Dazzle - The Complete Unabridged Trilogy

by Judith Gould

  'I really appreciate the ride, Mrs. Dern,' Tamara said gratefully.

  'Don't mention it.' Pearl Dern flicked a sideways glance and flashed a little smile. 'And what's all this "Mrs. Dern" shit anyway? You're eighteen and not a kid. You're a woman. If we're going to be friends I think it's high time you called me Pearl, don't you?'

  'Pearl, then,' Tamara said.

  'That's better. Now, about your screen test.' Pearl leaned forward over the wheel, driving with care. She was a tall, countrified-looking woman. Her features were sharp, her complexion tanned, and her short-cropped hair was bleached light brown. Her eyes were the colour of faded denim, with crow's feet at the corners, and her body was severely mannish, all jutting angles and gangly hard edges which she made no effort to soften and feminize. Her chest was flat as a man's, and her man-tailored jacket and long skirt were of heavy Scottish tweed. 'I'm going to do your makeup, like we planned. Wouldn't trust anybody else to do it, not in this case.' She smiled conspiratorially. 'Especially seeing as how we have to please the high-and-mighty Louis Ziolko. Have you ever worked with the prick before?'

  'I've never set foot inside IA. I've only played extra at MGM, Paramount, and Warner's.'

  'So much the better,' Pearl said. 'That bastard likes to discover his own stars. He doesn't like to think he's overlooked anybody, especially if the person in question was right under his nose. He prides himself on sniffing out new talent without anybody else's help. Know what I mean?' She paused. 'You memorized the lines?' Her searching glance lingered on Tamara's perfect profile.

  Tamara nodded. 'Inge went over them with me all week long. I've got them down pat.'

  Pearl nodded. 'I read the script. It's good. Very good. There isn't an actress in this town who wouldn't give her eyeteeth— and a lot more—for that role. Rumour has it that Constance Bennett and even Garbo are begging to be loaned out to IA for it. Not a one of them gives a damn that The Flappers is the most glamorous film to come along in ages. It's the part they're after. They say there hasn't been a role with that much juice in it for years.'

  Tamara looked at her challengingly. 'Then what do you think my chances are?' she asked. 'With stars like Bennett and Garbo after the part.'

  Pearl laughed her throaty laugh and patted Tamara on the knee. 'Don't worry. You'll be the flapper. By the time I get done with you, hell, even Inge wouldn't be able to recognize you. Besides, they say that Oscar Skolnik—the shit who owns the studio—wants to cast an unknown, so that's a point in your favour. I think Ziolko will insist on casting you—if you come across on the screen like you did the other night when you read the part for me.' She paused. 'This is your big chance, kid, so give it all you've got, and then some.'

  'I won't disappoint you,' Tamara said confidently. 'I know you've gone out on a limb for me on this. I mean, I wouldn't want you to get into any trouble—'

  'Trouble? Horseshit!' Pearl rested a hand on Tamara's thigh. 'Listen, kid, somebody owed me a favour,' she said, patting the young woman's leg, 'and I called it in. That's the way this business works. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.'

  Tamara flushed and then put on her best smile. 'But . . . how can I ever return the favour? I mean, what could I possibly do for you?'

  Almost reluctantly Pearl removed her lingering hand. 'Don't worry that beautiful head about it now, kid,' she said cryptically, meeting Tamara's eyes. 'We'll think of something when the time comes. Okay?'

  Tamara nodded slowly. Then Pearl was facing forward again, her denim eyes on the road. For some peculiar reason, Pearl reminded her of a shark circling its prey.

  But she was too excited to give Pearl much thought. Her mind was filled with one thing, and one thing only—The Flappers.

  Everybody in the business knew about The Flappers. It was a lively story about three fun-loving chorus girls who work in a Chicago dance hall. Leila, the main character, is wooed by a tough Irish cop but falls in love with his nemesis, a notorious gangster, and soon becomes his moll. The lighthearted partying turns to deadly seriousness when Leila witnesses her gangster lover and his cronies committing murder. The policeman, who still loves her, finds it his duty to turn her into an informer. In the final shoot-out between the gangsters and the police, Leila must choose which of the two men should live. Snatching a revolver, she shoots the gangster, only to be shot by one of the policemen. She dies in her policeman-lover's arms.

  It had all the ingredients of a mediocre action picture and could easily have become a run-of-the-mill, good-guys/bad-guys, woman-caught-in-the-middle kind of picture, except for one thing. Its intelligent script had been authored by a first-rate novelist. It featured crackling dialogue, deft characterization, marvellous dance sequences, and moments of hilarity which offset the heavy plot. The role of Leila, a character who metamorphoses from good girl to bad and back to good, called for a beautiful, spirited young woman who could give a virtuoso performance.

  Now Tamara had her chance to be Leila.

  As she and Pearl drove along, they passed the dream factories of Paramount, MGM, and Universal, sprawling on the gigantic lots, masses of huge industrial-looking complexes which did not at all resemble the sort of places in which most people imagined the movie wizards conjured up their magic. Behind their walls lay acres of mundane factory buildings and immense soundstages, but their glamourless appearance did nothing to subdue their attraction.

  Tamara pulled back her sleeve and glanced at her watch. In the sparse early-morning traffic they were making good time. It seemed no time at all before they reached the famous IA lot. Pearl turned right and coasted to a halt at the security booth centred on its little island of concrete.

  Tamara leaned down and glanced up at the rainbow arch curving from one massive pillar to the other, forty feet above her. Even in the rain, the rainbow-coloured legend was dazzling. Full of promise. While Pearl rolled down her window, Tamara read and reread the mesmerizing sign.

  INTERNATIONAL ARTISTS

  Home of the Stars

  And just to the right was a huge billboard. Slowly she mouthed the five-foot-high rain-swept letters:

  OSCAR SKOLNIK PRESENTS

  MARIE DRESSLER

  in

  Suspicions

  An International Artists Picture

  Her heart began to hammer fiercely. This was the dream factory. Here visions became reality, printed on celluloid for posterity. With luck, here her own dreams could be nurtured, could come to life.

  'Morning, Sam,' Pearl called out.

  'Mornin', Mrs. Dern,' the old green-uniformed security guard replied in greeting. 'It's supposed to rain for two more days.'

  Pearl growled in exasperation. 'How about sharing some good news for a change, Sam?'

  'Nothin' I can do about the weather.' Sam leaned into the open window and looked questioningly at Tamara.

  'This is Tamara Boralevi,' Pearl explained. 'She's got a test scheduled on Stage Six.'

  Sam consulted his plastic-sheathed clipboard. 'She's as good as marked off, Mrs. Dern. And good luck, Miss Boralevi.' Sam smiled and saluted; Pearl stepped on the gas and the Plymouth surged foward under the imposing rainbow.

  Chapter 2

  'Oh, my God!' Tamara's voice was a strangled gasp as she turned to face her visage in the lightbulb-lined mirror. She drew back in disbelief, her eyes echoing shock, finding it difficult to believe that the face which stared back at her could be her own.

  Slowly, under Pearl's inscrutably hooded, ever-watchful eyes, Tamara leaned closer into the reflection. Then, ever so gently, she lightly touched her face with her fingertips.

  'Careful,' Pearl warned.

  Tamara nodded, careful not to mar the expert job Pearl had done, but she had to touch herself just to prove it was she. The skin felt strange and mud-caked to her elegantly tapered fingers, but yes, her very own flesh did indeed meet her very own flesh. Was such diabolical alchemy possible?

  'What do you think?' Pearl, standing off to the side, arms folded across her flat breasts, asked
in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Tamara shook her head in continuing disbelief. She knew now why Pearl was said to be the most respected makeup artist in the business.

  Slowly she turned from the mirror and faced Pearl. 'It's . . . its truly me!' she whispered, gesturing dramatically with her beautifully manicured hands.

  Pearl looked at her steadily. 'It is,' she said, shrugging her shoulders with that mannish manner of hers.

  'You've . . . you've worked magic!'

  'It's what I do, part and parcel of the job,' Pearl grunted simply. 'Besides, kid, you're easy. And lucky. You've got the bone structure and everything that goes with it. All I've done is play with it.'

  'But it's more than that!' Tamara insisted softly. 'It has to be!'

  Pearl was silent for a moment. Then she shook a cautionary finger and lowered her voice confidentially. 'Just take one piece of advice. If you forget everything else I've told you, fine, but always keep this one thing in mind.'

  'What's that?' Tamara questioned.

  Pearl stuck a cigarette in her mouth and lit it with a match. She inhaled deeply. 'The most basic rule in this business, kid,' she replied through the blue smoke curling up around her, 'is one too many little starlets tend to forget once they've made it big.' She paused dramatically. 'Whoever you battle with . . . or make friends with . . . never, ever, under any circumstances, make enemies with the cameraman. He can either be your best friend or your worst enemy. He captures what you do on film, and he can make you look very, very good ... or very, very bad. Learn whatever you can from him—all the rules and tricks of the trade. Especially your best and worst angles. Work with him as if he were part of you. Learn everything he knows, ask questions, study the view through lenses if he lets you so you can see what the camera sees. Then, if you do make it in this cut-throat business, believe you me that will do you more good than anything else you can imagine.'

  Tamara nodded soberly. 'I was always under the impression that it was the director who was most important.'

  'He is,' Pearl replied shortly. She inhaled deeply and blew out a column of smoke. 'He usually gets what he wants, even if it means thirty different takes of one scene.' Pearl smiled faintly. 'Of course, that's if the rest of the crew obliges and gives it to him. Often, it's up to them—not him—how many takes a scene requires until he gets the precise effect he wants.'

  'In other words, the lighting director can sabotage the lights, the cameraman can make a star look bad, the makeup artist—'

  'You're learning fast, kid,' Pearl said with a note of respect in her raspy voice. 'Now turn around and let me get this thing off you.' Deftly Pearl untied the smudged protective white robe Tamara had worn while being made up,and whipped it off her with an expert flick of her wrist. Then Pearl stood back, frowning thoughtfully through a veil of cigarette smoke as she studied Tamara critically one last time. Quickly she stabbed her cigarette out and stepped closer. With an extremely steady hand she pencilled in the slightest adjustment to the liner around Tamara's eyes. She held the young woman's gaze steadily. 'Well, kid, now you're out of my hands and into theirs.'

  Even as she spoke, the waiting wardrobe mistress and the dresser descended upon Tamara with the lightning speed of hungry wolves.

  The wardrobe mistress was clearly in charge. She was tall and skinny, with hyperthyroid eyes, and she studied Tamara with cold, capable judiciousness for some time. The dresser on the other hand, was the antithesis of her superior: tiny, plump, and snappish, she fussed with her hands constantly, never quite able to stand still. Despite their opposing looks and personalities, the two women worked together with unusual, almost telepathic efficiency, and were mysteriously capable of communicating without speaking more than one or two key words.

  Tamara did not enjoy enduring the exhausting process of their choosing a costume for her, but she suffered through it with a quiet docility unlike her, not uttering a word of complaint. She only wished the two women, each of whom referred to the other by surname—the dresser, she soon discovered was 'McBain', while the wardrobe mistress was 'Sanders'—would make up their minds about her costume once and for all and be done with the tedious process.

  McBain and Sanders were seasoned, uncompromising professionals, not about to be rushed, and the staggering choice of outfits available made speedy selection an impossibility. So Tamara gritted her teeth, knowing that what they were doing was not only their job but also a favour to her. There was nothing short of life itself which was as important as sailing through the screen test with absolute perfection. She wanted this role so badly, needed it so tremendously, that it was an almost palpable hunger.

  Besides, their costume selections so far had inspired her confidence. They were the attire which made up the wardrobe of a dazzling film idol, clothes that suited her newly created face and the happy-go-lucky sophistication of the flapper's life of unabashed luxury. There were exciting beaded bodices, beautifully scalloped necklines, rustling silks, shiny satins, smooth velvets; every manner of sparkle, glitter, and glamour to further enhance her exquisite visage. Her jewellery was to be selected from boxloads of dazzling paste earrings and pins, necklaces and bracelets, rings and brooches—all flawless recreations of the best money could possibly buy. And the headbands and boas! Ostrich and peacock, egret and marabou . . .

  Oh, the staggering beauty of it all!

  Tamara's ambition to become an actress had been fuelled, in the beginning, by the sharply focused, unwavering memories of her mother, by Senda's unrivalled talent for storytelling and acting out various roles in different voices as she did so, effortlessly altering her features as if they were a mask that could be instantly adapted to any part without the aid of makeup or costumes. After Tamara and Inge had arrived in New York, the other woman had tried her utmost to steer Tamara away from such a feckless career as acting. To no avail, of course. Tamara soon discovered that the ambition to act burned deep within her. It flared within the very marrow of her bones. She was not about to be prodded in a different direction, and disregarded Inge's gentle persuasions and concerned admonitions to the contrary. It was the only thing in which she had ever opposed Inge, and with staunch, stolid belief and a mysterious, almost psychic surety, at that. In all other things she obeyed Inge to the letter. Well, almost. Inge had, after all, become a surrogate mother to her, but without having tried to sweep Senda aside and step into her footsteps. On the contrary, Inge wisely and frequently regaled Tamara with memories and anecdotes, embellishing them with each retelling, of course. Senda had conquered the Russian stage, and Tamara was more determined than ever to do the same in New York.

  Yet the theatre in New York, on which she had pinned so much fervent young hope, had proved a fickle and pointless exercise in futility. The stage blood within her, however, was not subdued by constant rejection. It only continued to boil with more effervescence than before. After a while, even Inge began to prod Tamara in that direction, doing everything within her power to help make the fantasy a reality. In fact, Inge had happily agreed with Tamara's decision that they leave New York for the greener, and hopefully more fruitful, pastures of Hollywood.

  Tamara was so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she became accustomed to the hands of the wardrobe mistress and the dresser touching her body. Only now, after a few minutes of no more fingers groping or tugging at her, did she snap out of her reverie and realize the women must have finished.

  The wardrobe mistress stepped back and rubbed her chin thoughtfully. 'That's it,' she said with finality. 'Just the right effect. McBain?'

  The plump dresser's head bobbed up and down. 'That's it, Sanders,' she agreed.

  Tamara slid her eyes sideways to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She drew in her breath sharply.

  'Well?' the wardrobe mistress asked. 'What do you think?'

  'Now that you ask, I ... I look positively fabulous, don't I?' Tamara boldly ventured.

  'Precisely.' The wardrobe mistress regarded her with satisfaction. A feisty little
number, she thought. Then she grinned for the first time and gave a thumbs-up signal. 'Good luck,' she said sincerely.

  'Break a leg,' the dresser added.

  Before Tamara could thank them, the two women departed, leaving her alone with Pearl. As soon as the door shut, Tamara slumped in all her sequined and bejewelled glory, her shoulders drooping heavily as the reality of it all suddenly sank in. She staggered toward a chair, squeezed her green eyes shut, and gripped its back until her knuckles shone white.

  'What is it, kid?' Pearl asked anxiously as she stepped quickly forward.

  'It's just that ... I mean . . . I'm really ready!' Tamara's eyes flew open as she stared at the stranger in the mirror. 'But now that I've waited for this moment so long, and studied so hard, I... I can't remember one line.' She bit down on her lip and turned slowly to stare at Pearl in horror. 'Not a single line!' Her voice took on the sibilance of a terrified whisper.

  'You'll remember every word once we hustle you over to the soundstage.' Pearl laughed her throaty rasp.

  'Could this be stage fright?'

  'Now, now.' Pearl pulled Tamara close, making her lose her grip on the chair back. Tamara looked into the older woman's face.

  Pearl smiled and gripped Tamara's hands. 'You'll be fine,' she said in a soothing voice.

  'Yes! I've got to be!'

  'Have a seat and give yourself a minute to calm down.' Pearl guided Tamara to the sofa. It felt unyielding, not at all comfortable. 'Now, breathe deeply.'

  Tamara took a series of deep, steadying breaths.

  'Just relax, kiddo. Pearl will take care of you,' she said in a peculiarly soft voice. She stood behind the sofa, hesitated, and then her fingers massaged Tamara's shoulders through the exquisitely beaded gleam of silver and white silk and chiffon. 'Just close your eyes and clear your head. Everything else will come to you.'