I was among those who tried to lure her back to the screen. My idea was to do a production of
The Cherry Orchard
, with her as Madame Ranevskaya. During our first meetings, she surprised me with her wide knowledge of Chekhov and his work. We talked of it for months. I never got her beyond the “perhaps” point, and in time, the idea melted away.
I once asked Ernst Lubitsch, who directed her in
Ninotchka
, how he came to put her into a comedy. It was something she had never done before.
“Because she was funny,” said Ernst. “You couldn’t see it? You didn’t know it off the screen? How funny she was? How she would make certain remarks about some of the producers? Once she came to my house. Hauser brought her and we went all over the grounds. She wanted to see them. And for some reason, she started to tell me about her affair with Stokowski, about traveling with him in Mexico and New York and she was so
funny
! About how Stokowski would try to play the idea of wanting to hide from the crowd, and then becoming furious when no one recognized him, and then what he would do about that. She was funny. And I knew she could be funny on the screen. Even in some of the serious things she showed humor. You didn’t notice how she always had such a light touch? Most of them are so heavy.
Heavy
! But she was light, light always, and for comedy, nothing matters more. When someone has a light touch, they can play comedy, and it doesn’t hurt if they’re beautiful. There was only one thing that worried me a little. I wondered if she could laugh, because I didn’t have a finish if she didn’t have a laugh. She had the most beautiful smile. What am I saying? She had a whole
collection
of smiles. Every kind of smile. Warm, motherly, friendly, polite, amused, sexy, mysterious. Beautiful smiles. But a smile is not a laugh. And when I began to talk to her about
Ninotchka
, I said to her one day, ‘Can you laugh?’ and she said, ‘I think so.’ I said to her, ‘Do you often laugh?’ And she said, ‘Not often.’ And I said, ‘Could you laugh right now?’ And she said, ‘Let me come back tomorrow.’ And then, the next day she came back and said, ‘All right. I’m ready to laugh.’ So I said, ‘Go ahead.’ And she laughed and it was beautiful. And she made
me
laugh, and there we sat in my office like two loonies, laughing for about ten minutes. From that moment on, I knew I had a picture with her.”
Looking back, it is easy to see why she occupied a place of her own on the film scene. There was only one Garbo. And she, alas, gave up.
There is a show-business game called “Who Do You Think You Are?” In it, the subjects reveal—or have revealed—the object of their inspiration or emulation. Almost everyone in the world of film or theatre has a hero or heroine, model or master. The pairings are frequently strange, often surprising.
About Samuel Goldwyn’s there was no mystery. He felt a powerful affinity for Florenz Ziegfeld.
“That name,” said Goldwyn, “Ziegfeld—is like Tiffany stamped on a—you know—on an anything! It’s like
Goldwyn
on a picture. You
know
?”
It is not difficult to see how this influence came about. Consider the young Goldwyn in 1907—working, scheming toward success with little to sustain him except his irrepressible confidence. There in New York—all about him—is the magic name, Ziegfeld. Florenz Ziegfeld, Jr., presents:…Or—The Sixty Club! Or Ziegfeld and Anna Held. The Midnight Frolic on the Ziegfeld Roof. Delmonico talk about Ziegfeld and Billie Burke. And Lillian Lorraine. Heady stuff, all this.
Finally, the apex, the most dazzling jewel in King Florenz’s crown:
The Ziegfeld
Follies
. The power of these five syllables is such that even now—more than forty years after Ziegfeld’s death—they still command impressive fees and royalties for their use. Ziegfeld’s designers and creators of stage effects: Joseph Urban, Ben Ali Haggin, Julian Mitchell. His songwriters: Victor Herbert, Harry Tierney, Raymond Hubbell, Irving Berlin. His collections of stars approached the profligate:
The Ziegfeld Follies
of 1908 with Barney Bernard and Nora Bayes; of 1909 with Eva Tanguay, Lillian Lorriane, Sophie Tucker, Jack Norworth, and Nora Bayes. Year after year, bigger and bigger, better and better, until
The Ziegfeld Follies
of 1920 with Ray Dooley, Fannie Brice, W.C. Fields, Charles Winninger, Van and Schenck, John Steel. In 1922: Will Rogers, Gallagher and Shean, Andrew Tombes, Nervo and Knox, Gilda Gray, Mary Eaton, Lulu McConnell, and The Tiller Girls.
The extravagances burgeoned. Ziegfeld was a creative artist rather than a businessman. His attention was ever on quality, not cost. Moreover, he set a standard that he himself had to top year after year. Since this is neither theatrically nor practically possible, he ended his life in bankruptcy.
Goldwyn was greatly troubled by
this
aspect of his identification with Ziegfeld. When M-G-M’s film
The Great Ziegfeld
was released, Goldwyn sent for it time and time again to run at his house. On one occasion, Goldwyn was blowing his nose and wiping his eyes as the lights came up after the end title.
“That’s just how
I’ll
finish,” he said in a choked voice. “Broke. You’ll see. I’ll go broke. Just like him.”
He could not be persuaded otherwise.
Although this condition never materialized, it is possible to speculate that Goldwyn might almost have welcomed it as a final embrace of the Ziegfeld/Goldwyn amalgam. A logical, inevitable outgrowth of this kinship was Goldwyn’s production in 1937 of
The
Goldwyn Follies
. Can this title have been influenced by one not dissimilar?
Earlier, Goldwyn had spent much time, money, and effort to establish and promote a group of beauties known as The Goldwyn Girls. (It may be supposed that he had heard of The Ziegfeld Girls.) Goldwyn’s bevy included, at various times: Lucille Ball, Paulette Goddard, Virginia Bruce, Susan Fleming (later, Mrs. Harpo Marx), and Marian Marsh. Among the alumnae of Ziegfeld’s group were Marion Davies, Joan Crawford, Gertie Vanderbilt, and Mae Murray.
It rankled Goldwyn that no one on his staff was able to come up with a gimmick to match Ziegfeld’s felicitous slogan: “Glorifying the American Girl.”
Goldwyn envisioned a yearly version of his extravaganza and, incomparable showman that he was, knew that the first one would have to be an overwhelming success. To this end, he spared nothing: not himself, not his fortune.
He engaged George and Ira Gershwin to write the score; Ben Hecht (finally, after many false starts) to do the book; George Balanchine (who brought out a company of sixty, including Vera Zorina) as choreographer.
George Balanchine and his troupe, The American Ballet of the Metropolitan Opera, arrived and made Hollywood history. The requirements and demands of his company were unheard of.
Balanchine and his various assistants had determined that the existing sound stages and their floors were not suitable for dance rehearsals. Goldwyn cheerfully ordered a new building—a dance studio—to be constructed on a faraway part of the lot.
The studio establishment was hostile and uncooperative, but Goldwyn seemed to revel in the proliferating difficulties. The more unreasonable Balanchine’s request, the more he respected it. He sensed that he now owned a genuine group of first-class artists; that he was somehow entertaining royalty.
The American Ballet had brought out its own rehearsal musicians, wardrobe attendants, makeup artists, and assorted experts. Balanchine’s studio began to operate with a complete autonomy. No one except members of his company was allowed inside at any time, including Samuel Goldwyn.
A month went by. Another. Rumors abounded. One: Balanchine was creating the greatest ballet ever. Two: Balanchine seldom appeared. Only ballet classes were in progress. Three: Balanchine was about to pack up his company and leave, because George Gershwin’s illness was delaying the completion of the ballet music. Four: Balanchine was not working on
The Goldwyn Follies
at all, but was preparing his program for the following season in New York.
Goldwyn’s well-planted spies reported everything. Goldwyn received them impassively. He admired Balanchine. Never had he signed anyone who had made a greater impression on the press. The publicity that the company was generating was priceless.
“Free publicity!” Goldwyn exulted, looking through the press book Jock Lawrence had carefully prepared. “Look at this! And
this
! Free, you see what I mean? Anybody f’Chrissake can
buy
publicity—but to get it for
nothing
, that you have to have experience and guts and the main thing—ideas. Am I right, Jock?”
“You bet.”
Anyone at the meeting could have pointed out that the free publicity was costing him about $15,000 a day, but no one did.
One afternoon, Goldwyn sent for Balanchine. Instead, an assistant appeared.
“Balanchine working,” he said. “Very
sheddule
. Big discipline, yes? Also, he tell me come not he. Because. He has ashamed for his English. Make him full with nervosity. You have messages? You give
me
. I give
him
. Yes?”
“No,” said Goldwyn.
We waited for the showdown blast.
“No?” echoed the messenger.
“You go back and you tell Mr. Balanchine I’m sorry I disturbed him. I know he’s doing a great job. But tell him two weeks from today at ten o’clock—
sharp
—we’re going to have a conference and I want him to come himself. To be here personally.”
“Okay,” chirped the messenger, eager to be gone.
“And tell him,” said Goldwyn, “not to be ashamed of his English. Mine isn’t so perfect either!” He laughed. We all laughed. “Also,” Goldwyn added, “by two weeks from now it should be a lot better!” He laughed again.
Two weeks passed, during which further rumors spread regarding the activities in the increasingly mysterious structure on the edge of the lot.
The day. 10:00 A.M. We assembled.
A receptionist opened the door and said, “Mr. Balanchine is here.”
“Send him right in,” said Mr. Goldwyn and, of all things, stood up.
The rest of us did, too.
In walked the same little sweaty assistant in his same turtleneck and beret. He was surprised to find the room on its feet.
“Sit, gentlemens,” he said. “Sit.”
We all followed his direction, all but Mr. Goldwyn, who remained standing.
“Balanchine say—” began the assistant.
Goldwyn interrupted.
“Tell Mr. Balanchine to come here. Right away. Like I said. Tell him to stop whatever he’s doing. I don’t care what he’s doing. And to come here. Go tell him.”
He pointed to the door with what looked like a two-foot-long finger. The gesture, like the tone of his order, had unmistakable, final authority. Only a fool would have questioned it and Balanchine’s man was not a fool. He left with dispatch.
Goldwyn sat and calmly began a discussion of another crisis. Ira Gershwin had reported that his brother, George, was too ill to function. (George was to die of a brain tumor three weeks later—on July 11, 1937.) He had finished most of the score, but someone else would have to provide the incidental music, the ballet music, main and end titles, and so on. Any suggestions?
Al Newman, the musical director, said, “George mentioned Vernon Duke. He would be happy with Vernon Duke.”
The door opened again and Balanchine’s messenger came in again, followed by George Balanchine.
Goldwyn rose. Balanchine went around the room quickly and gracefully, providing a mechanical handshake for everyone in the room. He approached Goldwyn, they shook hands and sat down. They exchanged a grim look.
“Mr. Balanchine,” said Goldwyn. “I think the time has come when we should have a nice talk and give each other our views.”
Balanchine looked puzzled. Ashamed for his English, perhaps?
Goldwyn leaned forward, raised his voice and slowed the rate of his speech.
“What I mean is,” he said, “I want you to give me
your
views and I want to give you
my
views.”
Balanchine turned to his assistant in confusion and asked, “
Vyoose
?”
The assistant shrugged.
“Never mind,” said Goldwyn. “Mr. Balanchine. George.”
“Yes.
George
,” said Balanchine, glad to be on friendlier footing.
“George,” said Goldwyn. “You came here. I brought you. Your whole company. Everybody you wanted. Everything.”
“Yes,” said Balanchine. “Everything.”
“I built you a studio.”
“Good,” said Balanchine.
“I left you alone. To work.”
“Yes,” said Balanchine. “
Merci
. All is good.”
“Yes,” said Goldwyn. “But what is
all
?”
“What?” asked Balanchine.
“Mr. Balanchine—”
“George?” asked Balanchine.
“Mr. Balanchine,” said Goldwyn, sticking to his guns. “What the hell are you
doing
in there? Over there?”
“Ballet,” said Balanchine, giving the word a French-Russian pronunciation that made it all but incomprehensible. Bah-
lyay
.
“What did he say?” Goldwyn asked the assistant.
“Bah-
lyay
,” the assistant replied.
“What’s
that
?”
When no one volunteered for a few seconds, I jumped in. “Ballet,” I said.
“You speak Russian, f’Chrissake?”
“No, Mr. Goldwyn. But that’s what they said.”
“Jesus Christ!” said Goldwyn. “Mr. Balanchine. This ballet you’re doing for
The
Goldwyn Follies
…I know it’s great, George.” Balanchine shrugged modestly. Goldwyn went on. “But what’s it
about
, Mr. Balanchine?”
“About,” said Balanchine.
His assistant sprang to his side and whispered something into his ear. Balanchine nodded gravely.
“About,” said Balanchine, frowning. “It’s difficult.”
“Never mind,” said Goldwyn sternly. “We’re all friends here.”
Balanchine appeared to retire into himself for a long, troubled time. We all waited with varying degrees of impatience. My own instinct was that an interior earthquake was about to hit.
Balanchine rose, moved purposefully to Goldwyn’s desk, and cleared it. (Would Goldwyn stand for
this
? I wondered. He did.) We all gathered around the desk. It seemed the thing to do.
Balanchine looked about for necessary props, found them. Goldwyn’s silver carafe and a large onyx paperweight.
“Difficult,” he said. “Because ahb-
strahct
, yes? Two group. Sixteen both. Eight of boy. Eight of girl. First group—positive.” He held up the carafe. “Other group—negative.” He held up the paperweight. “So. Is four movements of classical form. Suite or sonata. Gershwin knows. We have discuss. So. First movement. Positive.” He slammed the carafe down onto the middle of the desk, denting it. Goldwyn, concentrated on the demonstration, took no heed of the damage. Balanchine, a wild look in his eyes, began to move the carafe about, intoning, “Positive. Positive. Positive. Pos-i-
tive
!” He slid the carafe off the desk and replaced it gently with the paperweight as he cried, “Second
movement! Negative!” He moved the paperweight about in a hypnotic pattern. The carafe again. “Third! Positive positive positive.” The paperweight. “Negative negative negative.”
Fred Kohlmar whispered to me, “Sort of like the old shell game, huh?”
I prayed that Goldwyn had not overheard.
Balanchine went on, his face glistening. The carafe and the paperweight had become living things. The patterns were fascinating and imaginative and surprising.
“Fourth movement!” The action on the desk top went mad. The movements became wilder and wilder.
“Positive negative positive positive negative negative negative positive positive negative negative positive positive positive negative positive positive. Positive.
POS—
I—TIVE
!!”
He sat, still holding the paperweight, but leaving the carafe in the middle of Goldwyn’s desk. Goldwyn stared at it. The silence was profound. We all stood stockstill, waiting. Time stood still.
Goldwyn looked up. What did the unreadable expression on his face signify? Pain? Confusion?
“I
like
it!” he said, and completed the beaming smile.
He came round, slapped Balanchine on the back. Balanchine walked (danced?) out, followed by his assistant, who had turned haughty.
Goldwyn went around the room, shaking hands with everyone.
Long before there was a script or even a concept for
The Goldwyn Follies,
Goldwyn began to sign players, one by one: Bobby Clark, Phil Baker, Kenny Baker, Adolphe Menjou, the Ritz Brothers, and others.