Hollywood Buzz (23 page)

The director, ignoring the disruption added, “Fourth scene will be spliced in later.”

“How about splicing in some furnishings for the set?” One of the ladies wisecracked. The others giggled.

“I got news for you, Charlene. This isn’t supposed to be the parlor of some Southern plantation. And you’re not Vivien Leigh.”

The director’s retort unleashed some teasing comments and more laughter. Even Ilka, who’d remained silent and unsmiling at her post to the side, could not contain a broad grin.

Aware his control was ebbing at a dangerous rate, the director bellowed, “That goes double for the rest of you. Stop acting like a bunch of dizzy belles waiting for your beaux to come and escort you out for a spin around the ballroom.”

Naturally, the admonishment only egged the girls on more. The director’s face turned borscht red. It astounded me that when he took another stab at quieting his unruly cast, he stuck with the same tack.

“We’re not doing a remake of
Gone with the Wind
here,” he screeched through the megaphone, invoking yet another twist on the laughable analogy. “We’re doing
Uncle Sam Wants Your Old Stockings to Sock the Axis
.”

I knew a director worked with cast members to help them understand his sense of vision for the film, but what was he going for here? Mass hysteria? I grinned. Listen to me! My concept gets approved for a film and what happens? Poof! I think I’m Master Director.

Pandemonium threatening, the director at last changed his approach. “Ladies,” he said in a strained whisper that required absolute quiet to hear. “We’re going for austerity here, because this piece is about sacrificing for the war effort. What we’re about to do may help save lives and win the war. It may help bring our men home sooner.” Then, as an aside, in a more forceful voice he added, “Perhaps you should practice some austerity with your mouths.”

The entire set became somber.

“No, no, no,” the director bawled. “I want an austere setting! Not grim faces. I want pert! Perky! Not murrrky!”

The director’s emotional rantings—particularly the way his jowls shook with his exaggeration of the word “murky”—were so overblown, they made me smile. I once had a flight instructor who was a pussycat underneath his gruff exterior. The director reminded me of him.

Fortunately, the ladies under the lights were taking the situation with a grain of salt as well. Posed quietly now, they awaited further direction.

“Okay. Let’s get started. Everyone, right leg over left.”

The ladies sat up straight, crossed their legs, and stared into the camera lens.

“Nice,” the director said after a moment. “I think we’re ready. Ruthie will read the narration for the rehearsal. Bette Davis will be the voice in the final cut.”

Another stir rippled through the starlets at the mention of the famous actress.

Impatiently, the director shouted, “Knock it off! I’ll see to it you gals never get a big-time role if you can’t give me what I want here!” The starlets responded with instant silence. “Now, let’s see what you can do. Ruthie, go!”

Ruthie cleared her throat. “Off with the stockings girls,” she read. “They’re due for the discard and the war effort needs them.”

I stared. Her voice was high-pitched, quavering, a dead ringer for our First Lady’s.

While she spoke, the ladies stood and formed a line in front of the bench. They posed as though a chorus line, right foot in front, toes pointed, each foot angled “just so.” Next, they bent down, pretending to roll their stockings from the knee down over the calf.

Ruthie continued, “In a silk and nylon campaign, the government is asking us to turn in our stockings…” The ladies recrossed their legs, so now the left foot was forward. “Not new ones or good ones, but worn-out stockings. Here, motion picture starlets contribute theirs.”

The trilling speech? Was it real, or was she acting? But if she was playing a part, why not take on the voice of the film’s narrator, Bette Davis?

Again, the starlets on the set acted out rolling down their stockings.

“That’s it, that’s it,” the director said quietly in the background.

Ruthie continued in her high, quivering voice “Rising film star Ilka Maki collects the stockings at the MGM Studio in Hollywood…”

In my mind’s eye, Brody’s secretary appeared, entering his office during the story meeting. Like Ruthie’s voice, Myra’s overbite and receding chin had reminded me of Eleanor Roosevelt. At intelligence school, we’d received instruction in the use of facial disguises. Detachable gum pads puff sunken cheeks or transform the profile by filling out the upper and lower lips. If such a pad could be inserted into Myra’s chin, it would change her looks dramatically. For the better, I suspected. An adjustment to her chin might also improve her lisp. Now what about Ruthie? Was that the way she normally spoke?

Like a row of upended dominoes suddenly toppled, the ideas rippled into one another until I noticed Ilka had taken center stage.

Carrying the basket, she walked behind the ladies who had returned to the bench and were seated again. As Ilka passed, the starlets turned and placed their stockings in the basket. When she’d finished, Ilka stopped at the front of the set, placing the basket on a small stand that had been slipped in front of her. While she slid a fist into a sheer stocking pulled from the collection, the others gathered behind her. They smiled over Ilka’s shoulder as she held her stocking-covered hand and forearm aloft examining it. After a second, Ilka looked into the lens with an approving grin.

In the background Ruthie said, “There’s an explosive reason for the silk and nylon drive…”

The director took up his megaphone. “Cut.”

He gave a quick synopsis of the scene that would follow. Bette Davis would explain that the stockings were intended to be used in making powder bags for heavy guns. A finished bag looked like a huge long nylon tube and was filled with gun powder. Actual footage of one of the bags being hoisted by crane onto one of the big artillery guns would accompany the narration.

Miss Riefenstahl, Dr. Goebbels…eat your hearts out. The script was corny, but it was sure to grab the public’s attention. The message was compellingly clear. I was certain that women all across the country would respond by pitching in their stockings.

I felt a pang of unease. Miss C would probably think that Ilka and the other gals were allowing themselves to be exploited. Ah, well. This little flick wasn’t her responsibility, nor mine. And it was for the cause.

“After the gun gets loaded,” the director finished up, “the audience will hear Miss Davis say: ‘Girls, here’s how your worn-out stockings will go to war and give the Nazis and Japs a great big sock!’ The finale is the resounding boom of the gun firing.”

The starlets smiled and nodded agreeably.

The director took a look through the camera again. “Okay, let’s get a picture.”

The actresses returned to their places on the bench. Ilka went back to her spot on the sideline. The director called for quiet. The buzzer sounded and the set doors locked. “Roll sound,” he commanded. Then, “Roll camera.”

The clapper boy held up his slate reading “Uncle Sam Wants Your Old Stockings—Scene 1, Take 1.” Giving it a curt snap in front of the camera, he stepped out of the frame.

“Ac-tion,” the director barked into the megaphone.

Camera rolling, the ladies stood and took up their chorus-line position.

Right away, the director called, “Cut.”

Impatiently, he shouted, “Second from left, your stocking has a giant snag in front.”

The starlet looked up, wide-eyed. “I thought that was the point. We’re giving up our worn out stockings!”

The director released an excruciating sigh. “This is a movie, Barbara Jane. Not the real thing. Your leg is what’s gonna sell. And it’s not gonna sell anything looking like ninety-eight-year-old Great Aunt Martha’s beat-up gam.” Another heavy sigh. “Stocking, Ruthie!”

Ruthie dispatched a bystander to fetch a fresh stocking. As the aide left, a portly man in a fine suit with a handkerchief protruding from the breast pocket arrived on the set. Ruthie spotted the newcomer first and immediately began making a fuss over him. The director joined in. They had a three-way conversation for a few minutes, then the director addressed the cast and crew.

“
ATTENTION, EVERYONE
! We’re gonna take a short break.” The director checked his watch. “Take fifteen, but don’t leave the set. I want to shoot this before lunch.”

I inched my way across the set. “Psst. Ilka.”

Ilka’s face lit up when she saw me. “Pucci. Thank you for coming.”

A caterer had brought in coffee and sweet rolls. I followed Ilka over to the laden table, where we each grabbed a cup of coffee. Canvas folding chairs were spaced around the set. Many of the cast and crew were already sitting in them, reading trade papers or conversing in small groups. We found two vacant seats and drew them together far enough from the others so that we could talk in private.

Settling into her chair, Ilka asked, “Well, what do you think?”

We discussed the picture, both of us agreeing that, though it was a small film, she had a big part.

“I thought Mr. Lugosi might be here.”

“No, as you have seen last night he is in bad way.”

Sam was also “in bad way.” I buried the errant thought. “The first time we met, I saw the leather case. The vial. Needle. Is he on narcotics?”

“Morphine. Doctor prescribed.” Ilka shook her head. “The drug, it relieves the pain, it is sure. But it is potent. Makes him a little loco.” She spun her finger in a circle near her temple. “Naturally, I worry.”

Recalling I’d been outside the kitchen and had overheard her tell Lugosi, “It can kill,” for an instant
I
was worried.

“The roles he is getting now are beneath him,” she continued. “Typecast as monster, bah! Frankenstein his big comeback, fie!” Ilka shuddered. “Imagine. Great actor who at the most famous National Theater in Budapest was cast as Romeo. Jesus Christ. Now plays the devil’s disciple. It is sad. I fear the escape to opiates will increase in keeping with declining offers.”

“But it’s a living. He’s paying the bills, right?”

Ilka shrugged.

I felt the tug of the heartstring connected to my soft spot for immigrants. Lugosi had been through a great deal and clearly was up against tough times now. Ilka’s journey here couldn’t have been easy either. She, like Lugosi, struggled to get ahead in the dog-eat-dog world of movie-making. I studied her, trying to imagine what she’d been through, though I didn’t have a prayer of truly understanding the hardships of leaving everything familiar and starting over from scratch somewhere new. What I did know was that it’d taken incredible courage and great strength. Yet the person sitting next to me projected no hint of having ever suffered anything more than a broken fingernail. Even her speech hardly gave her away. And, with her Jean Harlow platinum hair, terrific looks and glamorous figure, Ilka fit in perfectly with the Hollywood starlets scattered nearby. No, she stood out. Hadn’t the director said she was “up and coming”? Still…

“Acting is a brutal profession. Even Lugosi with all his experience and talent is getting tromped on. Why are you so determined to follow him? It’s gotta be tougher for women. And movie people, the movie business…it can be so much phony-baloney. You’ve been through such harrowing experiences. And you survived. With the kind of inner core that’s gotten you this far, you could do anything. You have other gifts…”

Ilka’s eyes widened. She cut me off. “Think, lady. I already told you. I come from phony.”

It was my turn to be pop-eyed.

Ilka’s laugh was tinkly, nervous. She looked around. Two grips, part of the threesome who’d entered the sound stage with me, were seated nearby absorbed in magazines. Her expression softened.

“Sorry,” she said softly. “You cannot imagine the number of times I was caught—or nearly caught—stealing chickens. So many times, it is a wonder I am here.” She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Hoo! The lies I have told to farmers in order to save my skin. So you see, acting it is at the heart of who I am. This is my chance, Pucci.” Her eyes pleaded for understanding. “I am without education, pedigree, or financial security. I have looks, that is it. I must use them to my advantage.

“When I am actress, I will make money and help friends left behind in the old country. I will help Uncle Bela as he has helped me.”

I’d really stuck my nose in where it didn’t belong. What did I really know about what was right for her? Or, for that matter, about what she’d been through.

“Good plan,” I said, meaning it with all my heart. “Didn’t mean to get on a soap box like that. I was thinking of your palm reading. I bumped into Wilma Wallace outside. She was over the moon raving about the guidance she’d gotten. I assumed from you?” Ilka thought a moment, smiled, and nodded. “The silent film actress you brought home the other evening for a special session. She’s another fan…” Ilka frowned. She looked confused, or was it troubled? “You said so last night.”

Ilka shook her head “Last night, it was very strange night.”

“Did you get a chance to follow up with any club members? Learn more about the eccentric Hollywood type with the Einstein hair? You said he was a guest. That he was bidding on auction items.”

The coffee had been hot and I’d been letting mine cool, holding the cup in my lap. Ilka raised her cup to her lips, blew on the dark black liquid. “The man, an I-tal-ian—” Ilka narrowed her eyes seductively and winked, “he is collector. The auction organizer, she got word beforehand. She put notice in paper, a call for Hungarian dolls. He was bidding on our doll in the silent auction before we left. The price it was going higher and higher…”

“
Our
doll?”

Ilka’s eyes shifted. She sipped her coffee. “Yes, my fan who was there once give it to me as gift. The doll, she was in costume. A delicate porcelain face, little leather boots, hand-embroidered apron and vest, beaded headpiece. She was beautiful. A reminder of home. It was not easy to part with her.” Ilka smiled stoically. “But to fill the war coffers for fight against Hitler. To give him a big sock…” She nodded toward the set. “I would do it yet again.”