Close-Up

Close-Up Len Deighton The legendary, incendiary novel of the film industry back in print after 20 years. A Hollywood Babylon for our timeMarshall Stone, international superstar and charismatic member of Hollywood's elite. Abundantly blessed with charm, genius and wealth, the one gift he most desires – everlasting youth – seems within his grasp when an eminent writer begins the star's biography. But painful memories and suppressed scandals threaten to expose the fiction of his life.Dazzled by flattery and numbed by threats, the biographer is caught up in the big-daddy world where books are properties, films are investments, ratings are rigged, and stars and directors are bought and sold like slaves at an auction.The rituals, the wheeler-dealing politics, and back-stabbing tactics of the richest industry in the world have never been more effectively portrayed. And at the heart of this glittering machine, a brilliant star who will do almost anything to remain untarnished.This reissue includes a foreword from the cover designer, Oscar-winning filmmaker Arnold Schwartzman, and a brand new introduction by Len Deighton, which offers a fascinating insight into the writing of the story. Cover designer’s note When I moved from my London home to Hollywood in 1978 I made a pilgrimage to the famed Hollywood sign. To my great dismay I found that the former real estate sign that later became the iconic landmark of “The Motion Picture Capital of the World” had become derelict. Thankfully, due to the sterling work of some entertainment luminaries, the sign was later restored to its former glory but I never forgot how it had looked. So when I was asked to create a new design for Close-Up, Len Deighton’s wonderful tale of the glamour and sleaze of the film industry personified in the fictitious Marshall Stone, the sign’s deteriorating characters gave me the idea of dropping the letter “S”, alluding to Stone’s fall from favour. I have a small collection of postcards of Hollywood movie stars’ homes and so it occurred to me that we should show Marshall’s lavish Beverly Hills residence, a colourful view of life during the star’s heyday, which contrasts sharply with the background of the sign. Marshall himself was added to the card, looking suitably pleased with himself – possibly he is off to an awards ceremony (though more likely to politely applaud a rival’s win than to collect one for himself). For the book’s spine I went through my rather extensive collection of cigarette cards and found this card of “Continuity girl & Director on set”, one of my favourites from the series. The back cover shows a part of the 1940s board game, Oscar – The Film Stars Rise to Fame. With triumph and scandal around every corner, and money dictating who would succeed and who would fail, it seemed the perfect metaphor for the highs and lows of Marshall Stone’s life, and the world of Hollywood in Close-Up! Arnold Schwartzman OBE RDI Len Deighton Close-Up Copyright This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by Jonathan Cape Ltd 1972 CLOSE-UP. Copyright © Len Deighton 1972. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Introduction copyright © Pluriform Publishing Company BV 2011 Cover designer’s note © Arnold Schwartzman 2011 Len Deighton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Source ISBN: 9780007395774 Ebook Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 9780007395811 Version: 2017-08-22 In the recent past it has become fashionable for writers to use thinly disguised biographical material about ‘show-business’ figures, but I have not intended to depict any person, living or dead, or any film, institution or corporation, past or present. Len Deighton Contents Cover designer’s note Copyright Epigraph Introduction 1 The heavy blue notepaper crackled as the man signed his… 2 ‘All my brother ever wanted to do is make this… 3 No oriental potentate had a more attentive retinue than followed… 4 The unit publicist on Stool Pigeon sent me the biography… 5 The phone at Weinberger’s bedside had the quietest ringing tone… 6 Marshall Stone had almost forgotten the miseries that airline companies… 7 There are places midway in status between antique showrooms and… 8 The Japanese signs and sentry boxes, and the section of… 9 And who was I kidding about contractual possibility. The publisher… 10 The same world to which Stone had sacrificed his sense… 11 ‘Leo Koolman, only twenty months ago you joined this organization… 12 The Merchant of Venice at His Majesty’s Theatre: the first… 13 For Marshall Stone, his life was not made of the… 14 Christmas Day 1948, Bookbinder remembered it only too clearly. He… 15 Man From the Palace has a place in the history… 16 Cherrington is a public school by definition, simply because it… 17 A film is born on the day that the man… 18 In 1952 the tourists guessed wrongly; September was entirely gentle… 19 The countryside grew dark more slowly than the town. The… 20 This whole episode was as artificial as a bad film. 21 Show-business trade papers reflect the heady optimism of the people… About the Author Other Books by Len Deighton About the Publisher Introduction The story of Marshall Stone is the story of an actor. His dilemma is one that still faces many actors and actresses. Public television was born with the Berlin Olympics of 1936 and after a period of hibernation caused by World War Two, it soon became an affordable utility of the Western World, like hot water and electricity. But for actors and actresses television did not have the attraction offered by the theatre and films. Television became the residential home where reputations went to die and it has never escaped from this grim shadow. Close-Up is the story of a writer and an actor. Actors, and sometimes writers too, are an exasperating breed; manic-depressives with a foot pressed hard on the accelerator or hard on the brake. Sadly, the film world does not treat these delicate temperaments with care and consideration. Few of us could withstand the sort of rollercoaster ride that leads to stardom and then back to earth again. Close-Up explains in detail the skills and hazards that the difficult art of acting involves. As you will no doubt detect, I like actors and actresses and all the other people who spend their lives making movies. I like them all so much that I had to write this book about them and about the convoluted way in which movies are made and devious movie deals put together. Writing several scripts – including two James Bond scripts – and producing two films, one of them a musical, gave me a wonderful insight into film, from the deal-making that starts the process to the editing and post-recording that ends it. This is how my education started. ‘Maybe you suddenly hate the way he parts his hair.’ This was Harry Saltzman’s way of describing the irrational personal showbiz dislikes that are impossible to account for in any other way. Harry felt that formal written contracts were only valuable when the parties concerned forgot the promises they had made at the start of the deal. He was right and I never needed to refer back to any contract I had with him. I was very fond of Harry Saltzman, who had co-produced the James Bond films and by buying the film rights for The Ipcress File in 1961 started both me and Michael Caine on our respective careers. But Harry was a very private person and it was a sad fact that he never seemed to distinguish between his friends and his enemies. I had dinner with him one evening and picked up the bill. Harry was quite alarmed. ‘I always pay the bills,’ he said. He was resigned to being exploited. He never showed resentment about the freeloaders who drifted to his lovely Mayfair mews home in the early evening with a view to joining him, his wife and anyone he was doing business with, for a lavish meal in some fine restaurant. I owe a great deal to Harry Saltzman. Writers are not respected in the movie business. Along with directors and all the other technicians they are despised and regarded as easily replaced workers with limited skills. But that was not Harry’s way with writers; he liked them, even if he did routinely shuffle his pack of scriptwriters, so that most of his films went through several total rewrites before shooting began. The first lesson I learned from Harry is that films are created by producers: they buy the story and choose everyone else who makes it into a film. I started to think that becoming a movie producer who wrote his own material would be unceasing fun. In this assumption I was proved wrong. Without Harry’s kindness I could never have written this book, Close-Up. I questioned him relentlessly about films, filming and his career. He immediately responded to my thirst for knowledge by assigning me to write a screenplay for From Russia With Love and including me in the half-dozen people who went to Turkey on the recce trip for the film. On a separate occasion, Harry invited me to meet him in Paris so that we could watch a remarkable James Bond sequence in which a jet-propelled backpack sent Sean Connery’s stunt double up to rooftop heights. By the time my book, The Ipcress File, was being filmed in a wonderful old house in Grosvenor Gardens near Victoria Station in London, I was beginning to understand something of the way movie producers transform books into movies. Harry became a mentor to me. So when I was working on the final draft of a screenplay based on Joan Littlewood’s stage show, Oh What A Lovely War!, I went to Harry to ask his advice and seek his approval. He was occupying a tiny circular office in a turret surmounting one of Shaftesbury Avenue’s famous theatres. As usual, Harry was wearing a superbly tailored suit, crisp shirt and silk tie with the bright red socks providing the only hint of eccentricity. He was his usual congenial self. He warned me that Joan Littlewood’s stage production had closed many years previously and that numerous people had tried to make it into a film. ‘None of them got a deal,’ said Harry. ‘So don’t put down any of your own cash.’ It was too late. I had already paid Joan, out of my own pocket, for a six-month option on the screen rights. I was disconcerted by Harry’s warning and spent a few nights worrying that I had taken too much for granted. With diminishing money to pay for all the costs that come with pre-production, and with only a bundle of carefully typed pages of film script, and some rough sketches and photos of chosen locations such as Brighton Pier, to show for months of hard work, I was nervous. But Fate often smiles upon the unwary and events took a sudden turn for the better when I was invited to have coffee with Eva Renzi, a German actress who was in London to star in Harry’s film of my book, Funeral in Berlin. She had been having lunch at the Dorchester Hotel with her agent from the William Morris Agency. At that time the Dorchester was the world’s most important gathering spot for film people. By the time we were drinking our third or fourth espresso, the William Morris Agency was representing me as a film producer. All films need an early financial commitment and John Mather, the head of the London office of William Morris, took my script and my location photos to Paramount where Charlie Bluhdorn reigned. Fortunately for my film project, Charlie, a tycoon who had recently added Paramount to his array of business ventures, was a dedicated anglophile. I became fond of Charlie; he had an entertaining line in self-mockery and endless anecdotes about his beginnings searching through scrap yards for engine parts. I suppose my years researching books has had a lasting effect upon my social life for, despite Charlie’s reputation as a fire-eater, I encouraged his reminiscences and we became friends. It was about this time when I took a call on my car phone that was to face me with a difficult decision. The year before, in Paris, I had become friendly with Lloyd Chandler, a Canadian uranium prospector who had ‘struck it rich’ as they say in movies. He donated large sums to a fund organized by the celebrated philosopher Bertrand Russell, and became such a friend of Russell that he was consulted about the legal implications of a letter the great man had written to a publisher many years before. It concerned the autobiography that Russell was completing. Lloyd said his friend Len Deighton knew all about literary contracts and publishers. In fact I know little about such things but an offer to spend some time with Bertrand Russell – widely regarded as the world’s foremost intellectual – was not something to be declined. Together with my wife, Ysabele, I went to see him. My time in Plas Penrhyn, Russell’s home in Wales, was a delightful experience. ‘Bertie’, as he was called by those around him, was over ninety years old but he was as sharp and witty as anyone I knew and he enjoyed arguing. So it set our relationship on a firm basis when I found his one-sided view of the Vietnam War unconvincing. And I told him that without an agreed fee his letter had no legal importance. But to be on the safe side I suggested that Bertie consult my old friend and adviser, Anton Felton. He confirmed my verdict on the letter and eventually assembled and collated Russell’s archive and became his legal executor. It was during our time at Plas Penrhyn that Bertie told me that the Beatles had been speaking to him about making an anti-war film and that Paul McCartney wanted to talk to me about it. That, he said, was the prime reason for his invitation. A few days later, in our south London home, my wife and I cooked Paul an elaborate Indian meal and spent the evening discussing his project. But the Beatles wanted an anti-Vietnam war film with an up to date setting. I would have enjoyed working with Paul but I could see no way to become a useful part of the Beatles project. I was deeply committed to two films by that time, and Paul and the Beatles were in a hurry. To run Paramount’s European operations, Charlie Bluhdorn had appointed George ‘Bud’ Ornstein. Bud knew more about old Hollywood than anyone else I ever met. He was related to the legendary Mary Pickford and the stories he told about the days she ruled the movie world enthralled me and provided a basis for some of the material used in Close-Up. Bud was responsible for many of the fine European films of the fifties and sixties. Luckily for me, as well as being a major figure in the film world, Bud was a pilot and an aviation enthusiast. My hours with him were always a delight. It was Bud who first pointed out that, since my script for Oh! What A Lovely War proposed many scenes on Brighton pier and was largely dependent on outdoor locations, it would be wise to defer shooting until the following summer. It was good advice and yet by this time I had rather grand offices – once occupied by Alexander Korda – overlooking the traffic swirling around Hyde Park Corner (the site is now a hotel). The continuing expenses during such a gap in the schedule were going to drain from me money I couldn’t afford. To fit into the empty time I produced another film. I assigned the screen rights of Only When I Larf, my recently completed book about confidence tricksters, to my production company, and had a writer friend of mine – John Salmon – write a screenplay. By chance, the story was set in New York City, London and sunny Beirut, Lebanon, and to dodge the winter weather I scheduled the production for all three locations. I engaged Basil Dearden to direct and David Hemmings to star. It was while I was casting Only When I Larf that Richard Attenborough called me out of the blue and asked if he could direct my film of Oh! What a Lovely War. I had never met him. He had obtained a copy of my screenplay from his friend, John Mills, to whom I had tentatively offered the role of the infamous General Haig. Dicky Attenborough had never directed a film but he had decided that the time had come for him to do something other than acting. I wasn’t sure he was the right person for me; this was a large-scale musical with all the added complications that would bring. Dicky had spent most of his adult life acting in movies and knew a great deal about the way they were made, but directing a full-colour musical with dancing and outdoor locations would be a challenge. He had also seen the script for Only When I Larf and suggested that he could play the elder man against the young man played by David Hemmings. This would give him a chance to spend time with me during the filming and give me a chance to make up my mind about him. William Morris, who represented me for this movie too, proposed David Niven as the co-star and Basil Dearden was against using Dicky, saying he wanted someone more ‘sexy’. I nevertheless cast Richard Attenborough as the elder confidence trickster. It was virtually the last role of his long and distinguished acting career. Despite the logistics and expense of filming in Beirut and Manhattan my production of Only When I Larf went smoothly. It was not easy for Basil Dearden; although he had directed dozens of studio films he had never worked on an all-location one. He also had to put up with my choice of a very young lighting cameraman and such innovations as overhead lighting that permitted 360-degree camera pans and my insistence upon mixing daylight and artificial light without corrective coloured ‘gel’ screens. On the whole it proved a lucky production. The only major hitch was the noise of our big mobile generator which, parked on a street in Beirut, spoiled some of the recording. This demanded the added time and expense of some post-synched dialogue but Basil was a professional and we squeezed the budget to pay for it. I followed the film through the editing and entire post-production and decided that films could be made or crippled by these last weeks of work. By this time, I was talking to all manner of people who wanted to be a part of the Oh! What A Lovely War film. I had half a dozen directors asking for the job – Basil Dearden had mentioned it almost every day on the set – and I even had offers from some of the Hollywood greats, including Gene Kelly. In any other circumstances, I would have given anything to work with Gene Kelly but this film dealt with an important chapter in Britain’s history and it had to have a British director. My screenplay brought many drastic changes to the stage version. The one-act-after-another ‘music-hall’ format of the stage show would not make a movie. There was no ‘story’ in it. For a film the words and songs had to be incorporated into written narrative; a story of the war that year by year reflected the nation’s mounting gloom and sadness. Individuals were combined to become the Smith family, whose men volunteered gladly to serve in the war that killed them. And most important of all, I had envisaged a powerful ending; a vast expanding landscape of graves accompanied by the wonderful old Jerome Kern song ‘They Didn’t Believe Me’. My script met the major challenges, which is why Bud Ornstein at Paramount had supported the project. Like most screenplay writers, I had visualized each and every shot and kept an eye on the probable costs of each location and its whereabouts. Dicky Attenborough understood that it was going to be restricting to have a producer who had written the screenplay looking over his shoulder throughout the filming but after sitting around with me on the Only When I Larf locations, and listening to me explain my screenplay shot by shot, he promised to keep to every word of it, and welcomed having a storyboard artist to sketch proposals for each day’s camera set-ups. The daily storyboards were the work of Pat Tilley, a gifted artist who had been a close friend of mine since our days as illustrators. Bud Ornstein still had doubts about trusting such a big musical film to Dicky Attenborough, a first time director, and no doubt eyed me in the same way, but Charlie, who was an instinctive gambler, said we should take a chance and pointed out that if the worst came to the worst we could switch to another director at any time. I had already decided that Dicky had the energy and ambition that would be so important, and said so. At an evening meeting with Charlie and Bud in the Belgravia home of my agent, John Mather, a handshake deal was done. As I had promised everyone, Dicky stuck to my script and the weather was kind to us. For Dicky it was the beginning of a long and illustrious directing career and I am flattered that Oh! What A Lovely War is clearly his proudest achievement and the film with which his name is principally associated. My years in film production were not a time of unalloyed joy but it provided challenges and delights in abundance. The crews and actors with whom I worked were talented and hard-working and did everything to help me. There was a lesson to learn every minute. For anyone who wants to know exactly how a movie is made there is no better way than to sign each and every cheque, with someone standing by to answer questions about the money’s destination. For most of my lessons, I gladly give credit to Mack Davidson, a wartime Spitfire pilot who, as my Executive Producer, guided and advised me constantly and became a close friend. Mack’s contribution to the making of both films was enormous. Mack died on the final day of shooting Oh! What a Lovely War. There had been no sign of illness and I was devastated. We had planned to make another film together and he had become like a wise and experienced elder brother to me. Technology made the movie of Oh! What a Lovely War more complex than the stage show, which had the dashing exuberance that Joan Littlewood gave to everything she touched. My film would have no blood and no fighting, and death came as a bright red Flanders poppy. Brighton Pier – a glittering attraction – became the War, and from a constantly expanding booth General Haig sold tickets for it. Some film executives proclaimed such symbolism too subtle and for some perhaps it was. It was the skill and experience of Mack Davidson that gave me the confidence and encouragement that I needed to bring my unconventional movie ideas to fruition. Many other supporters deserve credits. I had a talented and indefatigable casting-director in Miriam Brickman. Casting was of course a vital ingredient and I was probably the first producer to use video equipment to cast most of the roles. This gave the actors the freedom to come to the Piccadilly office at any time convenient to them, and it gave me the chance to run, and rerun, the tapes as and when I had time, and to discuss the choices with Dicky Attenborough. A crucial decision in the making of any musical entertainment is how to handle the transition from speech to song. In Joan’s delightfully old-fashioned act-by-act music-hall style, the abrupt insertion of songs was expected and welcomed. But musical films demand a smooth transition into music and song. Operas had used recitative for centuries and in the nineteen-thirties Rodgers and Hart, working in Hollywood, invented a simple device of rhymed conversation with musical background that easily moved into their songs. I couldn’t use this rhyming method because the entire dialogue for Joan’s Oh What A Lovely War! had actually been spoken during that war. I had added dialogue for scenes that were not in the stage version but I had kept to that restriction and used only words from the past. Joan introduced me to AJP Taylor, the eminent historian who had advised her, and he became an adviser to me and eventually a close friend. Getting everything right was a headache but it was an absorbing task. Perhaps my transitions were not perfectly smooth but they worked adequately. The body movements of the actors and actresses – not just the dancers – were important to me and I brought in Eleanor Fazan, experienced choreographer, to oversee the whole production and to ensure that such devices as the leap-frogging officers could be smoothly integrated into the outdoor location. Together with Eleanor I checked out every dancer to make sure they looked right for the wartime period. I wanted the costumes to be authentic and to conform to the changes that the progress of the war brought. I found Tony Mendleson, a distinguished and experienced costume designer, and he gallantly accepted as a historical adviser May Routh, an art school friend of mine who later became a successful costume designer in Hollywood. Her knowledge of military and civil uniforms and experience as a fashion artist made a vital contribution to the film. The sketchbook she compiled during her research and the filming is a most lovely record and deserves to be published in volume form. To have the slings, medical dressings and bandages right I employed a Red Cross nurse to check such things prior to each shooting sequence. I had many sets built on the pier and I visited suggested locations well before schedule, so that I could switch to alternatives if needed. There were still some surprises to come. I didn’t fully appreciate the fact that movie credits can be a battlefield where determined Darwinians fought to enhance their reputation at the expense of others. I even had people asking me for a co-writing credit on my script. I had commissioned Ray Hawkey, with whom I had studied at the Royal College of Art, to design the titles. They were original and beautiful and now in a childish attempt to shame the wannabes, I told Ray to remove my name from the credits. But I had severely misjudged the clamorous ones. The removal of my name only encouraged the claimants. Credit or no credit, the production company was entirely mine and the producer is the only person who can’t be fired or even replaced. So in accordance with my contract with Paramount, I continued to nurse my film through the postproduction weeks and deliver it. I had learned a great deal from the previous film. No claimants were around now; postproduction is a lonely time, far removed from the glamour of lights and cameras. I watched and learned more every day as Kevin Connor, the film editor, cut it into shape and the complex sound track was trimmed and modified and a thousand small changes were supervised by truly dedicated technicians. By the time I had a final cut of the film I knew that these amazing things I had seen must not be wasted. I decided to write a book about the film business showing its joys and technicalities plus a few of its warts and wrinkles. Close-Up is not reality; writers go beyond reality to find and depict truth. Close-Up is the truth as I experienced it. A year or two later, one of the proudest moments of my life came as I stood at the bar of Les Ambassadeurs Club off Park Lane. Bud Ornstein said to me: ‘I was reading one of your books recently and I thought this is someone who really knows about airplanes. Then I read Close-Up and thought this is someone who really knows about the movie business. Then I realized that you had written both of them.’ I hope you will share Bud’s satisfaction. If not, you can try one of my aviation stories, my history books or one of my spy stories. All that remains to be said about Close-Up is that although it reflects what I learned producing two films it is in no way an account of that experience or a memoir. The twists and turns, vendettas, deals, disappointments and betrayals are not specific ones and none of my characters depicts real people living or dead. But these fictional people are real to me. When, years later, in a rather mangled version, a DVD was made of Oh! What A Lovely War I was not invited to contribute an interview. Marshall Stone would have understood. Len Deighton, 2011 1 Today we spend eighty per cent of our time making deals and twenty per cent making pictures. Billy Wilder The heavy blue notepaper crackled as the man signed his name. The signature was an actor’s: a dashing autograph, bigger by far than any of the text. It began well, rushing forward boldly before halting suddenly enough to split the supply of ink. Then it retreated to strangle itself in loops. The surname began gently, but then that too became a complex of arcades so that the whole name was all but deleted by well-considered decorative scrolls. The signature was a diagram of the man. Marshall Stone. It was easy to recognize the hero of Last Vaquero, the film that had made the young English actor famous in 1949. He’d sat at this same desk in the last reel, reflecting upon a wasted life and steeling himself to face the bullets. For that final sequence he’d required two hours’ work on his face. Now he would not need it. A lifetime of heavy make-up had ravaged his complexion so that it needed the expensive facials with which he provided it. Around his eyes the wrinkles were leathery and the skin across his cheeks and under his jaw was unnaturally tightened. The shape of his face and its bone structure would have little appeal to a portraitist, and yet its plainness could be changed by the smallest of pads, tooth clamps or hairpieces, or by a dab of colour over the eyes or a shadow down the bone of the nose. Just the blunt military moustache, grown for his latest role, ensured that some of his dearest fans and nearest friends needed a second look to identify him. Nor had the ageing process provided Stone with more character. Like many of his contemporaries, he’d grown his hair long enough to cover his ears and make a fringe on his forehead. This hairstyle framing his severe face made it difficult to guess what his occupation might be. His clear blue eyes – as bright as a girl’s and as active as a child’s – might just be a tribute to the eye drops that he put into them. His raven hair suggested the judicious use of dye. His chesty actor’s stride could just as well be that of a seaman or an athlete. Only when he spoke was it possible to label him. The classless over-articulated speech that RADA students assumed so well that few of them ever lost its pattern: ‘Jasper, are you there, Jasper?’ Jasper – driver, bodyguard and valet – was seldom out of earshot. He came into the room and closed the curtains. A summer storm had darkened the sky. The study had become dim except for the desk lamp which painted a green mask across Stone’s face and chopped his bright hands off at the wrists. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘A letter to post, a cheque for the club and an open cheque so that you can get me some cash.’ ‘Very good, sir.’ The bank would remain open for him. Stone had not yet grown blas? about the favours that money could provide. He’d told them six-thirty, but they’d wait: they’d learned that artistes had little sense of time. Through the heavy brocade the London traffic could be heard. ‘I waste a lot of money gambling, Jasper.’ ‘You do have bad luck, sir.’ Stone was not a social reformer and yet his servants made him feel guilty. That’s why he was secretive about his afternoon naps and about his shopping sprees. He insisted that they knock before opening the doors so that he could be alert and industrious when they came upon him. It was for this reason, too, that he mentioned to them the worries and problems of his working life. As of the moment he was working on a film called Stool Pigeon. ‘I’m doing the swamp scenes tomorrow. I hope they’ve fixed up better heating in the dressing-room. Last week I spent four hours under the lamps before getting rid of that pain in my knee. Roger at the gym says that’s the classic way to get arthritis.’ The servant didn’t reply. Stone read the letter again. From the desk of Marshall Stone Wednesday evening Dear Peter, The idea of a biography of me has come up from time to time but I have always vetoed it. However, a writer of your talent and reputation could bring a whole new dimension to it. Who better to do a star’s biography than the man who wrote the very first script of Last Vaquero? Now, no show-biz crap, Peter, a real warts-and-all portrait, and damn the publicity boys! And not just a book about an actor! A book about the electricians, the camera assistants, the extras, the backroom boys in production offices. In fact, about the way it all comes together. Talk to my private secretary, Mrs Angela Brooks, and arrange our get-together as soon as you like. The piece you did for your paper last month was damned good and mightily flattering to boot! I can’t wait to see what you will do in a whole book devoted to such a humble thesp as, MARSHALL STONE He crossed out damned and inserted bloody, hooking the y of ‘you’ with the loop of its b. There should always be at least one alteration in a letter. It gave the personal touch. He put his signet ring into the hot bubbling wax and sealed both envelopes. ‘Is Mr Weinberger here yet?’ ‘I showed him into the library, sir.’ ‘Good.’ Stone’s vocal cords had tightened enough to distort his voice, and he tasted in his mouth the bile that anxiety created. On such sudden visits his agent always brought bad news. ‘He has documents with him. He’s working on them. He seems content.’ Oh my God: documents. ‘You gave him a drink?’ ‘He declined, sir.’ ‘People always decline, Jasper. You must persuade them.’ Stone cleared his throat. ‘Very good, sir.’ ‘Cut along to the bank, then, and be outside at eight-thirty: the Rolls, and tell Silvio I’ll have my usual table. I’ll probably sleep here tonight. You can tell the servants at Twin Beeches to expect me for dinner tomorrow.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ Stone closed the roll-top desk, locked it and went to the bathroom. He did little more than splash cold water on to his face. Then he dried it carefully, so that the warm yellow towel would not be soiled by eye-black. He selected high boots, a faded shirt, and tied a red kerchief at the throat. After looking in the mirror he retied it and put a crucifix around his neck on a fine gold chain. He tucked it into the front of his shirt. It was almost, but not quite, out of sight. ‘Viney!’ he said as he entered the library. He spread his hands wide apart in an almost oriental gesture of hospitality. For a moment he stood there without moving. Then he walked to his agent and took the proffered hand in both of his. Weinberger looked like a gigantic teddy-bear that had survived several generations of unruly children. He was tall, but of such girth that his Savile Row suit did little to flatter him. He had a dozen such suits, all of them equally undistinguished except for the cigarette burns that he inevitably made in the right side of the jackets. His hair was unkempt and his club tie was, as always askew. Under sadly sagging eyebrows his eyes were black and deep set. His nose was large and so was his mouth, which only smiled to show the world that he would endure without complaint the slings and arrows that were his outrageous lot. It was his desire to be as unsurprising as possible. He succeeded: except to the people who read the fine print in his contracts. His voice had the gruff melancholy that one would expect from such a man. ‘Sorry it had to be tonight, Marshall. No real problem: a formality, really, but it needs your signature.’ Stone did not release the hand. ‘It’s good to see you, Viney. Damned good to see you.’ ‘Epitome Screen Classics – that’s Koolman’s new subsidiary – want TV rights for resale.’ Stone released the agent’s hand. ‘Do you realize that we only see each other to talk business, Viney? Couldn’t we get together regularly – just for laughs, just for old time’s sake?’ ‘I don’t know why they let us have that approval clause in the contract. I’d put it in to sacrifice it for something else.’ Viney shook his head sadly. ‘They left it in.’ ‘Business! That’s all you think about. Have a drink.’ Stone cocked his head and nodded, as if the affirmative gesture would change his guest’s mind. Back in the days when ventriloquism was a popular form of entertainment, such physical mannerisms had encouraged wisecracks about the cocky little star being seated upon the knee of the doleful giant who was his agent. But these jokes had only been made by people who hadn’t encountered Marshall Stone. ‘No thanks, Marshall.’ He looked at his notes: ‘“Three years after completion of principal photography or by agreement.” It’s only got six months to go anyway.’ ‘A small bourbon: Jack Daniels. Remember how we used to drink Jack Daniels in the Polo Lounge at The Beverly Hills?’ Weinberger looked around the huge room to find a suitable space for his papers. Arranged upon an inlaid satinwood table there were ivory boxes, photos in silver frames, instruments to measure pressure, temperature and humidity, a letter-opener and a skeleton clock. Weinberger moved some of the objets d’art and used a small gold pencil to make a cross on both letters. ‘It needs your signature: here and here.’ He put the pencil away and produced a fountain-pen which he uncapped and then tested before presenting to his client. Stone signed the letters carefully, ensuring that his signature was the same precise work that it always was. ‘Read it, Marshall, read it!’ ‘You don’t want me interfering with your end of it.’ He capped the pen and handed it back. ‘What movie are we talking about, anyway?’ ‘Sorry, Marshall. I’m talking about Last Executioner. So many shows are losing sponsors that they want to network it in the States to kick off the fall season. It looks like the Vietnam War is going to be the only TV show that will last out till Christmas.’ Stone nodded solemnly. ‘Except for the scene on the boat, I was terrible.’ ‘They’ll want the sequels too. Leo said you gave a great performance. “Marshall gave a sustained performance – conflict, colour and confrontation.” You got all three of Leo’s ultimates.’ ‘What does that schmuck know about acting.’ ‘I agree with him, Marshall. Think of that first script – you built that character out of nothing.’ ‘Five writers they used. Six, if you include that kid that they brought in at the end for additional dialogue.’ ‘On TV they’ll be a sensation. Leo would like you to do a couple of appearances.’ Weinberger watched the actor’s face, wondering how he would react. He did not react. ‘And it was the kid that got the screenplay credit. For a week’s work!’ Weinberger said, ‘Serious stuff: the Film Institute lecture for the BBC and David Frost for the States – taped here if you prefer – and Koolman would put his whole publicity machine to work. We could get it all in writing.’ ‘They’ll sink without a ripple, Viney.’ ‘No, Marshall. If the TV companies slot them right they could be very big. And Leo is high on the spy bit at the moment.’ ‘I don’t need TV, Viney, I’m not quite that far over the hill: not quite.’ Stone chuckled. ‘Anyway, they’ll die, a successful US TV show must appeal to a mental age of seven.’ ‘A lot of TV viewers don’t have a mental age of seven. I like TV.’ ‘No, but the men who buy the shows do have a mental age of seven, Viney.’ Stone poured himself a glass of Perrier water and sipped it carefully. He knew that the contract was just an excuse. His agent’s real purpose was to talk about TV work. ‘Now come on, Marshall.’ ‘Screw TV, Viney. Let’s not start that again. All you have to do is nod and then take your ten per cent. I’ve got just one career but you’ve got plenty of Marshall Stones in the fire.’ He smiled and held the smile in a way that only actors can. Weinberger was still holding his fountain-pen and now he looked closely at it. The very tips of his knuckles were white. Stone went on, ‘Like that blond dwarf Marshall Stone, named Val Somerset! You made sure he got his pic in the paper having dinner with the Leo Koolmans at Cannes. Good publicity, that: national papers, not just the trades. Is that why you didn’t want me to go along when Snap, Crackle, Pop was shown there?’ Stone said the words in a low pleasant voice, but he allowed a trace of his anger to show. He had been bottling up that particular grievance for several months. ‘Of course not.’ ‘Of course not! Have you seen what he does in Imperial Verdict? The whole performance is what I did in Perhaps When I Come Back. Three people have mentioned it – a straight steal.’ Weinberger went across to the sofa, opened his black leather document-case and put the papers into it. Stone said, ‘Will you please answer me.’ Weinberger turned and spoke very quietly. ‘That kid isn’t going to take any business from you, Marshall. You are an international star, Val’s name’s not dry in Spotlight. He’s getting a tenth of your price.’ Stone walked across to his agent, paused for a moment, shook his head regretfully and then gripped Weinberger’s arm. It was a gesture he used to pledge affection. ‘Sometimes I wonder how you put up with me, Viney.’ Weinberger didn’t answer. He had been close to Stone for a quarter of a century. He’d learned to endure the criticisms and insults that were a part of the job. He knew the sort of doubts and fears that racked any actor and he knew that an agent must be a scapegoat as well as confessor, friend and father. In human terms Stone might have benefited from a few home truths. He might have become more of a human being, but such tactics could cripple him as an actor. And for Weinberger, Stone was by no means ‘any actor’, he was a giant. His Hamlet had been compared with Gielgud’s, and his Othello bettered only by Olivier. On the screen he’d tackled everything from Westerns to light comedy. Not even his agent could claim that they all had been successful but some of his performances remained definitive ones. Few young actors would attempt a cowboy role without having Last Vaquero screened for them, and yet that was Stone’s first major role in films. Weinberger smiled at his client. ‘Forget it, Marshall.’ Stone patted his arm again and walked to the fireplace. ‘Thanks for sending that Man From the Palace script, Viney. You have a fantastic talent for choosing scripts. You should have become a producer. Perhaps I did you no favour in asking you to be an agent.’ Again Stone smiled. ‘I’m glad you like it.’ Weinberger knew that he was being subjected to Stone’s calculated charm but that did not protect him from its effects. Just as confidence tricksters and scheming women do nothing to conceal their artifice, so Stone used his charm with the abrupt, ruthless and complacent skill with which a mercenary might wield a flame-thrower. ‘Do you know something, Viney: it might be great. There’s one scene where I come in from the balcony after the fleet have mutinied. The girl is waiting. I talk to her about the great things I’ve wanted to do for the country… It’s got a lot of social awareness. I’m the man in the middle. I can see the logic of the computer party and the trap awaiting the protestors. It’s got a lot to say to the kids, that film, Viney. Who’s going to play the girl?’ ‘Nellie Jones can’t do it, they won’t give her a stop-date on Wild Men, Wild Women and they are four weeks over. Now I hear they’re testing some American girl.’ ‘American! Haven’t we got any untalented inexperienced stupid actresses here in England, that they have to go to America to find one.’ Stone laughed grimly; he had to play opposite these girls. Weinberger smiled as if he’d not heard Stone say the same thing before. ‘I told them how you would feel. You’ll only consider it if the rest of the package is right. But I didn’t say that a new kid wouldn’t be OK. If the billing was right.’ ‘Only me above title?’ ‘That’s what I had in mind,’ admitted Weinberger. ‘Perhaps it would be better like that.’ ‘No rush, Marshall. Let’s see what they come up with: we have the final say.’ ‘It’s a good story, Viney.’ ‘It was a lousy book,’ warned Weinberger. ‘Eighteen weeks on the best-seller list.’ Weinberger pulled a face. ‘You miserable bastard, please have a drink.’ Stone held up the stopper of a cut-glass decanter. ‘It makes me careless and you fat.’ ‘A tiny one?’ ‘OK, Marshall, if you need the reassurance, pour me a pint of your best scotch. But I won’t drink it.’ ‘You’re an obstinate old sod.’ Stone put the stopper back into the decanter. ‘That’s why you need me to represent you. I really don’t mind being disliked.’ ‘And I do?’ ‘Yes, you do.’ Stone chased a block of ice with a swizzle stick. ‘It’s good, the deal we made for The Executioner?’ ‘It’s the most anyone ever got from Leo Koolman for that kind of package.’ ‘I’ll send Leo a little present. Perhaps a first edition, or cufflinks.’ ‘No.’ Stone looked up in surprise. Weinberger said, ‘It will make him wonder if we’ve put one over on him.’ ‘You’re a devious bastard, Viney.’ Stone toasted him before drinking. Weinberger smiled. ‘In Perrier water?’ Stone nodded, and sipped at the water. Then he put the glass down and tightened the knot of his neckerchief before consulting his gold Rolex. Once such a watch had been the prime ambition of every film actor. Now kids like Somerset flaunted Micky Mouse timepieces that anyone could afford. ‘Let’s go to dinner, Viney.’ Weinberger recognized it as Stone’s way of taking his leave. He said, ‘I’ve got a wife and dinner waiting. Another hour and both will go cold on me.’ ‘Yes, phone Lucy. She must come too. My God, how long since I last saw Lucy.’ Weinberger smiled. ‘No, seriously.’ ‘Off you go, Marshall. I’ll just use the phone and be off. I’ll let myself out.’ ‘Ring for anything you want.’ Stone touched some of the tiny roses that he’d brought up from his country garden that morning. He missed the garden when work forced him to stay in his London flat. ‘Will you take the roses with you; for Lucy with my love.’ Weinberger nodded. Stone was reluctant to leave without being quite sure that his agent did not bear a grudge for his peevish outburst. It was one of his most awful – and most unfounded – fears that Weinberger would refuse to work with him any more. Or, worse, that Weinberger might deliberately go slow on Stone’s representation while pushing some other client. ‘It was good to see you, Viney, it really was.’ He paused long enough in front of a mirror to be sure his hair looked right. Then, still smiling to Weinberger, he let himself out through the carved double-doors that had once been part of a Mexican church. Weinberger heard Stone greet someone outside in the hallway. A girl’s voice replied. Then he heard the front door of the apartment close and soon after that the sound of the doors of the Rolls and then its motor as it accelerated along Mount Street. Weinberger looked around the room. It had hardly changed since a fashionable decorator had designed it almost ten years before. The colour scheme was pink and blue-grey and even the collection of snuff-boxes had been selected so that those colours predominated. An appearance of spontaneity had been achieved by the big bowls of cut flowers and the casual placing of the footstools and the cushions, and yet these had been ordained by the designer. The three silk-covered sofas were still arranged around the fire-place in the same way. Even the expensive illustrated books and the silver cigarette-box and lighter were the same ones in the same positions. Weinberger helped himself to a cigarette and lit it before dialling the president of Koolman International Pictures Inc. It was some time before the agent was given a chance to talk, but finally he was able to say, ‘Well, I agree, Leo, but an actor must make his own decision about a thing like this. You don’t want him blaming you after, and I don’t want him blaming me.’ Again there was a speech by Koolman, then Weinberger said, ‘All actors are frightened of TV, they think it means they are on the decline. Especially a series – Marshall would certainly do a one-shot for you, or a spectacular, but an option for twenty shows is too many. Let me tell Marshall it’s ten. After the first few it will either be such a success that he’ll go along, or be such a failure that you won’t want more than five.’ Again Weinberger listened. Then he said, ‘OK, Leo, and I’d like to show you some girls to play the wife…’ silence, then, ‘Well, yes, and I wouldn’t mind that either,’ he laughed. ‘Goodbye, Leo, and thanks.’ Jasper switched off the tape-recorder and looked at Marshall Stone. The actor got to his feet and smoothed his tight slacks over his thighs. The girl looked up at him, but her face was expressionless. ‘Bloody Judas,’ said Stone finally. ‘He takes ten per cent of my gross income…’ he turned to the girl, ‘…gross, mark you, not net. It’s a bloody fortune.’ She nodded. ‘And he plots against me in my own home.’ He turned to Jasper. ‘Pity you couldn’t fix it so we could hear the other end.’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘OK, Jasper. Goodnight. I’ll drive Miss Delft home.’ ‘Goodnight, sir.’ Jasper closed the tape-recorder and put it away before going out. As soon as the door closed the girl got to her feet and put her arms round Stone’s neck. ‘We can’t go on meeting like this,’ she said, and giggled. ‘Seriously,’ said Stone, ‘you’re the only one I have. You’re all I live for, darling.’ ‘I know,’ said Suzy Delft. 2 What does [Upton] Sinclair know about anything? He’s just a writer. Louis B. Mayer 1949 ‘All my brother ever wanted to do is make this a better town.’ The taller of the two men fingered the lock of the safe and turned to face the angry young cowhand. ‘Wait a minute, boy. Americans built this town with bare hands and know-how: anyone who don’t like it here can go back to where they come from.’ The young cowboy leaned across the banker’s desk and spoke in the manner of a man trying hard to control his temper. ‘Did you ever walk as far as your own ranch-house, Mr Sanderson? Did you ever see what kind of shacks those Mexicans live in, did you?’ ‘Would,’ explained the banker, ‘but I just can’t stand the smell.’ He smiled. They both turned as a sound of gunfire and galloping horses grew louder. Half a dozen horsemen galloped past, firing six-guns into the air. The young cowboy said, ‘Seems like you might be taking yourself a long deep sniff.’ Baxter kicked open the doors of the light-trap because he was balancing two thick-shakes and my pastrami on rye: a Hollywood breakfast! I used my thumbnail to prise the lid off the shake carefully, so as not to spill it. Around the cardboard lid, serpentine coils of film spelled out ‘San Fernando Valley Drugstore established 1934’. I flicked it as far as the front row of seats. Some days I could hit the screen. I always sat at the very back of the viewing theatre alongside the glass panel of the projection room. The big fans were there, so I could ignore the ‘No Smoking’ signs without worrying about top brass wandering in to sniff and see why the red light was on. Baxter unwrapped my straws and arranged the hot sandwiches and dill pickle on a paper plate. He was flustered. Normally he would have ducked under the projection beam, but now the mayor of the township was only one inch high as he stamped around on Baxter’s forehead. ‘You’re in the light, Baxter.’ He nodded but he hadn’t heard me. I wondered why I’d put up with him for five years, but in 1944 only dopes like Baxter and layabouts like me had escaped the Army. ‘You’re in the light,’ I said again. ‘They are not renewing your contract, Peter.’ We both knew I didn’t have that sort of contract. I was on monthly salary and that’s all they had to give me to say goodbye. I started on the sandwich. ‘Every day I tell you, no lettuce. Every day!’ It wasn’t really unexpected. I was fighting a desperate rearguard action to protect my script against a ‘creative producer’. That’s always a mistake, but in 1949 it was a fatal one. ‘McCann, the cop on Gate Three, told me. There’s an envelope waiting for you when you check out. The girl from accounts told him what was in it.’ Things were tough all over: the mayor was being held down on Baxter’s chest by three cowboys, and when Baxter moved they rippled. I ate only the meat out of the sandwich. I put the thick-shake under my seat and got up. It was a bright idea to put fascist-style arguments into the mouths of my heavies, but like so many of my ideas it was sadly mistimed. Baxter said, ‘It was a great gesture, Peter. And on your kind of salary an unmarried guy can afford a gesture now and again.’ I nodded. He said, ‘You could talk to the Guild, but you’ll be grabbed by Warner’s, or Paramount, you see. You’ll maybe double your take-home pay. It’s the best thing that’s happened to you.’ He had a big smile fixed on his face and for a moment I was tempted to see how long he could hold it, but I remembered the good times. ‘OK. I’ll phone Jim tomorrow and tell him you are some kind of genius. He’ll probably find you some other hack.’ ‘He will if you ask him, Peter. He respects you.’ ‘Sure.’ I didn’t turn the lights up. I groped along the seat backs and out of the double-doors of viewing theatre number eight without saying another word. I suppose Baxter told the projectionist to stop showing Last Vaquero, or maybe it’s still running. Anyway, it was a lousy script. Maybe the first draft I’d written would have made a decent film but the rewrite had got too much stuff about hard work and truth bringing success. That took care of any irony that I’d tried to bring to it. Koolman Studios had a standing order about ‘values’ and I’d been crazy to try to get by it, let alone to add a few ideas of my own. I didn’t realize that it was going to be the last time I walked through the Koolman Studios for over fifteen years. I blinked in the daylight and went past the big sound stages to the writers’ building. A tractor train with pieces of a Hawaiian village rumbled past. The kid driving it shouted something to me and I waved. A group of men in heavy make-up and silk dressing-gowns were standing outside the door of Number Two stage, smoking desperately. They looked up when the kid shouted and they looked at me. Already I felt a twinge of the paranoia that an investigating subcommittee had brought to Hollywood. It was still only 8.45 A.M. on a February morning but the sun was bright enough to burn your eyes out. I called into my office to collect a couple of shirts and a half-completed short story. The typewriter and the ten-dollar fan belonged to the management. From my window I could see the empty lot where walls and stairs were stored. Beyond it there was the block that housed the accountants and the lawyers. Significantly, theirs was a two-storey brick building with fitted carpets and air conditioning; the writers’ ‘block’ was two timber sheds linked by a dimly lit corridor that was part of film storage. Around the Koolman layout there was a high white stucco wall surmounted with rows of barbed wire and broken glass, but the executive building faced inwards to bright green lawns above which hovered white sprinkler mist. I took the forbidden short-cut to the main gate. It was time I lived dangerously. I passed Leo Koolman – the Studio’s whizz-kid – and my producer Kagan Bookbinder. They were sitting in Bookbinder’s brand-new convertible. It was bright red, with a grinning chromium front that people who were still on the waiting-list for new cars called ‘Japanese Admirals’. The car radio was singing quietly. Bookbinder was trying to remember how to look embarrassed, but then decided I’d not had my news yet. He was a tough-looking bastard, like an extra for the desert island set that had been in constant use since Pearl Harbor day. Leo Koolman was a vain kid with a perfect suntan and a Hawaiian shirt with red and orange flowers on it. In those days he was tipped as the only person with the youth, drive and experience to get the studio out of the jam it was in. As one of his first victims I still find it difficult to admire his judgement. Koolman said, ‘Do you know the nominees?’ ‘The Academy Awards,’ Bookbinder explained. ‘They weren’t on the early bulletin. We’re waiting for the nine o’clock.’ ‘Hamlet,’ I said, ‘Laurence Olivier.’ ‘You’re guessing,’ Koolman accused. He was hoping that I wasn’t just guessing. A British winner would automatically mean a rise in the Stone stakes. ‘Who else?’ I said cockily. ‘Dan Dailey, Clifton Webb?’ ‘You could be right,’ admitted Bookbinder, smiling and bull-shitting to the end. Koolman wasn’t so admiring. ‘All writers are supposed to use Gate Three.’ I smiled to both of them and kept walking. ‘You think Olivier for best actor?’ Koolman called. ‘And Shakespeare will get “story and screenplay”.’ The nine A.M. newscast gave the nominations as I’d predicted: Dan Dailey, Clifton Webb, Lew Ayres and Montgomery Clift. Seven weeks later Olivier got his Oscar. Leo Koolman was heard to describe me as psychic but he didn’t come offering me a seer’s job. Perhaps because Shakespeare lost out to John Huston. Olivier was an easy guess. The previous year – in a tussle with Colman, Peck, Garfield, Powell and Redgrave – he might have been given a tougher run for his money but there was a growing feeling that Hollywood had been kissing its own backside for too long. Hamlet was a fine opportunity to break the tradition that only US productions got the award. In spite of their accents, at least these limeys spoke some kind of English, and no one could say that the bard was a commie. The ‘best actor’ was foreign, but at least he was a ‘sir’ with three previous nominations behind him. It was on this ripple of reckless xenophilia that Leo Koolman launched Marshall Stone to his place in cinema history. News of neither my genius nor my prescience had spread to script departments of the other studios. Whether I was blacklisted or merely redundant I never found out, but after nearly three months of explaining my screen credits and the ones that got away, I nursed my old Ford back to New York in easy stages. I hadn’t liked New York in 1944 and I didn’t like it all over again in 1949. I wrote indifferent advertising in the copy department of a Madison Avenue agency for three months until my air conditioner went out of action in late August. A decision I had been deferring for several weeks was made easier when the agency merged and I was the ‘last in’ that a management agreement had promised would be ‘first out’. It was only after I got back to London that my luck changed. I wrote a biography – Stanislavsky: A Man and His Method. It was a labour of love financed by a job as a bartender. It was a book-club selection. I followed it the following year with a history of Italian opera that was little more than a compendious reference book. Then, after two years hard work, I had a lucky success with my biography of Caruso. Soft-cover rights enabled me to pay off the mortgage on my small house in Islington, and serial rights put something into the bank and got me a contract as entertainment editor on a posh Sunday newspaper. Many many years ago, my wife had been married to Marshall Stone. We met at a party not long after her divorce. She recognized my face from my days in Hollywood, and three years later a middle-aged author had breakfast in bed with a brunette lawyer before walking round the corner to be married. So the three articles I did for the paper: ‘Cinema tomorrow, overture or finale?’ perhaps over-emphasized the importance of Marshall Stone’s contribution to the post-war history of the cinema. Several times I’d mentioned to my publisher the idea of doing a book about the superstar phenomenon. He insisted that only Stone’s life had all the ingredients such a book needed: the overnight fame, the ostentatious wealth, the immense talent evident and so sadly squandered. The fact of having done that first Stone script and of being married to his one-time wife gave me all the cards. And yet it also made the task impossible. To write about the other man is difficult enough but when that man is Marshall Stone… There had been times when I wondered if our two daughters – six- and eight-year-olds – would grow up disappointed at a father who had so nearly been Marshall Stone, but one meeting with the grown-up son of Stone and Mary dispensed with that one. I still would not have gone ahead if Mary hadn’t encouraged me. Primarily I was keen on the project because I believed Stone to be a rare talent. It was only after I began work on the book that I discovered other motives within myself. I wanted to revisit the world I’d walked out of, that sunny day on the Koolman lot. And to some extent I wanted to know more about the life that my wife had exchanged for mine. There was no mistaking the address the film company had given me. Pantechnicons, generators, a couple of limousines with dozing chauffeurs left no doubt that this was where Stool Pigeon was being shot. Edgar Nicolson – the producer – had leased this condemned house in Notting Hill Gate for five months at fifty pounds per week. It was a high rent for a derelict London slum but by using the lower half of it as production offices and building his sets floor by floor as they were needed he could save the cost of going into a studio. Offices, projection theatre, workshops, recording facilities and space to do the same film in one of the big studios would have cost him ten times the money. However, the big cars and luxury dressing-rooms were still mandatory. The industry had learned how to tighten its belt, but it still had quite a gut. These all-location films were more relaxed than studio productions. There was an atmosphere of goodwill and informality among the crews. The big studios had too many elderly technicians watching the clock so that they could rush back to their semi-detached around the corner. These location crews were the industry’s Foreign Legion. Most of them had spent their lives travelling from unit to unit. They drank, screwed and gambled like legionnaires too. In the hallway one of them asked me for a light. He was a fuzzy-haired man in denims. I remembered him from a decade ago when I had been on my very first assignment for the newspaper. He’d been a twentieth assistant director then: now perhaps he was eighteenth. I remembered him telling me what was wrong with Godard and Fellini in exact and lucid detail. He was right but it hadn’t done him much good. Did he still dream of becoming a director, and did he still believe that this was the way to do it? He said, ‘And next week Richard is going to do the explosions right there in the garden.’ ‘That should give the neighbours something to talk about.’ Two prop men and some grips pushed past us with a plaster section of a battle-scarred Buddha. We watched them huffing and puffing up the stairs. He said, ‘The bangs: yeah, but we’ve got permission. Dick Preston is quite a character.’ Richard Preston was a director from TV. Someone at Koolman International had decided that, since youngsters made up the bulk of the audience, kids should make the movies. As a business philosophy it would hand Disney to the adolescents and the computer industry to the computers. ‘They’re shooting on the roof today, Mr Anson. Wait on the top landing if the red light’s on.’ He took a call-sheet from his pocket. ‘You’ve got Suzy Delft doing shot number 174,’ he grinned, ‘for the fifteenth time.’ ‘It’s her first day on the set?’ ‘I think it’s her first day anywhere.’ ‘Is she going to be all right?’ He grinned. ‘The greatest little piece in the business, and for half a page and a photo in your rag – she’d do it!’ ‘Where’s the big man?’ ‘Marshall Stone – he’s gone to the Test Match.’ ‘He’s on the call-sheet.’ ‘Yeah! Fixed it with the director. After the girl’s done, there are a couple of pick-up shots with Jap soldiers. We’ll finish early. It’s a slack day.’ ‘Where’s publicity?’ ‘Next landing, he’s in there, no one with him.’ ‘Ta.’ The unit publicist had found a nice little office. On a cork board behind him there were a dozen stills pinned up in sequence. On another wall there were the Press clippings that had so far appeared. Mostly they were in the fan mags and trade journals: about one hundred column inches in all. The biggest of the clippings included a photo of Marshall Stone relaxing in a canvas chair. One cowboy boot was flung carelessly over the arm of it and the stills man had angled the shot to include the star’s name stencilled on its canvas back. Stone was smiling a wry compulsive grin that made you sure that success had come upon him with the unexpectedness of a traffic accident. I read the final para of the piece. ‘The cinema is my life’ said Marshall just before I took my leave. He gave the shy smile that tells his friends that he’s talking of things that are sacred to him. He said, ‘Once I’m involved with a part I just can’t leave it, I just can’t. If I have a fault it’s being too concerned with the craft of acting. Perhaps Larry or Johnny [Olivier and Gielgud – Ed] don’t need to put in the hours I put in. But we ordinary mortals have to run fast to keep up with such strolling players.’ I don’t think Marshall Stone need worry as far as a few million movie-goers are concerned. ‘Did you write this crap?’ I asked the unit publicist. He grinned. ‘Can I have a copy?’ ‘What’s the catch?’ ‘For research.’ ‘As a bad flack’s handiwork?’ ‘I wouldn’t do that to you, Henry,’ I said. ‘We’ve both got to live with the industry.’ ‘In the immortal words of Sam Goldwyn, “Include me out”. This is the last picture I’ll do as publicity man.’ ‘Do you know, Henry, you said that to me when you were doing that film at Ealing.’ ‘I might surprise you.’ ‘Yes, you might go to Spain and write one of the great novels of the decade: send me a crate of Tio Pepe.’ He passed me a fresh copy of the fan mag containing his phoney interview. I put it into the red folder that I had marked ‘Marshall Stone’. It was the only thing in it. ‘Where is it all going on?’ ‘The roof.’ He reached for some mimeographed biographies that were stacked near the duplicating machine. Suzy Delft, Edgar Nicolson the producer, Richard Preston the director. ‘I’ve run out of Stone’s but I’ll send you one. Help yourself to any of the stills you want.’ On the top of the pile was a large shiny photo of the director, dressed like a Red Indian squaw and posed as if screaming directions through a megaphone. The Prestons in the industry were making so much noise that every magazine and newspaper I opened, and TV too, was talking about the great youth revolution that had taken over the movie industry. Well, youth had taken over the movie industry like Negroes had taken over the electronics industry. There were some, seated near the door and always busy, convincing bystanders that integration was here. But just as the mandatory Negro actors were still only getting feature billing, so the kids who were supposed to be running the film industry were getting their money from the same old big daddies who have been running the movies since movies were old enough to speak. On this production Koolman had put old Edgar Nicolson around Preston’s neck but the kid was giving them quite a run for their money. Whether he’d get a chance to repeat his fun and games was another matter. There had been sixteen rewrites on this script, and that was the official count! The director seldom looked at the latest version and his continuity girl had been told that avant-garde films are fragmented, by which Preston meant that each day’s shooting was best invented the previous night. It wasn’t a concept his producer found easy to adapt to. Twice Preston had been fired. The major reason for both reinstatements was that only Preston believed that the existing footage could be fitted together to make a coherent whole. They were filming on the roof amid a jungle of tropical plants. I watched Suzy Delft walk through a shot in which she took a flower from a bush and smelled it. She moved in that stilted way that models do, pausing each time she moved an arm or leg. It was the height of professionalism for a stills photo but in the viewing theatre it could look like Keystone Cops. Preston talked to his cameraman and they decided to move one of the brutes. Heaving the arc light into its new position took several minutes, and the script girl brought out her portable typewriter and began to hammer at the continuity sheets. Suzy Delft sat down on a prop barrel until the fuzzy-haired assistant came back with a cup of tea and the sort of bacon sandwich that only location caterers can make. Then Preston decided that he could print the last one after all. ‘The two-shot,’ he called. Suzy Delft groaned and gulped her tea. Her face was familiar, I’d seen her in bra ads and beer commercials. She was one of a dozen girls that Leo Koolman described as his discoveries. There was a tacit agreement among show-biz writers that the droit de seigneur of movie moguls died with the Hollywood czars. But if anyone could give that tradition the kiss of life, Koolman could, and Suzy Delft would not be the first one to get it, even if she was regularly seen at premi?res and parties with Marshall Stone. There were several theories about how Suzy Delft broke into films. Journalists liked to believe it was due to the headlines she got from a mangled Marxist quote during the most fashionable of last year’s political riots. Girls seemed to prefer the story about her surrendering to Koolman in exchange for a leading role. Romantics had their story about how she starred in dozens of blue movies before coming above ground. These were the sort of stories that the world insists upon attaching to girls like Suzy Delft, for she looked not only as beautiful as an angel but twice as innocent. Without her rumoured depravity her face was a tacit reproach to all of us. Even for the boy who brought her tea she was able to spare more than a brief thank you, and she hung on to every word of his stuttered reply. Suzy Delft was a montage of her own aspirations. Her half-closed eyes were Dietrich and her half-open mouth Garbo, while the stiff-limbed gaucherie of every movement was Mary Poppins. Her hands were held away from her sides and her fingers stretched like a wooden doll. Her dark hair was pulled tight and fastened in pigtails. Her tomboy toothiness was also part of the role she played both on stage and off. She was a schoolgirl – a stunningly beautiful one – on the verge of sexual awakening; at least, that’s how the Koolman people were building the publicity. Her poster was being drawn by the same man who’d done those cuddly Disney animals. Her agent was on the set watching her. Jacob Weinberger was one of the best-known flesh peddlers in the business but I wouldn’t say he was popular; what agent was. I wondered if he had told her not to run back to her dressing-room between each take. Apart from speeding things up, staying here on the floor exchanging shy words with the crew was creating a good impression upon them. It would help her to know that they were all sympathetic towards her, and every actor needed an appreciative audience, even if it was only a crew. Stool Pigeon was a war film: ten soldiers in the jungle trying to get through the enemy lines. It was an opportunity for miscegenation, full frontal nudity, cannibalism, sodomy at gunpoint, blasphemy and incest in a story that would otherwise have had to rely upon killing as its sole entertainment. They had shot the previous scene with the sunlight full on Suzy Delft’s face. Now they had to do a reverse of the two Negroes against the light. Understandably they were running into lighting trouble. I was standing near the water tank. With tropical plants concealing its edges the Japanese soldiers were going to wade through it pretending it was swamp. They would have to keep the cameras low to avoid the London skyline but they would have real sky instead of back projection or a painted set. ‘Real sky is more important than matching,’ Preston told me. I nodded. Preston looked back to watch his lighting cameraman take a reading from the Negro’s face. He shook his head. There was still not enough light there. Preston said, ‘The stupid bastard. If he’d told me we were heading into problems, we could have shot the girl against the light and had the spades looking into it.’ When they had positioned another brute they couldn’t find the slate or the slate-boy. Finally he emerged, bringing a second cup of tea for Suzy Delft. ‘Turn over,’ said Preston. ‘Running.’ ‘Scene: one eight one, take one,’ said the slate-boy. The first Negro stared into the camera, shielding his eyes from the brute as if it was the sun. ‘Cut,’ yelled Preston. “That was good,’ he said. ‘Let’s print that.’ ‘There was a hair in the gate, Richard,’ said the operator, his voice muffled as he examined the inside of the camera. ‘What is this: amateur night?’ ‘Sorry, Richard,’ said the lighting cameraman. ‘Sorry, Richard,’ said Preston sarcastically. He walked over to the continuity girl and grabbed at her hair in mock anger. She winced with pain. He said, ‘If we don’t get it by quarter past we’ll let the Japs go.’ The four Japanese soldiers were playing bridge on a prop horse carcase. One of them, a fat fellow with a long false moustache, smiled briefly at Preston before bidding. The producer walked over to me. He said, ‘We’ll never get to the Jap soldiers today.’ Edgar Nicolson was an old crony of Marshall Stone’s. Some rumours said that their friendship was the only reason that Stone was doing this low-budget undistinguished production. There were other opinions. Preston said that Stone had approached him personally and asked to be in it. Stone said that old friends come before a man’s career. My information was that Stone had had a two-picture obligation to Koolman International after backing out of the Civil War epic they did last year. He’d already done Silent Paradise with Edgar Nicolson and that was in rough assembly. This would fulfil his obligation. Edgar Nicolson was forty-eight. A short Englishman with a complexion like a raw pork chop. His eyes were bright blue and he had a habit of opening them wide and staring to emphasize the many important things he said. He contrived to dress like a country squire but the cut of his lightweight tweeds, Cardin shirt and Garrick Club tie suggested a successful character actor. His voice was pitched artificially low and it was the voice of an actor. His classless speech was studded with the Americanisms that everyone in the film business picked up, but his clipped articulation would have suited a guards officer briefing his troops for a dawn attack. ‘How are you doing, Edgar?’ He twitched his nose. To say he always looked as if he’d detected a bad smell was a slander: his nose was as inscrutable as his eyes. It was Edgar Nicolson’s tiny mouth that revealed the slightly sour taste that the world had left there. Or perhaps it was only me who saw his mouth like that. ‘If producers worked a forty-hour week, I’d finish work every Tuesday evening.’ He waved his progress sheets in front of me. ‘Your Japs are a bit plump.’ ‘They usually play tycoons these days.’ He used his ivory-handled walking-stick to flick a plastic cup out of his path. ‘You know the worst thing about my job?’ He didn’t pause in case I did know. ‘It’s like running up a down-escalator. At the end of any given week which I’ve spent arguing with catering companies about the temperature of the location soup, apologizing to an agent that it should be a Ford – and not a Rolls – that collected his client one morning last week, persuading a shop steward that one muddy field doesn’t justify a protective clothing allowance and pleading with New York to give me an extra ten days on their delivery date without changing their release arrangements – after that kind of week, all anyone on the production knows is that nothing happened: it’s a negative sort of process being a producer.’ He stared at me until I replied. ‘Like running up a down-escalator.’ ‘At least like walking up. This industry likes to pretend the producer is some sort of blimpish general dozing in his HQ while the crews fight the battle. In practice it’s the producer taking all the shit so that the crew can work undisturbed.’ ‘So Stone’s watching cricket today.’ He smiled. He wasn’t going to be drawn as easily as that. He looked around the roof: they were changing the lighting set up for the third time in half an hour. He called to the runner, ‘I’m going for coffee with Mr Anson, tell me when my rushes are ready.’ On our way to the canteen he showed me his mountain shrine. They had assembled the Buddha there; its nose was taller than the painters and property men who swarmed all over it. There was a smell of freshly sawn wood and quick-drying paint as the chipped edges of the plaster mouldings were covered with gold. The room was hot with the rows of bare bulbs, installed so that the carpenters could work through the night. A set dresser experimenting with joss sticks made a thin plume of sweet-smelling smoke. Already it was convincing enough for the hammering to seem like blasphemy and to make the set dressers whisper as they arranged the flowers and offerings before the enlightened one. ‘All OK, Percy?’ said Nicolson. The construction manager said, ‘It’ll be ready by morning but I’ll need an extra painter or two on my overtime crew.’ ‘Let’s try and make it one,’ said Nicolson. He closed the big mahogany door to muffle the sound of the construction gang. The canteen had once been beautiful but now its moulded ceiling had a pox of damp marks and its paper was torn. With lunch over, the room had been used to park scaffolding and sandbags and pieces of a machine-gun nest. At the far end of it, the caterers had left urns of coffee, tea and milk, a stack of plastic cups and a tin of biscuits from which all the chocolate ones had been removed. Lunch had been cleared away, apart from a fleet of plastic spoons that had been obsessionally arranged to sail the length of one table, and a steamed potato that had been trodden into the parquet. ‘White?’ I nodded. It was an unusual concession to my taste; Edgar usually knew exactly what was best for everyone. He poured coffee for both of us and we sat down. A youth in a dirty apron appeared from the room beyond. He brandished a plate of biscuits: all of them were chocolate. Nicolson nodded his thanks to the boy. ‘How’s Mary?’ ‘She works too hard.’ He nodded. He sorted through the chocolate biscuits. ‘My wife thinks I have endless lines of big-titted girls trying to get me on to the couch.’ ‘I’ll tell her about the chocolate biscuits,’ I warned him. ‘That’s all it needs,’ he devoured a biscuit hungrily. He took a second one, bit into it and then studied the edge as if trying to understand the secret of its manufacture. ‘It’s a great life,’ he said. The runner returned. “There’s a lady,’ he said to Nicolson. ‘A lady!’ He did a piece of comedy. ‘To see you about casting, she said. She’s with Mr Weinberger.’ ‘I know,’ said Nicolson. To me he said, ‘An actress: it won’t take a couple of minutes.’ I nodded. ‘Tell her to come down here,’ Nicolson told the boy. ‘I’m doing a picture called The Farmer’s Wife, after this one: Gothic horror. I’m looking for people. It’s bloody difficult finding a convincing Wisconsin farmer’s wife of about thirty-five. Here in London.’ When the woman came in I recognized her. I’d seen her with Richardson and Olivier at the Old Vic at the end of the war. She had that glazed look that actors get when they have to look for work instead of work looking for them. Goodness knows how many auditions she’d been to in her time. I saw her switch herself on as she came through the door. Nicolson changed too, he used a voice that was not his own, as if it was a plastic overall he put on to stop the blood splashing. ‘I can’t quite remember the name…’ ‘Graham.’ Nicolson laughed. ‘Oh, I know your last name, it’s your first name I can’t remember.’ I had the feeling that he would have known her first name if she’d told him that. ‘Dorothy,’ said the woman. ‘Dorothy Graham, of course. I’ve seen you so many times on the stage, Dorothy. It’s wonderful to meet you.’ ‘We’ve met before: at a party at Mr Weinberger’s last year.’ ‘Oh, sure, I remember. Smoke?’ ‘Thank you.’ She declined with a movement of an uncared-for hand. ‘What have you been doing lately, Dorothy?’ ‘I did the Albanian secret agent in the TV series “Mayday”.’ ‘I remember it.’ ‘It wasn’t very good but the money was good. Very good, in fact.’ ‘That was the winter before last, wasn’t it. What have you done since then?’ ‘I’d worked so hard the previous year that I decided to have a bit of a holiday after the series ended.’ She said it in a rush, as if she’d said it many times. ‘Now, I’m not casting this picture,’ said Nicolson, ‘because I haven’t yet settled the deal. I’m just taking a look at a few people.’ ‘When would you be shooting, because I do have a few things planned for the coming year.’ ‘October, November. Probably at Pinewood, no location work or anything. From where you live could you get out to Pinewood each morning?’ ‘Dear old Pinewood.’ ‘I’d send a car, of course.’ ‘Of course.’ They left it there for a moment or so, each relishing their role of successful producer and glamorous star. Nicolson said, ‘It’s the story of a woman who is haunted. She sees the past, the things that have happened in this strange old farmhouse, the things that are going to happen. Her husband and the grown-up sons think she’s going nuts and then one night this kind of crazy monster turns up. It’s a pretty scary movie; hokum, lots of special effects.’ He nodded to himself and added, ‘And a great part for you, quite different to anything you’ve done before.’ She tried to think of something appropriate to say. ‘It sounds fun. I’ve never done a horror film. Who will be directing?’ ‘This is something that still has to be sorted out, Dorothy. I’m just taking a look round, you know.’ She smiled. I remembered her more clearly when she smiled. New York: a wonderful St Joan. And a Lear that had nothing except her superb Goneril. ‘I will have that cigarette,’ she said. ‘Sure,’ said Nicolson. He got to his feet, grateful to her for lessening the guilt he felt at knowing she was not suitable. She opened her handbag to look for a lighter. It was real leather, a treasure from the days when she was rich and had every prospect of getting richer. Now the leather was scuffed and one corner had been carefully repaired. Nicolson lit her cigarette for her. She had an envelope alongside her in the chair and now she put it on the canteen table. ‘I brought these,’ she said. Nicolson tipped the contents of the envelope out on to the table. There were a dozen large glossy photographs. Some were the dreary stills of British films of the forties and others were stagey publicity pictures, the definition softened to a point where her face was like a back-lit bowl of rice pudding. The only thing they had in common was that in every one she was very young and very beautiful. We found it impossible not to look at her to compare the reality. Whatever she read in our faces it was enough to make her flinch. ‘You take these with you,’ said Nicolson. ‘As I say, we’re not casting yet.’ ‘I had to come this way,’ said the actress. ‘I was visiting some friends who live just round the corner.’ ‘That’s swell,’ said Nicolson. ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’ ‘I like to keep in touch.’ Neither of us spoke until a couple of minutes after she had gone. ‘I’ll have to see a lot of people before I decide,’ he said. ‘Yes.’ ‘It’s a special kind of technique, horror films. And anyway, the director is going to want a say in who we use. The wife: that’s a feature role we’re talking about.’ The unit runner came into the canteen. ‘Mr Benjamin says your rushes will be on the projector in ten minutes, sir. Will you be coming down or will you see them with Mr Preston this evening?’ ‘I’ll be down.’ ‘And your secretary says to remind you that they are screening the rough assembly of Silent Paradise at Koolman International tonight. There was a message from them saying that if Mr Koolman comes on the early plane, he will be at the screening too.’ ‘OK,’ said Nicolson without enthusiasm. ‘And Mr Stone?’ ‘His secretary says he’ll be there.’ To me Nicolson said, ‘Did either of us think we’d ever be pleading with Eddie to come and see himself starring in a movie?’ He sighed. Only Stone’s intimates called him Eddie. Often it had a disparaging tone, as if by knowing him before he was rich and famous, the speaker was in a privileged position to criticize him. Even Mary was able to imply that ‘poor Eddie’ or ‘little Eddie’ was what she meant when she used his first name. ‘Bookbinder must have seen something in him.’ ‘Sure: Olivier’s head on Brando’s body. That’s what every actor was in 1948.’ ‘But you don’t think so?’ ‘Wait a minute, Peter. Eddie is bloody good. He has some of Olivier’s economy…’ ‘But?’ ‘Gielgud has perception, Peter. That’s why actors envy him.’ ‘I screened Last Vaquero twice last week. Stone is very stiff. Did you ever notice that?’ ‘He wanted that. He worked on it. Maybe he’s not very intellectual, but he’s not an instinctive actor: he uses his brains. I saw him acting with some old fellow once and this guy had thought up the business of pulling his ear lobe – he was Italian or something. Eddie said, look like you might pull your ear lobe, even touch your ear, but best of all be a man who is ashamed of this awful ear-pulling and is trying to break the habit. Now that’s what I mean by economy. Use that for your book, if you like.’ ‘Thanks,’ I said, although I had the feeling that Edgar Nicolson’s anecdote had been related many times to many reporters. ‘Ellen Terry said it: act in your pauses.’ He arranged the empty plastic cups in front of us. The fleet of spoons was probably a Nicolson. He said, ‘The trouble that Preston is having with the girl is the thing you have with all young actors. They only act when they are speaking their lines. But acting is using your mind so that when you do speak, the lines come as a natural sequence of thought and emotion.’ ‘Getting the lead in Last Vaquero made him,’ I said. ‘Without that, he’d still be hanging around Chasens hoping for a walk-on.’ ‘And would you believe me if I told you that I nearly got that role, Peter.’ He took a pipe from his pocket and filled it. He closed his eyes while he did it and his face and his body gave those little twitches that dreamers show in heavy sleep. There was electricity in the air that almost forgotten night in 1948. There was no rain or thunder, nor even the silent erratic lightning that so often presages a storm in southern California. Yet Nicolson remembered feeling that the air was charged. He might have ascribed this to his anxiety or to the special tensions of the night, except that the radio reacted to the same disturbance in the air. The San Jorge station had an hour of big-band jazz every night at the same time. That night it was Jimmie Lunceford, and Nicolson remembered how the static had eaten most of the vocal, ‘When you wish upon a star.’ He could never again hear that melody without going back to that night. Even today that interstate highway out of San Diego isn’t complete. In 1948 there was not even talk of it. The road past the Sunnyside was dark except for the tourist court itself: a yellow floodlight on two moth-eaten palms and a jacaranda tree. The broken vacancy sign was flickering. It was only after the car lights were off that the mountains could be seen, like huge thunderclouds that never moved on. San Jorge was on the far side of them, ten miles or more along the valley road. When the cops came – just county cops from San Jorge – the red lights of the two cars could be seen moving down those foothills like the bloodshot eyes of some prehistoric monster slithering across to the Pacific Ocean to slake its thirst. But it was much later that the cops came. When Nicolson arrived no one had even phoned them. He locked the doors of his car. By the uncertain light of the sign he could see a grey Ford sedan from the Koolman Studios car pool. Beyond it, carelessly parked, was Eddie Stone’s new MG. Nicolson wanted to enter the coffee shop as quietly as possible. It was a neurotic desire that could make no difference to the outcome. He tiptoed across the porch but a broken board creaked and the fly screen slapped closed with a sound like a pistol shot. Nicolson had never felt more clumsy both physically and mentally. Stone would have done it all quite differently. A bell pinged as he opened the door. Neon strips lit the place with a harsh blue light. In the centre there was a U-shaped counter with stools. On each side of it there were half a dozen scrubbed wooden tables. One table, near the juke box, was covered with a red cloth and set with ice water, tableware and a menu. Kagan Bookbinder – the producer of Last Vaquero – and Eddie Stone were sitting at the table. A Mexican woman with a stained overall looked out of the service door when she heard the bell. She waited only long enough to make sure that Edgar Nicolson was the man that the others had been expecting. Bookbinder said, ‘Sit down, Edgar.’ He got up and reached over the counter to the shelf under it, and he groped to find a clean cup. He poured Edgar Nicolson a cup of coffee and put it on the table in front of him. Seen through Edgar Nicolson’s eyes the scene was static, as memories always are. The air is blue with cigar smoke in a way that it seldom becomes in these tar-conscious days. The men’s haircuts are so short as to be almost military and their California sports clothes now seem freakish. Eddie Stone and Nicolson are wide-eyed kids with long necks and slim hips. Stone has a kiss curl that falls forward across his forehead. Bookbinder seems elderly to the two young English actors but in fact he is only four or five years their senior. Kagan Bookbinder was wearing one of his old Army shirts. Still visible on it were the dark green patches where he’d recently worn major’s rank and a slab of medal ribbons. His war decorations were not all of coloured ribbon, though. His cheek was scarred and his nose had suffered a multiple fracture which proved impossible to reset. On some men a scarred cheek can evoke thoughts of university duels. On the barrel-chested Bookbinder it was easier to imagine that he had fallen down a staircase while drunk on cheap wine. Bookbinder’s voice was similarly unattractive. Among the soft California drawls that even the Hungarians managed to assume after a few weeks, Bookbinder’s Eighty-First Street accent was hard and aggressive. Perhaps with a less notable war record he might have chosen to conceal his German origins. Perhaps he was just lazy, perhaps it was his way of being provocative. Perhaps he just didn’t know he had any accent. ‘Sit down,’ repeated Bookbinder. ‘We haven’t got a lot of time.’ ‘I must see her.’ ‘Not yet.’ Stone said, ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ ‘How is she?’ said Nicolson again. So Stone was going to play it like that – why didn’t you tell us – oh well, espionage and show business have in common the tradition that everyone abandons you when you are in trouble. Again Nicolson said, ‘How is she?’ Bookbinder didn’t answer. He pulled the blind a little to one side and looked out of the window. He waited to see another grey Ford sedan park alongside the one he had brought. The studio drivers ignored each other. The studio had three doctors on the payroll. This one was the senior, a man of about fifty with grey wavy hair and a dark suit. Bookbinder excused himself with no more than a grunt before going out to talk with him. Edgar Nicolson and Stone looked at each other covertly but did not speak. Stone drank coffee and Nicolson read the menu to divert his eyes. Hamburger with all the trimmings. Roll. Butter. Jello. All the coffee you can drink. 85 cents. Today’s special. Thank you for your custom. Come again. Clipped to the menu there was a white card distributed by the local radio station. The headlines from the four corners of the world by courtesy of YOUR local radio station, San Jorge, California. Hollywood, Tuesday: new evidence of commie subversion in movie colony will bring famous stars to hearing. Washington, Tuesday: State Department official predicts indictment of Hiss on perjury charges. Nanking, Sunday: Chinese government army mauls reds in struggle for coastal cities. Weather: more floods feared for north of state. Low today: 71°. Downtown San Jorge 77°. Humidity 87 per cent. Pressure 29.6. Pollen count 40. Wind from south-west at 15 mph. ‘Stone. Eddie Stone.’ Nicolson looked at the bronzed man sitting opposite him. ‘That’s my name,’ explained Stone. Nicolson awoke from his reverie with a convulsive start. ‘Yes, I know you. I’m Edgar Nicolson. And I’ve seen you around in London: Legrains, the French, Gerry’s.’ ‘That’s it,’ said Stone. There was a long silence. ‘This is bad luck for you,’ said Stone. ‘Yes, you’ll get the part now,’ said Nicolson. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure. He seems pretty keen on your test. He showed it to me as an example: the first one I did was so terrible.’ Nicolson did not believe him but it was a friendly fiction. They looked at each other, assessing the competition that each faced from his rival. They had both invested in steam baths, facial treatments and had had their hair conditioned, waved and set. Stone’s brows had been trimmed and his lashes darkened. Nicolson couldn’t decide whether Stone’s tan was genuine or not but it made him look very fit and made his teeth seem very white. Nicolson tried to decide if any of Stone’s teeth were capped. Whichever of them got the role in his film, Bookbinder had already arranged for extensive recapping of the teeth. Many stars began their movie career with a week in the dental chair. It was one part of the contract that Nicolson did not relish. ‘Yes, you’ll get the part,’ said Nicolson. ‘This business with the girl will terrify the front office. And, let’s face it: the final decision is going to be made by some bastard in publicity.’ ‘These bloody film people…’ said Stone. It was almost an agreement with Nicolson’s despair. Stone reached forward and gripped his arm. ‘I won’t do it.’ ‘What?’ ‘Take it from you. Winning the role fair and square: yes. I’ll fight you tooth and nail for the part, but I don’t want the part as a last resort of a nervous flack.’ ‘Don’t be so stupid. If I don’t get it and then you turn it down they’ll give it to some other actor. Where does that get me.’ ‘I’ll not take it, Edgar. You’ll see. These Hollywood bastards behave like Lorenzo the Magnificent, it will do them a power of good to hear an actor telling them to stuff a contract. Screw Hollywood!’ ‘I could never live here,’ said Nicolson. ‘The stage,’ said Stone. ‘An actor needs the stage and an audience. The juices drain out of a man who spends his days transfixed by a bloody one-eyed machine.’ ‘I like films –’ said Nicolson. ‘Films,’ said Stone. ‘Yes, we all like films. If you are talking about De Sica and Visconti. If you’re talking about Bicycle Thieves or Open City: everyone likes real films about real people in true life conditions.’ ‘But there’s a new realism here in films –’ ‘Hollywood films are about murderers, psychopaths, gunmen. What I’m talking about is the starkness of Bataille du Rail, the poetry of Belle et la B?te. No, Hollywood is a fine place to earn some money and to see some great professionals at work, but Englishmen like us are rooted in European culture. We die if we stay out here. Look around you, look at the limeys who live here.’ ‘You think so?’ ‘Sure of it. You charge your batteries in the theatre – here you just flash the headlights.’ He nodded. ‘What are you drinking, Edgar. It is Edgar?’ ‘Diet soda. Yes, Edgar Nicolson.’ ‘What you want is strong black coffee with a slug of something in it.’ He took a hip flask from his jacket and poured both coffee and brandy. ‘And stop looking so bloody worried, Edgar. We English have got to stick together. Am I right? Stick together and we can beat the bastards.’ Until that moment Nicolson had still been confident that the part he wanted would be his. Nicolson had the right build for a cowboy, a better walk and his voice was far far better than this fellow’s. But now he knew that Stone would stop at nothing to wrest the part from him. He’d been in the profession long enough to know the desperation with which actors fight to secure work but usually they had been crude oafs who could not stand up to Nicolson or measure up to his skills. Stone was not just another stupid actor. He was as smooth and as hard as an aerial torpedo and just as dangerous, but not perhaps as self-destructive. Stone surely didn’t expect Nicolson to believe that soft soap about turning the offer down, it was his way of declaring that he was going to do battle. Stone smiled a silky smile. Nicolson said, ‘Yes, we must all stick together,’ and then he pushed the coffee to the far side of the table. If Bookbinder smelled the alcohol he would be marked down as a lush, and that was enough to lose him the part without this stupid girl going dramatic on him. Stone noticed him move the coffee. ‘Don’t feel like it, eh?’ ‘I get tense,’ said Nicolson, ‘and then my stomach just rejects everything.’ ‘I understand,’ said Stone. He understood. A dish broke in the kitchen and there was a brief snatch of Spanish. The swearing was quiet and ritualistic as if there were too many breakages for a man to waste much energy on any one of them. Bookbinder came back to the car with the doctor. They stood outside talking, and then the doctor went away. When Bookbinder came back inside, he poured himself coffee from the Silex on the burner and drank a lot of it before he spoke. ‘It’s happened before, Edgar, and it will happen again. The studio publicity guys spend more time keeping news out of the papers than getting it in.’ Nicolson said, ‘She took an overdose, you said?’ ‘The whole bottle. The label of the studio pharmacy on it.’ Stone said, ‘Are you going to remove the bottle?’ ‘That’s another department.’ Bookbinder pulled the curtain aside as another Ford arrived. The door pinged and a young curly-haired man entered. He wore a dark-blue wind-cheater, flannel trousers and white sneakers. He looked like a young stockbroker on vacation, or a half-back who’d broken training. Already he was showing the plumpness about the face and arms that predicted the huge middle-aged man he was to become. ‘Weinberger! Am I glad to see you,’ said Bookbinder. ‘Wie gehts?’ said the young man. Bookbinder nodded but was not amused. ‘You really screwed up a heavy date.’ ‘Complain to Nicolson,’ said Bookbinder, ‘it’s his party.’ ‘I want to see her,’ said Nicolson. ‘Sit down and shut up,’ said Weinberger. He put his hand on Nicolson’s shoulder and pushed him down on to his seat. ‘You do exactly what you are told and you might come out of this unscarred. First, her real name.’ ‘Rainbow,’ said Nicolson, ‘Ingrid Rainbow.’ ‘So why did she check in as Petersen?’ asked Weinberger harshly. It was a new side of Weinberger that Stone and Nicolson were seeing: he frightened them. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps that’s –’ ‘You stick to not knowing. I don’t want you doing any guessing.’ ‘Can I see her?’ said Nicolson. Weinberger shook his head. Edgar didn’t protest. He wanted to see the poor child. He wanted to talk to her, reassure her and tell her that he was worried. But he didn’t want to do it right now. The atmosphere was not sympathetic; even if Stone and Bookbinder remained here he would still be inhibited by them. ‘The doc’s been?’ said Weinberger. ‘That will be OK,’ said Bookbinder. Bookbinder turned in his seat, stubbed out his cigar and bit his lower lip. Weinberger said to Nicolson, ‘You’ve visited her here? Here at the motel? The receptionist would recognize you?’ Nicolson nodded. ‘Oh well,’ sighed Weinberger, ‘we’ll sort that one out too.’ He nodded to Bookbinder. Weinberger got up and steered him across the room to the service door. As they went through it there was a smell of burned fat and the strangled scream of a mixer. Just inside the kitchen Weinberger leaned close to the producer and gestured angrily. The service doors flapped, each swing providing a frame of a jerky old film. Nicolson knew they were deciding. Eddie Stone was sitting well back from the table on the far side from Nicolson. He caught his eye and Stone smiled. As a child, Stone’s smiles had been nervous ones, but he’d soon learned the advantage of preceding all his remarks with an unhurried smile. ‘I didn’t know about it, Edgar. I was with Kagan when you phoned.’ He moved his chair back even more. Nicolson felt like telling him that whatever the trouble was, it wasn’t contagious. But they both knew it was. Nicolson looked at the service door. He could see the feet of the gods. Weinberger said, ‘It’s not impossible to do it the other way: it’s tricky but not impossible, Kagan.’ ‘What the Nicolson kid does once, he’ll do again. If Stone fouls up we can both say we’re surprised. But if Nicolson even gets a parking ticket, front office will want our balls.’ ‘I’ll try to keep them both out of it.’ ‘I know you will. You talked to New York?’ ‘I can’t get New York for a couple of hours. But if you say Stone, he’ll stay as clean as a whistle. I promise.’ ‘Stone,’ said Bookbinder and nodded. ‘Whatever you say,’ said Weinberger. Bookbinder grabbed him as he began to turn away. He reached for the top of the half-door and pulled it closed. ‘Don’t give me that, you bastard!’ Weinberger looked at the producer but said nothing. Bookbinder finally said, ‘I carried this idea for nearly three years: lunches for story editors, presents for production guys and ten thousand bucks for a lousy story treatment. I’ll never recoup that dough. Why shouldn’t I have five per cent of Stone’s contract? Two pictures from now he’ll be earning ten times my salary.’ ‘And Nicolson’s agent wouldn’t play?’ ‘Stick to publicity, kid. You don’t know when you’re well off.’ ‘Stone, then?’ Bookbinder just looked at him. They came back from their conference with grim determination on their faces. So must Bookbinder have looked when shooting down his Jap bombers. When they got to the table they halted like a firing squad. Then they exchanged the briefest of glances to decide who should say the next bit. Everyone knew it was the producer’s decision but Weinberger was paid his salary to handle trouble. Finally Bookbinder said, ‘Weinberger can cool the local Press and handle the cops but this means that I can’t use you to star. I’m sorry, Edgar, I can give you the role of the thief if it all blows over, but even that…’ Edgar Nicolson said, ‘What do you get for attempted suicide in this state?’ His voice was only a whisper. ‘Don’t worry about that end of it,’ said Weinberger. Bookbinder made a gesture towards Stone. ‘Eddie will go back to your place with you. You’ve been together all day. The cops will probably want you, so stay off the juice.’ ‘I never drink.’ ‘Good. Weinberger will do what he can. It might happen that the cops won’t phone you.’ Weinberger was sealing large-denomination bills into plain envelopes and pencilling the corners to show how much they contained. Bookbinder said, ‘I’m sorry about all this, Edgar…’ He looked at Stone and Weinberger. ‘We’re all sorry about it. You would have made a swell cowboy.’ Edgar stood up and Stone did too. ‘Get going,’ said Bookbinder, ‘I’m going to phone the cops now.’ ‘What about the waitress?’ ‘Manageress,’ said Bookbinder. ‘Weinberger will see to that. You haven’t been here tonight.’ When they were outside in the dark, Edgar said, ‘I’ll lead the way, you follow. Flash me if you want to stop.’ Stone didn’t answer. He turned away. Edgar Nicolson touched his sleeve. ‘Did you hear anything about Ingrid? Will she be OK?’ Stone kicked an empty beer can. The entrance to the tourist court was littered with them. ‘Edgar,’ said Stone gently, ‘she’s dead. That’s what everyone is so worried about.’ 3 I have a washbasin but no shower in my office. Dory [Schary] has a shower but no bathtub. L.B. [Mayer] has a shower and a bathtub. The kind of bath facilities you have in your office is another measure of the worth of your position. Gottfried Reinhardt No oriental potentate had a more attentive retinue than followed Leo Koolman through the London offices of Koolman International Pictures Inc that Wednesday afternoon. And, like the entourage of an Eastern ruler, this following was entirely male. Koolman lived in Santa Monica, but he also lived in London. Because so many KI films had been shot in Spain he used some of the tied-up money to buy a house in Marbella too. Each of his houses provided cars, horses, paintings, servants, food and love. And such was the style of Koolman’s life that for three or four years at a time, all of these elements would remain unchanged. However, most of his year was spent in New York. For that was where he found the computers and the accountants and the men from the banks and investment companies, and that therefore was the centre of power. Call him president, chairman or production chief, in the Koolman company it was the man who sat in New York who called the tune. So his European executives kept close to Leo Koolman that afternoon. They made sure that no possible whim might be frustrated or allowed to cool. Cigarettes – always Parliaments – and cigars – Monte Cristo – appeared and were lit by steady hands almost before they reached his mouth. Stiff Martinis were delivered in heavy cut-glass goblets, tinkling with ice. Inside each was a row of olives transfixed by a plastic spear with The Long Tornado embossed upon its stem. The Long Tornado was KI’s latest film; Leo Koolman liked to be reminded of what his advertising men were doing for it. He used the spears to emphasize his words, and he punctuated his theories by biting into the olives with strong white teeth. The men in the room were curiously alike. They were slim and healthy: tanned by lamps and exercised by machines. They wore expensive suits of dark wool or tailor-made blue-flannel blazers. White shirts set off club ties both real and ornamental. Their hair was short, and more than half of them were wearing tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles. Their fingernails were manicured, their faces showed a trace of talc and their voices were soft and sincere and, because the Englishmen tried to speak like the Americans and vice versa, it was difficult to tell which were which. They moved constantly, turning so as to keep Koolman in sight. None sat down. They conversed and laughed and drank and patted shoulders, but it was all done in a rehearsed and subdued manner, being little more than displacement activity for men who knew that their livelihoods could depend upon a murmur or a gesture from Leo Koolman. So only Koolman could look where he liked, and he moved among them talking in the soft sympathetic tones of a Schweitzer among incurables. Leo Koolman was a tall man in his late forties. He wore a dark-grey silk suit and a cream shirt with a Palm Springs Raquet Club tie. He had a thin bony nose and a large generous mouth which a small scar caused to pucker on one side. His eyelids were heavy, which prevented any but the lowest-placed lights reflecting from his eyeballs. It gave him a dead-eye appearance. Photographers used eye-lights to avoid such a look, and thus portraits of Leo Koolman made him look younger and more active than he looked in life. But those unlit eyes were not dead; they studied the men in the room. He looked at their ears and their shoes and their spectacles and the knot of their tie and all the time he judged their capability and remembered their salaries. Koolman was an attractive man: few men and even fewer women resisted the spell of the energy he generated and wasted with profligate disregard. He slept less than four hours a night, and could get off a transatlantic plane looking as neat and tidy as ever he did, and be ready to confute teams of lawyers single-handed. He played tennis like a pro, swam, danced and rode a horse with far above average skill. What he could never get from reading books, he got from reading accounts, and he’d add up columns while talking. His memory was a widely discussed phenomenon. By any standards Koolman was a remarkable man. If he had failings – and few of his associates believed that – they were an indifference to books, a hostility to serious music and no discernible sense of humour. Koolman laughed only at disasters; particularly those of his rivals. If the last of the Hollywood czars has gone, then Koolman was one of the first Stalins. Perhaps by the turn of the century even journalists will be suspecting that such men are with us to stay. Stalins don’t live by movies alone. Koolman’s contemporaries governed conglomerates and were as interested in car rentals, airlines, frozen food and computers as they were in movie-making. Koolman International also owned subsidiaries, but Leo Koolman had grown up in Hollywood and he never forgot his childhood, and never ceased to implement his dreams. All the executives in the room had once been agents, lawyers or actors. Koolman had found another way of calling the tune in the movie business: he’d inherited the president’s chair from his Uncle Max, who’d formed the company when both the movies and the accountants were silent. These men were Koolman’s janissaries: men he’d brought from New York and California, the dukes of distribution and the princes of publicity. Perhaps they too lit Koolman’s cigars back there on Fifth Avenue but here in London they enjoyed a different, vicarious power. They were praised and pandered to. For they would have Koolman’s ear in the days to come, when he was deciding what he really thought about his European offices and the men who manned them. At five-thirty Koolman retreated beyond the ramparts of the outer office, through the anteroom where Minnie guarded the sofa worn shiny by nervous behinds, and to the extraordinary art-encrusted office which was kept for his exclusive use. He spoke to New York and California, as he did every day from wherever he was. He retired to his private bathroom, took a shower and changed his clothes. By six o’clock he was ready for the audience. An agent brought a director who wanted to do a musical about Marx and Engels and a girl who’d spent all afternoon painting her eyes. A Cockney actor was modelling his Biafra hairdo. A producer showed everyone a photo of his new house in Palm Springs and a scriptwriter in a studded leather jacket brought the eighth rewrite of Copkiller – Anarchy Rules in Youth’s New State. ‘There’s a frisson or two there,’ said the scriptwriter modestly. He took off his dark glasses and scowled. Koolman flipped it carelessly and read a line. ‘It’s good,’ said Koolman, although the line he read had remained unchanged in all eight versions. In fact Koolman had read none of them: his script department took those sort of chores off his back. He looked around the room. A girl in a see-through dress embraced the European head of publicity enthusiastically enough to break a shoulder strap. Suzy Delft brought a friend named Penelope and they both kissed Leo Koolman, who blushed. The gathering continued for two hours, although few visitors stayed that long. Agents paraded their clients and cued their exits. One of the first people to leave was a pretty young girl named Josephine Stewart. She was one of the few people in the room to address her host as Mr Koolman and yet the very formality of that might have indicated the influence she wielded. Not only was she a beautiful young wife with a wealthy family and a brilliant Oxford degree not so very far behind her, she was also an active campaigner against the bomb, apartheid and censorship. She was in addition one of the most influential London film critics. She gave her readers sociology, history and art for the price of a film review. She could recall shot by shot a Jean Vigo masterpiece, relate it to the abortion rate in pre-war California and explain how Vigo took the idea from a Kurt Schwitters collage before excoriating a director for its misuse in the film she was reviewing. To Koolman she said, ‘I loved The Sound of Music. Don’t quote me, but I loved it. Three times I’ve taken my little daughter back to see it.’ ‘Did you pan it?’ Koolman asked. ‘Nowadays directors think only of foreground action – television directing – they can’t handle big scenes.’ ‘You panned Sound of Music, didn’t you?’ ‘Beautifully photographed, superbly edited, with jump-cutting at least ten years ahead of its time.’ ‘Did you pan it?’ ‘I can’t afford to tell my readers to go and see schmaltz.’ ‘Do you think they haven’t taken their kids three times, too?’ ‘They probably have. But that doesn’t mean they want me to tell them to.’ Phil Sanchez brought drinks for them: whisky and soda for Jo Stewart and tonic water for Koolman. ‘Thanks, Phil.’ Koolman grasped the girl’s arm and turned her so that he was looking directly into her eyes. In some other environment such passion might have attracted comment, but here it was strictly professional. Koolman said, ‘One of our companies did a market survey about the way people borrow money. People preferred to go to a moneylender than to a bank, even if the bank gave them easier terms. They felt inferior in a bank, they felt out of place there. But in the money-lender’s office they felt morally superior.’ Jo Stewart said, ‘That’s fascinating.’ ‘You critics go to your Press shows at the nice comfortable hour of ten-thirty A.M. Champagne, lobster sandwiches…’ ‘When was that?’ ‘OK, but you do get a carefully matched print, a chosen track. No adverts or people coming in halfway through.’ ‘Going out halfway through sometimes.’ ‘You are confident and at ease. Right? You had a nice printed invite to go and you’re being paid to be there. You welcome a stimulating film and you’ll judge it in intellectual terms. You’re looking for talent. You’ll respect a film that you have difficulty in understanding and maybe you’ll give it the benefit of the doubt. Right?’ Koolman raised an admonitory finger alongside his ear. No imitation of him omitted this hand movement. With the right timing any wag could use it to raise a smile or a shudder. For Koolman’s finger jabbed at heaven suggesting that he was in close collusion with God. ‘Right?’ Koolman said, ‘But my audiences are in their neighbourhood movie houses, sitting in wet coats, after a day’s work, maybe tough manual work. They don’t need mental challenge by some smart little movie-maker. They don’t want to feel inferior to a film’s intellectual content. They want a laugh and a bit of excitement. They’ll forgive a movie that is predictable, slick and superficial because those very faults will make them feel superior.’ ‘That’s a gloomy policy for a movie-maker.’ ‘It’s a realistic policy,’ said Koolman. ‘I never know when you are teasing,’ said Josephine Stewart. ‘I’m never teasing,’ said Koolman. Weinberger came into the room warily. He reached inside a fake bookcase and opened the refrigerator. He poured himself a bitter lemon and sat down in the corner. Koolman squeezed Jo Stewart’s arm as she said goodbye and waved hello at Weinberger. He looked around the room to see if there was any unfinished business. Having decided there was not, he looked at his watch. He used a fob watch so that he could look at it without any danger of the gesture passing unnoticed. Dennis Lightfoot noticed and took it as his cue. ‘It’s about time, Leo,’ he said loudly. Lightfoot was the executive in charge of European production. He could OK anything with a budget under two million dollars. Leo Koolman was here to see how Dennis Lightfoot’s guesses were making out. Koolman put his arm around Lightfoot. ‘Let’s go, everyone,’ he said softly. The roomful of people began to move. The lift gates were open and the canned music was moaning softly. The men who travelled in the elevator were relaxed and smiling and yet they were as alert as the Secret Service men who guard their president. Only Weinberger and six chosen executives took the lift to the basement where the viewing theatre was situated. The others wandered down to the lobby where they chatted and laughed, sub-divided and re-formed several times until they were in three mutually agreed groups. Only then did they make their separate ways to three very different restaurants. The viewing theatre had thirty seats. Two of them were already occupied by Edgar Nicolson and the director of Silent Paradise, the film they were about to see. Nicolson was sitting at the console tapping his fingers on the projection room phone. Koolman guided Lightfoot to a chair and then sat between him and Nicolson. The rest of the men seated themselves in the four corners of the theatre, knowing that whether the film was good or bad it was just as well to have a row of seats between oneself and Koolman. ‘Everyone here?’ said Koolman. Silent Paradise had finished shooting over three months before and still was not ready. His voice clearly implied that no one was going to leave the room until he knew why. ‘Everyone is here,’ said Lightfoot. ‘Where’s Marshall Stone?’ said Leo Koolman. ‘He’s coming straight from the location, Leo,’ said Weinberger. ‘He said to start.’ ‘He said to start,’ said Koolman. He nodded. Weinberger realized that that had been a tactless way of putting it. ‘Then let’s start.’ Nicolson picked up the red phone and pressed the button. ‘OK, Billy, let’s go.’ The room lights dimmed slowly and a beam of light cut a bright rectangle from the whorls of cigar smoke. The KI trademark came into focus and Nicolson pressed the buttons to make the curtains divide. He was a little late. By the time they were fully open, the trademark – a large tome with ‘Koolman International Inc Presents’ written on it in Gothic lettering – had cut to some second unit footage of a street in Anchorage. ‘No titles?’ said Koolman in a loud whisper. ‘They come at the end,’ explained Nicolson. ‘At the end,’ said Koolman affably. ‘Is this for the Chinese market, this movie?’ ‘No, Leo,’ said Nicolson and then he laughed. ‘Ha, ha, ha.’ ‘Chinese market,’ said Lightfoot, his words ending in the sibilant hiss of a man desperately trying to suppress his merriment. ‘Titles go in the front of a movie,’ said Koolman patiently. ‘I think you’re right, Leo,’ said Nicolson. ‘It was just an experiment.’ ‘Tell them you’re going to tell them. Tell them. Then tell them you told them,’ said Koolman. ‘Don’t say you don’t know that basic rule about the movie business.’ Nicolson didn’t answer but Lightfoot gave a hint of a chuckle. On the screen there was a helicopter shot of an Arctic wasteland. ‘Great camerawork, Nic,’ said one of the Americans. ‘Did it in Yorkshire,’ said Nicolson. ‘No kidding,’ said the American. ‘Had to remove four hundred telephone poles,’ said Nicolson. ‘Don’t you have a music track?’ said Koolman. ‘We have a wonderful track but we thought we’d try and get a feeling of emptiness and loneliness right here.’ ‘That’s the feeling we’ll get all right,’ agreed Koolman, ‘emptiness and loneliness – right there in the movie theatres,’ he gave a grim mirthless chuckle. ‘It’s a great soundtrack, Leo,’ said Nicolson. He turned up the volume control and hoped it would start. It did. There was an eerie sound as massed trumpets began the musical theme. ‘It’s not bad, that tune,’ said Koolman. ‘It’s just running wild at present,’ said Nicolson. ‘It’s great,’ said the same American as before. ‘It’s a catchy tune,’ said Lightfoot modestly. ‘I’ll tell you what to do with that…’ said Koolman. He leaned aside to Lightfoot. ‘Edgar,’ supplied Lightfoot, and Koolman leaned back to Nicolson again. ‘I’ll tell you what to do with that, Edgar,’ said Koolman. ‘Yes, Leo?’ said Nicolson as if he really wanted to know. ‘Lyrics: get some kid singing it. Look what that tune did for Dr Zhivago.’ ‘Great idea,’ said Lightfoot. ‘We’ll give it a try,’ said Nicolson. ‘Don’t give it a try,’ sighed Koolman, ‘just do it.’ ‘It could be great,’ said Nicolson doubtfully. ‘Da, da, di, da, da, daaa, daaa, daaaaaa I could be a lonely man.’ Koolman tried to improvise words to the theme which was now being repeated for the tenth time. ‘This is just the rough track,’ said Nicolson. ‘It will have a big orchestra when we do the real one.’ ‘Get that lonely feeling in the words,’ said Koolman. ‘All these kids love to feel sorry for themselves.’ One of the Americans was head of the KI Music, Koolman’s sheet music and recording company. He said to Nicolson, ‘You give me your wild track, I’ll talk to my people in New York.’ ‘Thanks a lot,’ said Nicolson. ‘A tape will be on your desk tomorrow, that’s a promise.’ The film cut to a studio interior. Four actors in fur clothing were seated around a table. The door opened and a fifth man came in along with a handful of effects snow from a wind machine. Through the door there was a glimpse of a polystyrene ice-face and a painted back-cloth that wasn’t sufficiently out of focus. The fifth man pushed his snow glasses off his face and pulled back his fur hood. It was Marshall Stone. He’d just returned from a vacation in Nice when they shot the sequence: one of the first they did. Stone looked tanned and lean and very fit. He’d had a small hairpiece fitted for the role and he looked as handsome as he’d ever been. ‘That’s Marshall Stone, isn’t it, Nic?’ ‘He looks wonderful, Jacob,’ Koolman said to Weinberger. Weinberger said nothing. Koolman said to Nicolson, ‘Do you want to make that music a little quieter? I can’t hear myself speak.’ Nicolson twisted the offending control viciously. On the screen Marshall Stone said, ‘Why couldn’t they find oil in Maidenhead or Cowes or somewhere decent?’ ‘Now I can hardly hear the track,’ said Koolman. ‘This is just a guide track,’ explained Nicolson. ‘Maidenhead,’ said Koolman, ‘was that in the script?’ ‘It’s a place near London,’ explained Lightfoot. ‘I know it’s a place near London,’ said Koolman irritably. ‘I’ve got one of my boys at Eton, haven’t I? But what about the audiences in Omaha?’ Nicolson said, ‘When we loop it, we’ll change it. Stone can say London.’ The director spoke for the first time. He was seated at the back. They were all surprised to hear his voice emerge from the gloom under the projection light. He stuttered slightly, ‘It will show. You can’t loop London into a close-up like that and have it lip-synch.’ Koolman turned around slowly. The director was a white haired old man who had promised Nicolson that he wouldn’t say a word throughout the screening. Koolman looked at him. Koolman didn’t know much about the technical side of movie-making but he knew sufficient of the basic principles to win arguments with directors. ‘You mean you haven’t got any cover?’ ‘I don’t cover everything. It would be too expensive.’ ‘We got cover, Tony,’ shouted Nicolson, leaning back to grab his director’s arm in a warning hug. ‘We got cover: a tracking shot, a two-shot, lots of stuff. We can loop it for London OK. We are still doing the loops.’ He bound his left hand tightly with a silk handkerchief. ‘Shoot it again if you have to,’ said Koolman slightly mollified by Nicolson’s anxiety. ‘Basic rule in movies: plenty of cover.’ ‘This is a great sequence, Leo,’ promised Lightfoot believing the sequence was Marshall Stone punching an Eskimo stunt man in the head. They all watched attentively while Marshall Stone and two extras plodded over a hillock of special effects snow. Now it was Lightfoot who twisted his hands in silent prayer. ‘Yeah, great,’ said Koolman. ‘Really terrific: it builds.’ He’d hardly spoken when the film cut to a two-shot of the men, to a close-up of Stone, then the long-shot in which stunt men substituted for the actors. There was a brief exchange of blows after which a man wearing Marshall Stone’s distinctive red gloves somersaulted to the bottom of a snow drift. Lightfoot slowly released the breath that had almost exploded his lungs. ‘You’ll have to get rid of that,’ said Koolman. He flung the words over his shoulder. He sensed that the old director was his only vocal opposition in the theatre. ‘I thought it was pretty good,’ said the director. ‘Corny,’ said Koolman, ‘acrobatics.’ ‘I think it should… stay in,’ said the director. Koolman turned to Lightfoot. ‘Who have you got editing this picture?’ They both knew that it wasn’t the sort of information that Lightfoot was likely to have in his mind, so they waited until Nicolson said, ‘Sam Parnell, an old-timer, a really great editor.’ Koolman made a whirling movement of his finger as a signal to Phil Sanchez, his personal assistant. ‘I’ll talk to Parnell before we go back.’ He turned to Nicolson. ‘That be OK with you, Edgar?’ ‘Sure thing, Leo,’ said Nicolson. ‘Anything you’ve got to say, we can always use advice.’ Phil Sanchez made a note in his little book. Nicolson unbound his bloodless hand. ‘I think we can do something with this movie. We can shape it into something,’ said Koolman. No one spoke. On the screen Marshall Stone had lost his goggles and was feeling around in the snow between brief cuts of lens flare to show that the reflections were blinding him. ‘Great performance from Stone,’ said Koolman. ‘Now there’s a man who’s really learned his trade, eh, Edgar?’ ‘Great performance, Leo,’ said Nicolson. ‘He gives gives gives all the time. This could be one for a nomination.’ ‘Best actor,’ mused Koolman. Weinberger said, ‘He’s had three nominations. This one could do it for him.’ ‘What do you think, Arty?’ asked Koolman of one of his publicity men. ‘If we play it like that, then this movie is going to need some special nursing, Leo. We’ll need serious interviews, woo the egg-heads a bit. Even then I’d say this movie doesn’t stand a prayer for a “best picture” award – the whole membership…’ he wiggled his outstretched hand. ‘A “best actor” for Stone… maybe. But it will cost us, Leo.’ Nicolson said, ‘If we were going to go for an Oscar, that will control our release.’ He rubbed his hand to help the circulation. It began to tingle. ‘Sure,’ said Lightfoot. ‘Thirty days of exhibition in Los Angeles before the end of December. That would be quite a rush.’ ‘We could do it,’ said Nicolson. ‘We’re close to dubbing.’ ‘It wouldn’t stand a chance the following year unless we held it until fall.’ ‘You guys work it out,’ said Koolman. The music man said, ‘With great music like this maybe I’ll talk to Barbra or Andy.’ ‘Or Sammy,’ said another voice. ‘Sammy’s a very good friend of mine: he comes to the house.’ ‘Sure,’ said the music man, ‘Sammy, or better still Tom Jones might like to do an album, or Johnny Cash.’ ‘Tom Jones is a wonderful person,’ said Nicolson, ‘and he would be great for the main title, we could use a vocal opening.’ ‘Tapes or disc,’ said the music man, ‘but I’ll need them yesterday.’ They all laughed. ‘Great camerawork, Nic,’ said the only person still watching the screen. Marshall Stone had not found his goggles because they were caught on a crag which was kept in frame centre while Stone scrambled pitifully on the ground. Stone buried his head in his hands and gave a manly sob. The camera zoomed in to show the makeup department’s frostbite. ‘Do you want to turn that music down a little, Edgar?’ ‘This is just a wild track. It’s not balanced or anything.’ ‘Best actor,’ said Koolman softly. He leaned close to Lightfoot. ‘If we can get an Oscar for Stone it will make a great launch for the TV series, Dennis.’ ‘Right, Leo, right.’ They both smiled at each other as though this idea had only just come to them. There were eight motor-cars waiting outside KI Pictures in Wardour Street. Nine, if you count Jacob Weinberger’s chauffeur-driven Jaguar, although no one did count it because Weinberger said he had no car. This gave him a chance to ride with Leo Koolman in the Rolls Limousine. Also in the car there were Suzy Delft, her friend Penelope, Leo and Phil Sanchez his assistant. The girls had been waiting upstairs in Leo’s office. When the convoy of cars arrived at Jamie’s Club, Leo was shown the big circular table set for ten. The two girls hurried away to repaint their faces. Koolman arranged the seating around the table. Nicolson and his director were across the table and Weinberger was two seats away, leaving an empty seat on each side of Koolman. When the girls returned Penelope was wearing a different dress. Koolman noticed this and remarked on it. The girl smiled. Koolman looked at the menu and patted the seat of the chair next to him without looking up. Obediently Penelope slid into it and gratefully took a menu from the waiter. The New York executives alternated with their London equivalents. The seat between Weinberger and Koolman was held for Marshall Stone, who arrived with the wine waiter. Stone was in a dark suit with a stiff cutaway collar and a Travellers Club tie. A gold watch-chain on his waistcoat carried a gold nuclear disarmament medallion. He made a fine entrance. He walked up to Leo Koolman and stood with his hands stretched forward. He searched for words that might convey his sincere good wishes. When he did speak his voice was husky. ‘Leo, it’s good to see you. It’s damned good to see you.’ Koolman jumped to his feet like a bantamweight boxer coming out of his corner. ‘We saw a great performance tonight, Marsh. A truly great performance.’ Marshall Stone looked around the table with a quizzical smile on his face. ‘You’ve screened the new Richard and Liz film?’ ‘We saw Silent Paradise, Marshall.’ ‘You old bastard, Edgar,’ said Stone to Nicolson. ‘You might have told me.’ Nicolson said, ‘You were great, Marshall, we all thought so.’ ‘It’s a great performance, Marshall,’ said Koolman. ‘Dennis thinks we should go after a best actor nomination and I agree.’ Dennis Lightfoot made a mental note of the fact that if anything went wrong with Koolman’s latest idea, it was going to become a Lightfoot idea. Stone shook his head. ‘I was just part of a fine team, Leo,’ he said. ‘It’s time we got you one of those metal dolls, Marshall,’ said Koolman. Stone sat down and blew his nose loudly. The waiter asked Stone what he would have to drink. ‘Perrier water,’ said Stone. To Koolman he said, ‘I never drink when I’m making a picture.’ Stone looked around the table. ‘Darling,’ he called to Suzy. ‘That dress: sensational!’ He pretended to look around the room for the camera. ‘Are we doing the orgy scene?’ ‘How is Stool Pigeon coming along, Marshall?’ said Koolman. The others went on with their conversations while keeping their eyes and ears on Koolman. Koolman said, ‘I like that moustache. That’s for the role, eh?’ Marshall smiled at the other guests before he answered. ‘It’s not a film for over-sensitive people, Leo. It’s a tough, no-holds-barred story of what war is really like.’ He touched his moustache. ‘Yes, for the film.’ ‘But are the kids going to like the film, Marshall?’ ‘The kids will love it, Leo, because there is lots of fun in it too. And a challenge to authority.’ ‘A film has got to have confrontation, colour and conflict,’ said Leo who had got that cinematographic philosophy from a film about a producer. ‘This has got it,’ said Marshall Stone. ‘Who’s directing?’ ‘A new director: Richard Preston. It’s his first feature.’ ‘A TV kid,’ said Koolman. ‘I hope we’re not getting too many flick zooms, whip pans and all that psychedelic crap. Are you watching that, Dennis?’ Lightfoot said, ‘You bet, Leo. I saw the rushes last week and it’s good solid footage and Suzy is going to be really great.’ His voice betrayed the doubts he shared about the picture. ‘Aren’t they three weeks over?’ He tried to recall the paperwork. ‘Weather trouble,’ said Lightfoot. ‘Don’t these guys who prepare your budgets know that it rains in England, Dennis?’ Lightfoot didn’t answer, so Koolman said, ‘I think it rains here now and again. I think I’ve heard rumours to that effect.’ He looked around the table and everyone smiled. Lightfoot smiled too. He said, ‘We scheduled it so that we could go inside when it rains but we only have Marshall for three more weeks so we have to do his shots whenever we possibly can. That means holding the crew ready instead of doing the cover shots.’ Koolman nodded. ‘Location films, who needs them. We have the same trouble in New York. They tell me how much we save by not going into the studio and then they stand scratching their arses waiting for the rain to stop. So that’s saving money? If we must have location shooting, what’s wrong with California. At least you can bet on the sunshine.’ Stone said, ‘I’m so pleased that you liked Silent Paradise. Did you notice that wonderful performance by Bertie Anderson?’ ‘Which one was he?’ said Koolman. ‘The truck driver in the first reel,’ said Stone. ‘A fantastic performance. Jesus, if I could act like that man…’ ‘I don’t even remember it,’ said Weinberger, as soon as he was certain that Anderson wasn’t one of his clients. Nicolson said, ‘It was the very old man who throws the mailbag on the ground.’ ‘Oh, him,’ said Koolman. The part had only had about fifty seconds of screen time. ‘Almost eighty,’ said Stone, ‘a wonderful old man. I made Edgar give him the part.’ Stone took a bread roll from the waiter, broke it into three parts and spread some butter upon it. A careful observer would have noticed the care with which he did this, as if he had no other thought in his mind. And a careful observer would also have noticed how, in spite of all the activity, very little food ever got as far as Stone’s mouth. The little that did was bitten cautiously and probed with the tongue as if he expected to find some tiny piece of foreign matter there. Yet many times during the meal he remarked how fine the food was and how much he was enjoying himself and how little self-control he had when it came to watching his waistline. ‘A wonderful old man,’ said Stone again. ‘Do you know something, Marshall,’ said Koolman, ‘you’re a damned sight too modest, that’s your trouble.’ Koolman turned to Suzy Delft. ‘Only a real artist can talk that way: that’s what I love about this business.’ ‘Artiste,’ she corrected him. ‘Is there something wrong with that drink?’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘Then why aren’t you drinking it?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned to Stone. ‘You’ll get the best actor nomination or I’ll know the reason why.’ All round the table there was the friendly buzz of people in agreement. Patiently the head waiter stood near to Koolman with pencil poised. Koolman said, ‘You know what they do very well here: chicken Kiev. Is there anyone who can’t eat a chicken Kiev?’ No one spoke. ‘And the borsht,’ said Koolman, ‘with the sour cream and the pastry things. OK, there you go.’ ‘Thank you, Mr Koolman,’ said the head waiter. ‘I’ll be cutting away early,’ announced Koolman. To reinforce this decision he reached under the tablecloth and grasped at Penelope’s thigh. 4 Of course he romances, but an impressionable person of his sort really believes in his fabrications. We actors are so accustomed to embroider facts with details drawn from our own imaginations, that the habit is carried over into ordinary life. There, of course, the imagined details are as superfluous as they are necessary in the theatre. C. Stanislavsky, An Actor Prepares The unit publicist on Stool Pigeon sent me the biography they were using for Marshall Stone. It was printed on duplicating paper. Most of the first sheet was taken up by a letterhead design in which three soldiers and a girl fought their way through an Aubrey Beardsley jungle that had already overgrown the address and telephone number. Although a small clearing had been chopped for Edgar Nicolson’s name. Edgar Nicolson Productions for Koolman International presents Stool Pigeon starring Marshall Stone Director: Richard Preston Introducing: Suzy Delft. MARSHALL STONE. A brief biography. Marshall Stone was born in London. In a family that traditionally supplied its sons to the theatre and to the Army, Stone’s dilemma as an only child was resolved when war interrupted his studies at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. After the war he auditioned for Robert Atkins at Stratford and was so disappointed at being turned down that he toured South Africa with a company that did light comedy with music in its repertory, as well as a detective play and a farce. ‘It was a lunatic asylum,’ said Stone afterwards, ‘but we never stopped laughing in spite of the miseries and the hard work of it all.’ When he returned to England he joined the Birmingham Rep. His performance as Fortinbras in Hamlet was singled out for critical praise but apart from this his season went unmarked. ‘I spent my whole time there in open-mouthed awe. Perhaps I took direction too slavishly, for I never recognized anything of myself in the roles I played. ‘After getting into Birmingham – which had long been my ambition – I believed that the world was at my feet. I was wrong. After Birmingham I was turned down for three London parts. For a year I took anything I could get, including some TV work.’ In 1948 he was offered Lysander in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that was to be staged in New York. They were actually in rehearsals when a network cutback caused the whole production to be scrapped. He stayed in New York and got a small part in an experimental group’s production of Brecht and eked out his finances with odd jobs on TV. He was in a restaurant in New York when he was seen by a Hollywood producer who screen-tested him for Last Vaquero, the film that brought him world-wide acclaim and broke box-office records in many countries from Japan to Italy. In the following two years he starred in three Hollywood films, as well as creating his memorable Master Builder on the London stage and the exciting Tristram Shandy, Gent that was written for him to do at the Edinburgh Festival. No theatrical event of the nineteen-fifties was more important than Marshall Stone’s Hamlet. Gielgud himself called it ‘a miracle of discovery’. Since that time Marshall Stone has divided his work between the stage and screen, as well as financing some avant-garde productions in Paris and doing a series of poetry readings for the BBC Third programme. If there is one certain thing about the career of Marshall Stone, it is that no one can be certain what he will do next, except that it will be important, highly professional and never, never boring. It was a good piece of publicity. But for those of us in never-never-boring-land who had learned to interpret avant-garde as disastrous, and exciting as unrehearsed, it left only the radio poetry, an assorted collection of forgettable films, Hamlet and The Master Builder. The fact that the Ibsen performance had been superb and his Hamlet even better made the whole thing more, not less, depressing for me. Listed under the biography were his films. Last Vaquero was at the top, but the compilation had omitted some of his worst flops including Tigertrap which, after its panning in New York, had been shelved until this week. Even so, the achievements of Stone were remarkable and it would be a foolish historian who wrote of the postwar theatre without acknowledging his contribution. That he’d neglected the stage since Hamlet and contented himself with countless disappointing films didn’t obscure the dazzling talent that could be discerned in every performance he gave. As Scofield followed in the steps of Gielgud, so could Stone have followed Olivier. It still wasn’t too late; it was simply very unlikely. In the same envelope there was the call-sheet for Stool Pigeon. The unit was on location outside Wellington Barracks. Dear Peter Anson, For the next three days Mr Marshall Stone will be working at Tiktok Sound Recording Studios in Wardour Street. He will be pleased to see you at any time you care to drop in. Yours sincerely, BRENDA STAPLES, Publicity Secretary No wonder schizophrenia was an occupational hazard among actors. At any time an actor might be doing publicity for a film that was being premi?red, recording for one in post-production, acting in a third, fitting costumes for a fourth while reading scripts to decide what will come next. In the competitive spirit of all flacks the note didn’t say which film Stone was looping, but I guessed it was one about the Alaskan oil pipeline that had been recut half a dozen times due to arguments between Nicolson, the director and some of Koolman’s people. I saw Stone’s Rolls outside Tiktok, parked with the impunity that only chauffeurs manage. Its dark glass concealed the interior, which made one wonder why Stone had gone to the trouble of getting a registration plate that contained his initials. Usually the door of Tiktok was ajar but today it was locked, with a suspicious guardian who grudgingly permitted me inside. Only fifty yards of corridor separated Studio D from the door but I passed through a screen of secretaries, bodyguards, tea-bringers, overcoat holders, messengers, advisers and a bald man whose sole job it was to pay for refreshments for the whole ensemble and note each item in his tiny notebook. Even the man who answered the phone that Stone had commandeered was not the one who made calls on Stone’s behalf. They were a curious assembly of shapes, sizes and ages, dressed as variously as a random crowd in a bus queue. Their only bond was the fealty they demonstrated to Stone, for homage must not only be paid but also be seen to be paid. In common they had the same expression of bored indifference that all servants hide behind. They used it to admit me and to reply to my ‘good mornings’. They would use it to take my coat and bring me coffee and politely acknowledge any joke I cared to make. And, if necessary, they would use it when they tossed me out of the door or repeated for the umpteenth time that Stone was not at home. Stone had hired them under many different circumstances, and in some cases their employment was little more than an excuse for Stone’s charity. Valuable though they were as retainers, they were even more vital as an audience. They travelled with Stone providing the affection, scandals, jokes, flattery and feuds – arbitrated by Stone – that an Italian padrone exacted from his family. This was the world of Stone and, like the world which he portrayed on the screen, it was contrived. When I finally penetrated Studio D, Marshall Stone was sitting in an Eames armchair alongside an antique occasional table, on which was set coffee and cakes with Copenhagen china and silver pots. Later I was to hear that the chair and all the trimmings were brought there in advance by his employees, whose job it was to scout all such places and furnish them tastefully. I recognized Sam Parnell and his usual assistants. They were sitting in a glass booth surrounded by the controls of the recording equipment. They were drinking machine-made coffee from paper cups. The booth was lighted by three spotlights over the swivel chairs. Enough light spilled from them to see the six rows of cinema seats and Stone sitting at the front. Parnell’s voice came over the loudspeaker as I entered. ‘OK, Marshall. Ready when you are.’ Stone gave him the thumbs-up sign and handed his copy of Playboy to a man who would hold it open at the right place until it was needed again. On the screen of the dimmed room there appeared a scratched piece of film. It was a black and white dupe print of Silent Paradise. Carelessly processed, its definition was fuzzy and the highlights burned out. A blobby man in glaring white furs said, ‘It should be me that goes, the other men have wives and families. I have no one.’ Marshall Stone watched himself and listened to the guide tracks so that as the loop of picture came round again he could record the words in synchronization with his lips. The trouble with looping was that men on the tundra were likely to sound as if they had their heads inside biscuit tins. This film was not going to be an exception. Edgar Nicolson productions seldom were. The picture began again, Stone said, ‘It should be me that goes, the other – no, sod. Sorry, boys, we’ll have to do it again.’ The screen flashed white, and by its reflected light Stone saw me standing in the doorway. Although one of his servants had announced my arrival he preferred to act as though it was a chance meeting. We had exchanged banalities at parties and he’d given me a brief interview for the newspaper articles, but this was a meeting between virtual strangers. That however was not evident from the warmth of his welcome. He came towards me smiling broadly as he took my hands in his. He delivered a salvo of one-word sentences, ‘Wonderful. Marvellous. Great. Super.’ Narrow-eyed, he watched the effect of them like an artillery observer. Then he adjusted the range and the fuse setting to hit instead of straddling. ‘Damned fit. And a superb suit. Where did you get that wonderful tan: I’m jealous.’ Perhaps because he told me the things he wanted to tell himself there was an artless sincerity in his voice. ‘You’re looking well yourself, Marshall,’ I responded. He gripped my hand. He was smaller, more wrinkled and more tanned than I remembered, but his voice had the same tough reedy tone that I’d heard in his films. ‘Are you having problems?’ I asked. ‘It’s the stutter, darling.’ He could say ‘darling’ with such virile aplomb that it became the most sincere and effective greeting that one man could use to another. ‘I see.’ ‘I would never have used a hesitation if I’d guessed I’d be looping it.’ The joke was on him but he laughed. ‘The sound crew thought they could use the original track?’ ‘They swore that they’d be able to, but I could hear the genny and so could everyone else. If we could hear it, then the mike could pick it up. I should have put my foot down. God knows, I’ve been in the business long enough to know about recordings. But a bloody actor must know his place, eh, Peter?’ He pulled a slightly anguished face – hollow cheeks and half-closed eyes – before letting it soften into a broad smile. Just as his speech was articulated with an actor’s care, so did all his gestures have a beginning, middle and an end. He shook his head to remove the smile. ‘Get Mr Anson a fresh pot of coffee and some of those flaky pastries, will you, Johnny.’ Another man helped me off with my coat. I said, ‘The publicity secretary said…’ ‘Sure, Peter, she said you might look in. Sandy, take Peter’s coat.’ Yet a third man put my coat on a hanger and carried it away with either reverence or disgust, I could not be sure which. ‘Glad of someone to talk to,’ said Stone. ‘Bloody boring, doing these loops. Will it be a full-length book?’ ‘Yes. About eighty thousand words and lots of photos. By the way, the publicity people will let me have plenty of film stills but I was wondering if you have any personal snapshots you could lend me. You know: school groups, holiday snaps, mother, father or wartime photos.’ He looked up and stared at me. ‘I was in the war,’ he said. ‘What did you do?’ He stared at me until I shifted uncomfortably. ‘What did you do in the war, Daddy?’ I laughed nervously. ‘You know what I did, Marshall. I sat on my arse in Hollywood.’ He sensed my discomfort. ‘Yes, I know. Why?’ I’d rehearsed the answer to that a million times, so I had it pat. ‘I’d saved thirty shillings a week to pay my fare to California. It wasn’t so easy to chuck it up when war was declared. It was May 1940 when finally I went up to Canada and volunteered.’ ‘And?’ ‘When that Army radiographer found an ankle fracture from schooldays had mended badly… I wasn’t exactly heartbroken. But I volunteered every six months for the rest of the war just to appease my conscience. The nearest I got to active duty was working with John Ford and Darryl Zanuck making a US Army film about venereal disease. That was my war, Marshall, how did yours go?’ ‘I worked with a chap named Millington-Ash, a brigadier. He ended the war a major-general. On paper I think I was probably a lance-corporal.’ ‘What kind of outfit was that?’ He smiled at me as if I’d made a social gaffe. ‘Put infantry.’ ‘I’ll forget the whole thing if you like.’ ‘Office work for the most part but they quoted the Official Secrets Act at me a couple of times – you know.’ ‘You mean you were some sort of agent?’ He moved his head in the direction of the man bringing the silver pot of coffee and the cream pastries. He didn’t answer until the man had gone again. Even then he took the precaution of covering the microphone with his hand, in case it was alive. ‘Not for publication, Pete, my boy. We could both get into hot water.’ ‘Subject closed.’ ‘That’s the best. Now, tell me what your readers will want to know about me.’ It was a practical if unorthodox attitude to biography. For a moment I was unable to think of an answer. I knew what I believed to be the job of the biographer. I knew it to be a process of selection, of emphasis and the relationship between events and attitudes. Just as Toynbee had once dismissed the ‘one damn thing after another’ school of historians, so I believed that a man’s activities were only a means to an end. A biography must show what a man is, rather than what he does. But to emphasize the influence that a writer had upon a finished life story was a dangerous thing to explain to Stone. Tactfully, I said, “They’d probably like to know what your life is like. They’d like to share your pleasures and your disappointments and learn something of your craft. They’d like to know how much of your success was luck and to what extent you created your own opportunity.’ ‘Yes, yes, yes, and how much I earn and what I spend it on, what my house is like and who am I screwing.’ ‘Not exactly,’ I said primly. ‘Listen, Peter. If you are going to have a go at me, you’d better be frank right from the start.’ ‘Why would I want to do that?’ ‘And why would some little creep grab me when I’m getting out of the Rolls this morning and tell me my last film was shit?’ He laughed to smother the spark of temper. ‘Did that happen?’ ‘You get used to it.’ He sighed and smiled. ‘We all get them. Even the ones who are not actually insulting feel free to criticize your voice, your face, walk, dress, car, acting ability, et cetera. And they are amazed if you’re not grateful for it! There is a widespread illusion, Peter, that film stars lead protected lives and urgently need members of the public to stride up uninvited and start being frank with them.’ I nodded sympathetically. ‘Well, I don’t need it, darling. No one needs it. No one needs insults. You don’t need insults to your writing and I don’t need it for my acting.’ I guessed he was still smarting from the US reviews of Tigertrap. Too, he was girding his loins for the London showing. ‘That’s how it goes,’ I said. ‘We have enough doubts and fears already. God knows I’m my own most bitter critic…’ He laughed. He got up to do the next recording. During our talk he was always ready to do each recording as the technicians had the loop ready. Post-recording can kill an actor’s performance. Alone in a dark recording studio it’s not easy to reproduce the power and spontaneity of a performance created under the lights with other actors, and with a director to prod and interpret and stand ready with a vital potion of praise. But Stone was able to improve upon his guide track: he was able to make the words carry the emotion a step further. On the other hand I noticed the way he corrected the too forceful gestures in his performance by flattening the phrasing of the words. Stone was a pro and he completed each loop expertly and quickly. ‘I’m a professional too, Marshall,’ I warned him. ‘I’m not going to attack you but I’m not going to omit whole sections of your life to leave just a history of your successes. For instance, I don’t want to dwell upon your divorce but I can’t just forget that you were ever married. Neither of us can forget it.’ He looked relieved, if anything. ‘Poor Mary,’ he said. ‘How could you imagine I’d want to forget our life together. I owe her a lot, Peter, more than I can tell you. The divorce affected her more than she will ever admit, even to you. Rejection can make any of us say bitter things that we don’t really mean. You must remember that when you talk with her.’ He stopped, and I saw in him a cruelty that I’d never suspected and at which Mary never did hint. ‘She’s a truly wonderful person,’ he added. I said nothing. The masterful inactivity that is the working method of doctors, interrogators and journalists did not fail me. He continued, ‘When a woman marries a man who is dedicated to an art, her first object is to find out how dedicated.’ He smiled as he remembered. ‘Mary saw my acting as a direct rival. She wanted me to be home early, only take jobs where we could be together and not talk too much about my work. Can you imagine? I was a struggling young actor. I would have signed a ten-year contract for a repertory company in Greenland. I was desperate to act.’ He laughed, mocking his foolishness. ‘I tried with Mary. I really tried. But when a woman wants to find out if she’s married a hen-pecked type of man she starts to peck. Jesus, the rows we had! Sometimes we threw things. Once we smashed every piece of china in the house and then she cut my face by throwing an egg beater at me. It was only this marvellous man I’ve got in Harley Street who saved me from being scarred for life. As it was, when Mary saw his bill she started another row.’ He poured more coffee for me. At first I had been angry with the way he talked of Mary, but then I realized that he was trying to disregard the fact that she was now my wife. ‘When I had this chance of going to Hollywood, I sent for Mary as soon as it was practical. I thought a new country would give us a chance of starting again. You know.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked away. When he turned back to me I saw that a tear had formed in the corner of his eye. It was a jet-black teardrop coloured by the mascara that he used on his lashes. I said, ‘I saw your Hamlet twice. I’ve never seen its match.’ He brightened. ‘Schtik,’ he said modestly. ‘Skill! Your Yorick speech: the second time I was waiting for it, but it was still as natural as an ad lib.’ ‘I delivered the previous lines tight on cue. But just after starting the Yorick speech I let them think I’d dried.’ He picked up the milk jug and twisted it in his hands. ‘“Let me see. Alas, poor Yorick.”’ He stared at the jug as if trying to read his lines there. He turned his eyes to me, hesitated, and then spoke in the lightest of conversational tones, ‘“I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times.”’ Stone smiled, as if he’d performed some puzzling party trick for an appreciative small child. He was happy to amuse me further. ‘“Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?”’ Stone put the jug down. ‘Schtik,’ he said, but he could not conceal his pleasure. I remembered the wonderful notices he’d got and the predictions that had been made about him. Few doubted that he’d turn his back on movies and the rewards of Hollywood. The London theatre cleared a space for him, the electricians readied his name in neon and theatre critics sharpened their superlatives, delighted that an errant player should discover the London stage to be the only true Mecca. But the ‘fresh young genius’, the ‘modern Irving’, this ‘giant in a land of giants’ soon caught the plane back to California. Stone caught my eye. ‘My prince was a fine fellow.’ I nodded. ‘It wasn’t schtik.’ ‘No, it wasn’t.’ Marshall Stone did not go to lunch. He’d eaten none of the cream pastries, although after I’d eaten both of them he sent out for more, as if having them there to resist was important to him: but perhaps it was just hospitality. At lunchtime one of his men brought him a polished apple wrapped in starched linen, a piece of processed cheese from Fortnum’s and three starch-free biscuits. The recording boys took their allotted lunchtime and Stone sent his men away, so we were alone in the dim studio. It was then that he gave me a demonstration of his skill. He had been talking about speech training and how poor his voice had been when he was a young actor. He quoted his piece from the Bible making the sort of mistakes he made then, and after that he gave it to me with everything he’d got. It was an impressive demonstration of speech training. His voice was held low and resonant, and his articulation was precise and clipped so that even his whispers could have been projected a hundred yards or more. There were no tricks to it: no lilting Welsh vowels or hard Olivier consonants. He didn’t point any lines or throw any away. He didn’t pause too long or try to surprise me with the use of the thorax. He just did everything he could to make the words themselves transcend the fact that they were too well known. ‘“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: ‘“A time to be born, and a time to die: a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; ‘“A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; ‘“A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; ‘“A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; ‘“A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; ‘“A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; ‘“A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.”’ It was very good, and Stone was smart enough to follow it with a moment’s silence while he searched his pockets for a cigarette. ‘You’ve talked with Edgar?’ Stone offered me a cigarette. ‘Yesterday.’ ‘He was with me when I did Last Vaquero.’ ‘So he said.’ ‘He had that business with the girl… did he tell you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘It was rotten luck. And Edgar is a sweet man.’ ‘He said it spoiled his chance in Last Vaquero.’ ‘He played the thief.’ ‘Was he in the running for the lead?’ Stone gave a good-natured chuckle. ‘Did he say that?’ ‘He told me he had a chance at the lead, except that Bookbinder was frightened of the scandal when the girl committed suicide.’ ‘He’s wonderful, that Edgar,’ Stone shook his head. ‘By the way, the girl didn’t die. I mean, she did die some years later in a traffic accident, but she didn’t die because of the abortion.’ ‘Who was she?’ Stone lit his cigarette. ‘Some actress or other – starlet, I should say – she’d never had a part in a film or anything.’ ‘Did Edgar meet her in Hollywood?’ Stone inhaled and blew smoke before replying. When he did, his voice was icy and almost menacing. For the first time I saw the dangerous quality that all actors must have if they are to be really good. This coilspring of repressed violence had seen many a bad film through reels of dull dialogue. ‘Don’t let’s pry into Edgar’s life,’ he said. I turned the page of my notebook and decided to press on with the nuts and bolts. I said, ‘In a TV interview some years ago you said that a star should stop acting altogether rather than do character roles as he gets older. Do you still think that?’ ‘A star has the vehicle built round him. He faces very different problems if he becomes part of building a film around another actor. Is that terribly vain?’ He gripped my arm tight enough to hurt. There was nothing homosexual about such Hollywood caresses; they were intended to get undivided attention, and Stone used them expertly. ‘No,’ I said. ‘If I was no longer playing leads – and luckily I’m having as many offers today as I ever had – but if I wasn’t getting leads, yes, I would stop acting.’ ‘What would you do?’ ‘Sail. I’d sail around the world, like Chichester or Knox-Johnson. A man only discovers himself when he’s alone with the elements.’ ‘I didn’t know you were a sailor.’ I knew he had a motor-cruiser – that was mandatory equipment for all superstars; I’d seen it at Cannes during the festivals – but his enthusiasm for sailing was a new aspect of Marshall Stone. ‘I sailed alone across the Atlantic,’ he said indignantly. ‘I’m prouder of that than of any film I’ve made.’ ‘Which route did you take?’ ‘Shannon to Port of Spain, except that I got lost and had to swim ashore to ask where I was.’ ‘And where were you?’ ‘St Kitts.’ ‘Not bad.’ ‘Seven degrees error.’ ‘When was this?’ ‘Nineteen forty-six. A couple of years later I went to the States. It was forty-eight that Kagan Bookbinder gave me the part in Last Vaquero.’ ‘I’ve never seen the voyage used in your publicity.’ ‘It means too much to me, to have it used like that. You know what sort of biogs these publicity chaps dream up.’ ‘They sent me yours this morning.’ He laughed. ‘Well, there you are.’ ‘You won’t mind if I use the sailing story?’ ‘I don’t know, Peter, it’s a very personal thing.’ ‘So is a biography, Marshall.’ ‘You’re right! OK, but use it soberly. I mean, don’t make it sound as though I’ve scaled Everest alone or something.’ Stone told Sam Parnell that looping would end for the day and one of Stone’s men helped him into his jacket, adjusted his handkerchief and held a comb and mirror for him. Stone nodded to tell me to go. The biography could begin with the yacht. Far from the shipping routes a young actor, fresh from minor roles on the London stage, reviews his life so far. The mountaineer, explorer and the lone sailor show a dogged indifference to hardship and privation. They also persevere in the face of a high probability of failure. These qualities they share with the actor. There were other things I liked about the lone yachtsman beginning: the sea and the stars, the nautical analogies and the man navigating through the dangerous shoals (of Hollywood?). Well, that might be too corny even for an actor’s biography. I put away my notebook and thanked Marshall. His eyes were his most powerful asset, he could momentarily hypnotize a person he faced. He must have known this, for I suspect now that he held my hands in that vice-like grip of his only in order that I should not escape his gaze. For, at the moment when Stone took your hand, there was nothing in the world for him except you. A million volts of superstar surged through you and even the most hardened cynic could become a fluttering fan. Most of the people working in the industry are fans. Not only directors, producers and actors, but the wardrobe workers, grips and sparks are all under the spell of the golden screen. Perhaps films would be better if more of the crew were the hard-nosed cynics that the audience have become, but they are not. At any premi?re you will see the crews, dolled up in their best suits and sequined dresses, gawking at the celebrities as pop-eyed as school kids. That was the way it was at the European premi?re of Tigertrap. They all knew that it hadn’t impressed the Americans. The New York Press gave it a terrible roasting. Yet in Leicester Square the policemen were holding back the crowds as the Rolls-Royce cars arrived. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/len-deighton/close-up/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.