The Camera Always Lies

by Hugh Hood

  Horler had met Dan Lenehan in the late forties, when an Eagle-Lion unit had been shooting in Ireland; they had been sympathetic to each other from the start. Lenehan controlled a number of cinemas in the principal cities of Eire, and Horler was drawn into close relations with exhibitors, like a cat to mice or cream.

  “Get to know the indie circuits,” he is quoted as saying. “Meet the man who is running a fourth-run house in Boise. Find out what his problems are; that’s where the money is. I don’t care about the Rivoli or the art houses. Those are specialized matters that we know how to handle. But the big market, the world market, that’s the fellow in Boise who has to make money with fourth-run pictures. You can ask him who the stars are, and he’ll know the answer. And he’s never heard of Jeanne Moreau.”

  Somebody like Max Mars might object, “Bud, you can’t make films on that basis.”

  “I can’t make films on any other basis. The film must play, and people must want to see it a second or third time. I had a friend one time, made a feature for a government agency, in one of the colonies. He shot 6o,ooo feet of stock, using a modified cinéma verité technique. He took six months to get the shots he wanted. He had no script, and no shooting schedule. Then he brought this rather expensive footage—I’m speaking relatively you understand, it cost about a hundred and fifty thousand to get the rough cut—he brought this film back to his government agency and only then did anybody think about getting it shown. It had no audience value of any kind. Nobody ever heard of any of the players. There was no story. When they got a few bookings, nobody came. Nothing, I say nothing, makes me sicker than the sight of the popcorn woman and the ushers and the ticket taker and the projectionists and the manager all sitting around drawing salary, while the exhibitor counts the empty seats.”

  “What happened to your friend?”

  “He is considered the founder of the colony’s national film industry, but the government auditors want to put him in jail.”

  “Was the film any good?”

  “Nobody saw it. Nobody knows.”

  When Horler talked like this, Danny Lenehan would nod his head quietly, in complete accord with his partner. He was only slightly bigger than Horler, with the same gnome-like build. He might have a pot of fairy gold hidden somewhere, you thought, until you’d seen him in action; of the partners, he was the one who played dirty pool. Horler looked after finance. Lenehan handled personnel and contracts ruthlessly.

  He claimed that his uncle was a character in James Joyce’s Dubliners and Ulysses, which was perhaps imprudent. The Lenehan pictured by Joyce had been a parasite, without honour, or views of his own, or funds, or visible means of support, a familiar Dublin type, and Danny wasn’t quite any of these.

  He dressed like a superior squire in the works of Borrow, as though he should smell of horse, and was sometimes troubled in his mind that he did not so smell. To round out the picture of gentility, he kept his handkerchief in his sleeve, his head about him at all times, and he stumped rather than walked.

  Neither Horler nor Lenehan knew Paul Callegarini very well, so they let Larry fence with him while they considered what cards they held. What they wanted was around seventy percent of their estimated costs, or about five-and-a-half million. This they wanted from as few sources as possible, and so they came to the bank. The rest of the money would come from their private holdings, with perhaps a little bit from Tommy Dewar, just to keep him honest. The overall strategy was to get the money without surrendering title to the production. It was clear that Callegarini wanted to do business, so they sat and waited for him to come to the point.

  He said, “Clears up the release dates all right, for the North American market. What about foreign?”

  “We’re attempting to negotiate a favourable import status with a number of European governments. There is a possibility of our accepting a limited amount of French or Italian capital in order to qualify. And we’re offering to import a number of French features, the Films Vinteuil line. A small producer.”

  Callegarini’s eyes flickered brightly; he took some papers from Larry and went at once to the heart of the matter.

  “We can’t allow any guarantees to European capital which might in any way compromise our own investment. I’m unhappy about the bearing of this clause.” He put his finger on the weakest spot in the agreements, and Lenehan winced and spoke out as if his own flesh had been bruised.

  “A purely token statement. We might rewrite it with the inclusion of appropriate options, or with an escalation clause. There won’t be a loss in any case.”

  “So you say, but film production is a gamble.”

  “Not with us. We’ve got a record. We’ve never had a loss.”

  “Not as a partnership, but both of you have been associated with losses.” He named some minor disasters of the thirties and forties, while they stared at him respectfully.

  “Neither of us had full responsibility for any of those bombs,” said Horler, “but as a production team we’ve made eleven features since 1955, about one a year. And none has lost a cent.”

  Lenehan took it up. “Sailor Take Warning was ours, and you know the story on that. We brought it in for nothing and it’s never stopped earning. And we’ve got Rose Leclair penciled in for this one.”

  “But not Lincoln.”

  The partners were silent.

  “I don’t insist on Lincoln,” said Callegarini, “and I’m thinking seriously about this loan; but I have to know what you’ve got, and what you’ll have to have. You’ll be needing an enormous sound stage and very expensive lab facilities, and musicals cost like hell.”

  “Have you got involved in any?” demanded Solomon suddenly, hoping to startle the banker.

  “Not directly . . . not directly. We’ve been, let’s say, interested onlookers.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that for us, Paul,” said Danny, “because we’ve rented the studios and the labs from August 1st, and we’ve got payments to make.”

  “Oh, you went in there, did you?”

  “Largest sound stage in the world,” said Lenehan with pride. “We’ve never used it before but for Goody Two-Shoes we’ll need room to swing a cat. We may invite you over for an evening of cat-swinging.”

  A man came out of the bank and spoke softly to Callegarini. The others waited politely for him to finish. Lenehan drank his drink. Horler craned his neck to stare westward, wishing he were out on his boat this afternoon. Solomon looked from his briefcase to the girls and back. The man went back inside.

  Callegarini said, “He’s setting up the phones for your conference call. Shall we take it out here?”

  “Why not?” said Horler. “Is he putting it through now?”

  “They’ll be on in a few minutes. Why don’t we wrap up as much as we can right now? Maybe I could give you a verbal go-ahead. You’ve rented the studio space; you’ve got release dates. What’s the production schedule?”

  “Fourteen weeks,” said Lenehan, consulting some notes. “August 1st to November 4th. There may be some additional editing and even a spot of shooting; you can’t tell till you see what you’ve got. But we generally stick pretty close to schedule. Anyway we have options for additional studio time.”

  “And you propose to release the picture . . .”

  “At the Rivoli, big premiere, Saturday, March 25th, next year.”

  “Is that enough time for promotion?”

  Horler made a solemn declaration; he might have been taking an oath. “We start on publicity the second we get your O.K., whenever you say so. And by the way, it isn’t going to be strictly a musical; it’ll be more a romantic comedy with incidental musical sequences. Keeps costs down, pleases the Europeans.”

  “Leading man?”

  “Tommy Dewar, with a small percentage.”

  “Girl? Rose Leclair?”

  “On salary, with a sm
all percent of the net.”

  “Hmmmmn.”

  “She’ll carry.”

  “She’s no Monroe,” said Callegarini.

  “We’ll talk about it. We have a surprise for the public.”

  “Direction?”

  “Max Mars.”

  “Oh, very good indeed. Dance direction?”

  “Jasper Saint John.”

  “That’s quite a package.”

  “A Lyricart package,” said Danny, “which is good because Lyricart can throw weight behind us in so many, many ways for promotion, guest appearances. And it makes the package more economical.”

  “Does it involve a kickback on commissions?” asked Callegarini sharply.

  Lenehan looked at him expressionlessly. “We have no idea what you mean,” he said.

  “Well it’s an impressive package, all but the one thing.”

  Larry Solomon broke his silence of several minutes. “I admire her. She’s a professional.”

  “Granted, granted, but is she a draw? You’ve got a big investment here.”

  Lenehan said, “She has valuable intangibles. She’s still married to Lincoln, which has a lot of space value. ‘The happiest marriage in Hollywood,’ ‘Fifteen years of bliss.’ All that stuff. Together they get a lot of ink.”

  There was a silence as the four looked at each other and then away.

  Horler examined his fingernails carefully, drew a buffer from a breast pocket and began to polish each quaking fingertip. “Who knows,” he said softly, meditatively, “but what they might draw more apart.”

  “There’s nothing better for publicity than a really noisy divorce,” said Lenehan. “Just suppose hypothetically that Seth found somebody new, while we were in production . . .”

  “The kind of space you just can’t buy,” said Horler.

  Solomon was silent, staring at his shoes through the glass tabletop.

  “First the rumours, the short items in columns,” said Lenehan, “then the reassurances that all is well between them, then the shots stolen through long-distance lenses, of an incriminating character. The whole bit.”

  Callegarini grew sharper yet. “It’s not the kind of thing you can plan.”

  “One can but hope,” said Lenehan, and he began to laugh. “I saw a little chicken on TV the other night, at an awards banquet, and I checked on her. You never saw anybody come on with sex like that, not on TV. She’s with one of the smaller agents—I needn’t specify—and would like to move up. She’s had two parts in pictures now in release, besides some kind of stag movie she got mixed up in, and is available to us for a flat five hundred a week for fourteen weeks, plus options, say around seventy-five hundred for the picture.”

  “We’d never get her on those terms from Lyricart and we’re grabbing her now,” said Horler. “We’ll steer her to Lyricart after, and they’ll be grateful. Never hesitate to do a favour, that’s my motto.”

  “Cast your bread upon the waters,” said Lenehan.

  “This girl will support Rose,” said Horler. “Rose has the name, and she has the tits.”

  “Who?”

  “My little chicken,” said Danny, almost caroling.

  Callegarini said, “What’s her name?”

  “Charity,” gurgled Danny. Horler laughed and Solomon gave a thin smile.

  “I know who you mean,” said Callegarini, growing excited. The ‘Hairbrush’ girl. She can’t be more than eighteen. Charity . . . Charity . . .”

  “Ryan.”

  “That’s the girl. A comer if ever I saw one.”

  “Rose gets the money,” Lenehan said. “The little girl has to take small potatoes this time; seventy-five hundred is nothing. And, at that, it’s more than she got in her first two pictures.”

  “She doesn’t strain your salary item.”

  Solomon said “You’re all crazy, you know. Rose has plenty of sex, and you’re not smart enough to see it. I remember once she was on the cover of Life . . .”

  “I remember that shot,” said Lenehan, “but that was fifteen years ago. We all know what Rose projects, and it’s good. It’s right for this picture, but we need the other thing too.”

  “The bitchy slut thing?”

  “That’s good,” said Horler, “I wish we could use it in the publicity, ‘the bitchy slut thing.’”

  “We’ll put it in the press book. Faiers will love it,” said Danny, turning to stare appraisingly at Callegarini. “Have we put your mind at ease?”

  Callegarini took a stance like that of Napoleon before Toulon. “We will go ahead,” he said solemnly. “I am authorizing the loan.’’

  “For the full amount?”

  He drew a deep breath. “Yes.”

  The telephone man came out of the bank with a festoon of phones, which he proceeded to arrange on the glass-topped table. Looking down through the glass, they could see their shoes linked in an amiable circle. Picking up the first receiver to come to hand, the serviceman said, “Operator, this is our conference call. That is correct, four parties here, two in New York.”

  “Why two in New York?” demanded Lenehan.

  “We’ll ask him right away. He likely has somebody taking a transcript.”

  “I believe Lyricart has all incoming calls bugged,” said Lenehan, who had a suspicious and brooding nature. “Whenever I talk to somebody there I keep hearing clicking noises.”

  “You could be right,” said Solomon, “that’s occurred to me. I never tell them anything I wouldn’t want repeated, or anything that the courts might construe as binding.”

  “You boys from the East,” said Callegarini, tut-tutting with his tongue, “you’re like a flock of James Bonds.”

  Horler gave him a dig in the ribs. “Better than a flock of defaulted bonds, eh? Ho ho.”

  “Oh, we won’t lose any money on Goody Two-Shoes,” said the banker, “and we might make a little.”

  “Here’s your call, gentlemen.” They seized the appropriate receivers, and heard the operator’s voice tail off. “ . . . from Los Angeles for Mr. Vogelsang . . .” There were random clicks and throat clearings.

  “Who’s there with you, Lambert? Is that Rose?” asked Horler.

  “Hello?” said an evasive voice.

  “Who is that, please?” said Danny.

  “This is Miss McIntyre speaking. I have Mr. Vogelsang for you, operator.”

  Solomon muffled the mouthpiece and hissed viciously to Callegarini, “They always play this little game.”

  “Not with me,” said the banker placidly.

  Danny cried out impatiently, “Jan, put Lambert on, will you? Tell him to pick up the receiver.” Vogelsang joined them suddenly.

  “Just gone for a piss,” his voice came across the continent.

  “As long as it’s on your own time,” said Horler. “How are you, Lambert? Danny is here, and Larry, and Paul Callegarini from the bank’s loan-review department. He says it’s all systems go, so you can tell the lads in the office to fill their fountain pens.”

  Vogelsang simulated an effort of memory. “Let’s see, that would be Goody, wouldn’t it?”

  “You were expecting maybe The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin?” snarled Solomon. “This is Horler and Lenehan, not some jerk on a shoestring, so pay attention.”

  There was mild reproof in Volgelsang’s reply. “Just tell me what you want, fellows, and if I can arrange it, it’s yours.”

  The producers ground their teeth. Solomon stepped away from his phone and took Callegarini by the shoulder. “This is routine. They want to make you feel they’re doing you a favour. The fact is, Rose is at liberty just now—not that she’s chronically unemployed, she’s in demand—but she just finished a three-picture deal and isn’t committed for the fall. Horler knows it; Lenehan knows it; Vogelsang knows it; and they all know we’re going to
bid for her.”

  “Will he try to rob you?”

  “He’ll get her the best deal he can, but the going price is pretty well established. It isn’t like some nobody like Charity Ryan. Rose has a standard price for a picture, which varies proportionate to her percentage of the picture’s earnings. The price moves up and down, depending on how her last picture did, but not in a very wide range. All her pictures do well.”

  “I’ve always admired her on the screen,” said Callegarini, who had an indifferent wife. “She has a friendly quality.”

  Solomon said, “I’m very fond of Rose, and you’re right about her quality. She has warmth and humanity, but it’s all too unobtrusive. She’d be better off if she were more a bitchy slut.”

  They looked around at the promenading customers of the bank, and at the bathing girls. “Everything fits into banking somewhere,” said Callegarini.

  “Sex and money,” said Solomon. “Bread and butter.” They strolled away from the table, their heels clicking on the patio. At the parapet they halted, looked down at the street, offered each other cigarettes. Under the sporty umbrella the two producers swore into their phones, waved their arms, gestured broadly.

  A naiad drifted up to Solomon, as he was replacing his cigarettes. “Could I have one of those?” she cooed, and he jiggled the package under her nose. “I haven’t seen you before,” she said, accepting the proffered light. “Are you new around here?” Callegarini eyed her with nervous disapproval.

  “I’m not with the bank,” said Solomon. He felt a strong urge to pat the girl’s bottom, but refrained.

  “That’s a shame.” She blew smoke in his face and retreated.

  “See you around.”

  “Sometimes we have trouble with recruitment,” said Callegarini.

  “Ah, she’s just passing through on her way to stardom,” said Solomon. “It’s part of the legend, although I never heard of anybody being discovered on the roof of a bank in Santa Monica.” He faced the friendly banker. “Don’t worry about Danny and Bud. They’ll protect your investment and so will I, although I’m not a production man. I’m a legal man, and I keep them out of trouble. They’re just a pair of big kids.” In the distance the big kids squabbled, shouting angrily at each other and into their phones. “Four hundred thousand and two-and-a-half percent of the net, and an option on her next picture. Want to bet I’m right?” said Solomon.