‘And we’re both such quick studies, like you say!’
She smiled wistfully, standing with arms akimbo, next to his prone posture of adoration.
‘Maybe it is weakness that I’m talking about.’
‘Pony-girl, if you’re weak, can we then not run part of the way to yon star?’
She tried to laugh.
‘I will carry you the rest of the way!’
‘Oh, Butterbugs, Butterbugs, see the tears in my eyes! Don’t they tell all?’
‘Oh, let me see! They do.’
She could not look dearer to him right now. That incredible face, with its pleading smile, tears running down her cheeks. It certainly occurred to him that what he desired might be causing this struggle within her. But was it not sweetly sad and attractive at the same time?
His tone became flatter, sensible, benevolent, and suddenly mature.
‘It makes me honor you, all the more.’
He paused, and stared nobly toward the distant star.
‘Go then, to your waiting ones. I shall remain here. In reflection.’
She drew down and nearer to him for comfort.
For him, there was nothing more than the sheer onslaught of her desirability at such close quarters. He tenderly erasing the lines of her tears with his thumbs. It gave him a sort of blissful electrification, one that told him he was right-minded in all his feelings for her.
For her, intimacy required instant consideration of choices. It was the most difficult thing in her life so far, to correctly judge the protean power in the pull she felt right now. Yet, it promised unprecedented glory.
For him, the passion needed no reason, no further discussion.
For her, so many directions to pursue. Each one worthwhile. As he erased her tears, she traced the same routes on his own face, and thus were the roads to bonding revealed. Even the lobes of his ears compelled her to make epoch-level decisions as to whether she should light out to her heart’s desire, or if duty would win the day.
Being a woman of natural and organic mettle, Cody had all the right stuff to sort this heartfelt material out, as if it were composed of raw weaving skeins, all essentially arranged, yet in need of proportional slot assignments. In total freedom, she happened to be one who could step up to the challenge, and from there, delegate and relegate. She did both every day. Much of her confidence was couched in her organizational skills. Why else would she be in the power position she currently occupied? Millions were exposed to the creative and policy decisions she made, and ‘her’ pictures touched hearts, ruled conversations, and even managed controversies that crossed the lives of they who came to picture show forums around the globe.
Butterbugs gazed at her. He was organizing his own romantic notions. He quite reasonably surmised that she had been one of those who were lucky enough to be there in all those sun-swept, open-air, singer-songwriter rock concerts of yesteryear, mostly of the mellow kind, floral-printed, patchouli-scented, pot-accented, and freely-loved, when earthbound glory ascended towards things strange and new.
Anyway, that’s how the young actor viewed her.
He hadn’t ever been present on such occasions though, especially when they were at their sweetest. Still, it was as if he had been, for his instinctual compass gravitated in directions leading to the same kinds of strangeness and newness.
Witnessing this lovely force naturally led him to awe. From any level of his human experience, the notion that he could attain such a refined height was just too remarkable. It was beyond selfishness, beyond the banalities of earthly societal politics. It spoke of some sort of idealistic society, where respect was built into the bedrock of more primal needs, and somehow, throughout it all, everything would be all right, and all sides would be happy. Because, heck, there was room enough for all and there was no reason to exclude anybody or anything from such benevolence.
He had never tumbled into such a free-fall of passion before.
‘Cody!’
They were both breathing heavily now.
Mutual gazes became intense, in epic close-up.
All this palaver aside, there was something akin to love-at-first-flesh-encounter about this couple, splayed on the laundered grass, in this by-lane, on this calm night.
Unspoken dialogue was making things very clear.
‘FUCK, Butterbugs. How am I supposed to sort this thing out? I want you, but you’re already laying down terms.’
‘I’m not going to do that to you…’
‘How could you know what you’re doing? To me?’
‘But, by golly, Cody, I think there’s the love. The love that I feel!’
He hope-thought added: ‘And you feel!’
Cody smoothed out her jeans-y, lingerie-uncomplicated thighs. Her motions of retreat bespoke nothing but longing – excuses to the Jamboree-level Eagle-Scout type who made his stand with her, at this moment.
‘I can please her,’ thought Butterbugs. ‘And I will do whatever it takes to secure her spreading, sleek, short-waisted bod for my actor’s dream-desires, even though we might have to live in a garret!’
So.
There was as much love mixed in with this thing as lust, and as was always the case with Butterbugs, some sort of evaluation would have to ensue if a fair assessment were to be arrived-at.
Along the feather duster-commuter trail of his progression as an actor, in this here town.
31.
A Producer Named Parker
Henry Koster, in his seminal essay, ‘Directing in CinemaScope’ [New Screen Techniques New York, Quigley, 1953] states that, because the wide screen is so huge, close-ups are unnecessary. The director is free of the cameraman, and indeed, once the camera has been set up, it can be forgotten. Plus, all the players on the mural-sized screen are in focus at all times. That’s why, in his directing of ‘The Robe’ (20th, 1953), he interviewed every one of the 5000 extras in the picture. Each had to be an actor, not just a space-filler.
For his part, Butterbugs’ world as a strolling player with up-and-coming potential was growing wider and wider. Inexorable really, such as when the black & white nickelodeon-sized screen opens to full, surging-color Todd A-O size, during the prologue to ‘Around The World In 80 Days’ (UA, 1956).
If he hadn’t quite reached that Golden Mean of 65mm at this point, there were nevertheless other principal players to be found within the expanding opening. They remained in focus at all times, even when they came closer to the lens for their occasional close-up shots. Just like the early CinemaScope pictures at 20th-Fox, up to six leading names could be listed on the same title card. Plenty of room for all.
For it is the frame, the framed reality, that provides structure in action, and definition in presentation. The frame stabilizes what would otherwise be a crazy, undisciplined progression. Theoretically, anyway.
The romance between Cody and Butterbugs was working out. Having begun so rapturously on the nocturnal sidewalks of Culver City, it had quickly found its place in their daily lives. The wonder may not have been articulated with the same inspired dialogue as before, but the earnestness, physicality, and enjoyment – in equal measures – assumed maturely-assigned places in their schedules. As well it might, befitting two such intensely-involved persons in pictures. There was no further talk about running away together.
As of now, Cody was a leading name in Butterbugs’ new frame of reference. With all the new characters entering his professional hours, she was not the only one, but her position was prominent within the composition. She and Butterbugs saw each other when they could, but both were awfully darn busy. The emotions of passion, yearning, and – possible love – were duly rectangulated (e.g. his place/her place/his work/her work).
Minutes, hours, days, were duly seized. He adapted wonderfully to the dot-connecting and chess-moves necessary to manage all the elements within the general excitement, while she found she could juggle disparate items in the air much better than she expected. Both were energized and stimulated
by the other. Seen within a framed context, their interactions met, overlapped, and soloed at will. They bent their rhythms when they were together, elongating in more ways than time, as sequences/opportunities/scheduling, would allow.
The bottom line in these new complications was that Butterbugs now had mainstream concerns to omni-task within his daily regime.
And a regime it was. A disciplined one.
The New Way of Life.
For Butterbugs, a fast lane indeed.
The up-and-coming actor’s role in ‘Seacom! Centcom! Ecomcon!’ was – a big disappointment. He got in ten shooting days’ worth, under the able Beah Richards’ direction. (She was an outstanding Whit-cum-polymath who had turned to directing around the turn of the millennium, primarily war dramas, with much success.) Notwithstanding this considerable stretch of eleven-hour days, his role was reduced to about sixteen seconds of screen time. Many such editing decisions were insisted upon by the picture’s ‘Creative Consultant’, the not-so-beloved war profiteer, Kritchurd Puerile, an unfortunate choice, to be sure. He and Hy Goth virtually hijacked the production from its creators, and in the process, the film’s integrity was compromised. It was a mega-flop, and played the Orpheum on Broadway for only one – yes, one – matinee performance, before lapsing into an obscurity that even VHS purists had trouble parsing through. Ms. Richards brought suit, which was sure to win handily in the Mighty High Court in old Sacramento. K. Puerile retreated to an undisclosed location, rumored to be on the slopes of his dragon’s hoard. There he mourned over an empty chest, set to receive box office rewards that would never come now.
Did any of this matter to the emerging actor? Hardly.
Butterbugs had been paid his scale, and he’d acquired updated wheels. A 1961 BMW 700 Coupé, with air-cooled engine. He thought smog would be a better cooling agent than dirty rust water. So what if his automotive notions were bozo-grade? He was getting a big kick out of the oddball rigs that came his way. Much more interesting than some boring Datsun Dubno or a bland Toyo Kogyo Sweetstuff!
In different departments of taste, he took Sonny up on a few of his wardrobe tips, fountain pen choices, gourmet food comforts, and found them copacetic.
Above all, out of this bona fide flop, he’d met Cody.
Ms. de la Funk, fully-fledged California Girl.
So what if he had found out from Sonny (not Cody) that Hy was indeed THE Goth of Goth Pictures? So what if Hy had told Butterbugs that, despite the underhanded manipulation in signing him to what turned out to be a nothing part, he and Sonny had to kowtow to Hy’s high powers and misguided demeanors – at least for this one picture. Exposure was very important at the present stage, not only to the public, but to the management behind the curtain.
‘We should just be glad that Hy didn’t pressure you into a long-term contract behind my back!’ Sonny exulted.
‘I read it over. It was just for ‘Seacom! Centcom! Ecomcon!’.’
‘Well I scanned it too, ya know. But that’s what I’m here for.’
‘I’m glad of that, Sonny.’
‘Damn right.’
‘Darn tootin’!’
‘I hope your eyes have been opened as to that aspect of the biz,’ Sonny cautioned.
‘What aspect?’
‘How we can be.’
‘Saying and doing?’
‘Check, baby.’
The episode was a perfect example of the business to which the young actor had now committed nearly every waking second of his existence. Point taken.
Any remaining time within each 24-houred sequence was of course devoted to the devotion of his heart’s desire, the peerless Cody de la Funk. Not quite obsessional, but almost a distraction.
Team Butterbugs moved on, its managers keen on turning his pilot light into a comet. After the first flush of the Seven-Star Punch, the pyrotechnical display had dissipated, but only as far as offerings were concerned. ‘I, Doughboy’ was just about to go into wide release, then international.
‘You will be seen on the fabled screens of Windhœk, baby. Farrukhabad! Ceuta! Tingolao! Vitebsk! Seven screens in Maracaibo alone!’
‘Crikey!’
‘And don’t become too modest a mouse. You’ll also be on every 20th-Fox opening too, ya know, starting about now!’
‘Sonny? Uh, do we, you know, get… royalties… from… that…?’
And Sonny grimaced.
There it was, the fresh new starring face of Butterbugs, patiently occupying the ‘waiting’ or ‘to do’ lists of the print and broadcast media. For plenty of urgent reasons, the Team wanted to take advantage of this pre-dambust lull in order to plan. There were certainly many classic marketing templates to try. Sonny hated the term ‘model’ – except when it came to dames. To him, as used in the business sense, all it meant was ‘copy-cat time’. Someone else’s originality. In the case of his new kid in town, singularity was required. For it was success that was anticipated in the big beef-up to come, nothing less. It was only because they’d just tasted its effects so sweetly, in seven big bangs, that expectations had a right to rise. In showbiz, the public’s choice in taste has to be regarded as a covenant. For the long haul, of course.
Such a mind-trip was pure Dale Carnegie – with manipulating strings attached.
‘Another, better man,’ was how Sonny described Porter Parker.
‘Better than…’
‘Hy Goth may be a full-blown mogul, but as a producer, he’s… well…’
‘So, who, then?’
‘We need a producer who will serve!’
‘If you –’
‘Say, you’re gettin’ it on with Miss Cody-d-l-F, huh?’
‘I –’
‘I like that!’
‘You –’
‘So listen, we’re going over to Porter Parker’s pad, NOW.’
Porter Parker Presents was located in Universal City’s signature high-rise: a dull stand, but architecturally respectable in its Mies van der Rohe suiting. When Lew Wasserman and Ed Muhl cut the ribbon in 1964, it was the first bit of the Corporate Look to be applied to a Hollywood studio. The Ross Hunter Compound in its northwest quadrant contained dozens of production company offices. Some were endowed with ‘names’, while others had mere letters forming words mounted on teak paneling.
Welcome!
Dishwater crewcut tamed by Butch Wax, with everything pretty dumpy below it, burgermeister face with Neil Hamburger glasses, black suit and thin houndstooth tie, with white (short-sleeved underneath?) shirt, Porter Parker himself drew into focus as he approached the blurry glass of his inner office door. It opened in a cinematic way (via SFX, it seemed: floating, rotating, dissolving), and Porter, eyebrows raised in a ‘Well, of course!’ expression, merely said:
‘Hey, hey, hey, persons! You’re here!’
A real Good Time guy. Some handshakes and backslapping. No direct references to Butterbugs, other than to greet him.
‘Have we…met… bef…ore…?’
Butterbugs’ meek inquiry was totally lost on the bubbling producer’s presentational performance.
The 34½ year-old mover/shaker’s idol was Martin Ransohoff, that perpetual golf-putter, whose 19th hole was right-in-front-of-his-office-desk. Besides a similar gimmick in his own office, PP had a complete ’50s-style thiertre-quality candy counter, stocked with genuine ’50s-style candies ’n’ confections, some of which he had ‘Custom Made in the Argentine’. Big Time, ButterNut, Milkshake and Zero bars (‘Love them Hollywood Brands Inc. products! Ya see, I’m a loyal hometown boy!’). Plus, Oasis candy cigs, Root Beer Barrels (he consumed at least two boxes a day) and bound volumes of Bazooka Joe comics, those waxy mini-papers, featuring Mort, the character with the overblown turtleneck shirt, who spewed sweat with every exclamation mark…
‘And here, looka here, are all the strips of ‘Dick Tracy’ that feature the character Johnny Scorn!’ he enthused. ‘He had a popcorn machine in his office, and was always offering a fresh-popped bag to his cronies
. Thing is, he pulled a double-cross and got bumped off when his enemies planted blasting caps in his popper kettle. I love that story. Look! The twisted wreckage of that corn-popper wagon! I love that! Y’all can read it if you want, but it has to stay here in the office. Ya know, I coulda made a great show out of that one. Too bad Peter Weir beat us to it. Lousy picture though…’
As most articles in ‘Vanity Fair’ magazine are essentially biography, a particular issue of that title, from a while back now, lay on both table and teapoy in the outer office, with mag-holder boxes in a nearby credenza still plump with back-up copies of the selfsame number. ‘Porter Parker’s Personal Profile of Practically Perfectly Produced Potential’ was an article stuffed into the magazine’s ‘mezzanine’ at its center. In it, Bob Colacello poured out a modest little pæan to the producer whose activities struck editor Graydon Carter as a novelty filler. With ’80s-style optimism and yuppie-toned wishes for his enduring success, Porter’s life was laid before an accepting public. With pictures. By Ball Biepschpruit – not Annie Leibovitz.
All right then, he was the younger brother of the legendary Pete Parker, whose famed Moon Brigade had done so much for buffoonery in outer space-themed showbiz. In Porter’s wilderness years he had served as a candy-cum-tobacco counter attendant in one of downtown LA’s more obscure hotels (the one with the busted terracotta cornice, several blocks off Broadway, in the low-rise anonymity of streets filled with only the lonely). He goofed around with doing extra work too, without much success. That is, until he was ‘discovered’ by making a suggestion (that he’d overheard from the extra next door) regarding a bright idea about rotating the big new 20th-Fox logo sign, to advantageous effect. From there, it was one quick production after another.
‘The guy’s about as rapid-fire as they come!’ was one Universal exec’s buzz.
‘He ain’t no Jerry Wald though,’ was another’s reply.
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