The Mount Baker Inn served as their base of operations as they filmed The Call of the Wild.
There were a hundred of them, cast and crew, laughing and joking as they traipsed through the frozen tundra. This was all new to them, and for the first few hours, the novelty of winter was exciting, as they imagined the fun to be had marooned on a mountaintop with the studio bosses hundreds of miles away and enough crates of Glenfiddich whisky to keep them smiling through the cold.
This movie was written as a great American adventure story of ambition and greed during the Gold Rush, one that Wellman insisted should not be told on a sound stage with sets built of plywood and soap flakes, no matter how artful the results. Wellman wanted the real thing, and he got it. Mount Baker was drenched in new-fallen snow over a hardened shell of layers of ice. The mountain peaks pierced the pale blue sky like knitting needles in skeins of soft wool. If it was treacherous, that reality was hidden on the morning of their arrival, as a gold marble sun hung low and bright in the sky over fields of white-hot diamond dust.
Bill Wellman pushed the door of the Mount Baker Inn open and invited his cast and crew inside.
Jack Oakie, the headliner on the I Want to Impress Loretta Young Tour, had volunteered to carry Loretta’s luggage, while Luca had picked up Alda’s. They ushered the ladies through the door and into the hotel.
The lobby was a massive great room with a double-sided hearth that crackled with a roaring fire. It was the only touch of warmth in the inn. It was so cold inside, the floorboards creaked like evergreen branches loaded with snow. The decor was simple, as the hotel was typically open only in the summers for swimming in the lake and fishing on the river.
The management made attempts to accommodate the cast and crew by providing them with an old overstuffed sofa, a matching love seat, and a set of club chairs covered in cinnamon chenille pushed close to the hearth. This was as close as the decor came to cozy living.
“Where’s the dining room?” Luca asked.
“The Italian is always worried about the grub,” the camera operator said as he dropped his bags on the floor.
“By suppertime, you’ll be glad I do,” Luca said.
“Dining room is out the building, to your right. “The clerk pointed.
Alda looked out the window and saw a barn with a tin roof behind the hotel.
“Now we know who put the rust in rustic,” Loretta whispered to Alda.
The production manager handed out envelopes with keys and room assignments.
Gable, disheveled after the long trip, was looking forward to a shower and a shave. He slung his leather duffel over his back and climbed the stairs.
Wellman called after him, “I’d like the actors to gather in the meeting room in an hour. We’re going to go through the script.”
“You got it, Captain.” Gable disappeared at the top of the stairs.
Jack Oakie was eager to take Loretta’s bags to her room. She thanked him but demurred. “I can take it from here, Jack.”
Alda took her bag from Luca. “Thank you.”
“What are you doing this afternoon?”
“Whatever Miss Young needs.”
“She’s going to be busy rehearsing. I could use your help.”
“Let me ask her.”
“I already did.”
“What did she say?”
“She said you’re free.”
Alda felt cornered, and yet she liked Luca. He was energetic and full of fun. And he was the first man she had kissed since she left Italy seven years ago. “What do you need?”
“We’re going to be creative.”
Gable was particular about his wardrobe. He unpacked his suitcase, hanging his pants and shirts neatly in the closet. In the dresser, he lay his undershorts, socks, and thermals next to his belts, coiled tightly. He unpacked his toiletries and lined them up on the sink in his private bathroom. Ria had bought new bottles and tubes of his favorite toiletries to last through the shoot. He smiled. Ria’s best attribute as a wife was that she anticipated his needs and took care of them without his having to ask.
As the tub filled with water, he built a fire. He turned the lamps on and put up the shades. He needed light; he thrived on it. He sank into the tub and scrubbed himself head to toe, paying special attention to his nails.
Gable shaved carefully; a nick could set a picture back while a cut healed. He brushed his hair until it had the sheen of black patent leather. He rubbed cologne in his hands, a mix of pine and bitter orange, his own custom blend. He rubbed it on his face and neck and pushed back his hair, which was long because Wellman had asked him to keep it shaggy.
The actor wore a pair of Levi’s, lined with blue-and-green flannel, which he belted with a blue suede belt with a gold buckle. He pulled on a hand-knit turtleneck sweater his wife had commissioned from a weaver in Ireland, his Christmas gift from his stepchildren. The weave of blue and green complemented his gray eyes, but he wasn’t concerned about the aesthetic appeal; he was trying to keep warm.
The actor looked at his watch. He had a half hour before the cast was to gather and read through the script, and he wanted to run through it one last time. He had his own specific ritual with the script.
Gable read his lines aloud, on his feet, every exchange of dialogue. When he finished, he took one last look in the mirror, grabbed the script, and went to meet his director and fellow actors for the table read.
Loretta was sitting by the fire in the lobby, reading through her script, when Gable appeared on the landing of the stairs. When she looked up at him, it was as though she were watching him on a silver screen. He had a casual elegance. No other man in the world could have pulled off that sweater, but on him it was fashionable. No wonder Gable had enchanted every woman in Hollywood, from Joan Crawford to Jean Harlow. He was scrumptious, and there were plenty of women hungry for him.
As Gable turned on the landing, a hotel maid, a girl of around twenty with her hair pulled back in a single gold braid, came out of the office behind the desk and turned to go up the stairs. She stopped and greeted him and then tried to move past him, but he blocked her. He made her laugh. He leaned in and said something in her ear that made her blush. She was not shy; she whispered in his ear, and he got the look of a hungry wolf. Gable’s face turned into a pen-and-ink line drawing of a scavenger, all bulging eyes and wild mane and black pits and dark shadows and teeth looking to bite.
Loretta’s stomach turned. She was dismayed by what she’d witnessed—or was she? Was she jealous? Or was it simply the cheaper version, pea-green envy? Did Loretta long to be an ordinary girl with some pleasant aspects—in the case of the hotel maid, say, lovely hair and eyes—who was free to flirt with a man, in this case, Clark Gable, and want nothing in return? Well, Loretta was certain that Gable wanted something, but she could not be sure about the hotel maid. It certainly appeared like they had a lot to say to each other. It seemed to Loretta that they had made plans to see each other, to continue the conversation.
The maid took her bucket and mop and ascended the stairs. Gable watched her climb as Loretta watched him. He didn’t take his eyes off the maid’s ample fanny, watching it wiggle from side to side, step by step, as she went up the stairs. Usually Loretta would mind her manners, look away, and pretend not to have caught the wolf in the act, but this time she thought differently. She sat up in the chair and closed her script. Her gaze bored through Clark Gable like the sharp blade of a knife through a fresh pie.
Gable felt Loretta’s gaze and met it. He extended to her, across the room, the same knowing leer he had offered the hotel maid. She, actress that she was, without words, sent Gable a return message that withered him. You don’t have a chance with me, bud. Stick to the hotel maid.
Gable took in her meaning, rebounded with arrogant bravado, and walked past her without saying a word.
“We’re here to work,” Bill Wellman said from behind her.
Loretta turned to him. “I love the script.”
“Do you think your leading man has read it?”
“We read it together on the train.”
“That’s good to know.”
“We’re going to make a swell picture, Bill.”
“As long as that big goof keeps his mind on his business.”
Loretta figured that Wellman had observed the flirtation between Gable and the hotel maid, too. “Now, Bill, you know you’d have more luck stopping an avalanche with your bare hands than you do keeping Mr. Gable from that hotel maid.”
“I’m not worried about her. I’m worried about you.”
“I have to learn how to navigate a raft on a real river, shoot a bear between the eyes, and hike a mountain peak. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”
Wellman followed Gable to the meeting room.
It bothered Loretta that she had a reputation for falling easily and hard for her leading men. She tried very hard not to, but between the long hours she kept at the studio and the few she had off to prepare for her roles at home, it was likely that the only place she would meet potential beaus was on a sound stage. Wellman loathed publicity, puff or negative, and probably had judged her because of the press release she had authorized about her breakup with Spencer Tracy. She couldn’t worry about that now, and besides, the personal life of a director was not scrutinized like the life of an actress. Wellman could not possibly understand her position.
Loretta gathered up her script and followed the director, looking forward to the first read-through of the script. After all, the classic Jack London story was why she agreed to act in the movie and climb this particular mountain in the first place.
Alda followed Luca as he trudged through the snow to the dining hall. He pushed a metal sliding entrance door open, revealing long community-style tables set up for meals.
A set of a dozen windows overlooked the snow-capped mountains behind them. The view—rolling fields of white that sloped away like dollops of whipped cream—was luscious, a contrast to the barn, which was strictly utilitarian: the mottled trusses on the ceiling were held together with rusty bolts; the walls were weathered beams of knotty pine, with light pouring through tiny slits where the wood had worn away.
Beyond a serving island was an old service kitchen. Alda could see every pot and pan, an open coal stove with burners, and stacks of industrial white ceramic dishes. The roaring fire in the flagstone fireplace was the only heat source in the barn. Luca moved around the room, surveying it.
Alda wondered how the cook could possibly prepare meals for their group. The work space was about the size of Ruby’s in Sunset House but without the beauty, convenience, or modern appliances.
Luca unfolded his paint kit on the floor of the dining room. He selected brushes, chose the tubes of paint, and set up his palette.
“Over here, Alda,” Luca called.
“What’s this big project?”
“This place is giving me the heebie-jeebies. Look at it. It’s an old barn—all that’s missing are the cows and pigs. There’s no pizzazz. No color.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“You’re going to help me give this place a little personality. We’re going to be eating three squares a day here, so we need to make it pretty. Help me pull down the shades.”
The long windows that overlooked the mountains had no draperies, just simple paper pull shades with a ring hook on a string. Alda pulled the shades to the sill.
“Wellman wanted me to paint a welcome sign for the cast and crew. Look at these.”
Luca gave Alda a set of small fabric samples.
“The costume designer and I collaborated on the fabrics. We had this idea that if we put Eskimo symbols into the costumes, wove them into the fabric, or painted them on leather or suede, it would feel like the turn of the century, and give a sense of authenticity to the picture. I thought it would be fun to paint these symbols on the shades.”
Luca went to the first shade and, swirling the brush into the vivid red on the palette, created a symbol that looked like a cross made of knife blades. He filled in the blades with a deep coral, splashed yellow outside the red, then blended into the background with a smaller brush. “Want to try?” He handed her the brush.
She shook her head.
“You can’t make a mistake, Alda.”
“Oh, yes I can.”
“There are no mistakes.”
“I’ve seen great art, and I disagree.”
“That depends upon what you think great art might be. I think great art is as simple as where you’re standing and what you’re looking at. Does this color make you feel something?”
“Happy.” She shivered. “And warm.”
“So tell me, Alda, what greater purpose is there for a painter?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know. There is no greater purpose for art than to move you, to elevate your mood, to make you think, to remind you of places you have been or places you want to build. It does everything—nourishes the soul and lifts the spirits of the people.”
Luca put a brush in Alda’s hand. He guided her on the next shade. They made giant circles together.
Alda took over and painted colors within the swirls. It felt good to stretch and reach high with the brush to the top of the shade, then drag the ruby-red paint down the length of it. She could only describe the feeling as total freedom.
Luca was, as an artist by profession, more particular. He had a notion about the designs on the fabric, so he followed them. Alda and Luca spent the afternoon painting, and they did not rest until every shade was filled with color.
The late-afternoon sun poured through the paper shades, revealing the brushstrokes through the light. It was all there—color, form, line, and perspective—in the swirls, broad strokes, and sweeping details. Alda’s rudimentary skill was on display, contrasted by Luca’s craftsmanship.
Alda stood back as Luca gathered the supplies and took the brushes to the shed behind the kitchen to clean them. She stayed and watched the sun as it played through their creations. Luca was right. Art changed everything: mood, climate, perception.
Alda was beginning to see the world through Luca’s eyes, something she believed wasn’t possible. He loved life and art with such enthusiasm, he made everyone around him seem bloodless by comparison, including her. She longed to be free like him, to choose colors without judgment, to say exactly what needed to be said, to embrace life and squeeze every moment out of it with intention. Luca had the ability to meet any challenge. She wondered if he would accept her once he knew the truth about her. She doubted it, but she knew the time had come to tell him about what had happened to her.
Alda knocked on Loretta’s door.
Loretta had the day to herself, as Wellman decided to shoot the scenes with Buck before getting her material. She had done some reading and written some letters, but it wasn’t enough to fill the long day.
“Am I disturbing you?”
“No, no, come in. I’m bored to death.”
“You don’t like a day off.”
“I hate them. I never know what to do with myself. When I’m home, I can drive into town and putter around, but here, there’s nothing but snow.”
“I need your advice.” Alda sat in the chair by the fire.
“You don’t want to quit, do you?”
“No, no, nothing like that.”
“Whew. Because I can’t get along without you.”
“Thank you.”
“So what’s the problem? Let me guess. It started in Brooklyn.”
Alda blushed. “Yes.”
“What’s the problem?” Loretta leaned in, loving a moment where she could talk about men, and it wasn’t her issue. “Tell me everything.”
“Luca is very determined.”
“That’s because he’s crazy about you.”
“How can you tell?”
“He waits for you by the door at the barn when it’s mealtime. He makes up excuses to sit with us
when we’re reading by the fire. He’s the first to jump up when you need something. Mr. Chetta has it bad. He gets goof eyes when he looks at you.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Afraid? You don’t like him.”
“No, I do.”
“Oh, you’re out of the convent, and you have no experience with men.”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“I had a beau in Italy.”
“Oh.”
“It wasn’t meant to be, though. I feel like I should tell Luca about him.”
“Holy Hannah, don’t tell him!”
“Why?”
“He’ll be jealous of a man he’ll never meet. It’ll make him feel small. He’ll wonder if you like the man overseas more than him. No, don’t tell him.”
“What if it was a serious relationship?”
“Hmm.” Loretta had to think about this. Her serious relationships always wound up in the newspapers. She knew that if she ever had a secret, it would be impossible to keep. But Alda was different. She had a private life; she actually owned her privacy, and could dictate the terms of her life and relationships. “I need to think about this.”
“I think it’s best to be honest.”
“Maybe. I’m not saying be dishonest, but you need not volunteer details that will make him unhappy and therefore make you miserable.”
“I wouldn’t want to hurt him.”
“No, you can’t. He’s a good one.”
“Do you think so?”
“Oh, yes. He’s kind. He’s fun. He’s talented. Let me see, what else can I say? He gets you because he’s Italian too. That’s important, you know. Any common ground is good. I really want to marry a Catholic when the time comes. I would just feel understood.”