Tinseltown Confidential: A Novel of Golden-Era Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 7)

by Martin Turnbull

  The twinkling New York skyline wasn’t going to fool anyone in the theaters, but it was still a spectacular feature. They only had a few more takes to do before everybody would be let go for the day, so time—as it always did on a movie set—was speeding by.

  What he needed was a ladder.

  The gaffer would know where to find one, but Marcus couldn’t see him. He asked a couple of crew members, but they didn’t know. The key grip was up on the camera crane and beyond shouting distance.

  He’d have to improvise.

  The Millionaire set had been harmonious, but Marcus had shot enough production stills by now to know that not all sets were created equal.

  Sam Dodds procured him a week’s work at Warner Bros., documenting their first 3-D movie, House of Wax. The director, André de Toth, only had one eye and was therefore unable to see the third dimension, which made him the least logical choice to direct a 3-D movie. The frustration and tension were palpable.

  Marcus was glad to return to I Love Lucy, now even more popular since the well-orchestrated birth of the most famous baby in television. In early April, the first edition of TV Guide featured a cover photo of “Lucy’s $50,000,000 Baby.” The photo wasn’t Marcus’, but some of the shots included in the story were, for which he received an unexpected windfall.

  Despite all this, when he walked onto the set of How to Marry a Millionaire, he was surprised to be referred to as “the Lucy photographer.” While this morsel of recognition helped his self-confidence recover from months and months of near-starvation, it also had a downside.

  Until now, he’d been able to sneak around sets as he caught stars, directors, and crewmembers in unguarded moments. It was the actors he really had to watch out for. They spent their lives developing a sense of how they came across on camera, which side was their most flattering, and what lighting conditions favored them best.

  But now that he was “the Lucy photographer,” everybody knew his face. Whenever he raised his camera, they straightened up, smiled wider, and held their pose.

  Gwendolyn suggested he go undercover. He wasn’t sure if it was the brown duds, his new rimless specs and surprisingly thick salt-and-pepper beard, or maybe people just got used to him, but as the shoot progressed, Marcus found it easier to slip around the cameras and lights to get the shots he wanted.

  Whenever he ran his hand over his beard, he wondered what Oliver would think of it. It was now two years since they’d seen each other. Did Oliver think of him as often as he thought of Oliver? Was he happy in the seminary? Did he ever stop to question his choice? Maybe Kathryn was right when she said he’d reverted to form.

  Jean Negulesco strode onto the penthouse set with the poise of a symphony conductor. He raised his hands for silence and waited for the hubbub to drop off.

  “We’re having trouble with these new widescreen cameras. They must be synchronized perfectly, but that isn’t happening. Hopefully we’ll get underway soon.”

  As the scattered conversations resumed, Marcus spotted an unusually large shipping crate and was searching around for a stepladder when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

  “Marcus, is that you?”

  He hadn’t seen Regina since he started work on Lucy.

  She patted his beard. “I hardly recognized you!”

  Marcus stepped back to take in the resplendent sight of Regina in a gown of cranberry taffeta. “And get a load of you.”

  “A Travilla original, doncha know! There’s a tag on the back that says ‘Nora Prentiss,’ so I like to think Ann Sheridan wore it.” She twirled to show off the full skirt. “Ain’t it something?”

  He suspected she’d had her hair and makeup done at the studio. Seeing her so well put-together, he could glimpse the captivating flapper she’d once been. It was also the first time he’d been close to her and hadn’t smelled the lingering tinge of marijuana.

  “You’re a sight to behold,” he told her.

  “Oh my goodness, 1953 is shaping up to be my busiest year ever! I’m up for a part on the Dragnet TV show as Officer Frank Smith’s mother. They want to flesh out their characters and give them some depth and background story. It’s not a big part, of course, but it’d be regular. Or semi, at least.”

  “I think that’s called a recurring role.” Marcus hunted around for a stool or stepladder to help him up onto the shipping crate.

  “That’s probably why they asked for a head shot.”

  “Did you send it in yet?”

  “I don’t have any taken this side of the war.”

  “Why don’t I do it?”

  “Really?”

  Marcus ignored Negulesco’s admonishment on Titanic to not waste film on extras. He was now friendly with the guys in the photograph lab and they sure didn’t care.

  “You look like a million bucks. The bedroom set’s got lovely pale gray and cream floral wallpaper. I need to shoot this set now that it’s filled with extras, so give me ten minutes and meet me there.”

  Regina scuttled away as Marcus scrambled on top of the crate and got the shots he needed. Ten minutes later, Regina was waiting for him with her hair re-fluffed and her lipstick refreshed.

  He pressed the camera to his eye; Regina broke out a winning smile. “I know someone who works on Dragnet,” Marcus said. Snap! Snap! “More of a friend of a friend.” Snap! Snap! “He works in wardrobe, so perhaps he could put you in something memorable.” Snap! Snap! Snap!

  “Oh my goodness, Marcus, that would be wonderful. What’s his name?”

  “Horton Tattler.”

  “You mean Tattler’s Tuxedos?”

  “Yep. Lift your chin.” Snap! Snap!

  “I couldn’t ask for anything more—oh! Hello, Mr. Negulesco.”

  Shit! Shit! Shit! Marcus lowered his camera. “I just asked this lovely lady if she could assist me with a couple of test shots. The lighting here—”

  “Please excuse us.”

  Regina disappeared.

  “I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to say hello again,” Negulesco said.

  “You’ve been awful busy.”

  “The publicity department sent me a stack of the stills you’ve been taking.”

  His distant manner made him hard to read. Marcus said, “Your set is so long that I’d have loved to climb up top but there are union rules about that.”

  “And we cannot upset the union. Listen, I wanted to tell you how impressed I was with what you did on Titanic. Fine, fine work.”

  Marcus never did hear if the photos he’d taken of Stanwyck and Wagner had caught the intimacy Zanuck was looking for. He searched in vain for signs. “Thank you. I’m glad you liked it, Mr. Negulesco.”

  “You’re very good at catching the drama.”

  “You’re very good at directing it.” Marcus’ compliment resulted in a slight curling of the man’s lips.

  He pointed to Marcus’ film bag. “Once you’ve handed in your work, I’d like to choose my favorite photos and have them bound into a book like Mervyn LeRoy did on Quo Vadis.”

  “I’m sure everybody would appreciate the gesture.”

  “I want you to have a copy,” Negulesco continued, “but I need to double-check that I’ve got your name right.”

  Asking Marcus to spell his name was the usual way people tried to establish if they were talking to the guy who’d blown up in front of HUAC.

  “A.D.L.E.R. And yes, I’m that Marcus Adler.”

  At this point in the conversation, most people either pretended they had no idea they were talking to that Marcus Adler or feigned indifference. The more impassioned ones would launch into their own brush with anti-Communism, or HUAC, or the Red Channels booklet, often in the context of a neighbor or family member, invented or otherwise.

  But Negulesco didn’t flinch. Nor did he give any indication that Marcus had been the subject of discussion between him and Zanuck.

  One of the second assistant directors appeared in the doorway of the bedroom set. “Excuse me, but Bruce se
nt me to tell you that they’ve nutted out the problem and need about thirty minutes.”

  “Tell him we’ll go into overtime so make it twenty.”

  The kid bolted and Negulesco turned back to Marcus. “As soon as I wrap on this picture, I’m to start immediate work on my next project.”

  Kathryn had already made the announcement in her column. “There’s No Place Like Rome,” Marcus said.

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s a terrible title, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  For the first time since Marcus walked onto the Millionaire set, Negulesco’s stoicism broke and he smiled. “I told Zanuck that it sounds like The Wizard of Oz set in Tuscany.”

  “I’m surprised Zanuck’s in favor of it.”

  “He’s not. It’s one of two titles the screenwriters came up with.” Negulesco deadpanned a Buster Keaton mug. “We Believe in Love.”

  “Even worse. Isn’t it based on a book?”

  “Three Coins in the Fountain.”

  “That’s your title right there. Everybody wants to go to Rome and throw a coin in the Trevi fountain.”

  The smile faded from the director’s face as capriciously as it had appeared. “Production will first be here at the studios. After that, we move to Italy: Rome, Venice, and Merano. Zanuck gave me a rundown of your history, including your time on Quo Vadis.”

  “I had four or five months there. Rome’s getting back on its feet again. For such an ancient city, it’s very youthful, very fresh—”

  “I feel that you could be a useful addition to my team.”

  “As your still photographer?”

  “Of course, but perhaps also tour guide, location scout, etc. I find that when shooting on location in a country with a foreign language, all manner of misunderstandings and complications can crop up.”

  “My Italian’s pretty rusty,” Marcus warned.

  “It’s a damn sight better than mine, which is nil. Between now and then perhaps you could brush up. I’ve been led to believe you’re very skilled with language. In particular, written language.”

  Marcus’ mouth went dry. “Mr. Negulesco, there’s something you need to know.”

  “If you’re referring to the graylist, Zanuck and I have already had that conversation. It might be possible to get you off it if we can show that you’ve been working in a creative and contributive capacity.”

  It hadn’t escaped Marcus’ notice that Negulesco had couched this conversation in vague and noncommittal terms.

  “When does production leave for Rome?” Marcus asked.

  “This might be your only chance to get off the graylist. Does it matter what date we leave?”

  Lately, Kathryn’s misgivings about the sponsorship deal and her consumption of scotch had snowballed. Almost every night now she would drop into Marcus’ room, bottle in hand, but he hardly felt justified in stopping her. After all, he’d committed alcoholic hara-kiri in the past, and she’d never tried to take away his Four Roses. But as he watched her refill her glass night after night like it was iced tea, he felt he should at least try.

  In the end, he promised that no matter how many plagues heralded the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, he would be with her when she walked out in front of all those people at the Los Angeles tent revival to introduce Uncle Flim-Flam.

  “No,” Marcus told Negulesco. “I just need to plan ahead.”

  “We fly out the first week of August.”

  “Good. Great.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “Absolutely. And thank you!”

  Marcus was still nodding when the director told him his production coordinator would be in touch with the arrangements and left to rejoin the cast and crew on the penthouse set.

  Marcus tried to do some mental math. Voss’ march kicked off next week, which meant around May 20. If it was a twelve-week trek, that would put him into Los Angeles—

  “Gee, Marcus, I hope I didn’t get you into no trouble.” Regina leaned against the doorjamb, worry creasing her face.

  “Not at all.” He walked her back into the wedding scene just as Negulesco was calling the actors to take their places.

  “You looked awful serious back there,” Regina whispered.

  “You ought to scoot. You don’t want your director to call you out in front of the whole cast and crew.”

  He stood on the sidelines, watching the stars replace their stand-ins. Even in her cat-eye spectacles and demure suit with a fur-lined collar sitting high on her neck, Marilyn still managed to draw every eye in the room. She tapped her glasses with a gloved finger and mouthed, “I like your new specs!”

  He mouthed back his thanks and snapped off a few more frames.

  So, May 20th plus twelve weeks comes out at . . .

  Marcus’ heart seized up when he realized that the Fountain crew would already be in Rome when Voss and his caravan of crazies hit LA.

  CHAPTER 33

  The first thing Kathryn did when she got to her dressing room was break the unbreakable rule. She gently kicked the door closed behind her and pulled out a chrome hip flask to swig a nip of scotch.

  She knew she’d been hitting the Johnnie Walker a little too much lately, and she was thankful that Marcus hadn’t said anything, even though she could see the disapproval in his eyes whenever she landed on his doorstep. But she’d never indulged before a broadcast. Not once. Not ever. But tonight was different.

  She closed her eyes and waited for the warmth to unfurl across her chest. Ah! She took another nip and let her head flop back onto her shoulders as she leaned against the wall. The muffled sounds in the corridor outside her dressing room receded. What a madhouse it was out there.

  Today was the big day: Sheldon Voss was kicking off his march with a revival on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington DC.

  In every broadcast and interview, Voss trumpeted the same message: America’s traditional values were being trampled to death amid the unprecedented postwar boom bewitching the country.

  In principle, Kathryn didn’t disagree with Voss’ message of sticking to one’s values, but she lost patience the night she read a transcript in the L.A. Times of his speech at a fundraising rally in Madison Square Garden when he declared,

  “Everybody has their place in society. Men go out to win the bread, and women stay home to tend the young. An organized society is an orderly society is a successful society. Read your Bible, folks. It’s all laid out right there!”

  Kathryn had never read the Bible, but she knew a load of horse hockey when she heard it. Conformity, fitting in, and staying in your place was fine if you were white and male and married and Protestant and rich.

  “What about us women who enjoy working?” Kathryn screeched later to Marcus and Gwendolyn. “Or for whom getting married isn’t the be all and end all? Or who have no interest in what the Bible says? Or who are Jewish? Or colored? Or who have six kids and can’t afford to live off one salary?”

  There was a lot Kathryn wanted to say over the spring of ’53, but her sponsors were over the moon about Voss’ traditionalist stance. Their target market was Mrs. Happy Homemaker Mom, and they were moving merchandise like never before. It was hard to pitch a fit when your radio ratings were surging.

  Kathryn told herself, “He’s only giving them what they want to hear,” but found little comfort in it. She was glad she’d asked Mike Connolly to be her special correspondent—the less she had to do with Voss, the better.

  But then Voss announced that he’d received a lengthy excerpt from Alfred Kinsey’s forthcoming Sexual Behavior in the Human Female, and declared his dismay over Kinsey’s claims that more than half of American women were not virgins when they got married, and that a quarter of married women had extramarital affairs. He saved his most blistering outrage over Kinsey’s most shocking revelation of all: Women enjoyed sex.

  Overnight, he raised the timbre of his vitriol. He held Kinsey up as the perfect example of American society going wrong. Who w
as he to stick his nose into America’s bedroom? How dare he propagate the idea that it wasn’t unusual for American women to have premarital sex or indulge in affairs?

  None of Kinsey’s findings surprised Kathryn, and as far as she was concerned, the more Voss talked, the more out of touch he sounded.

  But then he crossed the line and Kathryn couldn’t stay silent.

  In Nashville, Tennessee, Voss not only denounced Alfred Kinsey as the male representation of everything wrong in America, but held up Marilyn Monroe as his female equivalent.

  Twentieth Century-Fox had started to release publicity stills from Marilyn’s upcoming movie, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Most of them featured her in a pink strapless gown surrounded by a dozen chorus boys as she grabbed at the jewels they offered her in a number called “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

  “Marilyn Monroe is a hussy!” Voss thundered from the cover of Time. “An amoral gold-digger who thumbs her nose at the principles that have kept Americans on the path of righteousness. We only have to look at that shameful calendar to know the sort of Jezebel she is. By our actions shall we be known. By Miss Monroe’s actions we know her as the personification of lust and greed against which we must fight if we want entrance to the kingdom of heaven.”

  Kathryn feverishly banged out an article refuting Voss’ outrageous statement. All her pent-up frustrations of the past year gushed onto her typewriter. When she was done, she sent copies to Wilkerson, Connolly, Leo, and Leo’s counterpart at Betty Crocker. Within hours, Wilkerson had called a summit in his office.

  Leo tried not to be angry, but Kathryn could tell he wanted to throttle her. The Betty Crocker guy, however, had no such reservations. He charged her with treachery and demanded she be replaced with the public face of Betty Crocker, Adelaide Hawley.

  Ironically, the coolest head in the room belonged to Mike Connolly.

  He suggested that the Hollywood Reporter carry a full-page spread: THE PROS AND CONS OF SHELDON VOSS. “He called Hollywood ‘the Sodom and Gomorrah of the West which must be purged of its debauchery,’” Connolly reminded them, “so our readers do have some skin in this game. Why not carry Kathryn’s piece alongside one by me taking the opposite view, and let readers make up their own minds?”