by Mario Puzo
The treatment of women in this film is also basically fascist; they do nothing except manipulate men with their bodies. When they do take part in political movements, they are shown as destroyers of men striving to better the world. Can’t Hollywood believe for a moment that there is a relationship between men and women in which sex does not play a part? Can’t it show just one goddamn time that women have the ‘manly’ virtues of a belief in humanity and its terrible struggle to go forward? Don’t they have the imagination to foresee that women might, just might, love a movie that portrays them as real human beings, rather than those familiar rebellious puppets that break the strings men attach to them?
“Kellino is not a gifted director; he is less than competent. He places the camera where it should be; the only trouble is that he never gets the lead out of it. But his acting saves the film from the complete disaster the whoremongering script dooms it to be. Kellino’s directing doesn’t help, but it doesn’t destroy the film. The rest of the cast is simply dreadful. It’s not fair to dislike an actor because of his looks, but George Fowles is physically too slimy even for the slimy role he plays here. Selina Denton is too empty-looking even for the empty woman she plays here. It’s not a bad idea sometimes to cast against the role, and maybe that’s what Kellino should have done in this film. But maybe it wasn’t worth the trouble. The fascist philosophy of the script, its male chauvinistic conception of what constitutes a ‘lovable’ woman, doomed the whole project before they loaded film into the camera.”
“That fucking cunt,” Houlinan said not in anger but with bewildered helplessness. “What the fuck does she want from a movie anyway? And Jesus Christ, why does she keep going on about Billie Stroud being a good-looking broad? In all my forty years in movies I’ve never seen an uglier movie star. It’s beyond me.”
Kellino said thoughtfully, “All those other fucking critics follow her. We can forget about this movie.”
Malomar listened to both of them. A matched pair of pain in the asses. What the hell did it matter what Clara Ford said? The picture with Kellino as star would make its money back and help pay some studio overhead. That’s all he’d ever expected from it. And now he had Kellino on the hook for the important picture, from the novel by John Merlyn. And Clara Ford, brilliant as she was, didn’t know that Kellino had a backup director doing all the work without credit.
The critic was a particular hate of Malomar’s. She spoke with such authority, she wrote so well, she was so influential but she had no idea at all about what went into the making of a movie. She complained about casting. Didn’t she know that it depended on whom Kellino was fucking in the major female role and then it depended on who was fucking the casting director for the smaller parts? Didn’t she know these were the jealously guarded prerogatives of many people in power in certain movies? There were a thousand broads for each bit part and you could fuck half of them without even giving them anything, just letting them read for it and saying you might call them back for another read. And all those fucking directors building up their own private harems, more powerful than the greatest money-makers in the world as far as beautiful, intelligent women were concerned. Not that you even bothered to do that. Even that was too much trouble and not worth it. What amused Malomar was that the critic was the only one who got the unflappable Houlinan upset.
Kellino was angry about something else. “What the hell does she mean it’s fascist? I’ve been antifascist all my life.”
Malomar said tiredly, “She’s just a pain in the ass. She uses the word ‘fascist’ the way we use the word ‘cunt.’ She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
Kellino was mad as hell. “I don’t give a shit about my acting. But nobody compares me with fascists and gets away with it.”
Houlinan paced up and down the room, almost dipped into Malomar’s box of Monte Cristo cigars, then thought better of it. “That broad is killing us,” he said. “She’s always killing us. And your barring her from previews doesn’t help, Malomar.”
Malomar shrugged. “It’s not supposed to help, I do it for my bile.”
They both looked at him curiously. They knew what bile meant but knew it wasn’t in character for him to say it. Mailwoman had read it in a script that morning.
Houlinan said, “No shit, it’s too late for this picture, but what the hell are we going to do about Clara on the next one?”
Malomar said, “You’re Kellino’s personal press agent, do what you want. Clara’s your baby.”
He was hoping to end this conference early. If it had been just Houlinan, it would have ended in two minutes. But Kellino was one of the truly great stars, and his ass had to be kissed with infinite patience and extreme shows of love.
Malomar had the rest of the day and evening scheduled for the cutting room. His greatest pleasure. He was one of the greatest film editors in the business and he knew it. And besides, he loved cutting a film so that all the starlet heads dropped on the floor. It was easy to recognize them. The unnecessary close-ups of a pretty girl watching the main action. The director had banged her, and that was his payoff. Malomar in his cutting room chopped her right out unless he liked the director or the one-in-a-million times the shot worked. Jesus, how many broads had put out to see themselves up there on the screen for one split second, thinking that one split second would send them on the way to fame and fortune. That their beauty and talent would flash out like lightning. Malomar was tired of beautiful women. They were a pain in the ass, especially if they were bright. Which didn’t mean he didn’t get hooked once in a while. He’d had his share of disastrous marriages, three, all with actresses. Now he was looking for any broad who wasn’t hustling him for something. He felt about pretty girls as a lawyer feels hearing his phone ring. It can mean only trouble.
“Get one of your secretaries in here,” Kellino said. Malomar rang the buzzer on his desk, and a girl appeared in the door as if by magic. As she better had. Malomar had four secretaries: two guarding the outer door of his offices and another two guarding the inner sanctum door, one on each side like dragons. No matter what disasters happened-when Malomar rang his buzzer, somebody appeared. Three years ago the impossible had happened. He had pressed the buzzer and nothing happened. One secretary was having a nervous breakdown in a nearby executive office, and a free-lance producer was curing her with some head. Another had dashed upstairs to accounting to get some figures on the grosses of a film. The third was out sick that day. The fourth and last had been overcome with a painful desire to take a leak, and gambled. She established a woman’s record for taking a leak, but it was not enough. In that fatal few seconds Malomar rang his buzzer and four secretaries were not insurance enough. Nobody appeared. All four were fired.
Now Kellino dictated a letter to Clara Ford. Malomar admired his style. And knew what he was getting to. He didn’t bother to tell Kellino that there was no chance.
“Dear Miss Ford,” Kellino dictated. “Only my admiration for your work impels me to write this letter and point out a few areas where I disagree with you in your review of my new film. Please don’t think this is a complaint of any kind. I respect your integrity enough and revere your intelligence too much to voice an idle complaint. I just want to state that the failure of the film, if indeed it is a failure, is entirely due to my inexperience as a director. I still think it was a beautifully written script. I think the people who worked with me in the film were very good and handicapped by me as a director. That is all I have to say except that I am still one of your fans and maybe someday we can get together for lunch and a drink and really talk about film and art. I feel that I have a great deal to learn before I direct my next film (which won’t be for quite a long time, I assure you) and what better person to learn from than you? Sincerely, Kellino.”
“It won’t work,” Malomar said.
“Maybe,” Houlinan said.
“You’ll have to go after her and fuck her brains out,” Malomar said. “And she’s too smart a broad to fall for your line of bul
lshit.”
Kellino said, “I really admire her. I really want to learn from her.”
“Never mind that,” Houlinan almost yelled. “Fuck her. Jesus. That’s the answer. Fuck her brains out.”
Malomar suddenly found them both unbearable. “Don’t do it in my office,” he said. “Get out of here and let me work.”
They left. He didn’t bother to walk them to the door.
The next morning in his special suite of offices in Tri-Culture Studios, Houlinan was doing what he liked to do best. He was preparing press releases that would make one of his clients look like God. He had consulted Kellino’s contract to make sure that he had the legal authority to do what he had to do, and then he wrote:
TRI-CULTURE STUDIOS MALOMAR FILMS
PRESENT
A MALOMAR-KELLINO PRODUCTION
STARRING
UGO KELLINO
FAY MEADOWS
IN A UGO KELLINO FILM
“JOYRIDE”
DIRECTED BY BERNARD MALOMAR
… also starring, and then he scribbled a few names very small to indicate the small type. Then he put: “Executive Producers Ugo Kellino and Hagan Cord.” Then: “Produced by Malomar and Kellino.” And then he indicated much smaller type: “Screenplay by John Merlyn from the novel by John Merlyn.” He leaned back in his chair and admired his work. He buzzed his secretary to type it up and then asked his secretary to bring in the Kellino obituary file.
He loved to look at that file. It was thick with the operations that would be put into effect on Kellino’s death. He and Kellino had worked for a month up in Palm Springs perfecting the plan. Not that Kellino expected to die, but he wanted to make sure that when he did, everybody would know what a great man he had been. There was a thick folder which contained all the names of everybody he knew in show business who would be called for quotes upon his death. There was a complete outline on a television tribute. A two-hour special.
All his movie star friends would be asked to appear. There were specific clips of film in another folder of Kellino in his best roles to be shown on that special. There was a film clip of him accepting his two Academy Awards as best actor. There was a fully written comedy sketch in which friends of his would poke fun at his aspirations to be a director.
There was a list of everybody Kellino had helped so that some of them could tell little anecdotes about how Kellino had rescued them from the depths of despair on condition they never let anyone know.
There was a note on those ex-wives who would be approached for a quote and those who would not be. There were plans for one wife in particular: to fly her out of the country to a safari in Africa on the day Kellino died so no one in the media could get in touch with her. There was an ex-President of the United States who had already given his quote.
In the file was a recent letter to Clara Ford asking for a contribution to Kellino’s obituary. It was written on the letterhead of the Los Angeles Times and was legitimate but inspired by Houlinan. He had gotten his copy of Clara Ford’s reply but never showed it to Kellino. He read it again. “Kellino is a gifted actor who has done some marvelous work in films, and it’s a pity that he passed away too soon to achieve the greatness that might have been in store for him with the proper role and the proper direction.”
Every time that Houlinan read that letter he had to have another drink. He didn’t know whom he hated more, Clara Ford or John Merlyn. Houlinan hated snotty writers on sight, and Merlyn was one of them. Who the fuck was that son of a bitch he couldn’t wait to have his picture taken with Kellino? But at least he could fix Merlyn’s wagon, Ford was beyond his reach. He tried getting her fired by organizing a campaign of hate mail from fans, by using all the pressure of Tri-Culture Studios, but she was simply too powerful. He hoped Kellino was having better luck but he would soon know. Kellino had been on a date with her. He’d taken her to dinner the night before and was sure to call him and report everything that happened.
Chapter 28
In my first weeks in Hollywood I began to think of it as the Land of Empidae. An amusing conceit, at least to me, even if a bit condescending.
The empid is an insect. The female is cannibalistic, and the act of sex whets her appetite so that in the last moment of the male’s ecstasy he finds himself without a head.
But in one of those marvelous evolutionary processes the male empid learned to bring a tiny bit of food wrapped in a web spun from his own body. While the murderous female peels away the web, he mounts her, copulates and makes his getaway.
A more highly developed male empid figured out that all he had to do was spin a web around a tiny stone or pebble, any little bit of junk. In a great evolutionary jump the male empid fly became a Hollywood producer. When I mentioned this to Malomar, he grimaced and gave me a dirty look; then he laughed.
“OK,” he said, “do you want to get your fucking head bit off for a piece of ass?”
At first nearly everyone I met struck me as a person who would eat off somebody’s foot to become successful. And yet, as I stayed on, I was struck by the passion of people involved in filmmaking. They really loved it. Script girls, secretaries, studio accountants, cameramen, propmen, the technical crews, the actors and actresses, the directors and even the producers. They all said, “the movie I made.” They all considered themselves artists. I noticed that the only ones concerned with films that did not speak this way were usually screenwriters. Maybe that was because everyone rewrote their scripts. Everybody put his fucking two cents in. Even the script girl would change a line or two, or a character actor’s wife would rewrite her husband’s part, and he’d bring it in the next day and say that was the way he thought it should be played. Naturally the rewrite showed off his talents rather than forwarded the movie’s purpose. It was an irritating business for a writer. Everyone wanted his job.
It occurred to me that moviemaking is a dilettante art form to an extreme degree and this innocently enough because the medium itself is so powerful. By using a combination of photographs, costumes, music and a simple story line, people with absolutely no talent could actually create works of art. But maybe that was going too far. They could at least produce something good enough to give themselves a sense of importance, some value.
Movies can give you great pleasure and move you emotionally. But they can teach you very little. They couldn’t plumb the depths of a character the way a novel could. They couldn’t teach you as books could teach you. They could only make you feel; they could not make you understand life. Film is so magical it can give some value to almost anything. For many people it could be a form of drug, a harmless cocaine. For others it could be a form of valuable therapy. Who doesn’t want to record his past life or future traits as he would want them to be so that he could love himself?
Anyway, that was as close as I could figure the movie world out, at that time. Later on, bitten a little by the bug myself, I felt that it was maybe a too cruel and snobbish view.
I wondered about the powerful hold making films seemed to have on everyone. Malomar passionately loved making films. All the people who worked in films struggled to control them. The directors, the stars, the chief photographers, the studio wheels.
I was aware that cinema was the most vital art of our time, and I was jealous. On every college campus students, instead of writing novels, were making their own films. And suddenly it occurred to me that maybe the use of film was not even an art. That it was a form of therapy. Everyone wanted to tell his own life story, his own emotions, his own thoughts. Yet how many books had been published for that reason? But the magic was not that strong in books or painting or music. Movies combined all the arts; movies should be irresistible. With that powerful arsenal of weapons it should be impossible to make a bad movie. You could be the biggest asshole in the world and still make an interesting film. No wonder there was so much nepotism in moviemaking. You literally could let a nephew write a screenplay, take a girlfriend and make her a star, make your son the head of a studio.
Movies could make a successful artist out of anyone. Mute Miltons no longer.
And how come no actor had ever murdered a director or a producer? Certainly over the years there had been plenty of cause, financial and artistic. How come a director had never murdered the head of a studio? How come a writer had never murdered a director? It must be that the making of a film purged people of violence, was therapeutic.
Could it be that someday one of the most effective treatments for the emotionally disturbed would be to let them make their own motion pictures? Christ, think of all the professional people in films who were crazy or near crazy anyway. Actors and actresses were certifiable certainly.
So that would be it. In the future everybody would stay home and watch films his friends made to keep from going crazy. The films would save his life. Think of it that way. And finally every asshole could be an artist. Certainly, if the people in this business could turn out good pictures, anybody could. Here you had bankers, garment makers, lawyers, etc., deciding what movies would be made. They didn’t even have that craziness which might help create art. So what would be lost if every asshole made a film? The only problem was to get the cost down. You wouldn’t need psychiatrists anymore or talent. Everybody could be an artist.
All those people, unlovable, never understood you had to work at being loved, yet despite their narcissism, infantilism, their self-love, they could now project their internal image of themselves to a lovable exterior on the screen. Make themselves lovable as shadows. Without having earned it in real life. And of course, you could say that all artists do that; think of the image of the great writer as a self-indulgent prick in his personal life, Osano. But at least they had to have some gift, some talent in their art that gave pleasure or learning or deeper understanding.
But with film everything was possible without talent, without any gift. You could get a really rich prick making the story of his life, and without the help of a great director, great writer, great star, etc., etc., just with the magic of film make himself a hero. The great future of film for all these people was that it could work with no talent, which didn’t mean that talent could not make it better.
