‘Nope. Not by a long shot. But for a dumpy dude who came from nothing outa nowhere, he can crank ’em out…’
‘And that’s what our Industry needs!’
Thus the solidarity within the associated culture, so surely preserved within his now-successful office. The candy machine was a landmark. To show where he’d been, and where he was now.
Well, the ‘VF’ spread chronicling his rise was recent enough to be all but forgotten in souped-up Hollywood. He had duly climbed the producer’s ladder in the studio system until he had the clout to join with Arvin Gold, Irwin Goldwyn (Sam’s second cousin), Gunnison Rétch, Ron Khrushchev, and Tham Ngyun Reap to form Parker Pictures, a bran-new mini-studio. They made a decent impact with their very first item, ‘Up The Spout’.
Then, with the emerging trend for more personalized production identities, Porter Parker Presents came into being, rolling off the ‘Drygon’ pictures, the ‘Ning’ series, and the ‘Lester and Russell Stradley Casebook’ collection. With a blockbuster backlog like that, Porter Parker felt he was on a sufficient plane of achievement to approach Sonny about doing a tremendous new series of pictures. That is, if a player of sufficient prominence and potential was available for hire, preferably an attractive and fresh talent, to keep costs down, of course. A dreamy prospect, indeed.
‘I’m 34½! If I don’t get going NOW, how’m I gonna be able to see my glory-dreams come true, I ask you?’ Porter crowed. ‘That’s the American dream, isn’t it? To make your dreams come true? Haven’t they been saying that since the ’80s? Aren’t we in America? I mean, I ask you! Aren’t we in that biz? You know! Making stuff come true? How can we do it for others if we don’t do it for ourselves? I ask you, Bob – err – I mean, Sonny?’
Except for the updated statement defining the number of years he’d been alive, Porter’s high-flying posturing was nearly verbatim from that aging ‘Vanity Fair’ article.
Sonny did a lot of supportive smiling and geniality work, and Butterbugs could see that it was all done with great patience. But truth to tell, the actor had seen many a derelict in the Yniguez Terrace alley who demonstrated more Hollywood-producer style-and-substance than this pontificating puffer. But if Sonny believed in him, then so would he.
The prime directive of his own relationship with Sonny: TRUST.
So, with Sonny’s aid as interlocutor, he and Parker came up with an almost sacred game plan, in which Butterbugs would be inextricably involved. It was a ‘bucolic’ trilogy of pictures. A whopping, wanking threesome, a triple-headed wonder, that popped the three in the office that day over the moon. And it was one of Neptune’s moons, too.
‘Far, far out!’ hooted Sonny.
After the quick-pact was signed, Butterbugs, now in the privacy of Parker’s private loo, got down on his knees and thanked the Godhead for allowing him to be part of this cherished dream.
That was, to perhaps appear in not only Grace Miller White’s ‘Tess of the Storm Country’, and Marian Fremont’s ‘True Heart Susie’, but to STAR in the holy grail of bucolic ideals: Steveston Antic Tidd’s ‘Harold of the Country’!
That is, if they could be made a reality.
If? Really?
In pictures, ‘If’ meant ‘When?’. (It also meant ‘How much?’, but that was scarcely Butterbugs’ concern.)
All of a sudden, the taste of Porter Parker’s bathmat was introduced to his burgeoning sensitivities. The loo of Porter Parker Presents in the Universal City high-rise was not at all the worst place in the world in which to faint.
When they got back to his own office, the agent marveled at length over a sparkle-drink:
‘‘Harold of the Country’! I never thought I’d see the day! We dood it! A great role, in a great motion picture! Are you ready?’
‘‘Harold of the Country’!’
‘Can you believe it?’
‘But, two of the titles have ‘country’ in it…’
‘Well-spotted! Hey, you know, in this day and age, that’s no handicap. It’s all assets, baby, assets. No debits!’
‘I never thought I’d –’
‘See, Butterbugs? See? The curtains are rising – on your entrance. And Porter Parker is the one!’
‘You think?’
‘Of course! He is ultra!’
‘I just thought that he was a little – I don’t know, more of a ‘talk’-type. Too much? Talk?’
‘You mean he talks big. As in, is it all going to happen?’
‘Well, yes…’
‘One thing you have to realize about producers, Sport. That talk, often big talk, is how projects get off the ground and eventually take flight. Yeah, Parker’s a trip, what with his little candies and all the yakkatory ego-bloat, but the hell if he can’t pull off a cattle-prodded parade of performing pictures!’
‘I’m not sure where or when, Sonny, but I think I’ve actually run into Mr. Parker before…’
‘Yeah? Like where? Maybe in a rundown housekeeping hotel for burnouts in Glaubah Street, way off Broadway? Sleazeville! That’s his heritage, you know, before he lucked out.’
‘No, I…’
Just then Butterbugs happened to notice, out the cool window, a large stageon or snane-bird emerging from the flat expanse of the upper level’s roof. Poised in baleful profile, it paused, like some awful gargoyle, posed in sinister tableau, its immense figure appearing like a poorly-drawn logo for a second-string airline. Then it took to the air, heavily-latticed with particulate matter, which gave a drypoint addition to everything under the LA sun today, in its own peculiarly gloomy way. Obscured in the Zundian culture of former Soviet central Siberia, such a takeoff by such a bird, within the associated hours of midday, was an omen of doom. In any case, certainly a somber vision, full of portent and lack of promise.
But other than a fleeting patch of such dreariness, seen while the mind was solidly preoccupied with temporal blotter scribbles, the young actor, newly perceptive to angular paths of the Drama that he was, took the flight’s liftoff inferred by his agent to mean movies aloft, not hot air, in its form of vacuous talk.
‘He, uh –’ Butterbugs hesitated.
‘Speak up, actor.’
‘He… uh… Well, Porter Parker didn’t really seem at all interested in… me. He hardly asked me a question, and he hardly even looked at me…’
‘I follow you, and I hear you, too! Let me tell you something. Porter knows all that can be known about you, so far. You should have heard him on the phone yesterday. I couldn’t shut the questions off! It’s just that he’s – well, there are several schools of producers, but he’s in the ‘I’m gonna act like a producer at all costs’ crowd. Like, ‘Before pre-production, I’m only gonna deal with agents’. You know, like that. And right now, it’s before pre-production of ‘Harold’ etc. Right now. Actually, you’re pretty darn privileged to have been admitted at that phase.’
Butterbugs looked like he was being talked-at.
Sonny chuckled, then continued.
‘Or maybe he’s changing his style. I hear that he plays the ponies relentlessly, and that he’s buying a horse farm up in the Merced. Prettiest damn spread you ever did see. Can’t drive across it in a day.’
‘So we’re his way to –’
‘Easy, Sport! Lighten up! You’re greener than a bottle of Mateus! Don’t you know that the Industry is very interwoven with various risky ventures that might be construed as having something to do with what they call – gaming? That goes for the theoretical side, as well as the spiritual and even the temporal angles! Didn’t you learn that when you read Hŏrgbehm’s ‘Now I Dwell In North Vegas, Polishing Spittoons In A Negro Barroom’?’
‘I haven’t gotten to it, as yet.’
‘I tossed it your way, didn’t I? Along with…’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, take time out from unhooking Cody’s brassiere and give it a look-over. The play’s hot on Broadway right now. You’ll learn an awful lot from it. Maybe too much. Maybe too soon…’
Butterbugs looked a tad sullen. He had to admit, Sonny spoke sense. What else but a game of chance had this whole enterprise been, from when he went out from Carstairs Quarry that morn, all the way down to here: where the slope was getting steeper, on the way to serious cinematic involvement?
Besides, the mention of Vegas made him recall that he had a singular bond with that place, a term of trial that had validated much in his life. That searing moment of truth, in the chair, at sunset, in poverty, in want, on the edge of the desert – or was it the universe? That moment had been arc-welded into his very soul. It might be a somewhat surreal memory today, but there was no doubt as to its value.
And something further was basically true: what Sonny implied, somewhat sarcastically, about Cody. Her puffily-endowed breasts were rather more compelling at the moment than Hŏrgbehm’s ‘Now I Dwell In North Vegas, Polishing Spittoons In A Negro Barroom’. That crackpot but brilliant poet-cum-playwright’s ethnically diverse reworking of O’Neill’s ‘Iceman Cometh’ must take second place.
Definitely!
Well, yes and no. Listen to Sonny! Career now. Cody later.
Funny, that’s what Cody herself said, in variation, halfway across town.
‘Career now. Butterbugs later.’
She was reviewing parallel current events.
‘You leave stuff in the management department to us.’ Sonny made pause, and regarded Butterbugs with some concern. ‘Maybe it was too early to have you in on that session…’
‘Now I follow you, Sonny. I really follow you now,’ was all he said, in reply.
And Sonny smiled.
32.
There Was Once Again A Producer Named Parker
He was a producer, all right, named Porter Parker.
As we have seen.
He didn’t dink around, either. That is, his ambition was to become a producer’s producer. If he couldn’t be a Jerry Wald or a Marty Ransohoff, then he’d have to be a Porter Parker. His efforts in getting his dream package going were action-packed. ‘Down In The Valley’ (Vitagraph, 1983), ‘I’d Climb the Highest Mountain’ (20th, 1951), ‘Whentworth From Beyond Tucker Creek’ (Realart, 2000) and other pastoral classics would be as nothing, now.
So, looming: an aggregate project dear to Porter Parker, and now, suddenly, to Butterbugs. The trades were avalanched with turbo-powered Parkerisms, custom-generated from his production company of hope and glory.
The Bucolic Trilogy’s Rundown
1) ‘Tess of the Storm Country’; Grace White’s novel, later double Pickford pix! (Famous Players, 1914; UA 1922; then Fox, 1932; 20th-Fox, 1960). This will be the best version yet!
2) ‘True Heart Susie’; Marian Fremont’s heartrending tale, also a famous DeeDubb Griffith opus! (Artcraft, 1919). Looking for the truth? It’s all right here!
3) ‘Harold of the Country’; never before filmed! Steveston Antic Tidd’s work of great power and sincerity! Get ready to be powerfully, sincerely blown away!
All, poetic masterpieces. Resplendent in artistic achievement, box office triumph guaranteed – times three!
‘Harold of the Country’ was the ultimate. The perpetual summer of lyricism, spread before the public, spiked with elements of everyday tragedy and comedy, with characters of fullness and longing (rather like Cody and Butterbugs, these days). The lives of the people in the landscape. Down at the old landing, hay-rolling up at Tiggs Barn, whispers at the edge of the wood, out back with jug and lantern, creekside with hounds, scythes in the fields, tears in the gloaming, hormones at the dance, truth in the chapel, sunset up on Cemetery Hill! Life itself!
Scarlett Johansson as Cherry! Freida Pinto as Heelie! Jessica Biel as Missy! Liv Tyler as Sassy! Julie Christie as Lukettah! Rachel Ward as Creena! Woody Harrelson as Homer! Robert Hooks as Marshall! Whit Bissell as the country parson – perfect! Thayer David as Archway, the greedy grain merchant! Whitney Houston as the grandmother! Larry Olivier and Michael Jayston as the strolling players! Stevenson Jacket as the traveling clip-joint proprietor! Also: Peter Fonda, Beah Richards, Philip Ahn, Benson Fong, Little Jimmy Wu, Hector W. Braneparth, Vanessa Redgrave and Garner St. Chubs. With Bob Barker. And the participation of Dominique Sanda. It was an unbelievable cast. Sometimes dreams come true. Porter Parker would see to that.
And above it all was the Country itself! The soul of the land! And it had to be found. Whole teams of art directors were dispatched to the most mint-condition 19th-century-appearing landscapes in over ten Temperate Zone countries, to fully capture the tone of Tidd’s esteemed Peking Prize novel. Norman Corwin, Florence Ryerson and Edgar Allan Woolf scripted.
[In the Industry, names are everything: cast, crew, creators, studio. No need to mention plots, or best-sellers, or even high-concepts – yet. With names, speak no more.]
In a gesture as potent as the Alfred Newman and Bernard Herrmann teaming in scoring ‘The Egyptian’ (20th-Fox, 1954), Parker secured Franz Waxman and Elmer Bernstein to collaborate on a homogenous score. In the Newman/Herrmann case it was an arrangement of necessity, on account of crunch-time scheduling. With the ‘Harold’ picture, it was a deliberate choice on Porter Parker’s part. (Though some townsfolk insisted it was Fred Kohlmar’s idea; a seasoned concept, coming from one helluva seasoned producer.) Nevertheless, it was Parker who green-lighted the arrangement. The two composers were absolutely thrilled. In a slight departure from the great tradition established by the previous example, they would not only alternate cues, but separate development would be applied to two great themes for the main protagonists: one system of leitmotifs for the dynamic Harold (taken up by Bernstein) and the other for the cerebral Homer (chosen first by Waxman).
‘But what happens if they –’ Porter’s worry-wart associate Jonnathun Kendrumin Cottsbower started to ask, fearing a muddle instead of music.
‘Don’t worry about old Franz ’n’ Elmer! They know what they’re doing!’ whistled Porter.
They certainly did know, all right.
A surprising number of producers and execs in H’wood knew nothing of the talents they themselves were employing.
Pre-production on ‘Harold’ was moving right along. This, given that the two previous Bucolics came first!
‘What, I ask you, could possibly be missing in this package, this, this marvelous ‘Harold’ package?’ gasped Porter, with joy.
Now that the ice had been broken, Porter chose to be producer-first-but-pal-nevertheless to his leading player. After a second summit at Universal City, trust was a-building. Butterbugs even forgot about investigating whether they had met each other before. More than enough was transpiring in the present.
A third session commenced, this time up on the roof of Universal’s high-rise. It was like a watchtower. The buff-painted sound stages were cooling in the early eve’s soft blessings. All the kiddie rides and destination-resort crapola was long gone, with the City happily restored to moviemaking only. The NO MORE STUDIO TOURS sign at the now-moribund tourista entrance had been up so long, it was virtually rotting away.
Player and producer sat back in director’s chairs, sipping iced star-fruit cups. The ‘Psycho’ house still haunted its dead-grass hillside way over yonder. It was the hour of reflection. Sonny wasn’t along this time. (Was that OK? His client might have been a tad untested, but not entirely naked without his Agent/Protector/Advocate…)
‘I mean, really, what could be missing??’ Porter whooped.
Butterbugs could scarcely contain himself, as well. He nearly squealed.
‘I don’t know!!’
This was obviously what all the fuss was about: all the envy, all the longing, the panting, to be in the very Industry that motion picture appreciators felt so strongly about! To vitally contribute talent, desire, and dreams, to be part of the massive and always-growing experience of creating for the cinema! This was it! All-stops-out, thrilling, fantastic fun! And the view of Universal City from on high! Now really, what could be sweeter?
In a snowstorm of head-shak
ing and spewed-out snorting, the actor could only add:
‘I just don’t know!!!’
It was after sessions like these that Butterbugs could honestly say to himself:
‘I now know why Sonny thought that Porter Parker was a very ultra producer!’
His very name stimulated excitement. Who could decry such enthusiasm?
Indeed, he was entranced. Indeed, more than the ‘I, Doughboy’ filming, or anything that had come his way since, the interplay with Porter Parker was an avenue of experience that was adding up to what he’d thought ‘making it in Hollywood’ actually meant all along. Exhilarating projects. Working with top-grade participants. Acting his roles. Seeing the finished project on the screen. Egads: Henry King was set to direct ‘Harold’! Ed Cronjager was lensing! Dorothy Spencer would be at the editing table! And backing him up score-wise: Waxman and Bernstein, legendary composers he’d only heard about at home in the dark! The musical prospects were akin to having Richard-mucking-Strauss and Giacomo-mucking-Puccini as part of this production!
Arriving at the Big Time was such a noble, noble joy~!
Porter’s dreams? Why, Butterbugs shared them in toto. Diving-in was sheer luxuriance, and the timing was perfect. As the timbre of the project increased, so did it channel his passion into the creative process, while the wave of Cody-love was gauged into a rather more auxiliary channel.
‘Cody-ling!’
‘Hel-lo, lover.’
‘What-what?’
‘Well, big contract stuff today. Hy was huffy with Willy Wyler and Timmy Burton in the same hour, and I have to tell you, it made my already taut tummy tighten.’
‘You hot sugar! Tame him! Hy must be taught to behave!’
He’d readily latched on to Cody’s cool ’n’ casual Mogul Follies argot.
‘When I find the energy! I’m really beat. I’m having grape gravy over a fashionably slim slice of gjetost. You?’
‘Well, Porter introduced me to Dennison Gruk, who’s the dialogue coach, and he grilled me on country dialogues. Wore me out.’
Forward to Glory Page 36