The Early Ayn Rand (19 page)

“I . . . I want to work in pictures,” she stammered foolishly. It was foolish, she thought, and it was not her fault; couldn’t he tell at a glance what he had before him and what he should do about it?

It seemed as if he couldn’t. He wasn’t even looking at her, but was pulling some paper forward.

“Ever done extra work before?”

“
Extra
work?”

“That’s what I asked.”

“Yes, madam!”

She wanted to argue, to explain, but something choked her, and what did come out of her throat was not what she had intended to say at all:

“No, I’m just beginning my career.”

The man pushed the paper aside.

“I see. . . . Well, we don’t use extras who’ve had no previous experience.”

“Extras?”

“Say, what’s the matter with you? Did you mean to ask for a bit straight off the bat?”

“A . . . a bit?”

“Lady, we have no time to waste here.” He pushed the door open with his foot. “Who’s next?”

There was no reason, Claire Nash was telling herself as she walked out into the street, there was no reason to take the whole farce so seriously. No reason at all, she was saying, while she twisted the handle of her bag till she wrenched it off and went on, the bag dangling violently on a broken strap.

But she went on. She went to the Epic Pictures Studio, and three hours later saw its casting director.

“Ever been in pictures before?” the lean, weary, skeptical gentleman asked as if her answer were the last thing in the world he cared to hear.

“No!” she answered flatly, as a challenge.

“No experience?”

“But . . . no. No experience.”

“Whatchur name?”

“Clai—Jane Roberts.”

“Well, Miss Roberts,” he yawned, “we do not make a practice of it, but we could . . .” he yawned, “. . . use you someday, let you try, when . . .” he yawned, “. . . oh, dear me! . . . when we have a very big crowd of extras. Leave your name and phone number with my secretary. Can’t promise anything. Come and remind us—next week. . . .”

When a month had passed, Claire Nash had heard “Next week” four times each from six studios; from three others she heard nothing—their casting directors did not interview beginners; from the last one there was nothing to hear—its casting director was away on a trip to Europe to scout for new screen talent.

His eyes fixed, thoughtful, more troubled than he cared to show, Winston Ayers watched the shooting of the first scenes. Work on
Child of Danger,
his story, had begun. He was watching—with an emotion which made him angry and which he could not control—the camera and that which stood before the camera. For before the camera stood an old fortress wall, a mighty giant of huge, rough stones; and on the wall was Queen Lani.

Queen Lani was the heroine of his story, a wild, sparkling, fantastic creature, queen of a barbarous people in the age of legends; a cruel, lawless, laughing little tyrant who crushed nations under her bare feet. He had seen her vaguely, uncertainly in his dreams. And now she was here, before him, more alive, more strange, more tempting than he had ever imagined her, more “Queen Lani” than the Queen Lani of his script. He looked at her, stricken, motionless.

Her hair flying in the wind, her slim body wrapped only in a bright, shimmering shawl, her naked legs, arms, and shoulders hard as bronze, her huge eyes glittering with menace and laughter, Heddy Leland sat on the rocks of the wall, under the eyes of the cameras, a reckless, wild, incredible, dazzling queen looking down at her limitless dominions.

There was a dead silence on the set. Werner von Halz, the scornful, aristocratic imported director, bit his megaphone in a frenzy of admiration.

“Dat,” pronounced Mr. von Halz, pointing a fat finger at the girl, “dat iss de virst real actress I efer vork vit!”

Mr. Bamburger nodded, mopped his forehead, dropped his handkerchief, forgot to pick it up, nodded again, and whispered to the silent man beside him:

“Some find, eh, Mr. Ayers?”

“I . . . I didn’t know . . . I didn’t expect . . .” Winston Ayers stammered, without tearing his eyes from the girl.

When the scene was over, he approached her as she stepped off the wall.

“It was splendid,” he said, tensely, harshly, as if grudgingly, his eyes dark between half-closed, insulting eyelids.

“Thank you, Mr. Ayers,” she answered; her voice was polite and meaningless; she turned abruptly and walked away.

“I want,” Mr. Bamburger was shouting, “I want articles in all the fan magazines! I want interviews and I want them syndicated! I want photos—where’s that fool Miller, has he been sleeping?—photos in bathing suits and without bathing suits! Wonder-Pictures’ new discovery! Discovery, hell! Wonder-Pictures’ new gold mine!”

 

Claire Nash struggled, wept, wrote letters, wasted nickels in phone booths, fought for and obtained an interview at Central Casting.

She sat—trembling and stammering, unable to control her part any longer and the part running away with her—before the desk of a thin, gentle, pitiless woman who looked like a missionary. Central Casting ruled the destinies of thousands of extras; it flung opportunities and ten-dollar-a-day calls by the hundreds each single day. Wasn’t there, Claire begged with an indignation merging into tears, wasn’t there room for one more?

The woman behind the desk shook her head.

“I am sorry, Miss Roberts,” she said precisely and efficiently, “but we do not register beginners. We have thousands of experienced people who have spent years in the business and who are starving. We cannot find enough work for them. We are trying to cut our lists in every way possible, not augment them with novices.”

“But I . . . I . . .” stammered Claire, “I
want
to be an actress! I may have a great talent . . . I . . . God! I
know
I have a great talent!”

“Very possible,” said the woman sweetly and shatteringly. “But so say ten thousand others. It is very ill advised, Miss Roberts, for a lovely, inexperienced young girl like you to be thinking of this hard, heartbreaking business. Very ill advised. . . . Of course,” she added, as Claire rose brusquely, “of course, if your situation is . . . well, difficult, we can suggest an organization which undertakes to provide the fare back home for worthy girls who . . .”

Claire forgot her part for the moment; she did a thing which no beginner would have dared to do: she rushed out and slammed the door behind her.

They are fools, Claire thought, sitting in her hotel room, all of them just blind, lazy fools. It was their job to find talent, yet they did not see it, because . . . because it seemed that they didn’t give a damn. Who had said that to her before, so long ago? Then she remembered who had said it, and the cold, mocking eyes of the speaker, and she jumped to her feet with a new determination; a new determination and a brand-new feeling of loneliness.

If they had no eyes to see for themselves, she decided, she would show them. If it’s acting experience they want, she would throw the experience in their faces. She started on a round of the little theaters that flourished like mushrooms on Hollywood’s darkest corners. She learned that one did not get paid for acting in the wretched little barns, because the “chance to be
seen
” was considered payment enough for the weeks of rehearsals. She was willing to accept this, even though she did wonder dimly how she would have been able to accept it were she a real beginner left alone to struggle on her own earnings. But her willingness brought no results. In four of the theaters, she was told that they employed no one without previous stage experience. In three others, her name and phone number were taken with the promise of a call “if anything came up,” a promise made in such a tone of voice that she knew this would be the end of it, and it was.

But in the eighth theater, the fat, oily manager took one look at the thirty-dollar hat and bowed her eagerly into his office.

“But of course, Miss Roberts,” he gushed enthusiastically, “of course! You are born for the screen. You have the makings of a star, a first-class star! Trust me, I’m an old horse in this business and I know. But talent’s gotta be seen. That’s the secret in Hollywood. You gotta be
seen.
Now I have just the play for you and a part—boy, what a part! One part like this and you’re made. Only, unfortunately, our production has been delayed because of financial difficulties, most unfortunate. Now, two hundred dollars, for instance, wouldn’t be too much for you to invest in a future that would bring you millio—Well,” said the manager to his secretary, blinking at the slammed door, “what do you suppose is the matter with her?”

The agents, Claire thought, the agents; they made their money on discovering new talent and they would be honest about seeking it. Why hadn’t she thought of them before?

She was careful to call only on those agents who had never met Claire Nash in person. She found that the precaution was unnecessary: she was never admitted any farther than the exquisite, soft-carpeted waiting rooms, modernistic riots of glass, copper, and chromium, where trim secretaries sighed regretfully, apologizing because Mr. Smith or Jones or Brown was so busy in conference; but if Miss Roberts would leave her telephone number, Mr. Smith would be sure and call her. Miss Roberts left the number. The call never came.

The agents who had no waiting rooms and no chromium, but only a hole facing a brick wall, and a mid-Victorian armchair shedding dirty cotton upon a spotted rug, were delighted to meet Miss Roberts and to place her name upon the lists of their distinguished clients; which was as much as they were able to accomplish for Miss Roberts.

One of them, tall and unshaved, seemed more delighted to meet her than all the others. “You have come to the right man, kid,” he assured her, “the right man. You know Joe Billings down at Epic Pictures? The assistant director? Well, Joe’s a partic’lar friend of mine and he’s got a lotta pull at Epic. All I gotta do is slip a coupla words to Joe and bingo! you get a screen test. A real, genuine screen test. How about dinner tonight down at my place, kiddo?” She fled.

Her face . . . her face that had been called “one of the screen’s treasures” so often . . . her face seemed to make no impression on anyone. With a single exception. One of the agents, whom she had never seen before, did look at her closely for a long moment, and then he exclaimed:

“By God but you’re a dead ringer for Claire Nash, sister!”

Then he looked again, shook his head, and changed his mind.

“Nope,” he said, “not exactly. Claire’s eyes are lighter, and her mouth smaller, and she’s got it over you as far as the figure’s concerned. Great friend of mine, Claire. . . . Tell you what we’ll do: you leave your phone number and I’ll get you a swell job as Claire’s stand-in. You look like her—or near enough for that. Only we’ll have to wait—she’s away in Europe right now.”

 

Jane Roberts’ opportunity came; not exactly in the way she had expected it to come, but it came anyhow.

One evening, as she sat on the bed in her stuffy hotel room, her slippers flung into a corner and her feet aching miserably, a neighbor came in to ask if she hadn’t two nickels for a dime. The neighbor was a tall, cadaverous girl with a long nose and seven years of movie-extra experience.

“No luck around the studios, eh?” she asked sympathetically, seeing Claire’s eyes. “It’s tough, kid, that’s what it is, tough. I know.” Then she brightened suddenly. “Say, want a bit of work for tomorrow?”

Claire jumped to her feet as if her life depended on it.

“You see,” the girl was explaining, “they got a big crowd tomorrow morning and my friend, the propman, got me in and I’m sure he can fix it up for you too.”

“Oh, yes!” Claire gasped. “Oh, yes, please!”

“The call’s for eight in the morning—ready and made-up on the set. We’ll have to be at the studio at six-thirty. I’ll go phone the boy friend, but I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

She was turning to leave the room, when Claire asked:

“What studio is it and what picture?”

“The Wonder-Pictures Studio,” the girl answered. “
Child of Danger,
you know, their big special with that new star of theirs—Heddy Leland.”

 

Claire Nash sat, shivering with cold, in the corner of a bus. Snorting and groaning, the bus rambled on its way to the studio through the dark, empty, desolate streets of early morning. The bus shook like a cocktail shaker on wheels, jumbling its passengers against one another, throwing them up at each rut, to fall and bounce upon the sticky leather seats. All the passengers had the same destination—with their tired faces and old, greasy makeup boxes.

Claire felt cold and broken. Her eyelids felt like cotton and closed themselves against her will. She thought dully, dimly, through the crazy unreality around her, that a director, a real director, would know genius when he saw it.