It was the first time, of course, that we’d made a sound movie, and so things were different right away; she looked up at the boom mikes (a new invention) with visible trepidation as she hit her mark. I thought her voice very good for sound; a nice, modulated register.
But unlike the Mary of old, who walked onto a set as if it were her kingdom, this Mary seemed uncertain of herself. There would be a little hesitation sometimes before she said a line, and her readings were letter perfect; too much so. She sounded as if she were reciting from a chalkboard at times, intent on emphasizing every period, every comma. She didn’t seem to trust the cinematographer or the director, Frank Borzage. When he yelled “Cut!” she always looked to me for approval instead of him.
“While you’re at it, Frances,” Frank told me one day after yet another muffed take by a nervous Mary, “maybe you can direct Her Highness to hold off on the gin until after we’re done with the day’s shoot?”
I nodded, but didn’t know what to do. This was another obstacle I’d never encountered on a set of Mary’s: For the first time, she was letting her drinking get in the way of the most important thing in her life, until now—her career.
In the morning, she was just like she’d always been—clear-eyed, witty, making jokes with the crew. But after lunch—which she took alone in her dressing room now, instead of sharing it with me—she was a different person altogether. She never stumbled, she always knew her lines—although she did sometimes slur them a little so that the sound engineer had to call out “Cut!” before a scene was over. But she was testy, prone to lashing out at everyone around her; something she’d never done before. I’d never once heard Mary Pickford raise her voice to her crew. But now she’d yell at her dresser, or harangue anyone who moved behind the camera during a take. And poor Leslie Howard—he hardly knew what to do with her; he was uncomfortable enough playing a rough-hewn westerner. He could hardly be expected to help his equally terrified and slightly tipsy leading lady who, after all, was Mary Pickford, Queen of the Movies—his absolute favorite movie star, he more than once confided to me, when he was a boy.
My heart suffered for Mary. I knew she drank because she was terrified, because this was her last chance. I understood. But that didn’t mean I approved.
“This has to be a success, Fran,” she told me one day, between takes. It was before noon, so she wasn’t drunk. But she was still edgy; she picked at her costume until I had to grab her hands, lest the costume designer throw a conniption. “It has to be! I need a hit. I need this. Douglas—he’s given up. On his career. On us. But I can’t! And it’s a great role, isn’t it, Fran? This woman—all she suffers!”
“Yes, but…”
“But what, Fran?”
“But is it you, Mary? Is this role you?”
“You should know, Fran,” she said with a cold smirk. “You wrote it for me.”
Yes. Yes, I had. Because she’d asked. But this woman wasn’t Mary—Our Mary; this woman suffered throughout the film, suffered heartache and betrayal and still she stayed by her man, which was precisely what Mary wanted to say to Douglas, but couldn’t. Because she didn’t know how to live away from the camera, and so she had to use it to pour her heart out to her husband, to tell him that she loved him anyway despite his infidelities, and that she would always be there for him.
But Mary suffering for an hour and a half—that wasn’t what her audiences wanted. I knew that, because I was one of them—I couldn’t stand to see her suffer as piteously as she did in this movie; I had to turn away during the filming of those scenes. I couldn’t bear to watch her cut her veins open for the camera; it was too personal. Everyone knew what she was saying, and to whom. Her desperation was so palpable, it should have had its own dressing room on set.
As filming went on—Frank Borzage was sure to film all the scenes in which she had to portray a young woman during the morning—Mary began to lash out at me, too.
One evening we were watching the rushes; I had my notepad, jotting down some thoughts—Mary might need a pick-up scene to establish the illness of her child. The prop baby wasn’t registering; could we refilm that scene? Mary held it too casually, as if it were a football; I would have to teach her how to really hold an infant. The makeup for Mona Maris, who played Leslie’s mistress, was a little harsh; could it be softened in other scenes?
“Fran! Fran!” Mary turned to me, and I smelled so much mint on her breath, I knew she had gargled to disguise the gin she must have swigged on her way to the screening room.
“What?” I kept my eyes on the screen.
“Fran!” Mary actually grabbed my arm, and I looked at her, annoyed.
But she looked even more annoyed at me; she was glaring, her eyes hard and mean.
“I sssound ridiculous in thisss scene,” she slurred, glancing at the screen, then twisting back to me. “The lines you wrote me are terrible! Thisss scene is terrible—Mona isn’t any good in it, either, even though you wrote her some decent dialogue, anyway. I’m sssurprised you had it in you.”
“Mary!” I tried to swallow my anger, but it wouldn’t quite go down; it sat square in the middle of my chest, waiting. I glanced around the darkened room; the projector sputtered off, then someone turned a light on. Frank, Leslie, Mona, the others all crept away, leaving the two of us alone.
“All I do in that scene is sit there and—and—take it!”
I told myself I knew what this was about; she was talking about the scene in which her husband’s mistress confronts Mary with the truth and asks her to set him free so the two of them can marry. It was a scene that hit very close to home and Mary had come to the set to film it unsteady on her feet. Fortunately, I’d written it so that she wasn’t required to say much, only react—the one thing that Mary Pickford still did better than anyone else in Hollywood. She’d soldiered through the take. We could use it, with some clever editing.
“Mary, darling, remember the scene coming up? I wrote you a great big beautiful speech that’s sure to win you another Academy Award!” And I had; I’d listened, I’d watched, and I’d written a speech that allowed Mary to say everything that she wanted to say as a wronged wife; she was a saint, a martyr, it was the scene she’d desperately wanted—demanded—and so, of course, I’d written it for her.
But it wasn’t the Mary I loved; it wasn’t the spunky little girl who would kick her wandering husband out the door. That was my Mary; that’s how I would have written it, written her.
“But this scene, Fran—it’s terrible!”
I bent down to pick up the portfolio containing the next day’s shooting script, so that I could compose myself. She’d never said this to me before. All our lives together, our work was a product of mutual respect. If we didn’t agree—and we didn’t always—we would work it out together, not resorting to disparaging words or vicious attacks.
“What’s happened to you, Fran? What’s happened to your talent?”
I dropped my portfolio and faced her, releasing the monster on my chest.
“My talent is still intact, thank you very much!”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, Mary, that perhaps you’re not entirely right for this role? If you’d only let me write it like I wanted—what if you kick him out? What if you do that thing you’ve always done so well on camera—that spunk, that fire? Let me make you triumphant in this, Mary, just like before! Not so, so—”
“Real?” Mary’s face was twisted, her heavy pancake makeup now cruelly emphasizing the lines along her mouth, between her eyes. “Fran, the reason I want to portray this woman is because I know her. I am her. She’s a real woman. I thought you knew how to write a real woman—apparently, I was mistaken. I should have remembered The Love Light.”
“She’s not a real woman, she’s a doormat. And The Love Light was a beautiful screenplay!”
“No, Fran.” Mary looked down at her lap; her hands were clasped penitently, as if she were in church. “I’m a real woman. Terrified.
Terrified of a life without him, her great love—her only love. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, Mary.” I couldn’t look at her; I had to turn away. But it didn’t matter because tears blurred my vision so that I couldn’t have seen her anyway. How could she say that to me? Me, of all people?
“Mary, I do know,” I whispered. “I know what it’s like to lose a husband. I know what it’s like to be terrified.” Because I was terrified, every day; terrified of growing old alone, terrified of what my fatherless boys might become. Terrified of an empty bed at night. But I didn’t let it keep me locked in my house when I wasn’t working. I didn’t let it drive me to drink.
And I never confused real life with cinema; I never used my craft to manipulate or control.
Did I?
As if she could read my mind, Mary grabbed me by the shoulders and whipped me around so that she could give me one of those penetrating stares; she didn’t look drunk anymore, only bitterly amused. “Have you ever thought, Fran, that if you hadn’t made Fred a movie star, he might still be here? Still be alive? Douglas and I used to wonder that. A lot.”
I gasped; she had no right. No right at all to say this to me; she wasn’t there. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know—
How did she know? How did she know that I couldn’t sleep at night, wondering the very same thing?
“Mary, it’s late.” I pushed my chair back blindly and stood, blinking my tears away furiously; I yanked on my gloves so viciously I split a seam. “I need to get home to check on the boys before they go to sleep. I’ll look at your scene again for tomorrow, but it’s a fine speech, I think. For what you want it to be. Try to rest. And please, Mary—for God’s sake, try to be sober tomorrow on set, all right?”
Never before had I mentioned her drinking. She flinched, paled, didn’t look at me. But she did nod. We said goodbye and went our separate ways. Not once, since this movie started, had either of us suggested that we order dinner to be brought to her bungalow so that we could laugh and work through the night.
I had children to tuck in. She had an empty palace to go home to.
The next day, Mary arrived to film the scene letter-perfect. She was sober, and Frank Borzage shot me a look of gratitude. “Maybe she’ll pull it off, after all,” he muttered, and for the first time, I realized that everyone else had doubts about this film, too. I looked around; the faces of the crew were wary, and I did feel for poor Mary, having to perform for this audience. Always before, she was surrounded by faces full of wonder, of joy—of pure delight at being allowed into her magical orbit.
Now her crew—her audience, the public in general—were skeptical. Simply waiting for her to fall flat on her face. No longer did the world pull for Mary Pickford. And that broke my heart; I couldn’t imagine what it did to hers.
I walked over to her as her costume was being given a final brush by the costume girl. I couldn’t hug her, as I longed to, so I took her hands, and looked her right in the eyes.
“Mary, I believe in you. You’re going to be wonderful, darling, I know it. You’ll win another Academy Award, mark my words!”
“Thank you, Fran.” She flashed me a smile of pure gratitude, and took her place in front of the camera. The various assistants barked out their readiness—lights were set, actors were on their marks, sound was rolling—as Borzage called out “Action!”
Mary Pickford turned to the camera, but I knew she was seeing her husband, her missing husband who had not once visited her on set, laughing, clowning for everyone, proud of his little wife, his best little girl. Douglas Fairbanks was somewhere in Italy, and he was not alone.
But his wife—my friend—was pouring her heart out on camera to him, saying my words, the words I’d written, the words that would melt anyone’s heart, anyone who had a heart, anyway. She was telling him she still loved him, would always love him, that nothing he could say or do would ever drive her away. But the words didn’t sound like her, not to my ears; they fell flat, pitiful, and I couldn’t look at the crew’s faces.
Borzage yelled “Cut!” Mary took a shaky breath, there was some scattered applause. Then she looked to me for approval.
What could I do, but give it?
—
“And the winner of the Academy Award for best original screenplay is—Frances Marion, for The Champ!”
The applause was as startling in November of 1932 as it had been in 1930, although some things were different. George wasn’t my escort; our divorce was final. And Mayer, instead of standing up on a chair to cheer, sat back in his seat like a potentate and proclaimed, “It’s a good night for my studio!”
“No, Louis, it’s a good night for me.” I barely glanced at him as I rose to accept my statue, smiling and accepting the congratulations of my peers. Who, I couldn’t help but notice, were a tad less enthusiastic the second time around. That’s Hollywood, I thought. Happy for your success—as long as it didn’t last too long.
Once again, a tiny figure blocked my path.
“Fran!” Mary shook her finger at me, half scoldingly. “Not again!”
She smiled brilliantly—of course, there was a camera snapping away—but her heart wasn’t in her eyes, which were dull, her pupils dilated. She was swaying on her feet, and Buddy Rogers—not Doug—was next to her, his arm about her waist to keep her from swaying too far in any direction.
Filming of Secrets had ended months before; it wasn’t due to be released until the spring. But she knew, and I knew—everyone in Hollywood knew, for there were no secrets in this town—that it wouldn’t win her husband back, after all. And Mary would win no Academy Award for it. I steeled myself for some smart, wounding remark; I didn’t really know how else to approach her these days. It was as if I had to have one hand outstretched, ready to ward her off—or pick her up—as soon as I saw her.
But to my astonishment, she lurched toward me again, clutched my arm, and whispered in my ear, “Squeebee’s soooo happy for you, Fran, darling.”
“Mary!” I hugged her, so tightly; I didn’t care that now everyone was shifting in their seats, eager for me to hurry up and get my award so the rest of them could collect theirs. But I was touched by her words, and I gave her a kiss on the cheek before I wound my way up to the podium.
Once there, I closed my eyes for a moment in the blinding spotlight, Mary’s approval still ringing in my ears—warming my heart. I would always need that, I knew. No matter how old we grew, Mary’s were the congratulations—or sympathies—I would always seek. She had given me my start, and here I was—accepting an award for writing a movie that starred a child! I’d not made the connection before, but it was true; I’d first written for children because of Mary. And now I’d won the Academy Award for writing The Champ for nine-year-old Jackie Cooper.
The symmetry pleased me, and I smiled. Turning toward Mary’s table, I started to thank her for her friendship, for giving me my start—
But her seat was empty; she had left before I could accept my award.
I looked at all the golden statuettes arrayed before me, waiting to be collected by the restless, striving audience. Clark Gable, at a front table, looked pointedly at his watch. So I smiled, thanked the Academy, picked up my trophy, and went home. I found a good place for it; there was a creaky door in my bathroom that wouldn’t stay open.
Thanks to the Academy, thanks to L. B. Mayer, thanks to Jackie Cooper, thanks to Mary—
Now it would.
She came down to lunch with a headache, and she thought it was because of the tiara; she hadn’t worn it in so long but of course, she must. Mary Pickford must look her best for luncheon at Pickfair because surely there would be a queen or a duke or someone else accustomed to a crown. So she asked her maid to bring her a tiara, and she draped herself in jewels—several necklaces hung around her neck, nearly dragging her down, and she clasped five bracelets on one arm and six on another, and as she descended the stairs—carefully, for her feet were a trifle unsteady—she giggled at the commotio
n she made as silver and gold and diamonds and pearls all clanged together. She was a jingle bell! She giggled again.
When she got to the dining room, she paused to catch her breath and rearrange her tiara, which had slipped a little over one eye. Then she flung open the door to greet her guests grandly.
The long table was only a quarter full, but of course, this was a luncheon. She wondered who Douglas had brought home this time? He always brought home such wonderful characters!
“Hello,” she said, her voice deep and dignified. Douglas rushed to help her to her seat; she fumbled around for her chair, and sat down carefully.
Her guests were all women, and she recognized some of them. There was Adela, so wrinkled now! Her face looked like a raisin, the poor dear. And Gloria, darling Gloria, so thin and ferocious looking. Anita was there, too—hunched over now with a widow’s hump.
And there was Fran, too. Fran—Fran!
“You!” Mary pushed herself out of her chair, knocking over a water goblet. “You!” she shrieked. “Get out! Get out of my house! You wrote Anne of Green Gables for Mary Miles Minter! You betrayed me—get out!”
There was a shocked silence; Adela had risen to her feet and Anita was looking at her plate. Fran had gone scarlet; her eyes blazed, and she grabbed her butter knife as if it were a weapon. Then her face softened; she looked at Mary with something new, something strange—something Mary had never seen before in Fran’s eyes.
Was it pity? How dare she?
“Mary, darling, you’re not yourself—”
Why did everyone say that? What did that mean, anyway? When had Mary Pickford ever been herself? The last time she’d answered to “Gladys Smith,” that’s when. And that was so long ago there was no one left who remembered.
“Get out, you bitch. How dare you? You knew I wanted to star in that—it was perfect for me! You knew you were my scenarist! You only got your start because of me—where would you be if I hadn’t hired you? And then you had to put your husband in my movie—mine! The cowboy was dreadful, you know.” Mary turned to Adela. “Simply awful. I carried him through that picture.”
The Girls in the Picture Page 35