“Quarter, please.” She held out a tin cup; Mickey obliged by dropping a coin in it.
“Sorry, Tad. But they’ll move in and it won’t be fun anymore. Do you think we’ll get away with the shenanigans we pull here? The way we play about, improvise, create on our feet? We look like a gang of street urchins, the way we work. And that’s all well and good now. But if you want to be taken seriously, you’ll have to pay the price. Both of you. Mark my words.”
“Mickey, that’s nonsense. I’m making money, lots of money, for the studio, and I have plenty to say about my movies. I hired you, didn’t I? And Fran? Papa Zukor trusts me to make movies and I trust him to distribute them.”
“For now. But you do know what your sainted Papa called you after your last contract negotiation, don’t you?” Mickey grinned, his black eyes flashing. I couldn’t prevent a smile, either, for I’d heard the same thing.
“No. What?” Mary put her makeup brush down and glared at us both through the mirror.
“Bank of America’s Sweetheart.”
Mary’s cheeks turned scarlet and her nostrils flared. But then a tiny, triumphant smile began to play at her lips, and we all three burst into laughter.
“You’re needed on set, Miss Pickford, Mr. Neilan.” A boy popped his head in the doorway. He looked at us all laughing, and shook his head. “Must be fun, at the top.”
Which made us all laugh even harder, although I couldn’t completely ignore the fact that the boy had not meant me. No one at Famous Players thought Frances Marion was at the top, or even in the middle. Or if they did, they suspected it was only because of the generosity of the laughing tomboy who put the finishing touch on her makeup, quickly donned her costume of tattered denim overalls behind a screen, then led us all on set, a tiny Pied Piper.
As soon as Mary stepped before the camera, however, she stopped laughing. Her jaw was granite, her eyes narrow and shrewd as she took in the setup; I watched in awe as she went over to the camera and moved it a fraction of an inch to the left, without asking the cameraman. And he let her.
Then she turned to the rest of the cast and crew. “We only have two more days left, so let’s do our best today, gang. I’ve never been over budget yet and I’m not going to be now. I’m also not going to let that Griffith steal my thunder, so let’s make a good movie. No—a great movie.” Then the little general marched over to her mark, and as the director, James Kirkwood, called “Action,” her businesslike attitude instantly melted away and Mary became her character, Rags, a fiery mountain girl in love with a handsome city slicker played by Mickey.
Like a light switch, I thought. And I couldn’t help but grin in admiration.
I settled into a canvas chair beside the noisy camera, consulting my notepad for the scenes scheduled for today. Mary had been the one who discovered the original novel, Rags, but together we worked on shaping the scenario with the help of Mickey and Kirkwood. We’d stuck mainly to the novel for this five-reel “prestige picture” but I’d worked in some physical bits to keep it lively and capitalize on what I saw as Mary’s growing gift for physical comedy. No one could do a pratfall like Mary Pickford, not even Charlie Chaplin.
But when the camera turned, Mary did not do the fall I’d suggested she do as she took her place on a fake log; instead, she primly sat upon it, and commenced a love scene with Mickey.
After Kirkwood yelled, “Cut,” I beckoned to Mary, who stepped nimbly over some cables and was by my side in a flash, a pleasant smile on her face.
“Why didn’t you do the gag?” I showed her my notes in the scenario. Notes that she’d approved only yesterday.
“Fran, dear, I just didn’t think it worked. Not in this scene.”
“But you’re so good at that stuff, Mary—it really establishes your character.”
“I agree. But just not for this scene, Fran. A little goes a long way.”
She was still smiling, but her chin tilted stubbornly and her eyes flashed steel.
So did mine.
“Mary, we agreed, we talked it through. Why don’t we ask Kirkwood to do another take with you doing it and then we can choose?”
“No, Fran.” Mary’s voice rose, and I noticed the extras and stagehands were all staring at us.
“Mary, I don’t want to make a scene,” I whispered, my ears hot. I gripped my pencil so tightly, it broke in two neat halves.
“There’s no scene to make. It’s my name above the title, not yours. Remember that, Fran. Dear.” Mary’s voice was clear as a bell; she turned on her heel and told Kirkwood to move on to the next setup.
“Oh, I’ll remember it, all right! You never let me forget it!” I threw the broken pencil at her retreating back; someone gasped but I didn’t wait around to find out who; I leaped out of my chair, tears blurring my vision, and stalked over to the coffeepot. If there was one constant on a movie set, I knew by now, it was an electric percolator bubbling away in a corner.
Behind me, I heard the usual hustle and bustle of scenery being moved, hammered, the heavy camera groaning as it was hauled to a new spot. Usually the extras would run to the percolator between takes as if to a well in the desert, but because of my outburst, I was a pariah; no one dared to come near. Until I felt a hand on my arm, and looked up. Mickey was standing there in his city slicker costume, a shiny black jacket, bow tie, crisp derby. The heavy makeup couldn’t conceal his concern.
“You were right, Fran. But so was Mary.”
“What do you mean?”
“The fall would have been brilliant. But she has to feel comfortable doing it, or else it won’t work. For whatever reason, she didn’t, and it wasn’t your place to argue. Not here, anyway. Not now.”
“Because it’s her name above the title, not mine. I’m nobody.”
“Yes.”
“Thanks a lot,” I muttered, and dumped half the pot of cream in my coffee.
“For now, darling,” he promised, giving me a whiskey-soaked peck on the cheek. “Only for now.” Then he sauntered away.
Holding the heavy coffee cup to my chest, I turned and took a big breath, trying to restore my dignity. As I made my way back to my post, extras and crew parting before me as if I were Moses, Mary appeared, blocking my path.
“Fran, dear, I’m sorry.” She said it loudly; loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Really?” I blinked, not believing.
“Yes. I could have at least done another take and tried it. I don’t know why I dug my heels in so—I’m used to going it alone, I suppose. All my life, the only person I’ve trusted is myself. And Mama. But I asked you to work with me, and I do love it—I love you, I love your ideas, and so I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t ask me to work with you, Mary.” I had to laugh. “You asked me to work for you.”
“Oh, what’s the difference?”
Quite a bit, I thought, but didn’t say. I only gazed at her, equal parts adorable and formidable, but yet I remembered the night before, how she confessed she was afraid of losing everything she’d worked so hard to achieve. She was scared. Every day on the set—every day of her life—she was scared.
“I’m sorry, too,” I said with a smile. Mary laughed and threw her arms about me, not caring if her makeup got mussed.
“The point is, I should have listened. I should have trusted you.”
“And I shouldn’t have made a scene about it.” I kissed her on the cheek, and felt the world right itself again; she ran back to the set, and I nestled into my chair—after I asked someone for a new pencil.
The next scene began, a long scene with a tight shot of Mickey and Mary making eyes at each other. There wasn’t much for me to do, so while the camera clacked away beside me, I quietly pulled another notebook from my satchel. Careful not to let anyone see, I opened it up, and began to read what I’d already written of a scenario I’d been working on in secret, the first complete scenario I’d dared to attempt. By myself.
The scenario was for Mary, of course. It had to be for Mary. I honestly couldn
’t imagine writing for anyone else; every story idea that popped into my head featured a slim, laughing girl with golden curls and expressive dark eyes as the heroine. But the idea was mine alone.
The Foundling, I’d written on the front page in big, bold letters. The Foundling, presenting Mary Pickford.
Scenario by Frances Marion.
Mary and Charlotte—and Owen—took the train east the summer of 1915. The offices of Famous Players were still in Manhattan, and contractually, Mary was obligated to make a certain number of movies at the studio in Fort Lee, New Jersey, just across the river.
Unlike many of her fellow actors, she never complained about having to go back to the raw, damp East Coast. Mary liked New York. She enjoyed going to plays, dropping in to see old friends, like Mr. Belasco himself, who still chided her for working in the movies—even as he proudly displayed a signed photo of Mary in costume from Tess of the Storm Country on his desk for all the world to see.
Mary also didn’t mind dropping in to the business office to read the latest grosses of her films with her own eyes, comparing them to those of the other actors in the Famous Players stable. The business of movies remained firmly in New York even as production was moving more and more to Los Angeles. And unlike most other actors she knew, Mary had to see, firsthand, how her films were doing, how many theaters were booking them and for how long, what the publicity plans were—she was always urging them to buy more billboards; advertising sold movies! She had to study the ledgers, trace the numbers with her fingers as if that was how she absorbed them, ink passing through her own flesh into her bloodstream. How could the numbers exist, otherwise? How could she exist—not to mention the house, the clothes for Lottie and the car for Jack, the jewels for Mama? She had to see, she had to keep a running tally in her head, so that she knew with a certainty it wouldn’t all vanish into thin air. So that she knew she wouldn’t be back touring in the sticks, her hungry family in tow.
Mary also enjoyed her weekly meetings with Papa Zukor.
Papa Zukor—that was what she called him, the man in charge of Famous Players; the man who had met her eye to eye, seen her future the way she had—starring in her own features, movies built around her and her alone, her name above the title—when Griffith had not. “Papa dear,” she called him. “Sweetheart Honey,” he cooed back. Mary always got a kick at the shock in people’s faces when they observed this sentimental familiarity. For no one else would ever look at Adolph Zukor as a loving father figure.
To others—never her!—he was a cold man. A cold, calculating man, an immigrant who still spoke with a thick Austrian accent. A man who had stumbled into movies like everyone else. But who had implacably grasped the business potential. Mary trusted Papa Zukor to distribute her films; Zukor trusted her, for the most part, to make them. Of course, she had to accept the stories he chose for her—although she had been allowed to buy some on her own. She had to work with the stable of directors under contract. But she could cast her own leading men from the Famous Players contract actors, rarely working with the same one twice. Because she, Mary, was the star; the one and only.
Just like she’d vowed when she was a child.
“Sweetheart Honey,” Papa cooed whenever they met. “My little daughter. My favorite actress!”
Even as she dimpled and bestowed a kiss on that leathery cheek, Mary had few illusions; Zukor was out to make money for Famous Players and himself, not for her. So why not sometimes sit in his office, just the two of them, his secretary safely outside, because this was simply friends, dear friends, catching up? And, while twisting her curls round her finger in that way he liked, after asking fondly after his family, why not remind him that a car and driver would be a good investment in her career, as it would save time getting to the set in the morning? Or what about a paid position for Mama, who worked as hard as anyone, repairing costumes and making sure Mary got a proper lunch hour—really, with Mama on the set, Mary would be so much more relaxed and perform better, which, after all, was best for all of them, wasn’t it? And perhaps a role for Lottie or Jack in someone else’s film?
Why not suggest that he stop block-booking her films? Those poor theater owners, forced to pay for all sorts of bad films just to get hers—how was that fair to them?
Not to mention, to Mary?
“Papa dear,” she murmured, after a long sleepless night spent wrestling with the realization that her movies were being used to finance other—lesser—ones. “What do you get from theaters to book my movies?”
“Three thousand dollars,” Papa said, after pretending to look it up in a ledger on his desk.
“That’s fair, of course. Because I’ve been to the theaters and seen the lines around the block. The theater owners are making that fee back and so much more.”
“Yes.” Zukor—a small, thin man with a wizened face and eyes like thumbtacks—watched her. Warily.
“But, of course, then they’re forced to book other people’s films along with mine, aren’t they? They can’t only book mine; you make them book several at a time, correct?”
A nod.
“And how much do they have to pay you for those other films? The films they only take because they want mine?”
“Two thousand eight hundred.” This time, he didn’t even pretend he didn’t have the figure at his fingertips.
“I see, I see.” Mary nodded thoughtfully, and put her finger on her chin. “But you know, Papa dear, I was at the Strand the other day. Remember how I told you when Rags was playing there, the lines stretched clear around the block? For every showing? Well, the other day they were playing dear little Marguerite Clark’s newest film. And—oh, my!—the theater was empty. Simply empty—the poor theater owner, what a tragedy for him, not to mention for dear little Marguerite’s career. But honestly, Papa, you could have fired a cannon and not hit a soul.”
“Is that so?”
“And that got me thinking, Papa dear. It seems to me that the theater will never make back their—what was it you said?—two thousand eight hundred dollars. Not from dear little Marguerite’s movie. Which I saw, by the way—I thought somebody ought to! So the theaters are really losing money with these other films, which means you are, too. But—of course, you’re not losing money with mine. And it seems to me that’s not quite fair, is it? That the profits of my films are being used to shore up the losses of others? When—don’t you think?—it would be more fair if the profits of my films, the films I work so very hard to make and promote, were shared more equally by us? And not used to finance other people’s films?”
Zukor paled, and Mary did feel sorry for him.
“Now, of course, my contract is up in a few weeks, and—”
“What is it you want, Mary? I never have to go on a diet; I lose ten pounds every time I have to renegotiate one of your contracts. You’re already the highest-paid actress in the business.”
“Yes. And the most profitable.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to stop block-booking my films, Papa dear. I want my films sold on their own, not with all those others hanging on for dear life. And I want more of the profits.”
“I’ll bring it up to the board,” he promised grimly, and Mary tried very hard not to smile. These men were always “bringing it up to the board” to save face.
“I’m so certain that you can come up with something, Papa dear. You always do!” And Mary tripped around Zukor’s desk to bestow a kiss on his balding head.
He smiled, patted her hand. “Sweetheart Honey, you’re family, and you always will be. Will you come out to the house this weekend? The kids are dying to see you again.”
“Oh, I’d love to!” And Mary blew a kiss as she closed the door behind her. What a dear, dear man he was!
Another day, another friendly visit.
“Papa dear.”
“What is it now, Sweetheart Honey?”
“I was thinking.”
Papa groaned, pulled out a bottle of seltzer wat
er, dropped an antacid into a glass, and poured water into it, watching it fizz before he swallowed it.
“What?”
“My films. I do think the quality is slipping a little, don’t you?”
“You’re still very profitable. The most profitable, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Yes, of course. But the last one—Madame Butterfly—well, you know, it wasn’t quite what my public expected of me. And it made only half of what the film before it did. Now, I was willing to make it for you; I know you were so very keen on the story. But it wasn’t quite for me, and I knew it, and yet—”
“Your contract is almost up again, isn’t it?”
“Why, I believe it is!”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve been thinking. Wouldn’t it be appropriate for me to have full artistic control over my movies? After all, it is my name on them, and my face on the magazines and the posters and the advertising, and so it’s I who suffer when they do. You don’t; you’re a big studio with other actors and actresses, and let’s be honest, Papa dear, nobody really knows that a film of mine is a Famous Players product. They know it as a ‘Mary Pickford.’ It would break my heart to ever leave you, but Vitagraph and Universal have been calling, and they seem to understand my dilemma. As an artist, of course.”
“I’ll take it up with the board.”
“Thank you, Papa dear!”
After that, she was the first actor—although there was a rumor Charlie Chaplin might be doing the same thing—to head her own production company, the Pickford Film Corporation. Under this new contract, she received a guarantee of ten thousand dollars a week, half the profits of her own films—which were no longer to be part of any block booking, but distributed instead under a new division created solely for her called Artcraft—and much more say in the product. Papa Zukor was president of the corporation, making him her partner now, not her boss. Mama, of course, was treasurer; a few other Famous Players executives were also board members. If Mary did not like the stories presented to her, she could appeal to the board. She also had a voice in the final cut of any of her pictures. And absolute control over director, casting, and advertising.
The Girls in the Picture Page 10
