Clooney The Singer
by Laurie Henshaw
If it hadn’t been for an Italian-American Saxophone player named Antonio Pestritto we might never have heard one of the finest voices to be raised in the postwar popular record market.
You want a number with a beat? Then put on Rosemary’s “Come On-a My House” or “Botch-a-me.” A children’s song perhaps? The try “Me and My Teddy Bear.”
Jazz tunes, love songs, novelties—Rosemary sings them all.
But where does Antonio Pestritto fit into her career? Better known as Tony Pastor, he’s the sazophonist bandleader who gave Rosemary her first break.
But it was in 1951, with her recording of “Come On-a My House” that Rosemary made the big time. It sold a million.
Rosemary’s favourite? No, depite what it did for her. With her, Walter Gross’s “Tenderly” was an easy winner. “Technically it’s the most sat isfying record I ever made,” she says.
Listen to her speak and you discover that, as you might expect with a girl who made her name on wax. It’s the voice that is the personality. It is low pitched, almost on one note, with a trace of the huskiness of a Lizabeth Scott.
Yes, Rosemary Clooney the singer can come on-a my turntable any time.
Clooney the Actress
by Elizabeth Forrest
How much of an actress is Clooney. On her own admission, “I suppose I’m more of a singer than an actress…at the moment.” The last thought was typical of Clooney the trier.
The girl who was thought to be too tall, too thing, too sharp-featured to charm the camera, admitted that suddenly finding herself confronted with a script and a whole character to project out of the screen was one big problem.
“After the first three days of The Stars are Singing, the director, Norman Taurog, came up to me and said: ‘You’re not very interested in filming are you?’ But I was. Only when I’m concentrating really hard I freeze into a kind of dead calm—and people think I’m just indifferent.”
I told her that her second film, Here Come The Girls, had been a bit of a disappointment to those of us who had hailed the first.
“I know. But it was made with a definite purpose. A lot of people who didn’t see The Stars are Singing, would see Here Come The Girls.
Despite her growing confidence in the acting line, Clooney is still basically a musical comedy player. The fact that plenty of other singers have failed in Hollywood doesn’t scare her.
“Me? I’m a film girl. Definitely…”
That’s a reassuring thought for actress Clooney.
Clooney the Girl
by Martin Hands
She likes to see herself as the ordinary girl. She’s hardly that. The blonde with the cold grey-blue yes has the outward poise of a sophisticate.
In fact, she’s the small-town girl who has accustomed herself to the gilt and plush of the swank hotels and the celebrity spots. She hadns a smoked out cigarette to the waiter standing conveniently by, without so much as noticing him; she takes another from the packet that is there at her elbow (“Miss Clooney’s personal cigarettes,” murmers the waiter).
Slim footed, with a plunging neckline and a fashionable bunch look around the hips, she stands straight, chin up, the typical girl in front of the band who knows what the customers like and has, you suspect, more than a notion where the cameras are.
You begin to like her for her imperfections. The mole on the cheekbone. The patch of sticking-plaster on the ankle. The feeling she gives you that she is listening to herself, rather than to you, watchering herself playing a big-time part.
Film star? Maybe. She’s still the band boys’ girl, whom you’ll find talking modulations and “breaks,” the girl who will break into a phrase of song to illustrate somethig, oblivious of sho’s around.
Natural?—underneath, yes. Ordinary?—no. She’s the girl who gives you a goodbye that is friendlier than her introductory hello. She likes to know the score.
Which, after all, is quite something.