by Sam Moffie
“No, I have principles,” he’d told the co-star. “And, you’d better get to make-up.” Dick Powell wasn’t a homophobe, either. There were too many gays and lesbians already working in Hollywood who were very successful people and that kind of attitude would piss a lot of people off; people he might need at some point. No, Powell resented this particular actor for tossing out the line as if it were a bad line from a very bad movie script.
Everyone he met in Hollywood, he tried to bond with. In turn, most of the people he met befriended him.
“The actors and actresses won’t be a problem, Howard.” Dick had said to his co-producer and real boss, Howard Hughes, during the marathon phone call from the mysterious billionaire, which was the cause for Powell being late. Being a businessman first instead of an actor, he wanted to set the tone for his office, and here he was, well after noon, reporting in. He could only imagine what people on the lot and in his office were thinking.
“Getting some part of his body surgically altered no doubt,” a secretary might say under her breath.
“Counting all his money… twice!” a studio guard might say to himself.
“Shacked up in a cheap motel,” another staffer might say very quietly.
“Buying anything he wants,” a different studio employee might say.
“Probably having the air conditioner in his basement bowling alley adjusted,” yet another employee might say.
The fact of the matter was none of the above. Dick Powell wasn’t into those types of things. Others he knew in Hollywood were… some way too much. Dick Powell wanted to be the best head of the studio that was financed by the richest man in America. And that man was Howard Hughes, who was very weird, but not so weird when it came to money. During their conversation, Hughes okayed the budget of $6 million. Big money for their next project — The Conqueror — which would take a couple of years to put together.
Powell expected Hughes to be ‘weird’ about the money. To Dick’s surprise, he wasn’t — he was ‘weird’ about the details. ‘Weird’ in demanding that the actress picked for the lead had to have huge boobs. ‘Weird’ in demanding that Marlon Brando be the lead, even though Brando’s contract was owned by another studio (though the script had been written with Brando in mind). ‘Weird’ that everything had to be 100% realistic in an adventure-action-drama film set in the 11th century, and that Hughes’ people had scouted out the Escalante Valley of Southern Utah, and (to them) it was a mirror image of what Tartar country must have looked like when the Mongols ruled the day. Howard also demanded that Powell visit the area and meet him there as soon as possible.
All this and a lot more about studio finances, in addition to Hughes screaming about taxes, the United States versus Russia and which actress had the best build in Hollywood was why Dick was late to the office. Right after Howard hung up, Hughes’ secretary called to set up a date when Mr. Hughes’ aircraft would pick up Dick Powell. Powell had to make arrangements with his wife about having plumbing repairs to his kitchen sink completed. And…Dick Powell always answered his fan mail, even if it was his wife doing the reading and answering. He knew he was very lucky to have June Allyson Powell, a well-respected actress in her own right, as his wife.
“I know, the garbage has to be taken out,” June said to her husband, as she rolled her eyes upward.
“Check,” Dick Powell replied.
“I have to make sure that I don’t get excited when the plumber you hired to repair the kitchen sink bends over and I glimpse at his crack,” June said.
“Double check,” replied Dick, who wondered if all skilled craftsmen suffered from the same curse of bending over to repair things, while their ass cracks were bared wide for all eyes to see.
“I think I have a party to organize, along with paying some bills, ferrying our children from one event to the next, learning some lines from my upcoming movie, cooking some meals, landscaping, changing the oil on both cars, calling your mom, checking on my dad, doing the laundry, cleaning the windows and vacuuming the carpets,” June managed to say without taking a breath.
“Don’t forget to darn my socks, dear,” Powell said as he grabbed his wife and kissed her passionately.
“You know I really do most of these things every day,” she said with a sigh. “Don’t you think you could manage to do more than kiss me?”
And they made love right there, on the living room carpet.
“That will give you something to vacuum up,” Dick Powell said when he looked down at the imprints their bodies had made on the carpet.
“I’ll smile every time I run the vacuum over that area,” June said with a smile.
And she did.
And he knew he was lucky… very lucky to have her as his wife.
When he arrived at his office he had to assemble his staff, call the writer for The Conqueror and make inquiries about Brando. Also, he had to think about an actress with big ta-tas to play the lead.
“There are enough of those in this town,” he said to himself as he walked into his office and greeted his entire staff one by one. He went to his desk and sat down and groaned, not only at what he had to do for this movie but at all the other things on his desk waiting for his decisions.
Maybe I should have stayed an actor, he pondered. He gave that thought a few more seconds and then beeped his secretary by way of the intercom on his desk. Her name was Miss Burchett. As she made her way to his desk, he suddenly thought she would be perfect for the stacked chest that Howard Hughes craved. Not necessarily for any movie role, just for Hughes and this obsession of his. She sat down with her notebook and crossed her legs.
“Get me Oscar Millard, and get a phone call to the head of Fox studios,” he barked.
“That’s it?” she asked. “Why didn’t you just tell me that over the intercom?”
“I like watching you walk in and walk out,” he shot back.
She got up and walked out… very slowly.
He got out his huge portfolio of actresses that not only had big boobs, but could act and bring in a full house. One of Howard Hughes’ vast research and development teams had compiled this productive treasure.
“Can I get one on actors, Howard?” Dick had once asked his boss.
“No,” replied a curt Hughes.
“Why not?”
“I don’t sleep with men,” Hughes replied matter-of-factly.
He started flipping through the photos and then remembered that if Brando was signed, Marlon was going to want a huge say in whoever his co-star would be.
This was the early fifties, and the big stars not only commanded top billing to go with their ticket-selling appeal, but also demanded a lot of influence regarding what went into the movie.
“It’s a long ways from how I used to be a piece of meat,” he sighed, as he tossed the book to the side and picked up a manila folder that was stamped ‘urgent.’ It contained the bills that were due and he buzzed Miss Burchett to bring the folder down to the bookkeeping department so the bills would get paid.
“Aren’t you going to write something on the bills?” she asked him.
Dick Powell grabbed a red pen and scribbled over the word ‘urgent.’ He wrote in big letters: PAY THEM ALL and handed it back to Miss Burchett.
“Should we?” she asked him.
“Of course. Most of these bills are from the little guys. In the financing world according to Hughes, the little guys get paid first. The big banks last,” he said with a smile. “Where is Oscar?”
“I left a message with his service,” she said as she exited his office.
“Any word from Fox?” he asked.
“I’m still on hold, Mr. Powell.”
Ah yes… being on hold in Hollywood.
Whether he was just starting out as an extra on a film, an established star, a mover and a shaker in the creation of the actor’s union or a big-shot producer, Dick Powell had been put on hold more times than he cared to remember. Even worse, now he found himself doing the same thing to ot
hers.
“It’s a sign of success,” he said under his breath, trying to put a positive spin on a negative annoyance.
“Miss Burchett, transfer the Fox call to my line and find Oscar,” he said as he again picked up the dossier of women stars and started leafing through it while he stayed on hold. He was looking for an actress that he thought Brando would approve of, as well as having big enough boobs to appease his boss.
Shit, he thought. “There is no way Oscar is going to accept a woman with big boobs as the female star. He is into authenticity and Tartar women were not exactly big-breasted. This is one area where Howard would refuse to be authentic. But then again, Oscar is the writer, and in Hollywood writers come last,” Powell said out loud, glad he wasn’t a writer, but envious of the way they made everything come to life.
Thinking about writers made Dick Powell feel melancholy. It wasn’t because most of Hollywood wiped their feet on the men and women who wrote screen plays — after all, the writer wasn’t perceived by the fans or the media that covered Hollywood as sexy enough. Sure, some writers were indeed sexy enough, but that was because of their literary success before they came to Hollywood. And, how many of those people made it as screenwriters? Not many. And ironically, how many screen writers made it as authors of “literary” works? Again, not many. Writing was tough, but readers were fickle. The thought of writers he’d enjoyed as a young boy trying to make it in Hollywood now made him chuckle. There was no way Brontë, Melville, Dickens or Hugo would make it as screenwriters.
“Too wordy. Too full of metaphors and too intellectual,” he said to his empty office, as he put down the big book of female movie stars. He quickly grabbed a piece of scrap paper and made himself a note to try and make just those types of films once he had established himself as a movie king maker. Sure, he would have to produce some slop. Sure, he would have to make the big-budget film the investors wanted. Sure, he would have to bow to the wishes of Howard Hughes and maybe even the wishes of the public… and he just might. Because doing so would make him very wealthy; he would then be able to make an artsy film by the authors that he had loved as a young boy.
Dick Powell presents an international all-star cast starring in the most faithful adaption yet of Victor Hugo’s masterpiece “Les Miserables” was what he was fantasizing about when that thought was soon interrupted by Miss Burchett’s voice coming over the squawk box.
“Mr. Powell, Oscar Millard is on the phone. I’ll transfer it to your office.” she said.
“I’ll take it now. Thanks,” a relieved Dick Powell said as he picked up the phone and started a conversation with the writer of The Conqueror.
Oscar Millard was a good writer. He was diverse in his screenplays. Everything from a comedy about nuns to an action drama about Navy Frogmen, which had earned him an Academy Award nomination. He’d also written a noirish film and another action film that took place 18,000 miles above where frogmen swim. Now, with his work for The Conqueror, he would really be able to showcase his knowledge of history.
And Millard was fun, too! He was English and intellectual and was now on the phone. As soon as Powell put his ear to the receiver he heard the very phrase he detested the most. “You’ll have to hold, sir,” said the voice on the other end.
“I don’t believe it!” Powell screamed.
“Hey Dick. It’s me. I was just kidding. I know how you hate to be put on hold. It doesn’t bother me, because I’m a writer you know. We’re always on hold. As a matter of fact, I keep pen and paper close to me when I’m on the phone in this town. You’d be amazed at the writing I get done while I’m on hold. Anyway… I heard you were looking for me?” Oscar said.
“Big O,” Powell replied. “Where are you?”
“About to meet MB for lunch,” Oscar said.
“Who the hell is MB? Do you know how many people have the initials MB?” Powell asked.
“There is only one MB in my book — Marlon Brando,” Millard replied.
This is good, Powell thought. Very good.
“Dick are you there?” Oscar asked.
“THE Brando right? It’s not Marlon Brando the accountant? Or Marlon Brando the plumber?” asked Powell.
Oscar Millard laughed.
“Hey O, I’m not joking,” Powell said sternly.
“Either am I, Dick. It is THE Brando. MB knows my work and we have more than a few friends in common. I’m meeting him at his place, which is always a great sign. I’m sure the only distraction will be all the babes lounging around. After he falls in love with the script, what should I do? By the way, didn’t I tell you I was meeting with him? After all, I tailor-made this script for him,” Oscar reminded Dick.
“I think he will fall in love with the script, after all it’s very good. When he does, tell him I’ll call him. Ask him who he envisions for support personnel on the set. Ask him who he thinks he would like to see in the other roles… especially the leading lady,” Powell said.
“Will do. Do I tell him about Hughes?” Millard asked his boss.
“What’s to tell? Hughes knows how to make movies and Brando is part of the movie business.” Dick said. “Good luck.”
And Powell stayed on the line, long after his screenwriter had hung up. He was sitting there with the phone in his hand when his secretary waltzed in.
“Mr. Powell, I have the Fox people on hold,” she said.
“Buzz ‘em on in after you keep them on hold for 30 seconds,” he said.
“You’ll have to hang up the phone,” she said.
She went to her desk and passed the call back to her boss’ line as he had requested.
“Hello. Thanks for getting back to me,” Dick said into the phone.
There was no one on the other end. Just when Dick was about to hang up, a woman’s voice came on and told him to hold the line for just a few more seconds.
“Crap,” Powell said to his empty office. “I always lose playing this game.”
“Hey Powell, this is Strabala over at Fox. What can we do for you?” the executive asked.
“I need a loan-out,” Powell said.
“For what project?” Strabala asked.
“Now Strabala, if I tell you that, you’ll steal it,” Dick said.
“Of course we will. Then, we will need a loan-out and you’ll steal the project from us. I think that is how the game is played,” Strabala said sarcastically.
“I don’t play games. You guys know that,” Powell said sternly.
“Just kidding, Dick. No one can play games and work for Howard Hughes. Who do you want?” Strabala asked in a very nice voice.
Thinking he was being cute, Powell said “MB.”
“Brando!!!!!!!!!!!??” Strabala screamed. “Are you crazy?”
How come he knew what MB stood for right away and I didn’t? a slightly wounded Powell thought to himself?
“Yes and no,” a composed Dick Powell answered his counterpart at Fox.
“I think you mean ‘yes,’” commented Strabala.
“Look quid pro quo. Give me Brando for my picture and I’ll help you on anything you might need. Remember anything can happen in this business… especially down the line with Howard Hughes owing you a favor,” Powell reminded Strabala.
“Anything but you guys getting Brando. Do you know how many stars or would-be stars my boss has lost to yours?” Strabala asked Powell.
“Strabala, just what are you talking about?” A frustrated Dick Powell asked, because Dick Powell couldn’t remember his studio signing any of Fox’s stars during his tenure.
“Hughes has fucked so many of my bosses’ girlfriends, while they thought that the girls were being loyal to them. There is no way he would loan out anything to you guys, let alone Brando,” Strabala said.
“You’re joking,” Powell said. How does Howard have the time to make billions, invent things, fly planes and screw so many women? Powell thought as he waited for Strabala to answer him.
“You don’t know do you, Dick?” Strabala sai
d.
“Know what?!” Powell yelled.
“I forgot. You’re one of the good guys in Hollywood. Principled. A loving husband and father. Work hard, make an honest buck. A great boss. Everyone likes you. You don’t play in the promiscuous part of our community,” Strabala said.
“I will take that as a compliment… I think,” Powell said.
“So, you’re wondering what this has to do with business.” Strabala asked.
“You’re a mind reader, Strabala. Of course I want to know how what you just said has anything to do with us making a bona fide offer to your bosses to obtain your contract player for one picture,” a confused Dick Powell asked of his parallel at Fox Studios.
“Hold on Dick, it’s one of my bosses.”
Powell started to fume while he waited for Strabala to return to the phone line. He thought, he should just throw the big money offer, because money was always more important in Hollywood than sex… or revenge — no matter how good the sex or how great the revenge.
“Basically… nothing, Dick. My bosses aren’t going to do anything for Howard. Tell Hughes that this time, his little dick — by the way, no pun intended — has finally cost him,” Strabala said.
There has to be a better… no, another way, Dick Powell thought as he rubbed his chin thinking about how to answer what he’d just heard. Dick Powell, and for the most part the crowd he was in, didn’t think or act like Strabala’s bosses did. Dick Powell and his crowd loved being movie makers and didn’t want to lose their collective fame and fortune over getting laid, getting high or anything else that was too risky. Dick Powell would take chances in making movies, but not in his personal life or the lives of those he loved and respected.
“Okay Strabala. I don’t have a clue on how to answer what you just told me. There are a lot of other actors out there… although Brando is perfect for the role. I’ll tell Howard and Oscar, and remember one thing,” Powell warned.
“What, you’re going to threaten me with Hughes’ money?” an indignant Strabala asked.