Читать книгу Melting the Snow on Hester Street - Daisy Waugh - Страница 15

October 1929. As America helterskeltered through those last few ecstatic days of the greatest economic boom in its short history, Hollywood offered a matching heartbeat. In its confidence, its joyous vulgarity, it was a perfect fit for a bold new universe. The Movie Business was big business. Hollywood was the centre of the world: and in Hollywood, just five enormous film studios reigned supreme.

Silverman Pictures, where Max Beecham worked as one of three contracted directors, was not one of those studios. In a good year, it produced no more than ten films (as opposed to eighty or more, for example, over at MGM). Even so, it had a fine reputation. More than any other studio, large or small, it was known for the quality of its productions. Not all Silverman films made money. But once every eighteen months or so, Silverman Pictures produced what Blanche called ‘a sensation’ – a box-office triumph; and that was how, against the giants, it continued to survive.

Its founder, Joel Silverman, had come to Hollywood in 1910 with nothing, so he always claimed, except $100 and ten years’ experience in the scrap-metal business. But he was a man who put more thought, effort and intelligence into a single day than most people put into a lifetime, and he had made a fortune. Along the way he had lost his only son, killed by a German sniper in the swamps at Malancourt just six weeks before the end of the War. Joel Silverman had no other children. Now he only wanted two things: he wanted his studio to make a play for a place in the big league. And he wanted to find a worthy heir to help him take it there, so that one day, before he died, he might consider the possibility of retiring. It was with these two ambitions in mind that he approached Butch Menken.

If Max had been capable of thinking rationally, which on this matter he was not, he would have had to acknowledge that his boss of six years, Joel Silverman, was not simply a clever man, but as sure-footed as any in the business; and that, of all the talent available to him, in Butch he could not have made a smarter choice.

‘Married to the movies,’ Butch used to say, when anybody asked him (as they constantly did) how it was that such an attractive man, already forty and with no shortage of willing candidates, had thus far evaded the efforts of so many beautiful women, and not yet taken a wife. The phrase, glibly reiterated, was truer than he realized: truer than he would have liked to acknowledge, even to himself. Butch Menken’s work was his first passion: the last thing he thought of at night; the first thing he thought of in the morning. It was also true that the only woman he had ever truly wanted for a wife was already spoken for and, try as he might, he could not wean her away.

He was handsome: blond and square-jawed, blue-eyed and broad-shouldered; in manner and in dress he resembled an upmarket East Coast lawyer more than the West Coast movie producer he was. Succinct, soft-spoken, clever, understated in every way, Butch rarely uttered a wasted word, or offered a wasted smile, or moved a well-honed, athletic limb without having a reason for it in mind. Nevertheless, the sheer size of him – he was six foot three – meant that even in a crowded bar, or a large party packed with stars, it was hard not to be conscious of his presence. Added to which, Butch’s reputation was already part of Hollywood legend. It seemed, for the past few years, that every film he touched turned to gold. He had an instinct – verging on magic, so it seemed – for what and who was going to work up there on the big screen.

When Joel Silverman approached him with his partnership offer, Butch was one of six senior producers under contract at the gargantuan Lionsfiel Studios. Which six senior producers (along with thirty junior producers) answered to an executive producer who, in turn, answered not only to the Studio’s founder, but to his two very capable and ambitious sons. Too many chiefs. Whether or not Max chose to acknowledge the fact, it could only have been a matter of time before a man with Butch’s record was lured to a more promising position elsewhere.

On that afternoon, while Eleanor was racing toward Reno, and Max was racing across town from his lover’s bed, Butch was sitting at his desk at Lionsfiel thinking – with quiet satisfaction – about his encounter with Blanche Williams the previous afternoon. She was a sharp enough cookie, and he liked her. But if she thought for one minute she’d wheedled anything out of him he hadn’t expressly intended for her to wheedle, she was a fool. A fool – though she didn’t know it – with a predicament so similar to his. He might perhaps have felt a little human sympathy for her, had it crossed his brilliant mind to do so. It did not.

His brilliant mind wandered, instead, to Eleanor. She hadn’t called. And she must have seen the script by now. She must have seen the small and unflattering role she’d been given – and with just three months before her contract was due for renewal, she would know how it augured for her future at Lionsfiel. So why wasn’t she on the telephone haranguing him, sobbing, begging him to help? It bothered Butch Menken. Under normal circumstances the histrionics of his actresses left him cold – just rolled right off him. But with Eleanor – obviously – things were different.

Like Butch, Eleanor never lost her cool. That was the thing about Eleanor. One of the things. Not once, not in all the years he’d known her. Sometimes, when she was upset, or excited – she shook. Her entire body shook. Which was beautiful. Made her even more beautiful.

Why hadn’t she called him?

He buzzed through to his secretary, asked her to check again that the script had been sent to Eleanor yesterday. His secretary confirmed that it had.

‘And she hasn’t called?’

‘Not to my knowledge, Mr Menken. And I’ve been here by the telephone since nine o’clock.’

‘And it was made clear, which role she was to play?’

‘Yes, sir. Her lines were underscored in red. As usual. I saw it for myself before Mrs Broadbent sent it out, and I was with Mrs Broadbent when she was placing the script in the envelope. Because we were both saying what a shame it was. Because really Mrs Beecham is still so lovely, and it seems such a waste …’

All the staff at Lionsfiel loved Eleanor. They always had. It wasn’t something you could claim about many of the studio’s stars. And it said something about her, Butch reflected sourly. Too much self-control. For an artist. Not enough passion. Always so damn polite – would nothing rattle her?

He returned the handset, brilliant mind briefly befuddled. There was plenty of passion there. He knew it. It was that tension between passion and control, which she no longer revealed for the camera but which had once made her so compelling on screen. It was the same mix which, in bed together, still made her so irresistible in the flesh.

And he should have called her. He should have warned her the script was on its way. Why hadn’t he done that?

Butch glanced at his clean, clear desk: he actually did have five minutes to spare. Why hadn’t he called her? He checked the time on his immaculately unnoticeable $25,000 white-gold wristwatch.

Because he was afraid. And he knew it. Because, in matters of emotion – real emotion, as opposed to the magic created for screen – Butch was lost. Like a child. He simply didn’t know how to deal with it. Not with Eleanor. All the shaking that was going to go on. The passion and control. The swirling, silent hurt, the unspoken accusations. Dammit. Damn her. Damn Max. Damn everyone.

At the production meeting yesterday he’d fought for her. He’d taken on the senior producers, the executive producer, the whole lot of them, one by one. But by then, by the time they told him what was planned for her, Butch had already informed them he was leaving. Their decision regarding Eleanor’s future – or lack of it – was, of course, in large part retaliation for that, and he knew it.

‘Why don’t you take her with you, Butch, huh?’ Mr Carrascosa (Senior) had suggested – sneered, actually: it was closer to a sneer. ‘She’s lost the magic. Lost it so long I can hardly remember she even had it.’

‘But she did have it,’ Butch said defensively, more quickly than he would have liked. She and he – and Max – had together made the finest films. And though the men had gone on to make more hits, not one of the three had made a film of the same quality since the split. He knew it. Everyone knew it. ‘The magic is still there,’ he said. ‘We only need to fix her up with the right director.’

‘So you’ve been saying for some time,’ replied Mr Carrascosa.

Butch had looked across the boardroom table to the Carrascosa Son and Holy Spirit, sitting on either side of their founding Father – but they said not a word. He looked at Mr Stiles, Executive Producer of the studio, and Eleanor’s friend:

‘Tony?’ Butch asked him. ‘She’s still beautiful. She still has so much to offer … Why don’t you give her another chance?’

Tony Stiles shuffled his papers, shrugged, slowly shook his head.

‘Hell, Butch – why don’t you sign her!’ Mr Carrascosa called out again. Pleased with the joke. ‘You’re so goddamn fond of her! … She’s costing us an arm and a leg – and for what? She’s finished here, my friend. She’s all yours!’

Butch smiled at them – one of his rare smiles. They had done it to spite him, without doubt. But they would have found another way to spite him if getting rid of Eleanor didn’t also happen to make good business sense. And the numbers were against her: her age, for one; her ticket receipts, for two. And Butch knew – everyone in the business knew – she just wasn’t as good as she used to be. On set, she was professional. She knew what was her best angle and where the kindest light shone; she knew her lines: like an efficient machine, she did everything right. But the tension was gone. She put no heart into it – and somehow, the camera could always pick it up. It’s what Butch had told her, more than once. He’d said it again only a couple of weeks ago.

‘You have to care, Eleanor. You have to care as Max does. As much as I do. As much as you care about life itself …’

‘Of course I care,’ she’d said – beautiful, trained voice crackling with the sound of caring.

It was Butch, then, who’d shaken his head. ‘I can’t protect you from them, Eleanor. You know that. Not if …’ But he couldn’t bring himself to mention it. Two weeks later, he still hadn’t told her he was leaving the studio.

‘I don’t need you to protect me,’ she said. And then, unkindly – she regretted it at once: ‘I have Max to do that.’

But Max had not protected her. Max had gone to Silverman. The truth of it rang out in the silence. Butch, his own guilt hanging heavily, left her statement unchallenged.

‘In any case,’ she added, and kissed him. ‘You mustn’t worry. I’m tougher than I seem.’ And she smiled, and seemed, to Butch, in that instant, to be quite unbearably fragile. He could protect her. If she would only let him.

He kissed her: ‘Eleanor, things might be going to change for me soon. Everything’s going to change. It’s going to be different.’ He stopped. Still, he couldn’t say it. Instead, to fill the silence, he said: ‘I think you should come live with me …’

Eleanor gave him a throaty chuckle: ‘Watch out, Butch Menken,’ she laughed at him. ‘One of these days I may just take you up on the offer …’

They were in his bed, in his new apartment at the Chateau Marmont, an apartment Eleanor had helped him to arrange. It was a beautiful, sultry afternoon. The ceiling fan had kept them cool and, from behind the half-closed louvre shutters, softening the whir of traffic as it chugged down Sunset Boulevard far below, the smallest, sweetest, softest breezes had caressed their warm, naked skin. They were a little drunk, both of them. And she wasn’t listening. She never listened.