Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  There was a side of Butterbugs that felt compelled to stay and defend his poor wheels, as much as he himself misunderstood them. But no, perhaps another day.

  It was just ten seconds to five. High time he got in the door of Walter Plunkett Hall, aka Wardrobe. When its door closed behind him, he was bang on time.

  From the incompetence seen at the front gate, there suddenly occurred a change for the better.

  ‘You are Butterbugs?’ a concerned voice rang out.

  ‘I am,’ he responded.

  ‘Are you cleared for employment? I know I shouldn’t have to ask that, but decades of dealing with greenhorns fresh off the street first thing in the morning has led me to make my own enquiries.’

  The Minister of Wardrobe, hair carefully oiled, pencil-line mustache (in fashion again), rimless spectacles, and wearing one of those horrific doctor’s tunics of white, tissue-y fabric, no buttons on the front – in case of patients’ spit-ups – like a 1930s cosmetic surgeon. A fussbudget was he, but apparently a competent one.

  ‘I, just showed up. As I was told.’

  ‘Tut, tut, tut! Well, never mind.’

  ‘What should I –’

  ‘Paperwork later. Don’t forget to run into Employment, over in the Raymond A. Klune Wing, just opposite! Now, to the Chair!’

  Butterbugs was made up and outfitted so swiftly that he could only conclude that it was the work of professionals. This senior had worked on ‘Gone With The Wind’ (SIP, 1939), ‘Duel in the Sun’ (SRO, 1946), ‘The Farmer’s Daughter’ (RKO, 1947), ‘A Farewell To Arms’ (20th, 1957) and ‘Ernie Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden’ (Your Basic, 1999), plus hundreds of others. Heritage and continuance. Butterbugs was humbled.

  The sequence was none too complicated, and by 6:15 he was told which way to go: further into the lot, then turn right at the film vaults, to the Jack Cosgrove Stage. Wheeling the Davis along was resumed, and because he was a complete and utter nonentity round these parts, the little yellow go-devil got all the attention.

  ‘Hey Meredith, look at that crazy rig!’

  ‘Hey Bobbara, what kind of car is that?’

  ‘Hey Moon, such a cute car, or what?’

  ‘Hey Wladyslaw, that’s one kooky car!’

  ‘Hey Puggah! Is that some kinda car, or what??’

  And so forth, all the way over. It was a superstar, not he, regardless of all the wacky set pieces created (just for the musicals alone) for filming on this storied lot.

  Then he entered the soundstage. Silhouetted, as most are, by the open expanse of the hangar door behind him, backlighted by the faded yellowy theme of the campus, he appeared as Supernumerary of the Moment.

  Someone, annoyed by the glare, struggled to form a matte box round his eyes with his broad hands.

  ‘Who is this? Who are ya?’

  ‘Butterbugs. Actor. Ready when you are… Chief!’

  ‘Who the hell told him to TALK!?!’ yelled a technician. ‘Am I doing sound check, or what? Huh??’

  ‘Easy Stash. I did. Wardrobe was a little late. He’s here now…’

  The broad-handed man and an assistant rushed over to the arrival and engaged him with greetings, explanations, papers to sign, introductions, gate pass issuance, details.

  ‘The first thing I want you to do,’ said the director in a slight Danish accent, ‘is to come over here, recline on this divan so that we can get a close-up, and what I want you to do is lie there, as if incapacitated, and I need you to look straight ahead, not quite into the camera lens, and I want you to be motionless, but I need you to shed a tear, all the way down your cheek, without moving, but while emoting every reason, for which you have, to shed this tear. Can you do this for me? I need you to do this for me…’

  Six weeks later, Butterbugs completed his role in the principal photography of ‘I, Doughboy’.

  21.

  Enactment And Exposition

  The brass of the 20th Century-Fox orchestra, the finest in Hollywood, blared, in a fanfare that explored new reaches in the constellations of stars above. (Pappy Newman conducted, with Gennady Rozhdestvensky as guest conductor.) In its intentions, the flourish was a hopeful, ambitious (and not a little poignant) set of grace notes, rather like knowing a familiar point of reference and advancing toward it: an adventurous realm of a brave new inevitability.

  Such a musical phenomenon cannot be further described here, except to infer an emboldened awe, projected from instruments, and settling over the gathered assembly, the vast audience, for which it was performed.

  For it is truly great scoring, admitting to no convenient identity, that moves the most souls into the districts of applicable emotions. For an audience must be absolutely willing to expose its emotions, and surrender to them, so as to directly commune with the entertainment manna from the heaven before them. But, like persistence of vision, the reflected light from this window on the world is not usually intercepted by anything but the random milkshake flung at the screen, or popcorn-cum-bubblegum asteroids halted at the ceiling, as barriers to illusion.

  This, though, was no picture show.

  The high-flying trumpets leveled off, and the orchestra ventured into the full range of Gliére’s ‘Solemn Overture for the 20th Anniversary of the October Revolution’, a stunning work that set up the audience to anticipate something strange, powerful, and new, and just at hand. The exalted excitement it generated made everyone’s hair stand on end for the following twelve minutes.

  Then came lush entertainment music, non-programatic, still serious, but going towards pleasure. A door opened, and out onto the stage of the Shrine Auditorium – that seminal citadel of rising falls or falling stars, the overwhelming Moorishness of it suggesting starry, post-Garden of Allah Saharan nights, when romance could and should overcome everything in the universe.

  So began a pageant, placed smack-dab in the middle of a crossroads, wherein Butterbugs’ destiny might be chosen.

  It was a moment of commitment, when a direction must be taken, without equivocation or regret. And besides, the great and good, the sublime and ridiculous, the covert and overt of the Cinema all came to town on the very same day, and were present to witness this display of humanity, to ensure the continuance of their species. It was also a show of force to the world, leading directly to the survival of the fittest.

  How, then, would it be possible to make a judgment without a tad bit of a talent show, a song and dance, by which to rate the world class quality of these who now dared to tromp the Shrine’s seasoned boards?

  Where Esther Blodgett and Norman Maine first met; a bit of smudged lipstick still clung to the striations of unwitting Le Corbusier-style concrete on Stage Left. Virtually the same spot where Richard Barthelmess kissed Mary Pickford for the last time, when they knew that not lipstick text but another handwriting was on the wall, at the close of the Silent Era. That very scene, when fate met acceptance, could not have even been captured by a Griffith, by a DeMille, or even a Max von Mayerling, for there was too much truth to it.

  Because, what is the modern cinema but the most obvious artifice, based on some kind of preferred manufacture of a chosen fancy? Within the created entity, truth may indeed be represented, or an attempt at it, however skilled. But truth itself? Not likely, not hardly, except as artistic license. The moments of real life rarely coordinate with viewable perimeters, which come too few and far between for popular consumption, especially without the lighting camera work of, say, an Ernest Haller or a Sam Leavitt. Cinematic artistry requires patience and dedication, but under the pressure of performance protocol. Thus was the concept of the Industry born. There were so many reasons that it was the way it was (hardcore capitalism, for one), that those who sat at its apex often forgot that art was its spirit and not only its byproduct. Old saws persisted, like: ‘If it comes out art, fine; just remember that the box office RULES’. Such ‘rules’ were in play as much as ever, if not more. Verily, the stakes had never been higher.

  That’s why all the Biggies
were here this night. To inspect. To shop. Talent was needed. To carry on.

  The less-solemn second overture, a processional actually, that rose from the orchestra pit indicated the protean nature of the show to follow. They call it ‘walk music’, that all-important accompaniment to the introduction of new personalities – for the consideration of stardom.

  Yes, stardom!

  While the 21st-century is usually too impatient to allow for elaborate elucidation of temperament and pedigree as far as introductions are generally concerned, here, at this moment, nearing what amounted to an Altar of the Patria of Hollywood, they who now made their way in single file, pilgrim-like, onto the gigantic stage, were to undergo special, Industry-style scrutiny. The ‘Parsifal’-like mesmeric rhythms of the music set both audience and participants into a contemplative mood, where thoughtfulness mixed with emotion. The result was a heartfelt admixture bearing a weight such as those who are selected for Purgatory carry, as opposed to those whose future has not been drawn in the sand yet. If any of these were to be the Chosen Ones, eventually due in Paradise (if they’d earned it), then they were a good-looking lot. The rest of us jack o’ lantern mugs would have to content ourselves with a fate of not only not being chosen, but one of being rejected, and thus shut out from the privileges of the royal path of life, and perhaps even the joys of heaven.

  Yet, how transfixed everyone was!

  The televised close-ups of the Ones did not disappoint. In them could be detected the most concentrated delivery of nuance, notion, and emotion, projected through mere innuendo or distant look of eye, at exactly the right moment. For those who noticed such skillful subtleties, such as talent artists and other cinematic creators, judging them was only a matter of taste and potential, to be prepped for the harvest, if deemed worthwhile.

  Television, of course, can reach into the deepest recesses of a viewer’s interpretations. Even the most pathetic of frustrated performers, watching such a show in their crummy little lairs, perhaps relegated to the most obscure of high school assistantships, or church picnic clownships, or lurid carnival toilings within any number of nations, states and counties, would have to admit: ‘Yea, truly, that is a damn good looking actor, aspiring or otherwise, talented or otherwise, and who, I have to admit, is probably deserving of this moment, and indeed, deserving of a bright future, because, hell, they know how to really deliver a magic moment at precisely the right time, and that’s what it takes to make it in this heartless biz…’

  And there they were, those many watchers, way back in the distant dark, many of whom feverishly dreamt of being up there on the universally-televised stage right now, their hearts bursting with tearful emotion and longing, yet with some noble empathy for those few who actually did make it.

  Thus, they who walked the walk onstage this night had many silent but ultimately non-grudging advocates the world over. For within the civilization of the performer lie many hidden decencies. Most choose not to sup on sour grapes (not publicly, at any rate), but to quietly root for the winners, perhaps adopting a favorite individual deep in their hearts, accompanying them in spirit through the years, as ones to achieve their dreams in their physical absence, and thus, to vicariously perform on their behalf. And in the years to come, perhaps some of those who succeeded might actually return to their roots, if their wonders were only singular, or if they wearied or wobbled or wore out their welcome, to prove to all the bozos back home that they really were exceptional and lucky, even for a time.

  But until such times, someone would have to carry that Columbian Torch of Accomplishment, probably to the finish line.

  Victors! Do not weep for they who did not place! They helped you cross that line. They served. They worked from well behind the lines of sight. But what of them? They shall not cross over Jordan. The promised land is not for them. Like Dathan, they did not know where they were going…

  But those on stage that night did know – not the least because of all the frenetic assistant stage directors, floor directors, and perpetually anxious behind-the-scenes geniuses, pesky, union-y, horny things that they were.

  So, they who traversed the networthy cat-and-kitten-walks, artfully suspended over the googly audience in the massive Shrine, had no idea there existed this support system way out there in AudienceLand somewhere. A bedrock that would sustain them in future times, and provide a network of word-of-mouth support which even in this online, worm-infested age was still absolutely vital to the make-or-break fate of a given performer.

  Jerry Lewis hosted. His new youthful bloatness was now working for him, and, rewired for pleasure instead of pain, he brought a new wackiness that the audience genuinely loved. Plenty of smartphones were defiantly pulled out of tuxes, and shutterbugging was constant.

  ‘I want Lewis for my latest picture…’

  ‘I want Lewis for the Copa season…’

  ‘I want this kid, Paul. I want him! Now you get him for me…’, etc.

  The co-hosting by Chris Rock brought another, oddly complimentary, tang to the event, in which the haze of a powerful but pissed off African-American mingled with the busheven [rage] generated by an aging, non-Rickles Jew.

  Then came the moment when Butterbugs placed his performance boots onto the boards of consummately public exposure. This was IT. Here was his Rubicon, or better yet, his Jordan, where there was no going back, when the die would be cast in what at least appeared to be a direction that might be advantageous. The binding tie was there, to be taken up without complaint. And each star-studded step, along the wigwagged Tivolishness of a suspended and very narrow bridge, suspended over the abyss of faith, led him on with ever-increasing nuance of an impending – something or other.

  Aside from the perils of ambition, the process filled him – (yes, him more than anyone else in the auditorium, or at the tail end of the broadcast network that was, admittedly, worldwide) – with a star-studded, holy-humungous, big-titted HOPE.

  [***QUASI-LOW-CONSEQUENCE SPOILER***: Hell, there was a sexy young frisky biologist at the Amundsen–Scott station at the South Pole who, the first second she saw Butterbugs on color satellite TV, fell conclusively in love with him – (in the annals of the space-time continuum, she would be noted as the very first fan of the young performer, for her realization was microseconds before anyone else, due to a superbly-performing downlink station that particular night) – and would not, could not, conceive of any other person on which to focus her love interest on this planet. So there. Case closed. End of story… ***end of QUASI-LOW-CONSEQUENCE SPOILER***]

  Sure enough, the global audience of the hour was concentrating on the event with unequivocal AWE, for it was akin to a High Mass or a coronation. Or some sort of reckoning, in which a declaration of status must and shall be made: that so-and-so is exceptional, and all others are found wanting.

  This, for Butterbugs, was such a moment, and while he sensed that it was all in the scheme of things, he felt artificially glorious, and thus chose to keep both wide feet firmly attached to the terra firma of what he’d so far known of the world.

  ‘Egregia Mitten!’

  Bert Parks’ voice spread out into the Void of Audience like a stormy petrel’s spew-song. Sound and images of Egregia Mitten, so adorable, so obviously meritorious of this privileged moment, 90% of her flesh made public by a stupendous Gaultier cocktail ‘dress’, echoed across the world. Watch out, the heralds were not kidding, there really was something to crow about with these New Young People. She presented herself before the masses with finesse, and jaw-dropping bodily credentials.

  Butterbugs, in casual Blipkins slacks, Farrell’s sport jacket from Carstairs, Hush Puppies, dark cotton shirt from Penney’s, and Sears underwear, then stepped onto the route which led to the Final Podium.

  Broadcast cameras’ cue lights on red, booth director proceeding, switcher activating all Butterbugs-oriented cameras, immediately put a seal on the show’s progress. So his presence was apparently accepted as worldwide broadcast-worthy.


  Yes, it was true – he was ON. For the very first time. He truly wished he were a virgin, because that was the only psychosexual factor not fulfilled at this moment. If any orgiastic discharge had any qualities of anti-climax in it though, they went hardly unnoticed at this time, for it was the Play that was the Bigger-Thing-Than-Ever, and no matter what the component pieces were, that Biggest Thing was going to be given every opportunity to win the day.

  There. He thought it. Ambition was the motivator. And why the hell not? His soul had been sprinkled with Death Valley particles, with unsavory drippings, grease spray, hog sweat, and with dummy dust already. So, if the way ahead was unpolluted, who was he to cast aspersions or dangerous objects in the way to sensible achievement?

  His carpe diem was then and there cast in iron and stone.

  ‘Well my beamish boy, I got you in the show. You were a hit.’

  Sonny was not smug, only proud.

  ‘Run along now. Go out with the gang. They’ll show you what to do! Remember, conference in my office, 10:00AM tomorrow, hear?’

  ‘Hear!’ crowed Butterbugs, and went off Stage Left, past the legendary lipstick plaque.

  Just as the stage crew started to do load-out, Sonny turned to Del Nind. They were obliged to take seats in the front row, where they could most advantageously bathe in the afterglow of showbiz’s best payoff moments.

  ‘He’s on his way, Del. Lemme do the numbers. 1) The show tonight; 2) ‘I, Doughboy’ is in the can; and 3) Mike called me a few minutes ago to say his segment’s been pushed ahead. It’s airing on ‘60 Minutes’ tomorrow night! 1 – 2 – 3!’

  ‘OK, Sonny-With-The-Biggest-Projecting-Dick-In-Hollywoodland, you pulled him off. You got him into the little ol’ Shrine Talent Show. (Big deal, big deal!) The Industry event of the year! OK, you win.’