Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I knew it the first moment I saw you.’

  Butterbugs could not honestly make a cogent reply.

  ‘Then listen, I guess, as long as you’ve got the time now – the free time – you might as well check this out.’

  Sonny handed over a Kall Kard. It was the standard of the Industry, definitely known to Butterbugs, but it was the first time he had ever seen one. He silently marveled at its charcoal grey card stock and its silver ink. MPPDA-Approved, too – there was that sticker that he had seen in the credits of countless motion pictures: the calligraphic oval with the stylized letters inside.

  How many opportunities had he received from strangers in this town? How many had been successful?

  (Strangely, the efforts of Heatherette did not even pop up in his re-aligned memory banks. So be it.)

  For whatever reason, to his mind, thus far, nothing had really worked out for him, cinema-wise. Not a thing. Why should he expect anything from this kluck, calm though he was, after being so excoriated inside that rancid ravintola? Truth to tell, he hadn’t even set foot inside an LA picture palace or viewing chamber once yet, just to see what was rolling off the local factory lines. He was incapable of cynicism, but all the rationale for being a skeptic had him enmeshed within the naggings of inarguable evidence. Any proffered suggestions that smacked of new-dawn optimism just might put him in a distrustful mood.

  Yet, a Kall Kard was undoubtedly something to attend to. It meant an audition, for crying out loud. And if you’ve got a KK, what a deal! Not a bad gravy boat to be in, huh? It was certainly better than an engraved invitation to some porno pool party.

  Sonny exited stage right, into restaurant. Old Fitzgeralds on.

  Indeed, if he’d been yet faster on his feet, Butterbugs could’ve wisecracked, ‘Have a nice meal – – – today…’ As it was, he didn’t even say thanks.

  Butterbugs exited stage left, into darkness. KK in hand.

  Soon after, massive rains hit the region. A huge boulder crashed down and landed right in front of the restaurant, killing two valets and a crooner named Buddy Verona.

  Sonny Projector escaped, unhurt.

  11.

  I Tell You, I Have An Audition!

  Butterbugs appeared at the door – hatless, head exposed to the morning sun, in all humility, with no expectations. With a mind open to duty, come what may.

  The director, apparently Scandinavian or Oriental (in point of fact, Sami-Danish-Greenlandic), was very patient. Whereas the cameraman, old pro Russell Harlan, was not patient at all this day, particularly as he had another set to light for another director in an hour. Screen tests were fine between pictures, but three in one day was insane.

  ‘We have less than an hour,’ the director said in perfect English. ‘So if you please, let us make the most of things.’

  There followed the first inkling of what it must be like to actually embark on a director/actor relationship. Unbeknownst to Butterbugs, this was actually a commonality betwixt him and his director, for this particular director had never directed a photoplay before.

  Slæœr Ü. Thøåoærx, only a few years older than his auditionaire, had indeed made something of a splash in staging pageants at mega-sized shopping centers in the lower mid-Atlantic states. This momentum was achieved after an auspicious start in presenting entertainments to international teams stationed at Thule in northwest Greenland. ‘Thule Is Also A Place – Not Just A State Of Mind’ had remained long in the mind of all his audiences, from Norwegian whalers to Greenpeace mariners. And once wind of his totally exciting and ‘boss’ ideas reached the ears of very old pro Sam Goldwyn, who had his heart set on exec producing this youngster’s first film, there was no question of his being drafted into the front ranks of Hollywood service. Sam’s timing was impeccable, as usual. As buzz spread, several mid-sized studios wanted a piece of him as well. So, via an amiable system of loan/lease under Sam’s beneficent management, Thøåoærx got a crack at his first concept for the screen at CyaninamidDynapictures, who beat out powerful Peppercorn/Wormser. Everyone concerned embraced the project with enthusiasm. No distrib had been inked, as of yet.

  No lead had been signed, either.

  That was the deal-making. Now for the building blocks of creation.

  Despite the legitimacy of the few personnel and the minimal but brand-name equipment (Éclair), this was not an encounter on a soundstage with lights and grips and scenery. It was instead a three-quarters-finished strip mall structure (Sam & Co. were real cheapies when it came to untested tests like this), located on the dreariest possible plot on the most non-picture-oriented stretch of Catanabarana Blvd. No matter. One pin spot and one fill light, and that was all Thøåoærx needed, and that was fine with the ace cameraman, too.

  One hour.

  Chemistry commenced. This sudden relationship of unknown newness between director and talent was rife with potential. Its reality was so remarkable that either person could not at first bring themselves to understand its meaning, nor its perimeters. So what each of them actually did was to do everything possible to deny himself any inherent pleasure that might have been mined in this one bare hour. Why? Because, sensitive novices mix fear with their artistry. Can’t be helped. Whether as a safety valve on a too-wonderful mind, or an anticipation of failure by wishing for too much, horrible joy often reigns supreme in order to maintain control. With these two kids, joyful horror was very much in play, so things were very much in control. Control does not readily bend towards alteration.

  Still, there was less than an hour now.

  In the audition cage.

  A really neat script-girl was present.

  ‘She hasta be from Shasta,’ the actor thought.

  That had to be the case. Hair in bangs-and-shoulder-length brown, in with the in-crowd, with the bare midriff that ranged from the minimum amount allowed below breast line, exposing all that taut geography, implying exploration and discovery, including a single-track trail of hairs leading from belly button on south to more hirsute pastures… That was the presentation, and it spoke a jaw-dropping language. To be sure, he was detail-oriented, and the details weren’t just scripted ones.

  If history was about to be made, its context was no longer amorphous. There was Pre-Vonda Butterbugs, and now, predictably, Post-Vonda Butterbugs…

  A love-match was a possibility, but there were lines to recite, and the girl was so maddeningly professional that Butterbugs figured she must be firmly attached to someone on the minimal crew – if not the equally young director – so as to pose with aloofness and ignore him, even though he was in front of a camera at last. In this, his crucible of performance.

  It was actually quite beneficial to his nascent acting technique to have such a pleasant and stimulating distraction. And it was quite basic, even child-like in its intent. That is, ‘I want her to like me, so I’d better put on a good show.’

  On the other hand, once he was positioned and the lighting was accomplished, she looked him right in the eye, as if to convey an occult dialogue of attraction/approval/support. What else could it be?

  She was really hip, and while hipness implied impossibility of attainment (because attractiveness instantly requires possession) in the mind of a sensitive artiste-type under pressure, there was nevertheless a perception of an excitement, communicated through her new attention toward him. Vibes neared earthquake proportions. There was certainly support, coupled with perhaps secret admiration. They seemed to form a positive mind trip, coming from one who initially appeared so remote and detached.

  In the setup of meter checks and grey cards, Butterbugs read her torso, innocently presented, like a geologic map. She cared! Why else would there be ripples of reaction along its plains each time a command was barked at him by those professionals suffering from disinterest or impatience, causing him to go into puppet-show mode?

  Script-girl as super-powered empath!

  If her sex-marks couldn’t make a public appearance
, so as to reflect her true thoughts toward this screen-test dummy, then the delicately elongated Crater Lake of her navel would have to communicate the desire of her body for his. If he looked closely enough, he might see his face mirrored in its pool.

  (Method-oids would call his naive thunder-strikes focus, is all…)

  Despite the pressing needs in the matters of acting on this occasion, there was little choice but to respond viscerally to the script-toting female’s visceral presence. Because, well, there wasn’t any documentation attached to her – no introductions, no credentials. Plus, absolutely no tactile navigations of an invitational nature were likely to come from her cartographic display.

  The late Vonda’s private products, still current in his sensual awarenesses, suggested a leap into natural continuity, that grew insistently, with pushy distraction. Or was it inspiration? He seemed, at the very least, to be capable of the latter’s options.

  (Without a doubt, Lee Strasburg would just write it off as focus. Perfectly fine, but no need to make a big fucking deal out of it…)

  In the meantime, there was a test to film. Not quite an audition, but something more than just a screen test.

  One thing was apparent: there was guidance, but no script. Yet, there were lines to be learned.

  Light’s reflection on hair can be dull. Or else, in ’30s parlance, sheened. Pomade looked good on the nitrate of the moment, but there was no guarantee that such style – whether the appearance was refreshing or not – would save actors’ asses when confronted with questions that lurked beyond looks.

  As ears are the most bizarrely-designed and incongruous features attached to one’s personal facade, and because they are such standard human equipment, on the screen, where eyes, mouth, and cheekbones hog the show, ears do not need special portrayal treatment. But an ear can pick up light, which might make a big difference on camera. A floor lamp across the room might cast a spurious shadow or showcase a potentially deleterious characteristic. If one frame’s worth of magenta in the release print is a quarter-shade off, the audience might reject the picture wholesale and decamp to more pleasing houses.

  And then, there are times when, even with the humblest of frame passages through apertures, all the physics of rightness align into one artistic and engineered accord, and the apple of discord is smashed under a happy same-sex marriage between Apollo and Dionysus.

  Both director and actor in this little shoot knew, in the inner sanctums of their souls, that these things were possible, but they somehow lacked the skill to articulate the facts. Perhaps that was why they both had embarked on their nebulous attempts at human expression, to which they now made claim.

  The script-girl, checking the procedure of the test right then, could detect standout, if not shatterproof performances, based on the lack of baggage in her short-term memory. Not that she actually had the director’s insight in this respect… In the loading time between actors and their cameras, she made a statement regarding today’s latest subject. It was ostensibly directed at the director, but she could scarcely hope to capture his attention, she being a novice script-girl and all…

  ‘I believe in him. I believe in what he says, and how he says it.’

  Not that she was being paid the slightest attention…

  But this character on camera, this no-name fellow, what had he to prove in playing any ego-game in Hollywood? There was no precedent, no allegiance in his file. Indeed, she had been studying him the entire time, and now knew him well.

  Therefore, Butterbugs duly focused on those who attended at the fringes, such as a bangs-and-shoulder-length-brown 20-year old, who might indeed have the right to respond to talent in ways that supersede those in charge. On a film set, such quiet audacity can be traitorous, or, at the very least, rivalrous insubordination. But by her taste, instinct, and honesty, such were they who might emerge as the creators of tomorrow.

  Script-girl Bibsey – that’s who she was – undoubtedly had such attributes, and there was much more to her belief than arousal and attraction. Yet, given the grouped limitations of experience, latitude, and confidence, imparting personal feelings had no place within the authoritarian precincts of time-and-money shoots, no matter how goofy or doomed.

  Bibsey knew where to stop. There was no reason to proceed in testing the ground beyond the margins of intuition and time. Pity, that.

  No one ever said Hollywood motion picture production was a democratic, egalitarian enterprise. Even Bob Altman’s sets were structured with etiquette.

  Slæœr Ü. Thøåoærx, directing, was also keeping tabs on Bibsey’s lithe torso and its tank top results, as it were. He was pretty intuitive, too, and fully knew that his script-girl worked a certain magic. He absorbed, analyzed, then swiveled round to attend to his own business. That is, the administration of talent – basic problem solving, as Altman himself might say – which, to his just-starting-out mind could maybe be harnessed for the good of the picture. And could it be actualized, maybe, by his script-girl’s reflexes in generating intimate signals? Anything that commanded a response from this unconsciously talented script-girl under his tutelage was worth a second look. A purposeful distraction, for sure. (Stella Adler would call it focus.)

  Over-intricate levels of interpretation, just to get a stupid movie made? Not on your sweet life! Film is more an intellectual process than mechanical. Perhaps it is the last bastion where true psychology can still get it on with art. It’s just so obvious, from ‘The Iceman Cometh’ (American Film Theatre, 1973) to ‘Campus Chuggers VI’ (Gumption Pictures). Indeed, audiences shall never know the true intellect of they who make their entertainments.

  Muse-wise, all the other arts are covered; surely the Greeks had thought ahead and assigned someone to be the Muse of the Cinema, when the time was right.

  Bibsey?

  The director knew that Bibsey was by nature a retiring young woman, waiting quite sensibly to unleash her not unimpressive resources upon (and around) the right candidate, but the thickness of the erotic chemistry she precipitated was like a shiny umbrella across the test set, somewhat unreflective in the light, yet diaphanous and subtle.

  Continuing his reverie (which he had about 9.5 seconds to complete before the next setup was ready) Slæœr Ü. Thøåoærx pondered over Bibsey’s effect. So pronounced was this muse’s rapport with what was happening before the lens, that the average female viewer might – just might – answer to the male in question with a galvanizing, life-changing reaction. Eminently benevolent, but potent and lasting.

  Box office had to be a consideration, naturally.

  Throughout the test, he’d glanced over at Bibsey just as much as he did the conduct of his actor. He didn’t need any more coverage to convince him. Besides, he had eight minutes to pull off the next shot before the can must be shut.

  Such a happy coincidence for a director: to have an instant gauge by which to judge the profits of sensual appeal.

  Well, this was just one study. There would have to be more.

  12.

  Music HellHoleUjah!

  It was one of those putrified mornings, when all under heaven looked hopeless and lacking, and the itchy, hectoring environs of the alleyed second-string urban development along the slopes leading to northeast Downtown LA, with their dubious offerings of failed and soon-to-fail businesses and other filler, caused one to wonder how or why any civil services might be continued here, on account of the moribund and decayed mien all about.

  It was that bad.

  It was to one of these places that Butterbugs presented himself at this time, with no great dignity, on the shaky chance of breaking into showbiz. Days had passed, hearing nothing from nobody. No Kall Kard Kallbacks (a little diode on the Kard’s chip was supposed to light up: jade if successful, scarlet for flop, etc., but everything about it appeared more dead than red). No TABP-scene news perked, except that he was off touring Mali, Tchad, and the Central African Republic (with stellar results; no need for a pathetic, mournful boy to tag alo
ng, with a permanent half-smile of ‘Please Like Me… A Little?’ on his face)…

  It’s not that he was indignant, or spaced-out, or – blank. He just needed some cash, that’s all. To him it was BurgherFlop Job Time. Time to take anything. Still, he stubbornly stuck within the showbiz zone. Custodial, maintenance, whatever, if that’s what it took. Execs did it via the William Morris mailroom, why couldn’t he do it from right here: at the Calle Churrigueresque teatro?

  It was one of those third-rank theatres, built in the early ’30s, to serve the indeterminate cityscape hereabouts, not quite competitive with Downtown proper, yet not too far away from it either, so its existence could only have been tenuous at best. Just a modest neighborhood house.

  The exterior had about as much heritage charm as a modestly adorned telephone company’s service building. Certainly soon to be demolished, its mildly historic architecture and decor were so watered down in style (only the slightest references could be found relating to the exuberant Mexi-flavor of the theatre’s name) that very little expenditure could have ever been lavished upon it. Just a few curlicue molds for the concrete, a couple of Durango Deco wall sconces, a warehouse-wash of buff ’n’ terracotta, and inside, some seats and other showbiz stuff, and you’re done. A speculative, entirely disposable venture.

  Most features having been stripped away or busted, it was a place of possible potential, but probable doom. That it survived at all as a revue hall (that wasn’t burlesque or porno in nature) was one of those oddball LA truths that was just plain unexplainable. No less than three companion theatres in the greater neighborhood, inspired by viceregal days of Old Mexico (in name, anyway) by the same uninspired architect, the Cacahuamilpa, the Popocatepetl, and the Ixtaccihuatl, had already yielded to the razing ball. But LA was the nexus metropolis of showbiz, the Ecstasy and the Agony Meter for the Industry, so to speak. Supposedly, miracles were sometimes permitted.