Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald UK (Illustrated)

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

  “It’s not adoptable, Monroe, in as we wish adopt to this times in as it changes. It what could be done as we run the gamut of prosperity is scarcely conceptuable now.”

  “What do you think, Mr. Marcus?” asked Stahr.

  All eyes followed his down the table but as if forewarned Mr. Marcus had already signalled his private waiter behind him that he wished to rise, and was even now in a basket-like position in the waiter’s arms. He looked at them with such helplessness that it was hard to realize that in the evenings he sometimes went dancing with his young Canadian girl.

  “Monroe is our production genius,” he said. “I count upon Monroe and lean heavily upon him. I have not seen the flood myself.”

  There was a moment of silence as he moved from the room.

  “There’s not a two million dollar gross in the country now,” said Brady.

  “Is not,” agreed Popolous. “Even as if so you could grab them by the head and push them by and in, is not.”

  “Probably not,” agreed Stahr. He paused as if to make sure that all were listening. “I think we can count on a million and a quarter from the road-show. Perhaps a million and a half altogether. And a quarter of a million abroad.”

  Again there was silence — this time puzzled, a little confused. Over his shoulder Stahr asked the waiter to be connected with his office on the phone.

  “But your budget?” said Flieshacker. “Your budget is seventeen hundred and fifty thousand, I understand. And your expectations only add up to that without profit.”

  “Those aren’t my expectations,” said Stahr. “We’re not sure of more than a million and a half.”

  The room had grown so motionless that Prince Agge could hear a grey chunk of ash fall from a cigar in midair. Flieshacker started to speak, his face fixed with amazement, but a phone had been handed over Stahr’s shoulder.

  “Your office, Mr. Stahr.”

  “Oh yes — oh, hello Miss Doolan. I’ve figured it out about Zavras. It’s one of these lousy rumors — I’ll bet my shirt on it…. Oh, you did. Good…. Good. Now here’s what to do — send him to my oculist this afternoon, Dr. John Kennedy, and have him get a report and have it photostated — you understand.”

  He hung up — turned with a touch of passion to the table at large.

  “Did any of you ever hear a story that Pete Zavras was going blind?”

  There were a couple of nods. But most of those present were poised breathlessly on whether Stahr had slipped on his figures a minute before.

  “It’s pure bunk. He says he’s never even been to an oculist — never knew why the studios turned against him,” said Stahr. “Somebody didn’t like him or somebody talked too much and he’s been out of work for a year.”

  There was a conventional murmur of sympathy. Stahr signed the check and made as though to get up.

  “Excuse me, Monroe,” said Flieshacker persistently, while Brady and Popolous watched, “I’m fairly new here and perhaps I fail to comprehend implicitly and explicitly.” He was talking fast but the veins on his forehead bulged with pride at the big words from N. Y. U. “Do I understand you to say you expect to gross a quarter million short of your budget?”

  “It’s a quality picture,” said Stahr with assumed innocence.

  It had dawned on them all now but they still felt there was a trick in it. Stahr really thought it would make money. No one in his senses -

  “For two years we’ve played safe,” said Stahr. “It’s time we made a picture that’ll lose some money. Write it off as good will — this’ll bring in new customers.”

  Some of them still thought he meant it was a flyer and a favorable one but he left them in no doubt.

  “It’ll lose money,” he said as he stood up, his jaw just slightly out and his eyes smiling and shining. “It would be a bigger miracle than ‘Hell’s Angels’ if it broke even. But we have a certain duty to the public as Pat Brady says at Academy dinners. It’s a good thing for the production schedule to slip in a picture that’ll lose money.”

  He nodded at Prince Agge. As the latter made his bows quickly he tried to take in with a last glance the general effect of what Stahr said, but he could tell nothing. The eyes not so much downcast as fixed upon an indefinite distance just above the table were all blinking quickly now but there was not a whisper in the room.

  Coming out of the private dining room they passed through a corner of the commissary proper. Prince Agge drank it in — eagerly. It was gay with gypsies and with citizens and soldiers with the sideburns and braided coats of the First Empire. From a little distance they were men who lived and walked a hundred years ago and Agge wondered how he and the men of his time would look as extras in some future costume picture.

  Then he saw Abraham Lincoln and his whole feeling suddenly changed. He had been brought up in the dawn of Scandanavian socialism where Nicolay’s biography was much read. He had been told Lincoln was a great man whom he should admire and he had hated him instead because he was forced upon him. But now seeing him sitting here, his legs crossed, his kindly face fixed on a forty cent dinner, including dessert, his shawl wrapped around him as if to protect himself from the erratic air — cooling — now Prince Agge, who was in America at last, stared as a tourist at the mummy of Lenin in the Kremlin. This then was Lincoln. Stahr had walked on far ahead of him, turned waiting for him — but still Agge stared.

  — This then, he thought, was what they all meant to be.

  Lincoln suddenly raised a triangle of pie and jammed it in his mouth and, a little frightened, Prince Agge hurried to join Stahr.

  “I hope you’re getting what you want,” said Stahr feeling he had neglected him. “We’ll have some rushes in half an hour and then you can go on to as many sets as you want.”

  “I should rather stay with you,” said Prince Agge.

  “I’ll see what there is for me,” said Stahr. “Then we’ll go on together.”

  There was the Japanese consul on the release of a spy story which might offend the national sensibilities of Japan. There were phone calls and telegrams. There was some further information from Robby.

  “Now he remembers the name of the woman was Smith,” said Miss Doolan. “He asked her if she wanted to come on the lot and get some dry shoes and she said no — so she can’t sue.”

  “That’s pretty bad for a total recall — ‘Smith.’ That’s a great help.” He thought a moment. “Ask the phone company for a list of Smiths that have taken new phones here in the last month. Call them all.”

  “All right.”

  Chapter 4

  For Episode 11

  “How you, Monroe,” said Red Ridingwood. “I’m glad you came down.”

  Stahr walked past him, heading across the great stage toward a set that would be used tomorrow. Director Ridingwood followed, realizing suddenly that Stahr walked a step or two ahead. He recognized the indication of displeasure — his own metier was largely the “delivery” of situations through mimetic business. He didn’t know what the trouble was but he was a top director and not alarmed. Goldwyn had once interfered with him, and Ridingwood had led Goldwyn into trying to act out a pan in front of fifty actors — with the result that he anticipated. His own authority had been restored.

  Stahr reached the set and stared at it.

  “It’s no good,” said Ridingwood. “I don’t care how you light it -”

  “Why did you call me about it?” Stahr asked standing close to him. “Why didn’t you take it up with Art?”

  “I didn’t ask you to come down, Monroe.”

  “You wanted to be your own supervisor.”

  “I’m sorry, Monroe,” said Ridingwood patiently. “But I didn’t ask you to come down.”

  Stahr turned suddenly and walked back toward the camera set up. The eyes and open mouths of a group of visitors moved momentarily off the heroine of the picture, took in Stahr and then moved vacantly back to the heroine again. They were Knights of Columbus. They had seen the Host carried in procession b
ut this was the dream made flesh.

  Stahr stopped beside her chair. She wore a low gown which displayed the bright eczema of her chest and back. Before each take the blemished surface was plastered over with an emollient, which was removed immediately after the take. Her hair was of the color and viscosity of drying blood but there was starlight that actually photographed in her eyes.

  Before Stahr could speak he heard a helpful voice behind him:

  “She’s radiunt. Absolutely radiunt.”

  It was an assistant director and the intention was delicate compliment. The actress was being complimented so that she did not have to strain her poor skin to bend and hear. Stahr was being complimented for having her under contract. Ridingwood was being remotely complimented.

  “Everything all right?” Stahr asked her pleasantly.

  “Oh, it’s fine,” she agreed, “- except for the -ing publicity men.”

  He winked at her gently.

  “We’ll keep them away,” he said.

  Her name had become currently synonymous with the expression “bitch.” Presumably she had modelled herself after one of those queens in the Tarzan comics who rule mysteriously over a nation of blacks. She regarded the rest of the world as black. She was a necessary evil, borrowed for a single picture.

  Ridingwood walked with Stahr toward the door of the stage.

  “Everything’s all right,” the director said. “She’s as good as she can be.”

  They were out of hearing range and Stahr stopped suddenly and looked at Red with blazing eyes.

  “You’ve been photographing crap,” he said. “Do you know what she reminds me of in the rushes — ‘Miss Foodstuffs.’”

  “I’m trying to get the best performance -”

  “Come along with me,” said Stahr abruptly.

  “With you? Shall I tell them to rest?”

  “Leave it as it is,” said Stahr, pushing the padded outer door.

  His car and chauffeur waited outside. Minutes were precious most days.

  “Get in,” said Stahr.

  Red knew now it was serious. He even knew all at once what was the matter. The girl had got the whip hand on him the first day with her cold lashing tongue. He was a peace — loving man and he had let her walk through her part cold rather than cause trouble.

  Stahr spoke into his thoughts.

  “You can’t handle her,” he said. “I told you what I wanted. I wanted her mean — and she comes out bored. I’m afraid we’ll have to call it off, Red.”

  “The picture?”

  “No. I’m putting Harley on it.”

  “All right, Monroe.”

  “I’m sorry, Red. We’ll try something else another time.”

  The car drew up in front of Stahr’s office.

  “Shall I finish this take?” said Red.

  “It’s being done now,” said Stahr grimly. “Harley’s in there.”

  “What the hell -”

  “He went in when we came out. I had him read the script last night.”

  “Now listen, Monroe -”

  “It’s my busy day, Red,” said Stahr tersely. “You lost interest about three days ago.”

  It was a sorry mess Ridingwood thought. It meant he would have to do the next picture he was offered whether he liked it or not. It meant a slight, very slight loss of position — it probably meant that he could not have a third wife just now as he had planned. There wasn’t even the satisfaction in raising a row about it — if you disagreed with Stahr you did not advertise it. Stahr was his world’s great customer who was always — almost always right.

  “How about my coat?” he asked suddenly. “I left it over a chair on the set.”

  “I know you did,” said Stahr. “Here it is.”

  He was trying so hard to be charitable about Ridingwood’s lapse that he had forgotten that he had it in his hand.

  Episode 11

  “Mr. Stahr’s Projection Room” was a miniature picture theatre with four rows of overstuffed chairs. In front of the front row ran long tables with dim lamps, buzzers and telephones. Against the wall was an upright piano, left there since the early days of sound. The room had been redecorated and reupholstered only a year before but already it was ragged again with work and hours.

  Here Stahr sat at two-thirty and again at six-thirty watching the lengths of film taken during the day. There was often a savage tensity about the occasion — he was dealing with faits accomplis — the net result of months of buying, planning, writing and rewriting, casting, constructing, lighting, rehearsing and shooting — the fruit alike of brilliant hunches or counsels of despair, of lethargy, conspiracy and sweat. At this point the tortuous manoeuvre was staged and in suspension — these were reports from the battle-line.

  Besides Stahr there were present the representatives of all technical departments together with the supervisors and unit managers of the pictures concerned. The directors did not appear at these showings — officially because their work was considered done — actually because few punches were pulled here as money ran out in silver spools. There had evolved a delicate staying away.

  The staff was already assembled. Stahr came in and took his place quickly and the murmur of conversation died away. As he sat back and drew his thin knee up beside him in the chair the lights in the room went out. There was the flare of a match in the back row — then silence.

  On the screen a troop of French Canadians pushed their canoes up a rapids. The scene had been photographed in a studio tank and at the end of each take after the director’s voice could be heard saying “Cut,” the actors on the screen relaxed and wiped their brows and sometimes laughed hilariously — and the water in the tank stopped flowing and the illusion ceased. Except to name his choice from each set of takes and to remark that it was “a good process,” Stahr made no comment.

  The next scene, still in the rapids, called for dialogue between the Canadian girl (Claudette Colbert) and the coureur du bois (Ronald Colman) with her looking down at him from a canoe. After a few strips had run through Stahr spoke up suddenly.

  “Has the tank been dismantled?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Monroe — they needed it for -”

  Stahr cut in peremptorily.

  “Have it set up again right away. Let’s have that second take again.”

  The lights went on momentarily. One of the unit managers left his chair and came and stood in front of Stahr.

  “A beautifully acted scene thrown away,” raged Stahr quietly. “It wasn’t centered. The camera was set up so it caught the beautiful top of Claudette’s head all the time she was talking. That’s) just what we want, isn’t it? That’s just what people go to see — the top of a beautiful girl’s head. Tell Tim he could have saved wear and tear by using her stand-in.”

  The lights went out again. The unit manager squatted by Stahr’s chair to be out of the way. The take was run again.

  “Do you see now?” asked Stahr. “And there’s a hair in the picture — there on the right, see it? Find out if it’s in the projector or the film.”

  At the very end of the take Claudette Colbert slowly lifted her head revealing her great liquid eyes.

  “That’s what we should have had all the way,” said Stahr. “She gave a fine performance too. See if you can fit it in tomorrow or late this afternoon.”

  — Pete Zavras would not have made a slip like that. There were not six camera men in the industry you could entirely trust.

  The lights went on; the supervisor and unit manager for that picture went out.

  “Monroe, this stuff was shot yesterday — it came through late last night.”

  The room darkened. On the screen appeared the head of Siva, immense and imperturbable, oblivious to the fact that in a few hours it was to be washed away in a flood. Around it milled a crowd of the faithful.

  “When you take that scene again,” said Stahr suddenly, “put a couple of little kids up on top. You better check about whether it’s reverent
or not but I think it’s all right. Kids’ll do anything.”

  “Yes, Monroe.”

  A silver belt with stars cut out of it…. Smith, Jones or Brown…. Personal — will the woman with the silver belt who — ?

  With another picture the scene shifted to New York, a gangster story, and suddenly Stahr became restive.

  “That scene’s trash,” he called suddenly in the darkness. “It’s badly written, it’s miscast, it accomplishes nothing. Those types aren’t tough. They look like a lot of dressed up lollypops — what the hell is the matter. Mort?”

  “The scene was written on the set this morning,” said Mort Flieshacker. “Burton wanted to get all the stuff on Stage 6.”

  “Well — it’s trash. And so is this one. There’s no use printing stuff like that. She doesn’t believe what she’s saying — neither does Cary. ‘I love you’ in a close-up — they’ll cluck you out of the house! And the girl’s overdressed.”

  In the darkness a signal was given, the projector stopped, the lights went on. The room waited in utter silence. Stahr’s face was expressionless.

  “Who wrote the scene?” he asked after a minute.

  “Wylie White.”

  “Is he sober?”

  “Sure he is.”

  Stahr considered.

  “Put about four writers on that scene tonight,” he said. “See who we’ve got. Is Sidney Howard here yet?”

  “He got in this morning.”

  “Talk to him about it. Explain to him what I want there. The girl is in deadly terror — she’s stalling. It’s as simple as that. People don’t have three emotions at once. And Kapper -”

  The art director leaned his head forward out of the second row.

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s something the matter with that set.”

  There were little glances exchanged all over the room.

  “What is it, Monroe?”

  “You tell me,” said Stahr. “It’s crowded. It doesn’t carry your eye out. It looks cheap.”