The Biograph Girl

by William J. Mann

  FLORENCE LAWRENCE,

  THE FIRST UNIVERSAL STAR

  “Thank you very much,” she says haltingly into the microphone. “I accept this honor not only on behalf of myself, but also for my husband, Harry Solter, who got me the position with Mr. Laemmle at the original Universal studio, way back when it was just a little IMP.”

  Afterward, she’s too tired to do anything else but go back to Malibu and sleep.

  “I freely admit to being a hypochondriac,” the Hollywood producer is saying. “Even as a kid, I’d eat my M&Ms one at a time with a glass of water.”

  His name is Sam Glick, and he’s a development exec at Universal/MCA. He’s sitting at his desk, unscrewing a jar of vitamins and shaking several into his wide pink palm. He reminds Ben of Sidney Greenstreet in The Maltese Falcon. He’s a big man—not fat, but big, like those elephants in Fantasia. Wide, but somehow graceful, too.

  He’s comfortable in his bigness, Ben thinks. That’s what sets him apart from other big men. He’s comfortable with being big in a small world.

  Now Glick is raising his hand, the vitamins still aloft in his palm. He pops them into his mouth in one swift move, washing them down with a swig from a can of Diet Coke, pinky upraised.

  “I’m constantly complaining about headaches or ingrown toenails or some such thing,” he says. “So don’t take it personally when I tell you that after reading your script, Mr. Sheehan, I felt as if I needed some Pepto-Bismol.”

  Ben swallows uncomfortably. Xerxes lets out a rollicking laugh, slapping his leg.

  “You crack me up, Sammy,” he says. “Always have. Remember that time at Bruce and Demi’s? You had me nearly peeing in the punch. Isn’t he wild, Benny? I told you he was a card.”

  Ben smiles awkwardly.

  Glick replaces the vitamins in his top drawer. He has Ben’s script sitting in front of him. It’s not much more than a treatment really, but Ben has put a lot of work into it, typing it up on his laptop in the wee hours of the morning after Jean and Flo are asleep. As each new tale has spilled from Flo’s lips, Ben has incorporated it into the script.

  A number of studios, watching Flo’s fame skyrocket, had expressed interest to Xerxes in a biopic. All have wanted dramatic treatments, not documentaries, so Ben has increasingly focused on the former at the expense of his original idea.

  The most enthusiastic, according to Xerxes, was Glick—although today you’d never know it. All he’s done since they’ve arrived at his office is fret about the flu, which he’s convinced he’s getting. He barely acknowledged Ben when he came in, despite the fact that Ben went to a lot of trouble to make a good appearance.

  Oh, if only Mom and Anita and Richard could see him now. His hair’s buzzed close, like Richard’s. He’s wearing an unlined waist-length black leather jacket, a black shirt, and black jeans. Xerxes said it was the look of a cool, collected, confident indie filmmaker.

  But Glick barely notices. He and Xerxes exchange some industry gossip—something about a pair of twentysomething wunderkinds named Affleck and Damon who’ve apparently written some hotshot screenplay that’s set to take the industry by storm. Ben hates them already. I always wanted to be a wunderkind, he tells himself. Now, even if I achieve my goal of getting a film by the time I’m forty, I’ll still never have been a boy wonder.

  “Anyway, I liked it,” Glick says. “I liked it very much.”

  It takes a moment for Ben to realize Glick is talking to him about his treatment. He blinks a few times at the producer. He can’t seem to process the words. I liked it. I liked it very much.

  “But I thought—the Pepto-Bismol—”

  Glick makes a face. “Anything I read sends me to the Pepto-Bismol. I drink it like Coke.” He produces a jar of the bright pink stuff from his desk as evidence, shaking it a few times. “If I hadn’t reached for it, that would’ve been a problem. No, I liked it. I liked it very much.”

  How many years? How many years has it been since One Chance, One World, since someone’s spoken words like these to him? I liked it. I liked it very much.

  Ben is suddenly ensnared by a net of disbelief, feeling all at once like a tremendous fraud, sitting there in front of this big-time Hollywood producer, in his big-time Hollywood studio office. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

  “I told you it was good,” Xerxes says to Glick, filling up the space of Ben’s silence.

  Ben forces a grin. He can’t let them see his incredulity.

  “Of course,” Glick says, leaning back in his chair now, “it’s still speculation. She hasn’t confirmed the part about the murder.”

  “Oh, but we feel confident she had a hand in it,” Xerxes says, sitting forward. “Whether she did it or someone else, I’m not sure. But there’s definitely a connection. That girl’s death is going to make the story of Florence Lawrence even more explosive.”

  Ben tries to speak, but finds the words are sticking. As if he doesn’t want to say them.

  But if he wants this deal, he tells himself, he had better say something.

  “Whether they charge her with anything or not,” he says, his throat suddenly tight, “any investigation is bound to turn up something.” He pauses, a picture of Flo all at once coming to his mind.

  She trusts you, Ben. She’s beginning to trust you.

  Mom’s voice?

  Glick blows his nose noisily. “Well,” he says, wiping his face with a white monogrammed handkerchief, “to be honest, I wouldn’t be interested in a script that turns her into a monster. Look. Part of the reason I’m hoping this will fly with the uppity-ups upstairs is the fact that she was Universal’s first star—back when it was run by old Uncle Carl.”

  Xerxes beams. “You know they just dedicated a statue to her.”

  “I know about the statue, Stavropoulous,” Glick says. “Who do you think pushed the idea to the powers that be?”

  Ben sits forward in his chair. “Mr. Glick, I can assure you I have no intention of turning Flo into a monster. Because she’s not. She’s a sharp, honest, forthright lady. A real survivor. Any script I write will reflect the complexity of who she is, and yes, what she’s done.”

  Glick flutters a hand dismissively at him. It’s a pudgy pink hand, adorned with too many gold rings.

  “Now, not too complex, Mr. Sheehan,” he says. “I’m not interested in a deep psychological character study either.” He pauses. “Flo must be heroic, and yet a little scandal wouldn’t be bad either.”

  She trusts you, Ben.

  Goddamn it. Whose voice was that?

  Ben swallows. “As she provides more information, I’ll adjust the script. What you have there is just to give you an idea.”

  Glick sighs. He pats the front of his jacket, then produces a tin of Sucrets. He pops one into his mouth. In seconds, Ben can smell cherry eucalyptus permeating the room.

  “Tell me,” Glick says, the lozenge making a little clicking sound against his teeth. “Who do you see in the lead? If you could get anyone, anyone at all.”

  Ben’s taken by surprise. “You mean, to play Flo?”

  “Well, I don’t mean to play me.”

  Ben’s not sure. He hasn’t thought about this. In fact, he’s never dared think beyond getting the treatment written. To actually imagine Universal giving him a contract to write a screenplay is incomprehensible. Might they even allow him to direct? It was too much to process.

  Too much.

  “I don’t know,” Ben stammers. “Um … Meryl Streep?”

  Glick makes a face. “Are you off your stump?” He looks over at Xerxes, who makes a face now, too, in imitation of Glick’s. “Streep?” Glick repeats. “Flo doesn’t have an accent, last I knew.”

  Ben feels like an idiot. He can sense the sweat beading out on his forehead. Suddenly he feels like a big old dunce sitting there in his goddamn leather jacket. How ridiculous. Why not take the stupid thing off? He was inside, for God’s sake.

  Glick laughs. “I guess that’s why I’m the producer.” He
leans across his desk at Ben. “What I need for you to do is write me some good dialogue between Flo and whoever this girl was that she killed. We need to get a handle on what their relationship was all about. Pump her for as much information as you can get, and then give me a fleshed-out script. Do that, and I’ve got a pretty good chance of convincing those upstairs to give us the green light.”

  Ben feels a drop of sweat fall from his chin.

  Maybe next time Richard can help you with the dialogue.

  It had to be Mom’s voice.

  He’s the writer, after all.

  “We’ll get her to talk. Don’t worry about that,” Xerxes is saying. “I’m confident that Ben can.”

  But his agent’s voice sounds very faraway to Ben, drowned out by another.…

  What makes you think you can write a dramatic film?

  Mom?

  No. Maybe Anita.

  “You do feel some connection with this girl’s death will eventually come out?” Glick is asking.

  Ben tries to answer, but his throat feels dry. He simply nods.

  How many pieces of silver will you take for her life?

  That’s Anita. He’s sure it’s Anita’s voice ….

  “Well, then we may have a deal,” Glick says, blowing his nose again.

  Just remember to always do your best, never cheat, and work your hardest.

  Ben shivers.

  It’s not Mom or Anita.

  It’s Dad.

  “Excuse me,” he says, standing. “Is there a men’s room?”

  Glick looks at him quizzically, then nods to a door at the far end of the office. Ben hurries over to it. Once safely inside, he doesn’t unzip his pants. He just sits down on the toilet and covers his face.

  Ben, Dad’s saying. There’s so much … so much I still want to do.

  He can see his father, stretched out on the bed, his hair wild, his eyes big and unblinking. He rambles on like this a lot. Nothing ever too specific. Just scraps of melancholy, regret. Ben’s fastening the diaper back around Dad’s emaciated waist. His stomach is sunken in, his pelvic bones sharp and protruding.

  “Try to rest, Dad,” Ben tells him.

  “So many things,” he says, drifting off. He catches himself and moves his eyes almost desperately back to his son. “Do your best, Ben. Promise me?”

  “I’ll try, Dad.” Ben sits down on the edge of the bed. “One way or another.”

  “No, not one way or another. Do your best.” Dad closes his eyes. “Never cheat. Work your hardest. That’s the only way.”

  The only way.

  “You finished in there, you nimrod?” Xerxes whispers urgently, rapping on the door.

  Ben’s startled back to the present. “Almost,” he says.

  “Glick’s just been called in on a conference. Come on. What’s going on with you? Hurry up. Get out here before he gets back.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Ben stands. The voices are gone.

  He looks at himself in the mirror. He likes his new haircut, the leather jacket, the golden tan he’s gotten from a bottle. He looks good. Damn good.

  “I am doing my best,” he tells himself.

  He takes a deep breath, opens the door, and strides back to his place.

  Flo completes her work on the Waters film in just one day instead of two. Xerxes assures her she’ll still get the full quarter mil. “It’s not like Biograph, sweetheart, where they paid you by the day,” he tells her.

  No, not like Biograph. Not at all, as it turns out.

  She has just one scene in the picture. Most of it’s being shot in Baltimore, of course, that being Waters’s habit, but he and some of his stars and crew have come out to Hollywood to get Flo’s scene. She plays a social dowager who’s secretly a motorcycle mama. Jean had squawked a little after reading the script and had insisted on one line of Flo’s dialogue being cut. It’s where she tells Edward Furlong that she’s “got ants in the parlor.”

  The film is being shot at a fabulous old house high in the Hollywood Hills. Flo seems to think it once belonged to somebody famous in the ’20s. Pola Negri? Ramon Novarro? She can’t recall. But while she had seemed excited about her “comeback” in the week leading up to it, on the day of the shoot she seems distracted, even a bit confused.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Jean asks.

  Flo frets. “I’m afraid I won’t remember the lines. I never had to learn lines. Pictures were silent then, you know.”

  But she only has a few. Furlong knocks on her door, asks if he can use the phone. He then notices the leather jacket and Harley Davidson memorabilia lying around her house. In seconds, she reappears in full leather and riding cap—a touch that appealed mightily to Flo, who said it reminded her of the gear she used to wear in the early days of automobiling. Later, she lets Furlong borrow her “chopper”—setting the plot in motion.

  On the set, she’s received like visiting royalty, with costars Furlong and Jeff Stryker clamoring to get their pictures taken with her. She smiles and shakes their hands, but Ben thinks she seems a little dazed by the whole thing—as if she were wandering in her sleep.

  “Over here, Miss Lawrence,” an assistant director calls.

  She turns.

  “Your makeup, Miss Lawrence,” someone else chirps.

  She turns again.

  Then Waters arrives. He gallantly kisses her hand. “The first star of them all, back from the dead,” he says reverently.

  They dress Flo up in a long blond wig and heavy mascara for her first scene. “Stand here,” someone tells her. “You open the door, see Edward, and say, ‘Whaddya want?’”

  She nods.

  “Okay!” an assistant calls. “Quiet on the set.”

  The crew settles down. Flo puts her hand on the doorknob.

  “We have speed,” a technician shouts.

  “And—action,” Waters commands.

  Flo opens the door. Edward Furlong salutes her.

  “Whaddya want?” Flo asks.

  “Cut,” Waters barks. “That was great, Flo.”

  “That was it?” she asks.

  “For that take, yup. We’ll edit everything together.”

  The other scenes go similarly. She delivers her line, and Waters calls, “Cut.” Flo looks perplexed, so Ben hurries over to her between shots.

  “How can you get mood when all the takes are so short?” she asks him. “Mr. Griffith used to have violins playing for us while we acted. He didn’t keep stopping and starting the camera every few minutes.”

  Now she’s dolled up in her black leather jacket and chaps. It took a long time for the wardrobe people to get her into that. But she looks adorable, Ben thinks, and he can’t help but smile. He wonders for a second if he should write this scene into his script for Glick. But then he pushes the idea away. He doesn’t want to think about that right now.

  Flo says her last line to Furlong—“Go ahead. Take my chopper there.”—with perfection. Her costar bends over and gives her a quick peck on the cheek. Ben can’t help but imagine how differently she once was kissed by her leading men—King Baggott or Matt Moore.

  “Cut! Beautiful!” Waters calls. “Print it!”

  A flurry of technicians mob Flo, removing the microphone hidden in her leather blouse. One snatches the motorcycle cap right off her head and walks away.

  “That’s it?” Flo asks.

  “That’s it, Miss Lawrence, and thank you,” Waters says. “You were brilliant.”

  She looks over at Ben, hovering off to the side. “Quarter of a million dollars,” she says to him, shaking her head. “Things certainly have changed.”

  The library has that huge quiet all libraries have: a deep, dull, echoing hush that Richard finds magnificently soothing. Enveloping. Like being back in the womb.

  He sits there at a long oak table, volumes of musty-smelling Los Angeles city directories spread out in front of him. This is when he’s happiest: researching a story, lost in a world of fa
cts and figures that he can gradually piece together, slowly but surely, to make a sensible whole.

  That’s what he’s trying to do with Flo. Find a way to make sense of it all.

  But he’ll be damned if the sense doesn’t keep eluding him every time he thinks he’s gotten a grasp on it, like mercury from a broken thermometer running through his eager fingers.

  The 1938 directory is open in front of him to the Ls. Florence Lawrence was still at MGM for most of that year, doing extra work. He runs his finger down the list of names. Lawlor. Lawn. Lawper. Lawrence.

  There she is: Florence Lawrence, actress, 532 Westbourne Drive.

  Okay. Richard jots down the entry in his notebook. He flips ahead a few pages. Sligo. Slip. Slocum.

  Lester H. Slocum, M.D. General practice. Beverly Hills.

  Not much data. Except by omission. Usually a wife is listed in parentheses. Looks like old Lester was a bachelor. Richard makes a notation of it.

  He takes out the list Detective Lee gave him from his inside jacket pocket. He unfolds the piece of paper and looks down at the list of names. Girls who disappeared.

  Ann Kiely. Richard flips back through the pages of the directory. No listing for her. Next name. Norma Cooney. He turns back a few more pages. There she is: Norma Cooney, clerk, 3819 Sawtelle. Richard writes the address down in his notebook.

  Heloise Harker. No occupation given. Address, Santa Monica.

  Jean Ott, teacher’s aide, 1575a Ingraham.

  Richard records all the data.

  No Teresa Sabatini.

  The last name on the list. Margaret Butz.

  Richard lifts a whole chunk of pages to get back to the front of the book. He finds the Bs. Bumpers. Butterworth. Butz.

  There. Margaret Butz.

  He picks up his pencil to write the information.

  Margaret Butz, actress, 532 Westbourne Drive.

  His hand freezes. He actually hears his breath catch in his throat. He looks up a few lines to where he’d written Florence’s name. The same address. 532 Westbourne Drive.