Now, Patrick had recently been advised by his accountant, honest Abe Badian, to incorporate—which just wasn’t the sort of thing he could manage too solemnly, so he designed a logo for the newly formed “Lancelot Leopard” to satirize the procedure. I was to make a line drawing of a nude, helmetted Patrick holding a quill and sitting astride (what else?) a leopard. Abe was never quite comfortable with this, but it definitely left an impression.
It just so happened that Herman (Jeri) had been posing for a nude I was painting that Hugh Hefner might be interested in acquiring, or so she claimed. So I scheduled a meeting between her and Patrick just after my next session with her. It worked like magic. He came. He saw. He chortled and offered my odalisque a generous contract on the spot. We were off!
Jeri Archer and Patrick Dennis during the making of “Little Me”
Before I could finish reading Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa’s The Leopard, Pat tossed a detailed list of fifty pictures in my lap. These were to chronicle our heroine’s rise and fall and rise, and were scrupulously limited to those occasions that would conceivably have been photographed—this would remain our criterion (stretched a little, maybe). An adamant censor, in that respect at least, Pat vetoed several tantalizing comeuppances where a photographer could not possibly have been lurking.
Pat had surrounded our star with so many other fascinating characters that I feared we might end up with a cast of thousands. Where were we going to find all these people? When we actually sorted it out, we realized there would be no need to pamper professional models; between us, we numbered more than enough highly photogenic friends to people a production of Max Reinhardt’s The Eternal Road.
So we began in our backyards, so to speak. Louise would make the perkiest Pixie Portnoy—she had great legs and wouldn’t flinch at hanging by her teeth from a trapeze. Michael and Betsy were to be stripped of their dignity and encouraged to let go in “Steerage” (page 105), for which “Honest Abe” Badian consented to display his stomach. Corry Salley could Hattie McDaniel it as Mademoiselle. Elaine Adam, to whom (along with Vivian Kardaris) Auntie Mame was dedicated, had all the fiery spunk to ignite the vicious Magdalena Montezuma.
Shaun O’Brien not only cavorted as wily George Jerome Musgrove but contributed many a choice idea and brought along a number of worthies from the New York City Ballet—Deni Lamont, Sara Letton, Col. Edward Bigelow, Roland Vazquez, Ducky Copeland (the wardrobe master), and Vincent Warren as Lance Leopard. Now, Ross Hunter may have discovered Rock Hudson, but I discovered Kurt Bieber during a summer package of On the Town (Pittsburgh, ’58). These two gentlemen, Shaun and Kurt, generated an unprecedented amount of fan mail, all sent to the publisher’s office.
Hervey Jolin and Carl Reynolds, who were the Duchesses in the Christmas card in my studio loo, became, respectively, Morris Buchsbaum and the seducer, Mr. Hopper. All five of my best pals from shows past rallied. The divine Alice Pearce braved jail as Winnie. Dody Goodman became Belle’s gorgeous stand-in, Helen Highwater. Peggy Cass distributed donuts to our boys as part of the war effort. Kaye Ballard and Jan Sterling starred at Metronome, and Kaye even let us misuse her grandmother. Dickie Morris, whose UnsinkableMolly Brown was enjoying mega-hit status, was also under contract. Edgar Daniels, from Finian’s Rainbow, was monumentally helpful as Carstairs Bagley. And Wally Mohr put his stamp on many stills; he and I had become such silly cohorts during Auntie Mame that Rosalind Russell sometimes referred to us as Bunny Bixler and Muriel Puce. Even Patrick himself lowered his uppers as Cedie. As for myself, I turned into his wizened mother and Fred Poitrine and the Happy Nurse. We didn’t have to search for Momma. Our star accommodatingly spread herself out over all four generations.
When we first thought about costuming all these characters, the prospect didn’t seem too daunting. Many of the movie stills would be of scantily clad people anyway, and between us all we had quite a stash of finery. Pat owned every known article of male attire, Jeri Archer claimed to have thrown away nothing since kindergarten, and my studio closets were overloaded with thrift-shop treasures. Pat came to refer to this mess of costumes as “Central Drag.” Useful as all this was, we realized we fell far short of authentic couture spanning the decades from 1900 to 1960.
Salvation came with an introduction to Bob Reilly, then curator of the fabulous collection of designer dresses at the Brooklyn Museum. Luckily, he was intrigued with our project and let us set up shop there for the duration. We could have our pick of creations by the likes of the Boué Soeurs, Natasha Rambova, Erté, Schiaparelli, and Valentina. Some of them fit, but most were either clothes-pinned or open in the back.
Many of the pictures were taken against a blank wall and then superimposed onto an appropriate background. The images I used for these backgrounds mostly came from a remarkable and friendly shop, now closed, called Brown Bros., where one could climb a ladder and find, stacked deep on dusty shelves, photographs of nearly anything taken since the invention of the camera. I miss them.
Of course we did still need to go on location all over town. Much use was made of the Tanner townhouse, as well as of our top-floor apartment on East Sixty-first Street. One particularly “Feydeau” afternoon there was especially productive. First we staged “J’Accuse!” which involved Jeri, Shaun, Pat, and me—so Hervey Jolin, who on the previous day had been Mrs. Palmer Potter at a colleague’s belter showplace on Gramercy Park, obligingly clicked my shutter. Now, as Mr. Buchsbaum, he ripped off his shirt and jumped into bed with Belle as soon as Mr. Musgrove (Shaun) had leaped out, and we shot “An Evening with Morris.” Then we worked our way up front to wrap up pages 75 and 77. There I broke in the Baughdie Diamonds for the first time.
Those priceless jewels were the icing on the whole affair. Diamonds had often been literally close to Pat’s heart. Every year he was in the habit of wearing Louise’s magnificent heirloom necklace down to Gimbel’s for its scheduled cleaning by their expert. “Safer than carrying it in a paper bag!” he always said. But this time, when we took a jaunt, it wasn’t to Gimbel’s or to Forty-seventh Street, but to Forty-second.
Now, at a store called Nate’s, as we were being bedazzled by pounds of glittering rings, bracelets, brooches, necklaces, earrings, even tiaras (but no stomachers), Pat began softly humming “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” None of the other browsers seemed to notice, so I began to harmonize with him. Soon a few lyrics would slip out as we succumbed to trying on a few baubles:
PAT: “A kiss on the ——— may be quite continental.”
CRIS: “But a dildo is a girl’s best friend.”
I’d like to say we were greeted with a round of applause but everybody just straggled out. We came away with a sackful of sparklers that would have chagrined even Peggy Hopkins Joyce. (I shall not reveal their current repository lest some unprincipled person mistake them for real and slit my throat.)
That afternoon in the Times Square diamond mines was probably the beginning of an act that we would be doing at forthcoming booksellers’ conventions after we had put all the pieces together and gone to press. Dressed all Savile Row, we would mount a piano top, Pat playing himself and me playing a reporter asking the author about his formula for turning out bestsellers. We would toss in a few appropriate songs and make fools of ourselves altogether. Pat’s voice was surprisingly musical and the act was a smash on the book circuit. Our farewell performance was at the Waldorf-Astoria, where young Michael was in the audience, aglow with pride.
How long was Little Me in the making? Well, a bit longer than it takes to make a baby yet not as long as it takes to make a camel. Given the choice, I’d still settle for Belle. Our pace was leisurely. A week would go by and everybody concerned would be elsewhere. Remember, those were the days before computers had taken over—before your mouse could sink the Titanic—so I spent much of that time in the darkroom. Before we staged the first pictures, the whole scenario was complete, but as soon as we actually got into gear, the fifty photos we’d originally planned on soon doubled an
d eventually tripled. A voice from Dutton, Little Me’s original publisher, suggested that 150 would certainly suffice, but nonetheless we wound up with 165. Only two of these were rejected: one of Belle and Letch sharing a pair of pajamas and one of a filmstrip of Belle with the Hoolighan brothers (which was returned with this simple comment: “Taste?”).
Patrick did indeed “write” every photograph, save one—I sneaked in “Luncheoning with Roz.” He was right there for almost every session (they weren’t called “shoots” yet) and was the most cheerful and efficient assistant/ grip/prop-man imaginable. Just occasionally he would toss in a subtle suggestion to our actors, such as “Belle, you’re looking too intelligent!” or “No method, please, Letch. Your motivation is just What the fuck?” All very helpful.
Making Little Me didn’t seem to take nearly as long as it actually did. Often when creative people have too jolly a time collaborating, the “oeuvre” seems apt to sag. But, I do believe, in spite of a prevailing party atmosphere, we did manage to pull this one off. Reviews were great. We enjoyed nine months on the New York Times bestseller list, an unlikely serialization in Sports Illustrated, and got snatched up by Neil Simon for Broadway. However, our most rewarding accolade came from a real live movie star of the silent era—Anita Loos gave a first edition of Little Me to Mae Murray (the bee-stung seductress of D. W. Griffith’s Intolerance), who said she remembered Belle well but confessed that she never liked her!
Belle and Letch sharing a pair of pajamas
Overleaf: Editorially rejected with one comment: “Taste?”
Momma at 25
CHAPTER ONE
A STAR IS BORN
1900–1914
Early days in Venezuela, Illinois • The father I never knew • Momma’s genealogy
Momma’s business career • School days • Momma’s friend, the Professor, introduces me to music
My flair for the arts • The nickelodeon • My patron • Lessons in dramatical attitudes
THE SUN WAS JUST SMILING its first shy gleam over the Illinois River when I made my debut into the world—a red, wrinkled, writhing baby girl.
“What day is it?” Momma murmured.
“Why, it’s May Day, Miss Schlumpfert,” the midwife said. “The first of May.”
“Then we’ll call her Maybelle,” Momma said and drifted off to sleep.
I was a rosy, happy, healthy little thing with bobbing curls and an insatiable curiosity. Everyone who saw me toddling along the dusty streets of Venezuela, Illinois (population—then—9,000) stopped to admire me and it was evident to even the most obtuse that I was going to be a great beauty. But beauty wasn’t enough in a hidebound little provincial backwash like Venezuela. “Family” mattered a great deal in the town and, alas, of family I had only dear Momma. I never knew my father. When I was old enough to ask about him, Momma would become very vague and, looking off in the distance, she would answer simply, “He was a traveling man, Belle.” Perhaps it was from him that I inherited my lifelong wanderlust.
And, oh! how I longed to wander away from narrow-minded little Venezuela, never to return again. Or—even better—to return as a rich and famous woman, to buy the biggest, finest house on “The Bluff,” overlooking the river, and to snub the haute bourgeoisie of Venezuela just as they had once snubbed little Belle Schlumpfert. For tiny Venezuela was divided into three classes. First there were the rich old families who lived in big, beautiful houses with stained-glass windows, portes cochères, turrets and towers and ornamental iron statues up on “The Bluff.” They were the rulers of the town—the Hobans, the Kerrs, the Hollisters, the Williamses with their seven talented daughters. They were the families with “hired girls” and their own buggies, the cream of Venezuela who thought nothing of going to Peoria, or even to Chicago, to do their shopping! Mary Elizabeth Hoban had even visited New York and travelled to Staten Island! Little Belle Schlumpfert was beneath their haughty gaze!
In the lower town were the businessmen and shopkeepers—the clannish middle classes of the community who formed the second stratum of society.
They noticed me, all right, but always with contempt. For I lived beyond the Rock Island tracks in Drifters’ Row and, even worse, Momma was a career woman—something unheard of in those days.
Drifters’ Row was the “shanty town” of Venezuela, peopled by railway men, by the foreign element, by the poor, by those whom life had treated more harshly than the denizens of “The Bluff.” Those who lived there had not been in Venezuela for long and presumably did not intend to stay. Hence the name. All of us were looked down upon by the older families of Venezuela. We were the “dregs.”
I resented this. I wanted to say “My family is as good as yours—even better. Come and see how we live! Although our house is humble from without, the interior is a thing of beauty.” And it was. Momma had exquisite taste and a natural knack for making any place homey, attractive and inviting. In fact, it is from her side of the family that I inherit my own taste—often remarked upon—and my artistic flair. Although our tiny little house had but two small rooms, Momma had made the most of them. She had turned the sitting room into a veritable conversation piece by bringing together her large collection of seashells, the gay Kewpie dolls and souvenirs from her many travels. Almost every inch of wall space was hung with artistic reproductions, pictures of her lovely southern friends and of the distinguished-looking gentlemen she had received. On the center table stood a huge bouquet of bead flowers which Momma had fashioned herself during slow periods at her place of business. A lovely bead and bamboo curtain separated this room from Momma’s bedroom. A lamp with a big red silk shade in the front window cast its rosy glow over the entire room.
Nor would Momma ever allow herself to be seen in house dress and apron like the other women of Venezuela. True, in the mornings Momma lolled about in the Morris chair in deshabille—a Japanese kimono, a pink velveteen wrapper trimmed with maribou or her lovely mauve satin with bead fringe (another product of Momma’s busy needle). But every day at noon Momma put on one of her beautiful evening gowns and went off to pursue her career as breadwinner for herself and little me. “It’s a tradition in our family, Belle,” she used to say proudly.
True, Momma was a newcomer to Venezuela, but she had come from something far finer. Momma was a southern aristocrat whose family had been ruined by the Civil War and the depredations of the “carpetbaggers.” She never liked to talk much about the past. She told me only that she had come to Venezuela from the finest house in New Orleans. When I asked her why, she said simply, “New Orleans was unhealthy for me. Now run along.” Although Momma always seemed a pillar of strength to me, I guess she was just a delicate southern flower underneath.
Although it was on Drifters’ Row, Momma’s place of employment was one of the most beautiful establishments in Venezuela. Momma had accepted a position with Madam Louise, another New Orleans belle, who had opened a sort of gentlemen’s hotel and social club near the depot. Madam Louise catered mostly to lonely travelling salesmen who needed cheering up in a strange town, and even a few gentlemen from the families on “The Bluff” would drop in for a glass of wine, a bit of music and some stimulating conversation after their tasks of the day were done. Evenings, Saturday afternoons and Sundays were especially busy. In order to keep her thriving establishment going, Madam Louise employed Momma and three or four of the better conversationalists among the ladies of Drifters’ Row. Although Madam Louise did not often permit me to enter her place of business, the few times I was permitted into the parlor were to little me like visits to a veritable fairy land. It was an intimate room with red damask walls, deep red sofas, potted palms, a statue of Venus and a magnificent gas chandelier with rose shades. On a draped table were plush-bound albums containing photographs of Madam Louise’s hostesses, which Momma never permitted me to see. In an alcove there was a “Turkish corner” with a divan covered by a red Oriental rug and many “whatnots” filled with the most amazing collection of curios. Against some
exquisite Spanish shawls stood a lovely black and gold upright piano where Madam Louise’s distinguished friend the Professor played such grand old songs as “In the Good Old Summertime,” “Meet Me in St. Louis, Louis” and “There’s No Place Like Home.” If it was from Momma and Madam Louise that I first learned about visual beauty, it was from the Professor—that kindly old gentleman strumming the keyboard in Madam Louise’s stunning parlor— that I acquired my lifelong appreciation of music.
I am told that the bedrooms upstairs were every bit as tasteful and luxuriously furnished, but I was never privileged to see them.
Because she was French and not of Venezuela, Madam Louise was not “received” by the grandes dames who lived up on “The Bluff,” nor by the housewives in the lower town. But you could easily tell that the women of the town felt a great respect for her as she was the only woman in Venezeula to be called Madam.
Madam Louise’s girls
Of course there was a school in Venezuela and of course I was sent to it. Naturally quick and bright, I paid little attention to what the teachers were saying. True, I had a God-given gift for literature and the arts, but I was prone to daydreams and although little Belle Schlumpfert’s body may have been in that musty, drab schoolroom, her heart was not. Because of my attitude, several teachers were prejudiced against me and I was often held back to repeat a grade. But I didn’t mind. Madam Louise had once said to me, “Belle, honey” (she always called me “Honey”), “as soon as you’ve developed, you can come to work here.” I didn’t quite understand what she meant. Knowing that the ladies who worked for Madam Louise were all brilliant conversationalists, I practiced talking quite a lot at school, which, I am afraid, the teachers did not appreciate. But that made no difference to me. I dreamed only of the day when I would be “developed” enough to leave school forever and work with Momma in Madam Louise’s beautiful, beautiful establishment.
Little Me Page 2