An Afternoon Screening : The Lion Roared, the Orchestra Blared Tchaikovsky and Garbo Lit an Old Gold . . .

Sixty-two years ago this week , Greta Garbo--who recently celebrated her 80th birthday--changed her name from Greta Gustafsson. Cecil Beaton, the celebrated photographer, remembers an afternoon in March, 1948. From “Cecil Beaton: Memoirs of the ‘40s,” McGraw-Hill Book Co., 1972 .

I had an elaborate schedule of business dates that would occupy me until after lunch time, but I would then call for Greta to go with my agent, Carlton Allsop, who had arranged for me to see her old picture, “Anna Karenina,” in a private room at MGM Studios.

It would be almost an uncanny experience to watch this great epic in the presence of La Divina. I had told Allsop that I would like to bring a friend to join us. “Fine--I’ll call for you.” When Greta, with scarves flying, came rushing out and I introduced her, Allsop’s face went scarlet with astonishment. Greta at once became inevitably, irrevocably, and so easily and honestly the seductress that Allsop was completely bewitched.

“Well, well, it takes Beaton to get me to the studios for the first time in six years!” As we approached Metro, she became quite a bit flustered. It was an emotional experience for her. The studios, which one might almost say she had partly created, had also been for so long her prison; she had been unhappy there, but she owed them a lot, too, and to return after such an interval made her feel self-conscious. She did not know the men at the gate any more; none of the faces were familiar, nobody moving along corridors and alleyways recognized her and, as usual, she was adept at concealing herself.

We were shown to a drab little projection room--not at all important but quite private--and the lights went out. The titles were flashed on the screen, the lion roared, the rather schmaltzy orchestra blared Tchaikovsky, and Greta, next to me, lit an Old Gold.

During the running of the film, Greta would interject: “Those were real Russians”--”That’s very well done”--”Those were feathers” (apropos snowstorm)--”A woman’s crowning glory--or is it a fuzz?” (apropos her hairdo in the ballroom sequence). The telling of the story was done in a straightforward, clear way; the scenes were suitably chosen and full of vigor. . . . Although we have condemned Hollywood for such widespread vulgarization of the classics, this popular epic possessed a great deal of the bare bones of the Tolstoy tragedy, and the superficial shortcomings were merely in the trimmings. Even more than her physical beauty it was Greta’s voice that struck a note of such warmth and humanity: deep and melodious with such tenderness and such strength, with so many varying lights and shades, it comes across the sound track exactly as it is in life. Many of the sentiments expressed might have been said by her any day; the effect was uncanny.

Greta was pleased how little the picture had dated; she gave Salka Viertel much credit for getting such authenticity onto the screen. “When I read the script, it was the first time that I was a little thrilled.” Carlton Allsop behaved with tact and charm. “Mister Mayer would die of delight if he knew you had been to his studio today. You have become his goddess--you’re a living legend.” “Thank you--thank you.” As we emerged from the little theater, and the operator saw for whom he had been running the reels, he tottered as if about to fall. Greta, behind her hair, slouched out of the studio, and once back in the car felt relieved and safe. But she had been pleased to see the picture and delighted that it was something of which she need never be anything but rather proud.