The very next act that Butterbugs undertook was to immediately dial up Dr. Pixie and inform her of the victory. They celebrated with whatever phone sex they could manage, given the time zone differences.
Thanks, Porter Pud Parker. Also sprach producers who practice amateur pop-psych methodology on the side – inadvertently, of course.
The exquisitely perfect time to free himself from the hazardous asteroid belt that was Parker’s orbit had come. There was nothing to hold him in thrall. So, there was nothing for it but to brace himself, pull up his socks, strap on his booster packs, and blast off into deep space.
A major testament, amorphous in words, but crystalline in understanding, was now revealed. And it told of an upward path ahead, all clear. She who was instrumental in opening it, Cody, he was ‘over’.
It was true. Even more than Vonda, tragically taken, Cody had been his ‘first one’. Leader, teacher, a relationship lovingly-applied. And so lovely to hold. Vonda had brought him awareness. Cody had gifted him confidence.
It was as they both wished. A progression had never been so natural. Friends forever.
Truly, deeply (but not madly), he was raring to go now.
And he went.
He arrived at his residence, found a message from Sam Bronston’s office on his phone, and answered it himself. Consequently, a deal was made, and on his own terms.
He looked in the mirror.
‘Isn’t horseradish wonderful?’
35.
At Last
Butterbugs strode back towards the camp. It was his second day on the set. His first big Roman film, Samuel Bronston’s ‘At Last, Hail!’ It was what might be termed a small role, but after the raves of ‘I, Doughboy’, he felt this was a natural step. Bronston’s office certainly did. They had been trying to reach him for some time, after Assistant Executive Producer Michael Waszynski saw, not ‘Doughboy’, but ‘Seacom! Centcom! Ecomcon!’, as chance would have it, on the only afternoon it played the Broadway Orpheum. Electrified as he witnessed the fleeting seconds of Butterbugs’ cruelly-edited screen time, he buzzed Bronston himself from the crying room at the top of the balcony while the picture was still grinding.
‘We want that kid, Sam. We want that kid! Now let’s get him for us!’
Not one person at the Bronston Studios gave one fig about his Oxy-Whatsit conflict, or the publicity therein. What they needed was a role filled, and Mike W.’s reflexes told him this kid was it. With Sonny still out of station, his agency fumbled with the ball, then simply gave out Butterbugs’ residential landline number for the studio to parry with. The young actor, who politely returned the call, being burnished with new awareness upon coming to light out of the dark crucible of drugs, recovery, and the prattlings of Porter Parker, successfully brokered the deal himself.
By himself.
Ever mindful of the subtleties of a contract now, the Bronston deal (for one picture only, with Advantageous Option on a sequel), was pronounced ‘Fair in All Respects’ by the Merrymart Office, an actors’ advocate institute (recommended by Mike W. and Sam B.), who provided contract analysis for newcomers (first time, free; subsequent times, fee).
The business of the Deal was out of the way. The business of the Role remained.
Things were starting to fall into place. Consequently, he was a tad impatient with anything that got in the way of his New Seriousness. And now, surrounded by new people – solid professionals – who had a picture to make instead of indulging in games of dalliance and much silliness, Butterbugs was thereby facilitated in starting to glimpse some of the majesty inherent in motion picture production.
By God, he was in scenes with Chance Telemachus and Richard Blupp! The great Whirtwith Kremlin was directing! SuperTechnirama 70! Title sequence by Saul Bass! Production design by William Cameron Menzies and sets by Colasanti & Moore! The magic of the name game in Hollywood was beginning to have more validity to him than ever.
Method-like, Butterbugs plunged himself into the whole lurid world of late, late, late Roman Empire ambience. Life under the Emperor, Vuxius Hyperbalus Ultracus. The slave/master system, a dash of the Christian factor, the foods – from lamprey milt to starling bladders, the mystique, the savagery, the very history of it all! Not to mention the hysteria of it all. Mob scenes, spiral pillar-rais-ings, death-marches from ruined Vuntobunum, escape to obscure seaports, ‘At Last’ had it all. It also fell upon Butterbugs to take up the responsibility for shouldering the dramatic burden of occupying the last shot in the picture, before final fade out.
He, as Pro-Centurion Mucius Curtius Paro, approaches the shadowy statue of the slain Emperor Vuxius. He draws his sword, and with it, moves aside a drape to reveal the newly sculpted commemorative work. With a blazing sunset behind him, he appears in medium close-up in order to utter the signature line of the picture: ‘At last, HAIL!’ Cue the crushingly grand music, Miklós Rózsa at his sweeping-est best – more ‘Quo Vadis’ than ‘Ben-Hur’ (both MGM) – then dolly into a tighter close-up (for Butterbugs’ character represents the Rome of the Future), and fade to velvety black, before the glossy golden metal letters (actually forged in the ancient foundries of Brvndoozivm) ‘THE END’ show, in breathless major key.
Just the thought of that last shot (which would be filmed at the very end of the shooting sked) finally made Butterbugs sit down in his ten-ton armor, due to something akin to hyperventilation. Today they were shooting in the fields of Universal City. (Porter’s office, it will be remembered, was conveniently located on the other side of the big black high-rise…)
Tomorrow, he would take flight for his first international journey. To go on location! The story itself, which was historically true, having been discovered in the form of texts graven by the Greek historian Ixtus of Eubœia (revealed last year amongst pot sherds stored in a second-string museum in Khabarovsk) told of the great deeds of the XXXVIIIth Heavy Army of Dacia on its doomed expedition to conquer the marches of what is now southern northeastern Siberia, in the Year 400AD. Thus, it was required that the entire company repair to that very region, for genuine filming.
The New Reality! He was now part of it!
From LAX to Narita, thence to Pyongyang, then Ulan Bator, and thus to Ulan-Ude, in legendary Russia.
Russia! A name that once struck terror in his heart – for no good reason – now stood as a shining beacon towards a glowingly bold new future, the future of the Drama, of the screen, and the noble mission therein! Was it any wonder that he had to sit down? But only the armor made his body lower. His head was high as a flight plan in the stratosphere.
And there, out on location in the Siberian woods at flare-punctuated dusk, in his armor, under his helmet, away from the others, Butterbugs started bawling. Flat-out, full-bodied, and cathartic. Only, it was not an emotion born out of grief or fear, sorrow, or tension. It just was all too wonderful.
Mervyn LeRoy had felt the same way, after the San Francisco premiere of ‘Quo Vadis’ (MGM, 1951). Stealing away from the hoopla, he had trotted round the corner to the spot where he’d hawked penny newspapers as a kid, and broke down, weeping like John Keats.
So too, did this young, young actor, generously endowed with the wonders of humbleness, now facing his tears of joy with – more joy.
And after all he had been through, it was happening, and it was happening now. Was he ready? Would he be able to shoulder the burden?
‘Of course I can!’ he shouted, in stentorian tones so convincing, so austere, so Roman – so perfectly timed at this sullen time of day, that the very fields, rocks and trees must have thought that now, these long centuries on, the XXXVIIIth might indeed have returned in force, and the thousands of extras who had gathered in the vale nearby echoed his glorious war-cry, even though they were a ragtag group of non-English speaking Ghegs, Tosks, Khazars, Mongols, Tannu Tuvans, the Mulda peoples, and assorted Siberians of all makes.
‘The people,’ thought Butterbugs, ‘they have heard me!’
He picked up his Penguin edition of Ixtus,
which had fallen out of his leaden breastplate, and attempted to read the passages pertaining to the taking of Oxutumnopolis (modern day Chita), but the light was too dim.
He glanced up and noticed that a torchlight procession approached. Director Kremlin was on a megaphone.
‘In character, Butterbugs. Feign reading. Use your prop scroll, will you, please? A soldier, far from home, seeks comfort in pondering Plotinus. Stolid soldier, you are literate, and not a Christian, either. You honor the old writers, and plump for the Antonine era. This is silent B-roll, so let’s keep rolling. Lighting? Mood him; blue night on left, gold highlight on right. OK, nice effect. Butterbugs: Action!’
Butterbugs’ heart was warmed by his director’s spontaneity in covering these pre-battle scenes. Here they were, on the actual historic site, following a Robert Bolt script, and it all made sense and gained in clarity.
‘I know what they are doing,’ the actor thought as he pored over a prop papyrus, emoting what the director wanted.
Going into acting mode was as effortless and as instantaneous as picking an apple from a shoulder-height branch. It was a natural, organic act.
‘Grab him from the side, Kemmlurr,’ Kremlin barked to his camerawoman. ‘I want to see that last band of sunset off in the left half of our screen’s panorama… Nice!’
With the operator shouldering the brilliantly portable 70mm camera that dated from the Soviet era (this particular capture unit was used in the Borodino sequence of ‘War and Peace’ (Mosfilm/Continental, 1965)), this second unit, led by the eighteen hour-a day director, hustled off to the next vignette: an Ajax of a fellow, making peace with his household gods, the fake fur hanging beside his proconsul-appearing kit, caressing his beloved cat – a sign of a bad battle to come.
Butterbugs headed back to PineNut Camp. It was his second day on the location set. ‘Hail!’ was well underway! The reality was so heady that, brought to his senses by shedding tears in super-macho costume, there was nothing for it but to proceed with supreme professionalism, as did his co-workers. Marveling would be saved for the dressing room or the boudoir. Right now, they had to get a picture out.
Meanwhile, down in Madrid, the legendary ‘Fall of the Roman Empire’ (Paramount, 1964) set was being restored and augmented for the finale, showing the sack of Rome. There was great excitement in circles in the know. The sets were being greatly expanded, and Colasanti & Moore were going all out in their version of the soon-to-be-cooked city, inspired by the broad painterly visions of John Martin (1789–1854), and seeing to it that the same vision was accomplished for the audience’s cinematic experience. And for Bronston’s reputation, if nothing else.
‘Toothy’ Morpo, the legendary production manager, briefed Butterbugs.
‘When on the run, the army has to literally fight from sparse grove to sparser grove. Across the weary fields, progress is glacial and savage. Yet! They tromp all the way back to Rome in time to see it sacked by Alaric, firsthand, for the finale. Pic wraps with your character Mvcivs approaching Vuxius’ statue to hail it as a final gesture to the conclusion of Old Golden Rome. Next would be the coming of the ‘lesser’ Byzantine world – But that’s another story, Butterbugs. ‘Mucius of the Dardanelles’ is the sequel, firming up as we speak. Bolt’s already scripted. Which could loom as a – get this – starring role for, uh, you.’
At last, the picture wrapped, went into and out of post-production right on schedule, and publicity went into high gear:
SAMUEL BRONSTON
PRESENTS
AT LAST, HAIL!
A PAN-INTERNATIONAL, PAN-STAR CAST
INTRODUCING: BUTTERBUGS
QUADRAGACOLOUR • PERSPECTASOUND
• SUPERTECHNIRAMA 70
FROM THE SEARINGLY-PRESSING NOVEL BY
POLYCARP SPIREGREASE
BASED ON TEXTS (ANCIENT-TYPE) OF
IXTUS OF EUBŒIA
…AND SCRIPTED BY ROBERT BOLT
DIRECTION: W. KREMLIN
PRODUCED BY SAMUEL BRONSTON
The poster was restrained and sans graphics except in layout. But, it was Butterbugs’ first poster billing. Lately, Sam liked to stress tech offerings over stars, as he reckoned that stars got plenty of publicity on their own. However, he himself made the decision to place the newcomer this loftily. He had an instinct about these things. And what’s more, it was remarkable in Butterbugs being the only actor to make it to the poster. But it was inaccurate in that he was being ‘introduced’. On the other hand, the ‘I, Doughboy’ poster was without any text at all, except the title.
Then, the first review (this from X. Khizzudh of ‘New York Times’):
‘From the first, agonizing trumpet-blast of pyrrhic triumph at the opening credits, and all through the long sequence dealing with the conspiracy and death of Zoticus, and even up to that last awful inevitability at the picture’s climax, ‘Hail’ is dominated by this new fellow, this, this Butterbugs, although he does not make his appearance until after the Intermission. Everything is impending on his character, and this is solely because of his remarkable performance. Who else could discreetly minimize the presence of such dignitaries as Marina Berti, Sir SanFrancisco Bone, Dame Judith Anderson, Finlay Currie, Mary Smith, and Leo Genn?’
Mike Waszynski, on behalf of Sam Bronston, read this over the phone to Butterbugs, who was in the middle of a yoga asana.
Sam had a feeling about Butterbugs. That he would be huge.
After he hung up, all the actor could think of was:
‘I will no longer take calls in the middle of yogic activities. Now I am distracted.’
B.K.S. Iyengar, who was across the room on his own mat, sensed his declaration, and nodded in agreement.
One professional connected with another, and Butterbugs, taking the initiative, was catching on.
36.
On Location
Darkness wasn’t far away.
The chasm was becoming more dangerous by the minute. The lighting was nearing perfection. Bold bands of cobalt and grey, with a complimentary spectrum of terracotta and other rotating hues, dominated. Spangly darts in the overarching rock, burgeoning with mineral strata, from quartz to jumbumundun to plagioclase, almost like backlit ribbons, began to bounce into the catchment of the camera’s matte box. Shelley could have described them! Turner could have abstracted them on canvas! Alastor could have roamed under, around, and through them!
Already on his second location picture, Butterbugs, in front of the camera, was following his director’s demands in energized fashion, heightened by the drive and talent which now surrounded him.
By way of explanation, this picture, ‘Gombo’, grew out of the ‘At Last, Hail!’ experience. Sure enough, a visiting producer, Fitzeustace Plorn, friend of Bronston, merited access to this new player, significantly, as he saw him draw his sword and raise the legendary drape with it, unmasking the statue before which, he declares the picture’s epic closing line. And after the camera stopped whirring, within the fairness of the Merrymart Office-approved contract, another honest deal was brokered without representation.
‘I like the sound of your picture,’ Butterbugs told Plorn, a former editor at ‘The New York Review of Books’.
Being an editor was a good enough reference for the actor, even though he had never read the publication. This producer was obviously a gentleman. Shrewd but erudite, and rational, too.
Butterbugs was full of admiration for those who now labored in his midst. There was good reason, everywhere. Things worked. Sets were ready, cameras were delivered on time, cast and crew knew what they were doing. All the time. And because he always knew his lines, he fit right in. These were those very ones, he had to acknowledge once again, who were the motion picture professionals.
Scheduling presented no problems: ‘Hail’ was in post-post-production, while Sam’s ‘Mucius’ was being prepped. His considerable role in ‘Gombo’ perfectly fit a slot in between. Selznick was inked to distribute, having outbid 20th-Fox.
‘T
his is how it happens,’ thought Butterbugs. ‘This is how it works. This is how I will move forward. By talking to the people that matter, and being in the places where they are. I want to know what the deals are, who the studios are, and why.’
The only complaint anyone might ever have about him on location (or in studio) was that he kept the set’s copies of ‘Variety’ and ‘Daily Variety’ too long. Both cast and crew would often get a sympathetic kick out of spying Butterbugs toward the end of late shoots, huddled under a guttering candle or aiming a pencil-lamp back and forth down a page, poring over the trades like a good student who loves his subject.
Forward movement also, naturally enough, was a case of Butterbugs having something to offer, something of value, seen to its best advantage, by people of consequence.
‘Gombo’ was inspired by a dream that Nerrah, Mrs. (Fitzeustace) Plorn, had had: certain characters and a dog make their way through a narrow canyon and stream, à la ‘the place no one knew’ in sunken Glen Canyon. The team in question convey a sacred kitten named Innocent to a Princess Pibby, rumored to be very important. Their quest is documented, episode-by-episode. As the plot progresses, challenging terrain is encountered. Canyon and chasm. Churning brown waters. A gorilla appears on a high parapet within the defile and starts to heave pumpkins at them below.
It was at this juncture that shooting now took place in this wild location. Butterbugs, ever the earnest participant, observed the process of exposition shots taking place. Suddenly: what, were they kidding, with this gorilla crap? And what the hell was with the pumpkins? This was no lurid Hallowe’en ministration of slop; it was supposed to be a grand and glorious adventure.
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