It is just that I have lately seen ‘I, Doughboy’ (Kemmendine Pictures, color, CinemaScope), and I know the great public is waiting in the wings to drift, lemming-like, to yet another studio offering, hot-popping fresh off the assembly line of time-fillers which, quite possibly, make our endurance on this clod of dust permissible – and, at least for the present, possible.
‘I, Doughboy’ is a picture that has not exactly been touted in the media. And I shall not do so here. And yet…
No amount of care was begrudged this picture. And it shows. In the beauty of its every frame, which I have to admit, was admirably captured by Jimmy Wong Howe and Russ Harlan (neither of whom otherwise deserve my praise, as all of their other work is completely worthless), and in the expansive extravagance of the Aaron Avshalomoff score (praise grudgingly delivered, but praise nevertheless), I was utterly transported. And completely transubstantiated. In the long years of my viewing motion pictures of all kinds, I felt that I was never nourished. There is no film during which I have not felt bilious. In this medium, the Seventh Art, with its promise of being the liveliest, I always expected to be fed, for I suffer from perpetual famishment, and thus, my continued disappointment grew with each failure I saw. And this led onward, to, fro, and past each failure that duly appeared. The whole cumulative experience was as a string of dismal phone lines, stretching through insipid landscape as far as thought can reach. I despaired, but I never stopped looking. Somehow, beneath the ersatz projection of some sort of personality from this feeble frame, my own (bodily that is, not celluloid nor digitalized), which is often bolstered by satin finery as well as synthetic buffoonery, to make mockery of all of you I hate, some kind of withered life force has still survived, in the bare hope that some day, somewhere, I might discover the more-than-faith-based expectation of seeing something of value up there on the silver screen. This day, in a humble screening chamber amidst the waste of our daily time, I have at last lived to see what I dreamt of since 1939: a birth of what cinema should be, and, more importantly, of witnessing one who can convey it.
The picture of which I speak is not a director’s vision, but an actor’s. It is due to this actor and his performance alone that I am at all qualified to make these here statements, for I have been, as I said, transported, transubstantiated, and, thus, transformed. Slæœr Ü. Thøåoærx’s ‘I, Doughboy’ is nothing except the soul of the world bared, and he who does the baring is he who dominates the screen for 265 minutes. He is an actor, a very new actor, by name of Butterbugs. Remember that name! It is my earnest hope that he will never be some kind of latter-day Leverkuhn. Such is the portent in him. Ye gods, spare him from the Devouring Drop! Then again, he is not at all vulnerable. I get the feeling that he can do no wrong. He has power, real power. And he uses it with a wisdom beyond his years. I know in my shrinking heart that that power has indeed destroyed me. In this role, he has smashed everything I have ever stood for, for he has proven that there is true greatness to be seen up there on the false yet strangely true screen. I have never seen such a fine performance, nor did I deem one such as this at all possible. I am moved. I am devastated. And it has done me in. That is as it should be.
See this picture. It will change your life. It has changed mine.
Randi could not stop crying. After he made sure that his review was safe in the cyber-vaults of ‘The Asker’, and, indeed, was already appearing in all online versions, he had to pen his last note amidst tears that were monsoonal in their proportions.
‘Tears now, but not for much longer,’ he sobbed.
Besides, his always-dehydrated body had squeezed the last liquid out of its remotest crannies, all for the use of these tears. The final footage of the picture was about to run out onto the take-up reel.
It was a quick message that he left on the inside of a bit of discarded Corey-oh’s cereal box’s demi-cardboard, scrawled with a nubby pencil. In it he explained, in the same spirit as his last review, now that he had seen what appeared to be genius on the screen, all life had lost its purpose for him. He was also overjoyed, as the genius he had seen, conveyed by Butterbugs, was weighed with another, higher value. Butterbugs was his deliverer from the misery of life. It was he, this new actor, available now to the masses, to those with varying minds and variable aspects of life’s interpretation, who now liberated him from the horrendous duty of Carrying On. Now he was about to be free. He had waited all his life for this opportunity, and he was not about to squander it.
Regrets? Everything was regret, except what he was about to do. This one moment of non-regret. Yet when it passed, and if he were still here, the regret would surely resume: regret for not being able to see any subsequent pictures featuring the actor he had just endorsed. But that was all part of the mega-bummer that now had to be wrapped up.
With the calculated effort of Emma Thompson’s title character in ‘Carrington’ (Gramercy, 1995) (a picture he loathed, though he couldn’t help having Michael Nyman’s score in mind right now), Randi nevertheless emulated every preparation in enacting his self-demise. Except that he did not plant the shotgun at his belly, girl-style. Instead he aimed the sawn-off Chuck Heston-approved double barrels at his wattled turkey neck, which only a few granules of grapeshot succeeded in atomizing. And it was all over.
An epoch had indeed begun. Randi Chuzzlewit’s last words, both written and spoken, were in the Franco-Anglo-Saxon of his enemies:
‘Excusé-moi, il faut que je parte. Fuckers!’
26.
We Are The Masters Of Time
It was not as if Butterbugs could have been a victim of time. But it was a struggle. Some of the time. What was he to make of the fact that, a few short (and nightmarish) weeks ago, he had been in the surreal and apparently endless space-time continuum of hopelessness and despair? Now, every minute, even every second, was block-booked, accounted for, and processed accordingly.
This transition, far from being stressful, was nevertheless somewhat dizzying. Now he had to design each and every move. For example, he earnestly sought the most effective way to cross a room to reach a communicative device. After a week of cellphone-wearing on his person, he sensibly pledged to leave said phone at one point when he was in station, as incentive to keeping trim by consistent movement, and to prevent blubber buildup, not to mention Dan Quayle-style blood clots, resulting from insipid, slug-like non-movement. Not that he was in danger of succumbing to such advanced conditions. But by assigning personal discipline in order to extract as much effectiveness from every moment as was humanly possible, he might condition himself for maximum effectiveness in all things. He was set on self-improvement, guided by impulse, and without programme. A most unusual route, given all the advertised packages available in the marketplace, though a most advantageous one, given his sensitivities.
Efficiency expert! This high-level self-management, with no neuroses-based motivation present, was the easiest thing he had ever done. Instead of being stressed, he was invigorated. Instead of being overwhelmed, a big, bright, wonderful, glowing, golden world was now opening up. For example, it made every bit of sense to think of how many paces it was to the loo, in conjunction with the roster of post-loo duties before taking car to appointment with his wig-fitter at studio. Or, how much head clearance did he have in Sonny’s Hudson Hornet Hollywood coupe (which the agent had generously loaned Butterbugs in lieu of his poor old Davis, which went to sleep one day at Selznick and never woke up again), and would it be a problem in slowing down his getting in and out of the car, and would it affect the rehearsal that was skedded immediately after a script conference?
For the first time in his life, studies such as these made sense. His mind was being allowed into territory that was comprehensible instead of unharmonious. All these calculations, e.g. the time it takes to reach for a tinned beverage in the icebox, the energy required in punching a triangular hole in it, and the requisite gesture for downing its contents, were all computations which a mind that was no longer terribly wasted had to u
nderstand before a procedure of automatic performance could be enacted.
In other words, he was moving into a higher gear. What’s more, it was natural to him. Thus, all the discord of his previous Sufferings and Equivocations, laced into a matrix of strangulation – or nearly so, were not native to his mind, nor could they ever be.
‘If we had only known!’ exclaimed Sonny Projector (on regular occasions). ‘If we had had the slightest inkling that you had been in disarray, baby! That you were in trouble – or whatever – we would have bent over double-time backwards to move every friggin’ rock and boulder to save you, baby. I kick myself every day – right in the groin – for being so stupid as to just sit on my ass while you were suffering out there!’
‘But Sonny,’ Butterbugs would always say, in the calmest, most self-effacing tone he could draw upon, ‘How could you have known?’
‘How could I not have known?? Here was this, this greatness, rolling around, like so much duck shit, silently waiting in the gutter, and how could I live with myself. Huh? I mean, really, now??’
To which Butterbugs would reply, successfully concluding the sequence, ‘I live again!’
All who ever had the privilege to witness these scenes were always speechless with awe and wonder whenever the instant dauphin-star would say ‘I live again!’
Mike Curtiz and Jack Warner, having heard of this magnificence, had wanted to use it in Mike’s biopic of St. Meldwyn, now before the cameras in Humberside.
‘We get pin spot; rises over saint’s head and brighter, when he sez lines,’ Mike proposed.
‘Perfect, baby,’ says Jack. ‘Lemme twist Sonny’s arm to get it before Zanuck and Goth.’
Sonny’s answer was the same to Jack L. Warner of Warner Bros. as it would be to some wise guy know-it-all punk pickpocket.
‘Keep your fuckin’ greedy paws off my boy, Warner! He’s mine. Wait a minute. No he isn’t. He’s himself! He owns all his own rights, and that’s the way it’s gonna stay. Now get out, before I call the police!’
If Jack L. could leave the scene without a word (who, Jack??) and tell Mike later: ‘We’d better not use it. Sonny got really mad… Why that miserable –’, then the power and glory of Butterbugs needed no further proof of its grace. And it was Butterbugs who later condescended unto the two vet filmmakers, and generously allowed Mike to use the scheme if the line were rephrased as ‘We shall all live again!’ when St. Meld goes to the burning stake. Instead of pin spots forming a halo around him, his head is crowned with flame.
Butterbugs and Sonny would get ‘in creative association with’ credit on this big religious pic. It was the actor’s first non-acting credit, and as such, did not interest him much.
It was a time to be swept up, up, into the flurry of the unknown, within the mysterious and mighty dome of as-yet unrealized cinema. For time was now compressed, and it was time to make the most of it.
27.
I Have Been Admitted
Word was out: Butterbugs was, or just might be, IN.
At least that’s what the buzz seemed to indicate. People were talking.
Let’s see, in quick succession there had been at least seven punches at this point.
1) ‘Merchant’ at the Metropolitan; SRO.
2) The ‘60 Minutes’ segment; not a bio, but indirect exposure of high value; Nielsen ratings: 18.3% with 30% share – huge!
[Mike Wallace’s segment, while decidedly vague in some aspects, nevertheless stirred up quite a bit of interest. CBS News was flooded with inquiries concerning the unknown actors ‘profiled’ (read ‘spied upon’). 92% were concerned with Butterbugs, the remainder for P. Flask. Mike himself came under some criticism for the ‘voyeurism’ of the piece. Thus, WOM (word of mouth) possibilities were significant.]
3) Live feature perf at Sunday Late Night Epilogue, Million Dollar Theatre; SRO.
4) Limited release of ‘I, Doughboy’ (Kemmendine) in ten metro centers, yields very respectable early B.O.
5) Randi Chuzzlewit’s (final!) review: a rave. There is a God, after all.
6) Follow-up reviews now coming in quick succession, almost overwhelmingly enthusiastic.
7) All-night strategy sessions at Projector+Players Agency, with seven staff members put on the project, due to perceived tsunami effect unfolding. Status: current.
7a) As a result of these seven (lucky) punches, Sonny creates the actor-oriented Projector+Players division (noted in 7), above). Status: a big deal.
More punches expected.
Del Nind!
As changeable as the New England seasons (though he hailed from Yuma, AZ). As influential as El Niño (though possessive of fair weather friendships). The great talent artiste, it seemed, was fully on board.
One of Del’s favorite Industry activities was to yak on the phone, usually with fellow power dogs and moguls. The type who’d achieved primo-time babe-by-the-pool-dom, yet remained beyond the blessings of Viagra due to advanced age and heart threats. The kind who preferred to exercise their clout via old hen-pecking on the blower, as if they were Ray Stark or Hal Wallis. And often they were.
Del knew how to lead off.
‘Hey Sholey! Today I took lunch with Izzy over at Paramutual, and I told him about the kid. He sez to me, he sez: ‘This, this KID, this Budderbuggs guy – has he, uh, got the stuff to play the Palace?’ I welcomed Iz’s vaudevillian reference because, hey, he was there! I respect the hell out of Izzy. Plus, he knows the right people. He got Berle and Isaac Davis together. He got Universal City built. He got Merv LeRoy that trainload of Havanas. Baby, he wrote the BOOK on the Warren Sarjent approach to modern higher education to boot. Izzy’s gonna see what he can do for the kid. They’re pretty hot about it over at 20th. Jerry Wald’s got some big parts opening up in over twelve pictures. He needs support for Pat Boone, Maria Sansone, Giselle Bundchen and Jürgen Strelnikov – all red-hot stars today, doncha know? Bundchen! Yeah, she’s got one, ain’t it the truth? If the kid can get in that kind of door, he’ll be passing up Gary Crosby in no time! (Yeah, I know you got him started!)
‘So you’ll take a look. Yeah. So Iz likes the Bill Shakespeare angle. Class is something you can always rely on. I tossed the ‘Titus Andronicus’ option on the table, and Iz just about choked on his pineapple drink. ‘Delhi,’ he sez to me, ‘that’s boffo – brilliant!’ Then he goes on: ‘We get some flesh impact with the Tamara, Queen of the Goths role. Who can we get? Prunella Ching? Kuksi Ix Freresco? I tell ya, we can scale the heights with this one. We can also get Mrs. Miller to do a solo bit in the banquet scene.’ That’s what he said, verbatim, Sholey. You get the picture. If Iz is behind it, it’s gonna roll, baby.
‘And Sholem, tell everybody that this thing about the kid is: everything’s coming up lollipops and snapdragons down here in Culver City. Yeah! What’re you, crazy? You bet people are interested. Hell, I’ve been approached by Burkmart’s crows, always lookin’ at somethin’! Always lookin’ for mascots. You know, faceless nobodies that everyone likes. Stick a banner of their mugs over the discount dishware. Anything to fill the space. No. No, I don’t. What’re you, some kind of nut? And you don’t think that I’d turn ’em down? What the hell do I want to futz with that ratty end of the Industry for? I save that for associates I know who’re going through hard times. You know, the drunks, the perverts, and types like that. I give ’em the gigs. Just like you’d do. We’re philanthropists at heart, aren’t we, baby? In the meantime, I think we gotta think big here. Yeah. Potentials.
‘What’s in it for you, you ask? Let me tell ya. Purveyor of opportunities that you are, you’re in a key position to, you know, enable someone new to hit the ground running. This kid can run, Sholey. I know you know. I know you believe. I know there’s nothing more I need to say. You’re a sweetheart, Sholey.’
‘Stanley! You know what I’m going to say, don’t you? You know it! The kid’s on everybody’s OozeBerry vine. Op-op-opportunity cost time. But let me tell you, the cost is practically non-existent. Kid�
��s already proved himself. Big thanks to Sidney Patrick. Yeah, he’s already got name value. No, we’re gonna keep the name. Glad you agree, Stanley. Yeah, it came up, but it was on the table for about five seconds before we swept it off. Catchy name, all right. Memory value, without a doubt, baby.
‘OK, we got the kid situated in Sonny’s stable and we’ll get him a gig. OK. Good progress. Pieces are falling into place faster than a tipped-over tub of magnets, huh? OK. I’m kicking around a concept over at Colpix, about four fun-loving kids who decide to go to H’wood with the ambition of being soap opera stars. (Remember, Stanley, when we called soaps ‘stage shows’ because of their heavy confinement to soundstages? Do we want that angle? I like it. You will, too.) It’ll be a wacky sort of ‘For Those Who Think Young’ (UA, 1964) or ‘Where the Boys Are’ (MGM, 1960) type of picture, designed for Yung Peipl. You know, turned-down sailor’s caps, bell-bottoms, babes with soft drinks and no-piece bathing suits (just kidding), plus a tad bit of surfing. Super. Super. Super!’
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