Documentary News Letter (1947-1949)

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DOC I Ml \ I \U\ III M M.WS mi Manhunt by ERIC GOLDSCHMIDT WHEN YOU'RE stuck lor a turn at your party, or when shuffling into a barber's chair, when stumped for a conversational opening or grazing on lush Devonshire meadows, when you wish to knock the idle hours between 5 and 5.30 with a particularly effective cudgel, try my new parlour game. It consists of marrying the word 'documentary' to as many disinterested parties as you can find. Documentary theatre, documentary materialism, documentary election platforms are easy ones. Documentary Court circulars, company reports and encyclicals shouldn't be precluded as time goes by. In Melbourne, Australia, my landlord, 46year-old Fred Pick, manufacturing kitchenware, gave me the book of The Producer as a Christmas present. This, since it contained a chapter entitle J The Film at War' and Pick had been at war with films for years. Too expensive, he said. I began reading the book of The Producer with much alacrity. I pictured Him as being a member of history's great family of producers, like Thales the Miletian (who produced the universe out of nothingwith-water), St Thomas the Aquinas and Duns the Scot (who produced the universe out of class distinctions and after-thoughts), and Marx (who annihilated the universe with practically the same armoury). This Producer, then, established a universe with celluloid and ideas. The more I considered this formula in Melbourne, Australia, the more ' became convinced that one must investigate these cosmic complications. One must go to America, obviously, in order to get the proper cosmic outlook. And this I set out to do. Here we bring in some quick-fire transformations. Let's have the contract towards the US Immigration authorities whereby I undertake not to assassinate the President of the US or his lawful wife. And then the chinless mate of the 'Marine Phoenix' who refuses me a job, followed by an ocean scene where I'm aboard ship, casually mixing with the passengers anil being supplied with cheese biscuits and sticks of celery. Since the ship passes through the tropics, we'll have a sweating night-watchman who paces up and down, cursing all stowaways, while I sleep guilelessly in a private bath-tub, where the climate isn't hard on me but the unbending pressed steel shape of the tub isn't so good. For a laugh we'll introduce Father, of the Australian version of 'Life with lather'. He's written a play which no Australian publisher will tackle and he's happy aboard organizing competitions for teen-agers. He was a zestful old soak with hair dyed bright orange. 'Why do you run around like this off-stage?' I asked and Father replied: 'Boy, I've been in show business for 37 years. If you'd been in show business that long, you'd dye your hair line green.' And a nippy-looking passenger turns round at this point, sighing Ah, yes' How green was my father.' To describe the sea journey a little more dramatically, we'll have three one-minute episodes (o) when I developed a skin rash and a negro steward called Virtue (the less said about this, the better) went into the surgery for some Vitamin C tablets, (b) when on the last night aboard, everyone dressed and I had to rake up a pontoon school smartly so that my shirt sleeves wouldn't attract any attention (previous sartorial snares had occurred during boat drills) and ^c) when it was all over, when Father had given me the all-clear and 1 had pushed down the crew's gangway with an outdated pass and sat in a pub in San Francisco called 'Mark Hopkins', when fourteen courses of food arrived unendingly and I begged for biscuits and a few sticks of celery; which hadn't happened since the day of Aimee Semple McPherson. From there we'll hitch-hike 500 miles south to Los Angeles. We see the blessed blend of Spanish architecture, American oil interests and scenic resilience. We'll drive past garages, drug stores, realtor-, junk jewellery shops; garages, realtors, junk jewellery shops, drug stores. For ten miles — nothing but: this is Hollywood. A few inquiries established that the Producer had been here all right, though he's left for Mexico and the odds arc he'll arrive in New York. The Producer doesn't seem to thrive on Californian voodoo, and when I stated that screen tests. Readers Digests and the Huntington Library were of no interest to me, that only a conversation with the Producer would end my journeys, people outstripped their daily superlatives declaring me to be the 'most out of this worldest. fluid driven jerk they'd ever laid eyes on'. The Cultural Relations Division of the State Department is in agreement with this, anil shipped me to New York. This gives me an opportunitj of sliding right through the chromium-plated paradise, past a drought in Salt Lake City, past the genuine corn belt, past the indictment to civilization called Chicago. In New York an ex-Gl sold me a beautiful Papuan amulet reciting the string of bad luck he'd had while carting it around. This was in West 56th Street, where I'd just been told the Producer was leaving for Britain within a day or two. To cut a long story short. I arrived in London full of cussedness ami un-American intentions At the time of the Graphic Arts Conference I was ,\n usher in a Wet End cine n.i. seeing Sprint; in Park Lane until I did. The conference was the hot though. It had been arranged in honour of the Producer whom I thought of tackling during the lunch break Instead I ran into anothei \u rrali in bum who blew his top about restrictive practices in the \( I and how Hilton assists the Australian economy by breeding hogs m Queensland After the Chairman had passed a vote of thanks, it was 6.30 and there was no point in going back to the cinema. Besides. I felt a hunter's pride in having seen the Producer with my naked eye. I got to know that he stayed in the Fxmouth Hotel So | stocked up some sandwiches, settling in at the Exmouth lounge in oider to clinch the matter. I spent some two hours ignoring a battery of nosey bell boys, lift attendants, house detectives and mustard-ridden stooges with braided lapels. Once a particularly wide dame stared at me as if my newspaper concealed malicious intent, instead of sandwiches. But I've played poker with characters worse than this, ami I acted as if she had a run in clubs and no more, which was indeed the case. By eleven I'd telephoned the switch ai His room number. The lounge was emptying out and I arrived on the fourth floor as if I was quite somebody else who'd never squatted in the foyer at all. There were some chairs at the end of the corridor and I started on the sandwiches, quietly and in keeping with the hotel's wellbred chastity. A trio of drunks could be heard, business people evidently who had madea night of it and couldn't stop haggling. I thought I'd humour them when they stood in front of me. calling me 'George' and asking if I had a sandwich to spare. 'Certainly.' I said and gave them one. when they contrived a tutti of no mean size. They were house detectives again. Thev would invoke the Vagrancy Act, and dial 999. Within twenty seconds of this speech I could see that all the publicity which had been put out on behalf of the Exmouth Hotel was complete moonshine. I scrammed, chasing past the phalanx of bell boys, night waiters, hall porters and doormen, confusedly mashing a string of sausages in the revolving door. The only thing I could do, was to see Him early in the morning and I went to Lyons in order to pass the time with a cup of coffee even hour. The rest of that night . . . the sharpies and shysters and chauffeurs . . . shindigs with Welsh football fans and shandies at Covent Garden . . . it's hard to sort it out chronologically and it doesn't matter, anyhow. At eight-thirty in the morning He spoke to me. Could I interview Him. I asked, on behalf of 'Newsweek'; my editor. I added, was bothered about the fundamental education of — of — Sam Goldwyn. He admonished me not to talk rubbish, moreover He'd dined with the editor of 'Newsweek' only ten da>s ago. [then clicked the telephone a couple of times and switched over to the dry-cleaned accent of George Sanders "News Review.' I fluted. He must have misunderstood me. He referred me to His secretary for details \s I came back from the barber's I noticed Him in the dining room, and this was a moment of timeless delight. Between cereals and kippei I told Him the whole story and He ap for being in such a hurry. His train would leave foi Hiussels veiv shortly, but on His return, in three weeks. I must ring Him up I hat happened three months ago He's e\ tely busy now and I'm told by His secretary that Empire questions cram His time-table. To make quite sure of talking to Hun. I'm goin Melboui lie. Australia, w here I le is due to arrive within the next month or two I shall stand on the wharf with streamers and throw them to wards ins boat tad He. I'm sure, will throw back celluloid and ideas .it last.