Marian Nixon — Rich Wife (1932) 🇺🇸
Hollywood is the most dramatic place on earth! Elsewhere life is a stenciled pattern, repeating its design precisely. In Hollywood, it is all bold, varied figures and flagrant color.
The uncertainty of success holds players enthralled. When an actress marries well and retires, a problematic glory usually brings her back. After the spotlight, even luxurious obscurity palls. Friends' letters cannot replace stacks of fan mail, nor a foreseen regularity intrigue like Hollywood's haphazard life.
"A telephone call in Chicago means a luncheon engagement or a matinee. In Hollywood, it may be a summons to a coveted Seventh Heaven or Grand Hotel. Each time the bell rings, the spirit stands at attention."
Over our luncheon Marian Nixon explained with her characteristic candor. In a childish frock for "Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm" she bore no mark of her high material estate.
"I came back to pictures because I never have accomplished anything especially gratifying, and because nothing as thrilling occurs anywhere else. In other cities, commonplace monotony prevails. There is no reason to expect anything. A fire is a novelty. Here, a fire isn't personal enough to dramatize interest. Unless, of course" — her brown eyes crinkled into laughter — "it's one's very own fire."
Nearly three years ago, just when her friends felt her to be on the verge of splendid accomplishment, she married Eddie Hillman, Jr., a wealthy sportsman. And apparently retired.
"After six months in Europe, we lived in a Chicago hotel near the lake. We went swimming, to the theater, and parties. It was a luxury to lie abed late, to stay up until all hours dancing. No alarm clock, no hasty breakfast and putting on make-up. No tedious waits or costume fittings, no reprimands from a director.
"No one could hurt me. Not a disappointment, to stun me temporarily, and from which I would bounce up with renewed hope next day. Nor the stimulus of contest, the thrill of victory. No — why, no drama! It began to grow a bit dreary, with humdrum repetition. I would awaken to the thought, 'Well, I've nothing important to do today.'"
Her manner is still cordial but reserved, unaffected. Her straightforwardness has persisted. Yet I detect a slight softening. Her eyes smile as readily but with more warmth, her lips are less set.
Most women who are realists harden as they grow older. Marian, feeling sheltered in a new and permanent safety, has become more gentle.
Despite a hint of fragility in her ninety-six pounds, she always had a driving ambition and a keen material sense. A calculating mind was operative. With family responsibilities, and with her background of Finnish ancestry bred to careful economy, she would throw away neither coin nor opportunity. A tenseness, as though she were forever alert, was in her glance, back of her smile.
Now that is gone. She is relaxed. One senses that this marriage has removed money from her consideration.
"Here, discovery or promotion often hinges on a chance meeting. This tingle in the air is infectious. One enters a restaurant. A producer's roving eyes suddenly become speculative. Instantly an important role may be cast, practically, though one must go through the formality of tests.
"While frequently superficial, conversation is more stimulating. People are more enthusiastic. One is eager to contribute vitally, always with a goal shifting ahead and beckoning.
"I never have done anything outstanding." Her eyes level, she spoke obviously without intention of baiting me to a defensive compliment. "For nine years I have given capable performances. I never have had the good fortune to be in a great or very successful picture. I share my friends' belief that I can do better work. So I shall keep on striving."
Marian always regarded her career very seriously, spending about forty per cent of her salary on self-promotion. This thing for which she denied herself luxuries was not a hobby to be lightly discarded.
"Besides, I feel independent, and enjoy giving relatives some of life's frills, though my husband will not permit me to spend my earnings on myself, not even for clothes, except on things necessary for my career.
"What a glow it gave me to be back on the set, seeing old friends, laughing at their clowning, wondering about the new faces and situations. That is Hollywood's fascination, its changing panorama. It is my world. Separated from it, I felt as if my foundation had been jerked away. I grew up in the studios. I love the hard work and the gay camaraderie and the personal element that lends color to each small event.
"And my husband understands. He is so sweet and considerate. When I am tired, he plays backgammon with friends who drop in — Sally Eilers and Hoot Gibson, and Alyce Mills and her husband — and I rest. He has accepted my friends just as, in Chicago, I made myself a part of his world. "He is proud of me, sees my pictures, loves to pore over my scrapbook, and becomes incensed if any one criticizer. me, or if he thinks a write hasn't given me enough space: But he refuses point-blank to pose for publicity pictures.
"He seems younger than his thirty-one years. He wasn't crazy about California, but good-humoredly transplanted himself that I might have my career. Now, with his polo contacts, he likes it."
Mr. Hillman is rather quiet, suddenly breaking out with a wisecrack, particularly amusing because of its unexpectedness.
They met at the Biltmore Supper Club late in 1928. For two months he tried to date her. Finally, she dined with him. And saw him every evening for a month. When he went back to Chicago they were engaged. She wasn't anxious to marry, having her work, friends, diversions.
Her impetuous, youthful marriage to a pugilist, Joe Benjamin, had ended unhappily. She was a bit afraid.
But when Mr. Hillman came out again to insist upon the fatal step, she harkened to her heart. His relatives were charming to her, when she went to Chicago to marry him.
He had taken his mother to see his beloved on the screen. It was a frumpy character, most unprepossessing, in Geraldine. Mrs. Hillman studied her intently, slowly frowning. Turning to him, she whispered, "My dear, does she really look like that? Always?"
"Fortunately, at the end I dressed up properly." Marian's eyes glimmered. "They all accepted me as Eddie's fiancée, not as a movie curiosity.
"He is touchingly sentimental — even remembers the anniversary of our first kiss. His gifts are so beautiful.
"Children? In a few years. When the motherhood urge grows I shan't let the career interfere. But I believe that I would return to it."
I can't dust off glamorous adjectives for her; she is genuine and wholesome. But she isn't lackluster. Within the limitations of her personality, she is individual. And the most tranquil person I know. An appreciative sense of humor gleams in her alert eyes. No one in Hollywood is better liked.
At twenty-six or seven, she is that happy combination, a refined sophisticate. She sings a bit, talks well, though seldom brilliantly, and dislikes noise and loud-voiced people. She prefers sports' clothes to frills, vivid colors to pastels.
Her return, despite her long screen service, was difficult.
"The public is not fickle. But the industry brands one as through after an absence. It took my agent six months to convince producers that I hadn't gone gray-haired. However, I'm still playing ingenués."
Fox relaunched her and gave her Rebecca, which Janet Gaynor refused.
"I'm playing woebegone characters — teachers and orphans. Simple costumes, mostly."
"From rags to riches," I murmured. "You go home to revel in silk."
"Pajamas!" It was her turn. "I'm too tired to go out.
"My future? Something, I hope. I have no special yearnings. There isn't a single highfalutin' word you can apply to me. Colorless copy, adequate actress, normal person. Sometimes I regret not being sensational. It is a consolation, however, to know that though we remain in a groove, my type last the longest. We — survive."
But her eyes — still alert to all moves concerning her career — noted the departure of the director from the restaurant. She, too, must hurry to the set and not keep him waiting.
Marian, the conscientious, on the job again!
Nearly three years off the screen, Marian Nixon returned with new poise and sophistication — and utterly bored with luxury, security, and inactivity.
Besides a husband, Marian has three dogs, a parrot, canary, goat, and monkey to welcome her when she comes home from the studio.
When a schoolgirl of twelve Marian worked afternoons in a Minneapolis department store to earn money for dancing lessons. Now she is married to Edward Hillman, Jr., whose family made their millions out of a Chicago department store.
Collection: Picture Play Magazine, August 1932