by Jerry Ludwig
It’s like watching the Wolfman transform back into Lon Chaney, Jr. I can see Shannon visibly forcing himself away from the brink.
“Joey? Y’want me to make the call?” Okie asks.
“Just shut the hell up. Where were you when I needed you?” Then to McKenna, “Okay, I see it.” Turns to me, “Take a hike, sonny boy.”
Dismissing me. Screw him. I stand my ground. Until McKenna intercedes. Politely but curtly. “On your way, Mr. Weaver.”
I meet Shannon’s piercing eyes. “Any message for Leo?”
“I’ll deliver that myself, in my own way.”
I start walking away, with O’Connell trailing me like a sheepdog.
“Start packing, asshole,” Shannon yells after me. “I’m calling Harry Rains. You won’t be working there anymore, or anywhere else in the Industry!”
“Agent McKenna,” I toss over my shoulder, “isn’t maliciously conspiring to deprive a person of his livelihood a federal offense?”
“Bye, Mr. Weaver.”
Okie is ushering me out, and behind me I hear Shannon tell McKenna, “How could Barney Ott let Vardian get so out of control?”
As we reach the front door, Okie whispers to me, “You made a bad enemy.”
“Hey, I inherited a lot of those, you lying fink!” I go for my car and drive away. Shaking with fury, not only at Shannon, but also at Leo for using me as his stalking horse.
* * *
Leo crows happily, “So David punched out the asshole, Harry!”
There’s a celebration in Leo’s bungalow office on the Panorama lot and I’m the star. Actually it’s a Leo Vardian Production—written and directed by the great joker himself. The audience is small and select but very enthusiastic. Leo is hosting Barney Ott, Jack Heritage, Keeler Barnes, and now Harry Rains, having heard word, has just come speeding over to hear the details in person.
Leo pours a flute of champagne for Harry while urging me to repeat my visit to Joe Shannon. If I neglect a detail Leo jumps in. He’s infuriating me.
“Well, Leo, guess you’re even now for that lousy item in his column,” Harry says as he accepts the brimming glass of bubbly.
“The only even is one-up!” Leo bellows.
“Here’s to you, kiddo.” Harry raises his champagne in my direction. “Headline: ‘Little David Smites Gossip Goliath.’”
“I’ll drink to that,” Keeler shouts.
“About time somebody crowned that queen,” Heritage says.
“Risky, though,” Harry Rains points out. “Sending David of all people. It’s like waving a red flag in Shannon’s face.”
“Good lesson for Shannon,” Leo says. “Don’t screw around with a war hero. Right, David?”
“Harder than nails, that’s me,” I say flatly. Getting more pissed.
“But the lousy things that swish said about your folks,” Keeler muses, “I would’ve given him a lot more than just a rap in the jaw. I’d’ve killed the sonuvabitch!”
Leo leaps to my defense. “I think David handled it absolutely right.”
“Turned out to be quite a day,” Ott holds out his glass for more champagne. “Considering how it started.”
“Yeah, maybe we owe Shannon a vote of thanks,” Heritage says. “He put a burr under your saddle, Leo. But you are a clutch hitter. Great work!”
“I’ll definitely drink to that!” Harry Rains says.
What they’re talking about is that, for a change, Leo finished the day’s work on schedule. It suddenly occurs to me that maybe that’s really what they’re all celebrating.
I dart a look at Leo and I can see the same thought in his eyes. He glances at his watch.
“Well, sorry to give you guys the bum’s rush, but it’s back to the grindstone for us working stiffs. Gotta go look at dailies and spend some time in the cutting room.”
“You guys happy with how it’s coming together?” Ott asks. So casually.
“Gold,” Keeler says. “Solid gold.”
“Any chance we can get a peek at some cut footage?”
“Barney, I want to keep you a virgin ’til the first preview,” Leo says, “so I can get a pure reaction from you.” They both know that’s what Leo’s contract specifies. No second-guessing until then.
“A man could die of curiosity, waiting.” Ott smiles.
“Boys, boys,” Harry Rains intercedes, “let’s be on our way. We don’t want to distract the genius from his appointed rounds.”
“Yeah, thanks for stopping by. Stay, finish the champagne. C’mon, guys.” Leo gestures for Keeler and me to follow him.
“The kid gets to see the cut footage, but we don’t, huh?” Heritage reflects.
“David is family,” Leo tosses back.
“Family,” Ott repeats. “That’s what I want to be in my next lifetime.”
And we’re out the door. Leaving them behind.
As we walk to the screening room, Leo complains: “Party-poopers. Those three could spoil a wet dream.”
I can’t hold back any longer. “Leo, next time I become your designated hitter, let me in on the gag first.”
Leo’s eyes darken, as they always do at even the vaguest hint of criticism. So now he’s definitely about to blast off. Keeler stands clear. Then Leo softens. “You’re right. Sorry if I hung you out.”
Keeler looks astonished. I am, too. I didn’t know the word sorry was part of Leo’s vocabulary.
* * *
Before Keeler can signal the projectionist to start dailies, Leo makes a phone call to Army Archerd, Shannon’s competitor at Variety, and jovially briefs him.
“Here’s a guy who’s been dumping a load of horseshit on the town every morning,” Leo concludes, “so I figured he’d appreciate a hot new supply.”
Next morning the most discussed item in Archerd’s column is:
“… Gift season galloped off to an early start yesterday for Joe Shannon, on the receiving end of a box of unexpected bon-bons from his biggest fan, Leo Vardian. Ask Leo’s assistant, David Weaver, son of Teddy W., just how excited Joe was to be remembered.…”
The following morning Shannon runs an item in his own column:
“… Memo to Leo Vardian: thanks for the forget-me-nots. Owe you one…”
I figure that’s it and the Hollywood gossip mill will move on. Although I still recall the look in Shannon’s eyes when he promised to respond in his own time and in his own way.
CHAPTER
21
DAVID
We’re back in the jungle. Hot and humid as ever. This morning we shot the scene where Ernie Borgnine dies in Chuck Heston’s arms after a Mau Mau ambush. It brought tears to most of the crew, even the hard-case teamsters. Shows you what fine actors can do to bring life to a basically cornball moment. I see the gloating look on Leo’s face as he calls “Cut!” And then, of course, he spoils it for everybody by screaming at Tommy the prop man, usually one of his pets, for some nonsensical oversight.
The next scene is the final shot in the movie. Not the last one on our schedule, we’ve still got weeks to go, the studio brass still constantly climbing all over Leo’s ass about slipping further and further behind schedule. But this is going to be the fade-out image of the movie. Heston, standing bloody but unbowed, on the ridge of a rock escarpment. The camera will start close on his sweaty face, then pull up and up into a very wide downward view of his figure—a musket-like Sharps rifle clutched in Heston’s triumphant upraised hand.
Bob Surtees, our cameraman, has won Oscars, which is why Leo hired him, but Leo insists on initially riding the camera alone and setting up each shot for him. Then he lets Surtees go to work. It’s the cumbersome way Leo has of communicating his vision. Now he walks toward the bulky Mitchell camera fixed on a huge Chapman crane that will provide the sweep and height necessary.
“C’mon, David,” he says, “take a ride with me.”
Leo gets behind the camera, I take the focus puller’s bucket seat beside him. Leo signals to the crane operator an
d we move slowly upward. Heston’s stand-in is on the rock, holding up the rifle. Leo squints through the eyepiece, waving occasionally to the crane operator to go faster or slower, while he twirls the handles on the camera. A kid with his favorite toy.
Beneath my dangling feet the view spreads until we’re nearly seventy feet high. I can see the entire soundstage below, our weird man-made jungle, all our equipment, the crew rushing around. From up here they look like a tribe of ants. Leo signals for us to stop in midair. He looks down with me.
“Behold,” he intones, “my kingdom.”
I laugh. “Is that what being a director feels like?”
“It’s what being God feels like.” He waves expansively.
“The great God Jehovah,” I add, “the one given to smiting.”
“You mean Tommy Props? This is our third picture together. He’s used to my shit.”
Like Keeler, I think. But this is the friendly Leo. We haven’t talked about anything except work in days. Nothing personal. No time. And I realize that’s why he’s brought me up here.
“So how’s it going with you and Jana?”
“Couldn’t be better,” I lie. Although she’s spending most of her time at my place, she’s still at Leo’s beck and call on Stone Canyon.
“Glad to hear it,” he says. “Thanks for being so understanding about letting her keep my home fires burning a little longer. Once we wrap up this sucker”—he gestures at his kingdom—“we can get on with real life.”
We both know that’s just chatter. This is Leo’s real life.
“Are you guys figuring on a big wedding? I’ll be glad to foot the bills. Father of the bride and all that. We could do it at the house, if you like.”
“Actually, we’re talking about something sort of small.”
“Whatever you say. I just thought it’d be fun to show off in front of the whole town. Hey, I could buy you a house instead. Wedding present.”
How do I tell him? “I think we’ll hold off until we can afford to buy one on our own.”
“That’s what I like about you, David, you work hard and smart for what you want. You’ve got a real future in this business. I can see it, man, after our next picture you’ll be ready to be an associate producer and—”
“What do they do?”
He shrugs. “They associate with the producer, but at a much better salary.”
“The Son-In-Law Also Rises?”
“There’s no harm in accepting a helping hand along the way.”
I’m not so sure of that. Leo gave me a job when I really needed it. But I don’t want to owe him any more than I have to. Don’t know if that’s stubbornness, macho pride, or self-defense. But a career working for him? Like Keeler? Like Tommy Props?
“The sky could be the limit,” Leo promises.
The AD calls us on the walkie-talkie. Heston is in full makeup and on his way into position on the top of the rock. Leo signals and the crane lowers. In a moment we’re back on the ground.
CHAPTER
22
JANA
It’s Saturday night, and David and I are in my car, and I’m driving to a party in Silver Lake, the artsy neighborhood up in the hills next to Hollywood. It’s our first full-on public appearance as a couple at a social gathering. It’s a birthday bash for Carol Snyder. She’s turning thirty. She’s petite, freckled, and funny, a buoyant upper who’s recently become a studio pal.
She’s a script girl, just winding up on the Fred Astaire musical. It’s a super-responsible job, keeping a meticulous record of what happens in front of the camera. Good script girls are treasured by the top directors. Funny, no matter how old they are, nobody ever refers to them as script women.
I expect the crowd will be young below-the-line film workers, similar to us. Production people, camera, sound, and electrical crew members. Not the glamorous above-the-line types who inhabit my father’s world. The “line” refers to the itemized studio budget for a movie. Stars, director, producer, and writer are listed above-the-line—where the big bucks go. Everyone else is below. It’s the Hollywood caste system.
On the drive over, David and I are discussing the screenplay he’s been writing. It is loosely based on Lew Ayres, the movie star who played the last soldier killed in World War I in All Quiet on the Western Front, the kid who reached out for a butterfly and was picked off by a sniper. When World War II started, Lew Ayres was drafted but declared himself a conscientious objector. It caused a big time scandal, all the stay-in-L.A. superpatriots called him a coward. But he became an Army medic, like David was in Korea. Ayres landed on some of the bloodiest South Pacific beachheads and came home to Hollywood with all sins forgiven.
Despite the violence of war, the screenplay is sweet, gentle, and decent. Just like David. I told him I loved it and gingerly gave him ideas for several minor improvements; he said they were great. Our first experience working together. He knows my dream is to direct. We decide that’s what we’ll do: he’ll write ’em, I’ll direct ’em. We’ll produce ’em together. Weaver & Vardian Redux.
We park up the street from Carol’s bungalow. It’s a cozy little white two-bedroomer cantilevered over a steep canyon. The party is already in full swing. Parked cars jam the narrow winding street. People sip drinks and chitchat on the lawn. Rock ’n’ roll blares from inside the house. Elvis mostly. I don’t know that many of the guests, but recognize faces from around the lot. As we walk up, several heads turn to look our way. At me? Because I’m the daughter of a hot shit director? Jeez, I hope not.
Rowan Lundy, my boss in Research, greets us. He’s forty-one, one of the elders tonight. Tightly trimmed mustache, a courtly, bookish man, in tweeds and horn-rimmed glasses, wearing the only necktie in sight. And it’s a bowtie. He looks like the chaperone at the school dance.
“You’re a celebrity,” Rowan says, raising his glass of Cabernet in salute. But he’s talking to David. They’ve met briefly at the office. He nods at the partygoers staring at us. “They’re all stoked to see the guy who made the special delivery to Joe Shannon.” Then he looks past us. “Hey, here’s the birthday girl! You look like a Dale Evans impersonator.”
Carol Snyder, our hostess, is definitely dressed like the queen of the cowgirls. Flat-topped Stetson, red checkered shirt, buckskin vest, denims, and alligator boots. A preview of her next gig. She’ll be going to Durango soon to work on a Burt Lancaster oater. We hug and she shakes David’s hand when I introduce him. I’ve been gushing to her for weeks about him. One of my few confidantes.
“Heard a lot of nice stuff about you,” he says.
“Same here,” she grins. I can see they instantly like each other. I relax a bit. I want this party to go smoothly for David.
While Carol greets other arrivals, we elbow our way inside to the crowded bar. An attractive frosted blonde who works in studio accounting is acting as bartender. We snag a couple of white wines and retreat to a corner near the entrance.
We’re hardly settled before three unfamiliar guys plow through. I get a strong whiff of booze. The leader of the pack jostles me, spilling some of my drink.
“Hey, watch it!” David grumbles after them, but I tug at his sleeve. Assure him it’s no problem.
But there’s one developing. At the bar, the trio cut to the head of the line, demanding service. “Screw wine, got any beer?” the leader yells. They all have menacing scowls, tight-fitting black T-shirts, and thick necks.
The barmaid produces beers for them and the leader whispers something lewd in her ear. Angrily she pushes him away. He just laughs and the trio clink beer cans.
David murmurs, “Did Carol invite storm troopers?”
I shrug it off. They’re probably just brawny cable pullers from another studio. Someone near us speculates they’re party crashers. We go back out onto the lawn and get into a conversation with Charlie Hix, a young camera loader on Leo’s movie. Suddenly there is a crashing sound from inside the house. We see Rowan tumble down the front steps. He’s pursued b
y the leader of the gate crashers, who yells. “Gonna kill you, y’faggoty old fart!”
He overtakes Rowan and pushes him viciously. Rowan falls headlong and skids on the grass. His horn-rim glasses go flying. The gate crasher looms over Rowan. “Where do you get off? So hoity-toity, telling us we gotta leave! Who the fuck are you?” He jabs Rowan’s side with his pointy boot.
Everyone is frozen. Except David. He walks over and scoops up Rowan’s glasses.
“What the hell y’think you’re doin’?” the gate crasher demands.
“Just cooling things down a little,” David says.
The other two crashers close ranks behind their leader. I’m doubly scared now, for Rowan and David. But David ignores the trio and offers Rowan his glasses, then tugs him up onto his feet, dusts him off. Behind him the leader is red-faced with rage.
“He your girlfriend, butch? Gonna stand up for him, are ya? Do the fairy’s fightin’ for him?”
Frantically I look around, but nobody is about to help. Doesn’t David see the danger? All three are going to jump him in a second. “David!” I cry out in warning and take a step forward, but it’s too late.
The big one behind him locks David’s arms, setting him up for the leader, who rushes in, aiming a huge fist at David’s face—and then a remarkable thing happens. David flips the guy behind him forward in the air to collide with the oncoming leader. While the fallen assholes fall in a heap, David pushes Rowan out of the combat zone, just as the third gate crasher is about to blindside him. Sensing him, more than seeing him, David smashes an elbow back into the man’s gut. And he goes down. But the other two are up again and converging like enraged bulls.
And at the vortex is David, face expressionless, his eyes appear almost glazed, intent only on the battle. Seeing nothing but his next move and three moves beyond that. It’s like watching the stuntmen staging a barroom brawl. But this is bone-crunching reality. Someone is screaming. I realize it’s me. Then I’m rendered silent by what I see. David’s body starts to sway methodically, side-to-side like a metronome, as though he were stoking a fire within himself. I’m watching a dance. A dance of destruction. Choreographed to inflict pain. They repeatedly attack him, but David counters their blows, leverages their momentum against them. Everything moves so fast it’s a blur. Arms and legs flailing and I expect to see limbs torn off and flying at us.
