Little Me Page 20
Through my trusted friend and confidante, Endive Kissner, I learned that my adorable mother had gone, incognito, to Mexico, taking with her all of my jewels and the last few million dollars in the Metronome treasury for safekeeping. How like darling Momma! The jewels were later returned.
Physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted, there was nothing to keep me in Hollywood. So I availed myself of a month’s complete rest at a private nursing home, run by a gifted surgeon of my acquaintance. When I returned everyone said that it was remarkable how much younger I looked. Certain catty actresses, who shall be nameless, were uncharitable enough to suggest that I had undergone cosmetic surgery, and one even came right out and asked if I had had my face “lifted”! What balderdash! I was much too young even to consider such a foolish and needless operation.
When I returned to the film colony, I engaged a small but attractive “bungalow” at the dear, dead Garden of Allah, my neighbors being F. Scott Fitzgerald and darling Robert (“Bob”) Benchley. It was such fun to be back in a truly intellectual milieu once more, without the responsibilities of running a huge establishment like Château Belletch and the tremendous Metronome Studios. Although I was still in mourning for beloved Letch, I felt that the best way to forget my troubles would be to go back to work at another studio. Thus I began “making the rounds” again. But 1941 was not a very distinguished year in the annals of film-making. The parts that interested me, such as Regina in The Little Foxes, had all been given to lesser actresses owing to “pull” and studio “politics.” As I had made it very clear that I would not accept “just anything,” I was not annoyed by constant offers to consider inferior rôles. So respectful, in fact, were the producers and directors of my unique position in motion pictures that I was not called at all.
I was toying with the idea of appearing “in person” once again, in an entirely new concept of the beautiful Passion Play, when something happened
to change the entire course of my life and the history of our great nation— Pearl Harbor!
Ramon, a talented young Mexican actor, and I had returned to the Garden of Allah from attending church on that memorable Sunday. An exquisite dancer, Ramon turned on the wireless and the throbbing strains of “Orchids in the Moonlight,” one of my favorite tangos, filled my drawing room. We had just commenced dancing when the music was interrupted by an earth-shaking announcement. For a moment I was too stunned to speak. Then I said, “Ramon, this can mean only one thing. America has joined the war!”
No time then for thinking about films or plays. On that day I retired from motion pictures. Every bit of my time would be devoted to the war effort. What red-blooded, patriotic American girl could shirk her duty at a moment like this?
By 1942 I was right in the thick of it, caring not for personal hardship or danger. Heedless of risk, I flew directly to Miami to entertain our boys in khaki. From there to Fort Benning, Georgia, the Stage Door Canteen in Manhattan, Fort Dix, New Jersey, and Lake Placid. Five performances in as many months! The pace was gruelling, my days and nights fraught with danger and discomfort, but no sacrifice was too great. Nor were personal appearances all I did. While “resting up”—if indeed it can be called relaxation—from my demanding routine, I was never too busy to pose for the all-important “pin-up” pictures to spur our boys on to conquest. Betty Grable, Lana Turner, Rita
With Peggy Gas(?) doing my bit
Hayworth—we all did it, but everyone said that there was something about my photographs that lifted “cheesecake” into a realm all its own. Not being affiliated with any motion picture studio, I had more than four million alluring “shots” printed at my own expense for distribution to our “G.I.’s” in all quarters of the globe. They were an enormous success.1
I was ready, willing and able to go overseas and to “do my bit,” right in the muck and the mire, for our troops. However, an unofficial committee of
In the thick of it! With Hugh Martin in Miami.
Hors de combat
Army chaplains, of all faiths, sent me a very sweet letter stating that my appearance abroad “could very easily turn the tide of battle.” I was extremely touched and, although I had become accustomed to the low whistles and the “wolf calls” of valiant boys too long absent from dainty feminine companionship, I did not wish my presence to be so inflammatory as to delay the total surrender of the Axis Powers by a single minute.
Meanwhile, my sweet Momma had returned from her long sojourn “South of the Border.” Through Endive Kissner and other faithful old friends, I had heard from time to time of Momma’s progress. My diamonds had long since been returned to me by Ramon, who had been Momma’s constant tango partner at Acapulco. But now Momma had also heeded the call to arms and she, too, was right in the thick of the war effort.
Too elderly, perhaps, to take a job in an airplane factory or a defense plant, Momma had done the next best thing. She had leased a handsome house—large, perhaps, for a woman alone—quite near the San Diego Naval Base where almost overnight she had become that city’s most famous hostess.
Wanting to do something for our boys, Momma had engaged the services of several very attractive young ladies and held a perpetual “open house” for America’s jolly “Jack Tars.” So thrilled was I in the knowledge that dear Momma was safe and sound in the United States once more that I hurried to be at her side. The house was lovely and Momma had “done it up” with her usual, individualistic taste—mirrors everywhere, luxurious tufted pink satin divans, polar bear rugs and oil paintings of voluptuous Renoiresque ladies. Her co-hostesses (Susan, Sheila, Jeanne, Jane and Eva) were all college girls of the highest type and there was nothing they wouldn’t do to show our weary sailors a good time. From the roof of her house, Momma would watch the harbor through a telescope, and whenever a ship “pulled in to port,” she would send Ramon down with her big old Rolls-Royce and what she laughingly called her “business cards.” In less time than it takes to tell about, her house reverberated with the shouts and laughter of “Momma’s Girls” and “Uncle Sam’s Boys” enjoying themselves to the utmost.
I had meant only to spend a few hours with Momma, but so intrigued was I by the innocent revels, the sense of spontaneous gaiety in her salon that I stayed on and on and on, doing my patriotic best to keep Navy morale at an all-time high while fending off the spoilsports of the Shore Patrol.
Almost before I knew it, V-J Day was at hand. I felt almost wistful to think that these dashing boys would be returning as civilians to the farms and families that had spawned them. As for poor Momma, she burst into tears when peace was declared. There just is something about a uniform! However, it all seemed worthwhile on that unforgettable last night at Momma’s house when a group of the “regulars”—boys who had been coming back and back and back to Momma’s festive gatherings—presented me with the Navy “E.” I knew then that I had given my all.
The world was at peace again. Without feeling selfish I could return to my career as a great actress, secure in the knowledge that I had been called to the colors once more and that I had not failed my country.
“Goodie Godiva”-left to right: Deni Lamont, Magdalena Montezuma and Sir Walter Mohair
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BACK TO BROADWAY!
1946
I accept a rôle in musical comedy • A fearful shock • Magdalena Montezuma!
Billing problems • Professional jealousy • Ingratitude, thy name is Montezuma! • New Haven
Backstage rivalries • My show-stopping number • The Yale crew befriends me
Romance • Baby-dear • I bid adieu to the musical stage
IT IS INDEED AN ILL WIND that blows no one good (to paraphrase the late Thomas Tusser). Although World War II had brought its share of illness, death, unhappiness and inconvenience, it proved a tremendous “shot in the arm” for the living theatre. Were it not for the very existence of total war would such exquisite musical attractions as Rosalinda, Up in Central Park, Follow the Girls, Song of Norway, Lau
ghing Room Only, Firebrand of Florence and Hats Off to Ice have been produced at all? I wonder.
It came as a most pleasant surprise to me when I was asked to appear in one of the loveliest and most elaborate of the postwar musical extravaganzas, quite by accident. En route from California to New York, I had several hours to “kill” between trains in Chicago. Naturally, I tried to telephone my dear old friend Colleen Moore, whose palatial residence in the “Windy City” I have often wanted to visit. However, the butler must have misunderstood my name when I called for, even though I telegraphed ahead of my impending arrival, Mrs. Hargrave (Colleen) was nowhere to be found. Therefore, I decided to “treat” myself to a good luncheon in the Pump Room. And who should be seated at the next table—also alone—but that wonderful old producer and impresario Murray Minor Casebeer, lively as ever and still the possessor of a keen eye for a lovely damsel and a sensitive palate for a fine vintage! We fell into conversation and before long he was at my table, plying me with stingers, and telling me all about a lavish musical comedy he was about to produce— Goodie Godiva, an historical operetta and forerunner of such feasts for the eye and ear as Lute Song, Candide, and Camelot. As the afternoon wore on both of us became quite carried away, I with visions of returning to the boards in the title rôle of Goodie Godiva, and lovable old Murray with stingers. It was nearly dusk when I summoned the captain and two waiters to put our luncheons on Mr. Casebeer’s bill and to assist him to his room. I very nearly missed my train, but I had in my purse a battered Pump Room menu with the information that I was to appear in Goodie Godiva scrawled on the back of it in Murray’s own unsteady writing.
Always a conscientious actress and a meticulous stickler for accuracy, I did a great deal of research on that lovely English lady who saved the town of Coventry from her cruel husband’s ruinous taxation by riding nude through the main street, adorned only by her flowing tresses. In the interests of my art, I signed up for riding lessons and cancelled my appointment for a “poodle cut” at Antoine’s.
You can imagine my surprise, then, when I appeared at Murray Minor Casebeer’s offices only to learn that he had no recollection of our discussion in Chicago! His surprise was even greater than mine when I produced written evidence of the meeting and of our agreement. Alas, he had not specified which rôle I was to enact in Goodie Godiva and it came as quite a blow to me to realize that the star of the show was to be not little me, but Magdalena Montezuma! How a common Spanish (?) nobody like Montezuma was to understand the emotions of an Anglo-Saxon noblewoman such as Lady Godiva (when I had been an English aristocrat!) was a moot point. I was given every opportunity to withdraw from the cast, but I was adamant. While I had given selflessly of my time and talents for the war effort, Señorita Montezuma had been busy “feathering her own nest” in Hollywood, even being so blatantly unpatriotic as to accept an Academy Award when our country was in peril. “No,” I said to Murray, “I accepted this informal contract in good faith. A bargain is a bargain, and I shall appear in Goodie Godiva even if only as a ‘walk on.’ ”
To be brutually frank, I was “skating on thin ice” financially. My income had been drastically reduced since the failure of Metronome Studios. Almost all of my war work, for the past five years, had been on a strictly volunteer basis. I had only a few dollars in the bank and my jewels (and many of them— nineteen bracelets, the fabulous Baughdie necklace and tiara, were pawned). I had tried to receive some aid from Baby-dear’s ample trust fund but, naturally, her trustees, who had cash registers where their hearts should have been, would do nothing to help me. In addition, I had incurred many heavy obligations on the strength of appearing in Goodie Godiva. I had leased a suite in the Ritz-Carlton and gone into debt at the Wilma Shop, John-Frederick’s, Gunther’s and the French Bootery, for an actress must think of appearances at all times. I wanted the work and I needed the money. For that reason I would swallow my pride as regarded Magdalena Montezuma.
The company of Goodie Godiva was a sheer delight. In the rôle of Leofric, Earl of Mercia and Lord of Coventry, was that splendid English character actor, Sir Walter Mohair. Deni Lamont was perfect as that dancing “jackanapes,” “Peeping Tom.” Among the principals were such tried and true old “pros” as Blanche Silversides, Modessa Priddy, Shaun O’Brien, Sisi Sykes, Effie Pickerell, Warren Pease and Merrill Lynch. Even the horse was divine. Yes, everyone connected with Goodie Godiva was charming—with one vivid exception. That exception was the star, Magdalena Montezuma. On the first day of rehearsals, when I rushed up to embrace an old friend and fellow-performer, she side-stepped suddenly and I sustained a painful fall over an electric cable. Because she had had a fair measure of success in Hollywood when more patriotic thespians had set aside “mask and wig” to aid the war effort, it had all “gone to her head.” How quick she was to forget the many kindnesses I had shown her in the old days when she was but a “flash in the pan” at the box office and I was married to the owner of mighty Metronome—how considerate I had been in releasing her from her contract, the trouble I had personally taken over her costumes and housing arrangements during the filming of Nights on the Nile. Was she appreciative? Indeed she was not!
To give just a few examples: Montezuma, in the rôle of Lady Godiva, had thirty different costumes designed for her by Gilbert Adrian. All were in brilliant colors or dainty pastels, shimmering metallic creations and gowns dazzling with bugle beads and sequins, elaborately trimmed with fur and feathers. I—a famous star—was given but one, ill-fitting black dress which had been made (but, understandably, never used) for a church pageant in Hackensack, New Jersey. That is what I call “petty”! My rôle, that of a common scold, was reasonably substantial when we began rehearsing, but every day Miss Montezuma arranged to have my part cut, cut, cut until I appeared in only two scenes—one with her, in which she saw to it that I delivered my few, paltry lines from way “upstage.” Of the other scene—a real show-stopping “number” which I sang with “Peeping Tom”—more later. While Montezuma was reasonably gracious to the rest of the company, she never deigned to speak to me unless it was in the spirit of destructive criticism and even then all of her remarks were made through the director.
I stoically put up with such unseemly conduct like the true “trouper” I am. The critics and the audiences, I decided, would be the final judges of who was the real star of this offering. Instead of fighting fire with fire, I was as sweet and cooperative with the entire company—stars, principals, chorus “kids,” “gypsies,” stagehands, designers and musicians—as I could be. I even made a special point of bringing little surprises to the electricians, knowing full well that if they were “with” me, my “numbers” would be lighted to my greatest advantage.
After three agonizing weeks of rehearsal, we were ready to “try out.” Our itinerary was to be New Haven, Boston, Washington, Philadelphia and then New York. I was tense with excitement.
Although I was financially on the brink of disaster, I felt that it was only proper that I take a suite in the Taft Hotel at New Haven. After all, quite a lot of people would be thronging to that city to witness my triumphal return to the theatre and it would hardly be proper to entertain them in a bedroom. Showing great foresight, I “booked” the largest suite in the hotel many weeks
in advance so that Miss Montezuma had to be satisfied with something far less elaborate. I went up to New Haven a day ahead of the rest of the company, laid in a generous supply of liquor for anyone who might care to call on me at the hotel, ordered the baskets of flowers to be handed up to me over the footlights, had a long talk with the theatre electrician and returned just in time to join the rest of the Goodie Godiva company at Grand Central Station for the trip to New Haven.
The story that ensues is not a very pleasant one, but it does go to show how the ego of a star can literally affect her reason. When I arrived at the theatre on opening night, I noticed that on the electric sign outside the theatre the name of Magdalena Montezuma had not only been misspelled, but that it re
fused to light—at best flickering on and off intermittently. My own name, however, shone splendidly. Miss Montezuma, with “blood in her eye,” was waiting in my dressing room when I arrived. No lady would understand— least of all repeat—the language Miss Montezuma used. Her accusations were too ridiculous to be treated with any seriousness at all. How, pray, could a helpless woman like little me have anything to do with something as technical and complicated as an electric sign? Was it my fault if the electricians preferred someone as democratic and outgoing as Belle Poitrine to a cold, unpleasant and conceited woman such as Magdalena Montezuma?
But that was only the beginning. Owing to some error—and these mistakes will occur when a show is trying out—I was lighted in pink while the electrician who followed Magdalena with a spotlight had chosen green. For one whose complexion is as naturally sallow (not to say “muddy”) as hers, the effect was most unfortunate. There was also a rather comical moment involving Montezuma’s grand entrance by way of a door that refused to open and she “brought down the house” by coming in through a window. I could barely contain my laughter. And in the one scene which Magdalena and I played together, she was mysteriously enveloped in a curtain and narrowly escaped being struck by a falling sandbag. It was then that the lights all over the stage went out, save the flattering rose “follow-spot” that was focused on me. I was in a terrible quandary but, feeling that the play must be saved at all costs, I stepped right down to the darkened footlight trough and finished the scene alone. After all, “the show must go on!”
In the entr’acte Miss Montezuma again stormed into my miserable little dressing cubicle (the one she had assigned me) bringing with her Murray Minor Casebeer, the director, the stage manager, the master electrician, the master carpenter and several other contentious allies who could not even be fitted into my tiny quarters. The scene that ensued was too painful to record. Naturally, I denied all of her insane accusations (insane and insulting, as she had the gall to accuse me of being on terms of more than friendly intimacy with many of the stagehands and electricians) and I was finally forced to remind the many shouting people in my dressing room that the intermission had already lasted the better part of an hour.