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What Type Are You?
For each of the questions below, put a check in
the column at the left that's
the right answer for you. Then add up the number of checks in each column.
If you've the most checks under:
"Always"
You're Type 3
"Generally"
You're Type 1
"Frequently"
You're Type 2
"Occasionally"
You're Type 5
"Rarely"
You're Type 6
"Never"
You're Type 4
| If you've almost the same number of checks in 2 or more columns, it just
means you haven't yet decided exactly who
you are. For 66 bachelor
arguments on who you should be, turn the page.
Personality Quiz
• Smile when you’re whistled at?
• Talk to strange men on a train?
• Talk to yourself if nobody’s around?
• Laugh out loud at a funny book?
• Get misty at beautiful music?
• Write letters to editors?
• Hum when you dance with him?
• Lend your best clothes to friends?
• Scream for your team at ball games?
• Despite a sign, talk to busdrivers?
• Leave your clothes where they fall?
• Ask men whether they're married?
• Remove your earrings for a kiss?
• Pretend a stocking-run just popped?
• Ask a new boy home to dinner?
• Take a trip at a moment’s notice?
• Discuss sex with the opposite sex?
• Give him little gifts for no reason?
• Stay on the phone forever?
• Think tomorrow you’ll go on a diet?
• Accept a date for the same night?
• Use safety pins when buttons fail?
• Reward yourself with a sundae?
• Hate to go to a party alone?
• Kick your shoes off first thing?
• Close your eyes when you’re kissed?
• Feel funny at meeting a new boy?
• Buy a dress that Hatters your figure?
• Can’t eat when you’re in love?
• Want to tell him you love him?
• Send away for free booklets?
• Admit it to him when you’re wrong?
• Keep a diary?
• Get mad quick and get over it soon?
• Forget the ending of a joke?
• Answer romance quizzes?
• Ask people to sign petitions?
• Like a boy to be jealous over you?
• Always know what to say to him?
• Teach boys to dance?
• Sing in the shower?
• Take walks with him in the rain?
• Tell the world about your secrets?
• Kiss a hoy on a first date?
• Get teary-eyed when you’re happy?
• Sleep with perfume on?
• Don’t try to hide your emotions?
• Prefer orchids to one perfect rose?
• Skip and run when you’re happy?
• Try to write poetry?
• Do what you make up your mind to?
• Laugh so hard at his jokes you cry?
• Want to have a large family?
• Hug your pillow at night?
Now that you’re typed , see who goes for you^^.
66 bachelors
vote for
their favorite
type of girl
type: fun-loving
Paul Anka
Frankie Avalon
Edd Byrnes
Peter Brown
Ben Cooper
Robert Fuller
Jackie Gleason
David Hedison
Tab Hunter
Pat Wayne
TYPE:
womanly
John Bromfield
Phil Everly
Jack Lemmon
Jody McCrea
Sal Mineo
Cameron Mitchell
David Nelson
Johnny Restivo
Cesar Romero
Tom Tryon
type: sexy
Stephen Boyd
Marlon Brando
Maurice Chevalier
Montgomery Clift
Mark Damon
Dwayne Hickman
John Ireland
Elvis Presley
John Saxon
Frank Sinatra
TROY DONAHUE
type: mysterious
—
jMr HR
Cli IT Atquelte
Jgxe dAjita i re
Richard Beymer
Robert Evans
Caij| Grant
Robert Morse
Hugh O’Brian
Michael Rennie
Mort Sahl
Russ Tamblyn
Raymond Burr Rock Hudson
Jimmy Clanton Gene Kelly
Ben Gazzara Christopher Lee
)rge Hamilton George Nader
Rex Harrison Tony Perkins
who’s your favorite man?
how to be the type HE wants..,
how to be the type HE wants you to be
1 ANNETTE
FUNICELLO
( fun-loving )
Life is a picnic to her (as
it is to Molly Bee, Connie
Stevens, Doris Day, Deb-
bie) and I want to tag
along, so some of her sparkle
will rub off on me, says Rick
Nelson. She’s musical — plays a uke and likes to harmon-
ize. Her clothes are easy : shorts, pleated skirts and
blazers, white duck pants and little sailor hats. Her smile
is like a four-alarm fire, and the way she wrinkles her
nose when she laughs — it kills me. She looks wonderful
in polka-dots, charm bracelets, red corduroy, has bouncy
hair and loves the wind in it. She brings me out, gets me
to do crazy things. We go to the zoo and die laughing at
the polar bears, and the monkeys. She likes Thurber
illustrations, bubble baths, bedtime stories; plays tennis,
even baseball; is a natural-born flirt, which means there’s
nothing phony or obvious about the way she does it. She
has the light touch. She’s not afraid of what people will
say, because she trusts herself. She has a wonderful time
just being a girl. And she sure makes me glad I’m a boy.
SHIRLEY
TEMPLE
( womanly )
There’s something solid
about her (like Sandra Dee,
Vici Shaw, Deborah Kerr, Si-
mone Signoret). Something
I could build my life around,
says Bob Horton. Maybe it’s
the serious look in her eyes that does it. They’re clear and
intense, with thick, expressive brows. Her hair is fluffy
and natural looking. She likes to putter in a garden, make
unusual soups and stews, serve cheese with apples or
pears. We’re both sunworshippers, love sailing or just
plain hiking, want to live in an old farmhouse with a
creek out back, go barefoot and bareheaded, walk in the
rain. She looks great in shirtwaist dresses, velvet slacks,
old GI jackets, halter-top dresses, sandals, sleeveless
blouses, belted coats, big pocketbooks and the color
yellow. She’s practical; helps me save money, gives me
confidence, listens carefully to what I tell her, and can
keep a secret. She feels a responsibility for the well-being
of all living creatures, and cares for them as devotedly
as she will one day care for children — mine, I hope.
3 SUSAN
HAYWARD
( sexy)
Her aim is to make me happy
(like Rita Hayworth, or
Brigitte Bardot, Marilyn
Monroe, Liz Taylor, Tuesday
Weld ) , even if she can’t ever
be punctual, count money
or control her temper. She does pretty much what she
darn pleases and. luckily, most of the time it pleases me,
says Edd Byrnes. She can get away with extreme clothes:
red satin, plunging necklines, elbow-length gloves, a
leopard jacket — even a bikini. Her mouth is her most
provocative feature, and she paints it brilliantly: the lips
always a little parted, the lower one slightly fuller than
the upper — which means she’s very good at pouting and
getting her own way. She loves big jewels, hanging ear-
rings, orchids, fancy petticoats; likes to go on shopping
sprees, or to the beach; is a big eater. She has a passion
for humor books, but likes me to read aloud to her. She’s
impulsive, ticklish, gets a big kick out of shocking people.
I can’t take my eyes off her — she gives off rays of life,
energy, excitement, that are 100% female. ( Continued )
68
how to be the type HE wants you to be
continued
She’s like Carolyn Jones, Ava Gard-
ner. Garbo or Marlene Dietrich. And
what makes her so special? Well, I
guess it’s her face, says Gardner
McKay. Not necessarily because it’s
so beautiful, but because it hides so
well what she’s thinking. Her neck
is long, like a swan’s; her profile is
superb, and she dramatizes it with
all kinds of hats, from picture ones
to the kind that cover her hair. She
likes masculine sports — or never says
she doesn’t — like golf and fishing;
also exotic plants, health foods, ab-
stract art. panthers. She keeps trim on
a strict routine — massages, exercise.
She wears straight-straight skirts, de-
ceptively simple dresses; unusual
combinations, like a woolen sweater
with an evening skirt, a double-
breasted fur coat, black suits lined
with orange silk. Then she’ll have
just one piece of jewelry, maybe,
worn dramatically on her hat or at
her waist. But no. it’s not just her
clothing that makes her unpredict-
able, it’s that she seems to be looking
at something nobody else can see.
thinking about something nobody
else could know. She can’t be swept
off her feet. I know, because I’ve
already tried. She can’t really be
classified and she can never be
talked into doing anything that
she hasn’t already decided to do —
all by herself. Which means she
may never marry me, but I’m going
to keep on trying.
She’s learned how to say No when she
doesn’t trust her emotions, (like Kim
Novak, Leslie Caron, Diane Baker,
Jean Simmons), because she’s soft-
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hearted and tender, and afraid of
getting hurt. Her hair is silky and
not too curly, and she keeps it long,
so she can twist it up in a roll or tie
ribbons in it, or violets. Her make-up
is all light and rosy, except for the
dark outline around her big, inno-
cent eyes. She wears pastels, mostly
blue; full velvet skirts with matching
stoles, crisp blouses with peter-pan
collars. She’s got dozens of belts and
bright-colored scarves, and she wears
a locket with my picture in it. She’s
crazy about animals, both stuffed and
live ones. She’s a good swimmer;
makes fudge, bakes pies, knits; she
used to study ballet. I want to protect
her from the world, says Fabian, be-
cause she’s so — well, fragile, and big
crowds of people scare her. She
blushes when I tell her she’s beau-
tiful. And once in a while she’ll let
me know she loves me, in some
sweet, quiet way. She needs time
and patience, and she’s worth it. I
can wait for the day she wont say no.
6
LORETTA
YOUNG
(lady -like)
She has this marvelous elegance
about her (like Lee Remick. Susan
Kohner, Claudette Colbert, Grace
Kelly), as if she had no choice but
to make the right gesture, say the
right word, wear the right clothes —
like long skirts for dinner, and real
evening gowns (none of those balle-
rina things) when the invitation savs
Formal. She wears lots of white kid-
skin gloves, chiffon scarves, fur
pieces, fresh flowers, little veiled hats.
Her jewelry has an heirloom look on
her cashmeres and tweeds. She plays
charades and bridge, but doesn’t go
for outdoor sports. On her table, the
china is apt to be Bavarian, the linen
Irish, the silver English. Her per-
fume is French, and she sprays some
on her stationery, too. Her letters are
always handwritten, full of wit and
unusual observations. Her tastes are
expensive, but she’s pretty shrewd
about satisfying them without undue
extravagance. I guess you’d call her
well bred, and a bit of a puritan —
which, frankly, I like, says Troy
Donahue. And whether she wants one
or not, I’ll build her a pedestal with
my bare hands — and carve mv heart
on it just to show her how I feel
about her. THE END
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LIZ AND EDDIE
Continued from page 37
the monkey. All was quiet, and then a
sudden harsh sound at the door made her
leap to her feet. Matilda screeched in
fright. Their four dogs began barking all
at once, and the two cats added to the din.
“Eddie?” Liz said. “Eddie?” — but the foot-
steps outside faded down the corridor. Sud-
denly, she knew it. Something had hap-
pened to Eddie. He should have been back
by now. He’d said he’d be gone only
fifteen minutes. “He must have had an ac-
cident,” she thought out loud. She lived
in dread of this. “Don’t be silly,” Eddie
would laugh, like that day on their honey-
moon, when he took up the dare and
played he was a matador, making cape-
like passes with his scarf at a harmless
bull in Spain. Everyone else had laughed;
even Eddie had laughed; but her heart
had stopped beating — she was certain it
had stopped beating — for a few seconds.
“Suppose it isn’t harmless?” she had said.
“Accidents can happen any time.”
She looked up suddenly at Mike’s photo-
graph, bringing her thoughts back to the
present.
Her eyes studied the calendar tucked
into the corner of the blotter on their desk.
It told her what she already knew so well:
this was May 12, 1960, the first anni-
versary of her wedding to Eddie. She
unconsciously turned over the calendar
months, one at a time, and maybe, because
she was alone and afraid, she remembered
things she had tried hard to forget. . . .
May, 1959. She remembered the wedding
in Las Vegas but somehow today the ex-
citement and the beauty of the ceremony
was just a fuzzy blur, and what she re-
called was something else; something she
thought she had put out of her memory
forever. The reporters and photographers
were crowding around her. The ceremony
was over. Someone yelled congratula-
tions and they applauded and for a while —
for just a little while — she felt they liked
her, that they really wished her and Eddie
the best.
“What do you have that’s old, Mrs.
Fisher?” a reporter shouted.
She showed them the heirloom hand-
kerchief she was carrying. It had been
in the family for years.
“And what do you have that’s new?”
She looked down at her moss-green
chiffon wedding dress, it had been created
especially for her for the occasion, and
she smiled and sort of curtsied.
“Something blue?”
For a second her cheeks turned pink,
and then shyly, she admitted that she sen-
timentally wore a blue garter.
“Anything borrowed?” a columnist
asked.
And a photographer screamed out an
answer, one word — and she felt that she
wanted to run away, crawl away, fly
away, get away and hide from them all.
One word: Eddie.
Then came the attacks
June , 1959. They were in London, she
was making “Suddenly Last Summer.” She
remembered the press attacks — vicious,
underhand, constant — made against her
and Eddie by the British press; “Mr. Fisher,
after accompanying his ever-loving wife
to the studios, every morning, spends his
days alone in their rented house (the police
guard is no longer there looking after the
children) . Sometimes, but rarely, he is al-
lowed to bring them over to lunch with
Mother. I wonder what Mr. Fisher thinks
about the price one pays for an Award-
wirming wile? but Mr. Fisher isn t sing-
ing, either. Suddenly this summer, all is
tension.”
She’d tried at first to keep the paper
from him, but failing, she had made light
of the item and laughed it off. Eddie’s
lips laughed with her, but there was noth-
ing she could do about the expression in
his eyes.
But then, later, neither of them could
even pretend to laugh. One columnist re-
vealed: “Liz Taylor’s raven tresses are
already streaked with gray.” Other Lon-
don reporters called her “fat.” After that
she went on a crash diet that left her
twenty pounds thinner, but also left her
with dark circles under her eyes.
July, 1959. Unfriendly newspapers, hos-
tile crowds, and scurrilous mail seemed to
meet them wherever they went. When they
left London and went to Paris, the British
newspapers reached across the English
Channel and falsely accused them of
“ducking out on rent and food bills.” In
their suite, in the French capital, 6,273
letters were waiting for them, a little less
than their average weekly mail, usually.
And as always, it was directed against
their marriage. .
One afternoon, she went out alone, be-
hind dark glasses and with her hair cov-
ered by a simple shawl, to shop. She’d
bought two kites for her boys, when the
salesgirl recognized her and began chat-
tering away excitedly in a French too
rapid for her to understand. In a moment,
she was surrounded by other salesgirls, and
then by an ever-increasing crowd of
customers. Everyone was jabbering away
at her at once, and she tried to tell them,
in her slow French, that she didn’t know
what they were saying, that she must
get back to her hotel.
She didn’t understand the words, but
she did understand the tone. At first, the
crowding women had been curious, but
now they were angry. One stout woman,
who seemed to be some sort of leader,
screamed and waved her umbrella. The
others seemed to be repeating what the
woman was saying. They pressed toward
her, and she realized that the salesgirls
were doing their best to hold the custom-
ers back. “It’s a mob,” she thought, “and
they’re after me.” She almost fainted.
Suddenly, the crowd stopped. Three
floorwalkers and a manager pushed to her
side and forming a protective cordon
around her, they helped her toward the
door. The stout woman took a swipe at
her with the umbrella, but a floorwalker
warded off the blow. Outside, they helped
her into a cab and the manager rode with
her back to the hotel. On the way, he
explained to her, in broken English, that
the “ladies” who had descended upon her
in force did not represent “real French
public opinion.” She thanked him, but in
her heart she felt that she had just met,
face to face, the 6,273 people who had
sent the “hate” letters.
To Spain and home
August, 1959. If the “ladies” of Paris
were insulting, the “women” of Spain
were just plain “cold” to the Fishers. A
lovely house had been rented for them,
in Palamos — a place far off the beaten
track where she and Eddie and her two
boys could just relax and have fun. But,
when the women servants in the house-
hold learned that the guests were to be
the “divorced” Fishers, they walked out
and the men servants walked out with
them. They rented another house, on
Costa Brava near Bagur, and this time
they did not reveal their identities. But,
soon, everyone seemed to know who they
were. They would flock to gape and
glare at them while they were swimming
ox picnicking. Finally, a complete detach-
ment of Alguaziles (civil guards) were
sent out to protect them from the crowds,
but instead of keeping back the onlookers,
the civil guards mingled with them. The
mob’s nearness, their sneers and catcalls,
the women, incensed over her bathing suit
— a one-piece suit and modest for America,
considered revealing and reprehensible for
Spain — finally drove them from the beach.
September, 1959. She remembered the
look of pain and confusion on the faces
of her sons, Michael, 7, and Christopher,
5, when they’d hurried from the beach in
Spain to their house, with the shouts and
jeers of the crowd only dying away, com-
pletely, when Eddie bolted the shutters
in their suite. They had the same look
a month later, at London Airport, when
Eddie and she took off for Paris without
them. It wasn’t that they felt they were
being left behind, again — it was the re-
porter who had sneaked over to them
and begun firing questions. Michael and
Christopher had cringed and were almost
in tears by the time she and Eddie rushed
over and rescued them.
It was the same confusion and pain she
had seen on their faces that day, way
back in May, when her secretary, Dick
Hanley, brought them to Nice by plane to
join Eddie and herself on their honey-
moon. As the plane from New York, via
Barcelona, taxied toward the hangar, she
saw Michael’s excited face pressed against
the window and she knew he’d seen her.
He smiled and waved and his brother’s
face peered over his shoulder. But when
Michael, the very first one off, came to the
head of the landing ladder, he saw the
photographers massed below. He shrank
back into the plane, and it was some
time before Dick was able to convince
him and his brother that they would be
safe in going out. Her daughter Lisa’s
face was calm and sweet in sleep, when
her nurse brought her down to the field,
but Michael’s and Christopher’s were cov-
ered with pain and confusion.
October, 1959. She remembered their
return to the United States. They had
looked forward to it and to Eddie’s engage-
ment at the Desert Inn in Las Vegas. . . .
And then Eddie started gambling, a little
bit, and then more and more. “Same old
story,” said the columnist — first Nicky
Hilton, then Mike Todd, now . . . Eddie
had to lead his own life, she told herself.
November, 1959. Eddie’s opening night
at the Empire Room of the Waldorf As-
ton a. . . . She remembered, now, not the
applauding crowds, not the rave reviews,
not the sound of Eddie’s voice, warmer and
greater than it had ever been before, but
the way the press had distorted and
twisted almost everything she had done.
People couldn’t believe she was proud of
Eddie — and very much in love with him.
She had invited seventy friends — many
were celebrities — to the opening perform-
ance as her guests. The bill, for this, came
to $1,500 and the press accused her of
“buying” a favorable audience because she
thought Eddie sang badly. How could
she explain the truth: that she asked them
to come because she knew he’d be a sen-
sation? She sat there, calmly, in the Em-
pire Room, that night, wearing Eddie’s
favorite diamonds and chinchilla, listening
to the crowd call Eddie back for encore
after encore. No one knew she was suffer-
ing from a high temperature. This night
was Eddie’s . . . and only Eddie’s. Noth-
ing must spoil his triumph.
December, 1959. Their first Christmas
together and it looked as if she might
have to spend it in a hospital. She’d kept
her illness from Eddie — muffling a hacking
cough — until Thanksgiving Day. She’d P
prepared dinner, turkey and everything
that Eddie liked best, and then, as they sat
down, the coughing and the fever suddenly
seemed too much. They had to leave the
dinner untouched on the table. They took
her to the hospital — Harkness Pavillion.
The diagnosis was made — double pneu-
monia— and Eddie moved into the room
next to hers to be close by. The doctors
said that hers was one of the worst cases
of double pneumonia they’d seen in a long
time and that her lungs were almost com-
pletely congested. The delay in coming
to the hospital, they claimed, made her
condition almost critical.
For three weeks, she lay in the hos-
pital bed, and for three weeks, Eddie was
with her every minute when he wasn’t
on-stage at the Waldorf. He tried to cheer
her up — bringing her hot pizza (which
she couldn’t manage to eat), arranging
for the mink sweater that he’d ordered
for their six-months wedding anniversary
to be delivered to the hospital, making
sure that her children called her every
night. She could never get used to hos-
pitals, though she’d been in so many —
fifteen different ones altogether — for ma-
nipulations, examinations, and then that
four-hour fusion operation on her back
three years ago, the caesarean during
Lisa’s birth and a series of throat opera-
tions.
So it was with great relief that, on
December 13, Eddie came for her and
she walked out of the hospital, wan and
weak, leaning on his arm, but out in time
for Christmas just the same.
The new year
January, 1960. “Liz Taylor is definitely
pregnant,” she read in the paper, one day.
And another rumor, nicer, perhaps, than
the report in a British paper two months
after their marriage in June, that she was
“expecting in November.”
The latest rumor brought all kinds of
scary warnings from her friends, from the
press, and from people she’d never even
met. “Don’t have another child,” they’d
said. “Caesareans are dangerous — to the
mother, to the child”— they went on. When
she insisted she wasn’t pregnant, they ac-
cused her of lying. When she replied it
was nobody’s business but hers and Eddie’s
if she were pregnant or not, they wrote
that she was nasty and uncooperative. In
the end, she simply bit her tongue and said
nothing.
February, 1960. Funny, but about all this
eventful month, she remembered just one
thing: her 28th birthday. A crazy day,
with sweet, kind, loving Eddie doing
everything to make her happy. And a day
of memories: They’d talked about her
childhood. The first day on the set of
“National Velvet.” She was thirteen.
Her mother, always a little off-camera,
gave hand signals — hand on stomach when
her voice got too shrill; hand on heart
when she wasn’t showing enough emo-
tion; hands on cheek when she should
smile more; hand on neck when she was
overacting. . . .
March, 1960. She remembered how hor-
ribly March began, with memories of
Mike’s death — two years ago — and how
beautifully it almost ended. . . . almost.
She and Eddie’d been to visit his mother
in a Philadelphia hospital, where she was
recovering from a heart attack. After
they’d left the hospital, she slipped on
the pavement and severely cut her leg.
The motion picture strike was on; her
leg was slow in healing; so it seemed a
fine time to take a vacation from every-
thing. She and Eddie flew off to Jamaica
in the British West Indies.
On the plane down, Eddie just had one
cup of consomme, but she threw caution
P and diet to the wind. During the five-and-
one-half-hour B.O.A.C. Britannia turbo-
she ate almost without stopping and drank
glass after glass of what Eddie calls Liz’s
soda — champagne over ice.
Paradise— but not for long
At Montego Bay, they transferred to
a small plane that was to take them to
the Hotel Marrakesh at Ocho Rios, Ja-
maica. At the hotel, they stayed in their
own three-room cottage (two bedrooms, a
living-room, and a private patio) . But
it was the bathroom that really delighted
her: it had a bath tub eight feet long and
six feet wide, with three marble steps
going down to it. She took one look at
it and cried out, “Oh! Eddie, it’s my own
private swimming pool.”
For a while, they were in paradise: no
crowds to bother them, no reporters to
plague them, no films to make, no records
to cut — just privacy. They slept late, ate
a combination breakfast-lunch at twelve
or one o’clock, and then lazed around the
beach or patio all day. At dinnertime,
they would attend an outdoor barbecue
with the hotel guests or dine alone on
their own patio. At night, they’d walk
along the beach in the moonlight, or take
rides on the bay in glass bottom boats, or
visit offbeat native night clubs, or watch
goat races on the sand.
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
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Eddie was fascinated by the races, real
contests between six goats, each of whom
was guided on a leash by a native boy.
The guests would bet on each race. She
and Eddie never bet on the same goat.
She’d get advice on whom to bet from
their favorite waiter, dubbed “Benny the
Bookmaker” by Eddie. Eddie talked di-
rectly to the jockies, offering to split his
winnings with them. She’d bet two dol-
lars a race and Eddie would bet ten, and
every night she’d win and he’d lose. At
the end of their stay in Jamaica, she
turned all her winnings over to her ad-
viser, “Benny.”
Each lazy day was followed by a still
lazier day. They went shopping for things
for the boys and for Lisa. They sneaked
in to see “National Velvet” and nobody
recognized them. Each evening, they’d call
Michael and Christopher in New York.
It took a century to get through to them,
but it was worth hearing their voices, even
when Michael swore that he was eating
his vegetables while his nurse insisted
that he wasn’t. Late at night, they’d sit
on the patio — he’d sip Coke and she’d
drink iced champagne — watching the lazy
moon overhead and listening to the
pleasant beat of the surf close by. They
had never been happier.
Then the champagne went flat and the
bubbles burst. It all began innocently
enough. They’d meant to go shopping,
early, but they’d been racing up and down
the beach like high-school kids and had
forgotten what time it was. Too late, they
realized that shops closed at 4:30. Eddie
called up one of the stores and asked if
they’d stay open a little longer. “Sure,”
they said, “be here by six.”
But then other shopkeepers heard that
they were coming and they all decided
to stay open. Some of the guests heard
they were going to the shopping area and
they decided to go along. Soon, a whole
bunch of cars were following their Cadil-
lac to the stores.
They went, they purchased things, they
returned to the hotel, and that should
have been that — but it wasn’t. A local
newspaper ran a front-page story about
“Elizabeth Taylor and her faithful
retinue.” That was just the beginning.
Next came a vicious editorial which
matched in untruth and bad taste any-
thing that had ever been written against
them. All the old charges were made
. . . and some new ones as well: it poked
fun at her “broken leg” and pointed out
she’d had a miraculous cure (it didn’t
matter that she’d never claimed her leg
had been broken) ; it accused her of “buy-
ing” an appreciative audience for Eddie’s
Waldorf comeback; it said she maneuvered
a part in “Butterfield 8” for him; it un-
loosed a flood of innuendo and criticism.
Paradise wasn’t the same. Not so long
afterward, they left Jamaica and flew back
to New York. How much more could Liz
take?
She didn’t stop smiling
April, 1960. Early in April and the night
of the Academy awards. She tried not to
let her hopes rise. When people told her
that George Sidney had said, “Elizabeth
Taylor will win an Academy Award for
her performance in ‘Suddenly Last Sum-
mer,’ ” or that the conservative Herald
Tribune had stated, . . if there were
ever any doubts about the ability of Miss
Taylor to express complex and devious
emotions, to deliver a flexible and deep
performance, this film ought to remove
them,” she smiled and changed the sub-
ject. She remembered the year before,
her “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” nomination,
and the public opinion which had turned
against her after Eddie gave up Debbie.
So she smiled and thanked people for
their good wishes and tried not to dream
of the Awards.
Only Photoplay’s Sidney Skolsky re-
vealed her true feelings when he recalled
how she’d told a London newspaperman
earlier in the year: “My ambition is to
win an Oscar before I retire. Only then
will I be really content to settle down to
a full domestic life.”
She did not admit this to herself, again,
as at the Pantages Theater, on the night of
the presentation, she sat next to Eddie, in
the midst of a small group of friends, and
listened to the presentations being made.
Her smile was easy and natural, as if
she were home, alone, with Eddie and
their kids. Then the moment came, the
card was read, and the name rang out:
“Simone Signoret.”
She did not stop smiling for a moment;
she clapped her hands with the others,
and she did not believe it when someone,
sitting close by to her, told the press he had
heard her whisper, “Oh, no.” . . . But she
could not be sure.
Eddie comes home
Matilda, Elizabeth Taylor’s pet monkey,
jumped up on the desk and pressed her
nose against her mistress’s cheek, and
Liz had to laugh. The calendar dropped
from her hand. At that second, the door
opened and Eddie came in, his arms piled
high with fancily-tied packages. It took a
few minutes for him to pile the gifts on the
couch and when he turned toward her,
she was smiling, and the look in his eyes
told her that, for the moment, everything
was all right and she forgot the heartbreak
of the past year, and the jinx that seemed
to follow her The End
LIZ STARS IN “SUDDENLY, LAST SUMMER” FOR
COL. SHE’LL BE SEEN WITH EDDIE IN M-G-M’s
“BUTTERFIELD 8.” EDDIE RECORDS FOR RAMROD.
OF CURRENT PICTURES
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75
DEBBIE AND GLENN
Continued from page 42
to her to be miles away in thought. His
mouth became set, and his eyes brooded
intensely, as though he were deeply ab-
sorbed in a difficult problem.
Evidently, trying to attract his attention,
Debbie cocked her head to one side and
snapped her fingers. At this, Glenn sud-
denly shook his head, smiled across at her
and began chatting gaily, as they walked
off toward their own table after having
stopped for just a few seconds to greet
Maria Schell. She had been working on a
film recently with Glenn.
There’s always a big turnout of glam-
orous stars when the Hollywood Foreign
Correspondents present their Golden Globe
awards, yet Maria stood out; her manner
was poised and elegant, her exquisite blond
hair shining under the brilliant lights; her
smile gentle yet provocative and her blue
eyes deep-set and compelling; in fact the
whole impact of someone with a remark-
able personality.
There had been gossip about Maria and
Glenn, ever since they had begun working
on “Cimarron” together. But if a look of
concern crossed Debbie’s face, even for
a moment, as they had greeted Maria,
she quickly found her smile again and ob-
viously seemed to dismiss the gossip lies.
And yet . . . was there any truth?
First, just one week before “Cimarron”
began shooting, Glenn’s wife Eleanor was
granted her divorce suit, ending their six-
teen years of marriage.
Second. Glenn had been spending three
months in the almost-daily company of a
very special woman, a woman as different
from Debbie as any you could imagine.
These crucial days began under the warm
winter sun of Arizona, where “Cimarron”
went into actual production. Glenn had
met Maria Schell only briefly more than
two years earlier, when the European star
came to M-G-M to make her first Ameri-
can movie, “The Brothers Karamazov.”
However, he must have heard stories
and perhaps was wary about the prospect
of working with Maria. She was hard to
work with and the unhappy crew of her
French movie “Une Vie” (“A Life”) nick-
named her “The Monster.” Over in Holly-
wood, “Karamazov” director Richard
Brooks had just barely managed to keep
the upper hand. “Maria,” he said, “fought
me all the way.”
A girl like Debbie . . .
Maybe Glenn Ford has his moods about
the house, but on the job he has no time
for temperament, his own or anybody
else’s. His idea of a model leading lady is
a girl who is brisk, business-like, and
good-natured. Perhaps (if a fellow’s lucky)
she even behaves as if she enjoyed work-
ing with him. A girl like . . . well, like
Debbie Reynolds. And here on the wide
prairie, forty miles from Tucson, he was
face to face with something else instead.
Not a very promising start. Being wary
of Maria beforehand, Glenn was also
strongly aware of her. She didn’t look
much like a monster, standing there in the
sunlight, ready to rehearse their first scene
together. Funny, few people realize how
small Maria is. Only an inch taller than
Debbie, Maria is more sturdily built, and
she sometimes has a commanding presence
that adds to her apparent height. Now her
figure looked tiny-waisted, pressed into the
prim corset of her 1889 “Cimarron” cos-
tume. Her head was bent; her face, slightly
turned away from him, was sombre in
concentration.
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Then she looked up and said, “I’m
ready.” And she smiled at him. “The gold-
en smile,” as her German fans call it, hit
him with full force.
“I’m ready,” she repeated and her soft
voice and the play of emotions across her
sensitive features wove a magic circle
around them. That is the keynote of
her character; intensity. She recognizes
it herself, even admits it may be a fault.
But the drive has been in her from the
beginning. It made her a star when she
was sixteen, in the Swiss film “Steinbruch.”
Some people compare the similarity be-
tween Debbie and Maria. Debbie also went
into her first picture at sixteen, but let’s not
forget — not as its star. And she never had
the hellbent-for-fame manner. All through
Debbie’s early career, no matter how hard
she worked, everybody had a hunch that
something more important was on her
mind. And for Debbie, love — the love she
was looking for — was an emotion entirely
apart from her job.
But not for Maria. From the start, love
was very thoroughly involved with the
Schell career. While she was working on
her first big hit, “The Angel with the
Trumpet,” all Germany heard the news:
Maria Schell was in love! She was in love
with producer Ernst Lothar. No . . . she
was in love with actor Attila Horbiger,
famous in the German theater. No . . .
the man was cameraman Gunther Anders.
Two years later, European fans thrilled
to the tender young love story of Maria
Schell and Dieter Borsche. True, they just
happened to be co-starring as on-screen
sweethearts in a series of weepy pictures.
But even when they were off the job, they
were seen whizzing around the country-
side in an open sports car, while Maria
laughed, her golden hair blowing in the
wind. Dieter and Maria were seen hand-
holding and whispering at sidewalk cafes
in the spring.
Publicity? No, in Maria’s case the motive
runs much deeper. Listen to her own
words, spoken to a Photoplay writer years
later, when she came to Hollywood. Of
acting, Maria said: “There’s something
very strange about our profession. Every-
one else has tools of his trade. But we
have only one soul; we have to use the
same soul to live with and to act with. If
you love, you love with the same soul you
act at love with . . .”
Of her fellow players, Maria has said,
“Mv feeling is that they should share my
intensity in trying to make each scene as
perfect as possible.”
And Maria has said, “Without love, I
can’t glow.” And that glow, “the golden
smile,” is her chief stock in trade.
Debbie never has had this attitude to-
ward acting. Talk to Debbie for ten min-
utes and she’ll be telling you about her
house, her children and how happy she is
to loaf with them. When she works, she’s
gay and fun but business-like toward her
leading man. This was her attitude to-
ward working with Glenn.
With Maria, it was different.
For three weeks, the “Cimarron” com-
pany worked on those outdoor scenes. On
location, troupers live much more in each
other’s laps than they do in Hollywood,
where each person can go home at night,
to a separate life. From Arizona, the ru-
mors began filtering back. A technician
wrote to his wife about the two co-stars:
"They act as if they really mean it. They
can’t hide it — the way they feel about each
other.” In the meantime, rumors still cir-
culated about Debbie and Glenn, and in
the end, all three ended up saying sepa-
rately, “We’re all good friends.”
Besides, “I am married,” Maria protested.
She hadn’t married her leading man but
a dark young man named Horst Haechler,
who was doubling as assistant director and
as actor, in a minor role. His prematurely
receding hairline gave him a serious look
that Maria liked, and he was plainly
dazzled by the star. She was twenty-
eight then (just the age that Debbie is
now), and yet three more years went by
before Maria made up her mind about
Horst Haechler in 1957.
Her wedding day, April 27th, seemed
a nightmare. Fans and photographers
mobbed the church. The bridegroom was
elbowed aside, lost in the crowd, treated
as a nobody. And when Horst and Maria
finally retired to the quiet of their room,
the phone rang.
Kurt Frings, Maria’s agent, and Benja-
min Thau, M-G-M’s administrative chief,
were calling with the news that the part of
Grushenka in “The Brothers Karamazov”
was hers. The bride had to report to
Hollywood immediately. And the groom
went along, hoping wistfully for a ro-
mantic California honeymoon. It turned
out to be a matter of snatched weekends.
Rumors of trouble
The whispers that had started while
“Cimarron” was on location grew louder
when the company moved to the Metro lot
and to nearby outdoor locations (the San
Fernando Valley, Thousand Oaks). It was
hinted that Glenn and Maria were seeing
each other off the job, too. “Positively. I
heard it on the best authority. They were
having dinner at Jack’s at the Beach — -and
looking very chummy.”
“They were drinking beer at the Beverly
Hilton Rathskeller — a real tete a tete.”
If any of these stories reached Debbie
Reynolds, she didn’t betray her hurt with
public outbursts. But she should have
guessed, because she knew from her own
experience, what daily, close association on
the set can mean to an actor and an
actress — especially when there is a back-
ground of emotional upheaval. On the very
day that Eddie Fisher and Liz Taylor
were married, Debbie and Glenn were
doing the crazy, hilarious, love-under-the-
shower scene of “It Started With a Kiss.”
The wild clowning and Glenn’s friendly
cooperation covered-up Debbie’s secret
heartache on the day that had put a final
end to her first young hopes.
Glenn’s separation from Eleanor and her
suit for divorce came soon after that. No
matter how the newspapers prattled about
“the ideal marriage,” Hollywood knew it
hadn’t been. There had been rumors of
trouble as much as ten years earlier. And
yet Debbie, with her strong sense of
propriety, would not date Glenn until
her own divorce decree had become final.
“She won’t date him openly, that is,”
cynics added. For just the same sort of
rumors that now follow Glenn and Maria
once trailed Debbie and Glenn. “They
didn’t come to the party together,” said one
eager reporter, “but I saw Glenn leave —
alone — right after Debbie had left — alone.
And after that . . .?”
As soon as Debbie was completely,
legally free in her own eyes, she did begin
going out with Glenn, and they seemed
utterly relaxed together, frankly enjoying
each other’s company. His divorce had
come through by this time; he, too, was
free of other entanglements.
But was he? wags asked. For he had met
Maria Schell. Six years older than Debbie,
she has a worldliness that widens the gap
even further.
Though Debbie has put on the air of the
gay sophisticate since her divorce, nobody
doubts that at heart she remains the young
American housewife and mother, longing
for security in her home. In a genuine duel
of romantic strategy, would she be any
match for the high-powered Maria?
From Hollywood, Maria went to New
York, to rehearse for Garbo’s old role in
the TV-special version of “Ninotchka.”
Between sessions of turning on the in-
tensity and the golden smile, she relaxed
with solitary whims — like turning out the
staff of the furrier Maximilian for some
midnight shopping. Pirouetting before mir-
rors, draping a black broadtail scarf
around her shoulders, smiling at her own
image, what was she thinking about?
Horst? He would be joining her in New
York any day, but he was busy on a new
German picture, busy seeing to the com-
pletion of their dream farmhouse, on a
lake near Munich.
So everybody waited, waited for a new
dramatic climax in this strangest of
“friendships,” while Glenn and Maria were
suddenly called back, weeks later, to Holly-
wood for re-takes, following the end of the
actors’ strike. The talk started up all over
again. Some people even said that Glenn
had asked M-G-M to co-star Maria with
him in “North of Rome,” the picture he
was set to make in Italy. What will happen
then? Hollywood is watching and waiting
with intense interest, for, in this triangle,
almost anything can happen. The End
SEE DEBBIE IN PAR.S “THE RAT RACE" AND
“PLEASURE OF HIS COMPANY.” don’t MISS HER
SPECIALS ON ABC-TV. HEAR HER SING ON DOT.
BE SURE TO WATCH FOR HER IN COL.S
“PEPE.” SEE GLENN FORD AND MARIA SCHELL
IN “CIMARRON” FOR METRO-GOLDWYN-MAYER.
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to mine, so that our faces nearly touched.
I couldn’t help notice that he had a bad
eye that wouldn’t stop twitching, and a
scar just above it. ‘What a scary-looking
character,’ I remember thinking to myself.
Then, he started to whisper in his deep
country brogue: ‘That estate you ’ave — St.
Mary’s Mount — it’s got quite a ’istory. Did
ya know,’ he went on, ‘that Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle, the mystery writer, used to
live there? An’ did ya know that many of
’is legendary tales of Dr. Watson and
Sherlock ’Olmes originated right in that
’ouse? Those thick woods nearby — they’re
supposed to ’ave been the setting for ’is
story, “The Hounds of the Baskervilles.”
Lots of folks, ’ereabouts, say it’s ’aunted,
even though only a few ever seen ghosts
there. Seems them spirits only show them-
selves to certain people. But ya can’t lis-
ten to stories, now can ya?’ he said, almost
mockingly — his bad eye twitching even
faster than before.
“ ‘No,’ I answered coolly, trying to ap-
pear undisturbed.
“ ’ave . . . ’ave you and your missus
seen any ghosts lately, sir?’ the old man
asked, breathing heavily on my face.
“ ‘No, of course we haven’t,’ I replied. ‘I
don’t believe in such things.’
“ ‘Ah, that’s what they all say,’ chuckled
the old man in a tone that sent chills up
my spine.
“Gulping down the rest of my drink, I
thanked him and left. I wouldn’t think
about it, I promised myself, as I walked
homeward. Instead, I thought about Doro-
thy who was due back in two days. I
couldn’t wait to see her.
“Life was being good to both of us, I
thought. Dorothy was enjoying a success-
ful singing engagement, and I had been
signed to star in a TV series called ‘Ivan-
hoe.’
What they found
“Because of this, we had decided to take
advantage of our good fortune and put
into action a plan we’d had for a long
time — to build a swimming pool in the
gardens of the house — despite the chiding
by our friends that the British climate
wasn’t exactly suitable for outdoor bath-
ing.
“The builders had moved in to begin
working on it and, when I returned home,
I stood watching them before going in for
tea. But, then, at around sundown, a
strange thing happened. It was about quit-
ting time for the men, when suddenly one
of them came charging in. He was as white
as a ghost. No pun intended!
“ ‘Mr. Moore, excuse me,’ he said, ‘but
one of the men, when he was digging, un-
earthed what seemed to be decayed roots
but we think they’re human bones!’ After
calming him down, I went out to the gar-
den. After I saw the remains, I summoned
the town constable. When he came, we all
took shovels-in-hand and searched the
spot. More bones were found.
“The whole place was in an uproar soon.
Before even I knew what it was all about,
news of this finding spread like wildfire.
Tongues of the townspeople buzzed with
bizarre speculations, including the blood-
curdling theory that Jack The Ripper may
have dug deep graves in the garden to
bury his victims.
“Fortunately, the town constable lived
up to Sherlock Holmes’ reputation. After
four hours, he confirmed that the bones
were human and, by checking the records
of the township, he found that this was no
case for Scotland Yard. Our garden, it
seems, was, probably in the late 16th Cen-
tury, a cemetery for a convent!
“Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and
I really didn’t give the incident much more
thought because I. too. had accepted the
graveyard theory. Accepted it, that is, un -
til late that night. I was so exhausted, that
I retired early and fell into a deep sleep
almost immediately. Then, just like the
night before, I awoke suddenly. I heard
the clock strike two. I smelled that hor-
rible odor and began gasping for breath.
I looked up and there again, above the
bed, was the mysterious, swirling form.
But, this time, it looked as though it were
swirling out of the ceiling. I watched, mo-
mentarily stunned, and then I remembered
the maid’s conversation of that morning on
getting rid of the spirits: I swear at it and
then it stops , she had said.
“I didn’t swear, but I yelled as loud as I
could. ‘Get out of here this instant,’ I
screamed. ‘I want to get some sleep!’ And,
surprisingly enough, the ghost just van-
ished before my very eyes. I was relieved,
but it took me some hours to doze off to
sleep again.
The showdown
“The next day, everything went wrong.
The men had some trouble with the ce-
ment for the pool, which was supposed to
be finished that day, and Dorothy had
telephoned that she wouldn’t be home un-
til the day after because she had missed
her train connections. To make matters
worse, ail day I seemed to be hounded by
the episode of the night before.
“Sometime in the afternoon, I made up
my mind to have a showdown with the
ghost. Instead of going to sleep, I decided
I would prop myself up on two large
feather pillows and wait for it. Which is
exactly what I did. I was prepared for it, I
told myself as I waited. I must have
smoked a pack of cigarettes by the time
midnight chimed in. I grew a little nervous
as two o’clock approached. Two o’clock
came. Nothing happened. Three o’clock.
Still no sign of anything. My eyelids be-
came heavy and I finally dozed off to sleep,
still propped up on the pillows. For the
first time in two nights, the ghost didn't
appear. I was sure, the next morning, that
this whole nightmare was finally ended.
“But you can’t be too sure about these
things, for odd things continued to hap-
pen in that house. A few days after Doro-
thy returned home, a cycle of strange
events started. It began her first night
home, when she’d decided to take a bath.
She let the hot water run in the tub, un-
til the steam filled the room. She always
liked a hot bath. Then,, barely seconds
after she turned off the hot water and
stuck her toe in to test it, she jerked her
foot back in utter amazement. The water
was ice cold!
“After that, lights would mysteriously
flick off and on in the unoccupied bed-
rooms in the middle of the night. My three
poodles, for no apparent reason, would
suddenly gather in front of one of the up-
stairs rooms, late at night, and start howl-
ing— and we couldn’t do anything to make
them stop.
“On another occasion, when we were
preparing to go out for the evening, Doro-
thy daubed some perfume behind her ears
and placed the bottle back on her dressing
table. We hardly got through the door,
when we heard a glass-shattering bang
behind us. We turned and found the per-
fume bottle had been smashed against the
wall at the opposite end of the room from
where Dorothy had placed it on the table.
But what puzzled me most was the fact
that Dorothy saw all these things happen-
ing, yet she never saw the actual ghost it-
self— only I did.
“With these unbelievable occurrences,
Dorothy and I went to London, just to get
away for a little while. Dorothy had to
stay on and since we didn’t want to leave
the house empty, indefinitely, I returned
on a late train, one stormy night, a few
days later. It was about a mile’s walk
homeward to St. Mary’s Mount, from the
tiny rail station. I couldn’t explain to my-
self why, but I was especially nervous that
night. The wind was howling and it was
pitch black outside. As I walked, only the
sounds of my footsteps were heard. Beads
of sweat started to form on my brow.
“Just as I passed the town’s cemetery
and had started up the long slope to the
estate, out of the trees came a misty figure.
My hair was standing on end again! The
figure hovered over, moving along with me
as I walked. I didn’t run, although I
thought of it, because I didn’t want to
show the ghost that I was frightened — but
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t walk much
faster. It didn’t do much good, though, be-
cause it just followed me at the same pace.
“Then, as we approached the house, it
disappeared into the trees and, I realized
then, that I had been so alarmed, I had
completely forgotten to scream! . . . And
that was the last I saw of the ghost.
“Dorothy and I left, soon after, for
Hollywood, where I was to begin work on
the TV series, ‘The Alaskans.’
“We still own the estate and it’s a funny
thing, the ghost must have liked St.
Mary’s Mount, because it didn’t follow me
across the Atlantic. Maybe it was afraid of
becoming seasick. Or maybe it couldn’t
swim. Or perhaps it just thought America
wasn’t old enough to be haunted!”
. . . And, as Roger Moore said this, he
sniffed the air and then looked up at the
ceiling. “Just wanted to make sure,” he
laughed, “that the ghost didn’t decide to
take swimming lessons.” The End
SEE ROGER MOORE SUNDAYS ON ABC-TV, 9:30-
10:30 P.M., EDT. APPEARING IN “THE ALASKANS.”
ALSO SEE HIM IN WARNERS’ “RACHEL CADE.”
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79
GOODBYE
MRS. CALABASH
Continued from page 53
was with him more than twenty years. Her
name was Jeanne. Jeanne Durante. She
was dead.
It began, of course, with a nose.
Even when Jimmy Durante was an un-
dersized child, his nose was big — and old.
Other children on the dirty New York
street pointed at the nose, made cruel
jokes about it and its owner, and dared
each other to pinch it and run.
The little boy Jimmy felt himself a thing
set apart, a freak. How could he have been
born, he wondered, to his father, Barto-
lomeo the barber, the elegant, dignified
gentleman with the stunning mustacheo of
his calling? How could he be the product
of his mother, queenly beautiful Rose?
Having, by some miracle, been born to
these two, could he, in his ugliness, actu-
ally be loved by them? Jimmy Durante
had a deep need for love — for more love
than most people could stand. The too-
small eyes peered out past the nose at the
world, begging for love from anyone —
strangers, animals, poets and gunmen.
Eventually, it didn’t matter how much
love he had. He wanted — no, he needed —
more and more and more.
In 1910, when Jimmy was seventeen,
times were hard. He heard of a job play-
ing piano at a beer hall in Coney Island.
To his surprise, his audition was success-
ful. He was offered twenty-five dollars a
week — a stupendous salary.
It was a lot of money to the Durante
family. But to Jimmy, the real riches of
the job were not to be counted in cold
cash. He had received them on his first
night at work when, after playing a group
of songs, he swung nervously around on
his piano stool to face his audience and
found smiling faces and applauding hands.
He saw them, and for a long time, that was
enough.
And they didn’t even seem to see his
nose.
Could a girl love him?
He became a very popular man. For the
first time he almost believed he might be
loved. He actually got up the courage to
fall in love himself — and to tell the girl he
cared for her. When she turned him down,
it never occurred to him to find it ludi-
crous. After all, he was Jimmy the Nose.
Doubtless he had gotten too confident, ex-
pecting a woman — any woman — to want
him.
He got a job at a bigger place, The
Alamo, and hired a band to play jazz
with him. Sometimes he’d even heckle the
other musicians with jokes and cracks.
The audiences went for that. They would
laugh and applaud and come back night
after night to hear Durante’s New Orleans
Jazz Band. Afterward he would play
cards or drink beer or just talk to the
guys. They never failed him, never turned
him down.
And then one day a girl named Maud
Jeanne Olson walked into The Alamo and
asked for a job singing with the band.
Why he said yes, Jimmy never knew.
The girl was a soprano, and sopranos
hardly ever went over with his audience —
they liked loud, deep-voiced, deep-chested
singers. This girl was slight, with red hair
and a pretty, quiet face, and a voice of
r delicate beauty. But her eyes shone, and
she tossed her hair back when she sang,
and in the middle of a song she broke off
oU
and said to Jimmy, “Who ever told you
you could play the piano?” He started to
laugh— she laughed— and by the time they
were ready to finish the song, she was
hired.
She was the first real lady he had ever
met.
At first he was simply lost in admiration,
her tiny hands and feet, her clear mid-
western diction, of her neat, attractive
clothes. She was a lady — and yet not a
saint, not an angel. A lady with a quick
temper, a sharp wit, a talent so forceful it
quieted the rowdy Alamo crowds with the
first notes and held them spellbound
through her songs. A lady as wildly in
love with performing as he was.
A miracle personified.
Very diffidently, after a show, Jimmy
suggested that they go out for something
to eat. To his everlasting gratitude, Jeanne
agreed. Over hamburgers and coffee, he
fell in love for the second time.
Only this time, of course, he had better
sense than to say so. Yet he wondered what
would a girl like Jeanne do if she sus-
pected? True, she went out with him for
coffee almost every night — but then, he
was her boss. Possibly she was afraid to
offend him lest he fire her.
He pushed his luck a little. He asked
her to go to a show with him — it would be
the first time he had ever been inside a
legitimate theater.
At the appointed time, she walked to the
corner they had agreed on, and there she
stopped, stared at him, and planted her
small fists on her hips.
“Are you going to the show with me?”
she demanded.
Jimmy stared at her. “Who else?”
Her gaze traveled coolly over him. “In a
cap and a sweater? No, thank you. Some
other time, Mr. Durante!”
And she turned on her heel and walked
off.
For a full minute, Jimmy stood looking
after her, his face crimson. It had never
occurred to him to buy a shirt and tie for
the occasion — fool that he was, he had em-
barrassed Jeanne, humiliated himself,
ruined his chances with her forever. If the
pavement had opened and swallowed him
up, it would have been fine. Just fine.
And then he blinked. She had walked
out on him. Without a moment’s hesitation
— she’d turned her back and stalked off.
Didn’t that prove she wasn’t afraid of
making him mad? It had to! In that case —
In that case, all those other times she’d
gone with him — it must have been because
she wanted to. Because she liked him.
No happier man
There was, in all of New York, no hap-
pier man than Jimmy Durante as he stood
on the street corner and tore up the ex-
pensive orchestra tickets to the Hippo-
drome Theater.
The next day, he bought shirts and ties.
He never wore a cap again.
After that, they began to see each other
often. There were shows together, long
walks, evenings spent talking. There were
shared jokes: Jeanne’s heckling of Jimmy
when he played the piano, the time he
turned around suddenly and caught her
waddling behind him in imitation of his
walk — and knew without asking that there
was no unkindness in the gag. And yet —
she had other dates. There was one other
fellow she saw often, a man who took her
out for coffee almost as often as Jimmy
did. Did she really like him? Was it just
coincidence that almost every time she
went out with him she would walk him
past the window of a room where Jimmy
and a group of friends played cards? Was
she trying to rub it in — or to make him
jealous? If she wanted to make him jeal-
ous, surely that meant she was serious
about him. But how could that be? He was
so ugly, she so beautiful. He could hardly
speak English — she was so refined, so cul-
tured—
Half in ecstasy, half in agony, he let
time drag on.
In the winter of 1920, Jeanne became ill.
She had an operation, then went home to
her family in Detroit to recover. With
painstaking attention to spelling and
grammar, Jimmy wrote to her. Immedi-
ately, Jeanne answered. With a pen in his
hand and his homely face invisible across
the miles, Jimmy felt more at ease than
he had ever been with her. Into his letters
went more of his life, more of his heart
than he had ever shown before. The an-
swers came quickly, as warm as his own.
They awoke hope so great it frightened
him.
This time he didn’t think he would re-
cover if hope lied. Nor could he bear the
suspense any longer.
On the day Jeanne returned from De-
troit, he asked her to marry him.
“Why, Jimmy,” she said. “Whatever took
you so long?”
They were married in church — Jimmy
in the clothes Jeanne had told him were
proper, Jeanne in a brown flowered dress
she had made herself. They were both in
their late twenties.
After the wedding, a party was held. All
the people from the Alamo were there,
waiters, singers, musicians, steady cus-
tomers.
“It’s a pity you don’t have time for a
honeymoon,” someone said to Jeanne.
She looked around at the hundreds of
friendly, well-known faces. “It doesn’t
matter,” she said. “Working with Jimmy
and everyone is like a honeymoon in it-
self. I won’t mind going back to work to-
morrow night.”
She stopped short when she saw Jimmy
staring at her. “Why, honey,” he said.
“Listen. I thought you knew. I wouldn’t
let you work after you’re married. Why,
Jeanne. That — that ain’t anything for a
lady to do.”
Jeanne glanced around. Then she took
Jimmy’s arm. She pulled him over to a
quiet corner. “Jimmy,” she said, “what
are you talking about? Why should I quit?
I love singing. It’s been my whole life till
now. I like working with you. And you
think I’m talented, you know you do — ”
“Honey, honey,” he said. “I think you’re
great. Only — don’t you see, Jeanne? I
mean, you’re the greatest thing that ever
happened to me. I got to be worthy of
you. I want to give you everything. Dia-
monds. Fur coats. A beautiful house.
Everything you want — ”
“I want you, and to sing. That’s all.”
“Naw, naw,” Jimmy said. His eyes were
anguished. “Jeanne, you gotta let me give
you everything. And — and you’re not well
enough to work all night like you used to.
You gotta protect your health. Please,
Jeanne. Please — ”
The tragedy begins
She had never heard him so anguished,
so in earnest before. She was a bride of
a very few hours; she was very much in
love. With tears in her eyes, she nodded
her head. “All right,” she said.
“You promise?”
She turned her head away. “I — promise.”
“Aw, honey,” he said. “You’ll be so glad.
You’ll see.”
“Only — what will I do with myself?”
she whispered. “What will I do?”
“You’ll fix up a place for us. You’ll have
babies. And listen. You’ll help me manage
my career. You know, make plans for it
and figure out what a contract is talking
about and all that stuff I don’t understand.
You’d be great at that. Wouldn’t you,
huh?”
She kept her head turned. Finally,
muffled, she said, “Yes. I could help you. I
could do that — ”
“Sure,” Jimmy cried. “You’ll be the
brains, I’ll be the breadwinner. Now smile.
Come on. We just got married.”
Jeanne looked up. She saw the relief in
his eyes. She smiled.
And so they collaborated in what was to
be the great tragedy of their marriage.
The next night, Jimmy went back to
work. Jeanne stayed at home in the fur-
nished room they had rented. It wasn’t too
bad at first. She would wait up for him at
night, perform cooking miracles on a tiny
stove — she was ambidextrous, and would
delight Jimmy with her stirring and bast-
ing feats employing both hands— and then,
when they had eaten, they would sleep all
day. But gradually the walls of the tiny
room seemed to close in on Jeanne; she
was used to the bustle and noise and ex-
citement of the clubs and stages in which
she had worked.
“Jimmy — I’m so restless. I’m going nuts
here!”
He didn’t know that she was waiting for
him to say, “All right, honey. Come back
to work.”
Instead, he looked around and nodded.
“Yeah. No wonder. I’m gonna find us a
bigger place.”
He rented a larger apartment in a better
neighborhood. It meant his taking on ex-
tra work, and Jeanne’s finding a boarder
to help meet the higher rent, but it never
occurred to him to doubt that, in hand-
some new surroundings, Jeanne would be
happy. So what if he had to work all night
and well into the morning now? It was
worth it.
But now Jeanne had a larger house to
clean, a boarder to provide with linens,
meals, a home. All day she shopped,
cooked, cleaned. At night she waited up
for Jimmy. At the end of a few months,
she was exhausted. She began to fall
asleep long before Jimmy came home. In
the morning, when she rose to get at her
chores, he was snoring peacefully. At the
end of the day, he would get up, eat what
she fixed for him, and leave again for
work.
They were together for perhaps an hour
and a half in twenty-four.
But they were still in love, still trying
to do what each assumed was best for the
other. During those snatched hours to-
gether, Jeanne held firmly to her part in
her husband’s career. At her urging, Jim-
my asked for, and received a badly needed
raise. At her constantly repeated sugges-
tion, he eventually nerved himself to try
for what Jeanne told him was the world
in which he belonged — the world of large,
sophisticated clubs — the world that had as
its center, the glittering stages of Broad-
way. He quit The Alamo. For a while he
was out of work. For a while he played
other clubs no better than that one. Once
he even went back. But finally he landed a
better job at a far better place.
“You see?” Jeanne cried. “Listen to me,
Jimmy. You’ve got real talent — you’re
more than a piano player. You’re going
to be a comedian, to go places!”
Almost, she was content with her role
in their lives.
She couldn’t hold him
One summer, Jeanne’s folks bought a
camp on a California lake. For three
months, Jeanne' and Jimmy stayed there.
It was the honeymoon they had never had;
it was a world neither had ever known.
They lived in jeans and old shirts, fished
for their food. They were together and
alone, twenty-four hours a day. When
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away from heaven. She began to talk
wistfully of leading a simpler life, of mov-
ing to California some day. Neither she nor
Jimmy fully understood that what she
really wanted was not life in a fishing-
camp — but the husband who was slipping
away from her.
But there was nothing she could do to
hold him.
Back in the city, they resumed their life
—coming together briefly every day, part-
ing for the long hours in which Jimmy
entertained and Jeanne sat home. More
money was coming in now. As soon as it
was in his hand, Jimmy had to spend it —
on Jeanne. Whatever her troubles, he
thought, they’d be cured by having what
every woman wanted — a home of her own.
He bought a little house at the end of a
wooded street in Long Island. It would re-
mind Jeanne, he thought, of the fishing
camp at Clear Lake, where they had been
so happy. Everything would be perfect
now.
And so, with the best intentions in the
world, he installed her in the lonely little
house on the Island — where he could no
longer even rush home for an unexpected
half-hour in the evening, where their pre-
cious time together was cut still further
by the hours of traveling it cost him to get
home.
The next summer, Jimmy found a job
for three months at a resort in the Cats-
kills.
"It sounds wonderful,” Jeanne said. “I’ll
take a room there, of course — ”
i Baby, you can’t. It’ll cost everything
I’ll make, and we gotta pay for the house.”
Her eyes filled with the tears that came
more and more readily these days. “But I
want to be with you. I can’t stay here
alone — ”
“Why don’t you go to California for a
while and stay with your folks. You know
how you love that place!”
“Without you?”
“Honey, we ain’t millionaires. We gotta
have money!”
She knew he didn’t want it for himself.
He had no interest in money, or what it
bought— except in so far as it paid for her
pleasures. It never occurred to him that
her joys, like his, were not to be bought
with money. He was obsessed with the
idea of proving himself worthy of her in
the only way he knew. In a sense the trag-
edy came about because he could never
believe that anyone could want, out of the
whole world, only his company.
So Jeanne went to California for the
summer. It was their first separation. She
came back from it with two dreams, nei-
ther new. One was that Jimmy would take
her there to live. The other was that he
would ask her to work with him again.
Instead, he found a new way to make
Jeanne happy. He opened up a night club
with a friend, Eddie Jackson. It was Pro-
hibition time then; little clubs all over
New York served bootleg liquor and
priceless entertainment to customers who
ranged from Chicago mobsters to society
leaders. The Club Durante was an imme-
diate success — within months, Jimmy was
bringing home the first real money he had
ever earned.
That is, when he had time to go home.
When the club had been running for a
while, Jimmy took on a third partner. His
name was Lou Clayton; he was a great
dancer, a shrewd businessman, a loyal
lifelong friend — and the crowning blow to
the Durantes’ staggering marriage.
For with Lou’s coming, Jimmy moved
into a new life.
Lou had big ideas — and he knew how to
make them work. He knew how to turn
Jimmy into one of the world’s greatest
comics, how to make a good night club
into the most important in New York, how
to blend a clever floor show into the top
entertainment the East Coast had to offer.
To do it, all he needed was all of Jim-
my’s time and all of his trust. There was
no question of his being worthy of those
things.
It was only that it left nothing for
Jeanne Durante — nothing she could even
pretend was a share in her husband’s life.
“You’re destroying me!”
At first she fought bitterly and desper-
ately against Lou — his friendship for Jim-
my, his ideas, even his successes. When
time after time Lou was proved right,
when his schemes worked, when Jimmy
started to become, under his manage-
ment, a truly wealthy man — she gave up
fighting. She never gave up caring.
In the fifteen years when Clayton, Jack-
son and Durante were the most famous
entertaining trio in the world, Jeanne
Durante spoke to Lou Clayton only once.
And that was to say that he was destroy-
ing her.
More and more she withdrew into her-
self. She had never been afraid of any-
thing; now she was afraid of everything.
All night, alone in the house in Flushing,
she sat among the expensive furnishings
Jimmy bought her, and trembled. After a
while she began to lock the bedroom door,
to barricade herself inside. One night
while Jimmy was on stage, a waiter inter-
rupted his act.
“It’s your wife, Mr. Durante. She’s on
the phone. Says it’s an emergency.”
He hurried to the phone. “Jeanne?”
“Jimmy— I— I’ve got to go to the bath-
room. I’m so frightened to leave the
room, Jimmy. Please — stay on the phone
till I get back and tell you I’m all
right. . . .”
It became a nightly occurrence.
It was, of course, inevitable that sooner
or later Jeanne Durante would begin to
drink.
It was inevitable that when she had
irrevocably lost her health, Jimmy would
finally wake up to his wife’s real needs,
to the destruction he had so lovingly
wrought. And by then, of course, it was
too late.
Running away
Once, during the long slow years when
Jimmy and Jeanne lived in California and
Jimmy made his series of bad, degrad-
ing movies, he boarded a train one night
without telling her. He didn't even care
where he went by then. He was running
—only running not from her but from
himself.
For by now he believed he had destroyed
the high-spirited girl with the lovely voice,
the girl who had laughed and tossed her
hair, the girl to whom he had planned to
give the world.
It seemed he had taken the world away
from her, and given instead, a stone.
In 1947, when Jimmy’s income was al-
most nil, when Jeanne’s tears and protests
prevented him over and over from ac-
cepting engagements at the New York and
Chicago clubs where he was still loved
and remembered, Lou Clayton got an
offer for Jimmy to do two weeks’ worth
of work in New York. He would net,
Jimmy was told, eleven thousand dollars.
“I can’t do it,” he said. “Jeanne’s sick.”
Standing beside him, weak and ill,
Jeanne said quietly, “If you leave me this
time, Jim, you will never see me alive
again.”
“I’m not going,” her husband said. “I
won’t go. Let the bills wait a while
longer. I won’t leave you.”
They sat together silently, the woman
82
who kept her beloved husband from the
work he loved and needed, the man whose
penance had already begun. What they
thought then, neither ever told the other.
But an hour later, Jeanne Durante turned
to her husband.
“Jimmy, I’ve changed my mind. It will
do you good to go, and we do need the
money. Take it, Jimmy. I want you to.”
When he had been gone for four days,
she died.
He went back to Los Angeles to bury
her, a lost, bewildered man. He began,
after that, a life that lacked only the hair
shirt and knotted scourge of the penitant.
In every way that a man can cry, “For-
give me,” Jimmy Durante asked pardon.
He haunted the places where memories
lurked. Every Sunday he went to her
grave to weep.
And above all, he kept his tortured mind
and heart turned upon his mistakes, upon
his errors, upon his guilt.
Even into the one part of his life that
had been happy, his work, he brought his
sorrow.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever
you are. . .
How she had loved being called “Mrs.
Calabash.” It was the one thing that al-
ways made her laugh. Once, when they
were touring upper New York State,
they’d visited a town that Jeanne fell in
love with. Jimmy, unable to pronounce its
name, called it “Calabash.” And, because
of Jeanne’s love for the town, he’d nick-
named her “Mrs. Calabash.”
Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash. Forgive me.
Goodnight.
He was free now to work — and no longer
free to enjoy it.
He clung desperately now to the love of
his friends — and knew always that it was
partly that love that had killed his wife.
A second chance?
A year later, he met Margie Little.
She might have been Jeanne again.
She was red-haired, a singer, a lady —
and a sprite. She had Jeanne’s once-
light heart, Jeanne’s way with a joke.
If he had been anyone but Jimmy
Durante, he would have known he was
in love again. If he had been anyone but
Jimmy Durante, he would have seen
Margie and her love for him as his chance
to start over.
But it was Jimmy Durante, who couldn’t
believe he deserved another chance.
Who thought the rest of his life would
be too short to be sorry enough for the
mistakes of the past.
Who believed that loving him could
lead only to disaster.
Who had promised Jeanne’s mother that
he would never marry again.
Time and time again, he tried to put new
love away from him.
Somehow, it wouldn’t go.
Somehow, Margie continued to wait.
And Jimmy to suffer.
And then one day in 1959, when Jeanne
had been dead for seventeen years, Jimmy
Durante woke up and knew that the
burden had been lifted from his heart.
The reason, he never knew. Maybe pen-
ance is finite — that it is meant to last only
a certain number of years and then end.
The reason didn’t really matter.
At the end of 1959, Margie accepted his
proposal of marriage, and set a date for
the summer of 1960.
The papers carried the announcement;
they gave only the dates, the names, the
facts.
They left out the most important line.
They left out the words that ended the
past, and opened the door of the future.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever
you are. Goodnight — and, at last, good-
bye.” The End
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83
MARRIAGE
BREAKUPS
JAMES ARNESS
VIRGINIA CHAPMAN
Continued from page 48
more than when they lived together. He’d
come over to visit the children either dur-
ing the day or in the evening.
“I will always love him,” Virginia once
said. “But he thinks more of the children
than he does of me.”
Virginia tried acting to forget Jim. She
starred in a local company doing “Streetcar
Named Desire.” This didn’t work, and she
went to Europe. On her way back in
October of 1959, she stopped off in Hono-
lulu. From there she telephoned Jim,
begging him to come back. He refused and
she slashed her wrists in a suicide attempt.
Her friends thought she had really re-
signed herself that Jim wasn’t coming back
when she announced, in March of 1960,
that she was planning to file for divorce.
Less than a month later, she tried to take
her life again. This time by taking fifteen
sedatives. “I want to die,” a note read,
addressed to Jim. “Life is not worth
living.”
The exclusive story behind the second
attempt is this. Jim had told Virginia’s
mother that he was willing to give their
marriage a second try when she returned
from Europe. However, he said when she
tried to commit suicide in Hawaii he didn’t
want anything more to do with her. Her
mother unfortunately told Virginia this
the weekend in March when she tried to
end it all.
She has been released from the hospital,
but is under close supervision of her psy-
chiatrist.
Cal’s Comment: The tragedy that ended
this marriage, was seemingly brought about
by one of Hollywood’s crudest masters: the
work itself. When Jim began his series, he
found himself with less and less energy
and time left to devote to his family until
he found the marriage falling apart. And,
after having struggled together for so
many years, Virginia found it impossible
to give him up. He was her life. She had
worked and fought through difficult times
only to find him leaving her behind when
he finally became successful ... as is so
often the case.
HOPE LANGE
DON MURRAY
P
84
Continued from page 49
of eight films caught in the middle by the
strike. Don and Dolores used to spend a
lot of time together on and off the set
at 20th Century-Fox while the film was in
production. They claimed that they were
rehearsing their lines.
But after the filming had been stopped
by the strike, Don paid daily visits to
Dolores. It surprise many around town,
because Don had never appeared as the
playboy type. He’s ofttimes naive and even
shy. The Dolores Michaels-Don Murray
romance undoubtedly led to his marriage
breakup but whether he told Hope that he
was in love with Dolores and wanted a
divorce is purely speculation.
Dolores, who’s very popular around the
studio, has, in the past, dated most of the
young eligibles in town and while going to
dramatic school last year, met John Duke,
a young actor. They were reportedly en-
gaged, but that was before Don stepped
into the picture.
She’s been married once — to Maurice
Martine, an interior decorator who owns
a small art shop in Laguna Beach, Cali-
fornia. She once worked with him in the
shop but claims that it was boring and left
him for a movie career. They were di-
vorced a year ago.
Oddly enough, earlier rumors of a rift in
the Murray-Lange marriage had started
over Hope’s attentions to the dashing,
young Stephen Boyd when they became
close friends while co-starring in “The
Best of Everything” last year. They were
inseparable on the set and a daily two-
some lunching in the commissary. Several
columnists began to infer that Hope had
fallen in love with Boyd and wanted a
divorce. She became so upset over these
rumors that she nearly suffered a nervous
breakdown.
Boyd said, at the time, that he liked Hope
very much as a “good friend.” He made
no bones about it that he would certainly
seek her affections if she were single.
“She’s very happily married,” he con-
fided to me, “and I would never even at-
tempt to break up a happy marriage. I
think Hope is the greatest girl in the world
and I respect her very much.”
At that time Hope and Don vehemently
denied the rumors. They even quelled the
gossip by going to Europe together.
Just before their announcement, I saw
Hope and Don at a party for Shelley Ber-
man at the Crescendo. Both seemed jolly
(even though at that time they knew of
their decision to separate but hadn’t an-
nounced it). I remember Hope kept com-
plaining that there was no room to dance
in the place. Don wasn’t too talkative, but
he never is.
Cal’s Comment: This was a surprise all
around!
VERA MILES
GORDON SCOTT
Continued from page 49
1955. She had already met Scott, now 32,
while filming a picture with him, and they
dated off and on for a couple of years.
On March 2, 1956, he proposed to her via
long-distance telephone from London
where he was making a Tarzan picture.
Previously she had told the press, regard-
ing marriage rumors to Scott, “I want to
make very sure before I marry again.”
The marriage breakup with Scott began
last summer and came as a surprise to
Hollywood. There hadn’t been one indi-
cation that anything was wrong. Both
their careers were booming. However,
Vera confided to a close friend that Gordon
had been going out with other women, and
that she had put up with it as long as
she could.
It was the second marriage for both.
The six-foot, three-inch “Apeman” previ-
ously married Lea Duarte in March of
1954. She was a switchboard operator at
the Sahara hotel in Las Vegas. Gordon
worked as a lifeguard at the same hotel.
It wasn’t until Gordon became a movie
star that this marriage came to light. He
claimed that they only lived together less
than a year following their overnight mar-
riage in Tijuana, Mexico. The brief mar-
riage produced a son, Eric, born in De-
cember of 1954. They were divorced in
1955.
Cal's Comment: Long separations and
conflicting careers seem to be the cause of
the breakup of this marriage. In so many
Hollywood marriages, such lengthy sepa-
rations have usually been the prelude to
divorce, even if the divorce was won for
other reasons. Theirs is a story repeated
over and again: the struggle for love which
finally ends in disappointment and break-
up, because of a greater love: the screen.
BRIGITTE BARDOT
JACQUES CHARRIER
Continued from page 50
already saying that all was not running
smooth in the Charrier family. Brigitte
seemed upset at being pregnant and soon
became disappointed at her husband’s lack
of adjustment to Army life (which finally
won him a deferment on medical grounds) .
After the baby arrived, further squabbles
took place — this time over Brigitte’s insist-
ence on continuing her career. Some say
Jacques, two years younger than Brigitte,
resented her success. He, too, is an actor.
Brigitte was married once before when
she was seventeen — to director Roger
Vadim. It lasted four years. And it was
reported that it broke up because she
never settled down. For Jacques, it is his
first marriage.
Cal’s Opinion: This seems to be a perfect
example of a marriage where the woman
outshines the man so much that, as Brigitte
herself said, “You cannot love a man 24
hours a day — you also have to respect and
be able to rely on this.” And she did not
find this with Jacques. He became resent-
ful and jealous (particularly when she did
love scenes with other men). And, like
many women stars, she refused to give up
her career to save her marriage.
AUDIE MURPHY
PAMELA ARCHER
Continued from page 50
had become final from actress Wanda
Hendrix.
Pamela was an airline stewardess, an
employee of Braniff International Airways.
The wedding of the World War II hero
was quite an occasion in his home state of
Texas. They were married in Dallas by
the chaplain of Audie’s Texas National
Guard outfit, the Rev. W. H. Dickinson.
They separated briefly eight years later —
in 1959. At that time they gave the reason
as a conflict between Audie’s career (he
has to be away many months out of the
year) and his home life. On March 24,
1960 they announced a second separation.
Audie married his first wife Wanda
Hendrix, in January of 1949, and they
separated in February of 1950. They had
no children. Wanda charged, in her di-
vorce action, that Audie “constantly criti-
cized . . . even to the expression on my
face and any opinion I had.”
Wanda since married again, this time to
Jim Stack, the brother of actor Bob Stack.
This marriage has ended in divorce.
Neither Audie nor Pamela will give the
reason for the second separation. But one
friend remarked, “Audie is married only
to his career and a horse.”
Cal’s Comment: Career versus marriage:
a story that is told time and again. But it
is a story whose ending is almost always
assured . . . the career wins, breaking
up the home. Maybe not this time, though.
Most of their friends insist that the separa-
tion just doesn’t look final.
DEBRA PAGET
BUDD BOETTICHER
Continued from page 51
with David Street was a fast one even
for Hollywood — they knew each other only
a few days when they married. He pro-
posed to her on their first date. The wed-
ding, which took place at Debra’s parents’
home, was surrounded by gossip about
David’s four former wives and a suit his
latest “ex” had filed for money she claimed
he owed her. With this mixed-up begin-
ning, many people weren’t at all surprised
when, ten weeks later, there were rumors
about a separation and plans for a divorce
in Mexico.
After this experience Debra steered
clear of marriage until this spring when
she eloped with movie director, Budd
Boetticher, also after a hasty romance —
three weeks (they got together during the
actors’ strike). At the time she said she
was blissfully happy. However, just nine-
teen days later, came reports that she
moved back to her mother’s home, saying
that she hoped to patch things up, “but
there are a few adjustments to be made.”
Cal’s Comment: Who can tell what this
girl will do next!
YUL BRYNNER
VIRGINIA GILMORE
Continued from page 51
in Paris. Brynner married his first wife Vir-
ginia, on Sept. 6, 1943. They have a son,
Rocky, now 13. Both now have joint cus-
tody of the boy, who currently is living
with his mother in New York, but will
attend a school in Lausanne, Switzerland,
next year. Brynner plans to build a home
Laraine and Leo: It’s no longer funny.
for his bride in Lausanne so he can spend
as much time as possible with his son.
Miss Gilmore, a one-time big star, is
planning to resume her acting career.
His first marriage, I am told, went on the
rocks shortly after he met Doris. But both
Yul and Virginia never discussed their
problems with the press. They maintained
that everything was all right up until a
month before Virginia winged to Mexico
to divorce him. Terms of the property
settlement were kept secret, but it was
estimated that she got over a million dol-
lars, in addition to their beach home at
Balboa, California.
Cal’s Comment: This marriage seems
about par for the course, and following the
trend of those which seem to break up not
too long after the husband achieves real
success. His goal achieved, the world’s
most glamorous women anxious to meet
him . . . and ... he goes.
SUZY PARKER
PIERRE DE LA SALLE
Continued from page 51
known as an unsympathetic offbeat char-
acter who loved life and high-living. She
even made a mystery of her marriage —
denying it until after a tragic auto crash
which took the life of her father and got
her headlines — because, friends say, she
wanted to protect her image of the gay
bachelor girl. Once it was proven, she
took on a new line — that of a woman who
had very unconventional ideas about mar-
riage. “In France you never see your hus-
band— French couples believe in ‘separate-
ness,’ ” said Suzy, who added almost in
the same breath, “but I never expect to get
a divorce. Why start going through the
whole thing over again?”
Suzy denies that there’s been a “separa-
tion,” insisting that she’s in the States
because of her career, while Pierre’s in
Paris because of his. But people close to
the couple say that these conflicting careers
could eventually become the cause of a
real breakup.
Cal’s Comment: It may be just a matter
of time. Anything can happen.
LARAINE DAY
LEO DUROCHER
News Item: Laraine Day, 39, and Leo
Durocher, who’s 54, announced their sep-
aration on March 17, 1960. They have
stated no immediate plans for a divorce,
although Leo engaged Chicago attorney
Sidney Korshak and she, attorney Edward
Rose, to work out terms of a property set-
tlement, thus paving the way for divorce
action. They’d been married thirteen years.
Facts: Laraine obtained an interlocutory
decree from her first husband, James Ray
Hendricks, an airport manager, on Jan. 20,
1947. The next day she and Leo flew to
Juarez, Mexico, where she obtained a
Mexican divorce in less than an hour and
they were married the same day, Jan. 21,
1947. However, this marriage wasn’t legal
in the eyes of the California courts. So, on
Feb. 15, 1948, they were married again in a
small Mormon (she’s Mormon) ceremony
in their Santa Monica, California, home.
Her second marriage, like her first, was
childless. This disturbed the non-smoking,
non-drinking actress because her faith
calls for large families. So on Oct. 2, 1946,
she adopted a boy, Chris. She and her
husband, the following year, adopted a girl,
Michele, in Texas, and later another girl
they applied to adopt was returned to the
adoption home due to physical handicaps.
Following the marriage, the two were
inseparable. Laraine even announced, in
December of 1948, that she would give up
a million-dollar movie contract with RKO
if it meant she couldn’t be with her
husband, then managing the Brooklyn
Dodgers. She joined him in New York,
telling the press: “I do not intend ever to
be separated from him.”
Everyone knew, including Laraine, that
the marriage was not a happy marriage for
the last year. But Laraine refused to admit
it. Leo was seen in the constant company
of dancer Larri Thomas, the estranged
wife of actor John Bromfield. Leo had even
met her family and reportedly was going
to marry her as soon as he divorced
Laraine. But he denied this.
But everyone knew it was just a matter
of time before they would publicly an-
nounce their separation. And I hear now
from a source in New York that Leo and
Miss Thomas have since broken off.
Cal’s Comment: Thirteen years seems a
pretty lengthy average for a Hollywood
marriage, and it was hoped by close ac-
quaintances that this one could be saved.
Is it simply that the couple seems to have
lost interest in each other? They have evi-
dently tried hard at their marriage. They
adopted children, moved around the coun-
try together when one of them had to move
. . . but this didn’t seem to help. There
seems no hope for reconciliation. The End
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STEPHEN BOYD
Continued, jrom page 56
Marlon Brando’s ex-wife, Anna Kashfi.
And there still is Dolores Hart.
In other words, he could be married, but
he isn’t. “I’m not looking to get married,”
he says, simply and directly. “Between a
bachelor and someone who’s temporarily
unmarried, I’d definitely classify myself
as a bachelor.”
What makes a man want to stay single?
Is it fear of dominance by a woman? Are
American women too aggressive, too de-
manding, too un-feminine? The question
was hardly out when Stephen thundered
out:
“It stops me cold,” he says, “when some-
one asks me what I, as an Irishman, think
of American women. I think only as a
man. And as a man, I find that there is
no difference between American women
and women throughout the world.
“I have not met an American woman
who was not feminine,” he adds, seriously.
“I have not met an American woman
who has struck me as being more ag-
gressive than any other woman. I think
anyone who starts describing American
women as something different is just out
of his head. As for me, I don’t care
whether she’s an American woman or
not. If I find her attractive, then give
me her telephone number!
“Woman — ” he goes on, “takes the place
that man gives her. The original author-
ity always is with the man. If a woman
has authority, she has been given that
authority by a man. If a man complains
he is being dominated by a woman, then
he is complaining about something he
asked for and is getting. If certain people
say American women are aggressive, that
they are becoming the bosses, don’t talk
to me. Talk to the American male!
“For me,” and he said this almost re-
signedly, “I don’t think I ever really have
been in love. None of my romances
have ever been serious. Romance is differ-
ent from love, and this is often confused.
Sometimes I think men are more romantic
than women and for this reason, a
woman sometimes must understand a
man better than he understands her and
love him for what she understands — no
matter how painful or different he is from
her romantic image of him. A man loses
something when he must compromise. And,
strangely, a woman probably loses, in the
end, the most. ... I can’t explain why.
“Why do some men want to stay single?
Maybe, it’s better to ask, Why should a
man marry? A woman must understand
what a man is looking to find in her and
in marriage with her.
“I’m looking for something that I came
very close to a few years ago. I met a
young French actress and from our affinity
in work grew an admiration, a respect, a
loyalty — and finally a great affection. I
feel that she is my friend and will be
my friend for life and I will be hers. We
had a friendship affection, but it was not
enough to put in the form of romance.
We never really considered marriage, al-
though we did talk about it. Immediately,
it became personal and we dropped the
subject. But I sincerely believe that it
must be possible to be in love with a
woman and have that same kind of friend-
ship. If it isn’t, perhaps I’ll never marry.”
His head is turned
He says this with a soft trace of brogue
that still reveals his birthplace, “a tiny
hamlet on the outskirts of Belfast, Ireland,
called Glen Gormley,” where he was born
the ninth and last child of James Alex-
ander and Martha Boyd Millar. He is at
a loss to say where his love for acting
came. His father was a truck driver
but he remembers his boyhood as being
filled with performances in village ama-
teur shows and by the time he was eight
years old, he had already played Hamlet
for a small children’s company. “I started
young,” he says matter of factly, “but I
didn’t get ahead much until I was ten.”
It was a group of touring players that
came to town and turned his head. They
called themselves the University Players.
And to the ten-year-old boy who sat
hunched on the step in a corner of the
local hall, watching them rehearse, his chin
resting on his hands and his body mo-
tionless so he would not miss a line, they
were — these University Players— the most
fantastic people he had ever seen.
He was sitting in his regular corner, as
far out of sight as he could, when an actor
came down from the stage and sat next to
him. He read a script and when he
finished reading four or five pages, he
turned to Stephen and asked, “Why do
you come here every day?”
At first, Stephen could not find his
tongue and he shuffled his feet and felt the
red burn deeper in his cheeks. And only
after a long hesitation, did he find courage
to say what he had been almost afraid to
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admit to himself. “Someday, I will be an
actor, just like you.”
Stephen never knew whether the actor
told anyone in the company about what
he had said, but not too long after that,
maybe two days, a man came over to
him. It was after rehearsal and he said,
“I am the manager of the group. Would
you like to join us?” he asked.
“Can you imagine,” Stephen says today,
“me a mere ten years? They probably
would have sent me straight back home
if they’d known. But I was tall and
looked much older and they believed me
when I said I was sixteen.”
He went on tour, with his parents’ per-
mission, and “I loved every single minute
of that hard, unsettled life,” he says today.
“I never had any doubts this was the only
way to live, even when between acting
engagements, I had to work and struggle.”
He worked as a waiter, and a receptionist
and at so many other things that he can’t
remember them all.
And if it bothered him that he never
had a childhood, he never told anyone. His
world was a different world from the one
other boys his age had. “They would go
to coffee shops and sit around and talk of
conquests while I worked,” he says today,
his voice neither betraying whether he
would have liked to have done so or not,
but simply stating a fact — that maybe, it is
true: one can’t miss what one doesn’t
know about — even if it is a childhood.
And by the time Stephen had worked his
way to England to join a touring company,
he was already a man.
But in London, instead of acting, the
nearest he could get to the inside of a
theater was a job as a doorman. When he
was offered the job of ushering for the
British equivalent of our Academy
Awards, to be staged at a large London
movie theater, he accepted it.
The evening was spectacular and festive
and all evening long, he took the winners
up to the emcee, introduced them and
quietly walked away. Nothing might
have happened if the emcee had not been
Michael Redgrave, the well-known British
actor, who has both a keen interest in the
theater and in young actors.
When the evening was almost over
and Stephen was standing at the sidelines
watching the celebrities leave, Redgrave
took him by surprise by coming over to
him and asking sternly, “What do you
think you are doing?”
“Why . . . ?” Stephen asked, not too
certain that he were not doing something
wrong.
“You’re an actor, aren’t you?” asked
Redgrave.
Stephen remained silent.
“So what are you doing opening doors?”
“How . . . how did you know I was
an actor?” he finally stammered.
“You can always tell,” Redgrave an-
swered. “But why aren’t you working?”
“That did it,” explains Stephen today. “I
told him why; he listened with great
patience, took out a piece of paper from
his wallet and wrote me a note of intro-
duction to a small repertory company
near London. And from then on, it was
a breeze.”
What Stephen means by a “breeze” is
that he was spotted by a London agent
who smoothed him of many of his uncut
country manners and his sharp Irish ac-
cent and, after that, he was on his way.
Good luck caught up with him; after mak-
ing the English hit film, “The Man Who
Never Was,” and in Hollywood: “The Best
of Everything” and “Ben Hur.”
Romance catches up
And then, finally, early in 1958, even
romance caught up with him. . . .
86
It was spring and he was in Rome and
Rome was very beautiful. He arrived at
his hotel, and not many minutes after,
there was a soft knock on the door of his
room. He opened it, and standing be-
fore him was a slim, young blond woman
with the “most engaging manner and
smile.”
“Hello,” she explained carefully, “I am
Mariella di Sarzana. I am from MCA
(his American agency) and I have been
assigned to look after you for your stay
in Rome — as long as you are making the
picture ‘Ben Hur.’ ”
“Come in,” was all he could find to say.
After that, when he was free, he would
telephone her and ask, “Would you like
to show a visiting actor what Rome is
like . . . the Colosseum, the fountains, the
ruins, the Vatican — everything,” he would
say. And then afterward, they would
drive out into the sun-baked countryside,
sometimes with a picnic basket, other times
they would stop in the small villages or
towns for something to eat. It was on
one of these days, as they walked by the
shore of a picturesque Italian fishing vil-
lage, Stephen turned to Mariella and asked
her softly, “Will you marry me?”
“I honestly thought this was it,” he says
earnestly. “She was lovely, attractive, and
a wonderful girl. She was clever and
cosmopolitan, too, and just about every-
thing seemed to point to everlasting
love.”
A few weekends later, they flew to
London for the ceremony . . . but their life
together seemed doomed from the start.
Stephen’s work seemed to get in the way,
as never before. “Just after the wed-
ding,” says Stephen, “I received a cable
from my studio telling me to be sure to
be back very early on Monday morning.
That gave us not even a day before I
had to fly to Rome again.”
Together, they raced back to Rome,
only just in time for Stephen to rush off
to the studio.
It was a busy day for him, that Mon-
day. But even so, Stephen had felt sure
he would spend it thinking about Mariella,
about their new life together, about their
love for one another. Yet he was sur-
prised.
For all that day, he could think of
nothing but his work and his portrayal
of Messala.
And it was like that for the rest of
the week . . . and the next. Exhausted, he
would come home at the end of the day
to drop into a chair, pick up a script,
and lose himself in preparation for the
next day’s shooting.
Mariella tried to be understanding. She
tried to reason that, after all, while a mar-
riage is a career, a fulltime occupation for
a woman, it is only part of a man’s life.
His outside life is still vitally important
to him. Yet it was hard for a bride to
be neglected. . . .
Sometimes, thinking perhaps it would
be kinder to distract him for a few hours
in the evening — so that he might have a
little relaxation — she would walk unex-
pectedly into the room where he was con-
centrating, and start talking to him about
nothing in particular.
At first he could try to shut out her
voice, but finally his concentration would
be broken and he’d wheel around, eyes
flashing with irritation and snap, “Honey,
please don’t disturb me when I’m working.”
Officially their marriage was dissolved a
little more than a year later, but it was
over, to all intents and purposes, a month
after they had recited their marriage vows,
when Stephen had to leave Rome for
Hollywood . . . and Mariella did not go
with him.
Some say she was reluctant to leave
her native Italy; others point out that she
was hurt and resentful for the way
Stephen had neglected her.
A hasty decision
“But it wasn’t really an unhappy mar-
riage,” Stephen himself explains. “It was
an unsuccessful one. Just a question of
two adults making a mistake. It’s that
simple. Both of us had the courage to
recognize it, and this way neither one
feels hurt. And I do believe,” he adds,
“that the decision to get married after
only three months courtship was what
was hasty — not the decision to divorce
after less than a month. There was no point
in prolonging what we both knew to be
an error.
“A husband and wife must be friends
first. You cannot get to know someone
in three months . . . friendships are not
made that easily. You need time to
know what you aspire to — for yourself and
for the other person; to know what you
are looking for in life and in marriage,
also.”
And what is Stephen Boyd looking for
in a wife?
Today, in Hollywood, where he has re-
sumed his bachelor existence, he seems
more reluctant than ever to give it up. He
says simply: “You can be certain I’m not
in any hurry to put my head in a noose
for a second time.”
But he does say that if a girl is fun-
loving and good to talk with, if she has
a sense of humor and a sense of values, he
will find her attractive and want to know
her. “But she need not know anything
about acting, or my work,” he adds. “Even
though a man’s occupation is his first
love, when I am out with a girl, very little
shop talk ever enters the conversation. I
make sure of that.
“There are so many other things than
work to talk about and find out about,”
he says. “Like the wonderful life here
in America, its people; there is food; there
is the different attitudes toward living
that people have in various parts of the
world ... all sorts of wonderful things.
If an actor can only talk about acting, then
he must be a very dull person; and this
is true for any woman who can only talk
about what she does. And because I
was so poor so long,” he says, “I value
things. I try to absorb pleasure and I would
like the woman I am with to feel the
same.”
She would please him, too, if she liked
golf and tennis and if she knew a little
about baseball. “I became a fan last
year,” he laughs at himself, “and no one
talks to me when a baseball game is on.
They — or she — wouldn’t dare. I’d go out
of my mind.”
And if she could be prepared to follow
him anywhere and live anywhere in the
world — “I’m very uncertain. I don’t know
yet where my future lies, here or back
again in Europe,” and if she could love the
out-of-doors and not be afraid of being
too unsettled. . . . “You see, I’m a rambler,”
he tries to explain. “I guess you might
call me an Irish rover. Anything that’s
going to stifle my life — let it go somewhere
else. I don’t want it. That does not mean
that marriage is out of the question. It’s
just that I don’t think marriage is neces-
sarily something that has to be within
four walls. If she were another ram-
bler . . .” he hesitates and never finishes
the sentence. But it’s pretty obvious
what Stephen Boyd means is that just
about any bachelor can be made to change
his mind about being single if the girl is
willing to take the time to understand him
and offer him a lasting friendship along
with her love. The End
SEE STEPHEN BOYD IN M-G-M’s “BEN-HUR.”
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87
MOVIES
( Continued from page 8)
Vm All Right, Jack lion
INTERNATIONAL
Do you think labor-management re-
lations is a pretty solemn subject?
Strictly for school discussions? Wait
till you see the hilarious shambles the
British make out of it, with a per-
formance by Peter Sellers that’s a
deadpan masterpiece. Ian Carmichael,
who nearly wrecked the British Army
in “Private’s Progress,” now does the
same for British industry — all with
the best of intentions. He’s a nice fel-
low, you understand; just not extra
bright. Worse yet — he’s honest. As a
new employee in a missile factory,
Ian runs afoul of Sellers, the shop
steward, who’s given to calling strikes
to make sure his union members will
keep getting more money for less
work. As for top management, it’s
thoroughly crooked. The picture plays
no favorites, just lets everybody have
have it right where it hurts. adult
Five Branded W omen paramount
Guerrilla fighting in Yugoslavia
during World War II provides plenty
of violent action, but sympathies are
blurred. The five women of the title
have had their hair cropped off by the
partisans, as a penalty for fraternizing
with a handsome Nazi (Steve For-
rest). Outcasts, they must join under-
ground forces led by Van Heflin in
order to survive. The unhappy hero-
ines all seem strongly individual char-
acters, thanks to good international
teamwork by Vera Miles, Barbara Bel
Geddes (American), Silvana Manga-
no, Carla Gravina (Italian) and
Jeanne Moreau (French), and are
worth worrying about. adult
Bobbikins 20th, cinemascope
Delightful surprise ! There’s a fresh
comedy idea in this fable about an
Anglo-American show-biz couple
(Max Bygraves, Shirley Jones) and
their angel-faced infant (Steven
Stocker). Baby Bobbikins suddenly
starts spouting better English than
his old man can speak. The astonished
Max tries to tell Shirley about it —
and promptly lands on a psychiatrist’s
couch, because the kid won’t say a
r word when anybody but Max is
around. Then the toddler’s secret tal-
ent is put to amusing use. Along with
88
the fun, there are songs for Shirley
and Max, who’s a cheerful favorite in
British musical comedy. family
The Mountain Road Columbia
While yesterday’s wars sometimes
seem colorful and exciting, somehow
modern warfare looks drab and trag-
ic and utterly confusing, like this
closeup of World War II in China.
The Japanese are advancing, and a
small group of retreating American
soldiers, led by James Stewart, is or-
dered to block the roads by demoli-
tion, cutting off the escape route for
the terrified civilians. The story tries
to make a plea for international
understanding, compares Stewart’s
thinking — he shows absolutely no
imagination — with Lisa Lu, as a sensi-
tive Chinese lady, and Glenn Corbett,
as a sympathetic American. But no
matter what, you’ll want to see more
of that good-looking Glenn. family
The Adventures of
Huckleberry Finn
m-c-m; cinemascope, metrocolor
We seem to be all set for a lively
big musical, with a smart showman
like brash little Eddie Hodges playing
a runaway who goes rafting down the
Mississippi a century ago. But the
scant bits of music get brushed off
before they’re finished, and all that’s
left is some mild humor about Eddie’s
difficulties with two con-men (Tony
Randall and Mickey Shaughnessy) .
Any resemblance to Mark Twain’s
story is strictly accidental. Nobody in
on the movie seems to have read the
book, except perhaps fighter Archie
Moore, who shows some flashes of
dignity as the slave Jim. family
The Buttle of the Sexes continental
It’s a small classic that gets tossed
away this time, as the British move
James Thurber’s short story “The Cat-
bird Seat” from the U.S. to Scotland.
Still, it’s hard to complain whenever
Peter Sellers is charming the audience
with his sly humor. He’s a prim, pre-
cise and utterly loyal employee of an
old Edinburgh tweed firm. When an
American efficiency expert (Constance
Cummings) starts breaking up the
stodgy but happy routine, Peter is
forced to desperate measures. Too
bad comedy isn’t as subtle as the act-
ing- FAMILY
The Sword and the Dragon
vitalite;
VITA MOTION, NATURALISTE COLOR
Though this spectacular adventure-
fantasy is Soviet-made, there isn’t a
trace of modern propaganda in its
rambling story of a legendary hero of
the Middle Ages, played by husky
Boris Andreyev. Instead, there’s an
appealing fairytale atmosphere about
the mighty peasant’s battles with bar-
barian invaders and mythical mon-
sters. The castles and the costumes
and the warriors’ weapons make you
think of faraway places and long-ago
times. Most of the English dialogue is
pretty stiff, but its quaintness some-
how fits in, and there aren’t too many
words breaking up the action, family
In the Wake of a Stranger
PARAMOUNT
Guess the British are paying us a
compliment with this brisk little melo-
drama— it’s a murder-suspense yarn
in the fast American style. But there
are some interestingly different Brit-
ish touches: the grim streets of the
Liverpool waterfront; the character
of a bookie, whose profession is per-
fectly legal over there and is an-
nounced in an office sign reading
“Turf Accountant.” The Plot? As a
young merchant-ship officer, Tony
Wright behaves like the traditional
sailor ashore, and when he wakes up
the next morning, he’s not only mis-
erably hung over, but thoroughly in-
volved in a murder case. Pretty
schoolteacher Shirley Eaton tries to
help him clear himself. family
/ Passed for W/hite allied artists
A drama that isn’t very believable
makes its bid for your attention with
a provocative title and three attrac-
tive young newcomers to movies. Re-
member James Franciscus as the jun-
ior hero of “The Naked City” on TV?
And opposite him is Sonya Wilde,
who has to contend with the shakier
angles of the plot. She plays a part-
Negro girl who “passes” in order to
get better job opportunities, then falls
in love with a rich white boy and mar-
ries him with almost no advance plan-
ning. As a sympathetic friend, Pat
Michon shows a sprightly, likable per-
sonality. Too bad that, in being so
nervously anxious to avoid offending
anybody, the movie just may wind up
by making everybody mad. adult
■
SANDRA DEE
Continued from page 40
Some of them had had her mother in their
classes and one teacher had even told her
that she’d known her grandmother as a
girl. Of course, it had been a high school
then, but even so, it was hard to imagine
that long ago.
She’d peeped around to look at the
stage. It was so big. It was bigger, she
thought, than the one at Radio City Music
Hall, where her mother had taken her
once. And then the teacher had come over
to her. “Ready?” she whispered. Sandra
nodded, her blond curls bobbing as she
shook her head up and down. The school
band started to play her introduction and
the teacher gave her a little pat, to start
her on her way. And then she was doing
her dance step, making her way right to
the middle of that big stage. She stole a
look at the audience. There were so many
kids out there. She took a deep breath and
started to sing, “Peggy O’Neill . . .” All
the kids had clapped for her and she’d
smiled out at them and held out the full
skirt of her dress in a curtsy.
“Ooh, Sandy, you were wonderful,” a
little girl had whispered to her backstage.
“Weren’t you scared?”
“No,” she’d said, “I wasn’t scared.”
But later, when she thought about it,
and about leaving all her friends, and,
when nobody could see her, she cried.
The day they moved away, her mother
had hugged and kissed all her friends
goodbye. Her mother was like that; she
always let people see how much she loved
them. “I’m not like that,” she thought.
“I’m not affectionate at all.” Sometimes,
because she didn’t show how she felt, peo-
ple thought she was a snob. But that
wasn’t true. She really liked people, only it
was hard to show it.
The awful present
Then her mother’s voice, calling from
the other room, brought her sharply back
to the awful present.
“Sandy,” her mother called. “It’s get-
ting late.” Her mother poked her head in
the doorway and gave her a long look.
“Nervous?” she asked. “You’ve hardly said
a word all morning.”
Sandra shook her head. “No,” she lied.
“I’m not nervous. I’ll just pretend that
Bayonne is like any other town.” She
could feel the blood rushing to her face
at what she’d just said to her mother and
she turned away so her mother wouldn’t
see. It was just a little lie, a fib really, she
tried to tell herself, but she’d told it to
her mother. That made it seem like a
whopper. She and her mother were so
close and she never lied to her, even about
little things.
She didn’t understand why she wanted
to hide what she felt, even from her moth-
er, but inside she knew it wasn’t true.
Bayonne wasn’t at all like the other places
she’d been on her tour for “The Snow
Queen.” If the people in your home town
don’t like you, she thought, it doesn’t
matter how much people in other places
say they do. Bayonne was where it really
mattered. The day meant so much to her
and she wanted to show the people how
much she loved them.
If she could only find the right words
. . . the right way.
“I thought you might be a little wor-
ried about making that speech,” her moth-
er said. “I still wish you had something
all prepared.”
“No, I don’t want it to sound rehearsed,”
she said. “I want to say what I really feel.
It’ll come to me when I get out there.”
She wasn’t really sure about that. Making
a speech was scary. Maybe she’d get out
there and open her mouth and nothing
would come out. Her mother always teased
her about how much she talked and talked.
But maybe today she wouldn’t be able to
think of anything to say.
“There’s really nothing to be nervous
about,” her mother went on.
“I am not nervous,” she insisted slowly
and emphatically, getting up out of the
armchair to go into the other room to
dress.
But there was a lump in her throat that
made it hard to swallow. She was afraid
that if she said how she really felt, if
she admitted she was nervous, it would
be worse. She could feel her mother’s eyes
on her. Her mother always said how good
Sandra was at hiding her feelings. She
could look one way on the outside and
feel completely different inside.
If she didn’t have to make that speech, it
wouldn’t be so bad. She could really en-
joy this day. Even, she thought, glancing
out the window, if it was raining. She
looked at the pale blue dress and coat
she’d hung on the door of the closet the
night before. Maybe, with the rain and
all, she should wear something else. She
looked through the closet, finally pulling
out a tweed suit with a fur collar.
Then, when she was finally ready to
leave, she gave her hair an extra squirt
of spray, hoping that would help it stay
in even in the rain.
I remember you
The first place they stopped, once the car
had crossed from New York into New Jer-
sey, was a dress shop in Bayonne. The
woman who ran it was an old and dear
friend of her family’s.
“Sandra,” she beamed. “Why I remem-
ber you . . .” she held out her hand to
show how high Sandra had been. Her
mother and the woman kissed each other,
but Sandra held back. How could you kiss
someone you hadn’t seen for ten years?
I remember you, too, she thought, smil-
ing at the woman. Mother had always
bought her dresses here and she’d always
taken her along. They only had grown-up
dresses and so there’d never been anything
for Sandra herself. But when her mother
disappeared into the fitting room, she’d
look through the racks of dresses, stand-
ing on tiptoe so she could turn them over,
one by one, and plan which ones she’d get
when she was big enough.
Once, there’d been a blue dress. “For
afternoon weddings,” the woman told her.
Sandra had reached out gingerly to touch
the delicate silk, holding her breath.
There’d been paper spread on the floor
where someone else had tried on a long
dress and they hadn’t wanted the hem to
get soiled. So the woman had let her hold
the dress up against herself and she’d
turned slowly in front of the big mirror,
the skirt sweeping down on the floor,
’way too long for her, as she tried to
imagine how she would look in it. She
looked through the racks now, while her
mother talked to her old friend, but there
wasn’t anything there in that same shade
of blue she remembered.
Then they got back in the car. “I’m
so excited,” her mother said, “aren’t you?”
As if to avoid having to answer, she
looked out the window. Bayonne hasn’t
changed, she thought, it’s still just the same.
When they got to the school, there was a
big crowd waiting outside. She hadn’t
thought there’d be that many people. Some
of the faces looked familiar and the people
were all waving to her as if they knew
her. She waved back.
There were crowds of people inside, too.
OPPORTUNITIES
FOR
EVERYBODY
OF INTEREST TO WOMEN (PWC-July '60)
BEAUTY DEMONSTRATORS — TO $5.00 hour demonstrat-
ing Famous Hollywood Cosmetics, your neighborhood. For
free samples, details, write Studio Girl, Dept. 1607-C,
Glendale, California.
UP TO $500 For Your Child's Picture paid by advertisers.
Send small picture for approval. (All Ages). Returned. Print
child’s, parent's name, address. Spotlite, 1611 La Brea, PG
Hollywood, California.
GOOD PAY MAILING advertising literature for growing
organization, Literature, lists, stamps given free. Information
$1.00 (Refundable). National Mailers, Box 5428, Philadelphia
43, Pa.
$1 5.00 THOUSAND PREPARI NG envelopes, postcards, home
— longhand, typewriter. Particulars free. G. Economy, Box
2580, Greensboro, N.C.
DRESSES 29c; SHOES 59c; Men's Suits $5.98; Trousers
$1.38. Better used clothing. Free Catalog. Transworld, 164-A
Christopher, Brooklyn 12, New York.
HOMEWORKERS: ASSEMBLE HANDLACED Precut moc-
casins and handbags. Good earnings. California Handicrafts,
Los Angeles 46-B, California.
SPARETIME HOMEWORK! GUARANTEED Pay. No sell-
ing. Enterprises, 556-A Beacon, Manchester, N.H.
EARN SPARETIME CASH Mailing Advertising Literature.
G lenway. Box 6568, Cleveland 1, Ohio.
EARN $50.00 FAST, Sewing Aprons. Details Free. Redykut’s,
Loganville, Wisconsin.
MAKE MONEY CLIPPING Newspapers. Write Newscraft,
PW-983-E. Main, Columbus 5, Ohio.
$200 MONTHLY POSSIBLE, Sewing Babywear! No house
selling. Free information. Send name to Cuties, Warsaw 1, Ind.
SEW OUR READY cut aprons at home, spare time. Easy,
profitable. Hanky Aprons, Caldwell 3, Ark.
$25.00 WEEKLY MAKING flowers at home. Easy. Boycan,
Sharon 7, Pa.
EDUCATIONAL OPPORTUNITIES
HIGH SCHOOL AT home. No classes. Texts furnished.
Diploma awarded. If 17 or over and left school write for Free
assignment and catalog. Wayne School of LaSalle Extension
University, A Correspondence Institution, Dept. 760 WC, 419
S. Dearborn, Chicago 5, III.
COMPLETE YOUR HIGH School at home in spare time with
63-year-old school. Texts furnished. No classes. Diploma.
Information booklet free. American School, Dept. XB74,
Drexel at 58th, Chicago 37, Illinois.
HIGH SCHOOL DIPLOMA at home. Licensed teachers.
Approved materials. Southern States Academy, Station E-1,
Atlanta, Georgia.
BUSINESS & MONEY MAKING OPPORTUNITIES
EARN EXTRA MONEY selling Advertising Book Matches.
Free sample kit furnished. Matchcorp, Dept. WP-70, Chicago
32, Illinois.
$3.00 HOURLY POSSIBLE assembling pump lamps Spare
Time. Simple, Easy. No canvassing. Write: Ougor, Caldwell
1 , A r (o. UU per year all other countries.
Change of Address: 6 weeks notice essential. When possible, please furnish stencil-impression address from a
recent issue. Address change can be made only if we have your old as well as your new address. Write to
Photoplay, Macfadden Publications, Inc., 205 East 42nd Street, New York 17, N. Y.
Manuscripts, Drawings and Photographs will be carefully considered but publisher cannot be responsible for
loss or damage. It is advisable to keep a duplicate copy for your records. Only material accompanied by stamped
self-addressed envelopes or with sufficient postage will be returned.
Foreign editions handled through Macfadden Publications International Corp., 205 East 42nd Street, New York
17, N. Y. Irving S. Manheimer, President; Douglas Lockhart, Vice-President.
Re-entered as Second Class matter May 10, 1946 at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., under the Act of March
3. 1879. Second-class postage paid at New York, N. Y., and other post offices. Authorized as Second Class
Mail P. O. Dept., Ottawa, Ont., Canada. Copyright 1960 by Macfadden Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.
Copyright under the Universal Copyright Convention and International Copyright Convention. Copyright reserved
under Pan American Copyright Convention. Todos derechos reservados segun la Convencion Panamericana de
Propiedad Literaria y Artistica. Title trademark registered in U. S. Patent Office. Printed in U. S. A. by Art Colo'
Printing Company. Member of True Story Women’s Group.
2
-HUNGRY WORLD OF THE SOPHISTICATED YOUNG MODERNS!
presents
Torn
between
the urgency
to love
and the desire
to hurt!
AN AVON PICTURE
**A J f ■T'T| D
lifjL 1
FINE
YOUNG
CANNIBALS
PEARL BAILEY/
in CinemaScope
and
METROCOLOR
I’m proud of my
Golden Apple. So
is Mrs. Bob Hope.
I’M weary of imitations of Dean
Martin with the impersonator
holding a glass of liquor. . . . No
matter what they — and I — might say
about him, I do have a fondness for
Fabian. . . . Rod Steiger once said
this about acting: "I turn pretending
into reality.” . . . Peter Lorre calls
acting “making faces for money.” . . .
1 have liked Lana Turner ever since
she had only one sweater to her name,
and our friendship has endured all
her years of success and strife. . . .
I can’t wait for Simone Signoret’s
next picture, but I must. . . . No mat-
ter what you’ve heard. Yves Montand
has that yearning sound in his voice
when he speaks about Simone. . . .
Yet you could have knocked me over
with the gentle push of an Oscar
when I heard the Don Murray-Hope
Lange marriage was on the celluloid
rocks. . . . Whatever became of
Deanna Durbin? She’s married to
retired producer Charles David, lives
in France, and hasn’t any desire to
return to the movies. ... At a recent
party, Debra Paget uttered, “Take
away Brigitte Bardot’s towel and what
has she got?”
Jayne Mansfield has an unbuttoned
look. . . . I’m weary of the opening
shot of “Gunsmoke." It’s been bur-
lesqued so often that now even Jim
( Matt Dillon I Arness looks as if he’s
doing a burlesque of it. . . . Laurence
Harvey is one of the screen s finest
actors. Some night even Oscar will
realize it. ... I haven’t more respect
for an actress who won a Phi Beta
Kappa key than I have for an actress
who hasn't a high school diploma. . . .
My thanks to the Hollywood Wom-
en’s Press Club for voting me their
“Golden Apple” award as “Man of
the Year. It was my thirtieth cover-
ing Hollywood. And if anyone was
going to top me. I’m glad it was Bob
Hope, named “Man of All Time.”
I’ll wager Tuesday Weld would
have been as popular if her name had
been Wednesday Weld. . . . Want to
know what happened to Elvis Pres-
ley’s sideburns? They went to the
top of his head, where he’s got more
hair than ever before. ... 1 believe
TV has done more for Garbo than
any other movie star. It has kept her
popular and a legend to many young-
sters who had only their parents’
word for it. . . . I’m weary of those
TV series in which the hero (Craig
Stevens and John Vivyan, to mention
two ) endeavors to give the impres-
sion he’s a small-size screen Cary
Grant. I know a lady (a relative I
who viewed a Cary Grant movie and
claimed that he was trying to be
Craig Stevens. . . . Cara Williams
gives the impression that she’s hold-
ing back a scream. . . Whatever be-
came of Evelyn Venable? She’s mar-
ried to star cameraman Hal Mohr,
and after being graduated from
UCLA (June "56 1 she occasionally
teaches Latin and Greek there. . . .
I get no message from Dorothy Ma-
lone, but with Angie Dickinson I’m
tuned in. . . . James Mason usually
wears a scowl, appearing as if he’s
angry. Yet James is a pleasant chap.
... I don’t know how I’m going to
keep up with all the new faces. Most
of them have the same new face. . . .
Alec Guinness claims that England
and the United States are two coun-
tries separated by the same language.
Nick Adams looks like the kind of
guy who likes to wear a funny hat
on New Year’s Eve. . . . I’m weary
of those movies which advertise “Fun-
niest picture in 10 years.” I’m al-
ways tempted to ask the producer the
name of that picture that was so
funny 10 years ago. ... I’d like to
have a dollar for every model who
came here to be a movie star. And
( Please turn the page)
4
at his
hilarious best
in a
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! ..
WRITTEN. PRODUCED
AND DIRECTED BY
JERRY
LEWIS
ASSOCIATE PRODUCER
PRODUCTION
*
*
P
5
NORTH HI WARREN: NEW YORK • MONTREAL • LONDON • PARIS • COLOGNE
STOCKHOLM • MADRID • MILAN • RIO DE JANEIRO • BUENOS AIRES • MONTEVIDEO
Senhora Julieta Pereira Estrela,
Rio socialite,
with her debutante daughter,
Senhorita Gilda Maria
Senhora Julieta Estrela says:
“Why do so many of my friends choose
Odo-ro-no? Because they’ve found
through personal experience that
Odo-ro-no keeps them feeling sweet
and fresh — even in the warm Rio
climate.”
Yes, in Rio, as in most world fashion
capitals, gentle new Odo-ro-no is the
largest selling deodorant. Lastingly
effective, yet so kind to your skin. So
safe, too, for your loveliest gowns and
for your filmiest lingerie. Discover the
excellence of Odo-ro-no for yourself—
in cream, stick or spray.
did you know ODORO-nO
is the leadinar deodorant
in Rio?
HOLLYWOOD
continued
I’m merely referring to those I’ve
met. . . . Peggy Lee is one of the few
singers who doesn’t have to act at
being sexy. . . . Zsa Zsa hates to be
alone — and she never is.
I wonder why Mickey Rooney gives
excellent performances on TV and is
so mediocre in the movies. Mickey
hasn’t done an excellent movie job
in years. . . . Edd (Kookie) Byrnes
Something’s gone to Rookie’s head.
now combs his hair too much off-
screen as well as on. . . . Whatever
became of Jess Barker? He couldn’t
get a job in Hollywood so he moved
to Chicago where he’s the chief man
in an employment agency. ... I have
a suspicion that despite all his suc-
cess, Charlie Weaver would like to be
sophisticated. . . . I’m so weary of
Sammy Davis Jr. doing Nat King
Cole and Louis Armstrong that I’m
also getting weary of Nat King Cole
and Louis Armstrong. ... I like
Byron, Keats and Shelley Winters.
Sue me. ... I believe that Frank Sin-
atra believes the stage is a playground
and he’s out there with the boys for
a good time. . . . Our old friend Mike
Curtiz, talking about movie audi-
ences, said, “If the people don’t want
to come, nothing will stop them.”
That’s Hollywood For You.
MOTION
PICTURE
GIANT
OF 1960!
ltd story is by Edna Ferber
and its people are fierce,
tencier'tfnd passionate-like
her people of ‘Giant’!... These are people caught up in
the turbulence of creation... This is Alaska today-lavish
splendor, stripped passions, tremendous personal drama!
Presented by WARNER BROS * TECHNICOLOR® starring
RICHARD BURTON i ROBERT RYAN i CAROM JONES i MARTHA HYER i
The Kennedy they called "Czar".
with
He came out of the wilds...
with a hunger.
Belonging too much to two men.
The bride— bought for a
wedding ring.
JIM BACKUS -SHIRLEY KNIGHT- DIANE McBAIN
From the novel by Screenplay by Produced by ,
‘ EDNA FERBER * HARRY KLEINER • HENRY BLANKE • VINCENT SHERMAN • maxsteineb
Directed by
WOMAN TO WOMAN
YOUR QUESTIONS
ANSWERED ABOUT
INTERNAL SANITARY
PROTECTION
Q. Is internal protection a new idea ?
A. It may surprise you to learn that it isn’t !
Modern women of every era, as far back
as ancient Rome, have used various
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Q. Can you bathe while wearing Tampax?
A. Emphatically yes! Because Tampax®
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during showers, tub baths or swimming.
This is an advantage of internal sani-
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Q. Can unmarried girls use Tampax?
A. Of course! Remember Tampax was
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means that Tampax serves its purpose
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When inserted correctly, Tampax is un-
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Q. Is internal protection really adequate?
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A trial sample of Tampax ( in plain wrap-
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with our free booklet on menstruation facts
and advice. Just send 10c to Department
HD, Tampax Incorporated, Palmer, Mass.
LAST MINUTE FLASH!
John Saxon’s side of the story
by ERIC LEE
MEXICO CITY— —Maybe it wasn t the best time to talk to Johnny. When we met in the Hotel
Banter, in Mexico City, he was obviously tired — not really beat, just tired. His shooting schedule
in Durango had been pretty tough.
Should I ask him to comment on such a personal subject as Yirki Thai?
I think he sensed my hesitancy, because he forced a smile and said, "Cjo ahead. Ask whatever
you want — anything.”
"Do you plan to marry Vicki':'”
John lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. He was silent for a few moments, collecting
his thoughts.
Then, in a voice that was grave and even wistful, he answered, “No. No, I don’t think so. I
don’t see how 1 can.
“Most of the stuff printed about Vicki and me sounds like I leel marriage would interfere with
my career. That’s just not true. And it’s also not true that if I did have to choose between Vicki
and Hollywood. I might choose Hollywood. For me, the question simply doesn’t exist.
“I’ll explain. We’ve all seen many marriages crack up because the husband maybe feels the
wife is getting more publicity than he is or the wife thinks her husband is only a part-time bus- ,>
band. You know, between the studio and cocktail parties and press conferences, he never gets a
chance to be with her. That often happens in the case of a star.”
IS MARRIAGE TOO MUCH OF A RISK?
“So you mean,” I said, "that being a star, marriage is too much of a risk for you?
John broke into a broad grin. "For a star, maybe, but I’m not a star: that’s why I said for me ;
the question simply doesn't exist. ”
"Not a star? Look: it’s nice to be modest, but not that modest!”
“I’m serious. What do you mean by a ‘star"? Somebody who wins a lot of popularity polls, gets
a stack of fan mail and things like that? Wrong. A real star is a combination of stamina and
talent. I know I’ve got the stamina: what I'm not so sure about, is whether I’ve got the talent.”
“Can I print that?”
“Why not? It’s the truth, isn't it? Who knows where I’ll be in a couple of years. Right now I
have a lot of fans — and I appreciate their loyalty — but they think of Johnny Saxon as a handsome
face and that’s all. I want them to get a different picture of me. Why kid ourselves? We all get
older and if your talent, your acting ability, doesn’t mature — you’re through. You re through for
good. That’s my problem. And that's one of the reasons I can’t marry yet. First I have to prove
to Vicki and myself that I— we — have a future. As it is, I’m definitely not satisfied with my work
up to now.” i'l
“But you do love Vicki?”
"DON'T THINK SHE’S MY IDEAL!"
“Very much. But don’t get the idea she’s my ideal or my ‘dream-come-true’ or anything like
that. I prefer surprises! I suppose that’s why I did fall in love with her.
“You see,” added John, “Vicki is different. Every actor is constantly being flattered. And some-
times— I won’t say always — the flattery goes to your head. That couldn t happen with Vicki. Not
only is she my severest critic, but she’s probably the one person who understands my problems
and helps me because she knows me.”
“John — ”
“No, hold it a minute. Put this down. Say that, for me, Vicki is a kind of mirror. I see myself
reflected in her. I can only look at her. and I find me. Does that sound selfish? I hope not.
Don’t miss John Saxon in“The Unforgiven” for United Artists andl‘Portrait in Black” for Universal-International.
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4 OUT OF 5 TOP MOVIE STARS USE LUSTRE-CREME SHAMPOO!
Thanks For The Joke
1 want to thank you for playing a joke
on me. Let me explain :
I make it a habit to lmy Photoplay every
time it comes out. When I passed a news-
stand, an article from your May issue
caught my eye. It was called "Why Frankie
Avalon Won’t Talk About His Secret Bride.”
I grabbed it and bought another for my
friend. I immediately sat down to read it.
As I neared the end of the story, I sat
back and was furious at myself. The next
day, my friend stopped over and laughed
so hard, that I had to laugh too.
I would like it if you had more of these
catchy features in your future issues.
Ari.ene Meuschke
Flushing, L.I.
Rock and Dot in a state of confusion.
Remake?
The Story Of My Life
I was born in “Kansas City” “Back in
the U.S.A.” When I was “Just Young” I
fought in “The Battle of New Orleans.”
I was a “Lucky Devil” not to be killed,
so I’ll “Give Myself a Party” “For My
Good Fortune.” The party went fine as
I remember but we all had “Too Much
Tequila.” We got in a fight and “I
Shot Sam” so I decided I “Gotta Travel
On.” I had figured on going “South of
the Border” but I ended up in “El Paso.”
I met a “Country Girl” named “Mona Lisa”
but her “Baby Talk” made me a “Wild
One.” Me and three friends of mine killed
a man, but tbe sheriff caught us and we
spent a “Lonely Saturday Night” in the
“Tijuana Jail.” Then our case was brought
to court and now I’m on the “Chain Gang”
with my three friends “Johnny Reb,”
"Running Bear” and “Big Harlan Taylor.”
I guess we’ll spend the rest of our lives
on the “Chain Gang.”
P.S. This isn’t really the story of my
life. Hope you didn’t think it was.
Ruby Paige
Upham, N.D.
You’re kidding!! — Ed.
Kinfolk? Ernie Ford and Mr. Ferreira .
Do you agree about Keely and Carol?
More Look Alikes:
... I think Carol Colombo has a striking
resemblance to Keely Smith. Don’t you
agree with me?
B.M.M.H.
Rochester, N.Y.
. . . We have been told by so many people
that our son, Jerry, looks like Bill Cullen,
emcee of tbe television program, “The
Price Is Right.”
C. E. Marteney
Akron, Ohio
The face is right for Bill and Jerry.
I was wondering if you could help me.
My friend and I were having a discussion
about a movie. We know that Clark Gable
starred in the picture, “Gone With the
Wind” back in the 1930’s. What we would
like to know is, did they remake that pic-
ture starring Rock Hudson and Dorothy
Malone not too long ago?
William Johannes
Kitchener, Ont.
Oh, you mixed-up kid. You mean “Written
on the Wind.” — Ed.
Good news: Hayley’s coming your way.
She Was Darling
My family and I just saw the picture
“Tiger Bay.” We thought the picture was
just wonderful, but the star that stood out
in our minds, was the little girl who played
Gillie. We’ve never seen her before and
wondered who she was and will we be
seeing her again. We hope so.
Mrs. Simon
New York, N.Y.
Look Alikes:
. . . Many people think that my father
resembles Tennessee Ernie Ford. They ask
him if he is related to him all the time.
Helena Ferreira
Danbury, Conn.
Orchids To You, Photoplay
Orchids to you and the staff of Photo-
play for those super colossal pictures of
our Elvis in the June issue.
Mrs. Chris Bray
Coal City, 111.
You certainly will. She was played by that
new little star, Hayley Mills. Her dad’s the
famous actor, John B. Mills. W atch for her
in the picture “Polly ana.” — Ed.
Please turn to page 13
V**rrrvrfW
MojCjiu
J^(x AM/Ub
TO N/I/\K
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FACTOR & CO.
DEAR EDITOR:
I have been going with a boy I love
very much for four months, and he has
said we shouldn’t see each other any
more five times already! So, five times
we’ve broken up, but he always comes
back the next day. He said he thought
we were really too young to go steady
but still he said we could be engaged
and wait two years until he finished
school to get married. I’m very un-
happy and he even says he doesn’t know
why he does things to hurt me, but 1
still can’t make myself hate him. Love
is a mess and I hate it. Please, can you
tell me, am I crazy or what? I’m so very
confused.
G.N.M.
Akron, Ohio
Dear G.N.M. :
“Crazy-in-love” maybe, to get so in-
volved in such a short time. Calm his
jitters — and you’ll stop hurting yourself
— by suggesting you keep on dating but
save that marriage talk for a much later
date.
*
DEAR EDITOR:
I have been dating this one boy for
quite some time now. I go to the bowl-
ing alley every Saturday to see him
bowl in his league. In fact, I go prac-
tically everywhere he goes. Just lately
Continued from page 10
he has been ignoring me as if I were
nobody. My girlfriend, Bonnie, says he
must like another girl. What’ll I do?
Judy
Dearborn, Mich.
Dear Judy:
Stay away from that howling alley.
You can't score there anymore.
DEAR EDITOR:
I have two girlfriends, one my best
friend and the other, my next-best one.
I hang around with both of them a great
deal, but I have a problem. They don’t
get along. Both talk about the other
behind their backs. What can I do to
bring them together so everybody will
be happy? Especially me!
Troubled
Newark, N. J.
Dear Troubled:
With a little psychology on your part,
next time the gossip starts, say in a
surprised voice, “I don’t know why you
dislike Susan so much. She thinks you’re
a genius in Spanish (or anything).”
She’ll he so flattered, she’ll admit that
she’s always envied Susan’s beautiful
red hair. And, before long, they'll he
exchanging compliments to each other and
all your problems will be solved.
P.S. Look for your letters here every month.
We're sorry they can't be answered personally.
Please turn the page
The features I like
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of PHOTOPLAY are 1.
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3.
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Name Age
Address
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Paste this ballot on a postcard and send it to Readers Poll, Box 1374,
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I confidentially . . . |
= 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 ii 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 p 1 1 1 ii 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 ii 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 ii 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 1 1 ii 1 1 1 1 ii 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 ii 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 ii 1 1 1 1 1 1 ii 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 ii ii 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 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 ii 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 i =
I ... I am a boy ten years old and I'm in
| the fourth grade. I would like anyone who
| who has any monster pictures to please send
§ them to me.
1 Ricky Tindall
1 Box 395 RR #2
| New Albany. Ind.
| ... I would like very much to thank you
| for publishing my letter in your magazine.
| I’ve received 243 letters and I’m trying to
i answer them all. So I ask a little patience
| to the letters that didn’t receive my answer
| yet. I promise I will answer soon.
| Pedro Berger
| Uruguay, So. A.
| ... I am a sixteen-
| year-old Chinese girl
| living here in the Phil-
| ippines. I would like
| very much to have pen
| pals from anywhere.
1 Diana Ku
| 66-68 Tindalo Ave.
| Bacolod City
| Philippine Islands
| ... The newly organized Perry Como fan
| club wishes to extend its membership. The
I dues are 25f for which each member is
| entitled to: a membership card, a photo
| button, a journalette-booklet with info on
| Perry, a 5 x 7 photo of Perry.
1 Audrey Kyle
\ 133 Ira Rd.
| Syosset, N.Y.
| ... I am starting a fan club for Bobby
| Rydell. Dues are 500 and you receive an
| 8x8 autographed picture, a membership
| card and Bobby’s biography.
Joanne Di Giampaolo
120 Evans Drive
| Manville, N.J.
I ... I am a boy eighteen years of age. My
| hobbies are rugby, cricket and radio build-
| ing. I shall correspond in English.
Gielie Ras
| Hugo St. 9
Elsies River, Cape Town
I Cape Province, So. Africa
1 ... I’ve started a fan club for Elvis Presley.
I It’s the first one for him in Finland and it’s
| a chapter of Elvis Presley’s Golden Platters.
1 Anyone interested? Membership dues are
I .$1.00. Please, “let’s talk Elvis!”
Miss Marja Tenhunen
| Fregattiv. 9., Jollas
Helsinki, Finland
. . . I am a sixteen-
year-old boy who is
going to the U.S.A. at
the beginning of 1961
just to become a U.S.
Air Force pilot. Be-
cause of this, I would
like to have several
U.S.A. pen pals.
Eduardo Amaral
Rua Alagoas 515
Apt 133
Sao Paulo, S.P., Brazil
. . . I woidd like to
correspond with boys
and girls from any
part of the world. I
like to collect and ex-
change postage stamps
and like to know
about other countries.
Roshan I.
P.O. Box 1827
Addis-Ababa
Ethiopia
. . . On my own accord, I left home ten I
months ago, just to see how it feels to be 1
independent. Though now employed and |
gained many friends, I still yearn to return |
to my family life which I miss very much. |
But because of foolish stubbornness, I keep I
on remaining here and face the fact of being |
lonely. Maybe you, anywhere, can somehow |
help me overcome my loneliness by corre- i
sponding and sharing interests through let- |
ter-writing. I’m eighteen and of Filipino |
descent. |
Maxine Santiago |
1418 SE Ankeny St. |
Portland 14, Oregon f
... I have always wanted a pen pal in the f
U.S.A. but I did not know how to get one |
until now. Does anybody want to be my |
pen friend? |
Miss Inger-grethe Johansen |
Uranienborgv. 9A |
Oslo N.V., Norway |
... I am fourteen and would like to corre- |
spond with boys and girls who are interested |
in sports, rock ’n’ roll and who simply dig |
Frankie and Annette. §
Linda Lindahl |
U.S.O.M. to Costa Rica |
c/o American Embassy |
San Jose, Costa Rica i
CA. 1
. . . All are welcome to join my Eddie |
Fisher fan club. For information, write: |
Susan Grubarnick f
127 Ten Eyck Wk. |
Brooklyn 6, N.Y. |
. . . I’m a seventeen- |
year-old Hungarian |
girl, I have no friends |
and would love to 1
have someone to write §
to. I’m majoring in art |
and was the 1959 |
North Carolina swim- §
ming champion. I cor- §
respond in German, |
Hungarian, English, |
Yugoslavian and Rus- |
sian. Please write. |
Mary Czike I
33-46 84 St. |
Jackson Heights, N.Y. g
. . . Anyone interested in stamp collecting? |
I live in New Jersey and will trade stamps 1
for other stamps from different places. |
Sharon Duimstra |
Hainesburg, N. J. |
Need members for a fan club? Want a pen pal? |
Like to exchange fads? Write: Confidentially, g
Photoplay, 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, NT. |
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For fuller reviews see Photoplay for the mouths
indicated. For full reviews this month, see
page 18. (a — ADULT F — family)
ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN.
THE — M-G-M ; CinemaSeope, Melrocolor: Mild
fun on the old Mississippi with hrash little
Eddie Hodges, runaway slave Archie Moore,
con-man Tony Randall. Mark Twain's story
gets lost: so do the snatches of song. (F) July
BABETTE GOES TO WAR— Columbia : Cine-
maSeope. Eastman Color: Smart suspense com-
edy stars Brigitte Bardot (fully dressed!) as a
lovable French girl who blunders into the un-
derground in Occupied France, while Nazis
think she's on their side. (A) April
BECAUSE THEY'RE YOUNG— Columbia : In
a picture made especially for younger movie-
goers. likable teacher Dick Clark is under fire
for his interest in the personal problems of
high-schoolers Michael Callan (a hit!) and
Tuesday Weld. (A) June
BEN-Hl’R — M-G-M; Camera 65, Technicolor:
This epic of Roman imperialism. Jewish pa-
triotism and Christianity’s beginnings is the
best of the big pictures about Bible days. Charl-
ton Heston and Hava Harareet as Judeans.
Stephen Boyd and Jack Hawkins as Romans,
stand out in a story that has not only historic
excitement but ageless emotions and ideas.
(F) February
BOBBIKINS — 20th, CinemaSeope: Fresh, de-
lightful comedy gives an Anglo-American show-
biz couple (Max Bygraves, Shirley Jones) an
angel-faced baby — with the fantastic ability to
spout big words! (F) July
CAN-CAN — 20th; Todd-AO, Technicolor: Feast
of star talent. Cole Porter songs, Gay Nineties
costumes. Frank Sinatra, Shirley MacLaine and
Louis Jourdan make up a sauev Paris triangle,
while Maurice Chevalier makes with the sly
comments. (A) June
CONSPIRACY OF HEARTS— Rank, Para-
mount: Breathless tension becomes more than
just a game as nuns of an Italian convent rescue
imprisoned Jewish children during World War
II. Lilli Palmer is the Mother Superior, charm-
ing. quick-witted, dedicated. (F) June
CRACK IN THE MIRROR— 20th. Cinema-
Slope: Sharp courtroom thriller with a trick
twist. Orson Welles, Juliette Greco and Brad-
ford Dillman skillfully juggle two roles apiece
in a sensational Paris murder case. (A) June
EXPRESSO BONGO — Continental : The British
kid r ‘n’ r films with the fast, flashy, funny tale
of tough manager Laurence Harvey and dreamy-
faced young singer Cliff Richard and their
girls. (A) May
FIVE BRANDED WOMEN — Paramount : Yugo-
slav guerrilla fighting during War II. led by
Van Heflin, provides violent action. Among
the women who are outcasts because they frat-
ernized with a Nazi, Silvana Mangano and
Vera Miles draw sympathy. (A) July
FLAME OVER INDIA— Rank, 20th; Cinema-
Scope, De Luxe Color: Excellent thriller of
civil war in India in 1910 sends British officer
Kenneth More and American governess Lauren
Bacall on a wild rail ride, to save a child prince
from assassins. ( F) July
FUGITIVE KIND, THE— U.A.: Three high-
powered personalities put us under a night-
mare spell as Marlon Brando drifts into a town
deep in the heart of Tennessee Will iams-land,
where he meets Anna Magnani. a restless wife,
and Joanne Woodward, a sad rebel. (A) July
GALLANT HOURS, THE— U.A.: Amazing
look-alike for Admiral “Bull'' Halsey, James
Cagney dominates an unusual war epic of the
fight for Guadalcanal. Not a shot's fired on-
screen; the action is all at headquarters —
Halsey's or the Japanese. (F) June
I'M ALL RIGHT. JACK — Lion International:
The British turn labor-management relations
into a laugh-loaded shambles. As a shop stew-
ard, Peter Sellers creates a deadpan master-
piece. Ian Carmichael’s a bumbler whose hon-
esty starts a riot. (A) July
KIDNAPPED — Buena Vista. Technicolor:
Splendid version of Robert Louis Stevenson’s
classic, shot in Scotland, with Jim MacArthur
as the lad seeking a lost inheritance. Peter
Finch is a delightful fightin" fool. (F) May
MASTERS OF THE CONGO JUNGLE— 20th:
CinemaSeope, De Luxe Color: Beautiful travel
movie, both exciting and truthful, surveys the
African land and people, with narration by
Orson Welles. William Warfield. (F) May
MOUNTAIN ROAD. THE— Columbia : Closeup
of War II in China reflects the drabness and
confusion of modern warfare. James Stewart,
as an unimaginative U.S. officer, is opposed by
Lisa Lu. as a sensitive Chinese lady. You will
like newcomer Glenn Corbett. (F) July
PLEASE DON'T EAT THE DAISIES— M-G-M ;
CinemaSeope, Melrocolor: In a hilarious do-
mestic comedy. Doris Day’s a darling, as she
copes with a theater-critic husband (David
Niven), three uproarious little boys and an
actress “rival” (Janis Paige). (F) May
SAVAGE EYE. THE— Trans-Lux: A truly un-
usual movie, intensely personal, frighteningly
real, takes you inside the mind of a lost di-
vorcee. Barbara Baxley, lacking love, sees only
ugliness in Los Angeles life. (A) July
SCENT OF MYSTERY— Todd; Todd Color.
New Todd Process, Smell-O-Vision : Gorgeous,
cheerful whodunit takes us around Spain in a
couple of days, while a very proper young Eng-
lishman (Denholm Elliott) tries to rescue an
heiress from a murder plot. (F) May
SERGEANT RUTLEDGE— Warners, Techni-
color: Attempt at a new angle in westerns. Ac-
cused of rape-murder. Negro cavalryman
Woody Strode is defended by Jeffrey Hunter.
(A) June
UNFORGIVEN, THE— U.A.; Panavision, Tech-
nicolor: Big. handsome frontier drama about
Indian-haters and a family mystery. The fine
cast is led by Audrey Hepburn and Burt Lan-
caster. Andie Murphy also scores; John Saxon's
role is minor. (F) June
16
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Pollyanna
THE MONTH’S BRIGHTEST SURPRISE; FAMILY
Even if you’ve never read the old
juvenile classic, you probably associ-
ate the name “Pollyanna” with a girl
who’s sticky-sweet. But you’ll forget
all about that the moment thirteen-
year-old Hayley Mills — seen before
only in the wonderful British film
“Tiger Bay” — lights up the screen.
She’s absolutely, wonderfully, irre-
sistibly natural. You really can be-
lieve that she could arrive in a small
town, as a gawky, unknown orphan
— and proceed to change everybody’s
life. Directing his own screenplay,
David Swift surrounds her with
charming 1912 atmosphere and a lot
of fascinating grownup characters:
Jane Wyman and Richard Egan, for-
mer sweethearts; Nancy Olson and
James Drury, young lovers; Karl
Malden, a browbeaten preacher;
Adolphe Menjou and Agnes Moor-
head. village eccentrics. You’ll enjoy
meeting every one of them.
BUENA VISTA, TECHNICOLOR
The Apartment
LOW COINCS-ON, HIGH MORAL TONE; ADULT
To look at Jack Lemmon — upright,
clean-living type — you’d never think
that he would let his insurance-firm
bosses use his apartment for their
grubby affairs. But he does, just to
get ahead. To look at Shirley Mac-
Laine (above with Jack) — sweet,
pert, even standoffish — you’d never
suspect that she could be mixed up
with a married man. But she is. And
to look at Fred MacMurray, you’d
assume that he was the model execu-
tive and family man. But it takes the
whole picture to give you the real
lowdown on Fred, and it’s mighty
low. Producer-director Billy Wilder
pulls off a couple of daring experi-
ments here. He may switch from office
shenanigans to a suicide attempt, and
yet he makes sure that the audience
never laughs in the wrong place. The
behavior he’s investigating is often
sloppy, hut the movie has its morals
on straight. Witty or serious, it makes
a sharp comment with each expert
scene. The picture’s a tricky mixture
of comedy and tragedy, u.a., panavision
Wild River
SOLID STORY OF DEPRESSION DAYS; ADULT
Now here’s a picture to get your
teeth into: people so real that you
worry about their problems even aft-
er you leave the theater; details of
their everyday lives all so convincing
that you feel you’re actually living
with them, in Tennessee in the trou-
bled year of 1934. Producer-director
Elia Kazan is in his best “On the Wa-
terfront” form, and it’s good to see
Montgomery Clift’s old talent and ap-
peal returning. As an employee of the
federal government’s Tennessee Val-
ley Authority, Monty has a stubborn
opponent to battle: Jo Van Fleet,
magnificent as an ancient farm worn-
18
an who refuses to give up her land,
even though it will be flooded when a
TVA dam goes into action. Lee Rem-
ick, who has usually played flighty or
brassy dames, goes sympathetic as a
very young, very lonely widow.
20th; cinemascope, de luxe colob
Bells Are Ringing
HI-FI RECORDING OF BROADWAY HIT; FAMILY
Judy Holliday proved years ago
that she’s about the smartest and most
likable of the lady clowns. But she
showed theatergoers that she had an-
other trick up her sleeve when she put
across the lively songs of “Bells Are
Ringing.” Here’s Judy on film as the
girl who gives her whole warm heart
to her job with a phone-answering
service. On the stage, the customer
who captures her heart was just a
role for a leading man. But Dean
Martin (above with Judy), earns his
co-star billing as the playwright who’s
lost his confidence and is looking for
it in the bottle. Judy’s other problem
clients — a song-composing dentist, a
“Method” actor — help keep the plot
bubbling, and jazzman Gerry Mulli-
gan (who is Judy’s steady date off-
screen) does a cute bit as her blind
date. Though some scenes were shot
around New York, most of them
seem to be taking place on theater
sets. It’s more like a stage show than
a motion picture.
M-C-M; CINEMASCOPE, METROCOLOR
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MOVIES continued
The Rut Race
OOH, THAT Bit, WICKED CITY; ADULT
With a team like Debbie Reynolds
and Tony Curtis (below, left) it’s
easy to get all upset over the woes of two
young people trying to make good in
New York, Debbie as an actress, Tony
as a jazz musician. She keeps borrowing
money from her dancehall boss, who
wants to set her up in an older profes-
sion. Now if she’d only take a brief
course in shorthand and typing instead
. . . no, that way the picture would wind
up with no plot. Tony does a pleasing,
relaxed sort of job as the naive hero, but
Debbie has a harder time drawing sym-
pathy for a heroine who is essentially
dishonest, no matter how the story tries
to excuse her. Jack Oakie tosses in some
humor as a friendly bartender, and
here’s Gerry Mulligan again, in and out
quickly as one of a hot (and crooked)
combo. paramount; vistavision, technicolor
Strangers When We Meet
LIKE A JUICY BIT OF GOSSIP; ADULT
We’re used to seeing Kirk Douglas
swashbuckle around in ruggedly male
action yarns. Now he settles down and
looks at home in a love story aimed at
feminine fans. He follows a properly ro-
mantic profession, as an architect, and
lie’s happily married until he meets sub-
urban neighbor Kim Novak, who hasn’t
been emotionally awakened even by mar-
riage and motherhood. For the early
part of the proceedings. Kim’s usual
sleepwalking manner is just right. And
when the love tangle builds up to big
drama, Barbara Rush comes to the pic-
ture’s rescue, with her showy perform-
ance as Kirk’s wife. The brightest lines
go to Ernie Kovacs, as Kirk’s screwball
client. But Ernie’s character fits into the
picture’s mood, too. This poor guy isn’t
happy — because he’s a bachelor. And we
want all the hoys to get that message,
don t we.'1 columbia;cinemascope,eastmancolor
Hiroshima, Mon Amour
WHAT WAR DOES TO PEOPLE; ADULT
French director Alain Resnais, shoot-
ing in Japan, brings all the seldom-used
power of the movies into play, to tell a
story that goes deep beneath the surface.
Its beginning is strange and shocking,
interweaving scenes of love-making with
shots of ruined Hiroshima and its tragic
people. The lovers are a French actress
(Emmanuelle Riva) and a young Japa-
nese (Eiji Okada), hut the idea of racial
barriers doesn’t enter the story at all.
Through this affair that started casually,
the Frenchwoman is forced to remember
her first, youthful love — for a German
soldier — and its terrible aftermath.
ZENITH international; dialogue in french,
TITLES IN ENGLISH
The Story of Ruth
PAGAN SPECTACLE, PLUS LOVE; FAMILY
There’s a beautiful simplicity in the
Old Testament story of the young widow
who follows her mother-in-law into an
alien land. “Wither thou goest . . .” So
the movie-makers have plenty of room
to use their imagination. As Ruth, the
very lovely Israeli actress Elana Eden
(below, right with Stuart Whitman) isn’t
20
just a hated Moabite; she’s a pagan
priestess, and the opening scenes are
loaded with the pageantry you expect in
: Biblical epics. But the rest of the picture
stays on the personal level. Peggy Wood
puts warm, unexpected humor into the
sad life of Naomi, bringing home a
daughter-in-law who is a foreigner in
Judea and a target for the local gossips.
And Stuart Whitman’s Boaz, a rich
farmer and a husky fighting man, has to
battle his own prejudices before he can
: love Ruth. The folks at the harvest fes-
tival don’t go in for square-dancing, but
you still have the pleasant feeling that
all this happened only yesterday.
20th; cinemascope, de luxe color
Pay or Die
REALISTIC CRIME THRILLER; FAMILY
You’ve most likely seen blood-and-
thunder melodramas about the Mafia.
But this is the first that really sticks
close to the facts, and the truth doesn’t
need any phony trimmings. The police
detective that Ernest Borgnine plays was
an actual person, who tackled the Black
Hand in New York half a century ago.
In the old days of Little Italy, on the
Lower East Side, there was a lot of color
and romance, as well as danger, and all
three come back to life in this unassum-
ing movie. Zohra Lampert, as a local
girl who’s being courted by a young cop
(A1 Austin), manages to be convincing
even though she’s too new to have
learned much about acting, allied artists
The Subterraneans
THE BEATNIK WORLD; ADULT
At least, the beat generation gets some
sympathy here, instead of being treated
like a bunch of comedy characters. And
its assorted nuts give several young play-
ers a royal opportunity to parade their
talents. “Nuts” isn’t too strong a word.
When George Peppard drifts among San
Francisco’s beatniks, he says, “You’re
all crazy!” And the movie really does
present the beats as a pathetic collection
of mentally disturbed people, huddled
together for comfort. Leslie Caron is the
worst off, as a war-shocked French girl.
But Janice Rule isn’t in much better
shape. Gerry Mulligan, in the biggest of
his three current acting jobs, is a minis-
ter who tries to help the beatniks by
dressing and talking like them. Yes,
they’re still mumbling that old tired
lingo: “Like, man . . . like, I mean.” For
people who have such trouble with
all their ( Continued on page 96 1
The Opposite Sex
and Ybur Perspiration
Q. Do you know there are two
kinds of perspiration?
Q. Which perspiration is the
worst offender?
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.”
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21
After the brawl: Arthur Miller, Simone and Yves, Marilyn.
Party Of The Month:
Would you pay $1000
to hear John Wayne and
Guy Madison duet “Red
River Valley”? Or a siz-
able sum to hear Tony
Curtis play the flute? Well,
guests at the Share Inc.
party did. and applauded
wildly when Mexican star
Cantinflas donated $10,-
000 not to sing “Granada.”
All for sweet charity’s
sake. The popular Moulin
Rouge became the old
Trading Post all over again,
with guests appearing in
western riggings. Frank
Sinatra as a Heap Big
Indian chose to start an
argument with Big Sheriff
John Wayne and a moment later became involved in a
parking lot brawl. Sannny Davis Jr. showed up in the
uniform of a Confederate general and Dean Martin, as
usual, was a relaxed master of ceremonies. Debhie Reyn-
olds, with best beau Harry Karl, looked cute as a bug
in her snug Western breeches, and Lucille Ball happy as
a lark with her date, songwriter Jimmy Van Heusen. To
me, Yves Montand looked like a passenger on a wagon train.
Set News: Doris Day
was trembling with emo-
tion when they lowered
a supposedly trapped
elevator on the “Mid-
night Lace” set. From
the sidelines, I had
watched them raise the
elevator to its trapped
position and shuddered
along with Doris when
villain John Gavin at-
tempted to get at her
though the car roof.
What a scene! A night-
mare. really, as Doris’
screams rang out in what
seemed like genuine terror. Now that I think of it, I’m not
sure I didn t scream along with her. Incidentally, I won-
der if those people who make a to-do over no more posed
pictures of Doris and her son. Dennis, ever realize Dennis
may prefer it that way? After all. a college lad in his teens
must want some identification of his own.
Scrambled Love: “It’s simply not true,” Tuesday Weld
told me when I mentioned her rumored romance with Elvis
Presley. “And neither is it true my mother lashed out at
Elvis for bringing me home late on a date.” Over in Lon-
don it grows even more mysterious. “I was never alone with
Tuesday in my life,” says John Ireland, who wooed the
teenage blonde some months ago. “In fact, I have alreadx
chosen my next bride, the ex-Mrs. George Cameron.” Now
try to figure that one out. . . . David Hedison dates
Maria Cooper in Hollywood. But his long-distance tele-
phone calls go to Lupa Bodine in Rome. They met when
Lupa played a role in “The Lost World” with David. . . .
And handsome Gardner McKay has settled on the Oriental
beauty Greta Chi as his steady date. In fact. Greta crews for
Gardner on his 18-foot outrigger boat and greater love hath
no woman. Especially when the sea is choppy. ... It was
really laughable the way several Hollywood starlets just
happened to find themselves in Reno while Efrem Zim-
halist was there preparing to divorce his wife. Steffi. Efrem
paid them no mind, you can be sure. The Zimbalist mind
is on actress Kip Hamilton, according to all reports. A
wonderful actress, this Kip.
Wonder if Doris would’ve
scared even he-man Rock?
I learn of Gardner’s new girl.
22
Goodbye To All That: It was early summer when Joan
Crawford flew to the Coast and for the last time entered
the Brentwood house that had been home for thirty-one
years. Thirty-one years and what memories they held for
this woman who put the “G” in glamor and the “S” in
stardom. Here, in this house, she had lived through her
first marriage to Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and her second
marriage to Franehot Tone. And then Phil Terry and
finally to her fourth husband, the late Alfred Steele, be-
fore they took off to New York and a new life for Joan,
at least. As she strolled through the beautiful rooms and
gardens, what memories must have arisen, of famous names
and faces, some of whom have long faded, of stormy scenes,
of joyous moments and tragic ones! At the end of the day,
Joan quietly closed the door for the last time and, meeting
with actor Donald O’Connor, signed the papers that
made the house his. And so was written another paragraph
in the passing of the old regime in Hollywood, of the life,
the glamor, the excitement of an era gone forever.
Heartache: “Don’t turn on the radio,” they cautioned
ten-year-old Yasmin Khan, daughter of Rita Hayworth
and the late Aly Khan, Pakistan’s delegate to the United
Nations and a world renowned figure. From the golf course,
where Rita and husband Jim Hill received the tragic news
of Aly’s accidental death in Paris, they sent the car and
driver to pick up Yasmin at her ice skating lesson. “Don’t
turn on the car radio,” they warned by telephone, afraid
the child would hear the news before Rita could rush home
to meet and console the little Princess who adored her
father, who had been Rita’s third husband. Only three
weeks before, Aly had flown to Hollywood for a short visit
with his daughter and three days before his death, he’d
telephoned Yasmin from Paris, full of
plans for their summer together. What a
tragedy and what a heartache for the
child who openly preferred the exciting
world of her father to the rather dull life
of a movie star’s child in Hollywood.
Here And There: A cat may look at a
King. And Kool Kat Elvis Presley cer-
tainly eyed the King and Queen of Nepal
during their recent visit here and Royalty
eyed Elvis right back on the set of “G.I.
Blues.” In fact, the King asked Elvis for
his autograph while the Queen smiled
sweetly, her eyes widening slightly at El’s
enormous pompadour hairdo. Seems,
whatever came off those sideburns, Elvis
has piled on top. It’s really something to
see. . . . Rex Harrison recaptured every
heart during his stay here for “Midnight Lace.” Some years
ago, Rex left Hollywood under a cloud when Carol Landis
took her own life, reputedly over Rex, who was then mar-
ried to Lilli Palmer. But his devotion to his late wife,
Kay Kendall, whose impending death remained his secret,
and his graciousness to one and all while here, completely
won over his most ardent knockers. . . . What a surprise to
hear that actress Andra Martin filed for divorce from
cowboy-actor Ty Hardin charging extreme cruelty.
Young Love: Tommy
Sands considers him-
self the luckiest fellow
in the world with lovely
Nancy Sinatra as his
promised bride. “I didn’t
want anything to hap-
pen to our love,” Tommy
says, “but I knew if I
didn’t ask Nancy to
marry me, it could have
turned out another
Molly Bee episode. And
I didn’t want that.”
Tommy was remember-
ing back to two summers
ago when he and Molly
were steady-dating but
seldom saw each other.
Their careers kept them
apart for weeks and sometimes months at a time when
Tommy was on tour or Molly Bee was off on a singing job.
Although the two were deeply attached, they finally saw it
wouldn’t work and called off the romance. “But it wasn’t
easy,” Molly told me. “I didn’t sing a note for six months
after our breakup.” But with Nancy, who has no career
to follow except that of Tommy’s, things will be different.
Where Tommy goes, Nancy will be free to follow. Some-
times I think it’s the girl whose only career is home and
husband, that’s the happiest after all. . . . Chums are de-
lighted Edd Byrnes is dating Asa Maynor again. Asa
is by far one of the nicest girls “Kookie” ever had. I won-
der if anything really serious will develop with these two.
New Hope? It’s sad to think about it, but I’m told that
just before Virginia Arness attempted to take her life
in Hawaii, Big Jim was about to telephone his estranged
wife, asking for a reconciliation. “Let’s try again, Vir-
ginia,” he’d planned to say when the distressing headlines
broke, shattering plans for a more mature, unemotional sec-
ond chance at marriage. But, today, Virginia Arness has
found new contentment in doing for others who need it
at Long Beach Veterans Hospital. ( Please turn the page)
Edd’s dating Asa again, hut I wonder if he really means marriage this time.
Two Nancy s will miss Tommy.
Goodbyes: 1 hey met face to face at an actors’ meeting.
Diane Jergens and her estranged husband Peter Brown.
For one long moment, they looked into each other’s eyes, re-
membering the tears, the heartaches, the first separation,
the reunion and the final parting. Suddenly, Peter reached
out a hand and said, “Will you have a drink with me,
Diane? Impulsively, she took the hand he offered. “Yes,
Peter, I d love to,” she said. “But. it’s no reunion,” Diane
said later. “I’m still going through with the divorce. But
with the bitterness gone and I hope forgotten, Peter and
1 can now become friends.” Which is as it should be. That’s
how I feel, anyway. And I do hope that Peter and Diane can
each find, in a new love, the happiness they missed together.
Roundup: Janies Dar-
ren telephoned the good
news all the way from
Europe. He and his bride,
Evy Norlund, are ex-
pecting a baby. When
their chores in “The Guns
Of Navarone” were finally
finished, the Darrens hur-
ried right home. . . .
The real estate agent eyed
the prospective customer
with the anonymous name
rather curiously. “You
are Eddie Fisher, aren’t
you?” she smiled. And
Eddie, who shopped for a
Bel-Air home during a
brief visit to the Coast,
admitted he was. The Fishers plan to make Hollywood
their home base, dividing their time among their other
homes in Jamaica, New York and Connecticut. ... At one
time, she was the most fantastically beautiful woman the
town had ever seen. But beauty was never enough for Hedy
Lamarr whose heart hungered for love and understanding.
Today, Hedy seems a most unhappy woman, involved first
in a divorce suit from her husband, Howard Lee, and
secondly with local accountants. In each case, Hedy re-
fused to make a court appearance, resulting in unpleasant
complications. . . . Tab Hunter seems slowly but surely
retreating farther and farther from Hollywood and its
demands. When Tab moved to the suburban town of
Glendale, Hollywood thought it rather curious. But now
that Tab is thinking of selling this house, plus his stables,
and moving a hundred miles away to Santa Barbara, his
friends, even Maria Cooper, are frankly puzzled.
Will Betsy and Cary give one another a second chance?
Bits And Pieces: Cary Grant’s courtship of ex-wife Betsy
Drake is the talk of London town. Wouldn’t surprise me
in the least if these two remarried and lived happily ever
after. I hope. . . . From Rome, comes word that Sandra
Dee has the natives goggle-eyed in her new Jean Louis
wardrobe. Now eighteen and fancy free from lessons and
the welfare worker who constantly haunted her sets, Sandra
is having a wonderful
time making “Romanoff
and Juliet.’’ What a
doll ! . . . Seems little Missy
Reynolds is feeling her
oats a bit in demanding
her first TV Spectacular
be almost a solo sort of
“Evening With Debbie
Reynolds” kind of thing.
The network felt Debbie
should surround herself
with guest stars, as do
Dinah Shore, Frank
Sinatra and Bing Cros-
by. Debbie’s reply to that
suggestion was “Whose
show is this anyhow?”
And, in the end, Debbie
seems to have won her
fight. ... A friend who
sneaked in on one of the lessons Ricky Nelson is taking
from the matador Luis McManus, reports that Ricky could
become one of the best young bull fighters. . . . From the
soft lights and sweet music of the Coconut Grove to the
wide open spaces and a cattle roundup, is a big step but
Vic Damone made it with ease. After his last appearance
at the Grove, Vic took off for his Fresno ranch. Vic hardly
misses Pier Angeli these days.
From What I Understand: The “Gunsmoke” cast is very
blue over the decision of Dennis Weaver to go it alone
next season. The old West will never seem the same without
Chester, who has been doing some fine dramatic work both
in movies and on TV. . . . From Rome, the Richard Egans
and their baby daughter send word that Italy is great but
Hollywood looks mighty good from that distance. Richard
took his family while making “The Story of Esther.”
They’ve got us puzzled: Peter and Diane, Tab and Maria Cooper.
24
Cal York’s Jottings: In Las Vegas, Russ
Tamblyn took one look at showgirl Elizabeth Kemp-
Ion and said, “Didn’t you play in Tom Thumb with
me in England?” “Yes,” said Elizabeth and two hours
later they were married. The payoff came the follow-
ing day when Venetia Stevenson telephoned Russ that
they were never properly divorced since neither one
had bothered to pick up the final decree. Poor Tom Thumb!
The payoff now is, I hear the two are spatting already ! ! ! !
Friends are keeping their fingers crossed for Pam and Audie
Murphy. It looks like a reconciliation coming up for these
two. . . . Suzy Parker, in Hollywood with her baby daugh-
ter, is finally divorcing the Frenchman she denied having
married in the first place. . . . Ava Gardner gathers stares
of interest wherever she goes in Hollywood, but like Kim
Novak, recovered from her recent illness, Ava doesn’t seem
to have any place to go — heart wise, that is. . . . Word from
Israel has Joanne Woodward terrified over those
threatening letters sent her husband Paul Newman and
director Otto Preminger on the set of “Exodus.” Seems
the Arabs object to the story theme. . . . Ellen Powell,
daughter of Dick Powell and Joan Blondell, married
actor Chuck Hayward, with Dick and Joan’s approval.
. . . No wonder Dot Malone and Jacques Bergerac beam
every time they talk about their little Mimi. She’s a little
doll. . . . Talk about British understatement: For a year
and a half Sir Cedric Hardwicke has been over here
starring in a play while his young wife, Mary Scott, has
been in Hollywood. Suddenly he’s notified that she’s plan-
ning to divorce him, and what’s his reaction? “Well,” he
said, “I’m certainly going to telephone her about this!”
Brando*isms: It will be a dull world out west if the
Brandos, Marlon and Anna, ever reach a lasting agree-
ment. Their recent goings-on in court, where Marlon, once
again, fought for visiting rights with his son Chris, had us
all agog with Anna hurling the terms, “you slob” and “you
criminal” in Marlon’s direction. And Marlon’s claim that
Anna hired a man to spy on him, was never completely
cleared up. But the climax was reached when Anna, irked
at the questioning attorney, fled from the witness stand and
out the courtroom door with the judge yelling, “Bring back
that woman.” For all the world like a TV comedy. Anyway,
Marlon won his case and can now see his son at the specified
times. But if looks could kill, actor Brando would have been
a “daid” goner. Come to think of it, I wonder how Perry
Mason would have handled the Brandos?
Dot Malone and Jacques have a good reason for smiling.
Mailbox Corner: Doug Moore, president of the Sara
Hamilton fan club, telephoned the pleasant news the club
now has several hundred members from Canada, the States
and Mexico. Incidentally, Doug has a new address. It’s 2254
McIntyre, Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada. . . . Faye Spieler
of 730 Willow Ave., Niagara Falls, N. Y., would like an
autographed photograph of her favorite actor, Earl
Cameron and Lupine Malise of 629 Pine Street, Camden,
N. J., yearns to join a Mario Lanza fan club, if there is
one. ... A big thank you to Barbara Moore of Oakland,
Calif., and Dianna Zieban of Chicago for their charming
letters. I’m happy the Frankie Avalon matter was cleared
up to Dianna’s satisfaction.
Mexican kids couldnt get over Shirley and Cantinflas.
On the Sets: The odd
looking, middle aged.
Southern belle, rounding
the corner of a 20th Cen-
tury-Fox sound stage,
looked strangely familiar.
With a shout of laughter,
1 suddenly knew why, for
here was my friend Bing
Crosby done up in hoop
skirts, pantaloons and
blond wig, hurrying from
his trailer dressing room
to the “High Time” set.
I stood by Fabian while
Bing went through his
scene and later, when Bing
coyly lifted his skirts to reveal heavy yellow woolen socks and
tan brogues, Fabian all but had a fit. Emoting in two pictures
at once, “High Time” and “Go North” with John Wayne,
has Fabian in a spin. “I miss Frankie, too,” he sighed. Be-
fore young Avalon took off on a night-club tour, the two
lads had a great time together. And I spotted Fabe with a
new date, Katie Kelley. They make a cute couple. . . .
The musical scene in Columbia’s “Pepe” done by Cantinflas
and Shirley Jones, two of the picture’s many stars, cap-
tures all of the pageantry of a Mexican Fiesta. This picture,
to be released in December, should be quite a hit.
Is Katie the one to catch Fabe?
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July, 1960
Duane Eddy Tattles On Himself;
Connie Stevens Ends A Romance;
Johnny Mathis Gets A New Girl
You’ll ivant this memorial tribute to Eddie.
What’s Duane like? Is Connie sorry now?
Judy Fowler
The lucky winner of our contest to win a
date with Elvis is pretty Judy Fowler 16,
who’s a student at Central High in Phoenix.
Watch for the story of Judy’s trip to Holly-
wood and date with Elvis in Photoplay.
by PAUL DREW
STATION WGST, ATLANTA— What’s he
really like? The inside answers are in picture
and song in "Duane Eddy Plays Songs of
Our Heritage.” . . . Did you know Fabian's
favorite song is “Unchained Melody?” It's
out now by The Blackwells. . . . Breakup
of the month: Connie Stevens and Gary
Clark. Connie’s new album is as refresh-
ing as a Waikiki breeze. . . . The memorial
album, “Eddie Cochran,” is one you’ll
want to treasure as a memento of a won-
derful, talented boy. It includes five tunes
Eddie wrote himself. (For Shari Sheeley’s
story of the tragic accident in which Eddie
was killed, just before they were to be mar-
ried, turn to page 32). . . . Dinah and
Brook swing with “A Rockin' Good Way.”
. . . For handholding time at a party, play
music nostalgics to Mantovani’s “Songs
to Remember.” . . . The boys’ latest album
is “It’s Everly Time” — and when isn’t it?
Their next project is a movie. . . . The
Broadway show, “Bye Bye Birdie” spoofs
a young pop singing star, Conrad Birdie
( played by good-looking Dick Gautier ) ,
who gets drafted into the Army. It’s loaded
with his songs: “Kids,” “One Last Kiss,”
and “One Boy.” . . . Not quite five-feet tall.
Brenda Lee’s a tower of sound singing
"That’s All You Gotta Do.” . . . Phi Gam-
ma Delta fraternity’s gift to you is the
Brothers Four, clicking with “My Tani.”
. . . Still a teenager — he’ll he nineteen in
July — “Paul Anka Sings His Big 15”— all
giants. . . . Ernie Fields leads the pack in
the new big band era with ‘‘Begin the
Beguine.” . . . “Maria,” from the Broadway
show “West Side Story,” could be this year’s
“Misty” for Johnny Mathis. . . . The ex-
citement of jazz and the loneliness of the
blues comes to life in “Ray Charles In
Person,” recorded live in concert. . . . And
for some funnies, try “The Button Down
Mind of Bob Newhart” and “Laughing
Room” by Woody Woodbury.
If you’re fond of good music, you’re
familiar with the label, Deutsche Gram-
mophon Gesellschaft, and know it repre-
sents some of the most superb European
record imports. Like those four new re-
leases: Schumann Piano Concerto in A
Minor, Svjatoslav Richter on piano; Haydn
String Quartets in G Major and B Flat
26
mecorb
Major, by the Amadeus Quartet; Mozart
Piano Concerto in E Flat Major and Haydn
Piano Concerto in D Major by tbe Berlin
Radio Symphony Orch., with Jorg Demus
at piano. . . . Violinist Jaime Laredo is
19 years old and chances are you'll get to
know him as well as Van Cliburn. As an
introduction, listen to him play Brahms
Sonata No. 3 in D Minor, on RCA Victor,
. . . And if you don’t already own Schubert’s
Unfinished Symphony No. 8, the Richmond
(London) record of it is a bargain, not
only because the Vienna Philharmonic, con-
ducted by Carl Schuricht, gives a stirring
performance, but on the other side is the
wonderful Mozart Haffner Symphony.
i What’s in the Stars?
by ERIAL
Bob: Too sensitive?
Were you born be-
tween June 22nd
and July 21st? Then
you belong to the
fourth sign of the
zodiac - — Cancer —
like Bob Evans
(June 29), Susan
Hayward (June 30),
Leslie Caron (July
1), Gina Lollobrigida (July 4), Janet Leigh
and Luana Patten (July 6), Nick Adams
(July 10), Tab Hunter
(July 11), Polly
Bergen (July 14) , Pat
Wayne (July 15).
You are a very sen-
sitive person and be-
cause of this, you tend
to take upon yourself
the grief of others.
You have great love
and protectiveness and Sus(m; FZattcrer?
so your home and
family mean a great deal to you. Because
you are such a sensitive person, you take
things very personally, sometimes thinking
a remark was meant
for you but which
was never intended.
Money is important
to you and you can
often “stretch a dol-
lar” very far. You
are very straight-
forward, generous
and loyal to friends
and family. Men,
you are understand-
ing and thoughtful. Women, you are gentle
and feminine and have a natural talent for
flattery. Your lucky number is three.
Tab: A great love?
Vol. 2, No. 6
Puzzles
ACROSS
1 . Miss Bee's initials
3. His hit is “Big Iron”
5. I love (Latin)
6. TV network (abbrev.)
•8. He made white bucks famous
9. Our pictured singer of the month
10. Perry's “Music ”
12. Eydie’s husband
1 3. Male goat
14. "Stuck on you” (don’t you wish he
were?)
16. Henry’s daughter, Jane
18. 17 down hails from here (abbrev.)
19. Compass point
21. Our art director (init.)
22. Lee’s “Sweet Nothin’s”
DOWN
1. Connie Francis' Italian hit
2. “Greensleeves” is their best-seller
3. To chart or survey
4. International Business Machine (abbrev.)
6. Popular record label (abbrev.)
7. “Teenage ” by Sam Cooke
9. Bobby Darin’s big one
11. “Don’t Throw Away Ail Those Tear-
drops” is his plea
12. He made money with “Money”
15. Yard (abbrev.)
17. He made “Puppy Love”
20. Singer who died in auto crash (init.)
CAN YOU GUESS THEIR NAMES?
1. Virginia Katherine McMath — a. Helen
Hayes b. Lauren Bacall c. Ginger
Rogers
2. Arlington Brugh — a. Bela Lugosi
b. Phil Silvers c. Robert Taylor
3. Clara Ann Fowler — a. Patti Page
b. Shelley Winters c. Mary Martin
4. Sarah Jane Fulks — a. Lillian Roth
b. Shirley Temple c. Jane Wyman
5. Edythe Merrener— — a. Marilyn Maxwell
b. Susan Hayward c. Dinah Shore
•q s (3 > 'D £ .'3 i '3 l :sj0MSUV
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Miss America Beauty Book— when you buy this Special Toni.
why Liz and Eddie had to
have a second honeymoon
The feel of Eddie’s arms around her
waist only seemed to make her shiver
even more. It was as if the burning sun
overhead had become a cake of ice
— -as if Eddie weren’t the husband she
loved, as if every stranger were some-
one to frighten her. They’d left, less
than fifteen minutes ago, their six
pieces of oversized luggage piled in the
corner of their “honeymoon” cottage
and, without even unpacking, had started
to run hand-in-hand down to the beach
for their first swim in the lovely blue
tropical sea. ( Please turn the page )
bv JAE LYLE
mvr,
LIZ AND EDDIE continued
Then Liz had stopped short. “Let’s go back,” she said
suddenly. “I don’t want to swim after all.” They
walked back slowly, neither of them speaking. Eddie
watched her face worriedly. He knew by now what
could cause a bright mood to fade and make Liz’s
face grow pale with fear. There had been many times
he’d seen that haunted look. Sometimes it helped to
talk it out between them, and so he asked softly, “Liz,
what’s wrong?” She walked into the cottage and then,
hands dropping helplessly to her side, she cried out:
“Those whispers! I
can't run away. ..and
I can't answerthem."
{Continued on page 74)
Shari Sheeley:
“Eddie told me:
‘Something awful’s
going to happen.
I can feel it.
You’ll never be
Mrs. Cochran.’
And then,
EDDIE
DIED
IN MY
ARMS
only two hours later.
I still can’t believe it.
(Continued on page 76 )
DEBBIE
SETTLINC
FOR LESS
THAN
LOVE ?
In her heart,
Debbie knew she
couldn’t listen
to what others
were saying.
Then something
happened to
make up her mind.
(. Please turn the page )
34
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79
TO KILL A MEMORY
Continued from page 66
Show,” her expression changed and she
got up and clicked off the television set.
Walking to the window, she stood there
motionless, looking out at Central Park,
eighteen stories below. Peaceful and un-
real, the pulsating city had at last gone to
sleep.
She stood there a long time without
moving, and then, almost defiantly, she
turned around and walked across the
room, turning on the set again. Adjusting
the sound, she backed away from the set,
not taking her eyes off the screen, and sat
down on the couch again. As she watched
the picture come into focus, she began
to smile, almost hesitatingly, as a cool,
slightly arrogant voice said, “If you want
anything, just whistle!” Then, for the rest
of the evening, and for the first time since
her husband’s death three years before,
Lauren Bacall sat alone watching Bogey
on TV, and reliving a memory. . . .
“To Have and Have Not” was her first
picture and their first together.
“I remember the day before we went in-
to production on that picture,” she said.
“I was so nervous that I was all arms and
legs. I was sixteen and had been a model
and Howard Hawks had discovered my
pictures in Harper’s Bazaar magazine. The
first thing he did, when I arrived in Holly-
wood, was to take me on Bogey’s set to
meet the star. I had always been a movie
fan but, amazingly enough, Bogey had
never been one of my special favorites. To
my sixteen years, he seemed like an old
man of forty-one. Besides, he was mar-
ried, so that automatically excluded any
thoughts of romance — which I didn’t have,
anyway. But I had enormous respect for
him as an actor, and even after we had
worked together, my worst fears never en-
tirely disappeared.
“Sitting there watching ‘To Have and
Have not,’ I remembered the crazy nick-
names he used to call me, like ‘Sam’ or
‘Joe’ or ‘Charlie’ — ‘Charlie’ was his favor-
ite— -he never called be Betty — and how he
kidded me out of my nervousness. One day
we were playing a scene together and I
suddenly went dry. I just couldn’t remem-
ber my dialogue. There was a dreadful
silence, and then Bogey just looked at me,
and in a low, deadpan voice asked, ‘I beg
your pardon?’ I just broke up and, after
that, all my tenseness was over. I didn’t
muff another line. Another time, I had a
scene where I had to enter a doorway and
I slouched in like a model. Bogey came
over to me and said, ‘Listen, Charlie, have
you any idea why you are entering that
doorway? Just don’t walk in as if you had
come from a manicure and had no other
thought in your mind except whether your
nails are dry!’ ”
Betty stopped talking, as though the
memories were stronger than the present
and finally, without reason, she said: “Bo-
gey gave me a sense of security. He shel-
tered me the way my family had. That’s
why, after his death, when I was left with
the children and had complete control of
our future, without Bogey it terrified
me. I kept telling myself that there were
millions of young wives all over the world
who experienced the same. But it didn’t
help my loneliness. The panic was still
there.
“It remained until, one day, I finally
came to my senses. I decided I couldn’t go
on living surrounded by the ghosts of the
past. I stopped wearing the bracelet Bogey
had given me, with the inscription from
‘To Have and Have Not’ and a tiny whistle.
“It had no point to it now. He can’t
whistle for you any more, I told myself, so
put it away. And I put away the pictures of
his yacht ‘Santana.’ I didn’t need them as a
reminder of the fun we had, sailing in
Catalina, Balboa and the races in Hono-
lulu. The memory of Bogey’s contented
face, when he was sailing, was all I needed.
So I sold the ‘Santana’ to a fellow-yachts-
man who knew Bogey and loved the sea
as he did.
“I also sold the house we shared our life
together in. Our friends — Hjordis and Da-
vid Niven, Kate Hepburn, Frank Sinatra,
Spencer Tracy, who had come to see Bogey
every day to help keep up the pretense
with me that everything would be all right,
continued to visit me — but Bogey was al-
ways with them. Everyone was wonderful
to me, but Hollywood is a town of couples
— married, divorced, romantic — and I felt
like a third wheel and more alone than
ever. However, I didn’t have the courage
to move away. And then, when I moved
into a new house, I chose one in the same
old neighborhood — can you beat that?
“I had always traveled with Bogey and
the thought of being on my own, in Lon-
don and Paris, was more terrifying than
staying on in Hollywood. Then, one day,
my great friend ‘Slim’ Hayward said she
was going abroad for a six-week holiday
and invited me to join her. That did it.
“In London, Vivien Leigh and Larry
Olivier gave me a party. Everyone of im-
portance, in the social and theatrical world,
was there, and I kept pinching myself to
see if I were the same girl who had once
fainted at the thought of even meeting Sir
Laurence and Lady Olivier. You can imag-
ine what this did to build up my morale
— to be accepted on my own, without
Bogey, for the first time.
The fatherless children
“Then I came back and made up my
mind to live in New York. The children
love it and . . .” Betty paused again. “You
know, it’s a shame Bogey can’t see Stephen
and Leslie growing up. Being a father was
quite an astonishing experience for Bogey
because, after three childless marriages
and at his age, he was sure that the stork
had passed him by. When I told him about
Stephen’s impending event, at first he was
somewhat reserved in his reaction. I think
he was a little scared of the responsibility
of fatherhood, and also a little jealous that
maybe Stephen would trespass on his ter-
ritory a bit! But after Stephen came, and
looked like a miniature Bogey, he was just
like all fathers who feel that it is they who
had produced their first born. As for Les-
lie, he adored her, but he didn’t quite
know how to play with a little girl. He
would balance her on his lap like a deli-
cate piece of china.
“You can try to keep the memory of a
father alive for a child, but I don’t. Not
with any conscious effort anyway,” she
said. “They each have a photograph of him
in their bedrooms, and they accept the fact
that their daddy is dead. I wouldn’t allow
them, though, to attend the funeral and I
didn’t tell them about the anniversary of
Bogey’s death, either. Bogey would have
been the last person to have wanted this
kind of morbidity.
“I know there is no such thing as being
father and mother to a fatherless child.
Leslie isn’t as aware of her need for a fa-
ther yet, but I hate the fact that Stevie is
being brought up in a household of
women.
“So, of course, I want to get married
again. It is the greatest compliment I can
pay Bogey. But, I know now, you can’t go
looking for love. It has to find you — aided
by the moving finger of Fate. Now that
I’ve learned this the hard way, I go out on
dates and have fun. I no longer take in-
ventory for possible husband material! BW
my son,” and she paused and laughed, “mv
son has other ideas. You should see th
way he sizes up every escort who bea’
me around. He takes me aside and whi
pers, ‘Mummy, is he the one?’
“I’ve explained to him and to Leslie tha
I want a father for them, but first he must
be the right husband for me.”
“Too old for her . .
And, pausing, as if considering the lone-
liness of the past three years, she said:
“We would have been married fifteen
years on May twenty-first. We were mar-
ried at Louis Bromfield’s beautiful farm in
Ohio. I was nineteen.”
And remembering the day fondly, she
smiled, “Bogey had hesitations, in the be-
ginning, about our ages. He once told a
friend ‘I’m nuts about the dame, but I’ll
never marry her. I’m too old for her. I’m at
that age when I’ve had my fling and want
to settle down. She’s just starting her life
and needs a young guy who will take her
dancing every night and give her a family.
I’m too far off from that type-casting. . . .’
He always kidded me and said he finally
proposed because if he didn’t someone else
would beat him to it. . . .
“I want my next husband to be some-
one closer to my age, not only for the chil-
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80
dren, but for me. Bogey’s friends were all
much older than I. So many of them have
passed on, too — lifelong friends like Leslie
Howard, Robert Sherwood and Louis
Bromfield and his wife Hope. They are all
gone. . .
Betty sat still, then said, “I can finally
look at Bogey and not be sad any more.
Watching him on the ‘Late, Late Show’ last
; night, seeing him now as he was when I
first knew him, is like a flashback in a
movie. And there are no sad memories
now, just happy ones, of eleven-and-a-
half wonderful years shared together. I
realize I have these. How many people can
go through an entire lifetime and be this
lucky?
“And now, all I want is a one-woman
man, as Bogey was,” she said quietly. “I
don’t believe in infidelity in marriage. You
know, most people think of me as a play-
girl, but they couldn’t be more wrong. I’m
the type that goes to India to film ‘Flame
Over India,’ where I meet the richest ma-
harajahs. But do they decorate my finger
with a pigeon-blood ruby, or smother me
in sable? They do not. And why? Because
they think of me as a nice girl and don’t
want to offend me. And do you know
something? They are right! If this makes
i me sound like Miss Virtue I don’t mean it
like that. What I mean is, I believe in the
: ‘togetherness’ of love that builds a home
and a family. I was lucky enough to find
it once, and I hope I will again.”
“So long, Baby”
She stopped talking and sat thinking,
perhaps of a young woman sitting quietly
in a bedroom, watching her husband — still
and weak — gasp for breath. And know that
she was sitting there watching him die.
And feeling that she, too, was in a long ill-
ness and that she, too, might never re-
cover. Only, she would be alive, yet numb.
And a telephone rings downstairs, below
in the library, and she listens as someone
moves and picks it up, and yet, she knows
she has no desire to know who’s calling.
And a slight movement and cough pulls
her thoughts back to the bed and to her
husband and she realizes, as though it
were a new thought, that she has been sit-
ting there for months, desperately trying
to hide from her husband that he was dy-
ing. And wondering, all the while, “Does
he really know? Does he know, even as we
dress and shave him and carry him down-
stairs every afternoon, at five, for a drink
and a smoke with friends, that he cannot
lick this cancer?”
Then, aloud, revealing her thoughts, she
says: “Bogey never once discussed death
with me during all those months that I sat
at his bedside, trying to hide the desperate
truth from him. He was a great actor and
he played out his part magnificently to the
end. He knew, from the beginning, that he
had cancer, but he really thought he could
lick this dread disease as he had licked
every other obstacle in his path. But in
those final days, he was too perceptive to
kid himself any longer — even though he
went on kidding me. He faced death as he
faced life — honestly and unafraid. When
his time came, with his last strength, he
merely said, ‘So long, Baby . . .’ and then
was still. But what he meant, I’m sure, was
‘It was great fun while it lasted, but it’s all
over now. Tough luck, Baby.’ ”
And, smiling a little she went on, her
voice hardly audible, “You know, I’ve sent
for all my furniture. It has been in storage
since Bogey died. But I decided, last eve-
ning, from now on I’m going to have a new
home of my own. That’s the way Bogey
would have wanted it, don’t you think?”
The End
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81
HOME TO HIS FOLKS
Continued from page 65
It wasn’t comfortable for Annette, and she
felt sorry for Mrs. Anka who had cooked
a delicious meal and set a pretty table,
making the visit into a big occasion — an
occasion that flopped! But, most of all, she
was sorry for Paul because he was sad
again. And when he was sad, she felt it
right along with him somehow.
It was a relief when, after the coffee,
Paul whispered, “Come outside with me,
Annette. Let’s be alone for a little while.”
They went out and sat as far from the
house as they could get.
Annette coaxed, “Don’t be blue, Paul,
they didn’t mean to poke fun at you, they
were only trying to entertain me.”
Paul sat brooding, quietly, until he burst
out, “It isn’t them, Annette — it’s me.
They’re right — I was a mixed-up kid, never
sure exactly what I wanted. But what
bothers me is I’m still mixed up! When
am I going to know? When am I going to
be sure what life’s all about?”
Annette bit her lip, and thought, does
he mean us! Does he mean marriage? But
this was nothing a girl could say, or ask.
So she told him, comfortingly, “Paul,
you’re only eighteen. Give yourself a
chance!”
Her concern, so sweet, moved Paul to
tell her something he hadn’t intended to.
Something he had kept from her, and his
mother, and his whole family — until now
he felt the need to reveal it — and himself —
to Annette. He told her what had happened
on his last hop to Europe. . . .
They were an hour out over the Atlantic
when suddenly a sputtering sound on his
side of the big Air France plane snapped
him out of an exhausted doze. Lights
suddenly flooded the wing, showing one
propeller fanning to a stop, and gasoline
leaking from the tanks. At the same time,
the cabin blacked out. Stewardesses with
flashlights explained the danger.
“There is a fuel leak. We’re circling back
to Montreal. Please fasten your seat belts
and remain calm. There’s only a little
danger.”
Paul wasn’t so sure. He noticed revved-
up engine’s sparks dangerously close to the
escaping gas. If they set it off — they’d all
blow up in flames.
“Why,” he told himself, “I can’t die like
this. I’ve hardly lived!” He prayed. And
then, miraculously, they were safely down,
the whole thing an unbelievable night-
mare. He had just toured practically all
of Europe and Japan, Australia, Hawaii
and Africa, this boy who had “hardly
lived.” He’d set records at the famous
Olympia in Paris, and on the Riviera. In
Tokyo, they’d staged a ticker-tape parade
in his honor. In Osaka, thousands stuck
out a typhoon to greet him. In Helsinki,
Finland, he’d sung for two hours, in driv-
ing sleet, to 20,000 people — without losing a
listener!
And, yet, something was missing. Paul
knew it then as he knew it today, sitting
here with Annette. “Sometimes on that
European tour, I’d find tears welling up,”
he went on. “I’d lie on my hotel bed, all
wound up after a day of the wildest
cheers.” Yet he couldn’t say exactly why.
Coming into the Georges Cinq Hotel in
Paris, a bunch of French teenagers invari-
ably flocked around him. “Come on, Paul,”
his older troupe members would say.
“Break it up and let’s rehearse.”
“No,” he’d answer them, arrested by a
disturbing tug. “You guys go in. I want to
stay here a while.” So he’d sit on the brick
wall out front, buddying with kids his
own age, messing around and talking about
things that the people he traveled and
worked with wouldn’t care about, or even
understand. Then he felt better.
It was funny: how some days in lots of
places — Rome was one — he’d have to
smuggle himself to safety in fire trucks or
police wagons. He’d have to climb over
walls or shinny down fire escapes, hide
himself under long cloaks and hats, even
paste on false mustaches — all to give them
the slip. And yet, he really ached for
someone like them to talk to.
At the plush Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas,
where he’d made his American night-club
debut last spring, he was like a fish out of
water. All around him, gamblers clinked
silver dollars at the gaming tables and
bellied up to the bar. Even if he liked to
drink or gamble, which he doesn’t, he
couldn’t. He was too young. At the dinner
shows, he shared the program with brassy
Sophie Tucker, past seventy, with her
risque patter and suggestive songs. In his
own act he found himself practically
apologizing for being in front of that
sophisticated audience. "Every night, at the
end,” he told Annette, “I’d walk off fast,
without looking back, like a school kid
running out of a room of patronizing
adults.”
So, in Las Vegas, he got an idea. He’d
give a free concert on Saturday at the high
school auditorium, just for teenagers — two
thousand of them. That way, he knew, he
could meet kids. And it made him feel
good.
“But then, it was so strange,” he told
Annette. “One minute I was out in front
of all those people. And then, suddenly, I
was alone. What could I do here in this
hotel room? Nothing but think of what I’d
be doing if I was home! I’d think I’d be
with the kids having fun — or would I have
been? No, I guess not,” he frowned now.
“It’s not the same anymore. They’ve heard
my records and they think I'm different.
They don't know what to say and I don’t
either. They may even resent me. Some-
times, I think, ‘what's happened to all my
friends?’ and then ‘what’s happened to
me?” He looked at Annette as if waiting
for an answer. But she just sat there
listening intently.
“It was that way when I went back to
my home town, Ottawa, Canada,” he con-
tinued. He’d looked up his best pals, the
Quinn brothers and Tommy Wrangle,
busting for things to be like always. They
weren’t; there wasn’t much to say. All the
things he’d planned, excitedly, to say and
hear didn’t come out — either way. It was
really just “hello” and then “goodbye”
without real contact, and that lonesome
feeling again.
“Like I’d hopped off a sleigh ride and
hopped right back on,” he described it for
Annette.
“I’m so young”
Once, before he moved his family to New
Jersey, he got a chance to fly home to
Ottawa. He wanted it to be a surprise, so
he didn’t let the family know. When he
arrived, nobody was home; the house was
empty and still. He just sagged to the
piano seat and fooled with the keys, be-
cause that’s all there was to do. In a few
minutes, he wrote “Lonely Boy” — and he
also wrote about himself.
“I’m so young — and you’re so old. . . .”
the words of “Diana.”
“And this is the way I feel!” he explained
to Annette. “Like there were two Paul
Ankas living in two different worlds.” In
one, he’s a seasoned entertainer. In the
other, he’s a kid who sometimes says
gloomily, “I should be in school,” who likes
to send for his mother to be with him on
engagements, who can’t resist sophomoric
pranks and was “as tongue-tied as a ninth
grader on my first date with a girl named
Annette Funicello.” When he finished with
a shy smile, Annette squeezed his hand,
touched by the very shyness he was con-
fessing.
“I don’t know much about love, Annette,”
he went on. He fumbled for words. “You
know who was my first love? Miss McCrea,
my third grade teacher.” And he went on
and told Annette how he used to slip little
gifts into her desk drawer and hang
around after school, mooning. After she
got married, he’d ride his bike past her
apartment and stare forlornly until, finally,
he snapped out of it. “When that happened,”
Paul laughed, “I made up my mind never
to fall in love again. I couldn’t have been
more than nine at the time!” Annette
started to laugh at this, too. “But then,
along came Collette.” Paul continued. “She
was a French girl who came to look after
us kids when Mom worked at Simpson-
Sears store, and Dad was at the cafe and
had to work until 4 a.m.”
Paul fell madly in love with Collette.
When she got a boyfriend, Louie, Paul
sulked miserably and threw oranges at
them as they sat on the porch.
“You love him better than you do me!”
he accused bitterly. Collette tried to ex-
plain the betrayal. “No I don’t, Paul. I just
love Louie in a different way. When you
get a little older, you’ll understand.”
Now Paul was older at last — eighteen —
and trying to make Annette understand
how he felt about her. “Like one night, last
December, I was tossing around in bed. I
just couldn’t sleep. My manager, Irvin
Feld, was trying to get some shut-eye. We’d
just come from Hollywood — that was
where I fell hard for you, Annette. Now,
here I was in New Jersey and I couldn’t
stop thinking of you.
“ ‘Tell me’ I finally blurted out to Irv,
‘Do you think Annette really loves me? Do
I love her?’
“ ‘Paul,’ Irv said to me, ‘You know what
I think? You’re infatuated. It’s puppy love.’
“ ‘Puppy love — what’s that?’ I asked, and
Irv told me. Next thing I knew, I yanked
him out of the bed and downstairs to the
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82
music room. ‘I’m gonna write that song,’
I said.”
And, in twenty minutes, it tumbled but —
words and melody. By five o’clock, Paul
had scored it on a lead sheet. “Puppy Love”
went to the top of the Top Ten. “And
where I sob out ‘Help me — help me!’ I felt
it that way. But I wouldn’t have known
how to say it to you, Annette.”
A pretty fresh kid
This was the day Annette learned some-
thing else about Paul she never knew be-
fore—how, if anything bugged him, it was
the fact that he’s only five feet six inches.
As a kid they’d called him “Shorty.”
Like most small kids, he did everything he
could to prove being little didn’t mean a
thing. “Most people thought I was a pretty
fresh kid,” he admitted to Annette now.
“Mother doesn’t kid when she says I
was a little devil most of my life.”
At Connaught elementary school, he
wore a rut between his class and the
principal’s office. He was always getting
tossed out of classes for passing notes,
shooting spitballs, pulling ponytails. He
called Miss Winchester, the teacher, “Miss
Windbag” behind her back. He was
promptly kicked off the “Safety Patrol” for
heaving snowballs. “The only thing I
really liked about school,” confessed Paul,
“was sports.”
He was a mighty atom at those, once he
fought his way onto the teams. He made
the soccer, baseball and hockey teams. He
was goalie on a bantam league club that
won the city championship, high scorer for
“The Ants,” another ice group sponsored
by the Kiwanis Club. Later, in Fisher Park
High, he caught for the softball team, ran
the 100 mile run in eleven seconds. He was
the shortest member of the basketball
squad, but its high-point player.
And he hustled just as aggressively at
making money. He had the knack. One
summer, when he was only seven, a gang
of workmen dug up the street in front of
his house, laying new sewer pipes. He
rigged up a lemonade stand and cashed in
at a nickel a glass. Next day, he organized
a tidy racket, floating a saucer in a bucket
of water and inviting the men to pitch
pennies for a free drink. The coins that
missed — and most did — he fished out and
kept.
After that, he shagged bottles for the
milkman, mowed lawns in summer,
shoveled snow off walks in winter. He
swept out a grocery store mornings and
afternoons. His newspaper route got to be
the biggest in his section of town. One day
his dad handed him a bankbook. But the
pages remained blank. Paul blew the pro-
ceeds on records, records and more
records. He stacked his room with platters,
his phonograph or radio was always going
during his homework, and late into the
nights when he was supposed to be asleep.
Because all this time, there was another
side to him besides the joker, hustler and
athlete. It was a side nobody saw — it was
too personal. He knew he had to entertain
people. It might have begun when he
heard the Anka clan singing around the
house, as they all did, especially his Uncle
Maurice. The holy chants at St. Elijah’s
Orthodox church might have originally
stirred what was deep inside him. Paul
was an altar boy, then a member of the
choir. “Music was everything to me,” he
told Annette. And this she could well
understand.
Yet high school was one long, confused
misery, which brewed plenty of tension at
home. “I was so mixed-up,” he said, “I
couldn’t seem to settle down to anything.
I used to cry at night in bed, wondering
why I couldn’t do anything right. It was
the worst time of my life.”
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and decided not to go back — he was too
crazy about art. He was struggling to get
started in New York with his talents —
photography and a skill for making
mobiles that everybody admired but no-
body bought.
“But at least I eat,” he said with a
smile. He explained that owners of res-
taurants in the Village, and bars and
movie houses, were always glad to let
him dangle his mobiles from their ceilings.
He didn’t get paid for them, but he got all
the free food he could eat and all the
movies he wanted to see.
So, for our first date, we enjoyed dinner
and a movie on the strength of his mobiles.
The second date, we spent mostly walking
for miles and talking our heads off. And
not once, on either of those dates, did he
kiss me! He was shy and I liked him for it.
My mother liked him, too. It wasn't
long before the shy Gard was so much
at home with us that he dropped in regu-
larly— to take showers. He had to take
them somewhere, he couldn’t in that
dream apartment he’d rented with my
valuable assistance!
One afternoon, my mother was giving a
tea party for a dozen or so friends, when
the doorbell rang and Gard walked in.
I wasn’t home, but Mother told me about
it later. She introduced him all around.
He said, “How do you do,” then politely
excused himself and went into the bath-
room. A few minutes later you could
hear the shower running, because the
plumbing in our apartment was very
noisy. And over the running water, you
could hear the cheerful sound of a man
whistling in the shower. Mom said the
women didn’t utter more than ten words,
they were listening so hard, with the fun-
niest expressions on their faces.
Finally, the bathroom door opened and
out came Gard, completely dressed again.
He said, “Thank you” to Mother, and
“Nice to have met you” to the ladies,
and walked out the front door.
For one full minute, there was a
stunned silence. Then one of Mother’s
oldest friends said, “Lilly, do you realize
that very polite young man just went
into your bathroom and took a shower?”
“Of course,” Mother said calmly. “He’s
a very clean, polite young man.”
To this day. Mother still refers to Gard
as “that nice boy who always took show-
ers in our apartment.” But what I fondly
remember is the fun we had together.
Sailing was the love of his life, and we
did that when he could afford it. Mostly,
we walked, talked, drank coffee in Louie’s,
our favorite restaurant, haunted junk
shops to fix up his studio, and had the
most luxurious picnics imaginable in
Central Park. That was because of the
mobiles. We’d have things like roast
chicken, French bread, and even a bottle
of wine. I was going to a girls’ school in
New York, but he wouldn’t meet me at
the school, he was too shy. There was
something about the way females looked
at him that made him stutter and stumble
all over himself. On the other hand, you
couldn’t blame them for looking at him
that way, either. But I bet they’d be sur-
prised if they knew how darn trustworthy
such a handsome fellow could be. I bet
nobody’d believe it!
I am almost six feet tall, and Gard is
six-foot-three. We’re both shy, and I don’t
think he kissed me more than half a dozen
times in those happy young years we
spent together. He set the pace himself
one night — something not many men will
do.
He wasn’t always wacky
We were at his apartment, washing
dishes after dinner and he kissed me on
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79
the top of my head. I turned and kissed
him back. Next thing I knew, he had
thrown my coat over my shoulders and
was dragging me down the stairs two at
a time. He didn’t say a word until we
reached the subway entrance on the cor-
ner and then he turned me around and
looked me straight in the eyes.
“Ker, I want you to remember one
thing. When you’re in a man’s apartment,
don’t trust him. Not that he’s a bad guy —
he’s just human — and you’re a different
kind of girl.” With that, he gently shoved
me toward the stairs to the subway and
went on down the street. I was just
eighteen then, and he was twenty. He was
very grown-up for his age but both of
us still had a lot more growing up to do.
Had we been in too much of a hurry
then, we wouldn’t be the close friends we
are now.
He was a funny mixture of gentle shy-
ness and mad humor. One night, we were
leaning against an empty taxicab waiting
for another couple to come out of Louie’s,
in the Village, when a drunk reeled
around the corner and fell into the cab.
“Take me to Broadway and 49th,
driver,” he ordered.
Gard jumped in, turned on the ignition
and gunned the motor for fifteen seconds.
Then he shut it off, hopped out, and
opened the door for the drunk.
“I’ll be hanged if I’ll ever drive with
you again,” mumbled the passenger. “You
drive too fast.”
But don’t think Gard was always that
wacky. His struggles with himself did
heartbreaking things to him. You’d think
the mirror, alone, would give him the
confidence he needed so painfully. But he
never could see himself as others did —
handsome, gifted, intelligent. He hadn’t
the slightest notion of all he had to offer.
He was alone so much, and he had such
drive, that everything he did, he learned
to do perfectly. But it was never enough;
he was never satisfied. Why? Maybe be-
cause his father was a very big advertis-
ing executive, and his family had always
been prominent, and his great-great-
grandfather had been the finest ship
builder of his time. So Gard had to prove
something, he had to be the finest what-
ever-he-could-be. But the struggle was
tough. And it put him in mortal terror
of people.
Just how terror-stricken he could get,
I learned soon after I became a friend to
be trusted. I was home, one evening, and
the phone rang.
“Kerry? Listen.” Gard’s voice was low
and hurried. “You’ve got to get here
fast — you’ve got to get me out of this!”
“Oh Gard! Gard — where are you?”
“I’m in the penthouse at the Sherry
Netherland. At a party. And . . .”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m on my way.”
I slapped on some good clothes and
hopped a cab. Soon a butler was leading
me into a fabulous drawing room with
at least a hundred elegant guests. It was
strictly out of a movie. I spotted Gard in
a far-off corner hunched on a tiny satin
ballroom chair. At his feet sat three in-
ternationally famous glamor girls, two
of them old enough to be his mother. All
three were looking up into his face ador-
ingly. But he was looking scared.
I swooped on the little group saying,
“Darling, I hate to tear you away but
we’ll be late for the Malcombs.” Whoever
they were!
You’d never think a six-foot “threer”
could shoot out of a little chair like a
rocket, but he did. I grabbed his arm and
we sailed out. We ended up walking from
Fifty-ninth and Fifth down to the Village.
He needed air!
“All th-those strangers,” he groaned.
“And th-those f-female 1-1-leeches!” He
was stuttering again — he only did it when
he got panicky.
“Nobody forced you to go,” I sort of
snapped. “I rescued you, so quit carrying
on! Next time don’t get yourself into
something you can’t get yourself out of.”
The day Gard collapsed
He never forgot my words. Some
months later, we were sailing for Fire
Island on a twenty-five foot ketch he
had acquired — no motor, only sails. We
invited two other couples along and none
of us were sailors except Gard. He was
kept busy with the sails and rudder while
we ate hamburgers, drank Cokes and
relaxed.
When we came to a bridge that had to
be opened for us, he jumped up on the
pilings to help the bridge-keeper. Next
thing we knew, the ketch was floating
away with Gard stranded on the pilings.
At first, he stared after us with shock,
while we stared back the same. Then he
started to laugh. That’s what we saw as
we drifted out to sea — Gard laughing!
We floated for an hour until the Coast
Guard picked us up. They said Gard had
called and told our plight — five land-
lubbers drifting out to sea.
Back in town we headed for Louie’s,
tired, hungry, a little wet and pretty mad.
We hoped to find Gard and strangle him.
We sat drinking coffee till he walked in,
carrying a brown paper package.
“For my friends,” he said. And to me,
“You were right, Kerry — never get your-
self into anything you can’t get yourself
out of.” We tore open the package and
there were five separate copies of “The
Small Boat Skipper and His Problems.”
I hit Gard with my copy, but later I
memorized it from cover to cover.
“Good girl,” he told me, then. “What-
ever you’re trying to do, learn the ropes
or you’ll sink every time.”
He should know! He was trying to do
half-a-dozen things — writing, painting,
designing mobiles, sailing, among other
things, and learning the ropes thoroughly
for each. Until one day, he collapsed
right on the dock. The doctor said he’d
been overdoing it to the point of exhaus-
tion and was suffering an attack of mono-
nucleosis. That put him in the hospital.
And did that teach him to slow down?
Hah! He tried something new. Strictly for
laughs and money, he took a job doing a
razor blade commercial. He wasn’t very
keen about the business, but he needed
new sails for the ketch and it seemed
an easy way to raise the cash.
The rest is history. The commercial was
seen by movie execs and Gard was signed
to a long-term contract.
“Why not?” he said the night he came
over to the apartment to tell us. “I’ll
be able to buy a new boat, I can work
on my mobiles in my spare time. It’ll be
pretty much the same life only on the
West Coast. Of course, there’ll be lots of
new people to meet, but a guy’s got to
get out and circulate.”
He sees the light of life
This was Gard? Gardner McKay? A
boy who, two years before, couldn’t walk
across a room without falling over his
feet if people were watching him? Who
felt sick if he was exposed to a roomful
of strangers? Where did the confidence
come from all of a sudden?
I believe that sensitive and unsure peo-
ple are hiding in a small, dark room
where they live out the years in fear and
trembling behind a locked door. You
never know what thing, little or big, will
unlock that door. Even a little bit of
success might do it for someone who’s
known failures. Or a good friendship for
one who’s been lonely too long. Or a bit
of good luck for the always-hard-luck
guy. It doesn’t matter— just so someone
opens the door to let a human being out
of the hiding place he’s made for himself.
When that happens, when, for the first
time, he sees the light of life, he wants to
rush around and make up for lost time,
embracing everything and everybody in
this fine new world.
I know that’s what happened to Gard.
He told me so. He said, “Kerry, the first
time I got before a camera, I expected to
panic. I thought, oh boy, a stuttering
actor! But it didn’t happen! I felt great!
I felt like making people laugh, or cry, or
sing — anything to bring them out of
themselves the way I was brought out of
myself. This was for me. It was like . . .
well, Kerry, it was like coming home!”
The End
SEE GARDNER ON ABC-TV IN “ADVENTURES IN
PARADISE,” MONDAYS, 9:30-10:30 P.M., EDT.
CAROL LYNLEY
Continued from page 35
meet a nice boy because my mother keeps
me locked up in my room. And bang!
That’s for implying that I will probably
snack my way up to 300 pounds. So every-
one can say, “Oh look, there goes Miss
Jello of 1960, the former Carol Lynley.”
Some of the lies told about me are big
fat ones that smack you across the face
like a wet, heavy towel. And others are
the sneaky kind. Like: “Carol always looks
so sad because she is frustrated” or “Carol
Lynley is the pitiful result of a broken
family.”
When I hear these things I am really
shocked and they pain my mother, too.
Sometimes they are such gross exaggera-
tions that they’re funny — in a way — but it’s
a hurting way. I don’t think it’s very nice
to do this to a girl, or her mother, or any-
body. And if I sound flip, it’s because it’s
sometimes the easiest way to talk about
things close to you.
I know they’re talking about me behind
my back. But I’m no longer afraid to take
those lies out in the open and pick them
up one by one, like: “Carol Lynley has no
self-control when it comes to eating.”
Now it’s true that if I eat too much cake
and candy I’ll put on unnecessary weight.
But isn’t that true for millions of teen-
agers? Does it mean we’re all going to hit
three hundred pounds? No! Three hundred
I times no!
Besides, I do watch my diet. And when
I look tragic about not having chocolate
cake for dessert, my mother laughs and
remarks that I was on a hunger strike for
the first ten years of my life. Before she
left the hospital with me, I had dropped
from the eight pounds, eight ounces I
weighed at birth, to seven- six. She was
scared to death I’d just fade away. But
from the time I was eleven — the year I
grew six inches, incidentally — my attitude
toward food changed.
I’ve heard people say they put on a
pound just looking at a cake. Not true for
me. So long as it’s behind a store window
I’m safe. But I’ll admit that once it gets
into the house it’s another matter. So why
do we have cake in the house when my
mother doesn’t want to tempt me or her-
self with calories? Well you see, there’s
my brother Danny. He’s six-two and cute,
but he weighs only one hundred and twen-
ty-eight. My poor mother, she worries if
I gain and worries if Danny doesn’t.
And this is how it works out: Mother
stocks the refrigerator with oranges,
grapes, carrots and such rabbit food — for
me. You know who raids the refrigerator
and gobbles up the oranges, grapes, etc.?
You guessed it. Danny. And mother buys
cookies to encourage Danny to drink milk,
only they hide the cookies somewhere in
his room. Well, they don’t have to hide
any cookies from me. When I walk into
the apartment my built-in radar auto-
matically switches on. I step into Danny’s
room, stand stock still for a few seconds,
the'radar takes over, and guides me direct-
ly to the secret cache.
A broken home
Yet it’s not true that I suffer from
creeping calories. While I’m home in New
York, like now, I spend three hours a day
in dance classes. I carry lunch with me,
I usually hardboiled eggs and carrots in a
paper bag. Just like any other girl, I want
to keep my figure on the straight and nar-
row. Though I admit it’s sometimes plain
torture.
But this doesn’t come from unhappiness
that stems from a broken home. Actually
there are two lies here. In the first place
I am not unhappy. And in the second,
while my home life may be a little kookie
at times, it’s not broken. Let me give the
picture. I live with my mother, brother,
Samuel Katz (a Siamese cat) and Frankel
(a dachshund). We moved into a com-
fortable apartment off Central Park this
past December. We have three bedrooms
and two bathrooms, so we don’t bump into
one another. I have my phonograph and
Danny has his phonograph. Danny has his
records and Danny has my records — which
I can always steal back. We live in peace
and dignity and we respect each other’s
feelings. Take our dachshund, for instance.
He does look like a frankfurter, but rather
than offend him we call him Frankel.
There is only one pattern of unhappiness
and it’s with us almost every morning. I
admit that at that moment of the day my
mother, brother, Samuel and Frankel real-
ly hate me. But can I help it if I’m one
of those unfortunate beings who wakes up
whistling, smiling and full of gab? So
Samuel and Frankel hide under the sofa,
Mother tries to pretend I’m not there, and
Danny, with his face to the wall, says,
“Carol, if you must be cheerful in the
morning, go into your room and be it in
private.”
But that is our only genuine problem.
Danny and I are as close as brother and
sister can be. We have our own peculiar
way of showing affection. I come home
and Danny grumps a hello that is more
like a snarl. But Mother tells me later he’s
been sitting around worrying where am I,
and asking her to phone around and find
out. By the same token, Mom complains
that I give her altogether too much ad-
vice on how to raise him.
Now let’s see if my relationship with
Mother could be healthier. We love each
other and there’s always a lot of give and
take, but sometimes I don’t think we agree
on anything. For example, I don’t like her
taste in furniture. She did invite me to
shop with her, but I didn’t have time, and
so she chose much of our furniture her-
self. She likes unusual things but I think
too many unusual pieces are disturbing.
Like the large table lamp with the giraffes
chasing each other around the base. Mother
thinks it’s kind of fun, and very striking.
Well. . . .
My bedroom, which I’m furnishing in
early five-and-ten with a touch of Salva-
tion Army, best describes my taste. The
furniture is 19th-century American, kind
of latter-day colonial, and I decorate it
with artificial flowers, which I’m mad
about. In another few months my room
will be a tropical paradise. I have flowers
in bowls and ceramic pots and on those
small oval or round-framed pictures which
I buy in the five-and-ten. I paint out the
picture and fasten flowers to the frame.
In all fairness, I should point out that
I’ve got a good bed. Also a very good
Colonial desk which Grandmother Felch
gave me. And then there is always a stack
of magazines and several new books and
my phonograph and records. I should think
a broken home would have broken records,
but there’s not a sad one in the lot. The
albums include The Kingston Trio, “Porgy
and Bess,” “Nutcracker Suite,” songs by
Theodore Bikel, and so forth.
We’re not that kind of people
Pei’haps at this point I should tell cute
little anecdotes of my mother and me shop-
ping together, bending our heads over a
game of parchesi, and giggling with joy to
convince everybody that I don’t live in an
unhappy home. I can’t do that because
we’re not that kind of people. But we al-
ways have something to talk about. We
like to discuss murder trials, books, mov-
ies, plays and politics. We stimulate each
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other and enjoy each other’s comments.
About that broken home. My parents
separated when I was two years old. Dan-
ny, who is seventeen months younger than
I am, was just a baby. Neither of us re-
members any of the details, so you can
see it is a distortion to imply that I am a
victim of a domestic upheaval. Certainly
I have missed something in not having a
father in the house, but I have not suffered
anything. And that means working. I don’t
really hate having a career.
Let me tell you how that rumor started.
As a little girl I loved to dance. Mother
sent me to dance classes and, when I was
past ten, I got to dance on a children’s
television program. The producer told
Mother, “Carol should be modeling. She
photographs beautifully.” This surprised
Mother because snapshots of me were very
unimpressive. Mother was working as a
waitress and she talked about me to one
of her customers who used juvenile models.
He asked Mother to bring me to his office
and in his reception room we met the
mother of Patty McCormack, who was
there to model.
Mrs. McCormack told Mother that I
could make a fortune as a child model and
insisted that Mother take me over to a
certain agency. Mother did and when we
arrived Mrs. McCormack was already
there, giving me a build-up. That same
day I had two modeling jobs and two more
for the following day. I was so busy for
the next eight months that Mother didn’t
even have a chance to make up my picture
book.
The truth is that I didn’t like to model.
Now let me tell this straight. It’s not that
I feel emotional about it one way or the
other, for I still model today. But as a
child it annoyed me, because it took me
away from dancing. Still, modeling led me
to TV work, which led me to acting on
Broadway and Hollywood — which I do like.
To be perfectly honest, dancing is still my
first love and I would rather spend an
afternoon at the dance studio than in a
movie or watching television. The one
thing I hope for is that one day I will get
an acting part that will let me dance.
But I’m not pushed into anything. People
have been after me for years to take sing-
ing lessons and I refuse to do it. I really
hate, to sing. And recently, as reported in
the papers, I turned down a part in “High
Time." I had no refusal rights in my con-
tract, but I didn’t like the part and it was
I who personally decided against it. Doesn’t
this prove that neither my mother nor
anyone else pushes me around?
As for the stories that Mother controls
my dating, all I can say is she had to —
when I was thirteen. I was in Actors’
Equity by then, and the dance committee
at West Point got my name and address
along with the names of other actresses.
So when I was thirteen and fourteen and
fifteen. I received weekend invitations to
West Point affairs — which my mother
turned down. Now wasn’t that mean? I
was eighteen this past January, so you can
see that at last my cruel mother relented
and let me reclaim my lost youth.
Although Mother sometimes discusses
my dates (and what mother doesn’t?), I
date whom I please. My hours are flexible,
but I tell her if I have a date after dancing
class so she won’t worry when I’m late.
Sometimes, very infrequently, I forget to
tell her when I think I did. Then when I
get home I find her worried, but she un-
derstands it’s unintentional and I’m quick-
ly forgiven.
Most of the boys I date are not actors
and they’re the kind who don’t seem to
give a hang that I’m an actress, so we have
perfectly nice ordinary evenings. We may
p go to a movie or theater or concert. One
boy who knew I loved dancing came to
class with me, but only once — he found it
too strenuous. On Sundays I like to go
for long walks with a date, or to a museum
to look at paintings.
Someone I trusted once said that I’d told
her that when I was twenty-one I would
quit my career, get married and have chil-
dren. When it got back to me, I thought it
made me sound as if I’d rush out on the
street, grab a man and haul him off to
church. What I did mean was that when
I marry I’ll quit my work. I’m one of those
people who can’t do two things properly
at one time. Either my career or family
would suffer if I tried to do both. So when
I marry I intend to settle down and have
a family.
Actually, I did think I’d wait until I was
at least twenty-one before I married, but
Mother tells me I don’t know what I’m
talking about. As she points out, I’ve never
been in love, and when you fall in love,
whether you’re eighteen or twenty-eight,
the time seems right. Well, you can’t argue
with that.
When a boy thinks you’re fast
I have the same dating problems every
girl has — plus one. Sometimes, when I date
a boy I don’t know too well, he has the
idea that all actresses are wild. It’s not in
the way he acts but in the way he talks.
I mean he may say, “Of course, you drink
... Of course, you stay out all night.”
Well, I don’t drink and I’ve never stayed
out later than one. I feel like taking him
aside and saying, “If you’re thinking of so-
and-so who stays out all hours, that’s her
business. But don’t think everyone is like
that. I’m certainly not.”
And to the people who say, “If you study
Carol’s sad smile, you can see that she has
a secret problem,” I’ll admit — that’s true.
I have. Characters, real zany ones, collect
me and tell me their troubles. Between
classes, I often go into Horn and Hardart’s
on Broadway to sit over a cup of coffee
and read for forty-five minutes. The other
day, this nice little old lady came in and
took a chair across from me. She was read-
ing in the newspaper about the Shah of
Somewhere marrying the Princess of
Somewhere Else. She looked up at me and
said, “I don’t think he married her because
he loved her, do you?” I said, “Well, I don’t
know.” She said, “You must have some
opinion.” I said, “I know nothing about it.”
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She said, “Girl, you’re being insolent.” I
got out of there fast.
And there was the cab driver who was
telling me his wife hates him, his mother-
in-law was moving in, and he’d been in
jail for collecting numbers. And how he
wished he could make more money.
But I couldn’t feel too badly for him be- „
cause the cab he owned was a Mercedes- ,
Benz. And last winter on a cross-town bus, ,
a woman sat down beside me, asked where .
I got my raincoat, and then told me she
had stopped modeling because no one ever *
paid her. She was starving to death, she jj
said — and yet she was wearing a beautiful
sealskin coat. So I got off the bus two stops .
early. And that’s my secret problem! Some- ■
times they really get you cornered till ‘
you want to blow your top but don’t dare.
And that brings me to something else.
There are people who think I’m a per-
fect angel. “She’s a saintly looking child,”
they say and this kills me. I’m not a saint.
I’m not wicked, but I’m no saint. I have a
terrible Irish temper. Terrible. Four or five
times a week I can feel this anger rise in
me — but because I’m civilized, I control it.
Maybe I’m a little over-civilized, espe-
cially where clothes are concerned. I mean,
I’ve been thinking of bikini bathing suits,
but I know I’ll never be able to wear one.
I’ve got a two-piece bathing suit and the
couple of times I’ve had it on, I’ve wanted
to run for cover. So maybe I’m a little
prim on that score. I feel that a woman
is responsible for her clothes — you know,
the woman should wear the dress rather
than the dress wear the woman. If you
walk into a room and people notice your
clothes first, then they don’t do anything
for you. None of my clothes hide me be-
cause I have no secret problems to hide.
I don’t even have any secret problems, if
you know what I mean. And if you do
know, then you’re not like the woman
who said, “Poor Carol, she doesn’t look as
if she ever has any fun.” It depends on
what you mean by fun. I don’t walk around
with a grin on my face, and if I have a
serious thought I don’t try to suppress it.
Perhaps the woman thought I was stiff-
backed, because when she met me she
treated me like a celebrity. This is some-
thing I can’t take.
At the last West Point dance I attended,
along with my girlfriend Lydia Shaeffer,
we shared a dormitory room with three
other girls and everything was running
smoothly until a girl in another room got
the impression that I was Carol Lynley,
the actress. I saw her running around and
whispering. I didn’t like it, because I wasn’t
Carol Lynley, the actress. When you’re at
a party or dance you don’t want to be a
celebrity, because if people treat you like
one it spoils everything.
Finally the girl came up to me in the
ladies’ room and said, “Please tell me, are
you really Carol Lynley?”
I said, “No, my name is Pamela DeMacal
and I’m a telephone operator, but I’m
Carol’s cousin and that’s why we look so
much alike.”
She believed me. I know it wasn’t a nice
thing to do, but it meant that my escort
and myself had a normal kind of evening.
I never get annoyed at recognition when
someone is nice about it, but if you’re in a
small room and there are lots of young
people they will often treat you differently.
Then I get so embarrassed I just take off.
I used to get the same feeling, that I
wanted to run away when I’d hear those
awful things that people were saying about
me behind my back. It hurt so, but I just
couldn’t come up to them and face them.
But now I know that you can’t run away
from a lie. This is the first time I’ve had
the nerve to answer back, but I wanted
you to know the truth about me. The End
SEE CAROL IN “THE DAY OF THE GUn” FOR U-I.
BOB CONRAD
Continued from page 31
“I’ve got to change,” he thought des-
perately. “I’ve got to be somebody. Even
when I ran away from home to make
something of myself, all I made was a
big flat flop of it.” He was remembering
how he’d stood by the road with his
thumb out, while the cars whizzed by.
He’d made it to Minneapolis and then,
broke and defeated, he’d had to phone
his mother for help. She wired him plane
fare home to Chicago and she was nice
about it. So was his stepfather. But their
niceness made him feel more than ever
how he longed to be like them — success-
ful, brilliant people. He hated being a
school-kid while his buddies, all older,
were already in Korea — soldiers and men.
But he? He was too young — he had to
stay home.
There wasn’t a thing his mother and
stepfather wouldn’t do for him. Music les-
sons, voice culture — whatever he wanted,
Conrad Robert Falk could have. But the
more they lavished on him, the more he
felt he had to get somewhere on his own.
Because that was what a girl like Joan
Kenaly rated.
Joan Kenaly was the great thing that
had happened to the boy this sixteenth
summer. Joan and love. And it killed him
that he’d found his girl just in time to lose
her.
“Do you have to go to Florida?” he
pleaded. “It’s a million miles from here.”
“What can I do?” she mourned. “That’s
where Daddy wants to live.” Her father
was retiring from a fabulous law career
in Chicago. Another somebody! And Joan,
herself, was terrific. The prettiest sixteen-
year-old and the smartest student in
Sacred High Convent. Knowing her,
changed his whole world. He wanted to
grow up immediately and be a man for
her, because he loved her. And because
she never asked anything but to love him
in return.
Joan whispered, “I don’t have to go
with my folks right away. They’ll let me
finish out the year at the Convent and
then join them.”
A little hope flickered. “Well, that’s
something,” he said. “We’ll have nearly
half a year yet.”
They were sitting in a booth at the
sweetshop where they always met after
school. They sat on the same side, so they
could hold hands and talk low. To the
adult world, they were a pair of kids in
love with iove — “puppy stuff.” But the
boy knew that the biggest thing in his
life was to grow up quickly, so he could
marry Joan and take care of her forever.
The Kenalys went to Florida, and now
every time Bob and Joan met, their heads
were closer and their whispers lower.
They could talk of nothing but the deci-
sion they hardly dared to make.
But they made it. A month before his
seventeenth birthday, they eloped. On
February 23, 1952, he became a man with
a wife to support. Head of a household!
After the first shock, that was the way
both families played it too. The young-
sters wanted to be independent, finan-
cially and every which way — and then-
families let them. It was their privilege.
And, somehow, it worked. He went out
and got himself a job at a dollar and
eighty-six cents an hour, as a dock
worker for a trucking company. By put-
ting in long hours he could swing the
expenses, including sixteen dollars a week
rent for a furnished apartment. For the
first time he felt he had some control over
his life. He began to feel he could do
better than the dock job. And it felt good.
“I wish I could study voice again,” he
confided to Joan. And his little-girl wife
asked serenely, “Well, why can’t you?”
The family grew
With her encouragement, he switched
to a night job, took vocal lessons by day,
and still supported the two of them com-
fortably. When he was hired as vocalist
for a brand-new band, at five dollars a
night, he felt he was making a start. He
sang at college dances, business ban-
quets— until the band broke up and it
was back to the docks for Bob. Besides,
the family was growing. Little Joan was
bom on the next New Year’s Eve, and by
the following Christmas, a second child
was well on its way.
“It’s going to be the best Christmas of
my life,” Joan told him happily. She was
full of plans. They’d put up a big tree
this year, even if Joanny was only a baby
she’d still love it. “I saw the darlingest
toys for her,” Joan said, “and I’ve got
your surprise picked out.” Then she
added with a laugh, “I’m just waiting for
your next pay check, to make like Mrs.
Santa Claus.”
“Listen,” he pleaded kiddingly, “leave
me a few dollars to buy your presents,
will you?”
“Christmas is for children,” they kept
telling each other, proud of their parent-
hood, but they were merry as a pair of
kids themselves. Until next pay day. And
then he came home with dragging feet
and a face that had so much trouble
written all over it, he couldn’t hide it.
Finally, he had to tell her. But it was
hard to say. Instead, he pulled the en-
velope out of his pocket and handed it
to her. And she saw what was in there
along with his pay. A pink slip! “Yep,” he
said gloomily, “that’s what I got for
Christmas — fired!” And, as if he was afraid
she’d think he was no good on the job, he
said, “They had to cut down — there just
isn’t enough shipping this time of year.”
Her arms went around him, consolingly.
“Well, of course, Hon, or they’d never
fire a hard worker like you. Look, let’s
not worry. You’ll get something else
soon.”
“You’re sweet,” he murmured, and held
her close. But even her sweetness couldn’t
keep the old, “I’m a nobody” feeling from
creeping back into the very marrow of
his bones. “A fine flop I am,” he kept
brooding. “I can’t even provide a decent
Christmas for my family.”
It was a tough time to feel so low.
Every store window glittered, every sign
said “Happy Yule” in letters ten feet high.
The world was celebrating, everybody
felt fine — except him. Every day he went
through the “Help Wanted” pages and
ran around job hunting.
Finally he found something, an ad
calling for a “driver-salesman,” which
translated into a milkman’s route. But
that was okay. In fact, it was fine. For the
next three-and-a-half years, he rose be-
fore dawn every morning, made the de-
liveries and was free for other enterprises
— an afternoon job in a candy factory, and
night-time singing engagements that paid
off in experience, if not in cash.
After a while, the experience paid, too.
The singing jobs got better, until he was
ready to form his own combo, “Bob Con-
rad and His Friends.” They did fine, played
to crowds, he was making a living. But
somehow he never seemed to pull the
“right people,” the ones with influence in
the entertainment world.
“Leave it to us, Son,” offered his mother
Jackie and her husband Ed Hubbard.
“We know the people who can help you.
We’ll bring them over here to hear you.”
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83
But he refused. The old ache was still
with him. “I don’t want you shoving me
down people’s throats,” he insisted. “I’ll
do it on my own or bust trying. Just give
me time!” His mother sighed and gave up.
When she wanted so much to help, when
it was only a matter of a little push here
and a tactful word there — why did her
son have to be so stubborn?
At home, it was an entirely different
story. When he came home, Joan greeted
him with open arms and his baby daugh-
ter gurgled ecstatically at her Daddy. He
was the big man in their lives. And on
March 1, 1954, he knelt by Joan’s hospital
bed with his arms around her, admiring
their new daughter Nancy.
Joan, tired but happy, murmured,
“Wasn’t it a miracle, dearest, that she
was born on your birthday?”
“She was exactly what I wanted,” he
told her softly. “Show me a man who
ever got a better birthday present.” This
was a family man talking, with a wife
and two babies depending on him. And
he had just turned all of nineteen!
The hunger for success
More than ever, the hunger for success
hounded him. And hard as the singing
bug had bitten him, the acting bug now
bit even harder. His dream was to study
with Robert Schneiderman of Northwest-
ern College’s drama school. But with the
crazy hours he worked, how could he at-
tend classes?
He went to see the famous coach, poured
out his hopes and problems, and Mr.
Schneiderman agreed to take him on
privately. Meanwhile, he sang in clubs
that were only so-so, all the while search-
ing for a break that would get him into
the better clubs, so he could take better
care of his wife and children.
And then it happened! A swank new
club opened in town and they wanted him.
“We won’t pay you a salary,” they told
him, “we’ll do better — a percentage of the
net profits.” He hesitated, then decided
to take a chance. In a place like this he’d
surely be seen by the right people, the
ones who could make his future.
At the end of two weeks, he came home
to Joan with his share of the profits — a
check for a hundred and thirteen dollars!
“I did better on the docks,” he told her.
“I won’t listen to such talk,” she said.
“The docks weren’t getting you anywhere.
This club might.”
But it didn’t! It folded right from under
him.
He talked it over with Joan again.
“Maybe we ought to go to New York,”
he said, and she didn’t bat an eyelash.
If he wanted New York, they’d try it. Or
maybe Hollywood, suggested by that
young actor Bob had recently come to
know, Nick Adams.
They tried New York first. When he
made not the slightest dent, they took the
rest of their savings, piled the babies into
the car, and drove off for Hollywood. They
hit the “golden city” mid-August, 1957.
They found a little apartment to rent and
phoned Nick Adams that they were in
town.
Nick was still struggling himself, but he
immediately took Bob to every casting
director, producer, writer or anybody he
knew. Bob nearly got a part, but the pic-
ture didn’t materialize. He got a small one
in another, but neither the picture nor
he proved earth-shattering. He pounded
the pavements again, Hollywood style,
making the rounds of offices and parties,
both in hopes of being noticed. His savings
dwindled, but the only words Joan uttered
were of love and encouragement. Even
while he went to the endless parties hoping
somebody would “discover” him, and she
sat home with the babies, she never com-
plained.
Their last hope
In nine months there wasn’t a day’s
work. They were down to two dollars
that had to last a week until the next
tiny unemployment check came in. And
that day, the phone rang. He tumbled over
himself to reach it. Maybe a part. . . .
It was his mother, “I’m opening my own
public relations outfit, Bob, and I need
you for a full partner.” Bless her, with
her delicate tact. No “I-told-you-so’s.”
No recriminations. She was offering a way
out with dignity. All he had to do was
bring his little brood home to Chicago
and walk into a ready-made set-up.
He didn’t hesitate. “Mom, I love you for
this, but I can’t.” It was her set-up, built
by her brains and work. Nothing of his
was in there. He had no right to the suc-
cess it was sure to be. “I’ve got to make
it on my own, Mother — in my own way.”
She pleaded. “Think of Joan, think of
the children. At least discuss it with her.”
“Mom, I don’t have to. Joan believes in
me. She wouldn’t want me to quit trying.”
They said goodbye and hung up. All
that day, making the fruitless studio
rounds, he told himself he’d done the only
possible thing. A man doesn’t run away.
When he was a kid, he ran away and let
his mother bail him out. But never again!
If he took the easy way now, no amount
of money or prestige would keep him
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from being a nobody to himself. Not ever.
He went on knocking at doors that never
opened. Finally, one opened a crack. A
director casting for a picture gave him
an appointment for an interview. He and
Joan were full of hope. It was his biggest
opportunity so far.
The day before the appointment a car,
making an illegal left turn, smacked
broadside into Bob’s car. He was thrown
out with such violence that he landed in
the emergency ward of a hospital, having
his head stitched up.
“Do a good job and let me go home,
will you, Doc?” he said. “I’ve got an im-
portant appointment tomorrow.”
“With this head?” the doctor asked in-
dignantly. “Relax, buddy, you’re not going
anyplace tomorrow.”
“It’s urgent,” he pleaded. “It’s — it’s a
crack at a good job.”
The emergency doctor’s curt tone soft-
ened. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you
wouldn’t be able to work anyway — at
least for a couple of weeks.” At the de-
jected silence he offered, “I’ll sign you
out to go home, but I’m telling you for
your own good, go to bed and let your
wife take care of you.”
For a moment, hope flared in him. Once
he got out of this hospital he’d use his
own judgment. If he had to go after that
job with a head bandaged like an Arab’s,
he’d go! It wasn’t until he was helped
off the table and onto his feet, when he
discovered he was weak as a baby — that
he knew. This was defeat again! Another
chance — the biggest chance of all —
knocked out from under him!
Home, he lay in bed and held tight to
Joan’s hand, because this time his cour-
age had hit a low that was almost lower
than he could take. Eyes shut against the
pain in his head and his heart, he prayed
silently, not to distress Joan with his
misery.
And then it happened
“Dear God,” he prayed, “am I ever going
to get my chance? I try, I do what’s right
by my lights — am I doomed to stay a
nobody the rest of my life?” But he didn’t
ask God to help him get a part after his
head healed. Jobs you find for yourself —
prayer is to take comfort from talking
with God. That was the way he saw it.
And that was the way it happened,
finally. For no more reason than the bad
breaks had hounded him, the good ones
sought him out. He got some work in
“Sea Hunt,” it led to more TV work, and
finally to the best break of all — his part
in “Hawaiian Eye.”
One day he said to his wife, “I guess I
don’t have to tell you how good it feels to
be a somebody at last.”
“Why you big lug,” she said fondly, “in
my book you were always a somebody.”
“Me? When I drove a milk wagon?
When I was nothing but a hunk of muscle
loading on the docks?”
“Honey,” she said, “you were a great
guy to your wife and kids even when
you came home every day smelling like
a gooey candy factory. Even when you
sang for coffee-and-cake money, I knew
you’d get someplace because you had
what it takes.”
“You mean like luck?” he asked with a
grin.
“I mean like guts — which you have.”
“I have you, that’s what,” he said, and
kissed her. “For a fellow bucking his way
up, that’s the most to have— a wife like
you.”
Joan reached up to return the kiss.
The End
BE SURE TO SEE BOB ON ABC -TV, WEDNESDAYS
FROM 9-10:00 P.M. EDT, IN “HAWAIIAN EYE.”
34
BIRDS AND BEES
Continued from page 42
way across the lawn and bring it back
just as fast as she could because that
was part of the game. Boy kept hitting
the ball and she kept running all over
and bringing it back. Then he got a
bright idea and he got two balls. He’d hit
one while she ran to the other. That made
the game more fun, he told her. Until one
day, when she saw some other kids play-
ing the same game only they both had
rackets! After that, she didn’t want to play
Boy’s type of tennis. She was about five
at the time, so what could you expect?
Boy was eleven.
When she was about seven, Boy told her
she was growing up and old enough to be
trusted with a big dark secret.
“Come on up to my room,” he whispered;
he never wanted her in his room so she
knew something important was going to
happen. Boy didn’t say a single word as
they climbed the stairs and he opened the
door. They sat down on the floor and final-
ly Boy spoke. “Now listen carefully, Eve,”
he said. And he began to read her a
story. When it was finished, he told her,
“I’m no longer Boy.” And she listened
wide-eyed, as he explained, “From now on,
I’m really Samson, the Strong Man.” He
explained how if she told anybody this
secret the whole world could just come to
the end because somebody would want to
cut his hair off, just like in the story he
read to her.
She was thrilled. To think that her own
brother was Samson. “And you can be my
servant,” he told her. And after that, every
afternoon for a long long while, he would
send her on errands. If she didn’t want to
go, he’d glare and stare strangely and say,
“Samson commands you,” and she’d run
like heck to do what Samson said.
She kept the secret locked tight up in-
side. So many times she’d been close to
asking Mother if Boy was really Samson,
but she remembered the sacred words he’d
said. “If you tell, they might take me to
a barber and then the world will come to
an end. And it will be all your fault.” She
never dared tell anybody until she was
thirteen!
That’s when she grew up and everything
changed. . . .
Sometimes he was too protective!
Troy began to act differently toward her.
Like the day he came home from the
studio early, before she had gotten home
from school. When she went into her room,
she discovered a pile of clothing right in
the middle of the floor. “Who put all my
jeans on the floor?” she yelled downstairs.
“Are you talking to me?” Troy called
back from the kitchen.
“I’m talking to whoever dumped all my
jeans on the floor,” she shouted back.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Troy pleaded. “I for-
got all about them; I was going to suggest,
now that you’re a lady, maybe you should
give up wearing them.” (She knew Troy
hated women in slacks.)
So she threw the jeans out, but a couple
of days later, she asked him if they could
arrange a compromise. She’d only wear
jeans around the house. So he gave her
a pair of his old ones on one condition, “If
you’re going to wear them, Eve, at least
wear them neatly. Do you know what you
look like with them rolled up to your
knee?” When she looked at herself in the
mirror, she knew what Troy had meant.
And even if she wouldn’t admit it then
when she was only thirteen, she was
pleased now (after all she is fifteen now)
that Troy was helping her to be a lady.
Sometimes she didn t used to understand
this. She used to feel that sometimes he
was overprotective. Like the afternoon
he took her swimming at his friend’s house.
The minute he saw a boy walk over and
talk to her, he came over and joined them
saying, “She’s my sister — only fourteen,
you know.” That did it! Pronto, all the
fellows scattered.
“I’m not so much older than he is. Eve,”
he said when she protested. “And I know
how guys act. Boys like to drive too fast,
take chances and try to act big time, it’s a
stage that most guys go through. But a girl
should and can avoid this type of guy.
And she doesn’t have to be a square either.
Besides,” he added big brotherly, “you’re
only fourteen, you’ve got plenty of time.
Now you should be learning how to be an
interesting woman!”
And that meant, never “beautiful and
dumb.” That was Troy’s pet saying. “Who
can stay interested in a dumb girl?”
“Be good at something. You’re good at
sports, and that’s one way to get along
fine with guys,” he told her. “Now you
should begin to know something about
what boys are interested in.” So after
that, whenever they were driving, he’d
talk about the car, and they’d play a
game identifying different models and
he’d explain about equipment and sports
cars and other car things that fellows talk
about so that when she did go out on a
date, she’d know what the guys were
talking about. He also taught her how to
dance the Bop and all the latest steps.
At first she was shy about dancing and
Troy would say, “How am I going to be
a good dancer if you won’t help?” And
he’d go and turn on the record-player and
soon they’d be dancing around the living
room, and before she knew it, she didn’t
feel so strange at all. In fact, she kind of
began to like dancing.
“A girl can seem cheap”
One afternoon, when they were practic-
ing, Troy gave her a bottle of cologne.
“A fellow likes a girl to smell soft and
feminine when he’s dancing,” he told her.
And not until days later did it hit her — •
maybe her perfume had been too spicy and
overpowering. About this time, too, she
began using a more delicate shade of
lipstick. The lipstick Troy liked, but when
she bought a great shade of green eye-
shadow and wore it heavily draped on her
eyelashes, she could tell, from the look
on Troy’s face, that he thought she was
overdoing it a bit.
“Too much?” she asked.
“Ahum,” he answered. “A phase all girls
go through. Like boys driving fast. Re-
member, let’s never be obvious. In fact,
let us both never be obvious.” And they
laughed and she went and washed her face.
But she really wasn’t trying to be obvi-
ous the day Troy got mad — really mad —
at her. She didn’t really think her skirt
was too tight.
She had worn the skirt to school, and
when she came home, her mother had
asked her to go to the store. She was
coming home from the store and she had
a funny feeling that Troy was standing
on the front steps watching her. For some
reason, she thought it was funny that he
didn’t call to her. He just walked into the
house. When she came in, he seemed to
be angry with her and he just about
never ever got angry, so she asked him,
“What’s up?”
“Eve, I saw you!” he said.
“Saw me?” she said innocently.
“Yes, I saw you wiggling all the way up
the block. Your skirt’s too tight and you
were wiggling when you walked and every
guy in every car passing by turned to
stare.”
She didn’t know what to say as she
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tried to keep back the tears. She’d been
walking just the way she always did. “I
always walk like that,” she cried. And
then she realized something. She had
gained weight and her skirt was too tight.
‘‘It can give a guy the wrong impression,”
Troy told her softly, because he realized
now that she didn’t mean to dress obvi-
ously. “But, Eve, it can make a girl seem
cheap.”
“What do girls do who are considered
by boys to be cheap?” she finally asked.
“Most times she’s an obvious girl,” he
explained. “The way she dresses is over-
done, exaggerated, low-cut dresses, too
tight sweaters and skirts, her makeup is
heavy. In fact, her whole appearance is
supposed to be a ‘walking man-trap.’ But
it doesn’t fool the guys who are out for a
good time, who don’t give a dam about her.
They know what she is because everything
she says and does indicates it. A cheap girl
not only dresses loudly, she usually talks
loudly, does everything loudly in an effort
to call attention to herself. A cheap girl
is labeled as such because the price she
puts on her self-respect, on her pride and
and decency is a cheap one. This kind of
girl may seem like she has three times as
many dates as other girls and they prob-
ably do, but for only one reason. No guy
really respects a girl who’s a pushover. He
dates only her to take advantage of her
lack of concern for herself and her future.”
“Is this the same as being fast?” she’d
asked, but Troy shook his head no.
“A fast girl is not necessarily a cheap
girl,” he explained. He liked it when she
asked questions instead of being shy and
holding back. “It usually means a girl
who will go farther with the guys and
more of them than the average girl, but
doesn’t mean all-out promiscuousness. A
fast girl is the type that dates a lot of
different guys and seems to be fast when it
comes to making the rounds of the eligible
males.”
“When a fellow puts his arm around
you when you’re walking down the street
— is that fast?” she asked.
“If it exceeds the bonds of good taste it
is,” he’d answered. “Necking in front of a
group, kissing continually only makes a
girl look foolish in the eyes of the people
she’s seen by. Holding hands, a peck on
the cheek, putting your arm around a
girl— to a guy this doesn’t make a girl
fast provided he feels that she likes him
a lot — but anything beyond that is not
for public display. And frankly, a guy
shouldn’t do it.
“Just like kissing on a first date. This
depends on the boy and the girl, the situa-
tion and the kiss! If you go to school with
a boy and know him well, then he asks
you out, it’s natural if you’ve had a good
time to kiss him goodnight. But if you
don’t, a fellow doesn’t mind. Some boys
might not even want to try to kiss a girl
the first time out but do so because they
think the girl might be offended and feel
they have not been a good date so he does.
Now on a first date where it’s a blind date
or where you hardly know each other, a
kiss depends on the evening. But, remem-
ber, no boy really thinks of a girl as cheap
if she kisses him goodnight on a first date.
It takes a lot more than that to label a
girl fast. . .
Eve’s growing-up course
Troy had told her all this, and as she
sat there, both of them staring across the
table, so serious, she started to giggle.
“You should know what I know,” she
teased. “You’ve been giving me my grow-
ing-up course.”
“We’ve never talked about sex,” he an-
swered.
And she nodded, “Well, not exactly. . .
“Well, I think it’s important to talk
about. Refusing to discuss sex and love
is wrong, all wrong, and ends up, if grown-
ups keep it a secret, pushing young people
into experimenting on their own. Under
the right conditions, love, marriage, being
together can be the most beautiful thing
on earth. Sex isn’t something dirty or
shabby to be discussed on street corners.
The real deep attraction a boy feels for
a girl can’t have anything ‘cheap’ about
it.
“Aside from physical attraction, a guy
wants a girl he can share things with, a
girl who understands him, who doesn’t
demand expensive gifts and being taken to
fancy places when she knows he can’t
afford it. A guy wants a girl who loves
you for yourself and not what you have or
who you are. Love is the sum total of all
these things, not just attraction.
“Sure, Eve, a boy is attracted to a girl
physically and asks her out for no other
reason but that she’s cute. That’s usually
how most first dates come about. But every
guy has had the sad and dull experience
of dating a girl who’s as cute as a doll but
as dull as a wax mannequin in a store
window. I can’t deny we guys are at-
tracted to a girl because first of all by
her surface qualities, but he then judges
her on many other levels: personality,
poise, intelligence, sense of humor, these
are the things a guy thinks about when he
wants to keep on seeing a girl — not does
she neck, will she pet, can I really take
advantage of her? There are girls who are
nothing but girls to take advantage of
and, unfortunately, if a girl is that way a
boy will take advantage.”
“What if he does get fresh?”
“Then get him to take you home as soon
as possible and stay away from him until
he learns how to behave. But do so, if
possible, with dignity. Laugh him out of
his amorous ways, take it lightly, change
the subject, and at all costs, let him know
you aren’t interested in indulging in gym-
nastics in his front — or back — car-seat!”
“There is a difference between necking
and petting, isn’t there?”
“You bet,” Troy nodded. “Necking in-
volves kissing. Petting goes much further.
And, unfortunately, it’s up to the girl to
set the standard. Most boys will try to see
how far a girl will go, but it’s up to the
girl to be firm. A lot of girls go too far
under the mistaken impression that this is
the only way they can be popular or get
a boy to call them again. And there are
some immature boys who do flit from
girl to girl and only ask her out again if
she goes in for heavy necking and petting.
But one secret that most males don’t like
to admit, but which is true, is that if a
boy likes a girl, really likes her, he’ll ask
her out again no matter how many times
she says “no” to anything more than a
few goodnight kisses. Being fast or cheap
may seem like the only road to the popu-
larity, but it can also wind up being the
road to loneliness and unhappiness, too.
And now my dear student,” Troy said in
deep, professional tones, “is the end of this
afternoon’s lecture.”
Eve pretended to close her books and
collect her pencils. Then, with a very
serious face, she leaned over and tapped
her brother affectionately on his arm.
“And Troy,” she said, “now that I’m
grown-up, feel free if ever you should
have a problem to bring it to me.”
“Why, you . . .” Troy pretended to swat
her with a magazine, but she was already
out of the door, yelling as she went, “Come
on, enough of this talk, let’s talk about
more interesting things like records. I’ll
treat you to a Bubble Up at the candystore.
The End
SEE TROY IN WARNERS’ “THE CROWDED SKY”
AND “PARRISH.” SEE HIM THIS FALL IN “sURF-
side six” mon., 8:30-9:30 p.m. edt. on abc-tv.
86
LOVE ME, TOMMY
Continued from page 47
that basic training left him little time to
write, that, anyway, they’d agreed they
wouldn’t write each other.
“I’ve never been one to write letters,”
he'd said. “I’d rather phone.”
And she’d agreed. She was like that, too.
“Besides, a letter would take two days
to get to you,” he added. “And I couldn’t
wait that long for an answer.”
“Me neither,” she said. “I’d think of a
dozen other things I wanted to say to you
by then.”
So she knew she shouldn’t wait for the
mailman. And yet ... A letter would be
so nice. She could keep his letters in a
drawer, tied together in a ribbon, and
when she was feeling lonely, she could
take them out and read them over and
over. Whenever she was troubled by
doubts, whenever she thought how far
apart they were, she could take out his
letters and read and reread the parts where
he said, “I love you . .
It was a couple of days now that she
hadn’t heard from him, and she couldn’t
help worrying. He was just learning to fly.
Maybe . . . maybe there’d been an acci-
dent. A shiver ran through her. And there
was another worry, almost as awful, that
nagged at her. What if, being apart, he’d
thought things over? What if he’d changed
his mind about her?
She shook her head, as if to chase the
thought away. She tried to tell herself that,
when they’d been apart before, it had only
made them love each other more.
It was at the end of February, when her
dad had asked her to fly to New York, to
be his representative to welcome home
Elvis, who was going to be on TV with Dad
and her. Meeting Elvis had been exciting
and yet, with Tommy so far away, she’d
felt lonely and miserable. They’d call each
other but it was awkward and strange. It
was so difficult to talk from three thousand
miles away.
And then one night at about 2 a.m., the
phone rang in her hotel room. It was
Tommy. “Nanny,” she heard him say, “I
love you.” Then quickly, before she could
answer, he added, “You don’t have to give
me your answer right now, but I love you
and I want to marry you and I want us to
become engaged right now.”
“Yes,” she said, answering right away,
in spite of what Tommy said. “Yes.”
They talked for about forty-five minutes.
“I’ll have a ring waiting for you when
you get home,” he said.
“No, don’t spend the money,” she an-
swered. “I don’t need a ring. You can buy
me one later, I don’t care. Let’s save our
money for furniture and things we’ll need.
Please, don’t worry about getting me a
ring.”
But he hadn’t listened. The next day,
Tommy was at her mother’s house asking
her what kind of ring Nanny would like,
and then going off with his own mother to
pick it out. He’d gone from one appraiser
to another, trying to make sure that the
ring he’d bought for her was just perfect.
“Just be sure"
And it was perfect. It was the kind of
ring every girl dreamed of. A four-and-a-
half carat diamond, emerald cut, with two
baguettes in a platinum setting.
She looked at it now as it gleamed on
her finger, as she waited, hoping that today
Tommy would call. It was so hard to be
apart. With the miles, seem to come mis-
understandings. They were only little things
and she knew deep inside that if Tommy
could reach out and take her hand, every-
thing would be all right. But he couldn’t
. . . and the doubts wouldn’t go away.
She remembered her father’s words.
“You’re old enough to make up your own
mind. Just be sure, that’s all.”
Just be sure. When she’d flown back,
finally, to California and they had told
people how the engagement had happened,
she had been sure. She’d worn a white
silk, long-sleeved blouse and a slim black
skirt with black opera pumps and Tommy
had had on an all-black sports outfit. She
always like the way he dressed.
They’d met the reporters in the wood-
paneled den of her house, with her mother
there, too. Someone had asked, “How can
you be sure you’re going to stay in love?”
“From the very first,” she told them, “I
saw a sincerity about Tommy. I saw some-
one who was on the level, who never said
anything unless he meant it. I saw a won-
derful, exciting and yet nice boy and I
knew how refreshing and rare it was to
find someone in this town and this business
who was like this. From the first time we
started seeing each other, he was so con-
siderate, so understanding.”
She remembered how, after they got
engaged, they had tried not to be separated
again. They both knew he’d be going into
the service and till then they wanted to
spend every minute they could together.
Her mother had understood. She’d agreed
to go along as chaperone so Nancy could
be with Tommy when he went to sing at
the Eden Roc in Miami Beach. She’d sat
at a ringside table every night, aglow with
pride at the way Tommy could make an
absolute hush come over the room. People
listened so intently while he sang and, after-
ward, they clapped wildly for him, making
him sing encore after encore. “I thought
they’d never let you off the stage,” she
had told him, laughing.
Then came the vacation she’d been look-
ing forward to. Mother, Tina, Frank Jr.
and herself were all supposed to go to
Hawaii. They’d been planning it for a long
time. But at the last minute, she couldn’t
g°-
“I can’t leave Tommy,” she begged her
mother. “We have so little time before he
goes into service.” And finally her mother
had agreed that she could stay home.
“Maybe we’ll go to Hawaii on our honey-
moon,” Tommy had said. He was always
making plans. She remembered the first
big one he’d made.
It was just before Christmas and Tommy
had said, “Let’s go where the snow is.”
They drove up to Lake Arrowhead and the
Big Bear mountain and spent the whole
day there. They had dinner at the ski
lodge and then they started to drive back.
It had been a perfect day.
On the way home, Tommy had been ex-
ceptionally quiet. She’d never seen him
look so serious. Finally, he said, “Nancy,
I’m going to mention something now, and
then I’m not going to bring it up again for
a few months. But if we both feel the same
way in a few months, I’m going to ask
you to marry me.”
That was Tommy’s plan. She’d just lis-
tened, without saying a word. She hadn’t
known it was coming, though now she
thought that, deep down, she might have
wanted it to happen. But then they’d only
been dating a few weeks and it scared
her. She didn’t want to think about it, in
case things didn’t work out. She didn’t
want either of them to be hurt.
Suddenly the phone in her room rang,
startling her back to the present. For a
moment she hesitated, afraid to answer it,
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“No,” she answered slowly. “I . . . can’t.”
“You can’t just sit home every night,
Nancy,” her friend told her. “Why don’t
you come? It’ll do you good.”
“No,” she repeated, “I can’t.” She was
grateful for the way the gang kept asking
her to join them, trying to keep her from
being too lonely.
Finally, she said, “Well, maybe . . .
maybe I’ll come by later.” But she knew
she wouldn’t. A party wouldn’t be any
fun without Tommy. Everyone else would
be paired off and she would only feel more
lonely.
The times he didn’t call
She put the phone back on its cradle. It
wasn’t even noon yet, but she had to stay
home, at least until eight o’clock. Then,
she knew, it would be nine o’clock where
Tommy was. She always waited at least
that long. If he hadn’t called by then, she
knew she wasn’t going to hear from him
that night. After that time, it was no longer
possible for him to get to a phone; it was
“lights-out” in his barracks.
She tried to understand, the times he
didn’t call. She would tell herself it was
because somehow, all day, he hadn’t been
able to get near a phone. And yet . . .
She needed so to hear his voice. She looked
at the phone. It was like a lifeline to her.
And there was so much she had to tell him.
On the days Tommy called, she’d be
floating on clouds. And yet there were
also times when his voice sounded so
strange, so different. She would try to tell
herself it was just the long-distance wire
but sometimes, after they’d hung up, she
would ache to pick up the phone and call
him back, to ask him, “Please, Tommy, is
anything wrong? Please . . . tell me.”
She couldn’t help wishing they were
married already. They had talked about
eloping. “August,” they’d whispered. But
she knew she couldn’t do that. The Church
would be against it and it would hurt her
family, too. No, they had to wait.
“It isn’t as if we had to run away and
get married because we don’t have our
parents’ approval. Everyone approves,”
Tommy had said, trying to be practical.
“We know we’re going to be married and
we have the security of our love for each
other and so we can wait.”
She’d nodded. “Besides,” Tommy said,
“if we got married now, you’d be living in
a motel or something near Long Beach or
wherever it is I’ll be stationed after basic.
I don’t want that for you. I want us to
have a real honeymoon.”
She’d had to agree. “Too many young
people get married and make a drudge of
it,” she admitted. “When we’re married
I want us to be together constantly. I’ll
even travel with you when you go on
tours. And we’ll really get to know each
other and enjoy each other and then,” her
voice became low and shy, “we’ll settle
down and raise children.”
They agreed to wait.
And besides, the big wedding they were
planning would be so romantic.
“You’re romantic,” Tommy had laughed
at her.
“I guess I am,” she admitted. It was just
before he went away that she told him,
“You know, I’ve already decided that I’ll
never go around our house with my hair
in curlers or wearing pants and all that.
I’ll never let you see me like that. I al-
ways want to look my best for you.”
He kissed her on the tip of her nose.
“And I want us to have music playing
during dinner,” she whispered, “and can-
dles burning on the table. Little touches
like that are important in a marriage.”
“Okay,” Tommy had grinned. “You
promise to love, honor and play my
records during dinner.”
She’d laughed and rumpled his hair.
“And you promise not to notice if the food
is burned. If we eat by candlelight, you
won’t be able to see anyway.”
She smiled at the memory of it. And she
remembered, too, how she’d teased Tommy
about his six-months in the Air Force.
“You’re just going out of town to get out
of the work of the wedding,” she’d
laughed. She sat down at the desk where
she’d already begun to plan the guest list,
but when she counted up the people she
was planning to ask, she couldn’t believe
it. Four hundred names! And that was
without the people Dad would want to
have; she figured they would come to
about another two hundred. She shook
her head ruefully. She didn’t want that
big a wedding. Before she’d started to
make the list, she’d thought there’d be
about three hundred. But it seemed that
every day they’d remember someone else
who just had to be invited. If she didn’t
ask them, she knew they’d be hurt. It was
funny how something as wonderful and
happy as a wedding could somehow end
up with hurt feelings. She didn’t want
that.
The same initials
If only her father were back in California.
She wanted to talk to him about the wed-
ding, to get his advice on her plans. It was
months away but there was so much to
plan. The flowers and the music and the
food. The bridesmaids. Her dress. She
wanted everything to be just perfect.
Dad would be home soon. She wanted to
ask him, too, about what to do about her
career. She didn’t want to do anything
without his advice, but, ever since she’d
been on TV with him and Elvis, so many
people had been calling her up, asking her
to be on this TV show or sign that
contract.
“. . . and they even want me to be in a
movie,” she’d told Tommy excitedly when
he’d called her last week.
“That’s great,” he’d said, and his voice
had sounded full of enthusiasm. But sud-
denly she remembered the long talks they’d
had. Two careers in a family could hurt a
marriage, they’d agreed. Was he remem-
bering that, too?
“Whatever I do,” she said, “I would never
let it keep us apart. When you get back,
I don’t want us ever to be separated again.
“Nothing could ever interfere with our
marriage.” she insisted, when he didn’t
answer right away. “You’ll always come
first with me.”
“I want you to have a career if it’s what
you want,” he told her. “I’d never want to
hold you back ... I’d be proud of you.”
But it had been so hard to talk on the
phone. Was he really happy about it? If
only she could see his face . . .
She told him that, if she did have a
career, she thought she’d keep the name
of Sinatra.
“But the initials will still be the same,”
she added quickly.
“Hey, is that why you’re marrying me?”
he teased. It was his way of telling her
everything was all right. “So you won’t
have to change any of your monograms?”
She was happy when she’d hung up the
phone that night. This time there were no
doubts about what he’d said, no worry
that he hadn’t understood what she said.
If only it could always be like that. . . .
Yet, in her heart, she knew that Tommy
always understood. Only it was hard not
to wonder . . . She had seen the pictures
taken of him just after he went into the
Air Force, when his hair had been cut
short. Being in service was a whole new
way of life for a man, a tremendous ex-
perience that couldn’t help but change
him. What other changes would she find
the next time she saw Tommy?
In the quiet of her room she remembered
back to the last time she had seen Tommy.
The going away party
She had wanted that to be so perfect.
She was going to give him a big going-
away party at her house. Tommy got such
a kick out of parties and she planned for
days to make this one that they could both
look back on while they were apart.
She was on the phone constantly, invit-
! ing all his friends. “Hey,” he’d complained,
j ‘I can’t even call you up these days. You’re
line’s always busy.” They planned to
i dear out the furniture in one of the rooms
downstairs so there’d be lots of room for
dancing and they’d put decorations all
aver the place. And she worried about the
food. In the middle of the night, she woke
up and had to call Tommy. “You’re sure
you’re not just saying you like Italian
food?” she asked.
The worst problem was what to wear.
She’d stood frowning in concentration be-
fore her closet, trying to pick out a dress.
There was one that Tommy especially
iked. “It does something to your eyes,”
le’d told her. Still, maybe she should buy
i new dress. . . .
And then, just when everything was all
set, Tommy called. She answered on the
lownstairs extension and she knew some-
;hing was wrong the minute she heard his
mice.
I “Nanny,” he said, “I’ve got awful news.
[ just heard from the Air Force. They
vant me to report a few days earlier . . .
m Saturday.”
! “Oh, no, Tommy,” she moaned.
“I feel awful ... I guess it messes up
he party . . .”
“The party!” she’d gasped. For a mo-
nent, she’d forgotten all about it. But now,
>s they talked, she heard a loud pop, as
)ne of the balloons her kid sister Tina was
Helping blow up, burst.
“Well,” she told him, “we’ll just have it
I ;arlier.”
They moved the party up a couple of
lays, but just when she’d finished calling
he last guest up and telling them about it,
Tommy heard from the Air Force again,
i They’d moved his induction up once more.
There was no time for a party.
They’d both felt cheated, and it wasn’t
I inly because of the party. It was as
LORETTA YOUNG
Continued from page 28
The words Loretta Young spoke for the
newspapermen were brave words — brave
and firm and light — and they held what
seemed to be a good answer to a hard
i question:
“Miss Young, how did you feel when
you heard your son had run away?”
“I must say,” Loretta Young replied, her
voice clear and her smile brilliant, “that I
was panicky for a moment when I heard
that he was missing. But, heck, I’ve ditched
school myself ten times — a hundred times!
After all, he’s just a fourteen-year-old,
full of adventure!”
And when she received the news that
Peter, her boy, had been picked up near
Las Vegas and would be brought back to
her, she was still calm, still smiling.
But how much heartbreak did that bril-
liant smile, those brave words, hide? How
Tiuch have they often hidden, throughout
the strange life of Loretta Young?
The truth is that this was not the first
Itime that someone had run away from
Loretta Young. There had been others.
Always men. Always men she loved.
I
though those last precious days, together,
had been stolen from them. They could
never have them back again.
She hadn’t even been able to go to the
airport with him. Tommy’d had to drive
out in the Air Force bus while she had
gone out with Eddie Goldstone, the boy
who’d first introduced them. She’d cried
all the way.
It wasn’t fair.
Suddenly, when she should have had
more time, she was kissing Tommy good-
bye.
Suddenly, when there were still so many
things to say, there was only the unspoken
plea, “Love me, Tommy, even when you’re
far away . . .”
Suddenly, when he should have still been
with her. Tommy was gone.
She looked once again at the clock on
her bureau. Ten minutes to twelve. The
hands didn’t seem to be moving at all. Yet
she knew the clock hadn’t stopped. She
could hear the ticking.
“I love you, too”
And then, suddenly, the silence was
broken. The phone rang and this time
she leaped to answer it.
“Yes . . . yes,” she told the operator,
“this is Nancy Sinatra speaking.”
And then, there was Tommy’s voice.
She thought he sounded tired. Was he
ill?
“Tommy,” she said, trying to keep her
voice calm, “are you all right?”
“A little bushed,” he said. “We just got
back from a bivouac. It was murder . . .
not a phone for twenty miles.”
“Oh, I was so worried,” she said breath-
ing a sigh of relief.
“I knew you’d be,” he said. “I thought
I’d never get to a phone. There was such
a line of guys waiting to call . . . Nanny,”
he said, “I miss you so. At night, I started
to write, but I couldn’t seem to get down
what I really wanted to say. The words
just didn’t look right and I tore the letter
up. Nanny, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Tommy. I’m fine — now,” she
whispered.
“Me, too,” he said, “I love you, Nanny.”
The End
HEAR TOMMY SANDS SING ON CAPITOL LABEL.
And it was very seldom that they were
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it was not hard to guess.
Heartbreak.
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But Gretchen was only a very little
child. And children live in a strange and
terrifying world. In the mind of a little
girl of three, everything happens because
of her. If, for example, a chair collapses
beneath her, she knows and cares nothing
for the fact that the chair was broken;
to her understanding, it fell because it
was mean and wanted to hurt her. If
Mommy cries, the little girl does not
reason that Mommy is sick, or in debt, or
has problems of her own — she simply be-
lieves that she has done something to
make Mommy cry. And if, one day, Daddy
fails to come home for supper, and then
does not show up at the breakfast table
the next day — or the next — or the next —
Then, the house is filled with the sound
of a childish voice asking over and over,
“Where is Daddy? Why doesn’t he come
play with me?”
But all the while, the childish heart, ac-
customing itself painfully to the loss,
secretly believes it knows the answer:
“Daddy is gone because I did something
wrong. Daddy will never come back be-
cause he doesn’t love me any more!”
Could it have made any difference to
three-year-old Gretchen Young if she
had been presented with a thousand rea-
sons why her father deserted his family?
Could there have been, for her, anything
but the pain of believing that he had
deserted her , and the half-conscious feel-
ing that she was somehow to blame?
When it seemed certain that John Earl
Young was gone forever, his wife packed
her things and moved to Los Angeles. She
was determined to keep her family to-
gether, and to deny her four talented,
beautiful children none of the good things
they deserved. They would all have to
merely work a little harder, that was all.
To supply them with the necessities, she
borrowed money and opened a boarding
house. To provide them with luxuries like
dancing lessons, she registered them as
“child extras” at a movie studio.
Her plan seemed to work. The boarding
house brought in enough money to keep
them all healthy and well-fed. The three
Young girls, with their huge, wondering
eyes and masses of black hair, were used
over and over in motion pictures; their
earnings were not large, but with careful
managing, they were large enough to help.
And then something very exciting hap-
pened.
Mrs. Young fell in love. The man she
married was a businessman named George
Belzer. With him at the head of her
household, poverty was no longer to be
feared. Now everything would surely be
all right; the children would have a father
again; the girls could give up their chores
at the studio, their bit parts and walk-ons,
and devote their time to the normal things,
the fun and carelessness of simply being
young. A very wonderful thing.
But it didn’t interest Gretchen.
Gretchen, it seemed, didn’t want to quit.
Gretchen didn’t care much about the
money or the pretty things money could
buy. Gretchen wanted to act because she
had discovered that she liked it.
A search for love
She found out that she loved to pretend
to dress up, to be “somebody else,” to see
herself on the screen and hear others say
that she was talented — and to know in her
heart that it was true. Surely she never
puzzled out just what her work meant to
her.
But certainly she did not give it up.
She worked harder than ever. She
meticulously rehearsed for even tiny roles.
Once, when she was alone in the house
and a call came for one of her sisters to
play a part for Mervyn LeRoy, she begged
that the role be given to her instead.
When she was fifteen, she got her 1 1
break. She was offered a romantic le 1
in a movie opposite Lon Chaney. It met ;
that she would have to let the studio p|
her legs, fill out her bust with cotton, a I
advance her age by three years for pu ■
licity purposes. It also meant that
would have to change her name: “Loretl 1
was a better name for a star than “Gretc
en.” She loved her real name (her closi ;
friends use it to this day) and the pads a
flounces made her itch — but she said Y .
to it all.
She was going to be a star.
And she was, too. A big star. So chart
ing. No one would ever willingly go o
of Loretta Young’s life again.
But this was not true.
The procession was just beginning.
The second man to leave was her hu
band.
She was seventeen when she met hit
and at seventeen, love is the answer to :
questions, the solution to all problems, tl
end of loneliness and emptiness forever, i
seventeen, love is all that counts, and
Loretta, love was an older man — Grai
Withers, the movie star.
She eloped with Grant Withers.
Eighteen months later, she was
divorcee.
Her husband told the world nothing
the problems everyone had so dourly pre
dieted for the marriage; what he said w?
far more astonishing.
Loretta, he told a startled world, was, i
truth, a “steel butterfly”!
Perhaps it was true. Perhaps the years <
work and loneliness and self-protectio
had coated Loretta’s heart with stee
had created a core of ambition an
independence that Grant had not been abl
to melt.
But was it fair to have tried for such
pitifully short time — and then to hav
walked away? Was it not possible that th
warmth, the tenderness was there — if onl
he had looked longer, looked harder?
Idle speculation. The facts were all ths
mattered. They were divorced.
Years later, Loretta said that Grant wa
the most bewildered man she had eve
known. Of the bewilderment she hersel
must have felt, divorced at eighteen, mor
alone than ever, she said nothing.
The brave words and the bright smile
spoke for her instead.
She began to date. For nine long year
she was the most popular girl in Holly
wood. Beautiful, poised, fun to be with-
her phone never stopped ringing. Peopl
wondered, as the years went on, why sh<
did not marry again. Loretta Young coulc
have had any man in town.
Any man at all . . . except the one sh<
wanted.
For the man Loretta Young fell in lov<
with, during that time, could not marrj
her.
He already had a wife.
The third man in her life
Twice, in her short life, Loretta had
cared for a man — and both those men were
gone. Now, for a third time, she reached
out for love — and this time it was returned.
Secretly, unwillingly perhaps — but fully*
the man she loved returned her love, giving
her a heart she had no right to accept.
They spoke of it to no one; they hardly
dared talk ot it to each other. But the man
was a famous actor, and the movie in
which they co-starred was full of love
scenes. Inevitably, those who watched
them play their parts, guessed their
secret. And waited, wondering what would
happen. And whispered that after all, the
actor’s home had been an unhappy one for
years; that after all, divorce was no dis-
90
'race these days; that after all, Loretta de-
:erved some happiness, that everyone
vould forgive her if the man divorced his
.vife for her. . . .
And, of course, the whispers reached
lioretta, too.
But in the long hours of the night when
;he lay awake and stared blindly into
larkness, Loretta Young knew they were
lot quite accurate. There was one person
n the world who would not be able to
'orgive her.
She, herself.
In crisis, they say, we learn what we
.ruly are. Loretta Young must have learned
n those agonized weeks that she was not
nerely a young woman with a great need
or love — she was also the possessor, for
letter or for worse, of an element still
larder than the steel of which Grant had
;poken. Call it morality, call it a conscience,
;all it an aching memory of a childhood
n a broken home. Whatever it was, it
vould not be softened, or put off. It would
lot let her accept the love that was offered.
! It told her, instead, to send the man
iway and, at the cost of her youth, she did
; '.t.
Afterward, she tried to forget as rapidly
is possible. When friends offered sympathy,
;he changed the subject. When producers
lame forward with starring roles, she
accepted them one after another. Work,
>he told herself, would comfort her as it
lad done before. Work, and the love of her
:ans. And she could always meet new men.
She could always dress up and go out, to
augh and dance and chatter, and look for
someone — surely right around the corner —
Whose love would ease her pain.
The baby girl nobody wanted
But it was not enough. Behind the wall
i if smiles, something was strained too far,
and began, at last, to break. When it was
apparent that it might tear the wall down
as well, exposing her to the sympathy, the
'pity she was too proud to accept, she fled.
She was gone from Hollywood for a num-
ber of months. When she came home again,
a change had taken place.
I She had always been religious. Now she
seemed to have grown infinitely closer to
God, to turn to Him more and more.
She had always searched for someone to
love her. Now she began a different search
—this time for someone she could love.
Perhaps it was a more blessed goal. For
she attained it quickly.
She heard, somewhere, of a baby girl
whom nobody seemed to want. A tiny,
new-born child with eyes that promised to
; be as wide and dark as Loretta’s own — and
unless something was done soon, they
would also surely grow to be as lonely and
as full of longing.
The “steel butterfly” found the child and
took her into her arms. With the gesture,
she began a new life.
If this were a fairy tale, it would be the
beginning of the end, of the “happily ever
after.” The girl who wanted love, having
become the woman who wanted to give
love, would find her prince. The steel
would melt. The wall would crumble. She
would never have to weep again.
But the story of Loretta Young is a fairy
tale only to those who see merely the wall
—the eternally beautiful, eternally glamor-
ous, talented, successful woman.
PHOTOGRAPHERS' CREDITS
Molly Bee color by La wrence Schiller ; Bob Conrad
color by Bez (Globe Photos); Doris Day by Gene
Trindl [ T opix); Grace Kelly by The Philadelphia
Bulletin; Gardner McKay by Globe Photos ; Tommy
Sands and Nancy Sinatra by Sid Avery and Assoc.
To those who know the truth, it is closer
to tragedy.
There were two more men she was yet
to love and lose.
One of them was William Buckner. The
papers called him a playboy -financier. He
was charming, eligible and obviously in
love with Loretta. He delighted in giving
her carefully chosen flowers, unexpected
little gifts. He was the perfect escort for a
glamorous evening — romantic, tender,
thoughtful. People began to wonder when
the engagement would be announced.
Another announcement was made
instead. By the police. The flowers, gifts
and gala evenings, they said, had been paid
for by money that was not William Buck-
ner’s. He was going to stand trial for fraud.
“For heaven’s sake,” her friends begged
Loretta then, “stay out of it. Drop him.
He’s going to be found guilty. You have a
reputation that means something — a repu-
tation you deserve. Don’t take a chance on
spoiling it, honey. Think about your
future.”
She thought about it. She knew her
friends were not exaggerating. Her public,
the one constant, steady source of love in
her life, loved her for her beauty and her
talent — but mostly for something far rarer
— the aura of real purity that clung to her.
To distort that image even slightly, to in-
jure that reputation even by association,
would be to risk everything she had
worked for since she was four years old.
It was a real risk, and for a woman who
needed her stardom as Loretta did, it was
a tremendous one.
She thought about that. She prayed. She
looked within herself. And she knew the
risk counted for nothing.
Years ago she had learned that she could
not turn against her conscience to attain
love. She would not turn against it now to
protect her career.
With her head held high and her eyes
steady, she testified publicly for William
Buckner. Then, while the flashbulbs ex-
ploded in her face, she stood aside and
watched in silence as he walked out of her
life — this time, on his way to prison.
The man she loved and lost
In 1940, she married the last man she
was to love and lose.
It was, everyone said, an ideal match.
There were no complications, no tragedies,
no goodbyes possible this time. The bride
was no longer the bewildered, lonely girl
with the unexpected hard core of steel,
but a mature and deeply honorable woman,
who had waited long for happiness and
recognized it when it came. The groom was
not a temperamental actor, nor an un-
attainable dream, nor a charming phony,
but a man of proven character and ability,
a successful radio executive, Tom Lewis.
From the moment they met, it seemed,
they knew that together they could build
a fine and lasting marriage.
Perhaps they were too confident even
then.
It was as if, having waited so long,
Loretta was determined that this marriage
would be more perfect than any other,
would grow to include every aspect of their
lives.
Their home, for example, was less a
house than a mansion. The furnishings,
antiques chosen by Loretta and her mother,
were picked with such care and thought
that the house became a showplace even
in elegant Holmby Hills. Their little dinner
parties were jewels of perfection. The
relationship between Tom and Loretta’s
adopted daughter Judy, was so fine that,
when he legally adopted her himself, it was
merely the frosting on the cake.
All those things were, of course, good.
But they all took so much time, so much
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91
OF CURRENT PICTURES
ALL THE YOUNG MEN — Columbia. Directed
by Hall Bartlett: Kincaid, Alan Ladd; Towler,
Sidney Poitier; Torgil, Ingemar Johansson; Cot-
ton, James Darren; Wade, Glenn Corbett; Crane,
Mort Sahl; Maya, Ana St. Clair; Bracken, Paul
Richards; Casey, Dick Davalos; Dean, Lee Kin-
solving; Jackson, Joe Gallison; Logitech, Paul
Baxley; Lieutenant, Charles Quinlivan; Clio,
Michael Davis; Hunter, Mario Alcalde; Korean
Woman, Maria Tsien.
CHARTOOSE CABOOSE— U-T. Directed by
William “Red” Reynolds: Doris Warren, Molly
Bee; Dub Dawson, Ben Cooper; Woody Watts,
Edgar Buchanan; Joey James, Mike McGreevey;
J- B. King, Esq., O. Z. Whitehead; Pete Harmon,
Slim Pickens; Laura Warren, Kay Bartels; Pas-
tor Purdy, Winslow Cuthbert; Mr. Warren, Mack
Williams; Nczvsboy, Gilbert Reynolds.
FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER, THE—
A-I. Directed by Roger Corman: Roderick Usher,
Vincent Price; Philip Winthrop, Mark Damon;
Madeline Usher, Myrna Fahey; Bristol, Harry
Ellerbe.
FROM THE TERRACE — 20th. Directed by
Mark Robson: Alfred Eaton, Paul Newman;
Mary St. John, Joanne Woodward; Martha Eaton,
Myrna Loy; Natalie, Ina Balin; Samuel Eaton,
Leon Ames; Sage Rimmington, Elizabeth Allen;
Clemmie, Barbara Eden; Lex Porter, George
Grizzard; Jim Roper, Patrick O’Neal; Mac-
Hardie, Felix Aylmer; Fritz Thornton , Raymond
Greenleaf; George Fry, Malcolm Atterbury; Mr.
St. John, Raymond Bailey; Mr. Benziger, Ted de
Corsia; Mrs. St. John, Kathryn Givney; Mrs.
Benziger, Dorothy Adams.
IT STARTED IN NAPLES — Paramount. Di-
rected by Melville Shavelson: Michael Hamilton.
Clark Gable; Lucia Curcio, Sophia Loren; Mario
Vitale, Vittorio de Sica; Nando Hamilton, Mari-
etto; Renzo, Paolo C'arlini; Luigi, Claudio Erm-
elli; Gcnnaricllo, Giovanni Filidoro.
MAN IN A COCKED HAT—S.C.A. Directed
by Jeffrey Dell and Roy Boulting: Carlton-
Browne, Terry-Thomas ; Prime Minister Amphib-
nlos, Peter Sellers; Princess Ilyena, Luciana Pao-
luzzi; Col. Bellingham, Thorlev Walters; The
Young King, Tan Bannen; British Resident, Miles
Malleson; Minister, Foreign Office, Raymond
Huntley: Grand Duke, John Le Mesurier; Sir
Arthur Carlton Broume, Kynaston Reeves; Lady
Carlton-Brownc, Marie Lohr; Archipelagos,
Marne Maitland.
MURDER, INC. — 20th. Directed by Burt Bala-
ban and Stuart Rosenberg; Joey, Stuart Whit-
man; Eadie, May Britt; Turkus, Henry Morgan;
Relcs, Peter Falk; Lepke, David J. Stewart; To-
bin, Simon Oakland; Bug, Warren Fennertv;
Mendy Weiss, Joseph Bernard; Joe Rosen, Eli
Mintz; Laslo, Vince Gardenia.
PORTRAIT IN BLACK— U-T. Directed by
Michael Gordon: Sheila Cabot, Lana Turner: Dr.
David Rivera, Anthony Quinn; Catherine Cabot,
Sandra Dee; Blake Richards, John Saxon; Mat-
thew Cabot, Lloyd Nolan; Howard Mason, Rich-
ard Basehart; Cob O'Brien, Ray Walston: Miss
Lee, Virginia Grey; Tani, Anna May Wong;
Peter Cabot, Dennis Kohler.
PSYCHO — Paramount. Directed by Alfred
Hitchcock: Norman Bates, Anthony Perkins;
Marion Crane, Janet Leigh; Lila Crane, Vera
Miles; Sam Loomis, John Gavin; Milton Arbo-
gast, Martin Balsam; Sheriff Chambers, John
Mclntire; Dr. Richmond, Simon Oakland.
SONG WITHOUT END — Columbia. Directed
by Charles Vidor: Franz Liszt, Dirk Bogarde;
Princess Carolyne, Capucine; Countess Marie,
Genevieve Page; George Sand, Patricia Morison;
Prince Nicholas, Ivan Desny; Grand Duchess,
Martita Hunt; Potin, Lou Jacobi; Prince Felix
Lichnowsky, Albert Rueprecht; Chelard, Marcel
Dalio; Richard Wagner , Lyndon Brook; Arch-
bishop, Walter Rilla; Czar, Hans LTnterkirchner ;
Thalbcrg, E. Erlandsen; Chopin, Alex Davion.
TARZAN THE MAGNIFICENT— Paramount.
Directed by Robert Day: Tarzan, Gordon Scott;
Coy Banton, Jock Mahoney; Fay Ames, Betta St.
John; Abel Banton, John Carradine; Laurie,
Alexandra Stewart; Ames, Lionel Jeffries; Tate,
Earl Cameron: Coirway, Charles Tingwell; Mar-
tin Banton, A1 Mulock; Johnny Banton, Gary
Cockrell; Chief, Christopher Carlos; Headman,
Harry Baird.
TIME MACHINE, THE — M-G-M. Directed bv
George Pal: Time Traveler, Rod Taylor; David
P Filby, James Filby, Alan Young; Weena, Yvette
Mimieux; Dr. Hilly cr, Sebastian Cabot; Anthony
Bridezvell, Tom Helmore; Walter Kemp, Whit
Bissell; Mrs. Watchctt, Doris Lloyd.
effort. For any other two people, they
would have been enough.
But not for Loretta. There was also work
to be considered. Tom’s, of course, was
essential — he was the breadwinner. In her
role as the perfect wife, the role she had
longed to play for so many years, Loretta
gave him hours of her time, listening to
his problems, helping him find solutions.
When he made strides in his field, he was
infinitely proud. But there was her work,
too. You do not devote yourself for so
many years to a job, turning to it for com-
fort and security whenever the rest of the
world fails you, only to drop it because
suddenly other things are going well. In-
stead, you tell yourself that now, happy
and content, you will do your best work,
your finest acting; you talk over your
scripts and interpretations with your hus-
band— and when your marriage is eight
wonderful years old, you win your first
Oscar, as proof that you were right.
Then, as the greatest joy of all, in quick
succession, two sons were born to Tom and
Loretta— Christopher Paul and Peter
Charles.
Two wonderful boys, whom Loretta
wanted to take care of herself. And still
it wasn’t enough. There was television to
be considered. A whole new world for her
and Tom to explore together. They would
form a corporation and call it Lewislor —
a combination of their names, as it would
draw upon their combined talents in the
making of TV shows.
Was it possible they did not realize how
few hours there are in a day? Was it
possible that they never worried about
adding to the inevitable problems of even
the best marriage, those of even the best
business venture? Was it possible they did
not count on being too exhausted at the
end of impossibly long days to spend any
significant time with each other and their
children?
It would seem that it was very possible.
It would seem that they believed, even
when Tom’s work began to call him more
and more to New York, and Loretta’s to
prevent her, more and more frequently,
from accompanying him, that their
marriage could survive separation, cross-
country commuting, business squabbles —
and anything else that they might choose
to inflict upon it. After all, was it not
visibly a success? Lewislor made money,
Loretta won awards, Judy grew up and
made a happy marriage, and if Tom began
to feel almost like a guest in his Hollywood
house, if he found himself referring to the
New York apartment as “home”; if Loretta
began to live on vitamin pills because she
had no time for meals, if she increased her
charity work to impossible extremes
(designed to fill up the occasional empty
hours) and still heard herself referred to
by others as a “chocolate-covered black-
widow spider”; if Christopher seemed to
prefer going to school in New York where
he could see more of his father, and Peter
to prefer staying in Los Angeles with her —
then what were all these but temporary
problems which would someday be swept
aside, be proven meaningless compared to
the wonderful love and marriage she and
Tom shared?
But it was the marriage that, in the end,
lost all meaning.
All the other things came to dominate
their lives — the duality of their careers,
the physical and emotional distances it
put between them, the constant strain and
drain on her strength and even her ability
to sleep. All these things came to dominate
their lives. But particularly the business
partnership that was ultimately allowed to
take precedence over the marriage part-
nership. That was a barrier nothing seemed
to be able to surmount.
In 1958, Tom Lewis sued Loretta for mis-
management of their corporation, Lewislor
Attorneys hastily claimed that both side:
had known about the suit, that it mean
nothing “personally,” that it was merely ar
unpleasant legal necessity for complicatec
business reasons.
But, when two people have radicallj
altered their marriage to conform to theii
careers, when two people in love are als<
two people with separate attorneys anc
separate homes on opposite sides of a con-
tinent— then how can you tell when
business ends and marriage begins?
How do you know if love has beer
stretched too far, and is forever gone?
How do you determine when a boy runs
away from school if he is simply playing
hookey — or if, like his mother before him
he has suddenly found life too difficult tc
understand and is starting out in his own
search for someone or something to love?
She’ll live a legend
Perhaps you never know. Perhaps you
try not to think about it; perhaps you keep
yourself from looking back over the years i
and wondering about the strange pattern
of your life; perhaps you fill up your days
with work and your nights with heavy,’
nightmare-laden sleep. Perhaps you tell
yourself that as long as millions of people
love you, you are not really alone after
all.
Or, possibly, you remember the lesson
learned so many years ago — that it is not
necessary to be loved, but to love. Perhaps
you hold firmly to that, pouring out your
heart to your children, to your first grand-
child, to your friends and your charities—
perhaps you continue to love a man who
is no longer there to know or care. Per- ;
haps it is a source of great comfort to you.
But one thing is sure. Whatever you do,
you do it behind the wall of brilliant smiles
and proud words. You protect yourself
from the curious and the sympathetic with
all your incredible strength. You go on
living a legend, one of the most glamorous,
the most beautiful, the most indestructible
woman in the world. And only in the pri-
vacy of your heart, does the little, lost girl
who looks for love, continue to live.
The End
SEE AND ENJOY “THE LORETTA YOUNG SHOW”
ON EVERY SUNDAY FROM 10:00-10:30 P.M., EDT.
92
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OCTOBER, 1960
P
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VOL. 58, NO. 4
FAVORITE OF AMERICA'S MOVIEGOERS FOR OVER FORTY YEARS
LIZ TAYLOR
MARILYN MONROE
DEBORAH KERR
EXCLUSIVE
25 Was Her Son Told Liz Is Leaving Eddie? by Julia Corbin
32 Behind fhe Yves Montand, Marilyn Monroe, Arthur Miller Triangle
66 Her Old-Fashioned Wedding
ELVIS PRESLEY
30
CONNIE STEVENS
34
GENE TIERNEY
40
CONNIE FRANCIS
42
PAT BOONE
44
VIC DAMONE and
PIER ANGELI
48
DIANNE LENNON
50
EDD BYRNES
52
TONY CURTIS and
JANET LEIGH
54
JANICE RULE
58
CARY GRANT
60
ARTICLES AND SPECIAL FEATURES
Is My Face Red! by Judy Fowler
How Can I Tell if I'm Really in Love by Marcia Bo rie
Something Terrible's Going to Happen to Me — Again
by Jim Hoffman
“Gee, Will I Ever Get Married?” by Rose Perlberg
The Things Girls Do That Bug Boys Most
Can a Man Ever Forget the Woman He Loved? by Judi Holtzer
“The Wedding Will Never Take Place"
“Kookie, We’re Gonna Mash Your Face”
A Quiet Afternoon With Janet and Tony
Fashion: Six Ways to Look this Fall
Let Cary Show You ... As He Showed Me
by Ruth Britten
by James Williams
by Madlyn Rhuc
YOUNG IDEAS
18
Readers Inc.
84
Becoming Attractions
22
Your Monthly Ballot
89
Answers to September's Puzzle
80
Where To Buy
92
Your Needlework
NEWS AND REVIEWS
4
Hollywood For You by Skolsky
12
Inside Stuff by Sara Hamilton
8
Go Out to a Movie
81
Casts of Current Pictures
90 Now Playing
(Brief
Reviews)
EVELYN PAIN, Editor KENNETH CUNNINGHAM, Art Director
NORMAN SIEGEL, West Coast Editor
claire safran. Managing Editor kate palumbo. Fashion Editor
rose ENt. lander. Associate Editor jine clark. Beauty Editor
tobi feldstein. Assistant Editor Roger aiarshutz. Staff Photographer
JIM HOFFMAN, VIVIEN mazzone. Contributing Editors joan CLARKE, Assistant Art Director
anne kanes. Assistant to Editor marcia borie. West Coast Contributor
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1 7 n Y Irving S Manheimer, President: Douglas Lockhart Vice-President
Re entered as Second Class matter May 10. 1946 ct the Post Office ot New York, N. Y . under the Act of March
2 1 370 Second-class postage paid at New York. N Y , and othe' cost offices Authorized as Second Class
Mail P. O. Dept., Ottawa, Ont., Canada. Copyright 1960 by Macfadden Publications, Inc. All rights reserved.
Copyright undei the Universal Copyright Convention and International Copyright Convention. Copyright reserved
under Pan American Copyright Convention Todos derechos reservados segun la Convencion Panamericano de
Fropiedad Literaria y Artistica. Title trademark registered in U S Patent Office Printed in U S A by Art Color
Printing Company. Member of True Story Women’s Croup.
Now all the songs
born in women’s hearts ... all the passions
kindled in women’s arms
flame from the screen!
than
j I , j
Complete sound track music
available on
COLPIX RECORDS
“I gave up a kingdom for this kiss.
I want you to love me for all eternity!”
‘‘The Church and the Devil are fight-
ing for your soul . . . and I don’t know
who will win!”
SONG
Without
end
g:
COLUMBIA PICTURES
presents
AWILLIAM GOETZ PRODUCTION
starring
DIRK BOGARDE
as Franz Liszt
PATRICIA MORISONIVAN DESNY
MARTHA HUNT • LOU JACOBI
r and
Introducing
glamorous,
breathtaking
CAPUCINE
Written by OSCAR MILLARD Directed by CHARLES VIDOR
m CINEMASCOPE and Eastman COLOR
r
3
THAT’S
HOLLYWOOD
FOR YOU
BY SIDNEY SKOLSKY
Julie tells me she’s happier now — and for good reasons.
I’m aware Elvis Presley is a judo ex-
pert, but I didn't realize until now
this subject is his opening dialogue
with a girl. . . . Bet Tony Curtis never
thought he’d be a Roman gladiator. . . .
Tuesday Weld is still on her reformation
and improvement kick; the jiounding of
my typewriter keys are applause for
her. . . . I’ll say this for George Hamil-
ton: He’s always well-dressed. . . . John
Wayne must have surprised even John
Ford with his direction of “The Alamo.”
. . . Julie Newmar told me she likes
Hollywood better. “This time it seems
like fun here. I like my role in the pic-
ture (‘Marriage-Go-Round’), but I guess
it all boils down to the amount of zeroes
1 get paid.” ... As far as I’m concerned,
movies about The Beat Generation have
had it. . . . May Britt’s real name is
Maybritt Wilkens. . . . Weren’t you sur-
prised by those unglamorous photos of
Wonder if Cyd and I agree on Tony?
Charles Boyer and Maurice Chevalier
for “Fanny”? Especially Boyer. . . . Tony
Martin should unbend a little and he’d
be good in the movies. . . . The studios
are using new faces so fast that Yvette
Mimieux secretly calls herself “that old
new face.”
Rod Steiger often can’t remember his
own phone number and has to look it
up in his personal address book. ... It
isn’t often you hear Marilyn Monroe
praise another actress. However, she has
only superlatives for Shirley MacLaine’s
perfoi'mance in “The Apartment.” MM
Joan and Warren — a clue to a secret.
How much does Susan Kohner have to do with the way George Hamilton looks?
thinks SM should win the Oscar. . . .
Shelley Winters gained an Oscar and
lost a husband, Tony Franciosa. . . .
Groucho Marx claims the good old days
was when women dressed on the beach
the way they do now in the super-
markets.
Tab Hunter loves horses as much as
that small boy loves Lassie. . . . Joan
Collins kisses with her eyes open, if
she doesn’t like you. They’re tightly shut
for Warren Beatty. . . . Fred Astaire’s
real name is Frederick Austerlitz. . . .
Imagine what a box office draw Lana
Turner would be in a truly fine motion
picture. ... I’m amused by the fact that
in “Imitation of ( Please turn the page )
4
the WOMAN IN THE MIDNIGHT LACE ...
target for, temptation. ..or terror?
THE SHOCKING
midnight threats.
THE UNEXPLAINABLE
'ACCIDENTS'...
THE MENACING
VOICE IN THE FOG.
DORIS DAY* REX HARRISON
JOHN GAVIN
MYRNA LOY- RODDY McDOWALL
HERBERT MARSHALL • NATASHA PARRY -JOHN WILLIAMS
w«h HERMIONE BADDELEY
Directed by DAVID MILLER • Screenplay by IVAN GOFF and BEN ROBERTS
Based upon the play "MATILDA SHOUTED EIRE" by Janet Green
Produced by ROSS HUNTER and MARTIN MELCHER ■ A Universal-International Release
HAD SHE INVENTED
THEM... OR, WAS
SHE LIVING TWO
lives. ..without
KNOWING IT...?
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HOLLYWOOD
continued
Life.” Sandra Dee was Lana's daughter
and in “Portrait in Black” she’s Lana’s
step-daughter. ... If Richard Burton
was as colorful in the movies as he is
offscreen, he’d be one of the biggest box
office attractions. ... I admire Efrem
Zimbalist Jr., not so much for his acting,
hut because at a cocktail party he can
take one peanut and stop. . . . I’m still
wondering what actually happened be-
tween John Saxon and Vicki Thai. They
looked as if they were made for each
other when they announced their en-
gagement. . . . The youngsters in the
movie colony are using the attractive
album covers to decorate their bedroom
Wherever Lana is, there’s Fred May.
walls. ... 1 think Keely Smith is the
best female singer around these days,
and Frank Sinatra is still tops on the
male list. They should do an album to-
gether. . . . Starlet Googie Schwab told
me: “I’m thinking of getting married.
How difficult is it to get a divorce?”
What they’re saying about Shirley!
Zsa Zsa Gabor shopping at the Farm-
er's Market — a bunch of lilacs under one
arm, a ham under the other. ... I believe
that Spencer Tracy and Fredric March,
the only actors who are two-time win-
ners of Oscars, will battle it out to see
who wins it for the third time, judging
by their performances in “Inherit the
Wind.” ... I think Jayne Mansfield
should be bigger than she is — career-
wise, I mean. . . . Anxiously I await the
movie version of “West Side Story.” . . .
Vincent Price told me that Hollywood
is the only town about which you can
say contradictory things and still be
right — which is a pretty contradictory
thing to say in the first place.
When Carolyn Jones gets fidgety in a
movie, I do, too. . . . Wonder who dis-
plays his teeth more in a picture, Burt
Lancaster, Kirk Douglas or Charlton Hes-
ton? . . . Jean Simmons always appears
good-natured to me. Now if I were
Stewart Granger — . . . Mamie Van
Doren believes that love is the best
beauty treatment for a woman. ... A
Hollywood starlet is a girl who’s great
in still pictures and is waiting to get a
role in a moving picture. That’s Holly-
wood For You.
Dot Malone meets Vicki Trickett, who’s in “ Pepe .” Tab discovered her — on a horse.
CASH! CASH! CASH! FASCINATING PUZZLES! FABULOUS PRIZES! ^
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SAMPLE PUZZLE
largest Island in the Mediterranean.
H] 0 0 0 0 0
In this Sample Puzzle which is typical of all basic
Official Puzzles there are just enough letters scrambled
to correctly spell out the name of a certain island. Now
look at the Clues. "Largest island in the Mediterranean.”
Of course you know this is Sicily and, sure enough, when
you unscramble the letters, that's exactly the island name
you come up with. Furthermore, you can tell by the outline
of the island that you've got the correct answer. Finally,
the pictured objects in the puzzle (Mt. Etna— a hot sun),
also suggest Sicily. (NOTE: An additional clue with each set
of basic Official Puzzles will be a list of island names from
which to select your answers.)
and
Puzzles
#8 will be
entrant within
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AY
‘EVERYBODY WINS THIS PRIZE!
WHY DO WE OFFER THIS EXCITING CONTEST?
C. S. HAMMOND & CO. for over half a century has been one of the foremost publishers of
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is changing — up-to-date geographic material is a must if you and your family are to keep
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is to make you conscious of the wealth of in-
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MAIL SOLUTIONS TO PUZZLES
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Solve the first four OFFICIAL PUZZLES,
enter your solutions on one Coupon below,
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which we will RUSH to you Puzzles # 5 , #6,
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9th Through 36th PRIZES /.FTSzsr *
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HOW TO PLAY THIS GAME
The correct answer to each of the first four Puzzles below is the name of an island.
The object of the game is to spell out the correct island name in each puzzle by
unscrambling the letters in the puzzle. The pictured objects and other clues will help
you verify your solutions.
The correct answer to each of the four puzzles below is among the following island names.
ICELAND
CUBA
PUERTO RICO
IRELAND
OAHU
HAINAN .
PUZZLES 1-4 INCLUSIVE!
SEND SOLUTIONS ON COUPON BELOW
KEEP PUZZLES FOR YOUR RECORDS
c
Famous for cigars
□ □□□
Saint Patrick drove out the snakes from this
Inhabitants of this island are
United States Citizens.
Isle of the Hula Hula.
□□□□□□
THIS COUPON FOR A RELATIVE OR FRIEND
I Mail To: TREASURE ISLAND GAME 141
I Box 2715, Grand Central Station
New York 17, N. Y.
Please RUSH Puzzles #5, #6, #7 and #8 together
with official rules and details of this exciting GAME,
I understand this obligates me in no way.
NAME
ADDRESS,..
CITY...... ZONE STATE
□ I enclose a stamped, self-addressed envelope
YOU MUSI ENCLOSE A STAMPED SELF-ADDRESSED ENVELOPE.
ENTRY COUPON
Print Your Answers below
Puzzle #1,
Puzzle #2.
Puzzle #3.
Puzzle #4.
YOU enter on this coupon
I Mail To: TREASURE ISLAND GAME 141
3 Please RUSH Puzzles #5, #6, ;r7 and together
I with official rules and details of this exciting GAME.
J I understand this obligates me in no way.
CITY ZONE STATE
□ I enclose a stamped, .self-addressed envelope
ENTRY COUPON
Print Your Answers below
Puzzle
Puzzle #2.
Puzzle #3
Pyzzle #4
YOU MUST ENCLOSE A STAMPED SELF-ADDRESSED ENVELOPE
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Elmer Gantry
WARM-BLOODED STORY OF REAL PEOPLE; ADULT
The Sinclair Lewis novel made a
lot of readers mad back in 1927, but
that hasn’t scared Richard Brooks.
Adapting and directing the movie, he
gets a firm grip on a hot subject, in-
stead of juggling it nervously. Maybe
religion is supposed to be a taboo
topic for arguments, but just look
what we have here: Burt Lancaster
preaching hellfire like a side-show
barker; Jean Simmons (above with
Burt) sincerely offering a happy faith
(with some showmanship of her
own) ; and Arthur Kennedy, as an
agnostic newspaperman, taking a
cynical view of revivalists in general.
Yet it isn’t any argument you’ll re-
member from this lusty picture; it’s
all the live, believable characters. Al-
most every part is an actor’s delight.
Shirley Jones seems to enjoy throw-
ing her virtue away to become a gal
that any honest cop would keep a
suspicious eye on. And Patti Page is
a sympathetic person, as well as a
fervent hymn-singer. Yes, moviegoers
are arguing about this one — but it
isn’t leaving anybody indifferent! u.A.
The Rest Is Silence
SHAKESPEARE STAYS UP TO DATE; ADULT
If that title quote doesn’t tip you
off. you may be puzzled by something
strangely familiar about this picture.
As a German boy raised in the U.S.,
Hardy Kruger goes home because he
suspects that his father was murdered,
so that his uncle (Peter Van Eyck)
could take over the dead man’s mu-
nitions kingdom and wife. That out-
line doesn’t ring a bell? Then you
must have been daydreaming in Eng-
lish class. Hardy’s young Harvard
professor is really Hamlet, and it’s
interesting to see how well his violent
story fits into the weird world of the
Nazis and the sick world of postwar
Germany. Next to Hardy’s, the best
acting job is turned in by Ingrid
Andree, who’s a touching modern-
day Ophelia, taking refuge in the
greenhouse of her bombed-out home.
But the persistent echo in all the sit-
uations is really distracting! Shake-
speare wrote it better.
FILMS AROUND THE WORLD;
GERMAN DIALOCUE, TITLES IN ENGLISH
Hell to Eternity
SURPRISE HIT, WONDERFULLY TRUE; ADULT
Here’s a splendid example of what
Hollywood calls “a sleeper.” No big
names; no expensive publicity cam-
paign; a title that doesn’t mean
much. You walk in without expecting
anything special— and you’re caught
up in a fascinating drama, living
with people you’ll remember for a
long, long time. Under Phil Karlson’s
direction, Jeffrey Hunter (who used
to seem too good-looking to be a
really good actor) is just fine as Guy
Gabaldon, an actual hero of World
War II — but one who wasn’t famous
chiefly for ( Please turn the page )
8
///(//a
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MOVIES continued
killing. A California boy (white), Jeff
has been raised in a loving family of
Japanese-Americans. Their tragedy after
Pearl Harbor is shocking new material
for the screen: The Japan-born parents
are forced into “relocation camps,”
while their Nisei sons fight with the
great “Go for broke” regiment in Italy.
Jeff’s unusual knowledge of the enemy’s
language finally takes him to Saipan
with the Marine Corps. War scenes cer-
tainly aren’t prettified, but their note of
hope is stronger than the horrors. For
relaxation, there’s a wild and hilarious
party in Hawaii, when Jeff and his
buddies, David Janssen (opposite page
with Jeff) and Vic Damone, meet up
with two cheerful Japanese- American
girls and a chilly newspaperwoman
(Patricia Owens), and . . . well, these
boys aren’t Boy Scouts — they’re Ma-
rines ! ALLIED ARTISTS
Sons and Lovers
SENSITIVE STUDY OF GROWING-UP; ADULT
D. H. Lawrence’s ideas on sex may
have seemed more startling when his
novel came out than they do now; but
director Jack Cardiff’s version still rates
as an outspoken movie, done with taste
as well as vigor. He’s kept the period in
1910 and the place in an English mining
town — and yet young people today, in
any American town, will understand
just what Dean Stockwell is going
through. He does a nice, earnest job as
the boy who’s eager to learn about life,
first with Heather Sears (below left),
as a timid country girl, and then with
Mary Ure, as a beautiful campaigner
for women’s rights. Family relationships
haven’t changed much, either. With their
imposing work as Dean’s mother and
father, Wendy Hiller and Trevor How-
ard make us see some eternal truths
about marriage that are ’way beyond
Dean s gtasp. 20th, cinemascope
AU the Fine Young Cannibals
SEX IS CERTAINLY CONFUSING; ADULT
When you get right down to it, the
young people of this modern story are
facing the same problems as Dean’s —
only theirs are less convincing and much
more complicated. Though the creepy
title is never explained, the general idea
seems to be that Natalie Wood, Bob
Wagner, George Hamilton and Susan
Kohner are trying to eat each other up
emotionally. All of them leave their
Southern home town for New York:
George and sister Susan ( below right ) ,
to escape the boredom of being rich;
Bob, to follow a jazz career; Natalie, to
escape disgrace. The young stars (espe-
cially Bob ) are all at their best as they
try to express the picture’s serious in-
tentions— whatever those may be. A
couple of times, the theme appears to be
that you aren’t truly in love unless
you’re ready to commit suicide over it.
A pretty sick notion.
M-C-M; CINEMASCOPE, METROCOLOR
The Crowded Sky
LOTS OF PLOT TO KEEP US FLYINC; ADULT
Remember “The High and the
Mighty”? So do the people who made
this new air thriller. They’ve got us
nibbling our fingernails over the fate of
10
I i
i I
L
a Navy jet, speeding toward an unsched-
uled rendezvous several thousand feet
over the U.S. As usual, every soul on
each plane is in an emotional swivit.
Navy flyers Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., and
Troy Donahue have wife trouble and
sweetheart trouble. On the transport,
pilot Dana Andrews doesn’t get along
with co-pilot John Kerr, who loves stew-
ardess Anne Francis, who has quite a
past. Among the passengers, we have old
lovers meeting again, a “Marty”-type
romance starting, a husband taking care
of a dying wife. Nobody is just yawning
and looking out the window.
WARNERS, TECHNICOLOR
Come Dance With Me!
BARDOT TURNS DETECTIVE; ADULT
It looks as if comedy murder mys-
teries just aren’t a French cup of tea,
though Brigitte Bardot is pretty, sassy
and semi-dressed while she’s making like
Nora Charles or Mrs. North. She wants
to find out who shot Dawn Addams, a
blackmailing dance instructress, because
the cops are after Brigitte’s handsome
but not extra-bright husband (played by
the late Henri Vidal). The pace is too
leisurely, but there are suspects aplenty
and enough chuckles, and the murder
motive is an eyebrow-raiser — definitely
not for the family trade.
KINGSLEY INTERNATIONAL;
DIALOGUE IN FRENCH, TITLES IN ENGLISH
Ice Palace
ALASKA HISTORY GOES ON AND ON; FAMILY
Richard Burton and Robert Ryan are
a couple of forceful personalities and
good actors — ( Continued on page 86)
Womans ‘Difficult Days’
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Doctors tell why her underarm perspiration
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when they’re stimulated they liter-
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I
Happy Father: Mel Ferrer was in
bed for a scene when I tiptoed onto his
“Hands of Orlac” set, shooting at Shep-
perton's in London, first stop on my ex-
citing trip to Europe. With a sudden
leap Mel grabbed my hand in friendship
while photographers snapped. “Wait
till I tell Audrey who was here,” he
beamed, for Mel knows how fond I am
of his lovely wife, Audrey Hepburn.
His new son hadn’t been born at that
time but Mel had reservations on every
plane from London to Switzerland in
order to he there wth Audrey. And I
learned later he made it. While they
were in the South of France last spring,
Mel had surprised Audrey with a new
nursery in their Switzerland home. He’d
done it all by telephone. “We’re coming
to Hollywood in the early fall,” he told
me, “Audrey to make ‘Breakfast at Tif-
fany’s’ and I to direct ‘Return Fare.’
And, of course, we’ll bring the new baby
with us and we want you to be among
our first visitors.” And that I will.
A Birthday In Rome: “Now mother get busy,” Sandra Dee
said to her mother, Mary Douvan, one morning in Rome. “This
is Sara’s birthday and there’s a lot of planning to do.” So,
Mary, who told me about it later, ordered the orchids which
turned out to be gardenias, and suddenly everything was ready
when I arrived for what I thought was an ordinary luncheon.
Instead, there was Sandra, Mary, Jerry Germain and Jack
Newman from Universal in Hollywood, and Vera Thompson,
wife of the co-producer, Walter Thompson, on “Romanoff and
Juliet,” the picture Sandra is making in Rome. The party was
gay with a cake, champagne and lovely gifts, among them a
giant bottle of Caron’s “Bellodgia” from Sandra. What a time!
But that wasn’t all. That evening on the night location in the
surrounding gardens of a beautiful villa, I was led over to a
table laden with more champagne and an even fancier cake.
And while the orchestra, a part of the picture, played Happy
Birthday, I was surrounded by the Peter Ustinovs, Sandra,
her mother, Mary, Cecily and Jack Gavin, the Akim Tami-
roffs and Walter Thompsons. Surely, I thought to myself, no
one ever had two such wonderful birthday surprises. And in
such a romantic setting. Just like Sandra to dream it all up.
Mel made it to Audrey's side — just in time.
Sandra had a real surprise for me. Akim and Peter helped her keep it a secret.
In Marseilles, a happier Leslie posed for Vincent Roux.
A Day With The Pecks: The driver finally found Burly
Lane, an hour outside London, and suddenly there was
Veronique Peck at the door with a warm greeting. She
had telephoned my hotel a day or two before with an
invitation to lunch and what a wonderful day it was,
in the huge English manor house that housed Gregory,
Veronique, the three older Peck boys and little Anthony
and Cecilia. After their naps and our wonderful lunch,
the two younger children appeared and if ever there was
a pocket edition of the handsome Gregory himself, it’s
little Anthony. “Even in Rhodes,” Veronique said, “the
natives who had never seen us would stop Anthony and
say, ‘Ah, a little Gregory Peck, eh?’” And, of course,
pert, adorable 2-year-old Cecilia, the sole femme among
a houseful of boys, is the Queen Bee of the household.
A happy family, the Pecks. And Greg deserves it all.
A Day At Peter Ustinov’s: After
“Spartacus” there can be no doubt
about the talents of the bearded Eng-
lishman, Peter Ustinov, who wrote, di-
rected, produced and starred in
“Romanoff and Juliet” with Sandra
Dee. So with pleasure I accepted his
Sunday-at-home-day in the gardens of
his elaborate villa. Here I met again the
fascinating Oscar winner, Simone
Signoret, who had been making a film
in Italy. Simone raved over the smooth-
ness of American production methods.
And husband Yves Montand, she said,
was crazy over Hollywood and has two
more pictures to make for 20th Century-
Fox. Simone will also make a few Amer-
ican movies. ( Please turn the page )
A feet lmdParis : [Maurice OievaTief was foaming
the “Fanny” set in a dilapidated bathrobe the day I
visited the Boulogne studios near Paris. Resting in a
comfortable chair nearby was Charles Boyer. “You
see what happens when you grow too old for romance?’
Maurice grinned. “Charles and I like to take it easy.” To
me, both gentlemen seemed the epitome of romance and
1 wanted no further arguments from either of them. “I’m
72 in September,” Maurice called after me “and I’ll
see you in Hollywood soon.” Director Josh Logan
shook his head. “Maurice is the only actor I know who
keeps reminding the world of his age,” he said. And
you know something? It’s true. . . . Leslie Caron joined
me for a chat. With her husband, Peter Hall, a director
of Shakespearean plays at Stratford, she’s off to the
Virgin Islands for a visit with her parents and then, if
time allows, on to Mexico for a vacation. Leslie tells me
she’ll appear on the London stage this winter in “Ondine, ’
to be directed by her husband. And what a happy mar-
riage this one is! Happiness absolutely shines through
the interesting face of little “Gigi” and her handsome
husband. What an
adorable couple they
are! Don’tyou agree?
And In Holly-
wood: All those
f ’ . femme admirers of
■Nk - Jkp.4 Jb , Bobby Darin can
^4 now take heart.
jS His engagement to
' J Jo-Ann Campbell
RHK JSfc, Wff \ seems definitely off.
N. . . . Terry Moore
called me to tell
me how exciting it
was giving birth.
She watched in a
mirror! . . . Poor
Vera Miles and
groom Keith Lar-
son. Right after the ceremony, Keith took off for location
for his new TV series “Aquanaut” — and without Vera.
Terry couldn’t wait to tell me.
After the party with Kookie and Keely, things changed for Bobby and Jo-Ann.
Familiar Faces: That cute, delectable
Frenchie, Christine Carere, and her
husband, Philip Nicaud, paid us a visit
at our hotel in Paris. Christine expected
her baby any day but later, in 1961,
she and Philip plan to come to Holly-
wood for a movie. “I hope they haven’t
forgotten me,” she sighed. . . . “Hey”
came Gene Kelly’s voice over the
phone. “Why are you arriving in Paris
just as I’m leaving?” But not a word about
his plans to marry Jeanne Cogne, which
he did a short while later, in Nevada.
. . . “Come right over, Richard Egan
telephoned in Home. “Pat and the
children and I love it here. We may
even stay to do another picture.
Richard, we gathered, was very happy
with his “Esther and the King” movie Believe it or not , Jack Lemmon left this harem to telephone another girl — me!
and lives in a charming villa. . . . “It’s
a press cocktail party so do come,”
Rhonda Fleming telephoned, so with
A1 Hix, that handsome man around
Rome, I sat beside Rhonda and her
husband, Lang Jeffries, while the
Italians asked their questions through
an interpreter. Rhonda and Lang were
on their way to Madrid to make “Revolt
of the Slaves.” . . . “I’m off to Sicily,”
Tina Louise told me in Rome, “to
make a picture for Rossellini called
‘Viva la Italia.’ It’s the story of Gari-
baldi and I love the role.” “And what
about your love life?” I asked Tina
who merely laughed. But I happen to
know it’s quite a romance between Tina
and a certain Italian attorney of good
family. ... I saw Sal Mineo when
he came through from Israel and his
role in “Exodus” and somehow it hadn’t
occurred to me before just how the
long hard hours of work these young
people put in can interfere with their
social life. Sal phoned Sandra Dee
for a date and Sandra was eager to Pier Angeli made a dramatic entrance — and exit at the Berlin Film Festival. Still,
accept. But suddenly her set call was it made me sad. Like Vic Damone, I can t help think how things might have been.
r shifted to a night scene and so the date
had to be cancelled. And Sal understood.
The Ball And Home: When Pier Angeli arrived at
the Berlin Film Festival Ball, all eyes turned toward the
little Italian beauty. She looked absolutely beautiful. It
was sad, though, not seeing Vic Damone with her. . . .
One of the first callers, when I got back to Hollywood, was
my friend Jack Lemmon. ... On the plane home, I read
Paul Anka’s book, “Diana and Me,” and it should prove a
best seller. “Diana” was also the name of his first song hit.
On The Set: Cary Grant wrote and said, “Be my guest.
Fly over to Europe. You’ll feel at home.” And when he
came across the sound stage to greet me with his usual
charming smile, suddenly I did feel at home — even far away
at Shepperton’s Studio outside London where Cary,
Deborah Kerr, Jean Simmons and Bob Mitchum were
filming “The Grass is Greener.” Cary, of course, knew I
was coming as he was my host for this wonderful month’s
holiday in Europe but Deborah, whom I hadn’t seen for
some time, did a perfect double take when she glimpsed me.
The instant the scene was finished, she came over and with
a “May I?” kissed my cheek and held my hand in greeting.
Cary and Deborah and I lunched in the studio dining-
room and, of course, I had to give them all the news from
home. Both Cary and Deborah looked fantastically young
and handsome. Could be the English weather. Deborah has
married Peter Viertel by this time and Cary is back in Holly-
wood. But for that moment, what a wonderful reunion it was!
Dinner With The Darrens:
Jimmy and Evy Darren drove
up to my hotel exactly on the
hour and the three of us took
off for an Italian restaurant in
the heart of London. But the
rather touching thing, to me,
was Jimmy’s concern that every-
thing be just right. He had tele-
phoned me in advance to know
if I liked Italian food and had
ordered everything in advance
— made to his own tastes. Won-
derful pizzas with small saus-
ages. Raviolis stuffed with
cheese. A special red wine. And
we ate and laughed and gos-
siped for hours. Evy, who is ex-
pecting a baby in November, is
a doll. I’m crazy about her. And
here’s news: “I’m giving up my
career from now on,” she con-
fided. Jimmy says it’s strictly
up to her but Evy is a sensible
young woman who wants to be
free to go where Jimmy goes.
Incidentally, the three wives of
the “Guns of Navarone” stars,
Mrs. Gregory Peck, Mrs.
David Niven, and Evy are all
chums, visiting back and forth.
And here’s a prediction— when
Jimmy appears on the Ed Sulli-
van show, this fall, he’ll surprise
the world with his marvelous
voice. And wait till they hear
his new record of “Man About
Town.” ( Please turn the page )
Desi had news about him and Lucy for Mary Pickford.
This And That: Peter Brown's latest, is new star-
let Joanie Sommers. Says Peter: “Joanie’s a lot of fun.
She’s vivacious. She has freckles
on top of her tan, and she’s so
healthy, it’s frightening!” ! ! !
Desi Arnaz visited Lucille
Ball and the children during
the time Lucy recovered from
her fall on the Bob Hope set of
“Facts of Life.” No reconcili-
ation. Just an adult regard for
the feelings of their two chil-
dren. . . . The death of Mrs.
Forrest Tucker has left her
many friends greatly saddened.
Jane proves that it is possible.
I Hollywood: It’s so good to
see happily-marrieds like Jane
Withers and husband. . . . That
final blow-up between Shelley
Winters and Tony Franciosa
surprised no one in Hollywood.
Looks real serious between Peter and Joanie.
p
15
continued
Cal York’s Jottings: Cynthia Lemmon Rob-
ertson received her divorce decree from actor Cliff Robert-
son on their third wedding anniversary. . . . That unexpected
visit Frank Sinatra paid to Juliet Prowse on the “G.I.
Blues” set must have assured Frankie no definite romance
existed between Juliet and Elvis, as rumored. The follow-
ing day, Frankie gifted Julie with a diamond bracelet. So
one hears. . . . Two reasons are given for Elvis not attend-
ing his father’s secret wedding in Memphis. One is that
Elvis objected to the wedding so soon after his mother’s
death. The other is that Elvis felt he’d attract too much
attention from the groom. So, you pay your money and
take your choice. . . . The cutest romance in town is that
of Molly Bee and Dwayne Hickman. It could be that
Molly’s tender influence softened that feud between Dwayne
and Tuesday Weld.
o- , 7 7 . ii- it At any rate, it seems
Sinatra had to see for himself. , ' „„
1 to be all over. . . . The
return of Diane Var-
si from her Benning-
ton, Vt., retreat caused
more excitement than
it’s worth, for my
money. I never could
see what all the Varsi
fuss was about in the
first place. Could
you? ? ? ? Jimmy
Boyd made Yvonne
Craig his bride before
he took off for his
Uncle Sam duty in
Texas. At least those
were his plans. . . .
Tab Hunter’s new TV
sponsors are unhappy
over that cruelty to his
dog charge that may
bring Tab before the
courts. Tab’s neigh-
bors brought the
charge. . . . It’s another
boy, Zoltan, for Jayne
Mansfield and Mick-
ey Hargitay. How nice.
Did Dodie know about Katie when she posed with Fabe ?
Good News Department: Fahian is more and more
intrigued with cute Katie Kelly every day it seems to me.
And he’s also all excited over his appearance at Atlan-
tic City’s Steel Pier over Labor Day. There’s just no stop-
ping this Fabe Boy. But, then, who wants to? Everybody’s
just as excited as he is! ! ! ! It will be a Christmas baby
for Ann Blyth and her husband Dr. James McNulty. Their
fourth child, incidentally, and the best present I know of.
A Date With Jean Simmons: The time was set
— luncheon at Shepperton’s studio — when sudden-
ly the news
broke from
Hollywood:
Jean Sim-
mons and
Stewart
Granger
were
r!
divorc-
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came as no
surprise. Theirs had been an odd and rather in-
congruous match from the beginning, with Stewart
years older than Jean, and so different in tempera-
ment. Too, their careers took a topsy-turvy turn.
Stewart was a big star in England when he married
Jean, who was just beginning. But it was Jean who
shot into popularity in Hollywood. One thing I did
learn from Jean. She’s adamant about having cus-
tody of her small daughter Tracy who is with her
in London. I’m sure, with proper visiting rights,
Stewart will cooperate and will offer no protests.
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Personal Appearance
I am eighteen years old and I have heard
much about Miss Tuesday Weld. She
made a personal appearance, not too long
ago, at Lido Faire Homes in Newark,
California. I went to see her not really
knowing what to expect since she seems
to be a young lady with a dual personality.
I am pleased to say that I saw a gracious,
well-dressed, friendly and cooperative per-
son. She patiently autographed each
picture herself and answered questions
while being interviewed. I wish success
and happiness to a very talented and beau-
tiful girl.
Nancy De Valle
Niles, Calif.
Excellent Article
I wish to tell you how much I enjoyed
the excellent article on Stephen Boyd which
appeared in your July issue. I think Ste-
phen is a very fine actor and is on a steady
rise to stardom. Needless to say. I'll be
rooting for him all the way.
Joan Perullo
Brooklyn, N.Y.
Fabulous Fabian
Fabulous Fabian, that’s my man.
The cutest boy in all the land.
He’s friendly, he’s nice, he’s very cute.
He looks just grand in a pale blue suit.
He sings like no other singer can,
Fabulous Fabian, that’s my man.
He’s called “Fabulous” and I know why,
His kind of talent you just can’t buy.
He’s not stuck-up, he’s really grand,
Forever I’ll be his devoted fan.
Nancy Lewis
High Point, N.C.
My Favorite Star
Connie Stevens is one of my favorite
stars. 1 loved your article in the July issue,
“Will He Still Want to Marry Me?”
Would you please have some more pic-
tures and stories on Connie?
Sandra Londre
Racine, Wis.
If you’ll skip over to page 34. you’ll find
a story and pictures on your favorite star.
Don’t skip too fast, though, because in-
between there are some pretty good stories,
too. — Ed.
Harry Called
I wrote to my favorite singer and movie
star, Harry Belafonte, wdren he was in Los
Angeles, and asked him to call me up.
Much to my surprise, he did! He is one of
the nicest people I have ever talked to and
I want to thank him for calling me.
Linda Vasquez
Fontana, Calif.
Cute and Refreshing
What is the name of Ingemar Johansson's
first movie and when will it be released?
His fans don't care if he’s heavyweight
champ or not. He is cute and refreshing.
Anne Tiera
Chicago, III.
Ingemar can be seen in “All the Young
Men” being released this September. — Ed.
Write to Readers Inc, Photoplay, 205 E. 42nd
St., New York 17, N. Y. We regret we cannot
answer or return unpublished letters. To start
fan clubs or write stars, contact their studios.
( Please turn the page I
A scene from “ All the Young Men ' with Ingemar Johansson and Alan Ladd.
13
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j
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19
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continued
Dear Fashion Editor:
I have several dark pleated skirts left from
past winters and I understand they are very
fashionable this fall. Is this true, and if so
what does one wear with them?
Sunny Brown
Madison, Wis.
Yes, yes, yes ! Pleated skirts are smart this
year and lucky girl to own several! You’ll
love the fun of an overblouse and the wonder-
ful feeling of little girl sophistication. Easy
care, casual cut, slate blue color, and low cost
are all plusses for this Ship ’n Shore blouse.
Vjr*
Dear Fashion Editor:
I have often read that jewelry should be a
mark of identity and a conversation piece, too.
My single strand of pearls is neither. What do
you suggest?
Jane Olcen
New York, N.Y.
You’ve read right. But Coro has the answer
in their so-called “ Personality Pins,” from,
which you select your “type,” i.e. a wise old
owl for the scholar or a poodle for the dog
lover. Your choice of eight individual pins.
Dear Fashion Editor:
Although the rest of my body is in pro-
portion, I have very large legs and therefore
feel I look best in high heels. It is impossible
for me to walk gracefully in sandals or sling
backs. Are there any new shoes being sold that
are basically high heel pumps yet not the
plain ones I’m so bored with wearing? I
would appreciate any information you can
give me on this.
Judy Anne Moss
Montgomery, Ala.
Smart girl — and I hope dark stockings are
a must for you, too. As for fashion excite-
ment in a basic pump, look at the three we’ve
sketched at the right. All high heeled, all
operas, and each with individual fashion news
in fine detail of buckles and bows. Tober-
Saifer made them all. They’re just for you.
( Please turn the page)
Touches your complexion with moonlight
Sparkles your lips with iridescent color
A whole new concept— a makeup that lights up your complexion with the shimmering
beauty of pearls. Puff on new glittering Pearlescent powder; instantly your com-
plexion looks flawlessly caressed with moonlight. Touch on new creamy Pearlescent
lipstick; your lips are moist with an iridescent sparkling beauty that he’s bound to
find more than a little disturbing. Find out for yourself— pearls are a girl’s best friend!
5 glittering shades,
compact makeup
Shown : new “Think Pink”
lipstick — one of 7 moonstruck
colors each
' UfcwA
CREATED IN PARIS, *^MADE BY BOURJOIS, U. S. A.
ORIGINAL
SOUNDTRACK
ALBUM
Judy
Hollida
Dean
Martin
• ••
ttdapUd and mmfcM by AN DH E FRE VI K
lyrtrj by BETTY COMDENw ADOLIf! GKEK\ mmich JULE STYNE
“bells are rincinc” right now for you at
your record dealer’s!
That’s where you can hear Capitol’s
delightful soundtrack album from the
tuneful new Judy Holliday-Dean Martin
movie. Time pegs the musical “one of
the year’s liveliest and wittiest.”
Oscar-winner Andre Previn adapted
the songs from the hilarious stage hit
about the romantic and electronic mis-
adventures of a ‘phone-answer-service
operator who has a few wires crossed.
And Comden, Green and Styne have
added new songs for the film to ones
like The Party's Over , Just in Time and
Judy’s show-stopping Pm Going Back.
So, pick up the album — it’s for you!
Stereo (SW1435) and reg. L.P. (W 1435)
continued
mini min in
| confidentially . . .
E mini I IIIIII mu innninnninnnnini mini mil
1 ... I am twenty-five
| years old and am in-
| terested in music and 1
| love nature. 1 am also
| interested in having pen
| pals from all over the
1 world. Anyone interested
| in writing to me?
| Elias Geron
| Markov Botsaris 15
| Athens, Greece
■ • I have a fan club for Rick Nelson.
The dues are 25^ for lifetime membership.
In return, you will receive a 5x7 auto-
graphed picture of Rick, a 5x7 auto-
graphed photo of the Nelson family, a
membership card, one snapshot of Rick :
taken on personal appearance and also de- I
tails on how to receive a letter from Rick. |
Frank Pettis \
2361 E. Grand Blvd. \
Detroit 11, Mich.
| ... I am a hoy of fifteen and have 300,000
| stamps to swap with anybody. 1 could
| offer stamps of the Federation of Rhodesia
| and Nyasaland as well as stamps from its
| surrounding countries. So why not write
| to me soon?
| Leslie Schmal
| P.O. Box 38
| Ndola Northern Rhodesia
| Africa
| ... I will trade pictures and articles of all
| other movie stars for pictures and articles
| of Brad Johnson and Robert Culp. I will
| also trade LP albums of Marty Robbins,
| Eddie Cochran and Conway Twitty for LP
| albums of my favorite singer, Johnny Cash.
| Contact :
| Judy Becker
| 1524 18th Ave.
| Lewiston, Idaho
| ... Recently I took over the Gordon Mac-
| Rae fan club and am writing you to let
| you know that if anyone is interested in
| joining a fan club for either Gordon or
| Sheila MacRae, he or she can get in touch
| with me.
| Sue Harrison
1 873 East 40th St.
| Brooklyn 10, N.Y.
. . . ^ ou can become a member of the Con- \
way Twitty fan club for only 35 cents. Each {
member receives a large glossy autographed 1
picture, membership card and bulletins. I
Glenda Lee Lauderdale I
Route 3, Box 317 |
Alexander City, Ala. |
. . . Attention Peter Lawford fans! If you |
are interested in helping me get more mem- |
hers for this fan club, please write me. Any I
suggestions for making the club stronger |
will be gratefully accepted also. :
Anita Sauirtz |
28 Marine Ave., |
Brooklyn 9, N.Y. f
. . . I am nineteen years
::
old and I wonder if any
of you Photoplay fans
would he interested in
corresponding with me.
Ivy A mow
■l ^ - Jk ¥
3 Tragarete Rd.
ill #
Port-of-Spain
Trinidad, W.I.
Need members for a fan club? Want a pen pal? |
Like to exchange fads? Write: Confidentially, |
Photoplay, 205 East 42nd St., New York 17, N.Y. |
*y ft?*
WHO DO YOU WANT TO READ ABOUT?
I want to read stories about (list movie, TV or recording stars):
ACTOR: 1. 2.
3.
4.
ACTRESS: 1.
2.
3.
4.
best in this issue
2.
of PHOTOPLAY are 1.
4.
Name Age .
Address
Paste this ballot on a postcard and send it to Reader’s Poll, Box 1374,
Grand Central Station, New York 17, N. Y. If yours is one of the first
25 ballots received each Friday from September 5 through 26. we’ll send you
an autographed picture of your favorite star. Just tell us who it is.
22
R
DEAR EDITOR:
Please help me. My problem is, I have
a very good figure (37"-20"-36") and a
fairly pretty face and when boys ask me
out they only try for one thing. I would
like to know how I can show them I
have other qualities, too.
Rachel
Ala.
Dear Rachel:
Your other qualities will show up as
soon as you play down your obvious ones.
DEAR EDITOR:
I am fifteen years old and very much in
love with a guy eighteen. His parents
like me but my father doesn’t like him.
My mother likes him. I love him and I
want to marry him some day, hut I don’t
know what my father would do.
J. M. Lane
Lafayette, Ind.
Dear J.M.:
Is it the boy your father dislikes or the
idea of your being so serious when you’re
still so young? I think your best bet is to
curb that marriage talk and see how Dad
feels in a couple of years.
DEAR EDITOR:
I have sort of a real personal question
to ask. It’s this — during that week every
month when a girl isn’t feeling well, can
she swim and dance and go to parties?
Betsy
Arlington, Va.
Dear Betsy:
You might find it helpful to read a
booklet which has just been published
called “Accent on You.” You can get a
free copy by writing to: Department 58,
Tampax Inc., 161 East 42 St., N.Y. 1, N.Y.
DEAR EDITOR:
I have a six foot problem. He is really
nice looking and I’m crazy about him,
but how can I know if he feels the same?
Heather
Hamilton, Canada
Dear Heather:
You’ll know when he asks for a date. In
the meantime, you might show him how
popular you are by dating other boys.
P.S. Look for your letters here every month.
We're sorry we can't answer them personally.
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Liz is
leaving Eddie?
continued
"I was on the beach near where Liz
Taylor was picnicking withher boys , "
said a woman who had worked with her
on "Butterfield 8" in New York. "And
another of those things happened that
26
make you simply sick. It seems so un-
fair when people attack her through
the children. Which is exactly what
had happened that day on the beach.
"It was an exceptionally hot day.
and Liz had taken Mike and Chris out
of the city to the beach. After a
while she evidently felt they were
getting too much sun because she
spread a blanket (Please turn the page)
27
Liz is
leaving Eddie?
continued,
in a spot of shade formed by their
picnic table. She got down on her
knees, fixed the blanket just so and
fussed a bit to make it comfortable.
"As she did, a voice came clear as
a bell — you know the way voices, es-
pecially women's, carry on the
beach. ' It makes me tired, ' the voice
said, ' the way that Liz Taylor emotes
all over the place with her children.
It's corny — if she really loved them
she'd stick with one husband long
enough to give them a steady home.
What happens to those poor kids again
— now that she's leaving Eddie?'
"I could feel the stab as if I were
Liz herself," said the woman. "Liz
must have heard it, but she didn't
budge, she stayed
where she was on
her knees. But she
looked over at her
boys. I imagine she
was trying to see
if they'd heard,
too. But how could
you tell for sure?
"Then the little
one, Chris, came
running and she got
up off her knees.
Whenhe was as close
to her as he could
get , her arm went
around him and she
talked to him soft-
ly. Whatever it
was, he didn't an-
swer, he kept his
eyes down and away
from her, his mouth
pressed tight and
unhappy. I had a
feeling he'd heard every word, but
he'd die before he let on.
"Liz sat down on her beach chair
and lifted Chris onto her lap. She
took his little face in her hands,
and the way she talked, right into
his eyes, she must have been trying
to reassure him. By now Mike Jr. had
j oined them and was standing with his
hand on his mother's shoulder, lis-
tening. Naturally, I couldn't hear
and wouldn't want to, but I could
guess. Can you imagine a mother try-
ing to tell a five and a seven-year-
old, 'Don't you boys worry over a
thing people say about Mommy and Ed-
die, because it isn't so. People like
to make up stories — you know, the
way we make up stories at bedtime?'
"Finally Liz coaxed them into ly-
ing down on the blanket , and they
closed their eyes. She squatted down
by them for a few minutes, gently
stroking £he hair away from their
faces. Then she gave each of them one
of those now-go-to-sleep-because-
everything* s-f ine kisses. After
that she went back to her chair and
sat alone, staring out at the water,
right over the heads of all those
hundreds of people, and she didn't
seem to see a thing."
Liz is aware that many rumors get
to her Children's ( Continued on page 78)
29
I was face to face with
Elvis himself, being intro-
duced to him. I never
dreamed it could happen to
me! He was smiling and
saying, “I’m sure glad to
meet you, Judy.” And I
couldn’t think of a thing to
say! I was beet red! And
do ( Continued on page 82)
by JUDY FOWLER
as told to NANCY ANDERSON
El kidded me
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Behind the
> Yves Montand
Marilyn Monroe
• Arthur Miller
triangle
eem
everyone
m the room was star-
ing at them. It didn’t
seem to matter that
reporters were writ-
ing furiously into
notebooks and that
photographers were
snapping pictures.
And it didn’t even ?eem to matter that her
husband. Arthur Miller, was standing close
hv. For almost a minute, for fifty-seven long
seconds- — a lifetime, an eternity — -Marilyn
Monroe looked at A ves Montand. It was the
kind of look that she’d given to probably only
two other men in her whole life. To Joe Di-
Maggio. To Arthur Miller himself— on the
dav that they wed . A Continued on page 70)
Connie Stevens:
how can I tell if 1 m really
never i ■ really meant to fall in love with John Ashley,”
Connie Stevens said. “He was just a friend, a date. Oh, he was fun and I
absolutely loved being with him. But falling in love? That I never dreamed
of. I was in love already! With a wonderful fellow whose name is Gary Clarke.
And you just can’t be in love with two
boys at the very same time — well, not
really in love, anyway. Or — or can you?
by Marcia Borie
35
mm
r
Connie Stevens
continued
" when Gary and I are together ,
7/w .sy> .sv/ay? # .V forever... ”
She doubled two small fists under her chin and just sat thinking real hard.
“I'm not exactly sure what ‘really in love’ means,” she then admitted.
“How can you tell? If it’s that goose-bump feeling because someone special
is near, then I’ve got it. If it's wanting to laugh and cry for joy at the same time
while John’s holding my hand — I've got that, too. But I don’t understand how
it can happen to me? Not after three years of being in love with Gary and
still feeling he is one of the most precious things in my life. ( Please turn the page )
Connie Stevens
continued
...then I see John and
my heart flip-flops
Even if I don’t understand it,” she said, “I can tell you what
happened. John and Gary and I were part of the young-no-
where-yet set. We all palled together and had wonderful fun
parties and generally clowned around while working hard for
our big breaks. When I got mine, I had to go to a lot of fancier
parties and places. By then, I was Gary’s girl, and he’d go to
them with me when he could. But when he was working and
couldn’t, he didn’t mind if someone else took me. We had that
kind of an understanding, we knew each other’s problems, we
didn’t make a big thing of my inviting another boy to take me
to someplace important. Just so he was a good friend — like
Edd Byrnes, Mark Damon, Kenny Miller, Troy Donahue.
“I had never asked John to be my escort, though I’d known
him so long. No reason, it just happened that way. But one
day I did ask, and he said Yes. When he came to pick me up,
he looked handsome in a tuxedo. I liked his nice way of help-
ing me into the car, I liked a lot of his (Continued on page 91 J
39
Gene Tierney was afraid when
she’d heard of Ali Khan’s tragic death
that the jinx was on ...
something
terrible's going
to happen
to me -again
Continued on page 8U
by Jim Hoffman
‘GEE,
WILLI
Connie Francis sat at the
kitchen table, sipping coffee,
eating cake and leisurely
thumbing through the paper, while
her mother made dinner. She stopped
at the Society page and stared
thoughtfully. One face seemed espe-
cially familiar. Sure enough, it was
her old Junior High School friend,
Linda Simon. “Hey, Mom!” Connie
exclaimed excitedly. “Guess what?
Linda Simon is engaged.” Mrs. Fran-
conero turned from the stove. “How
nice, Dear,” she said. “To whom?”
An Engineer,” Connie
said. “From Newark.”
And she smiled softly
to herself as she remembered how
she and Linda used to sit at this
same table in Connie’s old house in
Newark and drink soda pop as they
sighed over that cute boy who sat in
front of them in Math class, or gig-
gled as they mapped out their strategy
to snare him. Connie laughed to her-
self remembering it all so clearly.
She fumbled in a drawer in
the table, found a pair of
scissors and carefully cut
out the story and photo. The clipping
would have to go into her Memory
Drawer. She pushed back her chair,
got up and ( Continued on page 87)
by ROSE PERLBERG
43
The meeting was called for Saturday after-
noon at two in a New York City auditorium,
but panel members were urged, by us, to arrive
ahead of time “to have a group picture taken.”
(See pic left.) So they gathered outside on the
lire escape: Annette, Kookie, Frankie Avalon,
Pat Boone, Paul Anka and Bob Denver. Then
went inside to meet some of the high school
guests and wait around for chairman Pat Boone
to open the meeting. The subject? A loaded one
— strictly from the male point of view: What do
girls do that bugs boys most? Defending girls
was Annette who, right ( Please turn the page )
kSSKL ••/■ A / ,
Wmm 1
Before the meeting, Frankie kids Annette, “Being a girl, you're prejudiced/’
i -
Annette wasn’t so sure Paul was
right. He insists a guy can
have a girl as a best friend (no
love strings attached) just as
eas ily as a boy. "‘You’re my very
best friend,” she said, “but there
are some things I’d never tell you!”
45
Pat listens to a girl complain: “Why not
talk about all the things boys do wrong!”
from the beginning, showed she wasn’t letting the guys run
away unfairly with the subject! Surprisingly, the fellows
came prepared — with not only notes but with notebooks
filled. And there was no kidding around. They took their
responsibility seriously. Bob Denver and Pat even worked
through the two intermissions! For the panel’s final report
on the things girls do that bug boys most, turn to page 65.
Anita Bryant stays neutral
Bob, Kookie and Pat sum
discussion up for guests
46
Intermission: Bobby Darin gets a chance
to offer some advice. Annette and F rankie
then went outside "to clear our heads”
by JUDI HOLTZER
^ Tic Damone leaned dejectedly against the
wall of his living room and began toying
with the empty coffee cup in his hands.
“Might have been. . . . Those are the saddest
words I ever heard,” he said. “It describes
something that’s over; something that can
never be again.” He looked down at the
floor. “My marriage was like that. It might
have been the most beautiful thing in the
world. That’s the way it started. . . .
“Anna (Pier Angeli) was the most beau-
tiful woman I’d ( Continued on page 68)
Every time
Vic Damone
looks at his son
he remembers
how it
might have been
'mm
kiM
what
they're
saying
about
Dianne
Lennon:
“the
wedding
never
take
place
The telephone rang and Dianne was
sure it must be for her. Dick had
always been one for calling
many times a day, and now
with the wedding approaching. . . .
But Mrs. Lennon was the one
who got to the phone first and
answered. And it wasn’t
Dick. It was a woman’s
voice. Though Dianne
couldn't make out the
words, she saw her mother’s
face, frowning a little as if she
were concentrating on a difficult
question. She heard her mother answer :
“Why, certainly, there’s going to be a
wedding.” That question! There must
have been fifty calls
lately with that ques-
tion. Why would any-
body ask such a
question? Who could
be spreading rumors that she
and Dick weren’t going to be married?
Why would anybody want to do
such a thing?
She felt odd as she walked to a
corner of the living room where
Kathy was sitting deep in her own
thoughts, a magazine closed on her
lap. Dianne didn’t disturb Kathy
— when a big family lives
H in a little house, you learn
not to get into each
( Continued on page 76)
50
by RUTH BRITTEN
Dianne sat there with her chin resting on her hand. She wanted to talk to Kathy, but knew she shouldn’t disturb her.
Edd Byrnes heard a
girl’s high-pitched
giggle, and then he
heard a man’s voice,
mean and nasty, like
a dull but deadly
knife: “Kookie, we’re
gonna mash your
face — so even your
own mother won’t
know you!” He heard
everything: the
man’s words, the
girl’s giggle and then
(Continued on page 7-4 )
'
a QUIET
afternoon with
Janet and Tony
“A swimming pool?” Janet asked. “When we
don’t have any living-room furniture?” Tony
just nodded and looked around the living room
in their new Palm Springs home. “It’ll give you
a rest,” he’d said. “We’ll live outdoors around
the pool, no cooking, cold food and paper
plates. And I’ll keep an eye on the kids.”
Janet closed her eyes and saw herself, deeply
tanned, relaxing on a float, listening to Tony
teaching Kelly to swim. “Humm,” she said.
“And I’ll do the barbecuing,” Tony interrupted
her dreaming. “Heavenly, Tony,” she said,
succumbing. “Who needs furniture when one
can get peace and quiet?” So Tony bought
a pool. And did Janet live quietly ever after?
Janet asks you to please turn the page. . . .
mommy! daddy!
look quick - Jamie’s
drinking up the
swimming pool... or
54
Janet, I’m
slaving over a
hot barbecue...
Tony, who is he?
whose idea of a quiet afternoon?
I only have two hands
continued
go tell Mommy
the end of a
perfect day— and
there’s still dishes
57
Jamie, no-o-o-o!
if you want
your Coke,
Daddy, you gotta
catch me
A SEWING FASHION FEATURE
MODIFIED
TRENCH COAT
PRINT SUIT
COVERUP BLOUSE
CULOTTES
CULOTTES
Simplicity 3637
BELTED JUMPER
Simplicity 3631
COVERUP BLOUSE
Simplicity 3600
TRENCH COAT
Simplicity 3630
COVERALL LOOK
Simplicity 2814
PRINT SUIT
Simplicity 3633
1. You’ll be seeing more
and more of the unpressed
pleat, split skirt culottes,
probably because it’s not
only fun to wear but has
definite male appeal, too.
2. The return of the waist
— no doubt the result of
male heckling! Accented
this fall by leather belts,
in all shades, shapes and
widths (from 1*4" to 3")
and fashion-right just so
long as they look important.
3. What’s happened to
the collar? It’s gone, re-
placed this season bold,
where-did-you-get-it jewel-
ry that’s most likely to be
gold and a talk-piece, too.
1. Jumpers to jump into
any kind of social-doing,
proper because they dress
down easily (with a print
blouse which Janice wears
here) or up (just by re-
moving what’s underneath)
and catching the deep
plunging V with one of the
new big rhinestone pins.
2. Belts tie, look best in
matching fabric and in
various widths depending
upon your measurements!
3. Definite, if the skirt is
slim it must be tapered
(Tip: 1" to 2" narrower at
the hem than on hipline,
depending on your figure).
1. Arms covered, neck-
line high and coverup as
if you’ll catch a death of
cold — that’s the way to
look this season. Excite-
ment comes in the way of
print fabrics, but even the
prints, this fall, seem to
prefer to 9oftly whisper.
2. Leotards, once a Holly-
wood but now an Amer-
ican fashion institution,
are going to be even more
important with the new
coverup look. (And from
what we heard, the men
love it.) What is new,
though, is the staggering
collection of muted colors
leotards can be found in.
1. There’s no way of
avoiding it — the trench
coat influence. Hollywood
once put it on Carole Lom-
bard and made them both
famous. It comes back
this season as the strong-
est new fashion trend.
Here, Janice takes a basic
coat pattern, Simplicity
3630, leaves off all but
the top button and belts
it for the trench coat look.
Price: $11.77 to sew your-
self in corduroy. Note, too,
the flattering % length.
2. Hats go high, with the
pillbox getting preferred
placement on the back of
the head over short hair.
1. Following a trend,
slacks copy the same slim,
tapered look popular in
skirts but make their own
news by shortening 1V&"
above the ankle. (Slack
pattern, Simplicity 2814.)
2. The tunic made news
la3t spring and is insisting
upon doing the same this
fall in a flattering new
length, stopping just at the
top of the thigh. (Tunic
pattern, Simplicity 3600.)
3. The 6/8" heel is paired
with slacks, and it looks
a9 though flats with slacks
(long a must) are out.
1. Prints, once whisked
away at the first sign of
fall, are going to be around
even through winter.
2. No reason why, but the
military is an important
influence this fall. And the
Eisenhower jacket returns
with hardly a change, ex-
cept to drop its lapels
and waistline, too. (Janice
wears hers over culottes.)
3. Accessories mimic the
military, too, with bags
larger, deeper and always
in leather as this Civil-
War inspired canteen bag.
(For sewing information
please turn to page 80)
Watch for... the trench coat, culottes, dropped waist, the fluid suit, high puffed hats, low dress
heels, shorter hair, orangey lipstick, corduroy, earthy browns... look at Janice Rule’s wardrobe tips.
LET CARY SHOW YOU
See the pictures on the other page? That’s me, Madlyn Rhue. You might
have seen me in “Operation Petticoat,” that is, if you weren’t always
looking at Cary Grant. But the top picture is the way I looked before
I met Cary; the bottom is the way I looked after Cary taught me how
to make the most of myself. What he showed me, because it helped me
so much. I’d like to pass on to you. Cary says any girl can be more
beautiful and I believe it because it happened to me and it can happen
to you, also. Turn the page and I’ll tell you how it all began. . . .
60
I worried myself sick that my figure
was too sexy and so I wore
bulky shirts like the one in this
photograph and high necks. When
I got dressed up. I’d dress too severely
for my age — you know, plain
black sheath dresses. Cary told
me, “ That dark eye makeup makes
you look older and it makes your
eyes recede. Experiment with make-
up, see yourself.” I discovered the
effect should be natural-looking.
In the film 1 wore a lighter lipstick,
and I liked it better than my dark
shade so I wear it all the time now.
...AS HE SHOWED ME
Incidentally, this is a retouched
photograph of me. I now keep my
eyebrows natural, wear a light lip-
stick, and one line on my eyes — that’s
all. I wear my hair long but short
on top so when it’s curled it gives me
height — which l need. Cary
says a woman should strive to make
herself look soft and feminine. He felt
my old look was “hard.” I now mini-
mize my lips by not making them so
full when I apply lipstick and to get a
neat line I use a lipstick brush and
always blot my lips carefully. My
aim: to ahvays look alive and natural.
Kotex is softness
Kotex napkins now have a new covering . . . soft and
gentle yet wonderfully strong. And new Kotex napkins
are the ultimate in security, too . . . the Kimlon center
protects you better, longer.
For your leisure hours, send for the Parisian-
style robe pictured above. It's fashioned from
fluffy-white cotton terry cloth in the marvelous
French manner ... so luxurious for lounging,
after bathing or just any time.
Send for this soft, luxurious terry cloth robe
only $4.75 with Kotex napkins, $8.75 retail value
Robe, Box 5670, St. Paul 4, Minn.
Please send me □ terry cloth robes. For each robe I
enclose the opening flap from a package of Kotex napkins
and a check or money order in the amount of $4.75 pay-
able to "Gertrude Davenport Inc.”
One size only— fits everyone beautifully.
Name
Address
City Zone State
Good only In U.S.A., Its territories and possessions. Void where taxed, prohibited,
restricted or license required. Otter ends December 31, 1960.
KOTEX and KIMLON are trademarks of Kimberly-Clark Corporation L
J
LET CARY SHOW YOU...
I’d had a screen test.
And now I was sitting
in producer Bob
Arthur’s outer office
trying to look very
poised and calm and
not like a girl waiting
to hear what happened.
Do you know how it
feels? You think of all
the years you worked
scrubbing ladies’ wash-
rooms and working on
lights and painted
scenery just to get a
chance to act. And the
dozens and dozens of
tryouts and the dozens
and ( Continued on page 72)
How do you rate?
Do you really believe
you could never be beau-
tiful and don’t really try-
hard to be so?
Do you find that you get
bored easily ... with
people, parties, yourself?
Do you feel you are not
observant? (Can you close
your eyes and describe in
detail your favorite friend,
your living room, what
books are on your shelf?)
Do you feel afraid to ex-
press your own opinions?
Do you sometimes find you
have nothing to talk about?
Have you done less than
two of these during the past
month : Made a list of
books to read, places you
want to see, courses at the
Y.W.C.A. you want to take,
tried one new- foreign
dish, stuck to your
daily exercises, done one
thing you’re scared to do,
like make a speech?
□ Do you believe everybody’s
looking critically at you
when you walk into a room?
□ Do you invite the
same people to your parties
or to lunch every day,
because you're shy about
meeting new people?
□ Do you go through life
not knowing what image
you create because you’re
afraid to find out what
impression you make on
others?
□ Do you use your hands too
much rather than using
your mouth or eyes to
express your feelings?
□ Do you lack faith
in yourself and believe
you can never be gracious?
□ Do you find yourself forget-
ting names of guests intro-
duced to you at parties?
□ Do you honestly get a joy
out of living and do you
know how to show it?
□ Do you feel that you are
interested in other people
more than in yourself?
Score:
If you score 8 or more “yes’' answers, your per-
sonality needs bolstering — read the article again.
NORTHAM WARREN. NEW YORK
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!
the things girls do that bug boys most
are you the girl
the boys were talking about?
(rut out and post in private place)
(Guilty? Then try to improve. Mark weekly progress here)
1
WEEK
2
WEEKS
3
WEEKS
4
WEEKS
whispers and gossips about me among her friends
talks about her vacation or things 1 can't share, don't know about
doesn't help me carry the ball when 1 first meet her parents
gives me an expensive birthday present when 1 didn't remember hers
plays up to me, then acts insulted when 1 ask for a goodnight kiss
rates big spenders and flashy cars above judging me for myself
can't talk about things that interest me — music, cars, politics
smokes on the street, talks loudly, puts on lipstick in public
beats me at a sport, though 1 don't mind losing a mental game
doesn't realize I've family obligations and can't always be with her
talks disrespectfully about her parents to me or to her friends
gets silly crushes on older men or record stars
talks to her girlfriend in the movies or while I'm watching TV
wears too tight or short clothes, constantly adjusts her bathing suit
uses me as a stepping stone to bigger, better dates
walks around with her hair set, cracks gum, embarrasses me
puts on airs and acts like she was Miss Glamor
lets a guy call her and leads him on when she doesn't like him
r
65
Deborah had waited so long for this day. When it came, finally, it was bright and sunny, perfect for a wedding.
DEBORAH KERR’S
Old-Fashioned Wedding
66
Klosters, Switzerland — After the
turmoil of both their bitter divorces,
Deborah Kerr and writer Peter
Viertel at last had their wedding.
Blue skies held only one cloud: her
little girls could not leave England,
even for their “most wonderful and
beautiful mother in the world,”
while in their father’s custody. Only
Peter’s own young Christine rode in
the carriage. So these pictures are
for Deborah’s Melanie and Fran-
cesca . . . their mother lovely in her
bridal suit of pink Swiss embroidery
. . . radiant with her new husband
. . . beamed upon by the driver with
his quaint smock and flowered hat
. . . smiling with her friends, at the
small wedding reception that the
best man, novelist Irwin Shaw, and
his wife gave for them. Then, in-
stead of going away, they went to
their own chalet for a honeymoon.
This wedding gift delights the
couple. Peter was also pleased
that both his mother and his
daughter were at the wedding.
At the wedding reception, the
bride greets the newly-wed Yul
Brynners as Mel Ferrer looks on.
Mel had to leave Audrey Hep-
burn home with the new baby.
r
67
THE WOMAN HE
LOVED
Continued, from page 48
ever seen, so different from any of the
girls I’d ever known. We had met in Ger-
many when I was in the Army and she
was making a picture there and we dated
immediately. But it took me two years un-
til I was earning enough so I could ask her
to marry me and share my life. I wouldn’t
have waited two years, but I was as good
as dead in show business when I got out
of the Army. Completely forgotten. I had
to start, again, from scratch.”
Pier, whom he called Anna, and Vic
were married November 24, 1954, in St.
Timothy’s Church in Hollywood. She was
twenty-two, he was twenty-six. After the
honeymoon, they went to live in a little
rented house.
“When we were first married,” Vic went
on, “I knew I had found a wonderful wife.
But after two or three years, I realized
that I had found the greatest thing in the
world. If only it could have continued that
way. . . he sighed as though asking
himself what brought about the sudden
change? What made a perfect marriage
end? He’d once said of his divorce, “No-
body knows what a raw deal I got.” Now,
for the first time, he seemed willing — al-
most compelled — to try to talk about it.
And maybe to get the memories out of his
heart where they were hurting him so.
“I hardly know how to say this,” he
began, “but — I was so happy with Anna
that I was afraid! I used to think, maybe
I don’t deserve this much from life and
it’ll be taken away from me. I never went
away on a trip without being afraid some-
thing might break it up for me— the house
might burn down while I was gone, or the
plane would crash and kill me. Every
chance I got, I’d rush to a phone and call
her long distance so I could hear her voice
saying ‘I love you.’ Eight, nine calls a day
I’d make, they were my lifeline between
her and me. I had to know she was still
there, safe. I had to hear her tell me every-
thing was all right.” .
Then came trouble
Then the trouble began. Mrs. Pierangeli,
Pier’s mother, decided, it seemed, that Vic
was not a suitable husband for her daugh-
ter. “He’s just a night club singer,” she
kept saying.
"But it didn’t stop there,” Vic said, and
suddenly he was silent. He didn’t want to
go on, it was too bad a time to bring back,
even with words. But finally he began
again wearily. “Day after day, she bom-
barded Anna with reasons why I was no
good for her. I began to see that I was a
nobody from Brooklyn married to a mil-
lion dollar star. I couldn’t miss the point,
.with Anna’s mother keeping at her with
the criticisms — I was a nothing ... I had
no real talent ... I traveled too much to
be a good husband . . .”
And then, when they should have been
the happiest, when they should have felt
closest, then came the real showdown. It
was the day Anna came home from the
doctor with the wonderful news that she
was going to have a baby. Vic was thrilled
and proud that his wife was going to give
him a child of their love. But Mrs. Pier-
angeli was furious.
Vic looked up, his bewildered eyes re-
vealing, again, the hurt of that clash more
p than five years ago. “She accused me of
planning the baby to deliberately inter-
fere with Anna’s career. It wasn’t true. I
never asked Anna to stop making movies,
I was never jealous of her success. But I
lost my head — I got as hotheaded as Mrs.
Pierangeli, and we both said things we
shouldn’t have. I — I asked her to leave my
house.”
And then the worst clash of all brought
everything to a boiling point. It happened
the day Perry was born. For Anna, the
labor had become agonizing and dangerous
as aftermath to a plane injury during her
pregnancy. The doctor came out to ask
Vic’s permission to perform a Caesarean.
Her mother cried out, “No, I don’t give
you permission. You have no right!”
“Dear God, Mama,” Vic pleaded, “do
you want Anna to die?”
But the distracted mother kept sobbing
out her refusals. Finally, the doctor said
softly, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Pierangeli, but it’s
the husband’s right to decide a thing like
this. Don’t worry, she’ll be all right.”
And she was. But nothing was ever
right again between Vic and his mother-
in-law.
He sank into a chair, his shoulders
drooping. “I loved Anna so much,” he mur-
mured. "But I guess she didn’t care any
more.” He sat looking down at his hands
lying idle in his lap, and remembered . . .
It was the night before he was to leave
for Europe on a six-week singing engage-
ment. Pier told him that she had asked
her drama coach to have dinner with them.
Vic was disappointed. He wanted to be
alone with her on their very last evening
together for a month and a half. “I just
wanted to have a few hours alone with
Anna. I wanted to say goodbye and tell
her how much I’d miss her,” he explained.
But Pier refused to cancel the dinner
appointment.
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“At least we’ll have a little time to-
gether after she leaves,” Vic had thought.
But then they decided that this all-impor-
tant evening was the perfect time for Pier
to rehearse her part for next week’s tele-
vision play. They asked Vic if he wouldn’t
stay in the room while they rehearsed.
Pier then worked herself to the point of
exhaustion. When, in the wee hours of the
morning they finished, Vic found Pier
fast asleep on the sofa. “I was determined
not to leave without spending some time
with my wife,” he recalled. “I made dozens
of frantic phone calls to the airlines until,
in the middle of the night, I finally ar-
ranged to leave one day later. Tonight, I
thought, we’ll be alone.
“But the next night was spent exactly
like the one before. I sat alone in front of
the television set. The next morning I was
on the plane. The beautiful evening I had
planned and hoped for was just a dream.”
The hurt could not be healed
It wasn’t too long after that the mar-
riage completely disintegrated. Pier and
Vic separated and, when Pier tried to run
away with their little boy Perry to Italy,
Vic got a court order to bring them back.
Photographs of the three of them were
plastered all over the front pages of news-
papers across the country. The private
lives of Vic Damone and Pier Angeli were
no longer private.
And yet, in the midst of the furor, they
decided to try again. Vic still loved his
wife and he couldn’t bear being separated
from his son. But, if anything, the recon-
ciliation only proved that the hurt could
not be healed, the lies could not be erased,
the marriage could not survive. The ac-
cusations began again.
“Bring these people to me,” Vic pleaded
with Pier. “Let them accuse me to my
face. Then I can defend myself.” But Pier
would not do this.
“They’re my friends,” she said. “I won’t
put them on the spot.”
“But I’m your husband,” Vic protested.
“I’m the one who’s on the spot and you
won’t let me do anything about it.”
The final split happened early last year.
Vic told the story with agony in his voice.
“We had a fight and Anna started to run
out of the room. I only wanted to stop her,
make her listen to me and understand me,”
he pleaded. “So I grabbed her robe at the
shoulder and she screamed and ran to her
room.”
And that was how it ended. The final
divorce was granted, ironically enough, on
Christmas Eve, 1959.
Vic got up from his chair and walked
across the room to the telephone. He was
about to dial a number when he paused
and asked, “Can you imagine what it’s like
to know that you can only talk to your
son between the hours of five and six
o’clock every evening? And how it feels
to be able to visit your child only on
weekends? How am I ever going to forget
how it was when I was with him just a
couple of nights ago. . . .”
Vic had knocked at the door of the
Pierangeli home. “Please,” he silently
prayed, “let this visit be better than the
last one. Let me have some time alone
with my son and please don’t let me
frighten him.”
Mrs. Pierangeli had opened the door and
coldly ask® him to come in. She walked
into the living room and sat down on a
chair, remaining until Vic left. Perry was
already seated on the sofa. He didn’t run
to his father and jump in his arms the way
most little boys would. He sat quietly
until Vic came to him. Maybe it was be-
cause his grandmother was sitting there.
The father kissed his son gently. “How
are you?” Vic asked. “Were you a good boy
today? What did you do? Where did you
go? Who did you talk to? Did you find a
little boy to play with?”
Perry looked alarmed. The intense look
on Vic’s face, the almost demanding ques-
tions frightened the boy. “Oh no,” Vic
groaned inwardly as he saw Perry tighten
up, “I’m doing it again. I’m frightening
my son away from me. But I don’t mean
to, I want so much to be a part of his life
that I make it too hard for him.”
Perry tried to answer the questions, but
it was difficult for a not-quite-five-year-
old boy to tell everything that happened
in a day. And it was hard on Vic, too. He
kept seeing a little boy rushing to welcome
him home every evening, romping in the
grass with him.
“That’s how it might have been,” Vic
kept thinking. “That’s how I wanted it to
be.” Perry was too quiet, too reserved. He
had no friends his own age. He had no
man to look up to, to admire and imitate.
He wasn’t being raised the way a boy
should be.
“I love you, Daddy”
Perry took Vic’s face in his two little
hands and spoke solemnly and lovingly
to his father. “I love you. Daddy,” he said.
But Vic couldn’t help feeling that it was a
love that might die if they were separated
too long. He recalled, with dread, that
Perry was leaving in a few weeks to join
Pier in Europe, where she was working on
a new movie. The boy couldn’t be away
for more than nine months — that was a
court decision when the divorce was
granted. But nine months is a long time
for a child.
“Long enough to forget,” Vic thought,
and his heart felt as if it would break.
“I’ll see Perry in Europe,” he swore, “but
how can I possibly be there every week-
end, or even every month?”
Soon, it was time for Perry to go to
bed. Vic kissed his son goodnight and
walked away. When he reached the door
of his car, he heard a voice crying, “Daddy,
Daddy.” He turned, and saw Perry run-
ning to him. He was alone and they were
alone for the first time.
“I just wanted to say goodbye again,”
the little boy said, and was that a tear
creeping down his cheek? Vic grabbed his
boy up in his arms, hugged him and kissed
him as if he could never stop. Then they
both saw the grandmother at the door,
saying nothing, only waiting.
Vic set his son down again. Perry slowly
walked back to the house and his father
went back to his car. He felt completely
defeated. His shoulders drooped; his eyes
were bleak; he walked as though one rope
were tied to him and another dragging
him away.
“Why does it have to be this way?” he
asked desperately. “I shouldn’t have to
leave him. He’s part of me — but he’s being
cut away . . . like an arm or leg, only
worse, much worse.” And he drove away.
The next day, he called his son at five.
“Perry told me he’s leaving for Europe
next week,” he said, now, and put his
hands over his eyes. When he took them
away, again, he had himself under control.
He tried to sound conversational.
“Did I tell you I just made a new kind
of movie? Well, it’s new for me. It’s ‘Hell
to Eternity,’ and I don’t sing at all — I act.”
But the next second he was leaning for-
ward in his chair, a bundle of intensity.
“I just had to do it well,” he said almost
desperately. “I’ve got to let Anna see that
I have got talent, I’m not the nobody they
talked her into thinking I am.”
And then he said something else. He
said, “I just have to get married again.
I want a wife and children and a home. I
wish it could have been that way the first
time.” The defeated look was on his face,
again. “I don’t know what’s going to hap-
pen with my son. I only hope I don’t lose
him completely. And Anna? How can I
say I really love her any more, after all
that’s happened? But I love the memory
of her. I’ll never forget her. Even if I
marry again, I’ll never be able to forget
how it might have been. . . .”
Does a man ever forget?
Editor’s note: A week later, word came
from Rome: Pier Angeli was engaged to
marry a handsome young Italian actor-
singer, Maurizio Arena.
Swift on its heels came another piece of
news. That Vic Damone would fly over to
meet Pier on the island of Ischia. He ivas
going, so he said, because of Perry’s fifth
birthday. The boy certainly would be
happier if he could celebrate it with two
parents, instead of one.
But, then, he admitted he would talk to
Anna: he would talk — if Anna would lis-
ten— about the chances of a reconciliation
before it was too late.
Can it be that a man never does forget
the woman he loved? The End
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MARILYN MONROE
Continued jrom page 32
It was an open-eyed, baby-faced, quiv-
ering lips expression, somehow coolly in-
nocent and breathlessly sexy at the same
time. As Marilyn, in her form-fitting
beige halter-neck dress of clinging jersey,
cut low in front and back, with a match-
ing chiffon skirt, leaned forward and
looked at Yves, the crowd at the cocktail
party gasped.
Yves shifted his body nervously, all six-
feet, 190 pounds of him, but he could not
take his eyes off Marilyn.
Only two people in the crowded room,
it seemed to me, appeared unaware of what
was going on. Arthur Miller was lost in
his own thoughts. Simone Signoret, Yves’
wife, chatted away briskly in French, her
back to her husband and to Marilyn.
The contrast between the two women
couldn’t have been stronger: Simone,
sophisticated and mature, was dressed in
a severe high-necked gown, and wore a
chic fur hat on her head, and had only
the faintest touch of eye makeup on her
face; Marilyn was a study in sultriness —
the helpless and bewildered quality of
her little-girl face conflicting sharply with
the bare-legged, exposed fullness of her
seductive figure.
Their statements
Shortly after this party, Marilyn and
Yves made separate statements about each
other to the press. Both chose their words
carefully, but in each instance they re-
vealed more than they realized.
“I like him,” Marilyn said, in that breath-
less way of hers that made the simple
word “like” sound as if she’d said “adore”
or “love.” Then she continued, qualifying
her feelings but exposing them at the
same time, “Next to my husband, and
along with Marlon Brando, Yves is the
most attractive man I’ve ever met.”
And Yves, wrestling with the English
language and his own excitement, said of
Marilyn, “Everything she do is original,
even just standing and talking to you. She
is so rich in her heart that you receive a
beeng-beeng in your heart— and for me
that is more important than anything.”
Once the filming of “Let’s Make Love”
got underway, Marilyn made it clear to
those associated with her that the rug-
gedly charming actor swept into her life
as her “dream man,” establishing himself
as her Prince Charming overnight.
Her eyes sparkled with warmth in his
presence. . , . Her sensuous mouth dropped
open in breath-taking awe on several oc-
casions when he would enter the sound
stage at 20th Century-Fox. . . . Her per-
sonality was at its best when he was near.
It was as if Marilyn Monroe was torn
between another world — the world of a
knight in shining armor and reality. The
reality was that she is the devoted wife
of Arthur Miller and Montand belongs to
someone else, too, French actress Simone
Signoret. Although Marilyn and Yves
frequently acted like a couple of lovesick
teenagers around the studio, there was
nothing to indicate conclusively that their
relationship reached a serious romantic
level. As one member of the crew put it —
“strictly a platonic arrangement.”
Yet, their actions on and off camera
around the studio led some to believe that
Marilyn had fallen head over heels in love
with Montands It was Marilyn (and
ironically Miller) who had to persuade
* the studio execs to accept Montand for
the role. After all, he’s virtually an un-
known (or was) in this country. How-
icCl
ever, the studio tried to deny it was Mari-
lyn who put on the pressure to get them
to accept Montand. Their version is that
Producer Jerry Wald saw Yves on the
Dinah Shore TV show, and mentioned
him to Marilyn as a possible leading man.
Still, several weeks before that, both
Marilyn and Arthur had attended the
opening of Yves’ one-man show at the
Huntington Hartford Theater in Holly-
wood. And they were quite familiar with
his talents, since Montand starred together
with Simone in the stage production of
“Les Sorcieres de Salem,” the French
version of Miller’s “The Crucible.” So it
was no wonder that the Millers joined
Montand in a small celebration after the
show.
Hollywood knows Marilyn
Surprisingly, the warmth between Mari-
lyn and Yves didn’t really develop until
midway during the filming. She was par-
ticularly moody at first. As Hollywood
knows, her personality can be turned off
and on as fast as turning off the cold
water and turning on the hot. Some of
her crew members and fellow performers
swore she’d go out of her way to make
their lives miserable. Often, she’d have
an 8 o’clock call and she and her black
Cadillac didn’t wind their way into the
lot until noon. On another occasion she
didn’t show up at all, keeping the whole
company waiting. The next day she claimed
PHOTOGRAPHERS' CREDITS
Connie Stevens color by Gene Trindl of Topix ; Edd
Byrnes color by Curt Gunther of Topix; Janet Leigh
and Tony Curtis color and black-and-white by
Lawrence Schiller; Janice Rule color by Vivian
Crozier; Cary Grant by Pix Inc.; Vic Damone by
Lawrence Schiller; Pat Boone and the panel by
Henri Dauman.
she had been ill and was at her doc-
tor’s office. However, a simple telephone
call from her, explaining her woes, could
have saved the studio a pile of money in
overtime. On still another occasion she
showed her MM spunk by making the
studio call back advertising posters be-
cause she didn’t like the photograph of
her that was on the ads. Yet, she had
approved it previously. And one member
of the studio staff can thank the loss of
his job to Marilyn. He accidentally let a
magazine have a photograph of the actress
that hadn’t been okayed by her. One per-
son I talked to maintained that, just to
get even, she automatically rejected all
of the photographs taken during the first
few weeks of shooting, but this could be
just talk.
For there is definitely a good side to
Marilyn, and it finally revealed itself.
Many observers give Yves Montand the
credit for this. A big change came over
Marilyn. She almost was like another per-
son. She amazed the company by starting
to report to work on time, joked with crew
members and, what was more amazing,
she broke out of her shell by lunching in
the studio commissary. The old MM just
didn’t do this, but, instead, had her lunch
sent to her dressing-room where she
usually ate alone or with her constant
companion, Paula Strasberg, her Method
acting coach.
Oddly enough, Marilyn and Montand
never once lunched together in the com-
missary. Yves usually would enter with Tony
Randall or Frankie Vaughan (they’re
also in the picture) and sit at a large table.
Marilyn, wearing a blouse (usually low-
cut) and tight capri pants, would make
her entrance later, sitting at a table for
two near the wall. What followed became
the routine. Marilyn would wave and
smile at Montand and he likewise; just as
she was finishing a plate of cottage cheese
and fresh fruit (she watches her weight
carefully, especially of late, because she
has a tendency to be over-hippy) Mon-
tand would walk over to her table and
they’d chat. But usually they would re-
turn to the set separately.
What was happening to Arthur Miller
and Simone Signoret during all of this?
Were they suspicious or did they have
complete faith in their spouses? Miller
wasn’t around town much. He busied
himself in New York and would be gone
for weeks at a time. However, on his re-
turn, he and Marilyn acted like nothing
was happening — and maybe nothing was.
Simone kept out of Yves’ work, never
visiting the set but usually spending hex-
time in their bungalow at the Beverly
Hills Hotel. It could be just coincidence,
but Marilyn and Arthur had a bungalow
at the same hotel. Simone’s friendliness
toward Marilyn, however, began to grow
cold, a friend of hers told me. Simone
made a point to tell the press, after win-
ning her Academy Awax-d for “Room at
the Top,” that if making pictures meant
being away from her husband for any
length of time she’d give up her career.
But shortly after that, she unexpectedly
accepted an offer to make a picture in
Europe and left for Rome. Miller, at this
time was in New York, further opening
the way for rumors that Marilyn and
Yves were carrying their love roles off-
screen.
In fact, it was during this time that
they were making love on screen.
“I’ve never seen such a realistic love
sequence,” a member of the company told
me. “It’s red hot.”
Undoubtedly it was. One Hollywood
columnist reported that Marilyn had
closed the set on the day she and Mon-
tand had their fii-st screen kiss together.
He cast a spell over her
Certainly Yves Montand had cast a spell
over Marilyn. But how? Montand, who’ll
be 39 years old on October 13, has been
described as having “the Bogart quality.”
Yet, in talking to him and watching him
perform, it’s hard to agree. Granted, he’s
handsome in a rugged sort of way, yet his
mannerisms don’t suggest a Bogart. He’s
always the gentleman and seems to feel
more at ease with the ladies than men, not
that he can’t hold his own with the boys
but he often appears shy and ill at ease
with them. As for looks, he isn’t a Tony
Curtis or Cary Grant but his husky, six-
foot build makes him a standout with all
the females.
Another reason Marilyn may have taken
a liking to him is that, strangely enough,
he and Arthur Miller resemble each other
both physically and in personality in many
ways. For instance, they both have about
the same profile and build. And Arthur
can be classified, too, as a ladies’ man.
“I think Marilyn is certainly one, if
not the greatest actress I have ever worked
with,” Yves said. And the praise for her
talent rather than her beauty must have
struck just the right note with Marilyn,
who’s been working so hard on her acting.
“It has been an experience,” he added,
“I’ll never forget.”
Yves made such a sudden rise to pub-
licity via MM that little was known of
him. Usually, when you mention him
now, the tourists about town say: “Oh yes,
that Frenchman who’s making a picture
with Marilyn.” But Yves isn’t a French-
man. He was born in Monsummano, Italy,
on Oct. 13, 1921. His early life (like Mari-
lyn’s) was a rugged one. He quit school
when he was eleven and, due to the shaky
political conditions in Italy, his family fled
W WMre he worked as a waiter,
a bartender, a laborer and even studied to
be a hairdresser. At eighteen, he made his
debut as a singer in a rough waterfront
night club, and in 1945 made his film debut
in “Etoile Sans Lumiere.”
Today, he’s considered France’s number
one actor-singer. And his wife, whom he
married in 1950, the number one actress.
Marilyn had definitely fallen for the
idol, but was it love? Some seem to think
so, yet others around town maintain that
Yves was just a passing fancy in her life
and there are no strings attached. Those
who insist that Marilyn had fallen for the
idol point to her 32nd birthday party, held
June 1, on the set of the picture. Yves
and Marilyn acted like a couple of newly-
weds. She was posing for pictures with
her arm around him and they had eyes
for no one else. Marilyn was gifted with
a pearl necklace from the cast and crew,
who pitched in two dollars apiece to buy
it. You may wonder why the company,
suffering so many headaches as a result
of Marilyn, dug into their pockets. It was
mainly because she became a heroine in
their eyes when she was moved to give
the family of a studio electrician, who died
during the film, a check for $1,000.
Near the end of the filming, Marilyn
showed up at Gina Lollobrigida’s going-
away party with her publicist, Ruppert
Alan. But it was with Yves that Marilyn
danced most of the evening at Beverly
Hills’ swank Romanoff’s restaurant.
Then, suddenly, in the final days of
shooting, they became quite cool toward
each other. Miller had flown back to town,
and the rumor buzzed around town that
he was wise to the situation. And from
Rome came a report that Simone was get-
ting suspicious and telephoned Yves sev-
eral times to ask him about the rumors.
The final day of shooting, the company
worked until nearly 8 p.m. Due to the
weariness of all, there was no customary
set party and both Marilyn and Yves went
their separate ways. Marilyn left for New
York with Arthur Miller that week while
Yves remained in Hollywood two weeks
longer.
The picture was finished — and so was
an important chapter in Marilyn’s life.
Or was it? Montand’s arrival in New
York started the rumors all over again.
At Idlewild Airport, Marilyn Monroe, in
white slacks and dark glasses, waited with
him for the plane that would take him
back to Europe and his wife. The plane
was late, and for three hours Yves and
IVIai ilyn sat and talked in her rented
limousine. At 1:00 a.m. she rode back
sadly to New York City— alone.
No one knows what they said to each
other during those three hours. Perhaps it
was goodbye. For some weeks later, when
Yves returned to New York, on his way
to Hollywood to film “Sanctuary,” he didn;t
see Marilyn. “You Americans go so fast,”
he told reporters and then went on to
deny that there had ever been anything
serious between him and Marilyn.
Some people, though, still weren’t con-
vinced. After all, Yves was in Hollywood
again and Marilyn, too, would soon be
starting a new film. They may have
avoided meeting each other in New York
but, in Hollywood, where the film colony is
more closely-knit, it wouldn’t be so easy.
From what I ve seen of these two so far, it
would only take a chance meeting and the
chemistry” could explode again. There
may still be a scorching new chapter
written on this romance. The End
BE SURE TO SEE MARILYN AND YVES IN 20TH’S
“LET’S MAKE LOVE.” DON’T MISS MARILYN IN
U.A.’S “THE MISFITS,” AND YVES IN “WHERE
THE HOT WIND BLOWS” FOR M-G-M. WATCH FOR
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78
is all right. But they do look, in fairness,
in love. When Eddie was away on the
Coast, Liz was ill — when he returned, she
immediately seemed better. On the set, she
is always introduced as Mrs. Fisher, al-
though the crew calls her Liz and Eddie
calls her honey or darling.
She acts like a little girl with him and
seems to defer to his wishes — not Eddie
to hers. Once, on location on Fifth Ave-
nue, about a dozen people were trying to
decide where to go to eat and they asked
Liz, deciding to go wherever she wanted.
She immediately turned to Eddie and
asked what he’d like to do. And Eddie
decided. He is not as boyish as he used to
be and seems to be trying to assert him-
self, a la Mike Todd, when he’s with Liz.
He’ll clown around loudly, jokingly shout
orders to people and always gives the
impression that he’s the boss in the family.
Her joining the Jewish faith was a sin-
cere act and whenever anyone, like the
director, made a point of making Jewish
jokes, she got a big kick out of it. If
someone used a Jewish word, she’d always
say, “What is it? What does it mean?” She
seemed very anxious to learn them. And
occasionally, she’d use a Jewish word her-
self, like saying her Mishpochah (family)
were all in town when Eddie’s mother
was in New York. In a way, it seems she
wanted to please Eddie.
There seemed to be no feeling against
Liz from the crew or the cast because of
marrying Eddie. At Stony Point, N. Y.,
when Eddie arrived on location and she
kissed him in front of 200 townspeople,
they all clapped. Yet, Liz knows every time
people see her and Eddie what they’re
thinking. One day, early in production, al-
most as a relief to break the tension she
sang, out of the blue, “Tam-my, Ta-a-mmy,
Tammy’s in love. . . .” It was as though she
wanted to say, I know what you think,
but I would rather we all brought it out
in the open.
Liz’s illness has been the center of much
talk. Every time she’s not happy, she gets
ill — the rumors run. And she’s never felt
worse than the past six months. Trouble?
“Certainly, between her and Eddie,” peo-
ple insisted. “It’s an emotional reaction —
she’s not sick. She’s temperamental.”
But those who worked with her on
“Butterfield 8” confirm that she was ill.
That any temperament comes from ill-
ness rather than the other way around.
Like the day she was supposed to have
walked off the set in a huff. Liz has a
mind of her own on the set and will make
suggestions and give her own ideas to the
director, but one has to admit she does
work well with people, is friends with
the crew. She never asks for special
camera shots or lighting to, say, hide the
fact that she’s overweight. She is over-
weight and she knows it. In one scene,
she was supposed to be picked up and
lifted onto a bar. Worriedly, she asked
her co-actor, “Are you sure I’m not too
heavy for you?”
The day she let temperament fly she
was ill. She was upstairs in her dressing
room, something like a half-hour late
coming onto the set. Director Daniel Mann
sent the assistant director to see when
she’d be coming down, and she said right
away. She had pains in her stomach.
Later, after an hour or so, another mes-
senger asked when she’d be down. More
time passed and finally Mann went up
himself. “Either we do it or we don’t,” he
said, meaning the picture. She said, “May-
be we won’t.” There were more words and
finally she started to cry. It’s true, she
had been late and out sick a great deal,
but this was the only blow-up. She had
been very ill all through the picture —
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81
IS MY FACE RED!
Continued jrom page 30
you know what? All I could think was
that I almost didn’t enter the contest! Helen,
my girlfriend, was the reason I did. We
read about it in Photoplay together. “You
send Elvis your kiss and maybe win a per-
sonal visit with him,” Helen suggested. “Oh
no, Helen. I’d never have the luck,” I
begged off.
“But he sent you a telegram once, so
why. . . .”
“But that was different.” Last summer
I had to have an operation for cancer, and
my girlfriends wanted to do something
nice for me. They knew what Elvis meant
to me, so they wrote Colonel Parker about
it. He and Elvis wired me best wishes for
my recovery. And I did recover!
But to actually meet him? It would be —
well, more than I could bear. And any-
way, I’d never win. Even to hope was
crazy.
Yet, that night in my room, there I made
space on the top of my desk for writing.
I had to push aside some of the china dogs
I collect, to make room for my elbows. And
when my real live dog, my poodle Beanie,
came whimpering for attention, I had to
humor him by scratching his ears.
“Don’t bother me right now, Beanie,” I
told him. “You know I love you dearly,
but this letter is very important.”
I smoothed a sheet of paper and thought
about Elvis.
“Dear Elvis,” I wrote. At last my contest
entry was under way. Then, after those
two beautiful words, I stopped. I didn’t
know what to say next!
“Dear Elvis.” At the thought of him, my
breath was short, and my heart was so
full of things I’d like to say, I should have
been able to write a book. I wanted to
thank him for the telegram and let him
know how it speeded my recovery. I
wanted him to know how sincerely I ad-
mired him and how much pleasure his
records and movies give me and so many
of my friends here in Phoenix. And, of
course, I wanted to welcome him home
from the Army.
That was it — a welcome was the best
way to start. While I thought, the pen
began to move. At the end of an hour, I’d
finished the letter. I thought to myself, “It
isn’t anything special, not good enough to
win, but every word is sincere.”
When I folded my letter and put it in
the envelope, my fingers trembled. Elvis,
himself, might touch this very envelope.
Surely, at the touch, he'd realize how I
felt when I wrote it.
Medium rose lipstick
Next, I had to enclose a kiss print. This
was going to be important, but it wouldn’t
take me long to select the right shade of
lipstick, because I don’t have many. My
mother and I have argued about this
occasionally — lipstick, eye makeup, things
like that. I really don’t care a lot for heavy
makeup and don’t wear much, but some-
times wear more than she thinks is ap-
propriate.
I looked at my lipsticks on the dressing
table. A pale rosy pink was my favorite,
but it was worn down so low I was afraid
it wouldn’t make a clean, definite lip line.
Another, that a friend had left by acci-
dent, was too purple. She is a decided
brunette, and the dark shade is becoming
to her but not to me. Of course, Elvis (and
the Photoplay editor) wouldn’t know I
don’t wear purple lipstick but somehow
using it didn’t seem honest. And, with
Elvis, I wanted everything to be com-
pletely honest.
Finally, I chose a lipstick of my own,
almost new and still with a good point, in
medium rose. It was darker than the shade
I usually wear, but it was mine and I do
wear it sometimes, so I wouldn’t be cheat-
ing.
Carefully, I shaped my lips, wishing for
a lipstick brush — something I’ve never had.
I remembered seeing a demonstrator in
the dime store apply makeup. She said
the correct way to put on lipstick was to
start by carefully outlining the upper and
lower lips, and then you just fill in from
there. I tried it, but my hand wobbled,
and the lipstick smeared. I wiped off the
first attempt with cleansing tissue and
tried again.
Beanie was sitting up watching with in-
terest, making little puzzled noises. I threw
the tissue at the waste basket but missed,
and it fell on the floor w’here Beanie ex-
amined it, sniffing.
Next try was more successful and, press-
ing carefully, I made a kiss print on the
paper.
"How would it be to kiss Elvis himself?”
I wondered, and was ashamed of myself
for even thinking such a thing.
I didn’t expect to win
At dinner, I told Mother I had entered
the contest.
“Well,” she said, “whoever wins, I know
she won’t be one bit a sweeter girl than
you are.”
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My mother and I live alone and she
works very hard to support me. She’s a
billing clerk but also a singer, and she likes
Elvis’ records almost as well as I.
“Of course,” I told her, tasting my soup,
“I don’t expect to win.”
Mother didn’t answer but patted my
hand reassuringly.
I was too busy studying for the next
several days to dare think too much about
Elvis. Sometimes when I saw his picture
in the paper I wondered who’d get to meet
him, but I could never picture myself as
the one.
Again, it was without a warning, without
a hint, that a very ordinary day became
memorable — even more memorable than
the day I entered the contest.
I got up sort of late-ish one nice, warm,
sunny Saturday morning. I was slow about
dressing, because I didn’t have to go to
school. Mother had already been at work
for a couple of hours. I was idly puttering
around my room, making my bed, dusting
my china dogs, when the doorbell rang.
Truthfully, I was a little bit annoyed
by the bell, because I still wasn’t com-
pletely dressed. “Now who could that be
at this time of day?” I wondered. I rum-
maged for a housecoat as the bell rang
again, and jerked a few bobby pins out of
my pin-curled bangs.
It was a special delivery postman.
“Miss Judy Fowler?” he asked. He
handed me a letter, turned and went down
the steps.
For me? I began to rip open the en-
velope before I shut the door. I never got
special delivery letters.
When I saw “Photoplay” printed on the
envelope, I knew it had to be about the
contest and my knees got shaky. My heart
pounded so violently during the half-
second it took me to open the letter and
read the first few lines, that I could feel it
in my ears. I was frantic to know what it
said, but at the same time I was afraid.
I skimmed the words. Then I began to
shake all over. I’d won! I’d won the con-
test. I was going to meet Elvis Presley
face to face!
I raced to the telephone to call my
mother. Luckily, she was on her coffee
break so I could blurt it out right away.
Even now, I can’t remember exactly how
I told her the wonderful news. And she
says all she remembers about the conver-
sation is screams, giggles, squeals and “El-
vis— Elvis — Elvis.”
Two weeks pass in a hurry just before
exams, but they drag terribly if they’re
the two weeks you have to wait before
you meet your idol. The weeks I waited to
go to Hollywood were both. School was
nearly over for the year, e.’.ains coming at
me fast, and I’d wondered wh e the days
went in such a hurry.
“Golly, tonight I’ll just have to udy,”
I’d say.
But when I thought about the contest
prize, the clock stopped. Every night, be-
fore I went to bed, I’d look at the calendar
and think, “One day less before I see him.”
Then, I’d think, “What should I say to him,
first thing?” And on that thought, I’d be
wide awake for hours, worrying.
I’d almost choked to death
What should I say? Wondering about it
frightened me. Once, I’d met Ricky Nelson,
and I’d almost choked to death. For a little
while, just a little while, when Elvis was
in Gennany, I’d thought I liked Ricky bet-
ter than anybody in the world, and the
time I met him I was so excited I couldn’t
say one word. Not even, “I’m glad to meet
you.”
Suppose this happened with Elvis? I
was only getting to meet him once — just
one wonderful day — and if I said the wrong
thing, I wouldn’t get a second chance.
82
I asked my mother what to say to him.
“Just say anything,” she advised. “Now
it you freeze, Judy, I’ll feel like spanking
you.”
I tried practicing in front of the mirror,
smiling and nodding, carrying on a conver-
sation with Elvis. I tried not to look too
excited but also not too stiff.
If I blurted out, “I think you are the
most sensational person in the world,” he’d
decide I was a hysterical little girl. But if
I was cool and stand-offish, how would he
know how much I like him?
“Tell him we think he’s grown up a lot
since he went to Germany,” many of my
friends suggested.
“Kiss him for me,” someone said.
“Oh, that Elvis! What’s so great about
meeting him?” some boys scoffed, but I
could tell most of them would like to,
themselves. The boys, who were special
friends of mine, were particularly nice.
They teased me a little about my prize, but
they seemed genuinely glad I’d won and
truly interested in the plans for my trip to
Hollywood
Of course Marg, my best friend, was
thrilled that I won. I called her as soon
as I got the letter from Photoplay. But
one or two girls were openly, unpleasantly
jealous.
“I don’t see why Judy should get to meet
Elvis more than I should,” one of them
complained. The funny part was, she
hadn’t even entered the contest!
My mother and I flew to Hollywood by
jet and were taken to the Beverly Hilton
Hotel on Wednesday. Thursday was to be
the big day.
Riding to Paramount studios with one
of the editors of Photoplay, I tried to look
at all the things he pointed out, but I
couldn’t concentrate. I’d been awake since
five that morning. I hadn’t been able to eat
breakfast and I kept hoping I’d picked the
right dress to wear today. Mother had
bought me two dresses especially for the
trip. One was pink, the other was yellow
and white striped cotton. It was a hard
choice, deciding which to wear to the
studio. It was the yellow and white that
I finally put on, and I kept wondering if
I should have picked the pink.
Finally, we were at the studio. “Sh-hhh,”
someone said as I slipped through a door
with a “Closed Set” sign hanging on it.
“We’ll have to be quiet until we see what’s
happening.”
I’d never been in a movie studio before,
so I had no idea what to expect. It was
dark just inside the door, and the dark-
ness was filled with funny shapes, like
when you step into an attic. Then I began
to make them out. They were props and
people. As we walked forward from the
door toward the set the light increased
until we stood right on the edge of the
stage where they were shooting Elvis’ pic-
ture, “G.I. Blues.” A row of dressing rooms
were to the right, and one of them had a
sign over the door that said, “Elvis Pres-
ley.”
On the set, a lot of soldiers surrounded
a tank, and one of them was Elvis! He
looked almost exactly the way I’d thought,
only not so thin. His smile was like a mag-
net, and it occurred to me he has the
whitest, most even teeth I’ve ever seen.
“Judy,” my mother said, nudging me,
“don’t chew your lower lip that way. Don’t
be so nervous.”
“She’s just fine,” John Dalvalli, a pub-
licity man with us said. “In a minute now
when this scene breaks, she’ll get to meet
Elvis.”
The moment finally arrived
Finally the moment arrived! Elvis came
up to me, smiling his nice, friendly smile
and before I could even smooth down my
bangs, he was saying in his soft, dreamy
voice that he was very glad to meet me.
What — what — what had I planned to say
to him? I mumbled something. All the
bright, clever greetings my friends and I
had planned vanished from my mind.
“Come into my dressing room,” he in-
vited, “so we can talk.”
I wagged my head like a puppet but
didn’t answer.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. Turning
to my mother, he said, “I don’t believe she
knows how to smile.” But he was kidding —
oh, I hoped so!
He put his arm around me to help me
over the wires and cables on the floor,
and I got stiff as a statue. Poor Elvis. He
tried ever so hard to put me at ease, and
he must have thought I was a terrible dope,
because the harder he worked at being
friendly, the less I could say.
“Please, God,” I thought, “let him know
I’m not talking only because he’s too won-
derful for words.”
Of course I did talk some during the day.
What about? What did we say? I’m still in
a sort of trance, I guess, because honestly,
I can’t remember many details.
I know Elvis asked if I was a senior in
high school, but he was probably trying to
flatter me. I’m only a sophomore and I
don’t look like a senior. At least I don’t
think I do. He asked some other questions
about school and about my friends. And he
was so polite and friendly to my mother,
that she was captivated.
I got to watch him work for a while.
Once he said the wrong line, and I was
afraid somebody'd be mad at him, but no-
body was. Later he, or somebody, told me
that actors often make mistakes the first
time they go through a scene, and I needn’t
have worried.
I forgot to tell Elvis that my friends
thought he’d grown up a lot, and I didn’t
tell him how much I wanted to kiss him.
Once or twice, I started to ask him if
he’d kiss me, but my courage failed.
The last time I saw him, he was stand-
ing with a group of men. He waved to me,
calling, “Goodbye, Judy.”
Mr. Diskin, one of Elvis’ managers, knew
how hard it was for me to say goodbye, so
he did a very kind thing. Our party was
about to leave the Paramount lot when
Mr. Diskin whispered, “Come on, Judy.
Let’s go back and see Elvis one more time,
shall we? Just the two of us?”
We went back to the set but couldn’t find
him. He must have been called to makeup
or somewhere.
I felt happy and miserable
After we left Paramount I cried, because
I’d seen Elvis and talked with Elvis, and
maybe I'll never talk with him again.
I felt happy and miserable all at once.
Now, when I remember my trip to Hol-
lywood, I’m only happy.
Maybe I’ll never meet Elvis again face to
face, but I have souvenirs to keep forever.
He signed my school yearbook and some
pictures. I’ve put up a bulletin board in
my room just to display the Elvis me-
mentos.
And just before we left the studio.
Colonel Parker gave me another china dog
for my collection, one that was Elvis’.
Now, when I dust my dogs, I can touch
the one that Elvis touched. When I hear
his records, they’ll have a special meaning,
because now I know the singer behind the
voice.
And, most important, if I ever hear any-
one question that Elvis is wonderful, I can
set them straight and be sure I’m right.
Of course I always knew — he is handsome,
kind and modest — but now, thanks to Pho-
toplay, I’m sure. The End
SEE ELVIS IN “g.I. BLUES” FOR PARAMOUNT AND
HEAR HIM SING ON THE RCA VICTOR LABEL.
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FINISH HIGH SCHOOL at home. No classes. Texts fur-
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AGENTS A HELP WANTED
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FOREIGN & U.S.A. JOB LISTINGS
HIGH PAY OVERSEAS. Domestic Jobs. Men, Women. Gen-
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ANY PHOTO ENLARGED
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POEMS
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SQNGMAKERS Dept. PH, 1472 Broadway. N.Y.C. 36
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High School at Home
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205 E. 42 St., N. Y. 17. N. Y. T
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GUILD, 103 E. Broadway, Dept. W-261, N.Y.C. 2
She’d stared, dumbfounded. A few
months before she would never have
dreamed of being voted anything more
glamorous than The Girl Most Likely To
Win A Pizza-Eating Contest! “You’re
kidding,” she gasped.
He folded his arms and rocked back and
forth on his heels. He shook his head.
“Nope.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Who
voted for me?”
He grinned. “Well, I did,” he admitted.
“But that’s beside the point. What’s most
important is, will you go to the dance with
me on Saturday?”
She grinned back. “I’d love to.”
Now she smiled reminiscently and looked
up through the leaves high above her head.
The patches of sky glowed pink and orange
and purple and at a few points where the
setting sun’s rays were more directly
focused, it looked as if the leafy “roof”
was actually on fire.
Lenny would have loved this little nest,
she thought. It was almost as nice as “their
place” where they went after the dances
or the parties, or the movies; the pretty
road by the lake near Belleville, where
she’d lived then. They’d be in his old
convertible, with the top down, and they’d
park, and she’d rest her head on his
shoulder, pleasantly aware of the rough,
tweedy texture of his sports jacket against
her cheek; he’d have his arm around her
and the back of his head resting against
the top of the seat and they’d look up, as
she was doing now. Only there were no
trees, just the stars and the sky that looked
like hundreds of diamonds casually ar-
ranged on a dark blue velvet display cloth.
Once, she could have sworn that a star
had winked just at her, and she giggled
and pointed and said, “Look, Lenny, they’re
signaling at us. From up there!”
He ruffled her hair and scoffed softly, his
eyes still glued to the hypnotic sparks
above. “Lenny, maybe there is someone
up there watching us. Do you think so?”
He whispered back, “I don’t know,
Honey. Maybe there is.”
And then they’d talk, sometimes about
philosophy and abstract things, sometimes
more realistically, about school and the
people they knew. But mainly they talked
about what they wanted to do with their
lives. He was going to college to study law
or engineering. She confided her dreams
of becoming a great singer. But not for all
her life, because one day she wanted to
get married and, she declared in all seri-
ousness, “have a dozen kids.” He laughed
and said they’d all have to be boys, so
they could hold their own basketball
tournaments!
Every once in a while, he’d lean down
and kiss her lightly on the tip of her nose.
And they talked about themselves. He
never said he loved her in so many words.
But there are some things a girl doesn’t
have to be told. She just knows. She liked
him a lot. But she didn’t think she was in
love with him. Of course, never having
been in love she wasn’t sure. . . . She did
know that it would be a long time before
she was ready to settle down.
Sometimes they’d have arguments. The
standard one was about going steady. He
wanted to; she didn’t. At times, the quar-
rels would be so fierce that she’d angrily
pull away from him, her eyes flashing, her
face set and grim. She’d squeeze herself as
close to her door as she could and order,
in a voice icy with contempt, “Take me
home immediately.”
He’d scowl, his face white with rage.
He’d roughly grind the gears, jerk the car
around, drive her home and let her get out
by herself. “Good night!” he’d call, as she
ran up the steps. “Good night!” she’d shout
over her shoulder, hoping it sounded like
“good riddance.”
A few days later, she'd get a letter in the
mail, or she’d find a note planted in one of
her textbooks. Invariably it said something
like: “. . . I haven’t changed my stand,
Connie. I’m not one to back down from
my principles. I’ve made up my mind that
no matter how strongly I feel about you —
and you must know how much I like you —
enough is enough. So I guess this is it,
Connie. I wouldn’t have even bothered to
waste this paper writing to you, but when
I saw you having a soda yesterday with
that creep, Jimmy . . . well, honestly,
Connie, what on earth can you find in-
teresting in him? The next time I see you.
I’ll tell you a thing or two about that
guy. ...”
Once, after he’d vented some particu-
larly strong feelings, he’d tacked on a P.S.:
“I think you have enough sense not to
put this or any other note I’ve written
you in your Memory Drawer. Destroy
this!” Of course, she’d immediately put it
with the others. And when he’d con-
fronted her the next day and whispered
worriedly, “You did destroy it, didn’t
you?” she’d nodded reassuringly.
Now she looked at it and the rest of
the letters and smiled a little sadly. The
last date she’d ever made with Lenny had
been to go to his Senior Prom. She’d
never kept it.
Her first prom
For months, he’d saved his money for
the big event. She’d excitedly looked for-
ward to the evening — her first prom. She
had a frilly new gown and satin pumps
and each night, for weeks before, she fell
into a blissful sleep, imagining herself
gliding across the dance floor in Lenny’s
arms. It seemed too good to be true. And
it was.
The night before, her father found out
a post-prom party was to be held in New
York. He also knew there’d be drinking
and it would be late. And he just didn’t
think it would be safe or wise for her to be
driving all that way under those condi-
tions. As a matter of fact, he wouldn’t
allow it!
Connie begged and cajoled and prom-
ised that she wouldn’t let Lenny touch a
drop of liquor. But he remained adamant.
He shook his head stubbornly. His voice
was kind but firm: “I’m sorry, Connie. I
hate to spoil your fun. But it’s too big
a risk. If it weren’t in New York and you
didn’t have to drive so late at night. . .
She was heartbroken. She ran up the
stairs, slammed the door, flung herself on
the bed and cried until she could hardly
breathe. Then she flopped on her side and
lay there weakly, her body still shaking
with sobs and studied the blurred outlines
of the prom dress as it hung temptingly
from a hook on the closet door. In a help-
less burst of blind anger, she leaped to her
feet, snatched it off the hanger and flung
it with all her might into a corner and
glared at it, as if it were the cause of her
misery. Then, slowly, she walked over,
stooped down, picked it up. When she’d
regained her composure, she called Lenny.
“What do you mean you can’t go?” he
blurted out incredulously.
She couldn’t bring herself to tell him
the truth. “I’m sorry,” she said as evenly
as she could, “but an important club date
has come up. I’ve got to sing at. . . .”
“You’ve got to sing? Tomorrow? After all
the plans and — and everything ?” he cried
in exasperation. “Honestly, Connie, I don’t
understand you. I thought you wanted to
go so badly. And now, all of a sudden,
some club date has come up. . . .” He
lapsed into an unhappy silence. Then he
asked very quietly, “All right, Connie, tell
me the truth. Which is more important —
me or that club date?”
Each word seared her like a red-hot
iron. But she was past feeling any new
pain. She said dully, “Well, it’s a big break
for my career. . . .”
She hardly heard his tired, “Okay, Con-
nie. That’s all I wanted to know.” She held
the receiver in numb hands long after its
final click that said he’d hung up.
She got a bitter letter from him a few
days later. She winced when she read it,
but she put it in the drawer with the
others.
She never heard from him again. Six
months later, she ran into a mutual friend,
a fellow who was going to college with
Lenny. They had coffee and sat for hours
reminiscing about old friends and old times.
Once, Lenny’s name came into the conver-
sation and he flushed with embarrassment
and mumbled something about Lenny still
liking her and she felt her pulse quicken
even in that split second before he changed
the subject. Neither of them mentioned
Lenny’s name again. She knew that Lenny
would never write her or call her. He
wasn’t wishy-washy. He wouldn’t come
crawling back. She understood. It hurt,
but she understood, just as she knew he
understood why she couldn’t make the
first move and contact him — they both had
too much pride. It had to end this way. . . .
She unfolded that last letter Lenny had
written her. She’d read it so many times
that the writing was worn off at the
creases. Now, misty-eyed, she re-read it
again.
“Who’s that idiot?”
She fumbled in the drawer and extracted
a greasy popcorn bag. It still smelled
faintly of its contents. She shook it and out
slid two movie stubs. Reminders of her
very first date with Neil Brennen.
He was very handsome; blond, blue eyed
and the topic of talk at pajama parties.
She remembered the exciting tingle that
had tickled her spine when he’d pro-
posed, “Say, how about takin’ in a movie
Saturday night?”
She’d had a silent crush on him for
weeks. Somehow he seemed different from
the other boys. More mature. That in-
trigued her. She lay awake nights scheming
how to get him to notice her. Then, out
of the blue, he’d come up to her after
History class and popped the question of
going to the movies.
Now she smiled wryly. What a dis-
appointment the evening turned out to be.
They’d gone to the movie. It was a Science
Fiction picture, and after it a cartoon
came on the screen. He guffawed so loudly
that she was mortified. How could a grown
man make such a fool of himself over a
silly cartoon? Especially a guy whom she
was sure was above that sort of childish
display of emotion! She sat there amazed.
He laughed. He howled. He doubled over.
People started to stare. She was sure that
soon they’d point in amusement and whis-
ANSWERS TO LAST MONTH'S PUZZLE
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per, “Who’s that idiot?” And she sure
wasn’t going to be around to witness it —
much less be part of the spectacle. She
excused herself and headed in the direc-
tion of the Ladies Room. Actually, she
ran out and straight home. She had never
been so humiliated or so disillusioned in
her life. But she kept the popcorn bag
and the tickets and thought, “I’ll never get
married” — but it didn’t mean anything
then.
She wants a home and family
Now she began to wonder a little
uneasily. She’d been thinking a lot about
marriage for the last six or seven months—
since she’d turned twenty-one. She didn’t
know why, really. Maybe “coming of age”
marked an unconscious boundary line be-
tween being a girl and a woman. Maybe
that was it.
And lately, she’d begun to worry that
she’d never achieve this goal. Too often,
these nights, she’d find herself lying tense-
ly in bed, exhausted by a strenuous day’s
activities but unable to sleep. She’d toss
restlessly and clutch her pillow and won-
der, “Where am I going? What’s ahead?”
She’d shut her eyes tight and try to pro-
ject herself ten years into the future.
Sometimes she’d see a happily married
wife and mother and she’d drift easily off
to sleep. But other nights, try as she
would, she didn’t see anything but emp-
tiness, black emptiness . . . and uncer-
tainty . . . and unhappiness. And she’d
sit up with a start, forcing her eyes wide
open and choking off a cry of desperation.
Once, while she was on tour in a strange
city, lying in the dark late at night and
feeling a little depressed and homesick,
she had shut her eyes and seen the empty
blackness again, and she’d blurted out her
fear to her secretary, friend and traveling
companion, Sandy Constantinople: “Sandy,
did you ever have the feeling that you may
never get married?” Sandy answered
slowly, “I don’t know. I never thought
about it like that.” And she cried out,
“Well, I have. And sometimes . . . some-
times I wonder if I ever will. . .
The Good Luck charm
Now she felt the same wave of hopeless-
ness flooding her and she hunched over
the steering wheel, leaned her head on
one outstretched arm and began to sob
uncontrollably. After a while, there were
no more tears, the pressure in her chest
subsided and she felt curiously light-
headed, limp and spent, as if she’d just
run a long distance without stopping. She
sank back and slowly began to replace
her treasures in the Memory Drawer.
As she finished, she spied a corroded
aluminum Good Luck charm, in the shape
of a horseshoe, half hidden between the
car seats. She retrieved it. The greenish
lettering read, “Good Luck — Connie and
Gene — Palisades, 1956.” The class outing.
She’d gone with Gene Serpentelli. He’s in
Harvard Law School now, and she’d heard
he was engaged to a wonderful girl.
She smiled tremulously and closed her
fingers over the trinket. She stared
thoughtfully at the Memory Drawer. There
was still room for the most important
Memory bits of all: a marriage license and
the birth certificates of her children. She
opened her hand and studied the charm.
Once, a long, long time ago, she’d believed
that if you wished on a Good Luck charm,
if you wished with all your might, your
wish would come true. She squeezed the
horseshoe charm until it dug into her
hand. She took a deep breath, closed her
eyes and made one big wish. . . . The End
CONNIE FRANCIS SINGS ON THE M-G-M LABEL.
SEE HER IN M-G-M’s “WHERE THE BOYS ARE.”
INITIAL and FRIENDSHIP RING
STYLE YOUR OWN RING — order this new, swirling beauty
with your own initials ... OR with your initials on one
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his first name.
It's the newest thing in the newest jewelry style! Either
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designed to make fingers and hands look gracefully beautiful.
Get them for all your friends with their initials. A great
gift idea.
Only $1 per ring (plus 25< handling). Sorry, no C.O.D.’s
WORLD WIDE, Dept. ID, OSSINING, New York
POEMS
WANTED
I Songs recorded. Send poems
today for FREE examination.
| ASCOT MUSIC. INC.
6021 Sunset Blvd.
I Studio A-ll, Hollywood 28, Calif.
HOLLYWOOD
ENLARGEMENTS
of ^our Favorite P/iotos f
Just to get acquainted, we will make
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photos, negatives or color slides. Be
sure to include color of hair, eyes
and clothing and get our bargain
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V beautifully hand colored in oil and
mounted in handsome ivory and gold
tooled frames Limit 2. Enclose I Of,*
for handling each enlargement. Origi-
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Photos, 2 Negatives or 2 Color
Slides— TODAY.
HOLLYWOOD FILM STUDIOS, Dept. 6-110
7021 Santo Monica Blvd., Hollywood 38, Calif,
REMOVE
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♦ Trade Mark
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U.S. PHOTO CO.. Dept.G 10
lox 73 Newark, N. J.
POEMS WANTED
If I AJ For musical setting . send
Poems today. Any subject.
Immediate consideration. Phonograph records made.
CROWN MUSIC CO.. 49 W. 32 St., Studio 560, New York 1
OLD LEG TROUBLE
Easy to use Viscose Applications may
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book everyone who likes to draw
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Cartoonists- exchange
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ROCTTOALE MONUMENTCO..O»pt. 370, JOLIET, ILL.
THIS AD IS
WORTH MONEY!
let us show you how to make big money in
your spare time by helping us take orders for
magazine subscriptions. Write today for FREE
money-making information. There is no obliga-
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MACFADDEN PUBLICATIONS
205 E. 42 St„ N. Y. 17. N. Y.
90
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For fuller reviews see Photoplay for the months
indicated. For full reviews this month, see
page 8. (a — ADULT F — family)
ALL THE )OUNG MEN — Columbia: Earnest
hut often familiar drama of youth at war. In
Korea. Sidney Poitier leads a cut-off Marine
platoon that includes vet Alan Ladd and
greener James Darren. Glenn Corbett. Ingemar
Johansson.
8 iridescent shades
!
|
1 1
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SPECIAL RCA VICTOR RECORD OFFER
S4.98 VALUE FOR ONLY SI
RCA Victor’s preview album “The New Sound
America Loves Best” is available in living stereo
or regular L.P. Send $1.00 and a box top or label
from any Breck Preparation and receive your album
of fifteen selections featuring Rosemary Clooney
Mario Lanza, Ames Brothers and other artists.
RCA Victor
Box 18; Rockaway, New Jersey
I enclose $1.00 and a boxtop, label or facsimile
from a Breck Preparation. Send my New Sound
America Loves Best Album in: (Check one)
□ Stereo □ Regular LP
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Expires May 1 , 1961 - allow 30 days for delivery 1 1
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MILDRED DUNNOCK • BETTY FIELD • JEFFREY LYNN • KAY MEDFORD • SUSAN OLIVER
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• DANIEL MANN • A PANDRO S. BERMAN PRODUCTION
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NOVEMBER, I960
VOL. 58, NO. 5
FAVORITE OF AMERICA'S MOVIEGOERS FOR OVER FORTY YEARS
DEBBIE REYNOLDS
GLENN FORD
ELVIS PRESLEY and
JULIET PROWSE
RICK NELSON
ROBERT STACK
BOBBY RYDELL and
JOANIE SOMMERS
TOMMY SANDS and
NANCY SINATRA
MARLENE DIETRICH
ROCK HUDSON and
LINDA CRISTAL
BRENDA LEE
STEWART GRANGER
KINGSTON TRIO
PETER BRECK
PAT BOONE, PAUL
ANKA, BOBBY DARIN,
FRANKIE AVALON
CAROL LYNLEY
PAT, PAUL, BOBBY,
and FRANKIE
EXCLUSIVE
25 Is Debbie Planning to Call Off Her Wedding Now?
26 Glenn, Will You Marry Debbie? by Jane Ardmore
28 Elvis, What Are You Scared Of? by Claudine Monte/
38 Rick, Why Dare Death? by Beatrice March
ARTICLES AND SPECIAL FEATURES
30 You Can Stay in Love (even when married) by V/illiam lusher
“Is It Wrong to Feel the Way We Do?” by G. Divas
32
40
44
46
48
60
62
64
67
Saturday Night Party by Rona Barrett
Are You Really Keeping Your Man Happy?
Panic by Jim Hoffman
Warning: If Can Mean Only One Thing
"Boys Scare Me Most of All” by Martin Cohen
The End of a Dream
Wait for Us
Death Was Following Us by Marcia Bor/e
SPECIAL FEATURE
54 Why Boys Whistle at Girls
56 How Do You Register With the Boys?
58 4 Looks That Topped the Boys’ Poll
YOUNG IDEAS
6 Monthly Record
10 Readers Inc.
72
11 Your Monthly Ballot
70 Your Needlework
Becoming Attractions
EVELYN PAIN, Editor
NEWS AND REVIEWS
4 Hollywood For You by Sko/sky 17 Inside Stuff by Sara Hamilton
8 Go Out to a Movie 75 Now Playing (Brief Reviews)
86 Casts of Current Pictures
KENNETH CUNNINGHAM, An Director
NORMAN SIEGEL, West Coast Editor
CLAIRE SAFRAN, Managing Editor
rose englander, Associate Editor
TOBI FELDSTE1N, Assistant Editor
JIM HOFFMAN, VIVIEN mazzone. Contributing Editors
ANNE KANES, Assistant to Editor
Kate PALUMBO. Fashion Editor
JUNE clark. Beauty Editor
ROGER marshutz. Staff Photographer
jean sch leber. Assistant Art Director
Marcia borie. W est Coast Contributor
\our December issue will be on sale at your newsstand on Nov. 3rd
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A-
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. @ RCA\jCTOR ©
Tonight Is So Right for Love
What’s She Really Like
Frankfort Special
Wooden Heart
Paramount Presents
ELVIS PRESLEY
G. I. BLUES
A HAL WALLIS
PRODUCTION
Co-starring
JULIET PROWSE
• ■ ■■■■ ■ —
Directed By
Norman Taurog
G. I Blues
Pocketful of Rainbows
Shoppin’ Around
Big Boots
Didja ' Ever
Blue Suede Shoes
Doin’ the Best I Can
THAT’S
HOLLYWOOD
FOR YOU
BY SIDNEY SKOLSKY
/ didn’t go behind her back. 1 told Shirley first, at Schwab’s.
know Debbie Reynolds and Harry
Karl hold hands at the movies. I
watched them. . . . Zsa Zsa turned square;
she admits on the jacket of her book
that she didn’t write her autobiography.
. . . Call me what you will, but I think
Shirley MacLaine gives a finer and more
legitimate performance in “The Apart-
ment ’ than she did in “Some Came Run-
ning.” . . . Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh
have a television set in their bedroom.
. . . Simone Signoret’s real name is Sim-
one Kaminker. She took her mother’s
maiden name. . . . I’m of the opinion
Elvis is developing into a good actor;
also, despite his name, Tab Hunter is a
good actor. . . . Marlene Dietrich’s Quot-
able Quote: “I’ve spent my life in show
business which is supposed to be cruel
and selfish. Yet I can honestly say that
I’ve never been badly treated by any
person.” ... It could come to the point
where her admirers believe a day in the
week was named after Tuesday Weld. . . .
Hollywood is a place where Kim Novak
has a niche in her house waiting for her
Oscar.
Lassie is a male. And he gets away
with the impersonation even better than
Jack Lemmon did in “Some Like It
p Hot.” . . . Why doesn’t Millie Perkins
make another movie? I’m for it. . . .
Yul Brynner, with hair, has yet to make
a money-making picture. . . . I’d like to
see Jayne Mansfield play a role in a
movie so that I didn’t know it was Jayne
Mansfield. . . . James Garner is as fast
on the ad lib as almost any comic you
can name. . . . Nick Adams never de-
mands top billing. He’s satisfied that
the billing be alphabetically. . . . Holly-
wood is a place where actors and ac-
Jim gets Coop’s autograph for daughter.
tresses call themselves honest hypocrites.
I’d answer “Dana Wynter” if asked to
name the most beautiful, cooperative
and witty actress in town. Dana’s new
hairdo was suggested by husband Greg
Bautzer. No, he didn’t set it. . . . It’s
about time her studio gave Barrie Chase
a good movie role. . . . Can you imagine
John Wayne a Method actor? Well,
I can’t. ... I never see Ernie Kovacs
and his big cigars but I think of Edie
Adams warning him to be careful about
spilling the ashes all over their new
home. . . . Gloria Grahame’s Quotable
Quote: “I retire just as I really am.
When I go to bed, I’m not acting.” . . .
Mamie Van Doren divides her wardrobe
into two closets. One for “movie star
clothes,” the other for her “around the
house and street apparel.” ... If any-
one tells you that you have to be beau-
tiful to be a movie star, just mention
Juliet Prowse. Talent and personality
put her over. . . . I’m accepting Alec
Guinness as the best English comedian,
Nick knows how to get what he tvants.
and then they spring Peter Sellers on
me. ... If ever a role was made for an
actor and vice versa, it’s Burt Lancaster
in “Elmer Gantry.” All the debits about
Lancaster work as credits as Elmer. . . .
Kirk Douglas, with his flashing teeth,
would have been my second choice for
the role. . . . Hollywood is a place where,
if you exhibit good manners, they think
you are a butler, an usher or out of
work.
Barbara Stanwyck and her silver hair
looks dignified to me. . . . Joan Collins
has been very quiet recently, considering
the fact she is Joan Collins. . . I was
pleased to read Anita Ekberg is being
appreciated by people for her ability and
not tape measurements. . . . Hollywood
is a place where a vicious rumor is that
an actor is getting along very well with
4
Is Warren the reason for Joan s change?
his wife. ... I have a feeling if Robert
Mitchum played an entire picture with
his eyes wide open, they would say he
was a Method Actor. . . . For some
reason, I never tire of looking at Jean
Simmons.
1 keep believing Rick Nelson is going
to grow into Elvis Presley. . . . Hugh
O’Brian is the fastest gun in the west.
He can take off his holster and makeup
faster than any actor in westerns. . . .
Julie Newmar’s Quotable Quote: “I try
to be feminine always. You’d be sur-
prised how it helps, especially with men.”
. . . I’m always surprised when I meet
Audrey Hepburn in a delicatessen, no
matter how many times I meet her there.
. . . I don’t believe the rumor that Las-
sie and Rin Tin Tin are the best of
friends. . . . Hollywood is a place where
a weary actor will tell you that he’s go-
ing to Palm Springs for three days to
get a weeks’ rest. That’s Hollywood For
You.
Jack & Felicia: So when’s the wedding?
Your form wasn’t meant to conform to a
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October, 1960
Bobby Darin Gets An Earful;
Connie Francis’ Big .Mystery;
Chubby Checker Starts A Craze
] aye P. goes to tear. Why Brian did it.
Jimmy keeps going. Rod surprises me.
Hollywood's Listening To...
Schumann Piano Concerto with Van
Cliburn on RCA Victor.
Complete Mozart Symphonies, Vol. II,
Nos. 6-7-S-9, Erich Leinsdorf and the Lon-
don Symphony Orchestra on Westminster.
Schumann: Sonata No. 1. Gilels. piano:
Chopin: Ballade and Two Etudes, Ash-
kenazy, piano: Kabalevsky: Sonata No. 3,
Zak. piano, all three on one I.P on Monitor.
Brahms Horn Trio: Szigeti, violin; Hors-
zo.wski, piano: Barrows, horn. Mercury.
Mahler Symphony No. 4: Lisa Della
Casa, soprano: Reiner and Chicago Sym-
phony on RCA Victor.
Schubert Symphony No. 5 in B Flat and
Symphony No. 3 in D: Beecham and Royal
Philharmonic Orchestra on Capitol.
by PAUL DftEW
STATION WGST, ATLANTA: It happened!
I lie third greatest moment of my career in
broadcasting — the chance to tell Bobby Darin
in person that "Darin at the Copa” is the best
allium I've heard since Sinatra’s classic “Songs
lor Swingin’ Lovers." The second greatest and
greatest moments respectively were doing a
live program with Fabian . . . and dating
Connie Francis. I still don’t understand why
Con won’t permit M-G-M to release her record
of "Robot Man" in the U.S. — it made Eng-
land’s top ten. Her album of “Spanish and
Latin American Favorites” is sure to be a
best-seller lor years to come, and “My Heart
Has a Mind of Its Own" is ber seventeenth
consecutive hit. Wow!
Watch Kenny Rossi’s popularity zoom up-
ward with his much requested “Sandy” and
“What’s Wrong.” . . . You'll find the Everlys
in the audience many Saturday nights at the
Grand Ole Opry. Their “Lucille” and “So
Sad” are being heard everywhere.
Lots of luck to anyone conquering the lyrics
to “To Morrow” in the Kingston Trio’s
“String Along.” . . . Nomination for the cover-
of-the-year award to meo for "Bobby Sings.”
The living color shot of Bobby Rydell is
tops. So’s the music. . . . Know why his fans
call him Mr. Sincerity? The answer’s heard
in Tony Bennett’s “Alone Together.” . . .
Brian Hyland has six brothers and one
sister — maybe that’s why he chose to include
“Cozy Little Compact Car” in his album. “The
Bashful Blond.” . . . Everybody in Tulsa's
still talking about how pretty Patti Page
looked — after seeing her de-glamorized in
"Elmer Gantry" — when the Singing Rage paid
her hometown a visit recently to autograph
copies of her book. “Once Upon a Dream.”
I’m glad that I haven't said this before —
the best Hawaiian album I’ve beard is M-G-M's
"Tommy Edwards in Hawaii.” And anyone
remember when Joni James last turned up
with a hit single? But, oh those albums! Hats
ofT to hubby Tony Acquaviva for his master-
ful arrangements in "100 Strings and Joni on
Broadway.” . . . Still the nation’s biggest
dance craze — “The Twist.” (See page 22
for how to do it. > The Parkway LP, “The
Twist,” by Chubby Checker comes alive with
The Stroll. The Slop and many more exciting
dances. . . . It’s the Pat Boone of pre-1936
IXecorb
in his best album in years, “This and That.”
Our government’s spending over two million
dollars for 1961’s Civil War Centennial. For
much less, you’ll enjoy “Dixie,” “Yellow Rose
of Texas,” “Oh Susanna” and other songs of
the era in Jaye P. Morgan’s “Down South.”
. . . And while Rod Lauren was below the
Mason-Dixon Line, I took him to a restaurant
that’s world-famous for Southern Fried Chicken
— so he ordered steak. ... “A Wild Imagina-
tion” and “One Finger Solo” look like Rod's
best to date for RCA Victor. . . . You’ll meet
an intimate Sam Cooke in “Hits of the
Fifties.” . . . Who do most deejays consider to
be one of the most pleasant people to interview
and work with? Jimmy Clanton, who keeps
his streak going for Ace with “Wait.”
What’s in the Stars?
Puzzle
Like Deborah Kerr,
you are under the
seventh sign of the
Zodiak — Libra — if
your birthday falls
between September
23 and October 22.
Gentleness, poise,
Deborah:Too good? charm, co-operation
are your attributes.
Libran women are often beauties like Deb-
orah (Sept. 30) and Rita Hayworth (Oct.
17) . Other charming
children of Libra
number Dolores Hart
(Oct. 20), Julie Lon-
don (Sept. 26) and
Inger Stevens (Oct.
18) . Librans are ex-
ceptionally thought-
ful about others, enjoy
sharing life’s good
things. One trait only,
unless watched, can
cause friction — and that is an over-emphasis
on perfection. This is not because you value
“things” more than people — quite the op-
posite. But this is
what a partner may
misunderstand and
your relationship
can suffer for it.
Watch it, for you
are happiest in a
partnership. The
men under this sign
can “charm the
Charlton: Beware! birds out of the
trees” and are crea-
tive and talented. As witness Charlton
Heston (Oct. 4), Montgomery Clift (Oct.
17). Your lucky number: eight. Erial
Mate for Dolores?
ACROSS
1. His hit is ‘‘Look for a Star”
4. James
6. They’re still asking for his comb
7. Metropolitan Opera basso (init.)
8. That popular yellow-dotted bathing suit
10. Bronco
11. Railroad (abbrev.)
12. Note of the musical scale
13. Another singer to popularize “Look for
a Star"
15. Mr. Cooke's initials
16. To accomplish
18. Exclamation
19. She's "Sorry"
20. Last name of 19 across
22. A co-star in “From the Terrace” (init.)
23. Neat
25. Eydie's husband
28. For grain storage
29. Richard Bennett (folk singer)
30. Note of scale
32. Preposition
33. Record label
DOWN
1. Initials of 2 down
2. His current best seller: “Because They’re
Young”
3. A commercial
4. Animal with broad antlers
5. “My ”
7. Not a boy
8. The lad who sings of 8 across
9. “ Now or Never”
10. A choice morsel
14. “Happy-Go-Lucky Me,” he sings
15. Not he
17. Roy
1 8. A disc by Dante and the Evergreens
21. A pair of brothers
24. Of (Ital.)
26. Famous Trombonist (init.)
27. Day (end of a war) init.
30. One of 21 down
31. Singer of the month (pictured)
with
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Weddings and Babies
AFFECTIONATE CLOSEUP OF EVERYDAY PEOPLE; ADULT
“Weddings and Babies,” says the sign outside photogra-
pher John Myhers’ studio and home, in New York’s Little
Italy. But don’t expect any gunplay; this is a true picture
of average life in the big city. John’s worries are the kind
that would be familiar anywhere. His assistant and sweet-
heart (Viveca Lindfors) is getting insistent about their own
long-overdue wedding, and we feel as exasperated as she
does at his often childish moods, typical of the stubborn
bachelor. But we sympathize with him while he wonders what
to do about his mother (Chiarina Barile), a splendid old
lady whose mind is beginning to wander. The story was
written, directed, produced and photographed by Morris
Engel, who made his mark with “Little Fugitive” and “Lov-
ers and Lollipops.” It’s the photography — never slick or
flattering — that brings us close to these people, to see how
human beings can be funny and sad, lovable and irritating,
all at once. encel
Let's Make Love
BIG. BLOWZY MUSICAL WITH DAZZLING STARS; ADULT
Here’s the new Marilyn Monroe picture — but it isn't all
hers. Should it be called the Yves Montand picture instead?
Either way, the competition-cooperation provides lots of
easygoing fun. (MM and \ves at left, top.) Yves gets into
the act first, as a French-American billionaire whose hobby
is girls. His public-relations man (Tony Randall) hears that
the tycoon is about to be unmercifully ribbed in an off-
Broadway revue, so Yves goes to the rehearsal in person and
in a bad humor. Enter Marilyn, and he melts just as movie
audiences do, because she’s at her most appealing in this
part, a show-business girl with informal manners (and
clothes! ) and a heart of pure gold. From there on, the stars
carry the show on its rambling way. The French idol is a
pleasantly ordinary-looking guy, but his charm and his light-
comedv skill are ’way above the ordinary. Famous for his
songs, Yves has to pretend to be a terrible singer, and that’s
no simple trick. 20th; cinemascope, de luxe color
I Aim at the Stars
excitinc science-fact story, expertly told; FAMILY
How can you make a hero out of a scientist who put
his genius to work for the Nazis? On the other hand, how
can you make a villain out of a man who has contributed
immeasurably to the American space program? The two are
the same person, Wernher von Braun, so the movie version
of his life (starring Curt Jurgens, at left, bottom, with James
Daly and Gia Scala) is a mighty tricky project. The problem
has been neatly solved by giving both sides of the argument
and then leaving it up to the ( Continued on page 92)
8
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Another Look Alike
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.
KC.
Hats Off to Ginger
When an exceptionally busy star takes
the time to show interest and gratitude
to her fans, I think it deserves a word of
mention. So a big, “Hats Off,” to Ginger
Rogers.
When she appeared here in Rhode Island,
many fans waited for her each night after
her performance in “Annie Get Your
Gun." There were so many fans, that some
were afraid they would be left out with
programs going unsigned, but every night.
Ginger, herself, reassured them that all
would be signed — and they were! This was
not a gesture extended by her to Rhode
Islanders alone, for she did the very same
thing two weeks later in Massachusetts.
Some stars devote very little time to
their fans, but not this star. To steal a
phrase from the teenagers, “Ginger Rogers
is the greatest!”
Henrietta Collins
Providence, R.I.
Look Alikes
. . . Many people have said that I resemble
Eleanor Parker who is in the movie “Home
From the Hill.”
Janice Janousek
Gregory, S.D.
I
J
Eleanor has a double in Janice.
. . . I think my friend, Jesse Dehoyos, looks
like the singer Paul Anka. Don't you agree
with me?
Julie Salezar
Corpus Christi, Texas
. . . Everyone thinks my son, Harold
Harner, Jr., looks very much like Bob
Cummings. Do you?
Mrs Lorraine Harner
Valley View, Pa.
A little. But wouldn't you say he looks more
like Fred Astaire? — Ed.
Do you agree on Fred and Harold?
Pleasantly Surprised
I was very pleasantly surprised to find
cute newcomer Tim Johnson featured in
“A Real Nothing Date” at Disneyland in
your September issue of Photoplay.
As Annette’s date, Tim was very at-
tentive and full of fun. I especially liked
the crazy shot inside the wild animals
cage. It was all very refreshing.
Carmen Holt
Montreal, Canada
Poor “Pal Joey”
“Jeanne Eagels” went on a “Picnic.” “The
Man With the Golden Arm” and “Pal
Joey” went with her. Jeanne brought a
"Bell, Book, and Candle” along. The book
was “The Eddie Duchin Story.” “Pal
Joey” had “Vertigo.” He met his death in
the “Middle of the Night.” His death was
a “Pushover” for Kim Novak. She pushed
him over a cliff.
Sherry Deruris
Blairsville, Pa.
Good to See Gable
Glad to see Clark Gable making movies
again. I saw his new movie, “It Happened
in Naples,” and liked it very much.
A Fan From Kentucky
GET TO THE NEWSSTAND EARLY
Newsstands everywhere have been selling out
their copies of Photop’ay Magazine earlier and
earlier. The December issue will go on sale
November 3rd. Get to your favorite newsstand
early. If all the copies are gone, send 25 o)kc.
I am eighteen years old, very thin, with
big breasts. Because of my prominent
neck hones, strapless dance dresses,
like most girls wear, are out. I believe
halter-neck dresses would be ideal for
me, hut what do I do about a bra?
Viola Harris
Reading, Pa.
Halter necks are for you . . . they can
cover the neck in front and yet give a
feeling of straplessness from the rear.
A lira answer lies in Hollywood — Vassar-
ette's halter bra pictured at the right. It
offers firm breast support through wired
and reinforced cups and is held in place by
hook-on-to-the-girdle clips. — Fashion Ed.
continued
DEAR FASHION EDITOR:
I am deeply concerned because I have
bought a very expensive, thin-strapped
dress and now find it impossible to
keep my strapless bra from slipping.
1 must have some support. Have you a
solution?
Mrs. John Reed
San Fransisco, Calif.
Yes indeed! Olga has a wireless strap-
less Secret Hug that can’t pressure or
slip. Bare “wing” sides hold it firmly and
the lift comes from latex ribbon inside
cups. Pretty, too, in nylon lace, piping,
and feminine rosebud trim. — Fashion Ed.
Although my daughter is only twelve
years old, she has already begun to
develop. I, of course, do not want her
to feel awkward, hut I have read that it
is very important to start wearing a bra
at the beginning of development. Is this
true?
Mrs. Sam Smith
Dallas, Texas
It is quite important to wear a bra
from the time the breasts have developed.
. . . Important, because the weight of the
breast can stretch the skin and delicate
connective tissue. This cannot be res-
tored. I suggest First Impressions by
Exquisite Form because it molds but
does not accentuate. — Fashion Ed.
12
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(Jhil Chat: Elvis decided he preferred
lo live in Memphis between pictures. “I
like to work in Hollywood,” he told me,
“but I like to be among ‘just folks’ in
between.” All I can say is if El’s ever-
present bodyguards from his home town,
are “just plain folks,” then Memphis
must he a city way off in outer space,
man. Such characters, yet. . . . Sorry
to report Troy Donahue is reaping a
lot of hot gossip these days that has
his friends and his family distressed.
Too had, as Troy has a lot of promise.
. . . Tony Curtis bought an entire hotel
in Palm Springs, and at the cost of a
million and a half dollars is transform-
ing it into a deluxe tennis club. And up
in San Francisco, the Kingston Trio
invested in a $350,000 office building.
. . . Dolores Hart confided a secret I’m
passing on to you. “I want to get mar-
ried,” says this delectable star of “Some-
thing for the Boys.” “I don’t think a
girl is ever happy until she’s married.”
El won't change, hut 1 hope Bobby will.
Briefies: Fans are muttering over Bobhy Darin’s Sinatra-like at-
titude these days — waving away fans and generally “lording it over.” I
hope it s only a phase and talented Bobby will return from his “Come
September” film in Rome, a much more thoughtful lad. . . . If Tony
Franriosa stages any more physical assaults such as he launched on di-
rector Churk Walters, on the “Go Naked in the World” set, he may
find everyone on bis future movies toting a gun or at least wearing
armor. What a temper! And that break between Tony and Shelley
Winters looks final. At least the separation papers are signed. . . .
Robert Conrad (“Hawaiian Eye”) seems shorter off TV than he ap-
pears on. But he’s certainly as nice as I'd expected he'd be. . . . And
I dig that handsome Tony Eisley. What a charming, friendly lad he
is, to be sure. And what a cutie is that other “Hawaiian Eye” member,
Connie Stevens, who moaned, “All I do is work. I’m doing publicity
promotion for my picture ‘Parrish,’ playing Cricket in my ‘Eye’ series
and rehearsing for my night-club tour all at once.” “No dating?” I
asked. “Well, maybe a little,” she grinned. . . . Your big favorite, Andy
Williams, is booked solidly for a year ahead with movies, TV and
night-club dates, interrupted by an overseas trek with Boh Hope dur-
ing the Holidays. And I promise all you many Andy fans to report
more about this Williams lad in the future. . . . Greeted Edd Byrnes
on the Warner Bros, lot the other day and discovered “Kookie” has
lost considerable weight. That long layoff did him very little good,
really, and I doubt if Jim Garner’s rebellion will profit him much,
either. But his “Maverick” brother, Jack Kelly, is very happy these
days with a brand new house, a new car, gift of the studio, and a good
performance in the movie “Fever in the Blood.” Just exactly what more
could a man ask for???? But I will say that Jack deserves anything
he does get. It’s good to see him smiling. (Please turn the page)
17
Surprise! The night was dark and the two characters hidden
in the bushes along the road leading to Susan Kohner’s
house, looked mighty suspicious. As it turned out, the lads,
wearing speaker sets connected with Susan’s house, were
stationed there to report the approach of an unsuspecting
George Hamilton. And what a surprise when the gang
leaped out of the darkened living room to cry “Happy Birth-
day.” It was George’s twenty-first, and Susan had asked in
practically all of Hollywood to celebrate. Lovely Dolores
Del Rio, Susan’s Godmother, was among the guests who
enthused over the birthday cake, baked in the shape of
George’s new Italian car, an Alfa Romeo. It was great fun.
Caught offguard: John and Mickey . . . Stephen and Elana.
Closeup: Unobserved, I watched as Yvette Mimieux
bought shoes at Saks Beverly Hills to wear in the M-G-M
movie “Something for the Boys.” Unlike many demanding-
young stars, Yvette seemed perfectly content with the shoes
in this “less expensive” department of the shop, listening
to every suggestion of the studio shopper who accompanied
her. I noticed other busy customers had no idea the blond,
rather plain little thing, so intent on her errand, would soon
be recognized as one of Hollywood’s brightest stars, especially
after “Something for the Boys” and her future film “The
Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse” are released. I recalled
a day I had spent with Yvette on a back lot of M-G-M studios
while “The Time Machine” was being made and the fun we
had together over our picnic lunch under the trees. “I want
no part of Hollywood wolves,” she said there, and meant it.
As to those recent marriage rumors, Yvette denies them.
“I’m too busy for marriage,” she assures me. So, we go along
f with Hollywood’s future Bright Star and say no more about it.
But we do wish her the best of luck on her acting career.
18
Yvonne and Jim were in a hurry — and who can blame them?
Cupidisms: Pert and talented Taina Elg was touring Texas
and waiting for her best beau, Keith Larsen, to join her
when news of Keith’s marriage to Vera Miles reached her.
I’m told it rocked Taina off her dancing toes — it was that
unexpected. . . . Gene Kelly and his living image, teenage
daughter Kerry Kelly, stood side by side in a Nevada court-
room when Gene wed Jeanne Coyne, his production assistant.
Kerry and her father have been very close since Betsy and
Gene Kelly were divorced several years ago. Yes, Kerry is
very happy with Jeanne as a stepmother. . . . Singer Jimmy
Boyd married Yvonne Craig the minute her movie “High
Time” was in the bag and Robert Horton is expected to
take the same step with Marilyn Bradley. I’m told Marilyn
will be Horton’s third wife. Or is she the fourth??? It’s
my congratulations to Lana Turner and businessman Fred
May on their marriage. And if possible, Lana’s daughter
Cheryl will take off for Europe with Lana and her
new stepfather. Cheryl, who is a ward of the courts,
must have their permission as Lana, unfortunately, has no
say in the matter. . . . And, of course, Fabian is still so
devoted to Kathy Kelly, the teenagers around town have
the moping, drooping blues. Which shows the way the cookie
crumbles this month, at least. . . . Two good-looking couples:
Stephen Boyd with Elana Eden . . . and at the Harwyn,
John Vivyan with Mickey Miller. . . . Joan Collins says
she and Warren Beatty will wed before the first of next year.
Yves and Marilyn looked very cozy — till Simone arrived.
Tidbits: I’m not too surprised over the Arlene Dahl-
Fernando Lamas separation — their second parting and per-
haps their last. Oidy recently, at a preview, I sat beside the
handsome couple and before the picture began, listened
while Arlene enthused over her newspaper beauty column
and her new hook on beauty which, she explained, went
much deeper than cold cream. I noticed how indifferent
Fernando seemed at the time, and after a brief “hello” in
our direction, never contributed one word. Rumor linked
Fernando’s name with Esther Williams after their recent
TV spectacular and the two have been seen together at vari-
ous parties. Esther said goodbye to her romance with Jeff
Chandler so maybe Fernando is “the new beau” in her life.
. . . Poor Yves Montand was so distressed over those Paris
headlines linking his name with Marilyn Monroe! And it
did seem to lunchers in l he 20lh Century-Fox dining room,
during the shooting of “Let’s Make Love,” that Yves and
Marilyn were very cozy over their salads while both their
mates were out of town. But the arrival of Simone Signoret,
Yves’ wife, allayed all gossip and now all the handsome
Frenchman has to worry over is his billing in “Sanctuary”
with Lee Remiek. And maybe a few more complications in
his marriage with Simone. . . . The Rory Calhouns are
elated over another expected heir — their third child, to he
exact. Rory and wife, Lita Baron, always wanted a large
family and they’re getting their wish.
... It all started when Fernando and Arlene parted— again.
Young favorites : “I’m home, I’m home, come up, come up,”
the familiar and happy voice of Sandra Dee floated over the
telephone. So, in nothing flat, I found myself with Sandra
and her young mother, Mary, all of us talking at once about
our experiences in Rome. Sandra was blue, however, over
returning again to Italy for the movie “Come September”
with Rock Hudson, Gina Lollohrigida, and Bobby
Darin. “I love the cast and the picture but I love my new
home here and my friends and the studio. I’ve spent so many
weeks in Rome making ‘Romanoff and Juliet’ I’d like to stay
home a while,” she moaned and I understood her point of
view. The house of Mary and Sandra, perched atop a Beverly
Hills mesa, is a dream one with Sandra’s room all blue and
white and the kitchen agleam with the latest gadgets that
Sandy loves. That morning she had invaded a hardware shop
for more gadgets and on the new whirling mixer whipped up
all sorts of delectable vegetable and fruit juices which Mary
and I sampled. The lunch, with Sandy busy in the kitchen,
was delicious and after a cozy, lazy afternoon around the
pool, we decided Oriental food would be the very thing.
A short time later. Trader Vic’s delivered delectable concoc-
tions of Polynesian food that was. we all agreed, far from the
menus of Rome. Sandy’s new contract with Universal Studio
and the fact PHOTOPLAY readers awarded her first place
on our Popularity Poll, somewhat eased the homesickness of
her leaving. So now I’m awaiting her return for more news
and more mixed delights from Sandra Dee's kitchen. What
an adorable child she is! ! ! ! Paul Anka has a way with his
fans that’s a pleasant way, indeed. When they gathered too.
closely about a location set for his movie, “Look in Any
Window,” Paul refused to have them ordered away.
It’s not the first time, but Rory and Lita are thrilled.
Cooperation: LTp in Reno, Nevada, where Marilyn Mon-
roe’s new picture, “The Misfits,” was shooting, Marilyn
surprised everyone by keeping almost up to schedule. Whis-
pers are that Clark Gable, one of my favorites, had let it
he known to everyone invoked, he brooks no nonsense. Clark,
who always ends his day’s work promptly at 5 o’clock, did
so regardless. So, if Marilyn showed up at four in the after-
noon. that was her hard luck. King Gable left on the dot of
five. And since this was an Arthur Miller-Marilyn Monroe
production, Madame Miller did a lot more cooperating than
she has ever done — until taken to the hospital with nervous r
exhaustion. ( Please turn the page )
19
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Merle Oberons party really made news.
Mailbox Corner: Sharon Clay of Medi-
cine Hat, Canada, is another Stephen
Boyd fan. I know Sharon will be glad
to hear Stephen’s just as big a hit in Eu-
rope, where he’s filming “Cleopatra.” . . .
Kathy Polimeno is a John Ericson fan.
Can anyone tell me if there is an Ericson
club Kathy may join? ? ? ? ? Dorothy
Luker writes me good news of her
favorite, Lee Tracy, who is playing on
Broadway in “The Best Man,” in a
co-starring role with Melvyn Douglas.
Is it serious between Gardner and Maria?
More Mailbox: We’ve become quite
international this month with a letter
from the Bahamas, one from Thailand,
one from Jamaica, and one from Mrs.
Abdul Khan of Karachi, Pakistan, who
suggests our column rates an Oscar.
Well! . . . Deborah Kerr writes a
warm note from her home in Switzer-
land. . . . From Vancouver, British Co-
lumbia, Irish Hall inquires about a Dar-
ren McGavin fan club. Does anyone
know of a McGavin club? . . . Very
pretty Pruja Sonakul of McGill Uni-
versity in Montreal writes a charming
letter and all the way from Bangkok.
A. Xuto of the Royal Thai Navy writes us
about the visit of his King and Queen to
our country. PHOTOPLAY certainly gets
around. . . . And if you want to join a
John Vivyan fan club, write to Maia
Jagds, Box 131, Mountain Iron, Minn,
for info. . . . 15-year-old Linda Rein
of 840 East 8th Street, Brooklyn 30,
New York, adores Katharine Hep-
burn and Margaret Barkenhagen of
Baraboo, Wisconsin, is a Maximillian
Schell fan. So’s Janet Clayton of Mo.
Party of the Month: It was young
people time in Hollywood when Merle
Oberon gave a dinner party for her
young house guests, Anne and Charlotte
Ford, daughters of the Henry Fords.
And you can imagine the surprise when
Susan Kohner walked in with John
Saxon. Seems George Hamilton,
Susan’s best beau, was working and
Saxon was a willing substitute. Maria
Cooper, as co-hostess, spent her free
time talking with Gardner McKay,
who came stag. Frankie Avalon, who
brought along Bob Forte, Fabian’s 14-
year-old brother, explained Fabe was ill
with a sore throat. David and Ricky
Nelson both eyed the lovely Ford sisters
who beamed at the handsome brothers,
a charming foursome. Even the chaper-
ones, Ernie Kovacs and Edie Adams,
the Gary Coopers, Tony Curtis and
his Janet, had a wonderful time.
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Cal York’s Jottings: Tommy Rettig,
who only yesterday was concerned with
Lassie, is now fussing over his new son.
Tommy, a father at nineteen, and his
wife, Darlene, a mother at sixteen, are
Hollywood’s youngest married couple.
. . . Gene Barry (“Bat Masterson”)
denies any feud existed between him and
Monique Van Vooren while the pair
co-starred at the Riviera in Las Vegas.
But those who know, say they fully ex-
pected the two to shoot it out on Main
Street any moment. . . . Pat Boone
and the Lennon Sisters had a ball play-
ing State Fairs together during the late
summer. Pat is now settled in Holly-
wood for a while and the Lennons have
returned to their Lawrence Welk
chores. . . . Jimmy and Gloria Stew-
art and their four children trekked
home from a grand tour of Europe,
tired but happy. The Stewarts were wel-
comed wherever they went . . . After
Vic Damone’s trip, to see Pier Angeli
in Europe, proved futile, there seems no
hope at all, now, for a reconciliation.
Fabe cheered up Vic - for a while at least
The Debbie-Karl situation: “Yes, 1
think Debbie will marry Harry Karl,
perhaps in the spring,” a mutual friend
told me. “I think Debbie is a basically
fine young woman far from the take-
and-run type. And Debbie has accepted
quite a few expensive gifts from Harry.
He has been lavish with her parents in
every way. I’m told he’s given Debbie
money to buy clothes and gifts for her
mother and her children. So, under the
circumstances, 1 hardly think Debbie
would say, ‘thanks and goodbye.’ Besides,
I feel she admires and respects Harry
who would make a very good husband
and father.” ( Please turn the page )
One reason Jimmy was glad to get home.
Bits anti Pieces: With Edtlie Fisher
and Liz Taylor living quietly in an
English hotel suite during her “Cleo-
patra” chores, their one hope is that
the English press will permit them and
their children to live the quiet uncon-
taminated lives they yearn to. I’m all
for giving them their chance but I doubt
if the English press will grant them
that privilege. . . . Doris Day and her
husband, Marty Melcher, are early
Christmas shoppers, but guess what they
plan to give each other? A TV station,
each his own, preferably both of them
in Northern California. Now, how in
the world can you wrap up television
stations in red ribbons and holly????
Two Englishmen who spent consider-
able time in Hollywood, have returned
home now — Stewart Granger and
Michael Wilding, both recently di-
vorced. And rumors are that Stewart
will remarry his first wife. I wonder?
... A letter from Jimmy Darren and
Evy Norlund in London bemoans the
fact his “Guns of the Navarone” goes
on and on. “Wouldn’t it be awful,” they
say, “if we’re here all fall and the Lon-
don bobbies picked us up on Halloween
on a ‘trick or treat’ charge?” On the
serious side they’re elated over their
new flat and the fact their expected heir
will be born in Hollywood. They hope! ! !
Judy Garland and husband, Sid Luft,
are comfortably ensconsed in their Lon-
don home which will be their base of
operation for some time to come.
r
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II
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INSIDE
STUFF
continued
SCOOP OF THE MONTH:
everyone
A Party: At Kenny Miller’s party,
Dick Clark was teaching everyone that
new dance craze, “The Twist.” It’s great
fun. You stand facing your partner. Both
perforin identically. Then you slowly
twist your body on the toes of your left
foot to the left, while your arms are ex-
tended. Then bend lightly at the knees,
straighten up again, and twist hack on
the toes of the right foot to the right.
You just repeat this over and over lo
music. I love to do it hut, brother, am
I sore. I couldn’t move for days!
On or Off? Despite all that talk about
their romance being over, Annette came
to the Twist party with Paul Anka. Am
I wrong, or are Paul’s feelings for An-
nette much stronger than vice versa?
The T wist
Dick said. “ Watch .
Dodie invented a “break.”
“1 go ’round,” she said.
22
Hollywood is doing
in
THE TWIST
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Mark teased Annette on her movement !
“ Then you keep twisting
“It works” she laughed.
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What Happened: The food was just
great, so everybody just forgot their diets
and dug in. “Besides, if we gain any
weight,” Dodie Stevens laughed, “we
“ All in the hips ” he said. “ Try it.” can lose it again by doing The Twist.”...
Sherry Jackson looked downright
scary when she arrived, straight from the
set, with her hair in giant rollers and
huge sunglasses hiding her face. Later,
though, with hair combed and wearing
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Damon of a junior Susan Hayward.
. . . Marianna Gaha got tossed in the
pool. An old twist, eh?
Dodie was bubbling; Paul wasn't sure.
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23
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Joanie asked him, a little curiously.
“Did we!” Bobby laughed. “I think we
were born that way. Frankie and I were
playing at weddings when I was twelve
and we got our real break the summer I
was fifteen. We were in Atlantic City and
went to hear a band, ‘Rocko and His Saints’
they were called, rehearsing. When we got
there we found out two guys were sick
so we filled in for them. Somebody forgot
to ask us how old we were and we got
their jobs. I played drums and Frankie
played trombone. In between, we did a
kind of song-and-dance routine that we’d
worked out ourselves. It was kind of
funny,” he said, flopping down again on the
grass beside her, “later, after Frankie and
I began making personal appearances, fans
used to write both of us warning us that
the other was stealing our dance steps . . .
but it was that same step. We just didn’t
know any other.”
He smiled sheepishly. “I guess there’s
some ham in me,” he admitted. “I always
loved to be on stage.”
“Not me,” Joanie burst out so violently
that Bobby was startled. She was usually
so soft-spoken. “I hated it,” she said. “I
used to sing with my high-school band and
every time I had to get up there I’d just
die. I’d be so scared, I’d be stiff as a board
and when I heard them playing my in-
troduction, and I’d think: ‘What if I get
out there and I can’t sing anything?’ Crazy,
huh?” she laughed.
He hadn’t seemed shy
“You like it now, don’t you?” he asked
and she nodded yes, adding: “Maybe,
someday, I might even like to try acting—
but not right away.”
“Boy, that’s what I’d like to do,” Bobby
said, his eyes bright with excitement, “. . .
make a picture. I’d give anything to be
a well-rounded performer like Sammy
Davis, Jr. He’s great at everything . . .
singing, dancing, movies, night clubs, im-
personations. . . .”
“Can you do impersonations?” Joanie
asked.
He answered by sticking his chin way
out, curling his lips and saying: “Okay,
you guys, line up over there,” gesturing
with his head.
“Edward G. Robinson?” she asked hesi-
tantly.
“No,” he answered dropping his chin
back down.
“Oh, I know, I know, Cagney . . . James
Cagney,” she shouted.
“Right,” he said with a pleased smile.
“Honest — I didn’t know you could do
that, too,” she said.
“Oh,” he said in an off-hand manner,
“it’s nothing really. I’ve been doing them
since I was nine.” Then, more seriously,
“The first amateur contest I ever entered
I did impersonations and sang. Every-
body laughed when I came out on the
stage because they couldn’t get the mike
down low enough for me. But I learned
something very important that day. I used
to be awfully shy as a kid — I guess I
haven’t gotten over it completely, yet,” he
admitted and Joanie thought, somewhat
surprised, that he hadn’t seemed at all shy
with her today.
“But I used to be afraid to even talk to
people sometimes,” he went on, “until that
day when I heard all those people cheer-
ing and shouting for me. I felt as though
I was someone else . . . not just skinny
little Bobby Ridarelli.” He paused, then
quickly asked: “Did you ever hear me
doing Bobby Rydell’s interpretation of
Bobby Rydell playing the drums?” And
he began to beat out a frantic solo on an
imaginary drum.
When Joanie giggled, he said: “I can
see you don’t appreciate it, but I can tell
you it went over big in Wildwood, New
Jersey.”
There was a big open area under the
porch of his grandmother’s house where
he and Frankie Avalon used to put on
two -man shows for the kids — every after-
noon at 3 o’clock— impersonations, drum
and trombone solos, and songs ... all for
a nickel that they never could collect.
They used to play in their bathing suits
so they could run right back down to the
beach to swim or play baseball, and then
his mom would have to come down and
drag them home for dinner.
“We never wanted to take time out to
eat ... no wonder we’ve both never been
able to gain any weight,” Bobby said.
Then, with a self-conscious laugh, he
apologized shyly: “Gee, Joanie, I don’t go
on like this all the time. I don’t think I’ve
ever talked this much about myself to
anyone.”
She felt flattered, as though he’d paid
her a compliment, but she just said fliply:
“Oh, I enjoyed it.”
“I’ll give you the next two hours,” he
said, leaning on his elbow. “What about
you?”
“Oh,” she said, playing with the collar
of her jacket, “there’s nothing much to
tell.” She felt her mind go blank the way
it did whenever someone said: “And what
have you been doing lately?” She could
never think of anything terribly interest-
ing to say.
“Where’d you live when you were
little?” he asked.
“Buffalo,” she answered, thinking, he’s
so nice and friendly he probably does want
to know about me. “And then we moved to
California ... to Venice . . . when I was in
high school and I lived there with my
parents.”
“Which do you like better,” Bobby
asked, “Buffalo or California?”
“Oh, both,” she said. “I go back to
Buffalo to visit a lot, but if we hadn’t
moved here I probably would never have
become a singer. I’d always loved to sing,
but it was just for fun. I’d never taken
lessons or anything ... in fact, I still
haven’t. I guess I kind of want to see how
far I can go on my own. And so I would
never have had the nerve to try to sing
professionally if it hadn’t been for Tommy
'
pt
•
i
a
n
■
tl
s
Oliver.”
“The band leader?” Bobby asked.
How it started
She nodded. Tommy Oliver played at
their farewell dance when she was gradu-
ating from Venice High and toward the
end of the night, a couple of the students
started fooling around with the band, play-
ing drums and singing. Then someone
called her over to join in and after a
couple of minutes she realized everybody
else had stopped singing and she was doing
a solo with the band. Somehow, she man-
aged to finish the song, and then Tommy
asked her to sing some others, and after-
ward he said he’d get in touch with her.
She thought he was just trying to be nice
but that fall, after she’d started classes at
Santa Monica College, he called and asked
how she’d like to sing with his band.
“And that’s how it started,” she smiled
and shrugged her shoulders. “I kept on at
College and sang with Tommy weekends
and then, one day, he took me down to
Warner Brothers Records and they signed
me up that very day. I nearly flipped. In
fact,” she laughed, “sometimes I still have
to pinch myself to believe it’s all true.
“When I was a little girl, I used to dream
about being a beautiful and famous singer
and I always pictured myself standing up
on a stage in a white organdy evening dress
with a big wide skirt. But even then, I
didn’t dare admit it to anyone. Except
72
once,” she corrected herself. “That was
when I heard there was going to be an
amateur singing contest at one of the movie
houses in Buffalo and I persuaded my
mother to let me enter — and I won!” She
wrinkled up he forehead and said: “Isn’t
that funny? I can’t remember what I won
... a plate, or something.”
“Did you ever think about whether or
not you’d want to keep on singing when
you get married?” Bobby asked.
“I don’t know what I’d do,” she said
thoughtfully. “That’s why I don’t want to
get married for a long time.”
“Me, neither,” Bobby agreed and they
both sat thinking. “But I sort of know
what kind of girl I want to marry,” Bobby
said. “Someone who’ll feel the same way
about things as I do and who will under-
stand me,” and then he grinned. “And of
course she’ll have to be smart, pretty,
have a good sense of humor, like kids and
be able to match my grandmother’s Italian
cooking.”
“That’s all?” Joanie laughed. “All I want
is for him to be tall, have dark hair —
although that’s not really important — be a
good conversationalist. . . .” With an em-
barrassed laugh, she tilted her head and
looked at him. “Oh, this is silly. It’s only a
dream.”
“What’s wrong with dreaming?” Bobby
asked. “I have two favorites. I can never
really decide between wanting to be
Leonard Bernstein conducting a full sym-
phony orchestra — with everyone in white
tie and tails, of course — at Carnegie Hall,
or having a jazzy red Thunderbird.”
“You know what I wish?” Joanie asked.
“I’d like an unlimited charge account at one
of the biggest stores in every city in the
country- — I never seem to have enough
money for clothes — and lots and lots of
pots and pans. But not the ordinary kind,”
she said, sitting up straight on her knees
and leaning forward excitedly. “I want the
kind with copper bottoms — for our new
apartment.
“You know,” she said, shaking her head
seriously, “it takes a lot of furniture to fill
up even a one-bedroom apartment. I don’t
even have a record player. When I want to
hear my own records, I have to borrow one
from a neighbor. That’s next on the list
. . . after the pots. They’re most important
because I love to cook,” and, with a groan,
added: “As you can see, I love to eat, too,
but I think the real fun of cooking is to
experiment — you know, Mexican, Chinese,
Italian foods — but you need lots of pots to
do that,” she said wistfully.
“How are you on meatballs and spa-
ghetti?” Bobby asked, leaning toward her.
“Oh, just great,” she answered and added
with a mischievous grin, “but not as good
as your grandmother, I’m sure.”
He laughed and then quietly motioned
to her to look toward the edge of the
woods where a small squirrel was busily
rubbing his face. They watched until he
scampered off behind the trees.
“There were lots of squirrels and wild
rabbits on my aunt’s farm,” Joanie said
in a soft voice, “and there was a hill, too —
a little like this one — that was my wishing
hill. I used to go there whenever I wanted
something real bad, like a new bike or
roller skates or a new dress for a party.
And when I was really unhappy or de-
pressed,” she added in a voice so low he
had to bend his head to hear, “I’d go there
at night after it was dark and no one was
around and sing until my lungs gave out.
Singing always made me feel better — it
still does.”
“But . . . but why,” Bobby asked, stumb-
ling a little, “why should you ever feel that
way? You’re so pretty,” he said shyly, “and
you’re doing what you want to do. I should
think you’d have everything you want.”
She sat, chewing on the tip of her thumb-
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A looks that topped the boys’ poll
continued from page 58
CHECK LIST OF BASIC RULES FOR DRESSING TO PLEASE A MAN
Determine your style of dressing: feminine, classic, casual, sophisticated.
And remember, who ever said you couldn’t change once in a while for fun!
The Casual Dresser: You feel “better”
in casual things, you know it. Besides,
for the type of activity you’re engaged in,
casual clothes are more appropriate. Your
problem is you get rutted, you never want
to try anything new. (Try splurging one
dressy dress and see how you feel; it's
marvelous for the morale, particularly
around this time of year.) Remember, too,
that being casual doesn’t mean “falling
apart,” run-down sneakers; unpressed
slacks or skirts; untidy hairdo; too-big
shirts or sweaters. Casual means “hap-
pened by chance,” and the secret is it
takes time to look like that! When we
speak of being casually dressed, we mean,
naturally. And as Carol said. “One of the
hardest things to do is to be yourself.”
Frankie Avalon suggests ( on page 58 )
Velveteen pullover and plaid culottes by
Jules Isles for Mr. Mort
Mohair 64" scarf by Vera
Wool sweater by Jernat
The Dressy Dresser: You go to work ;
your favorite date is dinner for two; you
plan a vacation far away from home; you
dress for church on Sunday. In other
words, you like to dress up. Your big mis-
take might be in confusing dressing-up
with being sophisticated (something most
American men run away from). As Carol
says, “The black dress I’m modeling is
really a good basic black one, but I’ve
overdone it with my heavy makeup — and
believe it or not. by not using accessories.”
Most dressy dressers realize the long dan-
gling earrings and the spiked heels are
out of vogue, but do you realize that if
you added some bold gold beads or a big
rhinestone pin to the black dress Carol is
wearing, you’d get a dramatic and be-
witching effect. Good, exciting and in-
dividual accessories can subtly change a
dress — provided, too, that it starts out a
good fit. More than any other type, the
dressy dresser must be impeccable in her
grooming, her dress and her manner.
Bobby Darin suggests (on page 58)
White “unborn” calf fingertip coat by
Fredrica
Gold veiling “Hedlid” by John Frederics
Gold beads by Richilieu
P ——————
Black velvet “easy flow" dress with g o 1 d
embrodered insert by Anne Fogarty
74
The Feminine Dresser: Your greatest
mistake is overdoing it. as Carol shows on
page 57. (You can see Carol in "The Day
of the Gun” for U-I.) You tend to wear too
much jewelry and too many flowers and
too many colors. You usually choose a
dress that has enough ornament or a wide
enough skirt or a flamboyant enough pat-
tern that you don’t need more accent, but
you do because you think it’s feminine. But
being feminine means, as Paul said it
most aptly, “A girl should look like a girl.”
Men like to see a waist: like a dress to
show off a nice figure; like a girl to smell
nice and look neat. But they don’t want
the dress to be dominant. They want it
to show off the girl! Carol says: “Remem-
ber, when you're in any doubt, take it off."
Paul Anka suggests (on page 58)
Organdy apron with mink tail trim by
Lehman Furs
Pixie Dalmatian “Charmer” by John
Frederics
DuPont’s Antron multistriped bouffant
dress by Jr. Theme
The Classic Dresser: You hate going to
parties; you don’t mind if people don’t
notice you; you rarely talk in a crowd;
you collect milk glass and. when you
go shopping, you usually come home
with the same type of dress. You can’t
help it but you feel shy. And as Pat Boone
said, “Clothes tell a lot about a girl’s
character.” Your clothes — more than with
any other type of dresser — tell about you.
Sometimes you use them to hide in. You
don’t pay attention to fit; you always wear
a dress with round collar; big pockets, too,
to hide your hands. Your clothes are your
retreat. Notice Carol's manner. “I’m lost
in this dress; I have no figure; I’m fading
into the wallpaper, a real wallflower.”
Did you ever think about this? Classic
clothes don’t have to mean timid. They
mean basic. But remember, improvise a
bit. Wear a bright scarf; add a red rose;
investigate accessories; try a new mood.
Pat Boone suggests (on page 58)
Long sleeve wool and mohair cardigan
by Pendleton
Mink ascot by Fredrica
Synthetic plaid fur "at home” dress by
Lee Evans for Mr. Mort
Leopard print Popover by Vera
nail and then, without intending to, she
found herself telling him something she’d
never admitted to anyone. “Oh, I ... I
embarrass me all the time,” she blurted
out, then stopped, and blinked quickly,
before the words started spilling out, the
way they always did whenever she was
nervous.
“I want people to like me”
“I guess I just don’t have enough con-
fidence in myself, or something, because
I’m always worried about how I look or if
the person I’m with is having a good time
or whether I’ll have trouble talking to
someone I don’t know very well. And
sometimes I worry that maybe I hurt
people’s feelings — I don’t mean to but there
are some things, like gossiping or putting
on a big act, that I just don’t like and I
can’t pretend I do. I want people to like
me, but I want them to like me for what
I am.”
She stopped talking, embarrassed over
her outburst, and looked down as Bobby
reached and gently took her hand. In-
stinctively, she started to pull it back, but
Bobby didn’t seem to notice and he started
to talk.
“I know what you mean,” he said. “I
used to feel that way lots of times, too,”
he said, and realizing he had understood
what she had been trying to say, she !
relaxed and let her hand rest in his.
“1 remember once, especially, I had a
crush on a girl. She was the smartest and
most popular girl in my class and it took
me a whole semester to get up enough
courage to ask her out. I never expected
her to say yes and I almost wished she
hadn’t, because I was so nervous, I
couldn't think of a thing to say the whole
night. I even stumbled saying goodnight
when I took her home. I remember going
home and sitting down behind my drums.
It was after 12:30 so I couldn’t really play,
but I sat there for about an hour, beating
out a rhythm with my fingers and the
brush, pretending I was doing a solo on a
big stage before a packed audience. Of
course, the girl was there, applauding like
crazy.”
They didn’t look at each other, just sat
staring out across the clearing. She felt so
close to him, she wished she could let him
know how she felt. “Boys always act so
sure ... so confident,” she said. “If only
you’d let us know . . .”
Bobby turned and looked directly at her.
“Maybe it’s because we can’t talk this way
to many girls,” he said finally. “They’re
not all understanding . . . not like you,” he
added and, reaching over, touched her
cheek gently.
She didn’t know if she just imagined that
he started to lean toward her but in some
strange way she knew that he felt the
same closeness she did and she also knew
that it was time for them to go.
Hesitating to break the mood and not
wanting to offend Bobby, she touched his
hand briefly with the tips of her fingers
and said: “Today was a very special kind
of day, Bobby. I’ll always remember it.”
And, then, trying to lighten their mood,
she added: “But how could I forget? I
have your autograph here on my pocket-
book to remind me.”
She started to get up and Bobby leaned
forward and quickly kissed her on the tip
of her nose. “Will you go out with me
again?” he asked.
“I’d like to,” she answered, and smiled
as she realized that he had understood.
Impulsively, she slipped her hand into his
and they started to slowly walk back
through the park. — G. Divas
Bobby sings on the Cameo label. Listen to
Joanie sing on the Warner Bros, label.
For fuller reviews see Photoplay for the months
indicated. For full reviews this month, see
page 8. (a — adult F — family)
ALL THE FINE YOUNG CANNIBALS—
M-G-M; CinemaScope, Metrocolor: The sincere
efforts of Bob Wagner, Natalie Wood, George
Hamilton, Susan Kohner hold your interest in
a confused story of Southerners who take their
sex problems to New York. (A) October
ALL THE YOUNG MEN— Columbia: Earnest
but often familiar drama of youth at war. In
Korea,. Sidney Poitier leads a cut-off Marine
platoon that includes vet Alan Ladd and
greener James Darren, Glenn Corbett, Ingemar
Johansson. (F) September
APARTMENT, THE— U.A., Panavision: Half
funny, half serious, this nervy film takes a
sharp look at the low goings-on in Jack Lem-
mon’s apartment. Jack’s fine work is almost
matched by Shirley MacLaine’s, as his be-
loved; Fred MacMurray’s, as his boss. (A)
August
BELLS ARE RINGING— M-G-M; Cinema-
Scope, Metrocolor: Too-faithful recording of
Judy Holliday’s bright Broadway musical, with
Dean Martin a welcome addition as her favorite
customer. She’s a phone-answering-service gal
who worries about the clients. (F) August
CHARTROOSE CABOOSE — U-I; Panavision,
Eastman Color: Rambling carload of homespun
fun. Old railroader Edgar Buchanan helps
elopers Molly Bee, Ben Cooper. (F) September
CROWDED SKY, THE— Warners, Techni-
color: Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., pilots a Navy jet
fated to crash with Dana Andrews’ transport,
which carries the usual quota of emotional pas-
sengers. Overplolted but tense. (A) October
ELMER GANTRY— U.A.: Memorable charac
tors fill a warm-blooded, courageous movie,
with Burt Lancaster and Jean Simmons as re-
vivalists. Are they phony or honest? Newspaper-
man Arthur Kennedy wonders. (A) October
FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER, THE—
A.I.; CinemaScope, Color: Truly terrifying,
imaginative version of Poe’s classic, with Mark
Damon as guest in a doomed mansion where
bis sweetheart (Myrna Fahey) and her brother
(Vincent Price) await death. (A) September
HELL TO ETERNITY— A. A.: A surprise hit
tells a true and touching story of World War
II. As a white boy raised by a Japanese-Ameri-
can family, Jeffrey Hunter faces a sad dilemma,
finds a great mission. (A) October
I’M ALL RIGHT, JACK — Lion International:
The British turn labor-management relations
into a laugh-loaded shambles. As a shop stew-
ard, Peter Sellers creates a deadpan master-
piece. Ian Carmichael’s a bumbler whose hon-
esty starts a riot. (A) July
IT STARTED IN NAPLES— Paramount ; Vis-
taVision, Technicolor: A tough, lovable kid
named Marietto steals this sentimental frolic
from Clark Gable, as his American uncle, and
Sophia Loren, as the aunt who’s raised the
orphan — improperly, Clark says. (A)
September
POLLYANNA — BuenaVista, Technicolor: Won-
derful Hayley Mills, thirteen, highlights the
happy surprise of the year. She's the orphan
who gives a 1912 small town a good shaking-up.
A strong adult cast, topped by Jane Wyman and
Richard Egan, supports Hayley. (F) August
PORTRAIT IN BLACK— U-I, Eastman Color:
This entertaining suspense thriller is really
dressed to kill, in its handsome San Francisco
settings. Sandra Dee and John Saxon are en-
dangered young lovers; Lana Turner and
Anthony Quinn, murderous older pair. (A)
September
PSYCHO — Paramount, VistaVision: It’s gory,
gruesome but all in fun, thanks to director
Hitchcock, who sends Janet Leigh, John Gavin
and Vera Miles to a very peculiar motel run
by Tony Perkins. (A) September
RAT RACE, THE — Paramount; VistaVision,
Technicolor: With Debbie Reynolds and Tony
Curtis co-starred, it’s easy to get all upset over
the struggle to make good in wicked New York,
though Debbie’s essentially dishonest role cre-
ates a problem for her. (A) August
REST IS SILENCE, THE— Films Around the
World; German dialogue, titles in English:
Hardy Kruger is excellent in a modern version
of the “Hamlet” story, which fits neatly into
Nazi-era and postwar Germany. (A) October
SAVAGE EYE THE— Trans-Lux: A truly un-
usual movie, intensely personal, frighteningly
real, takes you inside the mind of a lost di-
vorcee. Barbara Baxley, lacking love, sees only
ugliness in Los Angeles. .(A) July
SONG WITHOUT END— Columbia ; Cinema-
Scope, Eastman Color: Dirk Bogarde’s roman-
tic good looks suit the role of composer-pianist
Franz Liszt, whose life is seen as a piano con-
cert and costume pageant, with stormy personal
drama on the side. (A) September
SONS AND LOVERS — 20th, CinemaScope:
Sensitive study of growing-up, done with taste
and vigor. Dean Stockwell is fine as an English
miner’s son; Wendy Hiller, Trevor Howard are
even better as parents. (A) October
STORY OF RUTH, THE— 20th, CinemaScope,
De Luxe Color: Lavish free-hand translation
of the Old Testament story finds warmth in the
country romance of rich farmer Stuart Whit-
man and foreigner Elana Eden, with Peggy
Wood as her mother-in-law. (F) August
STRANGERS WHEN WE MEET— Columbia ;
CinemaScope, Eastman Color: Juicy as a bit of
suburban gossip, an illicit-love story teams
Kirk Douglas and Kim Novak. Acting honors
go to Barbara Rush, as Kirk’s wife; Ernie
Kovacs, as his screwball client. (A) August
13 GHOSTS — Columbia: Silly chiller, okay for
kids like young hero Charles Herbert, who en-
joys living in a haunted house. Big sister Jo
Morrow screams properly. (F) October
TIME MACHINE, THE— M-G-M: Pioneer
science-fiction by H. G. Wells has a nice at-
mosphere of 1900. That is Rod Taylor’s take-off
point for his time trip through this war-ravaged
century to the far future — uglier yet, except
for Yvette Mimieux. (F) September
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IN LOVE
Continued from page 31
They were married on January 24th,
1956.
He thought of that day one morning as
he leaned out the car window to kiss
Rosemary goodbye . . . and he felt guilty.
He searched her pretty face, tilted to-
ward him, and looked for a long minute
into her wide blue eyes. He saw so little
of her these days. It worried him. Would
he wake up one morning to find they’d
become strangers?
He was glad they’d managed to have
breakfast together, today, even if now he
had to take off fast or he’d be late on the
set. “It’s all your fault,” he’d teased her
once. “If you hadn’t married me, I’d prob-
ably have gone on being the guy who
always almost made it.” He was serious,
too, when he gave her a lot of credit for
the success he’d made playing lawman
Eliot Ness in “The Untouchables.” Still, it
meant long hours away from her. She
never said anything, but he knew it was
hard on her.
“What about dinner, Dear,” she asked
now, hopefully. “Will you be home?”
“No, Honey,” he shook his head. “The
way things look, I’ll be working until one,
maybe two in the morning.”
Rosemary leaned inside to continue the
conversation.
“Okay,” she said, making her voice
cheerful. “Then I’ll bring dinner out to
you.”
“That’s some idea,” he laughed. But,
then, something about the way her chin
was set made him stop. “Hey, you’re not
serious, are you?” he asked. She nodded
her head. “You’re a honey,” he said, rum-
pling her hair. “But forget it. Don’t bother.
You put up with enough for my show.”
He moved off, waving goodbye, but
Rosemary had the last word anyway.
“Don’t be silly,” she called after him.
“I’d love to.”
He didn’t hear her. The car engine had
drowned out her words and he was al-
ready nosing his car toward the studio,
and grinning to himself as he pictured her
showing up in the middle of the night like
Little Red Riding Hood with her basket
of food, on the blustery backlot in Culver
City where they shot the night scenes.
It was just like her to think up a fan-
tastic scheme like that, he thought. Not
once has she griped about being lonely
in the years that he’d been driving him-
self sixteen, seventeen hours a day on
this series. She’d patiently backed him
every inch of the way. The hours were
murder; they shot all day at the studios,
took a supper break and drove out to
Culver to do the night scenes in Nature’s
own dark. And he had forty, fifty pages of
dialogue to learn a week. But Rosemary
gave a guy privacy to study; she took re-
sponsibility for the children and house on
her own slim shoulders. And if he hadn’t
said no, just now, she’d come toting food
to him tonight. She was that kind of a
wife. And he wished he could see her more
than just once in a while.
Out of the darkness
That night, Bob felt lonely and desolate.
And the chill settling over the lot didn’t
lift his spirits any. When you work out-
side in the middle of the night for four,
p five hours it gets cold — you actually wear
long underwear or freeze.
Then, suddenly, out of the frigid dark-
ness around the lot, an odd little figure
emerged in an outlandish costume — a ski
jacket on top, and riding pants on bottom.
Bob stared as the figure came closer. Then
he saw it was Rosemary. She was lugging
not one Little Red Riding Hood basket,
but two hefty hampers. He took them
from her and asked, “What the dickens
have you got in here — food for twenty
people?”
"You’ll see,” she said brightly, and
kissed him on the cheek. He couldn’t help
noticing that, for all the scrambled get-
up, she looked cute.
They went into Bob’s dressing room.
She opened a folding table and covered
it with a checkered tablecloth. Then,
while Bob watched somewhat dumb-
founded, she set out plastic cups and
dishes, turned off the electric bulbs and
lit a pair of candles in two little holders
they’d bought for picnics.
“Talk about enchanted evenings!” Bob
smiles, remembering it. “She even brought
me a little martini to have before dinner.
She cooked the artichokes and did the
whole thing. I thought, ‘Gee, maybe the
others will think it’s too pretentious.’
Then I decided, ‘The heck with what peo-
ple think. Why shouldn’t we have a good
time out of a dinner break that’s usually
pretty ghastly?’ It was great! The food
was hot, and it was wonderful.”
What started on an impulse became a
nightly ritual. Bob, who already had been
willing to shout from his housetop that
he was hopelessly in love with his wife,
found himself more in love with her than
ever. He was amazed at how she could take
a bleak situation and turn it into fun . . .
and gracious living . . . and love.
She kept alive the very flavor of their
marriage. Or as Bob puts it, “She made
that one hour a night mean something
instead of just a chance to fill your stom-
ach. We’d sit in the dressing room re-
laxed, and I’d visit with her, ask what
the kids did all day, what’s new around
the house. She gave me a tie to home.
Otherwise I’d feel like a stranger coming
in just to sleep for a few hours.
“At first, people thought we were crazy.
The candle bit, for instance. But we like
candles. We use them all the time when
we’re alone, it gives you an atmosphere.
But to some people, candles are snooty.
Anyway, it turned out that my wife’s
whole idea was a great morale booster
even to the other guys. They figure if
some guy’s wife is crazy enough to come
out one, two in the morning for a hus-
band who’s crazy to work those hours,
then everybody’s crazy and nobody’s
lonely. Otherwise, you get to figuring that
the rest of the world’s gone to bed and
what am I doing out here?”
It is true that when some of the other
fellows’ wives heard about it, they re-
sented Rosemary. “They thought she was
setting a bad example by spoiling her
husband,” Bob grins. “They wanted to
read her out of the housewives’ union, or
something. But that soon blew over. Now
everyone sort of expects it, and people
drop by. Some of the guys have a drink.
It takes away all the grimness. You have
a few laughs, tell a few lies, and have
some fun. If I’d known marriage was go-
ing to be like this, I never would have
hesitated.”
Settling down seemed stupid
Vague fears of marriage problems had
gnawed at Bob all the time he courted
Rosemary Bowe. He wasn’t sure they
could be happy in his kind of life. He
wasn’t sure he had the right to expect that
much patience and understanding of any
woman. He was even less sure of himself
as a husband. He had the bachelor’s dread
of losing his freedom. He couldn’t see 1
himself staying home with the pipe and ,
slippers, watching the footloose fellows go i
by.
“Settling down and having children,” he
admits, “seemed dull as dishwater and a
stupid way to live — for me, at least.”
Moreover, Bob firmly believed that “he !
travels fastest who travels alone.” And
speed was for him — single-seat racing j
boats, speed cars, any pursuit where he
dared danger because he had no obliga-
tion to be careful for the sake of a wife
and children.
His skepticism was deepened by the
mounds of marital debris cluttering the
Hollywood scene. Friends told him, “Mar-
riage is exactly like building a house. You
make all your mistakes in the first, and
plenty in the second, and the third is to
make up for all the mistakes in the first
and second.” It sounded awful.
“I come from a broken home myself,
and offhand I couldn’t think of even one
happy marriage,” he admits candidly. “If
I could have pointed to just one! But
everytime I’d say of a pair, ‘Well, now,
they look pretty contented,’ next week I’d
pick up the newspaper and he was hitting
her with a hammer or vice versa. I was
sure marriage was the end of happiness,
not the beginning.”
Bob was particularly uncertain about
his own capacity to contribute to a happy
marriage. “I thought the great lack would
be in me,” he owns up. “I had grave
doubts that I would be worth a darn as
a husband. I just thought I wasn’t cut
out to live with a woman, and home life
would bore the heck out of me. I felt it
was almost irreligious to go to church and
say those marriage vows if I didn’t mean
it. A man has the right to make a mistake
in marriage. But to go in with the feeling
that it’s only a flyer, and if it doesn’t
work then, in two weeks you can call it
off — that made me shudder worse. It
wasn’t for me.”
Even when he and Rosemary fell in love,
he was unable to rid himself of his tor-
menting doubts. He felt pulled in two
directions at once — wanting to marry
Rosemary, at the same time not wanting
to risk having their love boiled dry in the
pressure cooker of marriage.
“We fought,” he recalls, “and the fights
were all about do we or don’t we get
married. She was so emotionally upset, at
one point, that she actually blacked out.
She fainted at the wheel and drove off the
side of the load.”
Bob and Rosemary fought so bitterly
that finally they called off their engage-
ment. And then he promptly discovered
he couldn’t live without her.
“It was that simple,” he says in awe. “I
was so dumb that I hadn’t even known
how much I was in love with her. I'm not
saying the misgivings suddenly disap-
peared, but they couldn’t affect me any
more. I only knew I was so miserable
without her that it was worth anything to
be with her again.”
So he proposed
So, consumed and driven by love and
tormented by fear, he proposed desper-
ately.
“I have to marry you!”
He smiles wryly about it now.
“She didn’t quite get it, because she’s a
woman,” he explains. “She took my pro-
posal as a backhanded compliment, when
it was the highest compliment I could ever
pay anyone. Because I literally had no
choice. The marriage might fall on its
face tomorrow; all I knew was what I had
to do today. And that was to ask her to
marry me.”
So they were married. “And,” says Bob,
76
“1 looked at myself and asked, 'What were
all the problems? This is a great girl.
Marriage is a ball.’ But I’ll be candid — I
was still wary about having children unless
I was positive we had a good marriage for
keeps. Because, as I said, I was from a
broken home, I’d seen others, and even
though my mother was wonderful, it’s a
sad thing to see children torn up. If there
were any doubts, I wanted no children.
But it took only three months to end all
my doubts.
“I was no longer afraid to have chil-
dren, I wanted them. I didn’t worry about
tomorrow, either. It not only surprised me,
but my friends. They said they never saw
anyone take to marriage and fatherhood
like I did. And we were lucky, the Lord
blessed us with children when we wanted
them.”
Elizabeth is three now, and Charles is
two. They don’t see much of their daddy
because he works such hours, but when
they do it’s because he wants to. As he
puts it, “If I stay home with the kids in-
stead of doing something else, it’s because
I’d rather — not because I have to.”
Bob, who at forty still has the face,
figure and vitality of his mid-twenties, was
an All-American skeet shooter by the
time he was sixteen. He played polo,
fooled around with fast cars, motorcycles,
racing boats. He figured that now that
he was married, his love for sports and
the outdoors would die a natural death.
But not so. Zing went another unfounded
fear.
“Rosemary,” he points out with relief
“is not only a good-looking gal, and
feminine, but she turned out to be a darn
good athlete. I took her skiing and she
learned fast. I took her skeet shooting, and
she amazed me by having no fear of the
gun. This is phenomenal, most girls are
scared stiff of a gun. She’s shooting so well
that now, when I get a couple of days off,
we head north to shoot ducks at a place
my father left me near Marysville.
“There were a few crazy things I didn’t
try,” he says, “I still love speed — but risk-
ing my wife’s neck in a hot auto is the
only thing I didn’t share with her. For
that, I go by myself. And I’m free to. She
has made me give up nothing.”
The result? He’s crazy about staying
END OF A DREAM
Continued from page 62
two-bedroom guest house and two-bed-
room servants’ quarters. They’d put tele-
vision in every room and built a swim-
ming pool and tennis court. There was a
ten-acre lake that fed into another smaller
lake that was stocked with trout.
The waiter brought coffee for the re-
porter and they were silent until he’d
poured it and left. Then the reporter
asked, “What about the story that you
and Jean were hardly ever at the ranch
together?”
It was true. One of them had always
been working while the other one was
free. “When I’d be in Hollywood, I’d miss
the ranch and come running back to it,”
he said. “But when I got there, I’d miss
Jean, who was usually filming some-
where, so I’d go flying back to her. I was
only really happy when I could have them
both together.
“Jean and I have been knocking our
brains out making movies all over the
world to pay for the cattle,” he explained.
“In about three years we had both planned
to settle down in Arizona for good — and
n»ver make another picture. I’ve been
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home. *Tve been around the globe, “ he
says. “When I go on location — Spain, Japan
— my family comes along. But home in
Bel Air has it all over Europe. We built
our house between a tennis court and
swimming pool on the estate of Colleen
Moore, who was a silent screen star, and
we practically live in a playground.”
But Bob feels fun and freedom isn’t the
whole thing. There’s the matter of under-
standing.
“The acting business is a very lonely
one,” he explains, “and hard to take un-
less you can walk through your front
door into a life as a human being. Rose-
mary does that for me. She cares what
happens to me more than I care myself.
I’d hate to go back to the way I lived be-
fore.” And with a grin, he adds, “Now I
even have a built-in audience. When your
kids say, ‘Daddy, I love you,’ you’re nine
feet tall no matter what anyone else says.”
After almost five years, he feels that
their love and marriage is as “good as
new.”
And why? “Because you don’t have to
tell Rosemary that the long hours away
are for her and the kids, that after a few
more tough years they’ll have financial
security. Too many men have to explain
this to their wives. They phone and say
‘Look Honey, I’m busy designing a mis-
sile.’ And she says, ‘I don’t care about
your confounded missile, you come home,
dinner’s getting spoiled.’ That attitude can
murder a marriage.
“I know I’m lucky,” he goes on, “because
Rosemary’s not like that. Sometimes I
want to pinch myself because I can’t be-
lieve where a guy like me comes off de-
serving a wife like her. And every now
and then, when I’m on my way to work
and in a hurry, I can’t help it, I have to
turn the car around at the corner and head
back home, just to kiss her again. She
looks at me as though I’m crazy, but I just
have to let her know I appreciate her. I
keep wanting to thank her for marrying
me and for somehow arranging it so that,
even though we did get married, we’re
still in love.” — William Tusher
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See Bob on ABC-TV, Thurs., 9:30-10:30
p.m. EDT in “The Untouchables.” Rose-
mary’s in Par.’s “All in a Night’s Work.”
twenty-five years in the movie business,”
he said, “but the greatest thrill of my life
was as a Britisher, winning blue ribbons
for my French cattle.”
Then softly, almost as if he were speak-
ing to himself, he said, “I guess now I’ll
die an actor instead of a cattleman.”
A few weeks later, Stewart Granger
prepared to leave for Europe, where he’d
make a movie. There, he would try to find
another home, perhaps in Switzerland.
Yet up until the last moment, Stewart’s
friends and Jean’s hoped that they might
come back together again. In a final ges-
ture at trying to save their marriage,
Stewart bought Jean a gift, an $8,000 Ger-
man car. But it did no good; she refused
even to accept his gift. It seemed there
was no chance of a reconciliation. After
she picked up her final divorce papers, it
looked, despite her denials, as if Jean
would marry director Richard Brooks, even
if she had to wait a year to do it.
In mid-Atlantic two planes crossed. One
was taking Stewart to Europe; the other
was bringing Jean back to the United
States. That was the closest they had
been in four months. . . . The End
See Jean in U.I.’s “Spartacus" and “The
Grass Is Greener.” Stewart can be seen
in “Sleeping Partners” for M-G-M, and
“North to Alaska” for 20th Century-Fox
KINGSTON TRIO
Continued from page 65
The noise of the hotel coffee shop with
steady sounds of the lunch-hour crowd,
the waitresses ordering and the clink of
china, didn’t seem to bother Nick Reynolds
as he sat, hunched over a round marble
table, examining timetables spread out be-
fore him.
He checked the time on his wristwatch,
then began noting figures on a small white
pad. He didn’t even notice when Dave
Guard and Bob Shane, who were his part-
ners in the Kingston Trio for the past four
years, since they left college, came in and
sat down across from him.
“What’s the score?” Bob asked.
Nick double-checked his figures before
looking up. His face relaxed into a broad
smile. “Only six days, five hours and . . .”
he glanced back at his watch, “. . . fifteen
minutes — if the plane’s on time — ”
“. . . before he sees his wife again,” the
fellows said together and the three of them
laughed. “Hey, by the way,” Bob said,
“Don’t forget to mail that card we bought
back in Rhode Island.”
The waitress arrived with his coffee and
Nick scooped up the folders and tucked
them in the pocket of his sports jacket. He
knew that later that night in his hotel
room, he’d probably consult them again —
just to make sure nothing would go wrong.
“It puts my jacket out of shape — these
timetables,” he’d once told his wife, “but
there’s nothing, Honey, I wouldn’t do, and
little I haven’t done,” he added, “to save
a couple of hours and get home to you a
little earlier.”
They all felt that way. Being separated
from their wives is murder. When they
were doing their show in Washington,
D.C., they had a break between two ap-
pearances. Bob, who had been married
about two months, was so lonely, he
grabbed a plane home, traveled over a
thousand miles, spent three hours with his
wife and was back in time to go on with
the next show.
Another time, they were doing a series
of personal appearances in New York with
a recording session tacked on at the end
of their schedule. They worked straight
through the night and when the album was
finished it was close to six o’clock in the
morning.
They were already half-asleep as they
fumbled into their coats. Then Dave pulled
out his airlines’ schedule and discovered
there was a jet flight to San Francisco at
8 a.m., ten full hours earlier than the
flight they had reservations for.
Grabbing their guitars, they rushed out
of the studio and to the hotel, threw their
clothes into their bags — drinking black
coffee the whole time to keep awake — and
got to LaGuardia Airport with only min-
utes to spare. There was just time to send
off one telegram to Gretchen Guard an-
nouncing: “On our way. Tell Joan and
Louise.”
All three couples now live conveniently
within fifty miles of each other in Northern
California — Dave in his old college town of
Palo Alto, Nick in Sausalito and Bob in
Tiburon.
“It helps cut down on the overhead,”
Dave explained. “Usually when one of us
phones home, we pass messages back and
forth for the other two wives.” He paused;
then, with a quick look at the others, ad-
mitted: “Anyway, it’s supposed to work
that way.”
Alone in a hotel room
“There’s something about being alone in
a hotel room that really drives you to that
phone,” Bob said, with a bewildered shake
of his head. “And if the circuits are busy
or I can’t get through to Louise right
away, I feel the world’s against me,” he
added, remembering the time the Trio
arrived in New York for a rare three-day
stopover.
As soon as Bob checked into his room
at the Park Chambers, he automatically
reached for the phone. The emptiness of
the hotel room closed in on him as he
waited for the operator to put through
his call to Louise in Atlanta, where she
was staying with her folks.
He lay back on the bed and imagined
how she would look as she answered. In-
stead he heard a soft, drawling voice— it
was Louise’s mother — telling the operator
that Mrs. Shane and her cousin had left
only a few minutes earlier to see a movie.
Dejected, Bob left word to have her call
him when she got in and went to dinner.
When he returned to his room later, he
tried to write Louise a letter, but gave up.
She could always tell when he was de-
pressed and he didn’t want to make her
feel worse. After all, being separated was
hard on her, too.
He was deep in a daydream about Louise,
when the telephone rang and he tripped
over the desk chair rushing to answer it
on the first ring. But it was only Nick,
telling him to come right over to the Blue
Angel Supper Club where he and Don
MacArthur were discussing some com-
mitments.
It sounded urgent so Bob left word at
the desk where he would be if the call
came in and took a cab to the club. As he
walked toward Nick and Don, he noticed
that a girl was sitting with them. It was
dark in the room and she had her back
toward him but he could see that she had
long, blondish hair.
“Hey, who’s the girl?” he asked Nick
who came to meet him.
Nick looked at him quickly, then tried
to hide his smile, but at the sound of Bob’s
voice, the girl turned around. Nick couldn’t
keep silent any longer.
“Man, that’s no girl . . he burst out
with a loud laugh, “that’s your wife!”
Bob just stood, without saying a word,
and stared, even after Louise came over to
him. Finally, he managed to stammer:
“It . . . really is you, isn’t it.”
Later, after he had recovered, Louise
told him that, when she found out he
would be in New York for three days,
she decided to surprise him and fly up.
She arrived at the hotel while he was out
and that’s when she and Nick arranged
the meeting at the Blue Angel.
“You know, even after Nick said it was
my wife, I wasn’t sure,” Bob admitted
sheepishly afterward. “Louise had changed
her hair style and had it streaked with
blond since I last saw her.” After a minute,
he added: “It’s frightening how people can
change when they don’t see each other
every day.”
“That’s the hard part,” Dave said
thoughtfully, “trying to maintain some sort
of communication with your wife when
you’re apart so much. I guess we’ve each
devised our own way of trying to share
things with them . . . even when we’re
not together.”
Bob spends his free hours shopping for
charm bracelets that memorialize places
he and Louise haven’t been together and
experiences they’ve never quite managed
to share.
“When we played Washington, I sent
her a bracelet with an engraving of the
Washington Monument,” Bob remembered.
“And when we played the Blue Angel, I
sent her one with little blue bugs playing
on a pipe. I don’t want her to forget who
I am,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“I don’t know what I’d do without these
letters,” Nick smiled, tapping his breast
pocket where he always carries the latest
one. “Joan puts down her innermost
thoughts, and I read them over and over.”
Can they ever make it up?
Both the fellows and the girls have tried
to accept the phone calls and letters as
substitutes, but each of them knows that
nothing can ever make up for those days,
lost forever, that they didn’t spend to-
gether. And some of their most cherished
memories, even more precious because so
brief, are those unexpected minutes they
had together.
Like the time during their midwestern
tour last fall when the Trio received a
last-minute call to fly back to Hollywood
to record some soft drink commercials. The
recording session took up the whole time,
with only three stolen minutes for a hur-
ried call home, and the next morning the
boys were back at Los Angeles Airport for
their flight to Chicago. They were having
their tickets checked at the gate when
Nick suddenly shouted: “Hey, Dave, look.”
Dave turned and saw Gretchen, her
brownish-blond hair catching the early
morning sunlight as she ran toward him.
“What’s wrong, Honey?” he called,
rushing to meet her.
She was out of breath and could only
shake her head to reassure him.
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“Well, then, what are you doing here?”
he asked in a puzzled voice.
“Oh, Dave, you haven’t forgotten, have
you?” she said, her voice catching a little
in disappointment. “It . . . it’s my birth-
day.”
“Of course I didn’t forget,” Dave as-
sured her and bent to kiss her just as the
final boarding warning sounded over the
loudspeaker. Quickly, he said: “Happy
birthday, Honey. Sorry . . . but I’ve got
to get on the plane now. It was great see-
ing you,” and he hugged her again. “ ’Bye
now. See you sometime.”
He started running across the airfield,
then stopped, turned and called back:
“You mean, you didn’t get your present
yet?” And, almost shyly, he added, “Hope
you like it.”
Gretchen stood alone on the field, wav-
ing hard until long after the plane had
disappeared. The gift came the next day.
On Nick’s and Joan’s first anniversary,
Joan flew in from San Francisco to be
with her husband, even though she knew
he would be working the whole time.
At three-thirty in the morning, the boys
were still recording and Joan had fallen
asleep on top of the piano.
“A great way to spend an anniversary,”
Nick muttered and tenderly covered her
with his coat.
A minute later, the studio door swung
open with a sharp bang. At that signal,
Dave and Bob sounded a loud fanfare and
Don MacArthur and Louise Shane, who
had flown up to join Bob, marched in
carrying one pink cupcake with a frosted
candle burning in the center. Everyone
burst out singing: “Happy anniversary to
you ...”
Joan blinked sleepily, her yawn slowly
turning into a smile. “Isn’t this a beautiful
anniversary?” she whispered to Nick as
he lifted her down from the piano, then
buried her head in his shoulder and started
to cry.
“It sure is,” Nick said softly, smiling
down at the top of her head. “The great-
est,” and he gently brushed away her
tears.
At the time, just being together seemed
pretty wonderful but Nick, Bob and Dave
all realize that those few snatched mo-
ments aren’t enough to make up for the
lonely, frightening experiences their wives
have to face alone.
“I felt so helpless"
“I feel I have an extra responsibility to
be an understanding husband,” said Nick,
who met his future wife while she was
appearing in a night club a few doors
down from the Hungry i, where the Trio
was singing.
“Joan’s a good comedienne,” Nick said
proudly, adding with a smile, “and one of
the prettiest ones I’ve ever seen.” Bob and
Dave nodded in agreement. “And she gave
it all up to marry me. She knew our mar-
riage couldn’t work if we were both on the
road. I feel I have to make that up to her.”
He paused. “I felt so awful when she was
expecting our baby and I couldn’t be with
her. I knew that was when she really
needed me.”
He brushed back a tuft of brown hair
that immediately fell right back down
over his forehead and stared solemnly at
the table. He wasn’t clowning around now.
“I did call Joan every day,” he said, as
though still trying to reassure himself.
“Sometimes more than once. She’d try to
be gay and happy but after a couple of
minutes her voice would go shaky and
she’d have to hang up. She didn’t want to,
but she couldn’t help it. It was weird.” He
let out a deep sigh. “I felt so helpless. I
suppose talking on the phone helped some,
but it wasn’t enough. That was one time
when I should have been with her. . . .”
When the baby was actually born,
though, on March 31, 1960, Nick was at his
wife’s side. Gretchen Guard wasn’t as
lucky. Her second child, a boy, was born
on April 21st while Dave was in New York
recording an album for Capitol Records.
The same thing had happened two years
before when their daughter, Catherine
Kent Guard, was born.
“We were playing the Blue Angel in
New York at the time,” Dave remem-
bered painfully. “I really sweated out
the waiting but when the baby was ten
days late, I felt, ‘If it hasn’t come by now
it never will.’ I just tuned myself out.”
Like any normal father-to-be, Dave
wanted to be with Gretchen, holding her
hand until the last minute and nervously
pacing a smoke-filled hospital waiting
room. Instead, he sat alone in his hotel
room in New York and thought about her.
Usually he read a book a day to pass the
time but that evening he couldn’t con-
centrate and finally tossed his book aside.
Then, he feels, he and Gretchen were
united, in a way, by television.
“I turned on the Ed Sullivan show and
later I found out Gretchen was watching
it in California. In fact, she was laughing
at Wayne and Schuster, a comedy act on
the show, just before the baby was born. I
was, too. So, in a way, despite the fact
that the Sullivan show was released by
tape on the Coast two hours later, we held
hands across the country at the crucial
moment.”
Actually, Dave was working when the
baby was born and since his father-in-
law didn’t want to bother him in the mid-
dle of a show, he waited three hours to
phone him.
“It was like getting married,” he said
later. “You know, you’re curious about
what it’s going to be like. It takes only a
couple of minutes to get married — so that
you don’t feel any different — and then, the
next morning, you wake up and discover
your wife next to you. You say, ‘My gosh,
this is forever!’ You’re not complaining,”
he added hastily, “but it hits you that
way . . . that it’s forever. I had the same
feeling when Catherine was born, as
though suddenly I had this tremendous
responsibility to protect and care for some-
one else.
Plenty of best men
“You know, belonging to a trio is a little
like being married, too,” he said wryly,
tilting back his chair until his crew-cut
brushed the wall behind him. “You know
— with all the responsibilities and none of
the advantages. Except for one,” he ad-
mitted. “All of us got married after we
started singing professionally so there have
always been plenty of best men on hand.
“But seriously,” he went on, “we spend
so much time together as a trio, we have
to be careful we don’t get on each other’s
nerves — that could ruin our professional
relationship.”
“So far, no problem,” Bob said, elabo-
rately crossing his fingers. “We found the
best way to stay friends is to lead separate
lives as soon as we finish working. On the
road, we always have separate rooms and
we bend over backwards to make sure we
don’t invade each other’s privacy. The
same is true when we go home. Once we
walk off that plane, we don’t see each
other until it’s time to get back on.”
“Even though Bob and I grew up to-
gether in Hawaii,” Dave interrupted, “and
we’ve known Nick since college, we have
different friends, mostly people who don’t
care whether the Kingston Trio lives or
dies. When we finally get home, we’re
absolutely incognito and incommunicado.
We stay right around the house all the
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time, no night clubs and no parties,” he
emphasized with a wave of his hand. “As
far as I’m concerned, that time is just for
Gretchen and the kids.” All three boys
agree.
“One thing about being separated so
much,” Dave added. “You have a lot of
time to think about your marriage and
you really understand how important it is.”
“It’s strange,” Bob said. “Sometimes it
takes something pretty serious — like almost
dying — to realize how much a person
means to you. You know, Louise and I
met in Hawaii and it was love at first
sight ... For me, at least. I spent the
next six months convincing her — mostly
by phone — to marry me, but I never knew
how much I really cared until I thought
I’d never see her again.”
So little +ime
It was the day before the wedding and
the Trio was flying in from St. Louis for
a one-night stand at Notre Dame Univer-
sity in South Bend. At that time, they
were still using the chartered plane they
had nicknamed The Tom Dooley because,
Nick explained, the song “Tom Dooley,”
their first big hit, was what got them off
the ground in the first place.
They were somewhere over Michigan
when it started to snow. Visibility was
zero, their gas supply low, the plane was
bobbing like a cork and they couldn’t get
clearance to land at South Bend. Then the
radio went out. The pilot had no choice
but to drop down to about two hundred
feet above the ground and try to follow
the highway signs.
The Trio started to sing, not one of the
folk songs that had made them so popular,
but a hymn, “Nearer My God to Thee.”
They had gone through it twice when
the pilot spotted a clear patch of land and
headed in. The three of them looked out
the window to see a snow-capped field
and, holding their breath, watched as the
pilot missed a haystack by a couple of
feet, tipped a barbed wire fence and, by a
miracle, made a perfect landing.
Still dazed, they crawled out of the
plane, struggled through the fields to the
road and managed to hitch a ride to South
Bend. As they staggered up the steps of
Notre Dame, a student stopped them.
“Look, you guys,” he called, “if you’re
trying to buy tickets, they’re all sold out.
Come back next year.”
Afterward, they laughed about it but
it was a sobering experience. “All I could
think about was Louise,” Bob said. “That’s
when I really knew how much I loved her.
It struck me how little time most people
have to spend together, that even if you’re
always together, if the husband doesn’t
travel, still there’s so little time.”
“There’s no getting around it,” Nick
added quietly. “It’s tough when you’re
away from someone you love. I don’t
think you ever can adjust to something
like that, not really. At least I haven’t
been able to. You may learn to accept it
more, but you don’t feel any better about
it.”
“You learn to make the most of the time
you have together,” Dave said. “You know,
when we’re on the road, in those lonely
hotel rooms, I dream of the day when
we’ll have a chance to live like ordinary
married couples. But even then,” he added
thoughtfully, “it’s just like Bob said. You
never know it but there’s really only a
little time. You have to make being to-
gether count. You can’t take those hours
for granted.” The End
The Kingston Trio sings on Capitol Label.
Hear them on CBS Radio, Mon. through
Fri., 10:25 a.m., 12:55 pjn., 7:25 p.m., and
Sun. at 5:55 p.m., 7:50 p.m. All times EDT.
WHAT ARE YOU
SCARED OF?
Continued jrom page 29
“Oh, it’s Juliet Prowse . . . That’s Frank
Sinatra’s girl! What’s she doing with Elvis?
. . . Has Elvis gone oft his rocker?” The
newsy tidbits flew faster than a gossip
columnist’s pencil. One little girl in the
back of the crowd sighed in complete dis-
gust. “Oh, they’re only doing a picture
together!” But her brief comment was lost
in the onflowing tide of “juice”!
Juliet, in a crisp green cocktail dress,
slid her arm through Elvis’ while he tried
to cut a pathway into the club. As he felt
her touch, he grasped hold of her arm as
though it was the last thing he was going
to feel, ever. He looked into her blue eyes
as if for reassurance and she looked up at
him, a small smile gently curving her lips.
“Maybe we should’ve gone in the back
way at that,” he said, but she shook her
head. “No, what’s there to be afraid of?”
Inside the club, a line of people waited
to be seated. But the maitre d’ immediately
directed Elvis and Juliet to a table. The
three bodyguards had disappeared.
Juliet and Elvis seemed to have tre-
mendous rapport going between them.
They smiled often at each other and held
hands under the table. It was the first
time anyone had seen Elvis so relaxed. He
even tilted his chair back, casual and com-
fortable.
Photographers’ flash bulbs went off all
over the place, but somehow no one went
near the Presley table. Which was rather
peculiar. Then a flash went off right in
his direction, and Elvis immediately
jumped to his feet. He called the photog-
rapher over to his table, but he did it
quietly, causing no commotion. In a firm
tone he said, “I told you, no pictures!”
“I didn’t take any,” the photographer
insisted. “I was getting a shot of Tony
Bennett on stage.”
“Oh, okay.” Elvis settled back in his
chair again. Even so, the rest of the eve-
ning seemed less relaxed than the begin-
ning, and he looked preoccupied. During
the show, he glanced at Juliet often. It
was as if he wanted to say, “Juliet, are
you the one for me? What we have, can it
last?” But each time he tried to say any-
thing a fan would come up to ask for his
autograph, and each time he obliged with
a smile and a “Thank you.” He signed the
last autograph as the show began and, as
the lights dimmed, he took Juliet’s hand,
twined his fingers with hers. They didn’t
say much after that, just stole secret looks
and held hands . . .
When they met
Juliet and Elvis had become good friends
while they were making “G.I. Blues.” She
was a warm girl, with a tremendous ca-
pacity for understanding — a girl full of
love and empathy. Men came first in her
life, always. Perhaps it was her European
background that drew Elvis to her. He had
been fond of several foreign girls while
overseas in the Army — though none of the
romances took.
Juliet, of French and English descent,
came from South Africa. When Barrie
Chase walked out of “Can Can,” Juliet re-
placed her, which brought her and Sinatra
together. She became Frank’s favorite date
— but when she got to know Elvis she liked
him a lot, too. She told people, “What I
like best about Elvis is his gentleness.”
When Frank went off to the Orient, it
seemed natural for the two young people
to come closer. Often, when they were
visiting back and forth in each other s
dressing rooms on the set, choreographer
Charlie O’Curran (he’s married to Patti
Page) would yell, “Here comes Frank!
Everybody took it as a great joke — until
the day Sinatra really did show up on the
set. O’Curran had given out his warning,
“Here comes Frank,” but by then he’d
pulled it so often nobody listened. So
Frankie, who arrived with a gift in hand—
an expensive string of pearls— found his
girl great chums with Elvis. It was a
moment of intense strain. “But Frank and
Elvis both laughed,” Juliet related later.
“A little hysterically— but what counts is,
they laughed.”
And now, tonight, Juliet and Elvis were
holding hands in public, while Sinatra was
in Florida.
The day after their date at the Cloister,
Juliet got a call on the set— long distance,
from Florida. It was hard to tell if she was
pleased or not at the sound of Sinatra’s
voice. At first, she seemed elated, then her
happy face turned red.
“Whats’ going on?” Frank wanted to
know. All those rumors about her and
Elvis — were they true? Already word had
reached him of last night’s date at The
Cloister. And if any pictures of them had
been taken, he personally would “rip ’em
up.” The word had immediately gone out
to his publicity office, and from there to all
photographers. Had any pictures been
taken? They’d better not!
When Juliet returned to her dressing
room, Elvis was waiting for her, concerned
about the call. Juliet was apprehensive
herself and of two minds. She was free and
twenty-one, nobody could tell her what to
do and not do! Yet she was Frank’s girl . . .
sort of, anyway. He hadn’t asked her to
marry him, he hadn’t asked her anything—
except to do what he said when he said it.
She owed him a lot, and she appreciated
it immensely, but how far does apprecia-
tion go?
She and Elvis stood staring at each other
as if the same thought crossed their minds
at the same time— last night on their date
and now again! Are we in love? Can we —
may we — be in love? And the answer
seemed to be up to Elvis.
It was a question many other people had
begun asking, and wondering: Are those
two in love with each other? And can
Elvis stand up to Sinatra? They doubted
it. They doubted it for only one reason—
they didn’t feel Elvis wanted to stand up
to Frank over Juliet. Not because he was
afraid— he wasn’t. But because he wasn’t
sure that in Juliet, either, he had found
the girl he was looking for.
Now, standing by her dressing-room
door, none of this was easy to put into
words. And before he could speak, the
long silence between them was broken by
director Norman Taurog, who called both
of them into a scene. Elvis looked at Juliet,
a pathetic look crossing his face. He
couldn’t say anything — perhaps it wasn’t
necessary. The look in his eyes said every-
thing.
During his scene he goofed his lines
several times. His mind wasn’t with it.
What was he thinking of? What was he
afraid of?
Hollywood . . . New York . . . the world
. . . show business . . . Where did it start?
. . . Where did it end? The movie world
was a land of make-believe, a world of
unreality, without stability, without se-
curity. A poor boy from Mississippi had
become, almost overnight, Elvis Presley
the star.
The memory of his mother
Then he found himself in the Army, in
a division that was no sissy outfit, it was
rough and he liked it. “It was one of the
best things that ever happened to me,” he |
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told inends after. I had been taking too
much for granted — all that money and
cars and clothes. A man loses his sense
of values — or maybe I never had time to
get one, it was work, play, and more work.
But in the Army I had time to think, and
be grateful to the good Lord for all He’d
given me.”
When he came out of service, he couldn’t
help think some more, and wonder:
Would it ever really be the same for him
again? Would he still be King? Way up
there on top? There are many who say
this is what bothers Elvis, this is why he
shies away from marriage.
But others say his reasons are very dif-
ferent, that at the heart and core of them
is the memory of his mother. They say that
no girl has yet matched her image for
Elvis. To him she stood for beauty, hon-
esty, truth and sincerity. In a world of
make-believe, she was the one reality. And
they say that when Elvis does take a wife,
she will, in all likelihood, be a sweet,
small-town girl like Grace Presley. A
“home folks” kind of girl. Recently, ex-
plaining why he wouldn’t buy a home in
Beverly Hills, but would commute from
Memphis to make pictures, Elvis said, “I
need to come back home here to keep my
perspective. I like to work in Hollywood,
but I like to live among ‘just folks.’ ”
Whenever Elvis is in Memphis, he visits
his mother’s grave. She is buried in Forest
Hill Cemetery, on South Bellevue, the
same street he lives on. The cemetery is
only a mile north of Graceland, fhe Presley
mansion, and he goes there several times
a week.
“Everytime I go in that place, I get de-
pressed,” he has admitted. “It brings back
memories and sadness. . . .”
Recently, a New Orleans girl accosted
him at the graveside and began making
remarks which Elvis thought inappropriate
for the occasion. He told her so and she
became angry.
A few minutes later, as he was leaving
on his motorcycle, she veered her car
toward it and ran him off the road near
the cemetery gate. But he didn’t prosecute,
he let it drop. He must have felt that
making a big rumpus over such an un-
pleasant incident was no way to honor
the memory of the mother he’d always
fondly called “my best girl.”
His father’s new wife
Can it be for the same reasons that Elvis
has never been known to say anything but
kind things of his father’s new wife? It
couldn’t have been easy for him to accept
the reality of Vernon Presley re-marrying
this soon. And it didn’t help too much
that Davada (Dee) Stanley, a divorcee
with three little boys, was only six years
older than her famous stepson. Or that
Elvis wasn’t at the wedding — so quiet as
to be almost secret — in Alabama.
But Elvis took everything in his stride,
and publicly denied any feelings of re-
sentment. He answered questions with a
frank chivalry toward his father that was
as touching as his devotion to his mother.
“My dad was a good husband and never
left my mother’s side for twenty-six years,”
he said. “If he has found happiness now,
I m all for him. All the time he was in
Germany with me, he was a miserable,
unhappy, broken man.
“And Dee, as much as I know about her,
is a pretty nice understanding type of
person. I don’t really know her all that
well, you know. But she treats Daddy with
respect, and me, too.
She realizes that she could never be
my mother. I only had one mother and
that’s it. There’ll never be another. I talked
to Dee about this and so has Daddy. As
long as she understands that, we’ll have
no trouble.”
And to make sure there was no doubt
at all on his stand toward this marriage, he
got a few more of his feelings off his chest
(to an interviewer from Photoplay).
“We have got letters saying some pretty
horrible things about Daddy since this
marriage first was planned. But I want to
tell the world that he is my father, and all
I’ve left in this world. I’ll never go against
him or turn on him. He stood by me all
those years, he sacrificed things he wanted
so I could have clothes and lunch money
to go to school.
1 11 stand by him now — right or wrong!”
Asked how he felt about his three little
stepbrothers, Elvis said, “Of course, they
won’t be exactly like brothers to me, but
I do like kids. I bought them some toys
and swings to play with. And we built
them a playroom in the enclosed garage.”
He has also denied all rumors that he
was remodeling the little caretaker’s house
behind Graceland for Vernon and Dee to
live in. This is the house formerly occu-
pied by Travis Smith, Elvis’ uncle, who
watches the gate.
Elvis said, “That isn’t so. We fixed up
the caretakers house just so we would
have a place to store all of the stuff we
brought back from overseas. Dad and his
wife will live in the big house with me.”
This, then, is the newly matured Elvis
that a girl will have to know and under-
stand if she wonders, is Elvis “scared” of
marriage. It is the Elvis who has frankly
said in public, “If I was madly in love with
anyone, which I’m not, I’d be prepared to
risk losing some of my following, teenagers
especially, by marrying. But for now,
there’s no need.”
No, because Elvis isn’t in love— yet. If
anyone prevents the romance between him
and Juliet from developing into a real love
with marriage in view, it won’t be Frank
Sinatra — it will be Elvis himself. . . .
Perhaps Elvis knows that, too. Perhaps he
knew it that night at The Cloister. When
the show had ended and the house-lights
went on, Elvis was deep in thought. “A
penny for your thoughts?” Juliet asked.
But Elvis just smiled. If only he could tell
her what he was afraid of. . . . The End
See Elvis and Juliet in Par.’s “G.I. Blues.”
Watch for Elvis in 20th’s “Flaming Heart.”
PANIC
Continued from page 47
whelming. She pressed her hand to her
head. She had a headache. But headache
or no headache, she wasn’t going to back
out at the last moment. She did not en-
joy fights even if this one was for the
championship of the world, but her hus-
band had been given the honor of singing
the National Anthem before the fight
started. She had wanted to be there with
him.
She had waited until the last possible
second to make her appearance, hoping
she could slip into her seat unnoticed and
not divert attention from her husband.
She hadn t realized that the penetrating
lights from the ring, more powerful than
any klieg lights on a movie set, would be
shining down upon her.
As she neared the apron of the ring,
the boos, hisses and catcalls fused into
a mighty roar of disapproval. Her body
sagged as if to say, “I waited too long to
come in.” She felt they were booing at
her — or could they be booing Patterson,
the challenger, coming down the aisle?
She slipped into her seat and waited
for the fighters to climb into the ring.
Ten seconds passed, then a minute, five
minutes. There was movement in the
ring, ex-champions and celebrities were
introduced; but neither the champion nor
r the challenger appeared.
Then it began— the feeling she dreaded,
the horrible, helpless feeling of panic.
The feeling that always began before she
was even aware of the reasons that in-
spired it.
There was always a reason
She sat there helplessly as panic invaded
her body. The tightness in her chest . . .
The throbbing in her temples . . . The aw-
ful, loud sound of her own heartbeat that
blotted out everything else — insistent,
pounding, deafening — until she wanted to
get up and run away from herself and
the awful sound.
The reason, what was the reason for
her panic? There was always a reason.
There had to be a reason. But just as
her mind seemed to be reaching out to
grasp for one, she heard the bell clang
just above her, and the sound of it, louder
than the beating of her own heart, snapped
her attention back to what was happening.
Her husband was introduced. She was
aware that he had begun to sing. She and
thousands of others stood quietly as he
sang the National Anthem. His voice was
strong, clear, in perfect control. As she
looked up at him, the tightness inside her
found release, the throbbing in her head
seemed to lessen. The sound of the words
he was singing seemed to smother the
noise of her heart beating. When he hit
the note of the high, difficult passage true
and clear, without faltering, “Oh, say does
that star-spangled banner yet wave, o’er
the land of the free, and the home of the
brave?” she felt only pride, and the thrill
she always experienced when he was
singing.
Now he climbed down from the ring and
came over and sat next to her. The roar
of the crowd as Patterson, the challenger,
and Johansson, the champion, made their
ways down the aisles, through the ropes,
and into their corners, drowned out the
words she whispered to him. But nothing
could wipe out the pressure of her two
hands as she closed them around one of
his and leaned over and pressed her cheek
against his hand.
The fight itself was fast, bloody, and
brutal. She d stare for a while hypnoti-
cally at what was going on in the ring,
then she'd hide behind her husband’s
shoulder.
The sports pages were as much a mys-
tery to her as the fashion pages were to
her husband. But from him, she’d learned
that Patterson, the ex-champion, was the
underdog, and that Johansson, the present
champion, was a heavy favorite. She’d
been told that many of the experts had
written that Patterson, the American,
didn’t belong in the same ring with Jo-
hansson, the Swedish title-holder; that he
was “washed up,” a “has-been,” a “noth-
ing-fighter,” and that Johansson, who had
knocked him out before in winning the
Title, was a cinch to do it again.
Even before the action had started she
had felt a wave of sympathy for Patterson.
She felt she knew what it was to be the
underdog.
In the opening round, the experts’ pre-
dictions appeared to be coming true. Jo-
hansson seemed invincible; it looked as
if he could pick the punch and the second
to knock Patterson into oblivion. It was
as much out of sympathy for Patterson,
the underdog who was about to take an-
other beating, as of disgust with the
brutality of the fight, that she hid behind
her husband’s shoulder.
She didn't have to hide
But, as the second round began, the
situation changed suddenly. The under-
dog, the ex-champion, began to strike
back. The one they had said was “washed
up” suddenly found dynamite in his fists;
the one they had labeled a “failure” was
throwing the word back in their mouths.
Now she found she did not have to hide.
She watched what was happening in the
ring as if it were a charade of her own
life.
When Johansson lay beaten on the can-
vas and the referee raised Patterson’s hand
in victory and the announcer proclaimed,
“The winner and again champion of the
world, Floyd Patterson,” tears filled her
eyes. It was as if she, in that second, had
triumphed, too.
As the lights went on all over the Polo
Grounds, she was still in a daze. It seemed
as if as many photographers were milling
around her and her husband as were
swarming about in the ring, but she didn’t
care. A cordon of policemen tried to lead
the two of them down the main aisle to
the exit. But the crowd was whooping and
hollering, and they couldn’t get through.
Finally, they took another path that led
back close to the fighters’ dressing rooms.
On the way, she heard people screaming
and shouting at her. But she couldn’t
make out the words.
Near the exit, she found herself on a
raised ramp. She was in the center of a
tight circle of policemen around which
the mob surged and howled. Suddenly,
her husband was no longer next to her;
he’d been pushed or pulled out of the
circle by the crowd, the screaming, maul-
ing crowd.
Then the face of one woman jumped
out at her. A pretty face, she thought.
But it was contorted in rage, distorted by
anger. The words that came spewing out
of the woman’s mouth were even uglier.
Mean words. Vile words. Disgusting
words. Vicious words. Malicious, lying,
horrible words. And all the woman’s
venom was directed at her.
The members of the mob were repeat-
ing what the woman was saying, as if she
were their cheerleader and they were
taking their cues from her. Except the
cheers were jeers — and worse than jeers.
Whenever the woman would stop for
breath, the crowd would join in a chorus
of boos and hisses and catcalls. And as
her confusion and pain quickened to panic,
she suddenly knew now the reason she
had panicked before when she’d been
walking down the aisle to the ring. It
was for the same reason that she was
panicking now. The crowd in the Polo
Grounds hadn’t been booing and hissing
because one of the fighters was about to
enter the ring, or because the fight was
being delayed: they’d been booing her!
Nobody else but her!
She felt, actually felt, her face flush
and grow hot. She gasped for breath, as
if she were the one, instead of Patterson,
who’d been poked in the stomach by one
of Johansson’s rights in the first round.
Except she knew now that, unlike Pat-
terson, she couldn’t win the crowd over.
She knew, and the knowledge seemed to
claw at her heart, that the mob actually
hated her.
A hand reached over a policeman’s
shoulder and jerked an earring from her
ear. She quickly took her bracelet off her
wrist and shoved it into her pocketbook,
a small satin clutchbag. Someone grabbed
for the jeweled brooch she wore on her
shoulder strap. She held her pocketbook
tightly, then raised it to ward off any
further attack. The voice of the jeer-
leader cut through the din, and the
woman’s voice was the voice of the entire
crowd: “You’re rotten . . . rotten . . .
rotten!”
They closed in on her
The woman’s face and the other faces
in the mob closed in upon her. The circle
of policemen buckled and flattened as the
screaming, clawing crowd pressed in clos-
er and closer.
She dropped her arm helplessly. Patter-
son could hit back, but she was only a
woman. A woman could take just so
much, a woman could stand just so much,
and then. . . .
The faces blurred and she shut her eyes
as if her knees were about to buckle. She
felt a strong arm on her shoulders, then
a calm, steady voice — the most comfort-
ing, familiar voice \v the world — said,
“It’s all right now. Everything’s going to
be all right.”
She opened her eyes and looked up at
her husband. Additional policemen were
around them, more than fifty policemen
altogether. The mob broke and backed
away as the officers guided them down
the ramp and out the gate. The crowd,
pushing its way out of the Polo Grounds
into the dark streets, gave way and parted
as they made their way through to their
waiting car.
In the limousine at last, she leaned back
against her husband’s strong, protecting
arm. Luckily, he had recovered her dia-
mond drop earring and tenderly he put it
back in place. Then he kissed her gently
on her forehead.
Secure with her husband, Eddie Fisher,
Elizabeth Taylor sat motionless and tried
to block out that feeling of helplessness.
Then the driver started the car and they
disappeared into the night. . . . The End
See Liz and Eddie in M-G-M’s “Butterfield
8.” Watch for Liz in 20th’s “Cleopatra.”
Hear Eddie record on the Ramrod label.
C
How do you build a reputation? Photo-
play did it by giving you the most-
pages, pictures, stories. And we have
the ABC — the Audit Bureau of Circu-
lation— to help us. They give us the
figures that tell us what you want to
read . . . they tell our advertisers how
many of you they are reaching with
their message . . . and they make sure
that each of you counts in helping us
make Photoplay better. Our thanks to
you and to the ABC. — THE EDITORS
V
Survey Report!
Morals
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Don’t miss “Morals at College”
in the colorful new issue of
TEENS TODAY Magazine.
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85
OF CURRENT PICTURES
BETWEEN TIME AND ETERNITY— U-I. Di-
rected by Arthur Maria Rabenalt: A linn Bohlen,
Lilli Palmer; Professor Bohlen, Willy Birgel;
Consuela, Ellen Schwiers; Manuel, Carlos Thomp-
son; Erich Hausserman, Robert Lindner; Police
Inspector, Peter Capell.
DARK AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS, THE
—Warners. Directed by Delbert Mann: Rubin,
Robert Preston; Cora, Dorothy McGuire; Lottie,
Eve Arden; Mains, Angela Lansbury; Reenie,
Shirley Knight; Sammy, Lee Kinsolving; Morris,
Frank Overton; Sonny, Robert Eyer; Flirt, Pen-
ney Parker; Harry Ralston, Ken Lynch.
ENTERTAINER, THE— Continental. Directedby
Tony Richardson: Archie Rice, Laurence Olivier;
Plwebe Rice, Brenda de Banzie; Jean, Joan Plow-
right; Billy, Roger Livesey; Frank, Alan Bates;
Graham, Daniel Massey; Mick Rice, Albert Fin-
ney; Tina, Shirley Ann Field; Mrs. Lapford,
Thors Hird.
/ AIM AT THE STARS — Columbia. Directed by
J. Lee Thompson: Wernher von Braun, Curt
Jurgens; Maria, Victoria Shaw; Anton Reger,
Herbert Lorn; Elizabeth Beyer, Gia Scala; Major
William Taggcrt, James Daly; Mischke, Adrian
lioven; von Braun as a boy, Gunther Mruwka;
Horst, Arpad Diener; Baron von Braun, Hans
Schumm; Baroness von Braun, Lea Seidel; Pro-
fessor Oberth, Gerard Heinz; Captain Dornberger,
Karel Stepanek; Dr. Neumann, Peter Capell;
General Kulp, Helmo Kindermann; Himmler,
Eric Zuckmann; John B. Medaris, Austin Willis.
LET NO MAN WRITE MY EPITAPH— Co-
lumbia. Directed by Philip Leacock: Judge Sulli-
van, Burl Ives; Nellie Romano, Shelley Winters;
Nick Romano, James Darren; Barbara Hollou'ay,
lean Seberg; Louie Rarnponi, Ricardo Montalban;
Flora, Ella Fitzgerald; Maw, Rudolph Acosta;
Grant Holloway, Philip Ober; Fran, Jeanne Coop-
er; Goodbye George, Bernie Hamilton; Wart.
Walter Burke; Magistrate, Francis DeSales; Nick
ns a child, Michael Davis.
LET'S MAKE LOVE — 20th. Directed by George
Cukor: Amanda, Marilyn Monroe; Jean-Marc
Clement, Yves Montand; Howard Coffman, Tony
Randall; Tony Danton, Frankie Vaughan; John
Wales, Wilfrid Hyde White; Oliver Burton,
David Burns; Dave Kerry, Michael David; Lily
Yyles, Mara Lynn: Abe Miller, Dennis King, Jr.;
Lamont, Joe Besser; Miss Manners, Madge Ken-
nedy; Jimmy, Ray Foster; Yale, Mike Mason:
Comstock, John Craven.
OCEAN’S ELEVEN — Warners. Directed by
Lewis Milestone: Danny Ocean, Frank Sinatra;
Sam Harmon, Dean Martin; John Howard, Sam-
my Davis, Jr.; Jimmy Foster, Peter Lawford;
Beatrice Ocean, Angie Dickinson; Anthony Berg-
dorf, Richard Conte; Duke Santos, Cesar Ro-
mero; Adc/c Ekstrom, Patrice Wymore; Mushy
O'Conners, Joey Bishop; Spyros Acebos, Akim
I'amirofT; Roger Corneal, Henry Silva; Mrs.
Restes, Ilka Chase; Vincent Mossier, Buddy Les-
ter; Curly Steffens, Richard Benedict; Mrs. Berg-
dor f, Jean Willes.
SAVAGE INNOCENTS, THE— Paramount. Di-
rected by Nicholas Ray: Inuk, Anthony Quinn;
Asiak, Yoko Tani; First Trooper, Peter O’Toole;
Second Trooper, Carlo Guistini.
SEVEN WAYS FROM SUNDOWN — U-I. Di-
rected by Harry Keller: Seven Jones, Audie
Murphy; Jim Flood, Barry Sullivan; Joy Kar-
ri ngton, Venetia Stevenson; Sergeant Hennessey ,
John Mclntire; Lieutenant Herly, Kenneth To-
bey; Ma Karrington, Mary Field; Jody, Teddy
Rooney; Lucinda, Suzanne Lloyd; Graves, Ken
Lynch; Fogarty, Ward Ramsey; Duncan, Don
Collier.
SURPRISE PACKAGE — Columbia. Directed by
Stanley Donen: Nico March, Yul Brynner; Gab-
by Rogers, Mitzi Gay nor; King Pavel II , Noel
Coward; Stefan Miralis, Eric Pohlmann; Dr. Hu-
go Panzer, George Coulouris; Igor Trofim, “Man
Mountain” Dean; Tibor S mol ny, Guy Deghy; Kli-
maiis, Warren Mitchell; Johnny Stettina, Bill
Nagy; Stavrin, Lyndon Brook; U.S. Marshals,
Lionel Murton, Barry Foster.
UNDER TEN FLAGS — Paramount. Directed by
Duilio Coletti: Reger, Van Heflin; Russell,
Charles Laughton; Zisi, Mylene Demongeot;
Krueger, John Ericson; Windsor, Liam Red-
mond; Knoche and American Lieutenant, Alex
Nicol; Sara, Eleonora Rossi Drago; Captain of
the Abdullah, Gregoire Aslan; Colonel Howard,
Cecil Parker; Paco, Folco Lulli; Braun , Gian-
maria Volonte.
WEDDINGS AND BABIES— Engel. Directed
by Morris Engel: Bea, Viveca Lindfors; Al, John
Myhers; Mama, Chiarina Barile; Ken, Leonard
Elliott; Josie, Joanna Merlin; Tony, Chris; Carl,
Gabriel Kohn; Mrs. Faranda, Mary Faranda.
| was reversed,” he said. “I was the one who
needed the support, and Debbie was the
friend. She has an incredible vitality,
she’s a clown and, depressed as I was, she
got me up to her level of clowning. She’s
stimulating, she’s a real trouper and a
really gifted actress. We enjoyed ourselves
hugely — and the script said we were in
love. . . .”
Was it love?
Where does love begin and end in front
of a camera? “You have to believe in a
love story,” Glenn says. “Belief is the es-
sential rule of acting. You accept a role
because you believe in the character and
the story. Could this happen with this
person? Is it conceivable? Once you admit
it is conceivable, then your job is to bring
about reality, create truth.”
This closeness established by an actor
and actress working together has been
responsible for many of Glenn’s dearest
friendships. Rita Hayworth, Barbara Stan-
wyck, Maria Schell — with each of them,
he created a rapport. But with Debbie it
was more. First she, then he had to live
through a personal crisis. Because Debbie
had weathered hers first, she was able to
give Glenn a great deal of understanding
when his turn came. Glenn had cheered
her up when she needed it, Debbie “re-
! taliated” when he needed it.
They still lend each other strength. He
feels that Debbie, of all people, under-
stands that he didn’t seek a divorce, that
he’s a sentimental man who treasures
memories and wants never to hurt. She
knows that he has a great fondness for
Eleanor, he always will, and he loves his
son Peter. All his things, even his wonder-
ful first editions, are for Peter. Debbie
understands that possessions mean nothing
to Glenn, all that matters are human
beings. In short, she understands him. But
today, if they want to see each other, they
have to find a secluded restaurant to avoid
another batch of rumors. “Unfortunately,”
Glenn mourns, “this town doesn’t permit
normal relations. If you walk across the
studio lot with a girl, you’re engaged. I
only hope this phony publicity won’t de-
stroy a good friendship. I wish you’d tell
your readers that Debbie and I are good,
dear friends and we’ve never been any-
thing else. She’s gay and wonderful but
there’s absolutely no romance going on
between us.”
When he said he “knows just what he’s
looking for,” I asked him to describe her.
“What she looks like, I haven’t even
thought about,” he said. “People put such
a premium on physical beauty but it
doesn’t last, it’s nothing to base a marriage
on. What matters about a woman is that
she feels at home in the universe, that
she loves sharing, that she accepts you
with your faults and virtues both, that she
doesn’t worry about superficial things and
gives herself to the joy and wonder of
living.
“Yes, she’ll have to understand the de-
mands my business puts on a marriage.
She can be an actress or not, but involved
with me she’ll have to be. I want to share
whatever I’m doing. What’s the fun of
the whole thing if it isn’t for somebody?
What’s the point of a good part if not for
someone. The fun in life is to look at a
sunset, go to the theater, hear music and
sense the shared reaction.”
And one thing is sure, whoever she is,
wherever she is, their time must be shared.
“I don’t want to be a married bachelor,”
is how Glenn puts it.
My guess is she may not be an actress,
not because Glenn hasn’t deep affection
and admiration for a number of them, but
because so many actresses, especially es-
tablished ones, worry about how they
look, who will see them. They have an
intrinsic sense of being “on.” E- ->n the
clown quality that he loves in Debbie on
screen could wear him down in true life.
He likes a gentler, dreamier type of
femininity. Too much verve would alienate
him as much as the femme fatale or the
aggressive woman.
A woman in love
So much for a romance between Debbie
and Glenn. If it’s Harry after all, why does
she hide her feelings? Why the silence on
a wedding date? Why? Because Debbie
keeps her own counsel. But just as surely
as she never said she’d marry Harry Karl,
so do her friends say she will. In January
— not to tread too close on the heels of
the final decree which, on November 6,
makes him a free man again. They feel a
wait will look better, and by January their
dream house should be ready.
Yes, Debbie and Harry have been super-
vising plans for the four-bedroom home
on a two-acre estate in Benedict Canyon.
He originally bought the property, but
when word leaked out that it would be
their future home, Debbie immediately
had the word spread that she owned the
place. But it was Harry’s personal check
that the real estate man picked up. And
right now in Palm Springs Harry is having
two extra bedrooms built on for Carrie
and Todd.
Debbie’s friends try to explain away the
secrecy — she doesn’t want her new mar-
riage to start with all the ballyhoo of the
Eddie Fisher-Debbie Reynolds production.
“She’s afraid it may be a jinx,” I was
told. “She wants to be a normal housewife
and nothing else. And Harry’s not in show
business, he works an eight hour day and
longer. He has a business to maintain and
feels this glamor publicity may establish
him as a playboy — which he’s certainly
not.”
“She’s a woman in love,” said another
friend, “so she’s out to protect her man.
She feels that to tell the world her true
feelings about Harry might embarrass
him.”
People close to the couple believe the
marriage will probably take place in Las
Vegas. This would be ironic, as Eddie mar-
ried Liz there. But a Las Vegas marriage
can be kept secret from the press until
after the ceremony, and this would suit
a publicity-shv couple.
Debbie’s brother, Bill Reynolds, is very
close to Harry and has been mentioned
as the best man, with her father giving
Debbie away and “only the family on
hand.”
Friends have an idea that the rumors
of a rift may have started when Debbie
was up to her ears in work. She was film-
ing her TV show, working day and night,
and for a stretch she had little time to
see anyone, not even Harry. People ran
into him alone in LaRue’s restaurant and
other places. A man in love, sitting at a
table without his girl, can look pathetically
lonesome.
What people didn’t know was that after
his lonely dinner, Harry did manage to see
Debbie — late at night at the studio. And
these days in public, Harry is the picture
of happiness. Usually a quiet, reserved
man, he looks so jovial that people take
it as a sign — he must have proposed very
recently and he must have been definitely
accepted.
As one well-wisher put it, “He looks
like a man who is sure of his love.”
— Jane Ardmore
See Debbie in Par.’s “The Rat Race” and
“Pleasure of His Company.” Don’t miss
her Specials on ABC-TV. Hear her sing on
Dot. And watch for her in “Pepe” for Co-
lumbia. See Glenn Ford in “Cimarron” for
M-G-M and “Cry for Happy” for Col.
86
WHY DARE DEATH!?
Continued from page 38
their death-defying challenge to the law^»
of gravity . . . and so I give you. ...” .
Amid wild cheers, four slim bodies in
skin-clinging tights, moved into the spot-
light. Royal blue capes slung over their
shoulders shimmered and glistened. With
the supple ease of tigers they walked to
the trapeze rigging, bowed to the roar-
ing, stamping audience, and in one grace-
ful movement, flung off their capes and
handed them to a man standing nearby.
On one side of the rigging, David
pulled himself up a rope, hand over hand,
till he reached the catcher’s bar. On the
other, the Grahams and Rick climbed a
rope ladder until they reached the ped-
estal board. Here, each would wait in turn
for a chance to dare death by flying
through the air.
Rick took hold of his trapeze bar.
Across the vast expanse, David was ready
for him, leaning over backward on the
catcher’s bar until he was hanging only
by the knees.
Rick swung back and forth a few times,
making a wider and wider arc each time
. . . then let go of his bar . . . somersaulted
into space . . . and into the outstretched
hands of his brother.
A crazy kid
Rick, his hands still in David’s, swung
back and forth one more time . . . then he
left the security of his brother’s hold.
With split-second precision, he caught his
swinging bar . . . and propelled himself
back to the pedestal board. They did it
again, with variations, and in the grand-
stands people sat glued to their seats,
hardly daring to breathe. The bodies
whirled and hurled high above them, forty
feet off the ground. Under them, a net,
true — but you can land wrong in a net —
and still be seriously, even fatally, hurt.
The finish was spectacular. One by one,
the four performers dived down thirty-
two feet into the net. The audience
screamed with relief and admiration. They
caught the net’s edge with their hands,
flipped over the sides, landed lightly on
their feet. They bowed once more, put on
their satin capes and walked away, sil-
houetted in the glowing spotlight.
And people, letting out long-held
breaths, said “Whew! What a crazy kid.
Why in the world does a star like Rick
Nelson take his life in his hands?”
A good question. For that matter, why
does he take the other calculated risks
that no one can talk him out of? Why does
he tempt fate by bull-dogging steers? Or
ski when conditions are so treacherous
that even the pros won’t go out on the
slopes? Or water-ski in the roughest of
surfs? Or drive fast racing cars?
People ask “Why?” and give themselves
the simplest of answers. He’s brave, he’s
not frightened by physical danger. He’s
young, he has a well-coordinated body,
good nerves and no fears.
But then you remember the spine-chill-
ing incident of the Demolition Derby,
where Rick drove so wildly and went so
far asking for trouble that he got it! He
came so close to Death, flirting outra-
geously with her, that it very nearly
turned out to be his last romance.
Rick was on location in Arizona for
“Rio Bravo” when he heard about the
Demolition Derby that the local disc jock-
ies were putting on. It was one of those
wild “races for survival.” The cars are
stripped down to metal frames with
motors. Not one excess part is left on
them. The idea is to knock the other fel-
low out of the race by crashing him !
wherever his heap is most vulnerable.
Last car able to run on its own power is
the winner.
Rick told Joe Byrne, his stand-in,
“That’s for me. What do you say we go?”
Jc/e was for it, too. They told nobody on
the location set, knowing they’d be for-
bidden to go. And they made the dee jays
swear not to reveal that the driver of
car number 2 was Rick Nelson, because
Rick made it a point to go into competi-
tion under assumed names. If he came out
tops, it had to be because he was the bet-
er athlete, he didn’t want the attention
focused on Rick Nelson the star.
Flames shot from the car
By early that day, word got around. A
dozen metal scarecrows were battling it
out on the course, and the stands were filled
with a shrieking mob who’d heard that the
wild man in car number 2 was Rick Nel-
son. Brakes squealed, rubber tires burned,
metal frames crashed magnificently and
after a time the finalists were — car num-
ber 2 and its opponent.
Rick revved up his motor and headed
for the heap that stood between him and
victory. To the roaring crowd it looked
like he was going in to hit it on a side-
swipe and knock it out of commission. At
the last second, as though the excitement
got out of control for him, he came on for
a complete victory. He rammed the other
broadside — knocked it out of the race—
and knocked the wind out of himself.
In the same instant, he saw flames
shooting from the front of his car, and
the smoke pour out black and thick. He
struggled to unhook his safety belt know-
ing that any second now the tank could
explode. It wouldn’t come open. Then, just
in time, some men came rushing on to the
track and yanked him out of the death
trap.
The newspapers made a big deal of the
story. They compared him to Jimmy
Dean. They said that he, like Jimmy, had
a “death wish.” Rick shrugged it off as a
lot of nonsense. Maybe he’d been a little
foolhardy, but that’s all. The papers were
way out of line, implying that other stuff.
“But why did you do it?” friends asked.
Again the shrug. A lot of reasons. Ex-
citement . . . confidence in his own skill
at the wheel . . . and worked his way
up to what he considered the clincher, the
real McCoy of a reason — the end of the
discussion. He said, “I guess I wanted to
prove to the crowd that I wasn’t afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” Rick just shrugged his
shoulders again.
It was on this same Arizona trip that he
acquired a horse and also fell in love with
the art of bullfighting. Cars became some-
thing to enjoy, not to race. He threw him-
self into the new interest with typical
wholeheartedness, read everything he
could lay his hands on, studied technique
with an expert and got himself a practice
bull. Because this is the key to the Nelson
approach — if you learn something, you
learn all of it. Flamenco guitar was a
natural offshoot from the bullfighting and
he started studying the instrument with
Vincente Gomez, one of the greatest.
But the guitar was only a breather for
those who worried over Rick’s safety.
The big love affair developed next be-
tween him and the trapeze. Again people
wondered, “Why does he do it?” He had
been so close to death that day at the
Demolition Derby. Why, after such a near
miss, did he have to take worse chances?
It was different in David’s case, he was
working on “The Big Circus.” The film’s
technical advisors were the famous Fly-
ing Viennas and David, getting the feel-
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ing of his role, began working out with
them. He found he not only loved this
thrilling occupation, but he was good at
it, beautifully co-ordinated.
He was working out with Del and Babs
Graham — the Flying Viennas — when Rick
wandered over to watch. Say, he decided,
this looks like fun — and he tried it. From
the start, Dave encouraged him. He passed
on everything the Grahams had taught
him, and worked out with him until Rick,
too, was soaring in space.
Now the brothers are closer than ever —
every time Rick flies through the air he
is literally putting his life into Dave’s
hands. But they refuse to think of it in
those terms, or count the near misses. As
Rick puts it, “When you do anything re-
quiring skill and courage, you first learn
how to do it, then you work hard at it, then
you study the odds; and after you know
the odds, you dismiss them.”
Rick has dismissed the odds so often,
you begin wondering to whom he is trying
to prove he’s not afraid to do the things
he does. He proves it to trembling audi-
ences every time he goes flying out into
space on the trapeze. He has proved it to
his family, his friends, girlfriends.
Perhaps the only one to whom he hasn’t
proved it, yet, is himself . . . and maybe
this is the answer. Like every boy grow-
ing into manhood, Rick must feel the
need to prove himself, so he has to in-
vent danger in order to conquer fear.
Recently, Rick has been quietly dating
Edith Roder, a pretty airline hostess, and
people who have seen them together in-
sist that this could develop into a really
serious romance. Perhaps what draws
these two together is that Edith, in her
BOYS SCARE ME
Continued, from page 61
excited. “Just wait a year or so and you
won’t recognize her. Pretty soon she’ll
have so much femininity that we’ll be
wishing for the old Brenda. She’ll be six-
teen in December — that’s when there’ll be
a change,” her mother added, almost as
though she were hoping for some miracle.
The discussion ended when her mother
and Dub went into the kitchen. Brenda
grimaced, leaned forward and whispered,
“I can’t stand all of this,” and with her
hand she indicated the pretty blue dressy
formal and high-heeled shoes that were
on the living room table.
“If I had my way, I’d be in slim-jims
nearly all of the time,” she said and paused
and took a deep breath. “You know, I’m
not sure that I want to be sixteen. I’ve
seen those older teenagers moping over
Sinatra records. And talking about boys
and dates and things like that. That’s fun?
Give me Jimmy Clanton and Fats Domino
anytime.
“Pretty soon they’ll be telling me I’m
allowed to date and people will be ask-
ing me, ‘Have you got a steady, Brenda?’
“That’s living? I mean hanging around a
telephone, hoping he’ll call when you
could be out bowling or swimming? I
mean boys are fun at parties — you can’t
dance without them — but who wants to be
tied down! And to tell you the truth, boys
scare me most of all.”
Her mother and Dub came back into
the living room, both looking serious.
“You know what I need?” she says. “A
kind of Emily Post genie who would talk
softly to me and remind me, ‘Remember,
Brenda, be a lady, be a lady, be a lady.’
Boy, would Mommie and Dub be ever
happy.”
Poor Dub, she really gave him cause for
day by day contact with pilots, has met
other men with the same drives as Rick
and can give him the understanding that
other girls cannot.
Yet, how must a girl feel if the man she
cares for lives in constant danger? What
can she do about it? Perhaps Edith has
already learned that she can’t, for a mo-
ment, try to change him; that the only
things she can do is try to understand.
Perhaps she already understands that
everybody has a secret fear and that each
person has to find his own way to conquer
this fear. Sometimes there’s no danger in-
volved. The things a woman is afraid
of are often simple — like meeting new
people, fear of heights, being alone. A
woman tries to conquer whatever she’s
afraid of by searching for security.
But with a man it’s different — and with
someone like Rick, there is often a mortal
risk. Why does Rick dare death? Often, a
man will find that he can’t admit the
thing he’s really afraid of and so he must
give fear a different face. The real terror
is hidden. Is there some deep-seated re-
sentment, some long-forgotten frustration,
some urge so deeply-buried that even
Rick is not conscious of it? Or maybe the
answer to Rick is simpler. Maybe it’s that
sometimes a man conquers fear by risk-
ing everything to prove that the fear
really isn’t there. Maybe a man dares
death to prove that he is a man.
— Beatrice March
See Rick and David on ABC-TV, Wednes-
days, 8: 30-9 p.m., EDT in “The Adventures
of Ozzie and Harriet.” Be sure to see Rick
in “The Wackiest Ship in the Army” for
Col. He records for Imperial.
anxiety. During the summer when she
was starring at the state fair, every night
after her performance, she’d rush back-
stage to the dressing room and change
into her slim-jims because the boys in the
band — they were all teenagers, too — were
already free and waiting to take her on
the roller coaster. Dub always gave his
permission. But one night she heard a
knock on the door.
“Brenda, hurry,” Dub shouted. “The
Governor’s outside and he’s waiting to
meet you.” And just before shutting the
door he said, “And don’t forget — your
white gloves.”
In three minutes flat, she rushed out of
that room, down the steps to where the
Governor was waiting.
“Please to meet you,” she had said,
shaking her white-gloved hand with the
Governor’s. And then she saw Dub’s face.
She didn’t know what the matter was.
When the Governor left, she asked:
‘What’s up, Dub? What’d I do?”
“Now, Brenda,” he said patiently, “don’t
get discouraged. But do you think slim-
jims and white gloves go well together to
meet the Governor?”
“But you said to hurry up,” she ex-
plained.
“But I didn’t know you’d changed from
your costume . . .” Dub began, and she
could tell he just thought it was too late
to go into it much further.
“I’m sorry, Dub,” she apologized. “I
promise. . . I’ll try harder to be a lady.”
“I really knew better,” she explains.
“I’m not really stupid, but I was in such
a rush about the roller coaster. . . .” And
then she adds appreciatively, “But Dub’s
a good sport about me. . . .
“He even went to some of our football
games to watch me.”
Last year she was a cheerleader. At one
of the games her school team was one
point behind and was in a scoring position
with one minute to go. Suddenly, there
was a commotion on the field and, a few
88
minutes later, a stretcher was being
rushed out. Everyone in the stadium
craned their necks to see what player was
hurt. When, finally, the crowd around “the
body” moved away . . . “Who was being
carried out?” says Dub. “Brenda.”
“I guess it all looked kind of funny,”
Brenda laughs. “But that wasn’t all. When
Dub saw who it was he rushed right out
onto the field and he got so anxious he
followed right after me and didn’t even
watch where he was going.
“Suddenly, some women began to
scream at him. Poor Dub was in the wom-
en’s rest room!
“I guess it sounds kind of foolish to get
that worked up over a game. Football
games and my grades in school — they’re
the two things I get most excited about.
No matter what happens to me as a sing-
er, I want to go to college. For a long time
I wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to help
oeople, but now when we go on tour, and
I go to hospitals to meet patients I get a
feeling all funny and break up when I see
the bandages and all the hurt ... so I
don’t know. But no matter, I want to go
to college — and so I need good marks.”
“Good marks are more important than
her career,” Dub says.
One afternoon he’d called Brenda up
and said, “I’ve got good news, Brenda. I
think we’ve got a big hit again — with ‘I’m
Sorry.’ Listen to this. Your record’s made
the charts of Billboard and Cashbox.”
“Oh, Dub,” Brenda answered breath-
lessly. “I’m so glad you called. Guess
what? I got an A in my History exam.”
“She got A’s in History, Speech, General
Science and English and B’s in all her
other subjects as her final marks,” Dub
says proudly, and Brenda just smiles, em-
barrassed, and tries to change the subject.
“You know . . . I’m going to transfer
to an Eastern finishing school?” she says
PHOTOGRAPHERS' CREDITS
Elvis Presley and Juliet Prowse by Cutler (Globe):
Pat Boone, Paul Anka, Frankie Avalon and Bobby
Darin by Henri Dauman; Bob Stack and Rosemary by
Frank Gilloon; Bobby Rydell and Joanie Sommers by
Sherman Weisburd (Topix); Carol Lynley by Vivian
Crozier.
in such a way, almost as though, “Roller
coasters will be the farthest thing from
my mind soon.”
It was suggested that Brenda would
make a good actress — she’s had offers to
go to Hollywood, but Dub turned them
down. One part they wanted her to play
was a hillbilly. “I could do that real easy,”
Brenda says, “but I want to start off right.
Some day I’d like to play parts like Ingrid
Bergman — tragic, romantic roles . . .” So
for the time she’ll go to the new school,
and they’ll try to firm up her soft South-
ern accent.
“I guess,” she says, “it would be normal
to hope that I make a lot of new good
friends. I don’t think it will be my fault,
though, if I don’t. I know Dub is always
complaining that, if anything, I’m too
friendly with strangers. But I’ll tell you
how I feel. I’ve never met a stranger. I
love friends and I love to have their pic-
tures. I collect pocket-size pictures of all
my fans. When they ask me for a picture,
I ask right back and they’re always nice
enough to send me one.”
Sometimes they send a stuffed animal
because Brenda collects them. She has
more than forty — dogs, cats, crocodiles
and all kinds of bunnies and even a dino-
saur. “I call the dinosaur GooGoo. I know
it sounds silly, and I’m often silly . . .
sometimes I get carried away with my
own ideas. For my sixteenth birthday, I’d
better wish for more understanding.
“Mother says I do need new furniture
for my bedroom and maybe this could be
part of my birthday surprise. I’ve always
wanted a white canopy bed, so I could
wake up in the morning feeling like a
princess. I know this sounds kind of silly,
too, because I never wanted to look like a
princess. But I’d like a pretty bed . . . not
that I’d want a fancy nightgown or silk
pajamas or anything like that . . .”
She looks down at her shoes and guiltily
slips her feet back in them. “I’d like a
birthday party,” she says. “I like them
where everyone mixes — maybe eight boys
and nine girls you like real well. It’s good
to have an extra girl so you can gossip.
Don’t misunderstand. I like boys, espe-
cially when they have a good personality
and are lots of fun. I love to dance but
the trouble is most boys don’t know how
to dance when you get down to it and
they don’t want to learn either.
“And it would be real crazy if somehow
we were near a big roller coaster — I mean
when you go down you feel as if you’re
halfway to Hades and when you pull up
you feel as if your head is blowing off. I’d
like to ride thirty times straight.”
“Her current record,” says Dub, “is
twenty rides without getting off.”
“I guess, too, I’d hope for a second tele-
vision set in the house. My little sister
Robin and I never fuss, but with Randall,
my brother — he’s ten and he always wants
to tag along — well, we’re forever going at
it tooth and nail over which TV show
we’re going to watch. So it’d be practical,
I guess, to wish for another set.
“Or being practical, I might wish for a
special shoe closet. That’s about my only
passion — shoes and more shoes. I can’t
pass a shoe store that I don’t stop for ten
minutes to look at all the styles. I wouldn’t
think of asking for another pair of shoes
for my birthday. With all I have that
would be plain greedy, but I wouldn’t
mind maybe another formal.
“You know,” she says abruptly, “I can’t
see where there’s fun in sophisticated
clothes. Who wants to spend half your
time counting runs in silk stockings?” And
then she adds, “Maybe if I could have just
one birthday wish, it would be that I
might be fifteen for another year.” But
her eye catches the pretty blue formal on
the table and she kind of smiles and says,
“I guess I have to admit; it is pretty with
all that lace and taffeta and I like that
kind of waistline . . .” and no matter what
Brenda says, you know she’s kind of
growing up.
She sits thoughtfully and, suddenly, the
smile is gone and her face is serious and a
little sad. “I guess,” she says, “if there
were just one wish . . . just one ... I’d
wish that there were just a small package
for my birthday and in it I found a pic-
ture of Daddy. I guess that would give
me my biggest thrill — the biggest thrill of
my life. Daddy died,” she explains, “when
I was eight and there isn’t a single picture
of him in the house. Not even a snapshot.”
He was working on a construction job
in Georgia. A heavy tool fell and hit him
on his head. He picked himself up and
stayed on the job. Then, three weeks later,
he went into the hospital for the injury
and a week later, he passed away.
“I don’t remember too much about
Daddy, but I think of him all the time,”
she says. “He left enough money to pro-
vide for us for quite a while, so I know
he always had us on his mind. I keep
hoping that someone on Daddy’s side of
the family has a picture of him and that
they will send it to me. I’d just like to sit
down with the picture and tell Daddy of
all the wonderful things that have hap-
pened since he went away. . . . That’s
really what I’d like to do on my birthday.
That’s really what I want — not parties, or
dresses, or TV sets — just that.”
— Martin Cohen
Hear Brenda’s records on the Decca label.
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DEATH WAS
FOLLOWING US
Continued from page 67
was. But now when she threw her arms
around him, where everybody on the street
could see, and kissed him, he squirmed.
When you’re ten, being kissed in public
is pretty embarrassing.
But his mother just laughed. “Oh, Peter,”
she said joyfully, “Peter, I’m so happy.
Look at this paper they just gave me — it
says you’re mine, all mine. I can take you
back to Rochester with me!”
The paper had his name filled in . . .
Peter Breck ... so he glanced at it curi-
ously. It was all small print and long
words . . court decree . . . permanent
custody . . . maternal relative. But there
were things he had come to understand
while he and his baby brother George
were being raised in Grandma’s home. He
knew that his parents toured together in
show business and couldn’t take kids with
them. Mom was Doris Goings, a dancer,
and Dad was Joe Breck the bandleader,
the “Prince of Pep.” But then they got
divorced, and for some reason the boys
were separated also. Georgie, who was
hardly two years old, went to live with
Dad while Peter, who was eight, stayed
on with Grandma, Aunt Polly and the
whole New England clan of Brecks.
Now his mother was married again and
wanted him. She’d given up show busi-
ness, settled in one place with a husband
and a home — and the court said she could
have him. On their way from Haverhill,
Massachusetts, to Rochester, New York,
she told him about his new father.
“You’ll like him, Peter,” she promised.
“He’s sports editor on a newspaper in
Rochester and he’s a wonderful man.”
It sounded exciting. Much as he loved
Grandma, he was eager to go with his
mom. Only one question came right to
mind: It was so long since he’d seen his
little brother that he wondered, would
Georgie be there too? He kind of hoped
so. He remembered a tiny kid who used
to follow him around as if this big brother
of his was great stuff. When Georgie grew
up, they could play baseball ... go fish-
ing . . . wrestle. It would be nice to have
a brother.
But all he asked his mother was, “How
about Georgie?”
And all his mother said was, “Georgie
is with Dad.” He never asked again.
Twenty-two years later, on a January
day, Peter stood on the sound stage of
20th Century-Fox preparing to go into a
hectic fight scene for “Black Saddle,” the
TV series in which he starred. He’d gotten
there by a long and bumpy road, knocking
around the country learning to be an
actor. He had also, in his barnstorming and
wandering, made several tries at locating
his brother George, but in that he’d been
less successful.
This day, after the cameras stopped roll-
ing, he went to sit in his canvas chair and
go over his lines for the next scene. A
crew member came over to say that some-
one outside wanted to see him.
“Well . . . well . . . okay, let him come
in.”
The son of Joe Breck
Deep in the script, Peter hardly noticed
a young man walking toward him — slowly,
shyly, as if he’d rather forget the whole
thing and run away. By inches the young
boy came over to him, and in a soft, shy
voice said, “Ah . . . I . . . wonder ... ah
. . . could you . . . are you . . He cleared
his throat and started again. , . . Are
you the son of Joe Breck, the ‘Prince of
Pep’?”
A bill collector, Peter thought at once.
Or he wants to make a touch. Who else
would ask about his father? Brusquely he
asked, “Who wants to know?” in a tone
a man uses to intimidate guys in westerns.
The young boy looked as if he’d like
to sink through the sound stage floor. But
he continued hesitantly, “Well, if you are
Joe Breck ’s son — then I’m your brother
. . I’m George, George Breck, and . . .”
Like a thunderclap, Peter heard the two
words that made him jump to his feet.
George Breck! He looked at the boy for a
full moment; he couldn’t speak. Then he
felt a burst of emotion like a dam break-
ing inside him. He grabbed the boy in a
bear hug, saying over and over, “Georgie,
Georgie.” He could hardly believe that
twenty-two years of off-and-on searching
had ended, dreamlike, on the sound stage
of a Hollywood television studio.
The two brothers walked off the set to-
gether and headed for a nearby cafe. They
sat across from each other, face to face,
the years of separation melting away like
icicles in the sunshine. Words tumbled out,
they reminisced about Grandmother, Aunt
Polly, Mother, Dad. They caught up on
twenty-two years of living, on all George’s
own hard knocks and drifting. But now
he was married to a swell gal named Patty
and they had a small son named Alan.
Four years they’d been married and George
all of twenty-three now! They’d come
West to live, settled in the Glendale sec-
tion of Los Angeles, and he worked as a
machinist. Everything was fine. Oh, some
doctor had tried to throw a scare into him
about a sickness with a long name that
meant calcium deposits around the heart,
but it wasn’t anything you had to rush
into. Even the doc said so.
“Never mind, no rush, you take care oi
it,” Peter said. He was the big brother
now, the senior by six years. It felt great
to suddenly have a kid brother to advise.
George shrugged. “I’m as healthy as a
horse,” he said. “That saw-bones must’ve
got me mixed up with two other fellows.”
Peter said, “I can’t get over your finding
me. Tell me just how it was.” And George
told.
“One Saturday night we turned on
‘Black Saddle’ for the first time,” he said,
“and the words ‘Starring Peter Breck’
flashed on. I said to Patty, ‘Gosh, that’s
my brother’s name, but I haven’t seen
my brother since I was a baby, so how
would I know?’ She got all excited. ‘You
mean that tall handsome TV star might be
your brother?’ Well, I didn’t know, but I
watched that show every Saturday night
for three months trying to catch some ex-
pression that might be like Dad’s or
Mom’s.”
Finally he decided to find out for him-
self. He got into the car and rode around
Hollywood looking for the studio where
“Black Saddle” was being filmed. More
than once he nearly gave up.
“But I just couldn’t quit,” he told Peter.
“I had to find out if you were my long
lost brother.”
They became inseparable
After that, the two became inseparable.
Every cha-ce George got, he came on the
set and watched from the sidelines. The
whole business fascinated him, the cam-
eras, the sound track, especially his own
brother up there — a star! Peter would
look over and laugh at the gone expres-
sion on George’s face. He was like the
two-year-old who used to follow him
around worshipfully.
Peter hit on a way to make George very
happy by taking him on as his stand-in.
George gloried in the show’s high ratings
90
and his brother’s popularity at personal
appearances. Peter worked him into that
act, too. They had a routine that brought
the house down. First Peter did his stuff,
and the audience went wild for a Holly-
wood he-man who could actually ride and
do fantastically intricate and dangerous
stunts with a bullwhip and axe-handle.
Then George would walk on stage and
Peter would introduce him. “Folks, I
want you to meet my brother George. He
works with me on the show back in Hol-
lywood and he can tell you that every
week I do my stunts, no matter how dan-
gerous they are. Right, George?”
The boy would hang his head, silent and
gulping. Much laughter from the audi-
ence! Peter would walk over, grab George
by the collar and raise him from the
ground. “Now,” in a menacing voice, “tell
them I always do my own stunts.” George,
barely able to talk, would nod yes. Only
then did Peter put him down and let him
go. The audience loved it and the brothers
got a terrific bang out of it.
Off-stage they were close, too. Peter
was in love with a beautiful dancer, Diane
Bourne, whom he hoped to marry within
a year. She and Peter, Patty and George,
became a foursome. Every weekend that
Peter wasn’t on tour, they spent at his
bachelor bungalow. They barbecued steaks,
talked, romped with Peter’s family of Ger-
man shepherds: Portia, Brutus, Cassius
and Caesar. Life was just great. All the
more when Peter and Diane decided on a
June wedding.
Then, in April, Peter was scheduled for
a personal appearance in Springfield, Mas-
sachusetts, and the brothers made great
plans. They’d do a week of shows, take
off a week to visit the relatives in Haver-
hill and Gloucester. And while they were
East, George would get that operation over
with. He’d been saving up for it and now,
thanks to Peter, he had it made. Peter
would take George to the Veterans’ Hos-
pital in West Roxbury, a Boston suburb.
They pin-pointed the dates. May 26 for
the surgery, and out of the hospital in
time for the wedding on June 11. Patty
was to be matron of honor, but George
wanted to be usher instead of best man.
“I’ll get a kick out of walking your Holly-
wood friends down the aisle,” he said like
a kid, and it was okay with Peter.
The day before they were to leave for
Springfield, Peter got a letter from the
relatives. One look at his face as he read,
and George knew — it was bad news.
“Georgie,” Peter began, and choked up.
There were tears in his eyes. Then he
made himself blurt it out. “Dad’s — dead.
He got burned to death in a hotel fire a
week ago.” The two brothers stood staring
at each other in shock. They’d hardly
known their father. The “Prince of Pep,”
the roving showman, had wandered out of
their lives long ago. But they were his
sons. They felt grief and loss. Neither of
them knew that Death was to follow them
even farther.
They went to Springfield and then to
see the family as they’d planned, though
the visit was saddened by Joe Breck’s
death.
“You know something, Pete,” George
said. “I’m gladder than ever that we
found each other.” They were sitting on
the wharf at Gloucester, they’d left the
relatives for a while and gone to walk.
“You did the finding,” Peter said.
“Well, it was luck, too.” That was all
they said, but each knew what the other
meant: that never again would they let
themselves be separated. Not after Georgie
and Fate together had turned the trick
of reuniting them.
When it was time for George to enter
the hospital, they went to Boston together
and Peter stayed to see him checked in.
The admitting physician remarked on
George’s cheerful attitude, for an incom-
ing patient.
“He’s so darn glad to get it over with,”
Peter explained. “Who wants the threat of
heart disease hanging over him when he
can cure it?”
“That’s right,” George said. “Fve got
other plans.” He grinned at his brother.
“I’m aiming to be your stunt man, in case
you don’t know. I’ve been practicing dives
and falls already.”
Peter laughed. “If you hanker to fall
off horses every week and make me a
bigger hero — that’s fine by me.”
They said so long now. Peter had to
head back for Hollywood and for those
eternal personal appearances. But he kept
in touch. He knew when George went up
for surgery on May 26, and again two days
later. No matter where his body went, his
heart was thousands of miles away in
Massachusetts.
"Do it for Georgie”
The day before Memorial Day, Peter was
about to go before a packed stadium in
Denver for the last show. In five minutes
he’d be on. Suddenly someone — he never
could remember who it was — hurried to
him with sorrow and pity on his face.
“Peter,” he said, “Peter — it’s bad news.”
Peter said, “George . . .” and the man
nodded. — George was dead. The young
heart that was going to be mended, had
stopped beating.
Someone called, “Breck, you’re on” and
he walked out before a mob he didn’t see.
They cheered themselves hoarse and he
didn’t hear them. He went through his act
— and didn’t know what he was doing. And
later, in the same haze, he saw Diane was
next to him.
“I flew in as soon as I heard,” she said.
“I wanted to be with you.”
“We’ll leave now,” he told her wooden-
ly. “I — can’t do tomorrow’s shows.”
But he did. He forced himself to go on.
It was Memorial Day and he did three
shows in memory of the brother he would
never forget. Then he and Diane left for
Gloucester, for his funeral. But first he
asked the publicity man to write up his
brother’s death and put it on the wires.
“Do it for Georgie,” he said. “He’d get
a bang out of seeing his name in print.”
People who never even knew George
in life, came to Gloucester to see him in
death. Or maybe to see Peter Breck — and
this Peter hated. He walked through the
crowd with eyes straight ahead and joined
his family in the mourning room. It was
an old-fashioned Irish wake — three days
and nights of continuous mourning. Past
the casket, streamed people who had loved
the boy — and people who had never met
him. But they wept, too.
Back in Hollywood, again, Patty and
her son came to stay at Peter’s. Diane,
who had been with him through it all,
was for postponing the wedding. It was
Peter who told her, “It would break
Georgie’s heart.”
So, on June 11, they had their wedding
as scheduled. Diane and Peter stood be-
fore the altar in St. Francis de Salles
Church in the Valley, and heard the man
of God pronounce them man and wife.
Their matron of honor was Patty Breck,
the best man Peter Hornsby. There was
no usher.
But as Peter promised to cherish Diane
forever, he whispered in his heart, “Don’t
you worry about your family, Georgie —
we’ll take good care of them.” Because he
knew: Somewhere on the sidelines the
brother he had lost and found and lost
again, was watching and nodding and
smiling his approval. Marcia Borie
Be sure to watch for Peter Breck in “Black
Saddle” on your local television station.
Please send me copies of TV DIARY.
I enclose cents.
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MOVIES Continued from pa^e 8
moviegoers to reach their own decisions.
Curt’s performance puts von Braun in a
sympathetic light, as a totally dedicated
pioneer, concerned with getting those
rockets up there. But Victoria Shaw, as
the woman who loves him, worries about
the innocent victims of the V-2’s. And
James Daly, as an American newspaper-
man who lost his wife and child in the
London raids, remains bitter even when
the Germans start work in New Mexico.
It’s a thrilling story no matter how you
take it, with a spy-stuff subplot involving
Herbert Lorn and Gia Scala. Columbia
The Dark at the Top of the Stairs
CRISES IN AN AVERAGE FAMILY; ADULT
What makes a marriage succeed or fail?
How far can parents go in protecting their
children? We get some sound answers to
these important questions while we’re liv-
ing for a couple of hours with an Okla-
homa family in the 1920’s. Robert Pres-
ton, Dorothy McGuire, teenaged Shirley
Knight and ten-year-old Robert Eyer
haven’t any weird, Tennessee Williams-
type problems. But they’re still in trouble,
each in a familiar crisis: losing a job;
finding there’s Another Woman; going to
the frightening first dance; being bullied
by other kids. And the darkness gathers
over this nice household. Based on a hit
play, the picture is talky and a little slow
in getting started. But the warmth of its
acting pulls us right into the heart of the
story. Preston makes a fine movie come-
back after his Broadway triumph in “The
Music Man.” Dorothy’s performance is a
kind of fascinating inside story on her
usual model-wife role. And Shirley looks
like a highly talented newcomer. You’ll
want to watch Lee Kinsolving, too, as her
unhappy blind date, warners, technicolor
The Savage Innocents
HONEST STUDY OF PRIMITIVE PEOPLE; ADULT
You might say this is a story about an
average family, too — average in their own
society, that is. Anthony Quinn and Yoko
Tani are Eskimos of a remote tribe, court-
ing, marrying and leading the same nomad
life as their ancestors for centuries back.
To us, their ways seem either too free and
easy or too harsh, but each strange cus-
tom has a practical motive, and the cou-
ple’s clash with “civilization” is tragic.
Though the backgrounds (the real Arctic)
have great majesty and beauty, some of
the close shots are technically not too
good. And the two stars, a rangy Mexican-
Irish-American and a dainty Japanese,
don’t look much like Eskimos. But their
acting, like the picture as a whole, is re-
freshingly honest.
paramount; technirama, technicolor
Under Ten Flags
BRISK, FACT-BASED WAR ADVENTURE; FAMILY
No quibbling here — this seagoing action
yam insists that its hero (Van Heflin) is
a good guy, even if he is fighting for the
Nazis. Van’s character is suggested by a
real-life German captain, whose armed
raider preyed on Allied supply lines. The
different disguises he puts on his crew
and even the ship itself make up a fas-
cinating gimmick. More color is added
with Charles Laughton’s expansive per-
f formance as the officer directing Royal
Navy operations against the mysterious
raider. You wouldn’t expect women to
play a big part in a story like this, but
Mylene Demongeot tosses in a dash of
femininity as an unwilling passenger on
Van’s ship. This gallant enemy, you see,
tries to rescue everybody on board a tar-
get vessel before sinking it. He seems to
think a war can be civilized. paramount
The Entertainer
FINE ACTORS PLAYING DREARY PEOPLE; ADULT
There’s shock value at the start of this
drama, a low-key of British realism. Imag-
ine the great Sir Laurence Olivier playing
a cheap vaudevillian! Olivier does go at
the job with full honesty, making it clear
that this man’s act is a vulgar bore and his
private life is a mess. But he does it so
thoroughly that you can’t see how this all-
around failure holds the loyalty of his
second wife (Brenda de Banzie) and his
sensible daughter (Joan Plowright, said
to be Sir Larry’s offscreen interest). Too
bad we have to wait till the end of the
picture to hear the “entertainer” analyze
himself and his personal tragedy in dia-
logue, because that’s hardly ever a con-
vincing dramatic device. continental
End of Innocence
sombre, poetic study of adolescence; adult
The setting of this Argentina-made film
is that country in the 1920’s, but to Amer-
ican audiences it will seem a century away
in another world. Yet the story is told
with such delicacy and feeling that young
Elsa Daniel's experiences seem utterly be-
lievable. One detail illustrates the super-
Victorian upbringing that an aristocratic
family imposes on Elsa and her sisters:
Each of the girls is supposed to wear a
special gown while taking a bath! But all
in one night Elsa finds the realities of love
and death invading her sheltered life,
while handsome Lautaro Murua is a guest
in her family’s house. He’s about to fight
a duel — yes, in the 20th Century. Romantic
as that sounds, there’s no clock-and-sword
stuff in this picture, kinsley international;
DIALOGUE IN SPANISH, TITLES IN ENGLISH
Surprise Package
FUNNY IDEA, TOO MUCH TALK; ADULT
Yul Brynner seems to get a big kick out
of this unusual assignment, swaggering
around and snapping wisecracks like an
old hand at the gangster game. Mitzi Gay-
nor, too, has fun with her brassy role as
his girlfriend, who follows the boss rack-
eteer when he’s deported from the U.S.
to his birthplace, a tiny Greek island. And
the star trio is completed by Noel Coward,
as an unemployed king who brought his
diamond-studded crown into exile with
him. That trophy, as you’d guess, is very
attractive to Yul — and to a couple of even
more sinister types. There are some bright
lines, and Coward is just the fellow to
shine them up. But unfortunately, some-
times, all those words keep the pace from
moving as fast as it should. Columbia
Ocean's Eleven
BIG BUT LEISURELY PRIME COMEDY; ADULT
If this picture hadn’t been in the plan-
ning stage so long, you’d almost think its
makers had seen “Seven Thieves,” last
year’s modest but popular thriller about a
robbery of the Monte Carlo Casino. . . .
Only seven? Let’~ have eleven thieves,
and make ’em bigger names: Frank Sina-
tra (he’s Danny Ocean), Dean Martin,
Peter Lawford, Sammy Davis, Jr., etc. One
casino? That’s for pikers! Let’s knock over
the five biggest in Las Vegas. Let’s do it
in glorious color and (here comes a mis-
take) add about half an hour to the run-
ning time. . . . The result is amusing in a
relaxed way. It has a tendency to present
the ambitious theft as just a boyish prank,
but the Vegas background makes it all
look a bit fantastic anyhow, and the play-
ers don’t seem to be aiming for realism —
just amiably kidding around.
WARNERS; PAN AVISION, TECHNICOLOR
Between Time and Eternity
SENTIMENTAL AND DECORATIVE; ADULT
It’s a while since we’ve heard the only-
six-months-to-live plot, always good ma-
terial for an emotional spree. This time,
the lovely and gracious Lilli Palmer is
the lady under a medical death sentence.
Though she has been contented in her
marriage to a successful surgeon, her re-
action is an urge to get away from it all.
So off she goes to one of the primitive,
beautiful Balearic Islands. And there she
meets a dashing, unscrupulous native. In
this role, Carlos Thompson (Lilli’s off-
screen husband) is a little too conscious
of his own charm. The girl who plays
his island sweetheart is likely to attract
attention. Her name — Ellen Schwiers —
hardly suits her exquisite, exotic appear-
ance. We’ll bet she crops up with a new
tag. U-I, PATHE COLOR
Let No Man Write My Epitaph
SENTIMENTAL AND SORDID; ADULT
James Darren looks wonderful and does
some fervent emoting in this offbeat tale
of the slums; it’s a pity his efforts haven’t
a better frame. At least, he holds his own
in the midst of highpowered talent. The
story’s a sequel to “Knock on Any Door,”
which starred John Derek as a tenement
kid who wound up in the electric chair.
Now Jimmy plays his son, and a pictur-
esque group of skid-row characters bands
together to save the boy from his old man’s
fate. Burl Ives is their leader, a drunken
ex-judge; and Shelley Winters, as Jimmy’s
mother, gratefully accepts their help. The
plan works; Jimmy becomes adept at the
piano, instead of the switch-blade; and
he even wins the love of highborn Jean
Seberg. But then along comes nasty,
dope-peddling Ricardo Montalban. The
total effect is odd — as if “A Hatful of
Rain” had been rewritten by the late
Damon Runyon. Columbia
Seven Ways From Sundown
UNASSUMING HORSE OPERA; FAMILY
Another peculiar title! This one — all of
it — is merely Audie Murphy’s first name.
Nothing else about the movie is startling,
but Barry Sullivan’s character does rep-
resent an attempt to get off the beaten
cowtrail. As a new and green Texas Ran-
ger, Audie is assigned to go after Barry,
who has been leaving a wake of corpses
and ruined barrooms around the country.
But the outlaw, it seems, is such a lovable
fellow that hardly anybody is mad at him,
and Audie can’t get much cooperation
from the citizens. As attractive a per-
former as Barry is, he’s hardly devastating
enough to make such an angle plausible.
But it serves to keep the chase going.
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SWINGS
’em l /
I o
GREAT
Elvis sounds off and
Juliet swings out in the rousing,
rollicking story of America’s
oversea’s G.I.sl It’s a romantic
blitz... a three-day pass at those
frolicking frauleins!
SONGS 1
I
Hal Wallis
PRODUCTION
CO-STARRING
Juliet Prowse
Directed by NORMAN TAUROG *
Written by EDMUND BELOIN and HENRY GARSON • A PARAMOUNT RELEASE
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
THE SPECIAL THANKSGIVING ATTRACTION AT YOUR FAVORITE THE ATREI
3
THATS
HOLLYWOOD
FOR YOU
BY SIDNEY SKOLSKY
Lana held hands with me. Is that why I feel the way l do?
I’d say Yves Montand certainly made
a noise as a leading man for MM. More
off the screen than on. . . . Rita Moreno
is an honest person. She admits she is
bigger around the bottom than the
bosom. . . . “Jane Russell to play a dual
role,” headlined a movie item. It wasn't
startling to me. I always think two of
Jane Russell. . . . Did you ever believe
that glamor girl Joan Crawford would
be plugging a soft drink? . . . Movie
policemen seldom look like real police-
men. ... I don’t care how funny Mort
Sahl may be in a sweater, I prefer to
look at Lana Turner in a sweater. . . .
Quotable Quote of Peter Lawford: “A
person who is a phony is the biggest
bore in the world.” ... I can’t imagine
Jerry Lewis being shy. . . . The adoles-
cent female screamers for Elvis Presley
will grow into middle-aged women who
will adore Elvis. . . . Did you ever
notice that actresses who play movie
stars in pictures aren’t? . . . The only
thing more annoying than a know-it-all,
according to starlet Googie Schwab, is
a know-it-all who really knows it all.
I know that Tuesday Weld always
doesn’t look at a TV show on which she
is appearing, but I can’t say this about
Nick Adams. . . . Juliette Greco should
come to this country to make a movie.
. . . Brigitte Bardot shouldn’t. ... I
have the impression that Gina Lollo-
brigida is laughing quietly at us when
we think she is so sexy, and also think-
ing of her bank deposits. . . . Now
Sandra Dee is going to play Tammy ,
without benefit of Debbie Reynolds — or
even Eddie Fisher. ... In Hollywood
all marriages are happy. It’s the living
together afterward that causes the
trouble.
I believe Zsa Zsa Gabor smiles too
much. No one, not even a Gabor, could
be that contented. . . . Clark Gable is
what a movie hero should look like, no
matter how many years have edged by,
no matter how styles have changed. . . .
Tab Hunter is best described as the kind
of fellow who, when the alarm clock
routs him out of bed in the morning,
gets up smiling. ... I’d like to see more
movies with Glynis Johns. ... I don’t
believe that because a movie has sub-
titles it is a work of art and better than
the better Hollywood movie. . . . Quot-
able Quote from Marlon Brando: “I
play a scene as I feel it. I may do it
different for the camera than I do dur-
ing rehearsal. I improvise. Movie acting
consists of improvisations.” . . . Holly-
wood is a place where romance seems
as necessary as film making. At present,
I’d say, there’s more romance going on
than film making. ... I thank Kim
Novak for the Thank You notes she
writes. Usually you only hear from the
performers when you write something
that displeases them. . . . Inger Stevens
has a great figure that most of her
dresses don’t make obvious. ... I know
that Sidney Poitier has given fine per-
formances, but I’m waiting for him to
give the great one of which I know he’s
capable. . . . Oh well, at least we’ve got
all the Crosby boys married to Las
Vegas girls. Now the boys, Las Vegas
and even Bing can give a sigh of relief.
. . . When Elizabeth Taylor opens her
large handbag, it resembles a gypsy
camp. . . . The movie producers believe
that no matter how much everything
changes, sex will still be sexy.
Marilyn Monroe, on hearing that she
played a scene very good, wants to play
it better. ... I wonder if Tony Curtis
remembers everything about himself
when he was Bernie Schwartz. . . . John
Wayne considers it acting if he’s able to
portray John Wayne in a picture. . . .
I can never understand why an actor
hasn’t the time to take off his makeup
before he leaves the studio and parades
around with it on all night. . . . Some
movies on the Late Late Show are so
old they should be in bed at that hour.
I’d say Audrey Hepburn has a whim-
sical quality and that Katharine Hep-
burn is realistic. I like them both. . . .
Dorothy Malone sometimes wears red
panties. . . . People seem to enjoy movies
in projection rooms more than they do
in theaters. . . . Hollywood is a town
where you expect anything to happen,
and yet you’re surprised by what does
occur. . . . Paul Newman is a better
cook than Joanne Woodward. ... I
wonder if Kirk Douglas is really as
satisfied with his performances as he
gives the impression that he is. . . .
I’d say Martha Hyer is a different kind
of a blonde. . . . Carol Lynley’s slacks
are a bit baggy, but she’s still appealing
in them. . . . Hollywood is a place where
if you can afford what you’ve got, you're
entitled to something better. . . . Mamie
Van Doren’s favorite color is white, be-
cause white makes her feel so pure. . . .
Our old friend Mike Curtiz told me:
“There are many times I wish I had the
courage to be a coward.” That’s Holly-
wood For You.
4
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5
get more out of life—
go out to a
movie
What’s on tonight?
You’ve got to go out
to see the best! Look for
these new pictures
at your favorite theate*
Butterfield 8
CASE STUDY OF A PARTY GIRL; ADULT
Does anybody still think Liz Taylor’s too beautiful to be
much of an actress? Let the doubters take a look at her in
this strong version of John O’Hara’s novel. There’s more of
Liz than there used to be, but the voluptuous figure suits her
role as a girl who roves around New York night clubs col-
lecting men. Her self-respect is almost gone; the best she
can do is try to keep her amateur standing. Under Daniel
Mann’s direction, other good performances round out the
people hurt by this girl's headlong campaign to destroy her-
self: the married man (Laurence Harvey, at left, top, with
Liz) that she loves; his wife (Dina Merrill) ; Liz’s despair-
ing friend (Eddie Fisher) ; her mother (Mildred Dunnock).
Sometimes, it seems the picture misses, a little, the savage
realism it’s aiming for, when it goes sentimental or lets its
people get too glib at analyzing each other, but it never fails
to hold the interest. m-c-m; cinemascope, metrocolor
Sunrise at Campobello
INTIMATE CLOSEUP OK HISTORY? FAMILY
Campobello is a Canadian island, where one man came
to a turning point in his life — that changed the history of
this country and influenced the world. What happens to a
family when the father is crippled by polio? That’s a dra-
matic crisis in itself, but it grows in size when the man is
young Franklin D. Roosevelt. The cast manages superbly
with a tough job: giving emotionally true performances and
accurate impersonations at the same time. Ralph Bellamy
has already scored on the stage with the FDR role, but Greer
Garson is a stunning surprise, even to the uncertain pitch of
Eleanor Roosevelt’s voice at that time. Dore Schary produced
this version of his own play, so director Vincent J. Donehue
tactfully sticks close to theater technique, warners, technicolor
Inherit the Wind
ROBUST PACE RIPPED FROM YESTERDAY’S NEWS; FAMILY
Two old pros in a magnificent head-on collision — that’s
Spencer Tracy and Fredric March, as opposing lawyers (at
left, bottom). Gene Kelly’s a mighty colorful reporter; Dick
York and Donna Anderson are young sweethearts torn apart.
Take the story just on those terms, and it’s richly entertain-
ing. But it’s a lot more, too, because it s based on a real
case of the 1920’s. Never mind what they’re called in the
picture — Dick is obviously playing Scopes, who defied the
Tennessee law against teaching Darwin’s theory of evolution;
Tracy is Clarence Darrow, defending intellectual freedom;
March is William Jennings Bryan, speaking for that old-time
religion. It was a hot news story, and producer-director
Stanley Kramer serves it up still sizzling. u.a.
Please turn the page
6
Some gals fritter away a fortune on beauty shop permanents.
But you’re the smarty who saves — by having Toni’s at home! You
bypass appointments and huffing-puffing dryers. Best yet — you get
■your idea of a pretty permanent— not someone else’s.
And Toni has a unique kind of curl. It can hide itself in a sleek
hairstyle, or flip right into a fluffy-top. Set it smooth or curly,
umpteen ways — it stays. No other permanent, home or beauty
shop, has this "Hidden Body.” It’s Toni’s alone!
What’s more— it’s a lark to give! The double-rich neutralizer is
already mixed ! Just squeeze a plastic bottle — and creamy drops
swirl through every curl. Minutes later — Toni’s No Mix Neutralizer
has "locked-in” your soft, set-able "Hidden Body” wave.
So stop punishing your pocketbook with beauty shop perma-
nents. Have a Toni "Hidden Body” wave and save. Your home
will be your beauty shop forever after. (Don’t forget — Toni also
makes Tonette for children and Silver Curl for gray hair.)
Another Sky
STRANGE, SUBTLE LOVE STORY; ADULT
An Englishwoman falls in love with
an Arab. That blunt outline of a plot
may suggest “The Sheik,” but you can
forget all about the old Valentino ro-
mance. The setting here is the real
Morocco, and the events are odd yet
believable. As a governess, Victoria
Grayson has been living at secondhand,
through the families she has worked for.
She comes to Marrakech to be a com-
panion to rich Catherine Lacey, whose
foolish life offers absolutely nothing
worth sharing. So Victoria is completely
vulnerable to the mood of the foreign
country, and she becomes infatuated
with a handsome, indifferent boy in a
singing-dancing troupe. Gavin Lambert
directs his own script at a slow, thought-
ful pace that gives us plenty of time to
search out the implied meanings in this
poetic movie that’s so full of the un-
expected. HARRISON
High Time
AMIABLE CAMPUS MUSICAL; FAMILY
Bing Crosby plays he’s a fifty ish
freshman, a restaurant tycoon who wants
to catch up on the fun (and education)
he missed. Fabian’s one of his room-
mates; Tuesday Weld’s a kookie coed
who loves a different boy each year;
Nicole Maurey’s a pretty French prof —
widowed, as Bing is. The movie’s at its
liveliest in novelty musical connections
between scenes; the more serious bits,
with dialogue, look a bit sticky by con-
trast. On the surface it seems college
comedies haven’t changed much since
the days when Bing Crosby played the
young professor, crooning “The Old Ox
Road.’’ Come to think of it, there is one
big change : These college students actu-
ally do some studying!
20th; cinemascope, de luxe color
Ten Who Dared
FORTHRIGHT TRUE ADVENTURE; FAMILY
Like most Disney productions, this
one’s aimed at the youngsters, but it has
enough substance to satisfy an older
moviegoer who’s in a relaxed mood.
There’s lots of gorgeous scenery, in the
Colorado River country, and a story
based on historical fact. John Beal plays
Major John Wesley Powell, one-armed
r scientist who first mapped the river and
its mighty Grand Canyon. The only crew
running venture is a rough bunch, in-
cluding a couple of drunks and two guys
who are still fighting the Civil War.
Character conflicts are simple and obvi-
ous, but they ring true, and the back-
grounds tower over everything.
BUENA VISTA, TECHNICOLOR
It Happened in Broad Daylight
FAIRLY INTERESTING SUSPENSE; ADULT
Mostly German-made (but with dia-
logue in English I , this thriller keeps
suggesting sinister twists — that never
materialize. Instead, it goes along a
familiar path with a Swiss detective who
throws his career away to track down a
psychopathic child-killer, after the police
have written the case off their books.
Heinz Ruhmann is quietly attractive as
the patient sleuth, and Alpine villages at
least supply a different locale. continental
The Angel Wore Red
WEAK WAR MELODRAMA; ADULT
Even at this distance, Spain’s Civil
War — curtain-raiser for World War II
— is an explosive subject. But this story
is as vague and indecisive as its hero.
Dirk Bogarde is stuck with the part, a
priest who leaves the church because he
thinks it has lost touch with the people.
Then he has a hard time figuring out
which side he’s on. It’s no help at all
when he falls in love with a bargirl ( Ava
Gardner), who’s as noble as such fancy
ladies always are — in fiction. Joseph
Cotten has to play a slightly idiotic
American newspaperman, and Vittorio
de Sica (with somebody else’s dubbed-
in voice) is a cynical Loyalist general.
M-G-M
Key Witness
INCREDIBLE CRIME YARN; ADULT
Nobody connected with this picture
had better park one inch too close to a
fire plug or drive one mile over the
speed limit. Considering how useless the
Rex and Doris in “ Midnight Lace.,,
here, they re probably just itching for
revenge. Though Jeffrey Hunter, wife
Pat Crowley and kids are such a model
family that they could pose for a TV
commercial, they’re in a peck of trouble
after Jeff witnesses a teen-gang killing.
Dennis Hopper and his j.d. pals are a
preposterous group, too, including
Susan Harrison, who’s at least pretty to
look at, and Johnny Nash, who’s up-
standing enough to be in a Boy Scout
troop. M-G-M
W here the Hot Wind Blows
GRIMLY AMUSING SHOCKER; ADULT
“Where” is a fishing village in South-
ern Italy — picturesque, all right, but no
place to visit on a vacation. A smell of
decay hangs over the town, and every-
body’s a little odd, or worse. Gina Lollo-
brigida is asked to wear a skimpy dress
(and that’s about all) while scheming
to get out of an old tyrant’s household,
marry a handsome and innocent engi-
neer and evade the clutches of a most un-
charming Yves Montand. People who
are not easily shocked will find some
sharp touches of humor in the peculiar
goings-on. People who are just hunting
for sensation will find plenty of that.
too. M-C-M
Midnight Lace
EYE-SOOTHING, NERVE-FRAZZLING; FAMILY
Now here’s a pretty kettle of fish!
That is, it’s a mystery with gorgeous
clothes, mellow backgrounds — and more
red herrings than ever confused a film
detective before. Question is, who is
frightening poor Doris Day with blood-
curdling threats over the phone? If it
weren’t for this menace, she’d be the
girl with everything; a lovely wardrobe
( designed by Irene ) ; a luxurious Lon-
don flat; a gallant British financier
(Rex Harrison) for a husband; a nice
American aunt ( Myrna Loy ) ; a good-
looking house-builder (John Gavin, with
an uncertain English accent ) next door
and ready to rescue her. But we can’t
help noticing that John is often nervous.
. . . Every man in sight has a quirk or a
motive that makes him a suspect, so
the story gets more and more baffling.
Always a pretty girl, Doris really blooms
as a beauty here. And her helpless-
heroine role is full of hysterics that give
her a dandy chance for emoting. (No
songs for Doris.) u-i, eastman color
8
new liquid makeup...
glows on in seconds.. .lasts for hours ?
Just touch on ANGEL TOUCH — and a light
from within seems to glow through your
skin! It can happen to you! ANGEL TOUCH is
the liquid makeup that gives your complex-
ion the come-touch-me texture , the tender
color , the luminous glow of a girl in love!
In 9 soft-and-subtle shades,
$1. Also available in purse-
size plastic bottle, 59c.
For the finishing touch,
Angel Touch Face Powder
in complementary shades;
try it tonight... people will think youre in love!
All prices plus tax.
©I960. CHESEBROUGH-POND'S INC.
Vampire Fancier
Not too long ago, my friend and I went
to see ‘"Brides of Dracula.” Since I am
interested in vampires, I really enjoyed
the movie.
Now will you please settle a disagree-
ment? My friend said that Robert Cushing
was the Vampire. I say it was David Peel.
Who's correct?
Margaret Rogers
Orange, Texas
You're right. The Vampire, Baron Mein-
ster, was played by David Peel. Peter
Cushing played Doctor Van Helsing. — Ed.
A Fan
I am a fan of Dodie Stevens and would
be very happy if you printed this drawing
of her in your wonderful magazine.
Johnny Ortiz
Long Island City, N. Y.
Guess tv ho this is?
Surprised
Just a short thank-you note for sending
me the wonderful picture of Pat Boone.
I certainly was surprised when I received
it and especially so because I don’t have
that particular photo.
Joan Kirkbright
Rochester, N. Y.
=^£oc! “
ROMANCE that's OVER?
But the secret was out. Was this
“poor Tuesday,” alone by the phone
waiting for Elvis? Now there’s an
inside whisper that El’s the one
wgftk & JL.
carrying the torch for her. And as
this candid camera sees it-when it
comes to romancing Tuesday Weld,
Dick Beymer’s still out in the lead.
59
THE TROY DONAHUE STORY
Merle Johnson couldn’t sleep.
It was 2 A.M. and he sat wearily
with a half-eaten sandwich
before him on the kitch-
en table. “Who wants
food?” he asked
himself and
pushed the plate
away. He wanted
something . . . only he
didn’t know what.
Maybe if he could give
somebody a phone
call? But who do
you call at two in
the morning ?
Keyed up, restless, he shoved
back his chair and walked to the
window . . . again. It looked like
it did ten minutes ago . . . and
twenty . . . and a half hour . . .
and an hour. Dark sky, empty
streets. But at least there was
air out there. Here in
the house he felt
hideously cramped.
Imprisoned. As if
someone had
locked him in and
thrown away the key.
Restless, he got up from
the chair and for the
fourteenth time
walked the short
length of the room
to stare out the
window. He had moved to this
house only a few months before,
but tonight it seemed stuffy,
shutting him (Continued on page 85)
...like
someone
locked
you in and
threw away
the key
r±ii s
What! The wedding dress isn’t here yet?
Here’s the bride — late !
Anybody’d think it
was “life” for Tommy.
To Frank Jr.,
even a small wedding
was a big fuss.
“The wedding album,” Nancy shouted to Tommy. “It’s
here!” And engraved in gold on the white cover was: Nancy
and Tommy Sands, Sept. 12, 1960. Nancy had wanted a
small, quiet wedding and Tommy agreed. So they rushed
the date by two months, and it was hectic . . . the white lace
bridal gown came late . . . she came late. “But aren’t we
lucky?” Nancy smiled. “We’re celebrating our second
anniversary when it might’ve been just our wedding day.”
Tina thought, someday it’ll be me!
Tommy looked as though he’d faint.
A happy ending . . . and it’s only the beginning.
63
will they
ever accept us
any where... or
must we
always live
among
strangers?
GINA LOLLOBRIGIDA
Gina sat in the sunny kitchen, watching her
mother shape the cookies. She’d done this ever
since she was a little girl. The ones with anise,
she liked best. Her mother picked up a cookie
from the batch she’d baked earlier and. handed
it to her grandson, Gina’s little boy, playing
near them. He took it ( Continued on page 76)
Which, hind of bewitchment is yours? Flirt? Angel? Siren?
Only by trying these three Anjou scents can you be sure which one suits you best.
For flirts: SIDE GLANCE
Coquettish, inviting, promising.
For angels: CELESTIAL
A bit of heaven on earth.
Something wonderful happens to you as you envelop yourself in each of these
delightful fragrances. Even your personality seems to change. Blended of
precious imported and domestic essences, each famous Anjou fragrance is
an original creation, unique and long lasting.
Now you can try all three in your home; suit each fragrance to your mood
and the occasion. Wear them different days, see which gets the most compli-
ments. There will be plenty! Choose the one that is made just for you, assured
in your confidence that there is nothing finer, nothing that does more for you.
You’ll be remembered for your scent.
Anjou makes all this possible with this unusual offer. You get all three Eau de
Parfums as shown above — not sample sizes — for only $1.00 postpaid. (Anjou
even pays the U. S. tax) . What an exciting value! What fun! What glamorous
gift ideas! You will find these Anjou fragrances and others at better drug
and department stores throughout the country.
For sirens: DEVASTATING
Daring, wonderfully dangerous.
Offer expires January 31, 1961.
(Please allow several weeks for delivery. Each set mailed separately.)
PARFUMS ANJOU. Dept. PP-13, Batavia, Illinois :
Enclosed is $ ($1.00 for each set of 3 Eau de
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Send sets, postpaid :
Name.
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Address.
City.
-State.
Offergood in U.S. only-expires Jan. 31, 1961. Please allow several weeks for
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can BOBBY DARIIV and « J O - A I\ IV CAMPBELL, make-up their break-up?
what should a girl do when she's
in lore, but: knows deep down---
HE'S AIT, WRONC FOR ME
If you want to fall in love, you’ve got to know that some sunny day you can wake up and
find it’s all over. And that’s when you begin to remember every little thing — painfully.
And think: Where did I fail? Why did it go wrong? Is there anything we could have done
to keep our love from ending like this? Is there anything we can do now to make it up?
That’s the way it is today for Bobby Darin and Jo- Ann Campbell. They’ve broken up, but love
doesn’t end that easily. There’s too much to remember. . . . Jo- Ann had gotten so used to the
uneasy, prickling feeling she had when she was with Bobby, that it was almost a friend. And
when it warned her that this was bad, she tried to ignore it. Because more than anything, she
wanted to be happy. Or try to be. That’s why, on their last day together, she ( Continued on page 73)
67
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WILL I MESS UP
EVERYTHING
AGAIN ?
Continued, from page 30
“Are these men bothering you?” he asked.
For once in my life, I was speechless. He
introduced himself. “My name’s Adam.
Adam Faith.”
I heard the name of England’s number
one young recording artist, but in the noise
and commotion it registered wrong in my
brain.
“Oh, of course, Adam Wade,” I said and
put out my hand. Adam Wade is an Ameri-
can singer. “I know your records, they’re
great.”
“Thank you so much, Miss Stevens,” he
said. And then I knew what I’d done. But
he’d paid me back in my own coin. So we
stood looking at each other till neither
could hold out, and we burst into laughter
together. I flipped! I tried to think of some-
thing clever to say to him, but before I
could open my mouth I was whisked off
to the luncheon table and seated where the
card said “Connie Francis.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Adam
Faith stroll casually down the table.
About ten seats away from mine he picked
up his place card, walked to the place next
to mine and picked up that card. He smiled
at the man to whom it belonged.
“You wouldn’t mind changing seats, old
boy, would you?” The other gentleman
hadn’t much choice. He got up and went
to the place originally set far Adam.
Oh he’s bold and dashing, I thought to
myself. How marvelous! I saw him as a
combination Jimmy Dean, Marlon Brando
and every other fabulous idol rolled into
one. Only now that we were sitting next
to each other he didn’t say a word. And I
couldn’t think of one. We sat like that till
the waiters served lunch.
I had just put a forkful of roast beef in
my mouth when he leaned over and
whispered in my ear, “You’re very pretty.”
I almost choked on the roast beef. I man-
aged to set my fork down and I turned
a bright beet red. He’d come on unexpec-
tedly strong. I was gone, realty gone.
By the time the luncheon was over I
knew I wanted to see Adam .-again. I kept
thinking, “Please let him ask me out . . .
please, please.”
He never had a chance. Suddenly I was
surrounded. Before I even had' time to say
good oye to mm 1 was in a can neaaing
clear across town to a recording studio.
And my heart was down to the bottom of
my shoes.
The same old story
“Here it is again, Connie, my girl,” I
told myself. “The same old story every
time. Meet a boy, get interested, gert him
interested — and it starts. ‘No, Connie, you
can’t go dancing, you know you have an
early appointment tomorrow.’ ‘Go dor a
drive in this rain? Risk a sore throat 'when
you’ve got a recording session tonight?’
‘No, you can’t. . . .’ ‘Connie, I’m sorry but
you know you can’t. . . .’ ” It was like hav-
ing ten different mothers, each one stricter
than the next.
How many boys had all these “You
can’ts” scared out of my life? How many
near romances never even got off the
ground, let alone sail off to Cloud 9! When
was I going to meet the man who’d get a
chance to want to love me? And marry
me?
In my hotel room that night, when I
turned in after a long tough day l was
tired but sleep would not come. In the
other twin bed, Sandy, my secretary-
traveling companion, was already sound
asleep. I shut off the lamp. The room was
dark, except for a sliver of light which
managed to sneak in under the door. I
tried to relax, but my mind was a jumble
of schedules, itineraries, names, places,
faces.
When I was a little girl, I used to shut
myself in my room and tell my troubles
to my stuffed animals, who sat in a row on
my bed. I’d pour out my heart to a fuzzy
panda with amber-glass eyes and a poodle
with a red felt tongue. Now I was sitting
up in a hotel bed, and there were no
amber-glass eyes to comfort me. Only the
emptiness of a hotel room.
At times like this, I was sorely tempted
to ask for help, but I could never quite
bring myself to do it. I had been so amply
blessed, I didn’t have the courage to. ask
for more. How could I say: “Please, dear
God, make me a woman ... let me be
loved . . . send me someone who needs* me,
who makes me feel wanted . . . someone
who is patient and kind . . . who’ll under-
stand this crazy life I lead . . . and love me
enough to realize I’m just like any oither
girl.” I wouldn’t ask, but maybe it would
come in time, anyway. Other things I’d
secretly yearned for had come — why not
love?
But right now all I was asking was a
chance to know this fascinating boy. And
it wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t the
^4/otTHE LENNON SISTERS
on the December Cover of TV RADIO MIRROR
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BOB HOPE • STEVE McQUEEN • MERV GRIFFIN
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type to run alter any gin. i a never Know
if his eyes and smile, his laughter and fun.
were as I remembered.
What could I do?
Three days later I got to my hotel at
ten one night to find a message — he’d
called. I flew to my room and called back.
Perhaps I should have been more re-
strained— but I wasn’t. And when he said,
“I’d like to come over and show you Lon-
don,” I said, “I’d like that.”
I hadn’t rested five minutes since we got
to London. I was exhausted, but the minute
I’d heard his voice I wasn’t. I changed into
a sweater and slacks, since he was the in-
formal type. I came out in the living room
that was empty when I came in, and now
it looked like a convention. Record dealers,
distributors, juke box owners, my manager
George, my secretary Sandy.
There was a knock on the door and I
hurried to answer, hoping it would be
Adam. It was — neatly dressed in a suit,
shirt, tie. He’d made the supreme effort —
and I in slacks! Couldn’t I ever do any-
thing right?
“Are we ready to go?” he asked, and
I whispered, “Soon. I have to talk to these
people, it’s only polite.” He sat on the
couch for half-an-hour and then stood up
“I think I’ll be leaving,” he said — and left.
I was miserable. I’d been so torn be-
tween him and doing my duty — and he
didn’t give me a chance! That night I spent
sleepless hours wondering how I could
have handled it.
The next morning I hoped for a call at
least. It didn’t come. All day passed with
no word from him. In the evening I glumly
went to a recording studio, where I was
to cut a record. Just as I finished I looked
up — and there was Adam. Waiting in the
doorway. Just as if we’d planned it! And
just as casually he walked over and said,
“Connie, I’d like to take you for a drive.
I still want to show you London.”
“Oh yes, Adam,” I said. “I’d love to.
’Night, everybody.”
We were at the door when Sandy called,
“What about that party for Sammy Davis
Jr.? You accepted, Connie.” She was right.
But I knew what to do. Cheerfully, I in-
vited Adam to come along.
“No, Connie,” he said, “I just don’t go
for big crowds and noisy rooms. But you
go, and we’ll have our drive when the
party is over. I’ll pick you up at your hotel
later.”
“For sure, Adam?”
“For sure, Connie.”
But it was 1: 30 A.M. when I walked
into my lobby. And there sat Adam. My
heart skipped a beat, I was so glad to see
him. But I asked timidly, “Is it too late,
Adam?”
He smiled and put his arm around my
shoulder. “This is the most perfect time of
day to go sightseeing.”
Off we went. Adam drove through Lon-
don by night. Through London by fog.
He’d tell me, “Now this is the House of
Lords, Connie,” and I had to take his word
for it, I couldn’t see a thing. And then,
“Here’s Westminster Abbey — you know,
where Princess Margaret got married,” and
I’d say brightly, “Oh, yes indeed, Adam,”
but I couldn’t see any of the famous sights
I’d longed to, with him as a guide. I was
getting frustrated enough to want to cry!
Finally Adam admitted it was “a bit”
thick for sightseeing.
“But I’ve got a capital idea,” he said.
He headed the car around and wouldn’t
tell me where we were going — only that it
was well outside the city. I said a cheer-
ful “Okay.” We might be taking a foolish
risk, but I didn’t care. I breathed deeply f
and sighed, everything was so perfect. We
Continued on page 72
69
Rumors buzzed around Hollywood that Marilyn had left
Arthur Miller because of Yves Montand. She made a mys-
terious weekend trip by plane from
the location of her picture, “Misfits,”
in Reno back to town reportedly
just to see Montand, but even though
they headquartered at the same hotel,
she was unsuccessful. . . . Then the
headlines broke across the country:
“Marilyn Monroe Enters Hospital.”
Word spread that she was at the West
Side Hospital. Further word circu-
p lated that she was in love with Yves Montand. Some
of the hospital employees couldn’t help but note that
she was constantly trying to get Montand on the telephone.
One of them even told this writer that she refused to
even see her husband at first. Pres-
sured and embarrassed by these
reports, Montand let a blast fly at
Marilyn the day he left for Paris. . . .
He was fed up — and let it be known.
“I refused to see Miss Monroe,” he
said frankly, “because there would be
talk, talk and more talk — -and none of
it to any point. Actually, she is an en-
chanting child — a simple girl without
any guile. I enjoyed working with her very much and I have
never known anyone quite like ( Continued on page 87)
70
The small beachside restaurant was crowd-
ed but, still, not one person entering failed
to glance over at the small, pouting girl,
sitting alone at one of the side tables,
tucked away in the corner. She stared sulk-
ily at the menu, occasionally pushed back
her disheveled hair impatiently. She was
tired. On Tuesday, she had announced she
and Jacques were finished. “I will leave
CONFIDENTIAL
him free to decide on the divorce,” she told
her lawyer. But she was depressed. “Per-
haps a few days away from Paris?” her
mother suggested. Today was her birthday.
She hated being twenty-six. “I’m afraid of
getting old,” she told Mercedes Simon, her
girlfriend who joined her later to help her
celebrate. Then, they visited director Clou-
zot. “BB was gay,” he said, “but her moods
change by the moment.” It was difficult to
predict what was to happen. “She was gay ;
she talked of going to New York.” Three
hours later, in the garden, her body was
found, her wrists slashed. “It was terrible,
terrible,” the nurse reported. “She kept
crying, T want to die. I’m tired of it all,
leave me.’ And her baby? She said, ‘My
mother can take care of him. I want to
die.’ ” For the little girl who had every-
thing. there seemed no happy ending. Just
those she finds in her movies. The End
71
OF CURRENT PICTURES
ANGEL WORE RED, THE— M-G-M. Directed
by Nunnally Johnson: Soledad, Ava Gardner;
Arturo Carrera, Dirk Bogarde; Hawthorne, Jo-
seph Gotten; General Clave , Vittorio de Sica;
Canon Rota, Aldo Fabrizi; Insurgent Major,
Arnolda Foa; The Bishop, Finlay Currie.
ANOTHER SKY — Harrison. Directed by Gavin
Lambert: Rose Graham , Victoria Grayson; Selena
P rouse, Catherine Lacey; Michel, Lee Montague;
Ahmed, Ahmed Ben Mahomed; Tayeb, Tayeb.
B UTTERFI ELD 8 — M-G-M. Directed by Daniel
Mann: Gloria Wondrous , Elizabeth Taylor;
Weston Liggett , Laurence Harvey; Steve Car-
penter, Eddie Fisher; Emily Liggett, Dina Mer-
rill; Mrs. Wandrous, Mildred Dunnock; Mrs.
Fanny Thurber, Betty Field; Bingham Smith,
Jeffrey Lynn; Happy, Kay Medford; Norma,
Susan Oliver; Dr. Treadman , George Voskovec;
Clerk, Virginia Downing.
HIGH TIME — 20th. Directed by Blake Ed-
wards: Harvey Howard, Bing Crosby; Gil Cuneo,
Fabian; Joy Elder, Tuesday Weld; Helene Gau-
thier, Nicole Maurey; Bannerman, Richard Bey-
mer; T. J. Padmanagham, Patrick Adiarte;
Randy Pruitt, Yvonne Craig; Higgson, Jimmy
Boyd; Thayer, Gavin MacLeod; President
Tribble, Kenneth McKenna; Laura, Nina Ship-
man; Crump, Paul Schreiber; Harvey Howard,
Jr., Angus Duncan.
INHERIT THE WIND— U. A. Directed by-
Stanley Kramer: Henry Drummond, Spencer
Tracy; Matthew Harrison Brady, Fredric March;
E. K. Hombeck, Gene Kelly; Mrs. Brady, Flor-
ence Eldridge; Bertram T. Cates, Dick York;
Rachel Brozvn, Donna Anderson; Judge, Harry
Morgan; Davenport, Elliott Reid; Mayor, Philip
Coolidge; Reverend Brown , Claude Akins;
Meeker, Paul Hartman; Howard, Jimmy Boyd;
Stebbins, Noah Beery, Jr.; Sillers, Gordon Polk;
Dunlap, Ray Teal; Radio Announcer, Norman
Fell; Mrs. Krebs, Hope Summers.
IT HAPPENED IN BROAD DAYLIGHT—
Continental. Directed by Ladislao Vayjda: In-
spector Matthai, Heinz Ruhmann ; Jacquier,
Michel Simon; Dr. Mane, Roger Livesey;
Sclirott, Gert Frobe; Mrs. Schrott, Berta Drews;
Anne Marie Heller. Anita von Ow; Mrs. Heller,
Maria Rosa Salgado.
KEY WITNESS— M-G-M. Directed by Phil
Karlson: Fred Morrow, Jeffrey Hunter; Ann
M orrozv, Pat Crowley; Cozvboy, Dennis Hopper;
Muggles, Joby Baker; Ruby, Susan Harrison;
Apple. Johnny Nash; Magician, Corey Allen;
Detective Rafael Torno, Frank Silvera; Arthur
Robbins, Bruce Gordon; Gloria Morrow, Terry
Burnham; Phil Morrow, Dennis Holmes.
MIDNIGHT LACE — U-I. Directed by David
Miller; Kit Preston, Doris Day; Tony Preston,
Rex Harrison; Brian Younger, John Gavin; Aunt
Bea, Myrna Loy; Malcolm, Roddy McDowall;
Charles Manning, Herbert Marshall; Peggy
Thompson, Natasha Parry; Inspector Byrnes,
John Williams; Dora, Hermione Baddeley; Dan-
iel Graham, Richard Ney.
SUNRISE AT CAMPOBELLO— Warners. Di-
rected by Vincent J. Donehue; Franklin Delano
Roosezrelt, Ralph Bellamy; Eleanor Roosevelt,
Greer Garson; Louis Howe, Hume Cronyn; Missy
LeHand, Jean Hagen; Sara Roosevelt, Ann Shoe-
maker; Alfred E. Smith, Alan Bunce; James,
Tim Considine; Anna, Zina Bethune; Dr. Ben-
nett, Frank Ferguson; Elliott, Pat Close; Frank-
lin, Jr., Robin YVarga; John, Tom Carty.
TEN WHO DARED — Buena Vista. Directed by
William Beaudine: John Wesley Powell, John
Beal; Walter Powell, James Drury; Bill Dunn,
Brian Keith; Oramel Howland, R. G. Armstrong;
George Bradley, Ben Johnson; Billy Hazvkins,
L. Q. Jones; Jack Sumner, Dan Sheridan; Andy
Hall, David Stollery; Seneca Hozvland, Stan
Jones; Frank Goodman, David Frankham.
WHERE THE HOT WIND BLOWS— M-G-M.
Directed by Jules Dassin: Marietta, Gina Lollo-
P brigida; Brigante, Yves Montand; Don Cesare,
Pierre Brasseur; The Engineer, Marcello Mastro-
ianni; Donna Lucrezia, Melina Mercouri; Tonio,
Paolo Stoppa; Francesco, Raf Mattioli.
^onnnuea jrom page oy
couldn’t be more alone. I looked over at
him, driving intently, the blond hair fall-
ing over his forehead. It was chilly and
gently he put his arm around me and
drew me closer to him. I sat snuggled
next to him as we drove through a city
gone to sleep, and then out to the country.
I wanted to pinch myself to see if it was
really happening to me! My gosh, how far
away from Newark, New Jersey, U.S.A.,
can you get?
Finally Adam said we had arrived, but
all I could see through the mist was what
appeared to be an enormous barn. He took
my hand, and suddenly someone flashed
a blinding light in our faces. Adam said,
“Ah, there you are, Harry. Can you let
us into the studio?”
So that was the surprise. We were at
the studio where Adam made his pictures.
At 3 o’clock in the morning!
Harry, the night watchman, swung open
the gates and in we went, still hand in
hand. We walked down streets and on to
stages where make-believe is made. Only
at that moment, with just the two of us,
it was more reality than I’d ever known.
I held his hand tight and said a silent
prayer. “Please God, don’t let anything
come between us, or ever change the
beauty of tonight. Don’t let me do any-
thing to lose him . . . please make him
like me — for always.”
When I’d seen all of the studio and we
drove back, we talked softly of our hopes
and dreams and families, and what we
wanted out of life. We got to my hotel
and walked into the lobby, still on a cloud,
still holding hands, still in a dream.
And my manager came charging at me
like a panicky father!
“Connie!” he shouted, so loud that
people turned and stared at us. “Connie,
thank heavens you’re okay!”
“I’m fine,” I said dreamily. But poor
Adam stood looking terribly guilty.
“I’m afraid it was my fault,” he said. “I
didn’t realize it was so late.”
“Late!” George cried — and now he
sounded more like a panicky mother. “I
was just going to call the police.” He said
to me reproachfully, “I had visions of you
lying in a ditch somewhere, robbed of
your jewelry and hit on the head!”
I began to laugh. “George, you know
the only jewelry I own is this little charm
bracelet.”
George admitted, “I was so worried I
didn’t think straight.” He looked sheep-
ish. But it was nothing to how uncom-
fortable Adam looked, standing there with
this debate going on. We ended up saying
a very public good night in the lobby.
Shaking hands! After we’d been so close!
And tomorrow — no, it was today already —
Adam had an unavoidable business
luncheon, just when I had a few free
hours for the first time! And by the next
dawn I’d be on the plane for home.
It seemed I’d been asleep no more than
a few hours when I was wide awake
again. I know what I’ll do, I thought,
mournfully, I’ll get up and go see London
by myself, it’s my last chance.
The shades were drawn for darkness. I
didn’t want to put on a light and wake
Sandy, so I groped in the dark for some
kind of an outfit. When I slipped into the
living room to put it on and saw what
I had assembled, I nearly flipped. Besides
underwear — one pair of tight striped
Capri pants. One blouse with my name
monogrammed large as life, “Connie F.”
And one pair of very high heeled plat-
form sandals! What an outfit for sightsee-
ing in sedate old London!
Oh, but what’s the difference, I thought
sadly. I’ll only be with me.
That was when the knock came, and I
i opened the door. Adam! Wasn’t he the
one tor surprises' loud think he never
heard of the telephone — but I was so glad
to see him!
“Are you on your way to the luncheon?"
I asked.
“I’m jilting my luncheon,” he said em-
phatically. “I’m showing you London if it’s
the last thing I do.”
“Wonderful!” I said. “Just give me five
little minutes and I’ll change into some-
thing more suitable.”
“No five minutes!” he said flatly. “In five
minutes this place can fill up like the
Palladium!” He grabbed me by the hand,
pulled me out of the suite — and off we
went!
What a day! He walked me about on
those high heels of mine. He showed me
Westminster Abbey and the Tower of
London and Big Ben and the Houses of
Parliament. We sat on the steps of St.
Paul’s and we sat under the Sphinx while
he pointed out Cleopatra’s Needle. He
showed me the thrilling statue of Richard
the Lion-hearted that I’d read about in
school. He waited patiently while I talked
to a bobby on duty so i could tell the
cops back home that I had. He bought us
ice cream cornets and we ate them on a
bench with a pair of “old ’uns” who’d
never heard of either of us, that was for
sure — they left us refreshingly alone. In
the end we were discovered by a crowd
of “young ’uns” who wanted autographs.
But by then we didn’t mind, we’d had our
sightseeing tour, and it was something I’d
never forget as long as I lived. Because
Adam was the guide.
And then it was over! Before I knew
it I was in my hotel room packing my
clothes, my awards, my souvenirs, my
music arrangements. Then off in a cab to
the airport. I was on the move again,
headed away from London . . . going away
from Adam. I walked aboard the plane
as if my feet were made of cement.
“Fasten your seat belts, please.”
We were taking off. Soon England was
only a distant speck of green and blue
and earth-brown patches. I looked out the
window and wouldn't turn my head or
Sandy might see the tears. I asked myself,
how many Johnnies and Joes and Jims
and Adams will there be in my life be-
fore I settle with one? How many brief
encounters? Meeting someone new, get-
ting acquainted, exchanging a kiss and
then off again to board another plane or
train. To unpack in another hotel room.
To stand in the spotlight and sing from
a lonely heart all about love . . . but not
know about it. . . .
And yet — ever since I left England,
Adam and I have been writing to each
other nearly every day. We’ve talked
long-distance, too. And we’ve made a
pact! If I don’t go back to London soon,
Adam is coming to America! The thought
of it excites and frightens me at the same
time. Never before have I been able to
sustain a relationship like this. Always I
was too young . . . too busy . . . too re-
stricted . . . too this or too that. There
was an Iron Curtain around my heart —
and I didn’t put it there. Everybody else
did it for me!
But Adam broke through all that bar-
rier stuff. This is what’s wonderful about
him, he didn’t let himself get scared off.
The hoopla in my life can be so dreadful —
I’ve lost more boys that way! But I hope
not him — not the boy who gave me tbe
glorious feeling of being wanted.
I’m going to see Adam again, I just
know it — and oh, how I hope I don’t do
anything to spoil it. I’m keeping all my
fingers crossed! The End
BE SURE TO SEE CONNIE IN “WHERE THE BOYS
ARE” FOR M-G-M, AND HEAR HER SING ON
M-G-M. WATCH FOR ADAM IN “NEVER LET GO.”
72
F
HE’S ALL WRONG
FOR ME
Continued from page 67
could honestly believe that everything
was going to be all right. They were to-
gether, and that’s what counted most.
Smiling playfully, holding on to him,
she let his easy charm fill her with assur-
ance. When you love a guy and you know
he loves you, how can anything be wrong?
And she did love him — even if it was
hard sometimes for her to show it. But
this once, with all her fears behind her,
she’d tell him how she wanted to be with
him all the time. How she never felt really
good unless he was there. How she was
never so happy before in her whole life.
But it couldn’t stay that way. Because
he was Bobby Darin and she was Jo- Ann
Campbell and they just couldn’t stay
happy together for long.
She was close in his arms, and feeling
that here was where she belonged.
“Jo- Jo,” he said, “let’s not wait any
more. Let’s get married right away.”
There, she felt the prickle again.
“Bobby, you know we can’t get married
now. We both have so much to do yet, and
we need time . . . and . . .” This wasn’t
all of what troubled her, or even the most
important part — but it was the easiest to
put into words, so she said it. And he
argued against it.
“Jo-Jo, forget your career. Come with
me.”
There again — the prickling, uneasy
feeling. Tell him now, she knew. Tell him
the truth about how you feel, how un-
happy you’ve been, how you know it can
never work.
“I can’t marry you, Bobby. I love you,
I really do, but it’s not enough. We’re
just too different. You’re . . . you’re all
wrong for me.”
That’s how it was— their last day to-
gether. Today the uneasy feeling has left
her — but so has Bobby. She had at last
said the words that broke them up, and
now she spends much of her time remem-
bering. She remembers the first year of
their romance that was so happy and close.
And she remembers the last year and a
half that was, as she will tell you, “pretty
much of a drag.”
Too many parties
Most of all, she remembers too many
parties.
Every morning Jo- Ann would tell her-
self, tonight I’m going to see Bobby and
tonight I’m going to make him, ask him,
to just go for a long drive with me. We’ve
never done a nice, simple thing like that.
We’ll just drive and talk and talk and
drive. The two of us alone for once.
And then Bobby would phone. He’d tell
her, “Honey, get out your prettiest dress.
Tonight we’re going to a very big, very
important party.”
“Oh, Bobby, do we have to? You know
I want to be with just you.”
“Yes, Honey, it’s for business.”
So she’d go with Bobby and all eve-
ning she’d sit off to one side and wait
for him to get back to her from all the
important people he had to talk to. She
sat with a determined smile frozen on her
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81
THE WHISPERS
ABOUT PRINCESS
GRACE
Continued from page 23
secret which everyone but John Kelly
knew: He was dying from cancer. But
among themselves they constantly whis-
pered: Why wasn’t Prince Rainier with
Princess Grace? Why wasn’t he at his
wife’s side when she needed him most?
During the next couple of weeks Prin-
cess Grace played a more difficult and
demanding role than she’d ever had in
the movies. To newspapermen she said,
“My father is looking very well,” and
she even managed to smile. The journal-
ists, who knew the worst about her father,
almost believed her. And because she was
lovely and brave, they kept out of their
papers all hints that her father’s condition
was fatal.
But while all of them became her pro-
tectors and accomplices in the tragic game
she was playing for his benefit, some of
them were not so considerate and gallant
about the other role they thought she was
playing — the role of the unhappy wife.
They speculated, in print, about why
Prince Rainier wasn’t there. They said it
in many different ways, but it all added
up to the same thing: he wasn’t at his
wife’s side because he didn’t want to be;
the Prince and the Princess had quarreled
bitterly and weren’t speaking to each
other; there’d been no contact between
Philadelphia and Monaco since she had
arrived to be with her father.
The rumor quieted down when Princess
Grace left her dad’s bedside and re-
turned to Monaco and to her husband.
But when her father died at the end of
June it erupted again. One columnist
wrote: “Princess Grace is extremely hurt
and angry at her husband. Prince Ranier,
because he forced her to return to Monte
Carlo from Philadelphia June 13 when
her father was still a very sick man. One
week later, millionaire contractor John B.
Kelly died and Grace and Rainier could
only return to the U.S. in time for the
funeral. All her life, Grace had been de-
voted to her father. This absence from
John Kelly’s bedside during his last mo-
ments on earth is something she can never
forgive herself and neither can she for-
give her husband. She believes Rainier
should have let her stay on in the U.S.
until she saw what turn her father’s very
serious illness would take.”
When it’s too late
When Princess Grace stepped off the
Pan American jet airliner at Idlewild Air-
port, on the way to her father’s funeral,
Prince Rainier was with her. The Princess
was dressed in a black sleeveless dress,
black hat and black shoes. As the Prince
walked by her side, supporting her with
his arm, one reporter murmured to an-
other, “Now he’s here . . . when it’s too
late.”
At the funeral in Holy Sepulchre Ceme-
tery in Cheltenham Township, just outside
of Philadelphia, Princess Grace and
Prince Rainier stood side by side under a
canopy in a heavy rain, as the body of her
father was lowered into his grave. The
Princess did not look at or speak to her
husband. From behind dark glasses, she
kept her gaze fixed on the bronze casket
and occasionally dabbed her cheeks with
a handkerchief. When her turn came,
along with the rest of the family, to
sprinkle Holy Water on the coffin from a
gold hyssop, she almost slumped over the
casket. The Prince reached out his hand
to support her, but she straightened up as
his fingers neared her arm, and he let his
hand drop limply by his side.
The second ugly rumor wasn’t confined
to newspapermen and those close to the
royal family, although it was a news-
paper headline and story that sparked it.
The headline was harsh and to the point:
Grace’s Father Cuts Off Rainier, Leaves
All To Widow And “Kids.” The story
stated that not only had John Kelly cut
off his son-in-law without a nickel, but
that his will further stipulated that were
Grace to die, her share was to go directly
to her children. If there were no children,
it was to revert to her brother and sisters.
The rumor-mongers said that Grace’s
father had reached out from beyond the
grave to slap his son-in-law’s face. He
must have known that something was
wrong between the royal couple, they
said.
But the gossips didn’t stop at this.
They dredged up old charges and old ac-
cusations against the Prince, accusations
and charges that had been forgotten as
long as Grace and Rainier seemed to be
happy and deeply in love.
The Prince had gone fortune-hunting
and wife-hunting they asserted, armed
with a long list of eligible, beautiful and
rich women. Grace Kelly’s name was high
on the list. She was certainly beautiful.
There was no reason to doubt that she
would bear him children, the heir that
would inherit his throne and carry on his
name. This part of the bargain (and the
gossips openly labeled it a “bargain”) was
extremely important, for, under the terms
of a 1918 treaty with France, Monaco’s
independence was guaranteed only as
long as the throne was not vacant. If there
were no male heir, the little kingdom
would become a French protectorate and
the 23,000 citizens of the country would no
longer enjoy freedom from income taxes
and exemption from military service. But
most important of all, according to the
gossips, Grace was wealthy: the Kellys
would settle a handsome dowry on her and
guarantee financial aid to both the Prince’s
empty personal pocketbook and to the
shaky economy of his almost bankrupt
country.
As for Grace’s part of the bargain, the
rumor spreaders pointed out that she had
realized every girl’s dreams. By marrying
the Prince, the ex-bricklayer’s daughter
from Philadelphia had become a Princess.
And what’s more, she’d really fallen in
love.
Shrewd John Kelly had seen through
the Prince at once, gossips said. But as
long as his daughter seemed happy with
Rainier, he’d given his blessings to the
marriage. But once he learned that Grace
and Rainier were on the outs, he’d made
a new will and pulled the financial rug
from under his son-in-law’s feet.
Separation!
Hardly had the ink dried on the head-
lines announcing that Rainier had been
completely left out of John Kelly’s will,
when new headlines appeared that seemed
to back up all the gossips had claimed.
Grace Flies Off — Alone, one of them read:
Grace. Rainier Rift? Fly Home Separately.
another one blared.
The scene at International Airport was
confusing, to say the least. The Prince ar-
rived at the airport first, without Grace,
and tried to evade reporters and photog-
raphers by running to the TWA jet that
was waiting for him. But the newsmen
took a short cut and were clustered
around the boarding steps when Rainier,
juggling his attache case in one hand and
his topcoat in the other, puffed up to
the plane.
A reporter popped the question to which
everyone wanted the answer. “Your Ex-
cellency,” he asked, “is it true that the
Princess is angry because you made her
return home when her father was seri-
ously ill?”
“Well, you read the columns,” the Prince
snapped back, “I don’t.”
“What about the will? What do you
think about her father’s will?” the re-
porter persisted.
But the Prince’s short, angry answer
was lost in the noise of the plane’s engines
revving up and the clatter of Rainier’s
heels as he hurried up the steps. The re-
porters and photographers turned expect-
antly back toward the entrance gate of
the field, expecting to see Princess Grace
making a last-minute dash for the plane,
but she did not come.
Exactly at 10: 44 P.M., the jet took to the
sky. Prince Rainier sat alone, in a double
seat, without his wife.
Most of the newsmen had called it a
night and gone home when Princess Grace
finally showed up at the airport. She had
time to pose for pictures. She had time to
smile at the cameras. But when questioned
about her domestic problem with her
husband, she suddenly reverted to a
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woman’s peculiar logic and said, “I really
don’t have time.”
She fended off all other questions, and
stood patiently by, nose buried in a book,
until it was time to board the Pan Ameri-
can World Airways plane that was to take
her directly to Nice on her way back to
her children. But one woman reporter cut
through the impression of calm and con-
fidence Princess Grace had made on the
crowd. “Did you notice,” she asked, as
the airliner took off at 1: 57 A.M. into the
night, “that the book she was reading was
upside down?”
Prince Rainier’s plane did not take him
toward Monaco. It carried him to Paris,
“for business reasons,” instead. While
there he did something that set the
eager tongues of international society
to wagging, and the gossips smirked in
satisfaction, insisting that his action proved
that there was serious trouble between
him and Princess Grace. He bought a
new sports car, the first that he’d had
since his wedding in 1956, a streamlined,
sleek, swift job capable of doing 136 miles
an hour.
What was so special about a man buy-
ing a racing car? Nothing — if it had been
any other man but Rainier. For Rainier,
whom his admirers once had called “Le
Prince Sportif” (The Prince of Sports)
and whom his critics had labeled “The
Playboy Prince,” had given up danger
when he married Grace Kelly. Danger, for
Rainier, included sports-car racing, skin-
diving, hunting, skiing and the pursuit of
beautiful women. Not too long before
Grace’s father became ill Rainier had said,
“You can’t be a gay blade all your life. I
used to think in a sports-car manner, but
now I think in station wagons.”
Tired of marriage?
Was the Prince fed up with a slow
domestic pace? the gossips asked. Was he
trying to get away from his troubles with
his wife and return to the world of speed
and danger? Was he tired of being hus-
band, father and monarch, and did he
want once again to be the daredevil Play-
boy Prince?
Friends close to the royal family re-
called his skin-diving exploits in the
shark-infested Red Sea, just after World
War II. One day, four of five men shot
at a fish and missed. The arrow lodged at
the bottom of the ocean, and one by one
the divers went down for it. But the
water was too deep and the pressure too
intense. All failed, including Rainier.
They were about to give up, when the
Prince insisted on diving once again. Down
he plunged to the bottom. He stayed sub-
merged so long that the rest were worried.
They knew that he was the type of man
who, once he decides to do something, will
do it or kill himself in the attempt.
After a frighteningly long time, Rainier
came up to the surface. He was gasping
for air. His eyes were glazed and blood-
shot. But in his right hand he clutched the
arrow.
It was as a sports-car driver, however,
that he’d taken the wildest chances and
almost met his death. Once, during the
Auto Tour of France — a 5,000-mile, seven-
day race rally — his DB racer shot off the
road and hit a tree. Rainier’s knee was
driven into the dashboard by the impact,
and his car was demolished. Miraculously,
he and his mechanic walked away from
the wreckage.
So serious was the Prince about his
l acing that he took special driving lessons
from Louis Chiron, a citizen of Monaco
who was a former world champion race
driver. “He drove very well,” said Chiron
about his pupil. “A shade too fast perhaps,
but quite skillfully.”
The rumor-mongers remembered some-
thing else: the time that the Prince’s love
of sports-car racing and fondness for
beautiful women combined in one near
tragic episode. The woman was Giselle
Pascal, a French movie actress whom he
wanted to marry. Once, the gossips re-
called, she left him to fall in love with
Yves Montand, the French actor-singer.
The Prince, a man of action, jumped into
his red Jaguar and raced from Monaco to
Paris to get her back. On the way, he
smashed up his car. Undismayed and un-
injured, he continued on to Paris and
snatched Giselle away from the party
where her engagement to Montand was
being celebrated. She returned with him to
her home on the Riviera, not far from
Monaco.
The Prince’s enemies took this occa-
sion to repeat also the old piece of gossip,
which everyone had long since forgotten,
that Rainier had broken off with Giselle in
1953, after a six-year romance, when
doctors warned him she could not have a
child.
Now, the gossips said, the Prince was
writhing under the restraints of domestic-
ity. The new sports car was a symbol of
his desire and need for freedom. One mag-
azine even went so far as to declare that
Princess Grace and Prince Rainier were
considering a divorce.
The trickle of rumors had become a
flood. Seeking to sift fact from rumor, and
truth from gossip, Photoplay tried to find
out what was really happening. This is
what we discovered.
The truth behind the rumors
The telephone call from Grace’s mother
in Philadelphia to Monaco, telling her
daughter of John Kelly’s serious illness,
came through on the day of Prince Rai-
nier’s birthday. The Princess was reluctant
to leave her husband on that special day,
but he insisted she go immediately to her
father. It was impossible for him to ac-
company her. He was her loving husband,
but he was also the head of a State, with
official duties and problems that he just
could not put aside at a moment’s notice,
no matter how much he wished to.
There was contact between Grace and
Rainier during the tragic days she spent
at her father’s bedside. In fact, the Prin-
cess talked to her husband by telephone
almost every day, and to the children, too.
In a sense, bj remaining in Monaco, Prince
Rainier was also playing a helping role.
John Kelly was aware of how busy his
son-in-law was, how many responsibili-
ties and problems were on his shoulders.
A sudden appearance in Philadelphia
would have made his father-in-law un-
duly suspicious and anxious.
Rainer had been cut off without a nickel
in John Kelly’s will, but so had the other
two sons-in-law. Kelly’s decision was a
matter of principle, not prejudice. His will
said specifically, “I don’t want to give the
impression that I am against sons-in-law.
If they are the right type, they will pro-
vide for themselves and their families and
what I am able to give my daughters will
pay the dress shop bills which, if they
continue as they have started out, under
the able tutelage of their mother, will be
quite considerable.”
There never had been a dowry or talk
of a dowry. There never had been a
promise of financial aid to Monaco, or to
the Prince personally. Far from being
the impoverished monarch in search of a
fortune that the gossips painted him,
Rainier, according to a reliable source
very close to the situation, is “several
times a millionaire.” The State of Monaco
gives him $300,000 annually, as well as
paying the expenses for the court and
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palace, furthermore. Rainier has exten-
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The Prince did go looking for a beauti-
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his name, but this search and this desire
are hardly reserved for princes. What is
fortunate is that he found the girl he was
looking for, and that he fell in love with
her immediately.
Father Francis Tucker, the Prince’s per-
sonal chaplain, is the authority for the
fact that Rainier fell head over heels in
love with Grace. “As for Grace’s first
meeting with Prince Rainier at the pal-
ace,” Father Tucker said, “he called me
here at my rectory on the phone the eve-
ning they met and he said, ‘I’ve met
somebody. I think she’s the one.’” Father
Tucker stated that for the Prince it had
been love at first sight.
The Prince himself had declared, “I will
not marry except for love. I will not agree
to a loveless marriage of convenience.”
Rainier and Grace had returned to
Europe in different planes, after Grace’s
father’s funeral, not because they’d quar-
reled or were on the outs or were con-
templating a divorce, but as a simple pre-
caution “for the children’s sake.” If they
were on separate planes and one of the
aircraft crashed, little Caroline and Albert
wouldn’t be left completely parentless.
Ironically enough, when Rainier’s four-
motored plane landed in Paris, fire en-
gines streaked alongside the jet that had
brought him from New York. The pilot
had wired ahead that one of his tires
might be flat and had asked that ambu-
lances and fire engines stand by. For-
tunately for the Prince, and for Grace and
the children, the landing was perfect.
There was one loose end to tie up. The
new sports-car — what did it mean in their
lives? We found our answer in the palace
garage. The new car was there all right,
low-slung, sleek and powerful.
But next to it was another new car, a
miniature one-seater. It stood like a re-
minder to the big car’s driver to “take it
easy” on the road. Prince Rainer, an ex-
pert mechanic, had made it himself — even
as American fathers make miniature hot-
rods for their sons with lawn-mower mo-
tors for an engine.
The little car is for Albert when he’s
ready. Some day a grown-up Crown
Prince will learn the thrill of speed — and
the even greater thrill of controlling speed.
This is a gift and a lesson rolled into one
— a father’s gift to his son — with love.
There is love in the family. This
was clear at a party in the palace gar-
dens for visiting dignitaries recently. For
a while, little Princess Caroline and
little Prince Albert were on their best
behavior. Albert stuck close by his father
and Caroline wouldn’t let loose of her
mother’s hand. Then Albert spied the
hors d’oeuvres. Like any little boy any-
where in the world, he n.Dde straight for
the food, and soon he was stuffing tiny
sandwich after sandwich in his mouth.
Grace started toward him, but the
Prince shook his head and she stopped.
They looked at the boy, then they looked
at each other. Their look reflected the
bewilderment of parents everywhere in
the face of the antics and actions of their
children. More than this, their look
seemed to reveal something else — the love
they felt for each other.— Jim Hoffman
DEBBIE’S GIFT
Continued from page 15
an unscrupulous wolf ... a man who buys
wives like other men buy the groceries for
their families on Saturday afternoon. We
don’t swallow those stories because we
know from bitter experience that people
who know the fewest facts are the ones
who spread the most vicious rumors. They
may know that he’s been married four
times. But who — outside of the husband
and wife involved — ever really knows why
a marriage goes wrong? Or what a man
does to try and save it when he sees it
heading for the rocks?
“He’s a rich playboy, they say. We’ve
never met Harry, but we don’t see how
a man who works at running a big business
can be classed as a playboy. And I remem-
ber reading in the papers, at the time he
was picked for Mr. Philanthropy of Los
Angeles, that he’d given more than two
million to charity. Since when does a
playboy give his money away to charity?
And one of his good causes, we’ve been
told by friends, goes completely unpub-
licized. We think it’s pretty swell, in this
day and age of ballyhoo, for a man to
quietly slip off to a run-down, out-of-the-
way section of town and play Santa Claus
to a bunch of homeless kids at the Fran-
ciscan Sisters’. The way we’ve heard it,
that’s what your Harry does every Christ-
mas— gives out toys and turkeys and
clothes — including shoes, of course — to
every child there.
“Debbie, the most important thing I have
to say is the hardest to put into words.
You know how much I miss Carrie and
Todd, and how much their happiness and
well-being means to me. I love my chil-
dren, and I’m grateful to you that what-
ever happened between us, you never let
it spoil the feeling between them and their
father. So naturally, whenever I see a
statement anywhere from you that Harry
Karl is very kind to them, and they look
on him as their good friend, it’s a load off
my heart. You’ve been a good mother to
the children, you’ve always put their wel-
fare first, and I can’t see you doing any
differently now about such a big thing as
marriage. If Carrie and Todd like Harry,
it gives me pleasure. Because children
have an instinct for who’s good and who
isn’t. Children have a way of knowing.
“I hope you don’t mind our saying all
this to you, Debbie — but we felt that some-
one ought to, and maybe we were the best
qualified after all. We sincerely hope that
no matter what strangers say to trouble
you, you’ll only listen to your own heart.
Let it be your guide and in the end it will
bring you happiness.”
This is the gift that Photoplay’s readers
wished Eddie would send Debbie. “A
friendly letter would be the most beauti-
ful wedding gift Eddie and Liz could give
her,” wrote Helen M. of Nashville. And
Mrs. Vera B. of Tampa wrote, “It’s only
right, at a time like this, to let by-gones
be by-gones and for Eddie and Liz to send
Debbie a word of encouragement.”
We thought about it. We thought of some
of the things that Eddie has said concern-
ing Debbie’s talked-about marriage. “We’ve
never met Harry Karl . . . but for Debbie
to choose him ... he must be a fine man.”
And “. . . children have a way of know-
ing . . .”
We thought of all the things you wrote
and all the things you wished for Debbie.
And this is it, all rolled up into one letter.
The wedding present you wanted most for
Debbie.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Eddie and
Liz did send it — or something very like it?
The End
See Liz and Eddie in M-G-M’s “Butter-
field 8.” Watch for Liz in 20th’s “Cleo-
patra.” See Debbie in Par.’s “Pleasure
of His Company.” Hear her sing on Dot.
Watch for her in “Pepe” for Columbia.
TRAPPED
Continued from page 61
away from everything he wanted. He
thought of getting dressed and going out
for a walk. Then he changed his mind.
Abruptly he turned away from the win-
dow.
“What am I looking for . . .” he said
aloud, and then added, “I’m looking for —
looking for —
“For myself.”
The words made no sound; his voice had
died away. But they hung in the air, un-
fading.
“I’m looking for myself.” It sounded
stupid, yet he knew there comes a time
when every person must try to understand
himself.
But, he thought, how? He went toward
the kitchen for something to eat. But he
wasn’t hungry. Slowly, he crossed the hall
to the spare bedroom, switched on the
light and stood for another moment, star-
ing down at a black machine on a roll-
away table. His typewriter. He pulled off
the cover, sat down. Then he inserted a
sheet of yellow paper between the rollers.
Pecking with two fingers at the keys, he
began to type:
Troy Donahue — A Portrait by Merle
Johnson.
He sat back and looked at the words.
Then he shook his head. No, if you’re
trying to understand somebody, you look
at who he’s grown into. He was born Merle
Johnson, now he was Troy Donahue — prob-
ably a blend of both. He neatly xxxx’ed
out the title and typed:
Troy Donahue — A Portrait by Troy
Donahue.
That was more like it. From then on he
typed steadily. And this is what he wrote:
Personality
Troy Donahue likes to think that he’s
more than a guy with even features and
a California bronze. He hopes that if you
talk to him you’ll find him more mature
than he looks on screen. He hopes this be-
cause, in his book, wisdom and under-
standing rate high.
He also gives a more sophisticated im-
pression. He has no nervous habits at the
table, he sits quiet and relaxed, doesn’t
fool with the silver or make pleats in the
napkin. And he believes in keeping up
niceties — like asking his date what she
would like and passing the order to the
waiter for her.
Money
He likes it. “Let people say what they
like, money buys a lot of happiness; it
can buy you the things you want, the
time to enjoy them. It gives you extra
opportunities to share things with the
people you love.” This is what he believes.
Earning more money is one of the things
he likes about his success. (Though not
necessarily the most important.)
He admits he is a soft touch. “Not
often — but too often!” He sometimes
hands out more than he can afford. Just
before coming to New York, he took his
sister to Jax in Hollywood to buy her
some new fall clothes. “I meant to spend
about a hundred dollars. I ended up
spending five hundred. I couldn’t help it.
My sister is very beautiful — how could I
not buy her the things she looked so
lovely in?” he told his business manager
who shouted the roof down when he found
out. But Troy shouted louder.
His greatest personal extravagance is
his clothes. He loves them. He spends
more on sport clothes than dress-wear,
but that’s because he lives in Hollywood,
where he needs casual things. He’s one
guy who admits he loves to get dressed
up, that he owns a tux and a full dress
suit and enjoys wearing them and spend-
ing money on a fancy date.
On the other hand, he’s managed with-
out money, too. During his starving-
young-actor days in New York, he had
almost nothing.
But it wasn’t rough, not really. “You
see, you set your standards by what you
think you can have — not just what you
want,” he’d told his sister once. “If you do
that, you get by without being unhappy
at all. I did. But (with a grin) it’s a lot
better now!”
His fans
He thinks his fans are terrific. “I love
them. I love it when they recognize me
on the street,” he has often said. He likes
to give autographs and usually asks the
fan’s first name, so he can sign, “To Susie,
Best Wishes Always, Troy Donahue.” “It’s
funny though,” he said, “the younger ones
just want me to sign, ‘Always — Troy.’ So
I do.”
Most embarrassing experience
The time he took a girl to a party
where there was another girl he was
dating. About the middle of the evening,
he forgot which girl he’d brought! It was
horrible. And who had to get him
straightened out? He still winces when
he thinks about it. The girl he brought.
She — er — mentioned it to the other girl.
But the story had a happy ending. He was
forgiven and later dated both girls.
Fondest memory
Or, at least, among the fondest was the
day he realized dreams could come true.
The funny thing was, it wasn’t a day on
which he was given some great part, or
fell in love, or anything like that. It hap-
pened two-and-a-half years ago when his
career was beginning to show some pro-
gress. He was spending a day in Ensenada
with a friend, and at sunset he found him-
self alone, sitting by the swimming pool.
“There was Mexican music being played a
little way away, and I’d spent the whole
day in the sun and now — it was very still.
Suddenly I felt as if I were six feet away,
looking at myself — and I knew then that
things were going to work out. I felt a very
deep content,” he tried to explain to his
mother later.
Politics
He takes the state of the world seri-
ously, but doesn’t see what he can do
about anything. He votes, but with the
knowledge that most people — including
himself — don’t know enough to cast their
votes intelligently. “But I try,” he said.
“I read the newspapers every day and as
many books as I can.”
Sleep
He loves it. On vacation he’s likely to
sleep all night in bed, and most of the
day in the sun. When working, he usually
gets up at 6 A.M., to make a 7 A.M. call,
goes to sleep at 11 or 11:30 P.M. He doesn’t
feel that the hours when one is asleep are
hours lost from living.
Food
He cooks breakfast, skips it or eats it
out, depending on how he feels and how
much time he has. He’ll eat cooked cereal
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or bacon and eggs or hotcakes and sau-
sages, fruit juice or tomato juice — but not
all of those things together, and almost
never coffee, which he doesn’t like. He’s
not moody in the morning, and wakes up
instantly. Other meals he may cook for
himself or eat out; if he’s home he eats
while watching TV. If he’s going to eat
out alone, he picks special places where
he knows that he’ll feel comfortable even
if alone.
Idols
At five years old, it was Errol Flynn.
At nine, it was Bill Holden, Gary Coop-
er. Gregory Peck. Later, Sir Laurence
Olivier, Alec Guinness, Marlon Brando,
Jennifer Jones, Marilyn Monroe. He’s met
very few of them, and would like to very
much. He once told a friend, “You know
who I’d like to have met? Jimmy Dean.
He was a very big influence on me as an
actor — not in how he did things, but in
what could be achieved.” Another one he
wants to meet is Elvis Presley. “He’s a
completely creative person. He’s still the
most important entertainment figure in the
world today, and he’s going to be more
so. He’s going to be a major everything.
That I’m sure of.”
What he believes
Basically, it comes to this: Things and
happenings are not in themselves good or
bad; it’s what you do with them that
makes them right or wrong, good or evil.
That’s what Troy believes.
Moods
Once he was asked, “Are you moody?”
He considered. Finally he said: “I don’t
think so. But I’ll admit that other people
might!”
The explanation is simple. He does have
moods, strong ones, but usually he knows
why. “If, for some reason, I’m down and
can’t finger the reason — then I really get
depressed! But it hardly ever happens.
Thank goodness.”
What makes him happy
What triggers it? “Girls, girls, girls! Or
career progress — that includes writing,
you know. Or a pat on the back from
someone I admire.”
When he’s happy, he’s a living Keystone
Comedy, he says. Liable to sing while
driving, talk a blue streak, beam at the
world.
Hobbies
It’s hardly fair to call his hobbies “hob-
bies.” They’re very much a part of his
life, not set apart as diversions. He hopes
that writing, the most important of them,
will occupy more and more of his time.
“But that doesn’t mean I want to give up
acting. Why give up something you love?
You just do more. You don’t take away,
you add.”
He’s been writing for years, and has
sold a number of short stories — he’d rather
not say to whom. But one story was sold
a long time ago to a publisher who hasn’t
yet used it; he expects it to be printed
sooner or later. It will appear under his
real name, Merle Johnson, so make sure
you watch for it.
Most of his stories are impressionistic —
some are even fantasy, but fantasy firmly
rooted in this world. He doesn’t plan them
out too thoroughly before sitting down to
write — but he revises extensively. “I have
to. I can’t read my own handwriting, so I
have to do a lot of it over!” Lately, he’s
tried a couple of screenplays, too, and
found them rough going. He hasn’t tried
to sell anything lately because he hasn’t
sufficient time to write or push his works.
“You can’t ride two horses at the same
time.” But whenever he can, he puts in a
good four-hour writing stint. Mostly, he
thinks by day and writes by night. He
doesn’t know why, but he does. And he
doesn’t question it.
Reading
He wants more time for writing and for
reading, partly because he feels you can’t
write if you don’t read a lot, and partly
because he just loves books. Since he was
a kid, he’s had one in his hand practically
every minute; now he carries books or
magazines wherever he goes, for snatched
minutes. The most important book — to him
—that he’s ever read he picked up for the
first time at the age of twelve and has re-
read half a dozen times since: it was Budd
Shulberg's “The Disenchanted.” It seemed,
somehow, to talk about things that were
important to him even then. Not, he adds,
that it was the best book he’s ever read —
just the most influential. What is the best?
The Bible. That he reads often, opening it
almost anywhere. To him, the Bible can
never be equaled.
More hobbies
Boating was a hobby since his Long Is-
land boyhood. He has no boat of his own
now, but wants one. Surfing, he took up
seriously on the Coast, and loves, along
with tennis, swimming and horseback rid-
ing. He wishes he had more time for all
of these.
His oddest hobby is the occult. It fas-
cinates him. He reads books on myth-
ology, numerology, astrology, and believes
in the existence of poltergeists, were-
wolves and vampires. Astrology interests
him, and numerology even more. He
checked the numerology of the name
“Troy Donahue” carefully before deciding
to use it. And he thinks it really turned
out to be lucky.
Temper
When he has been hurt by someone, he
finds it impossible to conceal the hurt or
the anger — out it comes, boiling. Some-
times it boils so hard that he finds he
has gone considerably too far in expressing
it. This acts as a brake, stops him dead.
The next words are likely to be a very
open, unashamed apology. “It isn’t enough
just to say, ‘I’m sorry,’ though. You owe
an explanation, too.” When asked if he
didn’t feel it a little embarrassing and
unmanly to be so ready to say, “I was
wrong,” he has said, “No, it would be
embarrassing and unmanly not to!” But
if someone apologizes to him, he is im-
mediately overwhelmed with a feeling of
guilt: “Maybe I was wrong, after all!”
That’s what he always says to himself.
“I’m a gregarious Aquarius!” (His as-
trological birth-sign.) Despite the num-
ber of things he can and does do alone,
he is very much involved with relation-
ships with other people, with friendships,
romance, family. “I could not do with-
out people. I need them very much,” he
recently told a friend.
Religion
He feels he is religious even though he
doesn’t attend church regularly and re-
ligion does seem to be a very important
side of his character, perhaps the domi-
nant one, perhaps more important than he
himself knows. Probably the only place in
which he isn’t actively looking for God is in
church — his Teachings out into the spirit
v/orld seem as if they’re part of it, and his
strict ethic of “another thing to do right”
applies to just about every phase of activ-
ity in his life.
Friends
As a boy in high school, he had one
particularly close friend, Pete Rogerson.
They shared almost everything. Both were
school track stars, both liked to write, they
shared the same taste in girls. They could
talk to each other about anything. The
friendship was strong enough to survive
by mail when Troy went away to Military
School.
Today, he has four or five really close
friends, all on the Coast. Among them,
he includes his mother and sister. With
these friends he is completely comfortable,
completely at home. He can even write
when they’re around.
Needs and needs not
These, then, are the things he needs —
friends, success, time, books, writing.
Among the things he doesn’t need are
the two which everyone supposes he wants
most: lots of girls, and then an early
marriage. Frankly, he finds it degrad-
ing to date a lot of women just for the
sake of dating. He doesn’t find many
that he likes, which makes for a lot of
wasted evenings. But he is not ready
for marriage, either, not even to Sally
Todd, with whom he’s been going steady
for some six months or so. He finds her
physically attractive, interesting, com-
panionable— a girl whom he respects. She
DIVORCE
Continued from page 70
her. Yet, though she’s known throughout
the world — she is still a child.
“Perhaps she developed a schoolgirl
crush. If she thinks she’s in love with me,
I’m sorry. Nothing will break up my mar-
riage. I love my wife very much, and I
believe Marilyn loves her husband but is
just a little mixed-up now.
“Perhaps I was too tender with Marilyn
and thought that maybe she was as so-
phisticated as some other ladies I have
known. Had she been sophisticated, none
of this would have ever happened.
“Our love scenes in the picture maybe
were a little too realistic. She should have
known it wasn’t for real.”
Maybe Marilyn was angered and hurt
by Montand’s remarks, because that same
day he tried to retract some of his state-
ments.
“If I were not married to such a won-
derful woman as Simone, I would be very
happy to fall in love with Marilyn,” Mon-
tand now claimed. “But I’m a happily mar-
ried man and love no other woman.
“I would be happy to make another
picture with her. I didn’t say all these
things about her. The whole thing makes
her look pretty stupid. She’s not that way
at all. She’s very intelligent.”
This re-kindled the rumors.
Marilyn seemed to improve at the West
Side Hospital. She started eating her
meals regularly, and sleeping nights. She
became talkative to the hospital nurses,
even joked with them.
“I think she feels that Yves Montand
still cares for her,” one person, who has
been very close to her, told me. “Yet, I
think she’s still in love with her husband.
I don’t believe she’ll leave him.”
But others do:
“Marilyn is waiting to see if Yves will
might make a perfect wife, but he doesn’t
feel ready to be a husband until he is a
little older, a little richer, and a great
deal surer of a great many things.
So, there you are — that’s him. Troy
Donahue, as Troy Donahue sees him.
The End
As he typed “The End,” he looked up and
saw that the room was filled with thin,
early morning sunlight. He switched off the
lamp, he didn’t need it any more to read
through what he had just written.
Here, on half a dozen or so yellow pages,
was the essence of himself, as nearly as he
perceived himself to be. But he put the
pages together with a paper clip and
placed them carefully in a drawer of the
writing table. He was tired — dog-tired
from no sleep and all that thinking and
writing. But he felt good anyway. “It never
hurts anybody to take a good look at him-
self,” he thought. “There’s nothing like
knowing who you are, and what you are —
and if you’re heading for your goal or
making too many detours.”
I’ll do this again sometime, he decided.
Maybe once a year I’ll sit down and take
stock, the way business firms do around
January first. But I won’t do it about
money — only about me.
He yawned wearily and stretched his
arms to get the kinks out of them. Now,
he felt, he could crawl into bed and sleep
like a baby. So he did just that. — Char-
lotte Dinter.
See Troy Donahue in “Parrish” for Warner
Brothers, and in “SurfSide 6” on ABC-TV,
every Tuesday at 8: 30-9: 30 P.M. EST.
get a divorce,” I overheard a top director
tell an associate at a studio. “If he does,
she’ll divorce Arthur Miller.”
And what of Arthur Miller during all
of the talk about his wife and Montand?
What has he done about it? Miller has
been the most reserved of all. He never
gave out one interview on the subject, but
let it be known through his friends:
“I completely trust my wife.”
“I think Montand was right,” one of Mari-
lyn’s associates explained, “Marilyn was
just a child. But she isn’t any longer. She
has matured as a result of the experience.”
Is Marilyn really in love with Mon-
tand? Will she leave Arthur Miller for
him? Will Montand ever marry Marilyn?
Marilyn, according to those close to the
situation, really believed she was in love
with Montand. Her heart palpitated in his
presence and she had to be near him. She
even missed him once so much that she
drove out to Idlewild airport in New
York because she knew he was scheduled
to arrive from Los Angeles and change
planes for Paris. She anxiously awaited
his arrival, and, like a schoolgirl, dashed
out to meet him as he got off the plane.
They walked hand-in-hand to her Cad-
illac. Inside, they were spotted holding
hands and drinking champagne. Marilyn
brought along the champagne apparently
to celebrate their reunion. It didn’t take
long for the press and photographers to
spot them. To avoid publicity, they drove
off into the night. Montand missed his
Paris plane that night and flew to Paris
the next day, according to one press re-
port. The sparkle in her eyes at that
meeting spurred those around her to
think Marilyn was in love with Yves.
Although Montand flew back to Simone
Signoret, and Marilyn apparently has for-
gotten him, the question is — for how
long? The End
Be sure to see Marilyn and Yves in 20th’s
“Let’s Make Love,” and Yves is also in
“Where the Hot Wind Blows” for M-G-M.
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