Marabelle, p.26
Marabelle, page 26
Because of its “strong” theme, the Hays Office gave the film a very careful scrutiny. They decided that it was all right for the wife to turn to prostitution in order to save her husband’s life, it was noble and dramatically valid, these were grim times, more than one good woman had taken to the streets in order to survive, but it was not all right for the husband to take her back after he discovers her transgression. The ending would have to be changed. The wife would have to suffer, grim times or no. The final scene had to be reshot. Instead of gathering her into his arms for a poignant fade-out in the hospital room, March tightened his mouth and turned away from her. Marabelle smiled a heartbreakingly sad smile and left the room. She walked down the empty corridor and down the front steps, still smiling that brave, broken smile, vanishing into the cloud of fog that cloaks the street, presumably to continue her life of sin.
Unfaithful bombed at the box office. Audiences stayed away in droves. It was too bleak. It brought the reality of the depression much too close. It did, however, establish Marabelle as a skillful film actress. The same critics who had lambasted her for Into the Depths lavished her with praise and claimed that, given the right parts, she could easily become Hollywood’s best actress. Unfortunately, the right parts were not forthcoming. She had made two films at Paramount. Neither had been successful. They had no idea what to do with her. She couldn’t cut it as a glamour girl, Into the Depths had proved that, and while she might be able to act, acting didn’t bring in the shekels. She was being paid an enormous salary whether she worked or not, and every day she wasn’t in front of the cameras represented a loss. The story department frantically searched for a suitable property, and in the meantime she was loaned out to Metro to play the lead in a drawing-room comedy that had been turned down by Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford, Myrna Loy and every other female star on the lot.
Marabelle was incensed. She threw a monumental tantrum, and the walls of Adolph Zukor’s office barely withstood the tremors. One of the secretaries reported that several paintings had crashed to the floor, and it was rumored that she had hurled a leather wastebasket through the window behind his desk. Zukor took several pills, spent the next three days in bed and confided to his peers that he’d rather be locked in a room with a raging lioness than face That Woman when she was riled. He was rather pleased by her outburst. With the perverse logic of most top studio executives, he figured that any actress that temperamental must be worth what she was costing, and he gave orders to the story department to redouble their efforts to find the right vehicle for her. He also informed Miss Lawrence through an assistant that she would get her ass over to M-G-M or else be put on immediate suspension.
Defeated, depressed, bitterly dejected, Marabelle bewailed her fate in an exhausting monologue that lasted all night long, using language that would have put a sailor to shame and melodramatic gestures not even Sarah Bernhardt could have pulled off. Julie and I were a captive audience. I had indeed gone in and dragged her out of bed that night after the preview, and I had shaken her silly. She had adored it. Things were going splendidly between us. She was reading my novel chapter by chapter and making remarkably astute criticisms, spending quite a lot of time in my bungalow at the Garden of Allah. I had halfway promised to give up writing screenplays as soon as the book was finished, but as it was going to take me at least another year to finish it I felt relatively secure for the time being.
“Well, darlings,” Marabelle remarked as the first rays of morning sunlight crept through the windows, “now that I’ve got that out of my system I suppose we might as well Press On. How about some breakfast? I’m sure there’s another bottle of bourbon around here someplace.”
She drove to Culver City in a long white Cadillac. She was wearing a white skirt and jacket with a fluttery gold and yellow scarf at her throat, her golden brown hair gleaming in the sunlight, a dazzling smile on her lips as she made a beeline for Louis B. Mayer’s office. Mayer was on the defensive, prepared to meet a raging termagant. Instead he met a sweet l’il southern girl oozing with warmth and genteel charm and modest as could be. She was pleased as punch to be working at Metro, that had always been her ambition, and she was honored to meet him at last, Daddy had told her he was the most important man in Hollywood, performing a valuable service to the country by boosting morale with his wonderful films. Within five minutes Mayer was convinced that Zukor was a goddamned liar and wondered how anyone could spread such ugly rumors about this utterly enchanting creature.
“I may as well be frank with you, Mr. Mayer,” she said, assuming a guileless expression. “I’ve heard talk that this is to be a ‘B’ picture and I’m awfully upset because you see I don’t make ‘B’ pictures and I know you don’t. I love the script, perhaps it could have a teeny bit of work done on it, a couple of funny lines added, after all it is supposed to be a comedy. I’m thrilled to pieces that I’m going to be working with Robert Montgomery, he’s so smooth and debonair, and I feel sure you’ll personally see that I have some nice things to wear. Would you believe someone told me I’m expected to wear Virginia Bruce’s old gowns?”
“No!” Mayer exclaimed, appalled.
“Of course I wouldn’t complain, just working at Metro is honor enough, but I’d so like our movie to have that special touch, gowns by Adrian, lighting by Oliver Marsh. May—may I level with you?”
“Please,” he begged.
“Well, I know I shouldn’t tell you this, but the only reason I’m here is because Mr. Zukor thinks the movie is going to be a bomb and he said it would serve that son of a bitch right to be stuck with a box-office dud like me when he couldn’t get one of his own stars to do it. I—I cried real tears when I heard that.”
She almost cried real tears all over again but decided at the last minute that that might be overdoing it. Mayer’s eyes were moist with emotion behind his steel-rimmed spectacles, and so were his hands. He got up and came around his desk and clasped one of her hands in both of his and assured her that everything was going to be all right.
“I just knew I could depend on you after all those nice things Daddy said about you. I’m sure he’d love to meet you next time you’re in Washington, by the way, I understand you’re often up there, being such a staunch Republican. We have to stick together in times like these.”
“Definitely,” he said, clinging to her hand.
“Incidentally,” she continued, “I understand you haven’t cast the part of Bob Montgomery’s father yet. I—well, I had a positively brilliant idea, but I’m sure you’d think it was foolish.”
“What?” he asked.
“Bruce Hampton,” she said.
“Bruce Hampton!”
“There, you see, I knew you’d have that reaction. He hasn’t made a movie in over two years and everyone says he’s washed up, everyone says he’s a hopeless drunk, no one’s willing to give the poor man a chance. Not too long ago they were calling him the world’s greatest actor, and if I’m not mistaken he was working right here at Metro, making millions for the studio, but of course it would take a very brave man to hire him now, even if he has stopped drinking.”
“He’s stopped drinking?”
“He’s trying to pull himself together. He’s working out every day at the gym. He runs on the beach. I happen to know that for a fact, and I just felt he’d be marvelous in that particular part. The father’s a hammy old fraud who used to be a Shakespearean actor. Who better than Hampton for a role like that? There’re hundreds of thousands of devoted fans out there just waiting for him to return to the screen, and the man who brought him back would earn their undying gratitude, but of course I can understand why you wouldn’t dare hire him.”
“Who says I wouldn’t?”
“No studio in Hollywood will give him a job.”
“He’d be brilliant,” Mayer said.
“Of course he would, but—”
“Hampton made millions for the studio. He deserves a chance.”
“You’d be taking a terrible risk.”
“If I wasn’t willing to take a risk I wouldn’t be where I am today.”
“I admire your attitude, Mr. Mayer, I think you’re terribly kind and loyal, but people would say you’re being terribly foolish. After all, the man did have a very bad drinking problem, and you never know when people like that are going to hit the bottle again. Hampton’s a professional, true, and still one of the world’s greatest actors, but—”
Marabelle actually had Mayer arguing for Hampton, and before she was finished Mayer was thoroughly convinced that he had come up with the idea of hiring Bruce Hampton for the part and that this warm, engaging girl was trying to talk him out of it for the good of the studio. He took Marabelle to lunch at the commissary, which caused quite a lot of talk, most of it extremely bitchy. Joan Crawford looked up from her yogurt and remarked to Gail Patrick that Marabelle was obviously a fast worker. Constance Bennett, across the table, paused between bites of cottage cheese and said that with Louis B. Mayer a girl had to be fast. Gail Patrick said that Marabelle must be on her way up. Miss Bennett shook her head and said that with Mayer she was definitely going down.
Marabelle was demure and charming at the Executive Table. Mayer smiled at her with paternal fondness and told the other men at the table that she was going to be a great little asset to the studio. They hastily nodded in agreement. Over chicken soup Mayer said that he’d been thinking of hiring Bruce Hampton to play Montgomery’s father, and, seeing which way the wind was blowing, his executives nervously congratulated him and assured him it was the most brilliant idea since Sound. Mayer beamed complacently and patted Marabelle’s hand and announced that her picture was going to be First Class all the way.
Marabelle parted with Mayer outside the commissary and then hurried blithely past several enormous sound stages, turned down a narrow street, went around the tiny red brick schoolhouse for child actors and, reaching the writers’ building, scampered down the hall and flung herself into the tiny cubicle where I was trying to inject life into a script intended for Elissa Landi and Edmund Lowe.
“I had the cocksucker eating out of my hand!” she exclaimed.
“Jesus, Marabelle, you startled the life out of me!”
“Give me a cigarette, darling, quick! I haven’t had one since I arrived on the lot, didn’t go with the image I was trying to project with Mr. Mayer. I was so sweet and sincere and girlish I made Shirley Temple look like a trollop. He likes me, darling. Actually, he likes the idea that I’m the daughter of Senator Jonathan Lawrence, the old bastard has dreams of political power, but he’s going to see that we have a top production, Adrian’s doing my gowns and the script is going to be sent to Donald Ogden Stewart for a complete rewrite. I thought of asking him to send it to you, darling, but I knew you were bogged down in this hideous thing for Elissa Landi and probably wouldn’t want to write anything for your oldest and dearest friend who, incidentally, is going to make these snooty Metro ladies turn green with envy.”
I said that I was very happy for her and patiently explained that I was extremely busy and suggested that she tell me all about it some other time. Marabelle lighted a cigarette, smoked it with relish and went right on as though I hadn’t said a word.
“You haven’t heard the best part yet, he’s going to hire Bruce to play the father, it hasn’t been cast yet. It’s not an important role but at least it’s a beginning and Bruce could do it in his sleep. I told Mayer he’d given up drinking, I lied till I was blue in the face, but he bought it. He was so pleased with the idea he decided he’d thought of it himself. This is going to make all the difference, Eddie. If he has work, if—if he has something to keep him occupied, I just know he’ll be able to pull himself together.”
“You’re taking a big chance, Marabelle.”
“I know that, darling. I—I just had to do something.”
“You’ve done an awful lot these past few months.”
“Not enough.”
“You got him out of that gloomy, deserted mansion he was living in. You paid off his debts and leased him a cottage on the beach, hired a male nurse to stay there with him, take care of him, curtail the drinking as much as possible. You visit him several times a week, spend every Sunday with him. You do all you can to keep him cheerful.”
“Not enough,” she repeated.
Her voice was soft and sad, and her eyes were full of pain. She loved him still. She had never stopped loving him, not really. What she felt for him now was almost maternal, a combination of compassion and concern and sentiment, but it was nevertheless a continuation of that love that had first stirred her heart so many years ago. Marabelle crushed out her cigarette and sighed, deliberately forcing back the pain.
“It’s going to work,” she said firmly.
“I hope it will.”
“I’m going to make it work. After all the trouble I’ve gone to that posturing old ham damn well better shape up. I’m going out to the beach as soon as I leave here. First thing I’m going to do is tell Jenkins to hide all the liquor and then we’re going to work out a very strenuous regimen for Mr. Bruce Hampton. The son of a bitch is going to go to the gym every day and he’s going to run on the beach and lift weights and sweat buckets and work his ass off. He’s going to stop moping and mourning and dramatizing himself and get back into harness. He’s going to come back to the studio with his head held high and give the performance of his lifetime.”
“I believe you,” I said.
Marabelle picked up my package of cigarettes, slipped it into the pocket of her jacket along with my book of matches and started out of the room, turning at the door to fire her final shot.
“The bastard will probably steal every scene he’s in,” she said bitterly. “He’ll probably make the rest of us look like a bunch of amateurs. I know all his old tricks and I intend to watch him like a hawk. I’m so goddamned tenderhearted I can hardly live with myself, but there are limits.”
“Oh?”
“This is my picture, darling. God help anyone who tries to steal a single frame.”
“Bruce Hampton included?”
“Particularly Bruce Hampton.”
She stepped on out into the hall, and a few moments later I looked out of my window and saw her moving breezily toward the parking lot. She stopped to chat with a group of extras dressed in French Revolution attire, holding them spellbound for several minutes. As they moved on she turned and looked up and, seeing me at the window, waved merrily. I returned the wave and then went back to my desk and gazed at the pages of script without really seeing them. I admired her for what she was doing. I admired her guts and determination, and I loved her for that tender heart she poked such fun at. I only hoped it wasn’t going to be broken all over again.
Louis B. Mayer was as good as his word. Donald Ogden Stewart was engaged to rewrite Sometimes We Do, changing the title to We Had a Ball and suffusing a lifeless script with wit and vitality, working in a number of madcap situations that were certain to delight audiences. Adrian designed a sumptuous wardrobe for the leading lady, seventeen complete outfits that were going to cost the studio over fifty thousand dollars. Billie Burke was selected to play Marabelle’s charmingly featherbrained aunt, and Bruce Hampton was signed for the part of Robert Montgomery’s engagingly outrageous father. Production was set back to accommodate the changes, and Marabelle prayed Hampton would be ready in time.
She had her hands full. Hampton was shockingly ungrateful. He felt that he was doing the studio a favor by coming out of retirement to play a tacky part unworthy of his talents and was, in general, unruly, uncooperative and a major pain in the ass. He saw no reason why he should go on a diet, why he should run on the beach, why he should go to the gym and subject himself to a lot of sweaty exercises, and he certainly saw no reason why he should stop drinking when he could play Nigel Conrad blind drunk and still do a better job of it than any other actor currently drawing breath. The loss of his fame and fortune had done little damage to his ego. It was, if anything, even more towering than it had been during his days of glory.
He reluctantly and resentfully let himself be forced into the new regimen. He went to the gym obediently enough and then snuck off behind the lockers for a secret nip provided by one of his old sparring buddies. In sweatsuit and tennis shoes he ran on the beach and, if not watched, darted behind a sand dune for a quick pick-me-up from a bottle he’d stashed there earlier. He refused broiled fish and lean steak and adamantly demanded the richest pasta. He was as sly and crafty and capricious as a naughty child and thoroughly enjoyed making life miserable for Marabelle and the detested Jenkins.
“I don’t even want to do this picture,” he announced one noon.
“You’re going to, darling.”
“Why should the great Bruce Hampton demean himself by appearing in such unmitigated garbage? You’re looking at the man who awed them as Peter Ibbetson, who had them in tears as Lear. You’re looking at the man who won international acclaim as Hamlet.”
“I’m looking at a washed-up, burned-out has-been who’s spent the past two and a half years sitting on his fat keister mourning the past.”
“That was low. Oh, that was low. That hurt.”
“You’ve got to shape up, darling. We start filming in three weeks.”
“I’m in glorious shape,” he replied. “Look at that profile. Tell me it’s not still perfect.”
“It sags, darling.”
“You treasonous little bitch!”
