His barter: He owns a valuable statuette which he got in trade for a telescope which he got in exchange for a pig costing four or five dollars.
I lose my shoe and can’t find it for ten minutes. We hunt everywhere. “Did you notice if I had it on at lunch?” Collier said: “This is the way men laugh in concentration camps.”
Kahn, seeing me with my weekend bag: “There goes Isherwood with his dunnage.” Collier: “Oh, valuable Kahn!”
I think Collier was then working on a screenplay of Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone. Later, he switched to a picture which was called Deception. Christopher used to consult him whenever he had a problem with his own script. One of Collier’s favorite techniques was to fill up his scripts with absurdly detailed and beautifully written stage directions (which charmed and awed his producer), all leading up to a couple of lines of the flattest dialogue: “Where is he?” “I don’t know.”
Collier said that he did all his script writing at night; he couldn’t work in the daytime. Since the writers were required to keep office hours (Monday through Friday, and half-day Saturday) Collier passed the time in gossip and occasional drinking. This made him a perpetual temptation to Christopher, to drop work and join him. Collier said that he never worried when his producer required “a new angle” on the story; he relied absolutely on spur-of-the-moment inspiration and would only begin to think about the problem after he had started walking from his office to the producer’s.
Collier believed that one should never economize; if you found that you were spending more money than you earned, you must find a way of earning more. Collier lived expensively, and he was paying a great deal of alimony to his ex-wife; although she had a good job as an agent and [. . .] was young, healthy and very attractive. Collier didn’t seem to begrudge her the money at all. They met often and were on the best of terms. Collier told Christopher that he wanted to get married again. (Later, he did.) And he added, “I propose to breed extensively.”
Collier was modest. He almost never mentioned his own work—as opposed to his movie writing. His favorite author was Proust. He used to say jokingly that he wanted to rewrite the ending of the Recherche so as to give the story an entirely different slant. After having been led to believe that Charlus, Saint-Loup, Jupien and the rest of them were homosexuals, the reader would discover that he had been deceived—their real guilty secret was that they were all in show business. They could never admit to this because, in their social world, show business was regarded as the vilest possible way of life. Therefore they pretended to be homosexuals—since homosexuality was tolerated as a harmless eccentricity. When Charlus took a handsome young man into another room at a party, he would want the other guests to believe that this was the beginning of a seduction. But the disgusting truth was that Charlus was offering the young man a part in a Hollywood Western. . . . Fantasies like this one never sound very amusing when they are described in brief But Collier and Christopher had a great deal of fun with it, and kept inventing new scenes and telling them to each other.27
March 12: “The strike began.” This strike involved some employees at Warner Brothers, but not all. After conferring with the strikers’ representatives, the members of the Writers’ Guild were told that the union didn’t object to their crossing the picket line; so Christopher and his colleagues continued to go to their offices every day—to their disappointment, for nearly all of them would have rather worked at home. Matthew Huxley and the reading department were among the strikers, however. Matthew was a militant socialist and took an active part in union meetings and picketing. Months later, after Christopher had left Warner’s for good, the strike situation, which had been dragging quietly on, became violent.28 The pickets tried to stop people entering the studio, and the picket lines were charged. Jack Warner and the other studio heads were turning from reproachful fathers of ungrateful children into frankly ruthless bosses dealing with their wage slaves—communist inspired, of course.
March 22: “Talked to Swami about leaving.” This is one of the most infuriatingly reticent entries in the day-to-day diary. What was it that Christopher said to Swami on this occasion that he hadn’t said several times before? Had some crisis arisen, which made Christopher feel he couldn’t stay at the center any longer? Had there been some gossip about the life he was living? Had some other members of “the Family” objected that he had no business staying on there when he wasn’t planning to become a monastic? I can’t remember anything at all. But it is obvious that Swami answered any scruples that Christopher may have had by urging him to stay a little longer. Swami must have said (as he had said on other occasions), “Why do you want to go away? This is your home. We all love you here. I don’t want to lose you.” And Christopher must have protested, “But you won’t lose me, Swami, I’m your disciple, I know this is my real home, and of course I’ll keep coming here to see you—” All of which was perfectly sincere on both sides. Swami didn’t want Christopher to go away (I believe) because he hoped that Christopher, if he stayed, might gradually begin to feel that he had a monastic vocation, after all. Perhaps Christopher suspected that this might happen to him—hence his instinctive animal desire to escape. But he can’t have been seriously afraid of getting caught. Otherwise he wouldn’t have lingered on at the center, as he did, for another five months.
(I still think it is possible—just possible—that, if a proper monastery like Trabuco had suddenly come into being at that time, Christopher would have agreed to join it and at least given the monastic life another try. What he wanted, then, was either complete freedom or much closer confinement, far away from Los Angeles, Denny, the Beesleys and the studio. Life at the Hollywood center had nothing whatever to offer him—except Swami’s presence; it was so bohemian and permissive that its few rules and restrictions were merely irritating.)
March 26: “Supper with Wolfgang Reinhardts and Iris Tree. To Thelma Todd’s with Jay. Stayed night with Denny.”
I forget when it was that Christopher first met Wolfgang Reinhardt—it may well have been soon after he got to know Gottfried. But this get-together was probably due to the fact that Christopher was now working at Warner’s, where Wolfgang was a producer. No doubt they were already discussing the film Wolfgang wanted Christopher to work on with him, as soon as The Woman in White was finished—Maugham’s Up at the Villa.
This is the first mention of “Jay,” who called himself Jay de Laval. (His real name was said to be Earle McGrath.)[29] But Christopher must certainly have met him before this. He was a friend of Denny’s and very much a part of the Santa Monica Canyon circle. I think he may already have opened his restaurant on the corner of Channel Road and Chautauqua, but perhaps not.
Jay had a vague reputation for being crooked. Later on, it was said that he had had to leave California to avoid arrest; this was after he had settled in Mexico. But, when you tried to find out exactly what he had done that was illegal, it seemed that he hadn’t gone much beyond running up big bills and then failing either to pay them or return the merchandise. He was also, obviously, a bit of a con man. It was easy to imagine him using his considerable charm to get money out of rich old women; his role as the Baron de Laval was probably related to this.
Jay was large and well built, though inclined to plumpness. He was very blond (maybe artificially) and he had big blue eyes. His eyes didn’t sparkle like Collier’s, they stared. Despite their seeming boldness, they revealed nothing inward. Jay was all on the surface, all smiles and gossip and camp. It was only when he laughed loudly that you got a hint of madness.
He was not only a very good cook but a marvellous host. He could take you into the kitchen and fix a meal for you both without ever losing the thread of the conversation or making you feel awkward because he was doing all the work. He was also, it seems, a marvellous seducer. Christopher knew of this only at second hand, of course; he wouldn’t have dreamt of going to bed with Jay and Jay certainly didn’t want it. But the testimony of half a dozen boys who had had sex w
ith Jay and then talked about it to Christopher was quite impressive. Most of them had been literally seduced—they hadn’t wanted to do it but Jay had made them like doing it. “It was crazy,” one of them told Christopher;30 and another31 said, “He made me feel beautiful.” Jay himself, when congratulated by Christopher on his conquests, said modestly, “It’s quite simple—you just have to start doing all kinds of things to them, all at once, before they realize what’s going on.”
Thelma Todd’s was the restaurant up the coast, just north of the Sunset Boulevard turnoff, which had once belonged to Thelma Todd and was the scene of her murder. It was a kind of hideout rendezvous for Hollywood executives who wanted to meet show girls in secret; the tables were in alcoves which could be curtained off. Perhaps Jay went there to do some business in connection with his own restaurant project and took Christopher along as a drinking companion. Denny and his friends all regarded Thelma Todd’s as a place for special evenings, celebrations and treats. The food was very good, but it cost more than they would usually pay.
On April 3, Edelman left or was taken off The Woman in White and a Mr. Jacobs[32] became its producer in his place. I can remember nothing whatever about him. I don’t think he gave Christopher any trouble.
On April 8, Albert Brush, who was a friend of Jay and also of the Laughtons, took Denny and Christopher to visit Walter Arensberg the art collector and Baconian. After this, Christopher paid several visits to him. Arensberg’s house was crammed with pictures and art objects, including the boxes and toys made by Marcel Duchamp. Every inch of wall space was covered, every table was laden, and there were stacks of unhung pictures in every corner.
Arensberg remained a charming enthusiastic sane host until you got onto the subject of Bacon; then he became wild-eyed and rather incoherent, with ruffled hair and gestures of frenzied excitement. I forget what Arensberg looked like but I can remember his manner at such times—it was that of a madman as he reveals to you the existence of international conspiracies and speaks with smiling scorn of the enemies who are trying to outwit him. Arensberg’s enemies were all those scholars and other members of the Establishment who were concealing from the world the truth about Bacon. And what was the truth? That Bacon was a reincarnation of Jesus Christ. (I don’t think I can be making this up.) That he was the son of Queen Elizabeth. And that he had written all the works attributed to Shakespeare. (My impression is that Arensberg thought this last item was of minor importance. He saw Bacon as the great prophet of the Modern Age, a teacher and philosopher who amused himself with literary composition only in his spare time.)33
On April 12, President Roosevelt died. That morning, while Christopher was in his office at Warner’s with his secretary, there was a phone call from his secretary’s husband, telling her the news. On hearing it, she burst into tears, instantly. Christopher was astonished by the quickness of her reaction—it was as if she had been subconsciously expecting the news and was therefore half-prepared for it. But Christopher’s own reaction was equally quick. He said to himself, “Good—that means we’ll get the weekend off.” (The 12th was a Thursday.)
Christopher had never felt any personal liking for Roosevelt. (Even back in 1933, when he had first seen Roosevelt’s photographs in the European press, Christopher had mistrusted him and found his face repulsive—the face, as John van Druten had later said, of a “faux bonhomme.”[34]) But Christopher had to keep his reaction to himself, as long as he was at the studio. Even hard-boiled outspoken John Collier was deeply moved.
The next month passed without any remarkable incidents, as far as I can judge from the day-to-day diary. It sounds crazy to say this, when, in fact, Mussolini and his mistress were killed on April 28, Hitler’s death was announced on May 1, Berlin fell on May 2 and the Nazis surrendered on the 7th! No doubt Christopher shared in the general excitement; probably he was better able to picture the destruction of the Third Reich than were most of his friends. But the day-to-day diary merely records that, on the 28th, he took a taxi to the beach and spent the night at Denny’s; that, on May 1, he “tried to write Auden article” (don’t remember what that was); that, on May 2, he saw Devotion35 in a projection room at the studio and had supper with Vernon Old; and that, on May 7, he had drinks with John van Druten, Dave Eberhardt and Don Forbes, and then had supper with Aldous Huxley.36
On May 16, Henry Blanke took over as producer on The Woman in White. Beside this, he was producing the picture Collier was working on—Deception.37 He was neat and smiling and military looking; he might have been a German officer; if he was a Jew he didn’t look like one. He had a reputation for getting things done and was certainly far more efficient than Edelman and Jacobs had been. Perhaps rather too efficient for Christopher, who had got into lazy ways. Unlike Collier, he wasn’t prepared to work at night and, under Collier’s influence, he did very little work during the day.
Collier’s influence—that is to say, Collier’s demand to be amused—even made itself felt in Christopher’s sex life. Christopher had of course told Collier that he was homosexual. Collier, as a good Proustian, had to take this in his stride; he only maintained that women had better characters than men—aside from this, he wasn’t shocked by boy love, it was merely not his cup of tea. At the same time, as a Proustian voyeur, he was curious to get a glimpse of Christopher in actual pursuit of sex; and Christopher was delighted to oblige him. As with Denny, Christopher now prepared to give a theatrical performance for Collier’s benefit, and his own.
It conveniently so happened that the mailing department at the studio was just then the center of a lot of gay activity, and had several attractive messenger boys. One of these was having an affair with Helmut Dantine. They were very discreet about it; they had to be—it was risky for an important actor to get involved like this, right under the noses of the front office. Helmut Dantine’s messenger was a nice boy, not much to look at, actually, but lively and full of Jewish fun. Christopher got to know him, and he helped Christopher get acquainted with a boy named Steve,[38] whom he fancied.
Steve was dark and pale, with a long bony El Greco type of face. He was altogether an admirable and lovable character, both physically and morally courageous, lively, amusing, honest and capable of strong affection. If he had found an absorbing interest in life he might have achieved something; as it was, he just plodded along from job to job. He did have some ambition to become an actor, but it wasn’t strong enough, and he was too small and slight for leading roles, also a bit queeny in his manner. Denny, who rather liked him, pronounced the verdict: “I think he’s quite beautiful, but let’s face it, he’ll always be a department-store queen.”
Steve had changed his name, probably for show-biz reasons [. . .]. He called himself [Steve Cooley] at the time Christopher met him. Later, he called himself [something else].
Steve and Christopher had supper together on May 25. This was their first date, I think. Steve told Christopher about his life in Las Vegas, before he came to Los Angeles; he had worked in one of the casinos, and also, as I seem to remember, on a ranch; he loved riding horses. At that time, he was studying acting with some local group, and working on the part of Branwell Brontë in a play called Moor Born, which contained the unsayable line, “You are moor born.” He and Christopher used to repeat this over and over, but it always sounded absurd.39
Collier, Steve and Christopher all enjoyed the dramatic aspects of this affair, from their different viewpoints. Collier found it thrillingly Proustian to look out of his office window and watch the discreet flirtations of the messenger boys—the glances and conspiratorial exchanges of dialogue—which Christopher had now taught him to observe and interpret. For him, it was like the discovery of a secret society; he was now prepared to believe that nearly the entire studio was queer. As for Steve, he certainly loved walking briskly into Christopher’s office with a big envelope in his hand and telling Christopher’s secretary, “These are for Mr. Isherwood to sign, they said for me to wait, they want them back right away”�
��which was Christopher’s cue to shout from the inner office (grumpily, as if interrupted in his work), “Okay, tell him to bring them in here.” Then Steve would come in, closing the door behind him, whisper, “Hello, darling,” kiss Christopher a few times, whisper, “See you this evening,” and make a brisk exit past the secretary, flourishing the envelope with its dummy contents. . . . Christopher enjoyed this playacting too, of course—but probably not as much as Steve did. Steve was quite shameless, in word and in deed. Christopher realized this was admirable but it embarrassed him.
If they went to bed together that first night, it must have been at Steve’s apartment. Otherwise, they had no place to go but Denny’s, and they didn’t visit him together until May 29. Perhaps they drove up into the hills and made love in Christopher’s newly acquired car. This was a Packard convertible, old and noisy but still very sturdy, which had recently been given him by Yogi (Mr. Brown), Yogini’s husband. Yogi no longer needed the Packard because he had just bought himself a new car. (I think that he and Yogini had already decided to separate—that is, to accept the fact that Yogini really was a nun.) The first mention of the Packard in the day-to-day diary is on May 19.
On May 28, Christopher stopped working at Warner’s for one week. I believe that this break marked Christopher’s switchover from Henry Blanke and The Woman in White to Wolfgang Reinhardt and Up at the Villa. I have an impression (but a very dim one) that Christopher felt that Blanke was dissatisfied with his work, but maybe not. Somehow, I don’t believe the script they had worked on was finished. I don’t know if Blanke dropped the project at that time, or hired another writer.40
Christopher spent most of his holiday week staying with Denny. Steve joined him on the 29th and left early on the morning of the 31st—he must have taken two days off from work.
Lost Years: A Memoir 1945 - 1951 Page 9
