Falling Star

by Patricia Moyes

  The Underground station was buzzing with activity when we arrived. Big arc lamps had been set up around the spot where the staircase debouched onto the platform, and Fred Harborough, the cameraman, was strolling around with a smoked monocle held to one eye, shouting instructions like “kill that baby!” and “put a jelly in number three!” to his gang of electricians. In the brightly lit area at the head of the stairs stood a man who vaguely resembled Robert Meakin, being of the same height and coloring. This was the stand-in, whose humble function was to act as guinea pig for Fred and his electricians, only to step out of his place in the limelight when the camera started turning.

  The dozen or so extras, looking remarkably ordinary, wandered up and down the platform or smoked and chatted in small groups. Only their conversation, which was exclusively devoted to film “shop,” distinguished them from a typical crowd of travelers in a London tube station. Self-consciously apart from the extras, the Guard sat on a bench reading Stage Whispers. He was an elderly and reliable actor called George Temple, who had moved from repertory to films, and who made himself a modest but steady living by playing tiny character parts. His close-up, with one line, set him firmly in a different category from the extras. He was an artiste, and he did not intend to let anyone forget it. He carefully refrained from looking up as an attractive, dark girl in a blue cotton dress walked past.

  “Hello, George,” she said. “What’s new?”

  “Hello, dear. How are you?” said George distantly.

  The girl was La Fettini’s stand-in. As such, her status was somewhere between the positions of George and the extras. He did not answer her question, but continued to read his paper in a marked manner. The nuances of social distinction in the lower grades never fails to amuse me. And we are the ones who are accused of being snobs…

  I had barely time, however, to pay attention to such details, because I was instantly aware of trouble brewing at the far end of the platform. One develops an instinct for such things, and although nobody had raised a voice in anger, I took one look at the little knot of men and I knew that something was up, something connected with the union. I walked quickly up the platform trying not to appear agitated.

  It was at once obvious what the trouble was. Propped up against the wall was an imitation London Transport station name board, which bore the legend “Cambridge Square” and which would be featured in the coming shot. The question was whether it should be the carpenter or the property man who inserted the screw which would fix it to the wall. Apparently deadlock had been reached, and the Shop Steward called in to give a ruling.

  The discussion was progressing perfectly amiably and in a leisurely manner. The protagonists reminded me of golf players engaged in a friendly match, consulting the rule book on a tricky point of procedure. The carpenter and the props man were leaning up against the wall, smoking and talking about football pools. The Shop Steward, who was a plasterer by trade, and therefore had nothing to do that day except draw his extra lunch money for coming on location, was at present holding the floor, haranguing Gervase Mountjoy, the First Assistant Director, who represented the management.

  “It’s in the agreement,” he was saying. “You can’t get away from the agreement, Mr. Mountjoy. The carpenter shall enjoy the sole and unique right to insert screws, nails, thumbtacks, self-screwing hooks, staples…”

  “My dear fellow, of course,…” murmured Gervase with a tired smile. Not for the first time, I raged inwardly that we should be cursed with such an inefficient First Assistant. I should perhaps explain that the First Assistant Director is the executive—as opposed to the artistic—boss of all that happens on a film set. With his two subordinates, the Second and Third Assistant Directors, he organizes, controls, and disciplines the technicians and the actors. It is he who is responsible for making sure that people and equipment are in the right place at the right time; who chivvies slothful actors and smooths down temperamental ones; who insures that the Director’s smallest whim is accomplished quickly and accurately; and who blows his whistle, symbol of his profession, and shouts the magic words, “Red light on! Quiet everybody please! We’re turning!”

  Most First Assistants aspire to be Directors themselves one day, and some of the best men in the business have come up by that arduous route. However, I could not imagine Gervase Mountjoy being anything but a disaster if let loose to direct a film. He was a slender, effete young man with pale blue eyes and lank fair hair, and it was widely acknowledged that he would never have held down the job if his father had not been Edward Mountjoy, the financier. I disliked Gervase cordially, but I always went out of my way to be polite to him. I knew very well what people said behind our backs: that Gervase and I had both more or less bought our positions in the unit, myself by direct financial contribution and Gervase by providing a comforting sort of assurance that his father would surely not allow the film to die for the sake of a few thousands. It was hardly for me to point out that one of us also contributed a full working day and a great deal of energy to the film, while the other put his feet up behind the set and read detective stories.

  Now Gervase was draped spinelessly over the back of Sam Potman’s canvas chair, allowing the Shop Steward to drone on unchecked about his agreement and making no effort whatsoever to settle a situation which might hold up shooting by an hour or more. It made my blood boil.

  “Well, Mountjoy,” I said sharply, “what’s the matter here?”

  “Just a small matter of union procedure, Pudge, old boy,” said Gervase insolently. And to the Shop Steward, “Do go on, old man. It’s frightfully interesting.”

  I could cheerfully have hit the man. For a start, he knew that I did not consider it right for him to use my nickname. I did not expect to be called “sir,” but I thought that it would have been only civil on his part to have called me Mr. Croombe-Peters. After all, he was not of the top echelon, so to speak. Of course, Sam and Keith had already undermined the position for all of us by allowing everyone, down to the clapper boy, to use their Christian names—but then neither of them was known as Pudge.

  The Shop Steward took a deep breath and started off again about the rights of carpenters over any object made of or constructed from wood, hardboard, or ply, but I cut him short.

  “I don’t give a row of beans,” I said, “who screws that notice to the wall. You will see to it that it is in position not more than two minutes from now or there will be trouble.”

  “You take that attitude, chum, and there will be trouble and no mistake,” said the Shop Steward nastily.

  Gervase smirked. “Don t pay any attention to old Pudge,” he said. “He got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.”

  That was too much, and I am afraid I rounded on him and let him have it, squarely and from the shoulder. “The discipline of this unit, Mountjoy,” I said, “has been steadily undermined by your utter lack of control over the men. This is the most absurd waste of time I have ever come across, and if you’re not prepared to put your foot down, I am.”

  “Any more of that,” said the Shop Steward, “and I’ll have the lot out on strike.”

  “You see?” said Gervase, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Here was I,” said the Shop Steward, “having a quiet and friendly talk with Mr. Mountjoy, what would have settled this matter in no time, and what happens? You come butting in and insulting my members. I’ve got a good mind to hold an extraordinary branch meeting here and now and take a vote on strike action.”

  “You’ll do that if you want your cards on Friday,” I retorted. “You and your gang of Communist troublemakers.”

  “If you’re threatening me with victimization…”

  It was at that moment that Sam strolled up. His face wore its usual, humorous expression, but I thought I could detect signs of strain underneath, and I was not surprised. Frankly, I was beginning to regret that I had ever got embroiled in this business with the union. A strike was all we needed to finish us at that moment, but I had been maneuv
ered into a position where I could not climb down without loss of face. The fault, of course, lay with Gervase Mountjoy. If he had been firm at the outset all would have been well.

  I must say I had to take my hat off to Sam. Of course, he was in rather a special position. Although undisputedly the lord and master of the set, he seemed to the workmen to be one of them, with his North Country accent and his scruffy clothes. As I have already indicated, I considered that he was too friendly with them, but the result was that they idolized him and would do just about anything for him. In any case, he handled this situation extraordinarily well. In no time at all, the Shop Steward was laughing, some sort of decision had been agreed upon, and the notice was on the wall.

  I felt it was only fair to give honor where it was due, and I was just about to swallow my pride and congratulate Sam, when he turned to me and said, “For God’s sake never do that again or I will ban you from the set.”

  “Never do what again?”

  “Upset a Shop Steward. Don’t you know a strike would ruin us?”

  “I have no quarrel with the Shop Steward,” I said. “It was Gervase…”

  “Gervase knows how to handle these things. Just leave him alone to get on with his job, and mind your own business in future.”

  “I consider that this is my business. Every minute wasted on this set represents, in terms of hard cash…”

  “Pudge,” said Sam quietly, “shut up.”

  Not a trace of a smile. Not even trying to be agreeable. Before I could recover myself enough to reply, he had turned on his heel and gone off to talk to Margery Phipps, the Continuity Girl. Really, sometimes I couldn’t help feeling that I was carrying the whole weight of that film on my shoulders. The others were not only being unrealistic; now that things were serious, they had begun to go to pieces. Automatically, I looked around for an ally whom I could enlist on my side. Keith was nowhere to be seen—he afterward told me that he had gone out to buy some cigarettes—but Biddy was sitting on the bench chatting to George Temple. Naturally, I would not have discussed top-level matters in front of a small-part actor, but I decided to try to prise Biddy away from George. For all her fecklessness, Biddy had a certain basic sense of justice, and I did not think that she would approve the way in which my authority was being undermined.

  Before I could reach her, however, a diversion occurred which effectually drove all other matters into second place. This was the arrival of Fiametta Fettini and Bob Meakin. They had been lunching together, and it was obvious long before they appeared on the staircase that they were quarreling. At least, La Fettini was quarreling. She was shouting hysterically at the top of her voice, in a mixture of Italian and English. “Cattivo! Brute! Swine!” she shrieked. At that point she must have given her unfortunate co-star a considerable shove, because he came stumbling down the steps and fell onto the platform at Sam’s feet. One of the electricians started to laugh, but Sam silenced him with a sharp look. There was a thick, awkward silence as Bob picked himself up and dusted the knees of his trousers.

  “Now, now, children,” said Sam, “what’s oop, then?”

  “Up? Well may you ask what is up! Ask him! Go on, ask him! I dare him to tell you!”

  Fiametta Fettini had made her entrance, and she had certainly done it well. She was standing plumb in the middle of the lowest step of stairs, striking the sort of exaggerated attitude that only she could get away with, her head thrown back and an accusing finger pointing at poor Bob. Her long, dark hair was tousled, her magnificent black eyes were flashing fire, and anger had heightened the color in her honey-brown cheeks. She looked superb and extremely dangerous, and remembering previous tantrums, I moved quietly out of range. It was hard to see what she would find to throw, but I was sure that there would be something, and I was not wrong.

  “Fiametta, darling,” said Sam, “don’t you think…?”

  He got no further. With a quick, graceful gesture, La Fettini bent down and slipped off her spike-heeled shoes; Bob and Sam got one each, full in the face. Bob was lucky. He was hit on the cheek by the sole of the shoe, which did no damage. Sam, on the other hand, received the business end of the stiletto heel just under his left eye, where it ripped a deep cut in his face. He did not move.

  “That,” said Bob Meakin, “is the end. Will you get her out of here, or do I have to call the police?”

  “I shall go to my room to change,” said Fiametta, like Bernhardt playing Medea.

  “Either she leaves this set or I do,” said Meakin. He was shaking with anger. “I’ve warned you…”

  “I am an actress,” announced Fiametta unnecessarily. “I do not walk out on films. My work comes first.” She stepped down onto the platform and turned, with another ridiculous gesture. “Mario! Hilda! Giulietta! Come!” And, surrounded by her little court of hairdressers, wardrobe women, and make-up experts, she swept down the platform and out by the far exit, where a couple of pre-fabricated dressing rooms made out of canvas and hardboard had been rigged up for her and for Meakin.

  Sam let her go and concentrated on Bob. I had seen our leading man angry before, but never quite to this pitch of cold fury. For the first time—and, let us be honest, with provocation—we were experiencing one of the famous Meakin temperaments. I suspected that what had upset him most was stumbling so inelegantly onto the platform. Fiametta had set out to make him look ridiculous, and she had succeeded. Very few men will stomach that, least of all aging actors who are intent on preserving their public image as juvenile leads. On the screen or across the footlights, Robert Meakin seemed ageless. The vague, boyish air, the ruffled hair, the infectious smile could surely, one felt, never grow old. It had caused me a severe pang of disillusionment, the first time I met him face to face, to realize that the hair was not only dyed but augmented at the forehead by a most discreet toupee, and that the face bore the slightly taut appearance and the tiny, telltale scars that betray what is known as cosmetic surgery. I also had grave doubts about more than one of his teeth. However, none of it showed on the screen, and that was all we cared about.

  Now, he was embarking on the gambit of ice-cold, deadly reasonableness. “I don’t think I have complained very much in the past,” he was saying, standing very straight and apparently oblivious to the fact that Murray, his wizened little dresser, was trotting around him in circles, brushing his suit carefully with a wire clothesbrush. “I have been prepared to put the film first, and to endure considerable discomfort and indignity, to say nothing of extremely bad publicity, without as much as a murmur. But work is work, and requires concentration and an atmosphere which, if not happy, is at least tolerable. I cannot and will not even attempt to work on a set where today’s episode is likely to be repeated at any moment. If you feel I am being unreasonable, please say so.”

  “What a bloody splendid speech,” said Biddy. I had not noticed that she had come up and was standing on the other side of Bob. Her slightly husky voice was full of genuine laughter. “Forgive me if I don’t take it too seriously, Bob darling. I just can’t stop laughing at what an almighty fool La Fettini made of herself. If the Sunday gossip boys got hold of it, she’d never be able to show her face again.”

  “Well, I take it seriously,” said Sam quickly. It was like watching a smooth double-act slip into gear. “Bob is quite right to be upset and angry. I don’t think it’s funny.”

  “Please don’t think I’ve no sense of humor,” said Bob, and I knew that the battle had been won. “It’s just that it gets a bit ragged around the edges under the impact of well-aimed winkle-pickers.”

  “You’re telling me,” said Sam ruefully, putting a hand to his face.

  “My dear fellow,…” Meakin seemed glad of an excuse to abandon his previous attitude. “I hadn’t seen—here, take my handkerchief—Murray, get some sticking plaster for Mr. Potman.”

  “Please don’t bother,” said Sam. “I shall survive.”

  “What was it all about, anyway?” asked Biddy, and I felt my stomach turn over in
alarm. First she saves the situation, I thought, and then she goes and puts her foot right slap in it. But, surprisingly, her very directness and honesty pulled her through once again. Bob Meakin actually laughed, in the youthful, embarrassed way that his fans loved.

  “I really have no idea,” he said. “The whole thing is so embarrassing. She doesn’t seem to realize…”

  “Look, Bob,” said Sam, “you’re Robert Meakin and she’s a little upstart from a Naples slum. She’s completely dazzled by you, and she doesn’t know how to behave. It’s easy to laugh at her, as Biddy does, and it’s easy to get angry, as I was. But I’m not sure that in the end we shouldn’t feel sorry for her. She’s just a little nobody, trying to play at being a big star. You are a big star.”

  This bare-faced piece of insincere flattery really took me aback. It was, of course, utterly untrue. Meakin, although admittedly a big name, was virtually unknown outside England, where his appeal was largely to middle-aged audiences. Fettini, whatever one might think of her, was an international star, and invariably crammed the cinemas with her own generation—the teenagers. There was no comparing their relative box-office value, and I could not believe that Meakin would take Sam seriously. But I had underestimated the capacity of an actor for absorbing flattery. Meakin lit a cigarette, beamed at Biddy, and told Sam that he was perfectly right.