ANYONE who knows him will tell you that Fred’s the “worryingest” man in town. Although he is the acknowledged best male dancer in or out of captivity, Astaire always wonders whether or not he’s good. Even after seeing his picture, he isn’t quite convinced, nor does the critic’s unstinted praise reassure him too much. Probably the reason he’s so good is because he is so conscientious.
by Hedda Hopper
The Chicago Tribune
April 2, 1950
George Murphy not only believes something in Hollywood. He does something about it.
Few men in motion pictures have done more for the industry than George. And his job is just beginning.
“I’d like to make a movie pretty soon, so I could get a rest,” he says. Asked whether he still practices his dancing, George replies, “How can you practice dancing in an airplane? There’s a law against it.”
ELEANOR POWELL has a way of winning every tap dancing contest she puts her toe into. In fact, she’s been female champ for four years now. And it is surely an honest-to-goodness fair contest, for the judges sit under the stage and listen to the tap routines. In this way, beauty, personality or both don’t count—just fine and accurate stepping.
by Dorothy Deere
There’ll be Hope—and the four Hopefuls—and life—warmth—and laughter.
SO YOU think your weekend with the Hopes is going to be a howling affair with your comic host springing trap doors and slipping rubber olives into the Martinis? Then you have a surprise in store. For the howls will be tempered to smiles in this home run on graciousness, even though it was built on gags.
I USED to wonder,” cracks Crosby, “whether Hope was born or his mother knitted him.” Statistics prove he was born. Happened in England in 1904, but a Cleveland, O., up-bringing is responsible for that remunerative sense of humor. It earns him about $400,000 annually—about $150,000 from radio, the rest from Paramount, where he makes all those “Road” movies. read more…
by Joseph Henry Steele
A black and white of Bob Hope—a comedian on whom Fate cast a benign eye when a hunch played him false
HIS favorite Scotch joke is the one about, the Scotchman who sat up all night and watched his wife’s vanishing cream.
He considers the most foolish act of his life the time he rejected his first radio offer because “radio would never amount to anything.” He recalls, wistfully, that he lost five years before he began to get his share of the ether bonanza.
With Game Conductor Ralph Edwards
Q: This is quite an honor, Bing, having you opposite our Photoplay microphone. If my wire could only see me now! Tell me . . . how does one go ahout acquiring the gentle art of crooning such as yours?
A: Nothing to it. Just open your mouth to the letter “B” and begin. If you can’t remember the lyrics or the tune… just whistle.
Q: I’ve tried that . . . and what do I get? Three Beverly Hills St. Bernards, a dachshund, two French poodles . . . even Lassie comes home. Tell me, Bing, who’s your favorite leading lady?
A: Joan Fontaine, Dorothy Lamour, Joan Caulfield, Rhonda Fleming, Joan Fontaine—need I go on?
You’ve gone much too far already so take the consequence. Show how you’d register nerves on the screen.
by Terrance Howard
Poor Bing! The ladies love him but they also make his life miserable. You see, Mrs. Crosby’s little boy is bashful
HE’S the object of their affections all right. But like the gentleman in the popular song, they frequently change his complexion from its normal tan to a very “rosy red.”
For several years now, most of the ladies of the civilized world have been quite definitely aware of Mr. Bing Crosby. They first discovered, via the radio and phonograph, that the throaty tones produced by his vocal chords did something to their heart strings. Later, motion pictures proved beyond dispute that Bing had a personality as beguiling as his voice.
by James Reid
Perhaps you haven’t thought about it, but one male screen idol makes it easier for the girls to palpitate about him by banning publicity about his private life—and his private wife. Two other idols, both with romantic reputations to preserve, won’t talk about their wedded bliss and have pacts with their wives that keep their wives mum, also. And when another certain romantic actor recently dashed down South America way, where he has a large following, he left the little woman home. Why remind the smitten señoritas that there was a señora?
But Bing Crosby doesn’t care who knows that he’s a family man, a happy husband and the parent of four sons, including twins. Last Father’s Day, in every newspaper in the country, there was a picture of Bing, completely surrounded by Crosby offspring. He puts up a battle every time Paramount wants to get him into the portrait gallery for some glamour art, but let Paramount suggest some home shots with the family, and he says, “Name the day.” When he takes a long trip, he also takes Mrs. Bing and sees to it that she’s in all the news photos with him. And she has been interviewed often about what he’s like around the house.
START chopping said Bing! Al Rinker let his right hand flea-hop across the keys while his left hammered a Beal St. beat. Bing stood beside the piano manning cymbals and drum. Together they sang, only it wasn’t singing; it was a sort of delirium in rhythm. And when things got wilder and bluer than they ought, Bing leaned over and whispered, “The text, brother, the text!” Which meant, “Now do it like it says.” Only they couldn’t; not for long, anyway, because they were scat-singers in their bones, and the music was like a plank you walked out on and then jumped off and you were on your own.