Something to live for. Something of value. And they lived with it. They rolled with the tide.
Ever afterwards, Butterbugs referred to the Rebel Event on Broadway as The Late Unpleasantness.
Whatever was learned there, anyway?
Why, mortality, of course. Mortality, which never abandons humankind.
52.
High Quality Hilarious
The alley was clean, bright, and well-paved with hygienic concrete.
In the fashionable Futon District, everything was pukka here. The crew set up, and Marshall-Meredith Kubbah, the director, was on time (and under budget). His script was witty and effervescent, if not a little raunchy at regular intervals. He called the rhythm in his pictures ‘controlled burn’, as in the season of forest fires, when certain small-scale blazes are caused so that the majority might be saved. Well, the critics thought this gimmick pretentious and gratuitous, but niche audiences adored his work, and Hazel Snyder Presents continued to release his big-boned bonbons, two per year.
In this particular picture, the story, which was perfectly sober, was peppered with conspicuously slapstick sequences, providing the necessary ‘controlled burns’, here applied to shake things up.
Butterbugs’ existence, now immersed in the essential life-experience of making pictures, had become as a film itself: episodic and edited.
Today’s episode in this curious film involved his playing Poncho, a guy who is dumber than he looks. Though strangely wonderful situations fall into his lap, he never acts upon them. Sort of a yurodivy or Holy Fool role. He seized the part with more than marked relish. Very little intellectualization occurred in his approach, perhaps because he might just be playing himself, and didn’t really know it.
Veteran thesper Medwin Kennoway was playing Hershey, an antiques dealer.
Kubbah, who could never quite shake his Home Counties accent, parried with Medwin in ersatz New Yorkese.
‘Listen, this goy’s no Lovejoy. He can’t tell the Midcentury Moderne from the Populuxe! Now, action!’
HERSHEY: My shop is Uni-cue. Everything from the 20th century – except the fox!
Kennoway, who was still struggling with a long-term morphine addiction, was ad-libbing.
‘Lousy script,’ he muttered, but no one heard.
‘Cut! Medwin, old rubbish. I like the dig at DFZ, but it’s got to go.’
The take was not to be printed.
Next set-up.
‘Now, action!’
HERSHEY: (slightly annoyed) Wait a minute. Lets get the Girls outa here. Here they come. They drove a hard bargain. Yellow’s my favorite color. I grew up with a table just like that…
(The FUN-GIRLS come out, two lookalike, in-it-for-the-fun types, with baseball caps, hip-hugger bell-bottoms, piercings, long-waisted bare torsos and fuzzy armpits. They carry a 1940s kitchen table, chrome bars and fabric-weave Formica. They are goofy and gangly, casual and provocative. A wannabe BULL-DYKE – alas, she is only just a flabbo – watches her idols from down the alley, but she may have considerable power over them, especially when it comes to money.)
FUN-GIRL #1: I have to stop. My pants – (she stops to tighten her belt, fumbles with the table she and #2 are carrying on high along here).
HERSHEY: Can you two make it OK?
FUN-GIRL#2: (irritated with HERSHEY’S condescension) Yes! Yeah! We’re doing just fine, thank you very much.
PONCHO: (seeing the startling and glisten-y armpits of the FUN-GIRLS as they’re carrying the table up and over all the other rummage in the alley, and getting high on their heady scent, gets kind of giddy and can’t resist reaching out to both of them (from under the table), to tickle the girls. They drop the table, and Poncho is naturally compromised between these two FUN-GIRLS who now become POWER GIRLS for the rest of the picture.) I’m a prisoner of love now!
(BOB THE BUM [BOB THE TRAMP in UK markets] in the midst of this interaction, appears and wants a winter coat so he can sleep in the alley.)
And more of the same…
Well, none of this was really very funny at all, but the sequence was intended to be one of the picture’s high comedic moments. A great big dollop of schlagobers on top of a bowl of already quivering diced cream puffs. When it played in front of preview audiences though, it was taken as one of the greatest portrayals of pathos and humanitarianism seen so far in the new millennium.
Thereafter director Kubbah took the cue and re-edited the entire picture to reflect the new slant, and he was astonished at what he came up with: a whole new film, from material that was already shot but undiscovered till now.
When the curtains closed on ‘The End’, audiences were simply transformed by what they had seen.
‘Marshall-Meredith!!!!’ came a voice screaming over the phone in the middle of the night after the premiere.
Kubbah thought it was an emergency.
‘It is!! It is!!’ answered the voice, still at high volume. It was Medwin Kennoway. ‘But a good one!!’
‘A good emergency? Medwin, pray, what are you talking about? At such a time!’
‘My cravings, Marshall-Meredith! They’re gone! I tell you, I have no desire! None! You may not believe me, but I’ve subjected myself to every test of temptation this very night. I’m free!! And freedom? It’s a reality!!! Ha ha, ha ha ha!!!’
‘My dear Medwin, that’s jolly good news. A good emergency… indeed.’
‘Your picture! After tonight’s presentation, my life has become changed. After I saw your picture, that is.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed how it turned out, Medwin. It was a pleasure working with you. Now I –’
‘It wasn’t because I enjoyed it, it was because it changed me!!’
As a person who was intimately aware of Kennoway’s travails (Kubbah had worked with him in six pictures), the director didn’t have to empathize when he heard such a person get his hopes up. Nevertheless, after he rang off, Kubbah knew that recidivism would of course be his co-star’s next experience.
‘Oh well, let him enjoy his euphoria…,’ he thought.
As the director of a picture that came out entirely opposite to his original intentions, an outcome that was extremely pleasing to both him and a much larger public than it was intended for, he was enjoying his own kind of euphoria, which inspired him to make love to his bedmate Yeena for the second time that night, before lapsing into blissful slumber.
And Kennoway? He never did return to morphine or any other addiction. He was cured, all right. Really, he was.
How could such things happen?
Butterbugs, that was how.
53.
Nuts, Bolts, And Assorted Fasteners
Many who observed the Industry and many who consumed its product were now in the mood to scrutinize, analyze, assess, and meditate on Butterbugs. Fans were a different matter, and their growing ranks were getting their own organizations going.
Not only was he ‘hunk’ material for the tabloids and the supermart glossies, and his Industrial side covered by ‘Variety’, ‘The Hollywood Reporter’ and other stalwarts, but also his charisma, aura and ‘thinking’ mien stimulated discussion amongst the alternative crowd, academia, and the intelligentsia.
Explorations into the matter of Butterbugs’ acting style (or styles) became the subject of film study courses. Enough of a backlog had now accumulated to reveal his sheer diversity, and the questions of ‘why’ and ‘how’ could now be asked with a weightiness that went past mere curiosity.
His artistry fit in with a host of filmmaking methods: the high quality studio technique of Cukor, the honesty of Ford, the straight but stylish storytelling of Hawks, the unexpectedness of Kubrick, the eclecticism of Coppola (Sofia and F.F.), the refreshing twists of Spike Jonze, the determination of Spike Lee, the expansiveness of Joseph Newman (‘Pony Soldier’ (20th-Fox) 1953, by this under-known director, was a favorite as a kid), the historicity of Beah Richards, the immediacy of John Frankenheimer, the conceptual defiance of Peter Greenaway, t
he camera consciousness of J. Lee Thompson, the play’s-the-thing of Mervyn LeRoy, the virtuosity of Woody Allen, the visionary craft of Tracey, Stacy and Trina Jones, the alternative intellectualism of David Lynch, the comedy of Bonnie Jeck, the hard-driving of Quentin Tarantino, the civility of Henry King, the independence of John Huston, the sensibleness – most of the time – of Mike Nichols…
Otto Preminger never yelled at him.
As far as producers were concerned, they all wanted him.
In other words, he was adaptive to the context of the given film. This somewhat British approach (which in his case, evolved out of a totally non-Brit environment) made some critics compare his resourcefulness to Alec Guinness, while other, sharper voices said he really played himself in every picture, which they considered a compliment to him. That is, he played himself, but within the role first of all. The character was the one that stood out, not the player. It was a beau-ideal that any worthy actor tries to crack, but the thing was, Butterbugs seemed to achieve it every time so far, and without much difficulty.
In point of fact though, he was far too much of a chameleon to be considered classifiable in any pat pronouncement. He was a star, but a traveling star. Perhaps a long-haul comet would be more accurate, for there was so much to explore in the firmament of dramatic acting that there was no repeating himself in sight. And experts and other Industry-watchers would not now consider the latter statement to be an overstatement.
On the set, whether on location or in the most cramped soundstage, he was a dream to work with. More polite than Elvis, more courteous that Jimmy Stewart, more breath-mint conscious than Michael Caine, more prepared than John Barrymore reading a cue card (!), Butterbugs simply had all the attributes of a competent professional, and, seemingly, not one dubious characteristic.
Perhaps this was because of the naturalness of his Golden Rule behavior that brought out the best in everyone he worked with. The choice was simple enough: he never bought into negativity. He knew directors and tech crew were all problem-solvers, but, he believed, so was he, and so were all who performed in front of the camera. Participation in the general progression of purpose in making pictures was essential, and he had the uncanny ability to communicate this directive without articulating it in obvious or didactic ways. Vibes certainly were brought forth, but as frosting on the cake. Butterbugs’ technique was on the ground, in front of reality, where it mattered.
Actor-to-Director: There was no need to establish a relationship. Butterbugs was ahead of that game. He arrived with a built-in understanding of what he must do. It was to build and keep building. They were building a picture, and it was a matter of understanding the script, assembling the tools, and then drawing upon the materials of the lay-down yard, as it were, in his mind. This automatically opened doors with directors, who often approached actors as pawns to be moved around or bossed around or abused around. With Butterbugs’ openness, they invariably relaxed, abandoned conventionality, and simply moved into construction mode. If they were there for Butterbugs, he was there for them. He hoped they would not be disappointed by his lack of prima donna-ism, and they were always delighted. He did as he was told, but they also told him what he should be told.
Actor-to-Screenwriter: Butterbugs soon arrived at the envious position of being in close contact with the writers of his pictures. After all, the concept usually began with them, and even if it was a writer or writers who were assigned a given project, the intensity and dedication that Butterbugs exuded had a tendency to rub off on them, as well. So, material of quality and value tended to flow from their fertile minds. No writer wants to push his or her luck, but anyone who worked in this capacity with the young actor invariably felt like they were participating in a new age that was undeniably golden.
Actor-to-Actor: An intense interlocking of intra-actor relationships was arrived at by sheer engagement of personality and purpose. The instant Butterbugs encountered his fellow players for the first time, and every time thereafter, there was the same sense of understanding, depth, and validity. Durability was maintained through his efforts, which cemented trust and increased the working range and talents of those with whom he worked. There was nothing trivial about him, but his gravitas did not cause weightiness or ungainliness. If Method was needed, Method was utilized. Stanislavsky and Strasberg had their places, but so did pure Olivierian projection, and no one could argue Butterbugs’ adeptness in fitting application of technique to the given scene. It was the same constructive approach he instinctively employed with his director. As well as being a director’s dream, actors found that he not only was receptive to new ideas and advice, he did not merely accept them in order to win hearts and minds, but for the benefit of the picture. Thus, he always proved his sincerity. He gave as much as he received, if not more.
Actor-to-Other Creators: Past the scriptor were composers and camera people, production designers, costumers and makeup artistes. They were all treated equally. They made something out of nothing but a notion. Once, Butterbugs fled a screening room interior when he was confronted with a film composer’s mandate of making a (masterful) score from the wilderness of a work print without melody. Yet, for the composer, it was a mural to fill in – or, in the more musically oriented sense, a place to assign themes-in-the-head that needed assignation and application, if only to get them out of the head that conceived them.
Actor-to-Crew: First of all, Butterbugs had instant respect for what the tech side did. He knew it was just as creative and demanding on that side as his own side. Anyone on a picture, whether it was the second violist, the grunting production assistant, or the apprentice lighting cameraperson, all commanded his interest in due course. He or she was usually a listener, absorbing know-how, experience and advice with 135+% attention. Besides, in his years as a movie consumer while aspiring to act, the star had followed many of their names as a credit-reader. So there was not a little awe aimed in their direction, inspired by the thrill of actually working with them. It was an attitude that remained consistent and solid. Crews loved him for his integrity and humility. Thus, loyalty was easily achieved on both sides.
Saint Butterbugs? Not hardly. No one who worked with him would have call to slap such an insipid label on his forehead. And if extraordinariness was actually his persona, it was not definable as such. He was a nexus, and at this central location, all are too busy with the matters of the moment to lapse into rhetorical classifications. No sainthood, just a state of Butterbugs.
As the list of his pictures grew and his professional experience expanded exponentially, analysis from many quarters attempted to understand what made him tick.
His technique of ‘turning upward’ dialogue, so that he delivered lines as they were not only written, but thought-out – capturing the state of mind behind them – was one of his high talents. But this art was so mysterious; his facility of re-crafting words, turning them into sculptural entities, so that the 3-D quality of his own style of realism was manifested, was, as a phenomenon, one of his most often cited trademarks.
‘In every scene he does, cast and crew alike are always awed and overjoyed to see his primæval magic. If you object to my use of the mundane term, ‘magic’, why, I’m surprised at you. By his deeds, Butterbugs strips the hackneyed husk off such cliched concepts. Accept the reality of obvious extraordinariness! He always rises to a further plane, everything is elevated somehow. But not within a hierarchical conventionality. No one can really identify as to how this happens, not yet anyway. But it always occurs when the man is present. And his touch rubs off, not necessarily on the individual, but on the context. The general tenor of the picture itself, the whole production, so benefits. If Butterbugs is not in a given scene, but is in the picture that surrounds, his effect is nevertheless easily perceived, felt, viscerally understood by all. That is why I often hear him called “a parallel universe creator”. That’s why some call him (a) God.’
So said no less a critic than Robert Hughes, in his latest best-selling
book: ‘Sanctuary Lakes: Butterbugs As Wellspring to the New’ (Bliebmyfe & Teachgong, Publishers).
‘What is he giving us?’ Willem Dafoe was asked in an interview.
‘Butterbugs? He gives us everything. Life, even. And why shouldn’t he? We have only to let him. Are we dependent on him? Yes, certainly. But not in a needy way. His is a gift of building. He lifts you up.’
‘Why wouldn’t you take the ‘up’ route? Listen, he’s very ‘up’. I’ve always been looking for that. I might have to change myself for him.’ – Woody Allen
‘Up is the word.’ – Charlize Theron
‘He carries us upwards.’ – Alec Baldwin
‘Yeah, up.’ – Samuel L. Jackson
‘Up, I tell you.’ – Whit Bissell
‘It’s common usage: ‘up’. It’s so simple, really. Up as a concept is attractive to humans. It implies flying, freedom, no burdens. In a heavy, care-borne world, ‘up’ always flies. Butterbugs flies. Always!’ – Ed Sullivan
‘He is rather a good actor, you know.’ – Michael Jayston
‘Lovely to look at, lovely to listen to, lovely to feel.’ – Isabella Rossellini
‘I admire him more than I did Mr. Mayer. Aw, I shouldn’t even mention the two in the same sentence! L.B., the jackass, blew out. Butterbugs is blow-out-proof!’ – Mickey Rooney
‘I wish we could get him into some good British plays in the West End.’ – Margaret Thatcher
‘He lights my tiki-torch!’ – Perrison Jheeblak
‘He leads. The rest of us follow. Just how things should be.’ – Julie Christie
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