The Wandering Years (1922-39)

by Cecil Beaton

  When the hour of parting came, intimates wept and waved me off on this boat. Others sent tragic telegrams. Horns tooted; the boat sailed.

  I don’t think I slept for more than a few hours during the last week in New York. I’ve started a very bad cold now. My throat feels relaxed and sore, the boat rocks up and down. After two days of semi-coma in an airless inside cabin, I staggered from my bed this morning, dressed in plus fours and managed to walk to my chair on deck without being ill. There I met Noël Coward and Mrs Venetia Montagu, whom I had always imagined to be charming and interesting people.

  At once they attacked me. ‘Why do you write such malicious articles? Why do you say such nasty things about Mr Coward?’

  I staggered, my knees quaked. ‘You must please not attack me now. I am feeling ill.’

  ‘You must expect to be attacked if you write such horrible things.’

  They told me my writings were impertinent, malicious, mean, full of untruths and utterly superficial. They exaggerated, of course. But there was much truth in what they had to say that I could not deny it. The blows came raining down upon me.

  Mrs Montagu is the sort of woman I admire: tall raffinée, gaunt and grey-haired with a hawklike profile. There are few good books she hasn’t read and remembered, never forgetting the name of a character or the gist of a situation. At crossword puzzles and writing games she is quicker than anybody else.

  As for Noel Coward, the truth is that I’ve wanted to meet him for many years. I admire everything about his work: his homesick, sadly melodious times, his revues, his witty plays, his astringent acting.

  Why, then, have I hated him? Perhaps for the very reason that I’ve not known him before and wanted to. I hated him personally, out of pique. I was envious of his success, of a triumphant career that seemed so much like the career I might have wished for myself.

  Since my friends in New York had told me how unmalicious I was, I could now hardly believe my ears. Mrs Montagu lashed out at me, determined to give me a lesson for several reasons: (a) because she disliked me and (b) because I obviously needed putting in my place. Coward showed more aplomb, investigating me out of a detached curiosity. Yet both came to the same conclusion: I was flobby, flabby and affected.

  I moaned tragically, ‘But believe me, I’m a wad of guts and gristle.’

  They died of laughter. They mimicked me: ‘Oh, it’s too, too luvleigh!’ My arms were said to fly in the air. This I thought was going too far! I denied it. My walk was said to be undulating, my clothes too conspicuously exaggerated.

  I fell speechless with inferiority. I had wanted enormously to be liked by Noël Coward, and now he thought nothing of me. I thought nothing of myself. My gloom was total.

  It will be so unsatisfactory to break an acquaintance like this, without convincing them both that I’m not as low as they think me. There may never again be a further chance of making explanations, excuses or amends.

  I arranged to do a drawing of Noël Coward and went to his cabin:

  ‘We’ve been absolutely beastly to you,’ he admitted. ‘But you’ve shown spirit and let’s hope you’ve learnt a lesson. It is important not to let the public have a loophole to lampoon you.’ That, he explained, was why he studied his own ‘façade’. Now take his voice: it was definite, harsh, rugged. He moved firmly and solidly, dressed quietly.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You should appraise yourself,’ he went on. ‘Your sleeves are too tight, your voice is too high and too precise. You mustn’t do it. It closes so many doors. It limits you unnecessarily, and young men with half your intelligence will laugh at you.’ He shook his head, wrinkled his forehead and added disarmingly, ‘It’s hard, I know. One would like to indulge one’s own taste. I myself dearly love a good match, yet I know it is overdoing it to wear tie, socks and handkerchief of the same colour. I take ruthless stock of myself in the mirror before going out. A polo jumper or unfortunate tie exposes one to danger.’ He cocked an eye at me in mockery.

  We dine together every night! I still wear my plus fours on deck, but my two critics seem less severe. In fact, Mrs Montagu paid me the extreme compliment this evening of saying she no longer disliked me. She has promised to call me up in London after our arrival tomorrow!

  HOLLYWOOD WITH ANITA LOOS

  December 1930

  I travelled from New York with Anita Loos and her husband, John Emerson, to spend Christmas in Hollywood. Anita, at the age of sixteen, wrote the scenario for Mary Pickford’s film The New York Hat. Ever since, she’d been one of Hollywood’s most popular citizens. So I was assured of seeing the film metropolis under good auspices.

  On board the train were exclusively film folk. The talk centred almost entirely on the ‘recent advent of talking pictures.’ Someone bet that Garbo would be no good in talkies; her downfall was certain to be as rapid as her rise. John Gilbert’s reedy voice had caused him to be eased out of his contract. Clara Bow, it seemed, was suffering from appendicitis.

  For three days we ate enormous tenderloin steaks in the confines of a metallic dining car. In Chicago, a frenzied porter wheeled a barrow most painfully into the back of my legs. At Las Vegas, John Emerson bought a bow and arrow from an Indian. And at San Bernadino we alighted from the train.

  A car and chauffeur had been sent by Mr Joseph Schenck. The limousine had been given to Mr Schenck as a birthday present from Al Jolson. Five years previously, it had won first prize for its body in an exhibition of modern art in Paris. It was decorated with inlaid woodwork, engraved glass and tortoise-shell. The seats and carpet were woven with a design of paradise birds whisking among futuristic globules.

  It was a relief to be out of the train, whizzing along in comfort. The daylight faded. The sky turned to copper. In the distance, mountains were purple; a warm and velvety evening air was heavy with the smell of orange blossoms. I sniffed happily, but felt a stab of longing for some sort of love affair, so that the palm trees and warm evening could be appreciated even more.

  We were keyed up to observe everything. A huge electric sign read, ‘Ye Olde Gas Shoppe’. There were many such ‘shoppes’, with Merrie England propaganda abundant. On we sped, past wooden bungalows, imitation Spanish haciendas, and weird constructions where the traveller stops for ice cream. These were decorated to look like gigantic ice grinders, or puppy dogs or dolls with hats and yellow curls.

  Every little bakery had been built like a windmill, theatrically illuminated. Gardens were inhabited by pottery elves and gnomes with long beards and red caps. We passed the Hansel and Gretel kindergarten school for girls and boys. Perhaps it was these children who had been allowed to run amok with their whimsy, creating a dotty never-never land.

  The chauffeur explained that Hollywood Boulevard was being officially renamed ‘Santa Claus Lane’ for the holidays. Its sidewalks were lined with huge Christmas trees, all tarted up by vari-coloured lamps.

  John Emerson mopped his brow. ‘Phew, the heat!’ We all felt breathless in the sultry, subtropical humidity.

  All at once there was excitement. Coming towards us a lorry, equipped with spitting blue lights, towed in its wake a giant sleigh on wheels. Merry Christmas! In the ‘one-lorry open sleigh’ a group of Eskimo, wearing white fur, sat placidly enduring an artificial snowstorm. The lorry men whipped themselves into an arctic hysteria, shovelling mounds of white confetti through a wind machine that spewed clouds of white over Nanook and Nanette. This was Hollywood! If anyone doubted it, a rival lorry driven by outraged puritans proclaimed: ‘The Lord Jesus came to save sinners, not to worship Santa Claus in Hollywood!’

  We arrived at our hotel. The Roosevelt turned out to be a mock Moorish conceit with patio, fountain, and shawl-draped balconies. Its lobby was crowded by desperate blondes in black satin, osprey and furs. Though the climate varies little the year round, Hollywood ladies insist on wearing the same season’s clothes that are being worn in the East. Little matter if the December sun is broiling.

  A swarm of songwriters gree
ted Anita and John, overwhelming them with an avalanche of invitations in which I was generously included.

  Apollos and Venuses are everywhere. It is as if the whole race of gods had come to California. Walking along the sidewalks with Anita, I see classic oval faces that might have sat to Praxiteles. The girls are all bleached and painted with sunburn enamel. They are the would-be stars who come to Hollywood from every part of America, lured by hopes of becoming a Mary or Doug, a Joan Crawford, Gloria Swanson, Richard Barthelmess or Gary Cooper, whose autographed pictures are part of nearly every shop window display. Few of the hopefuls ever ‘make it’; some are realistic enough to admit their failure, in time to leave before their savings have been exhausted. The diehards hang on, buoyed by empty prospects and promises, eking out a piecemeal existence by working at ‘drive-in’ quick-lunch counters or as shoe shiners.

  Some of the women, accepting their failure to dazzle on the silver screen, mate and make babies which they are convinced will become a gold mine like Jackie Coogan. They encourage them to be tarts out here from the age of five. Younger still: by the time a brat is three or four, it has been mercilessly trained in the art of sophistication and artificiality. Cheeks are painted, noses powdered, hair permanently waved. The girls are dressed in tight-fitting little frocks, so short as to barely cover their rumps. In doorways, elevators and lobbies, mothers and aunts can be seen titivating their prodigies. They moisten fingers and smooth plucked crescent brows; they encourage the lashes backwards.

  One little horror of six took our breath away. She was coming out of a draper’s shop with her mother. Her sausage curls were peroxided canary yellow to match mother’s tresses. Her eyes were large and blue, her cheeks had been painted like blushing roses. A frilly pink bonnet surmounted the head, while the tiny body had been squeezed into a skin-tight, sleeveless frock. To complete the picture, a corsage of blue and white flowers was pinned to her little chest, and coral bead bracelets dangled from each dimpled wrist. We stared so hard that both the tot and her mother became self-conscious.

  Whimsicality soars to new heights. Beauty shops advertise ‘face exchange’ or ‘face aesthetics’. In the household stores, hand-painted velveteen cushions are decorated with lake-side scenes of bewigged love-making, or stuck with bas-relief roses of acid- tinted putty. One cushion was affixed with a small statue possibly made of chewing gum; another depicted two psuedo-classical nude figures clasping one another on a draped ‘couch’. Both these art works were exhibited as being ‘suitable for milady’s salon’.

  Weary from window-shopping, we sit down on a sidewalk seat that advertises a dentist, a doctor or a funeral parlour.

  Wilson Mizner[50] joined our entourage. Anita told me some of the events of his career, which has been even more varied than the rival fortunes of his large and remarkable family of brothers and sisters. Certainly, he is one of the most unique characters one could meet. He has got into all kinds of scrape, run every sort of racket and been connected with a dozen inconceivable organisations. He has twice been a multi-millionaire; he had a play running on Broadway for years. He has drunk and doped enough to kill ten people, is tough as the toughest hobo, yet kind-hearted as the good Samaritan. He claims to be an inventor (among his innovations is the ‘rubber pocket’ to help waiters steal soup!). Wilson should write his life-story, but he is much too lazy to do anything except hang around the Brown Derby and gossip to passers by, or regale us with bizarre anecdotes of this strange city.

  Of burly build and six foot six in height, he makes a striking contrast to Anita, who looks like a ventriloquist’s doll with her famous fringed hair and clothes bought from the juvenile department.

  Anita and I went into a cheap tie shop to buy a joke Christmas present for Fred Astaire. There were long cravats in orange, green and purple, the iridescent colours swirling together; there were bow ties with wired flaps, like enormous butterflies. We had to pretend to buy these things in all seriousness, but it was hard to keep a straight face. Anita’s voice became more quavery and childlike: ‘Oh, that’s very nice,’ holding out a spotted atrocity or a hand-painted creation of a sunset behind palms. I selected a cascade of nude ladies sprawling in positions of abandon. Fred won’t appreciate the joke very well, but it gave me a kick to think of him opening the package. Fred, who looks like an unborn colt with bleary, cowlike eyes and fat lower lip...

  Anita and I walked up to see a young ‘starlet’ who had vaguely asked us to tea. The house proved much further away than we’d imagined. We were pretty blown when at last we arrived. Anita was quite interested to see the girl, as she hadn’t set eyes upon her since the mother worked hard to make a New York debutante out of unlikely material. Now the mother seemed resigned: ‘If my daughter prefers California and wants to dine with Mary and Doug instead of with more suitable friends here on Long Island, it’s her own affair.’

  We entered and found a group of young people sitting about on the floor. ‘Welcome strangers,’ one said. ‘Cutie Pie is in the kitchen.’

  An hysterical scream sounded, followed by ear-splitting yells. ‘Cutie Pie’ appeared, looking like a flagstaff in a red velvet jacket and red and white check trousers. Her hair had been tied up in a piece of tinsel ribbon. She was unwashed and sweaty.

  We were introduced to the rest of the company. One young man made a dead set at Anita, sat almost on top of her and held her hand. He was so drunk he looked embalmed. As a matter of fact, they were all pretty sour-breathed, rolling about on the floor while Cutie Pie screamed and screwed up her face like a monkey. Soon her nose was on a level with her eyes. A young swain on all fours chased her round the room. Prussic acid and vitriol were dispensed from a bottle labelled ‘Kentucky sourmash whiskey.’

  Slang expressions that puzzled me flew about the room. Then someone came in with a large brown paper parcel. ‘Dandy! Eats! Oh, whoopee!’ Young men tripped over the dog or empty drink trays, as they hurried into the garden to wee-wee. Some returned in a torment of prickles, having fallen into the cacti.

  The house looked informal. The flowers on the mantelpiece had long since died, the ‘snack’ table had been ravaged by this horde of locusts. ‘Won’t you stay and have a bite? Bill’s going to cook us some goodies.’ A sharp clapping of hands and more yahoos from the cockeyed young men followed the announcement of Bill’s imminent prowess.

  Anita and I apologised to Bill, said goodbye to Cutie Pie and sneaked off. Once out of earshot, Anita summed up her impressions. ‘I love the idea of Cutie Pie’s mother having visions of Pickfair for her daughter. I’ll bet if an electrician smacked our debutante on the rump and said, “What’re you doin’ tonight, baby?” she’d be thrilled. Anyway, she’s enjoying herself; she’s at least broken the silver cord.’

  Inside the Paramount film studio, the stars’ dressing-rooms are built with façades of various styles of architecture. Thus, when occasion demands, they can be used as backgrounds for films about England, Holland, Germany or Russia.

  I soon discovered that most buildings had no interiors, were merely shells of Civil War plantations and Istanbul nights.

  In an enormous cafeteria, actors, producers, cutters, photographers, caption-writers and scene-writers had congregated for their salad-and-coffee lunches. An old monk in mediaeval habit was scrutinising the menus through pince-nez. A dowager duchess, in ball dress and tiara, sat eating spaghetti by herself. There were Hugo-esque beggars, Dickensian executioners, creole beauties in crinolines and hospital nurses from 1914.

  I was introduced to a series of people whose names I knew from the movie magazines I’d been reading. ‘Meet Mr Lubitsch.’ A cigar twisted from one side of his mouth to the other, while I remembered his The Marriage Circle, the first good film I ever saw. ‘Meet Mr Richard Arlen.’ A nice, clean-looking young man wrinkled his forehead and smiled. ‘This is George Bancroft.’ The twinkling tadpole eyes didn’t seem a bit thuggish off the screen.

  Then, suddenly, a rather horrible surprise — of all people I encountered Elsie Jani
s! A great revue star in London during the 1914 war, she was one of my hottest boyhood’s enthusiasms. She sang in a fogged voice, ‘Give me the moonlight, give me the girl, and leave the rest to me.’ Also she did impersonations I thought were the final proof of her brilliance, and I did imitations of her impersonations. What chic she had — this enigmatic dun-coloured frog-faced revue actress with a curl in the middle of her forehead. She loved Basil Hallam, her jeune premier, who was sent white feathers, then joined the Balloons, and was killed when his parachute failed. Now Elsie is writing scenarios, soi disant, looks spinsterish and school mistressy, and although she fights gallantly and keeps going, her pithy wit is blunted and she exudes everything that is démodé.

  A Mr Al Kaufman now took me to see the man who made Wings. He was busy producing his next picture, which featured Gary Cooper. A shot was in progress. Over and over again, Gary Cooper had to address Fay Wray as ‘Miss Calhoun’.

  Cooper is warm and friendly with everyone. The electrician offered him a cigar. ‘Are they all right?’ ‘They should be: the three of them cost twenty-five cents.’ Gary lit up, and the cigar did not explode.

  This ingenuous cowboy’s success has sky-rocketed. He started in the business only three years ago, and now it saps him entirely. He pines to get away but can’t. He can’t even spend his money. He longs for the sun to stop shining, but it never does. ‘Terrible weather this, for the day before Christmas.’ The sun was broiling hot.

  On the next set, a 1914 wartime party was in slow progress. The men strutted about in khaki; the women we had already seen in the cafeteria, wearing aigrets and beaded tunic dresses. Blinding arc lights sputtered, scorching in their heat. An endless supply of assistants, electricians, dressers and small-part players cluttered the set. After interminable preparations, the camera moved down a vista with the hero and heroine. Then a yell: ‘Cut from here.’ Everyone sighed with relief that the scene was ‘in the can’ after twenty-five retakes. The heroine shouted ‘Whoopee,’ and did a shimmy shake. The hero warbled joyously, the director clasped his little son.