Warner Bros. had premiered Ruby Keeler’s film GOLD DIGGERS OF 1933 on June 6, 1933, in which she co-starred with Joan Blondell, Aline MacMahon, Warren William, Ned Sparks, Ginger Rogers — and, once again, Dick Powell, the young crooner whose career was skyrocketing along with Ruby’s. The public loved them together; Ruby’s gentle femininity was a perfect match for Dick’s boyish wholesomeness. They enjoyed a marvelous working relationship, and maybe even a personal one. It's a mystery until this day if they had some kind of affair off-screen. “We always worked well together. He was a very fine young man — he was a very fine older man,” Ruby said. “He never, ever changed. I saw him just three months before he died. He knew that he was very ill, but yet he thought that everything was going to be alright.”
Ruby returned to Warner Bros. for what was to be her biggest film yet — FOOTLIGHT PARADE. Again her co-star was Dick Powell and several of the same supporting players; Joan Blondell, Guy Kibbee, plus Hugh Herbert, Ruth Donnelly, and the delightfully different addition of James Cagney in his screen singing and dancing debut. All of Ruby’s co-stars loved working with her. Warner Bros. story head Jacob Wilk summed up her appeal by calling her the second Janet Gaynor. She was always a bit in awe of Busby Berkeley. The score once again featured fine songs by the songwriting team of Harry Warren and Al Dubin. Ruby later commented, “The most difficult thing for me, though, were those songs. I’d have to react to everything Dick sang, and, of course, the song would have eighty choruses…there would be the long shot, close-ups, the long, long shots — until I got so that my mouth was twitching from smiling and all I could do was stare. My mouth would get crooked!” Ruby, however, tried to avoid singing whenever possible. “That was because I can’t sing.” she explained with characteristic modesty. “I mean, I haven’t any voice. Dick had a wonderful voice and they’d always give me the middle part, with the smallest range. Those poor songwriters! ‘Don’t you worry, Ruby,’ they’d say. ‘It sounds all right. It really does!”
Many hailed FOOTLIGHT PARADE as the finest of the three Keeler/Powell/Berkeley extravaganzas. It seemed that, to the world, Ruby could do no wrong. She was certainly no longer known as Ruby Keeler Jolson. She had become a star in her own right. Warner Bros. announced plans to co-star her and Powell in GOLD DIGGERS OF 1934. Ruby would make her radio debut on The Fleischman NBC Radio Program at the RKO Broadcast Studio in December. After a brief introduction by Al Jolson, she went into a solo number followed by a dramatic sketch called “The First Kiss” accompanied by Dick Powell. Ruby’s performance received an excellent reception from the studio audience. Ruby and Dick Powell began lensing GOLD DIGGERS OF 1934, the title of which had been changed to DAMES. The cast also included Joan Blondell, Guy Kibbee, Hugh Herbert, and, as Ruby’s mother, the inimitable Zasu Pitts. The film contained one of Ruby’s finest screen numbers — “I Only Have Eyes For You”– in which the audiences were treated to an endless array of Keelers of all sizes.
Plans were made to pair Ruby and Dick Powell in more films. In 1968, Ruby reflected, “For several years, I was destined to be Dick Powell’s screen partner, and, I guess in those sad Depression days, Dick and I did bring a bit of sunshine into people’s hearts.” Their next film together was FLIRTATION WALK. It was their first musical that was not a backstage story. Powell played a young cadet at West Point and Ruby was the daughter of the commanding officer. March of 1936 saw the release of Ruby’s last film with Dick Powell. COLLEEN starred Ruby in the title role as a dress designer-store manager who falls in love with wealthy Dick. The musical numbers, among the finest Ruby has ever done, were co-staged by Bobby Connolly. “I was like a scared rabbit in 42nd Street — Dick Powell was too,” Ruby admitted. “I knew I wasn’t a serious actress, but I figured all I had to do was say lines like “What? Who? Where?” She’d continually ask people how the rushes looked, but her fears were in vain. Her performances were perfect, combining the exact blend of innocence and mock-savvy.
Dick Powell is one of the most underrated film stars of the golden age of Hollywood. He was at one time (late 1930s, first 1940s) listed as one of the top ten favorite actors in Hollywood and he transcended several genres. His work in musicals cemented his fame literally. He entered his hand and footprints into the cement outside Sid Grauman's Chinese Theater with Joan Blondell in 1937. After a period of relative decline, Dick reinvented himself as a tough guy in film noir, and his performances are still impressive today. In his heyday, from the early thirties to the early sixties, he was a very big name indeed, and with good reason. Like few other figures in show business, Powell had an uncanny knack of reinventing himself: first, as a big band crooner, then a musical star, next a serious actor, then a director and finally, a successful producer in the infant medium of television. But there’s more to Dick Powell than his resume. He was, in my view, one of the most likable players on the big screen.
Powell had a down-to-earth, easy charm that made him particularly relatable. Sometimes I would see an indifferent film with him just to watch Dick Powell, and for me that applies to very few performers. After leaving Little Rock College, Powell joined a series of bands as vocalist. He was based in Indianapolis, then Pittsburgh, where he drew praise as a highly entertaining master of ceremonies at several prominent theaters. By this time, he was also recording for the Vocalion label. When Warner Brothers ended up buying that label, the young, magnetic singer was soon on their radar. They were sufficiently impressed to offer him a short-term contract in 1932. The following year, after appearing in four pictures, he was cast opposite newcomer Ruby Keeler in the immortal backstage musical, “42nd Street” (1933). The wild success of this film rescued the movie musical from an early grave, and persuaded rival studio Radio Pictures to greenlight “Flying Down to Rio” (1933), the film that introduced the world to Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Powell and Keeler would be paired in six more films over the following three years, including “Gold Diggers of 1933,” “Footlight Parade” (1933), and “Dames” (1934).
BPoDTC!6(Q__60_12.JPG)
One of Powell’s co-stars on “Gold Diggers” and later Warner musicals was the blond comedienne Joan Blondell. The two clicked on set, and a romance blossomed. Though he was also seeing Marion Davies, William Randolph Hearst’s mistress at the time, he knew she would never leave Hearst, so he and Blondell finally married in 1936. They’d have a daughter together, Ellen, and he’d also adopt her son Norman from a prior marriage. Powell himself had previously wed model Mildred Maund years before but that union hadn’t lasted. As the decade progressed, Powell was gratified by his success, personally and professionally, but at the same time, increasingly restless. He felt typecast by the studio. He wanted to prove that he could do something different. As he put it at the time: “I'm not a kid anymore but I'm still playing boy scouts.” Finally, he decided to leave Warner Brothers for Paramount in 1940.
.png)
Though he had to appear in a few musicals at the outset, Paramount did cast him in some non-singing roles, including “Christmas in July” (1940), a solid if not outstanding Preston Sturges picture. As he approached forty, he realized he’d aged out of romantic leads. Powell then heard about “Double Indemnity,” Billy’s Wilder’s upcoming thriller about an insurance man who plots with a client’s wife to bump off her husband and collect on his policy. He lobbied hard for the part of Walter Neff, but lost out to Fred MacMurray, an actor also known for good guy roles who was willing to play against type.
Then he got his chance. Edward Dmytryk was adapting “Farewell, My Lovely”, Raymond Chandler’s detective novel, to the screen and saw something unexpected in Powell. He’d have to be lent out to RKO, whose bosses were understandably skeptical about the director’s casting choice. But Dmytryk persisted and prevailed. Dick Powell would become the first actor to play private eye Philip Marlowe on-screen. The film, released as “Murder, My Sweet,” was a hit and gave Powell’s film career the new direction he craved just as the new sub-genre of film noir was coming into its own. Two years later, Humphrey Bogart would reprise the role in Howard Hawks’s “The Big Sleep.” Over the ensuing decades, Robert Mitchum, James Garner, and Elliott Gould would all take turns playing Marlowe.
At this point, Powell’s marriage to Joan Blondell was crumbling, as she fell for impresario Mike Todd and he fell for a younger actress named June Allyson. Powell and Allyson tied the knot in 1945. They would adopt one child, have one of their own, and also make a few films together. Over the next few years, Powell starred in some solid, classic noirs including “Cornered” (1945, again with Dmytryk helming), “Pitfall” (1948), and “Cry Danger” (1951). His last great role came in Vincente Minnelli’s biting ensemble drama about the pitfalls of Hollywood, “The Bad and the Beautiful” (1952). Now Powell wanted to branch out beyond acting. Television was exploding, with the networks hungry for programming. In 1952, he teamed with fellow stars Charles Boyer, Ida Lupino and David Niven to form Four Star Television, which would produce shows and series. The company became wildly successful, largely under Powell’s leadership. But what I and his other fans remember is Dick Powell the actor. You liked him as the romantic crooner, young and carefree; or as the cynical tough guy, beaten down but always popping back up for one more round. You liked him either way. Source: www.bestmoviesbyfarr.com
Center Door Fancy (1973) is a semi-autobiographical novel by actress Joan Blondell covering her life from her childhod with her Vaudeville family until her third divorce from Mike Todd. Except the heroine of Center Door Fancy is not named Joan Blondell but "Nora Marten." The name of every other major "character" in Blondell's life has been changed, too (with walk-ons like James Cagney, Clark Gable and Ruby Keeler retaining their monikers). Blondell doesn't shy away from anything: her attempted rape by a policeman, her multiple abortions during her first marriage, and her third husband's volatile nature are all here. "Johnny Marten," writer and star of "The Boy Is Gone," is her ambitious vaudevillian father Ed Blondell (writer and star of "The Lost Boy"); "Cecilia Quinn" is her demanding mother, Katie Cain. Then there are Blondell's three husbands: the distant and impenetrable David Nolan (Oscar-winning cinematographer George Barnes), the caring but insecure Jim Wilson (actor and crooner Dick Powell, also her costar in ten films), and the unstable and ambitious Jeff Flynn (Oscar-winning producer Mike Todd). The years are not specifically stated most of the time. The novel ends around 1950, right after Nora's divorce from Jeff, with her "trying to revive a career" that would continue with movies and regular TV appearances until her death in 1979. Why did Blondell choose to write her autobiography as fiction? Probably to avoid a lawsuit with June Allyson—all three of her husbands had passed away by 1972.
Jim Wilson’s booming voice halted my jumbled thoughts: “Hallo! there! Where’s the beauty of the family? Where’s the baby doll?” “Here, Jim, frosting martini glasses,” I called in answer. What a cornball, I thought to myself. “Ah—there she is! One of the big box-office ten—in person! Where’s a grizzly bear huggaroo for none other than Jim Wilson!” His “grizzly bear huggaroo” knocked an earring off. We were both on our hands and knees searching for it as Jim whispered, “Listen, sweetie, May Gould’s along—mind? David said you’d have plenty for dinner, so we picked her up.” I frankly didn’t care much about either of them. My one evening as a guest at May’s home was barren: no cocktails, no butter, weak coffee, lumpy ice cream, and every lamp in the house had strips of cellophane covering the shade, though she had lived there for over ten years. As for Jim Wilson, well, he is a fabulously popular crooner. Next to Bing Crosby he was tops in the nation. Jim beamed. “I might just take your advice. After all, a gal with her—er—qualifications—well, my first wife drank a lot.” “I didn’t know you’d been married before!” “Neither does the press department. Remember America’s most desirable bachelor?” He playfully grazed my chin with his clenched fist. “What was she like?” “A beauty—dark, and from my home town. She was seventeen when I took the leap. She was from a wrong-side-of-the-tracks family, but they were okay. I had an important reputation to live up to, so I sent her to one of those cure places—and a pretty penny that was!”
With the car radio blasting, Jim pulled his Lincoln convertible to a fast stop in the driveway and ducked through the rain. As I opened the front door, his arms were outstretched, and he was singing: “You must have been a beautiful baby, ’cause baby look at you now!” But my crying was uncontrolled. Confounded, Jim awkwardly attempted to put his arms around my shoulders. I pulled away and ran into the bathroom. He tried to make himself heard through the closed door. “Nora, baby doll, you’re just tired—come on now, don’t cry, dear.” I emerged with a damp towel over my face and head. “I feel like a big damn fool,” I stuttered, pulling the towel off. Jim took my hand and gently drew me to the bar in the den. “You’re going to have a drink, gorgeous.” “I don’t want one.” “Well, I do, damn it, I can’t stand to see you cry like that.” He sat me on a stool and went behind the bar. “Ah—here!” he exclaimed. “Blackberry brandy—it’ll tie up your tears; it should, it ties up everything else!” He poured a pony of the brandy, and for himself a double rye. “Here’s to that world-famous new baby,” he toasted. Then my eyes met his. “Jim,” I said quietly, “I can’t get into the hospital to have my baby. We haven’t the cash—and David won’t face it. You have to pay in advance, and because I have a ‘name’ the cost of everything is tripled—more. Jim, we are broke.” Early the next morning, delivered by hand, a letter arrived on the mail: "Dear Kids Happy Hospital. On me. Love and kisses, Jim." Enclosed was his personal check for a thousand dollars.
The strains of Jim’s voice over the radio brought my thoughts back to him. Once in a while I teased him about Hollywood’s worst-kept secret: Jim Wilson and Teresa Hall; she, the world-famous mistress of the world-famous publisher. “I’m a nervous wreck over her attention. Christ, who needs it,” Jim said. “She’s even stalling the picture we’re doing so she can see me every day.” “The whole studio is on to that,” I told him. “It’s not a laughing matter, Nora. The goddamn old bag’s girl might get me de-nutted! If I’m not admiring enough to keep her contented, she will damn well tell Him I’ve been rude or make up any goddamn lie—and I’ll be stuck with the fury of Him for that! This mess could easily ruin my career!” “Well, anyway, she’s still lovely to look at,” I consoled him. “Sure, Nora, she’s sultry and beautiful, but the way she inhales the booze...” Jim crossed over Coldwater Canyon and turned on Sunset toward the coast. I like the way he drives, I thought—very sure of himself. Jim parked the car on a ledge overlooking the waves. We watched the phosphorescent blue and white lights as the water sloshed onto the sand. “David was no good for you from my way of thinking—no security there,” Jim said. “You hungry?” he asked. “Starved,” I answered. “Well, then,” he decided enthusiastically, “let’s get some hot dogs!” “Drive to the Seal place, Jim, get hot dogs and beer, and let’s come right back here to eat ’em.” Twenty minutes later we had returned with our midnight picnic, and as we ate Jim lectured me about my attitude toward my family concerning money.
He smoothed my hair and hummed a few bars of “By a Waterfall.” Then he said, “Nora?” “Ummm?” “I had a talk with Jamie while I was waiting for you. I said to him, ‘I wish to God I had a son like you, Jamie.’ He just grinned and whacked me in the nose a couple of times. ‘Cut it out, Jamie!’ I said. ‘I’m not kidding. Let’s figure it out. I’ll marry your mom—it’s as simple as that.’” His eyes were moist as he smiled. “Jamie gave me a bear hug.” His head was leaning on mine now, and he tightened his arm around my shoulder. “How about that?” he asked softly. “Good idea, Nora?” My throat constricted, and tears flooded my heart as I cried. Looking at Jim’s handsome face, I smiled and answered huskily, “Good idea, Jim.” I told Sally why I was so nervous. “I’ll give it to you quick, Sally. About a week ago, I was about to go to bed when the phone rang. I answered it, and the voice said, ‘If you marry Jim Wilson, your son will be kidnapped, and you will never see him again.’” My hands were shaking as I lit a cigarette. “When I could think sanely at all, it came to me that I knew that voice—I knew the impediment in that woman’s speech.” “Teresa Hall,” Sally said, shocked. “Yes, our beloved Teresa. No mistaking that voice, and she sounded slurred and drunk. I got Jim to the house within twenty minutes, and we talked until it was daylight. I wanted to call the damn wedding off, but Sally, Jim’s going to be just great for Jamie—and we will always have security, because he’s an intelligent businessman.” After showering and perfuming I was seated at the dressing table in my lacy lingerie looking into the mirror at Sally brushing my hair. “Sally, I can’t go through with it. I don’t love Jim, really love, and he’s too nice to hurt.” “Did you ever tell him you loved him?” Sally asked, still brushing my hair. “No, never. When he asked me if I did, and my answer stuck in my throat, he said, ‘Nora, I love you enough for both of us, you’re a helluva good actress, and boy, you’re beautiful! What more could a guy ask for?’ Will I love him in time, Sally? Does that happen?” “I can give you wisecracks, pal—no answers.” Our eyes met in the mirror, and I jumped up and grabbed my friend, half-laughing, half-crying. “Bring on the wedding drag—I’m getting married!”
.jpg)
That would not be the last time I heard of Teresa. My father Johnny went off on a hunting trip—his first—with some ex-vaudeville cronies. But he returned home four days earlier than expected. And he walked in on my mother and a man, both asleep. Johnny woke him up and beat the man to a pulp. Then my mother tried to take her life with fumes from the car in the garage. Johnny pulled her out and fought to keep her alive until help came. Kern Brothers working with the D.A.’s office managed to squelch the whole story. Mom recovered, and Johnny moved to the Regent Hotel. Jim asked my mother to give up her home and move in with us. Our new house was very large, and there was a suite of four lovely rooms for Jamie and the governess. Cecilia was to take the governess’ place. Cecilia sold their house, and I sent my sister to New York, where she studied art, played summer stock, radio, then Broadway. She had blossomed into a beautiful girl and had streams of beaux to share New York’s excitement with. We exchanged letters and phone calls, and I was happy that she was free to gobble up all the youthful joy that life had to offer—before she bumped into adulthood. Then came another development for me. My name was no longer to be mentioned in print, in publicity or advertising, in any of the gigantic chain of Hearst newspapers. I walked back and forth in our sitting room. “Jim, my God, do you know what that means? How many newspapers across the U.S.A. my name’s off—out of? What did Teresa tell Him about me? We know it was Teresa. What, Jim—what?” Jim poured himself a double rye and belted it down. “I’m sick, Nora, but what can we do—we’re at the mercy of power, tremendous power. Sure it was Teresa—her gal pals warned me I’d better not marry you.” “They did?” I was shocked. “I laughed it off,” Jim said. “But you’re not out of the papers, Jim.” “That would be too obvious, Nora. Teresa’s too smart for that.” I sat on the couch. “Goddamn son-of-a-bitching bastard—just when your career is really zooming!” Jim’s voice was tense and low. I jumped up and whacked my palms together. I sighed: “Cut it out, honey. Let’s zoom into dinner.” Jim fixed me another drink.
.jpg)
Jim is just what I thought he was when David introduced us—corn-bally, unsure of himself at times. On top of that, he is surprisingly prudish. He will make love only in the dark, furtively. Jim, you’re a dead fish. The only joy you seem to feel is when you get money! I’ve got a new guy, and you would die of envy if you knew how we feel. . . Get in bed with me, Jim, just get in without taking a shower and combing your hair and brushing your teeth and putting perfume on your privates. . . you cold-assed Don Juan. Jim was shaking me as I opened my eyes and wildly grabbed his arms to pull him toward me. He stood stiffly as he said, “You’re making a racket—what’s up?” “I want a divorce, now, quick,” I said, and closed my eyes. “Sally says Jim makes the rounds every night—Mocambo, Chasen’s, Ciro’s, Romanoff’s—a loner with a long face and a busted heart for the newspapers. He declaims to the nearest ears that I’ve destroyed his life, his home—and how would they feel if a New York producer gave their wife a mink coat that costs a fortune? Mom. It doesn’t matter about the little crumb who’s after him. I heard their voices on the detectives’ recording, and she’s so corny—pleading with him to marry her, guide her career. It’s like a cheesy B-picture. Doesn’t he know about his Amy? Everybody else does. Her reputation is in the public domain. She’s a tramp dressed like a little kid. She was a call girl in New York—exhibitions her specialty. Flynn, and even a New York doctor, told me they knew some of the guys she ‘entertained.’ She’s using Jim—can’t he see? It would be a giant step for her to get the Star Husband of the Year. You know something crazy? I can’t get myself to mention her to Jim. He thinks I don’t know about her. And he doesn’t mention Jeff. We’re both silent.”
.jpg)
Jim was furious: “Jesus, what are you talking about? I’m the best husband you’ll ever get!” I interrupted him. “Jim, listen—” “Do you want warmth? You’ve had everything you've wanted, haven’t you? Take a look in that garage; it’s wartime, remember? Anybody else got fifty pounds of coffee? Another thing, plenty of people are talking about you and Flynn, that bum, but it’s not true, because I, Jim Wilson, did not marry a bum! You hear that?” he yelled. “I, Jim Wilson, did not marry a bum!” He slammed the door shut and was gone. I was sitting up in bed, my lawyer standing by the window. He had been talking to me for over an hour about the division of property and finances. By law, everything we had should be divided, and the lawyer was urging me to use the proof I had against Amy O’Brien to get what was coming to me. I told him I couldn't prove anything. “I’ll sign it, whatever it is—let’s get it over with. I can’t stand the sight of him around the house any longer.” Jim moved to a rented house in Beverly Hills, and my family made a concentrated effort to get me on my feet again, but it was Jeff who forced the change. Many times a day he talked to me from New York.
My former voice coach, Faye, told me one evening about Amy O'Brien: “Take my word. This one’s no fan, she’s got an overall plan.” I protested: “Jim’s too wise not to see through that. He’s always had fans drooling over him.” Faye spoke rapidly: “She’s after your old man, but I mean after. She’s beaded down, and she’s gonna leave no stone unturned. I’ve watched her operate. I’ve listened to her phone work, her set work, her commissary work, the whole megillah. This dear little starlet is a nose-to-the-grindstone hustler. She broke his former boyfriend's heart. She's a creepy kook. Now she’s started to work on Jim. She’s got a small role in his picture (Meet the People), but she’s on-the-spot every minute. I tell you, she’s a dangerous, determined tomato.” I remembered the first time I met Amy O'Brien. I had accompanied Jim to see a Broadway musical (Best Foot Forward) and like a shy little girl, Amy had descended from a staircase, and slowly, pigeon-toed, she walked to Jim and stood looking up at him, her hands clasped under her chin as though in prayer. “Jim Wilson, with all my heart I worship you, and I sleep with your letters under my pillow, and your pictures are everywhere I look in my little, lonely room.” Then she turned to me. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “Help yourself,” I answered, and the company laughed. Still gazing at Jim, her neck stretched upward, her eyes squinted and shining, she continued: “Always remember my name. Amy O’Brien, Amy O’Brien. Oh, please, please don’t forget me.” —Center Door Fancy (1973) by Joan Blondell
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
BPoDTC!6(Q__60_12.JPG)
.png)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
