E for Effort

by Thomas L Sherred

  “We all know that we’re cashing in, hand over fist. And we’re going to cash in some more. We have, on our personal schedule, five more pictures. Three of that five we want you to handle as you did the others. The last two of the five will show you both the reason for all the childish secrecy, as Kessler calls it, and another motive that we have so far kept hidden. The last two pictures will show you both our motives and our methods; one is as important as the other. Now— is that enough? Can we go ahead on that basis?”

  It wasn’t enough for Kessler. “That doesn’t mean a thing to me. What are we, a bunch of hacks?”

  Johnson was thinking about his bank balance. “Five more. Two years, maybe four.”

  Marrs was skeptical. “Who do you think you’re going to kid that long? Where’s your studio? Where’s your talent? Where do you shoot your exteriors? Where do you get costumes and your extras? In one single shot you’ve got forty thousand extras, if you’ve got one! Maybe you can shut me up, but who’s going to answer the questions that Metro and Fox and Paramount and RKO have been asking? Those boys aren’t fools, they know their business. How do you expect me to handle any publicity when I don’t know what the score is, myself?”

  Johnson told him to pipe down for a while and let him think. Mike and I didn’t like this one bit. But what could we do—tell the truth and end up in a strait-jacket?

  “Can we do it this way?” he finally asked. “Marrs: these boys have an in with the Soviet Government. They work in some place in Siberia, maybe. Nobody gets within miles of there. No one ever knows what the Russians are doing—”

  “Nope!” Marrs was definite. “Any hint that these came from Russia and we’d all be a bunch of Reds. Cut the gross in half.”

  Johnson began to pick up speed. “All right, not from Russia. From one of these little republics fringed around Siberia or Armenia or one of those places. They’re not Russian-made films at all. In fact, they’ve been made by some of these Germans and Austrians the Russians took over and moved after the War. The war fever had died down enough for people to realize that the Germans knew their stuff occasionally. The old sympathy racket for these refugees struggling with faulty equipment, lousy climate, making-superspectacles and smuggling them out under the nose of the Gestapo or whatever they call it—That’s it!”

  Doubtfully, from Marrs: “And the Russians tell the world we’re nuts, that they haven’t got any loose Germans?”

  That, Johnson overrode. “Who reads the back pages? Who pays any attention to what the Russians say? Who cares? They might even think we’re telling the truth and start looking around their own backyard for something that isn’t there! All right with you?” to Mike and myself.

  I looked at Mike and he looked at me.

  “O.K. with us.”

  “O.K. with the rest of you? Kessler? Bernstein?”

  They weren’t too agreeable, and certainly not happy, but they agreed to play games until we gave the word.

  We were warm in our thanks. “You won’t regret it.”

  Kessler doubted that very much, but Johnson eased them all out, back to work. Another hurdle leaped, or sidestepped.

  “Rome” was released on schedule and drew the same friendly reviews. “Friendly” is the wrong word for reviews that stretched ticket line-ups blocks long. Marrs did a good job on the publicity. Even that chain of newspapers that afterward turned on us so viciously fell for Marrs’ word wizardry and ran full-page editorials urging the reader to see “Rome.”

  With our third picture, “Flame Over France,” we corrected a few misconceptions about the French Revolution, and began stepping on a few tender toes. Luckily, however, and not altogether by design, there happened to be in power in Paris a liberal government. They backed us to the hilt with the confirmation we needed. At our request they released a lot of documents that had hitherto conveniently been lost in the cavernous recesses of the Bibliotheque Nationale. I’ve forgotten the name of whoever happened to be the perennial pretender to the French throne. At, I’m sure, the subtle prodding of one of Marrs’ ubiquitous publicity men, the pretender sued us for our whole net, alleging the defamation of the good name of the Bourbons. A lawyer Johnson dug up for us sucked the poor chump into a courtroom and cut him to bits. Not even six cents damages did he get. Samuels, the lawyer, and Marrs drew a good-sized bonus, and the pretender moved to Honduras.

  Somewhere around this point, I believe, did the tone of the press begin to change. Up until then we’d been regarded as crosses between Shakespeare and Barnum. Since long obscure facts had been dredged into the light, a few well-known pessimists began to wonder sotto voce if we weren’t just a pair of blasted pests. “Should leave well enough alone.” Only our huge advertising budget kept them from saying more.

  I’m going to stop right here and say something about our personal life while all this was going on. Mike I’ve kept in the background pretty well, mostly because he wants it that way. He lets me do all the talking and stick my neck out while he sits in the most comfortable chair in sight. I yell and I argue and he just sits there; hardly ever a word coming out of that dark-brown pan, certainly never an indication showing that behind those polite eyebrows there’s a brain—and a sense of humor and wit—faster and as deadly as a bear trap. Oh, I know we’ve played around, sometimes with a loud bang, but we’ve been, ordinarily, too busy and too preoccupied with what we were doing to waste any time. Ruth, while she was with us, was a good dancing and drinking partner. She was young, she was almost what you’d call beautiful, and she seemed to like being with us. For a while I had a few ideas about her that might have developed into something serious. We both—I should say, all three of us—found out in time that we looked at a lot of things too differently. So we weren’t too disappointed when she signed with Metro. Her contract meant what she thought was all the fame and money and happiness in the world, plus the personal attention she was doubtless entitled to have. They put her in Class B’s and serials and she, financially, is better off than she ever expected to be. Emotionally, I don’t know. We heard from her sometime ago, and I think she’s about due for another divorce. Maybe it’s just as well.

  But let’s get away from Ruth. I’m ahead of myself. All this time Mike and I had been working together, our approach to the final payoff had been divergent. Mike was hopped on the idea of making a better world, and doing that by making war impossible. “War,” he’s often said, “war of any kind is what has made man spend most of his history in merely staying alive. Now, with the atom to use, he has within himself the seed of self-extermination. So help me, Ed, I’m going to do my share of stopping that, or I don’t see any point in living. I mean it!”

  He did mean it. He told me that in almost the same words the first day we met. Then I tagged that idea as a pipe dream picked up on an empty stomach. I saw his machine only as a path to luxurious and personal Nirvana, and I thought he’d soon be going my way. I was wrong.

  You can’t live, or work, with a likable person without admiring some of the qualities that make that person likable. Another thing; it’s a lot easier to worry about the woes of the world when you haven’t any yourself. It’s a lot easier to have a conscience when you can afford it. When I donned the rose-colored glasses half my battle was won; when I realized how grand a world this could be, the battle was over. That was about the time of “Flame Over France,” I think. The actual time isn’t important. What is important is that, from that time on, we became the tightest team possible. Since then the only thing we’ve differed on would be the time to knock off for a sandwich. Most of our leisure time, what we had of it, has been spent in locking up for the night, rolling out the portable bar, opening just enough beer to feel good, and relaxing. Maybe, after one or two, we might diddle the dials of the machine, and go rambling.

  Together we’ve been everywhere and seen anything. It might be a good night to check up on Francois Villon, the faker, or maybe we might chase around with Haroun-el-Rashid. (If there was ever a man born a few hun
dred years too soon, it was that careless caliph.) Or if we were in a bad or discouraged mood we might follow the Thirty Years’ War for a while, or if we were real raffish we might inspect the dressing rooms at Radio City. For Mike the crackup of Atlantis has always had an odd fascination, probably because he’s afraid that man will do it again, now that he’s rediscovered nuclear energy. And if I doze off he’s quite apt to go back to the very Beginning, back to the start of the world as we know it now. (It wouldn’t do any good to tell you what went before that.)

  When I stop to think, it’s probably just as well that neither of us married. We, of course, have hopes for the future, but at present we’re both tired of the whole human race; tired of greedy faces and hands. With a world that puts a premium on wealth and power and strength, it’s no wonder what decency there is stems from fear of what’s here now, or fear of what’s hereafter. We’ve seen so much of the hidden actions of the world—call it snooping, if you like—that we’ve learned to disregard the surface indications of kindness and good. Only once did Mike and I ever look into the private life of someone we knew and liked and respected. Once was enough. From that day on we made it a point to take people as they seemed. Let’s get away from that.

  The next two pictures we released in rapid succession; the first, “Freedom for Americans,” the American Revolution, and “The Brothers and the Guns,” the American Civil War. Bang! Every third politician, a lot of so-called “educators,” and all the professional patriots started after our scalps. Every single chapter of the DAR, the Sons of Union Veterans, and the Daughters of the Confederacy pounded their collective heads against the wall. The South went frantic; every state in the Deep South and one state on the border flatly banned both pictures, the second because it was truthful, and the first because censorship is a contagious disease. They stayed banned until the professional politicians got wise. The bans were revoked, and the choke-collar and string-tie brigade pointed to both pictures as horrible examples of what some people actually believed and thought, and felt pleased that someone had given them an opportunity to roll out the barrel and beat the drums that sound sectional and racial hatred.

  New England was tempted to stand on its dignity, but couldn’t stand the strain. North of New York both pictures were banned. In New York state the rural representatives voted en bloc, and the ban was clamped on statewide. Special trains ran to Delaware, where the corporations were too busy to pass another law. Libel suits flew like spaghetti, and although the extras blared the filing of each new suit, very few knew that we lost not one. Although we had to appeal almost every suit to higher courts, and in some cases request a change of venue which was seldom granted, the documentary proof furnished by the record cleared us once we got to a judge, or series of judges, with no fences to mend.

  It was a mighty rasp we drew over wounded ancestral pride. We had shown that not all the mighty had haloes of purest gold, that not all the Redcoats were strutting bullies—nor angels, and the British Empire, except South Africa, refused entry to both pictures and made violent passes at the State Department. The spectacle of Southern and New England congressmen approving the efforts of a foreign ambassador to suppress free speech drew hilarious hosannas from certain quarters. H. L. Mencken gloated in the clover, doing loud nip-ups, and the newspapers hung on the triple-horned dilemma of anti-foreign, pro-patriotic, and quasi-logical criticism. In Detroit the Ku Klux Klan fired an anemic cross on our doorstep, and the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick, the NAACP, and the WCTU passed flattering resolutions. We forwarded the most vicious and obscene letters—together with a few names and addresses that hadn’t been originally signed—to our lawyers and the Post Office Department. There were no convictions south of Illinois.

  Johnson and his boys made hay. Johnson had pyramided his bets into an international distributing organization, and pushed Marrs into hiring every top press agent either side of the Rockies. What a job they did! In no time at all there were two definite schools of thought that overflowed into the public letter boxes. One school held that we had no business raking up old mud to throw, that such things were better left forgotten and forgiven, that nothing wrong had ever happened, and if it had, we were liars anyway. The other school reasoned more to our liking. Softly and slowly at first, then with a triumphant shout, this fact began to emerge; such things had actually happened, and could happen again, were possibly happening even now; had happened because twisted truth had too long left its imprint on international, sectional, and racial feelings. It pleased us when many began to agree, with us, that it is important to forget the past, but that it is even more important to understand and evaluate it with a generous and unjaundiced eye. That was what we were trying to bring out.

  The banning that occurred in the various states hurt the gross receipts only a little, and we were vindicated in Johnson’s mind. He had dolefully predicted loss of half the national gross because “you can’t tell the truth in a movie and get away with it. Not if the house holds over three hundred.” Not even on the stage? “Who goes to anything but a movie?”

  So far things had gone just about as we’d planned. We’d earned and received more publicity, favorable and otherwise, than anyone living. Most of it stemmed from the fact that our doing had been newsworthy. Some, naturally, had been the ninety-day-wonder material that fills a thirsty newspaper. We had been very careful to make our enemies in the strata that can afford to fight back. Remember the old saw about knowing a man by the enemies he makes? Well, publicity was our ax. Here’s how we put an edge on it.

  I called Johnson in Hollywood. He was glad to hear from us. “Long time no see. What’s the pitch, Ed?”

  “I want some lip readers. And I want them yesterday, like you tell your boys.”

  “Lip readers? Are you nuts? What do you want with lip readers?”

  “Never mind why. I want lip readers. Can you get them?”

  “How should I know? What do you want them for?”

  “I said, can you get them?”

  He was doubtful. “I think you’ve been working too hard.”

  “Look—”

  “Now, I didn’t say I couldn’t. Cool off. When do you want them? And how many?”

  “Better write this down. Ready? I want lip readers from these languages: English, French, German, Russian, Chinese, Japanese, Greek, Belgian, Dutch and Spanish.”

  “Ed Lefko, have you gone crazy?”

  I guess it didn’t sound very sensible, at that. “Maybe I have. But those languages are essential. If you run across any who can work in any other language, hang on to them. I might need them, too.” I could see him sitting in front of his telephone, wagging his head like mad. Crazy. The heat must have got Lefko, good old Ed. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes, I heard you. If this is a rib—”

  “No rib. Dead serious.”

  He began to get mad. “Where you think I’m going to get lip readers, out of my hat?”

  “That’s your worry. I’d suggest you start with the local School for the Deaf.” He was silent. “Now, get this into your head; this isn’t a rib, this is the real thing. I don’t care what you do, or where you go, or what you spend—I want those lip readers in Hollywood when we get there or I want to know they’re on the way.”

  “When are you going to get there?”

  I said I wasn’t sure. “Probably a day or two. We’ve got a few loose ends to clean up.”

  He swore a blue streak at the iniquities of fate. “You’d better have a good story when you do—” I hung up.

  Mike met me at the studio. “Talk to Johnson?” I told him, and he laughed. “Does sound crazy, I suppose. But he’ll get them, if they exist and like money. He’s the Original Resourceful Man.”

  I tossed my hat in a corner. “I’m glad this is about over. Your end caught up?”

  “Set and ready to go. The films and the notes are on the way, the real estate company is ready to take over the lease, and the girls are paid up to date, with a little extra.�
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  I opened a bottle of beer for myself. Mike had one. “How about the office files? How about the bar, here?”

  “The files go to the bank to be stored. The bar? Hadn’t thought about it.”

  The beer was cold. “Have it crated and send it to Johnson.”

  We grinned, together. “Johnson it is. He’ll need it.”

  I nodded at the machine. “What about that?”

  “That goes with us on the plane as air express.” He looked closely at me. “What’s the matter with you—jitters?”

  “Nope. Willies. Same thing.”

  “Me, too. Your clothes and mine left this morning.”

  “Not even a clean shirt left?”

  “Not even a clean shirt. Just like—”

  I finished it. “—the first trip with Ruth. A little different, maybe.”

  Mike said slowly, “A lot different.” I opened another beer. “Anything you want around here, anything else to be done?” I said no. “O.K. Let’s get this over with. We’ll put what we need in the car. We’ll stop at the Courville Bar before we hit the airport.”

  I didn’t get it. “There’s still beer left—”

  “But no champagne.”

  I got it. “O.K. I’m dumb, at times. Let’s go.”

  We loaded the machine into the car, and the bar, left the studio keys at the corner grocery for the real estate company, and headed for the airport by way of the Courville Bar. Ruth was in California, but Joe had champagne. We got to the airport late.

  Marrs met us in Los Angeles. “What’s up? You’ve got Johnson running around in circles.”

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “Sounds crazy to me. Couple of reporters inside. Got anything for them?”