American Blonde (9 page)

O
n March 1, Felix Roland replaced Les Edgar as director of
Home of the Brave
. Phoebe Phillips was forced to drop out of the picture due to pneumonia. And Nigel’s wife, Pia Palmer, arrived from England.

Cast and crew gathered on Stage 15 for Felix Roland’s first day on the set. He was a man with a reputation for hunting, gambling, womanizing, and hard drinking. Someone said he had begun his career as a stuntman, known for being the most fearless and reckless of them all. In other words, he was the exact opposite of Leslie Edgar.

On the sidelines, Billy Taub, looking rumpled but wired, chewed pills from a prescription bottle. Nigel sat in a chair, reading through the script and making notes on the pages, while Pia Palmer—cool and slender, dusky auburn hair swept up—lounged by his side. On the other side of him was a freckle-faced, doe-eyed girl of seventeen or eighteen, as slim as a Dresden figurine. This was Babe King, who would now be playing Mallory’s sister, Anne.

“Have the fireworks started yet?” Sam Weldon appeared, lighting a cigarette. He was looking at Mudge standing across from us beside Hal, her face rigid.

“Fireworks? You mean because of Felix Roland?”

“Among other things.”

Before I could ask him what he was talking about, Mr. Roland kicked over a chair to get our attention. The chair went clattering across the floor as he stood, arms crossed, his gaze moving over every single one of us like a searchlight. “Before we get started, I want to get this out of the way. Les Edgar is a great director. I respect him. No one can direct a dialogue scene like he can. It’s bullshit that he’s just a woman’s director. He’s not. He can direct anybody. But he’s not here now. I’ve been working for three years straight on six different films. I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. You’re tired, I’m tired, and we all want this to be over. I’m not here to hold your hand or be your pal. I don’t give a goddamn if you’re in the midst of a divorce or if you just lost your dog. I don’t care if you go out every night and make love to a McCormick Reaper, as long as you’re on time the next morning. We’ve got one month to wrap things up. If you’ve got questions on the script, ask the writer or the producer, but only on your own time.”

The first scene was one Mudge had shot months before with Phoebe. It called for Babe King, as Anne, to sob as if her life depended on it. By now, Mudge could look at her lines once and know them. She had been in character for over a year, so Mallory was always somewhere nearby, within reach. Mudge could cry on a dime, but Babe was clearly having trouble, and the two of them had already been rehearsing for a week.

At first, the best Babe could do was cover her face with her hands and make sobbing noises. Mr. Taub called for glycerin tears, but Felix Roland said, “This is MGM. This is
Home of the fucking Brave.
They can use glycerin over at Fox or RKO. Or—where the hell are you from?”

“Columbia,” Babe choked out.

“Or Columbia. Save the glycerin for Rita Hayworth.”

They rehearsed the scene again and again, adjusting lighting and wardrobe when Mr. Roland thought they needed more contrast and color, but when it came to personal direction, he left it up to the actors. “Ham it up,” he told them. “Just get in there and ham it up.”

Finally, Mudge threw down the prop sword she was holding, and wheeled on Babe. “This is ridiculous. We’ve already shot this scene. Phoebe could cry like that”—she snapped her fingers—“and now we’re having to do it all over again and wait on you.” She turned on Felix Roland. “Les Edgar knew these characters as well as the writer does. He was able to help us find their pulse and breathe life into them—”

“Which is exactly why he isn’t here anymore,” Mr. Roland barked at her. “We don’t have time to locate pulses, Miss Fanning. We’re over schedule and over budget as it is.”

Babe interrupted him. “Stop it. Stop talking.” She said to Mudge, “Don’t blame him. You’re right—I should be able to do the scene, no matter what. After all, that’s what they pay me for.” She sounded so upset, I was surprised she wasn’t crying. “Slap me.”

“What?”

“As hard as you can. I won’t be responsible for holding things up.” When Mudge continued to stare at her, Babe turned to Mr. Roland. “Or you do it. Or someone. Surely, one of you has dreamed of slapping an actress before. Now’s your chance.”

For a second, I thought the director was going to slap her, but then, without warning, Mudge hauled back and hit her. Babe’s eyes went wide, her hand to her cheek, and then she started to cry.

They got the scene in one take, and afterward Babe dried her eyes like nothing had happened, and Mudge stalked off the set without a word.

My own scene was brief—a quick send-off for my husband, Captain Ashburn (played by romantic up-and-comer Phillip Drake), who was going off to war. Mr. Roland made certain I knew my marks, and then said: “You’ve lost one husband already. You can’t stand it if you lose this one. On film, this scene will last ten seconds, so let’s not turn it into
Birth of a Nation
.”

He was awful, but we got it in one take. When I was finished I went outside to look for Mudge—at her star suite, in the makeup and hair departments. As I came out of the wardrobe building, Babe King was walking past. “Did you find her? Is she okay?”

“I’m sure she’s all right. How’s your cheek?” Out of costume, Babe looked all of twelve. Her nails were short and painted to match her lips, and a ring on one finger was her only jewelry. I could see her freckles.

She laid a hand to her face. “It’s fine. Just embarrassed, like the rest of me. Are you headed to the dressing rooms?”

We walked there together, Babe telling me that she was under contract with Columbia, but Harry Cohn had set her free this once because, mean and nasty as he was, he knew a good picture when he saw one. This was her big opportunity, and she didn’t want to muck it up.

They’d put her in the army barracks–style general dressing room building, two doors down from me. The door to her room opened and a woman appeared, bracelets clacking, her perfume crowding the air. It was hard to place her age, but everything about her was just a shade too bright—hair a little too blonde, face a little too made up. Babe frowned at her, as if she could see the woman through my eyes.

“What are we talking about, kiddies?”

“Mother, this is Kit Rogers.”

The woman held out a hand glittering with rings, and I remembered something I’d read in the fan magazines:
Babe King moved to Hollywood when she was fifteen with her mother and her pet rabbit
. “Yilla King,” she said. “I read about you in the papers. Babe’s underage, you know, which is why I have to babysit her. Union rules.” She winked at Babe, who looked away.

That evening, Mudge and I ate dinner silently, her mood hanging over us. At first, she made small talk, but her mind was clearly somewhere far, far away. I wanted to ask where she’d gone when she left the set, but instead I concentrated on my plain chicken and vegetables, wishing for real food.

We were just finishing our meal when Redd Deeley came muscling through the door, Flora at his heels. He snapped at Mudge, “I heard you walked off. That you threatened Billy Taub. Threatened?!”

“Redd Deeley, don’t you barge in here without knocking.” Mudge stood and threw her napkin onto her plate. “This isn’t your house anymore.”

Flora was apologizing over and over, and Mudge said, “It’s not your fault, Flora. Don’t you worry. If anything, he’s my fault. I was the one who married him.”

He shouted, “You listen to me. If you quit this film, you will be in court till your last day on earth. You will never work again on stage or screen. Taub and Mayer will see to that. And so will I. Do you understand me?”

She picked up a glass and threw it at his head. Flora started clearing the plates, taking away the ammunition. I stood up to help her as Mudge shouted back, “Get out. And leave your key.”

“Not until you promise me you’ll report for work tomorrow, and every other day until this picture is done.”

“And what if I fire you?”

“Good luck finding anyone stupid enough or crazy enough to take you on.”

“Redd, I can’t go back. There’s nothing left in me. I’m tired. I’m thirty, but I feel eighty.”

“Is this about Roland or is this about Pia Palmer’s arrival?”

She looked up at him, her face white.

“I thought so. You finish what you started. Don’t treat this like one of your marriages.” He sent something spinning across the table—a prescription bottle. “Treat this picture like what it is—the thing you love most in this world. You do what you can to see it through. And you know that when you walk away, after you’ve said your last line, you’ll have done the best work of your career.” When she only stood there, hand closed around the bottle, he said, “I’ll take that as a ‘Yes, Redd.’”

He marched out, slamming the front door as he left. Mudge sent the bottle of pills zinging into the wall. She said, “Of all the—” and then sank into her chair, put her head right down on the table, and sobbed.

I wrapped the glass in my napkin and dropped the pills one by one into the prescription bottle. When Flora came in to finish clearing the plates, I said, “That’s okay, Flora. We’ll take care of it.” I looked at Mudge. She picked up her napkin, dabbed her eyes, and sniffed. “Are you all right?”

“I will be. I just need this picture to be over, Hartsie. And now this thing with Felix Roland and Les being fired and . . .” She shook her head. “Men like Les Edgar are the reason I became an actress in the first place. He doesn’t deserve the treatment he’s getting. None of us do.”

“You’re in the last stretch. You only have to do this a little bit longer. Remember the WASP and how we thought we’d never get through those last flight checks before graduation? Remember flying blind and what Puck told us?” Puck had been one of our instructors at Avenger Field.

In a small voice she said, “‘You know this.’”

“Yes. You know this. You can do this.”

Flora crept back in, carrying dessert and a bottle of wine. She set down a new glass for Mudge, who reached for the wine. Mudge said to the both of us, “I’m sorry.” Flora laid a hand on her shoulder before walking back into the kitchen. “Sorry, sorry, sorry. She’s the only family I have, Flora—the only family—and you and the other girls from the WASP. My head is splitting.” She reached for some water. “I’m just so tired. What’s wrong with me?”

“You’re overworked. You’ve been working too hard for too long.”

She dropped her eyes, rubbed at a spot on the table, over and over. Gave a weak little smile. She held up the wine and I shook my head. From the prescription bottle, she popped out two little pills.

“How long has it been going on? With Nigel, I mean.”

“How did you . . . ?”

“I saw him leaving your dressing room, and then Redd made that comment about Pia.”

She sighed. “Since we started the picture.”

“Is that why you left Redd?”

“Redd will tell you I left him and that Nigel was the reason, but actually he left me. Redd Deeley, like all men, wanted Barbara Fanning but what he got was Eloise Mudge. They’re never as crazy about her.”

“And Hal MacGinnis?”

“The studio put us together. It’s good for business, good for the picture, good for Hal. He’s queer, you know.” I was beginning to feel like Alice in the rabbit hole, in a world where nothing was what it seemed.

She swallowed the pills, the smile fading. “Nigel’s spent half his assets and his Metro trust fund to buy his way out of his marriage. Howard Strickling, Eddie Mannix, they’re all trying to help, but Pia is impossible. And now she’s here.”

“He’s her husband. Maybe she loves him.”

“No she doesn’t. Not anymore. She hates him and she hates me, and she’s doing everything she can to keep us apart.” She started to cry, silently, angrily, staring out into the room like a tragic widow. “I didn’t want to fall in love with him, Hartsie. Don’t you think I would have picked someone else if I could help it?” She took another drink.

Mudge was back at work the next morning, sitting by herself between takes. She delivered her lines, did everything Felix Roland asked of her, behaved like a good, dutiful girl, was civil to others, and at the end of the day, drove off in her car and didn’t come home until late. The next day, she followed the same exact pattern. And the next day, and the next. I wondered if she and Nigel had somehow found a way to see each other without Pia knowing.