“The suits shuffle in then out,” said the first.
“Players change, but the game remains the same,” said a third.
“Yeah, and we’re the ones stuck here,” said the woman in the houndstooth suit. “Hustling from one studio to the next. The ones at the bottom always get it in the end.”
The powers-that-be would eventually dictate their lives, Diego understood, with little input or regard from them. It was no different in Hollywood than anywhere else. Whoever took over would make changes, call it progress, and herald it a better and more equitable approach. But it would just be more of the same, he knew. Some things would be lost, and some things would be gained. All in the name of progress. All in the name of efficiency.
The speculations continued all throughout the rest of the month and into September. There were rumors about clandestine meetings around Frontier with wealthy financiers, talks involving Cage, Levitt, both of them, then neither of them. He gave up trying to decipher what it all meant for the studio, for himself, his career. Bill was busier than ever and certainly wasn’t going to tell him anything, and Diego needed to focus on his acting now more than ever.
Diego flipped through the magazine, his eyes glossing over the same old reports and articles. But he stopped when he saw the write-up. It seemed Bill had been spotted around town recently with a “fresh-faced all-American-looking boy” who was described as handsome, tall, and with blond hair, blue eyes, and a great smile. He was apparently a new actor the studio was “grooming.” The article also included a photo of the two men sitting at a table, Bill’s arm around the actor’s shoulder. The photo identified him as “Tod Duren: Frontier’s next big thing.”
A few weeks later, he received word that Bill wanted to see him in his office. He took his time driving over that morning, his heart beating fast, his stomach queasy.
“Am I being let go?” he asked Bill when he arrived.
“No,” he said. Bill sat behind his desk. He lit a cigarette. Diego noticed that his hands trembled slightly. There were bags under his eyes, and he looked tired and worn out.
“Are you okay?” Diego asked.
“Of course. Just a case of the jitters. We’re meeting with the board. Going over the finances. It always makes me uneasy.”
“But things are good. There’s nothing to worry about, correct?” Diego asked, gesturing around them. Outside, the lot was busy. Through the opened windows, he watched technicians move back and forth between the stages. Loud trucks hauled props around. Cranes lifted walls and painted backdrops. Extras in costumes and uniforms paraded up and down the road. “The gossip rags. Talking about a takeover.”
Bill waved his hand. “Don’t pay attention to that garbage. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“And Tod Duren?” he asked. “Who’s he?”
He sighed. “Tod’s none of your concern, okay? There’s nothing for you to worry about.” Bill sat back in his chair. “I didn’t invite you over to fire or replace you. I have a script for you, a part in it I think was made for you.”
“Oh?” he asked, relieved.
“Yes. A real good one.”
It was, he explained, a script based on a novel called The Underdogs by a Mexican writer named Mariano Azuela.
“Yes, I know it,” Diego said. “I mean I’ve never read it, but of course I’ve heard of it.” From what Diego recalled, it was the story of a lowly peasant who gets into some hot water with a local powerful hacienda owner in the early days of the Mexican revolution. The peasant, Demetrio Macías, must flee his village when the Federales come looking for him. He leaves his wife and child behind and ends up leading a battalion of ragtag fighters against Porfirio Díaz’s troops. He has adventures along the way, including an affair with a young woman named Camila, but ultimately grows disillusioned with the revolution, and he and his men forget who or what they’re fighting for. In the end, Macías returns home, broken and defeated. It seemed the script was written about a year ago and had been passed around and around, but no one expressed interest, so it sat on the shelf until one of Bill’s assistants was rummaging through things and found it.
“When I read it,” Bill said, “I immediately thought of you.”
“You did?” he asked, a hint of pride swelling inside of him.
“I did.”
Diego sighed and smiled. “I’m touched.”
“Well, who else, right? Anyway, this movie has all the makings of a hit. There’s action, adventure, romance, and an exotic locale. This’ll really sell you, kid.”
“You think so?”
“So what do you say?” Bill asked.
He felt resistant. He didn’t know why, but there was something about it that made Diego uneasy. He knew he had little choice in the matter. A contracted star was almost always given a script, assigned a role, and told to play the part. Few of them—with the exception of Fay Carmichael, Stu Berk, Margaret Dillon, and Lester Frank—had the luxury of deciding what role to take and which one to pass on. Diego wasn’t quite there yet.
“Do you really think it’s good?” he asked
“Yes,” Bill said, puffing on a cigarette. He stood now and lit another one then paced back and forth across the office. “Let me level with you.”
“Okay. Level with me.”
“We’re all under pressure. Everyone. Every facet of the studio, from the technicians and prop designers, to the directors and bigname actors and actresses. Belts are tightening everywhere, and we’re all being required to produce more successful pictures. Frontier’s in big trouble,” he admitted.
“But how could this happen?” Diego asked.
He shrugged. “It happens,” he said. “What’s important is that the studio needs you. We need you to do this picture. If it’s big enough, it might very well save us.”
It was Bill’s vulnerability that made Diego say yes. Finally, Diego thought, here was proof. He saw just how much Bill needed him.
“Okay, Bill,” he said. “I’ll do it. I’ll do the picture. What are we calling it?”
“The Revolutionists.”
“Very well,” Diego said, moving toward the door.
“I’m counting on your discretion, Diego,” Bill added. “What I said. Keep it to yourself, please.”
“Of course.”
Bill hugged Diego and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek before opening the door to show him out.
They went into production quickly on The Revolutionists, billing it as an epic adventure story. There would be gun battles and violence, swelling music and romance. Lots and lots of romance between the brave and noble Macías and his peasant mistress, Camila, whom he ultimately rejects in order to remain faithful to his wife in the end.
Aside from a few film projects she had done for the studio over the years, Diego wasn’t too familiar with the work of the actress they picked to play the peasant Camila, a young woman named Gayle Turney. He couldn’t figure out why she seemed so familiar until he met her on the set for their first screen test.
“We worked together,” Gayle said. “Well, not really. I had a small part in a film you starred in a few years ago. The Bride of Blood. I was the bar matron, remember?”
“Yes,” Diego said. “I think I recall. We met by the craft service table, correct?”
Gayle smiled now, her grin wide, her teeth bright white, straight. “Exactly. You were quite kind. When I talked of how envious I was of you getting to work so closely with Dalton Perry, you told me I just might someday get to do the same. Little did I know that I would have that chance. Look at me now.”
“Well, I’m happy to be here with you.”
But he wasn’t. From the beginning, he felt the pairing off. Despite favorable reactions by casting directors, Perry, and recent fan polls demanding to see more of Gayle Turney in major pictures, Diego felt their chemistry wrong.
“She’s a different kind of actor,” Dalton said when Diego expressed concern about the decision to go with Gayle.
“Different
how?”
Dalton shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “She’s savvier. Tougher. Opinionated. She’s intelligent. Experienced. Educated. They’re saying she’s the shape of things to come.”
“She’s almost as tall as me,” he protested.
“I like her. She’s not your typical female actress. A breath of fresh air.”
“I’m not convinced,” Diego told him.
“Just you wait and see. Trust me.”
Gayle was too overpowering, too serious. She always showed up on time, always had her lines memorized, and never shied away from expressing an opinion about a specific scene or some dialogue. She was courteous to Diego, always professional, and very guarded.
Dalton seemed to enjoy the way she questioned his directorial choices, even the script. She challenged him, he confessed to Diego one evening. Her curiosity made him examine his choices, his “mode of expression.” It all seemed like hogwash to Diego, and he grew more and more tired of her constant interferences, her intellectualizing and rationalizing. It was tedious, and he felt disenchanted, uninspired.
A month into the shooting, he was feeling pushed out of the film. All of the attention both on the set and off seemed to focus more and more on Gayle and her character. Slowly, Gayle took center stage, and Camila was written into more scenes, her story line was given more heft, and her role in the film was augmented in such a way so that it became an absolutely essential element in the plot. It was aggravating him, and he began to wish he’d had the strength to turn down the project.
Meanwhile, he did everything he could to make working on the picture more tolerable. Even when, in between takes, she gave him pointers, he managed to be gracious and considerate toward her.
“I really appreciate your help,” he’d say. “Honestly.”
“It’s nothing.” She stood before a large mirror, removing her makeup with a towel. “I just remember that day when you took the time to speak to me. I was intimidated, and you made me feel so at ease, such a part of the production.”
“It was nothing,” he said.
“Oh, but it wasn’t. You were kind. I’ll remember it always.”
The truth of the matter was that he didn’t resent her. Gayle Turney was a kind human being, ever gracious and fair, intelligent and generous. She brought gifts—bags of oranges and lemon marmalade made with her very own hands from the citrus trees that lined her property—to everyone on the set, from lighting technicians to carpenters, producers to random extras. She always stopped to chat with her fans and sign autographs, volunteered her time to charities and donated money and clothing to the Red Cross and the Salvation Army. He envied her. She was talented, confident, assured, and when she spoke, others listened. She came from a simple background and made herself into a success bit by bit because she had chosen wisely, called her own shots, and had never given in. Gayle had remained in complete control of her career and would do so for many years to come.
3.
September 1935
THE SPECULATIONS ABOUT FRONTIER IN THE PAPERS AND TRADE columns only worsened throughout the early fall of 1935. “It’s not looking good for the Old Girl,” they said. More financial backers had pulled their support, claiming the economic woes left them with little choice as the Depression continued on, leaving the studio vulnerable for a hostile takeover. Meanwhile, there were more rumors circulating throughout Hollywood about Bill and Tod Duren. They were seen everywhere together—the racetracks, the polo field, parties, and dance clubs. At times it was just the two of them, and other times they were escorting starlets or fashion models. They called him “Tod Duren: America’s Guy” or “The Guy Next Door,” with his “down-home good looks” and his “old-fashioned charm.” Bill told reporters that the studio had big plans for Tod. He would begin work on a movie next month, a melodrama titled The Violent Hour. It would be his first major role. As a leading man.
“Aren’t you taking a gamble?” the reporter asked. “Putting such a green actor in a leading role in a big motion picture? Up until now, he’s been support.”
“I’m confident that Tod will pull this off,” Bill said. “So confident that he’ll be sharing top billing with his leading lady, Fay Carmichael.”
It was unheard of, Bill admitted, but he believed in Tod Duren’s abilities. Diego couldn’t help but feel jealous and spiteful of the “golden boy’s” opportunity but also, and maybe more than that, his place at Bill’s side.
One morning, Javier called Diego to say that, after many hours of train travel and a series of delays, he was in Los Angeles again. Diego was excited; maybe this visit would allow him the opportunity to focus on something else besides the upheaval surrounding the studio and Bill and Tod Duren.
“I imagine you’re busy with your new film,” he said. “But I’d like to talk before I leave.”
“Of course,” he said. “Tell Lucía I look forward to seeing her again.”
“She’s not with me, hermano. She left me for another man.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Meet me at Olvera Street,” Javier said. “There’s a rally planned.”
Dalton Perry had phoned him at four a.m. on the day he was to see Javier. An unexpected delay and word from up top to speed up production meant that they would have to film that day after all.
“Sorry,” Perry said. “I know you haven’t had a day off in a long time. But, such is business. I can send a car for you.”
“No,” he told him. “I’ll drive myself there.”
Hours of filming under a hot sun—with countless extras, a cavalry of temperamental horses, one of which had bucked a trainer off its back when he tried mounting it, sending him flying into the air where he landed on top of a craft service table and had to be rushed to the hospital, of buzzing flies and a chorus of shouts and curses as Perry tried orchestrating a complex scene—had left Diego drained and overwhelmed. He barely had enough time to rush home, bathe and change, before rushing out again. Now, well past noon, he drove on, his foot pressing down on the gas pedal as the car continued toward downtown Los Angeles.
Olvera Street, a former dilapidated alley near downtown, had been reconstructed back in 1925 to look like a quaint Mexican bazaar. The old adobe and brick structures were renovated. Along its walkway, lined with trees and fountains, tourists shopped for serapes, toys, clay pots, cacti, candles, sweets, and candies. The female merchants of these shops donned frilly costumes and lace skirts, their hair in thick braided ponytails. The men wore vaquero pants with pointed boots, embroidered shirts and large sombreros. It was almost like a movie set. It was more like Mexico than the Mexico Diego remembered.
He’d gained increasing popularity among Mexican-American movie audiences, and he didn’t feel like being recognized today, so he hid behind dark sunglasses, his hat pulled down low, as he weaved in and out under the brightly colored cloth tarps, brushing past groups of tourists huddled together whispering and pointing at the paper piñatas, the wooden whistles, the bags hanging from hooks on posts. The air was heavy with the scent of cinnamon, corn, refried beans, and leather. Boys in overalls and wool driver’s caps darted about, polishing the shoes of old men who sat on benches reading the paper. The shops and eateries facing the narrow, cobblestone avenue were crowded with people. Mariachi musicians strolled from table to table, singing songs for money. Diego stretched and craned his neck, past the heads of the pedestrians, toward the front entrance. The street spilled out into the principal plaza, a large concrete square with Main Street to its west and Alameda to its east. Up ahead, City Hall loomed large and bright white in the afternoon sun, and he remembered the day he first arrived in Los Angeles, remembered men scaling up the metal beams like ants.
In the plaza a modest crowd of people had assembled around a raised wooden platform. They carried banners in various sizes and colors: International Brotherhood of Workers, IFC, Ejército Mexicanos Unidos. There were members of the Communist and Socialist parties, trade union representatives, and other
activist groups. Diego searched the crowd and saw Javier standing with a few others, looking out across the square to a group of police officers standing, shoulder to shoulder, along the perimeter of the plaza near Alameda Street.
“What’s happening?” Diego asked once he reached Javier.
Javier shook his head. “It seems that the police are here as well.” He said something to the group, and he led Diego away from the crowd and toward the vendor stalls along the avenue. “Just like being back home, isn’t it?”
“Almost.” Diego laughed. “But not quite.”
“Do you ever think about returning?”
“Sometimes,” Diego said. “But I’m not sure my grandparents would have me. Anyway, I think this is my home now.”
He looked back. He could see that the crowd had grown some; more men and women had joined the mass, waving banners and flags in the air, their chants growing louder and louder, mixing with the guitar strums of the mariachi musicians strolling through the street.
Javier placed his arm around Diego’s shoulder. “Come back,” he said. “With me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about quitting your work here. I’m talking about returning with me. Helping me in the fight.”
“Fight for what?”
“For workers’ rights. Men like your father. Campesinos. The poor. The people you once were like.”
He said Diego was famous in Mexico. His face, his name, could do a lot to further the cause, to help Javier shore up support. Things, he admitted, had not gone as well as he hoped in the United States. America, he said, chuckling, had its hands full, had its own hungry and destitute people.
“Lucía left me,” Javier said. “Even she got … disillusioned. Met an artist in New York City. Fell in love with him.” They found a bench and sat down. Pigeons dotted the alleyway, and Diego watched them pick the ground and fight over bits of bread and seeds someone had scattered on the ground.
The Five Acts of Diego Leon Page 28