Another Year, page 26
The preview had been arranged at Pasadena—“the millionaires’ suburb” at the foot of the mountains a few miles from Los Angeles. John Coburn called for them at six o’clock and took them for an early dinner at The Brown Derby in Hollywood and drove them out to Pasadena in his car.
“It’s what we call a ‘sneak preview’,” he said. “We just slip the picture on to the screen without any warning. You get the reaction of an ordinary, average audience that way, and cut the bits you feel they didn’t like. If we didn’t keep it secret all the people in the trade would turn up for one reason or another. The place would be full of professionals and we wouldn’t gain a thing.”
Mr. Matthews would have stayed away from the preview if he could have found a reasonable excuse. He had seen most of the picture in bits and pieces in the projection room: he had gone through the eerie sensation of seeing himself on the screen, and the novelty was over. He was keen to see Rosemary because she had improved so much, but as for himself, he had the worst forebodings. John Coburn, he thought, had gone a bit too far in making him act naturally, and he had “played himself” to the point of being dull and humdrum. American audiences never minced matters when an actor bored them, and he dreaded the humiliation of hearing the boys whistling at him on the screen.
As they came near Pasadena he felt as if he were going to a dentist to have a tooth out: he wished they could forget the preview and drive right on into the desert, with the night birds and the croaking frogs and the starlit sky. It was pleasant and restful, driving along those broad smooth roads at night, and his heart fell when the lights of a big town glowed ahead, and John said—“Pasadena”.
The preview was secret to Hollywood at large, but there was no secret about it for the big men of Paragon Pictures. Mr. Matthews saw Danny Bernstein the studio manager going in—and Andy Cummings the casting chief and Harry Loeb the First Vice-President, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of Tom Garner the Head of the Studio, the biggest man of all.
The two back rows of the stalls had been reserved for the people of Paragon Pictures. They entered unobtrusively and sat through the last five minutes of another film. Mr. Matthews had tried to persuade himself that there was nothing to worry about: he had done his best and earned his money … in any case his part was not big enough to hurt the picture. But as he waited he felt an intolerable suspense. His heart was beating so hard and loud against his ribs that he half expected the man in front of him to swing round and say: “Stop that damn thumping!”
At last the other picture ended. There was a short wait in the darkness, then the familiar Eagle of Paragon Pictures flashed on to the screen.
The audience knew at once that a “sneak preview” was ahead. Some people groaned, because they had come to see the picture that was advertised, but most of them sat up expectantly, and a round of applause greeted the name of Norman Walter. Opposite the name of Doctor Gustav Hensen appeared “Roger Desmond”, because Mr. Matthews was afraid his Bishop might object to his displaying his real name on the screen. The Studio had left him to choose anything he liked, and Ruth had generously offered him her maiden name.
The titles ended, and the picture ran its course. There were a few scenes—exteriors and long shots—that Mr. Matthews had not seen before. There were even a few in which actors appeared whom he had never met—their work having been done on days when Mr. Matthews had not been needed at the Studio. With the incidental music and polished cutting the whole thing came out much better than he had expected. John was a good director and he had given charm and atmosphere to the simple story. Even Mr. Matthews’ own scenes came out more favourably than he had hoped for. When he first appeared, walking into his house with a bundle of books under his arm, he was quite relieved when there was no derisive laughter. The audience accepted him quite normally: they even laughed at several of his lines that were intended to be funny, and he was quite startled when some scattered but spontaneous applause came after the fade-out from his best and longest scene. They did not seem to take much notice of Rosemary, but that was because she was playing with Norman Walter, an established star.
The picture ended. There was enough applause to prove that it was not an abject failure, and the Paragon people got up to go. What surprised the Vicar was a sudden noisy rush of the younger members of the audience to the entrance lobby, and when he got there himself, he was astonished to find it packed with a surging, excited crowd.
The reason for the rush was soon apparent. They were after Norman Walter’s autograph. The handsome young star had been spotted in the back row of the stalls and he was now besieged by a frantic crowd of boys and girls, waving autograph books and pencils. Rosemary had been sitting separately from her parents with Mike Goody the agent, and the Vicar retired with Ruth to a quiet corner of the lobby to wait for her.
It was then that the most surprising part of the evening began for Mr. Matthews. It happened so suddenly and violently that it stunned him with astonishment. He heard a girl shout—“Look, there’s the father!—the professor!—Dr. Hensen!”—and before he could collect himself, he was mobbed and overwhelmed by a crowd of struggling, laughing girls. He was mistily conscious of dozens of autograph books fluttering in his face—of writing “Roger Desmond—Roger Desmond” time and again in a shaky hand. He would have written “Roger Matthews” if “Desmond—Roger Desmond!” had not been dinning in his ears like an outlandish symphony. They jostled him: they pawed at his coat sleeves and patted his back: a pretty girl was pouring out a flood of questions that were taken up by those around her—“We haven’t seen you before, Mr. Desmond—Are you a New York stage actor?—Is it your first movie?—You were awfully good!” “Best thing in the picture!” shouted a boy with a shock of yellow hair.
“Thank you—thank you!” blurted out the bewildered Vicar—“thank you very much.” He wondered what they would think if they could see him going round the squalid streets of Woodbank, knocking at doors and having them slammed back in his face: if they could see him preaching to a frowsy little congregation that ignored him.…
“Hey!—make way there!” came a familiar, welcome voice, and Mr. Matthews saw John Coburn cleaving a passage through the struggling throng. John was wise to the antics of young film-fans: he elbowed them gently but firmly away, took Mr. Matthews by the arm and made a passage for him and Ruth to the street. But the fans pursued them to John Coburn’s waiting car: an athletic youngster jumped on to the running-board as the car moved off and thrust a book and pencil through the window.
“Where’s Rosemary?” gasped the Vicar—“we haven’t got Rosemary!”
“She’s okay,” said John. “She’s coming along with Mike Goody in his car.”
Chapter Thirty
Next morning, after breakfast, the Matthews sat waiting for the telephone to ring at their house in Maple Drive.
Mike Goody the agent had gone to the Studio to arrange about Rosemary’s contract. He had promised to ring up directly things were settled, and Mr. Matthews was then to drive over to the Studio with Rosemary to countersign the letters formally taking up the option. When that was done, everything was all right for Mr. and Mrs. Matthews to leave for England on the following day.
But there seemed to be a hitch somewhere. Mike Goody had assured them that everything would be settled directly the big men got to the Studio that morning. “I guess I’ll have word for you to come around about ten-thirty.” he said.
But nothing happened at ten-thirty. At eleven Mike called up to say the big men were still in conference and hadn’t seen him yet.
At half-past eleven Mr. Matthews got restless. They were due to leave next day by the morning train and he hated a last-minute rush. He wanted a clear afternoon and evening to finish packing and see Rosemary safely installed at their neighbour’s house, and he had promised Ruth a final, farewell run in the car before they left.
It was twelve o’clock before the phone bell rang again, and it was not Mike Goody even then. It was Danny Bernstein, the Studio Manager. Rosemary answered the call, but Danny asked for Mr. Matthews.
“We’d like you to come right over,” he said. “Come straight to Mr. Garner’s office.”
“Shall I bring my daughter?” asked the Vicar.
“No,” said Danny. “Just you—by yourself.”
He drove out to the Studio, puzzled and disturbed. Why had they asked him to go alone when Rosemary was the person most concerned? It would be appalling if they had decided to turn her down. He could not believe they would do a thing like that. She had not, he knew, been a sensational success at the preview, but the big men of the Studio must have known it was her first attempt: they must have realised she was overshadowed by Norman Walter, an established star. They could not possibly go back on her like that. They were rich: they had millions to play with and Rosemary’s salary was a mere drop in the ocean. But he was responsible, after all, for signing her contracts until she was of age. A mere signing matter would not require Rosemary to be there. He tried to reassure himself with that, but he still felt uneasy when he drew up in the car park at the Studio.
Mike Goody was waiting in the hall outside the Executive Offices, and he looked puzzled, too. They were still in conference, he said. They had been in conference for over an hour, and that was a long time for the top men to talk together. But he brightened up when the Vicar said he had been called straight to the offices of Mr. Garner, the Head of the Studio. “Gee!” said Mike—“that’s swell!—that means it’s okay! Tom Garner doesn’t concern himself with routine stuff. If it was to say they didn’t want her, then Danny Bernstein’s office would have done that. Don’t let ’em talk you into any changes in her contract, though. Leave all that to me!”
Tom Garner’s office was at the far end of the north wing on the second floor: a holy of holies to which only a chosen few gained entrance. First came a spacious waiting-room, luxuriously furnished with deep leather arm-chairs and settees, and a fine carved table of Spanish workmanship displaying a wide assortment of magazines. Then came a secretary’s office with ultra-modern furnishings and three smart, attractive secretaries, selected for their efficiency and looks.
There was no waiting for Mr. Matthews that morning. One of the girls smiled and pressed a button that automatically released the lock on Mr. Garner’s private door. “They’re waiting for you now, Mr. Matthews,” she said. “Will you go right in?”
Tom Garner’s private room did not accord with the legends of vulgarity and golden door-knobs that surround the big men in Hollywood. It was a simple, almost austere room, but very charming in its colour scheme of old ivory and pale green. The arm-chairs and settees were upholstered in a green unpolished leather, with window curtains of the same attractive shade. Walls and ceiling, even the telephones, were in old ivory: and the carpet was so thick and soft that one might have been walking on the Dorset Downs. The only splash of colour came from a bowl of roses on a table by the window, and the only picture was a framed photograph on Mr. Garner’s desk—of a handsome woman with two sturdy, fair-headed boys.
There were four men in the room: what Mike Goody the agent would have called “a million-dollars-worth of executives”. There was Danny Bernstein, the Studio Manager: Andy Cummings, the bull-necked Casting Director: John Coburn and Tom Garner himself.
Mr. Matthews had only met Tom Garner once: for a fleeting moment in the projection theatre when they were running some early scenes of the picture. He was a big broad man with a clear bronzed face and the blue eyes and fair hair of a Scandinavian. He rose and greeted Mr. Matthews very courteously, and indicated the arm-chair by his desk. The others nodded amiably—said: “How do, Mr. Matthews,” but took little part in the proceedings. Big men though they were, they spoke when they were spoken to in Tom Garner’s room.
Mr. Garner showed no anxiety to get down to whatever business he had in mind. He asked the Vicar whether he had been comfortable in the house on Maple Drive: whether he liked California, and what he thought of Hollywood. He noticed Mr. Matthews looking at the roses, and seemed quite pleased about it. “My hobby,” he said. “I grow them all myself. It isn’t easy, growing roses in California: the soil’s too dry and sandy and the sun’s too strong. You can get ’em as big as cabbages if you want ’em—with about the same smell, but for scent and form you need good loam with a bit of clay. I had a truckful of both sent down from Oregon: had a three-foot-deep garden made and put the clay at the bottom—”
The Vicar was interested in Mr. Garner’s rose garden, but he wondered what it was really all about. It seemed an awful waste of money to have those expensive Executives sitting round, just listening. But the friendly reception had set his mind at rest about Rosemary. If they had decided against her they would not have wasted words about it. They would have said so at once and got it over … in any case four big Executives weren’t needed to tell him that.
The conversation about the roses tailed off: there was a lull, and Mr. Garner turned his eyes toward the window. The routine of the great Studio went on outside. From a big stage opposite some men were carrying the sections of a log cabin and loading it on a lorry: down the street a wind machine was humming on a truck—pumping air through a fat canvas tube into a studio that needed a breeze to blow through the hair of a star or flutter the curtains of a window. Over it all the clear hot sun beat down.
Then Mr. Garner brought his eyes back from the window. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you,” he said.
He picked up a pencil and began to roll it between his fingers. “I was at the preview last night. We had a long talk afterwards—and another this morning—and we’re all agreed about what I’ve got to say. Your daughter’s a charming girl, Mr. Matthews. She’s worked hard, and there’s nothing we’d have liked more than to see her a success. But she just doesn’t get across: she doesn’t register with the audience. You’ve got a right to ask us why we didn’t find that out before we engaged her and brought her out here and raised her hopes. The answer is we didn’t know—nobody ever knows for certain—until the picture’s made and put on the screen before an audience. There’s a thing we call ‘screen personality” for want of a better name. It’s a mystery and I guess it always will be. Sometimes the most unlikely people have it—more often the most likely ones haven’t. I’m sorry, Mr. Matthews. I know it’s a disappointment for you and Mrs. Matthews and a cruel one for your daughter, but it’s best to tell you straight out instead of beating around the bush.”
Mr. Matthews listened with a heavy heart. His first impulse was to protest and argue the unfairness of judging his daughter on her first attempt, but when he looked round at the four experienced men whose judgment was unanimous, he knew that protests would be futile. He was shocked, but not very much surprised. In his heart he had known all along, as Ruth had known, that nothing short of a miracle could have made of Rosemary a screen star.…
There was a silence. The thing seemed over and he got up to go.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a sad disappointment to my daughter, but I’m grateful to you for being frank about it—and for the kindness and generosity you’ve given us over here. There’s only one thing I would ask you—and that’s to see my daughter and explain it to her yourselves … breaking it as gently as you can. She would understand and accept it so much better if it came from you.”
“Sure,” said Mr. Garner. “Danny Bernstein will see her right away.” He pressed a lever on his desk and said to his secretary—“Send a car for Miss Matthews and have her taken to Mr. Bernstein’s office.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Matthews. “My wife and I had arranged to start back for England to-morrow, and Rosemary was to stay in Hollywood with friends. I think—in the circumstances we’ll …”
“Just a minute,” broke in Mr. Garner—“won’t you sit down?” He began to rub the pencil between his fingers again. He put it down and lit a cigar, and said: “What did you think about your own performance at the preview last night?”
It seemed a silly, tactless thing to ask at such a moment. Garner must have known that what he had just said would completely disorganise the Vicar’s plans and leave a lot of urgent things to re-arrange about the journey home. He declined the offer to sit down again. “I did my best,” he said as politely as he could. “You know I only took the part for special reasons. I’m not expert enough to give any opinion on it.”
Mr. Garner was silent for a while. He studied the glowing end of his cigar.
“D’you realise you made a great personal success?” he said.
Mr. Matthews laughed. “I think it was pure chance they saw me there in the lobby,” he replied. “I understand that kind of thing often happens after a preview.”
“I don’t mean that,” said Mr. Garner. “I mean your reception on the screen. There was a mixed audience there last night—all kinds from millionaires to college girls and milk roundsmen. You got away with it with the whole lot of them. You rang the bell. You registered … did you know that?”
“If I did, then I’m glad,” replied the Vicar, who had a feeling that these crude and clumsy compliments were a sop for the bad news about his daughter. He appreciated the thought behind it, but he didn’t want it. He wanted to get home. “You paid me generously for the small part I took,” he added. “I could only return it by doing my best.”
Mr. Garner leant back in his chair. “I told you about “screen personality” just now,” he said. “I told you that sometimes the people you least expected had it. There’s no offence to you when I say I wouldn’t have picked you out of a thousand, Mr. Matthews—but there it is: you’ve got it. You’ve got something people like, and you’re a lucky man. We’re just starting a picture based on the best-selling novel City of Spires. It would appeal to you because it’s about Oxford—and there’s a fine part in it that’ll appeal to you, too. It’s Robert Drake … Chaplain of a College. You’re cut out for that part and we want you to play it. It’s a big picture and it’ll be worth your while. We’ve written $15,000 against the part: that’s nearly £4000 in your money. It calls for two months’ work and we want you to begin at once—in ten days’ time.”
