Movie mirror. (1935)

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City 70 State port side. ‘Everybody off,’ yelled the director. ‘We’re not going to have any accidents like that Eastland or Eastman or whatever it was in Chicago.’ “He had been on the water so be was very nautical. ‘Man the buckets,’ he ordered. So all the props and electricians and what-nots manned the buckets and from two until about half past six or seven they bailed out water. Then they looked down in the hold and there was just as much water as there had ever been and the boat hadn’t righted itself an inch. “There was a fire department a few miles up the road so they sent for the engine. The engine came and they at¬ tached the hose and had the engine pump until about twelve that night. Then they looked in the hold. The water hadn’t gone down a hair’s breadth and the boat was still listing to port as much as ever. “So they started ’phoning back to town and about two o’clock in the morning they got hold of the architect who had built the damned thing. ‘The boat’s sinking,’ the director informed him. “ ‘It can’t sink,’ replied the architect. ‘It wasn’t built to sink.’ “ ‘Can’t sink, hell !’ screamed the direc¬ tor. ‘It is sinking and you’re throwing me behind on my shooting schedule. You put it in a car and haul it down here.’ ABOUT two-thirty or three o’clock he arrived and took a look at the thing with its lee side sticking up in the air. ‘That's funny,’ he muttered, ‘the boat hasn’t any hold to it — it's built on pontoons. Those sides are just dummies.’ He went aboard and looked around. ‘You’ve got the damned thing overloaded on this side,’ he yelped. ‘Move some of those lights over to the other side.’ So they did and the boat righted itself. They had been trying for about twelve or fourteen hours to pump the lake out from under the boat !” Mr. Fields faced me triumphantly. “How’s that?’’ “Mr. Fields,” I observed gravely, “that is one of the most absorbing human interest stories I have ever listened to. Now, tell me,” I went on, “you’re a big hit today. Yet a few years ago, right after you'd made a picture with Jack Oakie, there was an hiatus between your appearance with him and your next picture — a space covering two or two and a half years. Why was it you couldn’t get work in films after that Oakie picture?” Mr. Fields’ face reddened for I had touched a tender spot. “Oakie had nothing to do with it,” he answered. “I had made some pictures in the east and been fairly well received in them. So they signed me up for three pic¬ tures out here. I was put under a director who knew no more about picture-making than-tha-than,” he paused, groping for a suitable simile. “Than I do?” I suggested. “Yes,” said Mr. Fields gratefully, “than you do. When I came out here they said to me, ‘In New York you had the reputa¬ tion of being thoroughly disagreeable, hard to get along with, you fought with every¬ body, you wanted to be the whole show and thought no one knew anything but you. “ ‘Now, let’s try a different angle out here. You just confine yourself to acting and let us worry about everything else. We’ve got experts trained in lighting, camera work, direction, gags and writing. You just relax. Take it easy. Play golf or whatever you like. We’ve been in this business eight years and we know what we’re doing.’ “So I thought, ‘Maybe they’re right. I will take it easy. I won’t talk back to anyone and everybody will love me.’ “Well, all I’ve got to say is, ‘God help anybody who trusts his career to somebody else — particularly when the person in charge of it knows no more about pictures than my supervisor or whatever he was. I’ll tell you, my little chickadee — ” “Just a moment, Mr. Fields,” I inter¬ jected. “I’m not your little chickadee. You’re getting your sexes mixed.” “So I am, so I am,” he agreed. “Well, I made those three pictures and I couldn’t get another job in pictures. I had to go back to New York, return to the stage. I was two years with Farl Carroll and about six months with Oscar Hammerstein II. The Hammerstein en¬ gagement was a flop because, although Oscar is a helluva clever writer, he made the mistake of entrusting the writing of his show to other people. Just as I told you — you’ve got to do things yourself. “I did all right with Mr. Carroll,” he added reminiscently, “by fighting tooth and nail for my rights.” We were interrupted by the arrival of another gentleman who was introduced as “Mr. Macauley.” “Have a spot?” Air. Fields offered. “Sure,” said Air. Alacauley. Mr. Fields eyed him critically. “You’ve taken off weight,” he observed. Ale, I’m always interested in weighttaker-offers. “How’d you do it?” I asked. “Oh,” he said, “I just cut out starches.” yfE, too,” averred Mr. Fields. “Now -L ^1 look at Tammany Young. He hasn’t touched a drop in fourteen years and lie’s got a belly about twice — no, three times — the size of mine. Do you know, the other day I went into the Paramount lunchroom and ordered a three decker sandwich. I knew I didn’t want all that junk so I just took the stuffing out and ate it. Then I took the bread and wadded it up into a ball to see how much it was. It was almost the size of a cannon-ball. Well, it would show on anybody if they swallowed a cannon-ball, wouldn’t it?” A Air. Roderick appeared and was in¬ troduced. “Have a spot?” Air. Fields offered. “Sure,” Air. Roderick agreed. “Here’s something you’ll appreciate,” Air. Fields remarked to me. He darted into the house and returned with what looked like a manuscript. “Gene Fowler sent it to me,” he explained. “He just dashed it off. Now, anybody else would have spoiled it by explaining in the note that they were drunk when they wrote it but Gene makes it all the funnier by not mentioning that and letting me guess it.” “Why,” exclaimed Air. Fields in amaze¬ ment, peering into my glass, “it’s empty.” “Yes,” I admitted guiltily, “I drank it.” “Have a spot?” he offered. “No,” I thanked him, “I better go.” “But you didn’t get your story !” “That’s the trouble,” I replied. “It's been just another morning of eye-openers. But it was one of the swellest interviews I’ve ever had.” And I meant it, too.