searching  for  a 
music  shop  that  was  open,  and  finally 
we  found  one.  The  old,  hunched,  white- 
haired  proprietor  was  Italian,  and  I  ex- 
changed a  couple  of  words  with  him  in 
Italian  and  he  nipped. 

WE  RENTED  a  guitar  and  trumpet.  KoKo 
promised  she'd  return  them  both  on  Mon- 
day. When  we  left,  KoKo  said,  "He's  a 
nice  man,  but  you  know,  Frankie,  he 
didn't  recognize  who  you  are!" 

"What's  wrong  with  that?"  I  asked. 

"I  just  thought  maybe  you'd  feel  funny. 
Doesn't  every  star  like  to  be  recognized?" 

"Depends  .  .  ." 

We  drove  to  Joey's  place  and  made  some 
mighty  wild  music.  KoKo  shimmied  and 
clapped. 

She  took  turns  dancing  with  each  of 
us.  We  bopped,  rock  'n'  rolled,  calypsoed. 
Then,  Joey's  parents  came  home  from  the 
movies  and  we  said  hello  to  them. 

Sonny  and  I  had  a  long  drive  ahead,  al- 
most one  hundred  and  thirty  miles,  so  we 
decided  we  had  better  get  started.  KoKo 
was  holding  Joey's  hand  as  we  said  good- 
bye, and  I  kept  wishing  I  had  the  nerve 
to  ask  her  for  her  telephone  number. 

I  just  couldn't  ask.  It  didn't  seem  right. 
Sonny  and  I  got  into  the  Chevy  and  we 
started  the  drive  back.  When  we  got  to 
the  Fort  Clark  Ranch,  the  lights  were  all 
out.  It  was  past  midnight,  and  Sonny  and 
I  went  to  our  rooms  to  fall  asleep.  I  was 
exhausted.  But  I  couldn't  stop  thinking  of 
KoKo.  The  more  I  thought  of  her,  the 
more  special  I  thought  she  was.  Because 
now,  as  I  thought  back,  I  realized  she 
wasn't  pretty.  Yet  she  made  herself  seem 
pretty  with  her  vitality  and  the  way  she 
flirted  with  her  bright  brown  eyes. 

Just  in  the  space  of  one  afternoon  and 
evening  KoKo  came  into  a  part  of  my 
heart.  It's  sad  to  think  I  might  never  see 
her  again.  I  keep  wishing  I  had  asked  her 
for  her  telephone  number,  but  I  couldn't. 
It  just  didn't  seem  fair  to  Joey.  But  if 
anyone  out  San  Antonio  way  knows  KoKo 
please  tell  her  thanks  for  the  good  time 
and  also  tell  her  that  should  she  and  Joey 
ever  call  it  quits  I'd  sure  love  a  date.  I'd 
take  the  next  flight  for  Texas!  end 

Frankie's  in  United  Artists'  The  Alamo. 


The  Man  Who  Almost  Destroyed  Marilyn  Monroe's  Marriage 


(Continued  from  page  25) 


Marilyn  said.  "He  really  must  be  in — " 

"Sorry,"  the  operator  said  again. 

Marilyn  placed  down  the  receiver.  And 
she  turned  and  she  ran  to  the  door  of  her 
bungalow,  and  then  outside,  and  into  the 
lovely  little  garden  there,  and  across  it  .  .  . 
running,  faster  and  faster,  until  she  came 
to  Bungalow  Nine. 

She  rapped  on  the  door. 

"Yves,"  she  called  out. 

She  rapped  again,  harder. 

"Yves,"  she  called,  "please  be  in.  .  .  ." 

"What  is  the  matter?" 

He  was  behind  her. 

She  turned. 

"Yves,"  she  asked,  "where've  you  been?" 

"I  went  to  the  main  building,"  he  said, 
opening  his  door,  "to  buy  some  ciga- 
rettes .  .  .  What's  the  matter?" 

<S0     SHE  DIDN'T  ANSWER  him  at  first.  She 


rushed  into  the  bungalow,  to  the  middle 
of  the  room. 

"What,  Marilyn?"  he  asked  again,  clos- 
ing the  door  behind  him. 

"I  had  to  talk  to  someone,"  she  said, 
finally.  "I  had  to  talk  to  you  ...  Do  you 
see  what  they  keep  writing  about  us  in 
the  papers?" 

"Bah,"  he  said,  "they  must  write  some- 
thing. Especially  about  two  people  who 
work  in  the  same  picture  together.  Isn't 
that  the  custom  here?  .  .  .  And  besides," 
he  said,  "Simone  in  France,  and  Arthur 
in  Ireland,  they  know  it  is  not  true." 

"But  do  they?"  Marilyn  asked.  "Do 
they?"  She  brought  a  trembling  hand  up 
to  her  face.  She  rubbed  it  hard  against 
her  cheek. 

Yves  smiled.  "Simone  knows  me  very 
well  indeed.  Some  types,  maybe  they  play 
with  love  and  with  marriage.  But  Simone, 


she  knows  those  types.  She  took  one  look 
at  me  years  ago  and  said  to  herself,  T  can 
handle  him,'  and  she  was  right.  When  she 
reads  foolish  stories  in  the  newspaper  she 
laughs.  Do  you  think  she  knows  me  too 
well?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Marilyn.  "You  can't  know 
anyone  too  well." 

"You  don't  really  think  Arthur  believes 
this  nonsense?"  said  Yves  waving  in  dis- 
gust at  the  newspaper. 

Marilyn  turned  her  back  to  Yves  and 
stood  a  moment  in  thought.  "I've  seen," 
she  said  slowly,  "wonderful  people,  un- 
derstanding people  destroyed  by  rumor, 
and  cruelty  and  gossip.  It  could  happen 
to  us  too,  Yves.  Just  because  we  talk  to 
each  other  .  .  .  just  because,  well,  just  be- 
cause I'm  here,  alone  with  you  now. 

"Oh  how  I  hate  them,  some  of  those 
writers,"  she  said.  "With  their  lies.  Their 


bitterness  .  .  .  Oh,  how  I  hate  them  all." 

"I  know,"  said  Yves,  lightly,  "something 
you  would  not  hate  right  now  .  A 
drink?" 

"Oh  how  I  hate  them,"  Marilyn  said. 

Yves  shrugged.  "Today  you  hate  them, 
yes,"  he  said.  "But  tomorrow,  you  will 
see,  tomorrow  you  will  forgive  them." 

"No,"  Marilyn  said.  "No,  no,  not  me. 
Not  for  what  they're  trying  to  do." 

"Yes,  you'll  see,"  he  said.  "You  espe- 
cially, Marilyn.  For  hatred,  it  is  not  for 
you.  Just  like  for  me,  it  is  not  for  me.  I 
think  we  are  the  same  way.  About  such 
a  thing  as  hatred." 

He  paused  for  a  moment. 

"HATRED,"  he  said  then.  "I  thought  once 
that  I  would  never  stop  hating  ...  It  was 
a  long  time  back.  During  the  war.  In 
France  .  .  .  Shall  I  tell  you  about  it?" 

Marilyn  didn't  answer. 

"It  was  hatred  for  the  Germans  I  had 
then,"  said  Yves,  going  on,  anyway.  "  'The 
pigs  from  the  East,'  as  we  would  call 
them.  Hatred  because  they  killed  our 
people  and  conquered  our  country  and 
laughed  at  us,  the  French,  their  old 
enemy,  their  new  slave. 

"I  remember  the  last  day  of  the  war,  how 
I  hated  them,"  he  said.  "I  was  in  Paris 
that  day.  I  was  at  the  Etoile,  with  many 
other  people.  We  were  cheering.  We 
thought  they  were  gone,  finally,  the  Ger- 
mans. But  they  were  not.  Not  all  of  them. 
Because  all  of  a  sudden  from  the  windows 
of  some  of  the  buildings  around  us  the 
Germans,  those  who  stayed  behind,  they 
began  to  open  fire  on  the  crowd.  And  I 
see  women  standing  near  me  fall,  and 
men,  and  little  children.  Fall.  Fall  dead. 

"Soon  after,  I  join  some  of  the  soldiers 
who  arrive  now  to  get  rid  of  these  last 
Germans.  I  help  them,  walking  with  them, 


a  captain  and  five  or  six  of  his  men.  At 
this  time  the  streets  are  practically  empty. 
I  am  walking  up  the  Champs-Elysee  now 
We  are  near  the  Normandie  Theater,  I 
remember,  when  we  see  him — a  young 
boy,  blond,  a  Nazi — standing  in  the  door- 
way of  a  building.  He  is  alone.  He  seem 
to  have  no  gun.  He  look  frightened.  The 
captain  I  am  with  says  to  the  Nazi,  'Hey, 
pig,  come  here.'  Then,  while  the  captain 
holds  his  gun  on  him,  he  asks  me  to  touch 
the  Nazi,  all  up  and  down,  to  see  whether 
he  has  a  gun. 

"So  I  begin  to  touch  him.  And,  you 
know,  I  find  that  now  I  am  shy  to  touch 
him.  Because  suddenly  he  becomes  not 
a  Nazi  to  me,  but  a  human  being.  One 
half  hour  before  he  is  probably  with  the 
others,  killing  everybody,  I  know.  But 
now  that  I  know  the  war  is  over  nearly, 
now  that  I  stand  here  face  to  face  with 
another  human  being,  I  feel  that  the  pas- 
sion is  gone.  And  with  it  the  hatred.  The 
terrible  hatred  that  makes  us  fight  one 
another  all  the  time,  and  have  to  kill,  in- 
sult, hurt.  .  .  ." 

He  stopped. 

Marilyn  had  brought  her  hand  down 
from  her  face. 
He  smiled. 

"How  about  it,"  he  said,  "now  maybe 
you  will  stay  and  have  a  drink  with 
me  .  .  .  Look,"  he  said,  walking  over  to 
a  small  bar,  pointing  to  a  lone  bottle  on 
top  of  the  bar,  "I  have  not  so  much  whis- 
key— but  enough.  And  in  here,  this  thing, 
there  is  ice.  And  I  will  make  us  both  a 
good  whiskey  on  the  stones." 

"On  the  rocks,"  Marilyn  said. 

"Eh?"  asked  Yves. 

"On  the  rocks,  we  say,"  said  Marilyn, 
" — hot  'the  stones.'  " 

She  couldn't  help  it;  she  began  to  laugh. 
"Ahhhhh,"  said  Yves,  as  she  did.  "That 


is  better.  To  see  you  laugh  like  this.  Much 
better  than  to  see  you  with  your  face 
long,  like  a  horse  .  .  .  like  this" 
He  made  a  face. 

And  Marilyn  laughed  some  more. 

"Come,"  Yves  said,  suddenly,  laying 
down  the  glass  he'd  just  begun  to  lift,  "if 
it's  laughing  you  need,  I  have  something 
to  show  you  that  will  make  you  laugh  for 
real.  Here.  In  the  kitchen.  Come." 

MARILYN  FOLLOWED  him  into  the 
other  room. 

She  watched  him  as  he  placed  his  hand 
on  the  refrigerator  door,  and  then  as  he 
turned  to  face  her. 

He  kissed  the  air  and  then  he  opened 
the  refrigerator  door. 

"I  make  myself  this,"  he  said,  pointing 
to  a  dish. 

Marilyn  looked. 

"What  is  that?"  she  asked. 

"An  omelet,"  Yves  said,  "with  onions." 

"And  you  put  it  in  the  refrigerator 
first?" 

"Of  course,"  Yves  said.  "This  is  picnic- 
style  omelet.  The  way  I  used  to  have  it 
when  I  was  a  boy.  On  the  special  day. 
The  Sunday  in  the  summer.  The  day  when 
my  papa  would  take  what  little  money 
he  had  and  bring  us,  all  the  family,  in  the 
trolley  car,  to  the  beach.  And  there,  first, 
we  would  swim  and  play  in  the  water. 
And  then,  at  twelve  o'clock,  to  the  dot, 
we  would  all  run  to  where  my  maman  was 
sitting,  holding  the  bag  in  which  she  had 
packed  the  cold  omelet.  And  we  would 
eat.  There  on  the  beach.  With  the  blue, 
blue  water  next  to  us.  And  the  yachts 
going  by.  And  the  sun  smiling  on  us.  And 
us,  with  our  wonderful  omelet  and  our 
bottle  of  wine  ...  just  like  the  biggest 
millionaires  on  earth  we  felt  we  were." 

"You  make  it  sound  lovely,  and  deli- 


Married  women 
are  sharing  this  secret 

.  .  .  the  new,  easier,  surer  protection 
for  those  most  intimate  marriage  problems 


What  a  blessing  to  be  able  to  trust 
in  the  wonderful  germicidal  protec- 
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forms  have  a  highly  perfected  new 
formula  that  releases  antiseptic 
and  germicidal  ingredients  with 
long-lasting  action.  The  exclusive 
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ture, forming  a  powerful  protec- 
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harm)  the  delicate  tissues. 

And  Norforms'  deodorant  protec- 
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clinic  and  found  to  be  more  effec- 


tive than  anything  it  had  ever 
used.  Norforms  eliminate  (rather 
than  cover  up)  embarrassing 
odors,  yet  have  no  "medicine"  or 
"disinfectant"  odor  themselves. 

And  what  convenience!  These 
small  feminine  suppositories  are 
so  easy  and  convenient  to  use. 
Just  insert — no  apparatus,  mixing 
or  measuring.  They're  greaseless 
and  they  keep  in  any  climate. 

Now  available  in  new  packages 
of  6,  as  well  as  12  and  24.  Also 
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Tested  by  doctors  .  .  . 
trusted  by  women  .  .  . 
proved  in  hospital  clinics 


FREE  informative  Norforms  booklet 

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Please  send  me  the  new  Norforms  hookiet, 
in  a  plain  envelope. 


Street 
City_ 


cious,"  said  Marilyn  smiling  at  his  story. 

"It  is  lovely  and  delicious,"  said  Yves. 
"Now,  how  about  you?  You  will  stay  with 
me  and  share  some  of  the  omelet?" 

Marilyn  shook  her  head.  "I  don't 
know — "  she  started  to  say. 

"Well,  I  know,"  Yves  said.  "You  will 
stay  with  me  for  picnic-dinner  tonight. 
And  you  will  say,  Yes,  I  am  happy,  Yves, 
to  stay  for  the  kind  invitation.'  And  then 
you  will  work,  like  the  woman  should, 
and  put  the  dishes  on  the  table  while  me, 
I  start  to  cut  the  bread." 

He  looked  at  Marilyn,  teasingly. 

"Am  I  understood?"  he  asked.  "Am  I — " 

But  he  stopped  suddenly. 

"That  is,"  he  said,  and  not  teasingly 
now,  it  seemed,  " — that  is,  if  you  don't 
mind,  Marilyn,  to  share  with  me  such  a 
simple  dish  as  this,  an  omelet  with  onions." 

Marilyn  smiled. 

"Yves,"  she  said,  "there  were  many 
times  in  my  life  when  I  had  much  less  to 
eat." 

YVES  SMILED  BACK.  "Moi  aussi,"  he 
said.  "Me,  too  .  .  .  you  know,"  he  said,  "I 
think  that  when  I  was  young  it  was  food,  or 
the  absence  of  it,  that  gave  me  my  whole 
style  of  singing.  That's  funny,  isn't  it?  But 
it  is  true  .  .  .  You  see,  the  very  first  time  I 
ever  went  to  an  audition,  it  was  at  a 
cabaret,  in  Marseilles.  And  it  was  at 
lunchtime.  And  there  was  nobody  in  the 
cabaret  that  afternoon  but  me  and  the 
owner — and  his  lunch.  Hola,  I  have  never 
in  my  life  seen  such  a  lunch  as  he  was 
eating,  that  owner.  I  stared  at  it,  I  re- 
member, like  it  was  not  real;  the  soup,  the 
fish,  the  meat,  the  salad,  the  cheese,  the 
everything  that  he  was  eating.  I  stared 
so  hard,  in  fact,  that  I  did  not  begin  to 
sing  at  first.  And  the  owner,  annoyed, 
said,  'Well,  sing  if  you're  going  to  sing.' 
So  I  began.  To  sing.  But  all  the  while  I 
am  still  staring  at  the  food  and  getting 
hungrier  and  hungrier.  And,  you  know, 
as  I  am  getting  hungrier,  my  voice,  it 
starts  to  get  better.  So  better,  in  fact,  that 
I  am  hired  right  away.  And  ever  since 
that  day,  before  I  sing,  I  never  eat  too 
much  now.  It's  as  if  I  am  remembering 
that  hungry  day.  And  remembering  what 
a  blessing  it  was  that  it  brought  me,  being 
hungry  .  .  .  That's  funny,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marilyn,  softly. 

"And  what  are  you  thinking,"  Yves 
asked,  "with  your  face  so  thoughtful  like 
that  all  of  a  sudden?" 

"About  food,  too,  and  once  when  I  didn't 
have  any,"  said  Marilyn. 

"A  droll  story,"  asked  Yves,  "like 
mine?" 

"No,  not  really,"  said  Marilyn.  ".  .  .  It 
was  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was  ever 
actually  going  hungry.  I  mean,  as  a  kid 
there'd  never  been  much  food,  in  most 
of  the  homes  I  lived  in,  the  orphanages. 
But,  at  least,  came  mealtime  and  there 
was  always  something,  something  to  stick 
in  your  mouth,  and  to  swallow  .  .  .  But 
this  time,  it  was  years  later,  I  was  here, 
in  Hollywood,  just  beginning.  I  was  in 
hock  for  everything  I  owned.  And  there 
was  absolutely  no  money  for  food.  So  I 
spent  one  day  not  eating.  And  another. 
And  part  of  a  third.  And  on  that  third 
afternoon  the  phone  rang  and  this  man 
called  me. 

"He  was  an  old  man.  He  was  a  big 
wheel  with  one  of  the  publicity  outfits. 
He  was  an  obnoxious  person,  always  call- 
ing me,  always  after  me.  And  always  I'd 
say  no  to  him. 

"But  this  day  when  he  called  me  and 
asked  me  to  go  out  to  dinner  with  him,  I 
said  yes.  I  was  that  hungry. 

"Oh,  you  should  have  seen  me,  Yves, 
when  we  got  to  the  restaurant  that  night. 
I  didn't  even  bother  looking  at  th~  menu. 
62  The  waiter  came  over  to  the  table  and 


said,  'What  will  the  young  lady  have?' — 
he  said  this  to  the  old  man — and  I  an- 
swered and  I  said,  'The  young  lady  will 
have  shrimp  cocktail  and  thick  soup  and 
the  biggest  and  thickest  steak  you've  got.' 

"The  old  man  thought  this  was  very 
funny.  He  laughed  and  he  laughed.  I 
laughed,  too.  Till  they  brought  me  the 
shrimp.  Till  I  started  to  eat  it,  and  I  had 
my  fork  up  to  my  mouth,  like  this — but 
I  could  see  him  sitting  there,  the  old  man, 
from  the  corner  of  my  eye.  And  I  was  so 
ashamed  of  myself  suddenly  for  having 
come  with  him,  for  having  said  yes,  that 
I  couldn't  eat.  I  couldn't  eat.  I  couldn't 
eat  anything  that  night.  Not  a  thing.  Not 
until  I  made  him  take  me  home  and  I  got 
back  into  my  apartment  and,  all  alone 
then,  opened  my  purse  and  took  out  a 
little  package  of  saltines  I'd  filched  from 
the  table  and  gobbled  them  down.  .  .  ." 

She  looked  down. 

"Well,"  said  Yves,  "I  can  only  say  that  I 
hope  you  can  eat  with  me  tonight,  that  1  do 
not  have  the  same  effect  on  you  that  this 
obnoxious  gentleman  had." 

Marilyn  looked  back  up. 

"You,  Yves?"  she  asked.  "You?  You  are 
just  the  opposite  of  that  kind  of  man. 
You—" 

She  looked  at  him,  long,  into  his  deep 
brown  eyes. 

"You — "  she  started  to  say  again. 

Her  face  flushed  then,  suddenly. 

And,  suddenly,  nervously,  she  turned 
and  began  to  walk  toward  the  door. 

"Marilyn,  where  are  you  going?"  Yves 
asked. 

She  stopped  at  the  door.  "I'm  sorry," 
she  said.  "I  feel  upset  again.  I  don't  know 
why.  I  get  like  this  sometimes.  .  .  ."  She 
took  a  deep  breath.  "Besides,"  she  said 
then,  "you  said  you'd  make  me  a  drink. 
On  the  stones — remember?  And  you 
didn't  ...  I'd  like  that  drink,  if  you  don't 
mind,"  she  said. 

"And  later  we  will  eat?"  asked  Yves. 

"Yes,"  said  Marilyn.  "Later.  In  a  little 
while.  .  .  ." 

SHE  SAT  on  a  large  easy  chair,  next  to 
a  small  table,  while  Yves  fixed  the  drinks. 

He  handed  one  to  her.  kept  one  for  him- 
self, and  then  he  sat,  too,  across  from  her. 

For  a  minute  or  two,  an  awkward  si- 
lence overcame  them  both,  awkward  for 
two  people  who'd  had  so  much  to  say  to 
one  another  only  a  few  minutes  before. 

And  then  Yves,  in  an  attempt  to  say 
something,  said,  "You  know,  Marilyn,  just 
before  you  came,  there  was  a  young 
writer  here,  from  a  magazine.  He  came 
to  interview  me." 

"He  did?"  asked  Marilyn,  taking  a  quick 
sip  from  her  glass. 

"He  asked  me  many  questions,"  Yves 
went  on.  "But,  you  know,  I  don't  think 
he  liked  my  answers." 

"Why  not?"  Marilyn  said.  "What  did 
you  tell  him?" 

"Well,"  said  Yves,  "he  says  to  me  at  one 
point:  'You  are  French,  Mr.  Montand.  So 
please  tell  me  all  about  your  bachelor- 
hood and  all  the  women,  eh?'  And  he 
winks  at  me.  'Well,'  I  say  to  him,  'despite 
what  you  might  think  of  me,  and  all 
Frenchmen,  but  especially  me.  I  worked 
hard  at  my  job  when  I  am  a  bachelor.  And 
when  you  work  the  way  I  did,  doing  the 
one-man  show  all  the  time,  in  the  music 
hall,  that  is  a  lot  of  work  and  you  move 
around  a  lot  and  you  don't  have  much  time 
for  the  women.' "  Yves  smiled.  "Poor 
writer,"  he  said.  "He  was  so  disappointed." 

"And?"  Marilyn  asked.  "What  else  did 
he  ask?" 

"And  he  says  to  me  another  time," 
Yves  said,  " — he  says,  'Tell  me,  Mr.  Mon- 
tand, about  some  of  the  sad  incidents  in 
your  life  which  you  remember  best.'  And 
I  say  to  him,  'I  won't;  I  refuse  to  remem- 


ber them.'  So  then,  he  say,  'Tell  me  about 
some  of  the  beautiful  moments.'  So  I 
think  of  one.  I  tell  him  about  one  time, 
in  France,  when  I  am  working  on  a  pic- 
ture, Salaire  de  le  Peur.  And  how  after 
the  picture  is  finished  the  crew  chips  in 
and  buys  me  a  present.  It  is  not  the  watch. 
Or  the  wallet.  Or  the  usual  thing.  But  it 
is — how  do  they  say  it  here — the  Erector 
Set.  'You  see,'  I  say  to  the  writer,  'the 
crew  had  overheard  me  once  tell  some- 
body that  as  a  boy  I  never  had  any  toy, 
that  one  thing  I'd  wanted  so  much  was 
the  Erector  Set.  So  now  they  buy  one  for 
me.  And  it  is  one  of  the  happiest  mo- 
ments of  my  life.'  .  .  .  And  after  I  get 
through  telling  this  story  to  the  writer, 
you  know  what  he  say,  Marilyn?"  Again 
he  smiled.  "He  say  to  me,  'Mr.  Montand. 
is  that  the  best  you  can  do?' " 

"Yves,"  Marilyn  asked,  " — what  did  you 
tell  him  about  me?" 

"About  you?" 

"They  always  ask.  'What's  she  like?' 
They've  asked  everybody  else  I've  ever 
worked  with  ...  If  they  haven't  asked 
you  yet,  they  will." 

SHE  PAUSED  for  a  moment,  and  took 
another  sip  from  her  glass. 

"What  will  you  tell  them,  Yves,"  she 
said  then,  " — when  they  do  ask?" 

"About  Marilyn  Monroe,"  he  said,  not 
pausing,  "I  will  tell  them  that  she  is  a 
courageous  woman.  For  her  is  torture  this 
job,  I  will  say,  and  she  does  it  with  the 
most  conscientious  and  courage  she  can. 
Yes,  maybe  she  come  late  on  the  set  a 
lot  of  the  time,  I  will  say;  you  boys  are 
always  writing  about  that  with  a  chuckle, 
about  the  big  star  who  always  keep  every- 
body waiting.  But  that  is  not  because  she 
is  Marilyn  Monroe  she  does  this.  I  will 
say,  but  because  she  is  frightened  and  it 
takes  her  time  to  get  over  this  fear  and  to 
get  ready  to  work. 

"And  when  she  does  work,  I  will  say," 
he  went  on,  "that  she  is  an  amazing  crea- 
ture to  watch.  She  has  a  wonderful  thing 
— an  extraordinary  instinct  for  acting. 
She  never  does  anything  ridiculous.  Oth- 
ers, me,  we  make  a  mistake  in  rehearsing, 
or  with  the  camera  on  us,  and  we  are 
ridiculous,  we  are  suddenly  out  of  the 
role  we  are  playing  and  people,  they  can 
only  laugh  at  us.  But  if  Marilyn  forget 
something,  or  do  something  wrong,  she  is 
not  ridiculous.  This  is  a  talent  very  few 
creatures  have  in  the  theater,  the  pictures. 
This  is  a  real  talent. 

"Also,"  he  said  then,  "I  will  say  that 
she  is  not  only  rich  in  beauty,  this  girl. 
But  that  she  is  rich  in  her  heart.  She  is 
a  good  person.  And  she  does  good  things.  I 
will  think  of  her  that  night,  long  ago, 
when  she  sat  with  the  obnoxious  gentle- 
man, and  how  she  could  not  eat.  I  will 
think  of  her  the  day,  with  nobody  know- 
ing it,  she  thought,  when  she  sent  a  big 
check  to  the  widow  of  one  of  the  elec- 
trical men  who  died  while  we  were  mak- 
ing our  picture  together.  I  will  think  of 
these  things  and  I  will  say  that  she  is  a 
good  person.  That  also  she  makes  me  feel 
very  good  just  to  be  with  her.  That — I 
am  very,  very  fond  of  her.  .  .  . 

"Now."  he  said — he  began  to  smile, 
suddenly — "when  they  ask  you,  Marilyn, 
about  me  .  .  .  and  I  have  enough  of  the 
ego  to  hope  that  they  will  .  .  what  will 
you  say?" 

Marilyn  looked  down  into  her  glass. 

"The  truth,"  she  whispered. 

"That  is?"  asked  Yves. 

"That  you  are  the  finest  actor  I  have 
ever  worked  with,"  Marilyn  said.  "That 
you  are  wonderful  to  be  with.  That  you 
are  very  attractive.  That  you  have  the 
face  of  a  peasant,  and  of  a  king,  in  one  .  .  . 
That  you  are  a  man." 

Again  there  was  an  awkward  silence. 


"Your  ice  is  melting?"  asked  Yves,  after 
a  while. 

"Yes,"  said  Marilyn,  looking  up.  "I'd 
like  another  drink  if  you  don't  mind." 

Yves  rose  and  reached  for  her  glass. 
Their  hands  touched  as  he  did.  Marilyn 
drew  hers  back,  with  a  start.  .  .  . 

SHE  LOOKED  AWAY,  to  her  right.  She 
tound  herself  looking  at  a  photograph,  in 
a  frame,  of  what  was  obviously  a  cha- 
teau, in  France. 

"Is  this  where  you  live,  with  Simone?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Yves,  from  the  other  side  of 
the  room  now.  "That's  our  place  in  Nor- 
mandy. It  was  built  in  the  seventeenth 
century.  It  is  beautiful,  no?" 

"How'd  you  meet  Simone?"  she  asked. 

"Did  you  ever  hear,"  asked  Yves,  "of  a 
place    in    France,    named    St.    Paul    de  i 
Vence?" 

Marilyn  shook  her  head. 

"Well,"  said  Yves,  "that  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  all  places  on  the  Riviera. 
And  it  was  there,  in  1949,  I  met  Simone. 

"It  was  on  a  small  terrace  of  an  old, 
old  inn  where  we  met.  I  was  there  that 
day  with  people  I  know,  Picasso,  other 
artists  and  entertainers.  And  then  some- 
one enters,  a  beautiful  girl.  It  is  Simone 
Signoret,  the  actress,  the  top  star.  We  are 
introduced.  But  she  goes  away  after  she 
say  hello  to  me  and  she  talks  to  some 
other  young  man.  Then,  after  a  while,  I 
see  her  again.  She  is  not  with  the  young 
I  man  anymore,  but  she  is  over  in  a  corner 
j  of  the  terrace  feeding  a  little  colombe,  a 
dove. 

"So  I  walk  over  to  her  and  I  say,  'You 
are  very  tender  with  the  birds.'  And  she 
say,  'Shhhhh,  you  will  make  him  fly 
away.'  And  that  is  our  second  conversa- 
tion together  .  .  .  Till  later,  at  lunch.  We 
sit  next  to  one  another.  And  we  begin  to 
:alk.  And  we  talk  about  so  many  things, 
all  that  afternoon,  and  half  into  the 
evening.  .  .  ." 

"Did  you  love  her — Simone,"  asked 
Marilyn,  then,  "from  the  beginning?" 

Yves  nodded.  "Yes,"  he  said. 

"Why?  What  was  there  about  her — " 
Marilyn  asked. 

"Because  she  was  a  good  woman,  I 
:ould  see,"  said  Yves.  "With  the  same 
;ood  qualities  you  have.  Very  warm.  And 
eminine.  Very  soft  .  .  .  And  because  she 
:ould  put  up  with  my  qualities,  many  of 
hem  not  so  good.  My  temperament.  My 
jetting  mad  at  things  easily.  My  blowing 
he  top  when  something  does  not  go  my 
bay." 

He  smiled. 

"OF  COURSE,"  he  said,  "I  don't  say  that 
Simone,  she  was  perfect,  without  fault, 
^ike  with  the  make-up  she  used  to  wear. 
3o  boy,  you  know,  she  used  to  wear  two 
■ounds  of  it  on  her  face;  two  pounds.  I 
wear  you.  And  how  this  used  to  annoy 
a&  I  would  say,  'Simone,  you  are  not  a 
lown,  why  do  you  wear  so  much  junk?' 
ind  she  would  say,  'Oh  yes,  you  don't 
ke  this;  all  right,  next  time  I  will  not 
ut  on  so  much.'  But  next  time,  it  never 
ame.  So  one  night,  just  after  we  were 
larried,  I  see  her  with  all  this  junk  on 
er  eyes,  her  mouth,  her  cheeks.  And  I 
an't  stand  it,  no  more.  So  I  take  her  by 
le  hand,  into  the  bathroom,  and  I  take  a 
Dwel  and  I  wipe  her  face  clean.  And 
imone,  you  know  what  she  say?  She  say 
othing.  And  after  that  she  never  wear 
nything  again  on  her  face  except  a  little 

iadow  here — "  he  pointed  to  his  eyes — 
snd  a  little  rouge  on  the  mouth." 

He  paused. 

'She  is  the  kind  of  woman — "  he  started 
ien.  "Do  you  know,  Marilyn,  what  she 
d  for  me,  a  few  months  ago?  It  is  the 
me  of  the  Academy  Award,  remember? 


Science  has  now  discov- 
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You  see,  "emotional  perspiration" 
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when  they're  stimulated  they  liter- 
ally pour  out  perspiration.  It  is  this 
kind  of  perspiration  that  causes  the 
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New  Scientific  Discovery 

Science  has  found  that  a  woman 
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is  more  likely  to  offend. 

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Woman's 'Difficult  Days' 

and  Her 
Perspiration  Problems 

Doctors  tell  why  her  underarm  perspiration 
problems  increase  during  monthly  cycle. 
What  can  be  done  about  it? 


Valda  Sherman 


Simone  is  nominated.  Maybe  she  will  win 
an  Oscar,  and  maybe  she  won't.  But  is  she 
nervous  for  herself?  No.  Not  Simone.  She 
is  nervous  for  me.  Because  me,  I  am  to 
appear  on  the  same  show  that  night.  I 
am  to  sing  and  dance.  In  front  of  eighty 
million  people  watching  the  TV  .  .  .  But 
me,  while  I  have  been  starting  to  make  the 
picture  with  you,  I  have  not  practiced  the 
dancing  for  months.  When  I  rehearse, 
the  first  time,  everything  goes  wrong.  I 
drop  my  cane.  I  drop  my  hat.  I  trip  over 
my  feet.  So  Simone  sees  what  is  hap- 
pening with  me  and  for  three  days  and 
nights  before  the  show  she  rehearses  my 
act  with  me.  For  hour,  and  hour,  and 
hour.  Right  up  until  it's  time  to  go  to  the 
theater  she  stands  with  me,  here,  in  this 
room,  throwing  me  my  hat  and  cane, 
dancing  with  me,  making  me  calm,  saying 
I  will  be  great,  so  not  to  worry.  Her  night. 
And  she  is  thinking  only  about  .  .  .  Now 
that  is  a  wonderful  woman,  I  think.  Don't 
you  think,  Marilyn?" 
She  nodded. 

"You  must  miss  her  very  much,"  she 
said. 

"Yes,"  said  Yves,  "I  do  .  .  .  Just  like 
right  now  you  must  miss  your  Arthur  .  .  . 
You  know,  Marilyn,"  he  said,  "I  am  sure 
I  don't  have  to  tell  you  this — but  your 
Arthur,  he  love  you  very  much.  Oh,  he 
love  you  all  right  ...  I  tell  you,  Marilyn. 
I  was  sitting  on  the  set  with  him  one  day. 
You  were  doing  a  scene.  You  were  very 
good,  and  I  say  something  very  much 
compliment  to  Arthur  about  you.  And 
him,  instead  of  saying  anything,  he  just 
continue  to  look  at  you,  to  watch  you. 
And  I  think  to  myself  that  this  is  really 
the  good  emotion,  the  best  emotion;  be- 
cause when  you  are  the  most  happy,  and 
proud,  just  as  when  you  are  in  the  big- 
gest pain,  then  you  say  nothing,  no?" 

Again,  Marilyn  nodded. 

"Do  you  want  another  drink?"  Yves 
asked,  noticing  that  she  had  already  fin- 
ished her  second. 

"No,"  she  said. 

-"Do  you  mind  to  talk  with  me  a  little 
more?"  Yves  asked. 

"No  .  .  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  Marilyn 
said. 

"Then,"  Yves  said,  "answer  me  a  ques- 
tion, as  I  have  answered  yours  .  .  .  How 
did  you  and  Arthur  first  meet?" 

"On  the  lot  one  day,"  said  Marilyn,  "at 
Fox." 

"That's  all?"  Yves  asked. 

"I  was  walking  with  another  actor,  on 
our  way  to  the  commissary.  It  was  nine 
years  ago.  I  was  working  in  my  second 
picture.  I  was  walking,  and  I  saw  him." 

"SO  YOU  MET  and  you  got  married," 
Yves  laughed. 

"No,"  said  Marilyn.  "We  met.  And  I 
began  to  talk  to  Arthur,  right  away,  about 
his  plays.  I'd  read  them  all.  I  didn't  want 
him  to  think  I  was  just  another  Holly- 
wood blonde." 

"He  did  not  ask  you  to  marry  him  right 
there?"  Yves  laughed,  again. 

"Arthur  was  married  at  the  time,"  Mari- 
lyn said.  "He  had  a  wife  and  two  chil- 
dren, living  in  Brooklyn.  I  could  tell  it 
wasn't  a  good  marriage.  Maybe  it  had 
been.  But  it  wasn't  any  more.  But,  still, 
there  was  a  wife  and  children,  and — " 

"And?" 

"So  after  a  while,  Arthur  went  away. 
And  I  thought  I'd  never  see  him  again.  I 
felt  very  sad  about  this,  but  I  tried  to 
cover  up  my  sadness  by  going  out  a  lot. 
I  went  with  many  men.  Finally,  I  met  one 
I  thought  I  could  love.  We  got  married. 
But  it  wasn't  a  good  marriage.  We  tried. 
But  it  wasn't  good." 

"And?" 

1  "We  got  divorced.  And  I,  I  decided  to 
64  change  my  whole  way  of  life.  I  left  Holly- 


wood. I  went  to  New  York  to  study.  Act- 
ing. And  while  I  was  there,  at  a  party 
one  night,  I  met  Arthur  again." 

"He  was  still  married?" 

"Still.  But  now  it  was  really  going 
badly  between  him  and  his  wife.  So  we 
began  to  see  one  another,  quite  a  bit. 
More  and  more.  And  then,  four  years  ago, 
in  June,  in  Connecticut,  we  got  married." 

"You  were  very  much  in  love?" 

Marilyn  looked  to  her  right,  at  the 
photograph  of  the  chateau  on  the  table. 

"For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  felt." 

"You  had  loved  him  from  the  begin- 
ning," Yves  asked,  "from  that  first  time 
you  had  met?" 

Marilyn  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  said. 

"Why?"  Yves  asked. 

"I  remember,"  Marilyn  said,  "as  I  stood 
talking  to  him,  as  I  looked  up  into  his 
face,  I  could  see  that  it  was  a  sensitive 
and  compassionate  face.  I'd  never  had 
much  compassion  from  anyone  in  my  life. 
I  guess  I  figured  I  would  find  it  in 
Arthur." 

She  thought  for  a  moment. 

"And,"  she  said,  still  looking  at  the 
chateau,  "I  trusted  his  face  .  .  .  Does  that 
sound  silly?" 

"No,"  Yves  said. 

"I  really  trusted  it.  In  my  life,  too,  be- 
fore this,  I'd  never  been  able  to  trust 
people  much.  They  were  always  either 
kicking  me  out  of  places,  or  trying  to 
drag  me  into  something.  And  then,  sud- 
denly, looking  into  Arthur's  face,  I  saw 
something  there  that  I  knew  I  could 
trust." 

"Trust,"  Yves  said.  "That  is  very  im- 
portant in  a  love,  is  it  not?" 
"Yes,"  Marilyn  whispered. 
"And  in  a  person." 
"Yes." 

"And  in  a  marriage." 

MARILYN  LOOKED  AWAY  from  the 
photograph  and  over  at  Yves  again,  look- 
ing at  him  through  the  darkness  that  had 
fallen  on  the  room,  gradually. 


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She  stared  again  into  his  eyes. 

And  then  she  said,  "Trust  .  .  .  Yes,  in  a 
marriage,  trust  is  very  important.  On  both 
sides.  Trust." 

She  sat  there,  very  still,  very  quietly, 
for  a  while.  And  then  she  smiled. 

"What  are  you  thinking?"  Yves  asked. 

Marilyn  said  nothing. 

"I  tell  you  one  thing,  what  I  am  think- 
ing," said  Yves.  " — That  it  is  good  for  us 
to  talk  like  this  once  in  a  while.  About 
the  husband  away,  the  wife  away.  To  re- 
member to  each  other  the  things  about 
them  that  we  love.  Things  we  take  for  the 
granted  sometime.  Things  the  miles  of 
separation  make  us  forget  just  a  little 
sometimes.  .  .  ." 

"Now  you  tell  me,  Marilyn,"  he  said. 
"What  are  you  thinking?" 

"How  strange,"  she  said  then,  " — how 
strange  and  mixed-up  a  girl  can  get  to  be, 
to  feel,  sometimes.  For  a  while.  For  a 
month  or  a  week,  a  day  or  an  hour,  a 
minute  sometimes  .  .  .  That's  what  I'm 
thinking." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Yves. 

Marilyn  shook  her  head.  "It's  better 
sometimes."  she  said,  "that  a  man  doesn't 
understand  everything  a  woman  says." 

She  continued  to  smile. 

And  Yves  began  to  smile,  too. 

"What  else  are  you  thinking — now?" 

Marilyn  opened  her  eyes. 

"Right  now,"  she  said,  her  voice  vital 
suddenly,  happy  suddenly,  "I'm  thinking 
about  the  first  night  we  all  met  together — 
you  and  me,  and  Arthur  and  Simone." 

"When  you  made  the  spaghetti?" 

"Yes,"  Marilyn  said.  "How  you  both 
came  over  and  we  sat  on  the  floor.  And 
talked.  And  ate.  And  laughed  .  .  .  How 
we  liked  each  other  so  much.  All  of  us." 

"That  was  a  good  time,  that  night," 
Yves  said. 

"I  want  to  do  it  again,"  Marilyn  said. 
"When  Arthur  comes  back.  When  Simone 
comes  back." 

"We  will,"  Yves  said. 

"And  I'll  make  spaghetti  again,"  said 
Marilyn.  "I'll  go  all  the  way.  You'll  think 
I  was  born  in  Rome  by  the  time  you're  all 
finished  eating  .  .  .  I'll  make  an  antipasto. 
too,  and  meatballs  and  real  garlicky  bread. 
And  there'll  be  spumoni,  of  course.  And 
apples  and  that  gorgonzola  cheese.  And — " 

"Hey,"  Yves  said.  "Stop  that.  You  are 
making  me  too  hungry." 

"And — "  Marilyn  started  to  go  on. 

"Hey,"  Yves  said  again.  "That's  enough 
now  .  .  .  Besides,  our  meal,  in  the  refrig- 
erator. Maybe  it's  getting  too  cold  now." 

Marilyn  threw  up  her  hands.  "Let's  go 
eat  then,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Yves.  He  pointed  at  her. 
"And  then  you,  you  go  off  with  you  to 
sleep  after  we've  eaten.  And  me,  I  go  to 
sleep,  too.  We  have  a  big  scene  to  do  to- 
morrow, remember?  The  scene  in  which 
I  spink  you." 

"It's  'spank,' "  said  Marilyn. 

"No  matter,"  Yves  said.  "If  you  don't  let 
me  eat  and  get  some  sleep  tonight.  I'll 
give  you  whatever-it-is  good  tomorrow, 
on  the  set,  so  you  will  not  forget  it." 

They  got  up  from  their  chairs. 

And  Yves  pulled  the  switch  on  a  lamp 
close  by  where  he  stood. 

The  room  filled,  suddenly,  with  new  light, 

Marilyn  walked  towards  him,  and  she 
took  his  hand. 

"You're  a  very  good  friend,  Yves,"  she 
said. 

"I  hope,  too,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  still 
a  good  omelet  maker." 

Marilyn  still  held  his  hand  as  they 
walked,  laughing,  to  the  kitchen.  ENC 

Marilyn  and  Yves  co-star  in  Let's  Make 
Love  for  20th-Fox.  Marilyn's  next  is  The 
Misfits.-  Yves'  is  Time  on  Her  Hands— 
both  films  for  United  Artists. 


I  Refuse  to  Grow  Old 


(Continued  from  page  46) 

iriend  replied.  "The  men  don't  care.  Here 
we  are,  dressed  to  beat  the  band,  and  in 
she  struts  looking  like  she's  just  finished 
cleaning  her  living  room,  and  every  man 
in  the  place  hops  to  her  side." 

"I'd  like  to  know  her  secret,"  the  actress 
confided. 

"Who  wouldn't?"  her  friend  frankly 
replied. 

And  so  the  gossip  goes,  year  in  and 
year  out.  What  is  Ingrid  Bergman's  se- 
cret? This  woman  who  has  three  mar- 
riages behind  her.  who  became  the  dis- 
grace of  the  world  by  flaunting  an  illicit 
love  affair  in  the  public's  face,  who  has 
four  children  (one  fully  grown-up  and 
married),  who  thinks  nothing  of  appear- 
ing at  a  party  without  make-up — what 
is  it  about  her  that  charms  men  the  world 
ever? 

Her  movies,  in  spite  of  strong  religious 
pressures  to  ban  them  because  of  her  love 
tffair  with  Italian  director  Roberto  Ros- 
;ellini.  gross  millions  of  dollars.  Her  ro- 
mantic appeal,  like  Cary  Grant's,  grows 
instead  of  dwindling  at  the  box-office. 
Even  teen-agers,  who  know  little  of  the 
many  great  roles  she's  portrayed,  list 
Ingrid  as  their  favorite  film  actress  re- 
gardless of  the  fact  that  she  appears  in 
-less  than  a  film  a  year. 

What  is  it,  then,  this  mystery  that 
makes  for  such  exciting  Bergman  magic? 
Elusive  and  difficult  to  pin  down,  it  none- 
theless begins  to  reveal  itself  if  one  ex- 
amines the  high  points  in  her  life  story. 

AN  ONLY  CHILD,  Ingrid  was  born  in 
Sweden  of  humble  parents  on  the  29th  of 
August  at  the  time  of  the  First  World  War. 

;One  year  later,  1916,  she  was  posing  for 
tier  photographer  father  by  snuggling  and 
cooing  in  her  mother's  arms  and  lap. 
When  she  was  two,  her  mother  died,  and 

■  in  another  year's  time  her  father  passed 
away  from  heartbreak.  An  elderly  Aunt 
Ellen  cared  for  her,  but  in  a  while  Aunt 
Ellen  died.  Saddened   and   torn  by  her 

;;arly  orphaned  status.  Ingrid  went  to  live 

with  an  Uncle  Otto  whose  five  children 
tormented  her  for  being  "all  arms  and  legs, 
50  awkward." 
She    lived    in    agony    in    her  uncle's 

strange  household  where  the  teasing  never 

.stopped.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  gangly, 
:owering  height.  The  boys  laughed  at  her, 

,:old  her  she'd  never  marry.  Finally,  with 
.■■'hat  little  money  Justus  Bergman  left  to 
lis  daughter,  she  was  sent  to  the  Lyceum 
School  for  Girls  where  she,  again,  was 

f;oked  fun  at. 

One  day  when  a  gym  teacher  was  sick 

,/.'ith  influenza.  Ingrid's  gym  class  was 
called  off.  And  the  students  sat  around  the 
jyrrmasium  wondering  what  to  do. 

"I'll  ...  I'll  act  out  a  story  for  you,"  the 
■etiring    Ingrid    ventured.    Secretly  and 

passionately,  within  her  heart,  she  wanted 

jta  be  friends  with  all  of  the  girls  at  school. 
:he  wanted  their  teasing  to  stop. 

.  But  the  girls  laughed  aloud  at  Ingrid's 
Droposal. 

Ingrid  looked  at  their  ridiculing  eyes, 
blenched  her  fists  together  and  walked 
directly  to  the  bandstand  at  the  far  end  of 
he  gymnasium. 

-  Muttering  to  herself  that  she'd  prove 
•he  could  entertain  them,  Ingrid  stood  on 

-  he  stage  and  stared  at  her  audience  of 
nocking     contemporaries.     But  nothing 
■ame  to  her  mind.  Ingrid  couldn't  remem- 
ber any  of  the  plays  or  the  books  she  had 

ead.  Still,  she  was  determined  to  show 
'-he  class  she  could  please  them. 

Closing  her  eyes,  she  asked  God  to  help 
"ier,  and  began  making  up  the  tale  of  a 


lonely  girl  who  was  impatiently  waiting, 
praying,  for  a  man  to  come,  a  man  with  a 
soft  voice  and  a  heartful  of  love  and  a 
princely  white  steed,  a  man  who  would 
take  her  away  in  his  arms,  away  from  the 
dreary  loneliness,  away  from  all  the  scary 
strangers. 

The  girls  sat  spellbound,  enraptured. 
For  many  hours  afterward  Ingrid  was  to 
amuse  and  entertain  her  fellow-students 
with  her  make-believe  stories. 

In  due  time,  however,  she  was  faced 
with  the  imminence  of  her  graduation 
from  the  Lyceum  School.  There  was  the 
problem  of  her  life  thereafter.  What 
should  she  do? 

WHAT  LITTLE  LEGACY  her  father  had 
left  her  had  gone  to  those  first  few  years  of 
schooling.  There  was  no  money  for  fur- 
ther education.  Ingrid's  only  hope,  and  an 
almost  impossible  one  at  that,  was  a 
scholarship  at  the  state-owned  Royal 
Dramatic  Theater  School.  Over  two  dozen 
judges  chose  a  handful  of  scholarship 
winners. 

She  entered  the  scholarship  competi- 
tion. After  her  delivery  of  the  speech  of 
the  deranged  boy  from  Rostand's  L'Aig- 
lon,  the  judges  sat  silent,  immobile,  with- 
out expressing  so  much  as  a  "thank  you." 

She  was  positive  she  had  failed. 

Two  days  later  she  was  notified  she  was 
chosen.  She  had  so  affected  the  judges 
with  her  performance  they  were  stunned 
and  speechless,  unable  to  applaud  or  con- 
gratulate her.  And  two  months  after  she 
was  chosen,  she  met  the  man  who  was  to 
lift  her  out  of  her  pitiful  loneliness.  In- 
stead of  the  dashing  white  charger,  how- 
ever, his  attraction  turned  out  to  be 
spotless  white  uniform  of  a  dentist.  To  the 
teen-aged  Ingrid,  the  uniform  symbolized 
solidity,  security. 

At  eighteen  she  began  going  with  Dr. 
Peter  Lindstrom,  ten  years  her  senior.  For 
an  orphan  girl  who  had  been  teased  and 
tormented  by  boys  and  girls  most  of  her 
life,  Dr.  Lindstrom's  kind  attention, 
thoughtfulness  and  soft-spoken  manner 
were  like  a  soothing  balm  to  a  whimper- 
ing heart. 

It  wasn't  love  at  first  sight.  But  their 
friendship  grew.  And  long  before  the 
night  when  they  decided  to  marry.  Ingrid 
hoped  that  a  man  like  Peter  who  dis- 
played a  strong  interest  in  her  work  and 
in  her  personal  life,  a  man  who  had  both 
his  feet  on  the  ground,  would  guide  her 
out  of  her  fog  of  loneliness  and  lead  her 
to  the  world  of  bliss  and  happiness  her 
love-starved  heart  craved. 

They  married  on  July  10,  1937,  in  a 
Lutheran  church  in  Sweden.  A  year  later, 
a  daughter.  Pia.  was  born.  At  the  time  of 
Pia's  birth,  Ingrid's  film,  Intermezzo,  was 
the  rage  of  Europe.  Hollywood  producer 
David  O.  Selznick's  representative.  Kay 
Brown,  suggested  Selznick  make  an  Eng- 
lish version  of  it.  But  the  shrewd  Mr. 
Selznick.  after  seeing  a  print  of  the  Swe- 
dish film,  not  only  bought  the  story  but 
snagged  its  star  into  a  contract  as  well. 

"I'm  flattered  to  go  to  Hollywood,  dar- 
ling." Ingrid  told  her  husband.  "I'd  like  to 
work  in  American  movies,  but  I  don't 
want  to  leave  you  and  Pia.  The  baby 
needs  me,  and  you  have  so  much  to  do 
with  your  work  that  you  need  me  to  look 
after  you." 

"Don't  worry,"  Peter  comforted  her. 
'You  won't  be  there  forever.  Just  for  a 
while,  and  then  you'll  come  back  to  us." 
She  went  to  him  and  embraced  him  for 
his  understanding,  but,  deep  within  her 
heart,  she  trembled  because  she  sensed 
Peter  didn't  need  her,  could  get  along 
without  her. 

IN  HOLLYWOOD,  at  the  swanky  party 
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Hepburn,  Greer  Garson,  Livvy  de  Havil- 
land,  Gary  Cooper  and  all  of  Hollywood's 
top  directors,  Ingrid  sat  in  a  corner  by 
herself  all  through  the  long  evening, 
tongue-tied,  bewildered  by  the  polish  and 
slickness  of  the  Hollywood  stars.  The 
world-renowned  director,  Ernst  Lubitsch, 
shook  his  head  over  Selznick's  fol- 
ly. "She's  nothing  but  a  big  peasant,"  he 
lamented. 

Selznick  asked  her  to  change  her  name, 
but  Ingrid  refused.  She  wanted  to  keep  it 
in  honor  of  her  father.  But  she  agreed  to 
work  on  improving  her  English.  She 
wrote  Peter  that  it  was  difficult  living 
without  him.  She  needed  his  manliness  to 
guide  her.  "I  can't  wait,"  she  wrote  him, 
"to  finish  the  film  and  return  to  your 
love." 

She  returned  to  Pia  and  Peter  as  war 
began  to  ravage  central  Europe.  Selznick's 
English  version  of  Intermezzo  was  re- 
leased in  America,  and  it  was  a  huge  suc- 
cess. Both  press  and  public  acclaimed 
Ingrid  Bergman's  "star"  quality  and  tal- 
ent. Selznick  cabled  her  to  return  to 
Hollywood,  and  Peter  beseeched  her, 
"Take  Pia  and  go.  Don't  worry  about  me. 
I'll  join  you  before  long.  But  get  out  be- 
fore the  war  reaches  us  here." 

Another  separation.  More  loneliness. 
Ingrid  starred  in  Gaslight,  Casablanca, 
For  Whom  the  Bell  Tolls.  Success  fol- 
lowed success. 

Finally  Peter  came  to  America  to  con- 
tinue his  studies  for  an  M.D.  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Rochester.  Ingrid  couldn't  bear 
to  have  him  so  far  away,  to  be  so  desper- 
ately alone  in  Hollywood,  without  an  es- 
cort in  a  showplace  where  everyone  has 
an  escort.  She  begged  him  to  transfer  to 
Stanford  University  at  Palo  Alto  near  San 
Francisco.  He  agreed,  and  she  flew  to  him 
every  week  end. 

"My  darling,"  she  told  him,  "the  work 
you're  doing  is  so  much  more  important 
than  my  work.  And  I  want  to  be  near  you 
to  help  you."  She  tried  to  assuage  her 
guilty  feelings  of  separation,  of  rejection 
by  Peter,  by  rationalizing  and  downgrad- 
ing her  acting  ability. 

But  Peter  didn't  give  a  care  for  Holly- 
wood, and  he  chose  to  withdraw  from  the 
spotlight  around  his  wife.  She  was  the 
star.  She  should  bask  in  the  limelight. 
And  suddenly  his  was  no  longer  the  strong 
shoulder  Ingrid  needed  to  lean  on  with 
her  woes.  He  took  a  position  behind  her, 
in  shadow,  while  film  after  film  of  Ingrid's 
broke  box-office  records — Notorious  with 
Cary  Grant,  The  Bells  of  St.  Mary's  with 
Bing  Crosby. 

TODAY,  PERHAPS,  it's  easy  to  say  that 
Ingrid  should  have  given  up  her  career 
when  her  stardom  forced  Peter  into  the 
shadowy  background.  But  Peter's  willing- 
ness at  the  beginning  of  their  marriage  to 
have  her  leave  their  home  in  Sweden 
frightened  her.  One  day  her  publicist,  Jo- 
seph Henry  Steele,  asked  her  if  she  had 
her  choice  between  her  work  and  her 
home — would  she  give  up  her  career? 

"Never!"  Ingrid  snapped,  clamping  her 
teeth  in  harsh  retaliation. 

How  could  she  throw  all  her  success  to 
the  winds  now?  Within  herself  Ingrid  had 
built  up  a  fever  pitch  of  excitement. 
Everyone  loved  her,  and  this  mass  love 
gave  her  more  of  the  confidence  she 
needed.  The  lonely  orphan  girl  from 
Stockholm  was  the  world's  darling!  But 
the  man  in  her  dreams,  the  man  who  rode 
the  beautiful  white  charger,  the  man  who 
could  save  her  from  anything — where  was 
he? 

Her  love  for  Peter  had  died.  They  were 
more  like  cousins  once  removed  now.  One 
autumn  evening  in  1946,  two  years  before 
she  was  to  meet  the  man  who  could  dis- 
grace her  name,  she  turned  to  Peter  Lind- 
66  strom,  as  they  sat  by  the  glowing  fire  in 


the  living  room  of  their  Hillhaven  Lodge. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  unflinchingly,  "I  want 
a  divorce." 

Peter's  mouth  dropped.  His  penetrating 
eyes  searched  hers;  his  brow  wrinkled  in 
puzzlement. 

"No,"  she  continued,  "it's  not  another 
man  or  anything  like  that.  It's  just  that 
we've  grown  so  much  apart  we  have  little 
in  common  and  why  should  we  deceive 
ourselves?  I'll  always  love  you,  but  our 
love  is  no  longer  what  it  was.  We  should 
both  be  free  to  love  again." 

Peter  didn't  answer  her.  She  brought 
up  the  subject  again;  he  ignored  it.  In  a 
few  months  she  accepted  the  leading  role 
in  Maxwell  Anderson's  Joan  oj  Lorraine, 
which  was  being  readied  for  Broadway. 
She  hoped  the  separation  would  help 
them.  Several  evenings  before  the  play 
opened  Peter  flew  to  her,  sending  her  a 
cable  that  he  was  LONESOME  FOR  MY 
GIRL— and  signing  it,  YOUR  P. 

Moved  to  tears  by  his  wire,  she  waited 
breathlessly  for  his  arrival,  and  they  went 
night-clubbing  the  night  he  arrived.  Col- 
umnists had  begun  to  hint  at  the  break-up 
of  their  marriage,  but  Ingrid  and  Peter's 
"night  on  the  town"  wiped  away  all  sus- 
picions. 

After  her  play  opened,  Peter  returned 
to  his  medical  work  in  California.  Ingrid 
became  very  involved  with  the  theatrical 
cliques  in  New  York. 

Still,  the  separation  didn't  help  patch 
up  the  differences  of  their  marriage.  It 
made  Ingrid  realize  all  the  more  that  the 
two  of  them  could  no  longer  be  happy — 
forever. 

When  she  returned  from  New  York,  she 
couldn't  stop  raving  about  a  certain  movie 
she  had  seen.  It  was  the  most-talked- 
about  film  in  New  York:  Paisan  directed 
by  the  young  Italian  genius,  Roberto  Ros- 
sellini. 

"How  exciting  it  would  be  to  make  a 
picture  with  a  director  like  that!"  she  told 
her  husband  Peter  who  urged  her  to  write 
him. 

"But  he'll  probably  misunderstand  and 
think  I'm  interested  in  him,"  Ingrid  coun- 
tered. 

PETER     CHIDED     HER     for  "dark 
thoughts."  Finally,  she  listened  to  Peter, 
sat  at  her  desk  and  began: 
Dear  Mr.  Rossellini, 

I  saw  your  films,  "Open  City"  and 
"Paisayi,"  and  enjoyed  them  very 
much.  If  you  need  a  Swedish  actress 
who  speaks  English  very  well,  who 
has  not  forgotten  her  German,  who  is 
not  very  understandable  in  French, 
and  who  in  Italian  knows  only  "ti 
amo,"  I  am  ready  to  come  and  make  a 
film  with  you.  Best  regards, 

Ingrid  Bergman 
Rossellini  wired  back  that  her  letter  ar- 
rived on  his  birthday;  it  was  the  most 
precious  gift  he  received.  Negotiations  be- 
gan for  Ingrid  to  make  the  movie  with 
Rossellini  after  she  filmed.  Under  Capri- 
corn, for  Alfred  Hitchcock  in  London. 

They  were  to  meet  on  a  Sunday  at  the 
George  V  Hotel  in  Paris.  Dr.  Lindstrom 
was  to  negotiate  Ingrid's  end  of  the  busi- 
ness deal,  and  there  were  to  be  producers 
and  business  representatives  present. 

The  meeting  was  very  business-like.  A 
financial  agreement  was  reached.  Peter 
flew  back  to  California.  Ingrid  returned 
to  London. 

But  she  couldn't  forget  Rossellini,  the 
smiling,  chubby-faced  artist  who  seemed 
uneasy  among  the  businessmen.  His  man- 
ners were  impeccable,  and  after  he  kissed 
her  hand  she  shook  with  nervousness, 
awed  over  being  introduced  to  a  genius. 

He  seemed  nervous,  too.  And  the  two 
of  them  couldn't  stop  looking  at  one  an- 
other, trying  to  sense  each  other's  char- 
acter through  their  sidelong  stares. 


When  Rossellini  didn't  raise  the  film 
money  in  Italy  (as  had  been  agreed  up- 
on), Peter  and  Ingrid  invited  him  to  move 
into  their  small  California  guesthouse  to 
work  on  the  plans  for  the  movie  while 
Peter  tried  to  raise  the  capital. 

Ingrid  and  Roberto  couldn't  resist  see- 
ing each  other  every  day,  talking  "art" 
in  the  melodious  language  of  French,  dis- 
cussing music  and  all  the  other  subjects 
they  had  in  common.  They  took  long 
walks  together  exploring  the  wild  life. 

She  had  found  him:  her  hero.  The  idol 
she  dreamed  about.  Instead  of  a  white 
horse,  he  had  a  movie  camera.  Roberto 
returned  to  Italy  in  February.  In  March, 
Ingrid  followed  him  to  begin  filming 
Stromboli.  And  at  Rome's  airport  the  mid- 
night of  her  arrival,  Roberto  waited  for 
her  and  embraced  her,  kissing  her  on  both 
cheeks  as  he  whispered,  "Je  t'aime." 

Within  a  week's  time,  Ingrid  couldn't 
contain  herself.  Ecstasy  shuddered  in  her 
heart.  She  was  torn  between   love  and 
marriage.  But  she  had  to  tell  Peter: 
It  was  not  my  intention  to  fall  in 
love  and  go  to  Italy  forever.  But  how 
can  I  help  or  change  it?  I  know  this 
letter  falls  like  a  bomb  on  our  house, 
our  Pelle  (the  name  they  had  selected, 
for  their  next  child),  our  future,  our 
past  so  filled  with  sacrifice  and  help 
on   your  part.  And  now   you  stand 
alone  and  I  am  unable  to  help  you. 
Poor  little  papa,  but  also  poor  little 
Mama. 

(signed)  Mama 
Ingrid  applied  for  a  Mexican  divorce. 
While  waiting  for  it,  she  gave  birth  to 
Roberto's  son  on  February  7,  1950.  at  the 
Villa  Margherita  Clinic.  Cables  and  let- 
ters arrived  from  people  the  world  over, 
bearing  vile  obscenities  and  outrageous 
threats  about  her  illicit  love  affair  with 
Roberto  and  their  child  which  they  named 
Renato  Roberto. 

Ingrid,  contrary  to  what  people  ru- 
mored, did  not  forget  her  daughter.  Pia. 
She  spoke  to  her  constantly  via  transat- 
lantic telephone;  and  before  Ingrid  gave 
birth,  she  wrote  Pia  a  ten-page  letter.  In- 
grid asked  her  closest  Hollywood  friends 
to  contact  Pia  before  the  birth  and  to  stay 
with  her  while  the  headlines  screamed  the 
news  of  the  child  born  out  of  wedlock. 

THREE  MONTHS  AFTER  Ingrid  gave 
birth,  she  and  Roberto  were  married  by 
proxy.  Sweden  refused  to  recognize  her 
Mexican  divorce.  Italy  wouldn't  permit  a 
civil  ceremony  unless  Sweden  agreed  to 
the  divorce.  Consequently  a  judge  married 
them  in  Mexico  while  they  knelt  in  a 
sidestreet  Roman  chapel,  praying  for 
guidance  and  forgiveness. 

The  press,  from  all  corners  of  the  earth, 
clobbered  them.  The  American  public 
after  lavishing  endless  adulation,  rejected 
her  for  her  sin.  Ingrid  was  a  bad  woman, 
a  disgrace  to  their  image  of  the  happy 
homemaker. 

Her  film  with  Roberto  turned  out  to  be 
a  colossal  flop;  the  world  was  thrilled. 
This  was  justice;  this  was  the  penalty  she 
must  pay.  Frightened  by  the  overpowering 
hatred  she  encountered  everywhere,  In- 
grid worked  with  Roberto  in  seclusion  on 
plans  for  forthcoming  films  while  she 
looked  after  the  baby. 

Meanwhile,  Peter  Lindstrom  married 
Dr.  Agnes  Ronanek  of  Pittsburgh.  Ingrid 
gave  birth  to  twins,  Ingrid  and  Isabella. 
After  Peter's  marriage,  Ingrid  wrote  to  a 
friend,  during  the  filming  of  her  fifth 
failure  with  Roberto: 

Isn't  it  wonderful  news  about  Pe- 
'  ter's  wedding!  I  am  so  happy  for  him. 

Maybe  he  won't  have  so  much  time  to 

hate  me  any  more.  I  received  a  very 

sweet  letter  from  Pia  for  my  birthday. 

She  said  she  has  sent  me  a  gift. 

Beset    with    agonizing   financial  head- 


aches,  her  fortune  squandered  on  Rob- 
erto's films,  Ingrid  found  herself  worrying 
about  having  enough  money  to  buv  the 
babies'  new  shoes.  She  confided  to  friends 
that  the  "style  of  her  work  with  Roberto 
was  unsatisfactory."  Angelo  Sol  mi,  Italy's 
famed  movie  critic,  suggested  Ingrid  and 
Roberto  "retire  into  dignified  silence." 

Years  passed.  Ingrid's  accomplishments 
were  nil.  Finally  she  admitted  to  her 
American  agents  that  she  would  consider 
making  a  non-Rossellini  film. 

Hollywood  had  no  stories  for  her. 

In  Paris  she  was  offered  the  leading  role 
of  the  sexually  rejected  wife  in  the 
French  stage  version  of  Cat  On  a  Hot  Tin 
Roof.  She  turned  it  down.  "It's  not  me," 
she  said.  "People  would  laugh."  But  she 
agreed  to  play  the  role  of  the  schoolmas- 
ter's wife  who  gives  her  love  to  a  troubled 
student  in  Tea  and  Sympathy. 

Roberto  censured  her  for  accepting  the 
role — "pure  trash"  he  called  it.  All  the 
same,  he  jumped  at  the  chance  to  make 
some  documentaries  in  India  later  that 
year  while  Ingrid  studied  French  for  the 
production  of  Tea  and  Sympathy.  Mean- 
while, Ingrid  accepted  an  offer  from  Jean 
Renoir  to  star  in  a  movie  to  be  photo- 
graphed in  Paris. 

During  the  shooting  of  Paris  Does 
Strange  Things,  her  American  agents  flew 
to  Ingrid  and  asked  her  to  accept  the 
starring  role  in  20th  Century  Fox's  mil- 
lion-dollar film,  Anastasia. 

She  asked  Roberto's  advice.  He  labeled 
the  movie  "junk."  Roberto  was  depressed. 
Rainy  weather  had  delayed  his  work  in 
India.  The  following  May,  Roberto  left 
for  India,  and  Ingrid  agreed  to  star  in 
Anastasia  against  his  wishes. 

Her  acting  in  Anastasia  was  acclaimed 
by  all  the  American  critics.  They  voted 
her  to  receive  the  coveted  Film  Critics 
Best  Actress  Award.  She  replied  from 
Paris  that  she  would  fly  to  New  York  to 
accept  it. 

Author  Ernest  Hemingway,  visiting 
Paris  at  the  time,  told  Ingrid,  "Why  don't 
you  let  me  fly  with  you  to  New  York?  If 
anyone's  mean  to  you,  I'll  fight  them." 

"No,  thanks,"  Ingrid  laughed.  "With  all 
that  I've  been  through  now,  I  think  I  can 
take  care  of  myself." 

SHE  NOT  ONLY  WON  the  Film  Critics 
award;  she  received  the  Academy  Award 
for  her  performance  in  Anastasia.  And 
Cary  Grant,  in  accepting  the  award  for 
her,  said,  "Dear  Ingrid,  if  you  can  hear 
me  via  radio,  all  your  friends  here  send 
you  congratulations,  love,  admiration  and 
every  affectionate  thought." 

Two  months  later  Roberto  Rossellini 
telephoned  Ingrid  from  Bombay.  "There's 
going  to  be  a  scandal,"  he  announced  fur- 
tively, "but  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  It's 
all  blackmail.  Nothing  but  blackmail!" 

The  news  of  Roberto's  passionate  love 
affair  with  dark-eyed,  twenty-seven-year- 
old  Sonali  Das  Gupta  broke  in  front-page 
newspaper  headlines  around  the  world. 
Sonali  was  pregnant,  the  reporters  in- 
sisted. Ingrid  vehemently  defended  her 
husband.  "All  of  this  Hindu  hoopla,"  she 
told  a  reporter,  "is  made-up  stuff." 

That  month,  her  agent,  Kay  Brown, 
flew  to  Paris  to  ask  Ingrid  to  read  the 
script  of  Indiscreet  which  Cary  Grant 
wanted  to  star  in.  Ingrid  liked  the  story 
and  signed  a  contract.  Miss  Brown  had 
planned  to  transact  business  with  Ingrid 
in  Paris,  also  to  tend  to  other  details  with 
a  Swedish  producer,  Lars  Schmidt. 

"Since  you  and  Lars,"  she  told  Ingrid, 
"are  the  two  nicest  Swedes  I  know,  I  want 
both  of  you  to  know  each  other." 

At  Kay  Brown's  dinner  party,  Ingrid 
met  Lars.  He  was  tall,  handsome,  blond. 
There  was  no  immediate  attraction  be- 
tween them,  other  than  he  was  wonderful 
company,  unaffected,  easy  to  listen  to — 


and  so  calm,  after  the  fiery  temperament 
she  learned  to  put  up  with  from  Roberto 

When  Roberto  returned  from  India,  So- 
nali Das  Gupta  followed  him.  The  scandal 
was  true.  Ingrid  met  him  at  the  airport, 
pretended  nothing  had  happened.  By  the 
end  of  the  month,  they  both  flew  to  Rome 
to  conclude  a  legal  separation. 

Roberto  filed  for  an  annulment,  and 
early  that  March,  Lars  invited  Ingrid  to 
visit  Sweden  with  him.  After  her  holiday 
in  Sweden,  she  flew  to  London  to  begin 
work  on  The  Inn  Of  The  Sixth  Happiness. 

Lars  phoned  her  daily.  He  wanted  to 
protect  her  from  the  mess  in  the  Roman 
courts  over  the  custody  of  her  children 
with  Roberto.  He  was  the  Rock  of  Gibral- 
tar at  a  time  when  Roberto's  scandal  tore 
Ingrid's  heart.  There  were  no  heroics 
about  Lars;  he  was  without  a  white 
charger.  He  was  a  simple  man,  someone 
she  respected,  a  man  with  a  deep  under- 
standing of  her  spirit.  Perhaps,  a  white 
charger,  after  all,  was  a  childish  dream. 

With  Lars'  concern  and  affection,  Ingrid 
battled  the  Italian  courts  for  custody  of 
Robertino,  Ingrid  and  Isabella. 

And  on  December  21,  1958,  she  gave  in 
to  the  pleas  of  her  heart  and  married  Lars 
Schmidt  at  Caxton  Hall  in  London.  The 
only  invited  guest  was  Cary  Grant,  a 
friend  who  had  stood  beside  her  through 
thick  and  thin.  .  .  . 

WHEN  CARY  MET  HER.  some  months 
later,  in  Paris,  Ingrid  was  waiting  for  him 
at  the  bustling  train  depot  in  her  station 
wagon. 

"Cary,  Cary,"  she  spoke  his  name  as  if 
she  were  singing  a  song.  "I've  never  been 
happier."  They  drove  along  the  narrow 
country  road  to  her  villa  in  Choisel.  "I'm 
no  longer  afraid.  I  used  to  be.  And  I  al- 
ways got  into  trouble.  I  know  now  that 
when  I  look  at  myself  in  the  mirror,  I'm 
not  the  kind  of  person  who  can  put  on  the 
brakes  when  it  comes  to  living.  I  have  to 
love.  And  I'm  not  afraid  of  it. 

"God  has  been  good  to  me.  He  has  given 
me  Lars.  He  feeds  my  life  and  under- 
stands me.  That's  the  most  difficult  part 
of  living.  Understanding.  That's  where  we 
always  fumble  and  stumble." 

They  talked  of  Ingrid's  children,  their 
acceptance  of  Lars.  And  then  Ingrid  said, 
"The  surest  knowledge  I  have  has  come 
from  my  errors.  I've  learned  a  woman 
must  be  honest  to  herself,  to  her  heart.  I 
have  no  regrets.  That  is  my  secret.  I  would 
do  everything  all  over  again,  because  I'm 
not  afraid.  People  say  I'm  too  old  to  find 
happiness  now.  Well,  when  I  hear  that  I 
always  think  of  Sacha  Guitry's  comment: 
'People  may  forgive  success — but  never 
happiness.'  " 

She  sat  behind  the  steering  wheel,  guid- 
ing the  large  car  carefully  along  the 
winding  dusty  road.  She  wore  no  make- 
up; her  shining  blonde  hair  fell  loosely 
to  her  shoulders.  She  wore  an  old  white 
shirt  and  rumpled  blue  jeans.  She  was 
barefoot. 

"Ingrid,"  Cary  Grant  said,  looking  at 
her,  "you  are  the  most  beautiful  woman 
in  the  world." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  second.  Her 
eyes  smiled  and  winked.  Then  she 
laughed.  "Cary,  Cary,"  she  said,  "I'm  a 
mess.  Just  look  at  me!  But  I'm  happy  and 
I'm  in  love.  .  .  ." 

"How  do  you  do  it,  Ingrid?  How  do  you 
keep  so  young?  You're  like  a  .  .  .  beau- 
tiful and  wonderful  child." 

Shrugging  her  shoulders,  she  turned  the 
car  into  the  flower-bordered  driveway  of 
the  medieval  stone  villa  at  Choisel.  "I 
guess,"  she  said,  "in  spite  of  all  that's 
happened  to  me,  I  simply  refused  to  grow 

Old!"  END 

Ingrid  stars  in  United  Artists'  Time  on  Her 
Hands. 


NOVEMBER 
BIRTHDAYS 

If  your  birthday  is  in  November,  your 
birthstone  is  a  Topaz  and  your  flower  is  a 
Chrysanthemum;  and  here  are  some  of 
the  stars  who  share  it  with  you: 


November  1- 


Nov  ember  2- 
November  4- 


November  5- 


November  7- 
Nov  ember  9- 


Nov  ember  10- 
November  11- 


November  13- 
November  15- 


November  17- 

November  21- 

November  22- 

November  23- 

November  25- 


November  26- 
November  28- 


November  30 


Jo  Morrow 
Betsy  Palmer 
Jeff  Richards 
Burt  Lancaster 
Cameron  Mitchell 
Gig  Young 
Vivien  Leigh 
Joel  McCrea 
Dean  Jagger 
Dorothy  Dandridge 
Russell  Johnson 
-Richard  Burton 
Susan  Kohner 
Pat  O'Brien 
Robert  Ryan 
Ina  Balin 
Grace  Kelly 
Jean  Seberg 
Joanna  Barnes 
Lloyd  Bridges 
John  Kerr 
Rock  Hudson 
Ralph  Meeker 
Mickey  Callara 
Geraldine  Page 
Victor  Jory 
Boris  Karloff 
Kathryn  Grant 
Jeffrey  Hunter 
Ricardo  Montalban 
Barry  Coe 
Gloria  Grahame 
Hope  Lange 
Virginia  Mayo 
Dick  Clark 
Efrem  Zimbalist,  Jr. 


Dick  Powell 

November  14 


Clifton  Webb 

November  19 


The  Miracle  at  Buergenstock 


(Continued  from  page  41) 

on  earth.  But  for  two  people,  a  man  and  a 
woman  in  a  mountaintop  chalet  in  Buer- 
genstock, wracked  with  anxiety,  nervous- 
ness and  fear,  this  was  not  always  so. 

Only  a  few  years  ago,  when  Audrey 
Hepburn  and  Mel  Ferrer  decided  to  settle 
in  Buergenstock,  they  dreamed  of  having 
the  happiest  household  in  the  whole  of 
Europe.  But  their  hopeful  dream  turned 
into  a  harrowing  nightmare. 

Why? 

Because  of  their  great  desire  to  create  a 
child  of  their  own.  Even  before  their  mar- 
riage in  a  chapel  in  Switzerland,  Audrey 
told  Mel,  "I  love  my  work,  my  darling,  but 
it's  an  avocation  next  to  you.  You  are  my 
life,  you  and  the  wonderful  family  we 
want  to  have." 

AFTER  THEIR  MARRIAGE,  they  lived 
in  a  chain  of  rented  homes  in  England, 
France,  Italy,  Mexico,  the  United  States. 
Homeless  vagabonds,  they  traveled  with 
their  wedding  china  and  silver  so  that 
something  might  have  a  personal  touch  in 
the  various  strange  homes  they  lived  in. 
Finally,  when  they  chose  the  fairytale 
chalet  in  Switzerland  with  its  ivy-covered 
walls  and  green  shuttered  windows,  the 
time  they  had  waited  for  so  anxiously 
through  their  years  of  marriage  and  travel- 
ing had  arrived.  They  had  a  home,  roots  of 
their  own,  and  it  was  the  moment  they 
dreamed  of:  to  begin  their  family. 

All  the  while,  though,  Audrey  had  been 
a  wonderful  stepmother  to  Mel's  four  teen- 
age children  from  his  two  previous  mar- 
riages: Pepa,  Mela,  Christopher  and  Mark. 
Audrey  referred  to  them  as  "our"  chil- 
dren, sent  them  gifts  from  her  world 
travels,  held  parties  in  their  honor  when- 
ever they  were  together. 

But  Audrey  yearned  for  the  day  when 
she  could  say,  "This  .  .  .  this  is  my  child!" 
And  when  the  doctor  at  the  famed  Lucerne 
clinic  told  her  one  day,  two  years  ago,  that 
she  was  with  child,  her  heart  thundered 
with  happiness  and  she  rushed  to  the 
chalet  where  she  made  pate  sandwiches 
and  tea  as  she  awaited  Mel  to  tell  him 
their  glorious  news. 

To  celebrate  their  good  fortune,  they 
treated  themselves  to  whirlwind  week  ends 
in  Rome,  Paris,  London.  Mel  told  their 
friends,  "We  want  this  baby  so  much.  Not 
only  because  it's  an  expression  of  our  love, 
but  for  another  reason,  too.  Audrey  had  a 
very  unhappy  childhood  in  Holland  and 
Belgium  during  the  war  when  the  Nazi 
killers  moved  in  and  machine-gunned  her 
relatives.  She  grew  up  under  cover,  for- 
ever in  the  terrifying  shadow  of  fear.  And 
she  wants  a  child  of  her  own  that  she 
can  raise  with  joy  and  happiness  in  its 
heart,  without  the  awful  fear  that  scarred 
hers." 

"We  can't  wait,"  Audrey  announced  to 
her  circle  of  friends  and  acquaintances. 
"If  it's  a  girl,  we're  thinking  of  naming  her 
Kathleen.  If  it's  a  boy,  I'm  sentimental 
about  my  brother's  name — which  is  Ian." 

Then,  that  spring,  after  a  staggering 
promotional  tour  in  behalf  of  her  award- 
winning  film,  The  Nun's  Story,  Audrey 
and  Mel  returned  to  their  hideaway  house 
to  await  the  birth  of  their  baby. 

Within  weeks  the  harsh  hammerblows 
of  tragedy  struck.  Exhausted,  achingly 
weary  from  her  tour,  Audrey  collapsed 
and  suffered  a  miscarriage.  For  days  she 
sobbed  incessantly,  unable  to  control  her 
shattered  nerves  over  the  heartbreaking 
news.  Their  mountaintop  villa,  once  gay 
with  Audrey  and  Mel's  happiness,  was 
68  quiet,  somber,  a  scene  of  mourning. 


ONE  DAY  as  Mel  and  Audrey  were 
walking  silently  through  a  field  of  wild- 
flowers,  Mel  turned  to  his  wife  and  began, 
falteringly,  "We're  heartbroken,  my  love 
.  .  .  both  of  us.  We've  been  immersed  in 
grief  for  too  many  days  now.  Let  me  take 
you  away  from  all  this.  Let's  go  on  a  trip 
to  India  where  we  can  study  Yoga  and 
forget  our  sadness  for  a  while." 

"I  ...  I  don't  want  to  leave,"  she  con- 
fided. "I've  wanted  a  home  for  so  long, 
and  now  we  have  it.  I  want  to  stay." 

"But,  darling,"  he  told  her,  "there  are 
so  many  wordless  memories  here,  mem- 
ories of  dreams  we  shared  for  our  little 
one.  If  we  go  away,  just  for  a  while,  we'll 
come  back  with  lighter  hearts." 

She  didn't  want  to  leave  the  quiet  of 
Buergenstock  which  soothed  her  torn 
heart.  But  she  never  liked  to  refuse  her 
husband  any  of  his  wishes. 

"Better  yet,"  Mel  suggested,  "why  don't 
we  go  to  Hollywood  and  see  a  screening 
of  your  new  film,  The  Unforgiven.  Then 
we  can  make  up  our  minds  about  what 
we'd  like  to  do.  We  can  fly  to  India,  if  we 
want,  or  we  can  return  here." 

"Whatever  you  want,"  she  agreed  softly. 
He  was  her  lord  and  master,  and  she  hated 
to  interfere  with  his  desires. 

In  less  than  a  week  they  were  flying  to 
California,  away  from  the  restless  mem- 
ories of  their  unborn  child. 

In  Hollywood  Audrey  remained  de- 
pressed, moody,  haunted  by  the  devastat- 
ing fear  that  she  was  too  fragile,  too  deli- 
cate to  carry  a  child. 

She  brooded  morning,  noon  and  night. 

One  morning  as  Audrey  finickily  nibbed 
at  her  breakfast  of  whole  wheat  toast  and 
boiled  eggs,  Mel  suggested  she  visit  a  de- 
voted doctor  friend  in  Los  Angeles. 

"But  I'm  so  tired  of  hospitals  and  doc- 
tors with  their  long  faces,"  Audrey  an- 
swered. 

"Why  don't  you  call  Sister  Luke?  She'll 
be  the  one  who'll  know  what  you  can  do 
to  build  up  your  body.  She  nursed  you  so 
lovingly  all  through  your  spinal  injury 
when  you  fell  off  the  horse." 

"I  love  Sister  Luke,"  Audrey  said,  sigh- 
ing, recalling  the  hours  of  enjoyment  she 
shared  with  the  Sister  whom  she  portrayed 
on  the  screen  in  The  Nun's  Story.  "But 
Sister  Luke  is  not  a  doctor.  She's  only  a 
bedside  nurse.  She's  the  first  to  admit  it." 

"Then,"  Mel  smiled,  "you  agree  with  me 
that  you  should  see  a  doctor  .  .  .  ?  I  want 
us  to  have  a  child,  my  darling.  And  the 
only  person  who  can  help  us  is  someone 
who — " 

She  promised  to  arrange  an  appointment 
before  he  finished  his  sentence. 

The  doctor,  a  gynecologist  recommended 
to  her  by  Sister  Luke,  turned  out  to  be  a 
fairy  godfather.  An  aging  man,  with 
pince-nez  perched  midway  on  his  nose,  he 
was  determined  to  help  Audrey. 

After  a  series  of  tests,  he  summoned  her 
for  the  consultation. 

"You  lost  your  child,"  he  began,  his  blue 
eyes  bobbing  brightly  behind  the  pince- 
nez,  "because  of  a  lack  of  hormone  activity 
within  your  body." 

Audrey  gasped,  frightened,  wondering 
if  this  meant  the  end  of  all  her  dreams. 

"This  is  not  an  uncommon  failing,"  he 
continued,  "with  mothers-to-be  who  are 
carrying  a  child  for  the  first  time.  What  we 
must  do  is  step  up  your  hormone  produc- 
tion with  injections.  If  you  will  listen  to 
me  and  rest — and  this  means  that  you 
must  stop  working  completely  during  your 
pregnancy — there's  no  reason  in  the  world 
why  you  can't  have  a  baby." 


It  took  a  moment  for  his  words  to  reach 
her  heart.  She  wanted  to  leap  out  of  the 
hard  wooden  chair  and  kiss  the  kindly  old 
man  on  both  cheeks. 

"Doctor,"  she  managed  to  say,  her  voice 
quavering,  "you've  just  made  me  one  of 
the  happiest  women  in  the  world." 

THE  INJECTIONS  BEGAN,  and  after 
several  months'  time  the  doctor  asked  her 
to  come  in  for  the  final  examination  that 
would  reveal  the  good  news. 

When  he  voiced  her  wishes,  Audrey 
quietly  prayed,  and  consequently  she 
didn't  hear  his  last  words:  ".  .  .  You  must 
remain  here,  napping  every  afternoon,  not 
straining  yourself  in  the  slightest.  The 
least  strain  will  endanger  the  life  you  are 
carrying  in  your  body." 

"I  can't  wait  to  tell  my  husband."  she 
said.  "We're  leaving  tomorrow  for  Rome 
where  he's  to  make  a  movie." 

"You  can't  leave.  I  won't  allow  you  to 
travel." 

"But  I  must,"  she  insisted. 

"It's  out  of  the  question,-'  the  doctor 
snapped.  "Why,  the  traveling  alone  could 
destroy  your  child." 

She  panicked,  rushed  home  to  tell  Mel. 

"Why  don't  we  both  go  and  talk  to  the 
doctor?"  Mel  offered. 

"Yes,"  Audrey  cried.  "And  you  must  tell 
him  how  miserable  I'll  be  without  you!" 

At  the  doctor's  office,  the  discussion 
raged  for  over  an  hour.  "I  will  only  allow 
you  to  go,"  the  doctor  finally  told  Audrey, 
"if  you  will  promise  to  go  directly  to  your 
home  in  the  mountains  and  stay  there. 
Your  husband  can  visit  you  week  ends 
while  he's  in  Rome  for  the  movie.  Then, 
after  his  movie  is  finished,  he  can  be  by 
your  side.  Your  villa  sounds  like  a  per- 
fect place  for  rest.  I  shall  give  you  extra 
injections  for  your  journey.  We're  taking 
a  chance,  of  course,  but  we  will  all  say  a 
prayer  and  ask  God  to  be  good  to  you." 

The  flight  to  Switzerland  was  easy, 
peaceful.  At  the  chalet  Audrey  rested 
quietly,  forgetting  all  the  shadowy  ghosts 
of  memories  that  had  once  haunted  her 
there.  She  walked  leisurely  in  the  morn- 
ings through  the  fields  of  wild  wind  flowers 
accompanied  by  her  Yorkshire  terrier. 
Famous.  When  the  New  York  drama  critics 
cabled  her  that  they  had  chosen  her  the 
outstanding  actress  of  1959  for  her  per- 
formance in  The  Nun's  Story,  inviting  her 
to  come  to  New  York  to  accept  the  award, 
she  wrote  them  that  she  was  honored  but 
that  she  could  not  leave  her  home  where 
she  was  under  doctor's  orders  to  await  the 
birth  of  her  baby.  When  she  was  nomi- 
nated for  the  coveted  Academy  Awards, 
again  Audrey  refused  the  invitation  to 
appear,  knowing  she  must  safeguard  the 
health  of  the  child  stirring  within  her. 

Finally,  this  summer,  the  long  nine 
months  came  to  their  end.  And  on  the 
morning  of  July  17th  she  awakened  at 
dawn  and  asked  Mel  to  drive  her  to  the 
Lucerne  Maternity  Clinic.  "I  think  it's  now, 
the  time  for  the  baby,"  she  told  him,  her 
lovely  brown  eyes  radiant  with  happiness. 

Mel  drove  her  slowly  over  the  country 
roads  to  the  clinic  where  Rita  Hayworth 
gave  birth  to  her  Princess  Yasmin,  where 
Ingrid  Bergman  had  her  Roberto,  and 
where,  late  that  afternoon,  Audrey  Hep- 
burn gave  birth  to  her  first  child,  a  nine- 
pound  boy  named  Sean  Ferrer,  under  the 
supervision  of  Swiss  obstetrician,  Dr.  Carlo 
Gianella. 

Now,  Audrey's  and  Mel's  chalet,  once  a 
house  of  heartbreak,  rings  with  the  gur- 
glings of  healthy  Sean  and  bursts  with  a 
joy  and  thanksgiving  that  may  make  it  .  .  . 
the  happiest  home  in  Europe.  END 

Audrey  stars  in  The  Children's  Hour 
for  United  Artists.  Mel  will  next  appear  in 
Paramount's  Blood  and  Roses. 


Rock  Hudson's  On-Location  Girl 


(Continued  from  page  49) 

morning.  And  Erika,  when  she  read  the 
news  at  breakfast,  swooned. 

"I've  got  to  meet  him,"  she  said.  "I've 
got  to." 

"How?"  the  girlfriend  she  was  rooming 
with  laughed. 

"I  don't  know  exactly,"  said  Erika,  "but 
I'll  figure  a  way."  She  picked  up  her  cup 
of  coffee  and  swallowed.  "I  know!"  she 
said,  suddenly.  "He's  staying  at  the  Pres- 
idente.  He'll  probably  be  at  the  beach 
this  morning.  Well,  I'll  be  there  too — " 

" — And,"  the  girlfriend  said,  "he'll  see 
you,  come  up  to  you  and  take  you  in  his 
arms." 

"He'll  see  me,  at  least,"  said  Erika. 
"Because  I'll  be  wearing  the  tightest 
bathing  suit  I've  got.  My  white  one." 

"My,"  said  her  friend,  "you're  getting 
very  brazen  all  of  a  sudden." 

"Once  in  a  while,"  Erika  said,  "a  girl 
has  to  be  .  .  .  And,"  she  added,  "that 
wasn't  nice  what  you  just  said,  about  him 
taking  me  in  his  arms.  You  make  it  all 
sound  foolish,  as  if  I'm  a  dreamer.  All  I 
want  to  do  is  talk  to  him,  look  at  him, 
to  be  able  to  remember  I  stood  near  him 
for  a  few  minutes.  .  .  .  You  know  how 
I've  always  felt  about  him." 

Her  friend  laughed  again.  "I'm  sorry," 
she  said. 

"That's  all  right,"  Erika  said. 

Then  she  picked  up  a  piece  of  toast, 
took  a  bite,  and  began  to  re-read  the 
announcement  in  the  paper. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"He's  here,"  she  said,  unbelievingly. 

SHE  STARED,  UNBELIEVINGLY,  when 
she  saw  him. 

There  he  was,  Rock  Hudson,  standing 
on  the  beach,  standing  right  there,  near 
the  water.  And  there  she  was,  standing 
on  that  same  beach,  no  more  than  twenty 
yards  away  from  him. 

"Well,"  a  voice  inside  her  asked,  "he 
doesn't  seem  to  be  looking  this  way.  Are 
you  going  over  to  him?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Erika  answered  herself. 

"You'd  better  hurry  if  you  are,"  said 
the  voice. 

"I'm  so  nervous,"  Erika  said. 

"You'd  better  take  a  look  around  you 
then,"  said  the  voice. 

Erika  looked.  And  she  saw  them,  a 
couple  of  dozen  other  girls,  of  all  sizes  and 
shapes,  some  prettier  than  the  five-foot- 
ten,  blue-eyed,  blonde  Erika,  some  not  so 
pretty,  but  all  of  them  looking  over  at 
Rock,  and  with  that  same  ga-ga  look  in  all 
their  eyes. 

"Hurry,  Erika" — the  voice  spoke  up 
again — "or  else  these  girls,  they  might 
have  the  same  idea  you  had." 

She  found  herself  walking  over  towards 
him  a  moment  later. 

She  found  herself  standing  beside  him. 

"Mr.  Hudson,"  she  said — he  turned  to 
look  at  her — "You  are  a  very  good-look- 
ing man  and  you  should  not  be  walking 
about  the  beach  teasing  all  the  girls  like 
this." 

She  gulped. 

"And,"  she  said,  "you  must  not  go  tell- 
ing reporters  that  your  eyes  are  the  same 
color  as  brown  shoe  polish.  .  .  .  You  have 
very  beautiful  eyes.  They  are  more  like 
the  color  of  fine  caoba." 

"What's  that?"  her  surprised  victim 
asked. 

"Mahogany,"  Erika  said. 
She  gulped  again. 

"Well,"  she  said  then,  as  she  began  to 
turn  and  walk  away,  "I  just  wanted  you 
to  know.  .  .  .  Good-bye." 

"Hey,"  Rock  called  after  her. 


She  turned  back  around  to  face  him. 
"Yes?" 

"Is  that  all  you've  got  to  say  to  me?" 

Erika  shrugged.   "I  think  so." 

Rock  walked  over  towards  her.  He 
couldn't  help  smiling. 

"May  I  ask  please,"  said  Erika,  "what 
is  so  funny?" 

"It's  just,"  Rock  said,  "that  girls  have 
come  up  to  me  with  many  an  opener.  But 
none  of  them  ever  said  what  you  just  did." 

Erika  looked  abashed.  "It  was  the  only 
thing  that  came  to  my  head,"  she  said. 
"I'm  sorry  if  it  disturbed  you." 

"Not  at  all,"  Rock  said.  "Once  a  girl 
came  up  to  me,  took  a  look  at  me  and 
started  to  bawl.  Now  that  disturbed  me." 
He  smiled  again.  "But  you,"  he  said, 
"you  didn't  disturb  me  a  bit." 

He  looked  up  at  the  sun  for  a  moment. 
It  was  a  scorcher. 

"How  about  it?"  he  said  then.  "Take 
a  swim  with  me?  Out  to  that  raft?  .  .  . 
Okay?" 

Erika  opened  her  mouth  to  say  some- 
thing. 

Nothing  happened. 

"Okay,"  said  Rock,  taking  her  hand. 
"Come  on,  let's  go.  .  .  ." 

THEY  SAT  ON  THE  RAFT,  very 
silently  those  first  few  minutes,  Rock  look- 
ing at  Erika,  Erika  looking  away  from 
him. 

Then,  finally,  she  brought  her  eyes 
around  to  his. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "I  am  and  have 
always  been  a  great  admirer  of  yours." 

"No  kidding,"  Rock  said. 

"Yes  .  .  .  seriously,"  she  said.  "I  have 
seen  every  picture  in  which  you  ever  ap- 
peared, with  the  exception  of  Taza,  Son 
of  Cochise,  made  in  1954.  I  was  sick  in 
bed  at  the  time.  But  I  will  see  it  one 
day  .  .  .  And,  also,  I  know  everything 
there  is  to  know  about  you,  since  I've 
read  every  word  that  has  ever  been 
written  on  your  life." 

"Well,  now — " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Erika.  "I  know  what 
you  like  to  eat,  what  colors  you  prefer, 
the  kind  of  house  you  live  in.  I  know 
what  your  greatest  embarrassments  were, 
your  greatest  disappointments,  your  great- 
est moments  of  pride.  I  know  everything 
about  you — even  though  I  can't  believe 
some  of  those  things  I  read." 

"Like?"  Rock  asked. 

"No,"  said  Erika,  "I  don't  like  those 
things  at  all." 

"Like  for  instance,  I  mean,"  Rock  said. 

"Oh,"  said  Erika.  "Well  .  .  .  I  read 
once  that  when  you  first  arrived  in  Holly- 
wood you  couldn't  walk  down  stairs  with- 
out tumbling  and  you  had  a  squeaky 
voice.  .  .  .  Now  that  isn't  true,  is  it?" 

"Sort  of,"  said  Rock,  squeaking  his 
voice. 

Erika  nearly  laughed. 

"And  once,"  she  said,  "I  read  that  the 
first  scene  you  ever  made  in  your  first 
picture  had  to  be  done  over  thirty -eight 
times  because  you  made  so  many  mis- 
takes ...  Is  that  true?" 

"No,"  said  Rock.  He  made  a  face.  "It 
was  thirty-nine  times." 

Erika  did  laugh  now. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Rock  then,  "haven't  you 
ever  read  anything  good  about  me?" 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said.  "You  have  a  dog 
named  Tucker  you  love  with  all  your 
heart." 

"Yep,  that's  true,"  Rock  said. 

"And  you  are  a  wonderful  son  to  your 
mother.  I  read  there  is  no  better  son  in 
Hollywood  than  you  are." 


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"Well,  I — "  Rock  started  to  say. 

"And  I  read,"  she  went  on,  "that  al- 
though you  are  reserved  with  most  people, 
that  you  are  really  very  very  kind  to  your 
true  friends,  of  which  you  have  five — one 
being  an  actor,  one  an  actress,  one  an 
artist,  one  a  piano  teacher  and  one  a 
liquor  salesman."  She  took  a  deep  breath. 
"Correct?" 

"Yes,"  said  Rock.  "Except,"  he  said, 
"I'd  just  kind  of  like  to  make  that  list  a 
little  longer  now.  .  .  .  Say  six  friends?" 

"Oh?"  Erika  asked.  "And  who  would 
that  be?" 

"You,"  said  Rock. 

She  looked  down  suddenly. 

"What's  your  name?"  he  asked. 

She  told  him. 

"Do  you  live  here,  in  Acapulco?"  he 
asked. 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  live  in  Mexico  City." 
"What  kind  of  work  do  you  do?"  Rock 
asked. 
She  told  him. 

"Did  anyone  ever  tell  you,"  he  asked, 
"that  you  are  an  extremely  pretty  girl?" 

"Some  of  the  photographers,  when  I  go 
to  pose  for  pictures,"  Erika  said.  "They 
tell  me  sometimes." 

"Do  they  ever  ask  you  out  for  dinner, 
these  photographers?" 

"Sometimes,"  Erika  said. 

"And  do  you  go  with  them?" 

Erika  said  nothing. 

"Once  in  a  while?" 

Still  she  said  nothing. 

"Will  you  come  to  dinner  with  me?" 

She  looked  back  up  at  him. 

"With  y-you?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Rock.  " — When  do  you  go 
back  to  Mexico  City?" 

"This  afternoon." 

"I  go  back  tonight,"  Rock  said.  "Why 
don't  we  make  it  tomorrow  then.  Okay? 
You  and  me,  and  a  moon  like  a  big  yellow 
tortilla  shining  overhead." 

Erika  stood  suddenly.  "Oh  please,"  she 
said,  " — but  this  is  very  cruel." 

"Huh?"  Rock  asked. 

"It's  not  nice,  Mr.  Hudson,  in  case  you 
don't  know,  to  tease  a  girl  this  way,"  she 
said.  "To  tell  lies  that  you  will  take  her 
to  dinner,  to  make  her  begin  to  think 
things  that  will  never  be." 

She  shook  her  head,  rushed  to  the  end 
of  the  raft  and  dove  into  the  water. 

"Hey,"  Rock  called.  "What's  your  ad- 
dress?" 

Erika  looked  up  over  the  side  of  the 
raft. 

"Thirtieth-of-September  Street,"  she 
said. 

"And  your  phone  number?" 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  shouldn't  have  given 
you  the  street.  And  now  I  won't  give 
you  the  phone." 

"Well,"  Rock  grinned,  "I'm  sure  it's  in 
the  book.  .  .  .  See  you,  Miss  Carlsson.  .  .  . 
So  long." 

"Ohhhhhh,"  Erika  moaned,  "don't,  Mr. 
Hudson.  Please  don't  make  jokes.  Don't 
spoil  everything  for  me  I  have  ever 
thought  about  you.  Please." 

And  she  made  a  quick  turn  then,  and 
off  she  swam. 

ROCK  SAT  ON  THE  PLANE  that  night, 
doodling  with  a  pencil  on  the  back  of  his 
ticket  folder. 

"Erika,"  he  doodled.  "E-R-I-K-A." 

"Who's  that?"  the  fellow  seated  next 
to  him,  an  assistant  director  on  the  pic- 
ture, asked. 

"A  gal,"  Rock  said.  "A  very  unusual 
gal." 

He  told  the  director  the  story  of  their 
meeting  that  morning. 

"She  sounds  unusual,  all  right,"  said 
the  director. 

"No,  I  mean  .  .  .  there's  a  quality  about 
this  girl  .  .  ."  Rock  said.  "She's  very 
70  naive,  and  very  smart,  both  at  the  same 


time.  She's  open;  she  says  what  comes 
to  her  head.  She's  not  like  those  other 
dames  I  keep  meeting,  who  flirt  too  much, 
or  laugh  too  much,  or  booze  it  up  too 
much  and  start  telling  the  sad  stories  of 
their  lives  and  who  look  hurt  when  you 
don't  cry  and  drink  along  with  them." 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,"  said  the  direc- 
tor, dryly,  "this  Erika  whateverhernameis 
sounds  like  just  another  Grade-A  movie 
fan  to  me." 

"Yeah,"  said  Rock,  "except  there  is 
something  different  about  her." 

"You  going  to  phone?"  asked  the  di- 
rector. 

"Sure,"  said  Rock. 

"Boy,"  the  director  said,  "will  she  be 
surprised.     .  ." 

ERIKA  CARLSSON  was  flabbergasted. 
She'd  gotten  the  call  from  him  that  after- 
noon, Monday,  and  she  was  finished  dress- 
ing now,  waiting.  She  couldn't  believe  he'd 
really  come,  though.  True,  that  had  been 
his  voice  on  the  phone.  "Seven  o'clock 
pronto,"  he'd  said.  But  still,  she  wouldn't 
believe  he'd  really  come  .  .  .  And  if  he  did, 
she  wondered,  that  picture  of  him  in  the 
fancy  frame  on  the  little  table  near  the 
piano — should  she  put  it  away?  Would  it 
look  too  silly  there,  she  wondered,  his  own 
picture,  looking  back  at  him  square  in  the 
eye;  and  would  he  think  of  her  as  a  ten- 
year-old  type,  having  his  picture  sitting  up 
there  in  the  living  room  like  that?  .  .  . 
No,  she  thought  then,  why  should  she 
put  it  away?  That  photo  had  sat  on  that 


PHOTOGRAPHERS'  CREDITS 

The  photographs  appearing  in  this  issue 

are  credited  below  page  by  page: 
11 — Irving  Antler;  12 — Wide  World,  Nat  Dal- 
linger  of  Gilloon;  13 — FLO,  Vista;  14— FLO, 
Annan  Photo  Features;  15 — Darlene  Hammond 
of  Pic.  Parade.  Wide  World;  16 — Globe,  Gilloon: 
18 — Darlene  Hammond  of  Pic.  Parade,  FLO, 
UPI.  Wide  World;  21 — Dick  Miller  of  Globe; 
22-25 — Sabine  Weiss  of  Rapho-Guillumette, 
Roger  Rothberg,  Paris-Match  from  Pic.  Parade; 
26-27 — Ken  Hayman  of  Rapho-Guillumette;  28- 
29 — Birnback  Pub.  Service;  30-31 — Jim  Mac- 
Cammon  of  Globe;  32-33 — Lawrence  Schiller; 
34-39 — Barbara  and  Justin  Kerr;  40-41 — Zinn 
Arthur  of  Topix.  Wide  World;  42-43 — Topix;  44- 
47 — Birnback  Pub.  Service:  48-49 — Keith  By- 
ron; 58 — Lawrence  Schiller. 


table  for  three  years  now,  and  it  would 
continue  to  sit  there.  Yes,  she  made  up 
her  mind,  it  would  stay.  .  .  .  The  door- 
bell rang  suddenly.  She  heard  his  voice. 
"Hello  in  there,"  he  called.  "Oh  my 
goodness,"  she  whispered.  She  patted  her 
hair.  She  adjusted  the  strap  of  her  dress. 
She  began  to  walk  towards  the  door. 
Midway  she  stopped,  turned,  ran  back 
to  the  little  table  near  the  piano  and 
shoved  the  picture  into  a  drawer.  Then, 
once  again,  she  walked  towards  the  door. 
She  opened  it.  He  stood  there,  grinning. 
He  held  flowers.  He'd  really  come.  "Hi," 
he  said. 

"It's  just  like   in   the   movies,"  Erika 
wanted  to  bust  out  and  say. 
So  she  did. 

THEY  WENT  OUT  that  night  and  they 
had  a  fine  time.  Rock  saw  right  off  that 
what  he  liked  best  about  Erika  was  what 
he'd  figured;  she  wasn't  like  the  other 
girls  he'd  known  these  past  couple  of 
years.  She  didn't  talk  about  careers — 
his,  or  hers.  She  didn't  ask  about  Doris 
Day,  and  Kirk  Douglas,  and  Jane  Wyman, 
"and  what  are  they  really  like,  all  these 
people  you've  worked  with?"  Best  of  all, 
she  didn't  wait  for  that  moment  that  in- 
variably came,  that  quiet  moment  towards 
the  end  of  the  evening,  when  that  one 
big  question  most  always  came:  "I  know 
it  must  be  hard  for  you  to  talk  about  it 
.  .  .  but  how  has  it  affected  you,  your 
divorce,  I  mean;  how  have  you  felt  these 
two  years  since  you  and  your  wife  broke 


up?  Have  you  been  lonely — terribly,  ter- 
ribly lonely?"  .  .  .  Instead,  Rock  noticed, 
the  things  Erika  talked  about  were  things 
that  happened  to  interest  them  both. 
Music.  Art.  Books.  The  sea.  People. 
What  kind  of  thing  makes  people  tick.  .  .  . 
He  liked  this  about  her.  He  liked  this 
fine.  .  . 

The  next  morning,  Tuesday,  he  picked 
Erika  up  and  drove  her  out  to  the  studio. 
She  watched  him  shoot  a  scene.  When 
it  was  over,  and  as  he  led  her  to  lunch. 
Rock  asked,  "What  did  you  think  of  all 
this?" 

"The  watching-you  part  was  fine,"  Erika 
said.  "But  the  repetition,  the  same  things 
over  and  over  again,  to  me  it's  a  big  bore." 

Rock  roared  with  laughter. 

"Shouldn't  I  have  said  that?"  Erika 
asked. 

"Never  change,"  said  Rock.  .  .  . 

They  went  to  dinner  again  that  night, 
and  the  following  night,  and  the  night 
after  that. 

On  the  Friday,  since  Rock  had  no 
work-call  that  day,  they  got  into  a  car 
and  drove  out  to  the  Jardines  Flotante, 
the  floating  Gardens,  where  they  spent 
the  day  sitting  in  one  of  those  gardenia- 
bedecked  gondolas,  holding  hands,  sniffing 
in  the  perfume  around  them,  talking  some 
more,  and  some  more. 

On  the  Saturday,  on  a  sudden  urge, 
Rock  bought  two  plane  tickets  to  Aca- 
pulco, where  they  spent  the  afternoon 
on  the  beach  where  they'd  met,  the  night 
dancing. 

On  Sunday  afternoon,  back  in  Mexico 
City,  they  went  to  the  bullfights. 

And  it  was  in  fact  after  the  fights,  and 
as  they  were  leaving  the  arena,  when 
Rock  told  Erika  about  the  conference  he 
had  to  attend,  called  that  morning  for 
late  that  afternoon. 

"On  a  Sunday?"  Erika  asked. 

"When  a  picture's  on  location."  Rock 
said,  "they're  liable  to  call  'em  at  three 
in  the  morning.  .  .  .  Come  on,"  he  said 
then.  "I'll  get  you  a  cab,  you  can  go 
home  and  change.  And  then  tonight." 
he  said,  "tonight,  Erika.  do  you  know 
what  I'd  like  to  do?" 

"What?"  she  asked,  as  they  continued 
walking. 

"Something  very  special,"  Rock  said. 

"But  we're  always  doing  something 
special,"  Erika  said. 

"I  mean  special  for  you,"  said  Rock. 
"Other  nights  I'm  the  one  who's  been 
suggesting  places  to  go,  things  to  do. 
Tonight  I  want  you  to  take  your  pick." 

Erika  was  silent  for  a  few  moments. 

"Well?"  Rock  asked. 

"Well,"  Erika  said,  finally,  "what  I 
would  like  very  much  to  do — "  She  shook 
her  head.  "No,"  she  said,  "it's  really  not 
at  all  proper  in  this  country  .  .  .  And 
I  don't  even  know  if  it's  proper  in  yours." 

"What's  that?"  Rock  asked. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  Erika,  "that 
maybe  you  might  come  to  my  apartment 
for  dinner.  I  would  like  to  cook  for  you, 
you  see,  and — " 

Rock  interrupted  her.  "It's  a  date,"  he 
said.  "And" — he  took  her  hand,  he  winked 
— "if  it's  any  good,  I  may  just  come  again. 
I've  got  another  week  here,  and  I'm  get- 
ting darned  tired  of  eating  in  restaurants 
all  the  time  .  .  .  So" — he  smiled— "for 
your  own  sake,  Erika,  you'd  better  not 
make  it  too  good." 

"I'll  try,"  she  smiled  back. 

IF  EVER  A  GIRL  has  tried  hard  not 
to  make  a  good  meal  for  her  man,  her 
name  was  not  Erika  Carlsson.  For  those 
two  hours  between  the  time  she  got  home 
and  the  time  Rock  was  to  come,  she  put- 
tered around  her  kitchen  like  half  a  dozen 
Waldorf  chefs  in  one.  Rock  liked  a  big 
fruit  cocktail  to  start?  She  made  a  big 
fruit  cocktail.  Rock  liked  scallopine  with 


mushroom  sauce?  She  made  that.  He 
liked  au  gratin  potatoes  and  carrots  with 
just  a  little  sugar  glazing?  To  his  order. 
Red  wine,  not  too  light?  Lucky  there  was  a 
bottle.  Caramel  custard  for  dessert?  Yes 
sir;  she  beat  those  eggs  and  up  it  came. 

Finished  with  all  this,  she  set  the  table, 
jumped  into  a  shower,  set  her  hair,  and 
got  dressed. 

She  was  just  finished  dressing  when 
the  doorbell  rang. 

She  ran  to  the  door. 

She  opened  it. 

'"Hi."  she  said,  smiling. 

"Hi."  Rock  didn't  smile. 

"A  few  minutes  earlier."  Erika  started 
to  say,  "and  you  would  have  found  me 
with  my  hair — " 

She  stopped. 

'"Rock."  she  asked,  " — is  something 
wrong?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Yes,  about  tonight.  .  .  . 
I  won't  be  able  to  stay  for  more  than 
just  a  couple  of  minutes,  Erika." 

■"Something    at    the    conference?"  she 


Rock  nodded.  "They  decided  we're  to 
go  to  Aguas  Calientes  and  re-shoot  some 
scenes.  The  whole  company." 

""For  tomorrow  only?"  Erika  asked. 

"For  the  rest  of  the  week,"  said  Rock. 

"Oh.  .  .  .  And  then?"  Erika  asked. 

"And  then."  Rock  said,  "we  go  to 
Hollywood  to  finish  interiors,  instead  of 
finishing  them  here.  .  .  .  And  then,  that's 
it.  The  picture's  wrapped  up  and  I'm  off 
to  Spain  to  start  another  one." 


Carroll  Baker:  Regardless  of  what 
anyone  else  might  say,  I  am  my 
own  severest  critic. 


"I  see,"  Erika  said.  "I  see.  .  .  ."  She 
smiled  again,  tentatively  this  time.  "But 
tonight."  she  said,  "won't  you  be  able 
to  stay  at  least  a  little  while?  I've  made 
your  favorite  kind  of  scallopine,  Rock," 
she  said.  "And  there's  wine,  red,  but  not 
too  light.  And  there's — " 

"Erika."  Rock  said,  " — the  car's  down- 
stairs, right  now,  waiting  for  me.  I  went 
from  the  conference  to  my  hotel  room  to 
pack.  My  stuff's  in  the  "car  downstairs. 
We've  got  to  take  off  right  away  .  .  ." 
He  looked  away  from  her  for  a  moment 
and  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  at  the  fancy- 
set  table  there.  "Did  you  go  through 
much  trouble,  Erika?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  lied. 

"I  was  looking  forward  to  it."  he  said, 
" — tonight,  the  rest  of  the  week." 

"I  was.  too,"  she  said,  not  lying  this 
time. 

For  a  while,  neither  of  them  said  any- 
thing. And  then  Rock  reached  into  his 
pocket  for  a  package. 

"This  is  for  you,  Erika,"  he  said,  hand- 
ing it  to  her.  "Open  it,  go  ahead. 

"I  wanted  to  get  you  something,"  he 
said,  as  she  did.  "I  saw  this  in  a  window. 
The  place  was  closed.  I  figured  the  owner 
might  live  upstairs,  though.  So  I  banged 
on  the  door."  He  laughed  a  little.  "I 
banged  so  hard,  he  must  have  thought  it 
was  a  fire  .  .  .  So  he  came  down  .  .  .  And 
I  was  able  to  get  you  this." 

Erika  had  opened  the  package  by  this 
time.  "Oh  Rock,"  she  said,  "it's  beautiful. 
It's  much  too  beautiful." 

"May  I  put  it  orv  you?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded. 

He  took  it,  this  gold  and  pearl  necklace 
he'd  bought  her,  and  he  put  it  around 
her  neck. 

He  brought  his  hands  down  to  her 
shoulders  then. 

"I'm  sorry  that  it  all  had  to  happen  this 
way,"  he  said,  very  softly. 


"Me  too."  Erika  said. 

"We  had  a  lot  of  fun,"  he  said. 

'■We  did,"  said  Erika. 

"I — "  he  said,  "I  haven't  enjoyed  being 
with  anybody,  anybody,  as  much  as  I've 
enjoyed  being  with  you  this  past  week. 
Not  for  a  long  time,  Erika.  Not  for  a 
very  very  long  time." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  her  feelings 
showed. 

"'Will  you  write  to  me?"  he  asked. 
"Where?" 

"I'll  send  you  my  address,  in  Spain,  as 
soon  as  I  know  it." 

"Of  course,"  she  whispered.  "Of  course 
I  will  write." 

"And  will  you  cook  me  a  dinner  again?" 
he  asked  then. 

"When?" 

"I'll  be  back  sometime,"  he  said. 
Erika  said  nothing. 
"I  will,"  he  said. 
A  car  horn  tooted  downstairs. 
They  listened  for  a  moment,  as  if  to 
see  whether  it  would  toot  again. 
It  did. 

Rock  brought  his  hands  down  from  her 
shoulders,  down  around  her  waist  now. 
"Good-bye.  Erika,"  he  said. 
"Good-bye,"  she  said. 
He  kissed  her. 

The  car  horn  tooted  another  time. 
Rock  held  Erika  close. 
He  didn't  move. 

"You  .  .  .  you  had  better  go,"  she  said, 
after  a  while. 

""Had  I?"  he  asked. 

'Yes,"  she  said — she  forced  a  little 
laugh — "or  else,"  she  said,  "they'll  come 
up  here  with  guns,  like  in  a  cowboy  pic- 
ture, and  take  you  away.  The  way  they 
did  to  you  in  Winchester  '73,  which  was 
made  in  1950." 

"'It  was?"  Rock  asked. 

"Yes,"  Erika  said. 

"Well — "  he  said,  and  kissed  her  again, 

"'Rock,  you'd  better — " 

He  kissed  her  once  more. 

And  then,  suddenly,  he  turned  and  left. 

SHE  STARED  at  the  door  for  a  mo- 
ment, a  long  moment. 

And  then  she  went  to  the  little  table 
near  the  piano,  opened  the  drawer,  re- 
moved the  picture  frame  inside  and  placed 
it  back  on  the  table. 

She  looked  at  it.  this  photograph  of 
Rock. 

She  wondered  how  long  it  would  be 
before  he  came  back. 

She  wondered  if  he  would  ever  come 
back. 

She  closed  her  eyes. 

She  began  to  remember  that  scene  on 
the  raft,  that  very  first  morning. 

"How  about  it?"  he'd  said.  "Will  you 
come  and  have  dinner  with  me?" 

"Don't  be  cruel,"  she'd  said. 

"Tm  not  kidding,"  he'd  said. 

"Please,  Mr.  Hudson,"  she'd  said,  " — don't 
make  jokes." 

She  remembered  the  following  night 
then,  the  doorbell  ringing,  him  standing 
at  the  door. 

"Hi,"  he'd  said. 

"You  came,"  she'd  thought. 

"You  came. 

'You  came." 

She  opened  her  eyes. 

She  looked  at  the  picture  once  more. 

She  began  to  nod. 

"Yes,"  she  found  herself  whispering. 
" — maybe  you  will  come  back  to  me, 
Rock.  Maybe  you  will.  .  .  .  And  if  you 
do,"  she  whispered,  "I'll  be  waiting  for 
you — " 

She  brought  her  hand  up  now  to  touch 
the  necklace  he  had  given  her. 

She  tried  very  hard  not  to  cry  .  .  .  END 

Rock  plays  the  title  role  in  Warners' 
Montezuma. 


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^WEEKS 

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Most  amazing  of  all  — results  were  so 
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Cinderella 


(Continued  from  page  39) 

woman  whom  I  don't  recall  having  seen 
before.  She  smiled  and  begged  my  pardon 
.  .  .  said  she  was  "enchanted"  watching 
me  and  the  youngsters,  and  could  she  hear 
the  end  of  the  story?  I  said,  "It's  always 
the  same — that's  the  way  they  like  it  best: 
she  becomes  beautiful,  falls  in  love  with 
a  rich,  handsome  man  and  all  that  kind  of 
thing  .  .  .  really,  it's  just  Cinderella  stuff." 
Somehow,  I  wasn't  self-conscious  until  she 
introduced  herself  as  the  new  beauty  and 
fashion  editor  of  Modern  Screen.  For  one 
hideous  moment,  it  was  as  if  a  mirror  were 
there  reflecting  me  as  I  am  at  my  dreadful 
worst,  in  the  eyes  of  someone  who  is 
everything  I'm  not! 

"I'm  Frances  Hodges,"  she  said.  "You 
must  be  Jerry?"  No  voice  came  so  I  just 
nodded.  She  continued  to  look  at  me,  and 
then  she  spoke  again,  "You  know,  you 
have  the  loveliest  eyes,  Jerry.  I  am  think- 
ing .  .  .  what  a  great  story  you  could  be 
if  you  would  let  me  make  you  over.  I'd 
love  to  show  you  what  to  do  to  make  the 
most  of  the  qualities  you  have." 

Me?  Attractive?  And  then  she  went  on. 

"I  could  show  you  how  to  make  your 
whole  face  quite  beautiful,  just  with  those 
eyes,  and  then,  I'd  love  to  do  something 
special  and  becoming  to  your  hair  which 
should  be  shining  and  prettier  than  it  is 
.  it's  a  very  nice  color,  really,  but  I'd 
love  to  bring  up  the  red  I  think  I  see." 
My  drab,  lifeless  hair  .  .  .  could  it  ever 
be  anything  else?  I  hide  behind  it! 

"You  mean  you'd  dye  it?"  I  asked  in  a 
panic.  "You  wouldn't  cut  it,  would  you?" 

"No,  you  don't  need  dye  .  .  .  but  I  could 
do  something  with  a  tinted  rinse  .  .  .  you'd 
see  what  I  mean,  and  I'd  like  to  cut  it  just 
a  bit  to  make  it  more  manageable,  easier 
to  take  to  a  new  styling." 

IMAGINE!  Here  was  I  actually  talking 
about  me.  Then  I  just  spilled  over  ...  in 
a  rush  everything  gushed  out,  all  the 
things  I  hate  about  me,  my  terrible  figure 
that's  undersized  and  lumpy,  my  skin  that's 
sallow  and  blemished,  and  on  and  on.  It 
was  simply  wonderful  to  talk,  to  tell  some- 
one other  than  the  children  how  it  feels  to 
be  plain  and  unpopular.  Could  she  make 
me  over?  Would  she?  Please,  God,  let  her 
ask  me  again! 

"Jerry,  I  have  a  proposition  .  .  .  how 
would  you  like  to  be  'Cinderella'  for  us? 
I'll  bet  I  can  make  you  into  a  brand-new 
girl — look  lik»;  one  and  feel  like  one.  Are 
you  game?  And,  if  you  like  the  results, 
will  you  write  what  happened?"  Oh!  yes, 
yes,  yes  .  .  .  would  I  ever!  Just  tell  me 
when  and  where! 

That's  the  way  this  story  started  .  .  . 
the  rest  is  here  with  the  pictures  to  prove 
that  there  are  "miracles."  I'm  thrilled  to 
be  telling  you  of  that  one  fabulous  day, 
my  most  unforgettable  one.  And,  at  this 
writing,  I  want  to  assure  you,  just  as 
Fran  (we're  now  great  friends!)  reassured 
me,  that  everything  they  showed  me  how 
to  do,  I  now  do  for  myself.  You  can,  too! 

On  that  day,  I  was  up  early  to  get  to 
Modern  Screen's  offices  by  8:30  to  meet 
Miss  Hodges.  With  her  were  Barbara  and 
Justin  Kerr,  a  team  of  photographers  who 
were  so  kind  and  understanding.  They 
snapped  many  "before"  pictures  .  .  .  me, 
just  as  I  was.  I  had  plenty  of  moments 
when  I  wished  I  were  far,  far  away  .  .  . 
any  place  but  in  front  of  a  camera.  When 
we  finished,  we  went  into  Miss  Hodges' 
office  where  there  were  loads  of  darling 
things  hanging  on  a  rack.  Still  skeptical, 
I  approached  that  "fitting"  (as  they  call 
it)  timidly,  but  as  each  outfit  was  tried 
7t  on,  and  fitted  so  wonderfully  and  looked 


so  terrific,  I  could  begin  to  see  what  Miss 
Hodges  meant  when  she  said  I  needed  to 
learn  to  dress  to  bring  out  my  best  points. 
I'm  4'11",  which  I've  always  resented,  but 
to  find  that  so  many  things  were  perfect, 
I  realized  that  I'd  been  a  dope  ...  I'd 
never  shopped  for  the  right  size.  I'm  an 
almost  perfect  size  7,  I  found,  except  for 
those  lumpy  hips  which  disappeared  under 
a  new  panty  girdle  which  they  fitted  on 
me.  Anyway,  the  only  alterations  were 
skirt  lengths  .  .  .  this  year  just  barely 
covering  the  kneecap  to  be  smart.  We  went 
so  fast  that  I  hardly  had  time  to  be  afraid, 
and  everyone  that  came  in  said  such  nice 
things.  I  even  asked  if  I  could  help  hem 
up  the  skirts! 

By  9:30  I  was  finished,  we  were  packed 
and  ready  to  dash.  The  first  stop  was 
Albert  Carter's  Salon  on  58th  Street.  Going 
over  in  the  cab  Fran  chatted  about  new 
hairdos  and  ideas  she  had  for  me.  She 
kept  using  the  word  "young,"  and  I  re- 
alized that  she  really  meant  I  looked  much 
older  than  my  nineteen  years.  I  don't 
think  at  that  minute  I  was  quite  ready 
to  leave  the  "hiding  place"  I'd  always  had 
in  my  hair,  but  Miss  Hodges  said  again  that 
there  would  be  no  dying  or  cutting,  and 
besides  I  couldn't  jump  out  of  the  taxi! 
She  also  told  me  that  whatever  style  we 
finally  decided  on  would  be  the  one  that 
I,  or  anyone  for  that  matter,  could  easily 
adapt  or  copy  at  home  .  .  .  True!  I  can. 

FOR  A  GIRL  who'd  never  had  "the 
works,"  I  began  to  like  all  of  this  atten- 
tion I  was  getting.  One  girl  did  the  sham- 
poo, (how  delicious  to  have  your  scalp 
scrubbed)  another  stood  by  advising  on 
the  new  color-rinse,  which  did  scare  me 
a  little.  In  between  times,  Justin  would 
snap  a  picture  or  two,  and  Miss  Hodges 
conferred  with  Mr.  Carter  and  Ray,  the 
stylist  who  was  to  "do"  me.  They  all  talked 
with  their  hands,  peered  and  analyzed 
until  I  felt  about  like  a  bug  on  a  pin,  but 
secretly,  I  was  beginning  to  enjoy  it.  Only 
yesterday  I'd  have  died  at  the  stares  of 
all  the  other  ladies  in  and  out  of  dryers. 

I  guess  Ray  knew  exactly  what  he 
wanted  to  do,  because  when  he  started  he 
combed  and  rolled  with  the  deftest  of  hands. 
All  it  seemed  to  me  was  a  maze  of  curl- 
ers, those  wire  tube  ones  which  I've  found 
are  very  easy  to  use  myself.  But  I  was 
getting  excited,  I'll  admit,  at  having  a 
style  created  especially  for  me.  More  pic- 
tures, under  the  dryer,  and  out  .  .  .  back 
to  Ray.  And  then  ...  as  he  brushed  and 
combed  and  patted,  suddenly  it  was  hap- 
pening! I  could  see  it  with  my  very  own 
eyes  that  my  hair  was  beautiful!  I  began 
to  fizz  from  the  inside,  and  I  kept  saying, 
"I  can't  believe  it!  I  can't  believe  it's  me!" 
I  felt  just  gorgeous,  just  like  a  real  prin- 
cess and  said  so,  too,  and  everyone  around 
seemed  about  as  excited  as  I. 

I  literally  floated  out  of  that  salon,  past 
Mr.  Carter,  Ray  and  all  the  admiring 
ladies.  I  heard  one  of  them  say,  "She  must 
be  a  starlet,"  and  I  grew  an  inch,  I  do 
believe.  Somehow,  the  Yellow  Taxi  was 
a  pumpkin  coach  that  took  us  on  to  the 
Kerrs'  studio.  They  had  lunch  brought  in 
but  I  was  too  bubbly  to  care  about  the 
hamburger,  usually  my  favorite  food. 
Champagne  would  have  matched  my  mood 
that  moment. 

Then  came  the  rest  of  the  magic.  The 
dressing  room  had  one  of  those  mirrors 
surrounded  by  light  bulbs  (just  like  a 
movie  star's)  over  a  table  covered  with 
jars  and  bottles,  and  things  set  up  all  for 
me.  In  that  next  half-hour  I  got  the  lesson 
of  a  lifetime  in  the  art  and  skill  of  making 
up.  What  I  know  now  about  my  skin  and 
face!  It  must  have  been  a  magic  mirror 
because  I  had  looked  and  looked  at  my- 
self before,  but  Fran  seemed  to  know  ex- 
actly what  to  do. 

Earlier,  at  the  hairdresser's,  we  had  dis- 


cussed the  state  of  my  face.  My  skin  is  oily 
and  I  had  had  blemishes  most  of  the  time. 
While  I  was  under  the  dryer,  I  was  intro- 
duced to  a  wonderful  new  medicated 
cream,  and  later  a  medicated  lotion,  both 
of  which  seemed  to  work  even  in  a  short 
morning.  So,  before  the  make-up,  Fran 
applied  the  lotion  again,  soothing  and  re- 
freshing, and  then  she  used  a  medicated 
foundation  cream  in  a  tint  just  a  shade 
darker  than  my  skin  which  she  calls 
"ivory"  (it  sounds  so  much  better  than 
"sallow"!).  Then  she  did  a  trick  with  a 
white  make-up  stick,  running  a  few  strokes 
of  it  along  my  squarish  jaw  line  from  just 
below  my  ears  down  about  three  inches. 
This,  it  seems,  fools  the  camera  a  bit, 
tends  to  soften  any  hard  lines.  She  used 
a  dab  more  on  each  of  those  fullish  spots 
under  my  eyebrows  which  seem  to  dis- 
appear in  the  pictures.  Fran  said  this  is 
good  for  evening  make-up  and  I've  tried 
it  .  .  .  it's  marvelous!  (Yes,  I've  even  had 
dates  lately!). 

MY  BROWS  needed  a  bit  of  shaping 
and  cleaning  up,  and  I  loved  the  little  soft 
brush  made  especially  for  eyebrow  groom- 
ing ...  it  gives  such  a  natural  look,  and 
seems  to  add  shine.  For  years,  I've  wanted 
to  try  eye  shadow  and  liner,  and  never 
dared  because  I  -didn't  know  how,  so  I 
was  careful  to  watch  that  operation  care- 
fully and  use  it  often  now!  Barbara  and 
Fran  said  my  eyes  are  the  greatest  and 
I'm  going  to  believe  them.  So  when  they 
put  on  the  eye  liner,  I  really  began  to 
sparkle.  I  seemed  to  feel  flirty  and  by  the 
time  they'd  added  the  mascara  I  was  prac- 
ticing side-long  glances.  Justin  stuck  his 
head  in  the  door,  and  I  flirted  at  him,  and 
when  he  said  my  lashes  were  fringy  and 
wonderful  "like  Liz  Taylor's"  I  did  a  real 
flip!  Then  came  the  lipstick,  a  gorgeous 
new  shade  of  satin  red.  I  have  to  admit 
it— I  felt  like  a  doll— a  real  doll. 

And  now  for  the  acid  test  .  .  .  me  as  a 
model!  What  an  experience!  I  loved  that 
one  terrific  day  of  it,  but  I  don't  think  I'd 
care  to  do  it  forever.  Justin  was  like  a 
director  talking  to  me,  teasing  me,  making 
me  laugh,  and,  you  know,  I  got  the  hang 
of  posing  in  no  time.  It  is  something  like 
acting  ...  as  a  matter  of  fact  with  make- 
up on  and  behind  lights  I  suddenly  was 
alone  and  quite  free  to  play  at  being  some- 
one else.  It  was  fun  to  begin  to  understand 
what  makes  actors  act.  Barbara  helped 
along  the  way,  and  both  she  and  Fran 
were  my  ladies'  maids  to  help  the  quick 
changes.  Along  about  four  o'clock  Justin 
suddenly  jumped  in  the  air  shouting,  "I'm 
having  a  ball!  This  girl's  great!"  That,  and 
the  "starlet"  line  set  me  up  forever. 

At  5:00,  when  we'd  all  about  had  it, 
Fran,  who  had  rushed  around  all  day 
herself  said,  "How  about  going  over  to 
Sardi's  ...  we  could  get  something  to 
eat  and  maybe  get  a  good  picture  of  that 
last  date  dress."  So,  off  we  trooped,  me 
looking  just  gorgeous  and  my  friends  just 
looking  exhausted.  The  doorman  literally 
swept  the  door  open  for  me  with  a  deep 
bow,  and  there  I  was,  in  Sardi's,  for  the 
first  time. 

The  Captain  ushered  us  upstairs  to  the 
famous  Celebrities'  Corner,  and  I  heard 
several  whispers  such  as,  "Who  is  she?" 
Then,  while  I  was  trying  to  act  as  if 
this  was  the  sort  of  thing  I  did  every  eve- 
ning, and  practicing  my  new  sidelong 
flirts,  the  waiter  came  over  with  a  bottle 
of  champagne  and  with  it  a  note  .  .  .  and 
this  you  may  never  believe,  but  you  must! 
.  .  .  the  note  said.  Hello,  beautiful — may 
I  join  you?"  Signed,  Paul  Anka.  I  looked 
across  the  room,  saw  him  and  did  some- 
thing I  could  never  have  done  before  .  .  . 
I  nodded  my  head  and  silently  said,  "Please 
do — "  I  knew  in  my  heart,  I'd  never  be 
afraid  again. 

But  that  was  just  the  end  of  a  day  and 


the  beginning  of  a  brand  new  me.  When 
I  got  home  and  walked  in  the  door,  you 
should  have  seen  the  looks  on  everyone's 
face — sheer  disbelief!  And  I  just  felt  so 
good  and  so  bubbling  I  could  scarcely 
stand  it.  myself!  I  wasn't  ''Jerry"  ariy 
longer  ...  I  suddenly  was  Evelyn,  and 
Evelyn  I've  continued  to  be.  Maybe  you 
don't  think  this  any  miracle  .  .  .  maybe 
you're  thinking  that  any  girl  could  do  as 
much  for  herself,  and  I  know  you're  right 
— any  girl  can  do  it — but  there  aren't 
enough  fairy  godmothers  to  go  around. 
But  for  lucky,  lucky  me,  it  was  .  .  .  and 
the  real  miracle  is  not  that  I'm  more  at- 
tractive to  look  at  .  .  .  it's  that  I'm  more 
attractive   to   be   with.   I  have   loads  of 


good  friends  now  .  .  .  I'm  no  longer  alone.  I 

P.S.    I    have    several    wonderful  new 
stories  for  the  children  which  they  like  < 
just  as  much  or  maybe  better! 

Editor's  note:  Well,  that  is  Evelyn's 
story,  and  those  of  you  who  are  "'too  little" 
and  who  feel  insignificant  and  left  out, 
can  surely  find  something  to  help  you. 
That  is  our  hope.  Next  month,  we  will  tell 
you  Suzy's  story  .  .  .  Suzy  is  just  the 
opposite.  She  is  one  of  those  "too  tall" 
and  ''too  fat"  girls — wait  till  you  see  what 
we've  accomplished  with  her!  See  you 
around  here  next  month.  My  best  to  all 
of  you! 

Fran  Hodges 


STOP 

p(BCbttx 

MEDICATED  FOR 
QUICK  RELIEF.  DAILY 
USE  CONDITIONS 
THE  LIPS,  KEEPS  THEM 
SOFT  AND  HEALTHY. 

We  Paid  $300,000 


(Continued  jrom  page  28) 

moods.  She  would  set  the  dial  morning 
and  afternoon  so  that  her  friends  and  fel- 
low workers  would  know  what  to  expect. 
The  moods  she  had  chosen  for  her  dial 
were:  very  loving,  tender,  affectionate, 
bossy,  sulky,  nervous,  malicious,  danger- 
ous. And  for  several  years  she  was  alter- 
nately "sulky"  or  "nervous"  within  the 
cramped  confines  of  her  dressing  room.  Or 
so  she  marked  her  "mood  barometer."  On 
the  set,  though,  she  was  her  usual  charm- 
ing and  friendly  self,  talking  with  every- 
one and  she  was  held  in  high  esteem  by  all 
her  co-workers,  as  "the  English  lady  who's 
never  uppity." 

When  she  arrived  in  Vienna  that  May 
of  1958  to  film  The  Journey  with  Yul 
Brynner,  she  had  just  completed  three 
movies  in  a  row— with  no  vacation  in 
between.  She  had  rushed  from  the  last 
day's  shooting  of  An  Affair  to  Remember 
to  France  for  Bonjour  Tristesse,  then  hur- 
ried back  to  the  United  States  for  Sepa- 
rate Tables. 

Without  one  day  of  rest  she  arrived, 
pale  and  bone-thin  from  exhaustion,  in 
Vienna.  Her  co-star.  Yul  Brynner.  took 
her  to  dinner  at  the  Imperial  Hotel  and 
asked  her  to  the  opera  that  evening,  but 
she  turned  him  down.  "I'm  so  weary," 
she  confessed,  "that  I  can  hardly  think. 
I  better  get  a  good  night's  sleep  so  that 
I'll  have  my  wits  about  me  tomorrow." 

Yul,  who's  very  sensitive  and  percep- 
tive about  women,  remarked.  "Deborah, 
is  something  bothering  you?" 

"No,"  she  answered  curtly.  "I'm  just 
tired."  Then  she  asked  to  be  excused. 

But.  for  Yul,  it  was  very  easy  to  put 
two  and  two  together.  Deborah  Kerr,  a 
married  woman  for  a  dozen  years,  was 
the  breadwinner  of  her  family;  and,  yet. 
during  the  past  five  years  she  probably 
felt  more  like  an  old  maid  than  a  wife. 
Her  husband  was  a  slippery  shadow  in 
the  Hollywood  limelight.  Deborah  at- 
tended parties  and  premieres  alone  and 
unescorted.  She  joined  groups  of  friends. 
But  as  a  wife  she  was  lonely.  Is  there  a 
woman  in  the  world  who  wears  a  gold 
wedding  band  on  the  third  finger  of  her 
left  hand  who  actually  enjoys  "stepping 
out"  by  herself?  Although  Deborah's 
work  demanded  it,  her  husband  Tony  re- 
fused to  take  her  to  the  Academy  Award 
dinners  and  the  press  galas.  The  Holly- 
wood colony  looked  upon  her  as  a  lost, 
sad  soul,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  made 
statement  after  statement  that  her  mar- 
riage was  a  happy  one. 

IN  VIENNA  THAT  MAY  the  lilacs 
bloomed  in  the  dooryards,  and  chestnut 
trees  blossomed  with  buds  of  rosepink  and 
milk-white.   Every   morning   on   the  set 


Deborah  was  greeted  by  screenwriter  Peter 
Viertel  who  gave  her  the  rewrites  of  her 
scenes.  Often  he  told  her  how  beautifully 
she  was  portraying  her  difficult  role. 

She  had  met  Peter  at  Hollywood  get- 
togethers;  they  were  casual  acquaint- 
ances. She  had  heard  of  Peter's  warm  and 
wonderful  mother,  Salka,  who  was  Greta 
Garbo's  dearest  friend,  and  she  asked 
Peter  about  her.  As  Peter  talked,  she 
found  herself  admiring  the  strength  in 
his  face:  his  blazing  eyes,  bushy  black 
eyebrows,  square  jaw.  They  chatted  about 
everything  from  Hollywood  hypocrisy  to 
the  lovely  rhododendrons  in  her  back- 
yard. Wherever  she  went  on  the  set,  he 
looked  after  her,  bringing  her  a  tray  of 
tea  and  Viennese  pastry,  surprising  her 
with  a  bunch  of  beautiful  violets  he'd 
picked  from  the  roadside. 


Mike  Kellin,  whose  current  screen 
role  is  in  "Wackiest  Ship  In  The 
Army,"  was  discussing  the  peculi- 
arities of  film  executives.  When- 
ever Kellin  was  scheduled  to  leave 
Hollywood,  his  agent  would 
phone  each  studio  head  and  say: 
"Y'know?  Mike  Kellin  is  leaving 
town"  ...  As  a  result,  said  the 
actor,  "They  got  panicky — even 
producers  who  never  even  heard 
of  me — and  four  times  I  was 
yanked  off  planes  to  be  signed  to 
a  movie  deal." 

Leonard  Lyons 
in  the  Xe-c  York  Post 


One  day,  as  they  were  walking  from  the 
studio,  he  stopped  suddenly.  "May  I  tell 
you  what  I  feel?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course,"  she  answered.  "You  should 
be  honest  with  friends." 

'You  .  .  .  you  are  as  beautiful  as  the 
spring  in  Vienna,"  he  said  softly. 

It  took  a  moment  for  his  words  to 
penetrate,  to  reach  the  target  of  her 
heart.  She  looked  into  his  piercing  eyes 
and  she  began  to  cry. 

Then  he  whispered,  "Even  when  you  cry, 
you're  beautiful.  I  .  .  .  love  you." 

His  strong  arms  embraced  her,  crush- 
ing her,  and  she  looked  into  his  dark 
eyes  as  his  lips  came  closer  to  hers.  Tears 
streamed  down  her  cheeks.  The  flowering 
chestnut  trees  blurred  all  around  her. 

"I'm  so  .  .  .  confused,"  she  managed. 

"I'm  not,"  he  answered. 

He  kissed  her  gently  then,  and  she 
froze.  She  looked  at  him,  scared  and  petri- 
fied. "What  .  .  .  what  have  you  done?" 
she  blurted.  "I'm  a  married  woman!"  She 
stifled  a  sob  and  ran  to  her  hotel  room 
where  she  sat  by  the  window,  unable  to 
stop  her  tears.  She  gazed  at  the  deepen- 
ing Vienna  dusk,  wondering  why  she  had 
allowed  Peter  to  hold  and  kiss  her  in  the 
shade  of  the  chestnut  tree  on  the  public 


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country  road.  Had  she  gone  mad? 

Her  telephone  rang.  Pulling  herself  to- 
gether, she  went  to  answer  it.  She  hoped 
it  was  her  husband.  How  many  days  had 
passed  now  since  her  arrival  in  Vienna, 
and  he  had  yet  to  call. 

It  was  Peter  on  the  phone,  asking  her 
to  be  his  guest  at  dinner.  "There's  a  cafe 
on  a  side  street  where  we'll  be  alone." 

"I  can't,"  she  fibbed.  "I  must  study  my 
lines." 

"One  drink,  then,"  he  suggested.  "Just 
have  one  drink  with  me." 
She  refused. 

"I  want  to  see  you  so  much,"  he  said. 
"I  love  you,  Deborah." 

Taking  a  long  deep  breath,  she  said, 
"Peter,  we  must  stop  seeing  each  other. 
You're  married,  and  I'm  married,  and  I 
don't  think  all  this  is  right." 

"Deborah,"  he  whispered,  "you're 
wrong.  I  know  somehow  we  need  each 
other." 

She  said  good  night  to  him.  But  she 
couldn't  fall  asleep.  She  tossed  for  hours, 
wondering  why  she  allowed  Peter  to  em- 
brace her,  why  she  had  responded  to  his 
kiss.    Was  .  .  .  was  she  hungry  for  love? 

UNTIL  THAT  EVENING,  Deborah  be- 
lieved that  her  relationship  with  her  hus- 
band, Tony  Bartley,  was  faultless,  more  or 
less  what  every  woman  expected  of  mar- 
riage. Now,  suddenly,  after  Peter's  near- 
ness and  his  kiss,  the  beat  of  her  heart 
quickened:  there  were  murmurings  of 
awakened  emotions  she  had  long  forgotten. 
Could  it  be  the  springtime  in  Vienna  .  .  . 
or  was  it  Peter  who  was  making  her  feel 
alive  again? 

After  another  week  she  knew  it  was 
Peter. 

It  was  Peter  who  gave  her  sprigs  of 
lily-of-the-valley  or  a  handful  of  violets 
every  morning,  saying,  "They  looked  so 
beautiful  in  the  morning  sun  that  I 
wanted  you  to  have  them."  It  was  Peter 
who  cared  enough  to  talk  with  her  on 
the  set  about  her  children,  her  future. 
It  was  Peter  who  gifted  her  with  a  yel- 
low-gold ring  with  a  ruby  heart  (how 
many  years  since  Tony  had  ever  given 
her  a  present? ) . 

Finally,  unable  to  hold  back  the  long- 
ing in  her  heart,  she  gave  in  to  his  invita- 
tion to  dinner.  And  each  evening  they  ate 
schnitzel  or  goulash  at  the  quaint  outdoor 
cafes  and  listened  to  the  strolling  side- 
walk balalaika  players.  They  visited  the 
Stadstoper — the  State  Opera  House;  the 
Auersberg  Winter  Gardens,  the  Kunst- 
Historisches  Museum  with  its  many 
Breughel  paintings.  At  the  Hofburg  where 
the  Austrian  crown  jewels  were  on  dis- 
play, Peter  said,  after  pointing  to  a  crown 
of  fiery  rubies,  "That's  how  everlasting 
my  love  is  for  you — like  the  fire  in  those 
jewels." 

How  could  she  help  herself?  She  hadn't 
planned  to  fall  in  love.  She  didn't  want 
to  fall  in  love.  But  Peter's  love  awakened 
her  dormant  heart.  Her  marriage,  she  fi- 
nally confessed  to  Peter,  was  prosaic,  dull. 

At  the  end  of  the  filming,  she  flew 
home  to  Hollywood.  She  refused  to  de- 
ceive Tony.  She  told  him  everything; 
how  she  had  met  someone  for  whom  she 
cared. 

The  word  leaked  out  to  their  friends 
and  to  columnists,  and  Deborah's  romance 
with  Peter  Viertel  made  headlines  in 
Europe  and  America.  She  was  ashamed 
and  crushed,  afraid  that  her  children 
would  suffer.  "More  than  anything  else," 
she  told  Tony,  "I  want  to  protect  them. 
I  want  us  to  think  everything  through  so 
that  they  won't  be  hurt." 

But    Tony    had    stopped    listening  to 
Deborah.  He  had  decided  to  launch  the 
offensive  with  their  separation.  Deborah 
74  was  stunned  when  he  suddenly  took  their 


two  daughters  to  Europe  and  had  them 
made  wards  of  the  British  court.  Naive 
and  embarrassed  over  the  publicity  of 
her  romance,  she  didn't  know  how  to 
tangle  with  the  painful  thorn  of  divorce. 

In  the  British  newspapers,  Tony  ac- 
cused Peter  of  having  stolen  the  affection 
of  his  wife,  and  he  demanded  $300,000. 
Deborah  couldn't  believe  it.  Finally  she 
called  him  on  the  transatlantic  telephone, 
and  he  repeated  his  demands.  The  British 
press  then  took  her  to  task  for  destroying 
her  happy  home.  All  the  British  journal- 
ists defended  Tony  since  he  was  an  ex- 
war  hero. 

PETER'S  WIFE,  Virginia,  filed  for  di- 
vorce, asking  for  $12,000  in  yearly  alimony 
The  divorce  was  granted.  Months  later, 
Virginia  fell  asleep  smoking  in  bed.  Her 
nightgown  caught  fire.  Suffering  from 
horrible  first-degree  burns,  she  died  with- 
in a  matter  of  days. 

Deborah  was  shaken  by  Virginia's 
tragic  death.  But  she  knew  she  couldn't 
stop  loving  Peter,  in  spite  of  all  the  an- 
guish and  embarrassment.  For  weeks  she 
talked  with  marriage  counselors,  lawyers, 
advisers,  all  of  whom  helped  her  decide 
that  she  would  pay  Tony  Bartley  $300,000 
for  the  freedom  to  love  the  man  who  gave 
her  spirit  strength  and  happiness. 

After  Deborah  agreed  to  pay  Tony  the 
gargantuan  divorce  settlement,  the  scan- 

NEXT  MONTH'S 
MODERN  SCREEN 

makes  public 
the  whole  story 
of  the  threat 

to  kidnap 
Liz  Taylor's 
children.  .  .  . 

On  sale  November  3 


dais  came  out  about  Tony,  how  he  wasn't 
the  ideal  husband  she'd  pictured  him  to 
be,  how  he  had  enjoyed  a  "private"  life 
all  his  own  while  he  was  married  to 
Deborah,  squiring  pretty  girls  to  dinner 
and  out-of-the-way  hangouts.  But  it  was 
all  too  late.  Deborah  had  signed  the  di- 
vorce agreement.  She  was  to  pay  Tony 
for  the  right  to  her  freedom.  And  Tony 
took  every  cent.  .  .  . 

Peter  then  began  building  a  stone  bun- 
galow at  Klosters,  Switzerland,  after 
Deborah's  divorce  was  granted  on  the 
15th  of  July,  1959.  The  decree  specified  she 
was  to  wait  a  year  before  marrying.  And 
all  through  that  year,  Deborah  and  Peter 
were  separated  by  Deborah's  work.  They 
flew  to  each  other  as  often  as  they  could. 
Finally,  when  the  British  court  allowed 
Deborah  custody  of  her  daughters  on 
week  ends,  she  and  Melanie  and  Fran- 
cesca  flew  every  Friday  evening  to  Klos- 
ters from  London,  where  Deborah  was 
filming  The  Grass  Is  Greener  with  Cary 
Grant.  Deborah  got  to  know  and  adore 
Peter's  daughter,  Christina,  and  Peter  got 
to  know  and  love  Deborah's  daughters. 

Of  course,  every  time  Deborah  and 
Peter  met  they  talked  of  their  wedding. 
The  date  they  chose  was  a  Saturday, 
July  23,  1960.  The  22nd  of  July  was 
Deborah's  final  day  of  shooting  in  London. 

She  arrived  that  Friday  evening  before 
her  wedding  at  Kloten,  the  Zurich  air- 
port, where  she  was  met  by  Peter.  They 


were  welcomed  later  at  the  Chesa 
Grischuna  cafe  by  warm  friends:  Yul  and 
Doris  Brynner,  Audrey  Hepburn  and 
Mel  Ferrer,  Anatole  Litvak,  Irwin  Shaw, 
Elsa  Schiaparelli.  They  enjoyed  a  candle- 
light supper  with  wine  while  Swiss  vio- 
linists played  lilting  European  lovesongs. 

The  following  morning,  the  day  of  the 
wedding,  turned  out  to  be  gray  and 
drizzly.  Dozens  of  reporters  arrived.  But 
by  10:00  that  morning  Deborah  was  in  a 
panic.  Her  wedding  dress  had  not  arrived. 
The  ceremony  was  due  at  11:30. 

Peter's  young  secretary,  Ann  Hutton. 
raced  to  the  post  office  in  her  sports  car. 
The  dress  was  to  have  arrived  air-mail 
special-delivery  from  the  famed  salon  of 
Givenchy  in  Paris. 

But  the  postmaster  shook  his  head,  "No, 
there  is  no  package  for  Miss  Kerr." 

Ann  drove  back  to  tell  Deborah.  "May- 
be I'd  better  go  with  you,"  Deborah  said. 
"He  must  have  it  there,  somewhere." 

Ann  zoomed  to  the  village  post  office 
where  the  postmaster  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. "No,  Miss  Kerr,"  he  nodded,  "there 
is  no  package  for  you.  You  can  see  for 
yourself." 

DEBORAH  QUICKLY  LOOKED  through 
the  clutter  of  parcels  waiting  to  be  picked 
up  by  village  residents.  There  was  a  blue 
denim  wrapped  trunk  from  the  House  of 
Givenchy.  "This  is  it!"  she  shouted  with 
joy.  "My  wedding  dress." 

"But  the  label  says  it's  for  Mr.  Viertel," 
the  postmaster  pointed  out.  "I  can't  let  you 
have  this  without  his  written  permission." 

Again,  Ann  drove  off.  She  found  Peter 
who  signed  the  postmaster's  release  form. 
Deborah  rushed  then  to  the  Chesa  Gri- 
schuna, changed  hurriedly  into  her  em- 
broidered peppermint-pink  wedding  dress, 
the  peppermint-pink  picture  hat,  her 
matching  embroidered  court  shoes. 

The  rain  continued.  In  the  meanwhile, 
spectators  surrounded  the  main  street 
and  the  Gemeindehaus  (City  Hall).  With- 
in the  hallowed  halls  of  the  Gemeindehaus. 
another  crisis  occurred.  The  official  wed- 
ding documents  were  not  back  from  Chur. 
the  capital  of  Graubunden,  and  Mr.  Hans 
Joos,  the  alderman  who  planned  to  marry 
them,  announced,  "Without  the  papers  I 
will  not  perform  the  ceremony." 

Hundreds  of  spectators  with  umbrellas 
mobbed  the  street  now.  The  festively- 
dressed  guests  arrived  in  dark  limousines 
in  the  gray,  chilly  drizzle.  When  Deborah 
arrived  at  Gemeindehaus  with  her  daugh- 
ters and  Irwin  Shaw  who  was  standing  in 
for  her  as  a  witness,  the  crowd  sighed 
over  her  beauty,  and  the  dark  rainclouds 
lifted.  And,  suddenly  as  if  by  a  miracle, 
the  sun  shone  through  with  a  brilliant 
burst  of  light. 

At  exactly  eleven  twenty-eight,  the 
wedding  documents  arrived  by  special 
messenger. 

Hans  Joos  called  the  gathering  to  order. 
Peter,  in  a  dark  blue  suit,  waited  with  his 
daughter,  Christina.  Deborah  walked  to 
him  and  took  his  hand.  Christina,  bow- 
ing, gave  Deborah  a  wedding  bouquet  of 
pink  carnations.  In  a  moment,  as  the  sun- 
shine gilded  the  medieval  stained  glass 
windows  of  the  Gemeindehaus,  Hans  Joos 
began  the  ageless  ceremony  that  pro- 
nounced Deborah  Kerr  and  Peter  Viertel 
man  and  wife. 

Cameras  clicked.  Rice  laced  the  air. 
Deborah  and  Peter  kissed,  and  as  they 
walked  to  the  front  door  of  the  Gemein- 
dehaus, Peter  kissed  her  again,  whisper- 
ing, "My  darling,  I  will  love  you  forever." 

Her  heart  nearly  bursting  with  ecstasy, 
Deborah  thanked  God  for  the  new  richness 
in  her  life  with  Peter  by  her  side.  END 

You  can  see  Deborah  in  Paramount's  The 
Sundowners. 


Should  I? 


(Continued  from  page  20) 

Debbie,  and  Debbie  will  have  made  her 
decision. 

Eddie  cares  deeply  what  her  decision 
will  be.  He  cares  deeply  about  the  man 
who  will  replace  him  as  the  day-to-day 
father  of  his  children.  Were  Debbie  a  bit- 
ter person,  she  might  say  to  herself  that 
Eddie  chose  to  leave  her  and  her  children, 
and  therefore  has  not  the  right  to  even 
an  opinion  about  who  and  whether  or  not 
she  will  marry.  But  Debbie  is  not  a  bitter 
person;  Eddie  is  still  the  natural  father 
of  her  children,  and  Debbie  is  listening 
carefully  to  his  feelings  on  her  marriage - 
to-be. 

Eddie  is  worried.  He  has  confessed  this 
worry  to  those  who  are  close  to  him.  He 
is  worried  that  Debbie  may  decide  not  to 
marry.  He  more  than  any  other  human 
being  knows  how  deeply  Debbie  was  hurt 
by  her  marriage  with  him;  he  knows  that 
she  has  good  cause  to  be  frightened  of 
marriage,  and  that  when  the  fateful  mo- 
ment of  decision  arrives  next  month,  she 
may  say  no  to  a  husband  for  herself  and 
a  father  for  her  children.  With  all  the 
concern  he  can  express,  Eddie  wants  Deb- 
bie to  understand  that  she  must  not  fear 
marriage — that,  on  the  contrary,  what  she 
must  fear  is  the  profound  emptiness  for 
herself  and  her  children  so  long  as  there 
is  no  father  there  to  make  their  house  a 
real  home. 

SOON,  EDDIE  KNOWS,  the  children 
will  be  in  school — there  will  be  questions 
from  playmates  like,  "Who's  your  daddy?" 
There  will  be  school  parties  and  report 
cards  to  sign,  and  a  hundred  and  one  lit- 
tle times  when  Daddy  should  be  there. 
He,  Eddie,  cannot  be  there,  and  he  hopes 
and  prays  that  someone  else  will  be. 

Perhaps  he  has  no  right  to  interfere 
with  his  opinions  of  Debbie's  suitors;  but, 
right  or  wrong,  he  does  not  want  his  chil- 
dren to  go  through  the  confusion  of  a 
broken  home  another  time.  And  so,  in  his 
heart  of  hearts,  he  wants  to  convince 
Debbie  not  only  to  marry  again  but  to 
marry  the  man  who  will  be  mature 
enough  to  be  a  solid  and  selfless  father. 
He  knows  most  of  Debbie's  suitors  per- 
sonally: Leon  Tyler,  Glenn  Ford,  Walter 
Troutman,  Bob  Neal,  Michael  Dante, 
Jorge  Guinle,  Bob  Peterson,  Carleton 
Carpenter,  Jerry  Wunderlich,  and  Harry 
Karl.  And  as  a  father,  concerned  with  the 
security  and  happiness  of  his  children,  he 
has  confided  to  intimates  that  he  ap- 
proves of  Harry  Karl,  and  hopes  she  will 
marry  him.  Harry  Karl — the  man  who, 
despite  his  wealth,  loves  most  to  take 
Carrie  and  Todd  to  Disneyland  and  buy 
them  popsicles,  or  sit  home  at  night  help- 
ing them  build  little  doll  houses  on  the 
rug,  helping  them  all  feel  again  that  they 
are  a  family.  If  Debbie  marries  Harry  a 
great  and  terrible  burden  will  be  lifted 
from  Eddie's  heart. 

But,  there  is  another  man  whose  feel- 
ings Debbie  is  also  listening  to  now — a 
man  who  has  known  Debbie  even  longer 
than  Eddie,  and  who  in  many  ways  has 
been  even  closer  to  her.  A  man  who 
through  thick  and  thin,  through  his  own 
hopes  and  disappointments  has  always 
been  there  waiting  to  guide  Debbie.  This 
man  is  Leon  Tyler,  and  as  deeply  as  Eddie 
hopes  Debbie  will  marry,  Leon  hopes  she 
will  wait.  As  deeply  as  Eddie  feels  Harry 
Karl  will  be  a  wonderful  husband  and  fa- 
ther, Leon  feels  that  by  marrying  Harry 
Debbie  will  destroy  the  essence  of  the  hu- 
man being  she  really  is.  No  one  knows  the 
real  Debbie  Reynolds  better  than  Leon 
Tyler.  No  one  in  the  world  is  more  en- 


titled to  speak  now  or  forever  hold  his 
peace  if  he  can  show  any  just  cause  why 
Debbie  and  Harry  should  not  be  married. 

For  a  long  time  during  the  period  when 
Debbie  and  Leon  had  attended  Burbank 
High,  they  were  sweethearts.  At  the  time, 
Debbie  was  an  independent  youngster 
who  wouldn't  go  steady  with  any  boy,  but 
went  more  steadily  with  Leon  than  with 
anyone  else. 

He  worshipped  her.  She  was  a  tiny 
bundle  of  energy,  and  he  loved  the  way 
she  clowned  around.  His  mother,  Mrs. 
Maud  Sperl,  and  Debbie's  mother,  Mrs. 
Maxine  Reynolds,  were  neighbors  in  Bur- 
bank  and  close  friends.  They  were  both 
hearty,  capable  women  who  went  to 
church  together,  had  the  same  type  of 
family  background  and  thought  alike. 

Debbie'd  already  been  signed  to  a  movie 
contract,  but  she  was  earning  only  $65  a 
week,  and  no  one  thought  she  was  going 
to  be  a  great  star.  Leon  had  acting  ambi- 
tions, too,  and  because  he  was  a  talented 
dancer,  the  kids  thought  he  would  be  the 
one  to  make  it  in  pictures. 

If  Leon  had  become  a  star,  he  and  Deb- 
bie might  be  married  today.  And  happily 
so.  But  though  Leon  loved  Debbie,  he 
didn't  really  propose.  He  saw  Debbie's 
star  rising  and  rising,  and  he  knew  that 
he  could  never  be  content  to  become  Mr. 
Debbie  Reynolds.  One  evening,  as  they 
were  sitting  in  Debbie's  back  yard  in  Bur- 
bank,  they  made  a  pact:  "If  neither  of  us 
falls  in  love  and  marries  before  29,  we'll 
marry  each  other." 

THE  LOVE  LEON  FELT  for  Debbie  was 
so  great  that  he  could  rejoice  m  her  happi- 
ness and  suffer  with  her  when  she  was 
unhappy.  He  could  share  every  mood, 
every  emotion  of  Debbie's.  It  is  an  endur- 
ing love  from  which  the  heat  had  van- 
ished— but  there  are  marriage  counsellors 
who  say  that  this  is  the  greatest  love  of 
all.  And  with  it  goes  the  deepest  of  under- 
standings, 

Debbie  has  always  turned  to  Leon.  He's 
been  by  her  side  through  everything  that 
happened  through  the  years,  through  the 
good  and  the  bad. 

He  was  with  her  six  years  ago  when  she 
had  a  party  in  Burbank,  and  she  was 
clowning  around  when  a  slight,  dark- 
haired  young  man  walked  in.  When  the 
party  was  over,  Debbie  came  over  to 
Leon,  the  clown  expression  gone  from  her 
face.  Looking  very  thoughtful,  she  said, 
"Did  you  see  that  boy?" 

"You  mean  the  singer — you  mean  Eddie 
Fisher?" 

"Yes.  Well,  I  like  him.  A  lot.  I  think  I'm 
in  love  with  him.  I'm  going  to  marry 
him." 

After  she  married  Eddie,  Leon  often 
went  along  with  the  two  of  them  on  dates. 
When  things  began  to  go  badly  between 
Eddie  and  Debbie,  he  saw  the  strain  Deb- 
bie was  going  through.  And  he  suffered 
untold  agonies  himself,  seeing  the  girl 
he'd  always  loved  going  through  her  own 
private  hell. 

When  the  world  did  its  best  to  get  her 
to  talk  about  how  Liz  had  broken  up  her 
marriage,  she  wouldn't  talk  to  the  world; 
she  wouldn't  talk  to  reporters,  but  she'd 
call  Leon  at  all  hours  of  the  night,  when 
she  was  unable  to  sleep.  To  Leon  she 
poured  out  her  heart.  She  knew  that  he 
was  her  most  sympathetic  friend.  And  if 
this  selfless  friend  wishes  sometimes  that 
he  could  have  been  more  than  a  friend  to 
her,  he  puts  the  thought  behind  him. 

"The  movies  are  a  funny  business,"  he 
said.  "Debbie  got  there  first,  and  I  didn't 
want  to  be  a  Mr.  Reynolds." 

Now  Leon — still  in  love  with  Debbie — 
watches  unhappily  as  she  goes  out  on 
dates  with  Harry  Karl.  Not  because  he's 
jealous.  Long  ago  he  gave  up  any  idea, 
any  hope  of  ever  marrying  Debbie  him- 


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self.  But  he's  seen  her  go  through  hell 
once  in  her  marriage  to  Eddie  Fisher.  And 
he  wonders  if  marrying  Harry  will  prove 
as  serious  a  mistake. 

Leon  confided,  "Harry's  not  really  like 
Debbie — not  like  the  Debbie  I  know,  any- 
way. He  hasn't  her  warmth;  he  doesn't 
understand  her  kind  of  clowning  around. 
I'm  afraid  if  she  marries  him,  he  may  try 
to  change  her  .  .  .  and  if  he  does,  he'll  de- 
stroy the  warm,  wonderful  girl  I  know. 
And  Debbie  doesn't  take  matters  of  the 
heart  lightly.  She  fought  hard  to  keep 
from  becoming  bitter  after  Eddie  left  her. 
If  she  marries  Harry,  she'll  fight  equally 
hard  to  make  a  go  of  that  marriage. 

"I  hope  she  doesn't  rush  into  marriage 
with  Harry.  There  are  so  many  warning 
signs  on  the  horizon." 

Debbie  is  a  completely  different  person 
with  Leon  than  she  is  with  Harry.  Not 
long  ago,  Debbie  was  talking  to  Leon  and 
suggested,  "Let's  dress  up  as  beatniks  and 
have  some  laughs."  He  was  as  enthusiastic 
about  the  idea  as  she  was — it  was  crazy 
enough  to  suit  both  of  them.  They  rented 
the  beatnik  costumes  and  then  paraded 
down  Beverly  Boulevard,  drawing  stares. 
Debbie  grinned  like  a  gamin.  Then  she 
had  another  idea.  "Let's  surprise  Harry. 
I  want  to  see  the  expression  on  his  face." 

They  got  a  lift  to  the  swank  Beverly 
Hills  Hotel  where  Harry  now  lives.  The 
doorman,  not  recognizing  Debbie,  wouldn't 
let  them  in.  They  slipped  in  through  a  side 
entrance.  A  bellboy  tried  to  get  them  to 
leave,  but  Debbie  insisted  upon  calling 
Harry  Karl  on  the  house  telephone. 

DISGUISING  HER  VOICE,  Debbie  said, 
"This  is  Mrs.  Herman  Schultz,  a  friend  of 
Debbie  Reynolds.  Debbie  told  me  to  call 
you.  She  says  you're  the  living  end — real 
cool — and  she  wants  you  to  come  down  and 
meet  another  cat  and  me.  So  why  don't 
you  get  on  your  bicycle  and  roll  down?" 

Harry  came  down.  He  looked  at  Debbie 
and  Leon,  and  a  horrified  light  of  recog- 
nition dawned  in  his  eyes.  "What's  the 
idea  of  doing  this,  honey?"  he  asked  Deb- 
bie. 

"Oh,  Harry,  I  think  this  is  fun.  Real 
funsville.  Why  don't  you  take  Leon  and 
me  into  the  swankiest  cocktail  room  in 
the  hotel.  We'll  knock  their  eyes  out." 

Harry  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  crawl 
underground. 

"He  was  in  a  state,"  Leon  recalled.  "He 
just  didn't  dig  Debbie's  pixie  sense  of  hu- 
mor. Debbie  and  I,  however,  took  each 
other's  hands  and  walked  in.  We  were 
hysterical  with  laughter.  I'm  afraid  Harry 
was  just  plain  hysterical.  We  stayed  in 
that  cocktail  room,  attracting  lots  of  talk 
and  lots  of  stares,  until  Harry,  hot  under 
the  collar,  insisted  that  we  all  leave.  But 
Debbie  and  I  had  a  ball.  Harry  begged 
her  to  change  those  crazy  clothes  and  be- 
have herself.  She  said,  'Okay,  Harry.  I'll 
see  you  later.'  " 

When  Leon  drove  her  home,  she  said 
she  was  going  to  shower,  put  on  an  eve- 
ning dress  and  go  with  Harry  to  Roman- 
off's. She  looked  a  little  wistful  as  she  said 
it.  Or  was  it  just  Leon's  imagination? 

"Why  should  Harry  try  to  talk  her  into 
marrying  him,  if  he  feels  he  can't  accept 
her  as  she  is?  Debbie  is  a  blithe  spirit,  a 
pixie.  Why  does  he  say  he's  in  love  with 
her  if  he  wants  to  make  her  into  a  Bev- 
erly Hills  society  matron?  On  the  other 
hand,  I  adore  Debbie  for  exactly  what  she 
is.  And  I  always  have.  She  relaxes  when 
she's  with  me." 

After  a  steady  diet  of  Harry,  Debbie 
seems  almost  compelled  to  go  out  on  a 
date  with  Leon  "to  relax." 

Why  does  she  feel  this  necessity? 

With  Harry,  Debbie  goes  to  the  finest 
restaurants  and  night  clubs,  dresses  up, 
wearing  her  minks  and  the  fabulous 
76  jewels  Harry  gave  her. 


But  with  Leon,  it's  altogether  different. 

One  night,  only  a  short  while  ago,  she 
and  Leon  made  a  date.  "What  are  you  go- 
ing to  wear,  Leon?"  she  asked  him. 

"A  blue  sweater,  maybe  red  Bermudas." 

She  showed  up  wearing  an  almost  iden- 
tical costume — big,  bulky  blue  sweater 
and  red  Bermudas.  Her  hair  was  tied  back 
in  a  ponytail.  She  looked  like  a  cute  teen- 
ager— the  pre-glamorous,  pre-Harry  Karl 
Debbie. 

"Let's  have  laughs,"  she  said.  She  and 
Leon  doubledated  with  another  couple— 
an  old  Burbank  school  friend,  Ray  Ste- 
vens, and  his  wife,  Carole.  They  went 
bowling.  Debbie  was  a  riot,  clowning  all 
over  the  place.  Her  eyes  danced.  She  took 
off  her  shoes.  She  was  like  a  kid.  Then 
they  went  to  some  little  "dives"  around 
Sunland  and  in  the  Valley. 

"She  was  a  three-ring  circus,"  said  Leon 
wistfully.  "In  the  bowling  alley  she 
hoisted  a  big  ball,  then  pretended  it  was 
too  heavy  for  her,  and  as  she  tossed  it,  she 
fell  down  the  alley  with  the  ball.  Debbie 
was  her  old  self,  clowning,  laughing,  her 
pony-tail  flying.  It  made  me  feel  as  if  she 
was  eighteen  and  I  nineteen  again,  and  I 
thought  back  to  the  days  when  we  had 
solemnly  looked  at  expensive  lots  and 
laughed  at  the  idea  of  either  of  us  ever 
having  enough  money  to  afford  anything 
like  that. 

"When  I  started  to  drive  Debbie  home, 
her  face  was  glowing." 

THEN,  AS  SHE  WAS  LEAVING  for  her 
big.  beautiful  home,  facing  a  formal  date 
with  ITa*-ry  the  next  evening,  Debbie  shiv- 
ered slightly.  She  looked  up  at  Leon  ten- 
derly and  said,  "I  had  such  a  wonderful 
time  tonight.  I'd  almost  forgotten  what  it 
was  to  have  fun  like  this  any  more.  I  loved 
it.  This  is  the  kind  of  fun  I  enjoy.  I've  had 
the  bes*  time  tonight  I've  had  in  two 
years.   Thank  you,  Leon  dear." 

And  fhen  she  walked  into  her  beautiful 
home.  The  next  night  she  was  the  glam- 
orous Debbie  Harry  Karl  knows  and 
loves. 

But  Leon  says,  "Can  Harry  really  un- 
derstand this  girl?  Or  will  he  try  to  re- 
make her — and  break  her?  It  would  be 
tragic  if  he  did.  For  Debbie  has  a  price- 
less gift  of  fun  and  laughter." 

Why  does  Debbie  continue  to  see  Har- 
ry? Why,  perhaps,  will  she  marry  him, 
when  there  is  so  much  in  her  bubbling 
personality  that  is  alien  to  his  nature? 

Leon  thinks  she  wants  a  man  to  respect 
and  look  up  to,  emotionally,  financially 


This  is  a  picture  of  Leon  Tyler  and  Debbie, 
taken  when  they  were  teenagers.  They 
have  remained  true  and  steadfast  friends. 


and  socially.  "I  think  she's  rationalizing. 
Harry  seems  to  fill  the  bill  on  those  things 
Debbie  thinks  she  needs.  She's  had  one 
bad  experience  in  marriage.  She  was  so 
badly  hurt,  now  she  wants  protection  and 
dignity.  She  thinks  Harry  will  give  her 
that  protection.  She  doesn't  need  his 
money — Debbie  will  make  millions 
through  her  own  talent.  But  there  is  an 
aura  of  power  around  Harry.  People  bow 
to  him — the  maitre  d's  to  whom  he  gives 
big  tips,  his  hundreds  of  employees,  the 
people  in  Hollywood  cafe  society  to  whom 
he  is  a  big  spender.  I  think  Debbie's  be- 
glamoured  and  confused. 

"I'd  rather  see  her  wait  for  a  while  un- 
til she's  sure.  I  think  she's  lonely.  Perhaps 
that's  why  she  likes  to  go  with  Harry.  It's 
always  one  party  after  another,  or  travel- 
ing to  Palm  Springs  or  Las  Vegas,  or  to 
night  clubs.  When  she's  with  Harry, 
they're  always  with  other  people  or  doing 
something — moving,  moving,  moving,  so 
that  Debbie  doesn't  even  know  what 
Harry  is  like  deep  inside." 

At  one  time — shortly  after  her  breakup 
with  Eddie — Harry  seemed  to  be  the  an- 
swer to  Debbie's  needs.  At  first  there 
were  lots  of  men  who  wanted  to  date  her. 
She  found  out  that  many  of  them  were 
leeches — out  for  the  publicity  they  could 
get  from  dating  a  big-name  star. 

Once  at  this  time,  she  took  Leon's  hand 
in  hers  and  said  earnestly,  "I  have  many 
acquaintances,  but  I  can  count  my  friends 
on  the  fingers  of  one  hand." 

Debbie  feels  that  Harry  likes  her  for 
herself.  He  doesn't  need  her  money.  She 
feels  he  doesn't  need  her  fame,  and  isn't 
attracted  by  it  (although  many  people  in 
Hollywood  disagree  with  her  about  that) . 

Once,  one  of  her  old  friends  in  Burbank 
warned  her,  "Harry  doesn't  have  any 
sense  of  humor." 

SHE  QUICKLY  DEFENDED  HTM.  "He 
has  a  dry  sense  of  humor.  Maybe  it's  not 
like  ours.  He's  a  different  kind  of  man — but 
he  has  a  worldly  humor.' 

When  any  Burbank  friends  warn  her 
about  Harry's  weak  points,  she  rushes  to 
his  defense. 

"He  does  so  many  things  for  Debbie. 
How  can  she  help  but  be  impressed?"  says 
Leon.  "He  comes  to  the  house,  loaded  with 
gifts  for  her  children.  More  than  anything 
else,  this  strikes  home  with  Debbie." 

Once,  someone  who  loves  Debbie  and 
feels  Harry  is  wrong  for  her  said,  "Debbie, 
if  he's  so  fond  of  children,  what  about  his 
own?  Although  he  pays  a  hefty  sum  for 
the  support  of  his  three  young  children 
(as  decreed  by  the  courts)  he  seldom 
comes  to  see  them!" 

At  this,  Debbie  flared  up  and  defended 
Harry  all  the  more,  insisting  that  he  loves 
his  children,  and  does  his  best  to  see  them 
whenever  possible — and  that  it  isn't  al- 
ways possible. 

On  Sunday  mornings,  Leon  is  often  at 
Debbie's  house,  romping  with  her  chil- 
dren. He  doesn't  come  loaded  down  with 
as  many  expensive  gifts,  but  the  children's 
faces  light  up  when  they  see  him.  They 
adore  him.  Leon  has  a  special  way  with 
children;  he  teaches  youngsters  in  a  Val- 
ley school  and  he  knows  how  to  get  down 
on  the  floor  with  little  Carrie  and  Toddy 
and  play  with  them. 

Many  of  Debbie's  Burbank  friends  hope 
that  she  doesn't  marry  Harry.  "He  doesn't 
really  understand  her  or  us,"  they  say. 
"When  Debbie  lets  loose  and  clowns, 
sometimes  he  acts  startled,  as  if  he  can't 
quite  get  with  it.  At  a  party  she  gave  re- 
cently, she  invited  Harry,  some  of  her 
movie  friends,  her  family  and  the  Bur- 
bank crowd.  She  and  Leon  did  a  rock-and 
roll-dance  together  and  they  were  a  riot. 
She  was  the  bouncing,  clowning  Debbie 
we  used  to  know  before  her  heart  was 
broken  by  Eddie.  Everyone  was  laughing. 


having  a  good  time.  Except  Harry,  who 
kept  to  himself  and  had  very  little  to  say. 
He  seemed  stiff  and  repressed  at  the 
party. 

"He's  not  really  Debbie's  type.  In  her 
own  way,  she  likes  to  have  a  good  time. 
She  has  a  good  time  when  she's  with 
Leon.  But  her  way  is  not  really  Harry's 

way." 

"Leon's  ways  are  Debbie's  ways,"  says 
Leon's  mother.  "My  son  is  a  brilliant,  kind 
boy,  a  graduate  of  Los  Angeles  State  Col- 
lege. He  teaches  school  and  also  helps  out 
in  his  father's  ten-pump  gas  station.  He 
worships  Debbie.  Always  has.  He  and 
Debbie  always  loved  each  other.  He  used 
to  tell  her,  'Some  day  I'll  make  so  much 
money  I'll  be  able  to  buy  you  anything 
you  want.'  Debbie  would  laugh  and  reply, 
'I  don't  want  a  lot  of  money.  I  want  to  be 
happy .' 

"She  was  born  to  be  happy — that  girl. 
But  somehow  she  didn't  quite  make  it 
with  Eddie.  And  with  Harry,  what  is  she 
e;o::ng  to  have — lots  of  money  or  lots  of 
laughs?  She  doesn't  seem  to  laugh  much 
when  she's  with  him." 

DEBBIE  ISN'T  IMPRESSED  only  by  the 
money  Harry  showers  on  her,  the  jewels 
he  gives  her.  Next  to  her  love  for  her 
children  comes  her  love  for  her  family. 
Harry  Karl  is  very  good  to  Debbie's  folks. 
She  feels  this  denotes  strength  and  kind- 
ness in  him. 

When  Debbie's  brother  Bill  married  a 
few  months  ago,  Harry  paid  all  the  ex- 
penses for  his  honeymoon  at  Squaw  Val- 
ley, where  the  winter  Olympics  were 
being  held.  Not  only  did  this  take  money 
— but  it  took  power  and  influence,  too,  for 
everyone  and  his  brother  had  tried  to  get 
reservations  at  Squaw  Valley  at  that  time. 
But  Harry  got  them.  Debbie  was  wide- 
eyed. 

Although  Harry  tries  hard  to  be  nice  to 
Debbie's  folks,  they  don't  really  click. 
Like  oil  and  water,"  exclaims  one  of  the 
Burbank  neighbors.  "They  have  different 
sets  of  values." 

Several  months  ago,  Debbie  was  asked 
to  ride  at  the  head  of  a  parade  in  Bur- 
bank.  She  agreed.  She's  crazy  about  Bur- 
bank,  and  Burbank  is  crazy  about  her. 
The  town  is  only  30  miles  away  from 
Hollywood,  but  it  might  as  well  be  3,000 
miles.  It's  small  town — with  small  houses, 
hard-working,  God-fearing  people  who 
like  to  go  to  church,  who  listen  to  Billy 
Graham,  who  have  fun  visiting  each  other 
and  going  on  community  picnics. 

"Debbie  was  Burbank's  very  own  when 
she  rode  in  the  parade,  her  children  in 
her  lap.  Harry,  wanting  to  be  nice  to  Deb- 
bie's family,  offered  to  take  her  parents 
to  the  parade.  When  Harry  pulled  up  in 
his  big,  black  Rolls  Royce,  driven  by  a 
chauffeur,  Mrs.  Reynolds  nearly  died  of 
embarrassment.  She  didn't  want  to  ride  in 
a  chauffeur-driven  limousine  and  have 
her  neighbors  think  she  was  putting  on 
airs.  But  she  couldn't  hurt  Harry's  feel- 
ings by  telling  him  how  preposterous  it 
seemed  to  her  to  be  driven  around  in  a 
chauffeur- driven  limousine  in  the  heart  of 
Burbank.  The  way  of  life  in  Burbank  is 
simple — and  a  chauffeured  car  is  preten- 
tious. Debbie's  mother  never  has  been 
pretentious.  She  was  so  embarrassed  she 
slipped  way  down  in  the  car  when  they 
got  to  where  the  crowd  was,  hoping  her 
neighbors  wouldn't  see  her. 

"Perhaps  someone  should  have  ex- 
plained to  Harry  that  flashing  wealth 
around  isn't  the  way  to  make  a  hit  in 
Burbank.  But  if  he  hasn't  found  all  this 
out  for  himself,  who  is  going  to  tell  him?" 

ALTHOUGH  LEON  USED  TO  accom- 
pany Debbie  when  she  was  with  Eddie,  he 
doesn't  do  it  with  Debbie  and  Harry.  Harry 
is  not  too  pleased  with  Debbie's  continuing 


friendship  with  Leon.  Harry  would  like  to 
be  the  only  man  in  Debbie's  life.  Some- 
times, when  Harry  was  anxious  to  see  her, 
Debbie  would  toss  her  head  and  say,  "I'm 
going  out  with  Leon."  Once  when  she  had 
been  out  with  Leon,  she  found,  on  arriv- 
ing home,  that  Harry  had  been  calling  her 
every  half  hour. 

Yet  Debbie  seems  to  feel  the  need, 
every  now  and  then,  of  getting  away  from 
Harry — of  being  with  Leon,  of  mingling 
with  her  Burbank  friends,  of  being  the 
clownish  and  happy  "Miss  Burbank."  She 
hostessed  a  party  at  the  Moulin  Rouge  for 
her  friend,  Camille  Williams.  That  eve- 
ning Debbie  didn't  try  to  mix  oil  and  wa- 
ter— the  Harry  Karl  crowd  and  the 
Burbank  crowd.  Leon  was  there,  and  sev- 
eral of  her  Burbank  friends.  Harry  Karl 
was  not.  Leon,  who  used  to  be  a  profes- 
sional dancer,  and  Debbie  danced  a  lot. 
Debbie  murmured  to  him,  "This  is  like 
the  times  we  used  to  dance  up  a  storm  at 
the  Palladium  .  .  .  remember.  .  .  ." 

No  wonder  Harry  is  frequently  uneasy 
about  her  friendship  with  Leon.  "It's  just 
friendship,"  Debbie  assures  him.  And  it  is. 
But  it  is  a  deep,  deep  friendship — and 
Harry  dreads  the  gulf  it  places  between 
him  and  Debbie.  He  knows  that  the  girl 
Leon  knows  is  very  different  from  his 
girl — and  yet  both  inhabit  the  same  body. 

Perhaps  Leon  sums  up  this  strange  tri- 
angle better  than  anyone  can.  "There's  a 
very  special  thing  between  Debbie  and 
me.  Not  long  ago,  I  was  bedridden,  as  the 
result  of  an  old  injury  flaring  up  again — 
it  was  originally  caused  by  an  auto  acci- 
dent. When  I  became  ill,  Debbie  was  in 
Palm  Springs.  She  wanted  to  fly  in  to 
visit  me  at  St.  Joseph's  Hospital.  I  told  her 
not  to  come,  but  she  came  anyway.  It  was 
wonderful  to  see  her. 

"Some  time  previously  she  had  invited 
me  to  a  party  she  was  planning  to  have 
in  her  home  in  Holmby  Hills.  When  I 
spoke  to  Debbie  on  the  phone  before  she 
flew  in,  I  told  her  that  I  didn't  think  I'd 
be  able  to  make  the  party. 

'When  Debbie  came  to  see  me,  she 
cheered  me  up,  as  only  Debbie  can.  I 
don't  know  whether  it  was  Debbie's  visit 
that  did  it  or  the  miracles  of  modern  won- 
der drugs,  but  by  the  time  the  date  ar- 
rived for  the  party,  I  was  well  enough  to  go. 

"It  was  a  big,  beautiful  party.  I  en- 
joyed it,  but  still  weak  from  my  recent 
illness,  I  tired  easily,  and  started  to  leave 
early. 

"When  she  saw  me  leaving,  Debbie  left 
the  group  of  people  she  was  with  and 
said,  'Oh,  Leon,  don't  leave  yet.  We've 
hardly  had  a  chance  to  visit.'  Ignoring  the 
other  guests,  she  sat  down  on  the  couch. 
She  said,  in  the  sweet,  sincere  way  she 
has,  'Leon,  if  you  need  any  money  for 
doctor  bills  or  hospital  bills,  as  an  old 
friend,  I  want  to  help.  I  mean  it.  I  don't 
want  anything  to  happen  to  you.' 

"And  I  don't  want  anything  to  happen 
to  Debbie,  either.  I  mean  I  don't  ever 
want  anyone  or  anything  to  hurt  her. 

"I'm  not  in  the  same  category  with  Deb- 
bie any  more.  A  lot  of  our  dreams  had  to 
go  out  the  window  when  she  became  a 
big  star.  But  there  is  still  something  very 
wonderful  that  exists  between  us.  And  in 
my  heart  I  can  only  ask  Debbie,  in  the 
name  of  that  wonderful  bond  that  there 
has  always  been  between  us,  not  to  marry 
without  thinking  it  over  very  carefully. 
Debbie,  don't  marry  anyone  who  doesn't 
love  the  sprite  that  you  are.  For  you  have 
always  been  a  blithe  spirit — and  if  Harry 
or  anyone  else  tries  to  change  you,  a  lot 
of  laughter  and  gaiety  will  go  out  of  the 
world. 

"Think  it  over,  Debbie.".  .  .  END 

Watch  for  Debbie  in  The  Rat  Race  and 
The  Pleasure  of  His  Company,  both  for 
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I  Did  Not  Beat  My  Dog 


gery  with  the  doctor  -while  the  injured 
paw  was  being  taken  care  of. 


(Continued  from  page  27) 

"When  the  situation  happened,  I  was  ad- 
vised to  keep  quiet  and  'let  it  pass'  because 
how  can  anyone  fight  charges  like  these. 
It's  like  answering  the  question,  'When 
did  you  stop  beating  your  wife?' 

"And  frankly  I  did  not  know  how  to  de- 
fend myself  against  something  of  which  I 
was  entirely  innocent. 

"There's  a  ruling  in  the  U.S.  Constitu- 
tion that  a  person  is  innocent  until  he  is 
proven  guilty. 

"But  in  the  minds  of  many  animal  lovers 
throughout  the  country — who  read  the 
initial  accounts  of  this  story  in  the  papers 
— I'm  guilty — period. 

"After  the  police  came  to  my  house,  the 
newspaper  printed  a  'so-called  statement' 
from  me  in  which  I  was  quoted  as  admit- 
ting that  I  was  cruel  to  my  dog  and  offered 
'to  give  him  away  if  that  will  help  mat- 
ters.' 

"But  I  have  never  made  such  a  state- 
ment. I'd  sooner  cut  off  my  right  arm  and 
give  that  away  than  to  part  with  Fritz. 

"At  first  I  was  only  heartsick  and  bewil- 
dered by  what  happened.  I'm  still  heart- 
sick but  now  that  the  shock  has  worn  off 
a  little,  I'm  also  fighting  mad. 

"And  I'm  not  fighting  for  my  'good 
name,'  nor  for  my  career. 

"I'm  fighting  for  the  public  faith — which 
I  know  has  been  badly  shaken.  Unjustifi- 
ably shaken. 

"I  KNOW  THIS  because  of  the  many 
letters  I  have  received. 

"Cruel  letters,  many  unsigned,  which 
give  me  no  chance  to  answer. 

"I've  received  letters  which  weren't  ad- 
dressed at  all.  Just  the  headlines  of  the 
story,  pasted  on  the  back  of  a  three-cent 
post-card. 

"I  don't  hate  these  people  for  writing 
such  letters. 

"I  think  perhaps  I  would  be  equally  irate 
if  I  had  read  a  story  of  a  similar  nature 
about  someone  else.  Anyone  who  loves 
animals  would. 

"But  I  do  think  I  would  have  waited  for 
more  evidence — more  proof  that  the 
charges  were  irrevocably  true — before  I 
would  have  condemned  the  individual 
involved. 

"And  that's  the  only  consideration  I  ask 
for. 

"That  the  truth  be  heard.  And  the  rea- 
sons for  the  accusations  understood." 

Tab  was  at  the  breaking  point  as  he 
said  this.  The  last  few  weeks  had  been 
torment  for  him. 

"I  love  Fritz.  I  love  all  animals.  I've  taken 
my  share  of  kidding  for  being  so  gone  on 
animals. 

"In  fact  I  even  bought  my  house  in  an 
unfashionable — 'for  a  movie  star' — district 
of  Glendale  because  it  had  plenty  of 
grounds  in  which  a  dog  could  roam — with- 
out being  in  any  traffic  hazard,  and  be- 
cause the  stables  were  located  nearby. 

"I  couldn't  care  less  that  I  was  miles 
away  from  the  studios — or  from  the  fash- 
ionable Bel  Air  party  circuit. 

"I  bought  the  house  soon  after  I  got  Fritz. 
Dogs  were  not  permitted  in  the  building  I 
was  living  in  at  the  time.  And  I  wanted  a 
dog. 

"I've  loved  pups  since  I  was  a  baby  but 
we  never  could  afford  to  have  one  of  our 
own.  'Three  mouths  are  enough  to  feed,' 
Mother  would  say.  'We  simply  can't  bring 
in  a  fourth.' 

"I  begged  for  a  little  pup.  Very  little, 
'who  wouldn't  eat  much,'  but  the  answer 
was  always  the  same.  We  couldn't  afford  it. 
78     "Then  I  found  an  undernourished  little 


dachshund  wandering  in  the  streets  and 
pleaded  with  mother  to  let  me  take  care 
of  him  until  its  owner  was  found.  I  was 
afraid  he'd  die  of  the  cold  and  starvation 
just  on  his  own.  He  had  no  tag,  no  identifi- 
cation and  for  weeks  we  made  every  effort 
to  find  his  owner.  But  he  was  never 
claimed  and  finally,  mother  told  me  we'd 
have  to  send  him  to  the  pound. 

"I  remember  crying  bitterly  and  promis- 
ing that  I  would  share  my  meals  with  him 
and  do  anything  to  support  him  and  take 
care  of  him. 

"I  think  I  threatened  to  run  away  from 
home — if  he  went  to  the  pound.  Mother 
eventually  gave  in — and  in  doing  so  told 
me  something  I  have  never  forgotten: 

"  'Take  good  care  of  him,  Art,  and  give 
him  love.  We  have  God  to  look  to — but 
animals  have  only  us  to  look  to.'  " 

TAB  ALWAYS  REMEMBERED  this  ad- 
vice. And  the  relationship  between  him 
and  his  dog  Fritz  has  been  like  something 
out  of  a  book.  We  have  spoken  to  his 
friends,  his  neighbors,  his  veterinarian,  his 
trainer  and  others  who  have  seen  the  two 
together,  to  learn  of  this  relationship. 

Two  years  ago  come  December,  a  friend 
of  his,  connected  with  the  Artesia  Stock 
farms,  phoned  him  and  asked  if  he  was  still 
interested  in  owning  a  dog. 

"You're  so  right  I  am,"  Tab  replied. 
"What's  on  your  mind?" 

"A  beautiful  pup,"  Millie  replied.  "A 
Weimaraner.  Pedigreed.  The  whole  thing. 
He  belongs  to  two  friends  of  mine  who  are 
getting  a  divorce.  Both  are  moving  into 
apartments — and  both  are  too  emotionally 
upset  to  keep  a  high-strung  breed  of  dog. 
They  asked  me  to  see  if  I  could  find  him  a 
home.  I  thought  of  you  first  off." 

"When  can  I  see  him?" 

"When  do  you  want  to?" 

"Tonight." 

Tab  took  one  look  at  the  pup — and  knew 
this  was  the  dog  he  had  wanted. 

"I'll  call  him  Fritz,  after  my  first  pup," 
he  told  Millie. 

"You  have  no  choice  in  the  matter,"  she 
replied.  "His  name  is  on  the  papers." 

"I  don't  care  what's  on  the  papers."  Tab 
said  stubbornly.  "His  name  is  going  to  be 
Fritz." 

"Why  don't  you  look  at  the  papers?" 

He  did — and  learned  his  pup  was  Fritz. 
El  Greco  Fritz. 

He  took  him  home  that  night. 

And  the  next  day  started  looking  for  an 
apartment  or  house  where  dogs  were  per- 
mitted. 

Since  he  was  bucking  a  "no  pets  allowed" 
problem  where  he  was  living,  he  decided  to 
move  into  his  agent  Dick  Clayton's  house 
over  the  Christmas  holidays.  This  would 
enable  Fritz  to  have  plenty  of  room  in 
which  to  romp  and  also  help  out  Dick  who 
was  looking  for  a  guardian  for  his  German 
Shepherd,  Sam,  while  he  was  out  of  town 
for  the  holidays. 

On  Christmas  Eve,  while  Tab  was  dress- 
ing for  a  party,  the  two  dogs  were  playing 
in  the  garden.  Sam  jumped  over  a  hedge 
and  Fritz  went  after  him,  but  being  just  a 
puppy,  stumbled. 

Whimpering,  he  limped  into  the  house 
and  held  his  forepaw  up  to  his  master. 

Tab  picked  up  the  puppy  and  carried  it 
gently  to  his  car. 

His  party  was  forgotten. 

His  date  was  forgotten. 

For  two  hours  he  drove  through  Holly- 
wood and  the  San  Fernando  Valley  search- 
ing for  a  vet  who  was  home. 

Finally  he  found  one — and  stayed  in  sur- 


AND  AT  MIDNIGHT— when  the  chimes 
in  the  Valley  heralded  Christmas,  Tab 
lifted  the  cup  of  coffee  he  was  drinking 
to  keep  awake,  and  toasted  his  small  com- 
panion: 

"Merry  Christmas,  Fritz." 

After  that — dog  and  man  were  almost 
inseparable. 

Wherever  Tab  went,  Fritz  came  along, 
if  humanly  possible. 

On  Sunday  mornings,  he'd  say  to  his  pup: 
"The  stables,  Fritz.  We're  going  to  the 
horses  today."  And  the  pup  would  grab 
Tab's  lunge  line  and  jump  into  the  front 
of  the  pick-up  truck  to  await  his  master. 
Once  at  the  stables,  Fritz  would  romp 
about  the  horses.  When  they  got  bathed, 
he  would  yowl  until  he  too  was  given  his 
bath. 

There  were  certain  places,  however,  to 
which  Fritz  could  not  come  along. 

Last  winter,  Tab  went  to  the  Orient  on 
a  buying  trip  for  his  new  shop,  The  Far 
East,  and  left  Fritz  in  the  excellent  care  of 
the  Happy  Glen  Dog  Training  School  in 
Agoura. 

On  his  way  home  he  stopped  off  in 
Hawaii  for  a  week's  vacation. 

The  first  night  there,  he  called  Dick  to 
see  if  there  were  any  urgent  matters  in 
Hollywood  requiring  his  immediate  atten- 
tion and  if  everything  was  going  smoothly 
in  his  absence. 

"No  trouble,  businesswise,"  Dick  told 
him,  "but  I'm  terribly  worried  about  Fritz." 

Tab  panicked. 

"What's  wrong  with  Fritz?  Is  he  ill?" 

"Not  really  ill— yet,"  Dick  replied.  "More 
like  heart-sick.  He's  been  moping  around, 
will  hardly  touch  his  food  and  refuses  to 
take  water.  He's  completely  dehydrated. 
We  think  he  feels  you  have  gone  off  and 
deserted  him  forever." 

"I'll  take  the  first  available  plane  back. 
I'll  wire  you  when  I'm  arriving.  Can  you 
meet  me  at  the  airport?" 

"Will  do." 

When  he  got  off  the  plane,  Tab  didn't 
bother  to  go  to  his  house,  but  drove  instead 
directly  to  the  kennels. 

When  he  saw  Fritz  he  hardly  recognized 
him.  His  eyes  were  glazed  and  his  coat 
dull. 

Mr.  Frederick  von  Huly  who  owns  the 
school  has  one  of  the  best  reputations  in 
the  country,  but  he  told  Tab,  "There  was 
just  nothing  I  could  do.  In  all  my  years  of 
handling  animals  I  rarely  have  seen  a  pup 
so  homesick." 

Tab  took  Fritz  home  immediately,  stop- 
ping only  briefly  at  a  local  super-market 
to  pick  up  some  of  his  favorite  foods. 

Once  at  home  he  set  out  two  large  bowls 
for  Fritz — one  of  food  and  one  of  water. 

Fritz  nibbled  at  the  meat — but  despite 
Tab's  coaxing  still  wouldn't  take  water. 

So  Tab  dipped  his  hand  in  the  bowl,  and 
placed  his  wet  fingers  on  Fritz's  tongue. 
He  kept  repeating  this  until  the  bowl  was 
half  empty,  and  kept  this  up  for  the  next 
few  days  until  Fritz,  secure  in  having  his 
master  back  with  him,  ventured  to  the 
water  bowl  alone. 

Shortly  after  his  return  to  the  Orient, 
Tab  hired  a  wonderful  Mexican  house- 
keeper named  Ninfa,  to  look  after  his  home 
and  particularly  Fritz,  whenever  he  had 
to  be  away  for  short  periods  of  time. 

"There  never  has  been  an  hour,"  says 
Tab,  "when  Ninfa  hasn't  kept  Fritz's  water 
bowl  full,  nor  taken  the  best  care  of  him 
too.  And  Fritz  has  always  had  complete 
freedom  of  action  within  the  fence  that 
runs  around  my  property." 

Considering  his  deep  affection  for  this 
animal,  how  did  the  manager  of  the  apart- 
ment building  across  the  way  dare  to  lodge 
a  cruelty  complaint  against  him,  and  con- 


vince  tenants  of  the  building  to  sign  the 
petition  that  resulted  in  the  city  attorney  of 
Glendale  taking  legal  action? 

TAB  WILL  NOT  TALK  about  those 
people — for  many  reasons.  But  we  talked 
to  a  former  resident  of  the  building  who 
-  is  extremely  bitter  over  what  he  calls  "the 
awful  persecution  of  this  guy." 

"Let's  face  it,"  the  man  said.  "These  peo- 
ple have  been  making  it  rough  for  Tab 
practically  from  the  day  he  moved  in.  I 
i  guess  he  was  the  first  movie  star  they  had 
ever  lived  close  to,  and  they  figured  it 
I  would  be  chumsville.   You  know,  having 
j  him  in  for  drinks — or  going  over  to  his 
place.  And  when  he  wouldn't  play  their 
j  way,  they  decided  to  'let  him  have  it.' 

"Whenever  there  were  parties  in  our 
j  building  and  things  got  a  little  dull,  the  big 
I  game  for  the  evening  was  'target  practice,' 
[  and  Tab's  yard  was  the  target:  for  beer 
cans   and   barbecue   coals — and  anything 
I  else  that  was  'throwable.'  I  ran  into  Tab 
i  the  morning  he  was  cleaning  his  yard  out 
!  after  one  such  party,  and  he  was  visibly 
upset.  'Why  are  they  doing  this? '  he  asked. 
I  haven't  done  anything  to  them.' 

"  'Ignore  it,'  I  told  him.   'If  they  see  it 
doesn't  get  your  goat,  they'll  stop.' 
"But  they  didn't  stop.  After  a  big  party 
I  Tab's  yard  was  often  the  local  receptacle 
for  beer  cans  and  whiskey  bottles,  and 
when  they  couldn't  get  to  him  that  way 
they  started  working  on  Fritz  by  taunting 
him  with  a  stick  through  the  fencing. 
'     "One  morning  as  I  was  driving  to  work, 
I  saw  Tab  catch  them  at  this,  and  heard 
him  threaten  to  call  the  police  if  he  ever 
caught  anyone  teasing  his  dog  again. 
"I  moved  out  of  the  building  shortly  be- 


fore all  the  trouble  started,  so  I  can't  say 
what  really  started  the  fireworks.  But  in 
my  opinion,  it  was  just  another  spiteful 
gesture.  Because  in  all  the  time  I  lived 
there  I  never  saw  Fritz  treated  with  any- 
thing but  love  and  affection." 

Tab's  closest  neighbors,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Emile  Avery,  confirm  this:  "My  wife  and 
I  have  known  Tab  ever  since  he  moved 
next  door,"  Mr.  Avery  said,  "and  we  both 
feel  very  badly  about  his  dog  situation. 
Tab  is  a  good  neighbor  and  he  treats  his 
dog  with  great  care.  In  fact  I  rarely  have 
seen  anyone  who  has  more  affection  with 
animals." 

Mr.  Avery  knows  this  from  experience. 
A  few  weeks  ago  his  own  German  Shep- 
herd Fraulein  wandered  away  from  the 
house.  Tab  was  entertaining  at  the  time 
but  when  Mr.  Avery  told  him  the  dog  was 
missing  he  left  his  guests,  got  into  his  car, 
and  searched  the  neighborhood  for  more 
than  an  hour  until  he  found  the  adventur- 
ous pup. 

Before  a  charge  can  be  made,  however, 
there  must  be  some  catalyst,  no  matter 
how  minute,  to  set  it  off. 

And  we  asked  Tab  to  tell  us  exactly  what 
happened  on  that  Thursday  afternoon  last 
summer. 

"I  had  been  home  all  day,"  Tab  ex- 
plained, "working  on  a  script  for  my  new 
TV  series,  and  when  I  went  out  for  a  swim 
I  spotted  Fritz  digging  up  the  garden. 

"He  had  done  this  before  many  times 
and  I  would  shout  at  him,  'No  dig,  Fritz, 
no  dig,  and  he  would  lower  his  eyes  and 
slink  away.  Whenever  I  had  to  discipline 
Fritz,  I'd  simply  walk  away  from  him  and 
ignore  him  for  hours.  In  that  way  he  knew 
he  had  done  something  naughty.  In  most 


cases  this  form  of  punishment  worked— but 
it  was  very  difficult  to  train  him  not  to  dig 
up  the  garden.  I  consulted  a  top  dog 
trainer  who  advised  me  to  take  Fritz's 
paws,  put  them  in  the  ground  he  had  up- 
rooted, and  spank  them,  while  saying  in  a 
loud  stern  voice,  'No  dig,  no  dig.' 

"And  that's  exactly  what  I  did  that 
Thursday  afternoon.  This  is  a  common 
procedure  in  dog  training  and  I  was  in  no 
way  being  cruel  to — or  mistreating  Fritz. 

"However,  Fritz  does  not  like  being 
spanked,  shouted  at  or  ignored.  He's  like  a 
child  who  has  done  some  mischief  and 
doesn't  want  to  be  punished.  So  when  I 
put  his  paws  into  the  hole  and  spanked 
them,  he  began  to  howl.  And  when  I 
ignored  him  afterward,  he  kept  howling. 

"Honestly,  that's  all  there  was  to  it. 

"I  didn't  give  the  incident  another 
thought  until  the  police  came  by  later  that 
evening  and  told  me  a  complaint  had  been 
lodged. 

"As  I  said  before,  I  didn't  speak  to  any 
member  of  the  press — and  I  have  no  idea 
who  gave  out  that  statement  attributed  to 
me  in  which  I  was  quoted  as  admitting  the 
charges,  but  as  I  did  say  in  my  only  previ- 
ous statement  about  this  matter — and  I 
repeat  it  again:  'No  accusation  which  could 
be  made  against  me  could  wound  me  per- 
sonally as  deeply  as  this  which  involves 
cruelty  to  an  animal  I  love.  I'm  confident 
that  a  thorough  investigation  of  the  facts 
will  result  in  my  complete  vindication.' 

"But  whatever  happens — Fritz  stays  with 
me.  And  nothing  or  no  one  will  change 
that."  END 

Watch  for  Tab  in  The  Pleasure  of  His 
Company. 


Hear  This  Sinner 


(Continued  from  page  43) 

was  a  construction  worker.  My  mom, 
Grace,  was — and  still  is — a  housewife. 
Everyone  says  Mom  and  I  look  a  little 
alike  with  our  dark  brown  eyes  and 
auburn  hair.  I'm  four-feet,  eleven-inches 
tall,  and  my  mom's  about  an  inch  taller.  I 
grew  up  in  Atlanta,  Georgia,  where  Pop 
worked — and  where  he  died,  God  rest  his 
soul. 

I  used  to  fight  with  him  something  terri- 
ble, the  raging  kind  of  fights  that  would  go 
on  for  hours  and  hours  and  never  seem  to 
stop.  My  temper  would  hit  high  C,  and  I 
often  thought  I  was  losing  my  mind. 

Pop  loved  watching  boxing  and  wres- 
tling on  television.  I  despised  it.  I  couldn't 
stand  to  see  grown-up  men  mauling  and 
mangling  each  other.  Shivers  would  creep 
up  and  down  my  spine.  I  liked  the  radio. 
I'd  listen  to  it  and  imitate  the  different 
singers  who  were  singing  hit  songs.  But 
Pop  wouldn't  allow  me  to  play  it — ever! 
;   —while  he  was  watching  television. 

;  '   NIGHT  AFTER  NIGHT,  it  was  the  same 
:   jld  story.  Pop'd  come  home  from  work  and 
we'd  all  sit  down  to  supper  (I  have  two 
sisters,  Linda  who's  older  and  Robyn  who's 
'  younger — although  she  wasn't  born  then, 
:  and  a  brother,  Randall,  who's  ten).  Pop 
would  go  into  the  front  room  and  turn  the 
IV  on,  and  he  demanded  complete  quiet 
'■  while  he  looked  at  all  the  fights.  I'd  turn 
an  the  radio  very  low  in  the  kitchen  while 
«ve  washed  and  dried  the  dishes,  but  Pop 
iad  radar  ears.  He'd  hear  the  radio  and 

•  i  :ome  in  and  snap  at  me,  "I  don't  want  any 

jf  this  noise,  hear?  When  I  watch  a  fight, 
-:  }  [  give  it  all  my  attention  and  I  won't  have 

•  i  hese  fool  songs  distracting  me." 

Mom'd  interrupt  and  say,  "Have  a  heart, 

•  r'.ube.  Just  a  little  music  isn't  going  to  dis- 


turb you.  Little  Brenda's  so  music-minded 
I  like  for  her  to  listen  to  some  songs  before 
she  goes  to  bed." 

But  he'd  flick  the  dial  on  the  radio  and 
say,  "Nuthin'  doing,  I'm  boss  at  this  house, 
after  four  o'clock  and  what  I  say — goes!" 

At  first,  I  was  afraid  to  speak  up.  Pop's 
voice  was  so  booming,  and  when  he  got 
mad  you  could  see  the  blood  vessels  swell 
in  his  neck.  But  my  mom  was  right.  I  was 
a  bug  about  music.  When  I  was  four  I  sang 
in  a  talent  show  at  my  sister  Linda's  school 
in  Conyers,  Georgia.  I  sang  Slowpoke  and 
won  the  first  prize  trophy.  People  asked 
me  afterward  if  I  was  scared  to  go  out  on 
the  stage  and  sing,  and  I  said,  "No,  was  I 
supposed  to  be?" 

Singing  never  scared  me.  I  loved  it  too 
much.  But  I  never  expected  anyone  to  give 
me  a  prize  for  doing  something  I  enjoyed 
with  all  my  heart.  And  the  only  way  I 
knew  to  pick  up  times  and  to  learn  lyrics 
was  to  listen  to  the  radio  after  school.  But 
Pop  wouldn't  allow  me  so  I  started  to  give 
him  a  little  lip,  I'm  ashamed  to  admit. 

"How  can  I  enter  another  contest  if  I 
can't  listen  to  some  music?" 

"Don't  give  me  any  sass,  Brenda,"  he'd 
say. 

"That's  no  sass,"  I'd  answer.  "That  s  an 
honest  question." 
"It's  sass!" 
"It  isn't." 

And  the  fight  was  on.  He'd  holler  and 
turn  blood  red  in  his  face  and  tell  me  I 
was  aggravating  him  deliberately,  and  that 
there  was  a  devil  in  my  soul  prodding  me 
with  a  pitchfork.  I  hollered  back  and  then 
my  mom  would  get  me  a  crack  and  tell  me 
to  stop  yapping  like  a  fool.  I'd  moan  some 
more,  and  my  mom  would  slap  me  again, 
and  I'd  either  burst  into  tears  and  run  out 
of  the  house  or  stick  out  my  tongue  and  go 
lock  myself  in  my  room. 

IN  MY  ROOM  I'd  tremble  all  over,  and  I 
would  wonder  if  it  was  wrong  to  like 
music  and  if  singing  was  a  bad  business. 


Maybe  I  ought  to  try  to  forget  music  and 
become  interested  in  something  else.  For  a 
stretch  I  tried  tomboyin'  (chasing  mean 
dogs  and  flying  kites).  Then  I  tried  my 
hand  at  making  fudge  which  always  turned 
out  to  be  pure  slop.  Then  I  decided  to  be 
a  ghost,  and  I'd  go  whooing  through  empty 
houses,  but  that  turned  out  to  be  the  big- 
gest bore  of  all.  I  never  met  a  single, 
honest-to-gosh  ghost,  and  I  could  never 
get  any  of  my  pals  to  go  with  me  because 
they'd  shake  all  over  as  soon  as  I  men- 
tioned that  I  was  of  the  frame  of  mind  to 
go  ghostin'. 

So  I  went  back  to  my  first  love,  singing, 
and  I  would  turn  on  the  radio  sneakily, 
and  my  pop  would  hear  it  and  he'd  run 
into  the  kitchen  and  rage  until  his  blood 
vessels  stood  out  like  peppermint  sticks  on 
his  neck.  If  I  sassed  him,  my  mom  would 
whip  me,  and  if  I  didn't  I'd  go  to  bed  mad 
as  a  hawk. 

"You  don't  care  about  anybody  else,"  I 
snapped  once. 

"Well,  nobody  cares  about  me,"  he 
snapped  back. 

"We  do  care,"  I  said.  "You're  our  father." 

"As  if  that  makes  any  difference!" 

I  felt  funny  after  that,  and  for  a  while 
I  didn't  listen  to  the  radio.  I  was  song- 
starved  for  weeks,  except  when  I'd  visit 
neighbors  and  listen  for  a  little  bit. 

One  day  my  Aunt  Rene,  who  was  as  nuts 
about  music  as  I  was,  wrote  in  to  a  local 
TV  station,  and  she  asked  if  I  could  appear 
on  the  program,  TV  Wranglers.  I  dressed 
up  in  a  purple  ranch  shirt,  a  buckskin  skirt 
with  fringe,  cowboy  boots  and  a  hat,  and 
I  sang  cowboy  style.  I  was  nine,  and  I  had 
a  ball.  Well,  the  TV  station  called  and  I 
sang  every  Saturday  on  TV  Wranglers  for 
three  years. 

At  that  time  father  died.  He  passed 
away  on  the  job  from  a  concussion  of  the 
brain.  And  the  next  thing  I  knew  we  were 
all  standing  up  front  in  our  First  Baptist 
church  while  the  preacher  prayed  for 
daddy's  soul,  and  suddenly  we  were  walk- 


ing  to  the  graveyard  behind  the  church 
while  the  choir  sang  Abide  With  Me  so 
sweetly  my  heart  almost  broke.  They  low- 
ered my  daddy's  wooden  coffin  into  the 
ground,  and  I  started  to  bawl  like  a  baby. 

"He'll  never,  never  forgive  me,"  I 
screamed.  "He'll  never  forgive  all  the  sass 
and  trouble  I  gave  him!" 

And  my  Aunt  Rene  said,  "Pray,  child, 
pray.  Pray  for  his  soul  to  go  to  heaven." 

I  prayed,  but  I  could  never  forget  all  the 
hard  times  I  gave  my  pop.  All  the  nights 
we  yelled  and  hollered  because  I  wanted 
the  radio  playing  while  he  watched  his 
favorite  wrestling  and  boxing  matches  on 
TV.  Sometimes,  I  got  up  in  the  middle  of 
the  night,  all  nervous  and  sweaty,  because 
my  father's  face  appeared  in  the  darkness, 
and  I'd  say,  "Pop,  I'm  sorry.  I'm  sorry  for 
any  trouble  I  caused  you."  But  he  wouldn't 
say  a  thing,  and  my  heart  would  thunder 
and  I'd  cry. 

I  PRAYED  every  Sunday  at  our  First 
Baptist  church,  and  every  time  I'd  hear 
our  choir  sing  a  sad  hymn  I'd  think  of 
Daddy  and  all  the  terrible  trouble  I 
caused  him.  One  winter  night,  after  we 
had  moved  to  Nashville,  my  mom  and  sis- 
ters and  my  brother  and  I  went  to  church. 
It  was  so  cold  that  the  moon  looked  like 
a  hunk  of  ice,  and  when  we  stepped  inside 
the  church,  I'll  never  forget  what  hap- 
pened. A  child  was  singing,  Jesus  Is  the 
One.  She  sang  it  so  sweetly  that  tears  came 
to  my  eyes.  And  up  at  the  altar  the 
preacher  was  asking  the  congregation  if 
we  had  ever  asked  ourselves,  searched  into 
our  souls  to  find  out,  if  we  were  really 
and  truly  Children  of  God. 

"A  Child  of  God,"  the  preacher  said,  "is 
baptized  clean  and  pure  in  the  name  of  the 
Father  and  the  Son." 

The  little  choir  child  sang  another  hymn, 
and  the  preacher  told  us  how  this  five- 
year-old  already  had  had  the  urge  to  be 


baptized,  to  be  cleansed  and  born  anew. 

"Does  anyone  here  wish  his  soul  saved, 
his  soul  cleansed,  his  soul  baptized  in  the 
name  of  Jesus  Christ  Our  Lord?" 

I'd  heard  our  Baptist  preacher  in  Georgia 
give  the  "altar  call"  before,  but  I  was  never 
moved.  I  always  looked  to  see  who  felt 
sinful  enough  to  march  down  the  aisle. 
Well,  all  of  a  sudden,  from  out  of  some 
dark  corner  in  my  heart,  a  voice,  faraway 
and  holy,  cried,  "Go  ...  go  forth,  sinner. 
Step  forward  and  be  saved." 

I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  looked  at  my 
mother  who  had  her  eyes  closed  as  she 
sang  a  hymn.  I  closed  my  eyes  and  sang, 
but  the  voice  in  my  heart  wouldn't  stop. 
Go  forward.   Be  saved.  Now! 

I  had  sinned  against  my  father.  I  knew 
that.  I  had  defied  the  Ten  Commandments. 
I  had  not  obeyed  him. 

The  voice  prodded  at  me  like  a  prickly 
thorn,  and  I  started  to  shake,  knowing  my 
time  had  come.  Then,  the  strangest  thing 
happened.  As  soon  as  I  stepped  forward 
and  started  to  walk  down  the  church  aisle 
to  the  preacher,  the  most  glorious  feeling 
came  over  me.  It  was  as  if  trumpets  were 
sounding  in  heaven  and  calling  me  to  hold 
hands  with  the  angels.  I  knew  then  God 
wanted  me  to  be  baptized.  And  I  walked 
forward  with  pride  and  confidence  and 
with  the  most  thrilling  feeling  in  my  heart 
that  I've  ever  had. 

"I  want  to  confess  all  my  sins,"  I  told 
the  preacher  when  I  reached  the  altar. 

And  the  preacher  looked  up  and  cried, 
"O  Lamb  of  God,  hear  this  sinner!" 

I  knelt  before  him,  and  I  listened  to  him 
pray,  and  I  prayed  with  him  while  the 
heavenly  sound  of  trumpets  called  and  I 
saw  the  shining,  beautiful  face  of  our  Good 
Lord,  Jesus,  smile  upon  me. 

I  couldn't  wait  then  for  the  day  of  my 
baptism. 

On  that  day  I  wore  a  white  dress,  and  I 
walked  into  the  river  up  to  my  waist,  and 


the  preacher  stood  in  the  water  beside  me.  : 
"In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son  and 
the  Holy  Ghost,"  he  said,  "I  baptize  thee,  i 
Brenda  Lee,  a  Child  of  God."  And  he 
touched  my  head  gently  and  immersed  me 
into  the  water. 

I  came  out  of  the  water,  soaking  wet, 
and  I  opened  my  eyes  to  the  most  beauti-  j 
ful  sight  I'd  seen.  The  sun  shone  on  every-  j 
thing,  and  the  hills  around  the  river  were 
emerald  green.  And  I  thanked  the  Lamb 
of  God  silently  for  giving  me  "the  call"  to 
baptism  and  true  Christianity.  I  thanked 
Him  for  saving  me.  .  .  . 

HOW  DID  THIS  HELP  ME?  If  you  be- 
lieve in  God,  it's  enough  to  know  that  He 
returns  your  love.  And  while  He  may  not 
shower  you  with  gifts,  if  you  pray  and 
have  faith  He'll  ultimately  take  your  hand 
and  guide  you. 

He  gave  me  strength.  I  made  personal 
appearances  in  out-of-the-way  places, 
never  expecting  anyone  to  hear  about 
them.  But  Red  Foley  came  once,  unex-  j! 
pectedly,  and  he  signed  me  to  sing  with 
him  for  six  months.  After  that,  I  was 
signed  by  Steve  Allen  and  Perry  Como  to 
appear  on  their  shows.  Then  I  recorded 
Sweet  Nuthin's  and  it  collected  dust  for 
months.  Everyone  at  the  recording  com- 
pany complained  it  was  a  dud.  I  prayed. 
I  didn't  lose  faith.  And  one  day,  my  man- 
ager, Dub  Albritton.  told  me  that  we  had 
made  the  Hot  100  chart  in  Billboard. 

After  Sweet  Nuthin's  climbed  to  the  top. 
I  recorded  I'm  Sorry,  and  an  album  called 
Brenda  Lee.  And  before  you  could  say 
boo,  I'm  Sorry  topped  the  Hot  100  lists, 
and,  after  that,  the  album  became  a  best- 
seller. 

Every  morning  and  every  evening  I 
thank  our  Good  Lord  for  His  blessings, 
for  all  the  happiness  He's  given  me,  and  I 
ask  Him  if  I  can  help  Him  in  any  way 
to  have  other  sinners  see  the  light.  end 


A  Soldier's  Love  Story 


(Continued  from  page  31) 

stretch  in  Texas.  Nancy  wrote  to  him 
every  day,  and  he  read  her  letters  a  dozen 
times  before  he  fell  asleep  in  the  canvas 
tent  he  shared  with  Jock,  his  kibitzing 
buddy. 

"You've  really  got  it  bad,"  Jock  told  him 
one  night  after  chow. 
"What?" 

"You're  hooked,  man.  Hooked!  You're 
walking  around  like  you  were  in  a  daze, 
and  if  you  don't  get  married  soon  you're 
going  to  pass  out  from  nervous  exhaustion." 

Tommy  never  talked  about  Nancy  to 
Jock.  Somehow,  she  didn't  belong  in  this 
harsh  world  of  curt  commands  and  clank- 
ing mess  kits.  She  was  the  dream  he 
dreamed  day  and  night  of  a  world  beyond 
this  rigorous  life  of  soldiering.  He  won- 
dered how  men,  during  the  war,  were 
able  to  spend  so  many  months  and  years 
away  from  their  dear  ones. 

NOW,  THIS  WEEKEND,  he  was  to  see 
Nancy.  She  was  driving  to  San  Antonio 
since  his  commanding  officer  had  promised 
the  airmen  week  end  passes  if  the  maneuv- 
ers went  well.  He  hadn't  seen  Nancy  for 
months,  since  his  leave  last  summer,  and 
he  wondered  what  it  would  be  like,  see- 
ing her,  after  so  long  a  separation. 

Would  things  be  the  same?  Maybe,  he 
shuddered,  she  had  changed  her  mind 
about  everything.  Maybe  she  didn't  want 
to  get  married.  Maybe  she  had  found 
someone  else.  Maybe  things  were  different. 

He  was  right.  Things  were  different. 

She   pulled   up   to   the   tan  clapboard 


orderly  room  that  cloudy  Saturday  after- 
noon, and  when  the  C.  Q.  announced  his 
name  over  the  squawk-box,  he  bolted  from 
his  barracks  and  ran  to  her.  He  let  out  a 
yell  and  reached  out  and  embraced  her. 
and  the  two  of  them  kissed.  Holding  her 
tight  in  his  arms,  Tommy  whispered, 
"Nanny,  oh  Nanny,  I've  missed  you.  You'll 
never  know  how  much." 

Nancy  was  tongue-tied.  She  didn't  speak. 
She  looked  up  at  him  in  his  neatly  pressed 
airman's  uniform. 

"Hey,"  he  suddenly  cried  out,  "you  want 
to  see  something  new?"  There  was  a  flash 
of  excitement  in  his  eyes.  "Take  a  look. 
Feast  your  peepers  on  Mr.  Choptops  him- 
self!" And  Tommy  removed  his  blue  air- 
man's cap  and  winked  an  eye  as  he  bowed 
his  head  to  show  Nancy  his  GI  crewcut. 
Her  eyes  lit  up  and  she  smiled,  and  she 
reached  out  to  touch  his  short,  furry  hair. 

"Tommy,"  she  said  shyly,  "I  ought  to 
check  in  at  my  motel." 

"Okay,  honey,"  he  answered  softly.  "Let 
me  sign  out  first." 

The  slate-gray  sky  rumbled  and  it 
started  to  rain.  Tommy  hurried  into  the 
orderly  room.  After  he  returned,  he  said, 
"You  know,  I  ought  to  introduce  you  to 
Jock,  but  I  guess  that  can  wait.  I've  never 
talked  to  him  about  us,  but  I  can  tell  he 
wants  to  meet  you.  He  swears  I'm  gone, 
real  gone,  over  you.  And  you  know  he's 
right!" 

Nancy  gave  Tommy  the  key  to  the  car. 
She  sat  opposite  him  on  the  front  seat.  He 
started  the  motor  and  pressed  the  acceler- 


ator. "It's  just  a  mile  away,"  Tommy  said. 
"We'll  be  there  in  no  time." 

AT  THE  MOTEL,  Nancy  checked  in  and 
the  clerk  wouldn't  let  her  go  to  her  cabin 
without  asking  her  a  dozen  questions 
about  her  father.  Tommy  ultimately  inter- 
rupted. "Maybe  you  all  can  talk  later  be- 
cause right  now  I'm  famished  and  I'd 
like  to  get  some  chow." 

The  clerk  took  Nancy's  suitcases  to  her 
cabin,  and  Tommy  waited  in  the  lamp- 
lighted  lobby.  Something's  the  matter,  he 
told  himself.  Something  isn't  right.  Why 
was  Nancy  acting  so  distant,  so  strange? 
In  all  her  letters  she  had  vowed  her  love 
for  him,  and  now  why  was  she  acting  as  if 
they'd  just  met  .  .  .  ? 

They  drove  in  the  chilly  autumn  drizzle 
as  dusk  veiled  the  dry  countryside. 
"Honest,"  Tommy  said,  "I'm  not  hungry 
I  only  said  that  to  get  the  clerk  off  his 
third-degree  kick  about  your  dad." 

"But  you  must  be  a  little  hungry  so 
let's  stop." 

"No.  baby,  I'm  not." 

They  drove  on  in  the  darkness,  the 
headlights  of  the  car  shining  on  the  rain- 
spattered  highway.  At  an  intersection. 
Tommy  turned  and  the  car  jostled  along  a 
bumpy  country  road.  Tall  black  trees 
seemed  to  sigh  from  the  rain,  roadside  gul- 
leys  gurgled.  At  the  top  of  the  small  hill. 
Tommy  pulled  the  car  to  the  side  of  the 
road,  braked  it  and  turned  off  the  ignition. 

He  cleared  his  throat,  and  they  sat  be- 
side each  other.  Their  eyes  looked  at  one 
another,  and  for  a  moment  Tommy  thought 
he  would  go  out  of  his  mind.  What  was 
the  matter  with  Nancy? 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  drew  an  uneasy 
breath,  and  in  that  next  minute  he  felt  her 
warm  fingers  clutching  his  hand,  holding 


it  tight.  He  swallowed.  Then  she  laid  her 
head  gently  on  his  shoulder. 

"Tommy,"  he  heard  her  whisper  as  the 
raindrops  thrummed  against  the  wind- 
shield. 

"Yes,  Nanny." 

"I'm  .  .  .  I'm  afraid." 

"Of  what?" 

Her  fingers  clasped  his  hand  tighter. 
'I've  been  counting  the  hours  when  we'd 
be  together  again.  I've  prayed  for  this  day 
for  so  many  months.  And  now  I'm  scared." 

He  turned  his  head  and  his  lips  grazed 
against  her  downy  cheek.  ''Is  .  .  .  some- 
thing the  matter?"  he  ventured.  "Has 
anything  changed  .  .  .  between  us?" 

She  paused  and  she  licked  her  lips. 
'Tommy,"  she  sighed.  "You've  changed!" 

"I've  changed?"  he  gulped.  "And  all 
the  while  I've  been  wondering  if  you've 
changed.  .  .  ." 

"You're  different."  she  insisted.  "And 
Pm  frightened." 

He  didn't  know  what  to  say.  She  had 
taken  him  by  surprise. 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  continued,  "of  our 
love." 

"Wh-a-a-t?"  he  countered,  his  voice 
:-ising  sharply.  "Why  are  you  afraid  of — " 

SHE  INTERRUPTED.  "Tommy,  maybe 
you'll  think  I'm  crazy,  but  you  have 
changed.  You're  no  longer  the  boy  I  fell  in 
love  with.  I  saw  that  today  when  you  came 
out  of  the  barracks.  You're  ...  a  man! 
Your  face  has  lost  all  its  babyishness, 


and  you  look  so  rugged  that  you  probably 
could  fly  to  the  ends  of  the  world  .  .  .  and 
fight  .  .  and  win!  I  was  so  worried  when 
you  went  into  the  Air  Force  because  I 
thought  the  tough  training  would  be  so 
hard  on  you.  I  wanted  you  to  be  pampered. 
I  hated  the  Air  Force  for  taking  you  away 
from  me.  I  wanted  to  see  you  every  day 
and  talk  and  laugh  and  be  near  you.  I 
wanted  to  spoil  you  with  my  love  and  all 
the  attention  I  could  give  you  because 
you've  had  such  a  terrible,  lonely  life. 
I  wanted  to  make  up  for  it  with  all  the 
tenderness  and  thoughtfulness  .  .  ." 

"There's  still  .  .      time,"  Tommy 

whispered. 

"But  I  was  wrong,"  Nancy  said.  "I  see 
it  now.  I  was  wrong  because  I  wouldn't 
have  let  you  become  a  man.  And  every 
boy  has  to  become  a  man  one  day.  That's 
the  way  God  wills  it.  Just  as  every  girl 
must  become  a  woman.  I'll  tell  you  now 
why  I'm  afraid.  I'm  afraid,  Tommy,  be- 
cause I  never  knew  how  deep  our  love 
was  until  this  afternoon.  When  I  saw  you 
I  got  dizzy.  I  couldn't  talk.  My  throat  felt 
as  though  it  were  stuffed  with  cotton,  and 
my  heart  pounded  so.  I  never  knew  that 
it  was  possible  for  one  human  being  to 
love  another  so  much.  And  maybe  that's 
why  I'm  so  scared.  I've  never  felt  any- 
thing so  deep  in  my  heart  before." 

"I  love  you,"  he  told  her. 

She  rubbed  her  head  against  his  neck. 
"It's  funny,"  she  spoke  so  softly  now  her 
voice  was  like  a  faint  sigh,  "but  I  be- 


grudged the  Air  Force  all  the  time  it  was 
taking  out  of  our  lives,  and  now  I  realize 
that  it's  given  us  both  a  chance  to  grow 
.  .  .  for  the  better.  But,  Tommy,  I'm  scared. 
I  just  never  knew  that  love  could  be  so 
powerful." 

"Don't  be  scared,  my  love,"  Tommy  said 
softly,  soothingly,  "Just  keep  loving  me, 
and  I'll  keep  loving  you  .  .  ."  And  their 
lips  met  in  the  darkness  while  the  night 
winds  rustled  through  the  rain.  .  . 

After  he  dropped  Nancy  off  at  the  dark 
and  quiet  motel,  he  drove  her  car  to  his 
barracks.  The  earth  smelled  clean  like  a 
fresh  spice,  and  the  breezes  brushed  like 
light  silk  against  his  cheek.  Tommy  un- 
dressed and  dropped  into  his  cot,  and  he 
began  to  think  of  tomorrow  when  he  and 
Nancy  were  going  to  study  the  furniture 
booklets  she  had  brought  with  her,  visit 
the  Alamo,  take  a  tour  through  the  Air 
Force  museum,  go  for  a  boat  ride,  be 
with  each  other  again. 

He  couldn't  wait  for  this  night  to  end 
so  he  could  be  with  her  again. 

But  she  was  right.  They  had  changed. 

The  separation,  hard  as  it  was  to  ac- 
cept at  first,  had  given  them  something 
after  all.  And,  as  he  lay  there  in  the  dark- 
ness with  the  rain  rattling  against  the 
roof,  he  wondered  if  this  was  true  of  every 
man  and  his  sweetheart,  if  perhaps  true 
love  deepened  and  strengthened  after  a 
parting,  if  this  wasn't — possibly — the 
crowning  touch  to  every  soldier's  love 
story.  END 


I'm  Gonna  Die  Young 


;  Continued  from  page  33) 

'•say.  "You're  the  boss."  And  he  winked  at 
him. 

j"  The  doctor  sighed  and  shook  his  head 
sadly.  "If  I  had  my  way,"  he  said 
firmly,  "you  wouldn't  be  going  back  on 
that  stage  tomorrow  night."  He  jerked  his 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  door.  "You 
wouldn't  be  doing  any  shows  or  singing, 
or  anything  but  resting  for  a  good  three 
weeks.  But  I  know  I  can't  hold  you  to 
that.  So  the  most  I  can  say  is  take  it 
easy.  Just  slow  down.  You  know  the 
score.  You  were  lucky  this  time,  but  next 
time.  .  .  ."  The  doctor  broke  off  abruptly. 

"Don't  worry,  Doc.  Don't  worry,"  the 
Young  man  wise-cracked.  "I'll  be  around 
::o  sing  at  your  funeral!" 

The  doctor  didn't  smile.  'I  hope  so,"  he 
^aid  gravely.  "I  hope  so."  And  he  turned 
ph  his  heel  and  left  the  room. 

Bobby  Darin  lay  quietly  as  the  door 
,:losed  shut.  He  lay  there  and  listened  to 
lis  own  breathing.  Then  he  held  his  breath 
ind  he  could  almost  hear  it — the  haunt- 
tig,  telltale  sound  of  his  heart  murmur, 
'  he  frightening  whisper  that  said  his  heart 
,'  asn't  functioning  properly,  wouldn't  be 
tormal.  Ever. 

He  released  his  breath  in  a  quick  spurt 
.ind  slowly,  in  little  prickles,  he  began  to 
;reak  out  in  a  cold  sweat.  The  murmurs 
weren't  new.  He'd  been  living  with  them 
or  a  long  time,  ever  since  the  four  horrible 
'ittacks  of  rheumatic  fever  he'd  had  when 
tie  was  a  kid.  They'd  occurred  between 
he  ages  of  four  and  eight.  He  didn't  re- 
nember  too  much  about  those  years,  the 
ost  years.  They  telescoped  now  into  one 
Hg  blur  of  pain.  The  fever,  a  form  of  arth- 
tis.  had  attacked  his  joints,  inflaming 
.hem,  making  them  swell  and  making  them 
o  tender  that  if  he  moved  the  slightest 
lit,  searing  pains  would  shoot  through 
lim,  so  violently  that  he  felt  as  if  he  was 
,ieing  torn  apart.  Finally,  the  siege  had 
&t  up  and  he  could  get  out  of  bed  and 


start  to  lead  a  somewhat  normal  life.  But 
it  hadn't  let  him  escape  entirely.  It 
would  always  have  a  hold  on  him:  it  had 
irreparably  damaged  his  heart  valves,  the 
ones  that  opened  and  closed  to  let  the  life- 
giving  blood  flow  from  one  chamber  of  his 
heart  to  the  rest  of  his  body.  It  had 
scarred  the  valves  in  three  places  so  that 
they  didn't  work  right;  they  let  some  of 
the  blood  slip  back  into  the  heart  cham- 
ber instead  of  all  being  forced  into  the 
arteries  and  veins. 

If  too  much  blood  leaked  back,  well, 
that  could  be  the  end.  But  right  now,  it 
wasn't  real  bad,  the  doctors  had  told 
him,  when  he  went  in  for  the  frequent 
periodic  check-ups  that  every  heart  con- 
dition victim  must  have.  Right  now,  every- 
thing would  be  okay,  if  he  took  it  easy, 
if  he  didn't  let  himself  get  run  down. 

TWENTY  YEARS  AGO,  when  he'd  first 
come  down  with  the  fever,  medical  men 
knew  very  little  about  what  caused  it.  To- 
day, it  was  still  a  mystery,  but  now  they 
had  a  few  more  clues:  there  seemed  to  be 
a  connection  between  the  fever  and  certain 
harmful  "bugs"  in  your  system — either 
streptococcus  or  staphylococcus  bacteria; 
they  knew  that  if  you  got  run  down,  these 
bugs  could  easily  take  over;  they  knew 
that  a  sore  throat,  or  even  a  common  cold 
could  leave  a  former  rheumatic  fever 
sufferer  wide  open  to  a  new  attack,  even 
though  it  might  be  years  since  he'd  been 
stricken. 

So  they  warned  him  to  be  careful.  They 
prescribed  daily  dosages  of  penicillin  to 
ward  off  infection,  but  he  was  allergic  to 
penicillin,  so  he  took  sulfa  pills.  He  had 
to  double  the  sulfa  dosage,  or  take  some 
antibiotic  before  something  as  simple  as  a 
tooth  extraction,  just  in  case  there  should 
be  an  open  wound  in  his  mouth — fertile 
ground  for  the  strep  bugs.  Most  of  all,  he 
had  to  get  'a  lot  of  rest,  not  overwork 
himself,  not  let  his  body  weaken  and  be- 
come prey  to  the  infection  which  could 
bring  on  another  attack.  Because  you 
never  knew  what  would  happen  if  the 
fever  struck  again.  It  might  not  affect 
his  heart — but  then  again,  it  might.  It 


just  might  hurt  it  beyond  repair.       .  . 

And  now  he  was  lying  in  bed  with  a 
case  of  glandular  fever.  The  disease  itself 
wasn't  serious;  it  was  just  nature's  warn- 
ing to  take  it  easy,  the  danger  signal  that 
he  wasn't  as  strong  as  he  should  be,  that 
he  couldn't  fight  off  the  harmful  germs. 
It  was  precisely  the  internal  condition 
that  his  doctors  were  trying  to  avoid. 

Here  he  was  lying  in  bed  in  his  suite 
in  Hotel  Fourteen,  the  annex  to  New 
York's  plush  Copacabana  nightclub,  where 
he  was  headliner;  lying  there  helplessly, 
while  the  management  told  the  audience 
that  Mr.  Darin  had  suddenly  taken  sick 
and  he  wouldn't  be  doing  the  second  show 
tonight.  No,  it  wasn't  serious — Mr.  Darin 
was  just  terribly  overworked  and  his  doc- 
tors had  forbidden  him  to  finish  the  eve- 
ning. Oh  yes,  Mr.  Darin  would  be  fine  by 
tomorrow  and  the  shows  would  go  on  as 
scheduled. 

The  inevitable  buzz  that  always  follows 
such  an  announcement  would  sweep 
through  the  crowd — the  sighs  of  disap- 
pointment, and  the  grumbles  of  annoy- 
ance. He  knew  that  many  of  the  people 
who  had  paid  good  money  to  come  and 
see  him  would  leave  angrily,  muttering 
to  themselves  and  to  each  other.  "Just  who 
does  he  think  he  is  anyway?  Another 
Sinatra?  That  he  can  just  take  a  vacation 
whenever  he  doesn't  feel  like  singing?" 
Because  they  didn't  know.  They  couldn't 
know  the  real  reason. 

And  maybe  they'd  come  back  tomorrow, 
when  he  was  on  Stage  and  they'd  watch 
him  and  whisper  resentfully  to  each  other 
that  he  looked  fine,  and  that  he  was  prob- 
ably "just  playin'  possum"  the  night  be- 
fore. Because  make-up  and  a  little  acting 
talent  can  hide  almost  anything.  And  they 
wouldn't  know  that  he'd  be  there,  realizing 
full  well  that  he  should  be  in  bed, 
giving  his  all,  singing  his  heart  out,  while 
the  fear  nagged  inside  him,  the  secret 
fear  that  maybe  this  would  be  the  last 
show  in  a  long,  long  while.  If  the  germs 
got  the  better  of  him.  If  they  really  dug 
in  and  laid  him  low.  .  . 

HE  CLOSED  HIS  EYES  and  he  saw  the  81 


whole  scene  again,  how  it  had  all  happened 
earlier  tonight.  He  hadn't  been  feeling  too 
well  all  day — sort  of  tired  and  a  little 
groggy.  He'd  tried  to  catnap  during  the 
afternoon,  but  something  was  always  in- 
terfering with  his  rest:  phone  calls,  inter- 
views, a  hasty  conference  with  his  conduc- 
tor and  accompanist  when  someone  had 
misplaced  some  music  and  mild  hysteria 
had  set  in.  .  .  .  And  then  he  had  gone  on 
stage  and  in  the  middle  of  his  fourth 
number,  he'd  suddenly  felt  very  dizzy. 
After  that  song  he'd  taken  a  drink  of 
water,  and  walked  around  the  stage,  mak- 
ing jokes  and  light  talk  off  the  top  of  his 
head,  hoping  that  the  nausea  would  pass. 
But  it  didn't.  The  audience  started  to 
blur  before  his  eyes;  his  arms  and  legs 
felt  like  lead  weights,  his  head  began  to 
throb  and  pound  and  he  could  feel  the 
sweat  pouring  down  his  face,  streaking  the 
make-up  and  trickling  into  his  collar.  But 
he'd  finished  the  show  and  taken  a  quick 
bow.#  Then  he'd  staggered  back  stage, 
breathing  heavily  and  clutching  at  his 
collar. 

His  manager  had  taken  one  look  at 
him,  felt  his  forehead,  and  gasped,  "My 
God,  Bobby,  you're  burning  up!"  He'd 
ignored  Bobby's  half-hearted  quip,  "Well, 
vou  can't  say  I  didn't  go  out  in  a  blaze  of 
glory,"  shooed  him  right  up  to  the  suite, 
and  called  the  doctor.  Two  doctors  had 
come  immediately  and  examined  him  as 
he  lay  limply  on  the  bed,  alternately 
sweating  and  shivering.  They'd  diagnosed 
it  as  glandular  fever,  a  virus  that  was 
going  around  town  at  the  time,  given  him 
a  double  dosage  of  sulfa  and  ordered  him 
to  rest.  Period. 

He  smiled  a  little  bitterly.  The  Copa 
— that  shining  beacon  to  which  every  aspir- 
ing young  entertainer  fixes  his  sights.  The 
Copa — symbol  of  "having  arrived"  in  show 
business.  Yes,  he  had  finally  made  the 
big  time,  the  Copa — and  what  was  he 
doing?  Lying  flat  on  his  back  with  a 
virus,  and  the  stern  warning  that  it  could 
lead  to  complications  .  .  . 

It  was  only  a  little  over  a  year  since 
he'd  been  one  of  the  aspirants,  another 
face  in  the  crowd  of  eager  hopefuls,  of 
talented,  but  not  yet  arrived  performers, 
just  another  name  people  said  "might 
amount  to  something  one  day." 

A  lot  had  happened  to  him  in  that  year 
and  a  half.  He  got  his  break,  he  made 
it  in  a  big  way.  And  they  began  to  hail 
him  as  the  entertainment  sensation  of  his 
generation.  Even  the  staid,  conservative 
New  York  Times  had  swallowed  its  usual 
disdain  for  young  pop  music  talent  long 
enough  to  glowingly  report  in  February 
of  1960:  .  .  .  On  records,  the  most  striking 
insistence  of  the  renaissance  oj  showman- 
ship can  be  found  in  the  work  of  Bobby 
Darin,  not  only  because  he  is  a  young 
singer  with  all  the  assurance,  projection 
and  casual  craftsmanship  of  an  old  pro, 
but  what  is  more  remarkable,  because  he 
first  gained  his  popularity  in  the  rock  'n' 
roll  scramble. 

They  said  it  couldn't  be  done — and 
Bobby  Darin  had  done  it.  He  had  done 
it  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt. 

Yet  most  people  talked  about  his  sud- 
den appearance  in  the  big  time  line-up  in 
the  hushed  tone  of  awe  that  one  re- 
serves for  the  recounting  of  a  miracle, 
or  shrugged  off  his  success  as  an  unprece- 
dented "streak  of  luck.  The  kid  musta 
been  born  under  a  lucky  star.  How  else 
could  he  have  made  it  so  fast?" 

But  the  kid  Bobby  hadn't  been  born  un- 
der a  lucky  star.  The  kid  Bobby  had  made 
it  on  two  things:  an  abundance  of  talent 
and  the  unwavering  will  to  make  the 
biggest  splash  ever  in  the  show  biz  pool. 
And  he  had  made  it  fast  because  he'd  lie 
in  bed  at  night  and  think  he  could  actu- 
ally hear,  in  the  stillness  of  the  room,  that 
82  chilling  heart  murmur  and  with  it  the 


harsh  reality  that  very  possibly  he  didn't 
have  as  much  time  as  most  hopefuls  do, 
that  if  he  was  going  to  make  good,  he'd 
have  to  do  it  quickly. 

So,  he  plunged  in  and  flailed  away, 
grimly  determined  to  reach  his  goal. 
And  when  he  was  well  on  the  way,  they 
censured  him  for  being  brash,  pushy,  con- 
ceited. 

ONCE,  A  FEW  MONTHS  ago,  when  a 
reporter  had  reminded  him  of  these  criti- 
cisms, he  had  shrugged  and  replied  with  a 
characteristic  candor:  "I've  got  this  feeling 
that  I'm  gonna  die  young  and  there's  so 
little  time,  so  what  I've  gotta  do,  I've  gotta 
do  fast."  But  he  hadn't  mentioned  anything 
about  his  weak  heart,  and  the  reporter,  not 
knowing  the  truth,  had  insinuated  that  any 
24-year-old  who  talked  this  way  must  be 
off  his  rocker  and  that  the  criticisms 
leveled  at  Bobby  Darin  were  probably 
well-founded. 

Bobby  winced  when  he  read  these  and 
other  comments,  but  still,  he  refused  to 
talk  about  the  real  impetus  behind  his 
seemingly  demoniacal  drive.  He  shied  away 
from  it  mainly  because  he  didn't  want 
pity,  he  didn't  want  people  to  like  him 
because  they  felt  sorry  for  him.  He  re- 
membered too  many  years  of  that.  Of  lying 
in  bed  with  pain  and  pity  as  his  constant 
companions.  And  later,  the  years  of  pov- 
erty and  more  pity,  when  his  fatherless 
family  was  on  relief,  when  they  prac- 
tically had  to  beg  to  stay  alive.  He  re- 
membered all  that  and  he  didn't  want  any 
more  of  it;  he  wanted  acceptance  and  re- 
spect, sure — but  only  if  he  had  earned  it 
by  his  talent  as  a  performer  and  by  what 
he  had  to  offer  as  a  normal,  intelligent  hu- 
man being. 

So,  whenever  an  interviewer  would  sniff 
along  the  trail  of  the  truth,  he'd  squelch 
the  line  of  inquiry  with  a  sharp  defense, 
"Whaddya  mean  weak  heart?  Everybody 
dies  of  heart  failure,  y'  know.  Look,  I 
don't  ask  for  sympathy  from  anybody. 
Nobody,  see?  I'm  in  a  position  now  to 
give  sympathy.  Not  take  it.  I  don't  need 
sympathy.  Not  from  anybody  ...  I  don't 
worry  about  dying.  Who  knows  what 
death  is?  Do  you  know  what  death  is? 
Well,  all  right  .  .  .  When  He  comes  to 
take  me  away  .  .  .  When  He  calls  .  . 
then  I'll  go  .  .  .  Bye-bye  .  .  .  You  gonna 
do  it  any  different?  Huh? 

"You're  still  not  satisfied?  Okay.  Look, 
when  I  was  ten  years  old,  they  told  my 
mother  that  I'd  never  live  to  be  14.  They 
never  told  me.  I'd  have  laughed  in  their 
faces.  Now  they  say  I  may  never  live 
to  be  30  and  I  laugh  in  their  faces.  So  you 
see,  there's  no  story.  There's  nothing  to 
tell.  .  .  ." 

He  could  fool  most  outsiders  with  that 
flippant,  I-don't-give-a-damn  attitude, 
but  he  couldn't  fool  the  few  people  who 
really  knew  and  loved  him.  And  most  of 
all  he  couldn't  fool  himself.  Not  when  he 
got  out  of  breath  after  singing  two  num- 
bers. Not  when  he  often  had  to  rest  after 
climbing  a  steep  flight  of  stairs. 

Still,  he'd  try.  When  a  worried  friend 
would  admonish  him,  "Bobby,  you've  got 
to  take  it  easy.  You're  doing  too  much, 
too  fast.  At  this  pace  you'll  kill  your- 
self," he'd  shrug  and  carelessly  retort, 
"When  I  go,  Baby,  it'll  be  with  a  bang." 
But  a  split  second  after  the  quip,  an  almost 
imperceptible  shadow  of  fear  would  cloud 
his  face,  and  he'd  murmur  soberly,  before 
the  friend  could  say  a  word,  "I  know, 
honey,  I  know.  I've  got  to  be  more  care- 
ful. I've  got  to  be  as  careful  as  I  know 
how." 

WHAT  HE  WANTED  most  of  all  was  a 
guarantee  that  there  would  be  time,  time 
for  all  the  things  he  wanted  to  do.  But 
he  didn't  think  he'd  ever  get  that  guaran- 
tee, so  he  became  the  personification  of  a 


Young  Man  in  A  Hurry.  He  didn't  know 
if  there  would  be  time  later,  so  he  had  to 
prove  he  was  top  material  now.  Right 
away.  He  had  to  prove  it  not  only  in  his 
career,  but  also  as  a  man.  In  the  career, 
he  had  to  buck  the  handicap  of  having 
started  out  late — at  the  age  of  21  in  a 
field  where  most  newcomers  are  often  in 
their  early  teens.  He  had  to  make  the 
transition  from  the  idol-hungry,  rarely 
ta'ient-conscious,  rock  'n'  roll  teen-age  au- 
dience to  the  more  sophisticated,  some- 
what selective,  young  adult  nightclub 
crowd — and  make  it  fast.  It's  a  big  gap  be- 
tween these  two  worlds,  and  his  bridge 
was  one  of  sheer  guts.  He  simply  turned 
his  back  on  the  teen-agers,  the  only  real 
security  he  knew,  and  took  the  risk  that 
he'd  be  accepted  by  the  older  crowd.  He 
gambled  on  his  talents — not  so  much  as 
a  singer,  but  as  a  performer  who  could 
magnetize  post-teen  women  by  weaving  a 
spell  of  sex  on  the  nightclub  floor,  by 
arousing  them  unabashedly  and  calculat- 
ingly with  sensuous,  subtle  motions.  It 
worked. 

As  a  man,  he  had  to  face  up  to  the  fact 
that  he  wasn't  the  best-looking  guy  in  the 
world.  He  leaped  that  hurdle  by  gaining 
an  outstanding  reputation  as  one  of  Holly- 
wood's hottest  new  sexpots,  a  "big  ten 
swinger,"  hit  'n'  run  lover,  the  slickest  of 
the  love  'em  and  leave  'em  brigade,  a  guy 
who  wanted  fun  without  deep  involve- 
ment, courtship  without  marriage,  girls,  but 
not  wives.  Women  complained  bitterly 
about  him:  he  was  forgetful,  he  was  never 
on  time,  he  didn't  write,  he  flirted  with 
other  girls  in  their  presence.  And  yet,  they 
flocked  to  him  as  mice  to  the  Pied  Piper, 
they  said  he  was,  "a  doll  .  .  .  amusing  .  . 
entertaining  .  .  unpredictable  .  .  ."  They 
adored  him. 

Then  he  found  what  he  wanted.  Love, 
real  love.  Jo-Ann  Campbell.  No,  it  wasn't 
so  much  that  he  had  found  love — love 
had  found  him.  Jo-Ann  had  loved  him 
long  and  silently  before  she  could  break 
down  his  resistance  to  real  happiness, 
before  he  could  accept  the  wonder  oi 
the  love  they  shared.  And  for  a  while 
life  was  so  wonderful  that  even  ambition - 
driven  Bobby  was  satisfied  at  last.  Hij 
career  was  nearing  the  top:  he  had  the  love 
of  an  understanding  woman;  he  would  J 
soon  have  a  wife,  a  home. 

But  then  it  began  again,  that  needling 
fear  that  there  wasn't  too  much  time  left 
that  if  he  stopped  running  for  even  a  mo- 
ment, someone  with  more  time  would  ge 
ahead  of  him,  would  block  his  way  tc 
the  top. 

So  he  did  what  he  had  to  do.  "What  I've 
gotta  do,  I've  gotta  do  fast,"  he  told  him- 
self, and  there  wasn't  time  for  love,  foi 
marriage,  for  a  home.  There  wasn't  mucl 
time  at  all,  only  enough  to  get  to  the  to} 
before  it  was  too  late.  So  he  "postponed' 
his  engagement  to  Jo-Ann  Campbell.  H< 
would  go  off  on  tour,  alone,  it  would  giv< ; 
them  time  to  "think."  But  he  knew  in  hi 
heart  what  the  answer  would  be.  .  .  . 

Now  he  lay  in  bed  in  the  shadowy  roon 
and  listened  to  the  steady  swish,  swisl 
of  traffic  beneath  his  window,  occasionally 
interrupted  by  the  bleat  of  a  car  horn  o 
the  shrill  voices  of  revelers  who  were  mak  | 
ing  a  late  night  of  it.  And  he  saw  th( 
form  of  the  sulfa  pill  bottle  on  the  nigh 
table:  the  crutch.  He  resisted  the  impuls 
to  reach  out,  grab  it  and  hurl  it  across  th 
room  to  shatter  on  the  opposite  wall.  H 
gripped  the  sides  of  the  mattress  hard  wit! 
both  hands  and  firmly  vowed  not  to  le 
himself  get  rundown  like  this  again,  to  ge 
off  the  treadmill  and  take  it  easy.  But  eve 
as  he  made  the  resolution,  he  wondered  i 
he  ever  would  really  slow  down,  if  h 
ever  could.  And  if  he  couldn't,  wh? 
would  happen  .  .  .  ?  EN 

Bobby's  in  United  Artists'  The  Alamo,  j 


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DECEMBER.  1960 


AMERICA'S  GREATEST  MOVIE  MAGAZINE 


STORIES 

Pat  Nixon 

Richard  Nixon   20    The  Love  Story  Of  Pat  And  Dick     by  Edward  DeBlasio 

Jackie  Kennedy 

John  Kennedy   22    The  Love  Story  Of  Jackie  And  John  by  Edward  DeBlasio 

Yves  Montand   24  An  Exclusive  Interview  With  Yves  Montand 

by  Louella  Parsons 

Hayley  Mills   28  Hayley!  by  Beverly  Linet 

Marie  McDonald 

Debbie  Reynolds   30  A  Last  Minute  Letter  To  Debbie      by  Marie  McDonald 

David  Janssen   32  I  Was  Too  Poor  To  Have  Dreams  by  Doug  Brewer 

Elizabeth  Taylor 

Eddie  Fisher   35  Liz'  Journey  Through  Terror  by  Hugh  Burrell 

Janet  Leigh 

Tony  Curtis   40  Our  Heartaches  And  Our  Blessings 

Lana  Turner   42  A  Home  For  Two  Desperate  Women  by  Rosamond  Gaylor 

Sandra  Dee   44  Conversation  With  A  Goddess  by  Louella  Parsons 

SPECIAL  FEATURES 

47    Modern  Screen's  Second  Cinderella  Story  by  Fran  Hodges 

FEATURETTES 

Kirk  Douglas    4    It's  All  In  The  Viewpoint! 

Paulette  Goddard    8    No  Snob,  She! 

DEPARTMENTS 

Louella  Parsons    9    Eight-Page  Gossip  Extra 

4  Inside  Story 

5  New  Movies  by  Florence  Epstein 

6  December  Birthdays 

Cover  Photograph  by  Sherman  Weisburd  of  Topix 
Other  Photographers'  Credits  on  page  63 


DAVID  MYERS,  editor 

SAM  BLUM,  managing  editor 

TERRY  DAVIDSON,  story  editor 
LINDA  OLSHEIM,  production  editor 
ED  DeBLASIO,  special  correspondent 
BEVERLY  LINET,  contributing  editor 
ERNESTINE  R.  COOKE,  ed.  assistant 


MICHAEL  LEFCOURT,  art  editor 
HELEN  WELLER,  west  coast  editor 

DOLORES  M.  SHAW,  asst.  art  editor 
GENE  HOYT,  research  director 
EUGENE  WITAL,  photographic  art 
AUGUSTINE  PENNETTO,  cover 
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MODERN  SCREEN,  Vol.  54,  No.  12.  December.  1960.  Published  Monthly  by  Dell  Publishing  Co..  Inc.  Office 
of  publication:  at  Washington  and  South  Aves..  Dunellen.  N.  J.  Executive  and  editorial  offices.  750  Third 
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office.  221  No.  LaSalle  St..  Chicago.  111.  Albert  P.  Delacorte.  Publisher:  Helen  Meyer.  President;  Executive  Vice- 
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Ill  IBS 


KIRK 
DOUGLAS 

IT'S  ALL  IN 

THE 
VIEWPOINT 


B  It  happened  while  Kirk  Douglas 
was  living  at  Palm  Springs  and  com- 
muting- to  Hollywood.  The  studio  rent- 
ed a  chanffeured  automobile  so  their 
star  could  unwind  each  evening.  But 
let  Kirk  tell  it: 

"It  started  out  great,  too,  the  first 
night.  I  was  real  tired,  and  I  fell 
asleep  on  the  back  seat,  curled  up  un- 
der a  big  blanket.  What  luxury! 

"But  suddenly  I  realized  we  had 
stopped.  The  car  was  still  there  (for- 
tunately, since  I  was  still  in  it),  but 
the  chauffeur  had  disappeared!  I 
spotted  him  through  the  window,  at 
a  roadside  restaurant,  grabbing  a 
sandwich  and  coffee  while  he  thought 
I  slept.  I  noticed  a  bar  at  the  end  of 
the  building,  and  I  was  thirsty.  I 
crawled  out  to  have  a  quick  beer. 

"Only  trouble  was  that  I  didn't 
make  it  quick  enough!  When  I  came 
out  the  door  two  minutes  later,  there 
went  my  departing  car  and  chauf- 
feur, hi-tailing  it  for  Palm  Springs! 
So  back  I  went  for  another  beer,  think- 
ing the  guy  would  miss  me  in  a  short 
while  and  figure  out  the  situation.  But 
he  didn't  get  the  message  till  he  pulled 
into  my  driveway— and  no  me! 

"That  started  him  on  a  40-mile  re- 
turn trip  to  the  restaurant,  but  mean- 
while I  had  hitch-hiked  a  ride  home. 
We  finally  got  things  straig-htened  out. 
with  chauffeur,  car,  and  Kirk  Douglas 
in  the  same  place  again,  just  in  time 
for  him  to  drive  us  (my  wife  Anne  and 
me)  to  a  party  that  night. 

"Of  course  I  told  the  whole  story 
there,  and  wound  up  by  asking  how 
anyone  could  be  so  dumb  as  to  drive 
off  that  way  without  checking  to  see  if 
I  was  in  the  car.  Later  I  wandered  out 
to  the  kitchen  for  some  extra  ice 
cubes.  Nearing  the  kitchen  door,  I 
heard  my  chauffeur's  voice  He  was 
visiting  the  maid,  and  regaling  her 
with  the  same  storv  r  had  told  my 
friends  about  the  mixup. 

"Did  I  say  th-1  saive  story?  My 
chauffeur  ended  it  by  asking-  the  maid, 
'Can  you  imagine  a  movie  star  being- 
dumb  enough  not  to  1st  me  know  he 
got  out  of  the  car!'  " 


Want  the  real  truth?  Write  to  INSIDE  STORY,  Modern  Screen, 
Box  515,  Times  Square  P.O.,  N.Y.  36,  N.Y.  The  most  interesting 
letters  will  appear  in  this  column.  Sorry,  no  personal  replies. 
For  vital  statistics  and  biographical  information  about  the  stars 
get  Modern  Screen's  SUPER  STAR  CHART.  Coupon,  page  56. 


Q  I  read  that  Debbie  Reynolds  has 

rented  a  house  in  the  Bahamas  for  next 
winter?  Does  she  intend  this  to  be  her 
honeymoon  house? 

— F.D.,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 

A  Not  unless  her  Mama  and  two  chil- 
dren are  going  along  on  the  honeymoon. 

9  Any  truth  to  the  rumor  that  Gina 
Lcltobrigida   and    Rock    Hudson  are 

feuding  on  the  Come  September  film- 
ing in  Italy? 

— I.K.,  Daytona  Beach,  Fla. 

A  Yes. 

Q  There  is  a  report  that  Elvis  Presley 

has  taken  Aly  Khan's  old  home  in  Santa 
Monica  to  get  some  privacy  from  all 
his  girl  friends  who  know  the  location 
of  the  Hollywood  hotel  he  stayed  in. 
Is  this  so? 

— R.R.,  Burbank,  Calif. 

A  No  Privacy  with   his  girl  friends. 

9  Now  that  they  are  so  busy  on  TV, 
do  you  think  that  Barbara  Stanwyck 
and  June  Allyson  will  ever  again  work 
in  movies? 

— G.F.,  Brooklyn,  N.Y. 
A  They'd  like  to  think  so. 

9    Can    you    tell    me   why  Stewart 

Granger  is  so  terribly  bitter  over  the 
divorce  from  Jean  Simmons?  Is  it  be- 
cause of  all  the  alimonv  he  has  to  pay? 

— F.D.,  Crowley,  La. 

A  No  alimony  problems  involved. 
Friends  say  Stewart  agreed  to  have 
Jean  get  complete  custody  of  their  little 
girl  when  Jean  swore  there  was  no 
other  man  involved.  After  the  divorce 
she  admitted  her  attraction  to  Richard 
Brooks. 

9  In  your  recent  story  by  May  Britt 
about  herself  and  Sammy  Davis,  Jr. 

she  stated  by  saying:  "Sammy  is  Jew- 
ish and  Negro — I'm  Swedish.  Protestant 
and  white."  Now  there's  a  rumor  that 
she  intends  to  convert  to  Judaism  for 
Sammy's  sake.  Is  this  so? 

— W.T.,  Fairbanks,  Ala. 

A  Yes. 

9  Since  Liz  Taylor  has  paid  all  her 
doctor's  expenses  to  come  to  London 
and  Egypt  while  she  is  making  Cleo- 


patra— does  this  mean  that  at  long  last 
she  is  pregnant  ? 

— F.F.,  Elizabeth,  N.J. 

A  Never  a  well  girl,  Liz  wants  her  own 
physician  nearby  for  all  and  any  emer- 
gencies— including  a  possible  pregnancy. 

9  Is  it  true  that  Yves  Montand  is  get- 
ting all  the  roles  that  other  Hollywood 
stars  turn  down  because  his  asking 
price  is  so  cheap?  What  is  his  asking 
price  anyhow? 

— R.R.,  Madison,  Wis. 

A  $300,000  per  film  now.  Considerably 
less  in  his  first  two  Hollywood  films. 

9  Did  Efrem  Zimbalist,  Jr.  really 
threaten  to  walk  out  of  Warners  a-la- 
Edd  Byrnes.  Clint  Walker,  and  James 
Garner,  unless  he  got  permission  to 
do  By  Love  Possessed  with  Lana 
Turner? 

— F.F.,  Spokane,  Wash. 

A  Efrem  used  reverse  psychology. 
Agreed  to  stay  four  years  longer  if  he 
got  permission.  It  worked. 

9" I've  read  conflicting  reports:  was 
Gene  Tierney  flooded  with  offers  for 
TV  and  movies  after  she  returned  to 
Hollywood  for  a  GE  Theater  ...  or 
did  she  get  no  offers  at  all,  as  another 
columnist  stated? 

— R.G.,  Wilmington,  Del. 

A  Two  offers  for  TV  roles  at  20th— 
who  hold  her  contract. 

9  The  papers  revealed  that  the  new 
star   Capucine   was    Dirk    Bogarde  s 

house-guest  in  London  for  the  premiere 
of  Song  Without  End.  Was  this  con- 
sidered the  right  thing  to  do? 

— C.S.,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

A  Bogarde  has  a  large  house  and  a 
number  of  house-guests.  He's  also  a 
pal  of  Capucine's  fiance.  It  couldn't 
have  been  more  platonic. 

9    How    come    Gary    Crosby  and 

Barbara  Stuart  were  able  to  marry 
in  a  religious  ceremony  when  she  had 
been  married  and  divorced  once  before? 

— K.J.,  Dayton,  Ohio 

A  Barbara  got  an  annulment  of  her 
earlier  marriage  so  that  she'd  be  an  ac- 
ceptable member  of  the  Crosby  Clan. 


4  MOVIES 


by  Florence  Epstein 


SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON 

John  Mills 
Dorothy  McGuire 

life  on  a  desert  island  Sessue  Hayakawa 
'  James  MacArthur 

Kevin  Corcoran 

■  This  movie  is  based  on  a  well-known  novel 
by  Johann  Wyss.  It's  the  story  of  a  family 
bound  for  Xew  Guinea  and  a  life  of  pioneer- 
ing when  their  sea  voyage  is  interrupted  by 
marauding  pirates  (led  by  Sessue  Hayakawa). 
Sinking  fast,  the  family  build  a  tub-raft  and 
head  for  the  nearest  island  (the  movie  was 
filmed  in  the  British  West  Indies  so  the 
scenery  is  lovely).  The  island  is  deserted  but 
the  father  of  the  family  (John  Mills)  is  a 
fighter  from  way  back;  his  wife  (Dorothy 
McGuire)  is  his  most  ardent  supporter  and 
his  sons  provide  brawn  (James  MacArthur) 
and  ingenuity  (Tommy  Kirk).  The  kid  of  the 
family  (Kevin  Corcoran)  immediately  runs 
off  into  the  jungle  and  comes  back  with  a 
baby  elephant.  Mama  likes  comfort  so  the 
family  astound  her  by  building  a  split-level 
tree  house  where  she  can  live  more  or  less 
like  a  lady  until  help  arrives.  Naturally  no 
one  arrives  but  Sessue  Hayakawa  and  he 
chooses  a  camp  site  on  the  other  side  of  the 
island  where  he  dumps  two  prisoners.  One 
of  them  (teen-ager  Janet  Munro)  is  rescued 
by  James  and  Tommy.  Now  war  with  the 
pirates  seems  inevitable.  This  doesn't  dampen 
their  spirits  in  the  least.  Most  of  the  adven- 
tures in  this  movie  seem  more  amusing  than 
dangerous;  essentially  it  celebrates  the  beau- 


ties of 

VISION. 


'natural"  life. — Technicolor,  Pan.j 


The  Swiss  Family  Robinson,  here  led  by  father  (John  Mills)  and  mother  (Doro- 
thy McGuire),  join  in  a  prayer  of  hope  and  thanksgiving,  after  their  shipwreck. 


G.I.    BLUES  Elvis  Presley 

Juliet  Prowse 

— romance  of  a  swinging        Leticia  Roman 

baby-sitter  (Elvis) 

■  Elvis,  naturally,  is  back,  and  if  you  want 
to  know  what  he  was  doing  those  two  years 
in  the  army,  this  is  what  he  was  doing  (except 
for  the  romantic  scenes,  the  baby-sitting 
scenes  and  the  puppet  show  scenes  which 
are  fictional) .  In  this  movie  he  serves — as  he 
did  in  life — in  the  U.S.  3rd  Armored  (Spear- 
head) Division  in  West  Germany.  Defense 
maneuvers,  as  pictured,  are  guaranteed  au- 
thentic. Juliet  Prowse's  two  modern  dance 
numbers  don't  need  any  seal  of  approval.  As 
for  the  story:  one  of  Elvis'  buddies  is  sud- 
denly transferred  to  duty  in  Alaska  and  Elvis 
is  drafted,  by  his  remaining  buddies,  to  test 
his  romantic  prowess  with  Juliet.  Juliet  is  a 
cafe  dancer.  If  Elvis  manages  to  stay  till 
dawn  in  her  company  his  buddies  will  enrich 
him  by  $300.  The  complications  are:  Juliet 
is  forewarned  by  Sergeant  Arch  Johnson — 
and  Elvis,  when  he  sees  her  up  close,  falls  in 
love.  How  is  he  going  to  overcome  that  first 
bad  impression  so  that  he  can  marry  the  girl? 
While  worrying  the  problem  he  introduces 
ten  new  songs  and  sings  some  of  his  old 
ones,  too. — Paramount. 

(Continued  on  page  6) 


PERIODIC  PAIN 

Don't  let  the  calendar  make  a 
slave  of  you,  Betty!  Just  take  a 
Midol  tablet  with  a  glass  of  water 
. ,  .that's  all.  Midol  brings  faster 
and  more  complete  relief  from 
menstrual  pain-it  relieves 
cramps,  eases  headache  and 
chases  the  "blues." 


DECEMBER 
BIRTHDAYS 

If  your  birthday  falls  in  December,  your 
birthstone  is  the  turquoise  and  your  flower 
is  the  narcissus;  and  here  are  some  of  the 
stars  who  share  it  with  you: 


December 
December 
December 
December 


December  8- 


December  10- 

December  11- 

December  12- 

December  13- 

December  14- 

Dec  ember  15- 

December  17- 

December  18- 

December  19- 

December  20- 

December  21- 

December  23- 

December  24- 

December  26- 

December  27- 

Dec ember  28- 

December  30- 


Mary  Martin 

-Julie  Harris 

-Deanna  Durbin 

Rod  Cameron 
Eli  Wallach 

Sammy  Davis,  Jr. 
James  MacArthur 
Dewey  Martin 

-  Dina  Merrill 
Lee  J.  Cobb 
Broderick  Crawford 

-Dorothy  Lam  our 
Barbara  Nichols 

-  Betsy  Blair 
Gilbert  Roland 

-Connie  Francis 
Frank  Sinatra 

Van  Heflin 

-Jack  Benny 

Jeff  Chandler 

Richard  Long 


Betty  Grable 
Roger  Smith 

Kirk  Douglas 

Dennis  Morgan 

Jane  Fonda 

-Ruth  Roman 
Harry  Guardino 

Ava  Gardner 

Steve  Allen 

-Marlene  Dietrich 

Lew  Ay  res 

-Jb  Van  Fleet 
Jack  Lord 
Russ  Tamblyn 

i/—  Tim  Considine 


Agnes  IWoorehead 

December  6 


Dan  Dailey 

December  14 


Irene  Dunne 

December  20 


Richard  Widmark 

December  26 


new  movies 

(Continued  jrom  page  5) 


SPARTACUS 

spectacle  in  Rome 


Kirk  Douglas 
Laurence  Olivier 
Tony  Curtis 
Jean  Simmons 
Charles  Laughton 
■  Spartacus  (Kirk  Douglas)  comes  of  a  family 
of  slaves  and  his  fate  is  to  be  sold  to  Peter 
Ustinov,  the  wealthy  head  of  a  gladiator  school 
at  Capua.  Enroute  to  Rome  the  aristocratic 
general  Laurence  Olivier  stops  at  Capua  and 
demands  to  be  entertained.  Ustinov  orders 
two  gladiators  to  come  forth  and  fight  to 
the  death.  One  fighter  is  a  giant  Xegro 
(Woody  Strode),  the  other  is  Spartacus  (Kirk 
Douglas).  Jean  Simmons  (a  slave  given  to 
Douglas  to  keep  him  happy)  watches  terrified 
as  Woody  proves  the  better  fighter.  But 
Woody  refuses  to  kill  his  friend  (which  is  the 
end  of  Woody;  Olivier  finishes  him  with  a 
knife  in  the  neck).  Kirk  Douglas  is  appalled 
by  Woody's  death,  soon  leads  a  slave  revolt 
and  escapes  into  open  country  with  Jean,  now 
his  beloved.  As  a  slave  leader  his  army  grows, 
piles  up  victories  and  causes  a  crisis  in  the 
Roman  Senate.  There,  Charles  Laughton, 
political  leader  of  Rome,  struggles  with  Lau- 
rence Olivier  over  their  differing  theories  of 
how  to  subdue  mobs  and  rule  the  people. 
A  lull  scale  war  has  begun  against  Rome 
and  Olivier's  slave  (Tony  Curtis)  escapes  to 
join  Douglas'  army.   As  he  marches  towards 


Rome,  three  armies,  led  by  Olivier,  converge 
on  him  and  his  90,000  men.  After  a  bloody 
slaughter,  Douglas  is  defeated.  Olivier  wants 
to  see  his  corpse  personally  but  he  has  al- 
ready become  anonymous  and  takes  his  place 
among  6,000  prisoners.  Jean  and  her  new- 
born baby  are  taken  into  Olivier's  house 
where  she  maintains  a  stand-offish  attitude 
that  enrages  him.  He  can't  understand  how 
Douglas,  without  wealth  or  political  power, 
could  win  not  only  the  love  of  a  beautiful 
woman  but  also  the  loyalty  of  a  great  army. 
When  he  eventually  learns  that  Douglas  is 
still  alive  he  takes  his  revenge. — Technicolor, 
Universal-International. 


THE  WORLD  OF  SUZIE  WONG 

William  Holden 
Nancy  Kwan 

East-West  romance  Sylvia  syms 

Michael  Wilding 
Laurence  Naismith 

■  The  world  of  Suzie  Wong  (Nancy  Kwan) 
comes  as  quite  a  shock  to  artist  William 
Holden.  He's  a  free  soul  but  not  so  free  he 
can  enjoy  living  in  a  house  of  "yum-yum" 
girls  without  feeling  a  certain  embarrassment. 
Holden  has  arrived  in  Hong  Kong  with  a 
little  money  and  a  big  dream — he  wants  to 
see  if  he  really  is  an  artist.  He  is  no  sooner 
aboard  a  ferrv  that  will  take  him  to  his  des- 


Jean  Simmons,  herself  a  slave,  cradles  the  head  of  her  lover,  a  slave  called  Spar- 
tacus (played  by  Kirk  Douglas).  This  is  one  of  the  few  lyric  moments  the  two 
may  share,  since  Spartacus'  fate  is  to  lead  an  army  of  slaves  against  oppression. 


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tination  than  he  rips  a  sketchbook  out  of  his 
pocket  and  starts  to  draw.  Into  his  view 
floats  Suzie,  a  Chinese  beauty  of  rare  ele- 
gance. She  objects  to  being  sketched,  it's  be- 
neath her  station.  She  says  her  father  is  a 
rich  man  and  she  is  now  on  her  way  to 
marrying  the  boy  of  his  choice.  Dashed, 
Holden  puts  away  his  pad.  A  few  hours  later 
he  has  installed  himself  in  a  second-rate  hotel. 
The  price  is  right,  but  the  atmosphere  is  un- 
usual. It  turns  out  he's  the  only  male  tenant; 
everybody  else  is  a  "yum-yum"  girl,  including 
Suzie  whom  he  sees  on  the  arm  of  a  sailor. 
Well,  there  are  other  girls  in  Hong  Kong — 
nice  English  girls  like  Sylvia  Syms  who  is  the 
daughter  of  a  banker.  Then  there's  his  career 
which  he  thinks  he  can  further  by  having 
Suzie  pose  as  a  model.  Having  Suzie  as 
a  model  entails  having  her  ex-boyfriend 
(Michael  Wilding)  crying  on  his  shoulder; 
also  having  Suzie  as  a  model  makes  it  hard 
for  him  to  put  her  out  of  his  room.  Suzie 
keeps  insisting  she's  a  good  girl  who  took  up 
her  trade  because  it's  a  respectable  Oriental 
custom.  Holden  would  like  to  believe  her 
since  he's  falling  in  love  with  her.  But,  after 
all,  she's  Chinese  and  it  never  occurred  to 
him  that  he'd  marry  a  girl  of  her  race.  And 
she  has  a  baby  (which  she  didn't  mention) 
and  there's  that  lovely  Sylvia.  The  exteriors 
were  filmed  in  Hong  Kong — a  place  that 
"sparkles,"  says  the  studio  cast  sheet,  "with 
life  and  vitality;  it  is  opulent  and  poverty- 
stricken,  an  orchid  on  a  volcano;  eye-filling, 
ear-splitting,  nose-assailing," — and  all  in  Tech- 
nicolor, on  a  wide  screen. — Paramount. 


THE  SAVAGE  INNOCENTS 

Anthony  Quinn 
Yoko  Tani 

life  amonq  the  Eskimos  Carlo  Guistini 

Marco  GuglieSmi 
Peter  O'Toole 

■  The  Savage  Innocents  is  an  unintentionally 


brutal  film.  Its  aim  is  to  dramatize  a  little 
known  segment  of  the  world — life  among  the 
Polar  Eskimos.  In  this  sense  it  has  the  fasci- 
nation of  a  documentary.  Isolated,  primitive, 
the  Polar  Eskimos'  world  is  bounded  by  the 
igloo,  dependent  on  the  hunt,  necessarily  de- 
void of  the  humanizing  aspects  of  easier  socie- 
ties. A  nod  of  consent  gets  a  man  a  wife,  a 
rare  visit  from  a  friend  prompts  the  husband 
to  gladly  offer  his  wife  as  a  "laughing"  com- 
panion. As  Inuk,  Anthony  Quinn  certainly 
gives  a  convincing  performance.  He's  self- 
sufficient,  strong  but  lonely  and  yearns  for  a 
wife.  The  arrival  of  two  sisters  and  their  old 
mother  at  a  friend's  igloo  fills  him  with  glee. 
He  can't  decide  which  one  to  marry.  When 
the  bachelor  friend  decisively  mushes  off 
with  one  of  the  girls  Quinn  thinks  that's  the 
girl  he  wants.  Catching  up  to  the  bridal  pair 
he  realizes  he's  mistaken.  The  brutality  of 
the  film  arises  when  the  Eskimo  world  merges 
with  the  world  of  the  white  trader.  Learning 
that  the  white  man  will  pay  with  a  gun  for 
fox  skins,  Quinn  stops  hunting  bear  and  wal- 
rus and  accumulates  hundreds  of  fox  skins. 
With  his  wife  he  travels  six  months  to  reach 
the  trading  post.  There  he  meets  "civilized" 
Eskimos  in  western  dress,  is  introduced  to  the 
drafts  of  a  wooden  shack,  the  raucous  noise  of 
a  juke  box,  the  debasing  effects  of  alcohol, 
the  sordid  atmosphere  that  symbolizes  the 
white  man's  World.  There,  too,  he  is  spotted 
by  a  missionary  of  the  most  earnest  and  fatu- 
ous kind  who  visits  Quinn  and  his  wife  in 
their  igloo  and  attempts  to  convince  them 
that  they  are  sinners  who  must  repent  to  be 
saved.  Confused  and  angered  by  what  he 
considers  an  insult  (the  missionary  refuses  to 
accept  his  wife  as  a  "laughing"  companion), 
Quinn  accidentally  kills  the  missionary  and 
becomes  an  outlaw.  Some  fascinating  scenery 
and  probably  accurate  information  about  the 
(Continued  on  page  8) 


SCIENTIFIC  CLEARASIL  MEDICATION 

STARVES 
PIMPLES 

SKIN-COIORED,  Hides  pimples  while  it  works 

CLearasil  is  the  new-type  scientific  medication 
especially  for  pimples.  In  tube  or  new  lotion 
squeeze-bottle,  clearasil  gives  you  the  effective 
medications  prescribed  by  leading  Skin  Special- 
ists, and  clinical  tests  prove  it  really  works. 
HOW  CLEARASIL  WORKS  FAST 


softens,  dissoKrs  all-  ct'-.I  skin  tissue  so 
mediations  can  penetrate.  Encourages 
quick  growth  of  healthy,  smooth  skin! 

2.  Stops  bacteria.  Antiseptic  action  stops 
growth  of  the  bacteria  that  can  cause 
and  spread  pimples  .  .  .  helps  prevent 
further  pimple  outbreaks! 

3.  'Starves'  pimples.  O  i  1  -  a  b  s  o  r  b  i  n  g 
action  'starves'  pimples  .  .  .  dries  up, 
helps  remove  excess  oil  that  'feeds' 
pimples  .  .  .  works  fast  to  clear  pimples! 


'Floats'  Out  Blackheads,  clearasil  softens 
and  loosens  blackheads  so  they  float  out  with 
normal  washing.  And,  clearasil  is  greaseless, 
stainless,  pleasant  to  use  day  and  night  for 
uninterrupted  medication. 
Proved  by  Skin  Specialists!  In  tests  on  over 
300  patients,  9  out  of  every  10  cases  were 
cleared  up  or  definitely  improved  IfiTTTI 
while  using  clearasil  (either  lo-  ^JIIJIIL 
tion  or  tube).  In  Tube,  69(£  and 
98^.  Long-lasting  Lotion  squeeze- 
bottle,  only  $1.25  (no  fed.  tax). 
Money-back  guarantee. 
At  all  drug  _^-r^?ai*\ 
counters. 


Clearasil 


LARGEST-CELLING  BECAUSE  IT  REALLY  WORKS 


PADLETTE  GODDARD: 


\~7  VTW-' 

no  snoh,  she! 


The  reporter  was  frantic. 

He'd  come  from  an  out-of-town 
paper,  especially  to  do  an  exclusive 
interview  with  Paulette  Goddard. 
They'd  had  an  elegant  luncheon  in  a 
famous  restaurant  and  he'd  filled  his 
notebook  with  copious  notes  on  her 
•  harm,  her  glamour,  on  the  exciting 
life  she  lived,  on  her  fabled  furs  and 
jewels  and  works  of  art.  Miss  God- 
dard had  been  so  co-operative.  What 
a  story  he'd  turn  in! 

What  made  the  biggest  impression 
was  that  along  with  her  sophistica- 
tion, her  glamour,  she  seemed  some- 
how down-to-earth.  She  had  a  quality 
that  made  her  seem  .  .  .  well,  "like 
everybody  else."  She'd  probably 
answered  most  of  the  questions  he'd 
asked,  time  and  time  before,  but  she 
never  appeared  bored. 

Now  as  he  sat  down  at  the  type- 
writer, in  his  hotel  room,  container  of 
coffee  at  hand,  ready  to  begin,  he 
reached  for  his  notes  and  knocked 
[he  coffee  all  over  them.  He  grabbed 
them  up.  but  too  late — about  half 
were  unreadable.  Well,  he  could  do 
most  of  it  from  memory,  she'd  made 
such  an  impression  on  him,  but  those 
names:  Those  painters,  those  places 
all  over  the  world  where  she'd  trav- 
eled, those  people  from  the  interna- 
tional set  who  came  to  her  parties.  .  .  . 
How  could  he  ever  get  those  straight? 

Yes,  he'd  just  have  to  call  her.  He 
hated  to  bother  her,  but  she'd  been 
so  nice,  so  sincere-seeming,  and  it 
was  just  a  few — but  very  important 


- — names  he  needed.  Lucky  he  knew 
a  newsman  in  town  who  kept  a  list 
of  celebrities'  unlisted  telephones  and 
addresses,  or  he'd  really  be  stuck. 
Meanwhile,  he'd  better  tell  the  maid 
about  the  coffee  on  the  rug.  .  .  . 

The  maid  came  in  just  as  he  was 
putting  in  his  call  to  the  big-city 
newspaper  where  his  friend  worked. 
She  began  straightening  up  the  room 
as  he  said  pleadingly  into  the  phone, 
"He's  out  on  an  assignment?  Look, 
could  you  do  me  a  favor — I  know  he 
keeps  a  list  of  hard-to-get  numbers 
and  addresses  of  important  people — 
this  is  an  emergency  and  I  just  must 
reach  Paulette  Goddard.  It  practical- 
ly means  my  job.  That's  right.  Paul- 
ette Goddard.  Yeah,  I'll  wait.  .  .  ." 

A  few  moments  later  he  groaned, 
anguished,  "You  mean,  there's  noth- 
ing .  .  .  you're  sure?  .  .  .  Paulette 
Goddard?  .  .  .  you're  sure  there's  no 
listing  for  her?" 

He  hung  up  and  glared  at  his  notes 
in  despair. 

Suddenly  he  felt  a  tap  on  his 
shoulder.  It  was  the  maid.  "Excuse 
me,  but  I  couldn't  help  overhearin' 
you,  and  well,  I  figured  why  not  look 
in  the  telephone  book,  like  everybody 
else."  She  put  the  book  in  front  of 
him  and  pointed.  "Would  this  be 
what  you're  lookin'  for?" 

And  there  it  was,  right  there  in 
the  book:  Paulette  Goddard,  320  E. 
57,  PLaza  9-4233. 

Like  he  always  said,  nothing  snob- 
bish about  Miss  Goddard! 


new  movies 

(Continued  from  page  7) 

Eskimo  can't  erase  the  overall  sense  of  de- 
pression this  film  instills. — Technicolor,  Para- 
mount. 


BUTTERFIELD  8 

modern  tragedy 


Elizabeth  Taylor 
Laurence  Harvey 
Dina  Merrill 
Eddie  Fisher 
Mildred  Dunnock 

■  Dial  "Butterfield  8"  and  you  get  Gloria 
(Elizabeth  Taylor).  If  the  phone  didn't  ring 
she'd  go  out  of  her  mind.  Fortunately,  that's 
no  problem.  Elizabeth  is  beautiful — all  men 
want  her,  all  women  hate  her — especially  Lau- 
rence Harvey's  wife.  But  that's  getting  ahead 
of  the  story.  Elizabeth  is  the  way  she  is  be- 
cause her  father  died  when  she  was  eleven 
and  her  mother,  with  whom  she  lives,  is  too 
vague  and  weak  to  face  reality.  Elizabeth's 
one  good  friend  is  Steve  (Eddie  Fisher)  whom 
she  loves  in  a  platonic  way.  That's  fortunate, 
because  Eddie  has  a  girlfriend  whom  he  even- 
tually decides  to  marry.  Meanwhile,  there  is 
Laurence  Harvey.  He  was  a  law  student  who 
gave  up  his  ambition  to  marry  a  rich  girl 
(Dina  Merrill)  and  be  taken  into  the  family's 
business.  It  has  taken  a  lot  out  of  him  and 
he  toys  with  the  idea  of  getting  a  divorce. 
Luckily  he  doesn't  do  more  than  toy  because 
Dina  wouldn't  give  him  a  divorce.  Harvey 
has  noticed  Elizabeth  a  lot  in  the  nightclubs 
he  and  his  friends  frequent  and  finally  he's 
introduced  to  her.  They  fall  in  love.  Things 
progress  more  or  less  smoothly  until  Liz 
leaves  his  apartment  with  Dina's  mink  coat 
on  her  back  and  refuses  to  return  it.  Lau- 
rence is  so  angry  he  stops  seeing  her:  Eddie 
has  just  gotten  married.  Mink  coat  or  not, 
Elizabeth  is  very  depressed — so  she  heads  for 
Montreal.  Laurence  follows  her,  protesting 
his  love  and  announcing  that  he'll  get  a  di- 
vorce. Splendid.  Only  Elizabeth  is  turning 
over  a  new  leaf;  she  doesn't  want  to  spend 
the  night  with  him.  Disappointed,  Laurence 
launches  into  a  tirade  and  Elizabeth  dashes 
out  of  his  room  and  into  the  path  of  disaster. 
A  strong  screen-play  by  Charles  Schnee  and 
John  Michael  Hayes.     — Metrocolor,  MGM. 

RECOMMENDED  MOVIES: 

LET'S  MAKE  LOVE  (20th-Fox):  Marilyn  Monroe 
and  Yves  Montand  are  several  of  the  ingredients  that 
get  whipped  together  in  this  frothy  comedy.  He  is  a 
somewhat  bored  I-can-have-any-girl-I-want  billionaire 
(that's  right,  billionaire!),  and  she  is  a  somewhat 
earnest  off-Broadway  actress;  but.  when  once  they 
meet,  no  one  is  bored.  Montand  accidentally  gets  hired 
for  Marilyn's  show,  which  just  happens  to  be  about 
him  anyway,  and  he  has  to  hire  great  showbusiness 
lights  (Milton  Berle,  Gene  Kellv,  Bing  Crosbv)  to 
teach  him  of  life  behind  the  footlights.  This  is  a  slick 
movie  and  a  fun  one! 

LET  NO  MAN  WRITE  MY  EPITAPH  (Columbia): 
The  big  question  in  this  movie  is  whether  a  boy  from 
the  seamy  South  Side  of  Chicago,  with  a  "B"  girl  for 
a  mother  and  a  father  who  died  in  the  electric  chair, 
can  make  good.  The  boy  is  Jimmy  Darren,  the  mother 
is  Shelley  Winters,  and  the  motley,  less-than-soUd 
citizens  who  make  up  their  "adopted"  family  are 
dope-addicted  singer  Ella  Fitzgerald,  alcoholic  ex- 
judge  Burl  Ives,  a  prostitute  and  an  ex-fighter.  A  good 
lomance  come  to  Jimmy  (with  Jean  Seberg)  and  a 
bad  one  to  Shelley  (with  Ricardo  Montalban):  from 
these  two  loves  come  many  complications.  The  end  is 
tense — a  photo-finish  between  the  good  life  and  the 
bad  for  our  hero. 

MIDNIGHT  LACE  (U.I.)  :  London  is  a  cosmopolitan 
city,  full  of  suspense  (all  that  fog,  y'know).  But,  it's 
positively  spine-tingling  for  Doris  Day  who  fearfully 
tells  her  suave  financier  husband  (Rex  Harrison) 
that  someone  is  trying  to  kill  her.  Voices  out  of  the 
fog  warning  her,  elevators  suddenly  stalling,  steel 
girders  nearly  falling  on  her — these  are  some  of  the 
dangers  menacing  Doris.  John  Gavin  saves  her  from 
one  fate  worse  than  death,  Roddy  McDowall  adds  to 
the  threat  of  another,  and  husband  Rex  promises  to 
take  her  to  Venice  where  she  will  be  safe.  I  mean,  who 
can  harm  you  in  a  gondola?  Who?  Go  see! 


MODERN  SCREEN'S 
8  PAGE  GOSSIP  EXTRA 
by 

HOLLYWOOD'S 
GREATEST  COLUMNIST 


brings  you 
the  Wedding  of 
the  Year! 


Nancy  and  Tommy:  The  Wedding  of  the  Year! 


What  do  I  mean  'Wedding  of  the  Month?' 
The  most  romantic  marriage  of  this  or  any 
other  year  took  place  when  radiantly  happy 
Nancy  Sinatra,  just  twenty,  married  Tommy 
Sands,  an  older  man  of  twenty-three  in  the 
Emerald  Room  of  her  dad's  favorite  spot,  the 
Sands  Hotel  in  Las  Vegas. 


A  bemused  Tommy  nearly  wore 
wrong  pants,  ivas  saved  by  best  man. 


I  was  so  sorry  that  work  prevented  my  being 
among  the  thirty-five  guests  present,  because 
I  have  watched  this  lovely  girl  grow  up.  But 
I  didn't  have  a  moment's  doubt  that  she'd 
phone  me  right  after  the  ceremony  and  give 
me  all  the  details. 

Nancy  and  Tommy's  sudden  decision  that 
they  were  too  much  in  love  to  wait  for  their 
original  late  winter  wedding  date  had  every- 
body hustling. 

Private  planes  had-  to  be  chartered  to  fly 
the  wedding  party  to  Nevada.  Don  Loper  had 


to  rush  Nancy's  traditional  white  gown,  which 
was  made  of  white  appligued  French  lace, 
with  a  high  boat  neck,  long  sleeves  and  a 
bouffant  skirt.  At  the  Emerald  Room,  they  had 
approximately  six  seconds  to  turn  it  into  a 
wonderful  garden  abloom  with  roses,  carna- 
tions, gladioli  and  chrysanthemums. 

Jack  Entratter.  who  owns  the  Sands,  rushed 
around  with  the  secret  plans,  and  took  over 
ordering  the  wedding  cake,  which  was  care- 
fully left  anonymous  until  I  broke  with  the 
story  that  shattered  all  this  secrecy  to  bits.  In 
all  this  rush,  even  the  bridegroom  nearly  went 
to  the  altar  wearing  the  wrong  trousers  to  his 
airman's  uniform.  He  was  only  saved  from 
this  fate  worse  than  court  martial  by  his  alert- 
eyed  half-brother,  Dr.  Edward  Deam. 

Eddie,  who  was  also  Tommy's  best  man. 
spotted  the  error,  got  Tommy's  correct  pants, 
pressed  them  himself,  and  helped  hurl  Tommy 
into  them  about  one  minute  before  4:00  P.M., 
when  District  Judge  David  Zenoff  stepped  for- 
ward to  conduct  the  ceremony. 

Nancy  held  her  proud  little  head  high  as 
her  father  gave  her  away,  and  believe  me.  I 
never  expected  to  see  sentimental  tears  in 
Frank's  eyes,  but  they  tell  me  I  would  have 
seen  them  then. 


A  tender  picture:  Nancy's  mother 
watches   her   veil   being  placed. 


The  lovely  bride  wore  a  white  satin  toque 
with  a  short  illusion  veil  over  her  dark  hair, 
and  she  wouldn't  have  been  her  dad's  daugh- 
ter if  she  hadn't  managed  to  be  original,  even 
when  she  was  following  tradition.  Proof  is 
the  "something  old"  she  wore  with  her  bridal 
outfit. 

This  was  a  pair  of  real  lace  panties,  which 
were,  of  course,  not  visible.  Nancy  had 
cherished  these  since  she  was  twelve,  when 
she  had  received  them  as  a  Christmas  present. 
Even  at  that  pre-teen  age,  she  knew  they  were 
too  fragile  and  valuable  to  wear  for  any 
routine  occasion.  So  for  eight  years  she  treas- 
ured them  for  her  dream  wedding,  and  when 
the  dream  came  true,  the  pants  got  their 
chance. 


* 


A  smiling  Beth  Petruch,  Nancy's 
chum  and  maid  of  honor,  wore  pink. 


Nancy  Sinatra,  Sr.,  and  Tommy's 
mother  happily  hugged  each  other. 


Tommy  and  Nancy 
gave  Louella 
this  photo  scoop, 
the  only  shots 
taken  of  the 
actual  ceremony. 
Aren't  they 
lovely? 


With  this  ring 
I  thee  wed 


The  most  solemn  moment — a 
man  placing  the  ring  on  the  fin- 
ger of  his  beloved,  the  woman  to 
love  and  honor  above  all  others. 


Nancy  and  Tommy  stood  tall, 
heads  high,  as  they  listened  to 
the  ceremony,  sure  and  happy 
in  their  love  for  each  other. 


Frank's  gentle  smile  reflects 
hoiv  proud  he  ivas  to  escort  his 
young  daughter.  Later,  his  eyes 
filled    with   sentimental  tears. 


V 


And  then,  bridal  veil  lifted,  vows  exchanged,  Tommy  kissed  his  bride. 


\ 


Her  "something  borrowed"  was  her  sister 
Tina's  pearls.  For  "something  blue"  she  wore 
a  blue  silk  garter  that  her  closest  school  chum, 
Beth  Potruch,  had  given  her.  Beth  was  Nancy's 
maid  of  honor,  wearing  a  pink  chiffon,  full 
skirted  dress,  also  designed  by  Don  Loper, 
with  a  matching  toque.  Beth  carried  a  pink 
and  white  bouquet  and  all  the  members  of  the 
bridal  party  had  pink  and  white  matching  cor- 
sages, while  Nancy's  bride's  bouquet  was  en- 
tirely made  up  of  the  most  magnificent  white 
orchids. 

In  the  immediate  wedding  party  were  all 
the  family, — Frank  Sinatra  and  Nancy. 
Senior,  Frankie,  Jr.,  and  Tina,  the  family's 
private  secretary,  Gloria  Lovell,  and  Jack  and 
Mrs.  Entratter.  Tommy  had  his  father  and 
mother,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ben  Sands,  there,  his 
half-brother  and  his  wife,  and  Ted  Wick,  his 
personal  manager.  But  if  the  ceremony  was 
simple,  the  reception  afterward  was  not. 

The  moment  the  doors  of  the  Emerald  Room 
in  the  Sands  Hotel  were  opened,  the  crowd 
swarmed  in.  The  champagne  began  to  flow.  In 
one  corner,  the  orchestra  of  Jonah  Jones 
started  playing.  In  another,  Morry  King  and 
his  violins  began  individual  serenades.  Such 
baseball  heroes  as  Joe  DiMaggio  and  Leo 
Durocher  crowded  around  young  Nancy,  con- 
gratulating her  and  Tommy,  and  being  prop- 
erly bedazzled  by  the  priceless  diamond  ear- 
rings her  father,  Frank,  has  given  her,  and  the 
exquisite  pear  shaped  diamond  on  the  plati- 
num chain  that  Tommy  had  presented  to  his 
bride. 

Nancy  had  given  a  wafer-thin  evening 
watch  to  Tommy — but  not  without  difficulties, 
and  not  without  her  father's  assistance.  The 
watch  which  Nancy  eventually  purchased  was 
a  duplicate  of  one  Frank  has,  and  which  young 
Nancy  has  always  admired.  If  you  want  to 


I 


know  the  truth  of  it,  there's  nothing  about  her 
father  that  Nancy  doesn't  dote  on,  and  that 
goes  double  as  far  as  Frank's  love  for  her  is 
concerned. 

This  may  sound  sentimental  to  you,  but  I 
can't  help  it.  I  honestly  believe  that  some  of 
Frank's  love  of  his  oldest  daughter  stems 
from  his  memory  of  the  unspoiled  time  in  his 
life  when  she  was  born. 

He  wasn't  the  Frank  Sinatra  then.  He  and 
his  young  bride,  Nancy,  were  so  in  love.  They 
were  having  a  rough  time,  financially,  but 
nothing  mattered  less  to  them  then  than 
money.  They  had  occasional  opulent  weeks 
when  Frank  made  a  whole  S25.  They  had 
other  weeks  when  it  was  a  good  thing  they 
were  Italians  and  loved  spaghetti,  for  which 
they  couldn't  even  afford  meat  balls.  Little 
Nancy  was  born  during  this  happy  time.  By 
the  time,  Frank,  Jr.  came  along,  fame  was 
rolling  for  Frankie.  By  the  time  Tina  was 
bom,  the  Sinatra  marriage  was  all  but  over. 
Say  what  you  want  about  Frank,  he  has  al- 
ways been  a  wonderful  father  to  his  children, 
all  of  whom  he  loves,  but  little  Nancy  is 
definitely  the  flawless  apple  of  his  eye. 

Thus,  when  just  before  her  wedding  she 
confided  to  her  father  that  she  had  unavail- 
ingly  hunted  all  over  Los  Angeles  for  a  watch 
like  his  for  her  bridegroom,  Daddy  went  into 
action.  It  was  after  hours  in  the  jewelry  shops 
but  a  thing  like  that  can't  stop  a  devoted 
father  named  Sinatra.  Frankie  had  them  all 
opened  up,  or  perhaps  I  ought  to  say  love 
laughed  at  locksmiths.  Anyhow,  Tommy  got 
his  watch. 

It  was  Frank,  Sr.  who  expressed  it  best 
when  Tommy  took  Nancy  into  his  arms  for 
their  first  dance  together  as  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Sands.  "Stardust,"  murmured  Frank,  looking 
at  their  radiantly  happy  faces,  and  I'm  sure  he 
was  proud  of  his  daughter  and  his  new  son- 
in-law,  when  he  noted  how  politely  they  were 
behaving,  even  at  this  most  bemused  moment 
of  their  young  lives. 

Because,  once  around  the  floor,  Nancy  and 


The  groom  lightly  brushed  a  tear  of 
happiness  from  his  wife's  cheek. 


Tommy,  very  correctly  separated,  and  Tommy 
stepped  across  the  room  to  dance  with  the 
mother  of  the  bride  and  Nancy  with  the  father 
of  the  groom.  Then  they  switched  again. 
Tommy  dancing  with  his  mother,  Grace,  and 
Nancy  with  her  father.  Then  as  they  separated 
from  those  partners,  the  dramatic  moment 
came. 

Frank  Sinatra  stood  there,  facing  his  ex- 
wife,  Nancy.  It  certainly  can  be  no  secret  to 
him  that  she  still  loves  him,  and  on  this 
particular  day,  she  looked  very  beautiful.  She 
was  wearing  a  gold  satin  dress,  with  a  match- 
ing mink-collared  jacket.  Near  her  stood  lively 
Tina  Sinatra,  wearing  a  yellow  organza  dress 
that  was  the  prettiest.  At  her  side  was  Frank, 


Jr.  who  is  a  double  of  his  father  and  who 
seems  to  have  inherited  his  musical  talent  to 
an  extent  that  may  well  make  him  surpass 
the  original. 

There's  no  telling  what  Frank  must  have 
been  thinking  as  he  looked  at  Nancy,  Senior. 
He's  always  told  everyone  how  great  a  mother 
he  thinks  her.  But  I'm  sure  there  were  other, 
deeper  emotions  in  that  wandering  heart  of 
his,  there  at  his  daughter's  wedding.  Later 
that  night  in  the  Copa  Room  at  the  Sands  he 
told  the  audience,  "I'd  like  to  take  just  two 
minutes  to  say  I  am  one  of  the  happiest  men 
in  the  world  today.  My  daughter,  Nancy,  mar- 
ried a  wonderful  fellow  named  Tommy  Sands 
and  I  wish  them  all  the  happiness  they  both 
deserve  so  much." 

He  said  nothing  like  that,  however,  as  he 
danced  at  the  reception  with  Nancy,  Sr.  What 
was  touching  to  the  observers  was  that  they 
both  smiled  and  talked  so  lightly,  not  like 
lost  sweethearts  but  with  the  careful  good 
manners  of  any  lady  and  gentleman  ^dancing 
together  at  any  party.  Besides,  they  have  al- 
ways remained  good  friends,  and  Frank  is 
very  generous  with  her. 

It  was  Frank,  with  his  characteristic  smooth 
ness  who,  somehow  right  then,  threw  the 
party  open  to  everyone.  Gary  Crosby  was 
there  with  his  bride  and  he  started  dancing. 
In  an  instant,  everyone  was  on  the  floor,  danc- 
ing with  whomever  they  chose  and  protocol 
was  forgotten.  People  smiled  at  one  another, 
repeating  young  Nancy's  remarks  about  how 
she  had  to  start  furnishing  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Tommy  Sands'  apartment  immediately  after 
their  one-day  honeymoon. 

That  was  all  the  time  Tommy  could  get  off 
until  his  separation  from  the  Army  in  Novem- 
ber, after  which  the  blissful  couple  are  going 
on  a  real  honeymoon  trip  to  the  Orient. 

Said  Nancy,  her  eyes  shining  like  star 
sapphires,  "I  have  to  learn  to  cook  and  to 
keep  house.  After  all,  I'm  a  married  woman 
now.  I'm  Mrs.  Tommy  Sands.  That's  a  lot  to 
live  up  to." 


Then  .  .  .  Nancy  and  Tommy  were 
alone;  time  belonged  only  to  them. 


The  gorgeous  tiered  ivedding  cake  tvas  cut  carefully 
by  Tommy  and  Nancy,  to  insure  future  good  luck. 


Rita's  Daughters 


Little  Princess  Yasmin,  daughter  of  Rita 
Hayworth  and  the  late  Aly  Khan,  will  be 
a  very  rich  girl  when  she  reaches  the  age  of 
twenty-one.  Aly  adored  his  beautiful  little 
daughter,  and  very  touchingly  in  his  will  told 
his  two  sons  to  give  her  love  and  protection 
always. 

Yasmin,  who  lives  with  her  mother,  is  a  whiz 
at  playing  golf.  Her  step-father,  Jim  Hill,  the 
producer,  tells  me  that  she  beats  him  at  the 
game  regularly.  Rita  adores  golf  and  there 
is  practically  not  a  day  goes  by  but  that  she 
is  on  the  links. 

Rebecca,  Rita's  daughter  by  Orson 
Welles,  has  taken  off  some  of  her  baby  fat 
and  is  growing  tall  and  attractive.  There  is  a 
great  devotion  between  the  half-sisters  even 
if  they  are  so  completely  unlike  one  another 
both  in  looks  and  temperament.  Rita  is  a  won- 
derful mother  to  both  of  them. 


I  nominate  for 
STARDOM 


Juliet  Prowse 

When  Barrie  Chase,  Fred  Astaire's 

favorite  dancing  partner,  walked  out  on  Can- 
Can  because  she  felt  the  role  was  too  small 
for  her,  she  couldn't  foresee  that  two  char- 
acters would  be  merged  into  one  very  strong 
one. 

Neither  could  Twentieth  Century-Fox  foresee 
when  they  signed  an  unknown  leggy  girl 
named  Juliet  Prowse  on  the  recommenda- 
tion of  Hermes  Pan,  the  choreographer,  that 
they  were  signing  a  girl  headed  for  stardom 
and  Frank  Sinatra's  heart. 

Juliet  isn't  a  bit  beautiful.  By  most  standards, 
she's  too  tall.  But  in  her  34-24-35  way,  she  has 


what  it  takes,  by  which  I  mean  sex,  humor 
and  a  joy  of  living  that  blazed  right  past  the 
distinguished  company  of  Frank,  Shirley 
MacLaine  and  Maurice  Chevalier  in 

Can-Can  and  just  about  knocked  Elvis  out 
of  his  G.  I.  shoes  in  G.  J.  Biues. 

Elvis  was  dating  her,  all  during  the  making 
of  his  picture  but  make  no  mistake:  her  heart 
belongs  to  Frankie.  Paramount,  after  seeing 
Juliet  in  it,  is  willing  to  pay  a  mint  to  buy  her 
from  Twentieth,  but  Twentieth  is  not  listening. 

Juliet  Prowse  is  her  real  name  and  she 
was  born  twenty-three  years  ago  of  English 
parents  in  Bombay,  India.  She's  danced  ever 
since  she  was  three,  has  always  been  a  hit, 
has  traveled  all  over  the  world  but  has  always 
been  too  busy  to  marry,  but  she  has  a  boy 
friend  in  Italy,  Sergio  Fadini  about  whom  she 
is  guite  serious — or  was,  at  least  until  she 
met  an  Italian  in  America,  named  Sinatra. 

For  her  originality,  her  chic,  her  impudence, 
her  ability  as  an  actress,  I  nominate  her  for 
stardom  and  of  a  very  high  grade,  too. 


A  tvhiz  at  golf,  young  Princess  Yas- 
min's  first  love  is  still  her  pony. 


14 


Jean  Is  Dining  Out... 

Whether  or  not  it  will  be  wedding  bells  for 
producer-director  Richard  Brooks  and  Jean 
Simmons  when  her  divorce  from  Stewart 
Granger  becomes  final,  I  wouldn't  be  know- 
ing. I  do  know  that  Jean  took  a  somewhat 
unique  method  of  letting  Hollywood  know 
how  deep  her  interest  was  in  Brooks,  whom 
she  met  during  the  making  of  Elmer  Gantry. 

She  phoned  me  and  several  other  colum- 
nists and  said,  "I  want  you  to  know  that  I 
shall  be  dining  tonight  at  "Au  Petit  Jean" 
with  Richard  Brooks  and  that  after  this  I  ex- 
pect to  go  out  with  Mr.  Brooks  and  other 
escorts." 

Nobody  has  yet  seen  anything  of  these 
"other  escorts"  and  I  doubt  that  we  will. 
Stewart  Granger,  by  the  by,  is  very  bitter 
over  the  whole  thing. 


A  newly-divorced  Jean  Simmons  had  a  unique  method  of  announcing 
that  director  Richard  Brooks  would  be  a  rather  constant  future  escort. 


Lana  Turner  seems  so  happy  these  days  because  she's  found  Fred  May; 
not  only  will  he  be  a  loving  husband,  but  a  good  father  for  Cheryl,  too. 


Lana  and  the 
Right  Man 

I  was  very  pleased  that  Fred  May  called 
me  personally  to  tell  me  he  was  marrying 
Lana  Turner.  I  do  think  that  at  long  last 
Lana  has  found  the  right  man,  not  only  for 
herself  but  for  Cheryl  who  definitely  comes 
first  in  all  of  Lana's  thoughts  and  plans  these 
days. 

It  was  Fred  himself,  who  is  such  a  nice, 
sincere  man,  who  told  me  that  before  Lana 
would  consent  to  marrying  him  she  discussed 
the  whole  situation  with  her  daughter.  He  con- 


fided to  me  that  Lana  had  said  that  if  Cheryl 
didn't  approve  of  him  as  her  step-father,  every- 
thing would  be  off  between  them. 

But  Cheryl,  who  is  being  allowed  tc  live 
with  Lana  now,  and  who  is  growing  prettier 
every  day,  highly  approved  of  Fred,  and  she 
is  so  right.  Fred  May  is  a  man  of  real  sub- 
stance, not  only  in  terms  of  his  fine  character 
but  he  is  also  rich  and  mature  enough  to  ap- 
preciate the  demands  of  Lana's  career. 

I'm  certainly  wishing  all  three  of  them  hap- 
piness. Lana  and  Cheryl  have  had  a  very 
rough  time  but  their  troubles  have  only  made 
them  love  one  another  with  deeper  under- 
standing. 


Winter  Wedding  Beils 
for  Debbie 

Debbie  Reynolds  will  marry  Harry  Karl.  She 
dates  no  one  else  and  as  she  says  herself 
she  likes  him  better  than  any  man  she  has 
ever  met. 

"Harry  is  a  fine  man,"  Debbie  told  me.  "He 
makes  me  very  happy.  He's  good  to  my  chil- 
dren and  he  is  wonderful  to  my  mother  and 
father  and  my  brother.  He  has  given  me  lovely 
presents  but  it  isn't  because  of  material  things 
that  I  have  come  to  be  so  fond  of  him. 

"I  have  all  the  money  I  want  to  buy  my- 
self gowns  and  jewels.  What  is  important  to 
me  is  that  I  have  a  real  home  and  someone 
who  will  love  my  children  and  I  think  Harry 
and  I  would  be  very  happy." 

Knowing  Debbie,  I  know  she'll  do  nothing 
about  marriage  till  late  this  winter,  when 
Harry's  divorce  from  Mrs.  Joan  Cohn  becomes 
final,  but  then  you  can  start  listening  for 
wedding  bells. 


Wedding  bells  ivill  sound  for  Deb- 
bie when  Harry  Karl  is  divorced. 


An  older  reader  believes  that  fan-magazine  neglect  of  such  mature  stars 
as  Barbara  Stamvyck  and  Shirley  Booth  damages  the  movie  business. 


A  youthful,  lovely  Greer  Garson  is 
proof  that  maturity  doesn't  hurt! 


And  Spencer  Tracy  is  another  long  es- 
tablished star  who  holds  on  to  his  fans. 


Louella  certainly  doesn't  dislike  read- 
er's favorite  pop  singer,  Rod  Lauren! 


:'W| 


LETTER 
BOX 


"Have  just  seen  Pollyanna  and  enjoyed  it 
so  much,  I  felt  I  should  sit  down  and  write 
you.  It  was  because  ot  your  article  that  I 
wanted  to  see  it,  and  Pollyanna  did  exactly 
what  you  said  it  would.  It  entertained,  put  a 
tear  in  your  eye,  a  smile  on  your  face,  and  a 
song  in  your  heart.  Why  can't  we  have  more 
films  of  this  nature?  It's  just  what  the  world 
needs  today,  instead  of  violence,  depression, 
sex  and  murder.  Signed:  F.  Ewing  Folsom. 

How  right  you  are,  F.  Ewing  Folsom. 

Mrs.  Arthur  White  of  Casper,  Wyoming, 
writes:  I'd  like  to  add  my  voice  to  the  ever 
increasing  chorus  of  protests  about  the  lack 
of  movie  stars  in  Modern  Screen.  I've  been  a 
reader  since  1938,  and  how  long  has  it  been 
since  Modern  Screen  did  a  story  on  Spencer 
Tracy,  Greer  Garson,  Barbara  Stan 


wyck.  Shirley  Booth,  Katharine  Hep 
burn.  Ann  Sheridan.  Linda  Darnell. 
Bette  Davis.  Fred  MacMurray,  or  any 

of  the  mature  actors  and  actresses?  I  know 
these  people  are  not  dead.  Tell  me,  Louella, 
do  I  have  a  poinf,  or  am  I  just  an  old  fogey 
living  in  the  past?  I  sincerely  believe  that  this 
program  of  neglecting  the  stars  ot  Hollywood 
is  seriously  hurting  the  motion  picture  busi- 
ness. 

I  guess  you  do  have  a  point,  Mrs.  White. 
We  do  try  to  write  about  both  the  older  and 
the  younger  stars,  since  our  readers  seem  to 
like  all  categories. 

Elizabeth  Jean  Brady  of  Austin  Iowa, 
snaps:  7  wouid  like  to  see  you  print  some- 
thing about  Steve  Elliot.  To  me  he  is  a  top 
singer  in  show  business.  And  why  do  you 
neglect  Rod  Lauren?  Why,  why,  why  don't 
you  tell  us  something  about  Robert  Fortier, 
who  is  starring  in  CBS's  The  Full  Circle?  Is 
it  because  they  are  young,  or  do  you  dislike 
them? 

No,  indeed,  Miss  Brady.  I  may  be  a  little 


jealous,  but  I  certainly  don't   dislike  them. 

What  are  Rock  Hudson's  favorite  foods, 
colors,  pastimes,  and  what  kind  of  car  does 
he  drive?  asks  Margaret  Sanfilippo,  of 
Brooklyn,  New  York.  Then  goes  on  to  ask. 
What  is  the  truth  behind  the  Lucy-Desi  split-upi 

Dear,  dear  Margaret:  I  would  have  to  fill 
the  magazine  if  I  answered  all  those  questions, 
and  I  don't  think  Editor  David  Myers  would 
like  it.  I'll  try  to  answer  your  letter  soon.  .  . 

From  Mary  Weston,  of  Detroit,  Michigan. 
comes  a  very  nice  compliment.  She  writes.  / 
enjoy  your  column  more  than  anyone  else's, 
and  'I  Nominate  For  S,tardom'  is  one  of  my 
favorite  features.  What  I  like  best  is  that  you 
never  take  cracks  at  Marilyn  Monroe,  so 
will  you  please  assure  me  that  all  that  gossip 
about  Marilyn  and  Yves  Montand  is  not 
true?" 

Read  my  interview  in  Modern  Screen  with 
Montand  (see  page  24),  Mary,  and  I'll  tell 
you  all. 


16 


I  dreamed  the  leaves  fell  for  me 

in  my  maidenfbrrri  bra 


And  what  stirred  up  this  lovely  storm?  SWEET  MUSIC*,  the  bra  with  the  spoke -stitched  cups  for  fashion's 
newest  "rounded  look".  A,BX  cups,  2.50.  Also  in  the  SWEET  MUSIC  family  tree:  SWEET  MUSIC  CONTOUR, 
A,  B  cups,  3.95;  SWEET  MUSIC  LACE  CONTOUR,  A,  B  cups,  3.95;  SWEET  MUSIC  ELASTIC,  A,  B,  C  cups,  3.00. 


Youngtime  Pink 


as  smoothly 


as  you  change 


mm 

the  subject 


looks  like  lipstick.  It  feels  like  lipstick.  It  is  lipstick, 
what  a  difference  an  A  makes.  Lipstick.  Lipstack. 
Tussy  Lipstack  is  more  than  five  shy  lipsticks  nestled 
m  a  stack.  It's  the  most  blatant  bit  of  encouragement  that  ever 
ossed  a  woman's  lips— with  the  possible  exception  of  yes.  Mix 
cocktails  with  Contraband.  Walk  Youngtime  Pink  in  the  park. 
Take  each  color  as  it  comes.  Be  brave.  Be  bold.  Experiment.  Mix. 
Blend.  Have  fim.  Dream.  Scheme.  Cream  all  your  lips 
with  one  Tussy  Lipstack.  Five  out-and-out  suggestions 
made  proper  with  Perma-Dew,  the  softening  secret  only 
Tussy  knows.  Five  lingering  lipsticks  in  one  lithe  lipstack 
you  can  change  your  lips  as  smoothly,  as  slyly  —  as 
deftly,  as  endearingly  as  you  change  the  subject. 
All  for  a  mere  $1.75  plus  tax  at  stores  smart 
enough  to  know  what's  on  a  woman's  mind  and 
what  should  be  on  her  lips.  ©.%.i»s!f,..s«R»..E.,».,. 


THE  CASE  OF 
THELMA  RYAN 
THE  STARLET 
WHO  DIDN'T 
MAKE  IT 


JLk  -  ~ 


Years  ago  a  slim,  pretty  young  blonde  went  to  Hollywood  with  dreams  of  stardom  in  her  heart.  Like 
most  starlets,  she  dreamed  of  going  into  a  darkened  theater  one  day  and  seeing  herself  up  there  on  the 
screen;  and  she  dreamed  of  going  to  a  magazine  stand,  picking  up  a  copy  of  Modern  Screen  and  seeing 
her  own  picture  there,  in  full  color!  As  it  turned  out,  this  slim  little  blonde  named  Thelma  Ryan  had  to 
quickly  abandon  her  dream.  She  just  didn't  make  it  as  an  actress.  Oh  well,  she  would  marry,  raise  a  family, 
and  lead  a  normal  life.  But  again  Thelma  Ryan  was  wrong:  though  she  married  and  had  two  wonderful  little 
girls.,  her  life  was  hardly  normal,  for  the  man,  she  married  was  a  lawyer  named  Dick  Nixon.  Now,  in  the 
crazy  way  that  destiny  often  works,  Thelma  Ryan's  old  abandoned  dream  of  being  a  star  in  Modern  Screen 
has  come  true.  There  she  is  (in  full  color,  too)  on  the  following  page!  A  surprise  for  her,  certainly,  and 
probably  a  surprise  for  you  too— but  the  kind  of  surprise  you  can  expect  more  and  more  of  in  this 
magazine.  For  Modern  Screen  is  not  just  another  monthly  collection  of  articles  about  top  box-office-rated 
male  and  female  "properties"— Modern  Screen  is  a  magazine  of  people,  the  magazine  of  people,  real 
people,  exciting  people,  people  caught  in  the  ocean  of  experience  at  high  tide,  stars  not  only  of  the 
screen  but  of  life  itself,  stars  like  Mrs.  Richard  (Thelma  Ryan)  Nixon  and  Mrs.  John  (Jacqueline  Bouvier) 
Kennedy,  who  open  this  issue  of  Modern  Screen  because  right  now,  despite  everything  that's  happening 
to  Liz  and  Debbie  and  Marilyn,  they  happen  to  be  the,  two  most  exciting  and  excited  women  in  the  whole 
wide  world!  Do  you  agree?  Do  you  want  more  surprises  like  this  in  Modern  Screen?  Turn  the  pages,  read  the 
stories  of  Pat  and  Jackie,  and  then  let  us  hear  from  you. 

Sincerely,  "V  A 


David  Myers  u 
Editor 


■  Pat  Ryan  was  seventeen,  the  daughter  of  a  Nevada  miner,  when  she 
went  to  Hollywood.  She  was  full  of  hope  and  dreams.  She  stayed  for  a 
month.  It  was  a  disillusioning  experience.  She  got  one  job,  as  a  walk-on 
in  a  picture  called  Becky  Sharp.  She  got  twenty-five  dollars  for  the  job. 
But  after  that,  there  were  no  more  jobs  to  be  had.  And  one  day,  after  a 
lifetime  of  dreaming,  she  decided  to  give  up  her  "career"  and  become  what 
she  knew  both  her  parents  had  always  really  wanted  her  to  become. 
She  would  be  a  teacher. 

She  worked  her  way  through  college,  as  a  librarian,  a  countergirl,  a 
bookkeeper,  a  typist,  an  X-ray  technician.  And  when,  finally,  she  gradu- 
ated, she  got  a  job  as  commercial  subjects  teacher  in  the  California  town 
of  Whittier,  just  outside  Los  Angeles.  She  became,  quickly,  this  thin  and 
pretty  blonde,  one  of  the  most  popular  teachers  at  the  school,  and  one  of 
the  most  popular  young  ladies  in  town. 

She  dated  lots,  those  who  knew  her  recall.  It  seemed  for  sure  at  one 
time  that  she  would  marry  a  certain  very  good-looking  merchant  in  town. 

But  then  she  met  the  young  lawyer,  and  then  her  heart  began  to  shift 
affections. 

Not  rapidly;  not  at  all  rapidly.  Local  gossip  has  it  that  while  the 
lawyer  was  head  over  heels  in  love  with  Pat,  she  herself  played  it  slowly, 


the  love  story  of  PAT  and  DICK  ¥ 


coyly,  even  teasingly  at  first. 

"There's  a  story,"  she  said  recently,  "that  my  husband,  before  we 
were  married,  would  drive  me  to  dates  with  other  young  men  in  Los 
Angeles  and  then  would  wait  around  to  drive  me  home  .  .  .  That's  true," 
she  laughed,  "but  I  think  it's  awful  mean  to  report  it." 

One  night,  however,  after  about  six  months  of  indecisive  going-together, 
Pat's  pet  collie  died  suddenly  and  when  the  young  lawyer  phoned  to 
ask  if  he  might  take  her  out,  she  wept  into  the  phone:  "No,  no,  I  don't 
want  to  see  anybody  ever  again!"  (Continued  on  page  61) 


■  It  was  a  night  in  1951.  Jacqueline  Bouvier  was  twenty-one. 
She  lived  in  Washington,  D.  C,  and  worked  as  a  reporter-pho- 
tographer on  the  Times-Herald.  She  had  the  reputation  of  being 
one  of  the  prettiest,  quietest  and  best-dressed  young  women  in 
the  capital,  and  (because  of  her  job,  mostly)  of  always  arriving 
late  at  parties.  She  arrived  late,  as  usual,  this  night. 

"I  wish  you'd  hurried  it  up  a  bit,  Jackie,"  her  hostess  said,  taking 
her  coat.  "There  was  a  young  man  I  wanted  you  to  meet.  And  now 
you're  here  and  he  has  to  leave." 

"Who  has  to  leave?"  Jackie  asked,  politely,  if  not  with  much 
curiosity. 

"Him,"  the  hostess  said,  a  flutter  in  her  voice,  as  she  indicated 
a  tall,  sandy-haired,  good-looking  young  man  who  stood  on  crutches 
on  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

Jackie  recognized  "him"  immediately  as  Jack  Kennedy — Con- 
gressman, candidate  for  the  Senate,  Purple  Heart  hero  (he'd  injured 
his  spine,  badly,  in  World  War  II). 

"Come  on,"  said  the  hostess  to  Jackie,  taking  her  arm,  "at  least 
you  two  can  get  to  say  hello.  ..." 

Jackie  blushed  as  Jack  looked  her  in  the  eye. 

"I  don't  mean  this  as  a  line,  Miss  Bouvier,"  he  said,  beginning 
their  first  talk  together,  " — but  haven't  we  met  before?" 

"Well,  sort  of,"  said  Jackie.  "That  is,  I  covered  a  press  conference 
you  once  gave.  There  were  about  fifty  reporters.  You  shook  hands 
with  most  of  them.  But  you  only  got  to  nod  at  me." 

"Bad  luck  for  my  side,"  said  Jack,  beginning  to  laugh.  "I — "  he 
started  then. 

But  at  that  moment  someone  came  over  to  him  and  whispered 
something. 

"No,"  Jack  said. 

"Yeah,"  said  the  other  party,  pointing  to  his  watch. 
"I'm  sorry,"  Jack  said,  turning  back  to  Jackie.  "I  don't  want  to 
go,  but  I've  got  to." 

' '  Of  course,  "said  Jackie .  ( Continued  on  page  54 ) 


msm 


THEL 

SCANDAL  0 
THE  DECADE 


AND  HERE  IS  THE  UNVARNISHED 
TRUTH  STRAIGHT  FROM  THE 
LIFS  OF  'THE  OTHER  MAN 


"I  more  than  "like"  Marilyn.  I  tell  you 
his  because  I  trust  you,  Madame.  She  is 
n  enchanting  child.  And  I  won't  say  that 
I  had  been  free  I  wouldn't  have  fallen  in 
ve  with  her. 

"But  for  eleven  years  I  have  been  mar- 
ied  to  a  wonderful,  understanding  worn- 
^n.  Simone  and  I  have  been  very  happy, 
here  will  be  no  divorce." 
The  speaker  was  Yves  Montand,  the 
ascinating  Frenchman  with  the  over- 
bundance  of  sex  appeal,  the  man  for 


whom  "all"  women  fall  with  a  more  re- 
sounding crash  than  for  any  male  since 
Rudolph  Valentino  held  sway  with  his  ani- 
mal-masculinity. 

But  it  was  not  about  "all"  the  women 
falling  for  Yves  that  had  brought  him  to  my 
house  at  the  early  hour  of  eleven  o'clock 
in  the  morning  on  a  sunlit  day  of  early 
September.  It  was  the  avalanche  of  gossip 
about  "one  woman"  supposedly  falling  for 
him-Marilyn  Monroe,  who  else? 

(Continued  on  next  page) 


l 


But  even  at  this  unlikely  coffee-break  hour,  the  dev- 

1  HOLLYWOOD'S  BIGGEST  astatin§  M-  Montana"  was  the  complete  charmer,  his 
1  '  correct  grooming  of  a  business  suit  and  evidence  of  a 

:  LOVE-SCANDAL  (continued)   fresh  shave,  failing  to  disguise  his  attractive  all-male 

virility.  No  wonder  the  women  in  (Continued  on  page  72) 


f/e* 

Wf»w^U/frv£;   xQa4*  mic  <g> 


Ill  I    Tit  W 


She  was  twelve  vears  old. 
And  she  had  been  awake  all 
night  pondering  her  future. 
Ever  since  she  was  a  very  little  girl, 
friends  of  her  daddy  used  to  pick 
her  up  on  their  laps  —  and  sav: 
"And  what  are  you  going  to  be 
when  you  grow  up?"  Her  an- 
swer was  alway  the  same. 

'Tm  going  to  be  a  mother 
when  I  grow  up."  "And 
that's  all?"  "That's 
all."     But  the 
night  before 
she  wondered 
whether  that 
was   all  she 
wanted  to  be- 
really. 
For  Haylev, 
the  baby 
daughter  of 


Continued  on  page  73) 


28 


a  last  minute 
on  the  eve  of! 


from  Marie  Mcl 


of  Harry  Karl* 


his  children 


letter  to  Debbie 


her  wedding  — 
Donald,  ex-wife 
and  mother  of 


1 1 I'd** 


Dear  Debbie  :- 

I  have  heard  that  you  are  going  to  marry  Harry  Karl,  and  I 
want  to  wish  you  happiness  on  the  eve  of  your  marriage  to  my 
ex-husband, 

I  was  married  to  Harry  for  twelve  years.  Harry  has  some  fine 
qualities.     But  like  most  husbands,  he  has  his  shortcomings 
and  needs  a  certain  kind  of  understanding.     I  am  sure  no  woman 
knows  Harry  as  I  do.  I  was  married  to  him  twice.  Debbie,  if  you 
know  just  what  I  went  through  when  I  was  his  wife,  I  believe 
you'll  learn  how  to  handle  him  so  that  you  won't  have  the  heart- 
aches I  had.   You  yourself,  Debbie,  have  gone  through  the  unhap- 
piness  of  one  divorce  and  you  deserve  a  happy  marriage.  That  is 
why  I  am  telling  you  the  intimate  story  of  my  married  life 
with  Harry  Karl. 

I  first  met  Harry  about  thirteen  (Continued  on  page  57) 


Blindly,  David  Janssen 
groped  through 
his  lifetime  for 
a  woman,  a  love 
and  a  friend 

It  was  three  years  ago. 
David  Janssen  was  a 
bachelor  then. 

He  was  lonely.  He  was  unhappy. 
"Booze,  broads  and  bor- 
rowing," he  once  said,  "and  not 
exactly  in  that  order — that's 
the  story  of  my  young  life." 
He  was  only  twenty-seven  three 

years  ago,  but  he'd  been 
around  Hollywood  for  such  a  long 
time  by  then  that  he  knew 
all  the  answers,  all  the  inside 


DAVID  JANSSEN 
(continued) 


LflDST  DM  MY  WW 

i  doer  imwMi  to 

ASK  IF  TfSE  WAS  A( 
11  LIFE  1  WANTED." 


■ 


i 


stories,  all  the  shenanigans  and  counter- 
shenanigans.  And  you'd  have  thought  he  was 
an  old  man  had  you  been  able  not  to  look  at 
him  but  to  read  his  mind  instead. 

Nobody  out-and-out  accused  David  Janssen 
of  being  a  wise-guy;  at  least,  not  to  his  face. 
But  he  was  considered  cynical,  to  say  the 
least.  He  had  few,  very  few,  friends.  He  found 
it  hard  to  trust  people.  He  found  it  hard  to 
get  to  know  them.  He  found  it  hard  to  talk 
to  them. 

He  was  on  his  way  up  as  far  as  his  career 
was  concerned.  He  was  the  star  of  his  own 
TV  show.  He  was  getting  five-hundred  to  a 
thousand  fan  letters  a  week.  Everybody  was 
nuts  about  Richard  Diamond,  Private  Eye 
and  the  guy  who  played  him.  Producers  were 
dickering  with  his  agent  about  good  fat  parts 
in  several  good  fat  movies. 

And  yet,  somehow,  David  Janssen  was 
unhappy. 

What  was  missing? 

A  wife? 

He'd  discount  this  idea  pronto.  What  was 
a  wife,  he  figured,  but  a  woman  and  what 
was  a  woman  but  a  dame?  And  dames, 
Hollywood  style,  with  [Continued  on  page  64  ) 


LIZ' 
JOURNEY 


ERROR 


M 


The  children  were  ex- 
cited. For  one  of  them 
to  have  a  birthday  was 
usually  reason  enough 
to  set  them  off.  But  to 
have  a  birthday  in  the 
middle  of  the  Atlantic 
Ocean,  on  this  great 
huge  spanking-new 
ship.  .  .  . 

"And  then  Luigi 
said — "  Michael  Jr., 
who  was  the  spokes- 
man for  the  group, 
started  to  say. 

"Whoa,"  Eddie  Fisher 
said,  looking  over  from 
his  deck  chair.  "Who's 
Luigi?" 

"The  chef  man,  down 
in  the  kitchen,  in  the 
big  white  hat,"  Michael 
said.  "And  Liza  and 
Christopher  and  me 
went  to  see  him  a  little 
while  ago" — the  others 
nodded — "and  he  said 
that  he  was  going  to 
make  a  big  birthday 
cake  for  tonight. 
And—" 

He  cleared  his  throat. 

1 ' Mommy?"  he  asked . 


LIZ' 
JOURNEY 
THROUGH 
TERROR 

continued 


"Yes?"  Liz  Taylor  asked. 

"Eddie?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Miss  Bee?" 

"Yes,  Michael?"  asked 
Bee  Smith,  the  nurse. 

"The  chef  man,"  Mi- 
chael went  on,  "he  wanted 
to  know  if  it  would  be  all 
right  for  us  to  eat  with  you 
tonight.  In  the  big  dining 
room  ...  He  said  since 
it  was  a  birthday  and  I  was 
big,  he  guessed  it  would  be 
all  right  for  me.  But  he  said 
he  wasn't  so  sure  about 
Chris  here,  because  he's 
only  six.  And  about  Liza, 
either,  even  though  it's  her 
birthday.  Because  she's 
only  three!" 

The  three  grown-ups 
looked  at  one  another. 

They  pretended  to  be 
very  serious  about  this 
whole  thing. 

"Will  it  be  all  right?" 
Michael  asked  then,  tenta- 
tively, hopefully. 

"It'll  be  all  right,"  Liz 
said,  finally,  "—if  you  all 
have  an  extra  long  nap  this 
afternoon." 

"Oh  boy,"  said  the  chil- 
dren, and  they  laughed  and 
clapped  hands,  still  laugh- 
ing as  they  ran  off  now,  to 
the  other  side  of  the  sun 
deck. 

As  the  grown-ups 
watched  them. 

Laughing,  too.  . 

Eddie,  after  a  while, 
(Continued  on  page  67) 


■  This  is  a  Thanksgiving  story  about  Tony,  Janet 
and  the  kids.  It's  a  different  kind  of  Thanksgiving 
story. 

It  all  took  place  one  night  and  one  day  early  this 
past  October. 

What,  you  ask,  has  October  got  to  do  with  Thanks- 
giving? 

Like  we  said,  it's  different,  all  right.  .  .  . 

It  begins  on  a  Friday  night,  at  eleven  o'clock,  or 
thereabouts.  The  Curtises  (minus  Ginny,  the  nurse, 
who  had  a  few  days  coming  to  her,  and  decided  to 
take  them  now)  had  just  arrived  at  their  new  week- 
end place  in  Palm  Springs.  Jamie,  the  baby,  one- 
and-a-half,  was  already  asleep  in  her  crib.  Tony  and 
Janet  were  unusually  beat.  (Continued  on  page  58) 


Has  it  really 
happened? 
Has  Fred  Mays 
love  really 
erased  Cheryls 
nightmare  past, 
Lana s  empty 
future? 

Is  there  at  last 

A  HOME 
FOR  TWO 
DESPERATE 
WOMEN? 


■  Not  many  people 
driving  along  U.S.  High- 
way 60  in  Chino,  Cali- 
fornia, recognized  the 
family  group  riding 
along  the  bridle  trail 
that  skirts  the  road  be- 
fore it  curls  into  the 
woods. 

The  teenage  girl,  her 
dark  hair  flying  as  she 
cantered  smartly  ahead, 
her  legs  long  in  the  stir- 
rups ;  the  mother,  young- 
looking  and  pretty,  her 
skin  tanned  and  healthy, 
only  wisps  of  blonde 
hair  showing  from  un- 
der the  bandana  tied 
(Continued  on  page  53) 


the  window,  and  looked  down  at  the  world  of  average 
people,  the  world  to  which  she  could 
never  return  again  . . .  And  I  thought 
of  the  loneliness  and  heartache  that 
would  stalk  her  path  from  this  mo- 
ment on . . .  Only  to  Sandra  it  has  come 
earlier  than  to  most  of  the  beauties 
who  blaze  in  the  spotlight.  Love,  with 
its  many    (Continued  on  next  page) 


CONVERSATION 
WITH  A 

<j0t>l>ES5 

continued 

CRITICISM, 
INNUENDO, 
PAIN  . .  . 
THIS  IS  THE  PRICE 
THE  YOUNG  GODDESS 
HAS  ALREADY  PAID 
FOR  HER  HEADLONG 
DASH  INTO  WOMANHOOD 

{continued)  disappointments  and  ecstasies 
has  not  yet  touched  her.  But  already  there 
are  the  cries  of : 

She's  ruining  her  health  in  foolish  diet- 
ing to  keep  her  figure.  .  .  . 

Extravagance!  This  girl,  little  more  than 
a  child,  is  spending  every  nickel  she  makes 
on  glamour  clothes  and  living  like  a  movie 
star  earning  ten  times  her  salary.  .  .  . 

Those  are  a  hatful  of  charges  against  a 
youngster  who  just  four  years  ago  at  the 
tender  age  of  fourteen  had  arrived  in 
Hollywood,  well  known  as  a  child  model 
in  New  York,  and  had  clicked  big  in  her 
screen  debut  in  Until  They  Sail. 

I  loved  Sandra  as  the  "little  girl"  sister 
in  this  war  drama  starring  Jean  Simmons 
and  I  wrote  glowingly  of  the  baby-faced 
little  blonde  newcomer  in  my  column. 

The  day  the  item  appeared,  I  received  a 
bowl  of  roses  from  Sandra  with  a  charm- 
ing hand-written  note:  "Your  kind  words 
made  me  so  happy.  A  girl  really  isn't  in 
movies  until  she's  been  mentioned  in 
Louella  Parsons'  (Continued  on  page  70) 


t 

what 


JyW' 


v ) 


Thank  you 

Fairy 
Godmother 


"I've  graduated  to  size  twelve,  terrific 
after  having  worn  size  sixteen  for  years, 
don't  you  think?  Fran  really  laced  into 
me  for  the  kinds  of  things  I  wore  and  I'll 
admit  now  that  they  were  pretty  shape- 
less bags.  Shorts  and  slacks  I  should  never 
have  worn  but  I  did  and  was  kidded  un- 
mercifully, so  when  I  got  into  those  slim 
velveteen  pants  (they're  emerald  green 
and  that  smash  sash  is  royal  purple  rayon 
satin — whew!),  I  knew  I  had  it  made. 
And  when  I  think  of  me  in  a  ruffly  shirt 
(this  one  is  Dacron  and  washes  like  a 
breeze)  I  feel  for  the  first  time  like  an 
honest-to-goodness  girl.  This  is  the  way  I 
now  like  to  look  after  work,  especially 
when  I'm  entertaining  at  home  ...  I  seem 
to  be  doing  so  much  of  that  these  days — 
the  new  me,  you  know.  Fran  wised  me 
up  to  a  long-legged  panty  girdle  for  a 
slick  look. ...  (I  don't  know  why  I  didn't 
have  sense  enough  long  ago.) 
"I  wore  the  black  velvet  dress  to  a  party 
given  in  my  honor.  It's  a  perfect  holiday 
dress,  just  dressy  enough.  Fran  said  we 
were  celebrating  the  debut  of  my  waist- 
line which  is  a  mere  twenty-five  inches.  I 
had  been  dying  for  something  in  fur,  so 


the  white  bunny  muff  was  a  lot  of  fun  for 
very  little  money.  My  date  is  Bob  Grosz, 
a  young  executive  on  Madison  Avenue  and 
we  see  each  other  a  lot.  We  were  having 
a  dreamy  time  ...  I  could  have  danced  all 
night  and  almost  did!  (Note:  I  broke  my 
diet  just  a  little  but  the  food  was  so  good. 
Back  on  Metrecal  next  day.) 
"I'm  absolutely  thrilled  to  death  with  me 
now !  And  I  want  to  thank  Fran  Hodges, 
my  Fairy  Godmother,  for  what  she  helped 
me  do  with  myself.  I  don't  think  I  could 
have  lost  those  twenty  pounds  without 
her  encouragement  but  I  know  now  that 
I  can  finish  the  job  of  losing  another  five. 
Besides,  I  love  my  new  hair  and  so  do  all 
my  friends  and  I've  had  hundreds  of  com- 
pliments on  my  new  clothes  which  really 
become  me.  (Oh !  How  I  ever  went  around 
that  old  way!)  But  what  still  puzzles  me 
is  how  she  really  changed  the  looks  of  my 
face  .  .  .  my  eyes  are  wider  apart,  I  could 
almost  swear ! 

"I  can  laugh  about  it  now  but  I  was  dying 
when  that  first  haircut  picture  was  taken ! 
I  was  frightened  to  death  when  Bernard 
took  that  first  slash.  But  Fran  was  so 
right  in  insist-  ( continued  on  next  page) 


Photography,  Barbara  and  Justin  Kerr.  Cinderella  hair  do.  Bernard  of  Stella  Ming  Salon.  Blouse  available  at  all  Ward  Stores. 


For  the  first  time  in  my 
ife  I  really  feel  like  a  girl! 


ing  that  I  have  a  new  short  styling. 
. . .  This  one  is  a  cinch  to  take  care  of, 
easy  as  pie  to  roll  up  and  to  shape 
myself.  I  guess  you  can  tell  that  I'm 
pretty  pleased  with  what  I  look  like 
today.  I  can't  get  used  to  the  fact 
that  it's  me,  big  old  Suzy  .  .  .  Miss 
Metrecal  of  1960,  Miss  New  Look  of 
forever." 

Hey,  Suzy,  stop  a  minute!  You're 
running  away  with  the  story,  and 
there  is  so  much  to  tell  our  readers, 
things  they  will  need  to  know  so  that 
they  can  do  the  same  if  they  have 
similar  problems.  And  I  say,  if  our 
glass  slipper  fits,  put  it  on ! 

I'm  Fran  Hodges,  Modern  Screen's 
staff  Fairy  Godmother.  Suzy  was 
sixteen  when  I  met  her  on  a 
trip  to  Chicago,  about  four  years 
ago.  She  was  in  the  shooting  up 
stage,  rather  gangly  as  is  expected 
of  an  adolescent,  all  arms  and  legs. 
She  had  a  cute  pixy  face  and  a  warm 
smiling  personality  . . .  giving  prom- 
ise of  a  lovely  young  woman.  You 
can  imagine  how  stunned  I  was  when 
she  came  to  {Continued  on  page  52) 


These  fashions  available  at  all  Ward  Stores 
everywhere. 


Muff  of  white  rabbit  fur,  $5.45 
(plus  10%  Federal  Tax). 

This  page:  very  'right'  informal 
date  dress  of  cotton  velveteen, 
with  full  skirt,  snug  waist, 
banded  in  rayon  satin,  scoop 
neck  and  bracelet  sleeves.  Also 
available  in  jewel  tones.  $17.98, 
sizes  10-16. 

Facing  page:  Cotton  velveteen 
tapered  pants  with  sash  in  con- 
trasting colors.  Shown  here  in 
emerald  and  available  also  in 
jewel  tones.  Sizes  10-16,  $8.98. 
Ruffled  dress  shirt  in  DuPont's 
easy-care  Dacron,  white  only, 
sizes  10-18,  $4.98. 


(Continued  from  page  50) 
call  on  me  here  in  New  York  in  July 
looking  as  she  does  in  the  "before"  pic- 
tures. She  sensed  my  real  shock  and  in  a 
burst  came  those  revealing  words,  "I  hate 
myself!"  ...  I  knew  she  meant  it.  Well, 
she'd  said  it  to  the  very  one  ready  and 
able  to  do  a  bit  of  fairy  godmothering  for 
such  a  princess-potential. 

"Suzy,"  I  said,  "I  don't  know  how  you  got 
into  this  sorry  state,  but,  if  I  were  you,  I'd 
get  out  of  it  and  fast!  There's  no  excuse 
for  your  not  being  a  pretty  girl,  no  excuse 
for  such  heft  and  certainly  no  reason  for 
dressing  so  unbecomingly.  Please,  let  me 
help  you  to  help  yourself." 

"I'll  do  anything,  Fran  .  .  .  honestly,  any- 
thing to  lose  weight  .  .  .  then  maybe  I  can 
start  to  do  something  about  the  rest  of  me. 
Please  tell  me  what  to  do!" 

"Well,  Suzy,  the  first  thing  is  to  want  to 
do  it  .  .  .  you  must  want  to  lose  those  extra 
pounds  so  badly  that  you  are  ready  to 
change  your  attitudes  toward  the  eating 
habits  that  put  them  on.  Then,  the  word 
is  "diet,"  but  dieting  isn't  worth  a  fig  un- 
less you're  really  ready  to  go  on  it,  and 
when  you  are  .  .  .  why,  just  go!" 

We  discussed  various  special  diets,  and 
how  to  combat  those  compulsive  urges  to 
overeat,  especially  between  meals  (Suzy 
admitted  to  being  a  nibbler)  but  I  truly 
didn't  think  I  was  hitting  pay  dirt.  But 
the  very  next  day  I  got  an  excited  call 
from  Suzy  telling  me  that  she  had  made 
up  her  mind — was  going  on  The  Diet.  Her 
idea  of  facing  up  to  the  fact  that  she  was 
overweight  was  to  do  it  big  and  the  diet 
that  had  captured  her  imagination  was 
Mead  Johnson's  Metrecal  900  calorie  diet, 
the  quite  wonderful  product  originally 
developed  in  powdered  form,  a  formula 
carefully  balanced  for  complete  nutrition 
and  appetite  satisfaction.  Each  can  in- 
cludes the  scientific  amount  of  food — car- 
bohydrates, fats,  proteins,  sugars,  vitamins 
and  minerals  for  sustained  health,  and 
what  is  really  fun  is  that  Metrecal  comes 
in  your  choice  of  three  delicious  flavors — 
vanilla,  chocolate  and  butterscotch — to 
preclude  any  monotony.  Suzy  simply  put 
the  contents  of  a  can  in  a  blender  with  the 
amount  of  water  prescribed,  shook  it  up 
thorbughly  to  the  consistency  of  a  milk 
shake  (no  ice  cream,  please!),  or  you 
could  use  an  egg  beater  to  the  same  effect. 

I  asked  her  if  she,  by  any  chance,  had 
checked  with  her  doctor.  She  had  and 
gotten  this  reply,  "Why  haven't  you  done 
this  before?  Of  course,  you're  OJK. — go 
ahead."  So,  on  her  own,  Suzy  had  gone 
out  to  buy  her  first  week's  sUpply  of 
Metrecal,  and  was  on  her  way.  What 
tickled  me  was  the  merry  attitude  that 
she  suddenly  found,  and  what  could  have 
been  such  a  hungry  bore  turned  into  fun. 
When  I  asked  her  if  she'd  be  Cinderella, 
she  was  so  excited. 

"Do  you  think  I'll  ever  make  it?"  she 
asked,  and  to  her  great  surprise  (not 
mine)  in  about  a  week  the  miracle  had 
started  to  happen,  the  relentless  scales 
had  started  their  downward  trek,  151,  150, 
149,  148  .  .  .  such  a  marvelous  feeling. 

I  know  that  some  of  you  are  question- 
ing that  150  pounds  is  not  too  much  for 
anyone  that  tall.  Well,  it  is,  according  to 
the  recent  findings  of  the  American  So- 
ciety of  Actuaries.  Suzy's  five  foot,  nine 
inch  height  coupled  with  her  rather 
small  bone  structure  is  better  off  carry- 
ing around  118  to  131  pounds!  (If  you'd 
like  to  know  your  best  weight  for  your 
greatest  health,  note  the  offer  of  the  Met- 
ropolitan Life  Insurance  Company  whose 
booklet  "How  to  Control  Your  Weight"  is 
available  to  Modern  Screen's  readers.  Sim- 
ply send  in  the  coupon  on  Page  7  and 
receive  your  copy  free.) 

Before  I  turn  her  story  back  to  Suzy, 
I  want  you  to  know  that  Mead  Johnson, 


Instructions  for  Cinderella  Hairdo 
Designed  by  Bernard,  Stella  Ming  Salon 

Cut  hair  to  four  or  five  inches  in  length 
(three  inches  at  back  hairline).  Check 
natural  part  to  start  from  rollers.  Use 
medium  rollers  as  sketched,  and  clips  for 
back  and  cheek  curls.  Dry  thoroughly, 
remove  clips  and  rollers.  Lift  each  curl, 
and  from  underside,  tease  hair  in  quick 
pushing  motions  with  the  comb  from  ends 
toward  head.  Now,  brush  hair  back  and 
doion,  smoothing  surface.  With  comb  ad- 
just cheek  curls,  and  lift  individual  strands 
in  various  directions  for  casual  effect.  Fin- 
ish with  spray  to  hold. 


the  creators  of  Metrecal,  the  easy  way  to 
new  eating  habits,  has  brought  out  their 
successful  product  in  liquid  form,  which 
is  surely  the  final  simplification.  It  is  now 
available  in  8  oz.  cans,  each  holding  225 
calories  of  the  food  drink.  Four  of  these 
cans  are  a  day's  supply  ...  so  carry  along 
your  mocha  break  (just  add  a  half  tea- 
spoon of  Instant  Coffee  to  the  Chocolate - 
flavored  Metrecal),  and  your  lunch  (add 
a  six -ounce  can  of  tomato  juice  to  the 
plain  vanilla-flavored),  and  your  four 
o'clock  pick-up — just  plain  butterscotch. 
Maybe  you  have  just  a  few  extra  pounds, 


or  maybe  you  are  really  overweight,  seri- 
ously so,  but  whatever  your  weight 
problem  is,  we  do  recommend  that 
you  take  steps  now  to  "get  into  shape" 
.  .  .  you're  bound  to  feel  better  and  youH 
look  better.  Do  read  what  Suzy  has 
to  say: 

"This  was  the  most  wonderful  summer 
I've  ever  had  .  .  .  you've  no  idea  how  good 
it  is  to  feel  slim.  I  know  it  isn't  really  a 
miracle,  though  it  was  in  a  way  .  .  .  finding 
that  I  had  enough  will-power  to  stick  to  it. 
The  best  thing  I  found  was  that  I  could 
have  extras  and  I  ate  plenty  of  lettuce 
and  salad  things.  I  always  had  sticks  of 
celery,  green  pepper  and  carrots  on  hand 
(these  are  now  a  habit  with  me)  and  I  had 
a  real  dinner  every  now  and  then.  Now,  I 
find  I  just  eat  less  of  everything  and  I  have 
my  Metrecal  for  breakfast  and  lunch  five 
days  a  week. 

"I  was  still  unhappy  with  that  shape- 
less hair  of  mine  and  that  so-called  French 
roll  but  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  else 
to  do  with  it,  so  off  Fran  and  I  went  to 
Stella  Ming's  to  meet  Bernard  who  was 
to  do  my  special  hairdo  which  you've  seen 
and  heard  about 

"Then,  I  learned  about  the  new  very  pale 
make-up  which  is  so  great,  and  which  is 
supposed  to  put  all  the  accent  on  the  eyes, 
with  plenty  of  whoop-de-do  going  on!  I  al- 
ways thought  my  eyes  too  close  to- 
gether and  deep  set.  I  know  now  this 
was  the  fault  of  my  brows  which  were 
very  heavy  and  grew  too  far  over  the 
bridge  of  my  nose.  With  Fran  telling  me 
what  to  do,  I  did  the  tweezing  and  finally 
got  them  lined  up  with  the  inside  corners 
of  my  eyes.  That  was  the  big  job  .  .  . 
evening  the  rest,  both  from  the  top  and 
below,  didn't  take  long  and  the  effect  was 
terrific.  I  learned  to  use  a  pencil  (medium 
brown  for  me);  short  outward  strokes  so 
you  don't  get  that  painted-on  look.  I  love 
the  eyeliner  for  that  extended  look  at  the 
outer  corners,  and  for  the  line  just  at  the 
edge.  It  was  tricky  at  first,  but  now  I'm 
an  old  hand  and  get  it  perfect  every  time. 
[  use  a  greyed  blue  shadow  for  daytime 
just  on  the  lids,  and  for  evening,  I  use  a 
bright  blue  shadow  and  liner,  and  mascara 
which  certainly  makes  my  eyes  look  much 
bluer  and  I  must  say  all  this  was  a  real 
eye-opener  (pun  intended!) 

"I've  learned,  too,  what  to  do  about  my 
mouth  which  seems  to  give  a  smallish 
effect.  Mostly  I'm  supposed  to  smile 
oftener  and  that's  fairly  easy  now,  but  I 
did  learn  the  trick  of  outlining  the  upper 
lip  to  extend  the  corners  just  a  fraction. 
I  use  a  lip  brush  and  a  darker  red  tone  for 
the  outline,  and  fill  in  with  a  lighter  tone. 
I  like  the  effect  and  I  wield  a  mighty  good 
lip  brush. 

"But  the  best  fun  of  all  is  having  a  new 
figure  able  to  carry  off  some  pretty  clothes. 
I've  discovered  the  midriff  .  .  .  L  who'd 
gone  around  for  years  in  "shifts"  thinking 
they'd  hide  my  pounds.  Now  I  am  in  love 
with  my  waistline,  and  I'm  in  love  with 
every  full  or  shaped  skirt  I  can  find  now 
that  I  know  the  hips  beneath  are  only  36 
inches.  I'm  wearing  skirts  just  as  short  as 
I'm  told — just  slumming  my  kneecap.  You 
should  hear  the  nice  things  they  say  about 
my  "stems."  And  I  can  wear  pants  and 
the  new  culottes,  and  every  cute  fashion 
there  is,  and  every  wild  and  crazy  color 
to  match  my  new  freed  spirit.  I  feel 
so  good!" 

As  Suzy's  fairy  godmother,  I  want  you 
readers  to  know  that  she  was  a  wonderful 
Cinderella  ...  a  real  inspiration  to  me 
and  to  all  of  us  around  Modern  Screen.  I 
saw  her  just  yesterday,  a  radiantly  beau- 
tiful girl,  who  confided  she  is  going  steady. 
I  have  an  idea  there'll  be  news  of  a  defi- 
nite sort  by  Christmas  ...  I  hope  so,  for 
she  worked  hard  to  help  my  wand  make 
its  magic!  ,  Fran  Hodges 


Home  for  Two  Desperate  Women  ? 


( Continued  from  page  42) 

around  her  head,  and  the  dark-haired  man, 
firm-jawed  and  protective-looking,  riding 
close  by  the  two  as  though  he  loved  and 

[  cherished  them  very  much. 

On  a  weekend  away  from  the  confines 
of  El  Retiro  School  were  Cheryl  Crane 

I  with  her  mother,  Lana  Turner,  and  Fred 
May,  the  man  who,  in  marrying  Lana,  has 
undertaken  to  protect  both  Lana  and  her 

|  daughter. 

Even  Lana's  friends  were  surprised  re- 
cently when  they  learned  that  she  and  her 
long-time  admirer  had  obtained  a  license 
to  marry.  They  knew  that  Lana  had  been 
seeing  Fred  steadily,  but  they  remembered 
that  she  had  originally  planned  to  marry 
him  last  March.  Then,  on  the  eve  of  her 
marriage  to  Fred,  juvenile  authorities  sud- 
denly placed  Cheryl  behind  the  high  wall 

Lat  FJ.  Retiro,  a  school  for  wayward  girls. 

I  That  evening,  Fred  had  come  to  see 
Lana.  With  tears  in  her  eyes,  Lana  had 
told  him,  "Darling,  I  can't  marry  you  now. 

;Oh,  I  still  love  you — it's  not  that.  But  I 
can't  ask  you  to  take  on  my  burdens  with 
Cheryl.  A  bride  should  be  happy.  I  can't 
be.  I'm  terribly  worried  about  my  child. 

;  She's  going  to  take  up  all  my  time  and 
thoughts.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you.  .  .  ." 

Even  though  Fred  had  insisted  that  his 
love  hadn't  changed — in  fact,  he'd  pro- 
tested, it  had  increased,  if  anything,  be- 
cause of  Lana's  troubles — Lana  wouldn't 
listen  to  his  pleas  that  they  get  married. 
Not  many  men  would  have  the  courage 

jjto  stick  by  a  woman  who's  had  to  go 
through  the  kind  of  hell  Lana  has  had  to 
face  because  of  her  daughter.  Most  men 
would  have  run  thousands  of  miles  to  get 
away  from  a  woman  who  had  as  great 
a  problem  as  Lana. 

Lana  offered  to  release  Fred.  But  he 
wouldn't  leave  her. 

HE  WAS  HURT  when  she  suggested  he 
go.  "What  sort  of  man  do  you  think  I  am?" 
he  said.  "Do  you  think  I'd  walk  out  of 
your  life  just  when  you  and  Cheryl  need 
me  most.  I  love  you,  honey!" 

Lana  smiled  faintly  and  felt  relieved, 
knowing  that  Fred  wanted  to  share  her 
burden  with  her.  Nevertheless,  she  in- 
sisted that  until  everything  was  cleared 
|up,  she  and  Fred  would  not  get  married. 

Lana  was  determined  to  remake  her 
life.  The  court  had  held  that  she  couldn't 
!  offer  Cheryl  a  disciplined,  wholesome  home. 
;  Juvenile  authorities  evidently  believed 
everything  about  Lana  they'd  read  in  the 
headlines.  She  made  up  her  mind  she'd 
stay  out  of  the  headlines  and  prove  she 
was  capable  of  being  a  good,  serious- 
minded  mother. 

She  and  Fred  went  on  together,  the  dark- 
haired,  patient  man  and  the  beautiful 
woman  who  had  known  many  men  but 
never  a  man  like  this — who  asked  for  so 
little  and  was  willing  to  give  so  much. 
Fred  was  dependable.  He'd  built  up  a  suc- 
cessful business,  then  retired  at  the  age  of 
thirty-eight  to  buy  a  ranch  in  Chino  where 
he  bred  thoroughbred  horses.  He  was  a 
steadying  influence  in  her  life.  A  man  as 
reliable  as  sunlight.  And  how  she  needed 
sunlight  in  a  life  suddenly  full  of  shadows. 

Through  months  of  turmoil  he  was  at 
her  side.  When  newspapers  and  magazines 
blamed  Lana's  faulty  upbringing  of  Cheryl 
for  the  girl's  troubles,  he  furiously  de- 
fended Lana. 

"Honey,"  he'd  tell  her,  "what  do  those 
people  know?  I  know  the  kind  of  woman 
you  are.  When  writers  print  that  kind  of 
hooey  I  wish  I  could  knock  their  teeth  in." 

Lana  smiled  in  spite  of  herself  at  the 
thought  of  Fred  knocking  anyone's  teeth 


in.  She  had  ceased  to  be  attracted  by 
violence.  She  had  known  a  very  violent 
man,  and  had  paid  in  fear,  trembling,  and 
the  menace  to  her  daughter's  future,  for 
having  been  infatuated  by  such  a  man.  In 
Fred  she  saw  no  violence  or  threat  of  vio- 
lence^— only  good  nature,  kindness  and  un- 
derstanding. 

Actually,  Fred  had  not  been  kidding 
when  he  said  he  wished  he  could  knock 
down  some  of  the  columnists  and  writers 
who  criticized  Lana. 

He  proved  that  he  meant  what  he  had 
said  one  night  at  a  party  that  was  given 
at  Romanoff's  after  the  premiere  of  Lana's 
picture,  Portrait  in  Black. 

It  was  a  gay  party.  Lana  was  in  better 
spirits  than  she  had  been  in  months.  Only 
a  short  while  before  she  had  returned  from 
a  visit  with  Cheryl  at  El  Retiro,  and  had 
been  cheered  by  the  change  in  Cheryl's 
attitude.  She  and  Cheryl  had  had  a  long 
talk,  and  the  child  looked  more  at  peace, 
the  rebellious  thrust  to  her  jaw  gone. 

"Darling,"  Lana  had  told  her,  "let's  both 
think  of  and  work  for  the  day  when  you'll 
be  free,  and  the  authorities  will  let  you 
leave  this  place  and  come  and  live  with 
me.  Ill  do  everything  I  can  to  bring  that 
day  closer.  And  you,  too,  Cheryl — obey  the 
rules  here,  and  work  hard,  because  that's 
the  only  way  we  can  win  what  we  want." 

Thinking  about  Cheryl  and  their  future 
together,  Lana  smiled. 

Suddenly,  her  smile  turned  to  terror 
when  Fred  lifted  a  threatening  fist  in  the 
act  of  delivering  a  blow  at  a  Hollywood 
columnist  who  had  stopped  by  to  chat. 
Only  the  intercession  of  another  guest  kept 
Fred  from  delivering  the  blow.  "How  dare 
you,"  Fred  had  stormed  at  the  columnist, 
"print  an  editorial  criticizing  Lana  for  her 
upbringing  of  Cheryl?" 

Lana,  heartsick,  slumped  in  her  chair, 
sobbing,  back  in  a  nightmare.  In  her  mind's 
eye  she  saw  black  headlines  like  all  the 
others  that  had  blackened  her  reputation. 

Poor  Cheryl  .  .  .  She'd  given  Cheryl  her 
word,  only  the  other  day,  that  she'd  work 
hard  for  her  release.  This  fracas  would 
only  make  things  worse  for  her  child  who 
lived  behind  a  high  wall. 

To  the  newspapermen  present  she  said  in 
a  frantic  voice,  "I  don't  want  any  more 
headlines.  Please  don't  print  this.  Please." 

The  newspapermen  replied,  "Sorry,  Lana, 
but  this  is  news." 

Lana,  groping  for  something  with  which 
to  wipe  her  eyes,  reached  for  a  napkin. 
She  forgot  her  glamour,  her  beauty,  at  that 
moment.  She  sobbed  to  Fred,  "Why  did 
you  do  it?" 

He  looked  numbly  at  her.  "Because  I 
love  you,  honey,"  he  said.  "I  won't  have 
anyone  attacking  your  personal  life." 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  great  love  that 
Lana  and  Fred  had  for  each  other,  that 
episode  might  have  ended  their  love  story. 

Because  in  five  minutes,  the  man  she 
loved  had  almost  undone  the  job  Lana  had 
been  trying  to  achieve  for  months  of  giving 
the  world  the  portrait  of  a  woman  who 
could  and  would  stay  out  of  scandalous 
headlines. 

AFTER  THE  PARTY,  in  the  quiet  of  her 
home,  they  talked  together.  She  said  to  him, 
"Fred,  we  can't  go  on  together  if  more 
episodes  like  tonight's  are  going  to  hap- 
pen. I  won't  have  anyone  keep  from  me  the 
one  thing  I'm  trying  to  achieve — winning 
liberty  and  a  good  life  for  my  daughter. 

"If  you're  going  to  be  hot-headed  and 
slug  people  who  malign  me,  we'll  have  to 
stop  seeing  each  other.  Too  much  is  at 
stake.  I  love  you,  Fred,  but.  .  .  ." 


"I  understand,"  he  told  her.  "I  wanted 
to  do  everything  I  could  to  help  you,  but 
I  guess  losing  my  temper  didn't  accomplish 
anything.  Honey,  I  promise  you  I  won't 
ever  lose  my  head  again  around  you." 

That  evening  Lana  realized  the  greatness 
of  Fred's  love.  He  was  a  man  with  a  man's 
deep  wish  to  protect  the  woman  he  loved. 
His  natural  instinct  was  to  punch  in  the 
nose  anyone  who  criticized  her.  But  she 
had  made  him  realize  she  wasn't  just  any 
woman;  she  was  a  woman  with  a  child 
lost  in  a  jungle,  a  woman  who  had  to 
bring  her  lost  child  safely  home  and  who 
couldn't  afford  headlines. 

Lana  continued  to  see  Fred,  and  every 
other  Sunday  she  would  leave  her  lovely 
home  on  top  of  a  hill  in  Beverly  Hills,  get 
behind  the  wheel  of  her  Cadillac  and  make 
the  long,  sad  drive  to  El  Retiro  to  see 
Cheryl.  Between  the  hours  of  one  and 
three,  on  alternate  Sundays,  Lana  was  al- 
lowed to  visit  with  Cheryl.  Mother  and 
daughter  would  sit  on  a  wooden  bench 
under  an  olive  tree  and  talk.  The  talks 
were  aceomphshing  a  great  deal.  Lana  was 
getting  closer  to  her  daughter;  Cheryl, 
warming  to  the  great  love  and  devotion  of 
her  mother — a  love  and  devotion  she  had 
once  doubted — softened.  She  grew  less  bit- 
ter, more  amenable  to  the  rules  of  the 
school.  She  would  never  run  away,  she 
promised  Lana.  She  had  no  need  to  now. 
She  was  beginning  to  see  a  future  ahead. 

It  was  a  happy  day  for  both  Lana  and 
Cheryl  when  the  juvenile  authorities  made 
their  first  big  concession. 

Lana  heard  about  it  from  the  probation 
officer.  "Your  daughter  will  be  allowed  to 
go  home  with  you  one  weekend  a  month." 

Tears  sprang  to  Lana's  eyes.  To  be  able 
to,  finally,  have  her  girl  home,  even  for 
such  a  short  time.  The  officer  smiled  gent- 
ly and  said,  "I  don't  blame  you  for  being 
happy.  I  wonder  if  you  realize  exactly 
what  this  does  mean.  It  means  that  Cheryl 
is  making  progress.  This  is  a  big  step  for- 
ward for  your  girl — being  allowed  to  go 
home  once  a  month.  She  herself  earned 
this  privilege.  We  don't  give  it  lightly." 

It  was  a  happy  Lana  who  drove  to  El 
Retiro  on  a  Friday  after  that  to  pick  up 
Cheryl.  On  the  drive  home,  she  and  Cheryl 
chatted  gaily.  To  herself,  Lana  thought. 
Thank  God  for  this.  Some  day — maybe  not 
too  far  away — my  baby  can  come  home 
with  me  for  more  than  a  weekend.  Maybe 
forever. 

There  was  a  quiet  celebration  at  home, 
but  you  couldn't  miss  the  joy  in  the  faces. 
Lana's  mother  was  there.  And  Fred  came 
over.  Fred,  looking  stable,  serene  and 
ready  to  meet  all  problems. 

After  dinner,  they  sat  before  a  fire.  It 
was  a  moment  of  relaxation  and  confi- 
dences. "I'm  trying  to  talk  your  mother 
into  marrying  me,"  Fred  said  with  the 
candor  that  Cheryl  loves.  Too  many  people 
have  treated  Cheryl  as  though  she  were  a 
juvenile  delinquent.  She  appreciates  it 
when  someone  treats  her  as  an  adult. 

"When  your  mother  marries  me,"  he 
went  on,  "our  home  will  be  your  home.  In 
fact,  I  hope  we'll  be  able  to  offer  you  such 
a  good,  wholesome  home,  the  authorities 
will  let  you  leave  the  school  and  live  with 
us." 

SUDDENLY,  FOR  THE  FIRST  TIME  in 
her  life,  it  seemed  to  Cheryl  that  there  was 
a  man  in  her  mother's  life  (outside  of  her 
father,  Steve  Crane,  whom  she  loves)  to 
whom  she  was  also  an  important  person- 
ality. The  hostility  and  insecurity  she'd 
known  began  to  vanish. 

She  and  Fred  chatted  easily.  She  asked 
him  about  the  creatures  she  loves  so  much, 
some  of  the  horses  on  Fred's  fourteen - 
acre  breeding  farm  in  Chino,  a  pleasant, 
wooded  country  outside  of  Los  Angeles. 

"How  is  my  favorite,  RowenaV  she 
asked.  "And  Pasha?  Has  he  bred  yet?" 


Life  came  into  Cheryl's  impassive  face. 
Before  her  confinement  to  El  Retiro,  Cheryl 
had  spent  many  pleasant  weekends  at  the 
Circle  May  ranch,  where  there  are  over 
one-hundred  and  sixty  horses  which  Fred 
keeps  for  breeding  purposes.  Cheryl  and 
Fred  had  always  gotten  along  well.  He 
knew  how  to  talk  to  teenagers.  He  has  two 
teenagers  of  his  own  by  a  previous  mar- 
riage, who  often  stay  at  the  ranch. 

Gazing  into  the  fire  brought  back  a 
memory — Cheryl  thought  back  to  the 
weekend  when  she  and  her  mother  and 
several  other  guests  had  stayed  at  the 
ranch.  In  the  middle  of  the  night,  there'd 
been  a  knock  on  her  door.  It  was  Fred. 

"There's  something  going  on  in  the 
stables  that  you'll  want  to  see,  Cheryl. 
Come  on  down." 

Cheryl  had  slipped  into  jeans  and  T-shirt 
and  sped  down  to  the  stables.  Her  eyes 
widened  at  the  sight.  A  foal  was  being 
born.  It  was  the  first  time  she'd  ever  seen 


(Continued  from  page  23) 

"I'll  see  you  again,  though,"  Jack  asked, 
"won't  I?" 

"Oh  .  .  .  sure.  Yes,"  said  Jackie. 

She  was  glad  he  turned  around  right 
after  that,  and  started  to  say  goodbye  to 
some  other  people. 

It  was  terrible  the  way  he  was  making 
her  blush.  .  .  . 

They  walked  through  the  soft  dark- 
ness of  the  garden,  the  party — the  laughter 
and  the  music — behind  them.  They  walked 
slowly,  both  of  them  silent.  They  walked 
until  they  came  to  an  old  stone  bench  and 
Jack  lay  down  his  crutches  as  they  sat. 

"Why'd  you  look  me  up  .  .  .  after  a  year, 
a  whole  year?"  Jackie  asked,  suddenly. 
"Why'd  you  invite  me  out  tonight,  here, 
to  this  party?" 

"Because  I  liked  you,"  Jack  said.  "Be- 
cause I  remembered  you." 

"That's  very  flattering,  you  know,"  said 
Jackie,  "coming  from  a  United  States 
Senator." 

"Let  me  ask  you  something,"  said  Jack. 

"Yes?"  Jackie  asked,  clasping  her  hands. 

"Why'd  you  want  to  come  out  here,  and 
leave  the  party?  That  was  a  pretty  good 
party  in  there." 

Jackie  looked  down,  at  her  hands. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "I  guess  it's 
that  I  don't  like  crowds  much."  She  looked 
up  suddenly,  concerned.  "If  you  want  to 
go  back — "  she  started  to  say. 

"No,"  said  Jack.  "We  can  always  sit 
out  here  in  the  moonlight  and  have  a  nice 
quiet  talk  about  .  .  .  about  Mr.  Eisen- 
hower. Or  Mr.  Nixon  or  Mr.  Stevenson, 
and  his  chances  in  '56." 

Jackie  scanned  his  face  in  order  to  see 
whether  he  was  serious  or  not. 

He  wasn't. 

"Or,"  said  Jack  then,  "you  can  start  now 
by  telling  me  about  yourself  ...  I  want  to 
know  about  you." 

"Me?"  Jackie  asked.  "What  do  you  want 
to  know  about  me?" 

"Evervthing,"  said  Jack. 

"Well,"  said  Jackie,  "I  was  born  in  New 
York.  I  went  to  school  there.  I  went  to 
Vassar  for  a  while,  too,  then  to  the  Sor- 
bonne,  then  back  to  Vassar.  I  couldn't  stand 
it  when  I  got  back  the  second  time,  from 
France,  the  way  they  treated  us  like  a 
bunch  of  children.  At  Vassar,  I  mean  .  .  . 
So  I  left." 

"Uh-huh,"  said  Jack. 

"Now,"  continued  Jackie,  "I  work  on  a 
newspaper;  as  you  already  know;  I  read 
54   lots;  I  devour  books — mostly  books  deal- 


a  foaling.  The  ranch  foreman,  who  was 
helping  the  mare,  let  Cheryl  stroke  the 
frightened  animal  to  comfort  her.  It  was 
dawn  when  Cheryl  looked  up,  her  eyes 
shining.  It  had  been  quite  the  most  won- 
derful night  of  her  life. 

TONIGHT  WAS  A  GOOD  NIGHT,  also. 
She  could  see  the  warm  looks  exchanged 
between  her  mother  and  Fred.  There  was 
love  there,  and  she  could  feel  lots  of  it 
directed  toward  her  as  well.  Cheryl  asked 
Fred,  "Fred,  when  can  I  come  out  to  your 
ranch  again?" 

"We'll  plan  it  for  a  weekend  you  can 
come  home.  There's  lots  going  on  at  the 
ranch  now.  Rowena  is  waiting  for  you.  So 
is  your  room.  Everything  is  waiting  for 
you." 

Lana  watched  Cheryl  and  Fred.  Cheryl 
looked  happier,  her  eyes  no  longer  haunted, 
her  face  no  longer  strained.  This  was  the 
way  she'd  dreamed  of  her  daughter  look- 


ing with  the  Eighteenth  Century;  that's 
my  favorite,  the  Eighteenth  Century.  I 
used  to  paint,  used  to  love  it,  but  I  wasn't 
much  good  at  it,  so  now  I  just  look  at 
other  people's  work — I'm  forever  going  to 
galleries."  She  paused.  "I'm  not  a  very 
good  cook;  mainly  because  I  don't  eat 
much  myself,  I  guess.  I  like  the  color  blue, 
and  I  don't  mean  baby-blue  or  navy- 
blue,  but  real  blue,  like  the  color  of  the 
sky  on  an  almost-perfect  day  .  .  .  And 
what  else?  I  don't  like  jewelry.  I  don't  like 
hats.  I  can  do  without  fur.  I  speak  rather 
fluently  in  Spanish,  Italian  and  French  .  .  . 
And  that,  I  guess,  is  me." 

"Pretty  good,"  said  Jack,  "except  you 
left  out  a  few  vital  categories." 

"Like?"  Jackie  asked. 

"Like  do  you  enjoy  swimming?"  asked 
Jack. 

"Kind  of,"  Jackie  shrugged. 
"Do  you  like  to  play  touch  football?" 
"What?"  asked  Jackie. 
"Do  you  know  any  good  jokes?" 
"I  forget  them  all,"  she  said,  "the  min- 
ute after  I've  heard  them." 
"Do  you  like  clam  chowder?" 
"Honest  answer?" 
"Honest  answer." 

"I  loathe  clam  chowder,"  Jackie  said. 
Jack  groaned. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"Just  that  you've  chucked  out  all  your 
fun  for  this  weekend,"  Jack  said.  "Here  I 
am,  about  to  invite  you  up  to  the  Cape,  to 
come  visit  my  family,  and  now  I  think 
you're  going  to  end  up  having  a  dull  time 
there.  Why,  you  don't  answer  yes  to  any  of 
the  presently  established  ground  rules." 

"This  weekend?"  Jackie  asked,  worried 
suddenly.  "Ground  rules?" 

"Ground  rules-for-a-Kennedy-week- 
end,"  Jack  said,  nodding.  "Very  famous  in 
Massachusetts." 

Then  he  recited  them: 

"First  thing  you  go  for  a  swim. 

"Then,  you  sit  with  the  family  and  tell 
at  least  three  good  jokes. 

"Then,  you  say  'Terrific'  when  you  taste 
the  clam  chowder  at  lunch — the  pride  and 
joy  of  all  New  England. 

"And  'Terrific'  must  be  your  response 
when  asked  to  participate  in  an  early- 
afternoon  game  of  touch  football.  Now, 
about  this  game — " 

On  and  on  Jack  went,  laying  ground 
rule  after  ground  rule. 

And  then,  when  he  was  finished,  he  took 
Jackie's  hand  suddenly  in  his,  and  he 


ing,  young  and  carefree,  anxious  to  go  to 
the  ranch,  close  to  nature  and  normality. 

The  weekend  at  home  over,  Lana  drove 
Cheryl  back  over  the  long  road  that  led 
to  El  Retiro.  Cheryl  started  to  hum  softly. 
Finally  she  spoke,  "Mother,  I've  had  a  won- 
derful time  being  home  with  you.  And  I 
think  Fred  is  a  darling.  Some  day  I  want 
to  go  to  the  ranch  and  go  horseback  riding 
and  do  lots  of  things  around  the  ranch.  It 
will  be  such  fun.  We  could  have  such  a 
wonderful  life,  couldn't  we?" 

"Some  day  it  will  happen.  It  really  will, 
darling.  Just  be  patient,"  said  Lana. 

The  future  did  seem  brighter.  Fred  was 
like  some  secure  haven. 

She  knew  now  that  they  wouldn't  have 
to  wait  any  longer  to  marry.  She  would 
tell  him  that  the  first  thing  when  she  got  H 
home.  The  very  first  thing.  END  n 

Lana's  latest  picture  will  be  By  Love  ! 
Possessed,  United  Artists. 


asked,  "Will  you  come,  this  Saturday?" 

"Saturday?  .  .  .  This  Saturday?  .  .  .  Yes, 
...  I  guess,"  Jackie  found  herself  saying. 

"You  want  to  know  something?"  Jack 
said,  then.  "You,  Miss  Bouvier,  happen  to 
be  the  most  beautiful  girl  I've  ever  met." 

"Really?"  asked  Jackie,  vaguely,  as  she 
sat  there,  happy  on  one  hand  that  this  man 
she'd  been  thinking  about  for  over  a  year 
now  had  asked  her  to  spend  a  weekend 
with  him,  but  worried  on  the  other  hand 
about  the  family  she'd  soon  have  to  meet, 
and  about  what  they'd  think  of  her.  ... 

THE  KENNEDYS — all  twenty-eight  of 
them — fell  in  love  with  Jackie  Bouvier 
that  weekend  in  Hyannis  Port.  And,  best 
of  all,  and  most  of  all,  Jack  fell  in  love 
with  her. 

Back  in  Washington,  following  the 
weekend,  he  saw  her  almost  constantly. 

And,  finally,  one  night,  he  asked  her  to 
marry  him.  .  .  . 

The  wedding  took  place  on  September 
12,  1953,  at  St.  Mary's  Church  in  Newport, 
Rhode  Island.  The  reception  was  held  at 
Hammersmith  Farm,  an  oceanside  estate 
owned  by  Jackie's  mother  and  stepfather. 
And  all  of  the  guests  agreed  it  was  a  per- 
fect marriage. 

But,  it  didn't  go  well  for  the  Kennedys; 
not  at  the  beginning. 

Deep  down,  Jackie  had  expected  some 
sort  of  normality  in  her  marriage.  Not  as 
far  as  her  outside  activities  were  con- 
cerned; she'd  known  about  the  social 
functions  she'd  have  to  attend,  the  hand- 
shaking sessions,  the  receptions,  the  teas — 
the  giving  up  of  many,  practically  all,  of 
the  quieter  activities  she  had  loved  so 
much. 

But  she  had  expected  another  kind  of 
normality.  She'd  wanted,  most  of  all,  to 
have  a  home,  and  to  have  her  husband  in 
it.  She  got  the  home — but  her  husband, 
Jack,  the  Senator,  was  rarely  in  it.  In 
fact,  he  was  becoming  so  popular  with 
Democrats  all  around  the  country  that, 
aside  from  those  times  when  Congress 
was  actually  in  session,  he  was  rarely 
even  in  Washington. 

Jackie  tried  to  joke  about  this  at  first 

"My  husband,"  she  said  once,  "thinks 
nothing  of  buying  a  shirt  in  California,  a 
toothbrush  in  Kansas,  and  a  tube  of  tooth- 
paste in  Pennsylvania.  I  think  it's  funny, 
don't  you?" 

For  a  while,  Jackie  even  tried  to  do  the 
traveling  bit  with  Jack. 

She  tried  getting  used  to  closing  up  the 
house  at  a  moment's  notice. 

Getting  used  to  trains,  busses,  planes, 
more  planes. 

She  tried  getting  used  to  packing,  un-  ' 
packing. 


The  Love  Story  of  Jackie  and  John 


Getting  used  to  sitting  alone  for  hour 
ifter  hour  in  strange  hotel  rooms  while 
ier  husband  went  on  with  his  business. 

She  tried  all  this,  right  up  until  the 
|ime  she  became  pregnant. 

He'd  just  completed  an  exhausting  tour 
Ivhen  suddenly  another  presented  itself. 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  left?"  Jack  asked 
rackie. 

!  "No,"  Jackie  said. 

Was  she  lying,  to  herself,  to  Jack? 

She  didn't  know. 

She  didn't  know,  she  told  herself. 

But  then,  a  few  days  after  Jack  left — 
hat  moment  on  the  beach — then  she 
tnew.  .  .  . 

She  was  at  her  mother's  place  in  Rhode 
island.  It  was  late  afternoon,  foggy,  a 
slight  chill  in  the  damp  air.  She  was  walk- 
ng  along  the  beach,  slowly,  alone. 

Suddenly  she  stopped.  She  felt  the  pain, 
he  unbearable  pain,  in  her  stomach.  She 
elt  the  nausea,  the  terrible  feeling  of 
lausea,  overtake  her.  And  she  felt  the 
?weat,  that  came  rushing  to  her  face,  de- 
;pite  the  chill  in  the  air. 

"Oh  no,"  she  said,  as  the  pain  grew 
worse.  "Oh  no." 

She  fell. 

She  knew  what  was  happening.  Her 
oaby,  she  knew,  was  dying  inside  her. 
"Oh  no,"  she  said. 
"No." 

She  lifted  her  head. 

Her  eyes  began  to  shift,  wildly. 

She  looked  straight  ahead,  at  the  long 
litretch  of  lonely  beach. 
]   She  looked  to  her  right,  at  a  silent  dune. 

She  looked  to  her  left,  at  the  calm  and 
.'ast  expanse  of  ocean  there. 

"Jack,  Jack,"  she  began  to  whisper. 

She  dug  her  fingers  into  the  sand. 

"Jack,"  she  asked,  "where  are  you?" 

SHE  MADE  UP  HER  MIND  as  she  lay 
n  the  hospital  room  that  next  morning. 
Tack  was  flying  back,  he  would  be  there 
soon;  and,  she  made  up  her  mind,  she 
would  tell  him,  right  as  he  came  through 
Jie  door. 

"I  don't  want  this  any  more,"  she  would 
say,  "as  soon  as  your  term  is  up,"  she 
svould  say,  "I  want  you  to  leave  politics, 
for  good. 

"Our  baby  is  gone,  Jack,"  she  would 
say.  "I'm  going  to  be  lonelier  now  than  I 
sver  have  been.  Don't  you  keep  leaving 
-ne,  too,  Jack.  Not  you,  too.  Not  any  more. 

"Let's  be,"  she  would  say,  "like  other 
people.  Let's  go  away,  Jack.  Oh,  to  be  able 
to  go  away.  And  breathe  real  air.  And 
have  no  more  of  this,  this  life,  this  cloud 
jwe  try  to  breathe  through,  to  walk  on.  To 
go  somewhere  else  where  we  can  hold  on 
ho  something.  Really  hold  on  to  something, 
i  "I  heard  them  before,  in  the  room  next 
door,"  she  would  say.  "The  woman  had 
her  baby.  Yesterday,  a  little  girl,  I  think 
it  was.  And  he  came;  her  husband.  I  could 
almost  smell  the  flowers  he  brought  to  her. 
He  sat  with  her  all  day.  All  day.  He  didn't 
have  to  leave.  And  they  sat  together.  They 
talked,  and  they  laughed.  And  there  was 
no  place  else  for  him  to  go,  to  rush  to. 
They  just  sat  together.  The  wife.  The  hus- 
band. The  baby.  .  .  . 

"Our  baby,"  she  would  say.  "Oh  Jack 
...  I  didn't  care  if  it  was  a  boy,  or  a  girl. 
Did  you,  Jack?  I  only  wanted  a  baby.  Our 
little  boy  or  girl.  And  now — "  she  would 
say. 

"And  now. 

"And  now — " 

She  turned  her  head  on  her  pillow. 
The  door,  she  could  hear,  was  opening. 
"Jack?"  she  asked. 
"Yes,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him  as  he  walked  towards 
her,  slowly,  limping  on  those  crutches  the 
way  he  did.  She  looked  at  his  face.  She 
had  never  seen  him  look  so  haggard  be- 
fore, so  sad,  so  frightened,  so  worried. 


"Jack — "  she  started  to  say. 

"Jackie,  are  you  all  right?"  he  asked. 

"Jack — "  she  started  again. 

But  she  continued  looking  at  him,  and 
she  stopped. 

"No,"  she  thought  to  herself.  "Not  now. 
I  won't  tell  you  now.  But  someday  soon. 
Very  soon.  .  .  ." 

THE  DOCTOR,  a  friend  of  the  Kennedys, 
wasn't  surprised  that  Jackie  looked 
shocked.  He'd  had  a  hunch  Jack  hadn't 
told  her  about  the  operation  yet.  He'd 
thought  it  time  somebody  did. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "when  your  husband 
was  a  kid  he  hurt  his  back  playing  that 
danged  touch  football  they're  always 
playing  up  there  at  Hynannis  Port.  Then 
in  the  war — well,  you  know  the  story, 
Jack  on  the  PT  boat,  the  Jap  destroyer 
ramming  into  the  boat,  slicing  it  in  half, 
Jack  landing  on  his  back  again  .  .  .  He's 
been  in  bad  shape  ever  since.  Now,  slowly, 
things  are  getting  worse.  There's  a  chance, 
Jackie,  that  if  he  doesn't  go  through  with 
this  thing  he  may  end  up  a  hopeless  crip- 
ple ..  .  He  doesn't  want  that.  He  wants 
anything  but  that." 

"And,  if  he  does  go  through  with  it?" 
Jackie  asked. 

The  doctor  paused  for  a  moment. 

"Jack's  been  suffering  from  an  adrenal 
depletion,"  he  said  then.  "Adrenalin  pro- 
tects the  body  from  shock  and  infection. 
An  adrenal  insufficiency  greatly  increases 
the  possibility  of  infection  and  hemorrhage 
during  surgery.  I've  warned  Jack  that  .  .  . 
that  his  chances  of  surviving  the  opera- 
tion are  extremely  limited." 

Jackie  gasped. 

She  tried  to  say  something. 

She  couldn't. 

"You've  been  pretty  tense  these  past 
couple  of  months,  Jackie,"  the  doctor  said. 
"I  know  a  miscarriage  can  do  it  to  any 
woman.  .  .  .  But  I  want  you  to  snap  out 
of  it,  Jackie.  For  Jack's  sake.  That's  why 
I'm  telling  you  what  he  hasn't  told  you  .  .  . 
I  want  you  to  cheer  him  up  as  much  as 
you  can  now.  He's  not  saying  anything, 


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but  the  pain,  the  mental  anguish,  together 
they  have  him  going  through  hell  .  .  .  And 
I  want  you  to  relax  now,  to  try  to  be  your 
old  self.  For  these  next  few  days,  at  least, 
Jackie." 

"Next  few  days?"  she  asked. 

"Today's  Monday,"  the  doctor  said.  He 
looked  over  at  his  calendar.  He  nodded 
and  circled  a  date:  October  20th,  1954. 
"The  operation's  Thursday,"  he  said. 

That  night  they  talked. 

JACKIE  HAD  JUST  TOLD  JACK  about 
her  talk  with  the  doctor  that  morning. 

Jack  shook  his  head. 

"He  shouldn't  have  said  anything.  It 
wasn't  right.  I  should  have  told  you,"  he 
said. 

"You  would  have  put  it  off,  till  tomor- 
row, till  Wednesday."  She  took  his  hand. 
She  tried  to  smile.  "I  know  you,"  she  said. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  my  way,  though," 
he  said.  "There  were  so  many  things  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  .  .  .  my  way." 

"There's  nothing  to  tell  me,"  she  said, 
"except  that  you're  going  to  have  an 
operation  and  that  everything's  going  to 
be  all  right." 

"There  were  other  things,  though,"  he 
said. 

"What  things?" 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Jackie  .  .  .  first 
.  .  .  how  much  I  love  you." 
"I  know  that,  silly,"  she  said. 
"And  I  wanted  to  thank  you,  too." 
"For  what?" 

"For  what  you've  had  to  put  up  with 
these  past  couple  of  years;  the  way  you've 
put  up  with  everything,"  he  said. 

"Jack — " 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  what  a  wonderful 
wife  you've  been,  a  wonderful  sport  ...  I 
know,"  he  said,  "I  know  that  it's  been 
hard  on  you,  Jackie.  I  know  there've  been 
times  another  girl  would  have  thrown  in 
the  towel.  But — " 

She  forced  herself  to  laugh  a  little. 
"But  I've  been  a  real  brick  about  this 
whole  thing,  haven't  I?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  laughing  a  little,  too, 
"yes.  .  .  . 

"You  know,"  he  said  then,  after  a  mo- 
ment, the  laughter  gone,  "this  has  been  a 
strange  day  for  me.  I  tried  to  work  today. 
But  for  the  first  time  in  a  long  time  I 
couldn't.  I  sat  at  my  desk  and  I  started  to 
think.  Not  about  the  operation.  But  I 
started  to  think  about  my  brother.  About 
Joe.  .  .  . 

"Have  I  ever  talked  to  you  much  about 
Joe,  Jackie?"  he  asked. 

"A  little,  sometimes,"  she  said. 

Jack  smiled,  and  he  put  his  head  back 
on  his  pillow. 

"He  was  the  oldest  of  us  all,"  he  said. 
"And  he  was  the  best  .  .  .  He  was  hand- 
some, Joe  was.  And  he  had  brains,  and 
character,  and  guts  .  .  .  And  we  loved 
him.  Idolized  him.  Thought  him  our  own 
private  saint,  we  did. 

"And  he  used  to  say,  when  he  was  just 
a  kid,  I  remember,  he  used  to  say  that  he 
would  grow  up  someday  to  be  President 
of  the  United  States.  Til  settle  for  nothing 
less,'  he  would  say. 

"He  meant  it,  too.  If  he'd  lived,  Joe 
would  have  gone  on  in  politics,  and  he 
would  have  been  elected  to  the  House 
and  to  the  Senate,  like  I  was. 

".  .  .  He  never  got  the  chance,  though. 
The  war  came.  He  was  a  Navy  pilot.  He 
flew  out  from  England.  He  finished  one 
tour  of  duty.  He  was  eligible  to  come 
home.  But  he  stayed  for  a  second  tour. 
He  wanted  to  be  there  for  D-Day,  he  said. 

"Then,  after  that  second  tour,  Joe  was 
eligible  to  come  home  again.  But  he  heard 
about  an  operation,  something  to  do  with 
knocking  out  the  German  V-2s.  He  heard 
about  this  the  night  before  he  was  to 
leave.  His  luggage  was  already  on  a  trans- 
port ship,  ready  to  leave  for  New  York. 


The  figure 


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He  got  them  to  take  the  luggage  off.  And 
the  next  day  he  got  into  his  plane  and  set 
off  on  a  mission, 

"He  must  have  been  up  there  an  hour, 
over  France,  when  the  plane  exploded. 

"Joe  was  killed. 

"They  never  found  a  trace  of  his 
body  

"Me,  Jackie,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause, 
"me,  I  wasn't  the  same  as  I  am  today  be- 
fore Joe  died.  I'm  like  Joe  today — at  least 
I  try  to  be.  But  before  he  died  I  was  a 
shy  guy,  shy  and  quiet.  Nobody  in  the 
world  could  ever  picture  me  as  a  politi- 
cian. Everybody  was  sure  Td  end  up  being 
a  teacher,  or  a  writer. 

"BUT  I  WENT  INTO  POLITICS  because 
Joe  died.  He  was  gone  and  I  was  still  here 
and  it  came  very  naturally  to  me  that  I 
would  take  his  place  .  .  .  After  a  while,  I 
got  to  love  politics.  It  became  my  whole 
life — the  way  it  would  have  been  Joe's  .  .  . 
But  at  the  beginning  I  didn't  do  it  for  my- 
self  

'1  come  from  a  strange  family  maybe, 
Jackie.  We're  very  close.  And  we  have  a 
hero.  We  loved  Joe  while  he  lived.  And 
we  honor  him  now  that  he's  dead  .  .  .  And 
just  as  I  went  into  politics  because  Joe 
died,  if  anything  happened  to  me,  if  I 
died,  my  brother  Bobby  would  run  for  my 


Jerry  Lewis,  row  a  writer-di- 
rector-actor-producer, ts  in  a 
unique  position:  As  a  member  of 
the  Screen  Writers  Guild  he  had 
to  stop  writing  "The  Lady's  Man," 
when  the  writers  called  a  strike. 
As  an  actor  in  "The  Bell  Boy"  he 
voted  for  the  Screen  Actors  Guild 
strike,  even  if  it's  against  himself. 
Barney  Balaban,  head  of  Para- 
mount, phoned  to  ask  how  he  felt. 
"As  a  producer  and  director, 
great,"  said  Lewis,  "but  as  a 
writer  and  actor — not  so  good." 

Leonard  Lyons 
in  the  New  York  Post 


seat  in  the  Senate.  And  if  Bobby  died, 
Teddy  would  take  over  for  him. 

"That's  the  way  it's  got  to  be,  Jackie." 
He  turned  to  look  at  her  again.  "That" s 
the  way  it's  got  to  be." 

"I  know,"  she  said. 

"I  may  die,  you  know,  Jackie,"  he  said 
then. 

"Please,  Jack—"  she  started  to  say. 

"And  if  I  do,"  he  said,  "I  just  wanted 
you  to  hear  this  story,  in  case  you  won- 
dered about  me,  why  I  spent  so  much  time 
doing  what  I  had  to  do  ...  I  know,"  he 
said,  "that  it's  been  hard  on  you — " 

"Please,  Jack — " 

"I  know  there've  been  times,  like  when 
you  lost  the  baby — " 

"Jack!"  She  began  to  sob  suddenly.  "I 
don't  care  about  me  anymore.  Don't  you 
understand?  I  only  want  you,  Jackal  only 
want  you  to  live.  I  want  you  to  lioe." 

"IH  try,"  he  said,  "with  every  bit  of 
strength  that's  left  in  me."  He  smiled 
again.  "Don't  you  go  worrying  about  that, 
Jackie." 

He  smiled. 

"HI  try,"  he  said,  ".  .  .  .  for  you,  for  me, 
for  the  family  we  hope  to  have  someday, 
for  the  good  life  I  owe  you,  ray  Jackie 
.  .  .  my  sweetheart.  .  .  ." 

And  later,  much  later,  when  Jack  was 
asleep,  she  got  on  her  knees,  and  she 
prayed,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  the 
miracle  would  be. 

...  It  was.  END 


It  Last  Minute  Letter  to  Debbie 


Continued  from  page  31) 

ears  ago  at  a  party  at  Ann  Miller's  home. 

was  married  to  Vic  Orsatti  then,  and 
jin's  date  was  a  tall,  quiet  man  with  sad 
>  es  behind  horn-rimmed  glasses,  and  a 
ny,  diffident  manner. 

Everybody  at  the  party  was  having  fun 
xcept  this  man.  He  sat  alone  most  of  the 
me  and  I  kept  thinking  he  looked  like 

forlorn  little  cocker  spaniel.  Later,  I 
aw  him  sitting  alone  in  the  library  and  I 
;arted  talking  to  him,  not  because  I  was 
iterested  in  him,  but  out  of  sheer  sym- 
athy.  I  was  to  learn  that  Harry  has  an 
mazing  talent  for  attracting  sympathy, 
p's  one  of  the  things  that  draws  people 
3  him  and  makes  them  stick  with  him. 

OUR  PATHS  DIDN'T  CROSS  for  sev- 
ral  months  after  that,  and  in  those  months 
lany  things  happened  to  me.  Vic  and  I 
/ere  divorced  and  I  returned  to  my 
areer.  I  was  under  contract  to  MGM  and 
o- starring  in  a  film  with  Gene  Kelly  when 
'alph  Freed,  one  of  the  people  on  the 
■icture,  came  over  to  me  and  said,  "There's 

guy  who's  dying  to  meet  you." 

I  said,  "No,  thanks.  I'm  too  busy  to  meet 

new  man." 

"But  he  insists  upon  meeting  you.  He's 
larry  Karl — says  he  met  you  once  before 
nd  would  like  to  date  you  now  that 
ou're  free.  He's  too  shy  to  call  you  un- 
ess  he  knows  you'll  be  receptive  to  his 
all." 

I  recalled  the  shy  man  with  the  sad 
yes  and  said,  "Tell  you  what.  I  want  to 
;ive  some  bubble  gum  to  the  children  of 
.  friend  of  mine.  If  he  sends  me  a  box  of 

00  pieces  of  gum,  I'll  go  out  with  him." 
The  next  day  Ralph  brought  me  not  one, 

jut  one  hundred  boxes  of  bubble  gum 
rom  Harry.  That's  Harry  Karl  for  you. 
Vhen  he  wants  to  make  an  impression  on 

1  girl  he  goes  all  out,  whether  it's  bubble 
|um  or  diamonds. 

I  dated  him,  of  course.  And  we  started 
o  see  each  other  from  that  time  on  until 
»/e  were  married  one  year  later.  Harry 
■Carl  in  a  courtship  is  something  to  see. 
ie's  overpoweringly  attentive  to  the  girl. 

was  bowled  over  by  his  thoughtfulness. 
»Vhen  I  said  I  wanted  to  go  here  or  there, 
3arry  had  the  tickets.  When  I  said  I 
wanted  this  or  that,  Harry  got  it.  He  lit 
ny  cigarettes,  poured  the  cream  in  my 
:offee,  put  my  wrap  over  my  shoulders 
ind  had  his  staff  run  errands  for  me.  I'm 
a  woman.  I  was  very  impressed.  And  be- 
sides, those  big,  sad  eyes  used  to  tear  at 
ny  heart. 

I  understand  he's  that  attentive  to  you, 
Debbie,  and  I  hope  that  your  disenchant- 
ment doesn't  come  after  the  wedding  as 
mine  did. 

We  didn't  even  have  a  home  of  our  own 
when  we  got  married.  We  moved  into  the 
guest  house  of  my  parents'  home  in  the 
Valley.  We  couldn't  afford  a  home  of  our 
own  at  the  time;  Harry  had  a  large  busi- 
ness debt  to  pay  off.  To  help  him  pay  off 
that  debt,  I  continued  working.  With  my 
movie  salary  and  personal  appearance 
tours,  I  was  earning  in  the  neighborhood 
of  $3500  a  week.  This  was  a  big  help  dur- 
ing a  period  in  Harry's  life  when  he 
needed  financial  help. 

We  were  happy  at  this  time.  I  was  busy 
with  my  career,  Harry  had  his  own  rou- 
tine. It  was  a  routine,  I  was  to  discover 
later,  that  continued  even  when  it  brought 
me  loneliness  and  heartache.  He'd  get  up 
early  in  the  morning,  go  to  his  office,  work 
there  till  noon,  then  take  off  for  one  of 
his  clubs,  the  Friars  of  Hillcrest,  where 
he'd  play  cards  until  evening.  Then  he'd 
come  home,  his  energies  spent,  silent  and 


preoccupied.  At  first,  I  didn't  mind  this.  I 
was  busy  with  my  work  and  I  didn't 
realize  that  Harry  was  away  quite  so  much 
of  the  time,  nor  that  he  was  so  glum 
around  the  house  when  he  was  home. 

I  didn't  realize  either,  until  much  later, 
that  Harry  apparently  was  just  as  much 
in  love  with  the  glamour  of  my  career  as 
he  was  with  me  as  a  woman.  For  soon 
afterwards,  something  happened  to  open 
my  eyes  to  this. 

WE  HAD  MOVED  into  a  home  of  our 
own  in  the  Valley  and  after  we  were  set- 
tled in  it,  I  had  a  great  desire  to  be  just  a 
housewife  and  mother.  I'd  been  in  show 
business  ever  since  I  was  13 — I'd  had  an 
exciting  career;  Fd  been  known  in  pic- 
tures as  "The  Body"  and  had  starred  in 
many  films.  I  had  dozens  of  scrapbooks 
bulging  with  clippings.  I  wanted  to  say 
good-bye  to  all  that  now  that  I  was  mar- 
ried, and  start  to  have  a  family. 

When  I  mentioned  this  to  Harry  I  was 
appalled  at  his  lack  of  enthusiasm.  How- 
ever, I  was  so  obsessed  with  the  idea  of 
having  a  baby  that  I  didn't  let  his  own 
coolness  to  the  idea  deter  me.  I  was  the 
happiest  girl  in  the  world  when  the  doctor 
told  me  that  I  was  going  to  have  a  baby. 

But  Harry  didn't  feel  that  way  at  all.  He 
didn't  display  much  sympathy  when  I 
was  ill,  and  he  became  bored  with  my 
morning  sickness.  Because  I  am  one  of 
those  women  who  run  into  difficulties  dur- 
ing pregnancy  (eventually  I  was  to  have 
six  miscarriages),  my  doctor  insisted  that 
I  remain  in  bed.  How  I  wished  at  the  time 
that  my  husband  would  stay  with  me  to 
help  me  pass  the  time.  It  would  have  made 
things  much  easier.  But  Harry  can't  seem 
to  stand  any  kind  of  unpleasant  situation 
around  his  wife.  It  may  be  due  to  a  great 
sensitivity  within  him.  I  discovered  during 
my  married  life  with  him  that  he  loves  his 
women  to  move  in  a  perpetual  cloud  of 
glamour.  He  seems  to  be  repelled  when 
the  woman  is  incapacitated  or  in  need  of 
sympathy. 

He  fell  in  love  with  me  because  I  was 
Marie  McDonald,  a  movie  star  who  was 
glamourous  on  and  off  the  screen.  But 
watching  me  as  I  lay  in  bed,  fighting  to 
preserve  the  life  of  my  unborn  baby,  ap- 
parently was  not  what  he  had  bargained 
for.  He  seemed  indifferent  at  a  time  when 
I  needed  a  warm  and  comforting  husband. 
I  can  understand  what  made  him  behave 
the  way  he  did,  but  it  didn't  help  matters. 
He  began  to  leave  earlier  and  earlier  for 
his  office;  return  later  and  later  from  his 
clubs. 

When  it  finally  occurred  to  me  that  he 
was  probably  avoiding  me  because  he 
wanted  a  gay,  not  a  bedridden  wife,  I  de- 
fied my  doctor's  orders  and  got  out  of  bed 
and  joined  Harry  on  a  trip  he  was  making 
to  San  Francisco. 

Eventually,  I  lost  the  baby. 

Harry,  meanwhile,  had  begun  to  prosper. 
He  became  bored  with  our  simple  Early 
American  house  in  the  Valley,  and  wanted 
something  more  pretentious.  One  day  he 
brought  me  to  see  a  vast  English  Tudor 
style  house  on  Sunset  Boulevard  in  Bev- 
erly Hills  and  said,  "This  is  going  to  be 
our  new  home." 

Possessions  mean  different  things  to  dif- 
ferent people.  Harry  has  always  been  with- 
drawn by  nature  and  has  always  had  an 
inferiority  complex.  To  Harry,  this  mag- 
nificent estate  on  five  valuable  acres  rep- 
resented stature  and  security.  It  gave  him 
a  feeling  of  importance. 

I  didn't  have  Harry's  sense  of  insecurity. 
I  didn't  need  a  mansion  to  make  me  feel 


accepted.  After  we  moved  in,  the  gloom 
of  this  big  house  that  had  more  rooms 
than  I  could  possibly  count,  oppressed  me. 
We  had  to  pay  $5,000  a  month  just  for 
servants  to  run  this  monster.  We  were 
running  into  debt  to  keep  up  this  big  place 
and  tensions  were  beginning  to  flare  up 
between  us. 

Because  Harry  has  some  wonderful 
traits,  I  still  thought  our  marriage  could 
be  saved.  And  I  wanted,  desperately,  to 
have  a  child.  After  several  miscarriages 
which  left  me  ill  and  depressed,  I  was 
able  to  convince  Harry  that  we  should 
adopt  a  baby.  To  my  great  joy  we  adopted 
not  one,  but  two  babies  in  quick  succes- 
sion; Denise  and  Harrison,  who  are  ten 
years  old  today  and  only  a  few  months 
apart. 

I  WOULDN'T  let  my  babies  out  of  my 
sight.  I'd  run  the  nurse  out  of  the  nursery 
and  sleep  there  myself,  my  hand  in  Dee- 
dee's,  just  to  feel  her  close  by  and  hear 
both  my  babies  breathing  as  they  slept.  I 
didn't  realize  it  then,  but  I  believe  that 
one  of  the  reasons  I  clung  so  to  my  babies 
was  because  with  them  I  found  the  warmth 
and  the  feeling  of  being  needed  that  I  didn't 
find  with  Harry. 

As  I  became  more  wrapped  up  in  the 
children  and  home,  Harry  became  more 
indifferent.  It  was  a  habit  of  his  I  was  to 
grow  to  understand  later:  domesticity  in  a 
woman  bores  him.  Once  the  glamourous 
trappings  are  shed,  Harry  ceases  to  be  in- 
terested in  that  woman.  Even  if  that  wom- 
an is  his  wife. 

When  we  had  first  dated,  my  natural 
gaiety  acted  as  a  stimulus  to  him.  But  once 
we  were  settled  in  a  home  of  our  own, 
with  two  babies  in  the  nursery,  he  didn't 
try  to  conceal  his  boredom.  When  he'd 
come  home,  he'd  go  up  to  his  room,  have 
dinner  sent  up  on  a  tray  and  have  it  in 
bed,  then  lie  in  bed  and  watch  television 
all  night.  He'd  remain  in  bed,  have  his 
meals  there  and  be  fastened  to  the  TV  set 
all  week  end. 

This  kind  of  thing  almost  drove  me  out 
of  my  mind.  The  house  was  gloomy 
enough;  this  was  an  added  pall.  I  discov- 
ered Harry  is  not  able  to  create  his  own 
fun.  There  are  many  people  like  that,  and 
this  in  itself  is  not  a  fault.  But  I  think  it's 
important  for  you,  Debbie,  to  know  this 
because  you  have  such  a  gay  personality. 
Harry  will  always  adore  you  if  you  retain 
your  gaiety  and  spirit  of  fun. 

In  order  to  pep  up  things  around  the 
house,  I  would  ask  friends  over  without 
telling  Harry,  and  after  they'd  arrived,  I 
would  go  up  to  Harry  (usually  still  en- 
sconced in  bed  watching  TV)  and  tell  him 
that  friends  had  dropped  in.  Then  he 
would  get  up,  dress  and  come  down.  I 
must  say,  however,  that  when  he  enter- 
tained our  friends  he  was  a  very  gracious 
host. 

Many  times,  in  order  to  win  Harry's 
companionship,  I  would  force  myself  to  be 
laughing  and  gay  and  dare  him  to  join  me 
in  a  moonlight  swim  in  the  pool.  I  had  to 
use  my  imagination  all  the  time  to  draw 
him  into  each  new  adventure,  and  con- 
tinually keep  him  intrigued.  I  became  so 
exhausted  trying  to  stimulate  Harry's  in- 
terest that  I  finally  had  to  give  up.  Besides, 
I  had  begun  to  assume  his  type  of  lethargy 
and  my  personality  suffered.  Friends  no- 
ticed I  wasn't  as  vivacious  as  I  used  to  be. 
I  hope  you  never  have  to  go  through  this, 
Debbie,  for  your  vivacity  is  one  of  your 
most  delightful  traits. 

Not  only  was  Harry's  moody  behavior 
reacting  on  my  personality,  I  began  to 
develop  heart  spasms.  After  several  attacks 
I  realized  I  could  no  longer  live  with  him. 
In  Harry's  defense  I  must  say  he  never 
intended  to  upset  me;  he  is  a  man  who 
means  well.  But  his  attitude  of  indifference 
and  his  silent  moods  were  beginning  to 


hurt  me.  I  decided  to  ask  for  a  divorce. 

The  divorce  was  quick.  I  obtained  it  in 
Las  Vegas,  and  once  I  was  free  I  felt  like 
my  old  self  again.  I  was  bursting  with 
vitality  and  gaiety,  and  picked  up  my  ca- 
reer again,  this  time  as  a  night  club  star. 

The  results  were  astounding:  I  played 
in  Las  Vegas  and  Park  Avenue  to  capacity 
audiences.  Offers  came  from  London,  Paris 
and  other  European  capitals,  and  I  flew 
there  to  keep  the  engagements. 

In  Europe,  I  had  a  ball.  I'd  sweep  on  the 
stage  wearing  minks,  and  I'd  sweep  into 
night  clubs  on  the  arm  of  a  man  the  same 
way.  I  began  to  date  Mike  Wilding,  who 
had  recently  been  divorced  by  Liz  Tay- 
lor. All  this  hoopla  got  back  to  Hollywood. 
In  no  time  at  all,  Harry  showed  up  in 
Europe  and  began  pursuing  me  madly.  I 
led  him  a  merry  chase.  Although  he  hadn't 
been  overly  generous  to  me  when  I  was 
his  wife,  now  he  deluged  me  with  jewels 
and  furs.  Harry  on  the  pursuit  is  like 
Santa  Glaus  in  action;  he  can't  do  enough 
for  the  woman  he  is  pursuing.  He  chases 
her  and  showers  costly  gifts  on  her.  Senti- 
mental gifts,  as  well,  which  are  guaranteed 
to  make  her  melt,  like  the  time  he  sent  so 
many  roses  to  my  dressing-room  in  Lon- 
don I  could  scarcely  get  into  the  room. 
I  was  touched. 

I  THOUGHT  HE  HAD  CHANGED. 
Courting  me  again,  he  seemed  so  charm- 
ing, thoughtful  and  sociable,  quite  dif- 
ferent from  the  glum,  uncommunicative 
man  I  had  been  married  to. 

We  went  to  a  justice  of  the  peace  and 
were  married  again. 

But  shortly  after  our  marriage,  some- 
thing happened  to  make  him  revert  to  the 
old  Harry.  I'd  suffered  an  injury  while  I 
was  dancing  on  stage,  and  I  had  to  go  into 
the  hospital,  with  a  cast  placed  on  my  leg. 
Instead  of  displaying  the  devotion  I  longed 
for,  Harry  reacted  as  he  had  when  we 
were  married  the  first  time:  he  tried  to 


duck  the  unpleasant  situation.  Suddenly, 
he  was  off  on  a  business  trip  to  New  York. 
Lying  alone  in  the  hospital,  I  had  to  face 
the  realization  all  over  again  that  Harry 
always  seemed  to  run  from  a  woman  when 
she  was  not  her  glamourous  self;  he 
couldn't  offer  himself  when  she  was  sick 
or  in  trouble. 

When  I  returned  home,  I  had  to  rest. 
That  meant  I  had  to  cancel  my  night  club 
bookings.  Again,  Harry  became  the  cold, 
silent  husband  so  deadly  familiar  to  me. 
Again,  his  retreat  to  his  room  where  he 
would  remain  in  bed  for  an  entire  week 
end,  staring  silently  at  the  TV  set  in  front 
of  him.  When  the  children  wanted  to  see 
him,  they  had  to  go  to  his  room  and  share 
him  with  the  television  set. 

Just  when  things  began  to  press  in  on 
me  again,  I  made  a  happy  discovery.  I  was 
pregnant  again.  I  was  determined  to  have 
this  baby. 

This  time  I  followed  the  doctor's  advice 
to  a  T.  I  stayed  in  bed — even  if  Harry  did 
have  to  go  off  on  his  business  trips  or  find 
relaxation  in  his  clubs. 

I  had  plenty  of  time  to  be  alone  and 
think.  And  I  thought  a  lot.  One  day  the 
reason  for  Harry's  actions  became  alarm- 
ingly clear  to  me.  It  was  like  some  kind 
of  pattern:  he  would  become  greatly  at- 
tracted to  a  glamourous  woman,  a  woman 
who  was  beautiful,  famous,  at  the  peak 
of  her  career,  desired  by  other  men.  Once 
some  of  those  qualities  vanished,  his  in- 
terest waned.  This  was  the  case  with  me, 
anyway.  When  he  first  met  me,  I  was  a 
star,  had  many  beaux.  After  I  married  him, 
I  gave  up  my  career,  settled  down.  He  be- 
came disinterested.  After  I  divorced  him 
and  embarked  on  a  night  club  career,  he 
became  intrigued  all  over  again,  pursuing 
me  over  half  the  world.  But  now  when  I 
was  ill,  my  career  on  the  shelf  again,  I 
scarcely  saw  Harry.  .  .  . 

It  was  so  clear.  I  was  afraid  the  emo- 
tional strain  might  cause  a  miscarriage 


again.  Months  before  our  baby  was  born, 
I  consulted  a  lawyer  about  a  divorce. 

When  our  baby,  Tina  Marie,  was  born, 
Harry  had  to  be  notified  in  Las  Vegas, 
where  he  had  gone  to  keep  a  date  with 
Zsa  Zsa  Gabor. 

Tina  was  such  a  tiny  infant  she  had  to 
be  placed  in  an  incubator,  her  existence 
in  peril.  I  called  Harry  in  Vegas  to  tell 
him  about  the  danger  his  own  baby  faced, 
but  apparently  he  was  too  busy  in  Las 
Vegas  to  come  home.  Tina  was  born  in 
September;  in  January  Harry  saw  his  own 
baby  daughter. 

IT  HAS  BEEN  THREE  YEARS  now  that 
Harry  and  I  have  been  divorced.  Finan- 
cially, he  has  been  a  good  father  to  our 
three  children.  But  how  I  wish  he  could 
find  the  time  to  see  them  more  often  than 
the  two  or  three  times  a  year  he  has  visited 
them  so  far.  Tina  looks  exactly  like  him, 
and  I'd  hoped  that  seeing  his  face  in  de- 
lightful miniature  in  hers  might  make  him 
feel  closer  to  her.  I  am  sure  that  some  day 
it  will. 

Since  our  divorce  I  have  returned  to  my 
career  and  I  am  happy  with  my  work  and 
with  my  children. 

Much  has  also  happened  to  Harry.  He 
has  become  involved  in  a  headlined  friend- 
ship with  you,  Debbie.  I  have  heard  that 
you  and  Harry  are  planning  to  marry 
soon,  and  I  hope  you  will  be  happy.  Don't 
let  marriage  shear  you  of  your  glamour, 
Debbie.  That  was  a  mistake  I  made.  Per- 
haps you  can  profit  by  my  experience 
when  I  was  married  to  Harry,  avoid  re- 
peating them,  and  thus  have  a  happy  and 
enduring  marriage. 

I  wish  you  the  best 

Best  wishes, 
Marie  McDonald 

Debbie  has  two  new  Columbia  pictures: 
she  stars  in  Try,  Try  Again  and  has  a 
guest  spot  in  Pepe. 


These  Are  Our  Heartaches  and  Our  Blessings 

(Continued  from,  page  41) 


Only  Kelly,  their  four-year-old,  was  her 
usual  wide-awake  and  bright-eyed  self. 

"Okay,  sweetheart,"  Tony  said  to  her, 
yawning,  "it's  way  past  your  bedtime." 

"Do  I  have  to  go  to  bed?"  she  asked. 

"Please,  Kelly,"  Janet  said,  "we've  had 
a  long  day  of  work,  your  Daddy  and  I. 
Daddy,  especially — he's  been  working 
every  night  till  way  past  midnight  on  his 
picture.  And  we've  had  a  tough  drive. 
And  we're  tired.  So  please?" 

They  took  her  into  her  room  and  tucked 
her  in. 

"Now,"  Janet  said,  lowering  her  head: 
"Our  Father.  .  .  ." 

"Our  Father.  .  .  ."  Kelly  repeated. 

"Who  art  in  heaven.  .  .  ." 

"Who  art  in  heaven.  .  .  ." 

"Hallowed — "  Janet  started  to  say. 

"Daddy,"  Kelly  said,  looking  up  at  Tony, 
who  stood  close  to  the  little  bed,  his  eyes 
closed,  the  picture  of  reverence  some  other 
time  maybe,  a  panorama  of  exhaustion 
right  now.  "Daddy,  but  you're  not  in 
heaven!" 

"I  know,"  Tony  nodded,  opening  his  eyes 
a  little.  "I  hear  they  get  some  sleep  up 
there!" 

"KELLY,"  EXPLAINED  JANET.  "  'Our 
Father'  in  the  prayer  doesn't  refer  to 
Daddy.  It  refers  to  God  who  is  the  father 
of  us  all.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,"  said  Kelly. 

"Now,"  Janet  said,  " — and  no  more  in- 


terruptions please — let's  finish  our  prayer." 
They  did. 

"Daddy!"  Kelly  called  then. 

"Yes?"  asked  Tony,  his  eyes  snapping 
open  again. 

"Before  I  go  to  sleep,  would  you  read 
me  the  story  of  Scit-Scat  the  Pussycat?" 

"I  can't,"  said  Tony.  He  smiled.  "That's 
in  a  book  we  left  home.  I  don't  remem- 
ber it." 

"Yes  you  do,"  Kelly  said.  "I  do." 

"Then  why,  dear,"  asked  Janet,  "don't 
you  tell  it  to  yourself  after  the  lights  are 
out?" 

"Because  I  forget  the  ending,"  Kelly 
said,  "and  what  happens  to  the  poor  little 
orphan  pussycat" 

"He  gets  adopted,"  tattled  the  star  of 
Psycho. 

"Yeah — adopted,"  said  Tony. 

"Oh,  that's  right,"  said  Kelly.  "But— I 
want  to  hear  how  you  tell  it,  Daddy." 

Between  yawns,  reluctantly,  Tony  told  it. 

"All  right  now?"  Janet  asked  then. 
"Enough  for  one  night?  Are  you  ready 
now  to  go  to  sleep?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Kelly,  "just  as  soon  as 
we  finish  singing." 

"Singing?"  Janet  asked.  "Tonight? 
Here?" 

"We  always  sing  at  home,"  Kelly  said. 
"And  isn't  this  our  home,  too?  And 
shouldn't  people  love  their  homes,  like  you 
told  me  that  time,  Mommy,  and  sing  in 
them  for  happiness?" 


"Mmmmmmnun,"  Janet  said.  And  before 
she  knew  it,  she  was  joining  her  young 
daughter  in  their  current  medley  of  night- 
time hits:  I've  Got  A  Crush  On  You,  Ma- 
tilda, My  Funny  Valentine,  My  Darling 
Clementine,  The  Girl  That  I  Marry  and 
Yes,  We  Have  No  Bananas. 

"Now — "  Janet  started  again. 

"Okay,"  said  Kelly,  "just  as  soon  as  you 
hear  my  new  song.  I  learned  it  for  you 
both  special  today,  from  Sue  Ellen  next 
door,  so's  we  can  sing  it  at  her  party  next 
month." 

Without  further  ado,  she  began: 
"Thanksgiving,   Thanksgiving,  Thanks- 
giv-ing 

"The  Pilgrims  were  all  glad  to  be  liv-ing 
"They'd  'scaped  from  the  Indians,  the 

Apache's  and  Sioux's 
"They  couldn't  wait  to  eat  their  turkeys 

'n  tell  each  other  the  nioux's.  .  .  ." 
She  stopped. 

"Very  nice,"  Tony  said,  beginning  to 
clap. 

"No,  Daddy,  there's  lots  more,"  said 
Kelly.  "I  was  just  taking  a  breath." 

Desperately,  Tony  began  to  dance  a 
groggy  Charleston,  on  the  spot,  in  hopes  of 
distracting  his  daughter. 

It  half-worked. 

"When's  Thanksgiving?"  Kelly  asked. 
"The  last  Thursday  in  November,"  said 
Janet. 

"And  why  do  we  have  it?"  Kelly  asked. 
"To  give  thanks,"  Janet  said.  "To  pause 


and  thank  the  Lord  for  all  our  blessings 
...  In  our  case,  we  thank  him  for  giving  us 
you,  and  Jamie,  and  for  all  the  other  won- 
derful things  he's  given  us." 

"And,"  added  Tony,  "if  you  want  to  see 
a  preview  of  Thanksgiving,  right  here,  to- 
morrow, you  just  be  a  good  girl  and  go  to 
sleep  now,  and  let  me  and  Mommy  sleep 
late  in  the  morning  .  .  .  and  we'll  be  the 
two  most  thankful  people  in  town." 

"You're  funny,  Daddy,"  said  Kelly. 

"Will  you?"  Tony  asked,  bending  down 
and  kissing  her.  " — Let  us  sleep  late  to- 
morrow? As  a  big  and  special  favor  to 
me?  To  Mommy?" 

"Sure,  Daddy,"  said  Kelly. 

"Sure!" 

"THAT  WAS  SOME  SONG  Sue  Ellen 
taught  her,"  Janet  laughed  a  little  while 
later,  as  she  sat  fixing  her  hair  for  the 
night 

"I'd  hate  to  have  heard  the  next  twelve 
verses,"  Tony  said,  from  bed. 

"She  is  adorable,  though,  that  child  of 
ours,"  Janet  said. 

Tony  nodded.  "She's  the  end,"  he  said. 

"And  she's  a  good  child,  too,"  Janet  said 
proudly.  "Just  like  Jamie  is.  .  .  .  Of  course, 
they  do  have  their  days.  But  they're  cer- 
tainly not  like  some  of  these  other  kids 
you  keep  hearing  about.  Always  cranky. 
Always  fussing." 

"Not  our  dolls,"  agreed  Tony. 

Janet  clipped  the  last  of  the  curlers  to 
her  hair,  rose  and  walked  over  to  a  panel 
on  the  wall.  She  pushed  a  button,  which 
connected  with  the  inter-com  system  in 
Jamie's  room.  Then  she  pushed  another 
button,  which  connected  with  Kelly's 
room. 

She  listened  for  a  moment. 

The  silence  in  both  rooms  was  lovely. 

"Sleep  well,"  she  whispered  then,  as  she 
got  into  bed,  alongside  Tony.  "Sleep  well, 
darling." 

Tony  already  was  sleeping,  very  well. 

Janet  lay  her  head  back  on  the  pillow 
And  she  smiled  as  once  more  she  listened 
to  the  silence  about  her — lovely,  so  lovely. 

And  then,  she  too  slept. 

At  five-thirty  the  next  morning,  prompt- 
ly, it  began. 

Pandemonium! 

"It  was  the  beginning  of  one  of  those 
days,"  Janet  says,  "on  which  Doctors 
Spock  and  Gesell.  had  they  been  around, 
would  have  run  back  to  their  offices  and 
taken  down  their  diplomas.  ...  At  five- 
thirty  came  the  screaming,  from  Kelly's 
room.  She's  at  an  age  in  which  nightmares 
are  not  uncommon.  And,  let  me  tell  you, 
she  was  having  one  now.  .  .  ." 

"What's  the  matter,  sweetheart?"  Tony 
asked  as  he  and  Janet  rushed  into  her 
room. 

Kelly  bounded  up  from  bed  and  threw 
herself  in  Tony's  arms. 

"The  big  fat  beetle  was  sleeping  with 
me,  Daddy,"  she  cried,  the  tears  streaming 
down  her  cheeks. 

Tony  continued  holding  her.  He  looked 
over  her  shoulder.  "There's  no  big  fat 
beetle  here  anymore,  Kelly,"  he  said,  after 
a  moment. 

"He's  hiding  now,"  said  Kelly,  confiden- 
tially. "You  just  look  for  him,  Daddy.  And 
you'll  find  him." 

Tony  put  her  down  and  began  to  search 
the  room— under  the  bed,  under  the  rug. 
behind  the  curtains,  the  closet,  the  bath- 
room adjoining  the  room. 

"See?"  he  said,  when  he  thought  he  was 
through.  "No  beetle." 

"Did  you  look  in  the  drawers?"  Kelly 
asked,  pointing  to  a  bureau. 

Tony  walked  over  to  it.  He  opened  one 
drawer,  then  another,  then  another.  He 
had  just  opened  the  fourth  and  final 
drawer,  when  suddenly,  something  shot  up 
and  hit  him  in  the  eye. 


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"SIZING  J 

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The  facts  about  menstruation.  Menstruation 
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NAME. 


ADDRESS  

CITY  ZONE. 


'  "Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!"  he  shouted. 
He  looked  down  to  the  floor  then,  and 
saw  a  green  rubber  frog  rolling  away  from 
him. 

"That's  Freddie,  Daddy,"  Kelly  said.  "He 
always  jumps  when  you  get  him  jiggled." 

Tony  looked  up  and  over  at  his  daugh- 
ter. He  tried  to  force  a  laugh.  "Well,"  he 
said,  " — and  wasn't  that  funny?" 

"No,"  Kelly  said.  "I'm  still  afraid  .  .  . 
Please  someone,"  she  said,  "please  stay 
with  me  for  a  little  while." 

Tony  and  Janet  went  into  a  huddle.  One 
of  them  should  stay,  they  knew.  But  who? 

They  chose  for  it. 

Janet  lost. 

Smilingly,  sprintingly,  Tony  began  to 
head  back  for  the  big  bedroom. 

HE'D  ALMOST  MADE  IT,  too,  when  he 
heard  the  noises,  coming  from  the  other 
room. 

"Honey,"  he  heard  Janet's  voice  call 
then,  "will  you  see  what's  wrong  with 
Jamie?  She's  crying." 

Ten  minutes  later,  Tony  stumbled  back 
into  Kelly's  room.  Jamie  was  in  his  arms. 
"She's  still  crying,"  he  said.  "What's 
wrong  with  her?" 

"Mouf,  mouf,"  the  baby  muttered,  be- 
tween sobs. 

Janet  looked  into  her  mouth.  "Poor 
thing,"  she  said,  " — she's  teething." 

"But  she's  teethed  before,"  Tony  said. 
"She's  had  plenty  of  teeth  in  her  time." 

"This  one's  a  molar,"  Janet  said.  "Tony, 
just  take  her  to  her  room  and  put  some 
lotion  on  her  gum.  That'll  soothe  her,  and 
then  she'll  go  back  to  sleep." 

Tony  went. 

"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!"  Janet  heard 
him  shout  a  few  minutes  later. 

"Honey,"  she  called,  "what  happened?" 

"Jamie  bit  me,"  Tony  called  back,  "that's 
what  happened." 

Janet  shook  her  head.  "Honey,  easy 
when  you  put  on  the  lotion,"  she  said, 
"and  then  just  put  her  down.  And  she'll 
go  back  to  sleep."  She  crossed  her  fingers. 
"You'll  see.  .  .  ." 

"Needless  to  say  Jamie  didn't  go  back 
to  sleep  that  morning,  nor  did  Kelly,  nor 
Tony,  nor  did  I,"  Janet  says,  remembering. 
"At  about  seven  o'clock,  when  the  commo- 
tion had  quieted  down,  I  decided  I'd  make 
breakfast.  Things  went  pretty  well  for 
that  next  forty-five  minutes  or  so.  Oh 
sure,  Kelly  accidentally  flung  a  spoonful 
of  corn  flakes  and  banana  into  Tony's  hair. 
And  Jamie  gave  her  high-chair  a  shove  at 
one  point,  while  she  was  in  it,  and  nearly 
gave  us  heart  failure  as  she  started  to 
fall  over.  But,  I  mean,  it  was  relatively 
quiet,  breakfast  was.  And  things  stayed 
quiet  till  all  the  way  up  to  about  nine 
o'clock,  believe  it  or  not.  .  .  ." 

By  nine,  Tony  had  gone  back  to  bed  for 
a  while.  Janet  was  on  the  phone,  ordering 
some  groceries  from  a  nearby  market. 
The  children  were  outside,  in  a  sand-box, 
"playing." 

Suddenly,  again,  there  came  a  scream, 
long  and  loud. 

Janet  hung  up  the  receiver  and  raced 
outside.  The  first  thing  she  saw  was  Jamie, 
lying  on  the  grass,  blood  trickling  from 
her  lip. 

As  Janet  rushed  over  to  her  bawling 
child,  she  looked  around  for  Kelly. 

And  there  was  Kelly,  sitting  in  the 
sand-box,  pretty  as  an  angel,  quiet  as  a 
church  mouse,  watching. 

"Kelly,"  Janet  called,  "what  happened?" 

"Jamie  fell  against  the  fence  there  and 
hurt  her  mouth,"  said  Kelly. 

"She  got  out  of  the  sand-box  herself?" 
Janet  asked,  as  she  got  on  her  knees  and 
began  to  lift  Jamie  from  the  grass. 

"Yes,  Mommy,"  said  Kelly.  "And  I  didn't 
follow  her.  And  I  didn't  push  her." 
©)     "Are  you  sure?"  Janet  asked. 


"Well,"  said  Kelly,  "maybe  I  was  there 
for  a  minute.  And  maybe  I  touched 
her.  .  .  ." 

"Kelly,"  Janet  said,  "you  know  that 
Jamie  doesn't  like  to  be — " 

She  interrupted  herself. 

"Jamie!"  she  called  then,  watching  the 
little  girl  who  had  just  managed  to  slip 
from  her  arms.  "Where  are  you  going, 
Jamie?" 

Jamie  didn't  answer.  But  it  was  obvious 
that  she  was  headed  for  her  sister. 

"Ja-mie!"  Janet  called. 

"I  didn't  push  you  on  purpose,  Jamie," 
Kelly  said.  "You  know  that." 

Jamie  had  reached  the  sand-box  and 
Kelly  by  this  time.  For  one  moment,  she 
looked  her  big  sister  square  in  the  eye. 
And  then,  the  next  moment,  she  lifted  her 
arm,  made  a  fist  and  she  hauled  off  and 
slugged  her  one. 

"Mommmmmyyyyy,"  Kelly  began  to 
scream  now. 

"My  mouuuuufffff,"  Jamie  screamed, 
conscious  again  of  her  boo-boo.  . 

"Tonnnnnyyyyy,"  Janet  called.  "Help. 
Tonnnnnnnyyyyyyy!" 

He  came  running  out  of  the  house.  He 
wore  only  his  shorts.  He  rubbed  his  eyes. 
"Wh-what's  wrong?"  he  asked. 

"It's  one  of  those  days,  Tony,"  Janet  said, 
"the  kind  I  bragged  we  never  had  .  .  . 
The  chiHren.  They're  cranky  and  fussy. 
We've  got  to  keep  them  amused.  And  sepa- 
rately, for  now.  I'll  take  Kelly.  You  take 
Jamie  .  .  .  Come  on.  Kelly,"  she  said. 

"Where  are  you  taking  her?"  Tony 
asked. 

"To  the  grocer's,  to  ride  ponies,  to  fish — 
I  don't  know,"  Janet  said. 

"And  how  about  me?"  asked  Tony. 

"You  stay  with  Jamie,"  said  Janet. 

"But  I'm  supposed  to  get  some  sleep." 
Tony  moaned. 

"Tonight,  honey,"  Janet  said,  "—if  it's 
the  last  thing  we  ever  do,  tonight  we'll  get 
some  sleep.  .  .  ." 

"THE  REST  OF  THAT  DAY  was  incred- 
ible," Janet  says.  "Our  two  good  girls.  What 
had  happened  to  them,  we  wondered. 
There's  an  old  Arabic  saying  that  goes: 
'Once  in  a  while  the  sun  slants  wrong  on  a 
family  and,  for  the  day.  things  do  not  sit 
well  with  family.'  That's  a  free  translation. 
But  you  get  what  I  mean.  Because  this  was 
the  day  that  Arabic  saying  was  applying  to 
us,  and  the  sun  sure  was  not  slanting  right 
.  .  .  All  day  it  went  on.  The  children 
wouldn't  eat  their  lunch.  They  wouldn't 
nap.  They  wouldn't  play  the  way  they 
were  used  to  playing.  Late  in  the  afternoon 
some  friends  dropped  by.  Kelly,  normally 
the  gentlest  and  friendliest  of  girls,  an- 
nounced in  her  loudest  voice,  after  the 
people  had  gone  into  the  garden  to  see  her: 
'No.  I  won't  say  hello.  I'll  only  say  good- 
bye when  you  go!'  And  Jamie,  normally  so 
sweet,  so  careful,  managed  to  break  one 
lamp,  one  ashtray  and,  finally,  one  high- 
chair  which,  luckily,  she  wasn't  in  at  the 
time. 

"If  lunch  was  a  catastrophe,  dinner  was 
worse.  I  had  all  of  their  favorite  foods  for 
them  that  night.  But  did  it  matter?  No. 
They  nibbled  like  they  were  eating  a 
strange  Tibetan  meal,  and  then  they 
stopped  eating,  and  then  they  complained, 
a  lot,  loudly,  and  the  complaining  went  on 
and  on  and  on. 

"But  then,  suddenly — miraculously,  I 
guess  you  could  say — what  rays  of  sun 
were  left  in  the  early-evening  sky  began 
slanting  our  way.  Because,  suddenly,  the 
noise  stopped,  and  the  complaining,  and 
the  children  began  to  yawn,  and  even  to 
smile,  and  very  quietly,  sweetly,  they  indi- 
cated that  they  were  ready  to  go  to  bed. 

"We  put  Jamie  in  her  crib  first,  kissed 
her  and  cuddled  her  and  watched  her  go 
off  to  sleep. 


"Then  it  was  Kelly's  turn.  She  was  like 
a  different  child;  her  old  self  again.  She 
got  into  her  pajamas  and  she  hugged  us, 
Tony  and  me,  hard.  And  then  she  said, 
"Mommy  .  .  .  Daddy  ...  I  think  I've  been 
a  bad  girl  today.  But  I  won't  be  anymore 
.  .  .  I've  been  thinking.'  she  said,  'about 
what  you  told  me  last  night  about  Thanks- 
giving, next  month.  And  when  it  comes  I 
really  want  you  to  be  thankful  for  having 
had  me.  And  so  I'm  sorry  about  how  I  was 
today,  and  I'm  sure  Jamie  is  too.  And  from 
now  on  we're  going  to  be  the  best  little 
girls  in  the  whole  wide  world.  And  we're 
going  to  have  the  happiest  Thanksgiving, 
too.  You  wait  and  see.' 

"It  was  so  touching,  the  way  she  said 
that,  that  Tony  and  I  nearly  wept. 

"  'No.  Mommy,'  she  said  then,  'may  I 
say  my  prayers  with  you,  like  always?' 

"  Yes,  dear,'  I  said. 

"  'And  Daddy,  will  you  tell  me  one 
quick  story,  like  always?'  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  darling,'  said  Tony. 

"Then,  the  prayers  and  the  story  over 
with,  we  kissed  her,  put  out  the  light  and 
went  to  the  living  room.  There,  we  sat 
and  watched  some  TV  for  an  hour.  And 
then,  on  tip  toes,  we  gently  stole  off  to 
our  room. 

"We  were  in  bed  in  a  jiffy.  Finally,  fi- 
nally, we  were  in  bed. 

"I  had  turned  on  the  inter-coms  and 
everything  was  so  quiet,  so  peaceful. 

'  And  off  we  fell,  to  sleep,  at  last." 

Janet  began  to  tremble  a  little  here. 

"And  then."  she  said,  "and  then.  .  .  ." 

IT  WAS  ABOUT  TWO  A.M.  when  the 
little  voice  came  roaring  over  the  inter- 
com. 

"Mommy!  .  .  .  Mommy!" 
"It's  Kelly."  Janet  said,  startled,  awak- 
ening. 

"Probably    another    nightmare."  Tony 

said. 

"Oh,  the  poor  child,"  said  Janet. 

They  rushed  into  their  daughter's  room. 

"Hi,"  Kelly  greeted  them,  smiling,  sit- 
ting up  in  her  bed. 

"Is  ...  is  something  supposed  to  be 
wrong  here?"  Tony  asked. 

"Yes,  Daddy,"  Kelly  said.  "Mommy  and 
I  foreot  something." 

"What?"  Janet  asked. 

"Well,  we  said  our  prayers,  like  always." 
Kelly  explained,  "and  you  told  me  a  story, 
like  always,  Daddy  .  .  .  But  you  Mommy, 
vou  forgot  to  sing  with  me.  like  alwavs!" 

"Sing?"  Janet  asked.  "Tonight?  Now?" 

"We  always  sing  at  home,"  Kelly  said, 
"and — " 

"I  know,"  said  Janet.  "I  know." 
She  sat  down  on  the  bed  alongside  her 
daughter. 

"All  right.  Kelly."  she  said,  "we'll  sing. 
But  very  fast  this  time,  huh?  And  no  ling- 
ering over  the  high  notes?" 

"All  right,"  Kelly  said. 

Janet  cleared  her  throat. 

"I've  got  a  crush  on  you — "  she  began. 

"Sweetie  pie-yyyyyy — "  Kelly  joined  in 

"Mommy."  she  said,  stopping,  pointing. 
"What's  Daddy  doing?" 

Janet  looked  down. 

"He's  laughing,"  she  said. 

"On  the  floor?"  Kelly  asked. 

"That's  what  they  call  hysterical  laugh- 
ter, dear."  Janet  said.  ".  .  .  Now  come  on. 
we've  got  five  songs  to  go  after  this.  .  .  ." 

"All  the  day  and  nighttime — "  she  be- 
gan again,  trying  hard  to  hold  in  her  own 
laughter. 

"Hear  me  ca-ryyyyyy—"  Kelly  joined 
in,  shaking  her  head,  not  getting  the  big 
joke  at  all.  ...  END 

Janet  can  still  be  seen  starring  in  Psy- 
cho, and  To?ty  stars  next  in  Universal- 
International's  The  Sixth  Man  and  The 
Great  Impostor:  Spartacus. 


IS  YOUR  -...THEN  TRY  "ROUND-THE-CLOCK 
WASH-OFF  • 


PERMANENT  DARKENER 
.  FOR  LASHES  AND  BROWS 

(for  the  hairs  to  which  applied) 


The  Love  Story  of  Pat  and  Dick 


(Continued  from  page  21) 

Later  that  night,  the  lawyer  showed  up 
at  her  door. 

He  handed  Pat  a  package. 

"If  I  were  rich."  he  said,  "I'd  have  bought 
you  another  collie  .  .  .  But  since  I  only  had 
six  dollars  on  me.  this  was  the  best 
I  could  do." 

Pat  opened  the  package. 

Inside  was  a  small  woodcut,  of  a  dog.  a 
collie. 

With  it  was  a  note  which  read:  "May  I 
have  the  pleasure  of  being  your  new 
friend?" 

Pat  knew  now  that  this  man.  "this  sweet, 
wonderful  fellow,"  was  the  man  for  her. 

As  only  a  woman  can.  she  got  him  to 
propose  officially  to  her  later  that  night. 
And  when  he  did  she  said,  breathlessly,  as 
if  surprised  and  delighted.  "Why  yes!" 

There  was  only  one  slight  hitch,  the 
lawyer  told  her  then.  "My  mother's  a  little 
worried  about  your  having  a  'Hollywood' 
background.  It  won't  make  any  difference 
for  us  either  way.  But  I'd  like  you  to  meet 
her  and  show  her  what  you're  really  like 
.  .  .  Okay?"  he  asked. 

"Oh  boy,"  said  Pat. 

HANNAH  NIXON  SAT  ALONE  with 
Pat  in  the  Nixon  parlor  that  next  after- 
noon. They  sat  next  to  one  another  on  a 
small  couch.  On  a  table  in  front  of  them 
were  two  cups  of  tea  and  an  aging  scrap- 
book. 

"I  know  my  Richard  must  be  in  love 
with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Nixon,  beginning,  her 
voice  very  matter-of-fact,  her  eyes  never 
once  off  Pat.  "In  the  past  whenever  he 
came  back  from  other  dates  he  talked  not 
of  romance  but  about  such  things  as  what 
might  have  happened  to  the  world  if  Persia 
had  conquered  the  Greeks,  or  what  might 
have  happened  if  Plato  had  never  lived  .  .  . 
But  after  his  dates  with  you.  Miss  Ryan, 
well,  he  talked  only  of  you." 

There  was  something  about  the  way 
she'd  said  you  that  caused  Pat  to  move  a 
little,  uncomfortably,  in  her  seat. 

"Now,"  Mrs.  Nixon  went  on.  "since  you're 
going  to  marry  Richard.  I  guess  there's  a 
lot  you'll  want  to  know  about  him  .  .  . 
First  of  all,  let's  see;  yes.  there's  food  to 
be  discussed.  Most  foods  don't  interest 
Richard,  you  know.  But  there  are  two 
things  he  likes.  One  is  cherry  pie.  One  is 
rump  roast  beef  ...  Do  you  know  how  to 
prepare  them,  Miss  Ryan?  Pie  and  rump 
roast?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pat,  "I  do." 

"Hmmmm,"  said  Mrs.  Nixon.  "Now — 
about  clothes.  I'm  afraid  you're  going  to 
have  to  do  a  lot  of  Richard's  chopping.  If 
his  brother  Donald  needs  a  new  suit.  Rich- 
ard will  buy  it.  But  if  Richard  needs  one. 
he'll  get  me  to  buy  it.  or  do  without  it  .  .  . 
That's  a  job  you'll  be  having  to  take  over, 
Miss  Ryan.  Will  you  mind  that?" 

"Oh  no,  not  at  all."  said  Pat. 

"You'll  find,  too."  Mrs.  Nixon  went  on, 
"that  Richard  is  a  hard  worker.  But  work 
for  him  has  not  been  connected  with  mak- 
ing money.  I  have  never  heard  him  ex- 
press a  desire  to  be  a  financial  success  .  .  . 
Does  that  matter  to  you,  Miss  Ryan,  if 
your  husband  is  not  a  financial  success?" 

"It  would  have  a  few  years  ago,  when  I 
was  younger,  sillier."  said  Pat.  "It  doesn't 
any  more." 

Mrs.  Nixon  smiled,  a  tiny  bit. 

Then  she  said,  "I  hear  you're  an  orphan." 

"Yes,"  said  Pat. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Mrs.  Nixon.  " — Your 
mother  passed  on  first?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pat.  "When  I  was  a  young 
girl.  Her  heart  gave  way." 


"And  your  father?" 

"He  died  just  as  I  was  finishing  up  high 
school.  He  had  silicosis.  I  tried  to  nurse 
him  as  well  as  I  could.  But — " 

"BUT  WHILE  THEY  LIVED."  Pat  said, 
"they  were  very  happy.  I'm  glad  for  that. 
I  thank  God  for  that." 

Again  Mrs.  Nixon  smiled,  a  little. 

Then  she  reached  forward  and  picked  up 
the  scrapbook  in  front  of  her.  She  turned 
a  few  pages. 

"This,"  she  said  then,  pointing  to  a 
photograph,  "is  Richard,  right  after  birth." 

Pat  grinned. 

"He  was  adorable."  she  said. 

"A  very  well-formed  baby.  I  thought." 
said  Mrs.  Nixon.  "And  this,"  she  said  then, 
"is  Richard  at  nine  months,  the  time  he  said 
his  first  word. -It  was  'bird.'  He  was  refer- 
ring to  a  white  horse  of  ours  named  Bird." 

"Dick's  told  me  about  him."  said  Pat. 

"And  this,"  she  said  then,  "is  Richard 
at  ten.  the  time  he  said  to  us  he  wanted  to 
be  a  lawyer  when  he  grew  up.  We  thought 
he  would  be  a  musician,  he  had  such  a 
good  ear  on  the  piano:  or  maybe  even  a 
preacher,  he  could  talk  so  well.  But  he 
said  "lawyer'  one  day.  and  I  could  see  he 
had  a  sense  of  justice  about  him. 

"You  see."  she  said,  "we  had  a  store 
at  the  time  and  we  found  that  one  of  the 
customers  had  been  shoplifting.  Everybody 
thought  that  I  should  turn  the  woman 
over  to  the  police.  But  Richard  said  'Don't 
do  it.  Mother.  If  they  arrest  that  woman, 
it  will  ruin  the  lives  of  her  two  children.' 
I  followed  Richard's  advice.  And  I've  never 
been  sorry  I  did." 

When  she  was  through  talking,  she  saw 
Pat  kiss  her  own  fingers  and  then  bring 
them  down,  softly,  onto  the  photograph. 

"What  made  you  do  that?"  Mrs.  Nixon 
asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  Pat  shrugged.  "I  guess 
it's  that  up  till  now  I  loved  the  man  .  .  . 
But  now  I  love  the  boy  that  he  used 
to  be.  too." 

"Well — "  said  Hannah  Nixon. 

And  then,  for  the  first  time  that  after- 
noon, she  smiled,  really  smiled,  a  warm 
and  deep  smile. 

"Well — "  she  said  again,  "that  was  a 
very  nice  thing  for  you  to  say. 

"And  I'm  glad.  Pat,  very  glad  that  you're 
the  girl  who's  going  to  marry  my  son." 

Pat  and  Dick  Nixon  were  married  early 
in  1940.  in  a  Quaker  church  in  Riverside, 
California. 

When — soon  after  the  United  States  en- 
tered World  War  II — Dick  joined  the  Navy, 
Pat  quit  her  schoolteaching  job  and  fol- 
lowed her  husband,  happily,  in  her  usual 
happy-go-lucky  way.  from  billet  to  billet. 

They  lived  in  Washington  for  a  while, 
then  Iowa,  then  Philadelphia.  When  Dick 
was  sent  to  the  Pacific.  Pat  took  an  apart- 
ment in  San  Francisco  and  a  job  there,  as 
a  stenographer. 

Finally,  towards  the  war's  end.  Dick 
came  back  to  the  States  and  he  and  Pat 
took  off  together  for  Baltimore  and  his 
last  Navy  assignment. 

In  Baltimore,  after  a  while,  Pat  became 
pregnant. 

And  in  Baltimore,  too.  after  a  while,, 
Dick  received  the  telegram  that  was  to  | 
change  the  course  of  their  entire  fives. 
The  telegram  read: 

ARE  .  YOU  INTERESTED  IN  RUN- 
NING FOR  CONGRESSIONAL  SEAT 
SOLIDLY  HELD  BY  DEMOCRAT 
VOORHIS? 

(SIGNED)  THE  COMMITTEE  OF 
ONE  HUNDRED. 


TO  5  WEEKS:  V. Vs-.-s  left  ef 
-afte 


APPLICATION  LASTS 

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"What  do  you  think?"  Dick  asked  Pat 
ifter  they'd  read  it. 

"1  think  it's  great,"  she  said.  "It's  a  real 
big  honor.  You  should  be  mighty  proud." 

"I  probably  wouldn't  win,"  Dick  said, 
'even  if  I  do  tell  them  yes." 

"So  what?"  said  Pat.  "It'll  probably  get 
is  back  to  Whittier,  quicker  than  we'd 
jlanned  .  .  .  And  if  you  lose,  we'll  get  our- 
selves a  little  house  there  and  we'll  have 
our  baby  there,  you'll  open  up  a  law 
sffice  again,  and — and  meanwhile,  Dick," 
she  said,  "a  political  campaign.  I  bet  that'll 
be  an  awful  lot  of  fun! 

It  was  night,  •  in  California,  several 
nonths  later. 

DICK  HAD  WON  THE  NOMINATION 
a  few  days  earlier.  The  campaign  had  offi- 
cially begun. 

But  now,  this  night,  Pat  lay  in  the  hos- 
pital room,  about  to  be  taken  to  the  de- 
livery room,  where  she  would  give  birth 
to  her  first  child. 

"I  want  my  husband,"  she  said,  grog- 
gily,  to  the  nurse  who  stood  alongside 
her.  "Where's  my  husband?" 

"I  phoned  him,  dear,"  the  nurse  told  her. 
"Now  don't  you  worry.  He'll  be  here. 
Soon.  .  .  " 

Dick  rushed  into  the  room  a  few  min- 
utes later. 

"Darling,"  he  said,  taking  Pat's  hand, 
"I  just  got  the  call.  I  was  at  the  Elks',  in 
the  middle  of  a  speech.  I  wanted  to  get 
here.  To  hold  your  hand  ...  To  give  you 
this." 

He  bent  and  kissed  her. 
"Dick,"  Pat  asked  then,  "are  you  going 
to  stay — while  I'm  inside?" 
He  didn't  answer  at  first. 
"Dick?"  she  asked. 

"I  shouldn't,  honey,"  he  said  then.  "I 
should  get  back." 
She  closed  her  eyes. 

"Pat,"  he  said.  "I've  started  this  thing. 
For  better  or  for  worse.  There  are  more 
than  four  hundred  people  back  there,  in 
that  hall,  waiting  to  hear  what  I've  got  to 
tell  them.  If  I'm  going  to  do  this  thing  at 
all,  Pat,  I'm—" 

He  stopped.  And,  after  a  moment,  Pat 
could  hear  a  chair  being  pulled  up  next 
to  her  bed. 

She  opened  her  eyes. 

She  saw  that  Dick  was  seated  next  to 
her. 

"I'm  sorry,  honey,"  she  heard  him  say. 
"I'll  stay.  Of  course  I'll  stay  here  with  you. 
Nothing's  more  important  to  me  than  you. 
Pat  ...  I  don't  know  what  got  into  me  just 
now." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  She  forced  a 
smile  as  best  she  could.  "No,  Dick,"  she 
said.  "I'm  the  one  who's  sorry.  If  you've 
got  to  go  back,  you've  got  to. 

"Please,  Dick,"  she  said,  "go  back  to 
your  speech. 

"I  understand,"  she  said. 

"Believe  me,  Dick,  I  do  understand." 

And  as  she  said  that,  she  continued  to 
force  her  smile;  while,  under  the  bed- 
sheets,  she  clenched  her  fists,  tightly, 
partly  because  of  the  pain  inside  her,  and 
partly  because  of  another  pain  ...  a  pain 


PHOTOGRAPHERS'  CREDITS 

The  photographs  appearing  in  this  issue 

are  credited  below  page  by  page: 
9-13 — Curt  Gunther  of  Topix,  Alpha  Photo 
Service;  14 — Black  Star;  15 — Gilloon  Agency; 
19 — Wagner  International;  20 — Maggi  of  Pic- 
torial; 22 — Jacques  Lowe;  29 — Topix;  30 — 
Topix:  32-34 — Larry  Barbier  of  Globe;  35-39 — 
De  Raimond  from  PIP,  Pictorial  Parade,  Pix 
Inc.;  40-41 — Lawrence  Schiller;  42-43 — Topix, 
Frances  Orkin;  44-46 — Sanford  Roth  of  Rapho- 
Guillumette:  47-51 — Barbara  and  Justin  Kerr, 
drawings  on  page  52  by  Winifred  Greene. 


she  knew  would  never  leave  her  and  over 
which,  she  knew,  neither  she  nor  her 
husband  would  ever  again  have  any  con- 
trol. .  .  . 

Dick  Nixon  won  the  '46  election.  And  he 
and  Pat  and  Tricia  (the  first  of  two  daugh- 
ters) moved  to  Washington. 

For  the  next  six  years,  first  as  a  Con- 
gressman's wife,  then  as  a  Senator's,  Pat 
learned  fast  that  a  perfect  politician's  wife 
must  be  silent,  serene,  well-controlled  and 
always  smiling. 

BACK  IN  THE  EARLY  DAYS,  however, 
Pat's  only  concern  was  her  usefulness  to- 
wards her  husband.  Was  what  she  was  do- 
ing the  right  thing  for  Dick?  He  seemed 
unusually  happv  here  in  Washington.  His 
star  was  rising.  Was  she  ri-?ht  in  there,  do- 
ing a  good  job  for  Dick,  hewing  him  in  the 
hun^rfH  little  wavs  that  ?he  could? 

Finally,  one  night  in  July  of  1952,  it 
appeared  to  Pat  Nixon  that  yes,  she  had 
done  a  good  job. 

Dick  stood  on  a  platform,  waving  his 
arms,  smiling  at  the  thousands  of  conven- 
tion delegates  who  had  just  nominated  him 
for  the  next  Vice-Presidency  of  the  United 
States  of  America. 

And  next  to  him  Pat  stood. 

Yes,  it  seemed  to  Pat,  that  night — every- 
thing had  been  worth  it. 

Because  everything,  everything  in  Dick's 
life  was  just  perfect  now.  .  .  . 

But  then,  another  night,  shortly  after, 
things  began  to  change.  A  few  hours 
earlier,  a  story  had  broken  in  the  news- 
papers and  on  TV.  Dick  Nixon  had  been 
accused  of  illegally  accepting  funds  and 
gifts  (quite  a  bit  of  money,  it  was  re- 
ported, as  well  as  a  dog  named  Checkers) 
from  several  wealthy  Californians.  Within 
these  few  hours  since  the  story  had  ap- 
peared, public  reaction  had  become  nearly 
hysterical.  There  had  been  cries  from  the 
Democrats,  and  from  many  Republicans, 
too,  for  General  Eisenhower  to  throw  Dick 
Nixon  off  his  ticket. 

PAT  HAD  READ  THE  STORIES,  heard 
the  accusations. 

She'd  tried  to  rub  them  from  her  mind. 

She  sat  there  now,  this  night,  in  her 
living  room,  with  her  mother-in-law, 
silently,  still  trying. 

When,  suddenly,  she  heard  the  cars  pull 
up  the  driveway — first  one,  then  another, 
then  a  third. 

A  moment  later,  the  front  doorbell  rang. 

Pat  didn't  move. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  answer?"  asked 
Dick's  mother. 

"No,"  said  Pat.  "Not  tonight,  I'm  not  .  .  . 
Dick's  inside,  writing  his  talk.  The  children 
are  asleep  .  .  .  I'm  not  going  to  have  any- 
body disturbed  tonight." 

But  then,  after  a  while,  when  it  seemed 
as  if  the  bell  would  never  stop  ringing, 
Pat  rose,  and  headed  for  the  front  door. 

She  opened  it,  quickly,  nervously. 

"Mrs.  Nixon?"  a  reporter  called. 

"Yes?"  she  asked. 

A  flashbulb  popped. 

She  blinked. 

"Yes?"  she  asked  again. 

"We'd  like  some  shots  of  your  husband 
.  .  .  and  a  statement." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "He's  in  his  office. 
He  has  a  speech  to  give  on  television  to- 
morrow. He's  busy." 

"How  about  the  dog  then?  Can  we  get 
^  picture  of  him?" 
•  "I'm  sorry,  but — " 

"Aw,  c'mon,  Mrs.  Nixon.  The  whole 
world  wants  to  see  this  pooch." 

„j_„ 

"What  do  you  say,  Mrs.  Nixon." 
"C'mon,  Mrs.  Nixon." 
"It's  our  job,  lady.  We've  got  to  get  that 
picture." 

Pat  found  herself  nodding.  "All  right,'-' 


she  said.  "All  right  .  .  .  but  please,  be  quiet 
as  you  can.  The  girls  are  sleeping.  I  don't 
want  to  wake  them." 

"Sure  thing,  ma'am." 

"Don't  worry.  Mrs.  Nixon." 

She  opened  the  door  wider. 

The  newspaper  people  rushed  past  her. 

"Please  now — "  she  started  to  say. 

But  they  were  already  far  past  her,  on 
their  way  up  the  stairs.  They  thumped  up 
the  stairs.  And  they  shouted  to  one  an- 
other. They  acted  like  kids  on  a  lark.  Pat 
watched  them,  unbelievingly. 

"Mama,"  she  heard  a  voice  call  out  to 
her,  suddenly. 

She  looked  up,  to  the  top  of  the  stairs. 

A  door  was  open  there.  In  the  doorway 
stood  her  two  little  girls,  in  their  pajamas. 
the;r  faces  covered  with  fear. 

"Mama,"  asked  Tricia,  the  older  one,  "is 
anything  wrong?" 

Pat  stood  there,  staring  at  her  girls. 

"Mama!" 

"I  don't  know.  Tricia."  she  said,  finally 

"Hey,"  one  of  the  reporters  called  out  to 
the  girls.  "Is  this  the  door  to  the  dog's 
room?" 

"Yes,"  the  girl  said. 

The  men  barged  into  the  room. 

"Mama."  Julie,  the  younger  daughter, 
called  now.  "what  do  they  want  with 
Checkers?  What  do  they  want  with  my 
doggie?" 

"Nothing,  sweetheart,"  Pat  said.  "They're 
just  going  to  take  his  picture.  That's  all  .  .  . 
Go  back  to  your  room  now.  Both  of  you. 
Go  back  to  bed  now." 

She  watched  the  two  girls  as  they  stepped 
back  and  closed  their  door.  And  then  she 
walked  back  into  the  living  room  and  over 
to  a  window. 

"What's  wrong,  child?"  her  mother-in- 
law  asked. 

"I  CAN'T  TAKE  IT  ANY  MORE,"  Pat 
said,  =tarinq  out  of  the  window. 

"I  know,"  her  mother-in-law  started  to 
say.  "It's  hard  on  you  all  sometimes.  But — " 

"I  iust  can't  take  it  any  more."  Pat  went 
on.  "It's  too  hard  on  the  girls,  too  hard  on 
me.  And  now,  Dick — it's  too  hard  on  him." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  her  mother- 
in-law  asked. 

"I'm  going  in  to  Dick,  and  talk  to  him.' 
Pat  said. 

"What  are  you  going  to  talk  about?" 

"I'm  going  to  ask  him  to  quit,  to  quit. " 
Pat  said.  "I'm  going  to  tell  him  that  I  want 
to  go  home.  With  him  and  our  daughters. 
Home  where  we  belong.  Not  here.  Not 
here,  where  they  scandalize  us,  and  hurt 
us  so  much.  Not  here — " 

She  turned  from  the  window  and  she 
faced  her  mother-in-law. 

"You're  his  wife,  Pat,"  the  woman  said 
"You  know  best." 

"Yes,"  Pat  said. 

She  took  a  deep  breath. 

And  then  she  began  to  walk  towards  her 
husband's  office. 

Dick  looked  up  at  her.  He'd  been  work- 
ing hard  and  long  and  his  eyes  were  tired- 
looking,  verv  tired-looking. 

"Yes,  Pat?" 

His  voice  was  weary. 

She  stood  there,  in  the  doorway.  She 
looked  at  him  for  a  long  time. 

And  as  she  did,  she  saw  that  there  were 
tears  in  his  eyes. 

She  had  never  seen  him  cry  before. 

Not  once,  since  that  first  time  they'd  met. 

"Yes,  Pat?"  he  asked  again. 

In  that  moment  that  followed,  she  threw 
aside  everything  she  had  meant  to  say. 

"I  only  wanted  to  see  how  you  were, 
Dick,"  she  said,  instead.  " — And  ...  to  tell 
you  .  .  .  please  ...  to  go  on." 

Then  she  walked  over  to  where  he  sat 

And  she  put  her  arms  around  him. 

"Go  on,"  she  said,  again. 

Then  she,  too,  began  to  cry.  .  .  .  END 


Will  Jack  Lemmon  Remarry  Cynthia? 

A  Modern  Screen  "Back-of-the-Book"  Special 


On  a  sun  bright  day,  a  young  man  with  a 
nervous  grin  on  his  boyish  face  led  a  trim 
young  blonde  girl  by  the  hand  up  three 
short  steps.  He  opened  the  door  for  her, 
and  squeezed  her  hand  tightly  to  reassure 
her  that  they  were  doing  the  right  thing. 
She  reassured  him  with  a  warm  look.  He 
braced  his  shoulders,  and  strode  forward. 
In  a  few  long  moments,  he  was  answering 
the  question: 

"Do  you  Jack  Lemmon  take  Cynthia 
Stone  to  be  your  lawful  wedded  wife?" 

His  answer  was  clear  and  strong. 

"I  do." 

The  passersby  scarcely  took  notice  on 
that  warm  May  7th  in  1950,  when  a  happy 
pair  of  youngsters  raced  out  into  the 
Peoria,  Illinois,  sunshine  to  shout  to  the 
world  passing  by  that  they  were,  and  al- 
ways would  be,  man  and  wife. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jack  Lemmon,"  they 
chorused  happily,  "and  nothing  can  ever 
change  that.  Nothing!" 

The  honeymooners  made  it  back  to  New 
York  on  a  cloud  of  joy.  Their  cup  seemed 
to  overrun  with  good  fortune  when  Jack 
hit  it  hot  on  a  few  television  shows  as  an 
actor.  Cynthia  encouraged  him,  and  with 
his  natural  talents  spurred  on  by  the 
bride,  Jack  began  to  move  up  fast  in  the 
world  of  grease  paint  and  make  believe. 

As  his  star  began  to  rise,  Cynthia  felt  a 
little  left  out  of  things.  Conferences,  re- 
hearsals, agents'  plans  all  seemed  to  eat 
away  at  their  time  together.  But,  Jack, 
calling  on  his  Boston  Back  Bay  manners, 
excused  himself  from  many  of  the  con- 
ferences that  others  around  him  had  set 
up,  and  gave  of  himself  more  dutifully  to 
Cynthia. 

"We'll  call  him  Christopher,"  Jack 
proudly  announced,  when  a  bouncing  baby 
boy  joined  their  household. 

In  December  of  1956,  Chris  Lemmon  saw 
his  daddy  leave,  and  his  mommy  cry,  but, 
he  could  not  understand  the  why  of  either 
act.  A  judge  in  Las  Vegas  understood  it 
better.  He  had  granted  Cynthia  Lemmon 
a  divorce,  but  to  him  it  had  seemed  such 
a  shame  since  both  parties  to  the  divorce 
action  had  seemed  so  friendly  and  atten- 
tive to  each  other. 

When  Cynthia  married  actor  Cliff  Rob- 
ertson in  August  of  1957,  Jack  practically 
wished  on  a  star  for  her  happiness.  He 
and  Cynthia  had  remained  close  even 
through  their  trials,  and  now,  she  let  Jack 
have  complete  visitation  rights  to  see  Chris. 

"We're  still  the  best  of  friends,"  Jack 
said,  "and  Cliff  understands." 

Cliff  Robertson,  a  thoroughly  nice  guy, 
did  understand.  He  and  Jack  became  fast 
friends.  Both  were  on  Cynthia's  side. 

A  while  later,  Cynthia  gave  birth  to  a 
little  girl,  who  was  christened  Stephanie. 
Cliff  and  Cynthia  seemed  closer  than  ever 
at  this  point.  Jack  practically  doted  on  the 
little  girl,  as  well  as  his  own  son,  Chris. 

But,  soon  after  Stephanie's  birth,  Cyn- 
thia announced  she  was  leaving  Cliff.  A 
marriage  that  had  looked  good  was  over. 
No  explanations  were  given.  She  simply 
announced  the  breakup  and  that  was  that. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  separations  caused 
by  Cliff's  movie  assignments  on  location. 
Or,  perhaps,  as  one  friend  said:  "She 
never  really  stopped  loving  Jack." 

Be  that  as  it  may,  in  the  spring  of  1959, 
Cynthia  left  Cliff,  and  so  bitter  was  their 
split  that  she  refused  him  unlimited  vis- 
iting rights  to  Stephanie,  as  she  had 
granted  Jack  with  Chris. 

Jack,  in  the  meantime,  had  become  one 
of  the  hottest  personalities  in  pictures.  His 
romp  with  Kim  Novak  and  Jimmy  Stew- 
art in  Bell,  Book,  and  Candle,  followed  by 


his  daffy  dame  impersonation  with  Tony 
Curtis  and  Marilyn  Monroe  in  Some  Like 
It  Hot,  had  sent  his  stock  soaring. 

He  was  in  great  demand  by  every  studio. 
But,  he  played  it  cool.  He  didn't  want  to 
get  bogged  down  in  a  mess  of  second  rate 
scripts.  With  all  his  skyrocketing,  he  found 
lots  of  time  to  visit  with  Cynthia,  Chris, 
and  little  Stephanie. 

"Cynthia  and  I  have  always  been  the 
best  of  friends,"  Jack  sa:d,  but  people  be- 
gan to  notice  the  glow  that  lit  up  within 
him  when  he  mentioned  Cynthia's  name. 

They  went  out  to  lunch  together.  They 
talked  about  the  children.  And,  Jack, 
good  friend  that  he  was,  tried  to  iron  out 
the  differences  between  Cliff,  his  pal,  and 
Cynthia,  his  beloved  ex-wife.  It  was  no 
go.  Cynthia  had  shut  Cliff  out  of  her  life. 

Jack  went  into  The  Apartment  for  Billy 
Wilder,  and  it  was  the  first  time  he'd  ever 
been  asked  to  carry  the  starring  role  in  a 
film.  Cynthia  wished  him  the  best  of  luck 
knowing  full  well  that  it  was  a  turning 
point  in  Jack's  career. 

Jack,  still  seeing  Felicia  Farr,  began  to 
see  more  and  more  of  Cynthia.  They  both 
rejoiced  in  his  new  success  as  if  it  were 
their  own  private  party.  Talk  of  Jack's 
marrying  Felicia,  his  long  time  actress 
girl-friend,  began  to  become  less  and  less 
a  topic.  Instead,  the  wise  money  was  be- 
ginning to  re-examine  Jack  and  his  chances 
of  winning  Cynthia  back  again. 

The  tensions  that  had  split  them  in  1955, 
when  Jack  was  still  on  the  borderline  be- 
tween supporting  player  and  star-actor, 
had  erased  themselves  by  his  personal 
success.  And,  he  and  Cynthia  had  been 
very  much  in  love,  had  shared  many 
laughs,  and  had  always  remained  the  best 
of  friends,  a  feat  not  shared  by  very  many 
ex-husbands  and  wives  in  Hollywood,  or 
for  that  matter,  not  shared  by  many  hus- 
bands and  wives  in  the  movie  business. 

Cliff  came  back  into  the  fray,  and  tried 
to  rewin  Cynthia.  Jack  stepped  aside,  and 
watched  as  Cliff  gave  it  his  all.  Cynthia 
said  it  later:  "Cliff  and  I  are  just  incom- 
patible," and  that  seemed  to  answer  the 
dream  of  Cliff  Robertson. 

Jack  called  Cynthia  often.  He  wanted  to 
find  out  about  Chris,  and  baby  Stephanie, 
whom  he'd  come  to  love  as  one  of  the 
family.  They  talked  often  and  for  long 
periods  of  time.  The  endearments  they'd 
used  long  before  with  each  other  oc- 
casionally cropped  into  the  conversations. 

"I've  got  to  go  to  New  York,  Cyn."  Jack 
announced  one  day.  "It's  on  business.  I'm 
going  to  act  in  Face  Of  A  Hero  on  Broad- 
way." 

Cynthia  was  happy  for  him.  She  knew 
Jack  had  always  wanted  to  return  to 
Broadway,  ever  since  she'd  gone  through 
the  opening  night  jitters  with  him  when 
he'd  played  in  Room  Service,  a  revival  of 
the  famous  Marx  Brothers  farce. 

"I'll  miss  you,  Jack,"  she  said. 

He  knew  he'd  miss  Cynthia  too.  They  had 
recaptured  many  of  the  fun  moments  they'd 
known  in  their  early  courtship  days.  And, 
Jack  had  been  happy  to  see  the  smile  re- 
turn to  Cynthia's  lovely  face. 

"I'll  be  back,  Cyn,"  Jack  said,  and  she 
knew  he  meant  it. 

Jack  has  indicated  that  he  and  Cynthia 
can  make  it  for  keeps  this  time.  Everyone 
who  knows  and  loves  them  watches  hope- 
fully. And,  Jack  and  Cynthia,  they  just 
live  every  day  one  at  a  time.  One  at  a 
time  until  the  day  they  can  say,  once  again, 
and  for  keeps,  "I  do." 

This  time,  we  know  the  "I  do"  will  stick 
for  good.  Because,  that's  Lemmon's  choice. 

END 


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I  Was  Too  Poor  To  Have  Dreams 


(Continued  from  page  34) 

their  big  bosoms,  their  curves,  their  slick- 
combed  hair,  their  pouting  months — they 
moved  him  all  right.  But  only  so  far.  "In 
the  long  run  they're  actresses  or  would-be 
actresses,"  he  once  said,  " — and  competi- 
tive, just  like  men.  And  who  needs  two  of 
those  in  the  same  apartment  for  any  length 
of  time?" 

HE  HAD  NO  IDEA  AT  THE  TIME— 
three  years  ago — that  there  was  a  girl  for 
him,  a  girl  named  Ellie,  a  girl  he  would 
fall  for  and  who  would  fall  for  him  and 
who  would  change  his  mind  about  the 
subject  of  marriage,  and  even  change  him. 

He  had  no  idea  of  her  existence  three 
years  ago. 

He  only  knew  that  he  was.  in  one  hell  of 
a  state. 

And,  sometimes,  when  he  really  pon- 
dered his  fate,  he  would  wonder  how 
things,  life,  might  have  been  for  him  if 
he  weren't  an  actor;  if  Hollywood  were 
some  faraway  place  the  ladies  in  the 
neighborhood  read  about,  and  not  the 
place  where  he  lived  and  worked  .  .  .  and 
he  would  wonder  how  things,  life,  might 
have  been  if  the  trouble  hadn't  started 
between  his  folks  back  in  Naponee,  Wis- 
consin, way  back  when  he  was  just  a 
kid  of  four;  if  his  mother  hadn't  been 
beautiful  and  restless  and  if  Mr.  Ziegfeld 
had  never  told  her  to  look  him  up  should 
she  ever  decide  to  enter  the  glorious  world 
of  show  business.  .  .  . 

"And  he  told  me  I  should,"  he  remem- 
bered her  voice  cry  out  that  night,  back 
in  Naponee.  Florenz  Ziegfeld — she'd  said. 
The  greatest  producer  of  them  all.  He'd 
been  there  in  Atlantic  City;  there,  at  the 
Contest.  He'd  come  up  to  her  when  the 
contest  was  over  and  he'd  said,  "I  think, 
personally,  Miss  Graf,  that  you  should 
have  been  elected  Miss  America.  But 
know  this,"  he  said,  "anytime  you  want 
to  come  work  for  me,  you  can,  Miss 
Graf."  .  .  .  And  that  had  been  Florenz 
Ziegfeld  speaking.  Ziegfeld! 

He  remembered  his  mother's  voice  that 
night. 

And  he  remembered  his  father's  silence. 
And  he  remembered  how  it  was  that  next 
morning,  the  morning  after  the  trouble, 
standing  there  on  the  little  platform  of  the 
Naponee  railroad  station,  saying  goodbye 
to  his  father,  then  getting  on  the  train 
with  his  mother — just  the  two  of  them  and 
those  two  big  tan  suitcases  of  theirs;  how 
then,  after  a  while,  after  they'd  sat  in  their 
coach  seats  for  a  while  and  then  had  gone 
to  have  breakfast  in  the  dining  car  and 
then  had  come  back  to  their  coach  seats 
again,  he  had  looked  up  at  his  mother  and 
had  seen  that  she  was  crying  and  he'd 
asked  her,  "Mama,  where  are  we  going?" 

They  were  going  to  New  York,  he  re- 
membered her  saying.  Mama  was  going  to 
have  an  interview  with  Mr.  Ziegfeld,  in 
his  own  private  office.  And  then  Mr.  Z.  was 
going  to  give  her  a  part  in  one  of  his 
shows,  like  he'd  said  he  would,  and  make 
her  into  what  she'd  always  wanted  to  be — 
a  star  of  the  New  York  stage. 

David  remembered  how  his  mother  had 
cried,  very  softly  and  confused-like,  for 
over  an  hour  after  she'd  said  that.  .  .  . 

His  mother,  strong  and  determined  a 
woman  as  she  was,  had  been  very  unhappy 
those  next  five  years,  he  remembered.  She 
had  gotten  to  see  Mr.  Ziegfeld,  all  right. 
And  he  had  given  her  a  part  in  one  of 
his  productions,  a  big  and  fancy  musical. 
Only  it,  was  a  very  small  part  and  it  was 
with  one  of  the  great  impresario's  touring 
shows,  and  not  his  New  York  company. 

So,  he  remembered,  for  those  next  five 


years  they'd  traveled  around  the  coun- 
try, the  mother  (she'd  divorced  her  hus- 
band in  this  time)  and  the  son  and  their 
two  big  tan  suitcases,  from  city  to  city, 
town  to  town,  living  in  each  place  for  a  few 
weeks  at  a  stretch  and  then  packing, 
boarding  a  train  and  moving  on,  the  moth- 
er more  and  more  heartbroken  that  noth- 
ing really  big  was  happening  to  her.  the 
son  more  and  more  lost  in  a  backstage 
world  of  bright  lights,  brash  comedians, 
poker-playing  musicians  and  self-loving 
and  cutie-pie  Follies  girls. 

It  would  be,  David  remembers,  that  they 
would  get  to  a  hotel  in  a  new  town  and 
he'd  walk  down  the  street  during  the  day 
while  everybody  else  was  asleep,  looking 
for  somebody  to  play  with.  He'd  meet 
some  kid,  the  son  of  the  owner  of  the 
cafeteria  where  they  ate  maybe,  or  some 
kid  who  delivered  papers  to  the  hotel. 
They'd  become  friendly.  Pals.  And  then, 
before  he  knew  it,  he  would  have  to  say 
goodbye  and  he  would  know  that  he  would 
never  see  this  kid  again,  not  for  as  long 
as  he  lived  .  .  .  He  didn't  want  this  any- 
more. It  hurt  too  much.  He  began  to  want 
to  vomit  every  time  he  knew  they  were 
going  to  have  to  leave  and  he  would  have 
to  say  goodbye  ...  So  he  avoided  kids. 
He  didn't  look  for  friends  anymore.  This 
was  the  beginning  of  a  lifetime  occupa- 
tion for  David — not  looking  for  friends. 
He  became  a  brooder.  He  sat  alone  in  ho- 
tel rooms.  He  became  a  boy  who  just 
existed.  It  was  a  lousy  feeling — young  as 
he  was  he  knew  this,  that  it  was  wrong, 
unnatural.  But  time  passed  and  there  was 
nothing  he  could  do  about  it. 

FINALLY,  IN  1939,  when  David  was  nine, 
his  mother  left  the  Ziegfeld  show  and 
moved  to  Hollywood.  Her  aim  was  a  final 
fling,  a  long  shot:  to  try  to  get  into  pic- 
tures. She  entered  the  movie  town  with 
high  hopes  and  some  money  she'd  saved. 
It  wasn't  long,  however,  before  her  hopes 
were  gone,  and  her  money;  before  she 
was  working  as  a  saleslady  in  the  May 
Co.  department  store  in  order  to  make 
ends  meet. 

This  was  when  she  decided  that  her  son 
would  become  an  actor. 

"Why?"  David  asked,  the  day  she  took 
time  off  from  her  job  and  started  making 
the  studio  rounds  with  him. 

"Because,"  she  said,  "you're  a  good- 
looking  boy  and  you've  got  a  good  speak- 
ing voice  and  I  think  you'll  make  a  fine 
actor  .  .  .  Besides,"  she  added,  "I  don't 
want  you  ending  up  a  short-order  cook  or 
a  car-hop,  God  forbid." 

("I've  never  figured,"  David  says,  smil- 
ingly, today,  "why  when  my  mother  got 
excited  she  would  pick  on  those  two  jobs. 
I  think  that  deep-down  she'd  seen  me  sit- 
ting around  those  hotel  rooms  so  long, 
doing  nothing,  she  was  really  afraid  I  was 
going  to  wind  up  a  plain  ordinary  bum!") 

Within  a  few  days  after  they'd  started 
their  tour  of  the  moving  picture  studios, 
David  landed  his  first  role.  The  picture 
was  called  Swamp  Fire.  The  stars  were 
those  two  Tarzans  of  days  gone  by,  John- 
ny Weissmuller  and  Buster  Crabbe.  The 
experience,  for  David,  was  one  of  mixed 
emotions. 

On  one  hand  he  hated  the  work — "the 
director  was  always  goading  me.  And  I 
didn't  like  wearing  powder  and  rouge." 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  David  had  few 
complaints,  really.  Because  despite  what 
happened  Mondays  through  Fridays,  from 
seven  to  seven,  he  knew  that  come  eve- 
nings, come  weekends,  he  could  hop  on  a 
bus  and  go  to  a  place  called  Home.  It 


wasn't  a  big  place,  Home;  only  a  four- 
room  apartment,  in  fact;  but  for  the  first 
time  in  a  long  long  time  David  Janssen 
had  a  room  of  his  own  and  a  mailbox 
with  his  and  his  mother's  name  on  it  and 
a  storage  room  in  the  cellar  with  a  lock 
on  it,  where  they  parked  their  two  big 
tan  suitcases.  And  the  place  was  far  from 
the  railroad  station.  And  there  wasn't  a 
cafeteria  within  blocks.  And  for  the  first 
time  in  a  long  long  time  young  David  felt 
something  like  what  he  knew  other  kids 
must  feel  like.  And  no,  he  was  not  com- 
plaining. 

THINGS  GOT  EVEN  BETTER  after  his 
mother  re-married. 

He'll  never  forget  the  night,  when  he 
was  thirteen,  a  couple  of  years  after  the 
wedding,  when  his  mother  came  into  his 
room  and  sat  alongside  him  on  his  bed. 
She'd  just  put  her  new  baby  daughter  to 
sleep  in  her  crib.  She  was  smiling.  "Dav- 
id," she  said,  out  of  the  clear  blue,  it 
seemed,  "would  you  like  to  give  up  picture 
work?" 

"How  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"Just  that,"  his  mother  said.  "I'm  proud 
of  the  work  you've  done,  Davie.  Maybe  a 
little  selfishly — but  I  am  proud.  I've  seen 
a  dream  of  mine  come  true,"  she  said.  "Do 
you  understand  what  I  mean?" 

"Sort  of,"  said  the  boy. 

"And  now,"  his  mother  went  on,  "more 
important,  I  want  you  to  have  your  own 
dreams  .  .  .  What  are  they,  Davie?"  She 
took  his  hand.  "Your  dreams?" 

The  boy  thought  for  a  while.  Then  he 
told  them  to  her,  gradually.  He  would  like 
most  of  all,  he  said,  to  go  to  a  school,  a 
real  school.  He  didn't  like  those  one-room 
classrooms  at  the  studios,  he  said,  where 
most  of  the  time  he  was  the  only  student 
in  the  place — just  him  and  a  teacher.  And 
then  after  school,  real  school,  he  said,  he 
would  like  to  go  to  college  and  study 
something  interesting,  like  engineering, 
aviation  engineering  or  chemical  engi- 
neering, something  like  that.  He  knew,  he 
said,  that  college  was  expensive,  that 
things  were  tough  and  he  couldn't  expect 
his  parents  to  pay  his  way.  But,  he  said, 
he  liked  sports  and  maybe  if  he  worked 
hard  enough  at  them  he  could  get  an 
athletic  scholarship  to  some  good  college, 
and  with  a  scholarship,  he  said,  well,  then 
everything  would  be  all  wrapped  up  and 
taken  care  of. 

When  he  was  through,  he  asked  his 
mother,  "Is  that  an  all  right  thing  for  me 
to  want?" 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

"And  you  mean  it,"  he  asked,  " — about 
me  being  an  actor?  I  don't  have  to  be 
one?" 

"No,"  she  said.  "You  don't  have  to  be 
anything  you  don't  want  to  be." 

She  bent  to  kiss  him. 

"Goodnight,  Davie."  she  said.  "It's  get- 
ting late.  It's  time  for  you  to  be  getting 
some  sleep." 

And  he  noticed,  as  she  said  that,  that 
her  smile  was  gone  and  that  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

She  didn't  answer  at  first. 

"Mama?"  he  asked.  "Mama?  ...  Is 
something  the  matter?" 

"I  ONLY  DID  WHAT  I  DID."  she  said 
then,  "because  I,  too,  had  a  dream  once.  I'd 
been  determined  to  make  something  of 
myself.  When  that  failed,  I  wanted  to  make 
something  of  you  .  .  .  Now,  I'm  only  sorry 
if  I've  hurt  you  in  any  way.  I'm  sorry. 
Davie." 

He  sat  up,  and  he  put  his  arms  around 
his  mother. 

"Don't  be  sorry,  Mama,"  he  said. 

"Please,  don't  be.  .  .  ." 

David  entered  Fairfax  High  in  Holly- 
wood  the   following   week.   He  became, 


shortly,  one  of  the  best  athletes  the  school 
has  ever  known.  By  the  time  he  was  in 
his  senior  year  he  had  copped  most  of 
the  athletic  prizes  being  handed  out,  as 
well  as  scholarships  to  two  of  the  best 
colleges  in  the  state. 

And  then,  less  than  a  month  before 
graduation,  it  happened — 

David  was  in  a  track  meet,  the  last  one 
of  the  year.  He'd  just  won  the  most  im- 
pressive event  of  them  all.  the  pole-vault 
jump.  The  coach  had  given  him  his  medal 
and  he  was  walking  back  towards  the 
locker  room  when  a  newspaper  photogra- 
pher came  rushing  up  to  him. 

"That  was  a  sweet  jump,  kid."  the 
photographer  said.  "•How  about  doing  it 
once  more  so  I  can  get  a  picture  for  my 
paper?" 

"Sure  thing."  David  said. 

He  turned  and  went  back  to  the  starting 
line.  He  looked  over  at  the  photographer, 
who  had  his  camera  in  position.  ""Give  him 
a  good  picture  now,"  he  said  to  himself. 
He  took  a  deep  breath,  and  he  began  to 
run.  He  ran  swiftly,  beautifully,  surely. 
His  eyes  were  on  the  jump  point  straight 
ahead"  and  he  didn't  see  the  soda  bottle 
somebody  had  dropped  to  the  ground  a 
few  minutes  earlier.  The  pain  that  came 
to  his  right  knee  was  so  intense  when  he 
hit  it  after  tripping  over  the  bottle  that 
he  passed  out.  The  knee  was  busted;  the 
damage  was  to  be  permanent.  It  was  as  if 
he  knew  it  then,  that  moment,  even  in  his 
blacked-out  state. 

"My  scholarship  .  .  ."  those  who  stooi 
around  him  remember  him  moaning.  "My 
scholarship." 

A  few  days  later,  he  limped  into  his 
coach's  office. 

"Coach."  he  said,  "I've  been  a  little 
worried.  Do  you  think  the  colleges  will 
take  me  now,  with  my  knee  like  this?" 

"I've  been  worried,  too,  David,"  the 
coach  admitted.  "I've  phoned  both  the 
schools.  They  both  say  that  they'll  let  us 
know  the  score  within  the  week." 

But  they  never  did. 

It  was  then  when  David  decided  to  start 
all  over  again  and  work  at  the  only  thing 
he  knew — acting.  He  had  no  money.  He 
had  no  preparation  for  anything  else.  He 
found  himself,  strangely,  wanting  to  be 
an  actor  now.  A  good  one.  So  he  went 
back  to  all  the  old  studios  where  he'd 
worked.  Strangely,  though,  nobody  seemed 
too  overjoyed  to  see  him. 

Universal-International  did  put  him  on 
their  payroll  finally,  however. 

And  the  long  grind  began. 

FOR  SEVEN  YEARS,  minus  two  in  the 
army.  David  toiled  and  struggled — "and  no- 
body gave  a  damn."  Other  guys  came  to 
this  town  of  Hollywood,  he  knew.  Some 
made  it  big.  Some  didn't  make  it  at  all.  But 
him.  he  just  kept  rolling  along.  He  played 
bit  parts  in  a  couple  of  dozen  pictures 
while  he  was  at  U-I.  Mostly  they  were 
three  and  four-day  deals,  the  kind  where 
the  director's  only  concern  is  getting  you 
into  the  picture,  then  getting  you  out. 

Anyway,  it  was  steady  employment,  at 
least.  Up  until  1956.  that  is,  when  the  blight 
hit  Hollywood  and  David  got  canned.  He'd 
started  at  one  hundred  dollars  a  week  and 
ended  at  three  hundred,  and  this  had  been 
enough  to  keep  him  in  debt.  How  does  it 
happen — debt — to  a  guy  earning  a  few 
c-notes  a  week?  In  Hollywood,  what  with 
agents'  fees,  new  cars,  new  clothes,  enter- 
taining, bachelor  boozing — it  happens. 
"Man,"  David  says,  "it  happened  to  me." 

So,  came  1956  and  he  got  the  ax  from 
U-I  and.  he  figured,  it  was  time  for  him 
to  do  or  die  in  this  business. 

And,  for  a  time,  it  looked  like  lilies 
would  be  in  order. 

First,  there  was  the  matter  of  a  picture 
called  Lafayette  Escadrille.  David's  part 
was  that   of  Tab   Hunter's  commanding 


officer.  Played  well,  the  part  could  easily 
have  overshadowed  Tab's.  Unfortunately 
for  David,  he  played  it  so  well  that  after 
a  few  days  of  rushes  word  came  down 
from  the  Warner  Brothers'  offices:  Cut 
the  Janssen  part.  Build  up  Hunters.  Hun- 
ter is  studio  property!  Bill  Wellman,  di- 
rector of  the  picture,  tried  to  fight  the 
edict.  But  it  was  no  go.  Only  David  went. 

The  next  incident  came  when  Wellman 
was  approached  by  David  Selznick  to 
direct  his  upcoming  A  Farewell  To  Arms. 
Fine,  Wellman  said — but  on  one  condi- 
tion: He  didn't  want  Rock  Hudson  for  the 
lead,  he  wanted  David  Janssen.  '"'David 
w-h-o?"  Selznick  asked.  The  deal  was 
quickly  called  off. 

Finally,  however,  in  the  spring  of  '57, 
things  changed  for  David  and  he  got  his 
first  real  break — the  lead  in  the  Richard 
Diamond  show.  The  show  began  as  a  sum- 
mer replacement.  But  it  became  obvious, 
after  the  first  few  weeks  of  ratings,  that 
it  would,  in  quick  time,  become  one  of 
the  top  weeklies  of  them  all. 

As  success  stories  go,  it  would  seem 
right  here  that  David  Janssen  was  riding 
on  Cloud  Nine  now,  these  first  few  months 
of  his  success. 

But.  to  tell  the  truth,  he  wasn't. 

He  was  making  good  money  now,  really 
good  money:  but  he'd  borrowed  so  much 
all  along  the  way,  that  he  was  still  in  debt. 

And,  though  he  had  some  stature  now, 
some  reason  for  happiness,  he  discovered 
suddenly  that  aside  from  his  mother  and 
his  sisters,  Terry  and  Jill,  there  was  no- 
body else  with  whom  he  could  share  it. 

He  had  no  friends. 

OUTWARDLY,  HE  LIVED  IT  UP  all 
right.  He  drank  with  the  best  of  them.  He 
laughed  with  the  funniest  of  them.  He 
dated  the  most  luscious  of  them. 

But,  basically,  he  had  no  friends. 

Incidents  in  his  childhood  had  made  him 
steer  away  from  relationships.  "A  cynicism 
of  mine."  he  says.  " — inbred  maybe;  I 
don't  know — caused  me  to  approach  some- 
one else's  attempt  at  friendship  from  a 
negative  point  of  view."  He  found  him- 
self always  inclined  to  think:  "There's  a 
reason  behind  it.  There's  a  catch.  What 
does  he  want?" 

This  is  a  Hollywood  disease,  easy  to 
catch. 

And  you  fight  it,  or  you  don't. 
And  David  didn't. 

And  so,  there  he  was  at  twenty-seven, 
with  things  going  pretty  well  for  him.  And, 
there  he  was,  with  his  problems,  a  lost 
and  lonely  kind  of  guy. 

The  three  people  really  close  to  David — 
his  mother  and  his  sisters — would  tell  him 
that  what  he  needed  to  solve  these  prob- 
lems was,  in  simple  English,  a  wife. 

""Nuts,"  David  would  say.  "I've  got 
enough  to  worry  about." 

"I  need  something."  he'd  say.  "But  I 
don't  need  that!" 

In  interviews — and  a  whole  rash  of 
them  started  after  the  Diamond  success 
— he  would  be  asked  the  traditional  ques- 
tion: "When  you  do  get  married,  what  are 
the  qualities  you  would  like  your  wife  to 
have?"  And  David  would  answer,  straight- 
faced,  "First,  she  has  to  be  willing  to  dye 
her  hair  every  day,  to  disguise  herself 
from  creditors.  .  .  ."  And  the  reporter 
would  stop  writing,  and  laugh.  And  David 
Janssen  would  have  gotten  out  of  that  one. 

And,  yet,  he  knew  deep  in  his  heart  that 
something  was  missing  in  his  life. 

Not  a  wife,  of  course. 

...  Or  so  he  thought! 

He  met  Ellie  on  Hallowe'en  night,  at  a 
party,  in  1957. 

He  almost  never  did  make  that  party. 

He'd  worked  hard  that  week,  that  day. 
He'd  been  invited  to  the  party  by  some 
girl  a  few  days  earlier.  But  now,  this 
night,  pooped,  he'd  forgotten  completely 


Q: 


1 


For  fast,  sure  relief,  apply  Num- 
Zit  Teething  Lotion  to  baby  s 
sums  at  the  first  sign  of  pain 
Millions  of  mothers  prefer  it 
Baby  care  authorities  suggest  it! 
Many  doctors  recommend  it!  At 
all  drug  counters. 

NUM-ZIT 

TEETHING  LOTION 

Stops  Pain  Fast.1 


PHOTO  IP  BILLFOLD 

Copied  Z9 


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about  the  invitation  and  had  gone  to  bed 
instead. 

Shortly  before  ten  o'clock,  the  girl 
phoned  him,  woke  him.  She  was  sorry,  she 
said.  She  couldn't  make  the  party. 

"Well,"  David  yawned,  "that's  the  way 
it  goes." 

But,  said  the  girl,  she  had  a  girlfriend 
who  was  just  dying  to  go.  Would  he  take 
her? 

David  said  no,  he'd  rather  not. 

The  girl  persisted.  "Please,"  she  said. 
"I  promised  you'd  take  her.  She'll  be 
furious  with  me  if  you  don't.  .  .  .  And 
besides,  Davie,  she  knows  everybody 
there.  And  once  you  bring  her  it  isn't  that 
you'll  have  to  stay  with  her  all  the 
time.  .  .  ." 

The  girl  went  on  and  on. 

Till  finally  David  realized  that  sleep — 
the  thing  he  wanted  most  that  night — was 
out. 

And  so  he  said,  "All  right,  all  right." 
And,  groggily,  he  started  to  get  out  of 
bed.  .  .  . 

Sure  enough,  when  they  got  to  the 
party,  his  "date"  disappeared.  And  David 
walked  straight  to  the  bar  and  ordered 
a  drink. 

HE  WAS  ON  HIS  SECOND  DRINK,  or 
his  third,  when  "like  they  say  in  the  song 
lyrics,  I  saw  her  standing  there,  across 
the  crowded  room." 

She  was  tall  and  brown-haired  and 
lovely-looking. 

She  stood  alone. 

She  noticed  David  looking  over  at  her 
at  one  point. 
She  smiled,  and  looked  away. 
David  waited  for  her  to  look  back. 
She  didn't. 

He  found  himself  staring  at  her,  waiting. 

He  became  fidgety.  ("All  of  a  sudden," 
he  says,  "I  was  clobbered  by  this  shy,  if 
you  want  to  call  it  that,  feeling.  I  felt  she 
had  to  look  back  at  me  again  to  show  she 
was  interested.") 

When  she  made  it  obvious  that  she 
wasn't  going  to  look  back  ("I'd  seen  him 
sitting  there  looking  at  me,"  Ellie  says. 
"I'd  liked  what  I'd  seen.  But  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do."),  David  put  down  his 
drink,  walked  over  to  her  and  asked  her 
if  she'd  care  to  dance. 

She  waited,  those  first  few  minutes 
while  they  danced,  for  him  to  say  some- 
thing. 

"Well,"  Ellie  said,  " — in  case  you're  in- 
terested. .  .  .  My  name  is  Ellie.  I'm  from 
New  York.  I  worked  as  a  model  once, 
then  as  a  buyer  for  a  department  store.  I 
came  to  California  a  few  weeks  ago,  liked 
it,  gave  up  my  job — and — "  she  shrugged 
" — that's  the  story  of  my  life." 

She  waited  then  for  David  to  say  some- 
thing. 

He  didn't. 

Ellie  began  to  wonder:  Was  this  one  of 
those  silent  attractions?  Or  was  the  Holly- 
wood actor  just  plain  bored? 

They  continued  dancing.  David  con- 
tinued to  say  nothing. 

They  went  for  a  drive  after  the  party, 
(David's  date,  to  no  one's  surprise,  had 
gone  off  with  someone  else).  He  said 
nothing. 

They  parked  by  the  water.  David  turned 
on  the  car  radio. 

They  stopped  for  a  hamburger  and  a 
cup  of  coffee.   David  was  silent. 

"Don't  you  like  to  talk?"  Ellie  asked, 
finally. 

"Not  much,"  David  said. 

"I  see,"  said  Ellie.  She  smiled.  "Well, 
strange  as  it  may  sound,  I  just  want  you 
to  know  that  I'm  having  a  very  nice  time 
anyway.  .  .  .  Really!" 

David  looked  at  her. 

There   was   something   about   this  girl 
that  made  him  more  and  more  fidgety. 
66  ("She  was  so  damn  nice  and  normal,  just 


to  look  at,"  he  says,  "that  I  figured  if  we 
started  saying  anything  to  each  other, 
the  whole  thing  might  be  spoiled.") 

"What  do  you  want  to  hear,  anyway," 
he  found  himself  asking,  then,  " — the  story 
of  my  life?" 

"Sure,"  Ellie  said. 

"Are  you  interested,"  David  asked,  half- 
smiling,  "or  are  you  just  being  polite?" 

"Of  course  I'm  interested,  you  dope," 
Ellie  said.  "If  I  weren't,  if  I'd  just  wanted 
to  be  polite,  I'd  have  been  back  at  my 
hotel  room  a  couple  of  hours  ago." 

David  continued  looking  at  her. 

Then  he  nodded. 

"Well — "  he  said. 

And  he  told  her  his  story. 

HE  STARTED  AT  THE  BEGINNING. 
And  by  the  time  he'd  come  to  the  end — a 
few  hours  later,  "It  was  way  past  dawn," 
he  remembers — he  had  talked  to  Ellie  the 
way  he'd  never  talked  to  anyone  else  be- 
fore. He  talked  about  his  ups,  his  downs. 
His  misses,  his  hits.  He  had  even  begun  to 
have  inroads  in  discussing  his  problems 
with  someone  for  the  first  time  in  his  life — 
the  small  problems,  the  medium  ones,  the 
big  ones. 

And  when  he  was  through  discussing 
these  things,  talking,  he  knew  only  two 
things:    (one)  that  it  was  dawn  and  he 


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had  to  get  this  girl  back  to  her  hotel; 
(two)  that  he  wanted  to,  had  to,  see  her 
again  that  night. 

"I  learned  something  about  David  that 
morning,"  Ellie  has  said.  "He  didn't  ask 
me,  'Is  it  all  right  if  I  see  you  tonight?' 
He  said,  'I'll  see  you  tonight!'— like  what- 
ever shyness  he'd  felt  at  the  beginning, 
poof,  was  gone. 

"It  was  the  same,"  she  says,  "when  we 
got  married.  We'd  been  going  together 
for  almost  a  year  now.  And  all  of  a 
sudden  one  afternoon  he  comes  over  to 
see  me  and  talks  about  marrying  me. 
But  he  doesn't  get  on  his  knee  and  say, 
'Will  you  etcetera  etcetera,  my  darling?' 
No.  He  says,  'Either  you  marry  me  to- 
night or  we're  never  going  to  see  one 
another  again.' 

"Very  direct,  my  husband. 

"Very,  very  direct." 

Very  directly,  the  other  day — some  two 
years  and  a  few  months  after  their  wed- 
ding— we  asked  David  to  tell  us  some- 
thing about  his  marriage.  We  were  sit- 
ting in  the  Janssen  living  room.  Ellie  was 
in  the  den,  next  door,  working  on  some 
project.  (She  sews  a  lot,  paints  and  is 
an  expert  furniture  repair-lady.) 

"Well,"  said  David,  "it's  a  good  mar- 
riage. A  great  marriage.  And  it's  all 
Ellie's  doing.  She's  got  a  sense  of  humor, 
which  I  like.  She's  understanding,  which 
I  like.  She  makes  most  of  her  own  clothes, 
which  doesn't  hurt  when  a  couple  is  try- 
ing to  save  money  and  get  out  of  debt — 
which  we  have,  finally.  And  she's  a  good 
cook.   Makes  the  best  veal  scallopine  in 


town.  She  learned  from  the  chef  at  La 
Scala  and —  Say,  she's  making  some  to- 
night!  You  want  to  stay  for  dinner?" 

Sounded  fine,  we  said.  But  for  now, 
to  get  back  to  the  story — 

"Has  she  changed  you  in  any  way  these 
past  couple  of  years?"  we  asked. 

"She  has,"  David  said.  "It's  hard  to 
say  how.  Ellie  doesn't  do  things  obviously, 
if  you  know  what  I  mean.  But  take  the 
matter  of  friends.  I  never  had  any  before, 
really.  And  I  have  them  now.  Not  many. 
But  a  few.  And  good  ones.  The  Jackie 
Coopers.  The  Steve  Aliens.  A  few  others. 
How  is  Ellie  responsible?  I  don't  know. 
People  like  her.  They're  drawn  to  her. 
Unavoidably,  maybe,  they're  drawn  to  me, 
too,  and  me  to  them.  I  relax  more  around 
people  now.  I  don't  question  their  every 
move.  When  I  do  Ellie  ribs  the  heck  out 
of  me,  and  that  takes  care  of  that." 

He  stopped,  and  he  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"And  another  thing,"  he  said  then. 
" — she's  got  me,  or  is  getting  me,  out  of 
my  brooding  habit.  When  things  went 
wrong,  professionally  I  mean,  like  with 
the  Escadrille  and  Farewell  To  Arms 
things,  I'd  really  feel  lousy.  I'd  brood. 
Like  I  did  a  little  while  back,  when  I  lost 
Butterfield  8.  It  looked  all  set.  It  was  a 
big  deal  to  play  opposite  Elizabeth  Taylor; 
it  was  a  good  role,  the  piano  player's. 
Pandro  Berman,  the  producer,  said  he 
wanted  me.  You  can't  ask  for  better 
than  that.  And  then  word  got  out  that 
Liz  wanted  Eddie  Fisher  for  the  role.  I 
guess  Liz  hadn't  heard  that  I'd  been  set 
for  the  part;  one  way  or  another,  it 
doesn't  matter  anymore.  Anyway,  the 
opinion  got  to  be  that  the  picture  wouldn"t 
be  made  without  Eddie.  And  so  I  was  out. 

"WELL,  I  BROODED  ABOUT  THIS, 
naturally.  At  least,  I  started  to.  But  then 
Ellie  had  a  talk  with  me.  It  was  a  very 
short  talk,  very  simple.  She  said  that  lots 
of  things  happen  for  the  best,  que  sera 
sera,  and — knock  wood — something  better 
would  come  along  for  me. 

"And,  sure  enough,  a  little  while  later. 
I  landed  this  role  in  Eternity  (Hell  To 
Eternity),  which  I  wouldn't  have  been 
able  to  take  if  I  were  working  on  the 
Taylor  picture.  And — knock  wood — if  it 
turns  out  to  be  as  good  a  picture  as  every- 
body who  should  know  says  it  will  be, 
well,  then  with  this  and  Diamond  I  may 
really  be  on  my  way." 

We  asked  David  to  tell  us  a  little  more 
about  Ellie,  her  qualities,  the  things  about 
her  he  was  most  nuts  about,  the  things 
about  her  that  made  her  a  woman  among 
women. 

"Well—"  he  started. 

He  paused. 

He  scratched  his  head  and  said,  "You 
know,  questions  like  this  take  time  to 
answer." 

So  he  took  time. 

A  lot  of  time. 

Until,  suddenly,  from  the  other  end  of 
the  room  we  heard  a  click.  It  was  Ellie, 
opening  the  door  that  led  from  the  den. 

She  poked  out  her  head. 

"David,"  she  said,  " — is  it  that  you  can't 
think  of  anything  else  nice  to  say  about 
me.  .  .  .  Hmmmmm?" 

Then  she  winked  at  us  and  closed  the 
door  again. 

"My  wije?"  David  called  out. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "why,  Ellie  Janssen  is 
the  most  sen-sa-tion-al  gal  who  ever  lived. 
Yessir.  And  I  love  her  madly. 

"Madly!" 

"I  hope  I  said  that  loud  enough,"  he 
whispered  to  us  then,  laughing. 

"I  mean,  if  we  still  want  to  see  that 
scallopine  tonight.  .  .  ."  END 

David  stars  in  Allied  Artists'  Dondi  and 
Ring  Of  Fire  /or  MGM. 


Liz'  Journey  Through  Terror 

(Continued  from  page  39) 


closed  his  eyes,  just  blissfully  relaxing. 

And  Liz  turned  her  head  and  looked 
over  at  Bee  Smith,  the  nurse,  who  never 
for  a  moment  had  her  eyes  off  the  children. 

Bee.  Liz  thought  to  herself.  Bee,  it's 
going  to  be  so  sad  losing  you.  .  .  .  She 
still  couldn't  believe  it.  that  the  woman  was 
going  to  leave  them.  She'd  always  figured 
that  she  would  be  with  them  forever.  She'd 
come.  Liz  remembered,  just  before  Michael 
was  born.  She'd  taken  care  of  Michael 
then  Chris,  then  Liza:  taken  care  of  them 
all.  and  loved  them  all.  as  if  they'd  been 
her  own  grandchildren.  She  was  in 
her  mid-sixties  when  she'd  come.  Liz  re- 
membered. And  she  was  in  her  seventies 
now.  And  she'd  made  it  clear,  just  be- 
fore this  trip,  that  she  was  getting  old 
now  and  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  go 
live  with  her  own  family  for  these  years  she 
had  left,  and  rest.  She'd  tried  to  leave 
them  just  before  the  trip.  But  Liz  had 
asked  her.  as  a  special  favor,  to  stay 
with  them,  to  come  with  them,  for  just  a 
while.  She  and  Eddie.  Liz  had  said,  would 
give  her  a  bonus  (they'd  have  given  it  to 
her  anyway;  they  all  knew  that!)  and 
would  send  her  home  from  London  by  jet 
plane,  just  as  soon  as  she'd  helped  them 
select  another  nurse,  an  English  woman. 
Bee  Smith  had  said  no  at  first.  But  she'd 
changed  her  mind  at  the  last  minute. 
And  now  here  she  was.  on  her  way  to 
Italy  first,  then  to  England,  to  spend 
just  a  little  while  more  with  her  be- 
loved •grandchildren." 

'"It's  the  only  thing/'  Liz  said,  sud- 
denly, softly,  still  looking  over  at  the 
woman.  " — the  only  thing  that  puts  a 
crimp  into  this  trip." 

"What  is?"  Bee  Smith  asked. 

"You  having  to  leave  us."  said  Liz. 

"Well."  said  Bee  Smith,  "don't  you  go 
thinking  about  that  now  and  spoiling  a 
good  time  for  yourself.  This  boat  trip's 
supposed  to  be  a  holiday  for  you.  And 
so's  Italy.  And  I  don't  want  you  wor- 
rying about  anything  till  you  get  to  Eng- 
land and  have  to  start  worrying  about 
learning  all  those  lines  for  your  picture." 

She  grinned. 

"Right.  Mr.  Fisher?"   she  asked. 

"Right."  said  Eddie,  his  eyes  still  closed. 

And  Liz  smiled  a  little  now.  too.  and  she 
reached  over  and  took  Bee  Smith's  hand 
in  hers,  and  she  squeezed  and  held  it  for  a 
long  moment.  .  .  . 

IT  COULD  HAVE  BEEN  at  that  same 
moment  when  the  person  in  London  sat 
down  to  write  the  letter. 

It  arrived  on  Monday.  August  8th,  at 
the  sprawling  mansion  just  outside  Lon- 
don, which  Liz  and  Eddie  had  rented  for 
their  six  months'  stay.  Like  all  other  mail 
that  arrived  for  the  Fishers,  it  was  sent 
into  London  proper  and  to  the  Twentieth 
Century-Fox  offices  there.  There,  routine- 
ly, a  girl  in  Publicity  opened  it  in  order  to 
see  whether  it  should  be  filed  or,  if  im- 
portant enough,  sent  on  to  Liz  and  Eddie 
in  Italy. 

As  it  turned  out.  the  girl  did  neither.  She 
brought  it  instead  to  Scotland  Yard. 

Within  a  few  minutes'  time,  four  top 
detectives  were  poring  over  the  letter, 
reading  its  strange  message  over  and  over 
again: 

"Watch,  out  for  your  children. 

"They  are  beautiful,  but  they  must 
be  mine. 

"What  are  they  icorth  to  you? 

"Ten  thousand  Pounds?  Twelve  thou- 
sand? 

"You'll  hear  from  me  again. 


"Pray  I  don't  do  nothing  drastic. 
"Pray  for  me. 
"I  am  a  sinner!" 

When  they  were  through  going  over  the 
letter,  the  detectives  agreed  that  it  was  the 
work  of  a  first-class  crackpot,  nothing 
more. 

Still,  they  figured,  they'd  look  into  it. 

And  they  should  notify  the  Fishers. 

And  so  one  of  them  picked  up  a  phone 
and  asked  to  be  connected  with  the  S.S. 
Leonardo  DaVinci  at  sea.  .  .  . 

Eddie,  who  had  received  the  call,  was 
undecided  about  whether  to  tell  Liz  about 
the  letter  or  not.  They  had  received  so  j 
many  letters  since  that  day  they'd  known 
they  were  in  love,  and  had  started  going 
together — abusive  letters,  obscene  letters, 
insulting  letters.  They  had  tried,  as  best 
they  could,  to  ignore  them.  This,  he 
knew,  should  be  ignored  too.  But 
still.  .  .  . 

HE  TOLD  HER  ABOUT  IT.  FINALLY. 
They  were  walking  up  on  the  Boat  Deck, 
alone,  late  that  night. 

Liz  listened. 

"Did  Scotland  Yard  say  they'd  check 
into  it?"  she  asked,  when  Eddie  was 
through. 

"Of  course."  he  said. 

"Then  what  are  we  worried  about?"  ! 
Liz  said.  .  .  . 

Even  in  Italy,  at  first.  Liz  did  not 
realize  the  impact  the  news  of  that  letter 
had  had  on  her.  There  are  things  we  hear 
in  life,  frightening  sometimes,  though  not 
immediately  so.  that  get  embedded  in  the 
brain  and  sleep  there.  It  takes  something 
small,  something  sudden,  to  awaken  them.  j 
This  is  the  way  it  was  with  Liz  and  the 
letter.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  Sunday,  their  first  in  Rome. 

They  were  leaving  the  Olympic  Games 
— Liz.  Eddie.  Bee  Smith  and  the  children. 
They'd  had  a  ball  that  day.  the  boys 
especially,  and  they  were  still  all  talking  | 
and  laughing  away  as  they  walked  from 
the  sports  palace  and  neared  their  car. 

"Anybody  hungry?"'  Eddie  asked  at 
one  point,  as  they  walked.  "Anybody  here 
ready  for  some  more  of  that  good  Roman 
spaghetti?" 

But  before  anyone  could  answer,  a  pack  I 
of  photographers  had  spotted  them  and 
swarmed  around  them. 

The  photographers  began  snapping 
away. 

'"Really,"  Liz  said,  after  a  few  minutes, 
"we've  got  to  go  now.  The  children  are 
famished.  .  .  ." 

"Just  a  few  more  .  .  .  Un'ahro  .  .  .  One 
more    round,"    came    the    photographers"  i 
usual  cry. 

Liz  smiled. 

"Just  one  more  round."  she  said. 

IT  WAS  DURING  THIS  ROUND  when 
the  roly-poly  Italian,  who'd  joined  the 
gathering  crowd  a  few  minutes  earlier,  ] 
who'd  been  at  the  Games  and  who'd  maybe 
drunk  a  little  too  much  vino  while  watch- 
ing the  Games,  decided  to  get  into  the  act. 

"Ueeeeeeii."  he  called  out.  " — me,  too,  I 
wanna  get  into  the  peetch'a." 

He  rushed  forward  and  stood  along- 
side Michael.  He  grinned  and  brought 
his  hands  up  to  his  ears.  "I  make  like 
the  monkey,   eh?"   he  said. 

The  little  boy  laughed. 

The  rest  of  the  crowd  roared. 

"Ragazzo.  boy,  you  look  like  a  nice  kid." 
the  man  said  to  Michael  then.  "What  you 
think,  huh.  if  I  take  you  and  I  buy  you 
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He  started  to  take  the  boy's  hand. 
Liz  saw  him. 

"You,"  she  called  out.  "Don't  you  touch 
him.    Get  your  hands  off  that  child." 

The  crowd  became  silent,  suddenly. 

"I  was  going  to  ask  the  permission, 
Signora — "  the  man  started  to  say. 

"You  get  your  hands  off  him,"  Liz  cried. 
"Off  him!" 

The  roly-poly  Italian  let  go  of  Michael's 
hand  and  lowered  his  eyes. 

"I  sorry  .  .  .  mi  displace,"  he  said,  as  he 
began  to  walk  away.  .  .  . 

"Why'd  you  do  that?"  Eddie  asked,  after 
they'd  gotten  into  their  car  and  had  begun 
to  drive  away.  "The  guy  was  having  some 
fun.    He  didn't  mean  any  harm." 

"I  don't  know,"  Liz  said.  She  breathed 
in  deeply.  "I  just  don't  want  anybody 
touching  my  children,  maybe  ...  Is  there 
anything  wrong  with  that?" 

THEN,  TWO  THINGS  HAPPENED  the 
day  they  arrived  in  England  and  the  man- 
sion near  London  that  helped  put  Liz' 
nerves  on  end. 

One  was  a  story,  in  the  newspapers,  out  of 
Australia.  It  concerned  a  twelve-year-old 
boy  whose  father,  a  poor  man,  had  recently 
won  a  quarter-of-a-million  dollars  in  a 
lottery  there.  The  son  had  been  kidnaped. 
They'd  found  him  murdered,  his  body 
dumped  in  some  woodlands. 

The  other,  and  more  important  and  dis- 
tressing to  Liz  at  the  moment,  was  a  let- 
ter, addressed  by  the  same  person  who 
had  written  the  first  letter.  It  differed 
from  the  first  only  in  that  it  asked:  "Are 
the  children  worth  100,000  pounds  to  you?" 
Like  the  first,  it  ended  with  the  words: 
"7  am  a  sinner!" 

"I'm  sorry,"  Liz  said  to  the  Scotland 
Yard  man  who'd  come  to  see  them  a  little 
while  after  they'd  reported  the  letter, 
" — I  could  tell  by  your  tone  of  voice, 
on  the  phone,  when  I  called,  that  you  don't 
think  this  is  at  all  serious.  But,"  she 
said,  "to  me  it  is  serious." 

"Mrs.  Fisher,"  said  the  detective,  "be- 
lieve me.  There's  nothing  to  this  at  all. 
Some  demented,  some  tortured  person 
somewhere  is  having  him  or  herself  a  time, 
that's  all." 

"Have  you  found  this  demented  and  tor- 
tured person?"  Liz  asked. 

"No." 

"Have  you  been  trying?" 
"Yes.  Naturally." 

"Then,"  Liz  said,  "it  can't  be  nothing: 
not  if  you're  trying." 

"Mrs.  Fisher,"  the  detective  said  again, 
"first,  understand  this.  We  never  let 
these  things  go  completely,  even  if  we're 
not  terribly  concerned.  It's  a  policy  of 
the  Yard.  We  follow  all  these  matters 
through  .  .  .  And  second,"  he  said,  "un- 
derstand this.  Many  such  letters  are  re- 
ceived by  prominent  people  in  England 
every  year.  It's  part  of  the  irony  of 
being  a  celebrity,  I  guess  you  might  say. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Fisher,  if  it  will  make  you 
feel  any  better,  let  me  assure  you  of  this. 
We  have  a  man  stationed  at  the  gate  here. 
And  we  have  a  man  on  the  grounds  here, 
twenty-four  hours  a  day.  When  the 
boys  are  in  school,  we  will  have  a  man 
along  with  them.  They  won't  see  him, 
they  won't  know  he  is  there.  But  he  will 
be  there.  .  .  . 

"I'M  SORRY  about  this  whole  thing,  you 
know,"  the  detective  said.  "It's  not  a 
jolly  pleasant  way  for  us  to  have  to  receive 
guests  in  our  country,  now  is  it?" 

Then  he  shook  hands  with  Eddie,  who 
had  been  standing  by  all  this  while, 
he  looked  over  once  more  at  Liz,  and  he 
left.  .  .  . 

68      That  night,  some  two  hundred  people 


milled  around  the  gate  of  the  mansion, 
waiting  to  see  Elizabeth  Taylor,  the  beau- 
tiful movie  star,  and  her  husband,  Eddie 
Fisher,  leave  for  a  special  party  that  was 
being  held  someplace  nearby  in  honor  of 
their  arrival. 

The  crowd  ooooooohed  when  they  saw 
Liz  at  the  door,  as  she  headed  for  the  gate 
and  the  car. 

Then,  just  before  she  got  into  the  car. 
the  cry  went  up  for  autographs. 

"Please,  Miss  Taylor,"  one  young  girl 
said.  "I  go  to  see  all  your  flicks.  Would 
you  just  sign  your  name  to  this  book?" 

"Of  course,"  Liz  said. 

Liz  signed  about  a  dozen,  quickly.  There 
were  at  least  a  couple  of  dozen  more  to  go, 
she  knew.  She  looked  up  from  the  last 
book  she'd  signed.  Suddenly  she  began  to 
feel  a  little  dizzy.  The  crowd,  it  seemed, 
was  pushing  closer  and  closer.  They  were 
getting  out  of  hand;  they  were  excited, 
and  pushing.  "Eddie  .  .  ."  Liz  mumbled.  He 
didn't  seem  to  hear  her.  He  was  busy,  a  few 
yards  away,  signing  some  autographs  of  his 
own.  "Eddie  .  .  ."  She  closed  her  eyes  for  a 
moment.  And  then  she  opened  them.  And 
she  looked  again  at  the  faces  around  her. 

The  dizziness  was  getting  worse;  the 
awful  feeling  in  her  head,  through  her 
body,  more  intense. 

Suddenly — she  didn't  know  why  exactly 
— but  suddenly  she  wanted  to  cry  out  to 
this  mob. 

"Who  are  you  people?"  she  wanted  to 
cry. 

"And  what  do  you  want  from  me,  from 

me?" 

She  looked  into  the  face  of  one  woman 
who  stood  not  more  than  three  feet  from 
her.  The  woman  was  big-boned  and 
strong-looking  and  smiling.  Liz  looked 
at  the  pencil  she  was  waving,  at  the  sheet 
of  paper  she  held. 

"Is  it  you?"  Liz  wanted  to  ask.  suddenly. 
'Are  you  the  one?" 

Then  she  looked  into  another  face,  and 
another. 

"Is  it  you?"  she  wanted  to  cry. 
"Are  you  the  one  who  wants  to  hurt  mv 
babies?" 

She  handed  back  a  book  she  was  hold- 
ing. 

She  reached  for  Eddie's  hand. 

Her  face  had  turned  ashen  pale. 

"Liz,"    Eddie    asked,    "what's  wrong?" 

"Let's  get  back  inside,  away,"  she  said. 
"I  don't  want  to  go  to  any  party." 

"Liz — "  Eddie  started  to  say. 

He  followed  her  inside.  .  .  . 

There,  she  shut  the  door,  and  she  clung 
to  his  hand. 

"Eddie,"  she  said,  "I  want  us  to  go  up- 
stairs and  pack.  Right  now  ...  I  don't 
want  to  live  here.  I  want  to  go  to  Lon- 
don, tonight,  and  move  into  a  hotel  .  .  . 
It's  safe  there.  Do  you  understand  what 
I'm  talking  about,  Eddie?  .  .  .  It's  safer!" 

LIZ  SEEMED  BETTER,  more  calm,  that 
weekend. 

They'd  moved  from  the  big  place  and 
they  were  in  London  now.  They  spent 
the  Saturday  sleeping  late,  then  visiting 
Hampton  Court,  showing  the  children  the 
palace  where  Henry  the  Eighth  had 
slept,  and  banqueted.  And,  on  Sunday, 
they  walked  through  Hyde  Park  for  a 
while,  in  the  morning,  listening  to  some 
of  the  fancy  and  long-winded  speeches 
there,  and  then  they  took  a  ride  up  to 
Windsor,  for  a  long  and  relaxing  picnic 
lunch,  and  then  they  came  back  to  Lon- 
don and  Regent  Park,  to  see  the  animals, 
feed  them,  and  to  laugh  as  Eddie  made 
faces  at  the  lion  and  as  the  lion,  sleepily, 
growled  back  at  him.  .  . 

On  Monday,  however,  Liz'  fears  re- 
turned. 

It  was  a  strange  day  for  her. 
She  began  her  picture  that  morning.  The 
morning  had  gone  fine. 


But  then,  that  afternoon,  things  seemed 
to  be  different.  She  seemed  anxious  to 
work,  but  unable  to  concentrate. 

Since  actual  shooting  on  Cleopatra  would 
not  begin  till  Wednesday  and  today  was 
only  a  rehearsal,  Liz'  director  was  not 
too  concerned.  Even  the  best  of  the  pros 
got  jittery  sometimes  at  the  beginning  of 
a  picture,  he  knew. 

At  one  point,  when  she  had  flubbed  the 
same  line  a  few  times,  the  director  sug- 
gested to  Liz  that  she  go  to  her  dressing 
room  and  have  a  spot  of  tea  arid  unwind  a 
little,  for  a  while. 

Liz  nodded,  and  went  to  the  dressing 
room. 

When,  a  little  while  later,  a  girl  came  in 
with  her  tea  tray,  Liz  hardly  looked  up. 

"Here's  scones  and  muffins  and  lots  of 
jam  and  butter,"  the  girl  said.  "Will  there 
be  anything  else?" 

"No  .  .  .  thank  you,"  Liz  said. 

Liz  sat  for  a  moment,  then  lifted  her  tea. 

And  as  she  ^id  she  thought  of  the  kid- 
naped Australian  boy,  of  the  letters,  of 
other  things  she'd  heard  about  kidnap- 
ings. 

Suddenly,  the  cup  slipped  from  her 
hand. 

It  went  crashing  to  the  floor. 

Liz  didn't  look  down. 

She  stared  ahead,  straight  ahead. 

"Oh,  my  God,"  she  began  to  moan,  after 
a  while. 

"Oh,  my  God.  My  God.  .  .  ." 

She  looked  out  the  window  of  their  bed- 
room that  night,  looking  at  the  heavy  fog, 
as  she  waited  for  Eddie.  He'd  been  record- 
ing all  that  day.  Obviously,  he'd  been  held 
up.  She  turned,  once,  to  glance  at  a  clock. 
It  was  nearly  nine.  She  reached  for  a  ciga- 
rette that  lay  on  the  night-table,  next  to 
their  bed.  She  lit  it.  And  then  she  went 
back  to  looking  at  the  fog. 

She  didn't  turn,  at  first,  when  she  heard 
Eddie  come  in. 

"Can  we  take  the  children  with  us.  to 
Egypt,  next  week?"  she  asked,  still  looking 
at  the  fog. 

"We  can  take  Liza,  sure,"  Eddie  said. 

"But  not  the  boys?"  Liz  asked. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,"  he  said. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked. 

"Because  it  wouldn't  be  right.  I  don't 
think,"  he  said,  "dragging  them  out  of 
school  like  that." 

"THEN  I'M  NOT  GOING  TO  EGYPT." 
she  said. 

"You're  not."  he  said,  shocked. 

"I  didn't  want  to  go  in  the  first  place," 
Liz  said.  "I  didn't  feel  bad,  not  the  least 
bit  bad,  when  they  made  it  clear  that  they 
didn't  want  a  Jew  invading  their  country, 
they  said;  not  even  a  Hollywood  Jew,  they 
said.  Well  good,  I  said,  I  didn't  want  to  go 
anyway  .  .  .  You  remember.  Eddie?" 

Eddie  loosened  his  tie. 

"Do  you  know,  Liz,"  he  asked,  "what 
they  went  through  to  get  permission  for 
you  to  get  into  that  country.  Strings  were 
pulled.  Big  strings  .  .  . 

"Do  you  know,"  Eddie  asked,  "how  this 
is  going  to  stifle  their  plans?  Two  weeks  of 
location,  all  set  up?  A  couple  of  million 
bucks  riding  on  those  two  weeks  alone?  A 
couple  of  hundred  people  with  jobs  riding 
on  this? 

"Liz,"  Eddie  said.  He  sat  beside  her  on 
the  bed.  "Is  it  because  of  the  children  .  .  . 
those  letters?  Is  that  why  you  don't  want 
to  leave  all  of  a  sudden?" 

She  said  nothing  at  first. 

"Liz?"  he  asked. 

Her  voice  was  soft  when  she  spoke 
again,  soft  and  tired-sounding.  "Of  course 
it  is,  Eddie,"  she  said.  "I'm  so  afraid.  I 
know  everybody  else  is  taking  it  as  if  it 
were  nothing.  But  Eddie,  I'm  so  afraid  for 
them." 

"You  shouldn't  be,"  Eddie  said.  "They've 
got  the  best  nvotection.  You  know  that. 


They've  got  Scotland  Yard,  watching  them 
every  minute.  They've  got  Bee — she's 
agreed  to  stay  longer  than  she'd  planned, 
hasn't  she?  She's  even  stopped  looking 
around  for  another  girl  for  the  time  being, 
hasn't  she?  Just  so  you'll  feel  better  .  .  . 
Why,  the  children,  they've  got — " 

"I  don't  care  what  you  say  they've  got, 
Eddie,"  Liz  said,  cutting  in,  her  voice  still 
soft.  "We're  not  going.  And  I  want,"  she 
said,  "I  want  for  us  to  tell  the  children  that 
we're  not,  first  thing  at  breakfast.  If 
they've  had  any  worries  of  their  own  about 
this,  if  they  know  anything  about  this,  I 
want  their  minds  put  at  rest,  too  .  .  . 
Michael,  especially — he's  old  enough  to 
hear  things,  to  know  what's  going  on — " 

"And  what  are  we  supposed  to  tell  him, 
in  case  he  does  know?"  Eddie  asked.  "That 
his  Mama  and  Eddie  are  afraid?" 

"Yes,"  Liz  said,  "if  that's  the  right  word." 

"But  it's  a  terrible  word,"  Eddie  said. 

"I  don't  care  what  kind  of  word  it  is," 
Liz  said.  "We're  going  to  tell  them." 

Eddie  shook  his  head. 

"Honey,"  he  started  to  say,  "listen,  I 
know  how  you  feel — " 

Liz  jumped  up  from  the  bed  suddenly. 
Suddenly  her  voice  rose.  "Don't  say  that," 
she  said,  " — not  that.  How  could  you  know 
how  I  feel?  I'm  their  mother.  I  have  my 
own  set  of  feelings  for  them.  I'm  their 
mother. 

"And  you — "  she  started  to  say. 

She  brought  her  hand  up  to  her  mouth 
and  she  bit  it. 

"And  me,"  Eddie  said,  loudly  now.,  too, 
"I'm  their  father  ...  I  am  their  father, 
Liz.  They  may  not  be  of  my  flesh,  or  of 
my  blood.  But  they  happen  to  be  the  chil- 
dren I'm  with  every  day.  They  happen  to 
be  my  wife's  children.  I  happen  to  love 
them  .  .  .  And  I'm  concerned  about  them, 
too,  as  much  as  anybody  else  on  this  earth. 
Anybody!" 

He  paused. 

AND  THEN,  HIS  VOICE  SOFT  once 
more,  he  said,  "Look  .  .  .  Liz.  When  I  was 
a  boy—  I  haven't  thought  of  this  for  years, 
but  it  comes  back  to  me  now — when  I  was 
a  boy,  there  was  this  kid  in  our  neighbor- 
hood. He  was  a  normal  enough  kid,  when 
he  started  out  in  life,  I  guess.  But  he  had 
two  very  abnormal  parents.  They  were 
afraid  for  him,  afraid  that  he'd  ever,  once 
in  his  life,  get  hurt.  And  so,  if  he  was  out 
playing  with  us,  a  gang  of  boys,  and  a  fight 
started,  the  way  it  often  did,  his  mother 
would  come  streaking  out  of  their  house 
and  grab  her  boy  away  from  us.  'Stay 
away  from  that  lousy  mob,'  she  used  to 
say,  'or  you'll  get  hurt!'  .  .  .  And  in  school, 
if  this  kid  himself  did  something  out  of 
line  and  the  teacher  said  something  nasty 
to  him,  his  father  would  come  up  and  hol- 
ler at  the  teacher  and  ask  her  how  she 
dared  to  criticize  their  son  .  .  .  For  their 
son  must  not  be  hurt! 

"I  remember,"  Eddie  went  on,  "we  went 
to  the  same  junior  high  school  together, 
the  same  high  school.  And  I  remember 
how  just  after  Korea  the  two  of  us  were 
called  into  the  Army,  the  same  day.  I'd 
talked  to  him  the  night  before.  We'd  meet, 
we  decided,  on  a  certain  corner  that  next 
morning  and  report  in  together. 

"Well. '  Eddie  said,  "that  next  morning, 
I  got  there,  to  the  corner.  I  waited.  I 
waited  half-an-hour  more  than  I  should 
have,  and  this  kid,  he  didn't  show.  I 
couldn't  figure  why.  I  didn't  learn  why,  in 
fact,  till  about  a  week  after  I  went  away. 
That's  when  I  got  this  letter  from  my 
mother.  She  told  me  it  was  terrible  about 
this  kid.  A  few  minutes  before  he  was  sup- 
posed to  leave  the  house  to  meet  me,  she 
said,  he  began  to  bawl  and  weep  and 
scream  and  kick.  He  was  afraid  to  go  into 
the  Army.  Every  guy  on  earth,  when  the 
time  comes,  is  a  little  afraid.  But  this  kid, 
he  was  this  afraid.  He  carried  on  so  bad 


that  morning  that  his  own  parents  couldn't 
quiet  him  down,  and  they  had  to  come 
from  the  hospital  eventually  and  take  him. 

"He  stayed  in  that  hospital  a  few  years, 
Liz.  Now  he's  out.  He's  my  age,  exactly, 
and  he  sits  home  all  day  now  with  his 
mother  and  his  father.  He's  a  young  man. 
He's  a  broken  vegetable,  really.  He  doesn't 
work.  He  doesn't  go  out.  He  just  sits  home. 

"He's  ruined,  Liz — " 

"It's  a  different  thing  you're  talking 
about,"  she  said. 

"But  it  isn't,"  Eddie  said.  "It's  the  story 
of  a  boy  and  his  parents  and  fear.  It's  the 
story  of  a  legacy.  He  was  taught  this  fear, 
this  kid  I  knew  .  .  .  They  gave  him  a  les- 
son. And  he  learned  it  well.  .  .  ." 

Liz  began  to  walk  towards  a  closet,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Eddie  asked. 

"To  take  a  walk,"  Liz  said,  reaching  for 
a  coat,  putting  it  on.  "To  get  lost,  maybe,  in 
the  fog." 

"Why  are  you  going?"  Eddie  asked. 
"Because  I  don't  want  any  more  talk," 
Liz  said. 

"YOU'VE  MADE  UP  YOUR  MIND  about 
this  whole  thing?"  Eddie  asked. 

"Yes,"  Liz  said,  picking  up  her  handbag. 

"And  you  want  me  to  have  a  talk  with 
the  children  tomorrow — with  Michael  and  I 
Christopher?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  want  me  to  give  them  their 
first  lesson  in  fear?" 

"Yes,"  Liz  said.  She  shouted  it  now.  The 
tears  came  to  her  eyes  and  she  shouted  it. 

Sobbing,  she  ran  from  the  room. 

She  ran  down  the  hallway. 

"Mrs.  Fisher,"  a  voice  called  out.  It  was 
Bee  Smith,  the  nurse,  looking  out  of  the 
door  of  her  room.  "Elizabeth!" 

Liz  ran  past  her,  ignoring  her,  ignoring 
everything. 

When,  finally,  she  got  to  the  door,  she 
put  her  hand  on  the  knob,  and  she  started 
to  turn  it. 

"Fear" — the  word  came  to  her  mind, 
suddenly. 

"Is  that  what  we  want  for  them? 
"A  legacy  of  fear?" 

After  a  while — a  long,  a  very  long,  while 
— Liz  turned,  and  she  began  to  walk  back 
up  the  hallway,  back  towards  the  bedroom. 

"Eddie,"  she  whispered,  when  she  got 
to  the  door. 

He  was  sitting  on  a  chair,  his  hands 
clasped  tightly  together. 

He  rose  from  the  chair  and  he  waited  as 
she  came  to  him. 

"Eddie,"  she  said  .  .  .  "Eddie"  ...  as 
she  fell  into  his  arms,  as  she  began  to  cry 
again,  as  he  began  to  kiss  her  hair,  and 
to  soothe  her.  .  .  . 

BACK  IN  HER  LITTLE  ROOM,  mean- 
while, Bee  Smith  smiled.  She'd  seen  Liz 
walk  back  to  her  husband  from  that  door. 
And  this  made  her  happy. 

She  guessed,  from  what  she'd  seen  and 
heard  just  now,  that  it  would  be  all  right 
for  her  to  start  interviewing  girls  for  her 
job  again. 

But  tomorrow — she  thought — tomorrow 
was  probably  going  to  be  such  a  lovely 
day.  And,  she  wondered,  if  maybe  instead, 
it  wouldn't  be  more  pleasant  to  go  walk- 
ing with  her  "grandchildren",  and  take 
them  to  see  that  enormous  building  down- 
town with  the  big  clock  on  it,  and  that 
pretty  river  called  the  Thames. 

Well,  she  thought,  as  she  sat  back  in 
her  chair,  she'd  see  about  all  that  in  the 
morning. 

The  fog  was  lifting  now. 

Everything  was  going  to  be  lovely 
again.  .  .  .  END 

Eddie  and  Liz  both  star  in  Butterfield  8. 
MGM;  Liz  stars  in  Two  For  The  Seesaw, 
United  Artists,  Cleopatra,  for  20th-Fox. 


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Conversation  With  A  Goddess 


(Continued  from  page  45) 

column."  Hmmmmmm,  I  thought — a  nice 
thoughtful  and  pretty  smart  little  girl! 

But  when  I  actually  met  Sandra,  not  too 
long  after,  at  the  home  of  producer  Ross 
Hunter  (who  has  since  guided  the  little 
Dee  to  her  biggest  hits  and  has  become  her 
closest  friend  and  mentor)  I  was  surprised 
at  how  very  unspoiled  and  refreshingly 
youthful  she  was,  not  at  all  the  cagey 
prodigy. 

AMBITIOUS,  YES!  The  driving  urge  to 
become  tops  in  her  chosen  profession 
marked  this  child  even  before  her  young 
mother,  Mary  Douvan,  permitted  her  to 
wear  the  slightest  trace  of  lipstick  or  to 
stay  up  past  ten  o'clock. 

But  with  all  her  "dedicated"  interest  in 
her  work,  Sandra-  at  fifteen,  was  the 
widest-eyed  movie  fan  I  ever  saw.  You'd 
never  suspect  that  she  spent  her  days  in 
intimate  contact  with  big  movie  stars  on 
the  studio  lots.  Her  particular  "crush"  was 
Cary  Grant.  She  referred  to  "Miss"  Turner 
(Lana)  as  "gorgeous"  and  to  Jean  Simmons 
as  a  "great  artiste." 

At  this  time  she  had  an  autograph  book 
which  she  produced  at  the  drop  of  a 
celebrity.  She  saved  programs  from  pre- 
mieres. And  she  wrote  fan  letters — most 
of  them  to  Cary  Grant.  She  was  required 
by  law  to  attend  school  on  the  studio  lots 
and  just  like  other  girls,  she  mentioned 
"cramming"  for  her  exams. 

And  so  those  brief  years  of  typical 
Hollywood  childhood  passed  quickly  by. 
Now  and  then  I  would  see  Sandra  at  Ross 
Hunter's  poolside  or  some  other  social 
affair  attended  by  the  younger  set.  It  was 
noted  she  was  "dating"  Mark  Damon,  John 
Saxon,  Edd  Byrnes,  Mark  Goddard  and 
sundry  other  young  eligibles,  but  these 
items  always  sounded  like  ice  cream  soda 
sippings  to  me.  Occasionally  I  felt  her 
dates  were  studio  inspired.  Most  of  her 
escorts  were  in  Universal-International, 
her  home  studio,  films. 

The  change  from  childhood  to  girlhood 
came  gradually.  Already  Sandra  had  scored 
dramatically  as  Lana  Turner's  daughter 
and  love  rival  in  Imitation  of  Life  and  in 
Portrait  In  Black.  Her  little  girl  figure  had 
rounded  into  curves  encased  in  beautiful 
clothes  designed  by  Jean  Louis  who  also 
did  Lana's  gowns. 

Lipstick  appeared  on  her  soft  curving 
mouth  and  flat  shoes  were  replaced  by  high 
pointed  heels  on  her  smartly  shod  feet.  No 
longer  was  the  autograph  book  brought 
out. 

In  place  of  the  movie  child — suddenly 
there  was  the  movie  star. 

But  I  had  not  realized  how  sweeping  was 
the  change  until  Sandra  planed  back  from 
Italy,  where  she  had  been  starring  in 
Romanoff  and  Juliet,  for  a  brief  week  of 
rest  and  conferences  in  Hollywood  before 
returning  to  Europe  for  Come  September. 

At  my  invitation  for  this  story  she  came 
to  see  me — and  the  girl  who  walked  into  the 
"playroom"  where  I  have  interviewed  so 
many  of  the  glamour  girls  of  the  screen 
took  her  official  place  in  my  book  as  one 
of  them! 

SANDRA  LOOKED  SLEEK  and  beauti- 
ful in  a  blue  silk  gown  with  matching  blue 
shoes — her  only  jewelry  was  one  ring.  She 
said  her  luggage  had  been  lost  in  transit 
and  she  had  neither  jewelry  nor  clothes! 
(A  week  later  it  was  all  located — so  no 
harm  done.) 

But  even  this  temporary  misfortune 
didn't  glim  Sandra's  glow.  She  was  like  a 
70  little  magpie  chatting  about  Italy,  Paris, 


London  (this  had  been  her  first  trip  to 
Europe).  She  talked  "girl  talk"  of  the 
loose  Paris  fashions  which  she  did  not  like. 

She  talked  of  the  sleeker  hairdos,  of  the 
places  she  had  been  and  the  sights  she  had 
seen.  With  all  her  bubbling  enthusiasm 
there  was  a  new  maturity  about  her  and 
her  figure  was  that  of  a  model's.  Which 
reminded  me  of  something — 

"Sandra,  do  you  remember  when  I 
paddled  you  in  print  after  that  terrible 
experience  of  having  to  be  rushed  to  a 
hospital  by  ambulance  because  of  your 
drastic  Salts  dieting?  You  aren't  doing 
anything  that  foolish  to  keep  thin  now, 
are  you?" 

"I  promised  you  I  wouldn't,  remember? 
And  I  have  kept  my  word,"  she  smiled.  "I 
have  come  to  my  senses.  I  eat  what  I  need 
with-mt  starving  myself  or  taking  drastic 
elimination  medicine." 

"Are  you  sure?"  I  pressed  on.  "Ross 
Hunter  told  me  you  still  actually  do  starve 
yourself." 

She  laughed,  "That  Ross!  Unless  I  eat 
huge  platefuls,  Ross  thinks  I'm  not  eating 
anything.  I  don't  require  as  much  food  as 
he  believes  I  should  eat."  I  looked  at  her 
slender  wasp-like  waist.  "What's  your 
waist  measure  now?"  I  inquired. 

"Nineteen  inches,"  she  proudly  replied. 

"Sandra,"  I  put  in  quickly,  "I'm  going 
to  level  with  you  and  do  an  interview 
with  some  pretty  hard-hitting  questions — 
the  way  I  do  with  the  grown  up  glamour 
stars.  I  know  you're  wise  now  and  mature 
in  your  thinking — and  there  are  many 
things  your  fans  would  like  to  have  you 
answer  straight." 

As  she  had  listened  her  beautiful  young 
"doll"  face  became  serious.  "For  one  thing 
you  mean  about  my  real  father,  John 
Zuck,"  she  said  quietly. 

"Yes,  exactly,"  I  answered.  "About  the 
stories  printed  that  when  you  appeared  in 
your  birthplace,  Bayonne,  New  Jersey,  that 
you  refused  to  see  him  and  did  not  contact 
him." 

Indignation  flashed  in  her  eyes  but  her 
voice  was  soft  and  level  as  she  said,  "I 
would  like  to  ask  those  fans  and  others 
who  have  criticized  me  what  each  one 
would  have  done  in  my  place. 

"HOW  CAN  I  LOVE  A  FATHER  I 
haven't  seen  since  I  was  five  years  old?  I 
have  never  in  all  those  years  since  my 
mother  and  I  left  Bayonne  received  as 
much  as  a  postcard  from  him.  I  didn't  even 
know  I  had  a  half-brother  until  one  of  the 
magazines  printed  that  I  had  refused  to 
see  my  father  and  brother!" 

The  words  were  fairly  tumbling  from 
her  lips  beginning  to  tremble.  "Was  there 
anything  that  prevented  my  father  from 
telephoning  me?  I  was  appearing  for  the 
studio  in  Bayonne  and  I  was  in  the  news- 
papers. He  knew  where  I  was  staying  and 
contrary  to  all  those  reports  that  I 
wouldn't  see  him,  he  never  even  telephoned 
or  wrote  or  sent  me  a  telegram. 

"You  must  remember  that  my  wonderful 
stepfather,  Eugene  Douvan,  whom  my 
mother  married  years  ago,  is  the  only 
father  I  have  ever  known.  I  wouldn't 
know  John  Zuck  if  I  met  him  on  the 
street!" 

She  caught  her  breath,  again  very  much 
like  a  little  girl.  "I  have  no  ill  feeling  or 
hatred  toward  anyone  in  the  world,"  she 
said  with  sincerity.  "I  have  never  tried  to 
defend  myself  against  these  unjust  accusa- 
tions— that  is — until  now." 

I  had  a  feeling  Sandra  was  going  to  cry 
so  I  quickly  said,  "Thank  you  for  trusting 


me,  Sandra.  I  will  try  to  make  my  readers 
understand  your  position  as  I  understand 
it.  I  agree  with  you — your  father  should 
have  tried  to  reach  you  some  way  during 
those  years  when  you  were  growing  up." 

She  had  completely  regained  control  of 
herself.  "I  don't  want  to  sound  like  a  sob 
story.  I  am  grateful  that  my  mother, 
Mary  Douvan,  made  a  new  and  happy  life 
for  me  while  I  was  still  young  enough  to 
be  impressionable  and  that  as  a  little  girl 
I  grew  up  under  the  guidance  of  a  kind 
and  devoted  man  like  Eugene  Douvan. 

"Thanks  to  my  mother's  courage  and 
love — I  knew  a  happy  childhood  and  I  shall 
be  everlastingly  grateful  to  her  for  it.  The 
most  wonderful  thing  I  can  say  about  my 
young  and  pretty  mother  is  that  she  is  my 
best  friend  and  closest  pal." 

This,  I  knew  for  a  fact.  Mary  Douvan, 
who  is  as  dark  and  pretty  as  her  daughter 
is  fair,  is  one  of  the  most  popular  young 
matrons  in  Hollywood.  Although  she  has 
been  widowed  for  the  years  since  Douvan's 
death,  and  Sandra  is  her  whole  life — Mary 
is  a  far  cry  from  the  typical  stage  or  movie 
"mother." 

Time  after  time  I  have  seen  Sandra  and 
Mary  whispering,  talking  and  even  laugh- 
ing together  like  a  couple  of  teenagers. 
Although  Mary  advises  her  daughter — she 
does  not  keep  her  bound  with  cords  of 
silver.  In  fact,  Mary  once  laughed  to  me, 
"My  bedroom  in  our  new  house  looks  more 
like  a  movie  star's  than  Sandra's — and 
that's  saying  plenty!" 

This  new  home  is  described  by  both 
Sandra  and  Mary  as,  "What  every  fan 
thinks  a  movie  star's  home  should  be — 
white,  modern  and  expensive!" 

Which  brought  me  to  another  topic — the 
way  Sandra  spends  money. 

"Your  home — your  imported  sports  cars 
(for  herself  and  Mary),  your  expensive 
clothes,  that  full  length  white  mink  coat 
you  bought  before  leaving  for  Europe — 
Sandra,  do  these  things  mean  that  you  are 
spending  everything  and  saving  nothing?" 
— I  had  warned  her  my  questions  would 
be  blunt. 

NOW  SHE  LAUGHED  OUTRIGHT. 
"Even  if  I  were  foolish  enough  to  want  to 
spend  all  my  money — and  believe  me,  I'm 
not,  I  would  not  be  permitted  to.  Under 
California  laws  I'm  still  a  minor  and  re- 
quired by  the  courts  to  put  away  25%  of 
my  salary.  This  is  held  in  trust  until  I  am 
of  age  at  twenty-one.  My  mother  and  I 
have  decided  that  this  is  a  very  good  thing 
for  me  to  continue  even  after  I  am  twenty- 
one.  We've  decided  to  set  aside  this  same 
amount  of  savings  whatever  my  salary 
becomes. 

"By  movie  standards — actors  in  the  star 
brackets  are  now  getting  anywhere  from 
$250,000  to  $1,000,000  for  a  single  picture— 
my  salary  at  U-I  is  moderate.  I'm  not  up 
in  the  big  money  bracket.  So  when  the 
compulsory  savings,  withholding  tax,  char- 
ity and  other  deductions  are  taken  out — 
my  take  home  pay  isn't  too  big." 

For  a  "legal  minor,"  I'd  say  Sandra 
talked  a  very  sensible  financial  line.  She 
was  smiling,  however,  as  she  went  on: 

"I'll  confess  to  you  that  after  taxes  and 
living  expenses  are  taken  out — I  feel  every 
cent  I  have  left  is  an  investment  in  my 
career.  And  I  spend  it  on  clothes,  furs  and 
everything  that  will  help  me  seem  glam- 
ourous and  interesting  to  the  movie  fans. 
I'm  not  apologizing  that  I  do  this." 

I  know  that  on  Sandra's  shopping  jaunts 
she  has  spent  as  much  as  $1500  for  clothes 
in  one  session  (a  story  that  shocked  some 
people).  But  she  actually  is  following  the 
advice  of  her  close  friend,  the  astute  and 
"boy  wonder"  producer,  Ross  Hunter. 

Not  long  before  talking  with  Sandra,  I 
had  dined  with  Ross  at  Romanoff  s  and  he 
told  me: 


:Tve  told  Sandra  over  and  over  like  a 
Dutch  uncle  that  the  public  wants  movie 
actresses  to  be  glamourous  and  exciting. 
The  dullest  thing  in  the  world  is  this  cur- 
rent sloppy  fad — or  even  worse,  looking  and 
acting  like  that  mythical  girl  next  door!  I 
told  Sandra  the  worst  thing  she  can  do  is 
to  pose  for  'kitchen  art' — whipping  up 
cakes  she  can't  cook,  pretending  to  be  an 
expert  on  household  tips.  If  the  fans  want 
household  hints — get  a  recipe  book!" 

Ross  really  was  on  a  soapbox.  "One  of 
the  most  terrible  things  that  ever  happened 
to  screen  stars  is  this  fad  for  being  'aver- 
age.' People  have  been  kind  and  called  me 
a  successful  producer  of  such  movies  as 
Imitation  Of  Lije,  Pillow  Talk,  Portrait  In 
Black.  I  believe  that  a  big  part  of  that  suc- 
cess is  that  my  pictures  deal  with  beautiful 
and  exciting  women  wearing  expensive 
clothes  in  costly  backgrounds." 

"Did  you  have  to  work  hard  to  sell 
Sandra  on  this  philosophy,  Ross?"  I 
chuckled. 

"No!"  he  admitted  with  a  big  smile. 

I  repeated  this  conversation  to  Sandra 
and  she  admitted  she  had  listened  to  Ross 
and  believed  what  he  said. 

"Even  so,"  she  dimpled,  "I  was  scared 
when  I  bought  that  full  length  white 
mink — and  I  had  cause  to  be.  Ross  was 
just  a  bit" — she  pinched  her  little  finger 
and  thumb  together  indicating  a  smirch. 
— "taken  aback.  He  reminded  me,  'It's  one 
thing  to  be  glamourous — but  first  keep  out 
of  the  poorhouse!'  " 

Sandra  was  completely  enjoying  herself 
as  she  added,  "So — before  he  could  lecture 
any  more — I  was  given  a  new  contract  by 
U-I  with  more  money  on  a  seven  year 
deal — and  each  year  it  goes  higher.  Even 
Ross  had  to  admit  the  poorhouse  isn't 
right  around  the  corner  for  me." 

I  LOOKED  THOUGHTFULLY  at  this 
young  goddess  as  she  suddenly  rose, 
walked  to  the  window  and  looked  down  at 
the  world  of  average  people,  the  world  in 
which  she  had  decided  she  would  never 
be  able  to  live — and  thought  of  the  sad- 
ness, unhappiness  and  even  tragedy  that 
has  stalked  the  paths  of  the  women  who 
have  trod  it.  One  has  been  closely  asso- 
ciated with  Sandra  in  movie  making— 
Lana  Turner. 

"Sandra,  are  you  too  young  and  happy — 
or  have  you  ever  looked  around  you  at  the 
private  lives  of  these  exciting  actresses  you 
admire  so  much?  Have  you  wondered  if 
the  heartaches  and  some  of  the  bitter 
things  that  have  happened  to  them  are 
worth  it?  I  mean,  will  you  be  willing  to 
go  through  the  same  fate,  if  need  be,  for 
the  same  heights?" 

Again  I  was  almost  bowled  over  by  the 
insight  of  this  girl  who  still  looks  and 
sometimes  acts  like  a  teenage  novice. 

She  answered  in  that  soft  voice  of  hers 
with  its  little  girl  pitch,  "Most  of  the  big 
heartaches  that  come  to  girls  and  women 
are  based  in  unhappiness  in  love.  Movie 
actresses,  particularly,  seem  to  be  unwise 
or  unhappy  in  love — at  least,  through  their 
first  loves. 

"So  far — love  hasn't  happened  to  me 
although  it  has  often  come  to  girls  even 
younger  than  I.  I've  had  crushes,  yes — 
and  yens,  and  things  like  that.  But  I've 
never  been  seriously  in  love. 

"Who  knows  what  it  will  bring  when  it 
comes?  I  want  to  love  and  to  be  loved — 
and  any  girl  who  says  differently  isn't 
telling  the  truth." 

I  didn't  want  to  interrupt  her  for  she 
seemed  eager  to  talk  about  this  subject 
which  fascinates  women  of  all  ages. 

"I  hope  I  won't  be  badly  hurt  by  love," 
she  went  on,  "but  who  am  I  to  expect  that 
heartaches  will  never  cross  my  path?  I 
can  tell  you  this:  If  real  love  comes  along, 
something  I  know  in  my  heart  is  real  and 


wonderful — I  won't  test  it,  or  question  it 
or  dodge  it  because  it  might  not  last  for- 
ever. I  will  welcome  it  for  whatever  it 
brings." 

Recalling  that  some  love  experiences  can 
be  pretty  bitter  and  unwonderful,  I  asked 
Sandra  if  she  and  Lana  (an  expert  in 
heartache)  ever  had  any  talks  on  the  sub- 
ject during  the  making  of  two  films  to- 
gether. 

"I  wouldn't  presume  to  ask  questions  of 
Miss  Turner,"  she  answered  immediately, 
"because  she  does  fiot  wear  her  heart  on 
her  sleeve.  I  have  been  working  with  her 
when  she  has  gone  through  some  pretty 
terrible  troubles  and  worries.  But,  on  the 
set,  you'd  never  guess  her  unhappiness — 
except  for  an  unguarded  moment  or  two 
when  I've  caught  her  face  when  she  didn't 
know  anyone  was  looking. 

"What  I  like  so  much  about  her  is  that 
she  never  seems  to  wallow  in  self  pity. 
She  wears  courage  like  a  Jean  Louis 
gown!" 

I  repeated  what  I  had  previously  asked, 
if  Sandra  and  Lana  had  talked  about  'the 
price  of  love'  in  the  glamour  world. 

"Not  exactly  in  the  way  you  mean," 
Sandra  replied.  "After  all — while  Miss 
Turner  does  not  treat  me  like  a  little  girl 
and  we  are  very  good  friends,  I  am  only 
two  years  older  than  her  own  daughter. 
She'd  hardly  speak  disillusioningly  to 
either  of  us,  her  screen  daughter  or  her 
real  daughter." 

"DO  YOU  KNOW  CHERYL  CRANE?" 
I  asked. 

Sandra  said,  "I've  met  her.  Cheryl  has 
come  on  the  set  when  we  are  working  and 
when  she  is  with  her  mother,  surrounded 
by  the  people  her  mother  works  with, 
Cheryl  seems  happy.  You  can  tell  just  by 
watching  them  together — Lana  Turner 
loves  her  daughter  deeply  and  she  is  a 
devoted  and  loving  mother" — Sandra  said 
this  as  though  she  defied  anyone  to  chal- 
lenge her  statement. 

One  more  important  question  remained 
to  be  put  to  my  young  friend. 

"Sandra,  you  are  a  child  of  divorce — of 
a  broken  home.  Do  you  think  it  has  had 
any  unhappy  effect  on  your  life,  any  last- 
ing hurt?" 

She  shook  her  head  emphatically.  "No. 
None  at  all.  I  know  this  isn't  what  a  lot  of 
moralists  contend — but  I  can  only  speak 
from  my  own  experience.  I  believe  that 
real  happiness  can  be  built  over  the  les- 
sons we  learn  from  unhappiness.  My 
mother  has  told  me  this  and  I  have  seen  it 
with  my  own  eyes — and  heart.  If  we  learn 
wisely  from  mistakes  and  unhappiness — 
we  appreciate  even  more  the  happiness  that 
comes  into  our  lives."  Talk  about  "out  of 
the  mouths  of  babes"— Sandra  was  proving 
with  each  new  thing  she  had  said  to  me 
how  truly  she  is  "grown-up." 

WE  HAD  ENJOYED  a  long  and  to  me 
illuminating  talk.  It  was  time  for  Sandra  to 
leave.  There  was  much  for  her  to  do  be- 
fore taking  off  again  for  Europe.  As  for 
me,  my  telephone  calls  had  been  backing 
up  as  they  always  do  when  I  "close  off" 
for  an  hour  or  so. 

I  gave  Sandra  a  little  hug  and  bade  her 
godspeed.  I  wished  this  baby  star  well 
and  hoped  that  life  and  love  would  be 
good  to  her. 

Come  to  think  of  it— I  think  I  shall  file 
away  this  interview  carefully.  It  may  be 
very  interesting  to  bring  it  out  in  say — 
five  years — and  see  what  the  fates  have 
brought  to  Sandra  against  these  hopes  of 
hers  when  she  was  inexperienced — but  a 
willing  glamour  girl!  END 

Sandra  stars  next  in  Come  September 
and  Tammy,  Tell  Me  True,  both  Universal- 
International. 


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Louella's  Talk  With  Yves 


(Continued  from  page  26) 

No  wonder  the  women  in  his  pictures  fall 
for  him,  I  thought — but  enough  of  that. 

It  was  of  Marilyn,  at  this  time  lying  ill 
in  the  Westside  Hospital  following  a  col- 
lapse that  had  suspended  her  movie  The 
Misfits  in  Reno,  that  I  wanted  to  talk  about 
— Marilyn  and  Yves. 

"You  are  aware  that  the  gossip  is  ram- 
pant," I  said,  referring  to  stories  printed  in 
this  country  and  in  France  that  Simone 
Signoret,  last  year's  Academy  Award  win- 
ner and  wife  of  Montand,  had  reached  the 
end  of  her  long  line  of  patience.  Paris 
newspapers  had  flatly  carried  the  head- 
lines: SIGNORET  TO  DIVORCE  MON- 
TAND OVER  MONROE.  And  ever  since 
Marilyn's  illness,  called  "exhaustion,"  had 
stopped  her  current  production,  the  Ameri- 
can press  was  having  a  field  day  of  the 
wildest  rumors. 

"Yes" — he  shrugged,  smiled,  spread  his 
hands  in  a  typically  French  gesture.  "How 
could  I  not  know?" 

He  hesitated  long  enough  to  say  that 
he  would  enjoy  a  cup  of  coffee  with  me.  But 
he  seemed  as  eager  as  I  to  get  to  the 
heart  of  this  situation  involving  four 
former  friends,  himself  and  Simone, 
Marilyn  and  Arthur  Miller,  her  playwright 
husband. 

"LET  ME  TELL  YOU  THE  TRUTH  as 
best  I  can,"  Yves  went  on  in  his  remark- 
ably improved  English,  almost  letter  per- 
fect since  the  last  time  I  had  talked  with 
him. 

"When  I  signed  on  for  the  co-starring 
role  with  Marilyn  in  Let's  Make  Love,  it 
was  with  many  misgivings.  It  was  to  be 
my  first  American  picture  and  naturally 
I  hoped  it  would  be  successful. 

"But  on  every  hand  I  was  warned 
about  how  difficult  Marilyn  was.  I  was 
told  that  she  was  always  late  on  the  set 
to  the  point  of  driving  her  co-workers 
crazy.  That  she  was  nervous.  Jittery. 
Unsure  of  herself. 

"Believe  me,  this  did  not  add  to  my  own 
peace  of  mind.  Here  I  was  a  newcomer  in 
a  strange  company,  I  spoke  little  English — 
let  us  admit — I  barely  spoke  English  at  all 
— I  had  my  own  set  of  jitters  to  contend 
with  and  before  we  even  start  the  picture 
I  am  confronted  with  such  difficulties  in 
my  vis-a-vis.  Ahhhhhhh,"  he  gave  a  long 
sigh. 

"I  thought  to  myself.  I'll  take  my 
machinegun — 1  won't  put  up  with  such 
nonsense. 

"So  what  happens  the  first  day  I  re- 
port to  the  studio?  A  nervous  little  girl 
shows  up — no,  it  was  not  our  first  meet- 
ing as  we  knew  one  another  socially — 
but  this  child-actress-woman  is  someone 
entirely  new. 

"Great  star  that  she  is — she  was  trem- 
bling, ill  at  ease,  and  consuming  more 
coffee  than  I  have  ever  seen  go  into  any- 
one's system.  Always  drinking  coffee,  cups 
and  cups  of  coffee  to  steady  her  nerves. 

"I  am  touched — who  wouldn't  be?  In- 
stead of  being  angry  and  impatient  my 
heart  goes  out  to  her.  With  all  of  her 
fame — how  can  she  be  so  unsure  of  her- 
self, so  at  the  mercy  of  other  people? 

"I  remember  during  one  of  our  first  con- 
versations I  kept  reassuring  her  not  to  be 
afraid.  'You  can  be  on  time  if  you  want 
to,'  I  told  Marilyn.  'But  if  you  are  late — 
don't  be  afraid.  And  don't  keep  drinking 
all  that  coffee  to  give  you  confidence.' 

"As  the  picture  progressed,  I  con- 
tinued to  feel  protective  toward  Marilyn. 
In  later  conversations  with  my  wife,  I  ad- 
mitted I  became  fond  of  her.  But  is  this 
72  falling  in  love?" 


It  had  been  a  long  uninterrupted  dis- 
course from  my  visitor  and  he  looked  at  me 
now  as  if  for  a  bit  of  understanding  on 
my  part. 

Unknown  to  him  until  this  moment,  I 
had  brought  down  from  my  office  an  in- 
terview printed  in  a  newspaper  other  than 
my  own  quoting  him  as  saying  that  if 
Marilyn  had  been  more  "sophisticated" — 
this  embarrassing  situation  would  never 
have  happened.    I  handed  it  to  Yves. 

He  took  it,  puzzled,  read  it.  Then  he  put 
it  down  on  the  table  between  us. 

"I  am  sorry  this  is  printed  this  way," 
he  spoke  slowly  and  in  one  of  the  few 
times  his  ingratiating  smile  left  his  face. 
"It  will  hurt  Marilyn — this  printing  that  she 
is  not  sophisticated.  I  want  very  much 
that  she  should  not  be  hurt." 

"Have  you  tried  to  visit  her  since  she 
entered  the  hospital?"  I  asked. 

"No — I  should  like  to.  But  what  good 
cord-'  come  of  it?  Just  more  talk,  talk. 
talk,"  he  answered  quietly.  "I  will  send 
her  a  note." 

"IS  IT  TRUE  that  she  came  down  from 
Reno  to  see  you  before  her  illness?"  I 
pressed  on.  That  fact  had  been  printed 
in  still  another  story. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "but  we  did  not  meet"— 
and  he  did  not  amplify  that  statement. 

I  asked,  "Yves — is  there  any  one  inci- 
dent you  think  brought  on  this  eruption 
of  gossip?" 

"Perhaps  so,"  he  responded.  "I  think  all 
the  talk  started  when  Marilyn  came  to 
see  me  off  at  the  plane,  bringing  some 
chilled  champagne,  when  I  was  returning 
to  France  the  first  time. 

"We  sat  in  the  car  and  drank  the  cham- 
pagne— and  some  reporters  heard  about 
it.  That  was  all  that  was  needed!  It  was 
printed  in  the  French  newspapers  and 
naturally — it  upset  my  wife  very  much." 

"Of  course,  I  talked  with  her — explain- 
ing, trusting  she  would  understand.  She  is 
a  wise  and  seasoned  woman,  Simone.  I 
felt  if  she  knew  the  truth — even  the  gossip 
could  not  hurt  her.  I  love  my  wife  and 
did  not  want  her  to  be  distressed  over  a 
much  magnified  situation.  I  did  not — and 
do  not  want  a  divorce!" 

I  could  not  restrain  a  little  smile  of 
amusement.  Yves  took  it  so  for  granted 
that  I  would  understand  such  a  completely 
Continental-male  point  of  view. 

Although  he  did  not  say  it,  his  manner 
implied  that  one  understood  that  when  a 
man  (and  this  one  is  all  male)  worked  in 
close  proximity  with  beautiful  women,  a 
bit  of  romance  and  gallantry  might  be  the 
outcome. 

I  remember  Marilyn  telling  me  about 
Yves  when  I  interviewed  her  several 
months  ago  on  the  set  of  Let's  Make  Love, 
a  story  recently  printed  in  Modern  Screen. 

She  had  said,  perhaps  you  remember. 
"Yves  will  be  the  next  sensational  star  of 
the  screen.  He  is  all  male" — and  she  had 
laughed  a  little  bit. 

I  wondered  how  many  more  of  his  lovely 
feminine  co-stars  had  held  this  same 
thought?  Most  of  them,  I  wager,  with  the 
exception  of  Gina  Lollobrigida,  whom  I 
hear  had  not  fallen  in  the  slightest  for 
Montand  during  the  making  of  their  Eu- 
ropean picture,  Where  the  Hot  Wind 
Blows.  I'm  not  trying  to  imply  that  there 
was  a  feud — but  just  nothing  romantic 
beyond  the  dictates  of  the  script.  His  role 
was  that  of  a  gangster  in  Lollo's  movie. 
I  didn't  mention  this  point. 

Who  is  this  man  who,  practically  over- 
night in  one  delightfully  charming  per- 
formance, has  achieved  stardom  on  the 


Hollywood  scene  and  who,  with  a  burst  of 
gossip,  has  become  one  of  the  biggest 
names  in  the  entertainment  field? 

He  was  born  in  Italy  Yves  Levi,  and 
has  been  every  kind  of  a  worker  from 
a  longshoreman  to  a  song  and  dance 
man. 

"When  I  was  two  years  old  my  parents 
moved  to  France — so  I  really  have  more 
of  a  French  than  Italian  background — 
and  it  is  not  surprising  that  I  am  more 
often  referred  to  as  French  than  Italian." 

DURING  THE  NAZI  OCCUPATION,  his 
real  name,  Levi,  was  a  dangerous  one  for 
him.  "The  Nazis  were  convinced  I  was 
Jewish  even  after  I  explained  that  if  I  had 
been  changing  my  name  for  them  I  would 
have  changed  more  than  one  letter.  "It  is 
not  Levy — but  Levi.  It  is  the  same  name  as 
the  first  Italian  consul.  They  let  me 
go — but  I  could  go  nowhere  without  my 
papers  during  those  terrible  times." 

His  career  as  an  entertainer  did  not 
begin  to  soar  until  after  the  war  when  as 
Yves  Montand  he  began  to  completely 
charm  Paris  audiences  and — I  hear — such 
ladies  as  Edith  Piaf,  and  became  one  of 
the  most  ingratiating  singers  since  the 
beloved  Maurice  Chevalier.  He  did  a  one- 
man  act  always  wearing  brown  slacks  but 
even  in  that  garb  he  was  a  charmer. 

Until  his  marriage  to  the  talented  Si- 
mone Signoret.  his  name  was  linked  with 
first  one  attractive  lady  and  then  the 
other  with  whom  he  worked.  To  which 
Yves  says,  "You  cannot  be  associated  with 
beautiful  women  in  your  career,  day  and 
night,  without  feeling  something.  That  has 
always  been  true — and  still  is. 

"We  were  sad  when  Let's  Make  Love 
ended  although  it  had  been  hard  work.  I 
have  just  completed  Sanctuary  at  the 
same  studio.  I  was  sorry  to  say  au  re- 
voir  to  Lee  Remick" — and  he  added  with 
amusing  promptness — "and  all  the  others 
on  the  picture." 

Within  a  few  days  he  would  be  leaving 
for  Europe  to  join  Simone  and  get  ready 
to  start  his  next  film,  Time  On  My  Hands 
(formerly  Aimez-vous  Brahms  .  .  .)  with 
Ingrid  Bergman. 

It  had  been  widely  circulated  that 
Simone  would  be  waiting  for  her  hus- 
band in  Paris — but  just  that  day  I  had 
heard  that  she  had  taken  off  for  the  Venice 
Film  Festival. 

Yves  nodded.  "Yes,  Simone  was  in- 
vited to  attend  and  decided  to  accept  as 
soon  she  will  be  busy  on  her  new  pic- 
ture and  she  will  be  tied  up  with  fittings 
and  rehearsals.  But.  we  shall  meet  in 
Paris."  The  last  remark  was  pointedly 
definite. 

He  told  me  he  was  looking  forward  to 
working  with  Ingrid,  "a  beautiful  actress." 

"But  a  bride — and  happily  married,"  I 
laughed,  "so  don't  fall  in  love  with  her." 

Yves  laughed  too.  "My  time  will  be 
crowded  to  overflowing.  There  are  only 
twelve  days  from  the  time  I  leave  Holly- 
wood to  the  time  I  start  the  picture  with 
Miss  Bergman.  I  shall  pack  my  script 
and  take  off  to  the  mountains  to  study 
and  rest.  I  am  looking  forward  to  the 
rest — and   quiet."     This   I   didn't  doubt! 

Did  he  plan  to  come  back  for  more 
American  pictures — and  would  he  care  to 
make  another  with  Marilyn,  the  "enchant- 
ing child?" 

"Of  course.  I  enjoyed  working  with 
her  very  much — there  is  no  one  quite  like 
her,  kind,  simple,  without  guile  for  all 
her  world  fame.  I  hope  in  speaking  so 
frankly  to  you,  I  have  said  nothing  that 
could  reflect  anything  but  admiration  and 
fondness  on  my  part  for  Marilyn,"  he  said 
with  genuine  sincerity. 

On  a  less  personal  basis,  Yves  is  also 
"optioned"  to  20th  Century-Fox.  an  or- 
ganization he  likes  very  much. 

"As    you    know — and    printed  many 


times,"  he  said  lightly,  that  fascinating 
smile  returning,  "there  were  many,  many 
delays  making  Let's  Make  Love  including 
another  illness  of  Marilyn's — plus  the 
actors'  strike  at  that  time. 

"I  WAS  BESIDE  MYSELF  because  I  had 
signed  a  contract  to  appear  in  Japan  and 
if  I  did  not  keep  it,  the  Japanese  man- 
agers were  threatening  to  sue.  Mr.  Buddy 
Adler  was  then  head  of  the  studio  and 
because  it  was  not  my  fault  that  I  could 
not  fulfill  my  engagement  in  Japan,  he 
offered  to  make  my  loss  good  to  the 
Japanese. 

"At  the  time  I  did  not  feel  I  could 
accept  it.     But  as  the  picture  dragged 


Hayley 

(Continued  from  page  28) 

top  British  star  John  Mills  and  Mary  Hay- 
ley  Bell  Mills  had  grown  up  in  a  world  that 
was  a  mixture  of  the  brightest  literary 
and  theatrical  circles — and  the  quietness 
and  quaintness  of  the  old  English  country- 
side. 

Her  god-parents  were  among  the  most 
famous  figures  in  the  world. 

And  when  "Uncle  Larry"  (Olivier)  would 
visit  the  farm,  he'd  take  her  piggy-back 
riding. 

And  "Uncle  Noel"  (Coward)  would  send 
her  pretty  toys  from  all  over  the  world. 

But  in  the  morning — way  before  break- 
fast, she'd  run  down  to  the  barn,  feed  the 
baby  colts,  and  in  watching  them  with 
the  mares,  learn  the  marvels  and  mysteries 
of  life. 

AND  HER  HEART  WOULD  ACHE  with 
the  longing  to  grow  up  fast,  so  she  too 
could  have  babies  all  her  own. 

Her  sister  Juliet,  four  years  her  senior, 
wasn't  in  that  much  hurry  to  grow  up. 

At  sixteen,  Juliet  was  an  experienced 
actress:  one  who  had  been  on  the  stage 
periodically  since  she  was  a  baby. 

And  although  Hayley  had  seen  her 
father  in  movies  and  on  the  stage  and 
thought  he  was  "quite  wonderful,"  she 
couldn't  understand  her  sister's  pre- 
occupation with  all  "that  make-believe 
stuff,"  or  how  she  could  have  the  patience 
to  be  locked  up  in  her  room  with  a  script, 
when  she  could  spend  that  same  time 
riding  over  the  countryside,  or  taking  care 
of  the  vegetable  garden,  or  playing  with 
the  animals. 

Then — suddenly,  the  night  before,  a  big 
change  came  over  her. 

A  friend  of  daddy's,  director  J.  Lee- 
Thompson  came  to  spend  the  weekend 
and  confer  with  John  about  the  script  of 
their  new  movie  together,  Tiger  Bay. 

They  were  talking  about  it  at  dinner. 

"We  can  roll  tomorrow,"  he  said,  "if  we 
can  get  the  proper  child.  But  we've  tested 
two  dozen  and  can't  find  one  that's  just 
right. 

"We  want  someone  fresh  and  beguiling 
— and  without  precocious  mannerisms  .  .  . 
Someone  like  .  .  .  well,  someone  like  your 
little  Hayley." 

Hayley  played  with  her  potatoes  and 
roast  beef,  and  as  he  kept  talking,  her 
eyes  grew  wider  and  wider. 

Then  she  went  to  her  room  and  "thought 
and  thought  and  thought." 

At  6  A.M.  she  went  down  to  the  barn — 
"and  thought  some  more." 

By  the  time  she  went  in  for  breakfast 
—she  had  made  up  her  mind. 

She  still  wanted  to  be  "a  mother"  when 
she  grew  up,  but  she  also  wanted  to  be 
an  actress. 


on,  and  this  very  fine  man  became  my 
friend  and  was  so  kind  to  me,  I  went  to 
him  and  said  I  would  give  an  option  on  my 
services  in  return  for  taking  care  of  the 
Japanese  cancellation. 

"The  last  business  talk  that  I  had 
with  him  he  said,  'When  we  have  some- 
thing for  you,  Yves,  that  will  be  fine. 
But  we  do  not  want  you  to  feel  bound.' 
His  death  is  not  only  my  loss — but  all  of 
Hollywood's." 

To  this  I  said  a  heartfelt  "Amen." 

It  was  a  working  week  day  and  our  talk 
had  extended  well  past  the  noon  hour, 
longer  than  Yves  or  I  had  intended.  My 
secretaries  were  holding  important  calls 
for  the  column  upstairs  and  with  his  ex- 


She  asked  Daddy  about  it  at  breakfast. 

"I  want  to  be  Gillie,  Daddy.  I  know  I 
can  do  it.  Honest  I  can.  If  you'll  let  me." 

"Are  you  sure,  Hayley?"  Mills  asked. 
"It's  a  lot  of  hard  work.  And  it  means 
giving  up  your  summer  vacation  and  going 
to  bed  early  every  night  and  learning 
lots  of  lines." 

"I'm  sure,  Daddy." 

Mills  was  apprehensive.  After  breakfast 
he  discussed  it  with  Thompson. 

"Do  you  want  to  take  a  chance  with  a 
completely  inexperienced  child?"  he  asked. 
"I  never  even  knew  Hayley  wanted  to  act 
— and  frankly  Lee,  I  don't  know  if  she 
can." 

"Well,  she  has  the  quality  and  the  charm. 
I'll  take  the  chance — if  it's  all  right  with 
you.  After  all  you're  the  star  of  the  pic- 
ture." 

After  two  weeks  of  shooting,  John  told 
his  friend:  "Well,  I  was  the  star  of  this 
picture.  From  here  on  in,  I'm  just  a  sup- 
porting player." 

HE  MADE  THE  SAME  CONFESSION  to 
his  daughter: 

"Hayley,  when  this  picture  is  released, 
no  one  will  even  know  I  am  in  it.  I  can 
see  the  reviews  now.  They  are  going  to 
say  that  you  are  the  greatest  child  actress 
in  twenty-five  years." 

"Oh  Daddy,  do  you  really  think  so?" 

"I  don't  think  so  ...  I  know  so." 

The  picture  ended  almost  too  soon  for 
her. 

And  then  it  was  time  to  return  to  school. 

"But  Daddy."  she  said.  "I  want  to  act 
ever  so  badly.  Do  you  think  I  will  soon 
again." 

"Again,  Hayley,  but  not  soon.  Not  until 
next  summer." 

"But  next  summer  is  so  far  away.  I 
should  be  forgotten  by  then." 

"I  promise  you  will  not  be  forgotten, 
once  this  picture  is  seen." 

She  returned  to  classes  at  the  Angelo 
Catholic  school,  where  her  sister  had  at- 
tended before  her. 

She  wished  that  Juliet  was  still  there 
so  she  could  share  her  feelings  and  her 
delicious  anticipation  with  her. 

There  had  only  been  one  year  in  which 
she  and  Juliet  had  been  at  the  school 
together:  her  first  and  Juliet's  last — and 
it  was  the  most  wonderful  fun  of  all. 

She  had  lots  of  other  friends — but  some- 
how she  couldn't  tell  them  about  it. 

They  would  ask:  "What  did  you  do  this 
summer,  Hayley,"  and  she  would  answer, 
not  untruthfully,  "Oh  ...  I  played." 

She  never  mentioned  the  picture  to 
anyone. 

She  concentrated  on  her  school  work, 
and  daydreamed  only  a  little  about  next 
summer. 

And  then  suddenly  Tiger  Bay  was  ready 
to  be  premiered  in  London. 

Mills  wrote  Father  John,  the  padre  of 
the  school  and  made  arrangements  for 
Hayley  to  get  off  to  come  to  London  for 
a  few  days. 


pected  departure  in  twenty-four  hours, 
there  was  much  remaining  for  Yves  to 
attend  to. 

I  walked  to  the  door  with  my  charm- 
ing caller  to  wish  him  godspeed.  "Thank 
you  for  letting  me  explain."  he  said,  "I 
like  you  and  I  trust  you  and  I  know  you 
are  a  good  friend  of  Marilyn's.  The  sooner 
the  situation  is  clarified — the  better  for  all. 
I  should  like  very  much  to  say  good- 
bye to  her  but — "  once  again  that  ex- 
pressive shrug.  Then  he  was  gone.  end 

Marilyn  stars  next  in  United  Artists'  The 
Misfjts,  and  Yves'  new  films  are  Time  On 
Her  Hands,  also  U.A.,  and  Sanctuary,  for 
20th-Fox. 


Mary  and  John  opened  the  London  flat, 
and  made  a  real  holiday  of  it.  It  was 
especially  wonderful  because  it  meant  a 
reunion  with  Juliet  who  was  then  ap- 
pearing on  the  London  stage  in  Five 
Finqer  Exercise. 

There  was  a  new  party  dress  and  a 
dinner  celebration  and,  all  the  trimmings, 
but  she  still  went  through  the  evening  in 
some  kind  of  a  daze. 

The  applause  at  the  end  of  the  picture 
was  real  enoush. 

So  was  daddy's,  "You're  a  star,  darling." 

But  she  still  couldn't  believe  it. 

She  spent  another  sleepless  night — her 
first  since  making  the  "big  decision." 

And  she  got  up  at  seven  in  the  morning 
to  wait  for  the  paper  boy. 

The  rest  of  the  Mills  family  were  sleep- 
ing soundly  as  she  turned  from  one  drama 
page  to  another. 

HER  HEART  JUMPED  at  her  reviews. 
The  marvelous  praise — the  lines  and  lines 
and  lines  written  about  her. 

Then  her  heart  sank. 

For  in  their  overwhelming  praise  and 
enchantment  of  Hayley,  John  Mills  was 
all  but  forgotten. 

She  heard  stirring  in  the  other  room 
and  hurriedly  gathered  up  all  the  papers 
and  hid  them  under  a  chair  cushion. 

Mills  came  out  from  his  bedroom. 

"Up  so  early,  Hayley.  After  all  that 
excitement  I  thought  you'd  sleep  until 
noon." 

"Oh.  I  wasn't  very  sleepy." 

John  looked  around  the  room,  and  out- 
side the  flat. 

"Hramm  .  .  .  the  papers  should  be  here 
by  now.  Wonder  what's  delaying  them. 
I'm  anxious  to  see  the  notices.  Aren't 
you9" 

Hayley  became  terribly  absorbed  with 
some  specks  of  dust  which  had  gathered 
on  the  coffee  table. 

"Well,  let's  go  to  breakfast.  Starving?" 

"Yes,  Daddy." 

Throughout  breakfast  Mills  got  up  to 
see  if  the  paper  boy  had  arrived. 

"Can't  understand  it,"  he  muttered.  "On 
this  of  all  mornings,  the  delivery  should 
be  so  late." 

Hayley  became  terribly  absorbed  with 
a  speck  at  the  bottom  of  her  glass  of  milk. 

After  breakfast  they  returned  to  the 
living  room. 

Mills  sat  down  on  the  big  easy  chair — 
which  this  morning  wasn't  easy  to  sit  on 
at  all. 

He  pulled  up  the  cushion  and  saw  all 
the  papers  piled  beneath  it  .  .  .  turned  to 
the  cinema  pages. 

"Hayley!" 

"Yes,  Daddy." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  the  papers 
had  arrived  and  you  read  them." 

"I'm  sorry,  Daddy.  But  I'm  afraid  they 
are  all  about  me.  And  .  .  .  and,  well  I 
didn't  want  your  feelings  to  be  hurt." 

"Hurt?  Hayley,  I'm  delighted.  I  told 
you  they  wouldn't  know  I  was  in  the  7 


picture.  And  you  see — it  says  right  here 
that  you  are  the  greatest  child  discovery 
in  twenty-five  years.  I'm  very,  very  proud 
of  you." 

When  she  returned  to  school,  her  secret 
was  no  secret  any  loneer. 

Word  had  spread  like  wild-fire  about 
her  performance  in  Tiger  Bay,  but  what 
amazed  the  faculty  and  her  school-mates 
was  her  ability  to  keep  silent  about  it — 
and  how  totally  unaffected  she  was  by  her 
success  and  her  wide  spreading  fame. 

Because  within  weeks  her  fame  was 
spreading — far  and  wide. 

Tiger  Bay  was  submitted  as  an  entry  in 
the  Berlin  Film  Festival  and  she  copped 
The  Golden  Bear  Award  for  the  best  per- 
formance of  the  year. 

Disney  saw  the  picture — and  knew  that 
his  long  long  search  for  an  actress  to  star 
in  Pollyanna  was  at  its  end. 

He  discussed  the  possibility  of  placing 
her  under  a  long  term  contract  to  him 
with  John  Mills. 

"THIS  IS  WHAT  HAYLEY  WANTS," 
said  Mills,  "and  I  won't  stand  in  her  way — 
but  her  education  comes  first. 

"We're  doing  our  utmost  to  keep  Hayley 
just  the  way  she  is.  We  want  to  be  proud 
of  her  in  every  way,  not  just  for  what- 
ever she  accomplishes  in  her  career." 

Disney  understood. 

A  compromise  was  made. 

Hayley  would  do  one  picture  for  him 
every  year  while  she  is  still  a  schoolgirl — 
and  he  would  try  to  arrange  the  schedule 
to  fit  in  with  her  summer  vacation.  The 
rest  of  the  time  she  would  remain  in  Eng- 
land. But  could  some  arrangement  be 
made  for  Pollyanna — which  would  of  ne- 
cessity run  into  the  school  term? 

Mills  contacted  Father  John,  who  im- 
mediately replied: 

"We  realize  that  Hayley  is  one  of  the 
exceptions  of  this  life  and  we  are  prepared 
to  welcome  her  back  here  whenever  she 
can  get  to  us." 

So  Hayley  and  Mary  Mills  went  to 
Hollywood,  together  with  ten-year-old 
Jonathan. 

John  remained  in  England  for  a  movie. 

Juliet  went  off  on  her  own  to  Broadway 
for  the  New  York  production  of  Five 
Finger  Exercise. 

The  family  was  separated — but  only  in 
a  physical  sense. 

Each  day  Hayley  wrote  her  father — and 
her  sister. 

Particularly  her  sister.  And  there  was 
so  much  to  write  of  the  wonders  of  Cali- 
fornia: 

"Oh  my  dear!"  she'd  exclaim.  "It's  sim- 
ply marvelous.  The  hamburgers — and  the 
roast  beef  which  is  an  inch  thick  and  not 
at  all  like  the  roast  beef  at  home  which 
is  so  thin."  ("Oh,  my  dear"  is  an  expres- 
sion Hayley  has  picked  up  and  sprinkles 
in  all  her  correspondence.) 

She'd  write  of  the  new  friends  she  had 
made,  and  of  the  odd  studio  school — 
which  was  classes  in  a  trailer,  and  of  the 
marvelous  clothes  she  had  seen  and 
bought. 

"And,  oh,  my  dear,"  she'd  write,  "have 
you  heard  Elvis  Presley's  latest  recording? 
It  is  smashing." 

For  at  thirteen,  Hayley  fell  smashingly 
in  love  with  Elvis  Presley. 

Boys  as  boys  were  unimportant  to  her. 
She  felt  herself  much  too  young  for  such 
nonsense. 

But  Elvis  was  different. 

Between  scenes,  she'd  rush  to  her  dress- 
ing room  and  play  his  latest  recordings. 

Her  conversations  were  sprinkled  with 
"Elvis  this,"  and  "Elvis  that." 

Her  bitterest  disappointment  was  that 
he  was  in  Europe,  and  there  was  no  chance 
for  her  to  meet  him  and  get  his  auto- 
graph. 

Laurence  Olivier  ("Uncle  Larry")  would 
74  take  her  to  lunch — but  as  much  as  she 


adored  "Uncle  Larry,"  he  couldn't  com- 
pare with  Elvis. 

He  was  her  very  own  first  love. 

Life  was  quiet  that  first  summer  in 
Hollywood.  Outside  of  the  Disney  studios, 
she  was  virtually  unknown.  She  was  taken 
to  Disneyland,  and  had  a  perfectly  mar- 
velous time. 

The  only  stares  that  greeted  the  "party" 
were  aimed  at  her  guide — a  man  by  the 
name  of  Walt  Disney. 

HER  ONLY  PROBLEM  was  that  she  was 
shooting  up  like  a  reed,  and  there  was  a 
race  against  time  to  finish  the  oicture 
before  she  "outgrew"  the  role.  Within  a 
year  she  had  shot  up  to  5'3" — a  good  inch 
tal'er  than  Juliet. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  she  would  write,  "if  I 
keep  growing  any  taller,  I  shall  be  taken 
for  your  older  sister." 

When  Pollyanna  was  completed  the 
entire  family  with  the  exception  of  Juliet 
were  re-united  in  Tobago  where  John 
was  making  Svriss  Family  Robinson.  To- 
bago was  like  a  vacation — even  if  there 
was  school.  In  Tobago  Hayley  and  Jona- 
than went  to  a  negro  school  and  the  only 
other  white  pupil  was  the  brother  of 
Janet  Munro  who  worked  with  John.  But 
doing  their  lessons  in  so  many  different 
places  like  this  was  more  fun  than  work. 

If  Hayley  had  been  sensational  in  Tiger 
Bay.  her  "Pollyanna"  was  phenomenal. 
Wrote  one  critic: 

"Young  Miss  Mills'  contribution  to  its 
(Pollyanna's)  unexpected  delights  is 
fresh  and  funny  and  beguiling  and  utterly 
unspoiled.  Mawkish,  gooey  sentimentality 
has  no  place  in  her  performance.  It  is 
mercifully  free  also  of  the  "cute  brat" 
mannerisms  which  have  marred  the  work 
of  so  many  screen  juveniles  in  the  past 
including  some  who  have  become  box- 
office  sensations.  We  predict  Hayley  will 
become  the  greatest  box-office  sensation 
of  them  all." 

With  the  release  of  Pollyanna  came 
recognition — and  problems. 

It  was  great  fun  to  be  asked  for  auto- 
graphs— and  all  that — but  for  reasons 
Hayley  still  can't  understand,  people  in- 
sisted upon  talking  to  her  as  if  she  was 
four  years  old  instead  of  a  budding  young 
lady  of  fourteen. 

"Ooooooh  you  cute  little  thing,"  they'd 
say.  "Wrinkle  your  ittsy  bitsy  little  nose 
for  us  like  you  did  in  the  movie." 

It  infuriated  her — and  made  her  just  a 
little  ill,  and  if  she  wrinkled  her  nose  it 
was  for  reasons  other  than  anticipated. 

"Talking  down"  to  Hayley  is  akin  to 
talking  down  to  Albert  Einstein. 

And  yet,  she  can  in  no  way  be  termed 
precocious. 

Mary  Mills  has  brought  her  two  daugh- 
ters up  with  rare  intelligence  and  under- 
standing. 

She  feels  Hayley  is  still  "too  young"  to 
wear  make-up,  and  "date,"  but  there  is 
nothing  she  has  "kept  from  her." 

HAVING  BEEN  BROUGHT  UP  ON  A 
FARM  since  babyhood,  Hayley  learned 
about  the  birds  and  the  bees  from  the  birds 
and  the  bees  and  the  cows  and  the  horses. 

When  she  was  twelve,  Mrs.  Mills  trans- 
lated this  knowledge  into  human  terms. 
She  didn't,  however,  say,  "You  must  never 
do  this  or  that  or  the  other  thing."  Instead 
she  sensibly  explained  the  dangers  of  pre- 
marital sex  and  left  it  at  that — with  com- 
plete confidence  in  both  her  daughters' 
intelligence  and  sense  of  morality. 

"I  wanted,"  she  said,  "my  children  to 
know  about  these  things  normally  and 
naturally  from  me.  I  didn't  want  them  to 
learn  about  sex  behind  a  back  fence,  at 
school,  or  from  uninformed  companions. 
Too  many  mothers  make  that  mistake." 

When  Hayley  expressed  a  curiosity 
about  "cocktails,"  Mrs.  Mills  let  her  taste 
one  knowing  full  well  she'd  hate  it — as 


she  did.  Now — even  on  special  occasions, 
Hayley  is  barely  able  to  take  a  sip  of 
diluted  wine  with  the  family.  The  prob- 
lem of  smoking  too  soon  was  handled  in 
the  same  way. 

Although  she  has  many  close  girlfriends 
both  in  England  and  now  in  Hollywood, 
Hayley's  closest  "friend"  is,  of  course,  her 
sister  Juliet. 

The  four-year  age  difference  between 
them  doesn't  seem  to  matter,  nor  are  Hay- 
ley and  Juliet  jealous  of  each  other. 

"People  ask  me  all  the  time,"  says 
Juliet,  "or  at  least  want  to  ask  me,  if  I'm 
jealous  of  Hayley,  because  I've  been  act- 
ing all  my  life,  and  she  became  a  big  star 
within  a  year. 

"Of  course.  I'm  not.  How  can  I  be?  I 
love  my  sister.  Besides  Hayley  is  a  cinema 
star  and  I'm  fundamentally  a  stage  actress 
— so  there  is  no  competition  between  us." 

"There  never  has  been  any  really.  Not 
because  of  the  four-year  difference  in  our 
ages — because  we  do  not  take  notice  of 
that  really — but  because  we're  different. 

"Hayley  is  pixie  and  I've  never  been 
pixie — and  she  is  quite  good  for  me.  She 
gets  angry  and  gets  into  a  terrible  fit  and 
it  lasts  just  a  minute.  When  I  get  angry — 
I  brood — unless  Hayley  is  there  to  snap 
me  out  of  it.  And  we're  forever  playing 
marvelous  pranks  on  one  another.  She's 
more  my  friend — than  just  a  sister. 

"We  used  to  share  the  same  bedroom — 
but  now  that  we  are  both  working  and 
keeping  such  different  hours,  we  have  our 
own  rooms.  Except  on  the  weekends.  Then 
she  comes  into  my  room  to  spend  the 
night — and  we  talk  forever — about  mil- 
lions of  things.  Not  too  much  about  boys 
yet  though.  I  don't  want  to  get  married 
for  a  long,  long  time — and  Hayley  hasn't 
discovered  boys.  But  we  talk  about  every- 
thing that  has  happened  to  us — and  laugh 
and  just  have  a  marvelous  time.  I  know 
we  are  different  from  most  'average' 
teenagers  in  this  country  because  of  the 
way  we  have  been  brought  up — and  our 
careers,  and  travels,  but  in  our  basic  in- 
terests and  habits,  we're  not  all  that  dif- 
ferent really.  Except  I  do  hope  you  won't 
have  us  sounding  like  Sandra  Dee.  It's 
not  that  Hayley  and  I  don't  like  Sandra 
Dee,  except  that  when  you  read  about  her 
it  all  comes  out  'too  much,'  don't  you 
think?" 

THIS  PAST  SUMMER  in  Hollywood 
when  Hayley  was  working  on  her  newest 
picture,  tentatively  titled  Bluejeans  And 
Petticoats  (in  which  she  plays  identical 
twins)  was  one  of  the  pleasantest  for  all 
the  Mills — and  there  were  a  dozen  week- 
ends for  Hayley  and  Juliet  to  get  together 
for  girl-talk. 

But  of  them  all,  one  particularly  stands 
out. 

Hayley  and  Juliet  were  in  absolute 
hysterics  over  the  offer  Hayley  received 
to  play  Lolita.  An  offer,  incidentally 
that  was  promptly  rejected  .  .  .  for  many 
reasons,  not  the  least  of  them  being  that 
Hayley  had  to  return  home  to  school. 

But  in  the  midst  of  their  frolicking,  Hay- 
ley turned  suddenly  very  serious. 

"Juliet?"  she  asked  in  all  earnestness. 
"What  do  you  think  it  would  be  like  to  be 
a  flop?" 

Juliet  thought  for  a  while — but  never 
having  been  a  flop  or  in  one,  was  stumped 
for  an  answer. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  Hayley,"  she  an- 
swered. "I  really  can't  say.  But  I  should 
imagine  that  it  would  be  frightfully  de- 
pressing." 

"Yes.  I  would  imagine  that  it  would 
be,"  Hayley  echoed  pensively. 

"Oh,  Juliet,  you  don't  think  I'm  just  a 
flash-in-the-pan,  do  you?" 

We  should  say  not!  end 

Hayley's  next  starrer  is  Bnena  Vista's 
Petticoats  And  Bluejeans. 


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