by Peter Corris
Best of luck from all of us working stiffs at Silkstein's Agency to the Stars.
Your pal,
The letter was signed 'Bobby'—the single word took up nearly as much space on the page as the message. No-one ever accused Bobby Silk of being subtle, but there, friendless and alone on the other side of the world, the letter almost brought tears to my eyes.
Get a grip on yourself, Dick, I thought. You've been in tougher spots than this. I felt hungry, but I wasn't going to pay the high prices I was sure they'd charge in the hotel. In a strange city there's only one place to go for a cheap feed—the railway station. I thought I could remember where it was. As I strolled down George Street I began to feel better. It was a mild night and I had a fiver in my pocket, which was a fair sum of money in those days. I lifted my hat, a nondescript felt job, to a couple of young women in the street and they didn't spit in my eye. There seemed to be a good number of females about, in pairs mostly and probably looking for Yanks, but it wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility that I could acquire some company for the night.
I had a pie and chips at the railway cafeteria and then needed a drink. I went walking in the obvious direction and made the terrible discovery that all the pubs were closed. I'd forgotten—six o'clock closing, the scourge of the Australian drinking man. No doubt there were places where you could get a drink, clubs and such, and sly grog joints, but I didn't know any of them. My spirits were falling with every step. It was beginning to look like a quiet night back in the Metropole with my bottle of Johnnie Walker.
I found myself standing outside a narrow, blank-faced building with heavy glass doors behind which there appeared to be a certain level of gaiety. I could hear music and voices raised in laughter—all in all, exactly my kind of place. I glanced up and saw the plaque in the wall—Journalists' Club. Just then, two taxis pulled up and about ten people, mostly men but with a few women, swarmed out and advanced on the glass doors like a football scrum. They milled around me, laughing and shouting and I struggled to get clear.
'Excuse me,' I said as I trod on some female toes, 'I'm sorry. Can I . . .'
'A Yank,' one of the women screeched. 'It's a civilian Yank. Let's take him in. I've never met a Yank not in uniform before.'
At this there was an enormous hoot of laughter. One of the men planted a kiss on the woman's cheek. 'That line needs work, Doris. You mean you never met a Yank in uniform who stayed in uniform longer than four hours.'
Doris giggled and took hold of my arm. 'Six hours, Gordon. I swear it once took me six hours. Don't listen to them, honey. Doris wants you to come in and talk. You can talk, can't you?'
Browning's luck. 'Sure I can talk,' I said.
We surged into the club. Hats and coats were thrown into a closet and a register was signed by one of the men amid much laughter. 'What's your name, buddy?' one of the men asked.
'Richard Browning.'
'And what's your game?'
'I'm an actor.'
'Ooh,' Doris held my arm tighter. 'I caught a live one here.'
We went into the bar and joined the lively crowd of drinkers, singers, darts players and talkers. There must have been a couple of dozen people crammed into the small space and they all seemed intent on getting as much alcohol and nicotine into them as possible. I was introduced around the group, but very little information stuck. Gordon Hardicutt was with the Herald, Bruce something was on the Bulletin, somebody else was at the Mirror. There were a couple who worked for radio stations and one was a cartoonist for Smith's, whatever that was.19 The women were in the same line of work—one was a gossip columnist for the Women's Weekly.
Gordon bought the first round, which disappeared like a puff of smoke. The men drank beer, the women port and lemonade or gin and tonic. It was very pleasant; I could hardly hear a word being said, but most of the talkers were more interested in what they were saying than in what was being said to them, so my nods and smiles were acceptable responses. I offered to buy a round but was firmly told that only members could buy. It was definitely my kind of place. After a couple of beers I felt a need to piss and repaired to the lavatory, which was down a short flight of stairs and smelled under-sanitised.
I relieved the pressure and washed my hands. A man was standing at the second basin, staring at himself in the mirror. 'When a lot of remedies are suggested for a disease,' he said, 'that means it can't be cured.'
'Excuse me?'
'The Cherry Orchard,' he said, and I noticed that he had a beautiful mellow voice, even slightly slurred as it was by booze. 'I'd like to play Chekhov one day.'
That was double-Dutch to me. I dried my hands and got ready to leave. He grabbed my arm. He was tall and almost cadaverously thin, but his grip was strong. He had moist brown eyes, like those of an injured animal. 'Did you say, "Excuse me", meaning "I beg your pardon"?'
'I guess I did.'
He leaned against the basin, ran water and splashed his face. He had startlingly high cheekbones, almost like a Cherokee, and his teeth were very white in a suntanned face.
'I'm an expert on accents,' he said. 'Study 'em, you understand. Pr'fess'nally. You're not an American.'
'No, I'm an Australian, but I've spent the last twenty years in the States. You've got a good ear.'
'Good ear, good voice, great talent.'
'Sure,' I said. 'Well, I'll just go up and—'
'What're you doing here, sport?'
'I'm with friends.'
'Name 'em.'
Normally, I'd have told him where to go, but there was something about the eyes and the voice that worked against the drunkenness and belligerence. 'Gordon Hardicutt,' I said.
'Bloody hack.'
I wasn't going to stand for that; Gordon had bought me two drinks. 'And who, may I ask, are you?'
'I'm Peter Finch.'
It means a good deal now—star of The Pumpkin Eater. Sunday, Bloody Sunday, Network, posthumous Oscar winner and so on—but it meant nothing then, at least to me.
'Well, I'm Richard Browning and Gordon has been decent to me, so I'll thank you not to run him down. I suggest you sober up and go home.'
'Haven't got a home, 'least, not a real one.'
'You're not alone in that.' I dried my hands on a very dirty towel. 'I'm an actor and know all about it. Good evening.'
'Jus' a minute. Where have you acted? Not here?'
'Well, yes, in a movie or two. But a long time ago. In America more recently. Why?'
'I'm an actor too. Jus' missed a part in a film. Doesn't matter, 'nother one coming up. All Australian films are lousy, anyway.'
I couldn't disagree with that in general, but I said something approving about Forty Thousand Horsemen.20 I'm not in the habit of chatting with strange men in toilets, but there was something about his voice that held me there. It has been commented on many times since. The only movie voice to compare with Finchie's was Burton's—both drunks and whores, of course. Perhaps it's all to do with the testicles.
'All crap,' he said. 'War's nothing like that. War's all about sand and shit and not having enough to drink.'
Hear, hear, I thought, but for someone who looked about nineteen he was too bumptious and full of himself for my liking. 'You know, do you?' I said.
'You bet I know. I've been in the Middle East. Ack-ack gunner. Bloody awful.'
'Wounded?'
'No. On leave. They give me leave to make these bloody awful films.'
He combed his hair, gargled, spat and lit a cigarette. Remarkably, he appeared to sober up in a matter of a few minutes. It was something I saw him do often and it never ceased to amaze me. I saw now that he was older than I'd thought and I began to get the glimmering of an idea.
'Why don't I buy you a drink, Mr Finch, and we can talk about Australian pictures. Ever heard of Harry Southwell?'
'Of course.'
'I worked with him on the Ned Kelly picture.'
He patted his hair into place. He was an actor all right, vain as a peacock. 'Really? Which one
?'
'Eh?'
Finch finished his cigarette and wet his lips with his tongue. It was a sign, as I was to learn, that he was ready for a drink. He did it often. 'Southwell made three Kelly films. I hope you weren't in the last one.'
My mind raced. I could hardly admit to being in the 1920 piece of nonsense. That would make me look a real oldster. Apparently the latest effort was nothing to boast about. 'The middle one,' I said.
'That was the best. The other two were crap.21 Of course you can buy me a drink.'
We went back up to the bar. Finch appeared to know everyone in the room, especially the women, but he didn't want to join in any of the groups. He was downright rude to Doris as he bustled me into a corner.
She tossed her closely bobbed head. 'Queer,' she said.
Finch ignored her. 'Slip me a quid and I'll get the drinks.'
I wasn't that green, and I knew actors. I gave him ten shillings and he smiled and joked his way through the crush and was back with the drinks in record time.
'Cheers.'
He'd bought double scotches with beer chasers. There was no mention of any change. We drank, he accepted one from my rapidly depleting store of Senior Service and grinned when he saw my Zippo.
'I guess you have spent time in the States,' he said in a very passable American accent.
'And I guess you are an actor.'
'You mean you haven't heard of me?'
'I've only been in the country a few days. No, that's not exactly right. A few weeks, call it.'
A characteristic of people like Finchie, people on their way up, is that they are totally uninterested in non-essentials. He didn't need to know anything about my Queensland adventures so he didn't bother to clarify my statement. He drank a slug of scotch and puffed his cigarette. 'I started out as a radio and stage actor,' he said. 'Still pick up a bit of money that way. I've done a few films, but they've all been crap. Nearly all. The Rats of Tobruk'll be out later this year. It's not too bad. But what I really want of course is Britain or Hollywood.'
'Which?' I asked.
He laughed. 'Both. You wouldn't have any proof that you've worked in Hollywood, would you?'
I took out Bobby Silk's letter. The envelope was half-covered by the agency's logo—a golden star with SILK-STEIN picked out in lights on the topmost point. The letterhead was more subdued—a smaller version of the same with the words 'Agency to the Stars' printed underneath in case anyone missed the point. Finch read the letter carefully, threw his head back and laughed uproariously. 'Christ, is it really that bad?'
'Worse,' I said. 'I'd try Britain if I were you.'
We chatted for a while, mostly about the war. I bought more drinks and provided more cigarettes. I wanted to steer him back on to the subject of movie work but the opportunity didn't present. Various people tried to detach Finch but he resisted. I'd seen drinkers like him before. I had the feeling that we'd stay there until my money had run out. I still had two pounds left but I produced a florin and spun it on the wet table top. 'Well's dry, Mr Finch.'
He was drunk again and no wonder. He'd had three doubles and four big glasses of beer. I'd had about half that amount and the room was starting to oscillate.
Remember, I was slightly out of practice.
He clinked his glass against mine. 'Peter,' he said.
I saw my chance. 'Richard,' I said. 'Tell me about this film role you missed, Peter.'
'Film about Kingsford-Smith. You know, Smithy. The flyer. Ken Hall's the director. Better than most. Script's OK. That bastard Ron Randell got the part ahead of me. Fuck him.'
'Why'd he get it?'
Finch rearranged his face. Suddenly his chin became squarer and his features more regular. He looked less arresting but more the Hollywood type, something like Gable. He kept the mask in place for a moment and then collapsed into laughter. He held his hands apart like a fisherman demonstrating the size of the one that got away. 'Wider shoulders,' he said.
I laughed. 'And what's this other job you've got lined up?'
He shrugged. 'Piece of crap. Funny thing, Randell's in it too. Give me a chance to show him up.'
A true professional, Finchie. He outlined the plot of the film to me—an unlikely story of a son taking revenge on his faithless mother by marrying and then deserting her stepdaughter by a later marriage, his stepsister.
'Jesus,' I said. 'Sounds bad.'
'You haven't heard the half of it, sport. I'm supposed to play Randell's father, and he's two years older than me.'
'That's a problem. You could pass for twenty.'
Doris overheard this on her way out. She lifted one shoulder and flapped one wrist. 'Pansies,' she said.
14
I must admit that something of the doubt Doris had raised entered my mind when Finch invited me back to his flat. On the other hand, he had no money and I was pretending to have none, so perhaps it was all above board. We staggered out of the club and Finch set off deliberately in an easterly direction.
'Where's your place?'
'Kings Cross. Bit of a walk, but I could get there blind, I mean blindfolded.'
That joke carried us along for a few blocks. It had been a good many years since I'd staggered drunk through the streets of Sydney, but some things hadn't changed. Instinctively, we avoided the dark lanes where danger might lurk and we lifted our hats to women who looked at us with disgust. There were plenty of servicemen about, including a lot of Americans—fresh-faced, wearing well-pressed uniforms and many with a girl on the arm.
'Good chaps, Americans,' Finch said. 'Friendly, good manners. I'd like to work there.'
I thought of some of the people I knew in Hollywood. They were about as friendly as King Kong and their manners were worse. I grunted and concentrated on not being shouldered off the footpath by a band of half-drunk sailors singing 'Waltzing Matilda'. I realised that Finch was humming along and pretty much in tune. He seemed to be in the process of sobering up again.
'Here we are, old sport,' he said, producing a couple of keys on the end of a piece of string. The string was attached to his braces. We had made several turns away from the bright main street and stood outside a small block of flats in a dark cul-de-sac. He unlocked a door that opened into a small entrance hall.
'Up one.' Finch sprang up the stairs like a ten-year-old. I plodded up after him, feeling my years and reflecting that God only knew what he was like when he was rested and sober.
Finch unlocked another door and entered the flat, snapping on lights and still humming. The flat was small with a sitting room, one bedroom and a tiny kitchen. The first piece of furnishing I saw put my mind at rest—it was a framed photograph of an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She had high cheekbones, slanted eyes and a sensuous mouth.
Finch smiled when he saw me staring. 'My wife,' he said. 'Weren't worried by what that slag Doris said, were you? Not interested in men. Plenty of offers, but just not interested. You?'
'The same. I'm married too. Wife's Chinese. Yours looks a bit . . .'
'Russian. Tamara Tchinarova. Dancer.'
I glanced towards the bedroom door. It was hard to imagine why a man would spend his time boozing at the Journalists' Club with a woman like that to come home to. 'Is she here?'
Finch, who had thrown his hat and jacket on a chair and lit a cigarette from a packet he'd found on a shelf, shook his head. 'Away on tour. Dancing in some god-forsaken country hole. Fancy a drink?'
'Have you got any coffee?'
"Fraid not. Bloody stuff's unprocurable. Tea?'
'I'll have a drink.'
He found two bottles of beer in the ice chest and ripped the tops off both—that was Finchie. We settled down to drink them, smoke the remaining cigarettes and try to get to what each wanted of the other.
'What's going on in the movie business here just now, Peter?'
Finch waved his glass expansively without spilling a drop. 'As usual, this and that. Always some nut wanting to produce, direct, put up money. The army's reasonab
le. Local films're good for morale, don't y'know.'
'I've done most things—act, stunts, unit direction, even a bit of scripting. Think there might be some work for me?'
That was stretching it a bit, but I certainly had some idea of what those jobs involved. It wasn't what Finch wanted to hear though. He frowned and stubbed out his cigarette.
'Small beer, old chap. What's keeping you away from . . . what's his name, Silkstein, and Hollywood?'
'You read the letter, Peter. I was on a sort of hush-hush mission that went wrong. I'm in bad odour with the Australian army.'
Finch's fluid laughter rippled out. 'Well, I'm no stranger to that. But I was hoping you'd be a useful contact, stateside.'
'I might be. I've worked with F . . .' I was about to say Fairbanks, but that was ancient history. It stuck in my craw, but I said, 'Flynn, and some of the other big names. I taught Gary Cooper to shoot.'
'Did you teach him to fuck?'
'No, Peter. I think he was pretty good at that already.'
More laughter, more beer, more tobacco. Peter told me about being in Darwin when the Japanese bombers came over and about his experiences in the Middle East. I told him about Queensland and Lieutenant Okano and Harry and all the rest.
'That's a great story,' he said. 'War stuff's all the go just now. Thought of writing it down?'
'Well . . .'
'Tell you what. I'm due to meet Eric Porter22 tomorrow to talk about this film we're doing. He's the director and producer. How about you come along and we'll . . . what d'they say in Hollywood?'
'Pitch it to him.'
'That's right. We'll pitch it to him.'
He'd found some Russian brandy brought in by one of Tamara's people, and by this time Finch was doing a perfect imitation of my accent, which was a mish-mash of Australian, British and Californian with the American predominating. I'll swear it was the voice he used in Network, but that was a long, sad way ahead. We agreed on the strategy and I struggled to my feet with the floor feeling decidedly insecure beneath them.
