Bb: That’s the stupidest name for a group of young up-and-coming actors that I’ve ever heard. What do we do when we’re not so new?
NG: Get a new batch of New People, I suppose! Shelf life and all. Life on the shelf of this biz is, you know, kind of short. But nevertheless, you are branded as one of the New People.
Bb: Nevertheless…
NG: OK, smart-ass, do you know what Cribbs Jonson has been saying about the New People?
Bb: Cribbs Jonson doesn’t strike me as a very good –
NG: Oh, he doesn’t?
Bb: He seems to spread a lot of lies.
NG: Hate and discontent?
Bb: Exactly.
NG: Why is that, do you suppose? He’s Imparter-General of the Industry Buzz on Bludkake’s Hour, every weekly day on the Benson Networks. That’s nothing to sneeze at, New Person.
Bb: Well, he must be… jealous, or something.
NG: You are a pretty privileged person now, sonny.
Bb: Now looka here, buddy boy, we came up the roundabout way! You might say it was the long way around! Wasn’t it? I don’t need anybody to point out untrue facts about me. Especially if they don’t know the truth, or any part of it. And because they don’t know it, and don’t really want to, they simply fabricate ‘truth’ and lay it out in front of the public.
NG: Point taken, Butterbugs. I remember.
Bb: You should remember. I wonder if Cribbs Jonson knows about your days hustling pool, and another kind of hustling – on Santa Moni –?
NG: We’ll be back in a minute, after these brief messages from Grandad Ted’s.
Interval, consisting of a medley of ads from the Grandad Ted Family of Associated Offerings, particularly Grandad Ted’s Kansas City Steaks (e.g. ‘Well, we serve good meat!’), and the ‘Hi! Buy Plush!’ man doing his silly schottische jig with a plump marionberry-dressed gal, followed by the Hot Blots Four, singing a sickening nonsense jingle you just can’t get out of your mind. This mess was followed by a station I.D. (Possum Broadcasting’s own flagship, KDIM) that showed off some of the most nausea-causing colors and voices, that were, of course, what the network deacons knew their audiences loved, or were trained to love. There – a perfect example of the trainability of audiences…
The interval was bookended by shiny graphics made to look polyurethane in their composition, jittering with cheap synthesized cyber-sounds, for ‘The Nayland Gribgrib Show’, backed up by images of Nayland’s guest, Butterbugs, done up in Instant PhotoMotionShop’s Stained Glass and Gaussian blur filters.
[Nayland Gribgrib: essentially an OK guy and a surprisingly successful chat show host. Interestingly, his rise was simultaneous with that of Butterbugs’. (He himself certainly qualified as one of the ‘New People’.) He was also, unfortunately, prone to unexpected emotional outbursts. It wasn’t that Butterbugs was provoked into carelessly mentioning Nayland’s past career as Johnny Cool, the Santa Monica Blvd male hustler, on the air. Rather, it was more a sign that he had taken a somewhat fast track to stardom, and while his craft as an actor was burnishing quite nicely, his skill as a media object was still not ready for prime time yet. That is, if it ever would be. Sonny privately thought his client should remain a ‘real’ personality, without one trace of ‘plastic’. And he would be no part of an evolution that might produce anything resembling a Larry ‘Lonesome’ Rhodes, in ‘A Face in the Crowd’ (WB, 1957). The thing was, because Butterbugs had the ‘realness’ – or downright temerity – to bring up something so controversial as a hustling past (never mind that Johnny Cool was just trying to make ends meet without having to become a fry cook), the excitable host waited until they were into the interval to respond. A terrycloth curtain of privacy was drawn to separate them from the live audience. Then Gribgrib popped one on Butterbugs’ forehead, causing the actor to suffer a bruise and slightly punctured skin. And Butterbugs? He didn’t get mad, because he knew this was business, the business that they were in, and also, because he knew full well that true-life drama happened off the air, and not necessarily in front of the camera. The blow did not penetrate his dedication to civility. He was filled with peace instead of bellicosity. Nayland wanted to argue bitterly, but stopped just short of threats. The actor felt sorry for the host, and understood his own gaffe, but there was no need to wax so emotional about it. If anything, it was a perfect opportunity for harmless joshing, by which the audience would assume he was just kidding. Alas, he was denied the chance to showboat any improvisational wit, in the great showbiz tradition. Makeup rushed in (not for the first time on a Gribgrib show) and patched the damage, but had to resort to plaster application, lest a blood-bubble form. The gang at the SFX board could only do so much with Instant PhotoMotionShop, so, a plastered Butterbugs it would be. No doubt ratings would fly, as a result.]
NG: We are baccy-baccy-baccy back. I’d just like to point out that, uh, that plaster on Butterbugs’ face is there to plug a leak. The poor guy experienced a runaway mike boom that, uh, hit our superstar in the face. Sorry you had to go through that, my friend. This has been one of the worst days of my life!
Bb: And I’m sorry that you got mad and popped me one. I’ll use this broadcasting moment to notify my lawyer!
NG: That’s very funny, Butterbugs.
Bb: You’re not smiling.
NG: Let’s get back to that nagging issue. That wild thing about being in the fame grinder. What’s your fame?
Bb: Some people react to my picture shows. You know, respond.
NG: What’s the fire in your eyes, lieutenant?
Bb: They come to the places where photoplays are projected, and they look, and so, react.
NG: Currently, you’re gettin’ it on with that ritzy Britsy scriptwriter, Saskia Pingles. Pingles gives you jingles?
Bb: Ah-ha! No secrets from you!
(Justina was assured protection from all publicity at all times.)
NG: So what’s the deal?
Bb: Saskia wrote the script for my latest picture, ‘The Albigenses’ (Selznick).
NG: They’re saying it’s an instant classic. A seminal picture for our times.
Bb: I am truly humbled.
NG: The least you can do is pay her back with a good lay…
Bb: That’s not particularly funny, Nayland.
NG: You’re not smiling.
Bb: (laughs) OK, you got me back. I have to remember not to buy into your goofy mind trips.
NG: Now listen. There are a few people in the Industry who maintain that you’re, uh, you’re getting too many choice pictures to choose from. What gives you the right?
Bb: The right?
NG: Yeah, why should you be getting all the fancy-dude pix?
Bb: What are you talking about? James Farantino just got signed for ‘The Lesson’ (Paramount). Bob Redford’s into ‘The Zell Miller Story’ (Columbia). Bruce Willis just completed ‘Gutzon Borglum’ (Mega|Goth). I mean, Peapoh Dandello’s going to do ‘Obamacares’ for RKO! What are you talking about?
NG: Why, I –
Bb: You have to realize something. We actors are striving, attempting to achieve something – hopefully something – I don’t know – extraordinary… It isn’t just me who’s striving, seeking…
NG: Butterbugs, you’re becoming a lot more aggressive. I thought you were such a mild mannered fellow. Timid, even.
Bb: I understand that, as a broadcast person, you have to pigeonhole people and their personalities. Gotta have a one liner for the teasers and trailers.
NG: You must be turning into a rather cynical young newcomer.
Bb: Not at all. But that’s how it works, isn’t it? And I’m never going to declare, ‘Cynicism’s just an unpleasant way of telling the truth’.
NG: I, uh, hear that, uh, tomorrow you’re having your footprints done at the Chinese.
Bb: You heard correctly. I am indeed honored that Mr. Grauman invited me.
NG: You are part of the ‘in’ crowd now, Mac.
Bb: I never think in terms like that,
Nayland.
NG: Maybe not, but others do.
Bb: If they choose to, I suppose…
NG: OK, some acting brass tacks. Who’s your favorite?
Bb: Actor? Male or female?
NG: Male first.
Bb: My favorite actor? Maybe Joseph Cotton.
NG: Really?
Bb: His good name accounts for a lot.
NG: Is that what you want?
Bb: A good name?
NG: Yesh.
Bb: And, female?
NG: Yesh.
Bb: Well, that’s an equally tough question. I’ve always liked Hope Summers. And Beah Richards has never gotten enough screen time. She’s a great director, by-the-bye. Maybe that’s how she’s getting what she should have had all along.
NG: You’re just being silly now. What about the great names?
Bb: They are great.
NG: I see. You just like being obscure.
Bb: Not at all –
NG: What with access to complete databases of cinematic personnel and all…
Bb: You bring up a good point. The field is wider open than ever. Performances can be accessed without publicity attached. All actors are more equal than we might think. Sally Hawkins is a treasure. Samm-Art Williams is one of the greats. I love Jack Soo in anything he’s in. Do you?
NG: Let’s move on, as picking through all your databases for exceptional people is best left to turbo-nerds.
Bb: They aren’t mine, but, as you like…
NG: On which occasions do you lie?
Bb: When I use poor judgment to make a poor judgment.
NG: You have much experience in that?
Bb: Yes. The same types of situations you yourself encountered on the boulevard –
NG: Maimiti, can we go to a break now? No? Watch out for those mike booms! But listen. You actors and your motor mouths! Your trivia! Comes with memorizing lines, I suppose
Bb: I suppose!
NG: OK, now, what do you think of alternative cinema?
Bb: There is no alternative. Only diversity. Something for everyone.
NG: Your tastes: oddball?
Bb: I like wack-o type films as opposed to wack-e.
NG: What’s that supposed to mean? I know that’s what you New People are attempting to project: all this happenin’, cool, shindig stuff! What do you know about inventiveness? I wonder! You’re so vague. I’ve just tried to make sense out of what you are and what you do, and heck, that’s a frustrating route to take, because, well, by golly, I’m always looking for answers. That’s what I do. What do you do? Play coy, or something? Play it in front of cameras and get paid for it? Well! I should say! What makes you so special? What makes you so wild? Well! I should say!
Bb: That’s quite an outpouring, Nayland.
NG: I guess I get diarrhœa of the mouth from time to time, you see.
Bb: Well, why don’t you insert some Kaopectatating stuff in your ass and hopefully the effect will reach the other orifice.
NG: Butterbugs! That’s not very nice.
Bb: Sometimes I recommend naughty over nice.
NG: Speaking of ‘nice’, what’s so nice about some of your pictures, like ‘The Albigenses’, or ‘D.R.E.E.P. Patrol’ (Seven Arts)? Aren’t they following a stern objectivist or ‘liberal’ agenda? What’s with that, anyway?
Bb: Whatever do you mean, sir? I’m participating in projects that come from teams of highly charged and highly intelligent people. Do you think I make any or all the decisions in a given production? I am drawn in by not only my instincts, but by the advisement of my agent and his associates. Plus the offers that come my way tend to appeal to our tastes, but also contribute to what the hell we want to do with this cinema thing, and we don’t want to squander opportunities. Don’t you think we should make the most of a given situation? Shouldn’t we go after its truth? What do you think Leo Tolstoy was after in all those big novels? What was Wangari Maathai doing with all those trees, or Muhammad Yunis doing with banking? I’m not allying myself with these outstanding individuals (out of many), but what I’m trying to do is perhaps be part of portraying what they’re talking about or seeking. If we can capture some of it on the screen – and much has already been shown in the world’s mighty canon of great pictures – then why shouldn’t we –
NG: It’s time for another ad for Grandad Ted’s selected items, folks. We’ll be back in a minute!
While the ads were running, and the cheap privacy curtain was drawn once more, Nayland’s rude interruption, probably based on jealousy, had no effect on Butterbugs whatsoever. In fact, he just sat there, with eyes closed and mouth still in silent enunciation of the last syllable before he was cut off, but put on hold.
Nayland attempted to throw him off course by making lame attempts at razzing him, in hopes of discombobulation. No soap. Nayland noted the strength. He had to decide, was he going to proceed with peevishness – in his mind, if nothing else – or was he going to admit the obvious: that this was a soul worth respecting?
After the commercial break, Maimiti Perrault, the director up in the booth, decided that she liked Butterbugs and what he was about, and did not cotton to Nayland’s hectoring or low class approach. It was TABP’s phone call that had been the deciding factor, and after that, Butterbugs made a home in her heart simply by being.
‘I can be better than what we’re doing in this here mud puddle,’ she thought. ‘Why don’t I start right now?’
And she did. Instead of allowing Nayland to make his predictable ‘We are bucko-bucko-bucko back’ or whatever, plus a chance to spike his guest with something that bespoke smugness or domination, she instructed the switcher to do some creative interruptions of her own, and to play a redundant donut-filler about accommodation for guests of the show at Bart’s Lodgings, then to run a slight recap, easily accessed through digi-tape, to show Butterbugs’ speech from the start. There would be hell to pay from the sponsor, as their paid-for thirty seconds of fame were squeezed out, but the wrong deserved to be righted. And the switcher’s talents were shown to full effect when he was able, under Maimiti’s cue, to resume the show just as Butterbugs finished the sentence that Nayland crudely interrupted:
Bb: – we continue? To aspire, endeavor, and attempt to contribute to it! Is this pompous? Is this an unworthy pursuit? Can we not, in motion pictures, have the diversity I alluded to earlier? We always have had it – look at the canon – so why not expand it? For it is the truth, the truth, not perspectivist stances, that we seek. My associates and I aspire, endeavor, and attempt. That is all we can do. I could not wish for more.
Nayland was almost at a loss for words, but, droopily, he managed to get out:
NG: There’s… a lot of buzz… around this town, that, uh, those people, those entertainers and/or actors, that, uh, you know, they’re bigger than ever. But that, uh, they’re emptier than ever. I, uh, ladies and gentlemen, I, don’t think that, uh, that applies to our guest here today. Not Butterbugs.
Maimiti cued the exit music. As the credits rolled, Nayland was seen vigorously shaking Butterbugs’ hand, with a look of peace and awe on his face. And he was near tears.
As he watched the show’s wrap, Porter Parker did some sizing-up. He sensed the strategy.
‘By saying he backs the New Realism absolutely, Butterbugs is manipulating the audience to his advantage. He’s baiting them. Then, after he’s hooked them, he can change them.’
It was all about getting attention. Then, once the attention was secured, people’s minds could be changed. The studio heads would pay attention. They’d think Butterbugs was in the corporate groove. Obviously, he inspired by simply being. People were discovering what he already knew. Fully purged of his past peccadilloes, Porter was ready to be allegiant. He detected an extra dimension emerging from the actor. Butterbugs was learning quickly, and he was learning quickly from Butterbugs. The kid was a genius. Geniuses were handy. It was good to know a genius, let alone have one in your pocket.
It wasn’t
long after this broadcast that Nayland Gribgrib chucked his rather lucrative gig on the Juggle Channel and took up Butterbugs’ offer to become his press secretary.
46.
Thanks To You, Sid
They were there, with cameras, flashbulbs, hype, hokum, hooprah and hoopla. Ballyhoo, too. The works. A perfect combination for the arrival of a new star.
Exterior, night.
The courtyard of Grauman’s Chinese, on Hollywood Blvd. The beams of motorized kliegs, always kept on hand, rose into the impossible heights above, so high they were probably visible from Death Valley, far to the east. Neon of fire red, electrocuted-azure, tea-green dragon scales, and emperor-yellow snazzed and jazzed above a crowd of fittingly festive celebrants, hungry for star sightings of high entertainment value.
It was the night of Butterbugs’ first full-blown Hollywood premiere, the Woolfe/Smith production of ‘The Albigenses’, a Selznick International Release, in CinemaScope 55, 3-Strip Technicolor – and sepia!
Butterbugs and his date, Saskia Pingles, were waiting in a ’57 Imperial Ghia limo which crawled ahead at parade speed, relishing the lap of luxury, celebrating the wonder with a flute of Voothcub ’65, as the drive-up etiquette went its course.
The two were dressed formally, and while his black tie was still firmly in place, her little black dress – was also. She was chaste in her comportment, despite the ongoing fantasy of having him all to herself, and on her turf, in Albion, no less. She knew of his current pact with Justina, who shunned anything approaching limelight, yet the sensuality meter within the screenwriter detected conspicuous vibrations, coming from the object of her desire.
She oozed intelligence as much as sex, too. She had been his guide throughout the demanding Albigensian project (six directors served brief terms, until Henry King took over, shooting more than the lion’s share, and signing it). Here, on this magical night, in this isolated bubble, with the masses without, and the picture palace all set up to display the hard-won drama, Butterbugs felt an extraordinary closeness to the high-impact embodiment of first-class femininity and shakti force sitting next to him.
Forward to Glory Page 51