Hollywood Buzz (5 page)

“Intelligence gathered the images from postcards and pictures taken by tourists on their summer vacations. Set department did the rest. Look—” Sam pointed slyly as we crept closer to the action. “There’s my buddies.”

The two German soldier cut-ups weren’t laughing now. Armed with prop rifles and standing at attention, they flanked the castle’s main gate, seventy feet or so from the assemblage of cameras and men.

“But a castle? German soldiers standing guard? What’s going on?”

A tall, clean-cut captain seated in a chair marked “Director” looked our way and frowned. Sam waved. The soldier-director nodded, got up to peer through the camera finder.

“It’s about the process of interrogation. Show air crews what to expect by depicting what happens to a B-17 crew shot down over Germany. Put the airmen through a program of subtle German interrogation. Let the viewers see how the Nazis separate even the most well-meaning, tight-lipped American flier from his military knowledge.”

Sam had been whispering. I whispered too. “How do we know what the Germans do?”

“That’s a replica of the place in southern Germany where they take our men. A couple of fliers who escaped are acting as advisors…”

The director stepped back from the camera. With an imperious wave of his hand, he shouted, “Ac-tion!”

A soldier snapped the arm of a clap board. Men in German uniforms and captured GIs in leather flight jackets approached the gate.

“Edmond O’Brien? Barry Nelson? Arthur Kennedy?”

Sam nodded. I gave in to a smug smile. I got it right. Things were looking up.

Sam bent in close. “Kennedy’s also in the Flight Characteristic picture I just wrapped with Brody and Rask.”

He’d mentioned the hush-hush training film in the rushes theater this morning. He started to say more, but a rifle belonging to one of the writer-stand-ins clattered to the ground. The group by the gate burst out laughing.

“Cut!” yelled the director, his face beet red. “And cut the funny business. I’ve had it with the pranks. It’s a simple shot. Let’s get it done.
NOW
. There’s a war going on, dammit!”

Silence followed.

I sensed something plunging toward us before I saw it. Barely saw a blur. Heard a dim noise that increased to an ear-splitting sound. I turned. A torpedo-like object screamed as it dove toward Sam’s head. He started to look up as I shoved him hard. We tumbled forward, stumbling, rolling in a tangle on the ground. Slamming into the floor inches from us with a vicious thunk, the missile bounced sideways, landing and ricocheting against the floor several times until finally it settled, rocking nervously. Was it a mailing cylinder? One of the grips rushed over to pick it up.

“Wait!” I jumped up, holding out my hand. “Don’t touch it. Could be a bomb!”

The entire crew burst out laughing. I was aghast. One of the men, noticing my horrified expression, hushed the yokels.

Above us, footsteps bounded down one of the catwalks, heading away toward the far end of the vast sound stage. I looked up at the maze of planks crisscrossing the ceiling, following the sprinting footfalls and, at intervals, glimpsing a khaki-clad figure. The running stopped. He’d reached the stairway along the exterior wall. My gaze whipped to the crew clustered nearby. A grip held the tube in his hand; the others looked amused. The entire event had played out at such an accelerated speed that I could only think they hadn’t yet caught up with what was going on. What else would explain their complacency?

The grip turned the tube so I could see an amateurish whistle device attached it its side. “It’s another prank…”

“If that cylinder had hit home, you’d be calling the medical examiner instead of making like it was Stan Laurel up there having a little fun.”

I glanced down. Sam’s glasses had flown off and he was crawling toward them. “Sam, you okay?”

He looked up. “Yup. Fine.” His voice was a little shaky, but he was mobile. I believed him.

I squinted toward the staircase. The airman’s legs appeared, starting down from the top of the stairs. I took off after the prankster, the soles of my saddle shoes clapping against the wooden floor. I could see a silhouette of his frame as he descended the final stairs. He’d removed his tent cap, using it to shield his face, but I noted he had black, slicked down hair. I was closing in on the stairway, my arms pumping, my breath coming hard. Pushing off the final step he bolted for the door, shoved it open, and ducked outdoors. I followed, seconds behind.

Outside, I panted, fighting to catch my breath while I surveyed a deserted alleyway.

Back inside, the crew members had returned to their duties. The director, looking exasperated, huddled with the principal actors to one side waving his hands to emphasize his words. A few airmen glanced over as I returned to Sam, his face drained of color, holding a poster and staring at the image.

I came up beside him. “The contents of the tube?”

Sam’s voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear it. “No bomb, but it may as well be.”

He turned the poster so I could see the illustration. The confident, commanding figure of Hitler, brandishing a swastika-emblazoned red flag, dominated the forefront. Behind him, a sea of uniformed troops with swastika armbands gave the stiff-armed Nazi salute, many of them also waving flags like their imposing leader. The winding river in the background had to be the Rhine. In the sky, glorying over all, an illuminated cloud formation cast far-reaching beams of white light. In the border beneath the bold German phrase along the bottom, the poster’s message had been translated:
GERMANY LIVES
!

“Outrageous!” I was furious. “And they think this sort of thing is all a big joke? Your head nearly got split open.”

Sam forced a smile. “It’s war. We like to keep things light. Other incidents have been funny…”

“Like?”

“The other day, just as the actors reached the gate, a banner flipped down over the castle entrance. Someone had drawn a good caricature of Bela Lugosi. His mouth was open and a dialogue bubble said, ‘Velcome to de castle of my ancestors.’ Everyone cracked up.”

I rolled my eyes. No wonder the director was at his wits’ end.

Sam tossed the poster on a nearby folding chair that also held the mailing tube. “They’ll have to set up another take. We should go. Commissary’s near Brody’s office. How about we leave all this fun behind, grab some lunch?”

His invitation reminded me I hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast. I accepted.

***

A pedestrian path led us through a warren of institutional buildings and into an open courtyard surrounded by Spanish-style structures of white plaster and red tile. Outside the Dutch door entrance to the casting department, a line of people stood waiting. I panned for famous faces. A little further on, at the studio schoolhouse, I honed in and thought, eureka!

Sam chuckled. “Sorry, that’s not Mickey Rooney. Only a stand-in. Don’t feel bad,” he patted my arm, “a double is supposed to fool you!”

We laughed and continued walking. I asked Sam to prepare me, best he could, for what would be going on in the upcoming story conference.

“Like Brody said at the rushes theater, an OWI rep has found some problems with the script. He’s called the meeting to iron them out.”

The Office of War Information, or OWI, served as the non-military propaganda arm of the State Department. Dedicated to making the war pervade everyday lives, the agency also helped interpret the war for the public. I knew OWI representatives were in Hollywood “coaching” movie makers on how best to advance the war effort and keep the public informed on war issues; I didn’t know the full extent of their control. “Can’t a studio produce a picture without OWI’s blessing?”

“Sure. But OWI holds a trump card. The Office of Censorship relies on its input and they control the almighty, highly lucrative foreign distribution rights.”

“Ah, gotcha,” I said.

We walked a bit further. “Who else, besides Brody and the OWI rep, is expected at the meeting? Will Rask be there? And what’s the film about?”

“It’s a wartime story set off the coast of Long Island,” Sam said. “No, no Rask. This is a major studio feature, he’s strictly AAF. Producer’s supposed to attend, but I doubt that he’ll show. Someone from production should be there, though. Russell Chalmers, too, I heard. He wrote the novel the movie is based on.”

Sam’s expression turned suddenly dour.

“What?”

“Studio’s already paid Chalmers a hefty fee for the novel’s rights. Still, he’s fighting Brody’s every change tooth and nail. As the script writer, I’m caught in the middle.”

“So why did Brody invite him today?”

“He didn’t. Chalmers insisted. Why Brody agreed”—Sam looked heavenward, then he frowned—“Hmm…OWI demands could be a blessing for this particular picture.”

“What do you mean?”

“If the OWI rep wants major adjustments, there’ll be another rewrite. Script rewrites mean delays. The studio will have to cough up more money.”

I wasn’t following Sam. “But you said OWI demands might be good for the picture. Won’t Brody’s reputation suffer if he goes over budget?”

“You’re partly right. In Hollywood, you’re only as good as your last picture. Brody’s last was a box office flop. Meaning this time around the studio coffers weren’t opened as wide for him.” A sly smile played on Sam’s face.

“But?”

“If the OWI rep makes a fuss, Brody will be able to go to the studio for more bucks. He’s no rube—he’ll spread the funds around. Pump up the areas he thinks got shortchanged. Like casting, or location, or set design, costumes, special effects –”

My tongue snapped a ‘tsk’. “Sounds more like the plan of a desperate man than that of a highly regarded director.” I shook my head. “And how pathetic that someone at Brody’s level needs to scheme and manipulate to get the picture he wants made.”

Sam shrugged. “That’s war.”

Chapter Four

The studio dining room, a high-ceiling open space with linoleum flooring, Formica tables, brass chandeliers, lacquered columns and heavy drapery, was a strange mix of elegance and function. Clinking cutlery, glass and china, and the din of a hundred voices speaking at once, reverberated through the room. I trailed Sam through the crowd, evading waitresses in pink uniforms and caps darting among the diners.

We found a table along a bank of windows with a view of the studio lot. After ordering, Sam peppered me with questions about my background.

The pattern continued after our salads were served. We were up to my college years when Sam stopped his fork midway to his mouth. “A journalism major. That’s swell. We’re fellow writers.”

I shifted under the sudden intensity of his stare. His eyes glazed over and for the briefest moment I wondered,
What is he thinking?

“What got you interested in writing?”

“Money.” I laughed, eager to lighten things up. “I was a PK, Preacher’s Kid. When I was ten, some of my Sunday school pals, probably thinking I had an inside track, asked for my help composing prayers the teacher made us write. I agreed, for a fee. Something got passed down in the genes, all right. I churned ’em out like a machine. Penny-a-Prayer Lewis, they called me.” I gave a demure Judy Garland smile. Sam chuckled. “Later on, I took up flying. But the writing bug stuck. It got me my job at Midland.”

With all the questions, I wasn’t getting much to eat. Jabbing my fork into my salad, I tried to grab a bite but Sam was faster. “When did you learn to fly?”

“Took CPT in college.”

He whistled. “Way to go! I heard only one woman for every ten men was accepted.”

When I’d applied, I hadn’t known about the odds. Or cared. The Civilian Pilot Training course, a government program to build a stable of pilots, was offered on college campuses before the war. “It was exactly what I’d been waiting for, the something that would catapult me out of the ordinary for good.”

“Tell me more about the promotional writing you did at Midland.”

“Hold on. I’m doing all the talking, and I’m starving here. What about your family? Where did you grow up? When did you know you wanted to be a writer? Where did you go to college?”

Sam held his hands up, traffic cop style. “Your journalist training is showing in spades. Enough.” He laughed and checked his watch. “We better get over to Brody’s office. How about we discuss me over dinner? Tomorrow night?”

My heartbeat quickened as his eyes met and held mine. Was “dinner” what the odd staring had been about earlier?

***

There was a minimum of small talk as we assembled in Lieutenant Colonel Derrick Brody’s office, a masculine space, its dark-paneled walls studded with glossy autographed movie star photos. Behind a polished mahogany desk, a credenza held a gold-framed photograph of Brody’s wife and their two daughters. His wife appeared rather plain, but the girls had sweet expressions and big bows tied in their hair. Nearby, several leather-bound books were sandwiched between brass roaring-lion bookends.

Sam had been right. The producer would not be joining us, but someone from production would be arriving shortly to take his place. After making the announcement, Brody introduced us to Wilma Wallace, OWI’s Hollywood representative and the reason behind the gathering.

Miss C, I thought, would have had mixed feelings about Wallace’s no-frills appearance. No hint of lipstick had touched her primly pursed lips. A tall stick figure of a woman, she apparently saw no reason to gloss over her other God-given features either. She wore no make-up at all and her dull ash-blonde hair—the shade hauntingly like mine pre-peroxide—had been yanked into a severe bun. Her sharp blue eyes were piercing, even behind the thick, horn rimmed glasses.

On the other hand, Miss C would have commended Wallace’s no-nonsense attire: a gray hopsack suit and a white blouse cinched at the neck with a brooch. The serious bearing followed through in the perfunctory handshake she gave me.

I was also introduced to the novelist Russell Chalmers. Looking scholarly in a tweed jacket, chino slacks, and a white shirt open at the neck, he had a casual appearance. Many men on the home front not in uniform felt they had to explain immediately, and Chalmers was 4-F due to an irregular heartbeat, he told me, shaking hands.

The session began once we were all squared away in leather chairs that circled a round conference table. Brody took charge with an ease suggesting he did so always, whether in uniform, as he was now, or not.

“Miss Lewis could use a quick recap of
Adrift With The Enemy
before we start. Let’s do it while we’re waiting for Wexler, agreed?”

Fine by me. Sam hadn’t given me much background on the story. In fact, I hadn’t heard the film’s title before this. The heads around the table bobbed in agreement. Brody took center stage. That there were problems with the script became apparent straight out of the chute.

“Story starts out in a small but swank Long Island community. A young naval officer, hailing from a family not so well-heeled as the rest, has recently come home on leave. An average Joe, with a uniform on, he’s able to impress the town rich girl. A relationship of sorts develops, and one night, intent on consummating their lust…”

Brody, as though remembering there were women in the room, paused, then cleared his throat. But not before he stole a glance at OWI’s Wallace.
Was that a wink?

“Eh-hem. The young officer and gal take the family cruiser out on the ocean for a joy ride. They know better—not just because they’re sneaking the boat—but with the war going on, it’s damn stupid: U-boats have been picking off ships on the coast with regularity. Suddenly, with the two of ’em in the throes of passion, a violent storm comes up out of nowhere. The boat gets knocked about; the young officer, topside now, gets knocked out. His leg breaks. Compound fracture. Bone protruding through his pant leg.”

I grimaced and looked around. The others appeared at ease, but then they’d read the script.

Brody had been speaking in the rapid-fire style I’d observed this morning when we’d met. This afternoon, however, his energy level seemed to be percolating at an even higher rate. He stood and began pacing.

“The girl, bounced around pretty good, too, takes over, best she can. Time passes. Now and then, the young man rallies from his semiconscious state to give the gal various instructions. But the engine has been damaged; compass and radio destroyed. They’re completely helpless.

“Suddenly, from over the side, a hand grabs the railing. Gal’s not sure whether to scream or shout for joy. She rushes to the boat’s edge. A bedraggled man is laboring to climb aboard from a partly deflated rubber raft. Adrenaline rushing, she struggles to help him.”

Up to this point, I had been willing to suspend my belief. What happened next was overboard.

“The gal tries to get the man to tell her what happened, but he says nothing. His clothes are tattered and he’s weak. Renewed by his presence, she fixes broth for him in the damaged galley. Still, he doesn’t speak—it’s all been meaningful eye contact to this point. A little later, he’s mumbling in his sleep; she realizes the speech impairment has nothing to do with being injured at sea. He’s German!

“Now she’s frightened, but still desperate. Next day, wary, she stands by while he fixes the engine, then sets her boyfriend’s leg. When he gets them puttering toward shore—thanks to a small compass he has with him—she lets her guard down a little. She’s grateful. They become friendly, discussing this and that. He speaks broken English—” Brody tossed his voice my way.

Still pacing nonstop, but at an accelerated rate now, he went on. “The boyfriend thinks they’re flirting. He starts smoldering. Later, when he spots the Nazi consulting a secret map, he figures out they’re being navigated in a direction where the Nazi intends meeting up with an enemy ship.”

Brody paused, derailed by something on his desk. An oversized white envelope. He studied the writing on the outside then, using a letter opener, unsealed the flap. A 5x7 photograph wrapped in a pink satin ribbon slipped out, pinched between his fingertips. A quick concerned glance our way—directed more at Miss Wallace than anyone—and his focus returned to the photo and an accompanying letter, leaving the rest of us to stare wide-eyed at one another around the table. Sam moved to take up the slack.

“Uh, while the boyfriend is putting two and two together, the Nazi makes a move on the girl. He kisses her and she tries to push him away. But then, the girl begins responding…” Sam’s voice caught and he gave in to a sudden coughing jag.

The girl responds to the Nazi’s kiss?
No wonder Sam was hacking uncontrollably. What a flight of fancy. No red-blooded American woman would do that! Nor, should any American movie portray that. Whose idea had it been? I glanced over at Brody.

Sam began again. “Eh-hem. The boyfriend makes his move. Adrenaline pounding, he separates the two and overpowers the Nazi. He shoves him overboard to the sharks.”

With a compound fracture? No wonder they called this place Dreamland!

A smile flickered on Sam’s lips, suggesting he saw the absurdity of the situation, too. But he finished up gamely. “The girl embraces her hero while denying she’d felt anything but revulsion for the Nazi. An Allied vessel appears on the horizon. Fade out.”

Brody, who’d rejoined us, began tapping the table with the letter opener he’d brought from his desk. He looked worried. He transferred the look to Wallace. Wallace was eying her pearl bracelet. She’d been fingering the lustrous beads and spinning the adornment around her wrist the entire time Sam had been talking. She glanced up. Brody glanced away.

“What’s eating you about the script, Miss Wallace?”

The question was admirably succinct, but stripped of any diplomacy. If Brody wanted to provoke her, as Sam had suggested earlier, he was off to a good start. My gaze swung her way.

Wallace patted the dog-eared script sitting on the table before her. “You’ve got a problem.” Her precise voice matched her prudish looks. “Several problems.”

Let him have it, Wilma!

“People living along the Atlantic seaboard are deeply concerned about the German subs operating in their coastal waters. And it’s not only the men and merchant ships we’re losing out there that has them worried. They’ve heard rumors that U-boats are casting out raft-loads of spies and saboteurs to infiltrate their communities.” Wilma gave her glasses a prim push. “The FBI has been disseminating information to eliminate their fears. This movie will stir up panic the government has been working to alleviate.”

Brody had been picking at his fingernails with the letter opener. Without looking up, he said, “Story is fact-based. The entire country knows that Nazis are landing incognito along the coast. They also know they’re being captured. Reports have been plastered across the front pages of newspapers, for Christ’s sake! So far, no
War of the Worlds
mass hysteria has broken out. Give our citizens credit for being reasonable and intelligent, why don’t you? It’s the Germans who follow blindly.”

Brody placed the opener on the table. “Besides, a reminder to Americans that fifth columnists are among us should be considered a service, not a
dis
service.”

Wallace adjusted her glasses again, and gave Brody a stern look. “I’m not finished.”

All eyes whisked to Wallace, but before she could continue, Russell Chalmers jumped in, his face livid.

“The girl in that…that so-called script is nothing but a floozy. A dimwit floozy! And the way the badly injured boyfriend recuperates enough to throw the German overboard…” Chalmers’ outstretched hand hit the table with a thwack. “…that’s way too unbelievable!”

Hurrah! My thoughts exactly.

“In the real story,” Chalmers said, pausing a moment to calm himself and to cast Sam a sidelong glance, “it’s
clear
the female character is only flirting with the German so he’ll drop his guard. She’s gotten her boyfriend, the naval officer, the man she
adores
, to remember a hidden gun. At the first possible moment, when the Nazi puts the moves on her, she shoots him between the eyes.
She’s
the one who dumps the Nazi to the sharks. Then, with instruction from her fella, she captains the boat to safety.”

Better yet! I cheered silently from the sidelines.

Brody tapped the arm of his chair for a few beats. “We’ve fought that battle, Russell. Moviegoers these days are predominantly women. Or, if a woman has a date, she picks the movie, the man pays. And ladies want romance, not some superhuman gal they can’t relate to.”

He leaned back in his chair and loosened the knot of his olive-drab tie. “She’s only a woman, for Christ’s sake. She can’t overpower a man, pilot a cabin cruiser.” The indignation on Wallace’s face and on mine, must have registered. “Sam, help me out here,” Brody pleaded.

Sam, head down, doodled with his pencil. To my relief, when he spoke, his position was sound.

“Chalmers has the right idea. The script relies too heavily on stereotype. Women are capable of a lot more than they’re given credit for. Besides, I think an audience—both men and women—would find it more romantic if she remained loyal to her boyfriend.” Sam tapped the pencil on the table. “We’re pushing the envelope on the female lead’s moral fiber already: stealing the boat, the love scene with the naval officer before the storm…”

Brody was rolling his shoulders trying to calm down, but his face was taut with irritation. “There you go on that nit-pick again. She wasn’t serious about the naval officer, couldn’t have been. Her family, her background…He’s no match for her, plain and simple.”

“Mr. Chalmers, Mr. Brody, Mr. Lorenz!” Wallace snapped the script with her finger as she uttered the names. “Calm yourselves.”

She waited with pursed lips until she had the men’s undivided attention. “Now that you’ve raised the morality issue, I’d like to discuss another of my problems. There’s no obvious justification for killing the German. Throughout the story, he’s helping the couple, appears to be saving them. The script doesn’t even make clear his ideologies. He could be fed up with Hitler and the Third Reich and intent on defecting, for all we know. You don’t kill a German just because he’s German.”