It was as if Old Atrocity were standing beside him, offering his two shillings. But he wasn’t. He’d finished his time on this picture just yesterday and had shown up at an RKO soundstage that very morning.
As he got his mouth entirely around his bully beef croissant, injected with Ulduvian garlic and drizzled with Livonian horseradish, Butterbugs thought, ‘This, this, gorilla! What an absurd pretense! Why did I agree to… Maybe I shouldn’t have…’
What was he doing here, anyway? Seriously, shouldn’t he be questioning his proceeding with this whole movie thing?
‘This just isn’t working,’ he thought.
The artifice was disappointing; the disconnectedness of the shot-by-shot approach to the Drama was awkward and unnerving. Mere annoyance was leading, very quickly, to despair. His dream was imperiled.
Then he wolfed down his grub, and the next thing he knew, all doubt fled, all questioning – even the crude simian’s validity – melted back into the clarity of understanding.
Of a sudden, he got it.
‘Why, it’s really very simple,’ he thought. ‘The chemistry.’
He’d been ruefully behind in his horseradish requirements.
‘If the symptoms of its deficiency are that acute,’ (as in, extreme contrariness of mind) ‘then, I shall never be wanting again.’
And from that hour – he, with the Oregon original, wasn’t ever wanting. Whether it was in the form of finger-pinched pasteballs, purest ground-up root-bits, essence dropped on paper (the same technique as blotter acid), minced (Cribbsey’s-style), or straight from his favorite jar of Ting’s Fried-In-Hunan Province Recipe, Butterbugs would never be without his proper dosage of horseradish to keep his balance trimmed. He knew better, and there was no reason not to.
Restored, the picture was once again the thing.
Everyone, including Butterbugs – with or without chemical equilibrium – expected ‘Gombo’ to be a flop. This was because it all seemed so amorphous, and the dosage of dailies seemed to puzzle all those on location even more than the anchor group back at the studio.
But when the entire ensemble gathered to preview the edited pic at the Myron Selznick Memorial Viewing Hall back in Culver City, everyone was transformed. It was like nothing any of them had ever, ever seen before. What’s more, whatever it was that generated this feeling was, at least at this juncture, impossible to explain.
Charles Bickford, who had a supporting role, was reminded, as he pondered what he had just seen from his secluded seat in the back row, of lines he uttered in an earlier picture (and he paraphrased):
‘To the believer, no explanation is necessary. To the non-believer, no explanation will suffice.’
Was it ‘The Song of Bernadette’ (20th-Fox, 1943) all over again?
As no analysis from anywhere within the production was satisfactory, it was up to the critics to do what they could. Then it would be the public’s turn.
Those pictures which are about to die, salute you!
Yet, with this film, the basis for what critics soon identified as ‘A phenomenon of incandescence’ came into being. There was nothing, absolutely nothing else, to call it.
This finding was arrived-at via a process of elimination, the studio providing a free hand. (If they had something extraordinary on their hands, they wanted to be the second one to know…) Experimentation with editing, examination of all extant footage, gathering the best alternate takes, the removal of the score (by Bernardo Segall), etc. were all tried, futzed with, and deconstructed/constructed/deconstructed/reconstructed. Each element was excluded until it was apparent that – and there was no doubt about this – the so-called inexplicability of the picture’s success was due, solely, and with universal consensus, to Butterbugs.
Here was the awe of The Realization. A Truly Solemn Moment. And finally, A Phenomenon of Incandescence. That was how this group of critics, who were serious and well-respected, who had been humbly going about their business for many years in the shadow of the late Randi Chuzzlewit’s sensationalist roarings, wanted to address this picture’s truth, in words that began with capitalized letters. Official. Consummate.
Therefore, A Phenomenon of Incandescence.
They installed their conclusions in their media posts, broadsides, organs, pamphlets, bloggings, vauggings, and other outlets, for all to see and hear. Within one of the oddest interrelationships between studio and media was the publicity for ‘Gombo’ laid before the public.
And the public took notice.
The challenge was there. Was Butterbugs really up to shouldering such an awesome responsibility and burden? That is, to ignite and sustain anything like ‘A Phenomenon of Incandescence’? To carry the full weight of a picture on his back, like a Nepali porter?
Well, multiple lessons had been learned, but perhaps none was so momentously appreciated than that of the horseradishy condiment below, and the real live gorilla above. By understanding his own personal – bodily-type – chemistry, and its need for attentive maintenance, the projection of both attitude and artistry could be guided and driven. It was as simple as taking his next breath.
His instinctive strategy: to know this simple truth in his soul, and to act – literally – upon it, rather than merely acknowledging its presence, and thus, spoiling it. By this step, his brain, benevolently bombarded with rightful nutrients, evolved to a higher plane. In this new picture, somehow, he was projecting what the new elevation was really like. By this method, it was manifested through a purity of heart, a purity in his art, but without any sacrosanct posture.
‘His realness entirely wins everyone over, and any alienation simply does not occur,’ the prestigious writer-critic Jáme Pieces-Of-Stone wrote in ‘Boston Town’s Very Own Harold-Trumpeter’. This, from one of the most respected artistic critics in the western hemisphere. Was any other proof needed?
[Pieces-Of-Stone was soon to become a producer himself, having been inspired to contribute something Butterbugsian to the Industry besides shallow opinions. He was the first of many such aspirants, and their numbers would grow…]
Almost in a processional way, Fitzeustace Plorn and his wife, Nerrah, approached the actor as he sat in a dark corner booth in the Ambassador Hotel’s ballroom after ‘Gombo’s premiere at the Belasco Theatre. They carried small Davy lanterns to light the way. Their swaying beams complemented the festive but mellow lamp globes of gentle rose, quiet ocher and soft apple green, which kept everyone’s privacy intact, amidst the hundreds of invited guests. It was as if they were tiptoeing upon a cherished secret. One they were wary of revealing.
Butterbugs’ eyes gleamed even after the couple dimmed their Davys upon arriving. He put down his cup of Pu Erh tea to clasp their hands in warm greeting.
‘My great friends!’ he exulted.
‘Butterbugs, we approach you with solemn and heavy tidings. It is you who are the reason for remarkableness in our picture. There is no doubt. All avenues have proven so beyond all measure. You stand as the enactor of artistic elevation, and that is akin to one being chosen for exceptional status. I tell you, it is you, it is you, it is you!’
‘I am grateful, Plorns. You honor me. Too much, I’m afraid. But I have to tell you that, – and this especially applies to you, Nerrah – I confess to have had serious doubts while in the midst of your picture. About the gorilla. And the pumpkins. I tell you, I did! And me… the merest of novices! How could I be so mistrustful? In no other way could I have learned that making a picture is an article of faith. You taught me not to take a picture on face value alone. You taught me to believe, and to believe wholeheartedly. And I do, I tell you, I do!’
37.
For Purposes of Classification
International travel, picture show-making along the way, signing deals, working with the pros, acting in front of the camera; yes, acting – what he’d always wanted to do all along – they were all in his life. He was doing it, and there was no remaining doubt about anything, anymore.
Similarl
y, he was no longer troubled by such things as Brad-Chad Basch’s bobble head proposing peevish perversity through his screen door. No more automotive cooling-tin dislodgings to rub on fan belts. No shortage of horseradish elixir within fifty meters of his person at any time, 24/7.
He was getting his shit together. Literally.
Fooding and Lodging: decamping to new quarters was made a top priority. As remuneration from ‘I, Doughboy’ and ‘At Last, Hail!’ had been duly installed into his bran-new account at Wallace Shawn Presents: A Genuinely New Kind of Alternative Bank (WSAGNKAB or clipped to WSKAB), and with that gesture, his rickety King Bill Bank days came to a happy end. Thus, he was able to follow the recommendation of a new HQ, freshly suggested by a cheerful house hunter (provided by the friendly folks at Bronston Studios).
Josie Sugartorch was a dead ringer for US House Speaker Pealy Nbukoko, and she’d found Butterbugs an extremely pleasant, semi-detached townhouse in the 1920s grandee style, reviving the great days of Old California. It was in Alcalde Lane, just off Calle de La Cenerentola, near to where the Hollywood Hills are stitched into the less distinctive La Ciénega zone.
Headquarters: a quiet, private, Spañada-esque pensione, with exterior walls dappled by greenvine, Zorro lanterns that checkered the velvet night with amber squares, wisteria grids over dusk-prone patios, and inside, textured stucco walls, mullioned windows, galle-on-style wall sconces, hardwood floors, plus an intact gas-fire unit, cast in impervious, barely-portable iron, but movable, with its own flex-supply pipe. In sum, all was comfort through and through, all very Silent Era Hollywood.
Wheels: an update was similarly needed. He loved his little gutless oddball of a BMW, but more oomph was required. Better to go water-cooled now. Mance Drumpy, a helpful associate of Josie, knew cars, and, sensing the young actor’s Blazer-negating nature, suggested a rig that could be picked up for a steal: a ’66 Citröen DS 19 Cabriolet. All think-tanks and consultants considered, it really made a lot of sense at this time and place. The hydro-pneumatic suspension soothed the young actor’s sensibilities, the flexion-pumper conversion engine ran on waste-alcohol (every cool H’wood household had its beercan and winebladder drainer unit), rendering Tidewater and Royal Dutch Shell stops unnecessary, and the single-spoke steering wheel was indicative of a streamlined approach to life. Why encounter a forest of supports when only one is necessary?
‘I can read these dash gauges, and operate all the air-handling and cabin controls with the utmost ease,’ he explained, when queried about the car’s real value. ‘And imagine my wonder, when the realization hit me, that I am in fact piloting a ‘French Cadillac’!’
Horseradish Supply: as he already demonstrated, ‘HR’ was never going to be a vexed question again.
Fiduciary Management: thanks to WSKAB and the Bronston Trustings, money was not now a problem, and probably never would be. This was perfectly fine with Butterbugs, as it was the one subject that he found intolerably tedious. Even in the depths of his Three-Cent-A-Day lifestyle, he could never be bothered to ponder on things financial. Not with the Drama to contemplate.
Ahhhhhhhh: he could relax on all these, and many more, fronts.
There was a bit of unresolved business though. Would he proceed without official representation, relying on the generous support of new friends in the Industry, or would he revert to conventionality by re-adopting agency management, albeit via a new firm?
‘You go crawling back to Sonny? You’d be crazy, you’d be cracked, and you’d be cooked!’ snorted Old Atrocity. ‘Sufferin’, bleedin’ Chickamauga!’
But two days later, there was a jangle as his bell rope was pulled in Alcalde Lane. Even though it was through the wibbly lines of sage-green, pale charcoal and azure glass of his front door, Butterbugs could detect a somewhat familiar profile.
Door opened wide, there stood a man, of brooding demeanor, clad in a black cloak, with a matching slouch hat and walking stick. An incongruous Melmoth figure in the pre-afternoon sunny-hood of old southern California. Right now, brunchy matinees were continuing to grind in programmer houses all across the metro region, featuring characters such as this! Davis Grubb could have been the scenarist! Bob Siodmak could have directed!
But no actor, he. No film set, this. Instead of facing the open portal, the caller was turned slightly aft, apparently gazing at a huge pottery jar of olive glaze in front of the lattice fencing, framed by papery bougainvillea, bathed in the sun. For a few moments, there seemed to be a dialogue between man and jar: he a shadow in the shade, it a merry inhabitant of light and mellowness.
The intercourse concluded, the man swiveled and faced the householder. He had a beard of indeterminate quality, and under the dark, wide brim of the hat, his eyes were dressed with an elaborate pair of tinted spectacles. Though the gothicism of his figure was indeed conspicuous, he might, for all practical purposes, be anyone. Anyone in disguise. No novelty though, on any day of the year. Not in this town, where those who donned costumes for any and all dramatic purposes were just doing their jobs.
Butterbugs was just about to regard this somber person as no better than a wayfarer, perhaps arrived to pose in an attitude of charity – not as giver, but as prospective receiver. Because he was a fellow traveler of late, there would be sympathy rising from the young actor, for one so in need.
Just then, a sparkle of reflected light from a crystal wind-gong out by the postern chanced to shine in on Butterbugs’ beaker of ruby port, which he’d casually adopted as a comfort companion during off-hours, in the style of coastal gentlemen of the past, and, trusting in good will without, had innocently brought to the door with him. From there, the beam glanced up toward the visage of this visitor, who, turning again in the direction of the sunny jar of his intrigue, caused the refracted spotlight to find home on his temple.
There, in letters of gold, along the side arm of his shades, were the words ‘Old Fitzgerald Bourbon’.
‘Sonny!!’ gasped Butterbugs.
A snuffle of acknowledgement came from the stranger.
‘Sonny – I thought you’d –’
‘Pray, my presence is poorly-timed, perhaps?’
‘I did not ever expect –’
‘To, perchance, see me again?’
‘Within this latest time continuum, I guess.’
‘To make an entrance, one must have a cue.’
‘Timeliness is not in question…’
‘No, I suspect not. Timing, that issue, which is always worthy of discussion.’
‘As a means of explaining conduct?’
‘Oftentimes.’
‘Which is such an important factor in the Industry?’
‘Your Industry now, eh?’
‘Come! Because I now know you to be he from past relations, prithee, step up, and in. Join me for a nipperkin of Porto, as is my fashion, as part of leisure-day brunches. The day is salubrious, and conducive to good feelings.’
‘Do I require more credential than I present by the sole form who appears at your dooryard, at present?’
‘You do not. Enter, Sonny, and be yourself, either as you always were, or as you are now.’
‘I will, if but for a moment.’
‘My day is free.’
Sonny’s cape flowed behind him as he entered, providing a flourish that perhaps he did not intend. He looked about the premises, as if, ‘Did I not – could I not – be responsible for the prosperity I see about me? Yes? No? No…’
And this was why Sonny, friend and agent to Butterbugs, approached warily, for all about him now had been achieved outside his power, and he was afraid to be in awe, or at the very least, to have to display too much respect.
‘You’ve changed, my friend,’ Sonny commented, choosing frankness after noting the gentility of their introductions at the border, and the procession thence.
The actor was naturally tempted to fling out a rejoinder like ‘And you haven’t?’, but chose to replace it with a more client-like response:
‘How?�
�
‘Why, this place. Your bearing. Your… person. More urbane. Austere. Sophisticated.’ He paused, ‘An act?’
‘To impress you?’
‘It wouldn’t be inconceivable.’
‘No act. Not necessary.’
‘Then, ’tis you?’
‘It always was.’
Sonny smiled, with some admission to confidence.
‘I knew that. I think I knew it the first time I saw you. In fact, I know it. I can never forget it. And it was on the screen – when I first saw you.’
‘I know.’
‘And now, these timespans later…’
‘Ascend, Sonny. Come, up these steps. To my terrace. Modest it might be (to you), but here are my quarters, the best I have ever had.’
There, on a small deck encased in maroon tile, they assembled. A decanter half-filled with purple, trayside, on a galvanized Mexican cantina table, with accompanying tin chairs, awaited. The court surrounding them was quiet and serene, with only skurrit-birds checkling in the underbrush, mixed acacia and jacaranda branches overhead providing gently-strobing shade.
‘Another cup! One moment,’ the urbane one said, with courtesy.
Sonny sat down, his kit intact, in case he might indeed stay only a minute or so. He was dressed for heavy storm. An ancient mariner, cast down in the Southland, with no sou-wester on the horizon!
Second cup on presentation platter, Butterbugs poured, watched in silence by the other, still through his shades, and thus, in relative anonymity. Butterbugs did not want to appear premature in asking his guest to make himself comfortable. It was impossible to predict what might transpire from one so neutral, so distant.
Offering the cup, Butterbugs did not propose a toast.
‘And now you, Sonny. Changed?’
‘So I appear, no?’
‘Well –’
‘Well. Of course.’ He removed his broad Pan Yan hat and deigned to take a sip.
‘I have gone through transformation, as you yourself have. It is in the nature of things. One cannot remain static in times of friction, nor when the currents of the rivers of life converge, disrupt, then demand a change of course.’
Forward to Glory Page 41