by Peter Corris
'I'm not an extra.'
She shrugged. 'Blue pass, extra, what's the difference?'
I quickly found out the difference – not much. Lot 3 was a six-acre paddock which De Mille had converted into the Wild West, complete with Mississippi River, wharf, homesteads, Fort Leavenworth, frontier township, Indian village, hills, valleys and all. I found this out later. For now, I was mustered with a motley herd of hopefuls under a clump of half-grown cottonwood trees that looked as if they'd been uprooted from somewhere and planted there. It was hot and I was sweating inside my suit. I clutched my pass and my photograph and thought, Why does it always turn out like this for me in Hollywood?
We waited, and waited. There were about fifty of us, mostly men but with half a dozen women. I tried to keep aloof from the common herd, but I picked up snatches of their conversation:
'I hear it was called Buffalo Bill at first.'
'It was called This Breed of Men before that.'
'They say Cooper's hung like a buffalo.'
'You hopin' to find out, honey?'
'So, who's he playing – Cody?'
'Nah, Custer.'
'I happen to know he's playing "Wild Bill" Hickok.'
'The hell you say. Who else is in this picture, Geronimo?'
'As a matter of fact, I heard Charlie Stevens25 is in it. He's Geronimo's grandson.'
'Holy shit!'
De Mille showed up around three. He had a platoon of assistants with him, all looking snooty and reluctant to have to deal with the underlings. De Mille's been photographed more times than the Statue of Liberty, and I guess a hell of a lot has been written about him. They tell me Tony Quinn's got some stuff about him in his autobiography, but he would because he became De Mille's son-in-law. I must look it up one day to see if it's truthful. I know Tony doesn't mention me because someone who read his book told me so. Well, maybe he should have and maybe he shouldn't. I'll leave it to others to judge.
De Mille was as snooty as his offsiders. He looked pretty ridiculous in his high boots with the pants tucked in, loose jacket and flowing tie. The pistol in the polished leather holster was all right on the sets of The Squaw Man and The Plainsman, but it must have looked pretty strange for The Ten Commandments. He wore a floppy hat with a brim which he turned up when he came out of the sun. Occasionally he took the hat off to wipe his forehead and showed a bald skull fringed with dark hair. I had the feeling that he wasn't self-conscious about being bald. Ridiculous he might have looked, but he talked good sense.
'This is a big picture,' he said. 'An American picture.'
That got a fair-sized cheer, in which I joined.
'You all know that making pictures is hard work, and everyone involved earns every dollar they get . . .'
Another cheer.
'. . . including me.'
Cheers again.
'You'll be told what to do, sometimes by me, sometimes by others. Do it, and let's entertain America.'
Then he was off, striding away, and we were left to the tender mercies of the underlings. I tried to push my way through the crowd to the front to catch the eye of a woman with a clipboard who seemed to be writing down names and causing people to smile. Eventually I got close. She wore an eyeshade over a mop of curly hair, and she was all business.
'Say, Miss. Has Art Rosson said anything about me?'
She consulted her clipboard. 'You are?'
'Dick Browning.'
'No.' She turned away.
'Wait!' I brandished the photograph. 'I've got this. I'm in some of the Montana footage. Look. Big scenes.'
She took the photograph and looked at it carefully. 'Mmm,' she said.
I was about to relax when another man produced the same photo. He pointed to my image. 'That's me,' he said.
I looked at him. He was about the same colouring, height and build.
'You're a liar,' I said.
'Miss.' Another photo, another dark six-footer. 'I'm in this picture.'
'You're a liar.' The first interloper and I spoke at the same time.
The woman laughed. 'Boys, boys, give me a break.' She poised a pencil over a sheet of paper and spoke to the second look-alike. 'Name?'
'Brad Smith.'
'Thank you, Brad. Height?'
'Six feet.'
She pointed with the pencil. 'Over there. You're a player. You?' This was to the other man.
'Hunter Thomas,' he drawled in a broad Texan accent, 'an' ah stand six feet tall, ma'am.'
'Thank you. Player. Over there. And you are . . . ?'
'Richard Browning. Six foot one.'
'Too tall. Extra. Over there, please.'
16
That first day on the set of The Plainsman was full of indignities and embarrassments I don't care to recall. The extras were treated like cattle, unbranded and headed for the slaughterhouse. I'd had the job of herding extras myself when I was working for Fairbanks, so I knew what to expect. Imagine yourself as a slave chained to an oar in a Roman galley (with a packed lunch and a coffee break) and you'll have some idea of it.
I spent most of the day rolling barrels along the riverboat wharf, and I was sunburnt and bone-weary when I handed in my costume, collected my fin and staggered out the gate onto Marathon Street at 5 p.m. Still, things could've been worse. I was employed on a major movie, which was where fifty per cent of the population of Hollywood would've killed to be; I had two thousand dollars in my satchel and someone to call on. I'd just the strength to flag down a taxi.
N. Robert Silkstein still had his office on Sunset Boulevard, and Miss Dupre was still guarding the fort. Except that it was an even glossier fort than it had been when I'd last seen it, six or seven years ago.26 The Viking look had given way to a New York, oak-panelled feel, and N. Robert's initials on the door had grown to eight inches high. There was one thing I admired about agents – the hours they worked. N. Robert and his kind had working breakfasts, lunches and dinners. It was a fair bet I'd find him in his office at 6 p.m., unless he was out at a working cocktail party.
Miss Dupre still wore her hair cropped and silvered; she'd put on weight and developed bags under her eyes, but her form was as good as ever. Three people were waiting in the reception area; two of them were asleep. Miss Dupre was a top hand at out-sitting folks. I walked up and sat on the edge of her desk.
'I want to see Bobby,' I said.
'He's got all the hicks he needs.'
'What if I told you I was working for Cecil B. De Mille?'
'I'd say you were a liar. You look like you might be working for the TVA.'
I laughed. 'I've just come down from Montana to do some more work on The Plainsman. Paramount.'
'I know it's Paramount,' she flared. 'What're you doing, shoeing horses?'
I took out my pass and the photograph. 'Don't you remember me, honey? Dick Browning? Commander Kelly? Robin Hood? Hell's Angels?'
She gaped at me. It was the first success I'd had all day. 'Jesus Christ, it is you. We thought you was dead.'
'"Were dead", Miss Dupre. Let's watch our grammar, shall we? And I ain't. Buzz him, baby!'
She opened the circuit, and I heard Bobby's voice with all the smooth charm I remembered. 'I said no calls.'
'D'you remember that limey, Aussie, whatever the hell he was? Dick Browning, Kelly . . . shit, you know who I mean.'
'Miss Dupre, get a holda y'self. You still got people out there?'
I leant down and spoke. 'They're all asleep, Bobby, and none of 'em's going to make you any money. This is Dick Browning, and you've got ten percent of me. Remember?'
'I remember the debts your crummy flying outfit left behind. Throw the bum out, Miss Dupre.'
Miss Dupre had recovered fast. 'Mr Silkstein,' she purred, 'Mr Browning's working on The Plainsman for Cecil B. De Mille.'
'And he's spoken with Gary Cooper,' I said.
'And he's spoken with Gary Cooper.'
'Show Mr Browning in,' N. Robert said, 'and throw those other bums out.'
&nb
sp; I went through the padded door into Silkstein's office not knowing what to expect, apart from greed and cunning. The decor was New York with a touch of London, or what the decorator imagined was London – a silver smoking stand by a club chair drawn up to a fake fireplace and a hunting print on the wall above. Bobby stood behind his desk on what I knew was a slightly raised section of the floor to lift him to above five foot six. He hadn't changed; he was still slight and tight-skinned with an aggressive attitude, like a cruising barracuda. He looked at me warily, something I've got used to over the years. I took a cigarette from the box on his desk and lit it.
'Hi, Bobby.'
He was looking at my clothes, shoes and haircut, trying to estimate my net worth. He didn't like what he saw. 'Said you were working.'
'You owe me, Bobby. I never collected all the money I was due from Hell's Angels. You must've picked it up.'
'You left debts.'
'You never settled anyone's debts in your life.'
He sat down and spread his hands in the gesture agents learn at agent school. It means 'Our interests are identical, but mine come first.'
'It was like, seven years ago? We closed all the books on that a long time back, Dick. Let's call it square.'
I squashed out the cigarette in a huge glass ashtray and watched while Silkstein lit a cigar. He tossed the match in the direction of the fireplace and missed by a mile – he was never the sporting type. 'Seven years,' I said. 'Doesn't feel like it.'
'What you been doin'?'
'This and that. Ever hear anything about Bluey?' This was my compatriot and former partner, who'd sold everything out from under me and taken off with my girl.
'Yeah. He flew into a cliff down in Mexico.'
'And Terri?'
He shrugged. 'He was alone. You still carrying a torch for that broad? She cost you plenty. Forget her.'
'Right.' I reached for another cigarette and put the pass and photograph on the desk. Although the documents were only a day old they were by far the most beat up things on that highly polished surface.
Bobby glanced at them. 'So?'
'I need your help.' I explained what had happened. Bobby sat down and took some notes, using a gold pen and writing on a pad that had SILKSTEIN ENTERPRISES embossed on the paper. 'The picture's tailor-made for me,' I said. 'I can ride and shoot and all that shit. Rosson promised me a speaking part.'
'You know the rule in this town, Dick – don't hold me to a promise I made yesterday.'
'I want another shot at it, Bobby. I'm past Central Casting and working. Cooper knows me. With a bit of push and shove from you I can get a few lines. I can make it.'
Silkstein drew a line under his notes and put the pen down. 'Can't advance you nothing.'
'I've got a stake. I can see out the year.'
He puffed smoke. 'I dunno. All I ever had from you was trouble.'
'So what's new? Name me a star who isn't trouble.'
'Star? You?'
'I can make it, Bobby. I can ride, shoot, swim, dance, fly aeroplanes . . .'
'How old are you again?'
'Thirty-four, pass for thirty.'
'Mmm, inna medium shot, maybe. They got a good-looking Aussie can do all that, name of Flynn. Ten years younger'n you. Warners 're buildin' him into the new Gable.'
'He's a fake. If he's good looking and he can do all that and act too, he's not an Australian.'
'Did I say he could act? Rin Tin Tin acts better. But he's a star. You musta seen Captain Blood, Charge of the Light Brigade?'
'No.'
'Where you been, Dick?'
'Around.' I'd been pretty fired up there for a while but the energy was leaving me. I slumped down in the chair and stared out the window at the sky that was darkening quickly, the way it does in the desert.
Silkstein studied me. Then he spun his chair, reached behind him and flicked open a drinks cupboard. The bottles and glasses were on a kind of lazy susan that revolved slowly. Light from the electric chandelier winked on the glass.
'Drink, Dick?'
Every tissue in my body was crying out for one, but I knew what N. Robert thought of lushes. His father had been one of the greatest of all time. Booze had killed him early, for which Bobby was grateful. But that didn't mean he trusted drinkers. I swallowed and managed to get the words out. 'Never touch it, Bobby.'
Silkstein closed the cupboard. He stood on his little dais again and reached across the desk for my hand. We shook. 'I'll see what I can do for you on the picture, Dick. Mightn't be much, but a start, right?'
'Sure.'
'I gotta few ideas. Leave your address with Miss Dupre out front. We'll be in touch.'
Miss Dupre was still at her desk, and the people were still waiting. She looked at me with a new respect – I must have been with Bobby for half an hour.
'Thought he told you to kick these people out?' I said.
She smiled, baring polished white teeth, too even to be real. 'He doesn't mean it. Can I help you, Mr Browning?'
'You could tell me whether Bobby's got any serious clients at the moment. I get the feeling this is all front.'
She clamped her mouth shut.
'Tell you what, I haven't been in town for quite some time, and I don't know where people are living now. Bobby wants to stay in touch with me, but I haven't got a place just yet. Where would you suggest?'
She took out a card and printed my name on it. Then she looked at me and couldn't resist. 'These days,' she said, 'the people who need a haircut all seem to be living at Venice Beach.'
She was kidding me, of course, but I took a cab down to Venice Beach and found I liked the place. Oil derricks jutted up into the night sky, and the old canals were blocked and overgrown. The roads were narrow, and the walkways were broken down and tended to be clogged by rubbish. I don't know why it appealed to me. I've always like seaside places – perhaps they remind me of home, or holidays, or dirty weekends. I've never objected to oil wells. Who could object to money pumps? Venice Beach had clearly seen better days, like me. Perhaps that's why I liked it.
I located a cheap hotel and booked in for a week. A surprising number of the shacks around were for sale and for rent. Looking back, if I'd outlaid the couple of thousand bucks I had then on Venice Beach property I'd be a rich man today. But that's life, as Ned Kelly27 said. I ate a hamburger as I walked along trying to find the water and get the feel of the place. It smelled as if it was close to the sea, but it was hard to get down to the beach through the dead-end streets, overgrown lots and rubbish tips. When I finally located it, the beach didn't impress me. It looked thin and grey; but no Australian is impressed by beaches anywhere else. We've got the best.
The next day was Saturday and there was no work on the film. I didn't get to sleep until around 3 a.m. because that was when the mosquitoes, the bed bugs and the rats went to sleep. When I woke up, scratching at the bites, it was late in the morning, and warm. I washed, shaved and went into the first realty office I came to. I was offered three houses and the agent drove me to them, talking up Venice Beach all the way. The old Victorian ruin on Columbia Drive had the best roof and the least rubbish in the front and back yards.
'Big,' I said.
'That's a plus,' the agent, who said his name was Mr Beer, remarked. 'You can rent out rooms. Have some company and make a few bucks on the side. We can even steer a few people your way.'
Beer was fat and energetic. He wore a yellow shirt, spotted bow-tie and a checked jacket. He skipped up the steps onto the porch and gazed seawards. The rent he was asking was very low and I began to see why. He was looking for a paying boarding house manager. I joined him on the porch and said something disparaging about the paint and the woodwork. We walked around the house, trading criticisms and praise. In fact I liked Venice more by day than by night; I liked the peeling, multi-colour paint jobs, the murals and the seagulls. I was also thinking about my funds. I knew I wanted to stay in Hollywood long enough to have a real shot at breaking into the movies. It migh
t take time and cheap rent would be a big advantage. Then, as now, Los Angeles was deal city.
I drew a dollar sign in the dust on a window and extracted a fifty from my wallet. 'I'll take it, on one condition.'
Beer ate the note up with his eyes. 'Great. Great. What's the condition?'
'You supply me with a car.'
17
It was a '29 Oldsmobile, one of the worst cars I've ever driven. It didn't want to start and belched black smoke when it did. The gears were mushy, it had no acceleration and the emergency brake didn't work. The others brakes worked too well in the dry and not at all in the wet. Still, it came free and that almost compensated. I insisted on collecting the car as soon as I signed the lease, and also that the Columbia Drive house be cleaned before I moved in. So I spent the weekend at the hotel, or rather in the bars and movie houses of Santa Monica and Century City. I had some catching up to do. I drank some new brands of beer and liquor and I watched movies, particularly the stuff Glenda had never wanted to see – Saunders of the River, China Seas, Call of the Wild, The Last of the Mohicans. I saw Errol Flynn in Captain Blood and wasn't impressed. For virility, Gable made him look like a virgin sixth former, and I told myself (after a few shots in the bar near the theatre) that I'd tell Flynn this if I ever met him.
On Monday morning I drove the Olds the twenty odd miles to Paramount. Just having a car did me some good. I couldn't take it through the gate, but I got to park it in a space reserved for studio workers. Status is everything in Hollywood. The car won me a small measure of respect at the car park and that won me a fraction more respect inside. Of course, Silkstein had been at work too, and I found myself removed from the extras list and slotted in with the players. It made a big difference – instead of rolling barrels I was riding horses in small cavalry troops; instead of running down the street with my back to the camera I was walking slowly, deep in conversation with the mayor or the stage coach driver.
If you're under sixty you probably haven't seen the picture. Other films from De Mille and Cooper have overshadowed it, but the last time I saw it, about five years ago (admittedly I was drunk and it was on TV at 2.30 am and I fell asleep just before the end), I thought it stood up pretty well. Of course it's a load of rubbish – Hickok and Cody have a falling out; Hickok is bent on stopping the sale of guns to the Indians; Hickok and Calamity Jane fall in and out of love and there's a happy ending.28 But Cooper was good, and Jean Arthur was terrific. I remember staring at the screen through a haze of Wild Turkey and watching for myself . . . and I remembered . . . [The tape breaks off here while Browning fetches a bottle. He can be heard pouring and swallowing a few quick drinks before his voice resumes, a little slurred but aggressive. Ed.]
