Mitzi of the Ritz

by Lee René

  The studio has built a vast set near Bradford Creek. All of Carlisle is grateful for their return after a too-long absence. Now Carlisle’s glorious fields will soon heed the clarion call of the movies: “Ready! Action! Camera!” and “That’s good—Cut!”

  ****

  A hellish stench enveloped the hobo jungle snaking around the railroad tracks, the stink of rotting produce and fumes from the portable toilets nicknamed “honey wagons.” To make matters worse, the June sun blazed hotter than usual, the trains produced a maddening din, and coal dust coated everything and everyone.

  Welcome to glorious Carlisle, the location of Kids on the Lam, a tale of poverty, deprivation, and squalor ripped from the headlines, a “riches to rags” opus. The camera followed me past glum mothers in faded aprons and sullen men in threadbare overalls. It shadowed me when I passed a toddler trailing a filthy blanket, and a morose little girl clinging to a tattered doll. I stopped to watch a group of urchins playing a game of tag.

  “Okay for sound. Cut, print, that’s a wrap.”

  Whenever Willy ended the day’s filming, the denizens of Carlisle, America’s raisin capital, costumed in their shabbiest clothing, would abandon this hellhole and scurry away to their farms and homes. The cast and crew were outsiders and stayed at the local hostelry, a massive Beaux Arts building, the only hotel in town. A former actress, Mrs. Dagmar Carlisle, owned the place, which had gone into a decline since the Depression. Folks whispered the biggest cash crops were raisins and marijuana.

  When David arrived to supervise the production, he got right into the spirit of the place. He still tossed his twenty-dollar gold piece, but he’d abandoned his usual sartorial elegance, and dressed in jodhpurs and riding boots. Since I’d swear he’d worn a necktie to his bris, seeing David in open-collared shirts shocked me.

  He insisted on a type of naturalism I hadn’t seen in most Regal productions. He barred the purple eye shadow and brown lips. The actors looked as if we’d rolled in dirt instead of makeup. We wore Depression glad rags, but Chick still managed to look Adonis-like despite his ratty dungarees.

  Though Chick still dominated my dreams, Uncle Baron managed to steal into every waking thought. I imagined him strolling down the palm-lined streets with Clarice on his arm. Acres of orange trees, grape vines, and forests of eucalyptus, magnolias, and cypress spread beyond the railroad tracks and our hobo camp. I’d wander through the groves thinking about Uncle Baron and Clarice. Perhaps my uncle had romanced his ladylove in a wooded area perfumed with the deadly sweetness of oleander.

  At sunset, Carlisle rolled up its streets, leaving cast and crew at loose ends with no place to play. Ida traveled from Los Angeles weekly and encouraged us to make the best of the situation.

  “It could be worse. You could be filming in Death Valley.”

  Ida’s publicity machine worked nonstop, arranging interviews for Chick and a front-page placement of my photo in the Carlisle Republican. The cast and crew ate together, sweated, and labored together into the night. The time spent shooting in steaming boxcars made me wonder if working in movies was worth the perspiration, tears, and long hours. Then I’d remember my uncle and Chick and realize the ordeal was worth every minute.

  Chick was a keen fellow, but he had one teensy problem—he never read anything more challenging than the funny papers. The Katzenjammer Kids was his favorite. He’d stand in the chow line, quoting from the strip out loud, then convulse into gales of laughter. He loved repeating the characters’ corny German dialect. “Und I vent to Coney Island und I took Schatz mit me!”

  I admit it was goofy, but when he smiled his Fuller Brush smile, I fell in love with him all over again.

  One day when some in the crew groused about the demands of the shoot, I changed the subject by bringing up the newest book by Pearl S. Buck. “Has anyone read The Good Earth?” Chick looked up from the funny papers.

  “Sorry, baby, I don’t spend my time with books. I leave it to brainy gals like you. Don’t read too much. You’ll get lines on your forehead like some dried-out librarian.”

  He went back to the comics and started chortling. “Wow, The Katzenjammer kids are a hoot today.”

  David happened to be nearby going over the shot-list. He exaggerated clearing his throat, and made sure I heard him. He even had the nerve to smirk at me when I glared at him. I knew he considered Chick a dolt, but someone needed to remind Mr. Smarty-Pants Stein that not everybody went to Harvard.

  ****

  In Kids on the Lam, the boy and girl meet after she hops onto the boxcar where he’s sleeping. Willy rigged up a trolley track alongside the path he’d laid out for action, mounted the sound camera onto the trolley, and ran it parallel to the actors. People around Hollywood said Willy had lost his visual flair when the microphone became king, but he had the last laugh. He’d figured out how to add wings to the bulky sound cameras and bring motion back to talking pictures. This simple setup showed me why folks had nicknamed Willy Taylor “One-Take Willy.”

  The writer added motion to his scenario, and Willy even wanted to capture my character jumping onto a boxcar. At first, he expected me to hop onto the moving car, but David nixed the idea. He hired a diminutive stuntman who doubled for actresses and children to do the shot, but I thought David made a big megillah over nothing. Jumping aboard the train would be a piece of cake, and besides, the boxcar wasn’t moving at any real speed. My double, however, claimed the stunt was too dangerous for a non-pro to try, but business as usual for him.

  “Girlie, I’ve hopped on the backs of stallions in full gallop. I know what I’m doing.”

  The little fellow reeked of whiskey, didn’t have a tooth in his head, and sported a face covered in a mass of battle scars. Just how skilled was the guy?

  Chick and crew roasted alive inside the boxcar while Willy cracked the whip. Willy had already shot my close-up and planned to photograph the stuntman from behind as he jumped aboard. “It’ll be duck soup. One take, and once we get it in the can—”

  Willy didn’t finish his sentence. The train from Los Angeles arrived, its engine blanketed in steam. A porter dropped the trap to the ground, and Ida jumped down, a wicked grin on her face.

  “Hi-ho, Mitzi, hi-ho! Look who I brought all the way from Los Angeles.”

  Jill Carpenter stepped from the car, a vision in pink, carrying a large picnic basket. Some of the crew called out to her, and she responded with her glorious movie-star twinkle. As soon as she saw me, her upper lip curled, but she recovered quickly, and smiled even more radiantly.

  Edna whispered. “Ooklay! Idaway oughtbray atthay eachedblay ondblay ussyhay ithway erhay.” Translation: “Look! Ida brought that bleached-blonde hussy with her.”

  Ida called out again. “Guess who else came for a visit?”

  Another blonde stepped from the train and posed on the trap. She hee-hawed like a donkey, and everyone knew Miss Vassar was on the premises.

  Edna nudged me in the ribs. “Owway! It’sway Avidday Einstay’s orewhay inway ethay eshflay.” “Wow! It’s David Stein’s whore in the flesh.”

  Miss Vassar must have gotten a whiff of the honey wagons, because she wrinkled her pretty little nose the moment she stepped off the train. Ida had recruited Rose to photograph every detail, and the young shutterbug busied herself with her tripod. Jill glared daggers, Miss Vassar guffawed, and Ida seemed amused.

  “Mitzi, darling, I know you’ve met Jill Carpenter, but I’d like to introduce you to David’s discovery, Beth Cushing.”

  I attempted a smile, but my heart wasn’t in it. “Hello, Beth.”

  I decided not to bring up the infamous Mischief Makers short or mention Beth Cushing was a snotty no-talent trollop who everyone knew slept with David Stein just to get into movies. She probably stank at screwing, too, but being polite and well brought up, I kept my thoughts to myself.

  Beth responded like a hoity-toity quiff. “Mitzi and I met on the lot, when she still looked like a girl.”

  She brayed
in her donkey laugh, and I wanted to plant a right hook on her kisser. Ida put her arms around both actresses. “Girls, since you’re Regal’s three rising starlets, I thought it would be fabulous to have Rose photograph you together. All of you move over to the front of the train.”

  Just my luck to have Rose shoot me dressed like a ragamuffin between two beautiful prima donnas garbed in the height of elegance. The idea probably came from David Stein. I’d give the skunk a piece of my mind when I next saw him. We posed, the camera flashed, and Jill tried her hand at wit. “Gosh, two beauties and one beast.”

  Beth brayed again, even louder.

  Flash! Pop! Rose aimed the camera for another picture when a shriek stopped her cold. Willy yelled loud enough to wake the dead. “Cut, damn it! Cut!”

  I took my leave of Ida and company and ran back to the tracks. The toothless stuntman lay on the ground moaning in agony, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Willy looked down at the injured man with utter disgust.

  “We almost had the shot, too. Somebody get a doctor for this worthless turd. Damn the drunken bastard to Hades. Now the whole day is ruined. Where the hell am I going to find a runt stuntman in this Godforsaken rat hole?”

  I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him aside. “Willy, I can do that jump. I swear I can.”

  He looked at me as if I’d gone buggy. “The Icebox would have my head if something happened to you. I know it ain’t worth much, and it sure ain’t pretty, but I like it sitting on my shoulders, all the same.”

  I decided to press my case. “But Willy, you told me yourself that in the old days actresses did their own stunts. I know I can do it.”

  Willy kept shaking his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I can’t let you.”

  Before he could walk away, I took his arm once again. “You’re the one who called the shot duck soup, and it is. We’ve all been hopping on and off the boxcars when no one is around. I tell you I can do this.”

  He looked around. “Suppose Stein catches us?”

  I looked around the tracks. “I don’t see him, do you? Let’s shoot it before he finds out.”

  For the first time that day, Willy smiled. “You’re all right, kid, all right!”

  Willy ordered the boxcar rolled back into position and the cameras reloaded. No one knew exactly what he planned, but no one with any sense argued with Willy Taylor. Steam nearly obscured the camera mark. A grip tensed up when he saw me move into place. “Hey, Mitzi, whatcha doing?”

  An assistant director yelled out, “Quiet on the set.”

  Willy bellowed, “Roll ’em!” and I started running for the freight train. Without warning, the train lurched forward and picked up speed. I chased that boxcar, running so fast I thought my lungs would burst. My legs burned as I sped through the coal-filled air, the steam from the locomotive obscuring my vision. Finally, I grabbed the handlebar and Chick pulled me inside the car. Perspiration and dust covered every inch of me, but I did it.

  Applause and yelps of admiration followed Willy’s shout of, “Cut! Print!” He muttered, “I’ll kill that bastard,” and stormed over to the engineer. “Why the hell did you speed up like that? I ought to knock your block off, you son of a bitch!”

  Ida abandoned the two actresses and directed Rose to photograph Chick and me together. We were both black with grime, but Chick lifted me down from the freight car. In the blinding flash of Rose’s camera, he planted a big one on my cheek.

  “That was swell, Mitzi! I’ve never met a gal like you before.”

  Let me die now, a happy girl. Unfortunately, it was not to be. Leah rushed up and dragged me from Chick’s arms. “Mitzi, you could have been killed!”

  I didn’t tell her I would have jumped onto a locomotive speeding at two hundred miles an hour if the reward was a second in Chick Hagan’s embrace.

  “You’re as reckless as Uncle Baron. Promise me you’ll never do something like that again.”

  She’d never compared me to Uncle Baron before, but then I’d always been her obedient kid sister. How could I explain those days were over?

  “Yes, Leah, I promise.”

  I hadn’t counted on David Stein’s getting in on the act. David arrived just as I made my leap. There he was, arms crossed, giving me his version of the Look. He smiled ever so sweetly at Leah, and then grabbed me by my wrist.

  “Leah, may I have a moment with Mitzi?”

  Since David didn’t show anger like other people, few would know he was furious. He still had a big smile on his mug when he dragged me out of earshot and pulled me over to his automobile. By the time he turned to face me, he’d dropped the cheerful act. “I should wring your neck.”

  The crumb didn’t scare me one bit. I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture and pulled my arm away. “Yeah? You and whose army?”

  He had a nasty glint in his eye. “If you ever pull anything like that again, I’ll…”

  I felt pretty nasty myself. “You’ll do what, David Stein? I saved your bacon, and this is the thanks I get?”

  Of course, being a Jew, he didn’t have any bacon to save, but I’d made my point. We were nose to nose, and for the first time, he blew his lid. “Don’t you mouth off to me, little girl! I don’t take lip from a smart-ass, wet-behind-the-ears pisher!”

  The nerve of the guy! “Well, how about you planting a kiss on my smart ass and telling me it smells like a rose?”

  He laughed and gave me the leer of the century. “Is that an invitation, Dollface? I wouldn’t mind if it was.”

  I stood there like a lox, trying to think up a witty retort when Miss Vassar interrupted.

  “Woo-hoo, Davie darling, we’re waiting for you. Don’t you want lunch?”

  I couldn’t resist imitating her tight-jawed, snotty, Locust Valley accent. “Davie darling, I wouldn’t dream of keeping you from dining with your chums.”

  If I hadn’t stormed away in a huff, I would’ve kicked him in the keister.

  For the next two days, everyone treated me like a conquering hero—that is, everyone but Leah and David Stein. Leah kept shooting me the Look but it had lost its power. Then she tried the silent treatment but couldn’t keep it up. I found David a different story. Whenever I caught him glaring at me, I saw admiration and lust mingled with rage. Honestly, a psychiatrist wouldn’t know what to do with the guy.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  When I Take My Sugar to Tea

  Four days later, an ill-humored Mr. Roth jumped from the Los Angeles train, a dog-eared copy of the script in his hand. Mr. Roth looked spiffy in his striped suit, gleaming white shirt, silk tie, and spectator brogues. His Carnival in Venice cologne battled against the stench of the honey wagons. He looked around the hobo jungle and bellowed, “Who picked this dump anyway?”

  No one dared say a word, but everybody knew he’d insisted on shooting in Carlisle because he knew Mrs. Carlisle was movie crazy and would make shooting here cheap. Omar arrived with him and took me aside. “He’s in a foul mood, Mitzi. Stay away.”

  Some poor chump of a grip made the mistake of saying, “Hello, Mr. Roth.”

  Mr. Roth glared at the fellow, screamed, “Drop dead!” and stormed over to David, who was going over the shot list with one of the assistants. His upper lip curled when he eyeballed David’s attire.

  “You look like a bum.”

  David appeared unperturbed. “Sorry, I’m having my tux pressed.”

  Mr. Roth waved everyone away with a curt, “Scram! Mr. Stein and I have things to talk over.”

  The crew scrambled like mice from a hungry cat. David and Mr. Roth walked to an orange grove that adjoined the railroad tracks. I followed at a short distance, since Mr. Roth had a voice that could cut through solid granite.

  Mr. Roth stopped in his tracks and the bellowing began. “Are you trying to ruin my company?”

  David barely spoke above a whisper, and I strained to catch his reply. “It’s our company, Ben. We’re making money, aren’t we? Before our deal, you were one step above a Poverty R
ow outfit, but now the bucks are pouring in. The money from every ticket, every bag of popcorn, every bon-bon goes into our pockets, not to some other putz.”

  Mr. Roth caught himself and softened. “All right already, we’re making money. I had a meeting with Joe Breen about this piece of trash, Kids on the Lam, and he ain’t happy.”

  David took a breath at the mention of Breen, the notorious screenplay censor. “Don’t tell me you called on Breen in that get-up? No wonder he was sore.”

  Mr. Roth snapped back. “What’s wrong with the way I dress? I spent a lot of dough on these duds.”

  He looked Mr. Roth up and down. “Nothing’s wrong, if you’re a pimp. Breen already told me the script was a piece of trash, and you know what I told him? The screenwriter won a Pulitzer Prize. He’s the toast of Broadway, the one that matters, the one in New York. Maybe Breen doesn’t know about that Broadway since he was just a scribe for some Catholic rag in Philly. What makes him qualified to tell us how to run our business? You should have suggested he try selling rosary beads instead of sticking his nose into movie making.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he would have loved that. Think you’re smart, Harvard Boy, don’t you? Well, maybe you are, but I’m the one who has to deal with him. He told me no fairies, no cute lesbian scenes, no whites and coloreds together, no drugs, no naked broads, and no profanity.”

  I heard the quiet fury in David’s voice. “What’s the matter with you, Ben? We’re businessmen, aren’t we? What about free speech? What about art and creativity? What about Bobby Fayette’s acting? This is his greatest performance.”

  “To hell with that pansy!”

  When David finally piped up, his voice matched Mr. Roth’s in pitch. “Bobby has been in movies since the silent days, and he’s never given a performance like this. Ben, this is his last film for Regal. We should let him go out in glory. You owe it to him.”

  Mr. Roth exploded. “What a load of horseshit! I made the fluff a star, and how did he thank me? By picking up every piece of queer ass from here to Honolulu. Forget about that powder puff.”