by Jerry Ludwig
Yesterday morning Bob Surtees, our veteran cinematographer, cozied up to me and asked, “What kind of mood is he in today?” As if I know. As if I have a clue as to what makes Leo tick. Or when he’s going to explode.
I’m trying endlessly to figure out where I stand with Jana. We haven’t really spoken since the night Leo hired me and I called her a “poor little rich girl.” We’re on the same lot and I see her almost every day. But apparently I’m invisible again. Early today she came to watch the filming a little and talk to Leo. I’m not more than a dozen feet away. Leo calls to me, “Can you get Jana a cup of coffee?”
I’m back in a flash, hold the cup out to her. “Light cream, one sugar.” Just how she always liked it. See, I remember!
“Mm-hm,” she mumbles and takes the cup. No eye contact. Turns her back on me. Well, she can’t stay angry at me forever. Or can she?
* * *
After the chop-top incident, we’re shooting at our usual snail’s pace when two visitors arrive. The kind even Leo can’t keep out. “Mind your manners, everybody,” Leo announces loudly, “the big brass are here.”
Barney Ott, the leader of the duo, is a pale, balding, sharp-featured man in his mid-fifties. He is dressed in his usual charcoal-black, three-piece Brooks Brothers uniform, complete with black, necktie. Like a mortician, at least that’s what his detractors say. But only behind his back. He has an intimidating manner to go with his cobalt blue eyes.
A transplanted New Yorker, Ott is up from the ranks, went to work as an usher at Panorama’s flagship theater on Broadway at the age of fifteen, rose to manage all their theaters on the eastern seaboard by the time he was twenty-seven. When he was thirty, the New York execs, who hold the real power in the corporation, sent him to Hollywood as their eyes and ears. Studio heads have come and gone over the years, but Ott is still here. A deep-dish company man whose lines of loyalty and communication go directly back to the money men in New York. Ott’s title is vice president of operations, with a broad, purposely vague mandate. Labor negotiations are his specialty. He’s also the well-connected Mr. Fix It for the studio’s stars and hot directors when they get in trouble. Today his mission is to speed up operations.
We’ve been filming less than two weeks, but by projecting the pace of Leo the perfectionist, the studio production office estimates we’re close to a month behind schedule. Directors on important pictures usually shoot four or five takes of a camera angle. Leo is in the habit of doing seventy or more before printing one—often from the first dozen. He also covers a scene from every conceivable angle—first group shots, then breaking down to smaller groups, then two shots, plus close-ups, often of varying sizes. Each new angle requires time for re-lighting and shooting. That’s how the days mount up. Each day costs $35,000. So we’re now a million bucks over budget, and hemorrhaging money as we lose more time every day, but Leo doesn’t seem to give a shit. All he cares about is the quality of his movie. Joe Shannon has already been sniping in his column, calling the picture “Vardian’s Folly.”
Barney Ott starts out his visit by affably greeting Leo and then maneuvers him off to one side to talk quietly. In a moment, Leo is shouting. “You tell me, Barney! Do you want it good or do you want it Tuesday?”
“All depends which Tuesday we’re talking about,” Ott says reasonably. “We’ve got a problem, Leo, and I’m here to help you any way I can.” He guides Leo out of sight behind a papier-mâché boulder.
While the crew continue to light the upcoming scene, Ott’s associate sidles up to me. He’s wearing a tweed jacket, open-collar cream-colored dress shirt, terrific tan. Jack Heritage is my height, broad shouldered and handsome as a movie actor, still in his forties with the broad upper body of a weight lifter. He met Ott during the labor riots in the late forties. Contract negotiations had collapsed and the blue-collar union workers at Panorama went on strike for higher wages after the wartime freeze on salaries. Labeling the union “a pack of Commies,” Barney Ott imported dock workers from Long Beach who broke heads.
Police Lieutenant Jack Heritage led the flying wedge of Glendale cops who separated the warring parties by billyclubbing and arresting the strike leaders. The strike collapsed and a friendlier “house” union signed a status-quo contract. A few months later Heritage went to work for Ott as his second-in-command. His title is head of security. He still wears his police .38 in a shoulder holster under his jacket. Rumor has it he also still packs a blackjack “for old times sake.”
“Hey, David, how’s the Student Prince today? Learn any new secrets about the business from your Uncle Leo?” He chuckles to let me know he’s only having some fun and not busting my balls. Neither of us is fooled. Heritage thinks I’m in on a pass and it annoys him.
“Is Barney here to shut us down?” I ask.
“C’mon, kid, we’re all friends. Right?”
“Sure, Jack, everything’s copacetic.”
He glances at me to see if I’m being sarcastic. I am. He likes friction. Thugs usually do. He emits a baleful sigh:
“Ol’ Leo, he’s a genius, but know what’s wrong with his pictures?” I shrug and he goes on. “Never has a broad in his movies you’d want to fuck. Winning prizes is terrific. But romance, that’s what sells big.”
“That’s your definition of romance?”
“Absolutely.” He gives me his Clark Gable grin. “What’s yours?”
He tamps the perspiration on his brow with a handkerchief. “Wow, it’s like a steam bath in here. When you were in Korea, was it hot like this?”
“I was there in the winter. We froze.”
Leo and Barney Ott reappear from their confab behind the boulder. I halfway expect to see the gory aftermath of a brawl, but they’re both chuckling. Neither of them really meaning it.
“Okay, okay, Barney. For you anything.”
“We’re ready, Leo,” cameraman Surtees calls.
Leo claps his hands for attention. “Listen up, folks! As a special favor to Mr. Ott, we’re gonna really hump! Camera crew, you’ll pan for Panorama! Actors will give double-time drahma for Pan-or-ah-ma! There will be no more shilly-shallying around here, lads!” He turns. “How’s that, Barney?”
Ott isn’t sure if Leo’s rallying the crew or publicly mocking him. He decides to go with rallying. “Knew you’d pitch right in, Leo.”
Leo moves closer to Ott. Only Heritage and I hear Leo add, “Next time Harry Rains has something to say to me, let him come say it himself.”
“Hey, Harry’s the boss. I can’t tell him what to do,” Ott says, then he and Heritage stroll out the exit door.
The rest of the morning whizzes by like a downhill nightmare. Leo is blistering butts, hammering the crew to move faster and faster, right up to the lunch break. While everyone escapes to air conditioning, Leo remains in the humid jungle, sitting next to the camera, slashing speeches out of the script, simplifying his shot list for the day. Trying to fend off the pressure from the front office.
I hotfoot it to the commissary to pick up Leo’s lunch, his yogurt and berries, diet of the dyspeptic. As I’m waiting at the hostess’ desk for my takeout order, I notice Jana and Markie Gunderson at a table inside the main room. Markie spots me, glowers and nudges Jana, who glances over and looks away.
Pauline, the unflappable commissary hostess, hands me Leo’s lunch and I’m out the door and starting back when I hear Markie’s voice behind me. He’s followed me into the studio street. “Hey, Weaver!” He strides up like a pest exterminator intent on squashing a bug. “I’m pissed at you! Where do you get off terrorizing special guests I send to visit the set?”
“Take it up with Leo,” I say. Can’t take time for this, I’ve got a lunch to deliver.
I start to go on but he blocks me. Shoves my shoulder with the heel of his palm. He’s almost as tall as I am, but it’s not size that counts. “I’m talking to you, Weaver! Those people were important theater owners from the Midwest.”
“Then send ’em over to where Fred Astaire�
��s working, our set’s closed.”
“Our set! That’s funny. You’re just the slop boy around here and I’m an executive of this company, so when I authorize something—”
“Love to stay and chat, Markie, but I’m on a deadline.”
I start to go again, but he blocks me again. “You stand still when I’m talking to you!” He gives me another heel of the palm shot in the shoulder. Harder now. My black rage is stirring.
“Don’t do that,” I say quietly, but he hears it as meek.
“Or what? You’ll run crying to your Uncle Leo?” He reaches out to give my shoulder another jab. I’m finished with his bullshit! I let the Range reflexes kick in: I grip his hand, bending it sharply backwards. As I press he starts to go to his knees, his face white with the shock of pain. I feel great! Overdue payment on insults dating back to grade school.
“Boys, boys, am I still breakin’ up schoolyard shenanigans between you two?” Rex Gunderson, Markie’s father, has come up behind us with his entourage. He leaves them and ambles over. I release Markie’s hand and he’s rubbing his fingers to get the circulation going as his dad adds with a chuckle, “Bet the hassle’s still about Miss Jana, am I right?”
“I was just showing Markie a Boy Scout hold, Mr. Gunderson.”
He looks even more leathery than I remember, still clad in a safari jacket, jodhpurs and shin-high boots, like an imitation Cecil B. DeMille. He began his career as an assistant to DeMille in silent-film days on The Squaw Man. Now DeMille’s gone Biblical and Rex Gunderson’s still directing epic shoot-’em-ups. But the last three have bombed.
“Heard you were back, Young Weaver.” He holds out his hand. Without thinking, I shake it. The hand that was instrumental in choking off Teddy’s career. He squeezes hard, I squeeze back; guess I pass the test, he nods approvingly and lets go. “Sorry about your dad. We had our differences, but he was a darn talented fella. Teddy and Leo wrote one of my biggest hits.”
“Yessir, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Gunderson,” I hold up the lunch bag. “I’ve got a starving director waiting for this.”
“Better scoot then. Leo’s gotta keep his strength up.”
I trot off. Hating myself for even talking to that Blacklisting bastard. I hope Teddy hasn’t been watching.
Behind me I hear Rex Gunderson address his son in a withering tone: “Boy, if you start a fight, be damn sure you know how to finish it.”
I can’t resist a glance back. Markie is staring at the ground with a whipped dog expression. All ri-i-i-i-ght!
* * *
For the rest of the day, Leo continues to crack the whip on the crew. Spewing orders, insults, and threats. Like the sadistic drum beater on an ancient Roman attack ship setting a vicious tempo for the slaves chained to their oars.
Markie Gunderson drops by in late afternoon, maybe just to prove he can get on the set even if his guests can’t. He chats briefly with Leo and leaves. When there’s a moment I ask Leo, what that was all about.
“Studio’s got a book they want me to consider as a possible next project. So I guess they still love me.”
“Sounds good.”
“Well, the Gunderson kid says so.”
“What do you think of him?”
“Shrewd bastard. So-so creatively, but sharp elbows. Knows how to play the studio game.” He laughs. “You sizing up the competition?”
I wish. I’m not really even in the game yet.
The flogged crew performs valiantly and we not only complete the scenes scheduled for today, but also do an extra scene not scheduled. Barney Ott, take note! When we wrap, the crew look like survivors of a death march. A word of thanks from Leo would be nice, but he strides off the soundstage. I’m with him and climb behind the wheel of Leo’s golf cart. Standing next to it, he surveys the crew staggering into the early evening gloom. They look at Leo. Napoleon is about to address his troops.
“Well, who knows, maybe I’ll finally be able to get a decent day’s work out of you assholes tomorrow!” he says.
Then he hops into the cart. “Go, David, go!” As we zip away, Leo smiles. “Wormed my way into a few hearts that time,” he says.
I say nothing.
“What?” he challenges.
“No questions. That was the deal.”
“Unless I invite you to ask one.”
Okay. “Why do you do it?”
“Good question. Maybe to keep them on their toes. Or because I’m an insensitive prick. Or maybe I find that if everybody’s scared to come near me, I avoid a lot of bullshit questions and can focus on what’s important. Which possibility do you like?”
“I pick—all of the above.”
His eyebrows rise. “Right answer,” he says. Then he shifts gears. “What happened to you at lunch? You’ve been off your feed all afternoon.”
So I tell him about my encounter with the Gundersons. I try to kiss it off in a sentence, but he wants details. He prods, so I give them to him. Leaving Jana’s name out of it. But that’s what it’s about between me and Markie.
He’s silent when I’m done. Staring ahead steely eyed. Then he mutters: “Humongous turds, father and son. They’ll pay, David. We’re gonna make ’em all pay.”
I appreciate the sympathy. But when did it become “we”?
CHAPTER
15
DAVID
Way back during the frenzy of the first day of filming I noticed an island of calm. A tall, slump-shouldered man was seated close behind the camera in a chair marked KEELER BARNES. Early fifties, thick glasses, baggy brown suit, and brown snap-brim hat. Studious look on his craggy face as he worked The London Times crossword puzzle in ink. He rarely looked up while the activity swirled around him.
Not until Leo gave the camera crew a complicated design of moves. “And we’ll cut to a closer angle at that point,” Leo said. He darted a glance at Keeler Barnes and there was a telepathic communication between them. Barnes nodded almost imperceptibly, Leo went on giving instructions. Keeler caught me watching him.
“Trying to figure out how it’s done, kid?” I nodded. “Okay, I taught Leo and your dad—no extra charge for members of the family.”
Keeler is the film editor on Against the Wind, but they’re usually tucked away in a windowless room gluing together snippets of celluloid, not sitting on the set. Leo prefers to have him here for those few times a day when he’s in doubt. Some camera angles will cut together with invisible grace and some will jar the viewer. “I’m his insurance policy against making mistakes that will haunt him in the cutting room.”
He worked on Darkness Before Dawn, a romantic thriller starring Henry Fonda and Margaret Sullavan, the first picture Weaver & Vardian produced, as well as wrote, before the war. And Keeler was with Leo since he started to direct while Teddy was away in the service. That would lead you to think this is a tight relationship, which it is—in the sense that Gilbert and Sullivan made beautiful music together, when they happened to be speaking.
Tonight is a good example. Leo and I join Keeler in a screening room to look at dailies, the prints of what was shot yesterday. Only the three of us. Leo forbids the crew to attend dailies, and he’s even convinced the stars not to come. No dissension in the ranks that way, he says. On the first night I drove him over here, Leo invited me in. Ever since, I’ve been careful to listen and shut up.
As usual, Keeler is seated beside the center console that connects with the projectionist. Leo slumps wearily into the seat on the other side of the console. I’m in the row behind them, out of the line of fire.
“Okay,” Leo says, “let’s roll.”
Keeler buzzes the projection room and the dailies come on. Leo murmurs which takes or portions of takes he prefers. Keeler jots notes. When dailies are over, Keeler instructs the projectionist to put on an entire sequence that’s been assembled. This is where trouble often starts.
“Editing is the final rewrite,” Leo has told me. “It’s where the dream of what you wanted and the reality of what you�
��ve got come together—or try to.”
That’s the challenge of editing, I’ve come to realize. A scene can be assembled in many ways, favoring one character or another, making story points gracefully or clumsily. Leo justifies shooting so much film in order to give himself as many choices as possible. It’s the cutter’s job to dig through the haystack and assemble coherence and balance. Subject to the director’s approval. That’s where the battle lines are often drawn.
We saw a version of this scene a few nights ago. A heated discussion ensued then between Leo and Keeler. I thought it was going to become a fistfight.
“See, that works,” Leo now enthuses, “just like I said it would!”
Keeler doesn’t reply, but Leo’s taking credit for an idea that Keeler suggested and Leo crapped on before. We go on. But the happy times are about to end.
“Why’d you do that?” Leo demands. Pointing at another part of the scene they’d argued about.
“Because you told me to, Leo.”
“Did not.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t!”
Keeler reaches beneath his seat. He swings a tape recorder onto the console and presses PLAY. Leo’s unmistakable voice is heard giving Keeler the instructions he’s now denying.
“Yes, you did,” Keeler says flatly.
Without warning, Leo lunges and snatches the tape machine. He flings it as hard as he can against the wall. The tape recorder smashes and the voice stops.
“NO, I DIDN’T!” Leo roars.
Veins standing out in his neck, eyes bugging, he looks as if he’s about to froth. I just stare at him. Nose to nose with Keeler—who suddenly bursts into laughter. Leo looks startled. Then he snorts, shakes his head, blinks, as if he’s suddenly focusing on his operatic outburst. And he, too, begins to laugh. If you can call it laughter. They howl like a pair of banshees.