#she finished the quite unflattering article nervously sent it to him and got a phone call from him telling her he loved it

[burtlancster]

Four years ago, [Burt Lancaster] was approached by one of the nation's leading magazines. They wanted to do a story on him; would he agree to this?

“Certainly,” said Burt. “Why don't you have your writer come out to my office? I'll be free for the next three days, and this would be a good opportunity to get acquainted and start the foundation for the article.”

The writer, a young lady, broke two other appointments and drove out to Warner Brothers, where his office was then located. The studio publicist ushered her into a stark room furnished only with a dark walnut desk, two brown leather chairs and a green sofa.

The room went unnoticed at first. All she could see was Burt's tall figure standing before one window, dwarfing the room with his size. The sun streaming in behind him turned his brown hair to gold and cast a frame of light around his lean, athletic body. He looked, to her, like a blond Viking in silhouette.

This, she thought happily, might possibly be the most pleasant assignment she'd had yet!

When his face broke into a charming smile during their introduction, she was sure of it.

An awkward silence followed. Burt sat down behind his desk and continued to smile, but said nothing. Finally, realizing she wasn't going to be offered a chair, she sat down on the sofa. The publicist followed suit.

More silence. Burt rocked back and forth in his swivel chair, his eyes never leaving her face, his expression very friendly. She glanced at him, at the publicist, at the furniture, back at Burt. Well, she decided, it was up to her to get the ball rolling.

“Mr. Lancaster,” she began, and faltered. Oh, he was a good-looking, rugged man! “Mr. Lancaster, you know why I'm here. You know we want to do a major profile on you—on what you like, what your ambitions are, your background, your attitudes. . .”

Burt rocked a little faster, pressed his fingers together, grinned more broadly and said softly, “Yes, I know. Well, I don't want to do it.”

The publicist jumped as if he'd been shot, and the writer gasped, then laughed. Evidently this man liked to joke.

“I'm serious,” he said. “I don't believe in such things. They're a waste of time.”

She stared at him. He was still grinning, but there was something in that grin which she hadn't noticed before. She knew then that he was not only serious, but he was enjoying her discomfort.

— Big Man…Big Star…Big Head by Lisa Reynolds for Photoplay Magazine, 1957.