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In an idyllic vignette on the Nevada shore of Lake Tahoe, Cinemactress Ava Gardner, 31, awaiting a Reno divorce from Cinemactor-Crooner Frank Sinatra, held hands with a dark, handsome fellow and waved happily at two fishermen who chugged past in a small boat. Ava's escort: the man who tried to teach her how to subdue bulls as she subdues men in the movies, Spanish Matador Luis Miguel Domingum, 28. What Ava didn't know might have hurt her: the fishermen were actually private detectives, working for an unidentified client whom they presumed to be "a rich man." Their orders: "Check on Dominguin's every move—even follow him to Manila." As Evangelist Billy Graham—met at the ship by his wife Ruth and three daughters—landed in the U.S. after his phenomenally successful five-month swing through Western Europe. Czech Communists suddenly perceived the sinister anti-Communist purpose behind Billy's salvation tour. Their ingenious conclusion, as blared forth by Radio Prague: "The team which he is carrying with him [through West Germany] is suspiciously little concerned with the beautiful hymns and concluding prayer, but is diligently collecting [name and address] cards in order to maintain future contact and to send material." At week's end, back home in North Carolina, Graham found something more serious to worry about: doctors told him he had a kidney stone, which may soon be diligently collected by surgeons.
Excused from duty at New Jersey's Camp Kilmer while he was neck-deep in the Army-McCarthy hearings, National Guard Lieut. Roy M. Cohn got orders to report in September for training at Mississippi's Keesler Air Force Base.
Having settled down to the good expatriate life in Paris, veteran Movie Director-Playwright Preston (Strictly Dishonorable}) Sturges, 55, figured the time was proper to burn behind him all bridges leading back to Hollywood. His holocaust blazed merrily in the columns of France's weekly Arts Magazine. "We must never forget that the cinema is an art," warned he. "But it is an art so much more costly than the others . . . that the artist must tie himself to the businessman ... In that lies all the drama—rather the comic opera—of Hollywood: a group of fat businessmen—good fathers, not very funny, who amuse themselves, big cigars in hand, discussing stock-exchange quotations, the percentage of returns on their stocks, world tendencies . . . condemned to conjugal existence with this heap of drunkards, madmen, divorcees, sloths, epileptics, morphinomaniacs and assorted bastards, who are, in the considered opinion of the management, artists."