All the Stars in the Heavens (9 page)

“Do you find the men in charge of the studios intelligent?”

“They're good with budgets. You have your geniuses, like Irving Thalberg. He's a reader. The rest of them? Not so much. People read for them. Ida Koverman does most of the reading for Louis B. Mayer.”

“If they don't read, what do the people in charge at the studios actually do?”

“They keep their noses in the wind and figure out which way it's blowing.”

“Surely there's more to it than that.”

“Here's a short history of motion pictures. About twenty years ago, the Schenk brothers were running an amusement park in Palisades, New Jersey. They noticed that people were spending a lot of money watching the nickelodeons, so they hatched a scheme to put words and music to the pictures.”

“You make it sound pedestrian.”

“Now the producers tell us that movies began in the theater, that plays were the inspiration. Classics. But that's a lot of hooey. We're a carnival amusement. They made movies in Australia, China, Germany, long before they came here. We didn't invent the movies, but just like anything American made, we take a good idea from anywhere and make it better. We've come a long way fast.”

“Any advice, sir? How does one break in to the business?”

“The accent works for you. Work the Old Britannia for all it's worth.”

“I will indeed.”

“A ditch digger with a British accent could walk through the gates of MGM, and Louis B. Mayer would sign him up. An American ditch digger would walk through the same gate and be escorted off the lot. There's something about you people. You sound like you have culture.”

“Lucky for me, they will never meet my family and disprove that theory.”

“Commoners?”

“Mr. Gable, you have no idea.”

“I might. I'm from Cadiz.”

“Arabia?”

“Ohio.”

“I passed through Ohio on the train. Lovely and languid.”

“If you say so. I worked the oil rigs. Met a girl and got hooked on theater. Got out. Became an actor. That's how I ended up here.”

“There's always a girl in the story.”

“Every picture is a love story.” Gable steadied his gaze on the water. “Even when they call it something else. They might call it an adventure, a mystery, a historical, or a Tom Mix western, but they're all love stories.”

David Niven was aware that Gable had a reputation with the ladies. A lovely blonde had kissed him good-bye before he boarded the
König
that morning. Virginia Grey was a young starlet, her father a movie director, so she understood Hollywood and the life of a leading man. As Gable moved through the world, his way was made clear by women who could not get enough of him, or he of them. They had made him a star, and he owed them. Whatever he could do to repay the debt was fine with him, and in fact an obligation.

Niven studied the fan magazines to plot his course in Hollywood.
Photoplay
had reported Gable's recent passionate pursuit of the actress Elizabeth Allan, an English rose who had enchanted Hollywood with her regal bearing and delicate beauty. She had a British accent, which proved Gable's theory. It didn't matter that Gable was
married; he was a contract player, at a salary of $3,000 a week, he could buy anything or anyone he wanted, including the press, who could be convinced not to write about his private life.

David Niven could only imagine how much fun it was to be Clark Gable.

“Things are changing in Hollywood. More eyes on us.”

“I can be discreet,” Niven promised.

“You don't have any choice in the matter. They can fire you over anything these days.”

After a decade of gum-chewing flappers, the movie business left the Roaring Twenties behind and was ready for class and couth. By 1934, hemlines had dropped, bob haircuts grew out to chignons, and breeding replaced moxie as girls went back to being women. Good taste was in style, so were the traditional values of home and hearth.

The future of the movie business would be built on a moral high ground thanks to the Hays Code. The summer of 1934 changed everything. There was a binding clause in every actor's studio contract that said he or she accepted the responsibility of setting an ethical and decent example for the audiences that came to see them in the movies.

No longer could you play an angel; you had to
be
one.

The dramatic movies of the 1930s might have been filled with stories of gangsters and their molls—Gable himself had played his share of thugs and thieves—but there were consequences for bad behavior. If you sinned on the silver screen, you might die for it; if you repented, it made a splendid final scene audiences would never forget. You want them weeping on the way out. Hollywood was now in the business of hope, with plots centered on get-rich-quick schemes and love stories that brought riches along with wedding vows.

The art deco sets, layered confections of gleaming floors and vaulted ceilings, had audiences gazing up in aspirational wonder. Never mind that the Great Depression was in full force, with breadlines, unemployment, hunger, and need. The movies showed that dreams were as potent as reality. For a nickel, you could escape.

David Niven felt slightly guilty that he had access to the one place
on earth that appeared to be unaffected by world events. It was as if the endless California sun beamed down on him, and only him, lighting a bright path to potential riches and romance.

“You're going to do all right. You have wet eyes, Niven.”

“I'm a crybaby, sir?”

“No. The best cinematographer told me that wet eyes are the one requirement of all movie actors. The eyes make the close-up. And yours are big and blue, which doesn't hurt.”

“I suppose every actor needs a gimmick.”

“You know what I like best about acting?”

“The ladies, sir?”

“Nope.” Gable threw the line into the water.

“Oh, I see. Fishing?” Niven said the word in such a way that it made Gable chuckle.

“And hunting and golf. I work for everything in between. The time off.”

“You work to live.”

“Exactly.” Gabe smiled.

“My mother always says that's the key to being happy. Don't live to work, work to live. Of course, I hardly think my mother ever thought much about pursuing happiness. She rather thought it was a bird that landed on you. It was luck.”

“I agree with your mother.”

“A charwoman can be wise and better read than any queen.”

“Your mother was a charwoman?”

“No. She just used to say that.”

“England is far away. You can make up your backstory with any details you want. You wouldn't be the first actor to pretend that he came from royalty. The front office will cook your humble beginning and make fancy jam out of it.”

“Oh, you make it sound so easy. Is acting as much fun as it looks?”

“If the director is enjoying his work, then I'm enjoying mine.”

“How about the leading ladies?”

“They're all right.” Gable grinned.

“I should say so, sir.”

“I can't figure women out, and I guess that's what keeps me interested.”

Gable surveyed the surface of the water. He tugged on the line gently. Niven stood at the ready to assist, marveling that Gable did not shrink against the vast horizon, but met its line. Other important actors and successful producers had rented the boat—Niven had swabbed for them too—but none stood out against the mighty ocean quite like this man. Gable was over six feet tall; he made the cruiser, with its wide deck and hefty sails, look like a dinghy.

Despite Gable's stature, there was an earthiness to the star that made him approachable, more field soldier than general. Niven decided Gable was impossibly likeable. This was a man he could envision becoming his friend, but only if he could one day be his equal.

Suddenly the boat creaked and leaned. Gable's reel bent, as he pulled back with steady force. Niven watched as Gable commandeered a ten-foot marlin out of the water, a swift arrow against a cloudless sky. With one graceful twist, Gable pulled the fish onto the deck, where it thrashed defiantly.

“Throw the baby back,” Gable said. “We'll keep this one.”

David scooped the bin up to the rig and dumped the baby marlin back into the water, where it disappeared into the foam of the surf. “Lucky bastard.” Niven sighed. He hoped to be as lucky as the fish that got away.

Gable walked across the MGM lot on his way to his bungalow. Robert Leonard, his current director on his new film,
After Office Hours
, caught up with him.

“How do you like Connie Bennett?” Robert Leonard asked.

“She's a good kid.”

“I have them rewriting the ending. I think we need to find out what happens to her.”

“Fine with me.”

Leonard looked relieved. He had been around since the silents, and felt lucky to still be working. The front office had assigned him
to a Gable picture, which gave his career a desperately needed boost. Gable had been a Mae Murray fan, and seen all of Robert's movies, so he readily agreed to have him direct
After Office
Hours.

“Hey, Bob.”

Robert Leonard turned to face him.

“What happened in New York?”

“You want the truth?”

“Yeah.”

“Mae and I started Tiffany Pictures, and things were going along well.”

“You put out some good movies.”

“Yeah, we did. But we couldn't make a baby. Somehow Mae put the failure of that on the little studio we started, and she eventually divorced me because she couldn't face me.”

“So you came back.”

“I'm lucky they wanted me back,” Robert admitted.

“Don't ever say that, bud. Working in the studio is like pursuing a woman. You never want her to know how bad you need her.”

“I'll keep that advice in mind, Clark.” Robert went to his office.

Gable stopped at a water fountain. He was wearing jodhpurs, a white shirt, and his riding boots. He removed his partial plate from his mouth and rinsed it in the fountain.

Anita Loos, a petite brunette and the most popular screenwriter on the lot, walked by with her secretary.

“Mr. Gable,” she greeted him.

“What do you think of the King of Hollywood without his teeth?” He popped the plate back into his mouth.

Anita laughed.

“You writing anything new for me?”

“Always. I'm cooking up a little something for you and Miss Crawford.”

“That's always a yes from me.”

“I figured.”

Anita and her secretary watched as Gable walked away.

“I've found religion,” Anita said.

“The Church of Clark Gable?”

“Already a member. No, I'm taking up reincarnation. I want to come back in my next life and be whatever girl that man is sweet on. It'll never happen in this go-round, but I want to die knowing it's possible in the next. “

If the young people in the movie business weren't making pictures, they were going to them.

The Pantages Theater in downtown Los Angeles had a long line of eager customers that snaked around the block. A row of palm trees outside the theater was brightly lit with klieg lamps from the roots, which threw fingers of shadow across the boulevard.

Spencer Tracy pulled up on a side street next to the theater with a car load of girls. Loretta had convinced Spencer to take Alda, her sisters, and her to see a new blockbuster,
It Happened One Night.
They were piled into Spencer's car like chocolates in a box.

“You girls get the seats. Save me the aisle. I need an escape route.”

“All the clamoring fans you want to dodge?” Polly joked.

“No, I think I can handle the two of them. I'm talking about the movie. If it's a turkey, I take off. I'm not a romance guy.”

“We know,” Loretta joked. “How do you feel about popcorn?”