
What Lana Turner’s Really Like
Writing a story about Lana, at least a story that is new, is about as easy as updating Little Red Riding Hood. Everybody knows what happened to R. R. Hood, and everybody knows what has happened to L. Turner. (It is purely coincidental that both heroines have had wolf troubles.)
So as a refresher course, I read a few dozen stories about her, assorted pulse quickeners that stretched over more than a dozen years. They in the gamut, beginning with sweaters and Greg Bautzer and ending with sweaters and Lex Barker. Something interesting about them—they all concentrated on Men. The curious rhythm of changing partners fascinated the writers. Lots of them turned amateur psychologist and looked for patterns and came up with reasons of their own. Some said that men grew tired of Lana, some said Lana grows tired of men, and some insisted she has a father complex.
I don’t have to tell you Lana’s reaction to all this supposition. Still and yet, she snorts in indignation and says, “Things just happened, that’s all. There were mistakes. And as for having a father complex, that’s ridiculous. I’m as un-complex as a person can be.”
Inclined to agree with her, I decided that I’d ignore the subject of her marriages. They were all dillies in their respective ways and Lana tried, as far as is humanly possible, to make them work. I felt there was no reason to drag her through all that again; the stories have been printed in Hindustani, Flemish, and for all I know, Braille.
So I turned reporter and contacted her butcher, baker and cocktail-dress maker. There were also a few producers, three directors, her stand-in, hairdresser and make-up man, a cameraman or two, a movie star or two, a couple of old flames, an ex-maid and a shoe salesman. And you know something? Each of these people has been grilled about Lana by other writers an average of 5.5 times. Which, I figured, left them all rather drained of anything to say. There was one interesting thing, though. Without exception, they could still deliver their opinion of Lana. They termed her “a dreamboat,” “a poor soul who doesn’t deserve the unhappiness she’s had,” “a loyal friend,” “divine,” “a truly fine woman,” “the greatest,” “an actress of talent when given the opportunity,” “an amusing companion” and “a great dame.” Too overwhelming. You might even call it sticky. So I allowed as how I’d let Lana speak for herself. I’d take you to lunch with her. It would be the closest you could come to knowing what Lana Turner is like.

Lana was on time for our meeting at the Brown Derby. Conversation in the restaurant dropped from a babble to a buzz and every head turned slowly, as though watching a tennis match in slow motion, to follow her progress down the aisle to the booth where I sat.
She walked past the stares with a poise born of long practice, slid into our booth and removed the pale yellow cashmere coat that accentuated her sun tan and the blue of her eyes.
“Today,” I told her, “we’re not going to mention men. Not one.”
“Olé,” she said. “That will be a refreshing change.” She seemed genuinely pleased, and I thought how dreary it must be for her, being probed by assorted strangers about her life and loves, and husbands past and present.
I started by asking about twelve-year-old Cheryl, and Lana threw up her hands in a helpless gesture. “That one! She’s taller than I am! You can’t imagine what it’s like to look up at a child and lecture her. The psychological effect is all wrong. I pace up and down when I have to scold her and know I’m getting nowhere, until finally I say, ‘Sit down, young lady, sit down!’ After that, it’s better.”
“You mean you’re still having troubles?” I said innocently. “Five years ago she was pinching you and her grandmother.”
“Well, I talked her out of it,” said Lana. “I told her it was dull and unattractive and that seemed to get through to her. Now she’s telling fibs—little fibs that don’t even have a point. Honest to Pete, there’s always something!”

She told me about the new governess, a Frenchwoman who has brought up two daughters of her own, and who is teaching Cheryl French and embroidery and old-world discipline. “Thank heaven for that woman! She keeps calming me down. She tells me that between eleven and thirteen they try to see how much they can get away with. And the other day I asked what happened after thirteen and she looked at me with a hopeless expression and said, “Boys!’” Here Lana gestured again, waving her arms. “Already we’ve got boys. Every time I answer the doorbell there’s some young, gum-chewing character in a leather jacket with hands stuck in his pockets.” She sighed. “I guess no matter how old she is, I’ll always have my work cut out for me.”
“Does she see your movies?” I asked her.
“Some, not all. She can’t understand why I won’t allow her to see some of them, like Flame And The Flesh. But I never shrug off a question—about anything. I always try to explain. About the pictures I tell her many of them are dull to children, but that some’ day she’ll be able to see them all.”
“Is she getting accustomed to the idea that her mother is Lana Turner?”
“I think so. She’s old enough to understand now. When I go to her school she gets a big kick out of the way the other kids stare at me. But it’s funny you should mention that. Just last night she showed me a page from a magazine that one of the girls in school had brought her. For a minute I was scared. I thought maybe she’d got hold of some so-called exposé that swore I’d run away with a pearl diver in Saipan or something equally ridiculous—you know the type. Anyway, it turned out to be about Cheryl. Some youngster had written wanting to know her full name and age, and said he thought she was cute as a button. It was her first dip into notoriety and she tried hard not to let me know she was kind of pleased. Her main concern was that the magazine had misspelled her middle name. ‘They left the a off of Christina, mother,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that awful? They do things like that all the time, don’t they?’ So I told her now she knew how I felt. And I think she glimpsed for the first time the reason I get so upset when people sling my life and my feelings around any old way they want to.”

I remembered that Lana had once said that the life of a movie star would be a perfect one if it weren’t for all the slop that goes with it.
“You’ve had a pretty rough time on that score, haven’t you?” I said.
She raised her eyes toward heaven, and the answer was far more eloquent than words. So I changed the subject.
“You can’t cook, I suppose,” I said, and the negative approach got a rise out of her.
“I certainly can! I make the best fried chicken you ever tasted, and furthermore I won’t share the recipe!” She laughed. “I won’t even allow anybody in the kitchen when I’m making it.”
“Pardon me,” I said.
“You know, nobody can do it like I can. I try to tell the cook and she waves me away as though I’d insulted her. I suppose she figures any idiot can fry a chicken. Well, not my way. I’m particularly fussy about the gravy. I suppose it’s nostalgia or something, but I like it the way my mother used to make it when I was a little girl—old-fashioned country-type gravy. Once the cook made it for us and the gravy was like glue. And when I tried to tell her again she got huffy. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to make it myself one night and leave one paltry little wing for her to taste the next day. And when she asks me how to do it I’m not going to tell her. Let her figure it out for herself!”
Lana looked triumphant, and I laughed. “Nobody would picture you being such a domestic dragon.”
“Me? Domestic? Ha!” she said. “I just said I could fry chicken, that’s all.”
“What about food in general? Do you like food?”
“If they could figure out a pill that would do it,” said Lana, “I’d be happy as a clam. I’m one of those dull people who eat only to live. Making out the menus at home is my worst chore. It’s bad enough deciding what to eat the same day, but how do I know on Tuesday what I’m going to want to eat on Saturday? Sometimes they want me to make up menus more than a week ahead, and then I fall apart and tell ’em to rotate. Just rotate and leave me alone.”
“What happens if you’re temporarily out of servants?” I said.
“I can stand it just so long, and then I’ll pitch in and do it. But don’t think I enjoy waving a dust cloth around.”
“Do you have an economic streak?” I asked. “You’re reputed to spend money like water, but you must call a halt somewhere.”

“I don’t spend money,” said Lana. “You might say money is my economic streak. I can charge anything. I think I could buy a battleship and charge it without a qualm. But it’s the funniest thing how I hate to pay cash. It kills me. I can’t bear to see that green going across the counter. Now, checks are easy. A check for a thousand dollars doesn’t look any greener than one for fifty cents.”
“How’s your temper?” I asked.
“It takes a long time, but when it finally blows, everybody should leave town. And then it’s over in five minutes. The silliest little things will set me off after months of steaming about big things. You know, I’ve often wondered what it would be like to blow my top every time I feel like it. I suppose it would be fun, but Ill bet I’d feel like a fool.”
“Are you a day person or a night person?” I asked.
“Night!” she said, and for emphasis slapped the table so hard that the silverware bounced. “Mornings are awful! And don’t talk to me until I’ve had a cup of coffee. No—make that two cups. It used to be one, but now it takes two.” She laughed. “I guess it’s later than I think.”
“If you hate mornings so much, you must crumble when you’re working and have to get up at 5 a.m.,” I said.
“I drive like a mole in the mornings,” said Lana. “It’s a wonder I ever get across town to the studio. If it’s a bright day the sun hurts my eyes, and if it’s a gray dawn I’m in danger of falling asleep at the wheel. I fixed it, though, for Diane. My make-up man had to go right by our house, so he picked me up every day. And he might as well have been driving a hearse for all the company he had.
“I read an article the other day that said different people are at their best at different hours. The author suggested that we should conduct our most important business at our best hour. All I have to do now is figure out how I can make all my business appointments for 11 p.m.”
“What object do you own that means most to you?”
She thought a minute. “You know, I don’t think I have an answer for that. If you’d asked me two or three years ago I probably would have said one of my pieces of jewelry. Or the Ming horses. I have some really lovely things. But somehow they don’t mean much to me any more. I mean, I enjoy them and I’m fortunate to have them, but if something happened to them I don’t think it would bother me very much. Why do you suppose that is?”
“I’d say you were growing up,” I said.
“I’m sorry I can’t think of any particular thing,” she said.
“No matter. The answer you gave me is better. I’d thought maybe you had a Mosaic backscratcher that used to belong to your grandmother, or a Florentine flagon you couldn’t live without.”
Lana laughed. “Heaven forbid,” she said. “Things—things by themselves—don’t count any more.”
‘Do you have a hobby?”
“Golf,” she said, “if you could call it a hobby. But I don’t have hobbies—they get in my way. I’ve never understood people who collect things. As for golf, I enjoy it when I get there, but the thought of having to get ready and get out on the course bores me. Unless I’m actually doing it, it strikes me as a lot of nonsense, chasing the silly ball all over the place. Come to think of it, once I get there I go through a lot of torture. Whenever I’m getting ready to swing I think to myself, ‘Now I’ve got to hit this stupid thing, and I can imagine it making faces at me. The whole thing would be much easier if I just picked up the phone and canceled the game.” She paused. “I’m about to take up painting again.”
“I didn’t know you painted.”
“Once, for three weeks, fire and water couldn’t keep me away from the canvas. And then I folded up everything and put it all away in a closet.”
“And you’re doing it again?”
“Not yet, but I can feel myself going over the hump, and maybe soon I’ll drag it all out of the closet again.”
“What’s your earliest memory?” I asked.
“The railroad went by our house in Idaho. And my days revolved around the times the trains would come through. I remember if nobody waved back at me my whole world collapsed.”
“How would you describe your humor?” I said. “Whimsy, or slapstick, or what?” I wanted to see what she said, because Lana laughs easily and has been described by others as their greatest audience. Not only that, when she laughs, she belts it clear across the room.
“Well, I guess I’d say my humor is all over the place. If something strikes me funny I’m off, and there’s no stopping me.”
“Where and how did you learn to love music?” I asked.
“A long time ago,” she said. “When I was married to Artie I met a lot of musical people and naturally became interested in it. I grew to love all types of music. Almost all kinds, that is,” and she laughed. “I can’t say I dig Haydn, exactly.”
“When you’re ill do you run to the doctor, or do you figure that time and your own physical condition will effect a cure?”
“I used to see a doctor if I had a hangnail. And because I did I have the best stocked medicine chest in town. By this time I figure I know what to take for everything, and believe me, if it starts with anything from A to Z, I’ve got it in the medicine chest.”
We spoke then of psychiatry, and Lana said that in her opinion lots of people, people who can afford it, go to psychiatrists unnecessarily. “Some people lean on others for help,” she said. “This astrology business that says you can’t put a toe out of bed until your star is in the right house or something. And numerology, what is that stuff? I think you’re on your own, and everything you do and have comes from inside you. From you and God, and I think if you have to have somebody else to help, or use as an excuse, there’s something wrong with you.”
I plowed on with questions. “How do you feel about telephones?”
“Can’t stand ’em,” she said. “They’re fine when they’re necessary, but I don’t like to yak for the sake of yakking. There’s nothing worse than the woman who has nothing better to do than chatter. You can tell the type right away because they always start off by saying ‘What’re you doing?’ I have the worst urge to answer, ‘Wasting time, right now.’ Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you had the nerve to say what you feel sometimes?”
“What is your worst fault?”
“I procrastinate,” she said promptly. “I tend never to do today what I can put off until tomorrow.”
“What’s your prime virtue?” I asked, and Lana was properly modest in saying she didn’t think she had any. I thought I knew the answer myself, because if there’s anything Lana is admired for, it’s her loyalty. Those who were her friends years ago are still her friends.
“Do you intend to stay active in movies for the rest of your life?”
“No,” she said, “but I’ll stay with it until I have some other income equal to what I earn in pictures.”
“If for some reason you could no longer act, what would you do?”
“Something with clothes. Designing, probably.”
“Are you stubborn?”
“No,” she said slowly. “I really don’t think I am. I’m thinking of work now. I always give. Sometimes I think they shouldn’t do a scene a certain way, but I never insist.”
“What makes you cry in movies?”
“Loneliness, I think. It tears me apart. But of course I’m a patsy for tear-jerkers. I love to cry at the movies.”
“What about your pet extravagance?”
“It’s always been shoes and I guess it always will be. I have two salesmen who send shoes out to the house all the time, and I always buy them. I can’t help myself. Last month Bill sent me two pair and I set my jaw and took them back myself. I thought I was being very courageous—until I bought four pair while I was in the department.”
“If you were allowed three books on a desert island, what would you choose?”
She took a long time on that one and then she said, “I don’t think I’d need three. If I had The Prophet with me I’d be all right. I’ve lived with it for years. It’s so beautiful.”
“Who is your severest critic?”
“Myself,” she said without hesitation.
“How do you react to seeing yourself on the screen?”
“When you ask me that, all I can think of is that screen test with the tight sweater. I was just sick about it. I didn’t know that was what I looked like to other people. It never entered my head that they would exploit it. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from the shock.”
“Do you take to people quickly?” I asked.
“If they have warmth, I get along fine with them right away. But it takes a long time for me to get to know people—really know them.”
“What do you first notice about people?”
“Whether they’re loud or quiet. I hate loudness in people.”
“Are you careless?”
“You could trail me by picking up hankies,” she said. “I love beautiful handkerchiefs and I’m proud of the ones I own, but somehow when I get home I’ve always lost the one I took with me. Most women lose gloves and earrings. With me, it’s hankies.”
“Speak to me of hats,” I said.
“Hats,” she said. “Sometimes I think if I don’t get a new one I’ll scream. On the other hand, I often go without one. I say to myself, ‘Nobody else will be wearing a hat,’ so I don’t either. Isn’t that awful of me? And I should add that the hats I buy depend on the car I’m driving. I drive a big car and buy big hats and then I buy a little sports car and I can’t get into it with the big hats, so I have to go out and buy some little hats.” She grinned. “At least, it’s a good excuse.”
“Are there any advantages you feel you’ve missed?” I said. ‘For instance, do you wish you’d gone to college?”
Lana Turner smiled. “What I’ve learned in this business they don’t teach at college. Six of them couldn’t have taught me what I’ve learned in Hollywood.”
And that about wrapped it up. Before she left, Lana thanked me again for excluding the subject of men, and said the interview had been fun for her.
To me, at least, Lana is a woman of great humor, of honesty and courage. She is one of the rare actresses who is not consistently labeled with the five-letter word used so freely in Hollywood to describe a nasty female. Lana has kept her balance and sense of values. If she has lost anything through these years of cinema fame, it has been her own happiness. It is something she seems to find only periodically. The important thing is that she has never lost herself.
THE END
—BY JANE WILKIE
It is a quote. MODERN SCREEN MAGAZINE SEPTEMBER 1955