Prater Violet

  A long buzz from the sound-camera room. Roger puts on the headphones and reports, “Sound-camera reloading, sir.” Bergmann gives a grunt and goes off into a corner to dictate a poem to Dorothy. Amidst all this turmoil, he still finds time to compose one, nearly every day. Fred Murray is shouting directions for the readjustment of various lamps on the spot-rail and gantry; the tweets, the snooks and the baby spots. Joyce is typing the continuity report, which contains the exact text of each scene, as acted, with details of footage, screen-time, hours of work and so forth.

  “Come on,” shouts Eliot. “Aren’t we ready, yet?”

  Roger calls up to the camera room, “Going again, Jack.”

  Teddy notices that Eliot is inadvertently standing in front of Roger’s window, blocking our view of the set. He grins maliciously, and says, in an obvious parody of Eliot’s most officious tone, “Clear the booth, please!” Eliot blushes and moves aside, murmuring, “Sorry.” Roger winks at me. Teddy, very pleased with himself, swings the microphone-boom, over whistling, and warning his crew, “Mind your heads, my braves!”

  Roger generally lets me ring the bell for silence and make the two-buzz signal. It is one of the few opportunities I get of earning my salary. But, this time, I am mooning. I watch Bergmann telling something funny to Fred Murray, and wonder what it is. Roger has to make the signals himself. “I’m sorry to see a falling off in your wonted efficiency, Chris,” he tells me. And he adds, to Teddy, “I was thinking of giving Chris his ticket, but now I shall have to reconsider it.”

  Roger’s nautical expressions date back to the time when he was a radio operator on a merchant ship. He still has something of the ship’s officer about him, in his brisk movements, his conscientiousness, his alert, pink, open-air face. He studies yachting magazines in the booth, between takes.

  “Quiet! Get settled down. Ready? Turn them over.”

  “Running.”

  “104, take two.”

  “Camera…”

  “Cut.”

  “Okay, sir.”

  “Okay for sound, Mr. Bergmann.”

  “All right. We print this one.”

  “Are you going again, sir?”

  “We shoot it once more, quickly.”

  “Right. Come on, now. Let’s get this in the can.”

  But the third take is N.G. Anita fluffs a line. In the middle of the fourth take, the camera jams. The fifth take is all right, and will be printed. My long, idle, tiring morning is over, and it is time for lunch.

  * * *

  THERE WAS a choice of three places to eat. Imperial Bulldog had its own canteen on the premises; but this was so crowded with studio workers, secretaries, bit players and extras that you could hardly ever find room to sit down. Then there was a public house, right across the street, where the food was quite good. This was the resort of the intellectuals: the writers, the cutters, the musicians and the members of the Art Department. I always tried to persuade Bergmann to go there; for we invariably had our meals together. But he usually insisted on the third alternative, a big hotel in South Kensington, where the studio executives and directors ate. Bergmann went to the hotel on principle. “One has to show one’s self,” he told me. “The animals expect to see their trainer.” He had a half-humorous, half-serious theory that the powers of Bulldog were eternally plotting against him, and that, if he didn’t put in an appearance, they would somehow contrive to liquidate him altogether.

  The hotel had an imposing dining room and bad, would-be Continental food. Bergmann would enter it in his grimmest, most majestic mood, his eyebrows drawn down formidably, shooting severe glances to left and right. Catching the eyes of his colleagues, he would bow stiffly, but seldom speak. We had a small table to ourselves; unless, as sometimes happened, we were invited to sit with one of the Bulldog groups.

  My chief objection to the hotel, apart from its boredom, was the expense. Earning so much money had made me curiously stingy, and I grudged spending it on food. So I began to eat less and less, saying that I wasn’t hungry. By ordering only a plate of soup or a sweet I managed to cut my bill down to about two shillings a day.

  Neither Bergmann nor any of the others seemed to find this remarkable. Many of them had bad digestions, due to their sedentary occupation, and were on a diet. But there was a little waiter who, for some reason, had taken a fancy to me. We always exchanged a few words when I came in. One day, when I was sitting in a large group and had ordered, as usual, the cheapest item on the menu, he came up behind my chair and whispered, “Why not take the Lobster Newburg, sir? The other gentlemen have ordered it. There’ll be enough for one extra. I won’t charge you anything.”

  * * *

  AFTER THE BUSTLE of the morning, our afternoon begins in a leisurely, relaxed mood. We have migrated to another sound-stage, where a new set has been built: Toni’s bedroom. The first scene to be shot is the one immediately preceding the arrival of Rudolf’s letter. Toni is lying in bed, asleep, a smile on her lips. She is dreaming of her lover and yesterday’s romantic meeting. Outside, it is a brilliant spring morning. Toni stirs, wakes, stretches herself, jumps out of bed, runs across the room, throws open the window, breathes in the perfume of the flowers delightedly, and bursts into the theme song of the picture.

  We can hear Anita practising it now, with Pfeffer at the piano, somewhere behind the set:

  Spring wakes,

  Winter’s dead.

  Ice breaks,

  Frosts have fled.

  Mornings are blue as your eyes,

  And from the skies

  I hear a lark

  Sing …

  Anita breaks off, abruptly, “Damn, I missed that beat again. Sorry, darling. Let’s try it once more.”

  Spring wakes,

  Winter’s dead.

  Ice breaks,

  Frosts have fled …

  Meanwhile, the carpenters, with a magnificent disregard for Art, are hammering and chiseling away at the bedroom window-sill. But George, the romantic, hums the tune and smiles dreamily as he writes on his board. George is an Irish boy, dark, good-looking, and full of innocent conceit. He flirts with Dorothy, Joyce and any attractive extras who come around the set. No doubt his fantasy even aspires to Anita herself. Joyce likes him; Dorothy is not impressed. “Kids of his age are more trouble than they’re worth,” she tells me. “I like a man to be sophisticated, if you know what I mean.”

  Last year’s

  Flowers were gay,

  But who cares

  For yesterday?

  George strolls over to Roger, Teddy and myself, grinning and humming. When Anita gets to the refrain, he joins in, so that they sing a kind of long-distance duet:

  Flowers must fade, and yet

  One I can’t forget:

  Prater Vi-o-let.

  Roger and Teddy clap their hands ironically. George bows, complacently taking the applause for what it is worth, and a bit extra.

  “You know,” he confides to us, with his artless smile, “I like that old-fashioned stuff. It gets me.”

  “How’s the Great Lover today?” Teddy asks him. “And who’s that little piece of goods I saw you with in the canteen?”

  George smirks, “Just a friend of mine.”

  “She looked young enough to be your grand-daughter, you nasty old man.”

  “Our nurseries are no longer safe,” says Roger. “I shall have to clean the family blunderbuss.… Which reminds me, Teddy, my boy: when are we going to hear those wedding bells?”

  Teddy blushes, and becomes serious at once. His engagement, to a girl in the Art Department, is a standard topic of studio humor.

  “As a matter of fact,” he tells us gravely, “Mary and I had a talk about it last night. We’ve agreed to wait a while. I want to work up to a better job. In five years…”

  “Five years!” I am really shocked. “But Teddy, anything may happen in five years. Suppose there’s a war?”

  “All the same,” says Teddy stolidly, “a chap’s got to be able
to offer his wife a proper home.”

  Teddy is like that. No doubt he really will wait, if Mary lets him. He is a steady boy, solid all through. I can see him at forty, at fifty, at sixty, still just the same. He saves his money, and plays rugger on Saturday afternoons. Once a week, he and Fred Murray go to watch the All-In Wrestling at the local baths. They are both ardent fans, and spend a lot of time arguing about the merits of their respective favorites, Norman the Butcher and the Golden Hawk.

  Flowers must fade, and yet

  One I can’t forget:

  Prater Vi-o-let.

  The carpenters are still working on the window. Bergmann is still downstairs in the projection room, looking at the rushes: the prints of the film that was shot yesterday. Probably we shan’t get started for another hour, at least. I wander off by myself to see what is happening on the other stages.

  On Stage One, they are building our big restaurant set. This is for the final sequence of the picture. It is here, according to Chatsworth’s revised version, that Toni takes her revenge on Rudolf by pretending to be the mistress of the notorious Baron Goldschrank. The Baron, an old admirer, can refuse her nothing, and rather unwillingly agrees to help in the plot. Toni makes a sensational entrance, on his arm, at the top of the staircase, in a blaze of borrowed diamonds. Rudolf, who is present, springs to his feet and strikes the Baron across the mouth. A duel is arranged, there and then; despite the Baron’s timidity and Toni’s attempted explanations. The Baron, as the injured party, is about to take the first shot, and Rudolf is striking an heroic attitude, when Count Rosanoff rushes in and throws himself between them, exclaiming, “Kill me, but do not dare to harm His Royal Highness!” For the wicked uncle has been overthrown, the King knows all and sends his blessing, and the way is open for Rudolf’s return to Borodania with Toni as his bride.

  Well, at any rate, the music is quite pretty.

  On Stage Three, Eddie Kennedy is directing Ten’s a Honeymoon. He is a dynamic, red-faced man, with bulging eyes and a wheezy voice, who specializes in American-style farces, full of mugging and slick lines. Having spent a year in Hollywood, he is regarded as an expert. And he certainly dresses the part. He is in his shirtsleeves, with his hat on, and a chewed cigar sticking out of the corner of his big mouth. He calls his actors “laddie” and his actresses “baby” or “sugar.” He works very fast, with immense decision, shouting, swearing, bullying, and keeping everybody in a good humor. I stand there a long time, watching the comedian’s efforts to rescue a fat lady from a portable Turkish bath. The assistant director tells me proudly that the picture will be finished by the end of this week, five days ahead of schedule.

  I come back to our set, to find Bergmann returned and Anita already in bed, under a battery of lights, waiting for a close-up. Roger is talking to Timmy, the make-up man, and Clark.

  “Hullo, Chris,” Roger greets me. “Anita was asking for you.”

  “She was?”

  “Said she wanted you to get in there and keep her warm. She’s lonely.”

  “Why didn’t one of you gentlemen oblige?”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” says Clark. He means it. He is a tall skinny boy with a ferret’s eyes and an unpleasantly small mouth.

  “She’s married, isn’t she?” Roger asks.

  “Used to be,” says Timmy, “to Oliver Gilchrist. They got divorced.”

  “I don’t blame him. She’d be a devil to live with. I know her sort,” Roger mimics. ‘Not now, darling. I’ve got such a headache, and my hair’s been waved.’ And she tells her girl friends, ‘Men all want the same thing. They’re such brutes.’”

  Timmy rolls his eyes, and sings, sotto voce:

  Just the same, I’ll bet

  You’re not hard to get:

  Prater Vi-o-let.

  “Now then, everybody ready?” shouts Eliot, eyeing us with disapproval. “Let’s get started.”

  We scatter to our respective positions.

  The close-up takes nearly two hours. Watts fusses endlessly over the lighting. The camera jams. Anita begins to sulk. Arthur Cromwell is getting peevish. He has an appointment. Why couldn’t they have shot his scene first? (It belongs to the last sequence, when Toni’s father comes home late and finds that she hasn’t returned.) “I think I’m entitled to some consideration,” he tells me, plaintively. “After all, I’ve been a star for fifteen years.”

  In the middle of this, Ashmeade pays us a visit, with Mr. Harris. They have heard of a place in Essex where it might be possible to shoot some exteriors for the Prater scenes. Wouldn’t Bergmann care to go down with Harris next weekend and look at it?

  But Bergmann is firm. He smiles his blandest, most subtle smile. “A Sunday without Harris is my religion.”

  Harris can’t very well take offense at this, so he and Ashmeade have to force a laugh; but they aren’t pleased. Bergmann dislikes Harris, and Harris knows it. (In private, Bergmann calls him “the art-constrictor.”) Ashmeade and Harris retire, baffled.

  At five o’clock, the word goes round that we shall be working late. The union men get paid overtime, but they grumble, like the rest of us. Clark is particularly bitter; this is the third date he’s had to break with his girl. “Eddie Kennedy’s unit,” he complains, “hasn’t worked late since the picture started. What we need is more organization.” Teddy, who is very loyal to Bergmann, feels that this is going too far. “Slapstick’s different,” he points out. “You can’t rush this high-class stuff. It’s got to be artistic.”

  I go to the telephone and dial my home number.

  “Hullo.”

  “Oh, Christopher … Does this mean you won’t be in to supper again?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And we’re having fishcakes!”

  After the close-up, there is a tracking-shot, which will take time to prepare. The dolly, on which the camera will retreat before Toni’s advance to the bedroom window, is apt to emit loud squeaks, audible to the microphone. It has to be oiled and tested. Roger and I go out to the fire-escape for a smoke. It is quite dark now, but not cold. The electric Bulldog sign casts a red light on the angle of the building.

  Roger is feeling depressed.

  “I don’t know why I hang on to this job,” he tells me. “The pay’s all right. But it doesn’t lead anywhere.… Next month, I’ll be thirty-four. Know how I spend my evenings, Chris? Designing a boat. I’ve got it all figured out, even down to the cabin fixtures. It wouldn’t cost much to build, either. I’ve saved a bit.”

  “What would you do with it?”

  “Just sail away.”

  “Well, why don’t you?”

  “I don’t know.… Places are all the same, really. I’ve been around.”

  “Haven’t you ever thought of getting married?”

  “Oh, I tried that, too. When I was a kid … She died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t so ruddy wonderful. She was a good girl, though.… You know, sometimes I wonder what all this is for. Why not just peacefully end it?”

  “We all think that. But we don’t do it.”

  “Surely you’re not fool enough to imagine there’s anything afterwards?”

  “Perhaps. No, I suppose not … I don’t think it makes much difference.”

  Now that we have touched rock-bottom, Roger suddenly brightens. “You know what have been the best things in my life, Chris? Good, unexpected lays.”

  And he tells me the story of a married woman he once met in a hotel in Burton-on-Trent.

  At seven-thirty, a boy from the canteen brings up tea and sandwiches. Eating together like this seems to raise the spirits of the entire unit. Anita has finished her scene, and another close-up, and gone home; she can be very co-operative when it suits her. Arthur Cromwell’s scene won’t take long. We shall be through by nine, after all.

  Lawrence Dwight comes up from the cutting room to watch us.

  He is scowling, as usual, but I can see that he feels pleased with himself. He has had a g
ood day.

  “Good evening, Herr Cut-Master. How are the patterns?”

  “The patterns are a damn sight better than you deserve,” says Lawrence, “considering the muck you send us. I’m going to make you quite a nice little picture, for which you’ll take all the credit.”

  “That’s ghastly decent of you.”

  Bergmann is pacing the floor, as he often does just before a take. He comes right up to us and stands for a moment, regarding our faces with dark, troubled, unseeing eyes. Then he turns abruptly and walks away in a kind of trance.

  “Come on, now,” shouts Eliot. “Let’s get going. We don’t want to be here all night.”

  “He’s wasting his talents,” says Lawrence. “What an ideal nursery governess!”

  “Dead quiet, please!”

  By ten minutes to nine, it is all over. We have shot two thousand feet of film. The day’s work represents four minutes and thirty seconds of the completed picture.

  “What are you doing this evening?” Lawrence asks.

  “Nothing special. Why?”

  “Let’s go to a movie.”

  * * *

  “POOR DR. BERGMANN,” said my mother, when I came down to breakfast one morning, in the middle of February. “I’m afraid he’ll be very worried about his family.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re still in Vienna, aren’t they? It seems dreadfully unsettled there, just now.”

  I picked up the newspaper. The word “Austria” jumped at me from the headlines. I was too excited to read properly. My eye caught bits of sentences, proper names: “At Linz, after heavy fighting … Fey … Starhemberg … martial law … hundreds of arrests … general strike fails to … Viennese workers besieged … hunt out socialist hyenas, Dollfuss declares…”

  I dropped the paper, ran out into the hall, and dialed Bergmann’s number. His voice answered as soon as the bell began to ring. “Hullo, yes…”

  “Hullo, Friedrich.”

  “Oh … Hullo, Christopher.” He sounded weary and disappointed. Obviously, he had been expecting some other call.