That he was formerly in pictures.
Sometimes he is embarrassed at his decision to situate the Oscar so prominently. He fears ostentation. He does not wish to be thought of as boastful.
Ida tells him not to be so silly. Babe would have displayed his Oscar, Ida says.
This is beyond dispute. Babe would have delighted in it.
Here is the truth, he thinks: Babe would have thrived without him, but he could not have thrived without Babe. Babe gave him his identity. Babe offered him purpose.
The apartment is silent. Ida is taking a constitutional. It is at these times that he talks to Babe. He comes up with gags, bits of business. He explains them to Babe, detailing how they should be performed, listening, cogitating the response, adjusting, finessing.
He stands.
He runs through the act, speaking aloud his lines.
He closes his eyes, and he is no longer alone.
39
It is 1921. The Lucky Dog. Broncho Billy Anderson has rented space at the Selig Zoo Studio by Lincoln Park because it is cheap. The zoo animals form a chorus, and he can smell their emanations on the breeze.
Babe is the heavy. Babe is always the heavy. At least working with Broncho Billy Anderson is a break for Babe from the demands of Larry Semon. After all, there is only so much a man can learn from being repeatedly knocked down.
He knows Babe by sight and reputation. Jokes are made about Babe’s new bride, but they are kept on the right side of good taste.
Babe Hardy is not a small man.
He is not in competition with Babe, and he has respect for him. Babe understands the workings of the camera. Babe is cognizant of angles and eyelines. In each scene, Babe does just enough: not because Babe is lazy, but because Babe knows pictures. Where he is broad, Babe is subtle. But this is his picture, not Babe Hardy’s. Broncho Billy Anderson believes in him. Broncho Billy Anderson has promised him his own comedy series, but he has heard this before.
From Isadore Bernstein.
From Hal Roach.
Even Mae sees the difference in him this time, the resignation. (After all, there is only so much a man can learn from being repeatedly knocked down.) They have already committed to months on the vaudeville circuit once The Lucky Dog is done, to another winter in freezing theaters in the Midwest and Canada.
He talks with Babe. They share a sandwich and coffee. They speak of Larry Semon, but only in the most general of terms. He holds no grudge against Larry Semon, while Larry Semon continues to pay Babe’s wages. The sun shines. The animals gibber and howl. One scene. Two scenes. A day over, with more to come, but not many. Broncho Billy Anderson may believe, but Broncho Billy Anderson is investing his own money. The Longacre Theater has left a hole in his finances, so Broncho Billy Anderson has to work fast.
Their scenes together are done. He and Babe shake hands. They part.
It is just another job.
40
At the Oceana Apartments, he stores in his desk only the most precious of correspondence. One of these letters is from the actor Sir Alec Guinness, congratulating him on the Academy Award. He rereads it when he is low.
“For me you have always been and will always be one of the greats.” It goes on to say that Sir Alec’s portrayal of Sir Andrew Aguecheek in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night—when Sir Alec was just twenty-three-year-old Alec Guinness—was based on how he might have played it. It ends with an expression of hope that “I may meet you some day.”
Not that they might meet, but that Sir Alec might get to meet him.
Ida was in the kitchen when he first read the letter. He tried to call to her but his throat seized up. He found himself crying. He was touched by the sentiments expressed—deeply so—but there was more to his emotion than this.
He has always denied any wish to act in drama. It is not where his gifts lie, if such a name can be ascribed to these modest abilities that have sustained him He never yearns to play Lear or the Fool, and he harbors no regrets, not for any of it.
Babe, though.
Yes, Babe should have played Falstaff. This does matter after all. Babe had it in him. Babe had the joy and the appetites and the love and the loyalty, and Babe had the hurt and the rejection and the sorrow and the decline. Babe was ambitious. Babe wanted to escape, to be more than they would allow him to be.
There is this:
Babe tries to enlist during World War I. Babe is no Jack Kerrigan. Babe is rejected because of his weight. This is known. Babe speaks of it sometimes.
But to him, Babe tells another version. It is 1938. They are filming Block-Heads. They are at the height of their fame. Hal Roach is making more money from them than Hal Roach can spend, and has put some of these funds back into the picture. There are extras in full uniform, and a great trench has been constructed. When Block-Heads reaches the screen, those early scenes will prove most striking.
They are standing together in the trench, waiting for John Blystone, the director, to call “Action.” Babe is about to go over the top, leaving him behind. But with so many men, and so much detail, delays are inevitable. And Babe is elsewhere. He does not ask the cause, not then, but when they watch the dailies he can see that Babe is distracted. It seems that Babe wishes the scene to be over, as though he is uncomfortable with some aspect of it, even though they have agreed that care must be taken because the memory of the slaughter remains fresh.
Days in uniform, and then they are done with it. He gets changed. In his dressing room, Babe sits in front of a mirror. Babe is still wearing his costume.
—What’s the matter?
—Nothing.
—It’s not nothing. I can see it in you.
—It’s this.
Babe touches his tunic, rubbing the rough material between finger and thumb.
He sits. He waits.
I tried to sign up, Babe says.
—I know.
—I was too fat.
You did more than many, he says. More than I.
They didn’t just reject me, says Babe. They mocked me to my face. Two of them, in uniform. The first one called his buddy in, just so they could laugh at me together.
—If they’re not dead, they’ll be laughing at you again soon, but this time they’ll be paying for the pleasure.
It is not much, but it is enough. The cloud breaks. Babe puts his hurt away.
I don’t want them to be dead, Babe says.
—What about injured?
—Only slightly. A finger.
—A toe.
—One ball.
—A ball each.
—A set.
He is still holding the treasured letter from Sir Alec Guinness when Ida appears from the kitchen.
What’s wrong? Ida asks.
—Nothing. Just something kind.
Do you hear? Do you hear, Babe?
Someone said something kind.
41
Broncho Billy Anderson, the Jewish cowboy, comes through for him.
Broncho Billy Anderson sells The Lucky Dog to Metro, and Metro signs on to release more of the company’s comedies, anchored by Broncho Billy Anderson’s lead actor. Broncho Billy Anderson sees in him something of what Mack Sennett saw in Chaplin, and Hal Roach saw in Harold Lloyd. Broncho Billy Anderson speaks to him in a different way from Isadore Bernstein, in a different way from Larry Semon. There is an enthusiasm to Broncho Billy Anderson’s words that he has not heard before, and a thoughtfulness to Broncho Billy Anderson’s expression.
But Broncho Billy Anderson is not an ideas man when it comes to comedy, and he feels the pressure to create gags, scenarios, bits of business for Broncho Billy Anderson’s pictures. He has grown too used to vaudeville, where the same act may put food on a table for years. The pictures consume, and their appetite is insatiable. Soon, he is forced to cannibalize his old routines—the steamroller from Nuts in May, the gavel from The Handy Man—but he finds that he enjoys the challenge. His mind begins to work in new ways. The results are not always
successful, but the torpor of the stage begins to fall away.
And yet these disparate elements are not coalescing. He can see why. So can Broncho Billy Anderson.
Chaplin has the Little Tramp, with hat and cane.
Harold Lloyd has Harold, with boater and glasses.
But he, as yet, has no persona, no character. There is nothing to which the Audience can form an attachment. There is only a name, and even this is not his own. He tries on personalities like masks, only to discard them as imperfect. It is like attempting to catch a scent or sound with his fingers. It defies his grasp.
We’re okay, Broncho Billy Anderson tells him. We have time.
But he does not have time, not anymore. Despite his reservations, his desire to protect himself, he has opened himself up to Broncho Billy Anderson. Broncho Billy Anderson’s belief has infected him, but Broncho Billy Anderson can only point the camera. Broncho Billy Anderson can only guide. Whatever is to follow, whatever is to save him, will come from him, and him alone.
But he has nothing.
Nothing but gags.
And there is Mae. He cannot work for Broncho Billy Anderson and wander the vaudeville circuit. He has made his choice. But he and Mae form a partnership. They are a double act, in life as on stage. Where he goes, so goes Mae. If he gives up the stage, so too must she.
What, then, is there for her?
Mae asks this question. She asks it before every picture.
—What is there in it for me?
Not that he does not love Mae. He does, for all their travails. He loves the smell of her, and the yielding of her flesh. He loves that she does not question his decision to leave vaudeville. He loves that she trusts in his gifts.
But Mae wants to work. Mae wants to be in pictures. And if he is to have a starring role, then Mae must star alongside him. He now makes it a condition of his employment.
Find something for Mae.
Every producer knows it. He will work hard and well, but Mae must be with him.
Broncho Billy Anderson has learned this to his cost, because Broncho Billy Anderson first assumes that Mae is his wife.
—She’s not your wife?
—No.
—But she has your name.
—I know, but the name isn’t real.
—Then why is she using it?
—We had to do it to avoid confusion.
—It hasn’t worked, because I’m confused.
—Well, you know how it is.
Broncho Billy Anderson knows how it is. Broncho Billy Anderson will remain married to the same woman, Mollie Schabbleman, for sixty years, but Broncho Billy Anderson knows.
—So why don’t you just marry her?
—I can’t. She’s already married to someone else.
Broncho Billy Anderson thinks that this might make a good gag if it were not the truth, and therefore sad.
But even this does not stop Broncho Billy Anderson from believing.
He panics. Metro is lukewarm about what it has seen so far. He falls back on burlesques. Rudolph Valentino is the biggest star in the world. Rudolph Valentino’s latest picture is Blood and Sand, so he will become Rhubarb Vaseline in Mud and Sand. Twenty-six minutes, three reels. It is a lot of money for Broncho Billy Anderson to invest, even with the Metro deal, but maybe this is the way to go.
And it’s good. It’s good from the first sight of the dailies, and it’s good in the edit, and it’s good on the screen.
Only Mae is not good. Mae is a twenty-eight-year-old woman (if she is to be believed, which she is not, because she is thirty-four and looks forty) who is convinced that she is beautiful enough to play Pavaloosky, the dancer and seductress who tempts the hero. Her common-law husband may love her fleshiness, but the camera does not, and Mae acts for people two cities away.
And if the camera cannot help but magnify her failings, so also does it capture the hardness beneath.
At the first screening, he casts glances at Mae as she watches the screen. Mae does not see what he sees. Mae is enthralled by the figure she presents. Mae is in love with the possibility of herself. Mae could have a future in pictures, but not the one she imagines, not the one she believes is her due. Mae could be background, furniture, but Mae will never be a star.
Afterward they celebrate with champagne, and he cannot meet her eye.
Motion Picture News compares him to Chaplin. His performance is described as “exquisite,” and it is. He has never been better.
Now Broncho Billy Anderson must try to reason with him about Mae.
Broncho Billy Anderson must try mistakes in life. Broncho Billy Anderson accidentally buys a theater with more curses than a mummy’s tomb, and therefore understands folly, so Broncho Billy Anderson knows that Mae is going to ruin this man. Mae has so much baggage, she ought to be followed by mules.
Metro thinks Mae was miscast, Broncho Billy Anderson tells him.
It pains Broncho Billy Anderson to say this, because Broncho Billy Anderson can see the hurt it causes. This man before him does not complain. This man before him works day and night. This man before him is cheerful and kind and polite. This man before him has greatness inside.
But this man before him is not making enough money to satisfy Metro, and the return bookings are not repaying Broncho Billy Anderson’s investment. Meanwhile, Mae believes she’s Mabel Normand. Broncho Billy Anderson starts to fear that Mae could represent the next phase of the Curse of the Bambino.
Mae can’t play the lead, Broncho Billy Anderson persists. She’s good for character parts. Character parts she can do. But that’s all.
—Mae won’t take character parts. Character parts are for old people.
Mae is old, Broncho Billy Anderson wants to tell him. If you’re a woman in this business, you’re old at thirty and dead at thirty-five. Mae is thirty-four. In career terms, someone should be measuring her for a coffin.
But Broncho Billy Anderson is too kind to say this aloud.
This man before him will not listen. This man before him recognizes the truth—Broncho Billy Anderson is no fool, but neither is he—yet some combination of love, loyalty, and fear prevents him from doing what is required.
Broncho Billy Anderson makes another film with him, a burlesque of When Knighthood Was in Flower, but this one does worse business than Mud and Sand. In his heart, Broncho Billy Anderson still believes. In his heart, Broncho Billy Anderson would like to continue believing, but his wallet tells Broncho Billy Anderson to stop.
There are no hard feelings. Broncho Billy Anderson loves this man, and has achieved what he can for him. Broncho Billy Anderson has made Mud and Sand, and Broncho Billy Anderson has brought him to the attention of Hal Roach once again.
Broncho Billy Anderson has helped turn him into a star.
42
It is not the same studio to which he returns. When first he worked for Hal Roach, he did so outdoors, on a single primitive stage. At night he helped to carry the furniture inside in case of bad weather. But Snub Pollard and Jimmy Parrott and Harold Lloyd have made Hal Roach wealthy. The Hal E. Roach Studios now sit on nineteen acres in Culver City, and Hal Roach has investors willing and eager to back his pictures.
The lot reminds him of the Selig Zoo Studios. He can hear the howling of monkeys and the shrieking of birds, because Hal Roach keeps a collection of animals for use in his pictures.
There was an act on the vaudeville circuit called Rhinelander’s Pigs. The pigs stank out any theater in which they played. No one wanted to follow Rhinelander’s Pigs. The pigs toyed with a ball, balanced on a seesaw, formed a pyramid. Any time the pigs appeared reluctant to perform, Rhinelander would take out a long knife to sharpen on a whetstone, which was the cue for the pigs to do whatever it was they were supposed to be doing. Eventually, he supposes, the pigs, through age or the vagaries of public taste, outlived their usefulness, at which point they were taken to the slaughterhouse, where another man stood, sharpening a knife on a whetstone.
He wonders
if the pigs tried to perform tricks before they died, in the belief that it might save them.
Rumor has it that one of the ostriches in Hal Roach’s zoo is the same bird that put Billie Ritchie in the grave.
Billie Ritchie worked with Fred Karno. Billie Ritchie’s gags involved tramps and drunks.
Chaplin was watching Billie Ritchie very carefully.
Anyway, the ostrich kicked Billie Ritchie so hard and so often that Billie Ritchie got cancer and died. This is how hard the ostrich kicked Billie Ritchie. The fate of Billie Ritchie concerns him, because one of the pictures Hal Roach has lined up for his slate is called Roughest Africa, and features more animals than the Bronx Zoo. One scene is set to involve him being chased across Santa Catalina Island by an ostrich.
He initiates some inquiries, and is told that this ostrich is not the same one that kicked cancer into Billie Ritchie.
That, he is assured, was another ostrich entirely.
Jimmy Parrott makes one-reel pictures for Hal Roach under the name Paul Parrott, while Jimmy’s brother, Charley Parrott, directs Snub Pollard comedies and acts as director general of the studios. Charley Parrott is also taking care of a new series for Hal Roach, to be called Our Gang.
He knows of Charley Parrott from the vaudeville circuit, but Jimmy Parrott is familiar to him only from the screen. Studio gossip has it that Jimmy Parrott was a hard kid in his teens, and ran with a street gang in Baltimore. Charley Parrott saved his brother by bringing him out to California and giving him work. It was not entirely an act of charity. Jimmy Parrott is a good comedian. Not original, not like Harold Lloyd, but solid. Charley Parrott guides Jimmy Parrott. Charley Parrott’s instincts are better than solid. And Charley Parrott can act. Charley Parrott is subtle. He watches Charley Parrott going through set-ups and lines with his cast and thinks that Charley Parrott should be in front of the camera, not behind it.
But Jimmy Parrott is the reason why he is here, the reason Hal Roach has given him a second chance. Jimmy Parrott is an epileptic, and his fits are getting in the way of his acting. Hal Roach requires product, epilepsy or not, so another performer is required to take the pressure off Jimmy Parrott and ensure that Hal Roach can fill screens every week.
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