Dick Powell & June Allyson: A Marriage on the Rocks (Modern Screen magazine)

The Powell marriage is in bad trouble. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise—not that they’re likely to. Around Hollywood everyone is talking about it. The people who, a few years ago, were claiming that the Powell home was Paradise and Junie the Angel-in-residence, are now the first to voice the gossip and the rumors—in private and in print. But the real story of this marriage-gone-awry is not a vicious one. It is instead one of Hollywood’s real tragedies—the story of a girl who has had to learn how to live with fame and wealth and servants—and somewhere along the way lost the ability to mature as a wife. Go back a ways. Ten years ago, in August, 1945, June and Dick were married—to the accompaniment of the usual dire predictions. June’s too young for Dick, they were saying. Not only is there an age difference, hut she’s immature even for her years. Certainly she won’t be able to adjust to a man of forty, set in his ways. They have no interests in common. 

And there’ll be clashes in their careers. At first it looked as if they were wrong. It was just these disparities that kept the marriage happy. June, young and desperately insecure, clung to Dick as she might have to a father. He made the decisions, she followed his lead. The more his famous friends frightened June, the more she relied on Dick. He in turn seemed content with the arrangement. It may not have been the best, but somehow June and Dick gave each other what they needed. As for careers, June was heading hard for stardom with no detours. Dick, whose career had been in something of a slump, couldn’t help but profit from the publicity that followed his marriage, even though he said—and meant—that he hated every word of it. He’s always hated publicity while he established himself as an actor and became as successful as he had been as a singer. Their first home, small though it was, frightened June—it was the first real house she had lived in. Although no one talked about it then, she fell into frequent black moods. The only real success she knew was on screen, playing to perfection the bubbly, tender, bright-eyed youngsters. Off-screen she felt gauche, inefficient. Gradually—how could she help it?—she began to carry her roles over into real life, looking for the same admiration and confidence that they brought her in the movies. 

For a while it worked. But only recently one of Dick’s friends felt forced to say, “I’ve never seen anything like Dick’s patience. June is like a kitten, adorable when she wants to be. But when a husband has to keep getting his wife out of scrapes and defend her idiosyncrasies and repair broken friendships, the kitten act isn’t so charming any more. At parties she’d insist on going her own way, and many’s the time I’ve seen Dick patiently waiting for her to stop captivating everybody and get in the mood to go home.” So that was an effort that not only did it hurt, rather than help her marriage, but it left June inconsistent and unreliable in most of her social contacts. A photographer who has known her for years says frankly, “You can’t help liking her little character, but neither can you help the feeling that she’s insincere. She really doesn’t like attention in public or to be bothered about pictures, and it’s as though she liked the fact of fame, but was bored by the work that goes with it. She can always put on an act when she wants to, though. I’ve seen her greet people I know she can’t stand as though they were her long-lost sisters, when it didn’t even seem necessary. On the other hand, when she’s in one of those steely moods of hers, she can freeze people who matter to her, for hours on end. I guess she thinks there will always be people to drool over her.”

Those are harsh words. Her great failing has been that she did not—or could not—know when to stop. Mothers have always told their children, “Don’t make faces. You might freeze that way.” Perhaps someone should have told June that, ten years ago. They said instead, “It’ll never work. They have no interests in common.” It was true enough that their hobbies were different. But again, they tried. Dick had long since settled on sailing and flying and Junie took a crack at both. But you can’t manufacture a passion out of thin air, and eventually Dick sold his boat and stopped insisting that June fly with him. June hunted diligently for something they could do together. In rapid succession she tried golf, painting, skiing, music, tennis. She bought mountains of the best equipment and propelled Richard into one fad after another. But June is and always was flighty and changeable. Her interest never lasted long enough to take root. She picked up one novelty after the next, played with each for a while, devoted the whole of her amazing energy to it, then discarded it for something new. Dick’s friends felt that he couldn’t share her interests—there was nothing really there to share. “Junie’s easy to love,” they said, “but hard to live with. Bubbles are pretty and enchanting, but no one ever caught a bubble.”

By the time the Powells moved to their second house, in Bel-Air, June had learned a lot. Dick had taught her to dress and entertain, to run a house and handle servants. Pamela and Ricky arrived while they lived there and the marriage was at its happiest. June made quite sincere statements to the press about the joys of marriage. “I wanted a career and a husband,” she said, “and when I got Richard as a husband the career suddenly seemed unimportant.” She gave a successful dinner party, all by herself, and was as pleased as if she’d won an Oscar. No one, certainly not June, suspected that she was only in another of her phases, that in a matter of months the role of Happy Housewife would have palled. It did. By the time they moved to Mandeville Canyon, their current home, things had changed for the worse. “Mrs. Powell,” one of her ex-servants reported about the subsequent progress of her mistress, “wasn’t what you’d call a homemaker. I remember reading about how she went up to St. George in Utah when Mr. Powell was making The Conqueror, and how Mrs. Powell made such a home for him at the motel. I guess that was one of her spells. Most of the time Mr. Powell did every thing that had to be done around the house. He made all the decisions and maybe she resented it, but if she did all she had to do was pay some attention to running the house. I’m sure it would have been all right with him. There was something, too, about her redecorating the house recently. That’s probably all publicity, because they have a decorator do most of that sort of thing. Mrs. Powell never did do much about the house.”

Yes, things had changed, in more ways than one. For the growing-up that June had done, although perhaps inadequate for the needs of her marriage, was enough to change her attitude toward Dick. She still let him run things—but not because she couldn’t handle them herself. She just didn’t want to be bothered. At the same time, she resented Dick’s decisions, but refused to make them instead. Dick Powell is one of the best-liked men in Hollywood. No one has ever said a word against him as a husband. But he is also a successful businessman, now firmly established in his third career—as a fine director and producer. He works late hours and spends much of his time at home conducting business on the telephone. He’s busy and often tired. But June's youthful dream of marriage as a perpetual romance does not quite fit the facts. Perhaps this is as much the fault of Dick Powell as of June. What Dick should have taught June is how to use the strength he gave her with wisdom. The crowning blow came recently: the rumors about June and Alan Ladd weren't as easy to dismiss as those stories that had circulated in the past about June and Peter Lawford or June and Dean Martin. The greatest significance of these latest tales is that people believe them—and discuss them aloud. 

Dick has always advised June about her career. Under his influence June became the number one box-office star in the country—and stayed there. One of the greatest stabilizing forces in their marriage has been her acknowledgement of his help and her real gratitude for it. When, with considerable self-confidence, she left MGM, she proved that she had a business head of her own and was capable of using it. But Dick was still beside her, offering reassurance and advice. But over The Shrike they disagreed. “I think when June made The Shrike it was a real turning point in her attitude,” a close friend says. “Dick didn’t want her to do it, said she wasn’t ready for such a subtle acting chore. But she went ahead and did it, and when the kudos came pouring in for the job she did, June figured Dick’s advice wasn’t any good to her any more. You can bet there was a lot of ‘I-told-you-so’ around the house after the reviews came out. This kind of thing happens a lot around town. I can name a dozen actresses who figured their husbands weren’t worth much to them once there’d been talk of an Oscar. When they’re really career-conscious, they’d rather have an Oscar on the mantel than a husband in the house.” Around town everyone knew that something was brewing—long before the Alan Ladd stories started. 

Friends noticed that June’s moody periods, the tantrums that had almost disappeared, returned. At Universal-International, where she made The Glenn Miller Story and later The Shrike, they said, “We didn’t know what to expect. She’s so darned cute on the screen that you can’t believe reports that she’s hard to get along with. But we found out. It depends on Junie’s mood, you see. Sometimes she’s a doll, and then one day she’ll walk in and the fur will fly. And you wish you’d stayed in bed.” At Paramount, where she made Strategic Air Command, they said, “This kid is a show all by herself. It’s amazing the way she can get what she wants. She seems to sense right away the best way to get around a person. If she has to be nice, she’s nice, if she has to be cute, she’s cute, and if she has to be nasty, she’s nasty. The result’s always the same, though—what Junie wants, Junie gets. In a way, you have to admire her for it, but I’ll tell you this. I’d never want to get on the wrong side of that one. Br-r-r-r!” And at MGM, when she returned to make Executive Suite: “Long before she left here she was starting to be difficult, but she’s so damned cute that it’s hard to hold anything against her for long. And then when she came back, well, I can’t say that her working at other studios has improved her disposition. Let’s just say that she’s a moody character, and the guys on the set sort of hold their breaths to see what frame of mind Allyson is in that day.”

Around town, many are saying it’s only a matter of time until Dick Powell agrees with that final sentiment. By the time this is printed, they say, he may have echoed those words in a divorce court. Others say that the marriage will last—but only until the completion of It Happened One Night, which Dick plans to produce—with June as the star. But there are those who say that this marriage deserves—and will get—another chance. When two people have tried as long and as hard as June and Dick to overcome the obstacles in their way, there must be a reason, a great real love and need for each other that causes them to keep trying. If they have failed it is not for lack of love, but because they have gone about it clumsily. If June can learn to use her new maturity and confidence as efficiently and wisely in her marriage as in her career, she and Dick may yet make a go of it. They have two children and a long life together to make it worthwhile. We wish them all the luck in the world. —Article by William Barbour for Modern Screen Magazine (September 1955)

Ann Sheridan: Hollywood's Oomph Girl

While her movie fame has been eclipsed by the mega-watt glare of Bette Davis, Katharine Hepburn and Joan Crawford, Ann Sheridan is no less revered by film historians and classic movie buffs of Hollywood’s Golden Age. She is perhaps the most versatile and talented of all the great movie actresses from that era. That she achieved stardom at all, despite overwhelming odds, is a testament to her indomitable Texan spirit and appealing screen personality. In the hard-hitting dramas They Drive by Night (1940) and Kings Row (1942), she was the no-nonsense, street-smart heroine who knew her way around in difficult situations. With her gift of tossing sarcastic, biting lines at a hapless recipient, she proved equally at home in comedy. Her comic performance in Torrid Zone (1940) is a gem. Likewise, her tart portrayal as Cary Grant’s wife in I Was a Male War Bride (1949) is sheer delight from the beginning to the final credits. Not to be overlooked are her complex, conflicted characters in the unjustly neglected film noir classics The Unfaithful (1947) and Woman on the Run (1950). If that wasn’t enough, it turned out the lady could sing in a voice pleasantly reminiscent of Alice Faye’s warm contralto. When she sang, she elevated the silliest plot contrivance in films like Navy Blues (1941) into a moment of unadulterated joy. 

Ann Sheridan had a tremendous appeal that went beyond a striking beauty and shapely figure. Just as she wouldn’t fit into a screen type, she would not be hampered by efforts to mold her into a sex symbol via the “Oomph Girl” label. As pal Humphrey Bogart noted in 1943, the label “has not affected her a bit; by hard work and determination to be a good actress she has managed to rise above it.” Yet it was the “Oomph Girl” designation that highlighted Sheridan’s zest for living life to the fullest. When Joseph Breen’s Production Code took effect in mid–1934, the sexy, playful and naughty qualities of actresses like Norma Shearer and Kay Francis were sanitized and a veneer of respectable glamour was heavily applied. With her breakthrough turn in It All Came True (1940), Sheridan flipped glamour off its high heels. In one fell swoop, the “Oomph Girl” brought sex back at full force onscreen.

Search for Beauty, based on the obscure play Love Your Body by Schuyler E. Grey and Paul R. Milton, was earmarked as a showcase for the American film debut of Ida Lupino. Lupino, billed as the “English Jean Harlow” later called the film “a darling little thing” and noted, “The greatest thing about it was that I met my best girlfriend, Ann Sheridan…. We were both so homesick. We didn’t want to be stars, we just wanted to meet some nice guy and settle down.” Sheridan likewise had fond memories of her association with Lupino. “Ida is a dear, close friend,” she told interviewer Ray Hagen. “I adore her. And she’s a damn fine actress, too.” Sheridan was one of 30 beauty contest winners who made their screen debut in Search for Beauty (1934). Only Sheridan achieved film stardom. Variety prophetically noted, “There’s a girl in an earlier sequence bit, Ann Sheridan, who should be an important screen personality someday if her work here is any criterion.” 

During the 1930s, three studios dominated: MGM, Paramount and Warner Brothers. In terms of star power and box office revenue, no other Hollywood studios came close. Each had its specialty. MGM produced lavish prestige films; Paramount offered sophisticated dramas and comedies, and Warners specialized in backstage musicals, raucous comedies and gritty melodramas “ripped from the headlines.” As child actor Sybil Jason reflected in her autobiography, “In the 1930s, Warner Brothers was like a well-cogged wheel that continually churned out a product that America and the rest of the world clamored for. While watching those movies today, we discover that a good percentage of them have a quality and an appeal that holds up in this era.” This is the main reason why many of Sheridan’s Warner Brothers features still deserve to be seen today.  Jane Wyman recalled in a 1995 Turner Classic Movies interview that working for Warner Brothers was like working as a family. “We all helped each other… and the big stars would help when we were working with them.” James Cagney told TV Guide in 1966, “When Ann came to Warners, she was just a nice kid—chumming around with the working staff… There was nothing aggressive about her.” 

“The good thing about working at Warner Brothers was the spirit at the studio,” Sheridan told John Kobal. “It was a very good group. An absolute family. It was just incredible.” In this environment, Sheridan flourished as a movie actress of box office value. Bogart was likewise fond of Sheridan because of her raunchy sense of humor and ability to out-drink him. Of course, he could not disclose these aspects of her personality publicly. In a 1943 article titled “Sister Annie,” Bogart said that when he met her for the first time on the set, she was a “scared kid, self-conscious and unsure of herself.” He took the time to coach her on her lines and helped ease her nervousness. This act of kindness endeared him to her and they became fast friends. “Sheridan is one of the nicest girls in Hollywood,” Bogart asserted, “because she is real, honest, unassuming, friendly, and natural.”  Edward Norris told Van Neste, “Annie was scared of the camera, she used to walk around the set with a bottle of Coke which was really rum in a Coke bottle. She was very nervous and upset.” During her Warner Brothers years, Sheridan was well-known for her excessive drinking on the set. “She used to be able to drink me under the table,” Norris marveled. “She was such a great gal, the love of my life!” Cagney proved especially helpful in coaching the young actress. “He was grand to me. I was so nervous about everything,” Sheridan told Modern Screen in 1940. In another interview, Sheridan revealed her admiration for Cagney’s professional conduct: “He’s the sort of star who will sit down with you and explain in detail why you should do a thing a certain way. He’ll give you the benefit of everything he’s learned.” Sheridan later became known for exhibiting the same kindness and courtesy to other actors. 

Sheridan was assigned to another inconsequential role in a Dick Powell musical comedy, Always Leave Them Laughing (apparently a favorite title at Warner Brothers as many musical comedies bore this title early in production). The film was based on the same-name original story by Richard Macaulay and Jerry Wald. By this time, Powell was tired of trifling stories like this one and decided not to renew his contract after seven years with the studio. When the film wrapped its shoot in mid–December, the executives, out of pure spite, put the film on the shelf with no intention of releasing it. Department head Bob Taplinger finally struck gold merely by changing the spelling of “umph” to “oomph.” He then staged a “contest” to spotlight the Hollywood actresses who best embodied “oomph.” The publicity stunt was rigged to crown Sheridan victor and boost publicity coverage for Warners. Taplinger assembled a panel of 25 judges (including Busby Berkeley, Bob Hope, Earl Carroll, the Earl of Warwick and Hollywood’s pre-eminent glamour photographer George Hurrell) to “select” the star most deserving of the coveted “Oomph Girl” title. Each contestant had to submit a photograph to be judged by the committee. Hurrell was commissioned by Warners to take Sheridan’s photographs. For the photo shoot, Sheridan recalled that her outfit “had a roll-back collar and long sleeves. It was a crepe negligee, covered all the way up.” 

Hurrell reminisced that Sheridan “was very good-natured about the whole thing. I played rumba and samba records and she was totally responsive. We laughed a good deal because the beauty mark, courtesy of Perc Westmore, kept sliding down her cheek from the heat of the lights.” Years later, Sheridan told Hagen that Hurrell “was the greatest.” Taplinger arranged an award dinner that was held at the Los Angeles Town House on March 16, during which Sheridan was officially declared the winner. Reflecting on that evening years later, she admitted, “It was one of those nerve-wracking things and I actually can’t remember very much of it.” She received a certificate and a bracelet along with the “Oomph Girl” title. It was revealed in 1945 that Jane Wyman and Margaret Lindsay were also under early consideration for the title. Many of the judges offered up their takes on what “Oomph” meant. Busby Berkeley stated, “Oomph is the quality that drives girls to stardom and men to distraction.”

Soon the term was being used to denote “a certain indefinable something, something that commands male interest.” In a 1940 Modern Screen article, Sheridan described her ideal man: He doesn’t have to be handsome, but not ugly, either. An older man, preferably, maybe around 35 or 40, ambitious, interesting, and with a sense of humor. Someone who would be a gentleman at all times, would be careful about his appearance and would not take me, or himself, too seriously! Enter George Brent. Sheridan’s lively personality managed to bring out Brent’s light-hearted nature. He even started frequenting night clubs with his new love. Brent revealed there were several qualities which drew him to Sheridan: “She works hard and enjoys life; she’s more fun to be with than any woman I have ever known; I think, on the whole, the quality of excitement which she possesses and generates is what makes her different from the standard glamour girls—that, and her earthy simplicity.” Sheridan found Brent intriguingly different from her usual night clubbing escorts. “He’s a lot of people—rebel, hard-working artist, playboy, hermit, intellectual, athlete … and what’s most disconcerting, he manages to be a combination of these things all at once. George has an enormous awareness, a flair for being very much alive during every waking hour.” While they shared much in common, it was the classic case of opposites attracting. 

Sheridan ranked as the 18th most popular box office draw in 1940 and was one of the studio’s top-drawing actresses behind Bette Davis. But her salary was hardly commensurate with her new box office standing. Warners was paying Bette Davis $4000 weekly and Olivia de Havilland $1250 weekly, while Sheridan earned a paltry $500; even her pal Ida Lupino was receiving $2000 per week. Based on the commercial successes of her 1940 features, the studio decreed that Sheridan would be given a raise which would bring her weekly salary up to $600 at her contract renewal on April 1, 1941. To Sheridan, this was no April Fool’s Joke. “When I realized that my pictures were making big money at the box office,” she explained to Photoplay, “it seemed no more than right to me that I should have a better salary, particularly in view of the fact that I had been promised raises several times, but hadn’t gotten them.” Sheridan was disgruntled by the studio’s lowball offer of $600 per week and insisted on $2000 weekly. Watching from the sidelines, Brent was displeased with how Warners was handling Sheridan’s career. He gallantly declared to Photoplay, “There is no doubt that, if she is given half a chance, she will become one of the foremost screen actresses. She has all the star qualities: beauty, vividness, intelligence, talent and above all, a realness that the cameras capture.” Having waged many battles of his own with Warners, Brent encouraged Sheridan to refuse all movie projects until her salary demands were met. Among the films she turned down: The Bride Came C.O.D. (replaced by Bette Davis), Million Dollar Baby (Priscilla Lane) and Out of the Fog (Ida Lupino). 

By early fall, the Sheridan-Brent romance continued to baffle Hollywood insiders and gossip columnists. Some predicted nuptials, while others foresaw the relationship’s demise. In a Photoplay article tantalizingly titled “George Tells Why, ‘Ann Sheridan and I Won’t Marry,’” Brent pointed out that the combination of two film careers and marriage rarely succeed. He offered as proof his three failed marriages and Sheridan’s own marriage to Norris. “We’re very happy as it is,” he said. Maude Cheatham told her readers, “This romance has steadied Ann: she’s gained poise and assurance from George’s strength and masculinity.” Cheatham also noticed a difference in Brent as he was “more approachable, laughs easily and often, and the old hurts seem to have faded away.” As the Sheridan-Brent romance was dissected in the gossip columns, Sheridan finally began preparations for her dream role: Randy Monaghan in Kings Row, the best role of her career. It would also provide the clearest rebuttal to those who had downplayed her dramatic abilities. Sheridan later told Hagen, “I loved it. I worked so hard, I worshipped the part.”

Asked about Bette Davis, Ann Sheridan said: “She was just—temperamental? Who wasn’t temperamental? All of us had the greatest admiration for her. She was the queen. One of my greatest, greatest favorites.” Upon the completion of both features, Sheridan barely had enough time to close her makeup kit before assuming a role previously turned down by Ida Lupino. The new project Juke Girl was based on a Theodore Pratt story, “Jook Girl,” which, in turn, was based on Pratt’s Saturday Evening Post article “Land of the Jook.” Motion Picture Herald marveled, “Kings Row comes to the screen as a star-studded, superbly mounted Warners production which has an emotional impact few pictures have ever had.” It emerged as the studio’s third highest grossing movie that year. With box office returns of over $5 million, the feature ranks today as Sheridan’s most financially successful film. Performances from top to bottom received excellent reviews. Dependable actors Rains, Coburn and Anderson garnered their usual fine notices. It was the younger actors, however, who caught the critics off guard. The biggest surprise of all was Sheridan. Motion Picture Herald effusively noted, “Miss Sheridan may now be forgotten as the ‘oomph girl’ and be billed as a top flight actress because of her characterization of Randy.” Variety was likewise impressed: “Miss Sheridan rises admirably to the emotional demands of the later scenes and gives one of her most effective performances thus far.” Photoplay called her portrayal one of the month’s best and the National Board of Review cited it as one of the best of the year. 

Sheridan’s Randy Monaghan rightfully remains one of her best dramatic performances. Kings Row received Oscar nominations for Best Picture, Best Director and Best Cinematography, Black-and-White (James Wong Howe). By mid–August, Sheridan was on location filming another wartime propaganda film, Edge of Darkness, opposite pal Errol Flynn. This situation did not sit well with Brent as rumors quickly circulated about a torrid affair between the two stars. Reportedly, Brent once discovered the two in bed and received a sound beating by Flynn for his untimely interruption. Brent made one final attempt at a reconciliation. Sheridan recalled to Screenland that Brent hadn’t spoken to her for a month. His main complaint: She was more concerned about her career than their marriage. After Brent had finished, Sheridan accepted the futility of the situation and simply stated, “Well, George, it looks like this is it.” It was decided that Sheridan would contact Alex Evelove, the head of Warners’ publicity department and give him a statement for the newspapers. In late December, Sheridan traveled to Mexico for a divorce decree. She was granted her freedom on January 5, 1943, by Civil Judge Acuna Pardo in Cuernavaca. She had been married to Brent for exactly one year. She still maintained a friendly relationship with her ex, Norris, but Sheridan never resumed her friendship with Brent and they rarely spoke well of each other in private. Sheridan often referred to their marriage as a mistake. Once, near the end of her life, she publicly admitted, “I can’t stand my ex-husband.”

For his part, Brent chose to remain tight-lipped about his four former wives. When Don Stanke interviewed him in the 1970s for the book The Debonairs, Brent took the opportunity to reflect on Sheridan’s passing: “What a waste of what could have been a good life.” Sure enough, it was soon discovered that the pitchers of “iced water” that both Sheridan and Errol Flynn drank from on the set actually contained pure 90-proof vodka. Sheridan had also learned from Flynn the trick of injecting vodka into oranges, which she ate on the set. According to Longstreet, “The stars’ behavior resulted in delays, which led to cost overruns, which forced the studio heads to declare Silver River finished. It is the only major studio film I know of for which there is no ending.” By late 1948, her special friendship with her publicist Steve Hannagan was in a rut with no foreseeable resolution. Hannagan had been pressuring Sheridan to give up her acting career and move to the East Coast. There was also the occasional rumor that Hannagan had become jealous of her friendships with several handsome, younger men. All of the expensive gifts could not buy her faithfulness, even though he professed a willingness to overlook her indiscretions. Hannagan headed the nation’s top publicity agency; its biggest client was the Union Pacific Railroad. Although he was in a financial situation to support both of their lavish lifestyles, she was not ready to entertain the notion of giving up her career. 

“I’d like another five years in pictures with good stories,” she said. Sheridan wasted little time in playing the field with the likes of Bill Cagney (James’ brother), Franchot Tone, Cesar Romero and Bruce Cabot. She was at the peak of her beauty and had little trouble attracting men. Rex Harrison was one of many who found her enchanting. “I was struck by her extraordinary magnetism and directness,” Harrison said. “Her distinctive quality of earthiness that never transcends to blatant sexiness.” Sheilah Graham took a rather perverse interest in chronicling the star’s romantic escapades in the gossip columns and magazine features, including one called “Annie, Get Your Guy” for Modern Screen magazine. When asked by Graham if she ever intended to re-marry and settle down, Sheridan replied, “I am too busy to settle down. And why must I get married? A woman can have an enduring friendship with a man and not be married to him, I hope. I like being single because I have so many things to do.” The most persistent suitor was set designer Jacques Mapes, who met Sheridan on the Good Sam set. Sheridan enjoyed Mapes’ sense of humor and good looks. Mapes said he found Ann’s sense of humor “one of her most remarkable qualities. That, and her complete honest sincerity about people and everything she does.” 

Ann Sheridan made her television debut on The Ed Wynn Show on February 11, 1950. Her friend Lucille Ball, who also made her TV debut on that show, may have convinced Sheridan that the new form of entertainment would provide her a new career. The Variety TV critic reported favorably on Sheridan’s brief appearance: “Ann Sheridan, one of the top-billed film stars yet to appear on television proved again the old adage that a talented performer in any part of show business will show well on tv.” In January 1953, Steve Hannagan was on a trip promoting Coca-Cola products in several countries in Europe and Africa. After his arrival in Nairobi on February 2, he cancelled a dinner engagement with famed author Robert Ruark. Hannagan explained that he was experiencing uncomfortable pressure in his chest. Ruark arranged for him to see a local doctor. The next morning, Hannagan was found on the bathroom floor, dead at the age of 53. His body was wrapped like a mummy in preparation to be flown to New York City. A funeral mass, held at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, was attended by over 1500 mourners, including film and stage personalities, presidents of major corporations, business associates and close friends. When Sheridan learned of Hannagan’s death, she was devastated. After a few days, she mustered up the strength to issue a statement for the press: "Once in a while the world is blessed with a man born with great understanding. This is attested to by the number of true friends he gathers during his life. Such a man was Steve Hannagan. My personal loss and feelings, which are extremely deep, must therefore be shared by many others around the world by those who knew, loved and were influenced by the greatness of this man." -"Ann Sheridan: The Life and Career of  Hollywood's Oomph Girl" (2024) by Michael D. Rinella 

RIP Shanen Doherty

💖😥💗

Center Door Fancy (fiction vs reality)

Dick Powell was considered one of Hollywood's most eligible bachelors after his memorable performance in "Blessed Event" (1932). "Dick always seemed to be in good humor. He gave the impression of always enjoying what he was doing," said his short-time fiancé Mary Brian. Out of the blue, Powell quit his commitment to Brian and fell by the spell of his habitual co-star Joan Blondell. By the time they made Broadway Gondolier, they had already appeared in four movies together. They were first spotted dating in late September of 1935, one month after Joan’s divorce from cinematographer George Barnes. On 17 September 1936, they announced that they would be married in two days on the yacht Santa Paula at San Pedro to sail through the Panama Canal. Blondell wrote veiledly about her three husbands in the last chapters of Center Door Fancy (1972). She critizices George Barnes (who started as a still photographer for Thomas H. Ince, the man who died on Hearst' yatch) for being remote and not wanting children. Later, after divorcing him, she finds out he'd suffered a terrible childhood. The most baffling reproachments against the collected crooner are quite contradictory. For example it's clear she was looking for security with Dick Powell, who was a practical family man. 

In fact, Joan (Nora) leads Jim (Powell) to break up with May Gould (Mary Brian) making him doubt of his feelings. When Powell asks Joan if she still loves George Barnes: "Do you still love David?" Joan (Nora) says she doesn't. Her intimate relationship with Powell starts at this moment, when both share a kiss, and she abandons George Barnes, favoring the secure arms of Dick Powell, who had sent her a 1000$ check for her son's childbirth. Blondell also expresses doubts to Sally (Glenda Farrell) about her true feelings towards Jim, saying "he's too nice to hurt." They marry, spending their honeymoon at the Santa Paula yatch, and they consummate their marriage. She seems to find Powell charming when he gives her a playful whack on her behind. Also, she writes: "He smiled and put his hands on my shoulders. He says (naughtily): 'I'm sure that we didn't do it the last few nights because your eyes would look glassy now'." Nora (Joan) feigns not knowing: "Glassy?" "From doing it too much!" Powell jokingly says. In the mid-30s, the press took notice of the odd pairing, giving them nicknames such as "Floozie and Dopey." But Powell was no dope, as his career as a producer, director and tough guy star would prove later.

Joan rolls her eyes and tells to herself: "What did I get into?" Supposedly she was a sex enthusiast and later thinks of Powell as mechanical in bed, but it sure doesn't look like that from her initial account during their honeymoon. When Nora bumps into a table playing with her son and bruises her leg, Jim says worried: "People will say I did some weird sex thing to you, and I can't have that." So he sounds sensible and pretty knowledgeable of sexual matters. Powell wasn't just a hick from Arkansas, he was a very intelligent, amiable man and obviously he had sex-appeal. It's true that Powell was conservative politically and Blondell was a liberal, and she tries to exploit this gap too, trying to characterize Powell as racist and anti-semite. She has Powell ranting: "Damned Jews run this business! Damned niggers get some fancy salaries now. The goddamned government is killing us with taxes! I've got to change agents, the son of a bitch does nothing for his ten percent." She tries so hard to make an impression of Dick Powell as Nixon, it is not even funny. In the last chapter, Joan (Nora) acknowledges that Dick Powell and Ronald Colman (a friend of Barnes) drew up a pension fund for Joan through Lloyds of London, which would allow her to retire at the age of 47. "It's with Lloys of London and when I'm 47, I'll get money enought to live on the rest of my life," she boasts to Mike Todd. And don't get me started on her obsession towards her eternal rival, the sweet and easygoing June Allyson. Oddly, Joan (Nora) barely talks of her terrible fights with her third husband Mike Todd, who was pathologically jealous and threatened with killing her if she ever cheated with him. 

Joan always conceded that Dick made a wonderful father. Such acknowledgment did not stop her from arming herself with lawyers and filing for divorce on 9 June 1944. Joan announced publicly her separation from Dick: “I am going to file against Dick as soon as he returns from the East. . . and after I have talked the matter over with him. The matter of a divorce is final, however.” Norman Powell said in 1996: “My mother said she was taken with the kindness and gentleness that he exhibited toward her, and the fact that he really seemed to love me. I think that’s what attracted her to him more than any other thing.” Once Joan set her sights on Mike Todd, she proceeded to depict Powell as "corny, unsure of himself, a cold fish, a cold-assed Don Juan, and surprisingly prudish," adding that "he will make love only in the dark, furtively." Her memoirs are full of similar braggadocio: "I’ve got a new guy, and Jim [Dick Powell] would die of envy if he knew how we feel." Also, a jealous Blondell tells her mother: "Mom. It doesn’t matter about the little crumb [June Allyson] who’s after him. I heard their voices on the detectives’ recording, and she’s so corny—pleading with him to marry her, to guide her career. It’s like a cheesy B-picture. Doesn’t Jim 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. Jeff Flynn [Mike Todd], and even a New York doctor, told me they knew some of the guys she ‘entertained.’ She’s using Jim [Dick Powell]—can’t he see? It would be a giant step for her to get the Star Husband of the Year.” 

After Blondell announces her petition of divorce, Powell yells at her: “I, Jim Wilson, did not marry a bum!” Blondells shrugs: "Jim 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 Jim around the house any longer.” Blondell writes that Powell moved to a rented house in Beverly Hills, and Mike Todd phoned her from New York. Also, Blondell has Frances Marion suggesting that June Allyson slept her way to the top. 

June Allyson wrote in her 1983 memoirs: "Joan's account of this meeting in 'Center Door Fancy', a fictionalized autobiography, is loaded against me. Most of the names have been changed, but the true identities are obvious. Joan is Nora, David is first husband George Barnes, Jim is Dick Powell, Amy is me, Teresa is Marion Davies, and Jeff is Mike Todd. She wrote that I simpered and came down the steps pigeon-toed and cooed that I slept with his letter under my pillow every night. I had no letter. I never wrote a fan letter. I had no picture or letter from him or any star. It was ridiculous, but then, so was her charge that I had stolen her husband away, starting that night. In fact, Richard recorded his own account of our first meeting in his diary, and it differs substantially from Joan's: "Why I bother to put this down I don't know except that she certainly is the cutest thing anybody ever saw. Last night, I went to catch 'Best Foot Forward' and there was this little blonde character named June Allyson who sang so loud that the veins stood out on her neck like garden hose. I sat and guffawed through the whole routine. Really a funny act although I don't know if the producer meant it that way. Anyway, this afternoon I had to attend a formal luncheon and I got stuck with the most stubborn hunk of chicken I've ever had the displeasure of eating. It took all my attention and I was struggling with it until I guess my face turned red. Then, suddenly, I felt someone's eyes on me and I looked up. And there was this same cute little character from the show last night and she was convulsed with laughter. Laughing at me! I don't know whether or not I particularly like that girl, but she sure is cute." 

Once I called Richard's home, Joan did not seem interested and irritably called his husband to the phone. Then she came back on and said, with biting sarcasm: "You want my husband? Well, you can have him." Richard was on the phone and I tried to hide my embarrassment as I said, "I've got a script from MGM and they want me to do this picture called 'Two Girls and a Sailor.' Joan Blondell was convinced that I was after her husband. I wasn't, even though Dick Powell gave me palpitations and shortness of breath just to look at him. I tried not to think of him, except as my mentor. Every major actress gets whispered about. With me it was the nymphomaniac thing. "She's not Goody Two Shoes, she's Goody Round Heels," said the malicious rumors. But the only man who really made my heart flutter was, of course, Dick Powell. And he was determined to protect my reputation." 

Another time, June writes "Richard was taking me to Ciro's and I was ready. But when he saw me, he was speechless with my new sophisticated look. He slumped on a couch in the living room. He pulled me down on his lap. Richard grabbed me and started smooching. "Whew, you scared me this time," he said. "I'm here because being around you is like being in a fresh breeze. So don't go dramatic on me, right?" "Yes, sir," I said. "Goody Two Shoes reporting for duty." "Let's go," he said. "No, wait a minute." He kissed me again. "Monkeyface, I love you." In 'Center Door Fancy', Joan gave me the name of Amy, possibly after the selfish sister in 'Little Women' who steals Jo's boyfriend and marries him. How bitter she must have been to have written about me: "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." I could not believe it. How untrue, and how cruel."

Center Door Fancy: So it went—a week of school in Trenton, Dallas, Sioux City, Denver, Seattle, Pittsburgh, Washington. . . “I don’t think she’s really learning anything, Johnny,” Cecilia said. “For instance, what is there to learn? Is arithmetic anything to laugh at? What’s so funny about grammar? History she’ll make. She can read every marquee and billboard we’ve ever passed. Geography she knows. What other kid of her age has been all over the world, and across the U.S.A. sixty-seven times?” On days when there was no school Johnny would see that I was free to walk lovely, tree-lined streets, to peer into shop windows. My own security came from the theater dressing room, its smells, colors, and sounds: greasepaint; L. T. Piver lotion; Cashmere Bouquet soap; Smith Bros, cough drops; putty; Yardley’s sachet; the towels heavy with the scent of makeup; Mum; tobacco; Yankee Clover toilet water; Fels Naphtha. With fascination I watched Mom “bead” her eyelashes with a toothpick dipped into the black wax, Cosmetique, heated in a pan held over a candle. Lump after lump, and presto-chango her lashes looked a foot long. Then she dipped her pinky into a jar of red greasepaint and painted her full lips and rubbed them together until they were smooth and perfect. And that skin! Wherever Cecilia went, people would speak of it. Looking at my mother, I yearned to be beautiful, too. My eyes shifted to my father’s mirror. My skin is dark—so is his. People mentioned the “bigness” of my eyes so often that I wished I could take a needle and sew them up on the sides. Last night Mom said to Johnny, “It doesn’t seem possible Nora’s grown up so fast. Men are starting to look at her. She’s too darned developed for her age.” David (George Barnes) grinned. “Jim takes May Gould (Mary Brian) to the Clover Club every Saturday night.” 

Joan Blondell: "Honestly,  I don’t think men should be movie actors—it isn't natural." He smiled. “Shush, here he is. Hi, old pally!” They whacked each other on the back. I picked up the ice bucket to stave off a Jim Wilson hug. “How’d you get here?” I asked. “I took a plane to Palm Springs—Frank McHugh had an extra ticket he gave me. Taxi wanted twenty-five clams from there, so luckily a fan picked me up and dropped me off about half a mile down the road. You turtle doves having fun?” “Have a drink.” David gave Jim a Coke that had been thoroughly spiked. “I never touch the stuff,” Jim quipped. After a swig and a “Wow!” he turned to me. “Brought my new script, sweetie, thought you could cue me on the ride back.” “I will,” I promised. They fixed their fishing rods. Faye (Frances Marion) lit a cigarette and exhaled swiftly. “Nora, the name Amy O’Brien ring a bell?” “Nope—Why?” “Amy O’Brien is a new contractee here from a New York City musical. I’ve been coaching her for months, so I know her pretty damn well.” “And what, Faye?” She 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. No more than she was signed up, she got the lay of executive-land and laid it. Now she’s started to work on Jim. She’s got a small role in his picture, but she’s on-the-spot every minute. I tell you, she’s a dangerous, determined tomato.” I protested: “Jim’s too wise not to see through that. He’s always had fans drooling over him.” Faye insisted: “Take my word. This one’s no fan, she’s got an overall plan.” “Amy O’Brien,” I repeated. “Thanks, Faye.” We parted, and I continued to Stage Ten. 

Amy O’Brien, Amy O’Brien, I said to myself as I walked toward the lights of the scene they were rehearsing. Jim was standing in front of the camera while the makeup man banged powder on his nose. “All right, everybody, we shoot,” called the director. It was a long dolly shot. As Jim sang, the camera pulled back, and I saw someone who looked like a little child with a pink babushka tied under her chin perched on the camera stand below the lens. In all my years in pictures, through all the years of Berkeley shots, I never saw anyone sit there before, I thought. I turned to a member of the crew standing next to me. “Who’s that sitting on the camera, Bill?” “Amy O’Brien.” He paused. “A pain in the butt.” After the take Jim called to me, “One still, and I’ll be right with you, sweetheart.” Then added: “Everyone knows my beautiful wife; beautiful wife, this is Amy O’Brien.” Halfway through my “How-do-ya-do,” Amy clapped both hands over her mouth as if terrified, and ran off the stage. “What was that bit with Amy O’Brien?” I asked after we had ordered our lunch. “She’s some kind of a nut,” Jim answered, saluting Joe Schenck as he passed our table. 

“Hey, Jim—who calls you ‘James?” I asked. “What?” He looked up from his dinner plate startled. “We’ve gotten a dozen or more phone calls here in the last couple of months. The voice is always the same, and so is the conversation—or lack of it. ‘James?’ it says hopefully even when I answer. ‘James who?’ I generally ask. An ‘Ooooh’ or ‘Oh-oh,’ or ’Sorry,’ is hastily muttered, then it hangs up.” “I have no idea,” Jim answered, tackling his salad. “A crank or a fan.” “But you’re ‘Jim,’ not ‘James’—world-famous Jim—and we have a very unlisted phone number.” “I don’t know,” he snapped. We ate our dessert in silence. Those calls from Amy O’Brien are designed to affect no one but me—just bitchiness, I thought, stabbing the apple pie. With an exaggerated hip roll I slunk out of the dining room. “Hey,” Jim called, “what’s with you?” In 1943 Joan Blondell had began going with Mike Todd to the exclusive Cub Room of the Stork Club, that see-and-be-seen nightclub on East Fifty-third frequented by the café society of Broadway, Hollywood, and Washington. Joan socialized only with already established friends, including actresses Glenda Farrell and Betty Bruce. She was still close to Gloria in California, they talked at least once a week, and she was thrilled when her sister met, courted, and wed handsome ad man Victor Hunter. 

Dick Powell was one of the co-producers of Mrs Mike through his company Regal Films. Powell had personally requested Evelyn Keyes for the leading female role of Kathy Flannigan, after their successful pairing in the previous Johnny O'Clock. Evelyn Keyes, like Claire Trevor in Murder, My Sweet, seemed to harbor a big crush on Dick Powell. Keyes alludes in her memoirs to a brief affair with Powell, but, unlike other actors she had dalliances with, she doesn't offer many specifics. While they shooted Mrs Mike in 1949, Dick Powell was reportedly burn-out due to the rumors spread by Confidential magazine of an affair between his wife June Allyson with Dean Martin. In her 1977 autobiography, Evelyn Keyes said Mrs Mike was her best film. She had to fend off studio boss Harry Cohn’s advances during her career at Columbia. Among the many Hollywood affairs she recounted was one with Dick Powell. Evelyn Keyes: "I was voted N#1 Star of Tomorrow in 1946. I was ranked as one of Columbia’s most reliable leading ladies. “Johnny O’Clock”, Robert Rossen’s first directorial job, became another highlight in my career. Dick Powell played an honest gambler in trouble and I was his girlfriend." Amidst the production of Johnny O'Clock, she married impulsively John Huston in Las Vegas. Back on the set, she felt Dick Powell acted somehow jealous. "It was weird. Perhaps it was just the hyped-up, spaced-out mood the benzedrine caused, or maybe only imagination. But it seemed strange, all around me that day. There were congratulations, but with distinct lack of enthusiasm. Dick Powell was particularly lukewarm, almost resentful, as if I had double-crossed him." 

Keyes's onscreen interactions with Powell in Johnny O'Clock show that an intimate spark lighted between them. Mrs Mike was released on December 23, 1949. That had been a bad year for Powell & June Allyson due to the incessant rumors of her affair with Dean Martin, so it's very likely Powell succumbed to Keyes' charms. As surmised by Nick Tosches in Dino: Living High in the Dirty Business of Dreams, Martin could be a bona-fide weasel and was bent on wooing Allyson, the America Sweetheart. Evelyn Keyes: "Variety described my performance in “Mrs. Mike” in its review of December 12, 1949, as a ‘portrayal that has excellent emotional depth and just the right touch of humor.’ So Louella Parsons thought I should have won an Oscar for “Mrs. Mike and lobbied for me.” Unlike Joan Blondell, who clearly came to detest Mike Todd (whom she divorced in 1950), Evelyn Keyes described Todd as attentive, generous and ambitious. In 1953, Evelyn Keyes became the constant companion of the brash, flamboyant and often volatile producer Mike Todd, who lavished Evelyn with attention, gifts and journeys to far-off locales. She worked very little during her time with Todd. Evelyn Keyes states in her memoirs: "Thanks to Mike Todd, I never had to worry about money again. He gave me a 15-carat diamond engagement ring while we worked on our wedding details [late 1956]. All was going well until the day I picked up the phone and Mike blurted out: 'I'm in love with Elizabeth Taylor'. Anyway, I always maintained a fondness for him." Keyes compared Todd favorably over John Huston ("an irredeemable womanizer") and she thought Todd's main faults were his poor manners and a streak of jealousy. Keyes philosophized in 1977: "The good part was that I invested all my money in Around the World in 80 Days, and that set me up for life." 

Indeed, Keyes owned 5% of Mike Todd's film company. "I vaguely knew who Mike Todd was, a producer of shows in New York. I had seen Star and Garter with Gypsy Rose Lee doing her strip act right there on Broadway. A promoter, I believe they called him," she wrote when she was first introduced to Todd. "He was busy getting together a new film technique to be called Todd-AO, a combination of his chutzpah and a scientist at American Optical: a new wide lens camera, to replace the recently introduced Cinerama."  Accustomed to neurotic and possesive partners, Dick Powell appears in I'm a Billboard as that rare specimen who didn't ever try to manipulate Keyes, a chivalrous old-fashioned man who was so gentle with her that she didn't know how to respond to that kind of man. Philip Grimes (the producer whose company has purchased the rights of a best-selling novel) is probably the stand-in for Dick Powell. Grimes displays "a deep sincerity, the kindest smile." What is known is her odd obsession with Mrs Mike and her vague allusions to a courteous romance with Powell seemingly out of a fairly tale, in stark contrast with her other lovers. Powell seemed to have regretted the affair, according to Keyes.

After his divorce from his first (alcoholic) wife Mildred Maund, Dick Powell was going to marry Mary Brian, but Joan played her cards well. When Powell, who was thinking of marrying Brian, asked Blondell for advice, the blonde bombshell made him doubt of his true feelings. Powell broke up with Brian in 1933 and dated Margaret Lindsay, while he initiated a romance with Blondell in late 1934. Center Door Fancy: Jim continued: "You have good common sense, Nora. I’m considering marrying May—what’s your advice?” “Do you love her?” “Well, hell, she’s a hell of a gal—not many around like her.” Jim continued: “I picked her up the other Saturday morning to grab some chow, and she wanted to know if I’d park by the Bank of America on Highland for a minute, as she had to clip some coupons. I sat out there for two solid hours while she clipped and clipped,” he leaned toward me. “My!” “We didn’t wrap our lips around a bite until after three-thirty. What do you think about a lil ole wedding?” I paused. I frankly didn’t care much about either of them. My one evening as a guest at May’s home was barren: no cocktails, barely enough chicken to go around, no butter for the air-holed bread, 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. I answered his question as truthfully as I could. “I might just take your advice. After all, a gal with her—er—qualifications—well, the first one drank a lot.” “I didn’t know you’d been married before!” “Neither does the press department. Remember me? 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. Damn glad about the catch their kid made! After all, Nora, I was a thousand-bucks-a-week MC in Detroit, and you know dames. So the little babe was in luck, she didn't have a dime.” I don’t think I like you, I thought. “What happened to the marriage?” “It lasted four years. The first two were fair, and then she started to drink. Jesus Christ, what drinking! 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!” He paused. “I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch if she didn’t stop drinking the minute she registered, but as soon as she got home, she’d drain every bottle that wasn’t tied down. “I’ll tell you something, Nora, a guy shouldn't be single in this town. The gals expect too much and the married babes can hound a guy to death.” “Two can live as cheaply as one,” I deadpanned.  

Joan (Nora): I was seated at the dressing table in my lacy lingerie looking into the mirror at Sally brushing my hair. “Sally, I can’t—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—your honesty is one of the reasons I want you for my wife, and because you’re a helluva good actress, and 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.” Joan (Nora): “Bring on the wedding drag—I’m getting married!”

In the New York Times, Bosley Crowther wrote: "Cry Danger is a tidy package of fictional extravagance. Usually you don't find much occasion for laughter in a picture that is concerned with revenge and murder. But in "Cry Danger" scenarist William Bowers has found room for some sardonic lines that are tossed off most effectively. This is the story of a man who was framed into a jail term and gets out when a former marine comes up with a convenient alibi. The marine just wants a cut of the $100,000 swag Rocky Mulloy is supposed to have stashed away. Dick Powell plays Mulloy with an air of cocky toughness that inspires confidence in his ability to run down the sleazy characters who fingered him as the fall guy for a big robbery and murder rap. As the chief feminine interest, Rhonda Fleming turns on the charm effectively and Jean Porter is amusing as a blonde pickpocket. This report will not disclose anything more about the plot details of "Cry Danger." Inside intelligence; Mr. Powell is in town—he appeared on the Paramount's stage yesterday—and he can be pretty rough on squealers." The first bump happened around 1949, after the rumors floating about a dalliance of June Allyson with Dean Martin. The Paramount stage could allude to the set where Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis were filming My friend Irma (1949), which was produced by Hal B. Wallis and released on August 16, 1949, by Paramount. A jilted Powell and a conceited Martin may well have exchanged some heated words at that time. After reconciling with Dick Powell following a brief separation in 1957, triggered by a frustrated romance with Alan Ladd, June Allyson filed for divorce in 1961, citing his workaholic nature.

The odd thing is that Dean Martin never owned the fact of an affair with June Allyson, and in her biography June Allyson doesn't even mention Dean Martin's name. Very strange, since Allyson doesn't have any problem at confessing her romantic feelings towards Alan Ladd, Peter Lawford or her special chemistry with James Stewart. So something definitely happened for Allyson giving Martin a whole silent treatment. And another curiosity about Center Door Fancy is the degree of delusion of Joan Blondell in several instances of her recountings. June Allyson has never been exposed by any sensationalist writer, not even Darwin Porter dares to tarnish Allyson's reputation, not even Kenneth Anger, William J. Mann or any of their ilk. Ironically, it's Joan Blondell whose reputation suffers at Porter's hands (in consonance with Glenda Farrell's), it's Blondell who never is sure how many abortions she underwent, never really explains why she lost interest in Dick Powell and later in Mike Todd in only a few years. Also, she torpedoed Dick Powell's relationship with Mary Brian, flirted with Errol Flynn, Bing Crosby and Clark Gable, pursued James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart and John Wayne unsuccesfully and appears to have fostered a dark past, a traumatic family background and an unhealthy obsession with hypersexuality, and whose grudge against June Allyson makes her lose many points of credibility. 

In an interview with Stuart Oderman in 1970 at The New Theatre in NYC, Blondell adds some more pearls: "Ruby Keeler was always a nice girl, a sweet girl, naïve in those days when she got with Al Jolson. She had a musical background, being in the theatre (Sidewalks of New York in 1927) and had been going around with a mob guy who looked after her, as a lot of those girls did. And Al was older, and I guess that meant security. There’s no accounting for taste. Ruby tried to convince me to go into No, No, Nanette, saying it’ll be like the old days… and I stopped her saying, ‘I don’t want to talk about my marriage to Dick Powell. That’s past history." It's startling Joan tells nonchalantly that Ruby Keeler was a protegé of a gangster, when in her recent biography "Too Marvelous for Words: The Life and Career of Ruby Keeler" (2017) there is no mention at all of this factoid. Also, Oderman notices: "The dressing rooms resembled a row of slightly enlarged closets. Joan Blondell’s dressing room, in deference to her leading role, is the first off the stage. Inside her room you’ll find a table, a mirror, and a small sofa. What catches your eye immediately is the framed glossy photo on the wall of Joan’s former husband, producer Mike Todd."

June Allyson was granted an interlocutory divorce in January 1961, which would become final in a year. But Powell had other plans; on the day following the court hearing, Allyson said, “he was sitting at the little breakfast nook, having breakfast and reading the paper.” “And I said, ‘What are you doing here? We just got a divorce,’” Allyson recalled. “He said, ‘No, you didn’t—you just got a paper that said you can have a divorce in a year.’ And he said, ‘You know, I’m never going to let you go. And you’ve spent all that money for no reason at all.’ And he went right on eating his breakfast. And we never did get the divorce. For which I’m very grateful.” —Sources: "Center Door Fancy" (1972) by Joan Blondell, "June Allyson" (1983) by June Allyson, "June Allyson: Her Life and Career" (2023) by Peter Shelley, "Joan Blondell: A Life between Takes" (1993) by Matthew Kennedy, "Glamour, Glitz, & Gossip at Historic Magnolia House" (2019) by Danforth Prince, "Bad Boys: The Actors of Film Noir" (2003) by Karen Burroughs Hannsberry and "Talking to the Piano Player: Silent Film Stars, Writers and Directors Remember" (2004) by Stuart Oderman