Fools die

Book V
Chapter 27

Malomar Films, though a subsidiary of Moses Wartberg’s Tri-Culture Studios, operated on a completely independent basis, creatively, and had its own small lot. And so Bernard Malomar had free rein for his planned picture of the John Merlyn novel.

All Malomar wanted to do was make good movies, and that was never easy, not with Wartberg’s Tri-Culture Studios hovering over his every move. He hated Wartberg. They were acknowledged enemies, but Wartberg, as an enemy, was interesting, fun to deal with. Also, Malomar respected Wartberg’s financial and management genius. He knew that moviemakers like himself could not exist without it.

Malomar in his plush suite of offices nestled in a corner of his own lot had to put up with a bigger pain in the ass than Wartberg, though a less deadly one. If Wartberg was cancer of the rectum, as Malomar jokingly said, Jack Houlinan was hemorrhoids and, on a day-to-day basis, far more irritating.

Jack Houlinan, vice-president in charge of creative public relations, played his role of the number one PR genius with a killing sincerity. When he asked you to do something outrageous and was refused, he acknowledged with violent enthusiasm your right to refuse. His favorite line was: “Anything you say is OK with me. I would never, never try to persuade you to do anything you don’t want to do. I only asked.” This would be after an hour’s pitch of why you had to jump off the Empire State Building to make sure your new picture got some space in the Times.

But with his bosses, like the VP in charge of production at Wartberg’s Tri-Culture International Studios, with this Merlyn picture for Malomar Films and his own personal client, Ugo Kellino, he was much more frank, more human. And now he was talking frankly to Bernard Malomar, who really didn’t have time for bullshit.

“We’re in trouble,” Houlinan said. “I think this fucking picture can be the biggest bomb since Nagasaki.”

Malomar was the youngest studio chief since Thalberg and liked to play a dumb genius role. With a straight face he said, “I don’t know that picture, and I think you’re full of shit. I think you’re worried about Kellino. You want us to spend a fortune just because that prick decided to direct himself and you want to get him insurance.”

Houlinan was Ugo Kellino’s personal PR rep with a retainer of fifty grand a year. Kellino was a great actor but almost certifiably insane with ego, a not uncommon disease in top actors, actresses, directors and even script girls who fancied themselves screenplay writers. Ego in movie land was like TB in a mining town. Endemic and ravaging but not necessarily fatal.

In fact, their egos made many of them more interesting than they would otherwise be. This was true of Kellino. His dynamism on screen was such that he had been included in a list of the fifty most famous men in the world. The laminated news story hung in his den and his own legend in red crayon that said, “For fucking.” Houlinan always said, his voice emphatic, admiring, “Kellino would fuck a snake.” Accenting the word as if the phrase were not an old macho cliche but coined now especially for his client.

A year ago Kellino had insisted on directing his next picture. He was one of the few stars who could get away with such a demand. But he had been put on a strict budget, his upfront money and percentages pledged for a completion bond. Malomar Films was in for a top two million and then off the hook. Just in case Kellino went crazy and started shooting a hundred takes of each scene with his latest girlfriend opposite him or his latest boyfriend under him. Both of which he had proceeded to do with no visible harm to the picture. But then he had fucked around with the script. Long monologues, the lights soft and shadowy on his despairing face, he had told the story of his tragic boyhood in excruciating flashbacks. To explain why he was fucking boys and girls on the screen. The implication was that if he had had a decent childhood, he would never have fucked anybody. And he had final cut, the studio couldn’t doctor up the picture in the editing room legally. Except that they would anyway if necessary. Malomar wasn’t too worried. A Kellino starter would get the studio’s two million back. That was certain. Everything else was gravy. And if worse came to worst, he could bury the picture in distribution; nobody would see it. And he had come out of the deal with his main objective. That Kellino would star in John Merlyn’s blockbuster best-selling novel that Malomar felt in his bones would make the studio a fortune.

Houlinan said, “We have to get a special campaign. We have to spend a lot of money. We have to sell it on its class.”

“Jesus Christ,” Malomar said. He was usually more polite. But he was tired of Kellino, he was tired of Houlinan and he was tired of motion pictures. Which didn’t mean anything. He was tired of beautiful women and charming men. He was tired of California weather. To divert himself he studied Houlinan. He had a long-standing grudge against him and Kellino.

Houlinan was beautifully dressed. Silk suit, silk tie, Italian shoes, Piaget watch. His eyeglass frames were specially made, black and gold-flecked. He had the benign sweet Irish face of the leprechaun preachers that filled the California TV screens on Sunday mornings. It was hard to believe he was a black-hearted son of a bitch and proud of it.

Years ago Kellino and Malomar had quarreled in a public restaurant, a vulgar shouting match that had become a humiliating story in the columns and trades. And Houlinan had masterminded a campaign to make Kellino come out of the argument as the hero and Malomar the craven villain, the weakling studio chief bending to the heroic movie star. Houlinan was a genius all right. But a little shortsighted. Malomar had made him pay ever since.

For the last five years not a month had gone by that the papers had not carried a story about Kellino’s helping somebody less fortunate than himself. Did a poor girl with leukemia need a special blood transfusion from a donor who lived in Siberia? Page five of any newspaper would tell you Kellino had sent his private jet to Siberia. Did a black go to a Southern jail for protesting? Kellino posted bail. When an Italian policeman with seven kids got chopped down by a Black Panther ambush in Harlem, did not Kellino send a check for ten thousand dollars to the widow and set up a scholarship for all seven children? When a Black Panther was accused of murdering a cop, Kellino sent ten thousand dollars to his defense fund. Whenever a famous old-time movie star became ill, the papers noted that Kellino picked up his hospital tab and assured him of a cameo role in his next film so that the old codger would have something to live for. One of the old codgers with ten million stashed and a hatred for his profession gave an interview insulting Kellino’s generosity, spitting on it in fact, and it was so funny that even the great Houlinan couldn’t get it squashed.

And Houlinan had more hidden talents. He was a pimp whose fine nose for new fresh starlets made him the Daniel Boone of Hollywood’s celluloid wilderness. Houlinan often boasted of his technique. “Tell any actress she was great in her bit part. Tell her that three times in one evening and she pulls down your pants and tears your cock off by the roots.” He was Kellino’s advance scout, many times testing the girl’s talents in bed before passing her on. Those who were too neurotic, even by the lenient industry standards, never got past him to Kellino. But as Houlinan often said, “Kellino’s rejects are worth picking up options on.”

Malomar said with the first pleasure he had felt that day, “Forget about any big advertising budgets. It’s not that kind of picture.”

Houlinan looked at him thoughtfully. “How about doing a little private promoting with some of the more important critics? You have a couple of big ones that owe you a favor.”

Malomar said dryly, “I’m not wasting it on this.” He didn’t say that he was going to call in all his IOU’s on the big picture next year. He already had that one mapped out, and Houlinan was not going to run that show. He wanted the next picture to be the star, not Kellino.

Houlinan looked at him thoughtfully. Then said, “I guess I’ll have to build my own campaign.”

Malomar said wearily, “Just remember it’s still a Malomar Films’ production. Clear everything with me. OK?”

“Of course,” Houlinan said with his special emphasis as if it had never occurred to him to do anything else.

Malomar said evenly, “Jack, remember there’s a line you don’t go over with me. No matter who you are.”

Houlinan said with his dazzling smile, “I never forget that. Have I ever forgotten that? Listen, there’s a great looking broad from Belgium. I got her stashed in the Beverly Hills Hotel bungalow. Shall we have a breakfast conference tomorrow?”

“Another time,” Malomar said. He was tired of women flying in from all over the world to be fucked. He was tired of all the slender, beautiful, chiseled faces, the thin, elegant bodies perfectly dressed, the beauties he was constantly photographed with at parties and restaurants and premieres. He was famous not only as the most talented producer in Hollywood, but as the one who had the most beautiful women. Only his closest friends knew he preferred sex with plump Mexican maids who worked in his mansion. When they kidded him about his perverseness, Malomar always told them that his favorite relaxation was going down on a woman and that those beautiful women in the magazines had nothing to go down on but bone and hair. The Mexican maid had meat and juice. Not that all this was always true; it was just that Malomar, knowing how elegant he looked, wanted to show his distaste for that elegance.

At this time in his life all Malomar wanted to do was make a good movie. The happiest hours for him were after dinner when he went into the cutting room and worked until the early-morning hours editing a new film.

As Malomar ushered Houlinan out of the door, his secretary murmured that the writer of the novel was waiting with his agent, Doran Rudd. Malomar told her to bring them in. He introduced them to Houlinan.

Houlinan gave both men a quick appraisal. Rudd he knew. Sincere, charming, in short a hustler. He was a type. The writer also was a type. The naive novelist who comes out to work on his film script, gets dazzled by Hollywood, faked out of his shoes by producers, directors and studio heads and then falls for a starlet and wrecks his life by divorcing his wife of twenty years for a broad who had screwed every casting director in town just for openers. And then gets indignant at the way his half-assed novel gets mutilated on the screen. This one was no different. He was quiet and obviously shy and dressed like a slob. Not fashionable slob, which was the new fad even among producers like Malomar and stars who sought specially patched and faded blue jeans that were exquisitely fitted by top tailors-but real slob. And ugly to boot like that fucking French actor who grossed so high in Europe. Well, he, Houlinan, would do his little bit to grind this guy into sausage right now.

Houlinan gave the writer, John Merlyn, a big hello and told him that his book was the very best book he had ever read in his life. He hadn’t read it.

Then he stopped at the door and turned around and said to the writer, “Listen, Kellino would love to have his picture taken with you this afternoon. We have a conference with Malomar later, and it would be great publicity for the movie. OK for about three o’clock? You should be through here, right?”

Merlyn said OK. Malomar grimaced. FTC knew Kellino wasn’t even in town, that he was sunning himself in Palm Springs and wouldn’t arrive until six. Houlinan was going to make Merlyn hang around for a no-show just to teach him where the muscle was in Hollywood. Well, he might as well learn.

Malomar, Doran Rudd and Merlyn had a long session on the writing of the movie. Malomar noted that Merlyn seemed reasonable and cooperative rather than the usual pain in the ass. He gave the agent the usual bullshit about bringing in the picture for a million when everybody knew that eventually they’d have to spend five. It was only when they left that Malomar got his surprise. He mentioned to Merlyn that he could wait for Kellino in the library. Merlyn looked at his watch and said mildly, “It’s ten after three. I never wait more than ten minutes for anybody, not even my kids.” Then he walked out.

Malomar smiled at the agent. “Writers,” he said. But he often said, “Actors.” in the same tone of voice. And “Directors” and “Producers.” He never said it about actresses because you couldn’t put down a human being who had to contend with a menstrual cycle and wanting to be an actress both. That made them fucking crazy just for openers.

Doran Rudd shrugged. “He doesn’t even wait for doctors. We both had to take a physical together, and we had ten A.M. appointments. You know doctor’s offices. You gotta wait a few minutes. He told the receptionist, ‘I’m on time, why isn’t the doctor on time?’ Then he walked out.

“Jesus,” Malomar said.

He was getting pains in his chest. He went into the bathroom and swallowed an angina pill and then went to take a nap on the couch as his doctor had ordered. One of his secretaries would wake him up when Houlinan and Kellino arrived.

– -

“The Stone Woman is Kellino’s debut as director. As an actor he is always marvelous; as a director he is less than competent; as a philosopher he is pretentious and despicable. This is not to say that Stone Woman is a bad film. It isn’t really trashy, merely hollow.

“Kellino dominates the screen, we always believe the character he plays, but here the character he plays is a man we do not care about. How can we care about a man who throws away his life for an empty-headed doll like Selina Denton whose personality appeals to men satisfied with women whose breasts and rear are extravagantly rounded in the cliche style of male chauvinistic fantasy? Selina Denton’s acting, her usual wooden-Indian style, insipid face contorted in grimaces of ecstasy, is just plain embarrassing. When will Hollywood casting directors learn that the audience is interested in seeing real women on the screen? An actress like Billie Stroud with her commanding presence, her intelligent and forceful technique, her striking appearance (she is truly beautiful if one can forget all the deodorant commercial stereotypes the American male has idolized since the invention of television) might have salvaged the film, and it is surprising that Kellino, whose acting is so intelligent and intuitive, did not realize this when he was casting. Presumably he has enough clout as star and director and co-producer to call this shot, at least.

“The script by Flascom Watts is one of those pseudoliterary exercises that read well on paper but don’t make any sense at all on film. We are expected to feel a sense of tragedy for a man to whom nothing tragic happens, a man who finally commits suicide because his comeback as an actor fails (everyone fails) and because an empty-headed, selfish woman uses her beauty (all in the eyes of the beholder) to betray him in the most banal fashion since the heroines of Dumas the Younger.

“The counterpoint of Kellino trying to save the world by being on the right side of every social question is goodhearted but essentially fascist in concept. The embattled liberal hero evolves into the fascist dictator, as Mussolini did.

The treatment of women in this film is also basically fascist; they do nothing except manipulate men with their bodies. When they do take part in political movements, they are shown as destroyers of men striving to better the world. Can’t Hollywood believe for a moment that there is a relationship between men and women in which sex does not play a part? Can’t it show just one goddamn time that women have the ‘manly’ virtues of a belief in humanity and its terrible struggle to go forward? Don’t they have the imagination to foresee that women might, just might, love a movie that portrays them as real human beings, rather than those familiar rebellious puppets that break the strings men attach to them?

“Kellino is not a gifted director; he is less than competent. He places the camera where it should be; the only trouble is that he never gets the lead out of it. But his acting saves the film from the complete disaster the whoremongering script dooms it to be. Kellino’s directing doesn’t help, but it doesn’t destroy the film. The rest of the cast is simply dreadful. It’s not fair to dislike an actor because of his looks, but George Fowles is physically too slimy even for the slimy role he plays here. Selina Denton is too empty-looking even for the empty woman she plays here. It’s not a bad idea sometimes to cast against the role, and maybe that’s what Kellino should have done in this film. But maybe it wasn’t worth the trouble. The fascist philosophy of the script, its male chauvinistic conception of what constitutes a ‘lovable’ woman, doomed the whole project before they loaded film into the camera.”

– -

“That fucking cunt,” Houlinan said not in anger but with bewildered helplessness. “What the fuck does she want from a movie anyway? And Jesus Christ, why does she keep going on about Billie Stroud being a good-looking broad? In all my forty years in movies I’ve never seen an uglier movie star. It’s beyond me.”

Kellino said thoughtfully, “All those other fucking critics follow her. We can forget about this movie.”

Malomar listened to both of them. A matched pair of pain in the asses. What the hell did it matter what Clara Ford said? The picture with Kellino as star would make its money back and help pay some studio overhead. That’s all he’d ever expected from it. And now he had Kellino on the hook for the important picture, from the novel by John Merlyn. And Clara Ford, brilliant as she was, didn’t know that Kellino had a backup director doing all the work without credit.

The critic was a particular hate of Malomar’s. She spoke with such authority, she wrote so well, she was so influential but she had no idea at all about what went into the making of a movie. She complained about casting. Didn’t she know that it depended on whom Kellino was fucking in the major female role and then it depended on who was fucking the casting director for the smaller parts? Didn’t she know these were the jealously guarded prerogatives of many people in power in certain movies? There were a thousand broads for each bit part and you could fuck half of them without even giving them anything, just letting them read for it and saying you might call them back for another read. And all those fucking directors building up their own private harems, more powerful than the greatest money-makers in the world as far as beautiful, intelligent women were concerned. Not that you even bothered to do that. Even that was too much trouble and not worth it. What amused Malomar was that the critic was the only one who got the unflappable Houlinan upset.

Kellino was angry about something else. “What the hell does she mean it’s fascist? I’ve been antifascist all my life.”

Malomar said tiredly, “She’s just a pain in the ass. She uses the word ‘fascist’ the way we use the word ‘cunt.’ She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

Kellino was mad as hell. “I don’t give a shit about my acting. But nobody compares me with fascists and gets away with it.”

Houlinan paced up and down the room, almost dipped into Malomar’s box of Monte Cristo cigars, then thought better of it. “That broad is killing us,” he said. “She’s always killing us. And your barring her from previews doesn’t help, Malomar.”

Malomar shrugged. “It’s not supposed to help, I do it for my bile.”

They both looked at him curiously. They knew what bile meant but knew it wasn’t in character for him to say it. Mailwoman had read it in a script that morning.

Houlinan said, “No shit, it’s too late for this picture, but what the hell are we going to do about Clara on the next one?”

Malomar said, “You’re Kellino’s personal press agent, do what you want. Clara’s your baby.”

He was hoping to end this conference early. If it had been just Houlinan, it would have ended in two minutes. But Kellino was one of the truly great stars, and his ass had to be kissed with infinite patience and extreme shows of love.

Malomar had the rest of the day and evening scheduled for the cutting room. His greatest pleasure. He was one of the greatest film editors in the business and he knew it. And besides, he loved cutting a film so that all the starlet heads dropped on the floor. It was easy to recognize them. The unnecessary close-ups of a pretty girl watching the main action. The director had banged her, and that was his payoff. Malomar in his cutting room chopped her right out unless he liked the director or the one-in-a-million times the shot worked. Jesus, how many broads had put out to see themselves up there on the screen for one split second, thinking that one split second would send them on the way to fame and fortune. That their beauty and talent would flash out like lightning. Malomar was tired of beautiful women. They were a pain in the ass, especially if they were bright. Which didn’t mean he didn’t get hooked once in a while. He’d had his share of disastrous marriages, three, all with actresses. Now he was looking for any broad who wasn’t hustling him for something. He felt about pretty girls as a lawyer feels hearing his phone ring. It can mean only trouble.

“Get one of your secretaries in here,” Kellino said. Malomar rang the buzzer on his desk, and a girl appeared in the door as if by magic. As she better had. Malomar had four secretaries: two guarding the outer door of his offices and another two guarding the inner sanctum door, one on each side like dragons. No matter what disasters happened-when Malomar rang his buzzer, somebody appeared. Three years ago the impossible had happened. He had pressed the buzzer and nothing happened. One secretary was having a nervous breakdown in a nearby executive office, and a free-lance producer was curing her with some head. Another had dashed upstairs to accounting to get some figures on the grosses of a film. The third was out sick that day. The fourth and last had been overcome with a painful desire to take a leak, and gambled. She established a woman’s record for taking a leak, but it was not enough. In that fatal few seconds Malomar rang his buzzer and four secretaries were not insurance enough. Nobody appeared. All four were fired.

Now Kellino dictated a letter to Clara Ford. Malomar admired his style. And knew what he was getting to. He didn’t bother to tell Kellino that there was no chance.

“Dear Miss Ford,” Kellino dictated. “Only my admiration for your work impels me to write this letter and point out a few areas where I disagree with you in your review of my new film. Please don’t think this is a complaint of any kind. I respect your integrity enough and revere your intelligence too much to voice an idle complaint. I just want to state that the failure of the film, if indeed it is a failure, is entirely due to my inexperience as a director. I still think it was a beautifully written script. I think the people who worked with me in the film were very good and handicapped by me as a director. That is all I have to say except that I am still one of your fans and maybe someday we can get together for lunch and a drink and really talk about film and art. I feel that I have a great deal to learn before I direct my next film (which won’t be for quite a long time, I assure you) and what better person to learn from than you? Sincerely, Kellino.”

“It won’t work,” Malomar said.

“Maybe,” Houlinan said.

“You’ll have to go after her and fuck her brains out,” Malomar said. “And she’s too smart a broad to fall for your line of bullshit.”

Kellino said, “I really admire her. I really want to learn from her.”

“Never mind that,” Houlinan almost yelled. “Fuck her. Jesus. That’s the answer. Fuck her brains out.”

Malomar suddenly found them both unbearable. “Don’t do it in my office,” he said. “Get out of here and let me work.”

They left. He didn’t bother to walk them to the door.

– -

The next morning in his special suite of offices in Tri-Culture Studios, Houlinan was doing what he liked to do best. He was preparing press releases that would make one of his clients look like God. He had consulted Kellino’s contract to make sure that he had the legal authority to do what he had to do, and then he wrote:

TRI-CULTURE STUDIOS MALOMAR FILMS

PRESENT

A MALOMAR-KELLINO PRODUCTION

STARRING

UGO KELLINO

FAY MEADOWS

IN A UGO KELLINO FILM

“JOYRIDE”

DIRECTED BY BERNARD MALOMAR

… also starring, and then he scribbled a few names very small to indicate the small type. Then he put: “Executive Producers Ugo Kellino and Hagan Cord.” Then: “Produced by Malomar and Kellino.” And then he indicated much smaller type: “Screenplay by John Merlyn from the novel by John Merlyn.” He leaned back in his chair and admired his work. He buzzed his secretary to type it up and then asked his secretary to bring in the Kellino obituary file.

He loved to look at that file. It was thick with the operations that would be put into effect on Kellino’s death. He and Kellino had worked for a month up in Palm Springs perfecting the plan. Not that Kellino expected to die, but he wanted to make sure that when he did, everybody would know what a great man he had been. There was a thick folder which contained all the names of everybody he knew in show business who would be called for quotes upon his death. There was a complete outline on a television tribute. A two-hour special.

All his movie star friends would be asked to appear. There were specific clips of film in another folder of Kellino in his best roles to be shown on that special. There was a film clip of him accepting his two Academy Awards as best actor. There was a fully written comedy sketch in which friends of his would poke fun at his aspirations to be a director.

There was a list of everybody Kellino had helped so that some of them could tell little anecdotes about how Kellino had rescued them from the depths of despair on condition they never let anyone know.

There was a note on those ex-wives who would be approached for a quote and those who would not be. There were plans for one wife in particular: to fly her out of the country to a safari in Africa on the day Kellino died so no one in the media could get in touch with her. There was an ex-President of the United States who had already given his quote.

In the file was a recent letter to Clara Ford asking for a contribution to Kellino’s obituary. It was written on the letterhead of the Los Angeles Times and was legitimate but inspired by Houlinan. He had gotten his copy of Clara Ford’s reply but never showed it to Kellino. He read it again. “Kellino is a gifted actor who has done some marvelous work in films, and it’s a pity that he passed away too soon to achieve the greatness that might have been in store for him with the proper role and the proper direction.”

Every time that Houlinan read that letter he had to have another drink. He didn’t know whom he hated more, Clara Ford or John Merlyn. Houlinan hated snotty writers on sight, and Merlyn was one of them. Who the fuck was that son of a bitch he couldn’t wait to have his picture taken with Kellino? But at least he could fix Merlyn’s wagon, Ford was beyond his reach. He tried getting her fired by organizing a campaign of hate mail from fans, by using all the pressure of Tri-Culture Studios, but she was simply too powerful. He hoped Kellino was having better luck but he would soon know. Kellino had been on a date with her. He’d taken her to dinner the night before and was sure to call him and report everything that happened.