Cinema: Middick

Midwick is pronounced Middick. And Middick is nice Pasadena’s exclusive country club. Midwick does not think that Hollywood is nice. But last week at a polo match at Midwick between the Actors and the Producers for the benefit of the Motion Picture Relief Fund, Midwick and Hollywood met socially with a slight hiss of conversation. For a week before the game local society and sporting pages had been ballyhooing the event. The Producers team would consist of Walter Wanger, a hard-working non-scorer; Frank Borzage of long low-goal experience; Mike Curtiz, who took “ill” at the last moment, had Oil Man Steen Fletcher sub for him; and eight-goaler Aidan Roark, Zanuck’s assistant at polo and pictures. The Actors would be spirited novice Paul Kelly, Charles Farrell, Tim Holt (son of he-man Jack) and comic Guinn (“Big Boy”) Williams. Over their hearts the Actors would wear the initials G. R.—for Ginger Rogers, their sponsor.

Cinemactress Rogers did not show up to watch her team play. Neither did a lot of other people. When the ponies pranced onto the field, there were only some 3,000 spectators in the grandstand or fanning themselves in the boxes. Reasons: The heat was 90° in the shade; the privilege of baking in one of the boxes cost $5.50; Midwick was aloof.

The sport of kings as practiced by Hollywood’s cinemoguls at worst resembles mounted croquet, at best an Indian raid from a western thriller or the flight of a Tartar tribe. Now & then man and beast roll in the dust, riders run wild-eyed after their mounts.

Last week both teams were a little rusty and out of practice. When they did hit the ball, it rolled a few feet and stopped. Tim Holt, normally a two-goal player, hit nothing all afternoon. Charles Farrell raced around on Mazeppa-maned ponies. Nobody scored until the fifth period. The most frequent sounds from the grandstand were groans. Then Big Boy Williams got mad because Walter Wanger kept hooking his mallet. Aidan Roark, who hadn’t played all winter, got tired of the monotony. The two dueled for the ball. In the melee, Charles Farrell romped by, whanged the ball between the posts for a goal. Next the producers scored, scored a second time when Roark with a tremendous clout sent the ball 100 yards to win the game for the Producers in the last second.

To the victors, their sponsor, Joan Bennett, presented the trophy in a ten-minute ceremony mostly monopolized by fan magazine photographers who wanted shots of Joan and Husband Walter Wanger.

At tea inside the clubhouse later, Frank Capra caused Pasadena eyebrows to rise by appearing without a tie.

Husband Wanger, one of Midwick’s few movie members, strove manfully to bring the social irreconcilables together. He had little luck. The only real fraternization went on in the party of tall, dark Mrs. Edwin Earl and her husband, whose father owned Los Angeles’ defunct Express. Her group contained Lawyer Thomas Joyce, Comedian Robert Benchley, Cinemactress Rosalind Russell, Poloist Eric Pedley.

To some, Midwick’s manners seemed to evidence more bravado than brains. Polo is a difficult game to support, and there are plenty of Hollywoodians who are waiting for the exclusive club to expire, anticipating a good buy. A few days before the Hollywood game a Pasadena real-estate operator approached one Midwick director, offered to buy the colonial clubhouse and grounds for a cemetery. Said an undertaker hopefully eying the golf course and polo fields: “The grass is already in.”