The great Garbo mystery act, Mae West's wisecracks, the Dietrich glamour, and the Gable sex appeal have been ballyhooed from Birmingham to Bagdad, but the real king of the screen to-day – and, some say, it's only genius – is a shy young man of thirty-three, whom ninety-nine filmgoers out of hundred would not know if they met him in the street.
There was a time when stars like Mary Pickford and Charles Spencer Chaplin commanded tremendous followings all over the world, but the spectacular personalities of the talkie era have as many bitter detractors as the have fervent admirers.
Not one of them even approaches the universal popularity of Walt Disney's Mickey Mouse.
Mickey has a fan mail that runs into hundreds of thousands of letters a year from every corner of the globe.
In France he is Michael Souris; in Germany, Michael Maus; Spain calls him Miguel Ratonocito, and in Japan he is Miki Kuchi.
Millions of youngsters of every nationality belong to Mickey Mouse Clubs. Children love him, yet he is equally the idol of the highbrows. The royalties on Mickey Mouse toys, books, and novelties bring in almost as much revenue to the Disney studio as the pictures themselves.
Mickey has given command performances for the Royalty of Europe.
The Prince of Wales and the Duke of York have more than once testified to his importance, while President Roosevelt invariably includes him in the White House programmes.
Mickey is incontestably the most popular star among the picture players of Hollywood. His pictures are booked regularly for their private shows.
But even the picture players of Hollywood know little of the man who created the world’s most famous cartoon character.
When, the other night, he attended his first big Hollywood party, nobody asked him about Mickey Mouse or his Silly Symphonies.
Nobody asked him to play the harp he had brought with him.
Nobody recognised him.
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