by Juliette Fay
. . . the ruin of Indian girls by white men employed on the reservation was the basest and blackest crime of the many crimes the white race had perpetrated upon the red.
Dan looked up from the page, eyes flat with anger. “Don’t waste your time. They’ll never make this into a flicker.”
“Why ever not? It’s got everything! Romance, great visuals, a gripping story of good versus evil—”
“The red man’s good versus the white man’s evil. Think of almost every cowboy and Indian movie you’ve ever seen, Irene. It’s always the other way around.”
“Maybe it’s time for a more realistic view. I think people will be fascinated.”
“They’ll think it’s a lie and they’ll be infuriated.” He handed her back the magazine and closed his eyes again.
Eva Crown was frowning, which wasn’t unusual. She was exacting about everything, from the width of a leading man’s tie to which adjective best described a flapper’s laugh—was it self-indulgent or was it actually more haughty? Sometimes Irene wanted to scream, Oh, for cripes’ sake, it doesn’t matter! Regardless of what we write, the actress playing the flapper will interpret it as she likes, then the director will instruct her otherwise, and the cameraman will catch it from a certain angle that makes her look a slightly different way, and then the cutter girl back in editing will drop all but her favorite take onto the floor!
But in the nine months since she’d been hired, Irene had come to read Eva’s facial expressions the way a dog reads its master’s, and Eva’s current frown was far more complicated than a misplaced adjective. It was full of regret.
“This is beautiful,” she sighed as she laid down Irene’s synopsis of The Vanishing American.
“But?”
“But it’ll never work. With the way you’ve portrayed most of the white people, the majority of the country will feel as if you’ve spit in their eye. And the religious moralists, ho, they’ll be out for blood. They’ll write articles and organize boycotts . . .” Eva shook her head. “After poor Fatty Arbuckle—”
“He was exonerated! Everyone knows he never laid a hand on that girl. It was all trumped up by her scheming friend and that ambitious prosecutor trying to make a name for himself!”
“We know that, and some small segment of America understands that Fatty was the victim, but it took three separate trials to reach that conclusion, during which time the press continued to feed the mighty wrath of the moral crusaders who made the most of it. The fact that Fatty was finally found innocent is a footnote to them—if that.”
“But this story isn’t about the depravity of Hollywood, Eva. It’s about as far from this glittering world as you could get.”
Eva let out a humorless laugh. “No, it’s about the depravity of missionaries! Good Lord, Irene, every last Bible group in the country will come after us with pitchforks!” She shook her head. “Actually, no they won’t because the picture will never be made. Carlton Sharp over in Publicity will take one look at it, soil himself, and run screaming to his pal Lou Manning, who will bring it straight to Abe Tobiah. Then I’ll get sent to St. Vincent’s for a mental competency evaluation.”
“And I’ll get fired.”
“Likely so.”
The two women stared down at their ink-stained fingers for a few moments, both silently cursing the tragic injustice of killing a perfectly good story. More than good. Intriguing, romantic, visually stunning, heartbreaking, nail biting, cliff-hanging good.
“Can you change it without sucking all the truth out of it?” asked Eva.
“You mean make the white people look good?”
“If you want to get this story told, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“The degradation of a proud people by their heartless conquerors is the story.”
“And Dan Russell is your fella, right?”
“Not for long, if I do what you’re suggesting.”
“What if . . . hmmm.” Eva frowned and flicked her pen against the scenario a dozen times, leaving a constellation of tiny dents on the paper. “What if it was still about injustice, but it boiled all the wickedness down to one truly irredeemable white man. And the missionaries were mostly well meaning. And there were one or two bad Indians—not as bad as the white guy, but you know, not great.”
“That’s a lot of rewriting.”
“True.”
“And we have no idea if Zane Grey would even sell us the rights to adapt the story as is, much less with all those changes.”
“Even truer. But dammit, I hate to let this go. You’re pretty good at this, Irene, and I think you could find a way to tell the story of a vanishing people and the criminal iniquities they’ve suffered without inspiring half the folks in the seats to throw rotten fruit at the screen.” Suddenly there was a funny little twinkle in her eye. “And . . .”
“And what?”
“Well, I’m just thinking out loud here, but if the studio loves this story as much as I do . . . and if A Baby’s Cry does well . . . You might ask to direct. You’ve definitely got that in you, Irene—not just the skill, but the personality for it.”
A laugh burst out of Irene, half-thrilled, half-disbelieving. “You mean I’m bossy!”
“Yes, you’re bossy. In a good way—a great way. Actually I prefer the term commanding.” Leave it to Eva to quibble over the descriptor. “There are a lot of women directors, you know. They don’t let us do the westerns, but who wants those anyway? The domestic dramas, though, and the romances—the seats are full of girls and women, so they trust that a woman director knows best how to cater to those audiences.”
Reason number 957 why Vanderslice shouldn’t have been foisted on A Baby’s Cry, thought Irene.
“Why haven’t you ever directed?” She regretted the words as soon as she uttered them. What if Eva wanted to, but the studio heads wouldn’t give her the opportunity?
“Oh, they’ve asked me, and I’ve been very tempted. Just to have that much control over the process would be so satisfying. But I don’t really like . . . people. Dealing with stars’ egos, keeping the crew motivated to do the grueling hard work, making sure the extras don’t wander off . . . Not for me. I’m happier locked in a room alone, scribbling away about my imaginary friends.”
Irene’s brain twirled with visions of bringing her stories to life just as she saw them—not as some other director interpreted them. She would be the maestro conducting the whole orchestra, not just the violin section. She knew she could do it . . . and that she’d love it.
“Also the money’s better,” said Eva. “Much better.”
35
The picture was nearly finished, but there was no way of shooting around Wally [film star Wallace Reid]. He just had to be there, in front of the camera. So the company, not wanting to lose the investment entirely, sent the studio doctor with an ample supply of morphine to the location, where he injected Wallace to the extent that he could feel no pain whatsoever and he was able to finish the picture. But afterwards he was thoroughly hooked.
Karl Brown, cameraman, writer, cinematographer
Henry was the first to admit he had been a pretty mediocre stand-up comedian. He wasn’t all that good at writing jokes, and he’d never quite gotten the rapid-fire timing down for telling one after another. But when it came to saying funny things other people wrote, and incorporating them into an ongoing story, it turned out he was far above average.
His good looks were also very camera friendly, and he filled out his first tuxedo in a way that women couldn’t quite get enough of. In fact his leading lady on Husbands for Sale had done virtually everything short of holding a knife to his throat to get him to sleep with her. Henry was beside himself with the stress of it until Edward suggested he tell her he was secretly married, but that his wife was in a tuberculosis ward, and the studio insisted on keeping it hush hush.
“Oh, you poor dear,” she said, running her fingers up his thigh. “You must be terribly hungry.”
“I . . . no .
. . well,” he sputtered, but then he had an idea. “Yes, actually I am,” he murmured. “Terribly. But I find if I aim all that hunger at my leading lady, it creates fantastic heat, and the camera loves it. I’m convinced that if my poor dear wife were able to perform her marital duties, I wouldn’t be nearly the actor I am.”
She leaned in close enough to lick his ear and said, “So that’s why you’re such a tease.”
Tease! I’ve done nothing but push you away, you sex-crazed vixen!
“Yes,” he breathed. “That’s why.”
Husbands for Sale was called a “soup and fish” in the industry because the male leads always ended up wearing tuxedos to fancy dinner parties serving multiple courses. The story was filled with frothy drinks, even frothier dinner gowns for the leading lady—which women moviegoers loved—and just enough slapstick humor to keep their husbands chuckling.
It was about a woman who had once been wealthy but had married a poor man for his good looks, and run out of money. She’s on the board of an orphanage and can’t stand to give up the admiration her generosity inspires, so she decides to run a fund-raiser in which husbands will be auctioned off to perform tasks of the winning bidders’ choosing. She knows her handsome husband will bring in the most money, once again putting her at the top of the heap.
Her archrival wins Henry and makes him do embarrassing tasks, like baking her a pie, causing a wild and floury disaster in the kitchen. The more the woman tries to demean him, the funnier and more endearing he becomes, until she finds herself falling in love with him. When his wife finds out, she must try to win him back, and the contest between the women is on.
“It’s official,” Irene said at the premier of Husbands for Sale at the end of May. “You are now the most adorable man in America.”
“Except to those who know the real me,” he said. “Like you.”
“Oh, you’re adorable to me, too. But that’s only because I find Yiddish cursing the height of cuteness.”
He gazed at her, remembering that day. “Can you believe how far we’ve come?”
“It’s been almost a year.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Nor I you.”
“You had a job the day after we got here! You were supporting us, remember?”
“I don’t mean the money. You were . . . you are . . . such a good friend, Irene. You’ve inspired me to be brave in ways you’ll never know.” It was Irene’s unwavering support and protection of Millie that had emboldened him to make that first date with Edward all those months ago.
He hadn’t meant to get so serious. This was supposed to be a party! And yet, there she was, the wonderful Irene, gazing at him with a slightly quizzical look.
“I . . . I’ve been able to . . . to be more true to myself.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Exactly how true to himself did he dare to be?
“I love someone.”
She sighed and nodded.
He was stunned. “You knew?”
“Well, I can’t say it was obvious, but I got the feeling when we didn’t see you for weeks at a time. Whoever she is, I hope she knows she’s the luckiest girl in the world.”
Henry tried not to visibly crumple. It would be so easy to go along with it, or to change the subject without confirming or denying. But this was Hollywood, and Irene had to know there were plenty of homosexuals, both in front of the camera and behind it. It was an open secret. Edward had told him it was actually harder to get a job in a costume department if you weren’t.
“It’s not a . . . what you think.” He took a breath, held it for a second, and then exhaled. “It’s Edward.”
Irene’s chin dropped. “Oberhouser.”
This was not good. He had revealed too much, and he had drawn Edward into his indiscretion as well. But maybe she was only surprised. Maybe she didn’t hate him.
“Yes, Edward Oberhouser.”
“Are the two of you . . .?”
In love. Why was it so hard for her to say the words?
“Yes.”
“Henry!” Dan sidled up to Irene and stood close enough to smell her perfume, to feel the warmth of her. Dan was allowed to do this. Henry was not. And he knew he never would be in any public place, or even in most private places. This was not news to him, but in that moment, the sight of the two of them standing so close, with such intimacy, made him momentarily consider throwing himself out the nearest window.
“Congratulations, you rascal,” said Dan. “You’d better hire a secretary to handle all those love letters you’re about to get.”
“And she just walked away?” Gert was sitting at his kitchen table, eating the latkes he was making by the dozen. He needed comfort food, and there was nothing better than pancakes made of shredded potato, onion, and eggs, fried in lots of oil.
“Well, Dan was there, making those little time-to-go gestures.”
“What are time-to-go gestures?’
“Oh, you know. A stifled yawn, brushing the other person’s elbow with your own.”
“Actually I don’t know. I always just leave.”
“You’ve never had a boyfriend?”
“I did a few years ago, but he was older, and I was hiding it from my parents, so we never went out in public. Of course I didn’t really know what hiding was until I fell for Tip.”
Gert had told him the story: Tippety Tap Jones was a black tap dancer she’d met on the vaudeville circuit, and they’d very quickly fallen in love. Someone saw them alone together, and that was all it took for his life to be threatened. He’d had to make a run for it, and she hadn’t seen him since. “It’s three years ago now.”
“Oh, Gert.” Henry tried to imagine what it would be like not to see Edward for three whole years, not even to know his whereabouts, or have any idea if they’d ever meet again.
She waved him away. “At least it keeps me out of trouble. Between that and living at the Studio Club with all their rules, I won’t be one of those girls sleeping with every fellow with good teeth, or getting pregnant. Did you hear about—?”
Henry shook his head. “Yes, poor thing. Carlton Sharp shipped her off to one of those homes in the middle of nowhere. She’ll come back and say she was on a trip to Europe or Greenland or something.” He served her another latke. “But why do you stay at the club? Why not get a place of your own?”
“Because it’s cheaper, and my dumb sister’s in college. Every extra nickel I earn goes to pay the bill—which makes me even dumber.”
“College!”
“And get this. She wants to be a doctor. Not even a baby doctor—a surgeon!”
“Your sister wants to cut people up?”
“And sew them back together again, Henry boy. That’s the important part.”
“You Turner girls aren’t exactly slaves to social convention, are you?”
She grinned up at him with unabashed pride. “Not one bit.”
Filming for Fox Trot on the Congo began in June, and Henry regretted not having more time to spend with Gert. He did not regret Irene’s absence from his life, however, or at least that’s what he told himself. He tried not to stew on it, but in his worst moments he was sure she was utterly repulsed, and their friendship, as life changing as it had been, was now over.
Edward had a different view. “It took you twenty-four years to accept yourself, and it’s still a work in progress,” he said matter-of-factly. “How can you possibly expect her to learn of it, understand it, and embrace it, all on the spur of the moment?”
“She’s avoiding me!”
“You avoided you, too.”
Henry had other things to distract him from these dark ruminations: Edward had been chosen to direct Fox Trot on the Congo, and the concentration it took to pretend they had a strictly professional relationship, and not a particularly friendly one at that, was exhausting. They were extra careful not to be seen together off set, too, and this relegated Henry to sneaking into Edward’s apartment
late at night and sneaking back out before dawn.
Making matters worse, there were whispers that the leading lady, one Hazel Hampton, was a dope fiend. From her weary, washed-out look before makeup worked its magic, Henry suspected it was true.
“Why on earth did you recommend her?” he asked Edward late one night.
“Because she’s a brilliant comedy actress, for one thing, and for another, she’s the reason I have a career at all. My first big hit was with her, and she carried that picture, let me assure you. I was a bit of a hack, and she was kind enough to show me how to make a picture that was funny, but also complex and subtle. She directed me.”
Friendships. It was what he always said.
“Okay, but you’re certain she’s off the stuff now?”
Edward looked away. “No. I’m not certain. We’ve talked endlessly about it, and she knows this may be her last chance to pull herself together and keep working. I’ve paid off her debts to those sharks, and I only hope she’s smart enough not to press her luck with them again.”
“How did she ever get on it in the first place?”
“The same way so many of them do. A stunt gone wrong. She was supposed to be jumping from one moving car to another, and she tripped and fell out. Her back got wrenched up something awful. They put her on morphine to ease the pain so they could finish the picture.”
“Finish her career is more like it.”
“The studios are just starting to see that stunt people save them money. And of course it’s all about the money. If there were no such thing as movie stars, whose names do so much to sell the product, they’d just go on treating actors and actresses as disposable. I’m convinced they’d prefer it, actually. You stars wouldn’t be able to command such high salaries.”
