Hollywood (1939)

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There was only one thing to do, and I did it. I went shopping. Evening dress, $35.00. Make-up kit, $8.00. The girls hooted at the make-up kit. It was of green metal and closely resembled a fishing tackle box. "If you aren't smart enough to use the studio make-up, you might pay $2.00 for a kit, but not a cent more," one of the girls explained. But there were no criticisms of the evening dress. It was a honey and very sophisticated, and I thought of it as a beautiful, long black knife that cut me off forever from Henrysville. H At the end of a month in Hollywood, I devoted a day to taking stock of the situation. And after I finished, I certainly viewed with alarm. My haunting of celebrity-infested places had cost me a pretty penny and had netted me exactly nothing. Not even a flirtation. Luncheons in any commissary or any popular restaurant in Hollywood average around $1 if you order a la carte and with restraint; tips are a staggering item because everybody tips lavishly. And I had made a point of having about three conspicuous luncheons a week. I had "haunted" a premiere at the Carthay Circle theatre to the tune of $5.00 for a ticket, $2.00 for an orchid, and the doubtful satisfaction of having a lone fan out of the millions in the grandstand seats yell, "Name and phone number, please," at me as I walked up the long, flowerbedecked lane to the theatre. I had spent hours out of each day at casting offices; I had interviewed eight agents, all of whom refused to handle me because I had had no experience; I had written 15 glowing letters to 15 directors (no answers) ; I had stood, sat, lounged and posed around in all sorts of ensembles in every theatre entrance, at every studio gate, in all salons, lobbies, bars, foyers, street corners, hotels, restaurants and other public meeting places of the motion picture elite; I had pestered the girls at the Club for advice, pointers and introductions; had dashed to studios each time a new picture was put into production; had desperately waylaid directors and had even spoken to strange, but importantlooking people — just on the chance. I had made myself conspicuous, pitiful, obnoxious and flamboyant. Everywhere I was rewarded with courteous, but firm indifference. People are awfully busy in Hollywood, and what did I have that Garbo, Crawford, Rogers and Shearer hadn't? I was just another orange at an orange show. H On every hand, evidence of the absolute futility of keeping on socked me in the eye. Every day there were changes at the Club. Where one girl had hopefully been, now there was another. "Alice couldn't make the grade . . . Mary went home to marry 'the boy next door' . . . after six months of waiting, Jean got a screen test but it was a flop . . . Betty hadn't a thing left to hock . . ." And where was I, after a whole month's concentrated effort? Poorer by $246.55. H The first two days of the second month were deceptively quiet. On the third day, there was a small earthquake; an account of a few minor window-shatterings and chimney-topplings was broadcast by an excitable gossip columnist, and it cost me $4.50 to persuade my family, via long distance telephone, that it needn't come out to hunt tearfully through the debris. On the fifth, the first car payment was due, $20.00 and the month's guarantee as to faulty parts came to an end. On the sixth, proof that fate is ironic and beautyis only tin deep was offered when the onyx-topped gear shift lever snapped off at the floor board, leaving the car growling basso-profundo in low. $4.63. ■ After a good cry and a $3.00 shopping orgy for some stockings, things began to look up. Vivien, at the Club, asked me to have lunch with her and the girl friend of a casting director. I jumped at the chance. Luckily, the girl liked me and accepted my invitation to dinner the following night. I took her to the Beachcomber's, a miraculous joint featuring exotic rum drinks in cocoanut shells and Island food. It cost $5.00 and was worth it, for she promised to introduce me to the casting director. The C. D. liked me, took me to lunch, introduced me to the secretary of a producer. She took me to a preview and introduced me to an assistant director. One introduction led to another. Now, at last, I was getting places. But the expense! I matched lunch with lunch, dinner with dinner, cocktail with cocktail. But it was good business, and I never let any of my guests (or victims) escape before I had mentioned, with the subtlety of a suddenly-dropped flat iron, that I WANTED A SCREEN TEST. One day the assistant director heard that once too often, got desperate, and sold me on the idea of getting into a Little Theatre. "All our scouts cover 'em," he said, "and if you have anything on the ball somebody '11 find you. But as far as you're concerned, I promise I'll have a director there." So I did some research work on Little Theatres in Hollywood and was stunned. There seemed to be hundreds. What I didn't find out was that there are really only a few legitimate Little Theatres. The rest make their money from authors who pay to have their plays produced, embryonic directors who pay to direct, would-be actors who pay to act, all hoping to catch the eye of Hollywood. And so I paid $25 for the privilege of rehearsing three weeks in the world's