The American Chronicle - Hollywood Part 38

Mrs. Harding turned fiercely back into the drawing room. "I don't see the joke."

"Unbecoming," said Blaise, delighting in the President's other favorite word. Then he turned to Frederika. "I think he's safe."

They said good night to the d.u.c.h.ess, who was now in full tirade. Like so many forceful women of a certain age, her conscious mind had been gradually replaced by her unconscious. She now tended to say whatever she was thinking, even when she was not, properly speaking, thinking at all. "I know what's going on, you see." She stared vacantly at Blaise. "I always do. That doesn't mean that there's anything I can do. But I try, G.o.d knows how I try. What makes it worse is how they're all in on it. Even Laddie Boy who sits in front of the door." Evalyn led Mrs. Harding back to the Christmas tree.

"What was that about?" Frederika was intrigued.

"Hysteria," said Blaise. "Poor Harding. I think she's crazy."

"Poor d.u.c.h.ess, to be so misused."

"How?"

"There are mistresses," said Frederika, pulling the coverlet over her knees as the great car glided toward Georgetown.

"I wonder why she cares? She's got him, after all."

"I think," said Frederika, uncharacteristically focussed on a problem not her own, "that he dislikes her and she doesn't know what to do about it."

"Except make scenes."

"Chagrin d'amour. I don't suppose it helps having just the one."

"The one what?"

"Kidney," said Frederika with una.n.a.lyzable joy.

THIRTEEN.

1.

MISS KINGSLEY ALWAYS PUT CAROLINE in a good mood. For one thing, she was a genuine fan of Emma Traxler. For another, she was encyclopedic. There was nothing that she did not know when it came to who was making what movie and why. Caroline always served her tea, and Miss Kingsley always made an art form of taking off her gloves, while discussing the subtleties of Indian as opposed to China tea.

Traxler Productions was having a good season. The release of two westerns had already made up the money lost on Mary.

"But when do you plan to go before the cameras next?" Miss Kingsley's kindly eye was fixed on Caroline's left ear where the surgeon's knife had cut; then the skin was drawn back and resewn, following the natural line where the ear connected with the head. Hair swept back and in a full light, the scar was still a horrible livid shiny wound to Caroline's own sharp eye. But the Paris surgeon had a.s.sured her that it would lose all color soon and no one would ever notice the line.

After much trepidation, Caroline had gone into a clinic outside Paris, and the deed had been done at the beginning of winter. Now she felt that it was safe to show off her restored-if not exactly new-face. She had been lucky. Aside from all the horror stories of operations gone wrong, many an operation had been so successful that the seeker after eternal beauty was startled to see that she-or he-was indeed made beautiful by the unexpected possession of someone else's face. Caroline looked like Emma at her best, who was exactly like, though unlike, the original Caroline long since erased by time and Emma's glory and-now-surgery.

"I have no plans," said Caroline, who had a great many plans. "It was so pleasant being home again in ..."

"Alsace-Lorraine. I know." Miss Kingsley was very good at keeping straight all the lies that the stars had told her. When Mabel Normand had said something to Miss Kingsley about her childhood in Staten Island, Miss Kingsley had gently reminded her that she had been born and raised on Beacon Hill in Boston. Mabel promised not to make such a slip again.

"Dear old Alsace-Lorraine," sighed Caroline. "Yes. I took the waters there, and lost a great deal of weight."

"I can see. You look amazingly rested and slender." This was Miss Kingsley's code phrase for "plastic surgery." "Ready to go before the cameras again." Code: the star is now ready to face with a brand-new face a new career, having lost the old one to unkindly Father Time.

"Perhaps. I'm talking to William Desmond Taylor about a new project, a life of George Sand, actually."

"Will you wear trousers?" Miss Kingsley frowned at her notebook.

"I think one must, at times. But she was mostly in gowns."

"I deplore, frankly, women in men's clothes. Mr. Hearst has an unhealthy pa.s.sion for this ... this perversion. There is no other word, I fear." Miss Kingsley turned pale pink. "I've discussed it with poor Marion, who says it's what, as she puts it in that cute way of hers, 'Pops wants.' "

"She has not got quite the right bottom for trousers." Caroline was judiciously clinical.

"I trust you will wear a long frock coat ..."

"A Prince Albert, yes. And I shall only pretend to smoke a cigar."

"What you stars must do for your art!" Miss Kingsley shook her head more in pity than awe. "Do you still plan to buy or build your own studio?"

Caroline nodded. Tim had reawakened her ambition. Although she enjoyed acting the part of a movie star in real life, she did not much like becoming an old woman on the screen. The sudden entirely unexpected realliance with Tim had changed her course. With Tim's help, what Hearst had done with newspapers she would do with the movies. Others had had the same wish but they had been bemused by the notion of art. Griffith had tried to render the Civil War on the screen in "lightning flashes," as President Wilson had poetically put it, but he had got lost in the politics of that huge event. Later, when he made Intolerance, he had succ.u.mbed to spectacle without mind. Yet Caroline knew what he was doing or trying to do. Like Griffith, Tim believed that the imagination of the public could be laid siege to, and won. But Tim chose, perversely, to appeal to everyone's sense of justice, while Griffith wearied them with grandiose visions of various deadly sins. Caroline knew that the answer was somewhere between the two, in what would look to be nothing more ambitious than a celebration of the ordinary in American life; and then-thanks to the luxury of film editing-dreams could be stealthily planted in the viewer's mind. Instinctively, Chaplin had done this from the beginning, and Caroline was confident that once he knew what he was doing, he would lose his art. Self-consciousness was the princ.i.p.al enemy of this strange narrative form. Gradually, she and Tim had worked it all out in a way that neither on his own could have done. They were now both hard at work on a dozen photo-plays, each calculated to appeal to as many people as possible, yet with a certain intrinsic design that, if successful, would subtly alter the way everyone observed the world. Where once Huns and Reds were demonized, human qualities would be apotheosized. The fact that they could so easily fail made the attempt all the more exciting.

"We've thought of buying Inceville at Santa Monica. Or maybe something in the Valley but only," Caroline added quickly, "if you approve."

"My heart shall never go out to the Valley, but if you are there I will come out. That is a solemn promise."

"I shall miss Paramount." Famous Players-Lasky was now more and more known as Paramount Pictures, by order, presumably, of Adolph Zukor, who had also painted the studio green, his favorite color according to Charles Eyton. Yet Zukor was never to be seen in the studio. Instead he reigned over his empire from New York and left movie-making to his employees, a mistake Caroline would not make when she began her new career. Essentially, the movie magnates were not concerned with what was on the screen as long as it was profitable. Those who did care, like Griffith, tended to be self-indulgent and unprofitable. But the magnates must be propitiated. They-or specifically Zukor-owned the movie theaters, and Caroline had done her best to charm the great man who lived in Rockland County, New York, surrounded by relatives. But then all of the movie magnates were family men on the grandest, most tribal scale. They married off their children in the same calculated way as royal families did, and with, often, the same dire results. No wonder they all wanted to make Mayerling. Currently, Samuel Goldfish now Goldwyn, brother-in-law of Lasky but mortal enemy of Zukor, wanted Caroline to play the Empress Elizabeth, whose doomed son Rudolph-Barthelmess had said yes to the role-would kill himself at the hunting lodge of Mayerling. Hearst was now threatening to make his Mayerling with Marion Davies as the tragic Maria Vetsera.

"Naturally, you have your two favorite directors both on the lot." Grace Kingsley twinkled. "Mr. Farrell's out in the Valley, I'm told, doing a western. I'm due to see him tomorrow."

"Give him," said Caroline, "my love."

Thus far, their realliance as lovers and business partners was in secret. Tim had personal as well as movie commitments to be honored, while Caroline had William Desmond Taylor to-what? She had found it significant that when she had reappeared at the studio, Tim had whistled when he saw her new face. "Is it a success?" she had asked, and he had nodded, while her other "favorite" director had not noticed her surgical master-work. But then Taylor was busy in both his private and his professional life. "He's in Projection Room C, e'en as we speak. He's editing The Green Temptation, which sounds to me like a winner."

"I certainly hope so." Caroline smiled with great care. There was still some tightness about her mouth, certain to disappear, she had been a.s.sured, once the new face had settled in.

"He tells me he can't wait to start on his next new Traxler photo-play. But he wouldn't say what it was."

"We are hoping to do Mayerling." Boldly Caroline lied. After all, everyone else had, at one time or another, announced that they were doing the story or, indeed, had done a version. The visit was now worthwhile, and Miss Kingsley had her "scoop." She scribbled happily as Caroline named an ideal-and impossible-cast. No, they would not use k.n.o.block for the script. He had gone back to England. "Bernard Shaw would be ideal." Caroline was now swept away by fantasy. There was a kind of perfect joy in lying for no specific purpose. "Of course he would have to adjust to our art-form, so unlike the theater. But I'm sure he could pull it off. Otherwise, there's always Maurice Maeterlinck." On Maeterlinck's much-heralded visit to Hollywood, he had submitted a script whose protagonist was a bee. Then he had gone back to Belgium.

"Quality. That is what a Traxler movie is all about," Miss Kingsley intoned.

"One tries," whispered Caroline, "one tries," she repeated, quite liking the sound of her own voice.

Then, although each was a lady and Miss Kingsley virginal, they were obliged to discuss that morning's newspaper account of the on-going Arbuckle case. The accidental rupture of Virginia Rappe's bladder had taken place September 7, 1921. It was now February 1, 1922 and the press still continued, each day, to invent new revelations or rake over old ones. Secretly, almost everyone in Hollywood had sided with Arbuckle but the rest of the country, spurred on by Hearst's press, wanted an auto-da-fe with the plump comedian as centerpiece, a flaming torch to morality.

More than ever was Caroline convinced that she and Tim were on the right track. Where it was Hearst's tactic to b.e.s.t.i.a.lize the public, they would civilize them, she thought grandly if somewhat uneasily. Certainly she would have to rein in Tim's political enthusiasm. They had agreed that in the ordinary American town that they were going to invent, the voice of reason would eventually win over the people, who would come to realize to what extent they are manipulated. The town must seem very real while at its center there would be a family for the whole nation to love. Above all, there would be no overt preaching: if they had done their work properly, their ends would be achieved subliminally. Both agreed that the n.o.ble Emma Traxler, a creature of perfect romance, would never set foot in their town.

"I have just had word from Washington," said Miss Kingsley, putting on her gloves. "The Postmaster General will not be coming to Hollywood."

"I suppose he still thinks he'll be president one day, and that Hollywood ..."

"... is or will be-I promise you-a highly suitable background for any important venture." Miss Kingsley was a fervent booster of their beleaguered dreamland.

"One day, I suppose so. Of course, he'd have great power here. I wonder if he understands that." Caroline also wondered why she, herself, had not given the subject more thought. There would be ridiculous censorship, of course, but there would also be encouragement for the sort of thing that the virtuous conspirators had in mind. Hays-or some other high federal officer-could act as a bridge between politics and the movies. If Caroline and Tim, somehow, could capture the bridge, the impulses that now came to Hollywood from Washington would be reversed and Mr. Hays, or whoever, would be their transmitter from West to East, from the governed to the governors.

At the door to the commissary Caroline and Miss Kingsley parted. Then Caroline entered the dining room, aware that she was still a source of interest. She heard her name through the rattling of dishes and the roar of several hundred conversations. The room smelled of beef stew, and mothb.a.l.l.s from Western Costume's costumes.

William waved for her to join him. He was seated with his writer, Julia Crawford Ivers, and his editor, Edy Lawrence. In the past, Caroline had noted with some bewilderment that all of William's intimates were women and yet, as far as she could tell, he was not interested in them s.e.xually. She had come, gradually, to Tim's conclusion. Yet, once, there had been a wife, and, now, there was still very much a daughter, whom he was sending through an expensive New York school. Had he undergone some sea change in middle life, and shifted from nymph to faun? Or was he simply yet another victim of the Californian Curse?-or, more precisely had she been, during the time of her pa.s.sion, now entirely ended, thanks to backgammon and the return of Tim.

Caroline told them that Will Hays would not be coming to Hollywood.

"Then we'll get Herbert Hoover," said Julia Ivers. "They say it must be a member of the Cabinet."

"Or Supreme Court." Like everyone in Hollywood, Edy Lawrence was not enthusiastic about a supervisor from Washington.

"The worst thing, of course, will be the censorship." Taylor's handsome face was paler than usual. He smoked one black cigarette after another from a gold case which Caroline thought had been stolen the previous July when the man-servant, Eddie Sands, had decamped with most of the contents of the bungalow, as well as Taylor's car. k.n.o.block had been at the studio when Eddie had disappeared, after first telling k.n.o.block that he intended to get married in Catalina. But Eddie had gone elsewhere, as checks with Taylor's forged signature began to crop up in different parts of the state. Taylor notified the police; hired a Negro servant, Henry Peavey; bought a new car and engaged a new chauffeur. The whole business had caused him a good deal of distress.

"Where did you find this?" Caroline touched the cigarette-case.

Taylor frowned. "A p.a.w.n shop. Where else? The police put me onto it. He seems to prefer the p.a.w.n shop to the fence."

"I like Hoover." Julia Ivers was a comfortable sort of woman, who could eat as much macaroni and cheese as she liked while Caroline picked at a sliver of white fish.

"He's honest," said Taylor with no great conviction.

"What about censorship?" Caroline's interest in Taylor's domestic problems had long since been satisfied.

"Isn't it inevitable? The Motion Picture Producers and Distributors want someone to clean up, whatever that means, the movie business, and make the world forget poor Fatty Arbuckle."

"To be paid one hundred fifty thousand dollars a year." Mrs. Ivers sounded mournful.

Then they discussed the usual subject-movies. Who was making what and where and for how much. At the end of lunch, Taylor turned to Caroline. "I think I've got a project for us. Charlie Eyton and I had a talk just before lunch."

"Not The Rocks of Valpre. I'm too old."

Mrs. Ivers shook her head. "The story's too dull, anyway. Not enough action."

"But there's a wonderful part for Mary." Taylor sighed. "Anyway, I'm outvoted. No, something else. Can I take you home? At five? We'll talk in the car."

Caroline returned to her office to find Tim, dressed like a cattle wrangler, talking on two telephones, while the secretary smiled an unfocussed happy smile. Absently, Caroline tapped his head; then she went into her office, where scripts were piled beneath icons of Emma Traxler, suffering and aging from one station of life's way to the next. Well, there could be a rebirth soon. She looked young again; but did she still resemble Emma? That was the question whose answer, if negative, would come too late on film. Fortunately, Emma's days were now numbered. There would be one more glamorous film, then Emma would remove forever her spectacular earrings, and pa.s.s into history.

Tim joined her. "I finished up early. Westerns don't get any easier. There's no new way to film a horse. There never will be a new way."

"Why don't we try people in westerns? The way we will in our town."

"The form's too stylized. We just use characters, and they're about all used up. I hear Taylor's got something for you."

"Word gets around. He'll tell me after five. Do you think I look like-you know, Emma?"

Tim came very close to her and squinted down into her face. She was, at this moment, simply an object to be photographed and the director was studying the contours of the round stone-like head to see what needed light, what needed shadow. "Yes. You'll give a good impression of her."

"Only that?"

"There's always some change. Don't worry. You know, Taylor's having trouble getting a picture for Minter."

"Trouble? Here? Impossible. She's a Paramount star."

"They want to can her. Buy her out."

"Why? She's no worse than any of the others." Caroline had always had difficulty telling one pretty golden-haired dwarf from another. They came in shoals, according to fashion; and vanished as quickly when the style changed. Only Mabel Normand was distinctive and unlike anyone else; and, of course, she was now becoming unemployable. Apparently, cocaine deranged performances. At twenty-nine Wallace Reid was at the end of his career and probably life, thanks to morphine. Thanks to the Arbuckle scandal, the press was excitedly hinting at their names; soon hints would become accusations, and careers would end. Caroline was now convinced that a czar of the movies was needed. In the past, whenever those in power decided to take over the railroads or the coal mines, the press would obediently cease its lurid fictions and false alarums. Plainly, Hollywood needed a rest; and Caroline and Tim an ally.

Meanwhile, Mary Miles Minter and her mother were more trouble than they were worth. Also, in the cold light of commerce, the idea of replacing Mary Pickford had been a bad one. There was only one Pickford and no subst.i.tute was needed. Although Minter, now nineteen or twenty, was good for another decade or two as a p.u.b.escent star, the public had lost interest in little girls with golden ringlets and fun-loving ways. "I suppose they'll buy her out one of these days."

"Poor William," was all that Caroline would think to say.

"She's told everyone she's going to marry him." Tim looked at Caroline to see what her reaction would be but Caroline was careful not to react. Although she no longer felt anything for Taylor, she was still his friend and wished him well.

"I don't think he really wants a second daughter." Caroline looked at a poster of Emma Traxler drinking a c.o.c.ktail with a hectic jazzy smile. An air-brush had entirely erased all but the salient features.

"Particularly one equipped with such a mother."

"But Mary Miles would be marrying him to get rid of her mother."

"I don't think that's possible. Mrs. Shelby collects a third of everything her adorable child makes for as long as the child shall live-or at least until the ringlets fall out."

"Poor William," said Tim; he stood up. "I've got to go see Ince, about buying Santa Monica."

"Where we shall build our permanent absolutely real imaginary town. Which story do we do first?"

Tim grinned. "What about who killed President McKinley?"

"Who did?"

"Theodore Roosevelt and Standard Oil. You see, they hired this crazed anarchist and gave him a gun, but no one knows they've done it except his kindly old mother, who lives in our town."

"You will," said Caroline, "end in jail."

Taylor's car and driver were parked before the main studio gate on Vine Street, where the fans kept constant vigil. The fact that they all recognized the new Emma was most heartening, and Caroline signed autographs while making her way, resolutely, to the car, Taylor beside her.

"Do you mind if I do some errands on the way?"

Caroline did not mind.

"Robinson's Department Store, Fellows." Taylor turned to Caroline.

"I've got to find a present for Mabel. She's pretty low right now."