Five-Star Grindstone

Hollywood is not glamorous.
"Charlie, that reel again."
The Hollywood of Burt Lancaster, Lana Turner and Gary cooper is. But
not the Hollywood of Sara Hutton, film Editor.
"Yes, Charlie. All of it."
As Sara sits in the blacked out preview theatre waiting for Charlie to
rewind the film spool, she knows what glamour there was for her is long
gone.
A Hollywood preview theatre, exciting? Its full title, Mayberg Studios
Preview Theatre, sounds exciting. But its reality is a cramped box a
sadistic architect has shoehorned over thirty seats into. They are
arranged in seven rows - five to a row - and empty, well almost. The
flickering screen spits darts of celluloid light onto the seats; each
covered in once plush red velvet. The front row has only four seats,
the executive row, picked out in a more recent luxurious royal blue. A
colour that also outlines the eagle on the Mayberg studio crest. In
these well-sprung seats sit the two people who stop this box from being
empty.
One is Miss Sara Hutton, age: forty-five. She is studying the film
that crawls across the screen with an intensity that belies its worth.
Her glasses are pushed high on the bridge of her nose. The nose has a
scar on it that Sara regularly rubs and pinches. When asked about the
scar, which is not unattractive, Sara always likes to tell a story, "I
did it running out from the Roxy in Philadelphia when Lon Chaney was
unmasked in the Phantom of the Opera. I fell full length in the aisle
and smashed my nose on a metal runner." She always finishes her story,
saying, "I knew then, someday I'd be in the movies."
A story. That's all it is. In reality, in real life, which sometimes
gets a little blurred around the edges in Hollywood; Sara had been on a
drunk - on her twenty-third birthday - with her first and only husband,
Morgan. Whose name and house she had kept. She'd made the mistake of
passing out sat on a barstool and kissing the brass footrest too hard.
If Sara ever told the truth about that night, and sometimes she wants
to badly, she would add, "That night I learned two important lessons.
Now I drink alone, and nearer the ground."
This preview theatre is functional, a place of work. If we could
persuade Sara to drag her eyes from the screen and look either side of
her, she would see red leather covered tables between each seat. On
each table is an ashtray, pencil, notepad, black angle lamp and blue,
studio blue, telephone. The telephones have typed stickers attached
saying, NO PERSONAL CALLS - INTERNAL USE ONLY. BY ORDER OF HARRY
MAYBERG. Then if Sara screwed round her head and surveyed this dark
shoebox she would see the red seats banked behind her; the inlet
through which the haphazard images are projected; the heavy,
soundproofed door marked EXIT on one side and PREVIEW THEATRE on the
other.
But Sara doesn't look round. She frowns at the screen; the cigarette
she lit when the reel started lies in the ashtray, burnt down its
entire length, keeping several other complete corpses company. The reel
she's watching hasn't been dubbed. So the action takes place to an ad
hoc soundtrack of air conditioning and a faint hum from Charlie's
projection booth.
Let's leave Sara Hutton, concentrating so hard that she's forgotten to
scratch her nose for thirty seconds, and think of Charlie.
Twenty-two years. That's how long Charlie has been doing this job. Did
it for five years at Universal before that. Charlie's seen 'em and seen
'em go.
Everybody knows Charlie, "Run reel two over, Charlie." Knows his
voice, "Next one, Charlie." Trusts him, "Last four minutes of that crap
again, Charlie."
And Charlie knows his stuff. He's seen the birth of great movies from
fifty reels of rubbish and witnessed fifty reels of genius turned into
six reels of chicken shit. If anybody cared to ask Charlie what he
thought made a good movie. He'd tell 'em, "Great editing."
He knows that the director might not know his long shot from a dolly
shot. The star might be as wooden as a Californian spruce. But, a great
editor can bring it all together; make them look good.
And if anyone cared to ask Charlie, holed up in his hot, sweaty little
projection room for however long he's needy day and night; if anyone
cared to buy him a cold soda, ask him what makes a great editor. He'd
wipe the sweat off his face and between long thirsty gulps tell you, "I
don't rightly know. But I guess you should go talk to Miss Hutton?cos
she's turned round more duds than a Chicago counterfeiter."
Charlie remains happy in his hot cell. He's aware that Hollywood is
not to be trusted and as he swills flat lemonade through luminous
teeth, he knows in Hollywood he's just a short, a cartoon, a programme
filler, paving the way for the main feature.
The reel ends and an arm, not Sara's flicks on an angle lamp. Sara
picks up a pencil and starts to cover her notepad - each page embossed
with a royal blue eagle. Sara's writing is precise, neat, and succinct.
Her colleagues say the same things about Sara, with beautiful often
added. The scar on her nose doesn't detract from this beauty. The scar
Sara is now rubbing with the end of her pencil.
Sara picks up the telephone, "Spin the next reel, Charlie," and turns
to the owner of the arm that turned on the light. "Watch this reel
closely, Louise and notice what a chicken shit director Kendrick
is."
As the 3, 2, 1, flashes on the screen, Louise knows it's her cue to
turn off the lamp. She does this using the sum total of all the skill
acquired in her three months as Sara Hutton's assistant.
If we stand in front of the screen, we get a good view of the two
occupants of the preview theatre. The light is not flattering, but it's
enough.
Whereas Sarah Hutton is tall, cool and beautiful. Louise, who sits to
her left, is small and fat. Her one advantage over Sara: she has just
turned twenty-three.
Louise Sheldon, twenty-three and unnecessarily worried, worried that
someone might come in and find her in the executive seats. But no one
ever comes in when Louise and Sara Hutton are in the preview theatre
and on a Saturday night at eight thirty, it's even less likely.
"Soon be through," says Sara, not taking her eyes from the screen, as
if she's reading the words from title cards.
Louise casts a glance at Sara Hutton, watches her rub her nose.
"We'll soon be through, Louise, if we concentrate on the screen and not
each other.
Louise shifts her plump legs and her face reddens. She's glad of the
dark as the blush spreads and burns her whole body.
The reel ends with a close-up of the star's bronzed chest and glad of
something to do Louise switches on the lamp. As Sara's copious notes
fill the pad, Louise fingers a cup of coffee, peers into it, then
drains the dregs even though they're a long time cold.
Sara picks up the telephone and asks for reel seven. Again the chest
looms into view and as they sit in this tight box listening to the
air-conditioning grind, Louise hears Sara Hutton cursing under her
breath, "Tits and sand and chicken shit. That's all it is, tits and
sand and chicken shit."
Earlier, Sara questioned Kendrick's ability as a director. But if she
was fair, and Sara isn't often called by fair not even by her family,
she really should be saying, "Tits and sand and chicken shit, and box
office." Because as Sara knows that whatever she feels about Kendrick,
to Mayberg studios Kendrick is a cast-iron certainty.
Kendrick Matheson, say the name over. You've probably not heard it in
the same breath as Hitchcock or Ford. He's got over forty films to his
credit; been in the business as long as Charlie. Started out doing
horse stunts with the long forgotten cowboy star Moose Gibson and has
been mainly directing formula westerns since.
Now his speciality is Easterns. They follow the same storylines, with
camels replacing the horses, white clad sheiks as the heroes, belly
dancers instead of saloon whores. They do steady - not spectacular -
business. Strictly B-pictures, no frills, shot in thirty days for less
than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That's why Kendrick's a
cast iron certainty. Always on time, no tricks, by the book and always
under budget. And as Harry Mayberg says, "Knock fifty G's off a budget
and I'll kiss your ass. Go over budget and you'll wish you never had an
ass." Harry Mayberg likes his sayings. But he likes his pictures to
turn a profit, and quickly, even more.
Kendrick Matheson, age fifty-nine, clocks into Mayberg Studios at 8am,
works hard, and leaves at 6pm. He goes home, has dinner in the
comfortable Spanish style house he got cheap from a broke and broken
silent star - a nice piece of real estate - and tells his wife he had a
good day at the office.
He drinks two highballs and goes to bed early to check the following
day's script and schedule. He could be pressing auto-parts for
Chrysler, there is no magic in Matheson's eyes, never was.
Sara has edited the last three of Kendrick's pictures. They have never
spoken, no need, he sticks to the script and so does Sara. She has to,
the front office expect it, "It's a B picture, so nothing
smart-ass-fancy," is Harry Mayberg's dictum. "Shoot 'em and ship 'em.
That's my philosophy."
So despite her cursing, Sara knows that Kendrick does a good job. It's
the job that she is doing that's eating Sara, B-movie editor with an
A-movie pedigree.
The reel ends and Louise swings her well-trained finger into action.
Again the pencil jigs across the paper. Louise shuffles in her seat,
trying to will her too short legs to touch the floor and give her
thighs a rest.
Sara leans back and pinches the bridge of her nose. "I think we need
more coffee, Louise."
Louise is grateful for the chance to stretch and walks slowly up the
inclined floor to the pot of coffee that six hours ago was fresh. If
she bothered to walk a little further and stretch her round body to its
limits, she could peer through the square glass observation panel set
in the wall of the projection booth. Then, through the slightly
distorted glass she would be able to see Charlie sipping a warm root
beer; eating a chicken sandwich that leaves specks of mayonnaise on his
moustache; and flicking through a two month old copy of Life.
Louise doesn't do this, has no inclination to. She concentrates on
pouring the stale coffee.
Sara notices it first. Louise just thinks it's fatigue making her legs
shake.
"Here it comes," shouts Sara. "Better sit down where you are."
Louise sits, peers through the dark and watches the angle lamp picking
Sara out as if she were some big star arriving at a Grauman's Cinema
Premiere. She watches the flood of light slowly shimmer then shake,
violently. The hot coffee, which Louise has not thought to put down,
spills onto her legs and makes her eyes water. Clouds of dust fall from
the ceiling and beneath her, for the briefest of moments, the seat
bucks and snaps at her and a rogue spring pinches her bottom. Reminding
Louise of a High School dance, when Dave Ryan had squeezed her right
buttock after they had both been introduced to gin. She had been
outraged; he apologetic, and then she flattered. All in the space of
thirty adolescent seconds.
"I'll bet ten bucks that was a scale four, maybe four and a half. What
do you think, Louise?"
Louise, up until now Sara's silent dogsbody, considers the question.
"Oh, a three I reckon?a four?a four would've blacked us out."
The voice comes as quite a shock because Louise's whole demeanour is
one of timidity. But the voice is rich and booming, shaking more dust
from the preview theatre roof than any earthquake ever did.
We should call it a minor earthquake, because that's all it is for the
citizens of Hollywood. A minor irritation swept away and forgotten,
like a fly round an executive producers head. So if we went straight
out of this preview theatre and asked an extra, on his way to shoot the
night scenes of Mayberg's latest comedy, or asked a props man, carrying
a giant foam heart across the back lot. Asked them what they thought
about the earthquake. They'd look you in the eye and say, "Earthquake?
Thought it was a big truck going by."
Then these two shadows in the night would offer you tales about the
'Big Quake' of thirty-three. How that quake and its aftermath had
instantly bankrupted one studio, hurried the demise of a further two
and finally lead to the making of Harry Mayberg's fortune.
Louise carries the refilled coffee cups to the front of the theatre.
Having settled back down in her seat, she watches Sara reading her
notes. Having spoken once she has the urge to exercise her jaw again.
"I was born in thirty-three."
"Hmm?"
Louise Dorothy Sheldon, editor's assistant, born 23rd November 1933.
Second name because of Dorothy Parker?my mother loved her poetry?I, I
like those one-liners she used to come out with. One more drink-"
Louise falters a little as Sara puts her pencil down and looks at
her.
"One more drink and I'd have been under the host. That's my favourite.
She taught a term at my college, after I left unfortunately. Imagine
that, Dorothy Parker.
The telephone rings and Sara answers it. "Yes?fine?no, Charlie, we're
finished?tomorrow? It's Sunday, B movie editors rest too?yes,
goodnight."
Sara replaces the receiver and looks at her assistant. "The 23rd of
November. Why, wasn't that the day of the-"
"Earthquake. That's right Miss Hutton. Mother used to call me her
little tremor on account of me being born as the first shockwave hit
town. Then later in life, on account of my voice, she took to calling
me Quake!"
As Louise catalogues her life, Sara weighs her with an editor's eye. If
Louise Sheldon were a film, to gain any form of release - even as a
comedy two-reeled accompanying one of Mayberg's hackneyed musicals -
Louise would need some drastic editing. Pick some one out and edit them
down to size.
This is a game Sara likes to play often, in a bar, at the theatre,
especially in the studio commissary with its shifting population.
"She wrote some stuff for films."
"Who, Louise?"
"Dorothy Parker."
"Oh yes. I met her once, in 46, a party at Mayberg's place in
Malibu."
"Dorothy Parker! Oh God! Was she? Did she insult you?"
"Don't believe all you read, Louise. She didn't carry that round table
from the Algonquin everywhere she went. Even she knew that Hollywood is
a five-star grindstone. It got to her, just as it got to me, and as
sure as it'll eventually get to you."
Louise is a little confused and dispirited by Sara's last comments, but
she presses on with her peppy questions.
"What were the Mayberg parties like?"
"Oh back then he used to hold a couple of big events, at Thanksgiving
and Easter."
"I bet they were classy. I hear Mr Mayberg likes to do things in
style."
"Sure, Harry boy did. Champagne, caviar?barbeque sauce?"
Sara's voice trails off as though the remembrance of Mayberg's parties
had twisted some darker memory to the surface.
"You can go now, Louise."
Confused at this sudden abruptness, Louise gathers her things and heads
for the exit.
Sara picks up her pad and pencil and starts to make notes. But, as the
exit door closes she puts them down again and switches the lamp
off.
As she sits in the dark she isn't thinking about the film, she's
thinking about her assistant. There's been a number over the years;
none have lasted. Sara can't remember any of their names or faces. Just
one fresh faced kid after another, who wanted to edit movies before
they knew a damn thing about them.
Fresh kids, who thought that Hollywood was full of glamour and only
farmyards full of chicken shit.