Hollywood’s Newest Golden Girl—Mitzi Gaynor

About 15 years ago there was quite a nasty disturbance in one of the nicer residential districts of Chicago. Not a gang shooting or anything like that, but still an incident of violent character. A small girl of four, pigtails flying free behind her, was racing down a street pursued by a rather gentlemanly looking chap wearing an expression of extreme humiliation. At intervals, the child would bend down, straighten up without losing her stride, and fling a rock or a hunk of mud at the man. Some of the missiles hit him.

A passerby collared the chaser and firmly inquired what the devil was going on. While the child stood at a safe distance and stuck out her tongue, the now very nervous gentleman attempted to explain.

“I was just trying to teach her some ballet,” he said.

The passerby set him back on the ground and went about his business muttering, “These new-fangled methods of education are certainly crazy.”

As she told the story in Hollywood some 15 years later, racing up and down the carpeted office of a 20th Century-Fox publicity executive with her shoes off, the child, now grown up to be Mitzi Gaynor, acted it out with such ferocity that those present felt real pity for the ballet master. At any rate, he must have caught her, for when she finished, Mitzi stood with her toes pointed out and her heels together—the standard stance of a duck, or, in classic circles, the legitimate pose called the First Position in the ballet.

This was all part of an interview with MODERN SCREEN—in which Mitzi Gaynor told how she got to be, in a very short time, one of 20th Century-Fox’s most promising young stars, a somewhat frightening prospect for the future of the studio, when you know that there hasn’t been as volatile a creature hereabouts since the early Betty Hutton.

Mitzi Gaynor’s father, a Hungarian named Henry Gerber, was a vagabond artist, a symphony and operatic conductor who toured this country and Latin America. He, too, was an explosive man with an extremely domineering attitude toward almost everything, including love. Tiring of travel, he established a conservatory in Chicago and shortly after fell in love with a Viennese ballroom dancer named Pauline Fisher. When Henry Gerber finally came to the conclusion that it was love, and not just some subtle Hungarian mood, he telephoned Pauline, ordered her to halt whatever she was doing and present herself before him immediately. By way of a proposal he told her he was going to install a dancing class in his school, and needed her in his business. Such was his magnetism that she came—and married him.

By the time Mitzi was three years old her mother wanted her to become a dancer, so she called her sister into conference. Her sister, a ballet dancer known as Madame Francine, suggested that she go right to work on tiny Mitzi’s positions and prepare her for a career as a ballerina.

Almost from the start, it was an unequal proposition. As far as Mitzi was concerned (she was precocious beyond her ‘going on four’) the whole business was a plot to destroy the enjoyment of her childhood, and the lessons were deliberate attempts to deform her. The traditional warm-up before a ballet lesson gave way to a new preliminary known as “kid catching,” and she entered into this phase of the enterprise with whole-hearted vigor.

However, the tuition was continued grimly for four years, at which time Henry Gerber, saddened by the effect the depression was having on his music school venture, claimed to have other definite talents and moved his family to Detroit where he engaged in such diverse occupations as ’cello soloist at musicales, and chef in fairly good restaurants. The family didn’t prosper by this move, but at least everyone ate.

Each week a famous ballet troupe made an appearance at the Masonic Temple in Detroit. Madame Francine, still cracking the whip over the now eight-year-old back of Mitzi, decided to try another tack. Mitzi was out of the mud pie stage and beginning to be conscious of beauty. So Madame started taking her to the Masonic Hall for the Saturday matinees.

“It was then,” Mitzi admits now quite soulfully, “that I first decided I was going to be a dancer. All of the great stars appeared in Detroit—and they were all so beautiful. I wanted to be like them.”

To dance, and to perform for people, then became Mitzi’s life. The relatively minor greatness of Madame Francine was dimmed in the blaze of Mitzi’s new ambition. The family, eager to fan this unexpected conflagration, enrolled her in a class being conducted by a pair of ladies named Madame Armand and Madame Katherine Etienne, both prominent internationally in ballet circles. She became, almost immediately, their star pupil—and remains so to this day.

During Mitzi’s really formative years, the vagrant nature of Henry Gerber took the family to other cities, and in each one Mitzi eagerly studied under the best available ballet master. She learned from Mia Slavenska, Roselle Frey, Paul Petroff and many others. But eventually the road led back to Detroit and Madame Etienne. Although art was uppermost in Mitzi’s heart, an instinctive knowledge of the value of a buck rested there too—and she had a definite desire to make dancing pay off.

“The first money I ever earned,” she said, “came from dancing. I played a benefit in Detroit and got $2.50. I was nine years old.”

How she managed to make a penny out of a benefit is something she didn’t completely explain, but the feat is a demonstration of rare business acumen.

At the age of 11, Mitzi had grown to sturdy proportions. She was already quite a celebrated mimic, a really accomplished dancer, and a “hamola” of the first water. Madame Etienne decided it was high time she became celebrated, and announced that they would all go to Hollywood to get Mitzi into the movies. Papa Gerber, parodoxically, elected to remain behind until he knew for sure what was going to come of the migration, so Mitzi, her mother, Madame Etienne and Aunt Francine headed West.

The magic of movietown dazzled Mitzi immediately. The casting offices were not too elated that Mitzi Gaynor was available, but it didn’t faze her a whit. She heard that a local dance impresario, Ada Broadbent, was to put on an entertainment at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium for the current Rose Queen festival. Mitzi promptly decided to join up.

An obvious 12, Mitzi slipped into a girdle she had no use for, togged herself out in a grown-up suit belonging to an adult member of the family, stepped into a pair of shoes with four-inch heels, and staggered down to Miss Broadbent’s office. The first and most obvious question Miss Broadbent asked was her age.

Mitzi, dizzy from the unaccustomed altitude, steadied herself on the edge of the desk and blandly said, “Sixteen.”

The impresario suggested that she come back when she was a little older—and Mitzi left in a blind rage.

But she got a chance to dance, anyway. The war was on and the USO gobbled up any entertainer who could walk on a stage. Mitzi had thousands of G.I.’s rolling in the aisle with her imitations of Carmen Miranda and a “soffering” Russian ballet star. It was good experience. To keep in trim, and to remain able to get up on her toes, she continued to study with Madame Etienne, and she played supernumerary engagements with the Ballet Russe when it appeared in Los Angeles. These, it must be admitted, were rather tragic occasions for the managers of the company.

Whenever the Ballet Russe plays “Coppelia,” the entire troupe will shudder in memory of the night that ballerina Mitzi Gaynor, high in the air on a well camouflaged scaffold with the rest of the corps-de-ballet, became so engrossed in her interpretation that she thought she was on a cloud and stepped off into space. She landed on the floor below with a crash that shook the entire theater. Mitzi damaged nothing but her dignity and her likelihood of ever working for the producer again.

On another occasion, she appointed herself sort of captain of the other ballerinas and, during a performance of “Scheherazade,” loudly called the beat as the girls kicked and banged tambourines. It was a splendid spirit, except that Mitzi was the only one off the beat, and she made quite a spectacle as she kicked when the others didn’t, and banged her tambourine in a jangling solo when the score called for the twitter of a flute.

These setbacks had little effect on Mitzi Gaynor, however. At periodic intervals, she would doll up, get up on the high heels again and stagger down to Ada Broadbent’s office, where she would loudly claim to be 16. Finally it bore fruit. Miss Broadbent, now fully aware that the kid had talent, got her a part in the Los Angeles Civic Light Opera Company’s production Roberta.

Edwin Lester, producer for the light opera company, took an immediate liking to the girl who always seemed to be 16 and signed her to a personal contract. She appeared with his company each season and became one of Los Angeles’ and San Francisco’s favorite performers. Everyone admired her talent and loved her energetic clowning. Even on-stage she was good for an occasional belly laugh, like the time she was dancing a waltz with Walter Slezak in The Great Waltz and something came unhooked in the back of her costume. It was a dress that required many undergarments—and as there was no time to investigate the thing that had come undone, Mitzi just kept on dancing, leaving in her wake a shower of petticoats that threatened to cover the entire stage.

The casting offices of the movie studios still showed a definite lack of interest in Mitzi Gaynor, but the executive offices didn’t. One night an assistant to George Jessel caught Mitzi in a show and gave a glowing report to Jessel the next day. George, now a producer at 20th Century-Fox, went to see her and sent a note asking her to come for an interview and test.

Mitzi admits she was very frightened. She also admits that for the first time in her career she thought 18 might sound too old, and mulled the advisability of telling the producer she was much younger. At any rate, she went to the studio, made a good impression during the interview, and was scheduled for an elaborate color test.

A first test is a terrifying experience for any actor, and Mitzi was no exception. She showed up in the make-up department on schedule and got ready to smear her face with some of the goo the theater required. A quiet man asked her to leave her face alone—he would take care of it. She began to comb her hair, and an equally quiet young woman asked her the polite equivalent of “Where’s your union card?” Mitzi sat silently while the makeup man worked on her face and the lady on her hair. When they were finished, she was positive she had fallen into the hands of unknown enemies. It seemed as though nothing had been done. By a wearing down process, she finally got her hair brushed back from in front of her face, but the goo on the face was out. Then came a costumer, with what Mitzi vowed was atrocious taste, and Mitzi stumbled before the camera almost livid with rage.

The late John Stahl was the director. In a few minutes, Mitzi was sure he didn’t have the faintest idea what he was doing, and he made her go over and over scenes that she knew perfectly well were excellent, maybe sensational, the first time. She dragged herself home at the end of the test positive she was the worst performer ever photographed—and amazed that anyone ever got into pictures with that kind of people fouling things up.

When she saw the test some days later she was stunned. Everything was just perfect. And she almost wept with remorse when she remembered the awful things she had thought about the people who made it for her. To this day she has the utmost respect for the quiet artists who work so competently behind the scenes in moving pictures.

It would be nice to say now that as soon as the executives at 20th Century-Fox saw Mitzi Gaynor’s test they dispatched a vice-president to her home in the middle of the night to get her name on a contract. They didn’t. Everybody raved about her. But there was just talk, talk, talk—nothing but talk. By this time, Mitzi had signed with an agent, Mitch Hammelberg, an extremely Hollywood-wise gentleman who has started some of the biggest stars in Hollywood on the road to fame. He advised her to just sit tight; that this was usual in situations of this kind.

Mitzi sat tight just as long as she could, then she opened negotiations with Cole Porter to go to Broadway to play in Out of This World. It had been two months since the test, and it looked as though there was no interest anymore.

The family bags were packed and the tickets bought when Hammelberg called and said that Henry Koster and Sol Siegel wanted to interview Mitzi for a part in My Blue Heaven. He advised her against getting excited about it, though, because it was just an interview—not an offer for her services. Mitzi went, had the talk, was asked to sit in an outer office for a few minutes—and then was taken back into the office and told she had the part.

You saw My Blue Heaven, and the impish Mitzi Gaynor walk away with her share of it. So did the rest of the people at the studio, and she was promptly signed to a long term contract. In her second picture, Take Care of My Little Girl, she neither sings nor dances—just acts—and the studio thinks she is one of the most promising young comediennes in the business. In her third film, now in production, The Friendly Island, she turns sultry, wearing sarongs, and the studio predicts she will be one of the most promising sexy stars in the business.

In her off-screen personality, Mitzi Gaynor is a complete hoyden—bouncy, busy, full of fun and energy. Wherever she goes there is a slight tornado. She admits now to 19 and practical adulthood. And she still loves the ballet.

Romantically, Mitzi Gaynor is in rather an odd position. She is engaged to be engaged, in deference to her mother’s wishes. But, nobody in the history of the world, has been more in love. The lucky young man is an attorney, and they have been going steady for three years, ever since Mitzi actually was 16. His name is Richard Coyle.

They met in something of a reverse of the Romeo and Juliet manner. Dick was visiting an older fraternity brother, Edward Everett Horton, backstage at the Los Angeles Philharmonic Auditorium where Mitzi was working. Horton’s dressing room was on an upper level, and Dick had stepped out onto a balcony to see a number on-stage. Mitzi, whose dressing room was directly underneath, also stepped out of her cubicle, heard a noise from above and looked up.

“It felt like ’d been struck by lightning,” she said. “The guy up there was the handsomest creature I had ever seen in my life—or in the movies. He was tall, young and had premature grey at the temples. It took me five minutes to bend my head down again.”

For three weeks, Dick Coyle attended every performance of the show—quite obviously to see Mitzi—but no opportunity for an introduction presented itself. Horton, perversely, refused to perform that simple ‘chore. One day, Mitzi took the bull by the horns when she saw Dick passing a dressing room in which she was chattering with a bunch of the chorus girls. Snatching a mint from the dressing table, she dashed to the door and, holding the candy in front of her, stuttered:

“Have a mint?”

Dick reached for it and she saw that it was not only covered with grease paint, but had a bite taken out of it. Horrified, she stammered, “Just a minute, I’ll get you a clean one.” She ran back and got one, but the spell was broken. Dick took the candy, muttered a thanks, and departed. The show closed that night and Mitzi left the theater positive she would never see the lovely man again.

The next day he called her on the phone and said he was Dick Coyle. Mitzi didn’t get it for a moment, then she said, “Are you that handsome, beautiful, tall, wonderful fellow who has been coming to the theater?” That was a pretty hard question to answer, but Dick identified himself. They talked for two hours, made a date for that night, and have been together every night since then.

Time will tell what the movies have in store for Mitzi in the way of fame and a career. But the people who know her well now, all predict that her star will rise rapidly, and will shine brightly for a long time. And they say something else about her, too.

“That Mitzi,” they say, “what a doll! What a wonderful girl. She’s going to be big—and it couldn’t happen to a nicer madwoman.”

THE END

—BY JIM HENAGHAN

 

It is a quote. MODERN SCREEN MAGAZINE MAY 1951