Addison offered an impressive selection of contemplative noises. ‘Well. Those are all splendid, viable suggestions. But I don’t really think—’ He spun toward me like a clockwork soldier. ‘Correct, Lillian?’
‘Indeed.’ Indeed what? ‘The precise nature of the character hasn’t been determined yet. Addison will be an extra. Forgive me, an atmosphere performer.’
I anticipated my gaffe to warrant another blast of disdain from Davis, but she waved off my comment. ‘I know a thing or two about that. When I first came from New York and signed my contract, the studio had no use for me. So I became a test girl. I lay about a divan like a prop while a dozen or more hopefuls, young men fresh from football teams and beanfields, swept me up and said they adored me, they worshipped me, they must possess me. Can you imagine? What an introduction! Still, I gave each of those aspiring actors something to work with. You’ll be in a nightclub, you said. How are you going to dance?’
‘Dance?’ Addison’s eyebrows reared back. ‘Badly, I suppose.’
‘So he’s awkward! Why? Is he uncomfortable or has he sustained some sort of physical injury?’
Addison’s hands fanned out behind him in search of a chair. Finding one, he sank wearily into it. ‘I was making a joke. I mean, I have no idea what kind of band will be playing.’
‘I must say, this production sounds very disorganized. Who’s making this picture again?’
‘Paramount,’ I said with wholly unearned pride.
‘Lillian’s friend Edith Head is doing the costumes,’ Addison chimed in.
‘I haven’t worked with her,’ Davis sniffed. ‘What’s required of any production is precision. When we were making Jezebel, dear Willie Wyler had miniatures built for all of our sets. After dinner each night, he’d place the next day’s set on the table and use toy cameras and actors to plan every shot while I spoke the dialogue. All timed with a stopwatch. Nothing to chance. It sounds as if you’re being abandoned to your own devices to create a character out of whole cloth. So you must ask yourself, who is he? What kind of impression does he want to make? A man about town pours champagne one way when he’s happy and another when he’s sad. How shall your man about town pour?’
Addison spoke meekly, his voice waving a white flag of surrender. ‘Honestly, I’m just hoping to fade into the woodwork.’
‘Nonsense!’ Davis thundered, her eyes widening. ‘If that’s all you’re going to do, you’ll simply be blocking some talented craftsman’s woodwork!’
‘I believe what Mr Rice means,’ I said, wondering at what point I’d become Addison’s legal representative, ‘is he’s taking his position in the background to heart. He doesn’t want to call attention to himself, but does want to contribute to the seamless whole of the picture.’
Addison nodded in frantic agreement. Davis appraised me anew. ‘Your point is well taken, dear.’ She leaned forward as if planning to lower her voice, then spoke at the same volume. ‘Incidentally, you have some lipstick on your teeth. Even in the background, Addy, you’ve got to know who you’re playing so you can offer consistency to that … seamless whole.’ She made the faintest bow in my direction.
I looked at Addison. ‘She’s right.’
‘Naturally I’m right! You can’t hide, not even in the background. Not when the camera is rolling. Edmund Goulding – we did Dark Victory together, and we’re working on The Old Maid now – told me to only offer hints to the audience, not to give them everything at once. Isn’t that absurd? What on earth does he think they paid for? To do some of the work themselves? No, we do the work, we actors. You and I must work now, Addy. We must learn about your character and decide how his being affects his actions. Like dancing. Must he be coaxed onto the floor? I rather like the idea of a war wound. We must figure this out.’
‘Yes, of course. And we shall. Would you excuse us a moment?’ Addison hoisted himself from his chair and, waxen smile on his lips, maneuvered me into the hallway. He whispered in my ear as if we were spies behind enemy lines. ‘I don’t suppose she’d let you sit in on this session. I’m a bit terrified of being alone with her.’
‘That seems unlikely. Anyway, it’s best if I go to Paramount this afternoon.’ I summarized my previous evening and, after expressing his concern for me, Addison insisted I head to the studio at once.
He then turned his gaze back on Bette Davis. So did I. Her smoking alone in a sunlit room contained more drama than most battle scenes. ‘I can tough it out. Besides, this lesson can’t last forever. I have my lab time with Hedy this afternoon.’
‘If I may ask, why didn’t you go to Miss Lamarr for help with your acting?’
‘She was the first person I called! She said she only wanted to discuss engineering with me. Then told me she didn’t know anything about acting other than find your key light.’ He peered fearfully at Davis. ‘Probably shouldn’t ask Bette about that.’
SEVENTEEN
Edith had suggested we meet at Stage 13, to mark the first day of shooting on Streetlight Story. I’d learned enough about how pictures were made from my uncle Danny – ‘Nothing stops a crew from getting the job done, pet, except the possibility of food’ – to schedule my visit for lunchtime.
Inside the soundstage’s open elephant doors there was no sense of occasion, of some great undertaking being launched. Only an anthill industriousness, clusters of people intent on specific tasks, transmitting and receiving intelligence via unseen antennae. A police station set had been erected under the lights. Funny how little resemblance it bore to the genuine article I’d been in only hours earlier. I marveled at the fact I’d likely seen every one of the set’s component parts in other Paramount films. But the flats, furniture, and props had never been arranged in this exact combination before. Thus had an entirely new location been born.
Max Ramsey and Luddy were having it out on the set. Max sat in a chair looking diminished. His director loomed over him like a browbeating cop, his long shadow somehow possessed of weight and menace.
‘Maybe you were used to something different at UFA,’ Max said wearily. ‘But I’m telling you the brass loves us now. We’re on velvet. You don’t have to pinch pennies. You can light this set properly.’
‘Brass? Velvet? These I do not understand.’ Luddy smiled through a veil of cigarette smoke. ‘But this set is properly lit. More light will only reveal less.’
‘Luddy. Sweetheart.’ Max began pleading his case again. I walked a lap around the soundstage and didn’t see Edith. Time enough for a quick stop elsewhere.
The trek to Clyde Fentress’s office seemed to take longer, as if extra yards had been edited into the lot. I was not surprised to find his door shut, and no answer to my knock. I tried George Dolan’s door anticipating the same result, but he softly called out, ‘Come in.’
He wore a cream-colored shirt and a snazzy gold tie bisected by an ivory stripe, reminding me of Fentress’s ‘California dandy’ jibe. But if Dolan had selected the clothes to spruce his spirits, they’d failed to turn the trick. He slouched at his typewriter, not having bothered to roll a sheet of paper into position.
‘I won’t ask if you’ve heard,’ he said. ‘Clyde told me you’re the one who found Sylvia.’
I nodded solemnly.
‘I’m sorry you had to deal with that. I can’t get over it. What a loss. She was such a talented girl. Those pages she showed me had real promise.’
I couldn’t bring myself to reveal what I’d discovered about those pages that had led me to Sylvia’s apartment. I opted for the kinder gesture and returned those same pages to him. ‘I thought you’d want them back.’
He accepted the file gratefully and started to open it, only to drop it on his desk, the burden too great. ‘Did you like them?’
I didn’t have to lie. ‘Yes. I could see it all playing out on the big screen. Is Clyde here?’
‘No. I telephoned this morning to find out why he was late. We had plans to crash the opening day of Streetlight Story. Provided we could get pa
st security.’ He smirked as he sparked a cigarette. ‘Writers, as a rule, aren’t typically welcome or even necessary once cameras are rolling. That’s when Clyde told me what happened and said he wouldn’t be coming in. I stayed to hammer out a few pages, but …’ He reached for the typewriter and sarcastically struck a few keys. ‘Inspiration’s in short supply today.’
‘That’s understandable. How’s Clyde taking the news?’
‘Same way he takes everything. To him, all of life’s some big joke. Don’t misunderstand me. I know he’s hurting. But he acts like he’s not. I blame that mordant big house sensibility of his. Can’t break character even when tragedy strikes, the poor bastard. Pardon the language.’
‘It’s quite all right. I heard someone say Clyde was at the pictures last night?’
‘Was he? That’d be a rarity. At times I’d swear he actively loathes movies.’
I knew my next question was clumsy, but I couldn’t concoct a better angle. ‘I imagine his wife Josie will be a big help in the coming days, now that he’s lost his protégée.’
‘You’d be the only one to imagine it.’ Dolan chuckled. ‘I sometimes think those two tied the knot just so they’d have the story to tell. Clyde and Josie lead very separate lives. Not a lot of love in that marriage. Plenty of money, though, so maybe it all balances out. The wife and I only have the former, so we wouldn’t know.’
I told him I was on my way to the Streetlight Story set. ‘Please convey the writers’ warmest regards,’ Dolan said loftily. Then, ‘I hope this script isn’t upsetting you too much. I didn’t know the whole story when I started working on it. No one will connect this with your detective friend. Anyway, who remembers movies?’
No one but me, I thought.
Halfway to Stage 13, I spied the familiar figure of Bill Ihnen ambling toward me. The art director and Edith’s old friend called to mind the phrase ‘neat as a pin’, always splendidly attired and with a permanent lively quality in his eyes. He hugged me in greeting, and I found myself clinging to him. Bill took my neediness in stride, gently patting me on the back.
‘What brings you here?’ I asked. ‘Are you working on the lot?’
‘A friend’s trying to coax me into a job. I’m happy puttering for the moment, but sometimes it’s easier just to hear them out.’
‘Were you with Edith? I’m on my way to meet her.’
‘No. She told me she had a lunch appointment. I should have known it was you. Can’t keep my prospective non-employer waiting. Give Edo my love, would you?’ With a peck on the cheek, he bounded off.
The crew, sated and on guard for the post-lunch doldrums, began filing back in earnest. Luddy now had sole dominion over the police station set. He stood with his arm around a sandy-haired man with high-waisted pants and his eyes pressed into a perpetual squint. Luddy addressed him in a low, seductive tone. ‘The question, Norman, is can you make those shadows even darker?’
‘They’re plenty dark as is,’ the other man, whom I took to be the cinematographer, ventured carefully. ‘And Mr Ramsey wants us to bump up the lights.’
‘I saw him take you aside earlier. I would put it to you, Norman, that a well-lit wall remains exactly that. A wall. Whereas this …’ He extended his fingers toward a band of blackness creeping across the set. ‘This can add interest. But only when sculpted by talented hands.’
Norman hiked his pants up even higher, which I would have thought an impossibility, as Luddy’s flattery took effect.
‘Wouldn’t it be intensely interesting,’ the director continued, ‘if the very thing Jim is fighting is already within these walls?’
Norman rubbed his chin with his knuckles, entranced. ‘Yeah, yeah … I feature it. He’s shadowboxing, but for real.’ He emerged from his haze, now resolutely practical. ‘I can deepen the contrast, but it means resetting half the rig. It’d take a few minutes.’
‘They have given us money. Let them give us time.’ Luddy clapped Norman on the shoulder, sending him on his way.
The cinematographer exchanged nods with Fred MacMurray, wearing a suit that likely cost more than the entire stock of the haberdashery where Gene bought his clothes. The actor took in the set in its current configuration. ‘Awful dark, isn’t it?’ he asked Luddy.
‘This is why we have you, Frederick. To illuminate the scene with your incandescent performance.’
MacMurray laughed. ‘You know best, Luddy. As long as someone tells me where to stand, I’m happy.’
From close by came a faint gasp. I realized I’d been holding my breath since MacMurray had appeared. Snap out of it, Frost. He’s not Gene. He’s not even playing Gene. He’s an actor who specializes in wisecrackers with handles like Crick and Buzzy. You’ve already met him. Just go over and say hello.
Breathing steadily in and out like the nuns had taught me, I approached him. ‘Hello, Mr MacMurray.’
‘Hello,’ he replied in the time-honored tradition, and looked at me expectantly.
‘It’s nice to see you again.’
‘Yes. Likewise.’ He projected the essence of affability, but that couldn’t conceal the fact he didn’t remember meeting me in Edith’s office a few days ago.
Are you sure you’re ready to play Gene? I wanted to ask. Because Gene remembers everybody.
‘Just here to say break a leg.’ As I walked away I passed Luddy, staring into the shadows as if he’d mesmerized himself.
I had planned to walk the perimeter of the soundstage one more time searching for Edith when I spotted the woman. One could hardly miss her, dressed to make an impression in a wide-brimmed veiled hat and a tapered black dinner suit with pleated silk lapels. Belatedly, I recognized the woman as Brenda Baines. Next I found myself bolting toward a neglected corner of the soundstage. I was apparently in no mood to talk to the actress, my subconscious seizing the reins and sending me into hiding. I was close enough to hear Brenda’s heels click against the floor as I waited for her to pass—
‘Hello, Daughter!’
‘Hey, Ma!’
I risked a peek. Brenda had been hailed by an older woman whose refined features clashed with her homely wool coat and cloche sporting three forlorn flowers. They embraced heartily.
‘Who are you supposed to be?’ Brenda asked. ‘Has your poor little Johnny been scooped up by the long arm of the law?’
The older woman hooted. ‘Got it in one.’
‘Been busy? Lining up jobs?’
‘Nerk since I played your sainted mother for the blink of an eye months ago. What was that picture called? When does it come out?’
‘College Capers, and it’s been and gone. Laid such an egg I didn’t tell my real mother about it.’
After another moment of commiseration, Brenda said her goodbyes. I turned away and busied myself with my purse.
‘Lillian?’
Bette Davis had been right. There was no point trying to fade into the woodwork.
Brenda tottered toward me in careful heel-toe fashion, not having mastered the towering shoes assigned to her by the wardrobe department. She gripped my hand, both as a greeting and a means of stabilizing herself. ‘The studio gives you acting, singing, and dancing lessons, but nobody teaches you how to walk in these shoes. What are you doing over here?’
‘Staying out of everyone’s way.’ Edith had turned Brenda out in high style, the outfit tasteful and not in the least ostentatious. Yet I couldn’t help thinking I’d never seen Abigail in anything that sophisticated. And Brenda, after all, was playing a character inspired by Abigail.
‘Can you tell how bad my jitters are? I can’t believe we’re shooting already. It’s happening so fast.’ Her fingers were ice cold and still entwined around mine. To put her at ease, I changed the subject.
‘I overheard you talking to—’
‘Ida. Ida Jarvis. She’s a swell gal, isn’t she? Been an extra for almost twenty years.’
‘That’s amazing. Did she say “nerk”?’
‘Central Casting slang. When you
telephone, the operators say “nerk” for “no work”. Or “tralay” for “try later”. Takes less time to say, but it still hurts to hear.’ Brenda wobbled a step closer. ‘Ida used to be a dress extra. That’s where the money is. Somebody has to sit in all those nightclub scenes sipping champagne.’
‘Used to be?’
‘You have to have your own evening gowns, dinner gowns, formal afternoon clothes. Costs a pretty penny to keep those duds up. And you have to stay fashionable. That’s what did in poor Ida. Her best outfits were too horse-and-buggy. She was drummed out in a dress parade back in ’35. Tells the story all the time. Central Casting put out the call and nearly a thousand actresses turned out in their finery, or what passed for it. Half of them sharing the same chinchilla wrap, handing it from one contender to the next. Anything to get that bump in pay.’ She shivered. ‘It’s so demeaning and unfair. I felt awkward talking to her when I’m kitted out like this.’
She pirouetted. ‘What do you think?’ she asked, the second glances she merited from a passing pair of grips apparently insufficient evidence. ‘Is this how I should dress to meet my police detective husband for dinner?’
All rationality fled my brain. Did she know about my connection to Abigail? Had Edith told her the reason for my interest in the movie?
‘I don’t understand,’ I said, my smile fixed in place.
‘I love the clothes, but are they too fancy for a policeman’s wife? Maybe they’re just too fancy for me. I’m more of a Gimbels girl. Honestly, tell me what you think.’
Why ask me? I longed to scream. My head throbbed. I had to say something. I was curious to hear what it would be.
‘So …’ I began. ‘You don’t like Edith’s designs?’
‘What? No!’ Panic flooded Brenda’s face. ‘I love them! Don’t tell her I said that!’
The poor girl was already terrified, and I’d managed to ratchet up her nerves even more. Brava, Lillian.
I took her hand again. It had turned clammy. Unless mine had. ‘You look grand. Speaking of Edith, have you seen her?’
Script for Scandal Page 14