‘Did you write this crap?’ I asked the unit publicist.
He grinned.
‘Can I have a copy?’
‘What’s the catch?’
‘For research.’
‘As a bad flack’s handiwork?’
‘I wouldn’t do that to you, Henry,’ I said. ‘We’ve both got to live with the industry.’
‘In the immortal words of Sam Goldwyn, “Include me out”. This is the last picture I’ll do as publicity man.’
‘Do you know, Henry, you said that to me when you were doing that film at Ealing.’
‘I might surprise you.’
‘Yes, you might go to Spain and write one of the great novels of the decade: send me a crate of Tio Pepe.’
He passed me a fresh copy of the fan mag containing his phoney interview. I put it into the red folder that I had marked ‘Marshall Stone’. It was the only thing in it.
‘Where is it all going on?’
‘The roof.’ He reached for some mimeographed biographies that were stacked near the duplicating machine. Suzy Delft, Edgar Nicolson the producer, Richard Preston the director. ‘I’ve run out of Stone’s but I’ll send you one. Help yourself to any of the stills you want.’
On the top of the pile was a large shiny photo of the director, dressed like a Red Indian squaw and posed as if screaming directions through a megaphone.
The Prestons in the industry were making so much noise that every magazine and newspaper I opened, and TV too, was talking about the great youth revolution that had taken over the movie industry. Well, youth had taken over the movie industry like Negroes had taken over the electronics industry. There were some, seated near the door and always busy, convincing bystanders that integration was here. But just as the mandatory Negro actors were still only getting feature billing, so the kids who were supposed to be running the film industry were getting their money from the same old big daddies who have been running the movies since movies were old enough to speak.
On this production Koolman had put old Edgar Nicolson around Preston’s neck but the kid was giving them quite a run for their money. Whether he’d get a chance to repeat his fun and games was another matter. There had been sixteen rewrites on this script, and that was the official count! The director seldom looked at the latest version and his continuity girl had been told that avant-garde films are fragmented, by which Preston meant that each day’s shooting was best invented the previous night. It wasn’t a concept his producer found easy to adapt to. Twice Preston had been fired. The major reason for both reinstatements was that only Preston believed that the existing footage could be fitted together to make a coherent whole.
They were filming on the roof amid a jungle of tropical plants. I watched Suzy Delft walk through a shot in which she took a flower from a bush and smelled it. She moved in that stilted way that models do, pausing each time she moved an arm or leg. It was the height of professionalism for a stills photo but in the viewing theatre it could look like Keystone Cops.
Preston talked to his cameraman and they decided to move one of the brutes. Heaving the arc light into its new position took several minutes, and the script girl brought out her portable typewriter and began to hammer at the continuity sheets. Suzy Delft sat down on a prop barrel until the fuzzy-haired assistant came back with a cup of tea and the sort of bacon sandwich that only location caterers can make. Then Preston decided that he could print the last one after all. ‘The two-shot,’ he called.
Suzy Delft groaned and gulped her tea. Her face was familiar, I’d seen her in bra ads and beer commercials. She was one of a dozen girls that Leo Koolman described as his discoveries. There was a tacit agreement among show-biz writers that the droit de seigneur of movie moguls died with the Hollywood czars. But if anyone could give that tradition the kiss of life, Koolman could, and Suzy Delft would not be the first one to get it, even if she was regularly seen at premières and parties with Marshall Stone.
There were several theories about how Suzy Delft broke into films. Journalists liked to believe it was due to the headlines she got from a mangled Marxist quote during the most fashionable of last year’s political riots. Girls seemed to prefer the story about her surrendering to Koolman in exchange for a leading role. Romantics had their story about how she starred in dozens of blue movies before coming above ground. These were the sort of stories that the world insists upon attaching to girls like Suzy Delft, for she looked not only as beautiful as an angel but twice as innocent. Without her rumoured depravity her face was a tacit reproach to all of us. Even for the boy who brought her tea she was able to spare more than a brief thank you, and she hung on to every word of his stuttered reply.
Suzy Delft was a montage of her own aspirations. Her half-closed eyes were Dietrich and her half-open mouth Garbo, while the stiff-limbed gaucherie of every movement was Mary Poppins. Her hands were held away from her sides and her fingers stretched like a wooden doll. Her dark hair was pulled tight and fastened in pigtails. Her tomboy toothiness was also part of the role she played both on stage and off. She was a schoolgirl – a stunningly beautiful one – on the verge of sexual awakening; at least, that’s how the Koolman people were building the publicity. Her poster was being drawn by the same man who’d done those cuddly Disney animals.
Her agent was on the set watching her. Jacob Weinberger was one of the best-known flesh peddlers in the business but I wouldn’t say he was popular; what agent was. I wondered if he had told her not to run back to her dressing-room between each take. Apart from speeding things up, staying here on the floor exchanging shy words with the crew was creating a good impression upon them. It would help her to know that they were all sympathetic towards her, and every actor needed an appreciative audience, even if it was only a crew.
Stool Pigeon was a war film: ten soldiers in the jungle trying to get through the enemy lines. It was an opportunity for miscegenation, full frontal nudity, cannibalism, sodomy at gunpoint, blasphemy and incest in a story that would otherwise have had to rely upon killing as its sole entertainment. They had shot the previous scene with the sunlight full on Suzy Delft’s face. Now they had to do a reverse of the two Negroes against the light. Understandably they were running into lighting trouble.
I was standing near the water tank. With tropical plants concealing its edges the Japanese soldiers were going to wade through it pretending it was swamp. They would have to keep the cameras low to avoid the London skyline but they would have real sky instead of back projection or a painted set.
‘Real sky is more important than matching,’ Preston told me. I nodded. Preston looked back to watch his lighting cameraman take a reading from the Negro’s face. He shook his head. There was still not enough light there. Preston said, ‘The stupid bastard. If he’d told me we were heading into problems, we could have shot the girl against the light and had the spades looking into it.’
When they had positioned another brute they couldn’t find the slate or the slate-boy. Finally he emerged, bringing a second cup of tea for Suzy Delft.
‘Turn over,’ said Preston.
‘Running.’
‘Scene: one eight one, take one,’ said the slate-boy.
The first Negro stared into the camera, shielding his eyes from the brute as if it was the sun. ‘Cut,’ yelled Preston. “That was good,’ he said. ‘Let’s print that.’
‘There was a hair in the gate,