by Juliette Fay
“Who shoots you?”
“The leading man, Hoot Gibson.”
“Hoot Gibson! I didn’t know he was in the picture.” She considered this. “Imagine me in a picture with a big star like Hoot. Oh, but Dan, in his other movies he always seems too nice to shoot anyone to death.”
“Apparently he’s broadening his range.”
Millie sighed. “Well, I suppose I die, too, then. Hoot kills you for killing me, right?” She’d been hoping for another day of pay.
“I probably shouldn’t say anything, because it could change ten times between now and this afternoon . . .”
She gripped his bare arm. “What?”
“The writer said they liked what you did yesterday. They’re talking about having Hoot kill me before I get to you. Then they can do a scene with you being grateful to Hoot, before he trots off to save someone else.”
Millie’s eyes went wide. “You mean I’m going to meet Hoot Gibson?”
Dan smiled. “That does tend to happen when you’re in a scene together.”
There was the interminable waiting, of course, while equipment was arranged and rearranged. They chatted idly in the shade of the pioneer cabin, Millie leaning up against it while Dan kicked the parched earth around with the toe of his moccasin.
“So where does Irene live?”
“It’s this awful place north of Yucca.”
“Why does she live there if it’s so awful? And what’s so awful about it?”
Millie described Mama Ringa’s, Dan interjecting questions until the conversation turned to Irene herself and how she was tough, yet also selfless.
“Why did she go into burlesque in the first place?”
Millie was about to launch into the whole tale about Irene’s sister dying and how she couldn’t stand to go home. But Irene had told her all this even though it was painful and she didn’t like even to think about it, much less talk about it. It was a gift Irene had given her because they were friends.
“That’s for her to say, not me. Irene likes to be private about some things.” Millie studied him. “She’s a little like you in that way.”
“I don’t have any big secrets.”
Millie snorted at this. “What took you from Arizona all the way to Hollywood?” She affected a lower voice and answered herself, “ ‘The train.’ Ha. That’s a story you’re not telling.”
With Dan standing in front of her, Millie didn’t see Wally approach, and when he came into view only a few feet away, he had a look on his face like he’d just been forced to eat a rotted fish head. She startled at the sight of him, and Dan turned around quick, hands up, ready to fend off whatever threat was behind him.
“Back off, Geronimo,” Wally snarled.
He took that wide stance he had and barked some orders in their direction. “You take off on the horse”—he flicked a finger at Millie—“then you follow after her and catch up and grab her off that horse and carry her toward the trees. Then you get shot and drop to your knees. You get me?” Without waiting for an answer, he stalked back down toward the camera.
That woozy, cotton-headed feeling came over Millie, as if the world around her wasn’t quite real.
“Let’s pretend that didn’t happen,” Dan said somewhere near her. “Let’s act like no one talked to us, and we can just decide for ourselves how to play the scene.”
Millie was good at pretending things were better than they were. She’d been doing it all her life. “Okay,” she breathed.
They practiced the chase slowly a couple of times before the camera crank started turning, trotting the horses single file until Dan nudged his horse to catch up to her. When they were side by side, he said, “Now, I’m going to have to wrap my arms around you pretty hard to make sure I don’t drop you down between the horses. I’ll pull you across to my lap and then we slide off on the downstage side of the horses.” Millie nodded, and Dan got hold of her and pulled her toward him and onto his thighs.
She suddenly went stiff in his arms.
“What’s the matter?” His mouth was right by her bonnet.
“It’s . . . It’s what he did that night . . . grabbed me and pulled me onto his lap.”
Dan didn’t say anything for a moment, and Millie worried that he might have gotten tired of her and her problems, weak and scared like some boring little fraidy-cat.
“Take off the bonnet and look at me so you know it’s not him.”
She did as he said, and it helped. It was Dan, sweet and kind. Not the monster.
“But I wouldn’t take time to pull off my bonnet while I’m being kidnapped,” said Millie. “Wait, I know! I’ll keep it untied and let it fly off my head when we’re galloping.”
“Smart girl.”
Millie liked that very much. Of all the things she’d been called in her life, smart had never been one of them. Maybe being an actress was something she could really be good at.
Dan swung his foot over the horse’s haunches and slid down onto the ground with Millie in his arms, carrying her like a bride toward a thicket of woods. “You okay?” he murmured.
“Quite comfortable. You must carry women around like this a lot,” she teased.
“I believe you’re my first.”
“Well, don’t let me be the last. I promise, it’s a hit!”
A laugh burst out of him so hard it made her bounce against his ribs, which got her giggling, too. She felt his grip on her slide a little, and she yelled, “Hey, don’t drop me!”
There was a sound a little ways off, and Millie looked up to see the crew and a few of the extras looking over at them and laughing. Except Wally. He still had that rotted-fish-head look.
They practiced the sequence with more and more speed, and then the camera rolled—quite literally. The crew hoisted it onto the back of a truck, tied it down, and drove along beside Millie as she rode, the cameraman cranking madly. All went well until the truck hit a bump and the poor guy flew off and landed in the dirt!
Everything came to a halt. Everyone stared at the man lying flat on his back in the dusty road behind the truck. “You okay?” yelled a fellow leaning out the driver’s-side window.
The cameraman lifted his head. “Camera okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Did we get the shot?”
“We got the shot.”
He rose slowly and dusted himself off. “Lash me in for the next take,” he said, and they started filming all over again.
The horses cooperated beautifully, as did Millie’s bonnet, flying off at just the right time. Dan had to grab her roughly, but she could see his face and knew he regretted the unpleasantness. The scene ended with Millie in his arms, and it was all they could do to hold their frightened/fierce expressions until Vanderslice yelled cut. They fell apart with laughter at the end of every take.
Next it was time for the close-ups: Millie’s terrified face as she sees Dan approaching; Dan pulling Millie off the horse; Millie staring up at him in horror as he prepares to carry her off into the forest. Dan had to hold her for a long time as they filmed each take from several different angles. “What did you have for lunch?” he teased. “Rocks?”
“I ate everything and went back for seconds,” she said. “I knew you wanted to build up those muscles.”
“Enough talking,” huffed Vanderslice. “I’m trying to make a picture!”
As annoyed as he was during each take, he seemed quite happy when it was over. “Such a fresh young face,” he said. “The audience will gasp at that iris shot, mark my words.”
“Iris shot?” said Millie.
Vanderslice held his cupped hands out facing each other and then closed them in around her face. “Till all we see are those big, terrified eyes.”
The next take was Dan’s death scene, and this made Millie nervous. How would she manage on the set without him? And even if Wally walked off a cliff somewhere and was never heard from again, Dan was such good company during all the waiting between takes.
�
�Call for Mr. Gibson!” Vanderslice bellowed into his megaphone.
Soon a man walked toward them, not terribly tall, a bit on the stocky side. He wore a red plaid shirt, blue vest, and green pants tucked into boots with the biggest spurs Millie had ever seen. There was a gun belt at his waist and a red bandana around his neck. On his head sat a cowboy hat so big he could have stashed his lunch in it.
To make him seem taller, she thought.
He shook hands all around and seemed to take in stride the deference he was paid as one of the biggest western stars in the pictures.
“He seems nice!” Millie whispered to Dan.
“He’s still going to kill me.”
“Oh, I hate the thought of it,” muttered Millie.
Dan chuckled. “You’d better act like you love the thought of it. You’re in the middle of being kidnapped, remember?”
The scene of Hoot riding in and shooting all the other Indians was done. Dan was the last and the worst of them. With Dan still holding Millie in his arms, Hoot was to draw his six-shooter and fire into Dan’s back.
“Well, that doesn’t make sense,” Millie said to Dan while he held her and they waited for Hoot to saddle up. “He could easily shoot me in the process.”
“They’re blanks, Millie.”
“Yes, I know they’re blanks, Dan. But the audience is supposed to think they’re real bullets and he’s a real cowboy.”
“He actually is a real cowboy. He was a wrangler, and then he was a rodeo star.”
“Well, I know spurs, and believe me, those are right out of the costume department. They look like buzz saws.”
“It’s the movies, Millie. The audience needs to be able to see the spurs. And they’ll know he did the right thing by shooting me when you run back to your mama at the cabin.”
Millie sighed. “Okay. But I don’t like it.”
Poor Dan had to pretend to be shot and drop to his knees in the dirt holding Millie about twelve times before Vanderslice was satisfied, by which time Dan’s knees and shins were a mess of blood and dirt. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered to him every time. “I wish I were lighter.”
“You’re light as a cloud, Millie. It’s just a tough shot. Don’t worry, it’ll heal. Besides, all this attention on you means a little more on me, too. I’m getting paid better because of you. Now tomorrow, act like Hoot just saved you from a horrible death, will you please?”
As they headed toward the truck once the scene was done, Vanderslice stopped them. “Miss—”
“Mildred Martin,” Millie interjected.
“Miss Martin, would you be so kind as to report to Stage Eight on Friday morning at nine? We’d like to screen test you there. Of course, we’ve already gotten some excellent footage here, but we’ll want indoor shots and some of you emoting for different types of films.”
“Of course! Thank you so much, Mr. Vanderslice!”
He turned to Dan. “And uh—”
“Dan Russell,” said Millie.
“Yes, we’d like you at Stage Twelve at the same day and time.”
“A screen test,” said Dan, barely concealing his shock.
“You did some good work out here, Russell.” Vanderslice waved a hand around, indicating Dan’s breechcloth, and added, “Leave all this at home. We know what you can do as an Indian. We’ll be looking for other things.”
On Friday morning, Millie woke up in her room at the Studio Club and stared at the ceiling, reviewing the little film she’d made in her head of all the advice Irene, Henry, Dan, and Gert had given her.
It began with a scene of her and Dan riding the truck back to Hollywood the previous afternoon, talking about how to make the most of their screen tests. His title card said:
Make friends with the crew. They always know things the director doesn’t tell you, and they make a lot more decisions about the shot than they get credit for.
The next scene featured Gert helping Millie practice applying all of her many new face paint products. Gert and Henry had taken her all the way to Max Factor’s House of Makeup that evening, a little shop in downtown Los Angeles. “He’s the one all the stars go to,” Gert had said. Millie’s new makeup box held flexible greasepaint, Supreme Liquid Whitener to lighten any freckles or blemishes, Color Harmony face powder, lip color, eyeliner, and mascara.
On the trolley back to Hollywood, Millie told Gert all about performing The Gypsy and the Runaway Bride with Irene and Henry in Flagstaff and how she’d gotten a case of the giggles right in the middle of it. Gert had laughed, but Henry had only shaken his head. He was just irritable, Millie decided. That bruise on his face from tripping on a buckle in the sidewalk must have been aching.
In her film now playing on the ceiling, Henry’s title card said:
Follow the director’s instructions to the letter, Millie, and try not to get silly.
The last scene featured Irene, of course. Her title card was the most important, so Millie had placed it next to last in her little film.
Pay attention to the story—it will tell you what to feel and be your map for what gestures and expressions to use.
But there was another card, something Irene had said when she’d left her at the door of the Studio Club, before she’d begun her slog back to that awful Ringa’s. It was:
I’m proud of you, Millie. You’re a beautiful, talented girl, and I just know the director will love you.
Millie went early to the studio to have a few moments to make friends with the crew, as Dan had suggested. When she got to Stage Eight, there wasn’t much of a crew, only a short, barrel-chested man fussing with the camera and adjusting the lighting this way and that by inches in front of a set with only a small table and a telephone.
“Good morning,” Millie said, in her friendliest tone. “I’m Mildred Martin. I’m here for the screen test.”
“Wilson Grimes,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. It was surprisingly soft for a hand that spent all day cranking a camera. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m glad I got here early,” said Millie. “I’m new at this, of course, so I wonder if you could let me know a little bit about what to expect.”
“Why, sure,” he said. “When the director gets here, he’ll give you a scene to play. He might have you do it several times, with different gestures and expressions. Then we’ll head to one of the outdoor stages to see how the sun likes your face.”
They chatted a few moments more, and then he suggested they do a quick practice. “Go over by the table and pretend to answer the phone, and I’ll see what we’ve got.”
She did as she was told, and he squinted through the camera lens. “Don’t tip your chin down quite so far, I’m losing your eyelashes. Okay that’s better.” He came around and adjusted the light stands again, then went back to the camera. “Much better. All right, now with a telephone in the shot, I guarantee he’ll ask you to react to some bad news. You want to try that? And it’s okay to talk out loud. Makes it more realistic.”
Pay attention to the story, Irene had said. But there was no story. She’d have to imagine some bad news. What was the worst thing she could think of? Irene being hurt—or even killed!
She took a few steps back and then headed toward the phone as if it were ringing. With the receiver at her ear, she said, “Hello . . . yes, this is Mildred Martin . . . Irene Van Beck? Why she’s my very best friend in the whole world! . . . What’s that you say? A trolley? . . . She was hit?” Millie bit her lip, afraid to ask the next question. “Is she . . . is she all right? . . . No! . . . No! . . . She can’t be! How could she be . . . dead!”
Saying the words felt so real and so horrifying that Millie burst into tears, her body convulsing with uncontrollable sobs, and she had to grab onto the table to keep herself from sinking to the floor.
Wilson Grimes’s face emerged from behind the camera, eyes wide. “Boy, howdy,” he murmured. “Wish I’d been cranking for that one.”
He loved it! A grin broke through Millie’s tears.
“Huh,” snorted someone off to the right. “Where’d you learn to blubber like that—the correspondence school of expression?”
27
My whole career has been devoted to keeping people from knowing me.
Lon Chaney, actor, director, writer
Henry didn’t know what to expect when he arrived on set the day after Edward rescued him from the thugs and drove him to the YMCA in his expensive car. His stomach felt as if it had munitions stored in it, and if Edward said one word, the whole pile would blow.
But Edward didn’t say a thing. Nor did he treat Henry any differently. If anything, he kept his distance.
Wilson Grimes, on the other hand, pointed out with smirking jocularity that Henry needed more greasepaint and powder to cover the shiner under his left eye. “Mix it up, did ya?”
“Little bit.” Henry hid his embarrassment with a touch of feigned swagger.
Wilson chortled and slapped him on the back.
On Friday they rehearsed Sheba’s big exit from the palace to begin the journey back to her kingdom, including the full cast of extras, horses, and chariots. Edward warned them all that he wouldn’t waste film until they had the scene down to the last hoofbeat.
Henry was glad for the distraction; it would keep his mind off wondering how Millie was doing at her screen test. The two months she’d spent without work had been so hard on her—and Irene—and he worried about them both. Irene would never abandon Millie, but how long could she go on making barely enough to survive on herself, much less for two people?
Henry directed his thoughts back to the task at hand. Edward had given him a note to hold his shoulders back a bit more but remained his ever-professional self, and Henry was relieved that there seemed to be no reason to worry that Edward would reveal him in any way. It was as if nothing had happened between them at all.
Good, Henry told himself. As it should be. But a soft little voice inside him whispered that it had been nice to share such confidences and hoped that Edward thought so, too.
