A touch of stardust
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- ISBN: 9780385539043
- ISBN: 0385539045
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Physical Description:
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296 pages ; 25 cm - Edition: First edition.
- Publisher: [Place of publication not identified] : Random House Inc, 2015.
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Genre: | Biographical fiction. Love stories. Historical fiction. |
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CHAPTER 4
January 26, 1939
"Nothing nervous about this happy crowd, Iâd say,â murmured Doris, surveying the field where she and dozens of others stood waiting. Her speech had its usual cynical tone, delivered with a roll of the eyes and a wry, impatient twist of the mouthânot quite a smirk. It occurred to Julie that Doris sounded a little too much like the wisecracking, flip Rosalind Russell. Maybe it wasnât just coincidence. Lots of girls here were walking around emulating some star they wished they could be. Why not tough, sexy Doris? Thinking about it made her less intimidating, if not more likable.
Still, she was right. A roll of jittery chatter was threading through the huddled crowd of people on the edge of the Back Forty.
Selznick had invited everybody who worked at the studio to watch the âfestivitiesâ of the first day of shooting, a word that had produced a fair number of snickers among those who knew how fraught with problems this venture was. You could see it in the director George Cukorâs rigid stance. He held himself immobile in the restless crowd, arms folded, a set expression on his face.
Julie scanned the crowd, trying to pick out the critics and journalists, several of whom looked enlivened by the prospect for disas- ter. It wasnât hard to recognize the columnist Hedda Hopper. She had the alert, bright-eyed face of a parrot as she darted here and there; her lips were heavy with bright-red lipstick; her eyesâlined in black makeup that looked as permanent as cementâmissing nothing, peering out from under a flamboyantly feathered hat.
âLook at her glare at Louella,â Doris said, amused. âProbably thinks she muscled herself in to get a better spot for watching the filming. Sheâll have something to say aboutthat in tomorrowâs column. Those two could kill each other.â
Julieâs gaze turned to Louella Parsons. By contrast, she looked like a proper matron heading for a proper afternoon tea. She was much shorter than Hedda, her plump body encased in something made of heavy, dark wool with glittering no-nonsense gold buttons the size of Ping-Pong balls. Her face was set on dignified affability, but her eyes looked like small rocks.
Julie knew this was the one to watch. Louella had hinted in her column today that the careers of several important people working onGone with the Wind were about to be destroyed. It was a tantalizing, airy warning, meant to send shivers down the back of anyone who tried to withhold a scoop from her.
So that was in the buzz circulating through the crowdâwho was at risk?
And, Lord, there was the script. Everyone knew that was a disaster. Andy had said it was literally a mountain of paper with colored tabs marking the contributions of dozens of writers. The rumor going through the crowd was that Selznick was bringing in Ben Hecht for yet another rewrite. And what about the noises from the Screen Writers Guild? Were they really going to announce a strike?
And on it went. The less prominent reporters strained to hear it all, looking like fluttering crows as they hovered close to the cam- eras, trying to eavesdrop on Selznickâs instructions to the crew.
Suddenly there was a furious shout.
âLook, thereâs Gable,â Rose whispered. âWhat now?â
An angry-looking Clark Gable, jacket flapping, came striding toward Selznick, ignoring everyone in his path. âThose signs come
down now,â he shouted.
âWhat signs?â Selznick said, obviously startled.
Gable pointed to a nearby knoll where a long line of portable toilets stood ready. The usual necessity for movies shot with hun- dreds of extras, they had been placed a distance from the cameras, winding down the knoll like dominoes in a row. They were painted a dull green, a color that discreetly blended into the landscape.
Except for the signs.
In large block letters, they declared their instructions on each toilet: white only, read the first one; negro only, read the second. And on down the line, the declaration instructions repeated in calm symmetry.
âWhereâs the property manager?â Gable demanded. âDavid, Iâm off this movie if those signs donât come down.â
Selznick staredâand swore. He threw down the clipboard in his hands. A confused silence fell on the crowd.
âWho the hell put those up?â he yelled. His face was almost purple. âWeâre not in the Deep South, weâre in Culver City, California!â The reporters were scribbling fast, and the photographers were scrambling to take pictures of the toilets. In the jostling for position, Hedda lost her hat and sputtered in outrage. The âfestivitiesâ had
taken an unexpected turn.
All Julie could think was, how could it be that no one had noticed? Cukor jumped into action. âI donât know who authorized that,
but yank âem down,â he ordered a maintenance crewman. âRight now, before one foot of film is shot.â He cast a quick look at Gable. âThanks, Clark,â he said.
Julie now saw a small cluster of extras dressed as slaves standing to the side. As she learned later, one of them had gone up to Gableâs dressing room, knocked on the door, and asked him to intervene. This surely took courage.
âTheyâre no dumbbells,â Doris chortled, nodding at the group. âThey know Selznick canât fire them and replace them with Mexicansânot for this movie.â
âOkay, folks,â shouted Selznick through a bullhorn. âWeâve got that stupidity corrected; now letâs get on with making a movie.â Julie craned to see Andy. She caught a glimpse of him staring at the scene as the signs were ripped down, a slight smile on his face. He saw her and gave a quick thumbs-up. Then he was back in conversation with the lighting crew, checking his clipboard, calling for the sound people. It was fun to watch him. He moved so easily, genially, talking to someone, scribbling a reply to a message, joking with the messenger, listening intentlyâand making it all look so relaxed.
Gable stayed briefly in place, the fury on his face fading into a kind of vague puzzlement, as if he wondered where he was. He had made no secret that he would not hang around for filmingGone with the Windâs inaugural scene. Then, frowning, he turned on his heel and strode back to his dressing room.
âJulie honey, Davidâs got one reluctant Rhett Butler, and heâll stay away as much as he can,â Carole had said with a sigh earlier that morning.
Selznickâs shouted order accelerated everything. Cameramen were wheeling their cameras into place. Gaffers raced about check- ing electrical equipment; soundmen adjusted their instruments; sec- retaries were scribbling notes and running errands.
Julie went on tiptoe, peering at Tara. The first scene to be shot would be the opening one of the movie. Scarlett was to sit on the steps of her grand Southern home, flirting with two of her swains. She was to pout when they spoiled the mood by telling her that war was comingâand they were enlisting.
Vivien Leigh, escorted by George Cukor, was already draping herself carefully on the steps of Tara. He held her hand, gently mov- ing her into position. She leaned her head back against a pillar, lis- tening to his soothing words, giving small, birdlike nods of assent. A makeup person armed with a soft powdered brush, intent on reduc- ing the shine from the lights on Vivien Leighâs face, dabbed at the actressâs nose. A wardrobe assistant fussed over her flowered muslin gown, fluffing the rich folds of material and spreading them wide. âI canât breathe in this corset,â Leigh complained loudly, but no one was paying attention.
Finally, all was ready.
âQuiet on set!â a production assistant bellowed. Looking quite solemn, he lifted a black-and-white clapperboard high. On it was scrawled in chalk:
SCENE ONE, TAKE ONEâGONE WITH THE WIND
He clapped the boards together, producing a sharp, commanding sound that brought immediate quiet.Gone with the Wind was about to be brought to life.
Up the gravel path, across the green lawn, the cameras travel to Tara. Scarlett sits framed beautifully on the graceful porch. Her voice is deli- ciously lilting and teasing as she begins flirting with the Tarleton twins, scolding them for their talk of war. Vivien Leighâwith her boredom and corset complaintsâhas disappeared. Scarlett OâHara is sitting there now.
To Julie, all seemed perfect. To be drawn into this scene so quickly, in a way that was both the same as and yet different from when she burrowed into Margaret Mitchellâs magical book, was enthralling. The colors, the clothes, the moodâ
âCut!â Selznick barked.
Cukor glanced at Selznick in astonishment. His usual amiable smile vanished. A producer didnât issue orders on the set: that was the job and prerogative of the director. âWhatâs wrong?â he said. âThe scene was perfect.â
Selznick shoved his hands into his pockets and strode up to the waiting actors, frowning. âThe dress isnât right,â he said to Cukor, pulling one hand out of his pocket and flipping disdainfully at a sleeve of Scarlettâs gorgeous gown. âCall Wardrobe. I want her to wear pure whiteânot the same damn dress she wears to the barbecue. Thatâs not acceptable.â
The crowd of workers and onlookers froze.
Cukor responded levelly, but the strain showed. âDavid, thatâs wholly unnecessary,â he said.
âIâm sorry, George. Thatâs how I want it.â It was Selznickâs flat-as-stone voice, the one no one dared question.
âYou want to stop production for a dress?â Cukor said incredulously.
âGet Wardrobe on it,â Selznick said, then walked away before
Cukor could respond. The director stood frozen.
âSo much for the celebratory first day of shooting,â said Doris in a low voice. Even she couldnât manage her usual sardonic tone.
âAll the equipment, the people, everything,â Julie said in surprise. âEverybody packs up?â
âEverybody except Cukor. Heâs going to need some time to get his pride back. Selznickâs making it pretty clear already what heâs after.â
âWhatâs that?â
Dorisâs eyes conveyed more than just a tinge of superiority. âJulie, Cukorâs the director, not Selznick. Heâs the one who usually makes calls like this one. Selznick is obviously ignoring him. Setting him up.â
âSetting him up for what?â
Doris shrugged and turned to leave. âYouâll see. Better hurry on back to Lombardâs dressing room with news of Gableâs defense of the working Negro. If she doesnât send you off to some zoo to rent an old lion, maybe youâll be able to pick up gossip for the rest of us. Something spicy.â
âWorking for Lombard is better than the mimeograph room,â Rose said loyally.
âOh, please. Work? For Lombard?â
The two women watched Doris walk away, her long legs drawing glances from the men she passed.
âNot a wrinkle in those silk stockings, and the seams are perfectly straight. I think weâre entitled to hate her,â Rose murmured.
Julie laughed, feeling better. âWell, at least we donât have to worry about becoming friends with her,â she said.
*
Andy joined Julie briefly in the commissary at lunchtime. Gloomy, he chomped away on a turkey-and-cheese sandwich, barely speaking, to the point where she pushed back her coffee and started thinking about going back to answering Caroleâs mail. She was get- ting good at copying the actressâs signatureâand if there were any mangy lions needed in the future, she would recommend Doris for the job.
âIâm meeting a friend for dinner tomorrow,â he said abruptly. âA novelist.â
âAnyone I would recognize?â
âMaybe. Scott Fitzgerald. Heâs working on the script.â âI thought Ben Hechtââ
âYep, him, too. Everybody. Even though Sidney Howard did a great preliminary job.â
âIâve read The Great Gatsby,â she said.
His face relaxed for a moment into a faint smile. âI shouldâve known youâd be a woman who actually reads. Pretty rare out here.â
âI can spell, too. Better than Fitzgerald.â
He laughed this time. âGod, a college girl. I must be out of my mind.â
âDo you think he can help with the script?â
âHeâs got some good ideas. Thinks we should use as much of Margaret Mitchellâs dialogue as possible, but cut a lot of the redun- dant material. Selznick is resisting, naturally.â Andy sighed. âI donât know what Scottâs doing out here,â he said. âHeâs got real talent, if heâd control his drinking. He should be writing novels, far from Hollywood. No reason for him to sell out.â
*
The next dayâs shoot went well, even though Julie heard that Scar- lettâs hastily constructed white dress had to be held in place with clothespins at first and Miss Edith Headâs seamstresses would sew it up in back between takes. Julie had hoped to watch, but at Caroleâs request, she worked that day from Caroleâs Bel-Air home on Cloud Road. Here she would have a respectable-sized office to handle publicity and secretarial work when Carole didnât need her on the Selznick lot. There was plenty to do, but Julie feared life would be far less exciting.
That was before a studio messenger showed up at the door at lunchtime with a package for Gable from David Selznick.
Julie accepted the package and held it out to Gable as he came in through the back door, his trousers muddied from working in the garden he and Carole were trying to nourish.
âWhat the hell is this?â he said, puzzled, when she handed him the package. âKind of heavy.â Absently, he tossed a trowel heâd been carrying onto a sleekly immaculate beige sofa. Julie picked it up quickly as he took the package into the dining room.
Silence at first. Then a barrage of curses, which brought Carole hurrying to his side.
âSelznick is crazy,â he sputtered, showing Carole the contents of the package. âNinety-two pages of instructions on how he wants me to play Rhett Butler. What kind of maniacal characteris he?â
He paced, looking worn. âHe doesnât trust me to play this stupid part,â he said.
âHeâs not the directorââ began Carole.
âCukor? Heâs worse,â Gable snapped. He began clawing through his pockets, pulled out a wrinkled cigarette pack, and rescued the last one. He crushed the empty pack into a ball and threw it at an ashtray. He missed.
Carole handed him a lighter, the silver one he had given her as a birthday gift.
âHeâll lavish attention on VivienâI can see that already,â he said, inhaling deeply. âLook, itâs obvious. The manâs a fag, and I donât like fags, and Iâm never going to like him. Selznick knows that.â
He said the word so flatly. Of course, plenty of people felt the same way, but Julie couldnât help remembering this was the same man who spoke up for the Negro extras yesterday.
âYouâre not going to pull out of the movie,â Carole said quietly.
âYou havenât even done your first scene yet.â
âPresenting Scarlett with a fancy Paris hat,â he scoffed. âThere are probably ten pages in this crap devoted to how David wants it done.â Suddenly he seemed more weary than angry. âThis isnât my type of part, Ma,â he said.
âOkay, tell me the worst. Waitâlet me guess. Leaning forward and finding your costume is cut too tight in the crotch?â she teased.
He smiled reluctantly. An almost sweet smile out of that hand- some, clouded face. âOkay, Ma. But Iâm still complaining.â
*
âDinner on Saturday next week? Somewhere special.â
Andy was calling on the rooming-house phone. It was after mid- night, and Julie had been summoned from bed in her pajamas by a somewhat cross and sleepy fellow resident. Yet, even at this late hour, his voice lifted her spirits.
âWhy are you calling so late?â she asked. âAnything wrong?â âJust rolled home after my evening with Scott,â he said. His
voice was relaxed.
âI hear todayâs shoot went well.â
âYep, Edith Head can do anything. She whipped up a white gown in about three hours, and Selznick was placated. Even though he didnât get as big an audience for the reshoot. What happened up in Bel-Air?â
âGable was furious when he got Selznickâs package of instructions for playing the part. The whole thing was over ninety pages; I could hardly believe it.â
âThatâs vintage Selznick. No matter, kid. He counts on Carole to calm his big star down, though he would never admit it. Anyway, Gable will be very happy pretty soon, I guarantee it.â
âWhy?â she asked.
Andy chuckled. âNot telling you, not yet. Money buys everything, Miss Crawford. Loyalty, loveââ
âYou canât buy love.â
âPeople do it all the time.â
âThey think they do, but thatâs not what theyâre buying,â she said quickly.
The phone line hummed in the silence.
âSo donât you want to know where we are going Saturday night?â he said finally.
âI didnât say I was free.â She smiled to herself. It was fun again;
she liked this play of theirs.
âAre you free, Miss Crawford?â
âYes,â she said, yawning. âWhere are we going?â
âTo the home of a very classy writer. Herman Mankiewicz.â
*
Julie collected a heavy satchel of fan mail from Publicity a few days later and stopped back at Caroleâs dressing room, where, as usual, the actress was talking on the phone nonstop. Julie picked up a stack of already autographed pictures. They were of a smoky-eyed Carole offering the camera a lazy smile, a very popular pose with her public. Julie began stuffing them in envelopes and addressing them to the eager fans who had written the actress; she got dozens of letters a day. Easier to do it here and mail them quickly, Julie decided.
She was halfway through when the door was suddenly pushed open with such force the trailer shook.
âMa, we got it.â Gableâs familiar baritone voice was actually trembling as he bounded in and slammed the door shut behind him. His eyes were wide open, like a childâs.
Carole dropped a silver tube of lipstick to the floor and rushed forward. âOh my God, she took the money?â she said breathlessly, her arms wide.
He laughed, grabbing her shoulders. âItâs done,â he said, sounding stunned. âGod, I canât believe it; itâs actually done. Rhea took the extra fifty thousand.â
âWhoopee!â Carole shouted. âMy God, Pa, youâre almost free! How soon?â
âEarly March. Sheâs been in Vegas, waiting for the pot to sweeten.â His voice actually shook. He ran a hand through his thick hair, now all askew, not doing its essential job of hiding his ears.
âSo the extra cash Selznick got Mayer to dig up was finally enough.â Carole shook her head. âI never could fathom how a woman would keep hanging on when a man didnât want her any- more. Well, this is a fair tradeâyou get the divorce, and David gets a less grumpy Rhett Butler.â
âHell, Iâd even play a fairy if I had to,â he said huskily. He took Carole into his arms, his hand grazing the small of her back before gliding downward.
Julie rattled a few papers to remind them of her presence, but they were oblivious. âMiss Lombard, Iâll come back later,â she said hurriedly, gathering up the stack of photos and fan letters, figuring she could finish them over at the publicity office. They seemed to have almost forgotten she was there.
âShut the door tight when you leave, honey,â Carole said with a giggle. She and Gable were already intertwined on the sofa. The actress thrust one long leg upward and began peeling off a stocking. âIâm really happy for you both,â Julie said, a bit flustered. She stepped out into the sunshine, pulling the door closed behind her, feeling she had somehow intruded on their obviously heartfelt delight. A fleeting thought startled her: had she doubted before? Maybe that wasnât the right question. Could true feelings in Hollywood be explainable in Fort Wayne terms? She hurried up the path, past the commissary, the carpentry shop, the foundry, the studio florist; over there, to her left, was the upholstery shop where fabric was aged chemically to make theGone with the Wind furniture as weath- ered as possible; behind that, the barber shop where stars like Clark Gable were cut and manicured every day into replicas of authentic- ity for the film. Wasnât this real? What was she mulling all this over for anyway? Maybe there was some barrierâsomething ordinary people put up between themselves and celebrities that didnâtallowthe celebrities to be real.
It was such a bright, sunny day; the light was hurting her eyes.
There was a harsh quality to L.A. sun on a winter afternoon. People said you ceased to notice it after a while, but it still bothered her. Maybe it was time to get a pair of sunglasses. She could imagine what her friends would say at home: the middle of winter and you need sunglasses? Only a few weeks ago, she was laughing at the idea herselfâtoo stagey, she had proclaimed to Rose. But it didnât seem that way anymore.