by Judith Gould
'Calm down,' Slesin intervened pacifically. 'O.T.'s not out to ruffle our feathers.' He added softly, 'I think he may have a point.'
'I do at that.' Oscar Skolnik gestured with his pipe as he spoke. 'Since the first Academy Awards were given out for the 1927-28 season, studios have started keeping them in mind when making pictures, and who can blame them? Everybody likes to get an award. I sure as hell would.' Skolnik sighed. 'It takes a class act.'
'And with Anna Karenina you think we have one?'
'I know we do. I want to make it into the best movie this studio, or any other, has ever produced. If we do that, and the performances are up to par, chances are we just might be able to swing all three awards. It's just a matter of time before one picture is so outstanding it'll grab all the awards. Why shouldn't it be us?'
'Because this is a small community out here, and all of us have friends at other studios. People like to spread their votes around. That way all the studios have a winner.' Louis took a long sip of his Scotch.
Skolnik shook his head. 'I don't really think so,' he said slowly. 'But even if that's what they like to do, we can influence their voting to the contrary.'
'What!' Louis nearly choked on his drink. 'You're not thinking of tampering with the votes or blackmailing anybody, are you?'
'Of course not!' Skolnik said irritably. 'What do you take me for, anyway? I'm trying to suggest something simple: we manipulate the voters by influencing them, not by tampering with the ballots or their personal lives.'
Slesin's interest was piqued. 'How do you propose we do that?'
'By campaigning for the votes. By lobbying for them.'
'You mean . . . blatantly?' Louis stared at him. 'Surely you're not going to ask people for their votes.'
'Not in so many words, no. It'll be done discreetly . . . through the power of suggestion. Needless to say, everything depends on the picture. So it'll have to be outstanding. There are lots of fine pictures released every year. Now, how do they qualify for the award?' He looked at Louis.
'First they've got to be nominated.'
'By our peers, yes.' Skolnik smiled. 'And what in particular gets them nominated?'
'The quality of the picture.'
'Aha. There you have it.'
'I don't understand.'
'Bruce will. Bruce, what, specifically, brings people to the movie theatre, besides wanting to be entertained?'
'The story. The title. The stars.'
'Yes, yes, but outside of all that,' Skolnik said impatiently.
'Gossip. Reviews. Adverti—' He stared at Skolnik. 'Advertising,' he whispered.
Skolnik smiled. 'There you have it.' He leaned forward excitedly. 'We've learned to tickle the public's interest and make them want to go and see our films. And I believe we can ignite the same kind of enthusiasm in our peers in order to get Anna Karenina nominated. That's the first step.'
'We campaign for the awards!' Slesin said excitedly. 'Starting tomorrow, we begin leaking the word that Anna Karenina's only the greatest thing since Birth of a Nation. Once people have heard it often enough, they're going to start believing it. We'll harness the power of suggestion. We'll just be planting the seeds of an idea—Anna Karenina being so great—in their subconscious.'
'We'll have to make certain it works,' Skolnik said with finality. 'I say we try it.' He paused. 'Is there any way we can cover our asses in case it should backfire?'
'Sure.' Slesin grinned. 'That's the beauty of it. We won't be the ones who'll have come out and said all those wonderful things. It'll be other people, at other studios. All we have to do is plant a few confidential rumours on a regular basis and then sit back and watch them spread. A well-calculated slip here, another there ... in no time at all we'll set this town buzzing. And when people ask us outright for more information, we play it humble, cagey. If we play our cards right, nobody will be able to resist spreading what we've planted. And believing it.'
'Rumours!' Louis scoffed. He looked at Slesin in disbelief. 'You think we'll sweep the Academy Awards by virture of rumours! What makes you think the information's even going to spread?'
'It will, because I'm counting on the dark side of human nature. Our enticing little droplets of information will be quote-secret-unquote. Nobody can resist that. I mean . . .' Bruce's voice was pointedly soft and held Louis' gaze, his grey eyes intent. 'No matter what you may like to believe, or how hard you work at keeping things private, how many people are there in this town who can really keep a secret?'
Tamara was blissfully unaware of the mounting offensive to secure the Academy Awards. Other, more immediate things occupied her mind, and Louis thought it best to say nothing regarding the conversation he had had with Skolnik and Slesin, as it might interfere with her concentration.
She had thrown herself into the role of Anna Karenina with a vengeance. The beautiful, sensual, rebellious central character seemed tailor-made for her, as though Tolstoy specifically had had her in mind when he created his tragic heroine in 1875. The stylish, wintry ice-palace sets and the emotional turmoil of a passionate, flamboyantly flaunted illicit love affair racing toward doom were the perfect ingredients for a film, and Louis' superb direction, magnificent camerawork, and chiaroscuro effects displayed her incredible beauty and virtuoso performance as deftly as a conductor leading his orchestra. He used her face and body like a pliable mask which could be moulded to the precisely desired effect. If, over the course of her film career, she slipped completely—and seemingly effortlessly—into any one single role, then this was the one. Even she could not explain exactly why that happened. Perhaps it was her Russian background. Whatever the case, the only thing of which she could be absolutely certain was that despite Skolnik's best efforts, nothing on the soundstage itself, save Louis' directing and Tolstoy's story, transported her from Hollywood to nineteenth-century Russia.
There was really no way she could have slipped into the character by forgetting where she actually was. That was always too painfully apparent. Her performance happened in spite of a multitude of day-to-day disasters which took place during the filming. For one thing, the unheated soundstage was dark and cold and drafty. In the midst of filming a scene in which Count Vronsky and Anna live abroad in a neglected old Italian palazzo with frescoed walls, the roof of the soundstage began to leak, destroying the set and disrupting the filming, but Louis was not one to take defeat sitting down. He used the leaky roof to his ultimate advantage by continuing the filming. In the final print, it was the leaks, more than the genteel shabbiness of the palazzo interior, which set the mood for the scene. But the cost was stiff. Tamara had gotten drenched, and subsequently developed a ravaging flu. Her fever climbed to 103, and she was bedridden for six days. When she crawled prematurely out of bed and returned to work, Louis took one look at her gaunt, feverish face and juggled the shooting schedule to film the haunted, emotionally charged close-ups of the film's final scenes—those of a woman under emotional seige. The images would be hailed as cinematic classics for decades to come. What neither the critics nor filmgoers suspected was that these scenes were purely accidental. Tamara did not have to act the part of someone feeling miserable: she was in truth acutely miserable and still quite ill.
The tragedies mounted.
During the fifth week there was a fire on the set one day, and the next, a laboratory accident which ruined fifteen minutes of completed film.
But actors are actors first and foremost, by necessity an especially hardy species when it comes to survival, and the old adage held true: the show must go on. And go on it did, with remarkably few complaints, everything considered. If ever there were troupers who took everything in stride, the cast of Anna Karenina ranked among them. Despite the obstacles posed by rain, illness, accidents, and death, the film would be among the finest ever to come out of the Hollywood entertainment factories.
When the filming was completed without any further mishaps, everyone involved felt a deep sense of relief. In all, the filming had taken t
hirteen weeks—six longer than initially anticipated. The cast dispersed—Fay Bainter, Janet Gaynor, Dorothy Gish, Fredric March, and Charles Laughton to the studios from which they had been on loan, the bit players and others to whatever projects they were to do next. Tamara was given what would become her customary week off between pictures before she was thrust into Razzmatazz, a frothy, energetic farce of glittering Manhattan (actually soundstage eight), mistaken identities, and twin sisters (she played both the guileless, innocent Sabrina and the sophisticated Simone, a music-hall star who smoked Primrose cigarettes in a long ivory holder). Her co-stars were Billie Burke and, once again, Miles Gabriel.
After she had been immersed in Razzmatazz for one week, she felt so curiously detached from Anna Karenina that it was as if she had never been involved with the film at all. She threw herself into the dual roles with such abandon that it was as if she had slipped under the skin of the characters and lived flesh-and-blood roles. Even when she left the set each evening, she took part of the character home with her. She lost all sense of time and reality, and it was almost as if things were happening to the characters she was portraying instead of to her. One Monday, when Louis announced that they had been invited to a formal dinner at Ciro's the following Sunday evening, she didn't give it a second thought. A dinner was, after all, just a dinner. Why shouldn't they be invited to a dinner? Weren't they Hollywood's acknowledged golden couple?
Chapter 14
Inside and out, the restaurant was decked out as though for a festival. At the kerb, a black doorman in a striped cotton djellaba opened the rear door of the Duesenberg, bowed low, and helped Tamara out while the chauffeur held open Louis' door. Louis joined her on the sidewalk under the domed kiosk that had been specially erected in front of the entrance for whatever occasion this was and straightened his lapels. He smiled at her. 'You look sensational, as always,' he said, taking her by the arm and leading her to the door.
'What's going on here?' she asked him in a low voice. 'Why is that doorman dressed in that funny thing?'
'Well, I suppose it must be a theme party of some kind. The kiosk is probably part of it too.' He smiled good-humouredly. 'Don't worry, his outfit doesn't hold a candle to yours. You never looked more beautiful.' He stuck his tongue out comically and panted like a dog. 'Come on, let's scandalize the whole town. Disrobe right here. You look so good I could eat you in public'
She clapped a gloved hand over her face and stifled a wild wave of laughter. She did look particularly becoming in the resplendent silver sheath which hugged her body like a second skin. Her shoulders were bare, and the gown plunged daringly to her waist in the back, displaying an enormous area of flesh and showing off the polished-bead necklace that was her spine. The ten-foot-long silver fox boa she had draped around her like a stole added a regal touch, while the small diamond drop earrings he had given her for her last birthday flashed and jiggled from her ears. She looked every inch the star, from the top of her platinum hair to the tips of her silver sling-back heels.
She kept her eyes on Louis as they stepped over the threshold into Ciro's, and thought that his beautifully tailored evening clothes made him look even more handsome than usual. She felt an inordinate sense of pride and jealous possessiveness surging through her veins. How lucky I am, she thought, to have him for a husband. No other wife in the world could possibly be as treasured as I am.
Once inside the restaurant, she couldn't help wondering anew at the usually haughty maitre d' in a tasselled red fez, but as usual he treated them with the deference reserved for Hollywood royalty. 'Miss Tamara, Mr. Ziolko,' he murmured, giving an obsequious bow.
Tamara flashed a brilliant smile. 'Good evening, Jacques.'
'If you would be so kind as to follow me . . .' He made a sweeping gesture and led the way.
They'd followed the maitre d' for barely a few feet when Tamara stopped in her tracks. Her face registered her surprise.
She couldn't believe her eyes as her gaze swept the softly lit dining room. The kiosk outside, the doorman's strange garb, and the maitre d's fez had been only teasers for the sight which now greeted her. As though a magical genie had worked his wonders, the entire restaurant had been beautifully transformed into a Middle Eastern palace in some faraway oasis— a wonderland of magic and magnificence straight out of A Thousand and One Nights.
'Why, it . . . it's just like a harem!' Tamara exclaimed in astonishment. 'Like in that Douglas Fairbanks movie!'
Louis only laughed. 'Come on,' he said, 'the maitre d's waiting to show us to our table.'
They had no sooner started across the restaurant than a hidden orchestra struck up a tune and everyone seated at the tables began to applaud.
Now Tamara was confused. Still smiling entrancingly, she surreptitiously pinched Louis' arm. 'There's something going on here,' she growled out of the corner of her mouth, and looked at him sharply but said no more, for they had reached O.T.'s table. He was sandwiched between two extraordinarily beautiful identical twins with identically styled red tresses and identical low-cut white gowns with fake emerald shoulder straps. Tamara had never seen them before, but there was no doubt that they were intimate with O.T., judging from the way they clung to his arms. She noted also that this table, which would normally have seated eight, had only two empty chairs, signifying that there would be just the five of them. This was obviously the table of honour.
She searched her mind frantically. What on earth was the occasion?
Skolnik rose as he saw them approach and kissed Tamara's cheek as the maitre d' pulled back her chair. 'You are positively glowing,' O.T. said with a smile. 'I would say that marriage definitely agrees with you. Happy first anniversary.' Then he held out his hand and shook Louis'.
Tamara's mouth fell open. She was stunned. 'Oh, my God, it is our anniversary, isn't it?' she said with dawning horror. She looked at Louis for his nod of confirmation. 'I'm so sorry, darling,' she said quickly, touching his arm. 'I was so caught up in work and ... I can't imagine a year has already gone by . . .' She made a face and added meekly 'You will forgive me?'
'In time, perhaps,' he said with a good-natured grin. 'But you'll certainly have to work hard to assuage my hurt feelings.' His eyes glittered with mock lasciviousness.
'Well, this is certainly a first,' one of the twins piped up with a high-pitched giggle. 'I thought it was wives who reminded husbands of things like birthdays and anniversaries, not vice versa.'
'Tamara, let me introduce the Karan twins,' O.T. said easily, sitting back down. 'On my left here, is Karla. And on my right, Kitty.'
'You've got it wrong again, O.T.,' the one introduced as Kitty said with a petulant, kittenish pout. From the way she pronounced 'a-gain,' Tamara could tell she was from the Pacific Northwest—Washington or Oregon, probably. 'I'm Karla and she's Kitty.'
'In any case, how do you do?' Tamara said smoothly.
'And this is Louis Ziolko, Tamara's husband, as you surely have guessed.'
Louis inclined his head and bowed low over each of the twin's hands. They giggled and Tamara felt an ice-cold stab of irrational jealousy at his gallantry.
She slipped into her chair and the maitre d' pushed it in for her, letting the fur boa slide over the back. She smiled at the nearest twin. 'You'll have to forgive me if I get the two of you confused. It's amazing. You do look exactly alike.' She turned to her husband. 'Don't they Louie?'
'That they do,' he agreed, pulling his chair closer to hers.
The glasses of champagne arrived almost immediately, discreetly poured out of sight and still bubbling. O.T. raised his in a toast. 'To many more happy years together.'
'I'll drink to that.' Tamara smiled, and she and Louis kissed.
They clinked their glasses and sipped.
After dinner, the lights were dimmed as the four-tiered anniversary cake was wheeled in on a trolley to great applause. A single sparkler burst radiantly from the top, sizzling and showering white sparks.
O.T. got to his feet, tapped a f
ork against a glass to get everyone's attention, and gradually the room fell silent.
His voice was firm and strong and rang out clearly. 'I won't give a long speech, since I'm sure you'd all prefer to be dancing or talking rather than listening to me. However, just bear me out for a moment, and then I'll sit back down.' He paused and his gaze swept the room. 'This is a happy occasion for all of us who belong to the cinema family. In one year, Tamara and Louis have become Hollywood's First Couple, and I know there isn't a person here tonight who doesn't wish them all the best. God only knows, you'd better. I've got enough invested in them both.'
There was assorted laughter and scattered applause.
Solemnly he raised his glass. 'So, ladies and gentlemen, I propose a toast. To the most distinguished director and his wife. The most beautiful woman in the world. In honour of their wedding anniversary, let's hear it for IA's own Tamara and Louis Ziolko!'
There were good-natured shouts, some cries of 'Hear! Hear!', and the roomful of celebrities raised their glasses and sipped.
O.T. gestured to Tamara and Louis. They rose to their feet and, linking hands like happy children, smiled out at the assembled guests. Tamara spoke first, projecting her voice so that people at the most distant corner tables could hear her clearly. Then Louis gave his short speech, and together they ceremoniously cut a slice off the anniversary cake, after which they sat down and let the waitresses continue cutting the slices.
O.T. got to his feet again. 'In honour of the occasion, Louis and Tamara will lead the first dance. And I'll reserve the second,' he added, smiling down at Tamara. 'It isn't every day that even a studio head gets to dance with his favourite star.'
Tamara glowed with happiness as Louis led her to the dance floor and began to swirl her gracefully around. True to his word, O.T. cut in for the second dance. It was a slow dance, and Tamara suspected that O.T. had arranged for that. She felt herself go rigid as O.T.'s fingers touched her bare back and pulled her close, and she made an effort to keep an obvious distance between him and herself. Louie and I should be sharing this dance, she couldn't help thinking.
