Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Greta Garbo and John Barrymore

Before we begin this segment, it would only be fair to reference certain items of Crispin's dialogue. I've been making something of a study of old Hollywood, the years between the late twenties and the late thirties. One site that has been of enormous help in researching this is a website maintained by Columbia University's Oral History and Research department. This site contains transcripts of interviews with actors and screenwriters of the period. Well worth taking a look at, should you have the time. It can be found at www.fathom.com.

Edith stepped out of her luxury car looking fabulous for 65 years of age. As a lovely young secretary in the office of an oil tycoon she'd caught the boss' eye and become his wife. Life had been very good to her, but somehow the small town manner she'd learned from the Texas farming community she'd grown up in never left her. She was gracious and simple, and totally unprepared for the many dangers that accompany a wealthy widow-hood.

She made her way slowly up the front walk, admiring the wildflowers that Ingrid permitted to ramble at will all over the yard. Before she could ring the bell, one of the dangers we mentioned earlier flung open the front door, bursting with enthusiastic greetings and solicitous inquiries after her general state of health and well being.

"It's lovely to see you as well Crispin! My, everything is just as I a pictured it would be!"

Edith glowed with happiness and anticipation. She could never thank Crispin St. James enough for this opportunity. "Genius at work" was how he'd phrased it, and Edith was very interested to see how her childhood idol worked its magic. She turned slowly to take in every aspect of the sitting room Crispin had gallantly ushered her into. Old prints, photographs, and paintings littered the walls. The bits of wall that were visible were a creamy yellowish tint that accented the hardwood floors quite nicely. Thick rugs of various designs were plopped at random, Craftsman furniture upholstered in reddish hued patterns clustered about in sociable groups, and bookshelves overflowed with volumes of every description.

"My! What an unusual... well, what is it?" she inquired pointing at a small wooden object that rested atop a pile of books on an end table.

"Oh some sort of heathenish sculpture that Ingrid dragged back from Africa. She was quite the globe-trotter in her day. Got quite a collection of largely useless items from all over the map. Like this one" Crispin said, handing Edith a similarly inexplicable object. "Old English pub game- you take the little ball that's hanging from the post and swing it about to knock over the tiny pins tied to the base. When they're all down, you pull the little knob there at the bottom and it re-sets the pins. I believe she found it in somewhere in Oxford. I say, Ingrid's just putting on her face for the day- would you like a tour of the lower rooms?"

Edith was about to give her willing assent, when the hostess appeared immaculately coiffed and attired in a red house dress with small white polka dots and a string of pearls. June Cleaver would have been impressed.

"Hello Edith, how do you do?" she smiled graciously and offered her guest a chair. If Crispin thought he was running this show, she was out to prove him wrong. She turned to him and said so sweetly that Edith missed the barbs "Is my face on all the way Crispin? It'd be a shame to have it fall off half way through our visit." He laughed rather too jovially and slapped her on the back. "HA HA, that's Ingrid for you! Sharp as a tack that one!"

"Crispin dear, will you fetch our guest some tea? There's a good boy- put it on a tray with cream and sugar. And I'm sure you know where the tea biscuits are kept." Knowing full well that he didn't have a clue and thus would be out of the way for at least quarter of an hour, Ingrid sat down in the chair opposite Edith with an air of dignity and poise, delicately crossing her ankles and arranging her hands neatly in her lap. This silly business had gone on long enough, and she planned to put a stop to it. Now.

"Oh Miss Delaney, may I say what an honor it is to visit with you today? I just adored your work as a child. I never thought I'd have the opportunity of meeting you, much less seeing you at work!"

"It's lovely to have you here Edith. I've been wanting to get better aquainted with the newest member of the Guild. I'm afraid you've grossly over-rated my talents, but I'm so happy to know that you've enjoyed my books. Now, tell me just a bit about yourself. You're originally from Texas?"

Edith loved talking of the happy days spent as a farm girl and later as a wife of an oil tycoon, and was gaily reminiscing over old times when Crispin returned with the tea tray.

"Here you are Edith. Ingrid- here's your favorite cup. Now then, shall we commence the great work? I've brought my notes from last session and I'd love to review them with you Ingrid. See what you think and all that."

He was just pulling the sheaf of notes from his attache case when Ingrid caused him to freeze in his tracks by innocently suggesting that for Edith's benefit they review a bit of the story for him. This suggestion ordinarily wouldn't have had the slightest effect, but Crispin was utterly shocked by the gesture that accompanied it. Ingrid reached behind her chair and pulled out a pencil and a large memo pad.

"Yes, I believe we were just finishing up with your childhood in Iowa. You know, out on the farm with the pigs and chickens. I'll bet Edith didn't know you grew up on a farm as well." She might as well have shrieked "Engarde!"

Crispin smiled broadly and with great bravado. So that was her angle eh? Well, he'd set old Ingrid right back on her ear. Noting Edith's smile of mixed approval and confusion, he answered his foeman's challenge with a cavalier air.

"Yes, Iowa farming was such a shock to a lad like me, used to the finer things back in the old country. You see Edith, my branch of the St. James' line emigrated to the colonies and founded a successful farming community. But let's progress a bit to the years I spent in Hollywood. Those were after all the most important. I moved in such glitterings circles then, though a mere speck amongst the brighter stars of that celebrated galaxy." He flashed a triumphant smile at Ingrid that shouted "Ole`!" as clearly as any matador who has successfully dodged an angry bull.

"Drat." thought Ingrid.

She settled back in her chair, carefully biding her time for another chance to aim and fire. Crispin proceeded to ramble about life in Hollywood as it was in the early thirties when he first arrived.

"I came to Hollywood a mere stripling of 15. My boyish good looks landed me several roles as a supporting actor in the comedies that were popular at the time. Those Depression Era movie goers wanted an escape, and Hollywood was only too happy to oblige. Gangster films, light comedy, romance and what have you. I was often told that my style was reminiscent of the young John Barrymore. Barrymore was in decline in those years, starting to forget his lines due to drink and on the way to becoming something of a has been. But he'd made a mold, and I fit into it rather nicely. I'd been in the business for several years when I met Ingrid at one of those grand Tinsel Town soirees that will never be forgot. She was a mere slip of a girl- just twenty years old and already making quite a sensation in the literary world."

Ingrid struck like a coiled viper. "You were 18 and angling for a 'role' as an extra in 1936's San Francisco, I believe. You got it too! Your portrayal of a young waiter in Blackie Norton's saloon was quite exceptional. Too bad it was cut out. Your single line was a showstopper by all accounts. I'm sure nobody could have said "What will it be this evening, Sir?" with greater expression than you Crispin."

Crispin shot Ingrid a defiant glare and coughed. "Er, yes. Of course! The one liner was becoming all-important. With the advent of talking films, studios were suddenly having to hire people who could act with their voices as well as their faces. Fortunately, I was gifted in both facial and vocal expression. A lack of true vocal ability was the ruin of many a great silent film actor. Clara Bow was the IT girl until the public found out she squeaked like a rubber duck when she spoke. And what of poor John Gilbert? "

"Ah yes. I remember that. He was quite a heart-throb amongst ladies everywhere until he started making talkies. That high pitched voice sounded ridiculous with his manly looks. His career was ruined, and most people blamed the talking films. When I came to Hollywood rumor had it that he'd been drinking heavily for some time. He died of a heart attack in '36."

Ingrid sighed sadly. She herself had been in Hollywood during those years trying to break into screen writing. Her first two novels, published when she was very young, had been quite unexpectedly successful and she absolutely loathed them. She had hoped to change the rather maudlin turn her career as a novelist was taking by branching into film. She'd been hired as a writer by one of the larger studios perhaps due more to the sudden demand for dialogue in films than her actual qualifications. In spite of that she managed to work on a few successful scripts. However, the studio wanted comedy, thrillers, or romance and absolutely refused anything thought provoking or profound.

In addition to this, the foundering careers of the silent actors cast a pall of despair over the whole business, and it was not long before Ingrid realized that Hollywood was not the place for her. It was heartbreaking to see the hopeful young starlets especially. They partied all night to maintain some sort of status but had to be in the studio early each morning. They often resorted to controlling their sleeping and waking habits with drugs and alcohol, and many ruined themselves physically before coming close to attaining the kind of fame they hoped for. The women who achieved it did so often at a high cost. Ingrid remained in a state of reverie for some time before returning to the verbal fencing match in which she and Crispin were engaged.

"Then of course there was the formation of the caste system. I had several friends in very high places, and so did Ingrid. This ensured our place in the higher eschelons. However, not everyone was so lucky. Apparently, in the years before talking pictures lowly camera grips rubbed elbows with celebrities, and parties included stars and techincal people of all descriptions. Anyone might turn up. After the talking films came it all changed. By the time Ingrid and I were there, the big stars only associated with each other and a few very wealthy socialites, producers with other producers, the writers with the writers and so on down the line. You were only 'somebody' if you were making a thousand a week."

"What Crispin means to say Edith, is that he became one of the greatest gate-crashers in Hollywood history. Because he actually did resemble the young John Barrymore, the men at the doors all felt they'd seen him somewhere before. He pulled it off so well that he never actually got caught. That's how you met your wife isn't it?"

Crispin ran a finger inside his collar, which suddenly seemed to be getting terribly snug.

"Yes... actually Ingrid. I don't know where you get these silly ideas... gate crashing indeed!" He laughed lightly. "History is all in the eye of the recorder eh what? No, Edith I was actually much sought after because I'd become bosom friends with..." his story petered out as he took notice of the menacing gleam in Ingrid's eye. "Well, it was all so long ago. Time does pass so quickly."

"We were talking of your wife weren't we Crispin? Do continue, as I'm taking copious notes." said Ingrid, flipping the memo pad around to show an entire page covered in her wiry scrawl.

Edith inspected it eagerly, having often wondered what sort of ideas were considered important to an an author. "Why, Ingrid surely you're joking? Mr. St. James never actually cared for pigs himself?"

"Why of course he did! Crispin was an accomplished swineherd until he ran off to better and brighter things. His brother once told me-"

"My WIFE!" screeched Crispin, "Dear yes, my beloved Helene! The California debutante of the year! I happened to be invited to her debut; the lovely cotillion her parents hosted. She was an angel beyond all reckoning that night- her golden curls accented by the white debutante gown! She was just 18, back from her finishing school out East. It was love at first sight- for me anyway. I've never had much luck with beautiful women at first. They often feel strangely disposed to distrust me. But once she realized my true good nature, all was settled. We were divinely happy. I miss her terribly."

As he uttered those last four words, there came across Crispin's face an expression that Ingrid rarely observed in him. It was one of absolute sincerity, devoid of any facade. At that moment he had no pretensions, no delusions of grandeur. He was just a man who missed his wife.

Though Ingrid had often scorned Crispin's original motives in marrying his wealthy wife, it was undeniable that he had truly loved her in the end. He'd been faithful to her throughout their long and largely peaceful marriage, and Helene had inherited so much from her adoring parents that his profligate spending was never much of a bother to them. She had wisely bequeathed everything to her very capable son rather than her spendthrift husband, more as a way of ensuring that Crispin would always have a roof over his head than anything else.

Ingrid had been just on the point of mentioning the interesting fact that Crispin was at the debutante ball as an extra server rather than a guest, but thought better of it.

Edith suddenly reached out a well manicured hand and patted Crispin's corduroy knee. "I know exactly how you feel Crispin. It was just like that for Tex and me. We were just so... happy together." she began to sniff dangerously, and Crispin produced an immaculate monogrammed pocket handkerchief and offered it to her.

"There, there old girl. We widowed spouses must make the best of things. Very hard going at first though, I must say." Edith began to sob quietly into the hankie. Ingrid refilled Edith's teacup and left the room. Crispin was right to believe that Edith was lonely, and Ingrid decided that it was time to throw in the towel and let the two sufferers console one another, if they could.

Though never having been married herself, the brief scene had been a painful reminder of her own loneliness. Ingrid recalled Crispin's earlier reminiscences of Frank Morris. He WOULD bring that up. After pacing the back porch for several minutes she returned to a happier scene.

The two mourning spouses had dried their tears and were gaily sharing hilarious stories of married life.

"Oh, Ingrid darling there you are! I wondered where you'd gone off to! Come on in and listen to us gab! Edith just told a corker about her dear old Tex! Apparently he was a man who enjoyed a flute of champagne with his tacos!"

"Oh Mr. St. James really, I've stayed too long already. I'm afraid I'm something of a distraction to you both. I must be going."

Ingrid assured her that she was welcome to return at any time, and Crispin at first protested her departure, but wound up finageling a ride home. Eddie had apparently dropped him off again, and Edith was more than willing to oblige. They set off together, evidently drawn closer by the afternoon's events.

Ingrid watched them go, and smiled benignly. Perhaps in the end it was all for the best. The aura of hope and good feeling did not last long. As the Cadillac pulled away down the street, Imogene Burke's white Buick shot round the corner, and even at a distance Ingrid knew that Imogene had seen and comprehended, and was not amused. Not even a little.

3 Comments:

Blogger Erika said...

Someday when you're rich and famous I'll be able to say I knew you back when...

Friday, December 30, 2005  
Blogger Janna said...

Hahahaha - Imogene sees all, eh? This chapter was excellent, honey! I love Ingrid's potshots at Crispin. All your research paid off - the back story feels very authentic!

Monday, January 02, 2006  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Clever writing. And if you look like Barrymore... indeed!

Thursday, January 12, 2006  

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