Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1933-01-08

" backstage in her dressing
n room at the National The
alter and said: You know,
I had an awful time getting into
the movies. They just wouldn't
have me. For a long time I was
the jinx of Hollywood. They'd
sign me up-and then they
wouldn't. They couldn't seem to
make up their minds whether they
liked my face or not"
She talked about this gayly and
amusingly, poking little fun at
herself, and at the same time per-
thapS a little hurt that things had
been as hard as they were.
Her career hasn't been all on
the up-and-up. She was known
for a long time on Broadway as
a kind of Peter Pan-the little
girl who wouldn't grow up. She
was attractive and she was Cum
ming" She had been an ideal
foil for Alfred Lunt in Clarence"
She had done other "baby roles"
well. She was known to have
quavering little voice, big, blue
eyes, a nose that shot up into
space and a laugh that made
school boys writhe with pleasure.
She was a type, and as type
she was good-but beyond that,
there was doubt
Then came "Coquette," and in
that, thankfully, also Una Merkel.
Critics were little f1abbergaSted
when at the end of this play Miss
Hayes made them cry.
She has been making them cry
ever since. She is at this moment
unquestionably the ableSt tear
font actress of the day. While her
eyes are still round and blue, her
laugh still girlish and her nose
slightly retrousSee, she has out
grown her Peter Pan years and
is no longer mere type"
THE public will admit this after
it has seen her, in "a Fare
well to Arms" and THE Son.
Daughter" In these she COM
bines all the talents which she
has been amasSing and rolls out
her thunder with all the potency
of a full-fledged trsgedienne.
When she smiles the audience
smiles, and when she cries the
whole theater quakes with I'M
happiness.
The efficacy of these powers was
exhibited recently at a preview-
ing of the Hemingway classic In
a small, rather alright compart-
ment, eight people of variable
mien, and at more than arms
length from each other, sat be-
fore a screen in the dead middle
of an afternoon. The picture was
shown in fits and starts and its
course punctuated by pre-Sneeze
signs of the current influenza on
all sides. Every now and then
part III" or Part "" came to
life. and there was much to de
tract from the peaceful flow of
the whole.
Nevertheless, when the last
scene had faded from view, and
the lights in the room were turned
on. the damage that the picture
had done was apparent. Three
thard-boiled" critics sat slumped
down in their chairs, the tears,
as they say, "courSlng freely
down their cheeks; the chief local
mogul of the Loew Fox forces
looked bleery-eyed and helpless,
his press man was trying to pre-
tend that he had smiled through
the whole thing, and visitor was
discovered somewhere toward the
last row stunned, mute and DUMP.
For a minute, possibly three
minutes, not one of these sup
posedly veteran theatricalities
was able to say so much as "boo!'
And not one was ashamed at his
or her apparent weakness. Said
one hard hearted cinema Sleuth:
This is the only time in my life
I've ever cried at a film" An
other sleuth shook his head and
said something like ditto" but
he was unable to say more-and
third, frankly and ShamelesSly,
sat in complete Stupor and occu-
pied herself with retouching her
haraSsed features.
This was what Helen Hayes, and
to a lesser extent but still i'm
portantly, Gary Cooper, had done.
This was the acting Of that little
girl of whom the critics had said.
"She will never grow up" This
was "Babs" past the age of gig
Cling and f1irting-the Helen
Hayes who at this minute has
done more than any of the
younger actresses to put charm
and pleasant sentiment and
pathos into the cinema.