“Papa dear, you know how far we’ve come together! I owe everything to you,” she purred, satisfied. For now.
But Papa did not melt into a puddle of pure affection, as he almost always did after a contract negotiation. This time, Zukor looked at her, hard, and bit down viciously on his cigar.
A trickle of apprehension snaked up Mary’s spine. And days after Mary signed her new contract, Famous Players merged with the Jesse Lasky Company and took control of Paramount, the company both used for distribution.
“It’s the only way we could afford your contract, Sweetheart Honey,” Papa Zukor explained in his office over a private lunch, just the two of them; he had brought in his wife’s scrumptious German apple cake, knowing how much Mary loved it. “The highest-paid actress in history can only work at the biggest film studio. Which we are now.”
Samuel Goldfish—who had recently changed his name to Goldwyn—Jesse Lasky, Cecil B. DeMille: these were the new executives joining Papa Zukor, and Mary didn’t trust them. These men had done their best to ensure that actors remained anonymous for as long as possible, simply because they didn’t want to pay them commensurate with their popularity. If nobody knew their names, they were all interchangeable and salaries could stay low.
That hadn’t lasted for long; Mary herself had been responsible for the change as fans began to write Biograph begging to know who the Girl with the Curls was. And now she was the biggest star in the land. And these men weren’t happy about that.
“Mickey was right,” Mary told Frances one evening, right before Christmas of 1916. They were having tea at the Algonquin, where Frances was living. Dear Fran! She’d come out to New York a few months after Mary, anticipating that their first true collaboration, The Foundling, would open soon at the Strand, and the two of them would share the triumph.
But when Fran got off the train, Mary had to break the news to her that the film had gone up in smoke, literally. A fire had ravaged the original Famous Players studio, and the negative for The Foundling had been among the casualties, before they’d had a chance to print any film from it. Mary felt so awful! It was to have been Fran’s first movie with her name in the titles as scenarist.
Frances had taken it philosophically—one of the things Mary admired most about her friend—and refused Mary’s offer to find a role for her in her next production, in order to give her something to live on while they waited to reshoot The Foundling. “No, Mary, I’m a writer now. I can’t keep accepting your kindness,” she insisted with that stubborn yet elegant tilt of her head; Frances had a way of making obstinacy look like a glamorous virtue. “If I’m going to make it in this business it’s going to be as a screenwriter, nothing else.”
Mary admired her for that, and quickly wrote a letter of recommendation, explaining about the disaster of The Foundling. Fran had looked so uneasy asking for this favor, and Mary didn’t know why. Didn’t Fran know she’d do anything to help her? She hadn’t met anyone with as much of a natural feel for the medium as Fran; she was almost as intuitive as Mary was. Working together on The Foundling had been a tremendous experience. To spend her days with someone who cared as much as she, Mary, did! Someone who would work late into the night and then be the first one on set in the morning, as if she couldn’t bear to be away, as if she, too, found the bright lights, noise, constant flow of people on their way to and from their own joyous work to be more welcoming than any home. And Fran understood Mary’s screen persona better than anyone ever had; she wrote lovely little scenes that came so naturally to Mary, because Fran had studied her, put in gestures that she made in real life, but that always seemed to fit, exactly, the character she was playing.
It was simply easy, working with Fran. No having to—politely—explain to a man why a woman wouldn’t react that way in real life. No having to—again, politely—swallow a dismissive little remark about “sticking to what you know, girlie, and let me do my job.” She had more experience than any of them, but still she wasn’t always taken seriously, just patted on the head and told to smile prettily for the camera.
Fran did not pat her on the head.
But thanks to Mary’s letter, Fran was working for World Film now, writing for Clara Kimball Young, and making two hundred dollars a week—a figure that made her the highest-paid scenario writer in the business! Mary was thrilled for her, but missed her terribly. Especially now, with the merger.
“Mickey was right about what?” Fran settled elegantly into a velvet chair, and removed her gloves to reach for her cocktail—revealing an ink stain between her right forefinger and thumb, which made Mary love her even more.
“It’s a business now. Movies. With this merger, the studio isn’t merely a studio; it’s a conglomerate. And they want me to fail.” Mary miserably sipped her tea; no cocktails for her. “A teacup always, Sweetheart Honey,” Papa never failed to remind her. “Even if you have a glass of tea, people will assume it’s something else. So always in a teacup.”
Nor could Mary dress as stylishly as her friend, who was wearing the most sophisticated blue satin evening dress, cut low and square, with sheer sleeves. Mary’s upper arms—again, at the behest of Papa—were always covered. As was her décolletage.
“That’s ridiculous, Mary!” Fran beckoned to the waiter for another cocktail. She had such confidence now! Fran had seemed like such a shy, yet oddly glamorous, little thing—like a new foal, Mary decided, spindly arms and legs, tentative steps, and a tendency to tremble a little from nervousness—when they first met. Even though Fran was four years older; even though she’d been married twice, Mary had felt herself the more mature one.
“No, really. It’s like these men resent me for my success, for wanting to take control of my own career, for making as much money as I do—more than some of them do, and they hate it. Would they resent me if I were a man? If I were Wallace Reid instead of Mary Pickford?”
“No, they would not.” Frances frowned and sipped her cocktail. “Do you know what Mr. Brady at World calls me? Pete. As if he can’t bring himself to accept that the head of his scenario department is a woman. So he gave me a boy’s name.”
“Oh, Fran!”
“That’s why I dress like this.” Frances gestured down at her elegant gown. “He may call me Pete, but I’m never going to let him forget I’m a woman. And we shouldn’t have to give up our femininity—it’s our minds, our brains, that they want. What on earth does it matter if those brains are covered by a pretty cartwheel hat instead of a derby?”
This is why she needed Fran! Because there was no one else she could speak so frankly to about being a woman in a man’s world. Other actresses would pounce on any sign of weakness, because they only wanted one thing—to usurp her. But Fran’s ambitions were different, non-competitive. And she experienced the same frustrations that Mary did.
“It shouldn’t matter what we wear, but it always does, doesn’t it? Men need to put us in a box all the time. God forbid we ever step out of that box. I love your dress. I wish I could wear one like it!”
“You don’t have to dress like that, Mary—like a perfect little saint. You can have a cocktail, for heaven’s sake! You’re the head of your own production company now. You don’t have to listen to them!”
“No, Papa’s right—I do have my public to think about. I can’t let them down. I can’t scandalize them.” Because if they stop coming to my movies then I’m back where I was, sleeping sitting up on a train, worrying about whether Mama and Lottie and Jack have enough to eat. What was it Mama had said, so long ago?
Don’t ever forget that you need them more than they need you.
“So what if these men want you to fail? Don’t. It’s that simple.” Fran said it so decidedly, Mary was almost convinced. But then she laughed; she knew better.
“Right. All I have to do is figure out how to make these vultures at the studio not rub their hands with glee and say, ‘I told you so! I told you the girl couldn’t do it on her own. I told you she’d fall flat on her ow
n face, given the chance!’ ”
“Oh, Mary!” Fran leaned forward, her face red, her eyes gleaming strangely. “First of all, don’t worry so. You’re the smartest person I know in this business. Second of all, I’ve had an idea. I’ve been wanting to find a way to—to sort of give you back your childhood, if only for one movie. Don’t laugh”—Fran raised a hand as if to forestall any derision—“I know it sounds silly. But listen, I think I’ve found something. It’s called The Poor Little Rich Girl, a darling novel about a dear little girl, very rich but very ignored by her busy parents. I read it and I immediately thought of you, Mary—I kept seeing your face on every page. You’ll get to be an actual girl this time, not just a girlish woman—a real child who gets to skip and play, all the things you never got to do when you were young. What do you think? If I get leave from World to write it, I mean—would Zukor go for it?”
“Oh, Fran!” Mary sat up straight now. “I don’t know what to say! That you want to give me this—and it sounds exactly right for my first film on my own! It will be such fun—such a challenge, too! An artistic challenge—do you really think I can get away with playing a child? I’m twenty-five, you know. I’ve played young women—adolescents. But never a child. How old is she?”
“Eleven. And I do think you can do this, Mary. I’ve seen you when we’re being silly—the joy, the abandon, just like a little girl. That’s why I thought of you when I was reading the novel.”
“Fran, I promise. I promise I’m going to work so hard to get this right. It sounds wonderful—thank you, darling! I’ll take it to Papa as soon as you give me your treatment.”
Frances frowned, fiddled with the silk trim about her neckline, and suddenly looked to Mary as she used to—for guidance, for reassurance. “Do you think he’ll let you hire me?”
Mary smiled. “Of course he will, Fran. You’ve been working for a year now as a writer. The Foundling did good business, once we refilmed it. Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of you!”
Odd, the look that Frances gave her; not quite as full of gratitude as Mary was used to. But then Fran smiled and squeezed her hand.
“I’ll get it to you in the morning.”
“I can work on it now with you, if you want. If you want to discuss some camera setups, perhaps? I was just thinking today that I’d like to try something new, lighting-wise—I was experimenting the other day with a mirror and a light and—”
“Mary, darling, you never can stop working, can you? Neither can I, usually, but—tonight I have an appointment to keep.” And the way Fran grinned, only the corners of her mouth curling up a little—as if she’d swallowed a secret—made Mary instantly curious. And envious?
“With whom? Is he tall, dark, and handsome?”
“Tall enough, and that’s all I’ll say. Have a good night, dear.” Frances swooped in to kiss Mary on the cheek, and Mary smelled her perfume—musky, with a hint of orchids and sultry air. “Tell Charlotte I said hello.”
“I will.” And Mary smarted, just a little, as she watched her best friend sail confidently through the Algonquin lobby, pausing to embrace people who called out her name before she disappeared out the door and into the night. Mary wasn’t comfortable at the Algonquin; it was famed for its artists, writers, and such, and Mary always felt their smug superiority whenever she was introduced. “Oh, of course. Mary Pickford. The film star with the curls.”
But Fran was a writer, and so she was accepted. And Mary had to admit that Fran was better educated than she was, of course—anyone would be! Which was why Mary spent so much time, when she wasn’t on the set, reading. Still, she felt she could never catch up.
The only thing she knew, the only thing she was sure of, was the movies. Her movies.
Mary took a moment to put on her gloves and readjust her hat. Did she envy Fran her life—her sophistication, her intellectual acceptance? Her many and varied “appointments”?
She was rather tired at the moment; weary of her own life. Owen was drinking—among other things—even more now that she’d signed her latest contract. She had no hope that he would be home when she got back to the hotel. And while she really didn’t want him to be, she also didn’t want to think about where he might be, instead.
Suddenly very lonely, Mary rose, pulled her veil down low on her face, wrapped herself up in a nondescript beige wool coat, and crept through the lobby, keeping to the perimeter, until she found herself out on the street. She decided to walk back uptown to her hotel; it would be good for her, to remind herself of the days when she couldn’t afford a trolley, let alone a chauffeur.
It would be good to remind herself of all she had to lose.
—
When Mary and Fran reported to the screening room a few days after the final scene of The Poor Little Rich Girl was shot, they could barely contain their excitement, but—with a mutual squeezing of hands—mutely reminded each other that they must behave like the men they had to impress.
Mary bestowed upon all the men her sunniest smile even as she was dressed in her most somber, businesslike dress. She sat down next to Fran in the middle of the room, the only women present save for Papa Zukor’s secretary who always sat at his elbow, taking notes. The lights were dimmed, and the picture began to unspool; the studio didn’t believe in paying for musicians simply for screenings.
But as the film progressed, the silence in the room grew more pronounced. When she or Fran giggled at some of the humorous scenes, they were quieted by the swivel of heads turning their way, masculine eyes glaring in disapproval. Finally they stopped tittering, stopped clearing their throats, stopped even breathing, it seemed to Mary. And when the film ended, no one applauded. The stillness in the room was bone-chilling.
Mary was too numb even to reach for Fran’s hand; Fran herself was slumped down in her seat, shivering.
“It’s a disaster,” someone muttered even before the light was back on and the projector had stopped. “An unmitigated disaster.”
“It’s putrid,” Jesse Lasky pronounced with such barely concealed glee, Mary longed to slap him. But she couldn’t; her hands were trembling too much.
“I don’t know what to do with it,” Papa Zukor said at last, and he turned to Mary with such a sorrowful, disappointed expression, she wanted to cry.
“Who put all that ridiculous slapstick in?” Someone else—Mary couldn’t keep them all straight, these new, nameless men who all looked alike with their dark suits, their smug smiles, their hands casually in their pockets even as their eyes shot daggers—asked, aghast. Frances started to raise her hand, until Mary quickly slapped it down.
“Don’t,” she whispered harshly into Frances’s ear. “This is all on me.”
“Monsieur, I have to speak up.” Maurice Tourneur rose, extremely dignified, extremely French. Mary and Frances glanced at each other; they knew what was coming.
“These two—these ladies—on the set, I have to say. They did not respect me.”
“Monsieur Tourneur.” Now Mary rose, also with great dignity. “I selected you personally to direct this film, as was my prerogative under my latest contract. How can you say we did not respect you?”
“Because,” he persisted in his thick accent. “You did not film the script as it was. You and she—” He pointed at Frances. “You two, you—how do you say?—you made things up. You—you—”
“Improvised,” Mary supplied. “We improvised. That is what all true artists do.”
“Oui! That is it! The, the—what do you say, slapstick?—that was all them. It was not the script I wanted to film. And I felt I could not say no to Miss Pickford. After all, she is ze boss!”
“I see.” Papa Zukor shook his head, again, so sorrowfully. “I really think it would be detrimental to your career, Mary, if we released this—this—I honestly don’t know what to call it. I don’t know what it is—is it a tragedy? A Keystone Cops farce? It’s all over the place. I don’t know what to do.”
“We have to release it because
we’ve already sold it into theaters,” someone piped up. “They’re all expecting the new Mary Pickford, and we don’t have anything else ready.”
Papa Zukor rose; he wasn’t a very big man, really—his shoulders, in particular, were quite narrow—but at that moment, he seemed to Mary to be six feet tall.
“Mary, Sweetheart Honey,” and Mary cringed to hear her nickname in front of all these disapproving, powerful men; all of a sudden she despised herself for ever letting him call her that, and for calling him Papa. What on earth had she been thinking? How infantilizing it all was!
“I don’t know what to say,” Zukor continued glumly. “I have to think about it overnight. I suggest you do the same.”
“I’ll—I’ll go back to the cutting room and see what I can do.” Frances was standing. Like someone who had suddenly lost her sight, she groped toward the entrance, reaching out and touching each chair, as if trying to get her bearings.
“No, Fran, no. Let’s go home.” Mary gripped Frances’s arm, praying her friend could hold it together until they got into the car. They must not let these men see her or Frances dissolve into anything remotely close to “a woman’s hysterics.”
But once inside the safe, plush touring car, Mary began to tremble all over, and Frances started to cry.
“Oh, Mary! How did we go wrong? It was such fun on the set, wasn’t it? So inventive—and that Tourneur! He had no idea what he was doing, he was so darn grim. If we’d let him have his way, this would have been the dreariest movie ever made!”
Mary couldn’t even begin to process the disconnect between what they’d just experienced and the fun they’d had making the film. Except for Tourneur. But all the action, the inventiveness—a truly inspired mud fight with the children the Poor Little Rich Girl yearns to play with; the brilliant way Fran depicted a little girl’s literal interpretation of the things grown-ups say—it had felt so fresh, so innovative. And watching the film, Mary saw it. She was sure she did. But it was as if she and Fran, and all the men, had watched two entirely different films.