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Monday, September 21, 2015

Cary in the Sky with Diamonds

Cary Grant and third wife Betsy Drake on location for their 1952 movie, Room for One More. Opposite, at home in the 1950s. Her experiences with LSD therapy led him to try it. Photographs: Left, from The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences; Right, from The Everett Collection.
Before Timothy Leary and the Beatles, LSD was largely unknown and unregulated. But in the 1950s, as many as 100 Hollywood luminaries—Cary Grant and Esther Williams among them—began taking the drug as part of psychotherapy. With LSD research beginning a comeback, the authors recount how two Beverly Hills doctors promoted a new “wonder drug,” at $100 a session, profoundly altering the lives of their glamorous patients, Balaban included.
Our story is set in the years before Mad Men, when Eisenhower was in the White House and America had only 48 states. Our stage is Beverly Hills, still a small town in 1958, where movie stars and other entertainment-industry leaders led active but traditional, even somewhat constrained social lives.
There was a zone of privacy in that time and place we can’t begin to imagine today. Money, emotional traumas, and personal doubts were simply not discussed, even by the closest of friends. Appearances were accepted as reality, so people kept very busy making sure every aspect of their lives looked correct. That didn’t mean having the most lavish house, the heftiest jewels, or the largest private plane, as it came to in later decades. It did mean dressing, behaving, and speaking appropriately; appearing to be happily married, in love, or looking for love en route to marriage; not complaining about one’s career or annual income; and being enormously ambitious without evidencing any ambition whatsoever.
Social lives were just as circumspect. Dinners were small A-list gatherings at Chasen’s, Romanoff’s, Don the Beachcomber, or poolside barbecues at private homes. The most visible scandals arose when dancing partners who were married—but not to each other—indulged in excessive caresses or when someone (almost always a man) drank too much, though boozy belligerence and even outright drunkenness were rare to invisible.
Almost everyone smoked carton-loads of regular cigarettes, but a “joint” was a body part or a lower-class dive. If people were “doing lines,” you’d have guessed they were writing screenplay dialogue or song lyrics. And if you mentioned “acid,” you’d mean citrus juice or a stomach problem. Nobody in Hollywood—or almost anywhere else in the United States—had ever heard of LSD, lysergic acid diethylamide. Timothy Leary wouldn’t even pop his first mushroom until 1960. So it was very out of character that against this background a group of more than 100 Hollywood-establishment types began ingesting little azure pills that resembled cake decorations as an adjunct to psychotherapy.
“When I’d say I was in therapy with a doctor using LSD, people thought I was talking about World War II landing ships”—L.S.T.’s—remembers Judy Balaban, the daughter of longtime Paramount Pictures president Barney Balaban. She didn’t know much about LSD when she started taking it, in the late 50s, but, she laughingly says, “I figured if it was good enough for Cary Grant, it was good enough for me!”
If appearances were important to those behind the camera, they were crucial to stars of the big screen. And as far as the public of 1958 was concerned, Betsy Drake and Cary Grant had “perfected the ideal living pattern” after eight years of wedded bliss. According to the fan magazines, theirs had been a fairy-tale romance: Cary had seen Betsy on the London stage in 1947, and then, when they both serendipitously found themselves on the Queen Mary returning to the States, he begged a friend, the movie star Merle Oberon, to arrange an introduction. After an intense several days on shipboard, Betsy bolted into New York City, but Cary sought her out. Within months he had persuaded her to move to Los Angeles, where she signed with RKO and David O. Selznick and then burst to screen stardom opposite Grant in Every Girl Should Be Married. The Los Angeles Timesproclaimed her “the freshest, most distinctive personality since [Jean] Arthur,” and Hollywood columnist Hedda Hopper declared her to be “at the threshold of a brilliant career.”
Grant and Drake made headlines when they flew to Arizona to elope on Christmas Day 1949 with their pilot and Cary’s best man, Howard Hughes. Betsy made a few more films before she decided to put her marriage ahead of her career. Determined to be a successful wife, she sought ways to become indispensable to a man who already had a secretary and valet. She developed into a great cook and became his trusted sounding board. She studied hypnosis and, at Cary’s urging, helped both of them to stop smoking, but when he asked her to do the same for his drinking, she agreed to banish only hard liquor and not the wine and beer she enjoyed.
Betsy was beseeched for her advice on how to have a happy marriage, and newspapers and magazines praised the couple’s simple yet complete lives, at their homes in Palm Springs and Beverly Hills or on location. She was at his side in Cannes in 1954 while he made To Catch a Thief with Alfred Hitchcock, and then she went to Spain to join him on the set of The Pride and the Passion. But it was there she realized her husband was falling in love with his co-star Sophia Loren. When Loren came to America not long afterward to star with Grant inHouseboat, it was clear to Betsy that her marriage was over.
Behind the smiling pictures, Betsy was miserable. Though still in love with Grant, she tried to find the strength to leave him, but her shattered childhood had given her no psychic grounding to weather this rejection. She had been born in Paris in 1923 to wealthy parents—her grandfather had built Chicago’s Drake and Blackstone hotels—and the family was living the good life in France alongside the Hemingways and other American expatriates. But following the crash of 1929 the Drakes returned to Chicago, where Betsy was ensconced at the Drake with a nanny while her parents lived at the Blackstone and worked at writing a play. They soon divorced and Betsy’s mother suffered a nervous breakdown; Betsy spent the rest of her childhood being shuttled among relatives in Washington, D.C., Virginia, and Connecticut.
Without realizing it, Betsy found solace in acting; when she answered the phone pretending to be someone else, the stutter that plagued her miraculously vanished. But it wasn’t until she appeared in a school play and the audience burst out in “this wonderful laughter” that she felt an approval she had never known before.
Dropping out of high school, she made the rounds of New York agents and auditions, modeling and understudying on Broadway until she was cast by Elia Kazan for a production of Deep Are the Roots, opposite Gordon Heath, opening in London. It was there that Cary had seen her, but taken as she was with him, she was also afraid. Betsy had had lovers before, but she resisted marriage, in large part because of what she had witnessed at home. Yet Cary was so persistent in his courting that she became convinced he was the anchor she had been seeking all her life. Twenty years her senior, he became “my lover, my husband, my everything.”
With her marriage now in tatters, Betsy knew she had to talk to someone and, swearing her friend Sallie Brophy to secrecy, poured out her heart. Sallie, a stage and television actress who had suffered from depression since childhood, told Betsy that she was trying a new kind of therapy with a wonder drug that had the power to break through to the subconscious. She insisted that Betsy meet her therapist, but when they arrived at his Beverly Hills office, Betsy refused to get out of the car. So Sallie went inside and brought the doctor out. He talked to Betsy through the open car window:
“You are desperate, right?”
Betsy nodded.
“Well, then why not give this a try?”
Hardly the most persuasive argument—or the most thorough intake interview—but Betsy saw the logic and agreed to come back the next morning. She was feeling somewhat more hopeful that night when she joined Cary, Clifford Odets, and Jascha Heifetz for dinner at Chasen’s. She told them, “Tomorrow I am going to take LSD.” But the men looked at her blankly and then went on with their conversation. “They didn’t know what I was talking about,” she says. “No one had heard of it.”
“I Had a Strange Feeling…”
Twenty years earlier, in 1938, a 32-year-old Swiss chemist named Albert Hofmann had synthesized the concoction while experimenting with fungus in search of a stimulant for the central nervous system. “I had a strange feeling that it would be worthwhile to carry out more profound studies,” Hofmann later said. After trying the drug himself, first by mistake and then intentionally, he added, “I became aware of the wonder of creation, the magnificence of nature.”
He labeled the chemical LSD-25, because it had been the 25th variation in his experiments. His employer, Sandoz laboratories (now a subsidiary of Novartis), began providing the substance to researchers in hopes of finding profitable applications. By the mid-1950s, the C.I.A., the U.S. Army, the Canadian government, and Britain’s M.I.6 had all jumped in, hoping LSD would serve as a truth serum or a new method of chemical warfare. Prisons and the military provided fertile and secret testing grounds. Other practitioners, varying widely in their legitimacy, experimented on derelicts, terminal cancer patients, residents of veterans’ hospitals, and college students. Within the psychiatric profession word spread that LSD held the potential to cure alcoholism, schizophrenia, shell shock (now known as post-traumatic stress disorder), and a wide range of other problems. Between 1950 and 1965, a reported 40,000 people worldwide would be tested or “treated” with LSD.
Sandoz was so loose with its requirements for obtaining the drug that when Oscar Janiger, a Los Angeles psychiatrist, wrote the company in the mid-1950s asking for a supply to give to consenting patients, on whose experiences he would then report, he was sent his own private stock of LSD. Artists told other artists, ministers told other ministers, and the good doctor was soon spending most of his time hosting experiments. Along with Dr. Sidney Cohen, Janiger expanded his efforts into a “creativity” study through U.C.L.A., where writers, painters, and musicians such as André Previn experimented with the drug.
Aldous Huxley, the renowned author of Brave New World and The Doors of Perception, was one of the first in Los Angeles to take LSD and was soon joined by others including the writer Anaïs Nin. The screenwriter Charles Brackett discovered “infinitely more pleasure” from music on LSD than he ever had before, and the director Sidney Lumet tried it under the supervision of a former chief of psychiatry for the U.S. Navy. Lumet says his three sessions were “wonderful,” especially the one where he relived his birth and, after checking with his father, learned that the experience was factually accurate, not simply symbolic. Another early experimenter was Clare Boothe Luce, the playwright and former American ambassador to Italy, who in turn encouraged her husband, Time publisher Henry Luce, to try LSD. He was impressed and several very positive articles about the drug’s potential ran in his magazine in the late 50s and early 60s, praising Sandoz’s “spotless” laboratories, “meticulous” scientists, and LSD itself as “an invaluable weapon to psychiatrists.”
It was in the mid-1950s that Sallie Brophy’s therapist, Mortimer Hartman, began experimenting with LSD. A radiologist, he had undergone five years of Freudian analysis and was thrilled to find a drug that seemed to let the unconscious burst to the forefront, instantaneously dissolving the ego instead of slowly peeling it away layer by layer. Claiming LSD “intensifies emotion and memory a hundred times,” as Hartman toldLook magazine in 1959, he became so enamored with the drug that he shifted away from radiology and joined forces with the psychiatrist Arthur Chandler to create the sedate yet pretentiously named Psychiatric Institute of Beverly Hills. Their next step was to secure a direct source of the drug from Sandoz for what they said would be a five-year study of LSD as a catalyst in the treatment of—as they affectionately named this new class of patients—“garden-variety neurotics.”
The tall and gangly Hartman opened his institute on Beverly Hills’ exclusive Lasky Drive. The rooms were furnished with sofas and decorated in what one patient remembers as “inexpensive and undistinguished browns and beiges,” with wood paneling halfway up the walls. Hartman and Chandler were partners, but Chandler, whom another patient describes as looking like “an unfunny Walter Matthau,” continued to work out of his house off Coldwater Canyon. In the words of a doctor who knew them both, Chandler served as a “drag” on the potentially “grandiose and messianic” Hartman, who was, after all, a doctor, but not a trained psychiatrist.
At most universities and hospitals, students and volunteers were paid for their willingness to test LSD, but Hartman and Chandler reversed the equation, and even though they saw only a few patients a day, the doctors were paid very well for their time. Aldous Huxley wrote to a friend that he found it “profoundly disturbing” to meet “two Beverly Hills psychiatrists … who specialize in LSD therapy at $100 a shot—really, I have seldom met people of lower sensitivity, more vulgar mind!”
Yet the two treatment rooms at the Psychiatric Institute were soon booked five days a week after patients such as Sallie Brophy began recommending the therapy to friends such as Betsy Drake. Shown into one of the small rooms and told to lie on the couch in the corner, Betsy was given a pair of blinders to wear to block out any distractions. Assured that the tiny blue dots in the little white paper cup came straight from the Sandoz laboratories, she was soon feeling a “horrible crushing,” and, in very real physical pain, she realized she was re-experiencing her own birth. The session lasted several hours and she was given a Seconal to “bring me down” slowly. Enthused by what she considered an incredible experience, Betsy went home and called her mother, with whom she hadn’t spoken in more than a decade. “I told her, ‘I love you,’ and after all that time, she just said, ‘Of course you do, darling,’ and hung up.”
The failure to reconnect in a meaningful way with her mother didn’t dampen Betsy’s optimism about the therapy. Fifty years later, sitting in her cozy London home with her bobbed hair now gray but her high cheekbones and radiant smile evidence of her long-ago stardom, she says her memories of her experiences under LSD are still crystal-clear, the revelations still vivid. The unconscious, she says, “is like a vast ocean. You don’t know where you are going to go. There is no past, present, and future—all time is now. The amazing thing about the drug is the things you see. The palm trees look different. Everything looks different, and it teaches you so much.”
Once a week for several months, Drake returned to Hartman’s office for her sessions and her LSD, arriving at eight A.M. and staying until as late as seven at night. Like a dentist leaving a patient after administering novocaine, Hartman was in and out of the room, sometimes putting on music to enhance the atmosphere. Because it was mandated that patients not drive themselves home, friends such as Judy Balaban picked her up.
Judy was only 26, but she had been married for six years to Jay Kanter, agent to stars such as Marlon Brando, Gregory Peck, Marilyn Monroe, and Grace Kelly, who were also close friends. (Judy had served as a bridesmaid at Kelly’s royal wedding, in Monaco.) Judy and Jay had two young daughters, and friends assumed her family was as perfect as it looked, but she was troubled by the sense that her life had become perfunctory, and she felt unconnected to her children. This hidden dissatisfaction with outwardly happy lives was a common theme among Betsy and Judy’s circle of friends, which also included the actress Polly Bergen (recently seen on Desperate Housewives as Felicity Huffman’s mother), who was married to agent Freddie Fields, founder of the precursor to ICM; Linda Lawson, a rising ingenue who was dating and would eventually marry the agent and future producer John Foreman (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid); and Marion Marshall, an actress who had recently divorced the director Stanley Donen and would go on to marry the actor Robert Wagner.
In some sense, all these women were living the lives they had been raised to think they wanted. John Foreman later summarized the classic conundrum of marriages in the 1950s: “The guy rides up on a white horse, sweeps the girl off her feet, and says, ‘Marry me and I’ll give you everything you want.’ Years pass and the wife comes to the painful conclusion that she is miserable. ‘Why are you unhappy?’ asks the husband. ‘What do you want?’ ‘I don’t know,’ the wife responds helplessly. ‘I thought you knew and were going to give it to me.’ ”
A few of these women had tried analysis, but none had ever been given prescriptions from their psychiatrists. Yet LSD was seen as a powerful tool to break through confusion and inhibition. As Bergen says, “I wanted to be the person, not the persona,” and what attracted her to LSD therapy was “this possibility of a magic wand” that would force her to open up. Marshall, who went to Hartman’s office once a week for about a year, is quick to point out that she never thought of the regimen as “taking a drug. It was therapy. It was what my doctor told me to do, so I did it.”
Their descriptions of their experiences on LSD can sound today like a rehash of New Age clichés, but at the time—before the Beatles and the Jefferson Airplane were literally singing the praises of psychedelic drugs, before every college student was reading Carlos Castaneda—their perceptions were fresh and revelatory. Like Sidney Lumet and Betsy Drake, Judy relived her birth and often felt during therapy as if she had left her body and “fused” with the universe. “You experienced this otherworld consciousness and became part of what I imagined was ‘the infinite mind of man.’ ”
Linda Lawson was unprepared when she took the little blue dots, put on her blinders, and was soon suffering “a burst of rage and sobbing.” She was once again a 13-year-old girl, reliving the death of her father, “who had never raised his voice and was always so loving” but had left her to live with a mother who she felt didn’t know how to love her. In grappling with her issues of abandonment, Linda grew so trusting of Hartman (she found him “sweet, if a bit skeletal”) that when he urged her to move in with John Foreman she did so. And when the doctor added Ritalin—a stimulant that can affect brain chemistry—to her regimen, she didn’t question him.
“My Wise Mahatma”
Cary Grant’s initial impetus for visiting Dr. Hartman was a concern about what his wife might be saying about him. Grant methodically cultivated his debonair image and had been a leading man for more than 25 years. It was an unparalleled achievement, all the more remarkable because he had accomplished it by creating his persona out of whole cloth. He was a poor and emotionally abused boy of 14 named Archie Leach when he left his Bristol, England, home several years after his mother had simply disappeared; it would be decades before he discovered she had been institutionalized, possibly by his father, who had another family on the side. Grant came to America as an acrobat, soon began acting on the stage, and was famously “discovered” in 1932 by Mae West, who gave him his first featured film role, in She Done Him Wrong. He had transformed himself with a new accent and educated himself about art, clothes, and etiquette, in the process becoming the proverbial man of the world whom every woman wants and every man wants to be. He had perfected his exterior beyond his wildest dreams, but the inside was something else again. His self-deprecating remark “Everyone wants to be Cary Grant—even I want to be Cary Grant” had more than a ring of truth to it.
At the time he began treatment with Dr. Hartman he was 55 and separated from Betsy, his third wife. His first marriage, to the actress Virginia Cherrill, had lasted only a year, and his marriage to the Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton ended after three years. (He was the only one of her eventual seven husbands not to take money from her.) Cary remained friends with Betsy, sometimes even staying with her for weekends, but Betsy was busy trying to reclaim her own life. He may not have been aware of how devastated she was by their breakup, but he did know there was a very real void in his own life.
Leery of doctors, in part because he believed Barbara Hutton’s hypochondria had led to unnecessary operations and pain, Cary was not ready to be impressed with Hartman. Yet he quickly became intrigued, started calling the doctor “my wise Mahatma,” and began what would be some 100 therapy sessions over several years.
There is no question that, at least for a period of time, LSD truly transformed Cary Grant. “When I first started under LSD, I found myself turning and turning on the couch,” he later told a friendly reporter. “I said to the doctor, ‘Why am I turning around on this sofa?’ and he said ‘Don’t you know why?’ and I said I didn’t have the vaguest idea, but I wondered when it was going to stop. ‘When you stop it,’ he answered. Well, it was like a revelation to me, taking complete responsibility for one’s own actions. I thought ‘I’m unscrewing myself.’ That’s why people use the phrase, ‘all screwed up.’ ”
Few of the participants mentioned their drug therapy to friends who weren’t also in therapy. They did, however, talk with one another; as Judy Balaban says, “What I had with Cary and Betsy was a kind of soul-baringness that the culture didn’t start to deal with until years later. We continued to have that even when our lives went off in different directions.” When the actor Patrick O’Neal asked Judy about LSD during a dinner party at Oscar Levant’s house, she started to explain, but Oscar interrupted with his own pithy summation: “Patrick, you don’t get it. Judy was taking LSD for exactly the opposite reason you and I take stuff. She is trying to find out about things. You and I are trying to obliterate them.”
Yet that was a conversation among a small group of close friends. Beyond scientific journals and mentions in Time magazine, there was still little information about LSD available to the public. Then, much to his friends’ surprise, Cary Grant began talking about his therapy in public, lamenting, “Oh those wasted years, why didn’t I do this sooner?”
This kind of sharing, as we might now call it, was very out of character for a man to whom his carefully cultivated image was so important that he had maintained more than 20 scrapbooks of the international coverage he had received. When he started taking LSD he stopped saving articles, even though there were dozens of interesting new ones he could have cut and pasted into those blank pages.
“The Curious Story Behind the New Cary Grant” headlined the September 1, 1959, issue ofLook magazine, and inside was a glowing account of how, because of LSD therapy, “at last, I am close to happiness.” He later explained that “I wanted to rid myself of all my hypocrisies. I wanted to work through the events of my childhood, my relationship with my parents and my former wives. I did not want to spend years in analysis.” More articles followed, and LSD even received a variation of the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval when that magazine declared in its September 1960 issue that it was one of the secrets of Grant’s “second youth.” The magazine went on to praise him for “courageously permitting himself to be one of the subjects of a psychiatric experiment with a drug that eventually may become an important tool in psychotherapy.”
Many reading those articles had to be intrigued, but MGM’s great aqua diva, Esther Williams, was one of the few who could pick up the phone, call Cary, and have him invite her over to discuss it. Williams had captivated audiences with her dazzling smile, her synchronized swimming, and her perfect athletic body in films such as Million Dollar Mermaid and Dangerous When Wet, but now she was in her late 30s and had just been through a wrenching divorce, only to discover that her now ex-husband had spent all her earnings and left her with a huge debt to the I.R.S. As she put it in her autobiography, “At that point, I really didn’t know who I was. Was I that glamorous femme fatale?… Was I just another broken-down divorcée whose husband left her with all the bills and three kids?”
Now here was Cary Grant saying, “I know that, all my life, I’ve been going around in a fog. You’re just a bunch of molecules until you know who you are.” In a fog. That was exactly how Esther was feeling, and she was desperate to break through it. Cary warned her, “It takes a lot of courage to take this drug,” because “it’s a tremendous jolt to your mind, to your ego.” After Williams assured him she had “to find some answers, fast,” Grant agreed to introduce her to Dr. Hartman.
Esther, who has lived for years in Beverly Hills with her longtime husband, Ed Bell, still has a swimming pool and still remembers her experience with LSD vividly. She eagerly took her little blue pills and was thrilled to discover that “with my eyes closed, I felt my tension and resistance ease away as the hallucinogen swept through me. Then, without warning, I went right to the place where the pain lay in my psyche.” She returned to the day when she was 8 years old and her beloved 16-year-old brother, Stanton, died. The family had moved from Kansas to Los Angeles, convinced Stanton was destined for stardom, and his death devastated each family member in different ways. Under LSD, Esther saw “my father’s face as a ceramic plate. Almost instantly, it splintered into a million tiny pieces, like a windshield when a rock goes through it.” Then she saw her mother’s face on that terrible day, and “all the emotion had drained out of her, and her soft, kindly features had hardened.”
During the session Esther realized—“observing it from a distance as if I were acting in or watching a movie”—that ever since the day her brother had died her life had been consumed by the necessity to replace him in every sense of the word, and “suddenly this little girl was in a race against time to be an adult.”
Exhausted but calm, Esther left the doctor’s office and returned to her Mandeville Canyon home, where her parents, still emotionally broken by Stanton’s death, were waiting to have dinner with her. She “understood them that night in a profound way, and while I sympathized, I was also sickened by their weakness and their resignation. I saw that they both simply had given up, which, no matter what life had in store for me, was something I could never and would never do.”
But the evening wasn’t over for Esther. After she had said good night to her parents, she went to her bedroom, undressed, and washed. When she looked in the mirror, “I was startled by a split image: One half of my face, the right half, was me; the other half was the face of a sixteen-year-old boy. The left side of my upper body was flat and muscular.… I reached up with my boy’s large, clumsy hand to touch my right breast and felt my penis stirring. It was a hermaphroditic phantasm.” Esther has no recollection of how long she stood there, but there was no question that now “I understood perfectly: when Stanton had died, I had taken him into my life so completely that he became a part of me.”
“Well, Let’s Just End This”
For Esther Williams, Cary Grant, Betsy Drake, and many others, the experience of taking LSD had a profound effect on them. Over and over in interviews, former patients recounted how it changed their perception of the universe and of their place in it. Most agreed with Sidney Lumet, who says LSD provided “remarkable revelations” he continues to consider very useful to this day. Yet, in many cases, their experiences were not all positive, sometimes because of unexpected reactions to the drug, sometimes because of odd, even irresponsible actions by the therapists, who were in uncharted waters, way beyond normal medical protocols.
Marion Marshall had a frightening session where she was convinced a huge black-widow spider was going to attack her. She pulled off her mask to talk to Hartman, and when she told him what was happening, he said, “Well, let’s just end this.” But Marion insisted, “No, I am going to go back and face it.” She put her blinders back on, and “it turned into the best session I ever had. I faced my fears, whatever they were. It was like the death experience that people describe; all of a sudden everything was white and wonderful.”
She had won her revelation in spite of Hartman, who was even less helpful during what turned out to be Judy Balaban’s last experience with LSD. “It started out like all my sessions,” she recalls. “I went into the fusion [with the universe] state and got all the way out there, no longer connected to my body. But suddenly I hit the dysphoric side rather than the euphoric side I’d always gone to, and I was scared for the first time in eight months. I wanted to return to my body, but couldn’t. I was so disconnected I couldn’t even make my mouth work. Usually when you were fused, you could speak if you needed to. Not this time. After a couple of minutes of silence that felt like a year, Hartman said, ‘I don’t know where you are, kid …you’re on your own!’
“You’re on your own! Now I was really terrified! I’m stuck in this abstract universe, disconnected from my body, and no one knows how I can get back to myself! He gave me a shiny yellow pill—Compazine, I think—but it took several more hours for me to reconnect my body and my mind. I didn’t blame Hartman for putting me there, but I did blame him for abandoning me verbally. For months afterward, usually at night, I would return to that fused state and be afraid I couldn’t get back into myself. Finally, another doctor taught me how to breathe properly when an incident began, and then I was able to stop it before it took hold of me. I never had even a hint of another one again.”
Polly Bergen had been going to Dr. Chandler’s house once a week for several months, but when the little blue pills didn’t seem to work anymore, he gave her injections of Ritalin. “Because I don’t seem to have available veins elsewhere, he shot it into my hand, and when it didn’t go into my veins, I watched as my hand started to swell with fluid. All the while he kept talking on and on about his own experiences. I had to tell him it wasn’t working, and he took the needle out, but that’s when I realized I was being treated by someone who was high, stoned, completely gone.”
Having lost all confidence in Chandler, Polly stopped seeing him, but periodically she “started disappearing into this dreamlike state, not actually leaving my body, but reliving these experiences: being born, being a child in a crib.” The flashbacks scared her, and they didn’t stop until she and her husband sat down with another psychiatrist, who explained the drug and its effects, something Chandler had never done.
Linda Lawson kept trying to see the positive side of her treatments until, during one of her sessions, she heard the tinkling of glass. She lifted her blinders to see where the noise was coming from and saw Chandler “playing with these pieces of glass, making a mosaic. He was stoned and just somewhere else entirely.” That did it for Linda, but occasionally she would visit him “just to sit up and talk,” concluding that “he was probably a very good therapist before he started getting so stoned himself.”
“Too Much of a Good Thing”

Betsy Drake credits LSD therapy with “giving me the courage to leave my husband” and, for the first time, to truly speak her mind. “After an LSD session, one morning in bed while we were both having breakfast, Cary asked me a question and I said, ‘Go fuck yourself.’ He jumped out of bed, buttoning the top of his pajamas, his bare bottom showing, and slammed the bathroom door. That was the true beginning of the end.”
She and Cary were divorced in 1962 after 13 years of marriage—his longest—but they remained friendly for the rest of his life. The therapy had intensified her interest in the mental-health field; she began volunteering, then studying, at U.C.LA.’s Neuropsychiatric Institute and other Los Angeles hospitals. In the early 70s she published a novel and enrolled at Harvard, earning a master’s of education in psychology, specializing in psychodrama therapy, where patients act out problems instead of discussing them.
Cary continued to sing the praises of LSD, and his belief in it was evidenced by the fact he left Dr. Hartman $10,000 in his will. But when the actress Dyan Cannon divorced Grant in 1968, after less than three years of marriage, LSD was used against him. In seeking custody of their daughter, Jennifer, Cannon’s lawyers claimed that he was “an unfit father” because of his use of the drug and his resulting “instability.” However, when the respected psychiatrist Judd Marmor testified that Grant had told him LSD had deepened the actor’s “sense of compassion for people, deepened his understanding of himself, and helped cure his shyness and anxiety in dealing with other people,” Grant was given two months a year with his daughter and the right to overnight visits.
Grant’s defensive posture regarding LSD during his last divorce reflected the dramatic shift in public opinion. Beginning in 1962, the Food and Drug Administration began demanding to see the records of doctors such as Hartman and Chandler and appeared at their offices to confiscate their LSD supply. The doors of the Psychiatric Institute of Beverly Hills closed suddenly that same year. Linda Lawson remembers being deep into her drug-induced state when Hartman informed her, without giving any reason, that he was leaving California and this would be her last session with him. The proliferation of LSD as a street drug and reports of suicides and other tragic consequences of LSD abuse led to national legislation criminalizing its possession in 1968. There wasn’t much resistance from its earliest adherents. Clare Boothe Luce was said to have cautioned, “We wouldn’t want everyone doing too much of a good thing.”
Nevertheless, one of the common threads among the interviews we conducted with past patients was that, no matter how they felt about their personal experience with LSD, they resented that Timothy Leary’s much-publicized campaign to “turn on, tune in, drop out” had sparked a backlash against a drug they still believe to be a potentially beneficial telescope into the subconscious. Their time might have finally come, for today, after 50 years of its being demonized, LSD is beginning to make a comeback in the laboratory. No breakthroughs are expected soon, but researchers from around the world gathered in California this past April to compare notes, and scientists at Harvard and the University of California at San Francisco have received permission from the F.D.A. to experiment with LSD once again.


"Ageless Cary Grant" 

Gehman, Richard
Good Housekeeping, September 1960, p. 64
A psychological look at Grant's personal life with the actor telling about his authorized experiments with LSD and the effect it has had on his life.
"Archie Leach"Grant, Cary
Ladies Home Journal, January/February 1963 (Part 1), March 1963 (Part 2), April 1963 (Part 3)
In these three articles, Grant goes into a great deal of personal recollection and introspection on his childhood, his attraction to show business, his personal life and his stardom.  Part I covers his childhood until he came to  America with the Pender Troupe.  Part II covers his early years working in New York City and offers his insights into several key people in his life.  Part III starts in 1922 and takes him through his early years in Hollywood and his psychiatric use of LSD.   Originally these articles were to have been written by Joe Hyams who sent the articles to Grant for approval.  Grant then rewrote the articles.  Hyam's by-line was removed and he and Grant split the $125,000 fee.

"At 62, Cary Grant Tells: Why I Waited Till Now to be a Father"

Jamieson, Rose
Photoplay, May 1966, p 57
Grant offers his theories on having children and comments on his leading ladies.

"Best Regards to Mr. Cary Grant"

Madcos, Rita
McCall's, August 1967, p. 62-63
A charming, fictional short story about one woman's wish to meet Cary Grant while in Germany filming I Was a Male Warbride.

"Billing Without Cooing"

Bart, PeterNew York TimesNovember 15, 1964
Article delves into the guidelines stars establish for their films' promotional material.

"Cary Grant, Audrey Hepburn"

Look, December 17, 1963, p. 87
Photos of Grant and Hepburn from Charade and with other of his leading ladies with article about Grant's appearance in Washington D.C. when he was helping Bobby Kennedy's drive to stem school dropouts.  Cover Photo.

"Cary Grant: the Perennial Dreamboat in a New Role" 

Gordon, S.
Look, July 26, 1966, p. 70
A day in the life of Grant that emphasizes his love of baseball.
"Cary Grant"

Roman, Robert C.Films in Review, December 1961, p. 577-598
Typical career article with several dated inaccuracies such as listing his mother as dead.  Highly illustrated with film photos.

"Cary Grant: As His Best Friends (and Ex-friends) Know Him"

Davidson, MurielGood Housekeeping, November 1962, p. 80
Many good quotes in this article have found their way into books.  While Davidson has some of Grant's early biography muddled, the bulk of the article, with quotes from Grant's friends and acquaintances, is very enlightening.

"Cary Grant and the Widow He Wants to Make His Wife"

Owen, JasonPhotoplay, December 1969, p. 60
Narrative of Grant dating Clothilde Feldman, widow of the Hollywood agent turned producer Charles Feldman, during a Greater Los Angeles Press Club Charity Tennis Tournament.

"Cary Grant Can't Wait to Be a Father"

Rivers, NaomiPhotoplay, February 1965, p. 29
Grant offers his views on having and raising children.  The author also presents her views on the women with whom Grant has had relationships and might have had children.

"Cary Grant:  Confidential File"

Hamilton, SaraPhotoplay, April 1960, p. 52
Grant Comments on Suzy Parker and on how he enjoyed the preview of The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer.  This article also mentions that Betsy Drake was the author of the screenplay forHouseboat.

"Cary Grant: Dinner on His Bed"

Thyssen, Greta and Marilyn BeckPhotoplay, March 1962, p. 66
This question-and-answer interview with Greta Thyssen discusses what it's like to date Cary Grant.

"Cary Grant Turns Cop"

, December 10, 1965 

"Cary Insulted Me, Threatened Me, Hit Me!"

O'Brien, FredPhotoplay, June 1968, p. 14
Sensationalistic article centering on Dyan Cannon's testimony during her divorce proceedings.

Cary Grant - Showing His Age?

Screen Album; 1964

"Drugs and Cary Grant"

Graham, Don
Photoplay, August 1967, p. 38
Grant's bachelor-like lifestyle and his relationship with women is discussed along with his  psychotherapy which employed LSD.

"The Good Gray Grant"

Archer, EugeneNew York Times Encyclopedia of FilmAugust 22, 1965
A look at Grant's special appeal as an actor.

"Grant Quitting Films For a New Cary Face"

Buie, Judi
Dallas Morning News, September 11, 1969, p. 20A

"How a Star Fills a Director's Chair"

Business Weekly
, December 21, 1968, p. 92-94
Description of Grant's role within the Rayette-Faberge company and compares it with that of other business people/movie stars like Bob Hope, Art Linkletter and Polly Bergen.

"How Many Titles of These Cary Grant Movies Can You Name?"

Ladies Home Journal
, March 1963, p. 46
Game to match 14 photos from Grant's movies to the name of the film.  Placed in conjunction with Grant's autobiography in the same issue.
"Love -That's All Cary Every Thinks About!"Sheilah Graham
Motion Picture, June 1964; p. 58

"Mrs. Cary Grant Talks about Marrying and Divorcing Cary Grant"

Battelle, P.Ladies Home JournalApril 1968, p. 106
Grant's fourth wife, Dyan Cannon, addresses her marriage to Grant, its dissolution, and how she is resuming her life and career.

"New Look of Cary Grant"

Good Housekeeping
, January 1965, p. 44
"Old Cary Grant Fine"Time, July 27, 1962, p. 40
A look at the personal side of Grant with emphasis on his economic standing, his off-stage life, his years with Betsy Drake and his minimal number of friends.

"The Pleasure of His Company"

Benson, SheilaLos Angeles Times, January 15, 1964, Section C, p. 17
A tribute to Cary Grant on  his  80th birthday.  Notes the writings of Thomson and Kael and offers a view of what makes  Grant special.

"The Richest Man in the World"

Screen Album, August 1963; p. 36

"To the Sexiest Sixty-Year-Old in the World we say … 
Happy Birthday Cary"

Lyle, Jae
Photoplay, February 1964, p. 43
Extensive discussion on Grant's use of LSD.

"To Catch a Star"

Levy, Robert
Dun's Review, September 1968, p. 90-92
Discusses Grant's new job as marketing consultant for Rayette Faberge.

"The Tragic Love Story of the World's Most Attractive Man"

Carole Robbins
Modern Screen, May 1967, p. 52

"Unlikely Role for Hairy Cary"

, December 18, 1964, p. 99
Photos from Father Goose.

"Until Wealth Do Us Part"

Ace,  G.Saturday ReviewSeptember 23, 1967 p.10
Column is a "fictional" account of the author's imagined conversation between Dyan Cannon and Grant about the causes of their divorce.

"What It Means to be a Star"

Grant, Cary
Films and Filming, July 1961, p. 12-13
After a brief biography, Grant spends the rest of the article imparting his philosophies on life and entertainment.

Cary Grant On Style

I'm often asked for advice or an opinion about clothes, and I always try to answer the best I can, but I'm not inclined to regard myself as an authority on the subject. Many times during my years in films, some well-meaning group has selected me as best-dressed man of the year, but I've never understood why. The odd distinction surprises me: first, because I don't consider myself especially well dressed, and, secondly, I've never, as far as I can compare the efforts of others with my own, gone to any special trouble to acquire clothes that could be regarded as noticeably fashionable or up-to-date.
Some of my suits are ten to twenty years old, many of them ready-made and reasonably priced. Those that were custom-tailored were made by many different tailors in many different cities: London, Hong Kong, New York and Los Angeles. I believe that American ready-made clothes are the best ready-made clothes in the world: that the well-dressed American man makes a better appearance than the well-dressed man of any other country.
No, it isn't only money that determines how well a man dresses—it's personal taste. Because of the demands of my work, I've purchased dozens of suits over the years and they all have one attribute in common: they are in the middle of fashion. By that I mean they're not self-consciously fashionable or far out, nor are they overly conservative or dated. In other words, the lapels are neither too wide nor too narrow, the trousers neither too tight nor too loose, the coats neither too short nor too long. I've worn clothes of extreme style, but only in order to dress appropriately for the type of character I played in particular films. Otherwise, simplicity, to me, has always been the essence of good taste.
I believe men's clothes—like women's—should attract attention to the best lines of a man's figure and distract from the worst. In all cases, the most reliable style is in the middle of the road—a thoughtful sensible position in any human behavior. Except perhaps on the freeway—but, even then, the middle lane, providing of course, it's on your side of the road, usually gets you where you're going more easily, comfortably, and less disturbingly. And so it should be with clothes. They should be undisturbing, easy and comfortable.
There are many established stores or haberdasheries in each city, and probably in your neighborhood. Look at the suits in the windows. See how they compare with those worn by men whose taste you respect and admire. Think about the practical, functional and long-wearing qualities as they apply to your particular job or social activities. It's better to consider carefully before buying than to regret your purchases for months afterwards. Study the cut, the price.
And here, by the way, is a tip. If the sleeves seem disproportionately wider than customary, it indicates a very deep armhole. Don't contemplate buying if you are of average or slim size—you'll get a well-fitting back but an extremely loose-fitting front and sleeves that tend to ride up if you lift your arms. A deep armhole is popular with many manufacturers because each coat fits a wider range of customers.
How much on should pay depends on how much one has to spend. I'm reminded of a piece of advice my father gave me regarding shoes: it has stood me in good stead whenever my own finances were low. He said it's better to buy one good pair of shoes than four cheap ones. One pair made of fine leather could outlast four inferior pairs, and, if well cared for, would continue to proclaim your good judgment and taste no matter how old they become. The same applies to suits, so permit me to suggest you buy the best you can afford even though it means buying less. Rather like the stock market: it is usually more sensible to buy just one share of blue chip than 150 shares of a one-dollar stock.
What should one buy? Well, if a man's budget restricts him to only one suit, then I would choose something unobtrusive. A dark blue, almost black, of lightweight cloth, serviceable for both day and evening wear. I suggest lightweight because nowadays most restaurants, offices, shops and theaters are well heated during fall and winter. I found that so even, surprisingly, in Moscow. With such modern indoor comfort, one need only be concerned with cold weather while out-of-doors.
Which brings us to overcoats. I've learned to wear overcoats that button up to the neck yet still appear neat when left open. It mystifies me that some men wear heavy single-breasted and even double-breasted, overcoats to protect themselves from cold, yet expose the most vulnerable part of their chests with V-neck openings. By wearing an overcoat that buttons to the neck, there is no need for a scarf.
The topcoat I use for traveling can be worn spring or fall. It's black and therefore not only less apt to show dirt and travel stains, but usable for both day and formal wear. It's made of a gabardine-type waterproof material, with slash side pockets that enable one to reach through easily for change, or to carry a book, or something similar, protected from the rain. There is also a detachable lining that buttons inside for very wintery days. An all-purpose coat.
What about a second suit? Well, I think a grey worsted or flannel would be most serviceable. Not too light in color, not too dark. And, this time, of medium weight but not more than what is known as ten-ounce cloth. It might be advantageous to purchase an extra pair of trousers for wearing separately with a sweater or a sport shirt. A grey flannel suit, with or without extra trousers, together with a sport coat could, at a pinch, be sufficient for a weekend in the country.
A sport coat ought to be easy-fitting, its pattern neither loud nor flashy. If you're unsure which plaid or check to choose, then one of those dark blue, single-breasted blazers that have been worn by all classes in England for years, and have since become popular here, is acceptable for most casual wear.
Except, of course, on very hot days. During summer I've taken to wearing light beige, washable poplin suits. They're inexpensive and, if kept crisp and clean, acceptable almost anywhere at any time, even in the evening. Also, the coat can be worn with grey flannels at the seashore or in the country, and the trousers used separately with a sport shirt and moccasins, or a pair of those heavy-soled white canvas shoes that are popular with young college men.
Poplin or seersucker suits are the mark of no special social class or income group, but are worn by all. And, providing he is well-mannered, a young man wearing such a suit can confidently approach the other fellow's girl, secure in knowing that his way of dress is no deterrent.
A cardigan coat sweater of lightweight wool and conservative color is a useful investment. It can be worn without a coat on many occasions, and has the advantage of being easily slipped on without those arm-raising contortions and the need to re-comb your hair.
How do I feel about ties? If I had only one to choose, then I think a black foulard, not too wide nor too narrow, is best, as it's acceptable with most clothes. An expensive tie is not a luxury—the wrinkles fall out quicker and the knot will hold better. Personally, I wear ties of small, conservative pattern and color.
Shoes? I've already mentioned that good shoes look better and last longer. If a man must limit himself to only one pair of shoes for city wear, then they should be black. If two, then a brown pair of darkest chocolate color are useful with almost all suits and, if he has no moccasins, even with grey flannels. The moccasin type of shoe is, to me, almost essential and especially convenient when traveling, since they can be easily slipped off in the airplane or car.
If your pocket handkerchief is monogrammed, don't wear it carefully folded to show the monogram peeking above your breast-pocket. That's somehow ostentatious.
Shirts should usually be white for the evening, but, in the city's grime, it's practical and permissible to wear a light blue or conservatively striped shirt during the day. The type of collar should suit the contours of the neck and face. As a younger man, I tried wearing a flared, too-high collar that, although modish amongst those I regarded as the sophisticates of that day, looked ridiculous on my 17 1/2- inch neck. Luckily, after the embarrassment of viewing myself from almost every angle on screen, that mistake was soon rectified. Button-cuffed shirts are simplest to manage, but if you wear cuff links, as I do, don't, I beg you, wear those huge examples of badly designed, cheap modern jewelry. They, too, are not only ostentatious, but heavy and a menace to the enamel on your car and your girl friend's eye.
Learn to dispense with accessories that don't perform a necessary function. I use belts, for example, only with blue jeans, which I wear when riding, and content myself with side loops, that can be tightened at the waistband, on business suits.
A tip about trousers. Trouser cuffs seem to me unnecessary, and are apt to catch lint and dust. However, whether you prefer cuffs or not, ask the tailor to sew a strip of cloth of the same material, or a tape of similar color, on the inside at the bottom of the trouser leg where it rubs the heel of the shoe. It will keep your trouser-bottoms from fraying.
Do I have any special do's and don't's about clothes? I can't think of and rules about clothes, since there really aren't any, but I suggest you buy trees to conform to the shape of your shoes, and keep your coats on curved hangers.
Take care of your clothes, keep them clean and in good repair. I suggest you avoid using heavily scented cologne or soaps. When I meet a man I like him to smell like a man, or not to smell at all; certainly he shouldn't smell like a woman. Do see that your socks stay up. Nothing can spoil an otherwise well-groomed effect like sagging socks. Don't stuff your pockets with heavy articles and bulging wallets filled with seldom-used cards. They ruin not only the neatness of your appearance but the actual tailoring of your suit.
Don't be a snob about the way you dress. Snobbery is only a point in time. Be tolerant and helpful to the other fellow—he is yourself yesterday.
Don't overbuy. When you contemplate an article, judge whether or not it harmonizes with items you already own. Again, avoid exaggeration of current fashions. It's best to be inconspicuous. But inconspicuous does not mean dull. Extreme dullness can be conspicuous in itself. Just do the best you can.
Come to think of it, who knows how anything becomes bad or good taste? Who decides a standard of esthetics? If it's the majority, then how is it the minority are the ones considered well dressed? Everything is only exactly what it is. If a man wears the kind of clothes that please him, then, providing they're clean and don't shock society, morals, and little children, what is the difference as long as that man is happy?
Any other thoughts on clothes?
Yes. Somewhere I read that Harvard's Professor Archibald MacLeish was asked by a student about to graduate into our highly competitive world what advice he could give him. Professor MacLeish's answer was, "Wear your Sunday suit every day." The inference, of course, being that the suit would give the young man such confidence in seeking positions that he would eventually own many Sunday suits, for any and alldays.
Splendid advice even by itself, but it's probable that the professor meant not only his Sunday or best suit, but also his Sunday or best smile, disposition, and behavior—knowing that each begets the other. So wear, not only your clothes, but yourself, well, with confidence. Confidence, too, is in the middle of the road, being neither aggressiveness nor timidity. Pride of new knowledge—including knowledge of clothes—continually adds to self-confidence.

The Tragic Love Story of the World's Most Attractive Man

A long time ago Cary Grant said, "I pretended to become a certain type of man on screen and I became that man in life.  I became Cary Grant . . . an athlete . . . a dream man . . . one who sails on yachts and gives expensive presents."  But the truth is that Cary Grant never completely became that person, and all his long life the women who have loved him have - perhaps - loved only an image, an image of the world's most attractive man, an image he himself created and one which has possibly destroyed his hope for love.

It was never anyone's fault . . . not his wives, not his ill-fated loves, not even his own miscalculations . . . it was only a mistake born first of intent and then later of habit.  They say, for example, that Dyan Cannon and Cary might still be together now if he had taken her out more often, if he had spent more time on her, if he had paid more attention to the things she needed and wanted.  But by the time he married Dyan a pattern of some fifty years of living had been established too solidly to break.

The blueprint for his heartbreaking love affairs started back in 1934 when he married a tall, beautiful, blonde actress named Virginia Cherrill.  He had fallen so hard for Virginia the first time he ever met her that he never, for a moment, considered that the love was wrong or that she wasn't the girl he should marry.  That first time- at a party he and fellow bachelor Randolph Scott gave at their beach house - he declared her to be "the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

With Cary the mere sight of Virginia kindled such an infatuation that he secured her phone number and began calling her the moment she left his party.  She didn't get back home, which she shared with her mother, for two hours, and then she learned he had called her every ten minutes during that time.

They made a date, and from that date on he practically never let Virginia out of his sight.  She had been married and divorced before, and she had always been tremendously popular all her life, but Cary's campaign was overwhelming.  Almost at once, she was as infatuated as he, but they did not marry for more than a year (a pattern he followed in all his marriages).  Then they stayed married only seven months, and even during that short time, they parted and reconciled, parted and reconciled.

Cary's explanation was, "We were married February 9th, 1934 at Caxton Hall, a London registry office, amid a flurry of photographers, newsmen and serio-comic adventures.  We separated seven months later.  I doubt if either of us was capable of relaxing sufficiently to trust the happiness we might have had.  My possessiveness and fear of losing Virginia brought about the very condition I feared: the loss of her."

Virginia was more specific.  She charged he drank excessively - that he became a different person once he was her husband - that he refused to pay her bills and ridiculed her acting.  On October 1st that year, they had their most violent quarrel.  Once again, Virginia went home to mother.  The distinguishing difference of that quarrel was that this time Cary couldn't get her on the telephone.

Virginia got her divorce, and went on to marry the Earl of Jersey . . . but Cary was depressed.  His career began to move quickly and successfully, yet Cary remained withdrawn.  When he did start dating again, it was another tall blonde beauty named Phyllis Brooks . . . but in the end they didn't marry.  He said he would never marry again, and for eight years he didn't.  Then at a party given by the Countess de Frasso in 1941 he met Barbara Hutton.

De Frasso was then the social leader of Hollywood, and Barbara Hutton, the fabulous heiress to the Woolworth dime-store chain, was her guest of honor.  Barbara's first husband had cost her over $2 million . . . her second husband, Count Reventlow, had also cost her a huge sum to divorce . . . and it was right after this second divorce that she met Cary.  Or more exactly, remet him.  They had met aboard a luxury liner one time crossing from England.

As with Virginia, when Cary was with Barbara Hutton he knew he was instantly in love.  She was different from the other girls he'd always fallen for . . . they had been gay, laughing types . . . Barbara was mostly solemn and Cary devoted himself to making her happy.
He was forever taking her dancing, and he protected her as she wished to be protected.  She drove with the curtains pulled down on her cars.  When they went to the movies or out nightclubbing Cary made it clear to theatre managers or headwaiters that the way was to be cleared for them.  They would separate on leaving night spots, exiting through kitchens or even windows when no other exits were available.  Once their romance began they saw one another continually.

His zest for life was particularly vivid during his courtship of Barbara.  He talked incessantly.  He loved to talk in Cockney dialect and sing ribald songs to his own piano accompaniment.  Barbara was amused, but she was naturally quiet.  They were married on July 8th, 1942 at Lake Arrowhead, Cary's buddy, Howard Hughes having flown them up there.  All Barbara's friends were delighted.  Of all her marriages, they felt this one had the best chance.  Cary signed a pre-marital agreement that he wanted no claim on her fortune.  His love was visibly very tender toward her.  He wanted only her love and happiness.

It lasted four years.  And they were four years of partings and reconciliations.  Once Barbara flew to San Francisco and announced there was no chance of their getting back together.  Cary had bought them a very beautiful house in Bel-Air, but by Barbara's standards it was simply a very little place.  She moved in with ten servants who had been with her for years, and most of whom spoke only French - which Cary didn't speak.  She threw money away like mad; and it drove Cary frantic that she ordered double sets of newspapers, his and hers in effect.  Waste, extravagance - both things that Cary was never able to tolerate.

But whenever she left him, he pursued her.  The time she went to San Francisco, he finally got her on the phone . . . "Go dancing with me just once," he begged.  She agreed and he drove up there furiously.  The next day they gave out a statement to the papers: "We are reconciled.  The truth of our misunderstanding and reunion is known only to us."  It was signed "Barbara and Cary Grant."

Still, their marriage could not work.  Barbara didn't like Hollywood and its gossip.   She was not interested in Cary's career.  When they finally agreed upon their divorce they never said a harsh world about one another.  Cary said "Barbara is a fine woman.  I blame myself entirely for the split-up with her.  People did not know her, the fine person underneath, because of the publicity about her money."

Barbara said, "Cary is a dear.  But he isn't interested in anything but his career and after all, when you are married to a man you must have something to talk about."

What Barbara did once she was free of Cary was to move to the Ritz in Paris - and proceed to one unhappy marriage after another without pausing very long between husbands. But Cary did not snap back so quickly.  He went into periods of dark silence and many times he passed his friends, at the studios or in cafes, without recognizing them.
Then he met Betsy Drake on shipboard.  She was tall and blonde, and wham, he knew he was in love again.  He knew in one glace she was THE one.
Betsy, except physically, was totally unlike Virginia, and completely different from Barbara.  She came from an excellent family, yet she wanted so much to be an actress, she had subsisted on almost no money.  She had been appearing in a play in London, which had just closed, and she was sailing back home again.

Cary took over.  He danced with her.  He talked to her.  When they returned to America, he did what he has never done for any other love (and particularly not for Dyan).  He sponsored her career.  He was under contract to RKO at that time and since he was even then on e of the top names at the box-office, he could get anything he asked.  So he asked RKO to put Betsy under contract, which they did.  He prophesized stardom for her and apparently he believed she would attain it.  He made her his leading lady in Every Girl Should Get Married, and then in Room For One More.  They even did a television show together.  But career-wise, they didn't click well together.  (Perhaps that's why he has never done anything to help Dyan in her career - in effect, he has seemed to hold it back.)

Again with Betsy, as with Virginia and Barbara and later Dyan, Cary had a long courtship of eighteen months before they finally married on Christmas day of 1949.  He had, by that time, moved into a very small house which he and Betsy now shared.  They also spent some time at a tiny place in Palm Springs which Cary used to refer to as "The Dump."
Betsy had many interests to which she could devote her time - she took up photography, and developed a curiosity about the occult and hypnotism.  When she stopped acting, she began writing.  She had, it seemed, adjusted to Cary's way of life.  But Hollywood still wondered.  And as time went by, Hollywood began to ask why no ever saw Betsy Grant.
Later, it was told that Betsy's secluded life was the way Cary wanted it to be . . . that he would put a sign on his den saying "Do Not Disturb," and that she ever violated that request, even though sometimes days would go by without her seeing him.  Betsy was able to do what no other woman he had known could do - devote so much of herself to his needs.  But finally the separation announcements and then the reconciliations were news items.  It was the exact same pattern as his past unhappy, unlucky love life.

And then, the inevitable divorce.  When Cary wrote his own memoirs he said, "My third wife was Betsy Drake.  We married in 1949 and were divorced 14 years later.  Betsy was good for me.  Without imposition or demand she patiently led me toward an appreciation for better books, better literature . . . I never clearly resolved why Betsy and I parted.  We lived together, not as easily and contentedly as some perhaps; yet it seemed to me as far as one marriage can be compared with any other, ours was comparatively happier than most.  I owe a lot to Betsy.

When anyone in Hollywood asked him directly about Betsy, Cary always called her "the dear wife who recently divorced me."  Betsy said nothing, but a blind man could have seen how crushed she was.

Cary didn't bounce back - but his depression wasn't as intense as it had been after the break-up of his first and second marriages.  And after seeing Dyan Cannon on a television show one night his romance with her began.  It started slowly at first, not like the other times - though Cary knew he loved her - and his courtship lasted a couple of years until, in July, 1965 he married her, a beautiful light-haired girl of 28.  Then, the joyous news of her pregnancy, and Cary's statement: "I think I've been searching for her all my life."  And his joy was complete when baby Jennifer was born - the baby he had waited through four marriages to have.

Nevertheless, despite his giving out many statements about having found himself able to understand and to give and receive love, the pattern of his fourth marriage is now emerging just like all his others.  

Practically speaking, few people have seen much of Dyan since she became Mrs. Grant.  They have gone out rarely, and almost always with his older friends.  They have traveled only a bit - to Bristol, England to visit his mother.  (In fact, they spent part of their honeymoon with the elderly Mrs. Leach - something which Virginia Cherrill found herself doing also.)

The house Cary rented for himself and his small family is a large mansion set well off the road.  It's a house difficult to find and surrounded by orange groves.  But it can be seen from the estates which are built high above it.  One morning some women neighbors, curious, as women have always been about Cary, peered down from the above estates and saw Mr. Grant out among the orange trees playing with his baby daughter.  As they watched, it became apparent that Dyan Grant was not at home . . . not that day, or the next, or even the day after that.

And then word that they had separated reached all the papers. And, as of this writing, they have not yet reconciled.  Yet the very fact that Dyan has been sending little Jennifer and her nurse to visit Cary shows she can't be feeling that harshly toward him.  And probably, she is still in love with him, as Betsy Drake says quite openly that she still is even after these years.

Maybe Dyan, like Betsy, and Barbara, and Virginia, is really only in love with the image of a man.  He is the dream man of such physical attractiveness, and suave manners - the man with the right thing for the right time - the man who tried in almost every way to become like his screen image.  Trouble is, an image is only screen-deep; a man must have depth.
Often called the most attractive man in the world, Cary Grant is continually asked how he maintains his impeccable good form.  He told a French interviewer that he eats little, stands straight, participates in sports, doesn't let the sun or the rain keep him from walking, works hard, has friends . . . and, "I never do the extra-ordinary.  I see, but never too much."
Is it a full-time job being the world's most attractive man?  And is it really too late to break the habits of a lifetime?  Maybe for a man without an incentive such change would be impossible.  But Dyan and Jennifer are very large incentive indeed . . . and perhaps Cary Grant will know it's time to give up the image for the man and devote his life to his two loves.
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