It Comes Up Love—Ronald Reagan & Nancy Davis

No matter how you look at it, Ronald Reagan, the shy, quiet executive-type actor just has to be in love with Nancy Davis. Five will get you 10 anywhere in Hollywood that wedding bells will ring for them before many more months have passed.

Nobody—especially Ronald Reagan—will forget the two year parade of newspaper and magazine stories that had him eating his heart out for Jane Wyman; or the bull dog tenacity with which certain reporters stuck to that line long after Ronnie had passed the crisis and was having himself a time as a reconverted bachelor.

The trouble with most artists of the press is that they don’t really know Ronald Reagan—which is probably why they can’t picture a copy of his marriage license to Nancy Davis hanging above his fireplace.

A fairly good indication of the pixie and stubborn nature of Ronald Reagan is displayed in an incident that happened almost 10 years ago, shortly after he’d come to Hollywood to be an actor. Reagan had been a sports announcer in the middle west, a real whiz at fast chatter about football. He was generally an enthusiastic fellow and didn’t consider his contributions to the players’ weary efforts at all out of the ordinary. A Warner Brothers movie scout did, though, and Ronnie suddenly found himself giving everything he had to drawing room chatter before a camera.

Ronnie was working in a Bette Davis picture when the production office sent him a note one day advising him to show up the next morning in white tie and tails. Naturally, Ronnie dropped into wardrobe and asked for a fitting. He was informed that, being a stellar performer of sorts, he was obliged to provide his own evening clothes. Ronnie admitted very frankly that he didn’t own a suit of tails—and that quite possibly he never would, as they didn’t go over too big in Nebraska.

The wardrobe man gave him the card of a good tailor, and washed his hands of the whole affair.

Ronnie sat quietly in a pal’s office and mulled over the matter. On his salary, he couldn’t afford tails—and he might never need them again in a picture. So he did the only sensible thing. He went down to a pawn shop, bought a suit of 1890 tails for $12.00, and blandly showed up on the set the next morning dressed almost as ordered.

The director, Edmund Goulding, almost had apoplexy. He roared and thundered that a man made up like Harold Lloyd couldn’t make love to Bette Davis. He finally dragged Ronnie up to the front office so that the bosses could see for themselves. The result was that the studio invested a couple of thousand dollars in a Reagan wardrobe. It was not only a splendid victory for Ronnie, but just about as classy a gag as he has been able to get away with since.

There is no question about it; the years have mellowed Ronald Reagan considerably. They have also given him a sense of responsibility toward the community and the nation. His off-screen activities attest to this. But in the man whom many call stuffy, there is still a lot of the boy who loved to call football games.

There was a real period of melancholy following his separation from Jane Wyman, because Reagan is normally straight-laced and doesn’t take such things lightly. But it didn’t last nearly as long as they say it did. One of the reasons for the lonely-boy legend may have been that Ronnie doesn’t smile easily on command. Consequently, when photographed at nightclubs he usually had a long face. If the photographer had waited until somebody told a funny story, he’d probably have made a swell shot of Ronnie rolling on the floor in enjoyment.

Another contributing factor to the legend is undoubtedly the character of his free time occupation. Ronnie is a tireless, sometimes fanatic, worker in the interests of the Screen Actors’ Guild and certain political organizations. These are very serious matters and, as a spokesman for his interests, Reagan’s most quoted statements have had to do with weighty problems. This cannot get a man a reputation for being a Katzenjammer or a great wit. Actually, Reagan is something of both.

An incident indicating Ronald Reagan’s humor and understanding of the boisterous life took place during the war when Ronnie, a captain, was temporarily stationed in Hollywood.

Anyone who has ever worn the ill-fitting brown of a private’s suit knows that every enlisted man in the army at one time or another has vowed to track down and trounce at least one officer. But no man in his right mind ever dared do it.

A couple of G.I.’s were spending their furlough money at Ciro’s one night, when they playfully decided to take the place apart. There was what was mildly reported as a scuffle, the M.P.’s were called, and the merrymaking dog-faces were dragged outside to the parking lot where they began reducing the Provost Marshal’s staff by two good men. At this point, an army car pulled into the lot, and Captain Ronald Reagan got out, sped to the scene and shouted a command for everyone to hold fire. One of the soldiers had a good one left in him, and landed it smack on Captain Reagan’s nose.

Quiet fell on Sunset Strip. Even the civilians paled. The M.P.’s trembled in terror for their late antagonists.

“Take them away,” said Captain Reagan.

“Yes, sir,” said the M.P. still able to talk. “And what is the name of the officer we will charge them with striking, sir?”

“Take them to their hotel,” said Captain Reagan, “and keep your mouth shut about anybody hitting anybody.”

The four soldiers got into a jeep and drove away, marveling at the wonder of having found an officer with a real, beating heart. Captain Reagan dabbed the crimson from his nose and went into Ciro’s.

“How about that!” he is reported to have remarked to a bartender. “He had to get drunk—but one of them finally got up the nerve to do it. And a captain, too!”

It is an odd thing that whenever a movie star shows the slightest tendency toward serious thought on any subject, the word gets around that he is a stuffed shirt. And if he indulges in vital activities he is stamped as a funless, loveless, tragic shell of a man, who enjoys nothing more than suffering and toting the burdens of others.

Fortunately, for some of Hollywood’s serious causes, this is not a fact. And it is not a fact that Ronald Reagan is a stuffed shirt in even the slightest degree. True, he feels called upon at times to speak his piece on such matters as the irresponsible press, but he speaks mainly on behalf of his fellows. If he is noted as a chap who would chill his own dear mother if he should pass her on the street, it is only because he is so near-sighted that he can’t tell a watermelon from a corn cob unless it’s balanced on the end of his nose. He doesn’t like to wear his glasses.

Ronald Reagan is an enthusiastic aninmal in his every waking moment. He loves to laugh; he loves to play. He loves to whistle at chorus girls, drive fast cars, roll on the grass with kids, swim in the ocean and gallop on a fast horse off into the horizon. In other words, he likes to live.

You can lay the fact that he is known as a solitary gentleman with an aching heart directly at the door of the crusade that has been conducted for him by other people. And, for an assist, add the rather human quality of fear, for he has been afraid to open his mouth because he thought he might be misunderstood, misquoted, or held up to ridicule. He hasn’t talked—and he’s taking the consequences.

In the case of Nancy Davis, though, even the diehards have begun to admit that maybe he does have a spark of love for her in his tired old heart. And his intimates know that the spark is deep and real and no doubt long-lasting.

It would be hard to find a girl more suited to Ronnie Reagan’s somewhat split nature than Nancy Davis. She, too, has been tagged the serious type—mainly because of the roles she has so ably played in her MGM pictures. She comes from one of Chicago’s first families. Her father is one of the world’s most noted brain surgeons, and her mother is a society leader. She has been educated in the finest schools and, actually, is not entirely in her native element in the theatrical profession.

However, she is just about all the things Reagan is, except that she never whistles at chorus girls.

They met in a rather official, although informal, manner. There was a vacancy on the board of directors of the Screen Actors’ Guild and, according to its policy of trying to get prominent players in office, it was decided to ask Nancy to accept the post.

Reagan, as president, was to make the formal call to Nancy. So he called and suggested that, since they didn’t know each other, they meet across a plate of spaghetti or something. They’ve been looking at one another across something on a plate almost every night since.

Because of a fanatic desire to keep his name out of the papers as a lover, Ronald Reagan has been a bit sneaky in his courting of Nancy Davis. And, because she is the type of girl who never goes to carnivals, Nancy has helped all she can in this endeavor. They lean toward quiet, out-of-the-way dining places, or if they dine in Hollywood itself, it is generally at Chasens, a restaurant prohibiting photographers.

Most of their dates are spent at the homes of friends, like the Bill Holdens or the Glenn Fords. The fun is fast and furious, and the hand-holding, if there is any, safe from prying eyes. Because they are both active in the SAG, they spend long evenings after the weekly meetings talking about contracts, demands, concessions—and maybe love.

Ronald Reagan’s greatest passion is horses. When he is not working on The Last Outpost or “presidenting”, he can be found out at his horse ranch in the San Fernando Valley sitting on a rail fence checking up on his stock—and Nancy is generally sitting on the next rail. A lot of the time, Ronnie will have his kids along, Maureen, ten, and Michael, six. The four of them get along just fine.

Ronnie expects the horse business. to pay off and anticipates that he will be a full-time breeder when the last camera crank has turned for him. His obvious desire to show Nancy all there is to be seen about the care and breeding of horses is a pretty good indication that he expects her to be around the farm when that day comes.

Ronnie is no sudden hot flash in the life of Nancy Davis. She is not the hot flash type of girl. When she first arrived, in Hollywood, she dated only old friends of the family. She met Bob Walker, and it appeared that they had found something resembling romance. Actually, this wasn’t so. Their relationship was almost purely professional. Nancy admired him as an actor, they both worked at the same studio, and he was showing her the ropes.

She met and dated Robert Sterling, but when a photographer wanted to take their picture one night when Reagan was away in the East, Nancy only consented when it was understood that no romantic innuendo would be written into the caption. Beyond those two boys, there were none until Ronnie.

In a wonderfully ordinary way, Nancy Davis has a great gift for home-making, a real attribute as far as a man of Reagan’s tastes is concerned. Some time after she got her contract at MGM, she moved io an apartment in Westwood. That community has a group of sales developers which visits newcomers to the city and presents gifts from the local merchants, along with an invitation that the new resident drop in and say hello. It is purely a commercial proposition designed to build good will, and attract new customers.

But Nancy Davis was so touched by the gesture that she was almost overcome with appreciation. She was probably the only person to ever do it, but she took the list of about 20 or 30 merchants, drove around to each one, thanked him for the gift and swore undying fidelity to his enterprise. She doesn’t take even the simplest gesture of friendship lightly.

Speculating on the outcome of Hollywood romance is a risky business in any case. Love has often bloomed, burst into flame, and died rapidly from a kick in the shins. What looks like mad passion today might look like a plate of cold mashed potatoes tomorrow, no matter who the stars are. But in the case of Ronnie and Nancy, there is one difference. Neither of them is casual romantically, nor are they too old for romance, or too unresponsive to do without it. It can be safely deduced, then, that if they spend all their free time together and are lonely when they are apart, it has to be love.

One of these days there will be a formal announcement—probably of an engagement. For no matter how you figure it out, if you take the personalities, past histories, and Current activities of Ronald Reagan and Nancy Davis into serious account, it comes up love.

THE END

—BY JIM BURTON

 

It is a quote. MODERN SCREEN MAGAZINE MAY 1951