The Star Stalker

  For the first time I began to realize the way Theodore Harker must have felt about his films—the films he conceived, wrote, produced, directed. I began to realize how he must have felt about actors and actresses, too.

  As a matter of fact, I got into the habit, whenever I ran into a problem requiring a decision, of asking myself, “What would Harker do?”

  And there were many such problems, now. I sat in on the preparations every day, stood at Lozoff’s elbow as he approved or rejected costume designs, watched the sets go up on the back lot; and always I was able to come up with a suggestion or a solution. So much so that Lozoff finally commented, “It looks as though we’ll have to give you two credits on Carmen, Tommy—one for writing and one for directing.”

  “Quit kidding,” I said. “You’re the director. I’m only putting in my two cents’ worth.”

  “We’re going to be ready for Dawn in another three weeks,” he told me. “How is she coming along?”

  “Just great. You’re due for a big surprise.”

  I meant that part about the surprise, but to myself I admitted Dawn wasn’t just great. Not yet.

  We’d rehearse at home every night, with me taking the other parts and Dawn going over her scenes patiently, persistently. But patience and persistence weren’t enough. She couldn’t seem to capture the spirit of the role.

  “Look, darling,” I explained. “This isn’t an opera. It’s a movie. You don’t have to strike a pose every time you open your mouth. That’s the secret of motion pictures, you know—keep them moving. Just glide through this scene, the way you do when you dance.”

  And I’d go through it again with her; once, twice, three times. Until it was late and she made coffee and I’d sit there and check over the notes I’d made about her work of the evening—then read them back to her for study tomorrow while I was at the Studio.

  It was a tough schedule for her, I admit, but she was due to start in three weeks.

  Then the filming actually began, and I was busier than ever. I worked with Lozoff on the mob scenes, the little bit-player episodes which would lift Carmen out of its stilted operatic-triangle groove and project it against the background of a living Spain.

  And at night, I did my best for Dawn. My very best, in all the sweltering heat of summer, hour after hour. No matter how hard a session I’d put in at the Studio, I still found strength to carry on with her, for her.

  I tried to explain that.

  “There’s no need to look that way,” I’d tell her. “You know there’s nothing personal in it if I shout at you. It’s just nerves. The grind gets me down, I guess.”

  “Then why don’t you forget about these rehearsals and relax?” she asked. “Leave my part to Lozoff. He can help, you told me so yourself. You said there’s nothing to worry about. So why go through all this?”

  “You know why,” I told her. “Of course Lozoff can help you do a good job. But a good job isn’t enough. You want to be perfect this time, darling. Perfect.” I wiped my forehead. “Before I forget it, I meant to tell you something. I had them run off Daydreams again for me this afternoon, just so I could check your scenes. And I noticed a few things I want you to watch out for when you work with Emerson Craig—”

  For three weeks it went like that.

  And then it was time to begin, time for Lozoff to don his uniform and time for Dawn to put on the black wig.

  Somewhere outside it was July now, and the big sails bellied on the yachts at Balboa, and the kids went up to Arrowhead, and the tourists sniffed around Harold Lloyd’s estate.

  But we were inside, on the set, under the lights, and July was far away. This was Spain, this was sweat, this was torture—the endless torture of take after take. A bit, and then “Cut!” Another bit, and then “Cut!” Isn’t there a Chinese torture called “The Death of a Thousand Cuts?” Well, we improved upon it.

  Or I did. Something had happened to Lozoff; he didn’t seem to care. Oh, he was patient enough with Dawn, and considerate. Perhaps that was the trouble—he was too patient, too apt to consider a scene satisfactory. He let her spend too much time in the dressing room, gave too many breaks for coffee and cigarettes.

  “What’s the matter?” I finally demanded. “Are you slipping?”

  He smiled at me. “You know me better than that. It’s not myself I’m thinking of. Dawn is under great tension. You are perhaps too close to her to realize. You think of her only as a woman. I think of her as an actress, and I know there are limits to the amount of effort one can demand.”

  I couldn’t smile back. “It doesn’t matter what you and I think,” I said. “What’s important is the way she thinks. And I want her to think of herself as a star. If she believed she was a star we wouldn’t have this trouble—tears, and tiredness, and all the rest.”

  Lozoff put his hand on my arm. “She’s not a star, Tommy,” he murmured. “She’ll never be a star. A fair actress, perhaps, in time. Adequate. Maybe even adequate for this part, if we humor her and carry her the way we carried her in Daydreams. But face the truth. You’re asking too much, expecting too much. This is no Garbo, no Negri, not even a Renee Adoré. So why don’t you accept the fact and try to make things easier for her?”

  “But the picture, what’ll happen to the picture?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry. It’s going to be a success. You have the story here. I know what to do.” He hesitated. “Actually, your part of the job is over. Why don’t you take a vacation for a few weeks, come back when we’re finished?”

  “And leave Dawn to go through this alone? I couldn’t.”

  “Suit yourself. But please, remember what I said. And don’t drive her, or yourself, this way.”

  It was no good talking to Lozoff, I could see that. To him, this was just another movie. Sure, he’d do a good routine job—my story had the commercial ingredients, it would make money for the Studio, and Lozoff’s position would remain secure.

  He could afford to feel that way because he was already established. But Dawn needed a great picture. I needed a great picture. Something to justify that adjective they were always using out here. Something colossal.

  I wasn’t going to sit back, not now. Would Harker be content with a routine production under such circumstances? Of course not!

  And Harker hadn’t been content, I remembered; even on Daydreams. He’d driven Dawn, no doubt about it. But she had hated him and wouldn’t respond. I didn’t have that problem. She’d respond to me because she loved me.

  So we went on, on into August. And I tried not to drive. Instead I soothed and sympathized, begged and pleaded. But I kept after her, outlining and explaining and interpreting every scene as we came to it.

  Until one day, in her dressing room, she broke.

  It happened suddenly, as though something snapped.

  (The cane had snapped here once, I thought, but I have no cane.) One moment we were sitting there, going over a simple little scene we’d tried to shoot in vain all morning long. I was very patient about it, too, talking calmly and quietly.

  Then she began to sob. Not cry, but sob. Her shoulders, her breasts, her whole body shook.

  “No—no, Tommy! I can’t! I just can’t! It’s too much—I know what you want, I’ve tried, God knows I’ve tried— But it isn’t there. Don’t you see? It isn’t there!”

  I comforted her, thinking, You expected this all along, really. And you know what to do, now.

  I did know what to do. I’d planned it in advance, it was all part of the pattern.

  So I waited until she was quiet again. And waiting for me to speak. Waiting, no doubt, for me to begin about the scene once more.

  Only I didn’t. When I spoke, I didn’t even mention the scene. I knew just what to say.

  “Dawn, in four weeks it will be Labor Day. The picture should be finished by then. We’ll have a holiday. A very special one.”

  She looked at me, waiting.

  “I was thinking perhaps we might go to Mexico. Not for the week
end—maybe a month or so. And then to the east. New York. For the premiere, in December. Would you like that?”

  “But a two-month vacation—and traveling together like that—how could we?”

  “We could,” I said. “On our honeymoon.”

  She didn’t say anything, but I watched her mouth, watched the small o grow into a capital O.

  “Why do you think I want this to be a good picture, a great picture? Because of the future we have tied up in it. Our future. I want you to marry a great writer. I want to marry a great star. Now do you understand?”

  “Tommy, Tommy—”

  She was close to me again, we were together; I’d won, just as I’d known I’d win.

  “Let’s get this job done, once and for all. The minute we wind up this thing I’m going to Morris and tell him. We’ll tell everybody, have a real Hollywood wedding, with all the trimmings. Wait until Riley gets hold of this idea, he’ll go wild over it—tying in with the picture and everything! How’d you like to see your name on the front page, darling? Dawn Powers, star of Coronet Picture’s super-production, Carmen, to wed—”

  There was a discreet rap on the door and then Emerson Craig thrust his brilliantined head through the opening.

  “Everything all right?” he asked. “Lozoff’s ready for another take.”

  I glanced at Dawn. “Everything’s fine,” I said. “We’re on our way.”

  And it was, from that moment.

  We had our troubles, of course. Naturally, the glow didn’t last. Dawn would fluff or miscue or fail to register in a scene, and the heat of August didn’t cool my temper. But there was something to look forward to now, something to anticipate. And anticipation carried us through.

  By the end of the month, we had our rough cut ready. And we ran it.

  It was a repetition of the Daydreams screening all over again. Frankly, I was perhaps the least enthusiastic of anyone in the projection room that day. I could see too many places where Dawn hadn’t fully realized the potentialities of a scene, too many places where Lozoff would have to cut and edit. But Morris and young Morris and Glazer and Salem were satisfied, and Arch Taylor winked at me and said, “Got to hand it to you, Post. This is it.”

  So I was feeling pretty good that night as we dressed for Lozoff’s party. He’d opened his home to the cast and crew, rather than hold the usual little farewell ceremony on the set. Lozoff was like that; he knew when to make a grand gesture.

  And I thought, why not? I’d make a grand gesture, too.

  I told Dawn about it.

  “Just got a wonderful idea,” I said. “This party tonight—everybody’s going to be there. Morris and all the rest. Even Karl Druse is coming, and you know how he is about parties. But this is a big celebration. And I was thinking—we couldn’t find a better chance to announce our engagement. What do you say?”

  She sat down. “Well—”

  “Then it’s all settled,” I said. “Of course I haven’t picked out the ring yet, but we can do that Monday. And start making plans for the wedding. I’ll talk to Riley if Morris himself doesn’t suggest it.”

  “Darling, wait a minute.”

  “Yes?”

  “This idea of yours, about the big wedding. Does it have to be that way? I mean, couldn’t we just go off and get married?”

  “And miss all those wonderful opportunities for a tie-in with the picture? Think of the publicity! Why, we couldn’t buy such coverage. Front-page stories all over the country, and every story will carry a mention of Carmen. Don’t you see, that’s the whole idea!”

  She nodded. “Yes, I see. That’s the whole idea. The picture.”

  “Now wait a minute. You sound as if—”

  “I sound?” Dawn stood up again. “You haven’t heard a peep out of me in months. You’re the one who’s been doing all the sounding off around here. Telling me about our plans for the future. Not asking me. Telling me. Tommy, you’ve changed.”

  I smiled.

  “I’m glad you noticed it,” I said. “I think the others are beginning to realize it, too. You see, I made up my mind about a few things recently. It’s about time I grew up, started to take on responsibilities, direct my own life.”

  “Fine,” she said. “But there’s one thing I’d like to say about the future. You can direct your own life if you want to, but not mine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. You’ve been playing director for months now, Tommy. At first I thought it was just the picture. That was bad enough, but I tried to endure it, for your sake. Even though it was just like Harker, worse than Harker—”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Oh yes I do! You haven’t been Tom Post since the day you came to me with the script in your hand. You’ve been Theodore Harker. Talking like him, thinking like him, plotting like him; draining me and dragging me and driving me. You think I haven’t heard it all from him before? About making me a star, a great star? Only he was old, he was trying to make a dream come true, trying to get something he could never hope to possess. And you have it, only you don’t want it, you prefer the dream.”

  “Dawn, I never knew you felt this way.”

  “Of course you didn’t, you don’t know how anybody else feels, you don’t care!”

  “Shut up,” I said. And held her. “Shut up and listen. Maybe you’re right. I don’t know and I don’t think you really know, either. But one thing you’ve got to remember. I love you, we’re going to be married. I don’t give a damn whether we have our wedding in the La Brea Tar Pits or the May Company’s window.” I stepped back. “Come on, let’s get dressed.”

  “But remember,” she said. “No announcement.”

  “Whatever you say,” I told her. And meant it.

  The party was very gay. Everyone was gay but me. I kept thinking of what Dawn had said. She was right, of course. I’d consciously modelled my behavior on Harker’s. What I hadn’t realized is that I’d begun to think like Harker, too.

  Then came the moment when Glenda Glint sailed over and began to coo at Dawn. It would have made a great opening for our announcement, I was thinking, but I remembered my promise and kept silent. I let Dawn do all the talking.

  “And now that you’re a star,” the Glint was saying, “perhaps you can give me just a wee hint about your plans for your next picture.”

  Dawn hesitated and I saw that I’d have to fill the breach.

  “As a matter of fact,” I murmured, “I was just discussing that with Mr. Morris. I haven’t told Miss Powers yet, but we intend to hang on to our winning team. She and Mr. Lozoff and Mr. Craig will be together again in her next picture.”

  Dawn smiled at me. “There won’t be a next picture,” she said. “Not for me.”

  That stopped me cold. And it stopped the Glint, too. But Dawn went on.

  “I’m retiring,” she said. “Since I have no long-term contract, I’m free to leave when I choose.”

  “But—”

  “I’d appreciate it if we didn’t discuss the matter further right now,” Dawn told her. “I seem to have something of a headache. Would you take me home, please, darling.”

  I took her home. I took her home, and I had the headache. All the way I kept saying over and over again, “But why? Why?”

  “Because I’m not a star. I’m not an actress. I don’t want to be one. I’ve always told you that and you’d never listen. Now you know I mean it.”

  “But why did you have tell Glint? She’ll print it and we’ll have to issue a retraction—”

  “Retraction? I wasn’t fooling. I am quitting.”

  “All right. But don’t you see, if the announcement comes now, it’ll kill the picture?”

  “Picture! I don’t care about the picture, or any pictures.”

  We got home at last, and I went right over to the cupboard and mixed a drink.

  “All right,” I said. “You win. You were going to show me, weren’t you? Well, you have. You don’
t care about pictures, so that’s okay with me. I’ll handle the pictures in this family. You can play housewife, since you’re so fond of the role.”

  “You mean it?” She gave me a long look. “You really mean it?”

  I nodded. “Drink your drink,” I said. “And let’s pour another. A toast—to us.”

  We poured and drank. And then the tension seemed to slip away, the mood changed, and she was beside me on the sofa. I kissed her hand.

  “Don’t do that,” she said.

  “Why not?” I grinned. “That’s the way Lozoff does it. And you know something? You look like Garbo. Lozoff and Garbo, our greatest performances—”

  “Stop it!” she said.

  “Now wait a minute,” I murmured. “Garbo wouldn’t say a thing like that. She’s sophisticated. Maybe Bessie Love would, but you’re not the Bessie Love type, are you, love?”

  She sat up and pulled away. “I’ve had enough.”

  “Enough of what? Don’t you like my Lozoff technique? Maybe you prefer a touch of Richard Arlen, something a bit more boyish—”

  I blinked. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

  “Out.”

  I sobered up in a hurry, stood up even faster. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know I was really bothering you. Is something the matter?”

  “No, nothing’s the matter. Everything’s fine. God’s in His heaven and this must be the place. Only not for me. I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving?”

  “This. And Hollywood. The whole damned business.”

  “Make sense.”

  “I am making sense. That’s what I want to do—make sense. And you, all you want to do is make movies!”

  “But—”

  “You’ve changed, Tom. Everything’s an act with you now. Everybody plays a part—like Garbo, like Lozoff, like Gilda Gray. You don’t see people as people any more. A cross-eyed man is Ben Turpin, a girl in pigtails is Louise Fazenda. If you saw Christ ride a bicycle, you’d think He was on His way to an appointment with Cecil DeMille.”

  “That’s pretty good,” I said.

  “It isn’t good. It’s awful! I’m sick of listening to movie talk, seeing movie people. First it was Mother—for years I got filled up to here with Hollywood. Then Harker. And then I had to go and fall in love with you.”