“Wolfman in Casablanca, Scene 23, Take One.” The clapboard cracked.
“Action!” Derwell called.
The klieg lights came on, pouring hot white illumination on the set. Lance stiffened at the piano, then began to hum and pretend to plink on the keys.
In this scene, the werewolf has taken a job as a piano player in a nightclub, where he has met Brigitte, the vacationing French resistance fighter. While playing “As Time Goes By,” Lance’s character looks up to see the full moon shining down through the nightclub’s skylight. To keep from having to interrupt filming, Derwell had planned to shoot Lance from the back only as he played the piano, not showing his face until after he had supposedly started to transform. But now Lance didn’t appear to wear any makeup at all—he wondered what would happen when Derwell noticed, but he plunged into the performance nevertheless. That would be Zoltan’s problem, not his.
At the appropriate point, Lance froze at the keyboard, forcing his fingers to tremble as he stared at them. On the soundtrack, the music would stop in mid-note. The false moonlight shone down on him. Lance formed his face into his best expression of abject horror.
“Oh, God! Please no! Not again! Don’t let it happen HERE!!!” Lance clutched his chest, slid sideways, and did a graceful but dramatic topple off the piano bench.
On cue, one of the extras screamed. The bartender dropped a glass, which shattered on the tiles.
On the floor, Lance couldn’t stop writhing. His own body felt as if it were being turned inside out. He had really learned how to bury himself in the role! His face and hands itched, burned. His fingers curled and clenched. It felt terrific. It felt real to him. He let out a moaning scream—and it took him a moment to realize it wasn’t part of the act.
Off behind the cameras, Lance could see Rino Derwell jumping up and down with delight, jerking both his thumbs up in silent admiration for Lance’s performance. “Cut!”
Lance tried to lie still. They would need to add the next layer of hair and makeup. Zoltan would come in and paste one of the latex appliances onto his eyebrows, darken his nails with shoe polish.
But Lance felt his own nails sharpening, curling into claws. Hair sprouted from the backs of his hands. His cheeks tingled and burned. His ears felt sharp and stretched, protruding from the back of his head. His face tightened and elongated; his mouth filled with fangs.
“No, wait!” Derwell shouted at the cameraman. “Keep rolling! Keep rolling!”
“Look at that!” the director’s assistant said.
Lance tried to say something, but he could only growl. His body tightened and felt ready to explode with anger. He found it difficult to concentrate, but some part of his mind knew what he had to do. After all, he had read the script.
Leaping up from the nightclub dance floor, Lance strained until his clothes ripped under his bulging lupine muscles. With a roar and a spray of saliva from his fang-filled jaws, he smashed the piano bench prop into kindling, knocking it aside.
Four of the extras screamed, even without their cues.
Lance heaved the giant, mute piano and smashed it onto its side. The severed piano wires jangled like a rasping old woman trying to sing. The bartender stood up and brought out a gun, firing four times in succession, but they were only theatrical blanks, and not silver blanks either. Lance knocked the gun aside, grabbed the bartender’s arm, and hurled him across the stage, where he landed in a perfect stunt man’s roll.
Lance Chandler stood under the klieg lights, in the pool of blue gel filtering through the skylight simulating the full moon. He bayed a beautiful wolf howl as everyone fled screaming from the stage.
“Cut! Cut! Lance, that’s magnificent!” Derwell clapped his hands.
The klieg lights faded, leaving the wreckage under the normal room illumination. Lance felt all the energy drain out of him. His face rippled and contracted, his ears shrank back to normal. His throat remained sore from the long howl, but the fangs had vanished from his mouth. He brushed his hands to his cheeks, but found that all the abnormal hair had melted away.
Derwell ran onto the set and clapped him on the back. “That was incredible! Oscar-quality stuff!”
Old Zoltan stood at the edge of the set, smiling. His dark eyes glittered. Derwell turned to the gypsy and applauded him as well. “Marvelous, Zoltan! I can’t believe it. How in the world did you do that?”
Zoltan shrugged, but his toothless grin grew wider. “Special makeup,” he said. “Gypsy secret. I am pleased it worked out.” He turned and shuffled toward the soundstage exit.
“Do you really think that was Oscar quality?” Lance asked.
#
The other actors treated Lance with a sort of awe, though a few tended to avoid him. The actress playing Brigitte kept fixing her eyes on him, raising her eyebrows in a suggestive expression. Derwell, having shot a perfect take of the transformation scene he had thought would require more than a day, ordered the set crew to repair the werewolf-caused damage so they could shoot the big love scene, as a reward to everyone.
Zoltan said nothing to Lance as he added a heavy coat of pancake and sprayed his hair into place. Lance didn’t how the gypsy had worked the transformation, but he knew when not to ask questions. Derwell had said his performance was Oscar quality! He just grinned to himself and looked forward to the kissing scene with Brigitte. Lance always tried to make sure the kissing scenes required several takes. He enjoyed his work, and so (no doubt) did his female co-stars.
Zoltan added an extra-thick layer of dark-red lipstick to Brigitte’s mouth, then applied a special wax sealing coat so that it wouldn’t smear during the on-screen passion.
“All right you two,” Derwell said, sitting back in his director’s chair, “start gazing at each other and getting starry-eyed. Places everyone!”
Zoltan packed up his kit and left the soundstage. He said good-bye to the director, but Derwell waved him away in distraction.
Lance stared into Brigitte’s eyes, then wiggled his eyebrows in what he hoped would be an irresistible invitation. He had few lines in this scene, only some low grunting and a mumbled “Yes, my love” during the kiss.
Brigitte gazed back at him, batting her eyelashes, melting him with her deep brown irises.
“Wolfman in Casablanca, Scene 39, Take One.”
Lance took a deep breath so he could make the kiss last longer.
“Action!” The klieg lights came one.
In silence, he and Brigitte gawked at each other. Romantic music would be playing on the soundtrack. They leaned closer to each other. She shuddered with her barely contained emotion. After an indrawn breath, she spoke in a sultry, sexy French accent. “You are the type of man I need. You are my soul-mate. Kiss me. I want you to kiss me.”
He bent toward her. “Yes, my love.”
His joints felt as if they had turned to ice water. His skin burned and tingled. He kissed her, pulling her close, feeling his passion rise to an uncontrollable pitch.
Brigitte jerked away. “Ow! Lance, you bit me!” She touched a spot of blood on her lip.
He felt his hands curl into claws, the nails turn hard and black. Hair began to sprout all over his body. He tried to stop the transformation, but he didn’t know how. He stumbled backward. “Oh, God! Please no! Not again!”
“No, Lance—that’s not your line!” Brigitte whispered to him.
His muscles bulged; his face stretched out into a long, sharp muzzle. His throat gurgled and growled. He looked around for something to smash. Brigitte screamed, though it wasn’t in the script. Tossing her aside, Lance uprooted one of the ornamental palms and hurled the clay pot to the other side of the stage.
“Cut!” the director called. “What the hell is going on here? It’s just a simple scene!”
The klieg lights dimmed again. Lance felt the werewolf within him dissolving away, leaving him sweating and shaking and standing in clothes that had torn in several embarrassing places.
“Oh Lance, quit screwing
around!” Derwell said. “Go to wardrobe and get some new clothes, for Christ’s sake! Somebody, get a new plant and clean up that mess. Get First Aid to fix Brigitte’s lip here. Come on, people!” Derwell shook his head. “Why did I ever turn down that job to make Army training films?”
#
Lance skipped going to wardrobe and went to Zoltan’s makeup trailer instead. He didn’t know how he was going discuss this with the gypsy, but if all else failed he could just knock the old man flat with a good roundhouse punch, in the style of Craig Corwyn, U-Boat Smasher.
When he pounded on the flimsy door, though, it swung open by itself. A small sign hung by a string from the doorknob. In Zoltan’s scrawling handwriting, it said “FAREWELL, MY COMPANIONS. TIME TO MOVE ON. GYPSY BLOOD CALLS.”
Lance stepped inside. “All right, Zoltan. I know you’re in here!”
But he knew no such thing, and the cramped trailer proved to be empty indeed. Many of the bottles had been removed from the shelves, the brushes, the latex prosthetics all packed and taken. Zoltan had also carried away the old cardboard box from the corner, the one containing the jar of special makeup for Lance.
In the makeup chair, Lance found a single sheet of paper that had been left for him. He picked it up and stared down at it, moving his lips as he read.
“Mr. Lance,
“My homemade concoction may eventually wear off, as soon as you learn a little more patience. Or they may not. I cannot tell. I have always been afraid to use my special makeup, until I met you.
“Do not try to find me. I have gone with the crew of Fraankenstein of the Farmlands to shoot on location in Iowa. I will be gone for some time. Director Derwell asked me to leave, to save him time and money. Worry not, though, Mr. Lance. You no longer need any makeup from me.
“I promised you would become a star. Now, every time the glow of the klieg lights strikes your face, you will transform into a werewolf. You will doubtless be in every single werewolf movie produced from now on. How can they refuse?
“P.S., You should hope that werewolves are not just a passing fad! You know how fickle audiences can be.”
Lance Chandler crumpled the note, then straightened it again so he could tear it into shreds, but he didn’t need any werewolf anger to snarl this time.
He stared around the empty makeup trailer, feeling his career shatter around him. There would be no more Tarzan roles, no thrilling adventures of Craig Corwyn. His hopes, his dreams were ruined, and his cry of anguish sounded like a mournful wolf’s howl.
“I’ve been typecast!”
-#-
Much at Stake
Kevin J. Anderson
“Much at Stake” copyright 1991 by WordFire, Inc. Originally published in The Ultimate Werewolf, edited by Byron Preiss, David Kellor, and Megan Miller, Dell Books, 1991.
Of all the numerous Dracula films and books I’ve seen, very few focus on the historical Prince Vlad the Impaler, a genuine folk hero in the Balkans. For the anthology The Ultimate Dracula, I thought of doing an interesting mashup (although the term hadn’t been invented yet), contrasting Bela Lugosi and his seminal portrayal of the Count with the legendary, bloodthirsty Vlad Tepes. After learning that Lugosi himself was a heroin addict and possibly strung out during the filming of Tod Browning’s Dracula, I realized this gave me the fantastic hook to bring these two figures together for a story.
Normally, it’s not cost-effective to do four or five months worth of research on what will ultimately be just a short story, but I am very pleased with “Much at Stake,” and it has since been reprinted at least six times in various languages. Sometimes the investment is worth it.
* * *
Bela Lugosi stepped off the movie set, listening to his shoes thump on the papier mache flagstones of Castle Dracula. He swept his cape behind him, practicing the liquid, spectral movement that always evoked shrieks from his live audiences.
The film’s director, Tod Browning, had called an end to shooting for the day after yet another bitter argument with Karl Freund, the cinematographer. The egos of both director and cameraman made for frequent clashes during the intense seven weeks that Universal had allotted for the filming of Dracula. They seemed to forget that Lugosi was the star, and he could bring fear to the screen no matter what camera angles Karl Freund used.
With all the klieg lights shut down, the enormous set for Castle Dracula loomed dark and imposing. Universal Studios had never been known for its lavish productions, but they had outdone themselves here. Propmen had found exotic old furniture around Hollywood, and masons built a spooky fireplace big enough for a man to stand in. One of the most creative technicians had spun an eighteen-foot rubber-cement spiderweb from a rotary gun. It now dangled like a net in the dim light of the closed-down set.
On aching legs, Lugosi walked toward his private dressing room. He never spoke much to the others, not his costars, not the director, not the technicians. He had too much difficulty with his English to enjoy chit-chat, and he had too many troubling thoughts on his mind to seek out company.
Even during his years of portraying Dracula in the stage play, he had never socialized with the others. Perhaps they were afraid of him, seeing what a frightening monster he could become in his role. After 261 sell-out performances on Broadway, then years on the road with the show, he had sequestered himself each time, maintaining the intensity he had built up as Dracula the prince of evil, drawing on the pain in his own life, the fear he had seen with his own eyes. He projected that fear to the audiences. The men would shiver; the women would cry out and faint, and then write him thrilling and suggestive letters. Lugosi embodied fear and danger for them, and he reveled in it. Now he would do the same on the big screen.
He closed the door of the dressing room. All of the others would be going home, or to the studio cafeteria, or to a bar. Only Dwight Frye remained late some nights, practicing his Renfield insanity. Lugosi thought about going home himself, where his third wife would be waiting for him, but the pain in his legs felt like rusty nails, twisting beneath his kneecaps, reminding him of the old injury. The one that had taught him fear.
He sat down on the folding wooden chair—Universal provided nothing better for the actors, not even for the film’s star—but Lugosi turned from the mirror and the lights. Somehow, he couldn’t bear to look at himself every time he did this.
Inside his personal makeup drawer, he reached up and withdrew the hypodermic needle and his vial of morphine.
The filming of Dracula had been long and hard, and he had needed the drug nearly every night. He would have to acquire more soon.
Outside on the set, echoing through the thin walls of his own dressing room, Lugosi could hear Dwight Frye practicing his Renfield cackle. Frye thought his portrayal of the madman would make him a star in front of the American audiences.
But though they screamed and shivered, none of them understood anything about fear. Lugosi had found that he could mumble his lines, wiggle his fingers, and leer once or twice, and the audiences still trembled. They enjoyed it. It was so easy to frighten them.
Before Universal decided to film Dracula, the script readers had been very negative, crying that the censors would never pass the movie, that it was too frightening, too horrifying. “This story certainly passes beyond the point of what the average person can stand or cares to stand,” one had written.
As if they knew anything about fear! He stared at the needle, sharp and silver, with a flare of yellow reflected from the makeup lights—and van Helsing thought a wooden stake would be Lugosi’s bane! He filled the syringe with morphine. His legs tingled, trembled, aching for the relief the drug would give him. It always did, like Count Dracula consuming fresh blood.
Lugosi pushed the needle into his skin, finding the artery, homing in on the silver point of pain. . .and release. He closed his eyes.
In the darkness behind his thoughts, he saw himself as a young lieutenant in the 43rd Royal Hungarian Infantry, fighting in the trenches in the Carpathi
an Mountains during the Great War. Lugosi had been a young man, frightened, hiding from the bullets but risking his life for his homeland—he had called himself Bela Blasko then, from the Hungarian town of Lugos.
The bullets sang around him in the air, the explosions, the screams. The air smelled thick with blood and sweat and terror. The mountain peaks, backlit at night by orange explosions, looked like the castle spires of some ancient Hungarian fortress, more frightening by far than the crumbling stones and cobwebs the set builders had erected on the studio lot.
Then the enemy bullets had crashed into his thigh, his knee, shattering bone, sending blood spraying into the darkness. He had screamed and fallen, thinking himself dead. The enemy soldiers approached, ready to kill him. . .but one of his comrades had dragged him away during the retreat.
Young Lugosi had awakened from his long, warm slumber in the army hospital. The nurses there gave him morphine, day after day, long after the doctors required it—one of the nurses had recognized him from the Hungarian stage, his portrayal of Jesus Christ in the Passion Play. She had given Lugosi all the morphine he wanted. And outside, in a haze of sparkling painlessness, the Great War had continued. . . .
Now he winced in the dressing room, snapping his eyes open and waiting for the effects of the drug to slide into his mind. Through the thin walls of the dressing room, he could hear Dwight Frye doing Renfield again, “Heh hee hee hee HEEEEE!” Lugosi’s mind grew muddy; flares of color appeared at the edges.
When the rush from the morphine kicked in, the pleasure detached his mind from the chains of his body. A liquid chill ran down his spine, and he felt suddenly cold.
The makeup lights in his dressing room winked out, plunging him into claustrophobic darkness. He drew a sharp breath that echoed in his head.
Dark Labyrinth 1 Page 4